#Also I’m so sorry that it took forever to answer this ask

[vbecker10]

For either Loki or Bucky… dating someone who uses edible glitter in food just because. They love glitter anyway, but sparkly food just brings an extra spark of joy.

For the record, I’m talking about the mica based glitter, not the plastic stuff. Makes the food sparkly, does no harm to your digestive system. Also tasteless and has no texture.

Scared of a Little Glitter?

Pairing: Bucky x female reader (Y/N) new relationship

Summary: Bucky spends the night at your apartment for the first time and he learns you have a very interesting food habit when he offers to make you coffee in the morning.

A/N: This is so adorable @firedrakegirl ! Lol I absolutely love this request. Thanks so much for sending it. I hope you like it! Sorry it took me literally forever to get back to writing it. Thanks for waiting! 💚

You open your eyes slowly when you feel a soft kiss on your cheek. "Good morning doll," Bucky says quietly, you can hear the smile in his deep voice. His metal arm is wrapped around your waist, keeping your back flush to his bare chest as your legs tangle with his under the covers.

"Good morning handsome," you smile sleepily, turning your head far enough to kiss his lips lightly without slipping from his comfortable grasp.

"Want some coffee?" he asks.

"Yes please," yawning as you nod and cover his metal arm with yours, your fingers intertwine with his.

"I'll need you to let go," he whispers in your ear. You pout and he chuckles in response as you let go of his hand. "It'll only take a few minutes," he kisses your shoulder from behind then pulls off the covers and gets out of your bed.

You roll over resting your chin on your palm as you watch him bend to pick up his jeans from the floor and slip them back on. "Enjoying the view?" he smirks when he looks up and makes eye contact with you.

You giggle, shaking your head, "Nope."

He laughs and walks to the edge of the bed, leaning down to kiss your lips when you look up at him. "Liar," Bucky winks at you, pulling his lips away from yours much too quickly for your liking.

"Y/N, can you come here?" Bucky calls from the kitchen moments later.

You get up from bed quickly, concerned by his tone of voice. Throwing on Bucky's discarded shirt and a pair of shorts you leave your room and call back, "Everything okay?"

He waits until you enter the kitchen to respond which only makes you more curious. "I think your milk went bad," he sounds unsure of himself as he holds the container as far away as possible in his metal hand. "It's green," he shakes the milk slightly and the colors swirl together. "And blue?"

You laugh, "There's nothing wrong with it. I added glitter to it."

"Glitter?" he keeps his eyes on the container as the glitter slowly settles to the bottom and the liquid becomes white again.

"Yep," you confirm with a nod.

"Why?" your very confused boyfriend asks as you take the milk from him and unscrew the cap.

"Cause it's pretty," you answer, "Obviously."

"Okay sure but now we can't drink it," Bucky says as he watches you pour it into your mug. "Wait, Y/N-" he cringes.

"It's totally fine," you tell him with a smile. "It's not the same type of plastic glitter Tony uses in his pranks."

"It's not?" the super soldier furrows his brow as you add a bit of sugar and mix your coffee. You pour a little milk into his mug and he groans quietly.

"Nope, this is made for food," you explain. "It just makes it sparkly and fun." You pick up his mug and hand it to him.

He looks down into the mug, watching the glitter swirl around the coffee. "I'll take your word for it," he puts the mug down on the counter.

"Oh come on, give it a try," you blow on your coffee lightly then take a sip. "I promise you can't taste it and it doesn't have a weird texture or anything."

"I'll pass," he shakes his head.

"Scared of a little glitter?" you giggle.

"I'm not scared, I just don't want to drink it," Bucky says.

"Mmhmm," you hum as you walk past him to put the milk away and grab the ingredients to make breakfast.

"I'm not scared," he insists, folding his arms across his chest.

"I believe you," you say with a smirk, closing the door to the fridge. "Can you make some toast? Breads over there," you point towards the bread next to your toaster.

"Sure," he nods, thankful you've dropped the glitter topic.

Setting the eggs next to the stove you ask him, "Scrambled or omelet?"

"Scrambled please," he kisses your cheek after he loads the four slices into the toaster.

"Coming up," you grab a pan and a bowl. Bucky stands behind you, his arms around your waist as he rests his chin on your shoulder. After cracking a few eggs into the bowl you ask him, "Red or purple?"

"What?" he lifts his chin.

"Red or purple?" you ask again without any further explanation.

"Red?" he responds and you giggle at how unsure he sounds as you open the cabinet next to you and pull out the red mica glitter. "No," he groans but it's too late.

"What?" you play innocent as you whisk the eggs.

"Glitter again?" Bucky sighs deeply.

You take another sip of your coffee and hold it up for him, "You can't taste it. Give it a try."

"I'd rather not," Bucky mumbles.

You laugh, "You remind me of the grumpy guy from green eggs and ham."

"I have no idea what that means," he says, "But green eggs sound gross."

"That's what the guy in the book said," you smile as you add the red, glittered eggs to the pan. "But he never tried them, he just decided he hated them cause they were green."

"That's a fair reason," Bucky chuckles.

"Anyway..." you roll your eyes, "His friend keeps trying to get him to eat it and when he finally does-"

"He dies," he laughs louder and you swat him with the towel you keep on your stove handle.

"No!" you scold him, trying to keep from laughing. "He realizes they are delicious."

"That was my next guess," he smiles and kisses your cheek.

"I'm sure it was," you say sarcastically as you continue to cook the sparkly red eggs. He watches over your shoulder and you look up, kissing his neck. "Bucky, trust me. You won't even notice the glitter."

"Okay," he finally agrees and you smile as the toast pops. "I'll grab plates. You want butter for your toast?"

"Yep, thanks," you smile to yourself knowing you rolled the stick of butter in pink glitter a few days ago.

Bucky laughs in disbelief from behind you, "Really? Even the butter?"

"I couldn't help it," you tell him honestly when he comes back with two plates. One plate has toast with pink, melted butter and the other has plain toast. "No butter for you handsome?"

He raises an eyebrow at you to answer your question and you giggle then put half the eggs on each plate. Bucky sits next to you at the dining table, staring at his food in silence as he pushes the eggs around with his fork. You wait patiently as he finally scoops the smallest bit possible onto his fork and holds it up to his mouth. He looks over at you and you smile to encourage him.

"The things I do for you," Bucky says dramatically just before taking a bite.

You drink your coffee and he looks at you with a bit of a shocked expression. You smirk, "Can't even tell there's glitter in it can you?"

"You're so annoying," you shake your head and eat your eggs.

"No," he admits.

He pulls your chair closer to him, "You love me."

"I know," you smile and kiss his cheek as he steals a piece of your pink buttered toast, "But you're still annoying."

I hope you liked this!! Please like, share and comment if you did ❤️❤️ Please let me know if you want to be added to my taglist!

@soubi001 @lokiswife-dark-fox-queen @animnerd @cabingrlandrandomcrap @icytrickster17 @mjsthrillernp @holdmytesseract @lulubelle814 @alexakeyloveloki @siconetribal @ash-muses @loz-3 @firedrakegirl @wolfsmom1 @sabspoetic @peaches1958 @catsladen @michellewgrt @crimson25 @jaidenhawke @mochie85 @itscomplicatedx @motherofmischief

[chaosduckies]

thoughts on wlw g/t?

I have no problems with w|w g/t! I have read a few fics and all that, but if I’m being honest I do prefer m|m g/t over it. Again theres nothing wrong with w|w at all! I just don’t like it as much as what I’ve been writing :)

Thank you for the ask anon! :D

[gatheryepens]

Your gap year diaries + baking are so awesome to see! I am glad you're having fun and utilising this gap year fully <333

Aaah I’m really glad you are liking my bread/cooking rambles hehe!! This year I’m trying to do lots of different stuff, go out of my comfort zone and relax. More fun stuff to come hopefully ;)

[sleepyjuice]

toxic!rafe will blow your phone up the second you post something on instagram that he’s ‘iffy’ about.

you posted a photo dump which consisted of some random photos of the beach, some of your friends, one of you and rafe of course, but the one that had rafe seeing red was the last slide, which was you in a bikini. he texted you several times at first, and while you were literally typing your response, he called you. your fingers were typing so fast to respond to him that you accidentally declined the call, and he did not like that. you immediately went to call him back, but another text from rafe rolled in, saying ‘fuck you don’t talk to me we’re done’ you sighed loudly, knowing damn well he was talking out of his ass right now, so you sat back and waited for the inevitable next string of texts to roll in. which they did, only seconds later.

rafe <3: do you get off on making me mad or something

rafe <3: like i’m racking my brain trying to understand why you do the things you do and that’s all i can come up with

rafe <3: and i see at least 4 guys have already liked your post like that’s crazy to me?? thought i told you to block all the guys that followed you?? of course you didn’t

rafe <3: also who even took that pic of you??? bc i know damn well it wasn’t me so who the fuck you posing for with your fucking ass and tits out? WHAT THE FUCK

rafe <3: DO NOT PUT YOUR SHIT ON DO NOT DISTURB answer me rn.

rafe <3: nah it’s cool actually i’m gonna go hit up my other gfs so you have a good night.

you rolled your eyes at that last text, deciding to fully turn your phone off. you knew he would likely try to text or call you again very soon but you didn’t want to deal with it right now. this wasn’t your first rodeo, you knew nothing you could say to him right now would calm him down, so letting him freak out on his own was the best method to his madness.

three hours had passed since you turned your phone off. you had caught up on some reading and turned on your current favorite show, but found yourself interrupted by a knock at your front door. you expected it to be rafe, but instead it was a large bouquet of your favorite flowers and a gift bag. you glanced around to see if rafe was lurking around, but saw nothing. when he freaked out over text and was able to reread his actions, he usually waited a bit longer to show his face as opposed to a verbal argument.

you brought the flowers inside and set them on the counter before grabbing the card attached to the side of the bouquet.

sorry we argued. you are so beautiful and i love you so much. got you a little gift and sent you some money for food and i set your appointment with your nail girl for tomorrow at 10. love you forever baby -rafe

you couldn’t help but smile just a little. the flowers were beautiful and the note was pretty sweet, so you chose to ignore the part where he said ‘we argued.’ you didn’t get a word in, but you let it slide. especially after you opened the gift bag to see the new dior bag you had been wanting.

you hurried to turn on your phone, immediately seeing a $500 apple payment from rafe as well as a new text from a few minutes ago.

rafe <3: hope you like the flowers and bag baby. love you! :)

you: i love them. thanks rafe, love you too

rafe <3: good to hear. lmk what you end up getting for dinner and i’ll pick you up tomorrow to take you to your nail apt. can’t wait to see you baby

you would order yourself dinner that was obviously way less than $500, but you would send rafe a picture and thank him again. you’d facetime him before bed and conversation flowed like nothing had even happened just hours before. he’d ask you what color nails you were getting, tell you funny stories about the old men at the country club and excitedly plan what you two were going to do the next day. the cycle seemed like it would never end, but you often forgot about the bad when he was talking so sweetly to you and all you could think about was how excited you were to see him tomorrow.

[mwahbabe]

on my knees begging for dealer! ellie! 💋

being your dealers favourite <3

pairing: ellie williams x fem reader

mdni, smut, car sex, fingering(r!recieving, drug use(e!&r!), squirting, fluff, fwb to something.

a/n: aaahhh i’m sorry this took forever omg not very demure not very mindful at all but boy oh boy do i love me some dealer ellie 🫦

ellie is not the type to give handouts or “hook people up” she’s hard up for money and if you don’t have it, there’s the door. no exceptions. period.

except…. she is. for you anyway. she can’t even remember how much you owe her now. always giving in to your excuses. falling for your stupid puppy dog eyes and that pout you gave her.

“ellss can i come over?” ┃

els🔌┃“you still owe you know.”

“pleaseeee? i’m broke and having a hard week :(“┃

els🔌┃“when are you not having a hard week ?”

“how do you think I feel??.” ┃

els🔌┃“i’m home. don’t keep me waiting.”

she had tried to be strong. she really had. but when she first saw you she became all awkward and nervous seeing a pretty girl show up at her asking for weed. the more you came over the sweeter she became on you. letting you share her blunt and not asking for money, to meeting you wherever to give you what you asked for.

it was annoying how everytime she saw your notification pop up on her phone she answered straight away, even if she knew you had no money to give her, how when she knew you were coming she would straighten out her dirty apartment and try to make it somewhat clean and when meeting you somewhere would try and make herself a bit more presentable and clean the trash out of her car. not that you minded in the slightest. her gaze always wandering to your exposed cleavage or your exposed thighs in those little shorts while you were yapping about whatever while stoned on her couch.

she would always tell herself, no more. she has to pay this time. and always end up giving it to you every. single. time. and then one night you had hooked up. you were at hers getting your usual handout and spending a little more time with her because you actually enjoyed her company. she enjoyed yours too, you were actually fun to be around and good company. you stayed over at hers, ellie let you sleep in her bed, must have been the weed or how you looked that night because ellie ended up knuckles deep in you whispering praise in your ear as her thumb rubbed your clit. “yeah.. that’s it baby… there ya go.. cum on my fingers baby.” you two never brought it up again, only brushing it off as a casual thing and you two were inebriated so it didn’t mean anything. not like ellie didn’t think about it every night and touch her clit and finger fuck herself thinking about your moans and taste. she tried so hard to be firm on you but she just couldn’t. not after that.

also that one night you texted her at 3am.

“elss? are you holding?i’m on my period and i’m broke and in pain i just wanna get high:(”┃

els🔌┃ “aww you poor thing.”

“plsss??:((“┃

ellliieeee????┃

els🔌┃“i’m on my way princess. say thankyou.”

“thankyou so much els ur the best<33”┃

she never drops off unless the price is right. but you’re the exception. and when she showed up to your house not only with the weed but with some snacks and chocolate for you, claiming it was for when you get the “munchies” but really she knew how being on your period sucked and especially while sober, she would lying to herself if she said she wouldn’t have given it to you anyway. she practically invited herself in and insists on keeping you company and rolling a joint for the two of you, trying to act as if it was so you wouldn’t have all the weed to yourself. which was bullshit. she couldn’t stand the thought of you lonely and in pain during that awful time of month. hell. she hated it too.

that night she had grabbed some blankets and cushions and laid the weed and snacks she brought out making sure you were comfy and made you hot tea and put on a movie you both liked and let you cuddle up to her after you both passed the joint back and forth, she had stayed over and rubbed your back until you fell asleep in her arms when the weed had done it’s job.

she was weak for you. you had her. and you both knew it. after a few days on cue came your text.

“hiiii <3 can i come thru?”┃

els🔌┃“i’m out rn. i’ll pick you up.”

“kay <3” ┃

you put your slippers on and threw on a jacket, waiting around until not even five minutes later her “here.” text made you jump up and head outside, sure enough her car was parked on the road with the headlights on. you walk over to her car the butterflies in your tummy getting more intense the closer you got. as soon as you open the passenger door the smell of weed hits you as well as the musky but clean scent of ellies cologne. a smell you had grown to love. “heyy.” you smiled as you hopped in after ellie had been frantically cleaning off the junk off the seat.

“hey princess. sorry bout the mess. hop in.” “ellie you know i don’t care. my car is worse.” you giggle as you shut the door.

ellie chuckled and started the car then pulled off the curb onto the road, her tatted arm on the steering wheel while her other arm was rested on her knee, the tattoo visible with her hoodie sleeve rolled up slightly as she gripped the steering wheel. you couldn’t not stare. you both chatted as she drove down the quiet road, barely any cars as it was past 3am. you loved night drives with her, mainly because you knew it always ended in hotboxing her car but she was just genuinely good company and made you laugh. and wet.

ellie parked up in an empty lot and pulled out a pre-rolled joint out of her pocket holding it out to you. “wanna do the honours?” “you’re so sweet.” you half teased and pulled out your lighter and lit the blunt inhaling it into your lungs and then exhaling, you had gotten good at not coughing.

ellie watched you, her eyes darkening as she watched how your lips wrapped around the joint and how your head leaned back as the cloud of smoke floated above your head as you blew it out. “show off.” ellies voice was slightly hoarse as her shaky had took the blunt off you and inhaled it herself.

“or maybe i’m just better at it.” you retorted, earning a scoff from ellie as she exhaled. “you wish.”

──────────────────────

as you were both chatting back and forth, it didn’t last long before ellie’s hand found it’s way into your panties, at first you just giggled and kept talking, until her fingers circled your clit and your words were cut off, “els..?”

“what? just playing with my favourite customer, that okay with you baby?” your breath catches in your throat and you quickly nod. a little embarrassed how fast you gave in. “yeah..” you lean back against the car seat spreading your legs further, ellie watches both you and her fingers as she circled your clit gathering your wetness. “fuck ellie…” you groan as she rubs you with the perfect amount of pressure and speed. wet noises filled the car, you were already wet from the weed, her voice and being in such close proximity with her but now you couldn’t stop leaking all over her fingers. your voice breathy and needy. “that feel good baby?” she cooed as she went faster, you nodded quickly in response, “need more els.. please.” you whine, the stimulation good but not enough “let’s get these off huh? wanna see you sweet girl.” you didn’t hesitate and rose your hips up sliding your shorts and panties off kicking them aside not giving it a second thought, ellie exhaled as you spread your legs on the seat “atta girl.”

you whimpered. “i got you baby.” she entered two fingers into you, knowing from your previous encounter you could handle it, especially with how soaked you were, a strained groan escaping her at your sounds. ellie’s eyes glanced between your face and her fingers as she slid them in and out of your slick pussy. “such a pretty fuckin pussy..” ellie murmured, you looked at her, your eyes pouty and unfocused, both from the weed and ellie’s ministrations. ellie melted and immediately leaned in to kiss you. her free hand tangled up in your hair as she tilted her head to the side allowing you to deepen the kiss, sliding her tongue into your mouth, the car was filled with filthy wet sounds and little groans and whimpers from the two of you. rain tapping on the roof of the car and windows as the heavy breathing from you and ellie fogged up the car windows.

ellie pulled away to kiss down your neck, rough and messily leaving dark marks on all over you, your hands were all over her in return, gripping the fabric of her hoodie, smelling the musky but sweet scent she carried. “god ellie..” you whispered, ellie didn’t skip a beat even as she focused on marking you up. her hand still working between your legs, drawing the cutest moans from you. “so fuckin wet… gonna leave a mess on my seat princess.”

she curled her fingers hitting the perfect spot, your back arched and higher pitched moans came from you, ellie’s palm hit your clit as she sped up, now with a purpose to make you all over her fingers. “taking my fingers so good princess… so perfect.” you couldn’t talk now, your hands gripping her shoulder as you clenched around her fingers. “ellie…ellie!”

“yeah yeah baby i know i know. c’mon princess cum on my fingers.”

you squirmed in the seat as your pussy clenched hard around ellie’s fingers as she continued to fuck you through your orgasm, fluid squirting from you each time her fingers moved out of you, spilling all over her car seat your cries and loud groans were music to her ears, you could barely hear her praising and talking you through it, not letting up until she got it all out of you. as your moans died down she slowed until pulling her soaked fingers from you. “atta girl.. shit. you made a fuckin mess huh?” she flicked some of your fluids off and sucked your mess off her fingers, your heart jumping at the sight.

you glanced down at yourself, seeing that little puddle you left on her car seat, immediately covering your face. “fuck you.” ellie laughed, patting your thigh. “hey, don’t be embarrassed. that was fuckin hot.” you uncovered your face and gave a small laugh glancing back at her. both of you seeing the state of each other. “holy shit..” you expressed, fixing yourself and reaching for your shorts and pulling them on, ellie watched with amusement. “yeah.. you good babe?”

you nodded, “way better than.” ellie chuckled and glanced out the window tapping the seat under her before looking back at you starting the engine again. “you wanna grab something to eat?” “aw you’re so sweet, i thought you were supposed to buy me dinner before fucking me?” you teased, pulling you belt on. “ah shit. you’re right. i did this wrong.” ellie said, scoffing. “don’t worry. i’ll do it right next time.” ellie chuckled pulling off the curb.

you rolled your eyes half heartedly but your heart skipped a beat at her words. “next time?” ellie glanced at you as she drove. “yeah.. if you wanna keep doing this.” you smiled, admiring her side profile and her relaxed expression. “yeah of course.” ellie’s hand came to rest on your thigh. “good.”

the rest of the night you two grab food and park up in her car and smoke some more, then go back to hers and snuggle and watch stupid movies stoned and fall asleep together on her couch.

[cressidagrey]

Such A Mystery - Part 9

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Colette Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen fell in love at the ripe old age of 12 and never looked back.

Colette Leclerc really regrets posting that particular Taylor Swift Lyric to her private Instagram account, because it made George Russell go insane.  

The rest of the world has absolutely no idea that the Dutch Lion and Charles Leclerc’s twin sister have been a couple for 15 years and are expecting a baby. 

Warnings: 

Pregnancy, Mention of multiple miscarriages, Pregnancy complications, George Russell Bashing (he's probably really nice in real life but in this, he's the bad guy, sorry), Jos Verstappen, We have apparently now reached the time where I also bash Ferrari. I am sure they are super nice in real life too. They are not in this.

Author Notes: Huge thanks to @llirawolf for holding my hand through this. Chapter 8 of...who knows.

It felt like forever. He knew it wasn't. It must have been minutes until the car door was ripped open and Charles slipped in right next to him.

It wasn’t until the doors were slammed shut behind Charles that Max dared to look at the Monégasque.

His heart skipped a beat at the sight. Charles was still in his racing suit just as him, the suit itself streaked with sweat.

The moment the car door closed, the car started riving.

"Merde," Charles cursed. Max could only agree. "I am sorry, that it took this long."

Max gave a sharp, jerky shake of his head. "You don’t have to apologize," he somehow managed to get the words out. "I’m just..." he trailed off, a shaky exhale escaping him. "How could you make it here so fast?" he asked, casting a quick glance in his friend’s direction.

Charles snorted. "Your press officer had a shouting match with Ferrari's,“ he said simply.

If Max wasn’t so focused on not completely losing it, he might’ve been amused with the mental image. But at the moment, he could only shake his head.

Next to him, Charles let out a sigh. "Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

"No. You?" he gave back.

"I don't have a bad feeling," Charles said quietly. “Not worse than it has been for days at least.”

Twin Telepathy was apparently a thing as far as Charles and Colette were concerned. 

Quite frankly, till this day, it still weirded Max out. They just seemed to know when the other one wasn't feeling well. 95% of the time, they got sick at the same time. They communicated more easily with each other than with anyone else, and regardless of what game they played...they needed to be put on opposite teams, because otherwise nobody had a chance against them.

Max was well aware of Colette and Charles' strange connection. Even if he didn’t fully understand it. They both had some sort of sixth sense when it came to the other one, and it sometimes felt like they were talking in secret code.

"What’s it telling you right now?" he asked, his voice barely above a rough whisper.

Charles turned to him fully at that, and Max saw the way his eyes swept over him, taking in every aspect of his appearance.

Max could only imagine what Charles was seeing. He felt like a walking wreck, and there was no doubt his appearance was mirroring that.

"Colette is in pain," Charles finally said, his voice strangely quiet. "She’s scared."

That answer felt like somebody shoved a knife into Max’s stomach. He inhaled sharply, the breath catching in his throat. “Of course, she is,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Charles seemed to sense what he was thinking, even without being telepathically connected through whatever the hell Colette and him had going on. The Monégasque reached out and took a firmer hold of his hand, the grip almost crushing.

"Don’t," Charles said firmly, his voice leaving no room for arguments. "Don’t go there. We’re gonna get to her as fast as we can."

There was a brief moment of silence, as Max tried to collect himself. He focused all his attention on the pressure of Charles' hand on his, and somehow, it actually helped.

"I feel so goddamn useless," he finally admitted, his voice rough with emotion. "I want to be with her."

"You want to try calling her before we are in the air?" Charles suggested.

That was not a bad idea, not at all. Max let out a low and slightly shaky exhale, swallowing hard. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, I…” he had to stop and clear his throat. “Yeah, I’ll try to call her.”

His hands were shaking when he pulled out his phone out of the backpack that somebody had handed off to him, already packed. Regardless of all the drama that had gone on in the RedBull garage during the year… if it really mattered, the people in there pulled off minor miracles.

Within minutes, his entire day - hell, his entire week - had been packed for him, with all the essentials of clothes and everything else he would need.

He had almost forgotten about the phone in his shaking hands, but now he just stared at the screen for a moment. His fingers were trembling so badly that just unlocking the phone was a challenge in itself.

Jimmy and Sassy were on his lockscreen...a picture that Colette had once sent him when he had been away for one of his races...the two of them laying on top of her on their couch...

Every other time Max saw the photo, it made his heart do a little funny jump. Now though, it made his chest ache. It felt like a sharp stabbing pain, and for a moment, he just sat there and stared at the picture.

Then he called her.

It rang. And it rang, and it rang again. With each passing second, that horrible knot in his stomach tightened a little more. With every ring of the bell, it got harder to breathe.

Finally, to Max’s immense and enormous relief, the line connected.

"Hey, Maxie. I put you on speaker," Victoria's voice came over the phone, sounding surprisingly calm.

A shiver of something resembling dread ran through Max, at the sound of Victoria’s voice. But he pushed past the feeling.

His thoughts were once again running wild - was it a bad sign that Colette wasn’t the one speaking to him? Or was he just overreacting..?

“Hey,” he forced the word out past the lump in his throat. "How are you feeling?" he asked, pleading for Colette's voice. Was it selfish that he just wanted to hear her tell him that everything was going to be okay?

"Better now," Colette's voice came, sounding slightly hoarse.

The words were like a shot of adrenaline, and for a moment, Max actually felt a little lightheaded. “Liefje.” He closed his eyes, just hearing her voice sending another wave of relief through him. “Are you okay? How is Bébé?”

"Bébé has decided that they would rather be born today, so I would suggest you hurry up," Victoria said drily.

"Seems like the kid already inherited Max's need for speed," Charles quipped. "How are you doing, Coco?"

"I'm good," Colette's voice replied, and Max could only imagine the eye-roll that was currently happening. He knew his girlfriend, and he had no doubt that she had been glaring at Victoria ever since the phone was put on speaker.

"Where are you?" she asked, her voice suddenly turning much softer. "You're coming, right?"

"Coming," he assured her, his heart aching. "We're coming, I promise."

"I know. I’m not worried." She sounded like she meant it, but Max could easily imagine the anxiety in her eyes.

"You'd better not worry," Charles said, and then added, "I’m keeping him from doing anything dumb."

Max shot Charles a dirty look at that, bt he swallowed down the annoyed protest and focused back on Colette instead. “Just…hold on a little longer, okay?”

"It's not like I can go anywhere else," Colette replied, her voice slightly amused. "I’ll keep our little speed demon in there a little lo...." She broke off and let out a quiet hiss of pain, her voice once again cut off by what Max suspected to be a particularly painful contraction.

“Colette,” he said sharply, all kinds of emotions washing over him, one by one. “Liefje, just…just breathe through it, okay?”

There was a second of panting, then, he heard her take a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” she finally said. “Just…hurts like hell.”

He swallowed and clenched his free hand tightly into a fist, fighting against the urge to just jump out of the car and start running towards the airport.

Colette being in pain was not something he could deal with.

He heard her take a few more deep breaths, and he just sat there, waiting and listening and feeling absolutely useless.

"How long until you get here?" she asked after a moment, her voice breathless. He could see her in his mind, his sweet girl, sitting on the bed and clutching her belly as another contraction hit her.

"We're not even at the airport yet," he told her, and damn it, why were his eyes suddenly burning. "We’ll get there as soon as we can, okay? Just...hold on a little longer."

"What your dad said..." Colette said with a shaky voice.

"I know," he said simply, the grief raw in his voice. Neither of them were ever really going to get over the two babies they had lost. They had learnt to live with the pain, they had dealt with the heartbreak an grief...but it was always going to be scar for them.

"Max, if something…" she began, her voice a little wobbly. He could tell that she was crying, by the way her breathing got a little more hitched and ragged.

But she suddenly cut off and gasped, letting out an even breath. Another contraction..."Hey, nothing is gonna happen," he quickly said, trying to soothe her. "Nothing. I'll be there soon. I'll be there before you know, and our child will meet their parents. We will be fine, we will get through this. You, and me. Together."

"If something happens," Colette continues. "If..."

"No," he cut her off, the word coming out as a growl. "Nothing is gonna happen. You will not talk that way. You’re going to deliver a gorgeous and healthy baby, and I won’t hear anything else."

"Max..." she protested, but Max wasn’t having it.

"You’re not going anywhere," he said firmly, putting as much steel in his voice as he could. "You will be fine. Our baby will be fine, and I will be there soon and I will hold your hand and you can threaten to geld me and all of it will be okay. Just breathe.” 

He could hear the sound of her breathing, deep and even. She was trying to steady it, and Max gripped his phone tighter. He didn’t know if he was trying to hold himself together, or if he was trying to hold on to the sound of her voice.

The seconds ticked by, and then another contraction hit, and he heard her gasp out another ragged breath. Max felt like he was going to crawl out of his own skin. The idea of her in pain was like an invisible knife twisting a little deeper in his gut, each time.

"We need to go," Charles said suddenly. "We need to get into the plane." The car slowed down at that moment. "Coco, listen to me. I am going to be absolutely fucking furious with you if something happens to you," Charles told her fiercely. 

"Trust me," Colette’s voice said, sounding slightly tired. "I am very, very motivated to stay alive."

That was good. That was a good sign. If she was still being sarcastic and even a little bit cheeky…it was good.

"Just hold on," he told her again, the familiar feeling of helplessness seeping into his bones. "Just keep hanging on, for me. I love you."

“I love you too,” the words were as immediate and as fast as the sunrise each morning. "Hurry up, dammit."

"I’m trying," he replied, his voice hoarse. "I’m trying. We’re at the airport now. We’ll get there as fast as we can-" he had to stop, when he heard her let out another pained gasping sound, as another contraction clearly hit her hard.

“Goddamn,” he exclaimed, all of his muscles tense with the urge to do something. He wanted to help her, he wanted to be there to comfort her…but more than anything,  he was terrified of losing her. "Liefje, just keep breathing, okay? Breathe and stay calm."

"I’m trying to," her voice was breathless, and he knew that she was probably trying hard to fight the urge to cry out. Oh God, he hated that. He hated seeing her in pain, he loathed feeling this utterly useless.

"Go. Love you," she told him.

"I love you," he told her emphatically, wanting to say something more, but then Charles impatiently gestured at him to hurry up and get out of the car. "I...I’ll see you soon, okay? Just hang on, okay?"

"Yeah," he could tell that she was trying even harder to control her voice, trying to put on a calm and steady front for his benefit. "Just..." she cut off and let out a gasp, another contraction evidently hitting her hard. "...just hurry up before this baby decides to make their way out before you arrive, okay?"

"I will," he promised through gritted teeth. "I will, goddammit, I will, just…hang on."

He heard Colette’s pained panting, and each of her breaths was like a stab in the gut.He hated having to hang up on her

Everything in him rebelled at that. How could he, how could he possibly abandon her like that, how could he let her take on this pain and fear all by herself, without him there to hold her hand...but goddamnit, he had no choice.

He took a shuddering breath and pushed past the urge to scream, to slam his fist into something, anything. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, ranging from the desperate need to get to her, to overwhelming panic, to anger at the universe for forcing them apart and for putting her through this pain.

Into the plane they went…it was probably the shortest amount of time between entering a plane and taking off Max had ever experienced. 

Before too long they were up in the air, flying towards Nice.

