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godmadeaterribleerror · 1 day ago

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Chapter 1 - In My Brain and In My Blood

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: This story is non-canon compliant rewrite, but primarily plot wise. Think of it as we're cooking with all the same ingredients (i.e lore, characters, setting, and backstory) but with one change (you) that gets us to a drastically different ending.

What the means is that there will be a lot of similar plot points to the real Supernatural, but the further we go through the story the more it will diverge. I've also take some creative labor with the reader, adding lore that's defiantly not a part of canon, but crucial to this story.

If you have any questions about this, feel free to ask! If not, I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter title is from The End by Halsey

Word Count: 16.3k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: See the Masterlist for a Summary. Contains usual tags.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff

Chapter 2

Read on A03!

You know a few things about the dark.

It’s alive inside you. It has been your whole life. It makes your words too harsh and your brain too sharp and your love too big. It’s makes you too fragile, but still too sharp, and raises everything to a dangerous height you don’t know how to come down from. It makes everyone move away because they can see it. You can see it, always.

It covers every corner of your body, and grows roots in something white in your chest. Something no one but you can see. You’d asked your dad once—does he feel it too, feel the strange glow and pull of everything beautiful around you—and he’d looked at you like you were insane.

You might be.

But it’s hard not to be, in this line of work.

Hunting. Monsters and ghosts and nightmares, all around you and calling to you in your sleep. It’s where most of the darkness lives, in the way that few monsters lay hands on you, no matter how much of their blood you shed. Ghosts will treat you like any other, but the monsters look at you like they recognize you.

Like you’re one of them.

And that’s something you’ve never told your dad. You never will. He already hates that you do this, and not a month goes by where he doesn’t glare at you from across the table, beer bottle in hand, and ask you to stop.

“Kiddo,” he’d grunted the last time, narrowing his eyes at you over dinner. “That was the last one.”

“You say that every time-“

“And you ain’t listenin’ to me every time!” He’d snapped. “You don’t have to do this shit, not with your-“ He’d made a face, giving you a pointed look. “Ya’ know. Thing.”

“Witch.” You’d sighed. “You’re allowed to say it. I’m a witch.”

“You ain’t a witch-“

“I’m not a normal witch.” You’d corrected with a frown, picking at the wood of the table. “But I’m still not human.”

“You’re human,” he’d muttered your name, and when you’d looked up, he’d been staring at you with an exhausted expression and you’d felt something eat at your tongue. “But you’re right. You ain’t normal, kiddo, and it’s gonna get you fuckin’ killed-“

“It hasn’t yet-“

“It will. It always does.” He’d stood, giving you one last, tired look. “And I’m not tryin’ to lose you too.”

You’d given him a close-lipped smile. “You won’t lose me. I’m being careful.”

He’d rolled his eyes—you were being careful, and he knew it, but it still pissed him off—and nodded. And that had been it.

It’s like that every time. He tells you to quit, because you don’t need to do this, and you tell him you have to. You’re good at it. You’re more resourceful than half the hunters he knows, smarter than all of them, and better by a mile. He’d trained you. He hadn’t wanted to, but he’d realized it was either him teaching you or you learning through trial and error, and he’d decided you being a pain in his freakin’ ass was better than you being dead.

Because—in the end—all he really cares about is that you’re safe. It’s why you know to be careful, why you know what hunts to call for backup on, and why you know that—if you need to—you can crawl back home with your guts in your hand and he won’t yell at you until you’re better. Keeping you safe is his job, more than hunting, more than research, more than cars. He’d chosen to do it when he’d found you—eight years old and starving on the side of a highway—and it had stayed that way ever since. It didn’t matter what you were, what seemed to be inside of you, or how you were certainly more trouble that you were worth. He always made sure you were safe.

Safe from your real family, for what you know and refuse to be. Safe from the worst of the monsters and ghosts, who don’t seem to care for that horrible kinship you don’t know how to stop. Safe from hunters, and how they’ll hate you for what you know how to do.

Safe from John Winchester, and how he’ll put a bullet in your brain without question for what you don’t know how to change.

It’s the top rule. Stay away from the Winchesters. When John comes around for a hunt, hide in your room. When he drops his boys off before vanishing for weeks at a time, sneak out and call your uncle. He’ll pick you up, keep you safe, and drop you back home when the brothers leave. They can’t see you, because they’re loyal to their father and will tell him about the witch-girl who made the wind howl louder than it should’ve. John can’t know about you, because he’s a complicated man with a good heart, but he’ll hurt you worse than any ghost or monster could.

But you have to say—at least from this distance—he doesn’t look that dangerous.

You know it’s him. You recognize his car in the parking lot from seeing it in your dad’s yard, and recognize his voice from the living room of your house. It’s clearer now—no longer muffled through a door you’d keep an ear pressed to—and you’re certain it’s him.

And he’s just a man. A broad-shouldered, tired man with a face that doesn’t seem like it’s ever smiledand dark hair that’s streaked with slight silver. He even sounds exhausted, his voice laced with a thin irritation he either doesn’t know how to hide, or doesn’t care to.

“Dean,” he grunts, and you can’t see who he’s talking to, the bookshelves of the library only revealing John’s cold, set face. “Go back to the morgue and look at the bodies again. See if you can get a blood type on the vics.”

“A blood type?” A second voice, this one so clearly younger, a little defiant and bright, asks. “Dad, why do we care about their blood type-“

“Because this bitch is spilling it left and right, and we need to work out what skin she’s got in that game.” John’s words are short, impatient. “And you’re not here to ask me questions, Sam, you’re here to get through these damn books. Dean, go to the morgue.”

“Yes, sir.” That’s a third voice. It’s pretty. Deeper than the second—Sam’s—but not as tired as John’s. Mostly just cautious. “Can I, uh, can I take Sammy-“

“No.” John snaps. “I need him here for the readin’. Take the car and go.”

There’s a soft sound of metal ringing through the air, a scrape of wood on the floor, and you almost don’t move fast enough. You almost don’t duck behind the shelf in time for the third voice—the pretty one, Dean—to pass you, humming something you’d recognize if you weren’t lost in your panic.

Dean doesn’t see you.

But you see him.

And it’s not just his voice that’s pretty.

You don’t know a lot about the Winchester brothers. Only what your dad has told you. Dean’s three years older than you, Sam’s a year younger. Dean likes music, Sam likes books. They’re both good boys—better than your dad seems to think John deserves, although he’ll never say that out loud—but Sam can be defiant and Dean can be trouble.

You hope Dean’s trouble. He has to be, when he looks like that.

Because in only a split second of his side profile, you’re sure Dean Winchester is the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. Will ever see. It’s almost ethereal, and a little unfair. All of his features are clean and strong, like someone carved him from marble, but there’s a scar you could see on his jaw and a cut on his lower lip that made him seem human. Made his seem tangible.

Touchable.

You’d like to touch him. You’ve seen him once, but everything in your body seems to think the world will collapse if you don’t touch him now. If you don’t at least talk to him. Hear his deep, charming voice directed at you. See at his face up close, see it’s clear resemble to John that feels pointless, because Dean looks like he smiles. He looks like he’s meant to smile, and you’d really like to find out if he’d smile at you.

And that white thing—the one you feel all the time—seems to really like him. Even the darkness is trying to reach out to him, move into him, and you’re not really sure what the fuck is happening. He’d just walked past you, and your body is suddenly trapped by something overwhelming and dizzying in your lungs, your every nerve prickling the longer your brain circles him. The longer it spirals around his beautiful face, and full lips, and the way his voice sounded like something even bigger than the darkness in your body-

“Hey, Dad?” That same voice cuts through your thoughts, a little raised as Dean calls between the shelves. “Are you feeling anything from the beer earlier?”

“No.” John’s voice is clipped as he responds, and you can hear the frown in his voice. “You feelin’ alright, son?”

“Yeah, uh-“ There’s a heavy pause, and you can hear Dean shuffling slightly just out of your sight. “I dunno. Must’ve stood up too fast.”

“Dad, if he feels light headed he might not be safe to drive-“

“I’m alright, Sammy.” Dean’s words are fast. Not frantic, but rapid. “Nothing’s gonna happen to the car, Dad, I promise.”

John grunts. “Better not. Get moving, Dean, we don’t got all night.”

“Yes, sir.”

You hear Dean shuffle away, sounds of flipping paper and scratching pencils re-filling the air, and you’re trapped in your spot. You shouldn’t follow Dean. Following Dean will almost certainly end in meeting John, and that’s the one thing you’re never supposed to do. Your dad doesn’t fight you when you leave for months at a time, or cross paths with other hunters, or run dangerous scams to keep yourself afloat. He’s okay with more than he probably should be, and he never tells you that you can’t do something.

But you can’t talk to John Winchester.

He can’t know who you are. What you are.

So you can’t follow Dean. Your brain is deeply aware that following Dean would be a truly horrible idea, and your body seems to be on board. There’s iron around your lungs when John mutters something to Sam, and a sore shot of electrically whenever one of them stands up to move books around. You’re really good at running. You know exactly when to call it and go. You can sense danger so easily—it’s the same chill of needles ice running up your spine, every single time—and John is dangerous. And you really shouldn’t follow Dean.

But the White thing keeps bucking around inside you. You can almost see it rush and roar in the air, feel it thrash deep down—past your heart chamber and embedded a little to the right—to try and follow Dean Winchester. And it feeds the darkness. It starts to twinge and pulse, seeping and infecting your muscles and blood, locking around your skull and making everything far too big. You can feel it all. The books on the shelves that all read Dean, and the squeak of the floors that say his name, and the lights start to flicker as the air turns humid and cool.

“Dad-“

“I’m seein’ it, Sammy, grab the gun-“

You raise the back of your hand to your mouth and bite. Hard. Grounding yourself before the flood can burst out of your body, before John Winchester could find out who you are in the worst way possible.

And when you run—out the back and to your stolen Lexus—you don’t even realize where you’re going until you’re halfway there.

To the morgue.

After Dean.

It’s a terrible idea. You have ten, long minutes of driving to figure out every way in which this is a terrible idea. You don’t know him. This will distract you from the case. John Winchester will try to kill you. Your dad will kill you. And there’s a high chance it will all be for nothing, because everything in you that’s calling to Dean belongs to that white thing. And that’s a part of you, and no one else. There’s a chance that this—whatever the fuck this is—is something driven by what you are, what’s wrong with you, so Dean won’t feel it at all.

You know all of that. And you still make it the whole drive without turning around. You park and rifle through your glove compartment for a fake ID, pull on your stiff, too-itchy well officer, would a fraud wear this? Jacket, and still don’t turn the engine back on and book it out of town. You even manage to justify it. You’re working this case too. You were here first. You’d noticed the blood thing from the start—it’s why you took the case—but you just hadn’t gotten to the morgue yet. You’d already been planning on it, and Dean just happens to be here at the same time.

No matter what, you’ll get through it. You always get through it. And this might be a horrible idea, but that knowledge won’t stop you from stepping out of the car and making your way to the morgue. Know something has never really stopped you, and no amount of twisting bile in your gut—telling you to run, because you don’t love life, but you’d really rather not be murdered today—is going to prevent you from doing this. Nothing is stronger than the White in your chest, and it wants to talk to Dean Winchester.

So that’s exactly what you’re going to do.

It is, as always, worryingly easy to get into the morgue. Half of the work is flashing the badge and saying the right words—Agent Smith, from the insurance company, I need to take a look at the autopsies for the claims—but most of it is the confidence. You carry yourself like a haughty, too-good-for-this-morgue insurance agent. Your chin is raised when you stop at the desk, and your words to the receptionist are impatient and clipped, and God, it makes you feel like the scum of the earth how she’s nervous and apologetic, but you get in the door. You always get in the door, because this is the simple part. The smiles with teeth, and the lies you spit through them are so fucking simple.

The hard part is always different. Sometimes it’s the ghosts that follow you after a failure, the ones that can’t be killed with salt and fire. Sometimes it’s long nights that you don’t have time tp sleep, and the tug and rot of that darkness in your chest tries to push to the surface. Sometimes it’s a puzzle you barely manage to solve, and it costs a little bit more of your flesh and soul each time.

But today, it’s Dean Winchester. Or, as the receptionist calls him, Officer Costello.

“Officer?” You raise your brows. “So the cops are looking into a serial killer.”

“I, um-“ The receptionist flushes, her eyes widening slightly. “I don’t know, he just said he was from a town over, and our Chief asked him to take a look, I’m not-“

“I’ll just ask him while I’m in there.” You shrug, the receptionist’s mouth opens in likely protest, and you call over your shoulder as you walk away. “I need to know for the report!”

You push through the doors—nobody chasing after you a sign of success—turn into the mortuary’s office, and freeze at the sight before you.

Dean’s hunched over the mortuary’s desk, frowning at the largest stack of papers you’ve ever seen, and shit, he’s even prettier up close. Spiky hair and slightly tanned, freckled skin, rough looking hands sorting through the files and full lips in a frown and what the fuck is happening to you-

His head shoots up, eyes widening—green eyes, deep and vibrant and you need to get a goddamn grip—and you stare at each other for a long, confusing second before he finally speaks.

“Ma’am, if you could wait for the doctor outside please, this is, uh, official police business-“

You scoff, even as your whole body hums from the deep, smooth sound of his voice. “Is that really the excuse you’re going to use?”

Dean tenses, dropping the papers on the desk and rising to his full height, glaring down at you. He’s really tall, and broad, and probably warm-

“Excuse me? If you don’t exit this office right now, I’ll have reason to put you under arrest-“

“What reason?”

He blinks at you. “Interfering in police business-“

“Fake police business?”

“I’m not, this isn’t-“ Dean shakes his head, eyes narrowing on yours. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a fake insurance agent.” You lift your badge up from him to see, giving a sweet, fake smile. “And you’re a hunter.”

“Lady, I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about-“

“I think you do.” You step forward, dropping into a seat across the desk. “To start, you’re definitely not a cop. Cops don’t drive muscle cars and raid morgue documents.”

He frowns, still watching you wearily. “How’d you know that’s my car?”

You’d slipped a little. You shouldn’t know that’s the Winchester’s car. But you’re quick on your feet, and by the time you say the lie it might as well be the truth. “Only three cars in the lot. Mine, the black one, and a minivan. And you don’t really seem like a minivan guy.”

Dean grunts, his body still braced and words tense. “I could be allowed to drive whatever car I want on duty-“

You give him an amused expression, tucking your knees into your chest as you lean back in your seat. “You’re like, twenty. There’s no way they’d let you drive your own car. Or,” you raise your brows. “Ask you investigate a bunch of weird murders by yourself.”

Dean frowns, but drops in the swivel chair behind the desk. “I’m twenty-one,” he mutters, and you snort.

“Congratulations-“

“And you,” his eyes shoot to yours, voice dropping into a low drawl that felt like it could be dangerous, but mostly made you feel a little fuzzy. “Haven’t answered my question. Who are you?”

You say your full name—the real one, that you’d been given at birth and he’d never connect to your dad—and drop your feet back to the floor, extending your hand across the desk. “I’m a hunter too.”

Dean chuckles, but meets your hand with a grin. “Yeah, I figured that part out myself, Princess. Dean Winchester.”

You shake his hand, and your smile must make you look like an idiot. It’s far too wide just from him telling you his name and touching your skin—he is warm, and his hands are calloused and big and still so soft—but there’s something like lightning sparking and shooting over your skin, and the White inside you is shining like a star. Pulsing and glowing and molding with the darkness. Making nothing really seem that bad at all.

Dean’s smiling back. And you’d been right. His face is meant to smile. It’s meant to have this broad, cocky grin that’s full of teasing joy and a bright-eyed delight in something you can’t quite place. You really can’t tell if he can feel it. There’s a glint in his eyes that’s full of promises, but you can’t figure out if he can feel this. This raging tug in your body that keeps your hand in his longer than it needs to be, that makes his skin feel like a furnace and your heart feel right in your body.

He might. He really might feel it. His hand stays in yours as well, his grip a little tighter than it needs to be, and when you manage to pull away, he clears his throat—a small, adorable blush covering his pretty face—and stares at you like you’ve fallen from the sky, and you’re still covered in stardust.

“So, uh,” Dean glances down at the papers, then back to you. “You here for the autopsy reports?”

You nod, crossing your legs under your body. “Yep. You gonna share?”

“That depends.” Dean shrugs, shooting you another, very mind-numbing smirk. “You gonna help us out?”

“Us?” You tilt your head at him, twisting a ring on your finger. “You’ve got a partner?”

“Partners.” Dean corrects you with a grin. “My dad and brother. We always hunt together, it’s safer and Sammy’s still a kid, so-“ He cuts himself off, his face falling into a small frown. “Do you, are you hunting alone?”

“Mostly, yeah.” You shrug. “But I can help you out-“

“You, you shouldn’t be hunting alone.” Dean cuts you off with a shake of his head, his voice almost disbelieving. “It’s not safe. Gonna get you killed.”

“Uh huh.” You narrow your eyes, your voice becoming dry and bored. “Do you want my help, Dean Winchester?”

“Sure, but-“

“Then drop it, give me the papers, and let me help.”

He frowns. “You’re kinda bossy.”

“Yeah, well, you’re kinda-“

“It’s not bad.” He pushes some of the files across the desk, shooting you a wink. “Just making sure you know.”

“Oh.” You stare at him. He’s so pretty, and his smile does weird things to your gut and ribs and the White inside of you. “Uh-“

“I’ll take these.” Dean taps the files still in front of him, watching you with a strange expression. “You got those?”

“Sure.” You mumble, pulling the papers into your lap. “Um, thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He shrugs. “More hands, we’ll be done faster. You, uh, you know what you’re lookin’ for-“

“Blood.” You flip open the first file, playing with the corner of a page as you speak. “Every vic’s been covered in it. It’s uh,” you grimace slightly, an image of a corpse painted red flashing in your head. “It’s been really gross.”

Dean hums in agreement, giving you a curious look. “You’ve seen all the bodies?”

“Most of them,” you look down to the file, flipping through it until you find the blood report “I’ve been here for like, five days.”

“Huh.” He frowns, looking down to his own paper. “We’ve been here four. Only seen two of them.”

“Well, maybe I’m just better at my job.”

He laughs, and when you glance back up, he’s grinning. “Sure, Princess.”

You kick him under the desk, and he makes a fake sound of pain.

“What was that for?!“

“Making fun of me,” you stick your tongue out at him, not looking up from your papers. “Not very nice, Winchester.”

“You made fun of me-“

“And if you wanna kick me, I won’t stop you-“

“I’m not gonna kick a lady-“

“Well then.” You shrug, unable to fight the smile on your face. “That’s not my fault, is it?”

He huffs, his voice dropping to a low mutter you can still defiantly hear. “Bossy.”

“That’s not being bossy, it’s-“ You cut yourself off, leaning down to re-read the file in front of you. “Shit.”

“It is shit,” Dean complains, and you can hear the pout in his voice as you grab the next file in your stack, rushing through the report to find what you’re looking for. “You’re lucky I-“

“No, that’s not-” you look up at him, your brain moving too fast to fully linger on why you might be lucky. “Give me your file.”

Dean frowns, but slides the paper over the desk. “What-“

You raise your hand, scanning over the file and grinning as you find what you’re looking for. “I’ve got it.”

“Got what-“

“That blood wasn’t only the vics. It was their’s, plus,” you turn the page for Dean to read, pointing to the words. “All the previous vics. Mixed together. That’s why there’s been more and more every time.”

“Oh.” Dean leans forward, scanning over the page. “Kinda like a really gross blood cocktail?”

“Exactly.” You grin at him. “I know what we’re looking for.”

He looks back up at you, raising his brows. “You gonna tell me, or-“

“It’s a moroi.” You drop the files, leaning back and pushing your feet back up on the desk. “It explains the messiness perfectly.”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “My dad says it’s just a normal ghost with a weird thing for blood-“

“Your dad is wrong. It’s a moroi.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “My dad’s never wrong. And he’s more experienced than both of us combined, he’d know if it was a moray-“

“Mo-roi-“

“And look,” Dean leans across the desk, pointing to the files. “All of them had the same blood type. That’s what Dad said to look for.”

“They have the same blood type because it’s a moroi.” You hold his gaze, because every single part of you might want this man in a way you can’t possibly begin to understand, but you’re also fucking right. “They’re Romanian vampire babies.’

“Vampire babies-“

“Evil infant spirits that didn’t get baptized. They’re really rare, but this-“ You tap the files with a smug grin. “Is their exact MO. Specific blood type that they’ve probably got a taste for, mixing it with their previous victims, incredibly sloppy.”

“Because they’re babies.” Dean mutters, frowning into the air. “And babies, uh, don’t know how to clean.”

You nod. “Because babies don’t know how to clean.”

“And you’re sure?” Dean looks down to the files, his tone cautious. “I mean, you said they’re kinda rare-“

“They are.” You shrug. “And that’s why I’m sure.”

Rare things are your specialty. Things that even the most experienced hunters don’t understand, that were hard to track and harder to kill. Things that were stranger than strange, darker than dark, worse than evil. Things that wouldn’t hurt you, and you’ve taught yourself every way kill. It’s why you’d taken this case in the first place. It’s why you’re fucking right.

“You, uh,” Dean’s words are slow, like he’s picking them carefully. “You know how to kill these things?”

“Yep.”

“You wanna come with me? To explain it to Dad and Sammy?”

“I, um-“ You start to pick at the skin around your nails, your skin suddenly itching and a weight forming in your lungs. “I mean, I can just tell you how, and you can deal with it, and I can go-“

“Go?” Dean frowns, his brow drawn. “Where are you going?”

“Out of town.” You keep your voice strong and even, because no matter how much the White inside you seems to be trying to move into Dean—no matter how much you’d really like to stay in this office and talk to him for a million years—you have to go. You cannot meet John Winchester. “If your Dad’s as good as you say-“

“He is-“

“Then you’ll be able to handle this. You don’t need me.”

“Well,” Dean leans over the desk, his voice dropping to a charming drawl. “If I ask you nicely, will you consider staying? Giving us a hand?”

You hold his gaze, unable to find enough willpower to shut him down immediately. “How nicely?”

“Please,” Dean says your name, giving you a taunting, boyish grin, and the White inside you ignites. You’ve heard your name said a million ways, but never like that. Never in Dean’s voice, never like it’s some sort of curse and prayer all at once, never like it’s bigger than just a name. “Please stay in town and help me out. Please explain this moroi shit to my dad, and help us kill the son of a bitch. I’ll buy you a beer, and be in your debt for a million freakin’ years. Please.”

He’s already got you. If the way he said your name didn’t make you fold, the shit-eating smirk on his face and gleam in his eyes that tells you exactly how he plans to repay that debt made you cave.

“I don’t drink.” You mumble, your face heated and eyes a little wide. “But I’ll take two million years and a promise that you’ll listen to me.”

Dean chuckles. “Awesome.” He grins, his eyes never leaving yours as he stands. “Let’s get outta here, I’ll drive you to our motel.”

That’s where you manage to draw a line. You’ll bow to Dean’s charming words and handsome face, you’ll follow him out of the office and into the parking lot, and you’ll agree to come meet John and Sam Winchester—no matter how stupid and deadly an idea it will certainly prove to be—but you’ll drive yourself. You didn’t steal that Lexus not to drive it, and when things inevitably go sideways, you’ll need a car to escape in.

“You sure?” Dean walks you to the Lexus, standing right at your side and watching you in a way the White seems to feel. “I mean, it’s not a problem-“

“I’m sure.” You grab your keys out of your pocket, stopping in front of the car. “All my shit is in here, and I can just follow you. It’ll be fine.”

“Well, how am I gonna know you won’t just drive off?” Dean doesn’t budge, barely sparing your car a glance. “Leave me to deal with the vampire babies alone?”

You give him a flat. “I won’t just drive off, Winchester-“

“You might.” He shrugs. “I don’t know you that well, you could be playing me-“

“I’m not- Fine.” You roll your eyes, shoving your badge into his hands. “You can hold onto that, and I’ll have to follow you to get it back. Happy?”

“Very.” Dean winks at you, flipping your badge open to read. “Agent Smith- Who’s Smith?”

“Nobody. Smith is the most common last name in United States.” You shrug, and Dean looks at you like you’re insane. “What?”

“Nothin’, I just-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low laugh. “It’s practical. Smart.”

You narrow your eyes. “But?”

“No but,” He says your name with a bright, cocky grin, and tucks your badge into his pocket. “Can I not call you smart?”

“Not when you don’t really mean it-“

“I mean it. You’re smart.” His grin grows, and it feels like it’s burning its way right into your heart. Kicking it up to a higher speed, warming it until your whole body feels lost in a misting haze. It’s so fucking weird. “Are all your badges Smith?”

“No.” You mutter, crossing your arms to try and stop your heart beating right out of your chest. “Smith is just insurance. Johnson does wildlife, Brown is a cop, and Miller’s FBI.”

“Huh,” Dean looks at you like he’s never seen anything more amusing in his life. It’s not really helpful. “Sammy’s gonna like you.”

“Sammy?”

“My brother.” Dean shrugs. “He’s smart too. Not half as pretty, but smart.”

You flush, leaning back to ground yourself against the cool metal of the car. “You don’t know me, Winchester. I might be a dumbass.”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Dumb people don’t know about vampire babies.”

“I’d argue vampire babies are the exact thing a dumb person would know about-“

“And I’d argue dumb people don’t say I’d argue.”

You scowl. “Touché.”

Dean laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Dumb people don’t say touché-“

“Shut up.” You kick him again, and this time his grin just becomes teasing and smug and a little fucking dizzying.

“That’s not nice, Princess-“

“I said shut up.” You mutter, turning to open your car door. “Go get in your car so we can actually do our jobs.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean’s still grinning at you, his eyes widening as they finally flick to the Lexus. “Holy shit, you drive this?”

