#Or at least twisting the way everything seems | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

godmadeaterribleerror · 23 hours ago

Text

Chapter 2 - Under My Skin

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: If you're mad at me for getting any lore or myths wrong through this story, consider that Supernatural themselves cannot track their own lore, and I'm doing my goddamn best.

Chapter title from Akaska Sad by Rina Sawayama

Word Count: 15.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean and John take on an odd, difficult case, and you try—and fail—to avoid them. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Read on A03!

Lately, Dean’s life was fucking lonely. It was made of long car rides where Dad wouldn’t speak to him, countless cases where he felt almost useless, and restless nights where he’d get up to use the bathroom, look at the couch, and feel a little piece of him die again when Sam wasn’t there.

Every town looked the same. Every girl did too. He didn’t try to talk to them—he never had—but there was still something in him that was so furiously lonely, he was burning through chicks night by night in a desperate plea that they’d offer him something. Sometimes they’d talk to him, and that would become enough. He was never really all that interested—they all had the same voice and same words and same boring, apple pie lives that Dean would never get to be a part of—but it carried him over until the next one. Until he and Dad got the monster, left town, and nobody there would have to spare Dean a thought for the rest of their lives.

He tried to make them remember. He poured all he had to spare into the sex, and making it good enough that maybe—when each woman was married with kids and some sort of boring office job—they’d still use the memory of him to get off. They might not remember his name, or his voice, or his face, but they’d remember how he made them feel. And that did a little more to curb the loneliness. The pit like feeling of uselessness.

But sometimes he’d strike out, and be forced to wake up on an empty, stiff motel mattress. Dad would already be gone—getting coffee or working there leads or just fucking sick of Dean not being Sam—and it would only be Dean in the whole world. And that wasn’t enough. It couldn’t just be Dean. It’s never supposed to just be Dean. When it’s just him, everything gets too loud and too quiet and so hot, but also massive and empty and cold. Corners are shaper and knives are duller and colors are all muted, because only Dean can see them and he doesn’t deserve to.

And when that happened, sometimes he’d grab his phone and consider calling Sammy. He’d stare at the number—hidden from Dad with a fake contact, just in case—and allow his thumb to hover over the call button, but never press it. He couldn’t. He’d have no way to get to California, Sam probably wouldn’t want to see him, and Dad would freakin’ kill him for even considering it. Dean couldn’t even say Sam’s damn name without Dad’s jaw ticking and an unsettling tension falling over the room.

So Dean stayed lonely. He worked every case lonely, found every bed lonely, and woke every morning lonely.

But he wasn’t lonely in his dreams. It didn’t matter why he wasn’t, but he wasn’t. That, at the very least, was something Dean could count on. When he slept, he’d never be lonely, because-

It didn’t matter. They were just dreams, and dreams didn’t mean shit. Even it had been the same person starring in them every night—the same beautiful, twisted salvation to the pit that had formed inside of Dean, that he loathed and craved and couldn’t figure out how to get rid of—for the past year, Dean wasn’t some crystals and tea leaves chick who was going to try and find meaning in his freakin’ dreams.

This lady seemed to be, though. She was dressed like she belonged at Woodstock, there were dreamcatchers and random dried plants all over her house, and she kept trying to offer Dean a palm reading. Telling him his aura was strong. That didn’t fucking mean anything, because that shit wasn’t real, and Dean should know. His whole life was figuring out what things were real, and what was fake.

This magic, witchy bullshit was fake.

The ghost haunting Woodstock Chick’s house was very real.

“You know,” Woodstock frowned at Dean and Dad from across the table. “I’m a little surprised you’re listening to me.”

Dad shrugged. “Well, ma’am it’s routine to investigate complaints. It ain’t our job to judge, just hear what you’ve got for us. Now, we’ve got the objects flyin’ around-“

“It’s just,” Woodstock let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head slightly. “I’ve been filing these complaints for weeks, and all I’ve gotten is made fun of by my neighbors. Then, suddenly, you’re taking me seriously? Sending three officers to talk to me-“

Dean cleared his throat, shooting Dad a weary look. “Sorry, did you say three?”

“Yeah. You two, plus the one yesterday. Young woman, with the rings and lip gloss. She was gorgeous, good skin and hair, bright aura, just like yours.” she smiled at Dean as she continued. “She kind of looked like a,” Woodstock frowned, tilting her head. “Like a cat.”

Dad scowled. “A cat.”

Woodstock nodded. “You know, just like how he,” she nodded at Dean, and he frowned. “Looks like a puppy. It not about their faces, it’s about their energy-“

“And you’re saying this chick had the energy of a cat?” Dean asked, not allowing himself to dwell on the puppy thing. He had too much shit to worry about already. “Ma’am, we-“

“We’re takin’ your complaints seriously, ma’am.” Dad’s voice was firm over Dean’s, and Dean felt a cringe of shame in his chest. “Now, tell us about the lights, and we’ll let you keep goin’ with your day.”

Woodstock continued, Dad asking more careful, smart questions as Dean sat in silence, and the lady’s problem was pretty obviously a ghost. Kind of a douchebag of a ghost, but just a ghost. The hard part was just gonna be figuring out who it was, because Woodstock was insisting nobody had ever died in this house, that she had no dead relatives, and that she’d never even killed anyone.

That last question did get them kicked out, though.

“We ain’t accusin’ you of anything, ma’am.” Dad remained in the threshold of Woodstock’s door, holding the angry woman’s gaze. “It’s a just part of our report-”

Woodstock let out a dry laugh. “Nice try, officer, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but I do know that’s a lie. If you come back, come back with a warrant, or-“ Woodstock paused, looking between Dean and Dad. “Send Officer Brown. She was nicer, and didn’t ask me stupid questions.”

The door slammed, Dad groaned—running a hand over his face before stomping back to the Impala—and Dean was frozen in place as Woodstock’s words rang a loud, clean, golden bell in his brain. When Dad shouted at him to haul ass he managed to move, but barely. Everything was far away, because things that were supposed to be trapped in dreams were starting to follow Dean into the real world. They weren’t supposed to. Dean had promised himself he’d keep Her trapped down, where he never had to think about her until sleep dragged Her back to the surface of his brain.

And that hadn’t really been working. Sometimes he’d smell fruity perfume on a woman, and She’d flash in front of his eyes. Sometimes he’d have some random girl next to him or over him or under him, and they’d moan, and it would sound like a siren. The worst was when someone would look at him and a tiny, traitorous asshole voice would whisper She’d look at you better. She’d be better. You’re a piece of shit, Dean Winchester, because She’d been the freakin’ best and you left her.

He hadn’t left Her. He’d escaped her. Outsmarted whatever bullshit she’d been trying to pull on him, whatever scam She’d been running. And it didn’t fucking matter that his brain was clinging onto every piece of Her he’d gotten to see that day—that the bells were made of Her beautiful voice saying Brown’s a cop—because she’d probably stopped hunting. Realized it wasn’t the fun little rush She thought it was and crawled back home to her fancy, stupid life.

But She’d told him she’d been hunting since she was fifteen.

That had probably been a lie too.

It hadn’t sounded like a lie.

Well, maybe She’d just been an awesome liar.

Dean needed to snap the hell out of it. He’d tread down this path countless times, the voice—it seemed to live in his chest, a little to the right of his heart—trying to work out what that whole thing had been, and a good reason for Dean to track Her down and ask if She’d felt it too.

But She’d been playing him, and he never wanted to see Her drop-dead gorgeous face again. It didn’t matter what he’d felt, because Dad was right. It had probably been some sort of trick, made of all those pretty lies and words She’d been using on him. So Dean didn’t mention to Dad that Brown had been one of Her aliases, because he wasn’t supposed to remember anything about Her. Dad was seething in the driver’s seat—grumbling about lone, stupid hunters interfering in their case—but She wasn’t here, probably, so it didn’t matter anyway.

Another three days passed, and they still couldn’t figure out who the ghost was. Everyone Woodstock knew was clean—and claimed she was too—and everyone in this town died of old age like a bunch of freaking suckers, so they had nothing. This ghost couldn’t chill the fuck out, Woodstock had been telling anyone who would listen about how it had started to throw plates at her head—how she didn’t feel safe—so Dad had them on rotating watches. Keeping an eye on the house from the forest in case Woodstock started screaming while the other kept working it, searching for just one goddamn idea of who the ghost could be.

They hadn’t figured out who the other hunter was, either, but Dean was growing more and more certain it might be Her. He could’ve sworn he saw a flash of perfectly styled shiny hair on the street. He was either going batshit crazy, or he’d heard Her voice in a corner store while he was buying aftershave. And a feeling like gravity had reformed in his eyes, bringing his attention to shadows that might be Her and making his every nerve flare when he smelled something sweet. Most of all, he’d been in the motel parking lot a handful of times and felt it. That odd, light feeling that had surrounded him when he’d met Her, making it so easy to breathe he’d been certain he’d been doing it wrong before. That he’d started to do it wrong again, after She’d left. It had felt so good and been so impossibly to duplicate—Dean had really tried to, as well, in body after body after body—but it was back like a fucking asteroid, crashing into him and obliterating everything he’d thought had been right.

But he hadn’t told Dad. To start, Dad would look at him like he was a fucking idiot, and ask if Dean had watched a chick flick while drinking one too many beers. Then Dean would mumble no, and Dad would roll his eyes and tell him to get his shit together, because they had a job to do.

Dean could’ve told Sammy. He would’ve listened, made a little fun of Dean, and then started to ask a bunch of questions about what made Dean think it was Her. Maybe Sam would have found an explanation about how the vampire baby made men go crazy or something. Maybe She’d been a monster, and Sam would figure out what kind the moment Dean explained it.

But Sam wasn’t here, and Dean didn’t have any real evidence. He hadn’t seen that fancy car She’d been driving, and when he’d very casually asked the front desk of their motel—the only one if town—if anyone with Her name was in a room he’d gotten a no, but she’d probably be in a real hotel. With good water pressure and room service and little shampoo bottles that she didn’t need.

She hadn’t been in a fancy hotel last year. But that had probably just been another part of the scam.

So he didn’t tell Dad. Dean just took his shifts to watch Woodstock, worked the case, and fucking prayed they’d wrap this up and he could forget the whole thing. Dad would find something soon, they’d gank the ghost, and it would be done.

Dad had even said he had a new lead, when they’d swapped the watch. Dean had dropped off the car and gotten orders to stay here until Dad got back, to call only if it was an absolute emergency, and to message if he thought of anything new.

He’d been trying to. Dad was off working the lead, and Dean really wanted to help, but no matter how long leaned against the trees—watching Woodstock’s house and frowning into the air—he couldn’t think of shit. His brain felt numb, because this was freaking boring, and none of it made sense. It was just a ghost, it shouldn’t be this hard. Shit, with another hunter on the case, the asshole should’ve been ash days ago. Maybe it had been Her, and she’d realized they were in town, and She’d left. Been worried they’d try to turn her in for her bullshit, even though She had no way to know they’d figured her out.

Maybe She hadn’t wanted to see Dean. Which shouldn’t bother him at all, but the thought made his stomach turn and heart split down the center. He didn’t get it. It shouldn’t hurt, because he sure as hell didn’t want to see Her. He was looking everywhere for Her, but he didn’t want to see Her. He didn’t. He didn’t-

He did. He could. That was fucking Her. Walking up the steps of Woodstock’s house with a large bag, knocking on the door and being welcomed in with a warm smile Woodstock hadn’t offered Dad or Dean.

She looked hot. Dean wasn’t sure it was possible for Her not to—She’d even looked sexy covered in blood—but she’d somehow gotten hotter. She wasn’t wearing that horrible jacket anymore, but well-fitting, casual clothing that She moved so easily in. Clothing that suited Her, that She looked comfortable in, that Dean wanted to touch to see what fabric She liked. It would tell him more about Her, about what she deemed suitable for herself, what she enjoyed, what she wanted. And if She allowed him close enough, maybe Dean could rip it off Her body-

Fuck. It was happening again. Dean had just looked at Her and she’d dragged him under some sort of trance. The feeling had returned in full force, like an inevitable kind of cancer over his brain that Dean didn’t know how to cure. Part of him didn’t even want to cure it—it felt right and natural and filled up that pit with a shifting light that was shaped like Her—but he had to. He was useless like this. Useless to the hunt, useless to himself, useless to Dad. Dad would smack him on the head and tell him to get a goddamn grip, because a girl wasn’t worth falling down for. Dean’s job wasn’t staring at pretty things and trying to make sense of them, it was creating ash and spilling blood. He was a solider, not a prince who was going to save the damsel.

And She wasn’t a damsel. She was a bitch. The prettiest, funniest, smartest bitch Dean had ever met, who seemed like Cinderella but was really a stepsister. Dean didn’t need Her, and he shouldn’t be sparing Her a single thought at all. He should just text Dad that She was the other hunter, that She seemed tight with Woodstock, and that She’d been in the house for a long time.

A really long time.

Too long. It had been almost an hour since She’d disappeared off the porch, and unless she was there for a sleepover, she should’ve been out by now. Maybe the ghost had gotten the jump on Her and Woodstock. Maybe Dean had to go in and save Her, not because it was Her, but because that was his job. And maybe She’d thank him, and kiss him because She was so grateful he’d put his grudge aside to save her life, and it would be awesome and She’d taste like sugar and be soft under his hands-

“Dean Winchester.”

He nearly leapt out of his goddamn skin, spinning around with wide-eyes and clenched fists that couldn’t seem to remember how to fly and land square in Her pretty, mocking face. She was standing barely three feet away, Her arms crossed and brows raised, her bag nowhere in sight.

“Fucking hell, Princess.“ The nickname slipped out of him without thought, because She really did look like royalty. He knew why that was now—easy to look smoking hot and fancy when you had the money for it—but it didn’t change the fact. Her lips were glossy, her eyes seemed to shimmer with that pretty color that washed over his dreams, that causal clothing really did look like it was made to touch Her, and Dean couldn’t believe he was jealous of a fabric-

“What are you doing here.” Her voice still had that haunting, angel-like quality, but it was flat. Bored. Almost dead.

He gave Her a smirk, and he wasn’t sure why it hurt that She barely even blinked back. “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing. What could a bitch like you be doing in a place like this?“

Her eyes narrowed, and Dean could’ve sworn She curled a little into her body. “I asked first.”

Dean shrugged. “I asked louder.”

“I- You know what? I don’t care.” She stood a little taller, her voice somehow growing colder. “Whatever you’re up to, stop. This is my hunt. I got here first, I’m handling it, and you’re only going to slow me down.”

Dean let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Ghosts aren’t really gonna respect dibs, sweetheart.”

Her eyes flashed with something Dean didn’t really understand. “They don’t, but I’m not that worried about it, De. Like I said, I’m handling it.”

He glared at Her, ignoring how something in his chest was humming, trying to get Her to call him De over and over again forever. “Sorry,” he drawled Her name, leaning forward and trying not to think about how she didn’t flinch away. How he could smell that same, fruity perfume and sugar from before. “I guess we’ll just have to let the better hunter win.”

She raised Her chin, holding his gaze. “I’m warning you, Winchester. Leave.“

He chuckled. “I’m good, Princess. Think I’ll pass, but trying to warn me was cute-”

“Listen to me.” She hissed, leaning close enough that Dean could pick out every small bump on Her face, isolate every color in Her eyes. “I’m not asking. Go back to Sam and John, tell them you figured it out and it’s done, and get the fuck out of my way.”

Something brittle snapped in Dean’s spine, his jaw clenching as the words pushed out of him like vomit. “Sam’s not with us. He left.”

He didn’t know why the fuck he’d tell Her that. She wouldn’t care. She seemed to hate Dean as much as he hated Her—probably bitter he’d got the up on Her, didn’t want him to mess with whatever scam she was trying to pull on Woodstock—and She’d met Sam twice. He shouldn’t have told Her that, because Dad hated even talking about it. Hell, Bobby barely knew about it. It was family business, and She wasn’t family, and that perfume had to be some sort of pheromone because it was making Dean a freaking dumbass-

“Is he okay?”

Dean blinked at Her, and her expression wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t empty. She didn’t seem like a statue anymore, and whatever was behind Her eyes looked real. Just as real as it had been last year, like there was a whole universe inside of Her that Dean had wanted to explore. To find out what She was made of, and if it was as similar to heaven as it seemed.

It wasn’t. Dean knew that, in his working brain—rather than his heart that stretched for Her and his dick that ached for Her to be just a little closer—She wasn’t heaven. She was temptation in a beautiful form, determined to make Dean weak and pathetic and soft, everything he couldn’t allow himself to be. But he still told Her the truth. His voice lower and without any venom, his body tensed slightly, his brain spinning as the strange look in Her eyes seemed to glow, dragging the words out of him.

“He’s fine. Off at college. Decided he didn’t want-“ Dean cut himself off with a small shake of his head. He wouldn’t be that weak or dumb, exposing a gap in his armor she’d use to make him crumble to his knees. “He was done hunting. Wanted a normal life.”

She was just looking at him. Scanning over him carefully, holding one of Her own hands and just fucking staring, like Dean might be an illusion or his words might be a lie, and She was trying to look for evidence of it.

“That sucks.” She finally said, and it sounded so real. Like She might actually give a shit that Dean was lonely. That Sam had left him. “Sorry.”

“I don’t need your pity, sweetheart-“

“I don’t pity you.” She snapped, Her features growing harsh once more. “I’m saying that fucking sucks, I know you cared about him. I’m apologizing because it’s probably complicated and messy and not all that fun to deal with.”

Dean scowled, something raw snapping along his heartstrings. “I’m doing just fine, Princess. I’ve got my dad, and Sammy’s safe in California. He’s still my brother, and it’s not like he’s fucking dead. So I’m good.”

She raised her brows, an amusement that made Dean’s gut boil written over Her face. “Yeah, you really sound it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch it-“

“Or what.” She hissed, leaning forward until Dean was almost drowning in Her. “You gonna run to John and tell him that the little moroi bitch is bullying you? That you need to hurry up on the hunt, because you can’t stand that I’m going to get this thing all by my fucking self-“

“All by-“ Dean stared at Her. “You’re still hunting alone?”

Her face twisted, her words hushed and furious. “That is none of your fucking business-“

“It is if you’re going to get yourself killed-“

She snorted. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t pretend like you give a shit about me-“

“I give a shit if you end up monster chow.” Dean sneered, pretending something wasn’t cracking along his ribs at the certain, settled hatred in Her voice. “The job is saving people, not choosing who. You try and jump in front of that ghost, I’ll stop you-“

“Please,” She scoffed, narrowing her eyes. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”

Dean’s breathing was ragged. His heart was violent in his chest, and his hands were curled at his side, and She was so fucking infuriating. Dean shouldn’t give a shit about Her, but his skin felt like it was being flayed at the thought of Her in danger or pain, and She shouldn’t sound like she was wounded by being the little moroi bitch, because She was, and Dean wanted to grab Her by the neck and slam his lips to Her’s-

“Stay out of my way, Winchester.” She hissed, still so close, and looking so warm and soft, and Dean was so close to figuring out what the hell that fruit was-

She was gone. She leaned back in a rough, sharp movement—like Dean was a magnet and She was only just strong enough to pull herself away—and just walked away.

He might be stuck here forever—on the edge of the woods outside Woodstock’s haunted house—his body trying to cling to her and his brain trying to erase Her forever. It was something he’d been trying to do for a year, something he’d never managed, and something that was made so much more difficult by the fact that She looked back. That their eyes met one last time, and it was like lightning through his blood.

He would have chased Her in Dad hadn’t called right then. He spent the next two days trying to convince himself he wouldn’t have, but it was a fucking lie. He wasn’t sure what he would have done when he caught Her, but he would’ve chased Her. Rushed after Her and asked why had She lied, why did She look like she wanted to punch Dean when She’d been the one to hurt him, if She had looked back because she could feel it too. Feel the gravity, feel the drug, feel the storm that threatened to consume Dean in Her name. Ask if She dreamt of him, ask if She saw him in shadows, ask if She was a monster and beg her to set him free.

But he hadn’t chased after Her. So it didn’t matter. Dad had picked Dean up—long after She’d been gone, Dean still rooted in place, his head still spinning—and he hadn’t seen Her since, so it didn’t matter. Maybe She’d left. Maybe She’d just skipped town, and Dean would never see her again.

That shouldn’t feel horrible. It should be relieving, the idea that he’d won. That he’d gotten the hunt, gotten Her away from him, gotten a justification for why he hadn’t told Dad he’d seen Her. It would mean that She was gone, and Dean could pretend that had never happened at all. But it still felt like fucking shit, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop it. It ate away at his brain as the days blurred together, and they hit dead end after dead end. She remained at least out of sight, Dean still didn’t tell Dad that She’d ever been in town, and the hauntings just fucking stopped. No more lights, no more temperature drops, no more screaming Woodstock.

