#Fuse been giving me mixed feelings the past years but i still love him

[kurt-accursedd]

🌙☀️

[lis-muerta]

“The people that were supposed to help me hurt me.”

Tw extremely difficult and dark content, noncon, physical damage. Also an extremely long draft I've been working on this since Anon sent the ask.

Read at your own risk this is the last warning.

TRIGGERING CONTENT UNDERFLAP

If she wasn't a corpse on two feet, she would've been heartbroken. She just felt fragmented, as if she wasn't even human anymore. Her skin seemed fused to the thin line between love and hate.

She remembered where she was—holding her expression steady, with Mako sitting across the table. The men across from them laughed crudely.

"Look at what we have here," they sneered, their eyes devoid of any humanity. Lin couldn't place where she had seen them before; her mind was rebelling against her. Yet, they recognized her, and she must have known them at some point.

"She's ugly now, but I bet she still has all that money—and she doesn't fix her nose, it's crooked, looks like a frog." The men's words slurred slightly, still under the influence.

"What did you say, punk?" Mako's voice was sharp as he glared at the 60-year-old man adorned with tattoos on his face and body. Lin suppressed a look of disgust. They were trying to provoke a reaction; she didn't know why, but she couldn't remember. Her hands trembled—a common occurrence when the weather turned like this. She sensed they were eager to remind her of their past acquaintance, casually using her first name as if they were old friends.

"How's Su, in her fancy platinum city?" The younger men chimed in, their faces lighting up with a mix of mockery and intrigue.

Lin remained silent, her expression unreadable. She waited to see if they would reveal more, but it was Mako who spoke next, his tone laced with suspicion. "How do you dirtbags know Su?"

Lin continued to listen silently, maintaining her neutral facade, unwilling to give these despicable sex traffickers the satisfaction of any reaction. But then they dropped a bombshell: Su had done them a favor, always ready to assist the Terra Triad.

Lin exhaled slowly, focusing on the fact that they had slipped up while their lawyer was still en route. It wouldn't hold up in court; the whole interrogation could be deemed pointless. Reacting to their bait would only jeopardize the interrogation. She needed to ensure they made it to trial.

"Are you confessing to a crime? Everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law, and you've asked for a lawyer," she stated firmly.

"If this lands me in jail, your sister will be right there with me for facilitating, and I don't think it would be just a small slap on the wrist either," the man with the neck tattoo retorted, crossing his arms, his demeanor showing no fear of the law.

Mako turned to Lin, his eyes searching hers for guidance.

"Depending on what you say next, we might discuss immunity, but remember, your counsel is still on the way."

"I'll waive it," the man declared boldly, his voice echoing slightly in the stark interrogation room.

—

Lin grabbed the paperwork with Mako telling him he would lead; she was disoriented, unsure of what was unfolding. They signed away their rights, driven by a vendetta against Su for betraying them decades ago. They smirked, sizing up Lin with contempt.

"If that bozo Zolt hadn't forgotten to lock the door to the hideout, that bitch would've been in a concrete grave," the man with the neck tattoo said, pointing at Lin, sending a chill through her veins.

The memories flooded back in an instant. She had been out for a run, feeling unwell and deciding to rest on a park bench. It was late; she should have been home already. Her vision blurred, and suddenly, two men appeared from behind the bench. She slumped over, her head ablaze with pain, her stomach cramping, and then she awoke chained to a bed. They injected something into her arm; time became a blur, the abuse relentless.

"Sure would've; she was starting to get boring. It was fun while it lasted. I'm honestly surprised she managed to recover; she was nearly dead by then. We even considered setting her on fire to finish the job, but then the boss thought about stuffing her in a drum, filling it with concrete, and leaving it for her loved ones to find, though they didn't seem to be looking."

"Are you insinuating that my sister was involved in my kidnapping?" Lin asked, her voice sharp and unfazed by the violence they described.

"Well, believe it; she was the one that drugged you before your run and told us where you'd be—that you took exactly 30 minutes to get to the park from the Beifong estates. It was hard to miss a sexy barely 18-year-old. Shame you decided to arrest Gao's right-hand man; he wouldn't have been so rough with you, and would’ve had more time to have fun. The funny part is that your mom found out and buried it; even she didn't give a shit about you."

"Okay, and your proof?" Lin said, her voice steady. Nothing could hurt if you didn't feel anything anymore. Mako, on the other hand, was livid, disgusted, and shocked that her sister might have done something so cruel, that her mother covered it up.

"Well, if you want to give us a deal, I can show you something. I'm sure you would like to have it back. Not like I'll be getting out of prison, but if you don't give us death, we'll give you everyone running this operation."

"Fine," Lin lied, knowing they had made their mistake. They weren't in charge of deals; that was up to the lawyers. They had just waived their right to counsel. It was a reasonable deception.

Mako wondered what was next. Lin was going to let them get away with it. That was when he took off the necklace. Lin raised a brow; he wore the evidence of his crime. He was that sure he had gotten away with what he had done.

Lin stared at the necklace—a jade boar with wings, golden wings, her initials carved in and gold-leafed. Her grandmother had given it to her shortly before she died. She hated the feeling she suddenly got, that they began to laugh, that the memories of what they did to her came back in a flash.

The earthbender remembered calling for her mom, begging for her; she couldn't walk anymore, she crawled, she was barely able to use or reach the bathroom, trapped in that shed. It was cold as it snowed outside. She pleaded for half an hour as they attacked her for not being able to make it, forcing her to drink her next mess.

The way they smashed her face into the floor by jumping on her. The clatter as her teeth hit the concrete, and her nose broke from being pressed into the ground; how she wouldn't be able to breathe from it again until she got surgery years later. How her face swelled more and more as they brutalized her starved body, how they had dropped a boulder on her body many times, breaking many bones in her legs and hands, ribs.

The cuts and burns that were all over her unscarred body. Cigarettes and hot metal were pressed against her skin. The drugs fed to her, and how wild it got as they passed her around like a doll the first weeks to all of their friends in the triad while she still looked pretty. How the ringleader's father joined in instead of calling the police; he didn't want to pass up on sleeping with a hot young lady.

That people could hear her screams but didn't dare call the cops. The word got out, and the other boys in the triad who hated her mother and her type came in droves to abuse her body. Anything and everything became a new way to torment her as they put things inside her body. She never knew pain like this, and she had no memories of not being harmed in her life. That she wasn't publicly seen for a long time due to the damage to her body and her mind, that she was unrecognizable for months, her face was so swollen.

That she wouldn't be able to bear children, not that she wanted them. From all the violence done internally with objects. The glee that the older man gave as he described her screams, how this probably didn't even bother her because she was used up and ran through even before then.

Her mother didn't hesitate to ensure Su wasn't involved, despite the drugs used to ensnare Lin, and make her unable to fight back , were found in her room along with other trophies of their crimes, which the men hid in the Beifong house. They laughed heartily as they described feeding her drugs to keep her unable to bend, how Lin had been reduced to crawling and being unable to eat, drink, breathe, and use the bathroom properly. They destroyed her legs, hands, and body.

Lin wanted to die every day if it meant being freed from this numb world. She remembered how long it took before she was able to walk again, to see; her face was so swollen, nobody recognized her for weeks, she couldn't talk from how much she had screamed. How much this should hurt, but she felt nothing. Lin Beifong died a long time ago, and after Amon, she hadn't been able to regain feelings in any meaningful way. She felt like nothing, a void in her being.

Beifong forgave them; she had every right to be upset at them both, but everyone said lin was the problem. She started to believe it was her, that she was cold and no good. Her sister looked her in the eyes and said she was the reason Lin did a banged-up job keeping the family as it was, broken, knowing what she did nearly crippled her, and Su let that guy steal Lin's last memory of their grandmother, who she had. Her personality and cognitive functions were never the same; she couldn't emote even when she tried. She couldn't express herself no matter how badly she wanted to.

"Every time I see your face in the paper, I look at that necklace and remember how you cried and begged for your mommy to save you. How she was more worried about your bitch sister, How we ruined you—that Master Tenzin lost interest in you because you were broken by us. All that money and power, and you did nothing with it. Wasted, on a dumb broad who's just a good body."

Lin's eyes never left the man's face as he described his plans to kill her, every gruesome detail. Her expression remained neutral, almost bored.she had no idea what he had to prove.

"Hm, is that so?" Lin said, her voice dripping with nonchalance. Inside her mind was churning as those lowlifes got too comfortable.

Nowadays, she didn't even know where she was, with whom, or why; it was all a blur. Nothing stayed still enough to catch the details. It was like her grandmother's hair slipping through her fingers; she didn't know what she was anymore, but she didn't feel human. Chief Beifong was just a response to what was right in front of her, with no details, too tired and impatient of everything, like how long it was taking for those lowlifes to make out their list of people involved with the current trafficking ring, the thing she cared more about. Everything took forever, everything was just out of reach.

The man's grin faltered, expecting a stronger reaction. But Lin just stood up, her movements fluid.

Mako walked out of the room, his statements already taken. Lin followed a small smirk playing on her lips.

"You have tons of time to think about how you wish you had killed me," she said, her voice sweet. "Especially since you're going to get the death penalty. And you made a plea deal with the wrong person, genius."

The man's face twisted in rage, but Lin just turned and walked away, leaving him to his fate.

Mako blinked, admiring Lin's ability to hold onto her emotions. "Hey, Lin, are you okay?" he asked, catching up to her as she walked past him briskly, hoping to avoid this.

Lin shrugged. "Been through worse than what they did."

Mako frowned, concerned, but Lin just headed to her office to work on the paperwork. He decided to follow, his eyes fixed on her back.

"How do you do it, Lin?" he asked, his voice low. "How do you stay so calm after everything you've been through?"

Lin shrugged.

"Lin, wait. Are you going to be okay? That had to be hard to hear."

"Been through worse. It's too late now, no use in dwelling," Lin said, her tone so detached it could have been about anything.

"Been through worse—Lin!" Mako was horrified at the idea she thought this was no big deal. "You're going to let her get away with that?" Mako said, growing frustrated.

"Su already did, didn't you hear? She was a minor, and there are at least two adults who will get all the blame for her facilitation and possession. Besides, it was nearly four decades ago, and with her rebrand that fooled everyone, she'll never see the inside of a jail cell or court," Lin said, her voice measured, caging in all the betrayal. Su and her have been on talking terms for years now. She was actively deceiving her.

The heartache the chief felt as she thought of their words—not even her mother gave a damn about her.

The fact that Su nearly crippled her, that she had serious damage that still affects her, that she couldn't have kids, that she didn't leave her home for a long time. She was silently struggling with the withdrawal from the drugs they fed her. She was unrecognizable for months, never the same person as her brain was damaged by the things they did to her.

"Besides, there's no use risking the tiny bit of stability the Earth Kingdom has. It's barely stabilizing itself, and I won't lose sleep over it," Lin said.

"But you deserve justice for what they—" Mako started.

"I don't deserve anything. Just leave what happened out of the report, and drop it. I've been through the worst; it's going to be fine, and I'm fine. I'm going to turn in after I finish the paperwork."

It was early for Lin to leave, usually being the first one in and the last out.

Mako knew it had to bug her, but she kept herself guarded. She refused to open up, even though she usually preferred working for as long as possible. She was choosing to head in early; she was hurting. He realized she was heading to her office.

"Lin, will you promise me you will consider talking to someone you trust? This has to be hurting, even if you say that it isn't the worst thing you've encountered, that you're no stranger to betrayal, which frankly is terrifying to think." Lin kept the same expression she always wore as it grew closer to the end of most detectives' lunch breaks; they were starting to filter in. She was stone-cold as Lin walked into her office, wondering if she even trusted anyone anymore because she didn't have anyone she turned to show him that Lin Beifong was fine. She wasn't sniveling and crying; she was numb to the world and its evils, hardened and unbreakable on the outside.

"Just omit the things pertaining to me from the report. The last thing I need is for the media to get wind of this," Lin said as she pushed the door open to her office again, closing and locking it behind her, taking a deep breath before getting to work.

—

It had been two days since that afternoon. Lin had not shown up for work and Mako couldn't sleep.The group sat in stunned silence, processing Mako's revelation.

"Su set Lin up?" Korra asked, her voice laced with disbelief. "She facilitated a kidnapping?"

Mako nodded, his expression grim. "Lin was 18. She was kidnapped, abused, and nearly killed. Su's was the reason she was targeted; she told them about Lin arresting the leaders right hand man, that Lin was always on Su’s case as she fed them information in hopes of joining the gang.They told Su they would deal with Lin if she gave info and she wouldn't bother her ever again and she can join their gang." The implication was that Su knew they would hurt Lin but Mako also knew Su was twelve, he really hoped she didn't realize what she set her sister up for.

Tenzin's face darkened, his eyes flashing with anger. "I knew she was kidnapped, but I didn't know the extent. We didn't see her until she recovered from her injuries, away from Republic City."

Pema's expression turned stern, her voice firm. "I'm going to check on Lin, right now. She needs our support."

Tenzin countered, his voice calm . "Pema, we can't just barge in on her. She needs space."

Pema's eyes flashed with concern. "Space? She's been through trauma, Tenzin. She needs us. The people that were supposed to help her hurt her! her own mother covered it up I can't even imagine horrible Lin must feel inside"

Kya spoke up, her voice laced with understanding. "Actually, Pema, Lin's more likely to get angry if we violate her boundaries. She values her independence."

Bumi nodded in agreement. "Yeah, and she's been dealing with Su's betrayal. She needs time to process."

Pema's face was determination. "I don't care. I need to make sure she's okay."

Tenzin's expression turned gentle but firm. "Pema, we're not questioning your concern, but Lin's strong. She can handle this. Forcing our presence on her will only make things worse."

Asami added, "And think about it, Pema. Lin's been through so much. She needs to feel in control of her life right now."

Bolin chimed in, "Yeah, and if we show up uninvited, she'll feel like we're taking that control away from her."

Pema's voice rose, her frustration evident. "You're all just making excuses. She wants to be alone because she's scared. But I know her, she doesn't want to be alone."

Kya's voice turned soft but firm. "Pema, we're not making excuses. We're trying to respect Lin's boundaries. She'll come to us when she's ready."

Pema's expression turned stubborn, but the others stood firm, convinced that giving Lin space was the best decision.

"You're all just making excuses not to check on Lin. She needs our support, and I'm going to make sure she gets it."Pema's breaths were heavy, filled with an anger she had not felt in decades.

Kya countered, "Pema, Lin's not going to want us to be there. I’m telling you it’s going to be a fight.”

“She's vulnerable, she needs someone to fight for her, just as much as anyone else, and I doubt anyone will let her share that or even asked. You all act like she’s a machine and not a person.” Pema felt heated, particularly because of her own similarities in sibling betrayal.

that Pema didn’t doubt Lin endured all of that and was expected to go about her day regularly once her body recovered. Her own mother covered this up. That they were just going to wait until she dealt with it her own way before bothering to check in when she was over it. They were cowards.

Tenzin added, "We're not making excuses, Pema. Lin wont respond well, and we can't just march in unannounced."

Pema's voice rose. "You're always saying that! Lin doesn't want to be alone. She's heartbroken, and she needs us. You're just too scared to face her."

Kya explained, "Pema, Lin's brain damage made her personality and ability to emote change. She wouldn't talk unless necessary. She obsessed with getting stronger and being a good influence on the city. It might frustrate her or overwhelm her if we approach her first it's hard for her to communicate."

Tenzin said, “She didn't speak for months, but eventually, Katara helped her reintegrate. However, she was a different person."

Pema argued, "That's exactly why we should be there for her! But no, you're all too busy making excuses. I'm going to check on her, and I'm not leaving her alone with that."

Bumi sighed. "Pema, we're not trying to abandon Lin. We just don't want to intrude on her space like Kya said it might overwhelm her."

Pema shot back, "when has Lin ever not been there for us? Never! She's always been the strong one, and now she needs us, and you're all too scared to be there for her."

Korra's eyes dropped, her mind racing with regret. "I can't believe I forced Lin to talk to Su. I didn't leave it alone all those years ago. And now,I find out Su was behind a serious crime."

Asami's hand on her shoulder offered comfort. "Korra, you didn't know. You were trying to help."

But Korra shook her head, her guilt evident. "I should have listened to Lin. I should have respected her boundaries. If only I had."

Tenzin's wise voice interrupted her thoughts. "Korra, you can't change the past. But you can be there for Lin now. When she's ready to talk."

The group fell silent, weighing their options. Finally, Pema stood up, her expression determined. "I'm going to check on her, with or without you.I'll come home if she doesn't want company."

Pema thought of the scars on her wrists. The little girl that needed somebody by her side to be her voice that it never came as she became the scapegoat for the things her brother and his friends had done to her.

She would be the person that they both needed; she wouldn’t turn her back like Lin’ supposed family friends. Pema left, got Oogi determination in her blood along with anger at her husband and everyone else turning a blind eye.

@btheleaf Pemas headcanon is theirs, I have more I need to write in part two and Pema gets a bigger part.

@dont-blame-it-on-the-kids

[thisworldisablackhole]

nothing,nowhere. Hell or Highwater

🌕🌕🌕🌕🌑

FFO: COUNTRY, EMO, ALEX G, DASHBOARD CONFESSIONAL / LISTEN

Country is back in. It has been for a while. Everyone wants to be a cowboy these days. The undercurrents of americana that pervade popular music have never gone away, but many artists over the past few years have been pushing their over the top characterizations of cowboys and countryscapes back into the mainstream by fusing the genre with electronic based pop and rap. Lil Nas X, Oliver Tree, hell, even Beyoncé has seen the potential in this fusion. In a way, it almost feels a little bit late for singer-songwriter and emo-rap-metalcore extraordinaire Joe Mulherin to be hopping on the trend, but I'm not sure if anyone has so unabashedly mixed alt-country and emo pop like this before.

Hell or Highwater is the newest entry in the series of Joe Mulherin doing whatever the fuck he wants since leaving Fueled by Ramen and regaining ownership of his career. He already dropped a full length record of emo rap bangers earlier this year, and now, almost as if to flex his new found creative freedom, he's switching things up with nine sad, manure scented acoustic tracks. "John Wayne (I Wanna Be A Cowboy)" kicks things off with a reminder that Mulherin is, in fact, a millennial, and his perspective as a 30 something year old struggling with motivation and trapped in cycles of late night doom-scrolling definitely shines through in the lyrics. Somber strums of the guitar accompany him as he sings "I wanna be a cowboy, but I sleep too late. I stayed up all night watching Walmart fights on my phone". At face value, it's a bit cheesy, but the message of desperately wanting more for yourself yet having too much executive dysfunction to take those steps is honest and easily relatable for the modern age. Don't worry though, not every song is so on the nose with it's tiktok generation pandering. Fourth track and one of the biggest album highlights, "In The Country", hits us with the beautiful cry of the harmonica and a much less obvious approach to discussing depression and the yearning to escape to a quieter, simpler life.

I'd be remiss not to mention that there is still a small hip hop influence on this album. "Hydrangeas", "Cliché Lovers", and "Honey" all feature some 808s and trap hi hats, but Mulherin's sad cowboy persona still remains at the core of these songs, and these elements blend so seamlessly into the rest of the album that they hardly feel out of place, especially if you are already familiar with the previous work of nothing,nowhere. These songs bring a sort of mixtape feel to the album, and while they aren't the star of the show for me, they act as nice segues between the more countryfied moments. Things really get kicked up a notch near the end of the record with bombastic choruses in a slacker visage like early Dashboard Confessional meets Rocket-era Alex G. Closing track "New England" ends things off on a particularly high note, starting with the lone riffing of an electric banjo before drums, acoustic guitars and blues slides all drop into place. Mulherin throws a slight twang on his voice as he recites some of his most muddy truck lovin' lyrics to date, "Well, I know that backroads and dirty clothes just ain't for everyone. So, you take the city lights and skyline, give me a setting sun". It's probably the most cowboy cosplay moment on the whole album, but in the midst of the trees and cornfields still lies an explosive, tearjerking chorus of lost love that could make me weep. Mulherin has always had a knack for hooks and catchy choruses, and this song further exemplifies the fact that he could easily make a career in writing chart topping hits if he wanted to.

I'll admit, I wasn't expecting to fall in love with this album. My personal relationship with country music has gone from ironically blasting "Fix A Drink" by Chris Jansen for shits and giggles, to eagerly watching Lucinda Williams live with clasped hands and open ears, but when the emo kid next door suddenly shows up on your front lawn with a cowboy hat, acoustic guitar in hand, and face painted like a clown, I think anyone would be a little skeptical. But whether it's rap, metalcore, or alt country, Mulherin never fails to write a memorable, heart clutching song. Hell or Highwater is just further proof that his song writing talent transcends borders, and—outside of the constraints of major labels—he truly can do whatever the fuck he wants.

[stevetonyweekly]

SteveTony Weekly - April 2nd

It’s been a quiet reading week for me, but I reread a favorite fic which was nice. Give a look see to all of this week’s stories and be sure to leave a comment/kudos for your author. 

~~ 

given you a number, taken away your name by janonny 

As Tony behaves more erratically, S.H.I.E.L.D. sends in Steve as an undercover agent in S.I. to be Natasha’s back-up. Except Steve is really, really not cut out for this undercover business.

-

Before the lift’s doors closed, Stark suddenly grinned and said, “Call me Tony. Have a better rest of the day, big guy.”

Awkwardly, Steve lifted his free hand and waved as the doors slid shut between them.

What...what was he doing? Why was he waving? Steve hurriedly put his hand down and turned around sharply.

Second Opinion by Annie D (scaramouche)

Written for an anon on tumblr, who requested "short domesticity fic where you can tell that Steve and Tony have been together for THAT long".

I kinda failed at at the domesticity portion, but this Steve and Tony are very, VERY together.

Dreamboat to the rescue by shetlandowl 

When the last single person in Tony's close friend-group finds her special someone, said person makes it her personal mission to make sure Tony doesn't die alone. Getting her off his case will take a miracle, so Tony tries to fabricate one. It doesn't go according to plan.

The Stolen Shirt by RiotFalling 

Tony steals Steve’s shirt. It has an effect.

Ripple Effect by sabrecmc

After the events of Infinity War, Steve is sent back in time on a desperate mission to find the Tesseract. Instead, he meets up with 21-year old Tony, still reeling from his parents' deaths. Who, naturally, tries to climb Steve like a tree. Somehow, this fixes everything.

Fuse is Fireside by GotTheSilver

if Tony lived post Endgame au.

Because, here’s the thing, he loves Pepper. He does. He’s not so much of an asshole that he’d marry her if he didn’t.

But Steve.

Steve is like gravity. Always has been.

We're Dating by Whothefuckyduckyisbucky

Tony thinks they're dating. They totally are. Someone should tell Steve.

Set after The avengers movie. In the 1940's male friendships were a lot more affectionate, so Steve doesn't always get that the affection Tony shows him isn't platonic.

of dreams, ice and scales by janonny

Tony is Iron Man. He’s also a dragon who has learned that you can’t keep everything you love.

Steve is Captain America. He’s also a knight who falls into deep sleep for decades and wakes to a different world.

Together, they rescue each other.

-

At nine, Tony trembles when Maria comes to him and says with hushed urgency, “Never give your scales to anyone. You’ll only regret it.”

At sixteen, Steve trembles when they lower Sarah into a hole in the ground. 

A Moment In History by itsallAvengers 

Everything was going fine until Tony Stark from ten years in the past landed on his ass in their kitchen.

Present-day Tony supposes this is just another Sunday Morning.

The Goddamn Suit by orphan_account

Steve is attracted to Tony's suits. Tony finds out that the Captain is a slut.

Ride by FestiveFerret

“Oh god,” Steve’s hips jerked in their confines. His cock was so hard it hurt, his jaw ached in the best possible way, and it was all too much. “Tony, please.”

For A Good Time Call by BeenAsleepFor70Years

Steve explores his sexuality by trying out a phone sex service. He may just leave the situation crushing on the guy at the other end of the phone. He already had feelings for his teammate Iron Man, now a new crush gets thrown into the mix. What ever shall he do?

couldn't whisper (when you needed it shouted) by only_more_love 

Steve still can't let go of that damned flip phone. (Really, he can't let go of Tony.)

i want the green grass and the tomato plants by Anonymous

When Tony arrives to Stardew Valley, he spends the first five minutes staring.

(Or, a Stardew Valley AU. Tony rebuilds a farm and owns chickens. Steve paints.)

[get-back-homeward]

Imagine this

How Do You Sleep that

Have you considered the most interesting song on the Imagine album may be How?

George was right. The song deserves attention.

Tumblr search is zero help on this song because it only picks up How Do You Sleep. But has anyone ever written about it?

Given John’s “How? + Why?” response to Paul’s 12-page letter about dissolving the partnership, I think it’s worth looking at. That exchange is sometime in summer 1970.

Song Origins

The earliest version of How? is a home demo dated as late 1970. This demo only has the “we” part of the song:

How can we go forward When we don’t know which way we're facing? How can we go forward When we don’t know which way to turn? How can we be certain About something we’re not sure of? Oh, no, oh, no

In the final version, this part is the end of the song (the bolded words change slightly). This ending is a shift from the personal “I” used in the rest of the song. So he started with “we” in 1970 and then evolved it into more self-directed reflection over time.

The demo is very rough, he's still searching for the notes. But something about it made me think of Look At Me, which has a similar plaintive tone and features several existential questions to the listener (Who am I supposed to be? and Who are we?). Look at Me originates from India and has an earlier 1968 demo that captures a glimpse of John’s state of mind during this crucial time. The How? demo would be recorded around the same time John is revisiting Look At Me to record formally for the Plastic Ono Band album.

The added self-reflection verses continue the same format of existential questions, moving from feelings to love. It's a blatantly honest look at depression in the wake of a loss, which I think George would have noticed and in some sense seen himself in. It's unclear when these verses are added (John just says “last year” in 1971 for all the verses), but they are probably influenced by John's experience of undergoing Janov's primal scream therapy (April-September 1970?). Possibly the questions left unanswered at the end of those 6 months.

How can I have feeling when I don't know if it's a feeling?

How can I give love when I don't know what it is I'm giving?

All three verses include the idea of uncertainty (I don’t know), which could be its own essay on existentialism vs epistemology in the face of a destabilizing event. But for now, let’s focus on the emotional aspect. Here, two places ascribe blame to drive his uncertainty: his feelings have always been denied and love is something he never had. This seems to go a bit far, but remember depression is a liar and part of Janov's therapy was probably that John’s closest relationships had all been a lie.

John adds the middle eight during Imagine sessions. It balances the bleakness of depression with the will to live:

You know life can be long

And you got to be so strong

And the world is so tough

Sometimes I feel I've had enough

This middle eight repeats twice, and each time, the end fuses to the first word of the questioning verses, without the typical space of a few beats in between. This lack of space suggests a relationship, as if the questions are part of the fight to keep him going past the bleakness of feeling like giving up.

Its first recording is May 26, 1971, nine days after Ram is released. Take 31 and Take 40 (Raw Studio Mix) were released on the Ultimate release of the album but aren't too different from the final lyrics/melody wise.

Supposedly, another version of How? includes a question about home: “how can I go home when home is something I have never had” and it’s not clear which lines replace it. Perhaps “how can I give love when I don’t know what it is I’m giving?” Questions of home would be a result of Janov’s primal scream digging into his childhood and bringing forth old wounds. But in the absence of a physical home, it’s the people around you who become your home. This home line makes me think of that Get Back sessions moment, when John shares with Paul his excitement about getting Apple Studio functional and feeling like home. It's a picture of feelings being denied in action as Paul responds by changing the subject. For whatever reason, this home line gets cut by Take 31.

