#I was going to let him have something cooler

[witchingwithscissors]

The air in the New York terminal was cooler than the sticky heat of Miami, but Agatha still felt the lingering warmth in her flushed cheeks.

She adjusted the strap of her duffle bag in her hand, her white button-down wrinkled from the long flight, and her denim shorts reminding her of just how unprepared she’d been for Miami’s relentless humidity. It had been an exhausting trip—workshops, meetings, and networking that left her drained. She had dressed for comfort on her way home, thinking no one would care how she looked, least of all herself.

But then, as she stepped off the jet bridge and into the terminal, she saw her.

Rio was standing just past the gate, her dark hair framing her face. She was in her work best—a tailored gray blazer, a crisp maroon blouse underneath, dark jeans, and scuffed boots.

Agatha froze mid-step, her breath catching in her throat.

She hadn’t expected to see Rio—definitely not here, at the gate. Rio’s face lit up when their eyes met, that lopsided grin spreading across her lips like it belonged there permanently.

“Hey, boss lady,” Rio said as she sauntered toward her.

Agatha blinked, taking a second to adjust to the sight. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice softer than she intended.

“Picking up my girl,” Rio said with an easy shrug, her grin widening. Her eyes swept over Agatha, landing on the white button-down and shorts. “And looking damn good while I do it, apparently.”

Agatha glanced down at herself, heat rising to her face. “I feel ridiculous,” she muttered. “I look like I just stepped out of a college dorm while you’re ready to close a million-dollar deal.”

Rio stopped in front of her and tilted her head, her expression softening. “You look perfect.”

“Perfect?” Agatha raised a brow, gesturing vaguely at her wrinkled shirt. “I’m exhausted, underdressed, and completely unprepared to be seen in public.”

Rio stepped closer, her voice dropping to something quieter. “You’re home. That’s all I see.”

Before Agatha could respond, Rio reached for her duffle, her fingers brushing against Agatha’s. “Let me take this,” she murmured, sliding the strap out from Agatha’s hand and slinging the bag over her shoulder.

The gesture was so smooth, so natural, that it sent a shiver down Agatha’s spine. Her exhaustion melted just slightly, replaced by something warmer, something more grounding.

Agatha shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You didn’t have to come all the way out here, you know.”

Rio smirked, stepping even closer now. “I know. But I wanted to. Besides…” Her grin turned teasing. “I thought about sneaking Nicky past security too, but figured TSA might not appreciate that.”

Agatha’s laugh was soft, her defenses slipping with every word. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous about you,” Rio replied, her tone still playful but her gaze steady. She reached up, her fingers brushing lightly against Agatha’s cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “But you love me for it.”

“I do,” Agatha admitted, her voice quiet. She looked up at Rio, her heart skipping at the warmth in her girlfriend’s dark eyes.

Rio didn’t hesitate, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her lips. It wasn’t rushed or flashy, just soft and steady—like her, like them. Agatha let herself sink into it, her free hand brushing against the lapel of Rio’s blazer, grounding herself in the moment.

When they pulled apart, Rio’s smile returned, softer now. “You ready to go? Nicky’s waiting at home with the sitter. I promised him you’d be back in time for dinner.”

Agatha tilted her head, studying Rio for a moment. “You thought about bringing him here? To the gate?”

Rio shrugged, her grin sheepish. “I figured it’d be a good surprise. But, you know, TSA doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.”

Agatha laughed again, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Rio teased, slipping her free arm around Agatha’s waist as they began walking toward the exit, “you keep me around.”

Agatha leaned into her touch, the exhaustion in her body giving way to something warmer. Her thoughts wandered, unbidden, to just how much Rio had become a part of her life—her home. For a fleeting moment, she imagined what it might be like to make it official, to put a ring on Rio’s finger and keep her forever. But seven months wasn’t long enough for a decision like that, was it?

Rio’s voice broke through her thoughts. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” Agatha said quickly, though the faint flush on her cheeks gave her away.

Rio raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced but choosing not to press. “Well, whatever it is, you can tell me when we’re home. Right now, you’re under strict orders to relax. No work, no stress—just you, me, and Nicky.”

Agatha smiled, resting her head briefly against Rio’s shoulder as they walked. “You’re really something, you know that?”

Rio’s grin returned, brighter than ever. “Yeah, well… I’m your something.”

And with that, Agatha let herself fully lean into the warmth of Rio’s presence, her heart lighter than it had been in days.

KATHRYN HAHN as Dessa in "I Know This Much is True"

[luciusdaskel]

Macaque Episode Analysis ramble

So I was talking with a friend about the possible psychological and therapeutic take aways from each episode of Lego Monkie Kid, since I love Psychology as a whole, and came to a conclusion. Macaque's episode has a fuck ton of things to analyze. Such as - Not every role model you meet will be a good person Trust your teachers Don't push yourself too hard otherwise you'll get hurt, manipulated and possibly die (let's be real, Macaque would've killed MK if Wukong didn't step in) And, grooming They will all be covered as I explain the episode in depth. When MK first meets Macaque he thought he was Wukong but even after Macaque declines, MK still had stars in his eyes of pure admiration. He clearly looks up to Macaque since he was just as cool if not cooler than Monkey King. Within the very next second Macaque started the process of grooming, after a tiny test to see how strong MK's admiration was. "[...] I thought uh Monkey King was training you. [...] but you can never have too many teachers, I'm sure Monkey King would agree. [...]"

Then Macaque starts to train MK. This shows the duality of Wukong's more MK's current strength and capabilities training versus Macaque's more destructive and dehumanizing training. With Wukong's "Patience and focus, step into the strike", clashing with Macaque's far more brash "You don't use a weapon, you ARE the weapon." This is effective at isolating MK from Wukong and his teachings because MK feels like he is actually powerful now.

As Wukong says, MK's body isn't strong enough to handle the power. This applies to real life too. If someone tries to weight lift something too heavy for their skills, they could get seriously hurt. This is the just magical equivalent of weight lifting. But because of Macaque's influence, MK fights back and isolates himself from Wukong, his trust worthy mentor. This leads Macaque to his final part of his plan, lure MK into a trap with his full hearted trust in him.

Then Macaque finishes his plan by stealing MK's powers. Let's be honest, with how things were going and by our impression of Macaque in this episode, Macaque would have likely killed MK if it weren't for Wukong. OR left MK to die with the staff pressing him against the moutain. What can we gather from this? Well, first and foremost, MK's admiration made him an easy target for manipulation, and what resulted was MK nearly dying from the ordeal. Check for "not ever role model will be a good person", since Wukong is ALSO a role model, but a good one because he doesn't literally groom MK. (More on that in a minute.) Wukong was right and MK does what he taught him then admits his wrongs by the end and opens up on why, which Wukong responds with "Hey, your heart is in the right place, kid. We can work on the rest." MK learned to trust Wukong when he was teaching him something because ultimately that's what saved his life. I'm not saying trust EVERY authority figure, but one that is teaching you something that you trust and know will not hurt you. Get yourself a Wukong for your MK. Macaque's training has lasting impact on MK, making him feel like he needs to give himself up for others. Before this episode, MK never had the need to sacrifice himself or really seemingly blamed himself for anything. Macaque's dehumanizing training left MK with lasting damage to his mental health and also led to MK not being able to pick up the staff, granted that was after Macaque gut-punched the power out of him.

Ouch...

So, I hear you ask, "Ok, you made your point about various things, here but what about grooming? That's a bold word." Yes, it IS a bold word, especially considering the fandom space being primarily for children. However, I will clarify that grooming does not only apply to sexual circumstances.

This is from the official Canada public safety about child grooming. Notice the none sexual tactics.

"Make promises of a better life" - Promises to make MK stronger/a better fighter/hero

"Cause divsion saying "your parents are too strict" or "your parents don't understand you"." - Macaque says "Other people are going to tell you to be patient. They are slowing you down." to directly conflict with Wukong's training, further dividing MK and Wukong.

"May threaten or pressure your child to do what they ask, which could lead to sextortion." - Might not be explicit but it is implied MK had some minor doubts by the end of the training and was literally pushed into battle. Also he threw MK into the weapons rack on their first session, showing that MK was "weak" and prompted him to take up his implicit challenge, his trick. It's unclear if Macaque ever threatened MK while training, but I doubt it and he just pressured him and manipulated his drive and determination.

One that people might argue is "Approach your child online by pretending to be someone they're not - may falsely identify themselves as a person from school, or someone their age, to build a connection." but I believe it applies. - Macaque comes in creating a show with his own kaiju form, either to make himself popular or to attract MK or Wukong. Regardless, he seemed uncomfortable at first but once he prompts up "But you can never have too many teachers", that's when he starts creating a false identity, a trustworthy teacher who knows better than Wukong. That's also neglecting the fact Macaque pretended to not be that smoke demon.

If that's not "pretending to be someone they're not", then I'm not sure what is. Also for specifically adult grooming,

More signs I feel apply are;

"The person becomes withdrawn, or they may seem troubled by something but unwilling to talk about it. Alternatively their emotions might become volatile." - When Wukong points out MK has been running around other mentors, MK sounds calm and cold, like he was withdrawn. Then when Wukong presses on, MK yells at him and doesn't talk about exactly what was bothering him other than "You just don't like that there's someone who actually teaching me what I need to know."

"You notice them using or wearing something new, that you didn't buy [or teach] for them." - I added teach because Wukong points out he never taught MK how to break a wall like that, and was concerned and upset that MK learned that too quickly. Within that same scene, after MK yells at him, that's when Wukong notices the new symbol on MK's jacket and frowns. That's when he knows MK is being groomed, and by who.

"Groomers often aim to isolate their targets from their family or friends." - Well, we never see Mei, Pigsy, Tang, or Sandy in this episode, after the first meeting and they act like MK was gone for a month or more (could easily be a week lol). On top of that, Macaque was causing a divide between MK and Wukong. MK was very clearly pretty isolated already, and so Macaque just had to remove MK for MK's full reliance.

"The person might be spending more time on the phone, or online, than usual. But they won’t say what sites they’re visiting, or who they’re talking to." - This speaks for itself, but it's likely MK was training more and more with Macaque than being around his own friends, especially considering by previous point.

This video goes into great detail on how it happens, why the victim is manipulated easily, and what it does to someone. Granted this video is about a long-time grooming, but I believe the point and the awareness stands. If Macaque had been grooming MK for about a year or more, I feel MK would be closer to these signs than he is in the cannon LMK. Anyways! I hope you had fun with my analysis, and let me know if you'd like more! I love to just ramble about the psychology of certain characters or the takeaways of LMK episodes! I'd love to do Wukong, Macaque as a whole (not just the episode), MK, Xiangliu/Nine mayhaps?? Or even the Focus episode or something else- I have a minor analysis on the focus episode already in my head lol

[smoooothoperator]

Rewrite The Stars

01: Exile

Lando Norris x surgeon!OC (Lyra Montgomery)

runnaway bride, forbidden love, destinated lovers, love triangle, second chance, road trip, slow burn

Words: 3.2k

Warnings: anxiety

Masterlist

prologue

a/n: This is the first chapter! What do you think? Where wil she go?

If you want to be tagged don't forget to message me!

Every way of feedback is very welcomed

🩺

I can’t breathe.

The corset of my wedding dress isn’t even fully laced yet, but the room already feels suffocating. Too many voices, too many hands fixing my hair, adjusting the fabric, touching up my makeup.

I stare at my reflection in the floor-length mirror, trying to recognize myself beneath the layers of silk and makeup, only recognizing the green of my eyes.

“You need to sit still, Lyra” my mother says with her tone sharp, as always. “The last thing we need is for you to start sweating before the ceremony.”

“She looks a little pale” my oldest sister, Vivian, walks in, arms crossed as she studies me like I’m one of her patients. “Are you sure you’re not going to pass out?”

“She’s a trauma surgeon, Viv” Olivia, my other sister, scoffs. “She’s seen worse things than her own wedding dress.”

“She’s also been up since five in the morning,” Vivian points. “and barely ate anything at breakfast.”

“I wasn’t hungry” I sigh, but no one hears me. Or if they do, they don’t care.

The room is buzzing with tension, but no one except me seems to feel it. To them, today is just another grand occasion in the Montgomery family legacy. Another perfect event.

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” my mother asked, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. 

The question sends a shiver down my spine, making me look at her through the reflection of the mirror like she was insulting me.

“No!” I answered quickly. 

Too quickly.

She studied me for a second that felt like an eternity. Her eyes scanned my face and then my dress, and then they stopped in the big stone of my middle finger. 

“Good. Because this wedding is exactly what it should be” she nodded.

I try to smile, try to tell myself she’s right.

Edward is everything I could have hoped for. He’s kind, intelligent, the kind of man who makes sense for me. The kind of man my family loves, the kind of man who fits into my world.

So why does it feel like my chest is caving in?

Take a deep breath. Another. It doesn’t help.

“I just need a minute alone” I say suddenly, pushing myself up from the chair, making the woman that was fixing my hair take a step back.

“Lyra, we don’t have time-” my mother starts, but I’m already stepping away.

“Just a minute” I insist, forcing a smile. “I’ll be fine.”

Before they can argue, I slip out of the room, closing the door behind me.

The hallway is empty, silent, a stark contrast to the chaos inside. The air is cooler here, no hands pulling at me, no voices telling me where to stand, what to do, who to be, what to wear.

I exhale, pressing my palms against the wall, trying to steady my breath. My heart is racing, my fingers trembling. This isn’t nerves.

It’s something else.

I lift my gaze and start walking, my bare feet silent against the polished marble floor. My dress trails behind me, the silk whispering with every step behind me.

The corridors of the hotel are long, adorned with some pottery and paintings on the walls. I trace my fingers along the walls as I walk, grounding myself, trying to find some version of me that doesn’t feel so… lost.

And then, almost without thinking, my feet take me toward Edward’s room.

I stop just outside the door.

It’s slightly open, just enough that I could push it open if I wanted to.

I should.

I should step inside, wrap my arms around him, let him kiss my forehead and tell me that everything is going to be fine. That this pressure in my chest is normal, that I want this just as much as he does.

But I don’t move.

I hesitate.

And then, I hear something.

A sound. A voice. Then another.

My fingers twitch at my sides, my breath hitching in my throat. I should push the door open. I should step inside. I should.

But I don’t.

My heart pounds so loudly I can barely think. My hand lifts slightly, nearly touching the door to push it open, but I can’t bring myself to touch it. 

I can’t move.

The world feels too still, too fragile, like the wrong step might make everything collapse.

“Lyra?”

The voice comes from behind me, low, uncertain, and too familiar.

I turn sharply, my dress catching on the floor, and suddenly, he’s there.

Him.

For a second, neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.

His expression shifts through a thousand emotions in an instant,  confusion, disbelief, something else I can’t name. His blue eyes widen, scanning me from head to toe, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

The wedding dress.

His lips part slightly, but no words come out. He just stands there, frozen, like if he moves, I might disappear.

My chest tightens.

I haven’t seen him in months. Maybe a year. Or was it more than a year? Time slipped through our fingers like sand, and now here we are, two people who used to be everything to each other, standing in a hallway like strangers.

“Lando” I said,  swallowing hard when I noticed how long it has been since the last time I said his name.

He blinks, his throat working as he exhales and tries to find the correct words to say.

“You-” he stops, his eyes flickering to the closed door behind me, then back to my face.

I don’t know what he sees in my expression, but whatever it is, it makes him take a step closer.

“I-” I start to say something, anything, but my voice comes out weak. My pulse is erratic, my hands cold.

He notices. Of course he does. He always notices.

“Are you okay?” his voice is softer now, like he’s afraid I’ll break if he speaks too loudly.

I should say yes. I should nod and smile and pretend everything is fine. Because it should be.

But the words don’t come.

The weight in my chest is heavier now, suffocating. And Lando… Lando is here. Looking at me like I’m someone he hasn’t stopped thinking about.

Like he still knows me.

I shake my head, just slightly, my hands gripping the fabric of my dress.

And he takes another step forward.

Closer.

Like he’s about to catch me if I fall.

Lando’s eyes search mine, his expression unreadable. There’s something in the way he’s looking at me, like he’s trying to figure me out, trying to see through me the way he always used to.

“Do you want to get out of here for a bit?” he asks, voice low.

“What?”

“Not far” he adds quickly, tilting his head toward the end of the hallway. “Just… somewhere quiet.”

Somewhere away from this door, this pressure pressing down on my chest like a weight I can’t shake off.

I hesitate for half a second.

And then, I nod.

Lando doesn’t say anything else. He just starts walking, like he knows I’ll follow. 

And I do.

We step outside through one of the side entrances of the hotel, into the cool afternoon air. The garden is empty, no guests yet, no noise, just the distant hum of preparations happening elsewhere.

I exhale slowly.

Lando leans against the low stone wall near a fountain, shoving his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. He’s not dressed for the wedding, not really. His shirt is slightly wrinkled, his tie missing. He looks… the same, and yet not.

Older.

Different.

I don’t know when the last time we had a real conversation was, one without fighting or screaming at the other.

He watches me, studying every shift in my expression. 

“I missed you.”

The words hit me harder than I expect them to, making me blink and catch in a deep breath.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to control my feelings.

“Lando…”

“Did you miss me?” he asks. His voice is steady, but there’s something vulnerable beneath it.

I inhale sharply. 

Yes. Yes, I missed you.

I missed his voice, his stupid jokes, the way he could always tell when something was wrong, even before I could.

But instead of answering, I just shake my head, laughing under my breath, still feeling the stab of how much he hurt me in the past.

“This is ridiculous. You show up after what, a year? Two? And now you want to talk?”

He flinches slightly, but recovers quickly, crossing his arms on his chest.

“I didn’t come here to fight, Lyra.”

“Then why did you come?” I ask, crossing my arms. 

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he won’t answer. He runs his hand over his curly hair, a hair that he never took care of and now is amazingly curled.

“Do you really want to marry him?”

The question knocks the air from my lungs.

I open my mouth, then close it.

I should be offended. I should snap at him, tell him he has no right to ask me that.

But I don’t.

Because for some reason, I can’t find the words to say yes.

The question hangs between us, heavy and suffocating.

Do you really want to marry him?

I should say yes. I should laugh, roll my eyes, tell him that of course I do. That I love Edward, that I’ve been waiting for this day, that everything is exactly as it should be. I should slap him and insult him.

But I don’t.

Instead, I force a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. 

“I should go. I have to get ready.”

Lando’s expression flickers with something close to frustration, but not quite. He exhales through his nose, looking away for a moment, like he’s debating saying something else.

Then, just as I turn to leave, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys.

“What-”

He takes my hand, pressing them into my palm. His fingers linger against mine for just a second longer than necessary before he steps back.

“They’re for my car” he says. “And my apartment.”

“What?” I frowned, looking at the keys he just gave me.

“If you need to get away” he continues, voice quieter now. “If you need… a way out.”

I feel my pulse hammering in my ears. Somehow that made my heart beat faster. He’s giving me a way out, a helping hand.

 “Lando-”

“Just take them” his blue eyes meet mine, steady and sure. “You don’t have to use them. But if you ever want to…” He trails off, running a hand through his curls. “You know where to go. You know where is my apartment”

My fingers curl around the metal, the weight of the keys grounding me.

I should give them back. I should shove them into his chest and tell him this is ridiculous, that I don’t need them, that I’m not running away from my own wedding.

But I don’t.

Instead of throwing them to him, I put them in the pocket of my dress.

And when I finally walk away, I don’t look back.

As I stared at my reflection, my fingers curled tightly around the cold metal in my pocket.

But I know he’s still standing there, watching me go.

The weight of the keys pressed into my palm. It’s  small, insignificant objects, yet they feel heavier than the bouquet waiting on the vanity beside me.

I shouldn’t be holding them. I shouldn’t even be thinking about them.

And yet, I can’t seem to let them go.

My wedding dress is perfect. A masterpiece of silk and lace, tailored to fit me like a second skin. The veil drapes down my back like something out of a dream. The makeup artists and hairstylists had worked meticulously, transforming me into the perfect bride.

But as I look at myself, I feel like I’m watching a stranger.

My heart slams against my ribs, hard enough that I can almost hear it over the silence of the room, making me think that in any moment it can break free out of my chest.

I’m just nervous. That’s all.

That’s what I keep telling myself.

That’s what I have to believe.

I force my fingers to unclench, slowly, carefully pulling my hand out of my pocket. I don’t look down, not  wanting to see the imprint of the keys pressed into my skin.

Instead, I reach for the bouquet, holding it like a lifeline. The scent of roses and lilies fills my nose, too strong, too sweet, making my stomach churn.

There’s another knock at the door, firm and controlled.

I swallow hard, turning around to face the door.

When the door opens, my father steps inside.

He looks at me the way he always does: calm, composed, intimidating. His gaze moves over me, his sharp eyes flickering with something unreadable before he finally nods.

“Lyra” his voice is steady, calm as always.

“Dad.”

“You look beautiful”he said, taking a step closer, with his presence filling the room.

“Thank you” my voice feels too small compared to his

“This wedding… it’s a big moment. Not just for you, but for all of us.”

All of us.

I shift my grip on the bouquet, fingers tightening as I let the words sink deep into me.

“You and Edward,” he continues, “you’re going to do great things together. Two brilliant minds, two powerful families… This is more than just a marriage, Lyra. It’s a legacy.”

A legacy.

My chest tightens.

“You understand that, don’t you?” his voice is gentle, but there’s an edge to it: a quiet expectation.

 “Of course” I nodded, feeling my throat dry.

He studies me for a long moment, his sharp gaze unwavering. 

“Then why do you look like you can’t breathe?”

My stomach clenches, making me flinch.

“I-” I shake my head. “I’m just… nervous. You know, pre-wedding jitters.” I force a weak laugh, but it sounds wrong, fake.

He doesn’t smile, something that makes me panic even more.

“You’ve never been the type to get nervous, Lyra.”

“It’s a big day.”

“It is.” he nods slowly. “But you know what’s bigger? Everything that comes after.”

His words settle over me like a weight.

I try to steady my breathing, but my fingers tremble against the silk of my dress.

“Do you love him?”

“What?”

His eyes are unreadable, like he was studying me or judging me, like if I was one of those patients that refuses to say where it hurts or to even ask for help.

“Edward. Do you love him?”

“Yes.” The answer is automatic, immediate. Too fast.

“Good.”

I grip the bouquet tighter, feeling how I am crushing the flowers against my chest.

“Do you think mom had doubts before she married you?”

He exhales sharply, like the question surprises him. Then, after a pause, he nods slowly, drawing a small smile on his lips.

“Of course she did. It’s natural.”

“And you?”

“No.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, feeling the guilt eating me alive.

“When you make the right choice,” he continues, his voice firm, “there’s no room for doubt.”

His words hit like a hammer to my chest.

Right choice.

What if I’m making the wrong one?

He glances at his watch, then nods toward the door.

“It’s time.”

The words make my stomach drop.

I inhale sharply, willing my feet to move.

But they don’t.

For a terrifying moment, I just stand there, frozen.

The dress is too tight. The room is too small. The bouquet is too heavy. My breath is too shallow.

My father is waiting. Everyone is waiting.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to step forward.

He extends his hand toward me. And I hesitate, just for a fraction of a second, before placing mine in his.

His grip is firm. Grounding.

But as he leads me toward the door, my heart slams against my ribs.

The hallway stretches out before me, too long, too bright, too final.

The keys in my pocket are there, I can still feel their weight, like a ghost of a choice I haven’t made yet.

And as the door of the elevator opens, I can't stop to ask myself…

What if I don’t walk down that aisle?

I walk in silence, with my father’s arm steady beneath my hand, his grip firm but not comforting. Each step feels too deliberate, like my body is moving on its own, but my mind is somewhere else.  

The air outside is thick with the scent of flowers and freshly cut grass. The sun filters through the trees, casting golden light across the backyard of the hotel, where rows of white chairs stretch toward the altar. Guests are seated, their voices hushed in anticipation.  

Everything looks perfect. Too perfect.  

A breeze rolls through, moving my veil. A few petals from my bouquet tremble, and then one snaps off entirely, drifting to the ground.  

My heart clenches.  

I tighten my grip on the bouquet, holding it closer to my chest.  

It’s nothing. Just a flower.  

We step onto the pathway leading to the aisle, and I feel the tug before I hear the rip.  

My father steps too close, the sharp heel of his polished shoe catching the edge of my train.  

The delicate lace snaps, the sound slicing through the quiet like a whip.  

I freeze.  

“It’s fine,” he says looking down at the dress, brushing it off like it’s nothing. “No one will notice.”  

But I notice.  

I swallow hard and start walking again, but my chest feels tighter.  

The sun flickers against something above me, and I glance up.  

A pigeon, perched on the arch of roses.  

And then:

Plop. 

Right onto the stone path.  

In front of my feet.  

I stare.  

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid. But my stomach twists violently, nausea rising in my throat.  

Something is wrong.  

“Well, it's a signal of good luck” my father said, laughing softly.

I take a sharp breath, trying to shake the unease creeping under my skin. But every step feels heavier, like the air is thickening around me.  

I hear my father clear his throat, his voice lowering as we near the entrance of the aisle.  

“Are you ready?”  

I don’t know what to say.  

I should say yes. I should smile.  

But all I can do is grip the bouquet so tightly that the stems creak under the pressure.  

I open my mouth, but the words don’t come out.  

And before I can find them the music starts and the doors open.  

Every single person turns to look at me.  

Rows and rows of familiar faces, all smiling, all expectant. My mother, my sisters, Edward’s family, friends, colleagues… everyone is here.  

But I only look for one person.  

I scan the crowd, my pulse pounding in my ears, searching.

And then I see him.  

Lando.  

Standing near the back, half-hidden by the crowd, but still there. 

His eyes meet mine.  

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t smile.  

He just looks at me, watching, waiting.  

And then be nods.

It’s small. Barely noticeable. But it hits me like a punch to the chest.

A silent confirmation.  

Something inside me snaps. 

My breath catches. My feet stop.  

And for the first time since this morning, I do something I wasn’t supposed to do.  

I take a step back.

taglist

@alltoomaples @helvegen-s @leptitlu @mendes-bae @cmleitora @elisysd

[shadowsndaisies]

the beginning

a/n: part one of the brightest of lights white lantern!reader AU!!! im so excited to share this with you as part of my resolution to posting more often, especially the wips that have been sitting stagnant for so long. it's the first time in a while that i get to return to jason todd, my number 1 always.

main masterlist

the brightest of lights masterlist

wc: 4.2k

“Batcave to Outlaws,” Dick Grayson’s voice flooded the speakers of your new hideout and you heard Jason let out a groan.

