Summary: Jake and Neytiri neglected and forgot you, their wife. Only when the kids finally say something, they notice too.
Author’s note: Hii! I‘m new on Tumblr and this is my very first post so please don’t be so harsh. My first language is not English(don’t expect this to be a masterpiece because of that please) and I do not use AI. Ao3 comments have often told me that my stories are from AI but they’re not, I just have a bland and boring writing style.
The lazy afternoon sun is shining through the tiny gaps of the kelku(house/home). Everybody is exhausted from the very long day, despite the children not really doing anything.
Kiri is braiding beads into Tuk‘s hair, Neteyam and Lo‘ak are sharpening their knives while arguing about who’s fault it was for the hexapede running away before they could catch it. Neytiri and Jake are tangled in their nivi(hammock), tails intertwined and resting in each other‘s embrace. Only you aren’t there.
„Dad! When is sa‘nu(mommy/mom) coming back?“ Tuk whines from Kiri‘s lap. You promised her that you would be there for the evening meal, and that you would tell her a story when it is time to go to sleep.
Jake does not move his head to look at his youngest daughter, nor does he stop rubbing circles on Neytiri‘s waist. „Your mother will be back soon. She’s…Neytiri what is she doing again?“ It sounds weird to his own ears that he can not recall what you are doing right now.
„She‘s visiting a friend in the healing tents. I saw her carrying a basket full of herbs and some other shit.“ Lo‘ak says it as if it is normal for everyone to know where you are. Neytiri can see their other children nodding their heads.
Why did they know about your whereabouts and they did not?
„You know, sa‘nu looks sad often these past weeks. And she doesn’t sit with us at dinner anymore.“ Tuk states it like it is obvious. And to the children, it is. You have not been smiling a lot, nor were you there for any meals these past weeks. Tuk thought her sa‘nok and sempul(Mother and father) would notice and eventually ask you about it. But that did not happen.
„Ma‘ite(daughter), that is not true. Your sa‘nu has been here for meals. And she is not sad! Right, Ma Jake?“ Neytiri is unconvinced of her own words. She is clearly rummaging through her own memories, trying to find you anywhere. But she can not find any.
Jake‘s heart is pounding in his ears. He can not recall any time where you were with them. Not when hunting, not when flying for date night, and not for any meal in weeks. But why did they not notice sooner?
„Mom is actually super sad. You don’t take her hunting anymore, you don’t sit with her at cooking fires. You either spend your time with each other or with us or duties. But not with mom!“ Lo‘ak was the first to notice your distance but kept his mouth shut. He thought it will pass but it did not.
Then again, he did not say anything because he simply thought it will be over soon. So he just let it happen, they all let it happen. Avoidance is always the best way to cover things up.
Neytiri sits up and stumbles out of the nivi, crashing down onto the ground with a loud sound. She is panicking, trying to find evidence that they did not forget you, that they did not neglect you.
But her son is right. Your weaving projects are not next to hers anymore. Your bow is not proudly displayed next to hers anymore. You even moved your hunting gear from theirs!
Kiri, who has stayed silent for so long, sighs. Whenever she asked, you would deflect her questions or tell her it is not anything serious. But seeing her sa‘nok panicking, she knows it is most definitely something serious.
„Did you know she has her own nivi?“ Kiri‘s voice is deadly calm. Like a weapon made to hurt her parents and only her parents. Tuk looked up at her sister, then at her parents.
„Her own nivi? No, she doesn’t have her own nivi! That’s bullshit!“ Jake tries to reason, but he can not tell if you slept beside them. You would always come to sleep next to them at the end of the day. Because you love them and you know they love you too, right?
„Is it?“ Neteyam usually did not speak against his father, but this time he can not bring himself to stay silent. They have been watching you suffer in loneliness and did not say a word. He is so ashamed of himself that he can not even bear to be angry at his parents.
Neytiri lets out a sob. How has she not noticed her own mate suffering? How has she not noticed you were not there when they were always together?
Jake immediately wraps an arm around his wife. But the realization and shame burns in his face. Neither of them noticed anything, and you did not say a word either.
But he can not fault you for that right now. He needs to have a clear head and with the children staring at them with accusative attitude, he definitely does not have one.
„Kids, listen. I need you to stay at your grandma‘s tonight. Your mothers and I will get you in the morning.“ even though they are not on patrol or on a hunting trip, he barks orders at his children.
They reluctantly start to pack up, though Tuk is loudly protesting. „Sa‘nu promised me to tell me a story before bed! Dad you can’t make me leave!“ she whines even as Neteyam picks her up and carries her out of the kelku.
Immediately it is silent. Silent except for the sobs Neytiri is letting out. The kelku is suddenly too big for them, and they can vividly remember a time when that was different. When you filled out the space that is now empty and big and silent.
„Baby, Baby listen to me.“ Jake puts his hands on Neytiri‘s shoulders and finally gets her to look at him through tear stained eyes. „When she comes home tonight, we need to show her that we still very much love and need her. No accusations and no shouting. Okay?“
Neytiri nods because she can not bring herself to speak. Her eyes go over the kelku again, suddenly finding space where your things once were. Just for how long have you been distancing yourself from them?
The empty basket in your hands does not keep your mind from thinking. You have a weird feeling in your chest and it will not stop no matter what you do. You only hope that nothing has happened while you were gone.
Your friend is fine. With the herbs you just delivered, she will be back to normal in no time! But you already had a weird feeling when you kneeled next to her.
There is your kelku, the home you have been living in for years. But the negative feeling comes from there. Should you go in? Maybe you will just see something what makes your heart break a little more.
You sigh and push the flap aside, hoping to find your family eating dinner.
But no, there are no children. There are just Jake and Neytiri, sitting on the ground. The atmosphere is tense around the three of you.
„Jake…Neytiri.“ you greet softly and put the basket on the ground. Out of instinct, you pull the woven shawl tighter around you. Maybe because you hope it can protect you from whatever conversation will be happening. „Where are the children?“
“Why did you not tell me how you were feeling? Why did you not tell us how we have been treating you?“ Neytiri never liked to beat around the bush. No, she would rather talk directly about the fact that they have been neglecting their mate and said mate did not say anything about it.
„I do now understand, Neytiri. Answer me please, where are the children?“ Oh, you know exactly what they are talking about. And they can see it in your face, you just do not want to answer the question.
„They’re at Mo‘at‘s. Now answer us.“ Jake‘s voice is grave and filled with anger. Not anger towards you, never you, but at himself. How could he let it get this far?
„Again, I do not know what you want to hear.“ you try to sound confident but it comes out rather as if you are trying to run from their questions.
„Ma yawne do not lie to us! We have neglected you, have acted as if you are nothing more than a friend or a guest in your own home! We did not even know about your separate nivi!“ Neytiri‘s voice raises in sadness. The words are bitter on her tongue but they are truthful. The truth is always bitter.
„How do you know about that?“ that got your attention. And based on Jake and Neytiri‘s expressions, they do not know for long. Who told them? Was it Tuk?
„Doesn’t matter. What matters is that you didn’t say a word! You have been suffering in silence for Eywa knows how long and didn’t say a word. And hell, we didn’t notice either. Tuk made us see it!“ Jake is pacing while shouting and you know you can not escape this conversation or situation.
Instead of saying anything, you lower your head and look down at the ground in front of you. Then you sigh and decide that apologizing might be the easiest way out of this.
„I apologize. I thought you would notice and eventually stop but you did not and then it just became…habit. Again, forgive me for not saying anything.“ your voice is calm but your mind definitely is not. You are so exhausted.
„Why are you apologizing?! Baby please listen instead of apologizing!“ the nickname feels strange on Jake‘s tongue. How long has it been since he called you anything but your name?
You sigh and look up, and let out a startled gasp because suddenly, he is in front of you. Before you can react, he has already taken your hands into his. Jake‘s hands are warm, yours are cold. They always are cold.
„Baby let me apologize. I‘ve been a terrible husband. God, neglecting your wife is the worst thing you can do in a marriage! I’ve spent so much time with the children and duties that I was glad to have some alone time with Neytiri and I completely forgot about you! I’m so sorry baby please forgive me!“ the emotion in his voice makes you tremble. Jake has always been emotional with you and Neytiri, just never in front of the kids.
„Jake stop-“ you get stopped by a hand on your arm. It is Neytiri who is looking at you with so much sorrow and so much sadness in her big yellow eyes. You used to spend hours looking into those eyes, but not anymore.
„No, ma yawne. We promised you forever and told you we can not live without at our side, and we have done so anyway. Without us even noticing..“ Neytiri breaks into a sob. She is suddenly reminded how she misses you at her side during flying, hunting, weaving. Those are all things you two have done together, and now you do it alone.
All three of you can vividly remember the night Jake and Neytiri asked you to meet them in their kelku. For no particular reason, you wore your favorite loincloth and your prettiest necklace acting as a chest garment. You even rebraided your hair twice because you were so nervous.
They confessed rather clumsily. First Neytiri, then Jake. But both of them wanted you at their side forever. They promised you you would never be alone anymore.
Believing them, you held your kuru to each of theirs and made tsaheylu. You felt everything in that moment, and from that moment on you were their wife.
How could things have ended up like this?
„Say something baby. Please..“ Jake is desperate not to lose you. A mating bond is forever, but that does not mean he is willing to lose you emotionally.
Now that you look at them like that, they seem equally desperate to make you happy again. With a sigh, you take a deep breath.
„You have both hurt me immensely. You stopped reaching out to me, stopped asking me to come with you. And whenever I asked one of you to come with me, you would brush me off.“ you make a pause and take in their expressions. Neytiri is losing hope and is probably praying to the Great Mother that she is not losing you tonight. Jake looks as if he is about to throw up from the truth in your words.
„But I still love you both so much. I could not bring myself to leave you, emotionally or physically. I forgive you both for all the things you have done. But you must promise me that it will never happen again. Promise me..“ your voice cracks. Tears are running down your cheeks and you can not wipe them because Jake is holding your hands too tightly.
Suddenly, you do not need to wipe your tears anymore because Jake is cupping your face and already did it for you. He leans down and gives you a kiss on the forehead.
„We will never do that again, you hear me? Never in my entire damn life will I forget you again.“ Jake is determined not to let it happen again. Because if it does, he will haul himself off a cliff and drop dead. You do not deserve to be treated like an afterthought.
Neytiri is smiling for the first time since she had the realization that they are terrible mates to you. She takes your palm and presses kisses to it while mumbling praise and thanks to Eywa, and to you.
While you are distracted, you are picked up by Jake. You shriek. „Jake! What are you doing?“ you obviously try to push against him but he is simply stronger than you. So you protest without success.
„Making my wife feel loved again.“ he carries you to the giant nivi. There could be easily fit four people in. First he lays you inside, then he climbs inside himself.
He rests his back against the nivi, with you on his chest listening to his heartbeat. Your exhaustion and sleepiness seems to make itself known.
Neytiri climbs in from the other side, was to curl against your back. Her hand is rubbing circles on your waist, calming you instantly. „Oel ngati kameie(I See You).“ she whispers into your ear and you can not help but smile. How long has your heart longed to hear those words again?
„Oel ngati kameie.“ you respond sleepily. Before you drift off to sleep, you can faintly hear Jake telling you that he loves you but you are already asleep instead is responding.
Jake and Neytiri stay awake a little longer, staring at your sleeping form. They are silently vowing to themselves to never neglect you again, may Eywa strike them down if they ever did again.
But with some time passed, they too fall asleep. And it’s the best sleep you all three have had since you began sleeping in an extra nivi.
For when you get around to it: could you please write Bo, Vincent, and Michael with a fem!s/o that collects porcelain dolls? I was just gifted a new one for my collection on Christmas and would love to read them dealing with their partner being practically obsessed with them ^_^
a/n: hi love, im so sorry for how painfully short and lacking this is. i have not written for months and my creative flow is like nonexistent... :( but as always i appreciate the request <3 hopefully ill post something better soon
Call me Babydoll ~
Michael
Michael fails to understand your quirky obsession with those dolls he perceives as creepy. To him, they appear to do nothing but gather dust, occupy space, and waste money.
You’d often see him just standing there, gazing at your dolls, head slightly tilted. It seemed like he was curious, but whenever you tried to share what you liked about them, he’d lose interest and walk away before you could really say much. You wouldn’t really say it bothered you, but deep down, it felt a bit disappointing. Michael is who he is, he doesn’t care about a lot. You figured you were lucky he even cared about you.
It took you some time to realize it, but the shelves where your dolls belonged stayed pristine despite your lack of cleaning for weeks. It clicked in your head immediately who was behind this, it warmed your heart to see Michael somewhat caring for something that meant a lot to you. He doesn't care to hear about them, he knows you like them and that's all he needs to know. He stays away from them despite when he sneaks inside in the middle of the night and cleans the shelves to the best of his abilities, Michael is not a clean man but he does his best.
Vincent
Vincent is incredibly accepting and deeply understanding of your unique collection, showing a genuine appreciation for the things you treasure, even when others might not see their true value. He loves to see the smile on your face when you bring a new one home, and helps you pick out a spot for it. Hes very careful if he ever handles your dolls, he knows they are fragile and not easy to come by.
If hes ever out by himself and comes across one he will bring it home to show you, proud of himself and only hoping his gift will make you smile.
During his free time he likes to rearrange them, though he would never admit it, he has a perfectionist side that compels him to keep things straight on the shelves. You found it quite adorable when you'd come home and find your dolls arranged neatly and perfectly on their shelf.
He does ask you about them, and listens carefully when you rant on and on about them, adoration glinting in his eyes. He loves hearing you talk, and loves how excited you become over something you're passionate about. Not to mention he finds your collection absolutely adorable and thinks you have great taste.
