#again this one warrants his own post
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nooradeservedbetter · 2 years ago
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I know you write bl but please do not defend Emma. She is known in our fandom as a transphobic asshole. She has been openly transphobic to harries and larries because they think Harry MIGHT be trans. She is also homophobic with how she as a cis het white woman thinks she has more say in how a gay fandom needs to operate. There are years worth of receipts of this. She harassed my friend because they tagged Harry as a princess on their own blog and tried to call them homophobic for doing so. Im mutuals with authors who had to drop out of the bl fest for personal reasons, and then Emma and her friends started harassing them for joining a non bl fest months later. You should see how former blouie authors are treated by her after they dont write exclusively bl fics anymore. The reason BLP is not well liked in fandom is because of her. There is literally a top Harry fic fest run by an actual trans person and much more supported by larries. Louis bottoming isn't the issue. For years blouies have made that their only personality and harassed and sent so many larries death threats (me included) because we blog on our own blogs about Harry wanting to be pregnant or singing about sucking dick or anything that doesn't make him "a top". Blouies have ruined themselves for their entire fandom and that anon is a perfect example of how they are.
Whew anon.
Okay, thank you for the ask and the respectful tone, I will try to maintain a respectful tone right back.
I don't exclusively write bl, I like to think I write fics where Louis gets taken care of one way or another. By bottoming, by subbing, by being cuddled; rn I have 2 smut fics, both of them sub Louis, one of them is them being vers (i.e. penetrating each other), the other *can* be considered bl, I did tag it as such, but the only penetration that happens is two lines of cockwarming. My current unpublished fics and ideas are:
The a/b/o fic fest that is Omega Louis/bl but has references to bh;
Exploring the idea of topping from the bottom: i have a petplay sub Harry fic that's half-written, currently plotting a vaguely Dom transrry fic. First one will be Dom!bl, second one Dom!bh. Might have a third one, but I still haven't decided;
The blff, I mean that's the name of;
The 1d fantasy fic fest that will be both vers and switch but it's darkfic so I don't think that's a great example to have here tbh lmao.
Okay, that said.
I did have run-ins with Emma back in the day; idk if you were there in 2015/16, but I have a whole tag where I actively fought people on Harry's possible gender identity, together with Angela and Jay (godspeed to both of them, they're much happier now believe me). It's been 8 years, I don't know what Emma is doing right now, besides managing the blff, and I don't know how she changed in eight years; eight years ago I was a staunch anarchist, and look at me now. You can come off anon and send me anything you might see fit, that would actually be great, and it would give me something to operate on. And on that point, I don't--think? That telling someone "hey yo instead of sending anon hate go and support the people who write/rec the fics you wanna read" is defending anyone? But it's understandable that if she's currently harassing people, that's a knee-jerk reaction.
Then to address your points about Louis bottoming... Again, I'm not sure, like. Feels a bit like you're barking at the wrong tree? One of my favourite smut authors is devilinmybrain (oh my god that 5+1 gross-hot fic nnnn) and I read, and to some extent write, quite happily everything as long as it's good. Like, both of them canonically have a prostate. It's a shame if they never use it. And Harry being feminine has nothing to do with Harry bottoming (or topping ;) of course), but this is something that needs its own post to be expanded.
With that long-ass rant in that post I wanted to make another point, and that point was directed to some of the reblogs, and that point was: stop wokeifying the gay community, because you--general you--will have a stroke if you ever go to a gay bar one day.
I won't reiterate the stuff I said there, but that should have been the main takeaway, not that I prefer writing bl or bh. I don't consider myself a blouie, by virtue of the fact that not only I read and write whatever, but also because I genuinely don't agree with a lot of the, like, ideological stances. On smut. I could talk about what hardcore bl/sh do and say probably all day, and Raf/Niv know what I'm talking about because they're usually the ones I fill with audios, but this post is already really long.
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dramaticals · 6 months ago
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through the wringer
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pairing: theodore nott x ravenclaw reader
summary: theo tries to get your attention by spoiling you with gifts. you pretend not to notice the shift just to mess with him. childhood friends to lovers. / requested by @the-empty-refrigerator.
word count: 1,117
author’s note: i've also posted this on ao3 but as a theo x hermione fic, and so if you're interested in reading that instead: click here. reblogs / comments are always appreciated.
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"What's this?" You ask, blinking in confusion at the box of your favourite sweets in his hands.
Theo places the box in front of you before settling into his usual spot at the Ravenclaw table. Your housemates have now made a conscious effort to leave room for him, considering he had no qualms about squeezing his way in to sit beside you. It's as if he didn't have his own assigned table.
"I thought you Ravenclaws could read."
"You're a twat."
"And here I was, doing something nice for you." Theo sighs. Always the flair for the dramatics. "It's Valentine's Day."
You eye him suspiciously before finally accepting the sweets and his reasoning. For as long as you've known him (and you've known him long enough that you couldn't even remember not knowing him), the two of you have never exchanged anything on Valentine's Day.
"Right, well, thanks." You say, offering him a nudge of your shoulder. His cheeks were pink. "I suppose I could share since I didn't get you anything."
Theo looks at you expectantly before he gives you a slow nod. His facial expression is unreadable, but something flashes in his eyes that you couldn't quite decipher. "How generous."
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"I got you this."
You look up from your parchment, settling your quill down carefully to not spill ink. The library was nearly empty at this hour, and Madam Pince was an hour and a half away from kicking you out.
"Another present?"
"Are you complaining that I'm spoiling you?"
"I don't reckon a fresh box of the cheapest quills warrants you tossing the word spoiling around."
"It's not my fault these happen to be your favourite to write with."
"Hmm, touché." You sound, accepting the pack of quills. "Will that be all?"
Theo blinks, his eyes darting between his gift and you. He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. Nothing comes out.
You shake your head and begin to pack your things away. You bite back a smile as Theo, ever the conversationalist, is clearly at a loss for words. "Come on, Nott. Walk me back to my common room."
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"It seems Theodore's quite fond of you." Luna points out as soon as Theo leaves you with another present. This time, it was a locket charmed to hold as many tiny pictures as you liked. Being quite the sentimental person, this gift was thoughtful and just proved to you that Theo knew you—not that it needed to be proven.
"I know." You say, touching the locket he had secured around your neck. There's only one photo in it currently; a picture of you and Theo, laughing as you attempted to swipe frosting across his nose.
"You seem fond of him."
You nod and smile lightly. "I am."
"He doesn't know."
You shake your head. After Theo secured the locket around you, you questioned what the occasion was, and Theo shrugged, claiming he was just messing around with a spell. He couldn't hold your gaze, and his tells when lying were practically screaming in your face. Theo excused himself quickly when you gave him a very friendly side-hug in thanks, teasingly claiming just how good of a friend he was to you.
"I refuse to tell him until he can be a big boy and use his words."
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"Are you going to Hogsmeade this weekend?" Theo asks, cutting through the welcomed silence as the two of you sit near the Black Lake.
"Mhm," you sound noncommittally. "As I do every time we're permitted to go."
"Right," Theo nods. He's fiddling with a loose string on the blanket the two of you are sitting on. "Wanna go with me?"
Your brows lift slightly, and your eyes flicker to his. "Don't I always?"
"I mean, yes."
"Okay," you say slowly. You pause long enough for him to interject. When he doesn't, you sigh and shake your head. "So I'll meet you at our usual meeting spot."
"Okay."
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"I can pay for myself, Theo."
Theo shakes his head, making quite a scene of pulling out a few sickles and galleons (the price of two butterbeers and a slice of apple pie did not warrant the number of galleons he placed on the table).
"I'm well aware." Theo says, waving off your attempt at tossing in the amount for your share. "But I'm paying for it."
"Then the next one's on me."
"That's not how this works."
"This?"
"Yes."
"What's 'this' then?"
Theo's jaw clenches, and he exhales a breath. "You know what this is."
You did.
After he met you in front of the Ravenclaw common room instead of your usual meeting spot, purchased a book you were eyeing at Tomes and Scrolls, opened all the doors for you, and pulled out your chair for you at the Three Broomsticks (and then sat beside you rather than in front of you), you had a strong inkling of what this day was. But Theo never explicitly asked you or said anything that would allude to being interested romantically, and so you continued the charade. You played dumb.
Your brows furrow, and you blink in convincing bewilderment. "Do I?"
Theo releases a small groan, his hands covering his eyes in defeat. "Gods, you're impossible."
"I'm confused."
"I like you!" Theo blurts, bringing his hands down so he can meet your gaze. His eyes burn with frustration and longing. His cheeks are red, and he's bouncing his left leg as if he'd just heard he needed to face three boggarts at once. "I've been trying to tell you this whole time. The sweets, the quills, the necklace, the book. I even took you out on this bloody date. How do you not know already?"
It took everything in your power not to crack as he finally voiced his feelings. As you watch him take bated breaths, you can't help but erupt into a fit of laughter.
"Merlin," you giggle, wiping the tears from the corner of your eye. "It took you long enough, you bloody goof."
Theo flushes, and you can't tell if he's red because he's embarrassed and confused or if it's because he's seconds away from breathing himself into hyperventilation. You don't let him get to that point (being the gracious and not at all cruel person that you are), as you grab Theo by his collar and pull him in for a kiss.
Theo tastes of butterscotch and syrup, and his lips are soft and hesitant until they're not. He comes to, his hand moving to cup your jaw as he kisses you back.
You pull away from him, beaming at his shell-shocked and pleased expression. "I've known. I just wanted to hear you say it."
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bluemerakis · 20 days ago
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Recently finished Swayze’s ‘ghost’ and now I can’t stop thinking about post-Hell Dean, where the reader has his iconic brown leather jacket hanging in her room thinking she’s never gonna see him again but he shows up in her room (in a non creepy way as much as possible lol) and they fuuuuck like old times and she thinks she’s dreaming until she realises it’s actually him (or not lol) but the romanticism is screaming out to me, idk if it’s something you’d be interested in writing but omfg you’d write this so painfully well
ANON!! i LOVE LOVE LOVE this SO much! i’m so honoured that you’ve entrusted me with this idea—i had the time of my life writing this & went a lil wild with it LOL. thank you for your support and kind words, it means the world to me! i hope i did your request justice 🩵
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────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ───
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❝ sunshine ❞
─ ۶ৎ ─
pairing ୨୧ dean winchester x fem .ᐟ reader
warnings .ᐟ s4 .ᐟ spoilers, established relationship, dramatic descriptions of grief, cussing, angst, sam being an adorable little angel, nip sucking, unprotected sex p in v, tooth-rotting fluff. lmk if I forgot any.ᐟ if there are typos, no there isn’t
synopsis ─ after dean had sealed the deal that warranted him a one-way ticket to hell, you had no hopes of ever seeing him again. you were overcome with a grief that felt inescapable, but with sam’s help, you’d managed to pull through the storm and enter clearer skies. just when you thought you’d have to navigate a new life without dean, against all odds, he makes an unexpected appearance.
word count ~ roughly 15k
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Four months.
The duration of your ongoing turmoil. The grim tally of his absence.
For four months, you’d been trapped in the stagnant bog of your grief. It had formed the very first night you’d lost him, seizing your mind like a rabid plague. It didn’t matter which way you attempted to swim, or how hard you paddled to try and stay afloat, there was no sure escape from its bottomless depth. It immobilised your existence, broke down your hope—scattered it like falling leaves to be lapped up by the famished surface and swallowed to the point of no return. It was lonely and suffocating, but you’d since given up on waiting for a lifeline to be cast from some land beyond your gloomy horizon, so sure that you’d isolated yourself from any soul kind enough to try.
Except for Sam.
Sam had tried to rescue you many times, but the lines he casted were always too battered—chewed up by the demons of his own grief. And you knew that if you grabbed onto it—where he stood barely clinging to the other end—it would snap and pull him right in. You couldn’t do that to him, so you’d surrendered to the bog entirely, allowing your grief to engulf you into its endless, bone-chilling nothingness. And each day, you sank further and further, like the dead weight of a stone, drifting down into the pits of your despair. Your living, breathing death.
A slow, agonising journey of digestion—your body, mind and soul disseminating into nothing.