“What’s up, Batcave?” you smirk, answering the call.

“Why would you answer?” Jason chided as Dick’s face filled the screen. “You know we don’t like them,” he huffs from where he was sharpening one of his blades.

“I’m bored and their calls usually give me something to do,” you muse.

“Ding! Ding! Ding! The lady is correct. I do have something for you guys,” Dick chimes with a playful smile and Jason shakes his head.

“Fine, I’ll play. What do you want?” Jason asked, moving to stand beside where you were seated at the computer.

“Batman is already on-sight but there was a major crash right on the edge of Gotham. It seems like it’s from space,” Dick teases, and your lips part in excitement as you turn to Jason.

“You had to say space, didn’t you?” Jason sighed looking at you and then to Dick.

“C’mon, Jase, please!” you pleaded.

“If you’re going to go, you should hurry, I think Batman’s gonna call Green Lantern,” a new face appeared on screen, Tim Drake, or Red Robin.

“You know you both are enabling her?” Jason says to his brothers as you shot up from your chair to grab your gear.

“Not our fault your partner’s cooler than you,” Tim smirks.

“You keep this shit up, Timbers, watch what happens,” Jason growled.

You slung your leather jacket on and put on your utility belt before moving back to the screen to grab your phone. “I will leave you here Jason,” you tell him as you slip the device into a lined pocket on the inside of your jacket.

“Damnit, (Y/n), just give me a second,” he sighed, moving from the screen.

“Thanks for the tip, Batcave,” you smile at the two.

“We know you’re a bit of an astrophile,” Dick smiled kindly.

“Yeah, you space-loving geek. What a nerd,” Tim snorted, rolling his eyes in amusement.

“See ya, boys,” you smiled into the camera, “Outlaws, out,” you finished before shutting the call off.

“I don’t understand your obsession with space,” Jason commented as you both mounted your bikes.

“My obsession? Really?” you shoot him a look as you tap your choker, the nanotechnology there crawled over your face producing a helmet of sorts.

“Hey some people like Disney, you like space, I’m not judging, I just don’t get it,” he sighed.

Revving your engine you look over to your partner, “What’s not to get?” you ask, voice slightly distorted before taking off.

By the time you arrived at the crash site, Green Lantern was there talking with Batman, “And here I thought I’d be able to get through a week without having to see him,” Jason drawled and your nanotech helmet dissolved once more leaving you with just your domino mask and choker.

“Play nice, I want to see the spaceship,” you warn your best friend.

You couldn’t see his eyes due to the red helmet but you were positive he was rolling them at your antics. Looping your arm with his you pulled Jason over to where GL and B were.

“Red Hood, I didn’t expect to see you here,” Batman’s eyes narrowed on the two of you.

“Yeah, it’s nice to see you too, Bats,” you smile at the dark knight.

“What are you doing here?” he pressed, pushing past your antics.

“Why can’t we just be doing our jobs as vigilantes to check in on crashes, like this one?” Jason asked, nonchalantly, and while the two leaguers turned to the man with the red helmet, you carefully slipped away.

You had been learning from Jason a lot lately, watching the way he walked, for someone so large and well built, he made virtually no sound. So, as light as you could, you slunk away from the three in discussion and closer to the crash site. The first thing you noticed was that there was a lot of smoke. You pulled your jacket off your body and bundled it up a bit to make a breathable mask for the moment being as you crept through. You also made a mental note to add filters to your helmet for future events like this. You weren’t really sure what you were looking for, but you kept moving, and all of a sudden you found yourself by what had to be the cockpit of his small ship.

“Damnit, (y/n), you couldn’t wait a few minutes?” Jason’s voice crackled over the comms.

You were about to respond when you saw something shift through the smoke, “Holy shit. Red, I think there’s someone alive in the crash,” you said instead, creeping ever closer to the crash.

“What?” he shot back.

“Someone or something alive is in this wreckage, Jase,” you repeat.

“Wait for me,” Jason pleads.

“Fat chance, Red Hood. Hurry up,” you decide as you find an opening.

Carefully you move through the ship, it was about the size of a shipping container, but it had broken into pieces in the crash.

“Hello?” you shouted, squinting through the smoke. “Is someone there?”

There was a flash of white light and a hushed whisper. Definitely a voice, maybe two, but you couldn’t make out what they were saying. Biting down on your lip you surged forwards. Once you cleared a very thick plume of smoke you found what you had been looking for. A body.

It was alien, without a doubt, and he was clad in a white uniform that you most definitely recognized.

“Jase?” you tapped on the comms line, with wide eyes, as you stared at the creature.

Whatever it was, it was bleeding purple blood and its eyes were shut.

“What? What’d you find?” he asked, you could hear him panting a bit.

“It’s a Lantern, I have absolutely no clue what race, but it’s definitely a Lantern,” you shared, but your eyes were analyzing the suit, it was different from the ones you’d see from the Green Lanterns, this one was white, but the design was basically the same.

“What? GL said that no other members of the Green Lantern Corps were detected on Earth,” Jason’s voice crackled a bit.

“I never said it was green,” you shoot back.

Suddenly the being coughed and its eyes opened wide, you surged forward, towards the being, dropping your jacket and your hands moving to the spots that were bleeding.

“Just hold on, alright, help will be here soon,” you whispered as you tried to help the alien.

It’s vibrant purple eyes, focused on you, as you hoped that their physiology was something like your own.

“A Terran, how unforeseen,” it spoke softly and your eyes widened.

This alien whatever it was, was speaking straight into your head.

“Forgive me, but by connecting us, I can assure a clean understanding without a language barrier,” it continued.

“Oh, okay, sure,” you swallowed, even though you really had no clue what was happening.

“I’m afraid, Terran, I will not make it through this,” the being let out what seemed to be a sigh.

“I don’t really know how to help,” you admit.

“Tell me, Terran, do you love? Have you compassion? Hope? Are there things you fear? Things you wish to claim for yourself? Are you angry? Do you possess the strength to balance all of these emotions?” the creature’s voice was gravelly in your mind but you kept your place.

“I-I mean I guess so?” you offered. “Doesn’t everybody?”

“Hmm, show me. Show me the things that you relate to these emotions,” it pushed. “Begin with Anger.”

A memory flashed before your eyes, the night you met Jason. You had just started the vigilante thing when you saw a couple kids getting cornered in crime alley. Some gang that was trying to recruit them had backed them into a dead end. You had left them knocked out and zip tied to a wall with a note for the cops. But those kids, you made sure they were okay, it pissed you off to see good kids stuck in crappy situations, and there were so many of them.

“Hmm, angry for the violence and pain inflicted on others? Interesting,” it hummed, “now, what of greed?” your surprise was definitely clear, this thing, whatever it was, was reading your mind.

This time the memory was the first time you walked through Wayne Manor. It was so huge, and everything you had dreamed about as a kid on the streets. Something that you had always wanted, a life of luxury, and yet it seemed so foreign, it still did.

“What do you fear?”

You saw Jason bleeding on your sofa, two bullet wounds, a cut. You weren’t much better, the two of you had barely made it out of this last fight with your lives. You remembered the day so vividly because Jason had almost died trying to save you.

“And hope, do you possess the purest of all?” he continued.

There’s a little girl on her dad’s shoulders, they’re at the park, she’s giggling and he’s smiling up at her. Jason, Roy, and Kori were with you, the group had decided to take a chill day. There were cups of lemonade, a couple of books, a speaker and you were lounging about in one of the rare sunny days here in Gotham. These were the days that reminded you why you fought so hard, they reminded you of what you were protecting.

“What is compassion, Terran?

It’s almost funny what memory surfaces this time. You’re leaning back against a brick wall in the Narrows, eyes bright as you keep watch. Jason’s crouched down with a bunch of kids around him. He’s giving them lollipops, clothes, blankets; all in all, about a grand’s worth of stuff. You knew that because it was money you had raided from Black Mask a few days earlier.

“Why are you asking me these things? Who are you? What are you?” you interrupted, this thing was reading your mind, and you were trying your best to force it out.

“I will answer your questions, but there is one more. Do you have one to love?” it asked and your breath hitched, because you knew exactly where that would send you.

You saw yourself back at the hideout with Jason; cleaning guns, sharpening blades, watching a movie, and passing out together on the sofa. He was all you needed.

“Hmm, how interesting. Maybe you Terrans have an inaccurate reputation,” it hummed. “You will make an excellent choice.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My name is Ophelius, I am the last ring-bearer of the White Lanterns. And you, you will be my successor,” Ophelius shared and your eyes bulged. “What is your name, Terran?

“Woah, what?”

“Your name,” he pushed.

“(Y/n),” you answered and he nodded.

“A white lantern must embody all the emotions, all the spectrums of the light. You must feel everything, and most of all, you must balance them. Your emotions will be your saving grace but lose balance, fall unevenly to any and you will destroy yourself and everything around you,” he warned.

“Ophelius, just hold on. A Green Lantern is on the way, he’ll be able to save you,” you tried to reason.

“No, there is no time to wait for Oa’s warrior. Listen to me Terran, remember these words, they will be your connection to all those before you, to the power of the light, and to the balance within,” Ophelius warned and he raised his hand to you, four fingers of light green skin, one of which was adorned with a white ring.

“In brightest day there will be light,” he said solemnly and the ring began to glow with a bright white light. “To cleanse the soul and set wrongs right,” he continued and the ring slowly lifted from his finger. “When darkness falls, look to the skies,” it spun carefully in the air, enveloping you and Ophelius in this white light. “A new dawn comes,” the ring placed itself on your finger, “let there be light,” Ophelius finished and the light died away, leaving you in white and Ophelius who looked even paler than before.

“Ophelius,” you muttered his name carefully.

“Be the brightest of lights, (y/n),” he whispered once more and he fell back gently against the ground.

“(Y/n)!” you heard Jason shout your name but your eyes stayed glued to the now-dead alien.

“(Y/n)!” that was Green Lantern’s voice.

“Damnit, (Y/n), where are you?” Jason called out again.

“Ophelius?” you whispered his name but there was no response, the alien was dead and he had left you with the last ring of the White Lanterns.

A hand landed on your shoulder and as you turned your eyes met the cowl covered ones of the Batman. His costume was such a stark contrast to what you were now wearing. Your previous attire had been your costume, a black armour-padded halter top, utility belt, military-grade camoflauge-printted dark cargo pants with a kevlar weave and combat boots. Now? Now you were wearing the exact same thing in white, but it felt different somehow, like there was something thrumming in each thread.

“Here,” the Bat’s gravelly voice called out.

A second later Jason came bounding through the smoke, the Green Lantern right behind him. GL’s eyes narrowed on the alien and then on you.

“That’s impossible,” he muttered.

“Woah,” Jason noted.

“He’s dead,” you whispered, staring at the pale alien and straight into his lifeless purple eyes.

“(Y/n)?” Jason crept closer and squatted down beside you.

“I didn’t think he was going to die,” you whispered, looking at the alien and then to your hands which were covered in his purple blood.

“Hey, doll,” Jason said the term softly, forcing you to look at him, “what’s going on in your head?”

“I just wanted to see the spaceship,” you admitted turning to Jason with glassy eyes.

“What did he say?” Green Lantern interrupted.

“Be the light,” you muttered.

“What?” GL pressed.

“He told me to be the light,” you repeated, eyes still glued to the dead alien.

Shakily you reached your hand out, and gently you shut the alien’s eyes, a tear slipping down your cheek, Ophelius had read our life in seconds, but his presence was still so fresh in your mind, it hurt more than you were expecting when he died.

“We need to debrief her at the Watchtower, now,” Green Lantern pushed.

“No, you need to back off,” Jason growled suddenly.

“Hood, stand down,” Batman warned.

“Back off, old man,” Jason threatened, standing back up. “She’s in shock, you robots!”

“Red,” your hand automatically moves towards his side. Gently it rests against his hip and he turns to you. “Hood,” your fingers grip into one of his thigh holsters, needing something to hold onto.

“Let’s go,” Jason huffed.

He grabbed your hand, not caring about the purple blood now on his own hands and suit, and helped you up, one hand went to your back almost immediately as he forced you to move forward.

“Jase,” you said his name softly as he pulled you away from Ophelius’ body. “Jay, stop,” you fight his hand as you force him to stop moving.

“What, doll? What is it?” he asked, hands moving to your arms.

“We have to go with them,” you mutter.

“No way. We’re not doing their dance, not today, not now,” he argued.

Your gaze dropped to your stained hands, and the ring now on your finger, “we have to.”

Safe to say Jason was not pleased to end up in the Batcave twenty minutes later. Sure, it was better than the Watchtower, but it was still more than he wanted. But you were going, and if you were going then so was he. You were his partner and there was no way he was going to leave you in any Justice League madness on your own. Your hands were still stained purple, he hadn’t even given you a chance to clean up before deciding to start the lecture. Surprisingly, it wasn’t Batman, this time it was GL.

“-absolutely reckless, going out on your own into an uncleared sight. Touching an alien that you didn’t know, talking with it instead of calling us? I mean what kind of bullheaded move is that!” you would have laughed if he wasn’t yelling at you. Hal Jordan was usually one of the more relaxed Leaguers, so this was very uncharacteristic.

“Give it a rest, Hal,” Jason finally groaned.

“I haven’t even gotten to you, yet, I mean you let her wander off,” Hal reared.

“I let her?” Jason scoffed. “In case you missed it, she’s a fully grown woman!” Jason shot back.

“Oh, for the love of god,” you interrupted. “Are you going to help me or not, Hal?” you asked him, hands flat on the table while you stood, looking at him definitely, everybody’s masks were off at this point as you addressed each other.

GL seemed taken aback by your abrupt interruption because for a second he just gaped.

“Oh, now he has nothing to say,” Jason scoffed and you leveled your best friend with a look.

“Jason, not helping,” you tell him, he simply sighed and sat back down.

“Look, Hal, this happened and you know better than anyone whether we want it or not, this ring is mine, so you can help me or you can get out of my way,” you lamented, and he sighed, shoulders dropping.

“You don’t understand,” he shared.

“Understand what?” you pressed.

“The White Lantern’s were supposed to be extinct. The power that comes with a White Lantern’s Light is categorically insurmountable,” he explained and your brows furrowed.

“What?” you repeated.

“You encompass all the colors, (y/n)! All of them! As a Green Lantern I focus on the powers of Green. We are the middle of the spectrum, we maintain the balance, but white? White is all the colors, you can’t focus solely on one in risk of losing balance. You have to learn to balance it all.”

“She can do it,” Jason argued.

“It takes years!” Hal shot back, “She doesn’t even know the Lantern’s spectrum!” he negated and your brain made the connection.

“Love, Compassion, Hope, Fear, Greed, and Anger,” you mutter.

“What did you say?” GL’s head snapped back to you in seconds.

“That’s what he asked me about, he read my mind, looked into my memories. Specifically of Love, Compassion, Hope, Fear, Greed, and Anger,” you tell them, and Hal finally shuts his mouth.

“What else did he say?” Batman spoke up for the first time since arriving back at the cave, his cowl was off as he stared at you.

“A mantra,” you tell him.

“A mantra?” Jason repeated, eyebrow quirked.

“In brightest day there will be light, to cleanse the soul, and set wrongs right. When darkness falls, look to the skies. A new dawn comes, let there be light,” you repeat, the words tugging at your gut as your fingers fidget with the new ring.

“Sounds familiar,” Bruce noted, turning his attention back to the Green Lantern.

Hal ran a hand over his face and groaned.

“I don’t get it,” you admit.

“The ring is only part of it,” He begins, unsurely. “It’s powerful, sure, but most of the colored lantern corps need to recharge the ring with a battery. We all have a, how’d you call it, a mantra? Yeah, we all have one. It’s different for each spectrum, and we use it to pull the energy from the battery to the rings, but a white lantern is different, there is no battery,” he explained and your brows furrowed.

“Okay… so how do I recharge?” you asked.

“Through your own energy,” Hal admits and you blink at him.

“What, like draining her own life source?” Jason scoffed.

“Not exactly, it’s supposed to be more like channeling the different emotions into energy for the rings, if done right there should be no negative side effects. But like I stated she’s not prepared, it can take years to learn how to channel your energy the right way, and if she’s not, she could kill herself.”

“That’s not terrifying at all,” you sarcastically assure Hal.

“Hey, I’m not the one who told you to run off!” he countered. “You were irresponsible! And reckless! Honestly, what were you thinking, galavanting off into some crash before the smoke’s even cleared!” he's shouting again and it’s starting to piss you off.

Your fist clenches and then you’re standing up again, “Stop shouting at me!”

Your chest is heaving as you glare at the lantern, but instead of glaring back at you, he’s staring with wide eyes.

“Woah,” Jason's murmur is what pulls your attention.

“What?” you snap, gaze shifting to him.

“Doll,” Jason’s voice was as soft as it’s ever been, “you’re glowing.”

Jason’s eyes were also a bit wide and when you stared down at your hands, you saw that he was right. A sort of white glow seemed to be emanating from your body, in fact it was lighting up the whole cave.

“I- I don’t-” you stuttered.

“This is what I’m talking about, you’re not balancing your emotions!” Hal began again. “You’re letting the Entity take control!”

“Hal,” Bruce finally spoke up, effectively stopping the lantern. He stalked closer to you and a heavy hand came down on your shoulder. You met his eyes and he nodded gently, “take a breath, (Y/n),” he instructed. You nodded and took a deep inhale. “Again,” he told you once you had exhaled, and you followed his instructions.

You repeated the process a few times but you noticed as the light began to fade and your heart rate settled.

He turned to Hal, “Control is teachable, Hal. Curiosity isn’t,” he reminded him.

You stared at Bruce for a second, there were moments when you could see the dad in him showing, and you could never reconcile that version of him with the Bat. They seemed like two completely different people, it was easy to understand Jason’s irritation. Living with someone who could be so different depending on the hour would take a toll on anyone for sure. Your gaze shifted from Bruce to Hal with a furrowed brow, “What Entity?” you press.

“What?” he stuttered.

“You said that the Entity was taking control, what Entity?” you asked.

Hal sighed before finally collapsing in a chair, “The White Lanterns are the physical embodiment of the Entity, which is the power of life itself. White Lanterns are dangerous and unpredictable, Kyle was closest we’ve ever seen to a true White Lantern. But even then, he was a Green Lantern first, and the Entity reverted him back to the Green Lanterns after. You’re wearing the first real White Lantern ring I’ve ever seen. It’s not like the ones Kyle created, and that’s alarming because it just reminds me that there is so much we don’t know about White Lanterns.”

“So you’re saying that the force behind the White Lanterns is life itself, and it manifests as an Entity which has no real form but white light. Which is why it needs me, a ring bearer?” you surmise, squinting at Hal as you put things together.

“Yes,” he nods and you turn back to Bruce.

“What do you think?” you asked him seriously and Bruce just stared at you.

You may not be his biggest fan most days, but there was no doubt that Bruce Wayne was a brilliant critical thinker, and if anyone could help you right now, it was going to be him. “I think the rings choose the wearer. Meaning nothing short of killing you will result in removing the ring’s attachment to you,” he begins and your brow quirked.

“We are not killing her!” Jason interrupted, and the corners of your lips quirked.

“There’s only one thing to do, train,” Bruce agreed with a small smirk.

“Train?” you repeat.

“And who do you think is going to train her?” Hal interrupted.

“I’d expect it to be you, Jordan, or any of your counterparts, though I do feel both you and John Stewart would have better luck when compared to Guy Gardner, Jessica Cruz and Kyle Rayner,” Bruce shot back and Hal’s eyes blew wide.

“Me?” Hal shot back. “What do I know about training anyone?” he scoffed.

“There’s a learning curve,” Bruce shrugged, eyes lingering on Jason for a second.

“Your nonchalance is inspiring,” you muse, eyes darting over to Jason who was now focused on Hal.

“No dead birds, Jordan,” Jason warns, and you almost choke on your responding laugh.

...

a/n: ps: i know i play a little fast and loose with the lantern rules, im open to suggestions!

everything tags: @butterfly-skinnylegend

dc taglist: @batarella @loninctzencarat @escapenightmare @uh-oh-howd-i-get-here

[nerdsnuff]

⚡️NISHINOYA BOYFRIEND HC’S

my first haikyuu love… still love him btw thats my BABE who deserves more love

𓅪 does not hide his feelings. at all. he WILL be the one to confess. no buts. on a random day and not even fully planned… just blurts it out impulsively.

you were getting the last of your things in your locker before you finally head home for the day, imagine your surprise when you see nishinoya next to you when you closed your locker door. he simply laughs as you yelp, heart almost bursting out. “hahah! sorry for scaring you! i just really wanted to talk to you. walk to the gate with me?” he offers. though you’re jokingly still ticked off you agree anyways, letting him know with a nod. once you’re done you two head off, the wind is nice and cool this afternoon. “so… there’s something i wanna tell you…” he suddenly stops, so you do too. unexpectedly he raises his voice, startling you once more. “YOU’RE SUPER COOL AND I KNOW THIS IS SUDDEN BUT PLEASE GO OUT WITH ME!”

𓅪 both before and after dating he talks to tanaka all about you all the time. thankfully the guy is never annoyed. and yes he did wingman nishinoya, probably the guy to convince him to just go for it and confess. they’re both pretty intense about their feelings… anyway just imagine the absolute hype when you accept his confession.

𓅪 guard dog boyfriend FR! will not let ANYONE bother you. people hitting on you? jumped. bullies? jumped? some person simply pissing you off? JUMPED. he has a bit of a problem controlling his temper sometimes… you often have to tell him off when he doesn’t realize that backing off is simply a better solution.

𓅪 speaking of guard dog, would absolutely love to take you home as far as he could! if you use the bus then he’ll take you to the stop (though would hop on with you if he could…), if you guys live near each other hell yeah he’d walk you home

𓅪 buys you treats after school!!! loves spoiling you with little snacks. candy, ice cream, cheap cakes, etc. mostly sweets. always takes you to go to coach ukai’s store every after school! he basically remembers what you look like now and teases the two of you.

𓅪 biggest simp like goddamn bro. he isn’t even into romcoms but if he was he’d be doing all the extra shit he sees. that can’t take my eyes off you’ performance from 10 things i hate about you? absolutely he’d do that. he WOULD learn french for you. which is crazy ‘cus he literally struggles to learn englishcough

𓅪 WILL tackle hug you. yes, even if he’s sweaty… can you blame him? he just can’t contain all the love he has for his darling partner!

𓅪 about petnames… 100% a “babe” guy. i mean he’ll call you other things but babe just slips out so much easier for him.

𓅪 he does need help in class but most of the time acts like he doesn’t just to seem cooler. but if it gets real bad he will go to you for help, it doesn’t matter if you’re smarter than him or not.

𓅪 invites you out almost every weekend. unless it’s a busy week or a busy week is coming up, then you guys just call from home.

“y’know, i really wanted to take you cycling today, but i seriously gotta study…” he sighs and adjusts the phone on his ear, causing scratched noises to be heard from his line. “oh yeah, i’m going to tokyo next week! ahah, yeah! i gotta study hard so i can actually go though, wouldn’t let me pass with a bad grade” you hear him chuckle, along with the sound of papers ruffling. “mmhm, it’s a training camp for volleyball” he then unexpectedly pauses for a moment, the unfamiliar silence makes your eyebrow quirk up. though in a quick second, his voice shoots up again. “actually, ryuu’s coming over to study with me soon… wanna join!?”

[winchestersisterimaginessss]

request: can you write a story based off the the episode 10x3 where they are trying to cure Dean as a demon. Sam for the most part has kept their sister away from demon Dean but she wants to face him and he’s just evil and trying to break her. The whole story is her dealing with all of her emotions and trauma. Obviously in the episode he breaks out of his restraints and maybe he finds the sister in the bunker and tries to kill her and then you can figure out the rest. Just make it super intense and dramatic and detailed. I just think the whole storyline from 10x3 would be soooo good and I know you’d write it exactly how I imagined it with the perfect amount of angst, comfort and everything inbetween ugh I’m so excited if you can write this. thankkkk you!!!!!

A/N: OH IVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE. I followed the storyline pretty much of the entire episode and it’s SUCH A LONG STORY. I just kept writing and writing, but I felt it was necessary. I wanted to capture every single emotion and detail to really get a feel on this story because it was such an intense episode already. I hope you love this!! ALSO requests are always open like please you can spam me with a bunch of requests and I’d be so happy. Some stories catch my mind a little more than others but if you have requested something already I am WORKING ON IT I PROMISE!! Just some get my mind/ideas flowing way more than others so they get finished first. If you put in a request already and I haven’t done it yet just do it again and I’ll try to speed it up on writing it. Other than that keep sending in requests!! I’ll write anything lol. Also pls lmk how you like this one it seriously took so much effort and I would absolutely love if I got some feedback!!!!!!

Sam and Dean Winchester x Sister!Reader (and a little bit of cas hehe)

You sat in the bunker, paralyzed with fear. Dean was back, but he was still a demon. You hadn’t seen much of him because Sam refused to let you around him, but the little you had heard about him it was clear: he wasn’t your brother anymore. He was cold, his eyes pitch black, and there was no hint of remorse behind them. Your body trembled as you fought to hold back a sob. The door opened, and Sam stepped in—he looked utterly broken. He was carrying a cooler full of blood that would hopefully cure Dean of being a demon.

“Sammy,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. He froze at the sound of your voice, taking in the sight of your trembling form. The fear in your eyes hit him hard, and he longed to shield you from the nightmare their family had become. “Hey, bug, what’s going on?” He asked softly, stepping closer. That’s when you saw him fully—his face was exhausted, but it was his eyes, hollow and drained, that told the true story. His appearance was what absolutely crushed you and before you knew what you were doing, you blurted out an apology.

"I’m so sorry, Sam," your voice cracking with emotion. You fought to keep herself together, but the tears came anyway, spilling down your cheeks. "I’m sorry for everything. For this life... for the constant running, the fighting, the endless darkness. I’m sorry we never had a chance to just be—to be a normal family, to be happy." You shook your head, your breath catching as the weight of it all crashed over you. "And now... Dean..." your voice trembled, and you had to stop for a moment, swallowing hard to keep from breaking completely. "He’s not even Dean anymore. And I don’t know what to do, Sam. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to help."

The tears came faster now, and you didn’t try to stop them. You just let them fall, your chest heaving with each breath. You wiped your face with the sleeve of your jacket, your voice barely a whisper as you added, "I’m just so sorry."

