#I WANTED THEM TO HAVE A HEALTHY FRIENDSHIP

[yandereforme]

Part 2

Tw: Past neglect messing with relationships, unhealthy friendships

You arrived in Japan three days before the new semester starts, and spent the next few days getting a refresher on your etiquette lessons. (Your grandparents had a family friend, Anne-Sophie, work with you. She was a quiet but kind woman, one who filled you with a quiet longing for a mother like that.)

You start school with a decision to stay in the background. You aren’t very interested in getting involved in drama, so you avoid any big clubs, spending most of your time in the library, or looking for a quiet place to study.

You manage to stay away from drama for about six days… until you befriend two guys who are apparently infamous through the school.

The first one you befriend is Umehito Nekozawa, a quiet boy who consistently wears a black cloak. He’s sweet, despite his dramatics and darkness. (He reminds you of the parts of Gotham you actually liked.) He was also a great study partner.

You don’t really join in on his black magic club meetings, but you occasionally help him with set up when he asks. He also works as a great buffer between you and other people. (Way too many of the people here were dramatic idiots.)

Your second friend, the one that takes you a bit longer to realize is a friend, is Ritsu Kasanoda. He apparently just scared people off with his appearance, but you were so used to people glaring at everything that it barely phased you.

You only really realized how lonely he was when you agreed to be his lab partner in one of his classes, and everyone around you looked like you had signed your own death warrant.

They were both great friends, even if they could be a bit clingy. You didn’t really mind. You were so used to being lonely, and everyone else was so overwhelming.

(You don’t realize how much you affect them. No one has ever approached Umehito so fearlessly, or been so kind and considerate of his allergy to the sunlight. You didn’t make it a big deal. You were his moon goddess, his lovely symbol of worship.) (he will be a platonic yandere, but right now he’s very ambiguous.)

(You are the first person to look at Ritsu as if he isn’t scary. You are kind but blunt, and you look at him with no fear. Everyone else has always been scared of him, even his own father, but you… you just smile. You stay by him, treating him with kindness. His yandere behavior doesn’t settle until the day you choose him as your lab partner, and thank him for joining you. You even tell him you are glad he is your lab partner, because “everyone else in this class is tiring”.)

(Both of them notice how uncomfortable you are with attention, and willingly use their reputations to make people leave you alone. Ritsu especially loves it, as you look at him so gratefully whenever he scares people off.)

( To Umehito, you are a goddess, a being of kindness and soft light. To Ritsu, you are an innocent child, a person who looks at him with no fear that he needs to protect.)

(You don’t notice the Kasanoda family setting up a detail around your routine to protect you. You don’t notice how much Umehito stares at you, or how Ritsu treats you like you are fragile.)

(When you grow up without solid relationships, you don’t realize how boundaries should be formed. You don’t pick up on the difference between healthy and unhealthy relationships, when all your life you wished for a real relationship.)

(Humans need relationships so much, that when we are deprived of them, it is a physical ache. So growing up with so few relationships? That alters your mind.)

Edit: I hope you all like this! I couldn’t sleep, so I wrote this bad boy instead. I hope you enjoy this! Let me know what you think or if you have anything you really want to see in the comments.

Taglist @shinning-stars @neverdead2 @nervousalpacalady @holybatflapexpert

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Reader x Yandere Ouran Academy

TW: Neglect

You weren’t wanted by either of your parents. That had been the cold hard truth that you had known since you were nine years old.

Your mother was a member of a wealthy family. While she wasn’t the heiress, that title belonging to her older sister, she still had a lot of money at her disposal, and took long trips to different places.

That was how she met Bruce, and she had a one night stand with him.

She didn’t realize she was pregnant until it was too late for a termination, and her parents threatened to cut her off if she gave up their grandchild. So she reluctantly kept you.

You were mostly raised by a revolving door of nursemaids and babysitters until you were five, and your mother deemed you old enough to be alone. You saw your mother about three times a year, during which she would play a doting mother in public before verbally tearing you down in private.

You were five when you understood you were a burden to her. You were eight when you stopped desperately searching for her love.

You were nine when she died in an accident, and your biological father had to take you. (Your grandparents were too old to take care of you, and your aunt was rarely seen outside of a board room, and was unwilling to take you.)

You had a few days of hope for a family, since Bruce Wayne was known for being an amazing father to his children.

That belief was shattered after you moved in and you were basically shunned by everyone. Bruce was cold and rushed around you. Tim was cold and distant. Dick acted nice, but he barely gave you a minute of notice. Even Alfred was constantly brushing you off, though he had a decent excuse.

The final hope was shattered when, three weeks after you moved in, your birthday passed unacknowledged and unnoticed. The only sign of it was the text from your grandparents and the package you received from them two days later, filled with nice dresses for you.

You grew up quietly, keeping to yourself. You had weekly calls with your grandparents, but didn’t mention the family.

The breaking point was when you were 13, and Damian arrived. You thought now, finally, you would have someone like you. That belief lasted six hours, until you were almost stabbed by the menace.

It was one of the first times the family spoke to you, and it was to tell you not to overreact. You barely held back the rebuke and bitter laughter.

The worst part about Damian’s arrival? The fact they loved him. Even though he kept acting out and threatening people and generally being a prick, Bruce made time for him and brought him to meals. Dick showered him in affection. Even Alfred was softer with him. It wasn’t fair. You were a perfect kid and they didn’t care about you, but in comes a kid with the same story as you but with a worse attitude, and he is loved unconditionally?!?

It wasn’t fair.

After the fifth time Damian almost killed you without reprimand, you contacted your grandparents and asked about returning to the country. They eagerly told you about a high school in Japan that wasn’t far from one of their houses, filled with people of your status and known for giving its graduates a great advantage in later years.

Two days later, you approached Bruce with the papers to okay your move for the school year and signing custody over to your grandparents temporarily while you were in Japan. You had a whole speech prepared in your mind defending the choice, but he signed without even bothering to ask any questions. (You didn’t cry, even as you felt a lump in your throat. Despite everything, you thought he would at least care enough to ask questions.)

You boarded a plane a month later, reading your new textbooks as you flew. You took the sparkling champagne (non alcoholic) from the flight attendant and raised your glass in the direction of Japan, your new future.

“To Ouran Academy and my future there.” You murmur softly before downing some of your drink.

Edit: I hope you all like this! I’ve been working on it for a while, and hopefully this isn’t too bad. My finals are next week, so wish me luck!

[crownmemes]

Psychology Sentences, Vol. 3

(Sentences for interactions with therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists - or even just friends supporting each other. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"Maybe you're incapable of being happy."

"You spend a lot of time building walls. It's natural to want to see if someone is clever enough to climb over them."

"Forgiveness is too great and difficult for one person. It requires two: the betrayer and the betrayed."

"We construct fairytales and we accept them. Our minds concoct all sorts of fantasies when we don't want to believe something."

"Usually, when a man is about to lose everything, he realised what matters to him most. He sees it clearly for the first time."

"I need you to help me with a psychological profile."

"Some people are fighters, and some are not. You can't know which until the fight happens."

"It's not healing to see your childhood home, but it helps you measure whether you are broken - how and why - assuming you want to know."

"What is your worst memory of childhood?"

"You know what really scares me? I like being fucked up."

"Friendship can sometimes involve a breach of individual separateness. "

"Has there been a lot of discussion about the specific way I think?"

"Do you think that you are capable of killing your father?"

"Was you father big in your life?"

"It's your life. If there's something about it you don't like, you can change it."

"I don't think about that stuff anymore."

"I'm not sure it's healthy for you to be here."

"Has anyone ever told you that you have a lot of bad dreams?"

"If you're good at reading people, it's mostly because you learnt as a child, trying to stay one step ahead of whatever tormented you."

"Tell me what you believe is happening."

"Everyone has thought about killing someone, one way or another."

"What is it going to take for you to get comfortable with me?"

"Nothing makes us more vulnerable than loneliness."

"Have you ever helped a patient recover memories?"

"Not fond of eye contact, are you?"

"You assume the emotional point of view of others, even those that might scare or sicken you. It's a troubling gift, I should think."

"You can push things away, but sooner or later, you have to deal with them."

"You're not a psychopath, although you may be attracted to them."

"If someone were using manipulative methods to subvert your sense of control, you may not realise it until those methods are pointed out to you."

"Who among us doesn't want understanding and acceptance?"

[shelfperson]

this too is yuri

[venice-1987]

As much as I would enjoy a kiss at their reunion, I do think the dragon prince crew would do something softer when (not if <-clown emoji) Sorvus is made canon. I'm picturing Corvus and Ezran and Callum arriving at the castle like in the promo image, them checking up with Opeli and she reveals everything is fine.

But Corvus asks about Soren. "Where is he?" he asks, his mind already wandering to the possibility that Soren...hadn't made it out. He will himself to remain strong for his king, but his body fills with dread. Thankfully, Opeli points him to the river.

There, Soren sits on the banks. Corvus sits beside him, noticing the same pained look in his eyes that he had seen on the ramparts the day Soren asked him to become a crownguard. Now, that same pain encompassed how he sat, how he stared mournfully into the waters.

Corvus asks is he is alright, and Soren can't even answer, holding back what emotion he can to maintain his cheerful attitude. He is failing miserably. Something more terrible than the Storm Spire must have happened. Something worse than Katolis burning down.

Corvus lays his hand over Soren's on the rock. Soren looks from it to Corvus, then shifts so that he can hold Corvus's hand back.

