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godmadeaterribleerror · 2 days ago

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Chapter 7 - Something I Can See

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Big chapter for fans of yapping and Dean overthinking things.

Chapter title from Something to Believe by Weyes Blood

Word Count: 16.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Sam and Dean drive you home. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, big angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 6 - Chapter 8

Read on A03!

She was going to be okay. They’d managed to get the knife out of her gut, and Sammy had stitched Her up, so She’d be fine.

She was still knocked out, but Her breathing was even. The blade had been so hot Dean had needed to use a towel to hold it, but it was out of Her body. Her wound kept bubbling and blistering, but it wasn’t an infection.

She’d be fine. Dean was going to kill Her, but she’d be fine.

He looked down at Her, spread out across Baby’s backseat and curled into her body. She’d barely made a sound since She’d passed out. Only soft moans and whimpers as they worked on the injury, and a few grunts as they’d moved Her into the car, adjusted Her body in the seat, and set off on the road.

They’d done everything. All Her shit was in the trunk, Sam was sitting with her to make sure she didn’t fall over or get worse, and Dean was breaking every traffic law he could think of to get there faster.

To South Dakota.

To Bobby’s.

It had taken Dean too long, in the parking lot, to actually call Bobby. He’d waited until She was settled, until they’d loaded almost everything into the car, and until Sammy was dealing with the front desk so Dean was alone.

He hadn’t been alone. He’d been sitting in the back of the Impala, Her head on his knee and his hand unable to stop tracing over her face.

It was wrong. Looking at Her like this. Features sunken and hollow, lips drained of blood, breathing shallow in a way Dean could feel. It made his own breath labored, his whole body tensed as She relaxed against him, and he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve the trust of Her vulnerability, the way Her beautiful face was half buried in his thigh, the way She’d let out a weak, sad sound whenever he tried to pull away.

He’d hurt Her. He’d spent the entire night after their fight ripping apart the club grounds and roaring Her name, giving Sam daring looks to say a single thing. He’d beaten himself into the mud in fear that he’d lose Her twice. Once with spat words and a cold look of hatred, then again with a shredded body and dulled eyes.

He’d wanted to strangle Her. He’d wanted to apologize, and shout that he had nothing to apologize for. She’d lied.

Not about what Dean thought She’d been lying about, but She’d still lied.

Although, admittedly, the truth was far more confusing.

Because Dean had stared at the small, robot-print letters on Her phone screen—pixilated and fuzzy and flipping his world upside—and not known how to process them.

Bobby Singer.

There could be other Bobby Singers that weren’t Dean’s Bobby Singer. That weren’t the guy who was practically his uncle, who he’d played catch with, who’d made him food and given Sammy run-down toys to play with.

It didn’t make sense for this to be Dean’s Bobby. Dean had half grown up in that house. He’d stayed there for weeks on end when Dad had been on a really bad hunt—hunts where he’d come back with hooded eyes and fisted hands, snapping short orders because they didn’t have time to waste on sentimentality—and Bobby had never once had a daughter. Especially not a hot, annoying, impossible one.

Dean would’ve remembered meeting Her before. There’s no shot he would’ve ever forgotten Her. He couldn’t. He’d tried. Dean was pretty sure that, even if he’d only laid eyes on Her once in passing, he would’ve been drawn down into Her and never climbed back out.

That was simply what She did. Who She was. A walking, breathing song that Dean couldn’t figure out how to touch but still wanted to try to learn. She got stuck in his head and played there on loop, and if he’d ever seen Her before that moroi hunt, he was damn sure he would’ve remembered.

And Bobby would’ve told him. If Bobby had a kid that was around Sam and Dean’s age, they would’ve known. Dad would’ve known.

Dad should’ve known. And he obviously hadn’t. Whenever Dean had brought Her up, Dad had called Her that little girl.

Hell, Dad had told Bobby about Her. Dad had said Her name and Bobby hadn’t gone Fuckin’ Jesus, John, that’s my daughter. The hell is She doin’ huntin’ a poltergeist.

Bobby had reacted strangely, though. Dean remember him hanging up right after Dad mentioned Her.

And She had mentioned her dad was a gruff, smart hunter. Which described Bobby, and explained why She knew so much random shit about hunting, and that was Bobby’s number in Her phone, and-

She’d lied. She’d said She didn’t know a Bobby. She’d asked Dean what he thought of Bobby.

Like She was curious what he’d think.

Son of a bitch.

Because when Dean squinted, he could see Bobby on Her face. Not physically, but in small divets and shadows on Her face and body and voice.

They rolled their eyes the same way. Like they were done with everyone’s shit, and knew that they were the most competent and reliable person in the room.

She had the same laugh Bobby had. Dean had only heard Bobby laugh—really, fully laugh with his whole chest—three or four times, but it was the exact same laugh. Loud and powerful and almost cartoonish.

They didn’t walk the same way, but they fought in similar movements. Brutal and effective, with no more or less than necessary.

And if Dean really thought about it, there were smaller things he could draw together. How She turned a page, how She held a pencil, how She drank her coffee.

Small mannerisms She would’ve picked up from being raised by someone, the same way Dean would spin his keys and Sammy always flipped his wallet in his hands before opening it.

Like Dad did.

Part of Dean hadn’t wanted to call the number. His thumb hovered far too long as he’d debated if he even wanted to know. If this was really what it seemed to be, and he’d have to piece together a puzzle he hadn’t known existed a fucking hour ago.

She could never know that he’d looked down at Her, and that had been what finally got him. That Her scrunched face had made his heart feel like it was being wrenched and pounded, that he’d run his thumb over Her nose, she’d relaxed, and let out a song-like sigh that had been it.

He’d pressed call, held the phone to his ear, and still not fully believed it until the line picked up after two rings.

“Hey, kiddo, I wasn’t expectin’ you to call until you had that Kelpie down. You alright?”

Dean had frozen, his voice caught in his throat, staring at Her face as static sounded in his ear.

That was Bobby. Bobby clearing his throat, Bobby grunting Her name-

“Is everythin’-“

“Bobby?” Dean’s voice had been hushed, and he’d watched Her carefully to make sure she wasn’t disturbed.

There had been a long moment of silence, this time from Bobby’s end, and then-

“Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s-“

“Where the hell did you find this phone, boy?”

Dean had said Her name, his hand tracing over Her brow, still checking she was real. “She gave it to me.”

“She fuckin’- where is she?”

“She’s right here-“

“Put her on, I need to talk to her.”

“Yeah, uh,” Dean had swallowed, and She’d shifted slightly, pressing further into his lap. “I can’t.”

“Dean Winchester, I ain’t lookin’ to kill you, but if you don’t-“

“No, I- I literally fucking can’t, Bobby.”

“Why in hells balls can’t ya’ pass a phone-“

Dean said Her name again, something like lead coating his throat. “Uh, she’s- She’s knocked out.”

There was a brief second of silence, and Dean had winced when Bobby spoke again.

“What the hell typa’ shit have you two gotten into that she’s knocked out?!”

“A demon attacked her, and we- Bobby, we tried to fight it off but it got a knife into her gut, and Sammy patched her up but-“

“Sam’s there?”

Dean had frowned. “Yeah, uh, who else-“

“Never mind, I thought-“ Bobby had sighed through the phone, something tense growing in his voice. “She stable?”

“Yeah, but she told us to call you.”

“Alright, bring her up here and I’ll be ready. And Dean?”

Dean had nodded, staring at Her gorgeous, almost peaceful face, and there had been a long stretch of silence before he remembered Bobby couldn’t see him.

“Dean-“

“Shit, sorry, what’s-“

“I don’t want you lettin’ a single fuckin’ thing near her but you and Sam, got it?”

“Yes, sir-“

“Don’t yes, sir me, boy. Promise me you’ll keep her in your sight.”

“I will. Promise.”

It had been an easy thing to say. The thought of leaving Her alone had—even as his head spun, and his chest started to mold with the question of why the hell she’d lied—made Dean feel taut and sick.

And Bobby had hung up the phone, and Dean had kept his promise. He’d never left Her alone, not for a second. Sam had sat with Her because Dean didn’t trust himself to care for her properly—didn’t deserve to have Her half slump over his body and sigh against his skin—and Dean’d had to force his eyes to stay on the road, and not drift to check on Her

It was bad enough that his mind had been wandering. Coming up with more and more reasons this didn’t make any fucking sense, and far too many reasons why it did.

She’d called going to Bobby’s home, and Dean felt something like bile in his throat at the thought that whenever She’d said home before, she’d been talking about Bobby. And lying. And letting Dean think She was living in a fancy gated palace, when she’d just been at Bobby’s. But now, when Dean pictured Bobby’s table, he could see Her at it. She slotted into the scene perfectly, just as She fit so well in every other part of Dean’s life.

And he still couldn’t hate Her. He had far too many questions—where the hell She’d been whenever they’d stayed with Bobby, why had She never corrected Dean, why had Bobby lied about knowing Her—and he didn’t know what the hell was happening, but he just couldn’t fucking hate Her.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam had asked a few hours ago, watching Dean carefully from the backseat. “What happened, last night? You just, you called me and said she’d stormed off, but-“

“Don’t.” Dean had muttered, his grip tightening on the wheel, and Sam had sighed.

“Look, you don’t have to tell me everything, I just want to know why she’d just fucked off, it doesn’t seem like her-“

“You don’t know her, Sam-“

“But you do-“

“Do I?” Dean had snapped, his eyes flicking back to Her in the rearview mirrors. Always close, and untouchable, and a mystery Dean could never seem to get close to solving. “I’m not sure anyone knows her, and I certainly fucking don’t.”

“Yeah, you do, Dean.” Sam had leaned forward, his tone far too careful and gentle. “Whatever fight you guys had, however pissed she got, I can’t be that bad-“

“Yeah, it can be.” Dean had scowled at the road, his voice lowering to a grunt. “Drop it, Sam. I fucking serious.”

Sam had sighed, and nodded. “Alright, what about the demon? Do you think we need to be keeping an eye out?”

“Eye out-“

“For another one.” Sam had glanced down to Her, she’d made a small noise of distress, and the sound had ached in Dean’s chest. “Dude, it- It knew who you were. And it seemed to know her-“

“There’s- How the hell would a demon know her-“

“I don’t know, that’s what I’m asking.” Sam had swallowed, and Dean could see the nerves written over his face in the mirror. “You think Bobby will have an idea?”

Dean didn’t know. He’d snapped at Sam that when they got to Bobby’s they’d have plenty of time to figure out what the fuck was happening, but the question was still echoing around his head.

Why would a demon have gone after Her. She was just a year older than Sammy, so she couldn’t have made that many enemies. She wasn’t some kind of target. There was nothing about her that could-

There was everything about Her. If Dean thought about it for too long—which is all he had time to do—She wasn’t just an enigma to Dean. Her family was still her family, no matter how she knew Bobby. Dad had said She’d stolen something, all those years ago. Maybe the demons would want it.

Maybe others felt that pull. Maybe there was something deeper Dean didn’t know how to see.

Maybe there was nothing at all, and the demon had been hunting Her because of her proximity to Dean.

That thought made him feel sore and ill. Dad said that it was a demon who had gotten Mom. A demon who had gotten Jess.

And She wasn’t Dean’s. She’d made that perfectly fucking clear.

But he couldn’t stop looking at Her. Couldn’t stop how the air didn’t feel clean in his lungs because Her breathing was shallow, how his hands kept itching on the wheel to brush over Her cheek and soothe the small wrinkle in Her brow. He could tell himself he just wanted to check for a fever, but he also wanted to move the hair from Her face. Sam was just letting is lie there, and Dean knew she hated people touching it, but she always let Dean touch her. She never slapped his hand away when he touched Her. She leaned into him, and sometimes She smile, and sometimes Dean could pretend she was his-

She wasn’t. She wouldn’t be. Dad had known Mom. Sam had known Jess.

Dean didn’t know anything. He didn’t know why the demon had been after Her, or what She been thinking just stomping off, or why Bobby was her home.

All he really knew was that this still looked wrong. That the sight of Her in pain was making his heart shred itself in his chest, and that he wanted to reach around the seats and touch Her. Pull Her into him until nothing else could hurt Her, until he could get her somewhere safer than him.

She’d be safer anywhere but with Dean. Bobby had said to keep an eye on Her, but Dean didn’t trust his eyes. All week they’d kept seeing things that didn’t really make sense. Every moment they just made Her more beautiful, even as Dean silently cursed himself for still looking.

He couldn’t stop looking. He fucking hated Her for lying, but every single sharp and blunted piece of wrath in Dean’s chest felt more searing when it carved on his own ribs. She was a liar, but Dean was a piece of shit. He’d bitten Her too hard. He didn’t have a damn clue about Her life, but he’d still aimed to kill and then been a whiny son of a bitch when his shot had landed.

She may bring out the most of him, but it was still Dean who was made of all those foul, uncontrolled pieces.

Dad knew how to control himself. Dad wasn’t perfect, but at least he kept himself in line, and he’d tried to teach Dean how to do the same but Dean was just weaker. Pathetic and useless.

He didn’t deserve to be around Her. No matter how much it pissed Dean off that She was better than he was, it didn’t change the fact. Dean wasn’t worthy of being around Her.

And he still couldn’t stop looking. She was dangerous, and awesome, and looked so perfect in Dean’s car—fit so well with everything that was Dean, everything that belonged to him—but she also was impossible. And insufferable. And seemed to be trying to break Dean into pieces, because Her eyes fluttered, her breath hitched, and She arched her back.

All while mumbling Dean.

Her eyes drifted open, a small frown on Her face, and the first thing she said was Dean.

She was trying to kill him.

“Dean.“ Her voice was soft, and weak, and rooted right into the cavity of Dean’s chest. Washing it in silver light with only Her voice, saying his name as Her fingers flexed and she reached mindlessly out into the air.

There’s a brief second where Dean wondered if She was looking for him. Reaching out to see if he’d take Her hand, if he’d reassure her with just his touch.

He needed to get it together.

He didn’t know how.

“I- Dean, what’s- I don’t-“ Her voice was growing distressed, Her slightly gazed as they dragged open. Her fingers seemed to be digging into Her skin as she shrank into the bench, Her breathing speeding up and becoming short and shit-

It looked wrong. It felt wrong. Dean had no right to touch Her, no reason to tense and balk at the sight of Her in pain—small and panicked and almost feral in his backseat, ducking Her head and hugging her body as if she could shield herself—but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting hold Her until she was calm, to wrap himself around her like a barrier from everything else that could hurt Her in the world.

It was selfish as hell. Dean could hurt Her. Dean had hurt Her. He was the asshole who got them here in the first place, all by not knowing how to just control himself.

He didn’t want to control himself right now. Not as Her face twisted in pain.

Not as She kept saying his name.

“Where are we- I- Dean-“

“I’m here,” He muttered Her name, gripping the back of his seat to stop himself from reaching for her. “We’re in the car.”

She went silent, Her body stilling completely, and cold seized over Dean’s body. Why was She just lying there. Why wasn’t She speaking, or shouting, or sneering. Asking questions or spitting venom about their fight, trying to get up or curl further into Herself, why was she so fucking still-

Dean was about to damn it, reach further back, and touch Her—just to feel the warmth of Her body, just to get something of a reaction—when She finally spoke.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, and Dean would’ve never bet on that being what She’d say. On Her seeming to mean it, her face twisted slightly, Her head bowed, and her voice soft. “I- I didn’t mean to.”

He frowned. “Mean to what.”

“Anything.”

Her eyes drifted open. Bright and seeming to glow on Dean’s, looking at him like She always had. If Dean didn’t know better, he would’ve thought their fight had never happened. There was no possible way it could’ve when She was still looking at him. Right into him, into the deep pit in his body that felt smaller under Her attention. Felt lined or coated in warmth and light, because that was what She did to him.

And She still looked vulnerable. Just watching him, something more nervous on her face than Dean usually saw, something almost afraid.

He hated it. She shouldn’t fear Dean, She should trust him. She didn’t, but he needed Her to. At least enough to know that, even if Dean—for some sick, fucked reason—tried to, he couldn’t lay a hand on Her. He could hiss and mock and poison Her with his mouth or presence, but he was pretty damn certain that his body would turn itself to ash before it hurt Her.

Which didn’t make sense. It wasn’t rational, or reasonable, or understandable. But Dean’s hand flexed on the seat, and She practically fucking flinched, and Dean had never felt lower in his life. Any ideas he’d been holding about demanding answers and shouting about everything—their fight, Her lies, his brimming and spilling desire and how She needed to stop doing this to him so he could control himself—began to vanish into thin air. It was impossible to be really, truly angry at Her when she looked like that. Beautiful and fragile and critical to the blood in Dean’s body.

He’d find that anger later, and they’d fight later. For now he just let out a long breath, and shrugged.

“’S fine.” It wasn’t. But it was the only good thing to say here, because Dean might rather stab himself than tell Her about how fucking furious he was, and make Her fold further down. He’d wounded Her enough for a while. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I’m-“ She paused, hands padding over Her stomach. “Did you-“

“Sammy gave you some stitches.” Dean said, watching her carefully. “He’s not great that them, though, so don’t move.”

Her mouth twitched slightly. Dean wished he could touch it. “Where is Sam?”

“Getting gas. We got a few hours left until we hit Sioux Falls.”

“Oh.”

Dean didn’t miss the flash of something over Her face. He didn’t know what. He just knew it was wired, and taut, and brittle. That he wanted to ease it, but didn’t know how. Wasn’t really worthy of trying to learn.

But Sam was taking a while.

And Dean couldn’t fucking stand how fearful She looked.

“If you press on the stitches, does it hurt?”

She raised her brows. “I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to press on them, Winchester.”

“Nah, I know, I’m just trying to figure out how shit a job Sammy did.”

She didn’t look like She believed him, and Dean really wished he’d come up with a better excuse to talk to Her, because now she was lifting up her shirt.

Her skin looked a little raw and torn around the wound, but everywhere else was soft. Smooth. He’d noticed it while patching Her up, that she barely had any pale, raised patches of skin where other hunters did.

No scars was so fucking rare.

But so was She.

And Dean needed to pull it together.

“It’ll hold,” She looked back to Dean, and he had to blink at her. Pretend he hadn’t just been gaping at Her bare skin. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He muttered, scanning over Her features. She was awake, but there still wasn’t enough color in Her face. Too little fury behind Her eyes, nothing dancing and shining like it usually did. She looked exhausted. Weakened. The little furrow of Her brow tighter than usual.

They had hours to go, and Dean knew how to fix that. He knew how to poke at Her until she snapped and everything bent with Her—all Her force making the world clearer, Dean’s body stronger—and how to walk right up to the invisible line, touch Her just as much as he was allowed, and make Her relax. Sam didn’t. But Dean did.

“I’m coming back there.” He grunted, starting to shift in his seat, and She frowned.

“What?”

“Sammy’s gonna drive the rest of the way, I’ll sit with you-“

“No, you don’t-“

He shook his head. He didn’t want to hear Her say he didn’t have to, because it just reminded him that she didn’t feel this. That there was nothing that called Her to Dean’s side, because if there was she’d be fucking begging him to sit with Her.

He knew that, because he was seconds away from dropping to a new low and begging Her.

“We had Sammy back there all day,” he held Her gaze, trying to make his voice stern. “Only fair you get saddled with me too.”

“I’m not-“ She cut herself off with a shake of Her head. “I don’t need Sam to sit with me either, De. I’m fine.”

De. She said De, and it was maybe the only thing more powerful than Her calling him Dean. Even if She didn’t mean it, the word felt like a command over his body, and that was only another thing Dean didn’t understand.

“You’re- you look like shit, Princess.“ He couldn’t stop the nickname from slipping out of his mouth. No matter how screwed things were, the way Her body loosened slightly at the sound of it was always a small high, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop chasing it.

She scowled. “Hey-“

“You just got stabbed, and you haven’t woken up in six hours-“

“I’m awake now-“

“And I’d like to keep it like that.” Dean snapped. “I- you just gotta-“ He ran a hand over his face, because She didn’t want him there, but every time Her eyes drooped or Her body twitched with pain it made Dean’s gut contract. “At least keep Sammy. So you’re not alone.”

She rolled Her eyes. It really did fucking look like Bobby. “I’m not alone, dummy, you’re like two feet away.”

“What if you pass out again? Am I just supposed to pull over?”

“Yeah? I mean, I’m not gonna pass out-“

“You can’t know that, sweetheart-“

“I can guess.” She glowered at him, raising Her chin slightly, and even lying down She looked like royalty. “It’s my body, Winchester, and I feel fine.”

“For now.” Dean muttered, and She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Shut up-“ She cut herself off with a yawn, and Dean’s jaw clenched.

She couldn’t see Her. Every single second that passed no light returned to Her eyes, and everything just grew duller. She’d just yawned. But Dean was pretty certain that—if She hissed at Sam to get in the front seat and not bother worrying about her—the giant baby would listen.

Dean needed to work around this. She needed to be okay.

“You’ll need to keep talking.” He grunted, holding her gaze. “I hear one second of silence, and we’re pulling over so I can move back there. Understood?”

She gave him a flat look. “Are you serious-“

“Deadly, Princess. Understood?”

Dean might be imagining it, but a little color returned to Her face. The flush. And the breath. And the-

“Understood.” She muttered. “You’re such a fucking dick.”

“You’ve told me.” Dean turned back to face ahead, and she let out a long breath behind him.

This silence was short, but maybe the heaviest Dean had ever experienced. It weighed on the top of his chest, and he didn’t know how to push it off, and he wanted to look at Her again, but he couldn’t bear it if She didn’t look at him-

“Dean,” She whispered, and his whole body went alert at the sound of her voice. Softer than usual, but still calling him down. “I’m-“

Whatever She was, Dean didn’t get to know. Sam knocked on his window, waving to Her in the backseat, and Dean had to turn and roll down the window so they could hear each other.

“Dude, why are you hunching down like that, just get in the freaking car-“

Sam rolled his eyes, not moving to from the window. “I still need to get coffee, Dean. And,” He said Her name with a grin, completely ignoring Dean’s glower. “You’re up!”

“Yep.” She returned Sam’s smile, and Dean scowled. She hadn’t smiled at him. “Thanks for the stitches.”

Sam shrugged, leaning a little further through the window. “No problem. They feel okay? Because I was rushing a little to get you on the road, and-“

“They feel fine, Sam. I feel fine.”