Reaching rock bottom hadn’t taken long, not when you’d been left feeling so shallow by the robbery of your life’s meaning. And you’d laid there ever since, slowly deteriorating, slowly drowning. Over and over and over again. You could have said that you were losing every part of yourself, but you hadn’t been whole to begin with, not for a long time—not since losing him.
If he were here, he could have saved you from yourself. But he wasn’t. And you hated him for it.
You hated him. For striking a deal with the devil. For placing his life on the line without a second breath. For lying to you about it. For even thinking that nobody would notice the dead space left behind. There were certain days that tended to plunge that hateful knife—already engrossed in your heart—a little deeper. A day like this morning.
The day that marked the anniversary of Dean Winchester’s death.
On the first day without him, you’d spent your time trying to fight it—forced smiles, laughs of denial, stares that didn’t linger on any of his belongings for too long. But it was hard not to come face to face with his memory when the ghost of his existence seemed to prowl after you at every turn and every corner of the apartment. His favourite coffee mug with an infamous chip on the rim. The frozen, pasty pies he’d crammed the freezer full of. Six packs of canned beers stocked along the pantry’s top shelf. His discarded shoes. His sparse watch collection. The shampoo bottle he’d diluted to last a month longer.
And that damn leather jacket, which currently draped from the frame of your desk chair.
It hung there like a museum exhibit—the memory of Dean Winchester, frozen in time. The jacket he’d left behind on the day he’d slipped your life for good. You hadn’t once touched it. You couldn’t bring yourself to lay your fingers across the leather when there’d be no warmth radiating through its fabric to soothe you—couldn’t face the fact that it’d reflect the cold, empty truth of it all. So there it laid, collecting dust and slowly drowning beneath the suffocating, grey sea without a merciful hand to liberate it. It was a cruel parallel of your own withering state.
Every morning, your eyes would peel through a hollow sleep, and the first thing they’d settle on was that damn jacket. Every. Single. Time. As if you needed the constant recap on top of everything else. You could have mustered up the courage to move it some place else that’d finally warrant the motto out of sight, out of mind. But the naive fool that had created that saying failed miserably at accounting for the woes of the brain. Once scorched into memory, nothing would ever truly be forgotten. You’d remember regardless of where that jacket lay—a curse bound to your life, never to be broken.
Unless you broke first.
You shifted at the heart of your king-sized bed, your head sinking back into your plumy pillow as you gazed up at the ceiling. At anything but that jacket. Your limbs sprawled out between the cotton sheets, taking maximum advantage to voyage the sea of space left at your disposal. While a mattress this large and luxurious should’ve offered you a sense of comfortable freedom, you couldn’t help but mourn all the space—space that at one point, had been occupied by him.
The gentle, golden glare of dawn had begun its steady journey into the room, letting itself in almost shyly through the slits of your curtains. The meek sunbeams sliced through the dim atmosphere you’d found solice within, and you watched as dust particles began to waltz around one another through the bronzed air—as if they’d been cast into the centre of the ballroom. Around and around they swirled in perfect, mirrored harmony. You thought it looked a lot like a courting display—more mental imagery to emphasise your loneliness.
For a second, some faded image—a memory—flashed across your mind. Yourself and Dean, taking to the neglected dance floor of a bar nearing its closing time. A half-emptied beer bottle clutched in his one hand as his other linked with yours, serving as the leash that dragged your protesting form to its debut on the dance floor.
You’d never been too confident in your dancing skills, a fact you’d tried many times to disclose, but Dean had been insistent. Somewhere behind you, Sam had whooped from the comfort of the booth you’d both discarded, and when you’d glanced back at the younger Winchester, he had his beer-adorned hand raised into the air as a cheer. You’d scoffed with a heavy thanks for nothing.
When you’d turned back to Dean, he’d drawn up in his tracks without any prior warning, causing you to crash not-so-elegantly into his torso. Instinctively, your free palm had lurched forward to cradle his chest in a steadying motion, your chin tilting up to grace him with a stunned giggle.
The drink he’d throttled in his other hand sloshed with the jolt, foam tumbling over the nozzle’s edge like a provoked volcano’s tantrum. It slathered his fingers and trickled to the floor, adding fresh patterns to the aged, sticky blotches already scattered amidst the young night.
“Woah, easy there, tiger,” he’d laughed, but the hand that’d dragged you here released your fingers only to form a seductive curve at the small of your back. There, he’d pulled you in even closer, his lips closing in on you with the promise of a love-sick kiss. But instead, his jaw had dipped past your temple, lips grazing your cheekbone before hovering at your ear. “There’s nuff o’ me to go ‘round without you jumpin’ ship for the first spot,” he husked. You’d practically felt the grin spreading his lips.
You’d ducked your head away from his with a hearty huff. “Down, boy,” you’d scoffed, hands trailing up his chest to crown either shoulder with a natural ease. The touch had been smooth, magnetic. And maybe you two were like magnets, utterly obsessed with being intangible, and eager to keep on exploring every inch of one another with a shifting touch rather than be torn apart.
Dean’s eyes had lowered to the naughty line you’d drawn to his shoulders, the grin he’d taken up deepening enough to suction his cheeks into the dimples you’d come to adore. When he’d acquainted your eyes again, it was through a heavy-lidded stare that promised all sorts of activities to reciprocate your tantalising touch. “Oh, I’ll get down, alright,” he’d chuckled hoarsely, leaving the line open to interpretation as he brought his beer to his lips. He’d downed a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes not once straying from yours as he watched you mentally decipher his words.
“You know what? Enough of your games,” you’d laughed, hands slipping from his chest to forsake the dance floor before you’d have a chance to make it regret hosting you. You’d attempted to turn tail and flee, but Dean’s hand had found your wrist in a firm, yet gentle tug, and then you were held prisoner under those hypnotising eyes once more. Your lips had split to offer some final protest, but his own lips puckered into a shushing pout that had you clamping down on your tongue.
“Don’t say anythin’, just dance with me,” he’d instructed, and then the hand tethering you to him lifted, your arm following the motion like a chain effect. Against your will, you were spun around in an awkward, off-timed circle that deviated abominably from the background music. When you came to face him once more, his chest had rattled with a laugh a little too passionate for your liking. “That was adorable—like a toddler learnin’ she’s got the gears but don’t quite know which she’s shiftin’.”
Your cheeks had seared hot at that comment, free hand diving forward to shove his chest lightly. “Stop—I warned you!” You’d simpered.
“Hey!” He’d laughed, beer-occupied hand lifting in a gesture of innocence. “I’m only playin’! You’ll get the hang o’ it—I’ll teach ya. Watch.” Your hand lifted under his guidance as he executed his own spin—even more sprawled and ridiculous than yours had been. Your free hand had flown to cradle your mouth as a disbelieved chortle blared through, and as Dean came to face you once more, his brows were lifted in question. “Eh? I’m a natural, yeah?”
You’d giggled into your palm again before dropping your hand back to your side, lips pursing with amusement. “Let’s just say that I don’t think either of us should be teaching the other,” you’d huffed through a pained smile.
Dean lowered your joined hands to the space between you. “Well,” he’d begun, pulling you into his frame once more, like he just couldn’t get enough of your presence—like he wanted it to hog him. “Guess we just gotta. . . y’know, feel this one out together,” he’d murmured suggestively, eyes narrowing with cheek while he released your hand to settle into its natural hold at the small of your back.
You’d leaned your smirk-heavy lips closer to his with a content hum, your hands coming to wrap around his neck. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll follow if you lead.” He’d grinned approvingly at that, tugging you along to a slow and steady sway of the bodies, which you’d succumbed to and harmonised with in no time—much to your surprise.
“Sammy!” Dean had called to his younger brother, his eyes not once straying from yours as he presented his beer in the direction of the booth. “All yours for the takin’.” He’d paused to steal a glance at your beaming lips. “I got my own special o’ the night.”
You’d laughed at that, and Dean’s charm had grown all the more potent as he stretched out the dance between the two of you for what felt like a good couple of hours. In the background, the music in bad taste had blared on, ever so eager to cheapen the moment between the two of you, but you’d become so enthralled with one another that all else around you was drowned out, anyway.
Both his hands had selfishly hoarded your lower back, pressing you so far into him that you’d stumbled around his feet more times than you’d have liked to admit. But you’d remained steadied by the hands furled around his neck, and comforted by the gentle, reciprocated press of your foreheads, gazing into the sanctuary of one another’s eyes.
If you’d known then, in that moment, that Dean Winchester was going to die, you’d have held onto him a little longer—and probably never have let go. Even if it killed you, too.
With a heavy, rattled rise of your chest, you came back to your grim present, drawing in a long and shaky breath. You shifted between the sheets to roll onto your side, arm coming up beneath the underside of your pillow to cradle it like an emotional support teddy. You tuned your attention to your curtain-clad windows, and like a corpse, you continued to rot away within your coffin of a mattress, watching idly as the sun continued to announce its ascent.
It wasn’t long before warm golds drained into a paler shades that fully lit your room now—the official statement of a new day. But still, you didn’t stir. The curtains remained cast, the windows crammed closed as tightly as they’d been left about a week ago, and your soul feeling anything but renewed to tackle this heavy day head on.
Somewhere beyond your wall, footsteps thrummed lightly down the hallway. Now and again, you’d let yourself believe that they belonged to Dean, on his way to brew you both a morning cuppa—just to offer some pathetic, fleeting slither of comfort. But nothing—nobody could ever fill those shoes left behind. It hadn’t stopped Sam from trying, though.
Before Dean’s. . . disappearance, the brothers had stayed together in the larger room of your two-bedroom apartment—nothing like reliving the good old times, right? It didn’t much bother either one of them, given that Dean had slept in your bed on most nights, leaving the space feeling basically like Sam’s own. The dynamic between you all worked well, and it was practical for a hunter’s lifestyle. Costs were cut, perimeters familiarised and mapped out, and the shared company between you all was reliable. Trustworthy.
You’d become a blended family of some sort. You didn’t think there was any external force that could’ve torn you all apart. But you hadn’t accounted for an inside job. Hadn’t accounted for the weak link that was you.
After Dean’s death, you’d gone into a self-destructive spiral, eager to push anybody and everybody away while you feigned bravery. But Sam had clocked you like an open book, and it made him the hottest target of your impulsive ire.
You couldn’t stand looking at the younger Winchester, how he served as a constant reflection of your own grief—the grief you’d tried so hard to drown out. You knew you should have bonded with him over your shared loss, and the younger Winchester had tried everything to utilise that angle to be there for you, but it’d only made you push back harder. You half expected him to walk out after the first week, but you’d forgotten how deep-rooted stubborness ran within the Winchester bloodline.
Sam had continued to stick around. Why was beyond you. You could have argued that it was because he’d come to love you like a sister, but you couldn’t help the feeling that Dean had made him promise to look out for you, should he ever bite the dust. And it made you hate him more. Because if it were the latter, it meant that Dean had always intended to stay en route on the sacrificial pathway you’d tried countless times to swerve him from. And it meant that loving you hadn’t been reason enough for him to become sidetracked.
If only he’d held out a little longer and put off making that damned deal, you could have continued searching for a solution that didn’t end with either of the Winchesters’ deaths. But deep down, you knew that fate hadn’t written that ending down in any of her books. That continuing to skim page after page would have done nothing but waste minutes paid in blood. Deep down, you knew that Dean had no other choice, but it didn’t make you hate him any less for choosing it.
The faint clanking of utensils transcended the walls, indicating that Sam had worked himself into the kitchen. It was like a routine now. Every morning, the same time. You thought he might’ve craved some taste of control over his life by instilling this morning pattern he now followed so religiously.
You envied how well he seemed to hold himself together, despite it being his blood that had passed on. It made you feel invalidated in all your mourning. After all, if he could move on from the loss of his brother, whom he’d known all his life, why couldn’t you move on from a man you’d known for a pitiful number that paled in comparison?
As they so often did, your thoughts rampaged for a while longer, so eager to hold you captive between the sheets. But eventually, you felt the pit of neglect burrowed into your stomach gape wider, something that you couldn’t ignore any longer.
Your head turned to glimpse the plates you’d stacked atop the bedside table over the last few days. Almost all of them held meals that you’d scarcely picked at, meals Sam had cooked you, and they were starting to smell. It wasn’t doing much to help encourage the full return of your appetite. But still, you had to eat—something fresher, of course.