Like Janai and Amaya, its a confirmation.

and, of course, at the end of arc 2 or start of arc 3 (affirm affrim, manifest manifest, like to charge reblog to cast) then we get a kiss, teehee

[zepskies]

@lamentationsofalonelypotato

Ooooh I LOVE this color scheme. 💚💚💚 And the moodboard with the quote is already so eerie and interesting, like a sentient forest luring people into the dark...

There is a place where the sun dare not go, where shadows slip and curl over smooth rocks glazed with dew, where the river boils and froths with white, and where a snarl of branches twist and tangle overhead.

Ok, so I'm obsessed with this opening! It's giving dark fantasy and I'm already soooo in. What/who is this creature in this place, "deep and dark and full of secrets"? And all paired with a threat of claiming what's "owed" to her. My mind is spinning with the possibilities. 🤔

The only person he hadn't called was Sam. A frown pulled on the end of Dean's mouth at the thought of his brother. He hadn't spoken to him in… Dean scrunches up his face trying to remember the last time he talked to Sam. Can't have been more than a few days? Okay maybe a week-

Oooh so not only do we have Dean striking it out on his own, but it's post-S15. I half-thought it was during their brief "break up" in season 5 loll. But I love that it's Sam and Eileen starting a family in their retirement, even if that means Dean is going it alone right now. 🥺

"I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop in, see if you were eating trash." You gesture with the spatula to the greasy brown paper bag on the table by the door and the large pile of to-go boxes in the trashcan. "Something you want to confess to?" "Those aren’t mine officer." Dean cracks an easy grin holding up his hands in surrender, the gun forgotten. It felt good to smile. Dean couldn't remember the last time he had.

omfgg I love them already 😂💚

And it's so cute that they're childhood friends. It means Sam and Dean had a consistent friend growing up that knew about "the life," and Dean especially had someone he could relate too with their similar interests.

Dean didn't know how you did it, but you always seemed to know when he needed you, almost as if you had a supernatural alarm that went off in your head whenever he was lonely.

And Dean knew that his feelings had passed friendship forever ago, but he refused to act on it.

Aghhhhhh fucking typical with Dean!! 🙄 Not surprised that he never got along with any of her boyfriends either lol, but the mention of Lisa broke my heart, especially in this context. 😭

He frowned at the prospect of eating vegetables.

lmfaoo same headcanon, friend, because he's a freakin' junk food loving child underneath all that bravado. 😂 However, I love that she's trying to get him to eat more healthy in his old age. 🤣 (Good luck, girl!)

"Says the guy holding on so tight he's going to snap my spine." You joke, but Dean watches something flash in your eyes that isn't humor, and you gently release him so you can touch his cheek. Your thumb gently traces over his cheekbone, palm cupping his strong jaw.

Meeelting over here! 🥹🥹 I'm such a sucker for the tender cheek touch. 💜 Also you know how to hook me with the extra Dean scruff - YES PLS. 🤤

Dean watches you narrow your eyes in suspicion. “A piece of lettuce on a burger does not count.” “It’s green-“ “And I bet you picked it off.” “It left it’s essence behind!”

🤣🤣🤣 I love how you're weaving humor in between all the pining and bittersweet reminiscing loll

Dean laughs a little too hard for that to cover up his slip, but something inside sinks a little bit when you don't react to his compliment. He wished that you believed him. The uncomfortable feeling comes back, this time pinching just under his rib cage. He hated when you spoke that way about yourself, and Dean noticed that you had started to say things like that more and more as the years crept by.

Ughhh you know how to get me here too -- with Dean wanting her not to put herself down so much for her appearance because she's beautiful to him. 🥹

And it scared you. It scared you even more when Sam told you that Dean was dodging his calls. That was also never a good sign.

Oof yep, this is how I imagine Dean would be post-S15 if Sam was off doing his own thing with Eileen. Dean simultaneously happy for them, but also bitter and lonely and starting to become an alcoholic emotional recluse, if not yet a physical one. 😭

You remembered looking at Dean with the sound of Open Arms by Journey playing through the headphones and admiring the way the moonlight kissed his skin and how the starlight brought out the flecks of gold in his eyes.

Journey is my favorite rock band!! 🥹 Love this image of Dean - I'd fall in love with him in an instant too 💓💓

That damn beard.

Exactly right lmfao~

The last straw had been when you accidentally overheard a conversation between Dean and Lisa where he was trying to convince her that he'd never been more than friends with you and she didn't believe him.

(But I died at her playfully slut-shaming him lmfaooo)

"Tallahassee." "You're just listing state capitals." Dean sighs heavily. "No, I am listing places in which you've been wrong. If you want I can call Sam to cross reference my sources."

I'm dyiiiiiiing! I love their friendship/playful banter/unspoken courting 🤣🤣

"I’d walk through fire for you, you’re my best friend. I would sing karaoke to 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun' for you." You hesitate. "Well maybe after a few drinks, but I would still do it."

LOL love this reference to Cause Somewhere In The Crowd There's You! 😂

The woman forms from the shades, born of darkness, of flesh and shadow as the dark imprints weave together, twisting and knotting, creating her from nothing.

ooooh my GOD those damn kids! lol What did they just wake up in the crypt??? (Of course the "woman/being" from the intro, but I'm biting my nails 😬)

"No! DEAN!" You scream his name, prepared to dive in if that's what it takes, but the ground closes, shutting up the cavernous mouth that swallowed your friend, smoothing over so that there's nothing left but the cool stone floor of the cave.

Ok, now I'm REALLY champing at the bit to see how the reader is going to save Dean from this creature (I get that all the ladies want a piece of him but goddamn 😭).

This was so heartfelt and bittersweet with Dean's conflict over "being left behind" by Sam, essentially, the mutual pining, the moment of closeness, and of course, a ginormous cliffhanger!! 🥺🥺

Not Without You Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester xf!reader, Dean POV and Reader POV

Summary: A cursed crown, teenagers, an evil goddess bent on revenge, and two best friends who have secretly been in love for years. What could go wrong?

Word Count: 11.7K

Tropes: Angst, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers (Eventual), Cursed Objects, Supernatural Scenarios.

Warnings: Fluff, Flirting, Cursing, Violence, Drama Mutual Pining, A little bit of self deprecation (Dean), Sadness, Angst (it's me are y'all surprised?). KIDNAPPING (or adult-napping?), Older Dean? A little bit of a fix it fic to the ending of Supernatural, Reader is also a hunter but a bit soft, Reader likes to cook and tease Dean, Sexual Innuendo, Sexualish thoughts? Dean might be a little bit OOC.

A/N: Hey y'all I started writing this fic for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! She made the super awesome moodboard pictured above! I'm not going to lie I didn't mean for this to be more than one part, but I couldn't stop.

Internal monologue is in first person and is in italics.

Here In A Forest Dark and Deep, I Offer You Eternal Sleep...

There is a place where the sun dare not go, where shadows slip and curl over smooth rocks glazed with dew, where the river boils and froths with white, and where a snarl of branches twist and tangle overhead.

A place where the wind breathes through the eaves, sending leaves to scuttle and crackle over stone. A place that no one man can find. A place that time no longer touches.

An ancient place deep and dark and full of secrets.

A hidden crag overgrown with grass and vine where darkness writhes, silent, restless, shielded from sun and storm. Waiting in the broken remnants of a forbidden grove lost to time.

She slumbers there.

Forgotten.

Buried.

Nothing more than a myth from a world bathed in blood and silver. The cave rumbles with the memory of times forgotten. The clash of swords, the sharp tang of blood, the caw of the birds that feasted on the fallen, the roars of men scorned, and the cries of despair from the women left behind to waste into nothing waiting for them to return

Still she sleeps.

Enrobed in emerald.

Entombed in cobwebs.

Waiting in the still silence for someone to speak her name and call her forth from this forgotten tomb.

And when the world burns she will claim what is owed her.

Dean POV

Dean couldn't put his finger on it, but something was wrong.

Frankly, in his life something was always wrong, and years of him living out on the road chasing after things that went bump in the night meant that he was usually better at pin pointing directly what that was.

But not right now.

Right now, Dean Winchester felt like a cardboard box that went toe to toe with a semi-truck.

He groans to himself as he stirs from an unfit sleep, feeling the bones of his arms pop as he stretches them above his head, groaning again before settling down into the creaky bed. He'd been up late researching a case, the evidence of which was strewn all over the small motel room he was inhabiting.

Scraps of paper, books, and printed newspaper articles were in different stages of crumple all over the bed and the small table under the front window was covered in papers and stacked high with ancient books, kept company by a week old half-drunk bottle of beer and a greasy bag full of stale fries that stagnated nearby. A broken pen drips black ink from the table in a steady thump, the sunflower shaped stain growing steadily across the musty red carpet.

Dean presses his palms into his eyes, with another groan, the throb of his head like a thunderclap.

Fuck, I drank too much last night.

He had.

Dean was stuck in a rut and he'd thought that by drinking a little more, maybe he'd be able to crack the case that had held him hostage for the past two weeks in the armpit of America, but he still had nothing.

Zero, Zilch, Nada.

The three murders that had caught his attention two weeks ago now mocked him from every angle of the disheveled motel room. He'd exhausted every option, read every page of his dad's journal, called every number in his phone, but no one seemed to be able to find a connection between the three men who were killed.

The only person he hadn't called was Sam.

A frown pulled on the end of Dean's mouth at the thought of his brother. He hadn't spoken to him in… Dean scrunches up his face trying to remember the last time he talked to Sam.

Can't have been more than a few days? Okay maybe a week-

The thought of his brother made a dull ache throb in the center of his chest, the guilt that Dean was trying to ignore coming to the surface when he was still half asleep and vulnerable.

