#I mean I think I know where. but neither of them wanted that. it was an obligation to make a baby. drawing THAT conclusion from it

[lazysoulwriter]

Yes, it's her. - Lewis Hamilton.

Summary: Y/N and Lewis Hamilton have always been spotted together, hand in hand, leaving people to speculate about their relationship. While they found the rumors amusing, Lewis wanted to make it official. It was just a simple request to date—no big deal—so why was he so nervous? With his usual charm and a lot of cheesy jokes, he takes a leap, hoping she’ll say yes.

The evening had started like any other. The two of you had ordered takeout and were sprawled on the couch, lazily scrolling through Netflix to find something neither of you would actually pay attention to.

“Rom-com?” Lewis asked, scrolling past 10 Things I Hate About You.

“Too predictable.”

“Action?” He paused on a Marvel movie.

“Too loud.”

“Horror?”

You shot him a look, and he smirked. “Too scary for you, babe?”

“I’m not scared. I just don’t feel like spending the night listening to you scream.”

He laughed, tossing the remote onto the coffee table. “Fine. No movie. Let’s just sit here and bask in each other’s presence.”

“Oh, how romantic,” you teased, pulling your legs up onto the couch.

Lewis shifted beside you, his knee bouncing ever so slightly. You noticed but said nothing. It wasn’t unusual for him to fidget—he was always full of energy—but tonight felt different.

“You okay?” you finally asked, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Yeah, of course,” he said quickly, his voice just a tad too high-pitched to be convincing.

“Lewis…”

He turned to you with a grin that was a little too wide. “What? Can’t a man enjoy some quality time with his favorite person?”

“Are you sure you’re not hiding something? You’re acting weird.”

“Me? Weird? Never.” He reached for his wine glass, taking a sip that lasted just a little too long.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you nervous about something? Did you crash another car?”

He nearly choked on his wine. “What? No! Why would you even say that?”

“Because the last time you acted like this, you accidentally ran over my potted plant with your electric scooter.”

He groaned, covering his face. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

He chuckled, but the nervous energy didn’t leave him. Instead, he leaned back, pulling you closer until your head was resting on his chest. His fingers played with the ends of your hair, and you could feel his heart beating faster than usual.

“You know,” he started, his tone lighter now, “the paparazzi think we’re already dating.”

You smiled, recalling the many headlines you’d seen: ‘Lewis Hamilton and Mystery Woman: Romance or Friendship?’ or ‘Spotted Again: Are They or Aren’t They?’

“They’re pretty creative,” you said. “Remember the one where they said we were secretly engaged?”

“Oh, and the one about us having a secret baby?”

You both burst out laughing, the tension in his body easing slightly.

“I mean, it’s kind of funny,” he said. “They’re all desperate to figure it out.”

“Well, let them keep guessing. It’s more fun this way.”

“Yeah… but what if we didn’t make them guess anymore?”

You froze for a moment, lifting your head to look at him. “What do you mean?”

He cleared his throat, suddenly looking everywhere except at you. “I mean… what if we, you know, made it official?”

You stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate. “Lewis, are you asking me out right now?”

His cheeks flushed, and he laughed nervously. “Okay, this is not going how I planned.”

“You had a plan?”

“Kind of. But then I got nervous, and now I’m rambling, and I don’t know why because this should be easy, right? It’s just… I like you. Like, really like you. And I know we’ve never called it anything, but I want to. I want to call you mine, officially. So… will you?”

For a moment, you just blinked at him, trying to process his words. Then, a grin spread across your face. “You’re such a dork.”

“Is that a yes?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning forward to kiss him softly. “Of course, it’s a yes.”

The relief on his face was palpable, and he let out a dramatic sigh. “Thank God. I was about to start sweating.”

“You were already sweating,” you teased.

“Okay, rude.” He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But you said yes, so I’ll let it slide.”

Later that night, after the excitement had settled and you were both curled up on the couch again, Lewis grabbed his phone.

“What are you doing?” you asked, peeking over his shoulder.

“Posting something,” he said, his tone casual.

You groaned. “Lewis…”

“Relax, it’s nothing big.”

He showed you the screen. It was a photo he’d taken of you earlier that evening, laughing mid-bite of your dinner, entirely candid. The caption read: “Yes. It’s her.”

You covered your face with a pillow. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he said, grinning as he hit post.

You couldn’t argue with that.

[chocobje]

How I like to characterize Sprout is that he’s great talking with the ones he’s close with (Cosmo, Astro, etc.) But incredibly socially awkward with others. He comes off as brash, but he’s trying his best.

What guidelines do you try to follow when writing Sprout? I’m just curious.

Thanks for giving me the opportunity to yap about one of my favourite characters hehe..

You asked for guidelines I gave you a character analysis instead.

(Don't mind the images I didn't want this post to look naked)

ALSO NOTE THAT AT THE END OF THE DAY THIS IS MERELY MY INTERPRETATION OF HIS CHARACTER. EVERYONE HAS THEIR OWN!! Don't take my post as a mandatory guide to follow.

Let's talk about what's canon:

I like checking the Wikipedia for his dialogues every now and then to make sure he's not too out-of-character.

Sprout comes off as blunt, he does not sugarcoat his words when he has something to say.

Not even an excuse or a reason as to why he doesn't want to join Teagan for tea; It was straight up a "no" until Teagan told him Cosmo will join them too. (Also I want to point out he doesn't immediately say yes when he's told Cosmo will be there, so for all we know he'd still decline even if his best friend's joining Teagan).

Dandy's dialogue when you purchase Sprout. I think about it a lot. Out of all the character dialogues, the one with Astro is what I feel like is an example of his overprotectiveness coming across as "pushy".

He'd definitely be the type to scold his friends. Especially after Gardenview's shutdown with all the Twisteds wreaking havoc and whatnot. I don't think Sprout is fond of going on runs, but only does so he can watch over everyone and keep them safe. He makes sure everyone is focused and on high alert, he doesn't want anyone to be reckless.

He prioritizes safety over answers. His dialogue with Rodger shows that. Maybe he's also curious as to what has happened, because in Vee's dialogue he tried talking to Dandy only for Dandy to walk away. I assume Sprout just wanted to check up on him rather than knowing what's going on with Gardenview and the Twisteds.

Another thing I don't really see often is how Sprout is actually pretty forgetful and impulsive.

For a Toon who's constantly keeping watch on everyone he surely does not apply the same kind of attention to himself.

He talks before thinking about his words, but once he realized that he immediately apologized to Vee. I don't think he always notices when he comes across as rude though.

I actually think he's actually quite reckless when he bakes. I obviously can't show it in this post but if you look at that animation with Cosmo and Sprout baking they're not even measuring the ingredients. I mean what. 😭

The way he bakes feels so impulsive and it just looked like they were winging it. Somehow despite that their baked goods still end up great and that's honestly impressive.

Okay now for that dialogue between Bobette and Sprout, I was getting there-- I've never made a gingerbread house but from what I've seen from other people it requires a lot more patience and carefulness.

Sprout is neither.

According to him, his gingerbread house fell apart immediately and then he stopped trying afterwards. It's honestly funny.

I feel like this also shows through his stats. Both his extraction speed and skillcheck is 2 stars. His stamina and speed is way higher. He prefers running around, probably to make sure he can watch over everyone during their runs. That or because he has long legs.

Anyway to recap; Sprout in canon is blunt, pushy, overprotective, and impulsive. But he genuinely has good intentions and means well. He cares for his friends, which is why he scolds them because he wants to make sure they're safe.

Now for some headcanons:

Okay this is the part where I make stuff up. So it's just my take;

• He has ADHD.

I'M STARTING WITH THE NEURODIVERGENT HEADCANON.

This is not a unique headcanon. I've seen so many people who headcanons this too so it's relatively popular. Personally, I only see him with ADHD. (I'm projecting).

He's forgetful, impulsive, and quite socially awkward in a way aswell. He's easily distracted. He keeps forgetting about the oven. He's impulsive when baking. I'm a very impulsive and reckless person myself, I constantly make mistakes when I draw, yet somehow they end up okay 😭. When I'm not able to draw something right, I give up immediately. (I projected this onto the gingerbread house thing earlier).

• He comes across as intimidating.

You know in Kids' birthday parties when there's a mascot a lotta kids go run and hide? I based it off of that. I remember when I was like, 6 or 7, when a mascot came in I cried and hid under a table. They were tall.. <\3

I feel like there was a concerning number of kids who were actually afraid of him, despite how friendly he appears both in person and in the show. Maybe it's the RBF when he's not smiling..

I also like to think he's taller than some of the kids who comes to Gardenview which plays a factor to the whole "intimidating" thing. The way Sprout deals with this is giving the kids cupcakes or other sweets. Once the kids actually talk to him they're immediately comfortable.

• He was one of the very first to become "Twisted".

I don't have a concrete idea on how the story of the game goes, but I always imagine the Mains being the first victims. Sprout is a healer and he keeps an eye on everyone, so he had to go first.

–

Okay, I think that's all now. If you read all of that wow thanks, this took me hours to write 😭. I love overanalysing characters.

[pretend-theres-a-name-here]

Everybody at the party seems to know somebody (who’s not me)

Short steddie idea I had about what if they’d met somewhere around end of s1-s2 | kinda angsty | R: G | 2580 words | could be canon if the writers weren’t cowards (nowhere does it say this doesn’t happen)

————————————————————————

Steve was tired. It was a Saturday night and there were people at his house. People he didn’t know, some who knew him. Somebody brought beer, it was Saturday night and there were people drinking beer at his house and Steve was tired. Exhausted.

 He thought he would be done with house parties when he had his fall from popularity, when he was no longer King Steve but he had a big house and crowds liked space. He didn’t want them here, only recently recovered from the nightmare fuel that went down at the Byer’s house. He wanted to spend his night alone, in his bed, maybe watching a movie. He didn’t want to spend it cleaning up after high schoolers and playing messenger between a fighting Tommy and Carol who had stopped talking to him three months ago. 

“Steeeeeve!” There was a girl calling his name, tripping over her feet on her way to reach him. He fell back further into the crowd.

Somebody was pulling him onto the designated dance floor. He didn’t want to dance, he didn’t want people calling his name from across the house. Get out, please just get out.

He just wanted these people out of his house but the music was too loud and he couldn’t find it in him to send a gaggle of drunk kids out into the public unsupervised.

So he was going to block it out and let them have their fun until people started passing out on his floor and then he was going to go to bed. This was the last, last, party that would ever be held at his house so he could rub his temples and toughen up for one night. Always were too whiny, Steven. Never could toughen up, don’t bother now. His father’s voice, always his father’s voice.

Steve was trying to keep it together but he was getting a headache and the music was too loud. He distracted himself by picking up crushed solo cups and taking cans from people who were a little too drunk already, dodging Tommy when he tried to clap a hand on his shoulder. The music got louder. He was done, done with Tommy Hagan and his romantic troubles, done being Carol's personal coat rack and gossip boy.

“Steeeve,” he heard Carol shout over the music—was somebody turning it up?—from his left, “Tell Tommy-!”

“Don’t listen to that bitch, Harrington. No good cheater!” Tommy spat, coming up on his right.

Steve was so focused on getting away from the nagging voices that he didn’t notice he was marching into a denim clad shoulder. 

“Hey, man, watch where you’re going-��� the guy said, he stopped when he turned around, coming face to face with Steve. If Steve were a girl he’d say the guy was gorgeous—but he wasn’t a girl so the guy wasn’t gorgeous. Steve thought he’d seen him around school, they might’ve been in the same grade.

Steve barely heard him—who was turning up the goddam music—“Watch where you’re going.” He snapped.

The guy scoffed, mumbling a quick asshole under his breath before turning back around. Steve was faced with tangled, curly hair instead of big, brown eyes.

“No, wait. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.” Steve was trying to be a better person these days, he didn’t much like who he was before Byers beat him around the head. Step one was apologizing.

“Yeah well I didn’t mean to be here tonight. Guess neither of us are happy.”

Okay rude, here Steve was trying to apologize and the guy was complaining about his party—a party he hadn’t even thrown!

“Why don’t you leave if you hate it so much?” Steve questioned, again trying to sound open and nice and like a good host instead of taking the guy by the shoulders and shaking him around, you think I want to be here either?

“My friends need a ride. I came here to deal. I’m actually really enjoying myself but I didn’t want to say that to your face. Take your pick, King Steve.” God, Steve hated that name. Even when he was popular it made his skin crawl.

“I hate it here too.” It was too quiet, he wasn’t sure Brown Eyes heard him. Steve didn’t know why he said it, didn’t know why it came across as more than being done with a shitty party, why it came across as if he meant—

He didn’t know the guy, “They keep turning the music up.” There definitely wasn’t any reason to say that, Brown Eyes didn’t care that he was a baby who couldn’t handle loud music anymore.

The boy stared at him for a second and Steve wondered if this was his way of politely telling him to fuck off, but then he was being dragged through the crowd by a hand on his wrist. Carol tried to latch on to his other arm but he shook her off, he supposed he could shake off Brown Eyes too but he didn’t want to. He didn’t know where Brown Eyes was dragging him to, it could be a quiet corner to kill him for all he knew about the guy. Maybe—maybe Steve would let him, maybe he would show him where the knives were tucked away in the kitchen and tell him which ones were too dull to get the job done. But Brown Eyes didn’t look like the type to kill on first meeting.

“Where are we going?” Steve managed to ask, only after Brown Eyes opened the patio door.

“Outside.” Brown Eyes grinned.

“No shit, you don’t say.” Steve grumbled.

“You said you hated it in there so I brought us out here. It’s not like you can leave your own house party so this is the next best thing.”

 The boy plopped down at the edge of the pool. Steve hadn’t sat so close to it since Barb died, he hadn’t even opened it since Barb died but some asshole found their way out here and tripped into the switch. It screamed when it opened, a horrible sound Steve had been trying to forget since being dragged into the mess that was the Upside Down, and he’d nearly stopped breathing when the guy who opened it almost fell in. 

He sat down, keeping his legs far from the water, unlike Brown Eyes who’d already gotten his shoes off and dunked his feet. Steve had to sit on his hands to stop from grabbing him by the back of his collar and dragging them both back inside, away from the pool. He had bite the inside of his lip until he tasted blood to stop from saying something stupid, something like please don’t sit so close to the water don’t get in don’t let it touch you because the last person who sat like this never made it past graduation. 

In his search for a distraction, anything to keep words sure to get him a look from tumbling out, Steve noticed that the guy had a metal lunch box with him when he lifted the lid, bringing out weed. Oh. They were here to smoke. Something Steve hadn’t done since, well a long time.

“It’s not mine.” Steve mumbled in the silence. 

Brown Eyes raised an eyebrow from where he was bent over a lighter.

“The party. It’s not—I didn’t throw it.” Steve felt silly saying that, it was his house after all so he was responsible.

Brown Eyes just hummed, didn’t question it, only asking, “Who did?”

Steve took the joint when Brown Eyes handed it to him—out of habit, he’d say later. He’d say a lot of things later.

“Tommy. Or Carol. They’re the only ones who know where the spare key is and I sure as hell didn’t unlock my door for a dozen people.” Steve sighed, blowing out the smoke.

“Shit.” Brown Eyes took the joint, exhaling his own drag before he spoke—Steve would say, later, that it didn’t make his stomach swirl like the smoke between them— “You know you could get them arrested, right? That’s technically breaking in. Think I even saw some kid break a fancy little vase. Breaking and entering right there.”

Steve winced, his mom loved those vases more than him—not exactly a difficult thing to do but he was sure to be skinned alive if she found out, “Like Hopper would believe I wasn’t just saying that to get rid of the blame. He’s busted my parties one too many times and he’s not exactly up to date on the high school drama that is my fall from grace.”

“Well you have one eye witness if you decide to go to the cops. Though I can’t say how reliable they’ll find me.” Brown Eyes turned to him with a grin. 

They passed the weed back and forth for a while. Steve didn’t like being high much, this felt different, every other time he'd had to keep up the image. Sitting and talking high with Brown Eyes was easier than talking to Carol and Tommy sober. Steve would decide that was the weed talking when he got his brain back. Easy conversation about nothing, probably classes they had together, led to Brown Eyes asking what had caused Steve’s downfall.

If Steve hadn’t stopped breathing that moment he might’ve spilled his guts about the Upside Down. If his heart hadn’t stopped and he didn’t need to get away from the pool immediately, he would’ve just kept talking. The real answer to Brown Eyes’ question was Barb’s death. The real reason he lost his popularity was the night Nancy’s best friend died in his pool and everything had gone to shit.

Brown Eyes noticed his panic, “Woah there, okay that’s enough weed for tonight. You okay, dude? You’re, like, super spooked.”

“I-yeah, I’m fine. Just, there’s more to the story than high school drama. Stuff I’d really rather not relive.” Steve scooted away from the pool a little further and hoped, pleaded with every bone in his body, that Brown Eyes wouldn’t press.

He didn’t, thankfully, just sat back with Steve—out of the water Steve realized, “We’ve all got ghosts in our closets.” He said.

Steve huffed out a laugh, “Isn’t it skeletons?”

“That would mean somebody sees them, Stevie. Ghosts are much more invisible.”

“You have ghosts?” Steve asked, quiet.

“Oh, loads.” Brown Eyes shrugged, “I’m basically a haunted house, man.” That made Steve laugh, “What about you? The ones you can talk about anyway.”

“You mean other than the fact that my house is a ghost town in and of itself? Try parents that are never around to watch you at sports you joined for their attention or friends who only like you when you’re rich.” Steve sighed, “God that’s so fucked up, I should be grateful for the money. Not complaining like an asshole.”

“You know I might’ve agreed with you a few months ago. I don’t think it’s actually the money you’re talking about, though. It’s the life, right?”

Steve felt himself nodding.

“You’re not an asshole for being lonely, Harrington.”

Steve almost remembered he never asked Brown Eyes’ name. Almost remembered to ask it now, but he didn’t, just let them lapse into silence. Steve didn’t look up for a few minutes, but when he did Brown Eyes was looking at him. Steve felt his breath hitch for a second time, not out of a panic like before. When had they gotten so close? Were their pinkies always just barely brushing?

Steve would make a dozen excuses later. Maybe he was just too high, maybe his hand slipped and he accidentally fell forward. He was lonely, Brown Eyes had said it himself. Maybe he was imagining a girl in Brown Eyes’ place. But when Brown Eyes leaned closer, a question in his eyes, Steve didn’t want to pull away. He didn’t want to be the one to break this, he wanted to see how far Brown Eyes would go. 