“Yeah.” You shrug, dropping into your seat and pointing across the lot to his car. “Go.”

Dean raises his hands in surrender. “Bossy.”

You glare at him. “Winchester-“

He gives you one last wink you feel deep in your core, closes your door, and walks away without another word. But—right after he climbs into the driver seat—he pulls out your badge, holds it up to the window, and mouths Follow me, or this is mine.

You roll your eyes, flip him off, and watch him laugh as he pulls out of the lot. And you could leave. Badges are easy to make, you’re not emotional attached to Agent Smith, and this is your last chance to keep yourself away from John Winchester. To listen to your every instinct, to your dad’s stern voice in your head, and run. It would be so fucking easy to run. To turn around and never look back, never allow yourself to indulge Dean Winchester further than one conversation.

But you don’t want to run. You want to follow this odd pull to him, follow him to the motel, follow him wherever else he seems to be going. Which is fucking insane, because you don’t know him, he doesn’t know you, and he’s almost certainly better off without you. Most people are. Hell, you’d be better off without you, if you could figure out how to do that.

And you know all that. But you still don’t want to run.

So you follow Dean out of the parking lot, through the winding backstreets of the town, and to a backwater motel. You park your car right next to his, close your eyes to take a long, steadying breath, and try to rationalize to yourself how this could possibly end up not blowing up in your face. You’ll keep a hold on yourself. John won’t know who you are, or what you are, or who you know, or what you know, or-

“Shit!” You jump as something raps on your window, and hear a loud laugh from outside your car.

You’ll get through this. You always do.

“You yelped.” Dean tells you as you climb out of the car, a wide, teasing grin on his face. “Real tough of you, Princess-“

“Suck my dick, Winchester.” You glare at him, and his grin only grows wider. “And stop calling me princess.”

“Nah,” Dean places his hand on your back, steering you towards the motel. “Suits you too well.”

“I don’t know what that means-“

“You don’t have to.” He smirks at you, and it does something impossible good to your brain. Makes it calm. A little fuzzy, a little smooth, but so fucking calm. “C’mon, I texted Dad that I found you, he and Sammy’ll be in our room.”

Dean Winchester is dangerous. You should be scratching and clawing and fighting like a feral animal to go, to get back in your car and as far away from here—from John Winchester—as possible. But he says I found you with a proud grin and puff of his chest like he’s bragging, and all that your stupid body knows how to do is lean slightly into his chest and follow him wherever he takes you. Somewhere dark, or somewhere horrible, or somewhere gray or somewhere safe.

Or just a shabby, paint-peeling motel room, where John Winchester and a shaggy haired kid are sitting around a table, looking at you—standing awkwardly in the doorway, watching them wearily, your back straight but arms crossed in defense—like you’re the strangest thing they’ve ever seen.

“This is, um,” Dean glances at you as he says your full name, and you realize he’s more tense than he’d been before. Standing a little taller, his eyes a little more guarded, his expression impossibly neutral. “She’s the hunter I mentioned.” Dean says your name again, pointing to the table as he continues. “That’s my dad, John, and my brother, Sammy.”

“Hi.” The kid—he’s taller than you, and barely younger, but there’s something about him that still says kid—offers you a small smile. “Do you, uh, do you hunt alone?”

“Yeah,” you give Sam a smile back, trying to force your tone to be casual, your body to relax, and your eyes not to wander to where John is tall in his seat, just watching you. “He tell you that?”

You jerk your head at Dean, who frowns. “So what if I did-“

“So, you’re being a real dramatic bitch about that. You’re not my dad, Winchester, let’s calm down.” You give him a small grin, and feel something odd and bright inflate in your chest when his mouth tugs up for the first time since you’ve walked into the room.

Dean looks like he’s going to say something back, but John clears his throat, and something curls and rots in your stomach at how quickly Dean goes rigid, how fast his mouth snaps shut.

“You got a father, girl?”

You look at John, and he looks even more tired up close, in the dim light of the motel. More threatening as well, watching you like you’re prey, or a parasite, or a disease. Like you’re going to go feral and destroy everything in the room. It would sting less if he wasn’t right. If his attention wasn’t making your skin crawl and the White in you start to twist and pound to escape your body, the darkness rushing out as everything becomes big again. If you weren’t digging your nails into your palm to stop yourself from proving him right, and if you weren’t raising your chin in a weak attempt to be a little taller than you are.

“I do.” You hold his gaze, and wonder if he can see the darkness. If he already knows what you are, and is trying to work out how to kill you. “We’re really close, actually.”

“He know you hunt?”

“He does.” You shrug. “He’s fine with it.”

That’s a lie. Your dad hates that you hunt. You’re certain the only reason he doesn’t lock you in his panic room to keep you away from the monsters and ghosts is because he knows you’d escape, and he’d never see you again. But John doesn’t know that, and you’re a fantastic liar, so if he doesn’t believe you it’s not because you don’t sell the words, it’s because he just doesn’t trust you. Because whatever you say, he’s going to keep looking at you like he can see right into your horrible center.

John’s face twitches, and as he leans slightly forward, you’re not sure Dean’s breathing at your side. “Your old man a hunter too?”

You nod, realize this is getting a little away from you, and start to run your thumb over your palm as John narrows his eyes.

“What’s his name?”

You use your real father’s name—your biological father, who you’ll never see again if you can help it—and it stings on your tongue. You hate that you have to say it. You hate that you have to repeat it, adding your real last name, but it works. John grunts, and looks away.

“Dean.”

“Yes, sir?”

“How old is she?”

“I, uh-“ Dean looks at you with wide eyes. “How old are you?”

You raise your brows. “How old do you think I am?”

“Twenty…” Dean scratches his head slightly, looking a little afraid. It would be adorable if this wasn’t such an oddly volatile situation. “Twenty-teen?”

“Twenty-teen?”

“I dunno, I mean you gotta be old than Sammy, and you sound like you’re old, but-“

“I sound like I’m old?”

“Just cause of the words you use! You look like you can’t be old than me, but I don’t know-“

“Jesus Christ, dude.” You take pity on Dean—who looks like he’s about to have a panic attack—and pat his shoulder as you speak. “I’m eighteen. And,” you look back to John, cooling your voice and narrowing your eyes. “I can speak for myself.”

John doesn’t waver. You can’t really imagine a world where he would. “I don’t doubt that, girl. But I ain’t lookin’ for help on this case, and you’re barely votin’ age-“

“I’m aware of my age.” You interrupt, crossing your arms over your chest. “But I’ve also been hunting, alone, since I was fifteen, and this,” you gesture through the air, holding John’s cold gaze. “Is my type of case. So you need my help.”

John scoffs. “It’s a ghost, sweetheart, me and my boys will be fine without you-“

“She says it’s not a ghost.” Dean mumbles, paling as John’s gaze shoots to him. “It’s, uh, a moroi?”

You hum in agreement, offering Dean a small grin that John doesn’t seem to miss.

Sam raises his hand at the table, his expression open and curious. “What’s a moroi?”

“Romanian vampire baby.” Dean says, shooting Sam the first real, full grin you’ve seen on his face since you entered the motel room. “They never got a chance to learn who Mr. Clean is, which is why there’s been so much freakin’ blood everywhere. Right?”

Dean looks at you with a hopeful, bright expression, and it makes the White glow and sing as you nod.

“It’s a ghost.” John grunts, and when you look back to the table, he’s glaring at you. “We got freezin’ temperatures, EMF, and no break ins-“

“Because they’re death monsters. And they can shape-shift, into a guy, or a bug, or a cat.” You shrug. “Wouldn’t be that hard to get into a house.”

John scowls. “And you’d bet all our lives on this-“

“Yes.” You say, the words simple. You’re good at your fucking job, and there’s no doubt in your mind. “It is a moroi. I’ve hunted them before.”

“You have?” Sam’s eyes widen, his tone filled with something that might be admiration. “That’s so-“

John cuts Sam off with a raised hand, his attention never wavering from you. “Well,” he drawls your name, and it’s mocking and cruel and awful. The opposite of how Dean says it, in a way you hope to never hear again. “If you’re such an expert, how the hell do we kill the asshole.”

“Easy.” You shrug, as if there’s not something wired and painful in your muscles that’s trying to force you to run, run, run, far away from John Winchester and his cold voice. “You stab it in the heart with a nail.”

“With a nail.” John repeats, his voice flat, and you scowl.

“Well, that, or,” you stand a little taller, making your voice cool and bored. “We throw a Romanian funeral for it, and find a living relative to walk around its grave three times with a candle.”

Dean makes a choked sound from off to the side, and when you look, he’s staring at you like you’d fallen from space again. John doesn’t look half as awestruck. He mostly looks pissed.

“This ain’t the time for jokes-“

“That’s not a joke.” You snap. “There are multiple ways to kill something, and that’s one of the ways you can deal with a moroi. It’s that, the nail, or burning resin on a Tuesday, then a Saturday.”

John laughs, no amusement or joy in the sound. “You might think your smart, kid, but how about I see a plan. Stabbin’ something in the heart ain’t gonna be easy, and hell, girl, you said they shape shift. How the fuck are you thinkin’ we find them-“

“There will be blood in its nails and eyes.” You hold your ground, but your palm grows red as you break skin. “And there is a pattern to the tarbets, we’ve just all been looking in the wrong place.”

“A pattern?” Sam’s eyes are still wide, his voice a little eager. “But none of the vics have been the same age, gender, ethnicity, occupation-“

“Have they all been parents? Lived near graveyards?”

All three Winchesters gape at you for a second, and Dean looks at John with wide eyes.

“Shit, Dad, she’s right.” He mutters, running a hand over his face. “The one we looked at yesterday, the house had one of those baby gates-“

“And we’ve driven past a graveyard every time.” Sam adds, looking between you and John with a nervous expression. “So, uh, it could be-“

“I know what it could be, Sam.” John grunts, his glare fully focused on Dean. “You willing to bet on her, son?”

Dean looks at you, and he shouldn’t be—you’re a stranger, you’re a liar, you’re a monster that’s attracted to him like a magnet—but he nods. He stares at you like he doesn’t really understand what’s going on either, like he’s looking for a reason to not trust you and side with his father, but can’t find one. And—right before he looks back to his father—you see a flash in his eyes that makes you think he feels it. That whatever the fuck is happening to you, it’s happening to Dean too, and he’s just as helpless as you are to fight it.

“I am, sir.” He says, hands flexing at his side. “Sammy and I can do door duty, figure out who’s next on this things hit list-“

Sam frowns. “I don’t wanna do door duty-“

“Blame Dean,” John shrugs, giving Dean a curt nod. “Take my car and be back in two hours-“

You raise your hand, and John cuts himself off with a glower.

“What.”

“They don’t need to do door duty,” you say, your fingers running over your palm. “The moroi will only target parents of infants, so you can look for baby seats in cars. And it’ll all be near same cemetery. Five miles radius.” You catch Dean raising his brows at you, and shrug. “They don’t like to stray far from home.”

“And by home,” Sam jumps in, words slow as he connects the dots. “You’re talking about their grave.”

“Or their coffin.” You offer him a close-lipped smile. “But yeah. It’s already dusk, our best bet would be splitting up and patrolling a few streets until we see the thing. It’ll probably be in its regular form, at least until it spots a house.”

Dean frowns at you. “What’s that gonna look like?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Hairy. Bloody and hairy. It’ll be gross, you’ll see it.”

“And how,” John grunts. “Are you thinkin’ we split up.”

“We’ve got two cars.” You shrug. “Three if you have a second one-“

“We don’t.” John snaps. “And I took a fuckin’ taxi back here, ain’t no way I’m not driving my car, or lettin’ a little girl go off to hunt this on her own-“

“How honorable,” you mutter under your breath—careful to make sure Dean doesn’t hear you—and raise your voice back to a bored, flat tone. “Then you’ll take your car, and I’ll take one of them,” you nod between Sam and Dean. “So we’re off in pairs.”

“Dad, I could go with her.” Dean takes a small step forward, his tone slightly nervous. “I mean, it would be safer for you to take Sammy. And you know I’d be careful.“

John grunts, jaw ticking, and you can see he’s considering it. That, somehow, you’ve convinced him to go with this, and he hasn’t put a bullet in your brain. There’s a frantic, wired part of you along your skin that’s certain he’s just waiting for an excuse, but for now you’ll take it. You’ll take Dean volunteering to go with you, John not killing you, and everyone winning when you’re right, because you will be. You’re not good for much, but you’re good for this.

“I want you to drive.” John tells Dean, and you’ll allow it. If it keeps Dean near you—as you so confusingly and desperately crave—you’ll let him drive your stupid, fancy car. Fuck, you’ll let him run it into a ditch if he wants, as long as you’re there with him, and what the fuck is happening to you-

Dean says your name, and you blink at him as he continues. “I, uh, if you’re good with it-“

“Sure, I don’t give a fuck.” You toss Dean your keys, and he frowns. “I mean, try not to total it, or do donuts-“

Dean gasps, his face full of mock offense that pulls a smile onto your face. “Do I look like a hooligan to you-“

You raise your brows. “Did you just say hooligan?”

“Yeah,” he grins at you, and nothing else seems that real. “It’s a fun word, don’t bash it-“

“I am not bashing it-“

“Kinda sounds like you’re bashin’ it-“

“Well, it kinda sounds like you’re going to try and do donuts in my car-“

“Princess, I would never-“

“Winchester, I don’t believe you-“

John coughs, loudly, and you and Dean fall silent. That keeps happening. You talk to Dean, and everything fades until you’re just smiling like an idiot and watching him like he’s the sun, and you’re just existing in his orbit. And he does the same thing. Dean’s face is red, and he’s staring at the floor as John glowers at him, but you keep catching his eyes darting to you, a small furrow on his brow that you wish you could ask him about. You wish you could ask him a million things. About his life, about his likes and dislikes, why his whole family hunts and what he thinks of your dad—the one he’d know, the one that’s going to murder you when he finds out what you’re doing right now—and if he can feel this too. He must. It’s like a drug, and it’s flashing and loud in the White, and making the darkness blur into something you think would be better. Into something you wouldn’t hate, molding with something that feels foreign but right, strange but just as powerful and certain as gravity. Something secret, that you think you should be fighting but can’t bring yourself to raise a weapon against.

Something bigger than you. Bigger than him. Bigger than the White inside your chest and the darkness that’s pushed down, down, down as you force yourself to stay in place, and not either grab Dean’s face and scream—shout at him in a begging question of do you feel this, or am I going fucking insane—or run. Flee as John Winchester gives you one last look like he’s imaging your blood on the floor, and you climb into the passenger’s seat of the Lexus.

But you manage to keep it together, and you’ll have to settle for this. For talking to Dean as you patrol up and down a darkened suburban street with white-picket fences, your knees up on the dash and your fingers growing bloody as you pick at them to keep the darkness down.

“So, uh,” Dean taps his hands on the wheel, staring out at the road. “Hunting.“

You blink at him, raising your brows. “What?”

“I just, mean how’d you end up doing it? You’re young-“

“You’re literally only three years old than me-“

“But I got Dad and Sammy.” He scowls. “You’re alone.”

“Yeah, we’ve establish that.” You cross your arms, curling slightly into your seat. “I’m really good at my job, Winchester, I’m not that worried.”

Dean chuckles, glancing at your half-pout with an amused expression. “Still Winchester? When am I gonna get the honor of her majesty using my first name?”

You glare at him, and it just makes his grin wider. “Shut up.”

He clicks his tongue. “Bossy.”

And he’s so confusingly adorable and handsome—in the soft, shimmering light of the streetlamps and fog—that you speak without even thinking. “You have to earn first names, Deano.”

He freezes for a second, and his grin becomes his whole face. Wide and charming, sweeping you off your feet and knocking the breath from your lungs without even touching you.

“So,” he drawls, still smirking like an idiot. “Nicknames you’ll pass out like party favors, but I need to work to just be Dean.”

“Seems that way, doesn’t it?”

“Well, can I at least shoot down Deano?”

“Maybe,” you hum. “On what grounds?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs, eyes flashing in the low light. “It kinda makes me sound like a birthday clown?”

You giggle. A small, soft giggle that he pulls out of you with barely any effort, that you want to hate but can’t figure out how to. “Maybe you are a clown-“

“Birthday clown.” He corrects, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Don’t drop the birthday part, that means I’ve got a job. And I can’t be a clown, Sammy’ll never speak to me again.” Dean glances at you, his voice dropping slightly. “He freakin’ hates clowns. Might shoot me before I explain that a pretty lady turned me into one against my will.”

You raise your brows, trying to push down the flush on your face from pretty lady. How he’d said the words like they were teasing, but still so serious, and looked at you with a small smirk when they had his intended effect. You can barely remember how to clear your throat and use words, let alone tease and spar with him when the White is blinding in your body.

“Unfortunately,” you manage to speak, nudging his shoulder with your own. “All sales are final. You’re Deano now.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but his grin doesn’t falter for a second. “Until I earn Dean, though, right?”

“If you earn Dean.”

He hums, shooting you another, oddly heated glance. “And what do I need to do for that?”

You only shrug, running your fingers over your palm to sooth the darkness. It’s starting to eat over your nerves and heart, trying reach out and touch Dean in a way you can’t allow, in a way that will end whatever this is before it begins. Dean only gives you a strange look, his smile still wide on his face.

“Well,” Dean says your whole name, over-pronouncing each syllable. “Am I allowed to return the favor?”

“What favor.”

“Callin’ you a nickname.” He winks at you, and it settles—warm and soft and strong—in your core. “It’s only fair.”

You shake your head. “No. I don’t even have a nickname.”

“Bet I could fix that.”

“Would be a losing bet. I wouldn’t take it.”

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

And just like that, you’ve lost. You’d seen it coming, too. It was too easy a solution for him to have, to easy a path to allow him to take, too easy to let the small part of you—that had wanted to hear him call you Princess again, because it soothed something that was always feral inside of you and blurred the darkness into the White until nothing hurt inside you—allow Dean to coax you where he’d clearly wanted you, and follow with a smile on your face. But all of this was too easy. Talking to Dean was too easy, because the conversation seems to flow and ebb without effort, and you’re almost always in danger of saying too much. He seems to know how to—without any obvious intention—get you to tell him anything he asks, leaving you biting your tongue to keep down bits of the truth that could prove deadly. But he doesn’t push you to speak—which is perfect and terrifying all within itself—and when you fall into silence it’s easy too. It’s easy to control the darkness, calmed only by your thumb and long breathes, and easy to keep everything small. Just you and Dean in the soft silence of the car, just you and Dean in the whole world.

“My mom died.” Dean says suddenly, frowning out the window. “It’s why I’m hunting. And,” he adds, his voice growing a little firmer, a little more defensive. “It’s why my dad’s so careful. I know he can be tough, but we’ve only got each other, and he’s just tryin’ to-“

“I get it.” You whisper, something deep in your chest aching for him. For this pretty, impossible man who might be bigger than the whole word, and how his brow is knit in a confusing kind of hollow pain as he defends his father. Goes to arms for him without prompting, like it’s a reflex. And you really do get it, but even if you didn’t, you somehow care too much about him to force him to rage and spit fire in John’s defense. It looks like it might rip him apart, and you never really want to see him go. So you just offer him a gentle, full lipped but toothless smile, and place your hand on his arm. “And that really fucking sucks.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, and doesn’t try to move his arm away. “It does really fucking suck. Thanks.”

“My dad’s wife died.” You offer, as if that would somehow make this better, and Dean gives you an odd look.

“Dad’s wife? Not your mom?”

You swallow. You did it again. You slipped when you’re usually so fucking careful. “It’s complicated.”

“Ah.” Dean has a little furrow between his brow that you’d like to run your thumb over, but he drops it. “Are you, you gonna tell me why you hunt? If it’s not your Dad’s wife?”

You sigh, a feral instinct of survive shoving the truth just a little further down. “That’s complicated too. I mean it’s not,” you glance up at him, his eyes fixed onto the road. “It’s not like yours. I didn’t lose anyone.”

“Is it a family thing? Like, your dad brought you in?” Dean’s every word is careful, like he’s afraid he might spook you. But that’s another thing that’s too easy. Staying next to Dean and not bristling or fleeing is far too fucking easy.

“No,” you say, watching the light and shadows shift over his face in a strange, perfect dance. “He tries to stop me from doing it all the time. Shit, he called me last night and asked me to come home.”

Dean frowns. “You-“

“Dean!” You cut him off with a hand over his mouth, and he slams the breaks with a screech. You can see his staring at you from the corner of your eye, but you barely spare him a glance, your eyes locked over his shoulder, out the window, at a shifting figure in the dark. “Look.”

He turns his head, prying your hand from his mouth as he glares out the window. “I don’t-“

“There,” you hiss, leaning a little further forward. “See the-“

“That might just be a shadow,” Dean mutters, his voice dropping to a whisper as he scans over the dark. “Or a fox-“

You turn your head, giving him a flat look. “Do foxes look like babies covered in blood?”

“No.” He grins at you. “But I’ve seen weirder shit, Princess.”

You’re suddenly aware of how close you are. How you’d leaned over the console and started to practically hang off of Dean’s body, how your faces are barely a breath apart and you can see every deep color and fleck of gold in his eyes. He really only gets prettier, and he’s so warm, and there’s molten silver in your chest trying to tangle into him. He smells like fresh grass and spice, his eyes are dilating—but maybe just from the dark—and everything seems to be slowing down as the silver looks for other places to leak out. Places that wouldn’t hurt anyone, like the mist of the night that seems to glow and the wind that seems to bend and creak the trees in your direction, and the golden streetlamps-

Dean’s eyes shoot to the road as the lights start to flicker, his body tensing against yours. “Shit. We should, uh-“

You nod, push yourself away, and try to pretend your body doesn’t grieve the loss of his touch.

John and Sam are taking too long to arrive. You’re tense and bouncing on the sidewalk as you wait, turning a sharp nail between your fingers, and Dean keeps a hand around your wrist as he frowns down the street. You think he can sense that, if he looks away for only a second, you’ll dart into the house and deal with this yourself. You could. This nail has killed three moroi before, and you’d been completely alone then.

“Winchester.”

Dean looks at you with a frown, and you tug your arm slightly.

“Let me go.”

“No,” he grunts, his grip tightening. “Dad said to wait.”

“He’s not my dad-“

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean mutters, his gaze moving back to the empty, dark fog. “We’re waiting.”

You scowl. “Fine. Can you let go-“

“No.”

“I swear to god, Dean Winchester-“

“If I let you go,” he snaps, his glare shooting back to you. “You’re going to run in there. So no.”

You narrow your eyes. “You don’t know me-“

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Look me in the eyes,” he drawls your name, holding your gaze. “And say you won’t run.”

It should be an easy lie, but it gets caught in your throat and you can only gape at him. Dean raises his brows as you continue to stare, and the White inside you starts to thrash as you clear your throat, forcing the words out.

“I’d handle it.”

He scoffs. “There is no way you’re gonna be able to handle it alone-“

“So, come with me,” You hiss, leaning forward until your face is only an inch from his. “And I won’t be alone.”

You don’t know why it breaks him. But something flashes in his eyes, he groans—running his free hand over his face and giving you a look of disbelief—and he caves.

And from there it’s mostly a blur. It’s always a blur. The darkness inside of you latches onto something primal, and it’s all only a blur.

Usually it’s all but a blackout. Like something overtakes you and you become just as monstrous as what you’re hunting, your brain only holding onto what you’ll need in order to survive next time, and a sticky smell of blood to haunt your sleep. But Dean’s here now, and things come into focus. Time is still a rush, and you’re still moving on pure instinct, but you remember Dean’s body being pressed to yours as you crept through the suburban house. You remember to set look on his face as you swept the rooms, figuring out what the moroi could be, where it might be hiding. You remember seeing it first, and the sound of flesh tearing as it launched at Dean—over you—and you swatted it with your arm like a baseball.

You remember Dean shouting your name as you raced forward with the nail in your hand, and how it sounded like his chest was being ripped open. You remember finding that small patch of soft flesh on the moroi’s chest, driving the nail home, and tasting bile when it vomited blood up into your face.

You remember Dean passing you his shirt on the curb a few blocks down, because the very ungrateful almost-victims threatened to call the cops, and you were covered in blood. He’d faced away as your changed—zipping up his own jacket and humming while he waited—and you could’ve sworn he was blushing when he turned back around.

Then John Winchester had arrived—looking at Dean like he’d just sprouted a second, hideous head and you like he was imaging how amazing you’d look in a casket—and everything grew sharp as they drove away.

More of it comes together as you drive yourself back to the motel. Dean had dumped the body in the gutter, and you had given him your motel address. John had snapped at you to meet them tomorrow for a debrief, and told Dean that they’d talk back at the room. Sam had smiled at you, and it was a nice smile. There hadn’t seemed to be anything beneath it—just a kind smile for the woman sitting on the curb next to his shirtless brother, her hair matted in blood and fingers covered in monster hair—and you’d liked that.

When you enter your room, it suddenly feels too small. Nothing is big enough for how strange this is, how you might need all the world and a little more to figure out what the fuck just happened. You miss Dean. You’d met him today, and you miss him more than you’ve missed anything before. You keep looking to the side to see if he’s there, when you know he won’t be. The White is bucking and keening inside of you, the darkness falling out of your body—you can feel the pain of the water as it becomes steam in the shower, and you’re almost knocked to your knees by the ache of the phone to be closer to the lamp—and you need to find out if he could meld them together again. If it had been a fluke, or an accident, or if you were simply losing your fucking mind.