Things were different now.

Dean didn't want to bother his brother with something like this, not when Sam was living the white-picket fence American Dream out west with Eileen who was pregnant and due any day. Dean knew that his brother didn't need the extra stress, Sam had a new job, he was moving on from all of this, and Sam didn't need a reminder of the life he used to have. Not when Sam had a new life that made him happy.

And not when Dean didn't know who he was or what he was hanging on to anymore. Sometimes Dean wasn't sure if he was still chasing after things that other people ran from or after the young man he used to be.

Dean was reminded of that every morning when he woke up, the gray flecks in his hair and beard that had become more prominent, the crows feet beneath his eyes rimmed with dark circles, and the way his back and knees cracked when he stood up. Dean was still in good shape, but lately he was feeling his age more than anything else.

Maybe it was because everyone else was moving on and he wasn't sure who he was anymore.

The lack of sleep didn't help, but Dean had been dealing with it all the way he usually did, by pushing down his feelings into the deep dark hole where they wouldn't see the light of day. The same feelings that began to unravel in the middle of the night when all was quiet and kept Dean from the sound sleep he so desperately needed.

Dean sits up a little too quick and sighs to himself when his head spins. He was in desperate need of coffee, or something to make the hangover stop. He sniffs the air, still not opening his eyes, and runs his right hand through his hair shaking through the blondish-brown strands.

The strong smell of coffee and cinnamon floats through the air making Dean’s stomach rumble.

Shit. I want it so bad I’m imagining it. Oh wait no. Maybe I’m having a stroke. Is that toast?!

"Morning Sunshine." A familiar voice sing-songs. "How'd you sleep?"

Dean's head snaps up to the small kitchenette, while one of his hands instinctively goes for the gun underneath his pillow.

You're standing there with a wide smile on your face, a spatula in one hand, and wearing one of Dean's favorite t-shirts over a pair of blue jeans. Your eyes sparkle with mirth at the sight of Dean, hair mused from sleep, eyes just a little manic in surprise at your greeting.

Dean blinks for a second, not sure if it's really you or if he's still dreaming. The cold metal of the gun shoved under his pillow grounds him. He says your name hesitantly. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop in, see if you were eating trash." You gesture with the spatula to the greasy brown paper bag on the table by the door and the large pile of to-go boxes in the trashcan. "Something you want to confess to?"

"Those aren’t mine officer." Dean cracks an easy grin holding up his hands in surrender, the gun forgotten.

It felt good to smile. Dean couldn't remember the last time he had.

"Still a bad liar." You roll your eyes and turn back to the hotplate. "I'm borrowing your shirt, because it was pouring when I got here and my duffel got wet. And before you say anything, I know, I know I should get a new one, but it's my lucky bag! And my lucky bag just so happens to not be waterproof."

Dean spots your duffle by the front door where it's split open and multicolored clothes erupt out of it. He leans forward to look into his bathroom, catching a peak of your clothes hanging from various places to dry. Something stirs in the pit of his stomach when he sees a collection of bras hanging from the towel rack, and he tries to avoid getting too excited at the image of you wearing them.

Dean and you had been best friends since you were both twelve. His dad and yours had served in the war together, a fellow soldier who stumbled upon the supernatural in his own right. And every few months your dad and Dean's would plop Sam, him, and you in front of a tv in a motel room and go off to get a drink. They'd be gone for hours, while Sam, Dean, and you gorged yourself on junk food and late-night TV.

And despite what Dean thought about girls at that time, you were cool. You knew just as much about cars as he did, you too were obsessed with rock music, you knew how to handle yourself, and you weren't afraid of anything.

As the two of you grew up, you never lost touch. You’d text each other from the road, complain about your dads, exchange mix tapes of music that you’d burned (Dean had a whole box under the front seat of Baby that was purely music you'd given him), shared motel rooms, joined each other on hunts, and you’d call him whenever you could, talking for hours into the night so long that Dean would close his eyes and pretend that you were laying there right beside him instead of miles away.

Dean loved it when that happened. When his mind wouldn't shut up and he needed something to distract him, and all it took was you calling in the middle of the night to send him off into the sweet abyss of sleep while he imagined you laying beside him.

Dean didn't know how you did it, but you always seemed to know when he needed you, almost as if you had a supernatural alarm that went off in your head whenever he was lonely.

Which was a lot especially now that Sam was gone. And usually Dean would try to find someone to occupy his time at a local bar, but lately he hadn't wanted to, all he'd wanted was to talk to you. Every time that something happened, you were right there, the person that Dean always needed when things went to shit.

But it wasn't just in the bad.

Whenever he and Sam were out on the road, sometimes you'd bump into them calling it a 'happy accident,' and Dean and you would lay on his bed at a motel talking and listening to a mixtape through a walk-man, sharing the earbuds just like you used to when you were teenagers lounging in Baby's backseat drinking milkshakes and eating French fries. And when Dean woke up in the morning with his body curved protectively around yours while you curled into him, your soft breath on his neck and his face buried in your hair, it felt right, as if you belonged there in his arms.

But despite everything the two of you had been through, you were just friends.

A thirty-four year friendship and Dean didn't want to mess that up. He'd messed up so many things in his life, lost so much, and he couldn't lose you. You were more than just his friend, you were his family as much as Sam. And Dean knew that his feelings had passed friendship forever ago, but he refused to act on it.

Not when Dean was sure he wouldn't recover if you ever cut him out of your life.

So Dean did his best to pretend. Pretend that he didn't imagine a life with you beyond all of this, beyond all the running, and the hunting. Because Dean would never admit this out loud, but he was tired.

He was so tired and sometimes when the world slowed down and there was only the quiet of the night, the buzz of the whiskey in his system, and the whisper of your voice in his ear, Dean imagined more. He imagined what it would be like if the two of you had something like Sam and Eileen, what that would look like, if it could happen.

Dean wasn't sure that he'd ever be able to have what his brother had. If he deserved that. He'd tried with Lisa and he still couldn't think about her without feeling an ache in the pit of his stomach.

Sometimes Dean wondered if you wanted that too. He'd heard you talk about slowing down in the past, finally settling down, getting away from all of this, but other than a handful of boyfriends that Dean never once got along with (including one whom he broke his nose), Dean had never seen you try.

He wished you would. Not that Dean wanted you to be with anyone else, just that Dean wanted you to be safe, not out along the road God knows where dealing with this shit alone. He'd been doing this as long as you had and he still knew that sometimes he needed help even if he didn't ever admit it aloud or want to.

Not to mention that lately all he could think about was you. His anxiety since Sam left had only worsened and his phone calls to you had gone from 3-4 a week to every day.

Dean needed to hear your voice. He was an addict of the worst kind, but he didn't care. Not when hearing you say his name was like a soothing balm, a cold beer after a long hunt, a hot shower that made each muscle un-tense and unwind, and a strong but steady hand braced against his shoulder.

But being here with you in person, couldn't compare to that feeling.

"But I'm pretty sure this is mine and you stole it." You continue, thumbing the soft fabric at the bottom of the shirt with your free hand, oblivious to Dean's train of thought. "Been looking everywhere for it."

"No way!" Dean exclaims getting out of bed. "That's my Metallica shirt. Got it twenty years ago."

"I remember buying this shirt from a vendor young enough to be my son, who kept mispronouncing the name of the lead singer, while you complained that we were missing the opening song." There's a flash of silver from a knife as you begin to cut up a handful of strawberries with a practiced precision, twirling it in your hand once for show.

"We were missing the opening song." Dean laughs. "And I paid for it!"

"Yes, but you said you wanted to get me something and I wanted to get a shirt before the concert, because who knows what would be left over after!"

Dean only shakes his head at you. "I think you're just getting old Sweetheart. They say the memory is the first thing to go." Dean smirks, while you give him a death glare over your shoulder.

"Say what you want," You point the knife at him in a cute, but threatening way, "but you've had custody of this for twenty years, and now it's my turn."

Dean rolls his eyes, before his gaze sweeps through the small kitchenette and he notices the collection of plastic bags on the counter. It looked like you’d brought enough groceries to feed a small army despite there being only two of you. You always did that whenever you showed up, toting food that Dean wouldn't usually have around. He frowned at the prospect of eating vegetables.

But Dean didn't care, you were here and that's all that mattered. And he also hoped that the large amount of groceries meant that you would be staying with him for a while.

He'd missed you more than he realized.

Sure the two of you talked on the phone at least four times each week and Dean always got a random text from you at sometime during the day, but nothing compared to being here with you.

He approaches slowly, sniffing the air again while he tries to figure out what you're cooking and if he'll eat it. Dean wasn't sure he'd like it. Not that you were a bad cook, but over the past few years you'd been trying to get him to eat a little healthier. Sneaking vitamins into his burgers, making things that had less grease and more greens, and Dean would sigh and eat every bite because you told him to.

Of course you would complain almost as much as he did about eating healthy. You weren't exactly a health food nut and loved fast food, but you knew that Dean rarely got a good home cooked meal and Dean thought it was kinda cute when you'd show up toting bags filled with fruits and vegetables out of the blue talking about A1C numbers.

He stops about a foot behind where you're fusing with a frying pan on the stove, turning over some white object with the spatula.

"Hey." Dean says softly, leaning back on his heels.

You turn around to look at him, really look at him. "Hi." Your smile makes Dean a little weak in the knees.

The hug that follows sets Dean on fire.