Sam stood frozen for a moment, his heart aching as he watched you crumble. You were apologizing for things you had no control over. It hit him like a punch to the gut. Without thinking, he put down the cooler and moved toward you, his arms instinctively reaching out, pulling you close. He needed to comfort you, to make you feel safe again, even if everything around them felt like it was falling apart.

"Hey, hey," Sam whispered, his voice soft and steady, even though his own heart was breaking. He gently cupped your face in his hands, brushing away the tears that fell from your cheeks. "Don’t ever apologize for this life. You hear me?" His voice wavered, the depth of his love for you clear in every word. "You didn’t ask for any of this either. I know this life has been cruel to us. I know it’s taken so much from us, but none of this is your fault. None of it."

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace, holding you like you were the most important thing in his world—because you were. He buried his face in your hair for a moment, taking a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but it was hard. Everything felt impossible. But he knew he couldn’t show you that. You needed him now more than ever, and he’d be damned if he let you feel alone in this.

"You don’t deserve this," he murmured, his voice full of quiet sorrow, but also a fierce protectiveness. "You never deserved any of this. We’re in this together, and I’m not going anywhere, okay? You don’t have to carry this by yourself."

He gently pulled back, his hands still on your shoulders, his eyes full of nothing but love and determination. "I don’t care how messed up this world is or how screwed up we are. We’re family, and that means we fight through this. Together. Always."

He wiped your tears softly, his voice full of reassurance. "You’re not alone, and you never will be. I’m here. I’ve got you, no matter what."

You pulled away slightly from Sam, the weight of everything pressing down on you. Your heart ached for him—he was carrying so much, and you knew he was trying to protect you from the worst of it. But the thought of him facing Dean alone, of him struggling with the monster his brother had become, made you feel like you were suffocating.

“I need to help you, Sam,” you said, your voice urgent but soft, almost pleading. You took a shaky breath, trying to keep your composure. "Please. I want to help you. I can’t just sit here while you go through this alone."

Sam's expression hardened, and his hands tightened around your shoulders, as if holding you back from something he knew was dangerous. His eyes were filled with desperation, but there was a clear resistance there—he didn’t want you anywhere near this. He knew the toll it was taking on him, and the thought of you getting involved, of you getting hurt, made his chest tighten with fear.

"Y/N, no," Sam said, his voice low and firm, though there was a raw edge to it. He shook his head slightly, like he was trying to convince himself as much as you. "I can’t... I can’t let you do that. You’ve already been through enough, and I’m not dragging you into this. I won’t." His hands gripped your arms tighter, his voice cracking with emotion. "I can handle it. I’ll face Dean. But I can’t let you face him too. You’re not supposed to be in the middle of this. I’m supposed to keep you safe. I won’t risk it."

But you shook your head, the fire in your chest growing stronger. You couldn’t just stand by and watch him suffer alone—not when it was your brother too. The guilt would eat you alive if you didn’t help him now.

"I can’t let you do this alone, Sam," you said, your voice breaking with determination. "I need to face Dean. I need to help you. I know it’s dangerous, but I can’t just... I can’t live with myself if I don’t try. If I don’t help you now, if I don’t stand by your side, I’ll never forgive myself."

Sam’s jaw tightened as he stared at you, conflicted. His protective instinct screamed at him to push you away, to keep you safe. But he could see the resolve in your eyes, the way you were unwilling to back down, and it hit him harder than anything else. He wanted to protect you from this pain, but he couldn’t deny you your choice. You had always been there for him, and it hurt him to know you thought you had to do this.

"Y/N," Sam started, his voice rough, but there was no mistaking the concern in it. "I don’t want you to... I don’t want you to see Dean like this. You’ve already been through so much, and I—" He faltered for a second, taking a breath. "I’m not sure I can keep you safe, not with what he’s become."

You stepped closer to him. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the love he had for you and the fear of losing you. But you weren’t backing down. Not this time.

"I have to help, Sam," you said, your voice shaking but resolute. "You don’t have to do this alone. I won’t let you." Your hand gripped his, steady and firm. "We’re in this together. Always."

Sam swallowed hard, his hand reaching up to hold yours, but his eyes stayed on you with that same conflicted pain. Slowly, he nodded, though it was clear how much it hurt him to agree.

"Okay," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "But I’m not going to let you get hurt. I can’t lose you too." He pulled you into another tight embrace, holding you as though he never wanted to let you go, as though you were the one thing still keeping him from falling apart completely. "I’ve got you. And I’ll make sure we both make it through this." You nodded into his chest, but wanted to make sure that he knew you were also there for him. You pulled away from him and walked towards the cooler of blood he had put down.

“Well, we better get started,” you said, trying to sound more certain than you felt as you picked up the cooler. But before you could even take a step, Sam’s hand shot out, grabbing your arm with gentle but unyielding force.

You froze, looking up at him, and the moment you met his eyes, you saw the storm behind them. His jaw was tight, and there was something darker flickering in his gaze, something full of fear—fear for you.

"Wait," Sam said, his voice thick with something you couldn’t place. His grip on your arm didn’t hurt, but it held you still, like he was trying to anchor you in place, to make sure you understood what you were about to face. "Listen to me, okay? You have to be ready for what you’re about to see."

You gulped, but tried to be confident in the situation you found yourself in. "Sam, I’ll be fine."

He shook his head, his hand still on your arm, his thumb brushing over your skin as if trying to calm you. "No, you won’t. You think you know what you're walking into, but you have no idea." His voice lowered, a layer of tenderness creeping in. "This isn't Dean you're going to see in there. He’s a demon, there’s no one possessing him it’s just who he is."

Your stomach dropped, but you held his gaze. “I know Sam." You muttered softly, hearing him say it out loud made you feel nauseous.

Sam’s eyes softened, but the worry never left. He stepped closer to you, his body looming just slightly over yours as if shielding you from something, though you knew he couldn’t protect you from the truth that was waiting for you behind that door. "I know you do," he whispered, his voice rough. "But you need to hear me, okay? It’s different and I’m trying to prepare you in every way possible. He’s going to make you feel things you can’t control. He’s going to manipulate you. He will say things that will make you question everything, make you doubt yourself. He will try to break you."

You frowned, but Sam wasn’t done. He let go of your arm, his hands moving to your shoulders, his touch firm but careful, as if he was afraid even the smallest jolt would shatter you. "He’s good at that. He knows exactly how to twist your feelings—how to twist your memories. He knows how much you love him, and he will use that against you. He will make you feel like you're losing everything. And that—" Sam’s voice cracked slightly as he spoke, but he forced himself to keep going. "That will be the hardest part."

You felt a lump form in your throat, the weight of his words pressing down on you. "I won’t give up on him, Sam. I know what Dean is. I know what he means to me."

Sam nodded slowly, his forehead furrowing in quiet desperation. "I know you won’t," he murmured, and for a brief moment, his eyes softened with something close to admiration. "But he IS a demon now... and he WILL make you question everything. You’ve never seen Dean like this. You’ve never seen him like this before."

He let out a sharp breath, like he was weighing how much to say. "It’s not just about seeing him as a demon. It’s about feeling what he will do to you. He is going to make you think he’s gone. That you’ll never get him back. And it’s going to hurt—so much worse than you think." His eyes were dark now, full of an understanding you couldn’t ignore. "You need to prepare yourself. Mentally, emotionally... you need to brace for it. Because when you see him... you won’t recognize him at all. And that’s going to hurt the most."

You felt the weight of his words crash into you. Sam wasn’t trying to scare you—he was trying to protect you, to prepare you. And though a part of you wanted to shake off his worry, to push past it and rush forward to face Dean, you couldn’t. You couldn’t ignore how much he cared.

"I can handle it," you whispered, but even to your own ears, the words sounded fragile.

Sam’s face softened, but the sadness in his eyes deepened and for a long moment, Sam didn’t speak. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable, torn between wanting to protect you and knowing you needed to do this.

"Just promise me one thing," he said, his voice tight. "When you see him—when you look at him—don’t forget who he was. Don't let him make you forget the older brother you’ve always known." He paused, his eyes searching yours, desperately trying to convey every ounce of his care. "Promise me, please, that you won’t let it break you."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you nodded slowly, determined despite the fear twisting in your chest. "I promise, Sam. I won’t forget him. I won’t give up on him."

Sam let out a shaky breath, the weight of his relief almost visible. He squeezed your hand, then took a step back, his eyes still locked onto yours. "Okay," he whispered, his voice full of quiet, helplessness. "If you need to walk away... you do that. You turn away and don’t look back. Not for a second. Don’t give him that satisfaction, okay?"

"Okay, I wont," you said, your voice steady now, even if your heart was pounding through your body. "I’ll come find you if you walk out. You’re not in this alone." Sam reassured, the concern never leaving his face. You nodded and with one last glance, he stepped aside, letting you walk toward the door. You reached for the handle, feeling the cold metal beneath your fingers as Sam’s steady presence lingered behind you.

And with that, you stepped forward, ready—or as ready as you could be—to face your brother who was now a demon.

As soon as you stepped into the room, your eyes locked onto him, and the air seemed to freeze. The coldness that radiated from him was palpable, like a dark aura pressing down on you. Though his eyes weren’t black, there was something in them—something sharp, dangerous—that sent a chill straight through you. It was the unmistakable presence of evil lurking beneath the surface, twisting everything that had once been Dean. For a moment, you froze, instinctively halting in your tracks as the weight of the transformation hit you full force. You wanted to step back, wanted to run, but before you could think about moving, you felt Sam’s hand gently settle on your back, grounding you. His touch was a steady reminder that you weren’t alone, even as the room felt like it was closing in. You walked closer to Dean and watched as the corner of Dean’s mouth curled into a twisted smirk. The room seemed to grow colder as he took a slow, deliberate step toward you. His eyes—those familiar eyes—were colder than you remembered, and the way he looked at you felt wrong. Like you were nothing more than a toy to him. “Well, look at you. My baby sister,” he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You think you can save me, don’t you? But here I am. And there you are just standing there, scared shitless.”

As Dean's words sank in, the weight of his twisted gaze making your heart pound in your chest, Sam’s hand on your back tightened slightly, as though he could feel the struggle inside you. Without a second thought, he stepped in front of you, positioning himself between you and Dean, blocking your view. His voice cut through the thick, suffocating air, firm but edged with raw emotion. "Dean, stop," Sam commanded, his words heavy with pain.

But then, something inside you—something deeper, stronger—refused to let him win. You couldn't, not without a fight. You stepped around Sam. "You’re still in there, Dean," you forced yourself to say, despite the tremor in your voice. "I know you are. I won’t let you do this." Dean's grin only widened. "You’re lying to yourself, sweetheart. There’s nothing left of me but this." His voice dropped, almost a growl now, "And this—this is what’s going to destroy you."

Your resolve hardened, and despite the absolute terror gnawing at you, you stood your ground. "You won’t destroy me Dean. Not now. Not ever." You replied, your voice much firmer now.

At the sound of the cooler snapping open, you turned just in time to see Sam pulling out the vials of blood, his eyes meeting yours with an unspoken determination. His hands were steady, but you could see the weight of what he was doing pressing down on him.

"You’re gonna come back, Dean," Sam said, his voice tight with emotion, but resolute. "We’re not letting you go."

He walked towards you, the cooler of blood in his hands. Dean eyes zeroing in on it like a predator. "Really?" he sneered, his voice dripping with mock amusement as Sam set the cooler down on the table with a thud.

Sam sighed, trying to mask the frustration but failing. "For what it's worth, I got your blood type," he said, offering a sarcastic half-smile, before clearing his throat and opening the cooler.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a twisted grin. "Sam," he said, his tone low and dark, "I know you think you're gonna try and fix me, but did it ever occur to you that I don’t want to be fixed?" His gaze shifting between you and Sam. "Just let me go. Let me live my life. I won’t bother you." Dean paused, his eyes locking onto you, and his grin stretched wider. "And I pinky promise not to go after our sweet baby sis first."

Your breath caught in your throat. The fear coursed through you like ice, and your hands instinctively gripped the edge of the table. No, don’t let him see it. Don’t show him how much that scares you. But it was impossible to hide. You could feel your heart pounding, your body frozen in place as Dean's words twisted the knife further.

Sam noticed. His jaw tightened, but he kept his eyes on you, locking gazes for a brief moment, silently urging you to stay calm, to stay strong. You nodded, trying to steady your shaking breath, but it felt impossible. You could see Sam’s anger flickering behind his frustration, but he kept his attention on you, silently grounding you, reminding you that you weren’t alone in this. Sam turned back around to take his attention off of you. “Well that didn’t sound promising.”

“What do you care?” Dean asked, his gaze flicking between you and Sam, his voice dripping with mockery.

Sam’s response was sharp, almost a growl. “What do I care?” He let out a huff and rolled his eyes, disbelief dripping from his voice as he looked at Dean. He was trying to stay in control, trying not to let Dean get to him. His eyes flicked back to you, checking on you again, and in that moment, you felt the weight of his silent support. You had to hold it together—for Sam, for Dean, for everyone.

“You’re not going anywhere, Dean. Not until you’re cured and you will be cured.” You said with so much power behind your words.

Sam stepped forward, starting the ritual, but Dean’s voice cut through the tension once more, this time darker, more dangerous.

“You think I’ll sit here like Crowley and get all weepy while you shoot me up? Well, screw that. I don’t want this!”

Sam rolled his eyes again, frustration now boiling over. “Yeah, I think we pretty much figured that out.” His words were sharp. Dean’s gaze moved back to you. “You don’t even know if this is gonna work, do you? You know I’ve got a hell of a lot more running in me than just demon juice, sweetheart.”

Sam kept his focus on the ritual, his jaw set.

“Mark of Cain, got it,” You muttered, your voice barely more than a whisper, but there was a finality to it.

"That's right," Dean growled, his eyes burning with defiance. You glanced at Sam and saw that the syringes were ready. The tension in the air thickened. You looked back at Dean, trying to mask your fear with a heavy sigh.

"Buckle up," you said, your voice steady despite the nerves crawling under your skin.

"Baby sis, you know I hate shots," Dean muttered, his tone dripping with disdain.

You nodded, your grip tightening around the holy water bottle in your hand. "I hate demons."

As Sam took his final step toward Dean, the air seemed to crackle with the energy of the impending confrontation. Without warning, Dean’s eyes flashed black, and he lunged at Sam with a growl, desperate to stop the ritual.

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed the holy water and splashed it right into his face. Dean recoiled with a howl of pain, but it was enough to give Sam the opening he needed. With swift precision, Sam drove the needle into Dean’s arm.

Dean snarled, his body convulsing with rage and discomfort. Sam was unfazed and spoke with a steady determination. “Look, we’ve got a whole bunch more of these to go. You could make it a whole lot easier on yourself.” Sam’s voice was steady, but the uncertainty flickered in his eyes. Before Dean could respond, he started grunting aggressively, jerking violently against the restraints.

You glanced at Sam, seeing the look of hesitation flicker across his face, but before you could say anything, he grabbed another syringe and stabbed it into Dean’s arm. Dean writhed in pain, his eyes glaring up at Sam with unrestrained fury.

“For all you know, you could be killing me,” Dean breathed heavily, the words laced with anger.

Sam turned abruptly, slamming something down onto the table in frustration. “Or you’re just messing with me. Either way, the lore doesn’t say anything about exceptions to the cure.” His voice was firm, but the confidence never quite reached his face.

Dean chuckled darkly. “The lore,” he scoffed. “Hunters, men of letters. What a load of crap it all is.”

Sam squinted his eyes, looking him up and down, but kept quiet. “Oh, you got nothing?” He glanced at Sam, then shifted his attention to you. “What about you, sweetheart?”

You gulped, the fear creeping up on you, but you forced the words out. “This isn’t the real you even talking.”

Dean’s grin widened. “Oh, it’s the real me, all right.” His voice dropped, becoming colder, darker. “The new real me. The me that sees things for what they really are.”

The air around him seemed to pulse with something dark, something raw. His eyes locked onto you, and you felt a cold chill crawl down your spine.

“And I can see what you really are. You’re absolutely terrified,” he continued, his voice dripping with venom. “You thought I’d be broken—but I’m not. This is me now. And you? You’re just another casualty. You’re going to burn, slowly and painfully—just like our mommy you never got to know.”

Your eyes widened in absolute shock at the threat and the mention of your mother, shocked he could even think of such a thing. His gaze flickered over you, studying your reaction with a twisted satisfaction. "I could make you beg for death, you know. You think I’m still Dean in here, but he’s long gone. And you’re going to be so disappointed when you realize that."

Dean’s laugh was low, a sound that sent a jolt of dread through your body. “You can’t save me. And you can’t save yourself, either. I’ll make sure of that. But hey, maybe I’ll keep you alive for a while, let you watch it all fall apart. Maybe make you beg for death? Won’t that be fun?”

The venom in his words stung like poison, and it took every ounce of strength not to crumble in front of him. He could see it—the fear was written all over your face, and he was savoring it. He wanted to break you, and deep down, you knew he was capable of it.

Your breath was shallow, and panic bubbled up in your chest, threatening to overflow. The room felt suffocating. Your world began to blur, and you could feel your knees shaking beneath you. “I’ll make you scream! I’ll make you beg for death and watch as you choke on your own blood!” He screamed at you who was frozen in fear. Sam, enraged, stormed toward Dean. His eyes were filled with a fury that only came from seeing someone he loved in pain. Without hesitation, he jabbed the next syringe into Dean’s neck.

Dean screamed, a sound so raw and guttural that it made you jump, your entire body trembling with fear. It felt like the world around you was falling apart.

Sam threw the syringe on the table, turning away from Dean. The tension in the room was unbearable, the air thick with dread. Dean’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and mocking.

“Let me ask you this. If this doesn’t work—you both know what you got to do to me, right?” His voice was cold, menacing. “You got the stomach for that, Sam?! Because I know Y/N doesn’t!”

Your breath caught in your throat, a wave of nausea rising in your chest. His words felt like a punch, each one more suffocating than the last. You couldn’t take it anymore. Your knees buckled as you rushed out of the room, your mind spinning, your heart pounding. You gasped for air, your chest tight, and the world around you felt like it was blurring together. The threats, the fear, the helplessness—it was all too much. You couldn’t bear to hear any more. You couldn’t bear to be here.

The weakness weighed too heavy on you. The fear was too real. You stumbled down the hall, desperate for air, desperate for a moment where you didn’t feel like you were drowning. You were spiraling, every breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as your body shook uncontrollably. The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, the walls closing in around you. Your hands scrambled for stability from the walls, but they felt foreign, unreal, slipping away from you as if nothing could anchor you. Your heart pounded so violently that it drowned out everything else. The world was blurring, and you couldn’t stop it. You screamed in panic, the noise getting strangled in your throat, swallowed by the terror that was overtaking you. You were shaking so hard, your body threatening to collapse under the weight of the fear. Your breath was ragged, each inhale burning, like you couldn’t get enough air into your lungs. Your legs buckled beneath you, but you didn’t fall. You clung to the walls, nails digging into the surface as if they could keep you from falling apart. Tears streamed down your face, and you didn’t know how to stop them.

Then, suddenly, Sam was there, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you against him. His presence was grounding, but it didn’t stop the panic raging inside you. You trembled against him, clinging to his shirt, your fists clutching onto him like he was the only thing keeping you from floating away into the terror.

“Shh, I’m here. You’re safe, okay? You’re safe,” Sam’s voice was soft but firm, filled with that quiet steadiness you knew and trusted. But it felt so distant through the haze of panic that surrounded you.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. The fear suffocated you, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t catch your breath. “I can’t—Sam, I can’t—” You gasped, clutching harder, the terror building, squeezing the air out of your lungs.

Sam held you tighter, his hands gently guiding your shaky arms around him as he spoke again, more urgently this time. “Breathe, okay? I need you to breathe with me. In through your nose, slow. You’re okay. I’m right here.” His words were calm, but his voice betrayed how upset he was, how desperately he was trying to keep you from falling into the abyss of panic.

But you couldn’t. The fear was overwhelming, and every breath felt like it was ripping you apart. “I can’t,” you sobbed, your chest heaving. “I can’t breathe, Sam. I can’t...” You were sobbing so hard now, shaking violently, your body convulsing in his arms. “I can’t. He’s going to kill us... Sam, he said it himself. He said it—he’s going to—”

Sam’s eyes widened in horror as your words hit him like a punch. His grip tightened on you, his hands holding your face gently, forcing you to look at him. “No, no, no. Look at me. Look at me.” His voice cracked with emotion, raw and full of pain as he tried to steady you. “He’s not going to touch you. I swear to you. I won’t let him hurt you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The weight of your fear crashed down on you, but you could barely hear him through the fog of panic. “He said it... he said he was going to kill us... I can’t— Oh my God! He’s going to kill me... I can’t—I can’t—”

“No,” Sam interrupted, his voice low but filled with an undeniable certainty. He gripped your shoulders, his thumbs gently brushing the tear-streaked skin of your face. “He’s not going to hurt you. You hear me? And you’re not alone. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere, okay? You’re not going to die.”

You shook your head, but the words didn’t make sense. The terror was louder than anything else, drowning out everything he was saying. But Sam wasn’t giving up. His hands were on you, steadying you, grounding you. His voice was insistent, unwavering. “Breathe with me, okay? In through your nose, slow. You’re okay. You’re safe. You can do this. You’re strong enough to do this. In through your nose... slow... just like that. I’m right here.”

You tried, you really did. But the air still felt thick, like you couldn’t get enough in. You gasped, shaking so violently you thought you might break.

Sam didn’t let go. He cupped your cheeks, his breath steady and warm against your skin. “I’m right here with you. You can breathe. You can breathe. I promise you’re going to be okay.”

His voice, so calm, so grounded, started to break through the haze of panic just a little. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, steady and strong. Your hands loosened their grip on his shirt, though you still clung to him, desperate for anything to keep you from falling apart.

Slowly, shakily, you tried to breathe. It wasn’t perfect, but the tremors in your chest started to ease just a fraction.

"I'm so sorry," you whispered, barely able to get the words out through the rawness in your throat. "I couldn’t handle it, Sammy. I thought I could… I really did. But he—" You cut yourself off with another sob, pressing your face into his chest, your fingers still clutching his shirt as though it were the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

Sam didn’t say anything for a moment, but his arms tightened around you, pulling you closer. He didn’t try to pull away or tell you to stop, just held you through the storm. His hand stroked your hair gently, his fingers brushing your skin with an almost tender urgency, as though he couldn’t bear to see you so broken.

"He scared me," you whispered again, voice broken, barely audible as you clung to him, feeling like a piece of you was slipping away with each word. “I couldn’t stop the fear... I thought I could keep it together, but I... I couldn’t. I’m so sorry." Your voice cracked on the last part, the weight of it pressing down on you like a thousand tons.

Sam pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression full of concern and something deeper, something that wasn’t just about fear, but understanding. "Don’t apologize," he said softly, his voice so gentle yet filled with an unmistakable strength. "You don’t have to be sorry. What he said... what he did... It should have scared you. It was pure evil."

You shook your head, still unable to stop the tears. "I should’ve been stronger. I—I thought I could handle it. I thought I could... but I wasn’t ready, Sam. I wasn’t ready for it. I—"

Sam cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze, his eyes soft but firm. "Hey, listen to me," he whispered, his voice low but filled with an unwavering confidence. "You are strong. You’re stronger than you think. You don’t have to apologize. We’re going to get through this, I promise."

His voice held a certainty that slowly, almost imperceptibly, started to sink into your bones.

You closed your eyes, leaning into him again, feeling a sense of relief you hadn’t realized you were missing. He held you for a moment longer, his hands gently brushing through your hair, offering silent comfort. When you finally pulled away, his eyes softened, filled with concern, but there was a quiet determination there too. "Listen, I think you need a little time. Clear your head. You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. If you need to get away from this, it’s okay." You blinked up at him, trying to process his words, still shaken but feeling just a little steadier than before. Sam reached for your hands, squeezing them gently. "I’ll be here, with Dean. If you feel ready to come back, you’ll know where to find us." You nodded slowly, taking in a shaky breath as you turned away, your feet carrying you toward the hallway. But as you walked, your steps faltered when you reached Dean’s door. The place that once felt like a refuge, where you and Dean would laugh, talk, and find solace in each other’s company. Now, it felt cold, distant, like something you couldn’t touch. But despite the overwhelming fear still gripping your chest, you needed to be there. You needed a piece of him, something to hold onto, even if it was just the remnants of the past.

With shaky hands, you pushed the door open, the familiar scent of Dean’s cologne filling the air. You didn’t bother to turn on the light. The dim glow from the hallway illuminated the room.

You walked in slowly, your legs weak beneath you as if the weight of everything was too much to carry. Your eyes glanced around at the cluttered room, the remnants of his life still scattered about: a jacket thrown over a chair, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, a few books stacked haphazardly on the dresser. It all felt so wrong.

But you couldn’t stop. You needed this.

Without a word, you collapsed onto the bed, a cry escaping from your chest before you even realized it. The sound was raw, desperate, like a broken thing struggling to survive. You buried your face in the sheets, clinging to them as if they could hold you together. But the weight of it was too much.

The tears came once again—hard and unrelenting, flooding your face, soaking the bed beneath you. You couldn’t stop. You just couldn’t. The grief tore through you like a storm, leaving you empty and hollow. Every sob was a reminder that the man you loved was gone. Every gasp for air felt like it was being ripped from your lungs, suffocated by the weight of what had happened.

Dean wasn’t here anymore. Dean was gone, and all that was left was this twisted version, this monster wearing his face, mocking you. The pain was too much to bear. Your body shook violently as the sobs racked through you, each cry coming out like a wounded animal, a desperate plea to make it stop.

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. How could everything go so wrong so quickly? How could someone you trusted with your whole heart become someone you were terrified of?

You curled up tighter on the bed, pressing your face deeper into the pillow, as if you could disappear into it, as if you could escape the crushing pain that consumed you.

You felt your body tremble with exhaustion, but you didn’t care. You didn’t know how long you lay there, your body wracked with sobs, lost in a fog of despair. Time had no meaning anymore. There was nothing but the endless ache, the never-ending stream of tears.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook you and you fell into deep nothingness.

Hours later, Sam walked through the door, his footsteps heavy, weighed down by the crushing reality of everything that had happened. He didn’t expect to find you here. But when he saw you, curled up on Dean’s bed, he stopped in his tracks.

The sight of you, so small and vulnerable sent a deep ache through him. It was as if you were seeking refuge in the last place where you felt safe, but now that place was empty—Dean was gone.

