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electricgg · 2 days ago

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Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 5: Get Along With The Voices Inside Of My Head

Adolescence is a broad concept.

It is the period of transition between childhood and adulthood. It includes big changes, from the body to how they relate to the outside world.

It also qualifies as the most painful and awkward stage in somebody’s life, which comes hand in hand with pushing boundaries and breaking scheduled patterns.

Patterns that Timothy Drake had taken years to figure out and were now as broken as the old vase he had hidden from Alfred for the past two years.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Clicking furiously at the wide keyboard of the batcomputer before rolling away in his chair with a frustrated groan, Tim rubbed his face roughly with his still-gloved hands, as if the action itself could take his mind off the subject that has been bothering him for the past four days (not that he would ever admit to himself how much it was bothering him).

That girl.

Jesus, where to even begin?

Not only had she disrupted her assigned schedule, but she had also flipped completely on her behaviour and structured habits.

(Y/N) Wayne had been an easy person to read. From the very moment her existence was revealed to the public eye. Way before he even became part of the family.

A child who had blocked trauma, shoved into the hands of a man who had just found out was her biological father.

A girl exposed to bloodthirsty reporters and paparazzi, developing a fear of the spotlight, and making her look like a fool in front of cameras.

A kid who got the moniker of ‘The Embarrassment of The Wayne’ and made sure to live up to that name.

There were four falls in water fountains, two dresses ripped off in the middle of galas, five accidental stumbles that injured multiple civilians, and multiple newspaper articles about whether she was truly related to Bruce once Damian took the public's attention with his introduction.

She was a walking hazard and a whole meal for the media vultures.

And that was only for the public, personality was a whole different beast.

She was meek, quiet, and too polite.

Too polite for Tim’s taste.

Always picking up his stray coffee cups (even when they were so dirty and he was pretty sure something was alive at the bottom of them). Looking over his shoulder, and asking him if he was getting any rest. Leaving him tea outside his door when he hadn’t left his desk for days. Asking him if he was eating. Asking him if he had taken a bath. Asking if he needed any help with a case.

Asking and asking and asking and asking and asking.

It infuriated him to no end.

It felt as if she was faking it. Nobody could care that much without wanting something in exchange. Not without an ulterior motive.

So he took some drastic measures.

Learning her routine was an easy task. She would wake up around four in the morning on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays to do her extensive morning routine. Tuesdays and Thursdays, she would sleep in until seven in the morning.

In the early days, she would trim her hair ends and retouch her roots so her natural hair color was never in sight. Keeping the same length and not a hair out of place. She was very precise with it and took her time while doing so.

Next, she would take a shower and lock herself in her room for half an hour or so. He never knew why exactly, but it was something she always did. Without a single miss.

After that, she would wander around the manor until she reached the piano room. She would practice until Alfred came to find her for breakfast and take her to school.

Whenever Tim heard the piano in the morning, he knew it was time to either wake up or go to bed depending on which situation he found himself in.

If she didn’t touch the piano, he wouldn’t know what day it was. And depending on the day, he would know how long he would have to wait in his room so he wouldn’t have to listen to her obnoxious questions and see her wide eyes.

(Y/N) hasn’t touched the piano in the past four days.

And it was driving him mad.

“I just don’t get it! She loves hugs!”

Along with Dick’s pity party.

The older man was doing pull-ups by the training mats, still wearing his suit minus the mask. Grunting as he took deep breaths when his head reached over the metal bar he was hanging off.

“She runs at me the moment I come to visit. Every single time. And now she just doesn’t even look my way?”

Tim sighed, giving Dick a glance from the corner of his eye as hands slid off his face.

“When was the last time you even cared about such things?” he deadpanned, turning his chair to face the acrobat.

Dick had his own place. He didn’t live at the manor anymore, hadn’t for years. Tim could count with just one hand how many times Dick had come to visit them in the past three months.

Why was he acting like he knew her better than Tim himself?

“Since she did a switch on her personality!” he said before letting go of the pole and landing on his feet inside the mat.

Dick grunted as he stretched out his arms upwards, making his way towards the computer and picking up a cold water bottle on a nearby bench.

He shook his head, opening the cap and taking big, loud gulps from the bottle as Tim turned once again toward the computer with a roll of eyes.

“She is a completely different person, and don’t pretend you haven’t noticed too.”

Of course, he had. Because he actually lived with her.

Before he could snap back at him, a deep, gravely voice interrupted their conversation.

“What seems to be the problem here?” Bruce questioned, emerging from the zeta tube and pulling off his cowl. His footsteps echoed against the walls as he reached the two young men.

They didn’t even hear the zeta tubes powering up.

Dick crossed his arms with a glare pointed towards the bat, leaning against the table while Tim gave the man a simple side eye.

That made Bruce lift an eyebrow, not expecting that reaction from the boys.

Everyone had been acting strangely as of late.

And he was getting tired of not knowing why.

“Would any of you care to explain what has you both unfocused and distracted?”

“We’re not distracted…” Tim muttered while tapping on his keyboard, hoping that Bruce would leave the subject alone.

“It’s nothing.” Dick shrugged, moving his gaze to the side.

“If that’s true,” the older man grunted while glancing between the two of them. “Then why are we still trying to figure out the missing kids case?”

That made the boys sigh and grunt under their breaths.

True, they haven’t been able to find any other clues on the case. It was all leading to dead ends. No similarities between. Schools, families, extracurriculars, age, neighborhoods, parents' jobs, and even the locations of disappearances did not link to one another.

There was no way the cases could be linked to one another. Too many differences.

And yet, they couldn’t ignore their gut telling them that they had to be connected.

But what?

“It’s just… You know who.” Dick said while rubbing the back of his neck with an awkard air as Bruce questioning gaze landed on him.

“No, I do not who you are refering to.” his stern and direct tone making Tim and Dick share side glances.

Tim spun around on his chair, facing Bruce with a deadpan expression. “It’s (Y/N). He refers to (Y/N).”

Silence fell between them.

“...What about her?” Bruce dragged the question. Shoulders tense and eyes sharp.

“Jeez, I don’t know?!” Dick snapped back, lifiting himself up and moving his arms around as he talked. “Maybe because she has been acting like a different person, refuses to talk to me, or even look my way, and even curses like a sailor?!”

He whipped his head towards Tim, pointing at him with his index finger.

“How does she even know curse words? She is too young to know those words!”

While Dick continued on his ranting, Tim simply spun back to the computer. He was controlling himself from snapping at Dick, since he was acting as if she was some kind of little kid that he knew everything about.

And also, because he was pissed at Bruce. Since he knew very well that the man was not aware of what had been happening in his own house, with his own kids.

“He wouldn’t know, Dick. Bruce has been out for the past few days.” Too busy with some Justice League business. Kon had mentioned on their last call the other day that it had to do with the ruler of Genosha. Something about an alliance of sorts.

The older boy came to a stop from his rant to look at the too quiet man. He suddenly found himself rubbing the bridge of his nose and looking way older than he was.

“...Bruce.”

The man sighed tiredly, covering his mouth and looking at the floor. A deep hum leaving his throat.

“You have seen her, right?”

Tim smiled smugly to himself at the answering silence behind him.

His family always forgets how petty he can be.

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

“How about this one?”

“ .. / -.. --- -. .----. - / .-.. .. -.- . / .. - “

The young girl groaned as she threw out another old cardigan over the overgrown pile of clothes lying by the bed. It varied from shirts, pants, dresses, and many other clothes that she had been fishing out of the old wardrobe for the past three hours.

Who knew a ghost could be picky with what her old body could and couldn’t wear?

It all started when the only way to communicate with Wayne’s Ghost (whom she was calling from now on until she found a better nickname) was by the flickering of the light from her lamp.

It was simple at first. One flicker meant yes, and two flickers meant no. But it left her unsatisfied and also limited communication. She wanted to have a real conversation with someone who understood what she was actually going through. Which leads to the next step.

Learning Morse code.

It wasn’t hard! After borrowing a few books from the library about the subject (which she did only after she was sure none of the weird guys were wandering around the manor), and speed-reading through the pages, she had learned Morse code in under five hours of relentless reading.

She was not sure if that was normal, but nothing about her situation was normal.

Looking now at the very empty closet, a sense of sadness began building at the pit of her stomach.

Even with her permission, it felt invasive to take out something so personal just to make space for her own stuff.

Especially after listening to the recordings.

Those words were still rumbling in between her ears.

˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖—》✧《—˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖

Diary Entry: Year 4

“Today, Mister Alfred got me a letter and some gifts from my mom. I don’t know how she got them out of the hospital, but I’m sure Uncle had something to do with it. I’ll write to him and hopefully get Alfred to send it.”

“I’m sure he and Father are not talking to each other yet.”

“I get it. Kinda. He did bad things. But he’s always been nice to me and never fails to send gifts on my birthday. And it’s always expensive stuff too!”

“Sometimes, I wish he were the one to take me in. And it makes me feel bad because I know Father is trying to do the best for me and the family.”

“I wish I weren’t so hard to handle. Maybe, that way, they wouldn’t be so busy all the time and spend time with me.”

“...It’s my tenth birthday today. Alfred got me new pencils and paints. Mom sent me a necklace with a card explaining what it meant, and many of her old clothes, too. And uncle got me a green jacket that’s way too big on me, but it’s cozy at least. I’m sure I can grow into it.”

“Father’s been locked in his office since last night. I knocked a couple of times, but he didn’t answer. He’s probably tired. I’m sure he’ll remember this time.”

“Dick promised to bring ice cream today too, but he hasn’t answered my calls today. He could be stuck on a case, too, so I understand he’s busy.”

“And Jason left some cookies outside my room this morning. I ate them before breakfast, but Alfred doesn’t know it yet, so shhh!!”

“Besides that, this year wasn’t so bad. I got good grades at school and got to visit Mom a couple of times, too. In the last visit, the guards let us talk without the glass window between us. I was happy to be able to hug her again after so long.”

“...I miss her a lot. I miss our old house too. The manor is big and all, but it’s very cold.”

“And lonely.”

“I shouldn’t complain… Father has done everything to give me a good life. But I wish Mom would get better and come back for me.”

“...I want my mom back. I want her back so bad, and it makes me sad, too.”

“I think that could be my wish this year. Wish for my mom to get better soon.”

“I think it’s a good wish for this year, right?”

˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖—》✧《—˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖

Yeah, that made her tear up and take a couple of breaks in between listening to the recordings.

Mom was a strong word.

It made her heart tight, and so many overwhelming feelings flooded over her.

Warmth from tight hugs. Soothing lullabies in a language she could not place. Soft fingers running through her hair. Loving words in a voice she couldn’t put a face to. But she knew who it was. It wasn’t hard to figure it out.

She also wanted her mom back.

The flickering of the lamp on her nightstand made her wipe away any stray tears, sniffling her nose with the back of her hand and taking a deep breath.

“Alright, I’m fine. Totally fine.” She muttered to herself as she looked at the closet once again.

On the far corner, a deep green jacket caught her attention.

She took it out of the closet, holding it by the hanger as she looked at the piece of clothing with a growing smile.

On the tag of the neck, the initials U.H. in a very fancy font stood out. The young girl had the feeling that this was one of the gifts of the recordings had mentioned.

It was a forest green, with two vertical white stripes running down the sleeves until they reached the cuffs. The material was lightweight, with a soft fabric on the inside, but breathable. It had a total of four pockets, two outside and two inside on each side.

Without thinking about it too much, she took it off the hanger and put the jacket on.

When she turned to the mirror, there was a grin on her lips.

It fitted almost perfectly. It was a bit long on the sleeves, but she could roll them a bit, and it would look stylish either way.

As she messed around with the zipper and the neck of the jacket, she rambled to her companion out loud about the look.

“I know it’s a gift from your Uncle, and I’m trying to find my style, so if you don’t want me to keep it on, that’s totally fine by-”

The lights flickered brightly.

“ -.- . . .--. / .. - .-.-.- / .. - / .-.. --- --- -.- ... / .-- .- -.-- / -... . - - . .-. / --- -. / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.- “

She was stunned for a few moments. Then, a soft smile and glassy eyes reflected in the mirror, fingers playing with the hems of the soft fabric.

“Thank you.”

A sharp, cold breeze ruffled her hair, making her laugh and swipe at the empty air around her.

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

“-and I need the report of her latest appointment sent straight to my mail, is that clear?”

When the meek assistant agreed to his demands, Bruce hung up the call with an exasperated exhale. Leaning back on his chair as he calmed down his anger and frustration.

The incompetence of Gotham Central Hospital personnel was something to be studied.

It wasn’t exactly their fault. He hasn’t been in touch about Bianca’s case for about a year now, but he had been expecting that the staff had been taking care of her and keeping up with her mental state.

Especially after the last incident involving her.

And that was another incoming headache.

The boys had been acting out of sorts throughout the week. Dick had been actively coming to the manor so often due to current case in his hands and his sudden need to share some of time with (Y/N). Tim is frustrated over not getting any proper sleep and not finding any sort of shared link in the case. And Damian was… well, he kept mostly to himself, but he could see something was bothering him by how much he was muttering and slamming the training dummies harder than usual.

And then, there was (Y/N).

Bruce could admit he wasn’t a great dad. All of his children could testify and give proof of it.

But he knew he had failed her, especially when it came to being a father.

And it wasn’t her fault at all. It was all on him.

Because he was a coward who couldn’t face a child who bore the face of the people he had failed to help.

It wasn’t an excuse, but it was a reason.

Which was why he always paid for packages of gray contact lenses and expensive black hair dye.

If Bianca were in her right mind, she would have shot him right in the head without hesitation for allowing their girl to change herself simply because he couldn’t look her in the eye.

‘...maybe it isn’t too late to fix this.’

Bruce rubbed his face, feeling the stubble on his jaw since he hadn’t shaved in the past few days. The negotiations with Erik Lehnsherr had been draining, and with lots of conditions on how the Justice League could set foot on the country without getting blown up on the spot.

Even then, they weren’t able to reach an agreement.

A sudden notification made his phone vibrate, taking his mind off his deep thoughts.

It was from the hospital. Bianca’s current lab tests and consults, attached to the mail. That made him relax a little bit.

Until his sight focused on the sender.

Gotham Central Hospital: Psych Ward

All of the reports for the police and files they had been searching for the case, there wasn’t a single document from the hospitals. Medical issues, birth certificates, laboratory analysis, and vaccines up to date.

They hadn’t searched for medical history yet.

Bruce got up from his chair and quickly made his way back to the cave, a thought hiding in the back of his head as the case took hold of his priorities once again.

She can wait. I will make it right, but she can wait.

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

By the time she was done, it was almost 10:30 PM.

She wasn’t planning on throwing all the clothes away, even if Wayne had told her she could do it. It would be a waste to do so, and at the moment, she didn’t have a style in mind that would suit her yet. So, for now, she would have to use some of the clothes that Wayne agreed to let her keep.

The pattern of shades of green was pretty obvious, but she wasn’t gonna complain. It felt right to use green.

Which was why she didn’t take off the jacket from the moment she put it on.

Instead of shoving all the discarded clothes into trash bags, she put them into boxes that Alfred got her once he knew what she was doing with the clothes.

“A change of style and removing old things is a sign of new beginnings, my dear. Don’t feel shame for it.”

That old man was easily becoming her favorite person in the world.

After Billy, of course.

And her ghost companion, too.

…and maybe her mom as well-

A sharp knock at the door broke her away from the difficult task of tapping the boxes that were overflowing with clothes. She didn’t move from her spot on the floor, sitting with her legs crossed and fingers with pieces of tape stuck on them.

It was usually Alfred who always knocked and asked to be let in before opening the door. The other guys, thankfully, hadn’t come to look for her at her room in the past few days.

So, whoever knocked at her door wasn’t someone she knew.

“Hell, no,” she muttered while cutting another stripe of tape with her teeth, glaring at the door as if it had offended her.

“I ain’t talking to anybody. I’m too tired to handle their issues.”

Sticking the stripe over the absolute abstract monstrosity on top of the box (better safe than sorry. Wayne had already told her it was too much tape, but she wasn’t risking the box busting open while taking it to the thrift store tomorrow with Alfred after her follow-up visit with Dr. Vidal.) Curiosity began to creep into the back of her head.

Wayne hadn’t said anything for a while, maybe she was resting. ( Do ghosts go to sleep? Do they even need sleep?)

It wasn’t Alfred, for sure. He would have said something, and a few minutes had already passed by.

The gremlin? (Nah, he was still pissed off about the orange juice thing. His fault for being too slow to reach for it.)

The pale hallway ghost? (Pretty sure he only stuck to his room, judging by the pile of dishes outside a door a few halls down.)

Not Touchy Guy, probably. (Almost biting his finger off yesterday was enough warning unless he was THAT stupid.)

…So who?

Before she could think about too much, in the blink of an eye, she stood before the door with a hand already on the handle. A few papers flew off behind her, the gush of wind making the bell wind chime hanging by the window sound off.

Seems like her own body acts before she even finishes the thought.

‘Gotta get a grip on that, too,’ she noted while biting her lips inward, opening the door slowly, and looking into the hallway.

It was empty and dark. Not a person on sight.

Rolling her eyes as she began to close the door once again, her gaze landed on the floor.

Leaning against the wall by her door, on the floor lay a purple backpack.

She leaned forward and picked it up, noticing how heavy it was with a small grunt. Before going back into her room, she looked back into the hall, waiting for someone to pop by or something.

It didn’t happen.

Once she was back in her room, she climbed on the bed and opened the backpack. It was brand new, the material without a single scratch or dirt on it. And the books inside it as well, the smell of fresh paper and ink emitting from it. In the front pocket, she found something that made her open her mouth in shock.

A phone. A brand new phone.

She quickly turned it on, easily excited over having something like that on her hands.

‘I never had a phone before! Thank you, whoever you are! I owe you big!’

It didn’t have a lot of apps or stuff. The picture roll was still there, judging by the thousands of pics in there. But it had only one contact registered on it.

Jay.

Said contact also had sent a message.

‘Take care of your stuff. You need books to pass your classes.’

‘And stay out of trouble’

That made her snort, scratching her cheek while looking down at the text and at the bag. A smile grew on her lips at the thoughtful gift.

And then it was wiped out when the sudden realization hit her.

“Fuck, I forgot about school!”

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

Author's Note: Hello everyone! Hope everyone is doing amazing and well. My trip was great, I really needed to disconnect for bit before facing finals weeks (which I haven't cried yet so it's a big success!!) Lots of important details in this chapter and I can't wait to see what y'all think about anc come up with lol. I'll add on the translation to the morse code later bc I'm posting this at 1:40 in the morning and i got a final presentation in the afternoon, so wish me luck!! Sending lots of hugs and love, GG✨

Tag List:

@bat1212 @kneelforloki @1abi @galaxypurplerose @yhin-gg @cxcilla @momentomoribitch @stargirl404 @initial-ari @welpthisisboring @icefox8155 @bunniotomia @alittlelostmoonchild @devotedlyshamelessdetective @shycreatorreview @nirvanaxx1942 @soulsire @ryuushou @rinkydinkythinky @lithiumval @ithoughtthinks @reeyy0-2 @cssammyyarts @lordbugs @ilovecoffe0 @kore-of-the-underworld @fortunatelydifferentqueen

Bonus Memes:

#platonic yandere #yan batfam #yandere batboys #yandere batfamily #neglected reader #platonic batfam #ancient dreams in a modern land #mutant reader #x-men #yandere #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfam #platonic yandere batfam #yandere batfamily x reader #batfamily x reader

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wayiiseetheworld · 1 day ago

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Espresso

Summary: Robby's normal shift ends with Abbot's wife in the ER.

Warnings: Jack Abbot x OC!Wife. Established relationship. Age gap marriage.

Word Count: 1,176

Author Note: I am obsessed with Abbot, Robby, and The Pitt. Slowly going to post my stories from A03 on here. Rewatching ER and Animal Kingdom because of this show. || Not my gif.

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64238392/chapters/164875135

Prev | Next | Finale

Today was unusually calm. As much as he despised that word, it was undeniably true—there was an unexpected stillness in the chaos of the Pitt. "Quiet" was a banned term here for a reason.

Robby should have been grateful for the relatively uneventful shift he had been assigned, especially considering it had only been a week since the Pitt Fest shooting that had led to his emotional breakdown. This was his first day back since that harrowing night.

As he walked into the bay, he passed Dana, who was on the phone, frustratedly urging someone to pick up. Robby’s heart sank as he stepped into the trauma room and caught sight of the bed in the center. “Aila,” he muttered under his breath. His best friend's wife lay unconscious, surrounded by Collins, an intern, and two nurses working frantically.

“Robby!” Dana's voice jolted him back to reality. He realized she was desperate to reach Abbot. “He should arrive soon. I can’t get through to him. His shift starts in an hour, so he’ll be here any minute. The police said it was a robbery; they found her in an alleyway behind the bar.”

Cursing softly, Robby took in Aila’s condition. Collins was talking, but Robby was barely listening. Her face was bruised and swollen, likely with a broken nose. Her left arm bore fresh bruises, and there were stab wounds on her shoulder and thigh.

To put it mildly, Jack Abbot was going to flip. This was a beating.

He takes a breath, “Someone needs to meet Abbot at the lockers. He cannot walk into this mess.” He would say Langdon as those two got along, but Langdon was at rehab.

Suddenly the woman on the bed’s eyes open, she yelps in pain before moving her head away from Collins to Robby. “Michael.” A whisper comes from Aila’s lips. Only a handful of people called him that, her being one of them. Collin, only for a moment looks at Robby in shock, how does this woman know him, is she suppose to know who she is?

He wasn’t expecting her to wake up, but Robby is now focused on her. He heard Collins say the bleeding of her thigh has stopped, the wound in the stomach though would be an issue. Robby puts his hand on the left side of her cheek when he notices her starting to panic. “You're okay.” It wasn’t a lie, Robby told himself, she was awake and that meant she was okay even if it was just right now.

Aila flinches at the touch of his hand on her skin, tears welling in her eyes. “Jack?” Confusion darkens her expression as she tries to grasp her surroundings.

Robby feels his pulse quicken at the sight of her closing her eyes again, surrendering to the shadows. “We need to hurry!”

+++++

King took Dana's words to heart. “He seems to have developed an attachment to you. When Doctor Abbot arrives, you need to pull him aside and guide him to the staff room—it’s far from his wife. Tell him it’s urgent, then come find me. I'll handle the rest.” Dana would tell the man about his injured wife.

She paced the locker room after Dana left her to return where the action was, her mind racing as she awaited the doctor's arrival.

+++++

“Damn.” Jack Abbot spoke into his phone, leaving a voicemail for his wife. “You must be swamped at the bar if you can’t answer my call.” He wasn’t upset; he understood she was managing the restaurant after the manager failed to show up. Earlier discussions revealed that she was juggling two waitresses, the hostess, the kitchen, and her bar, all of which had stressed her out. “I just wanted to remind you that I love you and to make sure you eat and drink during your shift. I can’t have you ending up in the ER again due to dehydration,”—it has happened more than once and now a real worry for him—“Just call me back when you can. Love you.”

He ended the call, sliding his phone into his pocket as he approached the locker area. He froze upon spotting King by the lockers, the woman he had become acquainted with during his occasional shifts covering for Robby during this last week. Something was visibly troubling her.

“Is everything okay, King?” He stepped closer to his locker, ready to stow his bag, but King didn’t budge from her spot. He looked her up and down, before his gut told him that something was wrong.

“I need you to come to the staff break room with me. It’s urgent.” The words slipped from her lips with an air of rehearsed seriousness, he could tell. He was right, something was not right.

“King.”

She sighed, then whispered earnestly, “Please.”

Jack hesitated, reaching for his phone once more and noticing the five missed calls from Dana. “Where is she?” His heart dropped.

“What do you mean?”

“My wife—those missed calls from Dana, you waiting for me at the lockers, her not answering like she usually does when she’s at work.” He ran a hand over his face, frustration mounting. “King—I'm asking you one last time: where is my wife?”

King stands frozen, overwhelmed by uncertainty as she processes his question. Should she address him as the husband of a patient or as her supervisor? An uncomfortable silence hangs between them as she struggles to find the right words, until the sound of footsteps approaches from behind.

“Dana,” Abbott calls out. “Wha…”

Dana notices the recognition in his eyes; he understands that his wife is here. “She’s going to be okay,” she says gently, interrupting him. “Robby is accompanying her to surgery. I’ve already contacted Jason for you, so you won’t be able to work today.” There’s no room for debate; it’s already decided, he wouldn’t be working tonight and Abbot knows that is the right thing. As King quietly slips away from the conversation, Jack suddenly becomes aware of a tightness in his chest, as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. The intense urge to flee to the rooftop fades away from him. Dana takes a step closer to Jack, a man she deeply admires—a dedicated doctor who has faced his own struggles since returning from war. “Jack,” her voice quivers as she places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “The police told me it was a robbery. They found her alone in the alley behind the bar. She fought back—she's one tough son of a bitch.”

“Surgery?” he asks, a mix of disbelief and shock in his voice, unsure if he truly heard her correctly. She was supposed to be working - not in the OR.

“Let me take you up.”

#the Pitt fanfiction #the Pitt fanfic #jack abbot #Jack Abbot Fanfiction #Jack Abbot Fanfic #jack abbot x oc #dr abbot

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mintyys-blog · 2 days ago

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HELPLESS | sinister mark x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: mention of miscarriage, abusive relationships, toxic relationships, mention of murder.

PLEASE NOTE: This story contains themes of emotional abuse, pregnancy loss, and trauma. It explores a dark, unhealthy relationship dynamic that may be triggering for some readers. Please prioritize your well-being and take breaks if needed.

He returned late, as always, streaked with ash and blood. His boots tracked grime onto the marble floor, once pristine, now cracked and stained by years of conquest. She watched from the doorway, her silhouette hidden behind the silk curtain, her heart fluttering—not from excitement, but fear that masqueraded as longing. He didn’t see her, or maybe he did and just didn’t care. His cape hit the ground with a heavy thud. Another kingdom, another city razed in his name.

Mark.

She still called him that in her mind. Not “Emperor.” Not “Conqueror.” Just Mark. The boy who once kissed her hands like she was sacred. The boy who once flinched when he saw her cry.

He didn’t flinch anymore.

She stepped into the room after he collapsed onto the throne he never truly sat in—he lounged on it like it was a cage. Exhausted but smug. Eyes burning. Distant. Always distant now.

“You’re late,” she said, softly. Her voice was a ghost in the space between them.

His eyes flicked to her. He didn’t answer. Just stared.

She crossed the floor without waiting for permission. If she didn’t move, she might break apart. She knelt beside him and began undoing the buckles of his ruined gauntlets, her hands trembling as she peeled them from his bruised skin. He didn’t stop her. He never did. Not for this. Not when she was quiet, useful, pretty.

Sometimes he pulled her into his lap, kissed her like he needed her—but not her heart, not her soul. Just her warmth. Just her body. That was all he wanted from her anymore.

Tonight, he said nothing. He watched her hands and let her work.

He was angry. She could always tell. The tension in his jaw, the slight twitch of his left eye. Someone had defied him. Someone was dead for it. Or would be.

He reached out, without a word, and dragged her onto his lap. She didn’t protest. She never did. He kissed her like a starving man, like he hated her for making him feel anything at all. And when it was over, when she lay curled at his side on silken sheets that smelled faintly of scorched earth, he turned away from her.

Not out of shame.

Out of indifference.

Her fingers ghosted over her stomach. The phantom ache hadn’t faded. The bruises had long since disappeared, but she could still feel the echo of that night—when he’d thrown her against the wall because she begged him not to go to war again. When she hit the ground and knew, instantly, something was wrong.

She had carried their child for ten weeks. A life growing inside her, something fragile and new in a world that had lost all innocence.

She never told him.

What would be the point?

He wouldn’t care. Or worse—he would, and the guilt would twist into something else. Something uglier. Another reason to hate the world. Another reason to destroy.

So she buried it. Like she buried everything.

Still, she loved him.

Not the man who razed cities and tore families apart. But the boy who once snuck into her room to escape his nightmares. The boy who looked terrified the first time he told her he loved her.

She stared at the rise and fall of his chest. At the bruises blooming across his ribs. He was a monster now. But once, he was hers.

She held that thought close like a locket. Like a dream that couldn’t hurt her if she didn’t open it.

She shifted closer, curling up against his side. His body was warm, and for a moment, she let herself pretend he reached for her in his sleep. That he missed her. That deep, deep down, something of the old Mark still remained—waiting to wake up. Even if it was a lie, it was her lie. And she would believe it until her last breath.

She woke before him.

The early light filtered through the high windows, golden and soft, cutting through the darkness that loomed over the palace like a permanent shroud. For a moment, the room looked peaceful—almost normal. His face was turned slightly toward her, relaxed in sleep. His brow, always furrowed in anger or calculation, had softened.

He looked like her Mark again.

She touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers. He didn’t stir. Her heart ached in her chest, pulsing with a pain that had become a constant companion.

“I miss you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

She slipped from the bed quietly, wrapping herself in a thin robe. Her feet padded silently against the cold floor as she moved through the palace halls. The guards bowed their heads and said nothing. They knew better than to speak to her unless commanded. She wasn’t empress. She wasn’t even consort. She was his, but unofficially, unacknowledged—kept like a secret, like a weakness he refused to name.

She made her way to the old garden. It had been neglected for years, but some of the hardier plants still grew, tangled and wild. She sank to her knees beside the ivy-covered statue—once a monument to peace, now half-toppled and cracked.

Here, beneath the withered arch of roses, was where she had buried the tiny bundle of cloth. The only thing she had left of her child. No name, no grave marker. Just a place in the dirt where she could remember.

“I would’ve named you Cass,” she murmured, fingers tracing the soil. “Cassiel, if you were a boy. After the angel of tears. I think… I think you would’ve had his eyes.”

Her hand trembled. She clutched her robe tighter around herself, trying to breathe through the tightness in her chest.

A sound broke the stillness behind her. Footsteps.

She didn’t need to turn around.

“I wondered where you disappeared to.”

His voice, rough with sleep and something darker. Accusation, perhaps. Or irritation.

She didn’t respond right away. She couldn’t.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” Mark said.

She still didn’t look at him. “I needed air.”

He didn’t press. He never asked what she did when he wasn’t looking. As long as she came back to him, he didn’t care.

“Come back inside,” he said after a moment, more command than request.

She stood slowly, brushing her hands on her robe. Her eyes lingered on the patch of earth beneath the ivy one last time. Then she turned to him.

He looked at her differently this morning. Not with affection, but not with total indifference either. Something hovered in his expression. A flicker. A question.

“Were you crying?” he asked, gaze sharp now.

She stiffened.

“No,” she lied. “Just tired.”

He didn’t believe her. But he let it go. Maybe because he didn’t want to ask what she’d been mourning. Or maybe because, somewhere in the depths of him, he knew.

And he couldn’t face it. He offered his hand. She took it. Not because she forgave him. Not because she had healed. But because he was all she had left.

And maybe—just maybe—if she stayed long enough, the man she loved might come back to her. Even if it was just in a dream.

He held her hand too tightly.

Not enough to hurt—not this time—but enough to remind her who had the power between them. His fingers dwarfed hers, calloused and stained by war, wrapped around her soft, trembling grip. He didn’t speak again, not right away. But his eyes—those burning, knowing eyes—weren’t on her.

They were on the vines.

Where she had been kneeling.

The cracked statue. The soil that had been disturbed more than once. The crumbling petals around it. There was nothing marked, no sign of mourning, but she saw the shift in his jaw—the tightening of it, the slow flare of his nostrils. Something in him noticed.

He didn’t ask.

His gaze lingered a moment longer, dark and unreadable, before he turned back to her and tugged her forward. Inside. Away from the truth buried beneath tangled ivy.

She followed.

The palace swallowed them whole. Gilded halls. Silent guards. The cold weight of a kingdom ruled by fear. It no longer smelled of home. Only smoke. Metal. Blood.

He brought her back to his chambers. The doors sealed behind them like the locking of a cage.

He stood still for a moment, staring at the bed, then at her. There was something about the way he looked at her now—quiet, intense. Not lust. Not anger. Something far more dangerous: curiosity. “You come here a lot,” he said finally, voice low. “The garden.”

Her stomach clenched. She didn’t reply. Didn’t trust her voice.

“I’ve had it watched,” he admitted, almost casually. “Not because I thought you’d run. You wouldn’t.” A slight tilt of his head. “But because I wondered why you always return to that same spot.” He stepped closer. Her breath caught.

He stopped just inches from her. Looked down at her like he was trying to read her. Not with tenderness—he didn’t do tenderness anymore—but with a flickering, conflicted hunger for something he couldn’t define.

“Tell me the turth. And don’t even think of lying to me.”

She gulped. “I… mark please..” He glares, “tell me now.”

The silence that followed her confession was vast. Heavy. Like the air itself had stopped moving.

She saw the flicker in his eyes—but it wasn’t shock. It wasn’t even anger. It was something worse.

Calculation.

Mark didn’t move for several heartbeats. His jaw was tight, his nostrils flared, but his gaze remained terrifyingly neutral. No flinching. No softening. Just… the silence of a man deciding what parts of himself to keep, and what parts to destroy.

“When?” he asked, and his voice wasn’t a whisper. It was a blade.

She wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to hold together all the pieces she hadn’t realized had already cracked.

“Before the siege of Callar Prime,” she said. “Just before you left… that time you threw me into the wall.”

Still, nothing. No apology. No remorse. Just that unreadable stillness.

His eyes fell, slowly, to her abdomen. To the place where life had once been. Then, without warning, he turned away from her.

She didn’t follow. Didn’t speak. Just watched him walk to the far end of the room, where the glass wall overlooked the horizon—the city below his rule. He stood there a long moment, framed by the light of a rising sun that had

The words hung in the air like a noose.

“I was pregnant.”

And still—his eyes didn’t change. Not even a twitch. No fury. No sorrow. No regret. Just the same unreadable, stifling cold that had taken residence in him long ago, smothering the boy she once loved.

He stared at her, the silence stretching between them like a blade balanced on a breath.

“How long?” he asked again, voice flat. Distant.

She swallowed hard. “Ten weeks.”

A pause.

“How?” he pressed. Not how it happened—that would be stupid, even cruel. No. What he meant was how it ended. How the child ceased to be.

And she said nothing. She didn’t have to.

His gaze dropped to her arms—the way she was hugging herself. Protective. Subconscious. And then, to the faint bruise along her ribs. Old. Faded. But not forgotten. He remembered the night. Of course he did. His rage had been volcanic. She’d begged him not to go to war. She touched his chest. She pleaded.

And he had thrown her.

He turned his back to her again, walking toward the glass wall. His hands were clenched behind him, shoulders rigid. His reflection looked monstrous in the glass—an emperor forged from ash and ruin, not flesh.

“You should’ve told me,” he said. Quiet. Not gentle—he didn’t know how to be gentle anymore—but there was a crack in the surface of him now. Thin. Hairline. Almost imperceptible.

She looked down at her hands. Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “Would it have mattered?”

He didn’t respond.

So she continued, her voice trembling. “You would’ve gone anyway. You always do. You would’ve raged anyway. I tried to stop you—and you threw me, Mark.”

She didn’t cry. Not now. She’d done all her crying months ago, when she bled alone on the bathroom floor, muffling her sobs into a towel so the guards wouldn’t hear.

Still facing away, he placed his hand on the glass. His reflection flickered in the light. For once, he looked… tired.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

“I didn’t want you to,” she replied. “Because if you did… and you didn’t care… I don’t think I could survive that.”

He turned then, slowly. Walked back toward her. Not with violence. Not with hunger. Just… stillness. Something unreadable in the lines of his face.

“You should’ve told me,” he repeated, but softer now. His voice, like a dying star—quiet, heavy with all the gravity of something collapsing.

She dared to look up at him, bracing for anger, or cold dismissal, or something worse.

But he just stood there, looking down at her, and for a moment—just a moment—his hand lifted, like he might touch her face. Like he might feel something again. Then his hand fell away. He stepped back. The moment passed.

He left her standing there in silence. The door clicked shut behind him. And she dropped to her knees. Right where he’d left her. Right where he always would.

She sat there on the cold stone floor, motionless, long after the door shut. His footsteps echoed once, twice—and then nothing. No return. No apology. Just silence.

The kind that wraps around your throat and makes you forget how to breathe.

Her fingers curled against the tile. She stared at the door.

He left. And she knew what that meant. He chose to leave.

Not in a storm of fury, not in one of his unpredictable outbursts. He walked away with the same practiced calm he used when sentencing worlds to burn. He knew. And still, he left her behind.

She stood slowly, her body aching like her bones had remembered the miscarriage before her mind could. Her robe fell loosely around her, her skin chilled. She walked to the bathroom first, half-expecting to hear the water running or the quiet sound of his breath. But the lights were off. The room was empty.