The placement of How? in the album tracklist is curious too, directly after the angry Paul-directed How Do You Sleep. Its title holds the same question but none of the anger. It’s like an echo of How Do You Sleep, informing the source of its anger and revealing what it masks: fear and indecision about the future.

Song Context

It’s interesting to place this song next to Ram, where the overwhelming theme is the exact opposite: grab life by the horns and move forward to find your own way. Ram sessions started in NYC in October 1970, around the same time as the How? demo. Each song, from Too Many People to Back Seat, reveals Paul’s mental exercise of extricating himself from his former life and moving on with his family in Scotland. Personally and professionally, Paul is building a new home away from John.

The final version of How? is produced more in the vein of The Long and Winding Road, the song at the nexus of the breakup. Its beginning is marked by the same distinct stop-start syncopated beat and the instrumentation builds across the song to make a bleak song more palatable. If Paul didn’t turn off the record the moment he heard John’s diss track, he would have almost certainly picked up How?’s link to TL&WR. That song being his own plaintive moment of fearing the future, considering life without the band that was his world. And the last straw when Spector remixed it without his approval.

In his April 1971 LIFE interview that precedes the Ram release, Paul shares a recent exchange between him and John. John recalls the infamous “bubble bursting” question, and Paul corrects him in the past tense: the bubble has already burst. This is one of several exchanges where Paul’s saying catch up, it’s done, let me go and John’s saying what does that even mean?!

Hearing Paul’s declaration of independence on Ram made John angry. He calls How Do You Sleep “an outburst” in response to Ram and not reflective of how he thinks of Paul all the time. But Ram also gave him a direction forward that McCartney did not. If John thought the album had messages to taunt him, he almost certainly heard the taunt in Monkberry Moon Delight:

Catch up! Cats and kittens Don’t get left behind

I don’t know about you, but hearing that taunt from my ex-partner/BFF/lover/whatever would certainly make me angry, hot enough to ignite my competitive streak and get to work.

It reminds me of the moment Fred Seaman recalls in 1980, when John hears Paul's Coming Up:

John told me that Paul was the only musician who could scare him into writing great songs, and vice versa.

Imagine is hardly my favorite John solo album. I'm not about to dismiss the terrible things John said about Paul or Ram or forget how the bad press buried the album for years. But I think in focusing on the anger, we can miss the simple fact that Ram inspiring John to write anything was actually the biggest compliment he could give. Sometimes, anger is the only fuel available to drive you forward, where anything is preferable to nothing. It’s not ideal or fair, and it’s up to you to pick up the mess of your storm later, but it’s something. Like a basic survival instinct kicking in in the midst of drowning. Any fight that pushing you back to the surface is preferable over laying down and dying.

In that way, I think John was being honest when he later admitted that How Do You Sleep was about himself. Not in the exact lines specific to Paul but in the action, to write (or accept), record, and release them. How? as an echo to this anger shows the before and after, how John used Paul as a punching bag in response. That action was all about John himself.

[criminalmindzjunkie]

Hungry Eyes

masterlist

Summary: Spencer is tired of hiding your relationship. 

A/N: The idea for this fic came from a lovely anon that requested a fic based on She’s So Nice by Pink Guy. I also drew inspo from Hungry Eyes by Eric Carmen (strange mix, but stay with me here.) So basically, a lot of Dom!Spencer goodness. I’d like to say a huge thank you for almost 1k followers, because wow. I never imagined 5 people would actually want to read my writing. I love you all, and I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future works!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Warnings: swearing, jealousy, degradation, spitting, slapping, oral sex (male and female receiving), spanking, vaginal penetration, unprotected sex

Word Count: 5.5k

           “That is one fine piece of ass. Don’t think I could get any work done with a sweet little thing like that prancing around my precinct,” mutters yet another sleezeball detective, beady eyes trained on you like a lion might study their prospective prey. It’s moments like these that Spencer has to remind himself that patience is a virtue – that he must bite his tongue because he’s at work and that means he has to act professional. Even if those around him don’t seem capable of affording him the same luxury.

           So, it’s with a clenched jaw and all the self-restraint that he can muster that Spencer forces himself to focus on the task at hand. Because Spencer is a professional, and there are more pressing matters that demand his undivided attention. The detective could be dealt with later – in the form of a complaint to the higher ups. But for now, patience.

           Usually, this wouldn’t be a problem. Years on the job had taught Spencer to remain level headed no matter the circumstance. Usually, Spencer could tune out the locker room talk in favor of immersing himself into the case. But when it came to you, or rather, people who dared to look upon you with eyes laden with lustful intentions, Spencer had a rather short fuse.

           It happens often, and he supposes that he shouldn’t be surprised. You’d certainly turned his head the first time he was fortunate enough to lay eyes on you. He’d nearly broken his neck trying to steal another glimpse of you as you walked past him on your way to Emily’s office on your first day. No one would ever describe Spencer Reid as forward, but on that day, he was the most brazen he’d ever been.

           Throwing caution to the wind, Spencer made a split-second decision stop you and introduce himself.

           It was the best decision he would ever make.

           So, yes – he understood why the head of everyone you passed turned your way, eager to bask in your unparalleled beauty. But that didn’t mean that he had to like it. In fact, every time Spencer caught some imprudent bastard leering at you, he had to remind himself that enacting physical force on another person with no real reason could cost him his job. That, and he was above resorting to violence – or at least he was, until you came around.  

           Part of his anger was rooted in the obvious lack of respect. It didn’t matter if Spencer held your hand in his as the two of you walked down the street, or if he kissed you on the lips in the middle of a crowded restaurant. All the PDA in the world did nothing to assuage the lingering stares, and Spencer felt his sanity chip away with every passing day.

           In the beginning, keeping his relationship with you a secret from your colleagues seemed like a good enough idea. Both of you were in agreement that you didn’t want to your personal relationship to affect your professional one, so when the elevator doors opened up and the two of you stepped out into the bullpen, you both were on your best behavior. And it was okay at first – Spencer was able to put his romantic feelings aside and focus on his work, all while still being able to make eyes at you from across the room. It was the perfect arrangement.

           Until it wasn’t.

           Because it wasn’t enough that you were gorgeous – you were also the most selfless person that Spencer had ever met. Always eager to lend a hand to anyone in need – always seeing the best in everyone, regardless of if they deserve it or not. It was an admirable quality to have, and he loved you for it, but on days like today he wishes you were a little more perceptive.

           That, and he wishes you’d chosen to wear anything but the tight little skirt and low-cut top that you were currently sporting. Not that he didn’t love the way the fabric clung to your figure like it was tailor-made for you – because he did - it was just that every other male in the precinct seemed to enjoy it as much as he did. And that made Spencer’s blood boil.

           The tipping point comes when, just as Spencer is trying to hunt you down and propose a quick lunch break, he finds you engaging in conversation with the very same detective that had been spouting lewd comments about you all morning. You’re seated at the breakroom table, clutching a fresh cup of coffee in hand as you look up at the man, a polite smile upturning your lips as you listen to him drone on about how his amateur baseball team had won some stupid fucking tournament the previous weekend. He’s smiling down at you, endlessly smug and way too pleased with himself at having captured your attention.

           It makes Spencer sick.

           His reprieve comes when your eyes flit to the doorway and you flash him a breathtaking smile. It makes him warm from the inside out, and Spencer wants nothing more than to plant kiss after kiss on your lips. Unfortunately, he can’t, so he settles on returning your smile.

           “There you are,” Spencer greets as he crosses the room before coming to a stop next to you. “I was thinking we could go grab lunch.”

           “Is it really lunch time already?” you murmur as you glance down at your watch. “I guess I let the day get away from me. Detective Yarborough was just telling me about the baseball game his team won this weekend.”

           “Oh, was he now,” Spencer feigns interest as he turns to face the man.

           “Yup,” you say, completely oblivious to the uncomfortable tension. “Didn’t you tell me you played in a baseball game once?”

           This piques the interest of Yarborough and he raises an eyebrow at Spencer.

           “You play?” he asks, tone laden with disbelief.

           “Not exactly.”

           The detective merely harrumphs in response, and an uncomfortable silence falls on the room.

           Your eyes dart between the two men and your brows furrow adorably as you try to make sense of the almost palpable animosity.

           “Okay… So, lunch. Did you have anything in mind, Spence?”

           “There’s a really good pizza joint two blocks from here,” Yarborough chimes in. “I could show you, if you like.”

           He acts as if the offer extends to you both, but the way he looks only at you when he says it tells Spencer otherwise.

           “The hospitality is appreciated, but that won’t be necessary,” Spencer breezes, clipped and to the point. He’s able to see in his peripheral vision the way your eyebrows raise in shock, but he’s too busy glaring at the detective to care.

           “Uh, yeah. Thanks anyways, Detective,” you mutter confusedly as you stand.

           “Anything for a pretty lady such as yourself,” he replies. “And you can call me Trevor.”

           Spencer’s hands are clenched into fists and he has to actually bite down on his tongue to keep from doing something he’d surely regret later. You bid Trevor ado with a smile and a parting wave, and then Spencer’s ushering you out of the room and down the hall, hand placed firmly on your back. He can’t do much in regards to initiating physical contact, but he allows himself this miniscule act of PDA. The feeling of your warmth radiating through your blouse is the only thing keeping him from giving into his primal instincts. Instincts that are screaming at him to put that smarmy bastard in his place.

--

        ��  The hours after lunch pass by rather uneventfully. You accompany Tara when she goes to interview the victim’s family, and for the first-time all-day Spencer is able to repress his frustration long enough to focus on piecing together a geographical profile. By the time you and Tara return, the sun has long since disappeared from the sky and fatigue is rolling off everyone in waves. When Emily finally announces the end of the day, she’s met with absolutely no resistance.

           Spencer immediately scans the room for you, only to frown when he sees that you’re nowhere in sight. In fact, he hasn’t set eyes on you in well over an hour, too busy wrapping up the days’ work to notice your absence until now.

           “Has anyone seen Y/N?” Spencer calls out. His question is met by several shaking heads.

           “I think she’s busy,” JJ sing-songs, eyebrows waggling suggestively. Spencer’s frown only deepens.

           “Busy?”

           JJ nods.

           “Yarborough has been chomping at the bit to ask her to dinner. My guess is he’s got her cornered somewhere.”

           Of fucking course.

           Spencer’s out of his seat and stomping through the precinct in second, oblivious to the way his coworkers exchange curious glances as he storms off.

           He finds the two of you in much the same way as before, only this time Trevor is blocking your path to the doorway, hand in the air as he moves to tuck a stray piece of your hair behind your ear.

           “– C’mon, babe. Say you’ll go to dinner with me,” Trevor croons in a way that’s supposed to come off as seductive. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

           You lean backwards in an attempt to evade his touch, and you barely get the chance to open your mouth when Spencer intervenes.

           “She’s not interested.”

           The detective whips around, snorting in annoyance when he sees Spencer standing in the doorway.

           “What are you, her fucking keeper?” Trevor sneers, before turning back to face you. “Who does this guy think he is?”

           Something in Spencer snaps, then – the same something that has been swelling inside him for months, threatening to spill over every time he had to pretend that the stares didn’t enrage him. He’s tired of pretending, tired of hiding, and so, so fucking tired of not putting assholes like Trevor Yarborough in their place.

           Fueled by months of suppressed anger, Spencer manages to cross the room in about two seconds. He has several inches on the detective, standing at an intimidating six-foot one inch in height, so when he comes to a stop right in front of the detective, he’s looming over him threateningly.

           “I’m her fucking boyfriend, and if you so much as try to touch her again, I’ll break your goddamn hand,” Spencer spits out, and he’d be lying if he said the way Trevor’s eyes widen in fear doesn’t thrill him. “Are we clear?”

           “Uh, yeah. Sorry, dude,” Trevor splutters, raising his hands in surrender. “Didn’t know she was taken. My bad.”

           Spencer tears his eyes away from the detective and takes in the way you’re watching on with an amused expression. He reaches out, and you’re quick to place your hand in his. Without speaking another word to the detective, Spencer leads you from the room and out the back entrance of the precinct.

           “What was that?” you tease, eyes glistening mischievously underneath the street lights. “I thought we agreed that we weren’t taking things public just yet?”

           Spencer crowds you against the brick wall of the building, pressing his body flush against yours. He ducks down swiftly, pulling you into a frenzied kiss. His lips drag against yours relentlessly, and all it takes is one breathy moan before he’s licking into your mouth possessively. Spencer slots his knee in between your legs, simultaneously groping at your chest with one hand as the other tangles in your hair.

           When Spencer pulls away, he doesn’t go far. His lips leave a trail of wet kisses down your neck as you writhe against him, hands clinging tightly to his dress shirt. You whimper when his teeth nip at the tender spot right under your ear, and you can’t help the way your hips cant up when Spencer’s tongue brushes against reddened skin.

           “I’m tired of pretending,” Spencer murmurs as his mouth continues to move against you, sucking purple bruises against your flesh. “Don’t fucking care about how it will affect the job. Tomorrow, everyone’s gonna know that you’re mine. Gonna mark every inch of you tonight – gonna fuck you until you can’t fucking walk.”

           “Please,” you slur as you guide Spencer’s hand down until his fingers graze the end of your skirt. Spencer chuckles darkly against your neck when his hand brushes against the soiled lace of your panties.

           “Didn’t mean I’d fuck you right here,” he laughs, prompting you to let out an impatient whine. The hand that was previously tangled in your hair slides down until it’s wrapped around your throat, and Spencer’s cock twitches eagerly in his pants when you push your throat harder into his palm. “Such a needy little slut for me. Ready and willing for me to fuck you out in the open, where anyone could walk by and see how fucking desperate you are for my cock.”

           “M’ your slut,” you pant as Spencer’s middle and index fingers ghost across your center. “Only yours, Spence. I don’t care who sees, just - please fuck me!”

           “I fucking own you,” Spencer growls against your lips as he tightens his hold on your throat. “And as much as I’d love to take you right against this wall, the things I have planned for you would elicit quite an audience. I know how loud you like to be.”

           Spencer pushes your panties to the side and you let out a low hiss as he drags a finger across where want him most. You cry out in frustration when he removes his hand to bring it up to his mouth, tongue darting out to lick his finger clean.

           “Just needed a little taste to tide me over,” Spencer murmurs, smirking devilishly at you as he steps back from you. “Let’s head back to the hotel. I’ve got lots I wanna do to you, pretty girl.”

--

           As soon as the door to the hotel room clicks shut, clothes are flying off as the two of you make your way to the bed. It’s a mad dash as you both undress, and as soon as the last garment leaves your body, Spencer pounces on you. Your lips meet in a passionate kiss, and the way you immediately go pliant as Spencer’s mouth works against yours makes him hum appreciatively.

           “Don’t feel like being nice tonight. Are you gonna let me use that pretty little pussy however I want?” Spencer inquires, though he already knows the answer. He’s known how tonight would pan out ever since the first roll of your hips against his back at the police station.

           You nod fervently, hopelessly, and Spencer moves his hand up to grip your chin in his hand. The pad of his thumb traces over the swollen skin of your kiss bruised lips.

           “What about this?” he asks, tapping lightly against your lip. “Are you gonna let me fuck this slutty little mouth of yours?” Spencer slips his thumb into your mouth and you immediately close your lips around the digit, suckling lightly. Your eyes never leave his.

           “You’d do anything I asked you to, wouldn’t you, pet?” Spencer muses, pressing his thumb farther into your mouth until you gag around him. Spencer withdraws his thumb and his hand tugs hard on the hair at the back of your scalp. “Open.”

           You oblige immediately, and Spencer spits into your waiting mouth. You swallow without being instructed, and the visual of it makes Spencer let out a low groan.

           “Get on your knees,” Spencer barks out, and the way you scramble to follow his order makes him let out a chuckle. “So eager to have my cock in your mouth,” he hums as he taps his dick teasingly against your cheek. You open your mouth wide for him, and Spencer guides your mouth down onto his dick at a tantalizingly slow pace. You let out a moan as you hollow your cheeks around his head, tongue lapping greedily at the precum that gathered there before Spencer makes you take him deeper.

           “Everyone thinks you’re such an innocent little thing, but here you are, letting me use you like a cheap whore while you enjoy every minute of it,” Spencer says through gritted teeth as you moan wantonly around his cock. It isn’t until he’s halfway down your throat that your eyes begin to water, mascara running down your cheeks as he fucks into your mouth.

           Spencer lets out a choked sound when your nose brushes against the skin of his abdomen, and he has to fight the urge to throw his head back in pleasure. He doesn’t want to look away, not even for a moment. Not when you’re looking up at him like that, tears running down your face as you swallow around his length.

           He pulls you off him just the tiniest bit before he’s forcing you back down, a string of curses falling from his lips as your head bobs up and down.

           “You take my cock so well, pretty girl,” Spencer praises, prompting you to let out a muffled moan around him. The vibrations send a shock of pleasure through him and he can help the way his hips stutter. “Fuck, baby. You like it when I tell you what a perfect little whore you are, don’t you?”

           You’re unable to answer, because Spencer presses down on the back of your head until you’ve taken all of him again. The pressure he puts on you doesn’t relent, not even when you gag around him.

           “Fucking choke on it, slut,” Spencer grunts. “Don’t act like you don’t want this. You were just begging me to fuck you in an alley not twenty minutes ago, like some pathetic fucking tramp. You wanna act like a tramp, I’m gonna treat you like one.”

           Spencer’s lips curl into a debauched grin when your hands come up and grip the backs of his thighs, pulling him closer and further down your throat.

           “That’s what I fucking thought,” Spencer moans, giving several more harsh thrusts before pulling you off of him completely. Spencer reaches down to wipe at the spit that coats your lips as you look up at him with a shy smile.

           “You okay, pretty girl?” Spencer asks as he caresses the side of your face.

           “Mm,” you hum, nuzzling your face against his palm. “Keep going, please. Don’t hold back.”

           “God, I fucking love you,” Spencer sighs happily. “Get on the bed.”

           By the time Spencer fishes a tie out of his suitcase, you’re sprawled out across the bed, head resting against the pillows with your legs spread wide. Your teeth are nestled against your bottom lip as you watch him stalk towards you, eyes running up and down his naked figure appreciatively.

           Spencer crawls onto the bed until he’s settled in between your legs. You present your wrists to him, just like you’ve done a million times before, and Spencer feels that familiar thrum of excitement rush through his body. He fucking lives for moments like these – moments where all his problems melt away to nothing. Moments where he has no other thought than wrecking you, thoroughly and completely.

           Once your wrists are bound you hold them above you, and Spencer sits back on his heels, eyes raking up and down every inch of you.

           “M’ so fucking lucky to be the only one who gets to see you like this.”

           Spencer pinches your right nipple in between his fingers and you let out a squeak, hips bucking up, desperate for some friction. He kneads your breast in his hand as he lowers his mouth to the other one, tongue laving around you. A light nip from his teeth is all that it takes for you to cry out, eyelids fluttering closed.

           “Spence, please. Need you to touch me now, pl-”

           Spencer’s hand connecting with your cheek stops you from finishing your sentence.

           “Do not tell me what to do,” Spencer seethes, once again gripping your chin to keep you from looking away. “Ungrateful slut. I should just leave you here, fucking dripping and desperate for a release that you won’t get. Maybe then you’d learn to take what’s given to you.”

           “Please, no! I’ll be good, I swear. I’m sorry!”

           Spencer narrows his eyes at you, contemplative.

           “Open.”

           You do as he says, and without another word Spencer inserts two fingers into your mouth, pressing down hard on your tongue.

           “Get them nice and wet, and maybe I’ll think about using them on you.”

           You do as he tells you, and by the time Spencer removes his fingers from your mouth, you’re trembling underneath him from anticipation.

           “D-Did I do good?” you stutter out, batting your lashes at him as you squirm under his gaze.

           “So good, baby. I think you’ve earned my fingers,” Spencer hums. “Need you to be still, okay? You’re not gonna like what happens if you try to move.”

           You nod enthusiastically, eyes fluttering shut when his fingers brush across your clit. Spencer spends ample time rubbing deliciously slow circles over your sensitive bundle of nerves, relishing in every gasp and whimper that falls from your lips. Lips that he’d very much like to kiss, so he does, and you’re more than happy to reciprocate. Spencer lets out a happy sigh into your mouth.

           You get lost in the kiss, so lost in the way that Spencer licks into your mouth that it catches you completely off guard when he slides two fingers into you.

           “Oh, God,” you moan when Spencer curls his fingers against your walls, fucking them in and out of you, slow and unrelenting.

           “S’that feel good, princess?” Spencer asks, a teasing lilt to his voice. “Tell me how it feels.”

           Your head falls back against the pillows as you struggle to keep your hips firmly placed on the mattress.

           “Feels amazing, Spence. Always feels so good with you. Never want anyone else, only you.”

           And fuck, if that sentiment doesn’t shoot straight to his heart - amongst other places. Spencer places a tender kiss to your cheek before he’s moving down to your neck and sucking a bruise right under your jaw.

           “Yeah?” Spencer prompts. “Not even that stupid fucking detective? I’m sure he’d love a chance to see you like this.”

           “So, you were jealous,” you chuckle between moans, and Spencer bites down hard where your neck meets your shoulder.

           “F-Fuck, Spencer!”

           “Should I be jealous?” Spencer speeds up the onslaught of his fingers, scissoring them at such an unforgiving pace that you can’t help but roll your hips against them.

           You regret this instantly, because Spencer’s fingers immediately pull out of you, leaving you empty and cold. Spencer tuts, shaking his head disappointedly.

           “Dumb little whore can’t even sit still long enough to cum on my fingers.”

           “Please, let me try again. I’ll do better, I promise!”

           Spencer shakes his head and scoots up until his back is rested against the pillows.

           “C’mere,” he commands. “Lay across my lap. Or can you not follow simple commands?”

           “I-I can,” you whisper as you crawl across him, splaying out so that you rest on your elbows with your ass in the air.

           Spencer grabs a handful of your ass and kneads it in his hands.

           “How many do you think you deserve?”

           You blush and smile shyly at him from over your shoulder.

           “However many you want to give me. I can take it.”

           Spencer returns your smile.

           “Good answer. I think you can handle fifteen. How does that sound?”

           “Sounds perfect. T-Thank you, Spencer,” you mumble, cheeks burning red. Spencer continues to caress the tender skin of your bare ass, admiring the way the skin is completely blank; the perfect canvas.

           You let out a whimper when his hand comes down hard on your ass before kneading the sensitive, reddening skin.

           “T-Thank you,” you gasp out, and Spencer is quick to follow up with another strike against the opposite cheek.

           It goes on like this until it’s time for the fifteenth strike, and by then you’ve devolved into garbled whines, ass bright red and marked up with the imprint of Spencer’s hands. His dick is painfully hard underneath you, and you’re in a similar state – arousal dripping onto Spencer’s thigh, coating it.

           “Last one, baby. Do you think you can handle it?”

          “Y-Yes,” you choke out. “Please, I need it. Hurt me, please.”

           The desperation in your voice does things to him, makes him practically feral with the need to fucking tear you apart, and Spencer is quick to deliver the final blow. You barely even have it in you to cry out anymore – a feeble sob is all that falls from your lips.

          Spencer’s hand ghosts down across your bruised skin until his fingertips trace over where you drip for him.

          “You like it when I punish you, don’t you, dirty girl?” Spencer hums as his fingers glide over your soaked folds. 

          “Y-Yes,” you mewl, shifting so that your cunt grinds back onto his hand. Spencer indulges you - allows you to rock your hips against his palm as he watches on in awe, soaking up every desperate sound that tumbles past your lips. 

          Spencer pulls his hand away after a moment and you keen in protest.

           “Can you sit up for me, sweet girl?” Spencer asks, and you nod, because of course you do – you’d do anything if you thought it’d please him. You struggle to pull yourself up with shaky limbs, and Spencer puts a hand on your lower back to steady you. “Can you straddle my leg? Yeah, just like that.” Spencer pulls you down and places a slow kiss to your lips, one hand coming up to wipe away the tears gliding down your face. After a moment of slow, sweet kisses are shared, Spencer unties your wrists.

           “I want you to ride my thigh – can you do that, princess?”

           You whimper as you lower yourself down onto his leg, eyes fluttering shut as you begin to rock against the hardened muscle of his leg.

           Spencer continues placing kisses on your lips, your face, your neck – worshipping every inch of skin he can reach with his mouth, all while whispering praises against you.

           “So perfect for me. Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs as he grips your hips with steady hands, urging you to increase the speed of your hips. “Can’t wait to have that perfect pussy wrapped around my cock. Always so tight, yet you take it so well every time.”

           “S-Spence, m’ close,” you slur, hands clinging desperately to his shoulders.

           “Already? You usually last a bit longer than that, baby.”

           “P-Please, Spencer, I can’t-” you whimper, tears once again pricking at the corners of your eyes at the thought of having to wait a second longer.

           “Shh, baby. It’s okay, you can cum,” Spencer reassures you, and your shoulders visibly untense. “Cum for me, pretty girl.”

           It takes two more rolls of your hips for you to cum on Spencer’s thigh with a cry of his name. Spencer rubs soothing circles into your hips as you ride out your high, murmuring broken thank yous as you come down.

           Finally, you still, and your eyes open, pupils so dilated that your eyes look almost black in the dim light of the hotel room.

          “You okay, princess?”

           You give a weak nod.

           “M’great,” you smile, sounding as fucked out as he’s ever heard you. You lean down and slot your mouth against his, and the kiss is slow and languid – soft and unhurried.

            Spencer is the first to pull away.

           “Need you to get on all fours for me,” he instructs. “Don’t think you need to put any pressure on that pretty little ass of yours right now.”

           You giggle at that, before crawling off of Spencer’s lap. You assume the position, and Spencer places a pillow underneath your hips before trailing a line of kisses down your spine. By the time he reaches your ass, you’re writing against him, wiggling your hips eagerly. Spencer places a kiss to both of your bruised cheeks before pulling away.

           You let out a startled oh! when Spencer licks up your center, parting you with his fingers before fucking in and out of you with his tongue.

           “S-Spence, oh my God, yes!” you cry out, hands fisting in the sheets as he continues to work his mouth against your core.

           “Love your fucking pussy so much,” Spencer sighs against you, lapping at your clit hungrily. “Could fucking lick you out for hours. You taste so perfect, Y/N.”

            Spencer lets out a filthy groan against you, and that’s all it takes for you to fall over the edge, wrecked moans filling the otherwise silent hotel room. This orgasm hits you both quicker and harder than the first, and he can’t help but smile against you as you rock back against his face, desperate to prolong the sensation. Spencer continues to work you through your orgasm, stopping only when you cease to twitch underneath him.

           “Such a good girl for me. Think you can handle one more?”

            You raise up just enough that you can look at him from over your shoulder.

           “Yes, please,” you beg, voice scratchy and raw. “Please, fuck me.”

           “Yes, ma��am,” Spencer chuckles. “Do you think you can lay on your back? I wanna see that pretty face when I make you cum on my cock.”

           You answer by rolling over, wincing slightly when your ass comes in contact with the sheets. You look up at Spencer with wide, doe eyes. You have mascara smeared all down your cheeks and your lips are swollen, and to top it all off, deep, purple love bites are dusted across the entire expanse of your neck and chest. Spencer had set out to mark you as his – so that no one would be able to deny that you belonged to him – and he’d done a spectacular job, if he said so himself.