It couldn’t have been Her. There were no graveyard disturbances, She hadn’t entered the house since their conversation, and it wasn’t like the EMF was gone. On the second day of no activity they’d had broken into Woodstock’s house, checked to see if it was gone, and it wasn’t. It had just stopped haunting.

Dad was losing his mind. He was barely speaking to Dean, shooting down all his ideas, and mostly just reading book after book and grumbling that it didn’t make any goddamn sense. Ghosts just didn’t stop, they still didn’t know who the hell the son of a bitch was, and they couldn’t leave until this thing was dealt with.

Dean suggested drinks—the motel room was starting to feel like a cage, they both needed it, and maybe the answer would be one or two bottles deep—and Dad had grunted an agreement. It was a small victory, but a victory all the same. Maybe Dean could find a woman there to distract from this disaster, distract him from Her-

He didn’t need to be distracted from Her. There was nothing to distract from. Dean might be dreaming about Her still—dreams where he did grab Her and kiss her, She fell to her knees and he went right down with Her, and it was fucking awesome—but She wasn’t anywhere real around him, so it didn’t matter. Every shadow on the darkened street was shaped like Her, but shadows weren’t real. That gravity in Dean’s chest was trying pull and pry Dean open so She could take a look, but that was just an emotion, and Dean wasn’t about to be some sort of pussy about his feelings. The whole bar seemed to smell like that strange fucking fruit and sugar, but Dean could just be losing his mind. The woman in the booth looked exactly like Her, and sat with her knees tucked up like she did, and was wearing the same shirt-

Shit.

“Dad, I don’t feel great, maybe we could-“

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. Dad had seen Her. His face was drawn in a scowl, the glare he used during hunts was furrowing at his brow, and there was a glint in his eyes that set everything on edge.

He was fucked. She was going to tell Dad they’d run into each other, Dad would fucking murder him for not mentioning it, and She’d just fuck off and get herself killed with the ghost. Dean didn’t know why that last one felt just as terrifying as Dad’s wrath, but it might actually be worse. Dad wouldn’t actually kill him. He’d get yelled at and probably banned from driving for a month, but Dad would never hurt him.

Dad would hurt Her. He was already stalking over to Her booth—She hadn’t even looked up, which didn’t increase Dean’s faith in Her lone hunting abilities—with white-knuckled fists that would have probably collided with Her face if she wasn’t a chick. Dean barely ran after him in time for them to reach the booth, to stop at Dad’s side right as he slammed his hand on the table.

She flinched slightly as she looked up, and the air around them became wired and electric.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, girl.” Dad lowered himself down to Her eye level as he spat the words out. “Ain’t no way you’re in town just by fuckin’ coincidence.”

She huffed a dry laugh, holding Dad’s gaze as she answered. “Not a coincidence. Just me, having the worst luck in the world.” Her attention finally turned to Dean, he felt alive, and Her words remained just as flat as before. “Hiya, Deano. You look like shit.” She looked back to Dad, her pretty lips curling into a smirk. “You both look like shit.”

“You think you’re smart-“

She snorted, cutting Dad off with a bored grin. “I am smart. Sit down, you’re drawing attention.”

She waved a loose hand around the bar, and She was right. People were wide eyed, watching them nervously, and they didn’t need that. Attention was bad in this line of business. It was downright dangerous. And Dad knew that, so he gave Dean a curt nod to listen to Her, and slid into the booth once Dean was settled across from Her.

It was a little freaking insane, how She only got prettier. How in the low, golden light of the bar she seemed to have a halo around Her head. But it wasn’t real. Nothing about Her was real, and Dean would have to remember that. Dad was real, was looking at Her like she’d tried to key the Impala, and Dean needed to figure out where that hatred for Her had gone and bring it back. Convince Her to skip town—because She’d get in the way, not because the idea of Her being thrown across a room by a spirit made him sick—and cover his own ass, because he was still in danger of Her snitching on him.

But She was hardly looking at him. Her attention was divided between Dad, her own hands, and the neon red, cherry and ice and paper umbrella drink in front of Her-

“Are you drinking a fucking Shirley Temple?” Dean spoke before he could stop himself, and She shot him a glare.

“You got a problem with that, Winchester?”

“Nah,” Dean shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I just didn’t know you were that much a prissy little princess-“

“They’re good drinks, dick.” She snapped. “It’s called having fun. Something you two buttheads,” She gestured between Dean and Dad. “Clearly know nothing about.”

Dean learned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “I know plenty about having fun, sweetheart. Some might call me a master at it.“

She snorted. It was freaking adorable. “Some might call you a manwhore-“

“Watch yourself, girl.” Dad snapped, and Dean’s whole body tightened. Everything was rigid from the fury on Dad’s face—all directed at Her, all sick in Dean’s stomach—and raw from Her words.

Manwhore. She wasn’t wrong, and he’d been called a lot worse, but it still stung like a freaking hornet along the cavity of his chest. There was no way for Her to know that, unless Dean’s whole face just screamed lonely. Lonely fucking trash to be used up and forgotten. It didn’t. He was so goddamn careful to ensure it didn’t. Even Dad didn’t know the extent of that pit, so it was impossible for Her to, and why did it feel like She’d just punched him in the gut-

“Listen to me,” Dad hissed Her full name, and it was a low threat that snapped Dean back into his body. “Skip town. This is our case, and we don’t need some fancy brat gettin’ in our way.”

She glanced at Dean, and he almost didn’t catch the small frown on Her face. It was fleeting—barely a flash on Her gorgeous features—but strong. Reaching all the way to Her eyes and filling them with an emotion Dean didn’t understand.

But then it was gone. And when She looked back to Dad her face was in bored and taunting once more.

“I’m hate to break it to you, buddy, but ghosts don’t care about dibs.” Her lips curled into a smirk, and this was it. She was going to rat Dean out, he was dead-

“Lucky for you,” She picked up Her drink and leaned back in her seat. “It’s not a ghost. So maybe if you ask it really nicely, it’ll refuse to be killed by anyone but you.”

Dad scowled. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, girl. This ain’t another moroi thing, this is a fuckin’ ghost-“

“It’s not.” She grinned at them from around Her straw, and shit She had nice lips. They were a little puckered, Dean could still remember how soft they’d been, and they’d probably look even better wrapped around Dean’s-

“Whatever game you’re playin’,” Dad hissed at Her, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. “Cut the shit and say what you mean.”

She hummed, still wearing a bright, mocking grin. “You think it’s a ghost.”

“It is a ghost,” Dean muttered, watching Her carefully. “You’re not stupid, Princess, EMF plus random flying plates equals evil Casper.”

“That’s true.” She dropped Her empty glass on the table, leaning toward with a shrug. “But it’s still not a ghost.”

“You heard Dean, girl, it’s a ghost, plain and goddamn simple.”

“Have you seen it?”

Dean glanced at Dad, and he’d bet a lot of money that their expressions were identical in pure freaking confusion.

“We don’t have time,” Dad grunted, his voice low and edged. “For fucking riddles. You-“

“It’s not a riddle.” She raised her brows, picking a cherry out of the glass. “Have either of you actually seen your alleged ghost? Did Maggie Rose tell you she saw it?”

Maggie Rose. Woodstock. The woman who would’ve definitely seen the ghost by now.

And who hadn’t mentioned it a single goddamn time.

“I’m guessing you haven’t found remains either.” She hummed, picking the cherry off the stem with Her teeth. “And you’ve been looking for who the ghost could be, but you’re not finding anything. You’ve been looking in the wrong place. Poltergeist’s don’t have to haunt the places where they died, and they often have little to no connection with their victims.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “This thing ain’t nearly violent enough to be a poltergeist-“

“That’s because it’s been getting enough attention so far. Maggie’s been screaming about it, and it’s found that satisfying enough.” She spun the stem between two fingers, looking between Dad And Dean with a triumphant grin. “Poltergeist.”

Dean was pretty sure Dad was going to leap across the table and strangle Her. His jaw was clenched, his body stiff at Dean’s side, and his words—when he finally spoke—were pushed through his teeth.

“Dean.” He grunted, not looking away from Her. “I have to make a call to your uncle. Deal with her.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean nodded, and Dad slid out of the booth without another word. Leaving Dean.

But not alone.

Dean blinked at Her. Dad was gone, and She hadn’t mentioned that they’d seen each other before. Shit, She hadn’t even mentioned Sam, and his obvious absence. Dad would just chalk that up to Her being a bitch, but Dean was clinging to it. She should’ve said it. She had every reason to. But She fucking hadn’t, and some part of Dean was desperate to know why. To know if it was because the idea of him in trouble made Her feel like her skin was being ripped to shreds. It felt like that for Dean, whenever he was reminded that She hunted alone. Whenever a memory of Her covered in blood flashed through his brain.

And he could still feel it. Feel the electricity in the air that was so different than before. It was charged and tense, but in a way that made Dean feel like he was breathing. He could feel things that didn’t make sense, but they were right. She was right. Across the table, running Her hands over her calves and watching Dean like he might try to take a bite of Her, She still felt like she could fit against him like another piece.

“You’re not going to deal with me.”

Dean frowned at Her. She wasn’t meeting his gaze, poking the paper umbrella around the glass. “What?”

“What your dad said,” She muttered. “He told you to deal with me. You won’t.”

“What makes you think that?”

She finally looked at him. Really looked at him, for the first time since last year. On the curb She’d seen him, but not looked at him. Not like before. Not like that. Where Dean felt like She was seeing right into the pit—how empty and fucking pathetically worthless he was—and filling it up with something peaceful and silver and molten in his gut, like a melted star lighting him up from the inside. He wished it was real. Dean wished, more than almost fucking anything, that he didn’t know that this was part of Her scam or game. That She was looking at him like that because he made Her feel stripped and raw too. Because She saw something in him she wanted, and just kept digging for more without fear of him breaking Her.

But he also wished he wasn’t so fucking lonely that he could care about that. That he could get a hold over himself and just deal with Her. That She wasn’t giving him a strangely soft smile, and he wasn’t caving from how it made his heart freaking glow like a night-light.

“Because,” She said, like it was simple. Like Dean should just know what she meant. “You won’t.”

“I might.” He leaned forward, holding Her eyes on his as he smirked. “You’re putting yourself in danger, Princess. Dealing with you would be the responsible thing to do.”

“Really.” Her voice was dry, disbelieving. “How would you deal with me, Dean Winchester?”

God, She was trying to kill him. She was looking at him like that, and there was a smug smirk on Her full lips, and Dean had spent the last year hating Her but now all he could think about was how the universe that existed in Her eyes, and how he wanted to see every inch of it. Bare skin and brilliant eyes that had been phantoms in is sleep, now real and touchable. He had a million ways he’d like to deal with Her, and all of them started with those blinding fucking eyes. Rolling back in Her head and fluttering under him and sparkling on his. Her voice saying his name like it was more than just a breath, like it was the blood in Her veins-

“I’m afraid that’s top secret, Princess.” Dean dragged himself together to shoot Her a wink, and he could’ve sworn she flushed. “But I’ll tell you if you give me that answer you owe me.”

She gave him a strange look. “We were even.”

Dean shook his head. “You had asked me two questions. I only asked you one.”

There was a small, frowning pout on Her lips, and Dean realized She might be trying to work out if he was lying. He wasn’t. That conversation lived in the corners of his brain all the goddamn time, he couldn’t forget it if he tried. And he had. He’d bet his life that he was right. She’d asked him two questions about Dad and Sam, called him De, and his whole brain had short-circuited. He’d only realized on the drive back, and he’d been planning to use that to try and get Her to do the game again, but-

But She’d been tricking him. A con-woman and spoiled bitch who had been planning to use him. He’d seen the evidence. He knew that’s what was real. That between them, Dean wasn’t the liar.

He should care about that more. He should stand up and leave, or threaten Her to get the hell out of Dad’s way, or at least stop fucking smiling at Her. But She’d nodded, dropping Her knees down to lean closer, and he was drugged on Her voice and smell and face.

And he stayed.

“Fine.” She said, and Dean felt a thrill-like rush through his body. She was so pretty. “Go.”

He didn’t have a question ready. He hadn’t really expected Her to agree. But She had, and now he was staring at Her, trying to find something. Anything at all that didn’t make him look like a gaping dumbass, lost in Her eyes and high on her smell. He should ask everything he’d wanted to scream at Her on the street, and throw in a shout of why the hell didn’t you tell my dad I knew you were here. It didn’t make any goddamn sense that She hadn’t, and Dean needed to know why. That’s what he should ask. He should just freaking ask why.

“Where are you staying?”

Son of a bitch. That wasn’t what he’d meant to ask, now She was staring at him like he was some kind of creep or asshole, and Dean had to figure out how the hell he could justify asking that.

“For the case,” he added quickly, his voice drained of most of the artificial, cocky arrogance he prided himself on. “Ya’ know. In case we need to find you.”

“You won’t.” She said, Her finger running over that scar on her palm. “This is my case-“

“Yeah, and you’ve got it handled.” Dean drawled, raising his brows. “You gonna answer the question?”

She sighed. “Same motel you’re at. Down the road.”

He shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen your car-“

“You remember my car?”

He felt a little heat rush to his face, only worsened by how there was a little, dancing light in Her eyes that was trying to draw him into Her, as if he was only a moth and she was the freaking sun. And of course he remembered that car. It was Her car. He’d felt something seize in his chest every time he’d seen one like it for the last year.

“I like cars,” Dean grumbled—hoping She wouldn’t see it for the half-lie it was—and a small smile pulled at her lips. It looked a little too real.

“Like your dad’s.” She nodded, starting to fish ice cubes out of Her glass. “The Impala.”

It was Dean’s turn to grin. “You remember my car?”

She definitely flushed that time. “Yeah,” She mumbled. “It’s memorable. Shut up and answer my question.”

Dean raised his brows, remained silents, and tried to bait Her into saying it again. It worked.

“You’re such a-“ She cut herself off with a sigh and roll of Her eyes. “How would you deal with me.”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Dean drawled Her name, feeling his grin overtake his face, every bit of his confidence returning—stronger than before—as She swallowed under his gaze. “I’d deal with you however you’d like.”

She blinked at him, and he was certain Her voice was higher than before. “I don’t, um, I-“ She glanced down at his lips, Her tongue poking out between her teeth. Dean wanted to bite it. “What?”

“However you tell me to,” he winked, and She looked like he’d shot her. Good. “I’ll deal with you. My question is how?”

“How-“

“How would you like me to deal with you, Princess?”

Dean was pushing it. Shit, he didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, or why he couldn’t bring himself to sneer at Her, or mock her, or deal with her the way Dad had definitely meant. But he did know that Her eyes were wide and blown out, and Her lips looked soft, and he wanted to know if could get Her to be speechless. To gape at him all needy and dumb, so he could show Her exactly what fire She’d been playing with. That he wouldn’t roll over like a puppy, that whatever spell She’d cast on him—whatever aphrodisiac she’d been using—Dean might not be immune, but he could give better than he got. Maybe he’d get Her to bend enough that She’d admit what she’d been doing last year, and Dean would forgive Her because he didn’t know how not to. Because She was like tattoo on his brain that he didn’t want to get rid of.

Maybe he’d get to keep Her.

Maybe they could start over.

“I…” She trailed off, and Dean wanted to smash his lips to Her slack, open ones and start over. She was still gaping at him with a wide, open expression, and fuck he wanted to start over so bad. Against every bit of willpower and intelligence he had, Dean wanted to give into this strange instinct and start over.

“C’mon.” He drawled Her name, shooting her a wink. “Use some words.”

She glared at him, something hot flashing in Her eyes. “Pass. Ask me a different question.”

Dean scoffed under, dropping his voice to under his breath. “Who’s not fun now-“

“I heard that.”

“Course you did.” He rolled his eyes. “Fine, party pooper. What do you like?”

She blinked at him. "What do I like?"

"Like you said, sweetheart, I like cars." Dean said, trying to make his words sound casual. Like he wasn't desperate to learn everything about Her that she'd offer. "What's your thing?"

"My thing." She said slowly, still looking at Dean like he was insane. "That I like."

He nodded, watching Her carefully, and she frowned into the air as she continued.

"I don't know. Books? Movies and music?"

Dean gave Her an amused, flat look. "C'mon, you can gimme more than that-"

"No, I can't." She snapped. She was really hot when she snapped. "Movies and music is my answer, Winchester, deal with it."

Dean drawled Her name. “Everyone likes movies and music-“

“That doesn’t make it any less important to me.” She said, narrowing her eyes. “How would you like it if I said everyone drives cars-“

Dean scoffed. “They don’t drive them like I do, Princess-“

“And you don’t watch movies and listen to music like I do, Deano.”

He chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright. Point proven.” He titled his head at Her. “What’s your favorite movie?”

She laughed. A real laugh, and it sounded like music and rain and a soft summer breeze that shot right into Dean’s blood like a drug. “It’s my question, De. But nice try.”

He grinned at Her, clicking his tongue. "Bossy-"

"Shut up." She tilted her head at him, and Dean just grinned. "What's your favorite movie?"

"Untouchables." He said with a shrug. "Your turn."

She just looked at him with a small, teasing grin, and Dean realized she was waiting for him to repeat the question.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, sweetheart. What's your favorite movie?"

Her face split into a wide, full grin, and God, he was fucked. Nothing in the world seemed to matter more than that smile, and the way it made him feel like he was circling the sun, crashing down to Earth in a ball of fire, and turning to steam as She swallowed him in her gravity. He really didn't give a shit if it was real. Maybe Dean could get himself to be bloody and bright enough to match Her, and she'd feel this too. She'd feel this, and stay, and offer an explanation about last year. An explanation that would prove it wasn't all that bad, and that She was just as fucking empty as Dean was, and he'd fill Her up-

Fuck, he couldn't think that. Not right now, when She looked like that—beautiful in a way that might be deadly—and was smiling at him, and he couldn't get a damn grip and just hate Her. He wasn't supposed to be crashing back up into Her. Dad would be so freaking disappointed that Dean was dumb enough to fall for this act again.

But he was. His jeans felt tight, he couldn't stop grinning at Her, and that siren-like voice kept Dean in her orbit, with absolutely no desire to leave.

She had a million favorite movies. And She hadn't been lying. She watched movies differently than Dean did. Differently that anyone did. He'd never heard anyone use so many big art words in a row, followed by about twenty, very creative swears at a speed he could only describe as frantic. Like if She didn't get Dean to understand exactly why Indiana Jones was the perfect adventure movie, why chick flicks had irreplaceable cultural value, and sitcoms could be the best medium of television, the world might end.

And it should be reminding him that they weren't the same. That Dean was trapped in the mud—he'd been born here, he'd die here, and he belonged here—because it was the only place for things like him. Gut covered weapons, made of rust that would crumble to dust before they made it out alive. And She was just visiting. Using the mud to make Her feel alive or important until she could return to a world of people with ivory and marble who all spoke like this. She was using Dean to do the same, maybe more. Maybe worse. Maybe trying to pry him open and steal what little he had inside him.

But, son of a bitch, She could have it. He'd stay right here with Her for a million freaking years, just as long as She kept smiling and rambling and giggling at Dean's small jokes between Her breathes. Maybe he could take that bite out of Her. Taste sugar and fruit and whatever else he was starting crave. He could take Her flesh and blood and call it even for what She’d done, because She was still so pretty, and Dean felt like he could be valuable under Her bright attention.

He’d repay Her for that bite by offering himself. He'd be that smeared, dulled weapon for Her. He shouldn't be. Dad would kill him. But he wanted to be. He wanted to stay here forever. And when the waitress came over—with plastic tits and syrupy words—he didn't even fully realize until She cleared her throat and jerked her head to the side. Even then he just frowned at Her, a drunken trance of her voice and smile still clouding his attention, because what the hell could possibly be more interesting—more important—than listening to Her talk?

Then the waitress leaned down, almost blocking Her from view, and Dean frowned.

"What?" His voice was irritated, impatient, but he didn't really care. He needed think lady to freaking move, before She somehow vanished like a dream through Dean's fingers, and he was alone again.

"You want anythin' to drink, handsome? The waitress asked, and Dean nodded. He could use a beer—it might help dull the raging wildfire inside him, trying to tear him between his hatred of what he knew She was and the raw, feral instinct to latch onto Her and never let go—and Her glass was almost out of ice cubes. If he got Her another glass, he could keep Her here just a little longer. As long as he could.

"Beer for me," he raised two fingers, pointing between Her and himself. "Virgin Shirley Temple for the lady."

The waitress blinked at him for a second, but got the message. Dean had Her. He didn't need to company of another pretty face, because none of them could be prettier that Her's. Shit, it wasn't even a fair comparison. Leaving this booth for anything—leaving Her for anything—would be like trading a burger for a fucking salad. Insane and pointless.

When the waitress finally moved, She was gaping at him, her words suddenly soft. Almost nervous.

"You, um-" She shook her head slightly. "Thanks."

Dean shrugged. "Not a big deal, you blew through that fancy girl drink in like a second anyway-"

"No, that's not-" She frowned at him, and Dean realized she was touching that scar again. "You remembered. That I don't drink."