You pull him in tight, nuzzling your face into his chest with a happy sigh, while Dean curves his entire body around you. It was moments like this that Dean thought that you were made for him, because there was a little you-shaped nook under his jaw that allowed him to rest his chin on the top of your head while he squeezes you just as tight against him.

The smell of cinnamon and something citrusy comes as he holds you closer, the same perfume you'd had since you were sixteen, the one that you always left behind when you stayed with him. Sometimes Dean found himself using the pillow you borrowed when you left, inhaling the smell of your shampoo until it faded and there was nothing.

When you were with him Dean actually slept, as if just being in your presence made all the anxiety and the memories of the past fade away.

He could feel a melancholic feeling bubbling up in the back of his throat as he holds you, something he can't name, but embraces. Dean feels your hands slowly rub up and down his back in a soothing motion that makes him tighten his grip and lean further into you so heavily that you stumble back a little step.

When you laugh Dean feels like he's in heaven.

"Missed me huh?" You murmur into his shirt, but you don't let go of him.

More than you know.

"Nope."

"Liar." Your body shakes with your giggle as you pull back to look at him, still not completely releasing him. "I missed you too."

"I know. You can't live without me." Dean smirks.

He watches you raise an eyebrow to challenge him.

"Says the guy holding on so tight he's going to snap my spine." You joke, but Dean watches something flash in your eyes that isn't humor, and you gently release him so you can touch his cheek. Your thumb gently traces over his cheekbone, palm cupping his strong jaw.

Dean swallows at the sudden contact, his heartbeat fluttering like a damn teenager, but he can't stop himself from leaning into your hand. Despite your time as a hunter, the palm of your hand is soft, your touch reverent as you cup his jaw, not bothered by the prick of stubble that Dean is sure you can feel.

It was longer than usual. Dean kept putting off shaving, it had been a few days and he was sure that you were clocking the beard.

"I was worried about you." You say with a soft sigh, a worried frown on your face.  "You sounded bad on the phone last night, and when I called Sam he said you've been dodging his calls."

"I'm fine." Dean sighs, but he knows that you can see right through him, that there's no point of trying to lie. "And I have not been dodging his calls! He just happens to call at the worst time."

"Uh-huh. Well how come whenever I call, you pick up?"

"Because you have better timing than Sammy, always have Sweetheart."

You roll your eyes at him, but don't move your hand from his cheek. Dean watches your gaze soften as you study him, eyes tracing his features in a way that always makes Dean feel stripped bare, open, and vulnerable.

"Really Dean. How are you?"

He sighs again, debating if he should try to lie again, but he knew that it was fruitless. You knew him better than he knew himself, not to mention you could always tell when he was lying. Your internal lie detector for his bullshit was practically mystical. Dean never understood how you did it, just that he hated it.

Not really.

"Don't try to lie. We both know you can’t do that to me." You narrow your eyes, brow furrowed, but you don't lose the concern that hangs heavy in your gaze.

"I'm a little tired." He admits reluctantly.

"I could have told you that."

"Shut up." Dean snorts out a laugh, but then raises his own hand to touch the dark circles ringed under your eyes. "How long did you drive to get here?"

"Few hours." You shrug.

Dean's frown deepens. Just as you could tell when he lied, Dean knew every tick you had. The twitch of your upper lip, the subtle tilt of your head, the arch of an eyebrow- Dean knew you better than he knew himself.

"Fine, ten but-"

"Are you kidding me? Ten straight?! You should be asleep, not cooking for me."

Damn it she always does this. She always runs herself so thin.

Of course this was also the same thing that you'd said to Dean countless times and he never listened. It was different, he was him and you were you.

You were more important.

"I like cooking for you Deanie." You pinch his cheek with a grin, using the stupid nickname you made up for him years ago. Usually it makes Dean roll his eyes, but not tonight. He missed you so damn much that it makes him smile. "Plus I drank way too much coffee on the way in and I have so much energy. I'm waiting to hit the wall. While you were asleep I also thought about reorganizing your bag, but I didn't want to snoop through your dirty underwear."

"Hasn’t stopped you before." Dean smirks.

"Shut up, I do not snoop through your dirty underwear. Just your clean clothes for shirts that are mine."

"It's not yours and you're not keeping it!"

"It is and I am. Now sit down." You shoo him away to the small folding table that you'd pulled down from the wall and set for breakfast. "I would have woken you up, but you're like a damn grizzly bear in the morning so I thought I'd play it safe and let you follow your nose."

"For the fruity taste that shows." Dean chuckles.

"You can remember the Fruit Loops commercial, but you can't remember to not eat fried food at every meal?"

"Priorities, sweetheart."

“Dean I’m serious. We’re not kids anymore, you can’t eat how you usually do without consequences. You know that cheese looks exactly the same in your arteries as it does on a plate and I-" You continue to chatter, subtly scraping a spatula along the bottom of the pan on the stove, but Dean doesn't hear any of it.

Yeah. We’re not kids anymore.

He thinks to himself as his eyes trace your figure. Dean could still see the shades of the girl he met when he was a boy, the one with the bright eyes that always saw through him and the wide smile that made him feel like his insides were molten lava.  The same girl who knew whenever Dean needed her, the same girl that always made sure he was taken care of, the same girl who always had his back, and the same girl that Dean had loved since the moment he first saw her.

Sitting there, watching you cook in the small kitchenette Dean couldn't help but admire the woman you became. Although you were only a few months younger than him, age had been kinder to you than him.

The few gray hairs that wove through the hair you had tied at the back of your head were like braided silver, the curves of your figure softened by a gentle hand, and the smile lines on your face only made you look kinder, softer. Nothing like the hunter Dean knew you were. There were signs of wear around your eyes that Dean didn't like, the permanent dark circles that curved under your eyes a little more prominent this morning, but you were still just as beautiful as the day Dean met you.

And even though you kept saying that it was your shirt, Dean was trying not to focus on how good you looked in his clothes or how it made him think that you looked like you were his.

The thought makes an uncomfortable feeling rise in his chest.

As much as Dean wanted you, there was another part of him that whispered that you deserved better than him, that out there was a man who was worthy of your love, not him. Not someone broken down from years of hunting, not someone who barely knew who they were anymore, and not someone who would only drag you down.

“Dean did you hear what I asked?” You say raising an eyebrow.

“Nope.” He clears his throat, shaking off the feeling that makes his heart sink into the pit of his stomach.

You huff out a sigh as if you're not surprised. “I asked when was the last time you ate something green?”

“Last night.”

Dean watches you narrow your eyes in suspicion. “A piece of lettuce on a burger does not count.”

“It’s green-“

“And I bet you picked it off.”

“It left it’s essence behind!”

“Ah yes essence of wilted leaf. How nutritious.” You huff out an annoyed sigh, but when you turn back to him there’s humor flickering in your eyes. “Here.” You place a plate in front of him. “Egg white omelet with spinach and onions, a piece of bacon, fruit salad, and oatmeal.”

Dean wrinkles his nose in disgust and mashes his spoon down into the oatmeal like a toddler, squishing it around on the plate.

This looks like brains.

“And if you eat it all," You continue as you turn back to the counter for the glass decanter of coffee. "I’ll give you an extra piece of bacon.”

“Real bacon?” Dean perks up at the thought.

“Yep. 100% heart attack inducing, cholesterol raising, pig bacon.”

“Fine.”  He grumbles.

“Good boy.” You snort setting down a cup of black coffee to the left of his plate. “You know, Sam didn’t give me any trouble when I used to make breakfast for him too.”

“Sam’s a health food freak. I wouldn’t be surprised if he and Eileen are vegan now.” Dean says beginning to shovel the omelet into his mouth.

He fights the urge to moan out in pleasure. He wasn't expecting it to taste so good. You were always a good cook, but Dean still hadn’t expected this to taste anything like this.

Dean glances up and sees the triumphant smile on your face. "Good huh?"

"It’s okay." He mutters through a mouthful of egg and spinach.

"You're insufferable." You throw a grape at him. "But I don't think they're vegan. Eileen's got the ultimate diet now. None." You sigh mournfully, trailing one hand down to your stomach, squeezing and make a face. "Oh to be pregnant and not worry about gaining the extra weight. I swear I've been trying to exercise more, and it does absolutely nothing-"

"I think you look beautiful." The words slip out of Dean's mouth before he can stop them, and he tenses, fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

"Aww." You lean over to pinch his cheek with a sweet smile. "Thanks Deanie. But no amount of flattery will get you any brown sugar for your oatmeal."

Dean laughs a little too hard for that to cover up his slip, but something inside sinks a little bit when you don't react to his compliment. He wished that you believed him. The uncomfortable feeling comes back, this time pinching just under his rib cage. He hated when you spoke that way about yourself, and Dean noticed that you had started to say things like that more and more as the years crept by.

Making faces at your reflection and making subtle comments under your breath mocking all the ways your body had changed and aged. But the truth was, you were beautiful, always had been beautiful to him. And even though you could never see it, Dean did. He thought that the years made you only look better, aged you like a fine wine as cliche as that sounded.

"Okay. I am going to take a shower and wash the road off, then we can talk shop and figure out how to solve this case."  You say walking over to your duffle, sorting through for your toiletries bag.

"And how do you know I haven't solved it?" Dean asks, glancing over his shoulder at where you're bending over your bag.

He's trying not to stare at your ass, he really is, but damn it those jeans are his favorite. Somehow they're worn in just right, accentuating the natural curves of your body and your butt. He swallows the lump in his throat and starts to think about taxes, AI, Clowns, the skin that shapeshifters leave behind- anything to avoid the situation happening in his very thin sweatpants that would leave absolutely nothing to the imagination if his mind kept going down the road it was.