Those last words were shot at Dean, and he rolled his eyes. “You won the argument, Princess, don’t get all bitchy with me.”

“I am not being bitchy-“

“You’re being dramatic-“

“I just got fucking stabbed, Winchester, I can be as dramatic as I want.”

Dean scoffed, twisting in his seat. “I’m the one who had to watch you get stabbed-“

“How fucking harrowing for you-“

“What the hell does harrowing mean-“

“Hey!” Sam slapped Dean’s arm, shooting both of them a stern look. “You guys can fight all you want when we’re on the road, but we actually need to get on the road. Tell me what you want from the gas station, and kill each other after.”

She let out a long breath. “Sorry, Sam.”

“Thank you,” Sam said Her name, gave Dean a pointed glare, and Dean scowled.

“I didn’t fucking do anything-“

She scoffed, the sound a rough cough that almost made Dean leap over the bench to pick Her up and hold her to his chest. “Oh, fuck off, Winchester-“

“Wouldn’t you love that, Princess-“

“Dean!” Sam snapped. “Don’t- Just tell me what you want, please.”

Dean opened his mouth, and She cut him off with sharp, short words.

“Don’t say pie. You’re driving.”

Dean was either going to smother Her with his hands around her neck, or with his mouth slammed to Her’s. She was so fucking hot, and annoying, and Dean wouldn’t strangle her because he knew his dumb body wouldn’t allow him, but Jesus, She needed to shut the hell up before Dean made her and then lost her forever-

“Dean?” Sam was raising his brows. Waiting for a response.

“Gimme some coffee.” He muttered, gripping the wheel like it could save him from Her glare, and how it made his skin feel sore. “And jerky.”

Sam nodded, glancing over to Her, and when she spoke her voice was too quiet. He watched to jump over the bench again.

“Coffee and candy?”

“Sure, you want anything specific-“

“Whatever’s cheap.” She said, and Dean was going to break the wheel.

His head was churning and spiraling again. She said that like Bobby said it. The same dismissive cheaper is easier, boy, and I ain’t an idiot to fall for fancy fuckin’ packagin’ tone.

“Snickers?” Sam offered, and She must have nodded because a second later, he was gone.

It was silent. So silent that Dean had a brief, stabbing moment of worry that She was passed out again. His eyes flicked up to the mirror again, and Her eyes were open—pretty and glaring at Dean like She wanted to stab him—but they looked lidded. And the little furrow was becoming more prominent, and Her breathing was a little too shallow, and-

“You’re supposed to be talking.” Dean snapped, and She rolled Her eyes. And it was still exactly like Bobby did, but, son of a bitch it was so much hotter-

He needed to get a grip. He needed to figure out how—when they eventually did get to Sioux Falls—he was ever going to be able to look at Her and not wonder how he hadn’t seen it before. He was a little fucking worried he’d look at Bobby and start to feel that gravitational pull. That Dean would start to orbit around Bobby, and smell him all the time, and hear his voice in dreams-

If that happened, Dean would need to give himself a concussion and pray it erased his memory. He already didn’t love how he wanted nothing more than to crawl over Her and make her smile, and if he started to crave Bobby’s attention too, he’d lose his mind. Crashing into Her was usually good, when she wasn’t trying to give him a heart attack or being the most impossible person Dean had ever met. Crashing into Bobby would be gross. If Dean had to start fantasizing about Bobby under him when he fucked someone, he might just have to kill himself-

“Dean!” She was shouting, Her voice slightly strained, and he turned to frown at Her.

“What’s-“

“What am I supposed to be talking about?”

He frowned. “I don’t fucking care-“

“Alright, then I won’t-“

“No.” Dean pointed a stern finger at Her, narrowing his eyes. “You gotta talk. That was the deal.”

“I didn’t make a deal, you just ordered me to talk-“

“I did not order you, Princess, I’m trying to goddamn keep you alive after you went and got stabbed-“

“Oh, suck my fucking dick-“

The car door opened, and they both turned to see Sam leaning into the car, coffees in hand and snacks under his arms.

“Oh, good, you didn’t murder each other.” Sam passed out their coffees and snacks, his voice a dry mutter that was gonna get him punched. “Actually,” he frowned between them. “If you’re going to fight for the rest of the ride, can Dean sit in the back so I can tune it out-“

“Neither of you are sitting in the back.” She pushed Herself upright with a small, weak sound, and Her hands were shaking. Dean was going to tackle Her.

“Maybe, uh,” Sam glanced at Dean as he said Her name, like he could see the rough tension over his heart at Her insistence to be as difficult as possible. “I mean, I really don’t mind if I do have to sit with you-“

“I’ll be alright without a babysitter-“

“Because you’re going to keep talking.” Dean muttered, drumming his hands on the wheel. “Sammy, apparently her majesty can’t come up with a topic, so that’s on you, but I don’t want a single second of silence, sweetheart, or-“

“You’ll pull over and be a massive fucking baby.” She snapped, and Dean wished She wasn’t so hot when she was pissed. “He threatened me, Sam.”

Dean scowled. “I did not threaten you-“

“Fine. It was blackmail.”

“It was- I-“ Dean whipped around to glower at her. “You’re such a fucking-“

“Bitch?” She sneered, holding his gaze. “Am I a bitch? Am I a spoiled little bitch?”

“That’s- You know I wasn’t-“

“Trying to hurt my little bratty girl feelings-“

“I never fucking said-“

She scoffed, and Dean could swear something hot and wired was fueling all his anger. Maybe it was how the air in the car seemed to be waving, or how every word was venomous and cold and making something inside of him wither, or how breathing was so fucking painful when She was furious and sneering-

“That I’m a bitch? That I’m a controlling fucking bitch-“

“Shut up! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Dean slammed his hand on the bench, and She flinched. Visibly flinched. Recoiled.

“I- I didn’t-“ She swallowed, staring at Her cup in her hands. “Sorry.”

Dean was a piece of fucking shit. He’d done it again. He’d pushed it too far because he was an asshole.

He muttered Her name, his voice low. “I didn’t- I’m-“

“Don’t.” She mumbled, and She wouldn’t look at him. “I’ll keep talking.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, and all he could do was nod. She looked sick. He fucking felt sick. He kept slamming his fist between them, making everything worse, hurting Her in a way he’d never seemed to be able to hurt anyone before-

Sam cleared his throat. Dean had forgotten he was there.

“So, uh, we’re talking.”

Dean opened his mouth to say no, they needed to fucking patch whatever the hell was wrong with him with glue, so he could shove himself into her hands as a pathetic, useless apology, but She was faster. Better. Still a liar, still in pain, but also still beautiful. Still so far away from Dean.

“Yeah. Get in the car.”

Sam nodded, shooting Dean one last look, and leaned out of the car. Dean started the engine—biting his tongue not to vomit a million apologies he knew wouldn’t come out right—and they were back on the road.

Four hours until they hit Bobby’s.

Four hours of beating himself bloody in silence, and listening to Her speak.

Normally Dean would’ve thought there was no better way to spend his time than being drowned in Her voice, and hearing her say anything at all. But normally She wasn’t in this pain, where She’d gesture too broadly and hiss, or Baby would hit a bump and She’d whine. Normally he didn’t have to force himself not to look at Her—and whenever he lost control and his eyes slipped to Her in the mirror, she didn’t look so colorless and drained—and normally Dean allowed himself to speak to Her in more than grunts.

She was acting like everything was fine. Sometimes he’d look back and She’d be smiling, and it didn’t reach Her eyes, and Dean had done that. That wasn’t the injury.

That was just Dean. Ruining everything because She’d fallen from the sky into his hands and he’d bashed Her into the mud.

“There’s…” Sam was said Her name, his voice filled with disbelief. “You don’t actually think that, right?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think it-“

“But it’s Star Wars! I mean, it’s not perfect, but you can’t seriously believe it’s bad.”

“It is bad, Sam. It’s objectively poorly written, but it has iconic imagery, music, and actors-“

“Because it’s not bad!”

It had been thirty minutes of this. Sam hadn’t needed to look that hard to find a topic, and the moment he’d said the words Uh, you like movies? Dean had known it was over. He’d had this exact conversation with Her before, and it had involved a lot more yelling and shoving than Sam was getting.

It had also involved Her giggling and smiling and leaning so close that Dean could see even the smallest features on her face—tiny bumps and scars, little divets that somehow made Her more beautiful—and smell that strange fruit until it intoxicated him, and he’d thrown his hands up in surrender.

Her eyes had sparkled then. She still wouldn’t look at him now. Even when Sam would echo a point Dean had made before, She shot it down with ease—and a careful, detailed argument that made Dean think She’s been freaking practicing—and Sam would let out a sigh that sounded a little like a whine.

“I don’t think it’s useless, you know. I’m saying it’s not-“

“You just called it the most overhyped movie ever made!”

“And it is, but that’s why it’s not useless. It was the primary cause of science fiction being popularized-“

“Because people liked it!” Sam looked to Dean with wide eyes—as if Dean could fucking do something about this—and then back to Her with a shaking head. “I- They’re maybe the most popular movies of all time-“

“Popularity doesn’t equate quality, Sam.” She said, and Dean hoped She couldn’t see him mouthing along with her every word, knowing exactly what she’d say. “It can, but it doesn’t have to. Star Wars being popular is its greatest strength, because that mean it was able to serve as inspiration for many, better things.”

Sam scoffed. “Like what?”

That was a mistake. If Dean was allowing himself to participate in the conversation, he would’ve been able to tell Sammy that saying that—especially in a doubtful tone—was never a good idea. She’d have examples, and if She didn’t, she’d come up with some right here in the car.

Dean had fallen for that trap before. And he was too fucking tired and bitter to save Sam from it.

“I’m so glad you asked, Samuel.” Dean glanced in the mirror, and that was a wide, blinding, almost manic grin that appeared when She was about to hand Dean’s ass to him on a platter.

He almost felt bad for Sam.

“I- Samuel?”

She hummed, completely ignoring Sam’s indigence. “Almost all science-fiction movies are somewhat inspired by Star Wars, or owe Star Wars the popularity of the genre. And, Star Wars significantly popularized the use of Monomyth in film-“

Dean didn’t remember what Monomyth was. Sam didn’t seem to either, because She cut herself off with a sigh.

“The Hero’s Journey. In movies.”

“Oh.” Sam frowned. “Dean said you didn’t go to college.”

Dean cringed slightly, feeling Her glare through the mirror.

“Did he.”

“Yeah, it’s just surprising, you’re smart-“

“I don’t have to go to college to be smart.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying, you just- You don’t sound like you didn’t-“

“I’ve read a lot.” She said, and a vision of Bobby’s library flashed through Dean’s head.

There were a shit ton of books in there. Even Sam hadn’t read them all, and Dean was pretty sure Bobby hadn’t either, but he also remembered Bobby saying that they’d all been read.

By Her.

“And,” She was still talking. Of course She was. “I’ve watched a lot of TV, which is how I know I’m right. Star Wars is terrible-“

In the corner of his eye, Dean watched Sam open his mouth, and then make his first good choice of the day and close it.

“But it’s also the only reason we have Indiana Jones-“

“You like Indiana Jones?”

Dean rolled his eyes. Another mistake from Kid Genius in shotgun-

“Shut up, Winchester.”

Dean blinked, scowling at the road. “I didn’t say anything-“

“You were going to.” She snapped, and when Dean glanced back, she was glaring at him. “So shut up.”

Sam frowned between them. “Why would Dean-“

“Her majesty loves Indiana Jones.” Dean grunted. “Good luck, Sammy.”

“Don’t wish him luck, I’m not going to try to kill him-“

“Sure, Princess.”

She kicked the back of Dean’s seat, and he didn’t even grunt. The hit was weaker than usual, and it wasn’t because She wasn’t trying.

She was just weaker. She was still coughing and taking breaths that were far too long. Her eyes were still a little hollowed, and lips in too tight a line, and brow drawn in pain. Dean couldn’t fucking stand it. He wanted to pull over, grab Her and demand that they forgive each other now—or at least try to pretend nothing had happened in the first place—because she was hurt and needed Dean’s help-

“I’m not going to kill you, Sam.” She said, and Sam didn’t look all that reassured. “And I do love Indiana Jones. I think it’s fun.”

Sam frowned. “Star Wars is fun.”

“Star Wars parodies are fun. There’s an episode of the Muppet Show with the Star Wars cast, and it’s better than all the actual Star Wars movies combined.”

She and Sam kept talking—Sam refused to believe one single episode of television could be greater than a film trilogy, and Dean didn’t think She was capable of just surrendering any sort of argument—and Dean’s head started to wander again. Back to Bobby’s house, and every single sign of Her he’d never noticed. Never had reason to notice, or dwell on, or observe, but now he couldn’t stop remembering all the grenadine in Bobby’s fridge that the man himself never seemed to touch, but always seemed to be in use. All the normal books that weren’t for hunting, and didn’t seem like things Bobby would read.

If Dean squinted in his head, he could see the VHS tapes stacked near the TV. There had been a lot of movies he’d stayed up late to watch—action movies and westerns and some fancy art films he hadn’t action movies and TV shows-really understood—but also some he’d never touched. Comedy films and chick flicks and-

“Bobby had that show.” Dean muttered, and She and Sam fell silent. “The Muppet Show. He had a freakin’ VHS tape.”

They hadn’t mentioned it since She woke up. The looming axe over all their heads, that they were heading to Bobby’s, and She’d fucking lied about knowing him.

But Dean hadn’t been able to stop himself. He was never able to stop himself with Her. It was fucking amazing, how he kept managing to make this whole thing worse.

“Yeah.” She muttered. She’d tucked Her knees to her chest. “He does.”

Sam cleared his throat, his voice gentle. “I, uh, you don’t have to answer, but can I ask how you know Bobby? Dean said he raised you-“

“He did.”

“Oh.” Sam looked between Her and Dean with a frown. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Her voice becoming taut, and it squeezed around Dean’s throat. “I’ve told you my dad is a hunter-“

“So Bobby’s your dad?”

“No, it’s-“ She sighed. “I- It’s easier to say father than man who raised me. We’re not related.”

Sam nodded slowly, and Dean stayed perfectly fucking still in his seat. If he moved or breathed wrong, She might remember he was here and stop sharing things.

“If you- How have we never met before?” Sam’s voice was cautious. Dean understood that. “It’s just, Dean and I have known Bobby our whole lives, we’ve spent weeks at his house-“

“I was…” She swallowed, Dean didn’t have to look back to know Her head would be bowed, and she’d be picking Her skin bloody. “Really sick. I had to be kept separated from other people.”

It wasn’t a lie. Dean could fucking hear it, could feel the sinking ache into his bones at Her tired, heavy voice. And it didn’t matter how vague and useless an answer that was—how it just left him with more questions about how sick She’d been, what type of sickness, if She was alright now when she didn’t really seem to be—because it was the truth.

And She looked sad. She wouldn’t look up, and She was tucked into Herself, and there was hair blocking all Her features from view, and Dean wanted to move it and touch Her, trace his hands over Her face until she smiled and her body went loose-

She wouldn’t let him touch Her. If he tried, he’d probably get punched in the gut, and it would leave a gash in his intestine he didn’t know how to prevent or heal.

He was still pathetic though. Still feeling an itch on his skin the longer She looked like she was trying to hide from something invisible, the longer Her brow pressed to Her knees and the acidic silence stretched on.

He couldn’t just stop.

“Keep talking, Princess.” He grunted, and he could feel Her glare sear through his head. It was better than nothing.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice was too gentle. He didn’t get it. How She was too quiet and too bendable and it was making Dean feel sunken and empty. “Maybe we can just listen to music or something-“

“No. Talk.”

Sam’s eyes widened, and if he kept gaping like that, Dean was going to kick and punch him.

“Well, Deano,” She was still glaring at him from the backseat. “What the fuck should I be talking about?“

“Anything, just-“

“Anything isn’t helpful-“

“Tell Sammy what food he is.” Dean snapped, and Sam blinked.

“Tell me what?”

“I’m pie,” Dean muttered, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Because the smartass back there is a little genius.”

“I am a genius.” Her voice was harsher than before. Stronger. “And I didn’t just say you were a pie, I said you were pecan pie, you asshole-“

“Same thing-“

“It’s not. The specification is important-“

“It’s damn pie, sweetheart. Pie is pie-“

“Why pecan?” Sam asked. “I mean, why not apple, or cherry-“

“Because I don’t pander.” She said, and Dean had to bite down a snort. “And he’s not nearly sweet enough to be cherry-“

Dean frowned. “Hey-“

“And,” She pushed on, ignoring Dean entirely. “The chewiness of pecan is very Dean.”

He didn’t know how to protest that. He didn’t know what to say to that. Not when he glanced back in the mirror and Her face was so unreadable.

She didn’t sound as pissed anymore. Dean didn’t know what to do with that.

“Okay.” Sam was nodding, looking between Her and Dean with another unreadable expression. Everyone needed to start saying what they were thinking soon, or Dean was gonna lose it. “I- Yeah. I can see that. What food am I, then?”

“Bubblegum.”

Her answer was quick, and if Dean didn't have to drive and brood, he would've laughed at the look on Sammy's face.

"I- Why?"

“You’re sweet. And flexible but still kinda stiff.”

Dean frowned, lowering his voice to speak under his breath. “I’m sweet.”

She hummed. “Yeah, but you’re an acquired taste, Deano. Like pecan.”

She kept talking, but the word bounced and echoed around Dean’s head. Deano. She only called him Deano when he’d said or done something stupid, but She wasn’t really that pissed about it. Deano had an underlying tone of affection to it. A higher sound on the De and a long moment on the O.

She might not hate him.

“Okay.” Sam was nodding slowly, still twisted in his seat. “I can be bubblegum. Is- Do you do that a lot?”

“Do what?”

“Uh, sort people, I guess? Like, what type of drink would you say I am?”

“She doesn’t drink, Sammy.” Dean muttered, and his seat got kicked again.

“I still know what drinks are-“ “Could you tell us what each one is like?” =

There was a brief pause—Dean could imagine the small, pouting frown on Her face—and then- “No.”

Dean shot Her a wink in the mirror before he could think better, and it was a mistake. She was glowering at him. She was really hot when She glowered at him—Dean could easily imagine smoke rising off Her body and small, silver spark flying over his skin when he touched Her—but her easy, high beauty wasn’t nearly enough to distract Dean from how shitty she looked. There was more gray in Her face than before, She was curled more into her own body, and, son of a bitch, Her eyes were fluttering slightly-

“What about music genres?” Dean said, just to keep Her talking, and She blinked at him. “What?”

“Music genres, Princess. You know hip-hop, pop, the blues-“

“I know what music genres are, asshole, why are you-“

“Which are we.” Dean gave a vague, one-handed wave between himself and Sammy. “Do your thing.”

“I don’t have a thing-“

“Yeah, you do. Give it a shot, sweetheart. Music genres.”

Sam gave Dean an unwelcome, amused look. “You know, it kind of feels like one of us-“

“Shut up, Sammy.” Dean looked back in the mirror, raising his brows at Her. “And you’re supposed to be talking.”

She wrinkled Her nose him, but she also started talking, so Dean didn’t really care all that much. He was rock—but She was annoying, said Latin pop first, and giggled for five straight minutes after—and Sammy was jazz. Fancy bar Jazz.

Dean didn’t know what that meant.

But he really liked the sound of Her voice, and the way She said most everything. She could’ve probably called Sam country music and he’d agree, just because of how She’d say. With a smooth, passive authority that told something in Dean’s brain She’s right. All the freaking time, even when She’s obviously wrong, she’s still right.

Sam was starbursts, and Dean was a KitKat. Dean was dusk, and Sam was noon. Sam was a Lily of the Valley, and Dean was a rose.

Dean had no interest in being a flower. He did like Her telling him what he was. He liked the idea that She’d been looking at him. That She’d thought about him enough to think he’d be a car if he was on object—which was a cheap shot, but still made Dean feel fuzzy—or a tree if he was a plant, or a seal if he lived in the ocean.

He frowned, waiting for Her to elaborate—he still wasn’t allowing himself to speak all that much, because this felt delicate and still slightly fractured—and decided he wouldn’t kick Sam’s ass for being a butthead the whole car ride when the kid took the bullet for him.

“Why am I an octopus?”

She yawned. It made Dean’s stomach clench. “You’re productive and floppy.”

Dean snorted, and Sam shot him a glare.

“Well then, why’s Dean a seal-“

“Cause he’s all big and toothy.”

Dean scowled. He wasn’t nearly as big and toothy as Sammy was, but fighting with Her on reasoning almost always ended up being a dead end. Just as how asking Her what she was only ever resulted in a hum and shrug. Dean’s goal was to keep Her talking, so he had to move on.

“Whatever, Princess. What about out of the ocean animals?”

She shifted a little in Her seat—letting out a small noise that hurt Dean’s whole body—but kept talking. Sam was this, and Dean was that. Dean was that, and Sam was this.

And every time she spoke, Dean could imagine the tilt of Her head, the way she was probably rubbing Her skin at she examined them and thought of an answer with far too much sincerity. He wanted to rub Her skin. To trace his hands up Her legs, watch Her look at him with nothing but softness in her eyes, feel nothing but molten light fill him up from the inside-

He needed to figure out how the hell She always did that. How all of Dean’s fury was now smothered and coated Her, how all the way in his soft tissue he just really wanted to touch Her. To stop giving Her reasons to sneer at him, to stop pushing Her until she fell away forever, for everything to just be alright.

For this conversation to be not edged with the knowledge that She probably didn’t want him around now. Even if She didn’t hate him, he must have snapped everything too much to fix it.

But Dean was pathetic, so he still wanted to care for and protect and follow Her.

He wanted to fix this. To salvage it.

He didn’t know how. He didn’t know why he couldn’t just drop this, just sit with the fact that everything was ruined and over. Why something to the right of his heart seemed to pound and roar at the idea of never touching Her again. Not ever a hand on Her back or brief high-five.

Worse was imagining never hearing Her voice again. Only hearing it call him on the wind.

He couldn’t really hear Her voice now.

She’d slumped forward, Her brow resting near Dean’s shoulder and her eyes turned towards the floor.

“Dean.” She mumbled, and his whole body tensed. “Can we be done with the talking game?”

“No,” Dean grunted Her name. “It’s not a game, you gotta keep talking-“

“I’m good.” She let out a long breath. It was too ragged. “I- I think I’m just a little tired.”