You have to be. You must be going mad. It’s the only explanation for why you take a long shower and change into your own clothing, but you still smell grass and leather and spice. It’s purgatorial. You go through your whole routine—scrubbing all the blood off your body with rough sugar that bites into your skin, running your hands under white-hot water that leaves your skin raw but the darkness pushed down, tending to your hair until it frame your features easily, and you don’t look like a bruised and battered animal—but you still smell him. You toss his shirt off to the side, but he’s clinging to the sheets. You change into sleepwear, but your body can still feel a strong, warm touch. You turn your empty flask in your hands, watching light catch off the steel, and someone’s knocking on your fucking door-

Dean hisses your name through the wood, and you freeze.

“I know you’re in there!” He’s half-shouting, and the whole world feels more colorful, and what is wrong with you. “C’mon, Princess, open the door. It’s me!” He pauses, the knocking faltering. “Uh, Dean Winchester.”

He sounds a little defeated, and you can’t stop the smile on your face as you toss the flask back into your bag, cross the room, and open the door.

Dean gives you an adorable, almost nervous grin and scans over you. Slow and deep and appreciative—taking in your sleep clothes, how your whole body is more relaxed than it had been all day—and his smile grows as his eyes find yours once more.

“You look pretty wearing normal stuff.” He leans a little on the door frame, and it’s so effortlessly and perfectly rouge-cowboy-white-knight-and-knave that he has to have practiced. “Better than that old-lady jacket you hand on before.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s my professional jacket, Winchester. What do you want?”

The words are harsher than you mean them to be, and his grin falters slightly. “I was, uh, I was wondering,” he rubs the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “I got my dad’s car. I was gonna ask if you wanted to go for a drive or something, but you’re obviously ready to turn in, so-“

“Do you want to come in?”

You’re not sure how he’s doing this. Making you speak without thought, making your words reckless when they’re usually so carefully chosen. You have to be careful with your words, because you’ve spent years weaving a web that shows everyone everything, but not from every angle. And he’s fucking unraveling it. Dean just looks at you, and you pull at a thread so he can see whatever he wants, and you can’t understand how the fuck he’s doing it.

It must be on purpose, but he looks just as shocked as you are—gaping at you slightly, his features open and uncertain—and you don’t think it’s an act. Especially not as his voice becomes slightly hoarse, his feet restlessly shifting his weight as he speaks.

“Yeah, if you want, but I’m good to just head out if you-“

“Do you want to head out?”

Dean’s grin becomes bright once more, and the shake of his head sends a spark of lightning through your body.

“So,” you step to the side, offering him a small smile. “Come in.”

He shuffles inside, scanning over your scattered possessions and stopping at the side of the bed.

“I can,” he looks back to you, his eyes a little wide. “I can sit on the floor, or we can go outside-“

You shake your head, moving to his side. “There are bugs outside. Sit on the bed.”

Dean glances at the mattress like the sheets might leap up and strangle him. “Floor looks good-“

“Winchester.” You point at the bed, giving him a stern glare. “Sit.”

“I am not a freakin’ dog-“

You place a hand on his chest and push him—just enough for him to get the message—and he sit on the bed with a wide happy? gesture.

You drop at his side, watching him carefully as you try to work out what is happening. Why he’s here. If he’s looking at you like that—like you’re more than a human, but that’s hypnotizing, and he’d love to find what you actually are—because he can feel this too.

But Dean beats you to it.

“Can I ask you something?”

You tilt your head at him, pulling your knees into your chest. “Can I ask you something?”

“Huh.” Dean hums, the smile creeping back onto his face. “How about we trade? I ask you a question, you gimme an answer, then we switch.”

You give him an amused look. “That’s just a conversation.”

“Nah, because if I ask you something and you answer, now I owe you a question. You can turn down a question, but you’ll still owe an answer.”

You frown. “What happens if you owe an answer?”

He shrugs, flopping onto his back. “Then the other person keeps asking questions.”

Dean looks so real. He’s grinning up at you, light dancing as his eyes as he obviously baits you into whatever he’s trying to do.

And you fall for it. Despite your best judgement, you fall.

“I’m going first.”

He chuckles, but raises his hand for you to shake. “Deal, Princess.”

The moment your hand folds into Dean’s he pulls you down, leaving your smushed slightly against him and his face only inches from yours once more. And your yelp was undignified, and he’s such an asshole—laughing and grinning as you shove his chest—and you’re smiling too.

Because this is easy. And you have a feeling that, if this strange man—who’s too pretty, and that’s making you feel like you’ve never really been alive before this—dragged you right down to hell, you’d still be laughing and smiling at him. And that’s so fucking dangerous. And you know that, but you still can’t stop looking at him, and you can’t roll away. And you decide that, just for tonight, you’re going to indulge this. You’ll dedicate hours when he’s gone to figuring out what the fuck this is. Right now you get to laugh and smile and act like nothing in the world has ever��could ever—hurt you.

“So,” Dean says your name, and it still sounds too good. “You have a question to go first with? Or were you just bein’ bossy-“

“Shut up.” You swing your leg to kick his shin, he laughs, and it’s like music. Making you high and dizzy as you watch him, running your thumb over your palm. “I’ve got it, Winchester. You ready?”

“Born it, sweetheart,” he winks at you, and that’s dizzying too. “Hit me.”

“Why are you here?”

“I told you already, I wanted to talk to you-“

You hum, holding his gaze with a small frown. “Why?”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s two questions-“

“It’s a ride off of the first question-“

“Well, I still gotta ask my first question before you get a second one.” He raises his brows at you, bump your knee with his. “We shook on this, Princess, you don’t get to change it now.”

You glare at him, but you think he knows it’s fake, because his grin becomes almost blinding. “Fine. Go.”

Dean rolls onto his side, holding your gaze as he speaks. “How’d you get that car?”

You frown. “The Lexus?”

He nods, and you sigh.

“I borrowed it.” It’s not a lie, but it’s a half-truth. It’s a half-truth that will keep him here, at your side, for a little longer than you might deserve. “For the hunt.”

“Well, it’s freakin’ awesome.” He grins at you, and your face might burst into flame. “Your move.”

“Why are you really here?”

Dean lets out a dry chuckle. “Will you let it go if I say to talk again?”

“Nope. Answer me.”

“It’s, uh,” he rolls flat on his back once more, running a hand over his face. “Tomorrow’s gonna be Dad telling us about safety and Sammy asking you a bunch of questions.” He shoots you a small, amused grin. “I think he’s been writing them down. He’s into all that geek-shit too-“

“I am not a geek-“

“Yeah, you are.” He shrugs. “Don’t worry, I think it’s adorable. But Sammy thinks you’re the coolest person we’ve ever met. So after Dad finishes, he’ll try to use you like a freakin’ library, and I just figured I’m the one who found you, so I should get a night of you all to myself.”

You gape at him for a second, and you’ve defiantly burst into flames. He wants you all himself, and he thinks you’re adorable, and he doesn’t know you, but he doesn’t seem like the type to say all that just to get in your pants, and if he was, he’d be there already. He’d just have to roll on top of you, but he’s only looking at you like you’re something sacred instead of a disease or trophy.

He must feel this too. He has too. And you want to ask him, but you don’t know how, because you don’t even know what this is. It’s magnetic and infinite and bigger than anything, forging something you don’t know how to name between where the White and darkness live in your body. And Dean might not even have the White and darkness. Nobody else does—that’s something that’s wrong with only you—so if you phrase it like that he’ll think you’re insane-

“My turn.” Dean says, and you’re dragged back down to earth, grounded in his smooth voice. “What’s up with your hand?”

You blink at him. “What?”

“That one.” he reaches over, tapping the back your hand. “You’ve been touching it all day, and I kinda, uh,” he gives you an apologetic look. “I saw the scar. If you wanna pass on this one, I’ll drop it, but-“

“No, it’s,” you take a long breath, because this would be an easy one to refuse to answer, but his fingers are lingering on your knuckles and setting off little sparks over your skin, and you want to tell him. It takes a moment of just staring at him to you find the words, and his eyes never leave yours, and everything about him seems to drug you into a loose-lipped, trusting ease. “I’ve have it since I was really young. There was, um, an incident.”

Dean still doesn’t look away, his voice slightly lower. “Hunting incident, or-“

“No.” You swallow, turning your hand for him to see the long, clean scar on your palm. Running through it in a neat, raised line. “Just an incident.”

He looks like he’s going to say something. Not push, but say something, and you blurt out your next question before he can get the chance. It’s not what you wanted to ask—you hadn’t offered yourself enough time to find the right words for something really fucking weird is happening to me, and I need to know if it’s happening to you too—but it’s dragged out of you in desperation to learn a little more about him. In a plea for him to only know that you’re marred where he can see, and never discover that you’re twisted where he can’t.

“What’s it like?” You watch him carefully, your fingers starting to trace over the scar. “Hunting with your family?”

“It’s fine.” He shrugs. “I mean, Dad’s a freakin’ genius at it, and it’s awesome to watch him work. Plus I get to keep an eye on Sammy like this. Know he’s safe.” He frowns. “I mean, it’s better than sending him off alone. Letting him be in danger.”

You hum, scanning over the wrinkle in his brow, your thumb starts to itch to press on it, sooth his whole face into a relaxed smile. “You guys are close?”

Dean nods eagerly. “Yeah, I mean, He’s a freakin’ loser, but he’s all I got. He’s a weird little geek-“

You laugh. “He’s taller than you are, De. I wouldn’t call that little.”

“He’s little in spirit-“ Dean cuts himself off, and his grin looks almost manic. “Did you just call me De?”

“No.” You hold his gaze, even as your face warms. “Shut up.”

“I heard you, Princess, you can’t lie to me-“

“Well, is that your question?” You grin at him, your body leaning a little further without you moving it, and Dean eyes flash.

“You gonna tell me the truth if it is?”

You nod, and he smirks.

“Then yeah, it was.”

“Okay. I did call you De.” Before he can gloat, you push on. “Why do you call me Princess?”

“I told you already, it suits you-“

You narrow your eyes. “Try again, Winchester. Real answer this time.”

He sighs, shaking his head at the ceiling. “You just,” Dean waves his hand through the air. “You’ve got a thing going. You don’t look like a hunter.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-“

“It means,” He gives you a strange look you can feel flash through your blood, melding the White back into the darkness, turning every simple and bright as he continues. “That if you asked me what I thought you were, I’d have said something fancy.”

You open your mouth, but he’s not done, and he won’t look away from you.

“I dunno, you just seem too pretty to be down here in the mud with us. You should eating caviar and wearing those poofy dresses-“

You snort. “Poofy dresses?”

“Yeah, like in movies, when they dance around like douchebags-“

“So you’re saying I seem like a douchebag-“

“No, I’m saying you should be somewhere that’s not here.” Dean’s attention is washing over you like a rising tide—slow and natural and deep—and you still can’t read that expression on his handsome face. “The mud.”

He’s so close. And if he thinks you’re pretty, he’s a work of art. You’ve never see someone look like him. Like he was created, and not born. Every freckle on his face is more like a star than a flaw, and there a slight crook to his nose that tells you he’s been punched there before, but it only makes you want to run your finger over the bump and see if his pretty eyes flutter or flash. His lips are chapped but they’d still be soft. His hands look rough, but that just means he uses them.

You think it would be nice to let him use you.

“I like it in the mud,” you whisper, daring to inch a little closer, until you’re sharing a breath. “It feels real. And,” you grin at him, everything blurring around you but pretty green eyes and shining silver in your chest. “I’ve got good company down here.”

There it is. The flash in his eyes as they darken slightly, a warm breath fanning over your face, and he looks golden. In the warm light of the lamp, glowing soft on his tan skin, Dean looks like something more than human. You feel like something more than human, and for the first time in your life, that’s not a curse. And he’s still so fucking close, and this is a terrible idea, but you can’t bring yourself to move away.

You should. He’s John Winchester’s son, and you’re not sure how you forgot that. It’s past midnight, and you have a feeling he wasn’t supposed to be here at all, and this is the worst idea you’ve ever had.

But you still can’t move.

“You should, um,” you swallow, and your lips might have brushed over his. “You should get back. It’s late, and your dad-“

“Shit,” Dean mutters, but still doesn’t try to move away. “Yeah.”

Your eyes dart down to his lips—full and pink, just a small movement away from yours—and you decide you don’t care what’s happening to you. This is—Dean is—too good to care. You don’t need to know why this is happening, or what it means, or if you should be trying to run from it. You just need Dean. You think that—if the world ended and time began to move slowly—you might plant roots in the motel floor and grow into Dean until the world flooded and you were both washed away.

“I have one last question,” he mutters, breath ghosting over your lips. “If I leave you my number, will you use it?”

You nod without thinking, he grins, and you’re so fucked. You can’t kiss him. You might fall from a million feet if you kiss him. Down, down, down, clinging to him as you both try to find an end to whatever this is and likely fail to. But Dean sits up slowly—like the movement is painful—and when he helps you to your feet you think you might ascend from just his hand in yours. Touching him feels like it’s making you pure and worthy of something, and you have to know what kissing him will do.

Not on the lips. You still have enough of your willpower and caution to not crash all the way down, at least not right now. But you kiss his cheek, and that’s tragedy enough. It snaps something into place inside you, soft stubble and warm skin too much for your entire existence to handle. It’s all too much to handle, and if he hadn’t mumbled a low promise of seeing you tomorrow and left when he did, you would’ve jumped on him to chase whatever this feeling is. How it’s the only thing you’ve ever felt that might belong inside you, and the only easy thing that the darkness has ever bended for.

And when you sleep, that’s easy too. It’s dreamless and deep, no nightmares, no waking up in a cold sweat, no darkness wrapping around you and leaving the sheets only ash when you wake up.

But when you do wake up, something is wrong. You feel it first, gnawing at your nails and blood. And when you roll over to check the time, your phone is gone.

It had been on the bedside table, a scrap of paper with Dean’s number under it, and it’s gone.

The paper is gone too.

You shoot out of bed, and Dean’s shirt is still in the corner, because he’d told you to give it to him in the morning, to trade it for your Agent Smith badge. But your phone is gone.Your window is open—cool breeze rushing through the room—and your phone is fucking gone.

You’d been smart to pack the night before. You’d been smart to keep your keys in your jacket, and park right outside your room. You can shove everything in the passenger’s seat and screech out of the motel lot in a second. You don’t know why, but you’re heading to Dean first. Something is wrong, and you don’t know what, but the White is trying to strangle your heart and the darkness is already eating up your spine and over your skull.

John Winchester’s sleek, black muscle car—Dean told you it was an Impala, and he’d said it with a pride in his voice that had dragged a smile onto your face—isn’t parked in the lot. And when you knock on the door nobody answers. All the lights in the room are off, there’s no shadows moving through the window, and the door is locked.

You move to the front desk and ask if the men in that room had checked out. And when the clerk gives you a weary look and says that they’d paid for another two nights, but dropped the keys off that morning, your gut twists.

They were gone. Dean was gone. And something fragile and new shattered inside you, leaving small pieces lodged through your whole body. You stumble back to your car, the darkness moving out of your body and the whole world too fucking big, and you don’t know what’s wrong with you. You’d known him a day. He’d known you a day. Nothing was owed, but you can still feel it. How the White seems to be howling from the loss of him, and the darkness can’t stop growing as it sinks in.

He left. You don’t know why, but Dean left. He’d probably taken your phone, taken his number, and just fucking left you. Maybe he’d seen you last night, really seen you, and realized what you were. Maybe he’d just been playing you the whole time for some sort of scam. Maybe you hadn’t kissed him, and he’d decided you weren’t worth the chase. And that would mean you had been going crazy, and he hadn’t felt anything at all.

The thought lets the darkness move over you, and you can feel everything everywhere. The electricity in the wires over your head, the wear of painted lines in the parking lot, the hope of the grass peeking through the concrete under your feet.

The grass that smells like Dean.

It breaks through you before you can stop it. Reaching past your body and down into the pavement, cracking it open with all the force of how much this hurts. How it shouldn’t hurt, it doesn’t make any sense that it hurts, but you’re still breaking and bowing and bending to the way you feel like you’ve been fucking shot. You fall down to the curb, curling into yourself as the ground shakes under your feet, and the wind picks up until—in the forest across the parking lot—a branch falls to the ground.

Then a second one.

You manage to bring your hand to your mouth, to bite down hard and force all the darkness back into your body, and you still don’t know what to do.

This hurts so much, and you’re alone in the middle of nowhere, and Dean’s gone.

You still have your burner phone. Your dad makes you keep it in your jacket, just in case something happens, and it only has his number. You dial him with shaking hands, the darkness still trying to climb back out of you, take a deep breath as you raise it to your ear.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” He says your name, his voice already edged with worry. “I didn’t think I’d be hearin’ from you until after that blood hunt thing-“

“Hunt’s over.” You mumble, staring at the cracked pavement. “Got it last night.”

“Was it a vamp like I told ya’-“

“Moroi.”

“I’d call that vamp enough. Good work, kiddo, Rufus owes us a dinner-“

“Bobby?”

Your voice is soft, and he hears it. Bobby always hears it.

“What happened,” he says your name, and you can hear the frown in his voice. It makes everything worse, because you can’t tell him. Not now, maybe not ever if you can avoid it. You can’t handle how he’ll help you fix this and let you rest, then spend a week lecturing you and telling you everything you already know. Because you really do know. You fucked up, and you know that.

But Bobby doesn’t have to.

“Nothing, I just-“ you swallow, your nails digging into your calf. “Can I come home?”

There’s a long moment of static through the phone, and when Bobby speaks again his voice is low. “You can always come home,” he says your name, and you choke on the clean air around you. “But you get a week of mopin’ before we’re grabbin’ that dinner from Rufus. Alright?”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “I’ll be there by tomorrow.”

“Should be two days, if you drive carefully like you’re supposed to.” Bobby grunts. “And ditch that fancy car you’ve been usin’, I don’t need the cops askin’ questions about it.”

You feel a smile tug at your lips. “You never let me have anything nice, Bobby-“

“You never let me have goddamn peace, kid.” Bobby snaps, and your smile grows. “Your bed will be ready for you. And I better not see that bells and whistles hunk of shit in my yard-“

“Aye, aye captain. No fancy cars.” You make a mock salute he can’t see, and Bobby huffs.

“Stolen fancy cars.” He grumbles. “Stop bein’ a smartass and get on the road.”

When the call ends, your smile feels real. The strange, fractured feeling in the White is still there, and the darkness might be trying to fly out of you, but you’re better than before. You’ll go home, Bobby will never know what happened, and none of this will last. You’ll be fine. Dean Winchester might haunt you like a phantom or cancer for the rest of your fucking life—or at least until you figure out what he did to you, and how to fix it—but you’ll get through this.

You always do.

—————————

Dean’s grip was tight on Her phone. It was just a fucking block of metal—it would be useless when they tossed it off a bridge in a few miles—but he couldn’t let go of it. It felt wrong to let go of it.

He’d be letting go of Her.

He hadn’t wanted to take it, but Dad said he needed to—Don’t want to let an angry woman have a line to you, son. Especially not a crazy one—and Dad knew what he was talking about, so Dean had done it. He’d snuck back into Her room through the window, grabbed Her phone and the paper with his number, and felt like the lowest piece of trash in the goddamn garbage can. The maggot-ridden chunk of food that nobody had wanted, but was still figuring out a way to fuck everything else up in twisted retribution.

Because there was guilt eating at Dean’s stomach. He shouldn’t have taken Her phone, not when She wasn’t that much older than Sammy. Not when She’d said her dad would be waiting for her to call, and Dean might have stolen Her only line to safety just because-

Because She’d been using him. And he’d been falling for it. She’d given him that smile like he’d fallen out of the sun and into Her hands, She’d crafted some sort of perfect mask that had felt so real—felt like this strange, mouthy, clever woman had just appeared to him, and he could’ve had something nice for once in his goddamn life—and moved Dean like a fucking pawn.

Dad had been waiting for him when he got back, and whatever weird spell She’d put Dean under—making him feel a little drunk on nothing, making him act like a fucking idiot—had been ripped away under his glare.

But Dean hadn’t gotten yelled at. He’d just been sat down—Dad’s gaze filled with disappointment that Dean’s bones didn’t know how to handle—and had papers pushed across the table in his direction.

“What are these?” He’d asked, and Dad had sighed, because Dean was too much of an idiot to just know, and Dad knew it.

“Read them.” Dad had grumbled, watching Dean through narrowed eyes. “And tell me if you want to see that girl again.”

He’d frowned but scanned over the papers. Printed out website pages about… Her. Her family. How She was missing, how She’d stolen from them, and how they were rich. Normal, alive, and rich, looking for Her and whatever she’d taken. Warning that She was crazy, a chronic liar, and should be turned over to the police if seen. There was no picture, but there was a description that matched Her perfectly, right down to a scar on her palm.

“Dad.” He’d looked up with wide eyes, something strange bucking around inside of him, insisting that this was a lie. Dean didn’t know Her—they’d had three conversations for fuck’s sake—but this didn’t seem like Her. None of this seemed like the clever, beautiful, almost ethereal woman he’d been lying on the bed with. Dean didn’t know howor why, but this couldn’t be the truth. “I don’t-“

“She’s just usin’ you, Dean.” Dad had muttered, his eyes softening just enough for Dean to know he was sorry. He might not really like Her, but he was trying to protect Dean. He always was. “Chasing a high that her daddy can’t give her, lookin’ for a way to pull somethin’ on us. Probably huntin’ just for some sort of fucked up thrill. This,” Dad tapped the papers, his face twisting in disgust. “Isn’t someone who deserves our time, and I don’t know what her game is, but I ain’t just gonna let my boy fall for it.”

Something in Dean had still been fighting. Insisting that Dad was wrong, he had to be wrong, because Dean might not really know Her but he’d throw his life down at her feet. He’d plummet to the bottom of the ocean to follow Her down, if She called him with that siren-like voice and asked him to.

And that was how he knew Dad was right. Dean had no idea who She really was, and he’d already been ready to become a sword for her to wield. So he’d nodded, asked Dad what to do, and fallen back into the line She’d forced him out of. And it wouldn’t matter that Dean had been an idiot and almost fallen for Her—Her tricks, or just Her—because Dad had saved him. He’d protected him. And it didn’t matter.

Now, as they drove—Dad’s grip tight on the wheel, Sammy sleeping in the backseat—Dean repeated it over and over. That hadn’t mattered. It had been a mistake that Dad caught, so no harm, and it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that She’d looked at Dean like she could see him, or that Her voice sounded like an angel in a dream. It didn’t matter that Her lips had felt right on his cheek, and that his annoying brain kept trying to move the ghost of Her touch to his own mouth. It didn’t matter that he could still smell the sugar and fruit that had invaded his every sense when She’d been pressed against him. It didn’t matter that She’d fit perfectly at his side, like she was just another part of him he hadn’t known he was missing. It didn’t matter that something felt like it had been ignited in Dean’s chest. Golden and light and washing him over with a sense of calm he’d never known, making him feel like—if he had been stupid enough to fall further—the worst that could happen was She didn’t fall with him. And even that would be worth the way this feeling was like lightning over his bones, making him strong and fucking alive.

But it didn’t matter. He’d fallen for a pretty, spoiled little bitch—his heart almost withered at that idea, still being a freaking dumbass and trying to justify why She’d done this—and he’d never even see Her again, so it didn’t matter.

And it defiantly didn’t fucking matter that he’d taken Her flask, because he was fucking pathetic. Because he’d been sneaking around her room, and the flash of silver had caught his eyes, and he’d stolen it like some sort of street urchin. He’d burn it, just to rid himself of the way She was becoming plague-like on his mind. It wasn’t like she needed a flask, anyway. She didn’t even drink.

But that might have just been another strange lie. So Dean would burn it. He wouldn’t tell Dad or Sammy that he’d taken it—they didn’t really need to know how weak and useless Dean really was—so he’d burn it and everyone would forget this had ever happened. He’d burn it, and never think of Her again.

Dean felt like he was being ripped in half for reasons he couldn’t even start to understand, but it had been nothing, and it didn’t matter.

Dean dreamt of Her when he finally drifted off. And his heart kept trying to beat him back down—back to Her—but he held strong. He could dream of Her and not go back. He’d never see Her again, and dreams weren’t real.

None of that had been real, and Dean could dream of Her.

So he would.

End Note: I know we’re off to a rough start, and we’ve got a long road ahead of us, but just remember this. What’s about to come could’ve been entirely avoided if John Winchester wasn’t the actual worst.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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thecomplicatedlynx · 1 day ago

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Chasing Shadows, Catching Fire

Summary: What starts as a playful encounter and an impromptu escape evolves into a deeper and more passionate connection, but will it last beyond the night? Warning: 18+ (mature themes, slow burn tension, and intimate situations)

The music inside the club was loud enough to make conversation nearly impossible, which suited me fine. Bursts of light swept across the crowd, illuminating familiar faces here and there; celebrities, influencers, people I recognized but didn’t care to know.

After months of stepping out of the industry and the spotlight, my publicist had made it clear: go out and look radiant. Just long enough to be seen. A career comeback, they called it. I called it exhausting. One more move in the game, all for the price of ‘fame.’

I stayed at the bar, cradling a glass of something I couldn’t name, letting the ice melt in my drink while I traced its rim with my fingertips. My gaze wandered lazily, skipping over the crowd until it stopped—entirely by accident—on him. Jude.

He was leaned back against the bar a few feet away, casually nursing a drink and looking far too relaxed for someone as famous as he was. His presence drew attention in a way that felt entirely unforced. Easy confidence and a smile that could sell out a stadium.

Finally, he caught my gaze, a subtle smile playing on his lips.

I pretended not to care, fixing my attention on the drink in my hand. But the pretence didn’t last. My eyes betrayed me, glancing back at him only to meet his unrelenting stare once again. And for a moment, we just looked at each other, the surrounding noise fading into the distance.

