Untitled

[theb1mbocreator]

video by: Sleepyhead

strobe / flash warning

[confusabletammi]

flashy but perfect!

[hypnomindstorm]

I.... um .....

Thinking... is, uh.... hard... after this one.....

Took me very deep.....

No wakener.......

Mind stil.... pretty empty.......

It's gooooooooood.........

[boundmind-unnamedgirl]

uuuhhh..... sooo weak... blank...

why is my tongue out?

[not-close-to-straight]

Everybody be nice. Ilya is ✨suffering✨

[im-leaking]

Hey guys! This will be a list of good Omorashi desperation videos. (Will be updated over time too). Feel free to pop your favorites in the comments, but please have it be prolonged desperation maybe. Ex, leaking over time, lots of dancing and squirming around, or them doing fun challenges and eventually losing control.

Last Updated: August 12, 2025

First, these are some twitter users that have GREAT omo content:

MichaelArvine28

Marionnaux (warning for occasional scat 🙁)

HiddenPee

WBchannel19

Here is now the list of great omorashi desperation videos:

Girl holding her pee dice game desperation (THISVID) - https://thisvid.com/videos/peeing136/

Gamer girl pees shorts (THISVID) - https://thisvid.com/videos/gamer-girl-pees-shorts/

Tic tac toe pee (THISVID) - https://thisvid.com/videos/tic-tac-toe-pee/

3 friends play a complex pissing game (THISVID) - https://thisvid.com/videos/3-friends-play-a-complex-pissing-game/

Holding a desperately full bladder, naked on a chair (p-rnhub) - https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ph5892d3a4d4935

Two desperate handcuffed women lose control (THISVID) - https://thisvid.com/videos/two-desperate-handcuffed-women-lose-control/

Pee holding contest (THISVID) - https://thisvid.com/videos/pee-holding-contest/

Lesbian piss game (THISVID) - https://thisvid.com/videos/lesbian-piss-game2/

Full bladder pee dance (THISVID) - https://thisvid.com/videos/full-bladder-pee-dance/

Red Light Green Light Pee (xvids) - https://www.xvideos.com/video.hvcdtpv303a/lucabella9_sd

Sneezing while holding (OMO.org) (scroll for the video) - https://www.omorashi.org/topic/93630-requestsneezing-challenge/#comment-2117283

(More to come in the future. Put recs in the caption)

[argillaforma]

obsessed with the narrative that shane is just inventing kink out of his own beautiful mind like obviously he knows that ilya is the one in control but he has no clue that he’s been in a dom/sub dynamic right from the start

so one day he’s talking to rose and she jokes about their sex lives becoming boring after being together for so long and shane’s like no no he does this thing where it feels like he shuts my brain off and all my limbs go numb and he completely overtakes my body and mind and afterwards he has to bring me back down to earth and she’s like ???he puts you in subspace on the reg?? and shane is like i have no idea what that means

[thesaintpain-deactivated2026032]

intro...

hi, i'm pain, he/him/it married, trans, pan, late 30's, no dms

returning to tumblr after a thousand years. here to share the depraved stuff i write - basically a bunch of original fics about hard kink scenarios. - and read/discover all you guys' fics and art.

i post mainly on ao3 and i lurk around on bsky if you want to come say hi.

current works posted here (cw hard kinks) and mostly about my main oc kallum

alligator hunting

shit i'm into now

just crash here tonight

war spoils (non-kallum fantasy brocon)

[maximoff-pan]

project parenthood? | steve harrington

summary: 4 times you and Steve find yourselves acting as parents for the party, and the one time you act like a couple

pairing: steve harrington x fem!(byers)reader

word count: 8k

warning(s): some swears, plot inaccuracies, definitely canon divergent (please don't come for me), highly unedited, I wanted to write something fun but I honestly feel like it's really jumbled and not great so I apologize for the poor writing (I'm still kind of getting back into it)...

a/n: another 4 + 1, who could’ve guessed? they really seem to be what I always go back to. This one is a little (more than a little) fluffier and lighthearted than my last steve fic...hopefully y'all enjoy! Feedback and comments are always highly appreciated <3

Read part two: project home base

• ж • ж •

I. D&D Danger

The Wheeler's basement smells like old carpet mixed with the faint chemical tang of permanent markers from Mike’s countless D&D maps. Whatever pizza the boys had abandoned two hours ago left the air with a fading scent of pepperoni and melted cheese. Strings of mismatched Christmas lights are hung along the walls—Will’s doing, of course—casting the whole room in a warm, patchwork glow.

You sit cross-legged near the old record player, flipping through a borrowed, totally not stolen box of Jonathan’s carefully labeled cassettes, trying to decide between The Clash or the Talking Heads. The boys had been playing D&D for hours, their voices rising and falling in bursts of excitement. The girls had decided to have a sleepover at Hopper’s—no boys allowed, they’d specified. But with no one else around to supervise, that left you responsible for your brother and his three best friends. 

For this campaign Will was the Dungeon Master, and it was Mike’s turn to make a move. While he pondered his options, for a blissful moment, everything was quiet.

Then it wasn’t.

“MIKE, you can’t just skip the traps!” Dustin barks, slamming his palms on the table so hard the character sheets flutter.

Mike leans back in his chair, arms crossed with the dramatic flair of a teen boy convinced he was right. “I’m not skipping them. I’m strategically avoiding them.”

Lucas throws his pencil down. “That’s literally the definition of skipping.”

“It is not–”

“Yes it is!” Lucas responds with a mature indignation you knew only he was capable of making look cool. On Dustin, it would come across whiny and petulant. 

“No, it’s not—”

“It is!” Lucas insists once again. He wasn’t about to back down, especially not to Mike.  

Will’s voice comes out small, drowned beneath the storm. “Guys, can we just—”

No one hears him.

You sigh, setting down the cassette you’d been holding. Here we go again. You stand and brush dust off your jeans, already halfway to the table when the basement door creaks open.

Boots thud down the old wooden stairs. 

“Hey, uh, sorry I’m late,” Steve calls, shaking the cold from his body as he descends. He holds a paper bag in one hand. “I brought ice cream.” Even though it’s freezing outside, ice cream really does sound great right about now.

You steal a glimpse of him as your gaze locks on his figure. Steve’s hair, impossibly thick and wild, catches Will’s Christmas lights like a halo of soft brown waves. His eyes, warm and alert, flick around the room, half in amusement, half in exasperation, and his jawline carries that mix of boyish softness and emerging sharpness that makes him impossible to ignore. 

The denim jacket on his shoulders is worn in all the right places, sleeves casually rolled, and his sneakers are scuffed but perfectly comfortable, like they’d barely survived the walk from his car to the front door. His every movement has an easy confidence, that subtle sway of someone who could be both reckless and dependable at the same time.

He freezes when he reaches the bottom step. So do you.

The boys are mid-argument, halfway standing, voices overlapping. You’re standing with your arms half-crossed in irritation. And without even thinking, without even meaning to, you and Steve both plant your feet, cross your arms, and give the exact same unimpressed stare.

Identical and perfectly mirrored.

“Hey, hey!” Your voice calls in a chastising manner. “Knock it off.” You say firmly.

“Knock it off,” Steve echoes at the exact same time, nearly a fraction of a second apart. You both look menacing and parental and totally in tune with each other. 

The table goes dead silent and all four boys stare with wide, unnerved eyes.

Will blinks, slow and owl-like. “Did you guys just…”

Mike’s jaw hangs open. “That’s creepy.”

Lucas leans forward as if studying a strange new species. “Oh my god,” he shudders, “they’re synchronized, like they’re one person.”

Dustin points dramatically. “You two spend so much time together you’re starting to sound the same.”

Heat rushes across your face, spreading onto your cheeks, just now realizing how close you are to Steve. You drop your arms like they’re on fire. “We are not—we didn’t coordinate that.”

Steve’s face flushes with embarrassment. “Yeah, that wasn’t— I mean, we didn’t— it’s just a coincidence shitheads…"

“No one said it wasn’t,” Dustin’s tone carries teasingly, grinning like Christmas came early.

You agree, gesturing between yourself and Steve, “Right.” You affirm. “A coincidence.”

“Uh-huh,” Lucas responds flatly.

Will tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “You guys kind of do that a lot.”

Your stomach does a weird little flip. “Do what?”

“Act like parents,” Mike says, not even trying to cushion it.

You nearly choke on your own breath. “Parents?” Being a babysitter you could get behind, even being an older sibling figure is something you’d expected. But a parent? Absolutely not…you don’t act like one.

Steve doesn’t like the warmth that fills his chest at the implication. “Okay, wow—okay—nope. No. We’re— that’s— absolutely not what’s happening.”

“Totally,” Dustin adds cheerfully, “full on married couple, mom and dad energy right there.”

“Excuse me?” You and Steve blurt in unison again.

This time, the kids don’t hold back before losing it. Mike slaps the table in sheer amusement at your expense. Lucas simply doubles over wheezing. Will hides a smile behind his hand, and Dustin practically vibrates with smugness. It’s written all over his expression, got ya. 

You press both palms to your face in exasperation. “Oh my god.”

Steve leans closer to you, lowering his voice while the boys cackle. “They’re doing this on purpose, y’know? They like to see us riled up.”

“They’re evil,” you whisper back.

“We can hear you,” Lucas cuts in with a sly grin. 

Dustin gestures proudly between the two of you. “We’re right here.”

Steve's posture straightens, blowing out a breath before attempting to regain control. “Look—just—can you assholes get back to your campaign before I lose the last bit of sanity keeping me alive?”

“Language,” you blurt automatically, pointing at him like a scolding mother. It’s a habit you’d picked up from being around Dustin’s fowl mouth so much.

Steve stares at you, wide-eyed. “Did you just mom-voice me?”

The boys almost howl in laughter and Mike nearly slides right off his chair. You feel your ears burning. “I did not mom-voice you.”

Steve raises a brow, mouth tugging into a teasing, lopsided grin. “You totally did.”

“I did not.”

“It was kinda hot,” He mutters, so quietly you almost question whether you heard it.

Your heart plummets into your shoes. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Nothing,” Steve says immediately, voice slightly too loud and too serious. “S’just a figure of speech.” 

Across the table, the boys all exchange glances, eyebrows wiggling, smirks forming. The kind of smirks that make you want to lock them in the Upside Down for an hour.

You glare. “If you tell anyone about this, I swear—”

“We won’t,” Will promises sweetly.

“We absolutely will,” Dustin corrects, grinning.

You groan, dramatically dropping onto the couch like the world had betrayed you.

Steve walks over and gently nudges your knee with his. “You okay?” he asks, voice softer than before. “They’re… um… a lot.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “Believe me. I know.”

He offers a crooked, warm smile—the one he only does when he thought no one else was paying attention. “For what it’s worth… I like when we’re on the same team.”

Your chest tightens again, pleasantly, confusingly.

You look up at him and he looks back at you. And for a brief, suspended moment, the chaos of the basement falls away. The glow of the string lights warms Steve’s face. And the two of you feel oddly, undeniably in sync.

Will’s voice breaks the moment, soft but hopeful: “Um… can we keep playing now?”

You and Steve answer instinctively, perfectly in time: “Sure.”

Another round of laughs erupts from the table. But neither of you corrected it. They were never going to let you live this down. 

• ж • ж •

II. The Group Project

Outside, dusk settles over the yard in deep purples and soft peach streaks, turning the kitchen windows into reflective glass. Indoors, the overhead light casts a warm glow across the clutter —half-finished meals pushed aside, a pile of school mail crumpled on the counter, and one lone sock that definitely didn’t start the day where it ended up.

Tonight was supposed to be simple.

The plan—your plan—was to spend a quiet Wednesday finishing a book you’d been putting off. Maybe make some tea. Maybe listen to music. Maybe not referee any disasters for at least a few hours.

But fate, apparently, had other ideas.

Because at nearly 7pm there’s a frantic, uneven knock at the Byers’ front door followed by Dustin’s unmistakable voice calling, “(Y/n), open up!”

You don’t even get a chance to answer. Will opens the door instead, and Dustin barrels in like he’s fleeing wolves.

“We need help with a project,” He announces, breathless like he sprinted the whole way. His curls are wind-tangled, his jacket is half-zipped, and his cheeks flushed from the cold.

Before you can even speak, he’s dumped the contents of his bag onto the table in an academic explosion: glue sticks with bitten caps, an avalanche of loose papers, two crushed Twizzlers, and what looks dangerously like a frog diagram Will did last year.

Will appears behind him, looking apologetic. “Sorry,” he says. “He got…excited.”

Lucas trudges in next with the exhausted despair of a man going to war. “This project is killing us.”

You raise your eyebrows, you know for a fact this project isn’t due until later this week. “It’s Wednesday.”

“Exactly,” Lucas says, dropping into a chair like he’s accepted death. “It’s basically due tomorrow.”

“It’s actually due Friday,” Will mumbles.

Lucas waves a hand. “Same difference.” Unlike the others, Lucas has never been one to procrastinate. He prefers to be ahead of schedule. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “So what exactly do you need help with?”

“History presentation,” Dustin says. “We need a poster. A good one. Like, award-winning. Like the kind of poster people applaud for.”

You blink slowly. “You don’t get applause for school posters.”

“You do,” Dustin says gravely, “if you do them right.”

Before you can sigh again, the door opens again, and Steve pokes his head inside. He steps cautiously into the kitchen, shaking off his jacket, eyes scanning the room with the practiced alarm of the seasoned babysitter he is. 

“Hey! Am I late? I came as soon as I heard—” His gaze falls on the table. “Oh. Wow. That’s… a lot of paper.”

You cross your arms, mildly begrudged and equally curious. “Why are you here?”

“Lucas told me you might need backup.” He shrugs, lifting a grocery bag with the confidence of a man who believes snacks can solve anything. “Plus, I brought provisions.”

He unloads chips, pretzels, Capri Suns, and a box of brownies like he’s setting up camp. And the boys look at him the way baby ducks look at the first thing they see.

Dustin pauses mid glue stick sniff. “You…you brought snacks? Steve, you beautiful bastard.”

Steve beams like he’s been handed a trophy. You fold your arms. “So you’re helping too?”

He shrugs with a grin that is far too casual to be accidental. “Just in case.”

Dustin takes a bite out of one of the brownies, sending you a toothy grin as he does it. He passes one each to Will and Lucas with glee. “This,” Dustin announces, “is why Steve is allowed to come to group projects.”

Steve salutes him. “Glad to be of service man.”

Within minutes, the dining table turns into a chaotic workshop, an island of absolute academic activity. Will is sorting his pencil crayons by shade like you knew he would and Lucas, well, Lucas is fighting and losing against a glue stick cap that refuses to open.

You pull the poster board to the center. Spreading it out, you smooth its surface with your palms. It’s cool and stiff under your hands — blank and expectant.

Dustin’s voice whispers a quiet shit, shit, shit, as a tin of glitter spills on his pants. He stands, dusting it off onto the floor. You chuckle and sigh, shaking your head in bemusement, that’ll be a clean up problem for later. 

“Okay,” you say, ready to begin. “Let’s get started. We’ll keep it simple. Neat. Clear.”

You tuck your knees under the chair you’re sitting on and lean forward, sketching the first pencil guidelines. The familiar pressure of graphite scraping paper grounds you; it’s something you can control.

Steve wanders to your side, pulling a chair next to yours. He doesn’t lower himself gently, he drops into it with that boyish clumsiness he pretends he doesn’t have, the seat legs squeaking across the floor.

He sits next to you — right next to you, close enough that your elbows brush every time you shift — and he tries to look like he understands what’s happening.

He doesn’t. At all. He hasn’t completed a school project like this in years. You try not to think about how close he is, but you fail immediately. He smells like winter air and the faint cologne he uses only when he’s trying to impress a girl. It’s warm with something sweet pulling at its edges. 

He picks up a pencil and squints at the page of instructions. “So, uh…what’s this part?”

“That’s the rubric,” you reply.

“Right. Right. Of course.” He nods confidently. Then lowers his voice. “What’s a rubric again?”

You bite back a smile. “It’s just the grading guide.”

“Oh.” He leans back slightly. “Yeah, I totally knew that.”

“No you didn’t,” Will says without looking up.

“Didn’t ask for your input, Wizard Boy.” From anyone else, you might have taken offence on your brother’s behalf, but Steve has this teasing rapport with each of the kids—it’s easy and heartwarming.  

Will just rolls his eyes and keeps colouring.

You slide a reindeer-shaped eraser toward Steve.  “Here. For morale.”

He accepts it solemnly. “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

A few minutes pass in silence as each of you work diligently on your parts. Honestly, you’re kind of having fun; getting back into the groove of a school project reminds you of your own time in high school. It wasn’t always the best, but it brought you closer to Steve. Despite hailing from very different social groups, trauma had bonded you together in a way you’d never have expected. The upside down feels distant in this moment, and that in itself feels nice. 

 You’re sketching out the title letters when you feel Steve lean closer, his arm brushing yours again.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Can you… uh… help me with this?”

You look over. He’s struggling with the scissors, fingers covered in a light coating of glue. He’s stuck.

You blink slowly, staring at him with a soft smile.

“Steve.” You snort.

He grins, embarrassed but charmingly so, and nudges your knee with his under the table.

“C’mon, don't laugh” he says softly. “I feel stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.” You tap the poster board sending him a lopsided grin. “You just, look a little sticky.”

Standing to grab a wash cloth from your kitchen counter, you wet it slightly. “Here,” you say, taking Steve’s hand in yours, careful not to cut yourself with the scissor’s blades. You help Steve, guiding his hand free once the glue has been successfully wiped away. 

The kids notice that change in the room. They absolutely notice. A fresh, nervous energy fills the air.

Lucas nudges Will. Will raises an eyebrow, and Dustin smirks knowingly like he’s in on some grand romantic conspiracy.

Steve eyes Dustin carefully, as if to say not a word, not ONE word. But Dustin doesn’t care, he’s more than happy to watch his friend fall apart at a simple touch from your hand on his. The curly haired teen bites the inside of his cheek trying not to comment—and failing, whispering something like they’re so obvious.

You pretend not to notice.

Another bout of silence falls amongst the group, settling with your dissipating nerves. Each of you agrees, you want to get this done as efficiently as possible, even if it doesn’t seem like it. Now, you’re busy shading the title letters — your hand resting naturally close to Steve’s

Just when the chaos seems manageable, Joyce wanders by carrying a basket of folded laundry. She stops and takes one long look at the table. Her brown eyes take in the scene piece by piece: You leaning in, fingers smudged with pencil dust, and Steve beside you, shoulders angled inward as if drawn to your orbit. Your hands brush each time one of you reaches for a marker.

Joyce watches as the boys work with suspicious innocence. Five Capri Suns sit next to each other, straws already poked in.

A subtle, knowing smile touches her face — warm, gentle, approving. “Oh,” she says, lingering just a heartbeat too long, “you two look cute working together.”

The room freezes. Steve inhales sharply, feeling caught. He blinks unnaturally hard like someone hit pause on his brain. Your eyes widen, sending a glare her way that says: Mom, get out. Joyce simply glides out of the room without clarifying or apologizing, leaving behind the smoldering embarrassment of the interrupted moment you totally weren’t having.

By the time the project is almost done, the boys have stopped doing much of anything, letting you and Steve finish their work for them.

Steve is helping you outline the final border — or at least trying to — his shoulder brushing yours in a way that feels intentional now. He holds the ruler, his long fingers guiding him as he traces the final touches. He leans in a little closer, voice dropping to something low and warm.

“You know,”  he nods at the poster.  “At this rate, we’re basically co-parenting a school project.”

Your cheeks warm at the thought. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” His tone is soft, teasing but honest underneath. “We make a pretty good team, don’t we?”

You freeze for half a second. Just half. And you try to focus, you really really do, but he’s just so distracting.

The house is suddenly very quiet. The distance between you and Steve is small, just a few inches, maybe less but the air shifts, humming with an almost-something neither of you has been brave enough to name. And Steve is watching you, not in the big, bold way he sometimes does, but softly, like he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to.

You swallow. Then you snatch the ruler from his grasp and jab it into his chest.

“Focus, Harrington.”

He laughs under his breath. It’s low, sweet, and the sound slides right under your ribs.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Sure thing Byers.”

But he doesn’t move away.

And neither do you.

