#A normal boy in unusual circumstances | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

taexual · 2 years ago

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sleepwalking ● 1 | jjk

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers / fluff / angst / smut (in later chapters)

warnings: explicit language, suggestive themes, SLOW BURN

words: 7.5k

chapter 1 ► when i open my eyes to the future, i can hear you say my name

There was virtually not a single person left on the entire fourth floor of the company building, despite it being a Monday afternoon. Normally, two other managers worked in offices adjacent to yours, so the noise in the hallways never settled below a pleasant hum: producers, promoters, and publicists – the three cursed Ps – shuffled in and out, heels clicking urgently against the marble floor.

This funeral silence was unusual, but you knew it was only a calm before the storm.

Rated Riot were going on their first-ever European tour in two days to promote their sophomore album – named aptly, “ready, set, RIOT” – and today was the final day of meetings. Evidently, the executives at Jett Records assumed that the band deserved to have a whole floor to themselves, so everyone else got a half-day, leaving you and the Floor Administrator, Rue, all by yourselves until the band got here.

This unsettling silence was exactly why you heard them arrive as soon as the door of the building opened four floors below. Rated Riot lived up to their name by making themselves heard before they were seen.

As soon as the sharp ding! of the elevator reached you in your office—your door was always open on meeting days, because the four members of one of the most promising rock bands in the world at the moment lacked any sense of direction—you could immediately feel the atmosphere lighten, the previous silence long gone.

“Rue! The apple of my eye!” Hoseok, the drummer and the de facto mood setter of Rated Riot, exclaimed as you listened to the familiar sounds of the band as they exited the elevator and, based on the repeated clicking of shoes in the lobby, momentarily got disoriented.

“Always looking good, Rue!” Jungkook, the vocalist, as well as the new Golden Boy of Jett Records followed after.

“Good to see you again,” Taehyung, the always well-mannered bassist, said. Silence followed and you assumed he shook Rue’s hand.

“Hello,” Yoongi, who was, technically, the guitarist of the band, but, really, played any instrument he could get his hands on, was the last to speak. He’d always been very well-spoken in songwriting, but quieter and more careful in most everyday conversations.

“Welcome, guys,” Rue greeted them. You couldn’t see any of them from where your office was located, but you’ve been in a similar situation countless times before and you could imagine what was happening without needing to witness it first-hand.

Rue would stand up from her seat and point her right hand down the hallway, reminding them—yet again—that they needed to walk down the hall and take a right turn. The members of Rated Riot, in turn, would walk down the hall. At least one of the four of them would turn left instead, causing a pause as the group gathered back together, exchanging confused glances. Then, they would turn back to Rue—who would still be standing there, her right hand extended like a helpful Statue of Liberty. They’d laugh at themselves, nod at Rue, and take the correct turn.

If things were going well, they’d find your office on first try—they’d just need to find the open door and peer inside; your desk was right in front. More often than not, however, they stumbled around, knocking and chuckling to themselves as they continuously interrupted the offices of everyone else, but you.

They were special. Not just because they looked like loose ducklings, separated from the Mother Duck, whenever they entered the company building, but also because, in spite of their own lack of coordination, they still managed to get things done.

And they brightened the day of everyone they came across. Which was almost ironic—as you realised by watching the four of them enter your office—considering the effortless rockstar aura that surrounded them.

Jungkook walked in first. That was typical because he usually did: sometimes because he was the only one who remembered where your office was, but usually because the other members offered him as a sacrificial lamb when they went knocking around every office on the floor in search of yours.

He was dressed in all-black—always—adorned with silver chains and necklaces that often gave you a start when you looked up, because he had a very specific way of entering the room: he seemed to make sure to position himself in just a way that the light, coming in from the window behind you, always reflected off his jewellery and momentarily blinded you.

Sure enough, you blinked, cringing into yourself as the brightness hit your eyes, and when you opened them again, he was already grinning.

“Hi,” he said and the rest of the members followed in after him—a brighter palette of colours.

Even Yoongi, who was the only one who could have given Jungkook a run for his money if you had to count which one had more black items of clothing in their closet, was wearing a beige, loosely buttoned shirt.

Despite that, however, you could tell they were rock artists as soon as you looked at them—all tattoos, piercings, intense eye make-up behind sunglasses, and old band tees—and you stood up, excited to let them know that, finally, every last loose thread had been found and tightened. They’d get to introduce their artistry on a different continent, and you’d make sure it’d go smoothly.

“We’re leaving for Prague tomorrow morning,” you told them once the five of you settled down at the round table in the back of your office. “So, if you were planning a going away party, I strongly advise against it.”

“We weren’t,” Yoongi said, lifting his glass of lemon water—there was a jug on the table—and giving you a reassuring look. “This is the strongest drink I’m having tonight.”

“Thanks,” you said paradoxically enough, but being grateful when the members of the band you managed didn’t get drunk before an important day was part of the job. “I’d also appreciate it if—”

“Hold on a second, though,” Jungkook interrupted—you’d been anticipating it. “I’m going to a gig tonight, Reconnaissance are in town again. And there’s obviously an after-party—”

Despite Reconnaissance being, arguably, one of the most popular rock bands in the world right now, you were definite when you cut him off, “No.”

“—so, I—wait. No?” he paused. “I never miss their shows, you know that. And I don’t get drunk easily. You know that, too.”

“That’s why you drink so much,” you rebutted. The rest of the band members got their phones out, knowing well enough at this point that this would take a while. “And then I have to come get you out of trouble.”

“You absolutely do not have to do that,” Jungkook insisted. “We’ve been through this.”

“Have we?” you argued. “Because I keep telling you it’s my job to keep you from passing out in a dirty bar bathroom, but you don’t care enough to hear me.”

“Well, you’re not very convincing. What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll wake up again.”

You were used to having this conversation with him—you’ve argued about this way before he became a singer and you ended up as his manager. And yet, the lax way he said this made you clench your fists.

Despite being mostly introverted, Jungkook did enjoy getting drinks with friends: even if said friends enjoyed his celebrity status more than they enjoyed the drinks.

“And if you don’t?” you threatened. “Rated Riot’s vocalist gets his stomach pumped. A catchy headline.”

“Yeah, man,” Hoseok interjected, putting his phone screen down on the table and crossing his arms. “Doesn’t go well with the vibe we’re going for. Don’t get your stomach pumped.”

“Fine, I—”

“What he meant was, don’t drink so much that you’d need your stomach pumped,” you clarified because Jungkook moonlighted as a Loophole Finder.

“I never have!” he insisted. “Seriously, you treat me like I’m still nineteen. Have some faith.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the other members of the group look up from their phones. The band had only formed a few years ago, so you were the only person in this room who knew what Jungkook was like when he was nineteen. You never spoke about it – that was likely why everyone was so curious.

In any case, Jungkook was wrong. You did have faith—that’s why you spent so many of your off-duty nights driving down deserted streets to pick him up after his asshole friends convinced him it was a good idea to try the biker bar on the outskirts of town, and he’d gotten in an altercation with a burly redneck that was twice his size.

There was no time for that now, not when he was supposed to be on stage in Prague in three days.

“Well,” Taehyung spoke up. “I was thinking of going to the show as well. Not so much the after-party, I have better plans. But, uh, I could come, after all.”

You appreciated the offer, but you knew that these better plans involved him spending time with his girlfriend, Luna, who was going to join him for a few weeks of the European tour, but after that, the two of them were going to be apart for several months.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” you said, not trying very much to hide the hopeful undertones in your voice. Jungkook’s friends felt intimidated by all the members of Rated Riot; they’d be on their best behaviour if Taehyung was there.

“No, I think it might be fun,” Taehyung said. You exhaled quietly and he could sense your gratitude without words. He turned to his younger bandmate. “Should we go together?”

Jungkook groaned and mumbled under his breath, “not if I have to third-wheel again.”

“When have you ever third-wheeled anyone?” you asked rhetorically, but he was already opening his mouth to reply. Quickly, you added, “be careful, is what I’m saying, okay? I am complaining about having to pick you up from all kinds of holes, but if you need me to bring NDAs, I will bring them. So, ask.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, but chose to stay quiet. He knew better now – the one time he did not make anyone sign a non-disclosure agreement after an impromptu, drunken busking session in New York, pictures of him, half-dressed and giving a lap dance to a random, equally as drunk, groupie, were on every rock page on Instagram. Accompanied with detailed retellings of how it came to happen, of course; all of them more ridiculous than the next. Your personal favourite story was that he was recruiting members for a sex cult.

“We’ll call you,” Taehyung gave you a nod, “if we have to.”

“Perfect,” you said, glancing at Jungkook again, even though expecting him to confirm that he, too, would call you if he had to, was wishful thinking.

Every time you reminded him how he needed to start going out with a less destructive crowd, he’d treat his phone like a poisonous snake – and he’d been doing that even before you became his manager. His friends seemed to get their pleasure fix from watching you arrive and rip him a new one, so they were the ones who called you most of the time, always laughing into their phones like true accomplices.

It was funny how Jungkook was the only one who passed out or got so wasted, he ended up on a ferry to Martha’s Vineyard. His friends always walked away unscathed and, usually, only called you by the time they were back in their bedrooms – “when we left, he was ordering mint and honey daiquiris, you should probably go over there and check up on him.”

It was like they loved pushing him into danger and purposefully bringing the two of you together again, and Jungkook either didn’t realise or didn’t care anymore. It’s been a while, after all.

You and Jungkook had been broken up for almost two years when you got the unbelievable offer to manage an up-and-coming rock band. This was over two years ago now and you were only twenty-four back then. Up until that point, you had worked as an assistant manager for various indie artists, so that offer was massive.

You figured the downside that your ex-boyfriend happened to be in this particular band was worth it, considering the huge leap in your career you’d make by accepting this job.

And, for the most part (excluding the first two months that were pure chaos of repressed feelings), you and Jungkook both made this work, drawing a strict line between your relationship before Rated Riot (back when he still had your phone number saved as “❌”) and after he met you again as Rated Riot’s new manager (ironically, now your name on his phone was “❌❌❌”).

You’ve managed Rated Riot for almost exactly two years now, and if you’d asked the band – which you wouldn’t, partially out of humbleness, but also because you were scared – you’d know that they loved working with you as much as you loved working with them. So, in the end, it all really had been worth it.

“Check your emails for the descriptive itineraries,” you continued smoothly enough. The guys at the table put their phones down and returned their attention to you. “Now, who else is coming with us?”

Technically, the band wasn’t supposed to bring anyone – the label was explicitly clear about that. They wanted the first European tour to go “without a hitch” (meaning, without distractions), but you held a more liberal view here.

You didn’t think loved ones coming on the road were a distraction; if anything, they were a firm support mechanism that made touring easier for the artists.

“I know Luna’s staying until the Barcelona show, yeah?” you asked, double-checking the notes on your laptop.

Taehyung nodded, a small smile on his lips at the mention of the girl. “She flies out the next day, yeah.”

“Okay. Who else?”

“Well, Sid and Jude are coming,” Jungkook spoke up and, after seeing your eyes roll back, added, quieter, “and Minjun isn’t sure.”

The three musketeer-wannabes – Sid, Jude, and Minjun – were on speed dial on your work and personal phones, because if Rated Riot had a performance and the vocalist wasn’t there, it was likely those three who were to blame. They were the only ones who knew Jungkook longer than you did, and they seemed to take pride in the fact that they had successfully been causing you headaches for seven years now.

“Sid and Jude,” you repeated, “aren’t worried they’ll lose their jobs if they travel to Europe abruptly?”

“No, they’re cool,” Jungkook shrugged, not catching the mockery in your voice—both Sid and Jude worked for their families, which really meant that they got paid to occasionally show up at the shareholders’ meetings on behalf of their parents. “I’ll text Minjun right now. Maybe he’ll come when we’re in Poland…”

“I needed confirmation by last week,” you reminded him. “At the latest.”

He glanced at you from his phone and then went back to texting. “So, why’d you ask now?”

“To double-check,” you said. “They’re going to have to book the hotels themselves. Or sleep on the street. Honestly, I don’t really—”

“So, uh,” Yoongi interrupted before another argument could begin, “how many hotels this time?”

“Prague, Amsterdam, and Paris. And some nights in London, depending on our flight time,” you said with an apologetic smile. “Bring your favourite blankets. We’re living on buses for the next three months.”

None of them minded – if anything, you could see a little glitter in their eyes as they listened to you. Being on the road and having to sleep on the tour bus every night was an experience they’d missed. They hadn’t gone on an actual tour in almost a year – as someone who thrived on live performances, they had obviously missed this.

Really, you’ve missed it, too. Rated Riot may have been a riot to look after as their manager – pun fully intended – especially on tour, but they were your riot to deal with.

You liked your job and the challenges that came with it, because, in the end, you overcame most of them: starting with your previous relationship with Jungkook (no one in the band had a problem with it, and the label miraculously seemed not to know about it) and ending with your relatively young age (Jungkook was the only one who had a problem with you being his age, but he had a problem with almost everything).

Hopefully, one day you’d manage to overcome the challenge that was getting Jungkook to open his eyes and realise that the people he surrounded himself with were more groupies than his friends. But all in due time.

“If you have questions,” you said as the meeting approached its’ conclusion, “go right ahead.”

“Wake-up calls,” Yoongi said. “Any possibility of arranging those?”

You smiled – this had been traditional practice ever since you started to work with them.

“I’ll call,” you said and then remembered a particularly frustrating way in which this had backfired. You added, “and keep you on the phone until you’re out of bed.”

Back when you were an assistant manager to a different band, this had been your main task. And, you supposed, if Rated Riot had assistant managers, they’d be the ones making wake-up calls, too – however, the band had only started to live up to their potential now. Before you booked the European tour for them, Jett Records thought they barely needed one manager to begin with.

You’ve made it this far. If the tour went well, maybe you’d get to expand your team as the band gained popularity.

Jungkook felt giddy the whole night. The Reconnaissance show with Taehyung and Luna was a lot of fun, as expected—he’d seen the band five times before tonight, and they never failed to let him down.

When he arrived at the after-party, he was nearly vibrating with excitement—on top of everything, he was going on tour tomorrow and he knew he might lose his mind over it—and this was usually the time when he tended to get reckless.

He did drink a little too much to retain a completely sober mind, but he stayed true to his word and did not wander anywhere or caused any—serious—trouble. You would have said that’s because Sid and Jude weren’t with him, but Jungkook was convinced it was because he simply had great self-control when he put his mind to it.

The only place he went to after the party was his family’s house, so he could say goodbye to his grandma. She probably wouldn’t even hear him—and if she would, then she probably wouldn’t recognise him—but he couldn’t leave to Europe without saying goodbye to her.

He thought he’d take his Katana to the house, but then remembered immediately the last time he got on his motorcycle drunk – his grandma had, literally, smacked him on the back with a rolling pin, yelling about how careless he was. She didn’t say that she hit him out of concern for his safety—that was obvious—and, instead, she focused on how hard he’d worked on restoring the bike after he’d bought it; his first purchase with the money that he made off Rated Riot’s music.

“Don’t you want it to last?” she had said then. She’d been the only person who believed he could bring the bike to life, despite it not having a single properly functioning part, least of all the engine. “You worked so hard on it. Do you want to wreck it in one night?”

Tonight, however, everyone in the house was asleep when he arrived. It was quiet, so he tried to be silent as he went up the stairs to her room—and then knocked over a picture frame after his feet fumbled on the carpet in the hallway. But no one went out to check who was making the noise—which was dangerous, he realised for a brief, semi-sober second; but the house had security, so he figured they were safe from outsiders—and he gently lowered the handle on his grandma’s door, peering inside.

The room was painted in blue hues from the night light next to the bed where his grandma was sleeping. He approached—really trying to be quiet this time—and carefully pulled her comforter up, so she wouldn’t get cold, even though the room felt warm.

It was always warm here and Jungkook had to bite his lip when he realised how much he missed sitting here as a child while dozens of his cousins ran around the house and wreaked loud, childish havoc. How much he missed his grandma reading him books—never children’s stories, he always insisted she read him the thickest, most boring books he could find on her shelves, just so he could stay in her room longer, listening to her soothing voice and feeling her comforting warmth.

Sniffling quietly, he leaned closer to her and brushed a strand of white hair from her face, listening to her soft breathing as she slept, unaware of his presence.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised in a whisper as he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. She didn’t wake. “We will talk again then.”

He knew he’d keep this promise even if she didn’t hear it, even if she didn’t remember. But leaving her room felt painful and he was far less excited now. The alcohol had begun to wear off and heaviness settled in his chest instead. This happened sometimes when he was left alone with his thoughts, especially after he visited his grandma.

He'd come back, he knew he would. But as he glanced at his grandma’s sleeping frame one more time—remembering how she hadn’t called him by his name in months; not one glint of recognition in her eyes when she’d see him—he wondered if he’d have anyone to come back to.

Surprising exactly no one, Jungkook was the only one who did not answer your wake-up call the next morning. Having foreseen this, you’d already called Hoseok, Yoongi and Taehyung – in that order, because the first two took the longest to wake up, and by that time, Taehyung was already awake on his own – and only then attempted to reach the one remaining member.

Fifteen minutes later, you were already dressed and ready to drive over to his house and personally wake him up with an icy bath in bed. And just then, your phone rang – his name as the caller’s ID.

“Look who—”

“Okay, okay,” Jungkook’s groggy voice cut you off before you could greet him with the appropriate sarcastic remark. “I’m awake. Halfway in the shower.”

“I don’t hear running water.”

He responded with a groan first, then shuffling. You waited patiently, balancing the phone on your shoulder as you unlocked the door of your apartment. Finally, you could hear the water start running on the other end of the call.

“Happy?” Jungkook asked, always the brightest of all rays of sunshine in the morning.