Then, as if finally snapping back to reality, he slowly made his way to the bar. I quickly looked away. What now?

“Not enjoying the party?” He said, sliding casually into the space beside me.

“What gave it away?” I turned to him, catching a glimpse of his face, a face that had been everywhere recently. And I knew him in the same way I assumed he knew me, by reputation alone.

“The way you’re sitting,” he leaned closer toward me. “Like you’re waiting for someone to rescue you. Or maybe for the night to end.”

“Maybe both,” I replied, playing with the edge of my glass. “Why, are you volunteering?”

“Depends,” he said, the hint of a challenge in his tone. “Are you the type to accept help from strangers?”

“And you’re the type who usually offers it?” I shot back, raising my glass to take a small sip.

“Not always,” he smiled, tapping his glass against the counter. “But tonight feels like an exception.”

The bar no longer felt like a refuge, just another place where I could pretend to be lost in the crowd with him sitting next to me.

“So, do you come here often?” he asked after a beat.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Is that your best line?”

“It wasn’t a line. It was genuine curiosity. You don’t seem like the…” He paused, as if searching for the right words before continuing, “regular type.”

“And what’s the regular type?”

“Loud. Flashy. Trying too hard,” he said, listing them off.

“Maybe I’m just good at hiding it.”

“Maybe,” his eyes held mine a moment longer.

The bartender finally slid his drink across the counter, and he picked it up. “Well, enjoy your night,” he said, taking a step back.

“You too,” I replied, watching him as he slipped away into the crowd.

I turned back to my drink, trying to shake off the interaction. For a moment, I thought that was it. But when I glanced up again, he was looking at me from across the room.

I held his gaze just a bit longer, no words. And when I finally broke away, I couldn’t stop the feeling of intrigue that had crept in.

Taking a breath, I told myself I’d given the night enough effort. Maybe it had been a mistake to come. But hadn’t it always been this way? Events like these never felt like my scene, no matter how much I tried to blend in. I didn’t bother saying goodbye to anyone, they wouldn’t notice anyway.

I caught Jude’s glance one last time before I left. He was still standing across the room, the curve of his mouth framed by a small smile, as though he’d just heard something amusing. For a moment, I thought he might look my way again, but he didn’t. Or perhaps he did, and I missed it. Either way, I didn’t stop.

He was a stranger, and this wasn’t a movie. Whatever that was, just like the night itself.

The cold winter night air hit me immediately as I stepped outside, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the club. It was quieter out here, though the faint beat of the music still vibrated through the closed doors behind me.

“Leaving already?” The voice was familiar.

I turned, Jude was standing a few steps away, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I replied.

He smiled, stepping closer but keeping a respectful distance. “I saw you heading out alone. Thought I’d make sure you were alright.”

I studied him for a moment, unsure whether to be charmed or suspicious. “Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

I hadn’t even taken a full breath when I heard the familiar click of cameras, followed by voices shouting both my name and his. It only took a second for me to realize we were already surrounded.

Without a word, Jude started walking toward me, cutting through the chaos as if he didn’t care about the cameras and the mob of paparazzi.

“What are you doing?” I asked, half-laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“What does it look like? Escaping the circus.”

I followed his glance to the group of photographers snapping pictures, their lenses focused solely on us now.

“We can’t get out of here without them chasing us down,” I muttered, my frustration growing.

“Well, there’s a solution for that,” he said, stepping closer.

Without a second thought, he pulled off his coat and draped it over my shoulders.

I blinked, surprised by the sudden move. “What?”

“Just trust me.” He reached for my hand and led me through the thickening crowd. There wasn’t time to argue, not with the flashes of cameras blinding me, not with those people closing in.

I just followed his lead, feeling the warmth of his coat wrap around me like a shield. Jude glanced over his shoulder and waved down a cab. A black car screeched to a halt in front of us, and he opened the door, ushering me in quickly. “After you.”

I hesitated for a split second, was this really happening? But there was no time to think. I slid into the back seat, and Jude followed, his eyes scanning the street before he closed the door behind him.

The cab door slammed shut behind us, drowning out the roar of the paparazzi outside. Jude adjusted his coat on my shoulders as we sat back, the tension of the scene we’d just escaped slowly starting to ease.

“Well,” he said, “if this doesn’t land us on every gossip site tomorrow, I’ll be shocked.”

I gave him a look, pulling the coat tighter around me. “Shocked? You practically handed them the story on a silver platter.”

“Me?” he said, mockingly offended, a hand over his chest. “I’m not the one who looked like a goddess walking out of that club.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, please. You were practically glowing under those flashing lights. What’s your skincare routine? Pure arrogance and charm?”

He laughed—a warm, rich sound that made the small space of the cab feel brighter. “Though I was going to say it’s mostly down to genetics.”

“Lucky you,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Meanwhile, I’ll have to endure headlines like ‘Mysterious Actress Leaves Club with Football Star—New Romance?’”

“Romance? That’s tame,” he replied. “They’ll probably have us secretly engaged by morning.”

“Oh, great,” I deadpanned. “Should we start planning the wedding now, or wait for the tabloids to do it for us?”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “I say we let them handle it. Less work for us.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation finally catching up to me.

“You’ve clearly done this before,” I said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Maybe,” he admitted with a shrug. “Though I usually don’t end up in a cab with a stranger afterward.”

“Stranger?” I echoed, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know, I’m very familiar with your work, Mr. Football Star. I even know how many goals you scored last season.”

“Oh, yeah?” he challenged, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Go on, then. Impress me.”

I hesitated, biting my lip to keep from laughing. “...A lot?”

He burst out laughing. “A lot? That’s your answer?”

I joined in his laughter, the sound filling the cab as the tension between us melted away. “I never claimed to be a pundit,” I said. “Besides, do you know how many movies I’ve been in?”

His smirk widened. “Nope. But I’d guess... a lot?”

I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “Alright, you got me.”

As the cab slowed at a red light, he glanced out the window before turning back to me. “You get used to the cameras, I guess, but they’ve been relentless lately.”

“Big headline?” I asked, though I already had an idea.

“Something like that. They’ve been camping outside my hotel all week.”

I tilted my head, curiosity getting the better of me. “What did you do to earn their attention?”

He hesitated for a moment. “Nothing, really. They’re bored, so they make things up. A transfer rumour here, a secret supermodel girlfriend there... You know how it goes.”

The cab hit a small bump, and I glanced out the window, noticing we were getting closer to my place.

“I guess you’ll have to sneak into your hotel tonight,” I said.

He let out a soft laugh. “If I even make it there. They’re probably waiting in the lobby with cameras ready.”

I turned to him, an idea forming before I could stop it. “You could—”

No. Don’t be too forward.

But before I could find a graceful way to offer, he raised an eyebrow at me, amused by my hesitation. “You were about to say something.”

I sighed, cursing the way my cheeks warmed under his gaze. “I was just going to suggest... You know, you don’t have to go back there. You could—” I hesitated again, suddenly unsure.

His expression softened, and he leaned just slightly closer. “Are you offering to rescue me from my own headlines?”

I rolled my eyes, “I’m just saying... It’s more like a temporary solution. They’ll still be hunting for you, but at least you’ll be somewhere... quiet.”

His brows lifted. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” I said by the time the cab pulled up to the building of my apartment. “You could come up. It’s better than giving them something else to chase.”

“Alright, then. Lead the way.” He said, opening the cab door for me.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and I stepped into the hallway, his coat still draped over my arm. He followed a few steps behind. By the time we reached my apartment door, my heart was racing from the simple fact that I’d invited him here. My fingers hesitated over the key for a split second before I unlocked the door. When the door finally swung open, I stepped inside. Jude followed, his presence filling the space.

He stood just inside the door, hands tucked into his pockets, his eyes scanning the space before settling back on me.

“Nice place,” he said casually, his voice low, like he didn’t want to break the moment.

I smiled, brushing my hair back as I moved toward the kitchen. “Want a drink? Or are you still too shaken by the great escape?”

Jude chuckled softly, following me into the kitchen. “I think I’ll survive.”

I poured two glasses of wine, handing him one as he leaned against the counter. For a moment, we simply stood there, the silence between us thick with unspoken thoughts.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” I said, swirling the wine in his glass.

“Just taking it in,” Jude replied. “You don’t seem like someone who lets people in easily.”

I didn’t respond immediately, unsure if I even wanted to. Instead, I leaned back against the counter, trying to create even the slightest bit of space to clear my head.

“And you don’t seem like someone who usually does this,” I said softly.

“This?” He set the glass down on the counter, his full attention on me now. “What exactly is ‘this’?”

“You tell me.” I set my glass down and turned toward him.

He stepped closer, so close now that the faint scent of his cologne wrapped around me. His hand brushed mine and I swore I felt the electricity of it all the way up my arm.

“This,” he said quietly, “feels like something neither of us planned.”

I caught my breath, my heart racing as I looked up at him, finally seeing his sparkling brown eyes clearly.

“But you, you knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you?” he said, his hand finally reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair from my face.

“What?” I shot back, though my voice faltered as his other hand slid lower, resting on my hips.

“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” he whispered in my ear, his thumb brushing over my cheek, the gentlest of touches, but it felt like fire against my skin.

His eyes dropped to my lips for the briefest moment, and they met mine again. He was confident, leaning closer and closer, as if he already knew I wouldn’t pull away. And he was right.

“Jude...” I started, but his name caught in my throat as his lips curved into the softest, most devastating smile I’d ever seen.

The space between us grew smaller until there was no space left at all.

“Tell me to stop,” a wicked glint in his eyes as he traced my lips with his thumb. “Say the word, and I’ll stop. But if you don’t...”

He didn’t finish the sentence, and he didn’t have to. The choice was mine, and we both knew it.

I didn’t say a word. And then, his lips brushed mine.

Jude kissed me deep and slow. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me closer to the edge of the counter. His coat slipped from my shoulders and fell to the floor in a forgotten heap as his fingers pressed into the fabric of my dress.

He lifted me, setting me onto the edge of the counter. I gasped softly, wrapping my arms around his neck. He kissed my lips again, urgent and possessive, like he wanted to erase every doubt, every boundary.

His lips left mine, trailing down my neck, my shoulder, my chest, leaving the heat that made it hard to focus on anything but him. Each kiss sent a new wave of warmth spiralling through me, my breath hitching with every soft press of his mouth.

Slowly, Jude lowered himself, his hands guiding my legs to part just enough for him to settle between them. My fingers gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white, as I tried to ground myself in the storm he was creating.

His fingers traced the fabric of my dress, pulling it higher. I felt his hesitation, a pause that made my heart stutter, before his eyes flicked up to mine for confirmation. “Can I?”

“Yes,” I pulled him closer, letting the floodgates open. “Please.”

A small smile played at the corners of his lips.

Then I felt his hands moving to the hem of my dress, lifting it inch by inch, until he hooked his fingers into the delicate fabric. My breath caught as he slipped it down.

His lips pressed to the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, and a soft moan escaped me before I could stifle it. I bit my lip, heat spreading through me like wildfire, every nerve heightened to an almost unbearable degree.

How did he know exactly what to do? The way his lips and hands worked together was maddeningly perfect, almost too much. My breathing quickened, and my head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as I surrendered to the moment.

How is he so good at this? I wondered, a mixture of disbelief and pure, unfiltered pleasure flooding my senses. It was like he was tuned into every unspoken desire, every hidden weakness, and he was exploiting them with a precision that left me breathless. The taste of him, his touch—it was intoxicating.

When Jude finally looked up, his lips curved into a satisfied smile that set another thrill racing through me. I cupped his face in my hands, made him rise, overcome by the need to kiss him again.

“You’re perfect.” His voice was a soft whisper against my lips.

His hands moved down my hips with a hunger that matched my own. Then, without breaking the kiss, his hands tightened around me. I let out a soft gasp as he lifted me effortlessly, holding me against him. I wrapped my legs around him instinctively as he carried me toward the couch.

He sat down, settling me onto his lap. I straddled him, my knees sinking into the soft cushions. Jude’s lips never left mine for long, his kisses deep and demanding.

He pulled away to whisper in my ear, “I wanted you the moment our eyes met. Every second since then, I’ve wanted you.”

His lips found mine again, the taste of him more addictive than anything I’d ever known.

I pulled him closer, if that was even possible. I breathed, my hands sliding up to his curly hair, tugging him into another kiss, as if I were trying to show him how much I craved him, how much this, he, meant to me.

“Damn, I’ve never wanted anyone like this.” his voice low and desperate. “You’re mine,” he growled, his voice full of that delicious possessiveness.

His words, his touch, it was everything I needed. Every part of me screamed for him, for the way he made me feel. I was already lost to him, to the way his touch made me feel alive, like I was burning with something I couldn’t name.

“I’m yours, Jude,” I whispered against his lips. “All of me. I want this... want you... in every way.”

His breath came faster. His hands traced the curves of my body. His fingers found the zipper at the back of my dress, hovering there for a moment. He pulled the zipper down slowly. His fingertips grazed my back as he pushed the straps of my dress off my shoulders. Then, his hands slid to my hips, guiding me to stand.

He tugged the straps of my dress. The fabric slipped down, pooling at my feet, leaving me standing in nothing but the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the windows.

Jude tilted his head back just a little. “You’re so beautiful,” his eyes traveling over me. “How is someone like you even real?”

My cheeks warmed under his gaze. “You’re staring.”

“Can you blame me?” his voice soft as he reached for my hand, guiding me back onto his lap.

His hands roamed over my body, gently caressing my skin as though he were afraid to break the spell we were in. And I let him. Let him take his time, take everything he wanted.

I reached for the buttons on his shirt, undoing them one by one, but before I could finish, he caught my hands, bringing them to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to each of my knuckles.

“Let me.” He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, as though he was gauging my every reaction.

“You know what drove me mad tonight?” he asked, his voice dropping into a seductive murmur.

I raised an eyebrow, barely able to form a coherent thought.

“The way you pretended you weren’t looking at me, like you didn’t notice the way every man in that room was ready to fall at your feet. But you...” He paused, leaning closer, his shirt now hanging open. “You only looked at me, didn’t you?”

I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.

“Don’t lie,” he whispered, his voice teasing as his fingers brushed over my jaw, tilting my face up to meet his. “I saw it. Every glance, every time your eyes rested on me just a little too long. You wanted me as much as I wanted you.”

“And if I did?” I admitted, my eyes locked on his.

His smile widened, his lips brushing against mine. “Then I’d say we’re about to make tonight unforgettable.”

Why does that sound so damn good coming from him?

His shirt slipped from his shoulders, landing somewhere on the floor, and my hands wandered, exploring the planes of his chest, his shoulders, the curve of his back.

“Still with me?” he asked, his voice softer now, his eyes searching mine.

“Yes,” I whispered, my hands sliding to the back of his neck, urging him closer.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m just getting started.”

Jude’s hands were everywhere, touching me as if he couldn’t get enough. And I couldn’t pull away. His lips were everywhere too, soft and fiery, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

I could feel the cool air against my skin, but it only made the heat between us more intense. Then, with a slow movement, I stood, guiding him toward the bedroom.

He pushed me gently onto the bed, the soft sheets cool against my back. His body followed, and before I could even react, he was leaning over me.

“Are you sure?” His voice was low and rough with desire, but his words were laced with tenderness.

“I’ve never been this sure of anything before,” I assured him. “But I know, I want this. I want you.” I gasped, cupping his face, brushing my thumbs over the stubble along his jaw.

He smiled, pulling back for a second, removing the last piece of clothing between us.

His lips found mine again, and this time, there was no hesitation, no holding back, but urgent, hungry, like we had both been waiting for this moment to break through all the walls we’d built around ourselves.

“I want to make you feel good.” His hands were on me, pulling me closer, like he was trying to merge us into one single entity, and I let him. I wanted it.

The next moments blurred together as our bodies pressed close beneath the sheets. Words stopped and replaced by soft sighs and murmured names. His name was a breathless whisper on my lips as I urged him closer. And then, with every kiss, every touch, every moan between us, we lost ourselves in the night. Time seemed to lose meaning as the night unfolded, the only thing that mattered being the two of us, lost in the moment.

The world outside no longer mattered. All that existed was the way our bodies intertwined, the way we moved together in sync, as if this was always meant to happen. The room was dark, the only light coming from the soft glow of the lamp on the nightstand, shadows dancing along the walls as we moved together, a push and pull of our bodies that left us breathless and yearning for more until we collapsed in each other’s arms.

The world slowly came back into clarity as Jude and I lay tangled together in the soft sheets. The city lights filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows on the walls, giving the room a dreamy, intimate glow. Our clothes were still scattered on the floor.

His arm still wrapped around me, holding me close. His fingertips brushed against my back, drawing circles—soft and slow, as though he were grounding me, reminding me that I was safe here, in his arms. I nestled closer to him, my head resting on his chest, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing soothing the whirlwind in my mind. Then I rested my head against his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat.

I looked up at him, my heart beating a little faster. He smiled.

Jude’s hand stroked my head gently. His lips brushed the top of my head.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he whispered. “I never thought I could feel this... consumed by someone.”

And in that moment, I understood. I felt it too. Every part of me, every inch of my being, was consumed by him.

“It was perfect,” I placed a gentle kiss on his chest, my hand resting over his heart. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”

He kissed my forehead, then my lips, soft and slow.

“I don’t think I’ll ever let you go,” he murmured against my lips. “You’re everything I’ve been waiting for.” His words came slowly, carefully, like he was trying to capture every ounce of feeling, every second of this moment.

I smiled against his lips, my fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. “I’m so glad we found our way to each other.” I whispered back, my heart swelling with the certainty of it all. And as I kissed him again, all I could think was that he was everything. And I never wanted to be anywhere else but here, with him.

After a long stretch of comfortable silence, I shifted in his arms, looking up at him. “You were right, though. The headlines will be wild tomorrow.”

Jude chuckled softly, his fingers threading through my hair. “We’ll deal with that when it comes. Right now, I’m just happy I’m here with you.”

How can someone be so calm and sure of himself after everything? I thought, smiling softly as I kissed his chest again.

“Me too,” I whispered. “Me too.”

I closed my eyes, feeling his warmth surround me. Jude’s lips pressed another soft kiss to the top of my head, and I smiled, feeling more at home than I ever had before.

This was where I was meant to be. In his arms. With him.

And for the first time in a long time, I knew that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

#jude bellingham #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham one shot #jude bellingham blurb #jude bellingham fluff #jude bellingham smut #football imagine #footballer imagine #slow burn #slow burn romance

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bisexual2homo · 1 day ago

Photo

Sexy Jeans Dropping Slowly

#jean dropping #slow gay sex #slow burn #gay foreplay #gay seduction #gay romance #gay spiritual

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enemiestolovershoe · 8 hours ago

Note

can you write one were reader is matts sister and Noahs best friend and the band always tease the shit out of them when their glued together? thank you:)

Subtle’s Overrated

Noah Sebastian x bsf!dierkes!reader

Summary: Y/N and Noah’s friendship sparks teasing and undeniable chemistry on tour, but when feelings finally surface, nothing—especially their bandmates—can keep them apart.

Words: 4k

Warnings: Teasing, Friends to Lovers, Use of Alcohol, Mention of smoking weed, I din't proofread it so maybe there's gonna be mistakes. lmk if i forgot something.

Disclaimer: While the characters in this story are inspired by real people, the events and interactions are purely fictional and not reflective of reality.

The airport was buzzing with early morning activity, travelers pulling their luggage through the terminal, announcements echoing overhead. You were leaning against one of the sleek chrome pillars, your carry-on by your feet, scrolling through your phone to pass the time.

Noah was right beside you, as usual. He had his arms crossed, a hoodie tugged over his messy hair, and he was squinting at the boarding pass in his hand like it was written in hieroglyphics.

"I swear they make these things harder to read every year," he muttered, flipping it over like the back might offer some hidden insight.

"It’s not a riddle, Noah," you said with a laugh, reaching out to snatch it from him. "Gate 22. Terminal C. You’ve been doing this for years, and you still act like it’s your first time at an airport."

"Not all of us are travel pros like you, princess," he shot back, smirking as he leaned casually into your space.

Before you could reply, a loud wolf whistle interrupted the moment.

"Ah, look at ‘em! Joined at the hip, as always!" Nick Folio’s voice carried across the terminal as he walked over, balancing a precariously large coffee in one hand and a bag of snacks in the other. "Should we just start planning the wedding now?"

"Shut up, Folio," you groaned, rolling your eyes, though the warmth creeping up your neck betrayed your nonchalance.

"Yeah, shut up, Folio," Noah parroted, tossing a crumpled napkin at him. "Jealousy’s a bad look on you."

Nick feigned hurt, clutching his chest. "Jealous? Me? Never. I just think you two make a cute couple."

"Do you ever let up?" Jolly chimed in as he approached, his bag slung over one shoulder. "I mean, they’ve been attached at the hip since day one, and nothing’s happened yet. Maybe they’re just... eternal besties."

"Or they’re both in denial," Matt teased, appearing out of nowhere and clapping Noah on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Classic slow burn."

"Right, because you’re such an expert on relationships," you shot back, raising an eyebrow at your older brother.

"Hey," Matt replied, grinning. "Just calling it like I see it. And as your big brother, it’s my job to keep the guy glued to your side in line."

"Yeah, yeah," you muttered, shaking your head as the rest of the group laughed.

"Big brother or not, you’re still a pain," Noah quipped, though there was no malice in his tone.

"As if you’re one to talk," Matt retorted, pointing at him. "If I had a dollar for every time you’ve mooched off her snacks, I’d be retired by now."

The group chuckled, and even you couldn’t help but crack a smile. This was the usual routine, and as much as you liked to complain about it, it was comforting in a way.

As the teasing died down, Nicholas Ruffilo joined the circle, pulling out his phone. "So," he began, "who’s gonna be the one to lose their luggage this time?"

"My money’s on Noah," Jolly said without hesitation.

"Why me?" Noah protested, looking genuinely offended.

"You lost your passport twice last year," Jolly replied flatly.

"That’s different!"

"How?"

"Uh, it just is," Noah said, his argument faltering as you snorted.

"I’ll help you keep track of your stuff this time," you offered, patting his shoulder mockingly.

"You’re a saint," he said, putting a hand over his heart. "An angel sent to save me from myself."

"Don’t encourage him," Matt groaned, shaking his head.

The overhead speakers crackled to life, announcing the boarding process for your flight. Matt immediately took charge, ushering everyone toward the gate.

"Alright, lovebirds, let’s move it," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"We’re not—"

"Save it," Nick interrupted, throwing an arm around your shoulders as the group started walking. "We all know it’s just a matter of time."

You exchanged a glance with Noah, who shrugged with a small, amused smile. It was the same old joke, but this time, there was a flicker of something in his eyes that you couldn’t quite place.

As you reached the gate, Noah fell into step beside you, close enough that your arms brushed. "You ever feel like they know something we don’t?" he asked quietly, just for you to hear.

"All the time," you admitted, your voice just as soft.

The moment hung in the air for a beat too long before Matt’s voice broke it. "Hurry up, or we’re leaving you behind!"

With a shared smirk, you and Noah picked up the pace, falling into step with the rest of the band.

The plane was relatively quiet as everyone settled into their usual spots. You slid into the window seat with a satisfied sigh, propping your backpack under the seat in front of you. Noah dropped into the middle seat beside you, and Folio followed, plopping down with a dramatic groan.

“Man, who made planes so cramped?” Folio grumbled, stretching his legs as far as they could go without hitting the seat in front of him.

“Quit complaining, Folio,” Matt called from his aisle seat, shooting him a look over Ruffilo’s head. “You know it’s worse on the tour bus.”

“True, but at least I don’t get stuck in the middle of these two on the bus.” Folio gestured to you and Noah. “You’re like magnets, always leaning into each other.”

“Jealous you’re not in the middle?” Noah quipped, earning a snort from Jolly.

“Nah, man. I just don’t want to be collateral damage when this whole slow-burn romance finally combusts,” Folio said, winking at you.

You groaned and shoved his arm lightly. “You guys really need new material.”

“Maybe we’ll stop when you two finally admit it,” Jolly chimed in, earning a chorus of agreement from the others.

Noah just smirked, leaning back in his seat. “Keep dreaming, guys.”

As the plane took off and the initial excitement of the flight settled down, everyone fell into their own routines. Matt pulled out his laptop, muttering something about emails, while Ruffilo popped in his earbuds and started sketching on his tablet. Folio tapped away on his phone, and Jolly was already half-asleep, head tilted against the window.

You glanced at Noah, who was scrolling aimlessly through his phone. “What are you looking at?” you asked softly.

“Nothing interesting,” he said, tilting the screen toward you briefly before locking it. “You thinking of sleeping?”

“Maybe,” you replied with a yawn, leaning your head back. “Flights always make me sleepy.”

“You always knock out within the first hour,” he teased, grinning.

“Can’t help it,” you murmured, already feeling the pull of sleep. Without thinking, you shifted slightly, leaning your headagainst Noah’s shoulder. It wasn’t the first time, and judging by the way he didn’t even flinch, it wasn’t a big deal to him, either.

Time passed, and you drifted off, your breathing evening out as the noise of the plane faded into the background.

It wasn’t long before the teasing began.

“Look at him,” Jolly whispered from across the aisle, his voice low but just loud enough for Noah to hear. “He looks like he’s holding his breath.”

“I think he’s afraid to move,” Ruffilo added, smirking. “Wouldn’t want to wake her, huh?”

“I’m not afraid to move,” Noah said defensively, though he kept his voice quiet so as not to wake you. “I just don’t want her to wake up cranky.”

“Oh, sure,” Matt interjected, leaning forward to get a better look. “That’s a real heroic excuse. But let’s be honest, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Noah shot him a look. “You’re her brother. Shouldn’t you be discouraging this kind of teasing?”