• ж • ж •

III. Mad Max

The call comes just after sunset, the hour when Hawkins shifts from blue to violet, when houses glow with warm windows and the ravens call loudly enough to fill the cracks of silence. You’re drying the last dish when the phone rings again. Will grabs it before you do, the cord stretching across his chest like a lifeline.

You can tell it’s one of those calls by the way his face changes—brow pinched, lips pressed thin, eyes flicking toward you.

“It’s Steve,” he says, voice tight, eyes wide and anxious. “Max ran off. Again.”

Your stomach drops. There’s a small, tight pull in your chest. It’s not fear, definitely not panic—just that familiar weight of here we go, mixed with the tug you always feel whenever the kids need you. You suppose it’s a familiar responsibility that comes from loving too many people too much. 

You’re grabbing your jacket before you even realize it. Will isn’t surprised. He doesn’t have to ask; he just steps aside to let you pass.

And when you finally step outside, the cool night air hits your skin—crisp like late autumn and early winter should be, carrying the scent of dry leaves and woodsmoke. And there he is.

Steve, leaning against his car, fiddling with his gloves. His hair is wind-tousled, his cheeks flushed, his hands jittery with too much adrenaline and too little direction. He looks up the second you appear.

Relief floods his entire expression. 

“You came,” he breathes out, like he was half afraid you wouldn’t.

“You called.” You affirm. As if there’d be a time when you could say no to him. Like you’d ever not show up. 

When you finally get a good look at him, you notice there’s worry in his eyes. And underneath it—because you’ve learned to read him—there’s this fear that he’ll mess this up. He doesn’t say anything, just unlocks the car and you slide in, the familiar smell of pine car freshener wrapping around you.

As he pulls away, he keeps glancing over at you with these quick, jittery cuts of his eyes on you like he needs to make sure you’re actually there.

“She just—she took off,” he mutters, voice clipped. “Lucas said something, and then she was gone, and I—” He swallows hard. “I don’t know if she’s mad, or scared, or both. Jesus probably both.”

You touch his arm lightly, grounding him. “She’s not running from you, Steve.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t believe you yet.

He drives the two of you in complete silence for a while before coming to a stop on the edge of the woods. You find yourselves at an entrance to a trail you know Max likes, one she uses when she just needs to get away. 

“You ready?” You ask Steve with a soft smile. He doesn’t respond, too caught up in his thoughts to speak. He simply nods and takes your hand in his. It’s grounding…for both of you, in a way that usually would spark a kind of nervous energy. But right now, it’s exactly what Steve needs.

As evening clings to the forest trail like a heavy blanket, it's cast in a half-shadow, half-silver moonlight state. The air is cool and smells of pine needles and damp earth as the last bit of violet sky filters through the branches.. Steve’s flashlight cuts through the shadows as you both walk, the beam slicing through the trees like thin, trembling fingers.

The crunch of frozen soil under your feet fills the silence between you. 

“She could be anywhere,” Steve mutters. His shoulders are tight, a helm of anxiety written all over him.

You can feel Steve’s worry, almost like it’s a physical heat pouring off him. He’s walking too fast, scanning everything, body coiled like he’s ready to fight whatever hurts the people he cares about.

You’ve seen that look before. In the Upside Down, in hospital rooms, in quieter nights like this.

“She shouldn’t have to deal with this alone,” he murmurs as if it’s his fault she ran. “None of them should.”

But you hear the real fear beneath it: I should’ve kept her safe.  I should’ve noticed sooner. I should’ve been enough.

In the years you’ve grown to know Steve, he’s always held himself to an insurmountable standard. It’s one that he would never expect from anyone else but himself. He has to be ready for anything at any time from anyone. And he has to be able to take it on alone. That’s one of the things you’re trying to break down—this need to fix everything by himself. You’ve tried countless times to tell him I’m here too. Sometimes you think you’re getting through to him…this isn’t one of those moments. But you’d be damned if you stopped trying. 

After a few minutes of more silent sulking, you hear something familiar: the uneven scrape of wheels on the dirt. You follow the sound around a bend, and there she is, sitting at the edge of the tree trunk with her skateboard on her lap like a shield.

Her chin is tucked to her chest, knuckles white on the board's underside.

“Red?” You murmur softly, easing down beside her. You approach slowly, like you’re nearing a cornered animal, because in some ways, you are. 

Max sniffles once, but doesn’t look up. In Max-language, that means: I’ll talk, just not yet.

“Hey,” you continue, leaning in closer beside her. The ground is cold through your jeans. “Want to tell me what happened?”

She shrugs, nails digging into the underside of her skateboard. You can see the tension coiled in her shoulders. Her body language betrays her, anger, shame, frustration, hurt all tangled up.

“It was stupid,” she mutters.

“If it made you feel this bad,” you glance at her with a sympathy for her pain, “it wasn’t stupid Max.”

She shakes her head in slight protest before muttering, “The boys were just being idiots,” 

Behind you, Steve hangs back, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, pretending he’s not desperately listening while also desperate to give space. His hands rest on his hips and his eyes don’t leave her for a second. 

“They wouldn’t stop arguing, I just felt like I couldn’t control anything.” Max finally says. “And then Lucas said I didn’t need to be so dramatic. And Mike got all Mike about it. So I left. Before I yelled…or cried.”

The last word breaks.  Just slightly. “I don’t know,” she continues, “I figured they wouldn’t even notice I was gone.”

You give her a look. “You know they notice everything you do.”

Max kicks a pebble, hard. “Yeah, well… I didn’t want them to see me cry.”

That slices clean through you.  You bump her shoulder gently. “Max. Crying doesn’t make you weak.”

“It makes me look like a baby.” Is her honest response, and she means it.

“It makes you look human,” you correct softly, pulling her into a soft side-hug.

She sniffles but refuses to cry in front of you. It’s Max’s way of trying to be tough, even though you already know how soft-hearted she really is. For a moment, the world goes still around the three of you. Steve leans down to meet your level, each of you now sitting on the cold dirt floor. Max’s breathing is easier, her shoulders are lower, and her jaw unclenches. She needed to be seen, and with you and Steve, she feels she has been. 

But just when the moment is finally tender, real, and grounding—she ruins it in the most Max Mayfield way possible.

“Ya know,” she grumbles abruptly, staring between you and Steve, “You two are like our divorced parents who still love each other. It’s kind of annoying.”

You blink. In that moment, Steve actually chokes on his own saliva.

“Divorced?” he echoes, like she just accused him of murder. His voice cracks on the second syllable. 

The red head rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Like the way you show up together. And fight together. And then act weird when anyone points it out.” You give each other a look that asks, we totally don’t do that right? But she continues before you can think about it more, “One of you is the calm one,” she points to you, “and one of you is the chaotic one, but you’re always together anyway. It’s a whole thing…Classic divorced-but-still-grossly-in-love behaviour.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, when Steve makes a move to protest being labelled the chaotic one.  “Don’t even start,” you warn Steve without looking at him.

“I wasn’t!” he puts his hands up in defence.  Then quieter, “…I wasn’t.”

Max snorts. “God. That’s exactly what a divorced dad would say.” 

Steve looks incredulous and personally victimized. Divorced? Why can’t you both be happily married in this scenario? 

But as he takes in Max’s smile and the quiet laugh she lets out at his reaction, he can see how much she needed this—a moment to break the tension with something ridiculous. Her eyes are no longer stormy…and that was the whole point of this.

“C’mon,” you say gently, nudging them both to get up from your spots on the ground. “Let’s get you home.”

Max finally nods, rubbing her eyes tiredly as you lead her back to the car. She leans on you both during the short walk, and when you finally reach the vehicle, Steve lifts her onto the seat gently. He buckles her in like a true parent.

Max falls asleep before you’re even back on the road, skateboard still clutched to her chest. She curls into the corner of the back seat, exhausted and small in a way she’ll deny forever.

Steve drives slowly now—the careful, protective version of him that surfaces only when the kids are nearby… or when you are. The silence in the car is warm, heavy.  Not awkward. Just… charged.

The road unwinds in long, quiet stretches. Golden pools of streetlight glide over the windshield. The car hums.

You rest your elbow on the window, watching the blur of passing houses. Steve glances at you a few times—quick, flickering looks from under his lashes, like he’s trying to find the right words but they keep slipping away. They’re the kind he thinks you don’t notice.

Halfway down the road, pulling into the Mayfield driveway, he inhales deeply.

“You know…” he says quietly, “you’re… really good with her.”

You shrug off his words. “She just needed someone to listen.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean… you’re good with all of them. With the boys. And El.” He pauses, fingers tightening on the steering wheel.

“—and with me.”

Your heart stutters. “I never expected anyone to care about me the way you do.” His brown eyes meet yours as he puts the car in park.

It’s subtle, but the way his voice dips? The way the words feel heavier than they should? It does something to you.

You try to play it off, but your pulse betrays you, thrumming in your ears. You can feel it in your wrists, in your ribs, and in your throat. 

“Somebody has to be the calm one,” you say softly.

Steve huffs a laugh, warm and self-deprecating.  “Yeah. Well. That’s definitely not me.”

You pretend to look out the window, steadying your breath.  “You don’t give yourself enough credit,” you murmur.

“You give me too much,” he replies.

“That’s not true.” He shifts his hand on the center console. Yours shifts too. Barely, casually. Maybe not casually at all.

Your pinkies brush. And Steve freezes—just a breath, just a heartbeat—but long enough for the air between you to thicken, warm and electric with currents of tension.

He doesn’t pull away and neither do you.

“Thanks,” he whispers, almost too quiet. “For being you.”

Your heartbeat answers for you and you let your hand drift the final few centimetres until your pinkies tough tentatively. Steve exhales and neither of you pulls away.

• ж • ж •

IV. School Pick-Up

The Hawkins High School parking lot looks like a battlefield every weekday at 3:15 p.m.—car exhaust drifting in the cold air, teachers shouting instructions like air-traffic controllers, and children flooding through the front doors in unpredictable, chaotic waves.

You’re already tense just pulling in. Picking up Will always stirs something in your chest: protectiveness, guilt, that familiar edge of worry you’ve never really shaken since he came home from the Upside Down. Even on normal days, you watch the doors like he might need you in the span of a heartbeat.

You exhale, trying to shake it off. Will is safe. School is just school. Your fingers tighten around the wheel anyway.

You turn into one of the few remaining spots—and then a flash of gold catches your eye.

Of course. The BMW.

You watch as Steve swings into the spot right next to yours with practiced ease, like the two of you rehearsed this moment. Which is ridiculous. Except he really does show up at the same time as you more often than not, and you really have noticed. And part of you hates that you’ve noticed, and the other part—some stubborn, traitorous part—really, really likes it.

Your heart jumps a little before you can stop it. Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.

You open your door and step out just as he does, and his face lights up instantly, as if your presence was the best thing he could’ve seen in this entire parking lot disaster.

“You doing the afternoon pickup too?” He asks, jogging a few easy steps toward you.

His tone is casual, but his eyes flick over you with that warm, open softness you’re still not used to. You fight the flutter of it.

“Yep. My mom’s working late, again.” Your voice sounds normal. You feel anything but.

His expression dips into something gentler. “Ah. I’m here for Dustin and Max. They wanna check out some new arcade game or some nerdy shit like that.”

The image of Steve watching aimlessly as Dustin and Max school each other on some arcade game is… absurdly cute. Dangerous thoughts. You push it away.

You’re about to say something back, something normal, something friendly, something not obviously lovesick, when the school doors burst open.

A tidal wave of kids floods out.

“Steve! I’ve been waiting forever!” Max yells, barreling toward him with her skateboard like she owns the pavement.

At the same second, you spot Will weaving through the crowd, his backpack bouncing. The way he breaks into a grin when he sees you cracks your chest open a little. He still looks so small coming out of a building so huge.

“You’re here! Finally!” He gasps when he reaches you, even though you’re early.

You laugh and ruffle his hair. “Nice to see you too.”

And that’s when the universe decides to absolutely annihilate you.

A teacher—you think she’s one of the kids’ English teachers—approaches you and Steve with that warm, frazzled, end-of-day smile teachers wear for parents like armor.

“Oh, good! There you are!” She chirps. “Your kids were very well-behaved today.”

Your brain trips over itself so hard you actually blink. Your kids?

Beside you, Steve goes rigid. Max snorts so loudly she almost chokes. You and Steve make the exact same face—wide-eyed, frozen, about to malfunction.

“Our what?” You stammer, but Steve jumps in, panicked.

“Oh—they—um—only one of them is mine,” He blurts.

You whip your head toward him. Only one of them is his? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

He realizes what he just said in real-time, eyes going feral. “I mean—none!. None are mine, I don’t—I’m just, you know?” He shrugs his shoulders in panic, struggling to get his point across. You know what he means…he’s just picking them up. But the teacher in front of you doesn’t seem to get the message.

Will is wheezing against your arm, absolutely delighted.

Dustin materializes out of the crowd like a summoned gremlin. “What is happening?” He demands—but then the teacher smiles fondly at him too, like he’s your collective third child, and he looks like Christmas arrived early.

“Oh my god,” He whispers, nudging you and watching Steve with utter amusement. “Oh my god, this is amazing.”

“Sir,” the teacher says kindly to Steve, patting his arm like he’s having a breakdown, “You don’t have to explain anything. Parenting is hard.”

You swear you see Steve’s soul momentarily leave his body. Max crosses her arms. “Yeah, Dad, stop being weird.”

Your jaw drops. You’re 97% certain Steve just lost the will to live.

“MAX,” he hisses, voice cracking.

You try—really try—not to laugh. But a strangled sound escapes anyway, and you have to hide your mouth behind your hand before you openly lose it. The teacher, blissfully unaware of the carnage she’s caused, waves cheerfully and moves on to the next cluster of kids.

Will is practically vibrating. “You two should get matching minivans!”

“Don’t. Even,” you warn him, but your cheeks are already burning.

Steve looks like he’s seriously considering changing his name and moving to another state. “Okay, shitheads.Nobody ever speaks of this again. Got it?” He points to each of them with an intensity you adore.

“No promises Dad,” Dustin cackles.

You start steering Will toward your car before he throws more gasoline on the fire. Your heart is still thumping, too fast, too warm, and you’re terrified it’s obvious.

But then—something prickles at the back of your neck.

You glance over your shoulder. Steve is still standing beside his BMW, leaning one elbow on the roof, watching you like he doesn’t want this moment to end. Like you’re something he’s memorizing.

When your eyes meet, he says aloud: We’d be cool parents though.

Everything inside you short-circuits. You pretend not to hear him, but a small smile creeps its way onto your face. Your hand slips, keys nearly tumbling. Will looks up at you with raised eyebrows. “Why do you look like that?”

“Headache,” you say immediately. 

Will squints. “You’re the weirdest person I know.”

You don’t look back again. You don’t trust yourself not to melt into a puddle in front of the entire school—but even as you close the car door, you swear you can still feel Steve’s grin pressed somewhere under your skin.

You’d make great parents, you think.

And on the way out, you’re nearly certain you hear Dustin ask Steve, “So, between me and Max, which one of us is yours?”

And you can’t help but laugh…you wonder how he’s going to get out of that one.

• ж • ж •

+ I. When acting like a couple ends in becoming a real couple.

Your house always feels a little small on nights like this.

Not physically—God knows Joyce keeps the place spotless, every corner well-loved and lived-in—but emotionally, the walls feel closer when the whole Party is together. Their energy ricochets around the room: loud, sharp, earnest, and chaotic. You’ve grown used to it by now: the mess, the noise, the unpredictability, but even so, every movie night walks that thin line between heartwarming and total combustion.

Tonight lands firmly on the combustion side. It happens fast, so fast that you don’t notice the exact moment the tension shifts. One moment the kids are debating movie choices, the next they’re fighting over pizza, and it devolves—fast.

Mike grabs the last slice before Dustin’s hand even reaches the plate.

“I called it!” Dustin erupts, shoulders shooting up like he’s about to engage in mortal combat.

Mike clutches the slice to his chest. “Calling doesn’t count!”

Dustin’s mop of curly hair takes up most of the space in your vision. He lifts an eyebrow with conviction,“Uh, yes it does!”

“It actually doesn’t!”

Somewhere behind them, Lucas shouts, “You’re both idiots!” which does absolutely nothing to de-escalate the situation.

On the other side of the room, Max throws her head back with a guttural noise of disgust before bracing her hands on the wall and storming down the hall. The bathroom door slams so hard the vibration echoes into your teeth.

Will tries to intervene once—very softly, very hesitantly—but Mike snaps something over his shoulder without thinking, and Will immediately shrinks back, retreating toward the end of the couch like he wishes he could disappear into it.

El stares at the TV remote with growing frustration. You know what she’s thinking. Maybe she could fix the evening with her powers if she tried hard enough, and you swear you see her jaw tremble.

You know the signs. You’ve babysat these kids long enough. Once one kid spirals, the rest follow like dominos.

You inhale through your nose, prepared to wade into the emotional battlefield, and then you look up. Steve, standing by the kitchen counter, meets your gaze across the living room. His gaze immediately grounds you.

What happens next is wordless and instinctive. It’s a practiced rhythm you didn’t even know you had with him—but apparently you do, because the two of you fall into perfect sync without so much as a nod.

You head for the emotional fires; Steve heads for the practical ones.

It’s almost choreographed, like some part of you already knew how to do this together. You calm the feelings while Steve stabilizes the room.

You move to Will first, because the defeated slope of his shoulders is impossible to ignore. His anxiety is a quiet thing, but you’ve learned to read him better than anyone. While you try not to treat him any differently than the others, he’s your brother. And he’s been through far too much for a kid his age. 

You crouch down. “Hey,” you say gently, touching his elbow. “Take a breath with me, okay?”

Will’s eyes flicker up to yours, glassy and full of unshed worry. But he listens. He always listens.

You breathe slowly. He follows. He steadies.

“There you go,” you whisper. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His shoulders sag with relief.

Next, you make your way down the hall and knock on the bathroom door. “Max? It’s me.”

A beat. Then a muffled, “They’re idiots.”

You lean your forehead against the door, trying not to smile. “They are,” you admit. “Certified idiots. But they’re also your idiots, and they’ll feel pretty terrible if you stay mad all night.”

Silence. Then a very soft: “I’ll come out in a minute. Don’t tell them I said anything.”

You smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

When you head back down to the living room, the entire energy of the room has shifted and it only takes you one glance to know why. Steve has transformed the space.

The lights are now dimmed to something warm and soft. He’s grabbed popcorn from the microwave as it's quietly replenished, and the last slice of pizza has been mysteriously replaced with two half-slices so no one feels cheated.

Blankets have been pulled down from the hall closet, unfolded and ready. He hands pillows to each of them with ease. The chaos now feels smoothed, softened, and rearranged into a soft sense of comfort.

Somehow he even got Mike and Dustin to sit, still glaring at each other but at least seated, their anger settling from wildfire to the faint glow of an ember.

You meet Steve’s eyes over the room. It hits you in the chest—unexpected and overwhelming—that this feels easy. Natural. Not like something you’re improvising, but something you’ve done a hundred times together. You’ve been a team long before either of you admitted it.

And one by one, the kids melt into calmness.

Will curls into a pillow pile, comforted. El leans against Max who has now rejoined the group, her frustration dissolving with sleep. Lucas steals a corner of a blanket and tucks it under his chin. Mike and Dustin argue, but it's half-hearted now, the kind of bickering they only do once they feel safe.

It happens gradually, but beautifully. Their breathing evens out, their fighting drains away, and instead of chaos, your living room becomes a cocoon of trust, warmth, and soft teenage exhaustion.

And the whole time, you and Steve move in tandem: adjusting blankets, soothing frayed edges, nudging cups out of danger, exchanging small, fond looks that make your stomach twist.

And by the time they’ve all settled, the house is quiet except for the hum of the TV.

You and Steve end up on the couch. It’s totally not intentional, but because there’s nowhere else to sit. A single blanket is draped over both of you, and though neither of you comments on it, you feel every point of contact like a spark.

As you sit there, the kids finally asleep, the movie plays low in the background. Your knees suddenly brush and you rest your shoulders together. Your hands settle close, almost touching on the cushion. Steve’s warmth bleeds into you, calm and familiar and terrifyingly comforting. When you look over, his gaze is already on you. In the way that you’re noticing more and more often, it’s soft around the edges, lit by something you’ve never seen from him so openly before.