He told himself he only closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see when it happened, only pushed forward that last inch because—maybe he didn’t have an excuse for that but it didn’t matter because Brown Eyes didn’t pull away and he didn’t pull away. He felt the foreign feather light brush against his own lips distantly, an out of body sensation that left him tipping forward when Brown Eyes scrambled back.

“Oh shit.” Brown Eyes muttered, pushing a finger to his lips, “Oh fuck this is-this isn’t—”

“We’re just high, right?” Steve pushed off the concrete, standing probably a little closer to Brown Eyes than necessary. 

Brown Eyes was avoiding Steve’s gaze. He knew Steve was grasping at excuses he didn’t even believe himself. Brown Eyes seemed to deflate, hunching in on himself and Steve would think it looked almost disappointed if he could think anything at all right now.

“Yeah. Yeah, one joint split between us and we’re both high enough to kiss, right King Steve?” Sarcasm dripping through his words but it didn’t feel mean, it felt desperate.

It was then Steve realized he never asked the guy’s name. He needed-he wanted to know now. Before he could ask, though, Brown Eyes was backing away.

“I-I’ve got to go. I… I’ll see you around, Harrington.” 

“Wait-I never—” never got to finish his sentence. Never got to ask Brown Eyes for his name. Because Brown Eyes was through the door and disappearing in the crowd inside before Steve could get a word out and he was alone. 

Steve stayed by the pool for a long time, the longest he’d been out there even before Barb’s death. The air turned cold, leaving him littered with goosebumps, but Steve just stood there. He wanted to scream, wanted to kick and cry and throw a tantrum. That’s not how Harrington’s act, Steven, don’t be such a big baby, Steven. He could practically hear his fathers voice digging its way into his ears. God, he was a dead man if his dad found out about this, he was a dead man and there wasn’t a thing his mom could do—if she would even still stick up for him now. 

He wanted to believe she would, wanted to think she would tell him it was going to be okay but she’d just stand back and start planning for his funeral. Maybe she’d remember the time they sat in the garden years and years ago and Steve told her his favorite flowers were the daisies she would tuck into her hair on summer afternoons, maybe she would remember sliding them into his hair and then picking them out before they went inside as she told him it would be their secret and maybe she would lay them over his coffin.

In his panicked state, he noticed the guy left his shoes behind, black converse coming apart at the seams. There were little drawings scattered around the bottoms, Steve saw, smudged and dirty. He should return them. He doesn’t know who they belong to but he should return them. He couldn’t just leave them outside, at least that’s what he told himself as he trudged through his now empty house, hours later. It was the weekend anyway so he couldn’t even return them, that’s why he found a place for them in his closet. He didn’t know who they belonged to, that’s why he kept them there until summer bled into fall bled into winter. 

———————————————————————— Part 2??

Fun fact: I was listening to acolyte by slaughter beach, dog when I finished writing this

[ma1dita]

not your goddess

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader words: 8k holy shit this is the longest fic for this series so far summary: (established relationship (uhhhh, well…)) The one where you both know the best of days eventually have to come to an end. Change in perspective is always good, but it makes you and Luke see your futures quite differently—you wonder if you’ll be together in it at all. (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader) a/n: mmmyeah this is a songfic - goddess by laufey. references to waiting for godot by samuel beckett if you squint

—

[ it always goes like this, could've predicted it || i'm so naïve to think you loved me for me, kissed as I ran off stage || you're too old to play this game, guess you're still growing up at thirty nineteen]

Once you open yourself up to someone and bare your soul to them in honesty, they get a choice whether they want to be with you or not. It’s as simple and as convoluted as that. Normal humans are complex as it is—but to be a demigod must mean to endure all of that and then some. Luke has been especially hard to reach lately, and trying to understand him feels like grappling wisps of smoke. You let him build his whole life around you without either of you realizing and suddenly the walls feel like they’re closing in. Though maybe he always knew that—Luke Castellan is always intentional, and always full of surprises. 

“We should run away from here.”

His voice breaks through the crunching of dead leaves underfoot on your trek to the stables. It’s hard to tell if he’s joking, even harder to decipher when your eyes meet in the dim light hanging above the Dutch doors that you walk through. 

The two of you move as if partners in an orchestrated dance, the steps routine and not needing instruction; you fill up the water troughs and he steps around you to grab the bag of feed while his other hand grazes your waist, beckoning you to the next task. Most days are like this now, plotted out perfectly from sunrise to sunset. 

To be content means that most of it is predictable, and some might call it boring, but it comes with the inner satisfaction that what the both of you share is only yours. 

It’s peaceful.

Neither of you has ever really had that—and in your own way, both of you want to hold onto it for as long as you have it. Like how comets are always predictable; the knowing doesn’t make them any less beautiful.

“Let’s go now then,” you chuckle lightly, not looking at him as you shut off the hose. Bowie, your pegasus, brays in thanks as he dunks his muzzle into the trough, splashing water at your ankles. The water is frigid, a chill crawling up your spine and when you look up, Luke’s already staring at you solemnly, almost blending in with the shadows that drape over the barn. He stands there leaning against the wooden fence with his sharp, stone-faced features carved out by moonlight.

“Baby?” 

Eyebrows furrowing, you take a step towards him and he’s eerily still, holding a hand out for you. His fingers don’t shake once you intertwine them with your own and he’s so sure of himself that his resolve is like a suit of armor. What a funny thought—him needing protection from you of all people, the girl he lays bare with most nights and who knows him at his most vulnerable. 

“What do you think? Do I look like I’m joking?”

Luke’s words creak like metal hinges—coming off abrasive at the sight of your resistant expression. Truthfully, he hates it when you look at him like this—like there’s something wrong about him that you’re convinced you can fix. You don’t do it on purpose, but he’d like to think that you don’t think of him as one of your little DIY projects. This is different, calculated—his plans for the both of you will map out the rest of your future.

“Are…are you planning to leave?”

Though you hate to make the comparison, he’s a lot like his father: a one-track mind with only him knowing what’s coming next. Luke just expects everyone else to keep up, and you’re left feeling like someone’s pulled the rug out from under you as he holds onto your wrists firmly in the dim light. He’s nervous, even if he doesn’t show it. You can still tell by the way his voice cracks, a melancholy sound like he’s pleading for you to understand a hidden meaning you must’ve missed in the past few months of bliss.

 “We are,” he corrects, before his voice begins to falter, “I mean we can. We…we should,” he says tentatively, and your arms jerk forward with the motion as you stumble into his grasp, “Think of it, babe. We could get out of here and do something great. Make a life for ourselves.”

You squint.

He’s not even asking, and that makes it worse, you think—it’s like he’s already got one foot out the door. You’re not sure if he even considered you possibly saying no.

Are you?

Entertaining frivolous conversations that your boyfriend has with you before bed is one thing—but acting on them? The truth is that you’ve never afforded yourself a future outside of the reality that you have now. You never thought you’d have this after everything—running across the country to find your father and make this family in nowhere New York. It wasn’t a possibility that your 14-year-old self would’ve ever dreamed of. 

But then it happened, and you count your lucky stars that it led you to Luke. This is your home; you built it from the ground up with him the day you both stepped into your roles and washed your hands of stupid pranks. And maybe what you’ve always dreamt of is something you already have now.

Is that a crime? To like your reality better because it’s tangible—not everyone needs to be the main character in a sweeping saga. You do have a life, and you’d like to say it’s pretty alright, all things considered.

“Luke,” you swallow, face scrunching up in the way it does when he knows you’re about to say no, “I mean what about our responsibilities? What about…”

It was cute back when you were fourteen, but he now finds that he hates the way your nose scrunches up when you disagree with something, and it always makes him feel stupid for even asking in the first place. Luke steps away, dropping your hands as he sighs gruffly, “That’s a shit excuse, you know that, babe.” Dust kicks up from under his feet and you think he looks like a child about to throw a tantrum. The pegasi whinny softly behind you, and if they could talk it would probably be something like, Oh shit. Like a flip of a switch, he’s erratic, something pent up inside of him is now uncontrolled.

“I mean what do you want me to say, Luke? You want us to leave? Just disappear and leave Annie and Grover… and my brothers? What then? We don’t have money or degrees, or anywhere to go to—”

“We could make do—I mean we’ve both done it before Trouble, and now we can be together without all this. We don’t need camp. Or the gods’ blessings, I mean what did they ever do for us?” 

He’s tired, you think—because the Luke standing in front of you right now isn’t anything like the one you know. Your Luke loves your campers as much as you do; he’s the type that gives piggyback rides and teaches the little ones how to swim in Canoe Lake. He prays at every mealtime—twice as long because you don’t see the point in it, and likes to fall asleep against your chest in the twinkly lights of cabin 12.

The Luke you know would never want to run away from the home you’ve both created for yourselves. Not without a proper plan. Luke always says that he loves making plans just as much as he loves you, which must mean a lot.

You already have what you want, for now. That’s the contingency of it—for now. You just don’t see it getting better than this; finding camp meant finding yourself, and that’s what your mother always wanted for you. Having a real shot of being a family, even if your dad drives you nuts, and the twins like to fill the bathtub with root beer, and Annie constantly demanding she prove that she knows the first 500 digits of pi comes with the path you chose. 

Family—it’s what you were promised.

“We’re not ready, Luke. I mean… the real world out there is a lot worse than getting a C in archery or avoiding bathroom duty. We’ve still got some growing up to do—what’s the rush?”

He’s testy now—jaw swinging the crick in his neck and he does this when he’s about to say something mean, like the words have to fight their way out of his mouth, “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Luke watches you look cluelessly at him like nothing he’s saying is making sense and it’s so frustrating that it makes his head hurt. What happened to you—his free-spirited girl who would follow wherever he leads? You don’t know how crucial this all is—Luke needs to know…

He needs to know if you’ll still follow him wherever he goes, even if it’s away from everything you have here.

But maybe you both imagined growing old together quite differently then.

“You’re making it sound like I’m in over my head about this when I know you don’t like it here. Listen to what I’m trying to tell you,” he bristles, hand leaning over the wooden beam above your head, “This place is getting old. We’re getting old. I want everything with you. Can’t you see that?” It feels like he’s caging you in, and he makes it sound so simple that it makes you laugh.

“Of course I do. All I’m saying is we should think this through more. I mean…We’re demigods. I’m not saying we can’t handle it and I’m not saying no, but—”, you barely finish the sentence before Luke interrupts you again. 

The difficulty with Luke is that when he wants something, he wants it with his entire being. And he never goes down without a fight—even when its with you.

“But you’re not saying yes. Then what are you saying? That you wouldn’t be happy with me?”

Rolling your eyes, you swing yourself out from under his arm and start taking off your apron because clearly, work is not on the agenda tonight. You fling it onto the hook before spinning around to look at him.

“Stop putting words in my mouth. I am happy with you. Here. Where it’s safe. Where we have beds to sleep in and food to eat and the only real reason I have to look over my shoulder is to see if my dad’s bribing your siblings to sneak him alcohol,” you say half-jokingly, and it so badly misses the mark as you see his brows furrow deeper into his forehead. 

“Give me a break,” he seethes, your name rolling out of his lips like acid and he has more to say but doesn’t know if he should. But he’s already started something and you’re just waiting for him to finish it. He has a habit of doing this, rolling the words around in his mouth for dramatic effect. 

This is gonna hurt.

“Oh just spit it out, Luke. Don’t whine like a baby.”

“Your dad? He’s a fucking joke. Can’t stand him half the time and I don’t know how you do,” he starts, pacing around you like a boxer in a ring. You stand still as a statue, eyes lit and tracking him in the dark as he continues, “You know I’m right. He’s just keeping you busy because now that he has you, he wants to control you. And you don’t even get a pat on the back.”

“You do not wanna go there, I can promise you that.”

“Well, I am. Because I’m tired of watching you waste your potential. You used to be so…exciting,” His arms swing around him like feathered wings and Luke shakes his head, turning away from you to look at the moon, “I need you to care about our future too, okay? Cut the shit and be a real fucking person for once and not whatever this little puppet show you put on for your dad is because it drives me crazy sometimes. All the time. I’m losing it, Trouble. Can’t you tell?”

It feels like a blow to the chest and you take a deep breath to placate your feelings in case they’re tampering with his—and you find that the anger is all his own. Your words shoot out like a lit cannon in rebuttal, “This drives you crazy? I didn’t know it was so hard on you, Luke. Poor you, picking up after me when you literally offer to help,” you scoff, stomping over to get him to look at you since he’s so intent on having this conversation, “Do you think you get granted immortality for checking off campers on your attendance log?” He can’t have thought it would be that easy, can’t have imagined you wouldn’t get defensive when things don’t go your way. Because it’s been like that for a while now, and Luke’s been falling off pace with life here. He’s not the all-star golden boy he used to be. Deep down, you know that too; he only likes it here because you do. They say with anything the first year is the hardest—and although he wouldn’t change a thing with your relationship, this took work. Loving you was supposed to be his reward, and it’s as if he doesn’t know you anymore. 

He’s not sure he knows himself that well anymore either.

“Of course not! That’s exactly what I’m saying—all of this won’t help us, so why are we exhausting ourselves instead of focusing on what’s important?” He runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the curls to anchor himself to this argument. And now you just want to strike back, to be damned with the consequences. Real love is a mirror, and although it's your first big fight…sometimes it hurts to be seen better than how you see yourself, and it hurts less to inflict it upon someone else instead of admitting that it hurts you.

“Oh so I’m exhausting to be with, is that it?”

He rips his apron off and tosses it at you, “Yes. Is that what you want me to say? You want a bad guy, you’ll get one. I don’t know what to—” His anger has always brewed like a storm—quiet and rumbling under the surface until he’s ready to strike. It comes down all at once and you’re covered in it with no way out but through. You bat the fabric to the ground angrily.

“You wanna repeat that?”

He laughs, a mocking, snarling sound, “You know what, it makes sense now—you’re just like your father. It all tracks!”

Your jaw tightens, pushing through by giving him another chance, testing him. Daring him.

“You wanna say that again?”

The wind picks up at his feet as he spins around you so fast it almost gives you whiplash, “Don’t give me that bullshit.” He’s tired and angry, but you’ve never seen this other side of him before—this ferocity that was unleashed at the idea of you wanting something he might not. Maybe you both are too similar then, too stubborn to give in until someone breaks.

“Don’t talk to me like that, Castellan. I’m warning you. Just because your dad hates you doesn’t mean that mine does.”

He laughs. 

Luke laughs like you’ve just told him you’ve put Chiron in another dress and that pigs can fly but then he looks at you… He looks at you with his chestnut brown eyes and they’re just empty, boring deep into your soul.

“What happened to you?”

It’s a weird feeling, to know someone so well that you can see the other side of them they can’t see for themselves. You haven’t got a single clue.

“I grew up. You were there, Luke. You helped me do it. I wanted to be just like you—the role model, the one that people like, and what, now that I'm not just some crazy idea in your head you’re bored?” 

Your voice cracks and so does a piece of Luke’s heart. You’re too tenderhearted, too good for him, and everything about you sends shockwaves through his being. This is what he told Kronos—even if you had it in you to force the gods to kneel and listen, would you be able to make the jump? Luke blinks, tuning back into your words.

“I mean you’re not even asking. It seems like you’ve made your decision for us. What does that mean to you? Us?”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, clearing his throat. His apology feels heavier than it should, and you can’t figure out why. He won’t let you find out if he even means it. 

“No, you’re not. You don’t even know what you’re sorry for, and now as soon as we’re happy, you get bored. You wanna talk about fathers, you’re just like yours too. Happy?” 

The words come out almost explosive, a shot in the dark and you didn’t think you’d say it, but you did. Thoughtless, without care, until it sinks into him like a sharp blade. Luke’s face hardens and you’re not sure how long he’s been standing so far away.

“Are we?”

It’s almost lights out and you’re still here arguing with Luke, so today was not as predictable as you thought it would be. Unease grips you by the scrap of your neck like a merciless kitten, holding on for dear life. This isn’t a feeling you should associate with the love of your life.

“What did you say?”

“Like you said, we’re demigods,” he says whispering your name, “what do we do now that we’re happy? That usually means something worse is coming up ahead.” Luke scoffs, half in disbelief at his own realization, the other half in defeat, “We’re meant for more than just being happy—that…this isn’t enough. We’re meant for glory, not shoveling pegasi shit and taking care of children instead of planning for a future with our own. This shouldn’t be the end of us.”

Your lip quivers, tongue in cheek and you need to touch something, hold someone, to remind yourself that this is happening. But you don’t reach out to him because if you get too close he’ll see the tears in your eyes. Grabbing the dandy brush, you trudge over to Bowie and rake it through his hair, mumbling, “I’m happy. I’ve got you,” you swallow, turning to Luke, “I love you.”

He’s already in the doorway, swinging the bottom panel closed with his hip as he looks over his shoulder, frowning.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

Bowie brays next to you and it sounds like someone blowing a raspberry when they’re tired of a situation—maybe you are going crazy and they do understand—but one thing you do know is that you can’t understand Luke right now. 

The truth is that love is a bunch of horseshit, really.

[ oh, were you surprised by me when you took me home? || When the glamour wore off, reduced to skin and bone || i can't even tell who you want to know || i'm a goddess on stage, human when we're alone]

Your knees hit the dirt again, falling forward onto your hands as you dry heave. In the blink of an eye, you feel Maimer resting against the apex of your neck.

“Yield.”

Clarisse La Rue has barely broken a sweat during this spar, and yet here you are at her feet feeling like today’s breakfast will make a reappearance on the arena floor. The younger girl rolls her eyes as she pulls you up by the leather strap of your chest plate, sighing at the unnatural pallor of your skin as she flops onto a bench with your dead weight following suit as your knees buckle.

“You know, I knew you said you were bad at this, but are you even trying?” she scoffs, throwing a water bottle at you that you fumble in your hands. Winning never feels as good when the other person isn’t putting up a fight. You gulp down the icy refreshment, shutting your eyes for a moment to escape the blinding sun as you mutter, “Never been a fighter unless necessary, Risse. That’s all you.”

“Alright, enough of this.”

Your eyes wrench open as you lean back on your forearms to look at the daughter of Ares. At thirteen, she’s a force of nature on her own and unlike anyone else at camp, Clarisse would never mince her words for the sake of others’ feelings. You needed someone to tell it to you straight.

“You know everyone can tell when you and Luke fight, right? I mean it rarely happens but when it does it always feels like the world is out of balance until you both fix it.”

You groan, throwing your arm over your face and unintentionally hiding from her. That couldn’t be true—the world does not revolve around whether or not a daughter of Dionysus and a son of Hermes had their shit together.