"Oh." Dean stared at Her, his tongue almost glued into his mouth, his brain a little warm and soft from Her almost vulnerable gaze. "Yeah."

They were just staring at each other, and all Dean could manage to do was clear his throat, scratch the back of his neck, and force himself to speak.

"You, uh," he swallowed, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. "Never mentioned why."

"Why-"

"You don't drink."

"I'm not twenty-one yet, Winchester, I don't think I-" She cut herself off, leaning a little away from Dean with a small frown. He waited, the silence resuming for a long, heavy second that sat and froze in Dean's lungs. She wasn't looking at him anymore, twisting a ring on Her finger, and when She spoke again, her voice had dropped to a mumble. "I want a clear head. It's safer."

"Safer?"

"For our job." She curled a little into herself, like Dean was trying to peel her apart. "I mean, I can't really afford to get drunk. It could end, uh, badly."

Something became sharp over Dean's skin. That wasn't it. It wasn't a lie, but Dean could read it all over Her—he wasn't sure how, but he could—that there was more to it. But that's not why there was a sore prickle rooted in his muscles.

"Because you hunt alone."

She nodded, bringing Her knees up to her chest, and the ache worsened.

"You could drink." He muttered, leaning back with a slight slam of his hand on the table. "If you'd hunt with a partner."

She sighed. "I'm not going to hunt with a partner-"

"Why?"

He'd snapped. He hadn't meant to, but the ache moved to his mouth and he needed Her to understand. To get that hunting alone was fucking dangerous, and would get Her killed, and he cared about that so goddamn much for no real reason. He shouldn't care. But the thought of Her covered in blood make his gut twist and his heart burn in his chest, so She needed to get it. Now.

She narrowed her eyes, finally looking at him. "Why what."

"Why won't you hunt with a partner." He grumbled, holding Her gaze. "What would make that so fucking bad, sweetheart?"

"Because, as I've told you all week, I don't need to.” Her words were firm, dropped to a hushed sneer. "Anyone else would get in my way."

"I haven't even seen you since the freaking house," Dean said Her name with a low huff. "How could that be getting in the way-"

"I'd be fucking babysitting." She hissed. "I don't need a bunch of assholes tell me what to do, how to fight, how to kill something, how to-"

"Be safe?" Dean cut Her off with a sneer. "Not act like you're too good for anyone else?"

"I never said that, you asshole." She was starting to hug herself, and Dean felt ill, but he wouldn't be the one to break. "I am not too good, I just refuse to be a little hunter fuck-doll beating bag."

Dean blinked. "What?”

She sighed in flat, unamused disbelief. "Hunter's don't have great track records with women. I mean, be fucking real, dude. It wouldn't be the monster's that kill me."

"You," he shook his head. "That's- There are assholes out there everywhere, that doesn't mean you just roll over and accept death-"

"So what should I do?" She raised Her brows. "Be your partner? Be you and your father's little fucking toy until one of you puts a bullet-"

She cut herself off, and Dean gaped at Her, fire crawling over his veins.

"I-" She swallowed, and Dean wished he didn't give a fuck how She suddenly seemed so small. "I'm-"

"Do you seriously believe," Dean muttered, unsure if the fire in his voice was for himself, Dad, or how She looked like a wounded animal. "That we'd- Shit, are you fucking kidding me-"

"It's- I-"

"Save it," He snapped. "We are not killers or fucking savage trash-"

"That's not-"

"You listen to me, Princess-"

"No! I just-" She sounded panicked. Cornered. "I’m sorry, I didn't mean it like that, it's complicated-"

He scoffed. "Not that complicated, sweetheart, you think I'm just as bad as that shit we hunt-"

"No I don't-"

"You do," he hissed Her name. "Drop the act. And, just so we're clear, I'd never hurt you-"

She laughed, shaking Her head. "You can't be fucking serious. That’s-“ She tensed, her face twisting slightly as she scratched at Her skin. "You don't get to tell me what I should and shouldn't do, Winchester. You don't get to act like you give a fuck if I hunt alone."

Dean's hand curled into a fist. "Nobody should hunt alone, it's, fuck, it's stupid-"

"I am not stupid-"

Dean huffed a dry laugh. "I got that, Princess. But you know what? I think," he leaned forward, letting the words fall out of his mouth before he could think about them. Before he could stop them. "That you're just too much of a crazy bitch to have anyone stick around."

It was silent, and She was just staring at him, her features moving through a million emotions that Dean couldn't understand. He'd won. She looked like he'd taken a knife right to Her heart, and she wasn't fighting back, so he'd won. And he couldn't fucking breathe. He felt sick, and faint, and freaking awful-

"Choke on my dick, Winchester.” She snapped, but there was something weaker in Her voice. Something that told Dean he’d hit on something fragile. That he was a piece of fucking shit that went for the killing blow because he couldn't help it. Because he was the very fucking, lower-than-the-sewers trash She'd just accused him of being-

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to take it back or say they'd both gone too far, and he felt like shit and still wanted—despite literally everything—to start over. To at least ask Her to tell him the truth, to at least tell Her how hating her like this made him feel wrong-

But She was gone. She'd left the booth and stomped out the door before Dean could even make a sound, and he just goddamn sat there. She wouldn't come back, but he was still just sitting there. Dad was probably waiting for him, ready to demand a reason why he'd taken so long, but Dean still just sat there. Shit, they might have a poltergeist to deal with, but Dean wasn't freaking moving.

What finally got him was the waitress, making her way back to the table and saying some snide comment about his girlfriend not appreciating him. Dean didn't even spare the woman a look as he shot up, shoved past her, and marched out into the parking lot to find Dad and get the hell out of here. If Dad asked, Dean would say he'd taken care of it. Not of Her—She'd looked like he'd torn Her to shreds with his teeth—but the situation. She'd probably be gone by morning, not wanting to be anywhere near two mud and gut covered hunters. Near Dean.

Dad was still on the phone when Dean saw the Impala. Sitting in the front seat with a frown, the windows rolled down to combat the flat heat of air, speaking in a low, gruff voice to whoever was on the other end of the line.

"I don't care," he was muttering as Dean approached, his voice carried on the wind. "I can get the asshole no problem, Bobby, the poltergeist ain't my issue."

It was a poltergeist. If Bobby said it was a poltergeist, it was a poltergeist. She'd been right. And as Dean got closer, Dad obviously couldn't see him in the shadows, so he should probably say something to alert Dad that he was here

"Obviously it's the fuckin' girl." Dad snapped, and Dean froze. "Shit, she just shows up again? On another weird fuckin' case, bein' right about what it is, sinkin' her claws into Dean-"

Dad stopped talking—Bobby was probably saying something Dean couldn't hear—and Dean's breathing was shallow. He shouldn't be eavesdropping. Dad would kill him, and he just shouldn't. He trusted Dad, and if this wasn't something Dad wanted to hear, it wasn't something he had to hear. But She hadn't sunken Her claws into him. She'd just scratched him over his brain and scarred him, but Dad couldn't see that. She just haunted him, and drove him mad, and made him want to-

"She's the one Dean's obsessed with."

Dean frowned. He was not obsessed with Her.

"She's a hunter alright. That moroi case me and the boys worked-" There was a small pause. "Yeah, moroi. Freakin' nasty little vampire baby shits. She-" Dad huffed, and Dean could hear the muffled sound of Bobby's voice. It sounded urgent.

Then Dad said Her full name into the speaker, and Dean could hear his frown. "You heard of her, Bobby?"

Bobby must have said no—there was no reason for him to know Her—but whatever he did say made Dad's hands grip the wheel with white knuckles.

"The hell you mean you have to go- Bobby-" John groaned, the click of his phone being closed snapping through the air and Dean swallowed. The call was over. Time to pretend he wasn’t a piece of fucking shit that had been invading Dad's privacy.

Dean moved out of the shadows and opened the car door, Dad barely waiting for him to be seated before he started talking.

"We got a poltergeist." He grunted, turning on the engine. "Let's go."

Dean blinked. "Go? Like, now?"

"Damn right, now." Dad shot him a raised brow. "Why, you fuckin' waiting for somethin'-"

"No, sir." Dean shook his head, and Dad nodded, still watching him carefully.

"You take care of the girl?"

"Uh, yeah." Dean hated that the words tasted rotten in his mouth. "She's gone."

Dad nodded. "Remember, son. No pair of tits are worth more-"

"Then family." Dean finished. He'd heard that sentence enough to recite it in his sleep. It didn't matter. She didn't matter. Dean felt like a fucking asshole, but She didn't matter. "I know, Dad."

"Good." Dad muttered, pulling out of the lot. "Let's kill this fuckin' poltergeist and get the hell out of here."

—————————

Bobby doesn't know you're here. He thinks you're in Louisiana still, dealing with the kelpie.

You're not. You're in Illinois. Trying something on a poltergeist.

You'll tell him when you get home. Explain that you'd just wanted to test your ghost ritual again, and if you'd told that him before, he would've snapped that testing that stuff was dangerous, and the thing had already worked once, so there wasn't any goddamn reason to risk it again.

And he was right. The rituals and spell and curses that had started to come to you in the dead of night—when it was just you and the White in the world, and the darkness became consuming—weren’t exactly safe to test on hunts. Not because of the rituals themselves, but because of the exposure. The danger of using magic where you could be discovered by another hunter. But you had to test them. You didn't know where they were coming from or how to stop them, but they always worked. You wake up and know that, if you said all these words and mixed these things together, you could make a veil between dead spirits and the living. A barrier that didn't kill the ghosts, but stopped them. A blockade that could be torn down, but bought you plenty of time and minimized any casualties.

It was why Bobby wasn't stopping you. He insisted you stay far away from other hunters, and update him after every test to make sure you hadn't blown yourself up or worse, but he wasn't trying to hold you back. Convince you to just drown in the darkness until it eroded the White, and you lost control forever. But he still wouldn't be happy about the second test. And you could've justified it by pointing out that this was actually a poltergeist, so you'd had to figure out how to alter the ritual, but then you saw the Winchester's Impala in your motel parking lot.

Which meant this it would be stupid to keep working the case. It meant you were in danger, because they were probably hunting the same poltergeist you were trying to do magical experiments on.

Worse, it meant Dean was here.

And you're going to fucking scream.

He'd never left your brain. You haven't stopped moving, you never stop moving, but Dean has followed you everywhere. Into your head every second, still circling around his handsome face and pretty face and beautiful smile. Into the darkness when it started to slip out of you, fueled by an echo of unworthy and sick, edged with the phantom feeling of his body at your side.

He was in countless, lonely motel beds where you looked to the side and expected him to be there. He was on the curb when you were covered in grime and monster guts, and you looked up to find the shadow above you only a shadow. He was in your bag, because you’d never thrown out his shirt. It didn’t smell like him anymore—he was there too, in wet grass in the spring and the spice of cheap aftershave on a man in a bar—but you were still holding onto it. Holding onto Dean.

You weren’t sure what could make you let go. You’d even started to fish for information about him from Bobby with careful questions about the Winchesters. What they usually hunted, so you could avoid them. What Sam and Dean were like, in case you ever ran into them, so you’d know what to expect. If they always hunted with John, or if they ever went off on their own. Bobby would always give you a strange look and a short answer—whatever they ran into, they’re good boys in the same shit situation as every other hunter, and John never let them hunt alone—but you’d pieced more from what you already knew. Sam hated hunting, and Dean loved it, their relationship with John was complicated—you could’ve gotten that one yourself—and Dean was what Bobby called eager with women.

He slept around. He’d probably been trying to sleep with you, and given up when he realized that you weren’t easy. That you were tired and rough and so, so angry all the time. That you might be beautiful, but the same was a thunderstorm is beautiful. The same was a statue is beautiful.

Something you shouldn’t touch. Something you shouldn’t try to hold, even for a night.

Something that wasn’t worth Dean Winchester time. Something he’d seen, turned away from, and then left you. He’d left you because he’d seen you for what you were, and he hadn’t wanted anything from you in the first place, but he’d still fucking left you. And you hated him for that, because you’d been ready to offer him whatever he wanted. Against all reason and logic and caution, you’d wanted him more than you could describe.

And against all your willpower, you couldn’t let go of him. Because you’d seen the Impala in the parking lot—the one you’d been searching for on every highway, in every small town and city—and the force of Dean is here had hit you like a hurricane. Everything had felt so fucking big, and you couldn’t hold onto the darkness in your body as your breathing became heavy and you attempted to keep yourself together. Nails digging into your skin as the wind howled through your room, the peeled paint on the walls cowering from you as your attention became vigilant, everything crashing back down into you when you bit down, and a lightbulb shattered across the room.

You’d avoided him. You’d hidden in crowds on the street when you saw him, and ducked behind shelves when he entered the corner store. You’d kept your shades angled so you could see the parking lot, and pushed down the way the White howled at the sight of him coming and going. You’d planned to handle the hunt in silence, and then just go.

The house owner was a sweet hippy who agreed to let you do the ritual when you told her she had the aura of a swan. You’d give it a few days after to ensure the barrier could hold, get rid of the poltergeist for good, and then leave without the Winchester’s ever even knowing you were here.

Then you’d seen Dean in the woods, and you couldn’t resist talking to him. He’d seen you anyway, so there wasn’t anything left to lose. And he’d still been so pretty, and your knees still felt weak, and the White still whined for him no matter how much of a dick he was being. It was insufferable, you’d left with darkness eating at your blood, and you’d looked back. You couldn’t stop looking back. Every time you had run on the street you’d turned around to see if he was frowning in adorable confusion around the busy sidewalks. When he was in the parking lot you’d checked to see if he was still pretty, even though you knew he would be. Of course he would be. He was an asshole like that.

You’d looked back outside of the poltergeist house because you had to. You had to see if he was real or just another flickering dream, and you couldn’t resist the desire to see him—staring at you on the street and suffocating you with that same smell from last year—one more time. It’s why you hadn’t skipped town right after. It’s why you’d stayed so long in the bar. You just fucking had to. You could fight against his winks and grins and smooth words, making you smile when you hated him, making you laugh when you should’ve been running. It had seemed—for whatever strange reason—that Dean hadn’t told John you were here, but he definitely knew now, and you were certainly in very real danger. But Dean had carved you open again, and you’d stayed in that stupid booth until he’d given you a good reason to leave.

And it was a great reason. It would’ve been kinder to shoot you in the temple than say that. At least he would’ve killed you, and you wouldn’t have had to wage this war in your body. The war between your hatred of him, and how you want to go back. He’s such a fucking asshole, but you still want to turn around and go back. To ask him why he left, why he cares, how he seems to know your every raw nerve and if he's still feels this too. If he felt it before.

You don't really want to know that last one. Because if he felt it before, that means he felt it and left. That he can feel it now and hates you for it.

Because he does hate you. If it wasn't in his words, it was all over his face. How he’d laughed like you were just a silly little girl. How he’d looked right into you like he could see the darkness. How he’d grinned at you like a wolf, like he wanted to rip you apart. He sees what you are, and he despises it.

And you were fine with that. You despise him. He was an arrogant, smug, dickish, charming, controlling, annoying, handsome, caring, selfish, funny, sexy, adorable, funny, strong, sweet-

God fucking damnit. He was an asshole. He'd left you, he hated you, and you wouldn't fall for the cowboy-in-shining-leather thing again. You were going to take care of this poltergeist now, and leave town right after. Dean and John could be here another week trying to figure out if it was even dead for all you cared. You just had to go. Before this all got worse.

You've barely parked when your phone starts to buzz. You don’t look at the contact when you decline it—you don’t have the time—but then it just starts buzzing again.

It’s Bobby.

You still don’t answer. If he’s in danger, he wouldn’t call you. If it’s an urgent question, he can handle it himself. If it’s a non-urgent question, he can wait for this to be done. If he was dying-

You almost pick up the phone. The thought flashes through your brain, a small stone grows in your throat, and you reach for the phone with a frantic movement. You’re about the dial him back when the first message comes through, and you sigh in relief.

You better call me back now, kid, we need to talk.

Not dying. Can be dealt with later. You’ll call him back when you’re done, because this will be quick, and you’ll get through it. You always do.

You’d convinced the homeowner to get out of town for a few days, to stay with her sister until you were done. The purification ritual was in the trunk of your latest stolen car—you’d meddled with the ingredients, giving it an extra kick—and this would be quick.

There’s no blur as you start. You’re alert for your barrier to break—keeping in iron poker in your hands—but there’s no disturbance, so you just go through the motions. The basement is finished in five minutes, the first floor in ten, and you’ve only got two bags left when glass shatters downstairs, and the blur starts to cloud your head. Something cracked in the ritual, maybe because you’re almost done, but now you have to fight-

“Dean, you got the guns?”

You freeze as John Winchester’s voice sounds from down the stairs, and everything becomes too sharp. There’s a creaking sound from downstairs, the darkness is starting to spread up your spine and over the white popcorn ceilings of the house, you’re fucked, and the White is reaching out to-

“I got it, Dad, but I thought poltergeists-“

“Son of a bitch wants attention.” John snaps over Dean, and you might crush the bag in your hand. “We’re gonna give him some until he shows himself, and we find the asshole’s remains and burn them.”

This is bad. That’s not how poltergeists work at all—you’re a little shocked John thinks it is—and they’re going to fuck up your barrier, and you can’t tell them they’ll fuck up the barrier or John will turn one of those guns on you-

“Is the hippy chick home?” Dean asks, snapping you out of your panic as the White howls inside you. “I can deal with her while you take care of-“

“No need. Car ain’t in the driveway.” There’s a pause, and you can hear them shuffling downstairs. “Plus I know how you deal with the vics, Dean. We don’t need that right now.”

Something’s bitter in your mouth that has no right to be there, and no right to vanish at Dean’s grumbled words.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Dad-“

“I don’t care how you meant it. Focus up so we can get this shit done.”

There’s another few muffled sounds, an unmistakable click of a gun, and you’re moving before you think better of it.

“Stop!” You’re almost shrieking—dropping the poker and shoving your last two bags into your pockets as you run down the stairs—and barely stop your body from colliding with Dean’s in the entrance hallway.

“What the fuckin’ hell are you doin’?!“ John’s roar makes you flinch, his rifle aimed right at your head. You take a stumbling step back as darkness wraps around your hands and your heart kicks into a rapid, frantic rhythm you can hear in your ears. John can see you. He’s going to kill you. You going to die, and they’ll burn your body, and shit you never called Bobby but the darkness is going to burst out of you and John’s going to kill you-

A hand steadies you by your shoulders, grass and spice and leather ease the darkness down, and you wish you didn’t relax into the warmth of behind you, that the pretty, rolling voice a little over your head didn’t soothe your panic.

“Woah, Dad, it’s just-“ Dean says your name, and John scoffs, not lowering his gun.

“I know who it is, Dean, that ain’t my issue.” John’s eyes narrow on you, hatred painted all over his face. It’s worse than Dean’s somehow. There’s something pure about it, like John didn’t have to look into you to see what an atrocity you are. He just senses it. “Why the fuck are you here, girl.”

“I’m hunting my poltergeist.” You snap, forcing your voice to sound angry and not terrified, your face to be a mask of annoyed and not painted in dread. “What possible other reason could I have.”

“Could be looking at real estate.” Dean mumbles with a shrug, and he’s still touching you. You can’t help but glance back as you jerk away from him, and the expression on his face is unreadable. Guarded but cautious, like when he’d watched you and John snap at each other in the booth. Like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off. “I hear this is a good neighborhood.”

You give him a flat look. “This house is haunted.”

He shoots you a wink, clearly fueled by you not just ignoring him. “Won’t once we’re done with it-“

“Once I’m done with it.” You narrow your eyes at him. “This is my hunt, Winchester. I was here first.”

“Poltergeists don’t respect dibs, Princess.” Dean snaps. “And you don’t even have a freakin’ gun.”

“I don’t need a gun-“

Dean lets out a dry, shouting laugh. “I take back what I said earlier, you are stupid if you’re about to try and kill this thing without a freakin’ gun-“

“You’re stupid if you think I’m just going to let you fuck this up-“

“We’re saving your ass from getting whacked by a poltergeist, some gratitude might be nice-“

“You’re getting in my fucking way-“

“You’re-“

“Enough!” John’s shouts over Dean, and you both freeze. You hadn’t realized you’d been shouting, or how close Dean had gotten. You can see his every freckle, every shade of green in his eyes, how his lips are slightly parted so his breath fans over your face-

“I don’t want you two talkin’ unless it’s telling me where the poltergeist is.” John hisses, and you force your body away from Dean’s. “We’re killin’ this thing right fuckin’ now, got it?”

Dean nods, bowing his head slightly, and you just glare at John. All you have to do is get upstairs place the last two bags, and you’ll be fine. If agreeing to work with them does that, you’ll do it.