In a voice so gentle it feels like an intimate secret, he says “Sometimes I feel like we really are their parents. I mean, we’re already doing the hardest parts.”

Your heart feels like it skips a beat. He continues, watching you with a bravery that makes something twist in your chest. “Maybe,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your lips for the briefest, most devastating second, “we should just make it official.”

It lands differently than you expected. Not teasing, not flirty, and it certainly doesn’t seem like a joke. He’s serious. Nervous. Hopeful.

You swallow, because suddenly there’s a whole confession rising inside you—a tidal wave of things you’ve been too scared to voice.

“Hmm. You do make everything easier,” you hum teasingly, then seriously, you whisper. “With the kids. With Will. With… everything really. When you’re here, it feels like I don’t have to hold everything alone.”

His expression breaks open, softens, deepens. “You don’t,” he says, voice thick. “You never have to, not with me. We have something real, and something I never want to lose (Y/n).”

Your heart surges. “Are you sure you really want this?” You ask, searching his face for any uncertainty.

He nods without hesitation. “Yeah.” His tone carries with so much confidence, you wish you could express yourself like him. “I want you and I want this. I have for a long time.”

Something in you unravels. Something else roots itself deeper. You lean in slowly, giving him time to pull away if you’ve misread this—if this isn’t what he meant—

But he moves with you. You meet halfway, and he meets you with as much care for you as you have for him.

The kiss is slow and warm and breathtaking in its tenderness. Steve exhales against your mouth like he’s been waiting for this—for you—longer than he knows how to admit. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek in a touch so gentle it makes your eyes sting.

You melt into him as he pulls you closer, and the world narrows and expands all at once.

It feels inevitable, yet so so right. 

You’re officially together. Exactly where you both belong.

[honeybunnyale]

Breeding Program l C.K. & L.L.

w.c: 5.7k

t.w.: Dark-ish fic, Smut, P in V, Oral f receiving, Sex pollen Dub-con/Non-con, Voyeurism, Cucking,  Breeding kink (forced pregnancy), Lactation kink (brief), LuthorCorp Secretary!Reader, Mentions of Ultraman x Reader (one-sided), Lex Luthor x Superman (also one-sided and psychotic), Cum play/eating, Reader has glasses, slight spoilers, fuck or die!, angst

a/n: Please read all warnings before interacting with my works. 18+ only!

Summary: Ultraman wasn’t as successful as he expected. Lex Luthor is hoping to breed something new to defeat his nemesis, no matter how long the process may take. 

Cloning didn’t work. Ultraman was stupid. Incompetent. A failure. 

But he liked you. Lex Luthor would watch as he leaned closer to you. It made you uncomfortable, clear by the way you shifted on your feet and avoided his pointed gaze. 

Lex trusted you in maintaining him. You’d lead him, after hours, to his room, to the shower, to eat. You were his caretaker in a way.  Reluctantly so.  

The clone’s base instincts clearly indicated attraction judging by the hard ons he would openly display as he bathed with you standing by the door to ensure he wouldn’t make a mess. 

It gave Luthor an idea, an idea that would ensure the next Superman “clone” would be as perfect as possible. 

Luthor would pay you handsomely for the trouble. You who kept most of his secrets, you who he sends enough flowers to fill up your apartment, you who he has special meetings with while his girlfriend was off on a shopping spree. 

He almost feels tenderly towards you. You were a perfect candidate. 

…

You bounce on his lap, sinking onto his prick as he leaned back on his office chair. Peering at you as if you were on your knees and praying to him. 

You grunt quietly, he watches as you get yourself off, as he does nothing to help. 

Your fingers glide diligently over your cunt, the squelching sounds making you whimper as your clit throbs between your fingers. 

He’s not good at sex, he likes having it, likes getting himself off. But he is not inept at pleasuring others. 

You’re fine with it. No one has ever made you finish anyway. You only needed his dick. Like a dildo. 

You grind your hips against his pelvis, his cock pushes in deep as you pulse around him, your head falling forward to rest against his shoulder in a stifled final moan. 

He grips your hips as he pulses inside of you, you groan at the action. He always pulls out. You give him a look as you stand, he pulls your panties up against your cunt and pats your ass. 

“Keep it in.” 

You snort, he raises a brow, wondering where the joke was in his tone. Thank goodness for birth control. You’d rather die than have his demonic children. Even more spoiled brats and the world's riches would be divided within the Luthor family entirely. 

“Remember what the goal is today…” he says as he points a teasing finger at you. 

You nod as you straighten your pencil skirt and button up your shirt. Your hands drag against the wood of his desk to swipe your glasses teasingly. 

“I’m ready.” 

…

Being jostled around the air was irritating to say the least. The clone repeatedly evaded Superman’s moves, causing you to be caught midair several times. One second Ultraman, the other Superman. 

It was like tug of war, except instead of rope, your body was being pulled every which way. 

Another frightening possibility you didn’t think of before was that hands slip, butterfingers, people fumble. 

Superman drops you. You imagine Lex having a laugh. 

Superman apologizes as he recatches you, hands tight on your waist as he turns swiftly to take a hit to his back. You could see the way he grits his teeth and shut his eyes from the pain, the way his hands tightened over your body as he cocooned you. 

You get it, you realize. Despite the obvious threats around him, his focus was on protecting you, the civilian. It made your chest warm. You almost coo from how selfless he was. 

He flees from Ultraman, disguised as a villain of the week, in an attempt to put you down in a safe location. 

“You ok?” 

You grip onto his shoulders fearfully, feeling the taught muscle underneath. You get those who swoon. He was even bigger in person. 

You nod slowly, eyes wide, a hand pressing your glasses to your face to keep them from flying off. 

“Yea-“ 

It was like a train had hit him, the impact of the clone ramming into his side so strong it caused him to lose his grip on you. Again.

Jealousy you briefly wonder, you’re sure Lex didn’t tell him to do that. You’ve never seen that move before. 

You each go in opposite directions. You could hear Superman scream out a sharp no as you’re free falling in the air. 

The genuine concern won him points by you again. 

You think about Lex. About the way he practically begged you to accept the role as victim for his latest scheme. 

You’d slap him the next time you see him. 

Your attempts to scream are tampered by the rush of air, you couldn’t breathe in or out, the rush of adrenaline making it hard to focus on the action as you see the pavement inch closer. 

And suddenly you’re in someone’s arms again, held tightly against their chest. You take a harsh breath in, the rush of oxygen making your lungs burn.

Your eyes stayed unfocused from your lack of lenses. You look behind you to find metal armor facing right back at you. You sigh. 

You’re shaking as you’re deposited to the floor of the lab, located near a small town west of the city of Metropolis. 

Ultraman dropped you unceremoniously, making your knees buckle and causing you to fall. 

You glare up at him, narrowing your eyes as he refuses to look your way. Unlike him. He was most definitely jealous. 

Several lab techs surround you and Ultraman briefly to assess damages. They find none, they leave quickly, leaving you to reorient yourself in your lonesome. 

You stand, wiping your hands down your skirt as you grumble about the lack of adequate patient care they offered you.

You try the door closest to you, it was locked. For a moment you stare at it dumbfoundedly. This was supposed to be where Luthor was entrapping Superman. There was a bed in the middle of the room, a toilet to the side. This was a prison. 

Surely someone was coming to get you, or one of the doors will lock once Superman arrives. 

You try the other door, locked. You knock. Your polite knock turns into a slam of your palm. You shout that you couldn’t get out. That you needed to get out. That you were starting to freak out. 

You could hear metal bend. Superman was here. You shook the door knob desperately. 

“Lex!” 

The pounding was getting louder, you could hear his grunts as he attempted to make his way to you. To “save” you. 

What would he do once he found out you planned to imprison him for testing, then undoubtedly kill him afterwards. 

The sound of the panels behind you, curling in his hands like cardboard, made you think he wouldn’t be too happy. 

You turn your back against the door, chest rising and falling with each breath as he breaks himself into his own doom. He takes a breath of relief at finding you unharmed. His eyes scan over your form as he jogs forward, hand gently holding your glasses out to you. 

You take them shakily, placing them on to see his soft smile clearly. He puts his hand on your shoulder, your expression terrified. 

“You’re going to be ok.” 

Alarm bells ring, the room turns red and walls appear, layers and layers of metal sliding atop each other, just to stall him for the next part. 

You swallow thickly and shake your head in denial. There must have been a mistake, you weren’t supposed to be in here, no one other than him was. You were fucked. You step away from him, he looks around the room in confusion. 

The size of the room is cut in half by the strongest metal Luthor could find. Superman could easily punch his way out, but the amount of punches would be too much for him to get out in time. 

A greenish fog fills up the room. He reacts quickly, tugging you from the wall and covering his mouth with his hand, as if urging you to copy the action. 

“Hold your breath, I’ll get us out of here.” 

You stare at his back, hands at your sides, as he turns to pull his hand back and hit the wall. What a beautiful idiot. 

He didn’t realize that with each layer he destroyed more and more gas was being pumped into the room. It made you feel lightheaded. 

You stay put in the middle of the room, legs turning weak and arms barely holding you up against the bed. Superman calls for you to follow him, almost desperately as he feels himself weakening. 

He holds his breath, he could hold it for several minutes. But he was barely leaving a dent now. 

“Don’t breathe it in!” he shouts. It didn’t matter. The smog could be absorbed through the skin anyway. 

You fall to your knees. He stops and rushes to you. He could see that he wasn’t as close to breaking out as he liked. 

He could only think of one thing. Kryptonite. It was making him feel almost anemic. He starts to shake. But he didn’t feel any pain. He felt a strange rush go through his body.

“Don’t-“ you wheeze out as he kneels over you, hand coming up to touch your shoulder. 

The more you inhale the more you feel the effects of the gas. Your stomach clenches, your clothes feel suffocating, your skin sensitive. 

Lex said it was going to debilitate him. Make him bend to his knees and writhe. 

He grips your bicep, to stabilize you. 

Your sharp moan made the hero freeze. It was sensual, pornographic. Not of pain or agony. His breath stutters at the sound, he feels himself start to sweat, his face heating up impossibly in embarrassment and something else. 

What the hell did Lex put in this damn cell? 

Your stomach cramps. You could hear the room speaker turn on with a sharp crack. Superman stands, looking around the room, attempting to find it. 

“Hello, Superman.” 

“Luthor,” he says as a response, sounding tired, almost bored of the other man’s voice already. 

“Why don’t you or your people ever show themselves?” he asks after a moment, looking up towards the corner, knowing that a camera was pointed right at him. 

“I’m closer than you think.” 

Superman’s brows furrow. He turns to you and shrugs his shoulders with an incredulous look, obviously mocking Luthor’s ominous tone and words. You look away in shame, his face falls as you cower away from him. 

“Oh! I didn’t introduce you to my secretary. Say hi to my secretary. Isn’t she cute? Great actor too.” 

Superman’s eyes connect with yours and you pant as you drag yourself to the far wall. His eyes sharpen and his brows furrow, so deep creases formed in his perfect friendly face. The hint of a smile, gone. He was clearly upset by the setup. 

“What did you do?” he asked, voice raised. He stares directly at you, eyes roaming over your body. 

You’re not sure who he speaks to. Lex or you. By Lex’s snort, he assumes it was to him. 

“Do you feel it?” Lex’s voice reverberated around the small enclosure, you bite your lip to hold in a whimper. 

Your breath comes out in short pants. You feel your thighs slicken, each shift highlighting the fact that there was now a building dampness underneath you.

“It’ll take a while to set in for you.” 

You rock your hips, Superman watches you curiously. You fight the urge to press your hand between your legs. You turn in your embarrassment, your nipples were so hard they stung and pointed out against the fabric of your shirt. 

You press your face against the cool wall, it gives you brief relief. Another cramp in your lower belly hits you, you shake and groan. 

“It’s already set in for her. You’ll see soon enough.” 

He could smell your arousal, he exhaled shakily as he felt a warmth travel through his spine at your twitches and small noises. His eyes start to roam over your body, the way your back arches lightly, your ass curving out against the fabric of your skirt, now showing a growing spot of wetness. 

He licks his lips before refocusing. 

“What did you do?” he shouts with force. 

“Don’t worry, it’s harmless.” 

Superman looks at you, your back to him, he steps forward before stopping. His stomach tightens, his mouth salivates, and he feels his briefs tighten against his growing heavy bulge. 

His eyes were intense, pupils fighting between expanding and constricting. He holds a hand up, as if to calm you, maybe even calm himself. 

“You’ll be fine-“ he attempts shakily. His knees wobble. 

“Oh. She will die,” Lex’s voice cuts sharply, humorously. 

You moan out into the air, your skin prickles and itches. You refuse to look away from the corner, you didn’t want to give Lex the satisfaction of your tears, your panic. 

“You require the dosage of an elephant. I had to make sure it worked.” 

Your lower stomach tightens so much the rest of your body locks into place. You feel a rush like no other and yelp as the feeling makes your cunt’s walls constrict around nothing. Your body trembles in sweet erotic pulses, you pant openly as the rush fades into a low simmer. 

Did you just have a mini orgasm? 

“She needs an antidote, luckily for you Superman, you have plenty of it.” 

The comm clicks as it turns off. You groan as you flop against the metal floor, facing the ceiling, body spread out like a starfish. You could feel his heated gaze, he looked furious, huffing out like a bull ready to charge.

Lex had been testing weird shit on the clone. He’d figured this chemical out a couple of months ago. It affected hormones, made the body crave another. 

It wasn’t as bad as this. It wasn’t as intense. 

Sure, Ultraman had humped your leg when you were trimming his hair but you’re sure he never felt as if he were dying. 

Then again, Kryptonians, clone or not, wouldn’t be affected as fast as humans. You had a feeling this time would be different, you could see Superman pace back and forth, running a shaky hand through his locks almost pulling on it as his chest stutters with each gulp of air. 

“Bodily fluids,” you gasp.

A kiss made it better, Lex made you kiss the clone, on the cheek, to test it out. Lex had a boner as he watched the interaction. The freak.

He kissed the clone himself afterwards, right on the lips, to see which method worked best, according to him. Tongue on tongue worked the best for pacifying the chemical. 

You were used to seeing Superman’s face. You just weren’t used to him being able to speak back to you. He turns sharply towards you, he growls. 

“Don’t test me.” 

You roll your eyes, your body was shaking, your heart beating so fast you were starting to feel lightheaded. He could see your heart, so fast he fears you’re going to pass out at any moment now. 

Worse, you might get into cardiac arrest. He sighs in frustration. 

He kneels beside you, sitting you up against the wall roughly, pressing your shoulders into the metal despite your discomfort. 

The touch makes you shiver, you hold back a moan. He cages you in with his arms, hands planted on either side of you. 

“What can we do?” 

You lick your lips, and he follows your tongue with his eyes. His stomach flexes and he grunts. 

“It helps, saliva, sweat” you swallow thickly. He was so warm, your lips part lightly. You’ve never wanted anyone inside of you so badly before. 

Your hands weakly lift to grip his bicep, big bulging biceps that were so hard as you squeezed. You bite your lip and suppress a giddy giggle, your hand roaming over his chest. 

He shakes you from your daze. You drop your hand to the floor and swallow thickly. Focus. You take a moment, body flushing even further from humiliation. 

“Ejaculate, arousal fluid, I promise,” you stutter, you adjust your glasses. 

He narrows his eyes, you gush at his stare, a fresh wave of arousal almost squirting out of your cunt at his proximity. 

He closes his eyes tightly, his arms flex as he resists the urge to manhandle you. He didn’t know if it was from anger or something else. Maybe it was the half-lidded gaze you gave him, eyes wandering all over his body and lingering on his very prominent bulge. 

“So… what do I need to do?” 

You shrug. It was obvious. Your eyes blank as you lean back against the wall. 

“Just let me die, dude,” you mumble. He scoffs. Your head rolls to the side and your neck is exposed. He zeros in on the soft skin of your throat, his jaw tightens as he’s hit with your scent of fresh arousal. The musk was enveloping him, his hand cups your face. 

He kisses you, face scrunched as if he hated the idea of being near you. You gasp, his tongue swipes through the roof of your mouth before swirling over yours. 

You moan, fighting to keep your hands on the floor, curled into tight fists as he pulls your head closer. 

“You smell good,” he mumbles offhandedly, voice low and tense, as if he could be doing anything other than this. His actions said otherwise, his tongue splays over your skin, lips pecking down your jaw. His hand grips your hips and pulls you forward. 

“Thanks,” you groan out. 

His head pulled away from you, his pupils were dilated. He was breathing heavier. His body twitches, neck straining. He was starting to feel the effects intensify. 

“You feel better?” he asks softly, eyes roaming over your face, stalling over your lips. 

In fact, you were starting to feel worse. You nod, despite the way your face twisted in pain, the cramps intensity almost debilitating. 

“Liar.” 

He kisses you again, the make out evolving as he pulls you to his lap. He guides your hands to touch him, sliding your fingers up his chest, over his neck. He guides your fingers to the buttons of his suit, right at the nape of his neck. 

Your skirt rides up and he starts to unbutton your blouse. His mind started to cloud, almost as if he didn’t realize that you were being watched, as if you weren’t both trapped. 

Lex sits in the surveillance room alone, having dismissed everyone else once the gas had been pumped into the cage. 

He has cameras for every angle of the cell, he zooms in between your bodies. 

He unbuttons his trousers, palming himself as he focuses in on your ruined panties grinding against the pronounced outline of Superman’s cock and balls. 

Superman presses you against his chest, you tug your arms out of your dress shirt, hands going to his face as your tongue caresses his, wanting to be impossibly closer. 

Luthor chortles as he hears your underwear rip, flinging to the other side of the room. Your bare cunt was spread open by thick digits. His fingers press into you, making your head fall back in delight. 

Superman’s thumb rolls over your clit, you gush around him, so sensitive that a mere touch makes you fall off the edge of pleasure. 

Lex jerks his cock in his hand, thumb running over the head as he spreads his spewing pre over his shaft. His cum was inside of you, Superman was playing with his cum already in your cunt. 

What a sight. 

…

You pant out heavily, he licks up your juices from his fingers and watches as your heart slows, only to start up again. His hand roams all over your body, pressing into your soft skin, groaning as you ground down on him. 

“I’m sorry I have to…” he trails off. Eyes connecting to your breasts. He rips your bra quickly, hands coming up to squeeze the soft mounds. 

His mouth hangs open, he feels himself drool at the sight of your bare body. He was delirious. 

“I have to save you,” he mumbles, as if he were drunk. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, pulling you closer, his nose trailing down the middle of chest, nuzzling softly between your breasts as he breathes in deeply. 

“Jes- jeez-“ he stutters. His tongue flicks out to taste your sweat, your breasts smelled like heaven, a certain musk that guided him to suck the soft flesh in his mouth. 

His nose sinks into the softness, as his lips suck around your nipple. The other hand cups your breast and squeezes, his fingers holding your nipple in place as he presses the surrounding area. Almost as if urging something to drip out. 

And something does. It must be an adverse effect of the gas, you see pearls of white dribble from the nipple he grasps in hand. 

You instinctively attempt to push him away, but he holds you in place. 

You flush in embarrassment as he groans, sucking harder, having just tasted what you’ve seen. He holds the small of your back against him, pressing you closer, his face smothered in your breasts. 

You cup his head, mouth wide open as you moan out into the air freely. 

You grind against his lap, tugging at his briefs. Your weak pawings towards his cock made him ache further. He stands, your limp body pliant in his hold as he makes his way to the bed in the middle of the room. 

You fall harshly against the mattress. Your attempts at unbuttoning your skirt left you feeling winded and weak. You close your eyes and your breath gets caught in the back of your throat. Desperate for him. 

He rips your very expensive and very vintage pencil skirt as if it were wrapping paper. In a blink his suit was gathered on the floor in a heap. 

His chest rises and falls with each breath. The cool air gave him a bout of clarity.  

He was still so upset. He stares down at you, almost in a scowl. He jerks himself, he can’t believe the amount of pre-cum that was coming out of him, almost like a fountain. He pulls your legs, making your back slide towards the edge of the bed. 