But Camp Half-Blood does.

“You’re lying, La Rue. It’s really not that deep.”

And then she looks at you like you’re stupid, which might be her customary expression for anyone else but to you—well, she at least respects you. For now, unless you keep whining like a badly written love interest.

“Gods, woman. You were so much cooler back then, what the hell happened to you?”

“Clarisse, it isn’t that easy—-” you grumble, putting your face in your hands as you stare at the dirt. Of course, you know that everyone knows, secrets run through Camp Half-Blood like running water. It slips through your fingers easily, soaking through the ground until everyone’s stuck in the mud. Your boots sink slightly into the softening earth and Clarisse realizes you’re crying before you do. 

Why the fuck are you crying? 

It was a stupid argument and it probably doesn’t mean anything but for once, you don’t know what to do. It feels stupid that your body decided to cry before your brain could come to the conclusion. This all feels so stupid.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to make you cry, weirdo,” she mumbles, unsure of what to do with a crying head counselor. Her calloused hands rub small circles into your back, and she can’t help but think you need more girlfriends your age. Scooting closer to you, she says, “What I meant was that you were way cooler when you didn’t give a shit about what people think about you, much less Luke Castellan. You’re starting to sound like you’re from 10, and I swear Sil is the only tolerable person from that cabin. Stop crying, please…”

You sniff, “Ugh… This is so dumb. Just lost myself for a second.” The statement rings true, and it bothers you more than you thought it would. There is so much more to you than playing the part of the agreeable girlfriend, the caretaker, the perfect daughter, that if you stared at yourself in the mirror you might not recognize who’s staring back. So many parts to play, and so little of you left.

“I guess, what I’m trying to say is,” Clarisse sighs, “and I’m no good at this feelings shit, but I think you need to remember that you’re allowed to be someone without him…without all of this. And you owe it to yourself to find out who that is.” You look up at her with watery eyes, tucking hair behind your ear as if it’ll help you absorb her words better. 

You can’t believe you’re getting sound advice from a thirteen-year-old, much less a child of Ares on matters of love. 

“It’s nice to be needed,” you mumble, “my greatest honor, I think. But it might also be my downfall.” 

Clarisse smiles crookedly like she’s watching you through a fresh set of eyes. There’ll be no words of this conversation once you leave the arena—the both of you have a friendship unlike most girls here at camp. Never touchy-feely, typical girl talk, but always what you need to hear. 

“How terrifyingly human of you. Yuck.”

“I can’t go on like this,” you groan, slumping further into your folded-over position and she sighs, going to take a sip from her water bottle before squeezing your shoulder.

“That’s what you think.”

[ you took a star to bed, woke up with me instеad || you must have felt so damn decеived when you made up a version of me that you thought you loved || but I am not your Aphrodite ]

When you were fifteen years old and he was just a month shy of it, you had somehow convinced Luke Castellan to run away from camp with you. 

This was back then. Just for a day—just for the tiniest taste of freedom. 

Luke had been at camp for almost a year, and Rye Playland sounded so much cooler than food service with the nymphs—which is one of the few things he would agree with you on. The both of you had kitchen duty for two weeks after getting caught attacking each other during Capture the Flag despite being on the same team, and it ended up with you ripping the fabric off the stick and chucking it into the middle of Canoe Lake. He’s lucky you didn’t lunge for his head, but the game was forfeit, and cabin 6 didn’t talk to you two for weeks because you threw the game. Including Annie, which was a surprising feat in itself.

After that day, you swore to never do anything Luke made himself in charge of and Chiron swore you two would never be on the same team again. You could remember D’s voice that day and how it boomed through the Big House, reminiscent of his father—a crackle of fury and impalpable seriousness that had Luke shaking slack-jawed in the chairs facing the mahogany desk. He’d never been told off by a parent before, much less an Olympian.

Taking it in stride even as the god threatened to turn you both into dolphins, you mimed the conversation when your father’s back turned, copying the odd quirk in D’s brow and conjuring a mouthful of grapes for teeth. You grinned at the son of Hermes like an idiot, a singular ripe sphere shooting out to make an audible thwack against D’s red Hawaiian shirt that made Luke laugh the loudest, ugliest guffaw you’ve ever heard him let out. He choked on his spit when the god jerked his head back to face the both of you like a comic-book villain.

Honestly, he might’ve peed himself a little. Just a tiny bit.

And the god of insanity himself was at his wits’ end—which is rare for him, very few things can get him to that point. Even less so with people. Pathetic, puny, little people he can drive to madness and violent death. 

But not his baby girl—you know every last nerve to step on, a lot like your mother sure, but still all him in every way it mattered. He loved it, even when he was mad at you like this. He just wasn’t good at showing it, and you knew that to some extent. Plus, you can’t take a man in a Hawaiian shirt seriously, much less a god.

So you and your self-proclaimed archnemesis (frenemy, Luke insists) find yourselves running down Farm Road before first light, leaving nothing but a trail of dust behind you as you rush to catch the LIRR at a stop two towns over.

It was a small amusement park filled with different money-grabbing oddities, tooth-rotting confections, and rickety, squeaking rides that the conductors could fold into suitcases at the end of the day.

Sketchy, but so much fun. You made Luke go on all the kiddie rides with you and screamed your head off like a lunatic; he apologized to the parents of a toddler and said you had too much sugar—but that was a lie, this was all you in your natural state. Berry chapstick, wind-tousled hair, and a smile brighter than a spotlight. And your laughter, oh, your laughter shook the walls of the funhouse even after you crashed into the fifth mirror being too busy poking fun at the wonder in Luke’s eyes because it was the first time he’s genuinely done something for fun and not out of necessity. It was nice, and so were you, for once.

It was the first time you’d let your guard down for him, he thinks back—watching you toss a ball so badly off target from milk bottles set across the booth. You twisted in his grasp (he doesn’t remember getting so close, Luke still swears he was trying to help you aim) pouting at him with those pretty plum eyes and he sighed so deeply you smelled the cotton candy on his breath. For a moment you wondered if he tasted like it too—and then the worker asked if you’ll be trying again and you went, “Hmm? Maybe he’d be better at it!”

Luke rigged the shot with the snap of his finger, all the milk bottles falling to the ground with a crash and he swore on his life he’d sell out every single one of these stupid games if it gets you to bite your lip at him like that again.

There isn’t a single hint of regret that passed that entire day—you were already in trouble, so you both figured that you might as well enjoy it. By late afternoon, your legs felt like jelly and it felt less like you dragging him around the fairgrounds and more like holding onto him for support (because there’d be no other reason you’d want to hold his hand, your stomach just felt funny…that’s all!) Luke was wolfing down a funnel cake, the powdered sugar dust getting all over his shirt and he looked up to see you staring at him with a shit-eating grin.

Hand pointed in the air, Luke simply shakes his head.

“Fuck no.”

But you always had a way of convincing him to do things (Luke is a sucker susceptible to double dog dares) and the both of you are surprised he let you because sooner rather than later, you’re sat knee to knee in a tiny, screeching Ferris wheel cart that inched 100 feet into the sky. The white paint was peeling at his fingertips and the air was warm—Luke tried to focus on that instead of the fact that he was in a metal death chamber in the sky.

“Never imagined a son of Hermes would be scared of heights,” you grinned, nudging him with your foot. You’ve folded into yourself, hugging your knees as you looked at him and he thought that he might be having a heart attack at the ripe age of fourteen and three-quarters. But the pink and purple rays of the waning sun framed you so nicely that he wished he brought a camera—he had the silly photobooth strips from earlier tucked into his pocket, but you looking like that; Luke had etched it into his memory for safekeeping. Not only was he able to breathe a bit easier, but if there was a memory he could materialize from today—it’d be you grinning maniacally through the bars of the cart, pointing at the city in the distance. 

“We’ve finally found something you’re not good at, golden boy,” you grinned, tilting your head to the side and inspecting him like he was a sad hamster in a glass ball.

“M’not scared of heights, I'm just scared of falling,” he reasoned, looking at the rusted floor. You were making your boots dance along to the beat of the fair music, tapping along to the cyclical rhythm. He was more scared of the lack of control he had at this moment—any of the other crazy rides, Luke had stood at the tiny gate next to the conductor holding the plush avocado he won for you, watching and hearing you scream for joy as the machines flung you into the air. The ones he did go on were relatively tamer, and by the third kiddie coaster, he realized that you probably whooped for joy just to make him feel better.

You kissed him on the cheek that day, so close to his mouth (but not close enough) when the Ferris wheel ultimately screeched to a stop. A necessary distraction, you said—but you weren’t sure for who. He tasted sugar-sweet and smelled like the late summer sun. You had never kissed a boy before, unsure if you’d even know how, or if Luke would even want to if you did.

The thought passed when you realized his fingers were clenched and white-tipped onto the guardrails and you…you’re terrible, so you started rocking back and forth, giggling until he yelled at you to stop, pulling you into his lap. 

The conductor thought you two were doing something way less innocent, and you both got kicked out of Rye Playland afterward—but you got your money’s worth.

Well, you both snuck in and Luke definitely pickpocketed someone’s mom.

All in all, it was a great day.

You fell asleep on his shoulder on the way back home, the Long Island Railroad car chilly with the AC. Watching you drool, he thought he might even like traveling again if it’s for fun like this, might even hate his dad less too. Luke threw his whole dinner into the hearth that night with a bright smile on his face even after Mr. D yelled at the both of you in front of everyone at the dining pavilion. After all, the only factor in his life that’s changed in the past year, an addition, if you must— was you.

[ you took me for a fool, you stole my youth, you wanted this so much || you watched me rise then killed my light || and now you know I'm not your fucking goddess ||  oh, i'm no goddess when i'm alone ]

Work is work.

That’s what you’ve both been telling yourselves throughout an already rough week gone even worse, but trying to avoid your significant other is an especially difficult task when you work together. 

It’s the simple truth—you can’t ignore someone you have to talk to primarily because of these two factors: 1. Capture the Flag teams need to be sorted by Thursday mornings to be ready to play on Friday afternoons, and 2. it is weird for campers to see you two not interacting with each other.

Well, it’s Friday now, and you and Luke haven’t talked since that argument in the barn. 

Kind of, but the times you have didn’t count—the past few days have been both of you talking around other people; not directly to each other. Last night at dinner, Chris stared at you like one does when their parents are thinking of getting a divorce, eyes flickering between you two and his cheeseburger. Luke was sitting next to you on the bench blankly picking the tomatoes off his sandwich and you were staring glumly at your slice of pizza.

“Is there something going on between you two?”

He was one of the few brave enough to be blunt about it. You and Luke were all-consuming, like a black hole. It’s hard for others not to notice the gravitational pull, but when it’s bad…. everyone and everything gets sucked in, whether they like it or not. 

“Lee was excited to hear that your cabin is teaming up with them tomorrow. It’ll be quite interesting, all of you with 7 and 9,” you said, wiping grease off the slice with a napkin. Luke’s head jerked in your direction at your words, “Dude what—Chris! I thought I signed off on working with 6? We don’t work with Apollo for a reason,” he hissed, leaning over the table towards his brother. Chris scratched the back of his neck, knowing Luke was right. Cabin 7 isn’t that good in all matters that involve stealth—the last time they worked with them, Austin was scatting under his breath and it got them ambushed by the red team. Opening his mouth to speak, you quickly interjected, “Well it’s about time to change it up—keeps things exciting, don’t you think, Chris?”

Luke sighed, redirecting his brother’s focus to him, “What do you think, man? I just think when it comes to battle strategies we should stick to what works.” Chris swallowed, raising his hand in the air; he was grappling at the edge of a cliff just trying to hold on to either of you—he looked around to see if there was a way out of this. Next to him, Ethan averted his eyes and played with his carrot sticks.

“Funny how that works for battle strategies and not other things,” you hummed around a mouthful of pizza, “Don’t you think, Chris? I just think that you never want to be predictable in these things. It makes everything boring. Or so I’ve heard,” you munched thoughtfully, daring the son of Hermes to break eye contact with you as Luke scoffed, tossing his napkin onto his plate before standing up. He walked off without a second glance, throwing everything into the hearth—plastic tray included, and stormed off toward the cabins. The rest of the table minded their business, shoveling food into their mouths. Chris choked on a french fry.

And you smirked, satisfied at the small win. 

But now, almost a day later tramping through the sodden dirt of the North Woods in heavy body armor, you remind yourself that it is so very hard to prove a point to Luke Castellan. He finds you halfway through the game as you hold onto the red flag post, standing tall at the vantage point and looking like a stone grotesque protecting the area you’re surveying. By the time you notice, a blur of cobalt whizzes towards you—knocking out the three Ares kids standing guard around the perimeter. You gasp, raising a hand sending vines hurtling toward the air until you see him hanging upside down by the ankles, wrapped in green leaves and purple bunches of grapes. Luke’s headwear falls to the earth with a clang.

“I’m not here for the flag!”

You rush over, dropping the pole and sighing, “Luke…you scared me! I thought you were with Beck today.” The blood rushes to his head as he looks at you all out of focus. Seeing you the other way around gives him a new perspective on things—the epiphany almost makes him ache, but that might also be the pressure pooling in his forehead. You brush your thumb against his cheek before letting him down slowly, and all he does is look at you.

“We need to talk.”

“Like, actually this time?” you mumble, hugging yourself as you watch the vines unravel from his limbs and sink back into the ground. You’ve always been a good actress and Luke was the best liar around—this shared penchant for fabricating the truth used to make you one and the same.

It is more obvious now that actors and liars are wholly different; actors live in an imaginary world given to them, while liars strive to create it for themselves. There’s that saying—don’t hate the player, hate the game.

Luke finds that he’s starting to hate all of it.

“Yeah,” he mutters, “we can’t keep ignoring this, Trouble.” It takes a special kind of sadness to feel lonely even when you’re with someone. You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling your spirit sink into the ground below you, almost resigning yourself to what will happen next. All the petty backtalk, the times you’ve crawled into bed with him already pretending to be asleep— it all comes down to this. There’s this French word that Annie had taught you a few days ago when you spent extra time snuggled up in her bunk, partially to catch up with your favorite girl and partially… to waste more time before going home to him. 

Énouement—-The bittersweetness of having arrived in the future and seeing how things turn out, but not being able to tell your past self.

“Luke…” you start, watching him sheath Backbiter with a casual flick of his hand, “Would you go back if you could? Before…” Barely able to string your words together, he notices your lip quivering, “Did you like me more back then?”

“Baby…” he sighs, going to wrap his arms around you and you hold onto him in return at arm's length.

“I’m really trying…” you choke out, pressing your lips to hold in the onslaught of things you want to say. To understand? To apologize? The words die out on your tongue.

“I know. You’re always trying, Trouble. That might just be the saddest part.”

Wind whirls through your hair, pushing you against him for shelter as you gather your thoughts. In the silence of the woods, you wonder how many moments you’ve spent drawn to him like this for comfort. Luke’s always there for you, whether you like it or not. For better or worse—you wonder if there won’t be a lot of chances to hold and be held, and you can’t seem to let go.

“I didn’t change, okay? I’m still me. People don’t change, just like the gods don’t. I just don’t see us away from this,” you swallow, tracing a finger over his bicep to distract your burning eyes, “we can’t escape who we are Luke. Me and you. Isn’t that enough for now?”

He lets out a sigh and you know his answer; his shoulders sink low enough that your hold on him loosens ever so slightly. At this rate, you think it’d be easier if he’d just pull the trigger—maybe it would hurt less than this.

“I’ll change the gods’ minds and make them agree. They’ll know us, babe. The glory—”

Everything around you blurs as you hone in on your anger. This whole forest could go up in flames and you wouldn’t give a damn,”Oh FUCK glory! Just love me and that’s enough! Why can’t that be enough? Why can’t you stop running from me for once, Luke!” Your plea comes out like a wail and you push him away, feeling disgusted by what’s come of this conversation. You were never a beggar—the only thing left to do was kneel in the dirt and beg him not to break up with you. Before you can think of the irrational thought any further he shakes his head, almost growling, “How do you still not get it? It’s because I love you is why I can’t.”

“Listen, I love you too, babe. I just…don’t know if I like you right now.”

That’s not fair. He’s sacrificing the entire trajectory of his life and you can’t figure out if you like him? You don’t know the lengths he would go to, can’t fathom the obstacles he would conquer just to make sure that you and him have it all. And you’re not even trying to see it his way—to even imagine that he could make it possible.

Things couldn’t stay the same forever, that you could both agree on.

“You’re all talk, you know that, Trouble? You’re just mad that I want this life more than you. And you know I’d actually do what I need to do to get it. Would you?” he nudges you roughly, “Talk to me! This is your time to get it all out of your system. Say that I wouldn’t do anything for you. You know I would.” Fat tears are rolling down your cheeks; he hates watching you cry. It’s the whole reason he signed away his soul—he wants the world you live in to be a place where gods bow down to you and dry your tears, not cause them. Luke would topple Olympus in an instant if it meant you wouldn’t look at him like he’s a lost cause.

“That’s not fair, you haven’t even answered a single question I’ve asked you. It’s like you’re not even listening to me, Lu—”

“Not fair?”

Groaning, you turn away from him. The flag post you dropped earlier is long gone now—the game is still on and the world keeps spinning whether you like it or not. But you’re disinterested in all that now.

“Do you even hear yourself? To you, I’m still the girl on the Ferris wheel,” you sniff, wiping your nose with your sleeve. His hands squeeze your shoulders, begging, pleading for you to understand, “Is that a bad thing? You tell me you haven’t changed—I’m protecting her because you won’t. I’m getting her the hell out of here because I know she deserves more than this. Look around you,” he whispers your name against your neck, “We could forget all of this.” 

But that’s just not who you are. Your shoulders tremble as you hold them up under the pressure. Sure you could see what he’s saying—there isn’t a single future you can imagine without Luke in it. The house, the kids…but more than that you just want to belong somewhere. And Camp Half-Blood is where you belong. With him. 

“I don’t want everything, Luke. I just want you. And if you don’t want this, I need you to tell me now. Because I’m tired,” you warble, digging your nails into your palms, “ and I’m sick of this game. I feel like neither of us are winning.” You take a step back to look at him—sunlight filtering through his hair, eyes wistful and contemplative.

“Maybe we should take a break.”

And there it is. He’s already made his decision, whether he admits it or not. A horn blares overhead, followed by the sounds of cheering. You don’t know who won, and you don’t really give a shit if we’re being real right now. 

“Does it even matter?”