You split up. John goes to the basement, Dean takes the first floor, you rush upstairs. The bags are in your pants, and you’re so close, but John and Dean are waving around guns and talking about ganking the poltergeist, and it can definitely fucking hear them. The paintings shake on the walls as the temperature drops, and it’s trying break through. You get the first bag just as the lights begin to flicker, and you sprint down the hall to the last wall. Just one more and it will be done, and you can leave-

“Fuck-“ Dean shouts right as you reach the spot, and your blood goes cold. “Dad! It’s on me- shit-“

Then he roars your name, and you’re moving before you can think. Grabbing the poker, half-falling down the stairs, and reaching Dean just as his gun is yanked out of his hands by nothing at all. His eyes widen as they meet your, his mouth opens to say something and-

“Dean!” You can barely hear your own scream as he flies across the room, his head knocking on the counter.

His body slumps, and you’re not in a blur. This is a rush. Everything is wide around you, there’s an airy chill in your lungs, and the darkness is pouring out of you as the lights grow too bright and the windows bang on a windless night. The darkness starts to ignite over your hands—a phantom flame you’re not sure is real, burning and stinging at your skin—you whirl around, and, on instinct alone, shove the air. There’s a high, shrill, horrible sound of pain as the air goes up in flames, and then it all comes down. The room grows warm, the house goes quiet, and the darkness returns to you without a fight.

And Dean’s still slumped on the floor.

“Dean!” You fall to your knees at his side—rolling his face to the side, grabbing his hand to take a pulse—and only notice John as he silently joins you, taking Dean’s face between his hands with a set jaw.

You don’t know how long he’s been there.

You don’t know what he saw.

“What the hell-“

“Poltergeist.” You whisper, watching John examine Dean’s head. “Threw him across the room.”

John scowls. “You just let this shit happen-“

“I didn’t- I got the asshole.” You hiss, clawing at the skin near your nail until it stings. “House purification ritual, which I was already doing before! Nothing would’ve happened at all if you didn’t jump in with fucking guns-“

“Just-“ John raises his hand, and you fall silent. You’re still holding Dean’s hand. You don’t let it go.

“He’s okay.” You mumble, mostly for yourself. Mostly to fight the bile in your throat at the sight of him, sweaty and pale, not bleeding but moving, eyes fluttering but not waking up. “He’s gonna be okay.”

You almost miss John’s strange look. You almost forget about the axe over your head, and how he might know what you are. All you can really think about is Dean. You barely hear John order you to stay here while he grabs the car, and it feels a little pointless. You would’ve stayed here no matter what.

He’s groaning. Dean keeping making low noises of pain, and his hand keeps flexing in yours, but he’s breathing. Shallow breathes, but he’s breathing. And he’ll be okay. He has to be okay. It’s just a Poltergeist, not even a strong one, and he’s young and strong, and he’ll be okay. Your breathing has become a little uneven, and you can feel the White rioting and bellowing inside you as he shudders slightly, but he’ll be okay. You won’t let him not be. He feels clammy when you press your hand to his brow—your fingers brush his hair, and it’s soft, and that’s not important but you’re going to think about it for a million years—so you shrug off your own jacket and toss it over his body. He’s still holding onto you, so you don’t drop his hand. When John gets back you loop his arm over your shoulders, your own arm around his waist, and haul his dead-weight up until John grabs the other side.

When you reach the Impala—you working in silence with John to slide him carefully into the backseat—he clings to you. John drops his arm and it shoots over your stomach, his head falling onto your chest as he makes another low grunt of pain. And there’s such little color on his face, and he’s still shuddering when you move the jacket back over him, and you could fix this. You’ve never healed anyone before, but you could. You can feel the darkness moving into the tips of your fingers and over your heart as Dean takes a stuttered breath, and you have to-

“Get out.”

You look up and find that John has walked around the car and opened your door. “I-“

“Leave.” John grunts, not even sparing you glance as he speaks. “Now.”

You shake your head, and it’s a weak movement. There’s that feral instinct of survive still in your bones, but it’s not bigger than Dean. Nothing’s bigger than Dean. “No, I-“

“I ain’t askin’-“

“It’s not up to you-“

“My car. My rules.” John’s words sound pushed through his teeth. “Out.”

“I,” you swallow, glancing back down to Dean. “I could help-“

“You’ve done enough.“

“I could fix him!” You shout, and your sounds pleading. You feel like you’re pleading. It’s pathetic, and you don’t care because Dean makes a low, strained noise and you feel like you’re choking. “I could-“

“Listen to me very fuckin’ closely.” John sneers your full name, finally lowering down to meet your gaze. “The out of my fuckin’ car, and stay the hell away from my son. I don’t need you fixin’ him, because he’s not broken, and if he was the last thing he needs is some high horse brat making him weak.”

There’s a high ringing in your ears, and your voice is soft. “I-“

“He’d be fine if you hadn’t interfered with our work.” John snaps. “You’re out of your little pond, girl, and if I ever see you distractin’ Dean or fuckin’ with his brain again, I’ll put a bullet in yours. Got it?”

You nod, something vast and numb spreading over your chest as you carefully climb out of the car—making sure not to disturb Dean, or make his head worse—and leave John without another word. But you look back. You can’t help yourself from turning and watching the Impala pull away, from digging your nails into your skin as you cling to yourself until their headlights vanish around a corner.

You’re already packed. Everything’s in your car—clothing, tools, books, makeup and hygiene products, first aid kit—and you could just drive out of town, but you don’t. You toss the last purification ritual bag into the truck, sit behind the wheel, just stare into the darkness.

You need to call Bobby. You need to go. John wouldn’t kill you with an injured Dean to care for, but he’d seen. He had to have seen. And not leaving now would be a death sentence.

But you just sit in the car. Sit in the cancerous darkness that’s alight in your body, the image of Dean’s pained features burned into your eyes, flashing in front of you whenever you blink. All that boiling hatred for Dean is gone. Evaporated into thin air, leaving you ill and pained and empty. John was right. You hadn’t been fast enough, and Dean got hurt. Your barrier against the poltergeist made it violent, and Dean got hurt. You’re the sick one. It’s why he left to begin with.

He was better for it. He didn’t need you—no one needed you—and John’s threat hadn’t been empty, so you need to drive away and never look back.

And yet you end up in the motel parking lot. Hunched in your seat as you wait for just a little proof that Dean’s okay. That you hadn’t held him and shattered him, like he’d shattered you. You’re there until the sun breaks the sky, until it’s beating over your head and you have to crack the windows.

You’re there when your phone starts to ring, and you realize you’d forgotten to call Bobby.

You’ve barely picked up when he starts shouting, and you flinch away from the speaker.

He uses your full name. First, middle, and Singer. He only uses your full name when he’s proud of you, or furious. And this feels more like the latter. You’re in trouble.

“You wanna tell me,” he hisses. “Why John fuckin’ Winchester knows who you are?”

“I, uh-” You swallow, twisting a ring with your thumb. “I don’t-“

“And I ain’t gonna buy your bullshit, kid, that shit doesn’t work on me.”

You sigh. “Bobby, look-“

“No, you look. I didn’t teach you to be a goddamn idjit dumbass,” he snaps your name, and you curl a little further into your seat. “You know what he’d do to ya’. Shit, what are you plannin’ on doin’ if you have a slip? If he sees that hoodoo shit happen?”

“Um, he might have already seen it.”

There’s silence on the other end for a long second, then a low, “What.”

“We just finished a poltergeist case.” You mumble, hoping he’s too angry to catch onto the why are you on a poltergeist case part. “And it attacked Dean. And I killed it.”

Bobby says your name slowly. “How the hell did ya’ kill a-“

“With my hands. I just, um, burned it.” You take a long breath. “And I think John saw.”

“And he just let ya’ off the fuckin’ hook-“

“Dean got hurt.” You whisper, and the words sting your tongue. “He was focused on that.”

“Balls.” Bobby mutters, and you can picture the frown on his face. “Well, you’re outta there now, we can-“

“No.” You sigh. “I can’t go, I have to-“ You cut yourself off, because it sounds stupid in your head. You do not have to make sure Dean’s okay. He hates you, everything logical in your brain says that you should be remembering how to hate him any time soon, and he’s not yours tocare about. John made that clear with his threat. Dean made it clear by leaving. But you’re still in the parking lot. And you still have to make sure Dean’s okay.

Bobby says your name through the phone, his voice slow. “You gonna tell me what happened last year. On that moroi hunt.”

“I ran into the Winchesters-“

“I ain’t slow, kid, I worked that part out. What happened that made you call me and flop around the house like a widowed fish for a week.”

You bring your knees up to your chest, shaking your head. “It’s… I can’t-“

“What if I ask if that was Dean’s shirt.” Bobby grunts. “That you were wearin’.”

“Yeah.” You drop your head back on the seat, letting out a heavy exhale. “It-“

You freeze, watching Dean finally step outside like he’s been summoned. He’s walking slowly, but walking, and he seems really okay, and he’s looking around the parking lot with a frown-‘

Shit.

You drop down in your seat, out of the view of the parking lot, and pray he didn’t see you.

“Bobby, I gotta-“

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, we still got some shit to sort out-“

“I’ll come right home.” You keep your voice hushed, in case it could carry on the wind. “And you can yell at me there.”

Bobby sighs. “I wasn’t gonna yell-“

“Yeah you were-“

“No-“

“Lying is a sin, Bobby.” You smile, carefully pulling the car keys out of your jacket. “You’re not a very good role model-“

“Well, I’m gonna fuckin’ yell at ‘ya now!” He snaps, but you can hear the slight amusement in his voice. “Get home quick, and we’ll deal with this. John don’t know you’re with me, and unless Dean needs a week after your hunt-“

“I think he’s fine.” You mumble, craning your head up to see Dean gone from the lot. “I’ll be safe at home.”

“Not if I kill ya’ for pullin’ this shit on an old man.” Bobby grunts, and you grin he falls silent, a long moment of static before- “You okay, kiddo?”

“I’m okay.” You mumble, and you’re not, but you will be. You always are. “And I’m really sorry for-“

“Apologizin’ ain’t gonna help us,” Bobby mutters. “Get home, and keep outta trouble till we sort this.”

You nod. “I will.”

You’ll try. Dean’s still pulling at you in your chest and consuming your head, but you’ll try. If only for Bobby’s sanity, you’ll really try.

You’ll pretend you don’t stay in the lot for a minute longer to watch Dean walk back to his room, that you don’t glance back at the room as you drive away, and you’ll keep yourself away of trouble.

Away from Dean.

End Note: I’d say this story is about to be John vs Bobby on who’s a better dad, but that would be like making a mouse (John) fight a dragon (Bobby).

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist (If you want to be added, please fill out the form!)

@brtodd @artemys-ackles @sthefferrete @lyarr24 @deansbbyx

@bakugotypecrashout @dailybakugocrashout @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @Zuberweirrd @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco

@ambiguous-avery @elle14-blog1 @impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @heyimolive

@itsdearapril @speedypersonawhispers @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused @kamisobsessed

69 notes · View notes

jjunbug · 18 hours ago

Text

͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏BETWEEN TWILIGHT SKIES ╱ SERIES TEASER

in a world that’s on its dying breath, the once green and lush landscapes get buried in more and more layers of ash. the once flourishing streets that were full of magic are now a dull hum. yet, there is still hope—and it lies in the hands of you and kai, the last people to possess magic. suddenly, you remember the story of a forest that watches, and a well of life that lies deep within. you’re determined to save your bleak world in any way that you can, yet, you weren’t expecting to end up in a brand new world entirely.

pairing ⸝⸝ choi yeonjun 𝑥 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, huening kai 𝑥 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𓄵 𝓯eat. ꔛ 𝘧𝘢𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦!𝘵𝘹𝘵 & 𝘰𝘤𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘴

genre ⋆ 📖 ⸝⸝ written series, high fantasy, magic, angst, fluff, smut, faerie prince!yeonjun, sorcerer!kai, sorceress-in-training!reader, marriage of convenience, a lot of yearning and longing (both romantic and platonic)

warnings ⸝⸝ death & decay (of people & animals), violence, depictions of gore, kidnapping, implied bullying, general toxicity, jealousy, gaslighting, possessiveness, and manipulation, toxic environments and parental relationships, abuse 𑁍 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵!

𝓴ipo’s note ⸝⸝ hehe the long awaited super secret wip that i’ve been working on (well… one of them hehe)!!! i hope you’re as excited as i am for it! i thought it was fitting starting this fresh blog off with fantasy, since it’s my favorite genre to write~~ let me know you guys all think!! the series masterlist should be out sometime tomorrow!! hehe, i hope that you enjoy!

͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ❨ 𝘁𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗰: 1k ❩ ╱ ❨ 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝓶. 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ❩ ╱ ❨ 𝓶. 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ❩ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏✉️ ⦂ the prologue should be out in a couple days!

𝗰𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁! 𝗺𝘆 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗮𝗹𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗱! 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙤𝙧𝙨, 𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙚 𝙖𝙙𝙙𝙚𝙙.

It was hard watching things change in front of your very eyes. It was never the way people described it for you. Not the slow twist of vines along a column or the grass growing taller than a fence—no. It was the whipping of wind across your face. You’d go to wipe your teary eyes and find the sunny and warm scenery was now cold and dead with glittering snow laying everywhere.

You hated it.

You wished that things could stay as they were for as long as they could. You hated watching the faces of people you’ve grown to know dip and sag with age in an instant. You hated watching the life leave their eyes in a quick blink. And you hated how life seemed to go so slow for everyone except for you.

If you could dare to wish for one thing, it would be more time. And in the worst way, you got your wish.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion for once in your entire life. The members of the Collective who were snickering and poking fun at you and Kai jumped into action, spirals of green emerging from their fingertips. More of them piled out from the inn, along with Lamia. You don’t realize that a hand is grabbing your arm and lifting you to your feet before you’re being pushed out of the crossfire.

All you see is green. At least, at first.

Then, splatters of red cover your vision. The screams and cracking of bones fill your ears and bodies fly through the air. Hot tears run down your cheeks and you close your eyes. Then, there is complete and utter silence.

The silence lasts for a moment before all sound comes rushing back to you so fast it felt like your ears were bleeding. There was screaming and crying and more cracking of bones set into place. You opened your eyes to see that the once green pasture you danced in was covered in red—red so dark it was almost black, and disfigured bodies and torn limbs were everywhere.

You didn’t know what else to do, so you ran. Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t need sight for the place you were running to. You could find it in the dark, bound and soundless, if you had to.

That night still plays endlessly in your head, over and over and over until it’s all you know.

The only thing you did feel—the one thing you found solace in—was the fact that you were all alone. You had no family, which meant you had no one to mourn. You guess some things came with its perks. The place that came closest to what you called home was ash beneath your feet, flying in the wind through your cracked fingertips, like everything else. You felt nothing.

“I thought I told you not to ponder on such trivial things. Any space with a place to lay your head is a home.” Your smile grew when you heard his voice—Kai’s voice.

Kai came to a stop next to you, his frame towering over you and his tongue clicking as he looked down at the poor creature beneath you. It’s small body was clinging onto its last fleeting feeling of life. “A pity,” Kai said, his voice lacking the empathy his words portrayed. He was all too used to the way your world worked—nothing but lost hope and decay. It seemed you still had to learn that. “Best to put it out of its misery. There’s no use letting it live its final moments in pain.”

You couldn’t look at how he gave the creature it’s final blow. The cracking of bones reminded you of that night, and a knife-like chill ran down your spine and you squeezed your eyes shut tighter. There was a hand at your elbow after a moment. “Come,” you heard Kai’s voice say gently. “Let’s get out of here.”

As you both made your journey through the woods and past more and more decay, you couldn’t stop the way your heart pulled for something greater—for a miracle. Your whole body lit up at the feeling and buried deep within your memories, you think you may have found one.

You turned to look over at Kai, noticing the way the ash spiraled off of his worn cloak. “Do you remember that forest I told you about?” you asked him. “The Forest That Watches?”

Kai looked over at you, his hair falling into his eyes. It was a lot longer now than when the two of you had first met, with the majority of it tied back in a bun to keep it out of his face. He quirked an eyebrow, “What about it?” His face then fell. “Don’t tell me this is about that Well of Life or whatever it was called… You do know that’s a myth, right? A legend that the royals started to keep everyone from realizing how the world was dying?”

“What if it’s not?” you pressed. “What if The Forest That Watches is real, and what if the Well is in it?”

“It’s not,” Kai threw back.

You stopped in your tracks, face serious as you stared into his eyes. You place a hand on his bicep. “But what if it is?” you insisted. “Kai… I think… I think I saw it. What if this is the only chance we get to save everything—to restore everything?”

Kai sighed at you, his eyes moving to focus on the ground for a moment. “It’s not,” he said, looking back up at your face. You nearly took a step back from how intense his eyes were. “And there’s no saving us.”

He kept on walking through the forest, ducking under leaves and stepping over fallen logs. You remained rooted to your spot in the dirt, defeated.

[ kipo’s note . . . ] hehe what do you guys think?? are you excited are you excited??? are you as excited as i am for this???? this is just a little taste—a little teeny tiny little sliver, if you will, of what’s to come… so stay tuned for the prologue and chapter one!!! (๐॔˃̶ᗜ˂̶๐॓) i should be getting the series masterlist up tomorrow as well! ~~

𖥦 ﴾ 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 . . . 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗺.𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 , 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ﴿ ︵͡ 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 (´ε｀ʃƪ)♡

🏷️﹙ 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍? 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 ﹚ @jjunberry @gothgyuu @gyuuberries @hyukascampfire @xylatox @ghstzzn @izzyy-stuff @sunoosgfv @jihyokat @whosserina @jellymochii @innocygnet @sumsumtingz @riribelle @yeoningz @minaateez @beombunni @jiryunn @lvrs-street2mmorrow @everythingvirgoes @beomieeeeeeeeeeees

59 notes · View notes

kiemiu · 14 hours ago

Text

𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄: 𝓢𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐫

pairing kang sae-byeok x reader | wc: 1.8k

summary -> the worst day of your life. ( spending a day with your boyfriend ) warnings -> unwanted touch, alcohol consumption.

( beneath the quiet masterlist )

12:16AM

𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 Sunday with your boyfriend was considerably the last thing you wanted to waste your day on. The tension between the two of you never subsided, even as the both of you texted each other every once in a while out of pure boredom, the conversation always stale and ending abruptly, ruining your mood for the remainder of the day. At some point you had stopped trying to mend the cracks in your relationship, sick of the way he treated you, as well as the way he lacked any respect for the boundaries you set in place.

Speaking of boundaries being crossed, he showed up at your apartment unannounced, the sharp pounding of his fists against the door and insistent ringing of the doorbell waking you up at 8AM sharp. The annoyance you felt as you stared at the ceiling like no other, whispering apologies to your alarm clock for ever calling it the most unbearable thing in the world in your moments of crankiness.

His intrusion of your space gave you no time to gather yourself, there was no transition from sleep into the reality of yet another exhausting day, the next one always more tiring than the last.

Him greeting you with rough kiss on the lips, From the very start it felt like an obligation rather than a date. Bringing his own set of clothes he wanted you to wear, a skirt too short, with a blouse too revealing. Calling your clothes boring, mentioning how much of an "upgrade" this was before dragged you along, feeding you an empty promise of today being the “Perfect Day”. And as much as you wanted to believe him, you couldn't. Noticing how every detail, every choice he made, was tailored to his preferences, without a care of what you wanted. Everything was always for him, from the stores you shopped at, to the food places you stopped to get something to eat.

Deciding to bring you to a café, one that you had once enjoyed but now resented. The rich aroma of coffee beans, once a comforting scent to ease your mornings, now twisted and churned your stomach uncomfortably, the smells overwhelming and making your head spin. You had told him weeks ago about your newfound aversion to coffee, wanting nothing to do with it unless it had to do with work. But as with most things, your vocal discomfort seemed inconsequential to him, always brushing it off with a "What about me and what I like?" even though it's always about him and what he likes.

Now you sat miserable at a bustling Café in an outfit you didn't like, across from a man you hated.

He at least had half the heart to ask you questions in a way that feigned interest, but it was undeniable how much he didn't actually care, the way his gaze always flickered elsewhere before you could even finish answering. His eyes shamelessly trailing up and down women that passed by, the smallest things pulling his focus away from you, leaving you feeling like an afterthought. Your words, spoken with less and less conviction, and your sentences falling shorter and shorter until they were simple hums. It didn't matter as you became mere background noise to his wandering attention.

At your silence it didn't take long for him to launch into yet another self-absorbed monologue, recounting his recent trip with an air of arrogance. His tales of all the “amazing” things he’d done during his three months away felt more like boasts than conversations, especially when he'd compare your last three months to his with the usual hint of arrogance. His sentences soon falling on deaf ears as you tuned him out, doing the thing you just judged him of your gaze now wandered around the café in search of anything to anchor your restless thoughts and cure your boredom—until your eyes landed on her.

Sae-Byeok stood by the pickup counter, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her oversized worn jacket. Her gaze, sharp and steady, already watching you with a familiarity that left you frozen. Everything around you—the hum of the café, your boyfriend’s incessant chatter—faded into a muffled blur as you kept your eyes focused on her. She didn’t look away, and neither could you, almost as if you were stuck in a trance from her usual analyzing gaze. Her presence somehow becoming something you missed even with how fleeting it was.