His eyes soften as you writhe against the sheets. He palms your breasts and squeezes, he swallows thickly at the milky pearls that bead out. He tests the pliancy of your body. He could break you if he’s not careful enough. His stomach tenses and his heart quickens, almost making him keel over. 

“We dont have to do this- we can-” 

He stares at your cunt as you spread your legs. He swallows thickly. He feels himself fight the urge to sink into you. But his mothers words dig into the back of his skull. Do not get a girl pregnant before marrying her. He stalls. 

He could put his mouth on you for hours, he’s sure he genuinely could do it for hours. He’d love to even. 

But sperm was proven to be the most effective antidote. Who knows what Lex had to figure that out.  You glance at his dick, so hard it looked almost painful. He was about to speak again but you cut him off quickly. 

“I’m on the pill,” you whimper. 

He’s on you quickly, knees digging into the soft mattress as his mouth leads a path up your body to your lips. He thrusts into you. You squeal, a mix of pain and intense pleasure. 

“Holy- goodness-“ he groans, mouth wide open as his hips flex into you. Your pussy was so wet, and so tight as if it wanted to milk him for each drop. 

Lex didn’t have anything to hold onto. Superman's hair was out of its usual gelled back style, pieces of his hair tickling against your skin as he places his forehead against yours.

Your fingers curl into his locks so tightly you fear if he wasn’t nearly invincible, you’d rip them from their roots. 

He groans, eyelids heavy as he gazes down at you. You were such a mess, your eyes were wet, body covered in sweat, a pool of your juices staining half of the mattress. With each of his orgasms, he could feel your body calm further, as if his seed were a salve.

His arms were underneath you, lifting you lightly for more leverage. The squelch of his cock, pumping into you as he held your body below him possessively was so arousing to you. 

You’ve never had an experience like this, someone so attentive and desperate for your body. Although in the back of your mind you knew that he wasn’t exactly desperate for you. You were both so unbearably horny, chemically enhanced hormonal shifts. 

His mouth sucks at your nipple, he groans as you wrap your legs around his waist, your hand reaching to pull his ass onto you. 

His weight was pushing you down as he changed position, pulling your legs up in the air and pressing his chest to the back of your thighs. It was obscene, his spunk spews from your pussy, your lower half seemingly covered in the milky white. 

Lex Luthor watches the whole thing, it lasts hours. He’s almost impressed. It infuriates him. 

Superman did everything in his power to get the chemicals out of your system, through sweat, tears, your cum. And he did everything to feel normal again, to stop craving the feel of your plump heated flesh, the tightness of your cunt, the softness of your lips. 

You were pretty for a LuthorCorp goon. Especially with your glasses all slanted as he pounds you into the mattress. 

By the end of the day Superman was spent, your heart has finally calmed. The last spurts of his cum pump into you weakly. He falls on his side, facing you. 

You both catch your breath, staring into each other's eyes, shifting closer until his arm wraps around you to pull you to his chest. 

His fingers press against the curve of your cheekbone as you lay on your side. He takes your lenses off gently, placing them on the pillow beside your head. 

You stare at him, finger pressing against his chin, his lips, his brow. 

“You’re so different,” you mutter. His eyes look over your features, not hiding his confusion. He imagines you mean different from Lex Luthor. You meant a lot of people. His clone was fucked up, cute, but the bridge of his nose and chin were slightly different. 

“Why do you work for him?”

You shrug. Lex Luthor was a good boss. At least before today. 

You had great health care, optometrist, dermatologist, endocrinologist and many more ists included. Pay was great, company products were free. Lex would get you flowers, he’d listen to your opinions, he’d take you to expensive dinners. 

But it was never intimate, not like the way Superman was pressed against you now. He hums, his hand traces over every mark he left on your body. 

Your expression was grim. 

“You should find another job.” 

You shrug again. He rolls his eyes, disappointed by your nonchalant response. He points between you both. 

“This is pretty messed up.” 

You nod. 

“I know.”

He stands, you stare at the ceiling. He gives you one last look as he changes. He feels better, stronger now. He looks down on you. He looks at the length of his cape. He could wrap you in it, fly to his apartment or Kansas. He’d make sure you were safe. 

“You should come with me…” 

You shake your head, turning on your side. Back turned away from him. He could sense the sadness, the betrayal. He’s sure you’ll leave LuthorCorp on your own. He’d find you. To find out more about what happened, to maybe even take you out for coffee. 

He’s hoping you would confide in Clark Kent.

You hear him tear through the metal. You cocoon yourself into a ball and finally succumb to your fatigue. 

…

You wake up in a hospital bed, the heart monitor beeping loudly beside your ear, making your head thrum with a headache. 

Lex was sitting next to your bed, analyzing your face as you scowled at him. He remains neutral. Your hand whips out faster than even you expected, his head whips to the side as your palm lands on his cheek. 

He rubs his jaw, amusement in his eyes. He takes your hand.

“How do you feel?”

You scoff, pulling your hand away from him. 

“I’m done.” 

He snorts, he gives you a look, as if you were stupid. Class Lex. He always makes you feel so small. So useless sometimes. 

“You’re not done,” he says, shaking his head as if he were speaking to a toddler who didn’t want to eat their vegetables. 

You sit up furiously. “I am done!” 

He doesn’t react to your tone. His eyes look over your body as he speaks. 

“You signed the contract. You work for me for another year.” 

You fume. Your hands ball into fists. He passes you your glasses but you slap the offer away. 

“Unless you want to void the contract. That’ll cost you 50,000, darling.” 

Tears well in your eyes. You couldn’t afford to void the contract, or the NDA. Or pay for legal fees if you want to get a lawyer. You stare up at the ceiling, the pillow is soft.

He holds your hand once again, this time tighter than before, not allowing you to pull away. He pulls in close next to you, he grips your chin to make you look up at him. 

“I own you.” 

He kisses your lips lightly, you face twitches in irritation. 

“You did good. We got what we needed.” 

His lips skim over the marks left by Superman, kissing the bruises and darkened spots so delicately it sent shivers down your spine. Your body soften against the mattress, giving in. 

Your hands were planted against the cushion of the medical bed as he lowered down between your legs, pulling your hospital gown up to expose your pussy. 

He groans at the sight. You let out a shaky breath and spread your legs. Your mound was swollen and as he spread your folds he could see streaky white slick drip out. 

He asked them not to clean you there as medical staff crowded over you after Superman had left.  They understood. It would make for a viable pregnancy if the sperm were to last longer inside of you. 

He licks you, sucks your cunt, slurping Superman’s cum from your gaping hole. There was so much of it. 

Your hands grip the medical bed, his head underneath your soft gown and shifting as he mouths at you. 

He’s never touched you like this, fucked you like this. 

He almost couldn’t believe it worked. Almost. Your pills were switched out months ago, there was no protection and judging by testing done on his clone. Superman’s sperm was potent. Statistically, way more potent than his own. 

He sucks your clit, you muffle a moan with the back of your hand. He stuffs the seed back into you, you succumb to a back arching climax. 

He wipes his mouth with a handkerchief and walks out of the room. 

…

You sit up in Lex’s bed. It’s been a month. 

He’d become more caring, in his own strange little ways. He broke up with his girlfriend, he asked you out on a date. 

He apologized. 

You think something was wrong with you. You stayed. You’d rather reap the benefits of a rich boyfriend than deal with the legalities of quitting your job. 

He touches you as if you were a delicate thing. Precious. You moved into his penthouse. You had access to most if not all of his belongings. 

It was fishy. You’ve asked him about why he did what he did. He said it was to collect more DNA, which was left all over the mattress. 

He wanted to create a better clone of Superman. 

You swipe through your phone, ignoring emails of this so-called Clark Kent from the Daily Planet who wants to discuss your kidnapping the month before. 

He’s been trying for weeks now. 

You trudge through the bedroom door to see Lex in the kitchen. You sniff and your stomach twists. You get closer and you have to stop. 

Bile collects in your mouth, and you rush to the bathroom. He calls out for you in concern, rushing towards you as you keel over the toilet bowl. 

“What were you making that smelled so disgusting?” you groan. His cooking skills were mediocre at best. You weren’t surprised by the horrible smell. 

“Eggs.” 

He could see the wheels turning in your head. You missed your period, but you’ve always had irregular months. 

Your ears ring, you want to puke but not from the smell of breakfast. 

Now that you thought about it. Your boobs were sore, you brushed it off as a long-term side effect of the chemicals. You were spotting for a few days. You felt off. 

You slam the door on Lex’s face and scour through the drawers underneath the sink. A fresh box of pregnancy tests was almost gleaming at you. 

You curse Lex. The bastard planned this. 

You sit on the toilet for more than two minutes. Your legs shake, your hands smooth over your thighs anxiously. 

You’re pretty sure it was Superman’s. You hoped it was just to spite Lex. 

You shake your head and put your head in your hands. You hope it wasn’t anybody’s! 

You pick up the test and close your eyes tightly. You open them and your heart drops. Your body goes cold. 

Lex gleams with joy as you scream in a mix of frustration and pent-up anxiety. You open the door and shove the test to his chest.

He watches you pack your belongings.  

It was positive. 

——————————

Baby daddy needs to lock in… Lex Luthor is so freaky I fear he would make a scheme to carry the child himself if he biologically could. Anyways, I don’t feel great about this one. Idk. Let me know if y'all want more of this reader. 

Requests and asks open! 

-Alejandra 💋 🐇

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: The real monsters are always human.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Abductions, fear, confinement, canon typical violence.

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Hey look, it's the other 'half' of chapter six! As we can see, it got... a little out of hand. So?! What do we think?! I've been sitting on this for so long waiting to get to a skill level I was proud enough to release this, and I think I've finally done it.

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 6.24k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

The rhythmic thud, thud, thud of bootsoles against concrete pull him from his thoughts, nearly drowning Anthony in the wave of dread that acts as a prelude to the hurricane of emotions threatening to overwhelm him as reality sinks in once more. Heavy feet come to a stop outside the door to his cell, replacing the sound of footfalls with the unmistakable clatter of keys knocking against each other. His stomach tightens in anticipation. He doesn’t need to see who’s coming through the door to know it has to be one of the goons from earlier—no one with two brain cells to rub together would be able to make that much noise unlocking a padlock. Light floods the room as the door is finally swung open to reveal the mountain of a man who’d landed the lucky gut-punch that got him into this mess. Ugly #3, as he’s mentally dubbed him.

Disappointment, it seems, is his only constant companion in situations like this. The glee in the man’s eyes as they fall on him is a stark contrast to the thorny tendril of dread rooting itself in Anthony’s gut. He looks downright thrilled to see the shell of a younger man before him, all of his earlier bravado choked out not by his own treatment, but by the screams from down the hall that still echo in his ears like an infernal symphony.

The faintest huff of air escapes him—maybe a laugh, maybe a sigh of satisfaction. He circles behind the chair, keys jangling ominously from his belt as he fiddles with the ropes binding Anthony’s handcuffs to the metal chair. The clinking of metal and the creaking of the ropes create a maddening cacophony, each sound adding to the tension in the small, grim room.

Anthony’s mind races, hundreds of half-formed ideas flittering through his pounding skull, not one of them slowing enough for him to catch them. He’s torn between the animal instinct to lash out, and the human need to know she’s safe before he throws caution to the wind. He won’t lie and deny that the thought of headbutting the guard and making a desperate bid for freedom isn’t deeply satisfying, but he knows it’s a reckless–and useless–gamble. He needs to know where she is, to know what fate has befallen her, before he can formulate a plan for escape. There are too many variables to risk her safety now just to soothe his wounded pride.

The guard’s fingers are methodical as he works, his movements slow and deliberate. A thoroughly disturbing thought occurs to him; if the man was shite at something as basic as unlocking a door, how much practice must he have to be able to untie a man so efficiently?

Anthony’s wrists ache as the rope gives way and the chain between the cuffs goes slack, the sudden rush of circulation making his arms feel foreign and heavy. When he’s pulled to his feet, his legs, numb from hours of restrained sitting, barely support him. He stumbles, catching himself with a strained grunt. The pain in his joints is a sharp reminder of how long he’d been stuck there, helpless.

There were no words, no explanation shared, as the guard hauls Lockwood unceremoniously to his feet. He hadn’t really expected there would be, but it would have been nice. The silence stretches, thick and oppressive. Every stumbling step is a fight he isn’t sure he can win. His heart pounds in his chest, providing a drumbeat to the thready melody of anxiety coursing through his veins as he struggles to maintain his upright position. The only feeling capable of cutting through the fog of his panic is the clear, driving need to find out where they're keeping her—and how he can save her before the unthinkable becomes reality.

Once he’s been ejected from the room by an unceremonious shove by his apparent escort, Anthony feels a cold focus settle over him in a way he'd only experienced once before—images of sources piled within rings of iron chain, black shimmering gates, clouds of breath suspended in stagnant air, pale hands clutching colourful feathers, the sting of the unrelenting chill in the air—as his eyes scan the dimly lit hallway. The narrow concrete corridor stretches out behind him, an endless grey passage punctuated only by the occasional flicker of a failing fluorescent light. The heavy silence is broken only by the dull echo of their footsteps, and the low hum of a distant air vent. Every shadow, every echo, seems to whisper of looming danger. He fights the defiant urge to turn and spit in the face of his captor, to make one last desperate bid for freedom. He wouldn't succeed, and angering these people more than he already had wasn't going to get him anywhere.

For now, he follows, his mind rushing with strategies, and scenarios that grow more and more dire with each iteration. The real fight is coming, he can feel it in the marrow of his bones, and he needs to be ready for whatever lies ahead.

His focus is quickly yanked back to the present when a calloused hand smacks the back of his head, forcing his gaze to the floor. The impact is just as jarring as he remembers. The brute grabs him by the back of his neck, his grip like a vise as he forces him to keep his head down. With a final, almost contemptuous shove, the man propels him forward. The scuff of the soles of his shoes echoes off the walls as he stumbles onward.

Anthony considers counting the steps, but the thought evaporates quickly as he realizes the lack of distinguishing features in the hallway would render the effort futile. He turns his focus inward instead, silently organizing the pieces of the puzzle he'd collected so far, hoping to find a kernel of useful information he might have gathered without realizing. The sound of what he suspects to be distant machinery is almost as effective as white noise in helping him concentrate.

After a seemingly interminable walk down the maze-like corridor, a firm hand clamps onto his shoulder, bringing him to a sudden halt. The grip is almost painful, guiding him through a heavy steel door that seemed to materialize from the grey. It creaks open reluctantly, revealing a stark, utilitarian stairwell bathed in harsh, artificial light. One that nearly becomes his grave when his escort decides he's moving too slowly, giving him a sharp prod to urge him along. The steps are old, concrete, and worn, their surfaces marred by sizable cracks and chips. His foot slips off of one such chip—roughly the size of his fist—forcing him to do his best impression of a worm in the rain in an attempt to regain his footing.

He counts the steps meticulously—fifty-six, if he includes the longer slabs that marked the start of another flight—each one leading him deeper into the bowels of the building. A coil of dread tightens in his stomach, the loaded silence in the stairwell amplifying his growing unease. He knows every step brings him closer to the answers he desperately needs, but can’t bring himself to hope for.

Finally, they arrive at another set of doors. These are heavier, reinforced, and secured with a key from the same ring that held the key to his cell. The sound of the lock turning echoes ominously through the corridor, the click of the latch doing nothing to soothe his fried nerves.

His mind goes blank at the sight before him. No amount of wracking his brain for clues could have prepared him for this. He hadn’t given them enough credit. Even in his darkest scenario, he could never have thought them capable of this level of inhumanity. The room sprawls out before him, dimly lit and foreboding. Rows of floor to ceiling dog cages line the walls, each separated by thick, rusted, unyielding bars. Inside each cell is nothing but a filthy mattress haphazardly thrown on the floor. The stench of decay, infection, and despair permeates the air. Bile bites at the back of his throat, but he’s unsure if it’s the scent or the realization that some of the slumped shadows within the cages are silhouettes that's made him feel so nauseous.

As he is shoved roughly through the room, Anthony’s eyes dart from one cell to the next. The darkness makes it hard to discern details, but he can make out the shapes of bodies huddled together against the bars, curled into themselves in an effort to conserve what little warmth they can. Each silhouette seems to tell a story of suffering, and the sight is almost too much to bear.

A short, sharp tug on the chains of his handcuffs jolts him back to the present. The metal bites into his wrists as he’s forced to an abrupt stop. Bitter dread trickles like ice down his spine when he sees they’ve come to a stop before the door to one of the cells. The brute yanks on the chain, forcing Anthony to his knees, and begins rifling through the comically oversized key ring with one hand.

Anthony watches the best he can over his shoulder, his heart pounding in his chest. The man’s clumsy attempts to find the right key are frustratingly slow, each moment stretching into an eternity. Finally, with a grunt of effort, he selects the correct key and shoves it into the lock. The door groans and shrieks as it swings open, its sound seemingly amplified by the silence of the room. Several of the huddled figures begin to stir, their movements slow and wary.

Instead of departing with nothing but another shove as a parting gift like Lockwood had come to expect from the miniscule eternity he’d spent with the man, he surprises him by pulling out a single key and expertly removing the handcuffs with practiced ease. Before Anthony can react, he grabs him by the back of the neck with a rough grip and throws him unceremoniously into the cell—now that was more in character for the large fellow. The door slams shut behind him with a resounding clank, the lock clicking into place with a finality that echoes through the empty space.

Ugly #3 spares no time for heartfelt goodbyes, opting instead to storm back the way they came, his heavy footsteps growing fainter as he leaves Anthony alone in the cell. The darkness closes in around him, and the cold, damp air of the cell seeps into his bones. His heart races as he takes in his new surroundings, the weight of his predicament settling heavily on his shoulders.

It takes him longer than he thinks it should to regain his bearings. His eyes slowly adjust to the dim light, and he begins to scan for any potentially useful details. The room is small, and entirely devoid of furnishings. The only object besides the mattress is a wooden pot against the wall, which he refuses to acknowledge until it becomes otherwise impossible not to.

The mattress, though stiff, lumpy, and somehow flat at the same time, is a welcome relief as he sinks onto it, pressing his back against the cold concrete wall at the rear of his cell. The physical discomfort is minor compared to the blow to his pride. He hasn’t been manhandled like this in years—not since the DEPRAC officer who still visits him in nightmares. The humiliation now feels sharper, more acute, though he was far from a novice even then.

He takes several deep breaths, attempting to steady his racing heart and calm his nerves. Each inhale is a battle against the rising tide of panic, each exhale a vow to find a way out. With each breath, the dim light grows a little clearer, and the creeping darkness in the edges of his vision recedes a little further. His hands tremble slightly as he rakes his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face. The effort is a small gesture of defiance against the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind.

As he surveys the cell again with a clearer mind, he can feel the crushing weight of anxiety pressing against his carefully constructed walls. The room is still a maze of shadows and stark edges, but now he can see the minimal light filtering in from a small, barred window high above. Now he can hear that the eerie silence is occasionally punctuated by distant, indistinct noises—footsteps, muffled voices. He can’t afford to let fear control him now. He misses things when he’s afraid, and he can't afford to miss a single thing if he wants to get them all out of here alive. He needs to think clearly, to piece together a plan before the weight of drastically rising stakes make good on its threat to swallow him whole.

The cell to his left is empty, a gaping void that seems to echo with a desolate silence. The two cells to his right, however, are occupied. His own mattress is pushed against the rear wall, positioned almost exactly in the center between the two rows of bars that separate him from the others. The mattresses in the two cells to his right are close enough that they nearly touch the bars dividing them. He wonders if the occupants are familiar with each other. The proximity might suggest a shared connection, the comfort of which might make them more willing to converse with him.

His curiosity piqued, Anthony studies the shadowed figures in the adjacent cells. The mattress closest to him is eerily still, with no sign of movement. The figure on the far side, however, has shifted into a sitting position. The dim light plays tricks on his eyes, but he can make out the silhouette of long, dark hair cascading down the figure’s back. The faint light reflects off his own pale skin like moonlight, stark against the darkness, but their skin casts a warm, rich ochre glow.

There’s a tense moment as he weighs his options. He’s unsure of what to say, feeling the pressure of his recent missteps drastically reducing the faith he has in his ability to talk his way out of any situation.

The figure on the far side seems to be inspecting him with a curious, if wary, gaze. His throat feels dry as he searches for the right words, grappling with the strange sense of vulnerability and the nagging urgency to establish some form of rapport with the girl.