Eventually, you mustered up the courage to stir and shed the sheets, your week-old pyjamas falling limp around your frame as you shovelled your weight onto wilted legs. You stood for a moment, taking in this new pull of gravity, before angling yourself toward the door.
At the corner of your eye, it beckoned to you. You shouldn’t have looked, shouldn’t have given it the attention it so desperately craved, but how could you stand steadfast when you were crippled with the need to reminisce him during every waking moment? So you buckled, like you always did, and turned to glance over the waiting leather jacket.
It beamed a little brighter this time around, illuminated by the sun’s pale touch. It looked almost angelic, and you could have sworn that new life had been bestowed upon it—like a reincarnation. But no matter how long you stared, no body seemed to materialise between its hold to glorify that hope. Still no Dean Winchester to show for it.
So much for having faith.
With a barely audible scoff, you finally tore your gaze away and trudged toward your bedroom door. You reached for the handle, fingers hovering over the cool metal as you took a moment to think about what’d you say to Sam. Starting with an apology would probably be ideal, followed up by a looping string of thank yous for everything he’s done. You swallowed thickly before tightening your hold, the mechanism clicking open with a brash sound that cut through your senses. And then, like a ghost, you neglected your grave and slunk into the hallway.
When you traipsed into the open-plan apartment on light, reluctant feet, your eyes wandered over to the kitchen at the corner, where Sam had already made himself comfortable at the hot lip of the stove. His back was turned on you, but you caught the whisk of his arms as he executed an impressive flip of something within the skillet. It landed with a muffled thump, a result that had Sam hissing out a noise of satisfaction.
A shy, smoky ghost levitated above the Winchester, and it wasn’t long before the cracked kitchen window wafted a clue in your direction—the sweet tang of pancakes tickling your nose. Usually, it was a smell that had you inhaling a little deeper, like you couldn’t miss savouring even a scrap of its existence. Now, the smell roused nothing other than a faint reminder of just how much you didn’t crave breakfast. Or anything, for that matter. But still, duty called. More like your stomach would begin eating itself if you insisted on starving it for a day longer.
With a practiced breath of bravery, you picked your way past the living room sofas, your sock-clad feet scuffling across the floor with a severe lack of motivation. As you approached the kitchen island, you spotted a can of sweetened whipped cream—your favourite—and a bowl of berries straddling the plated, ever-growing stack of pancakes. It was the complete picture your stomach needed to enlist the first of its rumbling, but you hadn’t had much of a mental appetite for quite some time. The simple joy you’d once held for eating had been boiled down to the dull necessity of sustenance—you ate only because your body needed fuel. Anything more than that just wasn’t worth feeling.
And, truthfully, it was a baffling, new reality because there was a time you'd have nagged the boys to drive you halfway across the country to try some new cuisine you'd seen advertised across billboards. You’d scribble down the names of the niche diners and renowned restaurants in your trusty notebook to be reviewed on the trips back to the motels, heated debates unfolding as the brothers either vouched for or condemned your idea of a good meal. Now, the memories were so distant that you'd started to wonder whether they'd even existed. Whether that version of you still existed.
You brought up the rear of one of the kitchen chairs, moving a hand to cradle your protesting stomach while the other outstretched to retract the chair at the rim. The sudden, intrusive screech of wood against wood was enough to startle Sam into a growing awareness of his surroundings. He pivoted on his heels to face you, the pan making a reflexive dive in your direction in what was meant to be some pitiful means of a defence. The white of his eyes blared through, his tall frame ducking slightly as he assumed a defensive position.
Your composure didn’t falter as you slunk into the seat; his reaction wasn’t any surprise, not when you lead the adrenaline-laced life of a hunter forced to guard their six on a daily. And you doubted he’d expected any company after you’d basically stopped existing outside of your room these last couple of days—and at this early hour, no less.
What did surprise you, though, was that the pancake had managed to cling to the metal of the skillet in the midst of his jolt.
As Sam drank in your familiar form, his broad shoulders sagged visibly under his growing relaxation, the vice grip he’d unintentionally taken up around the pan’s handle now relenting an inch.
“Oh,” he stuttered out, a flustered half-chuckle diffusing his misplaced adrenaline. He slunk toward the island with his head slightly bowed, his gaze flickering between you and the pan. “Hey,” he murmured, his lips pursing shortly after the meek sound, as though he were afraid to let the wrong words slip. His caution wasn’t misplaced; you hadn’t exactly been kind to him these last few days.
It usually went that way around this time of the month. The days stepping up to the anniversary of Dean’s death tended to trip you right into the worst vision of yourself. You were more sullen than usual, losing patience over minuscule things, and sinking jaws of hostility into anybody who’d even attempted to offer hollow words of comfort.
Bobby had been the first to withdraw with some muttered crap of I’m too old for this shit. But Sam had always been too forgiving. He’d stuck around regardless of your temper, taking all the verbal beatings while he tended to your unspoken needs in ways that you couldn’t. You owed him so much more than you were capable of giving at this time.
You leaned onto the cool marble of the island, your hands coming forward in a timid fold as your lips flattened into a pathetic spectacle of a smile. “Hey, Sam,” you murmured, and for a second, the sound startled you. It was so dull, so lifeless—you’d even go so far as to say that it was so unlike you.
It was a stark contrast to the version of yourself the brothers had learnt to tolerate, maybe even appreciate—constant chatter and running commentary streaming live from the backseat of the impala. Dean had gone so far as to nickname you sunshine and rainbows, trailing after the twin storm clouds—the Winchesters—that seemed to thunder down on the unassuming world. But now, you felt like nothing more than the rolling, gloomy skies that paved way for everything wet, woeful and destructive. A weather so devastating that a show of a rainbow would be a mockery rather than a promise.
Sam returned your smile almost sheepishly, his head dipping to drink in the view of the counter. “You, uh. . . you sleep alright?” He asked, the pan coming forward to leer you over as he tipped the metal downwards and crowned the seasoned stack of pancakes with the fresh newcomer.
Your eyes lowered to the newest addition of the pancake pile, following the faint trails of heat that seemed to rise with a freedom and lightness you craved to feel. “Yeah,” you lied, your lower lip instantly pulled into a tense bite. “Yeah, I slept. . . fine.”
You knew that Sam wasn’t convinced, the moment of silence following after evidence of some tactic he might’ve been mentally reviewing to try and coax the truth from you. You began tracing a line along the patterns of the marble counter with your index finger, anticipating the awkward conversation to come.
“Come on, really?” He laughed softly, but the sound was gentle and sympathetic, not slathered with amusement or scorn. “‘Cause I didn’t,” he confessed.
You glanced up at him in surprise, your finger halting in its place. “Really?” You breathed out softly, instant relief crashing over you. Maybe Sam hadn’t recovered as much as you thought he had, and as unfortunate as that was, you couldn’t help but feel slightly comforted—less alone.
He tipped his head to the side in consensus, a wry scoff piercing his lips. “Honestly? Can’t remember the last time I did,” he said, eyes flickering up to glance you over briefly before he turned his back on you to discard the pan at the sink. He slid over to the stove, flicking buttons and shifting dishes before he was back at the island. “I mean, I sleep—but just. . . not very well.” He took up a spatula and began shovelling at the pancake stack. “One?” He asked intuitively.
“One’s perfect,” you said. You watched as he dragged the rim of the spatula down the building of pancakes, stopping somewhere around the middle floor before he slid the utensil inward. He shimmied out a hot and fluffy pick, placing it onto your plate rather gingerly before he nudged it in your direction. “Thanks, Sam,” you murmured, receiving it with a forced show of eagerness—you didn’t want your lack of an appetite to make things more personal than they already felt.
“Yeah, anytime,” he answered, sparing you a soft smile before he took to plating his own stack of three.
You held off on digging into your singular pancake, hands idling around the knife and fork bracketing your plate as you waited for the younger Winchester to cover up the remainder of the breakfast.
With a satisfied dusting of his palms, he finally pushed his own plate across the marble to slide in a distance beside yours before he made his way around the island. He pulled out the seat beside you and settled himself down with a heavy plop and an appreciative grunt—almost like an old man of some sorts.
He took up his cutlery and glanced over at you with a comforting smile. “Time to, uh. . . dig in, I guess,” he laughed lightly. “There’s whipped cream and berries if you’d like.” His chin jutted to the listed toppings, and then his knifed hand jolted into the air suddenly. “Oh, and there’s syrup, too. I’ll fetch it from the pantry.”
Without waiting for your response, he set down the cutlery and shifted back in his chair, but you turned your body a slither to face him before he could slip away as quickly as your nerve.
“Sam, wait,” you said, your hands straying from the table to bundle in your lap in an anxious toying of fingers.
He halted in place almost instantly, turning to face you with his brows quirked an inch—like your sudden unrest was news to him. But you knew he was only trying to be polite in playing his attentive part; he likely knew exactly what this was about. “Yeah?”
You drank in his softened eyes, and they held so much purity and innocence that it caused your heart to sag with a fresh, guilt-ridden heaviness. It tugged your head down to the view of your lap, your chest heaving with a shuddering inhale. “I’m so sorry,” you blurted out, your voice rattled by so much regret that it began to quiver.
At the edge of your vision, you saw Sam settle back into his seat, arms drawing onto the counter. “Hey,” he cooed gently. “It’s oka—”
“No, it’s not okay,” you cut in hastily. “I need to say this. I’m sorry for everything—for the way I acted. . . for the things I said—you didn’t deserve any of it, Sam.” You began picking at the skin of your nails. “I just, I have all this. . . anger inside of me. I’m angry at myself, and I’m angry at Dean—I’m angry at everything cause everything’s just so fucking unfair. And I know that it’s not an excuse, but I just. . . I figured. . . I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know,” you scoffed, but you braved face and lifted your head to face him once more. “But I do know that I am truly, deeply sorry.”
Sam’s head lowered to take in the view of his plate, his eyes darting about the porcelain. “Listen,” he eventually murmured, his mouth stuttering around air as he searched for the right words. Eventually, he settled on grace. “I get it, okay?” His chin lifted to gift you with a break you didn’t think you deserved. “All that anger inside of you. . . I’ve felt it before—more than I’d like to admit, actually,” he laughed dryly before his expression warped into something more solemn. “It eats you up inside. . . makes you say and do things you wouldn’t usually say or do. There are so many times I’ve gone down that road, but Dean—he’s always been there to pull me back, even if it was by the tip of my ear.” He laughed again, this time more genuine, and you couldn’t help but crack a smile of your own.
Sam’s head lowered again, his smile simmering away. “Anyway, I guess what I’m tryna say is that, I get it. I get why you said the things you did, and I’m not mad about it. For once, I don’t feel that anger anymore.”
Slowly, your fingers began to still their fidgeting as you listened to him talk, your chest cooperating by letting up on its rapid pace.
The younger winchester upturned his eyes to yours with a new ferocity. “I’m here for you. I’m always gonna be here for you—and not just because I owe Dean that much, but because you’ve been there for me, too. So many times. Even at my. . .” He trailed off as he averted his gaze to the side, some unspoken shame breaching his conscious. You saw his Adam’s Apple bop under a heavy swallow before he turned back to you. “Even at my worst,” he continued. “So. . . don’t worry about it, really. I get it.”
For the first time in a long time, you found your eyes watering an emotion other than grief and heartbreak—something far lighter and rejuvenating. Love. Appreciation. Relief. You envied Sam’s ability to barrel through this cruel life so determined to pin him down, and you admired how each time, he seemed to emerge with a heart even larger than before. Even after all the rounds you’d emptied into his chest, he stood tall, still offering that hand you so desperately needed to pull you from your self-dug trenches.
Maybe, it was about time you finally took it.
The first tear slipped the keep of your eye, jettisoned from the ledge of your cheekbone to where it splattered across the marble top. Your hand flew to wipe the moisture away, an ugly sniff racking your chest. There was a clank of shifting metal before Sam’s hand came forward to brush your shoulder.