There’s a frozen look on your face like you’ve been struck by lightning, half between a crooked smile and subtle surprise. It’s a knowing look, Luke thinks, what he can see of you through half-lidded lashes and grief. He thinks years from now, if he even makes it that far, it’ll all come back to this moment in the North Woods, and you, the girl he was in love with at nineteen.

“It’s not even worth it now I guess,” he whispers. It makes you laugh—even your laughter sounds sad now. 

It seems that even breaking up with you is an inconvenience.

You sniff, wiping your face and looking around. Everyone’s gone already and Chiron will be looking for you two soon, “Then it’s not worth it. Because you say so… and we’ve got work to do.” Your watch beeps. 

Dinner service starts soon, but before you both head over to the pavilion, you and Luke are expected to set up the bonfire. He nods, loosening the straps of his chestplate, just something to do with his hands, “I know.”

“I don’t want to go. I’m not ready to leave this all behind yet. I’m still needed here.” Until your coming of age ceremony. Until your heart calls you elsewhere and your family can stand on their feet. 

Until then.

Somewhere, you hear Annabeth calling out to you, the melody of both of your names traveling through the trees. You and Luke turn your heads in that direction, before looking at each other once more. He licks his lips, “I know that. We should get back to it, then.” There’s no use doing this all alone, he thinks. And there’s a part of you that thinks there is no use for you when you’re alone.

“We should.”

Neither of you move. 

The winter solstice is tomorrow and there is much work left for the both of you to do.

—

I don’t understand how he grows colder from the same love that warms me. I didn’t know we loved differently—him partly, less and less, and I entirely. - JNH / @shatteredjuvenileday

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Cheshire behind the cut; “the one where Kon meets pink kryptonite and decides to fuck Tim and his boyfriend about it”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Do you know what subspace and sub drop are?” Tim asks. 

“Uh . . . no?” Kon says, then frowns a little as he remembers–“You were talking about me dropping something when I was, like, all out of it before, right? So like–is it something with that?” 

“Yes,” Tim says. The way he’s petting Kon’s hair sort of–changes, a little, and Kon gets this weird little thought that it’s suddenly kinda more like Tim’s petting him for himself, more than anything else. Like, as a little–tic, or something, that he’s using to keep his focus. So that’s . . . weird, kinda. Yeah. 

Kon doesn’t even know where that thought came from, really, but . . . 

He’d like to be something Tim could use for that, he thinks, and bites the inside of his lip as he feels his skin heat up over that thought. 

“Did you feel different, when you were subbing?” Tim asks carefully. It’s his “assessing my teammate’s psychological condition” voice again, and also pretty obviously an “I know the answer to this question but I don’t know if you know the answer to this question” kind of question. 

“Yeah,” Kon says, and shrugs a little. “Like–I usually do, when it’s, you know. Good. I just get, uh–a little weird sometimes, I guess? Sorry.” 

Tim frowns. 

“Do you feel . . . mm. Detached? Lightheaded? Or emotional, maybe?” he asks, still careful. It is absolutely another “I know but I want to know if you know” question. Like, for absolute friggin’ certain it is. “When it’s–good, I mean.” 

“Yeah,” Kon says, because he feels all that and a whole lot of other things besides, when it’s good. And even more when it’s this good, really, including a few things that would be sorta embarrassing to admit to and a few things that would be sorta mortifying to admit to. He doesn’t really know why Tim’s asking any of this, but the guy’s asked him weirder shit for less reason, so it’s whatever. “Um. Is that, like . . . I mean, that happens to me sometimes, yeah. Just didn't know it was like, a thing? You know, like–with a name and all.” 

“But you do feel that way?” Tim asks, still just barely frowning. It makes Kon a little bit worried, like maybe it’s a bad thing and he’s–well, it kinda is a bad thing, he guesses. Like . . . definitely not a safe one, even if it makes him feel, like . . . 

Well. Safe, he guesses. 

“Yeah, I mean–I guess I do?” Kon says, and shrugs again. It’s a little more awkward this time, maybe, but it feels like a stupid thing to be evasive about or whatever. “I mean, like I said, I just get a little weird and all. Like, I try not to, think I kinda freaked Wonder Girl out once or twice that way. And like, she said it was okay, but . . .” 

But he hadn’t felt okay about it. Like–very much he had not felt okay about it. He’d felt like a problem, and like he was being weird and selfish and too fucking much and she was maybe finally gonna get sick of him being too much and– 

. . . wait, Kon thinks, and frowns a little himself. He does usually try not to get so, like . . . weird, yeah. But like . . . did he try not to get weird this time? He doesn’t, like . . . remember, if he really . . . 

“You try not to feel like that during the sex, or you try not to feel like that during the aftercare?” Tim asks, which seems like such a bizarre little thing to even bother caring about and kinda makes Kon feel . . . not weird again, but . . . a little . . . lighter, maybe. Like . . . somehow. 

He can’t help thinking about how goddamn fucking good Tim is at Domming, and just how quick he and Bernard had both rattled off their hard no’s and safewords and everything at the start, and how neither of them’s forgotten any of his or acted like they were stupid or annoying, and how much they both talk–how much they both talk during the actual sex, even–and how, like . . . 

When Tim safeworded earlier it was just a thing, and not a thing. 

And neither Tim or Bernard’s gotten freaked out by him getting weird or getting . . . weirder, even. 

So that’s . . . something that Kon can’t help thinking about right now, for whatever reason. 

“Um,” he says, not sure exactly what the fuck he’s feeling about . . . all that shit he can’t help thinking about, he guesses. Just . . . all of that. “Dunno what ‘aftercare’ means either. What’s, uh–that one?” 

It’s probably just something else he already does and just didn’t know had an actual name, Kon figures. “Aftercare” he guesses sounds like something he’d do after, like, the typical morning-after walk-of-shame home–okay, the morning-after flight-of-shame, and also he has zero shame either way so it’s whatever–so maybe it’s something about dealing with the kinda, like–hangover kinda thing that he gets, usually, or just the hangover thing itself, even, maybe that’s a thing that actually isn’t just–

“That's the part where everyone checks in with each other and makes sure no one's upset,” Tim says, and Kon . . . blinks, very slowly. The–what? 

“Uh . . . upset about what?” he asks, and belatedly tries to make the question jokey by adding, “I mean, I’m definitely upset your dick’s not in me right now, but that’s just me being a greedy fuck, you know?” 

“Ngh,” Tim mutters under his breath, his fingers very briefly tightening in Kon’s hair, and then lets out a doors-blowing exhalation. “Upset about how the scene went. Sometimes people talk about what they liked and what they might wanna do differently next time; sometimes it's just making sure everyone's comfortable and gets some food and water in them before they fall asleep and wake up feeling gross.” 

Kon–blinks, again. Remembers Tim coaxing him into drinking the water bottle and feeding him the protein bar bite by bite and not even like a come-on, and even kind of the thing with bringing him the candy, and–there’s a third plate of breakfast on that tray, too. Like . . . that Bernard brought to him. 

Oh, he thinks, and feels weird.

[petermaximoffsgirl]

pietro

summary – peter is upset after scott and jubilee tease him about his name. 

content – angst, fluff; self-esteem issues, swearing

words – 1.4k

“where’s peter?” you asked, glancing around the room at scott and jubilee. 

jubilee flushed. “no clue,” she said quickly. 

scott nodded. “yeah, i don’t know. no idea where he is.” 

you raised your eyebrows, then snorted. “yeah, right.” they were clearly lying, and you couldn’t help but wonder why. were they planning some sort of prank? 

scott grimaced and focused his gaze on his shoes. “if we tell you, do you promise not to flip out?” 

you groaned. “is he stealing that new pinball machine he saw at the arcade? there’s no way he’s going to get that out unnoticed.” 

jubilee bit her lip. “not exactly.” 

you laughed, then stopped immediately when neither of them joined in. worry began to swirl inside of you. “what happened?” you asked. “is he okay?” 

scott scratched the back of his neck. “yeah, i think so. we just…well, we kinda–well, not kinda, we totally fucked up the tiniest bit.” 

“it’s not that bad,” jubilee said quickly. “we just…we didn’t know he was going to get so upset.” 

anger bubbled in your chest. “what happened?” they both hesitated; you glared at them. “either you tell me what happened right now or i–” 

“okay!” scott said quickly. “so, jubilee heard that the professor had this folder with everyone’s birth certificates in it, and we thought it’d be cool to snag it. have a laugh at everyone’s stupid middle name, right?” 

“naturally, we had peter grab it for us,” jubilee cut in. “you know, since he has more experience in this area. and to be funny, we were going to tease him about his middle name.” 

“i thought it would be something like wyatt or otis,” scott groaned. “it’s not. did you know he wasn’t born here? somewhere in eastern europe, and i kinda fucked up pronouncing some stuff. i think we kind of ended up offending him or something, because he took the whole folder and ran off. he’s upstairs.” he hesitated, then continued. “and i probably shouldn’t have gone to ask him to put the folder back. i panicked, ‘cause i didn’t want the professor knowing we took it, but he threw the thing in my face and slammed the door. now he’s locked in his room. he won’t come out or say anything.” 

“we didn’t know it was going to upset him,” jubilee said, biting her lip again. “we didn’t mean to be rude, and we’re really sorry.” 

you glared at the two of them, shouldering by and making your way toward the stairs. you considered yelling at them, but there wasn’t really any point. they seemed sorry, and screaming wasn’t going to do anything to help peter, although it might make you feel better. you just couldn’t believe that they had been so blatantly insensitive. 

you slowly approached peter’s door, tears filling your eyes when you heard what sounded like muffled sobbing. you hesitated for a moment, wondering if it would be better to give him space, then decided against it. time moved faster for your speedy boyfriend. he’d probably already spent what you would have perceived as hours alone in his room. you knocked gently. “peter? can i come in?” 

you heard the telltale fwip of him speeding around the room. the door rattled slightly, indicating that it was now unlocked, which you took as permission to enter. you shut it again behind you, glancing around nervously. 

his room was in its usual state of chaos: twinkie wrappers piled on the floor, band posters threatening to fall off the walls, a plethora of stolen items stashed in various places, bed unmade, cassette tapes strewn about. peter had his back to you as he played pac-man, his hands blurring as he worked the controls. “what’s up?” he asked, not turning. 

if you didn’t know him so well, you wouldn’t have noticed that his voice was slightly strained, confirming what you had suspected: he’d been crying. you slowly walked over to him, gently wrapping your arms around his waist and pulling him into a hug. his breath hitched as his entire body tensed. he was at a rare standstill for a moment, not moving until the stolen arcade machine flashed game over.  

suddenly, he vanished, tearing away from you and reappearing on his bed in the blink of an eye. you swallowed hard as you took in the sight of his red eyes and tousled hair. “do you want to talk about it?” you asked softly. 

he glanced at you, looking so miserable that you wanted to cry. “no,” he mumbled. you gasped as he sped over to you and pulled you over to the bed, carefully depositing you near him before he curled up into a ball. in a flash, he tossed you a crumpled up piece of paper. “d’you think it’s funny?” he asked quietly, picking determinedly at the sleeve of his silver jacket. “or…or stupid or weird or something? it’s okay if you do, i just…just want to know.” 

you carefully smoothed out the piece of paper, squinting as you took in the faded words: pietro django maximoff. the birthdate was too smudged for you to make out, but you could see that he was born in sokovia. “no, i don't. what would be funny or stupid or weird about it?” you asked. 

he kept picking at his jacket sleeve. “i dunno, maybe that it looks like pie-tro duh-jango maxi-moff,” he said angrily. “i don’t get why it’s so hard to pronounce. ‘s got nothing to do with pie, and it’s not duh, and it’s definitely not maxi. i don’t see what’s so funny, but it’s always been fucking hilarious to everyone.” he laughed bitterly. “my mom always hated that i wanted to be called peter, but it’s just easier than having to explain.” 

you gently placed your hand on his shoulder, smiling sadly when he quickly melted into your touch. “do you want to cuddle?” 

he nodded slowly, carefully crawling over to you and snuggling into your side. he fidgeted for a moment, then wrapped both arms around you so he could rest his head on your chest. “i know i’m overreacting,” he muttered. “it’s…it’s like i was a little kid again, having to ask the teachers to just say peter when they were taking attendance. i didn’t need to give everyone another reason to laugh at me. they were already going to, because i couldn’t sit still and i was the stupidest kid in the class and i didn’t have fancy new clothes every week, but i could get past all of that. this just…it always felt different because it’s my name, not me wearing the same shirt twice in one week.” 

you slowly ran your fingers through his untidy silver hair. “you’re not overreacting. kids can be nasty, especially to people like us.” you hesitated, then continued. “i don’t think scott and jubilee were trying to be mean, but they were way out of line. you don’t have to be okay with any of this. no one should get to be mean to you just because they want to or think it’s funny.” 

he shrugged, leaning into your touch. “nah, ‘s better to not care. if people think they can’t get to me, they stop at some point.” he smiled thinly. “i’ve never been good at acting like i don’t care though. the kids at school used to figure out how to get a rise out of me and land me in detention or some shit.” he groaned. “scott sure got a rise out of me today. i didn’t mean to totally flip out, but i wasn’t expecting it to make me so…upset.” 

“all of your feelings are valid,” you said. “it doesn’t matter if you’re angry or sad or frustrated or what. i’ll always listen to you, i promise.” 

he grinned mischievously. “even if i’m pissed off about the stupidest shit ever?” 

“even if you’re pissed off about the stupidest shit ever.” 

he went quiet for a moment, then glanced up at you. “thank you,” he said quietly. “i…i really needed to hear that.” 

you gently kissed his forehead. “i’ll always be here for you, no matter what you need, peter.” 

he sighed happily, snuggling up against you. “pietro.” 

you blinked, confused. “what?” 

he hesitated briefly. “my name. ‘s pietro,” he murmured. “you can call me that if…if you want.” 

you smiled softly. “i love you, pietro.” 

[dreamlanderin]

You don't see me, part 3 (Sam x reader)

Summary: Time apart. Follows on part 2

Warning: Blood. Demons. Angst if you squint

Words: 8k

Boys, I wish I could’ve explained this in person, but I knew you wouldn’t let me leave. I’m not walking away from you or the fight—I’m walking toward the person I promised I’d be when I first joined you. I need to find her again. Don’t look for me.

That’s what you’d left behind. Nothing for Sam, no apology, no explanation beyond those carefully chosen words. No indication of where you were headed or when, if ever, they might see you again. They’d been confused at first.

Dean came looking for you not long after Sam regained consciousness. His knocks on your door echoed down the empty hallway, sharp and impatient, but no answer came.

At first, Dean feared the worst. The memory of you clutching your side during the hunt came rushing back, sharper now with the realization that he hadn’t checked on you after they got Sam stabilized. He’d been too focused on his brother, on Ruby, on the chaos. The idea that you might’ve bled out alone in your room made his chest tighten painfully. “Damn it,” he muttered, his fist pounding against the door one last time before he shoved it open. The room was eerily pristine, the bed made, the surfaces cleared of the usual clutter. It was too perfect, and for a brief moment, Dean thought you’d been taken—dragged out of the motel while he’d been distracted.

His gaze swept the room in a panic, catching on the empty closet and the missing duffel bag that used to sit by the foot of your bed. That’s when he saw it. The note lay folded neatly on the nightstand, your name scrawled on the outside in your unmistakable handwriting. Dean crossed the room in two strides, snatching it up with shaky hands. He read it once, then again, the words sinking in like lead. You weren’t taken. You’d left.

For a long moment, Dean just stood there, staring at the note as his jaw clenched tighter and tighter. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath. His grip on the paper tightened, crumpling the edges as a wave of anger surged through him. You were hurt. You were supposed to stay and recover. And what the hell did you mean, Don’t look for me? Did you really think he was the kind of guy who could just sit back and let you walk away?

Dean stormed back to thier room, the note clenched in his fist. When he reached the table, he slammed it down in front of Sam, who was still pale and sluggish, slouched in his chair.

“She’s gone,” Dean said bluntly, his voice tight. Sam blinked, his brows furrowing as he reached for the crumpled note. “What do you mean, gone?”

“Read it,” Dean snapped, pacing the room like a caged animal. Sam’s eyes scanned the letter quickly, his face darkening with each word. When he finished, he set the note down carefully, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Why?” he asked, his voice quiet but strained. Dean stopped pacing, turning to glare at his brother. “I don’t know, Sam. Maybe because she got tired of patching us up and watching you play tug-of-war with a damn demon?”

Sam flinched, guilt flashing across his face. “Dean—”

“She didn’t even say goodbye, Sam,” Dean said, his voice breaking for just a second before he covered it with a sharp exhale. “What the hell does that mean?”

Sam’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Dean let out a sharp exhale, raking a hand through his hair as he stared at the note again. “I don’t get it. She was one of us. We’re supposed to have each other’s backs.” Sam hesitated, then said quietly, “Maybe that’s why she left.”

Dean froze, his shoulders tense, but he didn’t argue. The words hung heavy in the air between them, unspoken truths pressing down like a weight neither of them wanted to carry.

Finally, Dean grabbed the note and stuffed it into his pocket, his expression hardening. “She said not to look for her,” he muttered, heading toward the kitchen. “But I’m not making any promises.”

Sam sat in silence, staring down at the table. The faint sound of Dean opening and slamming cabinets echoed in the distance, but his mind was elsewhere.

He thought about the way you’d looked at him in the motel room, the quiet pain in your eyes when you leaned in and told him, It’s me, Sam. He thought about the moments before that—your hands pressed to his chest, your voice trembling as you told him to hold on.

And now you were gone.

Sam closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “Stupid,” he whispered, the weight of your absence settling over him like a shadow.

He’d been out of it last night—so much of it felt like a blur now. But one thing he remembered, clear as day, was the moment you got attacked by the Shadow Stalker. You’d screamed and before he even had time to think, he was already throwing himself between you and that thing. The impact had been brutal, the creature’s claws raking through his chest and shoulder as if he were nothing. He’d felt the burn of his body hitting the ground, the sharp ache of ribs threatening to give way. By the time he realized what had happened, he was already in the Impala.

His head was resting on your lap, the faint scent of blood and dirt mixing with the metallic tang in his mouth. Everything around him was hazy—the sound of Dean shouting, the rumble of the car engine, the warmth of your hands pressing against his wounds to stop the bleeding. You’d said something to him—your voice soft, steady, and full of worry. He couldn’t remember the exact words now, but he remembered the feeling of it.