“Well, I need you to keep fucking talking-“

She shook Her head, her temple pressing right into Dean’s arm. “I don’t- it hurts, Dean.” She made a high, weak noise, and Dean was going to break the wheel with only his hands. “Can I have five minutes, please?”

Fuck. She was saying please.

“Princess, just- shit- for an hour, keep talking for an hour- Sammy-“

“Got it. Hey,” Sam said Her name, and his voice was too gentle. She needed it to be shouted, She needed to hear that she had to stay awake, that it wasn’t a damn option for Her to sleep. “Can you tell me more about, uh, movies? What’s your favorite movie?”

She didn’t have a favorite movie. She had about fifty, and they were all dumb, and She was always adorable when She told Dean about them, and why wasn’t She talking-

“Sammy.” She mumbled, grabbing Sam’s arm and turning Her head to him. Away from Dean. “Why does Dean call you that?”

“It was, uh, it was my nickname growing up.” Sam swallowed, giving Dean a desperate look as he continued. “Did you have a nickname, when you were a kid?”

“No.” She mumbled. “People don’t give smart little whores nicknames. But,” Her voice got softer, dropping like She was telling a secret. “Dean calls me Princess sometimes.”

“Yeah, uh, I’ve heard it. He said it like five seconds ago-“

“I like it.” She said, and Dean was going to grind his teeth to dust. “I like him. He’s an asshole, Sammy, but I like him.”

Sam had no right to look like he’d been punched. Dean was the one who had to keep driving and acting like he couldn’t hear.

Sam said Her name, his tone slow and careful. “I think-“

“There’s something wrong with me.” She said, and there was nothing angry in Her voice. She really just sounded sad. Sad and tired. “It really hurts.”

“I know, but Dean’s right, you need to stay awake until we get to Bobby’s-“

She groaned, and leaned further into Dean’s arm. “He’s gonna kill me-“

Sam shook his head. “I don’t think he’ll kill you-“

“He will. He’s gonna tell me I’ve been dumb and reckless, that I was supposed to-“ She paused, then sighed. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”

Sam frowned, looking back to Dean. He needed to stop doing that. Dean didn’t have a clue what was going on. “Why?”

“You’ll tell Dean. Then Dean will kill me. I like him, I don’t want him to kill me.”

“I’m pretty sure Dean’s not gonna kill you-“

“He is.” She let out another sad, little sigh. “He already hates me, Sam-“

“He doesn’t-“

“I don’t…” She yawned, shifting Her head just enough for Dean to see her eyes were closed. “I don’t hate him. I think he’s…”

She yawned again. And She didn’t finish her sentence, and Dean could swear their bodies were going to be glued together. She didn’t seem to remember he was there, but She was still moving closer into him, and he was going to go fucking insane.

Because She was asleep, and they still had an hour to go.

Dean swerved over from the far-hand lane, stopped Baby on the side of the highway, and got out of the car. Sam was smart and understood what was happening—scooting into the driver’s seat without a word—and She just kept fucking sleeping.

She barely stirred when Dean pulled Her backwards, letting Her head rest on his chest and her body slump in his arms. He wasn’t supposed to allow himself to touch Her like this. She might stab Dean if she found out he was hugging Her, holding Her like she was fragile and vital to everything around him. She would stab him again when he’d tell Her that’s because she was.

Everything was easier when he stroked his thumb down Her nose, and She let out a soft, breathy sound before curling fully into his body. The same way She’d tuck into herself, or sink into the mattress or couch after an episode. Like She was trying to shield herself from something.

But now, Dean was Her shield.

And he was so goddamn confused.

They had an hour until Bobby’s—more like fifty minutes now—and Dean still couldn’t wrap his head around what was becoming more and more obviously the truth.

If it was, She wouldn’t be spoiled. And that would make sense—She’d never really seemed spoiled, mostly just smart and confident—if that didn’t really mean that She’d been raised by Bobby. That the girl who’d painted Her nails on Dean’s motel table, who always smelled like sugar and fruit and kind of looked like She was forged deep in a star, had been raised by freaking Bobby. Beer and books and cars and no need to give me extra attention Bobby. The Bobby who was practical, and sharp, and didn’t take any shit-

Son of a bitch.

It still didn’t make sense. There was no reason for Her to lie about knowing Bobby. Dean had even told Her he liked Bobby. That Bobby was the best hunter he knew, after Dad.

He’d probably yell at Her about it, if he could. Shout and sneer and bite—he didn’t know how to just be moderate with Her, how to hold himself the hell together—until She gave him answers. And that never seemed to work.

But Dean also never seemed to learn. Not when it came to Her.

Because even as the confusion and anger bubbled in his chest, it wasn’t nearly as powerful as how goddamn sick he felt. Yelling at Her had gotten them here, and Dean never learned. If he hadn’t pushed and snapped Her, she never would’ve gone off alone, and the demon never would’ve seen her. It had probably realized that She was a hunter and stuck to her trail.

She wouldn’t be in all this mumbled, whined pain if it wasn’t for Dean. She wouldn’t be in danger. She’d probably just be sitting with him and Sam at a diner, laughing and talking until they parted, then found their way back to each other’s paths a few weeks later.

This time, Dean didn’t think She’d come back. One way or another, She’d be gone. There was the way that made the pit in his chest turn into a chasm—the way he outright refused to entertain—but there was also the second, slower way. Where She didn’t hate him, and She wasn’t gone, but Dean still lost Her. She left, and he was alone.

Dean wouldn’t allow the first way to happen. Every time Her breathing was too shallow, he’d snap at Sam to hurry up and try to soothe Her until it was even again. He could give CPR, if he had to. He didn’t know how to do CPR—he should probably learn—but he’d seen Sammy do it, and it didn’t look that hard. Dean could sing Stayin’ Alive. He could press his lips to Her’s and give her his fucking lungs out of his chest to fix this. He could peel off his skin and patch it over Her wound if he needed to.

Stab wounds aren’t supposed to be this bad. And Dean had never been stabbed by a demon, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be any different. The knife that the son of a bitch had lodged in Her gut hadn’t even been all that special. Just a smooth, iron blade that was knocking Her—Her—down for the count.

She had to hang on. Dean would want it to be for him, but he knew better, so he’d settle for it being for Bobby.

Because Sam finally parked the car in Bobby’s yard, and Bobby was already outside. Hunched on the step, shooting to his feet before the engine was even off.

Dean suddenly felt like he really shouldn’t be touching Her, or holding her tight against his chest, or trying to smell Her like a creep every few minutes. She smelled good. Like wet dirt—but in a sharp, earthy way that mostly made Dean feel comfortable—chlorine, something vanilla that was cheap and strong, and there was the fucking fruit-

Bobby probably wouldn’t care that She smelled like an odd, unplaceable fruit. He also didn’t have to know why She smelled like chlorine. Dean wasn’t looking to get shot and—based on the way Bobby was glowering at him through the window—explaining what they’d been doing last night didn’t feel like it would be welcome information.

Because Bobby had never looked at him like that. Really fucking angry, with a drawn brow and deep scowl. Dean couldn’t tell if the glare was at him, or for Her, but he knew Bobby was pissed. If his expression wasn’t a give away, the gruff, low tone of his voice was.

Dean was barely out of the car—Her body cradled carefully in his arms, an apologetic grimace already on his face—when Bobby started snapping.

“Fuckin’- balls- Bring ‘er inside Dean, and Sam, grab the stitch kit. My stitch kit, I don’t wanna be usin’ that fuckin’ weak one in the trunk of your car.”

Sam nodded, walking into the house with a tight, nervous expression at Dean over his shoulder. Dean would’ve shrugged in return, but he didn’t want to shake Her in his arms, or make Bobby think he wasn’t taking this seriously. He was. He couldn’t not, because it was Her. And Her breathing was weak, and Her features were so washed over and Her lips were pale and she kept clinging to Dean’s arm-

“Dean.” Bobby grunted, jerking his head to the door. “Inside, now.”

“Yes, si-“ Dean cut himself off, changing himself to only a nod as he moved her into the house.

It was exactly as he remembered it. Nothing ever really changed at Bobby’s house, and every piece of furniture and color was exactly in place with how it had been in Dean’s head, but there more now.

Things Dean had seen but never really given deeper thought, like a mug that was a soft pastel color in the side-table—slightly stained with coffee, and looking long-empty but never moved—and chapstick near the TV, and-

“That’s her jacket.” Dean said, a little stupidly, and Bobby shot him an odd look.

“What’re you talkin’ about-“

Dean said Her name, nodding to the leather jacket that was hooked over a chair. It was a woman’s jacket, not really Bobby’s style, and Her’s. Dean knew it was Her’s. She about ten different jackets—all in different styles and cuts and materials—but Dean also knew all of them. That was the one She’d been wearing on the onryu hunt, that had ended stained in her own blood and the spirit’s ash. She’d shoved it into her trunk before She left the next day, and told Dean she’d clean it later when he’d offered, because he was pathetic and hadn’t known how to not offer.

He’d asked if She even knew how to clean it. She’d flipped him off, told him She did, and said that she’d do it when She got home.

A small part of Dean had gotten toxic at the idea of Her being home. That maybe She’d just pass the jacket off to a servant she didn’t know the name of—She’d probably have known the name, but it served Dean’s anger better to imagine she was worse than she was—and let them touch a piece of Her instead of Dean.

But She’d been here. Cleaned the jacket here, at Her home.

And there really wasn’t any evidence to prove that She didn’t belong here. So Dean was fucked.

“That’s… It’s her jacket.”

Bobby sighed, rolling his eyes. “Believe it or not, Dean, I’m aware. Put ‘er down on the table.”

Dean nodded, tearing his gaze away from Her jacket and setting her flat on the dining room table. She tried to hold onto him. Dean pulled back, and She tried to hold onto him, and he was going to go insane.

Bobby didn’t wait for Dean to fully step away before he was moving. Adjusting Her on the table so She wasn’t trying to sink into the wood, scanning over her with a tight, unreadable expression.

“Knife got in her gut?”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, his hands fisting at his side. “Sammy did stitches, but they were quick, and-“

“I’ll fix ‘em.” Bobby grunted, hiking Her shirt up her stomach and-

Fuck.

The wound was worse. The stitches looked frayed in Her body, and her skin was definitely blistering, and there was something yellow and sticky that smelled horrible-

“Dean,” Bobby’s voice was tight, his eyes never leaving the wound. “This ain’t lookin’ like a stab wound-“

“It was, Bobby, I saw it-“

“You still got the weapon?”

Dean nodded, and Bobby let out a long breath.

“Alright, go get it while I deal with ‘er.”

Dean didn’t want to go get the weapon. He didn’t want to leave Her side. She was in pain, and She’d tried to hang onto Dean and he didn’t want to leave Her-

“What’re you just standin’ here for-“

“You can-“ Dean swallowed, his attention trapped on Her dulled, beautiful face. “Bobby, you can fix this, right? She’ll- She’s gonna be okay?”

“She’ll be alright. Gonna have some explain’ to do when she gets up, but she’ll live.”

“Explaining-“

“How the hell she ended up with you boys and a knife in her damn gut. Matter of fact, you and your brother better start gettin’ your story straight, cause I ain’t just gonna let you drop my kid off bleedin’ on my doorstep then drive away.”

Dean tensed, and finally managed to really look at Bobby. His expression was still flat, still neutral, but there was something in his eyes Dean hadn’t seen before. Not glazed, but not sharp, just… heavy. Bobby looked heavy. He was staring at Her body with a painfully neutral face that had slightly lines of tension on the edges. He was standing taller than usual, his whole body rigid and wound up, and Dean could really, truly see it.

It had been the truth. If the way Bobby stood and spoke—in tight, clipped words like he didn’t have room to be anything but short—wasn’t a giveaway, it was those last words.

My kid.

Bobby’s kid.

She was Bobby’s fucking kid.

Dean forced himself to move away, his head ducked down and his steps quick as he passed Sam with only a grunt of acknowledgment and returned to the Impala trunk. Sam hadn’t been careful about how he’d grabbed Her things. They were smushed and scattered, pressed against each other and all looking like Her things. Those were things she owned, that they’d grabbed from Her car and motel room. Clothing that wasn’t covered in blood and dirt, a lot of notebooks Dean really had to fight himself not to read, and fewer personal possessions than he would’ve thought.

There was that small, colorful bag that had all Her girl stuff in it, and Her knife, and a backpack that—when Dean zipped it open—was filled with more notebooks, and… plants and rocks. A lot of plants and rocks.

He didn’t have time to try and work out why the hell She was keeping plants and rocks in her bag. He didn’t have time to overstep and push it like he always did, and let himself comb through those notebooks. One did fall open, but nothing Dean saw in it made sense—he didn’t speak that language, he didn’t even recognize it, and there was a weird drawing that he didn’t even know how to start interpreting—so he had to move on. To grab the demon’s knife from when he’d tucked it in the back and close the trunk, because all of this could wait until She was better.

She’d have to get better.

Sam and Bobby were working in silence when Dean returned. Sam holding Her arms to the side as Bobby cleaned the wound and re-did the stitches, a bottle of water at his side that he kept pouring over her skin.

Dean set the knife on the kitchen counter, walking over to stand by Her head. That little wrinkle was back, and Her lips were pressed together, and She was in pain-

He had to restrain his hands to stop them from moving to touch Her. To sooth the wrinkle and brush sweat and hair from Her face. Sammy wasn’t holding Her right. His grip was too tight, and Her arm didn’t look like it was at a good angle, and Dean could hold Her better-

She took a slow, ragged breath, eyes fluttering, and Bobby glanced up to where Dean was standing over Her.

“You get the knife?”

“On the counter,” Dean muttered. “She’s…”

He trailed off, and Bobby let out a long breath. “She’s alright. Almost done with these, and I’m gonna have to fight with her about restin’ when she gets up, but you get ‘er here quick enough. Nothin’ that can’t be patched up.”

Dean glanced down to the wound, and that seemed true. Bobby’s stitches were cleaner than Sam’s, and the pus was half-gone. He didn’t really know how that was possible. Infections didn’t usually just… vanish. But Bobby splashed more of the water over Her stomach, made another stitch, and Her breathing grew steadier.

There were too many questions. What was with the water. Why had one stab wound managed to infect and maul Her skin like that. How the actual fuck was She Bobby’s kid, and why had Bobby never mentioned Her, and why had She lied about something so dumb, and did Bobby know about Her family? About the shit Dad had found, about Her past, about all those weird episodes and how She always hunted alone, except when She was hinting with Dean-

Dean didn’t think Bobby had known they were hunting together. Which offered another question about why. Why hadn’t She told him. Why did She think Bobby would kill her for this, when it wasn’t Her fault, it was Dean’s.

Bobby might kill him. Dean had never seen Bobby so pissed with him. Every time he grunted for Dean to pass him something, his eyes were harsh and focused. It wasn’t hateful, but it was angry.

But Dean had gotten Her hurt. He deserved it.

If She stopped talking to him after, he’d deserve that too. If Dad snapped at him for being an idiot when Bobby told him they’d been hunting together, Dean would deserve it-

“You say a demon attacked her?” Bobby’s question was quiet, and Dean almost didn’t hear it.

He nodded, and Bobby’s jaw clenched.

“You see the assholes eyes?”

“His eyes?” Sam frowned. “You mean the demon-blink thing? Where their eyes go all black?”

Bobby looked up, frown deepening. “They were black?”

“I- I think so?” Sam looked for Dean for help, and Dean just shrugged. He hadn’t really been looking into the demon’s eyes, more focused on beating the shit out of it, and helping Her.

“I dunno, Sammy-“

“Did you see them?” Bobby interrupted, glaring between Sam and Dean as he cut another stitch. “See the bastard go all black?”

Sam shook his head. “I didn’t, but demons have black eyes-“

“Not all demons.” Bobby muttered, glancing up to Her still pained face. “I’ve seen black eyes, orange eyes, and red eyes. If you boys saw anythin’-“

“We didn’t.” Dean looked over Her, then back to the wound. “It attacked, stabbed her, and Sammy exorcized it. Son of a bitch got away-“

“It give you a name?”

Dean frowned. “We didn’t exactly have time to introduce ourselves and shake hands, Bobby-“

“No, ya’ idjit, if we have a name we can know what we’re lookin’ for.”

“Looking for?” Sam leaned forward, looking between Her and Bobby with a frown. “Has- Have you needed to look for a demon before? Like dad?”

“No, Sam, I ain’t-“ Bobby cut himself off, his head shooting up to glare between Sam and Dean. “Did John know you boys have been huntin’ with her?”

“That’s uh…” Sam cleared his throat. “That’s a question for Dean, I think.”

Bobby raised his brows, and Dean scowled. Sam was back on the getting punched list.

“Never got a chance to mention it.” He muttered. “Haven’t seen Dad in months.”

Sam rolled his eyes—punched and kicked—and Bobby’s shoulders visibly relaxed. Dean wanted to ask what the hell that was about—Dad was a good man, even if Dean never really wanted Her around him—but Bobby was already moving on.

“How long you been huntin’ together?”

“A few years.” Sam said, and Dean shot him a glare.

“How’d- You weren’t even fucking there, Sammy-“

“She told me on the onryu hunt.” Sam shrugged, looking back to Bobby. “They’ve been hunting together for years.”

Bobby’s jaw tightened. “That true, Dean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dean, you call me sir again and I’m makin’ you wait outside-“

“Sorry, I-“ Dean let out a long breath, his gaze trapping back on Her. In so much fucking pain. “It’s true. And she, uh, she never mentioned she knew you, Bobby.”

Bobby huffed something that might have been a laugh. “Wish I could say I was surprised by that.”

“You aren’t?” Sam blinked. “I mean, I- I’m still not understanding-

“Questions later, Sam.” Bobby grunted, cutting the last stitch. “Right now I need your hands brinin’ her shit inside.”

Sam frowned. “Can’t Dean-“

“Dean’s stayin’ here.” Bobby shot him a glare, and Dean swallowed. “No fuckin’ funny business while I’m gone, boy-“

“She’s passed out, Bobby-“

“And if she wakes up, you’re askin’ her how she feels, callin’ me, and droppin’ it there.” Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “No fuckin’ interrogations. You can ask me questions when we get ‘er settled. Understood?”

Dean scowled, but nodded, and Bobby let out a long breath.

“Good. Sam-“

“Coming.” Sam threw Dean a what the fuck is happening look over his shoulder, followed Bobby out of the kitchen, and Dean was left alone with Her.

She didn’t wake up. In the long moments where it was only Her and Dean in the whole world once more, She didn’t stir for even a second. Her breathing grew more and more even with every passing moment, but She didn’t open those brilliant eyes and look at Dean.

Dean didn’t know if She would ever really look at him again.

She didn’t hate him.

She’d been keeping secrets—so many fucking secrets—but She didn’t hate Dean, and when he allowed his hand to trace over Her cheekbone, she leaned into the touch.

Maybe She would leaned into anyone’s touch, but she wasn’t. Right now, She was leaning into Dean’s.

He let his hand linger there as long as he could. She was warm, too warm, almost burning, but it was better than Her being cold. Color was returning to Her face, and there was a heavy flush over her pretty cheeks, but it was better than nothing. No color. No slightly uneven breaths or dried sweat on her brow.

Dean finally got to brush the hair away, and he wasn’t sure how She only got prettier. She was pretty in a way Dean never really cared for before her. She looked like a bird. Untouchable and free and delicate. Breakable, but not because She was weak. Because She wasn’t supposed to be on the earth like this, just how Dean wouldn’t be free or light enough to go where she went.

Because even if this was Her life—even if she wasn’t spoiled and born from comfort Dean would never know—he still couldn’t have Her. If anything this just made that more certain. That She was so good and unnaturally better, that She’d been living down in the mud with Dean this whole time and he’d still been blinded. If She ever managed to crawl out of here, She might become ethereal. Glorious. Brighter than the sun and more heavenly than a paradise Dean didn’t believe in.

And if Bobby really raised Her, everything Dean tried to loathe about Her would probably vanish into the air. Bobby was smart. And good. And didn’t like pointless shit, so there was no way he’d let Her become spoiled or entitled. She wasn’t spoiled or entitled.

She was just awesome.

And Dean didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to live with that now. That he’d bitten Her, and the mark was festering in him.

She let out a soft breath when Dean thumb stroked down Her nose, the movement subconscious, almost automatic.

He had to yank his hand away the floor creaked, and Bobby turned the corner only a second later.

They didn’t speak at Bobby hauled Her up and carried Her away. Dean wanted to go with Her. He needed to go with Her. He needed to have Her look at him one last time, and he needed to work out how to apologize in a way that didn’t make him sound like a little bitch, and-

“Dean.” Sam leaned into the kitchen, tilting his head back to the living room. “C’mon, dude, Bobby said we could get three questions.”

“Three?” Dean frowned, glancing past Sam to where they’d vanished up the stairs. “We only get three-“

“Between us.” Sam sighed. “And he, uh, I think he might be pissed at us.”

A door slammed upstairs, and Dean raised his brows. “You think?”

“You two.” Bobby appeared behind Sam—for a fairly big dude, he could move faster than thought he had any real right to—and pointed between them with a glower. “Sit. Now.”

Sam shot Dean a worried look and shuffled to the table, tugging Dean into a seat as Bobby stood before them, arms cross and eyes narrowed.

“What the hell did you idjit’s say to her?”

Sam blinked. “We didn’t- I mean, I didn’t say anything-“

“Hey!” Dean shot him a glare. “Dude, what the hell-“

“I can’t speak for you, Dean! I mean, you guys are a lot closer-“

Bobby’s glare turned to Dean—the feeling of it searing through his skin—and Sam was now getting punched, kicked, and body slammed.

“Sammy.” He hissed, bracing a fist on the table. “Shut your fuckin’ face-“

“How close would you say you two are, Dean?”

Bobby’s question didn’t need to have that silent, underlying threat for Dean to flinch. It was already a question he didn’t know the answer to. She lied and he sucked ass, but She also liked him—enough that he’d been allowed to hunt with Her at all, enough for her to slur it to Sammy in the car—and he couldn’t stop thinking about Her if he tired.

And he had tried.

And he’d never really seen Her interact with people except for Sam and Dad. And She and Dad clashed, but She and Sam got along, and Bobby obviously cared for her so maybe her liking Dean wasn’t all that special-

“Dean.” Bobby snapped. “Answer my question.”