The minutes ticked by, each one passing by like a century. Max would sit in restless agitation at his seat, his mind racing back and forth. Every thought and memory came back to Colette. He just wanted to be at her side, he just wanted everything to be okay…

And instead he would be stuck on this plane for 6 hours.

He would be stuck on this goddamn plane for six hours. Six hours, each one of them filled with the knowledge that the love of his life was giving birth to their child, and he was not there to support her, to hold her hand and reassure her that everything was okay.

It was driving him absolutely insane. He couldn’t take it, he just wanted to be there, with her. He could vividly picture her, sitting in the hospital bed and gripping the rails, her face screwed up in pain as she fought through another contraction. And he was not there to comfort her.

"Maman is with her. Your sister is with her. Lorenzo and Arthur too." Charles said at that moment. “We aren't there but everybody else is."

"How can you be this calm?" Max asked him, dragging a hand through sweat damp hair.

"Don't mistake calm for not being worried," Charles said evenly, his eyes tracking Max's restless pacing of the plane. "I am worried. For her, for you and for the little one. But freaking out isn't gonna do anyone any favours right now."

"I know,” Max said, his voice still strangled tight with stress. He just couldn't get any of the images out of his mind - her struggling and fighting her way through the pain, looking more vulnerable and pale than he had ever seen her...and he was not there.

“Besides, I shouted at Ferrari’s PR and got it out of my system, so currently, I am feeling quite calm.” Charles said darkly. “I imagine that’s going to change again when I am sure that Colette and the baby are alright.”

Max just stared at him. Charles had done what?

If there was a religion that Charles Leclerc believed in then it was Ferrari.

Charles Leclerc was their golden boy. Their Il Predestinato. There was no good-natured fobbing to be had about Ferrari regardless of what issues there had been had through the years, and there had been a lot.

Charles worshipped Ferrari like a malevolent goddess. He didn’t want to hear any criticism of his team and Max had given up on that a very long time ago. 

Charles and Colette both could be the most stubborn people Max had ever match. The only one who could match their stubbornness were each other. 

"You did what?" Max stared at him, utterly flabbergasted. Charles was an absolute Ferrari fan and loyal to the very core…why the hell would he yell at the PR people?

"Why...? What did they do?"

"They weren't even going to tell me that something was wrong with Colette," Charles said darkly. "I knew it. I knew that something was off. But they didn't say anything. It was one of Red Bull's PR Staff that got me out of the cooldown room. Ferrari wouldn't have said anything to me. Ferrari didn't want me to leave either. They wanted to debrief, they wanted me to give interviews,"

Max had to resist the urge to swear. He had been so focused on the fact that he was not with Colette that he hadn't even processed the fact that Ferrari had actually kept her labour a secret from Charles, simply to make him stay and do his goddamn job for them.

"You know that that is not normal, right?" he asked him drily. "I am not telling you that everything is perfect at Red Bull but Christian would never fucking stand for that."

"You know I never expected it," Charles told him, his mouth a thin hard line. "We are the drivers. We are the stars. But we come second. First and foremost, we are assets to the team. What Ferrari wants, Ferrari gets. We drive, we get podiums, we hold the trophies, and we smile for the cameras. Everything else comes second. It doesn’t matter to them. To them, only the trophies matter. "

"That's what they want," Max told him, anger seeping into his voice. "But that's not how it should be. Ferrari is wrong. If something is wrong with your loved ones, they have no right to keep it from you like that. Especially not for the sake of a goddamn interview."

"I know," Charles said, his lips thin with bitterness. "But there's not much I can do about it, is there? We may be the top drivers on the grid, but we drive the car that the teams give us. There's only so much that we can do when the team has power over pretty much every aspect of our career. And believe me, I am going to pay a fucking price for doing what I did. I just don't care at all. It's Colette," he said sharply. "I love all my siblings. I do. I love Lorenzo and Arthur. I would do everything for them. But they aren't my twin. They aren't the second half of me," Charles said simply. "Ferrari be damned."

Max hadn't thought that he was ever going to hear these words out of Charles' mouth but here they were.

"What the fuck did Jos say by the way? What did Coco mean?" Charles demanded.

"He gave an interview to Sky Sports," Max said, fury still embering deep in his gut.

"Of course he did." Charles said, not sounding surprised at all. "What did he say?"

"Confirmed the relationship...and the pregnancy," Max said clenching his teeth. "And if that wasn't enough...he made a...comment about how it had taken us long enough to have a baby."

There was a sharp indrawn breath as Charles absorbed that. "...What?" Charles said after a moment, his voice strangled. "...he made that comment in public? Are - are you serious?"

"I never told him about the two...miscarriages," Max said quietly. "I couldn't deal with whatever well meant advice he was going to have...but I...We lost two babies," Max said weakly. "My father went out there and confirmed our relationship and the pregnancy without talking to either of us. He just made that decision because it's "ridiculous" that we kept it a secret for so long. An it’s making me furious. This wasn't his decision to make. This was ours."

"Yes," Charles said, his jaw clenching. "It was. Your decision. Nobody else’s. He had absolutely no right to do that. Goddamn it, I have never liked that man, but I've never had the urge to punch him as much as I do this very moment."

"You and me both," Max said. The anger he was feeling would have been burning through him like a damn inferno if he hadn't been so worried about Colette.

"This should have come from us," Max repeated quietly. "Not from anybody else."

"It still can come from you," Charles said.

Max paused, looking up at him. "Are you saying we should..." he began uncertainly.

"You want to tell the entire world that you love my sister and that she is having your baby? You have an Instagram account and a phone with an internet connection," Charles said drily. "Tell them the truth. Your truth."

Max opened his mouth and then closed it again. Charles had a point. It was obvious what the news was going to be now if people had seen Jos's interview.

But he wanted to be the one to tell the world. He wanted it to be on his terms. He wanted it to be public but on his public terms. Not his father's.

"Are you ever going to ask my sister to marry you?" Charles asked him suddenly.

The question caught him completely off guard. "...What?" He said blankly, stunned by the change of the conversation.

"You gave her a ring when you were both 18 that you both insisted was only a promise ring," Charles said drily. "Are you ever going to replace it with the real thing?"

He thought back to that ring that still sat on Colette's finger to this day. A simply gold band with a tiny heart-shaped diamond.

He had given it to her in 2016, after his very first Grand Prix win in Spain. He had gone out and bought it that very same day to be exact.

He had bought Victoira a handbag the first time he had scored his championship points...but the first time he had won...he had bought Colette that ring.

"Apparently the baby is only going to have your surname too, because you have an agreement," Charles continued. "Do I actually want to know what that agreement was?"

"We were 18. Both our father's would have probably killed us, if we came to them and told them that we were engaged," Max said with a sigh. The Leclerc's had always been supportive of their relationship but Hervè Leclerc had very much thought that both Colette and him were far too young to get married. 

Jos on the other hand...Max didn't even want to imagine that screaming fit.  "So I gave her that ring and we agreed that..."

"You agreed that..." Charles repeated slowly, silently urging him to continue.

Max let out a deep sigh and dragged a hand through his already messy hair, mussing it up even more. "We agreed that we didn't really need a piece of paper to tell us what we already knew," he said simply. "Colette and I had been together for 6 years at that point, we already knew and accepted that we were going to be together for the rest of our lives. It was just a matter of when. So we decided that we didn't need a damn piece of paper to know that we were committed to each other. We already knew that, without a doubt," Max said simply. "It was a promise ring. To love and to cherish, till death us do part. One day we would do it properly, but till then...that ring was a promise."

Charles stared at him. "Let me get this straight. You have been married to my sister for 10 years?" he asked him sharply.

Max winced. Okay. Put like that, it sounded kinda bad. "We never had the actual wedding," he said sheepishly. "We both know it wasn't necessary for us, so...we kinda just...never got around to it."

"I mean, I did ask your father for her hand in marriage when it was clear that he wasn't going to be there...when we eventually did it properly...but...for us that ring was… It was more than enough," Max said quietly. "I knew damn well that I would be with her for the rest of my life. She knew it. We both knew it. And that ring was a symbol between us that sealed the deal. We both knew that it was going to be for forever and always. It was a promise. A promise to always stay by each other’s side. No matter how badly things fell apart around us. No matter how much the world wanted to tear us to apart. We were going to stay together, come hell or high water. We didn't need a paper to prove that to us or the rest of the world," Max said firmly.

Charles stared at him for a couple of long moments, processing this. Max was well aware that, from an outside perspective, it might sound weird. That they had been so young, but so utterly certain that they were going to spend their lives together.

But he and Colette had been together for years. And he had seen how strongly they had bonded over the years, seen what they had been able to deal with as a team, as one, and how they had come through every single thing that the life had thrown at them together.

"You two are utterly ridiculous," Charles finally said drily. "You didn't get engaged because as far as you two were concerned you already got married years ago."

Max winced a little bit and couldn't really refute it. If he were to be honest, he'd have admit it did sound utterly ridiculous, when Charles spelled it out like that.

But that just...that was how badly they had known right from the very beginning that this was it for them. They didn't need a piece of paper to tell them what they already knew.

"I'll ask her properly," he promised Charles. "I already got the ring. But Colette doesn't want to overshadow Lorenzo and Charlotte and I knew that she wasn't going to want to have a big party while pregnant so I figured I would just wait."

Charles was slightly taken aback by his words, before he gave a small smile. "She'll definitely say yes, you know," he said, the corner of his eyes crinkling with affection.

Max smiled in return. His heart ached with the thought of her. "I hope so," he said quietly, feeling like there was a hole in his chest where his heart was supposed to be. "I really, really hope so."

[the-thing-withfeathers]

the archer’s arrow part 2 (w.a.)

are you hiding something?

part one | next part

a/n: teehee i am so sorry for the wait but i hope y’all enjoy this one <3

pairing: wednesday addams x female reader

warnings: mentions of blood & death

➶ ➶ ➶

thwip!

it was your arrow, definitely your arrow.

“go! wednesday! go!”

and your voice, definitely your voice.

wednesday gasped awake, sitting up instantaneously. she gripped her chest, bunching the fabric of her shirt up into a fist. her head turned to look at her alarm clock.

she was awake ahead of schedule but she was grateful she woke up when she did. she immediately got dressed, the stomping of her boots lining the walls of ophelia hall.

she reached your room, knocking thrice before stepping back.

you were already dressed, today was an early practice day.

“wednesday, you’re early.” you tilted your head, stepping aside to let her in anyways.

“i value punctuality.” she lied. she was getting better at coming up with them in her efforts to try and hide her true intentions from you.

a bit of her looked disheveled, like she had rushed to get there. you noticed her braid a little out of place and her socks mismatched— both black but definitely not from the same pair.

“right. well, let me finish this and i’ll be ready to go.” you took to your chair at your desk, settling back down.

wednesday noticed that there were a couple of envelopes littered across your desk. you were in the process of writing letters.

“you’re writing.” she pointed out.

“yes, wednesday. thats something i can do too.” you joked back, she remained stoic.

“what are the letters for?” she inquired.

“mainly family but also for some of my friends at the academy.”

“i understand your family lives remote but surely your friends have phones?” she furrowed her brows.

“they do, but we think letters hold more sentiment.” you clarified, scribbling more words onto the piece of parchment paper you had aquired. “and it’s always nice to receive things in the mail.” you shrugged.

“i suppose you might be right.” she agreed. you were surprised to hear her validation.

her eyes followed the ink that your pen left behind. it caught her attention particularly when you drew a heart next to someone’s name on the envelope.

you sealed the letter and then proceeded to stand, grabbing your gear from your closet. you opened the door for wednesday, allowing her to exit first.

you two walked side-by-side down to the practice range.

“did you have many friends at the academy?” she asked as you exited ophelia hall.

“many? not many. but a good handful. they were all very kind. i would love to know them forever.” you smiled, reminiscing at the memories you shared with them.

“any more than friends?” she asked, not looking at you. you looked at her with your lip curled. at the back of your mind, you questioned her curiosity about your romantic life.

“who’s asking?” you retaliated, a smirk plastered on your face. you glanced at her only to be met with a glare. you knew you would certainly meet your end if you left the question unanswered.

“yes, wednesday. i had a girlfriend.” you sighed, rubbing your eyes. it was a bit of a sore spot, this topic.

but wednesday cared not for sore spots.

“what happened?” she pryed further. why was she pushing those buttons so much?

the memories of her rejection flooded through your brain. she had no right to ask these things. you remember how the look on your face was probably the single most heartbreaking thing most of your fellow students have ever seen.

“why are you asking about this, wednesday?” you practically hissed at her.

“i’m not going to take advantage of your practice times and not get to know you.” she spat back.

“you… hm.” you paused. “i never thought i’d be answering questions from wednesday addams. you’ve changed too.”

“so answer them if my question intrigue you so much.” she continued walking at your pace.

“fine. we split up because i wanted to come back and we couldn’t do the long distance.” you answered openly. “but we’re still friends. she and i were very close, she helped me through a lot.”

you continued to stride towards the forest as wednesday simply watched you. you had someone, but were fine giving it all up to come back. the feeling opened a pit in her stomach, if only you had known what she was hiding.

—

she had taken a liking to your routines in the wilderness.

“i purposefully try to miss.”

you had told her that was the closest thing you could get to immersing yourself into your environment. murder of fauna in the nevermore woods was frowned upon, so you had to learn control.

“isn’t that counter productive?”

she asked back, but you proved her wrong. your control was incredible. nicking a squirrel by the hair of its tail, she watched the focus on your face as you tried to ensure it’s life.

“it’s harder to hunt down animals and make sure they live rather than die.”

today, she sat with a notebook. she said she just wanted to focus on writing up ideas for her novel while you practiced.

it was like she was your body double, just a shadow that lingered around while you did your thing. somehow, it worked. you felt more productive and so did she…

if she was working on her novel.

her pen glazed across the yellowed paper on her notebook. the ink morphed into the image of your bow. on paper, your body was facing the trees, arm reaching for an arrow from your quiver. wednesday captured your physique, how your body flexed with every move you made.

thwip!

wednesday did not flinch.

but she nearly did.

an arrow lodged into the tree trunk, directly above her head.

“i can literally feel your stare, wednesday. you’re making me nervous.” you teased. her eyes grew dark at you.

“try that again and you won’t have fingers to shoot an arrow with.”

you couldn’t help but smile at her empty threat. you knew wednesday more than either of you thought. you knew that she wouldn’t take your fingers, they would stay with you.

you drew your bow again, pointing an arrow straight at her jokingly.

“try me, addams!”

the statement made wednesday’s head shoot backwards, her eyes clouding over.

“try me addams!” you yelled at her. you were younger. your cheeks were fuller, you hadn’t quite grown into your face yet.

but there you were, back then, the object of wednesday addams’ affection. but she could never admit that then.

you were on your back, pinned against the ground with wednesday on top of you. she remembers this fondly, she was trying to steal back her hairties that you had stolen as a joke.

you were laughing. it was the most joyous she’d ever seen you. she didn’t know how she was getting that reaction from you.

she was reaching as you held the ties above your head, swinging your arm around to make sure she didn’t get it. she was growing frustrated.

she groaned and drove two of her fists down into your chest, robbing your body of air. you coughed as a response and caved in, handing her the hairties.

“okay addams!” you choked out, sitting up to be closer to the girl. you laughed softly, coming face to face with her. “i just wanted to play a prank on you.”

“pranks are a waste of your time. you have better things to do.” she said, standing up. “you’re going to be late for practice.” she looked down at you. you remained seated.

“they’re not a waste of my time if it means i get to spend time with you.” you said, honestly. sure, you were mildly flirting but you were geniune. wednesday didn’t know how to process the admitted desire for companionship. she returned the sentiment, but it wouldn’t come out of her.

“i’ll come to your practice then.” wednesday said, putting the hairties in her bag. “i’ll sit there and wait for you.” she held her hand out for you to take so she could help you up.

you grinned up at her from where you were.

that grin, she would have killed for it.

“deal!” you jumped up excitedly, a proud smile on your face. you took her hand to stabilise yourself.

and it was then she got her first vision of you.

you were older now. definitely older.

you were still in the forest, holding wednesday’s hand just like how you were in the real world.

your bow was in your left hand, like you had just come from battle. blood was dripping down from your ears.

you had blood staining your shirt. and it looked bad. something most people wouldn’t be able to recover from.

and it flickered between the image of your eyes crickling from how huge your smile was and the sight of you donning crimson in front of wednesday.

“wednesday!” you cried out to her, catching her in your arms.

and then she was back to reality.

“wednesday!”

a vision of a future in a vision of the past? that was new for her. her powers might have been trying to tell her something— something more urgent.

she remembers leaving you alone at practice that day, taking back her deal to you. she had to sit alone and process.

three days later, she broke your heart.

“you still get those often?” you asked, sitting her down against the tree trunk.

“of course i do.” she snapped, her conscience pounding from the double vision she just had.

“sorry, stupid question.” you said, regretfully. you sat in front of her, still holding her back to steady her. “do you want to talk about it?”

she hated how you cared.

“no.” she shook her head. “it was just… nothing. nothing important.”

“you and i both know your visions have saved countless lives, wednesday.” the way you said her name had her head reeling. “is there something we should be worrying about?”

“no… no.” she waved you off, pushing you away. you sat there nonetheless.

“okay well… are you feeling okay?” you worriedly questioned her.

“i would feel better if you stopped asking questions.”

you recoiled, knowing it was best not to provoke her like this. her heart twisted at your concern, they made her feel almost guilty for pushing you so far away.

she had broken you down slowly, she knew that now. you poured your heart into your affectionate manner, it was something that scared her.

you sat in silence, taking in your surroundings and letting her recover from the vision. you were around when she first started getting them, you knew how badly they affected her.

she almost wanted to apologise, tell you that she was sorry for snapping. but she couldn’t let you get close again.

“we should go soon, lunch is in 30 minutes.” you spoke up first, breaking the peace. she simply nodded at you, helping herself up. you followed suit, yanking the arrow you had previously stabbed into the tree out and putting it back into your quiver.

➶ ➶ ➶

you sat across from wednesday. she recalled a time you would fight for the seat beside her, but instead, you filled the space next to yoko.

“you’re already thinking about the rave’n?” you asked enid, munching away at your food in between sentences.

“of course i am!” enid jumped up. “it’s our last year here! we need to think about these things!” she turned to you and grabbed your hands.

“and it’ll be your first & last rave’n back! we have to make it good!” she squeezed your hands. you rolled your eyes but couldn’t hold back a smile.

“okay well, you’ll help me shop then.” you held your pinky up, which the blonde gladly took in her own.

“good! and you, wednesday?” enid turned to the shorter girl, tilting her head.

“my rave’n experiences haven’t exactly been pleasant, enid.” wednesday brushed her off. “maybe this is the year i skip out.”

“you shouldn’t. i would like you there if it’s my first one back and last one i’ll ever have.” you said, forgetting that such desires were usually turned down by wednesday.

but that was somehow enough to convince her.

“fine.” she grumbled, a contrast to the smile that was now stuck to your face.

“never thought that would be so easy. you must be the sentimental type, addams.” yoko commented. the mental image in wednesday’s head was her brutally bashing the vampire for saying that.

“do you know the theme?” you asked enid. the werewolf was finally asked to head the planning of the rave’n, she was perfect for the job.

“yup! since it’s halloween— we’re doing guts & gore!”

you swear you saw wednesday nearly crack a smile, this was right up her alley.

“and glitter!” enid added in, you were unsure if she was joking.

the joy on wednesday’s face faded slowly, you softly laughed at the change of expression.

“don’t worry, addams. i’m sure you’ll look fine bedazzled.” you joked, snickering. yoko laughed beside you.

she glowered at you, your smile persisted. did she no longer have an affect on you in these situations?

you really had grown.

“i would rather choke and die before covering myself in sparkles.” she took an angry bite of her food.

“don’t worry, wends, i’ll forgive you this once.” enid giggled. “gore is still your element, i’m sure it will be reminiscent of your first rave’n.“

“i heard about that.” you chimed in. “pig’s blood, right? maybe you can work with real blood this time, nobody seems to know the difference. and you’d probably enjoy that better.” you had said that almost too casually, it bothered her.

she was like an old book you hadn’t picked up yet still knew the insides and outs of.

“yes. maybe i will.” she answered briefly. you returned to your meal, finishing up and picking your bookbag up.

“gotta go, i have some botany homework to catch up on.” you said, turning to wednesday quickly. “did you want to join me for archery club later?” you asked.

she paused for a second, debating her answer.

“no, i can’t. i have homework i need to do in my room.” christ! why did she say that? she meant to say yes!

perhaps it was her defense mechanism, she wanted to keep you at arm’s length after what happened in the forest today. she needed some time to process.

“no worries. i’ll see you guys later!” you jogged off and waved as you left.

“is it weird hanging around her again?” yoko asked, she realised she hadn’t talked to wednesday about your return much.

“i suppose.” wednesday nodded. she had grown closer to yoko overtime, finding herself being honest towards her. “she’s changed a lot.”

“i mean, yeah. her entire environment changed in a whim. that makes you grow up.” yoko agreed. “you two seem to be getting along just fine.”

“indeed. but we can never go back to how we used to be.” wednesday tried to put up a front. “i’m sure she wouldn’t want that either.”

“given how you tore her heart in half last time you saw her? i wouldn’t put it past her.” yoko sighed, “but you can’t hold it against her forever.”

“i can and i will.” wednesday scoffed. yoko squinted at her.

“are you hiding something?” the vampire asked. yoko had an excellent talent for reading people, it infuriated the addams girl.

“no.” wednesday responded firmly, standing up abruptly and gathering her things. “i have to go. i’ll talk to you both later.”

enid and yoko shot each other worried looks.

wednesday stomped off to her room, a scowl evident on her face.

she hated this. all of it.

she hated that her visions were getting stronger, they were so loud that they were making her entire body hurt.

she hated that she would once again become responsible for saving someone, she was always thrust into the world of the weird. was it such a crime that she wanted some normalcy?

she hated you. she hated that she was forced to reject you in order to prevent your impending doom.

she hated you. she hated you for returning and making her feel things again.

she hated you. she hated that she was terrified of your death.

she hated you. she hated you. she hated you.

but she had to save you.

➶ ➶ ➶

author’s journal

okay i’m soooo sorry this took ages! and that this is relatively short! but i was in the middle of quitting my job and planning my christmas trip to see my family!

i’ll let y’all in on the reader’s powers more in the upcoming chapters but she is definitely a psychic!

i also am sooo excited for halloween!!! i’m going as wednesday this year and i also bought from the doc martens x wednesday collaboration so i’m so so keen on getting it in.

i hope you guys enjoyed this chapter & hopefully chapter 3 will be out before you all know it!

kisses xx

[hyunebunx]

💓 with felix omg can you imagine how adorable

˖˙ ᰋ ── 💓- 'a trail of kisses along the partner's jawline or collarbone'

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. genre: fluff!!

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. pairing: felix x gn!reader

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. a/n: teriii this took me forever i'm sorry 😔 i just realised the reason i'm so slow with requests is bc i'm unable to write anything if i don't make the characters head over heels in love with each other. anywayss, i hope you like it 🩷🫶🏻

“Love.” He calls out lowly, nuzzling your neck affectionately while your fingers comb through blond locks, massaging his scalp. Felix has pretty much melted into your arms, eyes barely open and not focused on the movie he insisted on watching together for the past week, missing the whole plot. “Look at me.”

“Lix, baby, my darling sunshine.” You giggle, eyes still trained on the tv screen, which has him groaning in protest. “I’m watching the movie. The one you’ve been babbling about for weeks. Why aren’t you?”

He mumbles something against your skin, too quiet for you to hear. “What was that?”

“I said, I’m bored.” He lets out a dramatic sigh, raising his head to look you in the eyes, everything in you softening once those plump lips jut out in a slight pout.

Movie all forgotten, you reach to push the hair out of his face, tenderly tucking the loose strands behind his ears to which Felix leans into your touch like a man starved of affection for weeks on end. Your thumb then moves to wipe off a small food stain near his lips, some chocolate that didn’t reach its destination and decide to hang onto your boyfriend’s gorgeous face for a while longer, also mesmerised by his beauty.

“Should we watch something else, then?” You inquire, spreading your arms to welcome him back into your embrace. Felix doesn’t even bother to answer before diving in, taking his rightful place into the crock of your neck with a soft, relieved sigh.

A moment later, he shakes his head, strong hands kneading your waist and pushing you further into the couch, all of his body needing to be touching yours in some capacity. “It’s almost over anyway.”

His lips then find their way to your jawline, peppering feather like kisses along the surface in a true, cuddlebug fashion. Your smile widens, the hand that’s not in his hair coming to lay on his back and caress the covered skin in a comforting manner as Felix lets most of his weight rest on you.

“What do you want to want to do after?” His kisses barely let you finish, pillowy lips trailing down to your neck which causes you to giggle, their gentleness tickling. Asking might prove redundant because Felix only gets this affectionate when he’s tired, your shared bed calling his name in the sweetest voice only he can hear.

You reach for the remote to turn the tv down, losing all interest in the movie as Felix ponders the question, placing a sweet kiss behind your ear that has a shiver running down your spine. Sitting up, he releases your waist to hold both of your hands, interlacing your fingers to bring them up to his lips more easily.

His answer is surprising. “Talk.”

“About?” You raise an eyebrow, not bothering to sit up as exhaustion seems to rest right on your bones.

As expected, it doesn’t take Felix long to return to your side, hovering over you and delicately pinning one of your hands right next to your head on a comfy cushion. “You.” He nods, smiling widely when you move just a tad bit to rub your nose against his, chuckling.

“What else do you want to know?” Your free hand moves to his nape, caressing the skin there which always gives Felix goosebumps. “My life isn’t as exciting as yours, I don’t have that many interesting stories to tell.”

Felix disagrees, dropping down to leave another trail of delicate kisses along your collarbones, cheekily hooking a finger under your shirt’s collar to expose even more skin. “Everything. I want to know everything about you.”

Your heart skips several beats, all possible responses dying on your tongue as they witness how much this man loves and cares about you. To be known is to be loved, and Felix wanted to make sure he knew everything before attempting to love you properly, exactly how you deserved to be loved for the rest of your life. A life he hoped and prayed you’d share with him.

His voice is low, barely above a whisper as he confesses his profound feelings. “I want every single detail about you to be engraved on my mind, and heart for as long as I live, to make sure I never forget a minute out of all the time we’ve spent together.”

“I want to recognize you from people’s stories, to work out exactly why you chose one thing over the other. I already recognize your footsteps as you walk down the hall to visit me at work – and the sound has me grinning like a fucking idiot.” He exhales, resting his forehead just above your frantically beating heart. “Can you imagine how happy knowing everything else about you would make me feel? I think I might burst.”

No, you couldn’t, because you could never wrap your head around being loved so genuinely and openly. Being loved for the real you, with the good, the bad and the ugly parts you have never shown anyone.

But Felix, as persistent as he was, will only stop once he can prove you wrong and make it a reality.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 8 - Keep Us Far Apart

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: This one’s for all my homies who’ve been sure she’s a demon blood kid. I’m sorry.

Chapter title from Tiffany Blews by Fall Out Boy

Word Count: 16.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You get benched by Bobby, and Sam gives you a call. Usual warnings.

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

Chapter 7 - Chapter 9

Read on A03!

You’re warm when you wake up.

Not a sticky, heavy warm that stings on your skin, but a soft, easy heat that settles in your bones. And everything feels Silver, but Dean’s not here. There’s nobody in the room but you.

You don’t have to open your eyes to know that. There’s only a static hum of a fan, that soft warmth, and the smell of grass and spice. A little faded but still obvious. Covering your senses and easing your brain down into peace.

Dean was here.

He’s gone now, but he was here. There’s no other reason for everything to smell like him. No other reason for the world to be blurred to Silver, because that’s something that still only happens with Dean. You know he’s gone because you feel bigger than you and you can’t feel him, but you can feel where he’d been. It’s like an imprint on everything around you, something stained gold that you can recognize even half asleep. 

It's new.

You’d be more worried about it if it was painful. But it’s really not. You can feel everything like you always have, and it’s all Silver and easy like when Dean’s by your side.

He’s left marks all around you. You can feel the comfort of the mattress under your body, and there’s a weight on it that’s Dean. There’s something sturdy right next to you, and it has the same feeling wrapped over and around it. The floor feels worn but settled, and Dean seems to have trekked gold all over it. Left himself everywhere, even as he fades by the second.

Because he’s also gone. 

He left you again. You can’t blame him. You’d leave you to, if you could, and you only lie to yourself a little less than you lie to Dean. 

At least your lies to Dean have been justified. In the name of survival, but still setting scars on your throat because—apparently—the only thing worse than letting John Winchester kill you and driving Bobby to madness is lying to Dean.

Fuck. 

Bobby.

You’re home. It took you a little too long to fully register it—you’ve never felt home like this, vast and unconstrained, but in no way that’s painful—but you’re back in your room. Which means Sam and Dean got you to Bobby’s. 

Which means Bobby knows you’ve been hunting with Dean, and the brothers probably asked questions, and then they left. You don’t know if Bobby told them to leave—to give you space while your body recovered or simply get out of your life all together—but they’re gone all the same.

Bobby wouldn’t tell Sam and Dean to leave forever. He likely didn’t tell the full truth, but he also liked Sam and Dean. He wouldn’t just kicked them out.

So they left because they wanted to leave. Because something—or nothing at all—was more important than you and they didn’t really care to get your answers. To hear you try to justify how you’d lied about Bobby because you had to. Because you’ve been so sick, and they already had enough to worry about, and it wasn’t all that important but you had wanted to tell them.

You might have told them now. If you had woken up and felt Dean in more than just an intangible depression on the world around you, you may have told him the truth. You’re too tired to filter yourself, and you’re so warm, and everything is so easy, so you could’ve told Dean.

Not the careful half-truth you’ll spend the day crafting, but everything. About the Darkness and the White, and how he makes both of them better but also sets them off at a level nobody else seems capable of. How you’re not quite human and that demon had been far from the first. How you hate him, but you can’t hate him, and all he needs to say is sorry and you’ll crash into him until you’re both drowning in nothing at all.

But he’d left. And you don’t know if he’ll be coming back. 

You could’ve sworn you heard a strong, certain voice tell you I don’t want to leave.  

I like you, Princess. I’ll stick around.

But you’ve dreamt of him before. And—even if this feeling of Dean is the last piece of him you ever get—you’ll dream of him again.

Not tonight, sleep no longer lingering in your head, but again. For now, you’re hungry and sore and lonely—the stains of Dean beginning to fade—and you don’t really want to lie in bed being useless anymore. 

When you open your eyes, the room is dim and a chair has been dragged right up to the edge of the your mattress.

That was the sturdy thing.

Dean had been sitting there.

And you can’t know that, but you’re certain. Even as the world comes into full focus and the strange marks of Dean around you start to dissipate, you’d bet more than your life that Dean really was here. That he’d sat on the chair for at least a little while, maybe speaking to you, maybe apologizing, maybe saying goodbye.

But he hasn’t been here in a while. And dwelling—overthinking and picking something apart until it’s raw and bare and you still don’t care for the truth—has never done you any favors before. It’s never made you forget or forgive Dean any faster. And you need to start moving.

So you don’t let it go. It’s Dean. You can’t let anything go with Dean. But you know how to compartmentalize, how to take he was here in a death grip and strangle it until it means nothing at all, and never allow your brain to drift to is he gone. Is Dean gone for real this time.

Did he leave you. Did Dean leave without saying goodbye, again. Did you let the Darkness slip out and didn’t even know, did you say something when everything had started to get hazy, something you don’t remember but he heard and now he gone.