He’d tried to reach out then, his hand brushing against the fabric of your jeans as he fought to lift it higher. He’d wanted to touch your hair, to brush away the blood he’d noticed streaked across it. But his strength had failed him, and before he could manage it, the darkness pulled him under again.

And now you were gone

The fever dreams had come and gone in waves. Something in the dark was always following him, its shadowy tendrils creeping closer no matter how fast he ran. There was a light ahead—distant, wavering, always just out of reach—and he chased it. He wasn’t sure why, but the instinct to reach it burned through him.

Then his eyes would open, and the real world would filter in, fragmented and confusing. Voices, sometimes low and steady like Dean’s, other times higher and softer. Was it you? He thought it was, but then the voice would shift, distort, and become someone else entirely. Ruby? No. It couldn’t be Ruby. Could it?

Heat pressed against his skin, making him sweat despite the cold ache in his body. Everything had hurt—sharp pangs in his chest, dull throbs in his head—but none of it mattered as much as the exhaustion. It weighed him down, pulling him back into the haze of his mind where the dreams waited.

Things blurred together there: distorted faces, shadowy monsters, fragments of hunts long since passed. It all swirled in a chaotic fog, except for one thing that stood out with perfect clarity. You.

You were there, in the midst of it all. You looked at him, said something he couldn’t quite hear, but the feeling in your voice reached him. It was grounding, pulling him toward you even as the darkness clawed at his edges. He’d opened his eyes again, and there you were, sitting by his side and he had mumbled something, he can't remember much of what he had said. Something about You and not regreting protecting you? He’d barely gotten the words out before the edges of reality blurred again. His mind flickered, pulling him back into the haze, but not before he noticed someone else in the room. Ruby. Why was she here? The thought barely registered before his head lolled to the side, his strength fading once more. Darkness crept in again, pulling him under before he could make sense of anything.

By the time he regained consciousness, the worst of it had passed. The fog in his mind had lifted just enough for him to make out the dimly lit room and the distinct shapes within it. Dean was slouched in the chair beside the bed, his arms crossed and his head tilted to one side, deep in sleep. Sam’s gaze shifted to the other figure in the room—Ruby, leaning casually against the wall with a lazy grin. “Finally awake, huh?” she said, her tone dripping with amusement. Sam frowned, the residual confusion making his head feel heavy.

Everything hurt—his chest, his shoulder, even his pride—but most of all, he felt a strange relief that everyone seemed to be okay. Dean was alive, and he could only assume you were too, though the room was conspicuously missing your presence. “How long?” His voice came out rough, barely more than a whisper. “A couple of hours,” Ruby replied, pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward him. “You were a mess. Guess I saved your ass again.”

Sam blinked, trying to sit up, but the sharp sting in his shoulder quickly convinced him otherwise. Ruby was at his side in an instant, her hand brushing against his arm to stop him. “Easy there, champ. Don’t go pulling those stitches.” He hesitated, glancing at her hand before looking away. Something felt off. Maybe it was the hazy memories of the hunt or the way her voice sounded too smooth, too deliberate. Or maybe it was the guilt gnawing at the edges of his mind, the feeling that he’d somehow let everyone down by getting hurt. “Where’s—” he started, but Ruby cut him off. “Not here,” she said, her tone sharp but casual.

It must have been the look on his face that made her continue.“Does it matter? They’re fine. You need to focus on getting better.” Sam frowned but didn’t push it. His throat felt dry, and the ache in his body made it hard to think straight. Ruby crouched beside him, her dark eyes narrowing as she studied him.

“You’re still weak,” she said after a moment, her voice softening into something almost sympathetic. “That thing did a number on you. And if you don’t bounce back soon, it’s gonna happen again.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sam muttered, his voice hoarse.

Ruby smirked, shaking her head. “You’re stubborn. I’ll give you that.” She straightened up, pulling a small blade from her pocket. The sight of it made Sam’s stomach churn, even before she dragged it across her palm, letting a thin line of blood well up against her skin. “You know what you need,” she said, holding her hand out toward him.

Sam stared at it, the sight of the dark, rich blood stirring a mix of instinct and revulsion. He knew she was right—her blood could heal him, give him the strength to recover faster than his body ever could on its own. He’d done it before, too many times to count. But this time… This time, something felt different.

“I don’t want it,” he said, his voice firmer than before. Ruby raised an eyebrow, her grin fading into something colder. “Don’t be stupid, Sam. You’re not gonna get better on your own.”

“I said no.” He pushed the words out through gritted teeth, his gaze meeting hers with a stubborn determination. Her expression darkened, the easy charm slipping away to reveal something more dangerous. “You’re seriously gonna let yourself waste away out of what—pride? Morality? Don’t forget who pulled you out of that mess.”

“I remember,” Sam said quietly, the weight of his words heavier than she might’ve expected. He thought of the hunt, of you running into danger without hesitation, of Dean working tirelessly to keep him alive. He himself didn't quite understand why he was turning a cure down, maybe that Shadow Stalker had infected his mind in a way that made him desperate to keep the dark out. And demon blood, was as dark as it could get.

“This isn’t the answer.”

Ruby’s jaw tightened, and she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “You’re being reckless. You think you’re stronger than you are, but you’re not. Without me, you’d be dead. Without this”—she held her bleeding hand closer—“you’re useless.” Sam’s chest tightened, a flicker of doubt threatening to take hold, but he pushed it down. He shook his head, forcing himself to meet her gaze.

“I’m not in the mood for this.”

Ruby’s smirk faltered for a split second before settling into something sharper, colder. “Not in the mood?” she repeated, her tone laced with mockery. “This isn’t about your mood, Sam. This is about staying alive.”

But it wasn’t just about staying alive, and they both knew it. He could feel it now—that gnawing pull, the faint burn in his veins that left him restless and raw. He hated that part of him, the part that had grown dependent on her blood, that craved the rush of power it gave him.

It had started small, just enough to stay sharp, to keep fighting. That’s what he’d told himself, anyway. But over time, it had become something else. He couldn’t ignore the way his heart raced when she answered his calls, the way he’d catch himself checking his phone like some desperate junkie waiting for a fix. Ruby wasn’t just a partner. She was his dealer, and every time he gave in, it felt like she tightened the chain around his neck. “I’ll figure it out,” he said finally, forcing the words out past the lump in his throat. “Just… not now.”

Her smirk returned, cruel and knowing. “You’re such a cliché, you know that?” she said, leaning down slightly, her dark eyes boring into his.

"Afraid Dean might see?"

He didn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he looked away. She wasn’t wrong, and that only made him hate her more. Ruby huffed out a laugh, short and bitter. “Fine,” she said, straightening up. “You do you, Sam. But don’t expect me to keep cleaning up your messes when you’re too proud to ask for help.” She wiped the blood on a rag, her movements brisk and annoyed, before tossing the stained cloth onto the table. “You know where to find me when you change your mind,” she added, her voice softening into something almost seductive. Her boots echoed against the floor as she walked away, the door clicking shut behind her.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Sam stayed where he was, staring at the ceiling, his hands clenching into fists. The ache in his body was relentless, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the ache in his mind.

He hated himself for wanting it. For the small, traitorous part of him that considered calling her back.

Not this time, he thought bitterly. Not now. But the doubt lingered, clawing at the edges of his resolve.

It wasn’t just the craving—it was the shame that came with it. The knowledge that he’d let himself fall this far, that he’d traded pieces of himself for power he wasn’t even sure he wanted anymore. He hated what it said about him, about the choices he’d made.

That’s why he kept it to himself. Dean didn’t know. He couldn’t know. The thought of telling him, of seeing the disappointment and anger in his brother’s eyes, was unbearable. Dean always believed in fighting with what you had, not what you could take, and Sam knew this would cross a line Dean couldn’t forgive. And you? You would see right through him. You always had a way of peeling back the layers he tried to hide behind, exposing the things he wasn’t ready to admit—not even to himself. You’d dig and dig, your concern masquerading as stubborn determination, and it would only be a matter of time before you uncovered the truth. He couldn’t let that happen.

So he kept you at arm’s length. It wasn’t fair, and he knew it. But it was easier to push you away than to risk you looking at him the way he was afraid you might. Like you didn’t recognize him anymore.

Sam sighed, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. The room was quiet now, the only sound the faint hum of the motel’s air conditioner. He hated how tangled everything had become—how every choice he made seemed to push him further away from the people who mattered most.

You’re gone because of me, he thought, the words heavy and bitter.

He leaned back against the chair, his gaze drifting to the empty space where you might’ve sat if things had been different. If he hadn’t been too much of a coward to tell you the truth. The truth was... no he couldn’t say it. Even now, with the ache in his body and the haze in his mind, that truth would remain his for now. Still, he felt asif if somehow he had become this terrible monstrous thing. He didn't deserve you or Dean.

Sam let out a shaky breath, his chest tightening with a mix of regret and resignation. He wanted to tell himself it was better this way, that you were safer without him dragging you into his mess. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t true. The truth was, he didn’t know how to fix this. Not the addiction, not the distance he’d created between himself and Dean, and definitely not that coldness you’d left behind. For now, all he could do was sit with the weight of it, the silence pressing down on him like a punishment he knew he deserved.

The sound of drawers slamming and the clatter of gear being thrown into a bag jolted Sam from his thoughts. He blinked, lifting his gaze to see Dean storming around the room, his jaw tight and his movements sharp with frustration. “What are you doing?” Sam asked, his voice hoarse from disuse. “What does it look like?” Dean snapped, tossing a handful of shotgun shells into his duffel. “I’m going after her.” Sam frowned, pushing himself up a little despite the protest in his shoulder. “Dean… she left a note. She doesn’t want us to go after her.” Dean froze for half a second before turning on his heel, his eyes blazing as he pointed a finger at Sam. “Don’t start with me. She’s hurt, she’s out there alone, and you think I’m just gonna sit here and twiddle my thumbs because of some damn note?”

“She’s not stupid,” Sam said quietly, his voice careful. “She knows how to handle herself.”

Dean scoffed, slamming his bag shut with a force that made the whole table shake. “Yeah? Well, she didn’t handle herself too great when she went toe-to-toe with that Shadow Stalker. Did you forget how banged up she was? I sure as hell didn’t.” Sam clenched his jaw, the memory of your bloodstained shirt flashing through his mind. He hadn’t forgotten. How could he?

“She’s trying to figure things out,” Sam said after a long pause. “She needs space.” Dean let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he shrugged on his jacket. “Space? That what we’re calling it now? Sam, she didn’t even say goodbye to you. She didn’t say goodbye to either of us.”

“That’s not the point,” Sam muttered, looking away.

“No, the point is she’s out there somewhere, bleeding and pissed off, and I’m not just gonna let her disappear without a fight. So why are you, huh?” Dean’s voice softened slightly, though the fire in his eyes remained. Sam didn't know how to answer him.

“We’re family, man. We don’t leave each other behind. That’s not how we do things.”

Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back against the chair. “What if you chasing her just makes it worse? She doesn’t want to be found, Dean. You saw the note.”

Dean paused, his hands tightening around the strap of his bag. For a moment, the anger in his expression faltered, replaced by something rawer—fear, maybe, or guilt. “Yeah, well… tough,” he muttered, his voice quieter now. “She can hate me all she wants, but I’m not gonna sit here and do nothing. Not when she might need us.” Sam didn’t argue, but the doubt lingered in his mind. He didn’t want to admit it, but he wasn’t sure if Dean’s stubborn determination would bring you back—or drive you further away.

Dean grabbed his keys, his movements resolute as he headed for the door. “You staying here or coming with me?” Sam hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. His body ached, his mind was a mess, and the thought of going after you filled him with equal parts hope and dread. “I’ll stay,” he said finally, his voice low. “You’ll move faster without me.” Dean stopped at the door, glancing back at his brother with a look that was equal parts frustration and understanding. He didn’t push it, just nodded once before stepping out into the night. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Sam alone with the echo of his brother’s resolve—and the weight of his own inaction. He didn’t deserve to find you.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

You’d hitched a few rides over the past day, bouncing from one truck stop to another as you slowly made your way north. The drivers didn’t ask too many questions, and you didn’t offer much beyond polite thanks and vague mentions of family up the road. It kept things simple, and simple was exactly what you needed. After that you were on a bus, the long ride stretching out before you as the highway unraveled into the distance. The seat was stiff, the air stale with the faint scent of old upholstery and spilled coffee, but it was quiet. That was what mattered most—quiet and distance.

It had taken another day or two to reach Bobby’s. You’d mapped it out in your head, calculating the stops and connections with the kind of precision that came from years of tracking hunts. But this wasn’t a hunt. This was something different, something heavier, and the weight of it sat in your chest like a stone. Youd leaned your head against the bus window, the blur of fields and trees rushing past. The weight in your chest was familiar now—regret, guilt, and something else you couldn’t quite name. You’d left to find yourself, but the question remained: Could you even recognize her anymore?

Bobby would have a place for you—you were sure of that much. Or atleast that was your thought process on the bus. He always had room for strays, and you were no exception. But the thought of facing him, of explaining why you’d left, twisted your stomach into knots. Bobby wasn’t one to beat around the bush, and you knew he’d see right through you the moment you walked through his door. You sighed, closing your eyes as the bus rattled on. You didn’t have all the answers yet, and maybe you wouldn’t by the time you got there.

You started to feel silly about the whole thing—walking away like this, leaving behind a life you’d fought so hard to build. Maybe you should’ve stayed, if only to see if Sam was okay. The image of him lying on that bed, pale and broken, flashed through your mind, and for a moment, your resolve wavered.

But you dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it came. Staying would’ve only made things worse—for him and for you. You’d spent enough time trying to patch up the cracks in everyone else’s lives while ignoring your own. This wasn’t about Sam, or Dean, or any of it. This was about finding yourself again, about keeping a promise you’d nearly forgotten you’d made. Still, as the bus rumbled down the highway, a small, stubborn part of you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d made a mistake. If maybe, just maybe, you’d left something behind that you weren’t ready to let go of. And let me tell you, it wasn’t easy being back at Bobby’s.

The creak of the porch under your boots, the smell of motor oil and dust in the air, the piles of junk and old car parts scattered around—it should’ve felt like a refuge. But it didn’t. Not now. You leaned on the porch railing, staring out at the yard. Everything about this place screamed familiarity, but you couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on you. Being here brought everything bubbling up—the doubts, the guilt, the question of whether leaving had been the right thing to do. This was where you'd met the boys, and all just came flooding back to you.

When you’d shown up on Bobby’s doorstep, he’d just squinted at you like he could read the whole story written on your face. No lectures, no questions. Just a gruff, “Well, don’t just stand there like an idjit. Get your ass inside.” That was Bobby for you. You ended up, sat, in his kitchen, hands curled around a mug of coffee you hadn’t even taken a sip from. Bobby leaned against the counter, arms crossed, his eyes sharp and waiting. “You look like hell,” he finally said. You almost laughed at how matter-of-fact he was. “Thanks, Bobby. Nice to see you too.” He raised an eyebrow. “You want nice, you’re in the wrong house. What’s goin’ on?” You sighed, staring into the coffee like it held some kind of answer.

“I left.” His face didn’t change, not much. Maybe a flicker of something in his eyes. “You mean the boys?”

You nodded.

“You just up and walked out on ’em?”

“It’s... complicated,” you muttered, setting the coffee down. “Sam got hurt—real bad—and it just... it felt like everything was falling apart. There’s this distance now. Between all of us. Between me and him.”

“Sam, huh?” Bobby said, and there was something in the way he said it that made you feel like he already knew more than you’d told him. You rubbed the back of your neck, staring at the table. “I couldn’t stay, Bobby. I was... I don’t know. Waiting, I guess. Waiting for something to get better, for something to change. But it didn’t. And in the meantime, I was just... losing myself. Trying to fix everything, trying to keep up. I couldn’t do it anymore.”

Bobby didn’t say anything for a minute, just tipped his head like he was weighing your words. Then he let out a deep sigh. “And now you’re here. Lookin’ for what, exactly? A pat on the back? Somebody to tell you it’s all fine and dandy?” You flinched a little but shook your head. “I’m just... I need space, Bobby. To figure out who I am outside of all this.” He nodded slowly, his face softening just a little. “Well, you got space here. Long as you need it. But listen to me—run all you want, you’ll still be you when you get where you’re goin’. That’s what you gotta reckon with. Not Sam, not Dean. You.” You nodded, swallowing hard. He wasn’t wrong. He was never wrong. “Appreciate it,” you said quietly.

“Don’t mention it,” Bobby grumbled, straightening up and heading for the fridge. “You want somethin’ to eat, or you just plan on sittin’ there starin’ at that coffee all night?” It wasn’t easy being back at Bobby’s. But maybe that was exactly what you needed.

The days at Bobby’s passed slowly, a strange blend of familiarity and restlessness. You threw yourself into work—cleaning up the salvage yard, organizing his cluttered shelves, fixing up a few busted cars. Anything to keep your hands busy and your mind too occupied to wander.

But even as you distracted yourself, the silence pressed in, no matter how much you tried to ignore it. Every now and then, you’d catch yourself glancing at your phone, half-hoping, half-dreading to see Dean’s name or a text from Sam. You’d received a few over the past few days, but you ignored all of them. The calls went unanswered, and the texts were left on read. The only message you sent was a short, vague reply: I’m safe. Don’t worry. It wasn’t enough to stop Dean from trying. He never took “don’t worry” for an answer, and his persistence made it harder to stick to your resolve. Every time your phone buzzed, your heart clenched. Part of you wanted to pick up, to hear his voice and let him lecture you into coming back. But you couldn’t do that—not yet.

And Sam… well, you weren’t sure you could face him even if you tried. The memory of his pale, bloodied face haunted you, along with the weight of the words he’d mumbled before slipping into unconsciousness. You matter. You’d wanted to believe him, wanted to hold on to the warmth of that moment. But it had been fleeting, and when Ruby’s name slipped into the air between you, it shattered everything you thought you’d felt.

You dismissed the thoughts as quickly as they came. Staying wouldn’t have fixed anything. It would’ve only made things worse—for you and for them. You’d spent too much time trying to hold everyone together, trying to patch up cracks in people who didn’t even want your help. This wasn’t about Dean, or Sam, or Ruby. It was about you. And you’d promised yourself, long before you even met the Winchesters, that you wouldn’t lose yourself again.

Bobby didn’t say much at first, just watched you work with his usual scrutinizing gaze. He let you settle in, his silence almost comforting in its predictability. But that didn’t stop him from throwing in the occasional jab. “You gonna do somethin’ useful today, or you just plan to stand there lookin’ like a lost puppy?” he asked one afternoon, leaning against the doorway as you sorted through a pile of old hunting gear. You huffed, rolling your eyes as you held up a rusted blade.