           “God, you’re so fucking pretty.”

           “Then come fuck me already,” you challenge, looking sated in every possible way – yet still, your eyes hold the same hunger that he’s sure is reflected in his own eyes.

           Spencer leans down and traps your lips in a bruising kiss, and without warning he thrusts in you to the hilt. You cry out into the kiss, startled by the sudden intrusion, but Spencer sets a brutal pace that leaves you no time to recover.

           “You said you wanted me to fuck you,” he growls against your lips. “Now fucking take it.”

           He’s fucking into you so hard that you can’t even manage a reply – you just tighten your legs around his waist and drag your nails across the expanse of his back, no doubt leaving bright red marks in your wake. Spencer can feel his own release fast approaching – honestly, he’s been close ever since the first drag of his tongue against your pussy. And now that he’s finally enveloped into your tight, wet heat, that all too familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach is threatening to consume him.

           Spencer’s hand descends from its place next to your head down to your clit, and your whole body jolts with the first swipe of his thumb. You clench around him as a litany of particularly filthy utterances escapes you, and Spencer’s hips stutter.

           “Fuck, princess,” he groans, head coming to rest on your shoulder as he struggles to regain his rhythm. “You don’t even know what you do to me. You’ve ruined me for anyone else. Never fucking want to lose you. Love you so much.”

           “I love you, I love you, I love you,” you chant into his ear, sounding like some kind of siren, luring him straight to his inevitable ruination. “I’m so close, Spence. Cum with me, please? I want to feel you. Please, baby.”

           “Y-Yeah, fuck,” Spencer chokes out. “Say my name when you cum, princess. Want everyone to know how good I fuck you.”

           And when you cum with a shout of his name, walls pulsating deliciously around his cock, Spencer is quick to join you. He continues to roll his hips against yours as you both ride it out, whispers of almost intelligible affirmations being shared between slow, loving kisses.

           After a moment of post-orgasm bliss, Spencer leaves and returns with a bottle of cocoa butter lotion and a warm, wet rag. You watch on with heavy lidded eyes as he cleans you up, and for a moment, he thinks you’ve fallen asleep. It’s not until he finishes slathering your reddened backside with lotion that you speak again.

           “You shouldn’t be jealous, by the way,” you murmur as he lays down beside you. “You’re it for me, Spencer Reid. I don’t ever want you to doubt that I’m anything less than crazy about you.”

           It’s everything that Spencer’s ever wanted to hear, and just like that, every fear – every insecurity that had plagued him in the past several months – fell away to nothing. Suddenly, he couldn’t remember why he’d ever been worried in the first place.

           “You’re it for me, too,” Spencer whispers as he pulls you until his arms and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

           “We’re going to have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow, you know,” you remark as you nuzzle into Spencer’s side.

           “Don’t care,” he sighs happily. “I’ll shout it from the roof tops if I have to. I want everyone to know you’re my girl.”

           “You’re a sap, Doctor Reid.”

           “Only for you.”

           A moment of blissful silence passes, before the sound of your growling stomach sets you both into a fit of giggles.

           “We never did get dinner, did we?” Spencer muses as he lightly runs his fingernails across your scalp. You hum appreciatively and a pleased shiver rolls through you.

           “Nope. You were a little too preoccupied with marking your territory to even offer to feed me,” you tease as you run your fingertips down the planes of his chest.

           “Well, now that that’s been taken care of - could I interest you in some takeout?”

          “Possibly,” you sigh, flattening your palm on his chest, right over his heart. “Do you think that pizza place Trevor mentioned delivers?”

          “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

          “Is that a no?”

          “... Look up the number.”

-

-

-

taglist: @90spumkin​ @moon-light-jukebox​ @thebookamongmen​ @pinkdiamond1016​ @itsametaphorbriansblog​ @eldahae​

[inkykeiji]

you be the match, i will be your fuse

fluffy anon said: dabi coming home after an absolutely horrid day at work and just needing to be absolutely BABIED by reader (i’m talking cuddling in bed, taking a bath with him and washing his hair then getting out just rubbing his back as he sleeps with his head on your chest)

genre: angst + fluff, laced with just a hint of smut (like two sentences)

notes: aaaah happy birthday dabi!!! this has absolutely nothing to do with your birthday but eeee ily | title cred: sure thing by miguel

warnings: 18+, implied/mentioned death of a child, one instance of implied past physical abuse, self-destructive behaviour + coping mechanisms, co-dependent toxic relationship

words: 3.5k

It’s thundering the day it happens, ferocious growls that rumble through your apartment—a tiny, quaint space you share with Dabi, full of faulty appliances and cracked linoleum—rolling, fluffy grey clouds blanketing the entire sky, swollen with restrained rain droplets as a storm brews within them. Little fingers idly toy with the yellowed pages of your worn pulp fiction novel, flipping through them and bending corners as your eyes search the angry sky, chewing on your cheek.

Dabi should’ve been home by now. It’s not like him to be late without calling, without letting his babygirl know what’s going on—he knows the way you worry, the way you overthink yourself into a frenzy, the way you’re so clingy and needy, teases you about it incessantly and tells you he thinks it’s cute—and a deep sense of dread takes root in the pit of your stomach, dark and bitter and unfurling, quickly spreading throughout the cavity of your chest.

His phone must be off—no, it’s never off, he doesn’t do that anymore, not since you stumbled into his life—his phone must be dead, your repeated calls growing increasingly frequent and urgent every time you’re greeted with the drone of his automatic voicemail.

Something’s wrong, horribly so.

It’s evident the moment he arrives home, scratched brass doorknob slamming against the wall, deepening the crater its left from past incidents of a similar manner.

It infects the air around him, hanging heavy and thick, its dense presence nearly suffocating. His shoulders slump under the pressure, the weight of whatever he’s carrying practically crushing, as he drags his crimson splattered boots through the front door, soles scraping against the cheap hardwood, bringing the putrid scent of charred flesh with him—his or someone else’s, you don’t know.

You swear you can almost see it, this—this thing, this aura, enveloping him in its haughty embrace as his chest heaves under a deep, controlled breath, pausing in the foyer as the door shuts behind him.

Bare feet pad against the floor, your legs moving without your explicit permission, drawn towards him in an almost instinctual manner, the desire to care for, to comfort, burning as it bubbles up in your chest, mixing with that intense sense of trepidation and invading your veins.

He permits you to wrap your arms around his torso as you nuzzle against him, body going rigid for a moment, still and stiff as marble, before he exhales again, melting into your embrace.

Several questions race through your mind at such a speed that they crash and clash together, becoming nothing more than incoherent jumbled lettering, tiny fingers curling in the fabric of his clothing as you try to pull him closer, nonsensical babbling spilling from your lips. A vacant ghost of a chuckle leaves his lips, nothing more than a simple huff of breath, and he squeezes you closer.

“Bad day?” the words are mumbled against his dirty t-shirt, what was once a pristine white now tarnished with ash and blood. You don’t get a response—you don’t expect one.

He doesn’t talk much, not on days like this.

He doesn’t need to.

Bad days—really bad, terrible, awful days such as this one—are surprisingly rare with Dabi. Sure, he’s had the typical ‘bad’ day before, where someone pisses him off, or he gets into a fight with his superior, but those bad days usually require railing you into your creaky, springy king-sized mattress until you’ve forgotten everything but his name and he’s fucked all of the anger and hatred out of his body.

They are not like this one. No, on days such as this, on days where he’s killed someone he deems to be innocent, someone who—like him—is a victim of heroism, he’s quiet, distant, unpredictable, bordering on unhinged, and you’ve learned to tread with extreme discretion.

But you don’t push, either, resolving to communicate through gentle touches, soft fingertips that run along his tense, broad shoulders and press into the hard coiled muscles, tender fingers that thread through inky tufts of hair, sapphire eyes closing as he hums and leans into the motion like a cat.

It’s only for a second, though, just a moment of weakness before he’s breaking out of your embrace, pushing past you and clearing his throat, glass door to the balcony sliding shut a moment later. 

You don’t follow. You know better than that now, a phantom sting in your cheek serving as a reminder, the resounding sharp sound of glass shattering as it’s hurled at the floor slicing through your mind with such viciousness it makes you wince. 

Instead, you sit. And you wait. Like you’re supposed to, like a good little girl, a book clutched between your quivering hands, unblinking eyes staring at the words on the page, nothing but incomprehensible symbols—lines and lines of black ink in meaningless shapes—as scorching sapphire loops through your mind.

Be a good girl, give him space, let him come to you. Be a good girl, give him space, let him come to you. Be a good girl. Give him space. Let him come to you.

It’s standard procedure, really.

And eventually, he does, comes back inside with an empty bottle of whiskey clutched in a hand, along with a crumpled package of cigarettes. You don’t know how long it’s been, muscles sore and joints aching from sitting in the same position for so long, eyes dry from staring at the same page, barely moving, barely breathing. His hand is bleeding, knuckles bruised and gleaming with sticky scarlet that’s still fresh and flowing, but it could be worse. It has been worse.

The harsh clink of the bottle against the kitchen counter makes you flinch, and he sighs, heavy and full of derision, eyes flicking up to glare at your side profile.

“I can hear you thinking,”

“You’re filthy, baby,” the words tumble past your lips, uncontrollable, involuntary, almost reflexive in your response, eyes snapping to his face and voice whiny, voice pleading. “Take a bath with me,”

And you can see it—can see it in the dark cobalt of his irises, what he needs, the very thing he’s fighting himself on, the very thing he’s fighting so hard against. Always so stubborn, so reluctant, so cautious.

Because, fuck, he used to be able to resist it, this pathetic ache for comfort—something that’s only managed to grow in your presence, that’s shifted and morphed from a dull smoldering to a raging fire, an insatiable longing for your fingers in his hair and your breath on his skin and your voice against his ear—a skill he’d been constructing, developing, perfecting, since he was thirteen years old. A skill you succeeded in shattering in the matter of a few measly months.

Because you—you’re different. And he hates it sometimes, he swears to the good Lord he does, but hating it doesn’t make it any less true. You break him down, you make him weak, you make him want, and the longer he spends around you, the more he finds that he doesn’t fucking care. And that’s irritating, that’s exciting, that’s terrifying, that’s new. 

Fury blisters his chest, his lungs, his throat as he holds your stare, jaw clenching twice. But you don’t falter, not like the rest of them, not like anyone else—everyone else. You never falter, always so eager to see the good in him, a snort leaving his nose at the thought. The good in him. Is there any good left in him? Was there ever any good in him in the first place? Are you the good in him, now? Does he care?

And he’s not sure he’ll ever understand it, but he’s beginning to realize that, maybe, he doesn’t have to. 

Maybe, it doesn’t matter. Maybe, it’s okay, if you love him, if he loves you.

Maybe.

It’s too much, and he can feel frustration stinging his eyes, long delicate eyelashes fluttering as he quickly blinks it away. Spears, sharp and cold, splinter your chest at the sight, but you know if you begin crying too, you’ll lose him. You know that if you begin showing what he considers weakness, he’ll pull away, even though this is what he so clearly needs most. 

So you steel yourself, swallowing hard against the pain collecting in your throat, will the tears away and force your body to stay calm, approaching him slowly as if he’s some sort of feral animal prone to lashing out. 

Apprehension is clear in his azure eyes, head tilting a little as they narrow, regarding you with skepticism, with suspicion. 

It’s bold, and dangerous, and—as far as Dabi’s concerned—fucking stupid, but you don’t care, determined to prove to him that you aren’t going anywhere regardless of how many tantrums he throws, no matter how many times he hurts you in his anguish. It’s almost desperate, really, this sheer need to prove to him that you aren’t scared of him, that irrespective of how soft he seems to think you are, you are strong, even if it’s in ways he could never understand, that you can be strong for him, when he needs it, that he can borrow some of your strength, if he needs to.

And that—that’s why he loves you. It hits him hard, as this realization always does, kicks him in the chest and knocks the breath out of him every time, and he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to it.

A tiny hand hangs in the air between the two of you, Dabi regarding the offer with a wary hesitance. Wiggling fingers attempt to entice him, earning a tiny smirk—a massive victory—as sapphire flits up to gaze at you through thick lashes, an eyebrow raised.

You match his expression, quirking an eyebrow of your own and nodding at your hand, speaking a moment later.

“Let me in, baby,” the words are barely above a whisper, but they’re so raw, filled with so much unadulterated love it hurts, pure and real and everything he’s never had before. “Let me help,”

And, God, it’s fucking overwhelming, how badly he wishes to give in to this unfamiliar compassion, how desperately he desires your affection, despite the malicious voice echoing off the walls of his skull, berating him for being so pathetic, so weak, so vulnerable.

But the urge to accept, to seek out consolation in you, wins, just as it always does, that nasty voice reverberating in his mind silenced the very instant his skin touches yours.

You let him make the last move, allow him to make that final decision entirely on his own accord, to grasp your hand in his, warm and rough, and pull you towards him, crushing you against his chest as he buries his face in your hair, eyes squeezed shut against that annoying burn of tears, chest stuttered with a hitched breath, air that gets caught in his throat as he chokes on the words he wants to say.

But he doesn’t need to say them. You already know.

“Come,” you murmur to him, fingers threading through the tufts of hair at the nape of his neck. “Let’s take a bath,”

     ✰          ✰          ✰

The bathwater stings your skin, just a hint too hot to be comfortable, but you say nothing as you settle onto his lap in the cramped little tub, encompassed by frothy bubbles, dainty scent of orange citrus tickling your nose.

Heated fingertips press into your hips as he finds comfort the only way he knows how to, in your precious little whimpers and broken moans of his name as he bounces you on his cock, so vigorously you’re positive you can feel him in your tummy, the pads of his fingers searing his prints into your skin.

It’s heady, it’s intoxicating, it’s addicting, heightened emotions both pleasant and unpleasant swirling together with the symphony of your cries and his grunts as the water you’re submerged in begins to bubble and boil, to crack and pop, sudsy liquid sloshing over the side of the tiny tub as he forces you to ride him, faster and faster and faster until you’re whining and convulsing around him, and he’s filling you with thick cum, cock throbbing aggressively as he spurts load after load into you.

After, as he leans back against the cold tile, residual droplets sizzling into steam as his heated skin touches them. Gentle fingers card between his hair, water cascading through onyx strands as it pours over his head from a worn plastic cup—a faded Darth Vader staring back at you as you rhythmically repeat your actions until the tresses stick to his forehead and cheeks, drenched and shining in the low light of the washroom.

Heavy lids obscure the most brilliant sapphire from you as shampoo is massaged into his scalp, slow and unhurried and thorough, every stroke, every comb through inky clumps easing the turmoil in his mind bit by bit, calming the storm that’s been raging inside of him for hours now. Deep hums rumble in his chest as your fingers continue their ministrations, your eyes trained on your motions. And you can feel it, the tension dissipating from his body with each circle of foam rubbed into his soft hair, shoulders finally beginning to relax as he subconsciously nuzzles into your touch, following it, longing for it, aching for more.

He shifts then, after you’ve rinsed the soap from his hair, manhandling you into a position between his thighs, bare chest pressed tightly against your back. You work hard to keep your body from tensing, forcing your breathing to stay even, to stay calm as you brace yourself for what’s coming next.

“He was eleven,” he says after several long moments of silence, voice low and trembling, hoarse and heavy with remorse. “This time.”

This time. That’s the third innocent civilian—innocent by his standards, at least—this month.

That’s the first time it’s ever been a child.

You don’t turn around to look at him, not yet—he isn’t finished—simply opting to lace your fingers through his and bring your joined hands to your lips, kissing each wounded knuckle, crude staples catching in the dim warm light of the tiny bathroom. 

You want to tell him it wasn’t his fault, even though it was. You want to tell him anything that’ll make him feel better, that’ll absolve the guilt so evidently gnawing away at his insides, even though you know there’s nothing you can say.

“What are—I don’t even—” his voice breaks and you feel his chest stutter against your back, feel him exhale harshly, breath cool on your damp shoulder, feel him swallow thickly as he tries again. Because as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, as much as he would never admit it, you know he needs release this from the confines of his mind—you know you’re the only person who can offer him such an outlet. “Why the fuck were there kids there in the first place? Huh? They shouldn’t—They shouldn’t have been there,”

Orphans are everywhere in this city, you murmur, lips moving against his rough skin. He knows. Orphans of heroes. He knows.

“I’m gonna kill Shigaraki, I swear to Christ. Sending us to a—a fucking place infested with fucking ch-children,” his fingers curl around yours, hand beginning to shake as it clutches you like a lifeline, like that guilt will devour him from the inside out, like he’ll disintegrate into nothingness, if he doesn’t. “I bet you he fucking knew—nah, I-I’m positive he did. Asshole only cares about himself, though. Doesn’t matter that—that the cause we’re supposed to be fighting for affects these stupid kids,”

You’re right, love.

The words leave your lips in a gentle breath, leaning your head back against his collarbone and staring up at him. Cobalt eyes stay trained on the cracked tile wall, jaw methodically clenching as his molars grind together, an attempt to quell the trembling of his chin, exhaling hard harsh breaths through flared nostrils.

“Whatever,” he huffs, voice still wavering and not nearly as self-assured as he wishes. “Th-That brat shouldn’t have been there in the first place,”

He shouldn’t have, you agree, finally squirming in his grasp, turning to face him, to straddle his hips again in the tight space of the tub. And he welcomes your affections readily this time, arms encircling your waist as he holds you tightly to him, blunt nails digging purple-tinged crescents into your flesh as he shoves his face against your neck, finally allowing those emotions he’s been fighting to leak from his eyes and absorb into your skin.

Little palms rub soothing circles into his back as he shudders against you, allowing him to empty his soul onto you as soft lips press chaste kisses to his damp hair, waiting until there’s nothing left, until his eyes are drained, azure glassy and bloodshot, nose twitching and red.

And after he’s done, when he finally pulls back, scrubbing aggressively at his nose as tiny sniffles hitch in his chest, gentle fingers begin to lather soap into his skin, washing away the dirt and grime and blood from the day. Fingertips carefully trace along the metal sutures decorating his body with immeasurable adoration, you whispering all of the things he so desperately needs to hear that he’d never dare to ask for, complimented by the tender touches that cleanse his soul with their unconditional love.

He’s bigger than you are, but that doesn’t stop you from trying to wrap him in a fluffy white towel, using another in an attempt to dry his hair as your hands move in shaggy motions, heart soaring in your chest when you pull a soft laugh from his lips, wet and wobbly and croaky, but a laugh nonetheless.

A mutual silence, gentle and comforting and stuffed full of an immense love, a special kind of love, a love words do not exist to explain, swathes your bodies as he allows you to dress him, pulling a ratty old band tee over his head and a pair of plaid PJ pants up his legs.

“You always look so cute in my clothes,” he rasps from his spot perched on the edge of the bed, glowing crystal eyes watching as you pull one of his t-shirts over your naked body.

A genuine bubble of laughter erupts from your throat as you climb into bed with him, immediately allowing him to latch onto you, to pull you towards him, to hold you close like his own personal plushie.

“Sleep,” you murmur as the two of you settle into a comfortable position, limbs tangled together, his head resting on your chest, fingers threading through his hair and then tracing down his neck, his back. “And then I’ll make you ramen,”

“The spicy kind?”

“Of course,”

I love you.

“Extra spicy?”

Laughing again, you feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin, grip around your torso tightening. “Extra spicy. Now, rest,”

More than anything else.

“With the little fish cakes?”

“Your favourite little fish cakes,”

More than words could ever tell you.

“And the pork belly?”

“And the pork belly,” you feel his chest rise with an inhale, hastily adding, “And those little cream puffs you love so much, from that dingy convenience store downstairs, for dessert. Now sleep, baby,”

He laughs, even though his vision is blurring, even though it comes out more strangled than anything else, because he doesn’t want to cry again, because his chest stings and aches and swells and warms, full of inexplicable emotions, feels like it’s going to fucking burst as it chokes and reinvigorates him all at once, and—God, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

Because even though he’s terrified beyond belief, he’s willing to try—just for you, only for you—as he continually realizes with each passing day that he isn’t sure what the fuck he’d do without you, now. Because you’re too entangled up in his life, too deeply embedded in his very soul, for him to ever remove you, now. Because as petrifying and unfamiliar as it is, he doesn’t want to, now.

Because even though he’s broken, irrevocably so, and you can’t fix him, won’t fix him, you’ll still stay, to hold those pieces so gently, so tenderly in your hands, you’ll still protect those fragments and keep them from shattering further, you’ll still give them the affection and devotion they need, the affection and devotion they deserve. Because you love every part of him, even the bad ones, even the shards with jagged edges that cut into the soft flesh of your palms every time you caress them.

Because you accept him wholeheartedly, flaws and all, and that’s—he’s never experienced anything like that before, this unlimited, unreserved, unquestioning love. And although he doesn’t know how to say this, isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to find the right words to communicate it, he’s beginning to learn that unfamiliar doesn’t always mean bad; that sometimes, it’s okay—it’s good—to be vulnerable. He’s beginning to learn that with you, in the warmth of your shitty little apartment, with the stove that only has two functioning burners and the fridge that’s perpetually too cold, he can be, without judgement, without fear, without trepidation.

Because you are his only salvation, and he wouldn’t trade this for the goddamn world.

[kaepop-trash]

title: A Couple of Nocturnals

nct member: Haechan

This one was immediate. Also, that's such a good title anon 😭

__

Enemies to lovers to exes to enemies trope, Immortal vampires

Summary: The one thing you hated about the once in a century vampire conference was that you had to meet too many of them. Whoever said that nobody should live too long must have been in at least 8 of these. Not only was the conference a bore, but you also had to encounter one too many people. Some of who either wanted to kill you, or you wanted to kill. Lee Haechan was both of those. You were once in a coven together before he killed the leader. You were once fierce rivals till he became the only familiarity you had in the hundreds of years. You were once lovers before he tried to pin one of his crimes on you. Now you were indifferent and you prayed that the past 100 years had changed the part in him that was an incorrigible piece of shit. You were, of course, wrong.

__

"Remember Paris?" Haechan sighed, leaning back with a wistful smile on his face.

She resisted the urge to snap his neck. The conference had a strict 'no murder' rule and she didn't want to be put in a vault for the next century. The ones who were let out every conference never looked too happy about it.

"There was a plague and you tried to convince the church that I was the witch that caused it." She frowned, "Also everything smelled like rotting flesh."

"Great trip that was." Haechan nodded to himself, "We should go again. I've heard it still smells like rotting flesh."

"Are you on one of those experimental drugs they've been trying out at the labs for us? Why would I go anywhere with you?" She scoffed with heavy disbelief in her voice.

"You can't still be holding a grudge." He rolled his eyes, "It's not like I would have actually let them kill you. I just made a quick calculation. Between both of us, I was the one most capable of breaking you out of jail." He leaned back, reaching across the table they stood at to pick up two blood bags from a passing waiter.

She smacked the back of his head, snatching one of the bags from him. "How's that for a quick calculation, you moron? You never came back for me! I had to kill three guards and an inmate to break out."

Haechan nursed his head with a pout, "Why'd you kill the inmate?"

"All the breaking out made me hungrier than usual." She groaned, taking a sip from the blood bag and immediately recoiling.

"They've mixed animal blood into it this time. This human pandemic has made safe blood a little hard to acquire. Nobody wants a vampire cold, those last a whole year and sneezing blood is disgusting." Haechan frowned, taking a sip from his own bag.

"This is worse." She looked at the bag with clear disgust. "What is it, pig?" She questioned.

"I didn't ask. Want to go to a rave with me tonight? It'll have willing humans ready to be drained. You know the consensual blood is always the sweetest." He offered again.

"What is it? Three hundred years was all it took for you to be sweet for me again?" She snorted, smirking.

"I almost missed you." He shrugged.

"You're a piece of shit." She flicked his cheek. "I'm not going to any rave with you. I've lived too long to enjoy parties. Once this conference is over I'm going back to living alone."

Haechan grabbed her finger, twisting it back till it cracked. She winced at the pain of her bone breaking and then whimpered from the pain of it fusing together. But she conceded with a nod, pulling her hands back.

"I forgot you're a crone now. I guess you're having the 'life is better by myself' phase of immortality right now. Let me know once you get to 'fuck it' and I'll remind you what it feels to be alive." He winked, laughing when she tried to grab him again. He slid away.

"See you later, my love." He shouted back before disappearing into the crowd.

"In your dreams, you old bat!" She shouted back, a smile tugging at her face when she heard his loud groan at the nickname.

__

Give me a made up title and an NCT member and I'll tell you what type of fic I'd write for it+ a summary and a dialogue.

[my-emotional-self]

Toxic Love Chapter 6

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes

Summary: Finding out your soulmates were Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes was one thing.  But when someone from your past comes back to haunt you, you have to figure out if a relationship with two super soldiers is something you really want to pursue or if you’d rather go back to your comfortable single life.

Series Warnings:  18+, Swearing, Angst, Fluff, past mentions of rape, self-harm, attempted rape, domestic violence, stalking, death threats, possible Dark!Steve?, Steve will be an asshole a LOT in this series but I don’t know how dark it will get, explicit sexual content, mental health issues, kind of A/B/O dynamics but not really (no they are not actual wolves, more like the hierarchy), mentions of suicide, flashbacks of suicide, nightmares

A/N: There will be no taglist for this story!  I apologize in advance!

After Steve and Bucky helped you get everything unpacked, the three of you enjoyed some take-out. Pizza to be exact.  Well, the same pizza you had earlier with them.  You had been craving it for the last two weeks and your stomach was very happy.  

“Did you make your grocery list yet?” Bucky asked as he took care of the cleaning up.  

You couldn’t help but laugh. As you were unpacking the few items you had for your personal kitchen, you began playing with the screen on the refrigerator.  You couldn’t believe the high tech gadget and while it took you nearly an hour, you finally figured out how to add groceries to the list.  

“I did.  I’m surprised I was able to figure it out, it only took me about an hour,” you responded.

This made Bucky full out laugh.  “An hour? That’s actually impressive.  It took Steve here almost a month to figure it out before he finally gave up and asked for help.”

Trying to hide your smirk, you turned to look at Steve.  He had a scowl on his face as he was looking at Bucky.  “Let’s not forget I was frozen for 70 years.  I’m still trying to learn all this damn technology.”

Leaning over you pressed a kiss to Steve’s temple.  “Don’t worry about it Steve.  Other than my gaming setup, I’m not too big on technology either.”

~~~

“Dad, I’m home!” you called out to your father as you shut the front door to the run down farmhouse.  It was just the two of you now ever since your mother’s death one year ago today.  You didn’t want to go to school, you wanted to stay home.  Stay in bed.  But your father said it would be best to try and continue on like it was any other normal day.  It would never be a normal day.  Ever again.

As you turned the corner and into the living room, you saw him. Your father.  Dead.  Hanging from the wooden ceiling beam with a noose around his neck.  “Dad?” you choked out, not believing that this was happening again.  “No. No, no, no, no, NO!” you screamed as you ran to him.  Upon touching his leg you knew it was too late.  Way too late.  He was so cold to the touch.  It had been hours since he committed suicide and you weren’t here for him.  

“Why dad!  WHY DID YOU DO THIS!  DON’T LEAVE ME PLEASE!  DON’T LEAVE ME ALONE!!” you cried and begged but it was no use.  He too was now gone.  