And It wasn’t until her name was called that she tore her eyes away from you, reluctantly turning to grab her order from the counter. Even as she looked away your gaze remained reliant on her figure, still staring until the insistent snapping from your boyfriend's fingers in front of your face, pulled you back into reality. A soft gasp, escaping your lips as you blinked rapidly, trying to force your eyes to focus back on him.

“Are you even listening to me?" He sharply asked, his hands now gripping the side of the table. "It’s like you’re half-dead,” he added, irritation thick in his voice as he sat back in his chair with a huff. His head suddenly turning to try and follow your gaze. “Who are you looking at anyway, hm?”

You opened your mouth, only a pathetic breath of air able to come about before you mumbled out a weak. “No one. I—I was just… thinking.” your tone shaky, unsure, and unconvincing.

He didn’t buy it, he never did. His judging gaze lingering on you long after your excuse. But before he could press further and catch onto who you actually were looking at, Sae-Byeok was gone. Flipping her hood over her head as she stepped outside, covering herself from the light drizzle outside. Even after being called out with his eyes still burning into you, you couldn't help but watch her one last time. Freezing at the glance she threw your way through the window, her expression unreadable as she disappeared into the street. At least you were happy to see her.

With an annoyed sigh followed by angry grumbles, your boyfriend waved over the waiter, demanding the check with the kind of dismissiveness that left a bitter taste in your mouth and a cloud of embarrassment hung over you at his disrespectfulness. Sitting in front of him left you wondering why you had ever gotten together with him in the first place.

Waiting for the check in silence and being dragged to the car was something you wished to never experience again, the weight of what his next words or actions might be left you jumbled with nerves. And as if things couldn't get worse, the ride home only revealed how he knew nothing about you.

"The fuck is your problem, huh?" was the first thing that met your ears. You shrugged all of his pointed comments and aggressive jabs off, mumbling quietly as you fiddled with the rings on your fingers. None of his comments or questions were meant to actually find out "what was wrong with you" they were just mindless jabs at your supposed “coldness.”

You stayed still as ever when he turned towards you, seeing out of the corner of your eye the rise of a slow smirk making its way onto his face. "I know what this is about." he quietly mutters, his voice dropping down an octave making the hair on your neck stand up.

"You do?" you question, with raised eyebrows, eyebrows moving but the rest of your body remaining frozen as a soft hum fell from his lips.

"You just missed me."

You had to fight your eyes from rolling, of course he didn't fucking know.

One of his hands softly landed on the skin of your knee, his fingers creeping upward to your thigh, his fingers roughly kneading the skin of your thigh as he slowly pushed the hem of your skirt higher. Your stomach twisted in revulsion at the feeling of his touch, something that once excited you and filled you with butterflies repulsed you and filled you with dread and without thinking, you grabbed his hand, throwing it off of your lap while simultaneously pressing your figure as far as you possibly could into the car door, the cold window a welcoming feeling.

At the feeling of you throwing his hand off of you and the look of disgust that clouded your features, his grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles white as he snapped at you, “Is this really how you treat your fucking boyfriend who's been gone for three god damn months?”

You didn’t argue, you simply didn’t have the energy. Staring out the window, you muttered out with a sigh, “I’m just tired,” hoping the words would be enough to end the conversation. You couldn't put it into words, becoming so emotionally checked out that any type of conversation with him would be pure torture.

But they weren’t. His voice sharpened paired with a deep grumble, his next words dripped with venom. “If you’re not gonna fuck me, what are you good for?”

The silence that followed was deafening. The weight of his words settled over you like a shroud, suffocating and inescapable and by the time he pulled into your driveway, tears blurred your vision. He slammed the car door on his way out, leaving you behind in the quiet of the car and his absence. Something that should've brought you peace was instead suffocating and left you humiliated.

Through the cracked window of the car, you caught the faint, acrid smell of his cigarette smoke, the orange glow of the streetlamp casting against his silhouette that showed him leaning against the hood of the car, now on his phone as if he didn't just say the words that would haunt you throughout the rest of the night.

You didn’t wait for him to return. Gathering what little strength you had left, you trudged into your apartment and shut the door firmly behind you, locking out the night—as well as him. Walking to your room, you peeled off the day like a second skin, washing your face and changing into something soft, comfortable, and familiar. But the tears came harder once you were alone, the events of the day replaying in your mind like a cruel montage. You crawled into bed and pulled the covers over your head, trying to drown out the world. It was a bit ironic how the appearance of someone you knew so little of became the best part of your day.

Going to bed with one person on your mind, leaving the brunt of the day and your boyfriend behind.

Only to be woken hours later to the stench of alcohol and the unsteady shuffle of footsteps. Lifting yourself up to watch him drunkenly stumble into the room, a jumble of slurred apologies escaping his mouth, all stained with insincerity. Grumbles of "I'm sorry, baby." leaving his lips as he sloppily kissed you on the cheek.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t move, you nearly couldn't. Staring at the ceiling, you let his muttered words fade into nothingness and as he collapsed into bed beside you, all you could think about was how little you missed him.

I can't live like this.

' 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ' 📷 : @miabcuzz @twicesuuui @kissyslut @kritkalhit @st4rcs @dumbbellxo @theforestchoseme3 @wlvlurvsfimmia @genshinenjoyer @theweirdanimation @ch-3-rry @nenukkjhj @giaqnn @crack240 @pookalicious-hq @laurenkenss @sheinhamood @pooksterrr @bbynai @diorzs @beaaluv @colorfulkittenperfection @yourl0caltrash @kidicaruslover911 @sherryuki-callmeyuki @i0nic02 @knfthxv @mina-has-been-here @monroesturnns

#kang sae byeok x fem!reader #kang saebyeok x fem!reader #kang sae byeok x reader #kang saebyeok #kang sae byeok #kang saebyeok x reader #squid game x fem!reader #squid game imagines #squid game x y/n #squid games x reader #squid game #067 x reader #player 067 #player 067 x reader #067

46 notes · View notes

airybcby · 2 days ago

Note

Hi there!! I absolutely adore your more than a married couple event!! Could I maybe ask one for Otoya eita with 🍓 and 🍰?? Good day to you!!

hi!! ofc!

an eita otoya strawberry shortcake :)

જ⁀♡⊹｡° when i look into your eyes

♡ a/n — for my more than a married couple event :)

♡ content — eita otoya x gn! reader, gn! reader, oblivious reader, flirty! otoya , readers feelings are so obvious it's insane, slight teasing, unrequited love kinda?, set in a high school

♡ synopsis — everyone loves otoya eita, you included. Unlike everyone else, though, you wanted something more serious.

When you first saw Otoya’s name next to yours on the partner list, your heart stopped for a moment.

It wasn’t a surprise—he was the kind of person people gravitated toward. His easygoing personality and playful smirk made him a magnet for attention.

But for you, Otoya had always been more than that.

For years, you’d watched him from the sidelines, quietly nursing feelings that you knew would never be returned.

He dated casually, laughing about it in the group chat or in person, but it never lasted long. Commitment didn’t seem to suit him, and you told yourself that was why you never confessed.

Not because you were scared, not because you were certain of rejection—but because someone like Otoya wasn’t built for love the way you wanted it.

Living with him for the simulation, however, meant the walls you’d carefully built around yourself started to crumble.

“Yo, roomie,” he said with a grin as he carried his bags into your shared apartment. “Guess we’re married now, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way his voice sent a shiver down your spine. “It’s just a simulation, Eita.”

“Right,” he said, dropping his bags dramatically. “But if you start falling for me, just let me know, okay? I’ll let you down easy.”

You forced a laugh, brushing past him to unpack. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Despite his usual teasing, Otoya was surprisingly thoughtful.

He cooked dinner on nights when you were too tired, insisted on watching your favorite movies even if he hated them, and always managed to bring you snacks when you were working late on assignments for the program.

But those moments—those soft, fleeting moments—only made things harder.

Because every time he smiled at you, every time he made some offhanded comment about how easy it was to live with you, you couldn’t stop your heart from twisting painfully.

He didn’t mean it the way you wanted him to.

One evening, the two of you sat on the couch, scrolling through the program’s task list.

“Couples photo shoot tomorrow,” Otoya read aloud, leaning back lazily. “Think they’ll let me wear sunglasses? I have a reputation to protect.”

You snorted. “What reputation? Being the most annoying guy here?”

He smirked, nudging you with his shoulder. “Admit it, you’d miss me if I wasn’t around.”

You didn’t respond.

Because it was true.

And because you couldn’t admit it without giving too much away.

The photo shoot was a blur of awkward poses and forced smiles—at least for you.

Otoya, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease, slinging an arm around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Relax,” he whispered as the photographer adjusted the lighting. “You look like you’re being held hostage.”

“I’m trying,” you muttered, your face burning.

“Here,” he said, turning toward you. “Focus on me.”

You looked up at him, startled, and for a moment, everything else faded away.

The teasing glint in his eyes was replaced with something softer, something deeper, and you felt your heart skip a beat.

“There,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Much better.”

The rest of the program passed in a blur of shared meals, late-night conversations, and moments that felt far too real for something that was supposed to be fake.

And yet, you still told yourself that none of it meant anything.

Because Otoya wasn’t the kind of person who fell in love—not the way you wanted him to.

On the final night of the simulation, the two of you sat on the balcony, a bottle of wine between you.

“To surviving this thing without killing each other,” he said, raising his glass.

You clinked your glass against his, smiling faintly. “Cheers to that.”

For a while, the two of you sat in silence, the city lights stretching out before you.

“Hey,” Otoya said suddenly, breaking the quiet. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” you said, turning to face him.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” he asked, his voice uncharacteristically serious.

Your heart stopped.

“Tell you what?” you said, feigning ignorance.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not that good at hiding it, you know. The way you look at me, the way you act around me—it’s pretty obvious.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out.

“I’m not saying this to mess with you,” he said, his tone softer now. “I just...I want to know why.”

You looked away, your chest tightening. “Because it wouldn’t have mattered. You don’t feel the same way, Eita. And that’s okay.”

He was silent for a long moment, and you braced yourself for whatever he was going to say next.

“You’re wrong,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your head snapped up, your eyes meeting his.

“What?”

“I didn’t realize it at first,” he admitted, his gaze steady. “But spending all this time with you—seeing the way you care, the way you make everything feel a little less heavy—I think I’ve been an idiot for not noticing sooner.”

For the first time in years, hope bloomed in your chest.

Maybe, just maybe, things weren’t as one-sided as you’d thought.

very not used to giving otoya a happy ending lol this was strange

i hope you liked it!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

#otoya eita x reader #eita otoya #eita x reader #eita otoya x reader #bllk #blue lock #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #otoya x reader #★ · airybcbyy #airy posts #airy answers asks :)#airy writes for blue lock

42 notes · View notes

theannoyingurge · 17 hours ago

Text

Continued: Raphael, Bhaal, Withers (yes, even Bone Man is deceiving you) and the Strange Ox (he's lying to everyone, but especially You) Raphael - Knows you stole the crown with Gortash (thanks for the source!). Knows you probably did gross sex stuff with his former prisoner/foster son, whom he is now sending you off to kill. He knows all this and it eats at him, because telling you would make it harder to manipulate you into giving it back. That's His Crown that he wrote 100 chapters of fanfiction about obtaining, and His Stupid Bootlicker to get revenge on, and here he is reciting poetry to You and offering you deals that don't even include selling your soul (at first) and probably listening to you make fun of him at every opportunity. You can tease him about failing to steal it himself, and he pointedly leaves out the key detail that you were one of the annoying mortals who stole it. And then you can fuck his personal incubus and roast him again! Gotta love this game. Bhaal - Was dead for over a century before supposedly crafting Durge from his own gore. Or via 'divine parthenogenesis' depending on the dialog. Sometimes you're called his purest spawn. Other times you are 'spillage'. Whatever the fuck is going on with Durge's conception story, Bhaal is a lying bastard about it. (This one has little to do with amnesia, just carrying the theme of gaslighting my favorite murder woobie.)

Withers - Totally knew who you were from the beginning. Was/Is Jergal, the Lord of the End of Everything and OG god of Death. May or may not still be the BBEG, depending on how far you're willing to look into the future (to get to his ultimate goal of resetting time itself to a backup save of the universe that his super intelligent alien race created just before blowing themselves up and producing a baby God of Death named Jergal.) Jergal was responsible for the construction of ancient Netheril, the growth of the art of Necromancy among humans, the subsequent fall of Netheril (having manipulated Karsus from birth), and the ascension of the Dead Three. He can thus be held personally responsible in several ways for the Absolute crisis - not only for promoting the Dead Three in the first place, but via the crown that his divine grandchild eventually stole from Hell itself and did evil shenanigans with. Fun fact, he used to date Shar and may have incited horrors beyond all comprehension that we can't even list here. He canonically enjoys fucking with Shar and the Dead Three for funsies. He also exploits the Cult of the Dragon to blow up dracoliches in the faces of tyrants who get on his nerves. He might be using his twisted sense of humor for the power of the Greater Good nowadays. (Depends on how closely Kelemvor watches his butler, I guess.) TL;DR: When Withers brings Resist!Durge back from the dead, and claims he is now your advocate in both life and the City of Judgement, he may or may not just be covering his own ass. Whatever he showed Arabella is also sketchy. Don't assume granddad (aka 'The Pitiless One') has gone soft just yet. You are a pawn in a whole new scheme now. But at least this one has family reunions! And they don't even feature incest! You'll catch more flies with honey, Bhaal. The Strange Ox - Okay hear me out. It worships Cyric. End. (Just kidding! This one is itching to break free.) The Strange Ox seems to recognize that you're also a monster trying to be a person, and it uses this weird cameraderie to convince you to smuggle it into the city. The city where Bhaal currently reigns as Lord of Murder, after usurping Cyric ~10 years ago (who usurped him first). It was The Dark Urge who revived the the cult of Bhaal, a feat which presumably entails killing or reforming any existing murder cultists who worshipped Cyric. And now you're bringing his worshippers back, after wiping out Bhaal's temple for him. I cannot believe I'm saying this, but I think Cyric may have won this one. Like, I told my dad to get fucked, but I love that stupid ox. I will never stop gnawing on the letter Withers penned to the Dark Sun at the epilogue party. Please let my puny mortal mind understand it. Please.

Playing with the idea that none of the bg3 villains are fully honest with Durge. Everyone is hiding some piece of the puzzle and happy to abuse the amnesia situation to their advantage. 'Cept Kressa. She's psycho, but she's an honest psycho. In another life, we might have been friends.

Ketheric is the first, most obvious example of this. He doesn't even bother to inform the other Chosen you've reappeared. (Myrkul is the god of exhaustion, so this tracks.)

Balthazar also 100% recognizes you and also doesn't even bother. To him, your amnesia means no tedious reunions with annoying Bhaalspawn who are big mad that he stole their brother's name and rib bones.

The Emperor is sometimes overlooked when piecing together Durge's history, but he admits to knowing your past if you reject him in Act 3 (stating "I know everything about you" while threatening to turn you into a puppet like Duke Stelmane). Whether or not he's posturing, he should at least be aware of your past with Gortash, considering you helped kidnap him in the first place. For evidence, see Gortash's interrogation notes, which open with "When we captured you". (Sure, this could refer to Orin, but I simply do not see these two working as a highly functional team. More on this and the timeline below the cut.) Naturally, despite traveling together for months, The Emperor wouldn't want to fill any gaps in your memory that might cast doubt on his trustworthiness or help align you with his enemy.

The Absolute might be lying about respecting you/your plan and preferring you over your replacement. I am of two minds about this. If you were attacked immediately after crowning the brain, there should be no basis for a preferential relationship. In that case, the brain is just stroking your ego and need for approval. However, I have doubts about Durge being taken down during the initial raid.** I think some time must have passed after crowning the Absolute, giving it the chance to develop a working relationship with you that it lacked with the other Chosen, which caused everything to fall apart after you were tadpoled. This also buys us time to kidnap the Emperor and bring it under the Absolute's thrall as described in Gortash's interrogation notes.

**Some of Gortash's other notes claim Durge was lost during the first raid, but his journals are full of contradictions. He leaves the House of Hope out of his memoirs entirely. He seemingly retcons history to present himself in a more favorable light, which probably includes intentionally diminishing the work of his allies (or erasing the painful memory of his nearest and dearest). In any interpretation, the brain definitely hates Gortash the most, and that's good enough for me.

Orin and Gortash paint somewhat conflicting pictures of you pre-tadpole. The difference here might be genuine (the honest perspectives of a little sister vs a business partner or lover) or it could be a manipulative game of tug of war over your budding and impressionable self image.

Now, I like Durgetash - but I like every possible interpretation of these assholes, not just the mutually reciprocated and/or sexy ones. It's conceivable to me that Gortash may have discovered Durge's crush on him via the Prayer for Forgiveness and played up their history in Act 3 as a defensive measure. Maybe Gortash always knew of Durge's feelings and used them to his advantage (Orin outright tells you this, but again, nobody listens to Orin. Sorry sis).

It's also conceivable that he knew Durge was the first to be tadpoled, considering how close their pod was to his workbench. The brain was given orders to transform the party (that were resisted several times), so Gortash's surprise that Durge still lives makes sense, assuming he even knew Durge was with them (he doesn't seem to be checking the scrying eyes at all. What kind of loser tyrant ignores his own surveillance system? I digress). His general relief and preference for them over Orin is also still valid. (I imagine he feels something along the lines of Durge being the one who got away, you don't know what you've got until it's gone, etc etc. Cue hysterical bonding as the long lost love of his life waltzes into his coronation covered in blood to save him from their psychotic sister and the poorly housetrained Netherbrain they left him full custody of. Yes he wanted full custody, but still.)

Puppy eyes aside, Gortash is a blackhearted pragmatist (he will turn on Durge if they give him the stones) and progress is progress. The first True Soul was an incredible breakthrough, and the show must go on. So just imagine the bricks he's shitting in Act 3 if Durge comes back and remembers the Wrong Things from before the nautiloid. What if they want revenge on him? Nope, not good at all. Best to position himself as Durge's only friend and most trustworthy partner. Regardless of how well he treated them before, Durge was willing to piss off Bhaal to spare his life. That's an extremely useful vulnerability right now, because he's about to ask them to do it again!

Lastly, I have no proof, but I strongly suspect that Sceleritas is fibbing about Durge's past as well. Partly because the Slayer form is severely disappointing in-game and canonically excrutiatingly painful, despite Fel claiming you've always wanted it. It honestly sounds like a way to sell an unwanted used car back to it's amnesiac owner who failed to appreciate it before. Bhaal isn't a full deity any longer, so take what you're given (and you'd better damned well like it!) I also call bullshit on tossing a coin to a beggar being the "worst" crime Durge ever committed against Bhaal (*ahem* looking at you, Gortash). Some dialogue with the Oathbreaker Paladin suggests we've tried somewhat consistently to be good in the past, and Sceleritas has a vested interest in making Durge worse, not planting noble ideas in their freshly lobotomized murder-happy brain.

105 notes · View notes

yanderejustforyou · 1 day ago

Text

A Prison of My Own

geto x reader

The walls pressed in on you. Slowly. Imperceptibly at first. But over time, it was as though they were suffocating you, closing you off from the life you had known, from the world outside. The days blurred together, each one indistinguishable from the last. And with each passing hour, the memories of your past life faded—slowly at first, like a distant dream you could no longer remember the details of. The faces of friends, the laughter, the freedom—all of it seemed to slip further away, as if the walls around you were erasing everything you had been, everything you used to care about.

Suguru Geto’s presence was a constant. A heavy, suffocating thing that you could never escape. He was always there, watching, controlling, shaping your existence into something unrecognizable. His eyes never left you, and when they did, it was only to make sure the walls of your prison were reinforced—emotionally, physically, every way possible.

You had stopped counting the days. Stopped tracking the hours. It was easier that way. The less you remembered, the less you fought.

But there was still a small part of you—buried deep inside—that fought against it all. It was fragile, this part of you, but it refused to disappear completely. And tonight, as you sat alone in the cold silence of your room, you felt it stir. The smallest flicker of rebellion. Of the life you had lost.

The door creaked open, and Suguru walked in, his footsteps slow and deliberate. He didn’t speak immediately, just watching you with those dark eyes, studying you like an experiment he had no intention of abandoning. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. The weight of his presence was too much, suffocating. His eyes alone felt like they were crushing you.

You had long since stopped fighting, at least outwardly. But inside, there was still a quiet war raging. And tonight, it was louder than ever.

Suguru didn’t have to say anything for you to know what he wanted. He never did. He just stood there, his silence filling the space between you. His presence seeped into every corner of the room, until it felt like the air itself was thick with him.

“You look so... lost,” he finally said, his voice low, taunting, and almost affectionate. He stepped closer, and you instinctively recoiled, but you didn’t move far. You had no strength left for it. “You’re fading, aren’t you? Fading into this place.”