Bo
He’s more upfront regarding your affection for porcelain dolls, openly admitting his lack of understanding and clearly stating he wants them nowhere near his belongings. It stings, but he doesn't care to apologize. However, on a sunny afternoon, after shopping, you find him assembling a large bookshelf in your shared bedroom, sweat gathering on his brow.
When you asked about it, his only answer was 'its for you.'
Bo had a unique way of showing affection and care. He struggled with verbal expression and wasn't fond of physical contact. Often, he would say one thing but the next his actions contradict his words. He showed his love through acts of service, starting with the bookshelf that was clearly meant for your dolls.
Next, you'd find flowers placed next to them, a note that says 'with love.' in one of the dolls lap. Bo might secretly hate your collection, not understand it, hate having them in his space, but he loves you too much to tell you no. And, he knows he should be supportive of you. Occasionally he will ask you if you need more space for them, or ask innocent questions about how your love for them started. He wont admit that he has more questions he wants to ask, mostly curious about your life and interests rather than the dolls themselves.
Whenever you bring a new one home and excitedly tell him about it, hes more focused on the smile on your lips, the excitement in your eyes, and the sweet tone of your voice. He doesn't particularly care about the doll, as long as you are happy, he is.
@quizzically-hyperfixated , I would like to request V for Vendetta with a female reader who is Latino (or just doesn’t speak English as a first language), how would he react? Would he befriend them?
Tags: Short read, pre-canon, first meeting, canon-typical violence, V and his theatrics, fem reader, reader does not speak english (hence the dialogue is in italics), no use of y/n.
Summary: A mysterious stranger saves you when a riot goes wrong. You're unsure of how to thank him, but as it turns out, your worries are entirely unfounded.
A/N: I just kinda barfed up my thoughts and ran with them- I hope that's ok!!
warnings: (not much) 18+ smut (oral, both receiving).
a/n: read it here on ao3! not much warnings, just quick smut. established relationship. a drabble for the spoiled prince. <3
Two hearts beating against skin, chest to chest.
The ruffling of a wrinkled white shirt, fingers slipping underneath the unbuttoned flaps, revealing his chest. Smooth, and pale — toned groves of muscle.
Finger-pads caressing with a feathery touch, earning a breathy gasp and a flinch. You cheekily graze his nipples, greedily savoring his skin.
Ivory palms flex open against the mesh stocking, hiking up to the latch—- a tingle in the wake of his brushing fingernails, birthing a shiver up your spine.
The squished body warmth marinating against the couch cushions and limbs beats in intoxicating waves. All you both feel is each other. An atmospheric cocoon, with bare legs intertwined.
Finally a moment alone, home at last. The evening sky is dim, with a vermillion glow shadowing the shared house.
The stress of a day’s work melts off both your muscles. The loving touches you provide is a soothing balm— euphoric tingles. He’s so happy to be here, to feel safe, and let go of his defensive shield. Loki never felt worthy of such devotion. To be tended to you, physically and emotionally.
But now, he has it. And it’s beautiful.
His pants and your skirt already tossed and scattered across the flooring forgotten. Your bundled top now rests under your breasts—- your tits now adorning love bites—- and Loki’s crisp white shirt now wrinkled — thanks to your eager fumbling paws.
The intimacy of privacy, to explore each other’s bodies. A space with no prying eyes.
Tracing his lips that are now smudged with a strawberry stain, mirroring your smeared rogue. Loki’s fingertip cheekily outline your canines in response— delicately toying with the mouth that just sucked him off the bone moments ago.
It was a sight to behold. A wild animal taking her claim over her prey—- pushed him against the couch, and pulled his pants off. It was sloppy, and messy. He shivered and wailed, as you deep-throated him completely. Licked and nibbled at his swollen sac, and left hickies down the path of his pelvic bone.
Hollowed cheeks suckled the tip as your hands firmly stroked his length. The way Loki’s hands gripped the edge of the couch, and your scalp—- reciting your name as a prayer. You couldn’t get enough of him. To feel the ridges of his veins against your tongue, the spit-filled gags, and bubbles.
He painted the cave of your mouth white, and flooded your throat with a strained cry.
Now, his mouth waters.
A silent dance of moving into a new position — soon, the underwear is moved to the side with a hasty grip, and his starved mouth begins to fest.
The hood of your clit trapped between his slick lips. His tongue alternates between sucking your wet folds, and your clenching hole.
The meat of your thighs quiver, your toes curling against his shoulder blades. He’s meticulous with his mouth— a true silver tongue. Slurping all of you, his chin now soaked. His digits soon make an appearance, slipping inside you with ease.
He curls hitting the sweet spot, making you squeal. It’s a frenzy upon your nerves. Your clit under attack as Loki pumps inside you with three fingers. Loki pulls high-pitched squeals from you, going faster.
The coil in your belly tightens, his head going side to side like a feral beast, grunting. To have you underneath him unravel delights him. Loki’s free hand grabs your frantic hips, pining you. He doesn’t stop suckling your clit, or his fingers, as the flood gates open, cumming so hard.
You slur a shout with tears kissing your lashes. Your shaky fingers fumbling in his inky hair, trying to ground yourself.
Your gasp turns into a stretched sigh, then to a soft giggle. Your arm draped over your face, as Loki began a trail of open-mouth kisses on your hip-bone. He exhales a chuckle, his warm air tickling you.
Loki travels up to your navel, his nose grazing your sternum, to your valley of your breasts. Quick pecks across your chest, and then a small leap to your throat. Loki’s lips latching onto you, and nibbling.
A fit of laughter fills the space, it's melodic and comfortable.
Note: Dipping a toe into the Sexy September Scribbles challenge (hosted by @societyfolklore and @soelstress) - written for day 12. Prompt: "Tell me you're mine." Reader is female, no other physical descriptors, no y/n. Dividers by @saradika-graphics
Warnings: a little angst, smut (PIV). 18+ minors DNI
You keep telling yourself it doesn’t mean anything. You keep trying to stay away.
You’ve managed to keep your distance for nearly a month now - a new record. But when your eyes met over under the dim light of the party, a fire ignited in you that couldn’t be extinguished. He knew as well as you did that no one else could scratch that itch.
So here you are again - in his bed. Feeling so good you almost forget why you try to stay away.
Almost.
Your bodies are locked together, him buried deep inside you, and he kisses you like he’s fucking you - languid but intense. Your heart throbs along with your body. You gave in to the intimate position as easily as you gave in to everything else tonight, but he doesn’t need to toy with you like this.
“So close,” you moan, “just let me come.”
“No.” His voice is gravelly, and you know he’s holding back. “Not until you say it.”
You gasp as his length drags along your walls, the base of him grazing your clit as he sinks deep. “Say what?”
“Tell me you’re mine.” He growls.
You shouldn't - but it’s true and he knows it. You give up.
“Yours, I’m yours!” You cry out, eagerly surrendering your dignity for an orgasm. “I’m all yours.”
As though your words have tipped him over the edge, he comes with an animalistic groan, his release triggering your own.
He stays inside you after, bodies still entwined, panting into your neck. “I knew it.” He mumbles. You can feel his grin against your sweat-slicked skin as humiliation floods you, but his heavy body keeps you pinned in place. “I missed you.” He whispers, pressing kisses to your jaw. “Don’t stay away again.”
MINORS DNI! red dividers by @uzmacchiato and @cafekitsune
pairing: dad!tattooartist!dean winchester x fem!ex-wife!reader
summary: Dean Winchester doesn't hunt monsters anymore. These days, he runs a tattoo shop in a town that remembers him too well, using ink to rewrite the parts of himself that still bleed. His body's a canvas of mistakes, old ghosts, and shaky beginnings, and now, so is his life. Between clients, crayon battles with his son, and run-ins with the woman who once wore his last name, Dean's trying to prove that people can change… even if they’re covered in old scars and new tattoos.
disclaimer: english is not my first language!
warnings: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, self-loathing dean winchester, exes to lovers, sloooooow burn, third person fic, dad dean (i feel it's a warning), sam is a lovely uncle, smut with all the feels (oral - both receiving, soft dom dean, unprotected and half-clothed sex), no use of y/n, no explicit physical description, canon divergent, dean's pov, mentions of 15x20, flirty dean, flirty reader???, one sexist line (it's dean c'mon), communication!!! these two talk, a lot!!! reader is a boss ass bitch if you ask me (esp when it comes to her worth).
word count: 13k+ (sorry about that), proofread (at least i tried to)
chye's corner: this is my first attempt at writing since 2021 and my first EVER dean story. pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:
A stained rag looped lazily through his hand while Dean was wiping the chair with methodical care. He used the same concentration reserved for cleaning a sawed-off. Old habits die hard. Not that you could kill a ghost with disinfectant, but he needed to connect his past life to this new, quieter, version of himself. The scorching sun streamed through the tall front windows of his tattoo shop, the Hexproof Ink (Dean was quite proud when he came up with the name, Sam grimaced a little bit at the cheesiness of it), casting warm gold light over the polished floors. The old record player was humming one of his favorite songs somewhere in the background.
He liked that what he did with the shop. Every angle of it screamed Dean Winchester, from the rock music to the posters on the wall. Going back to Lawrence hadn’t been easy, and he had enjoyed the distraction. He bought it from some old gentleman who used it as storage, but Dean knew something more could have been done with the space. He first thought about opening his own car shop, but the memories of John and Bobby weaved together were too painful for him to bring himself to do that. He could still fix cars in his spare time whenever he wanted to. But, still, he did need to make money somehow.
Opening a tattoo shop was the next, most logical, choice. He was decent at drawing. Actually, he was fucking awesome at it. Did he know how to tattoo someone? Hell no. And that was exactly why his body, once pristine except for his anti-possession tattoo he got more than ten years ago, was now covered with his work. He needed the practice, and what better guinea pig than himself? For the record, the first tattoo had been an absolute disaster. A crooked bullet casing on his left thigh, done with a borrowed machine and a bottle of Jack Daniels just out of frame for when it got too painful. It scabbed badly and healed worse. He kept it anyway, as a token. The next one was a crude take on Impala, just on his forearm, lopsided and faint. He redid it three times before it looked half decent. He hated it now, he could serve his baby some more justice if he just waited, but it was honest. A reminder of who he was. He needed that sometimes, now that he was starting to forget. Then came a clock on his ribs that was supposed to display Sam’s time of birth, but it was an hour late. A colt on his bicep that he’d modified to look more like art than a weapon. Lyrics he never admitted mattered on his pecs of a lullaby Mary sang to him a long, long time ago. Burn, mark, heal. All over again.
And yeah, he wasn’t the best. But the word spread, and people started coming in. Quietly. First-time clients. Nervous rebels-wannabes. Couples, single frisky women, fathers, mothers, friends. Occasional hunters who never said it out loud, but Dean somehow always knew from the look in their eyes. And his Hexproof Ink took off, as much as it could in the town of Lawrence, anyway. Which was enough, at least for him. His days were busy, just like he wanted. No, needed. He spent his week going through calls (he was considering hiring someone to handle that), appointments, the remodel of his old house, and playdates with his son. Except for Tuesdays. On Tuesdays, he liked to relax. It was his off day. Or, better, it was her day. For the past three months she had walked into his shop unannounced. Sometimes it was to drop off Beau’s jacket. Sometimes to bring back the sketchpad he “forgot” on her porch. Once, it was to tell him their son had tried to salt the windows just like daddy taught me how.
The bell above the door jingled, soft and familiar. Dean didn’t look up right away. He didn’t have to, her perfume invading his senses. She walked in like she always did on Tuesdays, the door clicking shut behind her as she stepped into his world. Same easy sway to her walk, same threadbare confidence. She stopped near the counter, a few feet from him, and he dared look at her. She was holding up the necklace Dean gave her several Christmases ago, one of the few things she had kept from their marriage. It was beautiful, a charm full of dried herbs and salt that was meant to protect her from the supernatural with a stone of her favorite color. He had crafted that personally (with Rowena’s help) and he couldn’t forget the adoring look she had on her face when she first wore it. That was a long time ago now, and the necklace didn’t hold the same value it did before. Now, instead, the charm was broken. So much for protection.
“You got a minute?” she asked, voice dry, hiding some hints of warmness. “As you can see, your kid went full Hulk on my necklace.” she chuckled.
Dean tossed the dirty rag over his shoulder and stood up. There was a smudge of ink on the side of his hand and a crooked grin on his face. “Sounds like my son.” She rolled her eyes. “Let me guess,” Dean stepped forward. “Thought it was a monster egg again?”
She put the necklace in her pocket. “Yeah. He smashed it with a broom. Didn’t even know how he got it” she muttered under her breath. “Well, I guess it’s time if you’re free”
Dean’s eyebrows rose. “Time for what?”. He cleared his throat. “And for you I’m always free” he winced. “That was cheesy, ignore that”
She grinned. “Not a chance, but I’ll let it slide for now. I need that anti-possession tattoo, so I can stop hoping nothing breaks next time” or, Dean knew exactly what she meant by that, So I can stop wearing your necklace, you worthless piece of shit.
Dean smiled at her nervously and pointed at where she should get comfortable. “You know, you used to say you never wanted a tattoo. Said you didn’t want anything permanent on you... except me, of course”
“Wow,” she said, eyebrows arching. “You really sat on that line, didn’t you?”
“Had time to think. Not like I was busy being a decent husband anyway”
“Well, at least you’re self-aware now”.
Dean turned away to prep a new needle, hiding how this talk was affecting him. “Where do you want it?” A long time ago Dean would have said this sentence balls deep in her, enchanted by her moans, her mouth, her body, her eyes, her soul. But not anymore, or ever again.