“Ecstatic,” you replied, equally as enthusiastically. “Sending a car to pick you up in half an hour. Don’t be late.”

“I can drive myself—”

“No driving when you’re hungover,” you said, not for the first time. “In fact, don’t even go near your Katana.”

He considered several ways to respond to you; first and foremost, defending his beloved, navy-coloured Suzuki Katana with a matte coating, custom-made leather seat covers, golden rims, purring engine, and—anyway. He ended up choosing to respond with a question, “how do you know I’m hungover?”

“I’ve known you for almost ten years,” you replied. “If you go out drinking the night before, you’ll wake up hungover.”

“Well, how do you know I drank that much last ni—?”

“Listen,” you cut him off, hoisting your suitcases over the threshold of your front door. You fixed your phone against your cheek and continued, “how about you take that shower, and we’ll resume this nice little Q&A at the airport?”

“No,” he replied and, in a purposefully exaggerated breathy voice said, “I simply can’t stop talking to you.”

“Hanging up now.”

Jungkook laughed as he listened to the beep, indicating the end of the call. Putting his phone on the side of the sink, he took his shirt off and was about to continue undressing when his phone vibrated and nearly fell off the sink.

Scrambling to catch it, he smacked it against the cupboard and exhaled in relief when he saw that the screen hadn’t cracked. He was expecting a text from you – a threat, in case he’d go back to bed – but it was actually Sid, asking for the time of his flight.

His friends were taking a separate flight out to Prague – they weren’t happy about it and neither was he, but at least they’d get to hang out in Europe eventually – and, obviously, they wanted to know what time they’d meet up and where.

He double-checked the itinerary you’d emailed him, got confused about the time zone difference and texted Sid back.

“Gonna be there the day before the show,” his text said, “jetlag. Sleep. Maybe beer? Catch u there.”

Sid was, of course, delighted to hear the mention of beer and Jungkook snickered to himself before he resumed undressing for his shower—knowing from experience that you wouldn’t be above shipping him to Prague in the cargo section on the plane if he was late to the airport.

As it turned out, for the first time in his life, Jungkook was so terribly jet-lagged, that he did not feel like doing anything – not even drinking with friends – but sleeping.

He slept through the whole layover in Paris – and, consequently, through Taehyung and Luna’s stories about the 5 minutes they got to spend in front of the Eiffel Tower before rushing back to the airport (never mind that it was about 2 AM) – as well as the flight to Prague.

He only woke up on the bus ride to the hotel when he felt something nudging his lips and opened his eyes to find an open bottle of Coca-Cola in your hands as you held it by his face.

“Did you just—” he started to say, but his voice sounded brittle, more a croak than a voice, really. He cleared his throat and tried again, “did you just wake me up by making me sniff soda?”

“It worked,” you replied, nudging the bottle at him again. “Drink. You need sugar. You didn’t eat anything on the plane here.”

“I had that bagel on the flight to Paris,” he mumbled, but sat up properly and took the bottle from you.

“That was a croissant,” you clarified. It was almost cute to see him barely awake. “And I warned you about flying with a hangover. You did this to yourself.”

“I’m fine,” he replied after taking a big gulp of coke. “Not sure which day it is, but other than that, I’m perfect. Do you have anything for headaches?”

Snickering, you nodded. “Yeah, give me a second.”

You went to fetch your carry-on bag and returned with ibuprofen, which allowed him to go back to sleep until you arrived at the hotel. The other members were also in and out of slumber, but that was their own fault. You and the other girls on this tour, which, really, only meant Luna— Taehyung’s girlfriend—and Maggie—the tour photographer—had planned ahead and taken sleeping pills as soon as the plane took off. Meanwhile, every man on this trip thought too much of himself.

By the time you arrived to the hotel and checked in, it was already lunchtime. If this had been your first time travelling with Rated Riot, you would have been beyond surprised to see what effect food had on them: they looked like they'd just returned from the most refreshing vacation in the Caribbean. Lively conversation and cheerful laughter echoed around the table – no one would have guessed that they’d just spent over 13 hours on airplanes. Their recovery was nearly always miraculous.

And, naturally, since they were feeling better, they wanted to do something as soon as the first rehearsal was over. You had far too many things to do before the show tomorrow, so you couldn’t babysit them – again, an assistant manager would have been life-saving – but you knew you’d still have to keep an eye on them.

Taehyung and Luna went sightseeing, but they were the sort who kept you updated on their adventures through pictures, which you were endlessly grateful for. There was never a reason to worry here; if you were a teacher who had to pretend not to have a favourite student, Taehyung would be the student you were pretending about.

Yoongi and Hoseok, initially, went to a record store together, but then split up – one of them returned to the hotel for a nap, and the other one went café-hopping. Those two were also fine – they usually took some members of the crew with them anyway, so you knew that in the worst-case scenario, you’d still have several people you could call to reach them.

Now Jungkook was going to meet up with Sid and Jude, both of whom had, most unfortunately, successfully landed in Prague. The Diabolical Duo would take him out drinking, you had no doubt about it – and this was where you’d have to step in with another warning. You weren’t the angry mother, dragging her children by their ears, but you felt it necessary to remind Jungkook of what was at stake if he allowed his friends to be their usual, obnoxious selves tonight.

However, you didn’t want to ask, so you had to figure out where to find them yourself. You didn’t even have to use the seven years that you’ve known them to deduce two logical, universal-for-all-assholes things: one, Jungkook’s friends wouldn’t be nearly tired enough not to want to drink. Two, they’d be too jet-lagged to look for their usual hole-in-the-wall spot that sold drinks. Therefore, they’d have to settle for the bar of the hotel.

And when you exited the elevator on the ground floor later that night, your assumption was confirmed – you could hear their laughter from where you were standing in the lobby.

You’d texted Jungkook as you arrived, hoping he’d leave his friends and come see you at the back of the bar for a minute, but unfortunately, Sid and Jude noticed you and waved you over with loud cheers.

Embarrassed as the people in booths around you began to turn to look, you swallowed and walked towards the front where Jungkook and his friends were sitting by the bar.

“Wow, it’s been so long!” Jude exclaimed as you approached. In your opinion, it wasn’t nearly long enough, but you only lifted the corners of your lips and did not comment.

“Jungkook, a moment?” you said instead.

“Let’s get you a drink!” Sid suggested as though you hadn’t spoken and extended a hand, clicking his fingers to get the bartender’s attention. “Hey! Can we get some Margaritas here?”

You cringed watching this, but, again, restrained yourself. They could behave like pricks all they wanted; it wasn’t their reputation that you had to protect. Someone else would, hopefully, teach them a lesson.

“Sure,” Jungkook said to you, sliding off the stool. He seemed sober enough to walk without any sort of waddling or stand without swaying, but you could tell by the relaxation behind his eyes, that he was already tipsy.

His friends patted him on the back and whistled as he followed you to a quieter spot in the back of the bar. He shook his head at them—but had a grin on his face, and for that alone you wanted to punch him.

“Can I count on you to take it easy?” you asked, once the two of you were out of earshot. “Not because you’ll make my job much harder if you don’t, but because you have a rehearsal tomorrow at eight, and that’s hard with the jet lag alone, but add a hangover into the mix, and—”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, but you’ve heard this song many times before. It was one of his top hits. “I’m actually tired, so I might have a few and then go straight to bed.”

“Okay,” you said, choosing to believe him, because that was easier than making him sign a contract, swearing not to wake up in a dumpster. “Can you text me when you’re back in your room? So I know you’re not lost somewhere in Prague with Dumb and Dumber.”

His lip twitched in an almost-smile at the nickname, but he resisted – a loyal friend, even if they didn’t deserve it – and gave you a nod.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll text you. And I won’t get lost.”

“Okay—” you started to say and then squinted your eyes at him, realizing. “I meant don’t go wandering the city streets while drunk.”

He snorted and placed a hand on your left shoulder. Gazing into your eyes, he enunciated very dramatically, “I will not get into trouble. Promise.”

You pursed your lips. “You’d better not.”

“I realise what that would mean, believe it or not,” he said, straightening. “Tomorrow is an important day. I’d never do anything to ruin it.”

“I know,” you said. “I trust you to make smart choices. I don’t trust them.”

You pointed at the twosome by the bar – both of them watching you like you were the entertainment of the night – and Jungkook turned to look. Sid and Jude both immediately waved at him. Jungkook waved back and, when he looked at you again, he was smiling softly.

Clearly, he genuinely enjoyed hanging out with those two. You’d never believe that there was anything about them that was bearable—let alone enjoyable—so Jungkook’s weird attachment to them had to come from some sort of weird destructive force inside of him.

“I’ll keep them in check,” he said and then, possibly prompted by the skeptical frown on your face, he felt the need to explain, “they help me relax. If it weren’t for them, I’d probably be shaking from anxiety all the time. Kind of like you are.”

He winked as he said that last part, grinning at his own wit, but you rolled your eyes in response.

“Goodnight,” you said then. “Don’t forget to text me.”

“Are you going to stay up late waiting for my text?” his tone was humorous and it stopped you from leaving.

“Hopefully not,” you said, ignoring the flirty comment that was obviously meant to rattle your composure. “But it’d do you well to remember that I can make life very difficult for you if you disobey me.”

He lifted his eyebrows at this, but did not lose the grin. “Oh? Will I get punished if I—”

“Goodnight, Jungkook,” you said again—louder—and turned away.

You glanced over your shoulder when you reached the archway leading to the lobby and caught him watching you leave—he was still beaming, but he composed himself and nodded when he caught your eye. You nodded back.

Maybe he really would be fine tonight.

And, truly, Jungkook had meant what he’d said – he couldn’t wait for tomorrow and there was nothing he’d do to ruin that. Not even if the smirking faces of his friends prompted him to laugh as soon as he returned to his seat by the bar.

“What do you want, assholes?” he asked, punching Jude on the shoulder as he walked past his friends. As soon as he sat down, leaving Sid in the middle, he took a big gulp of the beer he’d left waiting; only his third one tonight.

“We don’t want anything,” Jude said, still smirking. “What did she want? Another moral how you’re not being a good boy?”

Jungkook rolled his eyes. “No—”

“I was always curious,” Sid interrupted. “Was she like that when you dated, too? You know, always in charge?”

Even before you and Jungkook had settled into a steady enough rhythm of working with each other, neither of you spoke to others about your relationship. Not while you were dating, and not after you broke up. So, all your friends—real friends and whoever the hell Sid and Jude were—essentially knew nothing of your relationship.

And there was nothing he’d tell them now.

It’s been four years since you broke up—plenty of time to move on. Not to mention, you were both (trying to be) professionals. There was no point to bring back the past; there never had been.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Jungkook teased, managing to keep the banter going without revealing how the question irked something inside him.

“I would. That’s why I asked,” Sid replied, laughing haughtily. A few heads turned his way. Sid sounded very much like an entitled heir—or an elephant high on helium—when he laughed, especially when there was nothing funny going on. “I mean, you never talked about her to us. Was it getting rid of her that made you who you are today?”

Jude snorted, slapping Sid on the back in a half-supportive, half-warning manner. Jungkook knew that the level of your patience for his friends ranged from Sid (no patience) to Jude (case-by-case), to Minjun (bearable)—and he could see why.

“I didn’t get rid of her,” he said, an edge to his voice. “We broke up and moved on. Did you hear from Minjun?”

Sid laughed again—even louder than before; the glasses behind the bar seemed to clatter.

“Look at him, trying to change the topic!” he wheezed, looking at Jude over his shoulder.

“Leave him be, man,” Jude said and nodded at Jungkook. “So many girls around us and this dumbass is still hung up on your ex, huh?”

Jungkook finished his beer and held the liquid behind his cheeks for a second before swallowing. He caught the bartender’s eye and lifted his empty glass, indicating a refill.

“I don’t think I’m the one who’s hung up,” Sid said with a very knowing look in his eye.

Jungkook looked at him and raised his eyebrows—surprised and momentarily distracted from his drink. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you come to her as soon as she calls, like a puppy,” Sid replied. “So, you tell me.”

“I have to come when she calls,” Jungkook defended. “She’s my manager.”

“Yeah, dumbass,” Jude said, slapping Sid on the back of the head this time. “She’s his manager.”

Jungkook suddenly found himself smiling when he realised that you’d probably consider this the reason why Sid acted the way he did sometimes – permanent brain damage from Jude’s incessant slaps.

“Well, then someone,” Sid said, angrily accentuating the word—the anger was clearly directed at Jude, but the pronoun at Jungkook, “has a fucking crush on their manager.”

“I don’t have a crush—”

Sid spoke over him, “I bet you could never get her to go out with you again.”

Jungkook saw the bartender approach to pour him a drink and he heard Jude scoffing, but he could only blink, taken aback by what sounded like an accusation. “Why—why would I even—why—”

“Oh, see, see?!” Sid screeched, turning to Jude with a triumphant expression. Jude gave him a pitiful look—and looked about ready to give him a black eye, too. “He knows I’m right, it’s why he’s stuttering!”

“Dude,” Jude said slowly. “You are yelling.”

Jungkook cleared his throat, nodding at the bartender as a thank-you and then bringing his refilled glass to his lips. “And I’m not stuttering.”

“You so are, my man,” Sid taunted, patting Jungkook on the shoulder with so much force, the beer nearly spilled from the glass and from his mouth. “Your ass is so whipped, you’re going to be singing at her wedding to some random producer.”

Suddenly hyper-aware that there were several producers on tour with them right now, Jungkook put his drink down and straightened in his seat.

“I’m not fucking singing at weddings,” he said.

“Not yet,” Sid pointed out, grinning. He knew he'd gotten under his skin.

“Okay, come on now,” Jude interjected, leaning back in his seat to be able to see Jungkook. “You promised you’d sing at my wedding.”

“As if anyone would ever marry you,” came Sid’s snide.

“You shut the fuck up,” Jude snarled, but there was no malice behind his bark. “I have more chances of marrying someone than he has of marrying his manager.”

“He—oh, fuck!” Sid was about to argue, but then burst into laughter—so loud and thunderous again, that the bartender was forced to glance over at the security guards by the entrance to the bar. “That’s good! You’re so right!”

“Both of you are fucking idiots,” Jungkook spoke. The edges of his vision were red. “I could get her to go out with me again if I wanted to.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Sid nodded, wiping invisible tears from his eyes. “Big talk.”

“Jungkook, no offense, my dude,” Jude said, leaning forwards this time. “Let him have this one. Sid may be dumber than box of rocks, but he’s got a point here. Forget about her.”

Another insinuation that had Jungkook throwing his head back in frustration.

“There’s nothing to forget!” he groaned. “What the fuck are you even talking about? I just fucking told you I moved on.”

“So why are you getting all riled up, then?” Sid smirked, more and more satisfied with each curse that he provoked out of him.

Jungkook felt even angrier, because he was getting riled up, but he had a good reason for it. He enjoyed banter as much as the next person, but he did not enjoy mockery at his own expense—especially not the kind that involved you.

He snapped back, “because you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

His friends snickered at this – convinced that his irritation only proved the point they were both making – and Jungkook clenched his jaw, annoyed.

“If anything,” he added sharply as he picked his beer up—as if that could somehow distance him from this conversation, “it’s her who’s still hung up on me.”

That was a cheap, childish defence, and everyone by the bar knew it.

“Yeah, right!” Sid cried out, but resisted from laughing again. “We’ve heard her yell at you more times than we can count. You fucking wish she was still hung up on you.”

“Okay, to be fair, Sid can probably only count to five,” Jude added—Sid finally punched him on the shoulder—as he toyed with the paper umbrella on his fourth cocktail; the Margaritas they’d ordered were long gone. “But he’s right, you know? You’d never get her to go out with you again.”

There was pity in Jude’s voice—as if he felt sorry that Jungkook lived in denial, chasing after you and convincing himself that it was only a matter of time before you’d come back to him.

This made Jungkook’s temper vile, his face red, hot, and angry. He slammed his beer back on the table, forcing some of it to spill. “Yes, I fucking would!”

Sid was hiccupping as he laughed.

“Okay, okay, listen—let’s make a proper bet,” he managed. He picked up a napkin from the bar top, then looked around for something to write on it with—not finding anything, he stood up from his seat and leaned over the bar, grabbing a pen before the bartender could notice. “$1000 says you can’t get her to go on a date with you again.”

He glanced at Jude for approval—Jude shrugged.

“I’d suggest $500,” he said. “We don’t want to rob him blind.”

Jungkook’s face remained stoic, prideful.

“Fine with me. But you have no idea what you’re getting yourselves into,” he bit.

“Oh, that’s right, he’s been awfully cocky about the whole thing, hasn’t he?” Sid spoke, addressing his rhetorical question at the bar. He wrote something on the napkin and then lifted it to show the number “4000” to Jungkook. “How about this: Jude and I each pay you $2000 if you win. But if you lose, you give us your Katana.”

Jungkook lifted his eyebrows, the sudden mention of his bike catching him off-guard. Sid came from old money, he could afford fifteen brand-new motorcycles with the change he found in his suitcase, probably.

“How is that fair?” he asked. “Do you even know how much a Suzuki costs these days? It’s not $4000, I can tell you that much.”

“Why should you care?” Sid asked, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You were so confident about winning the bet just a second ago. Scared you’ll lose after all?”

In his defence, Jungkook did hesitate for half a moment. But there was a shit-eating grin on Sid’s mouth that he wanted to wipe off more than anything else, and he downed the rest of his beer in one big gulp—a showcase of his determination.

“Not at all,” he said then. He wasn’t sure if he was lying as he said this, but he had no time to figure that out. He extended his hand at Sid. “Get your money ready.”

Here, he was putting up a front – this wasn’t about the money at all. It was more a thing of pride; they were teasing him, purposefully making fun of him—and he wanted to prove them wrong, regardless if they were actually wrong.