“Should I?” Matt said, feigning deep thought. “Nah, this is too much fun.”

“Careful, Noah,” Folio added, nudging him. “You keep letting her nap on you, and the next thing you know, you’ll be the designated human pillow.”

“Already am,” Noah muttered, but there was no real annoyance in his tone.

The ribbing continued for a bit longer before everyone settled back into their respective distractions. Noah shifted slightly, trying to keep his arm from going numb under your weight. Despite the teasing, he couldn’t help but smile faintly at how peaceful you looked.

As the captain announced the descent, Noah gently nudged your shoulder. “Hey, we’re landing soon. Time to wake up.”

You stirred, blinking sleepily and taking a moment to realize where you were. “Oh, sorry,” you mumbled, sitting up and rubbing your eyes.

“Don’t apologize,” Noah said, his voice soft. “You looked like you needed it.”

From across the aisle, Jolly piped up, “Did you get any drool on him this time?”

“Jolly!” you exclaimed, your cheeks flushing as the rest of the band burst out laughing.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Jolly said, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

Noah just smirked, grabbing your carry-on from under the seat. “Ignore them. They’re just mad they don’t have someone to nap on.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled as everyone prepared to disembark.

The airport was bustling with activity as you and the band made your way outside, your bags in tow. In the bus parking lot, your familiar tour bus stood waiting. Its sleek exterior and logo had become a second home over the years.

As you approached, Folio let out a dramatic sigh. “Ah, the tour bus. Where dreams of legroom come to die.”

You climbed aboard with Noah right behind you. As expected, you both took the booths across from each other—the same ones you’d claimed on every tour since your first. He threw his backpack onto the seat before flopping down, stretching his long legs.

“Surprise, surprise,” Matt said as he followed behind. “You two gravitate toward each other like it’s magnetic.”

“Yeah, we get it, Matt,” you replied, rolling your eyes but smiling. “Maybe we just like consistency.”

“Consistency, huh?” Jolly drawled, sliding into a booth further back. “Sure it’s not because you two can’t go five minutes without making googly eyes at each other?”

Noah shot him a look. “You’re projecting, man.”

“Yeah, totally projecting,” you chimed in, grinning.

“Call it what you want,” Matt teased as he threw his bag into the seat beside him, “but it’s only a matter of time before we’re writing ‘Mr. and Mrs.’ on the bus windows.”

Ruffilo smirked. “Or printing it on the next batch of merch.”

“You guys are insufferable,” you muttered, trying to suppress your laughter.

The drive to the venue was filled with similar banter, the kind that made the long hours on the road bearable. When the bus finally pulled into the lot behind the venue, everyone piled out, stretching and groaning after the ride.

Inside, the band got straight to work setting up for soundcheck. You wandered into the sound booth where Matt was stationed, helping coordinate with the crew.

“You’re still gonna be my unpaid assistant this tour, right?” he asked, grinning as you leaned against the console.

“Of course,” you said with mock enthusiasm. “Living the dream.”

As the band began their soundcheck, you couldn’t help but watch Noah. He was in his element, mic in hand, his voice effortlessly commanding the space. The way he moved, the focus in his expression—it was mesmerizing.

“Subtle,” Matt said dryly, breaking your trance.

“Huh?” You turned to him, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks.

“Your staring,” he teased. “You’re not exactly sneaky about it.”

“I’m just watching the sound levels,” you lied, feigning nonchalance.

Matt chuckled. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

The band wrapped up soundcheck, and everyone took a break before the show. Back in the green room, the teasing resumed as everyone grabbed snacks and drinks.

“Are we gonna have to peel you two apart again tonight?” Jolly asked, smirking as he sipped his water.

“Not unless you want to lose a limb,” Noah shot back, earning a laugh from Folio.

“Relax, man,” Folio said. “We’re just pointing out the obvious. You two are like those couples in rom-coms—everyone knows what’s coming except you.”

“We’re not a couple,” you said, exasperated. “Can we change the subject?”

“No,” Ruffilo replied immediately, earning a high-five from Jolly.

As showtime approached, you found yourself backstage, the energy in the venue electrifying. The band took the stage, and you couldn’t help but sing along and dance to every song, caught up in the moment.

From where you stood, you could see Noah glancing your way more than once, a small smile tugging at his lips when he caught your eye.

When the show ended, the crowd’s cheers still echoing in your ears, you were more than hyped. The moment Noah stepped offstage, sweaty and flushed from the performance, you ran to him, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug.

“Y/N,” he laughed, his voice still rough from singing. “I’m literally soaked in sweat.”

“I don’t care,” you said, grinning as you held on tighter.

“Aww,” Jolly cooed from behind you. “A post-show love fest.”

“Jealous?” Noah shot back, his arms briefly tightening around you before he pulled away, though his smile lingered.

Before you could respond, Matt approached, crossing his arms as he looked at the two of you. “Still hugging, huh?”

“Don’t start,” you warned, though your tone lacked any real bite.

“I’ll start if I want to,” Matt said, smirking. “But I’ve got a better idea. Drinks to celebrate the first show?”

Noah glanced at you, his brow quirking. “What do you think?”

“Sounds perfect,” you replied, still buzzing with excitement.

“Great,” Matt said, clapping his hands. “Let’s pack up and get out of here.”

The bar was dimly lit, buzzing with music and chatter as you and the band made your way to the VIP section. The staff had cordoned off a cozy corner for you, complete with plush leather couches and a low table littered with menus and coasters.

Matt was quick to take charge, ordering the first round of drinks. He came back carrying a tray with an assortment of glasses, grinning like he’d just won a prize.

“To the first show of the tour!” he declared, raising his glass.

“To surviving another tour without killing each other,” Jolly added dryly, earning a laugh from the group as everyone clinked glasses.

The night unfolded in a haze of laughter, stories, and an ever-growing pile of empty glasses. It wasn’t long before Folio and Matt were deep into their cups, leaning heavily into their drunken states.

Folio slumped back into the couch, a lazy grin on his face. “Damn, I’m so drunk,” he mumbled to himself, chuckling. “Shouldn’t have smoked that joint during the show.”

You and Noah, seated next to each other on the crowded couch, exchanged amused glances and laughed quietly at Folio’s confession.

“What’s so funny?” Folio slurred, his glassy eyes focusing on the two of you. Then he paused, squinting as if his vision had just betrayed him. “Wait a minute… are you… sitting on his lap?”

Your cheeks immediately flushed as you realized he was right. The couches were too crowded, and at some point, you’d perched yourself on Noah’s lap to make room. It had felt casual—comfortable even—but now, under Folio’s scrutiny, it was anything but.

“Uh, yeah,” you said, trying to play it cool. “There’s no room.”

“No room,” Folio repeated, his grin widening. “Sure, let’s call it that.”

“Here we go,” Noah muttered under his breath, his arm resting lightly around your waist to keep you steady.

Folio leaned forward, as much as his inebriated state allowed, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You’re awfully cozy for two people who are ‘just friends.’”

“It’s practical,” you countered, though your voice lacked conviction.

“Practical,” Matt chimed in, sliding onto the couch beside Jolly with his drink in hand. His face was flushed, his grin even wider than usual. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

“Oh, come on,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands.

“No, no, let’s explore this,” Matt said, clearly delighted. “You’re telling me, out of all the space in this VIP section, the only place you could sit is on Noah’s lap?”

“Exactly,” Noah said with a straight face, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “It’s basic physics.”

“Physics,” Matt repeated, laughing. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

“Better than whatever logic you’re using to justify that shirt,” Noah shot back, gesturing at Matt’s garishly patterned button-up.

“Deflection,” Folio sang, pointing at Noah like he’d cracked some great mystery. “Classic deflection.”

“You two are unbelievable,” you said, shaking your head, though you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Unbelievable? No, no, no,” Matt said, his voice full of mock indignation. “What’s unbelievable is that you’ve been in each other’s pockets for years, and you’re still pretending nothing’s going on.”

Folio nodded vigorously, almost spilling his drink. “They’re like… like one of those slow-cooking stews. Taking forever, but you know it’s gonna be good when it’s done.”

Noah groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright, I think it’s time to get these two to bed.”

You nodded, standing up and grabbing Folio’s arm. “Come on, big guy. Let’s go.”

“I’m fine!” Folio protested, though he made no effort to resist as you and Noah guided him out of the booth.

“You’re fine, huh?” Noah said, steadying him when he stumbled. “Tell that to your liver.”

Behind you, Jolly and Ruffilo waved lazily from the booth. “We’ll hang out a bit longer,” Ruffilo called. “Good luck with those two.”

The walk back to the bus was anything but quiet.

“You two looked real comfortable back there,” Matt teased, slurring slightly but still sharp enough to make you groan.

“It’s not like that,” you said for what felt like the hundredth time, focusing on getting him up the bus steps.

“Sure, sure,” Folio chimed in, leaning heavily on Noah. “Bet you’re just gonna sit on his lap the whole tour, huh?”

“Folio, shut up,” Noah said, though his tone was more amused than annoyed.

Once you got them into their bunks—after much coaxing and a few more poorly aimed jokes—you and Noah retreated to the living room section at the back of the bus. It was quiet now, the gentle hum of the bus’s engine filling the space.

You sank onto the couch, exhaling a long breath. “Well, that was… something.”

“Every tour starts like this,” Noah said, sitting across from you. He leaned back, stretching his arms along the top of the couch. “It’s like a rite of passage.”

You laughed softly, running a hand through your hair. “I’m surprised they didn’t start singing wedding bells on the way back.”

“Oh, give them time,” he replied with a smirk.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. A comfortable silence settled between you, and when you glanced up, you caught Noah watching you, his head tilted slightly, a faint smirk on his lips.

“What?” you asked, your brow furrowing.

“Nothing,” he said, though the look in his eyes suggested otherwise.

“Come on,” you pressed, leaning forward slightly. “What’s that look for?”

He shrugged, his smirk deepening. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“You,” he said simply, his voice low but teasing.

Noah’s smirk didn’t waver, his gaze steady and warm as he leaned slightly closer. The faint hum of the bus seemed louder in the quiet.

“What about me?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper, curiosity and nervousness mingling in your tone.

He hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his words carefully, and then his lips curved into a gentle smile. “You’re really beautiful, you know that?”

Your breath caught for a second, and you blinked at him, taken off guard. “What?”

He chuckled, the sound low and almost shy, a stark contrast to his usual confidence. “I’m serious. You are.”

A flush crept up your neck as you tried to find your voice. “Noah…”

“What?” he teased, leaning his elbows on his knees, his body angled toward you. “Can’t I say something nice without you getting all flustered?”

“I’m not flustered,” you shot back, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

“Right,” he said with a knowing smile, his eyes sparkling.

You folded your arms, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Why now? What’s with the sudden compliments?”

He shrugged, his expression softening. “Maybe it’s not sudden. Maybe I’ve always thought it, but I’m just bad at saying it out loud.”

Your heart thudded in your chest at his words. “You think… you think they were right all this time? About us?”

“No,” he said firmly, his voice steady and leaving no room for doubt.

Your stomach dropped a little. “Oh.”

He tilted his head, studying your reaction, and then his lips quirked into a small smile. “I don’t think they were right. I know they were.”

Before you could respond, he leaned in closer, his hand lightly brushing against your knee. The air between you felt charged, the space too small yet not enough.

And then he kissed you.

It started slow, tentative, as if testing the waters. His lips were soft, warm, and they lingered against yours just long enough for your breath to hitch. When you didn’t pull away—when you leaned into him, your hands instinctively finding his shoulders—it deepened.

Noah’s hand slid to your waist, guiding you closer as the kiss grew more passionate. The world outside the bus seemed to disappear, leaving only the quiet hum of the engine and the racing of your heartbeat.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, and he pulled you onto his lap without hesitation. The moment felt electric, the years of teasing, tension, and unspoken words finally snapping into place.

His lips moved against yours with a fervor that sent your mind spinning. You shifted slightly, your knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his hips. His hands rested firmly on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

It was as if nothing else mattered, just the two of you finally crossing an invisible line that had been drawn so long ago.

And then—

“Damn, I’m wayyy too dizzy to sleep in that tiny bunk—” Folio’s voice cut through the haze, slurred but loud enough to make you both freeze.

Your head whipped around, your eyes wide, as Folio stumbled into the living room. He stopped mid-step, his eyes blinking rapidly as they focused on the scene in front of him.

“Oh,” he said, his tone laced with a mix of shock and amusement. “Ohhhhhh.”

You scrambled off Noah’s lap, your cheeks burning hotter than the sun as you tried to compose yourself. Noah, on the other hand, stayed seated, though he ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and bemusement.

“Folio,” you started, your voice a pitch higher than normal. “What are you doing up?”

He pointed vaguely in the direction of the bunks. “Too dizzy. Needed air. Did not expect to walk into… whatever this is.”

“This isn’t… it’s not—” you stammered, flailing for words.

Folio smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “Nah, don’t stop on my account. Just… maybe put a sock on the door next time or something?”

“Go to bed, Folio,” Noah said, his tone exasperated but still holding a hint of a smile.

Folio gave a mock salute before stumbling back toward the bunks, muttering something about how the tour was going tobe very interesting.

As soon as he was out of earshot, you buried your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

Noah chuckled, his hand reaching out to tug gently at your wrist, pulling your hands away. “Well, that wasn’t exactly how I imagined this going.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, though your face was still flaming. “So much for subtle.”

“Subtle’s overrated anyway,” he said, his smirk returning as he pulled you back down beside him.

Taglist: @courta13

A/N: Likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated! Let me know if you'd like me to continue this as a mini-series. Also, my asks are always open—feel free to request anything!

69 notes · View notes

mister0ctopus · 19 hours ago

Text

apart-mental issues part 3

mini series - jeon jungkook (ongoing)

Pairings: Neighbor JK x Reader

Summary: Just your awkward and embarrassing encounters with your next-door neighbor, Jungkook. This story has three parts.

I LIED. put your clothes back on. this story doesn't have 3 parts. I realized it's going to be too long to fit into just one chapter. I'll probably make it into 4 or 5 chapters, idk idk. Hehehe!!!

PART 3 i want to be a stone in my next life i can’t keep up let me in

Ratings: 18+ ONLY! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Warnings: Explicit language, Mature Contents

Au/Genre: Mini Series, Neighbors, Enemies to Lovers, Angst, Smut, Fluff, Slow Burn (?)

Word Count: 2.9K

a/n: inspired by when i moved to my new apartment and my next door neighbor wasnt jungkook :(

🐙 Masterlist / AskMe

apart-mental issues part 1 apart-mental issues part 2 apart-mental issues part 3

🗿i want to be a stone in my next life

“A stone.”

“That’s what you want to be in your next life?” Sean asked again, giving you a look like you’d just said the earth is flat.

“Yeah, this life is so tiring. I just wanna chill in the next one,” you justified, fingers flying over your keyboard as you edited your case study due this Friday.

Your dining table was a mess of open textbooks, half-empty coffee mugs, and sticky notes plastered everywhere.

You had been working on this project for days, spending countless hours in the university library with your classmate and case study partner, Sean.

However, today, with only online classes on your schedule, Sean offered to come over to your apartment to save you the hassle of commuting to the university. It was thoughtful of him, knowing you had a shift later at work.

Your eyes strained from staring at the screen too long, and the sleep deprivation didn’t help.

A knock on the door startled you.

“I hope that’s food because I’m starving,” Sean said without looking up.

“I didn’t order anything, but... let me check,” you muttered, standing up.

You opened the door to find Jungkook standing there, holding two large containers. A kiss on your forehead and his usual smirk greeted you. “Hey, you should take a break.”

Your chest tightened, a wave of warmth and guilt washing over you. You hadn’t seen him in almost a week because of your packed schedule. You missed him so much. You couldn’t wait for this case study to be over so you could breathe again.

“Thank you, baby,” you said, smiling as you widened the door. But before he could step inside, his eyes flicked over your shoulder, landing on Sean, hunched over his laptop at the dining table.

“Oh, that’s Sean” you added quickly. “Remember? My partner for the case study.”

“Yeah, you mentioned him before” Jungkook nodded, his expression unreadable.

Then you noticed something. “Wait, why aren’t you at work? You should be at work right now.”

He gave you a soft smile, scrunching his nose and sniffing the way he always did when he tried to downplay his feelings. “It’s our company’s anniversary. We got the day off? You haven’t been reading my texts, have you?”

Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t—again. You haven’t been the best at reading and replying to his messages. You didn’t mean to. Not intentionally. It was just you’d been so focused on your case study. Your phone, where even was your phone—

“Baby?” Jungkook’s voice pulled you from your thoughts.

“Oh, yeah... I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’ve just been so busy, and I forgot to check…”

“S’okay,” he cut you off, his voice calm and gentle, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know you’re busy.” He shifted slightly, adjusting the containers in his hands before holding them out to you. “I just dropped off some food, but I’m heading out now. I’m meeting the guys and Tae’s family for lunch.”

“Oh! Why? What’s the occasion?” you asked, blinking in confusion.

Jungkook gave you tight smile, his eyes lingered on the floor. “It’s Tae’s birthday.”

Oh, right. Now you remember. He told you last week. He even asked you to choose a color for the hat he bought as a gift. You chose brown over black. You groaned, shutting your eyes as the realization hit.

“I’m so sorry!” You rubbed your temples in frustration with yourself.

“Hey it’s ok” he said, giving your shoulder a light squeeze.

Your thoughts raced, mentally kicking yourself. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. Thank you for the food.” You leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

“See you tonight after work?” He asked softly.

“Yeah, see you tonight!” you replied with a giggle. “Tell Tae happy birthday. I’m sorry for my fault,” you added, your tone light as you referenced an inside joke he’d shared with you.

He nodded and chuckled softly but didn’t respond, holding your door so you could get back inside while holding the containers.

You turned back inside, placing the containers on the counter as Sean looked up, wide-eyed. “Holy shit, that’s a lot! Who’s that from?”

“Oh, my… next door neighbor,” you said absentmindedly, guilt gnawing at your chest.

“Sweet,” Sean mumbled, obviously distracted and unaware of his surroundings, already back to typing.

Grabbing your phone from under a pile of papers, you unlocked it to find a string of unread messages from Jungkook.

nextdoor<3: [7:15 AM] good morning my beautiful baby 😘 youre just home this morning for online class right? [7:45 AM] baby? still asleep? I don’t want to bother you.. but just reminding you I’m home this morning [8:16 AM] heyyy.. can I come over during your lecture? just want to see you 🥹 [8:32 AM] do you have company? I heard noise.. [9:36 AM] I’m coming over, made you some food.

You stared at the messages, your chest tightening. He’d sent them hours ago. God, hours.

You hadn’t even noticed. It always happened when things got overwhelming, everything else outside the chaos just faded into the background.

You groaned softly, burying your face in your hands.

“You got that chart we made last week?” Sean’s voice pulled you back from your spiraling thoughts.

“Uh… yeah, one sec,” you muttered, rifling through a stack of papers.

Fuck, I can’t keep up.

☠️ i can’t keep up

"YN, can you cover the closing shift?" Your manager’s voice sliced through your foggy mind like a knife. You barely had time to register her words before she continued, practically pleading, "I'm so sorry, Amy and Lia called in sick, and I can’t leave it to the new girl."

"Seems like I don’t have a choice, do I?" You smiled through the pain, already knowing the answer.

Her face lit up with relief as she gave you an apologetic smile. “Sorry! I promise you’ll get an extra day off once they’re back.” She hurried off to greet a table that had just walked in, leaving you to mentally prepare for the hours ahead.

This week had felt like it dragged on forever, maybe the longest, most exhausting one of your life.

You had to put a pause on your case study with Sean this morning when you rushed off to work, and now, coming in to an understaffed shift.

You caught Rosie’s eye, one of your friends and fellow servers, as she wiped down a table.

Both of you exchanged a pained look, her exhausted expression saying it all. She pulled a disgusted face before storming off to the kitchen.

Normally, your shift ended at 10 PM, and you should’ve been home before 11, but tonight you’d be staying until last call, closing down the bar, and prepping the floor for the next day.

The place was buzzing, and you barely had a second to breathe between clearing tables and taking orders, clearing tables and taking orders, clearing tables and taking orders…

Hours passed, and exhaustion slowly crept in. You heard your manager yelling at someone in the kitchen, a table throwing a fit because their negroni was too bitter...

Balancing a tray of drinks, you weaved through the loud, chaotic room. Most of the crowd was tipsy or drunk, their voices blending into a dull roar that made it hard to think straight. Your focus shifted between navigating the tables and keeping the drinks steady, until someone caught your eye.

Sitting in the corner booth was Jungkook.

You hadn’t seen him come in, but there he was, scrolling through his phone.

And that’s when it hit you—like a punch to your gut—you didn’t text him! Again.

You were supposed to let him know you’d be late, but of course, you got distracted. Again.

You meant to send a quick message earlier, but one thing led to another, customers needing refills, tables to bus, orders to run…and you forgot.

Again.

You were supposed to see him tonight. How long had he been waiting for you at home? And why was he here?

You dropped off the tray of empty glasses at the station and hurried over to him, your stomach twisting with guilt.

He looked up when you approached, his expression calm, but there was something in his eyes that made your chest tighten.

It wasn’t disappointment—not the sharp sting of frustration you’d seen in others when you forgot something important.

No, this was worse.

Hurt.

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” you started, words tumbling out in a rushed mess. “I didn’t mean to not text you, but I had to cover tonight…” Your voice cracked as the guilt clawed its way up your throat.

“It’s okay,” he said, his tone calm, though there was a tightness to his smile. “I figured something came up. I’m here to pick you up. It’s late, and I know you’re tired."

Your eyes darted to the table, where a half-finished root beer float sat. “How long have you been here?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Not long,” he replied, leaning back in the booth and fiddling with the zipper of his hoodie.

You opened your mouth to apologize again, but before you could, a loud crash pulled your attention to a table where a drink had seemingly toppled over, or perhaps fallen, as the guests waved frantically to catch your attention.

“I’ll be right back,” you mumbled, giving him an apologetic look before hurrying off. You felt his eyes follow you as you crossed the room, the weight of his gaze lingering even as you focused on taking the group’s order.

After tending to the mess and getting refills, you made your way to the kitchen when Rosie grabbed your arm, pulling you to the side.

“Confess,” Rosie said firmly, narrowing her eyes at you like she was interrogating a suspect.

“Confess what?” you asked, blinking in confusion.

“Who’s the guy in the corner booth? Boyfriend? Situationship? Secret fling? Because he’s been staring at you since he got here!” She gestured wildly toward Jungkook’s direction.

“We’re…He’s…” You trailed off, your thoughts tangling. What was he? Someone who deserved better than you forgetting things.

“Girl, I swear, I thought you were single as hell this whole time!”

“Well, I am! I mean… we’re not officially together.” You sighed. Does he even want you still?

Rosie slapped her forehead dramatically. “Well, girl??? Secure the bag? Are you kidding? He’s hot!” She groaned loudly, fanning herself with exaggerated flair as she walked away. “Oh my God.”

You shook your head, laughing softly at her antics, but the smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You forced yourself back into the flow of the bustling crowd.

Jungkook patiently waited for you in the booth, and you both shared quick glances from time to time.

You closed at 2 am. Every muscle in your body throbbed with exhaustion, your eyelids heavy with the weight of fatigue. Even the thought of changing out of your work clothes felt like climbing a mountain. Instead, you grabbed the t-shirt you’d come in with and pulled it over your crop top. You just want to go home.

Mentally and physically, all you wanted to do was collapse.

↪️ let me in

As you stepped out of the bar, you saw Jungkook standing near the back door, hands in his pockets, waiting.

The dim glow of the streetlights cast soft shadows over his face, but his sharp gaze was unmistakable as it immediately found yours the moment the door creaked open.

The gloomy sky loomed overhead, thick with the promise of rain. The chilly air bit at your bare legs as you walked towards him, your steps sluggish, dragged.

When suddenly, you felt him shuffle beside you, and his familiar scent enveloped you as he draped his unzipped hoodie over your shoulders.

“It’s freezing, baby,” he said softly, his voice warm against the crisp night air. He adjusted his hoodie to make sure it covered you snugly.

The pang of guilt in your chest weighed heavier than the exhaustion in your bones.

“Thank you,” you murmured, offering a tired yet genuine smile as your eyes traced his familiar features.

His hair had grown longer, the ends curling softly. Instinctively, your fingers reached up, brushing through the strands. And as you did, he closed his eyes as he leaned closer to you. A quiet, contented sigh escaped him, and a faint smile tugged at his lips.

Without a word, he took your bag, slinging it over his shoulder. His other hand found yours, fingers naturally intertwining, offering additional warmth aside from his hoodie draped over you.

The two of you walked to his car in silence, the sound of your footsteps filling the stillness of the night.

You slid into the passenger seat, the car door clicking shut with a soft thud.

It's deafening, the silence.

Jungkook glanced with a soft smile before starting the engine. His focus was on the road, but the tension in the air between you felt palpable.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice trembling just slightly. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting tonight…and the other nights. I should’ve texted. And I haven’t been present for you these past weeks. It’s not fair to you…”

Jungkook’s gaze flickered to you for a moment. He didn’t look angry, but tired. And that made your heart ache even more.

What if this time, the tiredness in his eyes wasn’t from the long wait, but from you?

“I’m not mad at you.” he said, his voice is steady and warm. “I know you’ve been busy, and things get hectic.”

“But…” you hesitated, unsure if you could even finish the thought. His patience has to have limits, right?

Jungkook’s hand slid over to yours, his fingers gently squeezing, as if he could already feel the weight of your thoughts. "What’s going on in that head of yours?" he asked softly, his voice gentle, coaxing you to open up.