~~~

You jolted awake by the feeling of hands on you.  Your breathing was ragged and you were dripping in sweat.  Both Steve and Bucky on either side of you; their eyes filled with worry.

“Are you alright?” Steve questioned.  

“How..did you…get in…here,” you replied as you tried to catch your breath.  These kinds of nightmares always made you feel like you had just ran a marathon.  

“F.R.I.D.A.Y alerted us that your heart rate was going through the roof.  You scared us half to death with your screaming doll,” Bucky spoke quietly in the dark room.  “You feel warm,” he said as he placed the back of his flesh hand over your forehead.

Shrugging him away as nicely as possible, you got out of bed.  “I’m fine.  I’m just going to take a cool shower.  Thanks for coming to check on me though.”

Inside the confines of your bathroom you opened the medicine cabinet and took out a couple of bottles. Filling up a glass of cold water, you placed the pills in your mouth and downed the entire glass.  

It had been months since you last had a nightmare.  To be honest, you thought they were finally done with, until you realized the todays date. Of course.  It was the anniversary of your parents’ death.  How could you have forgotten?  Oh right.  You had met your soulmates and spent the entire day moving into your new place.  Now you felt guilty for even forgetting in the first place.  

As you stripped of your sweat soaked clothing, you hopped into the shower.  The water mixed with your tears as you quietly sobbed and asked your parents for forgiveness.  

~~~

When you got out of the shower, Steve and Bucky were no longer in your room.  Instead, you found a little note on your pillow.  

We didn’t know if we should give you space or wait for you so we will let you make that decision.  Let us know if you need us to come back tonight.  Try and get some sleep sweetheart.  

Steve and Bucky

Even though the note was sweet and thoughtful, you knew instantly that you would not be getting any more sleep tonight.  

By eight in the morning you were still awake and scrolling through social media when a text from Bucky came in.  

Bucky: Breakfast in the communal kitchen?  Everyone would like to meet you.

Oh god.  You were dreading this part.  You had already met Natasha, but to meet everyone else all at once? Anxiety began to creep over you. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to meet them, it was that you had anxiety about meeting people for the first time.

Y/N: Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready

Jumping out of bed you headed for the closet to try and figure out what to wear.  Was this casual?  Or was everyone going to be wearing their pajamas?  Did you want to dress to impress them?  Or did you want to be yourself?  You went with the latter, figuring if you were going to all be living under the same roof, they might as well get to know the real you.  

You put on a pair of black skinny ripped jeans and a plain forest green t-shirt.  Slipping your feet into your comfortable black flats, you were about to head out the door when you took a look at yourself in mirror.  Steve would blow a fuse at the dark circles under your eyes.  So you quickly placed some concealer under your eyes.  

Steve and Bucky were waiting for you in the kitchen and the three of you headed down to the communal living area.  They didn’t ask you about your nightmare and you were grateful for that.  

The elevator doors opened and for once, your stomach growled at the smell of breakfast in the morning. You loved breakfast food, but you weren’t big on eating in the morning.  Now breakfast for dinner, that was something you could eat every night.

Steve cleared his throat and everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at the three of you. Instantly you felt your face heat up.

“Everyone, this is our soulmate Y/N,” Steve spoke loud and clear.  He began pointing everyone out for you.  “That’s Tony, Pepper and Bruce.  You know Natasha of course and right there is Clint and Darcy.  Thor and Jane are still on Asgard but you’ll meet them another time.”

You awkwardly waved.  “Hey everybody.”

Tony was the first to come up to you and he shook your hand.  “Tony I can’t thank you enough for my rooms here.  They are perfect.”

He waved his hand like it was no big deal.  “Please. My gift to you.  And that is why I pay my interior designer the big bucks. She knows what she’s doing.  Now, if you need anything, anything at all, just ask F.R.I.D.A.Y and I’ll make it happen.  Happy to have you here kiddo.  Maybe you can keep those two out of trouble huh?”

“I’ll try,” you chuckled.

Just then Bruce came up and the two of you exchanged quiet ‘hellos’ before he and Tony were off to their lab, food and coffee in hand.  

“Hey, now that you’re here, maybe Cap will stop being such a grouch all the time now that he’ll get laid,” Clint blurted out and as quickly as the words left his mouth, Natasha smacked him upside the head.  “What? It’s the truth.  No offense Steve but you have been a real crab ass the last few months.”

“Shut up Clint!” Darcy spoke as she shoved him out of the way.  “Hi there.  I’m Darcy. Darcy Lewis.  Just ignore him.  He doesn’t think before he speaks.”

In that moment, you knew you were going to be good friends with Darcy.  “Nice to meet you Darcy.”

“Now I hear that you game, is that correct?” she began to say as the two of you piled food onto your plates and sat down.  

The morning didn’t go as bad as you thought.  The only downside was that it now seemed Steve was in a bad mood because of Clint’s big mouth. At least you were getting to know Darcy and Pepper and they both were really nice.  

Darcy asked you a lot of questions about your job and gaming.  She had even asked if she could sit in on a night that you worked so she could watch everything.  Of course you said she could.  Hell, it would be fun to have Darcy there.  

You were starting to get tired after not getting much sleep so you excused yourself and went back to your room.  Tonight would be the first night that you will be working at the tower and you wanted to try and get some rest.  You had a feeling it was going to be a long night.  

“Is everything alright sweetheart?” Steve’s voice startled you just as you were about to open your door.

“Jesus Steve, don’t sneak up on me like that,” you replied with a hand on your heart.  

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to.  I just wanted to make sure you were feeling alright.  Especially after last night is all.”

Dropping your hand from your chest, you gave him a tight smile and put your arms around his narrow waist, pulling him in for a hug.  “I’m ok Steve.  Just a little tired is all.”

He placed his chin on your head and held you in his arms.  You felt safe against him.  Like nothing or no one could ever hurt you.  You were starting to realize that maybe single life wasn’t what you truly wanted. Single life was just something that you had become accustomed to over the last year.  Maybe being in a relationship again would be better for you.

[starleska]

when Logic twists: an analysis of Logan, cognitive distortions, and a future Side

spoilers ahead! this is a little deep-dive into some foreshadowing in the latest Sanders Sides episode, and what i believe the team are going for in terms of Logan’s arc. just some thoughts i had after the episode - i hope you enjoy, and would love to hear your thoughts too :) tw for discussion around mental illness, trauma, abuse, intrusive thoughts, therapy, etc. 

so, we all know that Thomas does a marvellous job portraying difficulties with mental health. he uses interactions between his Sides to carve out fun stories that dramatise the the internal struggles which come with facing complex situations, including those which arise from your specific history and mental illnesses. the writing behind Sanders Sides often uses consideration of real symptoms and therapeutic techniques in order to impart useful advice to the audience who may be struggling with similar issues. with all of this in mind, i thoroughly believe that a good chunk of you are correct about this new Side (foreshadowed in Logan’s eyes) being Wrath, or some variant of Stress or Anger, and here’s why: 

Logan is the side of Thomas which is constantly needing to pick up the slack. not only does he spend a good deal of his time de-escalating conflict between the other Sides, he is constantly letting his own dreams (and consequently, needs) fall by the wayside to comfort, validate and assist Thomas' overall desires. we even literally see him benched during the court case with Janus - his input is considered unimportant unless he is deemed as the voice of reason. with this understanding, Logan is viewed by the other Sides as a Side who doesn’t need help. He’s Logic, so they believe he always knows what is appropriate, and how to control himself - or even that he doesn’t need to control himself at all.  yet i don’t believe this to be the case, and i think ‘Working THROUGH Intrusive Thoughts’ foreshadows this in an intriguing way: by utilising the dynamic between Logan and Remus. for context, i am speaking as an individual who suffers from Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD), a form of PTSD. whilst the Thomas we know in the Sanders Sides universe is of course somewhat sanitised and simplified for the easier imparting of moral lessons, we know that this Thomas suffers from issues with intrusive thoughts, low self-esteem, and high anxiety. whether or not these can all be attributed to an underlying condition is irrelevant, but what is intriguing is whether these symptoms are being exacerbated by traumatic, triggering or otherwise stressful events affecting Thomas’ life - which, based on the direction ‘Working THROUGH Intrusive Thoughts’ went (using the relationship with Nico as a conduit), i think is true. when you experience a number of traumatic events or an acute amount of stress, your Logic can become faulty. let’s think about Logan not as a super-genius who just knows what is the correct thing to do all of the time: his knowledge comes from a bank of information and experiences, which he constantly uses to provide a ‘rational’ stance next to the more ‘emotional’ traits of each Side. yet Logic relies on evidence in order to build up this ‘rationality’. let’s think about a scenario wherein you are told every day by someone that you are ugly. now, if this occurred later in life, your Logic might have already rationalised that this is not the case - that you are beautiful just as you are, that this person is seeking to hurt you, that they are projecting, etc. your Logic would make those reasonable counterpoints based on past experience. however, if you were told by multiple people throughout your life, every day, that you are ugly - say, from caregivers, or close friends - you would internalise ‘i am ugly’ as part of that internal Logic. in the first scenario, you would be able to accurately evaluate the thought, ‘i am ugly’ as a cognitive distortion. however, in the latter scenario, you may be unable to, because you have this bank of ‘evidence’ that other people perceive this as reality. even if those people are abusers, or have an ulterior motive, the notion will be internalised and become your reality - so your Logic will say, ‘i am ugly, based on all of the evidence.’  i find this interesting because in this latest episode, they specifically had Logan call attention to cognitive distortions. we must remember that Logan is a part of Thomas. this is Thomas attempting to rationalise with himself, to implement mindfulness and CBT techniques which he knows to be successful, because they have worked in the past and he has it on scientific authority that they help with intrusive thoughts. but this leads us to a question: what happens when you experience so many traumatic events, or so much stress, that your Logic turns against you and begins to validate your intrusive thoughts?  imagine for a moment Logan’s awesome rational power - but levied in support of all of Thomas’ deepest fears. in my own experience with CPTSD, a horribly thorny mental trap is the one you fall into when you start down the path of ‘i must be a horrible person, just like they said. i must have deserved everything done to me. look at all of the evidence.’ these thoughts often appear rational due to the intense nature of the sufferer’s pain, particularly if that pain is repeated or prolonged. i believe that Logan’s outburst, paired with Thomas’ fretting over not receiving a call back from Nico, are supposed to represent the building stages of this mental trap. such thoughts are difficult to emerge from, but they become even more difficult to deal with when met with a powerful emotion: Rage. if you have cause to think thoughts of the ‘i am a disgusting human being’ variety thanks to trauma, stress or similar negative events, often there is a good deal of pent-up Rage stored alongside. justifiable Rage, one might say - it certainly feels so in the mind of someone who has suffered so terribly. if one is prone to hating themselves, feeling inadequate or other fertile breeding ground for intrusive thoughts, they may also sometimes snap into the opposite extreme - becoming infuriated by everything that has happened to them, and that they are still needing to deal with yet more pain in the present. this is something i have suffered from personally: when mixed with trauma, it is equal parts emotional dysregulation, and being triggered by something. you might be enRaged by the idea that you were ever ‘passive’ as a victim of something terrible, and want to ‘fight back’. in other words, the emotional state of your Rage will feel justified - and this can cause you to engage in some deeply destructive behaviours. this is why i believe this new Dark Side will be Rage (or an equivalent). Logan’s ‘STOP IGNORING ME!’ speaks of a breaking point brought on by years of fixing other people’s problems, only to receive very little in return. there’s a misconception that people who are ‘good’ at handling stress or fixing other people’s problems (i.e., not showing much of the strain) are simply less stressed as a whole, and therefore should be saddled with yet more stress. Logan’s screaming at Remus, and Remus’ delight at Logan’s response, shows us that Logan is exhausted from all of the hard work that he’s had to do in order to fight Thomas’ intrusive thoughts and cognitive distortions, alongside the massive amount of stress in his life. likewise, by giving into his impulsivity and opening up more opportunities for further stress, Thomas has allowed Logan - and his Logic - to become vulnerable to Remus and intrusive thoughts. Logan may have successfully been able to dispel the intrusive thoughts which had no basis in reality (for instance, a murderer hiding in Thomas’ closet) - but what happens if Thomas is given validation for an intrusive thought? in other words - what if Logan feels he has reason to listen to Remus? i believe this Rage has been simmering within Thomas for a long time, and his debut is going to be explosive. there are lots of ways this debut could be written; some have theorised that Logic and Rage will be a kind of antithesis to the Creativitwins, wherein the two are fused as Thomas has internalised his Rage as having a Logical root. this would have Rage not as a separate side, but a kind of version or alternate mindset for Logan, a bit like how he was when in Virgil’s room. i would not be surprised at all for this episode to include both Remus and Janus - Remus, revelling in the intrusive thoughts which Logan/Rage is now allowing to fly free, and Janus, delighting in Logan/Rage’s validation of destructive behaviours, which may well include Deceit. i could also see Virgil being drawn in by this irresistible combination of Anxiety-fuelling thoughts - intrusive thoughts inspiring inadequacy, Deceit inspiring fear of being found out, and the terror of Logic being twisted to validate every fear Virgil has ever had for Thomas. you know when someone has hurt you really badly, and so in your head you come up with countless (awful, unrealistic, hurtful) ways to ‘get back at them’? that’s what i think the next Sanders Sides episode is going to be like.  of course, like Anxiety, Intrusive Thoughts and Deceit, Rage will have his uses too. i believe, if any of this theorising is correct, that the next Sanders Sides episode will follow a narrative discussing if Rage is justified when one is hurt to a massive extreme, and what Logic can one follow when it backs up every destructive impulse. are you being Logical if you are full of Rage? basically, i think Logan (influenced by a breaking point and giving over to Rage) is going to do everything in his power to be destructive, under the idea that it is the only Logical thing to do. i believe he will fall to the horrific power of cognitive distortions and mental illness, and that the other Sides will need to use their strengths to bring him back. anyway, that’s all my thoughts! my apologies for any inaccuracies, or if anything in here was upsetting. i’d love to hear what you think about this, and your own theories! :D take care 💏

[scandalousfemale]

Fall to Pieces

Rafe Cameron x Y/N

An unexpected and unnecessary part 2 to Lists, though it can be read as a stand-alone.

Y/N helps Rafe get sober after he told her what he had done. She’s conflicted because now she’s getting glimpses of a better Rafe but she can’t forget or forgive him so he makes it right the only way that he knows how.

WC: 5,308

Warning: smut, mentions of shooting the sheriff (but he did not shoot the deputy), mentions of jail, mentions of drugs and withdrawals, mentions of funerals (they think Sarah and John B are dead), spoilers, unprotected sex, mention of birth control, mentions of anger, mentions of parental unit dying/going to jail, mentions of PTSD, mentions of nightmares, y/n pulls a knife out on Barry and regrets it immediately, mentions of drugs 

A/N: Hello! Thank you for taking the time to even look at this fic, I worked really long and hard on it and I had a great time writing it. It was my first time ever writing smut so if it sucks, I’m so sorry. I’m also running on no sleep because I’ve been editing this all night. That being said, I tried my best to proofread, I’m sure that there are tons of mistakes anyway. Again, thank you for reading my fic! I ended it the only way that felt right to me. Oh, and it’s inspired by Fall to Pieces by Avril Lavigne

It’s been 7 months since Rafe showed up at your door and ripped your heart out of your now gaping chest. 6 months and three weeks since his family held a funeral for his sister in which he couldn’t attend because he was going through withdrawals. 6 months since his friends and family started asking you about his whereabouts. You’ve lied to everyone you knew back on the Outer Banks, telling them that you haven’t seen him since that summer.

You’ve convinced yourself that you were okay with taking care of him even if you weren’t together but for the first three weeks while he was at his worse, every time you had to touch him, you wanted to throw up (most times you did). You just can’t help but picture him killing Peterkin, sometimes you have dreams where you see it happen and you didn’t do anything to stop it, then you’d wake up next to him and have to move to the sofa just from the disgust. Though you’re not exactly sure what really happened that day, and he wouldn’t tell you, your overactive imagination filled in the blanks for you every night for those first few weeks.

The fifth week was better, in the sense that your disgust was slowly being taken over by hate. You hated that he had put you in this situation. You hated that you allowed yourself to care enough to take care of him. You hated that you love him but most of all, you hate his father for screwing up his children so much that one would rather die than go back to him and the other couldn’t stay sober long enough to know right from wrong.

You were also able to convince your parents to help you co-sign and move into a house near the school instead of staying in the dorms. You said that it’s because of all the teens partying around you and that you couldn’t concentrate on studying but really, it’s because of the noise complaints that you’ve been getting. It’s been hell studying for finals while sleeping next to someone going through cold shakes or nightmares. You’ve told yourself multiple times that Rafe was going through withdraws while also suffering from PTSD but it didn’t make you feel any better when you started missing classes or came home to your living room completely destroyed because he had a rage fit due to the cravings. You’ve offered to send him to rehab but he wanted no trace of where he could be so you complied.

A month after getting everything straightened out, you were finally moving out. You were happy that you could go further into the city where Rafe could go out more, spend more time around other people than surround himself with his mistakes, and four walls. Though the process wore on him, you could tell that he was becoming a better person. He was more patient and understanding. It would be a lie to say that his fuse wasn’t still just as bad when someone would trigger it but it seems you’ve been doing a lot of that anyway—lying.

  Seven months into living together and him finally being sober, you want to say that he reminds you of the old Rafe but he doesn’t. He’s much more mature, his sad eyes tell a story that he’s seen way too much, too soon. Some days, you wish that you could take his pain away. Other days, you wish that he’d drown in it…at least you wish you thought that.

Renting a U-Haul, and maybe to fill your own fantasy of moving in together like a normal couple in college, you had Rafe help you pack. Was it a good idea? Probably not. Most of the time you ended up yelling at him for packing the bedroom things with the living room items. When you saw him put the dishes in with the DVDs, you had banished him to the house for the rest of the day, telling him that you’d pack the kitchen away by yourself. You were happy that you’d actually done that though because it gave you the excuse to give the two of you some space. You had found yourself getting close to him again. Leaning in when you laughed, touching his arm to show him something on your phone or when you window shop. You didn’t want to give him mixed signals but how could you not when you’re confused yourself?

So, you left Rafe unpacking all the boxes of clothes and moving around the furniture while you came back and tackled the kitchen. You almost wished that you had asked him to come along just for his company but after waking up in his arms last night, groggy from being tired, you figured that it was best to put some distance between the two of you.

A soft knocking sounded from your door and the smile that appeared on your face should’ve been criminal. You were almost too happy to see him. You couldn’t—wouldn’t let yourself forget what he did, though it was hard to remember when you’ve never seen Rafe in that state. Pushing your thoughts aside for the millionth time, you yanked the door open, your smile immediately dropping. You tried to shut the door as quickly as you opened it but a hand lands in the middle of the door and pushes it open the rest of the way.

“Now, that’s no way to greet an old friend,” Barry said, as condescending as ever.

“You’ve lost that title the minute you started selling drugs,” you narrowed your eyes at him.

He was right. Barry and you go way back, back before you were considered a “kook”, before you even knew what it meant to be a part of figure 8. Well, technically your moms go way back. You two were destined to be friends since you’ve come out of the womb. You shared secrets, scars, heartbreaks, skinned knees, all the same. You held him when his mom died and invited him over to your place every single day, unknowingly introducing him to his future clients. Your mom loved him like a child and if you ate, he ate. Until, of course, you started dating Rafe at fifteen and Barry started finding new friends. About a year later, the friendship was over. One night you walked in on him selling drugs to Rafe. You told them both that you wanted nothing to do with either of them if Barry kept selling and Rafe kept distributing but neither of them listened. Barry continued selling but stopped coming around, breaking your mother’s heart. As for Rafe, well, we know that story.

“Yes, of course. Big, bad, naughty, Barry,” he rolled his eyes and though his words had a hint of humor, his eyes did not. He shoved past you and made his way inside your apartment.

“What do you want?” You said in a clipped tone, eyeing his figure to see if he has any visible weapons on him or not because last time he showed up at your apartment, he was not so kind.

“Rafe,” Barry said matter of factly with a bright smile. As if he wasn’t talking about someone who supposedly dropped off the face of the earth seven months ago.

You stared at him and shrugged, “your guess is as good as mine.”

“Y/n, I’m not going to ask you twice and I don’t exactly do well to being lied to, where is Rafe?” He leaned against the refrigerator with his arms crossed in front of his chest, eyeing you.

“I haven’t seen him,” you lied through gritted teeth. You backed yourself into your kitchen, feeling comfort that there was an exit behind you while Barry was in your line of sight.

“Baby, if you only knew what he’s done, you wouldn’t be protecting him right now,” Barry chuckled as he took a step towards you, “he owes me a debt and I’ve given him long enough. Now, I’m here to collect. Listen, it’s either me or the SBI, it’s your choi-,” he didn’t have the time to finish before you found your hand wrapped around your kitchen knife bringing the blade down on the sink beside you.

You tried to speak between breaths, “Stop it! Stop!”

Barry’s irritating smile has finally dropped from his face. His hands out in front of him as if he was prepared for you to lose it and charge at him...and maybe you might. At this point, you’re not really sure what you planned to do. You just needed to protect Rafe.

“He’s mine,” you breathe out a declaration you haven’t let left your lips since the night of Rafe’s confession, “you don’t get to take him, the SBI doesn’t get to take him, fucking death doesn’t get to take him from me without my permission. Now, get the fuck out of my apartment right now because I do not know where he is and if I did, I would never tell you,” you said with an eerie calm washing over you. You keep taking steps toward Barry who hasn’t moved back once.

“Come at me, baby, I have nothing to lose,” Barry said with his arms at his side, faking vulnerability while his shifty eyes were telling another story.

“Yes, you do,” you assured him, “We both do, but the difference between us is that I’m willing to lose it all. Are you?”

“You think I’m going to just forget what his little sister did? She stole from me. Now I have leverage over my best seller— my best thief, and you want me to let that slide because a chick with a knife who can’t even keep it steady enough to point at me wants to threaten me? I’ll come back every single day if I have to.”

“His little sister is dead, haven’t you heard? Her and John B got washed away in the storm and you still have the nerve to talk about her? You can come back every day if you want to. I’ll give you the keys to the place. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t live here anymore.” You gestured toward the empty living room and the boxes beside the two of you.

For the first time, Barry let his guard down long enough to take a look around the apartment.

“I left him,” you continued your half-lie. You did leave Rafe, at your new house, “when I found out what happened, I left him and I couldn’t handle being on campus where I knew he could find me,” where you knew anyone else could find him, “so I’m leaving.” You shrugged, feigning indifference. Setting the knife down on the sink as if that wasn’t the most insane thing that you’ve ever done. You dug into your purse. “Here’s something for your troubles, yeah?” Your mother always told you to have cash on you and finally, it has come in handy, you pulled around about three grand, almost 1/3 of what you got for selling your car.

“Take it,” you shoved the money against his chest. With no hesitation Barry’s clammy hands landed on yours, pressing both your hand and the money against his chest. The contact instantly brought you back from your previous panic. You couldn’t even believe that you had pulled a knife out on him, what were you even going to do with it? It’s not like you were…it’s not like you were Rafe. At the realization, you met Barry’s eyes with so much sadness, “this is the last thing I’m going to do for you, Barry. For your mom, I hope you can get a real job one day,” you said sincerely.

“Always had a thing for the bad boys, huh, y/n?” Barry said, the joking tone in his voice disappearing as he took the money from underneath your palm, letting your hand fall.

“Just the lost ones,” you admitted, “goodbye, Barry.”

He pocketed the cash, giving you one last look before turning around and leaving you to the boxes.

   The house was surprisingly mostly unpacked, except for the two new boxes that you had brought back with you, though in your defense, you didn’t have a lot of things to begin with. After a long-needed shower—more so on Rafe’s part since you left him to do the grunt work all day, you had fixed up dinner for the both of you.

Something had shifted inside of you since the talk with Barry. You could no longer ignore your feelings now that they’re right in your face but you’re still so conflicted. You love Rafe. You love him so much and he’s sober and trying for the first time. You’re seeing him in a new light but today, after picking up that knife, you can’t get over the horrible things that he’s done and it’s tearing you apart inside.

From the archway of the kitchen, you can’t help but look at the boy on your sofa. He’s probably watching some dumb show, his long legs stretched out in front of him while he’s nursing a bottle of water, the sadness in his eyes looking more and more permanent. Your fists clenched up beside you as tears threaten to fall as you made your way in front of him. You can’t count the number of times you’ve seen him like this, the number of times you’ve fantasized about him like this but with your children crawling all over him as you’d laugh and sip a cup of coffee. Now that’s really all it’ll be, a fantasy.

Rafe had set the bottle on the coffee table in front of him as if sensing a confrontation coming on and it fueled your anger even more. You hated that he knew you so well and that you two were so well connected that you could both feel the shift of the energy between the two of you without saying one word. You finally made it in front of him, your knees touching, you couldn’t take your eyes off of his.

He waited, looking back at you as your tears fell from your face and his hands twitched like he wanted to reach out towards you but thought better of it.

“I hate you,” you said pathetically as your shoulders slumped. You angrily wiped away your tears as you shook your head at him. The boy who once was your dream. Rafe didn’t even flinch at your words, he knew it already. He hoped that you’d change your mind about him but he knew from the very first night that things would never be the same.

Without saying a word, Rafe reached for your fists, kissing your knuckles knowing that you’d never use them against him. As if apologizing for even causing you to form them.

“I hate you so much and I can’t forgive you for what you did; I’ve tried,” you said through your tears, “but I also love you so much,” you whispered your confession. His head snapping up at you, searching for your lies and finding none.

Before you could even think, one of his arms snakes around your waist, pulling you down to straddle him as the other came up to your face, forcing you to now look up at him.

“You still love me?” Rafe finally spoke, brushing away a few of your tears with the pad of his thumb.

“I’ve always loved you but you make me hate you,” you said as you leaned your face against his palm, missing the feeling of intimacy with him.

It was almost like something had changed within him, as if he was arguing with himself and finally made up his mind when he leaned in closer to your face, his lips brushing against yours, “Don’t. Tonight just, just love me, okay?”

How could you say no to that? You nodded and it takes him all but a second for his lips to touch yours, knowing that the minute you gave him an inch, he’d take a mile.

The kiss was electric. It was something that you had no idea you were even craving until his were on yours and you couldn’t get enough. Your tongue swiped at his lower lip, taking it in between your teeth and giving him a soft bite, using his gasp as an invitation for your tongue to enter his mouth. Rafe didn’t deny you as his hands worked his way to your hips that’s been subconsciously rocking against his. You worked your hands up his shirt, lingering on his abs, feeling them expand and contract with every breath he takes before removing your lips from his just to pull off his shirt.