Smirking, Sid shook his hand—cementing the bet between all three of them, as Jude was busy finishing off his cocktail—and was about to say something when Jungkook jumped off his stool.

“Have to go now,” he said, always a show-off with his overly creative comebacks when he was tipsy. “My horoscope predicts a date and a big fortune in my near future. Got to prepare.”

chapter title credits: sleep token, “rain”

special shout-out & thank you to @eleni-cherie who delivered the much-appreciated kicks in the ass, so that i would keep writing. the odds were really against me, so if it weren't for you & our in-depth fanfic discussions, i definitely wouldn't even be writing this note right now, let alone finally starting this story 💜

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#jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #bts reactions #bts x reader #bts angst #bts smut #bts fluff #bts rockstar au #bts scenarios #jungkook rockstar au #jungkook reaction #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook fanfic

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scliffe · 3 months ago

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I know most of us (including me) laughed (quite a lot) on this scene because; Earl Ciel “Sebastian-Kill-Them-All” Phantomhive of all people, is saying something like this about killing people? It sounds so fake and ridiculous right? Hypocritical, even. But I also think it’s rather empathetic of Ciel to say this in front of the Weston boys because he understands that these boys did not murder out of evil intent; it was a crime of passion, not premeditated. I’m sure that in Ciel’s eyes, these upperclassmen of his are still much more innocent than he is—and so when he speaks to them, he is speaking to “normal people”, not serial murderers. But while Ciel does not see the prefects as evil people, he doesn’t infantilize them either. He does not empathize with them trying to justify their actions; because things like school values or reputation is not a worthy cause for these boys to kill someone over. At the same time Ciel may not personally care about the lives of Derrick Arden and the others, but he does not think students should turn into murderers over such menial issues.

In comparison, when he speaks to Joker in BOC, he was unfiltered and candid—he’s speaking of something he personally believes; that deep cynicism and distrust in humanity. Unlike the Weston students, Joker’s actions were premeditated; he planned to kidnap children—knowing they would be abused and turned into some sick plaything before brutally murdered—and methodically eliminated witnesses to avoid getting caught. Joker knew exactly what he was doing when he organized these crimes to sacrifice others for his family’s lives. And yet the way Ciel spoke, he wasn’t passing judgement on Joker at all; he acutely understood the despair of facing injustice with no one lending a helping hand; the desperate wish to protect one’s family and loved ones above what’s considered to be morally correct by society; he knows better than anyone else how hell is paved with good intentions. This too, was incredibly empathetic in a strange way that only Ciel could be. Although Joker lamented their fate as abandoned orphans living in an apathetic society, Ciel does not pity them and thus did not simply reduce them to gullible victims of their circumstances. He did not justify Joker’s actions, and he did not justify his own actions in killing Joker and the circus crew either—he was incredibly self aware and fair; equally as ruthless to other people as with himself. He understood that everyone acted in their own interests. By removing complicated principles of morality out of the equation, he is able to see things clearly and act decisively without ridiculous notions of human morality. After all, what use does he have for it when his soul is already damned anyway?

Ciel keeps away from people and refrains from making personal attachments; and yet he is still very empathetic to each of them without even meaning to. In the flashbacks, he was also depicted to be a sensitive and kindhearted child. Despite everything he has gone through, he still retains a bit of that gentleness and sincerity from his childhood; which I think comes with being naturally emotionally intelligent—he has an unusually acute insight on people which certainly helps his business acumen, and ironically also helps him know how to lie and act in front of other people. While Sebastian is a “master of understanding human desires”, Ciel understands the complexity and most basic nature of humanity better than anyone else; which forms both his cynicism and his own brand of empathy.

#ciel is a very complex three-dimensional character with each aspect of his personality congruently forming his strengths and flaws #ciel’s strange brand of empathy and insight often catch me off-guard honestly; he is SO GOOD #just a strange; very ‘ciel’ way of looking at the world and people #no wonder sebastian is endlessly fascinated with him #unfortunately being this intelligent was also probably what led him to see himself as a spare since childhood #earl ciel phantomhive my beloved #kuroshitsuji #black butler #ciel phantomhive #kuroshitsuji meta

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blackjackkent · 5 months ago

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Jaheira is Not a Deadbeat

I am, as always, deeply in love with the kids' ambient dialogue while waiting for Jaheira to come inside. And it's time for me to have Opinions.

FIG: I saw her! I swear! RION: Are you sure? Maybe it was just a laborer holding a shaggy grey mop! FIG: Be serious, Rion! Who puts braids on a mop?

FIG: She'll be here any second. Maybe she's sneaking! RION: Doubtful. We'd hear her knees cracking.

And of course my favorite:

RION: Enough, Fig. There's no point getting your hopes up. She'll be back when she's back. FIG: You don't think she will! RION: I know she will. But we'll wait a little longer, if you like.

😭😭😭😭

Rion absolutely knew perfectly well what she was supposed to do from Jaheira's instructions. She just didn't want to. She's been hanging on to the desperate belief that Jaheira was going to walk through the door and make it unnecessary - and, as it turned out, she was right.

OK, fuck it, I'm doing a post about this now. :P

Despite what the Tumblr BG3 fandom would have you believe, Jaheira is not a "deadbeat mom." Is she a parent with emotional constipation issues and way too much time at work? Sure. But so are plenty of other parents on both Toril and Earth. It's SUPER clear from the way all the kids (including Rion) talk to and about her that they LOVE her and she has been an enduring presence in their lives, and that her recent disappearance was both unusual and devastating.

There are books she reads the kids up in the bedroom! Fig is so excited to announce she's back, indicating that the absence is not a normal occurrence! Jhessem has convinced herself they share a bloodline! Jord got to go to the market with her as a boy! These are not the circumstances of children who do not give a shit about their parent or vice versa!

The devnotes about Jord’s conversation in particular do not show a picture of a man with ill-will towards a mother who felt it customary to abandon him:

JORD: I tended to it. I just let it... thrive in its own independence. You know, same way you raised us. (Devnote: Well meant potshot at his mother, no malice in it) JAHEIRA: I raised you to be a sweet and kind boy. What happened? JORD: I watched what you did instead of listening to what you said. (Devnote: Amused, gently mocking his mother) JORD: This house has taken in a lot of children over the years. Mother dear was sometimes more commander than, well... mother dear. (Devnote: Smiling, explaining why he and Jaheira trade barbs. No criticism, just understated affection)

It is, perhaps, worth noting at this point as well that Jord - and Rion, and Fig, and even Jhessem - speak with that teasing, mocking tone towards Jaheira… but so does she - towards the people she cares most about, including you as the player. The kids are acting as they have learned, and words like this can and should easily be read as gestures of affection. And they clearly trust Jaheira enough to bring this playful rudeness to the fore without fear of it being misconstrued or turning into hostility.

And if they are like Jaheira in this way, they’re also not going to be comfortable showing the real depth of their feelings in front of you, the player character - who is fundamentally a stranger who has just walked into their house. Why would they? Jaheira clearly doesn’t; indeed, even her more serious conversation with Rion only takes place outside where even the other children aren’t listening.

Perhaps most significantly, I truly don’t understand how anyone can interact with Tate for even a moment and think that Jaheira does not have a deep, if often unspoken, bond with the kids she raises:

JAHEIRA: I hope you were hibernating, little cub, I can’t think of another reason you wouldn’t come down to say hello. TATE: Jaheira! I d-didn’t… didn’t w-want to see if you were r-really dead. They said… JAHEIRA: Who said? TATE: Jord and Rion. They didn’t think I c-could hear… JAHEIRA: You little sneak-thief. Well, they were wrong. Look! Not dead! I just… had a few adventures.

She is so soft and gentle with him in a way that she is with no one else, a way that indicates that she knows him and how his personality is different from the others. And he in turn has clearly been utterly devastated by the idea that she might be gone.

Take, as well, the evidence provided by Minsc when he is present in these conversations! There’s plenty of evidence to indicate the degree to which Minsc is guided by Jaheira’s behavior - to the degree that a doppelganger wearing her face was the key ingredient to binding him temporarily into the Cult of the Absolute. And Minsc - far more comfortable with emotion than Jaheira, at least in some ways - is clearly very affectionate with the kids as well:

FIG: STAND ON YOUR LIVER! MINSC: It is stand and *deliver*, little Fig. Though I think I like yours better. You bellow like a true berserker!

JHESSEM: A fine day to you, saer. Are you known to this court PLAYER: Eh? JHESSEM: Ugh - play along, would you? MINSC: Lord Boo is most pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady! Word of your grace has spread far and wide among the hamster houses. (Devnote: Swooping in to preserve the child's make-believe after the player ruined it.) JHESSEM: Enchanted!

MINSC: Boo is also very well! And happy to see *you*, Rion. RION: And I him. Enough that I’ll let him keep his lumbering, sweaty steed inside.

Would Minsc have taken it upon himself to have such a comfortable relationship with these children if Jaheira did not? I doubt it. He’d be friendly, certainly, but this familiarity goes a great deal beyond that.

And as for Rion herself - it's definitely reasonable to assume that she's had a strained relationship with Jaheira as she's grown older. (I have a lot of headcanons about this for my specific worldstate canon, but even just sticking to the game canon, it definitely seems like that's the case.) But leaving aside that - can you blame her for being upset at this particular moment?

As far as Rion knows, her mom was recently emotionally devastated for an indeterminate reason. (Minsc's apparent death. None of the kids are surprised to see him arrive, so clearly none of them knew he was supposed to be dead - but also there's no way that Jaheira didn't look afterwards like someone hollowed her out from the inside.) Then, without further explanation, she disappeared for what appears to have been several months (again, clearly not standard procedure), and after weeks of no contact, sends a seven-word message indicating she is about to die.

How exactly is Rion supposed to feel at this moment? This is an incredibly emotionally fraught circumstance, and if it's precisely representative of her overall relationship with Jaheira I will eat my hat.

Also - much is made by the game, by Rion, and by the fandom about that seven-word message, but if you try to chastise Jaheira about it, she gives further context:

PLAYER: Only seven? That’s cold, Jaheira. JAHEIRA: The cleric who cast the Sending was wounded. Should I have sobbed on her shoulder?

Jaheira was caught in a no-win situation. Trapped in the Shadowlands, a terrifying ordeal all by itself, with a gaggle of Harpers she had to protect, many of whom had apparently been injured by their encounter with Ketheric Thorm. If the only cleric she had access to was wounded, this was before they reached Last Light and met Isobel.

Jaheira had ZERO reason to hope at this point - but she also still felt her own inescapable responsibility towards the people under her command. To send a longer and more emotional message would have been to put strain on her injured comrade and also risk making it very clear that she felt the situation was hopeless. The Harpers very well might have broken and scattered, condemning themselves - and, frankly, many others, given their crucial contributions to the final Act 2 fight - to death.

And then she lives, against all her own expectations, and returns to the city. And her dialogue reflects her conflict over this fact as well:

JAHEIRA: I have given you much reason to think that Harpers hoard secrets like precious stones. But I promise you, this was not some intrigue. Just, ah… plain and simple foolishness. As if by keeping clear of my family, I might keep them clear of the cult in turn. And if this fight were to go against us, well… they had already done their mourning. Why visit it on them twice?

She then goes on to discuss the city and her place in it - and relates it directly back to her kids as well.

JAHEIRA: I was wrong to think I could keep my children from this fight. They’re Baldurian born and bred - the only damned reason I root myself in this place. This city is a cesspit. An open sewer of the soul, that taints us with its filth and churns us out when all that is good has been stripped away. It also happens to be their home - and so it is mine. Ugh. That might be the first time I have said that out loud.

If Jaheira wanted to disappear and leave her kids to handle themselves, she would have done it a long time ago. It wouldn’t be hard; she is fully capable of vanishing into the wilderness never to be seen again - and in truth, there’s every reason to believe she would be considerably happier to do so… except that it would mean leaving her children behind. They “root” her in Baldur’s Gate despite all of her previous inclinations and everything that comes naturally to her, and everything she does is guided ultimately by the need to protect the city because it is their home.

And that, my friends, is love, a love that she shows even if she does not know how to voice it.

TLDR: Jaheira's absence in the Shadowlands was definitely not a normal occurrence, and her kids clearly love her deeply and were devastated by her apparent disappearance. That she is a woman who keeps herself far too busy with work and has no idea how to express her own strong feelings does not, has not, and never will make her a "deadbeat."

#bg3 meta #baldur's gate 3 meta #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #jaheira #jaheira bg3 #bg3 jaheira #bg3 rion #rion bg3 #bg3 minsc #minsc bg3 #minsc #thank you all for coming to my ted talk #this post was originally supposed to be a liveblog post but it got out of hand XD i've been percolating on all of this for a while #50% credit for this post also goes to astreamofstars who contributed many of these thoughts and helped flesh out the others #and also jennycalendar who mentioned the kids talking like Jaheira which was a big cause for this post being written in the first place <3 #🚨 JAHEIRA IS NOT A DEADBEAT 🚨

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k-nayee · 7 months ago

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Ghost Town BNHA

wc: 2.8k a/n: Song Inspiration: Ghost Town by Benson Boone; recommend you listen while reading!!

Traveler M.List

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

You fill me up 'til you're empty...

The late afternoon sun casted a warmth over school grounds as you chatted with Uraraka and Midoriya.

It was nice as the three of you walked together; even the greenette, who usually had a hard time speaking to girls, laughed along with your teasing comments.

Bakugo stood a little ways off, watching. His crimson eyes were sharp with a certain tension in his expression that hadn’t been there earlier that day.

Normally he would’ve made some snide comment by now, especially seeing you standing so close to the timid boy.

But today, Bakugo wasn’t himself.

He approached you in deliberate strides, his jaw set. You noticed the way his hands were shoved deep into his pockets, almost as if he was holding himself back.

As he neared, you felt a flicker of something—nervousness? Excitement?—you couldn’t quite place it. Bakugo always had a way of stirring something inside you, no matter the circumstance.

“Oi,” he barked, voice unusually serious. “We need to talk.”

I took too much and you let me...

Conversation around you fizzled as Uraraka and Midoriya exchanged confused glances. You, too, blinked in surprise. Normally, Bakugo wasn’t this direct—not with you, anyway.

He was blunt, sure, but not like this. There was a hardness to his tone, an edge that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You smiled, trying to keep things light. “What’s up, Katsuki?”

He didn’t respond, his eyes flickering to the duo. You take the hint and turn to the pair, giving them a quick wave. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

As your friends walked away the air between you and Bakugo thickened. He turned abruptly, heading toward the school building without a word, leaving you no choice but to follow.

When you reached an empty classroom, you slip inside, Bakugo shutting the door behind with a soft click. The familiar scent of chalk and old textbooks filled the space, but it did nothing to ease the growing tension.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there with his hands still in his pockets, gaze fixed on a spot on the floor. His usual gruffness was gone—replaced by something much colder, much more distant.

We’ve been down all these roads before...

You watched him, waiting, hoping that he would explain whatever was weighing him down.

“Katsuki?” you step closer, voice soft. You offer him a bright smile, the kind that usually softened his rough edges.

But today, it didn’t reach him. He barely looked at you.

A sinking feeling began to settle in your chest. “Is something wrong?”

The silence hung between you like a heavy curtain. You reached out, your fingers just grazing his sleev—

“I want to break up.”

And what we found don’t live there anymore...

You took a step back, feeling as if his words had physically struck you. Your heart pounded in your chest until it echoed in your ears, drowning out the silence that had fallen between you.

“…What?” The word barely escaped your lips, a fragile whisper as your mind struggled to comprehend what he’d just said.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing about this made sense.

Bakugo’s jaw clenched, and for a fleeting moment, his crimson eyes met yours. He stiffened at the sight of you—vulnerable, confused.

Your brows furrowed in pain, your lips pressed together in an attempt to hold back the hurt. Seeing you like this made something inside him twist sharply.

But just as quickly, he tore his gaze away, refusing to let you see the storm raging inside him.

“This,” he said, gesturing between the two of you with a sharp wave of his hand, “only happened out of obligation.”

Obligation...

The word hit you harder than the breakup itself.

He continued, his tone bitter. “You know how the old hag was. Always on my ass, hounding me to give you a chance.”

It's dark...

Your mind reeled. You met Bakugo in middle school and from that moment you’d been drawn to him.

He was rough and brash with a fire that burned everything he did, and that only made you more determined to get close to him.

Your crush had been obvious, but you never shied away from it. You pursued him with a confidence that even now looking back you admired.

And yes, Bakugo had been difficult—dishing out the usual sharp remarks, disrespect dripping from every word. But still, you never backed down.

You tolerated it—not out of weakness, but because you refused to be intimidated by him.

You met his fire with your own; challenging him and pushing back, not afraid to give him the same energy he threw at the world.

It's cold...

At first you were just an affectionate annoyance to him. Always hanging around, always inserting yourself into his space. But with time, you grew on him—though he’d never admit it.

You became a part of his life, slipping past the walls he put up around everyone. He never asked for it, but he came to expect your presence—to crave it in ways he didn’t understand.

And now, standing in this empty classroom you could barely recognize him.

For a moment your voice felt lost. The Bakugo in front of you—saying these words and shutting himself off—was a stranger.

Something inside you knew he was lying. He had to be.

“…You’re lying.” Your voice came out weak, trembling.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Your words hung in the air fragile, and you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself.

But you knew Bakugo. He was a lot of things—angry, hotheaded, unpredictable—but he wasn’t a liar. Not to you.

If my hand is not the one you're meant to hold...

You searched his face for any hint of truth, any crack in his exterior. But his expression was hard, closed off in a way you hadn’t seen in so long.

“I’m not, and you know it!” His voice was sharp, louder than before with anger lacing every word.

His lips press into a thin line as his teeth into the flesh to keep the words trapped inside—the sorrys, the desperate apologies. Taking one last look at your face, he turns away with a scoff.