“Hey,” he cooed softly, and then you were carefully tugged into the side of his towering frame. “Come here,” he urged, and he was so gentle that it had you fully succumbing to his hold without a single reflexive need to resist. His arm snaked around your shoulder blades to hook around your arm as he drew you into a tight hug, your hands bundling further into your lap. “It’ll be okay. We’ll get through this. Together,” he added pointedly, a clear warning that he didn’t intend to let you get your lonely way again. You were okay with that.
Your lower lip began quivering with fresh emotion—guilt bouncing on the rim the heaviest. “I’m so sorry, Sam,” you reiterated.
Your felt his chin settle into the crown of your head, the vibration bouncing off your hair. “For what? Being human?” He laughed. “In case you haven’t noticed, we tend to be dicks from time to time, and I’d say hunters have more right than most to be a bigger one now and again.”
You laughed—actually laughed at that, the sound snotty and slightly gross, but real. Sam harmonised with his own throaty chuckle, the hand furled around your arm in a tight, reassuring grip relenting to rub comforting lines up and down the expanse.
“Now, enough of the pity party. Let’s finish these pancakes before they get cold, and then what do you say we pull out a couple of board games?” He gave you one last comforting squeeze before slowly releasing you from the hug.
You leaned away from him, centring your weight back over your own chair as you turned your head down to your plate with a thoughtful pout. “Okay,” you agreed, your chin ducking in tiny, accepting nods. You sniffed away the lingering tears, hand coming up to pat your eyes one last time for good measure. Then, your head swivelled to face him as you put on a weak smile. “Hey—think you’re smart enough to challenge me to a game of scrabble?”
Sam laughed as though your challenge was satire, but you frowned with slight offence, which sobered his smile into a look of confusion. “Wha—you’re serious?” He huffed, jaw gaped around disbelief.
“And why wouldn’t I be?” You exclaimed, your voice cracking around a light giggle—the first you’d uttered in a while. “I’m as smart as you are—we read the same books!”
His averted his gaze, head cocking to the side with a scoff before he glanced back at you in amusement. “Yeah, and after you gave your reports, I had to go back and reread every single one of those books to fill in information you left out,” he said pointedly.
You shook your head with light disbelief, a thin chuckle following after. “You know what? Let’s have that round, and if you win, you can bullshit my literacy skills all you like. Deal?” You outstretched your hand across the counter.
Sam’s gaze ducked to the gesture, his brows cocking on a look that you thought was a little too smug, before his hand reached to link with yours in an informal pact. “Deal,” he said through a scheming smirk.
You squeezed his hand lightly as a warning. “Wipe that douche-display off your lips, nothing’s set in stone.”
“Yeah, no, of course,” he replied nonchalantly, but when your hands unlinked, you saw the corner of his mouth hitch with some mental remark.
“All right, that’s it.” You took up your utensils while Sam glanced you over with slight surprise. You began digging into your pancake with a renewed sense, plopping the first piece into your mouth and taking on a ferocious chew. There was a brief wave of nausea at the food’s sudden intrusion before it quickly dissipated at the sweet taste, beckoning you back for another bite.
“You might wanna slow down there,” he laughed, hands tending to his own plate before they finally presented his first bite to his lips with far more poise.
“Uh uh,” you hummed through a mouthful, swallowing thickly before continuing. “I got a lot riding on this. You made it personal when you brought my ego into this. Sooner we’re done here, sooner I can beat you.”
Sam let out a disbelieved laugh, but didn’t argue any further as he began dissembling his own pancakes at a faster rate. Once you’d both lapped down the dough and licked the plates clean, you’d taken to washing up the dishes and wiping down the counters while Sam procured the board games that had long since collected dust. You’d taken the liberty of microwaving you both a bowl of popcorn and pouring glasses of soda while he set out the game within the living room. Then, you both settled down for the first round, snacks at the ready.
Sam had won, as he’d so smugly anticipated. But you weren’t so eager to be humiliated without a challenge, so for the rest of the day, you’d played out the game to a tally of the most wins. Hours seemed to pass like the impression of a second, the apartment growing dimmer and dimmer with each trailing retreat of the sun.
Eventually, you were both cast in a saturated bronze that poured in through the living room windows, illuminating the score page you’d scribbled up and further glorifying Sam’s final win. He took the game by far, and you were forced to acknowledge that maybe he was the smarter one of you both. Or at least the more apt thinker.
After that, you’d both powered through a movie of his choice, chowing down on some Chinese takeout he’d had delivered. And you emptied the carton down to the last noodle, appeasing the appetite you’d developed somewhere throughout the day. Already, you felt so much lighter—physically and mentally—and you knew that you owed it all to Sam and his perseverence. You couldn’t help but beam with some newfound appreciation for the younger Winchester.
Through the darkness, the tv screen emitted just enough light to illuminate Sam’s side profile. His eyes were glued to the screen, jaw circulating hasty chews as he practically inhaled his second bowl of popcorn. The sight made you shake your head with light amusement, and you watched him a little longer just for the sake of it.
“Hey, Sam?” You eventually called, which made him face you with a look of sudden concern.
His hand halted within his bowl. “Yeah?”
“Thank you. For today—for everything.” You offered him a warm, appreciative smile. He’d given you something you desperately needed today—a distraction. From everything and most definitely from yourself. Debts like those didn’t feel possible to repay, but you’d try, regardless. As long as it took.
Sam took a moment to drink in your words, his features motionless before his brows furrowed like he’d made nothing of your gesture. “Yeah, no problem,” he answered, a smile to match yours following shortly after. You both turned your attention back to the screen, and for the rest of the movie, you sat in comfortable, popcorn-tinged silence.
Once the movie came to an end, you’d both chatted about anything and everything until the first person let a yawn slip—that person being you. After that, you’d both tidied up the space, folded the blankets and packed the games back into their keep. Then, you’d dipped into your room to gather your old dishes, discarding the food and washing up the plates. Sam had helped pack it all away.
Once the day’s chores were wrapped up, you’d both exchanged your nightly greetings before going your separate ways. Sam retreated back to his room, though not without snagging a thick book from the shared reading shelf. You’d briefly slipped into your own room to pull out a fresh set of pyjamas and a towel before dipping your toes into a much needed shower.
Once you felt you’d scrubbed off enough of your week-long rot, you’d slunk from the shower and back to your room to call it a day. When you clicked the door closed behind you, you hovered on the spot with a hearty sigh into the dim atmosphere. You took a moment to reflect on the day, and for once, it provoked a smile—not sadness, not anger, not grief—but a genuine smile. The relief after the storm.
You flicked on the light and dressed yourself into your fresh set of clothes, teeth brushed and hair secured back before you flicked the lights off and sank into your bed with a new type of exhaustion. A fulfilling one. It wasn’t long before sleep arrived to hurl you into vivid dreams, and not unlike other times, you dreamt of Dean.
Within your bed, he had you bare and sprawled out beneath his own nude figure, his lips wandering gentle, curious trails along the side of your jaw before dipping down the ledge to trawl the arch of your neck. His elbows propped him up on either side of your head as he took his time to lovingly brand you with his wet caress, your own hands combing blissful strokes through his hair.
You sank back into your pillow, lips parting with breathy mewls as he shifted his attention down to your breasts. He moved to cup one tenderly, tongue swirling a loop around the hardened bud, his strained moan sprawling into the mix of stimulation as you tightened your hold within his hair.
“Dean,” you exhaled weakly, for no reason other than to verbalise the unorthodox way he made you feel. Your teeth found your lower lip in a restrained nibble as he acknowledged your absent-minded praise with a gentle kneading of your breast—as if he sought to gorge on it to the point of total devouring.
You felt the blood flow vigorously to your chest, spurred onward by the suctioning of his lips, and it pooled at your nipple, causing it to throb within his hold. You let slip a soft noise of discomfort, your hand collapsing from his hair to gently push him back at the collarbone.
Dean’s head lifted to yours, a slight pant wafting from his glistening lips. “All good there, sunshine?” He murmured, hand slipping from your breast to run a light, reassuring finger across your cheek. He smudged away the moisture beading along your skin before settling his thumb in the divot of your chin.
“Too much,” you breathed through a dazed grin, hand coming up to gently wrap around his wrist. “You’re like a leech,” you added with a soft giggle.
His lips thinned in a proud smirk, encouraged by your tease rather than offended. “Damn right I am—have you tasted you? Freakin’ delicious,” he praised, smacking his lips in a dramatic show and tell. It made you giggle and release his wrist to pin his lips between your thumb and index finger, and you held them captive while he mumbled noises of protest. He looked so ridiculous, it warmed your heart.
“Stop that!” You laughed, your cheeks flushing hot at the silly sight of him.
Dean wiggled his lips between your grasp until he was able to wrap his lips around a finger, nibbling your skin tenderly so that you released a light squeal and pulled away from his famished lips. “Stop what?” He mocked lightheartedly, head lowering down to you as he followed after your retreating hand with a determined grin playing his lips.
Your hands flew to your chest in a pretence of helplessness, your giggles elevating to a heartier laugh as he pretended to chase after them. His teeth acquainted the air all around them with animated chomps, but made no good on the promise. Eventually, he gave up the hunt and pressed his lips to the side of your jaw, gradually tracing his way up to the soft curve of your cheek before he drew back an inch to gaze into your eyes.
“My sunshine,” he said softly, adoringly, leaning down to nuzzle the button of your nose with his own before he placed a soft kiss there.
Your heart trilled love-struck melodies around Dean’s proud declaration, the magnitude of your smile hoisting up the apples of your cheeks until your eyes were compressed into half-moons. “Say it again,” you murmured, palms drifting up to frame his face and thumbs twiddling to soothe the humps of his cheeks.
Your touch set Dean’s composure alight, his sultry stare softening into something more pure and needy. His eyes narrowed as he gazed down at you, as though you had captured his complete and undivided attention. You found yourself getting so wrapped up in their green depths that for a second, it felt like you couldn’t breathe.
“You’re my sunshine,” he repeated in a voice so low and soft that it bordered a husky whisper, but the love imbued into those words carried through as clear as a shout. “I don’t care if that sounds like the title of a Jane Austen novel. You’ve got this. . . fire to you, the kind that nobody—nothin’ can gank. And you draw people into your orbit like they’d never stood a damn chance. Trust me, I sure as hell didn’t,” he laughed, both his hands coming up as a unit to brush back the hair framing your face. “And you’re warm. . .” He trailed off to place a kiss on your cheek, “—and radiant—” and then the other. “And my whole goddamn universe.”
You gazed at him as he pulled away from your proximity, his eyes brimming with love as he waited for your response. What you wanted to say was, “I knew you read Jane Austin in your free time!”, a harmless poke that would keep this tender moment elevated at meaningful heights. Then you’d both share a laugh, and melt into the night cocooned within each other’s warmth.
But deep down, something more solemn tugged at the strings of your heart—an unanswered question that slowly began to resurface despite your attempt to bury it time and time again. So instead, you said, “then how could you leave me?”
Dean’s face warped into a light frown, your question catching him off guard. For a few seconds, he did nothing but stare, his lips parting to search for an answer that you’d waited months to hear. But when he looked as though he might finally answer, no sound carried through to lay your suspense to rest. His mouth gaped and his lips moved, but they formed nonsensical words, and no matter how hard you tried to focus and decipher your most craved confession, it never came to you.
Then, the scene around you began to distort, the lights cutting out and the shapes of the room’s decor warping erratically. And when you blinked, Dean had disappeared entirely—his atoms scattered into the cosmos of your mind. You tried to call out to him, to summon him back to his rightful place beside you, but it seemed as though he were destined to be robbed from the palm of your hands—both in the waking world, and in the confines of your own mind.
And then you, in your entirety, were dissolved into a black abyss, the surroundings melting away like you’d imagined it all in a vivid episode of mania. For a moment, you floated around in a void, your mind slowly dissociating from the fantasies of its own creation. You heard nothing, saw nothing, but somehow, you felt a touch lingering upon your arm. It was warm, familiar, and even though no face materialised to claim it, you knew that it was Dean.
You prepared yourself to mourn the loss of it once you emerged into the waking world, but as your eyes fluttered open, your lids blinking frantically to clear your vision, the touch didn’t fade. If anything, it became more palpable, solid—real. And when you’d adjusted enough to the dawn haze shrouding your room, it wasn’t the image of the leather jacket that arrived first to taunt you.
It was Dean.