Only the shattered mirror remained. The cracks spiderwebbed out like veins, like fractures in something that had once been whole. Her reflection stared back at her in a thousand broken pieces.

She pressed her hand to the counter to steady herself, bile rising in her throat. Then she turned and stepped back into the hallway, searching. Each corridor colder than the last. The guards didn’t meet her eyes. One of them—a younger one, nervous and pale—flinched as she passed, like her pain might be contagious.

She reached the central chamber, the war room. Empty. The throne room. Silent. Not even his scent lingered.

She reached for the communicator on the wall. She hesitated. What would she even say? Where did you go? Why did you leave? Come back. Please, Mark. I don’t want to be alone with this. But her fingers curled into a fist and she pulled away.

She went back to his quarters—their quarters—and sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the sheets he hadn’t even bothered to fold back into place. It was still warm. Still smelled like him.

She pressed her face into the pillow and let out a sound halfway between a sob and a scream. He had left her with this truth—this unbearable truth—and disappeared. And even now… even now… She still loved him. That was the worst part.

She still loved the idea of him. The ghost of him. The one who kissed her knuckles before every mission. The one who once promised to build her a world that didn’t need war. The Mark who was long gone—murdered by conquest, consumed by power.

She whispered into the sheets, broken and trembling, “I would’ve given everything for you.”

And she had.

Now there was nothing left but ivy and ghosts. And the echo of a love that refused to die, even as the man she gave it to walked away without looking back.

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

Her eyes had been raw and burning. Her body, drained. The bed had grown cold in his absence, and still she clung to his pillow like it might anchor her through the emptiness. The palace was silent—no footsteps, no voices, not even wind.

But sometime deep in the night, something warm stirred behind her.

A shift in the mattress. A breath against her neck. She startled, heart racing—but before she could twist around, she felt arms wrap around her waist. Strong. Familiar. Possessive. One hand splayed against her stomach—his hand—while the other pulled her closer, like he could press the space between them out of existence.

She froze. Then his lips touched her bare shoulder. Soft. Uncharacteristically soft. Her breath hitched. She didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

Another kiss, a little higher this time, just beneath her neck.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he murmured, his voice low and raw. As if it hurt to say.

She didn’t respond.

Her fingers clutched the sheet tighter, her throat thick with everything she didn’t know how to say.

“I walked,” he said, resting his forehead against her. “I didn’t even know where I was going. I just— I couldn’t breathe.”

She blinked. Slowly. Carefully.

“I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to feel it.”

She turned her head just slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of his face in the darkness. His jaw was tight. His eyes shadowed. But his grip on her never wavered—if anything, it tightened, like if he held her tightly enough, he could will the damage away.

She spoke softly. “Why did you come back?”

He exhaled shakily against her skin. “Because I couldn’t stop seeing it. The vines. The dirt. You. On your knees. Mourning something I took from you.”

His voice broke—not loudly, not theatrically. Just a sharp, jagged crack in the middle of his chest. The kind that doesn’t bleed on the outside.

“I didn’t think you still could feel anything,” she whispered, unsure if it was accusation or confession.

“Neither did I,” he said.

They lay in silence for a moment, the darkness thick around them.

Then she felt him shift again—his hand moving from her stomach to her chest, over her heart. As if checking that it still beat. As if needing to feel something alive.

“I don’t deserve to be here,” he said against her shoulder.

She turned fully then, slowly, until she was facing him.

“You don’t,” she agreed.

His expression didn’t change. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t beg.

But he didn’t let her go, either.

And against all reason, against all the hurt and the memory of blood on the bathroom floor, she reached up—and touched his face. “I still want you here.”

He leaned into her touch. And said nothing.

His jaw flexed beneath her touch.

But he didn’t say I’m sorry.

Didn’t say I was wrong, or I regret what I did. Those words didn’t seem to exist for him anymore. They’d been lost—buried beneath years of blood and victory, replaced by power and control. Regret was weakness. And Mark Grayson—the one who now ruled empires—wasn’t weak.

Still, he didn’t pull away from her hand.

Didn’t deny her pain.

And after a long, heavy silence, he whispered, “You shouldn’t be so alone.”

Her brows pulled slightly together. “What?”

He pressed his forehead to hers. “You deserve more than silence. More than waiting in this place with no one but me.”

She didn’t know what to say. Her throat tightened again.

His thumb brushed against her skin. “We could try again.”

Her heart stuttered.

His eyes stayed locked to hers, unreadable and steady. “The child you wanted. The one we… lost. You still want that, don’t you?”

She blinked. “Mark—”

“I can change,” he said, almost too quickly. “Not everything. Not who I am. But… enough. Enough to give you what you’ve been waiting for.” Her breath caught.

“You’d be a mother,” he continued. “You’d never be alone in this place again. A family. That’s what you always wanted, isn’t it?” She searched his face. For sincerity. For remorse. For love.

But she found something else: intention. Resolve. A solution—not an apology. He wasn’t grieving the child they lost. He was offering to replace it. And somewhere deep in her chest, a part of her screamed. But another part—fragile, desperate, hollowed by years of wanting—ached to say yes.

To believe he could change. That maybe the next time would be different. That maybe he would try. “I…” she hesitated. Her voice cracked. “I don’t want to lose another.”

“You won’t,” he said, with the same certainty he used when claiming star systems. “I won’t let it happen again.” A promise forged not from tenderness, but from control. From possession.

But he still held her. Still kissed her shoulder. Still stayed. And she… let him. Because maybe—just maybe—this was the closest she’d ever get to the family she dreamed of. Even if it was built on bones.

#x reader #reader insert #x female reader #sinister mark x reader #sinister mark grayson #sinister invincible #mark grayson x reader

138 notes · View notes

youdontknowe · 3 days ago

Text

Book report time of the week!!!

Only book reports I’ve even willingly done fr

* Strong start when we thought we were past the avoid the conversation stage 😩

* Awwww Dean yearning so bad for her is everything for me 💙 he’s gonna like buffer so bad when they finally are just together

* Chronic overthinker core

* ‘You’re like the universe, and I’m sorta like the stars, so how this should work is I fill you up-‘ Dean you horny man! I’m in.

* The circumstances around their mutual existence is exhausting no wonder they’re like yk what we don’t need more on this plate

* Being included with sammys life of the line is SERIOUS for him (I like that you add these lil things cus if it’s the car or his brother your getting chosen with or above its big)

* He’s so down bag he’s gotten one moment and he’s wearing the tape down on it

* I wonder if he’d ever just play dumb and pretend he didn’t know a word just to see her smile and tell him (it’s very on brand)

* Lmao Sam being like no you don’t get to ask him he agrees with everything you say!

* Sam getting teamed up on so he will go flirt is his version of getting a taste of his own medicine

* The banter in that scene is also chefs kiss

* I’m always like crying over the sun/shadow sun/moon and the sun/plant thingy you have going it’s so cute

* ‘Scary pretty face important people have’ but like old money pretty or actress pretty?

* I’m sobbing dean freaking out as soon as he woke up is heartbreaking

* I can’t wait for the arc about what she changes cus like topping the ROMAN EMPIRE? Icon behaviour

* OH Dean experiencing the sky? I wonder if that’s a result of her kinda melding into his soul

* Literally giggled when I read she’s trying to figure out how to write deans name

* PLEASE “I raised you better than that!” “No you didn’t” “I tried not my fault it didn’t take” GOLD ABSOLUTE COMEDY GOLD

* Holy shit, cas sayin she looks like god is INSANE (dean is gonna love this also connection to the earlier prayer thought? 👀)

* Everyone just has ptsd by now ( is it ptsd if the stress is ongoing?)

* Damn she’s really spiraling thinking about a hypothetical woman dean could fall in love with

* Oh little theory pause! So by little comments she’s getting more powerful from just Dean being him, what if when they finally get together and she’s like properly soaking up that love she gets to goddess status and then something big happens (leading from a previous thing I said) and then she has her moment and deans her like god equivalent Prince consort (god-consort?)

* Uh oh her trauma is bad and god she’s gonna feel terrible for hurting Sam

* FINALLY Sam gets to say something

* Holy shit I did not expect the boto to be pretending to be dean! And she’s a virgin who knew (not me but I did kinda think hey she’s been a. Lonely b. In love with Dean c. Surrounded by overprotective males. )So yeah makes sense lmao

* YES MORE SMOOCHES

* End note: yeah there would have been some heavy foundation damage to whatever place it occurred before now lmao

* I loved this so much it was more fluffy than last chapters I think, and I’m so happy girly got the balls to go just grab him and I love that he got hard too lmao

Chapter 19 - That's Nothing New

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Welcome to my favorite part of any slow burn: horny

Chapter Title from Vertigo by Griff

Word Count: 18.4k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: A very special valentine’s episode. Usual Warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 18 - Chapter 20

Read on A03!

They hadn’t talked about it.

Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about it. He didn’t know where that conversation led.

It could be simple. He could corner Her in Bobby kitchen, ask Her what it meant to Her, and they’d have to have The Conversation. And Dean—for once in his life—might get pretty damn lucky, and She’d say it meant the same to Her that it had meant to him.

Everything.

The kiss had meant everything. It what most of what he was made of, now. The memory of it playing on a heavy loop in his head, the taste of Her lingered on his tongue—he was starting to develop a small habit of licking his lips every single freaking second, trying to gather up whatever little bits of Her remained like some sort of creep—and his hands were itching to touch Her again.

He didn’t have a goddamn clue how he’d managed to go so long without touching Her. Kissing Her. Trying to find out every single way She could possibly moan his name, because son of a bitch, that was the best thing he’d ever heard.

She was the best thing Dean had ever had.

And he didn’t even know if it had meant anything to Her.

There were a lot of ways that conversation could go, and Dean had played out most of them in his head already. It was a like planning for a hunt. He’d grab her in the kitchen, because that would give Her more of a warning than if he started The Conversation in Her bedroom, and a better place for him to escape than if he used to Impala.

In some versions, he started The Conversation, then pussied out and ran away. He was a fucking coward. Dean knew how to talk to ladies. He was good at talking to ladies. He was good at talking to Her.

But not about this.

“Why’re you up, Princess?”

Dean had woken up a few days ago, and She hadn’t been in bed. The only thing that kept him from freaking out was how he could still smell Her on the sheets. And She wouldn’t have just left. She’d pinky promised him She wouldn’t just leave.

He’d found Her in the library. Of course he had. Absentmindedly scratching notes on a small piece of paper as she read, Her brow furrowed in the cuter, less painful version of Her little wrinkle, not even flinching or starting as Dean made himself known.

“Couldn’t sleep.” She’d muttered, and Dean had shrugged.

“You’re not gonna sleep, if you’re down here.”

“I’ll be fine.” She’d written down another note that—when Dean had craned his neck—was obviously in Enochian. She’d been doing that more lately, and Dean didn’t really want to think about why. “Go back to bed, De.”

He could’ve. But that would mean leaving Her, and Dean had promised not to do that. And this had been the perfect time. For The Conversation. No Bobby to try and shoot him, no Sammy to tease him, no Jo to make little jokes about it. Just Her and Dean, in the dead hours of the night.

In the moment, he’d really thought he could do this.

“So, uh,” He’d cleared his throat, and She’d glanced up from Her book. “Angels.”

She’d frowned. “What about them? I- Nothing has tried to break through the wards, right? Because a lot of those sigils are experimental, but they should start like, glowing, if something is coming-“

“Nothing’s coming.” Dean had mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just. You know. Lotta stuff happening.”

“Like…” She raised Her brows, and Dean wasn’t sure how She always managed to look so perfectly put together. “Angels?”

“Yeah.”

She’d hummed, scanning over Dean with an unreadable expression, and he’d felt like She was looking right into his soul-

Son of a bitch, She probably was. She could see Dean’s soul, and if Hell somehow hadn’t made Her run, this was going to. He didn’t know how it worked, but the want in his body for Her wasn’t pure, and if She saw it and hated it, Dean would end up alone-

“Are you feeling okay?” Her voice had been soft as She cut off Dean’s thoughts, and he’d blinked. “De, you- You’re really red.”

“‘M fine.” He’d mumbled, and She’d shaken Her head.

“Did you get sunburned or something? I know it’s winter, but you’re outside all the time, and I have aloe if it hurts-“

“Nothing hurts.” He’d thrown Her his best, widest, most charming smile, and moved to drop at Her side. “What are we reading?”

She’d smiled slightly, pulling Her book away from Dean’s gaze. “We’re not reading anything.”

“I can read-“

“Not this.”

“But-“

“It’s a girl book, De.”

He hadn’t known what a girl book was. He still wasn’t entirely sure.

He’d stayed anyway.

“C’mon, I did those face masks with you and Jo. I can read your girl book.” He’d reached out a hand, and Her eyes had widened.

“Dean-“

“I’m not going back to bed.”

She’d stared at him, and Dean had known She’d heard the silent words.

Without you. I’m not going back to bed if you’re not there.

“Do you…” She’d swallowed, Her eyes never leaving Dean’s, and maybe he should’ve damned it all and kissed Her again there. “I’m hungry. Are you-“

“I’m always hungry, Princess.” Dean had grinned, and offered Her his hand. “Gas station?”

She’d given him a small smile and nod, The Conversation hadn’t happened, and Dean had decided that bringing it up naturally—which had, somehow, been the plan in the library—had to be taken off the table as an option.

But he didn’t know how to do it otherwise.

Hey, Princess, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me and if you want to kiss me again, I won’t stop you. Wrong. She was beautiful being that was above goddamn heaven, Dean couldn’t ask Her out like it was a suggestion to get him more pie. Like this wasn’t the most important thing he’d ever done.

I’m a piece of shit, sweetheart, but I want you, so I’m sorry about that, but could you please fucking kiss me again before I lose my mind. Wrong again. She shouldn’t have to. It didn’t mean anything if She kissed Dean to keep him from losing his mind. She had to want it.

I think you’re fucking awesome. She knew that. It had never gotten Her to kiss him before.

Every single time I dream, it’s about you-

He wasn’t a teenage girl.

Do you have any idea how fucking hard I get whenever you smile at me? How many times I’ve imagined grabbing you and pinning you to the wall, or bending you over the table, or getting on my knees and-

Bobby would shoot him. He’d deserve it.

You’re like the universe, and I’m sorta like the stars, so how this should work is I fill you up-

He was going to shoot himself.

And there were too many variables for what She might say. Maybe it really had meant nothing to Her, and She’d tell Dean that, and he’d just have to fucking live with that.

Worse, maybe it had meant everything to Her. Maybe Dean really, fully had Her if he wanted Her, and now he could lose Her. Break Her. Maybe She’d say Deano, of course I’m the universe, but you’re somehow the best thing that happened to me too, and climb on his lap and kiss him again, and he’d get to hold Her, but know angels were hunting Her and Alistair might try to take Her away.

Even if that was the case, even if She did—against all odds and reason—want Dean, he had to have The Conversation about it, first.

He still didn’t know how to do that. Because it was exactly like planning for a hunt. And the number one rule of making plans for hunts was that you were going to have to improvise. Move on instinct, and stay alive. Speak on instinct, and keep Her by his side.

Dean did not know how to speak on instinct. And if he stumbled or tripped in a hunt—he didn’t, really, ever, as killing monsters was a whole lot easier than trying to tell Her that he’d kill and die to kiss Her just one more fucking time—the only thing it would cost Dean was himself. He never hesitated, when it was Her or Sammy on the line, so the only person that ever ended up hurt because of Dean fucking a hunt up was himself. And that was acceptable.

He didn’t know how to do that for The Conversation. How to find his way with all the right words should he lose them. He could say something horrible, say something wrong, fuck it up and lose Her forever. There were no bullets or blades to jump in front of, if She started to get upset.

Son of a bitch, what if She started to get upset.

What if She started to cry, and Dean wasn’t allowed to calm Her down because he’d fucked it all up. He couldn’t live with himself, if that was how it played out. Dean could barely tolerate himself now, when he’d down and swear that there was blood on his hands once more. She’d stayed when She knew about the blood. If Dean lost Her now, because of his words, there would be no one else to blame but himself.

He was supposed to be Her shadow. And this was part of being Her shadow, but the most important part was keep Her safe and never let anything hurt Her.

Dean could have hurt Her.

But She’d kissed him back. Over the past few weeks, whenever Dean would roll over and look at Her in bed, he’d remind himself that She’d kissed him back. She’d wanted it. He was a piece of shit, but not that low and ugly in the mud. He’d never do that to anyone.

But he was still fantasizing about Her. And it was wrong, so fucking wrong to look over Her in the night and brush hair from Her face because he was allowed to, only to turn around and shuffle into the shower in the morning, and replay the kiss over and over in his head until his cock was raw in his hand.

Even now, sitting in the dark of a parking lot with Her at his side, Dean was having too many fantasies.

They’d been doing it every other night, since the library. Going out to the gas station in the dead of night, just them, together, whenever one of them couldn’t sleep. Tonight She’d even woken Dean up with big glossy eyes and a sad little furrow on Her brow.

“I- I’m sorry.” She’d whispered, looking a little too much like the exact image that had been in Dean’s head only seconds before. Where She was hovering above him, but his hands were on Her hips, and his mouth was wrapped around one of Her nipples as She rode his cock and screamed his-

He'd been dangerously close to getting hard, and forced himself to focus on the soft nervousness of Her voice—obviously distressed and, for reasons he'd never understand, seeking his comfort—to calm down.

"You can go back to bed, if you want, but-"

"No, 's alright." Dean had rubbed the sleep from his eyes, holding Her against him before she decided to run away. "I was up anyway."

That was a lie. They both knew that was a lie, but She smiled, and it was worth the consequence of another sin added to his roster.

"You need a ride?" He'd asked, and She'd flushed, giving him a small nod.

"I- Um, yes. Please."

It hadn't been until they were in the car that Dean caught his own wording. Or the fact that holding Her to make sure she stayed had meant grabbing Her by waist and pinning her to his body.

That would be a good way to start The Conversation.

Baby, if I had kissed you right there, would you have stabbed me for real this time, or let me take care of you.

Dean wasn't brave enough to say it. But he could think it, over and over until he drove himself insane. And he could stare at Her in the soft shadows and lights of the parking lot, and know that he'd never be able to have The Conversation.

He couldn't afford to push his luck. When he didn't dream about kissing Her, he dreamt about Hell. And She'd started to infect those dreams too, since Boston. Since Dean found out She'd been there, and still hadn't left him. He would've left him, if that was an option. Shit, Sammy and Bobby still didn't know, and he dreaded the day they looked at him and saw him. Saw that vast fucking pit that had been in Dean his whole life, ripped open into a chasm by his own hand, and knew what he was.

Worse than a monster. Lower than the mud.

Never fucking worthy of anything, let alone Her. The drop-dead gorgeous, ethereal, literally fucking magical woman made of stars, who could see him, and was staying.

Dean couldn’t take more from Her than she was already offering, just by staying and letting him care for Her at least like this. He'd gotten to kiss Her once, and that was more than he deserved. He got to be the one She came to in the dead of night for comfort and company. She wasn't leaning against anyone else in the car. Wasn't holding their hand like it was a lifeline as they wandered through the gas station. Didn't stand on Her toes to whisper in anyone's ear but Dean's, because he was Her shadow. No one else.

She'd asked if they could get ice cream. Asked it like Dean wouldn't give Her the fucking Sun if he could figure out how to grab it.

And now She was curled up at his side, a little bit of it stuck on Her nose, and Dean would be fine never kissing Her again, as long as he got to be the one who wiped the splotch away with his thumb and licked it clean.

“Do you want some?” She held the tub out with raised brows, and Dean gave Her a small grin.

“Nah, I got my pie.”

“But you gave me some of yours-“

“Cause you were staring, Princess, and I’m a-“ Dean paused, frowning at the air. “What do you call those guys who give people all their things?”

A small, soft smile covered Her features. Dean had never seen anything prettier. “Samaritans?”

“Yeah, that. I’m one of those.”

She giggled, leaning Her head back on the bench. “You know, Sam told me you threatened to exorcise Ruby if she tried to take your ice last week.”

“Well, the bitch didn’t fucking pay for it.” Dean grumbled. “And it is Ruby. You’d have threatened worse.”

“Touché.” She turned Her head to the side, watching Dean through the dark, and he knew She could see it. If She could see his soul, She had to see the chasm as well.

And She was still looking at him. Staying at his side. He didn’t fucking understand why.

“Dean?”

He grunted, fiddling with his jerky bag. She’d grabbed it before anything else. They’d barely been in the store for ten seconds before She’d shoved it into Dean’s hands, the same way he’d grabbed a root beer and passed it to Her without a thought. He didn’t want to think about what that meant.

“I’m worried about Sam. He’s- You know I don’t trust Ruby, and they’ve been hanging out a lot-“

“I know.” Dean muttered. “I am too, but- I don’t know, sweetheart. He’s not listening to me about it anymore. Says I’m blinded about-“

He cut himself off, because the end of that sentence was Her. That Dean was blinded in his worry about Her, and how because She and Ruby didn’t like each other, they couldn’t bring Her on the seal cases.

They’d gotten in a fight about it, last week. On the drive back, Dean had grumbled something about missing Her, wanting to bring Her on the next one because She’d fucking nail it—these were Her exact types of cases, weird and impossible to understand until she gave it a once over and got it in ten seconds—and thinking it was unfair that Sam got to bring his untrustworthy demon everywhere, but Dean couldn’t bring his awesome, brilliant, perfect Her.

Sam had sighed. “It’s not that I don’t want her here, Dean, you know I do, but- Ruby’s worried she’ll kill her-“

“Good.” Dean had muttered. “She will.”

“She shouldn’t! Ruby’s the only demon we’ve got completely on our side-“

Dean had snorted. “Jesus, Sammy, I really thought you were smarter than thinking a demon would ever be on our side-“

“Ruby is, she’s proved over and over that she is-“

“Proved to you.”

“She’s tried to prove to you as well, man, but you’re just never wrong about people, I guess-“

“I am wrong about people! I know I’ve been wrong about people, but you know who’s never fucking wrong about people?” Dean had spat Her name, and Sam’s mouth had snapped shut. “I don’t need Ruby to prove herself to me, she needs to prove herself to-“

“The woman who wants to kill her?” Sam had mumbled, watching Dean carefully, and he’d been damn near close to strangling the wheel.

“To the woman who can see fucking souls. She’s not wrong. And I want her on the next seal.”

Sam had sighed. “Dude, if you just want to stay with her, you can skip the next case. I- It’s not just about Ruby.” Sam had said Her name gently, giving Dean a sympathetic look he didn’t fucking want. “If we put her on a seal case, the angels will notice. It won’t be safe for her-“

“I’d protect her.”

“But what if you can’t, Dean.” Sam’s voice had been too fucking soft. “It’s- The seals are a lot, but all the Magdalene stuff is… different. You told me Cas doesn’t understand it, and Ruby-“

“Don’t.” Dean had pushed the words through his teeth. He was done with the conversation, because he would protect Her. That was the whole point of being Her shadow. If he couldn’t touch Her, at least he could protect Her. And if He couldn’t do that, he might as well just be another asshole in the mud.

“Dean-“

“No. Don’t tell me what Ruby thinks of my-“ Dean had snapped Her name, and if Sam caught his slip, he didn’t say anything. “Ruby called her a bitch. You know that, Sam? Ruby called her a self-important bitch.”

Sam had—wisely—looked down at his hands with a shameful expression. “I- Dean, I’m not trying to-“

“I don’t care. You know she’s better than Ruby.” She was better than all of them. “And I want her. On the case. Got it?”

Sam had nodded, and that had been the end of it. If She wanted, they’d bring Her on the next seal case.

If She wanted.

Dean hadn’t asked yet. He hadn’t found a time for it. She was already dealing with enough.

Yet was another reason they hadn’t had The Conversation. Between the seals, his fights with Sam about Ruby, and the whole dangerous bringer of change thing Cas had dropped on them, this was simply not a good time to start begging Her to tell him what he meant to Her, like he was some kind of pathetic little yipping dog. Trying to get Her attention and affection, when she needed to be working.

They all needed to be working.

Dean still spent too much time staring at Her lips, and wondering if just licking them would let him taste the fruit again.

He’d been staring at Her for too long now. Where She could see it. She’d asked him a genuine question, Dean had been a piece of shit and lost himself in thoughts of licking Her.

“I, uh- At least you’re coming with us. Instead of Ruby.”

She frowned at him. “What?”

“Next seal case. You’re-“

“Dean,” She sighed, and he’d done something wrong. She was pouting at him a little, and rubbing the scar on Her palm—She’d never actually told him how She got it, but it would once again be far too greedy to take more—so Dean had done something wrong.

“If you want.” He added, trying to keep his voice perfectly even and natural. “They’re just a lot of weird, crazy shit, and you love that stuff-“

“It’s not that.” She whispers, giving him a sad smile. “You remember what Cas said. I- Sam’s right, keeping me away from the seals. That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Dean had a lot of issues with that. To start, Sam was not right. She should not be kept away from anything. Second, and more importantly- “What are you worried about, then?”

“I- I think she’s doing something to him.”

“Ruby? To Sammy?” Dean frowned. Sam was the same. A little angrier, and more exhausted, but the same.

But She nodded, the movement nervous. “I- I don’t know how. Or what. But I’m really worried about him, Dean, I shouldn’t have run when you-“ She swallowed, and Dean hadn’t missed how She’d been doing that. Aside from their fight in Texas, She never said dead, or died, or death. And Her lips were being chewed raw by her teeth, and Her eyes were a little glazed as she stared at Dean, and-

There was the wrinkle.

Dean pulled Her fully into his arms without thinking about it. If She wanted to shove him away, She could, and he wouldn’t fight it. But she just dropped Her head into his chest with a long breath, shaking Her head against his body.

“We’re past that, Princess.” He murmured, not sure what else to say. “You’re not running anymore. Remember, I’ll catch you if you try.”

She sighed, the sound a little shaky. “You still need to explain that, Winchester.“

“I’m good.” He shrugged, smiling a little into the air. “I’m not blaming you for what Sam did while I was gone, same as I’m not blaming Sam for you.”

That was a little bit of a lie. But it made Her relax, and She didn’t need to know that he’d shouted at Sam and Bobby for losing Her, so he let it go.

“Sammy’ll be fine. He’s an idiot, but he’s the smartest little idiot on the planet-“

“He is not little.” She mumbled, and Dean chuckled.

“His soul is little.”

“No, it isn’t.” She buried Her face a little further in Dean’s body. He couldn’t think about it. “It’s big and shiny.”

“Huh.” Dean frowned down at Her. “What about-“

“You’re big and shiny too.”

Warmth inflated in his chest, and that shouldn’t have made him as proud as it did. He was big and shiny. Even if She was obviously hitting the point of sleepy where Dean would think She was drunk if he didn’t know better, She’d called him big and shiny.

And golden. She’d said Dean was golden, and no matter what She could see on his body after Hell, she hadn’t taken it back.

“What are you?” He asked, running his fingers through Her hair and making his voice soft, and She shrugged.

“‘M not anything.”

“You-“

“But I can feel it. Everything.”

“Oh. Of course.” Dean smiled down at Her. “You ready to go home, b- Princess?”

She nodded, but didn’t move. Her fingers curled into his shirt. “What about the next case?”

Dean sighed. He wanted Her there, so fucking much.

Almost as much as he wanted Her to get what She wanted.

“You don’t have to go-“

“I want to go!” Her voice was almost a whine, and Dean couldn’t let himself think too hard about it as She leaned back, looking up at him with big eyes and shiny hair falling around Her face. “I wanna go Dean, but I- What if the angels don’t want me there?”

“Who gives a shit what they think?”

“I do.” She whispered. “What if they put you back in Hell?”

Dean didn’t know if they could do that. “They won’t.” He hoped he sounded more confident in that than he felt. “They need me for all the seal stuff, and you’re gonna be great at it, so they need you.”

She shook Her head. “They don’t need me. They don’t want me interfering. Cas said they’d take precautions.”

“I don’t care.”

“Dean, I care. I- I’m not already pushing it just by staying with you at Bobby’s, I don’t want to-“ She took a shaking breath, staring at Her hands on Dean’s chest. “We still don’t really know what I am. And if the Magdalene who brought the Roman Empire was barely even five percent…”

“Magic?” Dean offered as She trailed off, and she nodded.

“What am I going to do?”

They hadn’t really talked about this either. The Magdalene thing. Dean didn’t really have anything to say about, because it really hadn’t been an actual answer. They had a name, but no matter how many books She and Sammy read, how many contacts Bobby and Ellen reached out to, nobody had ever even damn heard of it. And angels and demons freaking out about Her wasn’t anything new, and nothing had shifted where She was suddenly some sort of lamb to be sacrificed, or monster to be caged.

She was still just Her. As far as Dean cared, no matter how they framed it, She was Herself, and nothing else really fucking mattered. He’d keep looking for answers because She wanted them, but for Dean, She was enough all on her own.

“You’ll do whatever you want.” He muttered, holding Her gaze. “And if you want to come on this next one, that’s it.”

She sighed. “Dean-“

He hummed Her name back, and grinned at Her glare.

“What if I’m a seal?” She grumbled. “Have you thought of that?”

“Nope.” Dean slid Her back into her place, pressing a greedy kiss to her brow at the last second. “And I’ll have you however, arfing or not.”

She giggled, shaking Her head.

It was resting back on his shoulder.

He’s not allowed to think about it.

“That’s not funny.”

“You laughed.”

“I’m tired-“

“And I’m trying to get you to bed.” Dean started Baby’s engine, and She let out a soft hum. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow, Princess. Let’s get you some rest.”

She didn’t fight it. When Dean pulled Her out of the car, she slumped into his side. He got to all but carry Her up the stairs, and help her back into bed, before crawling in right beside Her. And that was more than anyone else got.

It would have to be enough. For Her to let Dean touch Her at all, when she’d seen what he’d done. For Her to listen to him at all, and agree to go on the case, when all She’d have to say was no, Dean, and he’d drop it. He’d suck it up and deal with Ruby for another week, forcing himself not to grab his phone and call Her every ten minutes.

But She’d agree.

She was going on the case. Dean wouldn’t have to deal with Ruby, and—more importantly—he’d get to see Her. All week. In the rearview mirror on the car ride and on the other side of his motel bed, across from him in the diner and next to him at the bar.

“It’s good we know this is a seal going in.” Sam said, watching Her draw on a paper napkin.

She’d been doing that a lot, lately. In Enochian, without bothering to tell Sam and Dean what she was doing.

Dean really wasn’t sure how he’d ask. The best he could offer himself was pressing right into Her side and staring over Her shoulder, only half listening as Sam tried to talk about the case.

In his defense, none of them were really paying attention. Dean was staring at Her, She was focused on her napkin, and Sammy kept getting distracted by a redhead making fuck-me eyes at him. Then he’d make the eyes back, before coughing and trying to continue the conversation whenever Dean glanced over and caught him.

She paused, glancing up with a small frown. “Do you usually not know?”

“Sometimes Cas drops in and gives us a heads up,” Dean leaned a little further forward. He didn’t know what he was looking for. He wasn’t magic, and he definitely couldn’t speak angel. “Told us that heaven knows Lilith’s making moves in Florida, and whatever she’s starting, we need to squash.”

She gave Dean an amused look. “Cas did not say making moves.”

“You can’t prove that, sweetheart.” Dean winked at Her, and Sam cleared his throat.

“We also know what she’s doing-“

“What moves she’s making-“

“Shut up, Dean. A lot of couples have been murdered at the resort we’re headed to.” Sam wrinkled his nose. “Like, a lot. Too many to be normal.”

She hummed, looking back to Her paper. “How many is a lot?”

“Eight.”

“That’s not a lot.”

Sam frowned at Her. “What number would be a lot?”

“I dunno. Fifteen?”

“That is not a-“

“Yes, it is.” She looked up to Dean. “Fifteen’s a lot, right Deano?”

Sam scoffed. “You can’t ask Dean, he’s just going to agree with you.”

Dean scowled. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are, dude-“

“Well, you’re not giving him a chance to answer, Sam-“

“And I wasn’t going to agree with her-“

She turned to give Dean a pretty, wide-eyed look, and son of a bitch, his cock twitched in his pants. “You weren’t?”

“I- Uh.” Dean coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t really think about it! You and Sam started yelling and shit, I wasn’t really paying attention-“

“Why?” Sam raised his brows, suddenly looking a hell of a lot more smug than earlier. “What were you looking at instead, Dean?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Shut up, Sammy. Go flirt with the redhead who’s been making eyes at you and leave us alone.”

Sam sighed. “We’re in the middle of a case, Dean-“

“Technically the case hasn’t started,” She hummed. “And we get it. Dying couple, resort, Lilith, figure out exactly what the seal is and stop it from being broken. Easy.”

“It’s not easy, and you haven’t even heard the actual plan yet-“

“We’ll go undercover,” She refocused on Her napkin, voice smooth and bored. “We’ll need a patron, a bartender, and a staff member. Optimized access to the facility, a lot of good reasons to talk to people, none of us too out of place for talking to each other.”

Sam frowned. “How would staff and patrons talking not be conspicuous-“

“Staff could be work friends. Patron could be just nosing their way into the conversation. As long as we’re careful, it’ll be fine. The patron will have to stay in their room, to keep appearances, but I doubt Lilith is wire-tapping phones.”

Sam’s mouth opened and closed, and he finally gave in with a sigh. It was a good plan. Of course it was. It was Her plan.

Dean let that show all over his face, as he shot Sammy a smug look. They hadn’t even gotten to the seal yet, and his girl was already killing it. Ruby would’ve talked about sneaking around and breaking in and other stupid shit. She was smarter than that.

“Go flirt with the redhead, Sam.” She didn’t look up from Her napkin, and Sam sighed.

“I’m not- It’s almost valentine’s day, guys, I’m not trying to be. You know. The guy.”

She looked up. “The guy? What’s the guy?”

“You- Dean knows. He’s been the guy-“

“Sam.” Dean grunted. “Shut it. Go flirt.”

She shook Her head, frowning between them. “I- Sam, what’s the guy-“

“It’s a dude thing.” Dean snapped, and She scoffed.

“I thought we were breaking gender barriers, Winchester. You did me and Jo’s girl things-“

Sam grinned. “What girl things?”

“Nothing. Both of you, shut the fuck up. Sam,” Dean pointed firmly at the red-head with the fuck-me eyes. “Flirt. And you,” Dean turned his glower down to Her, and she covered his mouth with a hand.

That shouldn’t have been as effective as it was. Dean was suddenly too consumed by Her hand—warm and soft and over his mouth—to keep protesting.

“Sam, what’s the guy.”

At least Dean got an apologetic look first. “It’s, uh- The valentine’s day bar guy. Who sleeps with lonely women, because he knows that’s all they want. And,” Sam was still talking. Why the hell was Sam still talking. “Dean hasn’t been that guy in a long time, I promise, I was just making fun of him.”

“Oh.” Dean couldn’t read the expression on Her face. “Okay. Go.”

Sam frowned. “Go-“

“Redhead, Sam.” Her hand dropped from Dean’s mouth. He wanted it to come back. He could kiss Her knuckles, then pin her arms over her head and-

Dean could not get another boner in public, just from thinking about Her. He needed to pull it together.

“But, uh-“ Sam was still protesting, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m not-“

“Maybe she’ll be your soulmate or something.” She shrugged, looking back to the napkin. Dean couldn’t read that tone either. “Go.”

“I, I haven’t done that,” Sam rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down the bar. “In a while. What if-“

“You’ve got this, Buddy.” She gave Sam a thumbs up, and Her voice was bubbly. Dean’s never heard Her be bubbly before. “Go.”

Sam nodded slowly, scooted out of his chair, and the moment Sam was out of earshot, she sighed and rolled Her eyes at Dean.

“Thank god. I could like, fucking feel her.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

“The redhead.” She nodded to where Sam had disappeared in the crowd, Her attention back on the napkin. “She’s been staring at him all night, and god, she’s horny, Dean. It’s like, all over the table.”

She wasn’t tired. She’d actually slept really well last night. And She still didn’t drink, so Dean didn’t need to be worried about that.

He still didn’t have a clue what She was talking about.

“What.”

She sighed, looking up to Dean. He couldn’t breathe. “Her soul. When someone want companionship, they put out like, pheromones. Kind of. It’s hard to explain when you can’t see them.”

“Oh.” Dean paused, then tensed as it hit him. She could tell when people were horny.

Dean was horny all the fucking time.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Are you-“

“Yeah, Princess I’m-“ He swallowed. “Can you just like, see it? When people are, uh. Lookin’ for action?”