His chest tightened as he try to hold back the wave of guilt that threatened to swallow him whole.

But he couldn’t let it out. If he did, it’d be over. He wouldn’t be able to do this.

Wouldn’t be able to let you go.

"You are!" Your voice cut through the silence more sure this time. He could hear the determined steps you took toward him, the confidence in your voice making it even harder to breathe.

You were close now, close enough that he could feel your warmth even though he kept his back to you. He didn’t dare turn around.

"Tell me you don’t love me if you’re serious." You dared him, forcing him to confront the truth you already knew. "Because the Katsuki I know will tell me the truth, because he isn’t afraid of the consequences."

You know I'll stay don't you tempt me...

The words echoed in his mind, bouncing off the walls he had built around himself. And for a second, just a second, Bakugo faltered.

His resolve wavered at the sound of your belief in him—a belief he didn’t deserve, not after everything he was about to do.

Your confidence made his head spin, made the words in his throat turn to ash.

But no matter how much your voice reached out to him the doubt gnawed at him. The weight of every fear and insecurity clawing at the edges of his mind.

Do it, the voice whispered. You don’t deserve her. She deserves better, someone who can give her the kind of love you can’t.

The voice grew louder, drowning out everything else. They took root in his mind; poisoning every thought and emotion until all he could feel was the crushing weight of his own incompetence.

But all this weight is getting heavy...

"You want the truth?” Before he could stop himself the words ripped from his throat.

Turning around to face you with a vicious glare, his voice was laced with venom. “I can’t keep letting an extra like you drag me down!"

The second the words left his mouth the air between you seemed to freeze. Your footsteps, even the sound of your breathing—it all stopped.

The world felt like it had come to a standstill.

Bakugo's heart hammered in his chest as he forced himself to keep going. "You're not even in the hero course!"

Though meant to hurt and push you away, as soon as they left his mouth, he felt a sickening twist in his gut. Still he couldn’t stop. He had to finish this.

“Keep following me around like a pathetic dog. I will be Number One, and I refuse to have any baggage slowing me down!" His voice rose, louder and harsher than he meant.

Every syllable spoken was coated in venom, cutting deeper and deeper with each passing second. And then—silence.

Been holding up what wasn't meant to stand...

No words. No movement. Just...nothing.

Bakugo grit his teeth, jaw tight as he waited—waited for you to scream, to lash out, to fight back like you always did. But nothing came.

The silence stretched on, wrapping around him like chains, pulling him down deeper into the pit he had dug for himself.

Then, came the sound of your sniffles. Soft and faint, the sound of your heart breaking. For years, you always worried that you weren’t good enough for Bakugo.

You didn’t have the flashy, powerful quirk that the others did. Hell, you weren’t even in the hero course! You were just a simple General Studies student.

That insecurity had haunted you for as long as you could remember. It always lingered in the back of your mind, whispering doubts whenever you saw Bakugo training, pushing himself harder than anyone else.

And it had only gotten worse when you started dating him. You couldn’t help but wonder if people looked at you and thought, How could someone like her ever deserve him?

I turned this love into a wasteland...

But Bakugo had always been there to shut those thoughts down. Harshly. Brutally. He never let you get away with doubting yourself, always snapping at you for thinking so low of yourself.

His scolding had been tough, unrelenting, but it was his way of caring—his way of showing you that he believed in you, even when you didn’t believe in yourself.

And now...he was throwing all of that in your face.

His words cut deeper than you ever thought they could. He was attacking the very thing he had always defended you against.

The thing he had never let you believe about yourself. You weren’t in the hero course. You didn’t have a strong quirk. You weren’t like him.

Maybe you never would be.

The weight of his words pressed down on you, making your chest tight and throat constrict. You were so overwhelmed, so hurt, that you didn’t even notice one crucial thing.

He never said it.

Bakugo never said, “I don’t love you.”

But in your frantic state, your mind couldn’t latch onto that detail. Instead, it spiraled; twisting in on itself, unraveling every belief you’d ever held about his love for you.

Before I turn your heart into a ghost town...

Was everything he ever told you a lie? Was this how he truly felt all along?

'Was I just fooling myself this whole time?'

The thoughts came at you fast like a storm. Everything you thought was real—every tender moment, every quiet confession, every time Bakugo had pulled you close, even if he didn’t say the words outright—it all felt like it was shattering into pieces in front of you.

It was all too much. You couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t be here in this moment.

Not with him, not with those venomous words still hanging in the air between you.

Your vision blurred and you could feel your heart pounding wildly in your chest, threatening to tear you apart from the inside.

Panic set in. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight. Every part of you screamed to get out, to run, to escape.

'I can’t let him see me like this. I can’t...'

Before you knew it your hand was on the door, slamming it open with a force that rattled the frame.

Show me everything we built so I can tear it all down...

The sound echoed through the empty halls as you bolted, your sobs finally breaking free from your lips.

The world outside the classroom was a blur. Your tears streamed freely now, hot and stinging against your cheeks. You didn’t care who saw you.

You just needed to get away, to be anywhere but here. Suddenly, your shoulder slammed into something—someone—knocking you off balance.

You gasped, the impact jarring you out of your spiral for a split second.

Your eyes barely registered the green hair before you stammered out a tearful, jumbled, "S-sorry!" Your voice cracked by the sobs that you couldn’t control.

Down...

Down, down, down...

Izuku stumbled back wide-eyed in shock, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady you. But before he could ask what was wrong, you were already gone.

His fingers brushed the air where you had just been, mouth opened as if to call after you, but the words never came.

He watched helplessly as you disappeared down the hallway, your sobs echoing behind you like the remnants of a broken heart.

His hand hovered in the air for a moment longer, his brows furrowing in concern. “Wha...?”

His gaze flickered to where you had come from, the half-open door to the classroom still swinging slightly from your frantic exit.

What the hell just happened?

With a sinking feeling in his chest Izuku slowly approached the classroom door. Peering through the half-open door, he froze.

Tear it all down...

Inside the empty classroom stood Bakugo. The blonde had his back to the door as stared out the window.

Izuku had known Bakugo for a long time. He’d seen him angry, frustrated, ready to explode at a moment’s notice. But this...this was different.

This time he was silent. Completely and utterly still.

“Kacchan?” Izuku’s voice was hesitant, quiet, as if he were afraid to break the silence.

Not receiving an answer, the freckled greenette took a cautious step into the room, one foot out just in case he needed to make a quick escape. “Why was ____ crying? Is everything al—”

“Izuku.”

Izuku’s words died in his throat as his eyes widened in shock. His name. Bakugo never called him by his real name. Ever.

Not unless something was really, really wrong.

Down...

“Y-Yeah?” Izuku stammered. He took another step forward, but he froze again when Bakugo finally turned around.

Heart-broken, teary vermillion eyes are the first thing he sees.

His face was twisted, lips trembling as if he were desperately trying to hold everything in. The raw emotion on his face—the vulnerability—was something Izuku had never seen before.

It was like looking at a stranger.

“Kacchan...” Izuku’s voice was barely a whisper. For a long moment, the two boys just stood there staring at each other in silence.

Izuku was in disbelief at the sight of Bakugo. His childhood friend, his rival, the one person he had always thought was untouchable—completely crumbling before him.

But the more time passed, the more Bakugo’s carefully constructed façade began to shatter. And then, with a strangled yell Bakugo folded in on himself.

His body shook violently as he hunched forward, arms wrapping around his middle as if he could physically hold himself together.

But it was no use. The dam had broken.

Down, down, down...

Izuku’s heart lurched in his chest, legs moving before his brain could even process what was happening. He rushed forward, catching Bakugo just as the blonde collapsed from the weight of his own emotions.

“K-Kacchan—Bakugo!” Izuku’s voice was panicked, his arms holding the teen to steady him, though he barely knew what to do. “What’s going on? What happened?”

Bakugo wasn’t supposed to break like this. He wasn’t supposed to fall apart. He was strong. Stronger than anyone.

And yet, here he was: trembling violently, sobbing uncontrollably in Izuku’s arms.

“I… I had to…” Bakugo choked out between gasping, shuddering breaths. His voice was barely recognizable, thick with pain and regret.

His hands clutched desperately at Izuku’s arms, as if they were the only thing keeping him grounded. “I had to do it… I had to…”

Izuku tightened his grip, his mind racing as he tried to process what Bakugo was saying. “Had to? Had to do what?” he asked, his voice shaking as he looked down at Bakugo’s tear-streaked face, alarm written all over his features.

He’d never seen Bakugo like this—no one did.

Bakugo’s head fell forward, his messy blond hair shadowing his eyes as he gripped Izuku’s arms harder. “I had to let her go,” Bakugo rasped, his voice breaking as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks.

“...I had to.”

I'll tear it all down...

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 months ago

Note

senate blessing malleus with the power is such a great reveal; it finally puts malleus struggling with his control in perspective in a serious way (unlike previous comedic bits with the same idea). the diasomnia finale is so dense with payoff, i'm very excited to hear what you liked-disliked about it :)

[You can read my thoughts on the book 7 finale and its payoffs here!]

Hmm… 🤔 I have mixed thoughts on the senate blessing Malleus with Extra Magic Juice.

On one hand, sure, this explains why he’s particularly powerful. On the other hand, I… don’t like that it easily passes accountability for the events of book 7 onto the senators. Yes, they’re terrible people. Yes, they isolated Malleus and they put him on a pedestal and never held him responsible for his mistakes. But by giving him the blessings of power he didn’t ask to have, it… paints Malleus as a kid that “just couldn’t control his excess magic” and the senators as targets to attack. If he had naturally been born ultra powerful or as the result of all the love poured into hatching him (since Lilia did give up his lifeforce), I feel like that would have been a more neutral way of powering him up. Having other people consciously give him magic he didn’t already have from birth or need to survive has different connotations.

This is a very similar situation as theorists who claim Maleanor’s final words to egg!Malleus were a blessing to make him feared by humans in the future. It explains away his isolation and loneliness by saying “it was actually the blessing at work, not Malleus or his peers’ behavior causing this.” The locus of control—and the onus—shifts from the individual, which he can control, to the circumstances, something he cannot control. It’s almost as if to say, “there’s nothing he can do about it, so he can’t be held accountable; the ones who shoved this unwanted power on him are the ones who should take accountability.”

I appreciate Twst attempting to be more serious in how it presents Malleus’s OPness instead of defaulting to its usual comedy bit. I just don’t know if I care for… this interpretation.

Context: In Malleus’s post-OB flashback, we see that he was blessed with particularly strong magical gifts from the senators. He considers these blessings as curses that kept him from being able to fully express himself + socialize with others.

That’s a good observation 🤔 Sometimes there will be notable differences in opinion due to cultural differences between JP and EN, but I’ve actually been seeing both sides sharing beef with the Briar Valley senators since the main story update. JP side in particular has been pumping out a ton of fan art of the NRC boys lining up to pummel the senators, which is quite unusual. You normally don’t see this much… concentrated disdain from them. (Though you can definitely still see differences in how we express disliking characters; EN fans tend to use very strong language whereas JP fans’ wod choice is demurer. JP also tends to use art as an outlet for expressing negative emotions.) I guess the one thing that’ll unite people is a common enemy, huh? 😂

But allow me one moment, if you will, to play devil’s advocate. Listen, I don’t like the senators as much as the next Twstie does—but giving Malleus blessings does make sense in-universe. They lost their princess and tons of land to humans. Malleus himself almost died in his egg. They’ve suffered devastating losses and just barely came out of the conflict with what is essentially a miracle baby. The future of their country, the next and only surviving member to the queen’s bloodline. If I were a senator, I would fear losing that, and what little land, power, and influence we have left in the world. I would want to ensure that this child had all the resources at his disposal to drive off future threats and to protect the valley, so that the same tragic end his mother and most of their country met doesn’t happen to him, too.

When it’s put like that… didn’t the senators bless Malleus to help him and their country? I doubt any of them intended to give him this strength to isolate him from others and drive him to OB. So… the senators had good intentions, but it had unintentional consequences which were harmful—which is a point often brought up about Malleus’s actions in book 7. If we’re going to forgive one party for the unintended consequences (or, alternatively, hold one party accountable for them), then should the other be treated differently? Yes or no, and why?

Just some food for thought, because this sure made me think about how I see the situation myself.

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #Malleus Draconia #notes from the writing raven #book 7 chapter 13 part 2 spoilers #jp spoilers #book 7 spoilers #Maleanor Draconia #Malleus Draconia critical

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hivemuthur · 4 months ago

Text

What was that? - Ch. 4.

viktorxfemale!OFC mature! (for now, I will mark later chapters as explicit when the time comes

friends to lovers, co-workers, sexual tension up to the wazoo, pinning and banter that got me frustrated when I was writing it, attempt at humour, some angst and a slow burn with a happy ending and a classic Viktor for once

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.5. | Ch.6. | Ch.7. | Ch.8. | Ch.9. | Ch.10. | Ch.11. | Ch.12. | Ch.13. | Ch.14. | Ch.15.

word count: 3,7K

tag: #what was that

summary: They have their first fight :')

author’s note: Beta reader: @rennethen

Cross-posted on AO3

—

The lab was unusually quiet for a Thursday afternoon, save for the steady hum of the machines and the rustle of papers as Renly flipped through a research file. Bent over the table, her mind was entirely absorbed in the task at hand when she sensed a subtle shift in the atmosphere. A presence at the door—a student, no older than twenty, with a shy but oddly confident grin.

Renly didn’t notice him immediately, her focus locked on her work, but the soft clearing of his throat drew her attention.

"Excuse me, Professor Huxley, I—" the young man began, his tone polite but with a faint attempt at charm.

Renly looked up, startled for only a moment before recovering with a polite smile. She recognized him—Ezra, a first-year student. Cute, a little too bold with some of the staff, though often forgiven because of his evident promise.

"Ezra," she greeted with a nod, keeping her tone professional. "I’m not a professor yet,” she smiled at him politely. “But what can I do for you?"

Ezra stepped closer, a little too close, his gaze lingering on her face as if memorizing every detail. "I was hoping you could help me with a project I’m working on," he said, his voice dipping just slightly. "Maybe after hours? I could really use your expertise."

Renly raised an eyebrow, holding back the instinct to step away. "I’m afraid I’m busy, but you can get started on your own. You know where the resources are," she replied evenly, the words polite but firm. She wasn’t one to let professionalism slide, especially with students. The last thing she needed was whispers of impropriety—not after John, and especially not with Viktor, well… unapproachable.

Ezra, however, didn’t take the hint. His eyes flickered down, lingering a beat too long before returning to hers, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That’s a shame," he said smoothly. "I really value your insight. More than anyone else on the staff."

Renly held back a sigh. His boldness might have been admirable under different circumstances, but now it was just exhausting. Before she could form a response, Viktor’s voice sliced through the room with chilling precision.

"She’s not interested."

Renly turned, startled to see Viktor standing in the doorway, a stack of papers in hand. He didn’t spare Ezra so much as a glance, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance, his tone cold enough to send the student reeling.

Ezra’s smirk faltered as he stumbled over his response. "Right. Well… sorry to bother you, prof... Miss Huxley." He cleared his throat, his confidence deflating as he turned on his heel and all but fled from the lab.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was as sharp as Viktor’s words had been.

Renly blinked, caught between surprise and something close to amusement. "What was that?" she asked, her voice light but tinged with curiosity.

Viktor had already moved toward his desk, setting the papers down with a controlled precision. He didn’t look at her as he muttered, "The boy’s an idiot. Driven by... stardom."

Renly crossed her arms, leaning against the table. "You’re not usually so… blunt."

Viktor adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable. "It was obvious."

"Obvious?" Renly tilted her head, her brow arching. "Obvious that he was flirting with me? I thought that was normal. Students try to impress their instructors all the time."

His lip curled faintly, the closest he came to a frown. "Normal? Perhaps. But pointless."

"Pointless?" she echoed, caught off guard by his sharpness.

Viktor’s gaze flicked up briefly, but he didn’t answer right away. His fingers busied themselves with the settings of a machine, though his movements were a fraction too deliberate.

Renly studied him, her amusement giving way to intrigue. "Why, does it bother you?" she asked, her voice softening.

"It doesn’t," Viktor said too quickly, the edge in his tone betraying the lie. "It’s simply unprofessional."

"Unprofessional," she repeated, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. "Right. So, what was all that about ‘she’s not interested,’ then? That didn’t sound so indifferent."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, Renly thought he might snap back. Instead, he turned his attention back to the machine, his shoulders tense.

"Fine," she said gently, relenting. "But next time, just let me handle it."

Viktor’s lips pressed into a thin line, and his silence stretched on longer than she expected. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost hesitant.

"I wasn’t… trying to intervene."

Renly blinked. "Could’ve fooled me," she teased, though there was no malice in her tone.

He finally looked up, his expression unreadable but his eyes softer now, as if the tension had ebbed. "Perhaps I was," he admitted, so quietly she barely heard it.

Renly’s smile faded, replaced by something gentler. "Thank you," she said softly.

Viktor gave a faint nod, his attention drifting back to his work. But the way his fingers moved, slower and more deliberate, suggested he was less absorbed in the task than he appeared to be.

“Are you going to chase away every man that approaches me from now on, or only those you don’t like?” Renly tried to test Viktor a little more.

“That’s a… difficult question. And it would be a futile practise, as the number of men I like is very low.”

Renly’s ego was tickled enough by her young admirer, so she decided she is ready to be humbled by Viktor. She folded her arms, leaning back slightly, her tone half-teasing. "Alright, Viktor. Let’s start with an easy question then. What drives a man like you—curiosity or conviction?"