“Sorry, but… are you Anthony Lockwood?” A woman’s voice cuts through the gloom, soft yet tinged with a rasp consistent with days of unuse. Though she sounds undeniably rough, there’s an underlying clarity and crispness that suggests she would normally occupy a far more organized and vibrant space. The simple elegance of her voice in juxtaposition to their environment catches him off guard, momentarily overshadowing her surprising familiarity with his identity.

When he recovers, he shifts slightly on the mattress, trying to peer into the darkness where her voice emanates from. “At your service, Miss?” He mirrors her soft volume, letting the question hover between them. He’s cautious, careful not to make any sudden movements or loud noises.

“Ah, forgive me,” she responds, her voice taking on a rueful edge. “It’s only been a few weeks and I’ve already managed to forget my manners.” Her quiet laugh is laced with bitterness, but it doesn't stop the soft smirk from rising to his face at the sound. “Holly Munro, pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve seen you before, in the papers. Even considered applying with you a few years back.”

Her admission carries an undercurrent of wistfulness, a longing for something that might have been. Anthony’s mind feels sluggish as he tries to process her words. He wonders about the circumstances that led her to this place, as well as any potential implications of her recognizing him, but he can't seem to hold on to the thoughts darting around inside his skull. Names and faces from past interactions blend with the immediate reality, leaving him incapable of holding any accurate memory for more than a split second. The brute's backhand is really not to be trifled with.

“How did you end up here?” Anthony asks, trying to mask his lack of tact behind a veneer of concern. He’ll chastise himself for being so direct later, when he isn't facing the horrifying unknown. Holly’s familiarity with him should afford him a bit of leniency anyway, and he’s a bit too preoccupied still scanning every visible cage for a glimpse of his agent to worry about it right now.

Holly’s voice falters as she begins to speak, her tone laden with pain. “I’ve been out of the business for a few years now, since my last employment ended… poorly.” She hesitates, and for a moment, the silence is thick with her struggle to maintain composure. “But my, um…” Her voice catches, thick with emotion. “My friend was a freelancer. She got an offer for a job that could set her up for a long time. All she needed was someone to fill in, because the client wouldn’t accept less than two agents on the job.”

The details align disturbingly well with the information from the newspaper article he’d read. Anthony nods grimly, absorbing the confirmation of what he suspected. The pattern of disappearances is becoming clearer, yet the implications are no less chilling than the unknown.

“And your friend?” he asks, his voice barely more than a whisper. He suspects he already knows the answer, but can't bring himself to assume the worst.

Holly’s response is nearly inaudible. “She, um… They came and took her for a match two nights ago. Normally, they’d take us together, but…” Her voice breaks, wavering as if the weight of her words is almost too much to bear. She forces the next part out, each word seeming to catch like razors in her throat. “They haven’t brought her back.”

His heart sinks at her words, a pang of sorrow for the stranger's loss making him feel disgusted with himself over the selfish, single-minded focus still hounding him to push her for more answers. “I’m sorry,” he replies solemnly, swallowing his tongue for the moment.

Holly seems to sense his inner turmoil and speaks again. “You can ask me.” Her sudden offer makes him wonder if she can somehow read his mind, but he dismisses the thought as a product of stress and the possible concussion. He stares at her, feeling like an absolute imbecile, until she takes pity on him and continues. “I’ve been here long enough to know that we all come in pairs, but I’m afraid there’s been a lot of traffic in the past few days. I’d like to help you find your friend, if I can.”

Her offer to assist gives him a sliver of hope. He hadn’t realized how much faith he'd lost in the good of mankind over the past however many hours, how welcome some basic human decency would feel.

“I—thank you,” Lockwood says, his voice rough with exhaustion and gratitude. “My… associate and I were brought in for a last-minute job. Our oh-so charming host spun a tale that was impossible to resist, and sold us a story so convincing that we walked right into their trap.” He grimaces, the memory of their deceitful invitation stinging more than the physical wounds. “I didn’t realize the danger we were in until it was too late. We were vastly outnumbered before I had a chance to warn her. She was injured before I was knocked out—one of her sleeves will be soaked in blood.”

He pauses, the words hanging heavy in the air as he shifts to lean his head against the cold concrete wall behind him. The frigid touch of the stone is a harsh but grounding presence, a small comfort amidst the turmoil of emotions causing an ache behind his eyes. “She might… she might be in pretty rough shape. I could hear her screaming until roughly an hour ago.”

His voice falters as the gravity of his words settles in, the anguish evident in his strained tone. Up until now, there had been enough happening to distract him, he could avoid acknowledging the nauseating possibility that the worst had already happened. Not anymore. He can see her face in his mind, warped with the pain she must have endured, and it fuels his growing desperation. The barred walls seem to press in on him, threatening to crush him.

“Oh!” Holly exclaims, her voice rising a bit with her urgency, almost startling him with the contrast to the subdued volume of their conversation until then. She claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes darting anxiously toward the cell between them. They fall silent, the tension palpable as they wait for any sign of movement from the nearby occupant. After a moment, when the cell remains still, Holly continues, her voice dropping back to a whisper. “They wouldn’t have tortured her—at least, not in the way you’re thinking. They need us strong enough to put up an entertaining fight. But if she was hurt badly enough to bleed that heavily, they would have stitched the wound before sending her to the cages. Anaesthesia isn’t something they worry about here.”

Anthony's breath catches in his throat at her words. If they’d cleaned and stitched her arm without any form of numbing, it would explain the agonizing cries he heard. His heart clenches painfully as he recalls the panic in her voice, the desperate plea that cut through the darkness and filled him with a helpless dread. She hadn't been particularly fond of needles to begin with, he could only imagine how much worse it would be now.

He slumps back against the wall, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his thoughts. His hands move to his face, rubbing at the tension and exhaustion etched into his features. Despite the relief that they hadn’t inflicted further damage, the realization does little to soothe the ache of her suffering or his own feelings of inadequacy.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice muffled and thick with emotion as he speaks through his palms. The words are simple, repetitive, and hardly seem sufficient.

“What’s her name? What does she look like? I can pass the word around when others wake up. We’ll find her,” Holly says, her eyes searching Anthony's, shining with a glimmer of hope.

Before he can ponder the seemingly impossible task of breaking everything she is down into a few descriptive sentences, a familiar voice calls out from the cell between them. “Lockwood…?” It’s ragged, strained from overuse, but unmistakable.

Holly’s gasp of surprise is barely registered as Anthony springs into action. He’s across the cell in an instant, his hands gripping the icy bars with a white knuckling desperation. He curses the metal that keeps them apart, every fiber of his being thrumming with frustration and helplessness.

“Sleeping Beauty, I should have known that was you,” he calls out, his voice trembling with a mix of relief and anguish. The words are intended to be light-hearted, a small attempt to ease the tension. Her soft, broken laughter on the other side of the bars briefly lifts his spirits, but it quickly dissolves into a harsh coughing fit. The sound of her wheezing, each inhale ragged and painful, tightens the knot in his stomach.

His heart can’t continue carrying the weight of his helplessness. He can almost feel the shivers of her pain through the bars, the sound of her distress cutting through him. Every instinct screams for him to be beside her, to offer comfort and soothing words, but all he can do is reach through the narrow gaps and wish desperately for a way to bridge the gap between them.

“I don’t feel particularly beautiful or well-rested right now, so I’ll forgive you for not recognizing me,” she finally rasps, her voice a low, throaty murmur. She rolls onto her side, the movement labored and pained, before trying to push herself upright. A stifled yelp escapes her lips, triggering another coughing fit, and she collapses back onto the mattress, her body curling inward in distress.

“Shit,” Lockwood hisses, his voice filled with concern as he watches her struggle. “You okay, love?”

“Just peachy,” she retorts through gritted teeth, attempting to sound nonchalant despite the obvious agony. “Caught a boot or two to the ribs after they knocked you out, no big deal.” Her attempt at bravado is undermined by the grimace that accompanies her words. Holly’s worried glance toward Lockwood tells him that he's not the only one not buying the whole ‘badass’ act this time.

“Any idea why they brought us here?” she asks, her voice wavering slightly. “Or what hell-hole ‘here’ crawled out of?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Lockwood admits, frustration edging his tone. “But I get the feeling your neighbor will be able to shed some light on the situation for us.”

As he speaks, she extends her uninjured arm towards Holly, her movements cautious but determined. She slips her hand through the narrow gap between the bars, reaching out toward the other cell. The greeting is a silent plea, an unspoken request for connection in the midst of their dire predicament. Holly accepts the proffered hand, her grip firm despite the weakness in her voice.

“Holly Munro, pleasure,” she says, her tone both warm and weary. “Though I do wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

“Likewise.” The other woman introduces herself and replies, her voice carrying a note of gratitude amidst the exhaustion.

Lockwood finally pulls his stiff hands away from the cold metal bars, feeling the residual chill bite at his skin. He watches as Holly brings his associate up to speed, her voice cutting in from time to time as a soft murmur of reassurance or inquiry. Meanwhile, he turns his attention to the narrow space between his cell and hers, pushing his mattress toward the metal separating them. Considering the placement of her own, the difference it will make is laughable, but he’s desperate for any semblance of closeness he can manage.

Every clink of metal and shift of the mattress heightens his sense of urgency. He’s well aware that his emotions are rapidly outgrowing the bounds of mere professional concern, becoming more personal and fervent with each passing moment. He tries to shove aside the intense feelings bubbling up inside him, but it—like so many things this evening—is an effort in futility.

Settling back onto his mattress and leaning against the wall, he shifts slightly, attempting to find a comfortable position amidst the jabbing of exposed springs. The thin layer of padding does little to ease his discomfort, but he forces himself to endure.

“So what is this place, exactly? Any luck finding out?” The question hangs in the air as Lockwood's gaze shifts back to the woman, her voice breaking the spell of his thoughts. In the dim light, he can see she’s managed to pull herself upright, her silhouette leaning against the bars, still holding Holly’s hand.

“Yes, actually!” The other woman’s voice carries a note of weary triumph. “This place is an underground facility that was once used for dog-fighting during the prohibition era. The walls here are steeped in a grim history.” She pauses, her voice trembling slightly, and Lockwood notices the subtle shiver that runs through her as she continues. “There are networks of tunnels connecting various buildings to this place. We suspect that the primary entrance for the cages is from an abandoned railway station directly above us.”

If he had to guess, he'd say she had tightened her hand around Holly's. The exchange is quiet, but the gratitude in Holly’s eyes is unmistakable. His agent’s expression softens, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“I think the audience comes in through those tunnels, though,” Holly adds. “It’s never loud enough in here to account for the foot traffic. It’s a constant low hum of activity, like a distant, eerie heartbeat.”

Lockwood’s heart swells with a mixture of admiration and concern. The bravery and compassion displayed by both women in the face of disaster is both inspiring and heart-wrenching. As he processes the new information, he feels his sense of urgency grow deeper still. That network of tunnels could hold the key to their escape—or lead them to their deaths.

“I’m sorry to cut in, but you keep mentioning ‘matches’, and now an audience. What exactly do they do here?” He can’t resist addressing the elephant in the room any longer. When Holly flinches and goes silent, he instantly regrets it.

“I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, Holly. It must be painful to talk about. We won’t push you, but knowing what to expect will help us put together a plan to get everyone out of here safely.” Her voice is gentle and Anthony can hear more than see her scooting closer to Holly.

“Thank you.” It’s barely more than a whisper, the words almost lost in the tremor of her voice. “They, um… Well, it’s kind of a morbid repetition of history, in a way. They abduct agents in pairs, interrogate us about our skills, keep us in cages, and feed us well enough we don’t lose our strength. When the sun goes down they fetch two with complimentary Talent and bring them up to what they call the ‘arena’, arm them with a silver net and a measly handful of salt bombs, and toss in the Source of a Type Two. If you win, you go back to the cells to wait for your next match. If you lose…”

He’d read enough of that paper to know what happened to those who lost. Their Ghost-Touch swollen bodies would be dumped unceremoniously miles from here.

“I’m sorry to make you think more about this, but I have a few questions if you’re up to it.” Lockwood’s voice is steady, but his eyes betray the urgency of his request. He waits for Holly’s slight nod before pressing on. “When you mention ‘complimentary Talent,’ I'm assuming you’re referring to one with the Sight and one with either the Listening or the Touch?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Holly’s voice is subdued but clear. “They used to take me and Em together because she had the Sight and I had the Listening. But...” Her words falter slightly, and guilt tugs at her tone, nearly overwhelming. “I think they figured out that my Talent faded years ago. I’m afraid they might see me as expendable now.”

Before Lockwood or his associate can offer consolation, Holly plunges ahead with the weight of her revelations. “It’s safe to assume they’ll come for you tonight, Lockwood. They’re aware of your Talent, and they’ve been murmuring about ‘the big night’ for days. I didn’t grasp the full meaning until I recognized you. The only real question is who they’ll pair with you, considering your friend is too injured to be of much use for entertainment.” She adds quickly, “No offence intended!”

“None taken, believe me.” She gives Holly’s hand a comforting squeeze before letting go. Pushing herself to her feet with a groan of effort, she waves a dismissive hand at her neighbours cries to lay down and rest. “I will, I will, don’t nag! I’m just trying to make myself a bit more comfortable. With what we know now, I’d say our best option is to conserve our energy and stay focused on surviving until we can figure out a way out of here.”

Anthony’s frustration simmers beneath his surface as he watches her struggle. She grabs a corner of her mattress with one hand and starts dragging it across the grimy floor, her movements laboured. Realising her intent, he reaches out as soon as it's within his grasp and helps pull the mattress the remaining distance until it’s pressed snugly against his own through the bars. The two beds are now practically fused together, their surfaces puckering around the narrow gap between their cells.

With a sigh of relief that quickly turns into a groan of discomfort as a particularly stiff spring pokes at her ribs, she collapses onto the makeshift bed. Anthony reaches out tentatively, his fingers brushing against hers, recoiling slightly from the cold.

“Christ, you’re freezing,” he mutters, his voice low and filled with concern. He leans closer, gently lifting her hand to his face. Cupping it between his warm palms, he alternates between blowing gentle puffs of breath over her chilled skin and lightly massaging it to stimulate circulation.

“It’s practically an icebox in here, if you hadn’t noticed,” she retorts, her tone making a play at sharp, but being softened by her discomfort. When Anthony looks up, he’s struck by the depth in her eyes—a look that’s almost hypnotic. For a brief moment, they find haven in each other's eyes, a shared understanding amidst the chaos. But then, a shiver races through her body, and the moment shatters. His concern surges to the forefront, pushing everything else aside.

She reluctantly pulls her hand away, shifting beneath the tattered blanket draped across her mattress. The thin, threadbare fabric offers scant protection against the cold, its ability to retain warmth practically non-existent. Anthony watches her struggle for a moment, his frustration mounting as he witnesses her futile attempts to find some comfort.

Without hesitation, he moves to free his own blanket from beneath him, carefully maneuvering it through the narrow space between the bars. While he can't slip through the bars himself, his arm is long enough to extend through the gap up to his shoulder. He holds the blanket out toward her.

She fixes him with a defiant glare, her mouth opening to argue. Anthony’s expression remains resolute.

“Shut it, Sleeping Beauty. You know I run warmer than you anyway,” he says firmly, his voice carrying a hint of warmth despite the cold.

Another shiver wracks her body, but it’s the look in his eyes—a blend of genuine concern and blind stubbornness—that finally convinces her. With a soft murmur of thanks, she reaches out and takes the blanket from him. She wraps it around herself, the fabric immediately offering a small measure of comfort against the icy chill.

She tosses and turns restlessly for a while, each shift only deepening her discomfort. Frustration eventually gets the better of her, and she attempts to lift her injured arm to tuck it under her head, only to bite back a cry of pain.

With a sigh that carries a note of mock suffering and a twinkle in his eye, Lockwood shifts to lay on his back, moving as close as the confined space allows. He tucks his left arm behind his head, stretching the right through the bars to gently tap her on the head with the back of his knuckles. When she lifts her head, ready to scowl, he nods toward his arm, offering it as a makeshift pillow.

She contemplates the offered limb for a moment. Finally, she relents, lowering her head onto his arm and wriggling into a position that allows her to stay close to him without displacing her meager blankets. As soon as she settles, Lockwood bends his arm to cradle her head, gently stroking the side of it. The soft, contented hum that escapes her lips is a small victory he treasures.

She falls asleep almost immediately, her breathing evening out into a peaceful rhythm. Lockwood gazes down at her, his heart swelling at the sight of her serene expression—one he'd almost given up hope of seeing again.

When he looks up, Holly is still sitting, her gaze fixed on the pair of them. The expression on her face takes a moment to decipher in the dark, but he finally recognizes it as a bittersweet mix of wistfulness and quiet understanding.

“Does she know?” Holly’s voice is barely a whisper, but the question pierces through the silence like a knife. Anthony’s heart leaps into his throat. Though her words are soft, they feel as though they’ve reverberated throughout the confined space, making him acutely aware of the woman sleeping on his arm.

He opens his mouth to respond, but no sound emerges. Instead, he opts for a slow shake of his head, the gesture more eloquent than any words he could muster.

An uneasy silence stretches between them, filled only with the soft sounds of their breathing and the occasional creak of the cell.

“Em, she… she wasn’t just my ‘friend’,” Holly confesses. The admission, though he had suspected it, lands with an unexpected weight, deepening the ache he's sure he'll feel for the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says. His own experiences with loss have been numerous, but to lose someone he loved in a place as merciless as this is a fate he cannot fathom.

Holly offers a weak smile, though it is tinged with sadness. “You should try and get some sleep. You’ll need your wits about you later.”

Anthony nods, acknowledging her advice. He watches as Holly settles herself, her form curling up in a bid for rest. Despite his agreement, he knows sleep will remain elusive. His mind is awash with concerns and fears, and the weight of the world resting on his arm makes it impossible to drift off.

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢ ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔬𝔬𝔫…

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!):

❁ @shakespearseclipse ❁ @tessas4 ❁ @chloejaniceeee ❁ @ettadear ❁

❁ @kassandra1000 ❁ @stardust611 ❁ @ell0ra-br3kk3r ❁

❁ @hellojameshowyadoin ❁ @Sarahhelpimsinking ❁ @soapshipper ❁

❁ @myownpainintheass ❁ @furblrwurblr ❁ @sleep-i-ness ❁

❁ @uku-lelevillain ❁ @autisticbiologistmess ❁ @xyaxyn ❁

❁ @forget-me-not-my-dear ❁

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

[flvr4yne]

megalomaniac

🏎️𖦹 ׂ 𓈒 🏁 ／ ⋆ ۪ a series in which mad max finally meets his match, the woman who takes the cursed red bull second seat and burns its reputation to ash. Fast, ruthless, and every bit as relentless as he is, she proves that matching max isn’t just possible, it’s inevitable. And maybe, just maybe, the only thing more dangerous than racing against verstappen… is racing beside him.

✮┆will include some heavy themes such as childhood trauma, crashes, stereotypes surrounding women, misogyny, and f1 politics. if you are not comfortable with these topics, do not read.

✮┆each chapter will be based off of a different song !

✮┆series will include explicit content ! 18+ mdni

masterlist ! . . . navigation !

CIRCUIT ONE ─── megalomaniac . . . 7.4k. words

in which they said no one survives the Red Bull second seat, but she’s not here to survive, she’s here to dominate. And when her first race ends with Verstappen in her mirrors, the world realizes, Red Bull doesn’t have a number one anymore.

CIRCUIT TWO ─── close to me . . . 3.9k. words

in which the pressure’s closing in, media, sponsors, teammates, everyone wants her to play nice. But she didn’t come here to be liked, and Max is starting to realize it. Between overheated engines and sharp words, something starts to shift. It’s not respect. It’s not hate. It’s something far more dangerous.

CIRCUIT THREE ─── colors . . . 3.1k. words

in which the final races of the season push her to the edge. Every rival, every teammate, every headline is trying to box her in, label her, tame her. but she's never been tamed. The little girl who once raced reminds her why she started, to give everything, leave nothing behind, and own every track she touches. The season may be ending, but her fire has only grown stronger.