“No pentagrams with skulls, Winchester,” she warned, peeling her jacket off and lifting her shirt just enough to reveal the skin above her hip. Dean felt himself stop breathing for a second, so much so that he had to turn away to regulate his thoughts. Still dangerous, even after all this time.
“Damn” he muttered, reaching for his sketchbook and flipping to the easier stencils. “You ruin all my fun”. He showed her the same anti-possession tattoo he had on him, but with a finer line that would match her aesthetic better. Once he got the green light, he started to take care of everything, while she laid behind him waiting for Dean to start.
He couldn’t stop his mind from going back to a time where he didn’t have to wait for a damn tattoo to touch her, he could just roll over and hug her frame from behind. He sighed and scrunched his nose. Now was not the time to think about that. Maybe later, once he got into his bed, alone, and pretended the last four years hadn’t happed, he could allow himself to stop feeling guilty and imagine how life would have turned out if he left hunting the countless times she asked him to.
He turned around. The hurt look on his face now gone, replaced with a cocky grin. Dean couldn’t fool her, she knew him too well. He was trying to fool himself. He pulled on his gloves, the latex snapping softly as he sat on the rolling stool beside her. He focused on everything but her, applying the stencil gently against her skin. His hands moved with practiced care, but, still, he couldn’t stop the flicker of memory. This skin, this closeness, this once-familiar intimacy now edged with unspoken words and tension.
“Beau good this week?” He had to stop the silence.
“Besides my necklace?” She said, trying not to squirm under his touch. “Mostly, he’s been trying to build a salt launcher out of Legos. Says you promised one.” She tried to meet his eyes, but Dean remained focused on the skin on her hip, trying to avoid another crooked tattoo.
He chuckled. “I said I’d think about it.”
“He says that’s your version of yes.”
“Smart kid.” He murmured. “Definitely gets that from you.”
The hum of the machine filled the room as he powered it up. Ah, that’s exactly what he started tattooing. The buzz was grounding, the only thing that felt normal these days. “It’s gonna hurt a little bit”
She nodded, closing her eyes. “You were right, I never wanted to get tattooed,” she said over the sound, her voice steady.
“Yeah, I know.” The needle danced carefully over her skin. “The only thing you ever wanted was out. A house. Stability. If you ask me, nothing more stable than a tattoo.” He tried to lighten up the mood.
“And I got it,” she said, opening her eyes. “Stability, I mean. Eventually I did get it.” She looked at the wall across from her.
Dean paused. “Took you a while.”
She nodded. “Took you longer.”
He went quiet, still working. This was not a safe territory, he didn’t want to talk about that today. He was not ready. “I thought hunting was the only thing I was good at,” he then said. “Didn’t realize being a dad required the same instincts. Well, maybe with fewer shotguns.”
She let out a small laugh. He would think about this moment later. “You left the life one day too late. You had to almost die to finally open your eyes”
“I know,” Dean said. “I was late. But I am here now.” I am here for you if you want me.
The scent of antiseptic and ink settled between them. “Beau’s happy here,” she let out. “He likes knowing his dad’s close”
Dean didn’t look up. “I like being where he is”
She sighed like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. “Good”
He dared to ask. “What about you?”
“I like stability, Dean. I like this life. I like knowing my son isn’t going to grow up like a soldier and sleeping with a knife under his pillow.”
Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. “I don’t want that for him either”
She turned her head slightly to meet his eyes. “I know that now.” She reassured him. “I know you want this life too.” She saw the look on Dean’s face and before he could say anything, she promptly stopped him. “Don’t do that thing where you flirt and look guilty at the same time.”
Dean nodded, keeping down whatever it was he wanted to say, and grinned. “What if I just flirt? No guilt involved”
She gave him a look that could hut a man if he weren’t already bleeding. “Then I ignore you and get a nice tattoo out of it.”
He chuckled under his breath. “That sounds fair. You gonna ignore me forever?”
“I’ve got stamina.” Doesn’t he know that.
Dean didn’t press any further. He just finished the tattoo slowly and carefully. He wanted to touch her as long as he possibly could. The record player was still carrying out his favorite tunes. He wiped the last bit of ink away with a steady hand.
“There,” he said, secretly proud of how the lines didn’t have any bump or curves to them. “You’re officially protected. Again”
“Until Beau tries to draw over it with a permanent marker.”
“I can add flames if you want, you know he’ll love that.”
She stood, shirt falling back into place as she twisted to check the ink in the mirror. “Looks great, Dean.”
He stood too, perhaps a little too quickly. She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh at her eagerness. “I, uh- I know that you didn’t want tattoos. But,” he scratched the back of his neck. “Ah, I drew up a design for you last night. Just something I thought you might like. I could show it to you. No strings, I swear”.
She turned, met his eyes. Dean knew exactly what she was thinking. Fifteen years knowing each other would do that to you.
“No, no, wait. You don’t,” he sighed. “I’m not trynna win you back, alright?” He wanted to. “You don’t have to want me back, at all.” Please save me from myself. “But I still want to be someone you don’t regret.” Wooooow, Winchester, what the hell was that? “It’s just a drawing, scout’s honor” he crossed over his heart.
There was a beat of silence, then two. And then she turned toward the door, voice tossed over her shoulder like a lifeline she didn’t want him to grab too tightly. “You were never a scout, Dean, but you can drop the drawing in the mailbox, Beau likes mail.”
The door closed behind her. All that was left was the quietness and the echo of her words still humming around him.
He didn’t follow her, not today.
But tomorrow was Wednesday. And Beau always came by his shop on Wednesday to learn how to draw. Which meant she’d come too.
Dean was sitting cross-legged on the floor, barefoot and ink-smeared from his last session, with Beau beside him, both of them hunched over their own piece of paper. Crayons and marker caps scattered around them. The man was reeeeally glad his appointment for 3PM cancelled on him. Beau’s tiny pink tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he scribbled furiously like he was casting a spell, his long warm blonde hair all over his flustered face, which he refused to push back or let someone cut. He was a stubborn piece of work, just like his dad. His oversized t-shirt read MONSTERS ARE SCARED OF ME (curtesy of his uncle Castiel for his fourth birthday. Dean had rolled his eyes and, “Real subtle, Cass.”), the words cracked from too many washes. His socks didn’t match, one had tiny bats, the other had a faded Iron Man logo. His pants, which has started the day as a soft gray, now looked like someone had dropped an entire bottle of cerulean ink across his lap. Which, technically, they had. Beau had tried to help his dad, he did!, but tiny hands and glass didn’t work together. So, he ended up baptizing himself with a full bottle of Pilot Iroshizuku Kon-Peki, cerulean glory and all. Dean didn’t even get mad. He just handed him a wet rag, sighed like a martyr, and said, “Now you’re officially a Winchester, bud.”
He now stole glances at him between pencil strokes, trying not to beam at his son, which was proving harder to do by the minute. “That claw’s looking awesome, buddy,” he complimented Beau. “But maybe you can make it scarier?”
Beau gasped like Dean had shown him the truth about the world. “Maybe I can make a fire claw!”
Dean nodded solemnly, hiding a smile. “Obviously, fire’s always the answer.”
“I sure hope not.” He didn’t hear the door jingle open and was surprised when he saw her there. He wasn’t expecting her for another two hours. He had told her to enjoy her Beau-free early afternoon and rest. Clearly, his ex-wife had other plans. She walked in with her keys in one hand and exhaustion riding her shoulders like an old coat. Dean knew she was stressed from that damn awful and stupid corporate job she got roped into, but he didn’t pry. It wasn’t his place anymore.
There was a faint crease between her brows, but her face softened the moment she saw them on the floor. Oh, well, the moment she saw Beau, at least. She took them in, Dean barefoot and grinning and Beau with crayon on his cheek and joy written all over him. The man stood up as she stepped further into is shop.
“Hey,” he said softly, brushing his palms over his sweatpants, staining them even more. “I don’t know why you’re here so soon,” He spoke like he was scolding her. “But he’s alive, I swear. Minimal glitter and loads of fun”
Beau popped up from the floor and ran towards his mom with a wrinkled piece of paper where crayon flames were licking the sky. “Mommy, look! This monster breaths green fire because he eats radioactive garbage!”
She crouched beside him, taking the drawing like it was treasure. “Impressive,” she said, giving Dean a sideways glance. He was grinning. “And biologically implausible.”
Beau smiled like he’d just been knighted. With that look on his face he definitely was his father’s son. “That means cool, right?”.
“It means super cool!” She ruffed his hair and brushing a rogue curl out of his eye. She stood to full height a moment later, letting her son continue with his masterpiece... or whatever he came up with next. “Did he eat something?”
“He had a snack. Buddy refused to eat anything that wasn’t shaped like a dinosaur, had to cut the lettuce like a t-rex to try and persuade him,” he chuckled. “The lettuce didn’t make it too far, tho”.
They both looked at Beau, who was now battling a dragon against a flying octopus made of pipe cleaners, complete with sounds and explosions. They had a soft look in their eyes, the one of two loving parents who were trying their best despite the situation they found themselves in. And anyone who would look at Beau would see a happy, average, kid, and that was perfect.
Dean leaned against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. His voice dropped just slightly so his son couldn’t hear him. “He asked me why we don’t all live in the same house.”
Her smile faltered. Dean instantly felt guilt eating at him for even bringing that little comment up, but he knew he had to check in with her on this. “I told him that we both love him. That sometimes grown-ups work better in separate spaces”
Her arms crossed too, almost like she needed a shield. “Good. That’s, huh, a good answer.”
“I wanted to say more.” Dean hesitated.
“Mh-mh”
Silence settled between them. Full of something, of too many years and not enough chances. Of something familiar. It wasn’t uncomfortable, per se, but it called for one of them to say something more. So, Dean answered. “He’s happy,” he muttered. “I see it. But I keep wondering what would’ve been like if I’d gotten out when you asked me to.”
She didn’t look at him when she answered. “But you did not.” Her voice was calm, but it struck him. “You picked the life. You picked Sam,” she continued. “And I picked leaving before it killed you... and Beau and I in the process.”
Dean exhaled slowly. “You always knew what to do.”
“No, Dean.” She finally met his eyes. “I just accepted it first.”
“You’re good at this mom stuff”
Her expression softened. “I’m trying.”
“You’re better at it than I was at being yours.”
The softness vanished. Her spine straightened, her arms pulled in just a bit tighter. Reflexive. “You’re doing better now, Dean,” she said, her voice smooth but cool. “That’s what matters to him.”
Dean swallowed. “And to you?”
She offered a small smile, but it wasn’t real. It was polite, practiced. “I’m not the one you need to win back.”
He didn’t say anything after that. He knew she was right from the start. But he was not strong enough to leave Sammy behind. He had to protect him. Dammit, it was engraved in his mind from the start and Sammy... Sammy needed someone. Dean used to think that someone could be him, but then came Beau, and Beau came above everything and everyone else. It took some time for him to accept he could not live a double life. Hunt monsters during the day and read his son to sleep at night. Those two things were never compatible in the first place. His father was the striking example of that. But he was so so so stubborn. Damn him, if he just understood it faster. If he just... he wouldn’t have lost them, lost her.
When she walked out of the bunker that night four years ago, with their tiny son in her arms, he should’ve done something. Anything. But he just looked at Sammy, waiting for some words of comfort that never came. Or he just didn’t hear them. He still didn’t know. She didn’t cut him off completely, she let Dean witness his son’s milestones as much as he could, but it was not the same. He worked for weeks on end trying to crack a case and, in the process, missed Beau’s first steps, his first solid food, and his first words (Da-da). And then, just when he’d decided to finally retire, a damn nail in his back almost took him away from a future with his son. He was lucky enough to survive, a sign of something from above. A sign he embraced and moved to where he swore he would never go again, Lawrence. That was two years ago.
“LOOK! I draw Mommy fighting a troll with a spoon.” Dean was pulled back from his thought from Beau’s loud voice.
He grinned. “Accurate enough.”
Her front porch. Lawrence, Kansas. Saturday, 7.23 PM.
Dean jogged up the walkway, boots crunching on gravel, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with being out of breath. He was twenty-three minutes late; he didn’t even have to check his watch to know. He hated that he knew the exact number. Beau was supposed to be ready by seven. He imagined him with his backpack already zipped, paper dragon in hand, bouncing at the front door waiting for his dad. Dean hoped his son was still having trouble with reading the time, or he was screwed.
It wasn’t on anyone but him. A walk-in at the shop had passed out halfway through her first ever tattoo. The girl was nineteen and trying so hard not to cry that Dean had ended up sitting with her for forty-five minutes after, cleaning blood of the chair and offering lukewarm Sprite from the back fridge. By the time he looked up, it was 7:18. He hit every red light on 12th, texted her on my way and nothing else, and cursed himself the whole drive.
He stood on her porch now, one hand shoved deep in his jacket pocket, the other fidgeting with a cracked zippo. His boots felt too loud on the worn floorboards. Dean barely knocked. Just one of those guilty, half-hearted taps on the door, the kind that said I know. I messed up. Again. The porch light flicked on fast. So fast she must have been waiting impatiently for him to show up. Dean pursed his lips and let out a smacking sound. Yeah, he was screwed. He looked at the mailbox behind him, where yesterday he had left the drawing he made for her. It looked like it was still there, maybe she hadn't checked it yet.