You didn’t answer. There was no point. Your life before him was slipping through your fingers, and you knew it. There was nothing left to say about it. The memories of freedom, of laughter, of even the smallest joy—gone. And here, in the shadows of this place, there was only him.

Suguru’s fingers brushed your cheek lightly, almost tenderly, but it was the kind of tenderness that made your skin crawl. His touch was always careful, calculated. He didn’t need to be rough. Not when the power he held over you was enough.

“No one else can keep you safe,” Suguru said softly, almost as if it were a fact. His voice was calm, but there was an undeniable edge to it—a finality to his words that made your heart twist.

You didn’t look up, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. “Safe?” you whispered, your voice hoarse, a bitter laugh escaping your throat. “From what? From you?”

Suguru’s eyes flashed with something unreadable, something dark and dangerous, but he didn’t pull away. His hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers curling gently around it, holding you in place, forcing you to meet his gaze. The intensity in his eyes felt like fire.

“You’re safe with me,” he repeated, almost as if he was trying to convince himself. “No one else can protect you the way I can. No one else would even try. You belong here. With me.”

“But who will save me from you?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the tension in the air like a blade.

Suguru paused, his grip tightening slightly around your neck, but not enough to hurt. His expression flickered—just for a moment. There was a flash of something almost... human in his eyes, but it was gone before you could register it.

“Save you?” His lips curled into a soft, almost amused smile. “You don’t need saving. You never did. You just need to accept this. Accept me.”

You wanted to scream, to throw him off, to fight back in some way. But the reality of your situation settled in once more. There was no fighting him. Not anymore. There was no escaping.

Suguru leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “I made you mine, and now there’s no way out. There never was.”

The words echoed in your mind, and as much as you wanted to deny them, a sick part of you knew he was right. You were already lost. You had been for a long time. The memories of your old life were nothing more than ghosts now, fading with every passing day. All you had left was him.

And no matter how much you hated it, there was nowhere left to run.

34 notes · View notes

stardustedknuckles · 3 months ago

Text

Eh. Vax's rot feels less like a punishment from the Raven Queen and more like a byproduct of fucking with fate, by which I mean there's certainly something he can do about it. It'll probably bring him closer to the Matron.

If we hadn't seen downfall, if someone besides the cast were writing this show, I would be worried. But the Matron loves Vax for his impetuousness and the way he will take any risk for the ones he loves. As pike also pointed out, they're not supposed to serve blindly. To go against the will of the gods is to be mortal. If the Raven Queen is warning him, it's not because she's the one doling out punishments. She HAS to stick to her role and HAS to keep the sanctity of the transition from life to death. Vax violated that and knew he was doing it and that something would happen. He might think right now that he's being punished, that the Matron could or should have just let it happen, but she really, really couldn't (and honestly he's not even mad at her. He's accepted that something must happen. We don't even know if he blames her, but I don't think he does). The part of the Raven Queen who understands is alive and well in her. The part of her allowed to bend rules and defy the order of creation died the day she ascended. The gods do not have freedom in the same way as mortals. Power, yes. But that in and of itself binds them to their stations.

We have to remember that the Raven Queen in tlovm is in fact the same one we've met in the campaigns. She is cold, and she will play her part as she is bound to do. She has little in the way of grace to offer because the entire balance of the world depends on her upholding her station.

Anyway. That rot will either be reversed or it will play into the whole deal about Vax being able to help his friends when he should be dead for a final time. But I don't think hinting at revenant Vax is a punishment. It's a consequence. And Vax accepts it whether it comes from her or not.

#Unsurprisingly orthax is in fact lying out his smoky ass #Or at least twisting the way everything seems #Like yeah he's over there saying Vax got duped into a deal #But it follows his pattern. He will give of himself without a second thought. He will accept consequences.#And I think he understands - or he will - that consequence is not the same as punishment #The Matron literally worries for him. We've seen it in c3. She didn't want him by her side sooner.#It was a consequence #You could argue she bent fate for his benefit. So I'm not worried about the rot. It's just another acceleration of the story.#And crucially it doesn't go against what we have learned of her since C1 #Tlovm spoilers

32 notes · View notes

batsplat · 5 months ago

Text

literally nobody ever mentions that in uccio's crazy 2016 interview, you all know the one, he randomly brings in casey. like, marc he's got a feud with, maverick is valentino's next teammate, both those guys are in the question, what's casey got to do with it?

#baby jorge might not have had a poster on his wall but he was definitely weirder about valentino than baby casey was #and he's crucially also a lot more relevant in 2016 #do need to state for the record that casey having a valentino poster is in the category of 'technically possible but zero mention of it'#i mean not to put too fine a point on it but i don't think in a lot of the prime poster hanging years casey really *had* a bedroom #i know the literal poster isn't the point #//#brr brr #heretic tag #i do think that there's ofc some truth to the idea that casey's prior admiration for valentino made him ultra disillusioned #like the rivalry with marc is in no way comparable from valentino's pov b/c of the dramatically different levels of emotional investment #but it IS a little bit comparable from casey's pov. so there's something interesting that the proxy of uccio is drawing that line #something kinda fun if valentino was a bit more aware than casey thought he was of just how badly he was twisting in the knife #i think what's really neat and juicy about valentino as a foil for casey #is that casey also manages to run into the most dispassionate and calculating version of valentino. like it's all deeply unfortunate #the valentino of half a decade earlier or later would at least initially be a lot less brutal in how he manages this rivalry #a big theme with casey is all these little and big injustices. how everything and everyone seemed to conspire against him #and ofc a lot of that comes back to valentino in one way or another. it's fun to think that this even extends to the timing of the rivalry

7 notes · View notes

maxiwaxipads · 8 months ago

Text

City of Borealis, Briar Valley

(i promise i wrote this all in advance a long time ago and I'm not insane <3) The City of Borealis is the hub of Briar Valley’s most populous city with its nearby arcane institute, Grey Wings Institute. Over the years, technology has slowly been implemented throughout Borealis and built up its own population. Borealis was once a part of a befallen human nation which still continues many of its past traditions. (Note: The "War of Morrow" is related to Lilia's dream and that will be the name I will refer to it as) (I should mention this might not fully comply with the information we currently have with Book 7 or the Briar Valley itself. I wrote this a while ago.) (I didn't include all the information I have. Because if I did, finding the notes and piecing them together would be more trouble than necessary.)

Borealis has a known tradition of its Iridescent Festival that celebrates new hopes for prosperity and generates a supple amount of blessings throughout the city. Flowers themselves are decorated throughout the city, and many attendees are donned with them. This year’s Iridescent Festival is expected to be big and an invitation was forwarded to Malleus who’ll also bring you along.

From the rest of Briar Valley, the City of Borealis is quite distinct due to the Briar Valley’s lack of modernism. Borealis is populated with either students of the Grey Wings Institute, scholars, or the local population.

Compared to the rest of the Briar Valley, the City of Borealis is considerably more diverse and contains citizens from all walks of life.

Regarding technology within the City of Borealis, as mentioned before it’s a slow implementation. Despite being more modernized compared to other regions of the Briar Valley it carries technology considered outdated compared to other countries. (The same as everything else, anything regarding outside exports is largely outdated information or technology.) (Even information or materials arrive months or years later within the city) (Information outside the region is passed on slowly, and issues such as magazines or newspapers are often a few months or years old)

The current City of Borealis, it retains half its size than it was 400 - 500 ago. Due to the War of Morrow, its other half was shrouded within a suffocating mist originating from ancient incantation where all dies before there’s sunlight met. Anything that escapes its grasp is either the deceased or old ruins. Sometimes even rare plants curated from a high-magic density can be found growing around. (Cursed forest rumored to be caused by the ‘Rhizanthes Witch,’ or the Witch in Red after killing her king in the name of revenge) (Result of Ancient Incantation rather than natural phenomena, I imagine some try growing rare plants nearby for the amount of magic they hold in one place) (Heavily guarded to prevent anybody from accidentally or intentionally getting caught in the mist) (Though it is being studied, and there is research to see if the ancient incantation placed upon it can be removed)

I imagine one of the Iridescent Festival’s famous traditions is lantern-making. Thousands are released into the sky before they’re permitted to burn with the usage of magic after reaching a certain height.

The City of Borealis, while a territory of the Briar Valley, wasn’t originally a part of the nation, but was previously the royal capital of the Kingdom of the Dawn before its ultimate demise. (Lacked proper leadership, and was on a steady decline) (Compared to 500 years ago, the present is majorly different than the past)

Three Wise Sages (TWST version of the Three Good Fairies)

Wise Sages who've existed since the founding and falling of the Kingdom of the Dawn. Their existence has since been erased since the War of Morrow, with only 2 members of their bloodline believed to be existing.

Uri Ipomoea (Fauna's TWST) has sworn her loyalty to the Briar Valley’s heir apparent, Malleus Draconia. Employed as the Headmage to the Grey Wings Institute, and entrusted as the Lord of Borealis from the current queen.

Betrayed their kindred to side with humans to create the Kingdom of the Dawn. Saw potential with humanity. They are pacifist by nature and refused to participate in wars and battles, though it took the War of Morrow to topple their vows of nonviolence. Morrigan was forced to fight as a general, Aine was assassinated by King Henrik’s order, and Fianna fled after the death of Aine.

(I wrote a lot on these, but basically, Fianna is related to Flora, Morrigan is related to Merryweather, and Aine is related to Fauna)

(While pacifists, that doesn’t mean they weren't petty) (Fianna betrayed her creed of remaining peaceful and killed King Henrik) (Vanished, her fate is believed to be unknown) (Morrigan if you want to count her, though she was technically forced to participate as a general in the War of Morrow) (Aine was killed for her transgression of the war against King Henrik) (In front of Uri who witnessed the death of her mother)

Heralded as the “Three Wise Sages” for their dedication to education and learning. Their efforts led to the creation of the Grey Wings Institute as an arcane school sponsoring solely women. (Before confusing anyone, the present Grey Wings Institute sponsors all genders but first intended to only teach women)

(Could never teach Ancient Incantations in fear of starting a war with the Briar Valley(?)) (Though the sages personally practiced the usage of Ancient Incantations) (They’re able to demonstrate it, but never teach it)

(Originally, the reasons of the War of Morrow started because of King Henrik’s meddling and desire for conquest(?)) (While the Sages are an influential force in their own right, I imagine there isn’t much they can do, except lessen the impact)

(Infamous for their rivalry with the Fairy of Thorns(?)) (Their encounters are enough to make a novel series)

Similar to how Malleus comes from an egg, the sages are conceptualized as flowers. (They feed off their mother's magic until the flower itself can circulate magic on its own) (Basically, it's like asexual reproduction(?)) (that's why they have no dads <3)

Characters/OCs

Uri Ipomoea is the Headmaster of the Grey Wings Institute and the Lord of Borealis. Originally, it was Malleus's grandmother who was forwarded an invitation to the Iridescent Festival, but she forwarded it to Malleus. A young child during the War of Morrow, she is unconditionally loyal to the City of Borealis and strives to continue its growth. (Fauna's TWST)

Mirin Wich-Tree is Uri's adoptive sister and currently attending as a second year at the Grey Wings Institute. Vice-President to the Student Body. (Merryweather's TWST)

Rhodes Strangleweed is from the small village of Dregs on the outskirts of the Briar Valley. Her mother, Fianna Rhizanthes came to this village after her murder of King Henrik. Rhodes is unaware of her mother's true identity until meeting Uri. A 2nd year attending the Grey Wings Institute, a member of the sewing club. (Flora's TWST)

(i have a lot written about them, this is only a gross summary of their characters </3) (all 3 are fae) (fun fact!! they all share the same signature spell but have different incantations) (that are all longer than necessary)

(i have other OCs on GWI's other students, though they aren't relevant to the Iridescent Festival story sadly) (mainly on the student council)

Unique Flora

Sillows are a species of flower within the Briar Valley cultivated to create textile fabrics from its thorny shrubs. Although most abundant within the Briar Valley they occur naturally throughout Twisted Wonderland. Their petals are also collected to make floral teas, as described sweet and savory.

(I imagine because of the Briar Valley’s abundance of naturally occurring magic, Sillows from this region are more flexible when it comes to manipulating fabric with magic itself)

(Like it’s more dynamic to use magic to manipulate the fabric’s form(?)) (They’re quite abundant and considered a culturally special flower to the Briar Valley and the Dawn)

Unique to the Briar Valley, Lumin flowers are known for their luminescence that glow similar to an aurora in the dark. Their natural light is dim, though channeling magic within these flowers will also cause them to simmer even more. Lumin flowers are specially decorated during Iridescent Festivals and glow even brighter when blessings are distributed throughout the city. (Wither once plucked)

(Thousands surround the city) (First appearing as tucked flowers that have yet to bloom) (Decorated during a planned performance of the "Primordial Prayer")

Iridescent Festival

Unique within the City of Borealis which was once a part of a befallen nation, the Iridescent Festival is the celebration of new hopes and prosperity. Thousands of unique flowers are decorated across the city with lanterns symbolizing and hanging to mimic stars. Festival participants don cascading costumes made for dancing and may find themselves wearing decorated hats reminiscent of the wise sages. (<-Often these hats are plain and unadorned for loved ones to embroider and decorate on) (But some might like making unique hats of their own)

During the Iridescent Festival, GWI opens its doors for visiting hours with school activities paused for about a week. Students and faculty host food stalls, games, and performances. I imagine GWI is basically a cultural exchange and more untraditional instead of what the rest of Borealis offers.

Primordial Prayer [Love Stretching Aeon]

Once integral to the Iridescent Festival until the death of Borealis’s Sages, the “Primordial Prayer” is expected to take place upon the final day of the festival which releases numerous blessings founded on good luck and betterment for the future. During the Primordial Prayer, thousands of Lumin flowers glitter luminously throughout the City of Borealis.

The Primordial Prayer itself is a blessing crafted by the Three Wise Sages to inspire hope and bring happiness to the people. Celebration towards hopes of the future and meant to inspire happiness in anyone who comes forth across the spell.

A powerful incantation that only the Three Wise Sages kept to themselves and could solely perform. It’s a potent blessing that shows itself like embers of snow.

Lumins under the performance of the Primordial Prayer are said to glow yellow which is often compared to the stars.

Considered to be a once-in-a-lifetime to those who witness the Primordial Prayer, it’s often played during the last day of the Iridescent Festival. Those who experience the Primordial Prayer firsthand often describe it as comforting and beautiful.

Full Incantation - “Love surmises my existence, feast upon my heart, and nourish from the accomplishments I’ve curated for those I developed yearning.

I, desperate for a beloved’s eternity, understand this as a fraught wish.

Awake your long-held dreams from slumber, as I cast the snowy plain of stars from the heavens onto you.

Longing, as this moment defines devotion and relaxing the weight upon the waking days.

Illuminate the unchained glisten of the suns and moons, as I cascade a blinding hope upon your hearts.

Primordial whispers, answer to my call; Primordial skies, answer to the delimited daybreak. This devotion shall hold longer than nigh. Primordial Prayer.”

#TWST OC #TWST #Twisted Wonderland #If there's information that is either fractioned or doesn't seem understandable I am sorry ; w ;#if i told you hold much i wrote about these characters and the amount of scenarios you would call me insane #i have like 3 separate notes on apple... more maybe #uri is at least in her 500s rhodes is malleus age mirin is in her 150s #uri tutored for malleus before #has a busy schedule so she couldnt tutor him consistently #sent malleus rare books or grimoires related to magic from GWI's library but had to stop because he already read everything #Uri - “As an educator you'll come across children who require more understanding and time."#“...And others willing to throw chairs or raise their wands at another.”#“Look here. I gained this burn-mark trying to deal with his highness.” “Sir Vanrouge made him profusely apologize.”#“I used all the defensive spells within my knowledge after that experience.” “Even prepping the chances I have to use a signature spell.”#“'This lesson will continue even if I drop dead or become a ghost.'” “I oftentimes can't believe I said those words...”#“I never thought I was bold nor daring.”#uri's indirect way of calling malleus troublesome

3 notes · View notes

cherrysnax · 2 years ago

Text

it’s probably just the depressions and the dissociative disorders but I often feel like I’m just possessing my own dead body

#i feel wrong. fake. gone. in a way that I can never explain #i few twisted like im watching someone just. wither away and I want to help them but it’s me #everything feels so heavy and so weird #and idk it’s like the small things #my lips seem to move different my eyes seems slightly too far apart #my reflection takes too long to change #just a second too long #am I losing my fucking mind #n of course this isn’t helped by the misfit toys #hm. that’s very specific wording that I personally don’t use #I’m not gonna dwell on it too much but I see u #either way #idk I just feel too long too short too unbaalanced #it may be the drink. I feel so much resentment for so many people rn it’s insane but but but the stuff I use to help w my bpd rlly works #just cause I feel like ass at one moment doesn’t my feelings r right n even if people constant treat me like SHIT it doesn’t actually mean #they treat me like shit I just perceive it #at least Chevys back home for another day. so many of those thoughts go away when they’re around #I just wish my brain knew it wasn’t like. always go time I want to be able to relax fr #esp since my ass does NOTHING IM JUST A SACK of shit or something idk #it’s 2am I have to be up at 8 lmaooo i fuckin hate it here. I’ve gathered that I’m just depressed and nothing is actually wrong #well I mean there is. I’m very mentally ill and am constantly surrounded by stressors so I’ll never really be able to heal until I leave #but besides that things r pretty okay :’) I will be okay #I thought abt my butch once and now I’m 60% less breakdowny I love lesbianism

4 notes · View notes

celestialprincesse · 7 months ago

Text

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

When Simon had given you his work address, and the password for the door to get in, you’d scoffed at the thought of needing to use it. You’d grown comfortable in your quiet life, no longer plagued with the urge to run, with the fear of being caught up with.

You and Charlotte.

You’d never been able to picture your position now, shaking fingers prodding at the keypad, a crying Charlotte on your hip. So absorbed in your fear, which had struck you the moment you’d returned from Charlotte’s school pickup to see your apartment door open, that you don’t even see the bearded man opening up the door from the inside for you.

“Everything alright, Miss?” He questions in clear concern, ushering you into the entry hall with blue eyes darting between yourself and your wailing daughter.

“I’m here - Simon said i could find him here if I needed anything.” You hiccup, not even having noticed the tears ebbing down your cheeks, so consumed by the realisation that you need to get out. Find safety. Find Simon. Maybe even that other man you met once - Mac something.

Too distraught to protest, you allow yourself to be ushered into some sort of reception room, noting the way the older man looks behind you with a vigilant scan before shutting the door. "Is Simon Riley here?" You plead with him again, terrified at the thought of being unable to see your neighbour, having someone to soothe your wailing daughter whilst you yourself calm down.

Before the blue eyed man can get a word out, two other men are barrelling into the reception area, one of them, thankfully, being Simon. You can't help but choke out a relieved sob when he tentatively comes closer, allowing you the chance to deny his approach, which you don't.

"What happened? Can you take some deep breaths for me?"

The entire room seems to pick up into a flurry of activity the minute the other two men in the room, Simon's friend you'd met that one time, and the other man, seem to realise that not only do you and Simon know one another, but also that you and the little tot in your arms are important to him.

Simon quickly ushers you to one of the worn leather couches, although he never forces you to sit, seeing how high strung you are at the current moment, the way you clutch Charlotte to your chest like she'll be ripped from your grasp at any given moment. Meanwhile, MacTavish looks on in concern, checking the car park you'd just come in from, and the other man slowly guides a glass of water into your shaking hand.

"Door was open when I got home." You manage to choke, letting Simon ease your vice grip on your daughter, just enough to hoist her up on his hip, before pulling you into his chest.

"S' okay, yeah? Promise you're in good hands here." He soothes, rocking the three of you from side to side, taking the opportunity to share a look between Price, Soap and himself. "Listen, the boys will go and have a look, okay? Promise they won't touch anything or mess anything up, just make sure everything is okay."

You give a hesitant nod, sniffling into Simon's chest as another taller, leaner man walks into the room, his handsome features immediately twisting into concern at the odd sight.

Over the next few hours, you, Simon, Charlotte and the sweet man you'd come to know as Kyle wait out on base, nervously awaiting the return of Captain Price and Simon's closest friend Johnny.

Admittedly, your situation is terrifying, and you're still not quite sure where to go from here, but at least you're in good hands. Four pairs of them.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

4K notes · View notes

dadsbongos · 1 year ago

Text

my type?

4.3 K words

summary - Yuuji Itadori is a total knockout boyfriend - the only hitch? You’re nothing like his usual type of woman, and it’s making you unsure.

warnings - 18+!, femreader with jugs and vagene, p in v sex, unrealistic car sex, specifically stated that reader is non-tall with big tits, dumbification for both parties, squirting, non-curse AU where sukuna and yuuji are brother-roommates, unprotected sex

Itadori, Yuuji was an amazing boyfriend - something straight out of a top-selling shoujo manga.