“I’m cleaning up your mess, Bobby. I’d say that’s plenty useful.” He snorted, but there was a softness in his eyes that told you he wasn’t as gruff as he pretended to be. “You keep that attitude up, you’ll fit right in with the junkyard.” Later that evening, as you sat in the kitchen nursing a mug of coffee, Bobby finally cut to the chase. “So,” he started, settling across from you with his own mug. “How long you plannin’ on mopin’ around here?” You frowned, your fingers tightening around the handle.

“I’m not moping.”

“Sure, and I’m the King of England.” He raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “You’re not foolin’ anyone, kid. Least of all me.”

You sighed, staring into the dark liquid in your cup. “I just needed some space, Bobby. That’s all.”

“Space is fine,” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “But space don’t fix what’s broken. You know that as well as I do.” Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you didn’t say anything. When you finally looked up, his gaze was steady, unrelenting in a way that made you feel like a kid again. “I couldn’t stay,” you admitted quietly. “It felt like I was… drowning. Trying to keep everything together, trying to be everything for everyone. And Sam…” Bobby tilted his head slightly, waiting for you to finish. “There’s something going on with him,” you said, your voice faltering. “Something he’s not telling me—or Dean. I tried to figure it out, but every time I got close, he’d shut me out.”

Bobby didn’t respond right away, just tapped a finger against the side of his mug as he mulled over your words. Then, after a long pause, he said, “You’re not wrong about the boy.” You blinked, sitting up a little straighter. “What do you mean?”

He let out a sigh, his gaze drifting to the window as if he were debating how much to say. “Dean called me a while back. Said Sam’s been… different. Edgy. More than usual.” Your stomach twisted. “Did he say why?” Bobby shook his head. “Not in so many words. But he mentioned Ruby’s name a couple times. Said Sam’s been spendin’ too much time with her.” The mention of Ruby sent a chill down your spine.

“He’s in love with her,” you said, the words bitter on your tongue.

Bobby’s eyes narrowed, his face hardening slightly. “Love’s a strong word. More like… she’s got her claws in him real deep. Sam’s a smart kid, but he’s also stubborn as hell. He thinks he’s doin’ what’s best, but I got a feelin’ he’s diggin’ himself a hole he can’t climb out of.” The knot in your chest tightened. You’d seen it too—the way Ruby hovered just close enough to keep him tethered, the way his shoulders relaxed when she was around. You hated her for it, hated the way she seemed to know exactly how to pull Sam’s strings. “He’s gonna get himself hurt,” you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper. Bobby sighed, his gaze softening. “Maybe. But that ain’t your problem to fix.” You nodded, though the words didn’t settle as easily as they should’ve.

That night, as you sat on the porch with a blanket draped over your shoulders, you stared up at the stars and tried to make sense of everything. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint chirp of crickets and the distant rustle of wind through the trees. You thought of Sam, of the way his eyes had searched yours in that motel room. You thought of Dean, of his relentless determination to keep everyone together. And you thought of yourself, sitting here now, wondering if you’d done the right thing. The stars didn’t have any answers. Neither did you. But as the night stretched on, you realized that maybe Bobby was right. Maybe space wouldn’t fix what was broken.

You missed them.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

Dean’s knuckles tightened around the wheel of the Impala as the miles ticked by. The road stretched ahead in a blur of asphalt and scattered headlights, but his mind was somewhere else. The crumpled note sat in the passenger seat, the words burned into his brain no matter how hard he tried to shake them. Don’t look for me. Like hell he wouldn’t.

He’d started at the last place they’d been, retracing your steps like it was any other hunt. Truck stops, diners, gas stations—he grilled anyone who might’ve seen you, his tone sharp and clipped, his patience nonexistent. A few vague descriptions matched your appearance, but they all pointed in different directions. It was like you’d vanished into thin air, leaving only breadcrumbs that barely stuck together. He pulled into another gas station, the fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead as he parked the car. The clerk inside barely looked up from his magazine as Dean approached the counter.

“Seen her?” Dean asked, slapping a photo onto the counter. It was a candid shot, one Sam had taken months ago during a rare quiet moment between hunts. You were laughing at something Dean had said, your head tilted slightly, your hair catching the light. The clerk squinted at the photo, his chewing gum slowing as he considered it. “Maybe,” he drawled. “Couple days ago. Hitched a ride with a trucker headin’ north.” Dean’s jaw tightened. “You got anything more specific?” The guy shrugged.

“Didn’t catch where they were goin’. She looked like she was in a hurry, though.”

Dean muttered a curse under his breath, snatching the photo back as he turned toward the door. Every lead was colder than the last, and with each dead end, the knot in his chest tightened. You weren’t making this easy, but he hadn’t expected you to.

Back in the Impala, he rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion creeping in around the edges. He hated this—hated not knowing where you were, if you were okay, if you even wanted to be found. But none of that mattered. Not to him. Not when the thought of you out there alone, hurt and vulnerable, gnawed at him like a wound that wouldn’t heal. “Damn it,” he muttered, slamming his hand against the steering wheel.

A memory flashed, sharp and uninvited—your laugh filling the air during a rare quiet night on the road. You’d been teasing Sam about something, and the sound of it had made Dean smirk despite himself. Now, that laughter felt like a ghost, haunting the empty space you’d left behind.

With a heavy sigh, Dean started the car and pulled back onto the highway. He wasn’t giving up. Not yet.

Sam sat alone in the motel, the silence pressing down on him like a weight. Dean had been gone for two days now, chasing after you with the kind of determination Sam couldn’t bring himself to muster. His shoulder still ached from the hunt, the stitches pulling every time he moved, but that wasn’t what kept him up at night. It was you.

He stared at his phone, your single message still sitting there like a taunt. I’m safe. Don’t worry. Safe, sure. But the “don’t worry” part? That was impossible. Sam leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled slowly. The truth was, he wasn’t just worried about you. He was worried about himself—about the way Ruby’s presence lingered like a shadow in his mind, about the pull of her blood and the power it gave him. About the way he couldn’t seem to stop craving it, no matter how much he tried. You’d seen it, hadn’t you? Seen the cracks he’d been trying so hard to hide.

Maybe that’s why you’d left—not because of the hunt, not because of the fight, but because you couldn’t stand to watch him fall apart. His phone buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. It wasn’t you. It was Ruby. Sam stared at the screen for a long moment, his chest tightening as the familiar rush of guilt and need washed over him. He didn’t answer. Not this time. But the doubt lingered, clawing at the edges of his resolve. And as the silence settled over the motel once more, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was too far gone to fix any of it.

Was he being pathetic? Yes. But he also had an idea of where you might have gone, and that at least gave him some comfort. It was better than thinking you were out there with no plan, no destination. That wasn’t like you. You always had a plan. Still, the idea of you being gone didn’t sit right. He thought, at some point, to go to you. That maybe if he apologized… or said something—anything—you’d come back.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to fix whatever it was that had pushed you to leave in the first place. He just didn’t know what to say. It was a lot emptier without you. The motel room was cramped and quiet, the kind of quiet that made the cheap wallpaper and sagging furniture feel like they were closing in. Dean had gone out for food—or maybe just to burn off his frustration somewhere else—and Sam was left alone, staring at the scattered papers on the table. It was their usual setup: lore books stacked high, scribbled notes, and a laptop balanced precariously on the edge of the bed. But it didn’t feel right. Not without you.

You always brought order to the chaos, sorting through the mess with a sharp eye and steady hands. Without you, it just felt like clutter. Sam sighed, leaning back in his chair. The motel’s AC unit rattled faintly in the background, doing little to cut through the stale air. His phone sat on the table in front of him, the screen dark, but he couldn’t stop glancing at it. He thought about calling you again, even though he knew you wouldn’t pick up. He thought about texting, about saying something that might make you reconsider. But every time his fingers hovered over the keyboard, the words felt wrong.

Too little, too late. Instead, he’d scroll through the texts you’d sent before—all the quick updates, the late-night jokes, the “be careful” warnings that were more about you worrying than the hunt itself. It felt like a lifetime ago now, like they belonged to a different version of himself. One who hadn’t let things spiral so far out of control.

The truth was, he didn’t know how to fill the void you’d left behind. Sam ran a hand through his hair, staring at the phone again. He’d sent you one last text the night before, short and to the point: We’re still here. Wherever you are, just… stay safe. You hadn’t replied. He tried to tell himself that it was fine, that you needed space, but the weight in his chest said otherwise. He wanted to believe you were okay, that you’d find what you were looking for, but doubt crept in every time he closed his eyes. What if you weren’t okay? What if you were out there, hurt or worse, and he wasn’t there to help

The door creaked open, and Dean walked in, his boots heavy on the floor. He had a bag of takeout in one hand and a six-pack in the other, but his face was set in that hard, determined way that made Sam’s stomach knot. He dropped the food on the table and slumped onto the bed, his shoulders tight and his jaw clenched. “Anything?” Dean asked, his voice clipped. Sam shook his head.

“Nothing.” Dean let out a sharp exhale, dragging a hand down his face. "She's headed north" he pauses “Figures. She’s probably with Bobby.”

“Maybe,” Sam muttered, though he didn’t sound convincing. Dean glared at him, his frustration barely contained.

“You think I’m wrong?”

“I don’t know, Dean. I don’t know anything right now.” The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Dean cracked open a beer and took a long swig, his eyes fixed on the floor. For a while, neither of them said anything. Then Dean broke the silence

“She’s out there, Sam!” Dean snapped, slamming his bear on the table. “We can’t just sit here and do nothing!”

“And what do you want me to do, Dean?” Sam shot back, his voice sharper than usual. “I can barely move without ripping my stitches open. You think I can chase after her in this state?”

“That’s a damn good excuse, all you've been doing is mope around” Dean snarled. “You let her walk away. You just let her leave, Sam!”

Sam flinched at the accusation, his jaw tightening as he pushed himself up. “She didn’t leave because of me,” he said quietly, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them.

“Bullshit,” Dean hissed, his voice low and cutting. “She left because you pushed her away. Because you’ve been too wrapped up in whatever the hell is going on with you and Ruby to notice anything else!”

Sam’s eyes flared with anger, but he didn’t deny it. "You think I don’t feel guilty?” Sam shot back, his voice raw. “You think I don’t lie awake wondering what I could’ve done differently? I know I screwed up, Dean.” Dean’s glare softened, but only slightly. “Then fix it,” he said, his tone low and firm. “Before she’s too far gone.”

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

You use to like the porch, use to come here a lot when you were younger. One night, after hours spent organizing Bobby’s shelves just to keep your hands busy, you found yourself sitting on it with a bottle of whiskey. The sky above was inky black, pinpricked with stars, the kind of night that would have felt endless and peaceful under different circumstances. But the quiet only made the storm in your head louder.

You stared at the bottle, your fingers curling around it tightly. “What the hell am I doing?” you muttered under your breath.

The answer didn’t come.

Instead, the memories crept in. Sam’s pale face, broken and bleeding on the bed. Dean’s shouts, frantic and sharp, cutting through the chaos like a blade. The weight of it all crushed you from the inside out, suffocating and relentless. Then there was Ruby, a name that hung in your mind like a noose, tightening with every passing second. And then this porch, it took you back to all those years ago, this was where you guys had met:

“We’re John’s boys,” Dean said simply, like you were supposed to know exactly what he was talking about.

“And?” You squinted at the pretty boy in a leather jacket, the sun high in the sky as you stood in the doorway. You were wearing something close to shorts and a flannel, a shotgun casually tucked under your arm.

“Look, sweetheart, we—”

“What my brother means,” the taller one interrupted smoothly, cutting Dean off before he could finish, “is that we’ve driven a long way, and we just want to talk to Bobby, if you don’t mind.” He smiled a polite, almost apologetic smile.

You glanced between them, your grip tightening on the shotgun as they lingered just outside the doorway.

“Names?”

“I’m Dean, and that’s Sammy—”

“Sam. Just Sam,” the taller one corrected, shooting a glance at his brother.

Your gaze shifted between them, taking in their clothes—well-worn boots, layers that were functional more than fashionable. You frowned. “You’re hunters?”

“The best,” Dean quipped, his tone dripping with self-assurance.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Aren’t you a little young?”

Dean’s smirk faltered for a second, replaced by a slight frown before he quickly composed himself. Beside him, Sam gave a small, polite smile.

“Thank you,” Sam said, his tone light, almost amused.

You tilted your head, considering them for a moment longer before stepping back slightly. “I’ll call him down,” you said, your voice firm. “But if you try anything, I’ll shoot you. Got me?”

“Loud and clear,” Sam replied calmly, his tone easy and steady.

Dean, however, looked a little annoyed, his jaw tightening as he glanced at his brother.

You stepped back inside, leaving the door open just enough to keep an eye on them as you turned to yell toward the stairs. “Bobby! You got visitors!”

That’s how you’d first met them. You’d been staying with Bobby for a while, helping out where you could, when they’d just showed up one day, and then again and again, until their appearances became less like interruptions and more like routine.

They had a way of pulling you in, those brothers. The kind of presence that made everything else seem smaller, quieter. Enough so that, one day, when they headed out, you’d gone with them. And you never came back.

That was a few years ago. A lot had changed since then.

You took a long swig from the bottle, the burn in your throat grounding you for a fleeting moment. But it didn’t stop the tears that welled up, hot and unrelenting.

“Shit,” you muttered, brushing them away roughly. You hated this—hated feeling weak, hated that you’d run, hated that even now, you couldn’t stop thinking about them.

The door creaked open behind you, and Bobby stepped out. His footsteps were heavy but unhurried, his presence as steady and solid as the creak of the porch under his weight. He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned against the railing beside you. His sharp, knowing eyes seemed to cut through the dark.

For a long moment, the silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Then, finally, Bobby broke it. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with cryin’, you know.”

You huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t fix anything.”

“No,” Bobby agreed, his tone gruff but not unkind. “But sometimes it helps you figure out what’s worth fixin’.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with truth. You didn’t respond, just stared at the bottle in your hands. That was a day or two ago, but the memory of it still burned in your chest, raw and unshakable.

Today, you’d just finished up on one of the trucks while Bobby insisted on cooking, though it hadn’t done much to settle the noise in your head.  You felt too embarrassed to meet Bobby’s eyes after that night on the porch, like your vulnerability had left a mark you couldn’t scrub away.

The house was quiet now, the faint sizzle of the scrapyard humming in the heat. You threw the towel over your shoulder and leaned against the hood of an old truck, letting out a deep breath.

The day had passed slowly, dragging on like it was trying to remind you of everything you weren’t ready to face. But that was the point, wasn’t it? Distance. Space. Time to figure out what the hell you were even doing.

And then you saw it.

Out of the corner of your eye, a figure shifted just beyond the tree line. At first, you thought it was a trick of the light—a shadow flickering in the heat. But the longer you stared, the more certain you became. Someone was there.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you wiped your hands on a rag and stepped away from the truck. “Bobby?” you called, your voice cutting through the stillness.

No response.

The figure moved closer, stepping into the clearing with a calm, deliberate stride. The sun glinted off dark hair, and as they drew nearer, your chest tightened. Sharp features came into focus, along with a confident smirk that sent a chill down your spine.

“Ruby?”

She stopped a few feet away, her gaze sweeping over you like she was sizing you up. Her smirk widened, her dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Long time no see.”

Your stomach twisted, and your grip tightened around the wrench in your hand. The cool steel felt like the only solid thing in a moment that threatened to unravel completely.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you asked, your voice sharp, almost shaking.

Ruby’s smile deepened, a dangerous edge to her expression. “Let’s just say I have a vested interest in your little soul-searching trip.”

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

Dumm dummm daaa. (Please let me know if you guys are bored with this, because I know this one is not as fun as part 2)

Feedback is always welcome ;)

[emma23]

Touch her again, I dare you :

Joel miller x reader

If you’d like to support me, check out my page 💕

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It had been a relatively quiet week in Jackson, Wyoming. The town had settled into its usual routine, with everyone going about their business, doing their part to keep the community running smoothly. The sun hung high in the sky, casting a warm, golden light over the town square as people milled about, bartering for goods, chatting, and getting ready for the evening.

Y/N had just finished trading for some supplies—dried meat, a few cans of peaches, and some much-needed fresh bandages. Life in Jackson had its challenges, but compared to the world outside the gates, this was paradise. And she was grateful, especially since she had Joel.

Joel Miller, the man who everyone seemed to both respect and fear in equal measure. The man who’d been through more than anyone could imagine, who had seen and done things he’d never fully talk about. And the man she’d somehow ended up married to after a whirlwind of events that neither of them could have anticipated.

It wasn’t always easy. Joel could be gruff, emotionally distant at times, and prone to his own version of protectiveness that sometimes made Y/N want to strangle him. But underneath that hardened exterior, he was the man she loved—the man she’d built a life with, in this new world where everything felt fragile and temporary.

She adjusted the strap of her bag and turned to make her way back to their house when she felt it—a hand on her arm, stopping her in her tracks.

A man’s voice, too close for comfort: “Hey there, sweetheart. Haven’t seen you around much. You new here?”

Y/N’s stomach dropped as she turned slowly, looking up at the stranger who had dared to touch her. He was tall, maybe in his early 30s, with an arrogant smirk on his face that made her skin crawl. He clearly didn’t know who he was messing with—or rather, who her husband was.

“I’m not interested,” she said flatly, shrugging his hand off her arm and turning to leave, but the man stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

“Come on, don’t be like that. Just trying to be friendly.” He reached out again, this time brushing a hand across her waist.

Before Y/N could even react, there was a low, familiar growl from behind her. “Who the fuck are you?”

The change in atmosphere was immediate. The man’s hand dropped away from her as he turned to face the source of the voice. Joel stood there, eyes cold and dangerous, his body rigid with tension.

“I’m her husband. Put your hands on my wife again, and I’ll break them.”

The stranger blinked, clearly taken aback by the sheer intensity of Joel’s words. “I… I didn’t know, man. Just thought she was—”

Joel stepped forward, cutting him off, his face darkening. “I don’t care what you thought. I’m tellin’ you now. If you so much as look at her again, you’ll be eatin’ through a straw for the rest of your life.”

Y/N couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. It wasn’t that she found the situation funny, exactly—more like she found the poor idiot in front of her utterly ridiculous. Did he really think he could just smooth-talk his way out of this?

The guy raised his hands in surrender, backing away. “Alright, alright. No need to get violent. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Good,” Joel grunted, his eyes never leaving the man until he was completely out of sight.