Damn it. Get it together Winchester.

"The beard is kinda a dead give-away." You straighten from the duffle, cocking your hip to the side, and lean back as you look through the smaller fabric bag of toiletries in your hand, looking for something that Dean can't see.

Dean clears his throat, trying not to notice the way your boobs are pushed out from your chest as you lean back.

Sam’s chubby imaginary friend. That ridiculous suicidal teddy bear. Rowena- Okay wait that last one is not helping.

“You don’t like it?” Dean clears his throat.

It’s so hot in here.

“Oh I love it. Very sexy. Like a lumberjack who lives under the highway.” You smirk. “But when I’m done I kinda hope you take one too.”

“Why?”

“Because you also smell like a lumberjack who lives under the highway.”

“I thought I’d commit to the role.”

“Very convincing.” You start to walk to the bathroom, but when Dean turns around to his plate he feels your arms go around him once more. “I missed you Deanie.” You whisper on a soft breath, burying your face in the space between his shoulder and his neck.

Dean inhales another gulp of your perfume like an addict, relaxing into your embrace. It was the first time he could remember in a long time feeling relaxed, probably since the last time he saw you a few months ago, when you were helping him on a vamp case and saved him from a near miss with a twisted piece of metal.

Dean didn't like to think about 'what if,' but you did. And after when the two of you got back to the bunker, Dean remembered you hugging him and refusing to let him go for a while. It took your favorite mixtape that Dean burned for you when you were seventeen and sitting on his bed for an hour after to help you relax, until you fell asleep curled up against Dean muttering things that he couldn't understand into his chest.

He sighs to himself feeling the tightness of your arms around his body, leaning into you. “I missed you too sweetheart.”

Reader POV

"I cannot believe that you couldn't figure out this was a vengeful spirit." You snort, grabbing the shovel that Dean holds out to you.

The half moon above the cemetery bathed the tombstones in a silver glow, washing the concrete slabs white beneath its rays. The wind that sifted through the trees overhead held the chill of winter, rustling the branches, and sending the loose leaves down around where Dean and you were standing at the back of Baby.

It had taken you exactly forty five minutes to solve the case that had taken Dean two weeks. Maybe it was because luck was on your side and a fourth (not so lucky) victim was found this morning, or maybe it was because Dean was well…

You bite the inside of your cheek as you examine your best friend.

Dean looked bad.

You had heard it on the phone last night when he talked to you, sensed it in the way he spoke. The long pauses, the heavy sighs, even the words he was using… you knew that something was wrong.

And it scared you.

It scared you even more when Sam told you that Dean was dodging his calls. That was also never a good sign.

So you packed up in the middle of the night, abandoning the case you were on, and took a ten hour drive to get to Dean. You'd driven far longer for far less, but you didn't care.

When you'd lock picked the motel room door and seen the mess Dean was living in, it only justified the drive. Yes, Dean was usually a little more messy than you, but this was different.

The stacked to-go boxes and bottles of whiskey in the overflowing trash can, the empty beer bottles scattered around the room, the mess of his clothes on the floor, and even Dean himself. The stale smell of him and the beard were dead give aways for you. It broke your heart. You knew that Dean was lonely, had been for a long time, even when he was with Sam at the bunker, but now was worse.

Making him breakfast had made you feel a little better, seeing that he still had an appetite for something that wasn't in a bottle was comforting, but you knew that you weren't going to leave him anytime soon.

You were going to prolong this visit for as long as you had to, to make sure your best friend was okay. Dean was the only person you had left, besides Sam, but Sam was different than Dean. Sam was better at handling his emotions in a healthy way (most of the time), but Dean, no way.

If suppressing your feelings was an Olympic sport, Dean would be a gold medalist a million times over.

Besides, Sam had Eileen now, and that meant Dean was going to have you even if you annoyed him to death.

The thought of you being to Dean what Eileen was for Sam made butterflies erupt in the pit of your stomach. You knew that it was a complete cliché, the stuff of rom-coms and hallmark movies, falling in love with your best friend, but you had.

You can't exactly remember when... Okay you could.

When you were fifteen and Dean and Sam got dropped off at Bobby's, and Dean and you spent the night listening to mix-tapes in Baby's spacious backseat with your legs kicked up over the back of the front bucket seat sharing a milkshake. You remembered looking at Dean with the sound of Open Arms by Journey playing through the headphones and admiring the way the moonlight kissed his skin and how the starlight brought out the flecks of gold in his eyes.

But you couldn't act on it.

Nope, nope, nope.

Dean was Dean. And you didn't want to mess up the thirty four year friendship the two of you had by doing something stupid by confessing that you were in love with him and wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.

You did.

The past few years as you'd gotten older you'd been thinking about settling down. Finding something a little more permanent, maybe finally trying to sell some of those paintings you'd been doing since you were a kid. The ones that your dad told you were a waste of time and Dean only encouraged by stealing the good paint and brushes from art stores to support your hobby. The backseat of your Bronco was loaded down with sketchpads bursting at the seams and each time you took a turn, there was always the roll of an oil pastel or a half-empty bottle of watercolor paint flying somewhere beneath the seat.

It would be nice to actually have a place to paint for real, maybe a small house or an apartment where the sun streamed through the open windows and a cool breeze rustled the hair at the nape of your neck while you lost yourself in the brilliant colors on the canvas. Somewhere it didn't feel like you were running around in circles doing the same thing over and over again, somewhere you could build a life with someone…

The problem was the only person you saw yourself building that life with was standing in front of you holding a shovel and a can of gasoline. And you knew that Dean didn't see you as more than a friend.

But could you blame me?

The years had been kinder to your best friend than to you. He'd grown so much from the little boy with the mischievous green eyes into a man with ruggedly good looks, freckles over his cheeks that kept Dean's boyish qualities, broad shoulders, and a sinfully perfect mouth that made your throat tight.

You'd stupidly thought that over the years your crush would go away, but it only grew. And you didn't know how Dean did it, but the age looked better on him than it did on you. The flecks of silver in his hair made him look even more devilishly handsome, the crinkles around his mouth that shown with his easy smile, and the beard.

That damn beard.

Yes, you'd also thought that Dean looked adorable with his hair all mused from sleep, but the beard. You'd been trying your hardest not to stare at him this morning when he woke up.  Made an off-hand joke about how the beard made him look like a lumberjack and homeless, but by the stars that beard made your brain short circuit. Not to mention coupled with the signature Dean Winchester smirk and the brilliant shine of his emerald eyes… fuck. It was like a walking Michelangelo sculpture. Each time you captured the planes of Dean’s face with charcoal, lead, or paint never seemed to compare to the real thing.

But you knew that your little crush was the exact kind of thing that could throw a monkey wrench into the most meaningful relationship you'd ever had in your life, so you pretended it didn't exist.

Pretended that each time you saw Dean and he wrapped his arms around you didn't make you feel like you were coming home, pretended that you didn't sleep the best you ever had curled up in his arms at night, pretended that you could not see a future with him outside of all of this with a stupid white picket fence and a baby that had his smile and mischievous green eyes, and pretended that you weren't in love with him.

More importantly, you pretended that being his best friend was enough.

That being said you did allow yourself the indulgence of cooking for and taking care of Dean. You didn't care how much he complained or how much you didn't like salad, you knew that Dean needed to eat a good heart-healthy, home cooked meal once in a while. And you didn't care if you had to force feed it to him.

Dean Winchester is going to live to be a hundred and five damnit!

"Whoa. You don’t get to judge me for this, not with that super sniffer you have glued to your face." Dean pokes your nose with his fingertip. "How was I supposed to smell the differences in the wife's perfume and the perfume of his mistress?"

"Vanilla and Lavender are two very different smells." You shrug, shouldering the shovel.

In hindsight smelling the corpse at the crime scene was probably not your best move, but the smell of vanilla that wafted up when Dean flicked the victim's collar was so obvious you couldn't keep your mouth shut. And after smelling the strong scent of lavender on the victim's wife had only confirmed your suspicion, that he had been cheating on her.

Everything else had fallen into place, finding the newspaper article about a man who had died in the same way as all of the men forty years ago, talking to the man's son who told Dean and you through tears of his father's sins against his mother who had disappeared a few days before his father was found, and following the trail to the town cemetery was the final step in the process.

Salt and burn. Just like clockwork.

Truth be told you were a little bit disappointed on how quickly you solved the case, now you were coming up with excuses for you to stick around with Dean, maybe even go back to the bunker with him for a bit.

You knew that Dean didn't love to stay there as much as he had. The emptiness only reminded him of Sam's life somewhere else, but you were willing to stay there with him forever if that's what it took.

Even if that meant watching Dean charm the pants off every co-ed on the East Coast.

Because that's going to be so fun for me.

"I thought that somebody as slutty as you would be an expert in women's perfume." You muse with a smirk to hide the hurt at the thought of Dean with someone else.

Him going off with Lisa had hurt enough. That had been a long year.

Sure Dean still called and texted, but it was awkward. You didn't want to step on Lisa's toes. She was his girlfriend and he was living with her. The one time that you'd come by to stay with them for a few days had been one of the most awkward experiences of your life.

For one, when you'd showed up Lisa had been surprised that you were a girl because apparently Dean hadn't said anything to clue her in about that. And when you made dinner for all of them as a thank you for letting you stay, the whole time there had been this weird energy sitting in the dining room with the four of you, like a giant purple elephant that you couldn't see, but you could feel behind you squeezing it's trunk around your chest.