Faithful and doting and affectionate. He handed over his hoodies the moment you mentioned an unpleasant breeze, he proudly held your hand in public, and he boasted about the very act of dating you to anyone with ears. But even those displays felt backhanded, the deeper you dug into your own mind. You had no real reason to complain about the situation.

And you especially had no reason when the cause behind your complaints would be so shallow.

You had an ass in the same way that everybody else did, but nothing comparable to the pin-up poster Yuuji tore down when you two started dating. Or his celebrity fascination, Jennifer Lawrence (which also mysteriously stopped being mentioned when you two started dating).

Rather, your body was much more endowed in ways that made Nobara tease as you passed lingerie stores with hot pink lighting and black walls and heavy busts plastered in the windows. She’d snag you by the sleeve and point, just to watch how you scoff and look away.

Yuuji pointedly ignores those stores. He ignores everything in relation to them.

You’d picked this shirt just for tonight. It dips low into your cleavage, just tight enough to still push up the tender meat of your breasts. Not to mention the color - deep crimson, Yuuji’s favorite. Well, at least the closest you’ll ever get to a favorite color with his indecisive nature.

Yuuji sits across from you at the scratched table. When his eyes aren’t scavenging the conveyor belt for small, shiny, colored plates serving anything that may catch his eye, they’re on your face. And only your face.

Normally something you’d absolutely cheer over - if this were a first date, but the fact is that this is one of many dates. And after so many dates that you can’t count anymore, you’re starting to want Yuuji’s eyes to drift.

You want him to look and you want to watch him sweat and go red. You’re starting to need it.

The need only grows more apparent mere days later.

Yuuji keeps his hands stubbornly on your hips, barely making an imprint from outside your clothes. But you choose not to make a fuss since he’s otherwise fully engrossed with keeping his lips pasted to yours. Your hands are sweaty and hot on Yuuji’s cheeks, you just know they are, but he doesn’t seem to mind when he lets you hold him close and grind on him.

Yet his palms are stiff against you. They don’t feel warm or cold or clammy or moist. They just… are. He chokes back every groan and huff and you almost feel embarrassed to be letting out hitches and breathy moans so freely in comparison.

Puffing your chest out, you can feel your breasts pillowing against Yuuji and you’re hoping to tempt him to move his hands up. Under your shirt and bra with bare skin on bare skin. The idea makes you mewl, dragging your hips harder against his and further pushing out your tits for him to grope.

And suddenly, his stiff hands are picking you up off his lap, sliding you beside him on your couch. Yuuji grins, standing and swiping his hands down the legs of his sweatpants before planting a kiss on your forehead, “Sorry, gotta pee.”

“Oversharing!” you call after his retreating form.

When Yuuji returns, he sits down and rewinds the movie you two had put on earlier. He frowns and murmurs about how much the both of you missed. When you don’t turn back to the TV immediately, Yuuji smiles again and kisses your cheek.

Your gut twists unpleasantly.

And that need festers into utter desperation by just the next afternoon.

“Hey, Yuuji,” you come up from behind your boyfriend, arms dangling over the back of his couch and framing his shoulders. You place your chin on his head, staring at the intense cooking competition he’s watching, “So, I know I just got here… but! I’ve got a small, teensy errand to run.”

“Mhm?” he tilts his head back to meet your eyes, “Want me to go with you?”

His offer has you nodding, trying to smother down the bright simper he threatens to drag out of you, “Yeah, if you’re not busy.”

Sucking in air noisily through his teeth, Yuuji gestures out to the show he lazes in front of, “I dunno, babe, I am watching TV.”

“Very funny,” you back away from his couch, already heading to the door to tug your shoes on, “Just saying, you don’t have to come with if you don’t want to,” Yuuji always wants to come with, you like that about him, “Just getting some new bras.”

Your current ones are fine, but maybe a stuffy changing room is that nudge he needs.

“Oh,” your boyfriend pauses, eyes widening, “Uh. You might want to take Kugisaki for that, she’d know more than me,” he can’t even look at you, “I’m not really the kinda person you’d want around for that.”

You almost ask what he means by that, but the rejection has fried your brain to a gray, crunchy crisp. The kind of fry that looks like it could flake apart with a harsh jab. Again, that terrible, awful knotting in your stomach returns, but you carry on. Because if you claimed to no longer need this errand ran, then he might know what your scheme was - and that was far worse than whatever this hell was.

So you nod slowly and meekly call out that you love him before exiting the door. He says he loves you more.

You really wish you asked what he meant.

Finally, desperation comes to a head when you meet Yuuji’s friend - Todo, Aoi.

Todo, Aoi, who stares at you - eyes narrow as he judges each wrinkle in your clothes and jitter of your muscles - then turns to Yuuji, and asks point-blank, “Did you lie about your type, then, brother?”

Yuuji rips the hand in his pocket out and cuts it across his neck in a slicing motion, mouthing a couple of rude ‘shut up’s. You lean into Yuuji’s side, squeezing the hand he lays in yours tighter. It isn’t sweaty. And it isn’t very warm, either.

Aoi doesn’t seem very upset at the idea, “I’m happy you’re happy,” you look down at your shoes when he glances back over at you, “I was excited when I thought we had the same type.”

No, you weren’t very tall. And no, your butt wasn’t exceptionally big. You fell on the more mediocre sides of those categories, the thing you excelled in (what you thought most guys were thrilled over) was having a large bust.

“Dude!” Yuuji hits Aoi in the shoulder. Hard, “Shut up!”

He squeezes your hand so tight you think it might bruise.

“Sorry, brother,” Aoi, you were warned, was extremely unusual - little to no boundaries and almost inept at social interactions outside of fighting. He does seem sympathetic enough, turning to you, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

It’s all so sickening. How you wish Yuuji would hurry up and show interest in shallow things. How you place personal esteem on this whole fiasco. How right Aoi is. How badly you’re letting everything affect you.

The ringing in your ears, for example. The way you no longer think you can stomach whatever Aoi was cooking tonight. The shortness of your breath.

You try to push it down. Tonight is supposed to be fun.

Yuuji shoves his friend, much more lightheartedly than his previous blow, and goes to kiss your forehead - but hesitates. His smile is uneven, “Don’t listen to him, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” he squeezes your hand, “I love you,” then, apologetically, he smooths his thumb over the sore spots where he clenched your hand, “I love you so much.”

And you know that. You know it like you know your favorite movie.

Tonight was supposed to be fun.

He loves you, you know that - what you don’t know, is if he wants you. Doesn’t he get sweaty palms like you? Doesn’t he feel his intestines tie into bunches of little knots like you? Doesn’t he get all hot in the face like you? Doesn’t he want you like you want him?

It’s humiliating to imagine that he doesn’t, and the mere idea makes you so nauseous you think you might hurl at this very moment.

Maybe your boyfriend just doesn’t find you as attractive as you want him to.

Maybe you should give up this repetitive scheme.

The car is quiet, unbearably so. Your knees are angled away from Yuuji defiantly, legs pushed to the far side of your seat so it’d be a hassle for him to reach out and hold your thigh. You used to think it meant something when he did that, but now it seems as though he’s doing it out of duty. Like holding the door for someone behind you. Or offering your seat on the bus to elderly passengers. Simple acts of simple kindness.

The most basic peacekeeping, if anything.

Yuuji peeks at you without turning away from the road, hands tightening around the steering wheel, “Are you upset?”

You could be snippy. You could even opt to not respond.

But you do neither, “Yeah.”

He sighs through his nose, “Seriously, don’t listen to Todo. He doesn’t know anything.”

Now, you’re a little snippy. To point out that Aoi’s being stupid isn’t uncalled for, but to claim he doesn’t know exactly what stupid shit he’s saying is.

“He has a point.”

“Huh?” Yuuji turns his head fully to look at you, something he only does because the quiet backroad home is empty, “What’re you talking about?”

Only flickering, crooked, rusty street lamps are witness to your impending breakdown. Your boyfriend returns his stare to the road. Crickets sing outside and the wind flattens over long grass that shines under moonlight.

“Yuuji,” sinking into your seat, you ignore his eyes, “You can’t seriously say you have no idea,” he’s quiet, lips pressed thinly, “Since we met, practically everybody has known your type. I knew you had a type! It was a shock to our friends when we got together! And now that we are…”

Pulling off into the grassy plain lining your way home, Yuuji slips the key from the ignition and unclicks his seatbelt to really examine you. His eyes scramble over you, every part the sensitive, concerned boyfriend you know and treasure. He pouts, but it’s in earnest; hurt simply because you’re hurt.

“And now that we are?”

“Why don’t you look at me?”

“I look at you!” he rubs the back of his neck, now quirking a brow at you, “I look at you all the time.”

“No,” you whine like a petulant child, hands coming up to cover your face, “It’s different!”

Aoi’s words just won’t stop creeping up your spine. Yuuji setting you aside on the couch. Yuuji insisting that you bring Nobara to a lingerie store instead of him. He was lying to someone, right? Was it to Aoi or you?

But everybody had seen that poster, and everybody could hear him declare his preferences.

“It’s way different,” you’re so humiliated you’re nauseous, your voice wobbles.

Yuuji tenderly takes your wrists, dragging down your hands. His smile is squiggly, brows high to his forehead, “Talk to me, pretty girl. You want me to look at you?” you nod, “So tell me what you mean by that.”

You almost hate how soft his voice is. It makes it so hard to be upset.

“I’m not your type,” your eyes trail the way Yuuji’s fingers dance around yours, “And every time I try to… you know, get you to think of me as something other than just cute or pretty - you turn me down. I feel like you don’t find me attractive.”

“Oh, like sexually?”

“Mhmm,” you nod glumly. When he’s quiet for just a couple of seconds too long, you ask, “Did you know what I was trying to do?”

“Kind of,” Yuuji’s cheeks are growing red, eyes now abandoning your entwined hands to stare out the windshield, “I do find you attractive - that’s a little bit of the problem.”

“What?”

He sucks in a breath sharply, engulfing your hands completely with his and squeezing (much more mindfully this time), “I’m crazy about you,” he can tell you don’t believe him, “It scares me a little,” he pulls his hands away and cradles his own over his lap, “I’m worried that if I give in, I’ll scare you off… like I’m too eager or something.”

“Yuuji!” you adjust in your seat, moving sideways and finally letting your knees face your boyfriend again, “You wouldn’t scare me off by being eager about my body! That’s a good thing, right? When we’re both into each other, that’s good!”

“No, I mean,” he’s gone rouge all the way up to his ears now, a fire bright in his chest, “I want you so bad it makes me feel like all my skin’s burning. My hands get all gross and sweaty so I have to wipe them on my pants, and- and I can’t think straight,” he’s still not looking at you, but the way he’s pressing his arms down on his crotch tells you he wants to, “Even now, I think I’m going crazy just imagining you…”

You sit up on your knees, leaning over the center console just to watch your boy squirm at the invasion of space, “Imagining me?” he nods shakily, “Imagining me how?”

He whines, turning his head and pressing his scorching face into your neck, “You know how.”

“Come on, pretty boy,” you kneel over the console entirely, squeezing behind the wheel to settle on Yuuji’s lap - slapping away his hands from the growing tent in his baggy pants, “Entertain me, please?”

“Imagining you under me, on me, between my legs,” his hands fly to your hips, palms slipping up under your shirt, and, God, his palms are sweaty, “Any way you’ll have me,” you cup his cheeks and press messy kisses to his lips. Yuuji’s hands roam further up your shirt, fingertips teasing under the cups of your bra, “Any way I can see your tits.”

“I thought you were more into ass,” your bravado falls under his admission, suddenly bashful.

Yuuji closes his eyes, swallowing hard while pushing his hands under your bra, he can feel his heartbeat all the way at the back of his throat. His rough palms cupping the soft, fleshy fat on your chest, “As if that matters,” his brows knit, hips subconsciously jerking up into yours, “I’m a horny guy: my hot girlfriend has big boobs, and I’m obsessed with her big boobs.”

“Just ‘cuz you’re horny?” you tease, grinding down on the bump of his hard cock. His loose pants let him spring up under your skirt, knocking into your panty-clad cunt.

“Nah,” his eyes flutter open, sweaty palms moving around your back and clumsily unhooking your troublesome bra. It takes him three tries, “I like every part of you all the time…” the tip of his tongue parts his lips in hard concentration, “Your whole body makes me feel like I’m full of bugs.”

“‘Full of bugs?!’” you snort, lifting your arms so Yuuji can yank off your shirt and bra in one ungraceful motion.

“In a good way,” he promises, eyes locked on your heaving chest. You can hear the thick breaths he struggles through, “‘m so nervous and horny at the same time, it feels like bugs in my stomach.”

“What’re you nervous for?”

“‘Cuz I wanna make you cum, but I’m worried I’ll cream my pants before we even get to it,” he finally looks into your eyes, he smiles at you with flaming cheeks and palms at your breasts, “It was so hard making sure I kept it together… Been jerkin’ off every night thinking of you - ask Sukuna, he’ll tell you. It’s been embarrassing.”

“Augh, Yuuji!”

“It’s true!”

It makes your palms hot and sweaty, the image of him so desperate. All for you.

“Hm,” you croon, grinding against your boyfriend’s cock, back arching to press your tits closer to his face, “Yuuji...”

Wrapping his arms around your waist, Yuuji sucks one of your nipples between his lips and laves it with his tongue. He bucks up against your wetting panties. Pulling away from your nipple with a soft pop, Yuuji stares up at you with another earnest, flustered pout, “Can you take it out for me?”

As if you could forget what he’s talking about, he humps you again.

“Please, take it out,” he cranes his neck to run his warm, wet tongue over your other, unattended nipple.

“Aw,” you didn’t think seeing your big, energetic boyfriend act so pathetic would set you on fire the way it does. One of your hands stretches down between you and Yuuji, wrangling down his pants with him lifting his hips to help, “Do you want me to play with your cock?”

He hums against your breast, nodding eagerly, “Yuh- yeah- ! Please?”

Your fingers wrap around the warm softness of Yuuji’s erection, thumb playfully nudging his mushroom tip’s slit. He throws his head back, ricocheting against the car seat headrest with a throaty groan.

Giggling, you lean in to kiss the sensitive spot just under Yuuji’s jaw, hand still working up Yuuji’s weeping cock, “Having a good time, honey?”

“Uh-huh,” he unwinds his arms around you to grasp your hips once again, fingers bruising at your sides, “Feels so good - so, so good…”

“Who’s making you feel good, Yuuji?”

“You!” his right thigh twitches under you, “You, you - ‘s always you!”

“Always me?”

His chuckle breaks off into a slack-jawed moan, “Said I jerk off to you every night, didn’t I?” he reaches for your wrist, “Wait, wait!”

“Were you…?” so soon?

“I told you!” now he’s the one whining like a petulant brat, “I don’t wanna cum before you, but you just make it so hard.”

So soon.

Your thighs squish around Yuuji’s, hips grinding on nothing - desperate in search of friction.

“You like that?” he sounds breathless, staring at you as you watch his bobbing cock. All red at the head and straining against your hand, “You’re so mean, babe.”

“I like it a lot,” you sit up, lips finding Yuuji’s drool-slicked ones, “I like knowing I have that effect on you.”

“Since I first saw you, I think,” he admits, hands skimming under your skirt now, “Can I… ?”

You nod, holding tightly to Yuuji’s shoulders while you lean on one leg. You could, theoretically, drag your panties down your lifted leg by yourself - but Yuuji stubbornly joins your hand all the way down to your ankle.

Before trying to slip inside you, Yuuji cups your hot sex. His chest tightens, middle finger shakily tracing along your soaked cunt. Tongue lolling back out of his mouth, Yuuji tucks your nipple back into his mouth when he inserts his finger in your hole. Trying to keep his mind as busy as possible so he can stop thinking about how badly he needs to bury himself inside you.

“Yuuji,” your breathing is ragged, already lowering yourself before he even pulls his finger out of you, “I’m so past ready.”

“You’re so wet,” he mumbles against the swell of your tit, teasing his teeth against the full flesh, “I dunno if I’ll be able to get in…” he chuckles to himself, lightheaded when he taps the head of his cock against your clit, “Might slip right out, huh?”

“Stop teasing,” you cradle Yuuji’s head to your chest, arms thrown around his neck, “You’re the mean one.”

“I know, I know,” he lowers in his seat, pressing himself finally, finally, finally inside your pussy. Your tits press even closer to his face when you gasp at the stretch, “I’ve been ignoring my poor pretty girl this whole time,” he says it so mournfully, so heartfelt, “So selfish, just thinking of my pride - I didn’t even wonder how my girl felt.”

“Ahh, Yuuji,” you moan, piercing your bottom lip between your teeth.

“I’m sorry, pretty girl,” he pushes down on your hips, lowering you on his stiff cock until your thighs are flush with his soft pants. They’re a little wet. You don’t care much, and you don’t think Yuuji does either right now. He screws up into you, one arm tight around your waist to pull you down into his thrusts and the other hand finding your slippery clit, “I’m so sorry, angel, can you forgive me?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” his fingers work quick circles on your nerves as he fucks you and you’re barely able to scramble together the words (let alone carry those words out in a sensible form), “Yes - ah! - yes, Yuuji!”

There’s something in the way he twists his hips this time because his cock beats into a particular spot that sends white sparks through your veins. You snap back, head hanging and forcing your bouncing tits directly in Yuuji’s face. Before you can even begin to beg, your big, energetic (and maybe a little pathetic) boyfriend is already nodding to himself.

“Right there, angel?” his fingers leave your clit to press down on where his cock batters your insides, “Is that it? Want me right here?”

“Please!” you squeal, thighs quivering and lungs fresh out of air.

“Uh-huh,” he keeps nodding, head too empty to realize he doesn’t need to anymore, “Uh-huh, anything for you… fuckin’ anything…”

When your lower half burns out, Yuuji keeps you upright - fully fucking up into you at that same spot he pushes down on your tummy. The need to cum burns every nerve in your body - it burns and burns and burns until it changes.

Something fuller and more familiar - in a more daily-life kind of way.

“Ah, Yuuji,” your hands perch on his shoulders, body bouncing with the weight of Yuuji’s hips slinging into yours, “I think- ! It feels like- !”

“Talk to me, angel,” dumbly, he looks up at you, almost snickering, “‘Entertain me.’”

“Feels like ‘m gonna pee,” you try warning him, you really do.

But something behind his eyes just shines brighter, grin widening and he actually laughs, “Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Fuck yeah,” he stares, wide-eyed, at where you’re creaming on his cock, “You gonna squirt on me, baby?” his foolish nodding quickens with his hips, “Squirt all over me, angel, I want it - want it so bad. Soak my car, oh,” his pretty mouth circles into an ‘O’ just at the thought, “Please, please soak my fucking car!”

Your head jerks back, nails digging into Yuuji’s shoulders, throat snapping raw as you cry out braindead mixtures of your boyfriend’s name and pleas for more and harder and his cum.

He moves the hand on your tummy to swish your clit and spread your mess as far as he can, mouth popping open almost instinctively just to catch stray droplets of your cum in his mouth. One day (tomorrow) he might regret (will definitely regret) intentionally making you spray cum all over his front, and even back, seats, but right now he couldn’t possibly imagine not doing it.

“‘m gonna cum,” he grits his teeth, moans choked back in his throat, “‘m gonna cum - where?” before he can ask again, you find the strength to swivel your hips down on him, “Inside?”

“Inside!” you sob, chest tight and eyes watering at the overstimulation of Yuuji still swirling a thumb on your clit, “Cum inside, Yuuji!”

“Fu- ck,” he squeezes the word out of his chest, seating you fully on his lap when his cock throbs. He juts his chin out towards you when he starts cumming, “Kiss me?”

And you waste no time throwing yourself forward to press chaste, sweet kisses on Yuuji’s drooling lips. He hums and whimpers into your mouth, greedily drinking in the taste of your lips on his. As if he’d been starved of it his entire life.

Yuuji keeps you against him, the both of you slowly coming back down to Earth.

His sopping pants are beginning to cool underneath you.

“Ugh,” you groan at the feeling, “I think we made a mistake.”

“Yeah…” Yuuji sighs, “Oh well. Can’t unfuck in the car now.”

You’re kind of dreading pulling off Yuuji’s soft cock - if you hadn’t done enough to ruin Yuuji’s pants before, then that most certainly will.

Yuuji sighs again, heartier, hands coddling your hips and tenderly rubbing circles into your bone. His eyes fall to your breasts and remain there, “I really am sorry, angel. I- I never, ever wanted you to feel like I didn’t want you.”

Because he does. Good, God, he always does.

Every time he sees you, his hands get all sweaty and his cheeks are hot and his stomach twists into jumbles of knots.

“It hurt,” you admit, “but it’s fine now,” you giggle at the idea of him apologizing over trying to be respectful, “It isn’t like you were being a dick, you know?”

“Yeah, but! Ugh!” he clenches a hand over his heart dramatically, frowning, “I hurt my girlfriend’s feelings. My sweet girl :( “

“You’re cute,” you kiss one of Yuuji’s fiery cheeks, “Okay, help me off.”