Sam’s breath hitched as he slowly walked toward you, trying to make himself as quiet as possible, not wanting to disturb the fragile silence. The sight of you—so broken, so lost—was almost too much for him to bear.

He stood there for a long moment, watching you, but he didn’t want to disturb you. He knew how raw you were, and he didn’t want to make it worse.

Instead, he quietly moved to Dean’s dresser, pulling open the drawers, his eyes landing on old photos. There were pictures of the three of them—of Dean, Sam, and you—smiling, laughing, being a family. The images were so painfully full of life, so full of warmth, and now they felt like a cruel reminder of everything they had lost. Sam swallowed hard, his heart aching in his chest as he sat down on the edge of the bed, holding the photos in his hands, trying to cling to the reminder of who Dean really was.

As he adjusted his position, his knee brushed against you, and your eyes shot open. You jerked awake, panic immediately flooding your system. Your breathing hitched as you looked around, disoriented, your wild eyes landing on Sam.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s me,” Sam said gently, his voice calm and soothing as he saw the fear in your eyes. He reached out, his hand hovering near your leg. “It’s Sam. You’re okay, you’re safe.”

For a moment, you couldn’t process what was happening, where you were. Your heart racing with fear, but then you realized it was Sam.

"Sammy?" You whispered hoarsely, your voice cracking with the remnants of your tears. The moment you spoke, Sam’s expression softened, and his hand moved instinctively, rubbing your knee in a gentle motion.

"Yeah, I’m here," he replied softly, his voice full of that familiar warmth, but there was an undeniable pain beneath it. His thumb traced small circles on your knee, the touch meant to comfort, but you could feel his heart breaking, too.

You blinked, still trying to piece together what was happening, and finally asked, “What’s going on?” He slowly extended the photos toward you. You took them from him, your hands trembling as you looked down at the first picture. It was of the three of you—laughing around a campfire, Dean’s arm around you, Sam’s goofy grin plastered on his face. You ran your fingers over the edges of the photo, the memory of that day so vivid in your mind. “I remember this,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “We ended up by that campfire and it was perfect. I remember feeling so... free.”

Sam smiled faintly, his own gaze distant. “Yeah. We were just... being us. No monsters, no threats, no worry. Just us.”

“Just us,” you repeated, almost in disbelief, as if the simplicity of it was too much to hold onto.

Sam gave a soft chuckle, the memory clearly bringing him comfort, but the sadness in his eyes remained. “You kept teasing Dean because his marshmallows were burnt. You’d pretend to be all disgusted, but we both knew it was because you wanted his.”

A small, bitter laugh slipped from your lips, despite the overwhelming pain. You had forgotten about that. “You know me too well,” you murmured. “I always acted like I didn’t want anything to do with those burnt marshmallows, but I couldn’t resist them. Dean always made them with the perfect crisp.”

“You loved it,” Sam teased softly, a slight twinkle in his eye, though it didn’t quite reach the depth of his sadness.

You both fell into a moment of silence, the memories hanging between you like a fragile thread, so easily snapped by the weight of everything that had changed. Sam flipped through another photo, gently lifting another picture from the stack.

It was a candid shot, taken on a long drive. You were sleeping in the backseat of the Impala, curled up in the corner, your head resting against the window. Your hair was tousled, and you looked so peaceful, a soft expression on your face that spoke of all the exhaustion you’d been carrying.

Sam’s lips curled into a sad smile as he looked down at the picture. “You used to fall asleep so easily.”

You looked at the picture for a moment, the memory of that time rushing back. “I used to be able to sleep anywhere, didn’t I?” You said softly. “I’d fall asleep in the back of the car, on the floor of the motel room... anywhere. It didn’t matter, as long as you guys were there.”

Sam nodded, his eyes softening. “Yeah. And Dean would always make sure you were comfortable, even if it meant giving up his seat or letting you sleep in the front.”

Your throat tightened as you looked at the photo again, feeling the pang of longing for simpler days. "He always took care of me," you whispered, the words barely audible. "Even when things were rough, he made sure I was taken care of."

Sam’s expression darkened slightly, but he didn't say anything for a moment. He turned to the next photo, his fingers brushing over the surface, as if the memories were too much for words.

This one was from another time, a shot of the three of you standing in front of the Impala, the sun setting behind you, casting long shadows on the ground. You were all leaning casually against the car, smiles on your faces as you took a break after another long day. There was something about the photo that captured a moment of calmness, like you could take a breath and believe that everything would be okay.

“That was the summer we finally took a real break,” Sam murmured, almost to himself. “We didn’t have a hunt for a few weeks. Just… time together. I remember feeling like that moment could last forever.”

You smiled at the memory, but the happiness it brought was bittersweet. “We didn’t know how rare those moments would be. It’s like we thought we could escape it all, just for a little while.”

“And we did,” Sam said softly, his voice laced with a quiet sorrow. “Even if it was just for a moment, we were free. We were happy.”

You let out a long sigh, turning your attention to the next photo. It was a picture of the three of you standing by a creek, Sam holding up a fish he had caught. Dean was laughing, looking more carefree than you had seen in years. You were standing between them, holding a fishing rod in one hand, a playful grin on your face.

“We almost didn’t catch anything that day,” Sam chuckled, remembering. “But we didn’t care. It was just nice to be out there.”

You nodded, a soft, smirk on your lips. “We spent hours there and I was the only one that caught a fish.”

Sam let out a chuckle, his finger lingering on the edge of the photo. “Yeah, you’re right.”

You felt the familiar ache in your chest, but you weren’t sure if it was the memories or the overwhelming pain that had been gnawing at you for so long.

“I miss it,” you whispered, your voice shaky. “I miss when we were all okay. When we weren’t broken.”

Sam gently put his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer to him. “We’re still here,” he said, his voice steady, though the pain was clear in his eyes. “And we’re going to get through this.”

You leaned into Sam's embrace, taking a deep breath, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you.

“I know we will,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “You’re not going to stop, Sam. You won’t stop until he’s back. And I won’t stop either. I’ll fight for him. For both of you. For our family.”

Sam looked down at you, his hand resting on your arm for a brief moment. The look in his eyes softened, but there was still a flicker of sadness there.

“You always know just what to say,” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. But then, it faltered, as if the weight of the situation caught up with him again. “I need to go give Dean more blood. Just... hang in there, okay?”

You nodded, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “I’m going to flip through a few more photos and then I’m going to face him again. I’m ready, we’re going to get him back, Sammy.”

Sam gave you a long, searching look, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and pain. He squeezed your shoulder gently, his thumb brushing over your skin like he was trying to convey all the emotions he couldn’t put into words. “You’re stronger than you know,” he said softly, his voice cracking slightly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He let out a shaky breath, forcing a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He turned and walked out the door.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone with the photos, the memories, and the overwhelming determination to get your brother back.

You sat in the quiet room, the silence only broken by the soft rustle of photos as you flipped through them. Each one was a little piece of the past, and you couldn’t help but get lost in them, memories flooding back of moments when life felt simpler, when your family wasn’t shattered. You smiled softly at a few, some of you, Sam, and Dean as kids, others of the three of you laughing on the road. Dean’s arm was always around you, a silent protector.

But as time went on, the smiles faded, the weight of the present settling in. You flipped through more photos, trying to hold onto something, anything, to remind you that you hadn’t lost it all.

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the bunker shifted.

The steady hum of the bunker’s lights flickered, and you froze, a chill crawling up your spine. The steady silence was broken by the shrill, jarring sound of the alarm. It was blaring through the entire place, and the lights flashed red, casting the entire room in an eerie glow. Your breath caught in your throat as the ground seemed to vibrate with urgency.

The bunker was on lockdown.

A feeling of dread washed over you, the panic rising as you glanced toward the door. You could hear the buzz of the alarm reverberating through the walls, a constant reminder that something was wrong. Something had happened, and you weren’t sure what.

You stood up, your heart pounding in your chest, the photos scattering around you as you rushed toward the door. The bunker had never gone on lockdown unless something major was going down—something serious.

And that’s when you realized. Whatever was happening, it was happening now.

Your mind raced with thoughts of Sam, of Dean, of everything that was slipping out of control. You ran your fingers through your hair, trying to gather your thoughts, but the alarm kept ringing in your ears, pressing in on you.

Your thoughts spiraled as you heard the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps pounding down the hallway.

No. No, no.

The voice you dreaded pierced through the growing panic like a blade.

“Smart Sam!” Dean's voice echoed, rough and cold. “Put the bunker on lockdown!” His tone was sharp, filled with menace, and it only made your heart race faster, a deep, primal fear clawing at your chest. “I hope you have our sweet baby sister with you because if I find her first…” He trailed off chuckling darkly.

You froze, paralyzed by the sound, your mind scrambling for what to do. A pit of dread opened in your stomach.

The realization hit you all at once. Dean—demon Dean—was loose. The man you trusted, the man who practically raised you, was no longer the one who would protect you. He was the one you had to run from.

Panic rose in your throat as you rushed to make a decision. There was no time. He was close, and you could hear his mocking tone as he stomped down the hall, getting closer. In a moment of sheer instinct, you crouched low, hiding under his bed. You held your breath, praying he wouldn’t find you, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t look here.

The footsteps grew louder, and then—crash. The door to his room was flung open with a violent force. You flinched, pressing yourself further against the cool floorboards, your heart pounding so loudly you thought it might give you away. The door slammed against the wall, the sound reverberating through the bunker, and you squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to stay silent.

Dean’s voice, dripping with dark amusement, broke the silence.

“Well, well, well…” His tone was twisted, mocking, like he was savoring the moment. "Looks like little sister has been rummaging through my stuff. I should've known you'd come crawling back here.”

You could hear him moving around the room, his footsteps heavy as he paced, no doubt seeing the scattered photos that littered the floor, the ones you had been looking through. The ones that meant so much to you. The memories of a time when Dean had been the brother you could count on. His laughter. His warmth. That was all gone now.

He snorted, his voice oozing with cruelty. “You really think you can hide from me, sweetheart?”

You felt every word like a punch to the gut. His presence was suffocating, and the room felt colder, darker with every word that came out of his mouth.

He paused, and for a split second, you thought he was going to leave. But then the sound of his heavy breathing grew louder, closer. He was right near the bed now.

"What's the matter?" His voice dropped lower, taunting. "Too scared to come out and face me, kiddo?"

Your chest tightened, each breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t do anything but stay hidden, the weight of terror pinning you in place.

Then, you heard him bend down, the sound of his hands brushing against the floor. He was too close. The next thing you knew, you could feel his gaze on the edge of the bed, your pulse skyrocketing.

“I know you’re here,” Dean sneered, the sound of his voice creeping along your spine like ice.

A cruel chuckle escaped his lips, the sound as dark and chilling as the red lights flashing through the room. "I think you should come out, sweetheart. Come out and let me see that pretty little face of yours." His voice dripped with venom. "Come on, I promise I wont make you beg for death for too long.“

You fought the urge to scream, fighting every ounce of fear that racked your body. “I’ll be gentle and maybe make it a little quicker than I originally intended… maybe.” He taunted, before moving away from the bed completely.

Then the sound of his boots echoed out of the room and down the hallway. He chuckled darkly, the laughter booming off the walls. “Come out, come out, wherever you are, baby sis. I just wanna play. Don’t you miss your big brother?"

You heard the soft thump of his boots retreating further down the hall, the distant echo of his voice mocking you. Now’s your chance.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, trying to focus, listening for his movements to die down. “Sammy! Once I find our sister—Oh! You’ll wish I never had.” He screamed down the hall. You jumped in fright from under the bed as the sound of his voice faded into the distance.

Finally, you heard the familiar creak of the floorboards in the hallway, followed by silence.

The coast had to be clear.

With a soft breath, you pushed yourself out from under the bed, crawling on your hands and knees, barely daring to make a sound. The darkness seemed to stretch around you as you moved towards the door, your heart hammering in your chest.

The hall was empty. You held your breath and moved quickly, praying he wouldn’t hear you. You had to find Sam and get the hell out of this nightmare. You turned the corner, heart pounding in your throat, the brief moment of freedom fading as you collided hard with Dean’s chest. The impact knocked you to the floor and the breath left your lungs. You looked up and was met with his cold dark eyes and subtle smirk which only grew more as you tried scrambling away from him on the floor. “No, no, no, no, no,” you whispered, your voice trembling in pure terror. That's when your eyes caught sight of the hammer in his hand—twirling slowly, almost gleefully, the cold metal gleaming in the dim light as he grinned down at you. “No! Dean, no, please!” You shrieked as you turned and clawed desperately at the floor to get away, your fingers scraping against the cold surface, each movement frantic, full of pure terror. Every inch you gained felt like a victory, but with each breath, you knew Dean was right behind you, enjoying your struggle. You needed to escape. You had to. As soon as you pulled yourself off the floor, you felt it.

A cold, iron grip closed around your ankle.

“NO!” You screamed, thrashing with a force you didn’t even know you had. You kicked, you twisted, you screamed—every muscle in your body locked in pure, unrelenting panic. Your heart raced as if it were about to tear itself from your chest, each shriek more frantic than the last.

Dean dragged you back, hard, and your body slammed into the floor with a sickening thud, the impact rattling your bones, the air knocked from your lungs in a painful gasp, and a horrible crack came from your head. The world around you spun for a moment, and then all that was left was the terror—him, his grip, his presence—everything closing in on you. You felt the cold floor against your cheek, felt your body slacken for a second, but it only fueled your panic more.

“Please, don’t! Please!” You screamed, your voice wild, hoarse, the sound of your cries raw and desperate. “Please don’t do it! Please—please, Dean, I’m begging you, please!” You tried to claw your way away again, but it was no use. Every time you moved, he was there, pulling you back, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. “Please, Dean! Sammy, help! Please, help me!” You screamed, your voice echoing through the bunker.

Dean’s laugh was low, dark, a twisted sound that sent ice running through your veins. “Sammy’s a little held up right now.” He smirked, knowing the trap he put Sam in so that he could get to you. The hammer glinted in his hand, a cold, mocking glimmer that reflected the red lights overhead. “It’s just you and me, kid. Well until Sammy sees your little body lying here lifeless. Oh, he’s going to be devastated when he finds you… well only until I also finish him off.” Your body trembled in terror as your gaze locked onto his weapon, and you could feel the world around you closing in tighter with each passing second.

“PLEASE, DEAN, DON’T—!” The scream ripped from your throat, echoing down the hallway like a cry for mercy, but there was no mercy. There was nothing but the chilling smile on his face as he stared down at you, that cruel gleam in his eyes, his hand tightening on your leg.

“You should’ve stayed hidden,” he said, his voice low, mocking, as if he was savoring every second of your terror. “You never learn, do you?”

You kicked again, harder this time, desperate, but his grip was unrelenting. Tears flooded your eyes, your chest heaving as you gasped for air. “No... no, please... no...” you pleaded, but your words were barely coherent through the sobs. The fear coursing through you was overwhelming, suffocating. Dean didn’t care. His grip tightened around you, and you winced, feeling the pressure like a vice. “Begging me won’t help you,” he spat, voice dripping with venom. “You think that’s gonna save you?” He dragged you roughly toward him, his lips curling into a grin that was nothing but pure malice. “You think crying is gonna get you out of this?” He breathed his hot breath on your face. You were shaking, your body locked in a full-body tremor of fear. Your head was spinning, your heart pounding, and with every breath, it felt as if you were sinking deeper into a nightmare you couldn’t escape. “No, please, please, Dean,” you whimpered, struggling against his hold. The more you begged, the more twisted Dean’s expression became, savoring every ounce of your fear. His hand shot out suddenly, grabbing the back of your head and slamming it down onto the floor with brutal force. Your vision blurred from the impact, pain radiating through your skull, but Dean only laughed—low and sick. His face got closer to you this time, "Don’t think for a second that you’re in control here," he snarled. The hammer twirled in his hand again, slow, deliberate. Each spin was a reminder of the power he had over you. You tried to move, to escape, but your body was shaking too violently, too weak to fight back. “S-s’mmy Please.” You managed to squeak out, but it was barely above a whisper. Dean leaned down over you, his grin wide and predatory. His voice was almost a purr now, but there was nothing sweet about it. "You think anyone cares? You think Sam cares? No... no, sweetheart. No one’s saving you." You screamed, your voice a raw shriek of pure terror as you thrashed beneath him. Dean’s grip loosened completely before you felt his hands wrap around your throat. He tightened them with a suffocating weight. Your breaths gasped as you hands slapped weakly against his chest. "Okay..." Dean whispered, drawing out the words like a dark lullaby, "Let’s see if you can beg now."

This was it. You were going to die. You were going to die at the hands of your brother. The man who always protected you and cared for you.

You stared into his cold eyes as you felt yours start to drift off. But, just before your world went completely dark, the crushing weight was lifted off of you. You turned over and sucked in a desperate breath when you felt hands on your shoulders. You cried out a horrific rasp, flinching away, but Sam’s soft voice cut through the haze. “Hey, sweetheart, it’s me. Its Sam. It’s Sammy. Look at me, okay? Please, just look at me.” His voice cracked, raw with worry, but there was urgency, a trembling desperation you had never heard before. You could barely lift your head. Every breath felt like it might be your last. You gasped, wheezed, every inhale tearing through your lungs, each one harder than the last.

“Can you breathe?” Sam’s tone was filled with panic as he cupped your face. He frantically scanned your face and saw the blood, the cuts, and the way your body trembled. His stomach twisted with a sickening feeling. His thumb wiped away the blood from your temple, but you could feel the tremble in his touch. “Hey, can you breathe?” He asked urgently in one last desperate plea for an answer.

You clutched at your chest, fighting for just one more breath. “S’mmy?” You managed to rasp, your vision blurred and unfocused.

"Yeah, baby, it’s me. It’s me, but I need you to breathe," Sam reassured you softly, cupping your face and lifting your chin up so you could have better access to your airways. “Breathe with me, okay? Slow, deep breaths, sweetheart. In... and out. You’re okay, just focus on me.”

Your body shook with the effort, your chest burning, the air too thin, but Sam’s voice—soft, insistent, like he couldn’t bear to see you struggle any longer—pushed you to focus. "In through your nose, baby, just like I’m doing, slow and deep. You can do this. You’re going to breathe. I need you to do this with me. Please."

You tried to follow his rhythm, desperate to calm the storm raging inside of you. Slowly, each breath came a little easier, though it felt like your body fought against every ounce of effort. You sucked in another shaky breath, and for the first time, you felt the pressure in your chest lift just a fraction. One breath. One more...

And then you heard it.

A scream. Raw. Full of agony. It echoed in your ears, tearing through the fragile calm Sam’s voice had built. You forced your eyes open and jolted up. You body exhumed the last bit of energy it had to see the scene before you which made your blood run cold.

Dean was locked in Castiel’s unyielding grip, his body thrashing violently against the angel’s strength. Cas’s hands were tight around Dean’s arms, dragging him away, his expression unreadable, but his hold relentless. Dean’s voice cracked, a mixture of rage and pain, as he screamed and grunted, trying to fight back with every ounce of strength. His feet scraped against the ground as he was dragged farther from you, but it was useless.

"Sam..." You barely whispered the word, the terror creeping back into your chest. Your heart lurched at the sight.

“No, no, no...” Sam’s voice trembled with panic, his grip tightening on you as if he were afraid you might shatter into pieces. He turned your face back to him, forcing you to focus. "Look at me, please. Focus on me. Don’t look at them."

But you couldn’t. You couldn’t look away from Dean. You could see the fight in his eyes, the desperation, the disbelief that Cas—Cas—was doing this. Dean’s face twisted with a mix of fury, his body jerking as he screamed for freedom, but nothing he did seemed to matter. The angel dragged him away, like he was nothing more than a ragdoll.

You let out a loud painful strangled sob that got caught in your throat.

“Hey!” Sam’s voice broke like glass, desperation thick in the air. His thumb brushed your cheek, but it was frantic, not soothing. “Look at me.” His words were raw, pleading, a cry in the storm. "I’m right here, it’s okay. You’re safe. Just breathe."

His voice cracked again, his words thick with fear, and you saw it—real fear in his eyes. Sam, always the strong one, always the rock, was unraveling, torn apart by the sight of you—of Dean—and there was nothing he could do.

Dean’s screams echoed in the background, and you felt the tremor in Sam’s hand as he held you, his entire body trembling with the weight of what was happening. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

You tried to focus on Sam. Just Sam. His face was so close now, eyes searching yours, lips moving in a desperate whisper. “You’re safe. You’re with me. I’m not leaving you. I’m so sorry.”

Each breath felt like it might be your last, but you tried, for Sam. You focused on him, on the sound of his voice, his presence anchoring you. Dean’s cries still echoed, but Sam was your anchor. Sam was all that mattered. And slowly, just slowly, your breath began to steady.

“Good girl,” Sam murmured softly, his voice thick with relief. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

He was practically holding you up so he gently guided your back to the wall so he could check you over. Your body felt broken, bruised, but Sam was there—strong, steady, never leaving your side.

His touch was tender, but there was an edge of urgency to it, as if he needed to make sure you were really here, really okay.

“Let me check your head,” Sam said softly, his eyes scanning your face for any signs of a concussion. His fingers gently probed your skull, checking for bumps or bruises. You winced, a sharp gasp escaping you, as he touched the sensitive area at the back of your head. Sam’s eyes darkened with helpless fear.

"Sorry, sorry, baby, I know that hurts," he whispered, his voice thick with guilt. "But I have to check, I need to make sure you’re okay." His words were strained, his hand hovering over your head, checking for swelling, for damage.

The dull throb of your head making it harder to focus. “M’head... hurts,” you rasped, your voice barely audible.

“I know, sweetheart,” Sam whispered, his face tight with concern.

You tried to shift, to sit up more, but the pressure in your neck made your entire body scream in agony, and your hand instinctively shot up to your throat.

“No, don’t touch it, sweetheart.” Sam’s voice broke like glass, and you felt his hand gently pull yours away from your neck.

He was trying to keep you still, but you could feel the weight of his panic pushing against the calm he was trying to create. Sam’s hands were already covered in your blood, but he wasn’t hesitating. His fingers brushing against the swelling bruises. His breath caught as he saw the darkening marks, the deepening shade of purple and blue spreading over your throat. He pressed lightly, as gently as he could, but the discomfort in your eyes was enough for him to stop. His expression twisted with a mix of anger and worry, but his voice stayed soft, steady as he leaned in close to you.

"You’re swelling." His thumb brushed against your skin, his face pale with panic.

Your hand instinctively tried to reach for your neck again, but Sam’s grip on your wrist was firm. "No, no, please don’t touch it," he pleaded as his mind raced on what to do next.

Everything hurt. Every inch of your body felt bruised, torn, like you’d been beaten to the edge of your life. Your face was covered in blood, your head was throbbing with every heartbeat, and your neck—your neck felt like it was on fire, swollen and tender beneath your touch. You couldn’t hold back the sob that escaped your chest.

Sam’s hands were shaking as he carefully wiped away the blood from your face. His touch was tender, but there was an edge to it, the frantic urgency of someone who couldn’t bear to see you in pain, couldn’t bear how fragile you looked in his arms.

“I’ve got you,” Sam murmured, his voice low and full of sorrow. "I’m so sorry... I just need to make sure you’re okay. Just a little more, okay?"

He slowly ran his hands over your face, carefully checking the cuts, making sure none of the injuries were too deep. The blood kept flowing, soaking into his fingers, and you could see the horror in his eyes as he noticed how much you were losing.

“Okay, you’re okay. You’re okay. Everything’s going to be alright.” His words were ragged, like they were being pulled out of him like he didn’t believe a word he was saying, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He couldn’t let you know how bad it really was.

You noticed the way his body was rigid, like he was fighting to hold it together. His face was strained, his jaw tight, but he wasn’t letting up.

“You’re strong,” Sam whispered to you, his voice thick with emotion. "You’re so strong. Just breathe, baby. Please, just breathe for me."

His hand finally pressed against the back of your neck, gently massaging the swelling to ease the pain, but you could hear the terror in his voice. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Sam whispered again, his lips close to your ear. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to make it through this.”

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, trying to hold it together for you. But, he’d never seen you like this, broken and bruised, the light in your eyes dimmed by the trauma you’d endured at the hands of someone you loved. His protective instincts screamed in agony, but there was nothing more he could do here. His mind was already racing, searching for any possible way to make things right. Maybe Cas could help.

“I need to grab Cas, alright? Just hold on, I’m coming right back,” Sam said, his voice strained as he quickly got up. The panic clear in his eyes and his movements frantic.

You nodded weakly, barely able to keep your eyes open as exhaustion weighed down on you like a heavy blanket. Just before Sam turned his gaze from you, he noticed them threatening to close. “Hey, no! I need you to keep your eyes open for me, okay?!” He pleaded. You widened your eyes and nodded. “I’ll be two seconds don’t you dare close them!” He shouted as he practically ran down the hallway to where Cas was restraining Dean. Cas walked away from Dean, his eyes locked eyes on Sam’s disheveled presence. “How is she Sam?” He asked, worriedly. Sam breathed out speaking low enough so Dean couldn’t hear, but urgently enough for Cas to understand the extent of it. “She’s in bad shape, Cas. I don’t know what to do. He—he choked her and beat her pretty badly. I just... I need you.” Sam pleaded and Cas nodded. “I’m still not at my full grace. I can help a little bit, ease the pain, but she will need to rest to make a full recovery.” He said, his expression as serious as ever. Without wasting a second, they made their way back towards you, Sam trailing behind Cas. Your eyes were still open, struggling to focus, as Cas knelt beside you. His fingers brushed gently over your bruised neck as he carefully examined the damage.

"Cas?" You whimpered, your voice weak and trembling.

“Yes, it’s me,” he said, his voice calm and soothing. His grace swirled around you, and for the first time since everything had happened, you felt a small bit of relief. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to stop the constant pounding in your head.

You felt a warm energy washing over you, a peace settling deep within. The swelling in your neck began to subside, and the pain that had been gnawing at your body seemed to dull a little with each passing moment.

Sam stood off to the side, watching with wide eyes, a mixture of awe and desperation flickering across his face. Cas' healing grace was a blessing, but Sam knew that no matter how much healing Cas could provide, the mental and emotional scars would remain far longer.

After a few minutes, Cas pulled back, his brow furrowed in concern. “You should feel a little better. Rest, you’ll still need time to fully recover.”

Sam gave a silent nod of thanks to the angel, his eyes never leaving you. “Thank you, Cas,” he said quietly.