Once he turned to the front door, she stood there. One of her hands was resting lightly against the frame, as if it grounded her. Her black dress wasn’t fancy or flashy, but it hugged her like memory. The neckline dipped just enough. Her hair was done beautifully, not too much, just... intentional. Her makeup looked as good as ever, enough to make Dean feel like he should’ve changed out of the shirt that smelled like ink and pine soap. She looked like someone who was going somewhere. Somewhere good, and clean, and grow-up. Somewhere Dean Winchester had no place. His throat tightened, catching up to what was happening in front of him.
“Hey,” he said, too casual to be truthful. “I know I am late, I didn’t mean to, I swear –”
She smiled. “It’s okay Dean, come in. Beau’s grabbing his shoes, he’ll be out in a minute.” She moved, giving him enough space to go in. When he was close enough to her body, he smelled coconut on her skin and red wine on her breath. Ah, that’s why she’s not mad at me right now. “What happened?” She then asked.
“Shop ran over. Had a situation. Nothing dangerous, just... messy as hell.” He tried so hard not to ask the question. The dress, the makeup, drinking before dinner. Everything was screaming at him not to go there, to confirm something that would’ve just hurt him. Still, he couldn’t help himself. “Big night?”
Her lips curved. “Dinner”
“Anyone I know?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Nope.”
Dean offered a nod like someone swallowing glass. “Right. Cool. Good. Hope he likes overpriced wine and pretending he’s not intimidated by you.”
That got him a look with one eyebrow raised, guarded. “Dean.”
“I’m just saying.” He shrugged, trying to mask the ache in his chest with bravado. “Not everyone can handle sarcasm, and a kill shot stare.”
“You used to like it.”
He looked at her, really looked. “I still do.”
The words settled between them like heat from a long-dead fire. Not hot. Not burning. But there, still. Still warm if you reached for it. She didn’t roll her eyes this time. Didn’t scoff, didn’t shut him down. Instead, she looked at him the way someone might look at a memory they weren’t sure they could trust. She stood with her arms crossed, half-leaning against the edge of the entryway table.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“I know,” she replied this time, not a challenge.
They both smiled. His, soft. Hers, if he didn't know better, almost shy.
Dean stepped a little closer. “Can I tell you something without you kicking me out of this home?”
“That depends,” she said. Her voice didn’t quite hide the way her fingers gripped her elbow, like she was keeping herself in place.
“I still think about you,” he said. “Not like... some creep or some sad song or anything. I just do. Like when I’m driving. Or when I’m cutting stencils and Beau’s drawing monsters next to me. When I am eating pie and it doesn’t quite taste right like the one you make. You just... show up in my head. Like muscle memory.”
She looked down. Her thumb dragged along the seam of her dress. “Dean.”
“I’m not asking for anything,” he said quickly. “Not now. Not more than this. Just, I needed to say it out loud, alright?”
She nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Beau’s voice echoed from the hallway, singing some nonsense song about dragons and meatballs, getting louder with each step.
Dean looked toward the sound, then back at her.
“Your drawing,” she said suddenly.
“What?”
“The one you left in the mailbox.”
“Oh.” Dean scratched behind his ear, suddenly boyish. He was wrong before, then. “Yeah. I didn’t know if you’d–”
“It’s on the fridge,” she said.
Dean froze. His mouth opened, then shut again. She gave him the smallest smile. The kind you only give to someone who used to know you like a favorite book. The kind that held maybe.
And Dean, fool that he was, smiled back.
Dean's backyard. Lawrence, Kansas. The next Saturday, 4.09 PM.
Cheap burgers slapped onto a charcoal grill, a bear-up metal cooler full of beer and Capri Suns, lawn chairs dragged into a loose circle around a fire pit he’d built last fall. The barbecue was Dean’s idea, he’d insisted on doing everything himself, something about community thing. Really, it was because Beau had asked for s’mores, and s’mores had to be made on special occasions. The man never turned down a chance to play dad with a spatula and a six-pack.
Beau was running wild across the patchy grass, barefoot, shirt half untucked, one knee bloodied and already forming a thin scab from some dumb, glorious adventure with a stick and a hose. His cheeks were red from the sun. There was a marshmallow stuck to his chin. Dean stood at the grill, tongs in one hand, beer in the other, wearing a black apron that read MASTER OF THE MEAT in red letters so faded they looked like claw marks. His hair was messy. His cheeks reddish from the alcohol in his system. His smile hadn’t left his face since around the time she’d texted "maybe I’ll stop by."
A few neighbors had wandered over, lured by the smell and Dean’s easy charisma, the kind that didn’t try too hard but still landed. He secretly loved that, he needed to expand his circle a little bit. His neighbor from two doors down, Angela or Amanda or Amelia, was lingering near the grill now, red solo cup in one hand, her other arm brushing against Dean’s a little too deliberately every time she laughed. Angela, Amanda or Amelia was in a sundress, floral and flirty, her blonde hair curled into perfect spirals and her lipstick a high-gloss cherry red. She was doing that thing Dean knew too well. The head tilt, fake laugh, too many compliments about his “grill technique” and how “rare it is to find a man who can cook and fix things.”
Dean, to his credit, was polite. Awkwardly so. “You sure you don’t want a veggie burger?” he asked, flipping a patty and trying not to look at her too long. “Got one in there. Purely decorative.”
Angela (Amanda or Amelia) leaned in a little closer, tapping her acrylic nail against her cup. “Oh, I like meat.” Aaaand, right there, she lost all the appeal Dean might have found in her. There was a time when he would’ve loved the attention; he had thrived off it for years. But now it just seemed all so... bland. Angela (Amanda or Amelia) was definitely one hell of a woman (if you asked anyone else).
Dean blinked. “Right. Uh. Great.”
And then, like a perfect, inconvenient miracle, the gate creaked open.
She stepped in, in one hand she held Beau’s backpack, the other holding a glass Tupperware dish covered in foil. Black tank top. Worn jeans and cowboy boots. Dark sunglasses. Hair up in a loose knot. She looked effortlessly stunning. He knew comparing people was of bad taste, she had taught him that much one time when he dared compare her and Jo’s butt (they were not together then), but he couldn’t help himself: she was a vision compared to the woman next to him, who was still battling her long eyelashes. Dean’s breath caught for a second. She always did that. Walked in like she wasn’t part of his world anymore and somehow still belonged more than anyone else.
Beau saw her first, his whole face lighting up like someone had lit a match behind his eyes. He really looked like his mom when he got excited, Dean noted. “MAMA!” he shouted, running towards her at full speed “YOU MADE THE POTATO SALAD!”
She caught him one-armed, grinning. “You think I was gonna let your dad serve people that store-bought thing he likes to call a salad?”
Dean leaned over the grill, smirking. Since their last encounter last week, he felt better about their relationship. She was not his, not yet. A man can only hope. “Wow. Not even a hello first?”
She raised an eyebrow as she walked up to him, holding out the dish. “I said your dad. That’s basically a compliment.”
Dean chuckled, taking the Tupperware from her hands. “You even brought the good one. Damn. You really couldn’t stay away.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but Angela (Amanda or Amelia) stepped closer, heels tapping faintly on the uneven brick patio. “Oh, this your sister?” she asked, blinking between them.
Dean nearly dropped the spatula from the amusement he was getting from the whole situation. “Nope,” he said. “This is my ex-wife.” And the woman of my life and dreams. Except I fucked up so now I’m grilling burgers alone.
The woman’s entire posture shifted. Just a little too stiff to be comfortable. “Oh.” she muttered.
“Hi,” his woman said sweetly, half-smiling. “Nice dress.”
“Yeah- thanks, it’s vintage. I’m going to get some more- more beer.” Angela (Amanda or Amelia) blinked again and faltered, then slipped off towards the drinks table to avoid the confrontation.
Dean turned back to her, his grin lazy and amused. “You couldn’t resist,” he repeated himself like nothing happened.
“Beau wanted to come,” she said, scooping some potato salad onto a paper plate. She really was obsessed with it. “I’m his emotional support adult.”
“Uh-huh. You came just in time too. Thought I was about to be seduced over the coleslaw.” he teased, flipping another burger. She rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched at the corner. He thought he was finally getting somewhere with her.
“She asked if I live alone,” Dean said casually.
“Did you say you like to change your sheets once a month?”
“She said she likes meat.”
“Jesus Christ, Dean.”
“You’re jealous.”
“I don’t get jealous”
Dean just looked at her. “You really do.”
She didn’t answer, which, for her, was basically an admission. Dean decided that was enough for him to understand that there was at least a small part of her that still cared for him. He could work with that.
Dean handed her a cold bottle of wine from the cooler. “I saved you one. Figured maybe you’d show.”
She stared at him a moment too long, then took it, the glass sweating between her fingers. “You hoping I’d get territorial?”
“I was hoping you’d let yourself belong to something again.”
That stopped her cold. She didn’t have a sharp retort for that, just the sound of her bottle cap hitting the side table and her eyes shifting toward Beau, who was now trying to launch a marshmallow across the yard with a stick, once again proving his Winchester blood.
Dean’s voice softened. “You belong here, you know.”
“Don’t,” she said quickly. Not cruel. Just afraid of the ground shifting under her feet. Dean nodded, accepting it. For now.
Beau ran over again, arms full of tiny sticks and graham crackers. They both welcomed the distraction. “Can we make more s’mores?!”
Dean crouched beside him. “Absolutely. But first, you eat half a burger or I’m telling the marshmallows on you.” Beau giggled and ran off from Dean with renewed purpose. He was a little devil, pun not intended.
She watched them together, the two of them were like puzzle pieces that made more sense than she was willing to admit.
The blonde woman reappeared then, lips touched up, a new cup of beer in hand. She scanned the yard, spotted her again, and, to her credit, walked directly over. “Hey,” she said, chipper and determined.
She looked up, chewing slowly. “Hey.”
“I’m Annie.” The blonde stood straighter. “Didn’t realize you and Dean were...?”
“Co-parenting,” she said smoothly. “Successfully. Most days.”
Annie sipped her beer. “That’s great. He’s really... settled. I wasn’t sure what his deal was.”
She raised a brow. “His deal?”
“You know,” Annie shrugged. “That whole rugged, broody thing. Hot guy with a past. You don’t want to assume anything.”
She smiled slowly. “Right. Because it’s hard to tell if the guy running a tattoo shop and making s’mores is secretly a flight risk.”
Annie laughed, a little nervous now. “Exactly.”
She let the pause linger. Just long enough. “You seem nice.”
Annie blinked. “Thanks?”
“And I’m sure you’re used to getting a lot of attention.”
Annie’s smile froze. “I’m sorry, are you...?”
“No,” she cut in gently. “Dean’s single. He can talk to whoever he wants.” Annie relaxed. Almost. “But if you’re gonna flirt with him in front of our son or come around thinking this is just some tattooed bachelor with a tragic backstory, you should know what you’re walking into.”
Annie shifted, defensive now. “And what’s that?”
“A man who still sets an extra plate when he makes pancakes, for me. Who once spent an entire night rewatching cartoons just so our kid wouldn’t be afraid to sleep.” Annie’s eyes looked everywhere but at her. She leaned in, voice low. “Dean’s a lot of things. But he’s not easy. And if you can’t carry that weight, don’t pretend you can.”
Annie stared. “Do you still love him?”
She didn’t blink. “Doesn’t matter. He’s still mine.”
Annie backed up slowly. “Right. Well. Thanks for the clarity.”
“Enjoy the salad.”
Her kitchen. Lawrence, Kansas. Sunday, 11.08 AM.
His brother sat awkwardly at the small kitchen table, knees practically tucked to his chest, surrounded by crumpled white printer paper and half-finished prototypes of what might one day resemble paper airplanes. Glue sticks, safety scissors, and a ruler with bite marks (Dean hoped they were Beau’s) were spread like a war zone across the table. Sammy sported a man-bun, which, if you asked his older brother, looked ridiculous for his age, and had a calm look on his face. Retiring did wonders for him. He didn’t have a problematic relationship with an ex-wife or a son that could ruin his beauty sleep, so he was just cruising through life. The last Dean heard of was that he was seeing a redhead with the nicest eyes (Sam’s words). They didn’t talk much these days, but they always texted. Their relationship had shifted once Dean made the big decision to move back home and stay with his little dysfunctional family, but not in a bad way. Things were just weird now. No more life-or-death situations, no more hunts, no more shitty motels. When they took all that away, the painful truth that the two brothers had grown up to be very different people was obvious to their eyes. They needed to be apart from each other. That was healthy, normal, safer.
Beau leaned over his latest creation, little brows furrowed in concentration, glue on his fingertips and the tip of his nose. Sammy guided him gently, holding the paper flat while Beau creased the wings. “This one is flying!” his son said with absolute conviction. Dean thought maybe he was going to become a pilot. That would make him proud.
Sam grinned. “Third time’s the charm, right?”
Dean stood across the room, leaning casually against the counter like he owned the place. He had spent the morning there after they agreed to meet up to have breakfast together. Beau had begged for both of them to be there while he ate his pancakes. Dean had given a mental high-five to his son for using his puppy eyes with his mother and allowing him to spend some time with them. As soon as he entered the warm kitchen, his eyes flickered to the fridge where his drawing still stood proud. He had thrown a smug smile at her, and she had rolled her eyes with a blush on her cheek. Half sunflower, half sun. It wasn’t the most challenging design, but it perfectly encompassed their love. She was the sun and he was the sunflower, always turning toward her light.
Coffee mug in his right hand, he was just observing his brother and son with an adoring look on his face. He hadn’t said much. He was loving how caring Sammy appeared to be with his nephew. He looked... happy. Like something in him settled when he was around Beau. Like maybe he needed it more than he realized.