Does he know what you are, does he hate you, he has no right to hate you, you’re the one who’s supposed to hate him-

You don’t hate him. You’ve forgotten how. If you need to, you’ll teach yourself again—beat it down and deep into your body until it sticks enough for you to feel it more than the pull—but until you know he’s gone, you still don’t hate Dean.

But knowing has never helped. And Dean is gone. 

So you’ll get through this. You always get through this.

You just have to fucking move.

It takes a minute to get your bearings. To look around you, twist your palms to press on the mattress, and push yourself upright-

Fuck. 

You have to choke down a scream. Your body shifts, just the slightly use of muscle and limb, and everything explodes with pain. Festering deep in your stomach and untenable, shooting from your gut into your blood like fire and eating at your head as it begins to pound and spin. The Silver rips itself apart as the pain escalates—stabbing behind your eyes as you squeeze them shut and scratching over your skin—and all you can do is curl into yourself and try to rip the darkness back down into your body.

Nails dig into your palm, teeth grit as breathing becomes labored, and you can feel everything. Too much. It all fucking hurts and it’s too much, and the sky is falling but you won’t catch it, not when the sky is made of crumbling and tired paint over your head, and cracked glass on the bathroom wall, and a massive, lonely weight over your chest-

The weight is new. You’ve been more than yourself in this room a million times, and there’s always an odd comfort of knowing what pain you’ll get. The White will bellow and riot around in search of peace and always find none, but the Darkness with settle and fall down faster. The cracked thing is the mirror you’d shattered when you were twelve. There’s a rotting feeling on the carpet from when you’d spilled coffee, and a long, dull ache on the wall from when you’d embedded a nail in it on accident, and the suffocation of the drawers is from all your clothing. 

But the weight is new. It’s right about you, it feels almost forlorn, and it’s the last thing to still be stained with quickly fading Dean. 

When you find enough willpower to bite your cheek until it bleeds and move your hand to grab it, it’s not a blanket. It’s a little rough and cool under your fingers, all the heat seemingly trapped in favor of your body rather than the fabric.

You drag your eyes open through sheer force of will, and it’s a jacket. Your jacket, that you’d left with Dean years ago. 

You’d always assumed he’d thrown it out. That you’d never see it again, because it was ash in a junkyard or tatters in a dumpster. But it was back on your body, and that sensation of Dean seems almost embedded into it. Not fleeting like his presence on the room around you. Woven right into the fabric just as much as cotton and polyester.

It was never your favorite jacket.

It might be now. 

You hope it can be. That this is Dean’s silent apology, instead of a goodbye. You really don’t want it to be goodbye, if only because you need to know why he’d kept it. It wouldn’t have fit him, and it was the exact style he often made fun of you for wearing—yeah, it’s nice, Princess, but it’s not good for hunting—so he’d had every reason to just dispose of it.

He has every reason to just dispose of you. And you know he’s aware of them, because he’d told you as much. But he hasn’t. 

Not yet.

You can’t dwell. You can’t sit here as the Darkness bucks and twists over your organs, trying to make sense of Dean and why he does things. Understanding Dean Winchester is a game you’ll never win, because he’s a pretty, adorable, rouge-ish asshole who can’t just make anything easy. And there’s always something about him that fogs your usually measured and rational judgement. You’re not a picture of sanity—the blinds on your windows are rattling because they can feel how your ribs are trying to rip out of your chest—but you’re never dumb.

And Dean makes you dumb. 

The asshole.

He leaves your jacket on your bed and now you want nothing more than to see him. He marks himself all over your room in a way that calls the Darkness and makes the White sing, all while your body shrieks with pain. He pulls a chair next to you while you sleep and you can hear his voice in your head saying I’m just gonna stay a while. 

And he leaves. He walks away and you can’t find it in you to be truly angry because it’s Dean.

It’s not rational. It’s not logical, or careful, or reasonable. It fucking stupid. It’s against everything you carved yourself so carefully to be, because that’s how you survive. And then Dean shatters you, and lets you mend more colorfully than before, and shatters you again.

You’ll get yourself killed, if you keep ignoring your mind telling you just give it up. Stop following him around like a lost, feral dog, stop giving him grace he doesn’t offer you, stop entertaining the White when it calls for him. He doesn’t feel the pull, he can’t, he won’t, and you’re already in danger so you might as well give it up.

But it’s the pull that forgives him, every time. An instinct that melds the Darkness and White together and whimpers but it’s Dean. 

And if it was Dean who had twisted that same knife into your gut—the one that’s still scarred over your stomach and burning just a layer under your skin—you don’t really know if you wouldn’t have forgiven him.

You’d like to say it would’ve been done there. That Dean would’ve stabbed you where people could see it and sent you toppling down alone, and you’d be done with him forever.

You’re not sure that’s the truth.

And it’s more terrifying than any demon or monster has been. Ever could be. 

But you can’t dwell.

You move slowly. Rolling onto your side and lowering your legs to the floor so carefully, strangling the sheets for a grip and taking slow, careful breaths every time you risk another movement. It fucking hurts. You don’t know what that demon got you with, but it’s killing you. Twisting and rotting you for the inside, making your eyes unfocused and your head feel like a suffocating weight that drips venom into your lungs and gut. You aren’t going to be able to stand up. Your knees buckle when you’re fucking sitting. Standing sounds like trying to balance on a tightrope of ice.

Your palm presses to the wound, and you wince when the pain becomes electric through your body. You need to stop just sitting here, need to do something—anything—besides being alone, but you can taste bile in your throat and it all just fucking hurts.

It takes you a moment to realize that you’re clenching the jacket like a flimsy tether, and it’s helping. Everything still hurts, but when you bow your head you can smell grass and spice and it makes the Darkness flow with a lighter ease. Everything is still too big, but you’re you. 

And you can hover a hand over your stomach, bite your tongue until you taste metallic blood, and let the Darkness flow into the wound. You’d fixed Dean before, and he hadn’t gotten infected with whatever you are. And you’ve been you—sick and rampant—your whole life, so the worst thing that could happen here is you injure yourself. 

And you don’t count.

When you feel the darkness spread into itself and push against the boils, it takes everything in you not to scream and to just push on. You can push on. The White is in an off-key harmony with the Darkness, and you might leave little indents of the jacket in your hand, but you can keep pushing.

Until eventually, you break out the other side. 

It’s gone. All the additional pain from the wound has seemed to turn to thin air, and all that’s left is the usual. The pain that’s always there just a little because you’re you, and that’s the price you must pay.

You don’t know how you did that. You don’t know if you’ll be able to do it again, or if it’s something you’ll have to learn to control later, but in the split second before the Darkness and White fall back out of time in your body, nothing about you is wrong. You fixed something again. Mended instead of destroyed. 

It hadn’t killed you, or hurt anyone at all.

And you feel okay. 

When you walk downstairs with slow steps, you try to be quiet. You’ll maybe get some food, curl up in the library, start rehearsing what you’re going to tell-

Bobby snaps your name from the living room, and you wince. 

Shit.

“You’re up sooner than I thought you’d be,” he says, and when you turn he’s sitting on the couch, watching you narrowed eyes. “How’r the stitches holdin’?”

“Um,” you glance down to your stomach and swallow. “I’m okay.”

When you look back up, Bobby’s followed your gaze, and his jaw is clenched. 

“Before you say anything.” You tug at the hem of your shirt, trying to get ahead of as much as you can. “I really am okay. I great actually. Some might say I’m in perfect condition-“

Bobby grunts your name. “What’d you do.”

“Nothing! I’ve never done anything-“

“We both know that ain’t the truth, kiddo. You’re about as much an angel as I am, and you’re doin’ the nervous bounce-“

“I do not have a nervous bounce-“

“Yeah, ya do.” Bobby gives you a flat look. “You’re a good liar, but not that fuckin’ good. What’d you do.”

You sigh, and raise your shirt. 

The stitches had gone with the pain. You don’t how where they’d went, or what the darkness had done with them, but they’re gone. It’s just perfectly mended skin—save for a bursting, star-like scar right below your ribs—and your close-lipped smile as you watch Bobby carefully. 

“It doesn’t hurt.” You offer. “And I didn’t break anything-“

“You did that?” Bobby nods to your stomach. “With the… you’re freakin’ hoodoo shit?”

You nod, lowering your shirt, and Bobby lets out a long, slow breath, shaking his head. 

“You know you were able to do that?”

“I-“ You glance down to your hands, running your thumb over your palm. “I’ve kind of done it before. Once.”

Bobby raises his brows, and you’re going to have to say it. You don’t want to say it. You don’t want to start that inevitable conversation, or hear the fallout you know it’ll have. 

“I healed Dean.” You mumble, keeping your voice soft enough that—hopefully—it’ll make your words seem less important. “His hand was broken. I fixed it.”

“With the-“

“With the thing.”

Bobby grunts, and when you look up at him his face is stoic. Solemn. Deep in heavy thought and set with something you can’t read. 

“Sit down, kiddo.”

You nod, shuffling to sit at Bobby’s side and picking at your nails until they’re a little numb. You didn’t get time to practice your explanation, or find a word for what Dean is to you, or figure out how you’re going to justify the past few years to Bobby when you can’t even justify them to yourself-

“They dropped you off here.” Bobby starts, and you nod, still staring at your hands. “Sam and Dean rolled up in that nice car John’s got and told me you got stabbed by a fuckin’ demon. Two idjits just kept sayin’ demon when I asked, and I don’t suppose you’d know what kinda demon-“

“Green eyes.” You say, folding one leg under your body. “I- I’ve seen the knives they use before, but I’ve never gotten hit with one. I’ve been careful, Bobby, I promise-“

“I know ya’ have.” He says. “You ain’t an idiot, and you know what you’re doin’ out there. Even if I wish you didn’t. What I need to know is what happened that got you stabbed.”

“It’s- It’s what it always is.”

“You haven’t told me what it always is.” You can feel Bobby’s glare in his words. You’d still rather not see it. “Ya just told me the demons were back, they weren’t goin’, and you needed to keep huntin’ alone. But,” Bobby’s words slow, his voice lowering slightly. “You weren’t huntin’ alone, were you. I hear you been huntin’ with Dean.”

“I didn’t- Who-“

“Sam spilled the beans.” He grunts. “Said you and Dean been best fuckin’ buddies for years.”

“Years is a bit dramatic-“

Bobby grunts your name, and you sigh. Again, there’s no way out of this but through.

“In 2003, Dean called you for advice about a hunt. Said there were a bunch of people going insane in North Texas. And then I got home a few weeks later and told you I’d dealt with a first century saint.”

There’s a long silence as Bobby ties the pieces together, and then, “Son of a bitch.”

“I, um- I realized what it was, and Dean took it out.”

“So for three years-“

“Yeah.” You sigh, and there’s a little blood coating your nails. “About once a month.”

“What had you planned on doing if John showed up?” Bobby’s question isn’t angry, but it’s strained, and you can picture his scowl. “If Ol’ Daddy Winchester tracked Dean down and realized what he’s been up to on his time off-“

“I was careful.” As careful as you could be, when it came to Dean. “And it’s- we’ve only hunted together twice since October-“

“Cause John went and fucked off! What if he’d come back, lookin’ for his boys and found you with them!”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“You can’t know that-“

“I can.” You snap, your head shooting up to hold Bobby’s gaze. He’s angry. You can see it all over his face. It’s better than nothing at all. “I didn’t sleep in the same motel room, I kept my own car, and Dean would always leave when John called. He wasn’t going to find me.”

Bobby groaned, shaking his head. “You don’t even like huntin’ with a partner, and we agreed that, ‘less it was me or Rufus, it ain’t safe to put yourself in that situation-“

“It was with-“ You cut yourself. You don’t want it to be safe with Dean. Only Dean. Only Dean had ever made everything feel right, only Dean knew when to listen to you and how to take over when you couldn’t do anything. “It was like this.”

“And all those moments where you ain’t in control?” Bobby challenged, raising his brows. “When glass starts shatterin’ and you make a river disappear?”

You swallow. “He never noticed.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Course he didn’t. Smitten fuckin’ dumbass.” 

You frown at Bobby’s word, ready to ask what that means, but he pushes on.

“What about Sam, huh? He’s been noticin’. Asked me about your episodes, kid. If you been gettin’ panic attacks.”

“It’s- they were talking?” It would be nice if your voice didn’t sound so obviously nervous. “About me?”

“The hell else were they supposed to talk about? They come rollin’ in with you half-dead, laced up with Sam’s shit fuckin’ stitches and Dean clingin’ to you like a puppy dog, we supposed to talk about the weather?”

You use more effort than you’ll ever move on to not let your eyes widen, let your voice squeak Dean was doing what?

It doesn’t matter. He left.

“I-“

“And,” Bobby adds, leaning forwards. “You still ain’t explaining to me what happened. That wasn’t a normal fuckin’ stab wound, kiddo. I had to break out that fancy holy water you’d been cookin’ in the basement.”

That makes you sit up a little straighter. “Oh, did it work?”

You haven’t had a chance to test that stuff. Another random, strange dream in the middle of the night, another idea for something scribbled in a notebook by your bed, almost a week spent tracking down everything you needed until it was perfect. The wings of a heart-broken butterfly weren’t easy to find, but you’d managed, and sugar from a cane by the Nile sounded insane, so you’d settled for sugar bought in Grocery store in South Dakota and hoped you could offset the difference with wine made from Egypt, curtesy of a creepy old man in Chicago. 

If it didn’t work, you’d have to figure out why. Maybe the priest you’d gotten to bless it hadn’t been lustful of the heart. You could find a more lustful priest. You could be a more lustful priest, because you’ve had very detailed dreams about pretty green eyes, scarred and tanned skin, and a cocky grin between your thighs-

Bobby snaps your name, and you blink at him.

“Stop thinking while we’re trying to have a conversation.” He snaps, and you flush. “And the water worked alright. Got you up and stopped that weird infection the knife left. I been lookin’ at the thing, no poison or curses on it-“

“It’s iron.” You mutter, and Bobby frowns at you.

“And why would that be-“

“Iron, it’s- It’s bad. It hurts.”

“Hurts.” Bobby repeats, words slow. “Who, you?”

You nod, and Bobby shakes his head.

“Kid, I seen you touch iron-“

“Pots and pans don’t count.” You mutter. “Not pure iron.”

“Pure-“ Bobby cuts himself off, narrowing his eyes. “How long you known that iron can do that,” he nods to your stomach. “To you.”

You raise your palm, scar up, in a silent answer, and Bobby understands. 

“Shit.” Bobby sighs, scanning over your face. “Any reason you been keepin’ that from me?”

“Didn’t want to worry you,” you mumble, and Bobby scoffs.

“You ain’t half as smart as you seem if you think I’m not already worryin’ about you.” He snaps. “I see what you do to yourself, kid. Saw it when you came back, you’ve been-“

“I have to.” Your voice is almost a plea. You don’t want to talk about this, because you don’t have a choice. This is what you have to do to keep the Darkness down. “I- Nothing else works.”

“I know, but we don’t exactly live a pina colada and sunshine life,” Bobby grunts your name, and you think his gaze is going to sear into your skin. “You still haven’t told me what the hell happened, and just lookin’ at Dean’s little bitch sad face told me it wasn’t good.”

“I-“ You sigh, fully tucking your knees to your chest. “I don’t want to talk about Dean right now. Please.”

Bobby’s brows raise. “Anything I need to shoot him for?”

“No!” Your answer is too fast. Bobby hears it. “I- We just had a fight. Before the attack.”

“You two fight a lot?”

You shake your head, twisting the skin on your finger, and Bobby sighs.

“Fine then. What kinda fight we talkin’, then? I, uh, I ain’t sure how close you two got, and if it was a sorta spat-“

“Bobby?” You grimace, running your hands over your calves. “Please shut up.”

“Alright, just, if you’re doin’ that, be sure to use protection-“

“Bobby!” You gape at him, shaking your head. “He’s- we’re not-“

“I’m not judging you, kid, I mean, you’re young and I known that boy his whole life, he-“

“I- That’s not- You are judging! You were judging like, five minutes ago!”

“‘Bout the hunting. I’m no prissy uptight church gal, I know what people your age get up to, and if you’re, ya know, gettin’ up-“

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bobby,”You shake your head, scrunching your nose in disgust. “Please, shut up before I pour bleach in my ears. I’m not- That’s- Dean’s my partner. No room sharing, remember?”

“Don’t have to be in a room-“

“Bobby-“

“Alright,” Bobby relents, raising his hands, and you’re pretty sure the heat in your face could be felt across the room.

“Thank you.” You mumble, and Bobby just nods.

“See.” He gives you a close-lipped smile. “I worry about you.”

“Yeah, in all the wrong ways.” You return the smile, and take a long breath. “And it’s really not like that. I mean, I don’t- It’s complicated.”

There’s a pause, and Bobby frowns. 

“You gonna say how it’s-“

“I- You know how it,” You gesture around yourself, then the air, and Bobby understands. “Has been getting worse?”

Bobby grunts in acknowledgement, and you take a long, deep breath.

“He makes it better.” You whisper, and Bobby’s jaw twitches. 

“Dean?”

You nod, and Bobby huffs, shaking his head. 

“What are we talking, better.”

“It’s- the pain. It’s not as bad when we don’t-“ You sigh. “When things are good.”

“And when they ain’t?”

“I think made a tree fall,” you mumble. “After the- that last fight.”

Bobby hums in a low agreement, raising his brows. “You gonna tell me what that one was about?”

You shake your head, and he sighs. 

“Well, when they get back, don’t expect Sam to have that same grace. Kid was biting my ear off about gettin’ Dean to say somethin’ about it.”

You frown. “They’re coming back?”

Bobby shrugs. “Seems it. John called them to work another case on that asshole that got Mary, but from what I hear he doesn’t stick around long after. They’ll be heading back here after.”

Here. Dean didn’t leave forever. He’d come back here. Where you’d be. 

Maybe.

If he didn’t see you be you.

“I-“ Your head shoots up, the thought only striking now. “Bobby, what did you tell them about me, and just my- the-“

“Nothing.” Bobby grunts, and something loosens around your throat. “But they’re gonna have questions. People don’t walk around getting attacked by demons every day-“

“Not every day.” You mumble. “And as far as they know it was just that one demon-“

“But it’s not.” Bobby snaps, his eyes darkening slight. “You’ve got demons rooting up your ass like the damn TSA, and knowin’ you it’s probably worse than you’ve been telling.”

“It’s’- not by much-“ 

Bobby says your name, his voice stern. “Any demons are too much. Hell, you got fuckin’ green demons that I ain’t ever even heard a whisper about-“

“I’m sorry-“

“No, you’re not. And I’m sayin’ nobody’s heard of a green-eyed demon.” Bobby rubs his jaw with a hand, shaking his head. “I worry about ya’, kid, cause I can’t find a damn soul who’s gonna be able to help that won’t also put a bullet in your temple.”

“They know.” Your fingers dig into your skin, and your eyes drop to the floor. “That last one, it said it knew what I was. And it’s- it’s really been getting worse, Bobby.” Your breath is shakier than you’d like it. “It’s just more. All of it is more, and I don’t understand it, and it still really hurts. Everything- it hurts.”

Bobby’s expression softens, and he must be able to see it on your face—how even when there’s no wound to heal or screams to choke on—it always just fucking hurts. When there’s noise it’s always too loud, and when there’s air it’s too heavy and sticky in your lungs, and every movement chokes you on this phantom, rootless pain that’s born only from you. There could be nothing in the world but you, and it would all be pain because that’s what you’re made of. Erosive and infectious pain.

It’s only better when you’re not alone in the world. When there’s a grinning, smug asshole next to you that somehow knows how to make all this just a little better, that never even has to do anything to be some kind of fucked up cure. One you’d never asked to take, one you’re addicted to, and one that doesn’t even know how the White has dictated that you simply need him—just Dean, as close as possible—to not be in this much fucking pain.

Bobby must somehow read that over your face, because he clears his throat.

“You said Deans been helpin’-“

“He has. But I- I don’t know why. He just does. But when it’s bad with him- It’s-“ You swallow, curling into yourself. “It’s like something sets off. I- I can’t control it, Bobby, I can’t ever control it, but with Dean it’s so much worse and I don’t know what I am-“

“Hey.” Bobby rises out of his seat, grabbing the blanket from the side table and draping it over your body before dropping at your side. “Breathe, kiddo. In and out.”

You do. And it gets better. Not good, but better. Bobby sitting next to you with his arms on his knees, steadily and firmly here. He hasn’t given up on you. 

He’s still here.

“I-“ You choke on nothing, and force a small smile onto your lips. “I know how breathing works, Bobby.”

He chuckles. “Coulda fooled me. Amazed you managed that long without me telling you.”

You smile—and it’s small, but real—and silence settles over the room in a long, heavy moment.

There’s more you haven’t told him. Small details you’ll need to save for later, when this isn’t raw and you can think out everything you’ve been hiding. Exactly what you’ve been up to with Dean. Just how bad it’s all gotten. What the plan is now, when stupid, adorably oblivious Sam and Dean are going to tell John that you were raised by Bobby. 

But you’ll work that out later.

And you think Bobby already understands most of it. 

So all you can do is rub the scar on your hand and take a long breath, your words soft and measured.

“I don’t know what I am,” you whisper. “I don’t know what to do.”

Bobby sighs, patting you on the back. It’s half rub, half burping a baby, and it’s always awkward, but it’s always the same, and it always works.

Your body relaxes slightly, and you can hear Bobby’s words without any ringing in your ears.

“I know you ain’t gonna like it,” he mutters. “But listen to me, kiddo. You need to slow down ’till we figure this out. You’re a danger to yourself.“

You shake your head. “I haven’t hurt anyone-“

“Yourself.” Bobby repeats, shooting you a stern look. “It’s you that needs to not get hurt. And we’ll figure this out, but you gotta slow down. Stop running around and stretching yourself till you damn snap. Least until we’ve got the demons down.”

“I-“ You let out a long breath, and there doesn’t seem to be any skin left on your nails to pick at. “I’ll think about it.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll be thinkin’ about it on bedrest.” Bobby mutters, shutting down your sound of protest with a firm glare. “I don’t care what magic shit you pulled on yourself with that,” he nods to your stomach. “You still got fuckin’ stabbed.”

“But-“

“And,” he narrows his eyes. “You been runnin’ around with the one person I told ya’ not to. Consider it being’ grounded. No hunting for two weeks.”

You gape at him. “You can’t ground me, I’m not five-“

“You can still be dumb, and need a lockdown. No jackin’ one of my cars and running off, no getting newspapers and looking for something that’s gonna get you stabbed again-“

You scowl. “I wasn’t trying to get stabbed-“

“But you did,” Bobby snaps. “And now we’re sleeping it off.”

“It’s supposed to be walking it off.” You mutter, glaring at the floor. “You’re supposed to tell me I need to go on another hunt.”

“Well, that ain’t what’s happening here. No hunting. You can use the time to try and figure out what the hell is going on with all these fuckin’ demons popping out of the woodworks.”

Bobby grabs a random book off the side table, places it in your lap, and you frown at him.

“This is a cookbook, Bobby.” You raise your brows. “Should I try baking the demons into a pie?”

His mouth twitches, and you’re pretty sure he’s just trying to act like he’s still mad at you. “If that’s what works to sort this out, yeah. Get to work.”

“Can-“ You look down to the obviously useless cookbook in your hands, then back to Bobby. “Can we have dinner, please? Before I get stuck on book duty?”

He rolls his eyes. “Ya’ ain’t stuck on book duty-“

“You just told me to use my time to study the demons-“

“That don’t have to be books. Could be some of your fuckin’ dream shit. A ritual that pops into your head, tellin’ us exactly what these sons of bitches want.” 

You shake your head. “That’s not how they work-“

“How am I supposed to know that.” Bobby mutters, pushing himself to his feet. “I dream about loosin’ my teeth and gettin’ chased by a vamp in a dress.”

You grin, shrugging as you uncoil your body to follow him. “Why is it in a dress?”

“Fuck me if I got a clue. What are ya’-“

“Pasta?”

He grunts. “I got stiff ass spaghetti.”

You nod, trailing after Bobby into the kitchen, forcing down every spiraling thought into focus on what you can see. What you feel can’t be everything right now, and later—when you go to bed, and it’s just you and the Darkness once more—you’ll have plenty of time to take your every thought and strangle them until you’re a little more sick and alone. But now you just need to sit in the kitchen and eat shitty spaghetti with Bobby. 

And he isn’t angry with you. He’s not happy, but he’s not wrathful. He didn’t really yell, and he didn’t tell you that you were a disappointment or problem—he did call you dumb a few times, but you deserved it—so you’ll be alright. You can see Bobby. You can see that he’s not mad, and you can see that he’s here, and that’s more than you can say for other people.

Because the day does pass, and the Darkness is still weighted and painful in your body, but it’s not trying to be more than that. Nothing is easier, melted into Silver or in soft and simple harmony, but nothing is worse. The Darkness is rooted in the White, and the White is loud and lonely, and that’s everything. 

It’s horrible.

And it’s tolerable.

Nothing breaks, you don’t explode, and when you shuffle off to bed that night with a mumbled promise to Bobby that he won’t wake up and find both you and one of his worse cars gone, that’s when it all gets bad.

Because now there’s nothing to hold you down or distract you. Through the day you could see things. Read a pointless, fun fantasy book and not think about the pain. Talk to Bobby about the latest random lady at a grocery store he won’t be asking out, and not think about Dean. Keep moving—even when you were curled in a chair—and not worry about what’s next, because you were home.

But now you’re alone, and all you can do is feel. 

The pain isn’t worse. It really just is as it’s always been. And it’s probably not good that it’s always been like this—stabbing and pounding and biting at your organs and something deep in your body all the fucking time—but it’s better than before. It’s better than its worst. You can get through it. It’s only pain. It’s only twined with the Darkness, and it’s only as sick as you always are.

Because the Darkness is still growing. Not at the rapid pace that happens when everything is too much, but in the slow, steady, weed-like way that’s been happening over the years. You’ve really started to feel it. Feel how it seeps further and further into the White, and with every passing moment you grow sicker, and the Darkness becomes more feral. Every moment it’s leashed and muzzled in your body it seems to become furious, and it’s not sustainable. It’s choking the White. It’s choking you. 

And you still really don’t know what you are. You know that this isn’t fixable, but you don’t even really care to try it right now. 

You’d just really like to know what you are. What you’ve done or what you’ve become that makes these demons track and hunt you like you’re nothing more than a prized deer.

If there are others like you. If they’d know how to control this, to keep the Darkness down so nobody ever gets hurt but you. If there’s some new type of pain you haven’t tried that will keep you in check.

If they can also feel the White. If it’s glowing in them as well, or if that’s just another way that you’re something no one understands.

But if they do feel the White, they must feel the pull. Their White must have staked a claim on something without reason or right, they must have someone that the White whines and bucks until they touch, this can’t just be you, alone and wrong in the whole world.

You have too much time to pass. And you don’t want to be benched, but you’re tired of not knowing. Of being reckless and dumb and dangerous. 

So—just until Bobby stop glowering at you every time you move to the door—you’ll use this time as you always have at home.

Reading. 

You’ve been through every book in Bobby’s house at least twice. You’ve scoured every page for just a clue to what you are, why you’re like this, and always found nothing at all. But Bobby always finds you new books, and you always go in with the same blind determination for something. Even if it’s worse than what you imagined, you’d really just like something. Anything to point to and say that’s me. 

Any solid reason that will drive you away from Dean forever—just for his safety, if you learn you truly are just a monster—or offer you a chance to tell him. To say what you are—because you’ll know—and not have him leave you because there would be nothing to leave. 

So you read. And read and read, and take notes and come up with nothing, and keep reading. At some point—after a few days and a phone call from Sam—Bobby officially demotes you to book duty, and when you’re not reading about strange myths and rare monsters, you’re helping Dean.

He doesn’t know you’re helping him, but you are. They’d asked Bobby for what he knows about demons, if he has any ideas about what got their mom, and Bobby asked you to help find answers. Sam had said they wouldn’t be back for another week or so, and Dean hasn’t called you, but that doesn’t stop you from really wanting to help. To be more than a wasteful, spoiled girl to him, to prove him wrong and give him one single reason to not hate you.

You really need to get a handle on this. Not now—when you’re stuck on half house-arrest and Dean needs your help—but after. You need to beat it into yourself that you cannot hinge your every action on making Dean Winchester not hate you. On convincing him to stay, when he’s made it clear he doesn’t really have an interest in staying for you.

It’s another thing you’ve decided to put off. It’s another thing you’ll work out later, when you have the time. Right now your whole life is sitting in your bedroom and trying to work out what you are, or sitting in the library and trying to help the Winchesters.

Specifically helping Sam and Dean. John can eat glass, and he’s lucky you don’t know how to not care about Dean, or you’d let that demon do whatever the hell it wants to the old fuck.

“You ever seen a red demon?” Bobby asks from across the table, and you frown up at him. 

“I- maybe?” You glance back to your own book—covered in coffee stains to the point of being almost impossible to read—and chew on your tongue as you think. “This one doesn’t have anything about red demons, though-“

“That one’s all theoretical shit,” Bobby grunts, sliding his own book across the table. “I heard of red-eyes before, but ain’t ever seen one.”

“So why-“

“Winchester’s demon don’t sound like average black eyes. I’m lookin’ for alternatives.”

“Could it be the green-eyed demons?” You suggest, making another note about possession in the margins, next to a line that reads any living thing, bound to earth by a human soul, can be victim to demonic possession if unguarded. “The one from last week seemed to know Dean.”

“Don’t seem like it.” Bobby grunts. “Nothin’ to rule out, but this demon sounds like it’s got a vendetta.”

“My demons seem to have a vendetta.”

“You got demons.” Bobby gives you a pointed look. “Bunch of ‘em, all scouring for you. From what the boys have said, this seems like one sorry asshole.”

You shrug, grinning at your paper. “Maybe I’m just more important than the Winchesters. And they need more demon-power to track me.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “That ain’t funny, kiddo.”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Course you do. Find anything on fire?” 

You shake your head. “I mean, demons very famously like fire. I think that lead might be a dead end, at least until I can get a sulfur sample-“

“The hell you mean a sulfur sample?”

“I, uh-“ You swallow, giving him a sheepish look. “I had another idea.”

Bobby sighs, his voice dry. “You don’t say.”

“It’s a good one! I think I could track it, or summon it with the right ritual, I would just need some of the demon’s sulfur-“

“What’re you meanin’, the demon’s sulfur-“

“I mean I think their sulfur is like their fingerprint. And I could, uh…” You trail off for a second, and you hate when this happens. When all these theories and ritual that appear in your brain against your will make you sound downright insane. “Track it?”

Bobby pauses, scanning over your face with a frown. “You think it’d work on any demon?”

“I guess.” You shrug, tilting your head at him. “You believe me?” 

“I’m past worryin’ about belief,” Bobby mutters your name, looking back to his book. “Next time I get a call from Sam, I’ll ask him to start lookin’ for sulfur.”

You nod, and look back to your book. There’s no guarantee your theory will work, but they almost always do. Like your brain is just wired to know this shit. 

That’s another lead you have on yourself. Another route to chase that will likely come up at a dead end.

But you have time to chase it. Because when Sam does call again—you haven’t heard Dean voice in almost two weeks, and it would be amazing if the White would stop being a whiny little bitch about that—it’s to say that they’re in Iowa, looking for a gun, and that they need to know more about how to exorcise a demon.

Bobby tells them. He explains everything about demon traps, and vessels, and most of what you’ve found. He doesn’t mention the green-eyed demons. You’re thankful for that, because you don’t want the questions right now.