You looked down at his hand on yours, feeling small and fragile under the gravity of your own insecurities.

You hated the thought that maybe, just maybe, if he looked too closely, he’d see the mess, the noise, the chaos inside you. And then he’d walk away.

Your walls had been crushed, but as you felt the rush of vulnerability wash over you, the temptation to rebuild them surged.

“I just feel really bad, everything is just so overwhelming right now. Sorry for making this hard.” you exhaled a shaky breath.

“Hey,” he says, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “I know you didn’t mean to forget. I’m just relieved to see you at work tonight…I just thought something happened.” His words trail off, but his worry lingers in his eyes.

“When I don’t hear from you, my mind goes all over the place. I worry about you. But I didn’t want to press, because I feel like maybe I’m bothering you.” He continues, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

It’s harder to speak now, but you managed to force the words out, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to explain it… It’s like… my brain gets so tangled, and I can only focus on what’s right in front of me. Everything else… it just slips away.”

You held his hand tighter, hoping to somehow communicate the mess in your head, make it simpler, make it easier to understand. “I’ll try harder.”

He slowed down, glancing at you with such tenderness that it made all your broken pieces feel whole again.

“Baby…” he started, his voice soft but steady. “I know how much you’re juggling, and I’m not here to add to that. I don’t need all your time. I just want to know I’m part of your world, not an afterthought.”

He reached over, his hand gently caressing your face. You leaned into his touch.

“And you don’t need to try harder for me. I just wish you’d tell me how I can help. Let me in. That’s all I want.”

“Then I’ll try my best to tell you…”

“I would like that very much.”

——

The moment you entered Jungkook’s apartment, a wave of relief washed over you. It was always so comforting here, his presence in every corner, making the space feel like home. But tonight, your body screamed for rest, and you barely had the energy to sit down, let alone do anything else.

You saw the table already set, two plates waiting idly, a silent testament to the meal he had prepared for you before deciding to come to your work when you didn’t come home on time.

Fuck.

You both quietly ate, your mind silent, but guilt lingered.

After finishing your meal, you were too tired to go back to your apartment. Moving on autopilot, you showered quickly and changed into one of his shirts, the one you usually wear when you stay over. When you stepped out of the shower, you saw he had just finished washing the dishes and was heading straight for the shower himself.

You couldn’t help but sink into his bed, the soft sheets smelling like him, embracing you like an old friend. You wanted to wait for him, to wrap yourself in his warmth, and kiss him until your worries and weariness melted away, but your body had other plans. You curled up under the blanket, and before you knew it, sleep claimed you.

When you woke up the next morning, he’s already gone for work and you were alone in his bed.

His spot is now cold, but the meal on the table is warm.

<- Prev

a/n: Thanks for reading as always. Happy New Year beautiful people! ITS BANGTAN YEAR!!! Here's to 2025!!! <3

-🐙

taglist: @goldietigers294 @ericawantstoescape @kyljjk @daskewl @the-immortal-dreamer

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currently-exsisting · 22 hours ago

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. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁Alchemy and Anarchy . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

(Jinx x Fem!Reader)

Part 1

Summary: So we all know Jinx is a genius. Even without school she is able to engineer such high tech things. Making her own bombs, fixing broken things, creating a mechanical arm for Sevika, etc etc. Well what if she runs into the reader who is an alchemist from Piltover who has come to Zaun to get some illegal ingredients for her experiments. But their first encounter isn’t a particularly pleasant one… nor is their second or even third. One day Jinx realizes she hasn’t seen the reader in a while and is bored- definitely not missing the banter she would have with reader- so Jinx sneaks up to topside only to find reader isn’t home- or anywhere for that matter.

Warnings: minor talk of sedatives, explosion, mentions of deadly material (bombs, potions, poisonous plants, etc). lmk if there's anything I missed!

Note: This is my first Jinx fic so please be nice! The reader identifies as a female and she/her pronouns will be used. Also, this is part 1 of a multipart series (I’m thinking between 3-5 parts but we’ll see how it goes).

Word count: 1.6K

You were absolutely exhausted by the mundane, lackluster lectures of the Piltover Academy’s alchemical department. The professors had a knack for making you study for hours just to grasp the most basic concepts in the most roundabout way. On top of that, your time in the actual lab was painfully sparse. When you finally got lab access—once every two weeks—the experiments were excruciatingly slow and yielded results so obvious that they felt like an insult to your intelligence. Sitting through those endless three-hour lectures, you often questioned why you had chosen this field in the first place.

That frustration was the catalyst for your decision to take matters into your own hands. You found an abandoned classroom and transformed it into your personal lab, a space where you could tinker with your own concoctions, free from the constant scrutiny and prying eyes of the professors. This turned out to be one of the best decisions you’d made since coming to the academy. Your independent research allowed you to take scientific liberties that were otherwise forbidden. At first, you limited yourself to ransacking the chemical cabinets in the student labs, careful not to disturb the order of the vials or take more than you could conceal. But even the academy’s supplies soon proved too rudimentary for the ambitious experiments you wanted to pursue.

Potions that erupted into bursts of flame with just a pinch of powder, sedatives potent enough to render a person unconscious within seconds, and vials of liquid smoke that blanketed entire rooms in seconds—these were the kinds of alchemical creations you aspired to make. But the university wasn’t equipped to support your level of innovation. So, you made the decision to venture into the Undercity.

Every student at Piltover Academy had heard the cautionary tale of Jayce Talis. The former student had sourced materials for his experiments from the Undercity and paid the price—expelled for his illegal activities, despite his so-called “good” intentions. His story was the kind parents used to scare their children into obedience. But you weren’t Jayce. You had no intention of getting caught.

You packed your bags and threw on some ragged, worn-down clothes in hopes of not standing out in the undercity. As you stepped off the lift and into Zaun, however, you realized how naive you had been. To be a Zaunite wasn’t the clothes or the avoidance of eye contact- the undercity had imprinted itself on the very souls of its citizens. It was evident in how they held themselves, always with an air of caution and skepticism, everyone around you had been living in the closest place to hell and it was damn clear to see that there was no way you were fitting in.

Yet, you still attempted to, just wanting to get your business finished and head back to your lab. You were itching to complete this potion meant to cause temporary blindness to those who breathed in its fumes. The final chemical you needed was sold in a small shop at the back end of an ally in Zaun. How did you hear of this secret location? Let’s just say some professors, frustrated by the academy's limited chemical stock, had been less discreet in their private grumblings—and you knew how to listen.

Keeping your head low and your heart pounding like a drum, you navigated the narrow, dimly lit alleyways until you reached the shop. By some miracle, you managed to purchase the outrageously overpriced chemical without incident. Relieved, you thought the hardest part was over. Now, all you had to do was retrace your steps to the lift and head back home. It seemed simple enough. The shopkeeper had been stingy, but the Undercity itself wasn’t as terrifying as you’d imagined. Less than ideal, sure, but manageable. Desperate times called for desperate measures, after all.

Lost in your thoughts, your mind wandered to the experiments waiting for you back at your lab. You were so preoccupied that you didn’t notice where you were going. Without realizing it, you walked straight into something very sturdy.

Looking up, you saw the figure turn around, long blue braids swaying as her sharp pink eyes locked onto yours. “Hey! Watch where you’re going, asshat!” she snapped, her voice brimming with annoyance. Clearly, she’d had enough, and you were just the unfortunate straw that broke the camel’s back.

You attempt stuttering out an apology, but you too were caught off guard by the interaction, “oh- uh sorry- my bad.” You keep your head down and try to maneuver your way around her. But she was faster, sidestepping to block your path.

“Well, well, well you’re not from around here are you?” she said, her tone laced with suspicion. Shit. She found you out. Was it that obvious? She leaned forward slightly, arms tucked behind her back as she assessed you. “Soooo… whatcha doing here?”

Realizing there was no way out of this, you decided to meet her gaze. “Nothing much, just on an errand for, uh… deadly ingredients.” You said this with such a deadpan expression that the blue-haired girl took a moment to process what you said and then laughed. She laughed in your face. You were so over this city. The disgusting streets, the terrifying atmosphere, and now the crazy people. You shook your head and tried to go on your way back to Piltover, back to your cozy lab- to finally continue your experiments. Shaking your head, you tried to sidestep her again. “Whatever. I’ve got stuff to do,” you muttered, heading for the lift.

“Well shit toots, you won’t find anything deadly in some plants and dirt,” she called after you.

“If you want deadly, I’ll show you deadly.” You stop at her words but by the time you’re halfway turned back around to face her, she had pulled out one of her bombs and disengaged it. She nonchalantly tosses the bomb off to her right. The explosion sent a rush of heat and wind that caused her long blue braids to whip dramatically in the air.

“Oh my gods, what the hell are you doing? Are you trying to get us killed?” Your eyes were wide open in shock and you clutched your bags with your ingredients close to your chest.

She shrugged, a smirk curling at the corner of her lips. “Relax. If I wanted to get you killed, you’d already be dead.”

You stared at her, dumbfounded. This girl was completely insane. “You call that deadly?” you said, exasperated. “That’s just… chaotic and uncontrolled! Chemicals can be deadly and precise. You can get them to do different things—different kinds of deadly.”

Her smirk turned into a pout, her entire posture slumping as she groaned. “Ugh, that’s so boringggg. Deadly is deadly, there’s nothing faster or funner than bombs.”

“First of all, “funner” is not a word.” She rolled her eyes at your correction, but you couldn’t help the smirk tugging at your lips. The absurdity of arguing with someone so casually dangerous was almost entertaining, and you found yourself wondering if she always defended her bombs with such childlike stubbornness. “Secondly, potions are much more controllable, can you sedate someone with your bombs? I don’t think so.” you put your hand on your hips and gazed at her in a judgmental manner. She could insult you all she wanted but she wasn’t going to say anything bad about your life’s work.

She raised an eyebrow, her pink eyes gleaming with mischief. “Why would you bother with “sedating” when you can just knock ‘em out cold with one of these?” She patted the satchel slung over her shoulder, the sound of clinking metal confirming it was loaded with explosives.

You roll your eyes. “Right, because bludgeoning someone with a bomb is so subtle. If you need to get out of a situation quietly, my potions are better. Or, do you enjoy being loud and drawing attention to yourself all the time?”

“Yeah, well duh. Subtle is boring. Loud is exciting! All those plants and concoctions, it’s all boring nerd shit.” Her blue braids swayed to one side as she tilted her head, to edge you one. She looked almost like a puppy. Almost-puppies aren’t as bothersome or volatile as this Zaunite was.

You noticed your shadow growing longer as the sun began to set and decided that your argument should be saved for another day on account of your safety. If the undercity was this hectic during the day, you didn’t want to stay around and discover what the nightlife entailed. “One day I’ll show you how awesome this “nerd shit” really is.”

The blue-haired girl smirked at your words, clearly not taking you seriously. “Pfft. Sure, nerd. Maybe one day you’ll grow a spine and ditch those snooze-fest potions for something with a bang.”

You sighed, already regretting engaging her this much. The faint flicker of street lights turning on further contorted the shadows, the chaotic streets taking on an even more ominous feel.

“Yeah, well, I’m not sticking around here to debate with someone who thinks explosions solve everything.” You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, carefully avoiding her gaze. “Enjoy your bombs, loudmouth.”

She scoffed, leaning against the wall with a smug expression. “Enjoy your boring potions, nerd. Do yourself a favor and try not to spill anything and melt your face off.”

Without another word, you turned and walked away, forcing yourself to focus on retracing your steps. The weight of her gaze lingered on your back, but you didn’t look back. There was no way you’d let her see how much she’d gotten under your skin.

#jinx x reader #jinx x fem!reader #arcane #wlw #lesbian #sapphic #enemies to lovers #slow burn #alchemy

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cautotelic · 1 day ago

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Chapter 3: Ballrooms and Bad Moods

Ambessa Medarda x Reader

Synopsis: When you get taken away from your home land and thrown into the palace of the infamous warlord, will things be as bad as they first seemed?

A/N: hehehe enjoy my loves <33

It’s been two and a half weeks since my shadowing incident and I haven’t spoken or seen Ambessa since. If I'm being completely honest, I’ve been avoiding her.

I don’t like the way I feel around her and the thoughts she makes me think

I’ve busied myself with training the warriors and spending time in the palace library. Today is different though, today we have a gala to attend and apparently I have to go.

A knock at my door brings me out of my thoughts. Opening it up I realize it’s Mana, the servant assigned to me. I smile at her warmly. “Good afternoon,” I say, letting her in as she carries this big bag.

I give her a quizzical look. “For the gala, ma’am,” she says as she lays the bag on my bed.

“I never got fitted for a dress or picked one out.”

She gives me a smile. “Don’t worry dear, the General hand picked this one herself,” she reassures as she opens the dress bag. “Now, let's get you ready.”

After two hours, I finally look at myself in the mirror and don’t hate my appearance. The dress is fitted, floor length, and a deep red color that compliments my complexion. The straps of the dress fit snugly on my shoulders and the neckline is low enough to look flattering. My hair is left down and my makeup is light, but still brings out my best features. “Thank you, Mana.”

“Oh course dear, you look absolutely beautiful,” she compliments.

Walking out of my room, Rictus is waiting outside leaning against the wall and he escorts me to the airship we will be taking to the gala in Piltover. When we arrive Ambessa is already there waiting. As we approach her I run my eyes over her form. She’s wearing a dress of her own, in gold, and her hair is braided into an updo. The realization hits me, I’m wearing her house colors and we’re matching. We come to a stop in front of her and she nods her head to Rictus and he leaves us, walking onto the airship. Her eyes find mine for a second before I look away.

“You clean up nice, General,” I comment. Our proximity makes me want to push her away and pull her in close all at once.

“Back to formalities I see.” The sharpness in her voice surprises me, what's got her in a bad mood?

The ride to Piltover was smooth and when we arrived the sun was just setting. As soon as we are docked, Ambessa is standing and ready to leave. Without sparing me a glance she begins talking. “Don’t get into any trouble, or there will be consequences,” she says before walking off the air ship.

I roll my eyes. Rictus appears again and offers his arm to me which I gladly take. “What's got her panties in a twist?”

He snickers under his breath as we exit the airship. “She’s just…” he looks down at me scanning my face for something. “Going through it.”

We walk off the docking platform and enter the huge glass atrium where the party is being held. It’s beautiful. Warm lighting fills the space and vines and plants climb the walls. Big bowls hange for the ceiling flowers overflowing out of them. Tables and couches line the surrounding walls, couples and friends drinking and laughing. Something flashing flies in front of my face and it makes me notice that at irregular intervals all over the room little fireflies fly around.

Rictus removes his arm from mine. “Sorry, duty calls,” He says before leaving me.

I fidget with my hands and decide to go find where they have the drinks. I find the bar and order a drink, leaning against the counter and looking around.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing here all alone?” A voice says from beside me. I look over and a girl with dark, almost blue hair is standing beside me.

“Excuse me?” I ask in shock.

She turns around and leans her back against the bar counter, her elbows resting on top. She looks at me through her eyelashes. “I said, what are you doing all alone, sweetheart?”

I feel my face go warm. “I like it that way,” I say as I take a sip of my drink.

She hums as she eyes me up and down. “Caitlyn Kiramman,” she introduces herself as she extends her hand out to me.

I shake her hand. “___,” I say curtly.

“If you don’t have anything to do, want to sit and chat for a while?” Caitlyn asks as she looks at me.

I nod. I grab my drink and start to walk towards one of the tables. Caitlyn’s hand comes to rest on my waist, guiding me through the people.

We sit down at a table in the corner, sitting right next to each other. I set my drink down and get comfortable, turning towards her. “So what brings you here?” I ask.

She turns towards me and puts her arm on the cushion behind me. “My family loves throwing these types of things and I have to make an appearance. You?”

I chuckle. “I was dragged here, but I’m not entirely complaining.” As I speak I feel her hand move up my leg to come and rest on my thigh.

She looks at me with a smirk. “Well I would sure hope not. If that was the case I wouldn’t be doing my job very well.”

We talk and drink for a good chunk of the night. At times taking walks around the room to get a change of scenery. This Kiramman girl makes me laugh more than I have in a long time.

The party is starting to die down. We are off to the side of the dance floor, standing fairly close. I’m rambling about this book I read on hextech when Caitlyn reaches her hand out and tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear before cupping my cheek.

This makes me pause as I look in her eyes. She starts pulling me into her, her eyes closed.

Someone clears their throat. I pull away and look. Ambessa. All of a sudden I feel like a deer in headlights tinged with guilt.

“General, it’s a pleasure to see you as always,” Caitlyn greets.

Ambessa only hums as she turns her gaze to me, looking me up and down before looking at Caitlyn. “I see you’ve found my ward, young Kiramman,” she states. “We will be departing now. Tell your parents that the evening was lovely.”

We say our goodbyes before Ambessa and I walk back towards the docks, her hand pressed firmly against my back. I spare a glance up at her as we walk and she is visibly pissed.

We get back on the airship and she says nothing to me as she goes to her office. The ride back to Noxus seemed way longer than on the way there. The whole way thinking about Ambessa and why she would be so upset.

When we dock in Noxus I stand and wait for the door to open before stepping out onto the dock platform. When I get back to my room I change out of my dress and into my lounge clothes. I lay in bed for what feels like hours before giving up on trying to find sleep and heading to the library.

I open the heavy doors and slip inside silently. Rows and rows of books surround me. I walk to my favorite isle and go down to the section of books I’ve been working on for the past few months. Looking over the selection I pick one and start walking to my reading spot at the center of the library.

I start to read the book as I walk until I get where I need to go. I finally look up from the book and I’m startled and take half a step back. Ambessa stands at one of the tables looking over papers and what looks like battle plans. She changed from her evening gown into something more comfortable, her hair down from its updo. A deep frown is etched on her face and I so desperately want to run my fingers over it-

No.

She hasn’t noticed me standing here so I turn to go back to my room instead.

“Trouble sleeping?”

I pause my movements and debate turning around or to keep walking.

Turning around I find that Ambessa hasn’t lifted her head from her work and doesn’t as I walk out into the open space.

“No, I just wanted to get a book,” I answered, my voice lowered defensively.

“Don’t lie to me, little one.” She takes her pencil and writes something in her notebook off to the side.

I scoff. “What? All of a sudden I can’t have a simple interest in wanting to read.”

“I’m just stating it as I see it,” she states.

I roll my eyes. “I’d rather you mind your own business.”

She chuckles coldly. “And I’d rather have a legionnaire that does as she’s told.” In finishing her sentence, she finally looks up at me, her hands pressed against the table's surface.

I throw my hands up in disbelief. “I am and I’m trying. I do the training, I hardly get into any trouble here, and tonight I didn’t have any issues because I was talking to that Kiramman girl.”

The mention of the name has Ambessa’s jaw clenching and her hands fisting on the table. “Out of everybody at that party, of course you would talk to her,” she says under her breath, barely audible to me.

“We were just talking,” I clarified earnestly.

Ambessa raises an eyebrow at me and looks me up and down before standing up straight, folding her arms. “Are you that oblivious? She was practically undressing you with her eyes.”

“You're being ridiculous. Why do you care anyway?” I wonder, my mind only now processing that Ambessa herself was also watching me tonight.

She looks at me and huffs in frustration. Her eyes hold an emotion I can’t decipher. She shakes her head and goes back to working. “I don’t.”

I stand there trying to understand her, but end up walking over to where she stands at the table. As I go stand beside her, I look over her map. Ambessa glances down at me for a split second.

The map is of lands I’m familiar with, as I’ve fought on them myself. My fingers glide over the map as I look at where Ambessa has put her pawn piece to represent her soldiers.

I hang off the side of the mountain, swaying back and forth, my body tethered to the top. I look to my left and right at the dead troops beside me, our mission failed. Placing my hands one on top of another I pull myself back up from where we repelled. My muscles ache as I pull myself over the ledge.

“You shouldn’t put your forces there. The mountain is too steep for them to be on guard, leaves them vulnerable…” I suggest pointing to a certain spot on the map.

I feel her gaze on me without having to look at her. She silently reaches over the table and grabs the pawn piece, handing it to me. I look at the piece before taking it from her hand, our fingers brushing against each other.

My mind goes into that of the strategist I’d been raised to be. I start picking up and placing the pawns where they would give Noxus a better advantage. Taking high ground, using trees as coverage, and fortifying the mountain range. When I’m done I step back and look at the map.

Ambessa hums beside me. “Not bad,” she chides.

I hum in response. “It’s whatever.” Looking at the map takes me back to sleepless nights in my father’s study looking at and studying maps until plans were to his liking.

“Come,” she demands more than asks as she moves away from the table and towards the couches.

Seeing as I didn’t really have a choice, I followed her. She stands by a smaller table beside the couch and pours out two glasses of a dark auburn liquid. She offers the glass to me and absentmindedly I hesitate to take it.

Without a word Ambessa brings the glass she offered me to her lips and takes a sip of the drink before offering it back to me. I take it without complaint and sit on the couch. Ambessa follows suit and sits down next to me only leaving a foot or two or space between us.

I shift uncomfortably from her proximity. This does not go unnoticed by her as she chuckles. “Scared of me still, child?” Although she tries to come across as sarcastic, her voice holds a hint of hurt.

“I was never scared of you,” I admit as I take a sip of my drink, the liquid burning.

This surprises her for a second before she goes back to teasing. “Let’s play a game, shall we?” She asks.

“What kind of game?” I groan.

“20 questions, however,” she says with a smirk. “If you don’t want to answer the question asked, you have to remove an article of clothing.”

My eyebrows furrow in annoyance. “Absolutely not, that is humiliating.”

She looks at me as she tilts her head, intrigued. “What? Don’t tell me you're ashamed of nudity.”

“You're not?” I shoot back.

“Nope,” She shrugs and her smugness ignites the stubbornness in me and I take the bait.

“Fine, let’s play.”

She smirks, leaning back into the couch. “You ask first.”

I roll my eyes as I take a swig of my drink. “Why did you want to go to war with my father?”

At the mention of my dad her hand tightens around her class as she takes a sip. “He was being… difficult. But whether we went to war or not I would have still gotten what I wanted, it would have just been as spoils of war.”

This gives me pause. “What exactly did you want?”

She tsks. “That was two questions, my turn. I know you can’t sleep, so what are your nightmares about?”

I mull over her question before taking a sip of my drink, standing up. I hook my fingers into the waistband of my pants and pull them down, leaving me in my underwear. Ambessa’s eyes never leave my form. The shirt I’m wearing is long enough to reach about mid-thigh so I sit back down.

I look at Ambessa. “What did you want from my father?”

With no hesitation Ambessa rips her shirt over head. My eyes roam over her toned abs and biceps before I look away. I huff, annoyed that she didn’t answer my question.

We continued this back and forth for a while. Ambessa loses her pants and I lose my shirt, we both only sit in our underwear and bindings now.

It’s her turn and she hums as she brings her glass to her lips. “Would you have let that Kiramman girl into your bed?”

Nearly spitting out my drink I look at her shocked. “What kind of question is that?”

“A question, now answer it or take something off. But I doubt you will.” She looks at me waiting for an answer expectantly, challenging me.

Something clicks in my head and I look at her with a smug smile. “Maybe I would have, but I guess we’ll never know now will we?” She’s silent so I continue. “Okay my turn. Are you jealous that I would have let her fuck me?” I gamble.

I watch her tense as her jaw clenches. “Watch it,” she warns.

I take another sip of my drink, staring at her. “What? It’s a question, General. Answer it or take something off, hm.” I say, throwing her words back at her.

One second I’m sitting down the next I’m pinned to the sofa with Ambessa towering over me. I summon a knife and go to hold it to her neck but she catches my wrist in her hand and plucks it from my hand, sending it clattering to the floor.

“You just love to be difficult, don’t you hm- stop fucking moving,” she tells me as she roughly presses me further into the couch.

Looking up at her I chuckle. “You are jealous.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it?”

I expect everything. A punch, a slap, yelling. What I don’t expect is for Ambessa Medarda to kiss me. I’m frozen for a second as she connects her lips with mine but slowly I give in, wrapping my arms around her neck. The kiss is rough and bruising.

I let out a small moan as she nips at my lip. “Do you know how infuriating you are? How wrapped around your finger you have me? How fucking frustrated I was when you wouldn’t speak to me?” She lets out between kisses.

My body heats up at her words. “I hate you,” I mutter as she begins trailing kisses on my jawline. Her strong, composed demeanor is nowhere to be found as her desperation takes over.

She lets out a hearty chuckle. “I know you do.”

Her kisses continue to my neck where she nips and bites, her left hand cradling my head and turning it to get more access. I whimper at the sensation as her right hand kneads the flesh of my thigh.

My hand finds its way into her hair and I pull slightly, earning a groan from Ambessa.

At my core I know I want this, so badly. But the rational side of my mind is telling me I can’t have this, that I’m not allowed to.

Ambessa must feel my body growing tense as I contemplate. She pulls me closer to her. “You're overthinking, little one,” she murmurs in my ear.

“I-“

“General I have some paperwork that you need to- Jesus.” I look over and see Rictus standing by the table with the map.

Ambessa moves so that her body is covering mine seeing as we both barely have clothes on. She groans in annoyance and curses under her breath. “Can this really not wait, Rictus?”

He clears his throat before speaking. “I just came to drop these off,” he lifts the papers in his hand. “Sorry if I interrupted,” he enunciates. What I don’t see is the glance he gives towards Ambessa with a smirk.

I look over Ambessa’s shoulder. “Hi, Rictus,” I wave with a smile.

He raises his hand towards me. “Hi, little lady.” Ambessa gives him a sharp look and he puts his hands up.

“I should go…” I look away not being able to look at her. I make a move to get up but she isn’t having any of it. I sigh before shadowing.