The edge of Viktor’s lips curled upward in a near-smile, though his gaze stayed thoughtful. "An easy question, you say? You begin with a false dichotomy, expecting me to commit to one truth while dismissing the other. Is it not possible to be convicted by curiosity itself?"

She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head as though examining him under a microscope. "So, conviction born of curiosity. That's convenient. But where does it stop, hm? At what point does pursuit cross the line into obsession?"

"Obsession, you think?" Viktor countered, his tone gaining a playful sharpness. "Perhaps it is simply dedication mistaken for obsession by those with lesser stamina for inquiry." He paused, his gaze meeting hers with quiet intensity. "I wonder, Renly, how would you define the difference? Or would you prefer to leave such questions unanswered, for fear of what they might reveal?"

Renly’s laugh came quick and light, though her eyes flickered with thought. "That sounds like something someone on the edge of obsession would say."

"Then you would know me better than I thought," Viktor replied, the barest flicker of amusement touching his words. "But tell me, what edges do you tread on in your work? Or are you content to stay safely within the boundaries?"

She leaned forward slightly, her smile equal parts challenge and intrigue. "Boundaries are subjective. I'd argue it depends on who’s watching—and whether they understand the lines in the first place. You, of all people, should appreciate that."

For a moment, Viktor said nothing, simply studying her. Something in her expression—the sharpness of her wit, the unflinching confidence—stirred an uninvited flicker of admiration. He cleared his throat, deciding to ground himself in the debate. "Then we are both trespassers, by your definition. Or would you deny me that camaraderie?"

Renly's grin widened, and she tilted her head. "You? A trespasser? Never. But if you’re offering camaraderie, who am I to refuse?"

The words hung between them, the air alive with the friction of intellect and something unspoken beneath it. Neither looked away, each silently daring the other to make the next move.

Renly broke the gaze first, though it felt more like a retreat to gather ammunition than a concession. Her fingers traced the edge of the workbench idly, an outlet for the quiet energy buzzing between them. "Camaraderie only works when both parties trust each other, you know. Do you trust me, Viktor?"

Viktor's brow lifted ever so slightly; his expression unreadable. "Trust is a peculiar thing, isn't it? It is granted freely to those who least deserve it and withheld from those who do."

"Sounds like a very Viktor way of saying 'no,'" Renly quipped, though her voice had a softer edge to it now.

"Perhaps," he allowed, his tone carefully measured. "But consider—trust is not the foundation of progress. Scepticism is. It sharpens the mind, ensures the work holds under scrutiny."

"So you're saying progress is worth more than trust?" She arched a brow, daring him to commit to his own argument.

Viktor hesitated, his fingers tapping the head of his cane in thought. His inner voice chimed in, slightly annoyed at the vulnerability her question exposed. She’s clever, sharper than most—but that sharpness is double-edged. Finally, he answered, "I am saying they are not mutually exclusive. But trust without merit is a dangerous luxury. Wouldn't you agree?"

Renly leaned back again, her arms crossing, and her lips quirked upward as though savouring her next move. "I might, if I hadn't spent all this time proving myself to you. Are you saying all that effort was wasted?"

The question struck deeper than he expected, though her tone was light. He realized, uncomfortably, that he did trust her in ways he rarely trusted anyone. Not entirely, not yet—but enough to let her slip past certain defences he usually kept up. That thought alone made him wary. "I suspect you are very aware of your abilities, Renly. One might even call you... persuasive."

Her laugh was immediate, bright and genuine. "That's the most backhanded compliment I think I've ever received. I’ll take it.",

"You should," Viktor replied dryly, though there was a faint glint in his eye. "After all, you seem to thrive on recognition."

"Who doesn’t?" she shot back. "Even you, with your grand speeches about scepticism, you can't tell me you don't enjoy hearing Jayce talk you up to anyone who’ll listen."

His lips twitched, but he didn’t confirm or deny. Instead, he looked at her, truly looked, as if trying to find the angle she wasn’t showing. Her confidence was real, but so was the curiosity burning beneath it, matching his own in intensity if not in focus.

"I think," he said slowly, deliberately, "you are more ambitious than you let on."

"And I think you're deflecting," she shot back, smirking.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps I am... curious."

The echo of his earlier words lingered in the air between them, this time carrying an undercurrent of something neither dared name. Renly tilted her head, her smirk softening into a quieter smile.

"Then it seems," she said, her voice quieter now, "we both have a lot to learn about each other."

Viktor inclined his head slightly, his gaze steady. "A mutual experiment, then. I imagine it will be... enlightening."

Renly's laugh was softer this time, and she shook her head as she turned back to her work. But her heart, traitorous thing that it was, drummed a little faster in her chest. Whether it was from his words or the way he watched her, she wasn't sure. She decided not to think too much about it. For now.

***

The acrid smell of burnt chemicals filled the lab as Renly muttered a curse under her breath, waving away the thin plume of smoke rising from her workstation. The concoction in the flask had thickened far too quickly, bubbling into a viscous, tar-like mess.

"Wrong proportions," Viktor observed, his voice calm as he approached. Despite the tension that had hung between them for days, he leaned over her shoulder with no hesitation, studying the failed experiment with practiced ease.

"Thanks for the insight," Renly shot back, trying to keep the bite out of her tone.

Instead of rising to it, Viktor merely smiled faintly. "Viscosity," he teased, echoing an earlier joke that had become an inside reference between them. "I told you. Proper fluid dynamics are crucial."

She glanced at him, momentarily disarmed by the faint amusement in his eyes. "Alright, professor. Where did you learn so much about chemistry anyway? I thought you were more gears and circuits."

Viktor straightened, his expression turning thoughtful. "There was a man," he began, his voice measured, as though weighing how much to say. "A tutor of sorts. Back when I lived in Zaun."

Her curiosity piqued, she set the ruined experiment aside. "What kind of tutor?"

"A chemist. An inventor. You yourself have called him an ‘evil wizard’," Viktor said, a faint smile touching his lips. "His name was Singed. He… taught me much. He kept my mind alive when my body could not follow."

Renly stiffened at the name. Her brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her face before it gave way to something sharper—disdain. "Singed," she repeated, her tone flattening. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes narrowed, her gaze distant as if recalling stories she wished she could forget. "The madman who experimented on everything he could fathom? That Singed?"

Viktor’s faint smile froze, then faded completely. The familiar pang of defensiveness flared in his chest, like a shield hastily raised to deflect an oncoming blow.

"He was more than that," Viktor said, his voice quieter now, but firm.

Renly’s expression hardened further, her disbelief etched into the set of her jaw and the tight line of her mouth. "More than that?" she echoed, her voice rising slightly, incredulous. "Viktor, he’s a monster. He—"

"Stop." The sharpness in Viktor's voice cut her off. She blinked, startled by the sudden steel in his gaze.

"I know what he has done," Viktor continued, his tone low and clipped. "I am not blind to his actions. But you do not understand what he was to me. He was the only one who saw potential in a crippled boy who could barely walk across the room. The only one who taught me to think, to question, to create."

Renly hesitated, the weight of his words sinking in. "I didn’t mean to—"

"You did," Viktor interrupted, his grip tightening on his cane. "It is easy to condemn when you have never been desperate. When you have never had to take scraps of kindness from people you might despise, because no one else would bother."

Her stomach twisted with guilt, and she opened her mouth to argue—but what could she say? He was right. For all her hardships, she had never been utterly alone. She had grown up healthy, with parents who cared for her, in a community that taught her to read and write. She had lost much, but Viktor had started with nothing.

"You think I admired him because I approved of his methods?" Viktor asked, his voice softer now but no less intense. "I admired him because he gave me the tools to escape the Undercity. To stand here, today, as your equal."

The words struck her like a blow. "Viktor," she said quietly, regret threading through her tone. "I wasn’t trying to belittle you, or your choices. I just—"

"You spoke without thinking," he finished for her. His tone was not unkind, but there was a weariness to it that stung more than anger. "It is fine, Renly. I hold no resentment."

But the way he turned back to his workstation, his shoulders taut, told her otherwise.

She swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling heavily in her chest. "It’s not fine," she said, almost to herself.

Viktor didn’t look at her. "Let us not dwell on it."

But the words felt hollow, even to him. His grip on the edge of the workbench tightened, his knuckles whitening as he struggled to suppress the knot twisting in his chest. Why did her words cut so deeply? He had always known the world’s judgment of Singed—of Zaun, of him—but hearing it from Renly stung in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

Her condemnation echoed in his mind, louder than it had any right to. Monster. He bit the inside of his cheek, forcing his expression to remain neutral, but the resentment stirred beneath the surface. How easy it was for her to dismiss, to condemn from a place of safety—of relative privilege.

You do not know what it is like to have no choices, he thought bitterly. To rip the opportunities out from wherever you can find them, even if it comes from a broken hand.

And yet, a part of him recoiled at the anger surging within him, ashamed of how quickly it had come. This was Renly. She hadn’t meant to hurt him—he knew that. But knowing didn’t dull the sting. It only made him feel more foolish for letting her words affect him so deeply.

He inhaled slowly, forcing the air into his lungs as he tried to steady himself. “It does not matter,” he murmured, as much to himself as to her. But it did matter, and she had seen the way his shoulders tensed, the flicker of something raw in his usually composed expression.

The finality in his voice left no room for argument. Renly bit her lip, frustration bubbling beneath her guilt. He was letting her off the hook, but the unspoken tension between them remained, a chasm that she didn’t know how to bridge.

The lab fell silent again, but this time the quiet was heavy, uncomfortable. Renly glanced at Viktor, his face unreadable as he worked, and she wondered how much of himself he kept hidden from her—and why she had never noticed before. She turned the radio on, as quietly as the dial would allow, and started humming in the hope of making herself feel slightly less small.

***

Renly sat on the edge of her bed, running her fingers through her hair, trying to shake the tension from her shoulders. This day was hard.

She reached for her bag, intending to grab a notebook, but as she moved it, a crumpled piece of paper fell out. She picked it up, her heart sinking as she unfolded it. The words VISCOCITY!!! were scribbled in Viktor’s familiar handwriting, sharp and urgent.

Her fingers lingered on the page, and for a brief moment, she closed her eyes, her mind flashing back to their earlier argument. How could I have said that? she thought, guilt gnawing at her. She could almost hear Viktor’s voice, the tension in his words when he’d defended Singed. She never meant to hurt him, but the words had come out before she could think, and now, as she held his note, she realized just how little she knew about his past.

Viktor stood in his cramped apartment, absentmindedly turning the gears of a mechanical ship he’d built as a child. The one that lured him down Signed’s cave. An evil wizard.

He stared at the small ship, its intricate design almost mocking him. Singed loved this, Viktor thought. A sharp pang of anger swept through him. Renly’s condemnation echoed in his mind. How dare she judge him; how dare she think she understood what it was like to be trapped with no one to turn to?

Viktor’s hand clenched around the ship’s hull. What was it that Renly had said? “The madman who experimented on everything he could fathom? That Singed?” Her words cut through him like knives, pulling him into a memory that was better left forgotten. Same day they talked about trust.

He wondered, for a fleeting moment, what it would’ve been like if he and Renly had met as children. Would they have gotten along? Would she have condemned him then too, or would she have seen the same potential in him that Singed had?

He looked down at the mechanical ship, the twisting gears a perfect reflection of his own life—complex, unfinished, and always shifting. Would they ever truly understand each other? Or would he always be locked in a cycle of missteps, of words unsaid, and of pieces of his past that could never be erased?

The viscosity note still clutched in her fingers; Renly tossed it back into her bag with a sigh. She stood up and walked to the window, staring out into the dimly lit streets of Piltover. She could hear the muffled hum of the city outside, but all she could think about was Viktor. How could I have been so careless? she thought, watching a pair of figures in the distance, their silhouettes barely visible in the haze.

She wondered what he was doing right now, if he was thinking about her, or if he had already moved on. He had so many layers, so many walls, and just when she thought she was close to understanding him, he pulled away again. Debatable before, in this moment absolutely certain—Viktor definitely didn’t trust her.

Still, she couldn't shake the pull she felt when he was around. The tension, the way his presence seemed to seep into every part of her, had been growing for weeks. And now, despite their argument, she wanted to reach out, to apologize, to explain that she hadn’t meant to hurt him. But how could she when she didn’t even understand him?

Viktor placed the mechanical ship down on the table, the soft click of the metal pieces coming together echoing in the stillness of the room. His mind drifted again to Renly, and the thought of her softened his harsh thoughts. She doesn’t understand, he admitted to himself, his chest tightening. Maybe I don’t need her to.

He couldn’t deny that her words had hurt, but he also understood the instinct behind them—she was trying to protect herself, trying to understand him. It’s not her fault, he thought, his hand hovering over the ship again. It’s mine. I’ve never made it easy for her.

He let out a slow breath. Maybe they would get along as children, Viktor mused. But that was a different time, and he was a different person now. The weight of his decisions, his past, hung heavily on him. He had grown, he had learned, but some parts of him would always be chained to that place, to those choices.

He sighed, running his hand through his hair. Maybe she’ll understand one day, he thought. But for now, the silence between them was all that remained, and it was maddening.

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane #viktor smut #arcane fanfic #my writing #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor x oc #viktor nation #what was that

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cienie-isengardu · 18 days ago

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I don’t remember who wrote this short story originally and sorry if I misremembered some details, but it was about a man who found a little boy in an egg and decided to raise the child as his own son. Despite the unusual event, years have passed and they were a happy normal family. But then one day strange men showed up for the boy and he went with them. Before he left, the boy said to his father something alongside it wasn’t supposed to be like that but because you loved me, everything has changed.

After the boy left, the man sought solace by talking to the priest who told him the boy was Antichrist and he sinned by raising him, but the man did not care for that. The story ends with the man arrested when he was checking out every egg at the shop in hope to find and save another boy hidden in the egg.

And this story always makes me think about Shmi Skywalker who loved Anakin despite the unusual circumstances he was born in (“there was no father”). She could not imagine what Anakin's true purpose was, even if she felt he was a special child meant for something bigger than being just a slave. And as we know he was the Chosen One whose purpose was to bring balance to the Force (and most likely being the Force’s answer for Darth Plagueis’ ability to manipulate the midi-chlorians). In Tatooine Ghost, Han Solo argued that “ If [Anakin]’d have been a nice guy, do you think he’d have ever gotten that close to Palpatine?” to eliminate the Emperor as Vader did. Which is a legit theory, but ultimately it was love that pushed Anakin to save Luke from Darth Sidious’ torture. So maybe, because Shmi loved her son unconditionally, it did - if not outright change then at least influenced what Force’s put in motion.

And you know what? I'm here for the potential cosmic horror that Anakin could be as the Chosen One and how much a mother's love changed it.

#star wars #anakin skywalker #shmi skywalker #please tell me i did not make up this story (it is too cool for being my imagine lol)#anyway anakin as cosmic horror is such a wonderful concept #Force that get pissed at plagueis' messing with midi chlorians and decided to fuck up both the sith and jedi #anyway just rambling like ususal

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mariacallous · 29 days ago

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Along with seemingly everybody else I’ve recently been watching the Netflix series Adolescence. It is a striking film that is masterfully shot and powerfully acted. It has also generated a worthwhile public conversation. Much of this conversation has been constructive; however some of it has been animated by a desire to change the subject - to talk about anything but misogyny and the radicalisation of young men on the internet.

I found Adolescence surreal to watch at times. Since 2018 I have been researching the so-called ‘manosphere’ - a loosely affiliated network of masculinist websites, blogs and online forums. The fruit of my labour, Lost Boys: A Personal Journey Through the Manosphere, is out with Atlantic on 5 June. In normal circumstances a book like this would not have taken so unfathomably long to write. But the years since 2018 have been highly unusual. First the pandemic meant that I couldn’t travel. Then, almost as soon as that was over, my grandmother (whom I was extremely close to) died. Perhaps not surprisingly, I had little desire to re-immerse myself in a culture that got its kicks diminishing women while I was still grieving for the one I loved.

Because it took so long to finish, much of the writing took place under a cloud of uncertainty. I wondered whether the subject matter would be old news by the time the book came out. Back in 2018 there was a lot of interest in incels (involuntary celibates) and Jordan Peterson. By 2022 Andrew Tate was all the rage. I was sure that by 2025 the hyper-masculinity stuff was going to peter out. And then Donald Trump was re-elected and Mark Zuckerberg went on the Joe Rogan Experience to preen about ‘masculine energy’. Adolescence, a film about the radicalisation of a young boy by the manosphere, is now Netflix’s top show globally.

Today I feel a bit like a funeral director in the aftermath of a mass casualty event. I would have preferred things to have turned out differently, but considering they haven’t, I intend to put my knowledge to some practical use. Having spent so much time researching the manosphere - including interviewing and interacting with hundreds of men and spending months at a time embedded on a course which purportedly taught men how to become ‘high status alpha males’ - I feel as if I have something worthwhile to contribute.

It is in the nature of television to over-dramatise things and Adolescence depicts an extreme sequence of events. Murders inspired by the manosphere are mercifully rare (I go over several of them in detail in the book). Yet for every act of extreme violence there are probably countless instances of abuse and coercion that are given moral license by the subculture’s misogynistic doctrines. Indeed, many unpleasant things follow from the proposition that women are not quite fully human, even if some of our professional anti-alarmists would like to wave this conversation away as a ‘moral panic’.

Much of the debate inspired by Adolescence has focused on fatherlessness. It is an interesting jumping off point and conservative hand-wringing about fatherlessness is not without foundation. Yet absent fathers are better than violent ones. Moreover, fatherless homes are sometimes a byproduct of the fact that women nowadays feel less coerced into ‘making it work’ with abusive men.