The last straw had been when you accidentally overheard a conversation between Dean and Lisa where he was trying to convince her that he'd never been more than friends with you and she didn't believe him.

"Did you just call me a slut?"

"Yep." You reply.

The cemetery was eerily silent. Somewhere off in the distance you could hear the sound of the ocean, the harsh crash of water against sand and the jingle of the ships at the docks in town where the water gently lapped against the strong wooden boards of the seaworthy vessels. The cloying smell of salt came on the wind that pulled almost playfully at your clothes, beckoning you to the darkness of the vast sea in the distance.

"Takes one to know one sweetheart." Dean calls from behind you before he slams shut the trunk of Baby with a loud 'thunk.' "Not all of us are blessed with a super nose. And unlike you I don't go around smelling dead people. I don't even know if there's a name for that fetish. Kinda feels like necrophilia."

"It's a blessing and a curse."

The beam of light from your flashlight brings a yellowish glow over the smooth tombstones, each one beaten soft by the wear of rain and wind.

"My gut says over there." Dean nudges his arm into yours towards the right.

"Your gut couldn't tell this was a vengeful spirit, why should I trust it now?" You raise an eyebrow, flashing the light into Dean's face.

He squints his eyes at the offensive beam, but it does little to make him look ugly. There was nothing that could do that. You were speaking from experience because you'd seen your best friend covered completely from head to toe in blood and guts and you'd still wanted to lay a big one on him.

Maybe there's a support group online for people who are in love with their best friends. Because I should join that.

"One time I've been wrong-"

"Phoenix." You say immediately.

Dean frowns at the memory. "Okay two times I've been-"

"Tallahassee."

"You're just listing state capitals." Dean sighs heavily.

"No, I am listing places in which you've been wrong. If you want I can call Sam to cross reference my sources."

"Don't call Sam." Dean pushes past you and begins to walk to the right with you following behind him.

"So are you going to tell me why you're dodging his calls?" You ask, sweeping the beam over the tombstones again to see if you can find the right person.

"I am not dodging his calls!" He shouts increasing his speed.

"Dean." You gently catch the back of his flannel.

He stops dead in his tracks, but does not turn around.

"I know you." You whisper. "I know when something is wrong. Come on."

There was something wrong, you knew it the moment you picked up the phone last night before you drove ten hours to get to him. Felt it in your bones. The hard part was just getting Dean to tell you.

"Come on what?" Dean half-turns to look at you. There's something lurking in his eyes, a flash of vulnerability that makes your heart break for him.

The shovel you have no longer seems important, so you lean it against a tombstone and tug on the bottom of Dean's shirt until he turns around to face you.

"It's just you and me here. There's no cameras, no canned audience, no one else. Talk to me." Your hand falls on the arm that Dean is carrying the gasoline in, smoothing the fabric of his leather jacket.

He hesitates for a moment, long enough that the wind picks up and rustles through his golden brown hair. It too seemed just a little longer than he usually kept it, and you fought the urge to run your fingers through it.

"I didn't want to bother him with all this." Dean mutters. "He's out there living his life, a real life, something that he's always wanted and he doesn't need me dragging him back into all of my shit."

"Dean-" You sigh. "He's your brother, you're not bothering him-"

This is so much worse than I thought.

"I am." Dean shakes his head. "He's moved on and I'm still here doing all of this and I-"

"Hey." Your hand moves up to cup his cheek before you can stop yourself. The prickle of stubble beneath your hand is familiar, reminds you of when you would wake up in the morning before he did and his chin would be resting on the top of your head while your face nudged into the space between his shoulder and his jaw. The little place against his throat where you always fit. "You're not going to bother Sam by telling him about what you're doing. He loves you and he's worried about you and I am too. And yes he's doing something different, but what you're doing is a life too. It might look different, but what you're doing matters."

Dean frowns a little, but doesn't answer.

"Dean." You say his name, this time bringing your other hand up to hold on to the other side of his face. "Just because you don't work in a fancy office or have a white picket fence does not mean your life isn't a life. It is. Everyone finds their own way. There isn't one carbon cut copy about what life is supposed to look like. No one can tell you how to live it, the only thing that you should care about is if it's a life that makes you happy." Your thumbs drift to his cheekbones gently brushing back and forth in a soothing movement.

"Does it make you happy?"

Dean's question catches you off guard. He hadn't asked you that in a long time and certainly not before he'd had at least one or two drinks. Dean's shovel leans next to yours and he reaches for your wrist, the warm roughness of his palm against the skin comforting.

You think about lying, but you know that Dean will only clock it. You hated how much Dean knew you.

Not really.

"I mean-" You clear your throat. "Lately not so much." Your hands drop from the sides of Dean's face, but he doesn't release your arm. His thumb gently smoothed over the skin on the inside of your wrist, comforting you the way you had comforted him. "But being here with you is making me feel a bit better. It always does."

Why did I say that? That’s way too much-

"Me too." Dean breathes.

Electricity dances between the two of you, curling up your arm where Dean still has his hand around your wrist gently cradling it between the two of you. And you see something flicker behind the warm, familiar gaze of your best friend, a ghost of something that you can't put a name to.

His words reverberate in your head, vibrating through your skin, bringing a warmth through your body and sending the butterflies in your stomach fluttering.

Dean hasn't looked away from your face, his gaze focused as if he's waiting for something, watching for one of your ticks, but he won't find one. Not when Dean is looking at you the way you always wanted him to. You reach out to lay your hand against the front of his shirt, feeling the gentle beat of his heart beneath the palm of your hand.

Is this really happening?

Thunder rumbles in the distance over the sea, a storm brewing, the flash of lightning shattering the spell between the two of you.

"We better um- get this done." Dean clears his throat, releasing your wrist to find the shovel once more. "Don’t want to get caught in the rain."

"Yeah-" Your voice comes out a little high and squeaky. "Right."

The buzz of whatever the hell that was still thrums beneath your skin as you follow behind Dean, looking from tombstone to tombstone, trying to shake it off. And much to Dean's chagrin, his gut was correct, but he doesn't gloat, he just starts digging.

There's a part of you that wonders if it's because Dean is dwelling on what almost just happened- if there was an almost. You still were a little bit fuzzy about that. Your best friend was far from shy, when Dean wanted something he took it.

The silence grows between the two of you as you start to dig, so you decide to break it.

“How about after all this we drive out West and do some recon on Sam and Eileen?” You say, shoving the shovel deep into the hard earth.

“Really?” Dean asks with a grunt throwing a shovel of dirt over his shoulder.

“Yeah. We can stalk him when he goes to work, test out his security system at his house- just like how we used to when he was at Stanford.”

Dean and you had taken a few trips out West when Sam was at college. You'd always wanted to see the west coast and your dad was letting you go solo just as John let Dean solo. So naturally the two of you met up along the road and decided to cause some mischief.

It had been a nice trip, the feeling of the warm sun on your skin, the wind in your hair when Dean rolled down Baby's windows while the sound of classic rock pumped and hummed through the speakers. It was the closet you had come to a vacation, and something the two of you desperately needed. During the day you'd sit nestled in the front seat of Baby with a sketchpad perched on your lap that you didn’t have to hide from your dad, who told you that should be doing something else, something that mattered. At night Dean and you would share a motel room and when you'd woken up Dean was always on your side of the bed with his head buried in your hair, murmuring things in his sleep.

It was also nice to not worry about your dad for a while. He was as hard on you as John Winchester was on Dean, and you'd cut him out of your life a few years ago. Last time you heard from him was a voicemail two years ago telling you that he'd settled down somewhere in Texas and that he wanted to see you, but you couldn't.

Things hadn't ended well between the two of you and it was Dean who had blocked your father from getting closer to you while he shouted things over Dean's imposing figure that made you want to squeeze your eyes shut and turn away from him.

"That was a fun trip." Dean half-smiles.

"It was." His smile is encouraging. You noticed that in the time you'd been here Dean had been smiling more often, but you were still worried at him.

“You’d do that? Go with me?" He sounds hesitant.

"Of course I would do that for you Dean." You nudge him with your elbow. "I’d walk through fire for you, you’re my best friend. I would sing karaoke to 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun' for you." You hesitate. "Well maybe after a few drinks, but I would still do it."

He snorts. "I'd pay to see that sweetheart."

"Mhmm. And this time we'll be sure to bring sunscreen. Can't have you turning into a lobster again."

The only downside of the trip was that Dean had refused to wear sunscreen when the two of you stopped along the road at one of the beaches, and he'd turned the color of a tomato. Of course later when you were slathering him with aloe at the motel, dragging your hands down his arms and over his face, you could feel your own cheeks heating with your blush.

"How was I supposed to know that the sun was so damn powerful out there?!" Dean exclaims.

"Because I told you! You never listen to me."

"I do too listen to you!" He thrusts his shovel down into the earth with an increased enthusiasm, but instead of hitting the earth, there's a loud 'clunk.'

Guess we found it.

"No, you don't." You say as you crouch down to uncover the coffin with Dean.

"You know what? I'm not talking to you for five minutes."

"Toddler." You mutter under your breath. "You're a bit old for the silent treatment."

He doesn't answer and you roll your eyes again.

When the body is salted and burned, the warmth from the fire flares up from the grave, warming the chilled tips of your fingers, but you still shudder in the cold breeze. Dean's jacket comes down around your shoulders so fast you didn't realize that he noticed you shudder.

"Can't have you catching a cold Sweetheart." Dean flashes a signature grin that makes your knees weak. "Come on, let's get back to Baby. We can plan out where we're going on this road trip."