You blinked harder, more desperately, your heart rate skyrocketing as you attempted to rationalise whatever fucked up delusion your exhausted mind was currently displaying you. But his body didn’t vaporise into nothingness, and blinking didn’t seem to possess the same parlour trick of making the rabbit disappear, like it did in your dreams.
It was real.
There he sat, as stoic as a statue, at the edge of your mattress, and the hand you’d felt cupping your arm stroked up the curve of your shoulder to gently frame your neck. The contact sent a shiver up your spine, your lips falling open to expel a shaky breath.
It can’t be, you thought, your brows contracting in a puzzled frown. He’s dead—he’s in hell, he can’t be here.
Through the dawn gloom, you could make out the faintest stretch of his lips—an almost simper. “Good mornin’, Sunshine.” But you didn’t recognise the voice. It was low, gruff and abraded, like his vocal cords had been extracted and sent through the grinder before being forcibly shoved back into its compartment. And he sounded dull, the type of dull you’d come to embody in his absence. It was. . . anything but Dean Winchester.
Your lower lip began to quiver, your shoulder drawing into yourself as you shied away from his touch. “This isn’t real,” you choked out, hastily collecting yourself onto your elbows as you sought to put some distance between you two. “You’re not real!” You exclaimed in rising volume, which had the impersonator stretching out both his hands in a steadying motion.
“You’ll wake Sammy,” he whispered urgently—a harsh sound that came across as more of a scold.
You frowned as you inched yourself a fraction across the mattress, eager to reach the end opposite to where he sat. “Who are you?” You demanded in a tone more regulated, your hand subtly reaching behind you to grab ahold of the salt container you kept on the bedside table like a framed picture.
Dean’s eyes seemed to follow your not-so-subtle play with dry amusement. “It’s me,” he insisted gruffly, his hands coming to settle on his knees—and one of them bounced with unspoken thoughts. It was a habit you’d come to recognise since knowing him, and it did a fraction of a favour in vouching for his authenticity. “It’s Dean,” he continued, eyes straying from your hands to settle onto your face.
“No,” you refused, and behind you, your fingers grabbed ahold of the salt. “Dean Winchester died—four months ago,” you explained in a low, but no less stern voice. “So I’m going to ask you again—who are you?”
His nostrils seemed to flare with dwindling patience, his eyes flickering off to the side. “Man, paranoia’s one son o’a bitch,” he scoffed under his breath before turning to face you again. “Listen, I know you’re not gonna believe me. And I also know that you’re about to baptise me with a shit ton o’ salt to barbecue the livin’ crap outta whatever demon you think’s got his hand stuck up my ass.” He began reaching into his shirt pocket. “Now, as much as I’d love to swallow a mouthful of killer blood pressu—” his words were cut short as you tossed a handful of salt in his direction, the mound not shying away from taking a bold dip in his mouth.
The assault dealt no physical damage to his body, but it did earn a passionate look of annoyance from Dean, whose jaw slowly circumducted as his tongue began shovelling the salty hell from his mouth. You scrutinised him for a few seconds longer, not so eager to let down your guard because of one passed test.
“You’re not a demon?” You asked more than stated.
His jaw fell limp at your question, a slow blink accentuating his displeasure. “Clearly not,” he said lowly, the words slurred by his unwillingness to taste the salt with proper pronunciation.
He leaned forward, hand reaching for the box of tissues sitting atop the beside table, and yanked a few free. He brought it up to his lips, where he spat furiously to cleanse his mouth. After a rough clearing of his throat, he bundled up the tissues, tossed it onto the table and glanced over at you once more. “Listen, I’ve already been through all the tests back at Bobby’s. I was goin’ to pull out the phone and get him on the line to clear me before you decided I needed some seasonin’,” he said flatly.
You watched him suspiciously, your brow quirking in disbelief. “Fine,” you said tensely, but offered nothing further.
Dean frowned lightly, his eyes doing a brief and clueless sweep of the room as though he expected you to offer more clarity. He settled his attention back onto you, his chin lifting slightly as he uttered a cautious, “okay.” He began reaching into his pocket once more, the movement deliberately slowed. “Just gonna reach for the phone, alright? So hands off the fuckin’ salt,” he said, eyes flickering between you and the container. “Please,” he added gruffly, and then his had retracted with the phone.
You prowled after his every move like a predator, but despite your weariness, you still lowered the salt an inch. You watched as he flicked open the phone, thumb gliding across the keypad as he pulled up Bobby’s number. Then, he lifted the phone to his ear, eyes trained on you with equal caution as he waited for the line to connect him to the opposite end.
You heard the static click, and a voice blared through shortly after—Bobby’s voice. The sound soothed your heart by a slither.
“Hey, Bobby,” Dean greeted, passing his tongue along his lower lip. “Listen, I, uh. . . I need ya to do that thing I told you I’d need—you know, vouchin’ for me and all.” On the other end of the line, Bobby uttered a few, incomprehensible words. “Yeah,” Dean laughed weakly. “Yeah. . . she threw me with the salt. Just like you said.” His eyes flickered to you with subtle amusement before Bobby said something else. Then, he was handing you the phone.
You narrowed your eyes in skepticism before your free hand reached for the phone, so careful not to graze his skin as you retrieved it from his fingers. Dean seemed to notice the rejection, and his mouth gaped slightly with the hurt it evoked. You pushed aside the image, but didn’t stray from his face as you brought the phone up to your ear.
“Hello?” You called into the line.
“Hey, kid, it’s me,” Bobby’s static voice answered. “Listen, I know you’re goin’ through one helluva mind-fuck right ‘bout now. . . but it’s ‘im, kid. It’s Dean.” He trailed into silence after those words, providing an interval he expected you’d fill with some sort of taken aback reaction. But all you could do was choke on your stunned silence, your heart beginning to ram at your chest harder than it’d ever managed before. “Kid? Y’still there?”
Dean’s eyes narrowed all-knowingly as he watched you in patient silence. His hand shifted from his lap an inch, like he yearned to reach out to you and offer some reassurance, but you both knew it’d do little to soothe you in this current predicament—the mental debate of whether or not the man you loved was really back.
Eventually, your body hosted a response, but it wasn’t one you’d preferred to have at this instant. A tear clotted along your one eye, bundling up until it was heavy enough to slip over the edge. Dean’s expression visibly softened, his jaw clenching with the knowledge that he couldn’t exactly pull you into a tight embrace—not just yet, anyway.
Your lips loosened, a rattled breath breaking through. “I saw his body, Bobby,” you pushed out in a quiver. Another tear lined the opposite cheek. “I watched you and Sam dig that fucking hole. . . and I watched you roll his lifeless, rotting corpse over the edge before cementing him under six fucking feet of dirt.”
The phone line hissed and crackled with the silent air on Bobby’s side. You almost thought he’d given up the ruse that you were so determined to believe you’d gotten caught up in, but then his voice blared through—the most tender and sympathetic you’ve ever heard it.
“I know you’re confused,” he began. “Hell, this shit had me believin’ that my family’s history of Alzheimer’s had finally kicked the bucket out from under me. But I did all the tests, and I interrogated him over and over again. I gave him hell, kid, but in the end, it’s really him. Y’know I wouldn’t have even thought ‘bout lettin’ him get close to ya if I weren’t certain o’ it. So if ya can’t trust ‘im just yet, then trust me. I give ya my word.”
Your fingers gripped the phone a little tighter, if only to still the trembling of your hand, and you gave a large sniff as you processed his words. Your eyes still bore into Dean, as though it would keep him pinned to the spot should he think about making a run for it.
You shifted the phone against your ear an inch, taking your lower lip into a tense bite before you spoke again. “Okay,” you breathed softly. “I trust you, Bobby.”
From Bobby’s end, shuffling noises chafed your ear like sand-paper. “Alright, kid, I’ll leave the two o’ ya to it. Good luck,” he said, and then the line terminated with a beep. The call’s ending tune reached Dean’s ear, where he shifted on the mattress almost anxiously while he waited for your decision.
“So, uh,” he began, his lips stuttering on the right words as his head buckled to face the hands he’d crossed in his lap. His palms rubbed tense lines—like the scheming motion of a fly—before he glanced back up at you. “We good?” He settled on. You saw the subtle desperation in the clench of his jaw. He craved the pardon only you could give him.
Slowly, you lowered the phone from your ear, flipping it closed as your chest rattled with another, shaky breath. Your eyes began to water once more, and this time, it didn’t hold back. In a second, you were hurling yourself across the mattress, arms flailing through the air to wrap around his neck with a desperation that could have body-slammed him to the floor.
“Woah,” he steadied in a laugh that sounded all too relieved.
Your chest crashed into Dean’s, and his hands were hasty to return your hug as he wrapped himself around your waist. There, he completed the embrace, pulling you against him so tightly that it started to pinch the meat of your skin through your shirt. But you didn’t care if his grip left behind a bruise—you’d consider it a physical reminder of just how real this all was.
You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, all the pent up emotions you’d come to harbour over these last few months finally liberated from your clutch. The tears began to roll without practiced regulation, and you found yourself yielding all control. Because being around Dean always had you feeling safe enough to do so, and your body had utilised its muscle-memory to re-establish that foundation. To rebuild the home that his death had wrecked.
“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whispered against the stubbled skin of his neck, the sound heavy and cracked.
His palm stroked slow, comforting circles across your lower back, his own face buried against the slope of your shoulder. You felt his warm breath waft over your skin as he spoke. “Me too,” he pushed out tensely. Shakily. There were very few moments that you’d ever heard that tone on him. “I didn’t think I was ever comin’ back,” he admitted. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you, or Sammy—hell, even Bobby, again. But I’m not complainin’,” he added hastily. “Shit, I’ll never complain ‘bout anythin’ e’er again. I got everythin’ I need right here.”
He shifted against you, torso pulling back as though he couldn’t wait a second longer to peer into your eyes. You leaned yourself back in rhythm, your cheeks blown red with your overwhelmed state and your eyes still glistening with fresh tears. You kept your hands looped around his neck, fingers still clutching his phone, and your heart was seized by a new fist of pain as you saw Dean’s bloodshot eyes pave way for his own, sparse—but undeniably real—tears.
His hands settled at your hips, fingers subconsciously squeezing at the meat as he did a mental walkthrough of his own emotions. “I missed you so goddamn much,” he whispered, his lower lip trembling now. “God, all I could think ‘bout down there, every second of every miserable day, was you—how much I needed you. How much I missed you.” His chest jolted with a forced, but much needed exhale to steady his next words. “And how much I love you.”
You choked on your breath at that final confession, words that—up until now—had never directly admitted. You couldn’t help but huff a slight breath of disbelief, a weak grin beaming through as your eyes softened with a warmth that made you feel whole again. Dean, himself, looked slightly stunned at his declaration, his eyes widening mildly as he drank in your reaction. But as you gazed at him, there was no undertone of regret or shame mingling with his features. There was only what looked like relief, if the slight quirking of his lips and the soft sigh that followed after was any indication.
Maybe, it was relief attributed to the fact that he’d finally started to unpack—and put words to—some of his more complex emotions. It made you feel so much closer to him.
Without sparing it another thought, you blurted your own reciprocation. “I love you too, Dean.”
He smiled tenderly at that, and neither one of you moved as you shared an intense stare that circulated all sorts of emotion—love, adoration, and desire. Then, as though some unspoken agreement had been exchanged, you dove down to meet his lips in a fierce kiss, the phone you’d been clutching dropping to some surface beyond your current care.
Dean’s hands trailed up the expanse of your back as he returned your kiss hungrily, his lips feuding with yours for an advantage of the play. He wasted no time sliding his hands beneath the hem of your shirt, his warm palms massaging a determined, upward trajectory until he gained enough leverage to tug it over your head.
The kiss broke off momentarily as your arms flew up in an eager gesture to shed your layers, your chest heaving with the exertion. He managed to successfully tug the shirt over your head, the neckline the last to go and leaving behind an impression as it briefly snagged onto your hair. When he gave it one last freeing tug, your hair tie came loose amidst the commotion, your hair cascading across your bare torso in fresh, yet slightly damp strands.