“No. It’s, like- It’s not a smell, but it’s not not a smell, and they’re kinda like tentacles-“

“Tentacles-“

“No, but yes, and-“ She sighed, shaking Her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to explain it-“

“Hey,” Dean grabbed Her hand before he could second think it, and Her lips parted. Hitched breath.

Shit.

“You’re fine.” He muttered. “I was just wondering. Don’t hurt yourself, Princess.”

She nodded slowly, still staring at him, and Dean could feel the heat on his face. This was getting too close to something that might cause The Conversation. Dean was not ready for The Conversation.

“Uh, since when can you see that shit?”

She let out a long, slow breath. “I don’t know. Being around people is doing… A lot.” She frowned at the napkin. “It’s kind of messy.”

“Messy-“

“Colorful.”

Dean nodded slowly. He didn’t really fucking understand—with Her, he never did—but he knew what mattered. “It’s it too much?” He tried to keep his voice soft, and he was rewarded with a small nod.

“Too much.”

“Alright.” Dean pushed off his stool, moving his hand to Her lower back. “Let’s go. We’ll pick up Sammy in the morning.”

She blinked at him in adorable confusion. “Dean-“

“C’mon, we’re going back to the motel.” Dean smirked over at where the redhead was half in Sam lap. “Think we’re done here anyway.”

Dean was certainly done here. He was done anywhere that would make Her curl up into Herself, and there was nothing else for him to do—in this bar or anywhere in the world—but care for Her.

Sammy seemed happy with his fuck-me-eyes redhead, but Dean was going to have to punch him later for bringing up how Dean used to be one of those guys. It didn’t matter that he had been. Dean had—very purposefully, for a long time—been one of those guys, and he’d been pretty fucking good at it. He wasn’t such a fucking asshole to deny that he had very much thrived on being one of those guys. It had kept him satiated in the dark, the brief touches and lies of permanence and possession. It may have been an artificial light—leaving him hungrier and lonelier than before, once the effects wore off—bur it had worked. He’d done it. And he wouldn’t take it back, because the pit might have swallowed him otherwise.

But Dean wasn’t one of those guys now.

He really hadn’t been for a while. He hadn’t been that guy on Valentine’s day, but he also hadn’t been that guy at random bars, or the roadhouse, or on the cases. And he didn’t know when it had stopped all together-

That was a fucking lie.

He knew exactly when it stopped.

It was sooner than he’d ever admit to anyone. It wasn’t after he got back from hell, or he found out about Her magic stuff, or when she learned about the deal and stayed. It wasn’t even when he’d started sharing Her bed.

She’d settled into the backseat of his car like She belonged there, decided to stay for the first time after those witches in Utah—when they’d been looking for Jo and found Her—and Dean had been done with bars and fuck-me eyes. Done with artificial light to keep him from falling into the pit.

And She’d told him about photosynthesis, a while ago. He didn’t know how the hell that had worked itself into a conversation, but She said it’s how plants eat, Deano. They absorb the sunlight and turn it into energy.

Dean might be a plant.

She might be the sun.

And he couldn’t go back to artificial light if he tried.

He did still make fuck-me eyes, though. As he stood alone in the shower—Her long asleep in their bed—Dean could admit he made fuck-me eyes a lot. At Her.

She never seemed to see them, though. Even when they’d been obvious, and he’d been so fucking worried he’d been caught, nothing on Her features had ever shifted.

Other people made fuck-me eyes at Her, as well. They have to be insane and blind and stupid not to. Everyone should want Her. Dean just didn’t want anyone else to have Her. Not like that. Not less than She deserved, without complete fucking devotion and a feral kind of feeling in their bodies Dean knew he had. And he wouldn’t have any logical reason to stop Her if she took up their offers—he could try no, I’m yours, take me instead, but he didn’t think it would work—and he’d gotten really good at not destroying himself about the idea, because She never did.

Dean had never seen Her fuck-me eyes, now that he thought about it. Not where he could see.

But he knew She did give him the fluttering, blinding wouldn’t it be good to die for me eyes.

She might not know she does that.

She can’t know the way that just picturing them is making him so hard it’s a little painful. Just like She can’t know that, before he crawled into bed at Her side, he’d beat his cock into his hands until he came with a groan of Her name.

Dean shouldn’t have kissed Her.

The knowledge of how She tasted, felt, sounded—gasping his name like She wanted him—was making his decade long practice of best friend, don’t think about Her like that in the daylight, because you don’t deserve it and could never have it a little fucking impossible.

But he was hiding it well.

Dean was pretty fucking sure he was hiding it well.

“There’s no fucking way she’s being the patron, Sammy.”

She glared at him in the rearview mirror, and Sam looked really fucking amused and pleased for a guy that had stumbled back twenty minture late without underpants.

Dean would’ve ever been proud of him—if he had to be stuck in the orbit of some sort of fucking Goddess he couldn’t touch, at least Sammy was getting some—if he hadn’t just suggested something fucking insane.

“I can be the patron.” She snapped, Her eyes narrowing. “I’d be a great fucking patron. I can wear a swimsuit, and order stupid drinks, and- and I can act ditzy! And sit on the beach!”

Son of a bitch, She was adorable. Glaring at Dean, mumbling about how She could be ditzy—ditzy people didn’t use the word ditzy—and completely fucking missing the point. Dean knew She’d be a good patron. Between the three of them, She’d be the best patron. She already looked the better and fancier than everyone else part, all the time. She already carried Herself like an angel fallen to Earth—better, actually, because the angels tended to walk all stiff and angry—and She already spoke like if She told the ocean to stay at low tide forever, it would. She’d just need to lose all the softer light in Her eyes and blinding smile that told people She was crafted only from good things, to stop using Her manners, and be a whole lot less adorable and caring, and they’d have their perfect patron.

But Dean was, once again, a selfish piece of shit.

The patron would have to sleep in the resort. Alone.

Away from the other two.

She’d have to sleep away from Dean.

“I’m not worried about your talents, Princess.” He muttered. “Sammy’ll be a good patron, I can tend bar, and you can be staff.”

Sam raised his hand. “I’m not going to be a good patron. There are like, different forks I’ll have to use, and I never learned those-“

“I did!” She leaned forward, almost propping Her chin on Dean’s should. It wasn’t helping. “I took etiquette lessons until, um- Well, until I made all the cups explode because I needed to pee and no one would let me, but I remember all the forks!”

God fucking damnit. Of course She knew all the forks. “You’re not going to a gala, Sammy. You don’t need to know about the forks.”

Dean’s grip on Baby’s wheel was white, and his last plea for this to end in his favor failed.

He lost the argument. Sam wasn’t comfortable trying to act all fancy, She had what Sam called a sort of scary pretty face that important people have—She’d flushed and mumbled a thanks, but Dean agreed with Sam’s assessment—and Dean wasn’t allowed to just shout that he couldn’t sleep without Her.

He fucking couldn’t. He didn’t know how anymore. At least not useful sleep, where he woke up alert and rested the next morning.

Sleep where he woke up panting and swinging at the air came just fine without Her.

It thrived on the lack of Her, actually. It festered and spread over Dean’s skull, when he didn’t know She was across the mattress, safe and sound.

He somehow made it through the first night. The day had been filled with quick set-up—this resort didn’t seem to be run all that well, given how Sam and Dean didn’t even have to lie that hard about why they needed jobs right now—and recon, and it meant Dean collapsed on the bed barely a moment after he and Sammy returned to the motel.

But then the morning came. And Dean turned to look and check that She was there and peaceful, because he did that every morning, only to find Her missing.

He panicked.

Sam said he panicked.

Dean didn’t really remember it at all. There was a blur of ripping up the motel room and grabbing his gun, Alistair’s voice muttering in his ear that he’d find her, Dean’s lovely little Princess, and make Her beg for death ringing in his ears. It didn’t help that all he could really see was an image of Her from Texas, with ragged hair and hollow features and dark stain on Her stomach, red markings imprinted on Her wrists and a skeletal expression on Her face that made Dean want to dice and carve whoever the hell had done that to Her.

He couldn’t scrape that image from behind his eyes. Sammy had brought him down—reminding him that She was fine, and at the resort, and had literally texted Dean twenty minutes before he woke up that she was going to try and sneak him some good coffee—but he couldn’t fucking relax because all he could see was Her. In pain.

When She’d needed Dean, and he hadn’t been there.

The day was long. Sam stopped by on his breaks, saying that he’d been looking for signs of demons everywhere but found nothing, and She gave by at random points through the day, giving Dean a bright smile from across the bar and making something to the right of his heart fucking howl.

“Sam slipped me all the vics reservation records.” She said, eyes focused on Her little paper umbrella as Dean cleaned a glass. “And he says he can’t find any demons.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, I heard. You seeing anything?”

“Nothing.”

Dean risked a glance over. Her lip was between Her teeth.

He had to rip his gaze back away.

“We looked at the files last night.” He muttered, trying to pretend he didn’t want to grab Her over the bar and kiss Her until she moaned his name. “None of them had the same last name. Not married couples.”

She paused. “That’s- huh. I was eavesdropping-“

Dean couldn’t stop himself from shooting Her a grin. “That’s pretty freakin’ rude, Princess-“

“Shut up. There were these two old ladies, and they were saying one of those poor girls had such a bright future, too. They mentioned finding the ring on the beach, and, you know, how big and shiny it was.”

Dean frowned. “The ring?”

“Yep. So not married, but-“

“Engaged.” He muttered, glaring down at his well-polished glass. “Shit, I’ll pass it to Sammy later.”

She nodded, and was gone before Dean could say anything else. .

Night fell, Dean left Her at the resort, and the nightmares were back in full fucking force.

This time She was sitting on the edge of the bed in Boston, Dean rose up to kiss Her, and she turned into ugly mold and dirty water, seeping into the bed, then down, down, down into the floor. Vanishing like She’d never been there at all.

That one was going to be reoccurring. Dean had been getting a lot of new nightmares lately, and he’d gotten really good at telling which ones were going to haunt him for a long, long time.

It kept going like that for a few days. Valentine’s Day itself was creeping up, and they hadn’t found any evidence that it was itself important to the seal, but they hadn’t really found any evidence at all.

Sammy still hadn’t found any demons, but he had heard rumors from the other staff that some of the girls had been see cheating, hours before their deaths. And after She heard similar rumors, they decided to focus their energy there.

“Maybe it’s like…” Sam had trailed off at the motel table that night, frowning at his laptop. “The seal opens if enough girls cheat on their partners.”

Dean scowled, turning his beer bottle between his hands. She’d smiled at him today, and Her lips had looked glossy, and he couldn’t tell if his head was fuzzy from want or drinking. “That doesn’t make sense, Sammy.”

“No.” Sam had sighed. “It doesn’t.”

Dean’s next nightmare was another frequent flyer. One where Azazel flayed Her and Bobby alive, and but it kept flicking between Azazel and Dad, then it ended with Her broken body in Dean’s hands and Azazel-Dad telling him that it was for his own good.

They still had fucking nothing.

Dean’s job sucked. They found another set of bodies, but he was stuck behind the bar. He had chicks making the fuck-me-eyes at him, but whenever She’d stop by for their briefings, She barely met his gaze.

It was for their cover. In case something was watching that even Her magic shit couldn’t detect.

It still made his stupid heart whine.

And at least Dean got to see Her. Got to chance quick, assessing scans over Her body, just to make sure She was still okay. There was no dried blood on Her lips or caking her nails, and no scratch marks visible on Her arms. Her wrists looked a little odd, but that might be sunburn, or chafing. She was wearing Her jacket, which meant she had Her knife.

It also meant he needed to be worried about Her getting heatstroke.

“You need some ice, sweetheart?” It was an acceptable thing to ask. Sometimes Shirley temples needed ice, and Dean was a bartender.

“No, thank you. If I eat ice, my fingers will get cold. And I won’t be able to hold my pencil.” She gave him a small, pretty smile under Her fluttering lashes. “Thank you, though.”

He couldn’t help himself. “You already thanked me, Princess.”

“Eat my fucking balls.”

Dean had to cough to cover his snort.

At least he got to hear Her voice in something other than a fantasy or nightmare.

“I got confirmation about the cheating.” She continued like nothing had happened, although it felt a little more like she was telling Her napkin rather than Dean. “I talked to a woman who was friends with one of the vics, and apparently she’d been talking about leaving her fiancée for some random new guy.”

Dean frowned. He’d been doing that a lot this week. “And this lady is still on her vacation?”

She shrugged, a small smile tugging on Her lips. “Get your money’s worth, I guess.”

That was all he was getting, it seemed. Maybe all She had.

Dean cleared his throat. “So, uh-“

“Text me.” She gave Dean a soft, dark smile that made his knees weak, and slid Her napkin across the counter.

Those weren’t Her fuck-me eyes. They were a cover, so She could tell him not now, call me later. The napkin didn’t even have one of Her burner phone numbers. It was just a bunch of Enochian, with one specific word-thing repeated over and over.

That night, Dean had one of the older nightmares. A green demon grabbing Her, driving it’s knife right into Her stomach, and Dean unable to move or do anything as She bled out on the motel floor. Then Bobby would burst through the door shouting things that Dean couldn’t hear, but still hurt, before pulling out his shotgun, aiming it at Dean’s head and never pulling the trigger.

The nightmare never ended with Bobby pulling the trigger. Usually they’d just stare at each other for a long time, and Dean would see all his own pain and devastation from Her loss reflected on Bobby’s face, and then—after an eternity—he’d wake up.

And he’d been right.

Dean made the mistake of falling back asleep after hour, and the kiss-death nightmare returned.

This day was the slowest yet. Dean hadn’t seen Sam since they split up this morning, and he hadn’t seen Her all day. He’d been doing nothing but turning over the case in his head, and he didn’t even have anyone to tell his ideas.

He missed Her. He didn’t know how he was going to go another fucking night without Her, he didn’t know how he’d ever gone a night without Her, no wonder Bobby had told him he looked like shit every single day She’d been gone, he wasn’t fucking sleeping-

“Hey.” She dropped onto the stool across from him, almost conjured—maybe they should revisit that angels thing, because what Dean had been doing did feel a little too close to prayer—and Her hair falling over her eyes. “Anything?”

Her voice was a little shaky, but the bar was loud, so Dean pressed on. “Yeah, uh- I was thinking about how they’ve all been cheaters, right? But it’s only been the chicks.”

“That’s… right.” She paused. She still wouldn’t look Dean in the eyes. “Shit.”

“Yeah, and you know the girl that died second day we were here?” He picked up a new glass. He’d gotten better at pretending to be busy. “All her friends were gossiping about stuff, and one of them said that it was real sad she died a virgin.”

She sat up at that. He had Her attention. “What?”

Her voice was definitely shaky. And a little smaller.

Dean would ask Her about it after. “And you told Sam that those ladies said they couldn’t believe the other mister and missus corpse waited so long, and we thought they were taking about like, engagement-“

“But they were talking about sex.” She muttered. “Fuck.”

“Is that, uh, that’s a good fuck, right?”

“Dean.” She whispered, and he wished She would fucking look at him. “I know what we’re hunting. Fuck, it’s, one shouldn’t even be here but maybe that’s the seal, maybe she gamed it and there aren’t any demons or angels because- but I’ve been- Fuck-“

Dean grunted Her name, throwing cover out the window. “Breathe. You’re fine, you’ve got it, and we’ll gank it and go home-“

“No, Dean, it’s-“ She had started to shake Her head, the movement almost frantic, and She was rubbing her wrists like she was trying to scrub something away. “Fuck- It’s a Pink Boto- I should’ve known, they lure in young women and seduce them, then kill their- Fuck-“

This was getting away from them too fast. Dean damned it further, and grabbed Her face between his hands over the bar. She stopped shaking Her head. Her breathing didn’t slow. “Listen, you’re gonna be fine-“

“I can’t remember, Dean, I- Fuck- I don’t know what to do- I need to know what to do- Why can’t I fucking-“

“Cause you’re tired, Sweetheart, we’re all tired-“

“But I- No-“

“Hey.” Dean made his tone firm, and She froze. “Look at me, Princess. Please.”

She slowly glanced up, and Her eyes were a little glossy. Puffed. Red.

She’d been crying.

Dean moved faster than he thought.

He tangled his fingers in Her’s, abandoned the bar—it was a shitty bar anyway, and all their whiskey that Dean wasn’t supposed to be drinking tasted like piss—and pulled Her into a small backroom he’d found on one of his breaks.

“What happened.” He grabbed Her face between his hands, trying to gently angle it so he could find the damage. It was probably on Her body. “Where’s- Shit, I didn’t grab the rubbing alcohol- Stay here and keep it elevated-“

“No- Dean-“ She grabbed his arm before he could move out of the closet, Her eyes wide. “I’m not hurt. It’s just-“ She let out a long, slow breath, and Dean’s heart might have stilled in his chest. “It’s been a long day.”

He nodded slowly. “You gonna tell me about it?”

“I- I can’t.” She whispered. “It’s not that bad, Dean, it’s stupid- I shouldn’t have even, and Sam-“

Dean’s jaw clenched. Sam wouldn’t hurt Her. Even if they lived in a world where Sam didn’t like Her—which he did, the kid fucking adored Her—he cared about Dean too much to hurt Her. They might be fighting about Ruby and the seals, but Sammy was his brother and wouldn’t fucking hurt the only person Dean-

“Sam was trying to help.” She sniffed, and Dean’s fists relaxed. Of course he was. That was good. “But I- Dean, I’m so tired-“

“I know. ” He muttered, letting his hands move back up to frame Her face. “We’re almost done, sweetheart. Then we’ll go home.”

And it was a lie. They both knew it was a lie. They weren’t going to be done. Even if they stopped this seal, there were more. Lilith didn’t seem like the type to roll over and go quietly, and Ruby was still a fucking problem, and She was still something the angels were hunting for insane and cryptic reasons.

Dean hadn’t forgotten what Cas told them.

Her existence heralded danger. Change. Something big, that they’d have to deal with after this.

But they’d deal with it, and She’d still be here.

And Dean would stay at Her side, all the way down. Her shadow however She wanted it, running his thumb down the bridge of Her nose until She relaxed into his arms.

“It’ll be okay, Princess.” Dean muttered, and for Her, he’d believe it.

Even though they had to pull apart, and separate once more. At least they had a name. A better idea of what they were dealing with, so this fight could be done.

But this nightmare was the worst one yet. It was another new one, and Dean didn’t even know what was happening for most of it. There was just a lot of noise, a big crowd, and everything was so fucking colorful. It was like a hurricane, and he was screaming Her name but he couldn’t find Her. She screamed back, but it always echoed around and Dean couldn’t figure out where She was, where did She go, She needed him but he couldn’t find Her-

He burst onto an invisible edge, and started to fall.

Everything was big. Too big. Dean could see a whole lot of the sky, and not much else, and son of a bitch it felt like something was watching him, but She still wasn’t there-

Dean woke up in another cold sweat, and She wasn’t there.

His phone found it’s away into his hand, and he couldn’t stop staring at the little letters of Her name, a promise on his screen. She was just on the other side of a button.

It would be dangerous to call Her. Dean couldn’t call Her. He couldn’t risk it.

He couldn’t take another night of this, and they were always safer together, but the case-

Dean nearly chucked his phone into the wall when it started to buzz.

It was a good thing he didn’t.

Because She’d called him first.

He’d have to have lost his mind to not answer

“Dean?” Her voice was soft over the phone, and he muttered Her name in response.

“Are you-“

“I’m okay. I, um- Can you…” She trailed off, and for a moment it was only static through the phone.

“Sweetheart, I need you to talk for me-“

“I don’t want to- This room is really big.”

Dean froze, shooting a quick look over to Sammy. Dead asleep and comfortable. “It is, huh?”

“Yes.” She whispered. “There’s- I have a minibar. It has the chocolate you like. If you’re hungry.”

“I’m always hungry, Princess.” Dean grinned into the dark. “Parking lot?”

She hummed, Her voice still so soft. “Thank you, De.”

“I know.”

“Say you’re welcome.”

“Bossy-“

“Dean-“

Dean bit down his snort as he pulled on his shoes. “I’m not saying it. I’m not doing this for the thanks,” He drawled Her name, and he could almost hear Her frown.

“Then what-“

“I’m doing it for you.” Dean didn’t let Her respond. He’d said it for himself, and so She’d know. All She needed to do for him was know. “See you soon.”

They didn’t talk about it, when She grabbed his hand in the parking lot and pulled him into the resort hotel. They didn’t speak at all in the elevator, when She wrapped her arms around his body and pressed Her face to his chest. And when Dean moved Her into bed, dropped on the impossibly soft mattress at Her side, he let out a groan that made Her smile.

He could see it in the dark.

Same as he could see Her crawl slowly over to his side, drape Herself cautiously over his body, and settle down like the fanciest, smartest, hottest cat in the world.

Dean could be Her shadow like this. Holding Her through the night without a word, drowning in the smell of fruit, and sleeping easy because She was there. With him.

They never had to talk about it.

As long as She was with Dean, he could make it into enough.

——————

It’s been a weird week.

You might not have been fully yours for half of it. You’ve been the anxiety of all the guns in Bobby’s house, and the exhaustion of all the roads and bridges you drove over, and the heaviness of the ocean right out your window. The Silver is growing and infecting everything, and you can’t control when it decides to want to become the whole fucking universe, or when it slams back into your body. For almost every waking moment you’ve been suffocating in it, the fear that it will hurt something and the terror that—as you rub your wrists and try to just focus the Silver, even without pain—something will hurt you.

You really haven’t been yours at all. All the time.

Almost all the time.

You’ve been yours with Dean.

In the Impala at midnight, bumping his knee and shooting you small grins across diner tables, all but carrying you out of the bar when you get exhausted and your brain starts to get fuzzy. Whenever he’s slept next to you in bed, even if he wasn’t touching you.

And you get that.

You wouldn’t touch you either.

It doesn’t matter how much you want Dean to touch you. How you can’t stop thinking about his lips against yours, about how he tasted a little like coffee and the apple you’d made him eat that morning, but he mostly just tasted like Dean. Salt and spice, sort of earthy, and Dean.

He’d been warm above you. You remember him being so fucking warm and safe above you, and he had touched you like he wanted you—with a lot of rough hands on your skin and soft groans and all his weight pressed over you—but he hasn’t touched you since. Not like that. His hand still rests on your lower back when he guides you around, and sometimes you’ll wake up with his fingers tracing over your stomach like he’s worried your long-gone stitches are going to rip, but he hasn’t touched you.

But it really doesn’t fucking matter how much you want to tackle him and kiss him until you’re both just sunken down to the floor, you can’t.

Rule one is this isn’t about you. Kissing Dean would be about you, not him. Rule two is you can’t overindulge. He thought you were dying, and he kissed you, and you didn’t break anything because Dean kissed you, but you’re not allowed to grab that and run with it. He hasn’t kissed you since, and you’re not allowed to kiss him, so now you’re here.

Loving him. Silently.

And fucking hating this stupid fucking case that’s going to make you fucking stab someone.

You shouldn’t have let Dean talk you into this. But you’d missed him, whenever he and Sam went off on a case without you and you were stuck at home. And it’s not about you if Dean asked you to come.

Plus, you were getting what Bobby called hunter fever.

“That’s not a thing.” You’d muttered when he’d brought it up, and he’d scoffed.

“I ain’t just makin’ it up for shits and giggles, kiddo. It’s real and you’ve got it.”

“I feel fine-“

“No, you fuckin’ don’t.” Bobby had given you a flat look. “You been runnin’ around like a headless dog all week-“

“That’s not the saying.”

Bobby had ignored your mumble, pushing on with narrowed eyes. “You’ve started readin’ on the floor again. You only do that when you’re losin’ your damn mind.“

“I am not losing my mind.” You’d snapped. “I’m trying to figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to do now that we know. What if I start the end of the fucking world? What if my thing is like, the sun explodes, or the moon decides it want to be part of earth again, or- Fuck, what if I kill God-“

“God ain’t real,” Bobby had said your name firmly, dropping down at your side. “And if he is, you’re not killin’ him.”

“But Cas said that Lilith was a Magdalene, and she started demons, and- shit, what if I start something worse than demons? What if I start super-demons?”

Bobby had sighed. “You ain’t gonna start super-demons. We don’t know what your thing is gonna be, but we’ll work it out when it gets here-“

“But what if it’s really bad.” You’d whispered. “He called me the Magdalene. That- I don’t know what that means-“

“I don’t either. And it sounds like Cas don’t have that big a clue either.” Bobby had run a hand over his face, letting out a long breath. “You’re not helpin’ anything by worrying about it. Or doin’ this.”

He’d tapped the papers scattered over the table, all covered in Enochian, and you’d swallowed.

Some of it was just the soul exercise. Trying to map out Bobby’s soul, watching Sam and Dean when they were home and trying to figure out what the hell they were made of. A lot of it was new rituals or attempts to figure out who other Magdalene witches could’ve been—Cas had made it sound like they could be born anywhere in the world, which really didn’t narrow down anything—and an embarrassing amount of it was just trying to figure out how to write Dean’s name.

Your excuse was that writing something on purpose would help you distinguish Enochian in your head.

The real reason was that you loved him, and needed at way to show it where no one else could see.

“When was the last time you went this long without a hunt.” Bobby’s voice had been soft. Cautious.

And you’d sighed. “I’ve never gone this long. You know that.”

“Hunter fever. You’re gettin’ sick of being still and not doin’ shit, and it’s makin’ all this,” Bobby had tapped one of the notes. “Worse.”

“That’s so fucking stupid.”

“Hey,” Bobby had given you a glare, the expression massively undercut by the small smile he was failing to fight. “Don’t be rude, kiddo. Raised you better than that.”

“No you didn’t-“

“Tried to.” He’d shrugged, moving back to his feet. “Not my fault it didn’t take.”

You’d rolled your eyes, glanced down at your chewed up pencil—another new habit, because apparently if you couldn’t bite yourself you had to bite something—and you might have had hunter fever. Between the notes, and the restless itch. settling over your bones, sinking deep and deeper every second, it makes sense. You’ve always been moving until the pain made you drop. Now you can’t move, and goddamnit Bobby really was right.

Hunter fever.

That was a stupid name. You’d told Bobby that, and he’d said that if you come up with a better one he’s all ears, but until then he invented it, so he gets naming rights.

And the hunter fever had only gotten worse, the longer Sam and Dean were on that case. You’d gone to the library and checked out so many history books you’d had to make two trips to get them all in the Firebird. You’ve been watching so many documentaries that Bobby set a three per day rule, and started making you stop between them so you remembered to eat and use the bathroom. You’ve run out of paper to write on, so you’ve switched to pen and started drawing on yourself. It pricks your skin, but it’s better than carving with your knife or nails when the Silver gets set off by nothing and you can’t reign it back in.

And you’ve started to keep track of all the times Dean could’ve kissed you and didn’t.

Every night in the Impala. Whenever he’s been a little drunk and you’ve helped him to bed, letting him hang around your body before pouring the rest of his beer down the toilet. When he’s grinned up at you from the couch, and any time he’s called you Princess, and every waking second where you’re in the same room, and he could grab you and do whatever the hell he wanted to you, and you’d be fine with it because it’s Dean.

It’s most likely for the best that he doesn’t. For so many reasons. You’re dangerous. You’re a Magdalene, and knowing is better than not knowing, but you still don’t fucking know a lot. You’re not exactly stable, and neither is Dean, but letting yourself crash into him isn’t going to make him more stable. It would only make the Spiderweb glow, and fully consume you with Gold, and this isn’t about you. It can’t be about you.

And only a few days before you left for Florida—when Dean was still gone and your room was colder and lonelier—Cas appeared in the middle of your room, the only warning of a glowing sigil on the wall.

He’d said your name with a deep, serious tone, and you’d sighed.

“Hi, Cas.”

“You told me we needed to speak again. About my timing.” He glanced around your room, a small frown pulling at his features. “I am here to do that.”

“I don’t care about your timing.” You’d sighed, moving to lie flat on your back. “That was a cover.”

“A cover over what?”

“Over why I needed to talk to you. It’s a phrase.”

“Oh.” You’d craned your neck up, and Cas blinked at you. “What talk are we covering?”

You’d rubbed at your wrists, lying back down. “Can you sit, please?”

“This body can sit, yes-“ Cas had cut himself off, and you’d let him work through that one himself. “You are… asking me to sit.”

“Yep.”

“I do not need to-“

“Cas. Please.”

You’d expected more resistance. Instead he’d just dropped awkwardly at your side, shifting uncomfortably on the edge of the mattress. “This is... better. Thank you.”

You’d hummed an acknowledgment, squeezing your eyes shut. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me.”

“I cannot promise-“

“You have to.” You hadn’t cared if he could hear the desperation in your tone. “Please.”

Cas had paused for a long moment that was tight over your lungs, then sighed. “Alright.”

He’d folded with such little resistance, again.

That didn’t really feel like a good sign.

“Thanks.” You’d mumbled. “Ready?”

You glanced over to see him staring at you, giving a small nod, and you’d taken a long breath.

“You said I could be what you’ve been waiting for.” You’d muttered, running your thumb over your palm as you spoke. “What does that mean.”

Cas had been silent for a long second, only staring, and you’d briefly wondered if this was what it felt like for everyone else, when you’d look at them and see their souls.

It was a little unnerving.

“When I said that.” He starts, his words slow and measured. “I was not aware of what you were. However, I am… not sure that matters.”

You’d frowned. “What, that I’m a Magdalene? I thought that was the whole thing-“

“You are the Magdalene.” Cas had corrected. “But that is not the… reason, I guess. I was not considering that, when we spoke before.”

“So am I not whatever you’ve been waiting for?”

“No.”

“No, I’m not, or-“

“You are.”

You’d sighed, pushing up on your palms to fully meet his gaze. “Cas. What have you been waiting for.”

“God.”

Maybe you should’ve had a bigger reaction to that. Cas must have noticed the complete neutrality on your face. But even in the safety of your room, where the Sky couldn’t see you, you’d still been able to feel it. The Silver had started to seep out, and you had been the fear of the vines on Bobby’s house, and they had felt the Sky watching them.

So you’d just swallowed, and taken a long, slow breath.

Why not. Between angels and Dean rising from the dead and the Sky, why not have God be a fun, new problem too.

“There will be consequences. For you being the Magdalene. And I do not think even my superiors fully understand them.” Cas paused, holding your gaze. “From what I have found, you have long been thought to be a lie. A sort of… myth, is what you might call it.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about how my kind aren’t real-“

Cas had shaken his head. “Not the Magdalenes. You.”

“Oh.” You’d swallowed, and Cas had sighed.

“That is what I meant, before. It is not the Magdalene in you. It is you.” He’d said your name, still watching you so carefully. “There is something… holy.”

You’d blinked at him. “About me?”

Cas had nodded. “It is more than an angel grace. Or a soul. I have only seen it once, a long, long time ago.”

You’d had a pretty good sense of where this was going, and you really hadn’t wanted to hear it, but you were so tired of not knowing. Of only ever having more questions. “Where did you see it?”

“The only time I met my father.” Cas had muttered, frowning down at you, and maybe he’d been able to see it then. In the dark of your bedroom, at midnight, there was an impossibly high chance that Cas looked at you and saw something holy.

That was more terrifying than anything in the world.

You aren’t holy. You’re barely more than a monster. You’re sick and in pain and exhausted, and you don’t know what looking at you and seeing holy means, but you know it can’t be good.

Nothing you ever do leads to something good.

Dean will never get to know it, but you’re starting to think John really should’ve saved everyone a whole lot of trouble and put a bullet in your brain. You’re making everything harder. You’re not good for anything but hunting, and you can’t even really do that anymore. You’re going to hurt or break or infect something, because that’s what you do, and just because the Darkness is gone doesn’t mean you’re cured. If anything it means you’ve evolved, like a pathogen or bacteria, and now you can press further and further into the world without resistance.

You’re not good for Dean. John was right about that, too. You just take from him—his time and sleep and attention—and you’re not going to leave because you promised, but one day Dean’s going to find someone better for him, who never makes him yell or cry or worry, and they’re going to demand you’ll leave.

It’s another reason you fucking hate this case. It’s full of sweet, pretty women with no scars and toothy smiles, humming syrupy words to Dean, right in-front of you.

And they have no way of knowing that you even know Dean. And he doesn’t even look at them.

But one day he will.

Then you’ll have to live with that.

For now you can cling to how Dean brushes off the better women in favor of giving you small, cocky grins. You can feel the bright, colorful rush of the Spiderweb glowing under his attention. You’re addicted to it.

And God, it’s going to kill you when he finds the woman that makes you leave. Who makes Dean happy, but gets uncomfortable about the weird freak who keeps following him around like they don’t know what else to do—you don’t—and then you’ll have to leave, because Dean loves her and not you.

You already hate her, and it’s not even her fault. She’s not real. She didn’t do anything to you except not be you. You can’t blame her for not having scars littered in odd places across her body, for having the type of softness and experience and ease that Dean deserves. It not her fault she never makes him kill things for her, or forces him to carry her to safety when she loses her mind like some weak fucking problem.

And she won’t depend on him. Not like you do. She won’t be a parasite or leech that wants to wrap around Dean and drench herself in gold. She’ll be able to sleep without him, because she’ll be kind and normal and stable. She’ll never draw her own blood or vomit from grief, because Dean will settle down in a simple, white-picket life with her and forget all about how he ever even considered wanting you.

She won’t be a sickness that’s not strong enough to cure itself. She won’t try to get better, just to make everything so much fucking worse.

Things won’t be complicated with her. She’ll deserve Dean, and all his Gold.

You don’t. You’re not even close to deserving Dean. He never fucking falters, even under all the crushing weight of everything. All the blood on his hands he had to shed, and every worse thing he’s done was because he had to.

Dean was pushed into everything. It wasn’t his fault that John made him hunt. He made that deal to save Sam because he’s a good, selfless man. He broke in hell because anyone would’ve broken in hell, and he’d still held on for so fucking long before he gave in, because he was strong.

You’re not.

You’re just like this.

The first day without him is the worst. You’re alone for most of it, save for when Sam finds you and hands you a towel, the vic records folded into them. He mutters that there’s been no sulfur or temperature drops, and you nod, mumbling an agreement.

You see Dean once. Smiling at a one of those better women from behind the bar.

And his grins goes wide and boyish, the moment he spots you, and it sets off fireworks over the Spiderweb, but you can’t get addicted to that. It’s not going to be permanent.

But it’s not overindulging if Dean’s grinning at you.

So you smile back.

And that night, you try not to think about it too much. About Sam’s words at the bar, when he’d called Dean one of those guys.

You’d known that. You’ve never been bothered by it. He’s never done it in front of you—where it would’ve ripped you in half—and you’d never had a claim over him that could’ve made him stop. It hadn’t mattered that you’d follow him all the way down, or that you love him, or that there’s a whole part of you that just for Dean. You’d never thought there was even a chance of him wanting you like that until that amazing, stupid fucking kiss, so you’d simply forced yourself not to think about it.

It’s all you can think about now. Dean sliding a woman that’s not you his motel card, telling Sam to find somewhere else to hang out for a while, then kissing her. And she’d kiss him back without any fear or anxiety, because she’d know how. She’d have an idea of what could drive him crazy, and he’d fall on his knees for her with only joy on his pretty face, and then they’d-

This is torture. The whole night is fucking torture, because all you can wallow and sink into it the loneliness, and the reminder that Dean deserves better. Someone who will match him.

Not someone he’ll have to take care of and guide through everything.

The morning breaks, and you’re not sure you slept at all.

The second day is worse. You don’t see Dean at all, and there are so many fucking people, everywhere, all the time. You hadn’t realized how fucking horrible that would be until you were in it. There had been a lot of people, on the lich case with Jo. But the only time they’d all been in one, loud place was the last night, and you’d been more focused on Dean. On keeping him safe and alive. You’d almost tethered yourself to him, because as long as he was there and Golden, there hadn’t really been much else to look at.

But then you’d spent those weeks between cases letting the Silver grow and grow, letting Dean soothe it into something easy you didn’t want to fight, and it seems to have bloomed.

You’ve lost control. You can’t remember the world ever being like this in your life—so loud and consuming and overwhelming—and you barely been able to handle it when you were a child, and it was just single colors lined with quickly fading imprints.

Now it’s so much. You’re a little bit everything all the time and there’s so much. Why is there so fucking much. This is worse than the bar, when souls had simply been loud and amplified by the drinks and emotions. At least there you’d still be able to cling to Dean’s Gold, to breathe in the smell of spice and try not to think about how a whole lot of desire was blaring out from all the souls in the bar, directed to where you and Dean had been sitting.

It was a new trick. It had started after the kiss. You can see souls creeping and drifting out of their bodies, trying to latch onto other people. Trying to sink into them. You’d been able to see the redhead’s hot pink, almost bubblegummy-ness aiming over Sam, and it had been fucking sickening and pungent. Not for Sam—all the parts of him that were still purple had been vibrating from the attention—but for you, and you’d needed to get it away from you.