“I, uh, I don’t-“

“Sam?”

“They’re just friends.” Sam shrugged, saying Her name in a voice that wasn’t nearly reverent enough. “From the hunting.”

Sam was back down to being kicked and punched, because the little shit could’ve easily laughed and said that Dean had a crush on Her—he didn’t, She was just his best friend and the only person he liked to hang out with—but that would’ve probably made everything worse. Especially given Bobby didn’t seem all that happy with the just friends answer either.

“How many years you two been huntin’, exactly

“Uh, I’m pretty sure it’s been like two- But that,” Dean pointed up the stairs. “Hasn’t happened before, Bobby, I swear-“

“I don’t give a shit about that.” Bobby snapped, jerking his head back. “You boys did the smart thing, for once in your damn lives, and listened to her. Brought her here.”

“If you don’t-“ Sam frowned, his face returned to pure confusion. “If you don’t care that she got stabbed-“

“No, Sam, I care that she got stabbed.” Bobby let out a long, breath, shaking his head. “I don’t give a shit that it happened with you two. If she’s gotta get stabbed, I’m happy she ain’t alone to try and stitch herself up, cause that girl ain’t good at takin’ care of herself in way that matters.”

It was Dean turn to frown, sitting a little straighter in his chair. “What do you mean, she can take care of herself-“

Bobby scoffed. “She can do her hair, Dean. She ain’t gonna do stitches.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Has she never done stitches on herself?”

“Not good ones-“ Bobby cut himself off with a glare between them. “This ain’t the point. What’d you do, Dean.”

Bobby and Sam were both looking at Dean, and he groaned.

“I didn’t do anything, Bobby, and if you’re not pissed about her getting hurt-“

“Some injuries ain’t on the surface, boy. I could give a flyin’ fuck about what danger she puts herself in, I know she can handle it better than you two dumbasses, but if you hurt that girl, I ain’t gonna stop her hurtin’ you.” Bobby sighed, running a hand over his face, and Sam cleared his throat.

“Bobby, how, um-“ He glanced to Dean, expression nervous. “You said she’s- I still don’t understand-“

“Sam, if you got somethin’ to say-“

“How do you know her?” Sam’s words were quick and frantic. “That’s- you said we get three questions, and that’s our first.”

They hadn’t actually discussed the questions, but Dean could live with that one. Shit, he’d spent the whole day trying to work that one out himself, and Bobby seemed to know it had been coming, because he dropped in a seat across the table with a long sigh.

“It ain’t my place to tell you everythin’,” he muttered. “All I can tell you two is that I met her when she was a kid-“

Sam opened his mouth, and promptly shut it as Bobby shot him a glare.

“You ask that question, Sam, I’m countin’ it. She was eight, I found her wanderin’, I took her in. Kept her from killing herself, raised her like the daughter I didn’t get before. Which,” Bobby turned to Dean, and it wasn’t fair that he was being singled out. Sammy was here too, hell, he’d asked the question- “She may not be my blood, but she’s the closest thing I got. Understood?”

Sam mumbled an agreement, but those words weren’t for Sam.

So Dean nodded, and hoped Bobby could see all over his face that he really just wanted to go upstairs and check on her. He’d do that after, if he could get away with it. And She was probably fine—Bobby wouldn’t have left her if she wasn’t—but Dean needed to see it. With his own freakin’ eyes, making sure she was comfortable, and relaxed, and peacefully asleep-

“What’s up with those, uh- the-“ Sam swallowed. “Those weird episodes?”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “Episodes?”

“When she likes, freaks out and shit. I mean, is it like a really bad panic attack?”

Sam was back to getting punched, kicked, and body slammed. That wasn’t their thing to tell Bobby about. Bobby might know more about Her past, but he obviously hadn’t known that they’d been hunting together, which meant there might be other shit She didn’t want to tell him. Other shit She’d trusted them—trusted Dean—to see, that Sam had just fucking told Bobby-

“Those aren’t panic attacks.”

Sam frowned. “Then what-“

“Not my place.” Bobby said, his tone making it clear that was final. “I know what they are, so does she, and if- It’s up to her what you know. She’ll tell you if she wants, but she’s had a rough time, Sam. So don’t go pushin’ her about it.”

Sam nodded, even as the nervous expression remained on his face, and Dean cleared his throat. He had to ask. Even if all he got from Bobby was a not my place, Dean just needed to spit it out and ask.

“Why’d you… I mean, how did we never know, Bobby?” Dean held Bobby’s gaze, every word slow and careful. “You said she was eight, Sammy would’ve been seven, so we knew you by then. Shit, we were here all the time but never even heard her name. I don’t- Why?”

Bobby let out a long breath, shaking his head slowly. “It’s complicated.”

Dean scowled. He was really starting to fucking hate that word.

“But,” Bobby pushed on, giving Dean a firm, solemn look. “I wasn’t ‘cause of you boys. I said it already, I ain’t gonna tell you what’s not mine to tell, but I never liked keepin’ you apart.”

“But you did.” Dean grunted, and Bobby sighed.

“Yeah, I did. And I’m not gonna tell you I had reasons, cause that’s fuckin’ bullshit help and we know it, but I will say it was all I could do. Not for the best, but the only damn option.”

Dean was pretty sure he was telling the truth. It wasn’t the same alarm he’d learned to set off with her, but it was close. That seemed to be the truth.

Dean wished it wasn’t.

“She said she was sick.” Sam muttered. “When she was a kid. And that’s why we couldn’t know each other.”

Bobby let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Course she did. Sick is one way of puttin’ it. I-“ Bobby looked between Sam and Dean, something weighted behind his eyes. “There were times when she could’ve used you two. Glad she seems to have you now. And I don’t know where your Daddy is, but-“

“He’s hunting a demon.” Sam said, and Dean was out of ways to kick his ass for saying stuff. “The one that killed our mom.”

Bobby’s eyes widened, and the conversation moved on. Bobby asked if She and Dad had crossed paths, Dean told him not for years, and Bobby and Sam started to talk demon. Bobby had books Sam could read. Sam had questions about what Bobby had run into, with his own wife.

She’d told Dean Her dad’s wife died.

Fucking hell.

Eventually, Bobby went out. They’d stayed at the table as Sam and Bobby descended into nerd talk—mostly just Sammy being a little dweeb, Bobby was just smart—and Dean had spent the hours stealing glances up the stairs and wondering how he could get up there. How he could see Her, check on her, without Bobby getting on his ass and shouting about Dean being careful with Her, because he always was-

Except when he wasn’t. Expect when he poison and ruined and wrecked Her in a way he’d never wanted to. When he made Her sad or hollow, put Her in danger, showed her exactly why Dad had been right, that they shouldn’t be close to each other.

Dad had just gotten the wrong reason. Dean shouldn’t be near Her. She was annoying, and stubborn, and reckless, and a know-it-all, and kinda mean, but in a hot way. She was bossy, but it was adorable. She’d snap and taunt Dean, but she never did it in a way that left a mark. Dean always left a mark. And invisible bruise or scar that Bobby must have seen somehow. It must have been why he was so automatically pissed, why he’d accused Dean of hurting Her.

And he had.

So he didn’t deserve to go up those stairs and see Her.

But he was still selfish. And he still didn’t know when to stop.

Bobby muttered that he was going off to get food. The he hadn’t been expecting Her back for a while, let alone Sam and Dean with her, so all he had was canned food that tasted like pig-shit and a half-eaten chocolate cake in the fridge.

Sam grabbed the tiniest, most bitch-baby piece of chocolate cake with a mutter of long week, and moved to settle in library.

Dean started to snoop.

It was so plainly obvious She belonged here. Just like with Her mannerisms—seeing Bobby all over them once Dean squinted—all it took was one quick scan of the kitchen to see more places She’d probably been before. Not just grenadine, but a box of cheesy kids snacks in the back of the pantry. Dean had always assumed Bobby had gotten them for him and Sammy, then never thrown them out. But he’d seen Her buy those exact snacks countless times, and a few of the boxes looked practically unopened.

In the living room there were all those books and movies, and a blanket that was far too fuzzy for Bobby to like. A pair of women’s sneakers and boots near the door. A glittery toothbrush on the bathroom sink, some of that sugar-smelling shit Dean knew she used under the skin, and fancy shampoo in the cabinets.

Dean had seen some of this stuff before, but he’d always assumed Bobby just had a lady-friend. A weird, sparkly lady friend who wrote notes on the margins of some of the lore books in that same language from before. From Her notebook. In Her handwriting.

Lady friends didn’t use a towel—carefully tucked and folded in a closet—that had a little princess stitched onto the corner. Lady friends didn’t watching animated children’s movies so much that, when Dean open the case, the tape looked well-worn and used.

And lady friends didn’t draw with crayon.

But in Dean’s defense, he’d never seen the drawings before. That was part of the snooping. Shifting casually through Bobby’s desk for more evidence, and coming out clutching old, well-worn drawings of colors. A lot of colors. Most of the drawings seemed to be odd shapes and patterns, all in bright colors.

There were a few more, where the drawings were red and black and yellow, with sharp lines and jagged symbols that resembled Her strange writing. Those symbols were repetitive.

Briefly, Dean had an image in his head of a smaller Her, holding a crayon and sitting on the floor of Bobby’s living room, scrawling those symbols over and over until Bobby took the paper from Her. She had braids in that vision. Oddly complex braids that Her small, swollen fingers couldn’t have done.

But Bobby could’ve. And now Dean could see that same small version of Her on the couch, humming to herself as she read a book that looked far too big in tiny hands, while Bobby braided her hair with a scowl.

Dean blinked, and returned the papers back to the drawer. He was about to close it when something shifted in the very back, and a last drawing caught his eye.

It had been separated from the others, and drawn on black construction paper. Tucked into a book and folded carefully. And it was the only one where Dean could tell what the hell it was.

A stick drawing—round body and tiny arms and legs—of a man with a thick blue line on his head and scratches of brown on his face, holding the hand of a girl. Same eyes and hair as Her.

She’d drawn this one too. Of Her and Bobby.

She’d used a light green for Bobby’s skin, though. And a metallic silver for Her own. And the grass was golden and the clouds were red and the sun was white. It was really fucking weird.

Dean chalked it up to the creative liberties of an eight-year-old, and carefully returned the drawing to its place before sneaking up the stairs.

He needed to see Her.

It took him a minute to find Her room, because up until yesterday, he’d thought he knew all the rooms in Bobby’s house. Kitchen, library, living room, bathrooms, and guest rooms. The only room he’d never been in was on the third floor, because Bobby said that room was off limits, and-

Son of a bitch.

He’d always assumed that was Bobby’s room. That Bobby just didn’t want to little boys snooping around and finding his private shit. Dean had imagined that the room would have a wooden-poster bed, dresser, chairs, and simple decorations. Not all that lived in, because Bobby was practical, and knew that in this life getting attached to a lot of personal possessions was pointless.

This room was lived in.

By Her.

Those were books Dean had seen Her grab from public libraries, or exact copies that She’d pulled from her bag. CDs of albums he’d known She liked, plus a few he hadn’t. A few Dean liked, scattered on the dresser next to a book he’d seen Her read, sunglasses he’d seen Her use, and a shirt that he’d never seen Her wear.

It was monotone black, and not Her style or size, and looked like a men’s shirt.

The was a bitter, hot pang in Dean’s intestine and along his heart chamber, because why would She have a men’s shirt. If the overflowing dresser was any indication, She certainly didn’t need more shirts, and it certainly wasn’t Bobby’s, so it all together meant that was the shirt of someone who had given it to her. And she’d kept it, because it looked clean, and Bobby had said he hadn’t expected her back, so it had been there for a while, and who the fuck was giving Her a shirt-

She shifted on the bed, and Dean’s head turned without his permission to look at Her. He’d been trying not to. Gun pressed to his temple, he’d swear he’d tried so fucking hard not to watch Her sleep like a pervert creep. But Her siren-like voice made a small sound, and this room was drowning in that fruit smell, and Dean couldn’t fucking help himself.

It took him a second to find Her. She’d burrowed herself under the covers, the only parts of Her that were visible being a single hand falling over the mattress and Her gorgeous face smushed against the pillows.

Her bed was shockingly normal. This whole bedroom was shockingly normal. She had curtains and a nice carpet, a desk and chair, a large amount of blankets and a hamper and a cork board on the wall. Pinned with notes that were in English—Dean could read those, and they mostly seemed to list new monsters and reminders for hunts—and a few more in that odd language. The walls were painted a dark color, and it made the room feel smaller. Safer. Like this was the only place in the world.

It might as well be.

Dean dragged a chair to sit at the side of the bed, because that felt less creepy than standing over Her as she slept. For a long while he only watched Her sleep peacefully. Softly.

Then Her brow wrinkled, and Dean’s hand moved without thought. Petting over Her nose until she relaxed, and made a soft noise that kicked him right in the heart and reverberated over his ribs.

He let out a long breath, and started speaking in his lowest, quietest voice. Before he could think better.

“You… you got a lot of explaining to do, Princess.” He muttered. “Bobby handled some of it, but he also won’t tell Sammy and I jackshit that matters until you give the go ahead. So you gotta wake up and do that. Plus, I want to call you a fucking idiot for hiding something so freakin’ dumb from me, and I can’t do that while you’re knocked out. So… Wake up. Soon. Get better and wake up soon and I’ll be waiting, because I- I’m just gonna stay a while. ‘Least until you give me some god damn answers. And,” he let out a long breath. She couldn’t hear him. He was allowed to say it, when no one at all could hear him. “I don’t want to leave. I like you, Princess, and if you really don’t hate me, I’ll stick around.”

He had more to say.

But She hummed like she could hear him, rolled a little closer to the edge of the bed, and none of it really seemed that important anymore.

Her fingers flexed. She didn’t hate him.

Dean took Her hand, and he fell asleep at Her side because he never learned, and really didn’t want to.

And when Sammy woke him up, saying Dad needed them for something back in Colorado. That he’d called Dean but he hadn’t picked up—his phone was in his jacket downstairs—so he’d called Sam instead.

Sam had said they were on their way, and told Bobby they were heading out. That they’d let Bobby know how it went, and hopefully be back with good news about the son of a bitch who killed Mom rotting in whatever was lower than hell. Sam hadn’t mentioned Her.

And Dean had to go, but She was still asleep. He needed to go, because Dad wanted him there, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay here, in Her small room that was he could sink down into if he tried.

But he had to go.

He wanted to leave Her something. To promise in silent words that could be right to not hate him. That he’d really like Her to keep not hating him. But he didn’t have much. He had his car, and his jacket, and ring-

He set his ring on Her dresser. He’d come back. He didn’t know how not to come back, and hopefully when he did, She’d still like him. At the very least, She wouldn’t have started to hate him.

Because Dean knew at this point that there was no way in hell She felt the pull. He also knew that he’d still follow Her all the way down, and up, and just here.

Dean might just like being with Her anywhere.

And She didn’t hate him.

So he’d press a soft, dangerous kiss to Her brow because he couldn’t help himself, and look back because he had to, and come back because he wanted to.

He’d come back.

End Note: One of the glorious things about nearing the end of the season 1 arc is all of us knowing what happens at the end of the season 1 arc.

Also, as we hit 100k words, I'm unspeakably grateful for the support of the story!!! I can't say it enough, thank you so so much for reading!! I hope y'all continue to enjoy the story!

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

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maddie0101 · 2 days ago

Text

guilty pleasures pt.2 ౨ৎ

౨ৎ summary: you get a text message from dean saying he needs to talk to you about something, so you leave class to meet him—only you don't make it to the lockers and neither does dean.

౨ৎ warnings: smut (mdni). fingering. dean’s got a dirty mouth. unprotected sex. wrap it before you tap it kids. p in v. semi public sex. dean’s got it bad for the reader. besties to lovers. lmk if I missed anything.

౨ৎ word count: 1.5k

haven’t read part one yet? link is here!

You honestly tried your best to pay attention in class but ever since you and Dean had that moment back in study hall, you couldn't think straight. Dean had always been flirty with you but you never imagined that he might feel the same way as you did. Was he about to kiss you back in study hall? Surely not, considering the two of you were in class and around other people. Right?

A sudden buzz of your phone quickly caught your attention as you reached down into your purse and hid the device under your desk. Tapping your fingers on the screen your eyebrows furrow as you read a text message.

Need to talk to you asap.

Meet me by our lockers.

Is everything okay? You texted back, chewing on your bottom lip and waiting for him to reply.

Yeah, just something I have to talk to you about.

Your eyebrows furrowed into confusion. What the hell was so important that you had to leave class? Sighing and shaking your head, you raised your hand and asked the teacher if you could use the restroom. Once dismissed you quickly started walking to where your and Dean’s lockers were.

Not even halfway to the lockers you suddenly gasped as a hand latched onto your bicep and pulled you into a room. A hand covered your mouth before you could scream, and your back slammed against the door as you felt the body warmth radiating off the person holding you.

Suddenly the person flicked on the light and you relaxed as you realized who it was.

“What the hell, Dean?!” your voice came out muffled before whacking his hand away from your mouth. “Why are we in a janitor’s closet?”

“Because I needed to talk to you in private.” Dean responded, seeming a tad nervous. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you watched him sigh before running a hand through his hair out of stress.

“Okay…and we gotta talk in a janitor’s closet?” you giggled but noticed how Dean wasn't going to relax anytime soon. As you realized he was either stressed out about something or sad, your smile faded into a frown.

“Dean?” your voice was soft, just above a whisper. “Are you okay?”

Dean sighed again before dropping his hand. “Yeah, I-” he stopped himself as he tried to think of the best possible way to confess his biggest secret. Deep green orbs finally burned into yours for the first time since study hall.

Dean’s shoulders relaxed as he took in the sight of you. A small amount of pink dusted your cheeks and the way you were looking at him with those big beautiful eyes caused Dean’s heart to flutter in his chest. Running his tongue along his bottom lip, Dean fought against the voices in his head before he couldn't take it anymore and muttered a “fuck it”

Surprise and confusion flickered over your features before Dean rushed forward, cupped both sides of your face, and smashed his lips down onto yours. Shock initially caused your body to stiffen before you realized that you were kissing the guy you’d been in love with for years. Dean’s lips were soft and the butterflies in your stomach caused your body to feel electric.

Finally, you kissed him back and instantly melted into the kiss. Dean groaned into your mouth, thankful that he hadn't just ruined everything. Sparks ignite in both of their bodies as their lips move against each other. It's slow and extremely sensual at first but quickly develops into a sloppy and desperate exchange.

Dean’s warm hands pull you impossibly closer and he deepens the kiss. A groan of satisfaction rumbles through his chest as you involuntarily let out a small moan. The noise was like music to his ears and was better than what he’d dreamed you’d sound like, fueling the fire already burning inside.

“God sweetheart, I've been wanting to tell you for so long.” Dean managed to confess in between kisses, completely drunk on the taste of you. “I’ve been in love with you since we first became friends.”

“Me too.” you managed to get out in between kissing Dean and catching your breath. “Fuck I always thought about you while reading my books.”

Dean let out a mixture of a growl and a groan at the thought of you reading such dirty little things and imagining him doing those things to you. Only now he could get what he wanted and he was going to get it today whether or not the whole school heard you scream his name.

Reconnecting their lips in a desperate and messy effort, Dean snaked his hand down and popped the button to your jeans loose. Your eyes immediately rolled into the back of your head as his fingers made contact with your clit.

A moan filled the small space as you threaded your fingers through Dean’s hair, tilting your head to the side a little as his mouth placed kisses along your neck.

“Is this all for me?” Dean asked, groaning at the feeling of the amount of you coating his fingers. “If I would’ve known you were so turned on at the thought of me fucking you, I would've done it a long time ago.” Dean admitted but you only responded with a moan as he slipped a finger inside your entrance.

You rocked your hips down on his hand wanting nothing more than to relieve the ache between your legs. A second finger slipped inside of you before you could even manage to get a word out. The only word you managed to get out was Dean’s name as he fucked you with his fingers.

“I’m almost—” You started to whine and tell him that you were close but before you hit your high he quickly pulled his hand out of your jeans.

“I've waited too long for this.” Dean reconnected his lips to yours before breaking away and fiddling with his belt. “I wanna watch you come for the first time around my cock.”

Your eyes immediately locked into his and he worked his way out of his belt. You could only clench your thighs together as you watched him take the belt off with one hand before Dean gripped the side of your hip and spun you to face the door. Gasped at the feeling of being pressed up against the door and Dean right behind you. The rustling of his jeans sounded from behind you before you felt his large hands reach in front of you and pull your zipper down. Gripping the jeans on either side of your hips, Dean yanked your jeans down to your ankles and slipped them off but left your panties on.

“We’re gonna leave these on.” Dean’s voice sounded gruff as he placed a hand down on your back, bending you over.

You instantly gasped as you felt the tip of him brush over your folds, causing you to whine as he teased you. “Dean don't play with me right now. I need you.”

You heard no reply before he suddenly slammed into you. Gasping as he stretched you out, you melted as he started thrusting in and out of you. The feeling was absolutely euphoric as he continued, causing you to say his name over and over again like a prayer.

Dean groaned as he felt you clench around him, knowing you were close. Quickly pulling out and spinning you around, he slammed you up against the door and whispered “Jump.” Tapping both sides of your hips to encourage you. You jumped and he caught you. Immediately he pushed himself back into you and fucked up into you. “Wanna see your pretty face when I see you make a mess around me.” Dean’s words fueled the fire within you and caused your ache to grow.

“Dean.” you moaned, not able to think of any other words than his name. The coils in your stomach tighten before you finally come undone around him. Dean finds your lips fast, picking up his pace to ride you through your high. The feeling of her pulsing around him sends Dean to fall out of rhythm as he sloppily snaps his hips against hers. His face buries into her neck as he feels himself unravel inside of her, the feeling of warm liquid filling her insides as the two turn into a moaning mess, painting her inner walls white.

“I love you,” Dean admits as he connects his lips to yours gently. “I’m in love with you.”

A drunken smile lazily spreads across your lips as you watch Dean’s eyes soften and stare at you with hooded eyes. “I love you too, De.” You confess, still feeling the butterflies fluttering around in your stomach, tickling your insides.

“So you wanna recreate some of those scenes from your book later?” Dean’s small smile shifts into a smirk as he recalls googling the rest of the smut scenes in your book. He'd been curious to know what other things you’d read besides the small snippet he skimmed across.