Dean came forward to press two distinct kisses against your lips—hasty, but a bold statement in itself—before he leaned back to roll his shoulders and discard his own clothing. Your hands flew to his chest in aid, fingers sliding beneath the isles of his unbuttoned shirt to push it over the slopes of his shoulders. His hands twisted behind himself to pluck each sleeve from his arms with practiced speed, discarding it some place behind him before he was tugging his snugly-fitting tee over his head.
Instantly, your attention lowered down his toned torso, the glorified sight of him causing your core to pulse with desire. You didn’t get to exploit his image for long before he hogged your view with another, fierce tumble of the lips, his hands grabbing at your waist like he’d needed to remember what you felt like. Your tongues found one another with an ease that felt like its fates were tied, swirling about in a seductive dance to the death. Your hands settled at his neck, gently rubbing and kneading the skin as you allowed yourself to melt into his devouring.
When your palms wandered further down the contoured muscle of his broad shoulders, you felt the skin of his left bicep raise in a questionable pattern. The contact over that area made Dean wince into your mouth, and then he withdrew from the kiss with a feral pant, eyes shifting from an insatiable hunger to a more vulnerable uncertainty. It was enough of a reaction to tear your gaze away from him and steal a glance at the mood-killing discovery. But you almost wished you hadn’t stumbled upon it because the sight of a raised, red handprint seared into the flesh of his forearm made your eyes widen in horror.
“Dean—” you breathed, overcome with the instinctive need to trace your hand over the anomaly, but his shoulder withdrew from your curious touch, which called your attention back to him. “What happened?” You asked softly.
He shook his head lightly, taking a moment to acknowledge the marking with a newfound solemness. His chin dipped down for a second, a broken, incomplete noise dangling from his lips. You knew then, that whatever grim reminder had been imbued into this branding was something too fresh to confront at this time, so you made the silent decision not to probe him about it any further.
You moved to cradle his face, tilting it up to you. His expression looked defeated, his eyes sagging with a heavy fatigue. You didn’t doubt that hell had had its tolls—if anything, you were surprised that he’d come out of it in one piece. Physically, at least. Whatever mental deconstruction he’d undergone during his time there was knowledge beyond your grasp, and a conversation for another time. Hell had already taken enough from the both of you; you wouldn’t let it have this moment, too.
“If you want to stop, just say the word,” you told him gently, offering a hearty smile. “We can just lay here and cud—“
“No,” he answered, the hands at your waist tightening with new resolve. “We’re gonna cuddle, alright, but after we’ve had our overdue fun,” he said, a newfound smirk creeping through his evident exhaustion. “I’ve waited too damn long for this day—hell if I pass it up in a blink.”
You loved it when he took charge this way. Your teeth peered through your lips in an exhilarated grin, and then, you let out a yelp of excitement as he pushed you back onto the mattress, his frame following closely in a controlled hover as he positioned himself on top of you. His lips came crashing down onto yours, the heated dynamic between the two of you returning full-forced, as though it’d never been interrupted in the first place.
Your hands wandered messy lines up and down his neck, occasionally dipping down to glide over the curve of his pecks. The heat in your core began to build with every second you spent tumbled within the skilled warmth of his lips, his hands adding fuel to the fire with the way they staggered along your exposed torso to grace any and every inch of your skin.
He pulled away to drag his moist lower lip up your cheek, pressing a kiss to your temple before he whispered into your ear. “I need to feel you. I need to have all o’ you,” he breathed, and then he pulled away as quickly as he’d arrived, leaning back onto his knees as his fingers found firm grip at your shorts.
He tugged the material down mercilessly, pulling your underwear along with it, and you lifted your legs with a giddy laugh to allow him all the access he needed to yank it free. He tossed it to the other end of the room, his hands flying to undo his belt and jeans while his fixated you with focused eyes—like he was silently entertaining all the things he’d like to do to you.
He shed his boots at the foot of the bed to terminate his undressing, and your eyes immediately lowered to the bowing length of his manhood. It felt cheap—ogling him this way, but something about the sight felt so validating that you couldn’t help but stare. Maybe it was knowing that the mere sight of you was enough to spur him on in this manner, and god, you needed him just as much as he evidently needed you.
Your core throbbed more impatiently now, your built-up arousal taking the first of its leave through the slit of your folds. You were tempted to call out to him, to utter the first, desperate words of beckoning, but Dean seemed to clock your needs almost instantly. He leaned back down to you with a charming smirk, one hand propping himself up at the side of your waist while his other took ahold of his manhood.
“Ready, sunshine?” He murmured—low and rough and slightly dazed with his own suffocating arousal.
Your core seemed to answer before you did, the area beaming hot at the mere sound of his voice. You pushed out a needy hum, and Dean wasted no time in sliding his tip between your folds. He breached through your slicked entrance with ease, his head tilting back an inch and his eyes fluttering closed as he pushed out a gruff moan. He sank himself further into you, his length conforming to your walls in perfect unity. Instinctively, your legs propped to give him better access, and the action drew him in even further.
“Fuck,” he murmured lowly, his head then tilting forward as he gathered himself and fully leaned himself down to you. He placed a kiss onto your lips for good measure, both arms scooping beneath yours in a sure grip. His fists balled at either side of your head, and you wrapped your own arms around his neck.
“I need you, Dean,” you cooed into his ear, and he left slip a breathy sound of acknowledgment before he drilled the first thrust into you.
You both harmonised with noises of pleasure, your nails digging into the nape of his neck as his hips began swaying at a faster pace. He leaned his forehead down against yours, lips parted as he fought to steady the feral breaths of pleasure heaving his chest.
Your eyes stuttered closed as his thrusts deepened and deepened, curving against your walls and gliding to meet your sweet spot at just the right angle. Your head burrowed back into your pillow, your lips gaping with a loud moan. It made Dean lower himself onto your lips, taking them between his in a soft, chiding nibble. You breathed into him erratically, releasing noises that gradually became more and more slurred until you became a hot, panting mess.
His own control seemed to slip from his grasp as he began to grunt and whimper against your cheek, his head eventually falling past yours to graze your ear with just the right verbal performance to add to the contractions of that growing ache within.
His thrusts became firmer—but not brutal. They were passionate and needy all at once, but still laced with a sort of caution that only deep admiration could warrant. He gave a few more firm thirsts, both of you heaving against one another with the approach of your climax. Then, with a final jerk of his hips, the knot that had tethered you to one another came undone in a cascading warmth.
You felt it seep from your entrance, and for a second, Dean didn’t stir from atop you. He remained hovered over you, the point of his nose brushing your cheek methodically as he attempted to replenish his lungs and recover from his own bliss.
“Jesus,” he remarked, an impressed chuckle tickling your ear. “All this time apart, and still it doesn’t feel like I ever slipped your spell.”
You released your own breathless chuckle. “I’m usually opposed to captivity of any sort, but in this case, thank god for that.”
Finally, Dean withdrew from inside of you, collapsing to side of the mattress nearest to the door—his space. Rightfully occupied at last. He reached over to pluck some tissues from the nightstand before turning back to you, fumbling the tissue between his fingers before he began dabbing at the moisture along your forehead.
He gazed at you through loving eyes, so soft and vast that it made your heart throb—like you were falling in love all over again. Dean seemed to notice the lovesick look on your face because he smiled with an expression to match. He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips, and you puckered your own to receive it eagerly. And then he shifted momentarily to clean you down below.
When he came back up to you, he flicked the used tissues off to the side, and then instantly, you were pulled against his chest in a tight embrace. The skin-on-skin contact soothed you, your body relaxing almost instantly within his firm hold—a type of pressure therapy that only worked because it was him. It felt so safe and natural, so you melted further into him, and the hand he’d cupped around the back of your hair began to massage a soothing pattern into your scalp.
Everything about this moment was enough to lull you into a much needed state of relaxation, your body finally unwinding after months of being held together at the threads. Your eyes drifted close, your breathing deepening with the newfound peace.
“You know,” Dean said suddenly, beckoning to your senses. Your eyes remained closed, but you hummed softly to acknowledge him. “Down there, time works differently.” That piqued your interest enough to part you eyes in narrow slits. “You said I’ve been gone for four months? Well, for me, it’s been forty years.”
Your eyes widened fully now, your lips split with some bewildered gasp. “Dean,” you sympathised softly, hand moving from its place at his chest to stroke along his cheek. “I’m so sorry—that sounds awful.”
He shifted to place a kiss on the first part of your palm he could reach. “It ain’t your fault,” he assured you thinly, his eyes bowing under his own exhaustion—as if the mere recollection drained him. “If anythin’, you got me through it. I don’t have to tell you just how shitty things are down in Satan’s basement,” he laughed, but you knew there was no real humour behind it, only pain. “But you. . . just thinkin’ o’ you. . . rememberin’ what I’ve gotta fight for, it kept me sane. Strong.”
You smiled weakly, his words evoking a mixture of warmth and guilt all at once. You appreciated that you’d been able offer him some sort of comfort in your mere memory, but at the same time, you wished he hadn’t needed it to begin with.
Hell was no place for a good man like him.
“Well, you’re back now,” you offered softly, your hands shifting to wrap around his torso in a hug. His own arms wrapped around your upper back, pulling you so tightly against him that you thought your beings might finally form a physical union to mirror the spiritual tying of your souls.
“And I’m here to stay,” he finished in a faint murmur, the words—the promise—hot against the crown of your head.
Those words lingered in your mind as you eventually drifted into a sleep, the steady sound of his breathing the last thing you needed to loosen your grip on reality. Darkness came to claim you, and this time, you welcomed it eagerly.
When you roused into the waking world, your room was fully lit with the tell of noon. The finding was indication enough that you’d stolen the sleep of a lifetime, and there was no lingering heaviness perched on your lids this time around. It filled you with a sense of satisfaction, and you blinked a few times to ground your bleary senses.
When you stirred against the sheets, you heaved a deep breath, your lungs expanding around a newfound sense of inner peace. Instinctively, your arm reached across the mattress to claim the touch of man you loved, but where you expected to feel the warmth of his skin, you felt nothing but the cool, empty space of the comforters.
With a jolt, you sat yourself up, head swivelling about the room with a sense of panic. Dean was nowhere to be found. Your mind instantly began reeling with endless possibilities, your breathing elevating with a growing sense of panic—had you imagined it all? Had he ever been here to begin with? Had you finally snapped and gone insane?
But when you took a moment to lower your head and drink in your frame, you found yourself to be as bare as when you’d fallen asleep. You shifted to the edge of the mattress, feeling some slither of relief that your clothes were where you’d left them—discarded about the room in ruthless bundles. And then, out of instinct, your eyes wandered over to your desk chair, where you expected to greet the leather jacket that had become a pivotal part of your morning routine.
Only, your heart lurched when the chair glared back at you with a bare rim—the jacket nowhere in sight.
Beyond the walls, mingled laughter brightened the atmosphere. The sound made you slip from the mattress almost instantly, where you darted about the room to gather your scattered pyjamas in a hurry before slipping it over your frame. You dashed toward the bedroom door, twisting the handle with anticipation before you practically hurled yourself into the hallway.
When you entered into the open-plan living room, you found that Dean and Sam were weaving rather chaotic ant trails around the kitchen’s floor, each brother tending to steaming dishes that you were too far away to appreciate in detail. But you weren’t paying much attention to it, anyway. You were far too focused on watching Dean, as though you’d had to solidify the mental image of his presence—to believe that he was really here, and here to stay. And the best part of it all is that he was wearing the leather jacket you’d thought would never come to crown another set of shoulders again. It was the last image you needed to place the final puzzle piece in your heart—no, you felt truly fulfilled.
Some part of you had thought—just for a second—that your reunion had been a figment of your imagination. But now, you could breathe a little easier knowing that Dean had truly returned, rooted in flesh as he drifted about the kitchen with an extra skip in his step.
Just then, he spun on his heels to nick something off the counter, his head lifting in your direction as he finally noticed your loitering figure. “Second g’mornin’ to you, sunshine,” he called to you, birthing a cheeky smirk. He flashed a quick glance at Sam before turning back to you. “In case you were wonderin’, Sammy here’s all caught up,” he said. “So let’s skip the big, mushy family reunion and get movin’ on those damn tacos. I’m starvin’”.
“Tacos?” You echoed with a light laugh.