The kitchen door opened, and she walked in, rubbing a towel through her damp hair. Her cheeks flushed from the warm shower, bare feet, loose shorts, and an old navy-blue tee that Dean instantly recognized as his. Or at least, one that used to be. He didn’t say anything, but his heart was swelling in his chest. This all felt so domestic. But the look in her eyes stopped him from imagining the perfect life with all of them.
Her eyes moved to the unexpected guest in her house. She didn’t freeze. She recalibrated, like a soldier squaring up the threat and realizing everything was ok. “Hey, Sam,” she said, voice even.
Sam smiled, warm and genuine. “Hey. Hope it’s okay I stopped by.”
“Of course,” she said, crossing to the table without hesitation. “Beau’s been talking about your last visit all week. You guys starting a militia made of paper and glue, or...?”
“Prototype phase,” Sam said, deadpan.
Beau beamed. “This one’s gonna go into space.”
She leaned over to ruffle his hair, lips twitching. “As long as it doesn’t go into the ceiling fan like last time.”
Beau giggled. “That was awesome!”
Dean sipped his coffee. “Not for the fan.”
The sunlight slanted through the windows, catching particles in the air. For a second, the scene looked like something from another life. Almost like a real family. Almost. What demon did he have to summon to have that? No, Dean, we know how that went down the first time.
Beau suddenly shot to his feet, gripping his paper plane. “Gonna test it outside!” He barreled out the screen door before anyone could stop him, the door slapping shut behind him.
Silence followed, a long breath of it. The kind that makes you notice the sound of your own heartbeat. Sam straightened in the chair, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his jeans. “He’s getting big.”
“Six going on sixteen,” Dean muttered, still sipping on his cup of coffee. It was really pretty. He didn’t have anything this nice in his house, maybe he should move in. Huh, as if she would let him.
She gave Sammy a small smile. “He loves when you visit.”
“I love being here,” Sam said, glancing toward the door. “He’s... he’s bright. He’s kind. You both did a great job.”
She nodded, one shoulder rising slightly like she was bracing for a wave. “Thanks.”
Sam shifted again. “I know I haven’t been around as much as I wanted to be. Life’s... complicated.”
She crossed to lean against the counter beside Dean, close but not touching. She tilted her head. Dean froze. He wasn’t expecting her to be this close. She probably noticed how her presence had made him stiff, so he tried to relax and act like this was a daily occurrence. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I kind of do,” Sam said, quieter now. “At least to you.”
Her mouth pressed into a line. She didn’t look away. The air changed, thinner, like too many truths were trying to live in the same space. Dean stayed quiet once again, sipping his coffee like it could distract him from the tension he knew was coming. This wasn’t his moment to talk.
“I never wanted to take Dean away from you,” Sam said carefully. “I know what it cost.”
Her jaw didn’t move, but Dean saw it from how close they were standing, the way she held it tighter. “You didn’t take him,” she said. “He went.” Punch right to the gut. He took that jab like a man (trying not to cry his eyes out).
“I know,” Sam murmured. And the weight of that knowing hung heavy in the space between them.
Dean set down his mug, finally speaking. “Sam’s part of Beau’s life now. So are you. I don’t need either of you dancing around old scars.”
“I’m not,” she said softly.
Dean looked at her. “You are. You smile at him like you’re trying not to kill him right there.”
She didn’t deny it. Sam looked down for a moment, then stepped forward, not too close. “I left the life too, you know. For myself. But also because I saw what it was doing to Dean. I couldn’t watch it destroy both of you.”
She studied him. “I believe you. And I appreciate you loving Beau.”
“But,” Sam said gently, “you still look at me like I’m what you lost.”
She paused. Her expression didn’t crack. But her voice did. “Because you are.” Dean didn’t move. Just let her words hang there, raw and blunt like a confession dropped mid-battle. He looked in her eyes, searching for something. He didn’t even know what he wanted from her. Forgiveness, understanding, maybe. What he found was desperation, but also a warm flicker of hope. A sign that it wasn’t too late. Her wounds were healing, little by little.
Beau’s voice echoed from the yard, laughing at something only he understood. “I don’t blame you, Sam,” she said finally. “But I can’t forget that I asked him to leave a hundred times, and he didn’t, not until you didn’t need him anymore.”
Sam nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”
“Doesn’t mean I hate you,” she added, a little softer. “Just means I have boundaries.”
Sam gave a sad smile. “I’d rather that than polite lies.”
“I don’t do polite lies.”
Dean looked between them, exhaling hard. “Well... this is wildly uncomfortable.”
She snorted, not a laugh, exactly, but something close. Sam chuckled too, easing the tension slightly as he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “I should go,” he said. “Three-hour drive, stack of books, and probably a paper cut waiting for me.” He paused in the doorway. The light caught his profile, older and a little worn, but somehow lighter than he used to be. “I care about you. Both of you. And I’m not trying to fix anything. Just... show up when it counts.”
“You do,” she said. Quiet. Honest.
Sam glanced at Dean. “See you soon?”
Dean nodded. “Yeah.”
And from the yard: “UNCLE SAM! COME THROW IT WITH ME!”
Sam smiled. “One more flight.”
He stepped outside. The door clattered shut behind him. She and Dean stood in silence, the aftershocks of old wounds still lingering. “I’m glad he came,” she said after a long pause, arms folded.
“Even if you want to strangle him a little?” Dean asked, glancing sideways.
She tilted her head. “I want to strangle you more.”
Dean grinned. “Still hot.”
She rolled her eyes, but didn’t move away.
Beau’s Room. Lawrence, Kansas. Thursday, 8.02 PM.
The paint roller made a low, rhythmic sound as it glided over the wall. Dean stood on one side of the room, wrist flicking in practiced arcs as he worked a stubborn patch near the window. His t-shirt clung to his back in the summer warmth, the sleeves speckled with blue like he’d been caught in a powder-colored explosion. She stood opposite him, barefoot and focused, tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth as she cut in along the trim with a smaller brush. She’d tucked her hair up into a ponytail hours ago, but strands had started to fall, streaked with dust and sweat and a smudge of paint she hadn’t noticed on her jaw. Beau had lasted about an hour before declaring himself “art director” and disappearing.
“You’re doing that wrong,” Dean said without looking. His voice low and lazy. He could feel her eyes narrow like heat behind him.
She scoffed, standing on tiptoe to reach the top corner with her brush. “I’m literally doing the exact thing you showed me.”
“Yeah, but my version has finesse.” Dean stepped back a little to examine his own work, pushing his hand through his hair and leaving a smear of blue paint above his temple. “You’re more... chaotic.”
“Is that right?” she asked, leaning just enough to get a better angle, the curve of her hip knocking against the stepladder.
Dean finally turned, and when he did, he grinned, wide and crooked, the kind of grin that once meant trouble and now meant he was enjoying himself too much. “You're getting paint on the trim.”
She looked down, lifting one foot out of the way of a nearly upturned paint tray. “I am not.”
He pointed with the end of his roller. “Right there. That corner. Shameful.”
She stepped back to assess it, hands on her hips. Her brush dripped onto the tarp as she tilted her head.
“That's not the trim. That’s... artistic bleed.”
Dean laughed, full and unfiltered, a sound that filled the room like music from an old favorite record. “Artistic bleed? That’s a war crime in painter terms.”
“Well, next time hire a professional,” she shot back. She brandished her brush at him like a sword, one brow raised. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat and the effort, a streak of blue paint running just under her collarbone like it belonged there. “Watch it, Winchester. I’m armed.” They both let out a soft laugh before she sat down to paint a little lower.
She sat cross-legged across from him, brushing a smudge off her knee with the edge of a napkin, which only spread the blue into a larger, cloud-shaped stain. Her ponytail had slipped sideways. A thin stripe of paint crossed her jawbone (he now remembered was a gift from earlier, when Beau had gotten too excited near the roller tray and unknowingly impersonated Jackson Pollock). She nudged an empty paint tray with her bare foot. “You missed a spot.”
Dean didn’t even lift his head to check. Cocky. “Impossible.”
“Right above the closet,” she said, leaning her shoulder against the wall behind her. “Little patch. Very obvious. Honestly, kind of embarrassing.”
Dean gave a long, exaggerated sigh and leaned farther back. “I left it on purpose. It’s artistic,” He mimicked her words from earlier.
She snorted, tapping her soda bottle against her thigh. “You just didn’t want to move the step stool again.”
“I’m preserving realism,” he said, voice lazy. “In real life, nothing’s perfect.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Wow. Did you get that off a coffee mug?”
Dean smirked. “I think it was a fortune cookie. One of those serious ones, though. You know, like it’s really trying to teach you something about yourself in between the lo mein.”
She laughed, a real one, surprised and sharp and bright. Her hand went up to cover her mouth, as if she didn’t trust the sound yet, as if it had escaped before she could smooth it out. Dean cracked one eye open, catching it. That laugh. That sound. It hit him like it always did, sudden and quiet and loud all at once. It was a sound she rarely let slip. She smiled often, sure, but laughter? That was something she protected. Something she gave away cautiously, like it cost her something.
He smiled too, without thinking. Without control.
She caught him watching. Her brow rose. “You’re staring.”
Dean didn’t look away. “Can you blame me?”
She rolled her eyes, but it didn’t sting like it used to. It wasn’t an eye-roll to shut him down. It was softer, tinted with something that looked suspiciously like... deflection. Her cheeks flushed, just a hint of pink across the tops. “Don’t start,” she warned, voice lighter than before.
Dean tilted his head toward her, grin curling wider. “I’ve been good. Haven’t flirted once today.”
She gave him a look. “You said my tank top was ‘ruining the barbecue.’”
“That was an observation,” he said, lifting his chin. “Science.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I also said this color blue made your eyes look illegal, which, if anything, is just factual reporting.”
She huffed a laugh and looked away, not too far, just under her lashes. He watched her like he might memorize it. The way her mouth tugged at the corners. The way the paint on her skin made her look like she belonged to the room. Like she was part of it. Part of this life.
“And,” Dean added, softer now, “I didn’t say anything about how you look right now. Which is impressive, because... this is definitely a look.”
She raised an eyebrow, smiling despite herself. “Covered in paint and drinking flat soda?”
“Hot,” Dean said instantly. “Peak hot. Like, cover-of-a-catalog hot. ‘Messy domesticity,’ page twelve.” She smirked. It was small. But it was real.
She leaned forward just a little, elbows on her knees, her eyes locked on his. “Are you trying to impress me?”
Dean blinked, caught, but not backing off. “Maybe.”
There was a beat. Just long enough to shift the air. Then she tilted her head, eyes sparkling for the first time in a long time, and said, “Well... I do like a man who can cut in around baseboards.”
Dean stared. His roller hit the floor with a soft thump. “Hold up,” he said slowly. “Was that flirting?” She took a long, measured sip of her soda, not breaking eye contact. Dean’s mouth dropped open slightly. “That was flirting. That was flirting.”
She gave the tiniest shrug. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Dean grinned so wide it could’ve lit the room on its own.
“Too late.”
Her house. Lawrence, Kansas. Monday, 1.09 AM.
The knock on the door was soft. Just two quiet taps. She was already awake.
Beau had started burning up around ten, tossing in his sheets and calling for water, then Dean, then both again. His cheeks were hot to the touch, his body curled in a shiver under two blankets. She’d tried everything, cool cloths, medicine, lullabies. But when he whispered, voice hoarse and eyes glassy, “I want Daddy,” she’d called without hesitation. Now, she opened the door and found Dean standing there in jeans and a worn flannel, hair messy from sleep, and keys still in hand.
“I came as fast as I could,” he said, voice low, trying not to startle his baby.
She stepped back without a word to let him in. Worry was written all over her perfect face, but it seemed to ease a little bit once he saw him.
Beau’s room was dim, lit only by the soft yellow nightlight shaped like a moon. Dean crouched at the edge of the bed instantly, brushing back sweaty hair from his son’s forehead. Beau stirred, eyes blinking half-open, smile curling weakly when he saw him. “Hey, buddy,” Dean whispered. “Heard you weren’t feeling so good.”
Beau nodded, then sniffled. “Hurts.”
“I know, kiddo. I got you.”
Dean stretched out on the edge of the bed, one hand on Beau’s back as the boy curled into him like instinct. His breathing slowed. His fingers curled into Dean’s shirt. He was asleep in minutes, he really needed his dad. She stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching the two of them. There was something about it, about the quiet devotion on Dean’s face, the calm that always came when Beau felt him near, that made her chest ache in places she'd convinced herself had long gone numb.
Beau was sound asleep, finally, having found his peace. He was still warm, but at least now he was calm enough to get some rest. On the corner of his bed, the man noticed a baby monitor she must have whipped out of storage for this moment. She was really worried about her baby boy. Dean eased himself up carefully. He followed her out into the hallway, then down into the kitchen, where a dim bulb above the sink cast everything in warm gold.
She poured him a glass of water without asking. He leaned against the counter, rubbing his eyes and muttering some sort of thanks. The words didn’t quite come out, but she understood anyway. “He asked for you,” she said.
Dean looked up. “I’m glad you called.”
“I didn’t want to. You were probably asleep.”
“I’d rather be tired than miss that.”
She nodded, arms crossed, leaning against the fridge. Her oversized sleep shirt hung off one shoulder. Her voice was quieter when she spoke again. “You’re good with him.”
“He’s my whole world,” Dean said simply.
A silence settled between them. Soft. Familiar. Then her eyes dropped, just for a second, to the gap in his flannel where the buttons hadn’t been done all the way. She caught a glimpse of something new, bold lines inked just above his heart, something floral, geometric. Familiar.
Her brows pulled slightly. “That’s new.” Dean followed her gaze, then tugged the fabric aside slightly to show more of it.