As Cas nodded in acknowledgment, you clung to his arm, your grip tightening slightly as you looked up at him. “Thank you, Cas. For everything.” He sent you a sad smile, his eyes full of empathy, knowing you were still trembling in fear, but unable to do anything about the mental scars you now carried.

“You’re going to be okay,” he reassured you softly. You nodded, fully believing the angel’s words, trusting in the comfort he had given you.

The silence stretched on for a moment, but the tension in the air was palpable. Sam shifted uneasily, glancing at you, then at Cas. “Cas, about Dean…” Sam trailed off, his voice tight, unsure of how to continue. His eyes flicked back to you, concern flickering there before he spoke again. “How is he?”

Cas took a slow breath, his expression softening with the weight of the situation. “He’s restrained for now. I believe the cure will work, Sam. We just need time.”

The mention of Dean sent a jolt of tension through your body, and you instinctively shrank back slightly, the thought of Dean still being lost in the grip of the demon unsettling you more than you expected. Sam noticed, his eyes softening with a silent promise to protect you.

“You okay?” Sam asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He crouched beside you, his hand resting on your shoulder in reassurance.

You nodded, not trusting your voice. The emotions swirling inside of you were overwhelming, but you couldn’t bear to let them out now, not in front of them.

Sam gave you a reassuring nod, though his worry never fully left his face. “I’m gonna take care of you. You need to get some rest, okay?” He paused, glancing toward Cas. “I’ll be there with you in a second Cas just let me get her cleaned up and in bed first.”

Cas nodded and filled with the quiet certainty that only he could offer. “Rest now Y/N. We will do everything we can for Dean.”

Sam gave a small, appreciative nod to Cas as he left the room, then Sam turned back to you.

His hand was now on your shoulder, supporting you. “How are you feeling now?” He asked softly.

“I’m... better,” you whispered, though your voice was strained, hoarse from everything you’d been through.

He nodded, brushing a tear from your cheek. “Come on,” Sam said softly, his voice as gentle as he could make it. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You nodded, the exhaustion written all over your face. You weren’t sure you had the strength to do it on your own, but Sam was there, steady and unwavering, as he guided you toward the bathroom. His hand was warm against your back, supportive, but his touch was careful, mindful of your pain.

When you reached the bathroom, Sam opened the door and flipped the light on, the soft hum of the fluorescent light filling the silence. He stood there for a moment, watching you as if making sure you were okay, that you weren’t about to collapse. Then, with a quiet sigh, he moved to the shower.

“I’ll run the water for you,” he said quietly, adjusting the temperature, his fingers nimble as they twisted the faucet. “Just... take your time, alright? I’ll be right outside the door.”

You were so tired, so worn down, but Sam’s presence was a small comfort. It gave you the strength to move forward. He grabbed a towel from the linen closet and placed it on the counter, then found a pair of his sweatpants and a sweatshirt. They were oversized, but they would fit. He folded them carefully and set them next to the towel.

“Here you go,” Sam said, his voice softer now. “I’ll leave them right here for you.”

He hesitated, his eyes searching your face for any sign that you might be okay. The last thing he wanted was to leave you alone when you were so fragile. But you needed this time to yourself. To breathe.

“I’ll be right outside. Just call for me if you need anything,” Sam added, his voice tinged with that protective tone he always used, the one that made you feel safe, no matter what.

You nodded, tears brimming in your eyes, your throat tight from the raw emotions still swirling inside you. “Thank you, Sam,” you whispered, your voice hoarse.

He offered a soft, strained smile, his hand lingering on the door handle for a moment. “Of course,” he said simply, his eyes filled with a mix of love and concern. “You’re gonna be okay. I’ll be right here.”

Sam stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door gently behind him. You leaned against the counter for a moment, the weight of everything crashing down on you. It was hard to feel anything other than exhaustion, but Sam had been your anchor through it all, and his care meant more than you could express.

As the warm water began to fill the shower, you let the steam rise around you, trying to relax under the heat, to wash away the lingering fear and pain. You allowed yourself to just exist for a few moments, letting the warmth seep into your aching muscles. Slowly, you scrubbed away the tension, the weariness in your bones easing with every pass of the washcloth. It was hard to shake off the heaviness, but the heat and solitude were helping. Just a little.

After a few minutes, you reluctantly turned off the water, the sudden silence hitting you as the last of the steam dissipated. You stepped out, wrapping yourself in the towel Sam had left out for you. It was soft, warm against your skin, and the faint scent of his soap lingered on it, a reminder of his presence just beyond the door.

You eyed the oversized clothes Sam had left on the counter. The sweatshirt and sweatpants looked almost comical, the sleeves and legs hanging far past your fingertips and ankles. But they felt like a small piece of him, like a shield, so you slipped them on, pulling them as tight around you as you could, trying to feel something resembling comfort in the vastness of his clothes. You tugged at the sleeves, trying to bury your hands in them as you stared at yourself in the bathroom mirror.

Taking a deep breath, you made your way toward the door, the clothes swallowing you in a way that somehow made you feel safe. Your heart ached, but there was something calming in the way they felt. Like Sam was still here, protecting you even when he wasn’t right beside you.

As you opened the bathroom door, Sam was standing just outside, his eyes immediately locking onto you as you walked out. His gaze softened as he took in the sight of you in his clothes, looking so fragile and small under the fabric. You caught a flash of concern cross his face, but he quickly masked it with a gentle smile. He stepped forward, his arms instinctively reaching out as if to steady you.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, his voice tinged with worry as he glanced down at the oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants you were swathed in.

You nodded, offering a weak smile. “I’m... okay. Just... trying to get comfortable, I guess.”

Sam’s eyes softened even further, and he gently cupped your cheek in his hand, his thumb brushing across your skin in a comforting, soothing motion. "Let's get you some rest, alright?" His voice was warm, offering you a sense of reassurance. As Sam guided you gently through the hallway, his hand resting lightly on your back, you stopped, a sudden surge of uncertainty washing over you. You hesitated for a moment before speaking, your voice barely a whisper, “Sam… can I… can I sleep in your room instead?”

Sam froze, glancing over at you with a soft expression that was all tenderness. He could tell you needed something more right now—something beyond just the comfort of the bed in your own room. He stepped closer to you, his face softening, the concern in his eyes deepening. Without a second thought, he smiled gently, his hand brushing against your arm as he nodded.

"Of course, Bug," he said, the nickname slipping out naturally, carrying with it all the warmth he felt for you. “Let’s get you settled in my room.”

He led you to his room, his hand remaining steady at your back as you walked. The space felt different with him in it, cozier, comforting in a way that only Sam’s presence could make it. He pulled back the covers, making sure everything was just right for you.

Once you were comfortably nestled in, he adjusted the pillows around you, making sure you were warm and relaxed. He pulled the blanket up around you, his hand lingering on your shoulder as he gently tucked it in.

“You’re safe here,” Sam murmured, his voice low and soothing. “Just call me if you need anything.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of your exhaustion settle in as you sank deeper into the softness of his bed. He sat down beside you for a moment, brushing a strand of hair from your face. As he stood up to leave, the darkness pulled you under.

You woke with a start, your heart racing in your chest as the soft light from the hallway trickled in. The bed felt familiar, warm, but something was off. You blinked, still disoriented from the deep sleep, and when your eyes focused, you froze.

Standing in the doorway, framed by the dim light, was Dean.

For a split second, all you could do was stare, your breath caught in your throat. A wave of panic rushed through you like an electric shock. No. No, not again.

The terror flooded you faster than you could process, your body reacting before your mind could catch up.

“No!” you screamed, your voice breaking. “No, please, no!” The words tumbled from your lips in frantic terror, your body jerking as you scrambled to get away from him.

The sheets tangled around your legs, tripping you up, making you feel more trapped. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe. You had to get away. You had to get away.

“Please! No, please, no!” You cried, pushing at the bed with shaky hands, trying to free yourself from the blankets that held you down, but they only made you feel more ensnared. Panic surged through your chest as you pushed harder, desperate, but in your frantic attempt to escape, you didn't realize how close you were to the edge.

And then, you lost balance.

With a gut wrenching scream, you tumbled backward, crashing to the floor with a sickening thud, your body tangled in the blankets, your heart thumping in your throat. The impact made everything spin. Your mind was a blur of terror, the only thing you knew was that you had to get away.

You scrambled on the floor, your limbs moving in every direction, hands pressing against the cold wood, trying to push yourself backward into the corner of the room. You couldn’t stop screaming, couldn’t stop the overwhelming terror. Your back slammed into the wall as you tried to put more distance between yourself and the figure in the doorway.

Dean stood there, unmoving, a pained expression on his face. His hands were raised, palms out, as if to show he meant no harm. But you couldn’t hear him. You couldn’t see past the fear and the memories of him that haunted you.

“Y/N, please!” Dean’s voice cracked with desperation, his tone softer, but it didn’t reach you. “It’s me, Y/N. It’s really me. I’m not a demon anymore. Please…”

But your screams continued, echoing through the room, drowning out everything he was trying to say.

Then the door slammed open.

Sam.

His face was a mix of horror and frantic concern as he rushed in. “Dean, what the hell?” Sam’s voice was sharp, filled with panic. “She’s not ready for this!”

You didn’t hear Sam, didn’t see anything but the man standing in the doorway. You were still scrabbling against the floor, shaking, screaming, begging for him to leave, to not hurt you.

Dean hesitated, clearly struggling with what to do. “I’m sorry, Sam... I didn’t think she was going to wake up yet. I just had to check on her…” His voice faltered. “I didn’t want to—”

“No!” you screamed again, your voice hoarse, panic coursing through every fiber of your being. “Please, no!”

Sam moved toward you, kneeling in front of you, his hands reaching out to gently hold your shoulders. You flinched away from him, still lost in your fear, unable to focus on anything but the threat in the doorway.

“Y/N, please,” Sam said, his voice frantic. He was trying to calm you, trying to reach you, but his words barely made it through the haze of panic. “Listen to me. Listen. You’re safe, okay? You’re safe. Dean’s not a demon anymore!”

Your eyes remained fixed on Dean. Your breaths were shallow, gasping for air, but you couldn’t hear Sam. You couldn’t focus on anything but the terror that clawed at you.

“Please! No! No, I can’t—I can’t—” You were barely coherent, your voice raw, still scrambling away, shaking, terrified.

Sam’s own panic intensified as he looked at Dean, his voice sharp with frustration and urgency. “Dean, leave! Now!”

Dean’s face fell, the regret and pain washing over him, but he backed away, slowly, giving you space. “I—I’m sorry.” Before he rushed out the door.

You continued to shake, your chest heaving, the sound of your breath almost deafening in the room. Your hands gripped the floor, trying to steady yourself, to breathe. Slowly, Sam turned back to you, his hands gentle but firm as he held your arms, trying to pull you out of the panic.

“Y/N,” Sam said, his voice softer now but still filled with urgency, “I need you to listen to me. Look at me, please.” He begged and forced you to meet his eyes. “Dean’s cured. He’s not a demon. He’s Dean. You’re safe, okay? You’re safe. It’s over.”

The words finally hit you. "W-what?" You whispered, your heart pounding, struggling to grasp the magnitude of what Sam was telling you.

“He’s cured, Y/N.” Sam repeated, his hands moving to gently pull you into his arms, holding you close as you continued to shake. Your breath caught in your throat. "Are- are you sure? R-Really, Sam?" Your hands trembled as they clung to his shirt.

"Yes," Sam affirmed softly, his voice steady. "It’s over. We did it. He’s cured. Dean’s back. It’s really him."

Relief hit you like a tidal wave, overwhelming and sudden. You could hardly breathe through it, but you collapsed into Sam’s arms, all the tension in your body finally unraveling. “Oh my God!” You cried out in pure relief. Your hands gripped him tight, clutching onto him as if you might float away.

"Thank you, Sam," you whispered, your voice breaking. "Thank you for being strong enough to fix him. To do this... You saved us."

Sam wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer, resting his cheek on your head. "We did it together," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "You never gave up on him, Y/N. You were right there, with me. We made it through."

You nodded against his chest, your tears soaking through his shirt. "Thank you," you repeated, barely able to hold the words together. "Thank you." You took a deep breath, your fingers clutching Sam's shirt as you pulled away slightly. You could feel the heaviness of the moment hanging in the air between you both. The fear, the confusion... it was still there, but something else was creeping in. Hope. Slowly, steadily, but it was there.

“Sam,” you said softly, your voice wavering a bit, “I’m ready. I want to see him. I need to.”

Sam looked at you for a moment, concern still flickering in his eyes. “Are you sure, Y/N? I don’t want you to—”

“I’m sure,” you interrupted, the words heavy with everything you had been holding back. “I need to see him. Please.”

Sam hesitated, but he gave a gentle nod and helped you to your feet. His hand lingered on your back as you walked toward Dean’s room, a comforting presence you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away from. But when you reached the door, you hesitated for a moment, your heart pounding. You couldn’t stop yourself from feeling the tiniest bit of fear as you turned the doorknob. Sam gave you a soft smile of encouragement before he walked away to give you both a moment he knew you both needed.

Inside, you saw Dean sitting on the bed, flipping through the stack of old photos you were looking at earlier, his expression distant. He looked so normal, so much like the brother you remembered. But as soon as he heard you, his head snapped up, his eyes widening when they met yours.

“De?” you said, your voice almost a whisper.

Dean froze, his body tense. His face was pale, but his eyes were filled with pain. In an instant, the guilt in his eyes was almost unbearable, and when he stood up abruptly, you couldn’t help but flinch back, the reflex built from everything that had happened.

He saw it, the fear still lingering in your eyes, and his face crumpled in regret.

“I’m so sorry, kid,” he said hoarsely, taking a step toward you, but still keeping his distance, his hands shaking. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I never—”

Your eyes flickered down to the photos in his hands, the same ones you had been flipping through earlier. The memories of the real Dean—the brother who’d always loved you, who’d always been there to protect you, the one who’d never hurt you.

You swallowed thickly, a lump in your throat. With a shaky breath, you took a step forward, pushing past the lingering fear, your voice soft but firm. “It’s not your fault, Dean,” you said, your eyes meeting his. “I know the real you. The one in these photos,” you pointed to the pictures in his hands, “the brother I grew up with, the one who protected me. That Dean would never hurt me. That Dean would never do what... demon Dean did to me.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at him, every ounce of your emotion spilling out in that one moment. “You’re you, Dean. You’re cured. I know you. And that’s all that matters. You’re back. You’re really back.”

Dean’s breath hitched, his eyes filling with tears as he took a slow, shaky step toward you, his voice trembling. “Y/N…” His voice was thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry,” Dean choked out, his voice thick with grief. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, never wanted to scare you... God, I never wanted to be that thing.” Tears blurred your vision as you stepped into Dean's embrace, your arms wrapping around him tightly. His scent, so familiar, was a comfort you hadn’t realized you needed. You pressed your face into his chest, letting the sobs wrack through your body as the weight of everything fell on you. He held you just as tightly, his hands coming up to rest gently on the back of your head, his thumb brushing over your hair as if trying to soothe you. His breath was shaky, his chest rising and falling unevenly as his face pressed against the top of your head.

You could feel his tears wetting your hair as he buried his face against your shoulder, his whole body trembling as well. His tears now mixing with yours. You clung to him, your hands gripping his jacket as you whispered between sobs.

“I’m so glad you’re back, De. I’m so glad you’re here,” you whispered, barely able to speak through your tears. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. I thought I lost you...”

Dean held you tighter, his voice cracking as he spoke. “You didn’t lose me. I swear, I’ll make it right. I’ll spend every damn day proving that I’m here, that I’m not that thing anymore.”

You shook your head, still clinging to him. “You don’t have to prove anything. You’re back. You’re my brother. I know who you are. That’s all that matters. It’s over now. You’re really back.”

Dean didn’t say anything at first, just held you tighter, both of you surrounded by the warmth of the other’s embrace. The years of fear and pain were slowly being replaced by the quiet, overwhelming relief that, no matter what, you had your brother again. The real Dean.

[schrijverr]

I Didn’t Mean to Say I Do, but I Do. I Do. 50

Chapter 50 out of 50

Secret marriage of convenience buddie slow burn AU, where Buck and Eddie have been married for years so Buck could adopt Chris and no one at the 118 knows.

In this chapter, a few weeks after everything has gone down, Eddie and Buck have settled into their relationship and have gotten more comfortable. Today, they go to the newly opened Santa Monica beach with Chris, before going for dinner at the Grant-Nash house.

On AO3.