Heavenly. It was the only word that came to your mind when you looked at his body. Rafe didn’t give you much time to marvel at the sculpted figure that is his body before pulling your face towards his again, “fuck, y/n,” Rafe breathe and it sent a shiver down your spine. You can already feel the wetness pooling between your legs, knowing full well that the thin layer of your pajama pants is doing nothing but allowing him to feel it, too. Just like how you can feel him grow underneath you, making you whimper when you rock against him the right way. You made your way down his neck, kissing and biting him, marking him like you were teenagers again. Rafe growled at you when you bit a little bit too hard into his shoulder.

“Y/n, baby,” Rafe rasped, trying to get your attention but it was useless, “princess,” he said almost inaudible as you were about to rub out your own orgasm against him. Suddenly, his hand came down hard on your backside, and instead of yelping, you moaned for him to go harder which all but caused him to pull you away from him. Your arms suddenly empty and your chest heaving, you looked at Rafe’s plump lips and eyes that are dark with desire. He stood up and didn’t waste a moment, he allowed you to jump onto him, supporting your weight with his arms around you.

You quickly yanked off your top, allowing your breast to press up against him when you wrap your arms around his neck, “I need you,” you admitted against his neck. More than he knew. In more ways than he could give but for now, you could accept him like this. You felt your back slam against the wall as he fists your hair in his hands, forcing your head back so he could kiss your neck and leave some marks of his own. By the time he reached your bed, you needed your release. He had set you down on the bed, almost too gently. You reached for his pants but his fingers wrapped around your wrist, “I want to taste you first,” he said with what you thought was supposed to be a smile but he was already preoccupying himself with pulling off your shorts. You were almost sure that he moaned just by the sight of your spread legs as if he hadn’t already seen you like this a hundred times.

You laid back and spread your legs further, reaching for his head with his hand but instead he interlocked his fingers with yours saying, “don’t rush me, princess, I want to remember this.” It felt like an eternity before you felt his lips on your inner thigh, causing your body to shudder. Slowly, you felt his tongue delve into you, flicking your clit just right enough for you to buck your hips against him. He wrapped his lips around your clit as his tongue worked it just the way you liked until your nails are leaving marks on him as you scream, “Yes, Rafe, right there, please don’t stop!” Your words along with your moans, giving him the confidence that he still remembers how to make you cum; and you did. Hard. You could’ve sworn that you went cross-eyed for a moment as your thighs attempted to shut around his head. He brought his hands up to hold them back as he continued, bringing on another shaking orgasm.

“I need you in me, Rafe,” you said as this point, almost delirious but you needed the closeness. “I need you to fuck me like you just—like you hate me,” you said but you weren’t sure if you meant it. Granted, in your state, you’d take him any way that he’d come but you just thought back to all the times you’d slept with him in that last month before everything went to shit. When he was at his worst with drugs that most times, he couldn’t get it up, and when he could, it would be rough and fast.

Rafe crawled up your body, using his thumb to wipe his lower lip and then sucking it clean, causing your eyes to flutter. You pushed down his pants until they were around his knees and he kicked them all the way off himself but he didn’t pounce on you and started drilling you. He almost seemed…hesitant.

“I know you hate me but I don’t,” Rafe started, slowly as he began inserting himself into you, inch by inch, “I can’t fuck you like I used to right now. I can’t fuck you like I’m angry, I need to-,” he stopped himself with a moan as you clenched around him, “I just need you to fuck you like you love me okay?” He rasped, looking more vulnerable then you’ve ever seen him. You nodded, grabbing a hold of his hair as you wrapped your legs around him, you kissed him deeply before looking at him in his eyes, “I love you Rafe,” you breathe and that was all it took for him to lose his control.

After basically wrestling around in the sheets, you both came multiple times. Each time with whispers of promises of forever that you both knew was just something said in the heat of the moment. When you both felt spent, though not nearly having enough of each other, Rafe had gotten up to go to the bathroom and get a wet cloth to come and clean you up. You haven’t been this reckless since you two were sixteen and had a pregnancy scare, so you were thanking the heavens for your birth control right now.

Rafe had put the towel away in the bathroom again but didn’t bother to put on his clothes as he laid next to you in bed. You rested your head against his chest as his finger started trailing your spine.

“I saw Barry today,” you said suddenly.

“Yeah?” Rafe tensed, pulling you closer to him as if he could protect you, “What did he want?”

“Other than a trip down memory lane?” you offered, “you.”

Rafe didn’t say a word as he kissed the top of your head and you drifted off to sleep.

  The sun was evil, you were sure of it. The blinding light had awakened you and all you tried to do was burrow deeper into the hard body next to you. Only except, the body wasn’t there. Blindly, you reached out beside you, almost in a panic when you couldn’t feel anything other than the cold sheets, indicating that it has been vacant for some time. You finally opened your eyes and sat up; your body deliciously sore but you couldn’t even enjoy that right now. You walked into the living room, naked as the day you born, only to see a small duffel bag by the door.

“Rafe?” You called out, only to have him appear from the kitchen with an orange juice in his hand. He took a look at you and his eyes lingered on your body, the marks that he left on you. The marks you left on his neck and chest, obvious as well, but you couldn’t concentrate on that, “I can’t believe you,” you spat out as you turned on your heel and made your way back into the bedroom.

You didn’t make it past the door frame before Rafe’s arm snaked around you and pressed your back to his front, his lips coming down to your ear, “stop,” he said, his tone was almost like an order but you knew it was a plea, “whatever it is that’s going on in that head of yours, stop it.”

You turned around in his arms, willing yourself not to cave when his face was inches from yours. Willing yourself not to cry when his bag is inches away from the door, “you’re leaving me,” you stated.

“I’m not leaving you,” Rafe corrected, “last night was just…amazing but it did remind me that being sober isn’t the only thing that I had to get done. I have loose ends, y/n. I have things that I need to make right. So, yes, I am leaving but do not think for a second that I’m leaving because of you. I’m alive because of you.”

“Nice speech,” you said bitterly, crossing your arms across your chest as you stepped out of his grasp, “you’re leaving right after we had sex. It’s still a douchebag move to make.”

“Y/n, I told you. I had a realization. Trust me, if I didn’t-,” he stopped himself, watching you as you pulled his shirt over your head, “if I didn’t have to go, I wouldn’t but I need to like, I don’t know. Clear my head or find myself or whatever the fuck it is. I need to go back to my dad and show my face. Fuck, I need to visit Sarah’s grave.”

“And you can’t do all of that with me? Here I am again, re-arraigning my whole life for you and Rafe Cameron can’t eve-,” he cut you off by lifting you up, making you wrap your legs around his waist. His kiss was hard and bruising.

“Shut the fuck up,” Rafe parroted the line he said seven months ago, only this time, he whispered it with a smile ghosting around his lips.

“I love you,” he said as he caressed your face with one hand, the other still holding you up, “I love you and you do not fully love me like before. I can see it in your eyes, princess. We laugh and we might’ve fucked yesterday but it does not change anything. You don’t trust me so I need to go and make things right, okay? You told me that I needed to love myself before you can be with me again, before you can love me again. So, that’s what I’m going to do. Okay?” he said as he set you down on your feet again.

You nodded, you understood. You weren’t dumb enough to think he’d stay here forever anyway, no matter how much you took care of him and he was right. There are still days where you can’t look at him and having sex last night might’ve made it clear where you both stood with each other but it doesn’t change the fact that sometimes you still hated him-you were just too drunk off sex to act on it.

“Yeah. Okay,” was all you could say. Though you gripped onto his hand like a child as he walked to the front door, picking his bag off the floor and effortlessly resting the strap on his shoulder. He turned to you and reached into his pocket, leaving a small gold chain necklace in the palm on your hand. A lame replacement for his own hand, you thought, but you willed yourself not to grab onto him again.

“Thank you. For literally everything. For changing your whole life for me. For stopping everything. No amount of thank you will ever be enough,” Rafe said sincerely and though it looks like he wants to, he doesn’t kiss you.

“Will I see you again?” You asked, your voice small. You gripped the necklace to your chest.

“I don’t know. But I fucking hope so, y/n,” Rafe said before turning around and walking out of your door.

                                                        Epilogue

“It’s been two years, dad,” you fidget on the bar stool in your parent’s house, you were finally back in the Outer Banks for the first time since Sarah’s funeral. A small simple gold chain hangs from your neck. You don’t remember the last time you took it off.

“A lot of things have changed, y/n. He might not be who he was anymore,” your dad warned, his eyes trained on yours and even though you know he meant that maybe Rafe isn’t like the boy you fell in love with when you were fifteen, all you wished for was that he wasn’t like the boy he was when he was nineteen.

You held up your glass of water, as if you’re making a toast, “then here’s to changes,” you smiled as your dad shook his head.

 When Rafe had left your house, two years ago, he had come back to the Outer Banks like a boy on a mission. You weren’t exactly sure what had happened but rumor has it, he reached out to JJ, Kiara, and Pope to help put his father in prison. From there, they had recruited the help from Mrs. Lana Grubbs, who somehow had enough information to put Ward away for good. Of course, in the midst of getting his father in jail, he had to come clean about his involvement in the murder of Sheriff Peterkin—something that should’ve been a capital offense, but with the help of a very good lawyer (thanks dad) and being involved in the arrest of Ward Cameron, it was brought down to voluntary manslaughter. Rumor also had it that Ward Cameron could’ve gotten away, he could have stuck to his original story, seems like the police bought it anyway but once he heard that Rafe was basically selling himself out for this, he complied, knowing that his son would get less time. By all means, Ward was not a good father and even a worse excuse of a man but you’d like to believe that that was his way of telling Rafe that he loved him enough to do this, especially since he’s lost Sarah.

You sat outside of the prison, in your car. You saw the barb wires and the guards and almost got cold feet. You wrapped your hands tightly around the steering wheel until your knuckles turned white and took a deep breath. You didn’t know why you were so nervous but you felt like if you exit your car, you’d turn into a puddle of goo. After a couple of breathing exercises, you’ve gathered enough courage to walk up to the gate, giving the officer your ID, hoping that you’re still on Rafe’s visitations list. After a couple of minutes, just enough to make you sweat, they led you back to a room. Metal chairs had lined up against the glass, a phone at the side of each divider.

Reminding yourself to breathe, you sat down on the cold steel. You picked up the phone, eager to hear Rafe’s voice. As the rows of inmates started filling up each seat, sitting in front of their loved ones, your eyes searched for him. All the orange jumpsuits looking the same but then you felt it. That connection, that energy that you once shared with this man who was once the love of your life and now almost a stranger. He sat down across from you as you looked up at him, a grin painted on his face, and for the first time in a while, his smile reaches his eyes, “hey princess.”

tags: @millyelliot @snkkat

[cherry3point14]

The Wrong Winchester - One Year Later

Pairing: Dean x Reader, Sam x Eileen Warnings: Cavity protection required. Word Count: 12,304. (WHY) Summary: One year after the fiasco that was Fourth of July, you’re back in  Kansas and back at the Winchesters. This time with their other son. A/N: A sequel for the trope fluff fest that was The Wrong Winchester. Somehow this is fluffier and more trope-y! Listen, I didn’t say it was good, just that it exists. Happy 4th July my bitches! (*sobs in the corner* this was supposed to be a timestamp)

Ao3 if you prefer.

June has been cool this year, more so than normal, but then the heat of July hits like clockwork. Even though you enjoy airplanes, and the AC they provide, you’ve done the drive because Dean hates flying. It’s not even a compromise because the detour your journey takes means that it’s Thursday evening by the time you arrive in Lawrence. Sam and Eileen got there mid-morning. You’re hoping that the Winchesters are so distracted getting to know her that you can slip in like an old piece of furniture, unnoticed and ignored.

It’s when he turns the corner onto their street, and the family home looms in the distance, that it hits you. You’re here, again, and you’re doing this, again. And nobody would ever believe it but this is considerably worse because this time you love the guy sitting next to you.

Not that you’ve told him that yet. It’s been a slow year.

Loving Dean does complicate things though. It means that you care what the Winchesters think of you. Last year, pretending, was a walk in the park in comparison. You knew Sam was fake breaking up with you after you left. You could have cheated on Sam in front of him and it wouldn’t have mattered because it was all, well, fake.

Although you did kind of cheat on Sam in front of him. Boy, did you hope Sam hadn’t told them about that.

Now, the house you’re pulling up at makes your toes curl inside your shoes while hurried excuses start pouring out. “You’re positive you don’t want to stay in a hotel? Take the pressure off your mom having to entertain us and Sam and Eileen. That’s a lot of guests.” You nod to yourself convincingly while you stare at the front door.

He smiles at you like you’re adorable, which you don’t appreciate. “If you’re looking to make her hate you, then yeah, go ahead and tell my Mom you’re taking her firstborn to a hotel for the weekend.”

You huff and pout your lips so he knows exactly how frustrated you are, “I know you’re right, doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”

“When are you ever?” He counters, smirking as he gets out of the car. You follow suit although you’re convinced that as your foot hits the stone driveway you can hear the ticking of a countdown. One small step for you, one giant leap to your doom.

Dean grabs your case and his duffel from the trunk, settling one on top of the other so that he has a free hand to wrap around your waist. It’s probably a picturesque image, him walking you to the house like that. You’re not sure if he’s being nice or making sure you don’t run away. Dean’s a smart man so it’s probably a little of both.

His hand reaches to open the door but even after the long drive from Chicago, your reactions are lightning-fast. You pull his arm back to stop him and answer the silent look on his dumb face, “shut up. We should knock.”

“Did you give Sammy this much trouble last year?”

His joke drags a smile out of you, not a laugh but a smile. He’s been trying to calm you down the whole journey. You don’t get nervous often, so seeing you this anxious has both worried and amused him. He’s settled for being supportive, he’s done everything he can to take your mind off of this moment. He told you exaggerated fake facts about Kansas to stop you complaining that the entire state was too damn hot. He distracted you with questions about the case you’re working on when you panicked about exactly how Sam had explained everything all those months ago. And most importantly he fed you. A few hours out he’d pulled into a drive-through and minutes later you’d found yourself pulled over on a random stretch of highway, legs crossed, and a brown paper bag in your lap. He’d wiped sauce from the corner of your mouth and watched you wolf down cheese fries.

Dean knew how to keep you happy for the hours you’ve spent in Baby. But now that you’re finally standing at the threshold he, apparently, thinks it’s time to throw you to the wolves, which he does, literally.

In one swift movement, the door is open before you can rap your knuckles against it and he uses his arm—the one that’s around your waist—to guide you inside. Except guiding you inside is more like a gentle push, which means you trip your way into the Winchester family home while Dean remains safely on the porch.

“What the f-?” The end of your sentence never makes it past your lips, thankfully, considering the gathering in the living room as you turn your head.  

Sam and Eileen are sitting opposite Mary and John, all of them holding a drink, clearly mid-conversation. They all stop. Four pairs of eyes are now trained on you. Even after a too-long second has passed none of them move as if your presence has frozen them in time. A perpetual state of being horrified by your existence.

“Dean!?” You don’t exactly shout but there’s a worried twang to your voice and still, none of them move. In fact, Sam doesn’t even attempt to help, which is a betrayal you won’t allow to pass unpunished or forgotten.

That’s for another day. Right now you’re about thirty seconds away from your first actual panic attack in years.

Dean slips in behind you, eventually. Even walking in with the bags he’s more graceful than you had been stumbling in. Not that you compliment him on that. You’re too preoccupied because you might have broken the Winchesters.

“Honey!” Mary beams with happiness at the sight of her eldest son and jumps up from her seat like a mannequin come to life. Whatever spell had been cast breaks so quickly that it might not have happened at all. Every single person takes a breath again and Mary walks over, wine forgotten on the coffee table, to hug Dean the way you’d seen her do a year ago.

“Mom!” He hugs her back, wrapping her up in his arms and lifting her from the floor an inch or two. You want to say he’s the cutest thing ever with that childlike smile on his face.

That’s what you want to say.

Unfortunately, the innocence doesn’t last as his expression morphs into a cocky smirk with a waving hand in your direction once he lets his mother go. “You remember Y/N, right?”

Is he freaking kidding?

Mary’s face steels, as if Dean had never entered the room. Your best friend and his girlfriend, who you know pretty well at this point, remain safely in their seats. And your boyfriend, your goddamn boyfriend who you love and trust, is standing there at an arm's length like this is an early fireworks display. The fuses have been lit and he is waiting for the explosives to go off.

The only person in the room who dares to make eye contact with you—outside of the matriarch—is John freaking Winchester. And he has the audacity to smile sweetly at you. Or as sweetly as John Winchester is capable of.

“Of course I remember Y/N.” Mary’s words are friendly but her tone does not mirror the sentiment. She taps her chin with one extended finger, thinking, “you were on Sam’s arm last year, if I remember rightly.”

You were going to murder Sam and thanks to your job you’d get away with it too. “I’m so sorry Mary, Sam told me he explained. It was all a misunderstanding, I was only…”

“Only jumping around between my boys? Or was the misunderstanding when we welcomed you into our home and you lied to us?”

You may have met your match. You could never admit this to the district attorney's office but Mary has found a way to silence you with a stare. Your lips snap shut without a good answer for her. You feel like a child being chastised for making a mess.

In fairness you had made a mess last year, however, you cleaned it up afterward.

Your eyes dart to the still-open front door before you rummage up an answer. “I don’t think jumping between them is very fair, Sam and I weren’t a real thing. I mean we’re still besties, even if he won’t call us that, but we were pretending. Which is still wrong but I defy any of you to say no to him when he does that dopey puppy face of his. Anyway I know he told you it was his idea, because it was, and I made sure he told you that because I don’t want you thinking that I came up with it and…”

“Great, you got her stuck in a loop, Mom.” Dean grumbles with a roll of his eyes.

“What?” You interrupt your own rambling to frown at him.

That’s when it happens. Mary breaks out into a grin so similar to Dean's that it’s frightening. If Sam got his smile from his mother then Dean inherited her devious smirk.

“It was your idea.” She answers your seemingly caring boyfriend.

You’re confused, as you should be. Hours. Days. Weeks of dreading this moment and this weekend. None of this makes any sense.

“I hate to sound like a broken record but, what?”

Mary turns her brightness on you, in the distance, John barks out a laugh and cracks his hand against his thigh as if this all went completely as planned.

“I’m sorry Y/N. We were only playing. It’s great to see you again.”

Then she hugs you, stiff as you may be from the complicated mix of annoyance and residual fear that you’re feeling. Her arms around you exude motherly warmth, something you’re unfamiliar with, until your muscles relax in her grip.

Over Mary’s shoulder, Dean is pressing his lips together to stop himself laughing and then finally your brain catches up. That bastard set you up. He sold you down the river. Still mid-hug you silently mouth to him, “I’m going to kill you.”

That sends Dean over the edge and a deep belly laugh escapes him. He doesn’t even attempt to apologize. He’s too caught up in how funny he thinks he is.

“So, you were all in on this? You too Sammy?” You splay your hand across your chest now that Mary has released you.

Mary links her arm with yours and leans in as if she didn’t rob you of ten years of your life, “if it helps Eileen told us we were being mean.”

You smile at Eileen, your now very good friend, as you take a seat next to her, “at least someone has my back.”

She shrugs nonchalantly, “well, Sam’s girlfriends need to stick together.”

And just like that. The final knife in your back sets them all off howling with laughter again. This was obviously going to be a long weekend.

It's not even day one, that starts tomorrow. It's been a few hours at best and you're already in bed and staring a hole in the ceiling. Ordinarily, you might be questioning why there is a suspicious rectangle that is whiter than the rest. As if the patch of paint had seen less light than the rest of the room like a poster had been there or something.

“You gotta tell me.”

You scoff. He has done nothing to earn any answers from you so far. Looking after you during the journey must have been an act to lull you into a false sense of security because he jumped ship as soon as you arrived. Winchesters are a tight-knit bunch.

“Come on, please?”

It sucks that you love this idiot, it sucks that you haven’t told him, it’s even worse that you cannot resist him. You roll over to his whining voice and prop yourself up on your elbow. It was foolish to ever hope for a good night's sleep when he’s amped up to be in his childhood home again. You can’t say that you remember him being like this last year but, then again, last year you were avoiding him since you were pretending to date his brother. “Oh my god, if I tell you will you let me sleep already?”

Dean nods, using a finger to draw a cross over his chest. Even in the dark, you can see the crinkles of his eyes deepen playfully, “cross my heart. I’ll even help you get off to sleep, by way of apology.” His fingers toy with the waistband of your underwear to hint at his meaning, under his oversized Zeppelin shirt you’re sleeping in.

“Nice try Benedict Arnold, I haven’t forgotten what you did to me.”

He knows by the tone of your voice he won’t get anywhere right now, although it’s nothing to do with his betrayal. You’re still obsessed with somehow clawing back any semblance of a good impression. Sex in his childhood bed doesn’t strike you as the correct way to go about that. He doesn’t tease and try to change your mind with filthy words he knows you love. You think maybe Dean knows tonight isn't the night either. Maybe that’s why he’s asking questions instead.

His hand slides up over your waist and settles comfortingly around your middle—almost as if he knows he has some groveling to do. He asks again hoping to get one of the things he wants; answers. “C’mon. Just tell me. I’ll tell you mine.”

You haven’t spoken much about last year with Dean and you were absolutely fine with that. Last Fourth of July wasn’t exactly a Kodak moment for you. It almost cost you Sam and as much as you love Dean, Sam’s friendship is one of the very foundations of your adult life. Sure last year was the kind of thing you’ve joked about, but the nitty-gritty details had stayed where they should, in the past.

However, being back here, albeit in the next room over to the one you’d previously occupied, has apparently opened the topic up for conversation.

“Fine. You really want to know?”

“With all my heart.”

“God, you’re lucky you’re cute. At the airport. Okay?”

His smile widens until you can see his teeth shine. “You’re joking?”

You bury your face in the pillow, only coming up for air when necessary despite the way he pokes your sides to make you squirm. “No, I’m not joking. I wasn’t sleepy getting off the plane. I was trying to figure out if there was a way for me to make out with my fake boyfriend's hot older brother.”

“You were too good for your fake boyfriend anyway.” He presses a chaste kiss to your lips, “too good for me too.”

He shouldn’t be allowed to catch you off guard like that, it’s against the rules. Yet he does it all the time. The sweetest secrets whispered in your ear while you’re brushing your teeth or watching a movie. As if he needs to tell you as soon as the thought pops into his head. And it’s not fair because he deserved some silent treatment or something. You know he’ll be back to his tricks tomorrow, so he should pay tonight. But now instead of being annoyed at him, your lips are following his while you realize you were never really mad in the first place.

His wandering hand moves to wrap around your neck, his fingers are lost in your hair and his thumb traces over your jaw. This is the classic Dean trick. He thinks he’s so smooth and that one day he’ll manage to keep you attached to his mouth forever if he holds you there, just right.

As much as you want to appease him, it never lasts. Eventually, you always need air in your pesky, needy lungs. Tonight though it ends with your hand on his chest nudging him off of you. “No way. You owe me yours. Come on, when did you start like-liking me?” You finish the question in a sarcastically childish voice.

Dean is nothing if not fair, sometimes, and he would never break a promise. He leans back a little and adopts what you have dubbed his ‘thinking face’. It may be nighttime but you’d recognize that furrowed brow anywhere.

“When I found you in my bedroom.” He finally answers.

It takes a whole second to remember. “Really? You mean when I was trying to find the bathroom?”

“Yeah, I mean a guy comes back to his room and finds a pretty girl...”

It’s your turn to frown, “wait. Correct me if I’m wrong but you’re saying that your ‘moment’ was when you found me in your room, in my pajamas, with bed head and a full bladder?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. You were all cute an’ twitchy when I caught you, then suddenly you’re all fired up and telling me off for making fun of you. You were a little spitfire.”

You drop your forehead to his chest and let out a laugh. Trust Dean to like you because you busted his balls.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, “good enough answer?”

You yawn, happily, and shimmy down into bed proper. “It was your game De. The question is are you happy with yours?”

He settles down next to you, close enough to hear the deep, “mm hmm” in his throat.

Almost everything is different this year but one fact remains the same. You can take the running gear from Sam but you can’t stop Sam from going running.

He has emergency running shoes in his closet.

The new part is that you’re up as early as he is. You’re sitting on the sofa with your laptop propped up on your knees, with yet another witness statement that you were sure was made up. It was too perfect and a jury would never buy it.

By the time Sam, the sweat machine, returns you’re typing a passive-aggressive email to that effect.

“You had any coffee yet?” He asks with two mugs in his hands, passing one to you.

You take the mug without looking up from the screen and swallow a scalding sip, which you only half notice burns your tongue. “Obviously not. Your mom is in there and she still scares me.”

He laughs but doesn’t question it. He doesn’t need to. Dean may have dealt with you on the long drive and whenever he was in town but Sam deals with you every day. He has been privy to almost every one of your breakdowns in the last month. June felt longer than thirty days.

Sam sits down next to you and starts watching the news channel you’d been ignoring. It takes a minute but eventually, he grabs the remote to pause the screen, “ah, there’s my favorite celebrity lawyer.”

You don't need to look up to know that you are on the TV.

“I won’t be anyone’s lawyer if I don’t figure out why my client insists on lying to me and getting people to lie on his behalf.” Your fingers get dangerously close to pounding the plastic keyboard into smithereens. “Hasn’t he heard of attorney-client privilege?”

“Okay. I think you need a little break from that.” He says prying the laptop from you and closing it on the coffee table, so you can’t see the screen anymore.

You want to be mad at him but, of course, you can’t. You look up at him and his soft smile that’s all kinds of sympathetic to the workload you’ve been bearing of late. If you weren’t being driven insane by the biggest case of your career then maybe you’d be a little more rational when it came to this weekend.

Although, that’s unlikely. You were always going to go crazy about this particular get together.

“I swear sometimes I think he’s actually stupid. I’m trying to help him. Why did he even think he could escape arrest in the third most populated city in America?” You shuffle yourself so that you’re sitting sideways and facing him. Despite your insults about your client, the question is earnest.

“Probably figured it’s the only way he’d get to hire you.”

You roll your eyes, “sure, that’s why I’m co-counsel to fucking New York’s finest Marcus Delaney, who he trusts like a fucking brother.”

Sam widens his eyes at you in warning but you catch on too late; his mother is in the next room. You both hold your breath waiting for a reaction. When nothing happens you relax and he answers the least important part of your statement, “technically you’re a New York native too.”

“Objection, relevance?”

“Well, you mentioned…”

“Nah-uh. Enough about me. You took my laptop away so now we have to talk about you.” You smirk into your cup.

Sam knows where this is going. He told you his news two entire weeks ago, it worked like a charm and was also the biggest mistake of his life. Because two weeks ago Sam invited you to his office for lunch and told you over takeout that he was getting married.

He wanted to tell you because you’re his best friend. He’d told you before Dean and sworn you to secrecy until he’d called his brother later that day. Both of you knew the news was coming anyway, so it wasn’t really a race. Sam had been wringing his hands over how to ask the love of his life for weeks before he did it. You only found out about the ‘yes’ before Dean, because Sam had been trying to calm you down after another ‘4th of July freak-out’.

Sam had forgotten what happens if a seven-year-old gets their hands on too much sugar. Or, to be more precise, what happens when he gives a big, juicy, sensitive piece of information to you. Now he can't get you to shut up about it.

He sighs. He’s still facing the TV even though your eyes are on him. “I should have let you keep working, shouldn’t I?”