Once the creep was gone, Joel turned his attention back to Y/N, his expression softening just a little, but not by much. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, shrugging. “He was just some idiot. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Joel grunted, clearly still agitated. “Yeah, well, I don’t like anyone touchin’ what’s mine.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms. “Oh, I’m ‘yours,’ am I?”

Joel’s mouth twitched at the corner, his version of a smile. “Damn right you are.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her own lips. “You know, you don’t always have to go full ‘I’m gonna break your face’ mode every time some guy talks to me.”

“Not just talkin’,” Joel muttered, his hand resting on her waist now, pulling her a little closer. “Touchin’. And I ain’t gonna let that slide.”

There was something possessive in the way he held her now, something that made Y/N’s heart race a little faster. She couldn’t deny that she liked this side of Joel—this fierce, protective side that wouldn’t hesitate to tear apart anyone who messed with her. It was primal, raw, and very, very Joel.

“And what if I want to touch you?” she teased, slipping her arms around his neck, leaning up into his space.

Joel’s eyes darkened, the tension from before shifting into something else entirely. “That’s different.”

“Oh?” she smirked. “How so?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he closed the distance between them, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that was far from gentle. It was possessive, claiming, the kind of kiss that left her breathless and wanting more. His hands moved down her back, gripping her tightly as if he couldn’t get enough of her, and Y/N found herself melting into him, her fingers tangling in his hair.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against her lips, his voice low and gravelly, sending shivers down her spine.

“And you’re mine,” she shot back, her voice breathless, her body pressed flush against his.

Joel pulled back just enough to look at her, his thumb brushing across her cheek, his eyes intense. “Damn right I am.”

Later, back at their house, they barely made it through the door before they were all over each other again. Joel had barely closed the door when Y/N grabbed him by the collar, pulling him in for another heated kiss. This time, there was no one around to interrupt, no town square full of people—just the two of them, and the electricity crackling between them.

“Goddamn,” Joel muttered, his voice rough as his hands roamed over her body. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

“I know,” she teased, grinning up at him as she tugged his shirt off over his head.

Joel didn’t waste any time. He scooped her up, carrying her to their bed, where he laid her down gently before climbing over her, his lips finding hers once more. Their movements were frantic, desperate, like they couldn’t get enough of each other fast enough. Clothes were discarded, hands explored, and before long, they were tangled together in a way that made everything else fade away.

In that moment, it was just them—no creeps, no dangers, no post-apocalyptic world threatening to tear them apart. Just Joel and Y/N, lost in each other, in the heat of the moment.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, catching their breath, the room filled with the warm glow of the setting sun filtering through the window. Y/N rested her head on Joel’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“You know,” she said after a while, her voice soft but teasing, “you really didn’t need to go all caveman on that guy.”

Joel huffed a laugh, his fingers lazily tracing circles on her arm. “Yeah, well… he had it comin’.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” he shot back, his tone playful.

Y/N grinned, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Joel’s hand moved to cup her face, gently lifting her chin so he could look her in the eyes. “I meant what I said,” he murmured. “Ain’t nobody gonna touch you, not while I’m around.”

She smiled up at him, her heart swelling with affection for the gruff, stubborn man she’d married. “I know.”

He leaned down, kissing her softly this time, a stark contrast to the earlier intensity. It was tender, sweet—a reminder that beneath all the bravado and gruffness, Joel Miller had a heart that beat for her.

As they settled back into a comfortable silence, Y/N couldn’t resist one last jab.

“So… you think you could maybe hold off on threatening to break people’s hands for a bit? At least until the next town meeting?”

Joel snorted. “No promises.”

[the-wine-dark-sea]

100% agree that Edwin is better at articulating his feelings about others than he's often given credit for.

What's also interesting particularly about the confession scene is how readily and easily Charles says "love you too", giving the impression they tell each other somewhat regularly and Charles just doesn't realise at first that this time Edwin specifically means in love, so he has to clarify.

And I always like how Edwin tends to compliment his friends. I personally like to think that he learned to do that with Charles, and Charles is indeed most often at the receiving end of his praise and affirmations, but we see him do it with Niko and Crystal too, telling them when they've had a good idea on a case and stuff like that. As early as episode 2 he acknowledges the merits of Crystal's idea for the sprites, even if he also immediately tells her how dangerous it was (which he's not wrong about and, I would argue, also shows a level of care, even at this point when they're still very much at odds).

What I like maybe the most about this is how genuine it always is. Edwin isn't the kind of person who just throws words like that around. When he praises someone he means it. It's a very genuine show of his regard. Which is where it circles back to him letting people know where they stand with him.

Another moment I find interesting in this regard is when he talks to Monty on the swing set just before Monty kisses him. He tries to explain what's been going on with him emotionally. He clearly struggles to express all that and he carefully searches for the right words. It's obviously important to him to explain why he is having doubts about whether they should continue to see each other, and to explain it well. He neither wants to accidentally lead Monty on in the wake of his realisation about the depth of his feelings for Charles, nor simply break off their friendship without explanation. So again, he's trying to tell Monty were they stand from his perspective.

Some thoughts on Edwin tonight:

I’ve talked about how I think Edwin is so interesting because he goes against the grain of the very reserved and stiff Edwardian archetype, but something else I find interesting about him is he lets people know exactly where they stand with him. Here are some examples:

Niko:

This one is highly quoted. Admittedly, Edwin does not say this right to Niko because Niko could not see him at this point. To Edwin's knowledge she was not going to be able to see him. She is alive, and perhaps he did not anticipate the sprites a near death experience. All that being said, this was as close as he could get to expressing fondness to her at the moment.

Charles:

Edwin actually does a great job making sure Charles knows when he is doing well on cases, like when he praises Charles' quick thinking with the sprite jar. Even when Charles isn't present, Edwin identifies them as "best friends, if you must know". But of course, Charles is rattled after the Dead Dragon case for a lot of reasons. So Edwin reassures him that he is, in fact, the best person he knows (even after he has met many new faces).

Crystal:

Although they got off to a rocky start, Edwin lets Crystal know (tentatively perhaps, but earnestly still) that he does value having her around. He pushes back against the assertion that he did not want her on the case to find Monty's friend "Gladys" because he did- and he ultimately believes in Crystal and has built a relationship with her.

Monty:

This scene is really interesting to me because we tend to think of Charles as someone who fawns more out of these two (and Charles does-he'll be the first to put his feelings aside to try and smooth the group dynamic time and time again). But here we see that Edwin also has some capacity to fawn, especially with people he considers friends. He continues to try and smooth things over with Monty well into the evening.

Until Monty was revealed to be a crow, Edwin was still working on smoothing things over. Edwin tried to reassure him they were friends, even if his feelings were for Charles. He did seem a bit (or a lot) disappointed by being misled about the whole witch-familiar thing.

The Cat King:

I don’t think we talk nearly enough about this moment :

Their bond is a bracelet. Ultimately, Edwin probably would have left TCK behind in the cannery if not for the caging spell. Some often forget Edwin would not have entertained all of the harassment, taunting, and interruptions to his casework if he hadn’t been trapped in a caging spell- a spell which trapped him in Port Townsend, allowed him to be located by The Lost and Found Department, and ultimately led to him being sent back to Hell. As an aside, that trip back to Hell was the only reason the bracelet fell off- it was never removed intentionally. The Cat King even had his own final cat count wrong- whether by accident or on purpose is debatable (however, TCK did threaten to “stop playing nice” in this forest scene, so it is debatable if he ever would have given Edwin a clear answer).

Charles (again):

When Edwin realizes his feelings for Charles, he attempts a confession before he is sent to Hell- but is sadly interrupted by the giant spider made of babydoll heads. His second attempt on the stairway is much clearer.

Edwin makes it abundantly clear that his feelings for Charles are romantic- and he needs him to know, for better or worse. It's brave to lay a heart bare like that (and admittedly, Charles does his best to meet him where he can, while they are being chased by an eldritch horror).

In short, Edwin is someone who actually knows how he feels about the people in his life and articulates that more clearly than many give him credit for.

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

Who's watching?

A follow-up to Batting for a draw, the Swordheart AU that I swore I wasn't going to write more of, in which Simon is living a psychological horror story while Charles and Edwin are in the background, basking in the glow of their newfound friendship. You can read the first few scenes below or read the whole thing here on AO3.

Rating: T

Word count: 5k

Relationships: Edwin & Simon; pre-Payneland

Warnings: internalized homophobia; ableist language

Summary: Simon knows there’s something off about Edwin Payne lately. He’s been acting odd ever since that night Simon and his friends tried to play a harmless prank and got their arses beat by a cricket bat-wielding madman. Now, Simon just has to prove it.

***

There’s something off about Edwin Payne lately.

Simon has known it since that night he and the lads were going to play a prank on Payne. It was just going to be a laugh; Payne’s problem is that he can't take a bloody joke, always walking around like he’s better than everyone. Like he's better than Simon. But then some crazy twat with a cricket bat attacked Simon and the lads. Broke Simon's fucking nose, too. He had to tell the school nurse that he fell out of bed, which he knows she didn’t believe. Neither did his parents when she called them.

He didn’t get a good look at the madman who attacked him. Whoever he was, he moved fast, so fast that Simon couldn’t make out his features in the dimly lit corridor. He was tall and Simon thinks he might have been wearing an earring. Simon wanted to report it, but he couldn't. Cheesy’s on his last strike; if he gets in trouble one more time, he’s going to get expelled. And Simon’s Mum says she’ll cut off his allowance if she gets one more call from the school and he thinks she might actually mean it this time. So whoever the crazy fuck is, they just got away with nearly killing Simon and the lads.

In the days that follow the attack, he keeps a close eye on Payne and yeah, he’s definitely acting weird. He keeps doing things like humming to himself while waiting in line in the dining hall and staring into the distance and smiling in class. He has dimples. Simon’s gone to school with him for years and had no idea he had dimples, because he’s usually a miserable, prickly little prat.

He’s hardly ever at his usual table in the library anymore. Simon checks every afternoon after class, but Payne’s hardly ever there. He’s had the same favorite table, in the back corner of the second floor, since their first year at St. Hilarion’s. Usually, when he’s not in class or at meals, that’s where he is, reading or doing schoolwork alone. But now, he always seems to be back in his room. He’s barely at meals either, bolting his food down before heading back to his room. Simon has even seen him sneak out a plate of food a few times. It’s fucking weird.

And worst of all, Payne doesn’t even seem to notice Simon anymore. When Simon and the lads give him a hard time in class when his answers are too long-winded, he barely seems to hear them. He doesn’t get flustered and snappish anymore, just continues to say his piece, unbothered. One day, Simon tries to corner him outside of Latin class and Payne brushes right by him without looking at him, like Simon’s not even there.

Simon doesn’t know what’s wrong with the prat, but he’s going to find out.

***

Simon can’t help but walk by Payne’s room all the time; it’s only two doors down from the room he shares with Cheeseman. Most of the lads on the hall keep their doors cracked so anyone can stop by for a chat, but Payne’s door is always closed because he’s an antisocial twat. A week after the madman with the cricket bat broke his nose, Simon’s walking past Payne’s room when he hears something he’s never heard from inside before: someone laughing.

He stops in his tracks, because he’s never heard Payne laugh before, or even really smile. He didn’t know the prat had a sense of humor.

From behind the closed door, Payne says something too low for Simon to hear. Another voice replies, laughing, and Simon realizes there’s someone else in there. But who else would be in Payne’s room? His only friend is that weird girl from St. Hilda’s and that wasn’t a girl’s voice. And he doesn’t have a roommate; he has a single as an “accommodation” as if being a stuck-up prick is something that needs accommodating.

They’re not allowed off-campus visitors in the dorms except on weekends and even then, their doors have to stay open. Payne’s always been a perfect rule-follower: his uniform neatly pressed, always back in his room well before lights’ out, never getting up to anything more exciting than reading alone in the library. So what’s he doing, sneaking someone into his room now?

Stepping closer, Simon presses his ear to the door and listens. It sounds like Payne’s reading a book out loud, probably one of the stupid detective stories he’s always lugging around. “Do you believe in ghosts, Max?” he hears Payne say, adopting a nasally voice, and his visitor laughs again, a snorting little giggle that’s definitely not Payne. Simon pictures Payne stretched out on his bed, book in his lap, maybe while another boy lies next to him, hanging onto his every word. 

The thought makes something hot and sick churn in Simon’s stomach. It’s bad enough for Payne to be… the way he is. Worse for him to fucking flaunt it about.

Simon has half a mind to bang on the door, but then he hears Barrow call, “Oi, Mouldy, what are you doing? You coming?”

Feeling like he’s been caught with his pants down, Simon whirls around to see Barrow and Cheeseman standing at the end of the hall. Right, football practice. He was going back to his room to grab his cleats when he got distracted by whatever’s going on in Payne’s room.  “Yeah, I’m coming,” he mutters and goes to join the lads.

***

Simon wakes in the middle of his night with his head pounding, his mouth tasting like arse, and the fierce need to take a piss. Cheesy came back from a weekend visiting his parents with a bottle of bourbon and they had the lads over to finish it off. Simon regrets it now; he feels like he’s been run over by a bus. His pounding head isn’t helped by Cheesy’s snores, which are even louder than usual. With a groan, Simon staggers out of bed and to the door.

The long walk down the hall to the loo takes him past Payne’s room, which is as dark and silent as the rest of the hall. When Simon stumbles into the bathroom, he’s surprised to find it filled with steam. One of the showers is running and whoever’s in there is singing in a language Simon doesn’t understand, the tune slow and a little mournful. That’s odd, Simon’s fuzzy brain registers. The only international student on their hall is Michel, and Simon speaks enough French to know that’s not what the song is.

The singing quiets as the door closes behind Simon, but he’s concentrating too hard on not face-planting onto the cold tile floor to pay too much mind to whoever’s in the shower. He does his business, then heads back to his room, cursing Cheesy, his parents, and that stupid fucking bourbon. As he passes Payne’s room, the door opens and Payne steps out into the hallway, blinking in surprise when he sees Simon.

Simon doesn’t feel like talking to Edwin bloody Payne right now, especially when his hair is all fluffy from sleep and he’s not pristine and buttoned-up like normal. He grunts at Payne in greeting and continues to his room, cursing Cheesy, his parents, and that stupid fucking bourbon. Practice tomorrow is going to be fucking miserable and Coach is going to catch on if Simon catches another “stomach bug.”

It’s only when he’s back in his bed that he registers: it’s 1 AM, well past lights’ out. Who the fuck is taking a shower at this time of night?

Simon rockets out of bed, nearly falling flat on his face, and throws open his door just in time to see Payne returning to his room. For some reason, he’s carrying a cricket bat, even though Simon is sure he didn’t have one a minute ago. Payne doesn’t even glance at Simon as he slips into his room, the door closing firmly behind him. When Simon hurries down the hall to the loo, he finds it dark and quiet.

***

You can read the rest here on AO3!

[starryeyeddreamer21]

I've been thinking about different stolitz I love yous so here are my top 4 in no specific order

1: This I love you is screamed. There's sobbing, they're begging, because something terrible is happening. Maybe they're being pulled away or maybe one of them is hurt and dying but either way they're afraid they'll never see each other again and if this is the last thing they get to say to each other it'll be the truth.

2: This I love you is an accident. They're going about their days and Blitzø says the words and Stolas says them back. Neither of them notice, it was very casual and they just continue going about their day. Suddenly hours later the moment suddenly hits them and they rush to find each other. Blitzø is apologizing in tears because he ruins everything he touches and he can't ruin this too. Stolas doesn't want to hear an apology he wants to know if Blitzø meant it because all Stolas ever wanted was to be truly loved for who he is. Blitzø says that of course he means it and they kiss and live happily ever after.

3: This I love you is planned. Blitzø knows he loves Stolas but he also knows he deserves the best. So he plans an entire day just for them so he can tell Stolas how he feels. This could go perfectly with everything going as planned but where's the fun in that? So everything that can go wrong goes wrong. Blitzø messes up breakfast, the van breaks down, their reservation is messed up, etc. Blitzø is trying to keep it together but is freaking out because it just keeps getting worse and worse. He's so focused on how his plans are being derailed that he doesn't notice Stolas having the time of his life. Stolas is just happy to be spending time together. Finally Blitzø just breaks down because not a single thing had gone right so Stolas has to tell him how he saw everything from his point of view. Blitzø just appreciates his bird so much that he blurts it out right then and there. It didn't go as planned but the entire situation was very on brand for their relationship and they remember that day fondly.

4: This I love you just felt right. There was nothing special about this day, nothing was preplanned, there was no life or death situation. They were just together. They were in pajamas on the couch at home watching some soap opera Stolas got Blitzø into. Stolas laughed at something on the TV and Blitzø turned to look at him. There was no perfect time to say I love you but that moment seemed as good a time as ever.

The two things all of these have in common is 1: Blitzø says it first because that's just how I think it'll go and 2: It happens on a full moon no matter what

[tj-dragonblade]

🔍🔍 bloop

Thank you for making me put a few more words on this one! Follows on directly from the last snippet in the wip: search agency tag:

"And yet. It is my property, and I would have it back. Without paying for it again." "I feel for ya, buddy, but that ain't fair to me." The guy crosses his arms, squaring up to argue. Ordinarily Hob might feel inclined to step in, to mediate, but instinct stays him. This is not the item that Dream actually wants; he remembers very clearly Dream saying he was unconcerned with retrieving the gemstone and the 'headwear', that only the pouch truly mattered. So if this ruby is just a decoy, why insist on taking it back? He holds his tongue, lets Dream do whatever it is he's doing. Dream folds his arms, mirroring the proprieter. "Then let us find some compromise that is fair to us both," he says. "The woman who sold this to you. I have reason to believe she is in possession of other stolen goods of mine. I would like them back as well." "Sure you would," the guy says, nodding, his tone an obvious attempt to be sympathetic. "She was tryna sell a few things besides the gem; could be they were yours?" "A helmet, not unlike a gas mask in appearance, with a spine protruding from the front?" "Yeah, she had that. Almost bought it, what with the weird magical energy comin' off it, but I couldn't imagine actually unloading it to anyone and I didn't want it stuck in my hoard. Didn't feel right." "A wise decision," Dream agrees, and Hob doesn't miss the look that flashes over the dragon's face, a look that says he's not sure what kind of bullet he dodged by rejecting that sale and he's glad enough to never find out as Dream continues. "The other item is a small pouch full of enchanted sand." "She did have a pouch she tried to sell me; couldn't neither of us get it open, though, so don't know what was actually in it. Wasn't buyin' it unknown." "Do you know where she might have gone next to try fencing her goods?" Dream asks it with a tired note in his voice, a weary and defeated cast to his expression, and the dragon's whole demeanor softens just a little. "There's a lot of possibilities, yeah. I could maybe come up with a list, but—" He shrugs, seeming almost genuinely apologetic. "Then let me propose a trade," Dream says, unfolding his arms and placing both hands on the glass countertop. "Tell us everything you can about this woman—what she looks like, where she may have gone next, anywhere that would make a likely stop for selling stolen magical items. And I will relinquish my claim to the stone, withdraw my personal seal from it." "That's all you want?" The dragon sounds wary, like it's too good to be true. Hob thinks, given the size of that stone, that it probably is. But he's trusting Dream. Dream offers a wan smile. "There is greater value to me in retrieving my other property, even if it means the loss of this piece. You have already paid a great sum for it. Tell me anything you can of the one who sold it to you, of where she could feasibly attempt sales, and will let you keep what you have bought in gratitude. If I catch up to her, I can take the money from her in recompense." "Alright, okay. You got yourself a deal, my friend." The dragon holds out his hand to shake.