Anti-feminist backlash can bring to mind a line from It Can’t Happen Here, Sinclair Lewis’s dystopian novel that enjoyed a resurgence during the first Trump administration. ‘Every man is a king so long as he has someone to look down on,’ writes the author. As women have thrown off some of the oppressive strictures of the past and entered the labour force as (at least in theory) equal participants, some men have experienced a relative loss of status. Until fairly recently, men who found themselves cowed at work could at least dominate their families in the home. They still can in places like Russia, where a woman is killed by a man in a domestic setting every forty minutes. Vladimir Putin knows he has little to offer Russia’s menfolk besides poverty and war. And so he endows them with a sense of domiciliary lordship and dominion. In 2017 the Russian leader signed a law that partially decriminalised domestic violence.

It wasn’t so long ago in the West that women were treated as a form of property and divided up accordingly. Nowadays they mostly get to choose for themselves and the manosphere is rightly seen as a bilious wail of resentment at the fact.

Yet the ‘backlash’ thesis only takes us so far. The rise of the manosphere should probably also be seen a morbid symptom of the suffusion of market logic into every aspect of life. As is often the case, the clue is in the language. Masculinity gurus refer to a ‘sexual marketplace’ where to succeed men must embody certain characteristics that (coincidentally) also correspond with being an ideal neoliberal subject. Dominance, status, and crippling levels of productivity render a man ‘high value’ (people are frequently made to sound like Ebay collectibles) and audiences of impressionable men are encouraged to view life entirely through the prism of getting rich. Women on the other hand are treated either as ornamental status objects - one of the spoils for a successful performance of masculinity - or as breeding stock for patriarchs.

Jamie, the teenage boy who murders a girl from his school in Adolescence, mentions something called the ‘80/20’ rule. ‘80 per cent of women are attracted to 20 per cent of men. You must trick them, because you’ll never get them in a normal way,’ the 13-year-old protagonist tells his psychologist. In its garden variety self-help guise, the 80/20 rule (sometimes called the Pareto Principle) is one of those sterile maxims whose spiritual home is the jejune world of LinkedIn. The basic idea of this supposed ‘law’ is that 80 per cent of consequences come from 20 per cent of causes. The manosphere transposes the same template to sex and relationships. According to Jordan Peterson, sexual access for males is a ‘Pareto-distributed phenomena where a small proportion of the males get most of the invitations’. During the immersive part of my research, I heard one guru explain it as follows to a group of students who had signed up for his $10,000 ‘alpha male’ course (yes, really):

As we got into monogamous societies, what happened was low-status men got at least one girl that they could have sex with. Then after birth control and the sexual revolution we allowed people to choose more, and what women were choosing was the high-status men, so these men at the bottom became surplus again. That’s why you guys are here.

In other words, women are choosing a small percentage of ‘elite’ men and condemning a flotsam of sexual no-hopers (the 80 per cent) to the status of surplus men. This sort of rhetoric is usually accompanied by claims that western civilisation is going down the tubes because society no longer places restrictions on female sexuality (‘culturally enforced monogamy’, as Peterson has euphemistically called it).

In reality the 80/20 rule is a conspiracy theory that doesn’t stand up even in the world of dating apps. According to a study of user activity on Tinder, while women on the app tend to rate men more poorly in terms of their looks, they are also more likely to message the poorly rated men. By contrast, men tend to rate women better in terms of looks, but a majority are only messaging the most popular third of women.

And yet the 80/20 rule (and the manosphere itself) started to gain traction around the time that image and video-based social media took off. Instagram was launched in 2012; ten years later it would be home to a billion users – around an eighth of the world’s population. Tinder, a place where people are depicted as two-dimensional objects in a catalogue of flesh, launched in the same year. These platforms in particular have helped to distort ideas around what is normal and accepted. The more beauty and abundance on one side of the screen, the greater the sense of material and spiritual impoverishment on the other. We know that social media makes women feel insecure about their bodies; yet the same thing is increasingly true for men. A 2025 study published in Psychology of Men & Masculinities found that adolescent boys were increasingly using anabolic steroids to achieve the muscular physiques idealised on social media. If nobody feels like they are good enough anymore then perhaps it is in part because they are not supposed to.

All of which leads to the creation of material conditions that are propitious to convincing young men that they lack the requisite desirable qualities in the so-called sexual marketplace. In the analog age masculinity hucksters were forced to place their ads in the back of top shelf magazines. Yet thanks to social media, where the illusion of success is indistinguishable from the real thing, their bombastic heirs can enchant young men with telegenic charisma and portrayals of a luxurious lifestyle (in common with other pyramid schemes, the trappings of wealth are usually dependent on the guru’s ability to extract money from his followers).

This is why the wisdom of putting smartphones in the hands of children is so central to the debate around the manosphere. We tend to explain radicalisation by searching for pre-existing vulnerabilities. This is often the most appropriate approach: radicalisation can feed on inner turmoil and insecurity. Yet such feelings are not always organic: the market can play its own role in their generation. Wealth in a capitalist economy is accumulated through the creation of needs as much as their satisfaction. And smartphones are the vehicle through which masculinity entrepreneurs are able to circumvent other forms of socialisation (parents, teachers, approved role models) in order to cultivate their pied piper-like appeal.

When I was at school being ‘cool’ was synonymous with possessing whatever action figure or clothing brand or skateboard the market had convinced you was essential. What makes smartphones different is that the commodity itself is the beginning rather than the end of the story. ‘We look through them into the infosphere,’ as the philosopher Byung-Chul Han writes in Non-things. Venturing into the ‘infosphere’ these days increasingly summons feelings of browsing a sales catalogue of low repute. Search engines try to pull you away from the things you are searching for; social media generates conflict and atomisation; dating apps get rich from perpetual singledom.

This is the respectable face of the internet. It is easy enough to find oneself in the slipstream of less reputable sales funnels¹. Charismatic masculinity influencers reel young men in by hammering away at their insecurities. They then present themselves as saviours and guides. The sales pitch goes something like this: ‘The rules of the game have changed; someone like you will never get a girlfriend; however if you follow me (and buy my course which is $495 for a limited time only) I will show you how to escape the ‘Matrix’ (i.e. by embracing a rigid and cartoonish coda of masculinity).

To be online in 2025 is to be one-step removed from the subterranean world of masculinity demagogues. Adults are free to navigate these waters at their own peril. But I suspect that society will come to regret giving children untrammelled access to the devices through which these toxic Confidence Men can peddle their wares. After all, there are more important things in life than the assimilation of kids into the smartphone market.

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scarletqueenx · 3 months ago

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chapter one - lazarus rising

Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Summary: After a few months dating, Dean abandoned you in a motel room without giving you any explanation, years later his brother and he saved you from a demon and now you hunt with them discovering every day new mysteries about your family and the destiny that awaits you. Heaven, hell, demons, angels, vampires, witches and much more.

A/N: English is not my first language. This is my first time writing in the readers perspective, as i'm used to write oc´s.

series masterlist

Time passed, but for you everything froze at the very moment your eyes met Dean's lifeless body. The shock of losing Dean had hit you hard, more that you had imagine, and you found yourself moving through life on autopilot, simply going through the motions of each day without truly living.

At first, you tried to be there for Sam, to be there for him in what you knew were the worst days of his life. You also tried to stand by your father and your worried little brother side. You tried to help Carter, Maddie and Harper get their lives back to normal. But every second that passed was like a dagger of pain piercing your body.

Two weeks after Dean's death, you disappeared. You left without a word. You received millions of calls from your family, Maddie and Bobby but they all ended up on voicemail.

You tried to keep busy by hunting and not think about the pain that constantly weighed down on you. But no matter what you did, the pain was always there, a constant, dull ache in your chest.

You couldn't breathe.

The days were endless and agonizing, so much that you found yourself withdrawing more and more, isolating yourself from the world and from others. You didn't want to be around people who were happy and carefree; it only made your own suffering much more unbearable.

Nightmares haunted you every night, replaying the image of Dean's lifeless body in your mind over and over. It was a torturous cycle, one that left you feeling weak and shaken to your core. But it wasn't only the dreams that haunted you.

Lilith's possession of your body and mind had left its mark. Even now, you could feel the demon's presence lingering within you, a constant reminder of the evil that had touched you.

The world seemed to lose its color, fading into shades of gray. Every sight, sound, and feeling was tainted by sadness, and the only way you felt you could cope with it was to drown your tears in alcohol. It was the only thing that brought you any comfort. At night, as you closed your eyes, you hoped that your dreams would transport you to a better place, a world where Dean was still alive and by your side.

You fell into a routine. Hunt, sleep, drink and repeat. All while looking for some way to bring Dean back to life.

Meanwhile, trying to adjust to the routine of living with his father, away from his sister and Maddie, Peter was trying his best to reach out to them. Maddie had decided to sell her mother's house and, following Bobby's invitation to stay with him, was now helping the hunter with research. You barely answered your phone, if you weren't hunting or drinking, you were sleeping or just didn't want to talk to anyone.

Harper was another mystery to the boy, the mystery in which he had decided to refuge in the absence of his older sister and the shock of discovering that he also had an older brother. Carter had disappeared from the map after that night, so Peter had only Harper to rely on.

It wasn't just curiosity that drove Peter's interest in Harper, but also a deep sense of empathy. After all, he understood what it was like to be a young person trying to find his place in the world, especially in such unusual circumstances. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to her story than met the eye.

Harper Kenner, daughter of Grant Kenner, had lived nearly fifteen years trapped within herself, without aging more than a couple of years and unable to control her own body and mind. That would leave its mark on anyone. Peter longed to know what supernatural being had possessed her. His initial theory had been a demon, but the compassion she exuded and her apparent powers didn't align with typical demonic behavior.

Now Harper lived with Bobby and Maddie, hiding under a different name and trying to make sense of everything that had happened to her over the past years. While also trying to grasp what her father's death while possessed by the demon Dorian meant to her and her now new life.

─── ❖ ── ✦ ── ❖ ───

September 18th, 4 Months After Dean's Death

A new day awaited while you were still asleep, curled up in that musty motel room. The bed was particularly comfortable compared to the other motels you'd been in, but that hadn't helped for your night to be peaceful and free of nightmares.

When the harsh sunlight hit your face, you woke up grunting and wincing. Your head ached from the alcohol you had consumed the previous night, and every one of your senses felt heightened and painful. You knew you had a tough hunt ahead of you, but all you wanted to do was stay in bed and ignore the world. Still, you knew from experience that trying to rest would only bring memories of Dean to your mind. So, despite your wishes, you forced yourself out of bed and stumbled towards the bathroom to take a hot shower.

The coffee at the motel wasn't the best, but it did its job of waking you up completely so you could get to work on that case involving a nest of vampires. You had been chasing them for several weeks from Florida, to Nashville, Tennessee, when you finally felt you could take them down once and for all.

You sat at the small table in your room, looking over everything you had researched as you finished your cup of black coffee and prepared your weapons. It was the ringing of your phone that brought you out of your thoughts. Thinking it was Peter, you didn't even bother to look its screen as you ignored the call, but when it rang once again, you decided to answer as you let out a sigh.

"What is it?" Your voice came out sharp and full of annoyance, but there was also a trace of concern. You didn't want to be bothered, but if it was an emergency and your brother was in danger, you would leave everything for him.

However, no one answered on the other end of the line. The only thing you could make out was the shaky sound of someone's breathing.

"Hello?" Confused, you pulled the device away from your ear to look at the caller. It wasn't your brother, your father or anyone you knew, it was a completely unknown number. Frowning, you spoke once again. "Hello?"

The lack of response from the other end of the line only increased your unease. In a burst of anxiety, you ended the call without a second thought.

Barely a minute later, that unfamiliar phone number called you again. With your jacket on and ready to go hunting, you answered in exasperation.

"Listen, if this is a joke, it's not funny. Stop calling me or I swear I'll come after you." You stated firmly before hanging up.

The person on the other end stared at the phone in astonishment at your aggressiveness.

Surely you weren't the only person Dean had called from that empty gas station after waking up in his own grave in the middle of a perfect circle of dead trees, laying on the ground as if an unearthly powerful blast had felled them. But at least with Bobby he had managed to open up and tell him what had happened, but the man hadn't believed a single one of his words.

Upset with himself for not being able to talk to you and frustrated that Bobby didn't believe him, Dean found himself forced to steal a car to travel to Sioux Falls, where Bobby's house was located.

Things there were very different compared to how Dean remembered them. Bobby's house used to be an uncrowded place. Bobby hardly had any visitors or guests other than the Winchesters, but now Maddie and Harper occupied his only other bedroom. Having them with him was like a breath of fresh air despite the hard time the hunter was going through with Dean's death and yours and Sam's departures. Bobby didn't have children, but those two girls were certainly becoming his family.

On top of that, Peter had shown up at his door the night before, backpack over his shoulder and a tired expression on his face. The Holloway boy had run away from home, tired of watching his father lock himself in his office and practically ignore him to avoid the big elephant in the room which he still hadn't wanted to talk to him about his brother Carter.

Maddie's food had improved Bobby's eating. He could cook, but if it weren't for her love of photography, Maddie might as well be a chef. Meals were also the only time Harper talked to them at all, since most of the time she was quiet, lost in thought or reading one of Bobby's supernatural lore books.

Due to the long trip from San Francisco, Peter had spent the morning sleeping in, missing even lunchtime. When he finally awoke, overcome by a nightmare, Peter descended the stairs. The house fell into an uneasy silence, sending a shiver down his spine with each step he took.

"Bobby? Maddie?" He called, peering into the kitchen, which was impeccably clean and empty. "Bobby?" He called once more, walking into the living room. "Don't ask me why, but I think my sister needs our help."

Peter stood speechless as he walked up to the entrance of the house. There was no sign of Maddie and Harper, and Bobby seemed too calm considering the other person there. Across from the young Holloway stood Dean Winchester, in the flesh, and breathing.

"I thought you were supposed to be in a pine box?" Peter stared at him in shock, eyes narrowed and body slightly tense. Dean couldn't help but chuckle at his playful comment. He hated to say it, but he had missed Peter's smart-ass comments and their little bickering relationship.

"Yeah, it surprised me too." Dean admitted, turning back to Bobby. "You had to bury me, really?"

"I wanted you salted and burned. Usual drill. But... Sam wouldn't have it." Bobby explained.

Dean nodded as he looked back at Peter, who was scrutinizing him with his eyes while tilting his head to the side.

"How do we know you're not a demon or a shapeshifter or a...?"

"He already passed all the tests." Bobby said, cutting him off.

"All?" Peter raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah, all."

"It's me, kid." Dean assured him.

"If that's true, then we should tell my sister."

"Yeah, sounds good." Dean nodded, not wanting to wait another second to see you. "What were you saying about her needing help, by the way?"

Peter shrugged.

"I don't know. I just woke up with this strange feeling."

"Let's take it one step at a time." Bobby said, walking into the living room. "Dean. Your chest was ribbons, your insides were slop. And you've been buried four months. Even if you could slip out of hell and back into your meat suit-"

"I know, I should look like a Thriller video reject." Dean noted. Peter chuckled as Bobby nodded.

"What do you remember?"

"Not much." Dean shrugged. "I remember I was a Hellhound's chew toy, and then... lights out. Then I come to six feet under, that was it. Sam's number's not working. He's, uh... he's not..."

"Oh, he's alive. As far as I know." Bobby sat down.

"Good... Wait, what do you mean, as far as you know?"

"I haven't talked to him for months."

"You're kidding, you just let him go off by himself?"

"He was dead set on it."

"Bobby, you should've been looking after him."

"I tried. These last months haven't been exactly easy, you know. For any of us." Bobby looked down. "He was quiet. Real quiet. And then he just took off. Wouldn't return my calls. I tried to find him, but he didn't want to be found."

"Same with my sister." Peter added.

Dean's face fell as he took in the words. His heart ached as he thought about you, struggling alone and refusing any help. He couldn't imagine what you must have gone through, how much pain and confusion you must have felt. The thought of you struggling and alone, not wanting to be found... it was almost too painful to bear.

He felt a pang of guilt and regret for being gone, for not being there for you. He could only hope that now that he was back he could find a way to make it up to you somehow.

Still, Dean tried his best to shake off the flood of emotions that had come over him at the mention of your struggles. Right now, his priority was Sam. He needed to find him and make sure that he was safe.

"Oh, damnit, Sammy." He muttered.

"What?" Bobby looked up at him.

"I don't know what he did for me to be back, but whatever he did, it is bad mojo."

"What makes you so sure?" Peter frowned.

"You should have seen the grave site. It was like a nuke went off. And then there was this... this force, this presence, I don't know, but it, it blew past me at a fill-up joint. And then this." He added, stripping off his jacket to roll up his sleeve and reveal the handprint burn on his left shoulder.

Peter's eyes widened as Bobby stood up.

"What in the hell?" The man asked.

"It was like a demon just yanked me out. Or rode me out." Dean explained.

"But why?" Peter asked, confused. That didn't sound like the topical demon behavior.

"To hold up their end of the bargain." Dean answered.

"You think Sam made a deal." Bobby assumed,

"It's what I would have done." Dean admitted.

Minutes later, Peter sat on the porch of the house with a comic book in his hands. His attention however wasn't on the comic but on Harper, who now sat in one of the cars in the junkyard reading another of Bobby's books.

She and Maddie had returned from running errands shortly after Dean had shown up. Their reactions were completely different. Harper didn't know Dean, but she knew he had been a sore subject at Bobby's house. Maddie had barely spent any time with him, but during her time as Peter's babysitter she had grown very fond of you and the two hunters, especially knowing how much they meant to you.

Maddie's caring nature and empathy made her drop the shopping bags all at once and throw herself into Dean's arms to wrap him in a tight hug. The girl couldn't help but think how happy his return would make Sam and you, also selfishly hoping the two of you would get back in touch.

When the door behind him opened, Peter rose quickly to his feet, directing his gaze toward the two men now descending the porch steps.

"Did you find Sam?" He asked. Dean nodded.