Sam says they’ll be gone a little while longer. That there’s another demon—Meg is a really fucking dumb name for a demon—who’s working the one John’s been hunting, and they just wanted to know how to deal with her when the situation arises. 

You won’t be getting that sulfur sample. 

And you’ll keep spending long nights alone in your room, trying to just find something on what you are, and coming up empty handed. 

Night after night passes, and you have nothing. You sort through boxes in the basement, trying to find a book you haven’t read or that doesn’t have your notes already scribbled over the worn pages, but it’s useless. You’re not a demon, or an Alpha monster—whatever that is sounds worrying, but it will have to wait—or a Nephilim, or an angel. 

You’re not even sure angels are real. 

And you’re running out of ideas.

When Bobby unceremoniously drops a book on your lap, you blink at him. It’s leather-bound, with yellowed pages, and you’ve never seen it before.

Bobby doesn’t have any books you’ve never seen before. You’ve even seen the romance books he keeps in his room. 

“What-“

“Went after a few witches last month with Rufus.” He grunts. “Nasty bitches, been usin’ animal bones to try and reanimate their kids. Found this in their attic.”

You wrinkle your nose. “You got me a dead witch book?”

“I got ya a dead witch book we ain’t ever seen before, smartass-“

“I’m joking.” You give Bobby a grateful smile, moving the book into a small pile to your left. “Thank you.”

Bobby grumbles something that’s probably a little rude but likely justified, and shuffles back to the kitchen. 

It takes you another few nights to get to the dead witch book. You had other books to comb through, other notes that became dead ends, and barely enough sleep to properly function. But regardless—after a long night of failed attempts at sleep—you end up with the book in your lap under the covers, a flashlight one hand and a pencil in the other as you scan over the pages.

You don’t know how you developed that habit. You’re a grown woman who’s well within Her right to be reading at three in the morning, and it’s not exactly smart hunter instinct to hide under bedsheets, but you’ve never been that bothered by it. It feels safe, and warm, and helps you focus. You do it at home, and in motel rooms. 

And it helps you pretend that nothing could ever be that worrying. You’re under the covers, reading about witches like it’s never been that important, underlining the pages like you’re studying for a test rather than trying to figure out if you’re human or not. 

The book is long. And old. And complicated. Every sentence seems to double back and turn over on itself, and every spell and ritual is needlessly convoluted to the point that you don’t think half of them will work. There’s a whole chapter about familiars that you don’t make it through, a series of pages about forbidden magic that you only can skim, and a section devoted to ass-kissing a group called the grand coven.

It’s not useless. If your eyes weren’t itching with sleep and your head wasn’t heavy with how everything is a little fucked right now, you’d probably find it interesting. But now you flip between pages, mindlessly looking for anything at all that could point you where to go. There seems to be a witch government, and you don’t really care about their social civics. They have history that will be the same in a few months when you have the brain power to study it, and different magic classification, and different study classifications, and different witch classifications-

That makes you pause, doubling back over the index to find the exact words—witch classification, pg. 683—and flipping to the sections with your pencil between your teeth.

It’s mostly useless nonsense.  Most witches learn magic via study, and others borrow it from demons. You only seem to learn magic against your will—and it doesn’t feel like just magic—and you certainly didn’t make any demon deals that would result in you being… you.

You seem to fall closest to the last kind. People born into magic, who have an affinity for it. 

And that’s when you lean forward, chewing on the pencil as you read. As something starts to stir in the White, and every word feels important.

Natural witches have a predisposition to the practice of magical arts. They have an innate ability to harness the universe within the confines of their practice, and require less exertion to perform any spell, ritual, or curse.

You don’t require any exertion. Most of the time you’re suffocating yourself trying to not perform.

But it’s closer than anything you’ve found before. So you keep reading.

A weaker natural may have an affinity to certain form of magic. It is unknown why this may be-

Not helpful.

Curses are known to be disproportionally cast by naturals-

Useful to remember, but not what you need.

Many natural witches come from a bloodline in which the trait has appeared before. A longer, stronger bloodline will often be connected to a stronger natural. Most powerful witches date back to pre-first century, however there is only one bloodline that has survived since the beginning of witchcraft, often theorized have proceeded or created the very practice itself. However many scholars debate its existence, calling it a witch-tale to create reason for the beginning of the art. As such it is lost to history, whether there was ever even the existence of the-

You can read that word. 

Sort of. 

Not really. 

It looks different than every other word on the page, but you can still understand what it says. Like a shifting mirage you know shouldn’t make sense, but does. And it seems to be one word, but your mind insists it’s four.

Women of the high.

You re-read the sentence. Once, twice, a third time. It still looks like one word. It still says women of the high.

Lost to history, whether there was ever even the existence of the women of the high.

You didn’t know there were witch scholars. You didn’t know witches had tales. And you scan over the whole book, but all you find is one last paragraph in the history section.

There is little known about these very first witches, often called-

There it is again. Women of the high.

They are said to be far more powerful than any other witch, their harmony with the universe extending beyond that of even the most powerful natural. However, there is little to no historical evidence of their true existence, and it is a more commonly held belief among scholars that witchcraft is and always has been an evolving discipline.

The page goes on. 

You stop reading, caught like a scratching vinyl on that phrase. Women of the high.

Harmony with the universe. 

That could be one thing to call it. A heavy, involuntary harmony with everything around you, whether you like it or not. But these women, whatever they are, don’t seem to be real.

It could explain why you’ve never had a lead.

It may be the reason for the scar on your hand.

It would make you human. It would make this truly just a thing of your blood, or affinity, or whatever, and you’d just be a strange human the universe likes more.

Really nothing more than a witch. It would be really nice if you were nothing more than a witch. Not a monster. Not sick. 

But the Darkness has started to spread, the longer you think about it. Focusing on it makes everything worse, and you can feel how the flashlight is burning, and the sheets feel swollen with you presence, and the pencil in your mouth-

There’s a snap, and a heavy taste of graphite as you chew right through the pencil.

There’s nothing left to do here but make yourself more than you are, and spin around this thing that doesn’t have an answer. You could be this.

You could still be nothing.

And you still really do feel sick. So fucking sick. With every passing it feels like air is being ripped through your lungs, and every breath is too thin. Your body feels rotten. Your heart feels like it’s been seized and thrashed and shredded and sown with something thin and bright.

You can feel those pieces again. Those fractured things Dean left deep in your body that haven’t be splashed with anything but agony since that fight. They hit somewhere deeper. Not quite critical, but closer to it. And they’ve been like dull knives along your spine that you’d retaught yourself to tune out, simply because there was too much other pain to spare them a thought.

But they’re powerful. They’re covered in grime and still trying to grow over your body—reconnect and mend and crystallize—and they fucking hurt. All of this fucking hurts, if you’re whatever that women of the high shit is, if you’re supposed to be in harmony with the universe, why does this always fucking hurt. Why do theses strange pieces Dean scattered through your body unravel your heart more than any stain of the Darkness, why do they blister over your gut worse than the demon’s knife, why are they sunken and smoothed and washed out like they’d been drowned when you’ve become so practiced at ignoring them, and why does it fucking hurt-

Your phone rings, and it almost makes you jump out of your skin.

It’s four in the morning. Bobby’s a floor up and a room over, if he wanted to talk to you, he’d come downstairs. If Rufus wanted to speak to you, he’d yell at Bobby to make you visit him. If Dean wanted to talk to you-

That’s what makes you scramble for the phone. This is exactly what Dean would do if he wanted to talk to you. Call with no warning in the dead of night with nothing to say, just because he didn’t think past calling and you always pick up the phone.

But it’s not Dean that’s calling. 

It’s Sam.

You pick up, because Sam never calls you when you’re not on a hunt. Even on those two hunts, he’d wait until Dean called you before yelling in the background. 

But the little, robotic letters on your phone say Sam Winchester.

And you pick up.

“Hello?”

You could swear you hear a breath of relief. “Shit, good, you’re up. Sorry, I didn’t think you would be, but I figured better to try and call in the morning if you didn’t. But you- You picked up. So now I guess I, uh, I have to say it.”

“Say-“ You frown into the air, sitting a little straighter in bed. “Are- Sam, is everything okay?”

“Uh…” Sam swallows through the speaker. “No. It’s bad.”

“Sam-“

“It’s Dean. He’s really hurt.”

You don’t think you heard him right. You couldn’t have heard him right. The Darkness is suddenly and meaninglessly rocketing out of your body, and it’s making the blood pound in your ears, so there’s no reason for you to hear him right. Bobby’s house has shit reception, and your phone is basically a fancy brick, and you’re unbelievably tired, so you didn’t hear Sam right.

Sam says your name, and he sounds cautious. Like he’s worried you’ll explode from just his words. “Are you-“

“Yeah, I’m uh, I’m here.” Your voice is unsteady, and you’re not sure why. You misheard Sam, so nothing’s wrong. “I didn’t- I’m not sure I heard you right, so-“

“What did you hear?”

“I- I’m not sure.” You swallow. The room is suddenly far too dark, and the pain is back. You’re not sure how it hasn’t reduced you to nothing but a stature, frozen and cold from nothing at all. “Can you repeat it?”

You don’t want him to repeat it. You want Sam to say he called you because Dean broke his phone, or because he lost a bet, or because they’re hunting something strange and there’s no one help them but you.

But Sam says something, and this time you really don’t hear it. It’s just a numb sound your brain seems to tune out, and the White feels like it’s being burned and frozen all at once.

“Sam-“

“I- Dad doesn’t know I’m calling you,” Sam continues, and you don’t think he knows you didn’t hear him again. “But Dean would want you here, I think.” He pauses, his voice a little lower. “I’d like you here. I- I think you should be here. For him. Just in case.”

You can’t really breathe. You’re not sure what’s happening. “In case of what?”

“In- Just if-“ Sam pauses, and the static through the phone is like a toxin over your skull. “I- I don’t want to say it. You know, it’s-“ He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “One of those things, right?”

“I-“ Your nails are drawing blood on your skin. You don’t really feel it. “Sam, I don’t-“

“If you don’t want to, I get it. I know you guys were fighting or something, but I- I really-“ You can hear Sam’s long, deep breath. “Please come. For me. I- I don’t really want Dad to be the only other person here. Please.”

“What- what was-“

“Demon.”

You didn’t mishear Sam. 

You can’t really breathe.

“How bad?” You whisper, and anything would be better than this long silence before Sam answers.

“Bad.” 

“Where-“

“Jefferson City.”

“That’s-“ You think you’re choking on nothing. Everything hurts. “Sam, that’s like eight hours-“

“He’ll hold.” Sam mumbles. “Please.”

You swallow, and glance around your room. You can pack fast.

You can drive faster.

“I’ll be there in seven.”

It’s faster to hang up without saying goodbye. You don’t really want to say the word goodbye at all right now. 

Because it’s easier to move without thinking about why you’re moving. You’re getting out bed because that’s what you have to do. You’re grabbing your bag like you’re going for a hunt, because there’s really no difference. You don’t know how long you’ll be gone. You don’t know when you’ll come home again.

So you need a bag. 

Your usual one is still filled with clothing from the kelpie hunt. Half dirtied and crumpled shirts and pants, as whichever Winchester packed your bag hadn’t really bothered with being neat.

You understand that.

You’re not really bothering with it either. 

All you need is clothing—you don’t really bother with style, because that doesn’t really fucking matter right now—some toiletries that you don’t trust motels with, a notebook just in case, and your knife.

The knife Dean gave you. Perfectly weighted in your hand, proof that he at least thinks of you, and no better than any other weapon but soothing. Like a baby blanket that can stab someone and always grounds you in something a little stronger than gravity that reminds you of Dean. Silver, sharpened blade glinting in the low light of dawn, already starting to break through the sky. 

You need to go.

You’ll allow yourself one last combing of your dresser for cleaner socks and bras, but if you can’t find any then you’ll just have to trust that wherever Sam and Dean are will have laundry. And that bra’s covered in blood, and those sock stains don’t really look like something you’d want to touch—again—and there’s something shiny at the bottom of the drawer-

That’s not a sock, or a bra.

It’s a ring. Dean’s ring. The one that your brain has never given note, because it’s always seemed like just as much a part of him as his hair or nose or amulet.

And it’s lying at the bottom of your sock and bra drawer.

He wouldn’t have just left it here. You’ve never even seen him take it off, let alone set it down. But there’s no reason to set it down in a dresser. No reason for him to leave it with you-

He’d left you your jacket. He’d kept your jacket, then left it for you to find. The same jacket you’d shrugged on only a second ago, and had understood to be a silent promise that he’d been here. That he wasn’t here now, but he hadn’t just turned to air and vanished into the margins of your life once more. That he was keeping himself written all over you insides in the way he always did, still never grasping how the marks he left over your spine and heart were more like tattoos than stains.

The ring felt like a promise as well. Dean would never just leave it. If it was goodbye, he would’ve just left the jacket.

But he left the ring.

He’d meant to come back.

You don’t have time indulged the sting behind your eyes or the lump in your throat. You shove the ring in your pocket, grab your bag, and go. You’ll call Bobby later, and explain why you’d left in the dead of night and stolen one of his better cars—you can’t afford to worry about breaking down on the side of the road right now—when you’re not choking on your own lungs. When the Darkness doesn’t feel wired, and those fractured pieces in your body aren’t shaking and sparking and neon.

The drive is eight hours. You’d told Sam you’d be there in seven.

You’re pulling into the hospital lot in six.

There’s a long moment where you just sit at the wheel, your hand threatening to strangle the metal and your eyes squeezed shut. You need to move. To climb out of the car and find Sam, because he’d asked for you to be here and you’re just sitting the parking lot. 

But the Darkness doesn’t feel containable. It’s stretched over everything, you’re stretched over everything, and you feel like you’re about to split in two. The engine of the car is exhausted from the strain you put it through. The seat is tired of your taut weight. The pavement of the lot is distressed from wear, and the telephone wires over your head are strained and tensed. 

You drag yourself back together with a firm bite of your hand, and it leaves a mark. You’ll have to keep your hand in your pocket.

Sam has enough to worry about. 

You realize two things when you walk into hospital lobby. First, Sam isn’t expecting you for another forty minutes, so he’s not going to be waiting. You’d probably have to call him.

Second, you won’t need to call him. Because hunched over the front desk, hissing low words in the face of a poor receptionist with pinned-up hair, is John Winchester.

In the blurring numb of everything, you’d forgotten he’d be here. Sam had even mentioned it, but you hadn’t really registered it until this moment, when you’re staring at the man himself. 

You should run. He’s going to kill you. You can make out the shape of a gun tucked in his pants, and he’s going to press it to your temple and fire. You’ll bleed out through your brow, and that will be the end. 

But you don’t move. A force like gravity is trying to move you forward, and all your willpower is put into being rooted in place. Stiller than a statue to that—maybe when John turns and spots you—he’ll think you’re nothing more than an odd decoration. You’re so fucked.

The receptionist sees you first, and her eyes widen in relief, like you’re a savior from whatever John’s been hissing at her. Before you can shake your head or look away—pretending you’re just wandering or pacing, nothing to mind or speak to—she’d opening her mouth.

And you don’t run.

“Do you need any help, ma’am?”

You cringe a little—being called ma’am is weird—and shake your head. “No, I’m- It’s nothing, thank you.”

You’d made your voice soft, and an octave higher than usual. Like some docile creature John would never need to bother glancing at

But he still recognizes you. You can see his back tense and his hands curl into fists on the desk, and when he looks over his shoulder there’s already hatred in his eyes.

You wish you were more certain he wouldn’t actually shoot you in a hospital.

“It’s alright, ma’am, whatever you need I can take care of now.” The receptionist waves you forward with a sweet, almost hopeful smile, and all you can do is wander forward with small steps. “How can I help you?”

“Um…” You swallow, forcing your gaze not to move to John, right at your side. His eyes are searing into your skin, but not in the way Dean’s do. When Dean looks at you it’s like he can see under your skin, and he’s trying to work out what’s inside of you. It’s hot and branding because he seems to be seeing more than what you are. 

John’s gaze is painful. He sees exactly what you are, and he hates it. He hates you. 

“Ma’am-“

“Sorry, I’m-” you clear your throat, forcing your voice to steady. “I just- I’m here for- I-“

Words feel far away. Everything feels far away. All that you’re certain of is that you need to be here, and you have to leave. John won’t let you near Dean. If your brain had been processing things right when Sam called, you would’ve told him no. That John wouldn’t just not want you here, he’d loathe your presence. You’d be putting everyone in danger, because you can feel the exhaustion of the receptionist’s big, blocky computer and the tension of the scrubbed and sterilized walls, and it’s all too much-

When Sam shouts your name, everything doubles. It’s all too much. You’re everything and nothing and you’re going to die and you’ll never see Dean again and that shouldn’t be your biggest worry but you can see him all over this hospital in gold, just like in your room, and it’s all pain-

Big arms wrap around your shoulder, something tugs you forward, and Sam’s hugging you. 

It takes you back down. It’s doesn’t make anything hurt less, and nothing is in the Silver harmony that Dean gives you, but you’re you again. The Darkness is a little more on edge than usual—it is Sam, and that just seems to be something he does—but you’re nothing more than you.

And you take a long breath, and hug Sam back.

“Thank you for coming,” he mutters in your ear, and you just nod. Of course you came. You didn’t really even think about it, you just did, because it’s Dean. 

You don’t know how to not do something for Dean. You only know how to follow him down.

“Yeah.” You whisper. It’s all you can really think to say. “Is he-“

You don’t know how to finish that sentence. Sam seems to understand that.

“It’s-“ He pulls back, giving you a tight, close-lipped smile. “I think it’s better if you see.”

“There’s no chance in hell she’s goin’ in to see Dean.” John snaps from behind you, and you flinch. Visibly flinch, enough for Sam to notice and frown at you. “I don’t even know what the fuckin’ Christ you’re doing here, girl-“

“I called her, Dad.” Sam’s defending you. You’re not sure why. “She deserves to be here. Dean would want her here.”

John’s eyes narrow. “She doesn’t fuckin’ know Dean-“

“Yeah, she does. They’re friends, Dad, and Dean probably never told you because he knew you’d be an asshole about it-“

“Watch yourself, son.” John hisses, and you feel caught in the center of something. You’d like to run. You still can’t. “Dean knows that she,” John points to you. He still hasn’t actually said your name, like you’re nothing more than an object. “Isn’t the sort I want you boys associating with. And he doesn’t lie to me-“

“Apparently, he does.” Sam snaps. “They’re friends dad. We’re friends. I want her here.”

“You don’t know what you want-“

“I’m not seven, Dad. This isn’t a toy we can’t afford. She’s here for Dean, and she’s staying.” Sam raises his chin slightly, and he needs to stop talking. If John keeps pushing he’s going to reveal your relationship with Bobby, and how you and Dean are…whatever you and Dean are, and Dean might get in trouble for associating with your sort.

But your brain is too caught on the idea of John didn’t know. Dean didn’t just keep you separated, he fully lied. To his dad. To stay near you. And you’re Sam’s friend too. That’s two friends.

You’ve never had two friends. 

And your friendship with Dean has always been more complicated. At least to you, it’s been confusing and consuming and a little dangerous. Like it sinks deeper into your body than where a friendship should stop, and you’ve thought about Dean in ways you don’t think friends should think about friends. 

But being Sam’s friend sounds easier. The Darkness may find him to act as an odd, untraceable trigger, but the rest of you likes him. He’s sweet. He wants you here, and you believe him.

It gives you enough of a spark to clear your throat, and meet John’s glare with a neutral, passive gaze. You’re staying. And if John wants you gone, he’ll have to call you what you are—whatever he thinks that is—to your face, where Sam can hear it. 

“Sam’s not lying.” You say, and your voice is stronger than before. You’ve always been in pain anyways. What’s a bullet to the brain on top of your own body tearing itself apart. “Dean’s my friend. I’m not going.”

You’ve never had someone look at you like that. Like they hate everything that you are, with no exception or ideas for your use. It’s unnerving. 

You’ve survived worse.

“You and Dean are friends?” John’s voice is a vile and poisonous sneer. You force yourself not to flinch. “How long you been friends, girl?”

“Years.” You shrug. He doesn’t get the satisfaction of more.

“And she’s staying.” Sam adds, but John barely looks at him. He seems to be trapped in staring at you. 

You think he can see everything inside of you. All the Darkness and pain and torture you inflict on your own body. That he can see exactly where Dean’s marked and shattered and dulled you, and he’s trying to pry those pieces away from you. You can see it all over his face, how he doesn’t think you’d deserve any piece of Dean, even if it was offered and not created or stolen. 

You’re almost certain that, if he could, John would fashion his hatred of you into a blade, and drive it right into your body. Carving out the White so it can never call you to Dean again. 

But he hasn’t killed you yet. So you stand your ground. 

“Only way you’re getting in that room,” he hisses at you. “Is over my goddamn corpse.”

You hum, and nod. “Alright.”

John blinks, and before he can speak again, Sam’s grabbing your shoulder and looking at you with wide eyes.

“But you said-“

“I’m not leaving, Sam.” You give him a small, tight smile. “But I’m not going to fight in a hospital. Are you hungry?”

Sam nods slowly—his expression weary as he looks between you and John—and you loop your arms together

“You know where the cafeteria is?” You ask, and Sam blinks at you.

“I, uh- Yeah.”

“Then let’s go.” You shoot John a flat, passive smile as you walk away, and that’s it. He doesn’t get to see you fall or crumble. He doesn’t get to know that you’re torn between a desperation to find Dean and make sure he’s still real—do whatever you need to in order to fix this—and an overwhelming sense of relief that you don’t need to see Dean yet. 

You can’t really stand the idea of him being in pain. You’re not ready to witnesses it, not when you can remember the horror of all the worst hunts. You’d be too tired to control yourself, if the Darkness got out of hand.

Right now eating lunch with Sam is all you can really do. 

He doesn’t try to talk to you. You walk in silence through blue and white tile halls, Sam pays for two shitty sandwiches, you pay for coffee, and neither of you say a word until you’re sitting on a plastic bench, staring with slightly glazed attention at the cup of off-brand greek yogurt in front of you.

“He gave you back your jacket.” Sam breaks the silence, and when you look up his expression is unreadable.

“I-“ You glance down to your sleeves, and nod. “Yeah. You knew he had it?”

“I saw it in his bag.” Sam shrugs. “He said he kept forgetting to give it back. Glad he remembered.”

You nod slowly, unsure where this is supposed to be going. “Yeah. It’s- yeah.”

There’s another long stretch of silence, and Sam might be the only person you’ve met who chews as loud as Dean. It’s not as obviously obnoxious—with purposeful vulgar sounds and pouted lips that have always been incredibly distracting—but it’s still loud. You think he’s waiting for you to try and make conversation. That’s fair.

“Thank you,” you mumble, poking at the yogurt with your spoon. “For not… for defending me with your dad.”

“Don’t worry about it. Dad’s just… he’s paranoid.” Sam sighs, frowning at his plate. “It’s been a long few weeks.”

“I guessed that.” You mumble, and Sam gives you a tight smile. 

“How’s your stomach?”

“Fine. Bobby patched me up.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

You grimace, and shake your head. “I’m gonna call him tonight.”

Sam nods, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. “It’s- Bobby told us most everything, by the way. So you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Most-“ You clear your throat, forcing your voice to remain even. Bobby had said they’d have questions. You’d been practicing what and what not to tell them. But Sam sounds like he just knows. “What do you mean?”

“That he found you when you were a kid. And that he had to keep you away from everyone, cause of the sick thing.” Sam gives you an odd look. “I’d guess there’s more, though.”

You give a small nod, your voice soft. “Yeah. Kind of.”

And Sam doesn’t push. He just nods, and goes back to his food. 

More long silences, all suddenly scattered with small talk. Your drive was long. Sam read a good book he thinks you’d like. This food is shit, and the coffee is worse. 

Sam misses the coffee at the country club.

You visibly sit up straighter.

“Did-“ Sam glances down at his plate—like he’s debating just taking another bite to shut himself up—then back to you. “Something happened, right? When you went to go get Dean?”

You only stare at him. And as Sam pushes on, his words are slower. 

“It’s- You don’t have to tell me everything. But you vanished, and Dean was freaking out, and you- you know him. He doesn’t freak out.”

He doesn’t. Dean gets angry and bites hard enough to scar over your bones and muscles, but he doesn’t panic. His head is level, until it’s not, and even then there’s a white-hot rationally to it. 

“I’ve tried to ask him,” Sam mumbles. “He doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“I- I don’t really want to talk about it either.” You whisper, giving Sam an apologetic look. You don’t even know how to talk about it. How to explain that nothing is ever more real than Dean, which means that no pain is ever stronger than when he inflicts it, and no anger is ever as loud when he hates you. You say that, you won’t make it obvious that it’s more than an addiction or additional sickness, how you fall into every beautiful and ugly part of Dean, never with any will or desire to drag yourself back up. He’s like a cure that thinks it’s the disease. 

And you’d sound insane if you said that aloud.

“Okay.” Sam lets out a long breath. “Sorry.”

“No- It’s-“ You don’t really want to look at him, so you focus on peeling the skin around your nails as you speak. “We had a fight. That’s it.”

“I kinda worked that out.” Sam says your name, his voice soft. “I just- I’ve never see Dean lose it like that. I think he flipped a boulder.”

You flush slightly. “Oh.”

“You’re good for him, you know.”

You blink up at Sam, shaking your head. “I don’t-“

“I mean, everything’s been insane. And the kelpie hunt was- It was the easiest I’ve seen him, up until the end.”

You just stare at Sam, and he sighs.

“I just think you should hear it, you know? I- I get the feeling Dad’s going to be kind of a dick to you. So I’m saying it now.”

“Okay.” Your voice is quiet, but the small smile you give Sam is real. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Sam returns your smile, his voice somehow more cautious as he continues. “Do- Are you ready? To go see him.”

You’re not. You won’t be. 

But you nod anyway, and walk behind Sam in shuffled steps to clear your trays and leave the cafeteria. 

Your breathing is shallow as you move back through the halls. It’s an effort to keep the Darkness in your body, an effort to let Sam bring you into the room without running away. You don’t want to see this. You want to believe that everything Sam says has been exaggerated, that you’ll walk through the chipped-paint blue door and Dean will be sitting up in his bed, shifting through the channels on the shitty hospital TV. That he’ll see you and say hey, Princess, didn’t think Sammy would be able to get a hold of you. That he’d wink at you or yell at you or tease you.

That he’d do anything but what’s so painfully and obviously before you.

Nothing.

He’s just lying there. He’s been stripped of whatever he was wearing during the attack, but damage isn’t just tattered and dirtied clothing in a pile on a chair. It’s bruises and gashes and swollen parts of his face, how even as he breathes through a tube it’s not a steady movement. How there are cuts on his knuckles and a line of stitches near his neck.

The White is screaming. It’s rioting inside of you as all you do is stare, and Dean just keeps lying there. Why won’t he move. He’s supposed to move. He’s supposed to be any annoying, bouncing ball of insufferable charm, bumping into you and saying every right and wrong thing every second. But the only sound you can hear is the beep of a machine, and where the White is supposed to be tugging to towards him, it’s tugging you slightly off to the side. 

The Darkness is oddly docile. It seems to be cowering, scratching and clawing at your skin but not trying to break out, just shredding you apart from within. Those fractured pieces are freezing and breaking a little further, and when your legs start to carry you to the side of the bed, you’re too tired to fight them. 

You manage to stop yourself from touching him. You don’t know if he would want you to touch him, and it feels wrong to do it without him knowing.

You wish he’d wake up to tell you, even if the answer was no. Even if he hissed that he wanted you to leave forever, even if he never apologized for your fight and even if said things worse than before, you’d really just like him to wake the fuck up. If he wakes up you can hear his voice, even if it’s laced with hatred. If he calls you a bitch and tells you to go, at least this time you’ll learn to hate him, and it will be justified.

Right now you can’t do anything but stand here and stare, your hand hovering at your side as you keep yourself from running fingers over his face. He’s sweating, and his hair is stiff and muddied, sticking his scalp, and if you ran your fingers through it maybe he’d let out one easy breath.

You don’t know why he would.

But the White is convinced that it’s what you need to do. And you can’t, you have to reign it in and keep it together, just for Dean’s sake, because he wouldn’t want you to-

Something grabs your hand and moves it forward, and before you can yank it back your nails are scraping Dean’s scalp with a feather-light touch, and there’s mud on your hands as you comb through Dean’s hair. It’s still soft, just wet and dried with something you know is dirt and another, darker thing you can’t bring yourself to say aloud.

You should pull your hand away. You can’t. It’s like a force really and truly outside of your control—not the White or the Darkness—is moving it for you, and whenever you try to move back it holds you here.

The White still isn’t calling you further down into Dean’s sleeping body. It’s trying to make you fall back into nothing but air.

And when you hear John clear his throat in the doorway, you still don’t move. 

“Sammy, I told ya-“

“Dad, you make her leave, I leave.” Sam says from behind you, and there’s a long silence as John weighs his words.

You’re not sure what you did to earn Sam’s loyalty. 

You’ll never be able to thank him enough for it.

When you finally drag your gaze away from Dean’s beaten face—your hand still held delicately on his head—John’s sitting in one of the hospital chairs. Holding a paper cup of coffee and glaring at you like he’d like to hack off your arm for daring to touch his son.

If you respected him more, you’d explain that you can’t stop touching him. The invisible force won’t allow it.

“You look like fuckin’ shit,” John grunts your name, scanning over you with a scowl. “You ever sleep when you’re runnin’ around, invading proper hunter’s work?”

“No.” You shrug, turning a little bit of Dean’s hair between your fingers. You could swear he makes a small sound of content. “Usually I don’t sleep because I’m doing proper hunters jobs for them.”

John’s eyes narrow, and Sam’s voice is nervous as he pipes up.

“Dean mentioned you guys went after a demon together, before the one in Colorado-“

John shoots Sam a sharp look. “What demon in Colorado-“

“Not him, Dad. I exorcised this one.”

You look between Sam and John with a frown. “Him?”

“The demon that killed our mom-“

“Samuel.” John hisses. “I don’t want you poking her into our fuckin’ business-“

The force on your hand tightens, and you raise your chin slightly. 

“I’m not going to do or say anything.” You snap. You could say you already knew, but you don’t want to. Not when you think the backlash would fall on Dean. “And you don’t have to tell me-“

“We figured out a way to kill it.” Sam pushes on, ignoring John’s glare. “Have you heard of Samuel Colt?”

“Samuel Winchester-“

“Yeah.” You nod. “I’ve read about him.”

“He made a weapon that kills demons.” Sam says, looking back to John’s furious expression. “Dad, can you-“

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’-“

“She could help.” Sam’s voice is almost pleading. “Please, Dad, she’s a really good hunter-“

John lets out a loud, dry laugh, and it twists in your stomach. “Sammy, I don’t know how you’ve forgotten-“

“About my family?” You cut in, raising your brows and holding John’s shocked expression. “The one you figured me out with?”

“I did figure you out,” John sneers. “You’re nothing more than a spoiled brat, raised by a bunch of soft fuckin’ pussies-“

It’s your turn to laugh. “The same soft pussies who gave me this?” You raise your palm, your other hand remaining on Dean’s brow. “The one’s I haven’t seen since I was eight years old?”

John tenses, and you give him a sickly sweet smile, your voice growing cold.

“You don’t know me, John Winchester. You don’t know who I am.” You raise your chin, holding his gaze. “Don’t think for one second that you’ve figured me out.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and it’s like stone around your lungs. You’re almost sure that John is going to lunge out of his seat as rip your theory out, or stab you, or just shoot you and get it over with, because he may not have you figured out, but you remember his warning from the poltergeist. You haven’t forgotten that he knows you’re… whatever you are, and he well within his right to hate that-

“Show her the Colt, Dad.” Sam breaks the silence, his voice soft. “For Dean.”