“Too late for that, Sammy. Have you decided when you’re telling everyone yet?”

He shifts to side-eye you, “oh, yeah. I was thinking, how about never?”

“You can’t bring your devoted fiance home for the weekend and not tell them!” You’re keeping your voice low but it’s insistent all the same.

“Ok. What about at the airport?”

“We’re dropping you back to the airport.”

“Right, before that then.”

You laugh, “why did you even come this weekend if you’re going to chicken out?”

“I’m not going to chicken out but, would it be so bad if I did? I brought you last year to avoid my Mom's crazy and now… I mean this will be like Defcon two.”

You wonder, briefly, what triggers Defcon one. Considering how quickly Mary had asked you if you were pregnant last year, you’d wager it’d be grandchildren.

In the pause where you both sip your morning caffeine again, neither of you notice the slight creak. The kind of creak where a door begins to open but never does.

“All I’m saying is, getting married is an amazing thing. It’s time to share the happy news. Hell, I’ll go wake Dean and we can do it now.”

“That’s easily the worst idea you’ve ever had. And I’m including the outfit you wore to the first office Christmas party.”

He’s walking right into your trap. “I dusted that number off for your brother over Christmas, you know.”

“Oh god. I don’t need to know about you and-and him-and a sexy Santa's helper costume.” He actually gets up, sweeps his mug with him, and sours his face.

“You brought it up, Sammy!” You're grinning all wide and evil, calling after him.

He pauses with his back leaning against the kitchen door, at the same time that Eileen walks in. “I hate you.”

You look up at her and sigh, “you see the way he talks to me when you’re not around?”

This is not the first time Eileen has been caught in the middle of you two, so she laughs and promises, “I’ll talk to him about that.”

Sometimes Dean likes to yank your chain and sometimes you like to yank his. It’s what makes you kind of perfect for each other, any bruised egos or pouting lips are part of the game you play. An excellent example is the way he’d betrayed you already this weekend. You weren’t mad, well, maybe a little, but in the end, you forgave him because it’s him.

In all the jokes there’s one thing that Dean knows not to play around with, one thing that he wouldn’t dare mess with.

Winchester. Family. Baseball.

You had agreed to wear his dumb spare jersey the same as you’d done for Sam. Like Eileen was doing for Sam this year. Although you had to admit her shorts are a little more family-friendly.

You’d even made a sign. A big piece of poster board, some markers, glitter, and stickers that you had gone to Target to buy special. It said GO TEAM DEAN! With a heart to dot the exclamation point. The sign was a surprise. When you’d shown him before leaving for the game he’d called you a dork and smiled so wide you worried his face might break.

You were ready for the game because you were safe. The worst thing that you expect is the comments when you turn up with a ‘1’ on your shirt this year instead of a ‘2’. You’ve already dealt with this from Mary and John but you weren’t so blind to forget about the rest of the family.

Charlie laughs at you when she notices, straight away, and threateningly asks for the story later. Bobby simply says, “switched teams, huh?” Before walking off. Granted he doesn’t seem to judge you, merely stating the observation like an interesting factoid. And Gabe starts, “lookie here when do I-” but smartly stops. He’s too tongue in cheek to be offensive but the look on Deans’ face might have something to do with his change of heart.

All of that you could handle. Par for the course. You had been ready for it because—can’t stress this enough—you were safe. Today was going to be a fun day of cheering on your boyfriend at his weird family baseball game.

You’re so sure of yourself that you even helped Mary pack drinks and snacks, with Eileen as a buffer, because you knew you’d get to enjoy said food. As a spectator.

When John does his ‘gather round me for I am John Winchester’ bit to pick the teams you’re choosing your spot in the stands. A little area in the front row for you, Mary and Eileen where you’re putting the food. You don’t join said gathering because that’s how not relevant it was to your life. You’d find out the teams when they’re playing and you’re only fifteen feet away from them all. You can hear them barking out names fine.

Dean picks Micheal. Sam makes a comment like ‘big surprise’. Bickering ensues until John gets them to focus up.

You could write this stuff in your sleep. You don’t want to call them predictable, considering this was only your second year here, but sometimes the truth is right there in front of you. And the truth is Winchester family baseball is going exactly how you expect.

Actually it’s the one thing that is going how you expect this weekend. Frankly, you needed that, some stability. Something you could rely on.

“Y/N”

Time slows down. In your head, you can hear that siren noise from Kill Bill and the world is suddenly devoid of color, except one. A red light flashes over your vision, as you turn in comically slow motion to find out which one of those idiots betrayed you.

Dean. Of course. The goddamn one you’re in love with.

He has the absolute gall to wave at you from where he’s standing. Smiling like, well, like it’s Fourth of July weekend and he innocently picked his girlfriend to play a game with him. That’s what it must look like to his family anyway.

To you? You feel like Lady Macbeth. Disappointed and betrayed by your significant other who can't do his one job. You’re not even asking him to kill the King of Scotland, all he had to do was not say your name.

Before you have an opportunity to write yourself out of this tragedy, he’s waving you over and your legs start walking. Apparently your body listens to him more than it listens to your own brain. Was nothing sacred anymore?

“There’s my girl.”

Those words would normally make you weak at the knees. Unfortunately for Dean, when it comes to baseball, you’re not melting that easy.

When you reach him you smile until you’re close enough to mutter dangerously, “I’m going to make you disappear and it'll look like an accident.”

You notice people dispersing which means your amazing boyfriend waited to call you till last. Not only did he screw you over but he made you the embarrassing last pick.

He leans in to kiss you and breathes against you, “you know you love playing with me.”

God, you do. You love playing with this dick, who apparently hates you, as well as his dick. Not baseball granted but other games.

“‘Sides,” he continues in your silence, “you don’t want to let all that practice go to waste.”

“All that practice? Practice?” You pull your head back, unable to resist showing him how offended you are, “you mean the time you forced me to go to the batting cages?”

He crosses his hands at your back and pulls you to him until your thighs are pressed against his. Were it not for his jeans then it would be incredibly inappropriate for a family baseball game. Actually, with the jeans, it might still be inappropriate.

“I seem to remember someone enjoying my arms wrapped around her while I taught her how to hit. I also seem to remember that someone forgot all about me in a damn second once she could do it on her own.”

“It was very stress relieving, I kept pretending the ball was the dummy who took me to the batting cages.”

A laugh rumbles through him, his body is so close to yours that you feel it in your stomach.

“Come on, this will be fun. You need more fun.”

You poke a finger into his chest, an inch above the collar of his jersey, “don't pretend you're doing me a favor. if I remember the rules, I don’t have a choice. But don’t you worry, I won’t forget this.”

He grins in that ‘brighter than the sun’ Dean way, “I know baby. I know.”

You’d made it home four times, an impressive three more than last year. None of them were from hitting a home run or anything preposterous. You do hit the ball almost every time though. You still couldn’t catch, throw or run--all three skills are apparently super essential in baseball. You can connect the bat with the ball though. Everyone seems pretty impressed every time it happens, if only they knew how impressed you were every time you manage it.

Your lack of skills aside, when Dean wins, he leans you over his arm and kisses you rightly. As if it’s V-J day and he single-handedly stopped WWII. Eileen sneaks up on Sam, from where she’d been watching in the stands. Although your ASL is not perfect, you’re at least 80% sure that her hand's sign “sucks to be you,” as she walks to him. You might love her a little more than you did ten minutes ago and Sam laughs a little harder too.

Dean chooses a steakhouse. The place is all wood paneling and soft lighting. The ambiance reminds you of your first real date in Chicago, although there will probably be less sticky fingers. From the ribs, obviously.

Mary and John drive ahead and they’re waiting outside when you all arrive. You’ve told Eileen to be prepared, told her to have her wits about her, promised her you’ll jump in if necessary. She’d told you not to worry.

Oh, you hate to see it happen.

As soon as you’re inside you volunteer to sit next to John, it’s the smallest kindness you can do for your friend. She should sit between the safety of Sam and Dean for what is to come.

It starts as you expect and it’s strange being on the other side of the interrogation. Nobody gives a flying crap about what drink or food you order but Eileen? She gets the same treatment you had last year. Silence and an entire table waiting to hear what she has to say. She’s the shiny, new thing everyone is interested in. You’re both glad and sorry. Glad the heat is taken off of you and sorry that it’s Eileen bearing the brunt of it.

Although—and it’s not your imagination—they are a hell of a lot easier on her than John had been on you. It presumably helps that Eileen is a Librarian. Her stories are all child reading groups and teaching elderly people how to use email in the computer room. Even you find yourself a bit smitten and you already knew her.

You’re trying not to focus on her too much though. Let her charm Mary and John, she doesn’t need another face watching her while she talks. Instead, you concentrate on your appetizer, one of those deep-fried onion things you’re sharing with Dean. The unspoken agreement is if you eat smelly food then you do it together.

He shakes his head, making eye contact with you as he takes a particularly over the top bite, when you’re pulled back into the main conversation.

“Y/N, where did you spend Christmas last year?”

“I’m sorry?” You ask somewhat dazed by being called on so soon.

Mary smiles kindly, “Eileen mentioned her parent's cabin, which I know is where they spent Christmas. I realized I had no idea where you spent the holidays?”

“Sure. I-erm, I stayed in Chicago.” Dean's hand under the table surprises you when you feel the weight of him on your knee.

“Oh, funnily enough, I remember Dean saying he was in Chicago too and I thought to myself how strange that was with Sam being gone.”

Everyone laughs at her joke, even your boyfriend while he moves his hand up your thigh.

“Didn’t want to head to New York and see your parents?” She continues her line of inquiry.

You have no idea where she’s going with it, why you’re the one in the hot seat, or why Dean is driving you crazy with his thumb rubbing those incessant circles in your skin. You answer anyway.

“N-No. They go to Europe every other Christmas so they’ll be home this year.”

Mary takes a bite of whatever-the-hell is on her plate. “The boys are coming to us this year too, I guess we’ll have to get better about syncing these things up, huh?”

His hand alone wouldn’t normally drive you as crazy as it is right now. He’s only tapping a slow, teasing rhythm into your thigh for crying out loud. But it’s been a few days and before that a few weeks, and you’d been resolved to not sully this wholesome family weekend. So, your breath is just a touch shorter than normal when he squeezes, and you can only hide it by talking.

“Yeah, yeah. I guess we will.” You agree easily.

“I’m looking forward to meeting your parents, yours too Eileen. Do you think we’ll be meeting yours before Christmas Y/N? Any other big events coming up?”

Were you not focusing on the heat of his hand under your skirt then you might be suspicious of the way she asks that. As it is Dean chooses then to wink at you because he thinks it's hilarious how preoccupied you are.

“Erm, Thanksgiving?”

“Right, right. Thanksgiving.” She smirks like she has a secret.

You stand up suddenly, needing to get away from your teasing boyfriend, “sorry. I’m going to go use the restroom.”

“Hurry back.” Dean’s mocking tone follows you.

Were his parents not at the table you'd tell him to go to hell.

Saturday morning comes faster than you expected. You did have a jump on the long weekend because you’d all taken a day off work this year but Saturday still seemed to have jumped from a cupboard to surprise you.

You wake up as you often do when you share Dean’s bed. One of you, today it’s him, has the other one, you, in what can only be described as an inescapable hold. He’s got one arm wrapped around you, fingers hanging loose over your stomach where you’re laying on your side. His other arm is encroaching on your pillow to surround you and his head is curled in your neck. His breath is slow and hot over your skin. You never imagined that you’d enjoy waking up like this, so incredibly close to someone. And then you met Dean. Sometimes you wrap him up in your sleep, your fingers in his hair, and one leg thrown over his. Either way one always claims the other and you wouldn’t want anything different.

Except at this very second.

Dean is a light sleeper. A bit of a contradictory trait for someone who likes to sleep as much as he does—yours is not to question why—but you never want to willingly wake him if you can avoid it. You’re more than happy to let sleeping Dean’s lie. When you don’t need the bathroom that is.

Even though this isn’t your first time trying you still give it your best shot to slip out without disturbing him.

You think you’re getting there. You’ve managed to roll onto your back for an easier way out, his face is now smashed into his pillow instead of your back, you’ve slipped down the bed a little to get away from his hand on your pillow. It’s only that arm across you that you need to get free from. Today is the day that you’ll finally manage to pee without waking him up. The trick, you think, is not to touch him. You’ve been burned before by trying to lift his arm off of you when you only need to slip out from under it.

“Come on, five more minutes.” He mumbles, fingers come to life to hold you tighter and you swear you see his lip curl because you’ve failed to sneak away again.

“I need to pee.” Who says romance is dead?

He huffs, you’ve hit on what he deems an acceptable reason to let go of you. Barely.

Not that he eases up. You have to wiggle from his hold which makes you crack your first smile of the day. Despite your need to hurry you bend over him and press a kiss to his cheek. “How about I get some coffee while I’m up, see if I can get you to forgive me?”

“You can try.” He mutters in his half-sleep state.

The house is quiet when you leave the bathroom, ridiculously quiet for how full of people it will be later. The calm tricks you into feeling invincible, where nobody else exists save for you and the man you left in bed.

“Morning Y/N.” Mary is sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, and not doing much else.

“Oh my god!” You recoil with your whole body, arms bent into your chest like you’re trying to stave off a heart attack. You can be a little dramatic at times but the way she’s sitting in silence, illuminated only by the early morning light from the backyard, almost gives the illusion of her appearing out of thin air. “Sorry, Mary. I must be easy to scare first thing in the morning.”

A slow smile spreads over her face, “no I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I like a few minutes of peace before the boys are up is all.”

You grab two mugs, a pretty clear indication you plan to take coffee back to Dean, but before you can fill both she makes you an offer you can’t refuse. “You and I both know he is already back to sleep, he’ll keep for a few minutes. Sit with me.”

Dean's empty mug, your excuse to leave, gets left on the counter with most of your hopes and dreams. The only thing you try to cling to is that Mary wants to carry on sitting in silence, only, together.

“Y/N, we haven’t had a chance to talk, just you and me. Not since last year.”

Or maybe, just maybe, she’d been waiting for you all along.

“I guess we haven’t. I-eh, I really did mean what I said when I got here Mary. I’m sorry about everything.”

“I’m not trying to rake you over the coals here, and I’m not looking for another apology. I know what my sons think of me, Sam thinks I’m crazy. You were being a good friend.” She shrugs like it's that simple.

It’s kind of ridiculous how quickly you relax, and how quickly you start spilling your guts, “The lying though. I don’t feel good about that.”

Mary is quick. She leans over the table and wraps her hand around yours, “I don’t remember that much lying. I could tell you loved Sam last year and if that’s like a brother, I’m still glad he has you.”

She’s right. You do love Sam like a brother, the one you never had. He’s been more your family than your own. The first family you’d chose and only real family you had, which is why you’d been so scared at first. It’s why you’d been so quick to run from Dean at the risk of losing Sam. Hell, sometimes you wonder if it’s one of the many reasons you love Dean—because he’s the only other person on the planet who loves Sam as much as you do.

Your fingers twitch under her hand, unsure of the loving way she holds you. Unsure if you deserve it or why she offers it so easily. Whatever the answer is, she has your guard down.

“What about Dean?” It’s a loaded question. You need someone else to see what’s there before you can admit it to him. You're looking for confidence because you are unsure of his feelings. Who better to judge than his own mother?

She squeezes enough to tell you that you’re looking down at your coffee instead of looking at her, before she pulls back to lift her mug to her lips again. “That’s obvious Y/N.” She almost sounds bored at such an easy question, ”I knew I was right all along.”

"Right about what?”

Not even a pause. If she was indeed waiting for you this morning then she was waiting for you to ask this question.

“That you are going to be a Winchester someday.”

“No-I, no…” You trail off to nothing and it’s not because of the way Mary is still grinning despite your protests. It’s not her raised eyebrows over the rim of her cup. It’s not even the little hum like noise she lets out in affirmation that yes, you would wear the big 'W' as your last name.

It’s that you can see it. You’ve had a year of long-distance with Dean; scheduled weekends and facetime dates. You’ve been itching to tell him how you feel but terrified of scaring him away, scared of moving too quickly with the guy you don’t see enough, scared he doesn’t feel the same. And yet in the back of your mind, the vision is forming, pushing its way to the front without permission. Dean on one knee. You in a white dress. The moment you both say ‘I do’.

Is this what becoming a hopeless romantic feels like? Or were you always this much of a total sap?

“Don’t worry, I know.” She reiterates again.

Mary has a reputation, she’s pushy enough, so you assume that’s what this is. You assume she’s making a premonition, not looking for confirmation of something she thinks she already knows. So, you look to escape what you think is the awkwardness that you can’t answer.

“I’m going to get Dean his coffee or-or we’ll never get him out of bed.”

She nods you to leave but disagrees with your evaluation, “I think you underestimate how much my son loves fireworks.”

You smile wide, remembering how his face lit up in the dark the year before, “You’re right. Still, I should go get him up.”

Then you pour more coffee, including Deans, and run. If anyone else caught wind of this conversation they would never believe you were a defense lawyer, let alone the lawyer who’s been plastered over the news defending a celebrity on a murder case.

Dean has, predictably, gone back to sleep since you left. Although the light sleeper that he is, he is roused by the door opening and the smell of coffee.

“Baby?”

That’s all it takes to make you forget the conversation with Mary ever happened. You can’t help but laugh at his sleepy voice as you slip in next to him, careful not to spill anything while he fidgets awake, “who else would wake you up like this?”

He rubs at his eyes, “oh, y’know, my other girlfriend.”

“You’ll have to introduce us one day, we can compare notes.”

You’re still not used to the Winchester’s if you’re being completely honest. To you, barbecue has always been a type of food, and not necessarily one your parents approved of. It was never a place, a home. That’s what today is. Saturday afternoon and the sun is high, there's a faint twang of country music coming from somewhere. Not loud enough to hear the lyrics but loud enough to identify the genre, loud enough to wish you were wearing a cowboy hat. Everyone has a beer or a burger, or both. And it’s not all dopey eyed niceties. There are teenagers, Claire and Alex, hating everyone from the other end of the yard. Occasionally there’s a “screw you” or a “you idjit” shouted from the many random conversations happening. But it’s still somehow perfect in the imperfections. It’s cozy and homely. It’s a family. Love.

It would be easy to feel overwhelmed and convince yourself that you don’t belong. It’s lucky that you have your boyfriend. And since he has disappeared on you, Sam and Eileen. Although she is doing a much better job than you at fitting in.

“She’s going to make me look bad,” you tell Sam while you both watch Eileen animatedly tell Uncle Bobby something that makes him howl. Even his stoic expressions are hidden behind his beard but Eileen is a stand-up comedian, apparently

“That’s not hard is it?” He teases.

“That might hurt if you hadn’t picked me to bring last year, to protect her from all this.” You use the neck of your bottle to draw a circle in the air around the whole motley crew of his family.

Before you register his movement he has an arm around your shoulders, you’re expecting a headlock so you’re pleasantly surprised when he pulls you into a side hug. “That’s the first time you’ve joked about it since… since last year. I’m glad. Everyone else is over it, you’re the only one hanging on Y/N/N.”

You don’t want to choke up in the middle of their backyard but sometimes Sam’s big brother moments hit you like that. “I never said I was very good at letting things go.”

He huffs. “You’re too tough sometimes. That’s why I picked you to help me.” He sucks in a slow breath, “you have to get out of your head... and maybe stop being so annoying.”

You shove him back so he can’t lean on you but now you’re out of his hold he’s looking down at you with those damn puppy dog eyes. He hasn’t asked for something which means he’s trying to use them to make you feel better. You hadn’t realized you’d needed to feel better, was your face sad enough to warrant a Sam pep talk

“I’m fine,” you wave away his concern. “Have you decided yet?”

“And there I was hoping you’d forget.”

“Is Eileen happy to let you forget?” You counter him with an expectant look. “She wants to tell them but she’s happy to let me make the decision since it’s my family.” He says in a pointed, not pointed way.

You shake your head, “she’s going too easy on you. Good thing you have me to put you in line.”

“I thought I was the line?” It takes you a beat, you’re actually surprised he remembered you saying that to John.

“No, that was what I had to say when I was being paid to make you look good.” His face turns somber, “I never paid you.”

“Tomayto, tomahto Sammy.” You finish the beer in your hand, “you know I’m not pushing you, right? If you don’t do it, there’s always Christmas, or send a save the date.”

He shoves at you this time and the air returns to its normal lightness. “I know. You only want me to put on my big boy pants.”

“I could care less about your pants. I want you to take the heat off me, obviously.” You hold up your bottle to him, “I’m out. You need another one?”

He chuckles, ducks his head, and looks at his fiance again. “Yeah, dutch courage might help.”

“Dare to dream.” You sympathize, patting him on his shoulder.

Sam might tell them today, he might not. You wouldn’t judge him either way. He knows you aren’t judging him. You’re nudging him, not so gently. You’re being for him what he is for you. A good friend. Sam has a tendency to drag his heels sometimes and his relationship with Eileen is one of the few things you’ve seen him jump into wholeheartedly. He is, after all, engaged in under a year. You’re beyond pleased because you’ve never seen him so happy, all you want is for Sam’s family to enjoy seeing that too. If you elbow him in the right direction it’s only because you know he’ll regret it down the road.

Besides, it’s not like Mary can scare Eileen away. She already said yes.

So, Dutch courage it is. You don’t condone drinking to excess in front of his parents but a few more beers wouldn’t hurt. They’d only loosen his lips.

The cooler is by the door to the kitchen, for easy refills whether that’s ice or beer. It’s out of the way. Most people stay close to the grill or their seat if they have managed to command one.

You assume your trip will be short and sweet. There’s no one else standing by the plastic box, which means no awkward cooler small talk to get trapped in. It’s half-empty but there are enough bottles that you won’t have to top it up even taking one for you and Sam. Then you stand up with a bottle in each hand, about to turn tail when at the edge of your peripheral you register Dean and Mary in the kitchen.

The window to the kitchen is wide and open and you should walk away. You almost walk away. Then Mary speaks and you can hear them so clearly that you have no choice. You duck down and sit precariously on top of the cooler.

“I know I’m not supposed to rush you but Dean, honey, I can’t stand it any longer. When are you going to announce it? I’m dying!”

Your interest is piqued. Unfortunately. It’s wrong, completely and utterly. Dean should be allowed his secrets whatever they are. Still, it’s not your fault that he chose to have this conversation, with his mother, in the kitchen. Where anyone could walk in or overhear them.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Although to be fair Dean doesn’t sound like a willing participant in this conversation, so maybe he doesn’t have a secret you have to worry about.

You don’t dare get up and peak through the glass since they sound quite close, but you hear Mary sigh.

“I heard her talking to Sam about it. How she wants to tell everyone and-and if it was up to her she’d have told us all already.”

The sound of the fridge opening and closing before he answers. “Still not following, Mom?”

“The proposal Dean. You asked her to marry you. She all but admitted it to me this morning and I’m so, so happy for you. I did think you’d talk to me first but… When am I getting my big announcement so we can celebrate?”

You suck in a breath and hope that it didn’t make a sound. If you can hear them it stands to reason they might hear you. Neither of them seems to. Or they’re distracted. Dean is silent for a too long beat, Mary is clearly confused, and she’s thrown you under the bus along with her, for good measure.

“You’ve got it all wrong. I don’t know what you think you heard…”

A pit forms in the bottom of your stomach at his tone, how against the idea he sounds. It’s fine, you try convincing yourself, he’s defending Sam’s secret.

“Don’t lie to me, Dean. I know you and your brother think I’m nuts but I want you both to be happy. That's all.”

There’s a part of you that knows you should stop this. Come to Dean's rescue and clarify. You could fix this in thirty seconds or less. That’s what you would do if you weren’t stuck like your feet are made of cement.

“You've gotta cool it with that, ok? Y/N is just a girl I’m dating, that’s it, and I don’t want her getting the wrong idea. You breathing down her neck won’t help anything.”

You have to remind yourself that you’d wanted to know his secret. But maybe you’d only wanted to know because you hoped, assumed, that he felt the same as you.

You’d never actually expected a proposal. Not for years. You’d have been happy with not getting one ever as long as you got Dean. He was your prize, not some ring. But his tone says you don’t have him in any way that you want, you’re just a girl he’s dating. Just a date. He didn’t even say girlfriend. He didn’t even say he likes you.

“Oh, well. I’m sorry. I must have had my wires crossed. I’ll leave it alone.” Mary sounds deflated and disappointed. About a tenth of the hurt you’re spiraling into.

She also sounds like her footsteps are getting closer.

You need to move this time. Because the only thing worse than hearing this conversation is one of them knowing you’d heard this conversation.

The beers get left on the decking next to the cooler you’re still balancing your weight on. You stay low, curled over, as you take long steps along the side of the house. Your immediate plan is to get out of the way while Mary re-enters the backyard but it’s a mere thirty seconds before Dean comes striding out after her. He looks around, maybe for you, maybe for anyone else, it doesn’t really seem like it matters.

You’ve been worrying if Dean loves you, if you would scare him off by telling him you do. You’d never considered that he’s not anywhere close to that. He might never be. 

Your mistake had been to immediately take solace in his room. It’s so his. It smells like him, every single thing reminds you of him. It’s the inanimate object version of going to cry in his arms.

It only made everything so much worse.

Though Dean’s room doesn’t contain a small library like Sam’s, there’s still a desk and a padded desk chair. The desk is covered in random things; a picture of him and Sam while Sam graduates Stanford, some sunglasses and amongst other things a small model car. A model of the impala that you’d toyed with while you were sneaking in some emails last night. He’d told you his dad gave it to him as a kid because his obsession with the car had begun early. However currently the chair is not where it is supposed to be. It’s wedged under his door handle because neither brother has a lock on their door.

You’ve spread out since you’ve been here. Your laptop is in the only free spot on his desk, your case is open on the floor where you’ve been living from it for two days now. Not to mention your things everywhere, a mascara here, or a lipstick there. At home, you only manage to stay any semblance of tidy because everything has its place but this is Dean’s space. It’s not even his, it’s his teenage space, somewhere he outgrew but visits every once in a while. Not even he completely fits in here anymore.

The point is you clearly don’t belong. Not even an inch. Dean liked you but that was it. As painful as it is to admit that’s not enough anymore. You’ve outgrown dates and sex, well, you’ve outgrown only having those things. For the first time in your life, you want the next step and Dean doesn’t. That’s the risk you take when you care about someone, getting hurt is always a possibility.

The only problem is you promised yourself no more pretending. Last year was enough for a lifetime. So, you can’t skip back downstairs and pretend you hadn’t heard what you did. You can’t sit next to him and watch fireworks and not be heartbroken.

“Y/N? Sweetheart?” There’s a knock at the door that spooks the makeup you’d been collecting out of your hands. You don’t answer him instead, you scramble for the things you’ve dropped and scoop them up faster.

He twists the doorknob and you carry on your task because the chair will protect you.

Then the door starts moving. You expect to hear resistance after a second but the room is filled with the squeak of plastic wheels.

You’d forgotten that the damn chair is on wheels.

The makeup is dropped again, spilling out over the floor once more as you fall to your ass and slide across the carpet. You’d never managed anything close to a slide in baseball, never ever needed to learn one. Now you perfect it in all of two feet. Your feet plant either side of the chair and your hands wrap around the seat pushing it back until the door closes again. This was a mistake, the chair is only making it harder to push back, you should have moved it and shoved yourself against the door, it’s just too late for a redo.

“Hey, hey. Open the door.” It’s hard to tell if he’s angry, he mostly sounds urgent.

Your heart is pounding out of your chest, still, it’s impossible to find the words to answer him. You don’t want to say something you’ll regret, or can’t take back, even if you’re hurt. In your silence, he keeps pushing, literally and figuratively.