"Sam's in Pontiac, Illinois."

"Isn't that where you...?

"Yeah, right where I popped up." Dean replied as he walked behind Bobby toward his car. "Hell of a coincidence, don't you think?"

"I wasn't going to say that, but it's certainly weird." Peter said, putting away his comic book. "I'm going with you."

Dean stopped in his tracks, turning on his heels to look at him. Peter looked so much like you it hurt to have him in front of him. The memory of your voice echoed in his head, reminding him of the pain and exhaustion in your tone.

"I don't think that's a good idea. Maddie offered, but you and Harper are better off here."

"You don't even know Harper. You don't know what happened that night. We can handle whatever happens." Peter assured him.

"You'd help more by finding out what the hell possessed Harper."

"As if we haven't been looking for that the last four months." Peter snorted in annoyance.

"Then find your sister." Dean pleaded, holding him by the shoulders. Peter took a deep breath of air, ready to argue, but the look Dean was giving him was a completely new one. Dean used to display this arrogance and that easygoing attitude, but now that look was completely gone and it had turned into one of desperation. Peter couldn't say no.

"Fine." The boy agreed.

Dean sighed with relief.

"Thanks, kid." Dean cracked a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Peter nodded in silence as he watched him go.

─── ❖ ── ✦ ── ❖ ───

The reunion with his brother wasn't what Dean had expected. He was taken aback to find a half-naked girl accompanying Sam in his motel room. Dean's joy at reuniting with his brother was tainted by his concern for him and the dangerous and reckless act he had likely performed to bring him back to life.

And for Sam, even after Bobby had assured him that the tests had confirmed it was really Dean, he couldn't shake off his confusion.

"So tell me, what'd it cost?" Dean asked, standing above him, arms crossed as Sam sat down.

Sam smiled, taken aback by his question.

"The girl? I don't pay, Dean."

"That's not funny, Sam." Dean replied. "To bring me back. What'd it cost? Was it just your soul, or was it something worse?"

"You think I made a deal?" Sam frowned.

"That's exactly what we think." Bobby nodded.

"Well, I didn't."

"Don't lie to me." Dean asked, looking at him with suspicious.

"I'm not lying." He scoffed.

Despite his insistence, Dean didn't quite believe his words.

"So what now, I'm off the hook and you're on, is that it? You're some demon's bitch-boy?" Dean asked, walking towards him. "I didn't want to be saved like this."

"Look, Dean, I wish I had done it, all right?" Sam stood up, angrily.

Upset and confused, believing his brother was lying to him, Dean grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

"There's no other way that this could have gone down. Now tell the truth!"

"I tried everything." Sam assured him, breaking Dean's grip. "That's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate. Hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, all right? You were rotting in Hell for months. For months, and I couldn't stop it. So I'm sorry it wasn't me, all right? Dean, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Sammy." Dean took a step back, believing his brother. "You don't have to apologize, I believe you."

"Don't get me wrong, I'm gladdened that Sam's soul remains intact, but it does raise a sticky question." Bobby spoke.

"If he didn't pull me out, then what did?" Dean said.

Taking a deep breath, Sam sat back down and asked them if they had talked to you.

Bobby and Dean share a look and shook their heads.

"She wouldn't have made a deal." Dean assured.

Sam chuckled.

"She was even more determined than me to do so. It hadn't past even a few hours before she started looking for ways to get you back."

Dean sighed.

"So, what? We have to travel all the way out to California?"

"No need. She disappeared two weeks after you died. She's been driving around the country focused on hunting all kinds of supernatural beings. And her father's nearby, as a matter of fact. He has a conference in Chicago on Greek mythology tomorrow. Maybe he knows where she is." Bobby told them.

"We can also call her." Dean suggested. "She answered my call yesterday."

"So you did talk to her." Sam noted with a frown.

"Not exactly." Dean replied. "I... Bobby didn't believe me and when I heard her on the other end of the line... She didn't sound like herself."

"If she'd gotten you out of hell she'd be expecting a call from you." Bobby said. "Maybe it was something else or someone else that got you out of there."

"Yeah, right. What?"

Bobby shrugged. "Don't know. But maybe she could help us. Henry must know where to find her."

"I doubt it." Sam said. "I called a week ago, Peter answered, but he assured me they hadn't heard from her for about a month."

"I asked him to look for her while we were here. Maybe he found something or got in touch with her." Dean noted.

"Okay, I'm on it." Bobby nodded, pulling out his phone to call Peter.

"So what were you doing around here if you weren't digging me out of my grave?" Dean looked back at his brother.

"Well, once I figured out I couldn't save you, I started hunting down Lilith, trying to get some payback." Sam explained.

"All by yourself. Who do you think you are, your old man?" Bobby glared at Sam.

"Uh, yeah, I'm sorry, Bobby. I should have called. I was pretty messed up." Sam sighed. "Anyways, uh, I was checking these demons out of Tennessee, and out of nowhere they took a hard left, booked up here."

"When?"

"Yesterday morning."

"When I busted out." Dean sighed.

"You think these demons are here 'cause of you?" Bobby asked.

"But why?" Sam asked.

"Well, I don't know – some badass demon drags me out and now this? It's gotta be connected somehow."

"How you feelin', anyway?" Bobby looked back at him with concern.

"I'm a little hungry." Dean shrugged.

"No, I mean, do you feel like yourself? Anything strange, or different?"

"Or demonic?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "Bobby, how many times do I have to prove I'm me?"

"Yeah. Well, listen. No demon's letting you loose out of the goodness of their hearts. They've gotta have something nasty planned."

"Well, I feel fine." Dean assured.

"Okay, look, we don't know what they're planning. We got a pile of questions and no shovel. We need help." Sam noted.

"Maybe we can do something about that." Maddie spoke through the phone, for she had been listening to their conversation since Bobby had called. "It's good to hear your voice again, Sam."

Sam smiled slightly at the sound of the girl's voice.

"Same here, Mads."

Dean looked at his brother before asking if they had heard form you.

"No, but Peter can find her." Maddie answered.

"I've been studying magic behind my dad's back with some of his books, I think I can do a quick and easy locator spell." The boy explained.

Dean shifted uncofortable. The idea of using magic, good or bad, wasn't really something he liked.

"I don't know... Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I just need something from her or her blood and I've got both, so."

"This is a really bad idea." Harper muttered in the distance.

"If you don't like it you can always call your friend." Peter said in annoyance.

"How many times do I have to tell you she's not my friend?" Harper complained.

"Surely you care about her or you would have told us who and what the hell she is by now. She possessed your body for years, you have to know who she was."

"I told you it's not important. Forget it."

"Forget it?" The boy scoffed. "Lilith possessed my sister that night, I found out I had a brother and that a demon was the one who killed my mother. I can't forget, Harper, that being was the only one who tried and helped me."

"That being let my father die at your brother's hands after promising to protect us." She argued, annoyed at his insistence. Dean, Sam and Bobby couldn't help but share a glance at her response. It was the first time in four months that Harper had said anything about who had possessed her and it certainly wasn't what they had expected.

"Demons lie, Harper, shocker." Peter rolled his eyes.

"It wasn't a demon."

"So what was it?" He looked back at her.

"Will you two stop arguing?" Maddie complained before Harper could said anything else. "It doesn't matter now. Peter, find your sister."

"Okay." The boy nodded.

"It matters if she knows who got me out of hell." Dean said. "Harper..."

"I told you I don't know anything." She interrupted him.

"If she didn't keep her promise, why are you protecting her?" Maddie frowned, looking back at Harper.

"I'm not. It's just..."

"I got it." Peter interrupted her, gaining everyone's attention. "She's in Nashville, Tennessee."

"Didn't you just say you were in Tennessee chasing some demons?" Dean turned to his brother.

"I was, but not in Nashville. She must be there hunting something else."

"There are records of people missing around Nashville." Maddie announced, looking at her laptop. "It looks like a vampire case. Several hospitals are reporting loss of blood supplies and people with piercing wounds on their necks."

"I know a psychic. A few hours from Nashville." Bobby spoke. "Something this big, maybe she's heard the other side talking."

"Hell yeah, it's worth a shot." Dean nodded.

"I'll be right back" Bobby said, taking his phone before exiting the room.

Finding himself alone with his brother, Sam finally decided to ask him the question that he had been pondering since their reunion.

"Hey Dean, what was it like?" Sam tried to remain calm and not sound insistent as he looked back at Dean.

"What, Hell?" Dean asked. Sam nodded. "I don't know, I, I must have blacked it out. I don't remember a damn thing."

"Well, thank God for that." Sam sighed.

"Yeah." Dean replied looking down. "There's still one thing that's bothering me."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, the night that I bit it. Or... got bit." He chuckled at his own wit. "How'd you make it out? I thought Lilith was going to kill you."

"Well, she tried. She couldn't." Sam answered.

"What do you mean, she couldn't?" Dean frowned.

"She fired this, like, burning light at me, and... didn't leave a scratch. Like I was immune or something."

"Immune?"

"Yeah. I don't know who was more surprised, her or me. She left pretty fast after that." Sam said before explaining everything about Lilith possessing you and scaring Ophelia of when she saw Lilith in your body.

"That's odd."

"Yeah." He sighed.

"How did she take it?" Dean asked with concern.

"I don't know. She didn't say anything to me. You should ask Peter, but I think she's been distant even with him these last few months."

Dean nodded as his concern for you only seemed to grow by the second.

"Huh. What about Ruby, where is she?" Dean asked after a few seconds.

"Dead. For now."

Dean bit his lower lip, as if he wasn't sure whether he wanted ask the next question.

"So you've been using your, uh, freaky ESP stuff?"

Sam turned back to him, confuse.

"No." He assured.

"You sure about that?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "Well, I mean, now that you've got... immunity, whatever the hell that is... just wondering what other kind of weirdo crap you've got going on."

"Nothing, Dean. Look, you didn't want me to go down that road, so I didn't go down that road. It was practically your dying wish."

"Yeah, well, let's keep it that way."

─── ❖ ── ✦ ── ❖ ───

Bobby stood in front of your motel room, next to him, leaning against the wall were Sam and Dean, each feeling a mixture of anticipation and nervousness as Bobby finally knocked on the door. After a few moments, it creaked open, revealing you—disheveled and battered—on the other side.

Seeing him, your eyes widened in confusion. "Bobby. How... How did you find me?" You whispered.

"Peter tracked you down." He answered. "We need to talk."

Your shoulders slumped slightly, and you leaned against the doorframe.

"We have nothing to talk about." You said, crossing your arms on your chest. "I told you I needed time."

"I heard you, but things have changed."

"What do you...?" Your words trailed off as Sam appeared next to Bobby. Your confusion quickly turned to disbelief, especially as your gaze landed on the green-eyed man next to him. "Dean?" You mumbled.

Dean took a step forward, his eyes drinking in the sight of you. He reached out a hand hesitantly, as if trying to convince himself that you were really there. Dean tried to take another step forward, his eyes pleading you to believe him, but your gaze narrowed.

"Don't come any closer." You warned, your voice hoarse from disuse as you took a step back.

Dean froze, his outstretched hand hovering in the air.

"It's me." He said, his voice laced with heartbreak.

Your breath hitched, and your eyes widened with disbelief. "That's impossible." You whispered, your voice laced with shock. "You're dead."

Bobby and Sam watched anxiously as the tension thickened in the air. Dean took another tentative step forward, desperation in his eyes.

"I was." He gulped, his voice hoarse. "I woke up in my on grave two days ago. I don't know how or why, but I'm here. It's me."

Your breathing grew ragged, your body shaking with a mixture of emotions. You leaned heavily against the doorframe, your eyes flickering over Dean's face and body as if searching for some sign that he was lying.

"How?" You asked, your voice cracking. "How is this possible?"

"We don't know yet. We were actually hoping that you would have some idea on how." Bobby replied.

"You think I made a deal?" You raised your eyebrows, looking back at him. "No. I... I tried, God knows I did, but they wouldn't have it."

Sam and Bobby shared a look at your response as you continued to watch Dean with doubt in your eyes. Dean looked back at you, noticing your clear exhaustion defined by the dark circles under your eyes.

Suddenly, your expression hardened, and you pushed yourself upright, your body tense and alert. "Prove it." You then spit. "Prove that you're really you."

Dean's eyebrows furrowed in confusion and hurt at your hostile tone, but he understood your distrust. He raised his hands, palms up, in a gesture of surrender. "How?" He asked gently. "What can I do to prove it?"

Sam and Bobby exchanged worried glances as they watched the standoff. Your eyes flicked from them back to Dean. "Tell me something only you would know." You asked.

Dean let out a breath, wracking his brain for something you and him had shared that would convince you he was truly him. After a moment, he spoke. "You have a tiny scar on your right hip, shaped like a star." He said quietly. "You got it when you were five and fell off a swing."

Your eyes widened in shock, and your tough exterior wavered for a moment. You remembered the accident vividly and had never told anyone but him about the scar. The realization that only the real Dean could know something that personal rattled you. But still, you weren't fully convinced.

Dean seized on the flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, taking another slow step forward.

"And your favorite movie is Dead Poets Society." He said gently. "You cry every time you watch it."

"He passed all the tests. It's really him." Bobby assured you.

Tears welled up in your eyes as the memory of watching the movie together came flooding back to you. You had never told anyone that either. Dean's words hit you like a freight train, and your defenses crumbled slightly.

Dean took another couple of steps toward you, his expression earnest. "Please, sweetheart." He pleaded. "You know me. You know it's really me. I don't know how or why I'm back, but I am. I'm here, and I'm real, and I'm not going anywhere. Not ever again."

Your eyes flickered over his face, your heart at war with your head. Seeing and hearing him after thinking he was dead for so long was overwhelming and impossible to comprehend. But the details he had given you, things only you and him knew, they were undeniable proof he was telling the truth.

You took a shaky breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. "It's really you?"

Dean nodded, his own eyes glistened with unshed tears. Tears barely perceptible, except you. "It's really me."

Unable to hold back any longer, you rushed forward and threw yourself into his arms, hugging him fiercely. Dean stumbled back a step, but he quickly recovered and wrapped his arms around your trembling figure.

You buried your face in his chest, inhaling his familiar scent, trying to convince yourself that he was truly there. For a moment, all was silent except for the sound of your shaky breathing and the steady thump of his heartbeat.

Bobby and Sam felt relief as they watched the emotional reunion unfold before them.

Dean held you tight, his own emotions swirling in his chest. He buried his face in your hair, breathing in your scent. As you pulled back, your eyes roamed over his face as if memorizing every detail. A mixture of shock and joy danced in your gaze.

"How is this possible?" You asked, your hands still gripping the fabric of his shirt tightly. "You were gone. I saw your body... I mourned you. How are you here?"

Dean's expression darkened as he remembered the strange circumstances of his resurrection. "I don't know." He replied. "Believe me, I've been trying to figure it out since waking up. But, either way, I'm glad I'm back."

A smile tugged at your lips as you replied. "Me too."

Dean pulled back further, suddenly noticing the injuries on your skin and the exhaustion etched into your features. His hands dropped to your sides, and a frown tugged at his lips.

"You look tired." He murmured, his voice soft. "And wounded. What happened to you?"

Having been caught up in the intensity of the reunion, you suddenly became aware of the stinging pain in your own body. You winced as you shifted your weight. You sighed and let your hands slide from his waist, but you kept your gaze fixed on him.

"I'm fine." You said, though he could tell you were lying. Sam and Bobby exchanged knowing glances, silently cursing themselves for not having noticed your injuries earlier. You caught their looks and shrugged, attempting to downplay your pain. "It's just a scratch."

Dean's eyes widened as he noticed the blood that was staining your shirt.

"It doesn't look like 'just a scratch' to me." He said firmly, stepping forward to examine the wound.

Reluctantly, you lifted your shirt, revealing a deep gash in your abdomen. Dean sucked in a breath, his face paling as he saw how serious the injury was and how recent it looked.

"What the hell happened?" Dean asked, gently running his fingers over the wound.

"It's not that bad." You protested, but the pain in you was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Dean shot you a frustrated look. "Not that bad? You have a gash the size of a dinner plate in your stomach. That's worse than 'not that bad' in my book."

You opened your mouth to protest again, but your knees buckled suddenly, the pain becoming too much for you to bear. Dean and Sam were quick to catch you, propping you up between them.

"All right, that's it." Dean said firmly. "We're getting you patched up."

He and Sam each took one of your arms, carefully guiding you toward the bathroom. Bobby followed closely behind, already gathering supplies for makeshift stitches.

In the small bathroom, you leaned against the counter as Dean examined your wound more closely. Sam stood nearby, his brow furrowed with worry. Dean doused a piece of cloth with antiseptic, readying himself to clean the wound.

"This is going to hurt." He warned you.

You braced yourself, gripping the edge of the counter tightly.

"I can handle it." You replied through clenched teeth.

Dean began cleaning the wound, his touch firm but gentle. You winced, your eyes squeezed shut, but you didn't pull away. Sam watched silently, his hands clenching and unclenching as he tried to contain his worry and anger.

Once the wound was cleaned, Dean took the needle and thread that Bobby handed to him. He began stitch the gash, his fingers steady and precise as he worked. You bit your lip to try and stifle the pain as best you could, your knuckles turning white from gripping the counter.

Dean's focus was completely on the task at hand, his brow furrowed in concentration as he continued to stitch the wound. Bobby stood nearby, his concern gaze flickering between you and the Winchesters.

Finally, with one last stitch, Dean tied off the last stitch.

"All done." He announced, stepping back. Bobby handed Dean a roll of gauze, and he began wrapping it around your abdomen to secure the stitches. As he worked, he couldn't help but ask. "So, you gonna tell us how you got this injury in the first place?"

You exhaled deeply, the pain already lessening now that the wound had been properly treated.

"I got it fighting a nest of vampires." You said, your voice slightly raspy from pain.