“Actually, I’d love nothing more.” A smirk of your own spread across your lips, matching his energy. “I have a few different scenarios I wanna try.”

Dean’s eyebrows raised at your new attitude. “I’m so happy I caught you reading sex scenes.”

You giggled before informing him of the term. “It's called smut, Dean.”

“Whatever.” Dean rolled his eyes before bringing his lips back down onto yours.

more of my works here!

tag list: @freeluigihesbae @lieutenantchaos

#dean winchester #dean winchester x fem!reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you #dean winchester smut #au dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #supernatural #spn fanfic #jensen fucking ackles #jensen ackles #dean x you #deanwinchester #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fic #smutty smut smut #teenage!dean

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kteezy997 · 2 days ago

Text

Beyond Business-part eleven//t.c.

Warnings:cursing, Hollywood toxicity, smut including some light choking, talking about sex with a former partner

The next morning, you awoke with Timmy’s arms around you. His head rested on your chest as he slept soundly. You combed your fingers slowly through his hair, just admiring him as he got some much needed rest. You loved seeing him so calm.

After awhile, you realized that he was content to stay that way until he woke up. So, you kept your hand in his hair, and started to scroll through social meds on your phone, beings how you couldn’t move. Not that you wanted to.

Timothée and Kylie’s kissing photos were all over twitter and tik tok. You couldn’t escape it. There weren’t even that many solo shots of him on the red carpet. It was all photos of Kylie at the A Complete Unknown cast table, laughing with Elle Fanning.

You personally did not follow Kylie Jenner on social media, but her posts often got shared around enough to where you would see them. She posted a selfie of herself, Elle, and Monica Barbaro, the caption reading, “cuuutest night w the cutest girls in a little 1999 Versace.”

You found it rather annoying and distasteful that there was no mention from her about the reason she was even at the Golden Globes. She was Timothée’s date, but you would never know that by the post.

You knew that he and Kylie strictly did not post each other or verbally mention one another publicly. But this was a little much for you.

Timmy stirred, groaning softly as he lifted his head from your chest. “Hm, scrolling dear?” he asked, perking up and look at your phone screen. He rolled his eyes, grabbing your phone from your hands. “Don’t look at that shit.” He dropped the phone onto the bed, curling back up to you.

"That shit is you, Timmy."

"No." he whined like a child, "Not the real me, you know that. This is me, here."

You sighed, "Well, I guess it's more Kylie than you. You would think she had been nominated at the Globes since she doesn't show you or mention you."

"We don't do that shit. We don't post each other." he mumbled, his forehead nudging your jaw.

"Well, between her in that Versace dress and the drama with Demi Moore, it's all about her. People aren't even mentioning you."

Timmy raised his head, "What drama with Demi Moore? She came over to our table, but nothing bad happened."

"From Kylie's point of view, Demi blatantly ignored her."

You could tell he was genuinely annoyed now, "Oh, she was just talking to Elle and Monica about the film and congratulating all of us. Kylie wasn't part of the movie; she's not even an actress. Demi didn't owe her anything."

You shrugged, "That's not how Jenner fans see it."

He sighed heavily, sitting up next to you in the bed. "Fuck, somehow she always makes everything about her. It's like they can't stand it if someone else might get more attention."

"Who's they, babe?" you asked, taking his hand.

He held your hand, "Her and her sisters. And their mom." He shook his head. "I wish this would just go away so I can just be with you."

"Maybe it's my fault. I shouldn't have been scrolling." you admitted.

He looked at you, leaning in to give you a sweet kiss, "No, it's not your fault. Someone would have brought it to my attention eventually."

“Yeah,” you leaned into him this time, rested your head into his neck, “I guess so. When do you have to see her again?”

Timmy scoffed at the question, “I don’t want to talk about her.”

“You never want to talk about her.”

“Yeah, maybe I’d rather just enjoy the time I have with you.” he shoved the covers off himself, getting out of the bed, contrary to what he had said. He needed to escape the conversation.

“I’m just trying to understand-"

“All you need to understand is that I love you.” he paused at the foot of the bed.

“Timmy, sex isn’t love.”

“I tried to tell you before we had sex, you wouldn’t let me. But I fucking feel it, and it’s not because we had sex or because you’re a distraction from Kylie. It’s because you’re you, y/n. I love you.”

“Okay, okay,” you quickly moved to meet him at the end of the bed and pulled him in close by the shoulders, “I believe you.” You kissed his lips.

“It’s okay if you don’t say it back, I mean, it took a lot for me to say it so I imagine that you’re the same way and-"

You tapped his cheek, “Timmy, stop rambling.”

“I know. I’m just nervous.” he admitted.

“You’re nervous? Timothée Chalamet gets nervous around a woman?” you were loving the effect you had on him.

“Oh, fuck off.” he said, playfully shoving you back on the bed.

You giggled as he climbed on top of you. You threw your arms around his neck as he kissed you. The weight of his body slowly collapsing on you. You were both still naked from the night before, and you felt his cock hardening against your thigh.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his hand cradling the side of your head.

“Yes, god, I want you Timmy.” you lifted upwards, smashing your lips to his. You tucked your legs around his waist. His cock slapped your pussy, and you moaned in his mouth at the feeling. You wiggled your hips.

With a soft thrust of his hips, his cock slid into you, “ugh, baby.” he huffed.

You laid back as he pumped into you.

He held you down, soft wet sounds hit your eardrums as well as your light panting. He looked deep into your eyes, slowly alternating between that and kissing you. He placed his hand across your throat, squeezing your neck, decreasing your air intake. You were completely dependent on him to breathe as he bottomed out inside of you. He moved his hips side to side.

You gasped, feeling so full of him.

He released his grip on your throat. Then, he laid down, his flesh on your flesh as he continued to thrust his hips into you.

…….

Afterward, you lay together in bed, your head in his chest this time with your leg thrown over him lazily. You couldn’t help but wonder if his sex with Kylie was as good as it was with you.

“So, what was it like to have sex with Kylie Jenner?” you asked.

“Y/n, don’t do this.” he warned.

“No, it’s okay. I won’t get mad or jealous or anything. I just wanna know. I mean, she’s gorgeous…she’s probably spent millions on her body and face, but she’s perfect. What’s it like to fuck the perfect woman?” You folded your arms, resting your chin on them on his chest so you could look at his face.

Timmy sighed of course, his chest heaved dramatically. He rubbed his eyes before he began, “I mean, you expect every straight man’s dream, and it was, in a way. Like, she looks incredible naked, everything is just perfect and big tits in your face, ass looks great when you’re hitting from the back. But once you touch her, it’s different. Nothing moves,” he brought his hand up, “and you can’t even grab her boobs, they’re like hard or something.”

“Hm.” hearing all this, you felt pleased with your natural appearance. “But what’s she like? Is she…good in bed?”

“Not really.” he chuckled, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, especially to you, but she just lays there, expects you to do it all. Not that I mind doing all the work, but she never went on top. I got one blowjob in a year and half of screwing her.”

“I had no idea you’d have so much to say. And not much is positive. You would think with a body like that, she’d have more to show for it.” you shrugged.

Timmy turned on his side, “Can we stop talking about her now?” he pouted.

You grinned at him, “Yes, thank you for being a good sport.”

“Anything for you.” he kissed your forehead. “Now, let’s get a shower so maybe we can get some work accomplished today.”

February 6, 2025

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#timothée chalamet #timmy chalamet #timothée imagine #timothee x reader #timothee chalamet smut #timothee chalamet #timothee fanfic #timothée chalamet fanfic #friends to lovers #personal assistant #slow burn #love story #hollywood

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writeriguess · 8 hours ago

Note

Hello! I hope you had a great day/night🥰

I was wondering If you could make a smutty fem reader x katsuki bakugo

the reader and bakugo have been together for some time and every time they had sex nothing really happened, the did it, did aftercare and went to bed (most of the times) but this time the reader was at bakugo's house visiting him but for some reason bakugo gets riled up and wants to do it with the reader, his parents weren't in the house anyway so he didn't need to stress about someone interrupting so in the end they end up having sex.

But katsukis mom and dad comes early and he doesn't notice, while the reader and katsuki are doing their thing Mitsuki hears strange noises come from bakugos bedroom. She ends up curious and walks towards his room to find out what was happening but then is meet with you and katsuki.

Katsuki gets really embarrassed but mitsuki isn't mad, instead she shouts "Are you finally making my grandkids"

You don't need to write a fanfic about this! You have full right to delete! But this is just an idea that has been roaming in my head for days and I just really want someone to write a fic abt this😅

Anyways! I won't be sad or mad if you delete this, write it if only you're comfortable❤️

(Also sorry for shifting between bakugo and katsuki I didn't know which of them to use😅)

Heat of the Moment

The thing about Bakugo was that he had control. Most of the time.

Sure, he had a temper, and yeah, he was easy to rile up in a fight, but when it came to you? He always kept himself in check. He never let himself get too lost in it, never let his instincts take over, because he didn’t want to overwhelm you.

That was… until tonight.

You weren’t even trying to be subtle. Maybe it was the fact that his parents were gone, maybe it was just because you wanted to push his buttons, but every little thing you did was setting him off.

The way you sat so close to him on the couch, your thigh pressed against his. The way your fingers lazily traced the muscles in his forearm while you pretended to be watching the movie on the screen. The way you leaned in, lips just barely ghosting over his ear as you whispered, “You’re so tense, Katsuki… want me to help you relax?”

And fuck, he tried. He really fucking tried to ignore it. To just smirk and brush it off like you weren’t making his dick throb with every slow, deliberate movement.

But when you climbed onto his lap, straddling him without a second thought, and rolled your hips down against the growing bulge in his sweats?

That was it. That was the fucking breaking point.

His hands were on you in an instant, rough and possessive as he grabbed your waist and slammed you back down against his hard length. “You think you’re fuckin’ cute, don’t you?” His voice was low, dangerous, but the way his cock twitched against you gave away just how much you were affecting him.

You bit your lip, looking down at him with those teasing eyes that had been driving him insane all night. “Maybe,” you mused, rolling your hips again, slow and deliberate. “Are you gonna do something about it?”

A guttural growl rumbled in his chest before he flipped you onto your back, pressing you into the couch with his weight. His knee shoved between your thighs, spreading you open for him as he loomed over you, crimson eyes dark and full of hunger.

“Oh, I’m gonna do a lot more than something, baby,” he muttered, voice thick with lust. One hand shot under your shirt, fingers finding your breast and squeezing, rolling your nipple between his rough fingertips as his other hand slid down to your shorts. “Gonna fuckin’ ruin you.”

You gasped as he shoved your shorts down, not bothering with finesse. His fingers slid between your thighs, pressing against your already slick folds. “Fuck,” he groaned, a smirk tugging at his lips. “All this from a little teasing? You’re such a fuckin’ slut for me, aren’t you?”

You whimpered, hips arching into his touch, and he chuckled darkly. “Nah, don’t even try to play shy now. You wanted this.”

And then he was lining up, shoving his sweats down just enough to free his cock. Thick, hard, already leaking precum. He didn’t even tease—he just grabbed your hips, lined up, and thrust inside in one deep stroke.

The stretch was sudden, almost too much, but fuck, the way he groaned against your neck made it impossible to care. “So fuckin’ tight,” he growled, giving you barely a second to adjust before pulling out and slamming back in, hard and fast.

You cried out, legs wrapping around his waist as he set a relentless pace, hips snapping against yours with loud, wet slaps. Every thrust had your head spinning, had your body arching up into him as he fucked you deep into the couch.

“Isn’t this what you wanted, huh?” he panted, lips brushing against your ear. “Wanted me to snap? Wanted me to fuck you like I couldn’t wait another second?”

You moaned, nails digging into his back, and he grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head as he drove into you even harder. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good,” he muttered, lips trailing down your neck, sucking a mark into your skin. “So fuckin’ perfect—made for me.”

His name fell from your lips over and over, breathless and desperate, and he drank in every sound, every little whimper. “Yeah, that’s it,” he groaned, pounding into you with reckless abandon. “Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

You didn’t even need to be told. The coil in your stomach snapped, pleasure hitting you like a shockwave as your walls clamped down around him. Your whole body shook, a high-pitched moan spilling from your lips as you came hard around his cock.

Bakugo snarled, hips stuttering as he chased his own release, burying himself as deep as he could before spilling inside you with a guttural groan. His grip on your wrists tightened as he rode it out, panting against your neck before finally collapsing on top of you.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the ragged breathing of both of you trying to come back down from the high. Then, finally, Bakugo chuckled, low and satisfied.

“Next time you wanna tease me,” he murmured, voice still husky from exertion, “just tell me you wanna get fucked stupid, princess.”

You giggled breathlessly, running your fingers through his damp hair. “Noted.”

Though, judging by the way his cock twitched inside you again, it seemed like one round wasn’t going to be enough tonight.

A while later, you were on it again.

Katsuki had barely given you a break before he was all over you, flipping you onto your stomach and muttering about how you were gonna “pay for riling him up like that.” Not that you were complaining.

The only problem? He was so lost in you that he didn’t hear the front door open.

Didn’t hear the sound of keys dropping into the bowl.

Didn’t hear the unmistakable click of his mother’s heels as she walked down the hallway.

You, on the other hand, froze the second you heard a voice call out:

“We’re home! Bakugo, did you clean the—”

And then, before either of you could react, before Katsuki could even think to move—

The bedroom door swung open.

Mitsuki Bakugo stood there, eyes wide, taking in the absolute disaster of a scene before her. Her son, bare-ass naked, hovering over you. Your face buried in the pillow, Katsuki’s hands gripping your hips. The sheer horror on your face as you registered what was happening.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then—

“HOLY FUCK, MOM—!”

Katsuki launched himself off of you, scrambling for the sheets in sheer panic. You barely managed to yank a blanket over yourself before Mitsuki’s voice rang through the house:

“ARE YOU FINALLY MAKING MY GRANDKIDS?!”

You wanted to die. Right there. On the spot. Instant cardiac arrest. Take me now.

Katsuki’s face was redder than his damn explosions. “WHAT THE HELL, OLD HAG? GET OUT!!”

But Mitsuki wasn’t done. No, she was grinning. Grinning. Hands on her hips like this was the best news of her life.

“Damn, about time!” she continued, ignoring the way Katsuki was practically combusting. “I was starting to think you were incapable—”

“SHUT UP!!” Katsuki grabbed the nearest object—a pillow—and launched it at her with enough force to send it flying down the hallway.

Mitsuki just cackled, dodging effortlessly. “Make sure you’re using protection, brat—unless you’re actually trying to give me grandkids—”

“OUT!!”

With one last laugh, she finally strolled out, still muttering about how she was “too young to be a grandma, but still, wouldn’t mind a little mini-Katsuki running around.”

The moment the door slammed shut, Katsuki flopped onto his back, covering his face with both hands.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you could speak.

Until finally, after what felt like an eternity, you whispered:

“…So, uh. Round three?”

Katsuki groaned. “I hate you.”

But the way he rolled back over you said otherwise.

#bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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devixncy · 11 hours ago

Note

Hey! I’ve got a heavy hurt/comfort request here that is pretty angsty, so if it’s too much please just ignore this.

Anyway if you’re comfortable could I request a Thanos x reader (no games AU) where is read of the recruiter finding him in the bridge, the reader does? Maybe they were good friends before his career fell apart.

I just wanted to hug him so bad when he was telling his backstory to Minsu 😭 and I can in fic form

a/n: i wrote this one so fast. ty for this request (hopefully i did it justice)

✧ pairing: choi su-bong (thanos) x reader

✧ summary: you come face to face with your best friend on the bridge instead of the recruiter

✧ content: heavy themes (suicidal ideation, thanos at the bridge as mentioned in squid game), angst, no games AU, swearing, some comfort at the end bc that's how i roll

✧ word count: 2.3k

‘Your call has been forwarded to voicemail. The person you’re trying to reach is not available. At the tone, please record your mess-’

Your thumb hit the end call button, letting out a sigh of frustration. You weren’t sure why you kept trying, maybe it was because you always held out hope and your heart didn’t want to give up. At this point, your name had probably flashed across what used to be your best friend's screen hundreds of times–only to never receive a response.

Su-bong’s radio silence worried you to no end. The two of you had been inseparable once, from pre-teens all the way into early adulthood. He was your best friend, your partner in crime. You helped each other through heartbreak, you consoled him when no one else understood what he was going through at home. You had shared countless late night talks, discussing quite literally anything you could think of because there were no secrets between you. Unfortunately, you hadn’t realized how much of a crush you had developed on him until it was too late.

When he began his rapping career, you were nothing but supportive. He was following his dream, wanting to make a name for himself under the alias ‘Thanos’. You always reposted his music on social media to help promote it, and always went to his shows once he began performing at small venues and clubs. As always, rising to fame didn’t come without consequences. It started with small, miniscule things that you brushed off as nothing at first. He started to take longer to answer your texts; what used to take seconds would now take him almost a full day until he was basically ghosting you. He began to “forget” to tell you when his shows were scheduled, disappointing you to no end because you wanted to be there for him.

Then, there was the night he showed up at your apartment, stumbling and pupils blown so wide you almost couldn’t see the blue of his eyes anymore. He was high out of his mind, coming to your door to beg for money so that he could pay back some of whatever debt he had accumulated. Your heart broke when you had to kick him out without sparing anything, as you had very little money to spare yourself. He was erratic and loud, and you couldn’t have him in your apartment that late in the state he was in. You had cried that night, seeing what was happening to your best friend.

After that night, you hadn’t heard from Su-bong again. Your desperate attempts to contact him were futile, you never received a response. It left you angry and defeated, wondering what you had done wrong. You missed him dearly, and it had been almost a full year since you’d spoken.

A pebble went scattering across the concrete as you kicked it, lost in thought while you walked. It was getting late, the sun disappearing behind the horizon as the stars began to brighten the dark sky. You shoved your hands in your pockets, a shiver running down your spine as the cold air nipped at you. You wandered aimlessly, having no real destination–yet it was another reminder of Su-bong. Walks to clear your minds was something you both did together often, and now it was just you. He used to boast about how he would protect you and that no one would bother you if you were with him, not that anybody ever did.

Something wet landing on the tip of your nose broke you out of your thoughts yet again, causing you to tilt your head up and look into the sky. The light patter of rain began to hit your face, starting as a sprinkle and gradually turning into a steady rainfall. Great. You grumbled, knowing you still had a while to walk and no umbrella. Pulling up your hood, your feet carried you in the direction of your apartment. Eventually, you began to approach the bridge that you had crossed not too long ago, signaling you weren’t very far now. A sigh of relief began to escape your lips, no longer wanting to be out in this weather as you were already soaked. However, whatever air you had in your lungs was immediately sucked out, leaving you frozen in shock. A figure was standing eerily still by the rails of the side of the bridge, their grip on the steel bar tight.

You had no idea what to do in this situation. Your heart sped up, thumping against your rib cage. Your eyes diverted from the figure to the unforgiving river below, the dark water angry as rain beat down against it. Its currents roared, jagged rocks lurking beneath the churning surface. Your stomach twisted, hoping this wasn’t what you thought it was. Taking a deep breath, you began to move slowly and silently. You knew the person couldn’t hear you and you hoped they wouldn’t see you from their peripheral vision even though they had their hood up. Creeping closer, you almost had a heart attack as they suddenly hopped up onto the rail, swinging their legs around so that they were sitting facing the water. Moving quicker now, you were merely feet away.

Deep breaths. You had to act quickly. The glow of the city in the distance seemed dampened by the rain, and time seemingly slowed down. You took another slow step forward, not too fast or eager. The figure’s hands clenched tightly against the railing, knuckles turning white. Their breath came in shuddering bursts, visible in the coldness of the night.

“You don’t want this.” Your gentle voice carried through the wind.

They flinched at the sound of your voice, but didn’t turn around.

“I know it feels like there’s nothing left. I know it feels hopeless, like the weight of the world is crushing you,” you continued. “But I promise this is not the way. Not like this. There is someone out there who cares about you, who would be devastated if you made this choice.”

They shivered. Whether it was from your words or from the chill in the air, you weren’t sure. You took another small step forward.

“Please,” you whispered. “You’re not alone. Please come down and let me help you.”

For a moment, time paused. The silence was loud, and all you could hear was your heartbeat in your ears.

And then–slowly, cautiously–they turned.

And you felt as if somebody had punched you in the gut, all of the air sucked out of your lungs in an instant. The weight of a million tons felt as if it were crushing your body. The world blurred at its edges, sounds turning distant as if everything was underwater.

Su-bong, your Su-bong, was staring back at you. His cheeks were tear-streaked, noticeable even in the pouring rain. His eyes were distant, hollow–though you could clearly see the blue in his irises, meaning he wasn’t high at the moment. He showed no emotion in his face, something you weren’t used to seeing.

“Su-bong…” You whispered, and it came out strangled, like somebody was squeezing your lungs. You stood there with your arm slightly outstretched, lips parted in shock. He stared back at you, unmoving, no words coming out of his mouth. The tremors began, your fingers shaking uncontrollably as the weight of the truth settled in like ice. Your best friend, the person you loved the most, was about to kill himself.

“You shouldn’t be here, (Y/N).” His voice was strained, raw, like he had been screaming. It was devoid of emotion, but his eyes told a different story. There was conflict flickering in them, maybe uncertainty, you couldn’t tell.

Your knees nearly gave out as he turned back around, seemingly having his mind made up whether you were there or not. Panic set in, adrenaline coursing through your veins like fire as you lurched forward, although stopping yourself before you made a dumb decision.

“Su-bong, please! Please don’t do this, don’t you dare,” You cried, your breaths coming in short gasps as desperation clawed at you. Logic went out the window, your mouth was moving faster than your brain. “I love you, please don’t do this. I need you here.”

He didn’t say anything. But mere seconds later, his shoulders began to shake violently. You began to hear sobs escape from the man in front of you, tearing your heart into a million pieces. And after a long, excruciating moment that seemed to stretch on forever, he slowly turned back around. Your hand, although violently trembling, was outstretched towards him. “Please come down.” You tried once more, barely audible over the unrelenting rain. Your eyes betrayed you, his outline blurring as they were swimming with tears that wouldn’t stop coming.