And this is so much fucking worse. There are so many people, so many souls, and twining and burning and washing over each other, and you can still smell Dean’s spice when he’s not here, and you’re going fucking insane.

They found another body, that morning. You didn’t see it, but Sam did, and he said it was ugly. Looked like they got beat up by the ocean, and that some of the staff were whispering about how the girl had been seen cheating before her death.

“I’ll ask around.” You mumble, pretending to be busy with the coffee while Sam takes an impossibly long time to grab the trash. “There’s this group of ladies who have been trying to talk me into going to the beach with them, and I think they knew the vic.”

Sam nods. “I’ll pass it onto Dean.”

You swallow, and the Spiderweb whines. “Tell him I say hi.”

Sam gives you an odd look and his mouth opens, but you walk away before he can speak. You don’t want to hear it. You know Dean wants you, at least enough to kiss you once, but he hasn’t kissed you since.

Maybe it was horrible for him. It was perfect for you, but he’s not in love with you, and he probably has a higher standard for good kisses. He’s hasn’t changed since the kiss, but he hasn’t tried to do it again.

There’s a chance he’s waiting for you to kiss him, to make the scores even. He kisses you once and puts it on the table. You kiss him again and then you get to have him.

You don’t deserve to have him. And you’re not allowed to kiss him first.

“What about you?” One of the women—the ones you’d told Sam about, with long nails you really wish it would be practical for you to have—says your name, and you blink at her.

They’d already confirmed that the girl had cheated, and you’d mostly been tuning out the rest of the gossip after that. It was too colorful, and thinking about Dean was better than drowning in the vastness of the Silver, so you’d just focused on that.

But now you had to participate. You hadn’t been ready to participate.

“What about me?” You ask, throwing on a small, nervous smile and slipping back into your role. Ditzy. You’d told Dean you’d be ditzy.

“A man.” A second woman—Monica? You’re pretty sure her name is Monica—grins at you, leaning back in her chair. “You have one?”

Pretty green eyes and soft hair and full lips and Gold- “No.”

“Oh, come on.” The first woman—Halle? That sounds right—rolls her eyes. “You’re so pretty, babe, you’ve gotta have someone, or there’s no hope for the rest of us.”

“I- I don’t-“

“Is it a girl?” Monica whispers, leaning forward. “It’s okay, you can tell us. We’re like, super chill about that.”

You sigh. “It’s not a girl.”

The last girl—Karen, that one’s easy to remember—grins at you. “So there is someone?”

“No, it’s not- It’s complicated-“

Halle scoffs. “If it’s complicated, he’s an idiot.”

You scowl at that. “No, he’s not-“

“Ha!” Karen grins, and this was a mistake. You should’ve just eavesdropped on their conversation like a normal person. “There is someone! What’s his name?”

“I- I’m not-“ You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to find a way out. “It’s really complicated. There’s like, a lot of moving parts, and we’ve known each other a really long time-“

“Awww.” Monica gives you a sweet smile. “Childhood friends? That’s so cute!”

“No- It’s more-“ You choke on the word complicated. “I have to go.”

Halle shakes her head as you stand up. “No, wait, we’re sorry, you’re just cool and we thought there had to be someone-“

She’s still talking. Still apologizing.

But she grabbed your wrist to stop you from leaving. Right where Ketch had tied you up. Right where the lich grabbed you.

You can’t breathe. The Silver is bursting and burning through the world because no, no, you’re so tired and it hurts and no-

Something shatters, an impossibly large wave sweeps over half the beach, and the wind picks up, ripping through the air like you’re at the top of a mountain.

The women are shrieking in fear, because this shouldn’t be happening, and you run. Not forever. Just until you’re back in your room, staring at your phone and forcing yourself not to call Dean.

Half of that had been you. The shattering and wave had been you.

The wind had been the Sky. It had been watching. And the cold had bitten your skin, and it had been more of a warning to you than a defense for you.

And you’re falling apart. You miss Dean, and it’s worse than when he’d been on a case, and you’d been at Bobby’s. At least you’d been a little useful, there. At least you’d had company, and could think about things that were better women, touching Dean in the dark while you were alone in bed.

Here, you’re useless. You can’t figure out what the hell you’re supposed to be hunting—which is supposed—to be something you’re good at—because it’s all so loud and colorful and you’re not sleeping, and you miss Dean.

Maybe he’s spending this night with another better woman, again. There are plenty to choose from, this luxury resort filled with people to know how to have something and not infect it. And it’s almost Valentine’s day, so they’ll want company, and anyone—whether they can see the Gold or not—should want Dean. Will want Dean.

You torture yourself with that for another night. The idea of Dean in bed with someone else, touching someone else, kissing them the same way he’d kissed you, but this time they go further, and then the next day you’ll see that the rivers of silver had been painted over with another color.

Embedded. Cas had said you were embedded in Dean, and that couldn’t go away easy, but what if it does. What if only a gentle, knowing touch cures Dean of you forever, and it’s that easy, and he leaves.

You’d promised you’d stay, but he didn’t. You both said all the way down, but that was before he kissed you.

It would be smart to want to take it back. To go back to never thinking about that, because you didn’t think it was an option. To not be getting withdrawals from something you never even fucking had, not really.

You know that.

Knowing never helped.

And at least you still have the Gold lingering on your lips. It’s never been there before, and it makes you feel a little like that holy thing Cas had called you.

You really are fucking useless. Staring at mirrors and trying to write Dean’s name in Enochian and imaging that he’ll burst through your door and sweep you away.

It doesn’t help that the wrist thing is looking like it’s here to stay.

The next morning, Sam pulls you into an abandoned room for a meeting.

But he grabs you by the wrist.

And you can’t stop yourself from swinging.

Blind, frantic punches thrown into the air, uncoordinated from exhaustion and landing on nothing, someone is shouting your name but there’s a lot of red in them—red like blood, red like poison—and the fists aren’t enough so you grab your knife and start slashing-

Sam shouts your name, and the blur fade enough for you to know it’s Sam, but then he grabs your wrist to stop the fall of your knife, and the Silver explodes.

There’s a crash, and a ringing in your ears, and-

“Holy- Ow.” Sam stumbles up from the floor, his hands raised in the air and the wall a little dented behind him. “What the hell was that?”

You blink at him, the blur fading, and all that’s in its wake is pain. Pain and a gnawing fucking guilt, because you hurt Sam, why the fuck did you hurt Sam, what’s wrong with you and why can’t you control this without trying to kill yourself-

Sam frowns at you, something softening in his gaze. You don’t deserve how gently he says your name. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I-“ You swallow, drawing yourself up tall and forcing your voice to stay even. “I’m sorry. You startled me. Is your back-“

“It’s fine. I mean, it hurts, but I’ve have worse.” Sam pauses. “Are you sure-“

“What do you need, Sam.”

He stares at you and—in a small mercy—doesn’t push it. Whatever Sam can see on your face, he’s able to work out that now is not the time to talk about how he just touched you, and you tried to kill him.

Sam only sighs, and moves on.

“I think we’re dealing with some sort of sex demon.” He says, shuffling back to your side. “All the vics have been cheating, but every single thing I’ve heard about them makes it sound like they were really in love. There has to be some kind of manipulation going on.”

You nod slowly, letting out a long breath. “How do you know they were really in love? Just online snooping?”

“They did all just get engaged. And I mean, people make mistakes with that sometimes, but it’s usually a sign of… you know.” Sam shrugs. “A future. Together.”

“Okay.” You frown at the air. “You pass it onto Dean, and I’ll keep looking for what the seal actually is, so we can stop it.”

Sam shakes his head. “I, uh- I’ve actually got the seal, too. Bobby called me.”

“Oh.”

“He would’ve called you.” Sam rubs at the back of his neck, and suddenly the air is wired. “But this is- Um, it’s sort of better to have in person.”

You narrow your eyes. He’s being weird. “Sam. What’s the seal.”

“Bobby thinks.” Sam won’t meet your eyes. “Based on some old texts that be found, some of yours, actually-“

“Samuel-“

“It’s making a true love stray.” Sam mumbles, his gaze locked on the floor. “And Bobby’s theory for the murders that none of them have been a true love, so after they strayed, they got.” Sam winces. “You know.”

“Yeah, okay. That’s- It makes sense.” You pause. “Why does that need to be said in person?”

Sam glances up, something cautious in his eyes. “Because you and Dean need to be careful.”

The world stills a little, like a heart murmur, but you must have just heard him wrong. “What.”

“You and Dean.” Sam mumbles. “Any two people with, um, strong emotions are in danger.”

“Sam.” You keep your words slow and careful. You can’t really hear them over the ringing in your ears. “They’ve been targeting engaged couples. Dean and I are-“

“You’re really obvious!” Sam almost shouts, and you flinch like he’d stabbed you.

“No.” You whisper, shaking your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach, and the Silver isn’t even growing. This isn’t a danger to it.

It should be. You’re a danger to Dean.

“Sam, we’re just- I’ve told you-“

“Jo told me about the kiss.” Sam’s voice is gentle. You’re going to claw out your own eyes. “And I know you guys are dealing with other things, but you’re not just friends. And I- I’m sorry,” he mutters your name, and a little bile creeps up your throat. “But I knew a long time before that. You guys are obvious, and I’m not trying to tell you want to, you know, do about it. But you have to be careful.”

No. You don’t. Dean doesn’t love you, but you’ve never even looked anywhere but him and the Gold and that deep life in his eyes, so not only is Sam wrong, he’s cruel.

Dean doesn’t want you like that, and if he loves you, it’s not the truest love. It can’t be. You’re you, and you’re a danger, and you’ve never brought him anything but extra work, screams of his name, and your own tears for him to eat.

You can’t live on tear and names. You could—you could conquer the world if Dean offered you tear and your name from his lips—but nobody sane and easy can. Dean will live off of good food from a better woman.

And you’ll die with the Sky watching you, alone in that high, cold, lonely place it had promised you when you were young.

“Sam.” You whisper, your hand wrapping around your throat on an old instinct, but the Silver still dormant in your body, because it’s lined with the Spiderweb, and the Spiderweb loves the idea of Dean’s love. “Please don’t say that.”

He says your name, and it’s gentle again. You think you’re choking on the air.

“Don’t-“

“I’m really not trying to push you guys to do anything.” Sam’s voice is almost desperate. “I just- I can’t lose you both again. This demon is taking the couples-“

You make a weak sobbing sound, and Sam catches his mistake.

“Pairs, it’s taking the pairs and if you both go, I don’t know- Shit-“ Sam pleas your name, moving to reach for you, and you take a step back.

“I- I’m going to go tell Dean.” Your voice is strained, and you don’t care about the irony of your own words. “Bye.”

You’d promised Dean you wouldn’t run.

You haven’t promised Sam fucking shit.

And you were running to Dean. You didn’t care if that made you a hypocrite, or liar, or a whore. You needed to see him, because it made the Silver feel good, and the world manage because you could cling to Dean’s Gold, and know it was going to be okay.

Then you break twice. Once at the bar, when you were supposed to be working, but Dean needed to calm you down because it was all too fucking much and you’re useless. Then again when you caved and called him, just to hear his voice—overindulging—and ended with him wrapped around you in bed.

You’d slept. Well. Easily. And Dean looks peaceful, in the shifting light of dawn, starting to break through the windows.

He’s perfect. The newer, stronger Gold seems like molten lava in the morning light, but it’s still not fire. And it’s moving rapidly through his body like air, but it’s not. And there a power to it like water, and strength to it like earth, but it’s never enough of one and far too much of the others for you to pin it down.

You don’t really need to pin it down.

It’s Dean.

You love him all the same.

He tries to hold onto you, when you twist to get out of bed. He makes a cute, disgruntled sound, and tugs you right back into his body before you know what’s happening.

It takes ten minutes for you to slowly swap yourself with one of the pillows. And you don’t want to leave—it might be a dream, to just stay where Dean is holding you for the rest of your life—but you need to think. And you can’t do that when a big, warm hand is spread over your stomach again, and Dean’s breath is hot on your neck.

Your thoughts had kicked back into gear, after Dean calmed you down yesterday. And you’d made some connections.

Connections you’re going to have to tell Sam and Dean about, because they mean you’re good. You can gank the Boto Monster and fuck off. Go home. You don’t even have a seal to deal with.

And you’re going to have to find a way to convince them of that without the truth.

Because under no fucking circumstances can you actually say the truth.

Dean had said the first vic was a virgin, and it had hit you in small, fragmented pieces you’d strung together in the hours after.

Sam had been wrong about the sex demon. This has to be a Pink Boto. You’d hunted one, while you were in Brazil, and this is their exact MO. Make a young, virgin woman cheat on her partner. Then kill them both, with symptoms similar to drowning. You’d remember how to spot one, too. They’d be in a human form of their choice, designed to lure the woman in, but they’d always wear a hat. Their true forms were pink dolphins—botos—and they could shift however they wanted, but they could never get rid of their, so they’d have to cover it. With a hat.

And that was great. Simple.

It also wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that Lilith brought the boto here, to make the true love stray.

True. Not pure.

The seal won’t care about any virgins. But the boto will. It will target them, smell it on them, fucking see it. The same way that they can sense when humans have emotional bonds, so they can sniff out couples.

At least, that was how it had been explained to you, in Brazil.

It was how they’d assured you.

You were single.

You wouldn’t be a target.

And this is where Sam was right. You and Dean were in danger. You were the target. Lilith brought the boto here because she needs the seal broken, and she knows about your love for Dean, and she probably fucking knows about you. The other deaths haven’t been about the seal. It’s just been the boto feeding. You and Dean have been the endgame from the start.

The good news, you decide as you sit alone on the beach, your toe right on the edge of the water as the sun climbs into the sky, is that Lilith is fucked. You’ve really never even thought about anyone but Dean. Not like that. You missed the window of experimentation in your teens, met Dean at eighteen, and then there was just no fucking point to anyone else. It was Dean. It’s always been Dean. All the way down.

It’s not saving yourself, because that makes you sound fucking pathetic, like a midwestern church girl who won’t show Her ankles because Jesus will get mad. You just don’t think about it, if it’s not Dean. And it’s not like anyone else has ever really looked at you.

That was your first kiss.

You are never going to fucking tell Dean that.

And you’re staring down at the sand—at the water slowly climbing over your ankles—when you hear him clear his throat behind you. “Hey, sweetheart. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Sorry.” You mutter, not looking up from the sand. “I should’ve texted. I just needed to- you know.”

“Yeah. I do.” You hear the sand shift at your side. He’s sitting down. “Just got worried. I mean, woke up. You weren’t there. Damn near ripped up the room looking for you.”

That gets a small smile. “You think I was going to be under the couch, Deano?”

“No. I’m just saying I was worried. Don’t run off like that.”

There’s a long, heavy silence, and something is wrong. The air is wired and tense, and it’s never like that with Dean. And the Silver isn’t exploding, but it’s not soothed.

“I’m sorry.” He mutters suddenly, and it really sounds like Dean, but you’re still staring at the sand. “I just got worried, you know? You shouldn’t be out here, the sun is barely even up.”

Dean would be worried. But he wouldn’t say it like… that.

You suddenly really don’t want to look at him. He’s rubbing strong circles on your back but they’re only making your breathing labored. He’s right at your side, but you don’t feel any of Dean’s gravity.

But it sounds like Dean.

And you’re frozen.

“Don’t be mad at me.” Dean’s voice hums, close to your ear, and you squeeze your eyes shut. You feel fucking sick. “You know I love you, baby. Let’s go back to bed.”

Baby.

Dean only calls his car Baby.

But that was his voice. Calling you Baby. It’s echoing around in your head, and you can’t fucking breathe, and you have to open your eyes.

It looks like Dean, too. Pretty features and a boyish grin and green eyes, it’s skin a little more tanned, but only in a way that’s noticeable to someone who’s insane and in love with him.

You don’t need to rip its stupid baseball cap to know it’s not Dean.

It’s not Golden.

And you can still hear it, as you explode.

Baby. You know I love you, baby.

You’re scrambling back, as the Silver presses into the boto. And it not killing it. Not simply sucking up its life and throwing its soul into wherever monsters go after they die.

You’re eliminating it. The same way you’ve eliminated Hell’s Assassin’s.

But you’ve never done it to something with a functioning soul again. A soul you can see. Sense.

Hear.

Those aren’t the screams of the boto, when it’s turned into pure fucking nothing.

It’s the soul. Begging you for mercy.

Baby.

There’s a last, weak sound, and then the boto is gone.

You fall flat on your back, and stare at the Sky.

It stares back.

You can’t fucking breathe. The tide is starting to rise, but you can’t fucking move, and you can’t tell what salt is your own tears and what’s the ocean.

And the Sky is just fucking watching.

Dean roars your name, somewhere down the beach. And that’s how your Dean roars your name, and the Spiderweb is glowing, and he’s Golden when he appears over you like some sort of knight, sent to save you from the monster in the water.

You’re the monster in the water. If Dean’s a hero—and he is—he should let you fucking drown.

But he doesn’t. He’s perfect, so he scoops you into his arms with only a grunt and carries you away from the beach.

When you look over his shoulder, there’s not even a fucking body. It’s like the boto never even existed at all.

“You’re okay.” Dean’s muttering in your ear as he sets you down somewhere with flowers and a small marble waterfall. “Son of a bitch, Princess, you can’t just fucking disappear. I- You weren’t there and I fucking thought- Godamnit-“

Dean grabs your face between his hands, starting to wipe the linger saltwater from your cheeks. You’re blinking at him. In a firm pattern on once, over and over, trying to tell him everything is wrong. But he’s too focused on checking you for injury to see. And that’s how your Dean would be worried.

Touching you so carefully while shouting at you with a distress you can hear.

You sob before you can stop yourself, and Dean’s eyes widen.

“Fuck, wait-“ He pulls you right back against his body, walking backwards until his back is pressed to a white-brick wall, and you’re still held in his arms.

He wants to be able to see anything coming. He’s trying to keep you safe.

Your tears start to flow.

“No- shit- Don’t cry, Princess, you’re okay, it’s okay, you’re- Fuck-“

Dean’s thumb starts to run down the bridge of your nose, over and over until you’re almost slumped against him.

It’s peaceful here. Against Dean. Warm and safe. Home.

And exhaustion is already starting to pull you down, but you can still hear it.

Baby.

“Talk,” Dean mutters your name, brushing away the hair that’s been stuck to your brow. “Shit, I- I need you to talk, I can’t fucking do anything if you don’t tell me what happened, why the hell were you drowning yourself-“

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, and Dean stares at you.

He thinks you’re sorry because of the vanishing act and state he’d found you in.

He’s wrong.

You need to know. Just in case this is a more sophisticated trick, or a dream, or the last chance you ever get. Just in case the angels swoop down and try to take you, or the earth opens up and Dean’s dragged back to Hell, you need to know. It’s selfish and unforgivable, but you need it. You need Dean.

Baby. I love you, baby.

“You’re-“

Dean words are cut off as your hands fist in his shirt, and you yank him down into a kiss.

He responds immediately. Dean deepens the kiss in half a second, pulling you somehow closer. Like there wasn’t ever a question of if he would.

And you know.

But you don’t hate yourself enough to pull away.

This isn’t like the first kiss. You’d both been moving through that like you were afraid it would be ripped away at any moment.

Now you’re both moving like you know it’s going to be ripped away, and you refuse to waste one fucking second.

It’s violent. Heavy and hot and wet, open-mouthed with Dean’s tongue down your throat and his lip between your teeth. Your nails scratch at his back and shoulders as he flips you around, pinning you between his body and the wall. And he’s still touching you so carefully—like he’s afraid you’ll break—but there’s no hesitation when one hand grips your waist hard enough to bruise, before trailing down and under your shirt-

A million fucking sparks set off when Dean’s knuckles touch the bare skin of your hips. Your back arches as he groans and massages your waist, and you’ve stared to grind up into him without thought, because he’s Golden and made of gravity and you want him to devour you. To touch you wherever he wants until you’re painted in Gold, to kiss you until you’re just putty like this, forever. Tended to and touched and without any fucking pain, there’s no fucking pain because Dean’s too good to have pain.

There can’t be pain when you’re safe against his body. Nothing can exist but Dean kneading at your skin under your shirt, and moaning your name against your lips when you press against something big and hard, poking right at your hip-

Dean pulls away with a grunt, both of you gasping for breath, and your brow drops to his shoulder.

He just smells like spice, now. And you can taste it, too.

You love him.

You’re not allowed to say it.

So instead you wrap your arms around his shoulders, clinging to him like there won’t be any consequences. Any prices to be paid.

There will be.

You’ll live with them.

“Dean?” You whisper in his ear, and his hum of response rolls through your whole body. “I- I took care of it. Can we please go home?”

You’re ready for him to push back. To ask what took care of it means, and tell you that you need to be sure, and consult Sam, and you can sit the rest of it out, but you can’t leave just yet.

Instead Dean just sighs, running his fingers through your hair, and nods.

“We can do whatever you want, Princess.”

You want him. You’ve only ever wanted Dean.

But it doesn’t matter what you want.

You’ll have whatever the fuck Dean offers you.

And if it’s love, you’ll rip the Sky in half to keep it.

End Note: Okay so I made her a virgin because let’s be so fr, she’s impressively oblivious about that stuff, AND she was not about to get laid when big emotions made things blow up. We’re lucky Dean didn’t kiss her when she was still suppressing her powers. Girlie would’ve blown up the moon about it.

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

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mamawasatesttube · 2 days ago

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Between Tim and Kon who makes the first move?

honestly for me it varies! i slightly tend towards it being tim, but not always. but in a very specific way, i.e. it's a very gradual melt right on into a relationship, and tim is the one who goes hey. wait a minute. this feels like A Relationship.

at first, saying it'd be tim is probably surprising, since tim has a history of NOT making the first move across his comics - we don't actually see how he and ari get together, but steph chases after him and repeatedly states her interest in him before they ever get together; tim is the one who asks zoanne out, but only after she kisses him and then runs away. then tam once again is the one to ask him if he's interested in her (and, i mean, if you count lynx ii, she's always the one initiating things getting physical and making out with him, but they also literally never talk about it, so i don't entirely really count her as a serious tim love interest).

on the other hand, while kon of course has been a flirt since he was decanted from his tube, a lot of it was very performative and he's only actually ever been in three relationships, two of which were instances of abuse and grooming. given how introspective he gets after his resurrection, and how much less sure of himself he is in general, i tend to believe this is where he starts actually unpacking all his relationship trauma and internalized homophobia. i think actually accepting that he is gay and not actually interested in women is a very jarring thing for him, and accepting that he was groomed and abused is also very difficult, and it takes him a while.

because of that, i think he ends up a) confused about what romance actually feels like, and b) very tentative about dating for a while. he wants deep connection - he was genuinely in love with knockout, and he thought she loved him too; he thought tana would be part of his life forever, and his devotion to cassie was notable even before they actually dated. but deep connections are hard to make with people you don't know well, and by the time he's around 19-20 i think he's kind of struggling with the idea that he's not gonna get what he's looking for in casual relationships, but also the idea of being in Gay Love with one of his best friends is terrifying, because he's not good at identifying what being in love feels like, so he kinda talks himself out of it. "this is comfortable and easy so it must not be romance, this is just really good friendship, because romance feels like walking a tightrope. right? haha. right??" and all that.

and then moreover, i think tim really sits on the fact that he's bisexual for a long time. not because he's trying to hide it, but because he's just so intensely private about things that bother him, and he's got some jack drake shaped Internalized Issues in his head to work through about what it means to be transmasc and to like men (i.e. a voice that sounds suspiciously like a conservative dad putting in one single ounce of effort re: understanding queer relationships is in the back of his head going "but you'd be the girl in the relationship if you dated a man, right?" and tim has to take several deep breaths and figure out how to unpack that before he's ready to even think about admitting out loud that he's interested in guys too, even to himself, let alone to anyone else).

so for a hot second kon's just out there going "i like men but it doesn't matter because i'm never going to fall in love with someone that really truly wants me and loves me as deeply as i'd love them, and i'd be miserable about that except that i'm just pretty satisfied being bffs with tim :) i feel at ease when he's around and he makes me laugh and i just like being near him and watching him work on gadgets or listening to him ramble about cars or letting him sleep on my shoulder. i know it's not romantic because i feel so safe and comfortable, but i'm happy with it, whatever it is. and if i think he's hot, well, that's just because he is hot. everyone knows that!" guy who pretty much is already tim's boyfriend but he hasn't noticed that yet because they're both kind of stupid and also insanely devoted to each other in the same way, so they both go "yeah this seems normal for us" and kon really doesn't question it that hard.

meanwhile tim is the guy to whom labels and boxes matter a lot more, so he's the one who sits back one day and goes, wait. oh my god. i'm in love with kon. and then he has to steeple his index fingers and interlace the others and press his hands to his face in deep, deep thought. he's in love with kon, and realizing that makes a lot about his life suddenly make a lot of sense, because seriously - a hundred clone attempts, changing robin to be red and black, making out with cassie because he missed kon so much - okay, okay, yeah, he sees it now, okay, so maybe he's been in love with kon for years at this point and never actually realized it, that's fine, this is fine, he's FINE, he's NOT freaking out or overthinking--

anyways. after freaking out and overthinking and brooding on a rooftop for four to seven business days (not all at once, of course, but he gets his hours in), he finally goes to kon and jabs his finger into his chest and goes "Hey. Are we dating?"

and kon stares at him for a second with a loading circle spinning over his head. claps his hand over his mouth. inhales sharply like a dying fish. claps his other hand over the first hand. starts floating a few inches off the ground in pure agitation.

"Oh my god, Tim," he says, his eyes as wide as dinner plates and his voice an octave higher than usual. "Are we dating?!"

"I think so," Tim says, and narrows his eyes. "I mean, if we're not, maybe we should be. Pizza and a movie tonight?"

and kon clearly goes through A Whole Process in his head (working through the "wait, dating is comfy and chill and happy and easy?!" crisis in real time), but ultimately goes "okay!!! yeah!! okay!!! let's do that!!! wow!!!!" because, hey. he would love to hold hands with tim while watching the sunset and eating hipster san francisco pizza.

and that's how they end up sitting on the floor by the coffee table in the titans tower common room, eating pizza, and poring over a calendar + their text message history to try and figure out when, exactly, their anniversary is. ("okay, so when we went on that picnic in april, was that a date?" "i think so. alright, so it has to be before april, but after valentine's, because you made a joke about being single here, see? so we're looking at somewhere in march. "okay, but we did do 'palentine's' together, so does that really count??" "fuck, you're right, that totally was a date too. uh...")

#answers #evathotz #timkon #tim #kon #the best friends to lovers slow melt is just everything to me #where the devotion and the affection are already so real that the lines between ''best friend'' and ''lover'' blur really hard #the only thing that changes after they Start Dating Officially™ is that they add more physical affection to their routines #but like tim was already stealing kon's clothes and sighing dreamily because they smell like him #and kon was already reorganizing tim's kitchen and insisting he get a ceramic rooster for good luck #i am just firmly of the belief tim's been in love with kon for so long it takes him forever to NOTICE it #his love for kon is like the sky. it's so big that it's just always there. it's eternal. it's huge but it's always in the background.#how often do you actually stop and look at the sky and take in the fact that it's a huge layer of gas refracting light to appear blue?#he doesn't analyze what KIND of huge amount of love he feels for kon. he just loves him so so so much that living without him is unbearable #it's only when he sits back and analyzes it that he goes wait. wait a minute. wait. fuck. i want to climb him like a tree. FUCK #and then he's like. well surely everyone who looks at kon thinks that. i mean. look at him. he's gorgeous #but he doesn't JUST want to climb kon like a tree. he also wants to cradle him tenderly in his arms and make him giggle #he wants to go furniture shopping with him and bicker about curtain colors #he wants to steal all of kon's sweaters not just for the cozy factor but also so kon goes ''seriously?'' and then pulls them off him #he wants to take kon to fancy restaurants and watch his face light up when he tries new things and finds out he loves them #he wants to hold kon's hand and take long meandering walks on the beach and ohhhh noooooo #oohhhhh nnoooooooooo he's in love with kon ohhh nooo he's head over heels in love with kon.#WHAT is he supposed to do now!!!!! AAAAAAA #and the answer is brood by a gargoyle for 4 - 7 days (cumulatively).#meanwhile kon's just out here like wow this is great i love friendship :) tim in my clothes yay yippee yay yay yippee yay wahoo yay #<- his ass has NOT unpacked the fact that romantic relationships are supposed to feel good #its a whole thing <3

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zou-rs · 3 days ago

Text

A late night grocery run

Warnings : fluff

Summary : a rainy night , midnight and weird pregnancy cravings .

The soft sound of rain dripped outside the tall glass windows of their new, fancy apartment in D.C.

It was almost midnight, and she was curled up on the big, cozy sofa in the living room, wearing one of Leon’s old hoodies — the one that reminded her of his academy days years ago.

With one hand scrolling through her phone watching oddly satisfying snack videos, and the other rubbing slow circles on her swollen belly, she was almost seven months pregnant now. It felt like she was carrying a giant watermelon, if you asked her. Despite the back pain, nausea, and puffy face, she was oh so grateful to be right here, right now.

She never cared much for children back when she was a teen, living in a crappy apartment with her sweet boyfriend (yes, of course it was Leon), but now, after they’d suffered through years of pain and trauma, a child from the man she’d loved since she was a kid was all she wanted.

She was so into her thoughts and the videos that she didn’t realize Leon had stepped out of the shower. He was now walking toward her, wearing only sweatpants, blessing her with the sight of his muscular arms, chest, and abs — bare and still slightly damp.

He grinned as he sat beside her on the sofa, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

“I see you stole my hoodie again, leaving me all shirtless on this cold night,” he murmured in a low, hoarse voice — rougher now, raspier, so different from the boy who used to babble cheerfully all day.

“Well, it’s comfy. And it smells like you. Besides, your son demands it,” she said playfully.

At that, he softened. He chuckled and placed his hand gently on her belly.

“Hey there, little guy.”

He rested his head on her shoulder and peeked at her phone.

“What is this? Chocolate-covered pickles? Baby, what is this crap?”

His adorably horrified expression nearly made her burst out laughing. She kissed his chin dimple and said, “First of all, don’t come near me with that damp hair—hey!”

He shook his head like a puppy, scattering little water droplets onto her. She gasped.

“Leon! Fine, then. I was gonna be merciful, but now I won’t be.”

He grinned. “Oh yeah? And what devious plans do you have for me, my love?”

She got a mischievous but sweet look on her face.

“Um… so, about those chocolate-covered pickles. Your son craves them. He says if he doesn’t have them right now, he’ll be mad and kick me all night long. You wouldn’t want me to suffer, would you, baby?”

She batted her lashes at him with false innocence. Leon sighed, because he was — and always had been — a sucker for her.

“God, sweetheart, it’s almost midnight. And it’s raining…”

She gave him the full puppy eyes. He melted.

“Fuck. Fine, fine. I guess I could make a run to the grocery store.”

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, they were both dressed in soft hoodies and pajamas, walking hand-in-hand through the chocolate aisle of the grocery store.

She held her belly with one hand and Leon’s bigger hand with the other. He pushed a cart full of chocolate and jars of pickles with his free hand.

“Sweetheart, do you need anything else? Let’s get you some healthy snacks for you and the baby. This stuff is gonna hurt your tummy…” he muttered, eyeing the pickles like they were radioactive.

She laughed. “Actually, baby… I’ve been craving vanilla ice cream with red pepper powder.”

Leon looked so horrified she actually cackled.

“What? Baby, no!”

⸻

An hour later, they were curled up on the sofa again, listening to the steady rhythm of raindrops. She happily munched on a thick pickle coated in chocolate and chocolate chips, groaning in bliss.

“Ugh, this is so good. Here, baby, take a bite,” she said, shoving the thing in front of his mouth.

He was about to fiercely decline — but the hopeful, excited look on her face stopped him. He opened his mouth and took a bite. For a second, he almost gagged… but when he saw her eyes light up, he softened, swallowed, and smiled.

“I love it, baby.”

She squealed and said smugly, “See! I told you it’s delicious!”

She kissed him, leaving a little smear of chocolate on his lips. He paused, licking it clean, then chuckled softly and shook his head at his crazy, beautiful wife.

⸻

( I don’t know if anyone is reading this lol but this literally my first time writing anything and English is not my first language so .. sorry if it’s cringe or anything 😭)

#leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #resident evil #re4 remake #fanfiction

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ceoandslutler · 3 days ago

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do you have any idea what that stare rodney gave o!c's cane and shoes was about? i'm totally stumped on it and can't find anybody speaking about it unless i'm blind and my tl is bare cos i'm not following the right people, and i thought maybe i was related to sizing up sebas' efforts as a servant but i don't know... it's just a very condescending look period like why the side eye... ungaggggg...

AHHH I THINK I KNOW WHY

i have been thinking about it a lot recently actually.

WHY DID RODNEY STARE AT CIEL IN CHAPTER 214?

the glaring is directed towards ciel's accessories, his shoes and his cane. not ciel himself.

every time these features specifically were focused on, it is to remind us ciel is a child. for example chapter 2, the old man calls ciel a child while delivering the cane.

his demeanour towards joker/doll completely changes once he's dressed. joker sardonically points out that ciel truly is a noble once ciel is dressed and acts like a noble and doll doesn't initially even believe o!ciel is lord phantomhive bc she's so used to his circus disguise.

elizabeth's big character moment in the campania points out o!ciel's attire as aiming to look older.

when he runs towards sebastian in the green witch arc, at the end of his run when he finally screams sebastian's name, he's adorned with...

his hat and heels (but no cane, he's running lol)

honestly? i think these panels are supposed to be showing us how these things make ciel who he is (his identity) for example art book 4 has these cool collages which represent sebastian and ciel.

o!ciel's includes his eyepatch (contract), his earrings (scars of that night- his ear was pierced to put a price on him), his ring (his family/role as watchdog), a teacup (ties in with the teapot on sebs side) and honey (symbolising his night terrors/on going trauma)... but there's also his cane, hat and shoes- all of which he has on right now in the story. it's interesting, while sebastian has his knife and fork, ciel doesn't have his gun. instead, it is his clothes—these are what he uses as "weapons" so to speak. with them, he appears older and visibly seen as nobility. his front to protect himself.

while for sebs it's his gloves (contract), his watch (which can symbolise a lot of things actually... mainly that his time as sebastian the butler is finite. eventually it will run out), his head butler pin (his role as butler, it used to be tanaka's and we know how important it is thanks to the murder arc), the teapot (maybe to match the teacup, he is serving the tea after all), a cat (akin to the honey on ciel's side, it is what brings him comfort, as seen by his response to see one after he was kicked out of the music hall by blavat)... and finally the knife and fork which are his weapons.

ciel's identity/weaponry/relationship with sebastian are intrinsically tied to the clothes he wears. rodney looking at it implies that he will challenge ciel's identity, weaken him or aim to cause the deterioration of his relationship/contract with sebastian.

other possible reasons is simply to show how much the hotel personalises the experience of each guest (by examining them closely), foreshadowing how creepy rodney will be towards o!ciel, etc...

OR HE COULD BE WONDERING WHY THEY'RE BRAND NEW!!!

sebastian ordered a full set!! unprovoked, without being asked to. it's a "i believe in you" moment, akin to the public school arc one:

sebastian always sends an order off to nina whenever he wants to express genuine support for ciel. but rodney doesn't know that. we also don't know how he managed to make good on the bill, he either used his own pocket money (which we know he has since he gave some to finny in one of the earlier chapters in volume 2, i believe)

or he managed to convince nina that o!ciel will pay her later (which is equally possible). whatever he did, he got a fugitive good-quality clothes from his usual tailor; rodney might be curious about that.

i hope this helped, anon 💜🩶

#especially if rodney is a demon #or a supernatural #it might be 'why is this guy doing the most for this little shithead' type of stare #not really a ship post #but you can take it that way #this is an analysis on the fits and objects more than the characters #sebastian michaelis #ciel phantomhive #character analysis #kuroshitsuji meta #kuroshitsuji #black butler #chapter 214 #syanalyses

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twistedheartsclub · 2 days ago

Text

Badge Of Control Male X Female Reader

⚠️ Warnings: non-consensual touching, sexual assault (implied), psychological abuse, stalking, authority figure manipulation, gaslighting, forced intimacy, grooming, trauma response, dissociation, domestic violence (referenced), coerced engagement. This is a work of fiction. The portrayal of law enforcement in this story does not represent real officers or the profession as a whole. It is purely for dark fictional narrative purposes.

A/N: I AM making a tag post if you wish to be tag in future stories please respond here <-

Everyone in town knew Officer Grayson Wolfe.