John scowls, but reaches behind his body and pulls out a thin, well-detailed revolver, placing on the side table with careful hands.

You blink at it. “It’s a gun.”

“No shit, girl-“

“Dad.” Sam mumbles. “Please.”

John lets out a long, slow breath. “It’s a demon killin’ gun.” He mutters, his words pushed through his teeth. “And it’s fuckin’ ours, so don’t you even think about trying to take it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you drawl, ignoring John’s glare as you scan over the gun.

You wouldn’t dream of it. You don’t need a gun to kill a demon, that something your body seems to be able to do all on its own. That could be another women of the high thing. It could just be a you thing.

Because you still don’t feel fully human. And usually the Darkness balks and roars at threats. Lashing and spreading when there’s a monster that could hurt Dean on a hunt, when someone says something that it perceives as a threat, whenever John Winchester walks into a room.

It has no interest in this gun. It’s a gun, in John Winchester’s hands, and it feels like nothing more, and nothing less.

You’d like to hold it, to study it, but your hand is still trapped against Dean.

And you certain John wouldn’t take too kindly to you crossing the room and trying to pick it up. So you remain where you are, and only hum.

“Okay.”

You’re getting really sick of all these long silences. Sam keeps trying to make more small talk—and he hasn’t gotten better at it the last hour—as John refuses to acknowledge you any further, and you just stay next to Dean. You think the sky could fall and the earth could shake and you still wouldn’t be able to move. Not as that invisible force keeps you there, and you can’t feel anything wrong with it. It’s almost calming. Almost natural, keeping you where you’re supposed to be in spite of any fear or feral instinct to run from where John Winchester could decide that Sam’s pleading isn’t enough, and make good on his promise all those years ago.

But he never does. Eventually John—after a long, strange moment of just staring at Dean’s body—excuses himself with a mutter. 

Sam gives you an odd look and shrugs it off, saying he’s going to get some more coffee, because you could all use it. 

And you’re left alone with Dean. Dean’s body. Not Dean himself. 

Dean would smile and tease and joke with you. Dean would be shoving away your hand with a grumble of I’m not a freakin’ dog, Princess, before teasing you about petting him at all.

Right now he’s just a shell. And it’s horrible. It’s mold in your body and over your eyes, and you don’t want to look at him but you can’t look away.

You pull his ring out of your jacket and place it on the side-table. It’s his. He deserves to have it back.

And when you swallow, you know this might be your only chance to tell him something, even if no one but you hears it. You have to tell him something.

“Dean- I-“ You’re choking on nothing. You have to be able to push through this. “I- Stop. Stop sleeping.” 

He’s not sleeping. You know he’s not sleeping.

You can’t find it in you to say the truth.

“Just- Stop.” You take a shaking breath, bowing your head to stare at your hand, still tangled in his hair. “Please.”

Something feels like it’s squeezing your hand, a warm wind ghosting over your knuckles, and then the force is gone. 

You move your hand away slowly, like you’re not sure you’re allowed to. And when you look at your palm, it’s tainted in gold.

In Dean.

Your head shoots up, your mouth opening to call his name, but the door swings open. 

You stare at John Winchester. He stares at you.

“What-“

“Need that.” He grunts, pointing to the Colt, still on the table. “Shouldn’t have left it here with you.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, clearly a terrible choice, given it’s still here.”

John just scowls, grabbing the Colt and tucking it back into his pants. “Stay here until Sammy gets back, and have him call me if Dean starts to move. Got it?”

“Where are you going?”

“Not your-“

“And before you refuse to tell me,” you snap, standing a little taller. “Remember that I am not your kid, and I have no reason to do what you tell me to.”

John’s jaw ticks. “It ain’t telling you, girl, that’s-“

“An order?” You raise your brows. “I don’t take your orders. Where are you going.”

John scans over you with a scowl, his voice low when he answers, like he hopes you just won’t hear him. “I’m fixin’ this. Stay here.”

“Fixing-“ You pause, glancing at the gun. At the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket, right next to a stick of chalk. You can’t read the paper. 

You recognize one of the symbols on it. You’d seen it just a few days ago, pouring over a book in Bobby’s kitchen.

“How?”

“Don’t worry about it-“

“I can help.”

John scoff. “I don’t need your help, girly-“

“John.” Your voice is flat, but it’s all you can bother with right now. “I know what you’re doing. And you don’t have to do it like that.”

You nod to his pocket, to the demon summoning ritual printed on torn paper, and his eyes narrow. 

“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re getting at-“

“I can help.” You repeat. You will help. You don’t know what John’s plan is, but you know that if Dean doesn’t stop sleeping, you’ll… 

You don’t know. All you do know is that the pain is drowning you, you’ll to anything to make it stop, and everything in you wants Dean. It’s all washed out and colorless without him. 

And you can help.

“He’ll come for me.” You rub your thumb over your palm, shrugging like what you’re saying is nothing at all. “Demons always do.”

You don’t know exactly what about your words convinces John, but you don’t really care all that much. Because he glances at Dean, looks back to you, and nods.

And you follow him into the boiler room, hugging your body like you can hold the Darkness in your body as it starts to stretch once more. 

John says the demon’s name is Azazel. It’s a proper demon name.

It makes everything too big. 

And when you say it, when you call for him, you know why you hate the word before he even appears. It tastes like as, and the world goes gray, and this was a mistake.

But it’s too late to run now.

Azazel smiles at you like he has before. It would never matter what body he was occupying, you’d always recognize that smile. It creeped over your skin and haunted your nightmares, the same way Dean’s winning smile followed you into every dream.

The shade of yellow in his eyes is sickly. You’ve only seen it from afar, twisting and rotting in body.

It’s worse up close.

“Hello,” He says your name, and it might be the worst sound you’ve ever heard. “Pleasure seeing you here. Wish I could say I’d been knocked out of my boots, but,” he sighs, clicking his tongue, nod it almost sounds like he’s disappointed in you. “I seen you with the smaller one? Bigger one?” He laughs. You’re going to vomit. “The one that’s wasting away as we chat. Dean.”

“Stop talking to her.” John grunts. “She’s just the caller, you’re here for me.”

Azazel attention flicks away from you, and his grin grows. “Well, if it isn’t old Johnny Winchester. Didn’t think I’d ever see you two pairin’ up. She’s a little above your pay grade, don’t you think-“

“She’s just a girl-“

Azazel laughs at that. You can’t really remember how to speak.

“Just a girl?” He cackles again, and the Darkness feels like it’s going to shred you apart, staring in your lungs and ripping up your spine. “Oh, you have no idea. We’ve been watching you, darling, and you are so much more than you let on. More than any spirit or monster, more than sweet Sammy Winchester and the others, more than me.”

You blink at him, your voice hoarse. “I don’t- Sam’s-“

“Oh, he’s a little more than he seems as well. John knows what I’m talkin’ about, ain’t that right?”

John expression is firm. Unreadable. 

The room is sort of spinning.

“That’s not her business.” John says, and Azazel laughs again. You wished he’d stop.

“Oh, it’s more than her business. Do you really know, John? The grand hunter himself having damnation right under his nose, not able to sniff it out.”

You swallow. “I- I’m not- damnation-“

Azazel shrugs. “That’s fair, you haven’t quite hit that milestone yet. And you could be salvation, but I don’t you will be. You seem to like the pain too much, don’t you.”

John looks between you and Azazel with a frown. “She’s nothin’, and this isn’t-“

“Wrong, Johnny! She’s everything.” Azazel shoots you a wink. “Might end up more, if she lets herself. But she’s a righteous little witch-“

You pray John heard it as bitch. 

You’re not that lucky.

“She’s a what.” 

You thought he’d know. But he’s shaking his head like he doesn’t believe it, and you realize that he didn’t. That he’d only hated you, not what you are.

But he certainly knows now. He’s walking away from you, looking at you like you’re a bomb set to go off any moment. It’s terrifying, and you can’t worry about it right now. Azazel’s wasting time.

Time Dean doesn’t have.

“She’s an obstacle,” Azazel sneers. “Smart, pretty thing. Got Dean wrapped around that finger of hers-“

“She doesn’t have Dean-“

John’s snap is cut off by Azazel’s shrug.

“Not now. But that’s just cause the boy is dying, and nobody’s got him. Nobody but you, John. You’ve always got your sons, always keeping them nice and safe, comfy and hidden from the truth-“

“I’m protecting them.” John grunts. If you weren’t falling and burning from the inside, you’d press about what the fuck the truth is. “And we both know what we’re building up to-“

Azazel sighs. “Well, I was hopin’ you’d try to kill her.” You must visibly go pallid, because he waves you off with a hand. “Don’t worry, darling. John’s gonna take care of Dean first, then deal with you. For now, we’re gonna cut to the chase. I can save Dean, but I don’t just want that gun in your pocket.”

John’s eyes narrow. “What-“

“I want you, John. Damned down in hell, like you shoulda been long ago. Gimme you and the gun, and Dean wakes up like nothin’ ever happened.”

“I want to see him. Make sure you follow through.” John holds Azazel’s gaze, and the demon shrugs.

“Seems fair. We got a-“

“And.” John jerks his head to you, and the Darkness recoils and explodes. Still trapped in your body. “I want her gone.”

Azazel sighs. “That might be a little outside my jurisdiction, I’m afraid-“

“Demons don’t got jurisdictions-“

“With her?” Azazel laughs. You wish you could remember how to scream or speak or move. “We all got jurisdiction. But,” he raises his brows. “I can kill everyone she cares about and make her life worse than hell, if she gets near your boys again. Deal?”

John doesn’t hesitate. He nods, shakes Azazel’s hand, and that’s it.

You don’t get to scream or protest or fight or explode. Your fate is sealed and it’s out of your hands. John doesn’t look at you as he leaves you in the boiler room, Azazel smirks at you again before he evacuates his vessel, and it’s… over.

You won’t get to say goodbye. You don’t doubt Azazel’s promise—if you go near Sam and Dean again, Bobby will probably die and you’ll live a life worse than hell–and you can’t fix this. You won’t even get to say goodbye.

But Dean will be okay. Azazel will heal him, and he’ll be broken by John’s death but that’s not your problem, because you have to go.

And you’ll have to get through this. Alone. 

You will get through this. You’d say you’ve gotten through worse, but if it really does feel like this is something a little lower than low, and that can’t matter.

You’ll get through it. You have to get through it. You always get through it, and you don’t have any other choice.

And then color burst along your vision and over the White, and there’s silver harmony in everything, and Dean’s okay.

But you still don’t get to stick around. You’ll never get to shout at him for almost dying, or fight about how you did the same to him only two weeks ago. You won’t get to know what the gold is. You won’t get an apology, or another chance to try and hate him. You’ll have to learn what you are alone. You’ll tell Bobby you’re searching for a cure—one that isn’t Dean, even if you can’t really imagine there being anything else that could even compare—and you’ll figure out how to not be damnation. 

You don’t really want to be salvation either.

But you’ll have to learn how to be nothing more than you, alone.

And those pieces Dean left over your body aren’t shattering, or eroding, but freezing. It feels like a stasis. Permanent light trapped in your body, gravity calling you back to Dean’s side that you can fight against because you still have that iridescent light lining everything inside of you.

You don’t get to say goodbye.

But you’ll get through this. 

You always do.

End Note: John Winchester you should be glad you’re dead and also not real or I’d kill you with my bare hands for what you did to my husband. Also I’m SORRY but you have to TRUST I’m doing something!!! I’m cooking!! 

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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[keeryhours]

wildflower chapter nine

Eddie Munson x Henderson! female reader, Steve Harrington x reader

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Eddie Munson Masterlist

Steve Harrington Masterlist

Summary:

You have mediation with Eddie, then get some big news afterwards.

Warnings:

Custody arguments, court, pregnancy

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N:

I’m sorry this chapter took forever to get out! Hoping to be faster with the next one 🙏🏻

“Ms. Henderson,” the mediator steepled his hands over his chest as he sat back in his leather chair. “You are not willing to agree to 50/50 custody, correct?”

You shifted uncomfortably in your chair. Your eyes darted to Eddie sitting across from you, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. “No,” you answered.

He looked at Eddie, who adjusted his suit cuffs as he gave you a look. He went to speak, but his lawyer spoke for him. “My client is not willing to take less.”

“Neither of you are willing to budge at all?” The mediator asked, like why are you even here?

Why were you here? That was Eddie’s stupid fault. Just looking at him pissed you off. You’d been hoping he would at least come to his senses by the time mediation came around, but unfortunately that did not happen.

You and Eddie looked at one another. You both shook your heads, set in your decisions. The mediator held his hands up- “Well, if we can’t come to an agreement here, the next step would be court intervention.”

You shook your head, bringing your hand up to cover your eyes as tears began to well. This could not be happening. Eddie’s lawyer began packing up, and you could feel your ex’s eyes on you.

Eddie wanted to say something, to reach out and touch you and comfort you, but his lawyer was pushing him from the room and, at the end of the day, he was the reason for your stress and pain, anyway. As usual, he thought to himself.

He hated himself for this. Sure he wanted the time with his son, but he was putting you through hell. He hadn’t even realized until he’d seen you today, but it was evident it was having an effect on you. You looked sick.

You felt sick. You had finally made that doctor’s appointment your mom and Steve had been hounding you about, which is where you’d be heading next. You straightened your blouse and skirt and stood, trying to compose yourself before walking out of the room.

Eddie caught your attention in the hall as you left. He could see your eyes bloodshot from crying, the dark circles around them. He felt like shit. But he also felt like this was his right - his son - and he didn’t want to back down. But goddamn, he never liked seeing you hurt.

“This is so stupid, you know that?” You hissed at him in the hallway as you reached him. “You have the band. You travel. You go on tour for months at a time. And you want 50/50?”

“He can stay with you when I’m on tour, okay?” Eddie said, trying to get you to see his side. “Or with Wayne some nights. He can even come visit me when he’s older. I just want to have as much time with my son as I can when I’m home.”

You understood where he was coming from, but you couldn’t have Asher taken from you half the time. You couldn’t stand the thought. “It’s just too much, Ed. I don’t mind some visitation, but 50/50 - it’s just too much. You can’t take him from me half the time.”

Eddie let out a short, humorless laugh. “I am not trying to take him from you! Jesus, that’s what I’m trying to say.”

“But you are,” you said, tears once again starting to fall. “If you do this, you are.”

Before Eddie could say anything else you turned and left, heels clicking as you walked out of the courthouse. You were meeting Steve outside to take you to your appointment, and you knew he’d want to hear how the mediation has gone.

It had been pointless, just as you suspected.

“Do you want me to come in with you?” Steve asked as he pulled up outside the doctor's office. You eyed the door, dreading going inside.

“No, it’s okay.” You began unbuckling your seatbelt, grabbing your bag from the floor. “Just take Ash and go play, I should be done in an hour.”

Steve nodded, but his expression was etched with concern. “Okay. We’ll be back then. Just…I’m here for you, you know that?”

“I know.” You smiled at him gently, but your body was buzzing with anxiety. Steve had had a point about your lack of a period. It still hadn’t come. You were very late, and you never were.

Well. Once.

You climbed out of the car with your bag, giving Steve one last smile. You opened the back door and leaned in to give Asher a kiss on the cheek. “Bye, buddy. Be good for Steve. I love you.”

“Love you!” He said back, reaching for you as you pulled away.

You carefully shut the door as you moved back, waving one last time as they pulled off. You took a deep breath, then turned and walked into the office.

Steve drove down the road to the nearby park. He unbuckled Asher from his seat and let him down, the toddler running to the playground equipment as fast as his tiny legs would carry him. Steve chased after him, running out of breath a lot faster than he used to.

Asher climbed and played on the slides, Steve pushed him on the swing, and they played a game of catch with the big rubber ball you brought from home.

When they got hungry, Steve bought a couple snacks from the vending machine. Asher pointed to the candy bar as it fell, laughing hard.

“What, you like the vending machine?” Steve laughed. He put in another dollar and punched in the number for a bag of chips. Asher watched with rapt attention as the snack was dispensed and fell down into the bottom. He squealed with delight, watching as Steve grabbed the bag.

They ate lunch together on the grass, enjoying the cool weather. It was nearly Halloween, and there was a chill in the air. Steve wondered what you had planned for the holiday, since you hadn’t brought it up with everything else going on.

“Alright, big man,” Steve said once they were done eating, “Let’s run out all your energy before we go pick up Mommy.”

Steve chased him around, the little boy laughing his head off as Steve pretended to be unable to catch him. As he ran back to the main part of the playground, he tripped over the step, falling forward onto his face on the mulch. He immediately started crying and Steve panicked, rushing to his side.

He lifted him up, examining his face for injuries. He had a big scrape on his left cheek, but otherwise looked fine. He was wailing, and it broke Steve’s heart.

“Hey, Ash, it’s okay,” Steve cooed softly, picking him up as he headed back for the car. “You’re okay, buddy. Just a little scrape. You’re such a big boy.”

He sat Asher up in the passenger seat as he reached into the glove compartment for the first aid kit you insisted he keep. Now, he was grateful for your helicopter parenting. He sprayed some of the disinfectant on Asher’s cheek, which made him cry more and made Steve feel like shit. He then covered it with a Thomas band aid, which Asher loved.

He got Ash back in his car seat before getting back in the front. It had been about an hour, so it was time to pick you up. His mind raced as he drove, wondering what it would mean if you were pregnant. It could be his - he could be a dad. A real dad. But it also could be Eddie’s. As much as he hated it, he remembered that night you spent with Eddie when he got to town. Yeah there was some time between instances, but it was close enough it would be hard to tell.

As much as he had tried to help you avoid this - besides the accidentally cumming inside, that was on him - he was kind of excited by the idea of you carrying his child. He knew you would look so beautiful, glowing, just like you were when you were pregnant with Asher. But if it was his baby…he doesn’t think there’s a version of you that could be any more beautiful than that.

But it wasn’t ideal. He didn’t want to have to spend 8-9 months wondering if the child belonged to him or Eddie. He knew he’d get attached to the possibility. And if he did that, only for the baby to be born and be Eddie’s - it would break his heart.

Steve’s mind was still reeling when he pulled up outside the office again. You were leaning against the entrance, jacket pulled tight. As you got closer to the car, Steve could see that it looked like you had been crying.

“What did they say?” Steve asked as soon as you were in the car. He couldn’t wait another second. He needed to know.

You looked into the backseat. Asher had fallen asleep in his car seat, and he looked angelic like that. His little cherub face, chubby cheeks and pouty lips. You loved him more than anything.

Finally, you turned back to Steve. You let out a big breath. “You were right.”

Steve’s heart stuttered in his chest. “I was right?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I…I’m pregnant.”

Steve let out a breathless chuckle at the words. He couldn’t believe it. You really were pregnant. You were really pregnant and it might be his. “Do you know…who…”

You squeezed your eyes shut, tears falling, and Steve felt terrible for asking the question. “No. I don’t know.”

It was silent for a minute. Finally Steve spoke up - “Do they know when we’ll be able to know?”

You sniffled. “They said we might know more when we do the ultrasound and see exactly how many weeks I am. But since the…instances were only two-ish weeks apart, we might not be able to tell until they’re born and we can do a DNA test.”

Steve took in the news. He didn’t like it. He wanted this baby to be his, and he wanted to know now. “Do you feel like you know who’s it is?”

“No, Steve. I have no fucking idea. It could be either of yours.” You covered your face with your hands. “Fuck. This is all a disaster.”

Steve began driving back to your house, the ride tense and awkward. He wanted to say something. He wanted to be happy. He’d always wanted to be a dad. He had considered himself one with Asher, but Eddie coming back into your lives only showed how easily that could be taken away.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said finally. “I’m here for you no matter what. I love you and that baby no matter what.”

His words did make you feel a little bit better. You knew they were true. But what if this baby was Eddie’s? Clearly he’d want to be involved. This would only make things more complicated.

Steve parked outside of your apartment building. “Want me to come in with you?”

You smiled softly at him. “You don’t have to. I’m just going to lay Asher down and probably take a nap myself. A lot to process today.”

Steve nodded in understanding. “Well, call me if you need me.”

As you laid in your bed, your mind raced with thoughts of this baby and the potential fathers. If it was Steve’s, things might be easier. He would be happy. He would be a great father, wouldn’t treat Asher any differently than his own child. Maybe you could even try a relationship.

But if it was Eddie’s? What would that mean? Surely he would try to fight you for this child, too. You couldn’t stand the thought of having this baby and immediately having to hand them over half the time.

You were actually terrified.

The next day as you were feeding Asher breakfast, the phone rang. You left him in his high chair to go grab the phone from the wall.

“Hello?”

“Uh, hey. It’s me.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, an anxious habit. “Hi, Eddie. What do you want?”

“I…I was just wondering if I could take Asher tomorrow. I want to bring him to the studio and let him meet the guys.”

You thought for a moment. You could be petty and say no, but then you really would be what he was accusing you of. “Okay. That’s fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Eddie.” You felt like rolling your eyes. “Just let me know when you’re picking him up.”

“Around 10 in the morning.”

“Okay.” You played with the phone cord, wondering if you should just go ahead and tell him about the pregnancy. “Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

A pause. Might as well just say it. “I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Finally, “Is…is it mine?”

You squeezed your eyes shut as you could feel the tears coming on. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“…No.”

Eddie’s mind was spinning now. He could be having another child. A chance to do it right from the beginning this time. But what if it wasn’t his? What if it was Steve’s? The thought made him sick to his stomach.

“When will we know?”

“Maybe at the ultrasound. Maybe not until it’s born.” You let out a long sigh. “This is such a mess, Ed.”

Eddie felt bad for you. But he was also stressing, wanting the baby to be his but terrified it wasn’t. Also a little scared of the idea of having two kids, but he would rather that than you have a baby with Steve.

“I know,” he said. “I’m not gonna lie to you, it is a mess. But you’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”

You nodded, sniffling as you wiped the tears away. “I know. Either way, this baby has a dad who loves them.”

“That is true,” Eddie said. “I just hope it’s mine.”

You laughed a little. “Yeah, both of you do. Someone’s getting their heart broken one way or the other.”

You genuinely felt bad. And you felt like a huge idiot for having unprotected sex with two different guys so close together. Now you had to explain this to your mom.

Surely that could only go well.

As you ended the call and went back to help Ash with his breakfast, you thought about how his life was going to change. A new little brother or sister. It was hard for you to imagine your baby boy as a big brother. You didn’t even know how you were going to explain this to him. How would he understand? Would he adjust okay? Or would he hate having to share your attention?

That was your main fear, how Asher would take this. He was the most important thing in the world to you, and you wanted him to be happy. You knew he would get used to it, but you already felt so guilty.

This was going to change everything.

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[astrxsee]

I absolutely loved "price bringing the boys to his country home for the holidays," RAHHHHH, thank you for sharing your visions 😁 also re: your tags, I Will be getting you started on how soap talks SO FREAKING DIRTY About Price's pride and joy - - lord -- anyway, love for the New Year!

<3 -@horny-for-tf141

ilysm this is my first ask ever eeeeee

also this is part 2 to this

no bc simon wont shut up about you. johnny would hear about every interaction between the two of you that day. the scot eating up every sweet word that falls out of the larger man’s mouth.

“i could just smell her ‘air, took everythin’ in me not to grab her right there.”

soap would nod like an eager puppy, probably holding back something borderline feral.

“yeah, l.t., those eyes, they just do something for ya. don’t they?”

he’d say to ghost, pushing him to say more. he’d try and miserably fail to hide the growing tent in his pants as his superior kept talking. soap couldn’t help but to notice the tension in simon’s body and the way his hands would ball into fists as he kept talking.

“now what was she thinking putting on that slutty little dress on new year’s eve. god i wanted to rip that little number in half. our little birdie should know that she’s all mine.”

simon would say, his eyes peering over to johnny.

“aye, l.t., poor lass doesn’t know what’s good for her is all. show her what she needs. cap’ can’t keep her here forever.” the scot speaks up, the light from the warm fire your father made earlier flickering over his face.

-

AND OMG don’t even get me started on how they’d treat you in person like…

just imagine it’s christmas eve and your father is throwing a party for his team and a couple of his friends. simon can’t keep his eyes off you the entire night, and you know it.

you’d eventually drag him out to the porch for a smoke, him grumbling in opposition while you sweetly bat your eyelashes at him. of course he followed you like a dog, he’d follow you anywhere.

imagine cuddling into his side complaining that it’s ‘too cold’ and him putting his arm over your shoulders and pulling you in.

“why can’t you stop looking at me, simon?” you asked innocently, your eyes looking up at him. you knew the exact answer but this was just too fun.

he lets out a long groan, his hand running over his masked face.

“don’t do this to me, princess.” he practically begs you. his eyes filled with a feeling you can’t quite place.

then imagine you starting to tease him more as you trace cute patterns into the fabric of his stupid christmas sweater. his breathing becoming labored as he leans his head back, his eyes shutting. my man is fighting for his life

“please, lovie, you don’t know what you do to me.” he grits his teeth as his hands travel down to your hips. his large hand taking up so much space, squeezing onto you like you’d disappear.

“i’m sorry, si. i just can’t help it when you’re exactly what i want.”

you think it’s the doe eyes and the small kiss you pressed to his neck that gets you into the next situation.

in a split second, he had you pressed up against the siding of your father’s his captain’s house. his large arms caging you in between him and the wall. you could hear low growls coming from his throat. one of his large hands comes to rest on your hip as he buries his nose in your neck.

“you haven’t left my mind since i got here, dove. you’ve grown up so much since the last time i saw you, i just can’t help myself.”

he inhales sharply, breathing in your scent. he trails feather light kisses along your jawbone, almost like you’d break at any sort of pressure.

“you’ve been mine and you’ve always known it. just had to let you figure it out for yourself, princess.”

now don’t imagine johnny watching from inside, chubbing up at the sight of his lieutenant devouring price’s lovely, innocent little daughter. maybe ghost would let him watch when he takes her virginity

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 6

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 9k (long ass chapter lol)

Trigger warning; //

notes; Hello my loves <3 HAPPY NEW YEAR woohooo!!! Sorry for not posting these last few days, but they’ve been looong with all the celebrations. Plus, I had to travel back to my place, and it took forever. So today, you’ll not only get part 6, but also part 7 ;) (it should be up in the next few minutes). This chapter was actually pretty hard for me to write because I had doubts about where to take the story or if I should give more or fewer clues about Y/N’s background. Either way, don’t hesitate to comment because even if I don’t reply to all of you, I definitely read them, and I loveeee getting those notifications. Well, see you in a few minutes for part 7 lol <3

previous ✧ next

Late afternoon shadows stretched across Velaris as you and Cassian stepped off the bridge leading into the quieter district near the clinic. Both of you were weary—three days in Illyria had taxed your energy, even if the journey home was less fraught than the work you’d done in the camps. Your cloak felt heavier than usual, boots scuffing softly on the cobblestones as you approached the modest building that housed the clinic’s entrance and your apartment above it.

Cassian’s shoulders slumped a little, wings drooping as he glanced at you. “We made it,” he said, voice carrying a note of relief. “Another successful adventure survived.” His smile was a bit lopsided, but genuine.

You managed a small chuckle, rolling your stiff shoulders. “A success, I hope,” you answered quietly. “At least some of them seemed open to new methods.”

He nodded, raking a hand through his hair. “They’ll never admit it, but they’ll use what you taught them. You left an impression, Y/N.”

The simple honesty in his tone warmed you. The clinic door beckoned, safety and rest just inside. You paused at the threshold, turning to face him. “Thank you for coming with me,” you said softly. “I know you had other duties, but I’m grateful you lent your presence—and, frankly, your muscle—to ensure no one gave me too hard a time.”

Cassian shrugged, easy humor returning for a moment. “Any excuse to keep the Illyrians in line.” He sobered a fraction, studying you with quiet sincerity. “I’m glad I could help.”

A silence fell, not uncomfortable but weighted with the fatigue of the journey. At length, Cassian cleared his throat, as if remembering something. “Oh, right,” he said, seeming almost amused by whatever he’d forgotten. “Before I go—Rhys asked me to pass along an invitation. He’d like you to join him, Feyre, and a few others for dinner tomorrow night at their townhouse in Velaris. It’s a sort of… well, I guess a welcome dinner now that you’re truly back in the Night Court.”

Your eyes widened in surprise and a spark of gratitude lit behind them. “Dinner?” you repeated, a bit taken aback. “That’s… an honor. I—” You hesitated, a hundred questions floating to your mind. You weren’t sure what one normally did when invited to the High Lord’s home for a meal. “Should I bring anything?” you asked, half-wondering if a gift or some rare herbs might be customary.

Cassian’s grin turned playful. “Bring yourself,” he said simply. “That’s all they’ll want. Trust me, Rhys and Feyre don’t stand on ceremony with friends. Consider it an evening to relax, maybe talk about what’s next.” His gaze flicked over the clinic’s door, then back to you, voice softening. “You deserve a good meal and a bit of comfort after the work you’ve done.”

Touched by his words, you nodded. “All right,” you agreed. “I’ll be there.”

“Perfect.” He exhaled, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Now, I’d better let you rest. I think we’ve both earned a good night’s sleep.”

A small laugh escaped you. “Absolutely,” you said, resting a hand on the door’s latch. “Sleep well, Cassian.”

He gave you a salute that was half-mocking, half-genuine, wings fluttering as he turned away and headed down the street. You watched him go for a moment, then slipped inside the clinic, fatigue tugging at your limbs. Tomorrow, you would face the High Lord’s table, and perhaps some quieter conversations that might shape the next phase of your return.

For now, rest called, and you followed it gratefully up the stairs to your apartment, thoughts drifting between memories of Illyria’s harsh mountains and the warm promise of dinner among unlikely allies.

Back inside the familiar confines of the clinic, you paused just inside the door, drawing in the scents of linen and dried herbs that always lingered in the halls. Your joints ached a bit from the journey, but routine called, and you answered it. Before heading upstairs to your apartment, you moved through the quiet corridors to the records room. A low lamp flickered there, its glow soft against the shelves.

You ran your fingertips along the ledgers, pulling out the records from the past three days. Your eyes skimmed the entries, scanning notes that Elira and the other healers had left. No major emergencies, you read with relief—only a few minor wounds, a mild fever, the usual aches and pains. The neat handwriting confirmed that Elira had continued training the younger healers as planned. She’d even left a brief note: All went well. The younger ones are picking up the new bandaging technique quickly.

A small smile touched your lips. Good. Progress, even in your absence.

Satisfied that the clinic had fared well without you, you tucked the ledger back into place and turned toward the stairs. The promise of rest beckoned, and you ascended quietly, passing familiar sconces that flickered in the gentle air currents. Upstairs, your apartment welcomed you with its calm silence. You shrugged off your cloak, letting it fall over a chair, and considered the state of your legs and back. A warm bath—yes, that would be perfect.

You crossed to the small bathroom, lighting a few candles along the way. The soft glow gilded the tiled walls and the simple, claw-footed tub. Setting the faucet, you allowed steaming water to pour in, scenting it with a bit of lavender oil you kept for moments like these. As the tub filled and steam rose, you breathed deeply, letting the tension roll off your shoulders.

So much had happened—Illyria, the uncertain dynamics in the Night Court’s inner circle, and tomorrow, a dinner invitation from the High Lord himself. But for now, here, in this private sanctuary, you could let all that fade. Stripping out of your travel-stained clothes, you sank into the bath, the warm water cradling your tired muscles. The quiet of the evening settled over you, and the lavender-soaked steam eased the lingering edges of worry.