I appear on the other side of the library, my clothes back on. I wobble slightly on my feet and Ambessa makes a move to come towards me, I take a step back. Our eyes connect and the look in hers makes me feel guilty.

I shadowed my room and locked the door before collapsing on the floor.

Why is my mind complicating everything? Why do I not know how to react to her?

#ambessa medarda #ambessa medarda x reader #slow burn #arcane ambessa #arcane season 2 #ambessa league of legends #angst #ambessa x reader #arcane x reader

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nicoleeblossom · 1 day ago

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Mattheo Riddle

main masterlist🐍

*·˚Don’t forget to reblog, follow, like, and comment on the authors’ or artists’ pages. Show them some love!

*·˚Broken link or @? Pop a note in the comments or my ask box.

We Are Done by @slytherinslut0: You could tell he was still in pain, but there was something else there too–desperation.

Beg For Me by @slytherinslut0: "You think I could ever find another as maddeningly perfect as you are?"

Better Than Revenge by @kinzis-writing:

Protego Series by @suugarbabe:

Saving Grace by @suugarbabe:

Serendipity by @weasleyreidstyles:

Gold Rush by @slut4slytherinss:

Heaven and Back w/Theo by @theostrophywife:

King of my Heart by @dreamcubed:

Lover by @dreamcubed:

A Green and Silver Ring by @demipuff17:

For You by @mrsbarnesblog:

Hide and Seek by @writingsbychlo

Heirs of Hogwarts by @sheeple

Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

#harry potter fandom #hogwarts #slytherin #slytherin boys #x reader #smut #fluff #slow burn #angst #favorite fics #fic recs #mattheo riddle #nicoleeblossom

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streamafterlaughter · 2 days ago

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Soundtrack to Disaster

Chapter X: The Destruction of Your Innocence

masterlist | playlist | pinboard | prev | diaries coming VERY soon

songs for this chapter: an ode by mat kerekes, the price of growing up by watsky

summary: an evening of fun with the party, and for once nothing feels too heavy... until it does.

chapter tags: none! Just a good wholesome dose of friendship on all counts… the calm before the storm, if you will. | fic tags: angst, hurt/(eventual) comfort, (eventual) smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, Eddie Munson x Fem!OC!Reader, Modern AU | This fic is rated 18+ MDNI each chapter will have its own content/trigger warnings

a/n: I would consider this the end of Act I.... meaning.... well. I'm sure you can figure that out. Happy new year everyone! 🎉

DISCLAIMER: I do not consent to having my work fed to AI engines, or reposted in any way, shape, or form on other websites. Unless otherwise stated, this is the only account that features and contains this work, and any replication was done without my consent. Please let me know if you see my work elsewhere. Reblog to support the author!

taglist @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @kellsck @faggotinie @xplrnowornever @taccobelle @micheledawn1975 @mewchiili @dreamerjj @losingmygrasponreality @munsonburn3r | comment/message me to be added!

“Good morning!” Robin answers the door to her apartment with far too much pep for eight am. Your ears are still ringing from last night, and you wince at her volume. “Oh, sorry. Forgot you’re so not a morning person. Come in!” She whispers the last part, and you chuckle lightly as you cross the threshold, only for your smile to fall from your lips. Eddie is splayed on the couch, a black coffee in his hand as Steve talks at him about how important reading the instructions is.

“Hi, Bee!” Steve greets you from the kitchen, and Eddie offers a brief wave.

“Mornin’. Sorry, I didn't know it was a party, I would’ve dressed nicer.” You’re suddenly embarrassed by your choice of outfit: A pair of bike shorts and a massive t-shirt draped over your body like a nightgown.

“Oh, shush, you look great. Especially for what we’re doing today.” Robin, clad in overalls, walks by you and into the living room, where differently sized planks of wood are spread out on the carpet, a pile of screws in a bag next to them, and the instructions booklet flattened to the first page.

“What exactly are we doing?” Eddie asks, sitting up. “I was just told I was needed, I was never told why.” He looks at you, as if asking for help. You shrug.

“We’re putting this thing together,” Robin toes the mess of boards. “Need all hands on deck, this ain’t no IKEA furniture.”

“Good thing, IKEA’s shit would fall apart in a week.” You kneel in front of the pieces, examining them closely. “Shouldn’t be too difficult, looks like everything we need came with it.”

“Okay, great! Steve, put on some jams. Bee, come with me for a second.” Robin offers her hand, and you stand up to follow her into her bedroom.

“What’s up?”

“Are you, like, good?”

“What?” The question confuses you.

“Like, with Eddie here. I know we didn’t tell you, it wasn’t really planned, Steve just texted him for extra help and I didn’t wanna argue because I don’t wanna be the one to have to help him move the thing when we inevitably have to.”

“Rob, it’s cool. I’m over the initial shock of Eddie being here every time I see you guys. I know it’s been awhile, but this was a normal occurrence once.”

“Yeah, I know, it just hasn’t been for a really long time. Wanna make sure you’re okay, that’s all.”

You kiss her cheek, smiling warmly. “It’s okay, Bob. Thank you.”

With that, she leads you back into the room, where Steve and Eddie stop speaking abruptly, as if they’d been conspiring something you aren’t allowed to know.

“Okay!” Steve claps his hands together, breaking the tension. “Let’s do it, we’re losing daylight.”

–

“Okay, this goes here–” “No, Rob, that goes there, this goes here–” “Bee, hand me the screwdriver–” “Would you move, Ed, you’re in my light–” The four of you talk over each other for hours, screwing and hammering pieces into place, groaning when you realize something is upside down.

“Wait, wait, shut up!” Robin eventually exclaims before standing up to admire the fruit of your labor. “We fuckin’ did it!” In front of you sits a complete, sturdy entertainment center, every piece where it belongs. You feel a burst of pride as you stand up next to your friends, resting your hands on your hips to take in the sight before you.

“Look at us! And in a miraculous turn of events, Bee and Eddie didn’t maim each other to death!” Steve adds, elbowing Eddie in the ribs and earning himself a shove. “You know, this might be cause for a gathering.” Eddie announces, earning groans from you, Steve, and Robin. To Eddie, a gathering didn’t mean the usual party with beer and weed, loud music and the likelihood of drama. For that, you were grateful. However, it did mean a very loud, passionate game of Dungeons & Dragons with four teenage boys. The cleanup is comparable, and you don’t count on Eddie helping out.

“Please, Rob? I promise, we’ll be out by ten. There’s just barely any room at my place, and you guys always have the good snacks.” You cock an eyebrow at Eddie, but he’s too busy pouting at Robin to notice.

“Ugh, fine! Out by ten, no exceptions.” He opens his mouth to thank her, but Robin quickly adds, “And only if Bee will come.” She crosses her arms over her chest triumphantly, like she’s found the secret way out of the deal.

“What? Why is this suddenly on me?” You look from her to Eddie, whose eyes are wide with his friend’s betrayal.

“Because I know you hated those things.” She grins. You remember, consistently left out of the games in high school because you were friends with a couple cheerleaders. Instead, being forced to watch from the corner, mumbling under your breath every time one of them did something stupid, and throwing popcorn into Eddie’s hair. “Y’know what, I might actually join you. If they let me play.” You glare up at Eddie, like you’ve passed the grenade. To make you show up, he has to let you play. If he doesn’t let you play, the gathering is off. The snake eats its own tail.

But he shrugs. “Okay, yeah.”

You and Robin share a look of exaggerated surprise, gasping in unison like he’d dropped to one knee. “What happened to the golden rule? No Darksiders!”

Eddie throws his head back with laughter, chest heaving as he tries to compose himself. “Guys, I’ve matured a little in the past few years, would you give me some credit?”

It shifts something in your chest, hearing him say it. You forget sometimes that Steve and Robin had also been together without Eddie for a while. When he’d finally graduated, Eddie skipped town without a word to any of his friends. You’d even gotten an influx of calls and texts, friends of Eddie’s you’d only met in passing asking you if he was out in New York with you, having no idea you already hadn’t spoken in two years.

“Okay,” You resign, remembering your brother’s plea from last night for you to be nicer to him. “Then a gathering we shall have.”

—

The apartment quickly becomes a playground, a mass of what you can’t exactly call children flooding through the front door, immediately taking up any available surface. The boys: Lucas, Will, Mike, and Dustin, are loud and excited, spreading out their game pieces on the kitchen table with intention. The girls, El and Max, make their way to the pantry for snacks and soda, opening every cabinet until they find what they’re looking for. You brace the tornado, still as possible until everyone is settled.

“So,” Max sits on the empty cushion beside you, crossing her legs to rest a bowl of popcorn in her lap. “Long time, no see!” You’d always been closest to Max, even closer than you’d gotten to Dustin just by being friends with Steve and, at the time, Eddie. Max, though, seemed drawn to you specifically. Your senior year, when she was in seventh grade, she’d started wearing her hair like yours, asking you where you bought your clothes, what kind of music you liked. It was cute, really. You’d always wanted a little sister, and Max was probably the coolest thing you could have imagined.

“Hey, Maxy.” You nudge her with your shoulder. “Look at you, all grown up.” She’s flourished since the last time you saw her, which would have to have been right before you’d left for New York. “Sorry I didn’t come visit more.”

She shrugs. “No biggie, I get it. Although, it is weird to see you two in the same room again.” You know she’s referring to Eddie, but she sends a less than subtle glance in his direction, and you follow it to find him conducting yet another Hellfire pre-campaign meeting. You indulge in watching the show for a minute, the way Eddie leans forward in his chair at the head of the table, face expressive as he alludes to the battles he’s written for his little goblins and you should probably be paying attention to what he’s saying. You hear Max giggling beside you.

“What’s so funny?”

“Well, despite all this time, you haven’t changed at all.”

“What are you talking about?” You raise an eyebrow at her.

“You still look at Eddie like a lovesick dog.” She rolls her eyes, and you dart yours to the floor. “Hey, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I kind of always knew you two wouldn’t be apart forever.”

“Okay, missy, you’re gettin’ a little too big for your britches. Eddie and I are barely friends. Acquaintances by circumstance.” Even to yourself, you sound unconvincing.

“Mhm, sure.” She teases as you turn back to watch the theatrics of the Dungeon Master, despite yourself.

“Take a pic, Bee, it’ll last longer!” You feel your cheeks burning as Dustin cackles, followed by the groans of the gaggle of boys surrounding him. You stare straight ahead, doing your best to avoid the way Eddie’s eyes are penetrating the side of your face.

“Dustin, shut the hell up. Upsetting Bee is almost worse than upsetting Eddie.” Mike elbows his friend in the ribs.

“It’s true, dude, you’re playing with fire.” Lucas adds, tone heeding a warning. You hear a thump under the table, followed quickly by Dustin’s cry of “Ow, you bitch!” Followed by a 20 sided die flying at Eddie’s head. Luckily, his fluffy curls soften the blow, Eddie barely even flinching.

“Oh, you’re in for it now, Henderson.” Eddie practically growls at the boy, eyes darkening with the mischief the rest of them have grown familiar with.

–

“Well, well, well.” Eddie leans back in his chair, folding his hands across his chest with an aura of smugness. “Looks like you’re all out of options.” Your character is mostly unscathed, but you can’t say the same for your campaign party. All of the kids’ characters are on their last legs, Dustin’s even literally, having lost his left lower limb to a corrupted mage about twenty minutes into the game. “Any last words?”

You can tell Dustin regrets his joke from earlier, face trembling with anxiety so palpable you’d think he’d seen this type of horror in real life. “I choose to surrender.” The party only mumble in agreement

“Roll to see if your surrender is accepted.” Eddie leans in, the grin on his face widening.

Dustin rolls a three. “Shit.”

Eddie throws his head back, a devilish cackle releasing into the air of the apartment. “Oh you poor, poor thing. Looks like your begs for mercy go unheard.” Eddie rolls the die himself, landing on eight. “Hm, seems like you’re getting off a little easy. You may leave unscathed.” Dustin squints his eyes at the older man, waiting for the catch. “All you must do is leave your strongest soldier as collateral.” He leans his elbow on the table, and Dustin follows his gaze to where you sit across from him, too distracted by the look on Eddie’s face to pay attention to what he’s saying. What the fuck is wrong with you?

“Bee?” Will’s voice snaps you back to reality. “What do you think?”

“What? Oh,” You look from Eddie, with that stupid smirk on his face, back to your teammates. “You want to sacrifice me?”

“Well, we don’t want to. Clearly you’re the reason we’re still alive here.” Dustin grumbles, fiddling with a handful of dice. “The second we give her to you, Ed, you’re gonna destroy us!”

Eddie only shrugs, giving none of his diabolical plan away to his opponents. “Only one way to find out.”

Dustin looks at you, eyebrow raised. “What do you think, Bee?”

You try to focus on the game. If you surrender, you become what Eddie likes to describe as a henchman. Your moves from here on in are only to benefit him. You’d be turning on your team, but they’d be free to walk away. If you don’t surrender, who knows what the sick and twisted Dungeon Master has up his sleeve for them?

“I guess… I will bravely sacrifice myself for your freedom.” You decide, gracefully gesturing to the younger boys. “I would be honored to die for the good of the campaign.”

The boys look at each other, ultimately deciding to accept your sacrifice. Eddie, though, throws his head back with his in character evil laughter, swiping your game piece from the board. “And so it shall be! The mage has been sacrificed, and captured by the darkness to distract from the escape of the rest of the party.” He looks from the boys back to you, the smile on his face a little softer. “An honorable risk, indeed.”

–

As promised, the younglings are kicked out promptly at ten, and Eddie is nice enough to bring them all home.

“Bye, guys!” Steve gives a wave before closing and locking the door. “I am fucking exhausted.”

“Yeah, it’s really tiring work sitting on your ass eating pizza.” You snort, clearing the paper plates from the table.

“Hey, you’re one to talk. You got to play a game all night while Eddie made googly eyes at you.”

His comment stops you in your tracks. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, please, like you have no idea!” He looks at you, face contorting from amused to bewildered. “Oh, you really have no idea.”

Robin snorts behind him. “Neither of them have a clue, Stevie.”

“Can someone please explain to me what the hell you’re talking about?” You’re exhausted, and you can’t keep up with your friends’ cryptic bullshit.

“C’mere.” Robin walks around to sit on the couch, patting the cushion next to her.

“Rob, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Relax, Steve. Bee’s gone through enough, the least we can do is tell her what we know.” You plop down beside your friend, and Steve joins you on the other side. “Bee, what do you know about Eddie coming back to Hawkins?”

You squint at Robin. “As much as you do, I thought! He came back when Chris got released. I still don’t even know where he went after he graduated. Before then, it had been years since we’d spent any time together.”

Robin nods thoughtfully, like she’s considering your words. “Well, think about it. Why would he choose now to come back? Why would he put the effort in to hang out with us, with you?”

You shake your head, growing more frustrated by the second. “You know I don’t have the answers to any of that. All I know is that Chris told Eddie to rat on him, to save his own ass from being tormented by Hawkins PD. And I only learned that, like, yesterday.”

Steve chimes in. “Well, at least he finally told you some of the truth.”

“What?” You turn to face him, your voice straining. “What more is there?”

“Bee,” Robin rests a hand on your shoulder. “He broke up with Macy, he’s hanging out with us every damn day. Don’t pretend you haven’t figured out Eddie’s obsessed with you.”

This shit again. You groan, throwing your head back into the couch cushions. “This is bullshit. You’re making shit up.”

“Okay, if that’s your theory, why the hell would we do that?” Steve seems offended by the accusation.

“How should I know? You guys love to meddle, why would I be exempt from your torment?”

“It’s hopeless, Rob. We’re gonna have to show her.”

She shrugs. “Guess so.” She plucks her phone from the coffee table and begins scrolling. “Ah! Here it is.” She turns her phone to face you. Displayed is a picture from the Chappell show, the four of you posing in front of the stage with big, excited smiles on your faces. Well, you, Steve, and Robin are smiling. Eddie isn’t even looking at the camera, but at you. His arm is wrapped tightly around your shoulder, and he’s smiling, eyes focused on the side of your face. Robin hadn’t posted this picture, and you can now understand why. The best way to describe the look on Eddie’s face is lovesick. You feel a lurch in your throat, still examining the photo, the way you hadn’t even noticed him.

“What am I supposed to take from this?” You try to play it off, despite the impossibility of denying what you’re looking at. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“Please, Bee. Don’t tell me you can’t feel it. You know there’s something there.” Robin is practically pleading with you. “I know he has a lot of making it up to you to do, but, what if you gave him the chance? I’m not saying you have to fall in love with him or anything,”

“Though, that would be kind of awesome!” Steve interjects.

“But, I dunno, maybe you guys could be friends again. Maybe things could start healing themselves.”

“Would it get you two off my back?” You half joke, feeling your palms sweating under the pressure. They nod eagerly. “Okay, fine. I’ll try my best to give him a chance. That doesn’t mean I believe a word of what you’re telling me, though.”

Robin and Steve high five over your head. “We’ll take it!” Robin exclaims, jumping from her seat. “And, if he ends up being a total douche bag, you have all the right to say you told us so.” She holds out her pinky to you, and you grab it with your own, sealing the deal.

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velvet-dreams-blog · 2 days ago

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A slow burn romance will fix me.

#im just a girl #romance #slow burn #passion #lovers #love #desire #fated lovers #couple #couple goals #love goals #eye contact

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staycalmandhugaclone · 3 days ago

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Fool's Errand Pt 10

Part (10) of Fool's Errand, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

Sorry! I know I owe responses to that fluffy little holiday thing, but I really wanted to get this out, too! (Also... big sorry... you'll see why)

Warnings: mild suspense, vague injury descriptions, decent bit of cursing, minor character death (very minor), (is there a warning for a kid wielding a gun?)

WC: 3,403

Droids don’t need the light. Not like we do. In the darkness, only the automated sound of whirring gears and clacking metal narrate movements governed by near perfect synchrony. The silence that surrounded those movements was deafening. It was easy to forget just how dangerous those machines truly were when watching the incredible ease with which the soldiers of the GAR could tear through them. But up close, when nothing lay between us but darkness and an armor that suddenly felt far too thin, the droids were monstrous; emotionless; streamlined and refined toward a single purpose: destruction.

I tried not to think about the simple fact that the same was often said of the entirety of the clone population; how readily society at large welcomed beliefs of unthinking, unfeeling suits of armor in the stead of the very real people that armor concealed. I tried not to think about how that mentality might linger and fester into resentment and fear once the end of the war offered some hope of integration, nor of the unending hardships that were inevitable with such naïve mentality. As I sat crouched in the nook of the freezing ventilation shaft, I tried not to think about anything at all save the near impossible task of silencing my own heavy breaths, attention trained on the endless rows of automatons marching barely a handful of feet away from me.

Wrecker had made it to the maintenance closet several meters ahead, but I’d still been fighting to force the adhesive of the deceptively small explosive to seal with the chilled metal of the duct, and what few seconds that cost me proved just enough to force me to hide as the echoing orchestra of marching droids approached us. We knew they were coming. Thanks to Echo, we knew exactly when to expect every routine patrol scheduled to monitor these halls, but the sheer frequency of their presence was staggering.

Neither of us moved for several seconds after the last droid finally vanished behind the rear door.

“You alright?” Even whispered, my body tensed slightly at the suddenness of Wrecker’s voice calling through the speaker of my helm, and I had to release a quick breath before responding.

“Yeah.” I murmured, glancing back at the detonator as I carefully began easing my way out of the small shaft. “Had trouble getting this one attached, but looks fine now.” A quiet grumble reverberated around me, and I could clearly imagine the troubled frown tugging at his lips.

My eyes flashed to the timer in the corner of my HUD steadily counting down to the moment Crosshair was supposed to take out the decoy power transformer. We still had several targets to rig if we wanted to level the station in time.

Wrecker led the way forward without another word, quick strides shockingly silent. It would never cease to amaze me how easily the man before me could dance between the kind, boisterous goofball and this: lethal, efficient; movements far too quiet for the terrifying mass of his powerful form. I’d worked with astounding soldiers before, but these men were different. Boost, Comet, and Warthog were frightfully capable, but Wrecker and his brothers…

His hand flashed out, pointing to the spot he wanted the next charge placed. He didn’t pause before moving on to set his own, leaving me to my job without so much as a backward glance. Even now, after so many months of working with them, it still felt odd to be trusted so explicitly, but there wasn’t time for even a moment of self-doubt as I quickly dropped to a knee to begin working. Despite the utter simplicity of these explosives, still, Wrecker could finish two in the time it took me to prime one, but he showed no hint of impatience; merely moved on to the next spot until the room was cleared.

We both paused upon turning to the door. It was quiet. It shouldn’t be. By now, we should have been able to make out the distant chorus of the next patrol.

“Status.” Wrecker called, voice just loud enough to be picked up by the mic. My shoulders ached from how taut the muscles were. He didn’t talk like that, governed by that stark militaristic sharpness… not unless something was wrong.

“In position.” Crosshair responded coolly.

“En route.” Tech answered next.

“Wrecker, update.” Hunter’s order came in far crisper than the others, the Marauder’s comms undistorted despite the metal walls of the facility.

“Clanker’s missed a patrol. Pretty sure they haven’t noticed us, though.” He replied curtly, head pivoting behind us before turning back to the forward door as though half-expecting a troop of droids to come rushing in at any second.

“Crosshair, any change?” The Sargeant called. I could hear the growing tension in his voice and knew he was standing tensely over the intercom, hands grinding into the metal corners.

“No, but this sector isn’t supposed to have another patrol for over four more minutes.” Cross reminded him, voice low.

“Keep an eye on your escape routes,” Hunter instructed, “and report any more abnormalities.”

A series of ‘roger’s answer him in quick succession before Wrecker continued forward, heavy blaster balanced against his shoulder. My pistols felt miniscule in comparison, but I still held them at ready as he cracked open the door. Beyond was a cavernous room dotted with Separatist transports. If things went south, Wrecker and I would blow a series of bombs starting with two at either end of the massive bay, granting us an exit route while several other explosions went off at pre-set intervals to mask our escape. If it came to that, however, there was little hope in retrieving that little girl’s father…

“… don’t like this…” Wrecker muttered after muting his com.

“How many more do we have?” I asked, treading closer to him so my whispered words would reach him.

“Ten. Twelve if we wanna hit the control tower, but…” He let the thought trail off as he peaked around the corner of the doorway to stare at the massive sheets of metal suspended overhead on thick tracks.

“So, we finish those ten and re-evaluate.” I offered quietly. He didn’t respond for a long moment, the fearsome visage of that feral skull still studying the distant bay walls.

“Yeah…” He mumbled absently, but a few more tense seconds passed before he drew a quick breath and moved through the door, strides measured and quick, stance low.

Our HUD timers had been perfectly synced. I’d known that there would be no delay between that small clock striking zero and the distant rumble of an explosion preceding at least a momentary flicker of the lights. Still, my body snapped taut as the world around us trembled, even if only for a moment. And then the darkness descended in earnest.

Our visors were designed for this: to grant us clear images even in the darkest nightmares of distant worlds. Regardless, I felt myself tense, adrenaline flooding my chest as I studied every shadow of the now monochrome display before me. Already, the Separatist forces were responding, dozens of squads activating and filing across the vast expanse of the hanger in precise, unhurried movements. Several took positions at entry points about the bay, though most marched out of sight, undoubtedly en route to the now destroyed power station.

“Yuh got some fun headin’ your way, Cross.” Wrecker warned, large hand reaching into his bag for another charge, attention trained once more on the command post.

“They won’t find anything.” He responded haughtily, words only just betraying a slight breathiness as he sprinted back across the rocky outcropping surrounding the north end of the hanger.

“Imma see how many a’ these I can stick before the others get here.” There was a subtle glee in his voice, thrilled at the promise of even that simple challenge.

“I’ll keep watch.” I drawled slightly, the eyeroll audible amidst my quiet chuckle. That tension was still there; creeping across my skin and keeping the muscles stretching up my spine taut, but this was their world – our world: impossible missions with unending dangers in which we still managed to find some taste of joy.

“…Kriff.” Every wisp of that joy instantly went cold.

“Cross?” Hunter called quickly, voice full of the same sharp concern that turned my blood to ice. Wrecker had just begun setting the fourth detonator and visibly froze, waiting anxiously for a response.

“…trap… -utoff from… -ing around…” His rushed reply broke between bursts of static.

“Dammit, they’re trying to block your comms! Where are you?!” Hunter shouted. The distorted reply was too muffled for me to make out, but the pained shout that followed was nauseatingly clear. “I can’t reach you with the Marauder. En route on foot.” His words left in a growl, voice now muffled with that telltale distortion as he abandoned the protection of the ship, the sound of the ramp lowering in the background just loud enough for the mic to pick up.

I didn’t need to see Wrecker’s face to know he was struck with the same dread as me, and, with a sharp nod of his domed helm, motioned toward the rear wall of the hanger. I was already running when the first explosion erupted through the air, but the sudden scream that tore through the speakers was all I could hear.

“Crosshair!” His name shouted from me in a burst of panic, but his desperate cry didn’t stop. The natural rasp of his voice broke in choked gasps between sounds of an agony that left my skin crawling. Blasterfire shrieked behind me in rapid flurries. I didn’t bother looking back, certain that Wrecker was eagerly providing a distraction to cover my retreat, but the droids weren’t fooled.

A curse caught on my lips as I dropped into a sharp slide, just managing to dart behind a supply crate as a troop of B1s trained their sites on me, and the volley of shots that seared the metal casing left my heart racing even faster. My arm was moving before conscious thought registered what I was doing, hand snatching at one of the few remaining charges. I didn’t know if this would work, fully aware that some explosives were perfectly stable until intentionally set off with a detonator. Regardless, I launched the small device toward them, HUD automatically following my gaze to lock onto it as I raised my own weapons, standing to face down the dozen droids targeting me.