He had a presence that couldn’t be ignored—tall, broad-shouldered, always dressed in a perfectly pressed uniform, gun resting at his hip like it belonged there. The silver in his hair only made him look sharper, more dignified, like age had refined him instead of softened him.

He was everywhere.

At the high school football games, he stood tall on the sidelines, barking commands and clapping players on the back like he was still one of them. The boys loved him. Their parents trusted him. On Sundays, he knelt in the front pew of the church alone, head bowed, hands folded in reverence. At the grocery store, he helped elderly women load their bags with a smile. At the town fair, he shook every hand, posed for every photo, always looking like the man every mother hoped their daughter would marry—or avoid disappointing.

People adored him. Worshipped him, even.

“Solid man,” they’d say. “A real role model. Damn shame about his wife.”

Everyone knew the story. She’d left him five years ago—cheated on him, they said, packed her bags in the night and disappeared without a trace. Some said she ran to the city. Others hinted at something darker, but never too loudly. Not with Wolfe always nearby. Always watching.

Lately, it was her he’d been watching.

It started subtly. A smile that lingered too long. A hand that brushed her arm when it didn’t need to. A few too many “coincidental” run-ins—at the diner, the library, outside her apartment. And when he spoke to her, there was something in his tone that didn’t match his words. Like a warning dressed as a compliment. Like a man who’d decided something—and expected her to fall in line.

Grayson Wolfe had already made up his mind about her.

And no one was going to stop him.

Y/N had always been the quiet type.

At twenty-five, she was in her second year of teaching at the elementary school—the same one she’d once attended, now standing at the front of a classroom instead of behind a desk. After a few years in the city chasing something bigger, she’d come home. Said it was temporary at first, but then her mother’s smile softened something in her, and she stayed.

It made her mother happy, especially after her father passed. It felt like the right thing. And Y/N had always done the right thing.

She lived in the same small house she grew up in, still hung laundry outside on Sundays, still folded programs at church with the older ladies who’d known her since birth. She wasn’t flashy or loud. She didn’t drink, didn’t date, didn’t stay out late. Her world was small, structured—early mornings, lesson plans, parent conferences, potlucks, and PTA meetings. She brought casseroles to funerals. Volunteered at school dances. Organized bake sales.

People admired her. Thought she was sweet. Responsible. Safe.

They called her “a good girl.”

Some said she was wasting her youth. Others whispered that maybe she was still grieving. But no one really asked her. They were content to keep her in her box—small-town golden girl, reliable and pure.

Grayson Wolfe watched her like something holy. Like something breakable.

And Y/N, as kind and careful as she was, had no idea how dangerous it was to be noticed by a man like him.

Grayson had known of her, of course.

Everyone did. Y/N had been the quiet, polite girl in the back pew—always with her parents, always dressed modestly, always helping someone. When she left for the city, most figured she’d disappear like the others her age. But she came back.

And he noticed her—really noticed her—the first time she stepped out of her mother’s car that morning last spring, fresh-faced and soft around the edges, carrying a tray of cupcakes into the school.

She wore a long skirt that caught the wind and a cardigan pulled tight around her, her hair pinned back like she hadn’t meant to draw attention to herself. But she had. She always did. Not with her body, but with her goodness—that kind of small, radiant warmth that made men look twice. That made him look twice.

Grayson had pulled up beside the school in his cruiser, just to check on things—he told himself. She hadn’t even looked in his direction. She was laughing with the secretary, brushing flour off her cheek with the back of her hand.

She didn’t see the way he stared. Didn’t feel how long he sat there in his idling car, fingers tightening on the wheel.

That was the first time.

But the craving came later.

It was a week before summer break. He’d gone to speak at the school, part of some local “community heroes” program. She was there, seated near the front with her students. She wore a blue dress—soft fabric, high neckline, delicate sleeves. A gold cross hung at her throat.

He spoke to the kids. But he only looked at her.

And when she met his eyes for the briefest second—nervous, polite, nothing more—something inside him shifted. Snapped. A sweet, trembling sort of hunger bloomed in his chest. A need. Not just to look at her.

To have her.

To be the one to teach her what the world was really like. What men like him were really like. She didn’t even know what kind of danger she invited just by existing.

That night, he sat alone in his dark kitchen, replaying the way she’d smiled at a child, the way she’d nodded respectfully when he passed. That smile. That softness.

His hand curled around his glass. He hadn’t touched a woman since his wife left. But this wasn’t about sex.

It was about ownership.

And Grayson Wolfe had just decided that sweet little Y/N belonged to him.

The sun was low when Y/N stepped outside, the weight of another school day settling in her shoulders. She had a stack of graded papers tucked under one arm, her hair pulled into a loose bun, a soft blouse clinging to her from the early summer heat. Most of the kids were gone by now, the buses long disappeared. Only a few straggling parents stood near the front office, chatting quietly.

She didn’t notice the cruiser parked near the curb until she was almost to her car.

“Miss Y/L/N.”

The voice was smooth, deep, and too familiar. She turned quickly, startled, blinking against the sun.

Officer Wolfe stood beside his patrol car, sunglasses in hand, gaze steady on hers. He smiled. Not a wide smile—just a slow, practiced tug at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh,” she said, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear. “Good evening, Officer Wolfe.”

“Evening,” he echoed. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Just saw you walking out and thought I’d say hello.”

She shifted her books slightly, suddenly hyperaware of the low neckline of her blouse, the sweat at the back of her neck. “That’s kind of you.”

He moved closer, just a step, slow and casual. “How’s the second year treating you?”

She smiled politely. “Better than the first. Still learning a lot.”

“I bet those kids adore you.” He said it like a fact, not a compliment. “You’ve got that...warmth. Gentle voice. I’ve had teachers like that. Ones you don’t forget.”

Her smile faltered for a moment. “That’s very kind of you.”

“I meant it,” he said, eyes sweeping over her—not with lust, not overtly. But there was a hunger there. Controlled. Contained. “Your mother must be real proud. I see her at church sometimes.”

“She is,” Y/N replied, her voice softening slightly. “She’s happy I came home.”

He nodded slowly. “We all are. It’s good to have you back here, where you belong.”

The words lingered strangely in the air.

She glanced down at her keys. “Well, I should get home. Papers to finish, and I promised my mom I’d help with dinner.”

“Of course,” he said, but didn’t step back. “Still living out on Cypress Lane?”

She froze for a half second. It wasn’t a secret, not really. Small town, everyone knew everything. But the way he said it—so smoothly, so certain—sent a strange chill down her spine.

“Yes,” she said. “Same house.”

He nodded. “If you ever feel uneasy, or if anything strange happens—someone hanging around your place or whatnot—you let me know. Call me directly. Don’t even bother with dispatch.”

Y/N hesitated. “I...thank you. I appreciate that.”

His eyes didn’t leave her. “Pretty girl like you. Living alone. Makes a man want to keep watch.”

Something flickered in her chest—discomfort, warning, but wrapped in layers of politeness she’d been raised on.

“I’m alright,” she said gently. “But I’ll remember that.”

He stepped back then, just enough to ease the moment.

“You do that.” He opened his car door. “Be safe, Miss Y/L/N.”

And then, with one last look, he drove off slow, the cruiser disappearing down the road.

Y/N stood frozen for a moment longer, clutching her keys, her papers suddenly feeling far too heavy.

She didn’t know why her heart was beating so fast.

The road was empty, bathed in quiet darkness, save for the dim hum of Y/N’s headlights cutting through the mist that clung low to the trees. She wasn’t in a rush—just tired, her shift at the church potluck cleanup running later than expected. The leftovers were boxed in the back seat, her mother’s prized cherry pie wrapped carefully in foil for Sunday service.

The blue and red lights in her rearview mirror came out of nowhere.

Her heart jumped.

She pulled to the side quickly, hands shaking slightly as she rolled down the window. She already knew who it would be. She knew.

Boots approached slowly on gravel. Purposeful. Then the tap of knuckles against the window.

“Evenin’, Miss Y/L/N.”

She looked up into Officer Wolfe’s face. Calm. Professional. Smiling.

“H-hi, Officer. Is...is something wrong?”

“You were movin’ a little fast back there.” He shone his flashlight inside the car. “Mind telling me where you’re headed so late?”

“I was just driving home from the church, sir. We had cleanup after the potluck.”

He leaned in a little, sniffed the air exaggeratedly. “Been drinking?”

Her eyes widened. “No. Of course not.”

He tilted his head. “Mm. Step out of the car for me.”

“Officer, I—”

“Now,” he said, more firmly.

Her pulse roared in her ears. But she obeyed.

She stepped out slowly, the gravel cold beneath her flats. The night felt far too quiet, the two of them alone on that stretch of road. His flashlight skimmed over her body in a way that made her arms fold tightly around herself.

“Stand straight. Feet together. Hands by your sides.”

She complied, trembling.

He circled her slowly, voice low and deliberate. “You know, I’ve pulled you over three times this year. You think maybe you’re distracted when you drive? Or maybe just nervous around me?”

“I didn’t mean to do anything wrong, sir,” she whispered.

“No, I don’t imagine you meant to,” he said softly, stepping behind her. “But you’re such a little thing. Shaky hands. Flushed cheeks. Someone might think you were guilty of something.”

His hand landed on her waist—firm, possessive.

She froze.

“Officer—”

“Shh. Just making sure you’re steady,” he murmured, leaning closer, his breath hot against her ear. “That’s what I’m here for. To make sure you’re safe. To keep you in line.”

His fingers skimmed lower, brushing the curve of her hip, the swell beneath her blouse. Her stomach turned, but her body locked in place. Powerless.

“You ever get lonely in that house?” he whispered. “Ever wish someone’d come knockin’? You’d open that door in your nightgown and realize you didn’t have to be alone anymore?”

Her throat constricted. She couldn’t speak.

He held her there for a second longer—his hand pressing just a little too low, his breath ghosting down her neck—then stepped back, slowly, letting the air shift between them.

“Alright,” he said suddenly, all professionalism again. “Everything checks out. But do be careful. Wouldn’t want anything happening to you out here alone at night.”

Y/N didn’t move.

He tipped his hat, smile returning. “Can’t wait for that pie on Sunday, sweetheart.”

Then he turned, walked back to his cruiser, and drove off—leaving her standing in the dark, shaking, her skin crawling.

The house was full of soft music, laughter, and the smell of pot roast and candles. Her mother was glowing, seated at the head of the table surrounded by neighbors and cousins, beaming at the simple beauty of her birthday dinner.

Y/N moved quietly through the kitchen, refilling glasses and bringing out slices of cake. It was warm, loud with chatter, and usually this kind of night would’ve brought her comfort. But her stomach twisted when she heard the knock at the door.

“I’ll get it!” she called automatically, wiping her hands on her apron and crossing the living room.

She opened the door—and froze.

There he was.

Officer Grayson Wolfe, in casual clothes that somehow looked more dangerous on him than his uniform. Jeans, dark button-up, sleeves rolled. His eyes dropped immediately to her apron, then up to her face.

“Evenin’, Miss Y/L/N,” he said smoothly. “Heard it was your mother’s birthday. Figured I’d stop by with something sweet.” He held up a small bakery box.

Her lips parted. “I—thank you. That’s… very kind.”

Before she could protest, he stepped inside. Just like that. Familiar. At home.

“Officer Wolfe!” her mother’s voice called from the dining room. “Grayson! You didn’t have to come all the way over here.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, moving through the house like it was already his. “Town treasure like you? Deserves a proper celebration.”

Y/N stood rooted, heart pounding. Her hands trembled as she reached for the box he’d brought—but her fingers slipped, knocking over a full glass of tea on the counter.

It shattered on the floor with a loud crack.

“Y/N!” her mother gasped. “Are you alright?”

“I—yes, I’m sorry,” she muttered, already kneeling, her face hot with embarrassment.

“Let me help with that,” Grayson said, crouching beside her.

“No, it’s fine,” she said too quickly.

But he was already reaching for the broken pieces, his large hand brushing hers—then lingering. His fingers curled around her wrist, firm, steady.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly, close enough for her to smell his cologne. “Careful, sweetheart. You’ll cut yourself.”

She tried to pull back, but he didn’t let go—not right away. His eyes dropped to the curve of her chest where her blouse gaped ever so slightly, then to the way her skirt rode up as she knelt. His gaze lingered there far too long.

“You wear these skirts on purpose, don’t you?” he murmured under his breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “Pretending not to know how soft you look crawling on your knees.”

Her breath hitched.

“Such a little thing,” he whispered, his voice low and hot at her ear. “You keep trembling like that, and I’ll have to come check on you tonight. Make sure you sleep alright.”

She jerked away finally, grabbing a towel and mumbling something about more napkins. She stood quickly, trying to hide her panic behind a forced smile.

Grayson rose too, slow and calm, wiping his hands like nothing had happened.

He turned toward her mother with that practiced grin. “All cleaned up. No harm done.”

Y/N slipped into the kitchen, heart thudding against her ribs, hands gripping the counter as if it might ground her.

From the other room, she heard her mother laugh softly.

“You’re always so helpful, Grayson.”

He chuckled back, voice like honey.

“I just like taking care of what’s mine.”

It had been a week since she last saw him.

Seven days of shallow sleep, nervous glances through the window, flinching at the sound of tires on gravel. A full seven days of pretending everything was normal—teaching spelling words, grading worksheets, hugging little arms during recess.

She thought maybe, just maybe, he had let it go.

But then Career Day came.

The children were buzzing with excitement, squirming in their seats as they took turns listening to local professionals—farmers, nurses, mechanics—talk about what they did. Y/N stood at the door with her clipboard, scanning the list. There were three slots reserved for the local sheriff’s department. Three officers. Three chances.

She prayed it wouldn’t be him.

When the cruiser pulled up, her stomach dropped.

He stepped out slowly, in full uniform, mirrored sunglasses on, badge gleaming under the spring sun. A few parents outside waved at him cheerfully. Some clapped him on the back. He smiled like he hadn’t crushed her under the weight of his hands a week ago.

She had hoped for anyone else.

But he chose her classroom.

Officer Grayson Wolfe strode in like he owned the building. The children gasped in awe, thrilled by the presence of a real police officer. Y/N stood stiffly to the side, arms crossed in front of her, heart thudding with every step he took closer to her desk.

“Well, hello there,” he greeted the class. “Heard there were some bright young minds in here. I’m Officer Wolfe, and I keep our town safe.”

The children clapped.

One little boy raised his hand. “Do you get to use your gun?”

Grayson chuckled. “Only when I have to. I try to use my words first. Most problems can be solved if you look someone in the eyes and speak slow.”

His eyes flicked to Y/N. She felt her blood run cold.

Another hand shot up. “Do you arrest bad guys?”

“All the time,” he said. “But not everyone who does bad things looks like a bad guy. Sometimes they smile real pretty. Sometimes they pretend to be sweet. But I see right through that.”

The kids giggled, but Y/N’s stomach turned.

Then a little girl near the front raised her hand and asked innocently, “Do you know Miss Y/N?”

He smiled wide—too wide.

“Oh, I know Miss Y/N very well,” he said slowly, letting the words roll out like molasses. “We go way back. She’s someone I keep an extra close eye on.”

The kids laughed, confused but delighted.

“Why?” another asked.

He chuckled low. “Because sometimes the people who look the softest... hide the most trouble.”

Y/N’s heart stopped. Her mouth went dry.

“But don’t worry,” he added, kneeling dramatically beside the girl who asked. “It’s my job to protect people. Especially the ones who don’t know they need it.”

He stood and looked right at Y/N, gaze unblinking. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Right, Miss Y/N?”

She swallowed hard and forced a tight nod.

“R-right.”

Grayson winked. “Told you I’d make it to class someday.”

The children clapped again.

And she smiled for them—because she had to—but behind her back, her hands were shaking.

The children’s laughter still echoed in the room as he made his exit, tipping his hat like some old-fashioned gentleman. He was halfway down the hall when she slipped out behind him, her steps fast, hushed—barely louder than the rush of her own heartbeat.

“Officer Wolfe,” she whispered, catching up to him.

He stopped without turning, his body still, but she could feel the tension in the air as if he’d been expecting this.

“Please…” her voice cracked. “Please stop.”

He turned then—slowly, eyes scanning her face with clinical calm.

“Stop what, sweetheart?”

Her lips trembled. She kept her voice low, afraid to be overheard. “The stops. The comments. The way you… the things you said in there.” Her voice tightened. “This isn’t right.”

He stepped forward, and she instinctively backed up until her spine met the cool cement of the wall. He followed, not quite touching—but close enough for his breath to fan across her cheek.

“I am the law,” he said, voice low and sharp. “You don’t get to tell me what’s right.”

His hand came up slowly, brushing her hair from her face in a mockingly gentle gesture. “You think I don’t see how you flinch? How you run off and shake behind closed doors? You think you’re hiding it?” He leaned in, his mouth near her ear. “I could press you against this wall right now and no one would stop me. You’d cry, sure. You’d sob like a little girl. But in the end? You’d be mine. You already are.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes, her mouth opening in a silent gasp.

Then—

“Officer Wolfe!”

A cheerful voice rang out from the other end of the hall. Mr. Delaney, the P.E. teacher, strode toward them with a clipboard in hand, utterly oblivious.

Grayson’s hand dropped instantly. He took a casual step back, his whole posture shifting like a light switch flipped—from predator to polite.

“Hey there, Delaney,” he greeted smoothly, like he hadn’t just whispered filth into a trembling woman’s ear. “Good to see you, man.”

Y/N quickly turned her head, blinking hard, willing the tears not to fall. Her hands were still clenched at her sides.

Mr. Delaney gave her a bright smile. “Miss Y/L/N, you okay? You look a little pale.”

She nodded, too fast. “I’m fine. Just—long day.”

Grayson clapped a hand on Delaney’s shoulder with a soft chuckle. “She’s a hard worker. That’s why we all keep an eye out for her.”

Delaney laughed, distracted by a question on his clipboard.

But Grayson turned just slightly, just enough to murmur one last thing before walking off—

“Keep pushing me, sweetheart. See what happens when I stop being polite.”

Then he was gone, whistling as he walked, like nothing had happened at all.

Sunday morning came with soft bells and sunlight streaking through stained glass. Y/N sat stiffly in the pew beside her mother, hands folded in her lap, the Bible untouched. Her heart wasn’t in the sermon. It hadn’t been for weeks. Not since him.

Officer Wolfe sat just a few rows ahead, as he always did—his broad frame taking up space like a shadow. He laughed when the pastor made a joke, nodded at each verse like he believed it. When the congregation rose to sing, he tilted his head toward Y/N’s mother and offered a small, respectful nod.

Her mother smiled back, completely unaware of the ice that ran down Y/N’s spine.

After the service ended and people slowly filed out, shaking hands and offering hugs, Y/N slipped from her mother’s side and made her way to the front, where Pastor Lawrence stood shaking hands by the altar.

“Pastor?” she said softly.

He turned with a warm smile. “Miss Y/N. Always good to see you. How’s your mother feeling?”

“She’s well, thank you. I—I was wondering if I could speak with you. In private.”

The pastor's brows lifted slightly in surprise, but he gestured toward a bench by the side wall. “Of course.”

They sat. Y/N kept her voice low, her fingers twisting in her lap.

“It’s about Officer Wolfe,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he wasn’t watching.

Pastor Lawrence’s smile didn’t falter. “What about him?”

“He’s been… following me. Saying things. Pulling me over for no reason. I think he’s—” she hesitated, throat tightening, “—I think he’s watching me. And I don’t know what to do.”

The pastor listened, but his expression didn’t change. He sighed softly, placing a gentle hand on hers.

“I know Grayson can be...intense,” he said kindly. “But he’s a good man. A little lonely since his divorce, maybe, but he’s been nothing but respectful to me and my family. He’s served this town for almost two decades.”

Y/N blinked. “I’m telling you he’s—he’s touching me. Whispering things. He makes me feel unsafe.”

Lawrence’s face grew tighter, more patronizing. “Sometimes when a man has lost as much as Grayson has, he doesn’t always know how to express himself. I’m not excusing anything, but maybe give him grace. The Lord asks that we show compassion.”

Her chest tightened. “But—”

“I’ll say a prayer for your heart, Miss Y/N,” he said gently, already standing. “You’re a strong girl. Don’t let misunderstandings trouble your spirit.”

Y/N stood too, the weight in her chest heavier than before.

Outside, her mother waited near the car, chatting with a neighbor. Y/N walked up slowly, eyes down.

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” her mother asked as they got inside.

Y/N hesitated, then nodded. “Can we… talk? About something?”

Her mother buckled her seatbelt, not catching the shake in her daughter’s voice. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

Y/N stared at her hands. “It’s about Officer Wolfe.”

Her mother looked over with a raised brow. “Grayson?”

Y/N nodded. “He’s been… acting strange. Saying things to me. Pulling me over. He—he’s making me uncomfortable.”

Her mother’s lips thinned in confusion. “But he’s always been kind to us. He brought me that pie on my birthday. And didn’t he help you clean up after that mess in the kitchen?”

“That’s not what it was,” Y/N said quickly, voice cracking. “He’s… he’s scaring me.”

There was a pause. Then, gently:

“Honey,” her mother said, “I think you’re just stressed. You’ve been working so hard lately. Maybe you’re reading into things. Grayson’s a good man. Maybe a little forward, sure, but men like him don’t come around often.”

Y/N turned to the window, biting her lip to keep from crying.

And in the mirror of the church across the lot—she saw him again.

Standing at his cruiser. Watching.

Smiling.

Later That Evening

The house was too quiet.

Y/N sat curled on the couch, blanket wrapped tightly around her legs, a cup of tea long since gone cold between her palms. The TV played softly in the background, but she wasn’t watching. Her eyes were fixed on the door. The deadbolt was locked. She’d checked it three times.

Her mother’s words rang in her head like poison.

“Grayson’s a good man.” “Men like him don’t come around often.” “You’re just stressed.”

She’d almost screamed. Almost begged.

Instead, she just nodded.

Because it was pointless. He had them all. The town. The church. Her mother.

And now she was alone with the truth no one would believe.

A sudden knock shattered the silence.

Y/N jumped, her tea spilling onto her lap. She clutched the cup tightly, frozen.

Three more knocks. Slow. Measured.

She stood, legs trembling, and approached the door quietly. She didn’t need to ask who it was.

“Open the door, sweetheart,” came the low voice through the wood. “You know it’s me.”

Her breath hitched. She didn’t move.

“Come on now. I was real patient all week. Didn't even call. Didn't come by. Just watched. I thought you'd appreciate that.”

Her fingers hovered near the lock.

“I just want to talk,” he said, voice softer now. “You said you didn’t feel safe. I’m here to make you feel safe.”

Y/N swallowed, backing away from the door. “Please go home.”

A pause.

Then the handle rattled. Hard.

“You don’t tell me to go home,” he growled. “You’re home. This is where you stay. Where I’ll keep you. Because no one else sees what I do.”

There was a sound—a loud, metallic scrape—as if something ran down the door. Her heart dropped.

And then… silence.

She waited five minutes before she could even breathe again. Then twenty more before she finally opened the door a crack.

The porch was empty.

But on the doormat sat a small pie tin, still warm.

On top of it, a note scrawled in neat, all-caps print:

“I WANT TO BE INSIDE WHEN YOU BAKE THE NEXT ONE.”

The Field Trip – Thursday Morning

The sun was bright, too cheerful for how heavy Y/N’s chest felt.

She stood among a swarm of second graders waiting to board the buses for their field trip to the local nature preserve. The kids were buzzing with excitement, backpacks stuffed with juice boxes and hand wipes, teachers organizing roll calls and laminated name tags.

Y/N tried to smile as she crouched to tie a loose shoelace.

She didn’t see the cruiser until it pulled into the parking lot.

Her body stiffened.

Officer Wolfe stepped out, dressed down in his county-issued polo and cargo pants, sunglasses hiding his eyes. His badge was still clipped to his belt, gun at his hip. He looked casual. Approachable. And when the principal waved him over, he offered that same easy grin that fooled them all.

“Just here to help supervise,” he told the staff. “Keep an eye on things.”

Y/N felt cold all over.

They boarded the buses, and of course, Grayson chose hers. He sat toward the front, but his presence filled the small space like smoke—inescapable. Every time she looked up, his eyes were on her.

At the preserve, the kids scattered toward the nature trail in pairs, teachers trying to herd them like cats.

Y/N stayed near the back, gently guiding stragglers forward—until she felt it.

A hand on her lower back.

She froze.

“Careful,” came his voice beside her, too close. “Trail’s a little uneven. Wouldn’t want you twisting an ankle.”

She moved away, mumbling something about needing to help a student.

But it didn’t stop.

At the bird-watching post, his hand brushed her hip as he “reached” past her for the guide pamphlet. At the pond, he stepped too close behind her, his breath ghosting over her neck as he asked about the curriculum. At the narrow trail bridge, she slipped on the damp wood—just slightly—and he caught her.

Both arms around her waist.

She gasped, her palms pressing against his chest as she tried to push off. But he didn’t let go immediately. His hands lingered. One thumb brushed over her ribs, slow, calculated.

“Easy there,” he murmured, low in her ear. “I’ve got you.”

Her cheeks burned as she stepped away, murmuring thanks, the kids nearby unaware.

But others noticed. Just not in the way she feared.

Later, as the group sat on picnic blankets for lunch, a couple of fellow teachers sidled over to her, smiling like they’d just uncovered a juicy secret.

“Y/N…” “Girl, he caught you like a movie scene.” “Is something going on there? That man’s been hovering around you all day.”

Y/N forced a laugh, brushing it off. “No, it’s nothing. He’s just… being helpful.”

But her sandwich sat untouched in her lap. Her hands shook.

Grayson, a few yards away, leaned against a tree, sipping from a water bottle, eyes locked on her.

He smiled when she looked up.

And mouthed something only she could see:

“You belong to me.”

Back at School – That Afternoon

The sun was already sinking low by the time the buses rolled back into the school parking lot. The kids were loud and exhausted, the kind of chaos that usually made Y/N smile.

But not today.

Her nerves were frayed from the constant grazing touches. From the way he’d watched her—all day—like he was waiting for the exact moment she'd break.

She hurried her class inside, gently herding them to their desks with instructions to start their quiet drawings. She just wanted a moment. Five minutes to breathe. Five minutes to feel alone.

She turned to reach for a stack of papers on her desk when the door eased shut behind her with a soft click.

Her breath caught.

“I was hoping we could talk,” Officer Wolfe said from across the room, voice smooth, as if he belonged there. “Privately.”

She turned slowly. “Now’s not a good time. The kids—”

“I won’t be long,” he said, already closing the distance. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t—”

“You have,” he said, stepping closer. “But that’s alright. I understand. You’re scared.”

She backed slightly, her desk pressing into the back of her thighs.

“I have to get back to the students, Officer Wolfe—”

“Grayson,” he corrected softly. “Say it.”

She didn’t.

He sighed, mock disappointment curling the corners of his lips. “You know, most women would be grateful for the kind of attention I’ve given you. But you... you’re special, aren’t you? So good. So soft. You don’t even know how badly I want to ruin that.”

His hand reached out, brushing her arm—barely, but it lit her skin on fire.

She flinched.

He leaned in slowly, not touching her face, not forcing anything overt—but his lips pressed firmly, deliberately against her temple. A long, claiming kiss that burned.

“Mine,” he whispered against her skin.

The doorknob rattled.

He stepped back instantly.

A teacher—Ms. Crane—opened the door, pausing when she saw them.

“Oh,” she blinked, smiling awkwardly. “Everything alright?”

Grayson gave her a charming grin. “Just checking in. Making sure Miss Y/L/N here’s got everything she needs after the trip. She's a real trooper.”

Y/N's voice didn’t work, but she nodded, eyes wide.

Ms. Crane didn’t question it.

Grayson tipped his head. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

He left, boots thudding quietly down the hall.

Ms. Crane lingered only a moment before disappearing too.

Y/N shut the door behind them with trembling hands, her heart hammering. She leaned against it, trying to slow her breathing, eyes stinging.

No one said anything.

No one ever said anything.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks, forced a deep breath, and smoothed down her skirt.

Then she walked back to her class, smiling gently as if nothing had happened.

Sunday Morning – The Party

By Sunday morning, the whispers had already started.

The women at the bakery counter spoke behind cupped hands. Parents at the school drop-off gave her knowing looks. Even the pastor’s wife paused too long when shaking Y/N’s hand after service, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

They didn’t say it outright—but she heard it in the tone. The way her name came attached to his.

“I heard Officer Wolfe’s been spending time with Miss Y/N.” “Well, she is of age.” “He’s such a gentleman. Maybe she needs someone like that. Older. Stable.” “Bit strange, though... isn’t it?”

Y/N tried to smile through it all. Pretended she didn’t hear. Pretended she didn’t feel the eyes.

It only got worse by the time the town’s spring celebration rolled around that afternoon. It was tradition—live music, homemade food, and decorations strung between trees in the community square. Y/N hadn’t wanted to go. She told her mother she wasn’t feeling well.

But her mother had already picked out the dress.

“It’ll cheer you up,” she said. “Besides, I worked hard on it.”

So Y/N came.

The dress was lovely—soft lavender, fitted just right, flowing at the hem like a petal when she walked. Her mother had curled her hair that morning, humming with pride as she pinned a silver clip behind her ear.

Y/N smiled because she had to.

But the moment they arrived, she felt it—that shift in the air.

People were watching.

Not cruelly, not yet. But with that curiosity. That hungry little flicker of interest small towns never failed to fan into flame.

She tried to blend in. Helped serve punch. Sat beside her mother during the raffle.

But then—she felt it.

That stare.

Her eyes snapped up—and there he was.

Grayson Wolfe.

Across the square, standing near the band, dressed sharply in a deep navy shirt with his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His badge wasn’t pinned tonight, but he didn’t need it. He carried the same heavy air of control. The same cool charm.

And he was staring straight at her.

Not blinking. Not smiling.

Just watching.

She looked away quickly, heart climbing into her throat.

Her mother nudged her lightly. “He cleans up well, doesn’t he?”

Y/N forced a laugh. “I suppose.”

“You could do worse,” her mother murmured. “A man like that would keep you safe.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

She excused herself soon after, slipping behind the tents to try and breathe. The dress clung to her skin with heat. The curls felt too heavy on her neck.

But even back there—beneath the string lights and laughter—she felt it again.

He was coming.

Behind the Tent – During the Party

The laughter and chatter of the crowd faded as Y/N slipped behind the tent lined with paper lanterns and folding chairs. The space was quiet—mostly storage, crates of leftover drinks, a few balloons still tied to a beam. She exhaled, trying to press a hand to her chest and force her heart to still.

“Run out of smiles?”

The voice came like a blade across silk—familiar, sharp, low.

She froze.

Grayson stepped into view slowly, hands in his pockets, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, a picture of false ease. He looked so perfectly composed. So handsome. No one else saw the storm behind his smile.

“I just needed a moment,” she said quietly, already inching toward the side opening.

He stepped in her path.

“Mm. I’ve been patient all day, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You wore that little dress. Curled your hair. And then you ignored me like I’m nothing.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.” His voice hardened. “You let them talk. Let them whisper about us like it’s a joke. Like you haven’t been the one crawling under my skin since the day I saw you walk out of that damn school.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. “Please, someone might—”

“No one’s listening.” He took another step, and the backs of her thighs brushed the tent wall. “They see a man trying to be good. Trying to give a lonely girl a future. But you?” His hand rose, fingers trailing the edge of her neckline, thumb grazing her collarbone. “You keep making me into something I’m trying so damn hard not to be.”

She whimpered, shoulders pressed back, her body trembling beneath his touch.

“You’re gonna be mine anyway,” he whispered. “You know that, right?”

Then—just as quickly as he stepped in—he stepped away.

Straightened his collar.

And disappeared around the side of the tent as if nothing happened at all.

Y/N stood frozen, trying to will the heat from her cheeks, her skin crawling where he’d touched her. She wiped her face, steadied her breath, and returned to the crowd just before her absence was noticed.

End of the Party – Dusk

The celebration wound down slowly. The sun dipped low, painting the sky in deep pinks and golds. Children were picked up by tired parents, the band packed their instruments, and neighbors waved their goodbyes with leftover desserts wrapped in foil.

Y/N was gathering her mother’s purse and a few paper decorations when his voice came again.

“I’ll walk you both home.”

Grayson was already beside them, smiling wide, looking like a savior to anyone watching.

Her mother smiled. “That’s very sweet of you.”

“No, that’s not—” Y/N started.

But her mother was already nodding, tucking her arm around Grayson’s as they started walking.

Y/N had no choice but to follow.

The walk was quiet, deceptively peaceful. Her mother chatted with him about the town, the food, the music. Grayson played the part well—nodding, laughing, glancing back at Y/N with that sick satisfaction when her mother wasn’t looking.

At the front porch, her mother turned to open the door.

“I’ll let you two say goodnight,” she said, unaware of the iron in Y/N’s spine as she froze on the steps.

Grayson turned to her, eyes heavy with intent.

“You looked beautiful tonight,” he murmured. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted me to watch you.”

“I didn’t,” she said quickly, quietly.

He leaned in close—far too close—pressing a kiss just beneath her ear. “Lie to me again, sweetheart.”

Then he stepped back, smiled toward the door, and called out: “Goodnight, ma’am.”

He disappeared into the dark like a ghost—leaving Y/N trembling on her porch, trying not to cry as her mother called her inside.

Monday Afternoon – The Sheriff’s Office

Y/N stood outside the sheriff’s station with clammy hands and a heart beating out of rhythm. The sun was bright overhead, but it felt too cold inside her chest. She hadn’t told her mother. She hadn’t told anyone. This—this—was her last card to play.

She stepped inside the station, her flats scuffing against the worn linoleum. The front desk deputy glanced up.

“Help you?”

“I… I need to speak with Sheriff Daly. Privately. Please.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “You got an appointment?”

“No. But it’s important. It’s about Officer Wolfe.”

That made him pause. Then he muttered something under his breath and nodded her toward the hall.

She followed the long corridor to the office at the end and knocked with shaking fingers.

“Come in,” said the familiar, tired voice.

Sheriff Jim Daly sat behind his cluttered desk, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, paperwork spread in lazy stacks. He looked up when she entered, brows lifting in mild surprise.

“Well, Miss Y/L/N. Haven’t seen you in a while. Everything alright?”

“No, sir,” she said, voice cracking. “That’s why I’m here.”

She told him everything.

Not all the details—she couldn’t find the words for the worst of it—but enough. The traffic stops. The touching. The way he followed her, whispered things, cornered her when no one was looking. Her voice broke halfway through, but she kept going. She had to.

Daly didn’t interrupt. Just watched her the entire time, lips pressed into a tired line.

When she finished, there was a heavy pause.

Then he sighed.

“Y/N… I believe you feel scared. I do. And I’m sorry for that.”

Her heart dropped. “But?”

“But,” he said, leaning back, “Grayson Wolfe’s served this department for nearly two decades. I’ve never once had a formal complaint. He’s respected, connected, and next in line once I retire. Which—” he motioned toward a plaque on the wall, “—is in three weeks. You understand?”

Her breath hitched. “You’re not going to do anything?”

“I’m saying… maybe this is just a misunderstanding. Maybe he’s being too forward, sure. But men like Grayson?” He shrugged. “They don’t just snap. They’re measured. Thoughtful. If there was something real here, I’d have heard about it from more than one nervous schoolteacher.”

Y/N’s face crumpled. “You don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t say that,” he said quickly. “But if this is a situation you can handle quietly, I’d strongly suggest doing so. No need to stir up trouble that could follow you around this town.”

She stood there, blinking hard. “You’re letting him take everything from me.”

“No one’s taking anything. You’re still safe, still working. Still whole.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a tissue box, and slid it across the desk. “And Wolfe? He’s a good man. But I’ll remind him to stay professional. That should ease things up for you.”

She didn’t take the tissue.

She turned and left, tears falling silently down her cheeks as she exited the building and stepped into the sun that now felt so far away.

Inside the Sheriff’s Office – Moments Later

Sheriff Daly waited until the front door clicked shut behind her.

Then he picked up the desk phone and dialed.

“Yeah. It’s done.” He scratched his chin. “She came in. Shook up, real upset. You’ll want to get a handle on your situation before it gets messy.”

A pause.

“Don’t worry,” Daly added, glancing at the retirement plaque again. “It’s all yours soon anyway.”

The sky was dimming by the time Y/N pulled into the driveway, her trunk full of groceries, her bones aching with exhaustion. Her visit to the sheriff had left her raw, exposed—like she’d peeled back a wound and been told to keep quiet about the bleeding.

She killed the engine, grabbed the first few bags, and forced herself up the front steps. Just one evening. One evening to herself. That’s all she needed.

As she unlocked the front door, she heard it—the low crunch of tires on gravel.

Her heart dropped.

She turned her head slowly, dread blooming fast and thick in her chest.