CIRCUIT FOUR ─── easier . . . 5.5k. words

in which the new season promises a clean slate, and for once, she almost believes it. The media calls her softer now, a calmer, polished version of the chaos they once crowned reckless, but the world doesn’t know she’s moved on, that she’s finally let max verstappen become just another ghost of last season. Until he starts looking at her the way he used to, like he can’t understand how she learned to breathe without him.

CIRCUIT FIVE ─── coming soon !

taglist ─── @samriddhisingh @mv1lanaf1 @colocopinto @tabisswag @naenaen @adelinegirlsstuff @kevynnashley @gigigreens @queen-of-elves @bands-messed-me-up @xcrybaby555x @wadupppp @armystay89 @angstynasty

incoming mail┆ ⤿ 💌 ⌗ © flvr4yne ─── pls do not steal my works or graphics and use on other platforms without my permission!

[theonlyonesora]

MasterList: The Man Who Married Me

PAIRING: Lewis Hamilton x Reader x Max Verstappen

Synopsis - It was just supposed to be an open marriage… until a Dutch boy looked at you like you were the only one in the room.

Chapter 01

Chapter 02

Chapter 03

Chapter 04

Chapter 05

Chapter 06

Chapter 07

Chapter 08

Chapter 09

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

The End.

[atlabeth]

lockwood & co masterlist

✩ = my fave fics

anthony lockwood

unacceptable ↳ 1k words | you and lockwood don’t shy away from your relationship, even in your line of work. apparently, it hasn’t gone unnoticed by your colleagues.

✩ far too young to die ↳ 5.7k words | three things happen on the day you decide to solve your problem: your tea-making skills get lauded, you get the biggest history lesson of your life, and everything goes wrong. you should have expected this the moment lockwood & co got involved.

✩ leave the door open ↳ 8.2k words | no matter what happens, there's always the light underneath the door. the sign that, when you're ready, he'll let you back in with open arms.

are we too young for this? ↳ 3.3k words | there was the illusion when you were younger, that you would be together forever. the day you walk back into 35 portland row, you know that illusion is broken.

you're beautiful ↳ 2.5k words | a meeting goes wrong, feelings come out. you’d like to be sedated again, please.

between colleagues | part 2 ↳ pt 1 3.1k words, pt 2 4.1k words | besides, what’s a bit of fake dating between colleagues anyway?

george karim

here with me ↳ 3k words | ghost-hunting isn't the easiest occupation in the world. it helps when you've got someone like george in your corner.

[atlabeth]

you’re beautiful — anthony lockwood

summary: a meeting goes wrong, feelings come out. you’d like to be sedated again, please.

a/n: so this started as part of “leave the door open” but then i decided i wanted something different (hence the wound dressing scene) but i really liked what i wrote there so here’s an entirely different fic! wow enjoy

wc: 2.5k

warning(s): reader gets stabbed, quite a bit of blood, couple death jokes, mention of not eating, hurt/comfort, fluffy ending tho

There was a saying in Lockwood & Company, courtesy of its namesake, that, if you had enough confidence, you could dazzle any ghost into submission. 

Nothing but facetiousness of course, but it was true in a symbolic sort of way. If you didn’t believe in yourself, in every slash of your rapier and every circle of filings and every salt bomb measured to perfection, then there was no use showing up at all. You might as well sit down and wait for the ghost-lock to set in. 

Lockwood’s words kept coming back to you every time you doubted yourself, his charming smile and eyes popping up in your mind, twinkling as he made you laugh. 

And those words were certainly echoing through your ears as you stumbled through Portland Row’s door, a hand still pressed to your abdomen when you collapsed. Your rapier, still holstered, clattered against the floor.  

George called your name from the kitchen, cheerfully oblivious to your joy. “You’re finally back! How did the meeting go?” 

When you could only groan in response, he emerged into the hallway and his eyes instantly widened. “Oh my god— Lockwood!” 

He rushed over and helped you up, propping you against the wall as his eyes darted all over. He took one hand away to push up his glasses, and you noticed he already had some blood on your fingers. “What in the world happened?” 

“The meeting didn’t go well,” you grit out, sucking in a breath as a sharp column of pain shot through you. 

“I could gather that,” George said wryly, and when you heard footsteps, you both looked up to see Lockwood taking the steps three at a time. 

“What in the world happened?” he asked brazenly, a wild look in his eyes. 

“That’s what I asked—” George said, and your breathy laugh was interrupted by a grimace. 

“The meeting didn’t go well,” you repeated. 

“I need actual details,” Lockwood called as he went off in search of the medical kit. 

“Everything was fine,” you grumbled. “But as it turns out, our lovely source Mr. Pallworth was more skilled in getting into trouble than actually being an informant. He was in debt to some even lovelier relic men.” 

“Oh, god,” George muttered. You winced as he put more pressure on your wound, having taken over for you. “I’m sorry, but this is so you don’t bleed out.” 

“Did you get into a fight or something?” Lockwood marveled, bounding back over with a white box in his hands. “Because it looks like you were stabbed.” 

“One point for Anthony,” you said groggily. “Mr. Pallworth ran off the moment he could, leaving me to deal with his mess. I was indeed stabbed. Only once, somehow. The relic men deserted when the police showed up, and I wasn’t far behind.”

Lockwood knelt down next to you, and he looked at you for permission. You nodded, and he pulled your shirt up to expose your wound. He did a good job hiding his grimace as he began to gently wipe away the blood, but it was still there. “Why did you come here and not immediately to the hospital?” 

“I don’t know if you remember, Lockwood,” you breathed, “but this job that we’re doing is not exactly legal.” 

“I don’t care,” he enunciated. “This is above our paygrade, and your life will not be on the line because of our lack of medical knowledge.” 

“We either have to help her here or get her to a hospital,” George said, “because if we sit here bickering, she’ll bleed out before we make a decision.” 

“I’d rather die here than a hospital,” you said.

“You’re not going to die here,” Lockwood said harshly, and his hands opened and closed into fists. You could almost see the gears turning in his head. He eventually let out an annoyed sigh and glanced at George. 

“Phone 999,” he said. “She’s not dying because of her stubbornness.”

George nodded, grimacing at the blood on his hands—your blood, you supposed, which made it worse—and he ran off. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have sent you there alone,” Lockwood grumbled as he started taking things out of the medical kit. 

“No, you didn’t,” you said. “We had no reason to believe anything like this would happen.”

“Well— I should have known!” Lockwood’s voice rose, and his jaw clenched as he got himself back under control. He continued to clean out your wound, and you could hear George rattling off information in the distance to the authorities. 

“You’re cute when you’re determined,” you said. 

“I am determined to not let you die in our foyer,” Lockwood said.

“The foyer.” You mimicked Lockwood’s voice. “So posh.”

“If she’s being this annoying, she can’t be doing too bad,” George said dryly. 

“Loopy from the blood loss,” you said offhandedly. You frowned as it sunk in. “Maybe I should go to a hospital.”

Lockwood heaved a very dramatic sigh as he continued to keep pressure on your wound. “At least you’re coming to your senses now,” he said dryly. He was still kneeling next to you, his hands covered in your blood, that wild look in his eye. “What the hell took so long?”

“I’m not…” you blinked the black spots out of your vision, “good with hospitals.”

“Well, I’m not good with you dying,” Lockwood said.

George came back over. “I’ve called the police—an ambulance is on the way.”

You groaned, half from the pain and half from the thought of the police. “We’re going to have so much explaining to do.”

“Leave that to us,” Lockwood said. For some reason, you found yourself grabbing his hand. He didn’t hesitate, his throat bobbing as he laced your fingers together. “Just hold on for a bit longer.”

You nodded, your mouth going dry for a moment when you looked at him— really looked at him. 

There was unbridled fear in Lockwood’s eyes, the slightest glimmer of tears. If you weren’t slowly bleeding out, if the black spots weren’t taking over your vision, if your grip on his hand wasn’t loosening, you might have been embarrassed at his closeness, at his doting.  

But apparently, you weren’t. 

“You’re beautiful,” you murmured. 

And then everything went dark.

-

You were assaulted by a barrage of lights and beeping, too-bright fluorescents and the sterile scent of disinfectant alerting even your still groggy mind that you were in a hospital.

There was something in your arm—multiple somethings, actually. A tube with a lot of red in one arm, and another with clear liquid in your other arm. Blood and an IV, you guessed. 

Right. You were stabbed, and one does not just walk away from a stab wound without a few problems. 

You weren’t dead, though, and that surely counted for something. You would have to thank Lockwood later, for his stubbornness beating out your own. 

“You’re awake,” a voice breathed, and you realized it was just the boy you were thinking about. 

Lockwood sat next to you in a chair pulled up at your bedside. His tie was undone, hanging around his neck, and he’d draped his jacket on the back of the chair. His eyes were slightly red, but there was undeniable relief sketched into his face. 

“I am.” Your voice was raspy from disuse, and you grimaced at the soreness in your lower chest. “How long has it been?” 

“A few hours,” he answered. He cleared his throat and moved to the edge of his chair, and your eyes followed the movement. He was holding your hand— he’d been holding your hand. “You— um, you had surgery. A small one, it didn’t take too long, but—” Lockwood’s voice broke, and he laughed mirthlessly as he shook his head. “It was scary. Terrifying, actually, but…” he managed a smile. “You came out the other side. You always do.” 

Your breath caught for a moment, and your grip on his hand tightened subconsciously. “I’m so sorry.” 

“What are you sorry for?” Lockwood asked wryly. “It’s not your fault you were stabbed. You did a rather excellent job fighting them off, actually. It could’ve been much worse.” 

“I’m sorry for putting you and George through this,” you murmured. “I worry about the two of you every second of every day, and most of the time it doesn’t come to fruition. This—” you laughed, which immediately turned into a wince— “I’d say this is fruition.” 

“I’m just glad we got you here in time,” Lockwood muttered. He looked at you, his eyes boring into you with equal parts concern and desperation. You used to hate that about him, especially when you joined, how it always felt like he could look at you and know every single thing. “You said the police showed up in the fight. You were obviously injured— why didn’t you get them to call an ambulance? Why did you risk it all to come back to Portland Row?” 

“I told you. The job we took on was illegal, and I felt it was going to be a much bigger mess than we needed to deal with.” 

“I don’t care how illegal it was,” Lockwood said stiffly. “You were hurt— you were in danger. That comes before anything else, alright? You come before anything else.” 

The intensity of his voice made you pause, unable to do anything but… look at him. His hair was tousled, no doubt from running his hand through it endlessly as he was wont to do whenever he was stressed. His undone tie and discarded jacket, his eyes, red from… from crying, most likely. He cried over you. 

When your hand tightened around his this time, you did it on purpose. 

“Thank you,” you murmured. “You’re probably the reason I’m alive.” 

Lockwood managed to crack a smile. “It wouldn’t look good for the agency if my employees started dying. I don’t have very many to lose.” 

That got a genuine laugh out of you, and you tried your best to ignore the subsequent wince. “Of course. That’s why I pulled through, to make us look better.” 

“Your efforts are much appreciated,” he said, that small smile still on his lips as he rubbed mindless circles on your hand with his thumb. 

The door creaked slightly as someone pushed it open, and a smile broke out on your face when you saw it was George. 

“I was wondering where you were,” you said. 

“Tea,” he said, lifting the drink holder with one hand and a box with his other, “and donuts.” He looked at Lockwood pointedly. “You’ve got to get something in you. It’s not exactly healthy, but the sugar will help.” 

You looked at Lockwood. “You haven’t eaten?” 

“I was preoccupied,” he said dryly. 

“That’s no excuse,” you said. “Eat your donuts, and as soon as we get home, George is cooking you something.” You looked up at him. “Right?” 

“Right,” George agreed. He handed Lockwood one of the cups and set the box on the table, and he smiled as he took a seat across from you. “You look much better. You’re bossing everyone around again—I take it you’re doing better too?” 

“Much,” you nodded. “Thanks for getting me here, by the way. I’d probably have bled out if it weren’t for you.” 

“Of course.” George took a donut from the box. “I can’t let you leave me alone with him.” 

“Oh, I would never,” you said wryly. 

“I’m surprised you’re willing to be alone with him after what you said,” George said offhandedly, and both you and Lockwood stared at him. 

“George—” he started. 

“What do you mean?” you interrupted. 

He made that funny little expression where he knew he said something he probably shouldn’t have, and he busied himself with his donut. “Nothing.” 

“George,” you deadpanned, “I’m the one in the hospital bed. I have pity points. Tell me.” 

Lockwood sighed and leaned back in his chair, though you noticed he still didn’t let go of your hand. 

“I’m guessing you don’t remember what you said,” George said slowly. “Before you blacked out, I mean.” 

“No.” Your eyes darted between the two of them. “Why? Did I say something awful?” 

“Not awful,” Lockwood said, still looking away. “Pretty far from it, I’d say.” 

“Why are you two acting so weird?” you asked. “Spit it out!” 

“You called Lockwood beautiful,” George finally said, and you just about died right there. “Right before you went out, you said he was beautiful.” 

You blinked. Looked at Lockwood, who didn’t seem to be the slightest bit embarrassed—god, was he smiling?—looked at George, who was this time busying himself with his tea. 

“You’re kidding,” you said. 

“...He’s not,” Lockwood said, tilting his head to the side. “You did do that.” 

“Looked up at him, said ‘you’re beautiful’, passed out.” George shrugged as he took another sip of his tea. “Quite dramatic, I’ll give you that. It drove Lockwood absolutely insane, too.” 

“George,” Lockwood said sharply, “don’t you have a phone call to make?” 

He chuckled. “Yeah. How could I forget?”

You weren’t even able to watch him as he walked out of the room, leaving you alone with Lockwood. You wanted to melt into the bed. This was the absolute worst way for your feelings to come out, feelings that you were content to let sit forever and never really reveal. Apparently, you couldn’t even almost die with dignity. 

“It’s alright,” Lockwood said. “You don’t have to be embarrassed.” 

“No, I do have to be embarrassed.” You stared up at the ceiling. “I do have to be embarrassed, because my last words could have been ‘you’re beautiful’.”

“Why?” he asked. “Do you not think I’m beautiful?” 

You groaned, and if you hadn’t been practically immobile, you would have buried your face in the pillows. “Get a nurse to sedate me again, please.” 

Lockwood flashed that irritatingly pretty grin as he took your hand again. You hadn’t even realized he’d let go. “Relax. I think you’re beautiful too.” 

You raised your eyebrows. “Even now?”

“Even now,” Lockwood said. “Always.”

“At least you’re not saying it half-conscious and dying,” you mumbled. 

“I think it’s better I’m saying it now,” he said. “You know I mean it.” 

You looked him in the eye. “You really do?” 

“What did I just say?” Lockwood chuckled. “Always. Forever.” 

You felt the heat creep to your cheeks. “I can’t believe this is what it took to get you to admit your feelings.” 

“It took this for you to admit your feelings,” he countered. “It took you admitting them for me to admit them. I never really knew you felt the same way.” 

“I guess I have a flair for dramatics,” you said wryly. 

“It seems so,” Lockwood said. “How about after all this is done, when you’re good and cleared by the doctor, I’ll take you out for tea. My treat.”  

“You pay my salary,” you said. “Everything is practically your treat.” 

Lockwood grinned. “Do you want to go on a date with me or not?” 

You smiled, and you pulled your joined hands closer. You pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “I’d like that a lot.” 

“Excellent.” He smiled as well, a breath of relief coming out of him, and he leaned closer. “Just remember that you don’t have to get stabbed to get me to ask you out on a second date.”  

[tangledinlove]

drives me crazy

series masterlist

pairing: anthony lockwood x fem reader

content: requited unrequited love, childhood best friends to lovers, jealousy, fluff and angst, happy ending

summary: you are in love with your best friend. he is not in love with you.

title from dark red by steve lacy

honey, i belong with you 5.5k

you go on a date with a boy you are not in love with

and only you, babe 6k

lockwood meets your new friend. it does not go well

[tangledinlove]

it’s never too late (to come back to my side)

series masterlist

pairing: anthony lockwood x fem reader

summary: lockwood needs your help after pushing you away. chaos (and kissing) and making up (and making out) ensue.

content: fluff and angst, childhood best friends to lovers, bit of fake dating, kissing as a distraction trope

title from dorothea by taylor swift

main series

one 4.8k

george tells lucy the story of your friendship

two 5.2k

you find your way back home

three 6.6k

confrontation and a heart to heart

finale 11.2k

a lifetime of pining comes to a close

connected fic

some and now none of you 6.1k

you leave. again.

[mazywrites]

𝖑𝖔𝖈𝖐𝖜𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖈𝖔. 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

all x fem!reader ────────────────────────

my work is not to be reposted, copied, translated or used in any form without clear permission from myself. comment to join taglist.

𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝 ──────────────────────

additions and donuts ⤷ newcomer lucy carlyle is quick to notice the strange dynamic between two of her new colleagues, even if they don't realise it themselves

what i'm here for ⤷ lockwood's had far too many scares for one day, but there's another waiting yet

better this way (ii) ⤷ lockwood's affections towards lucy seem to be growing, and it leaves you wondering what your place is at this agency

a favour (ii) (iii) ⤷ in need of an extra hand, lockwood reaches out to an ex-fittes agent he particularly dislikes

𝐠𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐤𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐦 ────────────────────────

upcoming. requests open

𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐬 ────────────────────────

upcoming. requests open

[mazywrites]

𝖑𝖔𝖈𝖐𝖜𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖈𝖔. 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

all x fem!reader ────────────────────────

my work is not to be reposted, copied, translated or used in any form without clear permission from myself. comment to join taglist.

𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝 ──────────────────────

additions and donuts ⤷ newcomer lucy carlyle is quick to notice the strange dynamic between two of her new colleagues, even if they don't realise it themselves

what i'm here for ⤷ lockwood's had far too many scares for one day, but there's another waiting yet

better this way (ii) ⤷ lockwood's affections towards lucy seem to be growing, and it leaves you wondering what your place is at this agency

a favour (ii) (iii) ⤷ in need of an extra hand, lockwood reaches out to an ex-fittes agent he particularly dislikes

𝐠𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐤𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐦 ────────────────────────

upcoming. requests open

𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐬 ────────────────────────

upcoming. requests open

[sacr1ficialang3l]

⋆˚ ✉︎⋆｡˚ There are things we’ll never say, but we know.

WARNINGS: high school au. canon divergence. fluff. angst. pining. underage drinking. mention of weed. teenage awkwardness. attempt at humor. dean needs a hug. and he gets it. a love letter to sam & dean's relationship. bobby being the fucking best.

NEW PLAYLIST!

Dean’s about to rip someone’s head off.

“Wanna go for some coffee? This time on me,” he tries for the eleventh time that week. He even uses his best cowboy grin, accentuating the drawl of his voice and flashing his well-rehearsed wouldn’t-it-be-great-to-have-me eyes, but She doesn’t even look his way.

“I have homework to do. Sorry, De.” At least She actually looks sorry, Her lips on a cute pout and the pat She gives to his shoulder gentle. Still, something bitter boils inside of him. Whether it’s the Thing or his own heart, he doesn’t know. They’ve been getting harder to differentiate lately.

“That’s okay, don’t worry.” His grip on the wheel goes white-knuckled, but it’s okay. “Your sociology teacher’s still giving you trouble?”

She huffs, rolling Her eyes. “I think she’ll never get over the fact that I wrote my essay on systematic oppression. I didn’t even know her husband’s a cop.”

“She needs to get her head out of his ass.” Dean sends Her a look, and finally, She looks back. The bitterness subdues as She gives him that pretty smile, all toothy and groundbreaking. “Cops fucking suck.”

She giggles, and Dean wonders how many times he can drive in circles around the same block to stall for time in Her presence before She notices.

“You have a way with words, Dean Winchester.” She pulls Her backpack up to Her lap, and Dean’s jaw ticks at Her clear eagerness to get away from him. “That was pretty much my thesis, yes. But I think she’s just mad that I sometimes skip class when my bio teacher asks me to go sing to her flowers.” 

He hums distantly, the words barely registering as he stops Baby in Her driveway. He hardly gets to hit the brakes before She’s already jumping out, giving him one last wave of Her hand before running into the house, not even allowing him enough time to offer to walk Her to the door.

Dean has no idea what the fuck is happening. 