Tomorrow would bring its own challenges and discoveries. Tonight, you granted yourself peace.

When evening arrived, you found yourself walking through Velaris’s softly lit streets, a bundle of carefully chosen flowers nestled in the crook of your arm. You’d spent much of the day working at the clinic as usual, but your mind had drifted often to the upcoming dinner. Now, wearing a simple but neat outfit—something presentable without being ostentatious—you followed the directions Cassian had given you, making your way toward the High Lord and High Lady’s townhouse.

Your heart fluttered with a mix of anticipation and nerves. It wasn’t as if you were heading into battle, but meeting them on such personal terms, in their private home, was a new threshold. You hadn’t seen Azriel since returning from Illyria, and though he might be present, you tried not to focus on that too much. This evening wasn’t about your confused feelings or the golden thread that tugged quietly at your awareness. It was about respect, camaraderie, and, hopefully, laughter over good food.

Rounding a corner, you came upon the district where the townhouse stood. The soft glow of streetlamps illuminated quiet lanes, and music drifted faintly from some distant party. Ahead, you spotted the house described to you—a graceful building of warm-colored stone and gently sloping roofs. It was large enough to accommodate their inner circle and guests, yet it didn’t loom or flaunt opulence. Instead, it exuded a gentle, welcoming aura.

Plants climbed trellises along the exterior, flowering vines weaving patterns around balconies and window frames. You caught the scent of night-blooming jasmine mingling with roses and citrus blossoms, an elegant tapestry of nature’s perfume draped over the home. It felt alive, this house—a place nurtured by caring hands. A place of growth and warmth.

Approaching the door, you paused to straighten your posture and smooth your clothes. The flowers you carried were modest and cheerful—nothing exotic or rare, just a vibrant mix of blooms from a local florist. You’d considered bringing wine, but after a moment’s reflection, you realized that whatever bottle you could afford would be outshone by the contents of their likely well-stocked cellar. Flowers, though, offered color, scent, and sincerity. That, you hoped, would be appreciated.

Exhaling slowly, you stepped forward, footfalls muffled by the ivy-softened walkway. The door’s brass knocker gleamed in the lamplight. You raised your free hand and knocked gently, heart fluttering once more. Perhaps it was silly to be nervous. You’d healed impossible wounds, steered conversations with stubborn Lords, and confronted your own uncertainties. You could handle a dinner invitation.

As you waited for someone to answer, you let your gaze drift along the eaves and sills. Lanterns dangled from hooks, their glass panels casting soft patterns of light and shadow across the entryway. Everything felt harmonious and attentive to detail—a reflection, perhaps, of the people who lived inside.

In a moment, you would be ushered in, welcomed as a friend or colleague rather than a mere visitor. The thought steadied you. The flowers shifted in your arms, and their gentle fragrance rose to meet you, a reminder that some gestures spoke volumes without words.

You were here, and you would face whatever the evening brought with an open heart.

The door swung open to reveal Feyre, her hair tumbling in soft waves over her shoulders, a gentle smile illuminating her features. She wore something elegant but not showy, a simple gown that played up her natural grace. When she saw you, her eyes lit even brighter, and she reached out, enfolding you in a warm, unexpected hug. It eased a little of the tension that had coiled in your chest.

“You’re here,” she said, voice calm and welcoming. “We’re so glad you could come.”

You offered her the bouquet, a mix of vivid blooms you’d chosen with care. Her eyes widened slightly, delighted. “They’re beautiful—thank you. I know a perfect spot for these.” She stepped back, holding the flowers with a careful tenderness, as if the gift mattered more than you’d dared hope.

She ushered you inside, and you slipped off your coat. Though it hadn’t snowed that day, a crisp chill still lingered in Velaris’s winter air, and the townhouse’s warmth wrapped around you like a soft cloak. Feyre guided you through a well-lit hallway into the living room, where conversation and laughter wove a gentle tapestry over the hush of the evening.

Rhysand rose from an armchair near the hearth to greet you, his violet eyes reflecting the lamplight. “Welcome,” he said, voice smooth and sincere. “Please, make yourself at home. You’ve already met Cassian and Azriel, but allow me to introduce the rest.”

Your gaze swept over the room. Cassian stood near the mantel, a glass of wine in hand, and as you glanced at him, he offered a lazy grin. Azriel was positioned a bit to the side, one arm resting along the back of a sofa. His bandages were gone, leaving faint lines of healing scars hidden beneath well-tailored clothing. He inclined his head softly when your eyes met, acknowledging your presence without fuss.

Seated near Azriel was a stunning blonde female—radiant and poised. Her beauty caught your attention immediately. Feyre noticed your look and added with a smile, “This is Mor—Morrigan. She’s family.”

Mor raised her glass in greeting, her hazel eyes warm with easy camaraderie. “Nice to finally meet you,” she said, voice touched with a hint of laughter, as if you’d arrived just in time for something pleasant.

Another figure caught your eye next: a smaller female, perched on the arm of a chair. Her silver eyes were sharp, ancient somehow, set into a refined face and framed by dark hair. This, you guessed, must be Amren. Your heart gave a small jolt of surprise—she was the one you’d heard described as powerful and formidable, yet she merely gave you a faint nod, assessing and cool, but not impolite.

Near Cassian stood another woman, her posture elegant, her features bearing a clear familial resemblance to Feyre. This must be Nesta—Feyre’s sister, the one who you’d heard was mated to Cassian. Her gaze was direct, but not hostile; perhaps curious, as if measuring who you were and why you’d been invited into their circle. You offered her a respectful smile, and she inclined her head in a subtle, regal manner.

The atmosphere was cordial, tinted with curiosity and acceptance. The fire crackled softly behind you, the scent of rich food and spices drifting in from another room. Feyre gestured to a free chair and you sat, the others resuming their conversations, weaving you naturally into their midst.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Azriel shift slightly, watching the interplay of introductions. Morrigan turned to say something to him, drawing his attention away and giving you a moment to breathe, to take in that you were truly here, part of this intimate gathering.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” Feyre said, settling beside Rhysand, who’d gently clasped her hand. “Until then, relax. We’ve all been looking forward to getting to know you better.”

With those words and the warmth in the room, you felt some of your lingering tension melt away. You were among allies, in a house so beautifully tended, with plants climbing the windows and laughter in the air. It was easy, in that moment, to let yourself belong just a little more to this court you were slowly making home.

As you settled into a free chair near the hearth, the soft hum of conversation enveloped you. The group arranged themselves in a loose circle of armchairs and sofas, each face illuminated by the gentle firelight and the glow of simple lanterns placed around the room. Feyre had taken a seat beside Rhysand, her hand resting comfortably on his arm, while Cassian lounged near Nesta and Azriel, who remained quietly attentive. Mor perched gracefully on a low ottoman, crossing her long legs with casual elegance, and Amren claimed a small armchair as if it were a throne, her silver eyes keen but not hostile.

Feyre, ever the thoughtful hostess, spoke first. “You’ve just returned from Illyria, haven’t you?” Her voice was warm, genuine curiosity shining through. “Cassian told us a bit about your work there. How did it go?”

You drew a steady breath, aware of more eyes turning your way. “It was… challenging,” you admitted with a half-smile. “The healers were skilled but set in their ways. I managed to introduce a few new techniques. Some were skeptical, but I think a few caught on.”

Cassian gave a snort from his spot by the mantel. “Some of them were more than skeptical. Let’s say they were resistant until they saw the results.” His grin flashed, clearly proud of how you’d handled the situation.

Mor tilted her head, golden curls slipping over one shoulder. “Resistance is standard there,” she said, amused. “I’m impressed you made progress so quickly. Usually, it takes a century or two to change an Illyrian’s mind about anything.”

A ripple of light laughter flowed through the room. Even Nesta’s lips curved slightly, though her gaze remained measured. “They can be stubborn,” Nesta agreed quietly. “But if you got them to listen, you’ve accomplished a minor miracle.”

Azriel’s gaze flicked to you then, calm and thoughtful. “Any particular technique you introduced that might stand out for them?” he asked softly, voice barely above the crackle of the fire. There was interest, maybe respect, underlying the question.

You smoothed a hand over your knee, considering. “I combined some Dawn Court infusion methods with local herbs to create salves that heal burns and cuts faster. Also taught them how to more efficiently close a wound using layered bandaging, so it breathes and doesn’t trap infection.” Your shoulders relaxed as you spoke, talking shop easing the tension in your chest. “It’s subtle changes that matter over time.”

Rhysand inclined his head. “Subtle changes often pave the way for greater shifts. Even if they don’t appreciate it now, they’ll notice the difference when their warriors recover more swiftly.”

Amren’s silver eyes narrowed with interest. “You sound like someone who doesn’t fear digging into traditions,” she commented. “I suppose traveling the continents taught you that?”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Exactly,” you said. “Every place I visited had a different approach to healing. By the time I returned, I carried a blend of knowledge. Challenging ingrained habits is never easy, but I believe if we show results, people adapt.”

As the conversation in the living room flowed around you, your attention drifted to Azriel, who’d been listening quietly while the others exchanged stories. Under the soft glow of the lamps, he seemed more at ease than the last time you’d seen him—no bandages, no pained tension in his posture. But you knew better than to assume all was perfect.

Leaning forward slightly, you caught his eye. “Azriel,” you began, your voice low enough that the others, caught up in their chatter, wouldn’t be distracted. “How are your injuries feeling now?”

He blinked, as if brought out of private thoughts. The edge of his mouth curved in a faint but genuine smile. “Much better,” he replied softly, voice smooth and controlled. “Your treatments worked wonders.”

A small surge of satisfaction warmed you. “I’m glad. I worried about scarring, especially on the wings, but it seems my methods held.”

Azriel inclined his head, shadows shifting imperceptibly at his shoulders. “They did. I owe you more gratitude than I can put into words.”

You waved a hand dismissively, though not unkindly. “No need for grand thanks. It’s what I do.” After a brief moment, you continued, “If you find yourself running low on ointment or salve—anything for lingering aches—you’re welcome to stop by the clinic. I’ll make sure you have what you need.”

His eyes flickered slightly, a hint of something unreadable passing there. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, voice still gentle. “Though I think it’s my turn to follow the rules this time. I won’t risk mixing anything that’s not from your hands.”

A quiet huff of amusement escaped you. “Good,” you said, pleased to note even the faintest humor there. “I’d prefer no more surprise remedies.”

He almost smiled fully at that, and you found yourself relieved—relieved that he’d healed, relieved that you could speak amicably, and relieved that, even amidst lingering complexities, you could offer him help without awkwardness.

Rhysand leaned forward slightly, his attention shifting fully to you. “Your skill with Illyrian wings is… notable,” he said, voice calm and curious. “It’s not often we see someone outside these mountains who can treat wing injuries with such precision. Where did you learn that?”

You swallowed, noticing how everyone’s gaze had angled your way. Azriel’s dark eyes were steady, Cassian’s brows lifted with mild interest, and Mor sipped her wine, listening quietly. “I owe much to Madja,” you said with a small shrug, trying to sound offhanded. “In my youth, under her tutelage, I spent time observing healings of various kinds. When I traveled to the Dawn Court, I worked extensively with peregryns. Between the two experiences, I pieced together techniques that transfer well.”

Rhysand nodded thoughtfully, and you sensed approval rather than suspicion. Feyre offered a gentle smile, as if pleased to understand more about your background. Azriel only gave the faintest tilt of his head, acknowledging your explanation.

Before anyone could delve deeper, the door opened softly, and you all turned. Elain stepped into the room, cradling a small bundle in her arms. The atmosphere shifted; the hush that followed her appearance was softer, lighter. She carried a baby—a tiny figure swaddled in soft linens. At the sight of you, Elain’s eyes went wide, a brief flicker of something like panic crossing her face. She managed a stiff, silent nod in your direction, acknowledging your presence.

She crossed the floor and carefully handed the baby to Feyre before moving to sit next to Azriel. The subtle tension that flared in the air didn’t go unnoticed by you. Seeing her choose a seat near Azriel struck a chord, stirring a quiet ache in your chest. The memory of misunderstandings and the complexities of their relationship hovered in your mind.

Feyre, noticing the moment, turned toward you with a warm, bright smile and the infant cradled securely in her arms. “This is Nyx,” she said softly, pride and love coloring every syllable. She stepped closer, letting you see the baby’s tiny, delicate features, the soft tufts of dark hair. “Our son.”

Your heart softened at the sight, and you drew a careful breath. “He’s beautiful,” you murmured, the tension easing slightly at the simple purity of this introduction. “Congratulations.”

Feyre’s eyes sparkled. “Thank you,” she said, rocking Nyx gently. After a moment, she glanced toward Elain and then back to you. “I should also introduce you to my sister, Elain. But I believe you’ve already met?”

Your eyes darted to Elain, who offered another small, tense smile. “Yes,” you confirmed quietly. “We’ve met.” The memory of the morning with Azriel’s injury still flickered in the back of your mind. Elain’s panic that day, her attempt to help gone wrong.

The baby cooed softly, wriggling a tiny arm free from the swaddle, and Feyre adjusted him tenderly. The simple, gentle act redirected your focus to something simpler and kinder. In that moment, held in Feyre’s arms, Nyx represented a softness and hope that contrasted sharply against the intricate bonds and tensions that wove this inner circle together.

You lifted your gaze, meeting Elain’s eyes briefly. She looked away, cheeks coloring faintly, before focusing on Azriel and the room’s gentle chatter. A hush of understanding passed—whatever had happened before still lingered, unspoken and unresolved, but for tonight, perhaps it could remain beneath the surface, overshadowed by the presence of family and the simple joy of a new life in their midst.

You blinked, noting the tiny, budding wings peeking out from Nyx’s swaddle. It took a moment for the sight to register—Feyre and Rhysand’s child had wings. The world narrowed briefly to that small detail, a realization that sent a pulse of concern through your chest. Memories stirred of the quiet horrors you’d learned about: how some winged births could end tragically if the mother’s body wasn’t prepared.

“Oh,” you said softly, voice hushed. “He has wings.” The words escaped before you could smooth your tone. You turned your gaze to Feyre, eyes wide with a hint of shock. “Are—are you all right?” you asked, concern lacing your voice. You knew how risky such births could be, how many mothers—non-winged mothers—lost their lives or their children. The knowledge spilled out in your startled tone, too raw and honest.

As soon as the question left your lips, you caught yourself. This was personal, deeply so, and it might not be your place to ask. A flush warmed your cheeks, and you cleared your throat softly. “I’m sorry,” you murmured quickly, lowering your eyes. “That was intrusive. I didn’t mean—”

Feyre’s smile was gentle, understanding. She shifted Nyx slightly, rocking him in a way that spoke of deep maternal comfort. “It’s all right,” she said quietly, voice kind and steady. “I know it can be dangerous. It was. But I’m fine now—truly.”

She exhaled softly, sharing a glance with Rhysand who offered a reassuring nod. “We had a lot of support, the best healers, and… let’s just say there were extraordinary circumstances that helped.” Feyre’s tone carried quiet resilience, as if acknowledging a trial endured and overcome.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Relief and admiration washed over you. “I’m glad,” you said simply, heartfelt. The image of the tiny, safe baby cradled in Feyre’s arms, half winged and wholly loved, took the sting out of your earlier alarm.

Nyx stirred, letting out a small, contented noise, as if confirming that all was indeed well. And so, in that moment, you allowed yourself to trust in their strength and the healing they had found—together, in this extraordinary court.

The dining table was set with care and elegance, an array of dishes spread like a tapestry of flavors and colors. Feyre had returned after settling Nyx down for the night, and now she sat beside Rhysand, her eyes brighter, freer, as though a weight had lifted from her shoulders. You were seated between Amren and Mor, with Azriel directly across from you. The air hummed with conversation, the gentle clink of silverware, and the faint glow of faelight sconces casting a warm gleam over crystal and china.

The food was beyond anything you’d tasted in recent memory—roasted vegetables drizzled with spiced oils, tender meats seasoned to perfection, a fresh salad of night-blooming flowers and herbs that tasted of moonlit gardens. Between bites, you couldn’t help small hums of appreciation. Mor grinned at your delighted expression, whispering that Feyre and Rhys knew how to choose their cooks wisely. Amren, on your left, merely arched an eyebrow, as if such quality was the norm in this household.

Across the table, Rhysand and Feyre spoke quietly with Azriel about the latest developments with Koshiev’s faction. They didn’t hide the topic, but neither did they elaborate on grim details unnecessarily. Still, the tension was palpable.

Cassian, seated beside Nesta, seemed to pick up on the unease radiating from her. He leaned closer, murmuring something low that drew a reluctant smirk from her lips—a rare crack in her otherwise steely demeanor.

The conversation shifted, soft murmurs filling the dining room as everyone seemed to settle into their own thoughts. But your gaze lingered, drawn to the quiet interactions between Azriel and Elain.

They weren’t doing anything outright inappropriate, of course. Yet the way Azriel leaned slightly toward her, his shadows curling faintly around her seat as though they couldn’t help themselves—it was subtle, but unmistakable. And Elain, for all her delicate, quiet nature, didn’t seem to shy away from him. If anything, the small glances she cast in his direction, the way her hand lingered near his on the table, spoke volumes.

Something was going on between those two. That much you were sure of.

But didn’t she have a mate?

The thought gnawed at you. From what you’d learned during your short time with this group, the bond between mates was supposed to be unbreakable, undeniable. A rare gift—or curse, depending on how one saw it. Yet here was Elain, sitting close to Azriel, her mate nowhere to be found.

You couldn’t help but recall the low, tense conversation you’d overheard between Rhysand and Azriel days ago. Their voices had been hushed, but you’d caught enough to piece together fragments. It had been about Elain, about Azriel’s feelings for her—and about how complicated the whole situation was.

Even tonight, the tension was palpable. Rhysand and Feyre avoided looking too long in Azriel and Elain’s direction, as if their mere proximity might ignite something. Cassian’s joviality had dimmed slightly, and even Mor seemed unusually reserved.

You shifted in your seat, the unease settling in your chest like a stone. Whatever was unfolding here felt like a precarious balancing act, one wrong move away from shattering entirely.

It wasn’t jealousy, you told yourself firmly—because at the end of the day, you barely knew him. Whatever flicker of connection you’d felt when you first crossed paths with Azriel had been just that: a flicker.

Still, you couldn’t entirely ignore the truth you’d kept to yourself. That he was your mate.

You hadn’t planned to speak of it, not now, perhaps not ever. What would be the point? He didn’t seem to know, and you weren’t about to disrupt the fragile balance of this group—or his life—by bringing it up.

But watching him now, seeing the way his gaze softened for Elain, the way his shadows seemed drawn to her as if they couldn’t help themselves... it unsettled you.

You reached for your glass of wine, your fingers tightening slightly around the stem. It wasn’t your place to interfere, nor did you want to. And yet, the sight stirred something uncomfortable in you—an ache you couldn’t quite place, an unease that whispered of things better left buried.

For now, you resolved, you would tread carefully. Whatever this was, it wasn’t your story to tell.

As the conversation ebbed and flowed, you caught snippets of Mor and Feyre discussing the upcoming Solstice celebrations. Their voices carried a mix of excitement and warmth, and even those not directly involved in the planning seemed to lean in slightly, drawn by the festive air.

“Everything’s nearly set,” Mor said with a grin, her golden eyes glimmering. “But I still think we need more lights. You can never have too many.”

Feyre laughed softly, shaking her head. “We’re already bordering on blinding half the Sidra with what we’ve got planned.”

“Exactly,” Mor countered. “Bordering. Not quite there yet.”

The exchange drew a small chuckle from the others, and soon the table was animated with chatter about the Solstice—decorations, food, gifts, the music for the evening. You found yourself listening quietly, a faint smile on your lips as their excitement filled the room.

Then Cassian turned to you, curiosity lighting his hazel eyes. “What about you, Y/N? What are you planning for the Solstice?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Working,” you said simply, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

Cassian stared at you, his expression shifting from surprised to faintly unimpressed. “You’re working?” he repeated, as though the concept was completely foreign to him.

You shrugged, taking a sip of your wine. “I gave the night and the day after to the other healers,” you explained matter-of-factly. “They have families to spend it with.”

His blunt stare didn’t waver. “And you don’t?”

The question hung in the air for a beat too long. You didn’t flinch, though. Instead, you gave him a small, wry smile. “Not in the traditional sense,” you replied. “I’ve spent most of my life on the road. Holidays are just... nights like any other to me.”

Mor frowned slightly, her lips parting as though she wanted to say something, but Feyre beat her to it. “You could spend it with us,” she offered warmly, her eyes soft and kind. “If you’re free after your shift, of course.”

You hesitated, glancing around the table at the faces watching you. “That’s kind of you,” you said after a moment, your voice quieter now. “I’ll see how the night goes, but I wouldn’t count on me. Those nights tend to be pretty busy.”

Cassian still didn’t look entirely pleased, but he let the topic drop, turning to Azriel to mutter something under his breath. Across from you, Feyre and Mor resumed their discussion about the preparations, but you noticed the glances they shot your way from time to time.

The Solstice was supposed to be a time of joy, of togetherness. And yet, for you, it had always been a reminder of the distances you’d kept—between yourself and others, between your past and your present. Maybe this year would be different. But you weren’t ready to hope for that just yet.

Nesta, her tone gentle yet curious, asked, “Don’t you have family here in Velaris? Since it’s where you’re from?”

Cassian’s head turned sharply to her, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. He looked like he was about to respond, but you stopped him with a soft smile, silently telling him it was okay.

“It’s fine,” you replied, your voice steady but quieter now, the words laced with a faint melancholy. “My parents passed away when I was still a child. And... it wasn’t exactly a union their families approved of. My father was a High Fae, and my mother was Illyrian.”

The table fell silent, the weight of your admission settling over the group.

Feyre’s expression softened, her brows knitting together as if piecing together what your childhood must have been like. Even Amren’s usually sharp gaze seemed to flicker with a faint glimmer of understanding.

Rhysand leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table, his voice low and thoughtful. “A High Fae and an Illyrian,” he mused, his violet eyes locking onto yours with a knowing look. “That couldn’t have been easy for them—or for you.”

You nodded, taking a moment to gather your thoughts. “It wasn’t. My mother’s family saw her as a traitor for leaving the war-camps. And my father’s family... well, let’s just say they weren’t thrilled about him choosing someone they considered beneath him. They tried to make it work, but the rejection on both sides was... hard.”

Rhysand’s lips curved into a faint, understanding smile tinged with something more—perhaps a trace of his own memories. “My parents were mates,” he said softly. “But even that bond didn’t shield my mother from what she endured because she was Illyrian. My father’s court viewed her as an outsider, no matter that she was his equal in every way.”

You glanced at him, surprised by his willingness to share the parallel. A small, genuine smile tugged at your lips. “Then I suppose you understand better than most.”

He inclined his head. “More than you might think. My mother bore the burdens of being Illyrian with grace, but I saw the way it chipped away at her. The way others refused to see her worth simply because of where she came from.”

The room was quiet for a beat longer, the group absorbing the weight of your shared experiences.

“Did they stay in Velaris?” Nesta asked gently, her voice curious but kind.

“They tried,” you said, your voice softening even more. “Velaris was my mother’s dream. She wanted a place where their love could thrive without the judgment of others. But it wasn’t that simple. My father’s family refused to acknowledge me, and my mother’s kin wanted nothing to do with either of us. They both passed when I was young, so... it’s just been me for a long time.”

Cassian shifted, his hand tightening briefly around his glass. He didn’t say anything, but the tension in his body told you all you needed to know—he hated the thought of you enduring that kind of isolation.

“I’m sorry,” Feyre said quietly, her voice warm with empathy.

You offered her a small smile, the sting of the memory softened by time. “It’s all right. I’ve built my life on my own terms since then. And Velaris... it’s still home.”

Rhysand nodded, his gaze steady. “Velaris is the City of Starlight. But it’s also a sanctuary for those who need it. And no matter what, you’ll always have a place here.”

The sincerity in his words caught you off guard, and for a moment, all you could do was nod, your chest tightening with a mix of gratitude and something you couldn’t quite name.

The laughter faded into a comfortable hum, and Rhysand glanced at you again, his tone turning slightly more serious. “Speaking of important matters, are the preparations for your trip to the Dawn Court coming along?”

You nodded, resting your hands on the edge of the table. “It’s going well,” you said. “I’m not rushing, though. The meeting isn’t for a few weeks, so there’s time to finalize everything.”

Azriel, who had been quietly observing, narrowed his eyes slightly. “What meeting?”

You met his gaze evenly. “The head healers of all the courts are gathering to discuss the rising tensions in the world. It’s not something we do often—every ten or twenty years, if that. But given everything that’s been happening lately, it was decided that now’s the time to meet.”

Feyre leaned forward, her brows knitting together in curiosity. “Even though you’ve only recently taken over from Madja, isn’t that going to be... challenging for you?”

Her question was genuine, not unkind, and you offered her a soft smile. “Not as much as you might think,” you replied. “I already know all of them. Either they trained me, or I’ve trained them at some point.”

Cassian let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Well, look at you. The prodigy of Prythian’s healers.”

You rolled your eyes at his teasing, though the corners of your mouth twitched in amusement. “Hardly. It’s more about connections and trust. It’s easier to work with people when you’ve already built a rapport.”

“True enough,” Rhysand said, his voice thoughtful. “But there’s still a lot of weight in those meetings. Decisions made there could affect countless lives.”

You nodded, meeting his gaze. “I’m aware. That’s why it’s important we all come together now. We have to be prepared for what might come next, no matter where it starts.”

Cassian broke the tension with a grin. “Still betting it’ll be less of a disaster than a High Lords’ meeting?”

Laughter rippled around the table again, and you shrugged with a playful smirk. “I’d say so. We’re less inclined to argue over who’s the most powerful and more focused on practical solutions.”

“Speak for yourself,” Amren muttered dryly. “I’d argue just for fun.”

The table erupted into laughter, the light-heartedness returning as the conversation shifted to lighter topics once more.

Dinner naturally came to an end, and the group shifted to the living room. The atmosphere turned even more relaxed as the evening stretched on. Cups of tea were passed around for some, while others nursed glasses of wine or stronger spirits. The crackle of the fire in the hearth added a cozy backdrop to the low hum of conversation and occasional laughter.

You found yourself sinking into a plush armchair, your fingers wrapped around a warm mug of tea. The soft glow of the firelight played across the room, highlighting the easy camaraderie between everyone. This wasn’t just a group of warriors and leaders—they were a family. Even in their teasing, you could sense the unshakable bonds that connected them, forged by shared history and unwavering loyalty.

For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to relax, taking in the sight of them. Feyre and Rhysand were curled up together on a loveseat, Cassian sprawled across a large sofa with Mor perched at the other end, her laughter ringing out as he recounted some likely exaggerated tale. Nesta sat nearby, a book in hand, though her attention occasionally drifted to the conversation.

But as your gaze wandered, you noticed something—or rather, someone—missing. Neither Elain nor Azriel was present. The realization sent a small, unwanted pang through your chest, one you quickly buried. Whatever their reasons for leaving, it wasn’t your concern. It couldn’t be.

When your tea was finished, you placed the empty cup delicately on the table before rising to your feet. “Thank you for the lovely evening,” you said, your voice soft but sincere. “But I should head back. There’s still some work I need to wrap up before the night’s over.”

Cassian glanced up from his drink, his grin playful as always. “You’re leaving already? And here I thought Azriel was the workaholic around here, but you might actually be worse.”

His words, though light-hearted, made something twist in your stomach. You tried to brush it off, but then he glanced around the room and added, “Speaking of which... where is Az? Slacking off for once?”

“Leave it, Cassian,” Rhysand interjected smoothly. His voice was calm, but the sharpness in his violet gaze betrayed a flicker of curiosity—or perhaps understanding—as his eyes darted to you. He didn’t press the issue, but the weight of his brief look lingered all the same.

Feyre stood and approached you, her steps fluid and graceful. She wrapped you in a warm hug, her arms firm but gentle. “Thank you for coming,” she said softly. “It was nice having you here. We’ll have to do this again soon.”

You returned the embrace, her kindness settling some of the unease lingering in your chest. “I’d like that,” you replied sincerely, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Cassian’s voice broke through the moment as Feyre stepped back. “You know, if you’re working this late, you might actually give Az a run for his money,” he teased. Then, with a mock thoughtful look, he added, “Though I guess he’s not here to defend his title. Convenient.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Maybe he’s finally taking a well-deserved break,” you said, keeping your tone light as you glanced toward the door.

Rhysand’s gaze followed yours, but he said nothing. The slight quirk of his lips suggested he’d noticed something, but whatever it was, he chose to keep it to himself—for now.

With a final round of goodnights, you stepped out into the cool night air. They were a family, and while you didn’t quite feel like part of it yet, the warmth they’d shown you was undeniable.

As you walked through the quiet streets of Velaris, the crisp night air nipping at your skin, your gaze lifted instinctively to the sky. The stars above were breathtaking—countless pinpricks of light scattered across an endless expanse of velvet black. They seemed so serene, so untouched by the weight of the world below. For a moment, you let yourself be lost in their beauty, your steps slowing as if the universe itself was urging you to pause.

You didn’t notice the tears until a cold droplet slid down your cheek, and then another. Startled, you reached up to brush your fingers against your face, finding your skin wet. Confusion prickled at the edges of your thoughts as you stared at the small drops clinging to your fingertips. You weren’t sad. At least, you didn’t think you were. The evening had been lovely—warm and full of laughter. Yet here you were, crying under the stars.

A hollow ache settled in your chest as you continued walking, the faint echo of your footsteps the only sound in the stillness. You barely knew Azriel. That thought circled your mind like an unrelenting shadow. For all the moments you’d spent stealing glances at him, observing the way he carried himself with quiet strength and grace, there was still so much you didn’t know. So much you might never know.

And then there was the bond. The invisible thread you could feel humming at the edge of your awareness, a constant reminder of something greater, something unasked for. You’d kept it to yourself, not because of secrecy, but because the mere thought of saying it aloud made your stomach twist with apprehension. It wasn’t fair—not to him, not to you.

Forcing a bond on him, on anyone, was the last thing you wanted. Azriel deserved the freedom to choose, the freedom to love without the weight of a bond dictating his path. But even as you told yourself that, a cruel voice in your mind whispered that the bond wasn’t something he would celebrate—not with you as his mate.

What did you have to offer him? Compared to Elain’s gentle beauty and kindness, you felt like a storm—chaotic and unyielding. You’d spent centuries honing your skills, fighting battles, making sacrifices. Vulnerability wasn’t something you knew how to share.

A sharp breath escaped you, your hands curling into fists as your pace quickened. The tears came faster now, silent but persistent, blurring the cobblestones underfoot. It wasn’t sadness, you told yourself again. It was confusion, frustration, maybe even fear.

You weren’t sure when the walls you’d built around yourself had started to crack, but tonight, surrounded by the warmth of the Inner Circle, you’d felt something shift. It wasn’t just about Azriel. It was about family, connection, belonging—things you’d never let yourself hope for, let alone believe you could have.

But as much as you’d enjoyed the night, as much as you’d appreciated their kindness, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being an outsider looking in. They cared for each other deeply, their bonds unbreakable. And you? You were just passing through, a healer with a tangled past and an uncertain future.

The stars blurred as fresh tears welled up, and you stopped in your tracks, tilting your head back to let the cool night air soothe your burning cheeks. You didn’t know what you were crying for—what you were mourning. Maybe it was for the family you’d lost long ago, or the life you might have had if things had been different. Maybe it was for the bond you hadn’t asked for but couldn’t ignore.