Officer Grayson Wolfe’s cruiser came to a stop just a few feet from her house. He stepped out casually, as if this was normal. Expected.

Her fingers clutched the paper bags tighter.

“Evenin’, sweetheart,” he called, walking up the path like it was his own.

She turned quickly toward the door, fumbling with her keys. “I’m fine, Officer Wolfe. Just getting groceries in. Thank you.”

He was at the steps now.

“Let me help with those.”

“No—thank you,” she said too fast. “I’ve got it.”

“I insist.”

His voice was soft, but there was an edge beneath it. A warning.

She opened the door and stepped inside, hoping—praying—he would stay on the porch.

But he followed.

No invitation.

No hesitation.

The door clicked shut behind him.

She turned around slowly, groceries still in hand, trying to keep her breathing even.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He tilted his head slightly, stepping further into her space. “I shouldn’t be? That’s a funny way to talk to someone who just wants to take care of you.”

“You’re scaring me,” she whispered.

His smile disappeared.

“Good.”

She blinked, stepping back.

Grayson moved in closer, reaching for the bags in her arms—not gently, but with a sudden jerk that made her gasp. He set them on the counter too hard, one nearly tipping over.

“You went to Sheriff Daly today.”

Her blood ran cold.

“I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice dropped, low and sharp. “You went there, you told him stories, you cried to him about how the big bad cop touched you.” He stepped closer. “And do you know what he did?”

Her silence was answer enough.

“He called me. Told me to handle it. Told me to keep my little problem quiet.” He leaned in, brushing her hair back with the back of his knuckles. “So here I am. Handling it.”

She flinched away, but his hand snapped forward, grabbing her by the jaw.

“I was gentle with you,” he hissed. “I gave you time. I played nice. But you don’t want nice, do you?”

Her eyes filled with tears, lips trembling under the pressure of his grip.

“You want truth, sweetheart? Fine.”

He shoved her backward—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make her stumble against the kitchen counter. He stalked toward her, a dark gleam in his eyes.

“No more playing house. No more smiling and waving like we’re strangers. You are mine. You’ve always been mine. And if you ever even think about going to someone else again—”

He grabbed her wrist, twisting it until she let out a soft cry.

“—I’ll break something. Something that won’t heal right.”

Tears slipped from her eyes.

Grayson stared down at her, his chest heaving, face flushed with quiet rage.

Then—like flipping a switch—he let go.

His fingers trailed down her arm slowly. “But you’re gonna be good from now on, right? No more trouble.”

Y/N didn’t respond.

He leaned in, kissed her cheek so slowly it felt like a brand. Then another kiss, lower, along her jaw, hovering near her lips without touching them.

“Clean yourself up,” he whispered. “Someone might stop by and think you’ve been crying.”

And just like that, he turned.

Strolled back out the door like nothing had happened. Like he didn’t leave her standing in her kitchen, cradling her wrist, shoulders shaking, silent sobs breaking loose as soon as she heard his cruiser disappear into the distance.

Two Days Later –

It was a bright, windy afternoon. The sound of children laughing and screaming on the playground filtered in through the open windows, their voices rising and falling like waves. Y/N stood by her desk, sorting spelling tests and trying to breathe through the ache that never quite left her chest anymore.

Then came the knock. Three slow, deliberate raps on the classroom door.

Her stomach turned.

Grayson Wolfe stepped in, dressed in a casual button-up and his duty belt, smiling wide as he held up two takeout bags and a tray of drinks.

“Brought lunch for the teachers,” he said cheerfully. “Thought you all could use a treat. Recess duty’s no joke.”

Y/N forced a smile. “That’s… thoughtful. Thank you.”

“Of course,” he replied. “But I saved yours for last. Figured we could eat together.”

She hesitated. “I have some things to grade—”

“Y/N,” he said, voice dipping just enough to make her freeze. “Please. I brought your favorite.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He was already setting down the food at her desk, pulling out her chair for her like it was some kind of date.

She sat, slowly. Trembling on the inside.

He pulled his chair close. Too close. Their knees brushed beneath the table.

He handed her a sandwich, unwrapped hers, and began to eat, relaxed like they did this every day. He talked between bites—about the school, the upcoming festival, the weather. But it all shifted when his gaze wandered to the window.

To the children.

He stopped mid-chew, a strange softness spreading across his face.

“You ever think about it?” he asked, his voice lower now. “Kids?”

She blinked. “I… I teach them every day.”

“No, I mean yours. Ours.”

She froze.

Grayson smiled, watching the children tumble across the grass.

“Little girl with your eyes. Little boy with my jaw. They’d be perfect. You’d be a beautiful mother.”

She gripped her sandwich tighter, her appetite gone.

“Grayson, I don’t—”

“You’d raise them right. Gentle, but firm. You’ve got that in you. That warmth.” He looked at her, his expression more serious now. “I think about it all the time, you know. Waking up to you. Coffee brewing. Kids in pajamas running around.”

Y/N’s breath shook.

She didn’t know what compelled her—defiance, fear, desperation—but she whispered, “What about your first wife?”

His jaw tensed.

The entire mood of the room changed. Like a storm sweeping in too fast to run from.

Grayson leaned back slightly, chewing slowly. “What about her?”

“I just… I don’t understand what happened. She left so suddenly.”

He was silent.

The sound of children outside continued, oblivious to the tension flooding the room.

Then he smiled—but it was all teeth.

“She didn’t appreciate what she had. Thought she could find better.” He leaned in again, close enough that his breath brushed her lips. “She disrespected me. Lied. Shamed me in front of people who owed me respect.”

Y/N tried to look away, but he gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“She forgot her place.”

Her pulse raced. His hand tightened ever so slightly before he let go.

“I’m not worried about you doing the same,” he added, voice soft again. “You’re smarter than she ever was.”

She nodded, mechanically, just to get him to stop.

He kissed her temple—slow, deliberate—and then stood, tossing his sandwich wrapper in the trash.

“Next time, I’ll bring pie,” he said casually. “We’ll talk names.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving Y/N alone in her classroom, still holding a sandwich she couldn’t bring herself to eat, the taste of ash in her mouth.

Spring Dance – Two Weeks Later

The community hall glowed beneath string lights and paper lanterns, the scent of fried dough, sweet cider, and blooming lilacs filling the warm spring air. It was supposed to be a celebration—Sheriff Daly’s retirement, the end of the season, a chance for the town to gather and laugh before the summer heat rolled in.

Y/N had been working since dawn.

She and her mother had cooked nearly everything on the buffet table—apple pies, cornbread, baked chicken, deviled eggs stacked in glass dishes. A few other church ladies had helped, but it was Y/N who’d set the centerpieces, folded the napkins just right. She hadn’t planned to stay long, just long enough to serve and smile politely, then slip out quietly.

But the music was loud, the mood festive, and everyone kept pulling her back in.

“You’re glowing, dear,” her mother said, adjusting a curl that had fallen from her updo. “Now, when was the last time you danced?”

“I’m fine, really.”

“Oh, nonsense. Go have a little fun. Just one.”

And that’s when he asked.

A young man—maybe in his late twenties, familiar but not close—offered his hand. “Would you?”

She hesitated, but the crowd around her cheered.

“Go on!” “Don’t be shy!” “You deserve it, Y/N!”

Peer pressure. Kind smiles. And a yearning in her chest she tried to ignore.

She took his hand.

And for a moment, just a moment, she smiled.

They moved in a slow circle beneath the lights, the fiddle music lilting around them. He was respectful, hands careful, conversation light. She laughed once—softly—when he made a joke about burnt cornbread.

She didn’t know Officer Wolfe had arrived.

Didn’t see the way he stood at the edge of the crowd, his jaw tight, eyes locked on her. His fists clenched at his sides as he watched her laugh, watched her dance, watched another man’s hands resting—however innocently—on his girl.

The moment the music ended, Y/N thanked her partner, smiled, and excused herself to the bathroom.

She never made it back to her mother.

The hallway behind the dance floor was dimmer, quieter. The sound of music faded behind closed doors as Y/N stepped into the small bathroom and splashed water on her neck to cool herself.

When she opened the door to leave, she didn’t get two steps before she ran straight into him.

Grayson.

He was waiting.

His hand closed around her upper arm before she could react, guiding—shoving—her back inside the bathroom.

The door slammed shut behind them.

“Having fun?” he asked, voice low and venomous.

“Grayson—please—”

“You think I wouldn’t hear about it? You think I wouldn’t see it? You, smiling like a little flirt, dancing around like you're free?”

“I didn’t—he just asked—and people—”

“People?” he snapped, his hand tightening. “People think you’re mine. Because you are. And now they’re going to think you’re loose. That you’re looking.”

He backed her up until she hit the sink.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were. And you liked it.” His voice dropped. “You liked having him touch you. Liked being looked at.”

Her chest heaved. “I just wanted to feel normal.”

His expression darkened.

“You don’t get normal anymore, sweetheart. You get me.”

He grabbed her jaw then—firm, painful—and leaned in close. His breath was hot and heavy with anger. “And I hope you danced real pretty, because it’s the last damn time you ever do it.”

He kissed her then—not with tenderness, but with punishment. A hard press of his mouth to hers, forcing her still.

When he pulled away, her lips burned, and her eyes were wet.

He stared at her for a long moment. Breathing heavily.

Then—soft again, suddenly—he brushed a tear from her cheek with a mock-gentle touch.

“Fix your face,” he said. “And go back out there before your mother starts asking questions.”

He turned to the door. Paused.

“Oh—and tell that boy if he ever touches you again, I’ll break every bone in his hand.”

Then he left.

Y/N slid down against the wall, clutching her stomach with trembling arms, the music beyond the door now feeling like a cruel, distant dream.

Her fingers couldn’t move fast enough.

Y/N had rushed home straight from the spring dance, skipping the goodbyes, ignoring her mother’s calls. Her skin still burned from his touch, her lips throbbed where he’d kissed her like punishment. The moment she stepped inside, she locked the door and flew up the stairs to her room.

She grabbed the old duffel bag from her closet—the one she hadn’t used since college—and started throwing in clothes: sweaters, socks, a pair of flats. No plan, just go. She didn’t know where, only that she needed to leave before morning. Before he came back.

But it was already too late.

Grayson Wolfe had noticed the moment she vanished from the dance floor. When her car was gone from the parking lot, he knew. Something in his gut twisted into rage, deep and dangerous. By the time he pulled into her driveway, he was seething.

And he didn’t bother knocking.

The door creaked open slowly.

Y/N didn’t hear it at first. She was in her room, heart pounding, stuffing her phone charger into the side pocket of her bag. But then—footsteps. Heavy. Measured. Purposeful.

She froze.

A slow creak on the bottom step.

Then—

“Going somewhere?”

His voice slithered up the stairs before he did.

She turned, pale and breathless, just as he stepped into the doorway of her bedroom.

Grayson’s face was unreadable at first. Just cold. Silent.

Then he saw the bag on the bed.

His jaw clenched.

“Don’t do this,” she whispered. “Please—just let me go.”

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“You think you can just run?” he asked, his voice low and deadly. “After everything I’ve done for you? Everything I’ve planned?”

Her hands trembled. “I’m not safe with you.”

He laughed—just once. A bitter, humorless sound.

“You were never safer than you are with me,” he said. “I protected you. From the world. From men like that little boy you danced with. You think he could’ve kept you safe? He couldn’t even keep your attention for ten minutes.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I never asked for any of this.”

“You didn’t have to,” he snapped, moving fast.

He reached the bed, grabbed the duffel, and threw it against the wall. It hit with a dull thud, the zipper busting halfway open.

“You don’t get to leave me.”

She backed up, but he was already there—pinning her between the dresser and his towering frame.

“You belong here,” he hissed. “In this house. In my life. And if you ever try to run again—” he grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up, “—I swear to God, I’ll make sure you can’t.”

Her voice came out in a broken whisper. “You’re hurting me.”

“Good,” he said, his face twisted with betrayal. “Because you hurt me the moment you even thought about walking away.”

His hand slid down to her throat—not squeezing, but cradling it, thumb brushing under her jaw.

“But I’m not going to lose you,” he whispered. “Not to fear. Not to stupidity. Not to anyone.”

His lips pressed against her temple, almost gentle—but it wasn’t comfort. It was claiming.

“I love you, Y/N,” he said softly. “And if I have to break you to keep you... then so be it.”

He finally pulled away, breathing hard, and looked around the room like he was deciding what to do next.

“Unpack the bag,” he ordered.

She didn’t move.

He grabbed her wrist, hard this time, and dragged her toward the bed.

“Unpack. It. Now.”

Y/N stared at the bag crumpled against the floor, her breath coming in shaky gasps. Her body wouldn’t move. Her limbs had gone numb. Grayson stood over her, eyes dark with fury, his presence filling the entire room like a cage.

“Unpack it,” he said again, slower now. “Or I will.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her knees buckled as she slowly sank to the floor. With trembling hands, she crawled toward the duffel and began to pull her clothes out—one by one. A shirt. Socks. The small framed photo she’d packed of her and her father fell out last.

She paused.

Her throat burned as she reached for it.

“Please,” she whispered, cradling the photo to her chest. “Please let me go. I’ll disappear. I won’t tell anyone. I won’t ruin your life—just let me go.”

Grayson knelt behind her.

He didn’t speak right away. Just watched her.

Then, slowly, he reached forward and took the picture from her hands. Studied it for a moment.

Without a word, he placed it gently back in the bag.

“I told you,” he said softly, dangerously. “You don’t get to leave. You don’t ask to leave.”

His hand slid down her arm—mockingly tender—before curling around her waist and dragging her upright, against him.

“You made me like this.”

She shook her head, sobbing now. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” he snapped, gripping her face again. “Every time you looked away. Every time you smiled at someone else. You made me starve for you.”

He kissed her then—not gently, not lovingly. A hard, possessive press of lips meant to punish.

When he pulled back, his hands moved lower, down her sides, gripping her hips.

“You want to run?” he growled. “Then run now. Go on. Try.”

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

He smirked.

“That’s what I thought.”

He stepped back slightly, hands still on her waist.

“Take it off.”

She blinked in confusion, breath catching. “W-what?”

“Your dress,” he said, voice low and commanding. “Take it off.”

Her heart stopped.

“No,” she whispered.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t strike.

He just stepped closer.

His fingers moved to the zipper at her back, slow, deliberate. “Then I will.”

She reached behind her in a panic, trying to stop him, but he grabbed her wrists and yanked them forward, pinning them against her chest.

“I said,” he murmured in her ear, “we do this my way now.”

He dragged the zipper down.

Her dress slipped slightly off her shoulder.

“Good girl,” he whispered, breathing heavy. “Let me see what’s mine.”

The zipper whispered down her spine like a blade.

Y/N stood frozen, the room spinning as her dress slipped from one shoulder, then the other, the fabric loose around her waist but still clinging—like it, too, didn’t want to fall. She trembled beneath his stare, her arms slowly rising to cover herself.

Grayson didn’t let her.

He gripped her wrists and gently—so gently it made her sick—pulled them down.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said, voice a low, shaking breath. “You don’t get to pretend you’re not mine.”

Tears streamed silently down her face. She didn’t sob. Didn’t scream. She just stood there—barely breathing—as he looked at her like something sacred he was about to desecrate.

“I waited,” he murmured, running his fingers along the curve of her shoulder, down her arm. “I was good. I gave you time. Patience. I let you dance and cry and run... but now?”

His hand slipped around to her lower back, pressing her closer, their bodies flush.

“Now I take what’s mine.”

Her lip trembled. “Please don’t.”

He kissed her. Not her mouth—but her cheek, wet with tears. His lips dragged slowly down to her jaw, then her neck.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Her body shook beneath his hands, her knees weak. She felt like she might collapse—but he held her upright, firm and steady.

When he pulled back, her dress fell to the floor in a hush of fabric.

And then—

He began to unbuckle his belt.

She watched through blurred vision, her face pale, lips parted in silent shock as the leather slid through the loops with a hiss. Her entire body locked. The sound was too loud in the stillness. Too final.

Grayson watched her as he worked—his expression unreadable now. Almost reverent.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he said, eyes dragging down her figure. “This is the part where you finally stop running. Where you let go.”

She whispered something—maybe no, maybe please—but her voice was too small, too broken to matter.

He dropped the belt to the floor with a heavy thud.

Then stepped forward, lifting her chin with two fingers, forcing her to look him in the eye.

“Look at me,” he breathed. “I want your eyes on mine when I make you understand.”

And in the silence of that room, surrounded by shattered hope and a ruined duffel bag, Y/N stared into the eyes of the man who had been allowed to own her world—and knew there was no one coming to stop him.

Grayson watched her, chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. He looked calm. Certain. Like every inch of her had already been signed over and sealed.

“Lie back,” he murmured.

She didn’t move.

His hand—warm, heavy—pressed against her chest, not rough, but firm. Not allowing resistance. He guided her backward, until her shoulders touched the mattress, until the world tilted above her, swallowed in shadow.

She tried to speak. Tried to say no again. But her voice wouldn’t come. Only a dry sound, broken and small.

He leaned over her, and kissed her.

Not her lips.

Her neck. Her collarbone. Lower.

His hands were moving now—slow, intentional—touching places they never should have touched. Fingers grazing her inner thigh, pressing gently until her legs shifted without meaning to. Until she was laid bare beneath him, and he sighed like she was something he’d earned.

“You’re so soft,” he whispered, his voice thick with hunger. “I could keep you like this forever.”

She turned her face away as he touched her—beneath the hem of what was left, over the curves of her chest, trailing down her ribs. His hands were everywhere, pressing, exploring, taking. Her body flinched under him, but he didn’t stop.

He only groaned softly. “That’s it… you feel it too, don’t you?”

She shook her head, tears rolling silently to the pillow.

But he didn’t care.

His hips settled between hers.

The moment stretched thin—horrible, quiet, and shaking with her silent refusal.

Then—

He pressed his forehead to hers. His breath heavy. His hands holding her wrists to the bed as he whispered:

“This is the part where you stop pretending. Where you let me make you mine.”

She closed her eyes.

And everything went still.

Grayson hovered over her, his body heavy between her thighs, her wrists pinned above her head like offerings.

“Sweet little thing,” he whispered against her skin. “All that innocence wrapped in silence. All mine now.”

His hand moved between them, slow and deliberate. She felt pressure—an intrusion, terrible and inevitable. Her breath caught as he pushed closer, pressing against her like he had every right to be there.

She turned her face away, tears slipping freely now. Her legs trembled, but his hand slid around one thigh, curling it around his hip like it belonged there.

“That’s it,” he murmured, breath hot against her throat. “Knew you’d hold me. Knew you’d feel good like this.”

He guided her other leg up with forceful tenderness, locking her beneath him. Her legs were around him now—not by desire, but because he put them there, tangled and helpless.

“Perfect little fit,” he breathed. “Tight and soft. God, you were made for this.”

His hips rolled against hers, and she whimpered—quiet, broken, like a sound she didn’t mean to let escape. He kissed her then, muffling the noise, stealing her voice with his mouth.

“You’re gonna take it,” he said, rougher now. “Take all of me. Because you’re mine.”

One hand moved to her chest, groping her roughly, possessively, like he was molding her into something that had never belonged to herself. He thumbed the sensitive skin with no care for her whimpering, only focused on what pleased him.

“God, you’re sweet,” he growled. “Sweeter than I dreamed.”

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He buried his face in her neck, breathing her in like a drug, groaning as his rhythm deepened, his grip bruising now.

“So tight, baby,” he gasped. “You’ll remember this. Every time you look in the mirror. Every time you feel me dripping out of you.”

Her eyes filled again, her body shaking.

And then—with a deep, guttural sound—he buried himself against her and shuddered. His whole body went rigid.

She felt him still, panting, his weight pressing her down like stone.

He stayed there for a long moment, his hand moving gently over her ribs, brushing her hair back.

“You were perfect,” he murmured. “So good for me. So sweet.”

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

The Next Morning

Y/N stirred slowly.

Her body ached in ways that didn’t feel real. Her limbs felt too heavy. Her skin too thin. Everything between her legs throbbed with a dull, violating heat. She didn’t remember falling asleep—only the dark, the weight of him, the way her body had finally gone still under his.

She blinked awake at the soft clink of metal.

His belt.

He was dressing.

The sun hadn’t even fully risen yet, pale light just beginning to leak through her curtains. Grayson stood by the edge of the bed, sliding the leather strap through the loops of his uniform pants. His back was to her at first.

Then he turned.

Smiling.

“Well, good morning, sweetheart,” he said in a voice too warm, too soft. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Y/N slowly sat up, the blanket falling from her bare shoulders. Her lips—bruised, cracked—parted with shallow breaths. Her arms instinctively pulled the sheet tighter around her.

Grayson’s eyes dragged over her like a slow hand.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Still shaking.”

He stepped closer, reaching down to brush a finger along her jaw.

“You should see yourself,” he said with something like awe. “Covered in me. Bruises on your hips. That mouth all swollen. God, you’re beautiful when you’re used.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to cry, scream, vomit—but she stayed quiet. Still.

He leaned down and kissed her lips, gentle but unyielding. She didn’t kiss back.

“Still sore, huh?” he whispered against her mouth. “Good.”

He pulled back and ran a hand through his hair, fixing it before grabbing his badge and keys.

“I’ll see you at work later,” he said cheerfully. “Thought I’d stop by and bring your favorite lunch—those little lemon bars you love. You’ll like that, won’t you?”

She didn’t answer.

He didn’t need her to.

As he reached the door, he glanced back over his shoulder—eyes roaming her bare form beneath the blanket.

“Maybe next time, I won’t let you sleep so much after.”

Then he left.

The door shut behind him with a soft, final click.

Y/N stared at the wall for a long time.

And only then did the tears come—slow, silent, and without end.

That Morning – At School

The halls of the elementary school were alive with morning chatter—children unzipping backpacks, sneakers squeaking across the linoleum, and the familiar chime of the bell echoing through the building.

Y/N walked in slowly, her steps careful, too careful.

She smiled when people said hello.

She nodded when the receptionist asked how her weekend was.

She even laughed—once—when another teacher made a joke by the coffee station.

But it didn’t reach her eyes.

She wore long sleeves today. A sweater that went down to her wrists, even though it was nearly 70 degrees. Her skirt brushed her calves, conservative and stiff. The neckline of her blouse sat high on her collarbone, where a faint bruise peeked just under the fabric.

She’d woken up early to put on more makeup than usual.

Foundation layered until the discoloration around her mouth was nearly hidden. Concealer under her eyes to mask the shadows carved there. Mascara to make her lashes look alive.

But nothing could cover the way her hand trembled when she picked up her clipboard.

Or how she winced when one of the kids hugged her waist.

“Miss Y/N?” one of the students asked during morning circle. “Are you sad?”

She blinked.

“I—no, sweetheart,” she said softly, forcing a smile. “Just tired today.”

But she could feel it—eyes watching her.

From the staff table during lunch. From the teacher down the hall who’d always been warm but now tilted her head with quiet concern.

Even the janitor, Mr. Hale, paused longer than usual when he greeted her, his brow furrowing as he looked her over.

Still, no one asked.

No one said the words out loud.

She moved like a ghost through her day—smiling when needed, laughing too softly, flinching too easily. Every time the front doors opened, she froze, expecting him to walk in. To drop off those lemon bars he’d promised. To wave at her like nothing had changed.

Her phone buzzed in her desk drawer during planning period.

1 New Message – Grayson “You looked beautiful walking in today. That skirt is cute. I love when you cover up just for me. Can’t wait to see you later. Smile more, okay?”

She locked the screen without replying.

And when the bell rang for dismissal, Y/N kept her head down, voice soft, her eyes flicking toward every shadow.

School – Lunch Period

She should’ve known he’d keep his promise.

Y/N sat in the teacher’s lounge, lunch untouched. Her fingers barely wrapped around the plastic fork in her salad. She wasn’t hungry—her stomach was too tight, too sick. Her eyes flicked to the clock.

12:27.

The door creaked open behind her.

Her blood turned to ice.

Grayson entered, still in uniform, holding a white bakery box and two lemon bars tucked neatly on a napkin. He smiled like they were just old friends meeting on a sunny afternoon.

“Figured you could use something sweet,” he said warmly.

A few of the teachers turned, smiled at him, nodded.

Y/N forced her lips to curl. “That’s… thoughtful.”

“You’ve earned it,” he said.

His voice was light, but when he leaned down to place the treat on the table, his fingers grazed her thigh beneath the table. He squeezed—quick, hard. A quiet warning masked as affection.

“You wore my favorite color,” he murmured close to her ear. “God, you’re good to me.”

She sat still, her pulse thudding in her throat.

He stood upright, smiling at the room. “Y’all take care of her, now.”

And just like that, he was gone.

The door closed.

She couldn’t move.

Her legs were shaking. Her palms were slick. Her entire body buzzed with the aftershock of his presence—his touch still burning on her skin through the fabric.

The room spun.

Five Minutes Later – Girls’ Bathroom

Y/N didn’t make it back to her classroom.

She slipped into the staff bathroom down the hall, locked herself in the farthest stall, and crumpled onto the closed toilet lid, one hand pressed over her mouth to stifle the sobs.

Her body shook uncontrollably.

Her blouse still smelled faintly like him. Her inner thighs still ached from the marks he’d left over the weekend. Her mind kept replaying his voice—soft and cruel all at once—reminding her that no one would believe her. That this was what love looked like now.

She didn’t hear the door open.

“Y/N?”

A voice. Soft. Female. Concerned.

Footsteps.

“Sweetheart… are you okay?”

It was Ms. Rivera—third grade.

Y/N didn’t respond.

Then the knock came, gentle against the stall. “I saw you run in here. You’re crying.”

Silence.

“I—I’m not prying,” she continued quietly. “But… if something’s wrong… you don’t have to say anything. You just need to know someone sees you.”

Y/N’s shoulders crumpled, her face buried in her hands. Her breath hitched, and the tears kept falling.

Ms. Rivera didn’t ask again. She just sat down on the bathroom floor on the other side of the door and said nothing—only stayed.

And for the first time in weeks… Y/N didn’t feel completely alone.

After School – Ms. Rivera’s Classroom

The final bell had rung. The halls were mostly empty now, just a few teachers tidying up, a janitor humming faintly as he swept.

Y/N stood outside Ms. Rivera’s door, her hands clutched tightly around the strap of her bag. She looked like a ghost in modest clothing—exhausted, washed out, but trying to breathe.

The door opened before she knocked.

“Come in,” Ms. Rivera said softly, stepping aside.

Y/N entered slowly, eyes scanning the quiet classroom. Ms. Rivera had dimmed the lights, left only a small lamp on by her desk. The room felt safe. Warm. Almost untouched by the outside world.

“Sit wherever you like,” she offered, pulling two chairs to face each other.

Y/N sat down and twisted her fingers in her lap.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Ms. Rivera leaned forward. “You don’t have to tell me everything. You don’t have to name names. But whatever you say stays between us. I promise.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. Her voice came out in a whisper. “It’s Officer Wolfe.”

Ms. Rivera didn’t flinch.

Y/N’s eyes welled up. “He’s been following me. Showing up everywhere. At my house. At school. He touches me. He… forces things.”

Ms. Rivera’s gaze didn’t waver. She reached over, gently covered Y/N’s shaking hand with hers.

Y/N looked down at the contact. “And no one will listen. Not the sheriff. Not even my own mother. They all love him. They say he’s good. That he’s… respectable.”

Ms. Rivera was quiet for a long moment.

Then she said something Y/N didn’t expect.

“I know.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“I know what he is,” Ms. Rivera said, her voice low. “And I know what he did to his wife.”

Y/N’s mouth went dry.

“She didn’t leave town like they all said. That was the story—she cheated and disappeared.” Ms. Rivera gave a hollow laugh. “But I saw her. I was there. I knew her.”

“What happened to her?” Y/N asked, voice cracking.

“She tried to run too,” Ms. Rivera whispered. “Just like you.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her chest.

“She got as far as her sister’s house in the next county. He found her. Took her back.” Ms. Rivera swallowed. “A month later, she was dead. Car accident, they said. But I saw the bruises before they buried her.”

A cold silence fell over the room.

Y/N’s body went stiff.

Ms. Rivera looked at her, eyes serious, shadowed with something deeper. “You’re not the first. But you might be the last if you don’t get out.”

Y/N’s voice shook. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because no one would’ve believed me then either,” she said. “I was a teacher. A woman. And he was already being groomed for promotion. You see how this town works.”

Y/N nodded slowly, the truth sinking into her bones.

“But I believe you,” Ms. Rivera said gently. “And if you really want to escape, I’ll help you.”

Y/N’s lips trembled. “How?”

Ms. Rivera’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You leave everything behind. No phone. No bank cards. Nothing he can trace. We fake something. Make him think you broke. Then, when he’s looking the other way…”

She paused.

“…you vanish.”

Two Days Later – The Plan

Ms. Rivera laid it out carefully.

They would wait. Watch. Keep pretending.

“You need to let him think he’s still winning,” she said softly, sitting beside Y/N in the back corner of her classroom, where no cameras watched. “Smile. Nod. Let him believe you're breaking on your own.”

Y/N nodded. Her hands were clenched in her lap, but her eyes were hollow with determination.

“We’ll time it with the promotion ceremony. Everyone will be distracted. He’ll be surrounded by cameras, press, half the town. That’s when we’ll slip the first message.”

“A message?” Y/N asked.

“To someone who matters outside this town.”

Saturday Night – Grayson's Promotion Party

The town hall was transformed into a glittering celebration. String lights draped from the ceiling. Tables were loaded with catered food. A banner stretched across the back wall:

Congratulations Sheriff Wolfe.

Y/N stood stiff in a modest navy dress her mother picked out, sleeves to her wrists, neckline high. Her makeup was perfect. Her smile had edges.

Grayson had his hand on her lower back the entire evening.

He looked the part of a rising man—sharp suit, polished boots, and the whole room orbiting around him. People hugged him. Toasted him. Called him “the future.”

And Y/N? She floated from conversation to conversation like a ghost.

Every now and then, she met Ms. Rivera’s gaze across the room. And each time, the older woman gave her a slow, subtle nod.

Hold steady.

Play along.

And then—Grayson tapped his glass.

The chatter in the room died.

“I want to thank you all,” he said, standing beside the podium, Y/N just behind him. “This town raised me. Gave me purpose. Gave me family.”

He smiled at the crowd, then turned slightly.

“But there’s someone else I want to thank. Someone who’s stood by me through everything. Someone who reminds me what I’m fighting for.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

Grayson reached into his coat pocket.

Pulled out a small velvet box.

The room gasped as he turned, got down on one knee—grinning—and opened the box to reveal a glittering, oval-cut diamond set in platinum.

“Y/N,” he said, voice warm and full of command. “Marry me.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

All eyes on her.

Y/N’s breath caught in her chest. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

Then—from the front row—her mother wiped a tear, smiling proudly.

“He came to me first,” she said. “Asked for my blessing. I told him yes.”

Y/N felt everything tilt.

She looked at Rivera.

Rivera nodded once.

Y/N turned back to Grayson, her mouth trembling.

“Yes,” she said softly. “The ring is stunning.”

The crowd erupted in applause.

He slid the ring onto her shaking finger.

Kissed her hand.

Whispered, “Told you we’d get here.”

And Y/N smiled.

Because it was the only thing she could do.

But inside, she was already packing her second bag.

A/N: I AM making a tag post if you wish to be tag in future stories, please respond here <-

#yandere #fantasy #x reader #sfw noncom #power dynamics #tw noncon #dark romance #age g4p #dark fantasy #breeding k1nk #police officer #small town au #twistedheartsclub

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motherofpirates · 3 days ago

Text

Eddie's heart jumped into his throat and a grin spread across his face as he recognised Steve wearing tiny running shorts and an old basketball vest. The sight would have made his day on a normal day, but it felt extra special today, he thanked whatever god that had seen fit for their paths to cross on his way to school that morning. The sight of Steve’s thighs and a glimpse of his side through the armholes of his basketball jersey made him feel giddy. He rolled down his window and wolf whistled at Steve making him jump. “Going my way, big boy?” He called as he slowed down.

“You scared the shit out of me, Munson.” Steve said with his hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

“You come here often?” Eddie hoped so, seeing Steve in his itsy-bitsy running outfit looking all sweaty and dishevelled would be the highlight of his day.

“I run this way most mornings. Gotta be able to run if I need to, you know.” Eddie got it, this was part of Steve’s trauma management, he briefly felt bad for objectifying him, but that wasn’t going to stop him driving this way everyday hoping to see him. “Hadn’t you better get going, you don’t want to be late for your first day back. Tell Rob and Dustin I said ‘hi’.” He took off jogging again.

“See ya, Stevie.” He called as he pulled away from the curb. Steve in tiny shorts was going to be running through his head all day.

Eddie daydreamed about Steve all the way to school, he was a little later than planned and struggled to find a place to park. As he got out of his van, he was swarmed by his friends that had come to give him moral support on his first day. All the kids were there, including Max, who had her first day back the previous week.

“It’s good to have you back, man, lunchtimes have been pretty tame without you.” Said Gareth pulling him into a hug.

“Thanks dude,” he patted Gareth on his back, and they moved off in a big group towards the school.

Plenty of other students had stopped their conversation to stare at Eddie as he passed by, his infamy had levelled up impressively over the past month. Before he entered the school he turned and stuck his tongue out, his right hand in the air doing the devil horns earning a smack to the back of his head from Robin.

“You’re incorrigible, Munson.” She grumbled grabbing him by the back of his denim jacket, as she dragged him into the school.

____________________________________

If you liked this snippet, the full fic can be found on AO3 entitled I Want You to Want Me

#eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #i want you to want me #ao3 fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #ao3 writer #steddie #steddie fanfic

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torturedtypewritersdept · 2 days ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/torturedtypewritersdept/782292128610107393/i-really-cant-wait-for-your-next-work-about-our?source=share

ohh actually i have one!! dr rafe taking care of reader when she suddenly gets a nosebleed while cooking dinner with him and she feels quilty that he has to take care of her on his free day and he comforts her <33

The bleeding had stopped — at least, the visible kind. But something in the air still pulsed red and raw.

The towel lay limp in your lap, freckled with blood that had dried to rust at the edges. You could feel the stickiness beneath your nose, the faint pulse behind your eyes still beating like a drum in a storm. And Rafe — he hadn’t moved far. He hovered the way only a man with a surgeon’s hands and a grieving heart could. Reverent. Haunted. Certain that if he let go for even a second, the earth might slip out from under both of you.

“I’m calling Jenni,” he said. His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it — a kind of trembling rage at the world for touching you in this way.

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words withered in your throat. He had already risen from his crouch, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the living room — backlit by the low amber glow of the floor lamp, like a sentinel.

“She needs to run labs,” he muttered to himself as he reached for his phone. “Check your hemoglobin. Your platelets. Your vitals. Everything.”

He paused — just for a second — thumb hovering over the call button as his eyes flicked down to you. He looked at you like you were something fragile in a museum case, glass already cracked, and he was the last one allowed to hold you before you shattered completely.

“You should’ve told me about the headache,” he said, quieter now. “You didn’t have to bear that alone.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you whispered, voice raw. “You’ve done so much.”

He scoffed softly. Not in mockery — but disbelief. As if the very thought that you considered your pain a burden gutted him.

Then he dialed.

“Jenni? It’s Rafe.” His tone shifted into something colder, clipped and clinical — all surgeon now, no softness, just precision. “It’s for her. Sudden epistaxis, ongoing headache, pallor, hand tremor. No fever. No trauma. But it came on fast. I need eyes on her. Tonight.”

You sat there, small and still, watching his profile — the sharp line of his jaw, the way he clenched it like he was trying to bite down on panic. The way his other hand remained braced on the arm of the couch, as if to steady himself on you.

“She’ll come,” he said after hanging up. “She’s on her way.”

“Rafe…” You swallowed thickly, throat raw from blood and unshed tears. “You don’t have to worry this much. I’m okay now.”

But he dropped to his knees again, cupped your cheeks with both hands, and tilted your head toward him so you couldn’t look anywhere but into the ocean-storm of his eyes.

“I don’t do halfway when it comes to you,” he said, voice breaking open like thunder beneath your ribs. “You’re not just someone I treated. You’re not just my patient. You’re—” he stopped himself, breathing hard. “You’re mine to protect. If something’s wrong, I need to know. I need to fix it.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, silent and hot, carving a path through the dried blood near your jaw. He caught it with his thumb before it fell — always catching, always careful.

“I hate this,” you whispered. “I hate that you have to see me like this again.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I’d rather see you broken than not see you at all.”

You didn’t even realize how badly you were trembling until he pulled you forward into his arms, pressing you into the curve of his chest, and the world stopped spinning. His hand cradled the back of your head, holding you there like a secret, like a prayer. And for a long time, you just breathed together.