But you felt his touch, his hand hesitantly grabbing yours. Slowly, but surely he swung his legs back around until he was facing you instead of the water below. As soon as he was facing you, you yanked him towards you with all of the strength you had left. His body collided with yours, and like something awakened in him, he threw his arms around you. His grip was tight, crushing–but you paid no mind, your arms finding their way around his back and clutching onto the fabric of his hoodie so tight he might fly away if you let go. He sobbed, his head dropping onto your shoulder. His knees buckled and you followed suit, lowering the two of you onto the ground.

“I’m so sorry, (Y/N), god I’m so fucking sorry,” He cried. You didn’t respond, you couldn’t find words. Your chest was heaving, emotions all over the place. You just rocked him gently, quiet hiccups coming out of your mouth as you tried to grapple with reality. “I thought your life, and everyone else's, would be better off without me in it. I’m so sorry, I-I wasn’t thinking, I’m just such a fuck up-”

You cut him off, leaning back so that you could grab his face. “Do NOT say that to me, ever! You are one of the most important pieces of my life, you always have been and that has never changed. My life got better the day you came into it. Even if you feel like you have nothing else, you have me. You always have,” You took a deep breath as he rested his forehead against yours, shame written all over his face. “I love you so much, whether you know it or not. But the point is, I will always be here for you. Through the good and the bad.”

Su-bong closed his eyes, tears still running down his face. The rain chilled the both of you to the bone, soaking through every inch of your clothing. You wiped his tears, holding him close.

“I want to get out of here. Please, let’s go anywhere but here.” He finally whispered. You nodded, not saying a word as you slowly helped him to his feet. You kept an arm wrapped around his waist, helping him keep upright as you walked as he was unsteady on his feet. He was exhausted–emotionally, physically, and mentally.

No words were exchanged as you brought him into your apartment. You led him into your small bathroom, sitting him on the edge of your bathtub. Grabbing multiple towels, you stood in front of him between his legs. His trembling hands didn’t go unnoticed by you, your chest aching as you looked at him. He looked distant, but was watching you. You offered him a small smile, one that was filled with warmth and familiarity. With gentle hands, you began to towel dry his soaking wet hair, bringing back some of the vibrant purple as it no longer stuck to his forehead. You had him strip out of his wet clothes, bringing him some spare of his that had been left at your apartment from long ago. Making sure he was dry and comfortable was your number one priority at the moment.

“You’re still soaking wet.” He murmured as you were hanging the towels up to dry, making you pause. You turned, frowning as that was the first thing he’d said in a while.

“No, you’re not worrying about me right now.” You said sternly, dropping your hands to your sides. He grabbed one of your hands, pulling you towards him. You stopped in between his legs and he wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face into your stomach. Your hand instinctively came up to his hair, running through it like you had done many times before. After a couple of moments, he lifted his head, chin now resting on your stomach as he looked up at you.

“Thank you,” He said softly, vulnerability shining in his eyes. “For everything. I owe you my life. I promise that I’m going to get help. I don’t want to feel like this anymore.” He whispered as you cupped his cheek.

“I’ll be with you every step of the way, my love. Anything you need, I’m here. You’ll always have a home here.” You replied sincerely, your heart hurting for the man in front of you.

“I know. I don’t know why I didn’t come home sooner.” He whispered, and the back of your eyes stung.

You went to bed that night with hope for the future, holding Su-bong close and him holding onto you all night like a lifeline. You didn’t know what exactly he had gone through in the time you were apart, but none of that mattered now. All you wanted was to protect him from his demons, and you so badly hoped that he would let you in. It would take time, but there was nothing more you wanted than to help him heal.

#squid game #squid game x reader #squid game season 2 #choi su bong #choi su bong x reader #su bong x reader #thanos squid game #thanos x reader #player 230 #player 230 x reader #squid game fanfic

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peachglazewrites · 2 days ago

Text

𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚜 ⸙ 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙵𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚋𝚢 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝙹𝚊𝚖

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: ellie/f!reader 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: tlou typical violence, blood & gore, PTSD, poor coping mechanisms, suicidal ideation 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜: angst, first meetings, ellie has PTSD, strangers to friends to lovers, SLOW burn 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘: post tlou part II, no use of y/n or physical descriptions, dual POV, reader has (had) an older brother 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 8840k

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: After the events of TLOU Part II, Ellie packs up her life in Austin, Texas to head to Boston with a single goal- finally giving Tess the burial she deserves.

You cross her path (she crosses yours, rescuing you) along the way, and you find that you're headed the same direction.

Ths rest is history.

a/n: hello!!! welcome to the fic! this was a request by a lovely anon, and what was meant to be a one shot has quickly devolved into a nine part story. please mind the tags with this one, as we hop into some pretty rough themes/mindsets! I'm so excited to begin posting this, and I hope that you all enjoy ♡

link to the original request : ̗̀➛ masterpost

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ save/read this on ao3 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Chapter One

APRIL

Ellie doesn’t realise it’s been a year until she’s sitting down on the porch of her little house in Austin, rifle spread out in front of her, disassembled.

The call of a bird in the trees above her, so close to a baby’s cry, makes her heart race as she looks into the yard, searching for JJ; searching for the danger.

But he’s not there. He’s in Jackson, with Dina.

It doesn’t happen often anymore, relapsing back and forgetting where she is, but sometimes when she’s calm and her brain is blessedly empty, sick and cruel memories will sink their feral teeth back into her—dragging her down and making her spiral all over again.

The barrel of the rifle tumbles from her trembling hand, the one two digits down that she swears she can still feel. It clatters to the floor, rolling and threatening to bounce down the steps.

“Fuck—” Her hands come up, gripping and pulling on the hair at the back of her head as she curls up on the porch, knees pressed to her chest, eyes wide and staring down at the swirls and knots of the wood beneath her.

A year. A whole year since the screen door of the farmhouse creaked and snapped closed behind her.

April. Spring. Welcoming the new lambs in, spending the days helping Dina with the garden, nights on the porch just like this, music drifting through the open window as she plays with JJ, shirt covered in drool as he teethes. Doing everything she can to forget—

To forget this time two years ago, when she was in Seattle. Forget Jesse, Abby, Joel.

And as she sits there, thinking and mourning and spiralling with her head in her hands, she realises that the hospital all those years ago was April too, wasn’t it?

April.

Why is it always fucking April? Ellie would give anything in the entire world to never live through another April ever again.

And she’s thought about it—what she would do. What she’d be willing to give up. It’s not like she has much left, like she has anyone waiting for her in this house so far away from where she dared call home. Anyone missing her or thinking about her while she’s gone--

But she can’t. Because too many people have died for her to be where she is now; and the guilt of that lies the heaviest, heavier than the one of existing in the first place.

So instead, she uses the heels of her palms to scrub roughly at her face, rubbing the tracks of silent tears off her scarred and freckled skin, telling herself to “get it together, Ellie.”

Ellie let’s herself have thirty more seconds. Half a minute to feel and mourn and crave what she’s lost before she straightens her back, picks up the rifle barrel and gets back to work.

Pushing the thoughts from her mind how she’s learned to.

⸙

They stick around this time, thoughts thick and dark and oozing along the back of her mind. Just like they used to before she figured out how to stop caring. To repress and forget, march forwards and never look back.

Like father like daughter, she supposes.

She blames it on the time of year, this cursed month that has haunted her for seven years, the majority of her teenage life and those of her twenties. It’s clinging to her back, and she just can’t stop thinking.

She thinks about people who she’s pushed so far down, it hurts to rip them back up again. People like her mom.

Her mom who she didn’t even know yet haunts her every day—in the way she looks through the window into the backyard of the house she’s claimed as her own, reflection ghosting back at her and making her think ‘Do I look like you? The way JJ looks like Jesse?’

Ellie sighs, hands gripping the edge of the kitchen counter as she forces herself to look away, into the worn and weathered dining room beyond.

She’s been here since December, a tiny house in some part of Austin, Texas; a ghost town that’s long been abandoned. She came here after everything, after Santa Barbara, having no other direction in her head than Texas.

It’s where Joel used to live-- before. She knew that from the times he spoke about it, the promises of showing her one day that he never kept.

She used to feel stupid coming here, like she didn’t have any reason to. She wasn’t part of his life back then, didn’t know him when he was Joel Miller, father and contractor.

But she knew him when he was Joel, the man who walked a country for her. Someone she could have called dad if she wanted to but never found the courage until after he died in front of her-- and this, Texas, is the closest she’ll be to him ever again.

She walked for five months, including a temporary stop in Salt Lake City. She didn’t know exactly where Joel lived, any details he might have divulged forgotten with time or thrown away when she barely held interest for him, so she finds somewhere quiet and stays.

Ellie’s barely done anything with it. She boarded up the worst of the damage and did her best to insulate during winter, but a majority of the house she’s left closed off and unused. She’s been camping out in the living room, having dragged furniture and mattresses into the space to make it her own.

She stopped when she found the bones under one of the beds, curled up and forgotten.

Ellie lets her eyes drift back to the window, forcing past her reflection and to the lawn of the backyard, the wild reclaiming it years ago. She doesn’t tend to it, not really, though she keeps that back corner somewhat clear. Out of respect, or a semblance of it.

Three crudely made crosses-- something she made when she couldn’t sleep one night during winter-- stick out of the ground there. Only one of them has a mound in front of it, the blank cross for the bones she found.

The other two are clustered together, rough carvings of names marking the wood.

Riley and Anna.

She would have made more, a memorial of all the people she’s forsaken, but it didn’t feel right to drag them here when they already have resting places of their own.

Jesse and Joel have beautiful graves out in Jackson, headstones she’ll probably never get to sit at ever again.

Sam and Henry are out in Pittsburgh, under a maple tree where her and Joel buried them all those years ago.

Marlene has a grave in Salt Lake City. Ellie saw it when she went back to the hospital, finding a whole bunch of them out in a courtyard she’d never seen before. (She spent a long time there, sitting next to Marlene. Afterwards she searched, not stopping until she found the grave for ‘Gerald ‘Jerry’ Anderson— Devoted father and our best hope’, and she spent a long time there too.)

And Tess…

Tess is still in Boston, in that building where they left her.

It makes her skin crawl thinking about it, and god does she think about it. Tess’s bones sprawled across the tiles where she lay after she was riddled with bullets.

Was she even still there? Did they get rid of her, take her and those Fireflies that were dead when they arrived out the back and burn them in a terrible heap? Did FEDRA care enough to bother?

Ellie’s regretted so many things in her life, has had so many people die because of her and what she used to represent—but at least they’ve been put to rest, even though they’re still so impossibly loud in her mind.

And she knows she can’t get to Riley, trapped in that fucking mall in the arcade where Ellie, sobbing and bleeding from the arm, dragged her best friend she killed twice— knowing she would have liked it a whole lot better in here than in that stupid Halloween store. She doesn’t know what happened to her mom or where she could possibly be, but Ellie knows enough to realise there’s nothing she can do about it.

It's why she made the crosses, giving them a place to rest knowing it’s impossible to do anything more.

But Tess—

Ellie hangs her head, fingernails splintering as she grips the counter tighter, eyes closed as she thinks of that domed building—Tess’s mausoleum.

She needs to go to Boston.

⸙

It doesn’t take Ellie long to pack her life up into the backpack she’s had since she was thirteen. She truly doesn’t have much, mostly just her clothes and weapons. She indulges herself and keeps a few items that aren’t tied to her survival; things she hasn’t been able to let go that sit in the bottom of her bag. Joel’s watch, Dina’s bracelet, a stack of trading cards, and her journal. They take up hardly any space, so she doesn’t feel bad about the room that could have been used for more important things, like food and ammunition.

She puts the house back the way she found it-- out of respect or something, she’s not too sure. The only thing she leaves behind are the locks of hair she cuts from her head, the ends choppy but now barely brushing the collar of Joel’s flannel.

It makes her a little emotional, leaving this place. A small tug in her heart, something pulling and pleading for her to just stay. This is the most she has, a place she can call her own. Something stable.

God, does she want stable, but she also needs to do this. This is one of the only things she has left that she can fix. The others feel far beyond her.

Ellie planned her route the night before, laying out a map on the wooden floor of the living room, pencil in hand and journal in her lap. She knew she wasn’t close to Boston, but being nearly two thousand miles away shocked her a little bit. That was the optimistic number too, assuming that roads would be clear, and she didn’t run into any detours. Knowing Ellie’s luck, she’d be lucky if she got there before winter, a good eight months away.

She writes down her plan in her journal, taking over one of the empty back pages. It’d be much more convenient to take her notes on the map itself, but she refuses to make that mistake twice.

Ellie hitches her backpack onto her back, freshly cleaned rifle strapped and sitting against her left shoulder, bow slung over the same one. Joel’s revolver, also recently cleaned, sits snug in a holster clinging to her thigh, switchblade in her back pocket.

She hasn’t fully kitted up like this in weeks, not needing to after finding that person’s bunker the next town over. She almost felt bad taking as much as she did, stuffing her bag and an old duffel with as many tins and cans as she could take. She doubted anyone had been there in years—but if they had?

Well, it’s a dog-eat-dog world, out here.

Ellie takes a breath, holds it until her lungs burn and her eyes water and savours the that moment of light-headedness then let’s go, stepping off the porch and letting the door shut behind her as she leaves; an all too familiar feeling.

She heads north, cutting up across the country.

First stop, Dallas.

⸙

It takes just over a week on the road before something inevitably goes wrong.

Ellie had been doing fine. She always does. She’s not new to this kind of travel-- hunting and scavenging, camping out under the stars or cramped into corners with her rifle in her hands. As much as she misses Jackson, the farm, and sometimes even her dorm in that shitty FEDRA school, there’s something about being out here that feels right to her.

It reminds her of that year with Joel. When she was fourteen and trusting this man who wanted nothing to do with her with her life, and then somewhere along the way he had taken her in as his own. It reminded her of learning how to shoot, of a thousand games of I Spy, serious nods as she explains the volume of Savage Starlight she just read and what she thinks happens in the gaps of the volumes she doesn’t own.

She realises that no amount of safety and security, high walls and locked doors, would ever make her feel as welcomed or soothed as these open roads.

It makes her sick to think about it.

Ellie was only a couple of days out of Dallas, standing in the last city she’d hit before then. The roads ahead of her were littered with traffic, hundreds of cars left abandoned to rust for the rest of eternity. Rubble from collapsed buildings block alleys and side streets, creating craters in the pavement below where they’ve fallen. Bodies, gaunt and skeletal, decorate the footpaths beneath her feet, tattered clothes bleached by the sun and fluttering in the wind.

The sun above her was low, sliding behind towering buildings and painting the sky in reds, pinks, and purples. Ellie would have to get inside before it gets too dark to see, her flashlight only making her a sitting duck in the middle of this unfamiliar road.

She can be reckless, but she’s not stupid.

So, she sticks to buildings, climbing through open windows and sneaking through propped open doors. There’s infected about, because when is there not, but they’re just stragglers—not worth the time or risk. Ellie is slippery, sneaky, her weathered converse that are worse for her feet than boots but infinitely quieter making no noise as she crawls.

The office building is where it all goes to shit.

To be fair, she didn’t realise what kind of building it was when she snuck in, stepping through the door to the fire escape and creeping up the stairwell. She only wanted to reach the top floor, make her way to the roof so she can get a better view of the city from above, but the top stairwell was blocked with desks, cabinets, and even part of the ceiling before she could get there.

Ellie retreats inside, through the door closest to her, pausing when she sees the rows of office cubicles moulding away in front of her.

“Oh, come on,” she curses, turning on her heels, trying to backtrack and leave the way she came, but the door slams shut before she can slip through, vibrations rattling the doorframe.

A low, metallic groaning muffles through the wood, Ellie cautiously stepping back. The groaning gets louder, reaching its peak before making a series of loud thuds, ending in one final crash against the door.

Ellie blinks, staring at the fire escape, her way out.

“No fucking way, dude…”

She tries the handle, and while it turns, it barely budges as she pushes on it. She tries over and over, shouldering the wood to try and get the thing open even just a little bit, enough for her slip through.

No luck.

“Shit,” she groans, pitching her head forward to hit against the wood a few times.

Ellie hates offices. Too many floors, too many places for things to hide. It’s practically a death sentence walking into one. She’s never had a good experience in one of these buildings, and she has a sneaking suspicion that her luck isn’t about to change.

Ellie pushes herself from the door, leaning down to unclip her revolver from the holster on her thigh. “Okay,” she breathes, turning around and assessing the room. “You’re good. Just gotta find a way out of here…”

Adjusting her grip on the gun, she begins a careful sweep of the room, watching every step she takes as she walks across the office floor with a precision that has been drilled into her.

There’s row after row of cubicles in the centre floor, private offices and meeting rooms shooting off to the side. She doesn’t bother with any of these, wanting to just get the fuck out of here before it gets too dark.

Thankfully, on the other side of the room is a stairwell, one for public use that is blessedly free from doors that will slam shut behind her and trap her inside.

Ellie sighs with relief, pressing onwards with her revolver held out in front of her, sticking close to the wall as she approaches the stairwell. She does a quick sweep before she enters, checking the floor above and below for anything before continuing.

She takes the steps one at a time, watching her feet. She barely makes it down the first flight when she hears it.

It’s faint, muffled, but echoes up through the empty stairwell. A thump, thumpthump, thump—like something hitting a wall, maybe a door. Ellie curses, a quiet “Fuck,” under her breath as she pauses to listen.

The sooner she can get out of here, the better.

The further down Ellie gets, the louder the noise becomes. The thumping is soon joined by low croaking, the familiar screeches and clicks of a clicker on high alert.

She holds her breath as she gets closer, clinging close to the wall, hoping to god that she can just keep going down these steps and—

“You’re kidding me,” she groans under her breath.

The stairway ahead of her, just as she rounds the corner, is blocked. Desks, chairs, cabinets, half the goddamn office. It’d almost be impressive if it wasn’t ruining her life right now.

The only way forwards is through the doorway to Ellie’s right which leads into another office, but it’s in here that the noises are the loudest; the banging, the clicking, the croaking cry of something else.

Ellie retreats until her back is pressed into the corner, crouching over her backpack to breathe and take stock of what she has. She’s not doing too bad on ammunition, both guns fully loaded for the time being. She’s also got a handful of arrows left—six to be exact—thanks to a resupply a few towns over.

From the noises alone she knows there’s two, maybe three infected in there. Most likely all clickers.

She can do this, if she’s careful.

Swinging her pack over her shoulders, she sticks low to the ground, creeping back to the doorway. Her fingertips graze the ground as she leans forward, peeking into the room.

The first thing she notices is how empty it is, the first row or so of cubicles missing their desks and chairs. Deep ridges rip the carpet, a series of drag marks marking the path of each piece of furniture as it was pushed down the stairs.

This was done recently, Ellie notes, the carpet where the desks once stood pristine and free of thirty years of dirt and grime.

The next thing she notices is the body.

It’s mildly fresh, a couple of days old at most, sprawled out on the carpet, a deep brown puddle of festering blood soaking beneath him. It’s a man, mouth agape and eyes open, foggy irises staring right at Ellie.

She stops breathing, throat closing as she stares back at him, his face swollen and horrifically bloodied, the side of his skull caved in, his greying hair plastered to his face, thick with blood and brain and—

She splutters, gulping in air as she retreats, pressing her back to the wall once more. Her eyes are wet yet impossibly dry, so she blinks and scrubs hard with her palm heels until she can’t see anymore, black spots blurring her vision.

“It’s not him. It’s not him,” she murmurs, hands shaking as she pulls them away from her face.

Ellie swallows, waiting for it to feel like she’s not going to throw up before she crawls back to the entryway, forcing herself to peer back inside.

The man on the carpet is young, older than her but not by much. The bullet hole in his cheek tears the skin open, a gnarly flap of it hanging down his face. The skin is mottled with blues and green, spidery veins that creep up from his neck and eyes, broken capillaries typical with the freshly turned.

He was barely infected before he was shot.

Question is, who the fuck shot him?

Ellie’s eyes flick up, desperately ignoring the way her breaths are still uneven, hitching softly in her throat. A remnant of her moment of weakness.

Across the room and right up the back, not one, but two clickers throw themselves at a door, some sort of supply closet. They’re agitated by something on the other side, screeching and snapping at the wood. Whatever it is has their full attention; they’re not stopping any time soon.

Opposite this door, settled on the other wall is the fire escape, a single desk piled high with chairs and wastebaskets and who knows what else barricading it to all hell.

What is going on?

Ellie holsters her revolver, reaching a trembling hand up to unhook the bow from her shoulder. She fumbles with it in her left hand, adjusting her grip a few times as she raises to stand to her full height, stepping slowly into the doorway.

She had to completely relearn how to handle the bow after she amputated her fingers. She had to relearn a lot, actually, more than she was expecting. She’s forever grateful that it was her left hand, and that it wasn’t any of the more important fingers like her index or thumb—but it impacted her life in ways she never even thought about.

She’s still figuring out the guitar.

Ellie takes a step closer, pulling an arrow from her pack and notching it on the bowstring. She pulls it back with one fluid movement, holding her hand up to her cheek as she aims, focusing on the back of one of the agitated clickers.

She knew that this was risky, that this would most likely alert the other, and that she’d need to act fast. Drop the bow, take out her revolver, and run. But there’s the smallest chance that whatever is in that closet is distracting enough that it won’t care, and she can take both down no problem.

She draws in a breath, letting it all out slow through barely parted lips as her fingers twitch around the notch of the arrow.

Multiple things happen at once.

Ellie let’s go, the arrow sailing smoothly through the air and burying in the back of the clicker’s head with a sickening crunch of fungus and cartilage. A strangled croak leaves the creatures throat as it falls, crumbling to its knees and slumping against the door. The arrow sticks right out the back of its skull, a perfect shot. She’ll be able to grab that, later.

The clicker next to it pauses, just for a fraction of a second before whatever the hell is on the other side of that door brings it attention back, continuing to gnash and slam against the wood.

At the same time, a gnarled croak and rapid footsteps from behind make Ellie spin on her heels, turning around just in time to hold her arms up to block the strike of a stalker that lunges right for her.

She falls back, dropping her bow and taking the stalker with her as she lands on her back, head knocking to the side as she grapples. The dead guy is next to her, and his cloudy eyes meet hers for just a moment before she has to pull herself away, bracing against the creature atop of her. It’s sat up enough to swipe at her, swinging it’s arms down to claw at her raised arms.