Because his princess’ letters are getting shorter and shorter every day. She still doesn’t miss a single one, but they’re barely more than a paragraph now. Sammy is also acting all weird, and so are his friends. Sneaking around and talking in whispers until he walks into the room, and then they freeze like statues and stare at him until he speaks first. Even Bobby, the most unbothered man Dean’s ever known, looks nervous when Dean goes downstairs.

And then there’s Her. They went from hanging out almost every day after school, doing homework together and watching movies for hours, to almost not seeing each other. He still drives Her to school and then back to Her house, but Dean doesn’t hear from Her outside of that. No midnight calls for late night drives, no begging him to take her to a music festival in a neighboring town, no knocking on Bobby’s door and stargazing on his front porch. 

It’s driving him insane. 

It’s only been a few months, but Dean’s gotten way too used to Her presence. To Her sprawled across the front seat, feet tucked under his thigh and eyes on him. To the pies She bakes for him—them, She bakes them for Bobby and Sammy too—every weekend. To Her song-like laughter rumbling through his ears and filling the emptiness on his chest. Everything is so silent without it. Without Her. 

He doesn’t know what he did to fuck this up. Where he failed, how he missed this time. He thinks about it every minute he’s left alone with the voices in his head, going over every conversation and every letter, dissecting every word that he’s written or said, desperate to figure out how he managed to destroy the two most important things he has right now.

If he still even has them.

So he drives home with heavy shoulders that only get heavier once he walks into the house and both Bobby and Sammy halt, staring at him with wide eyes like he’s covered in guts before pretending to act normal. Any other time, he’d question them until he got some answers, but he’s too fucking tired.

So instead, he locks himself in his room and tries his hardest not to sulk. He rereads his princess’ latest letter—exactly four sentences, what the fuck—and writes a response he hopes is not as moody as he feels. Then he shrugs off his leather jacket, puts on some dumb movie on the old TV Bobby let him move into his room when they first got here, and jumps face-first into his bed. 

Not even the cowboys talking on screen can distract him from the screeching rattling his brain, so he just stays there, with his nose buried into a pillow, and hopes he suffocates. He knew this day would come, the day she—both she’s—would get bored of him. The day they actually saw through all his walls and decided he’s too much work. Too much trouble, not worthy of trying.

Easier to leave behind, with a sword that’s too heavy for his arms and a dragon that’s too big for him to defeat, with the orders to slay it or die trying. 

At some point he must fall asleep, because the next time his eyes open—a scream lodged in his throat, and a deep, familiar voice snarling merciless insults in his ear—it’s completely dark outside. He groans, stretching and washing his face before shuffling downstairs with his tail between his legs. 

He finds Sammy on the dining table, scribbling something onto a notebook under the yellow ceiling light. Dean yawns, scratching his tummy as he lazily makes his way to the fridge. 

“Y’know it’s Friday night, right, Sammy?” he grumbles, pouring himself a cup of apple juice. Maybe his brain will see the color, convince itself it’s whiskey, and shut the fuck up for a bit. “You should be out doing something fun. Go to the movies with Eileen or invite that kid you hang out with for a sleepover, I don’t know. Live a little.”

“Yeah, because you look so alive right now.” He glares at his little brother, but his eyes are too bleary for it to actually work. “And Eileen doesn’t like going to the movies, not many theaters offer close captioning options.”

Dean hums, nodding as his gaze finally starts to focus. He takes a sip of his juice and notices that Sammy also has a glass of it on the table, right next to—

“Did she come over?” Dean’s voice cracks a bit as he says Her name, his eyes burning a hole into the slice of pie Sam is munching on. 

“Yep,” Sam mumbles through a mouthful, his full attention back on his textbook. “You were asleep and we didn’t want to bother you. The rest of the pie is next to the coffee pot.”

Dean doesn’t move, he doesn’t even blink. She came over, to bring him—them—pie, and they didn’t want to bother him? Sammy loves to bother him, that’s all he ever does. Especially when it comes to Her.

He’s too fucking tired for this. The apple juice is too sweet on his tongue and the Thing has moved from his brain and is now heavy in his gut, making him nauseous. He’s going back to bed, and will deal with this shit tomorrow. 

Not like anything else will happen then, anyways.

“Dean!” Sam calls him before he can stomp his way out of the kitchen. “Can you take me to the bookstore tomorrow? But not the one in town, the other one. The huge, castle-like one Bobby took us to last month. They don’t have the book I want here.”

“That’s like a three hour drive, Sammy.” Dean rubs a hand over his face, sighing. “Besides, you know we don’t have the money—”

“I’ll pay for it.” Dean raises his eyebrows, and his brother gives him one of those grins She always says look just like his. “You’re not the only one who can gamble, Dean. And high schoolers are shit at Uno, apparently.”

He laughs hard enough that the nausea dissipates, a wave of pride rushing through him. “That’s my boy. Okay, we’ll go tomorrow.”

“Good night, jerk.”

“Night, bitch.”

Getting up the next morning is harder than usual. Even if all the snow has melted by now, it’s cold as fuck outside, and Dean wishes he could stay under the covers all day until his brain finally leaks out of his ears. But he’s never really gotten what he wants, so instead he jumps in the shower around noon and allows himself one slice of pie before getting into Baby with Sammy.

“Happy birthday, Dean.” Sam gives him a quick hug before hurrying into the car, and it makes everything a little more bearable.

He left a note for Bobby on the fridge after not finding him anywhere in the house, and it’s not like he expected a cake and candles, but dread starts to corrode his bones once again. He plays AC/DC at full volume and goes fifteen miles over the speed limit, but the black hole in his stomach keeps on expanding.

The drive to the bookstore is quiet, but not in the way his drives with Her usually are. This silence is acidic, burning on his skin and bubbling in his lungs, slowly choking him until he’s lightheaded and absolutely miserable. 

He struggles to keep up with Sam as the kid runs into the store, browsing through every shelf and pointing at all the books he’s read already. Dean makes an effort to listen to his rambling for the first thirty minutes and then gives up, resigning himself to simply nodding and humming mindlessly. 

His eyes roam around the place, half out of curiosity, half out of the caution that’s been integrated into his being. He glosses over most books, but one of them catches his attention. It’s a graphic novel, the kind of thing Dean hasn't touched in years, but the cover shows a big guy with long, blond hair and a half-destroyed armor holding a beautiful, smiling princess in his arms. There’s a dragon looming behind them, but the dude casually holds his shield over both of them, his complete attention on the girl.

They look happy, even if danger is coming for them. There’s not a trace of fear in the princess’ eyes, her grip on the warrior’s shoulders completely trusting, even when his face is smeared with blood and many scars mar his body. And then his eyes drift down.

Beowulf: A Retelling for Children.

He needs to take five after that. 

They end up spending all day in that stupid bookshop. Sam goes through every section at least five times, brushing his fingers over every spine and reading every title out loud. Dean is forced to hear about Stephen King, and Jane Austen, and something called magical realism. Every time he urges his brother to fucking find his book so they can get out of here, Sam stutters some bullshit excuse and dives right back into the maze of shelves, and then Dean loses him for a couple more hours. 

At some point, a random chick finds him. He’s sitting on a puff in the children’s section of the place, his gaze on the sky-painted ceiling as he drifts in and out of thought. She sits on the stool next to him, and attempts to hold some small talk.

“It’s so cold, right? I hope it gets warm soon.”

She’s pretty, soft wavy hair and long eyelashes. Her eyes are gentle in that way he’s always known is fake but that used to be enough to make him feel less hollow. But it’s not anymore, not since he’s been on the receiving end of actual kindness. Of actual care. 

Not now that he knows what it feels like to be seen, to have Her smile at him and know She means it. To have Her poke his side or rest Her head on his shoulder and know that if he opens the curtain a little more than he should, She won’t leave. To fall asleep with Her on the couch after a late-night movie binge and wake up knowing She wouldn’t ditch him.

She also doesn’t want him, not like this girl does. But even then, no one else is enough. Only Her.

And his princess.

Dean’s getting a migraine. 

“I’m here with the kids I babysit. The parents make them read a different book every month, all in French, because they want the babies to be bilingual—” The chick keeps talking, and it’s not helping at all. 

So Dean gives her his best polite smile and looks for a quick excuse. He sweeps the room for any help, and just in time, Sammy walks out of the science fiction section. The kid’s eyes widen when they make eye contact and he attempts to run back into the labyrinth, but Dean is faster. 

“Sammy!” He gets up from the puff with a jump, already walking away as he turns to look at the girl. “Sorry, my little brother finally found his book. We gotta go, bye!” 

Before she can say anything, Dean’s spinning on his heels and making his way out of the kids section. He reaches Sam in seconds, grabbing him by the hood of his jacket like a dog scruffing their pup and tugging him all the way to the register. 

“Dean, wait!” Sam pushes him away, taking a nervous step back under Dean’s stern gaze. “We can’t go yet.”

“Why on earth can’t we leave?” Dean groans, pointing at the pile of books on Sammy’s arms. “You have like four books already. Freshmen cannot be betting enough for you to afford more than that.”

“I don’t only gamble with freshmen,” Sam pouts, but not even his puppy eyes will work on Dean right now. He’s exhausted, the Thing is restless, and it’s his fucking birthday. Not that anyone really cares, but it should at least earn him some brooding time. “It’s just—Eileen wants this one book, and I can’t find it…”

“We’ll come back some other time, then. Come on,” Dean grabs the kid’s wrist, dragging him toward the cashier, who’s looking at them with slightly amused eyes. “I’m hungry and I wanna go.”

“But—Dean, stop!” Sam plants his feet on the carpet, the same way he used to back when he was three and Dean had to force him into a cold shower when a motel’s heater wouldn’t work. “I don’t wanna go, it’s only…” he turns toward the clock on the wall. 4:02 PM. “Nevermind, let’s go.”

Dean watches incredulous as Sam lets go of his hand, walking all the way to the register and paying for his books calmly. 

Has everyone decided to act crazy today?

They’re back in Baby five minutes later, and during the whole three hour ride back home, Dean’s brain is nothing but distant screaming and crashing noises. He doesn’t know what they are, where they come from, but they always play in the back of his head in moments like this. 

He thinks one of the screams, the most distant one that only gets louder at the worst times, is Mom. Her scream from that night, followed close after by an explosion. 

But there’s others—Dad’s voice yelling unintelligible orders at him, claws on wood and teeth ripping through skin, a roar or a howl or a screech, Sammy’s sobs when he’s gotten hurt—all mixing together inside his mind until they’re a symphony of nightmares. They fade sometimes, when he has a good day. He ends up on the bathroom floor with his hands over his ears on the bad ones.

He used to think it was just his fucked up mind, infecting and morphing every memory of his with the violence that lives just under his skin—his killer instict. Because things could not have been that bad, right? He for sure had to be making up at least some of it.

But now he’s not sure, because even when he has to take a scalding-hot shower to make the voices go away, not once does he hear Her voice. And when he does, it’s always soft words that he doesn’t deserve but that chase the shadows away. When he does imagine Her whispering in his ear, it’s nothing but a sweet, angelic melody that pulls his hand away from a weapon and lulls him back to sleep. 

So it’s either never been his brain, or She’s so perfect that She’s above his demons. 

The latter seems more plausible. 

By the time they make it to Bobby’s house, everything glows in deep blue and the stars wink down at him. He has no desire to admire them without Her beaming at him and shining brighter than the moon, so he trudges straight through the front door instead.

All the lights are off, not a single ray of light in the whole house. He frowns, wondering if Bobby had even come home at all. What if he went on a hunt without telling them, and now he’s in trouble. What if he’s hurt, or worse, and now Dean has to find a way to get through to Dad and—

“Happy birthday!”

He startles so hard at the sudden shouts that he thinks he might’ve pulled a muscle. His hand flies to his pistol, looking around the room with panicked eyes. Then someone turns on the lights, and Dean is left gaping.

The whole place is covered in balloons and streamers, hanging from every wall and decorating every doorway. There’s music playing from somewhere in the background, cheering ringing in his ears, and it smells like vanilla and sugar. Everything is green and black—the confetti and the happy birthday banner and the party hats everyone’s wearing—and Dean faintly catches the smell of the grill. 

Everyone is here.

Charlie, Garth, and Ash are standing by the punch bowl, surely already hammered as they struggle with a confetti cannon. Then there’s Bobby, who’s hat is sitting on top of his usual baseball cap, looking more like a grumpy fat cat with a dumb outfit than like the man Dean is equally fascinated and respectfully terrified of. Ellen Harvelle is next to him, holding a party noisemaker between her lips like a cigar. Jo is also there, a green boa around her neck that sends feathers flying in the air as she waves her hand at him, a wide smile on her lips.

And then there She is. In the middle of the room, eyes glinting with the glow of the candles that burn on the cake She’s holding up. She also has a boa around Her neck, but Hers is black. Her party hat is green and a little crooked, and someone for sure threw confetti on Her because Her hair is full of it. She’s grinning incessantly, Her steps almost bouncy as She makes Her way to the doorway, where Dean is still standing dumbfoundedly. 

Sammy squeezes past him and joins Bobby and Ellen, giving him a Cheshire Cat grin before everyone starts to sing happy birthday in unison. The mix of voices is all over the place, off-key and uncoordinated, but it still makes his eyes burn.

She steps closer, until all he can see is Her pretty lips mouthing the song, soft and barely audible so She doesn’t accidentally blows the candles. She halts once She’s only a few feet away, and the smile She gives him is so bright that it makes the fire and all the stars look dull in comparison. 

The terrible birthday jingle starts to come to an end, and Dean only notices the “19” drawn with icing on the center of the cake once She pushes it up to his face. Everyone falls silent after Ash gives his best attempt at a falsetto, and then She whispers. “Make a wish, De.”

He feels like he might die if he closes his eyes. Like this will all vanish, and he’ll wake up just to find himself on Baby’s passenger seat, with Dad snarling at him to stop wasting time in useless dreams. But She looks so excited, so fucking hopeful for him to blow the dumb candles, that he doesn’t have a choice but to shut his eyes.

The wish doesn’t come to him immediately. It’s been way too long since the last time Dean indulged in something as silly as wishes. But then the bracelet around his wrist, the one She had given him during Charlie’s medieval party a month ago, burns against his skin, and he knows.

Everyone cheers as the candles go off, and suddenly he’s being swarmed by the whole room. Sammy comes first, running directly at him and jumping into his arms in that way he only did once Dad had left the two of them alone somewhere. The kid’s arms swing around his neck, and Dean doesn’t have to bend over as much anymore to hug him back. 

He’s still his baby brother, though, forever.

“Happy birthday, jerk,” Sammy repeats, this time more content than this morning. And then he leans back a little, whispering just between them. “Thank you, seriously. For everything.”

Dean has to blink up at the ceiling for a few seconds to keep himself in control, but it only gets harder once Bobby comes. The man hugs him, strong and firm but also caring. Dean hasn't felt actually safe in all his life, but for once, he can afford to let someone hold him up.

“You’re a good kid, Dean. I’m glad to have you here.” More stinging in his eyes, he makes it through. 

Ellen pats his back and hands him a cardboard box that Dean places in his pocket with a smile, promising to come by the Roadhouse more often. Jo gives him a quick hug, smirking at him like she knows something he doesn’t, even when the last time they spoke they were both in middle school. 

“Hope you enjoy this, Dean.” Jo whispers Her name. “She worked hard on it.”

Before he can take in the words and melt onto the floor like a wicked witch, his friends approach him. Dean tries to look for Her, desperate to make sure he heard that right, but She’s disappeared into the shadows.

“Dean, my man!” He gets a bone-crushing hug from Garth, and it’s not until Charlie pulls him back that the boy lets go of Dean. He barely gets in a breath before the redhead is wrapping her arms around his middle, and Dean’s heart might just explode. He hasn't felt this happy in decades. 

“I love you,” Charlie murmurs.

“I know,” Dean winks at her, earning himself a smack on the head. 

Ash simply pats his shoulder, giving him a loopy grin. “Cheers, man. We’ve been waiting for you for a while, I wanted that fuckin’ cake so bad.”

“Thanks, dude.” Dean laughs, knowing that Ash is a few minutes away from hitting the munchies. 

“Benny was planning on coming, but his dad’s giving him trouble again.” Both of them stay in silence for a beat, knowing exactly how that would go for the older guy. Ash shakes his head, sighing. “But he sends this.”

It’s a white envelope, and when Dean peeks inside, he finds the fattest fucking blunt he’s ever seen. He can’t help but cackle, hiding the little treasure in the inner pocket of his jacket. For later.

“Who wants cake?” That’s Her, from the kitchen doorway. 

Dean desperately tries to make his way to Her, but people keep getting in his way. Sammy shoves a discardable plate onto his hands before starting to munch on his own, and then Ash runs past him and almost makes him drop it. Ellen approaches him again before he’s halfway down the living room, giving him a speech about almost being in his twenties and how it must feel like. Dean isn’t really paying attention, trying to catch sight of Her over the multiple heads crowding the doorway. 

By the time Ellen notices his lack of attention and the path ahead clears, She’s gone. Dean looks around the silent room, everyone too busy devouring the cake to talk, but She’s not in there. The downstairs bathroom is empty and he didn’t hear anyone going upstairs, so She must’ve gone back to the kitchen. 

He starts walking again, Jo’s words ringing in his head, muffling all the other voices. But before he can reach the wooden door, the only barrier keeping him away from Her, something behind him explodes.

He spins around, pistol in hand, and finds Garth and Charlie with their faces painted black with ashes and confetti raining down on them. The now-scorched cannon lays on the floor, everyone else gaping at the disaster. Except Ash, who’s laughing his ass off on the ground. 

Dean’s forced to hand wet wipes out to his friends, and by the time he’s made his way to the upstairs bathroom and back down, She’s finally out of the kitchen, arguing with Jo. They’re hidden in a corner under the stairs, whispering and flailing their arms in the shadows. The music has gone off, and everyone seems to be waiting for something.

“No! I’m not doing it!” She shakes her head, arms crossed and leg bouncing anxiously. Dean darts toward the girls, his friends can wash their faces in the sink. “It’s too risky.”

“No one will notice!” Jo tugs on her arm, pouting. “Come on, I promise you everyone will love it.”

“You know I get nervous doing it in front of people,” She mumbles, and Dean is about to jump into the conversation, ask Her what’s going on. How he can help, how he can fix it. “And he’ll think it’s dumb, I’m not even that good.”

“You’re just too humble.” Jo rolls her eyes, and Dean is so close. Just a few more steps, and he can pull Her aside. Make sure he heard Jo right, confirm that She’s actually the one who planned all this craziness. Maybe yell at Her about it. Maybe offer his raw, bleeding heart in gratitude.

“What are you two girls scheming about?” Bobby grumbles from the couch, sipping on his beer. “No more explosions tonight, please.”

“Nothing like that, I promise.” Jo waves her hand in dismissal. Dean’s arm is already extending, his fingers so close to wrapping around Her arm, when She’s suddenly dragged away from him. “We just have a little surprise for you.”

Always just out of reach.

Dean wants to scream as Jo tugs Her to the other side of the room, right up to some weird table that Bobby always keeps hidden under a tarp. He’s weirdly emotional about it, so Dean doesn’t ask questions and just leaves it untouched.

“Jo! Ugh,” She tries to get away from the blonde’s grasp, but the girl’s an unrelenting force of nature. Dean was right to be slightly scared of her when they were kids. He was also right when he thought She was sweet, too sweet for Her own good.

Because She lets Jo pull Her the rest of the way to the table, and just stands there with Her arms crossed and lips pouty—but not really trying to escape anymore—as the tarp gets pulled off, revealing a piano.

An old, beautiful piano that Dean had never seen before. Bobby flinches slightly as everyone takes in the flowers painted on the sides, the careful carvings on the wood of the legs, and the red velvet cushion of the stool. 

It takes Dean one look at the old man to understand. To recognize the grief in his eyes, similar to the one that burns in Dad’s, but so different. Bobby’s grief is deep, dark and molten, but it isn’t angry. It doesn’t make Dean’s skin crawl or his chest burn like lead, and instead of tearing Bobby apart until he’s nothing but venom, the man looks almost powered by it.

Like the love he misses is stronger than the hatred he fosters for those who took it away from him.

Dean, not for the first time, wishes he could be Bobby’s son instead. 