It was a tattoo. Her design. Or at least, the one he’d sketched for her weeks ago, the one she’d never claimed, never acknowledged fully beyond a quiet smile.
Her breath caught. “You got it?”
“Yeah.” Dean let the shirt fall back into place. “Did it the day I finished the shading. Didn’t really think about it. Just… felt like I should.”
She didn’t say anything, but her eyes stayed on the fabric.
Dean looked down, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There’s a few, actually. Ones that remind me of you.”
Her eyes met his again, curious, hesitant. “A few?”
Dean shrugged like it was nothing. “Song lyrics you liked. Your handwriting. I’ve got the coordinates of the cabin you wanted to buy in Montana.”
“You never even liked Montana.”
“I liked you.”
That landed like a thud in the quiet kitchen. She looked away, not because she wanted to, but because his honesty always hit too square in the chest when she wasn’t expecting it.
“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured.
“You’re beautiful,” he replied, just as soft.
“Dean...”
“You haven’t seen me shirtless in a while,” he said, half-teasing. “I’ve got half a gallery dedicated to you.”
She laughed quietly, shaking her head, but her smile was soft now. Open. Like an old book creaking at the spine. “You’re ridiculous,” she said again.
“Yeah,” he replied. “But I’m here.”
She moved to the sink, turning the faucet on just enough to rinse her hands. Anything to avoid looking at his stupid, perfect eyes. He came to stand behind her, not touching, but close enough for the air to shift between them. His chest brushed against her back.
Neither moved away.
“I hate that we’re good at this,” she said suddenly.
Dean blinked. “At what?”
“Being apart,” she said. “Missing each other quietly. Pretending like we’re okay with it.” She turned around, her face still painfully distant from his.
He stared at her, really stared. “I’m not pretending,” he said. “Her eyes flicked up to his. “I miss you all the time. I thought I told you”
The silence that followed was full, not heavy, not sharp. Just full. With breath and warmth and the kind of history that never really faded, no matter how much space she'd tried to put between them. The water had stopped running minutes ago, but neither of them had completely turned it off. The tap dripped once. Then again. She turned the handle absently, shutting it off. Dean exhaled through his nose.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “This is just… a lot.”
Dean nodded. “I know.”
“You come in with your soft voice and tired eyes and that shirt that’s barely buttoned and act like this is fine. Like we’re fine.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t tease. “We’re not.”
“Exactly.” Her voice cracked at the edge. “But I still want...” She stopped. Bit the rest back. Looked down at the counter like it might give her an exit.
Dean’s voice was quiet. “You still want what?”
She shook her head, frustrated at herself. “I don’t know. You. This. Us. The version that could’ve worked.”
Dean was close, but still careful. He’d never been good at careful, but with her? He’d learned. “There’s still time for something,” he said, like a suggestion. Not a promise. “Doesn’t have to be what we had.”
She didn’t answer, just stared at him. His shirt had slid slightly to one side again, collar loose, neckline gaping just enough to show part of the tattoo he’d designed for her, now inked into his skin instead. It was healing well. The linework was clean. It belonged to him now, and still, somehow, it felt like it was hers. “I didn’t think you’d actually get that one,” she said softly.
Dean’s gaze followed hers down to the edge of his chest. He shrugged. “I wanted to carry it, even if you didn’t.”
She looked away again, but slower this time. “That’s not fair.”
“I know.”
She crossed her arms, jaw tight. Her eyes were shiny but dry. “You don’t get to be the poetic one. That was my role.”
“I think we both are kinda sappy.” He paused, waiting. Then added, “And we’re both still here.”
She blinked. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
The house had gone quiet again, the kind of silence that feels heavy. Saturated with all the things that hadn’t been said, all the years they hadn’t touched, and the inches they’d pretended weren’t still charged between them. Dean’s hand was near hers, his thumb brushing the edge of her wrist like a question. She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. But her eyes had gone soft in a way he hadn’t seen in years. Soft, but stormed over, like she was fighting something back.
He swallowed. “Tell me to stop.” Time to be brave, now.
She didn’t. He stepped closer, slow, steady. No swagger. No games. Just the quiet magnetism of a man who had waited too long to be this close again. His flannel brushed against her arm now. Her breath caught, not loudly, but enough that he felt it.
“You don’t have to mean it,” Dean said softly. “But if you say it, I’ll back off.”
Still, she said nothing. She looked up at him instead, not away. Not down. But at him. And Dean saw it, clear as day: the wanting, the hesitation, the ache beneath her ribs.
So he leaned in. Just slightly. And then she kissed him first.
It was small, barely there, a brushing of mouths more than anything else. But it stopped the whole world. Dean’s hand moved automatically to her waist, not pulling her in, just anchoring. As if to make sure she was real.
She pulled back a fraction, eyes wide. “I shouldn’t have...”
Dean kissed her. This time, there was no hesitation. His mouth caught hers with a quiet hunger, years of restraint unraveling in one press of lips that still knew each other. His other hand cradled the back of her neck, fingertips threading into her hair. She gasped softly against him, and he felt it, not just heard it, but felt it. The way her whole body pressed in before she could stop herself. She tasted like lemon soda and something sharp, want, maybe. Or memory.
Her hands were on his chest now, fingers splaying across his flannel, clinging like she didn’t trust herself to let go. Dean pulled back just enough to look at her. Her lips were swollen, eyes glassy. One hand still fisted in the fabric of his shirt.
He rested his forehead against hers. “Still time to stop.”
“I don’t want to stop,” she whispered, not quite a confession, more like a truth that had waited too long in the dark.
Dean kissed her again. Slower this time. Deeper. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission anymore, the kind that remembered. Their bodies pressed together without needing instruction. His flannel slid from his shoulders as her hands found the ink beneath, fingertips grazing over familiar muscles and new tattoos, things she hadn’t touched in years, things she never stopped imagining.
She whispered against his throat, “This is a mistake.”
Dean’s voice was rough against her skin. “Maybe. But it’s ours.”
Dean’s mouth was on her collarbone, her throat, then her shoulder. She felt her shirt slip, one side dragging down her arm. His lips followed the fabric’s trail, slow and burning. His hand slid up her side, fingertips barely skimming the underside of her breast. It was hesitant, almost shy, a man relearning a body he never truly forgot. Her head tipped back with a shaky exhale, hands sliding down to tug at the hem of his jeans, fingers bold now. Needing.
He groaned quietly when her hands slid higher, thumbs brushing the edge of his ribs. “Jesus, sweetheart.”
“You okay?” she whispered, teasing, breathless.
“I will be if you keep touching me like that.”
She smiled against his mouth and chuckled slightly, probably remembering the countless times they had been in that exact same situation. Dean, on the other hand, was burning from the inside out. It was like heaven had answered all of his prayers. It was lust, and memory, and grief all wrapped up together. Four years of not having each other. Four years of waking up at night thinking she was still lying at his side. Four years of darkness. And then, light. Bright, warm, full. Dean knew he still loved her, but the feeling of her lips on his, her hands tracing every muscle of his body, was a confirmation. He never stopped feeling hers.
She kissed down his jaw, slow and deliberate, like she needed to memorize again every inch of him from the mouth down. Her lips brushed the edge of his throat, and he shuddered, hands gripping the counter behind her like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.
Her voice was low, teasing. “You gonna survive this?”
“Not cleanly,” Dean muttered, rough with need. “But what a way to go, sweetheart.”
She didn’t answer, not with words, but what happened after told Dean she was pleased. Their bodies were flush, warm from touch and wanting, breath soft and shallow between them. He looked at her like he wasn’t sure this was real, like if he blinked, he would wake up once again in his bed alone. She brushed her hands on his shoulders and prompted him to move back and follow her lead. He took a couple of steps back and met the wall behind him. She leaned forward for another feather kiss, her eyes looking right into his soul. She swept the line of stubble on his jaw with her thumb. He was mesmerized by her every move and almost forgot how to breathe.
Her hands moved down, unhurried, curling around his hips, pulling him closer and closer until there was no more room between them, only heat and the tension that had been simmering for years. And then Dean felt like he had just won a million bucks. She began to lower herself, knees brushing the cool tile, lips still teasing the line of his stomach where the flannel was undone. Dean’s hands cradled her face and met her eyes. He asked a silent question; there were no words needed for now. She nudged closer to his boner, which he had begun to sport minutes ago, and gave a small kiss on his jeans. That undid him. He sank back against the wall, one hand slipping into her hair while she undid his belt and pants. Calm down, Winchester. The air thickened.
Once his boxers were completely off, she gave him a toothy smile. “As pretty as I remember,” she whispered. Oh shit, fuck fuck fuck. Her hands wrapped around his shaft, soft and firm. She gave a squeeze, asking Dean to look at her. Could he? Yes, he was strong, that wouldn’t make him come on the spot. Definitely not. “I want you to ruin me, Dean.” His eyes widened, his woman was a devil. It wasn’t just the phrasing. It was her voice. The way she said it, low, reverent, like a dare and a vow all at once.
He stared down at her, every inch of him tense and undone. Her hands still moving lazily on his cock, her eyes locked on his like she was pulling him apart with nothing but her gaze. “You’re gonna kill me,” he rasped, half-laughing, half-wrecked. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. “I swear to God.” She smiled, slow and shameless, and leaned forward, licking Dean’s finger, mimicking what she wanted to do with his cock. “Okay, okay, sweetheart. There you go, no need to beg for it.” He brought his hand back into her hair into a makeshift ponytail and teased her mouth with the tip of his dick. “Open. No hands”.
She did what he asked, what a good girl. Obedience wrapped in fire. She looked beautiful like this. Not just because of the heat in her cheeks or the way her lips curved around unspoken hunger, but because she trusted him. Completely. Even now. After everything. When her lips finally wrapped around him, Dean felt his heart slamming into his chest. It was gravity pulling him back to her with every breath he took. She remembered what he liked, the little flick of her tongue on his tip, the sound of her choking on his girth. Tongue swirling and curving against every vein. She let him guide her, and Dean began to thrust into her mouth. He was trying to not be loud, his son was asleep and feverish upstairs, but he couldn’t stop himself from groaning each time he hit the back of her throat.
Her eyes were looking straight at him, begging him for something more, and he answered her prayers. He buried himself in her mouth and stayed there for a second too long. His mouth was open in a silent scream. She tapped on his leg one time before he let her take a deserved breath. “Look at you,” he whispered, a string of saliva connecting them. “Every damn dream I ever had, and still better than I remembered.” She blushed, something so innocent despite her currently sucking the life out of him. Without being prompted, she moved a little down and took one of his balls into his mouth. His hands tightened in her hair. “Holy shit, sweetheart”.
Her tongue circled the base of his dick, her hands still obediently crossed behind her back. She kissed her way over to the tip and buried his cock once again in her wet mouth. She moved fast, back and forward, with precise strokes, engulfing him once again. Dean felt his leg shake and his muscles tighten. No, not yet. He pushed her head away, but she stole another kitten lick, making him shudder at her eagerness. She stood up shakily, breath ragged, lips swollen, and her eyes, God, her eyes, were glassy with something between satisfaction and surrender. Her chest rose and fell in unsteady rhythm, and there was color in her cheeks that made Dean feel like the floor might drop out from under him. He was overwhelmed by her, by the softness in her expression, by the heat still coiling through his body.
He took a step forward, pushing her toward the kitchen counter once again. He leaned closer to her lips, and she closed her eyes out of instinct, but he grinned and turned her around. She let out a loud yelp at the sudden movement, and Dean covered her plump mouth with his hand. He smiled on her neck, leaving wet kisses all over it. “Shh, sweetheart. Can you keep quiet for me, huh?” He removed his hand and focused on her neck. Each kiss was softer than the last, a whisper of heat pressed against skin that had memorized him long ago. She tilted her head instinctively, breath catching, giving him more space and permission. Dean’s hand slipped around her waist, grounding them both. His thumb moved in slow circles along her side, but his mouth... his mouth was hungry. When he found the spot just below her jaw, the one that made her breath stutter, he paused. Smiled against her skin like he’d found treasure. “This one’s mine,” he murmured, voice low and warm. Then he kissed it. Not sweet. Not fleeting. A pull of lips, a graze of teeth, just enough pressure to make her back arch and her hands curl into his shirt. He sucked, slow and deliberate, leaving behind something she could feel. Something she wouldn’t forget.
She chuckled. “Really? We’re not twenty anymore”
Dean just shrugged, smug and flushed. “If you’re gonna haunt me, sweetheart... might as well return the favor.” he bit over the sore area and she hissed, from pain and pleasure. His hands reached under her shirt, grabbing her breasts. He teased her nipples with slow circles while still peppering her neck with small kisses. He cupped her breasts gently, reverently, like he was relearning her shape by heart. Her back arched towards him and Dean took a moment to compose himself once his cock rubbed her panty-covered pussy. The slight pressure made his breath hitch. She wasn’t speaking, but her body was. She was giving herself to him, and Dean was a weak man, he would never say no. Don’t rush this, Winchester.
Her body was giving away more truth than her words ever dared. Dean’s lips moved from her neck to her shoulders, then down her spine, still covered by fabric, slow and reverent, every kiss pressed like a vow he never stopped dreaming about. She trembled under his mouth, not from fear, not from cold, but from the unbearable closeness of it all.
Then, without a word, he sank to his knees behind her. The motion was instinct. Pure and unfiltered worship. She turned around, eyes wide. He grinned and gently bit one ass-cheek. “Let me,” he said, his voice low and full of that rough, unguarded tenderness he only ever used with her. He moved her panties to the side and was met with the sight of a lifetime. She was glistening, puffy, closing around nothing, waiting for him to make a move.
She bent over slightly, presenting herself to him. “Dean...” she moaned.