Ships: Buddie

Warnings: none (wild for this fic, I know xp) (unless you wanna count the water trauma/anxiety mention)

~~~

Chapter 50: Epilogue, Buck and Eddie

Santa Monica beach is opening today. Eddie has been nervous about taking Buck and Chris there, even if he knows it’s the right decision. They went through something huge, seeing the sea will make it smaller. Frank even agrees with him and he’s a therapist. Because that’s something Eddie does now; go to therapy. As does Chris.

Bobby half made him after he got the whole story out of Eddie while waiting in the hospital, but he was already planning on it. He wanted to set the right example for Chris, not fuck it up again. It’s been helpful.

Still, he keeps a hawk like eye on both of them as they get out of the car. Buck has driven them there and it seems to go well so far, but you never know.

Eddie does most of the carrying as Chris speeds away on his new crutches, determined to find them the best place to sit, while Buck keeps up with him so he won’t get separated from them.

They end up snatching a pretty nice spot near the water, where they set out the little chairs they have as well as a cooler with drinks and snacks. Buck lathers Chris in sunscreen while Eddie works hard to inflate the floaties.

Once Chris is all sunscreened up, Eddie motions for Buck to come over so he can get his back. He has seen how Buck can burn and he already knows who is going to be responsible for putting aloe vera everywhere when he burns. Not that having to lather Buck up is a burden, but he can’t help but preemptively wrinkle his nose at how the sheets will get sticky.

Buck obliges happily, sinking down between Eddie’s legs and passing the bottle over to him. His back is broad and Eddie has now only has a little shame in copping a few feels as he applies the sunscreen. He’s gotten a lot more comfortable these past few weeks and if he wants to subtly grope his boyfriend, he’s allowed to do that. Even if he has to actively remind himself of that.

It’s clear Buck notices, because he sends him a pervy look and waggles his eyebrows when Eddie is done. Eddie just pushes his face away with a big grin on his own face, pretending to be innocent and deflecting by calling out to Chris: “Wanna swim or built a sand castle first?”

“Sand castle,” Chris decides.

They have already agreed to not push Chris to go into the sea unless he wants to. Mentally Eddie has put Buck in that category as well, but he hasn’t mentioned it to him. Buck is distancing himself from the whole thing by vicariously coping through Chris, and Eddie is letting him. Though he only does that, because he is making sure he keeps an eye on Buck.

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road,” Buck cheers, getting out the sand castle tools.

Eddie is more than content to sit in his little beach chair and watch as Chris and Buck take the construction of a giant sandcastle way too seriously.

Buck has also been researching natural disasters as a way to cope and one of the side tracks of that had been construction. At first it had been earthquake safe architecture, which had spiraled into architecture in general, until Eddie found him reading up on the history of construction.

Right now, he recognizes some of the construction techniques Buck had told him about when they were laying in bed together. It’s one of Eddie’s favorite parts of his day, sprawling over Buck’s chest at the end of the day, while Buck cards a hand through his hair and tells him facts about whatever thing he’s researching as Eddie half dozes off.

He is also dozing slightly now, watching through half-lidded eyes as a whole city appears out of the sand. He didn’t used to be this sleepy before he started dating Buck, however, ever since they got together, he’s been so relaxed that sleepiness comes easier to him.

Eddie does wake up a little more when Buck calls for a snack and hydration break. He hands out bottles of water and pre-cut apples, because Buck has something against biting into whole apples, since ‘that puts stress on your teeth, Eddie. You have to be careful with your teeth, they won’t heal like bones do.’

Chris and Buck are both equally excited to show off their creation, apparently they have taken infrastructure and supply chains into account and it’s a perfect city-castle.

When the apples and water are gone, Chris suddenly says: “I want to go swimming, but I’m a little scared.”

Buck and Eddie exchange a look. They’ve prepared for this moment. Eddie says: “We can go into the water, but we don’t have to go too deep. If you don’t want to go further, we won’t. If you do, we can try that. Me and papi will be there the whole time.”

“I know that.” However, Chris worries his lip between his teeth regardless, the little crease that matches the one Eddie get sometimes appearing on his forehead.

“Hey,” Buck nudges him, waiting until Chris looks up before continuing: “I’m a little nervous to go into the water too.”

“You are?” Chris asks with wide eyes. “But you’re a hero, you’re super cool and strong. You’re a firefighter!”

“Thank you. You’re a hero too, you know that, right, Superman?” Buck replies. “And I feel a lot better about going in there, because you’re gonna be there.” He puts on a hushed voice, leaning in as if sharing a secret: “You make me feel brave.”

If you’d go off Chris’s face, you’d say he’s just been told magic is real. “I do?” he asks with wonder.

“You do,” Buck confirms with a nod. “So what do you say? Wanna go dip your toes in? Promise the fishies won’t eat them.”

“Fish don’t eat toes, papi,” Chris giggles, already climbing to his feet, as he calls: “Come on, you guys are being slow.”

“We’re coming, you’re just too fast, mijo,” Eddie laughs, getting up and snatching Chris’s floaties for extra safety, doesn’t matter how shallow they’ll stay.

Chris complains about them when Eddie puts them on, but he doesn’t try to fight him off. While he is struggling against the rigid plastic, he catches Buck doing the breathing exercises Eddie showed him after the tsunami. He hasn’t gone back to therapy, too many bad memories, but he’s open to the things Eddie shares.

With the floaties on, Chris is off towards the water, but Eddie hangs back for a second, softly asking: “Are you okay?”

“Hm?” Buck snaps back to the here and now, before sending Eddie a small smile. “Yeah, I’ll be okay.”

“You also don’t have to go in, you know that right?” Eddie says. “I can go with him in and that is more than fine. You don’t have to push yourself.”

“No, I want to. I don’t want to be scared of the water either. Besides, I meant what I said to Chris, I don’t think I’ll get in without him there.”

Eddie looks him over critically for a second, trying to say if he’s lying. He isn’t. “Okay, but the second you need to, you get out. Understood?”

“Bossy,” Buck grins.

“Buck, I’m serious.”

“I know.” The grins turns into something gentler, more tender. “I appreciate it, Eddie, but I’m okay. Really. Thank you though,” he says, slinging an arm around Eddie as he presses a kiss to his forehead.

It still makes him dizzy how easily Buck does that, in a good way. He leans his head against his shoulder for a second, before pulling back. “I love you. Now let’s go, before Mr. Impatient comes back.”

Right on time, Chris calls out: “Papi! Daddy! Stop being gross and come onnn!”

They both snort and start to walk towards him. Buck squeezes Eddie’s hand and Eddie looks up at him questioningly. “I love you too,” Buck tells him.

Then he lets go and jogs over to where Chris is, saying: “Gimme your hand, Superman.”

Confused Chris does as asked, though he questions: “Why?”

“We’re a team, remember. We go in together,” Buck answers. “Wanna do the honors, or do you want me to count down?”

“Me! Me! I want to!”

Eddie watches from behind them. This is a moment for the two of them and Eddie will stand behind them to have their back as they take this first step. Chris counts down and he can see the tension rise in Buck’s shoulders, but when Chris reaches zero, he steps forward right beside Chris.

He doesn’t even know he’s holding his breath, until he releases it when he sees Buck and Chris unclench. Buck laughs: “That was kind of underwhelming, huh?”

“A little,” Chris giggles.

“I don’t know,” Eddie says as he joins them, playing up a theatrical shiver as he says: “This water is freezing, you guys could have said something.”

“You’ve only just dipped in your toes,” Buck deadpans.

“Yeah, daddy, you’re being dramatic,” Chris joins.

“Oh, I see how it is, it’s bully daddy hour, is it?” Eddie pouts, mock-upset as he sets himself up as a distraction while they make their way further into the water.

“Yup,” Buck says, gleefully splashing Eddie with water as Eddie shrieks, while Chris joins in with gusto until it’s a full blown water fight.

They end up hanging around the beach for a few hours, before getting back in the car to drive to Bobby and Athena’s house. They’ve been invited for dinner, a thing that’s been happening more regularly. The 118 is moving away from being extra family to becoming in-crowd family.

When they get there, it’s more than dinner. The whole back yard is filled with everyone, who yell out: “Congrats!”

Both Eddie and Buck look at everyone in confusion, before looking at each other. Neither of them appear to know what they’re being congratulated for.

“Check it out,” Chimney says, showing off the cake to them. On it is written: Congratulations on getting to suck faces at work

“The paperwork came through,” Buck realizes, looking over at Bobby.

“It sure did,” Bobby smiles, looking quite pleased with himself for setting this all up. “We got the word today. Next shift, you’re coming off B-shift and back to A-shift, while Bosko returns back to the newly rebuilt 136.”

“That’s amazing!” Buck exclaims, hugging Bobby, before hugging Eddie.

Eddie is less expressive, though equally as excited as Buck is about the prospect of getting to work together again. The past few weeks with Bosko as a partner have been fine, but he misses his partner.

However, there was a reason they lied at first, getting the paperwork worked out was a hellish nightmare. Eddie doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way Halleway’s eyebrow twitched when they came to talk about it, after they’d just done a whole investigation into their fraternization. He never wants to do that again, no thanks.

Not to mention that the way he acted during the tsunami wasn’t very helpful. He thinks their previous track record, Buck not being on duty and Bobby’s testimony that he found Eddie right where he ordered them to be, are the only things that saved them. But he’s not going to question a good thing too much.

Buck pulls back and kisses him, first on the mouth, then all over his face as he yells: “We get to work together again!”

“We do,” Eddie yells back, grin splitting his face in half, as he matches Buck’s enthusiasm. He can’t help himself, Buck is too excited for him not to do that.

“Just because the cake said it, doesn’t mean you two actually get to do this stuff on the clock,” Hen calls out.

“Yeah, we get enough of you two being mushy off the clock,” Chimney hollers.

“You guys are just jealous,” Buck sniffs haughtily, playing it up, but also meaning it just a little bit.

Both Chimney and Hen immediately start protesting and bragging about their own partners that are amazing, just not firefighters. Bobby silences them all by saying: “There is an expectation of professionalism in the firehouse. I will be writing you up. So, no stolen fire engines.”

He directs the last part at Buck with a pointed look. Buck blushes brightly and groans dramatically as he hides away behind Eddie. “That was one time.”

“Two times,” Bobby corrects. “I remember the second time a bit too vividly for my taste too.”

“Okay, enough of that. There are kids here,” Athena interrupts. “What do you all say about some food, huh?”

Luckily, they are all easily bought with food, so it’s the right thing to say. They get served some good barbecue and cake as people congratulate him and Buck. The kids run around, their laughter intermingling with the conversations starting up all over.

As he watches everyone squeeze Buck tightly for an extra second, Eddie realizes that everyone here must have known what he and Buck had done today. Bobby has organized this whole thing and everyone came, knowing him and Buck might cancel. They’d all been prepared to go home if today was too much for Buck or Chris, showing up anyway, just so they could have the opportunity to celebrate this with them if they did feel up to it.

Buck is soaking up all the attention, seeming not to notice that detail. This has become his normal and when Eddie remembers the lost twenty-three year old he met, he can’t help but be so glad he got to see him grow into this person he knows today. Glad he got to grow with him and got to grow into this family.

He gets snapped out of his revelry by Karen, who calls out: “Eddie, come here, I found this Merlot to try. Athena hates it, but I think it’s nice, you gotta tell me what you think.”

“Why would you let Athena try? She never appreciates a Merlot,” Eddie calls back while going her way, as Athena yells: “I heard that!”

Karen and him have struck up a great friendship in the weeks after the tsunami and she has gotten him into wine. Buck says he’s becoming a snob about it, but Eddie insists he’s just developing proper taste, drinking like an adult instead of a frat boy.

Meanwhile, Buck has become the center of attention of a game, playing with the kids as he chases them around the yard, making ridiculous monster noises while the kids shriek with the delight as they hide or get caught.

It’s a pleasant evening. One of good food, good company and good news.

They end up staying until deep in the night, when most of the kids are already passed out on the couch and the adults are also struggling to keep their eyes open. None of them want the night to end, but they have to go home at some point. So, they say their goodbyes, before Eddie carries Chris to the car.

Buck drives back while Chris naps in the back seat and Eddie dozes in the passenger seat. Buck is softly humming along to whatever song is playing on the radio, his big hand warm on Eddie’s thigh as his thumb strokes along to the beat.

At home, Eddie blinks awake, lolling his head over to Buck as he asks: “Empty the car tomorrow? I am beat.”

“God, same,” Buck groans. “Sounds like a great plan. Wanna get Chris or the door?”

“I’ll get Chris.”

Thus, Eddie carries Chris to the door, while Buck undoes all the locks. When taking Chris to his room, Tubs insists on wrapping himself around Eddie’s legs, nearly tripping him up. However, he manages to do the dance, being used to the little guy’s antics.

He wrestles a half-sleeping Chris into comfier clothes and forcing a toothbrush into sleepy mouth the best he can, before tucking him in, pushing a stray curl from his forehead and whispering: “Goodnight, mijo.”

Eddie drops a kiss on Chris’s forehead, then slowly backs out of the room, turning off the light as he goes, but leaving a crack at the door so Tubs can come in the middle of the night as he likes to do.

With that done, he joins Buck in the bathroom. He still thinks Buck’s whole dental hygiene regime is a little ridiculous, but he happily does it with him at the end of each day. It’s nice and domestic, to stand in the bathroom together and brushing their teeth, trying to talk as they floss and failing spectacularly.

What was once Buck’s room, is now their room. Buck’s chair of clothes still persists in the corner, but Eddie’s neat pile on the dresser has joined them, the wedding pictures that had been taken unseriously are framed now, standing proudly on a shelf, and the upper drawer in Buck’s bedside table now has a lock to prevent too young eyes from looking in it

Both of them all but stumble out of their clothes and into their pajamas. Eddie asks: “You’re gonna go on your phone some more?”

“Nah, I’m tired,” Buck answers, getting into bed and invitingly holding open the blanket so Eddie can crawl in next to him.

Eddie would love nothing more than to join him, but he first has to check. “How’s your leg?”

“Good,” Buck assures him with a fond smile, before waving the blanket. If Buck had said anything else, Eddie would have gotten out the massage oil, but it seems today is a good day indeed.

“Okay,” Eddie hums as he takes Buck up on that invitation, making himself comfortable on what is his side of the bed- well, actually it’s mostly Buck’s side on the bed that he makes himself comfortable on, but it’s not his fault that Buck is on that side of the bed and Eddie wants to be close to him.

Buck just watches Eddie get comfortable with an amused look on his face, waiting until Eddie is done, before smirking: “Comfy?”

Eddie props his head up on Buck’s chest and shamelessly grins: “Very.”

“Kiss?”

Naturally, Eddie obliges as he always does, leaning over so he can kiss Buck, which turns into lazily making out. Until Eddie groans: “Ugh, I’m too tired to be horny.”

Buck chuckles at that, stroking Eddie’s side with his hand as he says: “That’s okay. I wasn’t really working up to anything, so I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“No need to be so smug,” Eddie grouches, though the little crinkles around his eyes give him away.

“You love it when I’m smug,” Buck says, hugging Eddie tightly so he can’t move away, having to angle his head down to look at him from what is probably a less than attractive angle, not that he cares.

“Sadly,” Eddie says, his face telling him the opposite.

Of course, Buck has to kiss him again about that, until a yawn interrupts them, causing Buck to laugh: “Okay, bedtime. Officially.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, rolling off Buck to curl up, so Buck can slot himself behind him. Once he is comfortably wrapped around Eddie, Eddie murmurs: “Goodnight, mi amor. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Buck replies, giving Eddie’s shoulder a kiss, before dropping his head onto his pillow and doing that thing where he snuggles in that bit closer that he always does.

They fall asleep pretty soon. Today had been exhausting and they’re both glad it’s weekend and they’re off tomorrow. Neither even want to think about an alarm right now.

Chris, however, did not get that memo and is up bright and early, ready to wake them up, which he does in true Christopher fashion. He busts open the door and clambers onto the bed, wiggling in between both of them as he says: “You gotta wake up. It’s morning.”

Buck rolls out of the way to make space for Chris, while Eddie lets out a loud groan, hiding his face under his pillow as he tries to pretend today hasn’t arrived yet. Even with all his years in the army and their irregular hours, Eddie still isn’t a morning person.

“Morning, buddy,” Buck greets him with sleep hoarse voice. There is a mrurp, before a second weight joins them on the bed. “And hello Tubs.”

“He’s hungry,” Chris announces, picking Tubs up and planting him on his lap as he pets his fur. He had been taken with the cat from the moment they got him and Tubs has decided that Chris is the best human, so they’re fast friends.

“Oh, is he?” Buck asks with amusement. “And what does Tubs require?”

“Bacon,” Chris informs him. “And I require pancakes.”

“Ahhh, is that so?” Buck says his amusement not going away. “Well, then, let’s see what we can do about those requirements while daddy gets his beauty sleep in.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie grumbles from under his pillow, making both Chris and Buck giggle.

Buck throws the blanket off himself, but makes sure to tuck it around Eddie again. He kisses his cheek and says: “Good morning, sweetheart. Sleep in. I’ll save you some.”

“You’re the best,” Eddie tells him, muffled by his pillow as he snuggles back into it, already starting to drop off again. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Buck says, affection and warmth coloring his voice.

Meanwhile, Chris has put Tubs back down, so they can make their way to the kitchen, already calling out to Buck: “You’re being too slow, papi. We require food.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Buck calls out, before muttering: “Bossy. He gets that from you, you know.”

Playing oblivious, Eddie just says: “I’m sleeping,” which makes Buck snort.

He follows child and cat to the kitchen and gets started on breakfast while Chris tells him all about the weird dream he had.

By the time, Buck is almost done with making breakfast, Eddie has reconciled with the fact that it is, in fact, morning and has dragged himself out of bed. He comes stumbling down the hall, plastering himself against Buck’s back as he says: “Hm, smells nice.”

“You know what smells even nicer?”

“No?”

“This coffee I made you,” Buck tells him, handing him the mug with coffee. It has a sugar in it, a new appearance that Eddie allows himself now.

Eddie releases Buck enough for him to receive the mug, taking the first sip as he groans: “You’re my hero.”

“I try,” Buck smiles.

“Is breakfast almost done?” Chris asks without any sort of regard for any moments he might be interrupting. To be fair to Chris, if he started to care now, he’d never get a word in edgewise.

“That it is,” Buck says, plating the food and presenting Chris with a plate of bacon and pancakes, as well as a cup of juice and a little extra bowl for Tubs. “Here you go, good sir.”

“Thank you!” Chris exclaims, before releasing Tubs so they can dig in.

“And a plate for you,” Buck says, handing Eddie a plate, before taking the last one for himself, the three of them eating breakfast as a family.

When Shannon went to buy her eggs on that faithful Thursday, she never meant to create a family that she is no longer a part of and she probably never imagined it would end like this. But it did. And the three people, plus one cat, in the small house in LA are very grateful to her for making that egg run.

It’s truly curious how the universe works sometimes.

~~

A/N:

Ahh, we did it! I’m so sad yet so proud that it is done. Thank you so much for sticking this out with me to the end. I never could expected how well received this work has been and how nice everyone is, so truly, thank you <3.

And because I like adding this as a little jump scare at the end of my long fics: congratulations on reading 300 pages xp

(also wouldn’t it have been fucked if I gave Buck his pulmonary embolism anyway in that back yard party instead of graciously letting him go without it? Like if it ended with him just dropping? That would have been so mean of me, but no, I’m skipping that storyline, cause I can be nice… sometimes)

As a final note, I want to add that this universe is not over yet. I am going to continue posting AUAUs and, surprise, I’m planning a sequel (though I don’t know how long it’ll take me to write it or how long it’ll be, right now I’m hoping to have max 10 chapters, but this fic was supposed to be max 100k, so what do I know lmao). Anyways, make sure to subscribe to both series if you want more of this! :D

[descendant-of-truth]

Actually I think we need to be talking about Darkside more. Why have we as a fandom (as well as myself specifically) been neglecting Darkside when it's the most consistently recurring boss in the whole franchise

Literally the first boss we fight and it's this thing that rises up out of Sora's shadow in his dreams, and that still looks like Sora for a few seconds before it transforms into the version we fight:

This is Sora's dark side, quite literally. And what just so happens to be there at the destruction of Destiny Islands?

Man, with a thing that big and powerful, it's probably responsible for most of the damage to the islands all by itself.

Hey, what was that thing Zexion said to Riku, again? "It was you who destroyed your home"? Boy I sure am glad that the truth is what we hear and not what we see with our eyes--

Oh. Hm. That's a rather pointed dream sequence for you to be having, Xion.

Guys, I don't know why it took me so long to put these specific pieces together, but I'm pretty sure Sora's darkness was what actually destroyed the Destiny Islands. Whoever opened the door to darkness is still responsible for letting it out - it seemed otherwise occupied in Sora's dreams - and that's an interesting puzzle, too, because we're told that Riku did that even though Kairi was the one closest to the door, but that's not a mystery this post is here to solve.

My question is, what the HECK was going on with Sora for him to have a darkness so potent that it manifested outside of him before he had even been on any adventures? The guy's got insecurities for sure, but at this point in the series, they're kinda... normal ones. Feeling overshadowed and jealous of his best friend who's always better at everything than him, always stronger and cooler, it's not nothing but it doesn't make sense for it to be that. If Sora was going to have a darkness that strong, I'd expect it to come from a later point in the series, maybe around KH3 when the number of Terrible Things that have happened to or around him has reached truly insane levels.

But... the Darkside comes from the Realm of Darkness, right? Where time doesn't exist, and if you walk through it, you can be hit with people's emotions from the future?

So, I dunno, maybe it's a conglomeration of Sora's darkness from various points in time, though it still doesn't explain why his in particular gets to become something so giant. But it's definitely a Sora thing, because in Coded, the record of Sora's Heartless develops into a Darkside, as well.

But how can it be Sora-exclusive when there's so many of them down there??

Well, it might not be... but I'm not ruling out the possibility of time loop shenanigans, either. If Sora can live through the Keyblade Graveyard stuff at least four times (five if you consider the theory of KH3 in its entirety being a second loop from the get-go), then who's to say that doesn't double up on the number of Darksides in the Realm of Darkness?

Sora's already got a narrative history of reliving his past, after all. CoM has him going through his memories of his first adventure (albeit altered), Coded has another version of Sora going through his first adventure (altered again), even DDD has him revisiting Traverse Town and re-meeting his friends (in different ways than he originally did but it still counts).

I'm just saying, the heart remembers what the mind doesn't, and that can surface in a lot of ways. A Sora that's been time-looping a bunch but doesn't remember it probably would be having weird prophetic nightmares and thoughts about whether any of this is "for real" or not.

But honestly, even with the time loop theory I ended up going with in this post, the main thing I wanted to get at is that the Darkside is weird and unexplained but suspiciously tied to Sora in the narrative. These are just the connections I've put together on my own, but there could be a lot that I'm missing! I want to know what this thing's deal is, and I welcome anyone who wants to share their take on the matter.

[sysig]

Strictly professional showering (Patreon)

[leori-the-unlearned]

the fight between ‘wanting to look at cool things’ and ‘dont want to see cool things TOO MUCH like my own ideas in case i accidentally absorb and steal them and forget/skip over my own ideas’

[k6tzie]

COD P☆RN LINKS | PT. 3

ghost: always so quiet and reserved, seeing you like this is refreshing. so humane having ur guts rearranged after doubting your lieutenants skills! dove, you're so needy. but luckily for you, you have a patient, big bf came back from prices' baby shower now u and si want a baby of ur own, but u can't wait:( doughy ass bouncing on his long cock that no one's sucked in over a year, thankfully now ur here! sharing the captains daughter with soap<3 trusting is hard for him, so once he has you, he doesn't wanna let go warm winter fuck with ur gentle boy price: once you taught olderbf!price how to make hotter videos, he thinks he's so much cooler but that old man lives within him💔i mean look how he's holding the phone! you feel a big, throbbing thing in your tummy, hopefully he doesn't press down on it D: when u took him to meet ur parents, you just looked too good not to fuck afterwards :( as much as he loves his quiet girls, he can't say no to a bubbly one night stand now can he he didn't wanna have to do this but this IS what bad girls get... dadsfriend!price taking you upstairs during the bbq. there's so many people so no one will hopefully notice ur gone... soap: totally something soap would do, fucking you levitating 😭 first time having a crush this intense, taking sneaky photos of you, drawing you in his sketchbook, leaving you little gifts anonymously - now that you gave him a chance, he's too shocked to even do anything! honestly his dream is hot gf x loser guy he's a messy boy who likes his sex quick! so so much cum dripping out, it's like your boys' in heaven filthy gym partner can't keep his hands to himself only one person can eat you this well when you're sick, soap! gaz: your drunk sex was so good, you won't forget it even when you're sober <3 appreciating that pussy with the love and tongue it deserves so wet and tight like ur ex boyfriend did nothing at all smh, must've been tiny deeeeep in ur gfs womb! pretty boy barely ever gets angry, but when price has been on his back the whole week, and now you're giving him attitude - he can't take it anymore! hot belly bulge - who would've thought from the serene, goofy guy? graves: ah, so THAT'S how you passed recruitment i see, interesting... what a baby, never been with a real woman. actually a very soft, sensual man. don't mistake him as rough cuz of how he acts at work lucky shadow of the week gets to record the barracks bunny and graves kept trying to draw milk out of you but he didn't realise not everyone just...lactates :(he can't stop rewatching this video y'all took, how your greedy pussy just swallows his dick whole :o purposely just teasing you so he can see u angry konig: an efficient way to wake up his beautiful baby✨ his cold tongue and your warm socks make an interesting contrast🤔 he caught you masturbating all by yourself and you didn't seem to reach ur full potential :( loser!konig coded, once he finally gets his rough hands on you, it's hard letting a beauty like you go ruined ur cute little panties smh, greedy big boy mean colonel punishing his secret fuck buddy after he found out you've started talking to another person💢 bonus!!: surprise ;)

@xtrrdnrypotato @livingdead-g1rl

[enviedear]

thinking about jason todd finally becoming a family man. a thing he never truly imagined for himself, never let himself imagine. suddenly he’s got a kid on the way and his fuckin’ motorcycle and your ancient ass car aren’t going to cut it. so now he’s out with you, shopping for the most father-like car you two can find. he’s not used to safe vehicles, even in his own youth.

he's always been a man that subscribed to speed, to thrill, to scraping by with just a cocky smirk and a devil may care attitude that expertly shields the far softer crux of himself. a safe car—one with good mileage and enough cup holders—wasn’t something he’d ever imagined himself shopping for. but here he is, standing next to you in a dealership lot, staring at a lineup of SUVs and sedans with an expression that’s somewhere between disbelief and resignation.

“i feel like i’m betraying myself just by being here.” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flitting over the sensible, family-friendly options. “i mean, a fuckin’ minivan, babe? this is what my life has come to?”

you can’t help but laugh, hooking your arm through his and leaning into his side. “no one said we had to get a minivan, jay. but…maybe something with four doors—and airbags that actually work.”

“you’re really cutting into my image here.” he teases, though his hand falls to rest on your back, steady and warm. there’s a quiet shift in his tone when he adds, “but i guess i’m not just buying for me anymore, huh?”

he glances at you then, at the way you’re glowing in a way that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun overhead. his hand lingers on your back, sliding down to your hip as his lips twitch into something soft. it’s a look that says more than he ever could out loud—that he’s trying, that he wants to be the man you need him to be. for you. for the baby. for this whole new life he’s never let himself dream of, but now wants so desperately to protect.

you squeeze his arm. “well, you know what they say. nothing’s cooler than being a parent.”

“oh, sure.” he snorts. “because every kid wants to say their old man drives a…what is this, a fuckin’ toyota rav4?”

you laugh again, and it’s the kind of sound that grounds him, makes all the self-doubt and second-guessing fade into something bearable, burdens vanquished. he watches you as you step toward one of the cars, peering through the window at the interior.

“this one’s not so bad!” you say over your shoulder. “looks like it could handle groceries, strollers, maybe even a car seat…or two.”

he follows you, resting his arms on top of the door as he leans in to inspect it with you. “you’re really selling me on this whole ‘dad’ thing, you know that?”

you glance at him, your smile softening. “you’re gonna be really good at it, jay. better than you think.”

he doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at you with those steady, blue-green eyes of his. and then, after a second, he nods, jaw tightening like he’s trying to swallow back something thick and emotional.

“yeah,” he agrees quietly. “maybe i will be.”

and for the first time, it all feels real—not just a looming, abstract idea but something solid and tangible. a life, a family, a future he never thought he could have.

🖇️ masterlist | askbox | recent works | moodboard for this drabble

[pucksandpower]

Don’t Let Go

Charles Leclerc x Bianchi!Reader

Summary: five times, spanning nearly three decades, that you and Charles held hands (a little treat for Valentine’s Day from me to you)

Warnings: mentions of Jules Bianchi’s death and depictions of labor

Based on this request

The Mediterranean sun bathes everything in warmth, and the beach is alive with laughter and the salty scent of the sea. Families dot the sand, umbrellas casting colorful spots of shade, and kids run along the shoreline, kicking up sprays of water that glint in the sunlight. You and Charles stand together, eyes wide with the thrill of the world around you, hands clasped tightly.

“Don’t let go, okay?” He says, giving your hand a little squeeze. His face is solemn, as if this is the most serious promise he’s ever made.

You nod with all the gravity a four-year-old can muster. “I won’t.”

And then his face breaks into a grin, eyes bright with excitement. “Look! Over there!” He points, and you both tilt your heads up to see a man spinning cotton candy onto a cone, a swirl of pastel pink and blue that looks like a cloud.

“Can we get some?” You ask, voice small and hopeful, like the entire day depends on this one piece of fluffy sugar.

Charles looks at you, then at the cotton candy man, then back at you. He lowers his voice, like he’s plotting something daring. “We’ll ask Maman, but … maybe we could sneak away?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “No, we’re not allowed.”