Sam appeared at his big brother’s side, beaming so brightly, it was almost blinding. “We’re having tacos for lunch. Everything’s basically finished,” he piped in, casting a pleading glance in your direction. “Would you mind helping me plate it?”
Your heart settled as you drank the both of them in. This was the life you’d come to miss so dearly, and you couldn’t help but smile appreciatively. You jerked your chin in Dean’s direction. “Why don’t you make him do it?” You teased, padding your way over to the kitchen island.
“Call it a family discount,” Dean chuckled smugly, rounding the counter to draw up at your side. “Or, y’know, the breakin’ free from hell card.”
You shook your head lightly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Isn’t it a little too soon?” You scoffed.
“You let me worry ‘bout my own shit,” he replied, gracing you with a charming wink.
You didn’t offer anything further as you turned your attention down to the prepped toppings spread out across the counter—mince, lettuce, guacamole, chilli sauce, salsa, cheese and the taco shells themselves. You reached for the empty plates and began topping each one with the hollow taco shells, moving to fill the first one with the toppings.
Dean snuck up behind you, his hands finding grip at your waist while his chin came to rest atop your shoulder. His lips grazed your ear. “Thank you for lookin’ after my jacket,” he murmured. “I didn’t think I’d be seein’ this old thing again.”
You smile at his words, hands shifting to stuff the taco with the next pick of toppings. “My reason for keeping it was more selfish than that,” you admitted. “I just couldn’t bear to move it. It would’ve felt too final.”
He hummed a noise of understanding, a soft kiss gracing the side of your neck. “The only thing that’s final is that I’m back,” he said. “You don’t gotta worry ‘bout that anymore, alright?”
“I know,” you murmured, and Dean squeezed you in a light hug, but continued to keep you tucked within his hold as you finished stuffing the taco. You lifted it over your shoulder, carefully guiding it toward his lips.
He released an approving noise before leaning forward to accept your offering in a gluttonous chomp, his lips practically smothering your fingers as though it were deemed part of the meal. You giggled at the feeling, taco fragments scattering across your shoulder as he chewed the food intently.
“How does it taste?” You asked him, turning your head to get a better view of his expression.
His eyes did a roll of appreciation, his cheeks swelled with the large bite. He hummed a string of approval, coupled with a content, repeating nod. Once he gave a hearty swallow, he cleared his throat in satisfaction.
“Tastes like sunshine.”
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a/n ─ can you tell i had the time of my life writing this?? can you tell?? anon i love your mind so so much please never stop your special creativity. i will be tending to my other requests soon, and i encourage you all to keep on sending them through. i appreciate you ALL and your lovely ideas, as well as the support and trust you have in me to flesh out your fantasies 🫶 now, it’s literally almost 4 am as i publish this so nighty night beautiful people!
thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated
tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind @bohemianblasphemy @figthoughts @deansbbyx @angelicjackles @titsout4jackles @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @floralscented
want to be apart of the taglist for any future jensen ackles works?
other works ─ supernatural masterlist
© bluemerakis ─ do not plagiarise or steal any of my works.
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chahnniesroom · 7 months ago
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some loves
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pairing: bang chan x female reader
summary: some loves are too hard to bear. years after being trainees together, chan still thinks of you all the time. he has no idea that a collaboration would lead him back to you.
word count: 6.9k
tags/warnings: reader is an independent singer/songwriter, hurt/comfort, angst, mentions of past injuries, a little bit of jealousy, i am still in denial that chan doesn't do lives anymore, hongjoong from ateez is in this fic
read it on ao3 | masterlist
a/n: once again, sorry for the long time between posts. disclaimer that i do not know much about how the music/idol industry works and i did not really do much research. also i'm not an atiny so sorry if my portrayal of hongjoong is not realistic at all. also also i did a lot of the writing on a new tablet doing handwriting with a stylus to text so please forgive any typos or weird formatting! i didn't have a chance to edit much so i may have missed some things.
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Chan’s in his studio when he gets the call. At first, he doesn’t even realise his phone is ringing. It’s 2am on a weekday and he’s been working away for a few hours so the rest of the world has just about faded into the background.
He’s both surprised and intrigued when he looks at the caller ID and sees Hongjoong’s name. Chan would consider Hongjoong to be a friend, but they’re not particularly close and he can’t think of a reason that would warrant this late night call.
“Hey hyung,” Hongjoong greets him briefly before getting straight to the point. “What’s your schedule like in the next few months?”
“It’s actually not too bad,” Chan replies after a moment of thought. “We’re just finalising all the music for the next album so it’ll be a bit of time before we get busy with recording and filming for the comeback. What’s up?”
“You don’t have the answer now and I don’t want you to feel any pressure at all, but would you be interested in doing a collab together?”
“A collab?” Chan repeats. “Like, ATEEZ and Stray Kids?”
“We could,” Hongjoong says reluctantly. “But actually, if you’re up for it then I was thinking more like just you and me. I have a couple tracks that we could work off of and I’ve roped in someone to help me with recording, engineering, and production.”
“Who?” Chan asks, interest piqued.
“Not sure if you’ve heard of them, they go by the name HALLA.”
Chan recognises the name instantly. When Chan had first stumbled upon HALLA one late night scrolling and listening to different independent artists, they seemed relatively unknown. However, a little research revealed that they had KOMCA credits on a number of songs for idol groups, some of which had become widely popular. Their personal work was a variety of genres and a majority of the tracks didn’t have vocals, but the ones that did had clever or thoughtful lyrics. There were a couple of different voices featured in the original songs, both of which were smooth and melodic. HALLA has a style that Chan thinks would complement Stray Kids and he’s considered reaching out to them a few times, but was always held back by something.
There was little about HALLA posted on the internet and while Chan definitely appreciates their privacy, he’s curious to meet the person behind all the songs that he enjoyed. There’s just something familiar about all their music that he can’t quite place, something that he wants more of.
“I’m in,” Chan agrees.
“You can take some time to think about it, talk to JYPE to see what their thoughts are too.”
“No need, I’m interested and I know I can convince management to support this.”
“Well that was easy,” Hongjoong says and Chan can basically hear him grinning through the phone. “And for my own pride, I’m going to pretend that you said yes the second I suggested the collab instead of when I mentioned HALLA-ssi.” Chan instantly flushes and is glad that Hongjoong can’t see him over the phone.
“It wasn’t-” Chan begins to protest.
“It’s okay,” Hongjoong interrupts. “I’m also pretty thrilled to get to work with them, so I understand. Didn’t realise you were familiar with their work, but I guess a hidden gem like them can’t stay hidden for long. I’ll send some files over to you and we can organise a time to work.”
Chan finds it easy to work with Hongjoong and they make quick progress on the song, writing lyrics and creating a guide within a couple of weeks. Before he knows it, they’ve scheduled a time for Chan to visit KQ Entertainment to record vocals. Hongjoong knows that Chan is keen to be involved in the production and arrangement of the song too, so they also have a couple sessions booked for that, although Hongjoong teases him relentlessly about just wanting to work with HALLA. The worst part is that Chan can’t even deny it.
Hongjoong meets him at the entrance of KQ Entertainment and quickly takes him through security.
“HALLA-ssi is already in the studio,” Hongjoong explains as they wait for the elevator to arrive. “I was getting input on a track that’s been killing me for the past few days.”
“Did they help?” Chan asks, a little surprised that HALLA is involved in more than just this collaboration. He still hasn't had a chance to connect with them other than quick introductions through text a couple of days ago and he's just as excited to meet them as initially.
“Yeah!” Hongjoong grins, eyes curving into little crescents. “HALLA-ssi is amazing. She only had listen to it a couple times before she came up with suggestions on a few different ways to fix the part that I hated. I left her to finish cleaning the song up and then it’s basically ready for review.”
“How did you start working with HALLA-ssi? I’ve been meaning to try to connect with her.”
“It was actually a friend that suggested working with her. For someone who isn’t signed with a label- which I don’t know how nobody has signed her yet- she’s surprisingly well connected within the industry. I’m sure that KQ would be more than happy to have her work with us, but when I hinted at that, she didn’t seem interested.”
“Really?” Although KQ Entertainment is still one of the smaller companies in the industry, most unsigned artists would still jump at the chance to work there since they have a good reputation, especially due to ATEEZ’s popularity.
“I haven’t poked too much, it’s not really my business. I thought I might as well try. I just know that she’s amazing at her job and I’m grateful that I get to work with her at all.”
They turn the corner to the hallway that leads to the recording studio. The door is ajar and Hongjoong opens it, waving his arm forward to allow Chan to walk through first, before following closely behind.
HALLA’s sitting at the desk and the second Chan sees her face, he stops in his tracks.
“Y/n,” Chan breathes.
You look up, startled, and your eyes connect for a split second before Hongjoong crashes into Chan, sending them both tumbling to the ground.
“Hyung,” Hongjoong complains, unaware of Chan’s inner turmoil. “Why’d you stop?”
Chan lets out an apologetic wheeze from where he’s now trapped under Hongjoong, before resting his forehead against the ground. He needs a second to recover.
It feels like a punch to the gut to see you in front of the recording studio’s computer, fiddling with a track. You look different, but somehow it feels like Chan has been transported right back to his trainee days and all that time that the two of you had spent side by side.
It has been years since Chan last saw you. He had found out that you had left JYPE just months after Stray Kids officially debuted, but all efforts to track you down had been futile. You had changed your number and broken contact with all the other trainees. He had asked around a little bit, but everyone he talked to had been unusually cagey about the subject.
Suddenly, everything makes more sense, especially the little that he knows about HALLA.
As trainees, Chan’s favourite moments had been when you had regaled him with stories of growing up on Jeju Island. The two of you had connected early on through your shared love of the ocean. You had promised him that if he ever went to visit in his free time, you would take him on the best trails up to the Hallasan, the shield volcano, and show him incredible views from the highest point on the island. Occasionally, your parents would send you care packages and the two of you would open them hidden away in one of the vocal practice rooms, the sweet citrus of hallabong exploding in your mouths.
You had always spoken about Jeju Island so fondly, of course you would find a way to indirectly pay homage through the stage name that you chose.
“Oppa,” your voice rings out in the silence of the room. Now, Chan knows why the female voice on some of HALLA’s songs had always seemed hauntingly familiar. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” both Chan and Hongjoong say at the same time, then make eye contact with identical confused expressions.
“Hongjoong-ssi, you didn’t mention that the person you wanted to feature on the track was Channie-oppa,” you say, making it clear who you were addressing your concern to earlier.
“It was supposed to be a surprise!” Hongjoong gets up slowly, dusting off his clothes and scratching at the back of his head, still looking bewildered. “I had no idea that you two knew each other, hyung mentioned he hadn’t worked with you before.”
Chan stays quiet, not sure how much you’re willing to share. Hongjoong must not know about your time with JYPE if he can’t piece together how the two of you could have met.
“Oh- I used to- We trained together back in the day,” you explain sheepishly. “I was with JYPE for a little while and all the trainees knew who Channie-oppa was. That was a long time ago though, I didn’t use the name HALLA back then.”
The five years that you trained at JYPE are more than a little while, but Chan forces himself to bite his tongue at your deliberate understatement. You don’t elaborate further and while it’s obvious that Hongjoong isn’t satisfied with your answer, he’s willing to drop the topic for now. You look relieved when he switches the subject to the song.
The three of you finish recording quickly. It shouldn’t be a surprise, the work so far with Hongjoong has been smooth so adding you to the mix has just made things easier, but Chan knows he’s a perfectionist and it often takes him an almost embarrassing number of takes before he’s satisfied. The only delay comes when Hongjoong decides he wants you to sing some of the backing vocals and resorts to actually getting on his knees and begging. Chan doesn’t go so far, but he can’t help but agree that your voice blends with the song perfectly. Of course, he also just wants to hear you sing.
You relent when Chan quietly voices his agreement and it really shouldn't make Chan feel as smug as it does.
It’s not even early enough for dinner when things are wrapped up. Chan is usually eager to finish a schedule early, but he’s reluctant to leave, taking his time packing up his belongings.
Finally, he doesn’t have a reason to stay any longer so he musters up the courage to ask.
“Do you guys want to go grab some coffee or something to eat?”
You and Hongjoong make eye contact before turning to look at Chan guiltily. His stomach churns for some reason.