“Fucking—Get off me!”

Ellie grunts with effort, planting her feet on the ground and using the leverage from her pack to push, rolling both the stalker and her over. It’s still crying out, teeth gnashing as she straddles it, one hand pressing down on its concave chest as she fumbles around her thigh for her revolver. She has to keep ducking and shifting away from it’s gnarled hands, jagged nails split and yellow swiping up at her face and arms.

A screech, sharp and piercing from the other side of the room raises the hairs on the back of Ellie’s neck, eyes widening as she whips her head up. Her scuffle has alerted the clicker by the closet, and she can do nothing but watch as it twitches and lurches to face her.

“Oh fuck—”

Ellie finally gets a grip on her revolver, cocking the hammer and pressing the barrel right between the stalker’s eyes, firing. The sound is deafening up close, a high-pitched whine muffling her hearing. The creature under her shudders with a dying croak, and Ellie can’t get away from it quicker, pushing herself up until she falls back on her ass. Legs scramble in front of her, pushing and crawling until she backs up into the wall behind her.

The clicker is rapidly approaching, arms winding madly and head twitching from side to side.

The wooden handle of the revolver creaks under Ellie’s grip, hand clenched tight as she cocks the hammer and aims, shooting up at it. It misses the head, hitting it right in the middle of the throat in a spray of black and brown. The creature gasps, faltering just enough for Ellie to push herself up off the floor and run, sprinting to the other side of the room to give her space to breathe and think.

She can do this. She’s done this for years. She just needs to focus.

Focus, Ellie. Focus.

She unlatches the cylinder, taking note of how many shots she has left. Four. She could pull out the rifle if she needs, but the room is far too small and the clicker is far too close for it to be safe.

Better make each of these shots count, then.

The creature is persistent, having gotten over the shock of the bullet through its throat. It charges towards Ellie as she fires once more, breaths heaving her chest, a spray of chitinous fungus exploding from the side of its head.

She has no time to celebrate, pulling back the hammer once more as she stumbles back, putting a desk between her and the clicker. She aims, doesn’t hesitant for a second as she fires, hitter the fucker square between what used to be its eyes.

It screams, a chittering, croaking wail, and Ellie winces as she watches it spin, stumbling and falling to the ground in a heap.

“Yeah,” Ellie breathes out, chest rising and falling with her panting breaths. “That’s right.”

She collapses against the desk, pressing her hands to the surface, hanging her head down so her chin meets her chest. Her whole body hurts— the back of her head aches from where she knocked it, blood flows down her arms from the stalker scratches.

Too close.

A noise, a soft thump from nearby has Ellie tensing, grip tightening on the revolver as she whips her head up, scanning the room.

Nothing. Well, nothing alive at least. She’s the only breathing thing left in here, and with the stairs and fire escape blocked she doesn’t know where else—

She hears it again, a soft thump followed by a long, low sound, muffled and interrupting her thoughts. It sounds like it’s coming from nearby, through the wall.

Like the closet.

Shit, Ellie thinks, eyes dragging towards the door, dead clicker still slumped against the wood. Was this what was setting those clickers off?

She pushes herself off the desk, wrapping her other palm around the revolver as she drifts to the wall closest to her, covering her back. She only has two bullets left in the cylinder, so she takes the couple of seconds of approach to reload.

The closer she gets, the clearer the sound starts to become. It’s a low cry… human. Like a sob.

With a foot to the back, Ellie grabs the arrow from the back of the dead clickers head, the one keeled over against the door, and pulls. It dislodges with a sickening crunch and sucking noise, and she uses the momentum of her foot to shove the body out of the way of the door. It slumps, thudding to the ground and rolling over on itself.

The rhythmic heaving of choked sobs drifts through the wood, making Ellie’s gut twist uncomfortably.

She could just go. She’s dealt with the issue, done whoever was on the other side of this door a major solid. She doesn’t need to involve herself more, throw herself into danger. Infected are unpredictable and fast, bodies strong and jaws stronger.

Humans can plan, deceit and lie. Hold weapons. Shoot.

She cocks her revolver.

“Hey,” Ellie calls out. Shit, she’s rusty, voice crackling around the edges from disuse. She hasn’t spoken properly in weeks, speaking only in murmurs or yells and nowhere in between. She swallows, wetting her throat. “You can come out, now.”

The sobs on the other side cut off with a sharp gasp, replaces with the shuddering pants of someone in a panic. A hiccup.

“I-I don’t…”

The sobs begin again, clawing their way out of the person’s raw throat.

Ellie sighs, chewing the inside of her cheek as she glances at the clicker on the ground, black blood and remnant brain matter leaking from the hole in its head.

“They’re dead. I took care of it.”

Nothing. Just more crying.

She seriously should just leave. The fire escape is right there; all she needs to do is move the desk out of the way, then she’ll be free.

Her gaze flicks to the side, to her freedom, then back down to the handle of the door.

“Are you trapped in there? Is this thing locked?” A hesitant hand rests on the handle but doesn’t turn it.

Those shuddering breaths, the wracking sobs from within continue. Why is she still even here? This isn’t any of her business.

The noises stop.

Ellie pauses, a frown twitching the edge of her lips, scar tugging uncomfortably at the skin. Unease curdles in her twisting gut; she presses her ear against the wood.

Sharp inhales, a shuffling of feet against carpet, ragged wheezing as they try desperately to suck in air.

Fuck.

Ellie steps back, fingers of the clicker on the floor crunching under the heel of her converse. Her lip is pulled between her teeth, chewing on the already torn skin as she looks between the closet and her escape.

“Shit, okay.” Dragging a hand through her hair, pushing the greasy strands out from her face as she thinks. “Uh, I’m coming in,” she calls to the person inside, pressing down on the handle.

It’s unlocked. She can feel the way her heart thunders behind her ribs, the way it vibrates through her veins and makes her hand tremble. As much as she wants to believe it’s from the rush of the kill, the adrenaline, she can’t ignore the chill of fear that settles like a block of ice in the bottom of her stomach.

Ellie pushes the door open, revolver at the ready.

A shot rings out in the small space and Ellie ducks, covering her head with her bloodied arms. It goes wide, missing her by at least a foot as plaster from the ceiling rains down on her. She swears, pushing her back against the wall next to the doorway, quickly swiping debris from her eyes.

Ellie’s trembling hand clasps around the other over the handle of her revolver, arms extended and pointing at the floor. She can feel her breathing getting sharper, shallower, and forces herself to get it together, breathing in deep through her nose to be rid of her light-headedness.

The fire escape taunts her, lopsided barricade making it impossible for her to retreat. She should have just left. Why didn’t she just fucking leave?

She waits for just a few more seconds, waiting for whoever was inside to act first. Nothing. Nothing except for those choked, wheezing gasps that she’s more familiar with than she’d ever like to be.

Revolver out in front of her, Ellie turns round the doorway. Her finger ghosts the trigger, ready to fire at whatever she finds inside.

Fire at you.

“I-I’m sorry—” you wheeze, chest heaving and shuddering as Ellie blocks the light flooding into the closet, silhouetting her from behind. A pistol, black and sleek, trembles in your hand that lays fallen against the floor by your thigh. The other is clawing at your throat, where you’ve started to turn red from the strain of not breathing.

Ellie sweeps the closet from top to bottom, eyes flicking over shelves of copy paper and boxes of pencil before focusing back on you, trembling on the ground.

“Put the gun down,” she barks, her own unwavering of its aim at your head.

You listen, hand letting go of the pistol to come up to your shirt, gun clattering to the floor as you tug and pull at the fabric that feels too tight around your throat.

“I can’t—I had to, I-I’m so fucking sorry—”

Ellie knows this. She’s lived this. She can practically feel it as she watches you, clinging and clawing and begging. Maybe that’s why she does what she does next-- a weak moment of sympathy she’ll tell herself later.

She lowers her revolver and steps into the room.

“Breathe. You need to breathe.”

Okay, Captain Obvious. As if you didn’t already know that.

“Can’t—” you gasp, eyes red with the strain, glassy and looking so far into the distance, further than the walls of this room would allow.

“You have to.” She changes her grip on the gun, holding her left hand out, what’s left of her pinkie and ring finger twitching. “Just take a deep breath, as deep as you can, and hold it.”

She waits for you to do as she says, eyes focused on the hitching of your chest as you try so desperately. Your eyes flutter closed, fists clenched tight as you draw in an admittedly weak breath, but it’s the deepest one you’ve had in a while.

“Good. Slowly breathe out-- nice and easy.” Ellie steps closer, revolver pointed to the ground, hand out like she’s approaching a wounded animal.

Nodding, you hiss out the air in your lungs in one, long, stuttering breath. Your whole body is wound tight, and tears still stream down your dirty cheeks, but your sobs quiet as you breathe.

Ellie approaches as close as she dares, sticking a foot out to kick the pistol away from you, the gun clattering as it skids across the closet floor. With it out of the way, she slowly lowers to a crouch, forearms resting on her knees as she looks at you.

Frankly, you look like shit. Everyone these days does, but you especially so. Your clothes are caked in brown blood and dirt, the sleeve of your shirt ripped and dangling onto your shoulder by a thread.

Your cheeks have that sunken look to them, the one people get when they haven’t eaten in days, and your quivering lips are chapped and cracking, blood oozing from where it splits open.

A spray of blood has dried on your face, your silent tears running muddy tracks through the gore.

Ellie’s eyes linger on the deep red mark at your temple. A perfect circle, likely to bruise. She flicks a quick glance to the discarded gun, then back to you.

“What’s your name?” She asks when she thinks you can handle it, breaths evening out.

You don’t look up at her, haven’t since she’s walked in, focused too hard on something else, somewhere else. Your name tumbles from your lips, and Ellie nods.

“Ellie,” she offers, barely willing to give it up.

Hesitantly, she holsters the gun back on her thigh, fingers twitching. She’s careful not to take her eyes off you, watching those hands that have loosened around your shirt and throat.

Ellie carefully shoulders off her bag, unzipping and reaching for her canteen. Undoing the cap, she holds it out to you.

“Drink.”

You swallow, mouth thick with dehydration, looking up for the first time. Your eyes flick to the canteen, then drag slowly up to Ellie. The shadows of your face are deep, and there’s a broken blood vessel in the corner of your right eye.

She gestures out again, water sloshing in the container.

You look back down, trembling hands hesitantly reaching out and taking it, pressing the plastic to your bloodied lips. The moment a drop of water touches your tongue you start guzzling the whole thing, drinking quick.

“Hey—whoa!” Ellie reaches for you, grabbing your arm to pull it back. You flinch and stare at her with frightened eyes, gasping as you take a fresh breath, a trickle of water running down the corner of your mouth.

Ellie removes her hand.

“You’ll throw up if you’re not careful.”

You blink, looking back down at the canteen, pulling it up for another sip, this time a lot more careful.

You both sit there as you get your fill, drinking all her water. Ellie doesn’t mind. She’ll fill it again once she leaves.

“Your arms are bleeding.”

It startles her a bit, your voice clearer, yet still croaked through the strain, louder than she’s heard it yet.

She shrugs, dismissing you. “I’ll deal with it later.”

She watches as you polish off the canteen, tilting you head back as you wait for the last drops to coat your tongue.

“Were you the one who barricaded the stairs?” Ellie reaches for the canteen when you offer it, gripping onto the container until the last second as if you’ll never have another opportunity to drink after this. She buries it back in her pack.

“My brother.” You tone is flat—tired. The exhaustion has crept up on you, sapping all of your emotions away.

Ellie thinks to the man on the floor.

“Is he…” she trails off, not knowing how to ask, eyes falling to the doorway.

“Dead.”

Ellie nods. “Infected?”

Your head drops, gaze focused on the dirty nails of your hands cradled in your lap. “We were getting chased. He barricaded us in so we could hide, but we were so focused we didn’t realise—” your voice cracks, coming out quieter when you continue. “I shot him. In the head. I didn’t want to, I promise, but he started shaking and this stuff was coming out of his mouth and his eyes were all weird and he just started running towards me and I couldn’t—”

“Hey.” Your eyes snap up to hers, your panicked rambles dying on your tongue. Ellie swallows, thick and unsure as you hold contact, looking into your eyes. Eyes she’s seen so many times in herself, caught in flashes as she passes her reflection.

She can’t bring herself to tell you that what happened isn’t your fault, because if she’s being honest, she doesn’t know. She has no idea who you are or how you came to be here, and at the end of the day you pulled that trigger and your brother is rotting into the carpet just a few feet away. That guilt will haunt you forever, no matter how much you try to come to terms with it. So, she doesn’t say that.

“You did what you had to.”

You look away, back down to your hands, blood marring the skin.

Sympathy twinges within her like a plucked guitar string, vibrating along her skin. She tries to shove it away, to not let herself feel too much for a stranger who was about to end it all in a supply closet.

But she can’t help it, and she finds herself unzipping the largest pocket of her pack, taking out a protein bar and a tin of beans and placing them on the floor next to her.

There. She’ll leave these here, and that’ll be it. Guilt cured.

She stands, hauling her pack over her shoulders once more. Your eyes follow the action, the movement of her hands, but you make no move to say or do anything.

Ellie steps back, looking to the doorway then back to you, alone in the middle of the floor.

“I’m gonna unlock the fire escape. You’ll be able to get out that way, but I’d wait until sunup.”

She waits for a response, a nod or a murmur, and when she doesn’t get one she steps out, leaving you behind in the closet.

Your brother did a pretty decent job with the barricade. Ellie really has to push for the desk to move, legs catching on the carpet, everything stacked on top rattling as she pushes and shoves. She doesn’t bother with moving it completely out of the way, forearms stinging too much for her to try, so she does just enough for her and her pack to wriggle through.

“Ellie.”

Her body freezes, caught between the door as she’s stepping through the gap. Hearing her name spoken by another person for the first time in weeks… She doesn’t like how it makes her feel. That trickle of warmth, the intimacy that comes with knowing a name. It’s enough to make her stop and listen and she wants nothing more than to leave.

She turns her head, looking back at you.

You stand just past the doorway of the closet, crumbs stuck to your bottom lip and down the front of your shirt from the protein bar, tin of beans clutched tight to your chest. You cradle it as if it were your child, something precious. Your eyes meet Ellie’s, guilty and apprehensive and so fucking tired.

You swallow, tongue wetting your lips.

“ I can’t… I don’t have a can opener.”

𖧧

You can barely taste the beans with the way you’re shovelling them in your mouth, already scooping up the next spoonful before you swallow the first. You should feel ashamed or self-conscious for the way you’re eating, no doubt making some kind of mess, but you’re much too hungry to care.

The woman in front of you— Ellie— says nothing about your lack of manners, tending to the fire between you, instead.

Ellie has hardly said a word to since leading you out from the office building you were trapped in, telling you to keep quiet and follow her lead before exiting back out onto the road. The setting sun was blinding after so long in the dark, and you had to take a second and make her wait for you to adjust before you could continue on.

She’s quick on her feet, battered converse barely making a noise as she leads you out across the city, ducking in and out of side streets and over fences in backyards. She’s difficult to keep up with, though there’s some part of you that makes you think that this was her trying to be slow, giving you a chance to match pace.

You should maybe care more about being led away by a stranger into the dark, but at this point you can’t really find it within you to care. Besides, if she wanted to kill you, she would have done it there and then back in the closet, revolver in hand and pointed at your skull.

You end up settling in a park, deep within a crop of trees. Ellie works silently and independently, leaving you to stand and watch along the sidelines as she builds a small fire. She’s quick, practiced, and you find yourself sitting against a tree with an open tin of beans warming your tingling hands before you can let the doubts of being out here with her get to you.

“When was the last time you ate?”

The spoon hangs out of your mouth when she asks, low voice making you pause. You suck the sauce off the utensil and lick your lips, swallowing your mouthful. It’s the first proper thing she’s said to you since the office.

You should feel embarrassed, but you don’t care.

“A few days ago.” You dig back in, scraping the side of the tin to make sure you’re not missing a single drop.

Ellie makes a noise, something noncommittal in the back of her throat. She sits back on her knees with a sigh, dusting off her hands, brushing dirt from the bandages she’d applied after she’d given you something to eat.

“Is that how long you were stuck there?”

The food sours on your tongue, thick and fermenting. Your hand begins to tremble as you watch the red drip from your spoon, soaking and seeping into the ground below you, the clumps that decorate the carpet as he falls and—

“Yeah.” You swallow hard, throat clicking. You drop the spoon back in the tin, placing it shakily on the ground beside you. “The… The gunshot it—” You can’t find it within you to finish the sentence, to say out loud how you had to leave your brother there, twitching on the floor as those things tumbled down the steps, forcing you to lock yourself inside that room in the pitch black. You tried to keep track of the day/night cycles through the crack under the door, but all it did was confuse and upset you.

Ellie nods, planting her feet on the ground, resting her forearms on her knees. Her rifle sits across her lap, ready.

“I’m uh…” she starts, not looking at you. Her throat clears, easing some of the tension from her tone. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

It’s nice; a kind gesture. And you’re sure that under different circumstances that you would appreciate it more, thank her and let the sentiment comfort you… but you’re finding it difficult to.

“Me too.”

It’s silent for a while after that, the two of you sitting by the fire. She offers you another canteen of water, boiling and cooling down river water in the night air. You take it gladly, sipping at it much slower this time around, allowing yourself to savour it.

You spend this time observing Ellie, watching her scan her surroundings.

She’s littered in freckles and scars, not an inch of her skin untouched. There’s a noticeable silver scar slicing the tail off her right eyebrow, a similar one splitting her upper lip. It tugs at the skin when she talks, pulling it taught whenever she widens her mouth.

Blue-grey ink bleeds from underneath her bandaged arm, the tips of ferns peeking out as they curl around the back of her hand. You’ve seen people with tattoos before, but never anyone with something so delicate.

Her green eyes are constantly scanning the area around you, flicking from tree to tree, keeping watch like a dutiful soldier. She sniffs as she raises a hand, pushing back strands of her auburn hair from where they hang in her face.

“Where are you headed?”

The question has her snapping her eyes to you, calculating. Her lips twitch, jaw tensing as she thinks. She looks back down to her rifle.

“As far as I can get.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She says nothing, shuffling her converse into the dirt.

You draw your legs up to your chest, mimicking her body language as your hand fiddles with the sticks and leaves of the dirt beneath you.

“We’re headed to Massachusetts.” You pause, frowning. “I mean—We were heading there. I don’t uh… I don’t know what I’m doing now.” Your throat feels tight, eyes burning.

Ellie says nothing, watching you play in the dirt, picking up a stick and dragging it through the soil.

“Tom, my brother, he was taking me home to Grafton. I’ve never been there, but it’s where he was born. Where our parent’s lived, before everything.”

You don’t know why you’re telling her all this. Telling a stranger your life story. Maybe it just feels good to talk, to have someone breathing and alive acknowledge your presence. Not that this Ellie is much of a talker, just sitting there and listening.

You spear the stick in the ground. “He said he knew where the house was. That we could live there, like before.” The stick snaps, splintering in your hands; 35 Sinclair Street written into the dirt.

The wind picks up as the fire goes down, and you shiver, drawing your arms around your knees. Your shirt, ripped from where an infected had grabbed you, does barely anything to keep out the cold.

You don’t have anything but the clothes on your back. Your brother had the bag, the duffel full of your shared belongings, but he had to cut the strap off and dump it when he got caught by the infected that ambushed you, it tangling itself with him and the bag. That’s most likely when he got bit, that dreaded mark in the webbing between his thumb and pointer of his right hand.

You shiver again, but not from the cold.

You know you shouldn’t have, but you looked at him when Ellie led you out of that building. You’d felt him laying there the whole time you were trapped, festering and rotting into the carpet on the other side of the room, behind a wall of wood and monsters.

Was there any part of him left when you killed him? Was he stuck behind the haze of the infection, watching as you put that gun to his head and killed him? Did he forgive you? Know why you had to?

You’d begged for him to do the same for you, when things got bad and you were sure that it was going to be you who would leave him behind, not the other way around.

“Here.”

A bundle of fabric is thrown at you from across the fire, a grey plaid falling to the dirt by your feet.

She makes eye contact with you when you don’t pick it up, face impassive.

“You’re cold. Take it.”

You blink, looking down at the cloth and picking it up, shaking out the bundle. It’s a flannel, big enough for a man much taller and wider than yourself. A ‘J’ is messily stitched into the inside of the collar in white thread, where the tag should be.

“… Thanks.”

You tug it on, the thick material already making the cool night much more bearable. You have to roll the sleeves up slightly over your hands, but otherwise you button it up and curl right into it. It smells nice, the specific way flannels do when they’re worn in and loved. There’s something else, a faint trace of gunpowder and something spicy, hard to place.

The events of the day, of the past week catch up to you as you curl into the borrowed shirt. You so tired. Exhausted. It feels like you’re using all of your strength to keep your head up, your eyes open, your brain from shutting off.

You shift, lowering yourself to the ground, moving an arm to cushion your head in the dirt. It’s not unfamiliar to you, roughing it like this. You’re used to having your brother with you, the two of you taking turns in keeping watch. And though he’s not here now and never will be again, Ellie’s intense gaze on the trees around you makes you feel a similar way.

Your eyes are half lidded, watching the dwindling flames of the fire, light and shadows flickering on the ground beside it. It’s soothing, and you try your hardest to focus on it and not the thoughts clawing away at the back of your head, the ones that will no doubt make themselves known the second you fall asleep.

Ellie shifts, crossing her legs under her, hands still settled on the rifle. They twitch as she curls around it.

“I’m headed to Massachusetts, too.” You hear, quiet in the night. “Boston.”

You don’t pick your head up, but your eyes flick to hers, opening slightly wider. She’s staring out in the trees.

“I’ll be leaving at dawn.” She looks at you, just for a moment, then back to her post.

You don’t know this woman. You’ve barely spoken, yet you can tell there’s a whole lot going on in those eyes of hers, so incredibly sad and haunted.

But that look is familiar, and you see yourself in it when she looks at you, and you know, despite it all, that what she’s offered is an invitation.

You close your eyes, nodding into your arm.

“Dawn.”