In.

Out.

In.

His chest rose beneath your cheek — warm, solid, dependable. The scent of him — cedar soap, clean laundry, something faintly antiseptic from the hospital — grounded you in the now.

“You scare me,” he murmured into your hair. “Not because you’re fragile. But because I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t save you.”

The doorbell echoed moments later, but he didn’t rise right away. He held you for another breath — one last heartbeat — before gently lifting you from the couch, as if your bones were made of spun glass and sanctity.

“I’ve got you,” he promised. “Always.”

#rafe cameron x reader #blue eyes + bruises <3 #rafe cameron #rafe x reader #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron prompt #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #doctor!rafe cameron #doctor!rafe x reader #doctor!rafe

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immadatdisney2 · 1 day ago

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Okay what r ur modern hcs for Vat7k or TTS?

*cracks knuckles* okay, get ready for this >:3 (also, let it be known I have more but I'm limiting myself 😔)

This one's basic but beautiful but Hugo has a motorcycle and yes he made it himself, it is his pride and joy

Donnie is Hugo's foster mom and depending on the au she's either sweet Momella who finds him as a fucked up kid, fosters him and adopts him juuuuuuuuuuuust before he turns eighteen, Blitz style (but if she's a mean Bitchella she fosters him for the government paycheck and treats him like shit)

Yong is OBSESSED with Steven Universe, will light up when someone asks him about it and has been making fanart for it since he was like eight or stm

Hugo wears chunky doc Martin's and ONLY dov Martin's (they're dected out with charms and stuff, this is me projecting) which pisses Varian off cause it only makes this bitch taller

Rapunzel became an art teacher and she makes murals with her students throughout the school (but she's annoyed they make here wear shoes there lol, she wears those weird barefoot ones)

Varian was in juvie and this is probably where he met Hugo

Nuru looooooooooooooooove crocheting, and her ultimate show of love is making you a personalized sweater (it took her a while to make one for Hugo and the first one was made with purposefully itchy yarn. Yong on the other hand has dozens of them)

Hector once sneaked Varian aside at a family party when he was like 16 or stm to teach him how to do shots right but got mad when Varian actually liked it and said "No! You're too young for this go have some apple juice!"

Hugo either dresses grundge and like he couldn't give a fuck or like a total dramatic slut (the first one is me projecting again)

Nuru hates having to take care of her natural hair (despite loving how much it looks) so she usually wears it in braids or her favorite, those star puffs hair extentions that I saw on YouTube that one time (someone pls now what I'm talking about)

Kiera is a sickass softball player (loves threatening people with her metal bat) and Cat does it with her but it isn't her favorite lol (Oh and they both play viola cause ✨️projecting✨️

Hugo's glasses are taped together cause he's clumsy but refuses to pay for new frames (those cost so fucking much dude-)

Varian likes to doodle on his sneaker and Ying does it too because he wants to be like his big brother and sometimes they doodle on eachothers shoes <3

Hugo pireced his own ears, did his only needle-poke tattoos and is basically just DIY or die

Yong uses his adorable dumpling-ness to get away with shit but his true colors are LITERAL SPAWN FROM HELL (trust me, all twelve year old are)

Because of all his experience with chemistry, Varian is one helluva bartender

THIS ONE IS MY FAVORITE RN!!! Hugo at some point was enlisted in the army (in my eyes to try and get away from Donella) and it leave him even more traumatized and it either goes a) dishonorable discharge for smt like stealing, idk OR b) he gets his arm blow off from a grenade or it has to be amputated cause he got shit or something so he leaves with a metal of honor, some dog tags he never take off and ✨️trauma✨️

Varian is actually pretty popular in highschool/collage but never goes out and Hugo is always at every party but just sits in the corner getting stoned

When Varian came out (to Eugene first, cause his crush on Hugo slipped out) Eugene makes an entire presentation on why being bi is AWSOME, but WHY HUGO!?!?!?!

Nuru lives wearing super pretty gold eyeliner and makeup and sometimes she and Hugo will do makeovers <3

Hugo faced a lot of homophobia in service so he struggled with it when he got out (especially the genderfluid part) :(((

Amber's has the kost subtle or southern accents and Nuru loves it, and she can make the BEST peach cobbler since she grew up in Gerogia <3<3<3 (like Nuru cires tears of joy everytime she makes it)

Hugo at some point was a pretty heavy smoker/stoner (man ALL my modern hc of him so far are angsty.... dang) but Varian always hated it and forced him to quit by saying "I'm not gonna kiss you anymore, that smoke tastes like shit!" (That saying, there first kiss was Hugo shotgunning him at Varians one and only collage party based on an amazing fic I read <3)

Ummmmmm happiesh Hugo thing! He loves playing the violin, it's one of his favorite things especially when he gets to play with Varian and bully Kiera & Cat for playing the viola

Every year, team radical goes to the amusement park as a summer tradition and every year, Hugo gets sick on the roller-coaster but goes anyway because Var lives them. Nuru gets her face painted while amber wins a bunch of stupid prizes for her and Yong gets lost on purpose to scare the gang

Somone BETTER ask me this again cause this is really long and my fingers hurt so I'm leaving it here for now, do with is what you will~

-ImMadAtDisney <3

#immadatdisney rambles #varian and the seven kingdoms #varian and the 7 kingdoms #hugo vat7k #vat7k #varian #nuru vat7k #yong vat7k #modern au #headcanon #ask me shit #pls <3

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nanamineedstherapy · 2 days ago

Text

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader x Gojo Satoru x Nanami Kento F!CHRO Reader x Higuruma Hiromi Elrdrich Haibara Smut

Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage. A/N: HIIII besties! This chapter is very chill, no drama, just some light breathing exercises, flashbacks that won’t ruin your life, & absolutely ZERO consequences for trusting the wrong people. It’s a beach episode in our hearts. If you feel the urge to cry, that’s just seasonal allergies. Also, if you were mean to a certain side character last chapter… don’t worry! You’ll get what’s coming. Love you!! Now go read & rot :)

Previous Chapter 24 (alt ending 2.15) - Shattered Constellations - [Tumblr/Ao3]

Chapter 25 (alt ending 2.16) - Losing Sun

POV: CHRO

You didn’t plan to wait for Hiromi outside his office like a psycho ex.

But you did. In your luxury black sedan. With tinted windows. And Bluetooth surveillance access to his firm’s security feed.

HR might've said this was an abuse of corporate resources. But HR worked for you.

So when he finally emerged—sleeves rolled up, hair loose around his face, looking like someone had sculpted him from silk and repressed Catholicism—you got out of your car.

He paused mid-step. “...You,” he said, like the universe had just dared him.

“Yes,” you snapped. “Me. The woman you keep sleeping with and then ghosting like it’s a federal mandate.”

He looked genuinely conflicted. “It’s not like that.”

“It is like that,” you corrected. “Twice now. First time I gave you grace because you had a hangover and a tragic backstory. This time? No such excuses.”

Hiromi stepped closer, voice low. “You think I don’t want this? You think I forgot because I wanted to?”

You blinked.

A pause.

Then—

“Oh, wow. You’re gonna trauma-dump me now? Let me guess—Catholic guilt? Your parents never hugged you? You’re tortured by justice? You're Batman?”

His mouth twitched. “I’m not Gojo Satoru.”

You smirked. “You’re not even Nanami Kento.”

Silence. Then—

He dropped the briefcase.

Crossed the distance.

And kissed you like a man signing a confession.

THAT EVENING—HIS PLACE, NOT YOURS

You expected regret. Distance. Guilt.

What you didn’t expect?

Hiromi, shirt half-unbuttoned, dragging his knuckles along your thigh as he murmured, “I still remember the case you presented in college. The one where you argued that consent could be commodified under late-stage capitalism.”

Your breath hitched.

He leaned in. “You said—‘Legally speaking, I don’t need to be soft. Just correct.’”

You swallowed.

He kissed your neck. “That’s when I knew I was going to fuck you someday.”

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

You flipped him over, straddled him. “Then don’t waste time pretending this is about morality.”

“It’s not,” he said, rough now. “It’s about you.”

Around dinnertime, when you woke up, he was still there. Sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, glasses now on, writing in a leather-bound notebook.

You blinked. “You’re... still here?”

He looked over his shoulder, then smiled.

“I’m memorising the terms of our contract.”

You blinked again. “Excuse me?”

Hiromi’s smirk was almost cruel. “You said you weren’t some college freshman anymore. So I figured—maybe you’re ready for a legally binding entanglement.”

You sat up, cautious. “You’re proposing?”

“No”, he said calmly, “I’m countersuing.”

You stared.

He stared back.

Then added, “On the grounds that you ghosted me emotionally first.”

Before you could say anything more, your and his phones rang at the same time.

Hiromi sighed and picked up. You picked up yours, ready to snap at whoever thought calling at this hour was acceptable—

But—

“She’s been shot.”

“…What. Who?”

“CEO. It was nasty—a bullet hit the base of her spine where it connects to the brain. Exited through her collarbone.”

A pause. Too long. Too empty. Ringing in your ears.

“No… That can’t be. Are you… Are you joking, Sam?”

“No, ma’am. We don’t think she’ll make it. I mean—who survives such a thing?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“…I’m sorry. Please come. You might want to see her before—”

Hiromi couldn’t get your voice to rise above a whisper after you hung up. You just stared at the wall like you’d been rewound mid-sentence. The click of the call ending was louder than your breathing.

---

Flashback: Nesting Season

The nursery smelled like cedar and stubborn love.

Gojo Satoru stood barefoot on a tarp spread over lacquered floors worth more than most Tokyo real estate, wielding a paint roller like a holy relic. He wore a painter’s poncho over an old high school gym shirt that clung too tightly to his arms. A small, fuzzy white raccoon plushie with “I ❤️ Mama” stitched on its belly was tucked under one arm—clearly gifted by his wife, judging by the satin ribbon around its neck and the way Gojo absently pet it between brush strokes like it was the emotional support animal of a cursed king.

He squinted at the wall, tongue poking out in unflattering concentration, and applied a thick streak of lavender-gray paint.

“How hard can this be?” he said to no one in particular, spinning too fast and nearly slinging paint onto the ceiling.

“Apparently very,” came Nanami Kento’s voice, dry as always. He sat on the nursery’s lone reading chair, legs crossed, flipping through a fan of color samples like he was on a judging panel. “You didn’t stir the base coat. It’ll streak.”

Gojo whipped around, outraged. “You’ve been sitting there pretending to be emotionally distant and Danish for twenty minutes and now suddenly you’re Bob Ross?”

“I’m holding this house together with structural dignity and caffeine. Let me sit,” Nanami replied, not looking up.

“That’s new,” you said, waddling into the room with the tired grace of someone thirty-four weeks pregnant and still somehow the most dangerous one present. A pastel tee clung to your belly, the words Future CEO Loading… arching over your navel like a threat.

Gojo perked up immediately. “Babe.” He reached out, knuckles grazing under your bump with unspoken reverence. “Did you know our son did a somersault this morning while I was brushing my teeth? He’s either going to be an acrobat or an interior designer.”

Nanami finally looked up. “Interior designer. He already has better aesthetic sense than you.”

Gojo gasped. “I’m wearing coordinated socks.”

“You’re wearing a shirt from 2004 that says Talk Nerdy To Me.”

“That’s vintage!”

You eased onto the memory foam stool by the window, exhaling slowly as both babies squirmed lower, your spine aching with effort. “He’s not… terrible at it,” you offered diplomatically.

“That is not the compliment you think it is,” Nanami said.

“It’s my third-trimester compromise voice,” you muttered.

Gojo puffed out his chest. “I deserve a gold star for finding pregnancy-safe paint. Do you know how hard it is to flirt with a Canadian chemist?”

“You didn’t flirt,” Nanami deadpanned.

“I told him he had ‘verdant eyes’ and smelled like responsibly harvested pine.”

“That’s not flirting. That’s impersonating a tree spirit.”

You rolled your eyes. “God, you two are exhausting.”

But there was warmth in your voice. A smile playing on your lips. You leaned back and let them bicker in peace, because what they were doing—what they had done—was inch their way back into a kind of intimacy you hadn’t seen in years.

It started when Nanami rose, paintbrush finally in hand. His sleeves rolled up neatly to his forearms. He approached the wall Gojo had mauled and began correcting it with long, elegant strokes.

“Think foreplay, not fencing,” he said without looking at Gojo.

“Why is it always about foreplay with you?” Gojo retorted. “Also, fencing is sexy. You’ve seen The Princess Bride.”

“I’m referencing technique, not romance.”

“But technique is romantic.”

Nanami paused. “You sound like you’re quoting a science textbook written by a poet.”

Gojo beamed. “I was explaining the inverse square law to a first year yesterday and almost cried at how elegantly cursed energy disperses. It’s beautiful, Nanamin.”

Your heart twinged.

Nanami hesitated just a second too long before replying—like Gojo’s chaotic reverence had caught him off guard. “Yes. Well. You do cry when left alone with your own thoughts for more than ten minutes.”

Gojo turned toward him, mock-wounded. “You know that’s only when I think about how light behaves like both a wave and a particle. It’s not fair. I feel like I’m not fair.”

Nanami nearly smirked. Nearly.

You caught it. You caught the half-second where Gojo looked at him like he wanted praise, and Nanami faltered like he might actually give it.

They didn’t know how obvious they were. Or maybe they did and just didn’t care anymore. The tension wasn’t the fraying kind anymore. It had transmuted—something softer, something young despite its weight.

Gojo came over to you, then. Dropped onto the daybed next to your stool with a soft grunt and curled his long fingers around your ankle.

“Want me to rub your feet?” he asked. “I washed my hands. Mostly.”

You nodded, silently grateful, and he began massaging with surprising gentleness. His touch, even through swollen ankles and pregnancy fatigue, was still reverent.

Nanami, now standing, glanced at you—then Gojo—and adjusted the angle of his paint strokes so they’d blend with the corner Gojo had already done. No one asked him to.

You tilted your head, watching them in your peripheral vision. The way Gojo’s face flushed when Nanami moved behind him to reach a high part of the wall. The way Nanami’s fingers brushed Gojo’s spine just a moment too long to be incidental. The way Gojo startled, then grinned, then said nothing.

It wasn’t sexual. Not yet.

It was better.

Gojo caught you watching and held up the raccoon plush like a shield. “He’s judging us,” he whispered. “Says Nanami’s technique is superior and I should go back to kindergarten finger painting.”

“He’s wise beyond his seams,” you said solemnly.

Nanami just shook his head and kept painting. But his neck was flushed, his voice slightly lower than before. “You’re both ridiculous.”

“Tell that to the raccoon,” Gojo replied, cuddling it to his chest like a six-foot child with a god complex.

You leaned back, eyes drifting shut, the quiet sounds of paint rollers, soft breathing, and distant music wrapping around you like a promise.

They flirted the way birds nested—awkward, hopeful, and relentless.

And you never stopped them.

Because maybe this was the part they got right. The part where nothing needed fixing. The part where home wasn’t just walls and safety glass but banter, laughter, and the gentle realisation that after everything… they were still choosing each other.

And you.

Always you.

---

Today

Gojo breached the ER with a sound like breaking sky. Covered in your blood. Breathing hard like someone choking on static. He was shielding your face from Nanami, who was just three steps behind—and unravelling in real time.

Sukuna had cleared the hallway before the doctors even knew to panic. Not with power—presence. His cursed energy was leaking from his skin in quiet pulses, like grief had learned how to walk upright. He’d moved your body, hands gentle where they shouldn’t be. You had twitched once. Your eyes had opened. But they were empty. Blank. There had been a slow seizure. And then—nothing.

Choso was already there. He’d come as soon as the first pulse snapped. He threw a paparazzo into the curb with the courtesy of someone folding laundry. Blood on concrete, questions left unanswered.

You didn’t move.

The men didn’t breathe.

They declared you dead on arrival.

Nanami felt the moment the world tipped. It was subtle—just the way the ringing in his ears overtook everything else, how his knees hit the floor without him realizing, how his hands didn’t even reach for you.

The logical part of his brain had already processed it, already accepted what his eyes were telling him. Fatal wound. No recovery. Blood loss beyond reason.

But the part of him that had spent months standing beside you, fighting for you, protecting you—that part hadn’t caught up yet.

And that part was cracking.

Gojo stood still. Too still.

He had already seen it, already understood it, but still didn’t believe it. Not fully. Not when his eyes kept drifting to your throat, to the way the massive bullet hole had torn through veins and muscle, how bone had splintered like glass, forming a grotesque mosaic of an entire world ruined.

He had promised you safety. Promised them safety. Took over the Jujutsu structure for you, for them.

And they were still here, standing in the same air as your last breath.

Wasn’t he supposed to be the strongest?

What did it mean when being the strongest wasn’t enough to stop this?

His hands curled into fists until the nails dug in. He could feel his heart beating in his palms—too loud, too fast, too useless.

Why was his heart still beating when yours wasn’t?

Sukuna never spoke.

Not when he saw you, not when he saw the twins’ futures carved away by gunfire, not when the air in the room thickened with silence.

He had always known he wasn’t the one meant to have you.

Had accepted it. Buried it. Ignored it.

But the truth was, he had still loved you—loved you like a bad habit, like a thorn pressed beneath skin, too deep to remove. And now, he would never tell you.

He would never say it.

He would never let his name sit in your throat the way it had once before.

Sukuna’s jaw locked, his eyes burned. He forced himself to breathe evenly.

And he stared.

Not at the blood. Not at the destruction.

At you.

At the person they had all tried to protect but lost anyway.

The room was quiet.

Not with reverence. With something colder.

The kind of silence before a verdict.

Before grief sinks into bone and settles in the spaces between memories.

Before they all have to live with it.

Before the world keeps going without you in it.

And none of them moved.

Because the second they did, the moment would shatter—and what came after would be worse than the silence.

And then your body did something no corpse should do.

The monitors screamed awake.

Pulse returned.

Lungs stuttered.

Your wound—cracked open at the base of your skull and curved through your clavicle—began to knit itself back together. Wrongly. Too clean. Like watching glass unfuse, fold into sand, and remember it had once been fire.

But your eyes stayed closed.

They had declared you legally dead for three minutes and forty-two seconds.

They say that when the heart restarts after three minutes, the damage is permanent. Cells shrivel like moth wings under heat, the brain begins to eat itself, the heart is nothing but meat in rhythm, and if breath returns, it carries no one with it.

The body becomes a haunted house: lights flicker on, doors open—but no one's home. That’s what you had become. A cruel miracle. A waking corpse with a pulse.

Not a survivor.

Shoko had been pressed against Utahime’s wall, rain still dripping from her bangs, flush with breathless laughter, tasting her lipstick like she'd waited a decade to deserve it. You had told her to stop hesitating, to live. So she had. She’d even smiled, soft, rare, mortal. And then the call came. The moment her phone buzzed, she already knew it was you. Or about you. The vibrations had felt like your panic—deep, frantic, unfinished. She answered and didn’t remember how she got to the hospital. Her shirt was buttoned wrong when she arrived; her hands still smelled faintly of citrus and sweat and another woman. She didn’t go inside immediately. She sat by the vending machine and tried to breathe.

Maya—Yorozu reborn and remade in silk blouses and irony—had been halfway onto a rusted Indonesian fishing trawler, dragging a suitcase over rope nets and dead salt air. She saw the message flash once. She didn’t read it. She tossed the phone into the sea, and it sank like a lie told too often. She kept moving. Her curse, her design, was complete. She’d made a god bleed and watched the world unravel from a safe distance.

Gojo hadn’t blinked in what felt like hours. His knees still hurt from rushing to you, but Gojo Satoru was used to pain to a point where he’d made himself believe it didn’t hurt. The whites of his eyes had gone a murky pink, like memories bleeding through. His fingers twitched every few seconds. Just enough to prove he hadn’t frozen completely. His mouth wouldn’t close. He kept whispering your name like a talisman, over and over again, expecting that at the hundredth repetition it might summon something more than silence.

It didn’t work.

They placed you in the most expensive hospital suite in Tokyo. You hated it. Always said spa-hospitals looked like mausoleums. But the staff didn’t know that. Didn’t know you.

They bathed you in lavender and gave you silk sheets, thinking luxury could patch the horror. Thinking their hands weren’t shaking.

Nanami sat beside your body. He had knelt on broken glass to help Gojo lift you from the ground during transport, and the cuts on his palm hadn’t stopped bleeding until the moment your heart had jolted back to life. He watched the monitor beep with quiet contempt, as if it were mocking him.

He counted seconds between each beep.

And hated every one.

Each heartbeat felt like an insult. A machine making promises your eyes couldn’t.

Sukuna hadn’t spoken. Not in the ER. Not in the hallway. Not even during CPR when your ribs cracked under his hands. It had been he who first whispered, “She’s not breathing.”

He’d said it as if this kind of death was known to him. And hated. Deeply. Personally.

He stood at your bedside now with both fists clenched, his knuckles pale, cursed energy twisting in restrained spirals around him—like muscle memory fighting God.

The room didn’t burn.

But it remembered how to.

This wasn’t rage.

This was mourning.

From a man who didn’t know how to grieve properly.

From a man who never got to before.

He had died a dozen times. Killed a thousand more. But this—this was what hell looked like.

Quiet.

Still.

With your soul somewhere he couldn’t reach.

You looked peaceful. It was obscene.

Your body had begun repairing itself almost instantly after the flatline reversed.

The bullet had dug through your skull and out your collarbone like it had been mapping pain. And still, your collarbone realigned with slow, brutal accuracy. Your throat cleared. Lungs reinflated. Bleeding ceased. The gash through the base of your skull began knitting shut—not like a wound healing, but like time reversing.

And still, you didn’t move.

The twins inside you pulsed like stars too bright to name. Cursed energy rolled through your abdomen in surges that made Shoko nauseous. It wasn’t just life. It was war.

Sukuna left the room once. Returned two minutes later with his hair wet, jaw locked, and silence sitting heavy behind his eyes. Like he’d dunked his head under the sink just to keep from screaming.

None of them left your side after that.

Nurses came and went. Tiptoed. No one asked questions. Not when Gojo’s cursed energy made the air shimmer like heat rising off concrete. Not when Sukuna cracked his knuckles every time the monitor skipped. Not when Nanami’s golden lines flickered across the walls like clockwork waiting to shatter.

Nanami was still beside your bed, spine straight, blood still drying on his knuckles. He brushed your hair back—careful, reverent—with the same hands that had shattered bones on a regular.

Then the elevator opened.

And she came in.

With Megumi beside her.

The woman no one dared name aloud anymore. Not since you’d chosen her as your emergency contact, your power of attorney, your ghost.

Her hair was grey at the edges, pulled back into a knot she hadn’t checked twice. She moved like someone who’d lived through too much to be afraid. Like someone who had stitched open wounds in kitchens and watched revolutions die slow.

Megumi stood stiff at her side, arms crossed, face set in CEO-stillness. But his jaw ticked. His silence was the kind that preceded violence.

The moment her eyes found you—strapped to monitors, pale against silk sheets you would’ve mocked—she stopped walking.

No one moved.

Not Gojo, standing at the foot of your bed with blood still staining his face.

Not Nanami, whose golden ratio lines flared once, then vanished again.

Not Sukuna, who stood at the far corner of the room, barely breathing.

“Oka-sama,” Nanami spoke up. (Mother-in-law)

So did Gojo, “Oshūtome-san, she—”. (Mama-in-law/polite but informal)

She raised a hand without looking at either of them and cut them off. “She called me.”

Her voice was steady. Controlled.

It made it worse.

“You were going to abort them behind her back,” she said, eyes not moving from your face. “Do you even understand what that does to a woman who was raped by her own family? Who thought, for once, she was safe?”

A beat.

Choso and Ino stepped back quietly, like they could feel something holy and wrong build in the room.

Sukuna’s expression didn’t change. But the cursed energy around him shifted. He had known there were scars—but this?

Nanami took half a step forward. Then stopped.

His voice cracked at the edges. “We didn’t—” He swallowed. “We weren’t going to do anything. Shoko told us she was stable. She said there was no immediate threat.”

Gojo’s voice cut in over his. It wasn’t calm. It wasn’t composed. It was desperate. “We didn’t fucking decide anything! We weren’t going to do it without her knowing! We just—Shoko said—she was already overwhelmed. And we thought—” His voice broke. “We thought… she’d be ok.”

Nanami looked like he was running out of rope to hang himself with. His hair and shirt were soaked in your blood.

She turned her head.

“Who’s Shoko?”

Gojo, blinking, lifted a hand and pointed sideways without looking.

Shoko stood near the wall, her arms folded, jaw clenched. Her white coat was stained at the hem.

The woman turned to her. “You told them not to tell her?”

Shoko raised her hands halfway, guilt crawling up her spine. “I didn’t mean to—hurt her. I just—” She looked down. “I don’t know you.”

The woman tilted her head.

“You all can leave.”

Gojo’s head snapped up. “What?”

“I said get out. I’ll call you if she dies.”

No one argued.

Sukuna was already moving—gone before she finished the sentence, a silent blur of departure that didn’t even ruffle the curtains.

Nanami rose. Shoulders stiff. He didn’t look at anyone. Walked out like his bones were folding in on themselves.

Gojo stared at her like he’d never seen her before. Then turned and followed, without a sound.

She waited until they were gone.

Then turned to Megumi, who hadn’t moved from the door.

“You let them lie to her.”

Megumi’s jaw locked. “I know.”

He stepped past her and walked to the foot of your bed.

Your face didn’t twitch. The monitors kept their steady, mocking rhythm.

She stared at you.

And whispered, “Where’s Haibara?”

No answer.

No one had seen Haibara since the evening, and it was almost midnight now. No one knew where he’d gone. Or if he’d ever been real in the first place.

And Megumi—nearing thirty now, all Toji’s shoulders and none of his mercy—looked like someone had reached inside him and crushed something vital.

“Coward,” he muttered.

His mother finally stepped forward, arms opening like instinct. She held him the way she had when he was nine and hiding a knife in his school bag.

She held him like he was the one who’d been shot.

And you still didn’t wake up.

In the hallway, Gojo sat with his head in his hands. Nanami beside him, elbows on his knees, spine stiff.

Neither had spoken.

Shoko hadn’t followed them. She stayed by the window, unreadable.

A moment later, Choso and Ino returned, coffee in hand.

Ino offered one to her. She took it, remembered him from your wedding.

Choso didn’t speak. Just leaned against the wall, shoes still stained with blood. He met her eyes.

She nodded.

And let them stay.

You were floating somewhere between breath and silence.

The machines clicked and hissed around you, measuring a life that no longer moved. A hospital suite dressed in expensive lies—salt lamps, faux orchids, an espresso machine no one would touch.

The kind of room meant to make grief feel curated.

The kind of room where ghosts stayed politely still.

You looked like someone sleeping.

But the neck brace. The cranial monitor. The catheter. The stillness.

No one mistook it for rest.

Shoko confirmed what they already knew: the bullet had entered at the base of the skull, angled down, clean through the spinal cord and out the collarbone. A kill shot. Surgical.

But something—something—had pulled you back.

She suspected Sukuna before anyone else. His cursed energy lingered on your skin like ancient static. Not hostile. Not corrupted. But… older. Older than death, even. A fingerprint where no human hand could reach.

He had been the last one to touch you.

But whatever was wrong with you—it wasn’t malevolent.

If anything, it held you together. Knitted the pieces of you too quickly. Too precisely.

Like someone trying to preserve you.

By hour six, your body was functioning. Heart stable. Lungs assisted. Organs clearing blood like it had been spilled for someone else.

But your brain?

Your frontal lobe barely lit.

Your empathy, your feeling—gone dark.

The rest of you, legally alive. Functioning.

Spiritually? Emotionally?

Gone.

Shoko screamed in her car that night until her voice cracked. Punched her steering wheel until the horn jammed and then curled into the seat until dawn. Utahime left food outside her door without knocking. She didn’t know you, but she knew the guilt was eating Shoko alive.

Yuji and Junpei followed their own leads. Choso stayed, filling out reports with steady hands while Ino intercepted the press and gave nothing away.

Shoko stayed by your bedside. Watched brain scans flicker with near-static. Something was there. But faint. Unanchored.

Your soul hadn’t left.

But it wasn’t answering either.

And you didn’t wake.

By three forty AM in the night, Shoko gathered the men you still called husband.

Sukuna still stood near the window, back half-turned. Silent.

Gojo paced by the curtain rail, twitching.

Nanami sat by the monitor stand, still in his bloodstained clothes.

“This isn’t healing,” Shoko said, voice hoarse.

Nanami looked up, eyes hollow. “What is it then?”

“Replication.”

Gojo turned slowly.

Shoko didn’t stop. “The twins brought her back—but not all of her. This is cursed. I don’t know if it’s her inside that body or something mimicking her until she returns.”

She looked at Sukuna from the corner of her eyes. The thing in him blinked once. Said nothing.

The next second, Gojo lost it.

Shattered the door open with one arm.

He moved too fast to track. One hand snatched Sukuna back by the collar—space bending to make it happen.

The next second, Sukuna’s spine slammed into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster.

Monitors two doors down hiccuped.

Shoko flinched. Nanami followed them out.

Gojo’s cursed energy flared, folding the air into a pressure system. The lights stuttered. A vending machine in the waiting room shattered with a metallic shriek.

“What. Did. You. Do?” He growled, his elbow digging into Sukuna’s throat. “You were the last person with her.”

Sukuna’s head tipped back against the concrete, half-lidded, unreadable. Calm. Disrespectful. “You always this dramatic, or is this just a ‘dead wife’ thing?” he asked coolly.

“Don’t.” Gojo’s voice cracked. “One thing you’re not gonna do—you're not gonna mess with me. I’m in a volatile place right now. And I will start beheading people I don’t like if you don’t start talking.”

The air buzzed.

Gold shimmered behind him—Nanami’s lines bleeding into the walls like judgement etched in scripture.

“Gojo,” he said. Low. Flat. “Answers first.”

Gojo didn’t look away.

Shoko’s jaw was tight.

Sukuna’s lip curled. “You brought your conscience in business casual.”

“Say that again,” Gojo said. Voice brittle. Dangerous. “Say it again, and I’ll turn your body inside out.”

Sukuna smirked, but he wasn’t mad at Gojo. Not enough to fight him right now.

Gojo leaned closer, his voice low and frayed. “So, I’m asking again—what did you do to my goddamn wife?”

In the hallway, Megumi flicked a cigarette out the window and leaned in, slow.

One hand in his trouser pocket. Not moving yet. But his presence built like a low-pressure storm.

“It’s a curse,” Nanami said again, addressing Gojo, not Sukuna. “Dormant. Nothing internal. She’s perfectly healthy.”

Gojo didn’t let go. His cursed energy twisted once.

A sharp spatial bend cracked the air.

Sukuna slammed into the wall again—this time jaw first. Blood split from his lip.

Gojo’s voice dropped. “Fix her. I know you did something. I feel it.” His hand shook. “Fix her. Or I kill you and explain it to her later.”

Sukuna licked the blood from his split lip, slow like a cat cleaning the evidence off its claws. “Six eyes,” he murmured, smiling. “And yet still blind.”

Gojo’s jaw clicked. “Try me.” His voice was quiet now. Deadly. “I’ll break every law for her.”

Sukuna tilted his head, just slightly. Unbothered. Like a man watching a fire from across the street—interested, but not involved. Then he pushed Gojo off with one controlled motion. No cursed energy. Just unflinching defiance.

“She’s not broken.” His voice dipped into something reverent. “She’s… sleeping. Cursed sleep. Bound dream. Call it what you want.”

Gojo’s fists tightened at his sides. The muscles in his throat twitched. He didn’t swing again. Not yet.

Sukuna looked toward your hospital room door. “I bet she can still feel everything. Hear everything. Just can’t move.”

His words turned softer. More dangerous. “She’ll stay that way until she wakes. Young. Beautiful. Human. Preserved. Suspended.”

“She’s not an artifact,” Gojo bit out.

“No,” Sukuna agreed. “But the curse doesn’t care.”

Nanami’s voice was quiet and hard-edged. “You sound proud.”

Sukuna glanced at him. “I’m impressed. There’s a difference.”

“Not even I could do that,” he added, almost to himself. “Not to her.”

Across the hallway, Megumi exhaled smoke from where he’d been leaning against the frame. “Do you have a lead?”

Sukuna’s gaze flicked back to Gojo, lingered one more beat, then nodded once. “Yes. A residual. Something missed.”

“I’m coming,” Nanami said, already straightening.

“Like hell you are,” Gojo snapped, stepping in. “You think I’m letting you walk off with him—?”

Nanami didn’t even look at him. “His brother.”

From the hallway, the shape in the shadows stepped forward.

Choso was already there, as if he'd been waiting. His expression didn’t change. Hands in his jacket pockets. Calm. Rooted. Blood on the cuffs of his sleeves, dry. “I’ll stay,” he said.

Nanami gave a short nod, already turning to follow Sukuna.

Gojo stared him down. “You think that means shit to me?”

Choso’s voice didn’t waver. “No. But she’s not the only one someone’s willing to kill for.”

It was that—more than anything—that stalled Gojo. Just a second.

By then, Sukuna was already halfway down the hall. Nanami beside him.

Neither man looked back.

Ino ushered Shoko and Choso back inside to answer questions from the incoming night shift.

The hallway emptied.

Only Gojo and Megumi remained.

Gojo leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the wall. Shoulders curled. He looked—small. Like a puppet who’d forgotten how to stand.

She had always been stronger than him.

All he could do now was wait.

And hope she remembered she was loved.

Megumi pressed his thumb to the call button again.

Smoke curled from the end of his cigarette. His eyes didn’t move.

Static. One ring. Then another.

Voicemail: Don’t call me.

Beeep.

He didn’t leave a message.

The silence after was louder than most screams.

The fluorescents above flickered like they were trying not to shatter.

He’d called Haibara fifteen times in the last hour.

Haibara hadn’t answered once.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

Haibara was like that. Unreliable, erratic, and brilliant in ways no one liked to admit.

The kind of man who’d eat candy during an autopsy and hum during executions.

The kind of man who’d kiss your forehead and kill your neighbour in the same breath.

But even in all that chaos—he always called back.

Always.

Megumi leaned his head back against the cold tile of the corridor wall, cigarette dangling from his fingers. Stared up at the ceiling like it might have an answer carved into its cracks.

He didn’t cry.

That wasn’t his way.

He hadn’t cried since… maybe ever. Since his father vanished. Since childhood bled out of him in a school hallway full of bloodied noses and ignored pleas.

Instead, he thought of Haibara’s hands.

A memory.

Seventh grade.

There’d been a boy. A senior. Too rough with his words. Rougher with his grip on her uniform collar.

Megumi broke his shoulder.

The boy had screamed.

Blood. Gravel. Stillness.

And Haibara had crouched beside him, tilted his head like a curious god, and said, “Good aim. But next time—don’t hesitate. People get worse when you give them time to think.”

That had been the first time anyone praised him for violence.

The first time he felt understood.

A new message appeared on the screen: “Call failed. Try again later.”

The doubt began to crawl then.

Slow. Patient.

Like rot. Like maggots waiting for something warm to go still.

He had always believed there was something human buried inside Haibara.

Beneath the bloodlust. Beneath the strange laughter that followed violence.

Beneath the habit of looking people in the eye after he killed them.

He thought the madness was armour. Camouflage.

A defence against a world too loud, too cruel, too indifferent to love unless it came sharp-edged and disfigured.

A scream against the things he couldn’t say.

Everyone else saw a serial killer.

Megumi saw an older brother pretending not to care.

He used to think Haibara was hiding.

From the world. From guilt. From the guilt of surviving it all. From the guilt of not finding her sooner.

But maybe…

Maybe Haibara had never been hiding.

Maybe there was nothing left to hide.

And maybe he stopped pretending the moment she collapsed.

Now, with her lying two doors down, unmoving, locked in some cursed purgatory that none of their power could fix—Haibara hadn’t called back.

And Haibara always called back.

Just slipped out into the fog like some myth that only ever pretended to be flesh.

Megumi stood in the hospital hallway, thumb hovering over the call button again.

Still trying to believe he’d gone chasing a lead. Still pretending the next ring might connect.

Still choosing belief over the alternative.

And it wasn’t just hope.

It was devotion.

Because once, in a place no longer relevant, Haibara had whispered into the dark—maybe not to anyone, maybe to no one at all.

A version of himself cracked open by the kind of love that doesn’t heal but ruins you in new, irreversible ways.

To the version of himself he left behind when he stopped pretending to love anything except her.

“I’m not the good guy. Remember?”

Whisky burned between his fingers. No ice. No smile. Just the glass sweating under his grip like a confession.

He’d never been this candid. Maybe he’d been drunk. Or maybe he’d known this was coming.