The thought feels foreign—sickening, almost. The loyalty that has been injected into his brain since he was four battling the Thing, which is whispering in a voice too close to Hers that he’s right. That maybe, his father is not who Dean’s trying to convince himself he is. 

That maybe, his princess is right, and he’s nothing like Dad. And that might be a good thing. 

“You can play it, kid.” Bobby’s voice brings him back to reality. She’s looking around the room, eyes huge and glossy like a lamb entering the slaughter. “I don’t mind.”

She opens Her mouth, but Jo interrupts by pushing Her onto the stool. “Stop being a bashful little bitch and do your thing.”

She rolls Her eyes, sticking Her tongue out to Her best friend. 

“Next time I go visit you, I’m telling that biker guy that you wanna jump his bones.”

“Biker guy?” Ellen interrupts loudly, raising her hand. Jo glares daggers at Her, who just gives her a half-apologetic look. “What biker guy? Joanna Beth Harv—”

A few sweet, slow notes float in the air, and the room falls dead silent in a second. 

She’s now sitting comfortably on the stool, Her fingers dancing across the keyboard like She’s getting to know it. Like She’s studying every key, turning it under Her fingertips and soaking in their essence. 

Dean wishes She would touch him in the same way. Dig Her fingers into his insides and turn every moldy part of him into gold with Her Midas touch. Because even the air seems to become charged with something sparkly and magical as She plays a few more delicate, stray notes. 

“Jo wants me to play something for you, her special request,” She murmurs, voice already melting into the melody. “I haven’t really sang in front of people in ages, so I apologize in advance if it sucks.”

“Stop being bashful,” Sam repeats Jo’s words, the same evil glow in his eyes. She looks almost scared, Dean gets it. Those two kids are clearly too smart for everyone’s safety. “We all know it won’t suck.”

Slowly, the stray notes start to be woven together in a perfect tune that Dean doesn’t recognize. Her eyes stay on Her own fingers, head swaying along softly. It’s only a few moments later that She starts humming under her breath, barely audible, but Dean could hear a pin drop.

Or not really. The end of the world could rampage its way through earth right now, and Dean wouldn’t hear a thing. His whole universe funnels down to the sound of the piano and the words that leave Her mouth.

“I want the parts of you you only show to the corner of your bathroom mirror.”

His mind spins as he watches Her mouth wrap around every lyric, how Her voice tangles with the melody in a symphony Dean’s almost sure will be the one dawning on him if he gets lucky enough to ascend to heaven. 

Dean already knew She was perfect. Her laughter sweet as honey and Her words as lovely as the pies She bakes, but this feels like being reborn. Like Dean had lived all his life with a veil over his eyes, and Her siren song is unraveling it, guiding him to Elysium, painting his otherwise-gray world with colors he hadn’t even heard of before. 

He stands there, hypnotised, for what feels like ages. Empires rise and fall, gods are born and killed, universes are created and destroyed, and yet all Dean can think of is Her. There, in front of him, eyes flickering across the room until they meet his. 

“I want your secrets, your clementine fields. The ropes that you climb up, the parts that won't heal.” The words ring familiar, Dean’s too enchanted to remember where from. “I want your safe word, your passive resistance. The sickness you foster, your favorite addictions.”

The Thing buzzes, screaming at him like it did that first day She plummeted into Bobby’s kitchen like a fallen angel—the most beautiful miracle in Dean’s life. He ignores it in favor of devoting his whole attention to the end of Her song. 

He understands now, why Her teacher asks Her to sing to the flowers. This is the kind of sound that changes laws of nature.

“I want you, butterfly, I want you, sailor.” Her eyes don’t leave his, not for a moment. Her voice trembles slightly, like the flicker of holy fire. Dean’s nothing but a mere moth, ready to burn. “I am your lover and I am your jailor.”

The piano fades, Her fingers glazing over the keys until the last note dies. Everyone stands very still, the kind of silence you can cut with a knife. It's only broken by the scratch of the stool sliding on the floor as She stands up, hands behind Her back and cheeks red with everyone’s attention. 

Then Sammy starts clapping, and everyone follows. The whole room rumbles with it, but even Jo’s cheering and Ash’s shouts of “what the hell?” are washed away as She smiles, Her eyes cast down now. Looking so fucking perfect, just close enough to touch. 

Dean’s a man on a mission. 

Nothing, not even the worst monsters or the cruel fates, can stop him as he makes his way to Her this time.

“Did you—Woah,” She stumbles as Dean wraps his fingers around Her wrist, his touch gentle but unbudging. “De, what are you—”

No one gets in their way as he drags Her away from the piano. Dean can feel their gazes on his back, amused and prickly, but he doesn’t care. He’s been in abstinence for days, dying of thirst and hunger while being forced to stare at the sweetest fruit in the world dangling over his head, and he’s done waiting. 

“Wait, wait. De,” She tries to pull him to a stop just a few feet away from the staircase, Her wooly socks sliding across the wooden floor. She yelps, but before She slips and hits Her pretty head, Dean turns around and catches Her. 

She’s blushing even harder, Her hands fisting his shoulders as Dean wraps his hands around Her waist. “Careful, beautiful.”

She blinks a few times, Her breath hitching before She takes a step back. It takes everything in Dean not to pull Her back against him. 

“I need to go get something,” She murmurs, brushing Her hair behind Her ear. “Wait for me on the stairs.”

“Sweetheart…” Dean starts, his heart heavy with the thought of letting Her go again. But then Her lips press against his cheek, soft and sacred. 

“It’ll be a second, I promise.”

Dean nods, because what else is he supposed to do when She whispers in his ear like that, and then She vanishes again. He moves to the stairs, sitting on a step high enough the wall will cover them from curious eyes. For some reason, the Thing wants to keep this to himself. 

This time, he listens. 

He thinks of all the words he wants to say to Her. All the questions, all the gratitudes. All the things he’s too scared to even think about. Everything the Thing is screaming about, all the thoughts that cross his mind when he can’t sleep.

He doesn’t notice when She comes back until he’s engulfed in Her shadow. When he looks up, She grins down at him, a feather from Her boa falling onto Dean’s nose. He scoots to the side, and She takes a seat just a step above him, both Her hands hidden behind Her back.

Dean murmurs Her name, but She shushes him.

“I go first.” She offers him Her left hand, a party hat held in it. It has a Batman picture on the front, a yellow pompom on top, and a “1” has been added to the “Happy 9th birthday!” on the bottom. 

“No freaking way I’m wearing that,” he snorts, shaking his head.

“Yes, you are.” She gives him that sweet, toothy smile, shoving the thing into his hands. “Put it on, Winchester. I burnt my finger when I was hot-gluing that freaking ‘One,’ you have to.”

Dean rolls his eyes, giving Her a feigned pout. But he’s not as cute as She is, so it doesn’t work. With a defeated sigh, Dean puts the fucking hat on. 

It’s all worth it, just for the way Her smile widens. 

“Can I talk now?” She hesitates for a moment, and Her right hand is still hidden, but Dean can’t hold it in any longer. After a second, She nods. “Did you plan this?”

Her nod is small, it shakes Dean’s world.

“That’s why I was a bit distant the past couple of days. If you even noticed,” She chuckles. She has no idea. “I wanted it to be perfect. Jo helped me by buying most of the decor so you wouldn’t accidentally see anything, but I still had to organize everyone’s schedules, make sure you’d be gone while we decorate, bake the cake—”

“You baked the cake?”

She nods again, looking shy about it. Like Dean isn’t about to die.

“Yeah, and I made the punch. Though I think Ash might’ve spiked it,” She giggles, and Dean is holding to his sanity by his fingertips. “Bobby and Ellen helped with dinner, which we’ll eat later, I think. Sammy kept you distracted all day, Jo got here this morning and we put on all the balloons and stuff. I wasn’t sure if you’d like the colors, or if you’d even want a party. You don’t look like the party type, but I wanted to celebrate either way—”

“Sweet girl.” The pet name flies out of his heart, She freezes. Guilt claws at him, the Thing tries to convince him to ignore it. “It was perfect. The fact that you even bothered to remember my birthday… It’s more than enough.”

She frowns, pouting down at Her dress. It’s the same chalky, light blue of her nails. 

“You deserve better.” Dean really, really doesn’t. Before he can argue, She continues. “I wanted it to be perfect, because you deserve perfect. I even—I tried to reach out to your dad.” Dean stops breathing for a moment. “I called him, like a million times. I know how much he means to you, and I knew you’d want him here, even if… whatever.” 

Dean hasn’t spoken about Dad with Her too much. It’s wired in him, to defend the man. Even when Sam questions him, even when people look at him with pity after he says too much, even when Her face takes on that same sad look when he brushes over the darkest parts of his childhood. 

The only time he can actually talk about it—about the abandonment, and the burden, and the fear—it’s in his letters. It’s the only time it feels safe to do it. 

He wants to ask what whatever means, but Her fingers are fidgeting with the edge of Her dress in that way She always does when She’s thinking too loud, and Her pretty grin has dropped. Dean, for once, can fix it.

“Sweetheart, it is perfect.” Dean takes a hold of Her hand, forcing Her to face him. “Everything is perfect. The cake was delicious, the decor is beautiful, all of my favorite idiots are here.” He chuckles, his eyes watering. This time, he doesn’t fight it. Because he’s safe here, too. It’s okay to break a little, with Her. “You are here. Today is the first time in fifteen years that I’ve felt like this is a day worth celebrating, and everyone that matters is here.”

“Oh, De.” Her hand—the one that was in his, the other one still behind Her back—cups his cheek, and he can’t help but lean into the touch. A tear rolls from the corner of his eye, it gets gently wiped away immediately. “I’m so glad you liked it.”

He laughs wetly, trying to glue himself back together. He’s tested his luck too much, letting his armor fall apart too widely. The spear could be coming soon. 

“How did you even pay for all of this?” He attempts to light up the mood and not get swept up in Her touch, and how otherworldly She looks under the dim light of the Christmas lights they’ve yet to take down. “Do you have a side job we didn’t know about? Using that pretty voice you were hiding from us?”

She snorts, kicking him weakly. “Shut up, it’s not that big of a deal. And I sold the watch you lost in beer pong.” 

“I didn’t lose, you cheated.” 

“It's no crime to steal from a thief,” She beams proudly, leaning forward slightly. Dean’s heart jumps in his chest in sync with the Thing’s howl. 

“I don’t think your sociology teacher would agree with that.”

Dean thinks he deserves being actually knighted, with the strength he invokes not to jump on Her right now. Because She’s there, giggling and leaning against his shoulder, and She smells like flowers and cake icing, and She threw him a motherfucking birthday party.

“I got you something,” She whispers after a moment.

“You didn’t have—” She raises Her hand, interrupting him.

“We’ve agreed that neither of us has to do anything, Winchester. Save it.”

Dean huffs, barely containing the urge to eat Her. “Bossy.”

“Shhh,” She glares at him, and he only complies because She looks actually nervous. “I thought a lot about what to give you, and it felt like nothing was good enough. It’s kind of silly, but—” 

She interrupts Herself with a sigh, shaking Her head before finally extending Her right hand toward him. There, in the middle of Her palm, is a ring. 

His first instinct is to panic, the second one is to scream his head off, his third one is to drop down to one knee. 

Or both. Probably both, because he’d be begging. 

Thankfully, before any of them can take over, She speaks again.

“I made it myself,” She pinches the silver band with two fingers, and it’s only then that Dean’s mind clears enough to notice how it matches Hers, right up to the tooth. “I understand if you think it’s kinda gross, you don’t even have to wear it. I just… I thought about what we talked about, how you said you never really had the chance to lose your baby teeth, because they were taken from you. And I can’t return them back to you, or turn back time and offer you those years of innocence that you deserved. But I can promise that from now on, I will do my best to ensure that you keep at least a piece of them. For as long as I’m here, this small, guileless part of you will always be safe. I’ll keep it safe, for you.”

She takes his right hand on Hers, and his fingers are trembling, like a leaf that’s just broken free. The ring slides onto his middle finger, and it’s a perfect fit.

“Happy birthday, De.”

This time, he doesn’t even pretend to want to stop himself.

He leans forward, his choked sob muffled as he presses his lips to Hers. But no tears come, no sadness dares to taint this moment, because Dean is floating. Ascending, flying up into the clouds as She sighs shakily and wraps Her arms around his neck, kissing him back. 

Dean pulls Her impossibly closer, until She’s pressed right up to his chest, and not even God could take Her away from him right now. Their mouths take on a slow dance—a syrupy, entrancing ritual that feels holy. One of Her hands wraps around the nape of his neck, fingers tugging gently at his hair. He cups Her cheek, tilting Her face until he has full access to Her mouth.

Dean sucks Her lower lip between his, grazing it with his teeth and making Her whine. It fuels him, his other hand moving to knead at Her waist until She’s slumping against him and clawing at his shirt.  

Still, the whole thing remains tender. Like a flower that’s too pretty to be plucked, Dean’s scared that if he goes too far, She will bruise under his touch. That he will infect Her, fracture Her somehow, fundamentally ruin Her until he’ll inevitably lose Her.

But She said from now on. It wasn’t only a gift, it was a promise. And by the way She clings onto him when he breaks the kiss—panting against his lips, eyes on him so glittery that he would think entire galaxies are trapped there, chest pressed against his so hard, he thinks their hearts might be fusing into one—he knows She’s not afraid of him. She wants him, She trusts him. With Her baby teeth, and with Her heart. He’s not allowed to mess this up.

Still, there’s something inside of him—not the Thing, which had been rattling until a second ago, now awfully quiet—that festers inside of him, embittering the back of his throat, weighting down on his stomach. It’s not guilt, it’s bigger than that. 

“Kids!” Ellen calls from downstairs, but their eyes stay on each other. “The burgers are ready, get to the kitchen!”

“You forced Bobby to turn on the grill in the middle of winter?” Dean grins, his nose brushing against Hers. 

“I suggested making burgers. But I also offered to change it to pizza.” She leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another one further up his cheek. Dean isn’t sure he’ll make it down even one step. “But I also let him know that burgers are your favorite, and very carefully explained why it was the better option.”

“So you threatened Bobby.” She bites down on his cheek, and Dean’s barely able to keep the Thing from taking over and picking Her up in his arms to lock Her inside his room.

“Shut up, birthday boy.” She tugs the chin strap of his dumb Batman hat and lets it snap back, and then tries to stand up as he hisses. Dean pulls her right back down for another kiss. 

It’s been far too long since he’s kissed anyone—maybe since the Vicky incident, maybe a bit later. He doesn’t remember exactly when reading his princess’ letters became more important than any makeout session in the back of Baby, but he does remember when he decided that there won’t be another girl in his life that wasn’t her.

Once again, Dean isn’t completely sure which her he’s talking about.

What he also doesn't really remember, is the last time he wanted this. The last time he kissed a girl because he actually desired to, and not because it made his bones ache a little softer and the fractures on his skin bleed a little less.

He forces the thoughts away by kissing Her just a little harder, allowing himself to lick into Her mouth and memorize the little mewl She gives him in return. Because he wants this. He wants Her, with every fiber of his decaying body. Because for the first time, Dean feels like he belongs somewhere. Without an armor, just his bare hands and battered soul.

She still holds him like he’s worthy.

He’s about to pull Her all the way into his lap when another voice comes, calling Her name. 

“If you made me freeze my ass out there just for those burgers to get cold, you’re not allowed in my house again.”

They both know it’s an empty threat, they still quickly make their way into the kitchen. 

Dean ignores how Garth and Charlie keep raising their eyebrows at him, or how Bobby and Ellen seem to be complaining about “hormonal teenagers” from the counter, or how Jo and for some reason Sammy seem to be teasing Her across the table.

Instead he grabs his burger, and lets himself enjoy the last moments of this small heaven. He laughs along with his friends and thanks them all for coming in between bites and empty insults, just so the tears stay well hidden. 

After dinner, everyone goes for some punch. It was definitely spiked, because they only make it another few hours before Bobby has to send everyone home, refusing to let a bunch of drunken kids destroy his home. 

“If you’re all dangerous while sober, I don’t want you anywhere near my spell cabinet while drunk.”

Ash, Charlie, and Garth are picked up by the latter’s mom, who gives Dean a hug before driving away. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s gotten this many. Probably never. 

He also gets to kiss Her again before Ellen drives Her home, where she and Jo will be staying tonight. 

“They’ll get going early tomorrow,” She sighs between kisses, only the moonlight illuminating Her as they stand on the front porch. Dean’s eyes stay on Her lips, a hunger so violent twisting inside of him that it might just consume him whole. “I wish I’d have more time with Jo, I haven’t seen her in so long.”

“We can go during spring break, I’ll drive you,” Dean offers, pressing another peck to Her sulky scowl. “Or next weekend, if you wanna.”

She giggles, shaking Her head. “We’ll see, pret—De.” Her eyes widen, and Dean doesn’t really get why. Before he can ask, She’s kissing him again, and all rational thoughts vanish.

A honk cuts through the peaceful night, She takes a reluctant step back. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Dean reaches for Her hand, pulling it up to his lips to press a kiss to Her knuckles. Under the silver light of the sky, their matching rings glow. It softens the weight in his gut. “Thank you again, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

He manages to sneak one last kiss before Ellen is honking again and Dean’s forced to let go of Her. He stays there, watching as they drive away until the car melts into the night, turning the ring on his finger and wondering if this is the moment.

The one he’s been dreading for weeks, when the idea of him actually being able to have Her became less of a faraway fantasy and more of a possibility. When his princess’ clues started getting more specific, and she sounded less and less scared of revealing her identity.

The moment when he has to choose.  

Sammy and Bobby are both already in their rooms as Dean shuffles into his, leaving Ellen’s gift on top of his dresser and hiding Benny’s blunt under his shirts in one of the drawers, wondering if She’d like to try it with him. Maybe during one of their stargazing sessions, maybe Dean can drive them to the edge of town again and sit Her on Baby’s hood—

There’s something on his bed.

A beige, squared something that Dean fears he recognizes way too quickly. With slow, cautious steps, he approaches it, picking it up with trembling fingers.

“Dean Winchester, how to even start this letter?

A little birdie told me you’re turning a year older today, and they also flew through your window and left this for you. There’s so many things I want to say to you, so many words that wouldn’t fit even if I wrote you a thousand of these. 

I hope you got a chance to celebrate today, because for me, it’s a day worth of worship. Because it means that you’ve survived another year. That for a whole new spin around the sun, this ugly world had the honour to be blessed by your existence. Because you’re the best thing this reality has to offer, pretty boy. You’re the light that chases away the shadows and that keeps me warm even on the coldest days. And no matter how hard the wind blows or how bad it rains, you keep glowing. I love that about you.

I love everything about you, my hero. Today you move a year closer to stop being a kid completely, but I know now that you were never really one. Life has been cruel to you, my knight, from the very beginning. You told me once you were born stained in blood, already with a foot on the battlefield before you even took your first steps. And today, when we celebrate the end of a battle and the start of another, my prayer is that you one day escape the war.

Even if it never ends, even if the rest of the army keeps fighting forever, my birthday wish for you is peace. You deserve peace, De. You deserve the life of a victor, you deserve some rest. I know you’ll be fighting for a long time still, but one day, when the calling comes, I hope you can leave the war behind. Others will fight it in your absence, others will be the ones to bleed out in the name of glory. I just hope, maybe selfishly, that you soon realize that it doesn’t have to be you, and you decide to retire in that beach or cottage or castle, and you find peace.

I hope you ate lots of cake, and that some happiness found its way into your heart. You should always be full of it. I lo adore you, Sir Deanwulf the Perfectest. Happy birthday.”

—Your ghost girl (with a cherry on top) ♡

This is the moment, and Dean’s never been more fucking lost.

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NOTES: HES SO CONFUSED MY POOR PUPPY. he's just a boy, guys, give him a break.

PARISH ANNOUNCEMENT: because i'm currently two weeks away from the end of my semester, my professors are all being assholes. I have a million things to do, so next Monday we'll have a little bonus chapter instead of the finale. I don't wanna leave you standing, but I also don't wanna rush the ending of this beautiful journey. I got a request for a little extra chapter and i'm already working on it, so there just be a slight change of schedule. I hope you can pardon me, blame my botany professor.

if you have any thoughts or feedback, please feel free to leave a comment! it makes my sick little brain so happy. but above all, thank you so much for reading and see you again next week!

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