He twists the handle again but this time there’s a little weight on his side. The weight pushes against the chair and by extension you. It’s not his full weight, he’s bigger than you though so even his half weight is starting to force you backward. You scramble to gain some traction, planting your feet better, shoving some more. The carpet gives you some friction but not enough to help against the force of Dean Winchester. You keep moving.

After a minute things are about a hundred miles south of ridiculous. You love ridiculous, when you’re not trying to run away that is.

Dean is one foot in the room, thick fingers wrapped around the door and his head pushed in looking at you. There’s a confused knot in his forehead while he takes in exactly what he’s forced his way to look at.

You straddling the bottom part of his desk chair, shoved against the door, and looking up at him wildly.

“Really, sweetheart?” He asks with a mix of frustration in his eyes and a curl on his lips, “what the hell?”

That’s enough to snap you out of it and jump up from the floor. Your hands smooth over the wrinkles in your jeans as if nothing happened. “Hi, Dean. Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

You may be hurting, sure, but if your parents taught you anything it’s how to cover any emotion with pragmatic denial.

He steps all the way into the room now without you in the way. “Someone else? Comin’ into my room, looking for you?”

“Could have been anyone,” you shrug. Careful to keep your voice steady and neutral while you go back to collecting your twice dropped makeup from the floor. “Wouldn’t want any of your cousins to wander in here.”

“Right. Because they’re leaving the yard while there’s food on the grill, come on it’s like-”

“I heard what you said to your Mom.” The last thing you wanted to say makes it to the tip of your tongue anyway, as you dispense the collected make up into your case like a dump truck.

He parts those lips of his, which means he’s worried about something and then he smiles. He smiles at you while you’re doing everything not to cry.

There’s a quiver in your voice despite yourself, “it’s fine I get it. I wish you’d told me yourself but I can’t do anything about that. And I know I shouldn’t have been listening in and I’m sorry. Can you give me a few minutes to get sorted please?”

Dean cocks his head, takes a step closer to you, and then stops when you grimace, “what?”

“You said you-that we-I’m not expecting anything but I thought I was more than ‘just another girl’ you’re dating.” You shake your head, trying to stop those tears now you’ve said it out loud. Feeling your vision blur and wobble anyway. “Like I said it’s fine. I’m getting out of here though. I found a flight home, there’s no point in you driving me home eleven hours when it’s four to St Louis.”

Not to mention the fact that you couldn’t stand to sit in the car with him that long while you’re feeling like this.

“Woah, Woah, Woah baby.” He doesn’t pause this time. He doesn’t care about your frown as he approaches you, he’s more concerned about fixing whatever you have gotten in your head. He’s on you in an instant. One warm hand on your shoulders and one at your chin, lifting your face to his and taking in all your sadness. You hate that he’s making you stare into his eyes like this. Those green, soulful eyes had been one of the first things you noticed on his beautiful dumb face and now this feels like a goodbye. Of course, it's not a goodbye. He’s trying to tell you just by looking at you that you’re a goddamn idiot. “Have you met my mom? Remember when she asked if you were pregnant when you’d been dating Sam like a month?”

“Fake dating. Why does everyone forget I was fake dating him?”

He chuckles, “‘course. Faking. Well, you heard her, right? She thinks we’re the ones getting hitched. Imagine if I’d thrown fuel on the fire and told her that you’re my girl, I love you and that you’re it for me.”

There’s a big, huge lump in your throat stopping you breathing. Too gigantic to swallow down. Tears still want to rain over your face, again, but you refuse to be the girl that cries because her boyfriend, who she loves, finally told her what she’s been waiting to hear.

Wait, you need to say something back.

“I love you too.”

His smile is slow and lazy but it’s perfectly timed with how gently his body leans in to kiss you. His shoulders drop while you’re sighing into his mouth like every romantic comedy heroine. His hands still on your shoulders relax their hold a little and you realize, he might have been doubting how you felt too.

“That’s good to know.” He breathes. “But see if I’d have told my mom all that, with the whole family here, she’d have us shotgun married before I got the chance to actually ask you.”

Your eyes widen, “no. You’re not?”

“Nah, planning on knocking those socks off when I do. Fair warning though, that’s coming.”

A strangled laugh comes out of you because you are, and have always been, the stupidest person alive. Dean loves you. He loves you and you love him. And why have you waited so long to say it?

“Move in with me?” It seems like the next best thing to every sweet thing he just said. It’s not enough but for once you’re happy to be second best in a conversation. You’ve been thinking about it long enough, hating the distance and the weekends you’ve spent apart. It’s so obvious that you should have worked it out months ago.

“What?” He gives you the pleasure of seeing his goofy confused face while your finger traces the curve of his bottom lip. In case you ever forget.

“Move in with me. Move to Chicago to be with me. Benny can manage in St. Louis and you can open a second location... or be chief of police or a fireman or just eat deep dish all the day long, whatever you want. Be with me in Chicago? Everyday? Sam’s there too. How can you be his best man from three hundred miles away?”

Another kiss and a bigger grin that comes from his chest, not even you expected it to be this easy. Which is more of that stupidity because with Dean it’s always easy. You can only imagine how rosy your cheeks are as he answers, “you had me at pizza.”

You get to the foot of the stairs when Sam pops out of the living room. You’ve schooled your beaming grin into something more subdued because you don’t want to draw focus but Sam’s probably still just waiting for his beer. He tilts his head down and asks, “you good?”

Before you can tell him that you have never been better, Dean saunters down the steps behind you without any concern for drawing attention. “Sammy, how many times have I told you, you can’t have her back. She’s mine now.”

Sam purses his lips at his brother, which is still funny to you, and you press a hand to his chest to distract him from their brother games. “We’re all good Sam, I’ll fill you in later. The important thing is are you ready to go? Weekend is nearly over.”

He smiles at you, “couldn’t do it without my legal eagle.”

Finally, he gets it. “Legal eagles for life, Sam.”

“You two are a pair of dorks.” Dean slumps an arm over both of your shoulders, “I can’t believe I love a dork even dorkier than my dork brother.”

If Sam notices any difference or the massive L-word Dean dropped, he keeps his reaction in check. Besides he’s engrossed in something else, he kind of has something huge to announce to his whole family right now. Something you’ve been dying to witness since he told you.

You turn in Dean’s arm to threaten him, “he can still drop you and make me best man, you know that, right?”

Dean feigns anger, “he would never.”

“Keep talking pretty boy and see how fast I’m planning the bachelor party.”

“She thinks I’m pretty.” Dean turns his head to smile at Sam and involve him in your sparring match, you know since best man is his decision, but Sam is now bitch facing the pair of you.

He doesn’t say anything, just swings an arm out towards the kitchen and beyond that the backyard. An annoyed invitation to join him and his fiance for the big moment you’ve all been waiting for.

“Yeah, yeah. Come on De. Let’s go let Sammy-boo and Leney-bear be as disgusting as we are.”

You’re already in the kitchen when Sam shouts after you, “I told you not to call us that!”

“Eileen said she didn’t mind!”

Weirdly, the party in the backyard is exactly how you left it and yet you feel like everything changed, for the better, in the last twenty minutes.

Eileen sees all three of you step out of the house and senses that its time. Or Sam had already told her it was before he went looking for you. Either way, she walks over to Sam who magically ends up in the middle of the yard.

You can feel the excitement buzzing from Dean where he’s standing next to you, you bet he’s feeling that from you too.

“Hey everyone, I kind of have an announcement,” Sam calls out.

Most of them look around but nobody moves and he hasn’t captured everyone's attention in the way John does at the baseball game. For some reason that line from Highlander pops into your head, there can only be one. It’s a concerted effort not to snort at your own joke.

John is, however, one of the people that heard Sam so he hollers, “cut it out, Sammy’s got something to say.”

That’ll do it. The music shuts off and everyone gathers in a circle around Sam and Eileen. You notice then that Eileen’s ring has appeared back on her finger. You know she had it on a necklace until this announcement but the sleight of hand to make it happen is impressive.

“Thanks, Dad. I’ll keep this short and sweet because I know you’re all waiting on more food but while we had everyone here we thought we should tell you all.”

Somehow, you hear Mary’s heart stop from twenty feet away.

“As most of you know Eileen and I met just over a year ago,” a few people who haven't been briefed share looks since he’d been ‘dating’ you last year. “And well, I’ve never been happier or more in love with someone in my life. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted and a few weeks ago I got my act together and asked her to marry me.”

Eileen holds up her hand then, beaming, ‘and I said yes!”

They had to have rehearsed that on the flight.

Chaos ensues. Everyone claps and cheers and people try to move in to congratulate them. Above all of that Mary screams like she’s being murdered. She rushes forward letting every thought in her head fall out of her mouth, “But I thought Dean and Y/N… so you’re telling me it was you all along? Oh Sammy, sweetie, I am so, so happy for you. Oh god, I’m so proud of you.” She wraps her arms around him and crushes him. “And I’m so happy you’re going to be part of the family!” She lets go of her son to give Eileen the same bruising hug.

“Well done, son.” John claps Sam on the back with, you think, the faintest hint of proud tears in his eyes.

Dean wraps his arm around you then like he'd been unable to do it until everything with Sam was ok. You lean into his chest and whisper only loud enough for him, "he's going to be so excited about you being in the city with us."

"You think?"

"I know it. Granted not as excited as me."

He rests his chin on the top of your head, slotting you into him like a puzzle piece.

In the background, it goes on and on until everyone has said something to the happy couple. Even Bobby gets this choked noise caught in his throat. The whole display is actually very touching.

When they finish the mayhem John proposes a toast in which everyone raises their drinks. Then the drinking and eating continue, with much more vigor than before. The whole thing goes from a Fourth of July celebration to a party. The music is a little more upbeat, the hard liquor is brought out early and the hum of everyone feels excited.

Sam—who has been hugged, pinched and shoved playfully enough to last him till the end of days—wanders over to you and Dean with his fiance in tow. “Are you happy now?” He directs the question at you specifically.

You reach up to grab his face with both hands and jiggle his head while you baby-talk to him, “my little Sammy, I’m so proud of you.”

Dean and Eileen both laugh and it's one of those perfect moments you only expect to see in the movies. You realize then that with these three people around you could actually look forward to the Fourth of July with the Winchesters for years to come.

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @magnitude101999 @alexwinchester23 Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278 @bloodydaydreamer​

[picturejasper20]

Malachite Character Analysis

(Warning: Mention and analysis of a very toxic relationship.)

¨These two are really bad for each other. Malachite was formed through extortion and deception and held together out of revenge. Malachite is the worst relationship imaginable.¨

Malachite was a character that was introduced in Season 1 finale "Jailbreak" after Jasper and Lapis Lazuli decided to fuse together to defeat the Crystal gems.

In this post i'm going to examine Malachite as a fusion and what she tells us about Jasper and Lapis and their relationship.

Lapis Lazuli´s and Jasper´s backstory:

First let's talk a bit about Jasper's and Lapis´ past:

Steven first found Lapis trapped in a Gem mirror, after spending some time with her, he decided to free her and later healed her gem so she could return to Homeworld by using her magic water wings.

In the episode ¨Same Old World¨ (Season 3) Lapis tells to Steven her backstory about how she got trapped in that mirror.

¨It was thousands of years ago. I was only meant to visit for a short time, but I got caught in the middle of the war. It was awful. I tried to run, but... I was picked up by a Homeworld soldier and confused for a Crystal Gem, and used as a tool.¨

Lapis talks about what happened to her as it was an accident, a terrible tragedy in which there´s not only one person she can blame for all her problems. In a way, she´s potrayed as victim of the Gem war, she was on Earth for a visit and then she was meant to leave.

She was treated as a prisoner from gems who were supposed to be on her side, used as a tool and left behind on Earth like her life was nothing.

¨It soon became clear that there was no hope in stopping the rebellion. All of the Homeworld Gems fled, and all the panic of escaping Earth, I was left behind. And there I stayed. Freedom in my sight, but out of reach for ages, until I was found.¨

Then she spend thousands of year trapped in that mirror, alone, with no one to talk to, with her gem cracked on top of that. Anyone stuck in that situation who quickly became insane and would definely not be the same person that used to be before the traumatic event.

It´s not suprising Lapis was so angry when Steven free her from that mirror. While she didn´t want to get revenge on the Crystal gems she still had a lot of anger and frustration buried deep inside her.

As for Jasper, her backstory differs greatly from Lapis´:

Jasper was born in the middle of the gem war in the Beta Kindergarten, in less than a few hours she took more than 80+ Crystal gems impressing many Homeworld gems due to her strengh.

She was considered a gem role model in Homeworld, she was an example of what a quartz soldier should be. The issue was that depiste being highly respected by her peers, she couldn´t get out of her mind that she still was a gem that came from the worst kindergarten on Earth.

According to Peridot on ¨Beta¨ most gems born in the Beta Kirdengarten came out flawed or defective in some way. This was because Homeworld rushed the place during the war to get more gems. 

Jasper was one of the few gems that came out ¨right¨ to the point she could be considered a superquartz soldier by Homeworld´s standards.

However not matter how much praised she got, Jasper thought there was something with her because of her origins. This made her develop an  obsession with proving her power and getting more and more self-destructive as time passed.

¨Jasper is a bully in the truest sense. Deep down, she's afraid there's something wrong with her, so she has to feed her ego. She has to put other Gems down to stay on top. Who she is and where she's from gnaws at her all the time. She has a fantastic reputation, she's considered the greatest Quartz soldier produced on Earth, and that might impress other Gems, but it will never be good enough for her.¨

¨Because she loves honor, fighting, making her mark, and winning the battle, she'll actually go against her programming a little bit just to be the winner. So she can be self-destructive at times. She is tragically obsessed with proving her superiority.¨

Why is all this important? Well, it´s essential to know where these characters are coming from to understand why they decided to be Malachite in first place and why they were a recipe for disaster the moment that Jasper asked Lapis to fuse with her.

On one hand you have a gem that was spent thousands of years trapped against her will and carries a lot on anger and trauma inside her. On the other hand the other gem also has war trauma, it's very self-destructive and thinks she's horrible. Mix these two together and what you get is a unstable fusion made of hate and revenge.

Malachite as a metaphor for Jasper´s and Lapis´ relationship

Now that i have talked about their past. I going examine the scene in which they fuse into Malachite in "Jailbreak" and what the fusion tells us about their relationship.

After being defeated by Garnet (a fusion) Jasper decides to find someone she could also fuse with to win against the Crystal gems.

She spot Lapis Lazuli and grabs her before she can escape flying. She convinces Lapis to fuse with her to get revenge on Crystal gems. She reminds her how they used her and how they are traitors to Homeworld.

¨These Gems, they're traitors to their Homeworld. They kept you prisoner. They used you.¨

It's worth of pointing out that Jasper never tries to "force" Lapis into fusing with her in this scene. She tries using her, true, but she waits until Lapis accepts and gives her hand.

Now, Jasper could care less about Lapis in this scene. For her, she was only just a tool to get revenge on the Crystal gems and Rose Quartz. There wasn't any "trust" between the two.

As for Lapis, she tried escaping from Jasper first but after realising that she was about to being used again by someone who had kept her prisoner in the ship she snapped and decided to stop being treated like an object for once.

Moments later after they fused into Malachite, Lapis took control of the fusion's water powers and chained her down, dragging her into the bottow of the ocean.

¨I'm done being everyone's prisoner. Now you're my prisoner! And I'm never letting you go! Let's stay on this miserable planet... together!¨

As Lapis stated, she was done of being everyone's prisioner, she was tired of being treated like a tool by everyone. Control in her own life was something was constanly taken away from her. So by trapping Malachite (and herself) meant that was able to make choices again.

As for Jasper, i already mentioned that she only wanted Lapis to become more powerful. Jasper is a gem that shown to be obssesed with winning and fighting. She doesn't accept defeat easily and the more she loses, more self-destructive she gets.

In "Chilled tid" Steven gets a glimpse of what Malachite's mind looked like: Lapis and Jasper were fighting over the control of the fusion. They both were completely exhausted and beaten.

There's a visual methaphor about how they are both chained to Malachite in this dream sequence. This is very much like how it's really difficult to get out of a toxic/codependent relationship and how one feels trapped with no hope of getting out of it.

Another interesting detail is when Jasper takes control, all she's able to say is "YOU! YOU! YOU!¨ to Steven. It shows how crazy she gets when can't win a battle and how her mind deteriorates in the process.

The episode "Alone at the Sea" explores their relationship even further by showing which their main motivations were and how it affect them both.

First of all, the reason of why Lapis didn't want to be near the ocean again it's because it remind her of time she used to be fused with Jasper:

"Look, Lapis, I know you spent a really long time fused with Jasper at the bottom of the ocean, but you're not Malachite anymore.And water is a part of who you are. You can't let one bad experience take that away from you."

During the boat trip Lapis keeps blaming herself for the events of Ocean gem and Malachite:

"It's my fault. I'm the one to blame."

"I'm terrible! I did horrible things! I-I broke your dad's leg. I stole Earth's ocean! Go on! Tell me I'm wrong!"

She describes herself as "terrible". She thinks she don't deserve the kindness that Steven has giving her during all this time.

Lapis is a character who usually stuggles with change in the series. She thinks she won't be able to revover from her trauma, that she can't grow and become a better person.

She also mentions to him how she can't help but think of when she used to be Malachite.

"I'm really trying to enjoy it out here, but... I can't stop thinking about being fused as Malachite, how I used all my strength to hold her down in the ocean, and how I was always battling against Jasper to keep her bound to me."

"But it's not like that anymore. You don't have to be with Jasper."

"That's not it. I... I miss her."

"What?!"

"We were fused for so long."

This implies that after spending so much together Jasper and Lapis became codependent of each other. Steven, who was still a teenager in this scene, couldn't fully get grasp of why his friend who missed being in a terrible situation like that.

And Lapis was not the only one that felt like this.

When Jasper shows up, she shows she has been missing Lapis as well and she has been tracking her to find her.

In a very rare moment that would look out of character for her Jasper kneels down and begs for Lapis to be Malachite again.

¨Let's be Malachite again.¨  

Keep in mind that until know Jasper has always been potrayed as someone who would do anything it takes to win. She's tough gem soldier who isn't afraid of her enemies. She's strong,cocky and agressive. So why did she ask to be Malachite again?

"I was wrong about fusion. You made me understand! Malachite was bigger and stronger than both of us! We could fly!"

She emphazises Malachite's power when they were fused. How strong and powerful she was.

This makes sense considering the factthat Jasper thinks of herself as "horrible" and "defective". She has a huge inferiority complex that comes from how Earth gems are perceived on Homeworld.

So, being Malachite made her feel "complete" and cover up her insecurities and personal issues.

"It'll be better this time. I've changed. You've changed me. I'm the only one who can handle your kind of power."

She tries to convince Lapis by saying how she's the only one that can "handle" her powers. This shows again how self-destructive Jasper can be as she was willing to go through that pain again just to feel powerful.

Another reason, i think, it's because she partially blames herself for Pink Diamond'd shattering. She probably wanted to be punished for her "failure" or wanted someone who she could follow again much like she started calling Steven "My diamond" in "Homeworld Bound".

As for Lapis, there are a few reasons she had her doubts of being Malachite again:

1) The fusion was a way for her to gain control back on her own life. She was tired of being tricked and used by everyone that she wanted to take her anger on someone.

"I was terrible to you. I liked taking everything out on you. I needed to, I-I hated you. It was bad!"

Lapis wanted someone to go through the same pain she had to endure for thousands of years. And that someone could have anyone. She choosed Jasper as she was the closest one to her in "Jailbreak".

When she was separated, she felt she suddenly lost that great amount of power that the fusion gave to her. She lost that "control" she had.

2) During "Alone at the sea" she describes herself many times as terrible and how she doesn't deserve the boat trip. She keeps blaming herself from her actions and how she can't get better.

Jasper even calls Lapis a monster in a moment, stating they very much alike:

"You can't lie to me. I've seen what you're capable of. I thought I was a brute, but you... you're a monster."

Lapis wanted to go back to be Malachite since she thought it was what someone as terrible as her deserved. She thought she couldn't grow into good person. Gems terrible as her and Jasper were meant to be together.

But Lapis knew better than getting trapped in that fusion again.

"NO! ""What we had wasn't healthy. I never want to feel like I felt with you. Never again! So just, go!"

In the end she refused to fuse with Jasper and realised how toxic their relationship was. It was a terrible experience and something she didn't want to take part in ever again.

Malachite as a character

Being fusion who is supposed to represent an very toxic relationship, Malachite is potrayed as very agressive, unstable and sadistic. She´s quite unpredictable since her actitude depends of who it´s taking control of her.

When her eyes are ¨cat shaped¨ it usually means that Jasper is the one controlling her. If her eyes are wide and open, it indicates Lapis is the one in control.

It´s difficult to affirm Malachite ever had her own personality at all,as her components were always fighting over her power and she was a mere tool from the moment she was ¨born¨.

¨A fusion like theirs is unstable, bound together by anger and mistrust. If that bond snaps, their anger will take over, and destroy.¨  

She ends up being a pretty tragic character as her whole existence was filled by hatred and suffering to the point she didn´t know anything else. Unlike other characters from Steven universe she wasn´t given the chance to redeem herself.

It´s interesting how Malachite in ¨Super Watermelon Island¨ kept exchaching between ¨we¨ and ¨I¨ to talk about herself. This indicates again that she wasn´t fully her own person.

If Lapis and Jasper were to fuse again after having worked through their issues, Malachite would be a more stable and less agressive fusion. But that´s very unlikely to happen since it was a terrifying experience for both of them.

In conclusion: Malachite is character with tons of metaphors that talks a lot about Lapis and Jasper and who they are as people. She serves to show how toxic some relationships can get when there is a lack of basic trust and understanding and is created by mutual hatred. It´s an example of how complicated relationships can be and how a person it´s really more complex they appear to be.

[littlekatleaf]

Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain (end)

Holy shitballs. Pretty close to exactly a year ago I got this idea - Junkrat and Roadhog have Christmas with some of the Overwatch crew. It was gonna be short and sweet and fluffy. I started writing in... February? 10 months and 21K words later I ended up with something almost entirely different. Oops? Thanks for joining me on the ride!  Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Part 8  Part 9

Meds and tea and whiskey and food and mitten and probably a bit of fever still and the lingering feel of Roadie’s hand on his forehead all swirled together into an edgy excitement that made his blood fizz in his veins. Twitchy, itchy. Been looking forward to setting off the fireworks for months - been working them up that long and planning even longer. Had to get it all just right, then combine it with Lucio’s music, get the timing connected to the right shapes, the explosions to the right second… had to be focused, had to be precise and he loved the challenge. The sparks of thrill tingled along his spine and the fire they ignited burned away the lingering crud of sickness leaving him sharp and clear.

He enlisted Hana and Lucio to round up the others, betting they’d be able to convince anyone who was reluctant much better than he would. Even so, he was urging them down to the lake, torches bobbing through the dark, throwing odd shadows between the trees. Maybe talking a little faster than usual but how else was he going to impress upon them how exciting this was? 

“Know it’s cold - hadn’t really thought about that when I was planning. I mean, hadn’t planned to be here at all, just thought we’d be at the Watchpoint. Course, this is better, discounting the cold. Which is hard to do, but Roadie’s getting the bonfire goin’ - he could light a fire in the middle of a monsoon so no worries on that count. An’ Hana brought some whiskey to help so she’ll be right. Ya need to stand here, no closer. Gonna be over the water.  Safe as houses, but can’t be too careful - least according to Morrison, ha! Now turn off the torches. Better the darker it is. Lucky ain’t moonrise yet…” 

“What are we doing out here in the middle of the night when we could be curled up on the couch?” Mei asked no one in particular.

Junkrat ignored her. She’d see, they’d all see and he knew they’d love it just as much as he did if they gave it a chance. Lucio had been kind enough to not only have his sound system set up, but also brought out the box of fireworks so Junkrat didn’t have to lug it himself.

Didn’t take but a minute to set it all up, music on automatic once he started the program. All he had to do was hit the power and light the first fuse.

Music came up slow, soft, bit of piano, then edge of something electronic, rising bass and the first firework streaked up to the center of the sky and as the beat kicked in it exploded in a rain of silver and gold. At the crackling boom the others fell silent, faces tilted to the sky. The sparkles reflected in their eyes and Lucio’s soft ‘oh!’ and Hana’s squeal of delight made even the cold worthwhile. 

Let it start slow. Basic colors, red, blue, green, as well as the gold and silver. Usual shapes, circles, stars, ones that looked like fountains or willows. Then the music shifted, became rhythmic and complex with a minor edge and he sent the first special rockets. The streaks crisscrossed, intersecting like Satya’s hard light shield, like one of her knit shawls and around it burst snowflakes, all in shades of blue and silver. 

Music shifted again, bright and quick - and the second set of his own rockets split the air with a whistling crack then exploded in a crackling red heart, then a gold arrow streamed through. Lena bumped Emily’s hip with her own as their names twined through the heart. Another shift, one of Lucio’s songs, written for Hana and the rockets burst into pink bunnies and green frogs that seemed to bounce up the mountains ringing them and into the stars. 

As the music shifted a final time, setting a beat with a swing, Lena grabbed Emily’s hand and pulled her into a twirl, hands clenched firm but light, feet moving quick, spinning each other in and out and then they were dancing and so were Hana and Lucio and even Mei tugged Satya into the group. 

And then - perfect timing, as the music sang “Seeing’ stars, I’m seeing stars” the final bursts of fireworks - his favorite of the bunch - exploded overhead and Junkrat couldn’t stop his grin at the stars he’d created. Spread above him and Roadie was their night sky. The Saucepan and the Crux. Looking right, looking perfect, not upside down like here.

For a long moment Roadhog said nothing, just stood with his face tipped up, sparks reflecting in his mask as the fireworks cracked and popped and the music thumped and the others laughed and danced.

“Thought ya might like a bit of Straya,” Junkrat said finally, unable to wait for Roadhog to say something. Anything. Maybe he hadn’t recognized it after all. Or maybe it wasn't anything like he’d hoped. Maybe it only looked like home because he was remembering it so clearly. Imagining it. Making it all up again. He shoved his hand in his pocket as a gust of wind swept over them and a sneeze slammed into him, followed quickly by two more. “Huh-r’isssh! Isshh! Ishhew!” 

Didn’t even hear Roadhog move, but suddenly he was right there, shoving his hat down over Junkrat’s head and then wrapping his scarf around Junkrat’s neck. “Stay warm, idiot.”

“Trying,” he said, shivering still. He let Roadie lead him over to the fire which had grown to a roaring height, pouring out a welcome heat. Pine logs crackled and spat sparks swirling into the sky to swirl with the real stars and their backwards constellations.

Lucio cranked his own mix and the bass echoed off the mountains and Lena and Emily still danced with him and Hana. Mei and Satya huddled together, passing a mug of something between them and for a moment, just for a minute, everything felt fine. Felt good.

Junkrat glanced at Roadhog, and though the mask obscured his expression, there was a looseness in his shoulders, something in the tilt of his head that seemed to speak of relaxation and calm. Made the cold and exhaustion worth it. “Happy Christmas, Roadie.” 

“Happy Christmas, Rat.” The warmth in his tone did more to drive away the chill than the fire and Junkrat leaned against his side, letting himself enjoy the closeness. 

After a bit, the others joined them around the fire and Lena passed a joint around, “For everyone except you, Junkrat. Sorry.” 