“I’m the selfish one. I do what I want. Morality’s not one of the burdens I carry.” His laugh was a blade forced to burn over a thousand fires. “I make my own morality with what I see. What I hear. What I judge.”

A breath. A shrug—the kind that could collapse empires.

“She wants me to be better. Kinder.” The amber in his glass caught the light like a dying sun. “But I can’t be. I’m not built for good.”

A pause. A swallow.

“I’m built for wrath, Megs.”

A breath. A smile that didn’t reach his irises.

Back in the corridor, Megumi closed his eyes and lit another cigarette.

He remembered. He’d always remembered.

Because it wasn’t a warning. It was a rare confession.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream.

Some grief is silent. The kind that digs in and waits. Like a blade turned inward.

He just whispered, without looking at the phone, “Pick up. Please. Just once.”

But the screen stayed black.

And the messages never delivered.

And Haibara didn’t call back.

And maybe—just maybe—he never would again.

Gojo came up beside him, slow, wordless, eyes still hollow from the hallway fight. He took the cigarette from Megumi’s fingers and smoked like it was penance, leaning out over the balcony.

Megumi fished out another, only to realise that was his last.

By day three, the hospital felt like a mausoleum. The air was heavy. No one said your name above a whisper. They brought blankets and pillows to sleep by your side. Someone brought your favourite tea. No one drank it.

And still, you didn’t move.

The heart beats. The lungs expand. The skin heals.

But no one knows what happens to the soul when it's caught between love and a curse.

Megumi looked through the ICU glass, toward the sterile white light. And wondered, for the first time in his life—

if some ghosts never left because they were still waiting to be called home.

And if he’d already lost two people—

One breathing.

One not.

And neither able to answer when he whispered their names.

Would you come back?

---

They found her on the seventh day, docked between two rust-rotted ferries off the Aomori coast.

The storm hadn’t touched the harbour. The sea was corpse-still, thick with salt and the stench of diesel. No lights. No birds. Just the squeal of wet metal shifting under its own weight.

Nanami adjusted the grip on his gloves. His knuckles were scraped raw, blood dried into the cuff of his sleeve like ink. Sukuna hadn’t spoken since they crossed the gangplank—just flexed his fingers once and let cursed energy spool between them like quiet wrath.

Below, in the belly of the ferry, something breathed wrong.

“You smell it?” Sukuna asked.

Nanami nodded once.

She was in there.

They moved like professionals. No shouting. No tricks.

Just purpose.

The doors were already open.

She’d been waiting.

They found her slumped atop an overturned fishing crate, her back pressed against a bent support beam. Her body—mangled into something that might’ve once been upright. Someone had already gotten to her.

Her ribs moved. Barely.

One eye was missing.

Her mouth—nothing but a mess of blood and irony.

Next to her, tied down, slumped and unconscious, was Kashimo. His hair was matted to his face. She’d drugged him and dragged him with her.

“About time,” Yorozu coughed. Her voice sounded like something unfinished. “Thought you'd take longer.”

Sukuna stepped forward first, slow. The light caught on the lines of his cursed markings like a priest drawing a blade. “You cursed her!”

Yorozu’s eye glittered. “Because you wanted her.”

Silence.

Nanami didn’t blink.

Sukuna smiled. The smile didn’t reach his voice. “Why? Why won’t you fucking let me go? You have Kashimo. Still…”

Yorozu whispered. “Because you’ve always wanted to be loved without being known. You’re just like the rest of them.”

Sukuna flicked his wrist. Her left leg snapped at the knee. No warning. No ceremony. Just bone giving way like a dry twig.

She didn’t scream. She laughed.

“I was right, wasn’t I?”

Another flick. Her shoulder dislocated with a wet crunch. Kashimo didn’t stir.

“I watched her,” Yorozu said. “For months. Watched how she made monsters kneel. Watched how you wanted her to see you and only you. You all think you’re different. But you’re not.”

Nanami moved then. He hadn’t spoken until now. He stepped into the light with precision, and the temperature in the hull shifted—like balance itself had begun to shift around him.

“You planted her.”

His voice was low. Level.

Yorozu looked up, dazed. Blood dripped from her chin. “You’re slower than I thought, Kento.”

Nanami’s jaw didn’t twitch. His cursed energy was silent and absolute.

“You’ve been pretending to be a therapist this whole time,” he said. “How’d you get Shoko to recommend you?”

She smirked, “started a conversation with her at a bar. Always sitting alone, that one.”

Nanami’s jaw ticked; the golden lines began to draw themselves in the air around them—clean, geometric, immaculate.

She laughed again. Sharp and hoarse. “I made her better than you all ever did,” Yorozu rasped. “Do you want to know how I cursed your wife, by the way? Well, I guess soon-to-be-ex-wife.”

Nanami didn’t answer. Sukuna tilted his head.

Yorozu leaned forward, blood streaming down from her lips. She spoke directly to Nanami.

“It was the lube,” she whispered, smiling like a corpse that remembered joy. “The last time you fucked her. Special grade stuff. Not FDA approved. Hope it was worth it.”

Nanami didn’t hesitate.

The Ratio Blades came from nowhere—golden cleavers extending from his cursed energy mid-stride. One in each hand. They cut in an X from her clavicle to pelvis, and her body split down perfect fault lines before it even realised it was dying.

There was no scream. Just the sound of equilibrium collapsing.

Yorozu died grinning.

The cursed energy fled her like breath from a punctured lung.

Kashimo jolted awake when Sukuna hit him hard enough to almost break his jaw.

Nanami turned, wiped the blood off his gloves, and sheathed the energy into stillness.

He didn’t look at Sukuna.

Didn’t speak. Started walking.

“I was never going to hurt her.” Sukuna had said.

Nanami just walked out of the hull, footsteps clean, balance returned.

Sukuna lingered for a moment longer. Looked down at what had once been a woman trying to play god through rot and obsession.

And said nothing.

Outside, the wind had picked up.

Nanami stood at the edge of the dock, shoulders straight, gaze fixed on the horizon.

Kashimo staggered behind them, too bruised to speak.

The ferry groaned.

Nanami didn’t turn to Sukuna when he spoke next.

“Do not follow me.”

Sukuna watched the golden line etched into the sky.

He didn’t.

He just exhaled once—then followed a different trail.

The sea closed in behind them. The smell of salt and blood indistinguishable.

And the memory of what she'd done lingered longer than her breath ever had.

---

Megumi sat beside you longer than anyone.

Long enough that Nanami could drag Gojo out of the room for food—because neither of them had eaten in days.

Long enough that his mother, who had been quietly tending to you, still hadn’t left. She daily wiped your skin, combed through your tangled hair with careful fingers, and gave you the kind of care that made things feel gentler, even when nothing else was. The sponge bath, the fresh sheets, the quiet murmurs of reassurance—she took care of you the way Megumi couldn’t bring himself to.

And in the silence, when he was alone with you, he finally spoke.

"You're stronger than this," Megumi murmured, fingers pressing into the blanket beside your arm. “But I’ll understand if you want to leave.”

His voice wasn’t shaking.

He didn’t tell you that he still couldn’t reach Haibara. Even after ten days of his disappearance.

Still, you didn’t move.

Megumi exhaled sharply, pressing his knuckles against his eyes before standing up.

Before leaving without another word.

---

You could hear the beeping before you knew you had a name.

A heart monitor. Sharp. Predictable. Like a metronome for someone else’s panic.

Then came the pressure.

A tube down your throat. Not all at once—inserted inch by inch like a slow punishment. Your body didn’t flinch, but inside, something recoiled.

Gagged. Screamed.

The discomfort crawled down your trachea like a plastic parasite. You felt every shift. Every second. The cold of it. The helpless invasion of it. You felt it enter your nose too, another tube—feeding or draining, you didn’t know. Couldn’t ask.

You couldn’t ask anything.

You couldn’t move.

Your arms were restrained by the weight of your own stillness, and something—it felt like something thick—pressed around your catheter.

An insertion. A twist. The liquid burning down into veins and organs and god, god, you could feel it.

The IV needle burned under the crook of your elbow, the cold saline sharp against your inner wrist. You wanted to pull your hand back, just a twitch, anything.

Nothing came.

The worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the pause.

The silence that came before every new insertion. Like the nurse was thinking. Hesitating.

You wanted to scream. Wanted to tell them: please don’t pause. Please don’t make me wait for it. Just do it.

But there was no sound from you. Only breath—rasping, mechanical. A borrowed breath forced in and out of your body by a ventilator you couldn’t resist.

They thought you were gone. Or mostly gone.

They talked like ghosts.

No one said your name anymore. Not aloud.

Not even Gojo.

He sat in the corner sometimes, humming something tuneless under his breath. Rocking slightly. You could feel the twitch of his mind in the walls. Unstable. Unspooling like a storm with no place to land.

He hadn’t slept. Not in three days. Maybe more. You wanted to scold him. Say something stupid like, go brush your teeth, go lay down for twenty minutes, stop looking at me like that. But your voice was gone. Your mouth didn’t belong to you anymore.

Nanami didn’t speak at all. You could hear his watch ticking. Even over the machines. He never left the room for more than fifteen minutes at a time. Always came back with coffee he didn’t drink. Always set it down on the side table like it was a ritual.

He hadn’t eaten. Not a bite. You could feel his footsteps when he walked to you—unsteady.

And Megumi. You knew the sound of his lighter now. The flick-flick-click. He tried to pretend he wasn’t smoking in the hallway, but you could smell it in his jacket when he leaned in too close, when he checked your temperature with the back of his hand and whispered, “You look better today.”

Liar.

And Mom—never sat. She paced. You could hear the hush of her soft slippers over the sterile floor. She argued with nurses. Yelled at doctors. Once she smacked a clipboard out of someone’s hands and made them apologise for saying “vegetative.”

You wanted to thank her. You wanted to sob.

But your body didn’t cry. Your body didn’t react.

You were just... there.

You’d read about this once. Years ago. A coma patient who remembered everything. A woman who could feel each sponge bath, each catheter tube, each time a nurse checked her dilation during labour. She said it was like being buried alive with your nerves exposed.

You understood her now.

This was the medical equivalent of the ninth circle of purgatory.

God, where was Haibara?

He’d sense it. He always did sense these things. Or maybe he wouldn’t, but at least he’d be here.

Megumi never had to resort to smoking when Haibara was around.

The twins were still moving. You felt them. Kicking low, gently. One stronger than the other. Their energy flared sometimes—when someone cried too loudly or when Gojo slammed a wall in grief. It felt like they were protecting you. Or reacting.

Like they knew.

You wanted to tell them, don’t be afraid. I’m still here. Mama’s here.

But even your thoughts felt thin. Like echoes of a person slipping into vapor.

Shoko never cried in the room. But you knew she cried after. Her silence was heavy. She checked the machines, adjusted your fluids. Once, she whispered, “Sorry,” as she injected something into your arm. It burned. You wanted to squeeze her wrist.

Instead, you choked silently.

You were alive in the most horrifying sense of the word. Not dead. Not dreaming. But stuck. Screaming without sound.

Praying someone might notice that your pupils dilated when they entered the room too fast. That your fingers twitched. That your heartbeat jumped when Nanami said your name too softly.

No one noticed.

No one could hear you.

Maya’s curse had sunk deep, tangling through you like a parasite, feeding off your helplessness.

And still, you held on. You weren’t even sure for who anymore.

Maybe one day, this horror would end, and you’d wake to sunlight.

But for now—

You were still.

Trapped inside your body. Trapped inside grief.

And no one knew.

Where was Haibara?

---

"Shit—she’s going into cardiac arrest."

Shoko’s voice didn’t rise, but the urgency in it cleaved through the room like a scalpel.

“Move!” she barked, already at the head of the bed, shoving the RN aside. Her hand flattened over her sternum, two fingers bracing the angle. “One, two, three—compressions starting. She’s post-34 weeks; someone tilt her! We need the weight off the aorta!”

A second nurse grabbed the wedge, shoving it beneath your right side to force your body leftward—left lateral tilt, standard emergency for pregnancy in the third trimester. The shift was awkward with all the tubes but essential.

“Push one milligram epi. Notify NICU, just in case. And someone find her husbands—now!”

Alarms screamed. The ventilator bucked. Your belly trembled with the compressions, but no one dared pause—not even when a button on your gown snapped open under the force.

A monitor flatlined—then stuttered.

Not asystole yet.

A dip.

A sickening pause.

Then a sluggish spike.

Not stable, but alive.

Her heart restarted.

Barely.

Private ICU, 03:24 AM

The private ICU had soundproof glass walls, but grief had a way of seeping through barriers.

Inside, it was quiet. Horribly quiet.

Mom slept on a guest bed nearby. Just fleetingly.

Nanami sat in a chair with military posture; he hadn’t spoken in four hours.

Not even to Gojo.

Gojo stood at the window with his back to the room, palm pressed flat to the glass like he could transmit warmth through pressure alone.

Inside the bed, your body remained still. Breathing, yes. Reflexes present. Brainstem intact. No seizures. No haemorrhaging. And yet—you weren’t there.

“Shoko,” Nanami said, without looking at her. “Is it time for the C-section?”

She looked up from your chart. Her face was pale, but her voice remained clinical. “No. The twins are stable. Heart rates normal. The uterus is holding. No signs of placental abruption. She’s not haemorrhaging. Her cervix isn’t effaced. We’re not in the danger zone—yet.”

“But she coded.”

“She came back.” Shoko met his eyes. “You saw it. She came back. Without external compressions that time.”

Gojo finally turned.

“She was smiling two weeks ago.”

His voice was barely audible. Not cracking—but hollow.

“She laughed when I failed the 3 AM test. Told me I cheated like a dumbass.”

Nanami added, voice low. “You refused to read the instructions for the crib.”

Gojo’s hand clenched at his side. “She said the babies were kicking stronger. Said we should move the desk out of the nursery. Said we were running out of time.”

“Then someone aimed for her spine,” Nanami murmured. “Thirty-two weeks.”

The air between them tightened. Gojo's cursed energy pulsed outward, subtle but undeniable—like static peeling paint from the walls.

Shoko closed the chart. “Both of you need sleep. She wouldn’t want to wake up to find you looking like this.”

They didn’t argue. But they didn’t move either.

Shoko exhaled and stepped out.

Two Hours Later

The staff changed her IV lines at 5:15 a.m. Megumi arrived at 5:17.

He’d come straight from a meeting—his suit jacket still on, tie undone, sleeves rolled. He didn’t speak as he walked in, just nodded once at Choso, who’d stayed the night with Ino to keep watch on the reporters camped outside.

No one had to tell Megumi what happened.

He saw it in Gojo’s eyes. In the set of Nanami’s jaw. In the twitch of the nurse’s hands as she recorded your vitals for the fifth time that hour.

“She’s still stable,” Choso said softly.

Megumi walked to the bed and looked down at you. Pale, motionless. But breathing.

“I’ll take over,” he said, voice flat. “Go rest.”

Gojo looked like he wanted to argue.

Medical Ethics Consult – 06:03 a.m.

Two physicians and an ethics rep entered the room an hour later.

Shoko had returned. She was already glaring.

“We want to go over a theoretical scenario,” the attending said carefully. “In the event of deterioration, how would you want us to proceed—"

"Don’t finish that sentence," Gojo snapped.

"Sir—"

"My wife," Nanami said, voice like iron. "You prioritise my wife."

The attending hesitated. "She’s thirty-two weeks along. At this stage, the twins have a high chance of survival, but there are risks—"

“And her name is on the fucking building,” Megumi cut in, standing now. “So unless one of those twins walks out with a degree and a voting ID, you don’t get to talk about her like she’s a host.”

“Go,” his mother barked as she woke up again, barely having slept. “Now.”

The medical team retreated without a word.

07:11 AM

Gojo had fallen asleep in the chair beside Megumi’s mother, who lay resting on the guest bed. He had insisted—forced her to, really—when he noticed her sugar levels dropping. She had grumbled, reluctant, but in the end, she complied. Because Megumi was here.

Nanami was still awake.

Megumi stood against the wall, hands in his pockets.

Your fingers twitched.

Just once.

Nanami’s head snapped up. “Shoko—get back here. Now.”

Gojo’s cursed energy flickered.

Megumi stepped closer.

Your hand moved again. This time deliberately.

Gojo jolted forward, grabbing it. “Baby—?”

Your brow creased. A soft whimper rose in your throat. Not coherent. But real.

Shoko burst in and grabbed a penlight. “Open your eyes.”

Your fingers curled around Gojo’s thumb.

Nanami’s breath hitched.

Your eyes opened—slow, unfocused. You blinked once. Then twice.

Gojo’s face crumpled. Nanami stepped back, face in his hands.

“She’s waking,” Shoko whispered.

Megumi exhaled like someone had been holding his lungs hostage.

Your mother got out of the bed, and when you held her hand, you asked her, “Where’s Haibara?”

---

Video Title (on Haibara’s phone): “Three Brats and a Plastic Crown—14:12, Park Bench Archive”

Duration: 3 minutes, 48 seconds

File Info: Hidden Server > Old Memories > Don’t Watch This, Idiot.mp4

The clip opened with static—the kind you get when someone accidentally drops their phone on concrete. There's a sharp jostle, a muffled "shit" (Haibara, clearly), and then the camera rights itself. It’s angled too low at first: a blur of a juice box straw, Megumi’s knee twitching in agitation, and your voice—half amused, half exhausted—off-screen:

“If you record vertically one more time, I swear I’ll dropkick your kneecaps into the sun.”

The frame jolts. Then adjusts. Centred now: a rusted park bench under some crooked trees, sun cutting through like it’s auditioning for a coming-of-age film. You—sixteen, underslept and overdressed for a random park hangout—are wearing a too-big hoodie with a pixelated mushroom on it. Your legs swing idly, crossed at the ankles. A cheap, plastic crown from a fast food kids’ meal sits crooked on your head like a bad omen. Like innocence.

Megumi, beside you, fifteen and already halfway to becoming the world's grumpiest CEO, is holding a bento box like it personally disgusts him. He’s chewing slowly. His hair’s longer here, pushed back with a clip that definitely isn’t his (yours, probably). He looks like someone caught mid-confession, unsure if he wants to keep talking or burn the moment alive before it breathes too much.

The camera wobbles again. Haibara finally speaks.

“Say cheese, graduates.”

You throw him the finger without looking. Megumi sighs like he’s aged twenty years in twenty seconds.

“We’re not graduating together,” you say, half-laughing. “I skipped, remember? I’m just smarter.”

“Delusional,” Megumi mutters, but there’s no venom. He looks down, then back at you. “Still unfair. You shouldn’t get to leave early.”

“You’ll survive.”

He doesn’t answer right away. The camera zooms in slightly, focusing on the corner of your mouth where your smile falters just for a moment.

“Maybe,” Megumi says, soft. “But… I dunno. I thought we’d have more time. All of us. Like this.”

The screen dips as Haibara flops onto the bench beside you, knee knocking into yours like a casual threat. He’s gotten taller, broader—those late growth spurts hit him like a truck. There’s a fading bruise on his cheekbone, probably from some fight he claims he didn’t start. His school jacket’s unzipped, tie missing. He smells like dark chocolates and danger.

“Ugh. Don’t go all sad Ghibli movie on me,” he groans, pulling the crown off your head and sticking it on Megumi’s. It looks even dumber on him. “You’re not dying. Just skipping to the part where you make bank and leave us peasants behind.”

You roll your eyes, head tilted toward Megumi.

“I’m gonna make a gaming empire,” you declare with a mock-royal accent, gesturing toward the sky. “Then I’ll hire you as my CFO.”

“I’m not working for you,” Megumi retorts. “I’ll be your competition.”

“Ooooh,” Haibara grins. “Couple’s first business rivalry. Cute.”

Megumi goes stiff. You blink—maybe you heard it wrong.

“We’re not a—what—?” You start.

“Don’t listen to him,” Megumi says too quickly. “He thinks every time two people breathe near each other, it’s romance.”

“Bold of you to assume breathing is a requirement,” Haibara grins, leaning back on the bench with his arms stretched out like wings.

He’s watching you now. Really watching. Not the way kids do, but like he’s memorising a version of you that won’t exist by next summer.

“Whatever,” you mutter. “You’re just mad I rejected your evil plan to drop out and become a full-time instant ramen reviewer.”

“That wasn’t a plan. That was a lifestyle.”

“You’re seventeen. Grow up.”

“Almost eighteen,” Haibara says, and he’s still smiling, but it’s smaller now. “Not that it matters. I still get to spend my college years with you two. I’m looking forward to it.”

Your laugh is automatic, slightly uncertain.

“You make it sound like we’re already there.”

“We are,” he shrugs. “At least the best part of it. You know... before rent and taxes and existential dread kick in.”

The video cuts briefly—static again. When it returns, Megumi’s turned the camera toward the trees. The audio’s still on, faint.

You’re talking. It’s quieter now.

“...I don’t know what comes after this. I’m good at understanding things, but execution—that’s the hard part. Still... I just want to build something. Make things. Games, maybe. Something that lasts. Something that brings people comfort...or at least an escape. Something that won’t rot away, even when I’m gone—even when my grandchildren don’t remember my name."

“I’ll back it,” Megumi says. “Whatever it is.”

“You won’t have to,” you reply. “I’ll be rich.”

“I mean it.”

There’s a beat. Haibara’s voice cuts in, clearer now:

“I’ll protect it.”

No one speaks after that.

Then, muffled—your voice again:

“You guys are weird.”

“One day, you two are gonna thank me,” Haibara says. “When the real world eats us all alive and I’m the only one who saw it coming.”

The camera tilts toward the sky. The last frame: a plastic crown abandoned in the grass. Clouds moving fast. Someone snorts—probably Megumi. Haibara’s laugh comes a second later, slightly unhinged, as always.

The screen cuts to black, but their laughter lingers a second too long. Like it didn’t know it was running out of time.

The clip ends just as Haibara looks into the camera—just a flicker—and smiles like he knows he won’t get another chance.

Saved. Hidden. Never deleted.

---

A memory forgotten by many.

“You’re gonna ask her out?”

Megumi nodded.

Haibara didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk. Just patted his shoulder, firm.

“Good. She needs someone who’ll stay.”

Megumi stared at him. “And you?”

Haibara shrugged. “MI6 called. Figured I’d do some real work before I rot.”

They had; he hadn’t planned on going before this conversation.

“She’ll hate you.”

“She’ll adapt. She always does.”

The next evening Megumi looked almost nervous—which was rare. The kind of rare that made her stop mid-sip of her coffee and raise an eyebrow.

He held the bouquet in both hands, stiff, as if he wasn’t sure whether to offer them or lay them at a grave.

Peace lilies.

“You’re not dying, are you?” She asked dryly.

His lips twitched. “No. Thought they were... fitting,” he mumbled, watching her face, not the petals. “I just thought—they symbolise rest. Not like… death, or anything. Just—peace.”

She took them wordlessly. The white petals trembled slightly in the wind, stark against the black vase she placed them in. Her expression unreadable, but something about the way she touched the stem lingered.

He watched her for a beat too long, then cleared his throat.

“Will you…uh, go out with me?,” Megumi muttered—low, plain.

There was no drama in it. No desperation. Just the kind of quiet certainty that came with years of wanting something in silence.

She didn’t answer. Her fingers were frozen mid-scroll, the screen of her phone too bright in the dim light.

Megumi didn’t see the post, not fully. Just a glimpse—Haibara, windblown hair, smirking in that sideways way. Sunset behind him. A text that simply read: “Cheers, idiots. 🥂 MI6 out.”

Her mouth parted. Not to speak—just open, as if her body forgot what to do with the air.

She wasn’t crying.

But something sagged, like a curtain pulled too fast.

Megumi saw the flicker.

And like a knife catching light, he misunderstood.

Just a fact, delivered like a math result.

Two and two make four. You and Haibara make ghosts.

She blinked and looked up. “What did you just say? Sorry, I got distracted.”

“It’s okay,” he said quickly—too quickly. “I’ll miss him too.”

But her fingers twitched over the phone, and he caught the reflection of an open Instagram tab in the glass. The familiar blur of Haibara’s chaos—somewhere wet, somewhere green, somewhere that looked suspiciously untraceable—a war zone.

He wasn’t angry. Not at her. Not at Haibara.

She laughed—small, confused. “Megumi, he just posted—he’s... he left?”

Her voice cracked.

He mistook it for longing.

“I hope he finds what he’s looking for,” Megumi said, fixing the lilies like a eulogy.

Then he left. Didn't stay to see her brows knit or how long she stared at the stems, as if some cipher might reveal itself if she just looked hard enough.

She never learnt he was going to ask her out that day.

He’d rehearsed it six times. Three of them out loud.

The night before, Haibara had come to him unannounced—backpack slung low, smile pulled too tight.

“I think she needs someone who stays. Not someone who dies for the thrill of it. You’re that someone, Megs.”

Megumi hadn’t known if it was a benediction or surrender. He just nodded.

And brought peace lilies.

She never asked Megumi about Haibara after that.

Maybe she thought the silence was mutual. Maybe she didn’t want to know.

But she scrolled past Haibara’s last texts again and again, unsure why her hands shook or why she kept checking if the post with the coordinates had been deleted. It hadn’t.

And Megumi never told her the flowers had become a goodbye.

Because for once, he wanted something else more than he wanted the truth.

From the hallway, he watched her. Not with judgement. Not with resentment.

Just the quiet grief of someone who had offered flowers—and gotten silence in return.

Peace.

That’s all he’d wanted for her.

He never brought her lilies again.

---

Six hours since she'd disappeared after biting him.

Twilight. Derelict port city, midsummer. Salt air and rusted metal. The ghosts of industry hum under boots.

He had gotten a lead after wasting a lot of blood. He thought it was her. Hoped.

The first sign she had been there was the vending machine—shattered, forced open the way she broke things when she had been holding too much in for too long. Two bottles missing.

Haibara touched the jagged glass, fingers aching from cold and blood loss. The city breathed heavily around him—old cranes like metal carcasses, water black with oil and silence. He had torn through four prefectures already. Burned favors, clawed through databases, hacked even Megumi’s private location locks. And still, she slipped him.

She had bitten him when he had tried to stop her. Actual teeth.

It still hurt—a crescent of rage on his hand, branded into him like a dog tag.

And he had smiled.

Like a lunatic.

Like someone in love with the hurricane that spat nails when she screamed.

Now, he was slower. His ribs screamed when he moved. His Eldritch technique flickered against the edges of his skin like static.

Something was wrong. She was too hard to find. Even she wasn’t this good.

And then he heard it—a chime.

Her ringtone. Old. Sentimental. The one he had set in case she ever called. Hoped it wouldn’t be the way she called him when the lynch mob had attacked.

Except now it echoed across an abandoned shipyard like bait.

Eldritch unease curled in his gut. The shadows bent near him, eyes winking open behind his shoulders.

Something felt like a lie.

But as always, he didn’t flinch. He turned on his Exo Suit and followed.

The port was a graveyard of machines.

Cranes twisted like crucified giants, hulls of ships rusted to marrow. It was drizzling—the kind of rain that’s warm before it hits metal but clings to skin like ash.

Haibara’s exo-suit, designed by you, hissed with pressure adjustments as he walked. It had been painted over too many times with dead army friends’ names. His shadows slithered just beneath the surface, a second skin of teeth and instinct.

A soda bottle rolled across the deck, empty.

Lemon iced tea. Her favourite.

His breath hitched, visible in the cold.

Then the whisper—not a sound, but a shape moving behind the smoke.

He turned just in time to block the first strike.

Too fast. Even for him.

The figure didn’t crash into him. It slid.

Like mercury in combat form—grace made dangerous. A kick caught him in the ribs, and he staggered, teeth grinding, blood flooding his mouth.

The figure wore an exo-suit too, but something was off.

Then the same suit lunged—no warning, no sound. Black exo-armour. Advanced. Sleek. Non-standard.

Not his tech. Not hers. Not Megumi’s. Not government. Not cursed. Something else.

The figure moved again—almost too fast.

Haibara parried the next blow but was shoved halfway across the deck.

Pain rippled through him. His ribs cracked like glass under pressure.

He retaliated.

Shadows screamed open like wings behind him, shrieking things with too many mouths lunging at the suit. Eldritch jaws sank into metal, slowing the attacker. Haibara flipped his blade—bone-etched, something half-living—and cut.

Sparks. Oil. Heat.

He didn’t hold back.

Neither did they.

The eldritch shadows moved on reflex—mouths opened behind his back, screeching, snapping, trying to pin the attacker.

One got a grip.

Metal screamed.

They twisted free and vanished into the next blow—an uppercut that lifted him off the ground.

He hit steel and didn’t bounce.

But he was grinning.

"You always hit with your heart first."

He spat blood. Shadows writhed behind him like broken wings.

He lunged.

This time, his blade met resistance—the opponent’s exo-suit cracked but didn’t bleed.

He hadn’t expected it to.

He wasn’t aiming to win.

He was trying to remember her rhythm—the way she used to dodge right because of the burn on her left ankle. The half-second pause when her breath hitched from past injuries. She hadn’t been perfect—not before the world turned her into something else.

Except this version was perfect.

Too perfect. Calculated. Clean.

Not like her.

They grappled.

He got close. Too close.

The enemy’s face was an inch from his.

He paused.

“...You smell like plastic,” he muttered.

It pulled a fist and drove it between his ribs.

Not deep enough to kill.

But enough to slow. Enough to speak.

They broke apart. Haibara stumbled back, wheezing.

A breath.

Two.

By now, he had been stabbed through the thigh, his left shoulder crushed, and his jaw dislocated—then snapped back into place with a roar. He managed to slam the enemy into a metal beam. Hard enough to dent it.

It staggered.

He reached for the mask.

They beat him to it.

And there it was.

Her face. Your face. Your smile. Cool. Dry-eyed. A razor disguised as forgiveness.

Just you, calm and windblown, looking at him like a memory sharpened into a needle.

"Goodbye, Haibara," she said, expressionless—emotionless. "...You weren’t supposed to live this long."

And then pulled the trigger.

No warning. No countdown.

The bullet hit him in the heart.

Not a cursed round. Not even a high-caliber one.

Just precise.

Like a betrayal.

He stumbled.

Laughed once—wet, shaking.

His eldritch shadows howled—not in fury, but in confusion.

They flared out, lashing, trying to envelop her.

She ducked, moved like a whisper.

A second shot cracked through his shoulder.

His body failed to hold its own weight.

He dropped to one knee.

Eyes blown wide, blood dripping from his mouth.

He looked up at her—face blurring now.

Memories stuttering.

"Knew you’d kill me," he breathed, spitting blood. "Didn’t think you’d look so bored doing it."

She didn’t respond. Not even with her eyes.

More blood leaked from his mouth like ink. The eyes behind him—his eldritch familiars—wept silently, fading.

His eyes softened.

"Can’t even hate you for it," he coughed, laughter thick and choking. "Still beautiful. Even now. Still you."

Then he blinked.

Stared.

And saw the absence.

No babies.

No weight in her centre.

No lean.

No subconscious guard of the belly when turning sideways.

No wince of the spine adjusting for three heartbeats instead of one.

He had memorised your pain. He could smell it when you moved.

The absence of it was louder than the gunshots.

This wasn’t her.

And her scent—

"...You’re not—" he whispered.

Another shot.

Right through the brain.

His body jerked.

He fell back, gasping.

Still smiling, barely.

Like he trusted you even now.

Because some part of him believed you’d never hurt him like this.

The eldritch mass tried to cradle him—shapes rising like wings, trying to pull him into a pocket dimension—

Hide him, save him.

He bled through them.

They whined.

They begged.

Not in language, but in shapes.

In memories of laughter, of homerooms, of shared noodles and teeth brushed over a single cracked sink.

They weren’t weapons now. They were witnesses.

And Haibara, lying on rust, oil, and rain, laughed. Wet. Broken.

"I’m such a fucking idiot," he murmured.

One of the shadow mouths kissed his forehead.

He reached up and petted it like an old dog.

"Don’t tell her I cried."

Another bullet.

Mercy, this time.

Or just efficiency.

His eyes didn’t close.

They stayed open, locked on the sky above—where cranes reached like dying gods and nothing felt real except the pain still blooming in his skull.

The sky cracked open as he died.

The sea didn’t bother to roar.

But the rain acknowledged.

And he was gone.

Like dead hair, brushed off.

The unknown figure with her face turned to an approaching man—one who looked just like Haibara.

"Copy the bite injury and head back to her house. Megumi and her husbands are likely still sitting there, panicking."

The man smiled.

"Never realised I’m kinda hot."

Then he raised his hand to the woman, and she bit down.

[Haibara Yu’s Termination: Success]

Unseen Data File (hidden in old prototype AI):

A surveillance fragment. Blurry. Too many particles to render correctly.

Subject: Unknown duplicates with their face.

Tagged: 🚫 DO NOT OPEN // False Messiah // Eldritch Breach Detected // Biometric Failure // Pregnancy Negation

Buried under layers of encryption.

It auto-deletes in 72 hours.

Only one person has the admin override code.

---

After pretending to be Haibara at your penthouse, the man had returned four hours after original Haibara Yu’s Termination but before KFC.

The bed creaked like an old confession. Her thighs were splayed, one leg twitching slightly as he worked his mouth over her with a hunger that felt less like devotion and more like penance.

He wasn’t gentle.

Never was really.

She yanked hard on the chain fastened around his neck—thick titanium, welded links—and his head jerked upward, lips wet with her.

“Ahh, Yu… Hai…,” she gasped, confused about what to even call him, voice cracked, guttural. “Stop…Stop teasing me.”

His eyes flicked up, pupils blown wide. The warm brown hair at his temples caught the lamplight like static.

“It’s been too fucking long,” he growled. His voice was colder now. Gravel and smoke. “I missed my cookie.”

He spit on her cunt and thumbed it, vulgar, and gripped her thigh like something he owned.

Then dragged her to the edge of the bed with a single yank, her spine skidding over the sheets.

She didn’t fight it. Of course not.

She watched him—brows drawn in faux contempt—but her eyes glittered with something darker.

Not nostalgia.

Just that familiar thrill of knowing that even chained, he couldn’t be kept.

He fished his cock out—thick, flushed, already leaking—and ran it slowly between her folds. Teasing her with his silence now, dragging out the moment like it meant nothing to him.

And then—the head pushed in.

She yanked the chain again, hard. Enough to make his teeth clench, throat bob.

And kissed him.

The taste of her own body mixed with his, and it should’ve felt filthy—degrading—but all it did was flood her system with that horrible, addictive peace.

Like remembering how to breathe after years of holding it in.

He broke the kiss, lips still brushing hers.

“I almost forgot…” he whispered, staring into her eyes. “How hot you used to look pregnant.”

She flinched.

Only slightly.

But his hand—rough and reverent—moved down to her belly, and she froze.

Let him palm it, like he was remembering something only he had the right to.

He thrust deeper.

She moaned, half fury, half submission.

It was obscene—the way she let him fill her like that, the chain rattling in her grip, the room lit by nothing but the skyline’s bleed-through tinted glass. Tokyo blinked red behind them, like a wound that wouldn’t close.

Then—the buzz of his phone on the nightstand.

He didn’t even break eye contact as he reached for it.

“Yeah?” he answered, breath shallow, cock still buried in her, rocking slowly.

A pause.

“Stay there; do not fucking move.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“If you fucking leave right now,” she hissed, yanking the chain hard enough to bruise his windpipe, “I’ll throw you off the fucking balcony, Haibara Yu.”

His grin was crooked, maddening.

“Baby,” he said, setting the phone down. “Suguru found her.”

The name hit like static under her skin.

She twisted the chain tighter, voice low. Dangerous.

“I thought you were talking to Naoya.”

He rolled his eyes. “I can’t tolerate Naoya, leech fucker.”

“What about that Mahito?”

“He doesn't have a phone, babe. He's broke.”

She yanked the chain so hard his head jerked back.

Any other man would’ve choked.

He didn’t.

He let her try.

Let her pull, strain, rage.

And then—with a simple movement—snapped the chain.

The metal links clattered to the floor like teeth.

She stared at him. Not shocked. Not scared.

Just… annoyed.

He kissed her again, slower this time. Almost soft.

“I need to go,” he murmured against her lips. “I promise we’ll finish this.”

He pulled out.

She let him.

He didn’t look back.

Just grabbed his coat.

Door swinging open like a mouth and closing behind him like a threat.

She—the unknown woman with your face—lay there, legs still spread, staring at the ceiling.

And flushed out the vibrator.

---

A/N: Light a candle & sit in the corner of shame & re-read his/about him parts again in this series to draw more parallels for even more emotional damage. Also, I'm not feeling well, so the reminding two chaps might be delayed. Pray that my country doesn't go to war so I can keep writing. Also, why is Haibara smut tag not a thing on Tumblr???

Next Chapter TBA

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