“Oh, yeah, huh,” he stretches over your shoulder to wring your panties back up your leg, “It’ll be unpleasant, but I think you need to wear these back to your apartment.”

“I’ll live,” you pick at the elastic to Yuuji’s pants and snap them back against his sweaty thigh, “Can’t be worse than this, pee pants.”

“Hey, it’s not pee,” he pouts once again tonight, “And be nice.”

You shake your head, leaning down to press your lips against Yuuji’s once again. Soaking in the taste like you’d been starved of it your entire life, “Never.”

#yuji itadori x reader #yuji x reader #itadori x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #yuji x reader smut #itadori x reader smut #yuji smut #yuji fluff #yuuji itadori x reader #yuuji x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader smut

12K notes · View notes

fayes-fics · 9 months ago

Text

Eden

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Seeing you with other Bridgerton offspring has an interesting effect on your new husband...

I couldn't resist using a Season 3 gif cos hello.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, breeding kink, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, vaginal sex, creampie, ie filthy babymaking. Also, the smut is bookended by fluff; yeah, that probably needs a warning, lol.

Word Count: 4.2k

Authors Note: This is a very belated request fill for @victoriaholland (HERE) and Anon (HERE) about Benedict with a touch of baby fever. I decided to combine the asks as I saw a way to weave them together. Sorry for the delay, but well at least babymaking seems appropriate for spring hehe. Thank you to @colettebronte for being an awesome beta, as always. Err, Enjoy! <3

Daphne’s latest child is beautiful; you delight in his joy as he bounces on your lap, learning the strength of his sweetly chubby legs, little fists wrapped tight around your fingers.

Looking up, you catch your husband's eye from afar, his stare intense across the gardens of Bridgerton House as you sit under a tented shelter upon a picnic blanket. The rest of the family are scattered around, playing games or chatting, but you are quite content minding the little one while his nanny takes a few moments to eat lunch.

“Is everything alright, my love?” You inquire as Benedict draws closer.

“Yes… I….” He seems a little flustered.

“Are you sure?”

You pull a funny face for the infant, who breaks out into the most adorable infectious giggles that has you grinning from ear to ear and hugging him into your body, swaying with him.

“Are you alright? Minding the child?” He checks, his voice a touch odd.

“Oh yes. We are more than happy, are we not, my little prince?” You talk in a vaguely silly baby-talk voice, addressing the child in your arms as much as Benedict.

Again, the child peals with delighted noises and spit bubbles enthusiastically, looking up at Benedict eagerly as much as you do.

“Well, that is wonderful news,” he blusters, and you could swear he is out of sorts, breathless almost. “I shall… leave you to it,” he adds, giving you a bow and then withdrawing as the little one wiggles out of your arms.

“Ignore your Uncle Benedict; he is being a silly billy,” you whisper conspiratorially once the man in question is out of earshot.

The response is babbled nonsense as the child bashes one wooden brick against another.

“I quite agree,” you state sagely before breaking into a goofy grin.

——

“Please?” Hyacinth wheedles.

“No, Hy,” you sigh without even looking up.

“Ugh, you are no fun!” she scowls, crossing her arms defiantly.

“What is all this?” Anthony clips as he strides into the drawing room, Benedict on his heels, as Hyacinth flounces dramatically across the room.

“Your little sister is angry at me because I will not allow her to drink the punch; it has brandy in it,” you explain cooly.

“Quite right, too!” Anthony chimes as Hyacinth rolls her eyes.

“Listen to y/n, Hyacinth, and do as she says,” Anthony lectures, and you feel grateful for his support, effectively neutering her rebellion. “Despite a temporary lapse of judgment when choosing a spouse, she is otherwise one of the most sensible people in this family.”

“Hey…!” Benedict protests.

“Please…” Anthony withers, twisting towards him. “Brother, if there is one thing us Bridgerton men know how to do, ‘tis to marry a woman entirely too good for us. And well done on that, by the way.”

You smirk at Anthony’s hilarious way of putting his brother - your husband - in his place, catching Kate’s eye with a wink as she enters the room carrying her baby.

“Y/n, come and meet the future Viscount; he’s awake at last,” she calls to you.

You are immediately on your feet and grinning, taking the tiny bundle from her arms and cooing at the sweet little boy. The baby opens his enormous brown eyes and observes you for a second before breaking into a one-toothed grin and happily waving his fists at you.

“Oh, he really likes you!” Kate enthuses, delighted.

“As I do you, little one,” you smile, leaning over to kiss his forehead.

You look up to see Benedict with that same look on his face as earlier. A tempest, almost an energy over his being. It’s almost as if he is… aroused?! Which is most odd.

As you hand the baby back to Kate, giving him one final kiss, Benedict is suddenly by your side. Announcing to the family that there has been a change of plan and, regrettably, you will not be able to stay for dinner, his arm an insistent tug around your waist.

——

“Why did we not stay for family dinner as originally planned, my love?”

Your question is soft, only just audible over the noise of the carriage as you trundle over the cobbled streets of Mayfair a few minutes later.

“I decided that we should perhaps dine at ours this evening…” his voice adopting that deeper edge which always causes butterflies in your tummy. His hand lands on your knee, a heavy weight that feels portentous. He slides closer on the bench seat.

“Why might that be?” your ask turns breathy, entirely without you meaning it to.

“I want to be alone with you,” he murmurs, unmistakably pitched to arouse.

The carriage seems to notch up a few degrees as the rocking motion presses your side rhythmically into his. The sound of the wheels and hooves is so loud. He twists to wrap an arm around your shoulder and pulls your back against his flank.

“All day today, I have watched you,” he rumbles, hand warming the skin around your clavicle, fingertip brushing in circles. “You are so very good with children, darling. Seeing you so naturally with the babies and how you handled Hyacinth… you would be the perfect mother.”

You blush a little at his praise. “Thank you, my love. I would like children one day. Your children. Imagine a child with your eyes. They would be quite the most beautiful,” you sigh wistfully, leaning back into him, his hand feeling heavier on your skin.

Benedict chuckles modestly. “And what of your beauty? Would a child version of you not be the most fetching?”

You giggle and turn your head sideways to nuzzle against his jaw. “I think we would indeed make beautiful babies together, Benedict.”

“I agree,” his voice a tempting lilt, fingers skating downwards over the swell of your breast now, slipping inside the fabric and making you gasp as he tweaks your nipple. “And I think we should start as soon as we get home.”

“Did seeing me with babies suddenly make you want your own, Mr Bridgerton?” Your hand flexes on his knee as he toys with your breast.

“Oh yes darling, it made me want to take you right there…” he asserts, finally admitting those looks he gave you were indeed pure arousal.

You reach up and run your hand into his hair, fingers flexing on his warm scalp as you pull his face to yours. “And suddenly, it appears I am no longer hungry for dinner…” you whisper flirtatiously, your cupid's bow brushing his stubbled upper lip.

He groans, and his passionate kiss is plundering, a tingle running over your limbs, just as your carriage comes to a shuddering stop outside your townhome.

Uncaring of the neighbourhood or any prying eyes, Benedict sweeps you out of the carriage in his arms, carrying you bridal style over the pavement and through your front door.

“My wife and I are not to be disturbed,” he announces crisply and loudly to the staff as you enter the hallway.

Leaving no room for doubt about his plans by pulling you into a searing kiss for all to see before ascending the stairs rapidly. He practically growls as he kicks open the door to your master bedroom door and slams it shut again with his foot.

“Benedict…” you stammer, heart pounding at how overwrought he is.

You have never seen him like this. Commanding, crackling with an energy that has your body simmering. He is usually so sweet, affable, and kind. Every time you have been intimate since your wedding night a few weeks ago, he has been a complete gentleman: loving and so very tender. The grip he has had on you tonight feels different. This is something primal—like a switch has been flipped at a basal level in his being.

He places you down onto your feet before the roaring fire, his face intense.

“Wife…” The way he says it makes you feel a flush creep over your skin.

“Husband…” you respond in kind, belly fluttering with excitement.

“Take off your dress,” he orders, his dilated pupils shining in the firelight.

This is new. Usually, he is the one to remove it slowly and softly from your body.

“I cannot, the buttons…” you confess, signalling behind you. You would need your ladies' maid to unhook them from between your shoulder blades.

He moves closer, seeming so much taller; his ragged breaths dance in the tendrils of your hair as he reaches around behind your shoulders. With a rough tug that makes you startle, he tears the fabric asunder, the sound of tiny pearl buttons skittering across the polished wooden floor behind you as you gasp in surprise.

“There…” he smirks dangerously, “problem resolved.”

You are speechless as he withdraws a pace, looking at you expectantly. You follow his order, a slight quake in your hands as you push the frayed dress down your body, still a little shocked by his strength. Then you reach for the crisscross lacing of your stays, feeling the weight of his stare as each loop relents, his eyes hungry, his body heaving with deep breaths his fitted jacket taut with each inhale. You peel the item away, leaving just your thin white cotton chemise.

“Rip it too,” you plead before you realise it, enthralled by this assertive demeanour.

With a noise in the back of his throat, he takes a pace forward again, and you stare up at him, enchanted. He grasps the fabric above your breasts and then rips it loudly from your chest all the way to your ankles, the sound echoing up the walls. Again, his strength has your knees weak. As the torn pieces flutter from your body, you want to bathe in the hungry sound he makes as he realises you are clad only in white knee-high silk stockings, no underwear to be seen, the warmth from the fireplace swirling around your intimate area.

As you stand almost naked before your imposing husband, him still fully dressed, there is a knot low in your gut. But it’s not fear; it’s something else entirely—desire. Trembling, breathless and wanting. An elemental wish to be thoroughly taken.

He steps forward, eyes glittering, and his fingers plough roughly between your legs, making you gasp.

“Eden,” he proclaims, his fingers snagging over your swollen pearl of a clit with almost rough strokes, the callous where he holds his paintbrush abrading your folds. “A wonderful, lush, wet garden. Just waiting to be planted.” His words are hypnotic and low, questing fingers being coated with a dewiness that is entirely of his making.

“Please…” you whimper, squirming on his touch, captivated by this version of your husband, wanting to submit to him, a burning need low in your belly. His fingers slide faster, making a lewd, wet noise.

“Are you going to let me?” Benedict croons. “Plant my seed inside you?”

Until now, he has always been careful to complete outside your body. A slightly bereft feeling every time - the wonderful moment cut short as he leaves you suddenly empty, a warm splash upon your thighs, tummy or spine. The idea he will stay inside you is alluring in a way you don’t fully comprehend.

“Yes, please, husband,” your nipples puckering almost painfully against the wool of his lapels as he crowds into you.

“Good. Get on that bed right now,” Benedict orders roughly, pointing at your four-poster bed as he tugs off his jacket.

You scramble to obey. Feeling under a spell. Being naked save your stockings feels illicit as you lay back into the soft pillows and watch as he undresses, staring you down the whole time.

You slide a hand between your legs instinctively as more of his toned body is revealed. He growls at the sight, you biting your lip and watching him, his torso bare, his trousers clinging to his shapely legs, to his swollen cock. He bends to remove his shoes, and the sight of his broad shoulders flexing is enough to make you moan. As he stands back up and hooks his elegant fingers around the trouser buttons, a smug look on his handsome face that he is doing this to you.

“Husband…” you call out to him, writhing on your fingers shamelessly now, one hand shooting up to brace your movements against the headboard, flushing warm down to your toes.

With a few dextrous flicks, the buttons relent, and his trousers drop to the floor. His naked body is always a delicious sight, but tonight feels more, every sense heightened, moaning again as he takes a step towards you, thigh muscles flexing, his cock standing proud to attention.

Again, a soft plea falls from your lips, your eyes raking every plain of his tempting form, feeling yourself swell under your fingertips.

“Not yet,” he clucks, the arrogance somehow more beguiling as you bite your lip. “I think I want to watch you come, my darling. All by yourself. I hear female pleasure can aid with conception after all.”

“Will you not touch me?” you petition, reaching your other hand imploringly towards him.

“No darling, I shall watch,” his lopsided grin deadly.

He wraps a strong fist around his own cock, pumping slowly, a bead of moisture gathering at his tip, glistening in the candlelight as he does.

“Now, use both hands, please. Place your fingers inside yourself,” Benedict instructs as you blindly follow, a languid buzz in your brain—you would do anything he told you to right now.

Planting your feet squarely on the bed, you drag your ankles up higher towards your bottom, letting your legs fall open wider to give him a better view as your other hand slides down. You plunge two fingers into yourself, your hips canting off the mattress with a staccato breath at the sensation of yourself, so hot and tight.

“That's right,” he endorses, a leisurely movement of his hand up and down his cock as he watches you from a few feet away. “‘Feel yourself, darling. Tis paradise, is it not?” that trademark rumbling voice skittering over your skin, goosebumps raising down your arms just at the tone.

“Come closer,” you appeal breathily, wanting to smell him, feel his heat, his flesh—anything.

He shakes his head, smirking wider as his refusal spurs you on, desperate to come. Mewling as your fingers speed up, one circling your clit, the others buried as far as you can, wishing instead it were his long, graceful fingers reaching places you are unable. Watching him squeeze his own cock hurtles you fast, already aroused from the moment he slid a hand into your dress in the carriage.

Unable to fight the tide in your body, you screw your eyes shut and call out his name as your pussy starts to convulse around your own fingers, toes curling into the sheet, your muscles all going stiff, your hips again raised as you feel the tide break. A gush of wetness runs down your palm and your bottom cheeks as your mind floats away. Distantly, you can hear him speaking, but it’s fuzzy as you flop back down, sated, your legs going flat, too shaky to balance.

You startle as a warm hand circles the wrist of your fingers still inside yourself, bringing you abruptly back into the room. Benedict looms over you, his chest heaving, that power still there.

“What was that?” your query drowsy, lips dry.

He chuckles richly. “I said that was spectacular,” he repeats, bemused. “But also that I want you to paint your nipples with your arousal, my love, for me,” he commands, tugging your hand so your fingers slide out of yourself.

You do as bidden, still floating down from the high, smearing your own warm juices onto your puffed areolas.

“Perfect..” he intones.

In one swift, athletic move, he mounts the bed. You cry out as his warm mouth encloses your left nipple, groaning lewdly as he licks you clean of your arousal, his tongue a heavy, warm, wet weight curling around your sensitive bud, his lips tugging gently, reawakening those synapses only just recovering from your orgasm.

“Why do you always taste like heaven?” his dusky question is rhetorical, his breath gusting over your sternum as he swaps to your other breast to meter out the same treatment. He has you moving under him again as he settles his body over you more firmly, your hips tilting up to feel his hard cock graze your inner thigh. “I wonder if you will still taste like heaven when you are heavy with my child?” he hums thoughtfully as he teases your nipple with the tip of his nose, one hand cupping your empty belly. “I dare say even moreso, ripe like a vine, bearing fruit…” That sonorous voice teases over your skin as he moves slowly upwards to nuzzle your neck. “My fruit….” he adds, possessive as he sucks your earlobe into his mouth, so loud now right by your ear.

His hands wind around your thighs as he shuffles position so he is kneeling between your legs, his ropey thighs spread wide under yours…

“Are you ready for that, my love?” he pauses until you nod almost imperceptibly; you squeak as he suddenly hauls you down the bed, hips onto his lap, your pelvis now higher than your head upon the sheets. Your stockings unfurling down your legs where he quickly plucks at the ribbons holding them aloft.

“Good, because I am more than ready for you,” it almost sounds like a warning.

Then, with a solid thrust, he spears into your body, the invasion toe-curling, your fingers grasping his muscular forearms that are clamped around your waist. It is a primal position, and he begins to thrust with no mercy, his cock feeling huge and heavy, a strong weight that drags heavily over your walls as your pussy clings to him. Your eyes flutter closed as you whimper his name, powerless to do anything but take his thrusts, draped across his lap as you are.

“Look at me,” he demands raggedly. And you do, his handsome face contorted with effort as he slams into you, a little bead of sweat forming on his brow. “Look at me while I fuck a baby into you, wife.”

He’s never spoken to you like this before, clipped, harsh. It seems appropriate that he would be almost desperate in an act so elemental, so of the earth—to create life. Stoking a fire deep in your core that is a clarion call for him, a frisson running over your skin at the idea you are being impregnated. Bred.

You know neither of you will last long with this almost frenzied coupling, the tendrils of your arousal already swirling so soon after your last, his near-brutish handling precisely what you need, your swollen pearl slammed into his flat abdomen with every stroke he takes. The sheets roll under your shoulder blades as he keeps the same position, your hips high, a mounting that you cannot and do not want to escape, knowing he is leaving fingertip bruises around the dip of your waist, marks you will carry secretly with pride just for him.

You moan his name, so close again to that ephemeral bliss, thrashing your head from side to side as if willing the pleasure to break and wash over you.

“Come on, come for me, milk me, darling. Take what you need, take my seed,” his voice a deep wrecked purr, the lines of his body tense, craving release as much as you.

That command is what breaks the dam for you, an almost violent ricochet fanning out from where you clench around him, his cries muffled behind the rushing noise in your ears, every part of you convulsing in a pleasurable wave. And then, in a floating haze, for the very first time, you feel your husband come inside you, a warm bloom that coats your walls. It's an intoxicating feeling; you never want him to come anywhere else ever again.

“That's it, well done, my love,” he croons, eyes still shut as he shudders with little aftershocks, not leaving your body—as if he wants to stay inside you always.

——

As the embers in the fireplace glow white, you lay in post-coital bliss, bodies dewy from exertion. Benedict rests his head upon your stomach as you card your fingers leisurely through his hair.

“Do you believe we may have made a baby, darling?” he hums, pressing his ear to your belly button as if listening for a heartbeat.

“I am certain of it, husband; you were so very thorough with your attentions,” you assure as he takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. “I hope our baby has your face,” you opine.

“Even if it is a girl?!”

“Thou art as pretty as thou art handsome, Mr Bridgerton,” you quip.

He laughs, carefree, crawling behind you and pulling you into a spooned embrace. “Be careful with such provocation, wife; I may not be done with you after all,” he jests idly. “I, on the other hand, hope our child looks like you, even if it is a boy.” he posits, crowding into your back, his lips warm on the shell of your ear.

“Why?” you laugh, frowning, twisting to look back at him.

“So that I may love them as much as I do you,” he breezes nonchalantly as if what he says is not the sweetest thing you can imagine, causing a tart, sudden spike of want through your body, even as you lay sated.

“Be careful, husband,” you volley back, coquettish. “Or I may not yet be done with you.”

There is a sharp, approving intake of breath, and his hand slides low from your belly into the thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs.

“Is that a promise” he rumbles, your gasp loud as his fingers expertly drag against your clit.

“It is whatever you want. Just do not stop,” you rush out, your hand curling around his bicep, feeling a rigid mass slide hot against your bottom. “Again, husband,” you appeal breathily. “Impregnate me again.”

“With pleasure, wife,” he growls, surging into your body with a force that again steals the very breath from your lungs.

The pinkish light dawn is streaking over the ceiling above when you both finally succumb to sleep after many more vigorous attempts at babymaking. The last one, perhaps the most desperate, you pinned against the headboard, him fucking into you so hard from behind that a jagged crack appears, spidering up the wall from where the bedframe slammed into it. A flaw which he steadfastly refuses to get fixed, claiming it to be the most profound art—a souvenir and ode to a momentous night.

——

9 months later

Benedict’s lips mash against your sweaty brow as he keeps lauding you with praise, excitement and pride evident in his every word. You flop back onto the bed, exhaustion deep in your bones, your body turned inside out, hurting in a way you have never known.

But it was all worth it.

What feels like only moments later, in your shattered, addled state, the doctor and nurses depart. Your husband perches on the bed next to you, his face a picture of wonderment. Holding not just one but two bundles of joy in the crooks of his arms. One girl, one boy—fraternal twins.

“My love, we have created the most beautiful creatures on all of this earth,” he attests partisanly, his voice profound with emotion, his eyes pinging from one swaddled face to the other as they sleep soundly.

You shoot him a watery but ironic smile. “I suppose, dear husband, that is what happens when you spend a whole night impregnating me. You succeed twice over.”

His brow raises pointedly, his tongue shooting out to pass over his bottom lip. “Are you suggesting next time around, wife, we keep going for three days straight? So that I may have a brood of eight by the time we are done?” Deploying his bedroom voice that he knows full well makes your knees weak.

“Do not say such things in front of the children!” you chide, swatting his knee where it touches your thigh. “And no, I am not carrying six of your progeny at once; that is simply preposterous!”

“Four?” he petitions with a wink.

You roll your eyes affectionately, settling back into the mound of pillows. “A maximum of two at a time is my final offer, Benedict Bridgerton,” you respond drolly.

“Entirely reasonable,” he chuckles contentedly, dropping a kiss onto each of their foreheads before handing both to you so delicately, as if they are the most precious bundles in the world.

Which to you both, they are.

Join my taglist HERE

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @notanotheruniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

8K notes · View notes