He shrugged, pulled a flask out of his pocket. “Not gonna share my plague. Got this anyway.” The whiskey left a warm curl in the center of his belly, his muscles loose and easy. Satya told a story about a Snow Queen whose frozen heart melted with the love of a peasant girl, and though Junkrat wanted to roll his eyes, he understood the feeling. The desire to have one’s own story told in myth - to be connected to something bigger. Lena told a story about Father Christmas. Mei about a Chinese hunter, Jia Deng, who hunted with a pet wolf and left gifts of his hunt with the poor during the cruel months of winter. Then Roadie exhaled a long puff of smoke and said,

“Bet you never heard of the Holiday Boar.”

Junkrat giggled into his scarf. “Ain’t gonna tell that one to this lot, are ya?”

Lena cocked her head quizzically. “No, can’t say I have.”

“Well. Long before the Omnium exploded, before the Omnics were even an idea someone had, the Outback was still a hardscrabble place. Dusty and hot and many were desperately poor, trying to eke a living out of land that wasn’t easily giving. One day a wild boar appeared in a village, ribs showing through its skin, hair falling out in patches, it was the most pathetic excuse for a creature the villagers had seen. Most tried to chase it away with kicks and shouts and stones thrown. 

“At the edge of the village there was a farmer. He lived alone on the land. When the boar came to his homestead, the farmer’s first reaction was the same as the others - he wanted to chase it away. Nothing good could come of bringing another mouth to feed into his life. But as he raised a hand to throw a stone, he caught a glimpse of the creature’s eyes and his long dead daughter’s voice spoke in his heart. ‘Papa, please.’ His hand fell and he sighed and the boar stayed.

“In the beginning he found it annoying, an intrusion on his solitude. Still, he fed the creature, sharing the little he had, and in return it kept him company, following him like a dog and seeming to listen when he spoke. Come winter the boar was healthy and grown to a surprising size. Villagers who saw it walking with the farmer nodded knowingly - at the first cold snap he’d likely kill it, and the meat could feed them all.

“But the cold came and still the boar walked with the farmer. The villagers eyed them more than a little oddly. Finally, on the longest night of the year, the farmer was sitting by a fire with the boar at his side as usual. The farmer was lamenting that the land had been even more reticent than usual, and he was likely to lose his home to the mortgagers. 

“The boar’s stomach gave a great rumble, then it leaned forward and puked up a pile of gold coins onto the ground. The farmer never went hungry again and the village prospered.”

Junkrat couldn’t help himself, he burst out laughing. 

Hana laughed too, shook her head. “There’s no way that’s a thing.”

“It’s Australia,” Roadhog argued, deadpan voice. “It absolutely is.”

Lucio nodded, took a drag from the joint. “I could see it.”

They told stories and Lucio led them in carols and the warmth of the fire and the whiskey and Roadhog at his side and Lena’s jokes “What do you call a dinosaur fart? A blast from the past! Why does a duck have tail feathers? To cover his butt quack!” and Emily’s laughter lulled Junkrat into a doze.

“He snores louder than a boar,” Satya said, irritably. Lena giggled.

“You gave him your scarf,” Hana said to Roadhog and her tone was equal parts teasing and curious.

Junkrat felt Roadie’s shoulders move in a shrug. “Never takes care of himself, even when he’s sick.” But though he was more than half asleep, he could hear the tight coldness of the comment. The relaxed ease had gone. Junkrat wanted to sit up and interrupt, but he was just so tired.

“Gave him your cold too, huh.” Still that sing-song teasing tone, but it cut at Junkrat.

“Maybe.”

“Come on, Roadhog. What’s up with you two, anyway? He won’t give us a straight answer.”

Felt like everyone’s eyes were on them, staring. Junkrat tensed. Sit up, he told himself. Stop this. But he didn’t. He wanted to know what Roadhog would say, even more than he didn’t want to know.

Roadhog’s shoulder moved in another shrug. “Someone’s gotta keep him from offing himself on accident.”

Mei laughed; least no one else did.

Ice through his body, through his stomach, his mind, his lungs. He coughed against it, but it didn’t move. The fire had burned down to little more than embers and even scarf and hat, mitten and whiskey weren’t enough to keep him warm. He forced himself up then, away from Roadhog. Faked a yawn like he just woke up.

“Knackered. Gonna call it a night. Happy Christmas all.” Forced the words past lips that felt frozen and barely heard the others saying goodnight and thanks for the fireworks. 

The moon glowed on the snow, lighting the way back to the cabin enough to keep him from stumbling on tree roots and rocks. His foot crunched softly on pine needles and he heard Roadhog’s louder footfalls behind him. He walked faster. Just wanted to be inside, to be alone, to be warm, to be silent. Even the light of the Christmas tree seemed to mock him with its fake promise of coziness. He’d take a bath, let the water warm his bones, soothe the chills, then sleep. 

“When I said ya ain’t gotta babysit me no more, I meant it,” Junkrat said stiffly as Roadhog followed him into the bathroom. “Promise I ain’t gonna drown in the bath. Even I’m not stupid enough to do that.”

“How’re you going to get in and out?” Roadhog asked bluntly.

Junkrat turned to look and of course there were no bars to let him navigate it himself. Once he took off his prosthetics he’d be screwed. Fuck. He pushed past Roadhog and out of the bathroom. Wasn’t worth it.  

But the bedroom was just as bad. Wanted to collapse onto the bed and sleep for a century or ten, but Roadhog was standing there in the middle of the room taking up all of the space and all of the air and Junkrat knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep with his… looming. Instead he shoved the pillows to the head of the cot and sat against the wall, wrapping a blanket around himself. Just barely resisted pulling it over his head, too. Knew Roadie would stare and it was making him jittery. Not in a good way. His head ached again, skin tight with the too hot too cold feeling of returning fever. Should have asked Lucio for more meds. He rubbed a hand over his face, wishing for relief. Wishing for Roadie’s hand on his forehead again, cool and firm and steadying.

“Gonna tell me what’s eating you?” Roadhog asked, finally. His arms were crossed over his chest and he looked down at Junkrat from his full height. Not exactly the most inviting posture. 

“What are we?” The question spilled from him like he was vomiting. “An’ don’t give me some stupid shit like you don’t know what I mean. Hana asks and Lucio asks and you avoid the question.”

“Why do we need to put words to it? Why do they need to know anything?” 

Junkrat shrugged. It wasn’t for them that he needed words. It was him. He needed a foundation, an understanding. Because things were slippery and they could slide away from him before he had a chance to catch hold. “It’s me askin’. Now that ya ain’t my bodyguard. What are we?”

A long pause, a silence full of all the things Roadhog didn’t say. 

“Morrison said I could leave,” Junkrat blurted, unable to stand it.

Roadhog waited.

“Said if this do-gooder shit was too bloody difficult he’d have Lena turn me in. Serve my time and then whatever came next was my choice.”

No response.

“Told him I’d have to talk to you about it, but he said just meant me. I been thinkin...’ we should do it. Could probably convince him to let you go too. Then when we were far enough away could hijack the Orca, dump Lena and head back to Straya. Head home. Get the treasure, sell it to the Queen and find a place to just… live.” He blinked and the after-image of fireworks burst across his vision, constellations in all their permutations. Home. Was it? Didn’t really know anymore… But maybe there it wouldn’t be so hard, maybe there it would be like it had been.

Still no response, no movement at all. Like Roadhog’d turned to stone. Mountain. Felt his gaze go cold, measuring, calculating. Had seen Roadhog turn that gaze on others, size them up, find them lacking… but not on himself. He froze. Utterly still. Waited for the judgment to fall. Then Roadhog laughed. Not like something was funny, or maybe like he was funny and the sound was brittle and sharp in his ears.

“What’s so bloody funny, mate?” and his own voice held an edge.

“The idea that I would want to leave this,” he gestured around the room, taking in everything, “give up the good thing I got going here to… what? Live out some tiny shit life in that hellhole with you? Why the fuck do you think I’d want to go back to that? And with you?” He positively roared with laughter. “You are thick as a rock. Batshit crazy. A complete mess. Sure, when there wasn’t anyone else around who wasn’t trying to kill me, you were good for a laugh. A way to get my rocks off. But in the real world? Fuck no.”

“Fuck you too.” The words scraped his throat and he wished he had covered his head because he had that ominous prickling behind his eyes like he was going to fucking cry, or sneeze, and either way he was fucking well not going to give Roadhog the satisfaction.

“You want to know what we are, Junkrat? We ain’t shit. Nothing. Do what you want, stay or go. I couldn’t possibly give less of a shit.”

“Well that’s fuckin’ clear as crystal. Why don’t you fuck off then an’ let me sleep.” He grit his teeth, bit the inside of his cheek hard enough that he tasted iron. Not going to crumble. Watched as Roadhog turned and crossed the room. Watched the door click shut behind him. Watched the blank wall and refused to let himself crack. Silence then, that he’d wanted. But no warmth. Even wrapped in blankets felt like he was sitting in a snowstorm. Everything muffled and frozen. Freezing.

Then that chuckle in his head. You got an answer. Might not have been the one you wanted, but really Jamison, what did you expect? Did you honestly think he would go back to an irradiated waste land and a criminal life to be with you?

He thumped his head back against the wall, squeezed his eyes shut. Clenched his fist so hard his nails bit into his palm. Shut it. Ain’t real.

No? So make me be silent, then. More laughter. Oh Jamison. How do you think someone would want to be with you when your own mother couldn’t stand to be with you? 

You don’t know nothing ‘bout my mum, he told her. Nothing. But a couple tears leaked free, and the tingling prickles made him sneeze and he buried his head in the blankets and let himself go until he fell asleep, her laughter and Roadhog’s laughter still ringing in his head.

Sleep was restless, part of him kept jerking awake thinking he heard the door open. He hadn’t. When he finally woke completely he felt like he’d been hit by the ute, then had it back over him again. He stumbled out to the living room where he found Hana and Lucio playing a game with Emily, and Mei and Satya watching. 

“Morning, Junkrat,” Lucio said.

“More like afternoon,” Hana corrected.

“Potato potahto,” Lucio shrugged. “Wanna join? You can play winner.”

“Nah,” he cleared his throat, tried to sound nonchalant. “Where’s Roadie?”

“Apparently Morrison sent him on some mission. Something going on in Australia. Lena took him early this morning,” Satya said. “Guess you didn’t go ‘cause you’re sick?” Hana asked.

“Yeah. Something like that.” His head went light. Hadn’t thought Roadhog would actually leave. Take the treasure for himself and go… but there it was. He made his way into the kitchen on a floor that seemed to rock like a boat. Opened the sat comm with numb fingers. 

“Morrison.” “It’s Fawkes. I’ll take your offer. I want to turn myself in.”

[isaacthedruid]

Steven Universe’s Representation and Music: an informal essay

As the first animated Cartoon Network show created entirely by a woman, Steven Universe’s run lasted for five seasons, a movie and a sequel-epilogue series. The show was far from perfect and its fandom wasn’t the best either but there is something so special about a show that followed lesbian space rocks and a young boy saving the world.

More specifically Steven Universe is about a young boy named Steven, who is half-Gem, half-human who protects the town of Beach City from evil. Gems are a kind of alien who take on the form of pastel-coloured women, to better assimilate with the rest of the world.

Rebecca Sugar, the creator, explains her colourful characters in a behind-the-scenes promo:

“I always dreamed of making a show that would have this mix of fantasy and reality. So, I wanted to make these fantasy characters that enjoy being with Steven as much, if not more than they enjoy being fantasy characters. The characters aren’t perfect and that’s what makes them so great.”

Steven’s family are known as the Crystal Gems, a group of rebels who fought against their government thousands of years ago and now live on earth. Steven’s mom, Rose Quartz was at the forefront of the fight, she did extremely terrible things and when she gave up her gem—-so Steven could be born—-she was left unable to form a body ever again. Steven, with only his dad and three alien women, must attempt to fix her messes and deal with the repercussions of his mother’s actions.

One of the main mechanics within the series is known as fusion, in which two or more Gems become a single being who is stronger and more powerful. The fused form takes on the physical, mental and emotional aspects of those who are part of the bond. As mentioned and discussed many times within this blog, fusions are a physical embodiment of different kinds of relationships. And for a show starring a primarily female cast, they do not shy away from using this mechanic to tell queer stories.

So explicitly that in 2018, the show had the first-ever lesbian wedding in a cartoon. Of course, representation wasn’t always as accepted in Steven Universe. Just two years before the big wedding, higher-ups at Cartoon Network told Rebecca Sugar, they not happy with the multiple queer relationships, so much so that they were ready to threaten cancellation.

In an interview with Entertainment Weekly, she expressed:

“If this is going to cost me my show that’s fine because this is a huge injustice and I need to be able to represent myself and my team through this show and anything less would be unfair to my audience.”

Being LGBT herself, identifying as bisexual and non-binary, representation is important to her. For many queer people, especially grown-ups, they hope to see themselves represented in kids’ media today as they never had growing up. They want nothing more for children’s shows to say that being “different” or not fitting in with our heteronormative society is actually normal.

Within Steven Universe, you can find woman-loving-woman relationships, non-binary and intersex characters, woman-loving-non-binary relationships, asexual coded characters and basically every other letter in the acronym.

Rebecca Sugar even acted as the exciting force for LGBT inclusion within Adventure Time, originally working as a writer and storyboard artist before leaving to create her own show. She pushed for making the ex-romantic queer couple to be canonically part of the story and for it to not just coded into the dialogue.

A few years later, she returned to the show, multiple times, to compose over 20 songs that would air over the series 10-year-long run such as, “I’m Just Your Problem” which had lesbian subtext that would be confirmed later.

Some other iconic songs including “Fry Song“, “Remember You“, “Good Little Girl“, “Everything Stays” and even the finale song, “Time Adventure“.

Much like the show as a whole, there is something so special about the music she writes. In total, there were over 160 songs written for the franchise, some being short little tunes, no longer than a minute while others were full-blown musical numbers. No matter, all of them have their place within the show. Often when the character can’t express lines through speech, music is utilized to provide a more raw and poignant portrayal of their emotions.

Why Steven Universe is so widely loved is due to the music, as the overall story is not even close to perfect. Yet, everyone can agree on one thing, the music is unbelievably good. What is interesting is the different styles of melodies and backtracking used in the various songs, even more impressive is that every character has their own instrumental motif.

Steven’s motif is the ukelele as he is often seen playing the instrument himself, performing short little melodies and even writing the in-show version of the theme song. Additionally, Steven’s music uses a large amount of Chiptune synth, electronic music which is created using a programmable sound generator. Both instruments have a very childlike feeling to them, Chiptune especially as it is normally used in video game music like The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, one of the main musical inspirations for the show. As Steven is the lead, most of the music has Chiptune somewhere in the score and fun fact, the first song in the show, sung by Steven, “Cookie Cat” was actually written on an old Gameboy.

Amethyst is very loud and fun, her motif is electric drums which is extremely reflective of her character. As she can be angry from convincing herself that she is not good enough to happy and giggling from pranking Steven, her instrument can be used in so many ways as she is not a simple character. No matter what, for the few songs Amethyst has on her own (or in the score), her drums provide such an interesting emotional response to the situation.

Garnet is a fusion, so her motif is actually the combination of two instruments. Ruby is a drumbeat as she is a fiery and loud character, she is chaotic while Sapphire is her opposite. Sapphire is calm and collected, she has ice-related powers and is represented by Synth music. The characters together have a perfect unity, expressed by Garnet’s synth bass sounds, she is the equilibrium of two very contrasting characters. The music associated with Garnet, uses primarily the synth bass but Ruby and Sapphire’s individual instruments can be heard throughout her music. All three instruments are also heavily representative as Garnet’s main dancing style is Hip Hop which clashing with others’ softer dancing styles.

Despite, not being alive during the show, Rose Quartz still has her own musical motif as she plays a large part in Steven’s growth throughout the series. As well as being in many flashbacks, she is represented with strings, more specifically, the violin. Rose’s story is rather sad which quite is visible within her associated music, yet, she was also an extremely powerful character as she led the fight against the Homeworld government. Her strength can be heard with strong uplifts and swells in the music. She is never seen playing an instrument unlike the rest of the main characters but one person who plays hers is Pearl, a character Rose was possibly in love with.

For the complex and beautiful character, Pearl, her motif is classical and swing piano. She is visually represented as a ballerina for a large majority of the series, dressed in a leotard, a small skirt and ballet shoes. Apart from Garnet, she is one of the calmest characters in the show. She is a perfectionist and is knowledgeable on many topics. She has a dark past and her fair share of trauma, all of this is wrapped up in her music. From her traumatic past with Rose Quartz, the violin had been heard throughout her music, yet, when she finally dealt with everything, the violin was lost. Swapped out for a new instrument, a bass guitar which she learned how to play at the end of the series. Pearl is a character who has been through a lot and her music reflects it. As she grew, her music changed with her, becoming her own instead of something built off of Rose’s.

My personal favourite song is “It’s Over Isn’t It?” which is this heartwrenching and emotionally painful ballad sung by a broken woman. Pearl was in love with Steven’s mom. Yet, the feelings were not mutual or at least ended being reciprocated as Rose left her for Greg, Steven’s dad. It hurts because Rose didn’t just leave her, Rose Quartz also passed away. As the song goes:

That they didn’t really matter until you I was fine when you came And we fought like it was all some silly game Over her, who she’d choose After all those years, I never thought I’d lose … You won and she chose you and she loved you and she’s gone It’s over, isn’t it? Why can’t I move on? … Who am I now in this world without her? Petty and dull with the nerve to doubt her What does it matter? It’s already done Now I’ve got to be there for her son

Without Rose, Pearl has lost her place in the world as all she ever knew was her. Yet, now she is left to help raise a half-human baby and go on with her life. It makes it more difficult as this baby is the product of Rose and the man that she left Pearl for.

Pearl doesn’t want to hate Greg, she is angry at him but she doesn’t have hatred towards him. They may not be the best of pals at the start of the series but in the song called “Both of You“ has Steven, finally, begging for Greg and Pearl to just talk to each other.

Why don’t you talk to each other? Why don’t you talk to each other? Just give it a try Why don’t you talk about what happened? … You might not believe it but you got a lot in common, you really do You both love me and I love both of you … I know you both need it Someone who knows what you’re going through

An interesting thing about this song is that Steven is this to them, the person with Rose’s gem is singing to the two people who fought over Rose. It makes me wonder if this could be Rose speaking through Steven to her two loved ones. Whether it is or not, doesn’t really matter to the overall story but it is a fun idea to look at.

Overall, these songs are a literal representation of dealing with ones’ emotions in a healthy way, something that Steven Universe actively tries to teach their younger viewers about.

To say Steven Universe is a good show only for its music would be a false statement, it’s one of the strongest aspects but without the story or the characters, the music would fall flat and not have any of its passion.

[janus-stanus]

It Seemed the Better Way

Rating: Teen and Up | Category: General, Angst, Character Study

Characters: Virgil and Janus, + a Remus cameo (and maybe someone else?)

Setting: Half when Virgil and Janus were around 10 years old; half in early July 2017, right before the Season 1 finale

Summary:

Years and years ago, Virgil came to Janus with a problem. They both swore themselves to secrecy. In doing so, Janus discovered his purpose. Now, as Virgil looks back on that decision, Janus comes to him with some questions. This time, they don’t see eye to eye. Virgil has to pick a side. He chooses neither.

Content warnings:

Imaginably standard for fics about Virgil choosing to duck out, but we get into his self-hatred and wanting to disappear

Homophobia (the characters don't literally experience it but the description of it is fairly intense)

Spider-related body horror, not much more extreme than Patton turning into Lilypadton though

And temporary possession

AO3 Link (13k words, one chapter + a short epilogue)

Because the fic is so long and mostly one part, I won’t be straight up posting it here to tumblr. Fortunately, you don’t need an AO3 account to read it. I will put the first ~1,700 words below the cut as a preview (plus the taglist). Since this is my first complete Sanders Sides fic, reblogs, kudos, and comments would be greatly appreciated! Hope you enjoy!

[props to @books-are-cool for beta reading the fic for me!]

Virgil had to steel himself before entering Janus’s room. It always unsettled him how empty yet cheery it was. The daffodil yellow walls and carpet, plus the faint scent of lemon air freshener, made him queasy, and there was nothing else to add any character or additional color. The one object that wasn’t a yellow-tinted carry-over from Thomas’s bedroom was the cushioned yellow chair Janus was currently lounging in. He seemed to have dozed off in it, still in his black pants, bright yellow polo shirt, and sparkly dark purple waistcoat. The sight made Virgil feel somewhat underdressed in his lilac pajamas.

The door shut behind him, and Janus’s eyes fluttered open. When he saw the intruder, dragging behind him a thin black blanket patterned with skulls, he let out a beleaguered yawn.

“Yes, Virgil?” 

He approached cautiously, rubbing his fingers against his safety blanket to calm his nerves. He did his best to block the clips of the evening broadcast from his mind for the moment. Instead, he forced eye contact with Janus, and, in a hushed tone, spat out the words that had plagued him for the past hour:

“Is Thomas gay?”

“…What? You mean, does he like guys? No, obviously,” Janus retorted as he rubbed his eyes. However, when he lowered his hands and saw the sincere concern in Virgil’s face, he paused.

“Are you sure?”

Present-day: Early July 2017

It’s a quarter past midnight, and Virgil finds himself in a paradox. His body has dissolved into jello and cries out to sink into bed, yet it turns to stone whenever he even thinks of leaving his post. His face sags like melting wax, but his eyes remain wide open, staring with laser intensity into the formless darkness of his room.

Usually, it’s easy for him to pin down the origin of his fatigued insomnia; some issue he blew out of proportion during the day, or a potential problem lurking on the horizon. Not this time. It was a good day. Just like yesterday, and the day before, and every other day in the past week. It’s standard for Thomas, and presumably the other three, but for Virgil specifically? It’s the first time in Thomas’s adult life that he’s experienced this level of calm. He could get used to it - if it didn’t come with the itching need to do something about it, to tear back the curtain and drag out the monsters lying in wait, to make himself useful. In combination, he’s left with a light, murky haze of apathy filling in the gaps where his emotions should be, creating the sensation of him slowly rising into the air. He needs to feel something. He wants to feel bad.

So he slides off the desk into the leather chair, closes out of the Evanescence playlist on his laptop, and pulls up the video that has rooted itself in the back corner of his mind. While it was uploading, it was the typical brand of anxiety that made it monopolize his attention. As Joan and Thomas had said, coming out was something you’ll never be done doing; however, this video was as close to a final statement of intent as anything would be. There was no turning back from here, no more lying hiding. And, even this many years on, he was still terrified of the fallout.

However, now that it’s immortalized on the web and thousands of unknowable eyes and ears have consumed it, with comments still rolling in by the dozens, the uneasy feeling wracking his body is of a different nature. Because they love the video, of course they do. The online community that has formed around Thomas never ceases to amaze him. Just a year or two ago he’d have laughed at the idea that he’d choose to scroll through the comments on one of Thomas’s posts, but here he is, once again proving his visions of the future wrong. It’s the most he’s smiled in years (though the competition for that honor has been more heated recently than it was for a long, long time).

He scrolls past multiple “I’m here, I’m queer” jokes, compliments for everyone who took part, proud declarations of identity, and allies sharing their support. Those all warm his heart, but the ones which make him pause are the uplifting coming out stories: people who opened up to friends and found they have more in common than they knew; people who gathered the courage to have the talk with their parents (not in the foolhardy way he had, god no, he has yet to watch through the video without skipping that part); people who found acceptance in their communities, even religious ones, even at school. And more than that, people, total strangers from every corner of the globe, who claim Thomas as an inspiration for them living their truths.

It’s those comments that trigger the uneasy feeling. That, and whenever the word “repression” resounds in his headphones like a high-pitched whistle.

Virgil lives in the negative. He deals not just in apprehension and fear, but in embarrassment, regret, and guilt; and he exaggerates each instance by his nature. But this whirlpool in his gut is the result of more than just one bad memory, one isolated failure. It was a chain of choices that formed the armor which has since fused to his bones; actions taken and opportunities passed over, things said and unsaid, truths suffocated and lies that gained a life of their own,

“You called?”

Virgil slams the laptop shut almost hard enough to shatter the screen. He flicks the desk lamp on, then swivels his chair to face the intruder, shaking his head a few times to part his bangs.

“...Janus.” Not the bad feeling he was looking for.

“You remembered,” he grins, an artificial glimmer in his eyes. He takes a second to adjust his capelet and ensure that the golden clasps on his shirt are perfectly in place. “Forgive me for the lack of professionalism, I had to take care of, a thing.”

From the way he says ‘thing’, Virgil knows exactly who he’s talking about. Some things never change. “You couldn’t have knocked first?”

“I thought we were beyond that point in our relationship,” Janus pouts, putting his hand to his chest. “You’re not going to kick me out, are you?”

“Depends,” Virgil responds, without missing a beat, as he pulls his headphones off his ears and tosses them onto the desk. “Why are you here?”

“To talk.”

“About what?”

“...I was hoping you would take the lead on that front,” Janus says, “You’ve always been so good at that. But if it’s up to me, I suppose I could provide a starting point.” He makes a show of glancing around the dimly lit room, recoiling slightly at the inexplicable smell of lavender and expired Halloween candy, before he locks his gaze on the anxious side with the most neutral smile he can muster. “What are your feelings on last month’s ‘Having Pride’ video?”

Virgil huffs as his body tenses. He wants to say ‘fine’, but then he remembers who he’s talking to. “In all honesty? They’re mixed.”

“Really?” Janus gasps, with all the subtlety of a piano plummeting from a third-story window. “I’m, quite frankly, astounded to hear that from you. Why?”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “Look,” he hisses, “I don’t know what you’re hoping to get out of this, but we are not going there.” He flips up his hood and spins the chair a full 180 degrees. “Good to see you, now get out. Maybe try again another time.”

For a moment, the room goes quiet, music to Virgil’s ears. Then Janus fires back, with words like daggers:

“If you say so. It’s all water under the bridge now. Just, don’t sit there and make yourself out to be the victim.” When he gets no reaction, he gives a final thrust: “I did it for you, remember?”

Virgil’s hands clamp down on the armrests. He tries not to say anything, to just let him have the satisfaction of having the last word and leave. But the last statement out of his mouth devolves into outright mockery as it echoes in his ears, begging to be challenged.

In the blink of an eye, he rises and sharply turns to face his opponent. “You keep on saying that,” he growls, leaning in with his arms crossed atop the back of the chair, “But you and I both know it stopped being true a long time ago - if it ever was true.”

Janus’s eyes narrow. He briefly flashes his fangs, but he bites his tongue. Instead, he plants one hand on the chair, as if throwing down a dueling glove, then shoves it toward the other wall. Virgil catches his balance just before he’s sent tumbling forward, his hood sliding back down.

“Apologies, let’s try that again,” the scaly side smirks. “You were saying?”

Virgil takes a moment to refocus his frustration. “How mature of you,” he mumbles (not that he should have expected better from him). Then he jerks his head up so he can drill his eyes into the snake’s as he continues. “I won’t pretend I wasn’t in on it to start, because believe it or not I’m better than that. Thing is, I realized later that it was a terrible idea, that it would only make things worse in the long run, for all of us. So I asked you to give it up. Did you listen? Of course not. And you never said why you couldn’t, you just-”

“Because you knew,” Janus cuts in, his voice sparking with indignation, everything else about him suddenly stone cold. “You knew exactly why.”

All Virgil can do is stare blankly back at him. While he waits for further clarification, he idly notices the dark smudges fading in under the other side’s eyes.

Janus cocks his head in turn, scanning every inch of Virgil’s clueless face. He opens and closes his mouth a few times. When he fails to find the words, his arm begins moving with a will of its own.

Virgil notices the trembling hand in his peripheral vision right before it lands on his shoulder. He takes an abrupt step back, and from the depths of his subconscious something roars, “Don’t you dare t-”

And it clicks.

END OF PREVIEW

If you want to read the rest, here’s the AO3 link again!

TAGLIST: (massive thanks to @the-taglist-repository!)

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