As the two of you make your way back through the cemetery, you see the beam of a flashlight on the other side of lot coupled with the high pitched squeal of laughter as it sweeps across the smooth weather beaten stones. Another rumble of thunder shakes the sky, rattling your teeth and vibrating against your skin.

Dean and you crouch down on instinct, and he makes a hand gesture.

You look at him confused.

The laughter gets closer, the people weaving through the graveyard, running after one another, oblivious to Dean and you.

He makes the hand gesture again.

"What?" You whisper.

He makes the gesture again.

"Dean, this isn't charades. Use your words. I can't understand what you're saying."

He sighs. "I was trying to tell you that it's okay, it's just kids." Dean whispers back.

"You could have just said that, you didn't have to make the gestures. Especially because you're the only person who understands them."

"I am not the only-" Dean huffs out a breath. He turns his head to watch two teenagers run by, giggling and laughing all the way as they do.

"Come on Shawn!" A girl shouts with a cackle lost on the wind, her blonde hair like a beacon, turning silver in the moonlight.

"I don't think we should be here!" The boy who you assume is Shawn shouts back, the beam from his flashlight flickers against his glasses.

"Don’t be such a wuss." The girl yells back over her shoulder. The lithe imprint of her form small and petite a contrast to the boy who stumbles behind.

Dean leans so close to you that his nose is pressed into your hair, his breath a warm exhale against your ear. "You wanna mess with them?"

A shiver travels down your spine with Dean's close proximity and you hope that he doesn't feel it. “You have to ask?”

“Come on.”

You leave your shovels and supplies behind, following behind the teenagers who laugh as they make their way through the lines of tombstones, but then something happens. They vanish.

"What?" You whisper in confusion, sweeping your eyes over the end of the cemetery. It came to an abrupt stop over a cliff that dropped off into the ocean over a thousand feet below. "Did they jump?"

The wind is harsher here, pulling and tugging at your clothes as if inviting you to fly with it, to jump into the darkness beyond and sink into the depths of the black sea below that writhes and splashes.

"This way." Dean tugs your elbow and turns you to a small set of steps that leads down the side of the cliff.

Okay. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Dean and you follow down the steps, unable to hear the laughter over the crashing of the waves against rock below, where the water rubs the stone smooth. And just when you think the steps will end, they twist and curve back into the cliff, depositing Dean and you in a cave.

"I still don't think this is a good idea Kayla." The boy, Shawn says. You can hear the tremor on the edge of his voice.

She obviously doesn't listen to him.

"Hey look at this!" You hear a girl's voice say. "I'm Queen of the world!"

Dean and you peer around the wet wall of the cave.

It's a crypt.

The walls further in are lined with bodies embalmed and wrapped in soft cloth, the musty smell of death wafting out to where the two of you are. Armor, chainmail, swords, and axes sit in neat piles to the left of the room, shining in the dull light of the beams. Various intricate designs are carved into the walls, semi-circles that entwine and tangle over the hewn stone, shining in the yellowed beam of the flashlights. 

The two kids from the graveyard are standing just a few feet in front of Dean and you, the boy has his back to you while the girl with the blonde hair who you guess is Kayla stands proudly on a rock wearing a crown.

You're sure that she must have found it a few moments ago, but something about it feels wrong. The crown is made of a silver metal, each point encrusted with emeralds that seem to absorb the light in the room rather than reflect it. Odder still is that for something sitting in a crypt, it doesn't look old, it looks brand new, not covered in the thick layer of dust like everything else in here.

Kayla wears it proudly, posing for an invisible camera. A low hum vibrates through the cave, hidden to the untrained ear beneath the distant rumble of thunder, and the crash of waves outside.

But you can.

"Dean." You mutter.

"I feel it too."

"I'm definitely wearing this to prom! Who cares about that plastic tiarra? This is a crown." Kayla giggles, taking it off to admire it in the light. "Oh look there's something written on it."

Oh no.

Before Dean and you can step forward to shut her up and stop her from pulling an Evil Dead, she begins to read the inscription. You have no idea what language it is, just that this is not good.

As soon as she finishes the last line, every single torch mounted on the walls flare to life without being lit.

Oh shit.

Kayla screams, throwing the crown down to the stone floor, clutching her hand. Her palm is seared a bright red, the imprint of the jewels forever etched into her skin.

"Kayla!" Shawn shouts rushing forward to see if she's okay.

"You just had to do it didn't you!" Dean says not bothering to hide as he comes out from teh mouth of the cave. "You just had to read the inscription off the creepy crown!"

"Who the fuck are you?!" Shawn stutters.

"Well I'd say I'm your worst nightmare, but I'm pretty sure we're about to meet whoever that is." Dean throws a knowing glance at you, but you're not focusing on that.

Because the entire room has gone silent. You can no longer hear the rumble of thunder, no longer feel the power of the storm brewing outside, no longer hear the sound of the crashing waves against the rocky cliff outside- there's nothing.

Just an eerie silence that hangs thick in the air.

The temperature in the room drops, sending a shiver down your spine, and goosebumps puckering against your skin while the hair at the back of your neck stands straight up."What the hell is going-" Kayla begins to sob, her ruined hand clutched to her chest, but Dean shushes her.

Shadows flicker and move around the edges of the cave, shifting into the forms of men and women running together like oil over water, rushing towards the crown that lies a few feet away.

The woman forms from the shades, born of darkness, of flesh and shadow as the dark imprints weave together, twisting and knotting, creating her from nothing.

Her skin is almost translucent white in the firelight, her hair a darkly woven web that tangles over her shoulders, while her eyes glow a menacing green. There is a necklace at the base of her throat, a strong mesh of iron to match the crown on her head and a collection of emeralds each one the size of your little finger.

The corpses that line the wall tremble in their cubbies, the rattle of bone and metal, and the stale smell of decayed flesh filling the room as they stir.

"Holy shit." Shawn gulps.

You can say that again.

Her robes are old fashioned, dark green, woven from strong fabric and imprinted with a twisted silver thread that forms sigils of stars and moons,  the garments flowing out behind her on some invisible wind that drifts through the crypt, but only seems to touch her. She makes no move towards you, only watches, her eyes piercing in the firelight.

The sound of the thunder outside is back, shaking the walls of the tomb and making the light from the torches flicker over the cold walls of the crypt.

Dean and you draw your guns at the same time, a reflex given you have no idea who or what she is.

You mentally go through the filo-fax in your head categorizing her into classes of what she could be. Comparing her to things you'd seen along the road. If not for the green robe she could be a woman in white. The way her skin is so sallow you can see the criss-cross of black veins beneath and the way her hair falls over her shoulders. But there's something about her you can't place, some throb of energy in the room that scuttles over your skin like a swarm of cockroaches, feels different than any other creature you've come along.

The woman's form flickers once as if she's not quite in the room with you, the motion sends a rustling through the bottom of her skirts, and the crypt fills with the smell of wet earth and dead leaves.

Dean pushes you behind him, a subconscious action that the woman clocks with a twitch of her bottom lip. Her head tilts just slightly, eyes narrowing a fraction.

We have to get the kids out of here.

"Look. We don't want any trouble-" You begin to say as calmly as possible.

Being diplomatic felt like a good idea right now or at least a good enough idea to buy you some time.

The woman moves faster than you thought possible. There's a terrible flash of green light and you feel an invisible force hit you in the center of your chest, propelling your body backwards through the cave. Dean shouts your name, but it sounds far away. Your stomach plummets with the few seconds of weightlessness, before your head hits the rock wall sending a jolt of pain through your body.

You lay there stunned, listening to the sound of the kids screaming, unable to move for a few seconds. Your mind is hazy, memories of the past slipping into these few moments.

The smell of the Impala, the soft scritch of a pencil against paper, the feeling of Dean's arm over your shoulders, the soothing motion of a paintbrush stroke-

You gasp as you come back to reality shaking your head once, twice to clear itself.

The kids are no longer in the crypt and you guess that the screaming you heard was them running for their lives, instead the woman floats in the center of the room, her hand clasped tightly around Dean's throat. She appears to be examining him, her eyes trace his features, unaffected by Dean struggle to get free.

A cold feeling of fear trickles down you spine, a raindrop in a thunderstorm finding the curves and plains of your back, melting snow against warm flesh.

"Put him down." Your voice is hard, the gun in your hand heavy as you train it on the woman.

She turns to look at you.

The rumble of thunder outside shifts to a higher pitch, a crisp sound, the clash of swords and the roar of a battle-cry merging into the howling of the wind.

"Now." You say.

Her mouth opens, and a language you don't know vibrates through the stale air, the sound of her voice is musical, a soft lullaby. The edge of her triumphant smirk curls back to reveal pearly white teeth, but she doesn't release Dean.

Your eyes flick to where Dean struggles in her grasp, his own emerald gaze focused on you. The fear you see in his eyes is not for himself, you know that. Years of hunting together, you knew that your best friend couldn't care less about himself, not if it meant you were hurt.

"Dean-" You whisper.

You didn't know what to do. You had a hunch that the rounds in your gun wouldn't do anything to her, and Dean and you had left the salt in the cemetery overhead, not to mention the iron knuckles you usually carried were still on the front seat of Baby where you'd left them.

And the lady was covered in iron so you doubted it would do anything to her.

"It doesn't have to be this way. We can talk this out. Just put him down. Please." You say it as calmly as you can, trying to think of something anything to do, but nothing comes.

The woman's smirk deepens. "No, more talking." Her voice slips into something harsher, speaking English through a thick accent.