Or maybe, it was for the fragile hope buried deep within you—the hope that one day, you might find a place where you truly belonged.

Azriel’s POV

Azriel exhaled a quiet breath as he stepped into the crisp night air, the faint sounds of the dinner fading behind him. The garden of the townhouse was peaceful, blanketed in a soft glow from the moon above. Elain walked beside him, her delicate frame tucked into a thick coat, her hands gripping the fabric tightly against the chill.

The silence stretched between them, comfortable at first. But as they wandered further down the winding paths, Elain drew closer, her arm brushing his. He glanced at her briefly, noticing the faint pink on her cheeks—not from the cold, but something else.

It was when they reached the edge of the garden, where the view of Velaris spread wide and glittering below, that she finally spoke.

"Azriel," she said softly, her voice hesitant.

He turned to face her, noting the awkward expression on her face, the way her hands twisted nervously in front of her. “What is it?” he asked, his tone calm, though a flicker of concern stirred in his chest.

Elain hesitated, her gaze darting away before meeting his again. “Are you sure...we can trust Y/N?”

Azriel blinked, her question catching him off guard. Of all the things he’d anticipated her saying, this hadn’t been one of them. “Why wouldn’t we?” he asked, frowning slightly.

Elain’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s just...the way she talks, the way she carries herself. There’s something...off about her.”

Azriel tilted his head, studying her closely. He hadn’t missed Y/N’s sharp tongue during the meeting at the House of Wind, but her words had been purposeful, her actions deliberate. If Elain was referring to that, it didn’t make sense for her to hold it against Y/N.

“She was doing her job,” Azriel said carefully, keeping his tone neutral. “If this is about what happened at the House of Wind—”

“It’s not just that,” Elain interrupted, her voice rising slightly before softening again. She looked at him with wide, almost pleading eyes. “You don’t realize the way she spoke to me. The way she...looked at me. It was—” She broke off, shaking her head.

Azriel’s frown deepened. He couldn’t recall Y/N being anything but professional, but Elain’s tone suggested she felt otherwise. Still, he wasn’t one to jump to conclusions without evidence.

“Elain,” he said gently, “what exactly are you saying? Is there something specific that’s made you doubt her?”

She hesitated again, her gaze dropping to the ground. Then, after a moment, she said, “I just...feel like she’s hiding something. A lot of things. And it’s not just her past—it’s her power, Azriel. It’s unsettling. What if she’s here for something else? What if she’s working for Koschei?To attack us from the inside?”

Her voice grew more frantic as she spoke, her words tumbling over one another in a rush of worry.

Azriel’s jaw tightened, though he kept his expression calm. He reached out, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Elain,” he said firmly, his voice a quiet anchor. “You’re overthinking this.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, uncertainty flickering there.

“She’s not here to harm anyone,” Azriel continued. “If she were, we would’ve seen signs by now. And even if there were any truth to your fears, I’m keeping a close eye on her.”

Elain’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt as he added, “Nothing bad will happen while I’m around. I won’t allow it.”

For a moment, Elain simply looked at him, her expression softening at his words. She nodded slowly, though the tension in her shoulders didn’t completely ease.

“I trust you, Azriel,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel gave her a faint nod, his gaze steady. But as they turned to head back toward the townhouse, a shadow of doubt lingered in his mind—not about Y/N, but about the seeds of mistrust Elain had tried to plant.

Elain bid Azriel a soft goodnight, her steps retreating up the stairs until they faded entirely. Azriel lingered in the quiet of the garden for a moment longer, the chill of the night seeping into his skin as he let his mind turn over her words. Doubt, no matter how unwarranted, was a dangerous thing to sow.

Pushing the thoughts aside, he made his way back to the living room. Feyre, Mor, and Nesta were nowhere to be seen, their laughter and conversations long gone. Only Rhysand and Cassian remained, seated comfortably with drinks in hand.

“There he is,” Cassian said with a smirk, raising his glass. “Thought you’d vanished into the shadows for good this time.”

Azriel ignored the jab, heading straight for the sideboard. He poured himself a generous glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the firelight, and crossed the room to join them. He lowered himself into one of the armchairs, cradling the glass in his hand before taking a long sip.

“You missed the part where we solved all the world’s problems,” Cassian quipped, but there was a lightness to his tone.

Azriel shot him a look but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he turned to Rhysand, his expression thoughtful. “Did you know about Y/N being half Illyrian and half High Fae?”

Rhysand raised a brow, leaning back in his seat. “Madja mentioned it to me when I first spoke with her about Y/N, but beyond that, no. Y/N hasn’t shared much about her personal life—at least not with me.”

Azriel frowned slightly, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “She’s been...secretive.”

“That’s not surprising,” Rhysand said, his voice calm. “She’s lived a long life, Azriel. People who’ve endured as much as she likely has aren’t quick to share their scars.”

Cassian shrugged, setting his empty glass on the table with a faint clink. “It’s not uncommon, though, is it? Half Illyrians without wings? The camps might not like to talk about it, but it happens more often than they’d admit.”

Azriel’s shadows curled faintly around his shoulders, his gaze distant. “It’s not just that. She’s...different. There’s a weight to her that’s hard to ignore.”

Rhysand regarded him carefully, his violet eyes sharp. “What are you trying to say, Az?”

Azriel hesitated, the words forming slowly. “She doesn’t seem like someone who’s just here to replace Madja or take up the work of healing. There’s more to her, something she’s not saying.”

Rhysand nodded thoughtfully. “She’s a healer, yes, but she’s also a warrior. And from what I’ve gathered, she’s someone who’s fiercely loyal to those she chooses to protect. That doesn’t mean she owes us every detail of her life.”

Cassian leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “It’s not like we’ve shared all our dirty laundry with her either. Hell, Az, you’ve been watching her like a hawk since she got here, and she hasn’t so much as flinched. If she were hiding something dangerous, don’t you think she’d have slipped up by now?”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, his shadows whispering quietly in his ears. He took another sip of whiskey, letting the burn settle in his throat.

“I’m not saying she’s a threat,” he said finally. “But there’s something...unsettling about not knowing where she stands. Especially now, with everything happening in Prythian.”

Rhysand sighed, his expression softening. “You’re not wrong to be cautious, Az. But until she gives us a reason to doubt her, we owe her the benefit of the doubt. She’s earned that much through her work alone.”

“Relax, brother,” Cassian said with a chuckle. “Not everyone is out to stab us in the back. Besides, if she wanted to, she’s had plenty of chances.”

The conversation lulled, the crackling of the fire filling the silence. Azriel leaned back in his chair, the whiskey warming him from the inside out. Despite Cassian’s teasing and Rhysand’s reassurances, the unease in his chest didn’t fully fade.

He’d keep watching. Just in case.

Rhysand shifted in his seat, his sharp gaze settling on Azriel. His expression was calm, but there was a note of seriousness in his voice as he spoke. “Maybe it’s time for you to look elsewhere, brother. To seek someone who could truly bring you peace.”

Azriel sighed heavily, the sound filled with equal parts exhaustion and frustration. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, staring into it as if the whiskey held answers he couldn’t find.

Cassian, never one to miss an opportunity, smirked. “You know, Az, Rhys might actually have a point for once. The world won’t end if you let yourself—”

Azriel’s sharp glare cut him off, but it was Rhysand who pressed on, his tone gentle but firm. “Listen, brother, I’m not here to tell you how to live your life or whom to care for. But Lucien is coming back to Velaris for the Solstice, and I don’t want you to—”

Azriel’s head snapped up, and his voice was cold and clipped as he interrupted. “You didn’t have to invite him.”

Rhysand’s brows rose slightly, but his voice remained steady. “He is her mate, Azriel. Whether we like it or not, that bond exists. Ignoring it won’t make it disappear.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his shadows curling more protectively around him. “I’m well aware of that, Rhys. But you didn’t need to bring him here. Solstice is for family.”

Cassian leaned forward slightly, holding up a hand as if to diffuse the tension. “Alright, let’s all take a deep breath. It’s been a long day, and we don’t need to—”

“I don’t need your advice,” Azriel snapped, cutting him off as well. His voice was calm but laced with a quiet, simmering anger. He stood, setting his glass down with more force than necessary. “I’m grown enough to make my own decisions, and I don’t need either of you meddling in my personal life.”

Rhysand’s violet eyes followed Azriel carefully, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. But he didn’t press further, simply nodding once.

Cassian leaned back in his chair, muttering under his breath, “Well, that went well.”

Azriel didn’t respond, his shadows coiling around him as he turned and left the room. He felt their eyes on him as he walked away, but he didn’t look back.

As he stepped into the cool night air, the weight of their words still lingered. His chest felt tight, his thoughts a tangled mess of anger, guilt, and something he couldn’t quite name. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore. Or maybe he did, and that was the problem.

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[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Looks like a group of guys from your college won’t leave you alone.

Oh would you look at that,

1940’s!MobBoss!Bucky Barnes

has got your back, and will continue to have your back forever.

(Also hi babes!!! 🤗🤗Thousand kisses from me to you! 💋💋)

Have Your Back Forever And Always » 40s Bucky Barnes

Pairings: Mob Boss!40s Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky steps in and saves you from the guys in your friend group who won’t leave you alone.

Warnings: Fluff, language, alcohol, smoking, unwanted touching, kissing, use of pet names

A/N: @amathslutsguidetofandom I love the thought of 1940s!Mob Boss!Bucky Barnes and decided to write it as a one shot🥰🩵

Written on my phone. I’m sorry for any mistakes.

Header made by @buckys-wintersoldier

“No thank you.” You say, politely turning down a drink from one of the guys you go to college with.

“C’mon, sweetheart. It’s just one drink.” Gerald says, wrapping his arm around your waist.

Bucky watched from the other side of the bar as you continued to politely turn the guys down, but they wouldn’t take no for an answer. He could tell how uncomfortable you were.

“It’s just a drink, Y/N.” Fred says, putting his hand on your thigh.

That made you even more uncomfortable than you already were. Bucky downed the rest of his drink and made his way towards you.

“She said no.” Bucky says, standing behind Gerald and Fred.

“No one asked you, man.” Fred says.

“Why don’t you run along?” Gerald says.

Bucky chuckled before grabbing the back of their necks and slamming their heads against the bar counter, making everyone in the bar go quiet and look at them. You quickly stood up and backed away with wide eyes.

“How about you two run along?” Bucky says.

They were too scared to say anything so they just nodded their heads. Bucky let go of them and they stood up. They were about to bolt out of the bar when Bucky grabbed the back of their shirts.

“If I ever and I mean ever see you two near her again, I won’t hesitate to kick your asses, got it?” He says.

“Got it.” They say in unison.

Bucky let go of them and they sprinted out of the bar. You stood there with a surprised look on your face. No one has never done that for you.

“Are you ok, ma’am?” Bucky asks softly.

“I am now. Thank you.” You say, giving him a smile.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks.

“I’d like to know your name first.” You say.

“James Barnes.” He held his hand out for you to shake. “Everyone I know calls me Bucky.” He says.

“Nice to meet you, James.” You shook his hand. “I’m Y/N.” You introduced yourself. “Now that we know each other’s names, I’ll accept that drink now.” You say with a smile.

You and Bucky took a seat at the bar counter and he ordered you two drinks.

“So tell me, doll face…” Bucky took a sip of his bourbon before asking his question. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing at a bar like this?” He asks.

“I go to the local college and I wanted to come here for a couple drinks after all the studying I’ve been doing lately.” You tell him.

“What are you studying?” He asks curiously.

“I want to be a nurse.” You say.

“That’s amazing. I hope all that studying pays off.” He says.

“I hope so too. I graduate next month.” You say.

You learned that Bucky is one of the most powerful men in Brooklyn, New York. You and Bucky spent the whole night talking and getting to know each other till the bar was about to close. He even offered to walk you home from the bar. Bucky being the gentleman he is, wrapped his arm around your waist to keep you close to him and to protect you.

“Thank you for saving me and for walking me home, James.” You say with a smile.

“You don’t have to thank me, babydoll. I have your back forever and always.” Bucky smiles. “If you don’t mind, I would like to see you again.” He says.

“I would absolutely love that.” You smiled. “I’m free tomorrow afternoon after school.” You say.

“Great so it’s a date.” He says.

Bucky cupped your cheeks and kissed you passionately. Your hands grasped his suit jacket to steady yourself. Your lips moved in sync with his. It felt like everything around you guys was in slow motion. Bucky pulled away slowly, looking deep in your eyes.

“See you tomorrow afternoon, doll.” Bucky says softly.

“See you tomorrow, Bucky.” You say, smiling widely.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll

[constantmourning]

Confidence

[Price/Fem!Reader] [Gaz/Fem!Reader] [Soap/Fem!Reader] [Simon/Fem!Reader] [Poly!TF 141/Fem!Reader]

Summary: You haven't been feeling too confident lately. Your friends convince you to dress up to feel good, and you send them a picture of the end result. Except, you sent the pictures to the wrong group chat...

Word count: 6.9k (hehe)

Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI!! No use of Y/N, Thigh slapping, finger sucking, p in v, lack of protection, creampie (x2), oral (male and female receiving), face sitting, praise, pet names. Let me know if i forgot something please, I'll be happy to tag it if i did!

A/N: Reader is written As PLUS SIZE! There are mentions of fat/stretch marks/self esteem issues and the likes! This got very long I'm sorry but also I hope you enjoy!! Also, half of this is Beta'd, the other half... well, we die like men...

Your confidence had been at an all time low as of late. You weren’t sure what it was, but ever since joining Captain Price and not having your friends there to tell you just how great you looked every day, you really were down in the dumps.

Babes, I’m terribly upset

You text in your group chat with your friends. You waited for their answer. It felt like a century before someone responded.

Dear, what's wrong?

Finally, one of them had answered. You sighed and took a moment to respond.

I’ve been feeling like utter shit lately. Everyone around me is so… not built like me… I think it’s silly, but I don’t always feel beautiful.

You sent in the chat and immediately got a speech bubble.

Babe… I’m gonna tell you what helps me. Dress up all pretty. Do something to make you feel good. I promise it’ll help

You scrunched your face up.

I’ll try it. But if it doesn’t work I’m going to torment you forever

No response. You groaned and sat up. You decided it’d be best to try that. You looked through your things and found a cute underwear set and walked to your bathroom. Momentarily battling about putting on makeup, you decided to try it.

You sat in your bathroom for a good twenty minutes just doing your makeup. You then took another twenty minutes doing your hair. Everything was going to be undone, but if it was going to help you feel better, why not try it? You slipped into the cute underwear, black and lacy. You examined yourself in the mirror and smiled.

Remember, briefing tomorrow morning

-Captain Price

You remembered, and made a mental note to respond to his text a little later. You, instead of responding, began to take pictures of yourself in different positions. Once you were satisfied with some of them. You decided to throw a few into your group chat with your friends.

Validate me babes <3

You set your phone after you sent the pictures and just looked at yourself. You inhaled and placed a hand on your stomach. You pinched the fat there and sighed. Your phone went off, and then went off again. And again.

HUH?

-Gaz

oh fuck

-Soap

Wrong number?

-Ghost

You felt your heart stop. You wanted to vomit and run away and never be seen again by your teammates. Truly thinking about not responding and running away into the night, you scraped your nails through your hair. You grabbed your robe from the door and screamed into it. As loudly as possible without alerting anyone.

You grabbed your phone up and thought about being a grownup. Briefly.

WRONG GROUP CHAT

You then sent a barrage of different sad emojis and hoped the pictures would leave their minds.

There were no responses for the rest of the night. You went to bed just as you were; hair, makeup- You did put on comfortable pajamas though. You lied down and knew- just knew you would be getting an earful in the morning.

You grabbed your phone one last time and sent a group message to your girls, checking this time if it was really them.

Goodbye, I just wanted to say that. Since I will be simply passing away right now.

Immediate response.

What did you do???

I sent pictures to the wrong group chat. To the work group chat…

Your friends both, at the same time, asked what the pictures were. You sent the pictures and said nothing else. The chat erupted. Your friends were spamming you, different emojis, swears, memes. Anything. If they could send it, it was sent.

You lied on your back, looking up at the ceiling and you sighed. You were going to have to be an adult and face the men you really didn’t want to in the morning. You made that a problem for you in the future, and decided that sleep was the best option. You turned your phone off and slowly fell asleep. A pit in your stomach the whole time you waited for unconsciousness to overtake.

You woke up with the exact same pit in your stomach. You threw on your uniform and walked as fast as you could to the room you were meeting at. You wanted to miss Soap, Ghost, or Gaz. You did not want to run into them.

You opened the door to the room and realized you’d be facing Price alone. That was until you saw everyone was already in the room. You looked at your watch. You were early… If you were early, what time did they get there? You did not want to think about it…

No one would look you in the eyes. Their demeanor had changed completely. But no one mentioned the photos. You stood, uncomfortably, away from everyone. You couldn’t take in any information that Price was giving you. You were hyper aware of everyone around you; their body language…

You watched as Soap balled and unballed his fist a couple times. His knuckles white.

Gaz’s chest was rising and lowering a little quicker than usual. You could tell through the gear. His eyes were trained ahead, looking directly at Captain Price.

Speaking of Price, his eyes would look right over you. You weren’t the best at eye contact anyway, but Price was not bad at it. You knew he was trying to be professional.

Your eyes moved to Ghost and they locked onto his. You, immediately looking away, noticed him shift. His eyes didn’t falter though. He seemed to be the only one looking at you.

You shifted your weight, swallowing hard. Gulping down air like your life depended on it. The tension in the room was too much. You wanted to explode. Instead of exploding, you did (in your mind) the second worst thing. You opened your mouth, and words actually came out.

“I’m sorry!”

Everyone went quiet. Price stopped speaking and all eyes were on you. You gulped again and took a step back, distancing yourself even more. Price was the first to speak up. His brow cocked and you waited for his response. “For what?” He did sound genuinely confused, so you didn’t take it as him pretending to be stupid.

“Uh-” Your eyes scanned the room. You did the thing you were best at, word vomit. “Well, I’m sorry for sending those pictures! It was unprofessional and I didn’t check the group I was in- I was just- I meant to send it to-” You stopped yourself.

“To who?” Ghost asked, deadpan. But, you could almost see the smirk under his mask.

You, not knowing how to stop, kept going. “My friends. I wasn’t feeling good last night- Or the past couple o’ weeks really… My friends said, um, doing what I did would help me feel better! I mean, she did not tell me to send the picture in the work chat!” You put your hands up, no one stopping you from continuing. “I just wanted to feel cute… I guess…”

The room went silent. You made a face and held yourself back from stomping your foot or throwing a tantrum. You decided to be an adult, and wait for a response, one that felt like it was never coming. Price, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost all looked at each other before all staring at you. You pouted.

“What?”

“Do friends normally send pictures like that to each other?” Ghost cocked his head at you.

You wanted to throttle him. “Whatever. If this is done, can I leave?”

Price nodded, he knew you had retained nothing, but he didn’t say anything about it. “Free to go.”

You walked out of the room and began to walk towards your room. You felt tears prick your eyes and tried to hold yourself together, at least until you got to the comfort and loneliness of your room. You were seething. You didn’t know why, but you were mad. Mad at how they had acted, mad at how you had acted, and mad that the pictures were sent to them in the first place. You got to your room, slammed your door, and threw yourself down on your bed.

You curled up and decided it was best to skip lunch that day.

A knock came from the other side of your day and you held back the urge to tell whoever it was to go away. You threw yourself out of bed and walked towards the door. Forgetting that you had puffy eyes from crying, you opened the door. Price stood there.

“Hey, you weren’t in the mess hall-” He stopped when you wiped your eyes. “Are you crying?”

You pouted harder. Price sighed. You groaned and moved to the side, motioning for Price to come in. You did not want everyone to see you looking like a mess. Price walked in and you shut the door. You placed your back against it and looked at him.

“Are you alright?” He gave you a concerned look.

“I’m fine.” You lied. Terribly.

Price’s head dropped slightly. “You had said this morning you weren’t feeling-”

“Captain,” You sighed. “I’ll be fine. Just horribly embarrassed. It’ll go back to normal once no one looks at me differently.”

Price’s brows furrowed. “If they don’t?”

You blinked at him. Why would he say that? You felt tears forming again. “Captain-”

“I know you don’t want to hear it from me-” Price started, “And would obviously prefer it from your friends,” He smiled at you softly, and got closer to you, “but, you are stunning. You should not feel the need to be validated, but you should know you are beautiful.”

Something hit you; whether it was the eye contact, what he said, or how he said it, you weren’t sure, but whatever it was sent you into a frenzy. You, without thinking, grabbed Price’s face and kissed him. Hard. Your lips hit his and you realized what you were doing. The kiss was over as fast as it started. You threw yourself back and began to profusely apologize. 

“Holy shit!” You were stunned at your actions, “That was so inappropriate, I’m so sorry.”

Price was as stunned as you. You watched him with wide eyes and he processed everything that had just happened. Nothing was being said. It was a deafening silence. Price watched you closely, his eyes dropping from your to your lips. His hands cupped your cheeks and he brought you into another kiss.

You eagerly kissed back, pressing against him. He pushed forward, your back pressing against the door. His tongue traced your bottom lip and you slowly opened your mouth for him. Your arms were wrapped around his neck and nothing was stopping either of you.

Until your stomach growled.

Price pulled away and looked down at you. “Look, you need to eat and I’m not sure we should do this-”

“I want this…” Your voice was barely audible, just loud enough for Price to hear.

“How about…” He paused, “you go eat. And think about this-”

“I’m not going to lie now, Captain Price,” You bit the inside of your lip, “I’ve been thinking about you, and the others for a while now.”

“Me and who?” He questioned you, brows knitting together.

“Um, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost… I think about you four all the time. Um, too much actually.” You stop yourself before going further. “Sorry, that's too much truth.”

Price laughs, “Okay… Go eat. Think on this. Text me when you’ve eaten.”

You nodded. “Yes sir,” You did a little salute. Price moved and let you out from your spot. You opened the door and both of you walked out of your room. You, pretending like Price did not just have his tongue in your mouth, walked off for lunch. As you were leaving, Soap walked up. He looked at Price in confusion.

“Why were ya in her room?”

Price smiled at him. “We may be doing a team bonding exercise later.”

“What does that mean?” Soap was quick to ask. Price was quick to ignore. He started to walk off, away from Soap, agitating him. “C’mon! You can’t say that and then not elaborate!”

Your mind was racing the whole time you ate. You could only focus on one damn thing; your earlier actions. And Price's words. Heat prickled across your cheeks as you ate and you made up your mind.

You wanted to do whatever it was Price had been thinking about.

You finished up your food and began to head back to your room. You just had to get a hold of Price, you had to tell him what you had thought about. But not before coming face to face with Soap.

"What happened earlier?" His brows were furrowed and his lips were turned down. "Wait, have you been crying?"

You groaned. "Fuck, it's still noticeable?" You looked back at Soap, "Where's the Captain?"

It was his turn to groan, "I'll take you to him."

You smiled widely and thanked him. He began to lead you to the barracks, the men's barracks. Your stomach flipped and you felt butterflies instantly. You kept your eyes trained ahead, on the back of Soap. Your heart was racing and your cheeks were burning.

"Did Price get to you first?" Soap turned to ask.

You blinked at him, shocked. "Huh?"

He shook his head, mumbling 'nothing' before leading you Price's door. He knocked and there was silence for a minute, before the door opened. Price's eyes fell from Soap and back to you. Price smiled and motioned for you to come in.

Soap began to leave and you grabbed his hand. "Can he come in too?" Your words caught Soap's attention. He froze and looked back at Price.

Price's smile turned into a toothy grin. "Of course."

You pulled Soap in behind you and Price shut the door. You held Soap's hand like a lifeline, a nervousness taking over that only hand holding could help. Soap didn't seem to mind. You looked at Price with a curious expression and finally asked, "What now?"

"Well, we have to lay down some ground rules, and let Soap in on what's going on."

"Please fucking do! What's going on?"

Price looked at you, for you to tell him. Your stomach turned. You swallowed hard and looked at Soap, letting go of his hand. "Um, I talked with Price this afternoon, before I ate. I told him about-" your eyes cut from Soap to Price, who gave you an encouraging nod, "-about liking the four of you. I thought about it, like you asked," you looked to Price again, "and I'm up for-"

"A team bonding exercise?" Soap asked.

You nodded. "If you wanna call it that."

Soap very much so wanted to call it that. He wanted to bond with his men over you. You were unaware- oblivious to the fact that all of them seemed to want that. But, now, the opportunity had presented itself so perfectly. Soap wanted nothing more than to launch himself at you. But he waited.

"Go get Gaz and Ghost." Price looked at Soap before his eyes hit you. Your heart fluttered and you looked at Soap, who was ready to protest.

"Why do I have to go get them? Call them!" Soap's hand snaked around your waist.

"Soap…" Price's eyes narrowed. "I'll take care of her, go get them." Price pulled you from Soap's grasp and Soap groaned. He mumbled a 'whatever' under his breath and left the room.

You watched Soap refrain from slamming the door and moved your gaze to your Captain. You bit the inside of your lip and your arms instinctively wrapped around your waist, hugging yourself.

"C'mere." Price motioned you over. Your feet were heavy and your eyes were wide. You couldn’t move. You inhaled sharply and your hands dropped to your sides. Price watched you like a hawk, “You still up or this? You can back out at any time.” You only nodded. “We’ll set ground rules as soon as Soap gets back with the boys.”

“Until then?” You asked, head cocking to the side.

“We can do whatever you want.”

You nodded again. Anxiety crept in, and even though you knew you could do what you wanted, you needed to ask. “Can I kiss you?” You whispered. Price nodded. You were on him in an instant. Your lips were on his, arms wrapped around his neck. He smiled into the kiss. This time, you traced your tongue over his bottom lip. He eagerly opened his mouth for you, and your tongue slipped in.

Price’s teeth ever so slightly bit down, gently scraping your tongue. You moaned. Price smiled again. His hands rested on your hips and he pulled you closer to him. He began to back up and he soon reached his bed. He sat down on the edge of it and you froze. Suddenly, you were aware, very much so, of him and yourself. You looked at Price, he looked up at you through his lashes.

Without saying a word, he placed his hand on his upper thigh, and patted. Everything in you screamed for you to sit down, but you were stuck standing in front of him. Price’s lips turned downward and his brows furrowed. You shifted your weight and looked at him with an apologetic expression.

“Love,” Price reached his hand out for you, “what’s wrong?”

You grabbed his hand and sighed, “I don’t wanna sit on your lap because, what if-” You stopped yourself. Price’s brows furrowed and he asked for you to continue. You refused.

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

You threw your head back and whined, “I don’t wanna be too heavy.” You didn’t want to say it too loud. You felt silly enough already. But it was a real fear, being rejected because of your weight.

Price gave you a soft smile, “Don’t even think that way, I promise it’ll be fine.” Price motioned for you, once again, to sit on his lap. So, you did. You didn’t place all of your weight immediately, and he could tell you obviously didn’t want to. So he would coax you. You were sitting on one of his thighs, uncomfortably if you were being honest. Until Price took matters into his own hands.

Price’s heel rose from the floor, catching you off guard. Your back arched and you grabbed his shoulders. “What are you-” His foot dropped, taking all of you with it. All of your weight pressed down on his thigh now, and as soon as his foot hit the floor his hands were on your hips. You instinctively grinded into him and let out an embarrassing whimper.

The door of the room opened and you looked back, unmoving. Soap and Gaz walked into the room, and your heart jumped into your throat when Ghost walked in right behind them. He closed the door and everyone was staring at you. You wanted to hide your face but there was nowhere to hide. Your whole body was hot and you couldn’t focus on anything but the feeling of their eyes on you and how good Price’s thigh felt against you. Price lifted his heel again, and before you could prepare yourself, it hit the ground. You moaned.

“What the fuck?” You grumbled.

“Sorry, love,” Price smiled, “I had to show them your reaction.” Price gripped your hip before releasing it and looking at the guys. “There are some things we need to go over before we get down to business.” Soap, Ghost, and Gaz all nodded, listening closely. “We need a safe word.”

They all looked at you. You were confused momentarily. “Uh, red? Like y’know, green, yellow and red? If I’m good I’ll tell you green, if I’m iffy I’ll tell you yellow, and red is just hard stop.”

They all nodded in agreement with you. Soap was the first to speak up, “What first?” You shrugged, feeling very shy all the sudden. Price gripped your hip before releasing it, and you looked at him for reassurance.

“You decide, darling.” Price looked back at the guys and then at you, “Who first?”

You said the first thing that came to your mind. “Gaz.” You looked back at him and watched him ball his fists, before relaxing. He smirked at you and Price stood you up. “You’re feelings aren’t hurt right?” You looked around the room.

“Bonnie,” Soap smiled at you, “we’ll all get a chance, no hard feelings.”

“You’re just saying that,” Gaz elbowed him, “You wanted to be first.” He then promptly ignored Soap’s angry stare and approached you. Price stood up from his bed and he, Ghost, and Soap watched you closely. Your body was set ablaze and you just focused on Gaz.

“Please, kiss me?” Your voice was soft, your arms behind your back. Eyes cutting through your lashes as you looked at Gaz. You did not have to ask again. He was on you instantly and his hands were cupping your face.

He backed you towards the bed and you fell down. You scooted up the bed and Gaz was on you again. This time, he was kissing your neck. Your mewls filled the room. You had no clue what to do with your hands. You were pulling at the sheets and then started to pull at Gaz’s shirt. He eagerly pulled it off.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes, yeah?” He asked, so politely, how could you deny him?

“I don’t know…” You answered. Suddenly, you couldn’t look him in the eyes. You were staring at the ceiling and playing with the cover beneath you.

“You don’t have to,” Gaz nuzzled your neck, nipping the sensitive skin. “We can work towards that.”

You nodded, “Okay,” a breathy whisper escaped you. Gaz worked wonder with his hands, he grabbed at your hips and his fingers ran up your side, just under your shirt, causing you to gasp. Goosebumps rose on your skin. With eyes shut tight, you spoke up, “You can take my shirt off.”

Gaz smiled into your neck and pushed himself up. You sat up and helped Gaz help you out of your shirt. You sat there in your bra and the cool air made you realize what you had just done. Your hands went to cover your abdomen and Gaz frowned. He placed a hand on yours but did not dare move your hands away from you.

“You’re beautiful… I-” He stopped himself, “We can show you that if we need to.”

You bit the inside of your lip, “I’m gonna be honest. I’ve never felt comfortable in these situations… Well, actually, I’ve never been in this situation, with multiple men… I never even felt comfortable with just one.”

The energy in the room shifted immediately. Before, it was just horny, then it quickly changed to something more serious. Gaz nodded, understanding. “We can stop if you get too uncomfortable. Where are you right now?”

“Green.” You grew more comfortable, even if it was just with him at that moment. You moved your hands from your stomach and placed them, palms down on the cover, beside you. Gaz gave you a soft smile and nodded. “You can continue.” You reassured him. He did just that.

You leaned back on the bed and let Gaz take over again. His hands ran up your sides and towards your bra. You arched your back and let him unclasp it. You shimmied out of it and he threw it to the side. You laid back on the mattress and looked up at Gaz, who was staring at you as if you were a gift from whatever God was listening to him when he prayed.

One of his hands moved for your chest and you gasped. His hands were warm and calloused and something about his touch was so calming. He massaged your breast and lowered himself to your neck again. Your back arched harder and your hips bucked upwards slightly, causing Gaz to groan into your neck.

You had almost forgotten other men were in the room. Almost. "Ugh" Soap groaned, "could you go any slower, Gaz?" You laughed at his remark. Genuine and loud. Gaz grumbled into your neck and pushed himself up.