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#ellie williams #ellie x reader #the last of us x reader #tlou x reader #reader insert #ao3 #peach glaze writes #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x female reader

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wonderlandcrown · 10 hours ago

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Yuu and The Housewardens (SPOILERS FOR ALL THE BOOKS, BOOK 7 EXCLUDED)

A thing I really wanted to talk about was the amount of times Yuu has interacted with them during their own books

Because a few months ago I think I saw someone complain about how we only interacted with Leona a few times in his own book, and then I realized that in book 2, 5, 6 and 7, we aka Yuu barely interacted with the respective housewarden.

These obviously parallel the original movies, the amount of interactions or times we've met with each housewarden represent the times when the original villains actively participated to bring down the protagonist.

Just to clarify, twst doesn't follow the plot of the original movies 100%, there are some tweaks in plot as seen in book 1 where we met with riddle a few times more compared to alice and the queen of hearts(who have literally only met one time, but the duration was pretty long)

In book 2, the plot rlly isn't that different from the original. We met Leona and Ruggie earlier even before book 2 started just like how Scar and the hyenas were present before Simba was born. We interacted with him again when going to Savanaclaw to investigate the "accidents", and then finally the showdown between overblot!Leona and Heartshackle(counting Cater and Riddle). It's the same way in The Lion King, Simba has like 2 on screen interactions with Scar before their showdown at the end.

Book 3 was very Yuu-centric, and that's because Ursula was incredibly active in trying to take down Ariel, much more effort compared to the previous two. Ariel had to take things into her own hands, very much like Yuu when their friends got roped into doing basically free labour for Azul. I don't think anymore needs to be added here.

Now onto book 4, also incredibly Yuu-centric! The Sea Witch and the Sorcerer of Sands are not that different in terms of taking care of their adversaries, after all. Aladdin was actively trying to mess with Jafar from day 1, and Jamil decided to avenge his ancestor by sending us off to the edge of the world/j (i dont believe in the great 7 being the overblot boys' ancestors🙏)

Book 5!! Time to talk about my Vil💜 Despite having to live under the same dust-laden roof of Ramshackle dorm, we barely talked with the gorgeous housewarden, obviously referencing how Snow White and the Evil Queen probably barely(or never) talked to each other despite living in the same castle. Though Evil Queen is more active in taking down Snow White after she finds out she's alive, I wish they'd(the writers) included more scenes where we talk and chat with Vil, even if it's just him insulting us💀(no im not saying this as a vil simp whatareyoutalkingabout/hj)

Woohoo we're on book 6🗣️ Hades was so sure that Hercules was dead and never bothered to double check lfmao, unlike Scar who would've been wasting resources and time, couldn't Hades, just like, teleport😭😭😭???

Okay getting off track here, my point is Hercules and Hades are probably the only hero and villain on this list where they'd met multiple times(ignoring jafar since aladdin didn't rlly know he was evil) Yuu definitely had their time to shine in book 6 and all the other characters had been amazing in this book. We had more Idia screentime around the start and the end, but with adequate screentime midway too. Say what you want but book 6 was my favourite.

Book 7 is still ongoing, as it has since I've joined the fandom😭🙏 But did Aurora even interact with Maleficent??? Someone PLEASE let me know, as book 7 is yet to finish, I won't be making assumptions

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aquarius-johnny · 21 hours ago

Text

Promise? Promise. | Jeong Jaehyun

genre: smut | word count: 3.9k | deadly sins series | master list navi warnings: nonidol!jaehyun, tatted!reader, afab!reader, pet names (baby, my girl), needy jaehyun, use of sex toys, phone sex, sharing explicit photos, video sex, smut, a little fluffy summary: jaehyun so desperately wants you, only to remember you’re far away from him, so he settles for some long distance phone sex. | deadly sin: lust a/n: part of the deadly sins series. part two will be up in a few days. cr. border by @dollywons, seven deadly sins prompts by @joelsmochi

⌞ pinterest board ⌝ ≫ concept photos

Never in your wildest dreams, you’d be sending suggestive photos of yourself to a man you’ve never met, in person at least, that lives on the opposite side of the world from you. Everything that you’re doing goes against your best judgement, but you did not care.

You tilt your head to the right, then the left, then the right again while analyzing the lingerie set you bought earlier that day. Eyes scanning the way the lace perfectly lays against your skin, the color complimenting your undertone, and how the cut flatters your body oh so well before turning to the side, slightly twisting your body to admire your ass. You give yourself an approving nod, taking pride in the set you chose yourself.

Your text tone pulls you out of your thoughts and a smile pulls your lips after seeing who it’s from.

jaehyun: i missed you today jaehyun: think we can talk tonight?

Your thumb hovers over your phone’s keyboard, thinking about what you should reply. Thinking on your feet, you snap a quick picture posing suggestively for the shot — you angle your mirror to face your bed, positioning yourself in view of your reflection. Your knees slightly part against your mattress and you lean forward a bit, ensuring your phone covers your face as you take a couple of photos. You reopen your messaging app, sending the best photo you took.

you: sure, feel free to call me when you can

Within seconds, you receive a new text.

jaehyun: is that new? you: yeah, i bought it today. you: what do you think? jaehyun: i might need a few more angles to come up with a solid opinion jaehyun: one thing is for sure though jaehyun: i want you jaehyun: so fucking badly

You giggle at his multiple messages sent back to back. You quickly shoot a couple more photos, multiple shots in semi compromising positions you remember Jaehyun saying he really enjoyed. Feeling confident in yourself, you choose your best photos once more, sending four more photos for him to add to his spank bank.

you: i really like it you: i think it’s very pretty jaehyun: i need to call you jaehyun: now jaehyun: please

Before you could reply, your phone screen lights up with Jaehyun’s contact information and cute little pouty photo he took and sent you when you took a little too long calling him one night.

“You’re a little impatient, aren’t you?” You giggle softly, hearing a door lock on his end of the line.

You feel him smile over the phone, his voice slightly echoing on his end. “I can’t help it.”

“Where are you?” You ask as you trace your finger against the waistband of your underwear. “Doesn’t sound like you’re home.”

“I’m not.” His voice lingers with a hint of urgency, his breathing slightly rattled and you hear the echoes of his belt buckle being undone. “I’m in a restroom. I have to be quick, my friends are waiting.”

“Hm, you’re gonna use me to get you off and then leave me?” Your bottom lip juts out, letting out a small whimper that always sends Jaehyun into a frenzy.

“No, of course not baby,” he breathes, “Those pictures, fuck, I — I promise to call you when I get home. I want to see you. I need to see you. But right now, I need to hear you, please.” His begging ignites something in the pit of your stomach, aroused by the breathy sounds he makes.

You slide your fingers under the fabric covering your core. “Promise?”

“I promise,” his voice low and raspy, before he inhales sharply. “Think you can touch yourself for me?”

You smile against your phone. “Already am,” you let out. “I’m really wet,” you softly giggle, tracing circles around your sweet nub.

A low groan escapes Jaehyun's lips. The sound of his hand slicking up and down his shaft is very prominent, the sound so enticing you let out a small moan.

“Should I stick a finger inside?” You wonder aloud, waiting patiently for his directions.

“Fuck,” Jaehyun growls, “please do.” He pumps his erection faster, aroused by the thoughts of your fingers dipping in and out of you.

“I wish they were yours,” you pout, your dainty fingers gently moving against your wet velvety walls.

“You have no idea how much I want that,” Jaehyun sighs, throwing his head back against the wall he’s pressed against. He twists his tip before returning to pumping himself. “Until then, fuck yourself with your fingers baby. Tell me how good it feels.” His voice is so low and raspy, you find it incredibly hot how needy and desperate he is to touch himself while thinking of you.

“It feels so good, Jaehyun.” You groan, penetrating your finger deeper inside of you. “I’m so wet and it’s so warm.”

“Fuck,” Jaehyun grunts. “Faster. Fuck yourself faster.”

His breathing turns rapid and you hear him sharply inhale. Your eyes shut, taking in the lewd noises you’re making that’s mixed with the sounds Jaehyun lets out every time his imagination gets the best of him. You do as he says, before opting out to rub circles on your clit knowing it’ll make you release faster.

“Jaehyun,” you whimper. “Harder.”

He takes his bottom lip between his teeth, biting back the groan he so desperately wants to let out. He loves the way you call out for him as you touch yourself. He does as you say, tightening his grip around his cock, pumping his hand all the way down to the base of his shaft as he imagines bottoming out inside of you.

You press down onto your clit, picking up the pace ever so slightly to reach your high. A string of breathy mumbles leave your lips, imagining how good Jaehyun would feel inside of you. Your walls begin to pulse and your back begins to arch. Your hand doesn’t falter and Jaehyun’s sounds help you chase ecstasy. As your pace increases, so does his. His pathetic whimpers are music to your ears.

“God, Jaehyun,” you gasp. “I’m gonna come!”

“Shit, me too,” he croaks.

A jolt of pleasure runs through your body; your thighs tremble and your toes curl. “I’m coming,” you cry out, rubbing yourself until you ride out your high.

Jaehyun doesn’t say a word, instead, you hear him groan and gasp into the phone. Strings of white ropes spurt out of his tip and onto his long fingers. Both your bodies go limp — you sink into your mattress and he leans into the restroom wall to hold him up.

“Damn,” he laughs, causing you to let out a giggle as well. “Hold on, I gotta clean myself up.”

He places his phone on the counter as he tears a bunch of toilet paper from its dispenser to wipe his release off his fingers and his tip. You hear a rush of water indicating hand washing on his end.

Soon enough, you’re greeted by Jaehyun once again. “You’re not going out tonight, right?” He asks you, unlocking the restroom door. A wave of chatter fills your phone, clearly telling you that he’s going back to his friends.

“That depends if you’re going to call me later,” you mumble, trying to steady your breathing.

Jaehyun chuckles and all you can imagine is his dimpled smile. “I made a promise, right?” He lets out, sharply inhaling.

“You did.”

“So I intend on keeping that promise.” Your heart swells with excitement, a small smile tugs the corners of your lips. “I’ll be home soon.”

You give him a tired hum before hearing his name get called by who you can assume are his friends. “When I call later, make sure you have those gifts I sent you, okay baby?”

Your heart flutters, excited to use the sex toys Jaehyun sent you a couple of weeks back. “Okay,” you happily mumble. “Don’t miss me too much.”

Jaehyun chuckles. “It’s really hard not to,” he smiles. “I’ll keep you updated.”

And Jaehyun did just that. For the next two hours or so, he texted you with a ton of updates. He even sent you pictures of him and his friends as they walked the streets, eating their favorite street foods and making you slightly envious.

jaehyun: i’m heading home now jaehyun: i’ll call you when i’m inside jaehyun: i hope you have didn’t change out of that set, i can’t wait to see it

You smile at your phone, sending a picture of your point of view as you sit on your bed, back against your headboard. In front of you, you see a small vibrator and a custom dildo — custom to the size and shape of Jaehyun’s cock. Your lace underwear peaks from the edge of the picture, your focus are your legs and feet; looking silky and soft as your overhead light accentuates the smooth texture of your skin.

A few minutes later, your phone rings — this time, Jaehyun requesting a video call.

“Hey,” you answer with a smile, Jaehyun already smiling at the sight of you.

“Hey,” he replies. “How was your day?”

The one thing you appreciate about Jaehyun is the fact that he never forgets to ask about your day. Sure, things between the two of you were sexually tense, but you find him to be one of the sweetest people you’ve been sexually involved with. It always feels like he truly cares about what you have to say, making you feel more like an actual friend to him and not simply someone to help him get off.

“Oh the usual — stressful day at work, so I decided to go shopping afterwards to make myself feel better.”

“Did it work?” Jaehyun chuckles. He places his phone against a water bottle in his room before taking his shirt off then proceeding to pick up the phone again. Pushing his hair back with his long fingers, he shakes his head and it falls back into place.

“Yeah,” you grin. “I think what I bought is pretty.”

“It is.” Jaehyun licks his lips, his eyes wandering from your eyes down to the lace holding your breasts perfectly in place. “A very pretty girl in very pretty lingerie.”

Your cheeks rush with heat, shyly smiling at his comment. “How was your day?” You ask, changing the subject quickly.

“Oh the usual —“ he teases you, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he smiles. “Work was brutal, back to back meetings make my brain turn into mush.” You give him a sympathetic pout as he speaks. “Wished I could’ve come home to you, but you’re so far away.”

Your brows lift in surprise. You move to lay on your stomach, phone propped in front of you, making sure to angle it in a perfect view of your ass for the man you’re talking to. “I’m sorry I’m so far away,” you sigh, resting your chin against the palm of your hand. “Wish I was there with you.”

A toothy smile creeps onto Jaehyun’s face as he hears your words. “Maybe one day?”

You eagerly nod, smiling like a teenager in love.

“Promise?”

“I promise,” you giggle at his neediness. “How was hanging out with your friends, by the way?”

“The same old stuff,” he shrugs. “They did wonder why I went to the restroom after looking at my phone.” His ears flush a crimson red, thinking back on the memory.

“What did you say?”

He lets out an embarrassed laugh. “I mean, I really wanted to tell them why, but I decided not to and just told them I needed to use the restroom.” Jaehyun sits at his work desk in his room, propping his phone on a stack of books ensuring you could see his body. “Not sure if they believed me, but that’s okay. I’ll let their imagination run wild.”

He leans into the backing of his rolling computer chair, looking relaxed in his position. He twisted his chair casually, your eyes catching his well defined body and how good he looked in those grey sweatpants he had on. He wasn’t doing much to excite you, in fact, he was just sitting there telling you about his day and you find the sight of it arousing.

“By the way,” he lets out, catching your attention. “You were absolutely amazing in the restroom earlier and those pictures, fuck — they look so good. I’d give anything to hear your moans in person.”

You blush at his compliments, biting down on your bottom lip before hiding your embarrassment. Jaehyun laughs at you, enjoying the sight of you crumbling at his words. He continues to twist his chair, letting out an amused laugh.

“Can I see what you’re wearing?” A smile never leaves his face, but you see him quickly squeeze his length through his sweatpants.

You sit on your knees, your screen filled with your body and that perfect little smile you had as you showed off your beautiful set.

“Turn around,” Jaehyun exhales, eyes locked in on your body.

You do as he says, showing him how nicely your underwear wraps around your ass cheeks. You bend over to give him a better view in hopes that he’ll think of you in this position as he jerks himself off.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath. He shifts in his seat, shamelessly squeezing his length a lot harder this time. “You have a tattoo?” He questions, pausing his movements and moving closer to his phone to get a better view.

You nod your head, pointing to the little text you have on your lower back.

“What does it say?” Jaehyun asks, eyes wide at the sight of your small tramp stamp.

The typewriter font tattoo in the middle of your lower back had been seen only by a handful of people and within those handful of people, only one of them was a partner who was also surprised at the sight of it. Jaehyun would be the second partner to see this tattoo. “It says, unforgettable.” You share, slightly embarrassed at the spur of the moment tattoo you decided to get a few years back.

“Wow,” Jaehyun lets out, giving you a smirk. “That’s so hot. Any other tattoos you have?”

You fall back onto your stomach, looking at your propped up phone screen that’s leaning on a bunch of pillows stacked on each other.

“Yeah, I have one on my inner lip.”

Confused for a second, Jaehyun opens his mouth to speak only for you to pull down your bottom lip, showing him the small text against the inside flesh of your bottom lip reading ‘kiss me.’

“Woah,” he breathily lets out. “And here I thought you couldn’t get any hotter. When did you get that?”

“Like a year ago?”

“I met you a year ago, why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never asked,” you laugh at him as he has a stupidly cute grin on his face.

“Can you turn around again? I wanna see your back tattoo.”

You do as he asks, this time moving a little closer to the camera. You sit on your knees, slightly twisting your body to see him admiring your body before a notification of a screenshot pops up on your screen. And another one. And another one. He massages his cock through his pants as he imagines how intoxicating it would be to see you in person.

“Jaehyun,” you whine, going back to the position you were in earlier. “You’ve been playing with yourself this whole time and haven’t even shown me it. I didn’t even get a picture in the restroom earlier,” you pout.

“Oh,” he chuckles, smiling at your whines. “I’m so sorry, baby, I forgot to show you what you did to me. Want me to show you, now?”

You nod your head, excited.

“Anything for my pretty girl,” he coos, pulling his sweats down to his knees before sitting back down. His cock springs up, hitting against his abs and you eye his tip ending right above his belly button.

“So,” you smile. “In hopes of seeing you one day,” you sigh happily, grabbing the dildo beside you and placing it between you and the camera. “I’ve been practicing giving head with this beautiful thing.”

“Yeah?” Jaehyun croaks. “C-Can you show me?” He mumbles as he strokes his long length, already hard from the sight of you.

You nod, holding your custom dildo at the base with your hand. Your dainty fingers slowly begin to delicately caress its shaft before you let a pool of spit from your lips fall onto the tip of the silicone toy, using your hand to spread your saliva. Jaehyun spits in his hand before following your actions, spreading the saliva against his own shaft. His eyes never leave the sight of you.

He watches as your lips slowly part upon contact with the tip of your toy. Your head bobs up and down the silicone shaft, your hand spreading the wetness. All Jaehyun could do was watch and imagine — imagine your lips were kissing his reddened tip and your hands moving up and down, sending chills through his body. All he could do was imagine his fingers buried into your hair, guiding you as he bucks his hips up, forcing himself down your throat inch by inch. Sloppy noises heard on your end earns you a low groan from Jaehyun, his free hand running through the root of his hair, his eyes softening at the sight of you and imagining you were there with him. He silently thanked himself for getting you a replica of his own cock so you could use it during occasions like this.

“Put it in.” He sharply intakes a breath.

Using the back of your hand to wipe the drool off your lips, you begin to back up from the camera. You push the thin laced fabric aside, exposing your aroused hole.

“Take it off,” Jaehyun commands, slowly pumping his rigid length, veins popping out angrily. “I wanna see that pretty pussy.”

His explicit words cause a flush against your skin, exciting your core. You begin to remove your underwear, flicking it aside as it reaches your ankle. You plant your feet against your mattress, thighs wide open as you show your soaking heat to the camera.

Jaehyun’s jaw drops, his hair a disheveled mess with strands stuck against his glistening forehead. “So fucking pretty,” he mumbles. His hand twists against his cock, squeezing and stroking his hardened length, slowly.

Grabbing your dildo, you press the silicone tip against your clit before pressing it into you, slowly at first forcing out a satisfied groan from your lips. You begin to bury the toy into your soaking cunt, biting down on your bottom lip, enjoying how your toy filled you up perfectly.

Jaehyun’s left speechless, enjoying the sight in front of him. He tightens the grip around his length, matching your pace with his.

Your dildo slides into you ease, watching you fuck yourself through the mirror angled perfectly towards your bed. With your free hand, you grab your tiny vibrator, and place it against your sensitive nub. Jolts of pleasure run through your body and for a quick moment, you forget Jaehyun is watching you. His eyes glued to his phone screen, watching you hungrily, intimately, desperately.

“I wanna be inside of you,” he begs. “Fuck!”

You smirk at his words. You pump the dildo inside of you, your soft walls swallowing it whole. Your moans gradually get louder, your breathing gets heavier, and sweat beads begin to form against your forehead.

You sit on your knees, your pussy still clenching your dildo as it pushes it deeper as you change your position. Holding it at the base, you ride it while it stays in place during your movements. You place your vibrator against your clit once more.

“God, Jaehyun, I wish I could ride you,” you whine. Your hips move against your silicone toy while steady vibrations stimulate your pretty little bud, sending nothing but pleasure throughout your body.

Jaehyun watches your hips grind, a hint of jealousy from a toy. A frustrated growl escapes and he bucks his hips into his hand, imagining he was bucking it into you as you ride him.

“Faster,” you mutter, frantically grinding your hips. “I want you to come with me.”

Jaehyun’s lips part slightly before his jaw falls open. Clenching his throbbing cock, he roughly jerks himself letting his imagination run rampant with thoughts of you and only you.

“Fuck, Jaehyun!” You cry out, a feverish tingle runs through your entire body. “I-I’m com-ing!” Your voice hitches as you gasp in pleasure.

Jaehyun releases as you call out his name. His velvety white ropes splatter against his abdomen and a liquid mess leaks from his tip onto his fingers. His face flushes a bright pink, clearly exhausted by his movements. He lets out an amused laugh, carefully wiping away his release with the tissues he had on his desk. His forehead glistens with sweat and his hair clings onto his skin before he pushes his hair back right before pulling his sweatpants up.

You slowly pull your dildo out of you, putting it aside to clean off for next time. Grabbing your underwear, you slide them back on. “Was that okay?” You ask Jaehyun who is illuminated by his computer screen. He frantically types something, eyes scanning the words in front of him.

“It was perfect.” He smiles at your words, quickly peaking at you before returning to what he was doing.

“What’re you doing?” You ask, curiously, throwing your blanket over you.

“I’m looking for flights,” he quickly responds, his fingers aggressively tapping the keys on his computer’s keyboard.

“Flights?” Grabbing your phone, you rest your head on your pillow. “Where are you planning on going?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he smirks. “I’m looking for a flight to get your ass here.”

You laugh at his words. “You’re ridiculous,” you let out, pulling the blanket higher up your body.

“There’s a flight next month. Send me a picture of your information, I’ll book it for you.”

“Wait, woah, hold on.” You nervously chuckle. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah?”

“Jaehyun, baby, I can’t just leave — not next month, anyway.”

He pauses, eyes back on his computer screen. He taps and clicks away. “Hm, there’s a flight 3 months from now. Is that enough time to get everything sorted out?”

“You’re dead serious?” You ask, flustered at the thought of seeing him in person.

“I’ve got everything covered for when you get here,” he smiles. “3 weeks, tops.”

You sit up in bed, your blanket sliding down your skin as you’re in deep thought.

“I want to see you,” Jaehyun looks at you through the phone screen, his eyes soft and full of hope that you’ll agree.

“This is a very expensive booty call,” you lightly chuckle.

Jaehyun gives you an exaggerated pout. “C’mon, you know it’s not like that. We’ve been talking for over a year. Don’t you think we owe this to ourselves and finally meet in person?” He pauses, scanning your reaction. “Please? I just wanna see my girl.”

Your heart swells with happiness as you hear your nickname that he’s given you.

“Fine, I’ll send you my info,” you sigh in defeat, although your smile indicates a tinge of excitement. “After all,” you pause. “I did make a promise.”

#j*#deadly sins series #jeong jaehyun #nct jaehyun #nct jaehyun smut #jh:smut

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