“Oh, fine,” he says with an exaggerated sigh, as if being five years old and following rules is already exhausting. “But if we did, you’d have to hold my hand the whole time.”

“I’m already holding your hand,” you remind him, swinging his arm a little.

He laughs, and then your parents call out, reminding you both to stay close, to not let go of each other.

“We’re not letting go!” Charles calls back, his hand still firmly in yours.

Together, you walk with your families through the crowded boardwalk, weaving around beach bags and coolers, dodging groups of older kids with towels slung over their shoulders. But then, in one sudden, disorienting moment, everything changes. A group of teenagers pushes through, their laughter loud and jarring, and somehow, in the confusion, Charles’ hand slips from yours.

He realizes it just a split second too late, his fingers grasping at air. He turns, panicked, eyes wide. “Y/N?” His voice is barely louder than a whisper, and in the noise of the crowd, it’s swallowed up.

You’re gone.

Charles stands there, frozen, heart pounding. He looks around frantically, calling your name again, louder this time. “Y/N!”

He sees nothing, only the sea of legs and sunburned shoulders and wide-brimmed hats. His heart races, and his chest feels tight. He can’t lose you — not like this. He bolts back to where your parents are, his voice high-pitched and breathless.

“Maman! Y/N … she … she’s gone!”

The look on his mother’s face goes from confusion to alarm in an instant. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

“We were holding hands, but … but then-” He’s trying to explain, but the words feel sticky in his mouth, and he can barely get them out. “She’s gone! She’s not here!”

Your mother’s face pales as she clutches Charles’ arm, her eyes darting around. “Where did you last see her?”

“There!” He points back toward the spot by the cotton candy vendor, but it’s as if the place has transformed in the few seconds you’ve been gone. Nothing looks the same. Every face, every family, every child blends together into a blur.

The panic spreads, rippling through the small group of adults as they start scanning the crowd, calling your name with voices that tremble.

Charles stands rooted, clutching at his mother’s hand. It’s all his fault. He let go. He was supposed to keep you safe. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, feeling tears start to sting at his eyes. “I didn’t mean to …”

Your father places a hand on Charles’ shoulder, his voice calm but with an edge of urgency. “Stay with your mother, Charles. We’re going to find her, okay?”

But even as the adults scatter, scanning the faces in the crowd, calling your name with increasing desperation, Charles can’t just stand there. He looks up at his mother, his voice tiny. “I want to help.”

“Charles-”

“I have to help,” he insists, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Please. I promised I wouldn’t let go.”

There’s a pause, then a nod. His mother’s grip tightens on his shoulder, as if grounding him. “Stay close, mon chéri. We’ll find her.”

Together, they start moving through the crowd, calling your name. Charles’ voice cracks each time he says it, and with every passing minute, his chest feels heavier. He keeps glancing around, hoping to see your face, to see you waving back at him with that little smile. But all he sees are strangers.

The minutes stretch, dragging into what feels like hours. He begins to wonder if maybe you’re lost forever, that maybe this is his punishment for letting go, for letting his fingers slip from yours.

And then, in the distance, he catches sight of a cluster of people gathered near a lifeguard stand. His heart skips a beat. He grabs his mother’s hand, tugging her in that direction. “There! I think … I think I see her!”

They make their way through the crowd, weaving between the umbrellas and beach chairs. As they get closer, Charles’ heart beats faster, and he barely dares to breathe. And then, finally, he sees you.

You’re sitting on the edge of a bench, a scrape on your knee, a police officer crouched in front of you with a first-aid kit. Your eyes are red, and you look so small, clutching the edge of the bench like it’s your lifeline.

“Y/N!” Charles shouts, breaking into a run.

You look up, and the relief that washes over your face makes his heart soar. Before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s running up to you, arms wrapping around you tightly. “I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!”

You sniff, burying your face in his shoulder, and for a moment, the two of you just cling to each other, letting the world fall away.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, though your voice wobbles a little.

Charles pulls back just enough to look at your scraped knee, his face scrunched up in worry. “Does it hurt?”

You nod, biting your lip. “A little.”

“I shouldn’t have let go,” he says, voice choked with guilt. “I promised I wouldn’t.”

You reach for his hand, holding it tightly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

But he shakes his head, and there’s a fierce determination in his eyes. “I’m never letting go again,” he says, as if the promise itself is enough to keep you safe.

The adults gather around, relieved but still shaken, fussing over you and asking if you’re alright. But for Charles, none of that matters. All he cares about is that you’re here, safe, with his hand in yours.

And this time, he’s never letting go.

***

The sky is a steely gray, heavy with clouds that seem to press down on the earth. There’s a chill in the air, one that makes the hairs on your arms stand up as you stand at the back of the chapel, your hand locked in Charles’. His grip is firm, steady, and you cling to it like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground.

There’s a silence that fills the chapel, a thick, suffocating silence punctuated only by soft sobs and the occasional clearing of a throat. People fill the pews, faces somber, eyes red-rimmed. Friends, family, teammates — people who loved Jules, people who are hurting. But none of it quite feels real. Like you’re stuck in some strange dream that you can’t wake up from.

Charles squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that’s meant to be soothing. He leans in close, voice barely a whisper. “Are you okay?”

You shake your head, eyes fixed on the casket at the front of the room, draped with flowers, a picture of Jules propped up beside it. “No,” you murmur. “I don’t … I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.”

Charles’ hand tightens around yours. “Me neither.”

The words hang between you, a shared understanding, a grief that you both carry but can’t seem to put into words. You look up at him, at the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes are fixed forward, like he’s afraid to let his emotions show. And yet his hand never leaves yours.

The service begins, a series of voices taking turns, sharing memories, stories that make people laugh, others that draw out quiet tears. You sit through it all, barely moving, your hand clenched in Charles’ so tightly that your fingers start to go numb. But you don’t let go. You can’t let go. Not now.

When it’s time for your parents to speak, you feel yourself tense, fighting back the tears that have been threatening to spill over all morning. Your mother’s voice cracks as she starts, her words halting, her grief so raw it’s like a wound ripped open. You stare down at your lap, feeling the weight of it all press down on your chest.

Charles leans over, voice low and soothing. “If you want to leave, just say the word, alright?”

You shake your head, blinking back tears. “No … I want to stay. I need to stay.”

He nods, pulling you closer, and you feel his arm around your shoulders, warm and steady. “Okay. I’m right here.”

The room blurs, faces and voices blending together. Your mind drifts, memories of Jules flashing through your mind, moments you thought you’d have forever but now feel so achingly out of reach. His laugh, the way he used to ruffle your hair, the way he’d tease you and then instantly apologize whenever he saw you starting to get annoyed. The last time you saw him, hugging him goodbye before he left for his race, the way he promised to bring you back a souvenir from Japan. And now he’s gone, and it feels impossible to wrap your head around.

You glance at Charles, who’s staring ahead, his expression stoic but his eyes filled with pain. He’s hurting, too. You know how close he was with Jules, how much he looked up to his godfather. And somehow, even in his own grief, he’s here, holding you up.

When the service ends, everyone slowly files out of the chapel, moving in a quiet procession to the gravesite. Charles doesn’t let go of your hand, guiding you through the crowd with a quiet determination, shielding you from the sympathetic looks and soft murmurs of condolences.

As you stand by the gravesite, surrounded by people but feeling more alone than ever, Charles keeps you grounded. You barely hear the words the priest is saying, barely register the people around you. All you can focus on is Charles’ hand in yours, his steady presence, the way he keeps glancing over at you, checking to make sure you’re okay.

And then, the moment comes. Charles takes a deep breath, his hand slipping from yours for the first time since you arrived at the chapel. He gives you a look, one that’s filled with so much understanding and pain and strength that it nearly breaks you all over again.

“I have to go,” he says softly, his voice choked.

You nod, even though you don’t want him to leave. “I know.”

He hesitates, looking at you like he wants to say something more, but the words seem to catch in his throat. Instead, he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispers. “I promise.”

And then he’s gone, moving to join the other men, their faces grim as they prepare to carry the casket. You watch as they lift it, your heart twisting with every step they take, each one a reminder of the finality of it all. It’s real now, in a way that it wasn’t before.

Jules is really gone.

You stand there, watching as they carry him to his final resting place, feeling like your heart is breaking into a million pieces. Tears blur your vision, and you quickly wipe them away, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no hiding from the pain.

When they lower the casket into the ground, you feel a fresh wave of grief wash over you. It’s like losing him all over again, like the wound has been ripped open and there’s no way to stop the bleeding. You cover your mouth, a sob escaping despite your best efforts.

And then, suddenly, Charles is there again, slipping his hand back into yours, pulling you close. His own eyes are red, his face streaked with tears he can no longer hold back. He wraps his arm around you, and for a moment, the two of you just stand there, clinging to each other, letting the grief wash over you.

You bury your face in his shoulder, letting yourself cry, letting yourself feel the full weight of it all. Charles holds you tightly, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back, his voice a soft murmur. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

You don’t know how long you stand like that, lost in the pain, but eventually, the crowd starts to disperse, people offering quiet words of sympathy before leaving. You barely register any of it, your focus entirely on Charles, on the way he keeps holding you, grounding you.

When it’s just the two of you left by the gravesite, Charles finally pulls back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He looks at you, his expression soft but filled with an intensity you’ve never seen before.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” he admits, voice hoarse. “I don’t have the right words for this.”

You shake your head, your own voice barely a whisper. “There aren’t any right words.”

He nods, swallowing hard, and then, after a moment, he takes your hand again. “Do you want to sit? Or … walk?”

“Walk, I think,” you say, your voice shaky.

He leads you away from the gravesite, his hand still holding yours, and the two of you walk in silence for a while, the weight of the day pressing down on you like a physical thing. The cemetery is quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves in the wind, and you let the calmness settle over you, soothing some of the ache in your chest.

After a while, Charles speaks, his voice soft. “I miss him too, you know.”

You look up at him, surprised. “I know.”

He hesitates, looking down at his feet. “I looked up to him. He was … I don’t know. He was like a second big brother.”

You nod, understanding completely. “He was the best. He always made everything seem … possible.”

Charles smiles, a bittersweet expression that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. He did.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, letting the silence fill the space between you. And then Charles lets out a shaky breath, his hand tightening around yours. “I’m not going anywhere, you know. I’m here. For whatever you need.”

You feel a fresh wave of tears prick at your eyes, but this time, it’s not just from grief. There’s something else there, something warmer, something that feels like hope.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He nods, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand in a gentle, comforting way. “We’ll get through this,” he says quietly. “Together.”

And somehow, standing there with Charles, his hand in yours, you believe him.

***

The paddock buzzes with energy — the sound of engines mixing with the hum of reporters and the fast-paced clatter of team members shuffling between garages. The air is thick with the scent of fuel, rubber, and anticipation. But for all the excitement and all the people around, Charles only seems to have eyes for you.

He’s been gripping your hand tightly since you both walked through the gates, his eyes flicking nervously over every inch of the bustling scene as if he’s trying to take it all in at once.

“You okay?” You ask, squeezing his hand.

“Yeah, of course,” he says quickly, but his voice betrays him, a touch higher than usual.

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a knowing look. “Charles …”

“What? I am,” he insists, flashing you a grin that’s a little too bright, a little too quick. “I mean … you’re okay, right?” His tone shifts, softer, more concerned. “I know how you get sometimes with all the noise and people.”

You almost laugh but hold back, letting him keep up the charade. “I’m fine.”

He glances around, still keeping a firm grip on your hand as he leads you down the paddock walk. “I just don’t want you to be … I don’t know, uncomfortable or something. This place is … chaotic.”

You glance at him, taking in the way his jaw is clenched, his brows drawn together. “I think I’ll manage,” you say, your tone soft, teasing. “If anything, I think you might be the one who’s a little uncomfortable.”

His head jerks up, and he looks at you with wide eyes, feigning innocence. “Me? Uncomfortable? No, not at all.”

You smile, brushing a thumb over the back of his hand. “Good to know, because I’d hate for you to be nervous or anything.”

He clears his throat, casting a quick glance around as if looking for a way to escape the conversation. “Well, I’m not,” he says, his voice firm, though he still refuses to let go of your hand. “I’m just … making sure you’re okay.”

“Of course you are,” you say, unable to hold back your grin.

He leads you toward his team’s hospitality suite, and you can see the Alfa Romeo logo emblazoned on the side. He hesitates at the door, glancing at you as if he’s not sure if he should go in or not.

“I’ll be right here,” you reassure him, squeezing his hand again.

He nods, but instead of letting go, he steps closer, looking down at you with that soft, serious expression that makes your heart skip a beat. “Promise you won’t go anywhere?”

You tilt your head, amused. “Where would I even go?”

“I don’t know. Just … promise.”

“Promise.”

That seems to settle him, at least a little. He takes a deep breath, nodding to himself before pushing the door open and leading you inside. The room is a hive of activity — strategists and engineers clustered around screens, mechanics talking in low voices as they discuss parts and plans.

“Charles! You made it!” A tall man with a headset and clipboard hurries over, offering him a firm handshake. “Ready for your first big day?”

Charles nods, but his hand tightens around yours again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Yeah, ready as I’ll ever be.”

The man’s eyes flicker to you, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Ah, and who do we have here?”

Charles glances at you, then back at the man, standing a little straighter. “This is Y/N,” he says, his voice filled with a quiet pride. “She’s … she’s here with me.”

“Ah, got it,” the man says, giving you a polite nod. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Quite a day to be here, huh?”

You nod, giving a small smile. “It’s definitely … exciting.”

Charles looks at you, his expression softening. “Yeah, she’s a bit nervous, so … I thought it’d be good if she could stick around.”

You bite back a smile, deciding not to correct him. If he wants to pretend that you’re the one with nerves jangling out of control, you’ll let him. “You’re very thoughtful, Charles.”

He grins, looking relieved, as if your words have eased some hidden weight off his shoulders. “Well, someone’s got to keep you calm, right?”

The team member chuckles, clapping Charles on the shoulder. “You’re in good hands, then.”

As the man walks away, Charles pulls you closer, lowering his voice. “See? I told you I’m just making sure you’re okay.”

You roll your eyes but squeeze his hand, letting him believe his little fiction for now. He needs this, you can tell — needs you here, needs the quiet reassurance of your presence.

He leads you through the paddock, his grip on your hand never faltering. Every so often, he pauses to introduce you to someone, his voice filled with a quiet pride each time he says, “This is Y/N, my girlfriend.”

You smile and nod, feeling the warmth in his words, the way he seems to draw strength from saying them out loud. Each introduction, each little moment, seems to ease some of the tension in his shoulders.

Eventually, you make your way to the garage, where his car is waiting, sleek and gleaming under the bright lights. Charles stops in his tracks, his gaze fixed on the car, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and nerves.

“Wow,” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper.

You look up at him, watching the way his expression shifts, the excitement and fear flickering across his face. “You okay?”

He nods slowly, not taking his eyes off the car. “Yeah … yeah, I am.”

For a moment, he seems lost in thought, his hand loosening in yours as he stares at the car. Then, as if snapping out of a trance, he turns to you, his expression softening. “Can you stay right here? I just … need to check something real quick.”

“Of course,” you say, giving his hand one last squeeze before letting go.

He steps forward, reaching out to touch the car, his fingers brushing over the cool metal. You watch as he takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling, and you can almost feel the weight of his emotions — this dream he’s been chasing for so long, finally within reach.

After a few minutes, he turns back to you, his face a little calmer, a little more settled. He walks over, taking your hand again without a word, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“For what?”

“For being here. For … everything.”

You smile, leaning into him. “Always.”

He nods, his gaze dropping to the ground. “I don’t think I could do this without you.”

“You’d be fine, Charles,” you say, nudging him playfully. “But I’m glad you want me here.”

He chuckles, his fingers threading through yours. “I’d probably be a wreck without you.”

You both stand there for a moment, letting the quiet settle around you. And then, suddenly, one of his engineers approaches, clipboard in hand, looking a little flustered.

“Charles, we need you in the strategy meeting. Now.”

Charles tenses, his grip on your hand tightening. “Right … okay.”

The engineer hesitates, his gaze flickering to you. “It’s … it’s a closed meeting. I’m sorry, but your guest can’t come in.”

Charles’ face falls, a slight pout forming as he looks down at you, his expression almost pleading. “But … she’s with me.”

The team member shifts uncomfortably. “I understand, but it’s policy. Only team members and essential personnel.”

Charles’ pout deepens, his eyes fixed on the man. “But she’s … she’s my good luck charm. And besides, she’s nervous.”

You stifle a laugh, watching as Charles’ pout turns into a full-fledged puppy-dog look. It’s so endearing, and clearly, the team member is wavering.

“Please?” Charles says, his voice soft, almost childlike. “Just this once?”

The team member sighs, glancing between you and Charles before finally relenting. “Fine. But she has to sign a confidentiality agreement. A dozen of them, actually.”

Charles’ face lights up, and he turns to you, grinning. “See? You get to come with me.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Well, if I’m signing my life away…”

He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Thank you.”

Together, you follow the team member into the conference room, where a stack of paperwork awaits. Charles never lets go of your hand, even as you pick up the pen, signing each NDA with his fingers intertwined with yours.

As you finish the last signature, Charles looks at you, his eyes filled with a quiet, grateful warmth. “Now we’re ready,” he says softly, his voice steady, sure.

And as you walk into the meeting room together, hand in hand, you know that, no matter what happens out on the track, you’ll be by his side — just as you’ve always been.

***

The lights pulse in dizzying shades of blue and red, the music thrumming deep enough to shake the walls of the crowded club. The place is packed — friends, family, team members, strangers all shoulder to shoulder, all there for one reason: to celebrate Charles’ win at the Monaco Grand Prix. His first home victory. The energy is electric, and the night feels like a dream he’s been waiting his whole life to have.

Charles is beside you, his arm draped heavily around your shoulders, his hand gripping yours like he’ll lose himself if he lets go. His eyes are bright, and his laughter fills the air as he turns to you for the hundredth time tonight.

“Can you believe it?” He shouts over the music, eyes wide, dazed with disbelief and the effects of far too many celebratory drinks. “We did it! I did it!”

“You did, Charles!” You say, grinning up at him, matching his energy. “You won Monaco. Your home race!”

He lets out a roar of joy, pulling you close, swaying unsteadily as he laughs. “Home race!” He echoes, like he’s trying to savor the words, rolling them over his tongue. “Did you see it, though? Did you see it happen?”

“I saw it,” you assure him, laughing. “I think everyone saw it!”

He laughs, a sound so bright it’s almost childlike, and then he leans close, lowering his voice like he’s about to share a secret with you. “I really thought I’d never get it, you know? It’s Monaco. It’s just … Monaco.”

You squeeze his hand. “You deserved this one. More than anyone else.”

He tilts his head, considering your words, his gaze unfocused but sincere. “Do you really think so?”

“Of course I do,” you say, your voice strong enough to cut through the noise, and he nods, satisfied, the smile on his face softer now, less manic.

But then someone calls his name from across the room, and Charles is yanked back into the whirlwind. He lifts his drink — something fizzy and definitely too strong — and waves it around with a cheer. The crowd erupts in applause, chanting his name like he’s royalty.

“Charles! Charles! Charles!”

He takes a deep gulp of his drink, wincing as he swallows, then laughs, shaking his head as if he can’t believe any of this is real. “All these people …” he mutters, glancing at you with a slightly drunken smile. “Do they even know me? Really?”

You chuckle, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “I think they know you well enough to celebrate. Besides,” you tease, “I’m here. That should be enough, right?”

“More than enough,” he says, his gaze fixed on you, intense even in his inebriated state. “You’re … you’re the reason I’m even here.”

You laugh, brushing it off, but he shakes his head, suddenly serious.

“No, really.” His words are slurred but sincere. “You — remember all those times I thought I’d never make it? You were there. And now look at us. Monaco! My Monaco.”

You smile, feeling the warmth of his words, the affection that cuts through the chaos of the club. “I’m so proud of you.”

He grins, his face lighting up like he’s just won all over again. “Say that again.”

“I’m so proud of you, Charles.”

He beams, then tugs you closer, spinning you in a clumsy half-circle that nearly sends both of you toppling over. “You’re coming with me, always. Even if I’m-” He fumbles for words, laughing. “Even if I’m old and can’t drive anymore. You’re coming with me.”

“Wherever you go,” you say softly, humoring him as he wobbles, leaning his full weight against you.

“Wherever I go,” he repeats, nodding as if this is the most important promise he’s ever made. He glances down at your joined hands, lifting them for a moment as if to check they’re still there. Then, just as quickly, he clutches them to his chest. “You’re my good luck charm, you know that?”

“You’ve told me,” you say, laughing. “Probably about fifty times tonight.”

“Then fifty-one,” he declares, raising your hand like he’s holding a trophy. “You’re my good luck charm!”

“Okay, Charles,” you say, glancing around at the curious looks people are starting to give you. “Maybe a little less shouting?”

He scoffs, his face scrunching up in indignation. “Shouting? I’m not shouting!” Then he laughs at himself, realizing he’s practically yelling.

You shake your head, laughing as he leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “But really,” he murmurs, his voice dropping. “Thank you for everything. I wouldn’t have done any of this without you.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and you feel your throat tighten, emotions welling up. But before you can respond, someone else is clapping him on the back, dragging him back into the raucous celebration. He goes willingly, laughing as he lifts his drink again, but he doesn’t let go of your hand — not for a second.

People congratulate him, hug him, raise their glasses in his honor, and through it all, he keeps glancing over at you, as if he’s checking to make sure you’re still there, that this night, this victory, isn’t a dream he’ll wake up from.

“Charles!” An old friend shouts, clinking his glass against Charles’. “How’s it feel to finally win your home race?”

Charles laughs, tipping his head back. “Feels amazing! Like … like nothing else!”

Another friend chimes in, “And you’ve got the best date to celebrate with, huh?” He winks at you, raising his glass.

Charles nods, his grin widening as he wraps an arm around you, his hand still holding yours. “The very best,” he says proudly, his words a little slurred. “Don’t know what I’d do without her.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks, but you just smile, squeezing his hand. “I’m lucky to be here with you.”

He laughs, leaning in so close that his forehead brushes yours. “Not as lucky as me.”

And then, in one swift, impulsive move, he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. It’s sweet and almost innocent, and despite the noisy club, it feels like a quiet, private moment just between the two of you.

He looks at you, eyes soft, the drunken haze giving his expression a kind of unguarded warmth. “Promise me something?”

You nod. “Anything.”

“Promise you’ll be with me next year, too. For the next Monaco. And the next … and the one after that.”

You laugh, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “I think I can manage that.”

“Good,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting closed as he rests his forehead against yours. “That’s all I need. Just you … and Monaco.”

You chuckle, wrapping an arm around him to keep him steady. “And maybe a bit of sleep.”

He groans, shaking his head. “Sleep? No, no … we have to … keep celebrating! I mean, it’s Monaco!”

But despite his protests, his eyelids are starting to droop, his body leaning more heavily against you.

“Charles,” you say gently, guiding him to a quieter corner of the club. “Maybe we can take a little break?”

He mumbles something incoherent, his head resting on your shoulder, his hand still holding yours in a loose but unbreakable grip. Even in his exhaustion, he refuses to let go, as if the victory, the night, everything will disappear if he loosens his hold.

“Just … five minutes,” he mutters, his voice soft. “Then … more dancing.”

You smile, brushing a gentle hand over his hair. “Five minutes.”

But as he drifts off, his breathing evening out, you know he won’t be getting up for any more dancing tonight. He’s given everything — his heart, his soul, his strength — to this race, and now, finally, he’s at peace.

You sit there with him, holding his hand, listening to the muffled thrum of the music, and you realize that, in his own way, he’s won more than just a race. He’s found a sense of belonging, of fulfillment, a piece of himself he’d been chasing for so long.

And as you sit together, the noise of the club fading into the background, you feel that same sense of peace. You’re here, with him, exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

The hospital room feels impossibly small, filled with sounds of beeping monitors, the hum of the fluorescent lights, and the murmured voices of nurses and doctors. But for you, it’s all a blur — just flashes of movement and noise as you lie there, clutching Charles’ hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

His grip is firm, steady. He’s been by your side since the contractions started hours ago, and now, with each excruciating wave of pain, he tightens his hold, murmuring to you softly, his words meant only for you.

“Breathe,” he says quietly, as if he can breathe for you. “You’re doing amazing.”

You grit your teeth, feeling another contraction start to build, a pressure so intense it’s as if your entire body is caught in its grip. “This doesn’t … feel amazing,” you manage to say, your voice strained.

Charles chuckles softly, though you can see the tension in his eyes, the worry that’s been there since you first squeezed his hand, hours ago. “I know,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “But you are. I promise.”

You close your eyes, focusing on his words, on the warmth of his hand in yours. For a moment, it distracts you, gives you something to hold onto in the midst of the pain. But then the contraction peaks, and you’re squeezing his hand so hard you hear him suck in a sharp breath.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, the pain so intense it’s blinding. “I’m so sorry … your hand-”

He just shakes his head, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “I’m fine,” he says, his voice gentle. “Just focus on you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t have to stay,” you say, half-laughing, half-crying as the contraction finally starts to ease. “You can go … take a break or something.”

His expression softens, and he leans in close, his eyes locked on yours. “Are you kidding? You think I’d leave you now?”

You shake your head, managing a breathless laugh. “I don’t know how you’re not terrified.”

“Oh, I am,” he admits with a grin, glancing at the nurse nearby, who raises an amused eyebrow. “But you’re stronger than me. I have to keep up.”

The nurse chuckles softly, patting you on the shoulder. “You’re in the home stretch now, almost there. Just a little longer.”

“A little longer,” you echo, glancing at Charles, trying to find the strength to keep going. “Okay … I can do that.”

He nods, his hand never loosening from yours. “Of course you can. You’re the strongest person I know.”

Another contraction hits, and the pain tears through you like fire. You can feel your grip on his hand tighten again, your nails digging into his skin. “I’m sorry,” you gasp, but it’s all you can manage. The pain is blinding, all-consuming.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. “Don’t apologize,” he murmurs, his voice calm, steady. “You hold on as tight as you need to.”

“Charles …” Your voice is choked, and you can feel tears prickling at your eyes. “This … this is …”

“I know,” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “But you’re doing it. You’re so close.”

The doctor speaks softly to you, offering encouragement, but all you can focus on is the feel of Charles’ hand in yours, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. He’s been there through everything — every fear, every doubt — and now, here he is again, steady, unwavering.

Another contraction builds, and this time it’s different. The pressure feels like it’s reaching its breaking point, like something’s about to give. You squeeze his hand harder than ever, and he leans in, his forehead resting against yours as he murmurs, “Just a little longer. You’ve got this.”

You close your eyes, focusing on the warmth of his breath, the feel of his hand, and push with everything you have. The room fills with noise — your own cries, the encouraging voices around you — and then, finally, there’s a new sound. A tiny, piercing wail that cuts through everything.

You open your eyes, gasping, and see the doctor holding a small, wriggling bundle. Charles’ hand is still in yours, his face pale, his eyes wide with something like awe as he stares at the baby. “Is that …”

“That’s your son,” the nurse says, beaming as she places the little bundle in your arms.

You’re exhausted, every muscle in your body aching, but as you look down at the tiny face, your heart swells with a love so fierce it’s almost painful. You glance up at Charles, tears shining in your eyes, and he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Look at him,” he whispers, his voice choked with emotion. “Just … look.”

You nod, a tear slipping down your cheek as you cradle the baby close, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. You glance down, realizing you’re still clutching his hand in a death grip. “I think … I nearly broke your hand,” you say, laughing softly, tears blurring your vision.

Charles laughs, glancing down at your intertwined fingers, his own knuckles white from the pressure. “I’d let you do it a thousand times over,” he says softly, his voice filled with all the love and pride in the world. “For this moment … I’d happily let you.”

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: angst, toxic traits, somewhat bullying, breakup

♡ FEM reader

You’re his first girlfriend. He’d never bothered with anything serious before—it seemed too messy to trifle with. He doesn’t know why he suddenly decided. Suppose he’d been feeling a little bored, and something within him saw you as a fool-proof opportunity.

It wasn’t because you were anything special. Actually, it was more the opposite. You didn’t seem like too big of a risk. You were just a normal, honest, nice person—a bit of a loser, too, if he was being honest. He could do a lot better and pick someone of the same caliber as him, someone with a cooler style and presence, but then he’d only get caught up in the competition.