The scent of burnt plastoid filled my senses before noting the faint line of red seared into my shoulder pauldron as I pulled the trigger.

Ringing. By now, I recognized the disorientated daze of shellshock and clung to the sense of annoyance rather than any fear or pain lingering beyond that confusion. Move. There wasn’t time for this… Before the thoughts even solidified in my mind, I could feel my body struggling back to my feet, balance wavering precariously for several seconds even as I staggered forward.

“…!” A voice rang loudly around me, but it took a moment of actual concentration to truly hear him. “-oc! Wha’ happened?!” Wrecker. He was shouting. I glanced over my shoulder to see him quickly backtracking toward me and gave my head a hard shake in some vain effort to clear the lingering fog.

“…m… I’m fine!” I called out, lips sluggish. “Used a charge to… clear the path.” He looked toward me only briefly before returning his attention to the encroaching units. Still, I could see the air of hesitation in his movements, the reluctance to risk creating any additional distance between us, so I took that decision away from him, jaw set as I forced myself through the still smoldering crater blown into the thick wall.

Crosshair was still screaming, growled cries catching on choppy breaths muffled behind ground teeth.

“Hunter, do you have eyes on him?” I shouted, sprinting toward the cover of trees surrounding the station as I silently cursed the steep incline leading toward the ship.

“Not yet, there’s… - dammit -... They sent a kriffing… platoon after him.” I could hear the strain pulling at his every word, and that dread returned en force, fear spiking at the thought of how easily he could find himself incapacitated as well just from exacerbating his preexisting injuries.

“Echo and I can provide backup.” Tech offered. Even his voice held that deep worry.

“No – continue with the mission. We’ll be halfway to the Marauder by the time you’d even reach us.” He ordered. “Doc-”

“I’m already en route,” I interrupted quickly, “just send me your location.” He didn’t respond for a long moment, and I had to fight to keep from shouting my impatience.

That earlier fear was gone. I barely bothered glancing between branches in search of enemy troops, the threat of what danger my brief isolation from the others might pose forgotten in the echo of Crosshair’s pain. My entire focus was on reaching them as quickly as I could, cursing every fallen log and sleek boulder that hindered my progress.

“I’ve got him.” He was panting, pain clear in the breathy words, and my heart twisted at the endless possible reasons for that pain. The keening gasps still sounding from Crosshair’s mic were the only thing silencing some sharp rebuke demanding he stop. There was no right answer here; no way forward without the risk of a sacrifice I couldn’t begin to fathom.

“Might still be s… s’me droids… but think I got ‘m all.” His uncertainty was just as concerning as the slight slur dampening his smoky voice. That meant his focus was dwindling; that inhuman ability to feel the dance of electricity connecting the world around him was overcome by his own pain or exhaustion or something far worse.

“Dammit, Hunter! Just send me your location before you kriffing keel over!” I ordered harshly, no longer making an effort to mask that impatience.

“Tracker… tracker’s on… H… headed back.” Curses flowing unapologetically between ground teeth, I snatched the datapad from my waist, fingers stabbing at the screen far harsher than necessary as I locked in on his signal. The Marauder was just over a klick away, and Hunter’s signal was another half klick beyond that, speed frightfully slow as he made his way back.

“Talk to me, Hunter, or I’ll start using the karking pain scale questions.” I threatened, and was relieved to hear a huff of laughter. It was weak, but it was there.

“Damaged… damaged his helmet… Visor broke…” In an instant, that relief abandoned me. “Gave him… gave him what I had, but… it’s… it’s barely taking the e-edge off.” He panted.

“Burns?” I asked, straining to hide the depth of my fear at the very thought of what damage that might cause, but Hunter quickly dismissed that fear with something far worse.

“No… think it’s… There was a – a gas…” My stride nearly faltered. A gas… Chemical burns were far more difficult to treat…

“Listen to me: when you get him back to the ship, don’t try to rinse it out with water.” I instructed quickly.

“I kn- I know.” There was an unmistakable wheeze in the gasp robbing his retort of whatever annoyance he’d meant it to hold.

“What about you, Hunter? Were you exposed?” I made no effort to hide the harshness in my own voice, words quickly growing breathy as I sprinted from the base.

“N… no, my… my kit’s f-fine.” His response offered no taste of relief, the clear strain sown through each word quickly growing worse.

“Echo and I have secured a low-atmo speeder. We can reach you-”

“Ey, I think I see ‘im.” Wrecker interrupted.

“Ca- can you i-intercept?” Hunter’s vain attempt to maintain that indominable façade only further emphasized how just much he was clearly struggling.

“Uh… only if I start blowing stuff up early.” There was no glee in what should have been an overly eager plea, attention clearly torn between the task before him and worry for his brothers.

“Delay as – as long as you can.” Hunter ordered firmly. “Tech, Ech… Echo… con-continue a-approach.”

“Hunter, if you’re having trouble breathing again, you need to stop moving!” I ordered in a shout.

“Neg… neg’tive… Mar’der’s… in sight.” My lips curled into a snarl.

“I can’t carry you both, dammit!” There was a brief pause, and then,

“Roger.”

I was going to strangle him.

Sweat had long since soaked through my blacks. My muscles burned, blood like acid pounding through my veins, and I tried not to think about how loud my own breathing was, mic pointedly muted as I listened to quick bursts of communication bounce between the others illustrating the progress of a mission I struggled to find even a whisper of concern for. My own attention remained locked on the tracker beacon, noting how near to the ship Hunter and Crosshair finally were; how wretchedly slow their progress had become; how much distance yet lay between us as that accursed hill robbed my speed.

He didn’t check in when he finally stopped, their beacons stalling at the very foot of the ramp.

“Hunter, are you inside?” I asked. He didn’t respond. “Hunter, what’s your status?” I pressed, words growing harsher. Silence. “Hunter?! Cross, do either of you read me?!”

“The Marauder’s ramp appears to have lowered but hasn’t been closed since they arrived.” Tech’s voice was carefully even, but I could hear the faint rush of an anxiety that I had no doubt resonated between all of us.

“I’m almost there.” I assured them, and, mere seconds later, let out a sharp huff of relief upon finally seeing the very tip of the dorsal fin.

The first time I’d seen the complicated overlay of the HUD used by GAR equipment, it hadn’t been during my training to join the 104th. It was in the aftermath of a battle I’d only seen in the darkness of night, sneaking through ruined transports and far too much gore to ever be warranted under the guise of seeking peace. It was maybe the fourth such scene Emmy and I had visited. We didn’t even have a ship then; just us and a pair of overstuffed medbags with no thought toward secession or consequence or even what to do with those we tried to save.

We’d only found one soldier still clinging to life, and it had taken only moments to realize that nothing we did would save him from joining his brothers. He hadn’t blamed us. I think I wanted him to… but he merely got quiet when he understood… peaceful. He’d been a flirt, and I think we both fell in love with him a bit. He’d insisted we try his helmet on – had said something inappropriate about seeing his gear on a couple cute nurses. Neither of us corrected him, and I’d been shocked at the flurry of information that had bombarded me the instant it flickered to life before my eyes. He’d laughed. I’d never forget that laugh. It was free; weightless; haunting in a way that both crushed me and justified every risk we were taking in trying to offer what meager help we could. And then he'd died.

That nauseating hurricane of endless data and alerts was still just as overwhelming now as it was then, but I’d learned to filter it out, to prioritize only what was needed in that moment. When the sudden flash of a warning lit the screen, I didn’t hesitate; didn’t waste time for even a moment’s thought before my body dropped into a slide, just barely dodging the pair of blue bolts that screamed passed me as my hands instantly snatched the pistols from my hips, but then that wealth of data began to coalesce, and I quickly released my weapons, empty hands raising in surrender.

“Wait-wait-wait! It’s me!!” I shouted, wrenching the still flashing helm from my head, and my heart churned at the sight of the terrified girl cowering just inside the Marauder’s main cabin, at the horror and fear and overwhelming relief that left her near sobbing the instant recognition finally stole through her. Then I saw the two forms lying far too still at her feet. And that same terror ripped the air from my lungs in a sob of my own.

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luvvictoria · 12 hours ago

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Through Fire and Void

+ pairings. suguru geto x f!reader/satoru gojo x f!reader

+ tags. romance, heavy (?) angst, cheating, betrayal, dark romance themes, love triangle (more like a square), secrets and lies, eventual smut

+ status. on-going

+ official playlist. by victo

+ materialist ; prev. part ; next part + a/n. Reblog with your favourite line ! It would help me very much to grow my account !! Thank you in advance

The days blurred together in a haze of routine and unresolved tension, each one indistinguishable from the last. For [Name], the mornings were the worst — waking up felt like an uphill battle she had already lost before opening her eyes. The gnawing emptiness in her chest would greet her like an unwelcome visitor, settling heavily as if it had every right to be there. She would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, her body weighted by an invisible force that whispered to her that something was wrong, even if she couldn’t pinpoint exactly what.

But life didn’t stop for feelings she couldn’t explain. So, she did what she always did: got up, plastered on a smile, and went through the motions of her day. It was easier to pretend than to face the gnawing questions in her mind. That was what Suguru loved about her, after all — her ability to hold it all together, even when everything inside her felt like it was shattering into a thousand pieces. She was dependable, predictable, someone he didn’t have to worry about.

The mornings stretched into afternoons, where her routine felt like a carefully choreographed dance, each step hiding the chaos beneath. She would laugh at jokes she didn’t find funny, nod along to conversations she wasn’t really listening to, and avoid lingering too long in moments of silence where her thoughts might catch up to her. And when she saw Suguru, she made sure to keep her doubts buried deep, masking them behind the perfect image of the girl she thought he wanted her to be.

Today, though, was different.

The cracks were starting to show. It was in the way her hands trembled slightly as she buttoned her shirt, in the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes when she greeted her classmates. It was in the way she avoided looking too closely at Suguru’s face when he kissed her on the cheek that morning, afraid that she might see something she wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

Her reflection in the bathroom mirror caught her off guard. She paused, staring at the person looking back at her. Was this who she really was now? Someone who spent every waking moment second-guessing herself, walking on eggshells, and pretending everything was fine when nothing felt fine at all? Her chest tightened, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She splashed cold water on her face, the chill shocking her back to reality, and forced herself to straighten up.

The world wouldn’t wait for her to fall apart. It never did.

The school hallways buzzed with chatter and bursts of laughter, a chaotic symphony of teenage life that felt at odds with the storm brewing inside [Name]. She moved through the throng like a ghost, her books clutched tightly to her chest as if they could shield her from the noise, the questions, the uncertainty. Her gaze stayed glued to the floor, avoiding the curious stares of those around her.

The doubts and suspicions that had taken root in her mind felt like live wires, sparking and threatening to ignite if she let herself think too long. How many times had his phone buzzed while they were together? How many times had he turned away with an excuse, his smile disarming but his eyes unreadable? She shook her head, trying to banish the thoughts.

“[Name]!”

The voice broke through her spiraling thoughts, and she stopped in her tracks, turning toward its source. Utahime was weaving through the crowd, her expression warm and filled with concern.

Utahime. The one person who had always been there, her steady presence like a lighthouse in a storm. Her friend’s kind smile cut through the noise in [Name]’s head, grounding her.

“Hey,” [Name] greeted, her lips curving into a smile she hoped looked convincing.

Utahime tilted her head, her eyes scanning [Name]’s face with the precision of someone who knew her too well. “You look like you didn’t sleep at all. Did something happen?”

The question hit harder than it should have. [Name]’s grip on her books tightened, her nails pressing into the covers. She wanted to tell Utahime everything. She wanted to spill the truth about Suguru’s distance, about the constant buzzing of his phone, about the way he sometimes looked at her like she wasn’t even there. But the words stuck in her throat.

“No, I’m fine,” she said quickly, her voice a little too bright. “Just tired.”

Utahime’s frown deepened, but she didn’t press. “Well, let me know if you need anything, okay?”

She slipped an arm around [Name]’s shoulders, and the simple gesture felt like a lifeline. “Want to grab lunch later? Just us? We can skip the cafeteria and go somewhere quieter.”

The offer warmed something in [Name], and for the first time that morning, her smile felt almost real. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

Utahime grinned, giving her a light squeeze. “Good. You need a break, and I could use some girl talk. See you then.”

As Utahime walked away, her presence lingered like the last rays of sunlight before a storm. For a brief moment, [Name] felt a flicker of hope—a reminder that no matter how chaotic things got, she didn’t have to face it alone. But as she turned to head to her next class, the weight of her thoughts settled back onto her shoulders, heavier than before.

In the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Suguru, his tall frame leaning casually against a locker as he laughed with Shoko. The sight sent a pang through her chest, but she looked away before either of them could notice her. She bit her lip and quickened her pace, the doubt coiling tighter in her stomach.

She told herself she would confront him soon — just not today. Not yet.

Across campus, Satoru Gojo leaned against a wall, his signature grin plastered on his face as he chatted with Yo Haibara. The two of them were like magnets for trouble, their energy infectious and a little chaotic.

“So, did you hear about the party at Mei Mei’s place this weekend?” Yo asked, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Of course I did,” Satoru replied, adjusting his sunglasses. “Think I’d miss out on a chance to outshine everyone?” Yo laughed, but his amusement faltered when he noticed Satoru’s gaze shift. Following his line of sight, he spotted Suguru walking across the courtyard, his phone pressed to his ear.

“He’s been busy lately,” Yo commented, his tone casual but curious. Satoru’s grin dimmed, just slightly. “Yeah. Busy.” Suguru’s conversation ended, and he slipped his phone into his pocket before joining them. “What are you two scheming now?” he asked, his tone light.

“Planning to crash Mei Mei’s party in style,” Satoru replied, his usual charm masking the edge in his voice. “What about you? Finally done with all those ‘errands’ you’ve been running?”

Suguru’s smile was as polished as ever. “Some of us have responsibilities, Satoru. Not all of us can coast through life on good looks and charm.”

“Speak for yourself,” Satoru shot back, though his laugh didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The air between them shifted subtly, a tension invisible to anyone passing by but palpable to those who knew them well. Satoru’s grin lingered, a shield against the questions simmering beneath the surface. Yo, ever the peacemaker, raised an eyebrow but stayed quiet, sensing the unspoken undercurrent between his two friends.

Suguru’s polished smile didn’t waver, though there was a flicker in his eyes — a brief shadow that Satoru caught but chose not to comment on. Instead, he leaned back against the wall, his posture as casual as ever, but his sharp gaze never left Suguru.

“Responsibilities, huh?” Satoru drawled, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “Funny how those seem to come with a lot of phone calls lately. Anyone important?” Suguru chuckled, his tone easy but calculated. “Just people I have to keep happy. You know how it is.”

“Do I?” Satoru shot back, the words light but laced with an edge. His grin widened, but his tone softened, almost too casual. “You’re not spreading yourself too thin, are you? Gotta make sure you have time for the people who really matter.” Suguru’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the shift barely noticeable. “I always do,” he replied, the smoothness of his voice betraying nothing.

Yo glanced between them, sensing the growing friction but unsure of its source. He cleared his throat, forcing a smile. “Okay, okay, let’s not get too serious here. It’s a party, not a debate club. So, Suguru, are you coming, or are you gonna leave me and Satoru to fend off Mei Mei’s sarcastic jabs by ourselves?” Suguru’s smile returned, this time with an air of detachment. “I’ll see if I can make it. No promises.”

“Translation: ‘I’m bailing,’” Satoru quipped, throwing an arm around Yo’s shoulders. “Looks like it’s just you and me, Haibara. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure we’re the stars of the night.” Yo laughed, the tension easing slightly, but Satoru’s grip on his shoulder was tighter than usual, his focus still on Suguru. “Don’t stay too busy, Suguru. You might miss something important.” Suguru didn’t respond immediately, his expression unreadable as he met Satoru’s gaze. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said finally, his tone neutral.

With that, Suguru turned and walked away, his pace unhurried but purposeful. Satoru watched him go, his usual carefree demeanor slipping for just a moment as he ran a hand through his white hair.

“You two okay?” Yo asked hesitantly.

Satoru shrugged, the grin back on his face like a mask. “Yeah, we’re fine. Suguru’s just... complicated.”

Yo didn’t push further, but the unease lingered as they made their way across campus. Satoru’s thoughts, however, remained on Suguru. He’d known his friend long enough to recognize when something was off, and lately, everything about Suguru felt like a puzzle with pieces missing.

As they reached their next class, Satoru made a mental note to keep a closer eye on him. Secrets had a way of unraveling, and Satoru wasn’t about to let Suguru’s unravel without warning.

Later that afternoon, [Name] found herself in the quiet sanctuary of the library, sitting across from Nanami Kento. The rows of books around them provided a sense of stillness, the hum of hushed whispers and the occasional turning of pages creating a calming background. It wasn’t the first time she had sought solace in Nanami’s company. The studious, dependable boy had a way of grounding her, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the whirlwind of emotions she’d been wrestling with lately.

“Are you okay?” Nanami’s voice cut through the silence, soft yet direct. He didn’t look up from his notebook, his pen moving methodically across the page, but there was a weight to his words that made her pause.

She hesitated, her pencil hovering over the math problem she had been pretending to work on. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?” she finally muttered, her tone defensive but laced with fatigue.

Nanami stopped writing and set his pen down carefully, his gaze meeting hers. His hazel eyes were steady, unfaltering, and filled with a concern that was impossible to ignore. “Because you’re not hiding it as well as you think,” he said simply. There was no judgment in his voice, just an observation that landed uncomfortably close to the truth.

Her shoulders sagged under the weight of his words. She sighed, dropping her pencil onto the table and leaning back in her chair. “I don’t know, Nanami. I just feel… off. Like something’s wrong, but I can’t figure out what it is.”

Nanami didn’t respond right away, giving her the space to gather her thoughts. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “Sometimes,” he said after a moment, “it’s okay to not have all the answers. You’re human. Feeling lost doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”

She stared at him, the unexpected kindness in his words catching her off guard. “But what if it’s not just me? What if it’s… other things? People?” She trailed off, the confession hanging in the air between them like a fragile thread.

Nanami’s expression didn’t change, but there was a slight shift in his posture, a silent acknowledgment that he understood more than she was saying. “If something — or someone — is making you feel this way, you don’t have to face it alone. You should talk to someone about it. Someone you trust.”

His words lingered in her mind, each one heavy with unspoken meaning. She wanted to tell him everything — the doubts gnawing at her, the way Suguru’s behavior didn’t add up, the emptiness she couldn’t seem to shake. But the thought of saying it out loud felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, the drop too terrifying to face.

Instead, she forced a smile. “Thank you, Nanami. I’ll think about it.”

He studied her for a moment longer, as if weighing whether to push further, but finally nodded. “Anytime.” Picking up his pen again, he returned to his work, his movements precise and deliberate.

[Name] tried to focus on her own homework, but the numbers and equations blurred together on the page. Nanami’s words echoed in her mind, intertwining with her own swirling thoughts.

When their study session ended, Nanami packed his books neatly into his bag. Before he left, he paused, his hand resting on the strap of his bag. “If you ever need to talk, I’m here,” he said softly, his tone so genuine it made her chest ache. Nanami hugged her before finally tossing his bag over his shoulder.

She nodded, watching him walk away with his usual calm, measured stride. As the library fell silent again, she sat back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling. The weight of her secrets felt heavier than ever, pressing down on her like a suffocating blanket.

For the briefest moment, she considered taking Nanami up on his offer. But the thought of unraveling everything, of exposing the cracks she had worked so hard to hide, of the fear of judgment, of the fear of someone expossing everything to the whole university, was too daunting.

Instead, she stayed there, alone with her thoughts and the overwhelming quiet of the library.

As evening fell, [Name] sat alone in her dimly lit room, the faint glow of her phone screen illuminating her face. The silence pressed heavily around her, broken only by the occasional muffled sound from outside — a dog barking, a car passing by. She stared blankly at the wall, her thoughts racing but directionless, like a storm churning in her mind with no end in sight.

Her desk was cluttered with unfinished assignments and crumpled notes, remnants of tasks she’d started but couldn’t bring herself to finish. Even the simple act of picking up a pen felt like dragging herself through quicksand. Her bed was unmade, the sheets tangled from restless nights spent tossing and turning.

She’d told Utahime she wasn’t feeling well and skipped their lunch earlier that day. She hated lying to her, but the thought of forcing a smile and pretending everything was fine felt unbearable in that moment. [Name] didn’t want to face anyone — not when the storm inside her felt like it was on the verge of breaking, spilling out in ways she couldn’t control.

Her phone buzzed in her lap, jolting her from her spiraling thoughts. For a fleeting moment, her heart leapt, a desperate hope swelling within her. Suguru. Maybe he’d finally noticed her absence, finally decided to check in.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Riko Amanai.

Hey, just checking in. Are you okay?

[Name] stared at the message for what felt like an eternity, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She wanted to respond honestly, to tell Riko that she wasn’t okay, that she felt like she was drowning. But the words caught in her throat, the weight of her own thoughts silencing her.

Finally, she typed out a reply, her hands trembling slightly.

Yeah, I'm just tired from all that studdying, that's all. Thanks for asking, sweetheart .

She hesitated before pressing send, her chest tightening with a pang of guilt. Another lie.

Riko’s reply came almost instantly. If you need to talk, I’m here. Always.

The words hit her harder than she expected, and before she could stop herself, tears welled in her eyes. They blurred her vision, spilling over and streaking down her cheeks as she clutched her phone tighter.

But even as the tears fell, she didn’t respond. What could she say? That she felt like a shadow of herself, hollowed out by the weight of her doubts and fears? That she spent most nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with her?

The thoughts swirled relentlessly, dragging her deeper into the void. She wiped at her face hastily, as if erasing the evidence of her unraveling would somehow make it less real.

No one had noticed — not Suguru, not Shoko her best friend, not even her teachers who saw her every day. She’d perfected the art of smiling, of nodding along, of being what everyone expected her to be. A people pleaser.

Her phone buzzed again, pulling her back. It was another message from Riko.

Seriously, anytime. I’m here.

The sincerity in Riko’s words broke something in her, and she let out a shaky breath, her hands trembling as she typed out a response she would never send.

I’m not okay. I’m falling apart, piece by piece, and I don’t know how to stop it. It feels like I’m screaming into a void, but no one hears me. I’m surrounded by people who care, but it doesn’t matter — It's like I'm losing myself and I don't know why, it's like I can't be helped, I’m still drowning in this endless emptiness. I can’t breathe, I can’t think, and I can’t remember the last time I genuinely felt like myself. It’s like I’m fading away, and the worst part is, no one even notices and it fucking hurts. No one sees me slipping, not even the people I thought knew me best. I don’t even know if I’m worth saving anymore.

She stared at the unsent message, the words staring back at her like a confession she wasn’t ready to make. With a sigh, she deleted it and placed her phone face down on the bed.

Instead, she curled up in the corner of her room, her knees pulled tightly to her chest as the silence closed in once more. The storm inside her raged on, unseen and unheard by anyone else.

s the night deepened, the invisible threads connecting them all tightened, pulling each of them closer to the breaking point. Secrets layered upon lies, creating a suffocating web that clung to them, unseen but impossible to ignore. It was the kind of weight that settled in the back of their minds, growing heavier with each passing moment, yet they pretended it wasn’t there.

For Suguru, every lie he told was like a brick added to the fragile façade he had built. He wasn’t blind to the cracks forming, but he couldn’t stop. The thrill of deception had become its own addiction, feeding a part of him he didn’t dare acknowledge. Each time he looked at [Name], her adoring eyes searching his for truths he’d buried, he felt a fleeting pang of guilt. But it was fleeting, drowned out by the whispers of temptation that beckoned him back to Shoko.

For [Name], the web wasn’t invisible — it was suffocating. She could feel its strands tightening around her, constricting her every breath, yet she convinced herself it wasn’t real. Her mind was a battleground, torn between the image of Suguru she cherished and the shadows of doubt she couldn’t shake. She replayed their moments together like a broken record, searching for clues she didn’t want to find. Every laugh, every touch, every lingering kiss, every night spent together, — was it real? Or was it all part of a lie she was too afraid to confront?

Satoru carried the weight of knowing too much. The truth sat heavy on his chest, a burden he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t let go of. He watched Suguru navigate his double life with the precision of a skilled manipulator, and it churned something bitter in him. He’d warned Suguru once — told him that secrets like these had a way of unraveling, tearing apart everything in their path. But Suguru had laughed it off, confident in his ability to keep the pieces together. And so Satoru stayed silent, his loyalty to his oldest friend locking him into a role he hated.

Even Yo, so often dismissed as the carefree troublemaker, felt the pull of the web. His own secrets weighed heavy on him — the pills in his pocket, the deals that left a sour taste in his mouth. He told himself it was just temporary, that he’d walk away when the time was right. But the longer he stayed, the more tangled he became, the more the lines blurred between who he was and who he was becoming.

And then there was Shoko, the catalyst no one talked about. She wore her indifference like armor, but beneath it was something colder, sharper — a satisfaction in knowing the role she played. She wasn’t blind to the pain she caused, but she told herself it wasn’t her responsibility. Suguru had made his choices, and [Name] was too naïve to see the truth. It wasn’t her job to fix anything, even tho [name] saw her as a best friend, Shoko couldn't care less about her.

As the night stretched on, each of them felt the web pulling tighter, the strands digging into their skin. None of them could see the full picture, but all of them felt its weight. The lies they told themselves were the hardest to escape, echoing in their minds like a relentless tide: This is fine. I can handle this. Nothing’s going to fall apart. It will get better.

But deep down, they all knew better. The web wasn’t just trapping them — it was unraveling, one thread at a time. And when it finally gave way, none of them would emerge unscathed.

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