“You need to be quiet now,” another bite. “If you make a sound I’ll stop.” Her hand slid into his hair, slow and tentative, like she wasn’t just allowing this, but anchoring herself to it. To him. One hand smoothed over the back of her thigh, the other resting gently at her hip, holding her steady, holding her still. He could feel the tension in her. God, she’s letting me do this, he thought, head bowed, breath brushing warm across her skin. She still trusts me enough to be this close.
He massaged her inner thighs, teasing her, making her body beg for him. The muscles under his hands trembled. She thightened her grip onto his hair and he chuckled. He was being a little shit, but he wanted to make this moment last forever because he wasn’t sure about what would come next. And then, finally, he licked her center. He felt her body twitch under his mouth. The taste of her was salt and heat and everything that had haunted him in dreams, every silent night in his home when he swore he could remember what she felt like around his tongue. Dean licked her slowly, deliberately, a long, open-mouthed drag that made her knees buckle. One of her hands fisted in his hair, the other braced against the counter. He could hear her trying not to moan. Trying to follow his rule. It made him grin against her. She whimpered, hips rolling involuntarily as he pushed his tongue deeper, tasting her like she was a prayer and a punishment. His nose pressed against her, breathing her in. His hands tightened around her thighs, grounding her, dragging her open.
She was panting now, chest heaving with the effort not to fall apart. Dean could feel how close she was, how her body trembled with every flick of his tongue, every subtle shift of pressure. She was dripping, wetness smearing across his chin, and she didn’t even care. “You gonna come for me like this?” he rasped against her. “No hands, sweetheart. Just my mouth.”
She made a choked sound, the closest thing to a cry she could manage without breaking the rule. He slid one hand up to press between her shoulder blades, guiding her lower, keeping her open, on display. His other hand stayed on her hip, anchoring her as he worked her apart with his mouth, relentless, skilled, worshipful. Every motion said what he wouldn’t. I’m yours. I never stopped being yours. He flicked his tongue on her clit, drinking everything she was willing to share with him. And when she came, shaking, lips bitten closed to stop herself from screaming. Dean didn’t stop. He held her through it, licking her softly, gently, until her legs gave and he had to pull her into his arms before she fell, standing up. She collapsed with her back against his chest, still shaking, still panting. His hand slid into her hair, holding her there, grounding her. He kissed the top of her head. “I’ve got you.”
Her body was warm in his arms, breath shallow against his chest, skin damp with sweat and the echo of release. Dean held her for a moment longer, fingers tangled in her hair, breathing her in like he was trying to anchor himself. But his need hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, the taste of her, the way she shattered for him without a sound, had only pushed him closer to the edge. He shifted behind her again, guiding her gently to lean against the counter once more. She didn’t resist, in fact, she arched her back slightly, offering herself like it was instinct. Like her body knew his. Dean groaned softly, hands sliding down her back, appreciating the curve of her, the trust in her.
“You’re killing me, sweetheart,” he rasped.
She smiled into her arm, teasing. “You promised to ruin me, remember?”
That broke something in him. He reached between her legs, fingers brushing her slick heat again, just to tease, just to make her squirm. She gasped at the sensitivity, and he kissed her shoulder in apology. Then, slowly, he lined himself up and pushed forward. The heat of her made him hiss. Her body took him like it was meant to, soft and tight, still fluttering from before. His hands gripped her hips, anchoring them both, as he buried himself to the hilt.
He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there. Inside her. Breathing.
She tilted her head back, eyes closed. Her lips parted around a sound she didn’t let slip. Dean leaned over her, chest to her back, mouth brushing her ear. “Feel that?” he whispered. “That’s mine.” She nodded, breathless.
He started to move, slow at first, deep, each thrust dragging across the places that made her tremble. She pushed back to meet him, her body answering his rhythm like a question already solved. The sound of skin on skin filled the kitchen. The pace quickened. His hands slid up to her waist, her ribs, cupping her chest again, grounding himself in her.
“You feel so damn good,” he growled, lips pressed to her spine. “Don’t wanna stop.”
“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Please.”
That did it. He snapped his hips harder, faster, the edge creeping up his spine like fire. She gasped, clinging to the counter, letting him have her, all of her, as he rutted into her with all the hunger he’d buried for too long. He reached down to touch her again, wanting her to come with him, to feel it together. She broke first, a trembling, near-silent cry, her whole body tightening. Dean followed, burying himself deep one last time, his jaw clenched, his breath broken against her shoulder.
He didn’t tell her he loved her, that was too soon.
But he stayed inside her like he couldn’t survive anywhere else.
a/n: I always wanted to make a yandere x yandere fic. I feel like it didn't come off as dark as it could have been lmao.
Cw: Yandere x Yandere(which means usual talks about killing, love potions, confinement, etc), Yandere!Levi, Yandere!MC(but you're trying to do better), Double Penetration, Rough Sex, Levi having two dicks, some dub-con(there's protests at first but MC actually wants him), Fem!MC, kinda ooc.
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It was becoming too much—how you felt, the way your emotions churned inside you like a storm you couldn’t control. You were trying so hard not to give in to your usual behavior, to be normal, to keep it together. But the obsessive thoughts, the relentless impulse to take, to control, to own, were beginning to creep up, growing stronger with each passing day.
You’d managed to keep that side of yourself under wraps—relatively speaking—by focusing on anything and everything else. You buried yourself in distractions, anything to keep your mind off the darker urges. That was why you avoided relationships, why you pushed away any romantic feelings.
But that wasn’t enough anymore, because you were in love. Completely and utterly in love. The target of your affection was Leviathan, the shy, awkward, but endearing otaku. You hadn’t meant for it to happen; you’d kept your walls tall and unyielding, only offering detached friendship to the demon, just like you did with his brothers. But somehow, that detached friendship had morphed into an actual friendship.
You reasoned with yourself that it was okay to have a friend, as long as it didn’t become more. Friendship was harmless, right? You could handle that.
Wrong.
You quickly went from being just another normie to becoming his Henry, and with that came a shift you hadn’t anticipated. He started dragging you into his room more often, refusing to let you leave with those big, sad eyes and that lovely blush on his face. He’d ask you to stay just a bit longer, his voice tinged with a plea you found impossible to resist. Maybe your mistake was relenting so often, convincing yourself that you were doing it for the sake of your friendship, feeding into the denial that you weren’t crossing a line.
It was during one of those many nights spent gaming together that the truth hit you—like a bucket of ice-cold water. You were infatuated with him. The realization came when you found yourself wondering how you could keep him isolated, how you could ensure that no one else could be around him but you. The thought startled you, made you question everything. You were trying to be good, to do better. You couldn’t possibly be infatuated. That wasn’t you, not anymore. So you decided you needed to distance yourself from him, just a bit, so you could get over whatever it was you were feeling. It should have been easy, right?
Wrong again.
You didn’t anticipate Leviathan’s persistence. You thought of him as too shy, too easily flustered to chase after anyone, least of all you. But he never gave up. He whined in your ear, his voice desperate and needy, tugging on your clothes like a child afraid of being left alone. He even went as far as staying in your room with you, refusing to leave your side. It was so out of character, so unlike the Leviathan you thought you knew, that it rendered you speechless every single time. (And maybe, just maybe, another mistake you made was not paying closer attention to the hidden obsession lurking in his eyes, the way they darkened with something deeper, something more dangerous.)
Seeing such persistence warmed your heart, though. It showed you that he was willing to fight for you, to keep you close no matter what. Infatuation quickly turned into love—so completely in love. But just because you were in love didn’t necessarily mean it had to be obsessive or controlling, right? It could be a pure love, right?
Completely and utterly wrong. (And you wondered, in those rare moments of clarity, was anything you decided ever the right choice?)
The thoughts about being the only one around him consumed you. The maddening jealousy you felt when you heard him talk to his friends online, the burning urge to destroy all of his Ruri-chan merchandise—because how dare he love anything else but you?!—the overwhelming need to check all his electronics to make sure there was no one else… it all started to eat away at you.
All you could think of was him: Leviathan, Leviathan, Leviathan.
But still, you tried. You tried your best to fight it, because you were trying to do better. To be good. You wanted to love him in a pure, wholesome way. You didn’t want your love to be so obsessive, so twisted. But it was getting harder and harder to suppress the urges. (But were you really even trying hard enough, or were you just kidding yourself?)
It took all your willpower not to give in, but even with that, there were small things you did without his knowledge—like taking articles of his clothing, savoring the way they smelled of him. You took harmless peeks here and there at his computer and even his phone (and it wasn’t like he made it hard to figure out his passwords when he put it in right in front of you). Occasionally, you’d discourage him from going outside, convincing him it was safer, better to stay in. But it was all harmless, at least that’s what you wanted to believe, because at least you hadn’t snuck in a love potion to make him yours. (Not yet, at least.)
Still, you knew deep down that you couldn’t continue like this. The thought of hurting Leviathan twisted your heart—but you would, without hesitation, if he ever so much as looked at someone else. HE WAS YOURS. The intensity of your love for him made it clear that you needed to try again to put some distance between you, even if it meant spending time with one of his brothers instead. (It was almost laughable how desperate they were for your attention.)
That decision is what led you to your current predicament. It was your fault, yes, but your intentions were pure—at least, that’s what you told yourself. (Or was it that you were just too afraid to surrender completely?)
“I can’t,” you repeated firmly, holding your ground as you rejected Leviathan’s invitation to hang out. “I have plans with Beel.”
“P-Plans?” he echoed, his voice thick with disbelief, as though the word itself was foreign to him. His tone softened into a desperate plea. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Beel will understand if you cancel.”
The way he looked at you—so sweet, so hopeful—almost broke your resolve. But you knew you had to stay strong. “I already said I can’t. I’ll hang out with you afterwards.”
With one last, fleeting glance in his direction, you turned and walked away. If you had only looked back, you would have seen the dark, ominous scowl that had settled on his face.
When you returned from your outing with Beelzebub, who was sweet but unbearably boring, you found yourself debating whether to go see Leviathan. But you decided against it, reminding yourself of the need to maintain your distance, no matter how much it hurt. You clung to that conviction even as you ignored the constant stream of message notifications chiming from your D.D.D while you got ready for bed.
And maybe—just maybe—if you hadn’t been so completely lost in sleep, you would have noticed Leviathan standing silently at the foot of your bed, his demon form fully revealed, with slitted, orange-glowing eyes fixed intently on your figure.
This pattern continued for an entire week. You spent time with one brother after another, each day rejecting Leviathan’s invitations with an ache in your heart. But then, something strange started happening. Random pieces of your clothing—mostly your panties—began to disappear. Objects like your notebooks, chapstick, hair ties, and even pillows vanished without a trace. By that point, you knew it wasn’t just your imagination.
It made you want to scream. Someone actually had the audacity to take your things—and how dare they covet you when you belonged to Levi! The thought burned in your mind, making it nearly impossible to focus as Satan tried to engage you in conversation at the cat café. The soft meows and gentle purring of the cats around you did nothing to soothe the growing anger bubbling inside. Every time you saw a playful swish of a tail or felt a soft nuzzle, your thoughts drifted back to the house, to the annoyance you were going to have to deal with. You knew you’d have to investigate more thoroughly the moment you returned.
Once the two of you finally arrived back at the house, you were on a mission. Barely muttering a goodbye to Satan, you made a beeline for your room, your heart pounding with anticipation. The hallways blurred as you stormed through them, your mind solely focused on getting answers, to check and see if anything else went missing. Reaching your door, you flung it open with a force that made the hinges creak. But the sight that greeted you stopped you in your tracks.
Leviathan was sitting on your bed, his posture casual yet somehow possessive, as if he owned not just the bed but the entire space around him. His presence filled the room, and for a moment, you faltered, the anger you had felt earlier mixing with surprise and something else you couldn’t quite name (was it excitement?). You closed the door behind you, the click of the latch sounding louder than it should have in the stillness.
“Levi?” you questioned, your voice wavering slightly. The intensity of his gaze when he finally looked up at you made your breath catch. His usually soft and shy demeanor was replaced with something far more focused, almost predatory.
“Did you have fun with Satan?” he asked bluntly, his voice low and steady. The stillness of his figure, the way he didn’t move a muscle, made you instantly cautious. It was like he was waiting for something—for a slip, a crack in your composure.
“I did,” you lied easily, though the words tasted bitter on your tongue. The truth was, you had hated every second of your time with Satan, and it wasn’t just because of him. You loathed going out with any of Leviathan’s brothers.
Leviathan tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he observed you. It felt like he could see right through your lie, peeling back layers to uncover the truth you were trying to hide. The intensity of his scrutiny almost made you shiver. But then, as quickly as the tension had arisen, it dissipated. Leviathan looked away, his fingers beginning to fidget with his D.D.D. The shift in his demeanor was almost surreal.
“W-would you like to come to my room? We haven’t s-spent time together,” he asked, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. When he looked at you again, his eyes were no longer sharp and probing but soft and vulnerable.
You hesitated, weighing your options. It should be fine to go with him this one time. You told yourself you’d make it quick—just a few minutes in his room, and then you’d leave. The sudden foreboding feeling you had should had deterred you yet you chose to ignore it (or maybe you just didn’t want to see the signs right in front of you).
“Sure.” A word that sealed your fate.
As you walked with him through the dimly lit hallway, the anxiety grew stronger, tightening its grip on your chest with every step. Leviathan was close enough that you could feel the occasional brush of his arm against yours, and each touch sent a jolt through your body, heightening your unease. The closer you got to his room, the heavier the air felt, as if the walls themselves were closing in on you. You wondered if you would be able to bolt if things spiraled out of control, your mind already calculating the distance to the door and the speed you’d need to escape.