You were more to his appetite—a dorky, blushy lil’ nerd who giggled nervously at everything he said. In other words, no competition at all. You’d never dare break his heart because you frankly couldn’t afford it. And he found solace in that imbalance—knowing he held all the cards and that you could only be grateful he’d chosen you.

At least, that had been what he’d thought. But then, here you are, holding his hands from across the table in a cute little sundae café, telling him how this just can’t work anymore.

He’s confused for a whole minute before it sinks in.

You’re breaking up with him.

He’s confused afterward, too.

You’re breaking up with him?

That can’t be right. You must be joking. He almost laughs, almost cackles, but ends up staying completely silent. Something about that pitiful look in your eye makes his throat tight, and he almost thinks he’s going to cry instead. 

You’re breaking up with him. You, with him. His foot starts to tap. Have you hit your head or something? You’re dressed in a hoodie, for crying out loud, with not an ounce of make-up on—effortless, as if his perception of you wasn’t any of your concern while you’re fucking breaking up with him.

No way. There’s just no way. You must be confused about something, is all. There’s absolutely no way you’re doing this.

“What are you talking about?” It comes angry. Louder than he’d intended, enough to make you jolt in your seat. A couple of heads even turn your way. You wait for them to turn back before answering.

“I just think we’re a bit too different. And… I don’t know…” You were trying to find ways of telling him you weren’t in love with him but ended up deciding it was unnecessary—it wasn’t exactly something he needed to hear even though you had a lot you could say.

You’re rude and arrogant and treat me like some rescue pet you’ve nurtured back to health. You act like you’re embarrassed to be with me even though you’re the one without any friends. You’re selfish and spoiled and—

“If you don’t know, then there’s nothing to talk about. Quit being silly.” He has a furrow between his brows as he picks up the pink menu between the two of you, scanning the different types of milkshakes you could share and forget all about it. After all, you weren’t breaking up with him—that would just be absurd. “Let’s get strawberry.”

“No—”

“Guess we could get mango if you want that instead—”

“I’m not sharing drinks with you—”

“What? You tryna lose weight or something? Not like anyone but me is gonna see you when all you wear are those baggy hoodies all the time. Speaking of which, you should wear mine instead, they’d suit you better—”

“Listen.” You stop his rambling. “I’m not sharing drinks, and I’m not wearing your clothes. I’m not being silly, either. I’m being serious. It’s over—”

“No, it’s not.” His fist bangs against the table—the look in his eye on edge and twitchy. “I asked you why, and you had no good reason—so it’s not, not until you convince me.”

You had wanted to avoid it, but it seems he wouldn’t allow you the grace to spare him. That being said, you hadn’t meant to be so brutally honest…

“You’re a narcissist. You don’t treat me like a girlfriend. I’m more like a charity case or some type of experiment to you. Half the time, it feels as though you’re just playing a game with everyone in your life like pawns for you to shuffle around the board as you see fit.” You’re the one with the furrowed brows now, unable to bite your tongue as you’d kept it in all this time. “I think you should seek help and get your controlling tendencies straightened out before having any type of relationship. Or don’t. In any case, I don’t think I’m the right girl for you.”

There’s a silence. The chatter of the café seems distant. You feel half inclined to apologize as you look at him and stare down the glassy tabletop as if trying to find his reflection for comfort—but then he beats you to the punch.

“You’re right…” he starts softly, mustering the words, and you’re almost proud to see him take it so well, but then there’s a viscousness to his next words. “You’re not the right girl for me.”

When he looks up again, his face is warped—callous and seemingly disgusted by the sight of you. Something about it even seems to lash out at you, seeking revenge.

“I can’t believe I thought I saw something in you,” he sighs. “Turns out you’re exactly what everyone warned me you would be—just a plane-boring old Jane. What a joke—wasting so much time on something so worthless. Forget breaking up with me, I should have broken up with you a long time ago.”

He gets up in a rush and bears over the table, both palms laid flat upon the surface.

“Charity case?” he seethes, then conjures a fake laugh and an even faker grin. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. Enjoy sitting here alone like the loser you are.”

And even though you’re the one watching him walk away while ordering a chocolate sundae for yourself, you can’t help but feel sorry for the poor guy… 

That had been the most emotion you’d ever witnessed come from him.

Obviously, he doesn’t take it very well, stumbling through the café before bursting out the door, but even he’s surprised by how disheveled it had made him. He’s hyperventilating when the fresh air hits him, almost sprinting to his car so that he can lock himself inside it.

But the car only makes it worse as he’s far from alone in there. You’re everywhere. On the hood, waiting for him with a smile. In the rearview mirror, waving at him. In the seat next to him with a pout, asking if you can stay over. In the backseat, naked with a coy twinkle in your eye.

He knows! He has some of your underwear at home—he’ll threaten to pass them around campus unless you beg him to take you back. No, what’s he thinking!? You’ll never come back to him that way. Fuck, what can he do, what’s he supposed to do!? He just called you worthless—what that fuck was he thinking?!

The tears startle him as they drip down and splash upon his whitening knuckles, where he grips the wheel for dear life even as the car stays completely still—safe and sound in the same plot.

There’s a light pink lip balm on the dash. Yours. You must have left it there—maybe on purpose? No… you don’t play games like that. You’d been honest in the café. The fact terrifies him—his heart seems to want to reject it at all costs, the way it tears in his chest.

He picks the slim pink stick up and rolls it around in his hand, which can’t seem to stop shaking. You’d sat on his lap in this very seat, laughing at something dumb he’d said while applying the very same balm on his lip—kissing his forehead while saying something sweet. He knows it wasn’t, but he imagines you’d whispered that you loved him.

When he smears the balm around his lips this time, he imagines kissing you and your soft lips and that everpresent smile he never bothered telling you was pretty.

He’s such an idiot. The birds in the parking lot take flight at the jostling of his car, but no one hears the roar.

And as he sits there in the following silence, wallowing in his own self-pity and regret, he can’t help but feel like the lead of some angsty teen romance.

And like the lead in an angsty teen romance, he swears… whatever it takes… he will win you back.

You will be his again.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Hawks ♡ JJK – Gojo, Naoya, some young type of Sukuna, or Toji ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Oikawa, Sakusa, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Reo ♡ AOT – Eren

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[estrellami-1]

Ok so I saw a post about Steve as a teacher letting his kids control his Spotify which means his Wrapped is All Over The Place but the top artist is Corroded Coffin and Steve finds out from the thank-you video that Eddie is hot. I see it, I love it, it’s inspired.

I’m thinking something… a little different.

“Alright, class!” Steve calls. “Marcus, it’s your turn to choose the music, right?”

“Actually, Mr. H?” Amber pipes up. “Spotify Wrapped came out today!”

Steve blinks. “Spotify… what?”

Marcus is nodding. “Spotify Wrapped! It tallies up what you’ve listened to and gives you stats and stuff. It’s cool!”

“Ah,” Steve says, nodding, squinting at his computer. “And I see that… how?”

There’s a cacophony of noise until Steve holds up a hand. Everyone quiets, and Becky holds her hand up. He nods at her. “It’s at the top,” she says softly. “Where your recently played is.”

He smiles at her. “Thank you, Becky.” He navigates to it, clicking on it and letting the graphic play.

Their genre, apparently, is soft grass indie metal. He’s entirely sure that’s made up. Their top artist, making up sixty-four percent of the music they listened to, is Corroded Coffin.

There’s a video; a little thank-you the band put together. It starts with Eddie up front, as the lead singer. Gareth, Jeff, and Freak are slightly behind him, grinning at the camera. Steve recognizes the background as Jeff’s living room. “Hi!” Eddie starts. “Thanks so much for listening to our music this year.”

“We couldn’t do what we do without you,” Gareth adds on.

“And everything we do is for you!” Jeff says.

“It’s totally metal of you to listen to our music, and we appreciate it!” Freak finishes. They all wave, and the camera cuts off.

Steve is… gobsmacked. He loves his husband, truly, but he looks so uncomfortable, and the way he’s speaking is weirdly stilted. He was not made to stand still.

He shakes his head, knowing he’s about to make Eddie’s year, and blow these kids’ minds.

Eddie had always been more vocal than Steve about coming out, saying fuck it to the consequences. Maybe being gay was accepted in the metal community, but Steve had been too new in his current job to even think about the jeopardy this could put his career in.

But honestly. That video was terrible, and his kids deserve better.

He sighs, raises a hand to get the class’s attention. “I know that was cool,” he chuckles. “But if you can be quiet and patient, I could get you something even cooler.”

“Cooler than a video from Corroded Coffin?” Nick asks.

Steve tilts his head. “Cooler than that video, at least.”

Nick doesn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?”

Steve just smiles. “How about we find out?” He puts a finger to his lips and FaceTimes Eddie.

He makes sure his volume is low, enough so that he even has trouble hearing when Eddie picks up.

“Baby!” Eddie exclaims, then clocks the background and is instantly worried. “Wait, you’re still at work. Are you okay? Is everything okay? Did you hit your head again? Do I need to come get you?”

“Christ, you’re dramatic,” Steve mutters, grinning wide. “I’m fine. I’m with my class, and we just finished looking at our Spotify Wrapped. Guess who our number one artist for the year was.”

Eddie’s eyes sparkle. He grins. Steve nods. “Corroded Coffin,” he confirms, then sighs. “I have to say, though, I was a little disappointed by the video.”

Eddie groans, throwing his head back. Steve gets a great view up his husband’s nose. “I know! I know, it sucked, but the guys were happy with it and it was, like, our eighth go, and-”

“I get it,” Steve promises. “But how would you like to one-up it?”

It takes Eddie a second, but his eyes gleam. “Are you sure? Your career-”

“Is stable enough now,” Steve finishes. “I’m sure. If you are.”

“Fuck,” Eddie mouths, conscientious of Steve’s class. “I love you.”

Steve smiles, blows a kiss to the camera. He gets a smattering of awws from some of his female students.

He figures out how to connect his phone to his computer to the screen, pushes the volume button up, and nods. “Go, Eds.”

Eddie grins and waves at the screen. “Hi, Mr. Harrington’s class! I’ve heard so much about you guys. It’s totally metal that you’re listening to our music—that’s something your teacher neglected to tell me.” He grins at the screen, a private thing for Steve, who dutifully rolls his eyes.

“I hear your music every day, Eds, forgive me if I don’t think anything of it when I hear it here and at home.”

“Mr. H,” Nathan asks in a pseudo-whisper, “how the hell do you know Eddie Munson?”

Eddie bursts out in a laugh. “You must be Nathan,” he says.

Nathan goes white, then pink. “H-hi, Mr. Munson, sir.”

“I think you should be their teacher,” Steve says, grinning first at Eddie, then his class. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard Nathan say sir before.”

Everyone laughs—including Nathan—and Eleanor raises her hand. “How do you know him?”

Steve takes a breath, glances at his phone. Eddie’s smiling patiently at him, and Steve’s own smile grows as he answers her. “I’m his husband,” he tells her.

“Ten years and counting!” Eddie crows. “Though we’ve known each other for… twenty… something.”

Steve chuckles. “Twenty-three, Eds. If you count high school, which I don’t.”

“But I do,” Eddie nods. “Twenty-three years. And counting.”

Steve chuckles again. “And counting,” he agrees.

As his room explodes into noise, he looks back at his phone to find Eddie already looking at him.

That’s the way it goes, he thinks. Eddie saw him the whole time. It took Steve a while to catch up, but now that he has, he’s never been happier.

Twenty-three years and counting, indeed.

[solxamber]

How to Handle Your Diva || Vil Schoenheit

You’re the unofficial Vil Schoenheit handler, a role you assumed when you started dating him. Whether it’s calming his temper or redirecting his wrath, you’ve become the only one capable of keeping poor midguided souls from biting the dust.

aka the 7 times you save someone from getting poisoned or worse.

Instance 1: Chaos Duo

The serene backdrop of NRC’s gardens frames Vil Schoenheit like a painting come to life. Dressed in flowing silks and adorned with the perfect balance of sunlight and shadow, he’s mid-pose when—

“Yo, Vil! Say cheese!”

Ace and Deuce leap into the frame, pulling the most exaggerated faces imaginable. Deuce’s eyes are practically crossed, and Ace looks like he’s mid-sneeze. The photographer audibly chokes on his spit.

Vil freezes. The air goes cold. The birds stop singing. Somewhere in the distance, a withering rose drops a petal.

“What,” Vil says, so quiet it’s terrifying, “was that?”

“It was Ace’s idea!” Deuce blurts immediately, shoving Ace under the metaphorical bus.

“Thanks a lot, traitor!” Ace snaps back.

Vil’s eyes narrow. “You,” he hisses, voice dripping with venom, “have the audacity to ruin my shoot?”

By the time you arrive, the photographer is hiding behind a bush, and Ace and Deuce are sweating under Vil’s glare. The two freshmen look like they’re seconds away from turning into frogs—or corpses.

“Vil, sweetie,” you interrupt, stepping between them and the storm cloud forming above his head, “what’s going on?”

“These plebeians,” Vil says, gesturing at Ace and Deuce like they’re bacteria under a microscope, “thought it would be funny to sabotage my art!”

“They’re idiots,” you agree, shooting the freshmen a glare. “But let’s think about this. What if... this makes your shoot even better?”

Vil arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “Better?”

“Yeah!” you say, channeling all your persuasive powers. “When people see this, they’ll notice how your beauty shines even in the presence of—” you gesture vaguely at Ace and Deuce, “—mediocrity.”

“Mediocrity?” Ace repeats indignantly.

“Shut up,” you snap before turning back to Vil. “Think about it. They’ll see your grace, your poise, and how you completely outshine everyone around you. It’s contrast, Vil. Art loves contrast.”

Vil strokes his chin, considering. “You may have a point...”

“Totally! And, like, who would take them seriously anyway? Look at Deuce’s face. He looks like a confused pigeon.”

“Hey!” Deuce protests, but Ace is already nodding.

“Yeah, yeah! Vil, this just makes you look even cooler! Like, people will see this and be like, ‘Wow, he’s untouchable, even next to these losers.’”

Vil finally exhales, his wrath ebbing. “Very well,” he says, smoothing his silks. “I’ll allow it. But only because the juxtaposition highlights my perfection.”

Ace and Deuce sag in relief, clearly missing the word “juxtaposition.”

Later, Trey finds you in the hallway. “I heard what happened,” he says, looking both exasperated and grateful. “Thank you for stopping Vil from poisoning them. Again.”

You shrug. “All in a day’s work.”

Instance 2: Just Leona.

The group is gathered in the cafeteria, the usual buzz of conversation swirling around. Vil sits at the head of the table, eating his meticulously prepared salad—a work of art with perfect symmetry, vibrant greens, and an edible flower garnish.

Leona slouches in his chair nearby, tearing into a steak with all the grace of a feral lion. He pauses mid-bite, glances at Vil's plate, and snorts loud enough to turn heads.

"What's that, Schoenheit? Rabbit food?"

The air grows thick. Vil’s fork stops mid-air, his gaze snapping to Leona like a hawk spotting prey. "Excuse me?" he says, in that icy tone that sends chills down spines.

Leona smirks, undeterred. "You heard me. All those leaves and petals—looks like something I’d feed to the herbivores back home."

There’s a collective oh no from everyone nearby. Jack visibly stiffens, eyes darting between the two like he’s watching a live-action disaster. You’re pretty sure Grim just whispered, “This is gonna be good,” from somewhere behind you.

"It’s called maintaining one’s figure," Vil snaps, placing his fork down with calculated grace. “You wouldn’t understand, considering your diet seems to consist entirely of undercooked meat and mediocrity.”

Leona leans back, looking as smug as a cat in a sunbeam. “At least I eat like a king. Meanwhile, you’re over there grazing like the royal gardener.”

The tension escalates. Vil’s hand twitches toward his fork, and you’re suddenly very sure he’s planning to plant it somewhere deeply unfortunate on Leona.

Time to intervene.

“Vil,” you cut in smoothly, leaning closer to him, “can I just say, you look amazing today? Honestly, I don’t think anyone else could pull off a salad with such elegance.”

Vil blinks, momentarily startled, before his lips curve into a faintly smug smile. “Well,” he says, primly dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, “I do have a certain flair for refinement. It’s not something just anyone can achieve.”

“No, it’s not,” you say firmly, throwing Leona a warning glance. “And anyone who doesn’t see that is clearly just... jealous.”

Leona snorts again but doesn’t push further, clearly uninterested in escalating now that Vil’s focus is on being praised rather than plotting homicide.

Jack gives you a subtle, grateful nod, visibly relieved that he won’t have to referee another dorm-versus-dorm war.

As Vil returns to his salad with renewed dignity, you sit back with a sigh, silently adding prevented cafeteria murder to your list of daily accomplishments.

Instance 3: Theatre Club Madness

It starts, as all things do, with Floyd and his unique brand of chaos. This time, it’s a priceless antique vase from Pomefiore’s lounge that met its tragic end because Floyd “wanted to see if it could fly.”

Spoiler: it couldn’t.

Vil, who witnessed the entire ordeal, was seconds away from summoning a storm of consequences when Floyd, in a rare flash of survival instinct, promised to repay the debt.

“I’ll help with your little drama thing,” Floyd had said with a grin too wide to trust.

That promise didn’t even make it a full day.

By the time Azul appears in Ramshackle, wringing his hands, you already know something’s gone terribly wrong.

“Vil asked Floyd to star in some action scenes for his theater production,” Azul says, clearly on edge. “But Floyd... Well, he’s Floyd.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Let me guess. He skipped?”

“Skipped, vanished, and laughed about it,” Azul confirms. “Vil is furious. I fear he might—”

“Poison the Lounge’s water?” you finish for him.

Azul nods gravely.

Which is how you find yourself in Pomefiore’s theater, holding a script titled The Tragic Tale of Honor and Glory and wearing an outfit that feels heavier than your life choices.

Vil sits in the audience, arms crossed, as you nervously adjust the overly ornate shoulder pads. “Darling, I adore you,” he says smoothly, “but if you ruin my vision, we will have words.”

“Right,” you mutter. “No pressure or anything.”

Rook, of course, is thrilled. “What a magnifique turn of events! A real-life romance brought to life on stage!” he says, twirling a prop sword before handing it to you.

You glance at the script and immediately regret every decision that’s led you here. Floyd’s role isn’t just action-heavy—it’s absurd. You’re supposed to fend off imaginary enemies, deliver heartfelt speeches, and somehow “leap gracefully” across a prop chasm.

“Are we sure this isn’t a punishment?” you whisper to Rook.

“Every great artist suffers for their craft!” he replies, as unhinged as ever.

Rehearsals are... an experience. Vil critiques your sword stance, your dramatic pauses, and even the way you hold the fake shield. “You’re not a barbarian,” he snaps at one point. “This is a knightly role. Show some dignity!”

The only thing keeping you sane is the occasional glimpse of Vil’s smile when you nail a scene. He’s still your Vil—meticulous, demanding, and, beneath it all, proud of you.

By the end of the day, you’re exhausted, but no one’s been poisoned, and Vil is satisfied.

“Darling,” he says as you collapse into a chair, “you might just be a natural.”

You groan in response, but secretly, you’re glad. If starring in a play keeps the peace and earns you a proud smile from your perfectionist boyfriend, it’s worth every ridiculous leap and over-the-top speech.

You're not letting Floyd off the hook though, he now owes you a blood debt.

Instance 4: Runway Disaster

It happens in slow motion. Kalim, with his usual sunshine energy, bounds over to greet Vil during a fitting for his latest custom runway outfit. In one hand, he holds a crystal goblet of bright red juice.

“Kalim, no—” Jamil tries to intervene, but he’s too late.

One excited gesture later, the goblet tilts. The juice spills. And Vil’s pristine white couture ensemble is suddenly dyed a tragic, splotchy crimson.

For a moment, the room is deathly silent. Kalim freezes, his smile faltering as Vil’s expression shifts from shock to something that resembles a villainous Disney queen summoning her final form.

“Oh no,” Jamil mutters, stepping back like a man who knows better than to get involved in an impending disaster.

Vil’s fingers twitch, and actual poison gas starts to swirl faintly around him.

“You…” he begins, voice deadly calm, eyes narrowed at Kalim, who looks like he’s considering whether running or apologizing is the better survival tactic.

Before Vil can unleash his fury (or toxins), you jump in, grabbing his arm like a brave but foolish hero.

“Wait! Think of the headlines,” you blurt. “The great Vil Schoenheit doesn’t panic when disaster strikes. He innovates. He adapts. He turns accidents into opportunities!”

Vil pauses, glancing at you with an arched brow. “Go on.”

“This isn’t a catastrophe—it’s a creative challenge,” you say, channeling your best salesperson energy. “You can redesign the outfit on the fly, show off your genius in real time, and prove why you’re the best.”

Jamil, who’s still lurking near the door, lets out a faint groan. “Don’t drag me into this—”

“Perfect!” you cut him off, pointing dramatically. “Jamil, help us. You’re good with details. Kalim, you’re... great at handing over fabric?”

“I am?” Kalim perks up, always happy to help, even when he’s the source of the problem.

Vil exhales sharply but lowers his hands, the faint poison clouds dissipating. He turns to you, his lips twitching upward in something resembling reluctant approval. “At least someone here recognizes talent when they see it.”

Half an hour later, Jamil is threading needles with the speed of a man who just wants this ordeal to end, Kalim is cheerfully sorting through fabric swatches, and Vil is in full designer mode, issuing commands and adjusting details.

You’re stuck holding a pin cushion and occasionally offering words of encouragement, but hey, no one’s been poisoned, and Vil’s outfit is somehow looking even better than before.

When it’s finished, Vil studies the revamped ensemble with a critical eye, then turns to you.

“Not bad,” he says, which, coming from Vil, is practically a standing ovation.

Kalim beams. “This was fun! Let’s spill juice more often!”

Jamil groans audibly, and Vil rolls his eyes, muttering something about how his brilliance is wasted on “uncultured chaos.” But when he glances at you, there’s a soft glimmer of gratitude.

Maybe you won’t have to stop a literal poison attack every day, but you’re definitely earning your stripes as the official Vil Schoenheit Disaster Manager™.

Instance 5: Epel, why?

Epel’s first mistake is thinking he can sneak a greasy burger into the Pomefiore lounge. His second mistake is sitting right in front of Vil to eat it.

The moment Vil spots the offensive food item, his entire posture stiffens. Slowly, he sets down the teacup he was holding, a faint air of menace radiating from him.

“Epel,” Vil says, voice dangerously calm, “are you seriously eating... that in my presence?”

Epel freezes mid-bite, the burger hovering inches from his mouth. “Uh, I mean... it’s just a quick snack—”

“It’s processed garbage,” Vil snaps, his tone sharp enough to cut diamonds. “Do you even know what’s in it? Chemicals, preservatives, and enough grease to clog your arteries by the time you’re twenty-five!”

You can almost see the poison aura starting to swirl, and your instincts kick in. There’s only one way to de-escalate this. Compliments. Lots of them.

“You know, Vil,” you interject brightly, sidling closer to him, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how absolutely flawless your skin looks today. Did you do something different? A new serum, maybe?”

Vil blinks, momentarily thrown off. “I did switch to a more concentrated vitamin C serum this morning.”

“Wow,” you gush, “it’s really working. You’re practically glowing! Honestly, you look like you just stepped off the cover of a magazine.”

Vil preens slightly, his focus shifting from Epel to himself. Epel catches your subtle hand signal—Run, you fool, run while you still can!—and starts to edge toward the door, burger clutched tightly in his hands.

Rook, who has been lurking silently nearby as usual, suddenly claps his hands together, eyes sparkling. “Ah, mon cher ami, how touching! Such devotion, such cleverness, to save our dear Epel from the wrath of Monsieur Vil! Truly, a love as radiant as the sun itself!”

Vil narrows his eyes at Rook, then at you, clearly aware of what you’ve just pulled. For a second, you think he might ignore your distraction entirely and summon some ancient Pomefiore curse to turn Epel into a cautionary tale.

But then he sighs and shakes his head. “You’re insufferable,” he mutters, though there’s a faint, reluctant smile on his lips.

Later, as Rook waxes poetic about your “unwavering dedication,” Vil leans in close and murmurs, “I hope you know that if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t have let this slide.”

“I know,” you say, grinning.

“And you owe me a handmade, organic, non-processed dinner tonight,” he adds, though his tone is more affectionate than demanding.

Fair enough. You’ve just saved Epel from doom and earned yourself a little more of Vil’s soft spot in the process. Not a bad trade-off.

Instance 6: Housewarden meeting

It all starts when Idia mutters the fatal words under his breath at the housewarden meeting.

“Skincare’s just a corporate scam for gullible people, anyway.”

The air goes still. A deathly quiet spreads across the room, save for the faint thump of a pen dropping somewhere in the background. You look up in horror, eyes darting to Vil, who has frozen mid-reading. Slowly, methodically, Vil sets the paper down with the poise of a storm brewing on the horizon.

“Excuse me?” Vil’s voice is icy, his gaze locking onto Idia with the precision of a predator that has just spotted its prey.

Idia, realizing his monumental mistake, turns pale. His flaming hair flickers nervously. “Uh—uh—wait, no, I didn’t mean—uh, you know, for other people, not you! Definitely not you, You’re obviously an exception—uh, outlier—uh—uhhhhh...”

You can see it in Vil’s eyes: hexes. Hexes upon hexes. Idia’s social credit is about to go into the negatives, and it’s up to you to stop this trainwreck before it derails completely.

“Vil, darling,” you say quickly, sliding up beside him and placing a calming hand on his arm, “why waste your brilliance on people who clearly don’t understand skincare? They’re the ones missing out. Why not show them how effective it really is instead?”

Vil’s brow raises, his attention turning to you. “Show them?”

You nod earnestly. “Absolutely. A real-world demonstration. I’ll be your model. You can prove to the entire campus how flawless your methods are by working your magic on me.”

Idia, still rooted to his chair, looks at you with wide, desperate eyes, mouthing, Thank you, oh my god.

Vil considers this for a moment, the dangerous glint in his eyes dimming slightly. “Hm. That does have potential. It’s true that nothing speaks louder than results...” He narrows his gaze at you. “But don’t think this will be easy. You’re going to follow my instructions exactly.”

“Of course,” you say, internally praying you don’t end up with a ten-step skincare routine involving rare herbs and unicorn tears.

Three hours later, you’re sitting in Vil’s dorm room with half your face slathered in a gold-infused sheet mask, while he critiques the lighting for your before-and-after photos. Idia has not only escaped with his life but is actively hiding in Ignihyde, no doubt sobbing into his console for letting this happen.

The next morning, Ortho drops off a neatly wrapped package with a note:

"Thank you for keeping Big Brother from turning into a toad. This is our thank you. Please use it wisely. - Ortho"

Inside is a supply of snacks that Vil would never allow, soda and a very generous gift card.

At least your skin has never looked better

Instance 7: Fashion Show Debate

It happens during the final stages of Vil’s meticulously planned fashion show rehearsal in Pomefiore’s grand hall. The decorators are frantically running around, while Vil oversees every detail with the precision of a hawk. It’s flawless—until Sebek’s voice booms through the air like a thunderclap.

“FASHION IS A POINTLESS PURSUIT WHEN COMPARED TO THE NOBLE ART OF SWORDSMANSHIP!”

Every head swivels toward Sebek, who stands tall, arms crossed, utterly convinced of his own wisdom. He continues, undeterred by the growing silence. “Who cares what you wear when you’re on the battlefield?! True strength lies not in silks and satins, but in the heart of a warrior!”

Vil freezes mid-step, his clipboard trembling in his hand. Slowly, he turns, and you swear you see the faintest shimmer of poison green pooling in his eyes. His glare could cut through steel.

“Excuse me?” Vil says, each syllable sharp and measured.

Sebek, being Sebek, barrels on, entirely oblivious to the danger he’s wading into. “Clothing is irrelevant when facing an opponent of true skill! A warrior’s resolve is their most valuable armor!”

Lilia, lounging nearby, starts wheezing with laughter, clearly finding the whole ordeal the height of entertainment. “Oh, this is delightful. Do go on, Sebek!”

You, however, sense disaster brewing. The tension in Vil’s jaw could snap diamonds, and Sebek’s volume seems to be increasing with every word. If this isn’t diffused soon, you’re going to witness Sebek walking the runway in a cursed tutu and heels.

Thinking quickly, you stride over to Sebek and place a firm hand over his mouth. “Sebek, remember the gargoyle incident?” you say in a low voice.

Sebek freezes, his face going pale. You lean in closer for effect.

“You know,” you continue casually, “the time you spent twenty minutes praising a gargoyle in the castle courtyard because you thought it was Malleus in the dark? Magnificent presence were your exact words, I believe?”

Sebek’s eyes widen in pure panic.

“When you finally realized your mistake,” you add, voice dripping with mock sympathy, “you begged me to swear on my life that I wouldn’t tell Malleus. Do you think he’d laugh? I think he’d laugh.”

Sebek emits a muffled noise beneath your hand, his entire posture deflating. He waves his arms frantically in surrender. You let go, and he turns stiffly to Vil, bowing his head. “My apologies. I spoke out of turn.”

Vil raises a perfectly arched eyebrow but seems satisfied with the reluctant apology. “As you should be. Now, be silent, or I’ll personally ensure you end in heels forever.”

Crisis averted, you glance at Lilia, who gives you an approving wink. Sebek, meanwhile, retreats to the shadows, muttering under his breath about unfair tactics and treacherous secrets.

As the models resume their walk, Vil brushes past you with a quiet, “Good work, darling. Though I’ll admit, I wouldn’t have minded seeing him in heels.”

It’s one of those rare, quiet evenings where the world outside seems to hum in stillness. You’re sprawled on the bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, savoring the precious downtime. The soft creak of the floorboards is your only warning before Vil’s hands are gently pulling you into his arms.

Startled, you set your phone aside and look up at him. “What’s up?”

Vil doesn’t answer immediately. He sits on the edge of the bed, arms encircling you as if shielding you from the entire universe. His expression is unusually soft, his gaze tracing over your features like he’s memorizing every detail.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says at last, his voice quieter than you’re used to. “You do so much for me. More than I deserve sometimes.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What are you talking about? You deserve the world, Vil.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he looks away for a moment. “I know I’m... a little demanding.”

You snort, which earns you a mock glare. “Okay, fine, maybe a little more than a little." You laugh “But it’s not like I mind.”

“You should. Most people would,” he counters, but his tone is softer now, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’ve been working so hard to keep up with me, to make me happy, even when I’m being a diva.”

That makes you laugh, and the sound seems to melt the last of his hesitation. You cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly against his flawless skin. “Vil, it’s not hard work. It’s a labor of love.”

His eyes widen just a fraction, and then his smile blooms—gentle, radiant, and so genuinely Vil. He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, but the affection in his voice betrays him.

“And yet you love me anyway,” you quip, grinning.

Vil huffs a laugh, his arms tightening around you as he pulls you into a proper embrace. “Hopelessly.”

You stay like that for a while, wrapped in the warmth of each other, the world outside forgotten. It’s just you and Vil, caught in a moment that feels like love personified—sweet, steady, and infinite.

(this is kinda a spiritual successor to the how to tame your dragon malleus fic)

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