The ground beneath her feet opens, the sharp sound of stone cracking while the crypt trembles around you, sending you stumbling to the right as the cave begins to tear itself apart.

Before you can do anything, the woman drops into the cavernous fissure dragging a struggling Dean with her.

"DEAN!" You shout, throwing your gun to the side and grabbing for his hand as he's pulled into the earth.

Dean gasps your name, his hand tight in yours, as the woman works her way down his body to hold tight on to his ankles. She hangs there in the space below, smile triumphant, as she playfully tugs on Dean's body as if it's a game.

"I'm not gonna let go okay?" You grunt, tightening your grip on his hand.

The weight of his body and the woman is too much, almost ripping your from it's socket, but you can't let him go. Not when Dean is the only person you have left. The ground beneath your body begins to crack, the stone flaking off to fall into the dark chasm below. You can't see the bottom, the cold hand of fear closing hard around your throat.

Dean says your name again. "It's gonna be okay."

"What?"

"I promise that it's going to be okay."

"I know it's going to be okay because I'm going to pull you up!" You struggle, tugging hard on his arm as you squirm to try and shuffle your body back on the ground, but it only makes more cracks spread and more earth fall into the chasm. "And then we're going to send her back to wherever the hell she came from."

His lips are pressed into a tight smile, eyes flashing with something melancholic you can't place. "Sweetheart. I promise that it's going to be okay. You just have to let go."

"No! I can do it!" You shout back, tears burning and falling from your eyes. "I-"

More of the bodies fall from the crypt into the chasm, disappearing into the darkness around Dean. The ground beneath your body shifts as more of it falls away. And you know at any moment you'll get dragged in too.

Dean looks down at the woman who hangs from his legs enjoying the scene in front of her, her dark eyes glinting as her green robes float out around her, then back up at you. The cold determined look in his eyes familiar.

"Dean please, I can't do this any of this- not without you!" You sob as you see the plan form in his mind. "So no to whatever you're thinking!"

"The only thing I'm thinking is how beautiful you are sweetheart." He flashes a signature smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "And that I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

He lets go, the final flash of his eyes the last thing you see before the darkness swallows him whole.

"No! DEAN!" You scream his name, prepared to dive in if that's what it takes, but the ground closes, shutting up the cavernous mouth that swallowed your friend, smoothing over so that there's nothing left but the cool stone floor of the cave.

Leaving you alone in the chill with the rumble of thunder and the crash of waves against stone, smoothing away the rough edges and taking them out to sea.

A/N: Please don't hate me for the cliffhanger 😅 Or for yah know, throwing Dean into a ravine... I promise that this one will have a happy ending. Eventually?

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated. I love hearing what y'all think and the comments keep me going! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for the next part please let me know!

Taglist:

@roseblue373 @livya99 @mrsjenniferwinchester @zepskies

@angrydragon90 @waynes-multiverse @kr804573 @maddie0101

[starlightwayfinder]

aros when the story explores the role of relationships and their effect on sense of self and fulfillment, the acceptance of impermanence and change, the perceived emptiness and isolation that comes from having a different emotional experience than the people around you, the struggle to balance independence with connection to others, wanting to be loved but not at the expense of being ‘imprisoned’ or tied down, choosing to be true to yourself at the expense of meeting others’ expectations—

[buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger]

I've heard some Things™️ about Thunderbolts and I am so worried

[sherlock-is-ace]

.

[biblicalhorror]

Honestly iiiiiiii kinda hate how they resolved the whitney/canaan/kimberly drama. I get where whitney was coming from (specifically re: kimberly lying to her) but she's had a whole summer to cool off and she's spent it apparently lying to everyone around her about not missing kimberly. And I've posted before about this, but I really don't think it was fair to expect kimberly to want to bring it up literally 1 day later in front of all their friends before she even knew what her and canaan were going to be. I wish the writers handled her side of this with a little more empathy and grace because yes, what she did was selfish and impulsive, but canaan and whitney had been broken up for awhile by that point, which in my mind means that the only thing kimberly really did wrong in this situation was lying to whitney about it, and again, I think she would have told the truth if the confrontation had been in private. It kind of seems like whitney threw a temper tantrum and decided to ice her friend out of her life instead of talking about her feelings or allowing any kind of dialogue, and then she only forgave her when she broke things off with canaan and essentially groveled at her feet taking full responsibility for the whole thing. Literally all she did was kiss a boy and then not want to talk about it immediately afterwards.

[sometimeswritingsometimesdying]

i’m cooking up a despicable, horrid, crushing (emotionally) friends with benefits haiden au. it might, however, end up crushing me first

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

Mmmmmm thinking about Nine the fox walking around with his two bodyguards (Alpha Grim Sonic and Chaos Sonic) again

The fox and his most devoted halberds who are also possessive bitches

No but like but like I need you to understand

Chaos Sonic who was originally revived to take Sonic's place, to fill the hole in a frienship Nine came to believe as fake, and yet clearly held onto so dearly. Chaos Sonic, who was supposed to be the same as before, except made to be Nine's devoted best friend who would never betray him.

Alpha Grim Sonic who Nine reportedly modeled after the hedgehog he (foolishly) thought of as a friend. A robot copy of Sonic who would not talk back, who would not think, who was only made to serve and protect Nine.

Chaos Sonic, whose time spent with Nine turned programmed allegiance and care into some form of love (obsession and possessiveness)

Alpha Grim Sonic, who was not supposed to think and feel. And yet, with time spent serving Nine and opposing Shadow, he begins to feel and to think (a budding soul forming within his metal frame and existing beyond his programming). A robot created to protect and serve, whose feelings for his creator and master begin to grow over time.

When did his internal drive shift from playing the role of Nine's best friend? When did he begin to resent Sonic for what he did to Nine? When did he begin to want to see Nine happy and safe and accomplished (rather than just simply alive and able to complete his goals)? When did he begin to crave Nine's attention and to make him stop thinking about Sonic?

Wasn't he programmed to be no more than an unfeeling robot, a set of algorithms designed to allow him to fight, protect, serve, and strategize only as needed? Why does he want to hurt Shadow so much (is it really just out of the drive to protect Nine, or is it to make the hedgehog pay?)? He'd follow Nine's orders to the ends of the earth, but why does he worry about Nine when they’re separated? Why has he started to covet Nine's smiles and bouts of happiness? Why does he feel annoyance when Nine converses with Chaos Sonic like he's also not there? Why is he starting to understand why Chaos Sonic resents Sonic, beyond the fact that Chaos Sonic has always fancied replacing him? Alpha Grim Sonic has never wanted to replace the real thing, never understood why Chaos Sonic would, but he's starting to understand jealousy (in the way one begins to feel things they cannot put words to).

Chaos Sonic would tell you it's because he and Nine are best friends. Alpha Grim Sonic would tell you that it's because Nine is his master. Yet, deep down, the two have begun to want to be useful and important to Nine. They want to protect him and see his goals through past any loyalty programming. It does not matter whether such an outcome was inevitable or not (based upon their programming or the holes Nine made them fill in his life), only that they believe that they'd choose this even if Nine tried to let them go.

And Nine... Nine who creates distance between himself and the two robots almost instinctively, as if he's trying not to grow attached (ironic, given the roles he placed the two in, the holes in his life he made them fill after he believed that Sonic had backstabbed him). And yet, just as much as he insists that Alpha Grim Sonic is cold and unfeeling and programmed to serve or that Chaos Sonic is just like that (given the personality programmed into him and his similarities to Sonic) and was programmed to follow orders, he finds himself beginning to value the two as more. He should see them as tools, he tries to think of them as tools. And, yet, over time, the two become irreplaceable agents of his will. He can’t allow himself to believe they really care about them, but he wants them to know that he likes having them around, that no other robot can fill the roles he programmed them for, and no real mobian could be as effective as them (even if it's embarrassing to admit). They become...a comforting presence, especially when he's stuck in the Grim post canon, practically alone, closed off from being able to see Sonic again

Do you get me do you get me?

[mossydice]

Nerium my darling, darling Thallain who can totally be trusted, Completely (✿◡‿◡)৹🔪

[dovewingpkmn]

So I found Hop…

He’s okay with me talking about this, by the way. He was trying to take on two Team Yell grunts at once, and I jumped in of course! We dealt with ‘em.. and then we.. talked.

..We have a lot more in common than we realized.

AND NOW WEN’RE EVEN BETER FRIENDS :D

[cats-in-the-clouds]

it is unfortunate when i go to prayer and cry my eyes out and the only response i really hear is that i simply have to bear it. like usually i can get my emotions out and once they’re settled i hear a rational solution but it sucks when i don’t get the answer i want. i just have to keep waiting. like normally i hear something that gives me strength but wow apparently i’ve hit a new low

[fortes-fortuna-iogurtum]

not sure if I personally agree with Aristotle about friendship tbh

[void-tiger]

Maybe it’s the “avoidant” part of my “fearful avoidance,” but. I really just…don’t care if someone I’m attracted to romantically likes someone else, or doesn’t share those feelings. Like, you do you. We’re not dating or owe eachother anything, and it all boils down to autonomy and compatibility, anyway. (And let’s face it, I don’t believe I’ll ever be compatible with anyone in terms of physical intimacy and I’m not able to compromise that without bruising my own boundaries, so.) But also like. I’d just. Turn attraction “off” if I could reach inside my head and flip a switch. Sadly humans aren’t that simple. Absolutely unfair.

Nah. What does get me into the Fearful instead (and struggling with that FA push-pull of “keep away/please don’t leave”): whether or not someone even wants to be my friend. Especially when I also accidentally developed attraction to them.