This needs some refinement yet but progress is progress.

[ahamkara-apologist]

i guess my ask got devoured by the tumblr bug, but what do you think about the theory that the echo of riis is made from chelchis’s memories?

Oh, no worries, it didn't get eaten! I was just too busy writing fic to remember to answer it. Got the Misraaks/Taniks brainworms and couldn't let it slip before I did something with it.

I'm personally of the opinion that it's pretty much canon, with the Echo being made up of the memories of Riis that were communally lost in the Whirlwind, and Chelchis acting as its speaker. This is mostly because of what we know of the Echo of Command and the Garden-Way lorebook, where the Echoes seem to have a 'primary' speaker/figurehead, and Chelchis was singing her star-song. Eramis likely didn't recognize her because Eramis was a star tracker for the Dancers at the time, while Chelchis was the Kell of Stone, but I do think it's Chelchis who's the singer in the Echo. It just feels too odd otherwise

As for why Eramis was a better match for the Echo than Variks despite neither of them recognizing Chelchis's voice, I think it's because Variks was able to let go of Riis, while Eramis never could stop yearning to go home. Variks has been speaking about how he's given his home to the legends since D1, focusing instead on ensuring that his people survived in Sol, while Eramis could never stop thinking about what they lost, and how to get it back. Eramis also has the drive and the desire to just burn it all down and start anew, which means that she's stubborn enough to want to bring back Riis while also knowing that it will never be the same as it was before. Which are admirable, necessary qualities for anyone who's going into ecological restoration, lmao

Personally, my hope is that if they ever do a follow-up with Eramis, we get a lorebook like we did with Maya and the Quagu where we see that Chelchis and Eramis have been vibing together, with Chelchis offering some of the much-needed therapy that Eramis rebuked from the humans. Chelchis seemed like a big, solid, kind lady from the lorebook with years of both kellship and motherhood under her belt (good kells seem to be intrinsically tied to being a good parent in the lore, which is the only reason I mention this), so whatever trials Eramis faces in finding her family and restoring her homeworld, I hope that Chelchis would be there to offer comfort and support

[expertfool]

i’m addicted to your forthur posting and im curious, if everyone survived MH how do you think their relationship would continue from MH onwards?

aah, thank you very much! i'm glad ppl like reading my posts!

i think this is a bit difficult for me to answer for a couple reasons: i haven't read 'and another thing' or 'the salmon of doubt' yet, and i think my answer would change depending on the stories in them. i've heard 'and another thing' is considered controversial among fans bc it has a different author and the characterization is weird, but i still think it might make a difference about what i think.

it's also difficult bc when i think of anything post-mostly harmless i get very 'starry-eyed romantic' and want a world where ford and arthur settle down together or go on adventures. realistically, this seems unlikely. they've reached a point in their relationship by mostly harmless where they seem unable to communicate well with one another. i'm pulling this from the limited information at the end of so long and thanks for all the fish where douglas adams skips over the part where ford splits up from arthur and fenchurch. we know ford went back to earth for arthur since this is covered in the beginning of the book, but when arthur tries to ask ford at the end of the book ford very blatantly brushes arthur off. it almost seems like ford is jealous that arthur so quickly found someone else to replace him (fenchurch). i don't mean this in an entirely romantic way if that isn't your persuasion, but i think that ford feels jealous (in the way that friends do when they think they've been replaced) that arthur is now choosing to the see the galaxy with fenchurch when in book one ford had said he wanted to travel the galaxy with arthur. so, to summarize this point, ford goes back to earth for arthur, finds arthur has someone else to travel the galaxy with, and ford dips out the moment he gets a chance.

by the time they reunite in mostly harmless i think it's been about ten years. the last ford knew, arthur had been gallivanting across the universe with fenchurch. the last arthur knew, everyone had abandoned him to rot on some backwater planet. so, ten years no communication and no longer on the same page by the time they meet again they immediately get into a verbal spat bc arthur is fed up. but they also immediately fall back into old habits. the problem i see here is that they have the argument but fall back into old habits with no communication about either of their frustrations. it's like they wanted the emotional gratification of released anger without having to sacrifice the comfort of their dynamic and without any vulnerability. ford is happy to show off and look out for arthur bc it makes ford feel good, and arthur is happy to have someone finally looking out for him again, but neither wants to address how badly they're both on separate pages of their friendship.

post-mostly harmless, i think this dynamic would persist. it would give way to more arguments with equal amounts of codependency if they stuck together. if—and that's a big if—they could communicate, i like to imagine they'd help raise random along with trillian (and zaphod?) either on a ship suitable for long-term living or find a planet to settle on, but in order for that to happen i do think they'd still have a long stint of arguing and codependency to get through before the happy ending. i also like to think that arthur tries out cooking for a hobby—since he'd already been getting into it on lamuella—and that ford takes random on work trips (like a 'bring your kid to work day' bit), and random grows up to be a writer like ford.

[911coded]

As promised, chapter 5. This feels rougher than usual but it still works. There is a slight cliffhanger at the end, but was a good stopping point. 😬

Chapter 5: Tear In My Heart

Tommy lay in his shitty bed at McMurdo trying to figure out where his life went off the rails. A flash of a beaming smile and ocean blue eyes comes to mind and he groans, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. I answered the phone when Howie called and a beautiful man walked into my life with a handshake and a bashful smile, that’s what happened. Fuck me. It was destined to end, but he thought maybe he would get to keep some friends out of the deal. That they would end things amicably when Evan was ready to move on and he would pretend to be fine with it and lick his wounds in private. Instead, he panicked at the first sign of permanency and blew up everything spectacularly, hurting them both in the process. Now, in an effort to move on and not think about Evan at every moment, he’s traveled to the other side of the world where no one knows him. And now, people that know his ex are popping up out of the snowy tundra to tell him that, what, they are destined to be connected to each other? What is that supposed to mean? What is he supposed to do with that? Tommy groaned, rolled over and pulled a flat pillow over his head but shot up at the pounding on the door of his tiny room.

“Kinard! Boss wants you to the office, there’s another VIP coming in and they requested you.”

Tommy opened the door to one of his fellow pilots and leaned against the door frame, rubbing a rough hand over the scruff collecting on his face, “Yeah, thanks man. I’ll get suited up and head on over.”

He starts to close the door but the pilot slaps a hand on it and leans in, “Hey, is everything ok? You’re not in any trouble, are you?”

Tommy would have appreciated the sign of friendly intent, but he was sure Peter (Pete?) was just after the latest gossip and Tommy has never made it a habit to give people something to talk about. He shook his head, “Nah, I have no idea what’s going on. The last guy just had me fly around, never said a word.” Tommy shrugged and again pushed at the door and the pilot let up, turning away and making his way down the hallway to tell the next guy what he heard.

*******************

Buck contemplated his future as his plane into Colorado Springs started its descent. Noise-cancelling earphones were filling his ears with the playlist he made the night before, while trying to work out what he was feeling. He is still sad that he and Tommy managed to explode their relationship so suddenly and spectacularly, but the longer he really thought about it instead of distracting himself with work and baking, the more embarrassed he was to be struck with the realization that the cracks were there all along, neither of them had wanted to look. The foundation of a relationship needed to be laid with communication and that was the one thing they didn’t do, not about important things anyway. And maybe they would have gotten there in time, maybe they weren’t ready to slice themselves open and expose all the pain and trauma they each hid behind their ribs.

He had been so relieved to be able to be his whole self with Tommy, that he didn’t want to examine all the insecurities and damage that they both were carrying around, let alone talk about them. But he thinks back to the anniversary dinner and barely recognises himself. Who was that guy fumbling how to talk to beautiful women in a way that turns them down but doesn’t cause a scene? Why did he never look up the Kinsey scale? Ok, he knew OF it, but maybe he should have given it a closer look if he didn’t even know what the numbers meant? Just because it wasn’t exactly considered accurate and complete didn’t mean that it wouldn’t come up in conversation. Maybe there were too many things that he should have taken a closer look at. Unfortunately, all of that leaving things be and enjoying the moment left them both blindsided when they managed to set off the landmines hiding in their pasts. Buck’s response to the explosion was to cling and Tommy’s was to run. Now here they are, Tommy ran all the way to the arctic and Buck is chasing him right into a job interview. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as the fasten seat belt sign light goes dark. Here goes nothing.

*****************************************

Tommy had never been bullied out of the pilot’s seat by a passenger before. He was pretty sure he hated it. Major General John Sheppard was a cocky pain in the ass, but he could certainly fly. The helicopter banked sharply to the north and Tommy resisted the urge to reach for a cyclic that wasn’t there. Oh yeah, he definitely hated it. As they went further north, that not quite voice in his head got a little louder but not any more clear.

Tommy saw General Sheppard’s eyes narrow, “Wow, it’s much chattier than it was all those years ago.”

“You can hear it?” Tommy asked. He turned to look at him instead of the horizon.

“Oh, yeah. I wasn’t able to until I sat in the chair last time. I can’t really understand what it wants, though. You get used to the hum in the back of your mind after a while. The feeling of a whisper that you can’t quite hear but can feel in your bones, the steadiness of never quite being alone, it gets to be comforting. I bring a bit of home with me whenever I visit earth now. Let’s set down and see what the ruckus is about, shall we?” With his statement that didn’t make much sense to Tommy, Sheppard began to lower their altitude and came to a hover over flat ice cleared next to a geometric dome rising over the tundra. After shutting down the helicopter, Sheppard (he said to call him John, that will be weird) turned to Tommy with a serious look on his face. “It’s sure to be a mess of people down there and they get real excited when someone with a strong impression of the gene shows up, just get my attention if you start to get overwhelmed.” Tommy nodded at John but he still had no real idea what was going on or what they were doing there.

Tommy followed John into the dome and to what looked like a freight elevator. With a push of a large button, they started to go down. And down. And down. “How far does this thing go?” Tommy asked, peering down into the darkness below.

“A mile? I think? All I know is that it takes forever. Hey! That means we have time to talk! What do you know about how Buckley came to the attention of our program?” John asked awkwardly.

“I know that he met some of your people when he lived in Peru. I know that he’s been in contact with them ever since. I also know that if he was able to activate this technology without being in direct contact with it, that he knew something weird was up and didn’t say anything. Probably part of why he kept in touch, in case your people wanted to keep an eye on him,” Tommy shrugged. “Make it easy, and they don’t make a fuss. Seems like something he would do.”

“Well, shit. I wonder if any of them have realized…..bet Parrish has, for a botanist, he sure does love chaos. So, you and Evan, what was the problem between you two?” John asked with a smirk.

Tommy cleared his throat and looked anywhere but at John himself, “No offense intended, sir, but that’s none of your business.”

John sighed deeply, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the back wall of the elevator, “That’s really unfortunate, ‘cause Parrish made me promise to be on my worst behavior and make it my business. At least until Buckley can get to you and make you listen.”

Tommy grunted and rolled his eyes, “I don’t know why he just can’t let it go. It’s obvious that he can do better. He can move on and live in LA with his family and be happy. Why would he want to get involved in my bullshit or yours for that matter? Technology that can talk to you? A research base on the bottom of the world, literally a mile beneath the surface? Why would he think any of this would be worth it? He doesn’t even know the real me at all!?” Tommy shouted. He tucked his hands under his arms and panted for breath, shaking with emotion and pressed his head against the elevator gate, as he struggled to regain control of himself.

“What makes you say that?” John asked calmly as if Tommy hadn’t just made a fool of himself.

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and regrets all his choices that brought him to this place. He should have ignored Lucy when she suggested he get away for a while. Who could have known his golden retriever ex-boyfriend was really a husky in disguise with a reach further than even he could run? “He never asked,” he replied softly.

“Did you want him to?” John asked equally as softly while the elevator chugged along deeper and deeper into the earth.

****************************************************

Buck left baggage claim with his two duffle bags and backpack containing, hopefully, all he would need for the next six months. He looked around for someone who looked familiar or at least a sign with his name on it. He happened to spot both in Lorne leaning against a window with a small sign reading EVAN. He hurried over to join him with a giant grin. “Evan!” he shouted, which brought about Lorne’s and also half the crowd’s attention. Lorne grinned once he saw Buck and shouted back, “Evan! You made it!” Lorne grabbed one of the duffles out of Buck’s hand and gave him a half-hug around the other.

“How was your flight?” he asked as they made their way to the waiting car. It only took a couple of minutes to load the trunk with his things and Buck followed Lorne into the waiting car to see a marine sitting in the driver’s seat.

Buck glanced at the marine but mentally shrugged, “It wasn’t bad, short at least, and the smaller airport is much easier to navigate. I hear from Dave that congratulations are in order! Promoted and taking over as base commander! That’s so great! Is the current person retiring?”

Yeah, Cam is ready to retire and spend more time with family in Kansas. I’ll be taking over here at the mountain and we’re still deciding how Dave will split his time between here and there. I’ll have a more regular working schedule, which will be an adjustment for both of us. The hour drive from the airport to the Cheyenne Mountain Complex was spent quietly, Buck watching the scenery go by and attempting to psych himself up for the interview of his life. Buck startled from his daydream about his future when the car turned through a guarded gate and drove about a mile down a straight lane directly into the mountain through a massive tunnel. Here we go. Showtime.

**************

Tommy and John stayed silent for the rest of the slow ride to the bottom. Tommy kept running what John had said over and over in his mind. Did you want him to? Did you want him to? How many times had the conversation gotten heavy and one of them deflected with a joke or another topic? The shudder of the elevator and the sharp clank of metal announcing the end of their ride broke him from his thoughts.

”General Sheppard! Did we know you were visiting?” asked who Tommy could only assume was some sort of scientist in a puffy coat.

”Nope! Just came down to introduce Kinard here to the chair. He’s thinking about joining the program,” answered John.

Tommy shot him a betrayed look, confused. Joining the program? He’s a firefighter, not a ….. he realizes he has no idea what he would even do for these people. He has no idea what they even do! After a couple of minutes of John promising to share anything they learn from “the chair”, Tommy follows him into a large open room, with only what looks like a metal recliner in the middle.

”What are we really doing here, John? This isn’t a job interview, I’m on the logs at McMurdo for a flight to the research base and back, that’s it. So, what are we doing?” Tommy asked, exasperated.

John sighed and muttered under his breath what sounded like “should have sent anyone else.” He took a deep breath, “Look, I need you to listen for a minute, kid, ‘cause I’ve been where you are and I wasted too many years being miserable because I just couldn’t get the words out to say what I really wanted and needed, and I still have trouble…. so this is gonna suck for me.” There was silence from John while he seemingly looked at the rock walls gathering his thoughts, then he heaved a long sigh, “When I first came to Antarctica, the only thing I had left was flying. No family, my friends were all dead and I was ready to spend the rest of my commission flying scientists and supplies back and forth every day because at least I still had the sky. Then I sat in an uncomfortable metal chair and the universe opened up to me. I had the opportunity to see and experience things that I had never even dreamed of before.” He paused and glanced at Tommy, “It wasn’t just about the program, either. I met this loud, rude, absolutely brilliant man, a scientist, and spent the next six years of my life completely in love with him. It took two years to realize it, another four to have the courage to let myself love him, but I still didn’t say anything. DADT wasn’t enforced by Stargate Command, but I was still in the US military. I wouldn’t be able to live openly while serving and I decided I couldn’t do that to him. I made the decision that he deserved better than me, so I stayed quiet and watched him fall in love with someone else. I was still convinced that I wasn’t allowed to be happy. How could I ever give him enough of myself, unbend enough so that he could see and have all of me? Not just Colonel Sheppard, but John. Colonel Sheppard was in charge, he was a hero. John was a mess of neuroses and insecurities. Who could ever want him? No one had before. Sound familiar?” Tommy was staring at the freaky metal recliner blankly, arms crossed over his body, but he nodded slightly at John’s question.

“But, you are together now. You worked it out. How?” he asked, so softly John could barely hear him.

“Well, his relationship fell apart not long after it started when they realized that they wanted different things. They parted as friends, believe it or not. She stayed for a few years then went back to earth,” he said casually, and all the tiny hints that John had been dropping throughout the day suddenly came together to paint a disturbing picture.

“Wait. Earth?!” Tommy choked out.

“Did you miss the part when I said I visit earth? John looked amused as he shook his head mockingly at Tommy. “The gene that we all have that allows the tech to talk to us? It’s alien DNA, my friend. One or more of the assholes either played around with our ancestors and a probe, or decided to play happy families until they were able to pass on their legacy and peace out. I thought Jack and Daniel had a talk with you?”

Tommy scoffed, “There was definitely talking and the general handed me what I think was a toy for children’s therapy, but all I got out of it was that we have a genetic anomaly that allows us to communicate with advanced technology. They didn’t say anything about aliens! They talked about family lines and that we would be drawn to each other!” Tommy growled, absolutely done with playing along.

“Well, that’s true. Did they mention that the researcher who studies the gene thinks it has something to do with all of us being at least bisexual?” John asked, grinning.

Oh. Oh fuck. What?! Tommy bent over at the waist, his heart racing, “I need to sit down.”

John startled and looked around in a panic but there was only one option, “Shit! Yeah, come here, it’s not very comfortable but at least it reclines.” John carefully sat Tommy down in the only chair available without thinking much about it.

“Hello Thomas,” a voice rang out calmly.

“Oh shit! That is definitely new!” John exclaimed and glanced at Tommy, gaze full of guilt.

Tommy sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Fuck my life.

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[sysig]

I think they’re the same guy, somehow (Patreon)