When you both stood in front of his door, the tension in the air was palpable, a suffocating presence that made your skin crawl. It was almost ominous when he opened the door and gestured for you to step inside, the sound of the door creaking open like a warning you were too stubborn to heed. As you walked in, your eyes darted around the room, searching for anything out of place, but everything looked the same. His usual setup, the familiar clutter of manga and figurines… So why were you feeling like th—oh.
Your breath caught in your throat as your gaze landed on his desk. Those were your items scattered across it, some new things that you hadn’t even realized were missing yet. And there, in his tub, nestled among his many sheets and body pillows, were your clothes, panties and pillows, arranged almost reverently.
You stood there, paralyzed by shock, even as you heard the door close behind you, the sound of the lock sliding into place echoing loudly in your ears.
“Levi, that’s… my stuff, my clothes,” you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper, but you knew he heard you. He was standing so close behind you now that you could feel the heat of his body radiating against your back, making you shiver involuntarily.
“Why have you been avoiding me?” he asked, his voice low and eerily calm, completely ignoring your statement as if it were irrelevant. His breath tickled your ear, sending another shiver down your spine.
This wasn’t what you expected. Leviathan wasn’t supposed to be like you, caught in the same struggle, battling the same obsession. The thought made your heart race. That wasn’t good—you didn’t want to be pulled further into obsession, into depravity. You wanted to be normal, to be better, to be good. You chanted those words to yourself like a prayer, a desperate attempt to cling to sanity, even as you finally turned to look at him.
He was looking at you with an intensity that made your breath hitch, his eyes locked onto yours as if you were the only thing that existed in his world.
But you couldn’t give in. You were determined to have a wholesome, pure romance with him. You had to resist, had to keep things from spiraling out of control.
“Don’t make me ask you again,” he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he grabbed your chin with a firm hand, his hold almost bruising in its intensity (and his aggressiveness shouldn’t have been so arousing to you).
“Things were getting too… intense. I just wanted a bit of space so things could mellow down between us,” you answered hesitantly, your words stumbling over themselves as you tried to make him understand. But even as you spoke, you could feel the flimsiness of your excuse, the way it barely held together under the weight of the truth.
“Intense?” He grinned, a smile that was more a baring of teeth than anything else, with an almost maniacal edge to it. His eyes gleamed with a knowing light, as if he could see right through you, as if he knew all the things you’d done behind his back, all the secrets you thought you’d kept hidden.
But you stubbornly kept your mouth shut. You could do this—you could talk him down, make him see reason. You would keep your distance and regain control (liar, liar, liar. All you did was lie).
“I know you want me. At first, I couldn’t believe it because why would you want me? But then, you started taking some of my clothes.” He looked deeply pleased as he let go of your chin, bending down to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine as he spoke. “I could even feel your envy, your jealousy when I’d game with my friends or when I gave too much attention to anything else that wasn’t you.”
You sucked in a breath as he slowly nipped at your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that sent a jolt of sensation through your body, heat pooling in your core despite yourself.
“I thought things were going well,” he paused, his voice darkening as he continued, “but then you started spending time with my brothers. You were ignoring my messages and invitations to come to my room.” As those words left his lips, the nipping grew harsher until he bit down on your neck deep enough to leave a mark but not enough to draw blood. The sudden sharp pain made you yelp and squirm in his grasp, but his hold was unrelenting.
He snarled at your attempts to break free, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you froze again, your body betraying you as a wave of desire crashed over you. You wanted to give in so badly—you wanted him to be yours. You wanted to be his. This side of him was so unexpected but definitely not unwelcome.
“I need you to explain yourself. Now.” His grip tightened as he fisted his hand in your hair and yanked it back harshly, forcing you to meet his gaze.
You licked your lips, trying to steady your breathing. “Levi, this just isn’t… healthy. I’m trying to do better.”
He scoffed, as if your answer was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “We want to be with each other. Does anything else matter?”
His words were tempting, far too tempting. But you wanted your love to last, to be built on a solid foundation (but really, you were just a fucking coward).
“It does matter. How about you let me go back to my room so we can think about this?” you suggested, your voice trembling slightly. The grip on your hair tightened, pulling at your scalp, and you winced in pain (but you wanted him to be even more aggressive, to show you how much he loved you).
“You, better than anyone, should know that you aren’t going anywhere. If I have to tie you up, then I will.” He released your hair with a sudden force and pushed you down onto the floor. The impact was harsh, and you barely managed to catch yourself with your hands before your head could hit the hard surface. He stood over you, a blank expression on his face as he watched you struggle to steady yourself.
“L-Levi, just calm down. We can talk about this,” you pleaded softly, your voice trembling as he dropped to his knees, caging you in his arms against the cold, hard floor. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, mingling with the coolness of the floor beneath you. If he kept pushing, you knew you would give in.
“For someone who wants me just as badly, you’re protesting too much.” His voice was low, dangerously calm, as he leaned his forehead against yours. His breath ghosted over your lips. “But don’t worry, I’ll fuck the fight out of you. And if that doesn’t work, well, I don’t mind using other methods if it means keeping you with me.”
His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t help the way your body reacted. Heat pooled between your thighs, your panties already soaked through. You almost moaned at the sheer threat in his voice, and you wondered just how much rougher he’d get if you kept resisting. Would he lose control entirely? (You hoped he would.)
“Levi, please. We can’t,” you whined weakly, your resolve wavering as his lips brushed against yours. You somehow managed to turn your head away, but the gesture felt futile. The air around you shifted as he pulled back, his energy darkening. When you glanced up at him, his demon form was already out—scales glistening under the dim light, coral horns out, his tail swaying predatorily, and his glowing orange eyes fixated on you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.
“Fine, I guess we’ll do this the hard way,” he growled in your ear. The words sent your mind spiraling, and before you could fully process what was happening, everything became a blur of heat and sensation.
You gasped, eyes widening as his hand slid under your skirt with purpose, fingers expertly finding your soaked core. He moaned—a deep, guttural sound that sent a thrill through your body—when he felt how wet you were even through the thin fabric of your panties. It was the only confirmation he needed, the last bit of proof that you truly wanted him, needed him, despite your feeble protests.
With a heated urgency, his hands tore away your panties and skirt, ripping through the delicate fabric like it was nothing. Your shirt and bra followed, shredded under his impatient touch, leaving your skin exposed to the cool air and his hungry gaze. He didn’t waste a second, pulling you into a smoldering kiss that was all heat and desperation. Just like that, your resolve shattered, crumbling beneath the weight of your desire. You returned the kiss with equal fervor because you wanted—no, you needed—him so badly it ached.
He smirked against your lips when he felt you go pliant in his arms, the tension leaving your body as you surrendered to him. His mouth broke away from yours, only to descend upon your chest, his hot breath trailing over your skin as he left a path of bruising bite marks in his wake. Each nip sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through you, drawing breathless moans from your lips.
Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging him closer as he zeroed in on one of your nipples, his mouth hot and eager. He sucked on the small nub, his tongue swirling around it before his teeth grazed the sensitive flesh, sending sparks of pleasure straight to your core. Meanwhile, his thick fingers pumped into your wet, warm cunt—two at first, then three, and finally four, stretching you open with a pace that was fast and merciless. The sensation was overwhelming, the roughness almost too much to bear, but you craved it. You needed more.
He didn’t give you a moment to adjust, didn’t let you catch your breath as he fucked you with his fingers, driving them in deep with each thrust. His thumb found your swollen clit, rubbing tight, desperate circles that had you crying out, your body arching off the floor. The pleasure was intense, almost unbearable, but you loved it.
You hugged him closer, your whines and pleas for more filling the room, mingling with the sounds of your slick arousal as his fingers moved in and out of you with relentless speed. He was going to make you cum already, and you hadn’t even gotten started. His mouth finally released your nipple, leaving it glistening with his saliva, and he pulled you into an almost desperate kiss, his tongue plunging into your mouth as he curled his fingers just right inside you.
Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, crashing over you with a force that left you breathless. You cried out, the sound muffled by his mouth, and your cunt clenched around his fingers, gushing wetness all over his hand. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, riding you through your orgasm as if he wanted to wring every last drop of pleasure from you.
It was all so rough, so fast, but it felt so right, like this was exactly how it was meant to be. You could only watch with half-lidded eyes, your breath coming in short gasps, as he finally pulled his fingers out of your throbbing cunt. Your juices coated his hand and he brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a look of pure satisfaction.
But he wasn’t done. Not even close.
He leaned back, his glowing eyes never leaving yours as he reached for his zipper. The sound of it being pulled down was almost deafening in the silence that followed. He didn’t bother fully undressing, only tugging his jeans down just enough to free his cock—no, cocks. He had two of them, thick and throbbing with need.
Your mouth watered at the sight of him, and your cunt clenched on nothing as you imagined the sensation of him fucking you open on those thick, pulsating cocks. The mere thought made you shiver. You spread your legs wider, a silent plea, an open invitation that had him settling between them eagerly.
“This messy cunt belongs to me,” Leviathan rasped, his voice low and gravelly, as he rubbed both of his cocks against the slick folds of your cunt. The friction sent a jolt of pleasure through you, making you gasp as he gathered the wetness on the heads of his cocks, teasing your entrance with slow, deliberate movements. “You belong to me. I need you to remember that because I will kill anyone you so much as look at for too long. I don’t even want you leaving my room at all.”
You mewled softly at his words, the sound escaping your lips involuntarily, and you knew in that moment that there was no going back. You couldn’t deny it anymore—couldn’t even pretend to care how twisted your love had become, how unhealthy it likely was. All that mattered was that he was finally yours, and you would do anything to keep him that way.
“Do you understand?” Leviathan’s tone was harsh as he gripped both of his cocks firmly, positioning them at your entrance. He pushed forward slowly, just the tips breaching your slick, swollen folds. The stretch was intense, borderline painful, but the pleasure that accompanied it was undeniable. A high-pitched moan tore from your throat as your eyes became teary at the sensation.
“Levi!” you whined, desperation lacing your voice as you attempted to roll your hips down, to pull more of him inside. But his tail coiled around your waist, holding you firmly in place.
“I asked you a question. Do you understand?” Leviathan remained still, his gaze dark with lust, waiting for your answer. When you didn’t respond quickly enough, his hand moved to your breast, fingers tugging one of your nipples harshly. The sting made you gasp, a mixture of pain and pleasure that sent a jolt straight to your core. “Or are you so cock-drunk already that you can’t even answer me?”
“I—I understand,” you panted, finally finding your voice. You reached up, your hand tangling in his hair as you yanked him down, bringing his face closer to yours. “But that also means you belong to me. I will kill you and myself if you ever try to leave me.”
“Fuck,” he cursed, and you felt his cocks twitch at your words. His lips crashed into yours in a sloppy, heated kiss, all teeth and tongue, as if he was trying to devour you whole. The kiss broke only when he pulled back to latch onto the side of your neck that was still unmarked, his teeth grazing your skin before sinking in, marking you with more bruises that would be visible for days. And then, with a snap of his hips, he thrust both cocks fully inside you.
The stretch was overwhelming, the sensation of being so utterly full making you sob with pleasure. He didn’t give you time to adjust, his pace punishing as he pounded into you, each thrust harder and faster than the last. It was as if he were releasing all the pent-up anger from the week you had avoided him, taking out his frustration on your body. But you welcomed it, craved it even. You’d always loved the bite of pain with your pleasure, always been a bit of a masochist for it.
Moans mixed with cries of pleasure, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room. It was loud, lewd, and unmistakable, and you knew anyone within earshot would know exactly what was happening. But the thought only fueled your desire for him, making you arch against him, desperate to take him even deeper.
You felt another orgasm building, coiling tight in your core as one of Leviathan’s cocks hit your sweet spot with each thrust, while the blunt tip of the other bumped against your cervix, making you see stars. The sensations were overwhelming, your mind going hazy as you babbled incoherently, slurred pleas and moans spilling from your lips.
Leviathan’s eyes were glued to your face, watching every expression, every reaction. The sight of you—completely fucked out, cock-drunk and lost in pleasure—sent a surge of smug satisfaction through him. He moaned loudly, the sound almost desperate as he lifted your legs, pressing your knees against your chest, and somehow, impossibly, drove even deeper inside you.
You wailed as another orgasm tore through you, your cunt clenching and throbbing around him, the pleasure almost too intense to bear. He whined at the sensation, his own pace faltering as he neared his release. With a final, forceful thrust, he buried himself deep inside you and came, his hot seed flooding your cunt. The feeling of him filling you, marking you from the inside out, made you moan weakly.
He panted heavily as he finally stopped cumming, his breath ragged as he slowly pulled out, even as you whimpered from the overstimulation. Cum leaked from your thoroughly used cunt, trailing down to your ass as he admired the state he’d left you in.
For a moment, he just looked at you—as if memorizing every mark, every bruise, every inch of you that he’d claimed. Then, with surprising gentleness and a now adorable flush on his face, he picked you up, holding you close to his chest. He carried you to his tub and he climbed in, laying down with you on top of him, his arms wrapped securely around you as he pulled a soft sheet over both of you.
You snuggled closer against his chest, your eyes fluttering shut as exhaustion washed over you. The romance between you two was never going to be pure, never going to be simple. It was twisted, dark, and even dangerous—but it was real. You belonged to each other, and that was enough.
You would do anything to keep him because Leviathan was finally yours. And really, this was the best outcome you could have hoped for. Now, you didn’t have to go through with your darker plans of somehow knocking him out and trapping him somewhere. You only hoped he took you seriously about never leaving, because you truly would kill him if he tried. He belonged to you, after all.