Sam and Dean exchanged surprised glances, their expressions a mix of concern and disbelief.

"A nest?" Sam echoed. "You took on a nest of vampires by yourself?"

You shrugged nonchalantly.

"I've handled worse." You replied, though your weariness suggested otherwise.

Sam sighed in frustration as he stepped out of the bathroom, feeling inevitably responsible that you had ended up like that. After all, he hadn't stopped you from leaving, nor had he looked for you afterwards.

Dean shook his head. "You're lucky you didn't end up worse off. Or dead." He scolded, finishing up the bandage.

As Dean finished wrapping the bandage, he noticed the look in your eyes, a haunted acceptance of your own mortality. It was a look he knew all too well.

"You didn't care whether you lived or died, did you?" He asked, his voice gentle, but layered with concern.

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze.

"You were dead. I didn't care about anything else."

Dean's expression darkened at your blunt response, both pained and frustrated with your dismissal of your own well-being.

"That's stupid. You had Peter, your father, Maddie, Sam and Bobby" He grumbled, carefully helping you off the counter.

"They didn't matter without you here. Nothing mattered."

"So that's it, then? You just stop caring about everyone if I'm gone?" He asked, the pain of your words stabbing through him. "You'd just throw your life away like it doesn't matter to anyone else?" Dean's jaw clenched at your admission, a storm of anger and hurt swirling within him. "You don't get to throw your life away like it's nothing." He continued, his voice rising. "Dammit, sweetheart, you matter. You've got people that care about you. People that need you."

"I need you."

Dean's breath caught in his chest at your words, the raw honesty sending a shiver down his spine.

"I'm here now." He said softly, his anger fading.

Your eyes welled with unexpected tears at his gentle response, the weight of your own loneliness and grief finally catching up to you.

Dean pulled you gently into his arms, holding you tightly.

"I'm here now." He whispered, burying his face against your hair. As he held you, he could feel the tension slowly leave your body, your head resting on his shoulder. Neither of you spoke for a few moments, both lost in your own thoughts.

Sam and Bobby, now standing just outside the bathroom, watched the tender scene unfold. Bobby's expression softened as he observed the moment between Dean and you.

As the moment stretched on, reality slowly began to intrude once more. Sam cleared his throat, and both Dean and you looked up, a mixture of embarrassment and tenderness filling the small bathroom.

"You guys gonna come out any time soon?" Sam called out, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Dean rolled his eyes, reluctantly releasing his hold on you. You looked up at him, your expression a mixture of embarrassment and vulnerability.

"Yeah, yeah, we're coming." Dean called back, shooting a annoyed look at Sam as he gently guided you out of the bathroom.

"Feel better?" Bobby looked at you.

"Yeah. Much better." You replied as Dean guided you to sit down on the couch.

Dean shot Sam a sharp look when he saw his amused smiled.

"Shut up, or I'll shut you up." He grumbled, taking a seat next to you on the couch.

Too tired to protest, you leaned your head back against the couch, closing your eyes.

Sam took a seat in a chair across from the couch, a smirk still on his face. "Just saying, I never thought I'd see the day my brother turned all sappy over a girl." He teased.

"Keep it up, and I'll show you sappy with my fist in your face."

"All right, you idjits, enough. Save the fighting for the monsters." Bobby spoke, crossing his arms.

Half-dozing on the couch, you opened your eyes just enough to speak. "Shut up, all of you." You mumbled, your voice tired. "Trying to sleep here."

Bobby raised an eyebrow at your words, his expression becoming serious.

"Sorry, kid. No time for rest."

Sam nodded in agreement, his humor disappearing as he remembered the gravity of their situation.

"Yeah, we need to know who got Dean out of hell"

You sighed. "Right. So what's the plan?"

Keep Reading: Chapter Two

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immobulusmalfoy · 4 months ago

Text

Until We Drink // Fred Weasley x F!Reader

Summary: Friends with benefits with Fred turn into some feelings. Based on "Until We Drink" by Savannah Sgro. Warnings: Drunk sex and FWB, but no description of the act. A/N: Apparently I'm on a Fred kick, so enjoy this little song fic. > DO NOT, under any circumstance, repost my works on any other platform or even on this one. I don’t condone it, haven’t condoned it, and never will. <

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In the kitchen doing shots around the sink // sloppy dancing turns to kissing in your sheets

“Freddie!” you shouted, nearly bowling over the tall, gangly ginger. “Congratulations, lovey!”

“Why thank you, darling.” Fred grinned, having caught you in his arms from your dangerous assault. “Been drinking already, have we? Hope you saved some firewhiskey for me.”

“You’ll have to just go and see, Freddie.” You smiled lazily up at the boy and he kept you wrapped tightly in his arms. Gryffindor had won the match against Ravenclaw earlier, meriting a celebration. But when you drank firewhiskey, you became a tipsy, clumsy mess and Fred didn’t fancy watching you fall over on his watch.

You and the twins had been friends for years. Ever since Fred knocked you down with his cart in King’s Cross your second year, you’d been best friends (once he offered to buy you a cauldron cake, of course). Fred wasn’t about to keep being responsible for your falls, unless you were falling for him.

“Hey sweetheart, you wanna sit for a bit?” Fred asked. “You’re gonna topple over in those heels. I’m gonna set you down and go grab us some drinks.”

Fred gently settled you down on a couch and left to grab a drink. But by the time he came back, he could tell you were getting properly sloshed from the glassiness of your eyes and the way your face looked. Fred wasn’t too far behind, having had at least three cups of butterbeer throughout the night and nursing the fourth. Or fifth? He’d lost count.

Fred flopped down beside you and handed you a cup of butterbeer (though he was sure it had to be at least a little bit spiked) while he downed the rest of his own cup of firewhiskey. You’d already found your way into Fred’s side and now lay sort of sprawled on the side of his body and over his chest. He couldn’t say he minded, though.

“You’re so comfortable.” You mumbled into Fred’s chest. Fred was thankful you were both wasted enough not to notice how red his cheeks grew.

Fred lost count of how much alcohol the both of you had drank and before he knew it, you were kissing in the halls of the boys dormitory and his hands were all over you. Fred couldn’t recall how you’d gotten into this situation, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Fuck me, Freddie.” you murmured into his mouth, and he went with it, alcohol still coursing in his system. If he were sober, he wouldn’t have gone so willingly, but you were sighing into his mouth and kissing his neck and running your fingertips in places you normally didn’t. Fred’s self control was gone.

“Yeah alright,” he found himself saying as he pulled you into his dorm room and the two of you became tangled in the sheets.

‘Cause we’re friends, we’re just friends // until we drink

You woke up in Fred’s bed, not an unusual occurrence. You snuggled deeper into his side before making the horrifying discovery that neither of you were wearing pants or tops or anything—well, Fred had a sock that you could feel against your bare feet.

“Oh Godric, what have we done?!” you gasped, and promptly fell on the floor after your abrupt scooting away. Fred groaned and finally opened his eyes.

“Sweetheart?” He asked sleepily. “Where’d you go?”

“Fred, where are your clothes? Where are my clothes while we’re at it?” You scrambled to grab a blanket to cover up. Fred blinked down at you from the bed and then realized what had happened.

“Oh. Um.” He fumbled and lifted the sheets to look down at his unclothed lower half. “I think we had sex?”

“No shit, Weasley. But why?” You deadpanned.

“Come back to bed so we can talk about this.” Fred coaxed you, holding up his own blanket to beckon you closer. He involuntarily gave you a look at his lower half and you averted your eyes while you considered his offer.

You knew it was a bad idea, but you couldn’t resist him. There was no harm in talking it over. After all, the damage had already been done. So you slid into the bed next to him, clutching the sheets to cover yourself.

“Not like I haven’t seen it all already.” Fred snorted. You smacked him in the arm and he cried out an “ow,” rubbing the reddened area. “Alright, so we did a thing.”

“We did more than a thing,” you hissed. “We had sex. You and me.” You gestured between the two of you, “Big problem. Did we even use protection?”

“Considering I woke up with a condom stuck to me and my wand in the bed, stabbing me in the leg, I think so. But what’s the big deal? We’re friends, we had sex one time, and we’re totally comfortable with each other normally. We can just go back to normal, unless you can’t.” Fred shrugged.

“You’re not weirded out by this?” You asked warily, watching his face for his tells. He wasn’t giving anything away.

“No. As far as I’m concerned, we had a really good night. If you want to forget it, we can. Orrrr—” Fred wiggled his eyebrows, “we can make it a more than one time kinda deal and get each other off now and again.”

You looked at him, baffled. Caught you off guard so quickly that you almost dropped the sheet. Almost.

“And you don’t think that would result in one or another of us catching feelings?”

“Nope. Just two mates.” Fred answered in that casual way of his that frustrated you. “We’ve been friends forever, so I feel like this was bound to happen at some point. Why not add some benefits to our friendship and have some fun?”

And so you did.

Nobody would know // you’ve seen me without clothes

Nobody knew what happened between us and you still weren’t sure how. You could’ve sworn George knew, but Fred seemed to be keeping everything quiet and it made you want to scream.

You didn’t sleep together often. But it did happen. You got too drunk one night after the Quidditch cup finals where you won and woke up in his bed again, cuddled into his side wearing his Quidditch jersey. You got a good test score and shagged in a broom cupboard somewhere on the third floor. Over and over again, you’d just casually end up having sex with your best friend and it was wearing down on you.

And it wasn’t that you didn’t like the sex. Godric, it was the best you’d ever had, not that you had much to compare it to. He always took care of you and never pressured you to do anything you didn’t want to, but you found it hard to ever say no to him, saying yes again and again as you got each other off.

The longer it went on, the more you started looking at Fred in a way that wasn’t friendship and it scared you.

We’re just friends until it’s late and all your roommates are asleep // All of a sudden got your hands all over me

You started reading into all of Fred’s actions. He was already super touchy and had been forever, or at least as long as you could remember. But now you watched everything. He would sling his arm around you in class, watch you during meals and other times when you’d catch him looking, and he made every excuse to brush your hands together. Had he always done that?

The thing is, he also flirted with other girls. He flirted with Angelina and Katie and a few other girls from your year who weren’t taken. He met them before or after class and joked with them at parties and meals. And while you were always at his side, you just weren’t sure if he was acting differently since you’d started this friends with benefits thing or if you were just imagining things. Could he be catching feelings? Were you catching feelings?

The questions plagued your mind each and every time you ended up in his bed, whether you both were drunk or not.

We never talk about what’s going on // we’re casual, we’re nothing // we’re the furthest thing from loving

It wouldn’t be so bad if you could talk about it, but you didn’t really know how to bring it up without bringing attention to the fact that you were confusing yourself. It was growing increasingly clear the longer this went on that your feelings for Fred were absolutely nowhere near platonic anymore. They were bordering on love and that scared you. It scared you so much.

And Fred? He was still so nonchalant about it all. How could you talk about it? He was still your best friend, but this wasn’t something you could just ask him about. So you buried it.

We always act like it’s nothing // like we’re just having fun

As the trysts went on, your feelings started hurting. Because while you may have Fred at night, the Yule Ball was approaching in a week and Fred hadn’t asked you. He’d asked Angelina right in front of you. Threw a paper in her face and mimed dancing with you sitting right next to him. And of course she’d said yes. Why wouldn’t she? Fred was amazing and everyone knew it. Especially you.

That was the last straw. You’d stood up and exited the hall as soon as you felt it wouldn’t tie you back to Fred’s very public display and promptly ran as far away as you could to have a good cry.

How could you sit here and be upset when you and Fred had never decided if you were going to be exclusive or how long this would last? You didn’t feel you had any right to be upset with him because it wasn’t his fault you’d fallen in love with him.

And there it was, the truth about your feelings. You were in love with your best friend and he didn’t know. At this point, he couldn’t know.

George was very confused when Fred asked Angelina, knowing that you and Fred were fooling around. How could he not know? He knew you and Fred thought you were a neaky and that no one knew, but it was so obvious. It was even more obvious to George that you and his brother were in love with each other, but you both were clearly too stupid to realize it or tell the other one. So George asked you to the ball.

I don’t care // I do though // I want more // Maybe I don’t

“So, when are you going to tell him?” George asked as you waltzed on the Yule Ball’s dance floor. The question froze you in place and you looked up at him in shock. “You think I didn’t know what you and Fred have been up to? We share the same dorm, sweetheart.”

“I thought no one knew.” you answered slowly, daring a glance over at Fred and Angelina as they twirled around the other side of the hall. You swore you were imagining it, but you felt like Fred looked angry. You always used to know how he was feeling; you could read it in his eyes. But now things were different.

“I don’t think anyone else knows, but I know you and Fred better than anyone. I can tell this is killing both of you, you more than him.” George said, nodding over towards Fred who had finally stepped off the floor and was getting a glass of lemonade. “You should tell him before you both get hurt.”

“I’ll think about it.” Your voice was a whisper as you answered, your thoughts spiraling.

So, you took your leave. You knew where the twins had a stash of firewhisky and you took the opportunity to liberate a bottle from under their bed to have while you contemplated what George had said.

You told yourself you’d only drink one glass, but one turned to two and two turned to three. And then Fred was waltzing into the room, one thing led to another, and you both ended up tangled in the sheets once again. It was sloppy and disorganized and left you feeling even worse when you’d finished, so you left once he fell asleep, tiptoeing back to your dorm where Angelina was asleep in her own bed.

Then the tears started and they didn’t stop until you’d cried yourself to sleep.

It doesn’t make sense // ‘cause we’re just friends // until we drink

For two weeks, you’d managed to avoid Fred’s wandering hands and kisses. You’d avoided ending up in his bed. And you were worse off for it.

Fred didn’t understand what was going on. He knew what he had been feeling the whole time. All he knew except for that was you’d both been having a good time, and the night of the Yule Ball changed everything. No longer were you sitting next to him at meals or while studying. You’d requested a seat change in the classes you shared together, and Fred was distraught. So he turned to the one person who knew him best.

George groaned once Fred finally ‘fessed up about what you and him had been doing for the past few months.

“You’re a bloody idiot, Fred.” he snapped. “She’s in love with you and you keep mucking it all up with your flirting with other girls, especially Angelina, and not treating her as a person. I mean, honestly, when did you become so thick? You both were friends, best friends, before you slept together and now you’re both stupid. She’s in love with you.”

Fred blinked at his brother as thought about what had just been said. And it all made sense. But you weren’t just in love with him. He was also in love with you and he had to do something about it.

We’re not together, but we’re not not together // I kinda like it, but I can’t do this forever

Fred searched for you everywhere. You weren’t in any of your usual spots and it was starting to worry him, so he searched for Harry next.

“Harry, mate, I need to look at the map for a second.” Fred begged, hoping the younger Gryffindor wouldn’t refuse him, and he didn’t. He quickly unfolded it, unlocked it, and found your name in the kitchens of all places. “Thanks, mate!” he shouted as he threw the paper back at Harry.

It didn’t take long to get to the kitchens and even less time to tickle the pear to get inside where he found you clad in a batter-splattered apron, baking something with a few of the house elves. Dobby sat at the counter next to you, babbling about something or another, but he was the one who saw Fred first and tugged on your sleeve to get your attention.

You turned around, eyes wide as you took in Fred’s disheveled appearance.

“Fred? What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.” Fred bit out finally after a moment of awkward silence while he searched for what to say.

“We’ll finish this, miss.” one of the other house elves squeaked as they took your bowl and mixing spoon from you. It only took a snap of their fingers for the batter to fly into the muffin tins you’d been greasing just a few minutes before, and you sighed watching it. Your apron was removed quickly before you stepped out into the hall with Fred.

“What do we need to talk about?” you asked, voice quiet as you looked down towards your feet and twisted the end of your skirt between your fingers.

“Would you look at me first?” Fred asked, frustrated that you couldn’t even seem to look at him and he was trying to bare his heart to you.

And then you looked up, your eyes glossy, and you looked so beautiful that Fred forgot what he meant to say. He ended up grabbing you by the waist and kissing you, pressing you up against the wall of the hall. You squeaked in surprise, but melted into the kiss anyway. Until you thought about it and pushed him away.

“Stop that!”

“I’m sorry,” Fred started, “I actually had something to say.”

“Then spit it out.” you snapped, fingers brushing over your tingling lips.

“I—I,” he trailed off, running his hands through his hair and pacing right in front of you. It was stressing you out.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

You stared at him, blinking rapidly, trying to figure out if Fred had just said what you thought he did.

“And not just because we’ve slept together. I’ve loved you for years, really, and thought this was the only way I’d get to have even a part of you. It’s been killing me these last few weeks when we haven’t spent any time together, whether in bed or even just studying. I miss you and I love you and I don’t want to lose you because of my mistakes. George reckons you feel the same and I hope you do. I’m a right tosser and—”

You cut him off with a kiss, effectively shutting Fred up. He never stopped talking anyway, and it was one of the many reasons you loved him.

“I love you too,” you whispered once you’d let him go. Fred chased your lips with his own, kissing you again and again.

“Can I ask you to be my girlfriend then?” he asked between kisses. You giggled, giddy with the fact that you weren’t losing your best friend. Not even close. He was becoming yours in more than one way.

“Sure, but you’re taking me to Hogsmeade on an actual date first.”

“Done. I’ll even buy you anything you want from Honeydukes for putting up with my stupidity for this long. I love you.”

You laughed, letting him kiss you over and over again, happily trading kisses of your own with your own sentiments.

And when you walked back into the common room, George whispered “Thank Godric,” because finally you’d both figured out your issues and things could go back to normal. Except now, George figured he might be getting even less sleep.

We’re casual // we’re nothing // we’re the furthest thing from loving ‘til we drink

#fred weasley x reader #Fred Weasley x f!reader #fred weasley #immobulusmalfoy

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