"I'm going to ignore him now," Gaz looked dead at you, you were the only one in the room according to him. You smiled at him and nodded. Gaz kissed your jawline, down your throat and headed for your chest. He briefly paused at your nipples, a hand playing with one while the other got sucked on. You moaned and whined at him, the sound of the other men shuffling around the room not even detering you.

Gaz's hands moved towards your belt and you tensed. You said nothing though. But Gaz still noticed you tense. He froze and looked up at you, one of his brows cocking. "Green," you whispered, still focusing only on him. He gave a nod and made quick work of your belt. It was pulled off of you in no time. You kicked off your shoes and Gaz began to pull down your pants. You lifted your hips to make it easier, and soon enough you were just laying there in your panties.

You were nearly completely exposed to them. Your thighs, stomach, stretch marks, all of it on display. Part of you didn't care, but part of you was terrified. Gaz's fingers gently traced your stretch marks and you froze up.

"Yellow." You blurted out, without really thinking.

Gaz was off of you in an instant. "You okay, love?" Price and Gaz asked at the same time.

"Uh, sorry," You sat up, resting on your forearms, "not used to this attention. I was a little uncomfortable." They all looked at you, attentively. "We can continue."

"How would you feel…" Gaz trailed off, thinking hard, his fingers tracing patterns on your thighs again. "Sitting on my face?"

Your heart jumped into your throat. How were you going to survive? Your eyes widened and you pulled yourself up, trying to comfort yourself. "What if… what if it's too much?"

"What?" Gaz, seemingly genuinely confused, cocked his head. "What if what's too much?"

You gave him a deadpan expression as if he should know. "I don't wanna crush you with my thighs!"

"What an honorable and lovely way to go, though!" Gaz gave you a goofy grin.

You thought for a moment, "Okay, but can we do it my way?" You played with the sheets beneath you. Gaz hummed, asking what your way was. "Uh, you lay on the floor and I'll sit on your face." Your face was suddenly burning as you said the rest of your thought, "So I can I suck one of their dicks." Your words ran together and you tried to hide your face.

"Hey, no need to be shy now!" Gaz comforted you. "Anyway, I'm sure I know one of them is absolutely dying for you to suck his dick." Gaz whispered to you. You laughed, causing the others to wonder what was being said.

Gaz moved off of you and got on the floor. He laid down and patted his chin, waiting for you to get up and take a seat on his face. The others looked at you with confusion. They couldn't help but wonder what you had planned. You stood up and wondered how to not awkwardly take your panties off. You decided it didn't have to be awkward, you were with four men who were ready to throw themselves at you (well, Ghost hadn't yet…), you didn't need to feel so self conscious.

Yet, there you were, being self conscious. "Do you have to watch me while I take off my panties?"

"Well, what else are we supposed to watch, love?" Ghost adjusted himself, causing a pit to form in your stomach.

You grumbled a 'fine', and slid off your panties. You made your way to Gaz, who was more than ready to devour you. You got on your knees, one on each side of his head and looked at the other guys. Gaz placed his hands on your hips and pulled you closer down to him.

"Don't be afraid to sit all the way down." He smiled against your thigh, causing you to melt.

"Soap," You had said his name with a lust in your voice you weren't sure you were capable of. He perked up. "C'mere." You motioned for him to come over. He was on you as soon as possible.

"May I?" You grabbed up at his belt. Gaz kissed up your thigh, closing in on your pussy. Your thighs clenched around him without you meaning to and you immediately apologized.

"Fuck," Soap groaned, "You're so gorgeous…" That caused you to look back up at him through your lashes. Soap was promptly pulling his belt off for you. He unbuttoned and unzipped them so fast you were unable to process his movements.

Gaz licked a stripe up your pussy and you gasped. “Fuck…” Your voice was soft and weak. You focused back on Soap and looked up at him. Your hands moved to his waistband and you bit your bottom lip. You pulled at his underwear and you were immediately at eye level with his cock. Your hand wrapped around it and you began to softly pump it, the head already dripping precum. You slid his dick into your mouth.

Everything was going on at once. You were trying to focus on Gaz absolutely going to town on you, you were trying to focus on sucking Soap’s soul straight from his body, while also trying to focus on looking okay for Ghost and Price. Which, in all honesty, you didn’t need to try to do that at all. In their minds you were already perfect.

Soap’s cock hit the back of your throat and you gagged. You couldn't help it. Soap's hands tangled in your hair and he held you steady, which you were thankful for. Gaz was putting his mouth to good use and you needed all the help you could get. If you weren't so concerned with Gaz and Soap you would have heard Ghost and Price groaning and grunting on the other side of the room.

You looked up at Soap, tears pricking your eyes, and he pulled your hair, guiding you up and down his cock. "Good girl," he grunted, causing you to have a reaction.

Gaz was going to town under you. His tongue lapping you up as quickly as possible. His hands gripped your hips tight, holding you down while his fingers dug into the skin. You lost it. You settled completely on Gaz's face and moaned onto Soap's cock. Gaz's nose rubbed against your clit and you were sent over the edge immediately. You gripped Soap's outer thigh and tried your best to keep going as your first orgasm hit you. Soap saw you struggling and pulled away, leaving you a mess.

"Kyle!" You moaned out. Gaz did not slow. In fact, you saying his name only caused him to go harder. Your hands hit the floor and your nails dug into the wood. You started to grind onto Gaz's face, a whining and whimpering mess. No words were forming. At least not properly. "Please- Fuck, I-"

Gaz slowed and his grip loosened on you. You pushed yourself up, or tried, Gaz helped you move off his mouth and you were left sitting on your knees, hunched over and reeling.

"Holy shit."

"You still good?" Ghost asked from across the room. You nodded. "Wonderful, because we're just getting started."

You looked up and noticed Ghost was still in uniform. He had obviously been masturbating, but he was fully clothed. Price however, was not. He stood naked, his hand pumping away at his cock. You wanted him. He caught your glance and immediately stopped jacking off. You sat up straight but your eyes cut away from him.

"Mind if I join, dear?" He smirked at you. Words were still not forming. You motioned for him to walk over and made his way towards you. He easily pulled you up and walked you over to the bed. He set you down and you took a moment to catch your breath. You looked up at Price, and sighed.

"I forgot to mention," you finally formed a sentence, "I'm on birth control." Price smiled at this. It was your way of saying 'Please rawdog me right now' and he understood instantly. He lowered himself to your level, lips pressing to your ear.

"Wanna be on top?" Price whispered, chills running up your spine.

"I don't know…"

"Whatever you want to do is fine, love, but I'd love to watch you ride my cock-"

"Okay." You are hooked instantly. His tone, his accent? He did not have to repeat himself. Before you knew it, he was laying on the bed and you were positioned over him. You grabbed his cock and started to gently rub up and down it, before lowering yourself onto him. You whimpered, Price steadying you. He watched you closely. 

“Good girl, that’s it,” He grunted. His hands rested on your thighs. You were still so sensitive. You had a feeling you were going to be sensitive for the rest of the day.

“Captain…” You moaned out, not entirely sure where it came from. But it did something to Price. His hips bucked up immediately. You gasped. You were bouncing up and down, slowly at first. Your hands rested on Price’s chest to steady yourself, your legs still wobbly from the earlier interaction with Gaz.

The sound of skin slapping skin echoed through the room. Your whimpers and all of their groans and grunts filled the barracks, most likely. Your pace picked up and Price slapped his hand against your thigh, the smack ringing in your ears. The sting only turned you on more. “Fuck,” Price’s teeth were gritted, “love, you’re taking me so well.”

Your eyes shut tight and your mouth fell agape. One of your hands grabbed his, the one that rested on your thigh, and you were coming undone again. “John-” You stuttered out his name, “John, I’m gonna-”

Your movements slowed, but Price kept bucking his hips, causing your second orgasm to hit faster than you thought. A string of curses left your lips and your eyes rolled in the back of your head. Your stomach was in knots as you clenched around Price.

“Love, I’m-” He was so close… “Where?”

“Inside.” It was so clear and coherent. Price did not argue.

His hips bucked up a couple more times and suddenly he was cumming as well. You leaned down and your whole body tensed. The feeling of his cum spilling out and rolling down your thighs was all you could think about. Price pushed himself up and kissed you, catching you off guard. You were kissing until one of the guys stopped groaning and spoke up.

“My turn.”

You pulled away from Price and looked over your shoulder. Ghost. You blinked at him a few times and Price moved you off of him. He stood up and let Ghost approach you. Ghost looked at Soap and motioned for him to get behind you on the bed.

“This okay?” Soap asked.

“Yeah-” You started. Ghost clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Oh. Green.”

“Atta girl,” The tone in Ghost’s voice caught you off guard. You looked up at him with wide eyes. “Sorry, love,” He began to pull his pants down, “but I’m not letting you on top. And the mask isn’t coming off.”

You nodded. Soap was behind you holding you. You began to wonder if Soap and Ghost had done something like this before… You, however, did not wonder for long. Ghost was on you quick, his mask pulled up slightly to kiss you. His hand was placed under your chin, keeping you in place. He pulled away from you and looked down at you, his eyes locking with yours.

Ghost’s fingers slipped down to your dripping pussy and he slid two fingers into you. He kept eye contact with you as he fingered you. You shut your eyes as he hit a spot you had never had someone reach with just their fingers and he clicked his tongue again.

“Look at me.” Ghost’s voice was gruff. Your eyes snapped back open and your chest heaved. “Good girl.” You were stuck trying to form a sentence again, and the word Ghost slid from your lips, but nothing else was intelligible. “Simon,” He leaned down to your ear, “You can call me Simon.”

You were sent into a frenzy. Your hips bucked up and as he dragged his fingers out of you, your hips tried to follow. You were putty in his hands. You were a blubbering mess once again. Another orgasm hit and you cried out for Simon. Your eyes screwed shut and you gripped onto Soap, who was still right behind you.

Simon pulled his fingers from you and slid them into your open mouth. “Suck.” He demanded. You looked at him through half shut eyes and shut your mouth, sucking on his fingers. Simon smiled under his mask, you could see him smirking under it as you eagerly sucked his fingers. He removed them from your mouth with a ‘pop’ and you watched him, waiting for his next move. Waiting to see what was next.

Simon grabbed your chin and made sure you stayed looking at him. “I’m going to fuck you, is that alright?” You nodded and he continued, “Soap is going to be here for moral support.” He patted your thigh. Soap’s hands rested on your hips, and as Simon said that, he gripped you tighter and placed a kiss on your shoulder.

‘Fuck,’ You thought, reeling from everything going on, ‘I’m going to need fucking support?’ You prepared yourself for what was to come. Simon told you to position yourself, and Soap, seeming to know the drill, helped you while Simon took his clothes off. Simon was completely naked except for his mask, and you were staring. Staring, and staring. Your head was resting on Soap’s stomach, and Soap was leaning back against the headboard of the bed. Simon crawled onto the bed and leaned over you, angling himself at your entrance. His eyes cut to Soap and moved back to you.

“Green,” You were eager for him to continue. So he did. Simon’s hips thrusted into yours, his pace slow and steady. Your legs were quick to wrap around his waist and Soap rubbed your shoulders. He whispered how good you were, how amazing you had been, and how hot you looked taking Simon’s cock.

Your cries grew louder, and you begged and pleaded for Simon to go faster. Simon grunted as he did so. His pace picked up and you were being plowed into within seconds of asking. Your head rocked back and you looked at Soap.

“Johnny-” You whined, tears pricked your eyes, “Fuck-” You reached up for Soap, who was hard again, you could feel it, and you touched his face. Soap mumbled some swears but was quick to encourage you some more. “I can’t- Uhn-” Your legs tightened around Simon’s waist and you cried for him. His name ripped from your lips and you said it over and over. Moaning for more. Simon did not stop.

“You can-” Your words caught in your throat, “You can cum inside-”

Simon wasn’t far off from you. You were laying there, whining and mewling as he continued to wreck you. His thrusts began to pick up speed once more, until he finally came as well. His hips slowed slightly, and he placed his face in your neck. He moaned out your name and your stomach flipped.

Soap placed and a kiss on your forehead. “We can take a break if you need to?” You couldn’t answer. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Simon pulled out of you and you lied there in Soap’s arms for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. “Come on,” Price walked over to the bed, “Let’s get cleaned up.”

You didn’t move. Your legs felt wobbly and your brain was foggy. Your eyes cut over towards Price and you saw Gaz grow concerned. “You good?” He asked. You finally processed his words and gave a lazy thumbs up. This elicited a laugh from Simon.

After a couple minutes and Soap trying to get up, you stopped him. Your hand grabbed his bicep, “Wait,” Your voice was slightly hoarse from all the noises you had been making, “is this-” You froze momentarily, “Is this a one time thing?”

You could see them all look at each other and then back at you. They all started talking at the same time, “No!” “Of course not!” and “Do you want it to be?”

You sighed in contentment , “I think I could go for the occasional team bonding… If you guys are up for it of course!”

“Absolutely,” Simon leaned over you, “Now we really need to get this mess cleaned up.”

You smiled, agreeing, and let them help you. You had felt more confident than before, and while you knew you didn’t need to rely on others to make you feel that way, you hoped that whatever happened could continue.

[azriels-shadowsinger]

“All you do is push me away. I'm done. Whatever this is, it's done.”

Azriel x Reader

wc: 2.3k

a/n: responding to this request. sorry this took forever, i started my new job this week! also, thank you for 400 followers!!

prompt list

“It will be fine, y/n!” Feyre reassures, rubbing a gentle hand down your back. You bite your lip anxiously.

“I don't know, Fey. It's already awkward enough trying to introduce my boyfriend to the high lord and lady, the general, and scariest of all, Amren.” You chuckle. “But seriously, I’m even more worried about Azriel. He’s been so weird and distant since we ended our... situationship?” You sigh heavily. “Whatever it was, he got all weird when it ended. I’m worried he’s gonna make tonight weird.” You whine.

“Rhys already talked to him. Azriel promised to be welcoming.” Feyre reassures

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” You grumble. Truthfully, you knew very little about your new boyfriend, Wesley, and you had no idea how he would behave around your friends, but when Cassian caught you on a second date and blabbed about your new boyfriend to everyone, you had no choice but to introduce him to the group. Hopefully, Feyre was right that everything would be fine.

———

Everyone at the table was visibly uncomfortable, thanks to Azriel. He had spent the first half of dinner in a very tense silence, ignoring everyone’s attempts to interact with him. He only responded with mocking laughs under his breath at every other thing Wesley said. Rhys had tried to speak to Azriel in his mind, Feyre told you, but his walls were up and he refused to drop them.

You thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, but once the final course came out, Azriel switched from chilling silence to obnoxiously challenging everything you or Wesley said. You were going to kill him.

“So what do you do for fun, Wesley?” Feyre asks, attempting to alleviate tension.

“Uh, I like studying history.” He answers quietly. Azriel chokes down a laugh, and you internally groan at the most boring answer he could’ve chosen.

“Hm, that's weird y/n. I thought your usual type was...” Azriel eyes Wesley with distaste “much different.” You scowl at Azriel.

“I don’t have a type, Azriel.” You say defensively. “And if I did, it would be Wesley.”

“Sure it would.” He says smugly. “I seem to recall you have a preference for tougher guys, specifically Illyrians-“

“That is enough, Az.” Rhys commands, cutting Azriel off and using his high lord voice. Everyone sits quietly, not sure what to say next.

“I think I should leave.” Wesley says uncomfortably, breaking the silence and moving to stand. “Goodnight everyone, it was wonderful to meet you all.” He says with a forced smile before heading towards the door. You hurry after him, heels clicking loudly on the floor.

“Wes, please stay! There’s dessert, and I promise it won't be as awkward. I’ll make him leave.” You beg once you two are out of earshot.

“Don’t bother. You didn’t tell me you used to date him. That would’ve been great information to have going into tonight.”

“We never-“ he cuts you off.

“Save it. I have no interest in competing with the fucking spymaster. You are not worth the effort.” You visibly flinch at the harsh words and tears begin to form in your eyes, as he turns away. “I’ll see you around.” He mutters and leaves.

———

When you return to the dining room, Azriel is sitting there with a victorious smirk on his face, eating his dessert. One look at the rage in your eyes, and everyone else had the bright idea to leave you two alone.

“Are you happy now?” You holler.

“Kinda, yeah.” He says smugly. You let out a frustrated groan.

“You spiteful, ignorant, selfish male!” He laughs slightly at your outburst.

“What’s wrong sweetheart? Could Wesley not take a little joke?” He grins.

“He broke up with me because of your gods damn immaturity!”

“Good. You can do better, he doesn’t deserve you.” Azriel replies nonchalantly.

“What the hell is your problem? Is this because I ended things between us?” That causes him to freeze, dropping any amusement from his face.

“No.”

“It is, isnt it? Well guess who’s fault that was! You don’t date, you told me so yourself. And any time I tried to get closer to you, you put up walls and shut me out.“ you let out an exasperated sigh. “Even now, all you do is push me away. So you know what Azriel? I'm done. Whatever this is, it's done.”

“There’s nothing to end, we aren’t dating. We aren't even fucking anymore.” He spits coldly, but you see the hurt lacing his features, matching your own.

“Yeah, I got that. Loud and clear.” You murmur. “Stay the hell away from me from now on.” You growl before exiting the room, leaving Azriel alone.

———

You had not so much as looked at him in three weeks, and it was driving Azriel crazy. He had assumed that with your now ex-boyfriend out of the way, you would eventually turn to him to resume your previous friends-with-benefits situation. He couldn’t help but miss your company.

Azriel, Cassian, and Rhys sat around the table at Rita’s drinking whiskey. As soon as Azriel began complaining about you again, Cassian rolled his eyes, finished his glass of whiskey, and stood up.

“I’m tired of hearing about this every damn day. I’m getting another drink.” He grumbles.

Azriel wasn’t sure why he was bothered so damn much that you were avoiding him. Sure, he had plenty of females offering him pleasure every time he went out in Velaris, there were two eyeing him from across the bar right now, but he didn’t want them.

“Honestly, what I miss most about her isn’t even the sex.” Azriel admits, slurring his words slightly as the alcohol takes effect in his system. Rhysand’s ears perk up at this admission. Previously, Azriel had only ever admitted to missing the consistent sex or complained that you were overreacting, but this was new. Rhys wondered if Azriel even realized what he was saying.

“What do you mean, brother?” Rhys probes.

“I miss the nights we spent talking. And how somehow she managed to know exactly what I needed, without me having to say it.” Azriel downs the rest of his drink. “I just want things to go back to the way they were. Like when she would fall asleep next to me and I would actually be able to quiet my mind enough for once to fall asleep too. Or when she smiled and I felt all warm inside. I don’t even know why I shut her out when she asked about becoming more. Maybe because it scares me.” Azriel prattles on, talking to himself more than Rhys.

“You love her, you idiot.” Rhys states, which immediately pulls Azriel’s focus.

“That’s not… don’t do that Rhys. Don’t put shit into my head.” Azriel says defensively. Cassian returns with another round of whiskey for everyone.

“What did Rhys do?” Cassian asks casually as he passes a glass to each of his brothers.

“I informed Az that he’s in love with y/n.” Rhys smirks and sips his whiskey.

“I’m not-“ Cassian cuts Azriel off.

“You totally are!” Cassian laughs. Azriel huffs out a breath and downs his whiskey in one big swallow. There was no use arguing with his brothers once their minds were made up.

“I gotta go.” Azriel mumbles and storms out the door. Rhys and Cass just exchange knowing glances.

———

You hear someone banging on your door late that evening. You want to say you’re surprised to see Azriel when you open the door, but no one else would bother you this time of night. You just look at him expectantly, waiting to hear what he has to say.

“I was wrong before. I should've never pushed you away when you said you wanted more. I was just scared of how I felt and scared of getting hurt by you. I’m sorry for being a dick and I’m sorry for ruining that dinner with your ex-boyfriend, I just couldn’t stand to see you with someone else. Please, give me another shot.” Azriel has such a hopeful look in his eyes, waiting for your answer.

“I told you I was done.” You say, trying your hardest to stay calm and collected.

“But I-“ he takes a deep breath. “But I love you. Please, give me a chance to make things right.” You pause, mind reeling at the admission. As much as you want to admit the same thing, you can’t afford to get hurt by him again, so you do your best to calm your racing heart and force the words out.

“It’s too late, Azriel. I’m sorry.” You shut the door quickly before you can give in, immediately letting your tears fall once it's closed.

———

More weeks passed, and you eventually decided that you had to stop wallowing in self-pity and try to move on again. Wesley might have not been the one for you, but surely someone out there is.

You had decided to go out to Rita’s with Mor and eventually found a decently nice male to talk to. You two chatted for a while, and as the end of the night drew closer, you decided to shoot your shot.

“So, I don’t really do this, but do you wanna come home with me?” You ask the male nervously.” The lights of the bar turn on, indicating that it’s closing time.

“Yeah I-“ he pauses, looking you over. His eyes go wide and he backs away. “No. I can’t go home with you. I should’ve never talked to you.” He hurries off quickly, almost seeming frightened.

You turn towards Mor with a confused look, trying to ignore the hurt you feel from the harsh rejection. Did you really look that different with the lights on, you wonder.

The next day, you were in your room telling Feyre about the night before, trying to understand what went wrong.

“I don’t get it, Fey. We were having such a nice conversation. I was sure that he would agree to come home with me. But as soon as the lights came on and he saw me, he ran off. I didn’t think I looked that bad in the light.” You complain, flopping back onto your bed. Feyre choked on her drink for a moment, seeming startled.

“He didn’t…” she mutters to herself, shaking her head.

“What?” You sit up, confused. Feyre gets a far-off expression, likely speaking to Rhys in her mind about something. “What is it Feyre?” You ask curiously. She groans.

“The other day I overheard Az and Rhys talking, and Azriel made a joke about how he could just threaten all the males in Velaris that they can’t go anywhere near you. I assumed he was kidding, but I just asked Rhys about it, and apparently he wasn’t.” Feyre explains awkwardly.

“Are you kidding me?” You yell as you shoot up off the bed and storm out your door, muttering some apology to Feyre about having to leave.

———

You put a city-wide ban on dating me?” You scream angrily as you storm into Azriel’s room, not bothering to knock.

“Yeah, I did.” Azriel smirks at you.

“What the fuck Azriel? You don't have some claim over me! Call it off.” You shout.

“No.” His firm, unyielding voice gives you goosebumps.

“Stop it with the territorial male bullshit. It won’t change anything, so call it off!” You try to keep up the anger in your voice, but as Azriel stalks closer, you lose your boldness.

“I’m not calling it off.” His voice is dangerously low.

“Why not?” You mutter. Azriel leans closer.

“Because eventually you will realize that you still want to be with me, and when you do I don’t want anyone getting in the way of that.” He whispers, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, causing you to shiver slightly.

“I told you before. I’m done.” You try to sound confident, but it doesn’t come out quite right.

“Sure you are. Whenever you decide you wanna change that answer, I’ll be here.” He says with a wink. As you leave you feel conflicted. This may be the most territorial male bullshit you have ever witnessed, but you can’t help but smile slightly, realizing that Azriel basically just publicly announced his feelings toward you.

———

You lasted two days without returning to visit Azriel. You had told yourself it was to yell at him some more, but deep down you knew it wasn’t. Azriel opens his door after hearing you knock and looks genuinely surprised to see you.

“You win. You managed to scare off any decent male in Velaris. So congrats, I’m all yours.” You concede reluctantly.

“It was never about winning, sweetheart.” He shuts the door behind you, caging you between him and the door. You look up at him earnestly.

“Then what was it about?” You ask.

“It’s about getting a second chance to prove to you that I was an idiot. It’s about the fact that I will spend every single day for the rest of my existence trying to prove to you that I love you, and praying to the Mother that you decide to let me show you.” He whispers, leaning closer. You look up at him, seeing that hopeful look in his eyes again.

“Just one more chance?” Your voice comes out so soft he almost doesn’t hear you.

“One more chance, I promise that’s all I’ll need. I don’t plan on ever doing anything to mess it up again.” He answers sincerely.

“Okay then.” He doesn’t get a moment to process that you agreed before you pull his face towards yours, closing the gap between your lips. He immediately pulls your body into his and runs his hands through your hair.

“Thank the gods.” He murmurs into the kiss. You pull away for a moment.

“By the way, I love you too, Az.”

yes that last little bit about the dating ban was inspired by the deal by elle kennedy, but i just thought that was so funny and i believe without a doubt that Az could threaten all of Velaris to stay away from you

prompt list

taglist: @fxckmiup

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Day 30: forever?

Masterlist flufftober 🎃

TW: Mentions of schizophrenia. This would also qualify as hurt/comfort or flangst, but I wanted to write it anyway.

Spencer stared at the ceiling of his room in silence, lost in thoughts that seemed to tangle without remedy. He had been feeling this pressure in his chest for weeks, a fear he couldn't shake off, as if a shadow was relentlessly pursuing him. He knew it wasn't just stress, although that would have been the simplest explanation. This was something much deeper, darker.

His mind, always his greatest strength, now seemed like a source of fear, an invisible enemy haunting him with doubts and insecurities. The possibility of beginning to show signs of schizophrenia, like his mother, terrified him.

He picked up his phone, hesitating over whether he should call someone; whether he should call you. Your number had been there, patient, waiting for him to reach out, to ask for medical advice, a consultation… maybe even just to hear your voice.

He was so scared that he felt his hand trembling as he pressed the call button.

“Spencer?” you asked as soon as you answered. The warmth of your voice on the other end calmed him a bit.

“Hi, how are you?”

“Good, darling. A bit busy because I'm covering a shift in the ER and… ugh, everything is hectic.”

“Oh, then I'll let you go. I can call you later.”

“NO! It’s fine, it’s fine. My relief will be here in ten minutes; I can afford a moment of peace before that,” you murmured, sounding a bit tired. You fell silent for a moment. He said nothing. “Are you okay?”

He swallowed hard, noticing how the tension in his throat made it difficult to speak.

“I know you’re busy and I…” his breathing started to become erratic, despite his wishes. “I’m so sorry, but could you come? I just… I could really use someone to talk to.”

Hearing the tone of his voice, you agreed without hesitation, and an hour later, you were sitting on his couch, surrounded by the silence of his apartment. When you arrived, he didn’t say anything; just seeing his face and how he rubbed his eyes made you realize he was distressed.

Spencer didn’t even know how to begin. How could he explain the terror the idea of losing his mind caused him, of slowly crumbling without being able to do anything?

You didn’t pressure him. You just waited, giving him the time he needed, despite how exhausted you were from being awake for 20 hours. Finally, he took a deep breath and started to speak quietly:

“I’ve been… feeling strange. I’ve had horrible migraines and I thought that was nothing to worry about, but… lately I’ve been hearing things. Voices, whispers. And I see shadows where there shouldn’t be anything.”

His confession filled the room, dense as fog, and for a moment, he feared that you might feel uncomfortable, scared, as if sharing his fear made it more real. You had patients all the time, perhaps in worse conditions than he was, but all those ailments were physical; blood, fluids, skin… you didn’t deal with mental illnesses. Would you be afraid of him?

However, when he looked up, he noticed that you were simply looking at him with concern and tenderness. Despite the dark circles under your eyes, you regarded him with such kindness that he felt unworthy of it.

“How long have you been feeling this way?” you asked softly.

“For a few days… maybe a week,” Spencer sighed, feeling more vulnerable than ever. “My mother… you know what she…” he paused, unable to continue. He didn’t want to say it out loud, didn’t want to invoke the fear that gnawed at him inside. The possibility of also losing himself, like her, was an idea that paralyzed him.

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you reached out and intertwined your fingers with his. The warmth of your skin anchored him, a reminder that he wasn’t alone, that there was still something real and solid in his life. He remembered the last time he had felt that certainty, many years ago, when they were just kids.

The memory took him back to that day in the park. You were just two children sitting on a bench, the sky clear and the sun shining down on you. Spencer had been strangely quiet, lost in thoughts that seemed too big for his age. His mother had just gone through a very strong episode, and although he didn’t fully understand what it meant, he could feel the fear in his chest, a fear that seemed to settle in his bones. You had noticed his worry, and he, not knowing how to express it, ended up confessing his fears and doubts to you.

“What if something bad happens to my mom?” he had said softly, his gaze fixed on the ground. You had looked at him with that seriousness that only children can have, and without saying anything, you extended your pinky toward him.

“I’ll always take care of you, Spencer,” you told him as if making a sacred promise. He had entwined his pinky with yours, seeking that security that only you could give him.

“Forever?” he asked, unsure if you could keep such a big promise.

You nodded without hesitation.

“Forever.”

Returning to that memory brought him a little peace, a reminder that someone was willing to hold him, to be his refuge. Now, years later, you were by his side once more, fulfilling that promise you seemed to have made a lifetime ago.

Suddenly, he found himself in the present, gently squeezing your hand. The tears had already begun to slide down his cheeks, and he felt so lost… so vulnerable.

Of course, you weren’t going to demand medical details from him at that moment; you were exhausted from attending to patients and knew that what he needed now wasn’t an evaluation, but simply the company of a friend.

“I don’t want to end up like her,” he whispered, not looking at you, his voice broken.

“Spencer,” you replied firmly, taking his chin between your fingers and looking him directly in the eyes, “You don’t have to face this alone. I’ll help you with whatever you need.”

The certainty in your voice was so solid that he felt a part of his anxiety begin to dissolve. But still, the insecurity persisted, a shadow he couldn’t ignore.

He hesitated for a moment before whispering, barely audible:

“Forever?”

You didn’t remember that childhood promise made so many years ago, but at his question, you looked at him with a soft smile and squeezed his hand again.

“Forever,” you affirmed, without wavering.

Spencer felt his shoulders relax at hearing you. That simple word, laden with an unbreakable promise and loyalty, was all he needed at that moment. There were no medical exams, studies, or therapies that could compare to the peace he felt hearing you reaffirm that you would never leave him. Since childhood, he had treasured in his memory the recollection of your pinky intertwined with his when his whole world seemed about to fall apart; now he felt the same, and you were still there.

He allowed himself to release a trembling sigh, and without saying another word, you wrapped your arms around him, drawing him into a warm, firm embrace.

Spencer felt himself crumble at the contact, finally letting go of all those repressed emotions. He held onto you with a mix of desperation and relief, hiding his face in your neck, seeking in your closeness the comfort he had longed for in silence.

The tears flowed freely now, and he stopped fighting against them. It was strange; he used to be the most reserved person, the most contained, but with you, he allowed himself to be vulnerable, human. He knew you could bear his pain without judging him, without being scared. He entrusted you with his deepest fear, and you didn’t leave him alone in the middle of the storm.

You both stayed like that, embraced in silence for long minutes. He felt the weight of his anxiety and fear of illness beginning to give way little by little. The sensation of being held, of being accepted with all his flaws and fears, made him feel less fragmented, less scared.

Eventually, exhaustion began to take its toll on you. After so many hours of work and the emotional effort of comforting Spencer, your body gave in, and you let yourself fall gently against him. Unbeknownst to you, you started to drift off to sleep, and he noticed as your breathing slowed and your weight relaxed in his arms.

Realizing you had succumbed to fatigue, he smiled, touched and grateful to have you by his side. The anguish he had felt all night faded a bit more as he settled in, carefully holding you, protecting you just as you had done with him moments before.

And so, with you asleep in his arms, he felt the darkness that had been looming over him retreat a little; just a little. In that moment, everything seemed more hopeful, less fearsome. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in weeks, felt that maybe he could face his fears. Because, after all, he had someone who would fulfill that promise of being with him forever.