“I’m sorry,” you wince. “I actually promised to help Hongjoong-ssi with an ATEEZ song and we need to go over the edits that I made before his meeting with the company later today.”
“Oh,” Chan replies, feeling a little relieved. “Right, no yeah I get it. Hongjoong actually mentioned that earlier, but I forgot. My bad.”
You offer an apologetic smile before turning to the computer, opening up a file.
“I’ll see you guys next time, then,” Chan says, starting to back out of the room.
“Of course! Thank you for your hard work and good job today!” you say brightly. Looking distracted, Hongjoong mumbles an agreement and waves goodbye. Unlike you, he’s not staring at the computer monitor though. Instead, his focus is solely on you. Even from his side profile, Chan can tell that he’s enamoured.
Honestly, Chan can’t really blame him, you look comfortable and confident, swallowed up in an oversized hoodie as you start explaining the alterations that you made to the track. Your voice is calm, but warm and you’re careful to start off by complimenting the work that Hongjoong had done previously.
Chan leaves, resolutely ignoring the twisted feeling that’s back with a vengeance and any thoughts of what the cause might be.
Chan can’t sleep. His thoughts are all about you, what you’ve been doing the past few years, what happened to you at JYPE that made you leave, and mostly trying to remember how and why your relationship with him slowly fell apart.
That’s the hardest part. In the darkest time of his life, when Chan had been discouraged and disheartened, you had joined JYPE with a brightness and enthusiasm that gave Chan the motivation to continue being a trainee. He had adored you. He still does.
In those last few months before the survival show had been filmed, Chan’s relationship with you had gone from being everything to nothing. It happened in the blink of an eye, and Chan had never understood what caused you to withdraw so quickly and thoroughly. The two of you had gone from spending almost all of your free time together to you avoiding him at the company, pretending not to hear when he called out your name or tried to get your attention.
The regret of letting you slip away has always eaten away at him, but now more than ever.
Of course, at the time it hadn’t felt so simple. The survival show was Chan’s first serious chance to debut, and not just that, but the weight of having eight other people’s careers depending on his leadership took a toll on all his other relationships. Your absence in his life still hurt, but Chan had lots of practice losing people. He had coped in the way that worked best in the past, throwing himself headlong into producing, training, anything to keep himself from wallowing in his feelings.
Chan doesn’t have any schedules for today, but he still heads to the company. He knows this isn’t the healthiest way to deal with things, but he doesn’t know anything else.
When he arrives, Chan just barely manages to catch a glimpse of a few familiar faces. He calls out before he can think better of it, jogging slightly to catch up. Sana, Momo, and Mina watch curiously as he approaches. He knows that Twice also aren’t in a busy period of the year, so he doesn’t feel guilty delaying them.
“Sorry to bother you all. Sana-noona, I was just wondering if we could chat?”
Sana makes brief eye contact with the rest of the girls before agreeing and waving them to go ahead of her. She follows behind Chan as he leads them into his studio, clearly interested in determining the reason behind this atypical meet up.
“What’s up, Channie?” she asks once the door is closed behind them.
Chan tries to think of the best way to start, not wanting to just outright ask, but not knowing how to subtly steer the conversation into the right direction. Finally, he abandons trying to be casual and just blurts out, “Do you remember Y/n?”
“Of course I do,” Sana says, sounding amused at the sudden mention of you. “You both had reputations for being veteran trainees. I mean, other than Jihyo.”
“I was always surprised that she never debuted,” Chan admits. “I just thought it would happen eventually and I was so shocked to find out that she had left. I didn’t- I don’t understand why she gave up on something she wanted so badly.”
“Give up?” Sana asks, sounding like she’s offended on your behalf. “Why would you say it like that?”
“What do you mean? It was like she was there one day and gone the next, I just assumed that she had enough and quit. Nobody seemed to know anything about it. I never found out why and it’s been kind of killing me.”
“You didn’t hear what happened?”
“What- something happened? To her?” Chan swallows hard, suddenly feeling unwell.
“It- I thought that you of all people would know-”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, but- you never talked to her about it? You knew her better than any of us.”
“Noona, I didn’t know that she was gone until months later. She obviously didn’t want to talk about it to me, I never reached out at first. When I finally did, her number had been changed. What was I supposed to do?”
“I- It’s better if you were to hear it from her. I don’t know the full story and you know how things can be distorted through gossip. And you especially must know how dangerous that can be.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You really have no clue? The two of you were inseparable…”
“Please,” Chan pleads.
“You know how it is in the industry, you were so close, of course there were rumours…”
It suddenly clicks.
“But we were just friends! And the dating ban-”
“Chan, you know nobody actually sticks to those, right?”
“But really, we were never-”
“I believe you,” Sana says, carefully. “But you know that to management that it doesn’t really matter whether or not anything was actually going on. To them it’s all about the optics. A perceived relationship is just as dangerous as an actual one.”
“Management…” Chan repeats, his mind racing. “They never mentioned anything to me though.”
“You never found it suspicious? You two are extremely close and out of the blue she suddenly stops talking to you, then right after the two of you stop hanging out, you’re chosen for the survival show? Someone must have talked to her at some point. Maybe not management, but for sure someone.”
“You think that’s why it took so long for me to debut?” Chan asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“It was a liability,” Sana explains. “To have a dating scandal so early on? Neither of your careers would survive. It’s painful and a terrible part of the industry but it’s true.”
“And.. Why she left, you know about that too?” Chan pleads.
“I think I’ve said too much already. I know that it’s hard, but some things are really personal.” She pauses for a moment. “What brought this on, anyway? You haven’t mentioned Y/nnie in years.”
“I can’t say much, but I- I saw her today, got to talk to her, found out what she’s been up to.” Sana gasps. Chan continues. “It was so weird to see her after so long. In the back of my mind, I had always wondered, but…”
“I’m glad that you two got to reconnect,” Sana says gently. “The two of you cared about each other a lot, that much was obvious. Talk to her, I think at the very least you’ll be able to find peace about what happened.”
“Noona-” Chan reaches out and pulls Sana into a tight hug. “Thank you for telling me. I appreciate it.”
“Of course. I’m sorry that it took so long for you to find out.”
A few days later, Hongjoong schedules another session to work on the song. Leading up to it, Chan is both looking forward to it and nervous, not sure what to expect. Although he still really wants to know what happened to you all those years ago, he’s scared about what he might learn and any part he might have had in it.
After a sleepless night, he ends up arriving almost 15 minutes early. This time, Hongjoong isn’t waiting at the building’s entrance. Instead he had let him know a few days before that Chan could just sign himself in and had sent him the name and location of the studio that was booked. When Chan reaches it, he can make out conversation from inside.
“HALLA,” Hongjoong can be heard through the studio doors, which aren’t fully shut. His tone is petulant and much more casual than it was previously. Chan wonders how much time the two of you have spent together between then and now and he almost misses the next thing that Hongjoong says. “You never told me that you were a trainee before.”
That stops Chan in his tracks, interested in how you’ll respond.
“It was a long time ago.” Your voice is faint. You’re still nice, but Chan can tell that your voice is stiffer than usual. “It doesn’t really matter now.”
This time, Hongjoong doesn’t let it go.
“What happened?” he prods.
“Just drop it,” you warn him. “It’s the past, forget I told you in the first place. Nothing ever came of it anyway.”
“Y/n-” Hongjoong changes tactics, the nagging tone replaced with a quieter, more serious one. You sigh.
“It didn’t work out. Obviously. I’m just not idol material.”
“Oh come on, I don’t believe that for a second. Your producing is good enough that I know for sure you’ve been getting offers to work with more companies than just KQ. When you direct during recording, you can hit every note without any warm up or practice. And I’ve heard your original songs, you must have been considered for both the position of lead rapper and lead singer as a trainee because there’s no way that anybody would let your talent go to waste.” Hongjoong is breathing hard by the end of his rant and Chan can see that this is something that has been bothering him for a while.
“It’s okay, Hongjoong-oppa.” Your voice is gentle, like you’re trying to comfort him. “I’m happy with what I have right now. Really. I’m grateful for all the freedom I have. Getting to work on any project I want and experiment with my music without having to deal with the bureaucracy and politics of the industry? Having that independence is precious to me. I wanted to be an idol for a long long time. But even though that specific plan I had didn’t work out, it doesn’t mean I’m not happy with what I’m doing.”
Hongjoong stays quiet for a while.
“Do you think that if you had the opportunity to debut as an idol now, you would?” he finally asks.
“Oppa, it’s not possible. I can’t dance, I’m too old-” you protest.
“No no, just hypothetically. Like if someone walked into the room and handed you a contract and said that if you signed it in an hour then you’d be able to debut.”
“I- I don’t know.”
“What’s your gut feeling?”
“I think I left that dream behind, I don’t know if I want to go down that path again. I don’t think I have it in me.”
“I’m sorry,” Hongjoong says after another pause. “I shouldn’t have questioned you so much, you shouldn’t have to justify your decisions to me.”
“No, it’s fine. It seems strange, right? For me to be an artist in Seoul and not want to get signed, it's only natural for you to be curious. But I learned a lot when I was a trainee and I learned even more after that and I can say with certainty that this is what I want.”
Chan takes that opportunity to knock on the studio door and push it open.
“Hey, hope I’m not interrupting,” he says, as if he wasn’t just eavesdropping on their conversation and purposely chose when to cut in. “Sorry, I’m a little bit late.”
“Hey, no problem man,” Hongjoong says. “We haven’t had a chance to do anything yet, so you’re right on time.”
“Good to see you,” you chime in. “I think this should be pretty quick so let’s get started!”
As you predicted, it doesn’t take long before a majority of the song is finished. Normally, Chan would be keen to stay involved until the very last detail is finalised, but he trusts you and at the end of this day, it’s Hongjoong’s song so he’s happy to give him the final say.
At the end of the session, Chan once again uses the opportunity to try to catch you alone. The two of you are side by side, packing your bags and Chan asks if you have any plans for the rest of the day. You confirm that you're available and Chan is about to suggest that the two of you take the time to catch up when Hongjoong interrupts.
“Oh, Y/n-ah,” he says. “I was actually hoping to get your input on something and I didn’t have a chance to ask you earlier. Can you please stick around for a bit? Sorry, hyung.”
Hongjoong sounds so sincere that Chan almost doesn’t feel annoyed that he’s stealing all of your time and attention. Almost, because at the end of the day, Chan’s only human. Even though he knows he has no right to feel possessive over you, he can’t stop the petty jealousy that bubbles up inside of him. At this point, there’s no denying the emotion.
Just like the previous session, he leaves alone, heading directly to the studio. Hours later, his breath catches when he checks his phone and sees that you’ve texted him.
[Received - 8:04pm]
Channie-oppa~
[Received - 8:04pm]
This is Y/nnie
[Received - 8:05pm]
Sorry about earlier, I have a contract with KQ Entertainment and work comes first :/
[Received - 8:09pm]
But I’m free now! You still interested in catching up?
Chan stares at the messages until it feels like they’re burned into his retinas. Logically, he knew that you had his number, the two of you were in a group chat that Hongjoong had set up, but this was your first time messaging him privately. The first time you had reached out in years. A precious opportunity that he never thought that he would have. He doesn’t want to mess this up.
He’s also shocked to see you texting so casually. Although the two of you have been comfortable in person, he wasn’t sure that it would translate to one-on-one conversation.
[Sent - 8:10pm]
Hey Y/n!
[Sent - 8:11pm]
No worries at all, I understand. I’m the same way too
[Sent - 8:13pm]
I still wanna meet up… but I’m all the way back in Gangdong-gu 😅 It’d be a bit of a trek for you if you're still at KQ
[Received - 8:13pm]
Gangdong-gu?
[Received - 8:14pm]
Ohh JYPE
[Received - 8:14pm]
My bad, forgot that you guys moved
[Sent - 8:15pm]
Yeahhh
[Sent - 8:15pm]
Headed straight back to the company after we were done, sorry
[Received - 8:18pm]
Well… If you’re willing to wait then I don’t mind. KQ is close to a metro station anyway
[Sent - 8:18pm]
Wait, really?
[Sent - 8:18pm]
No no no, don’t take the subway
[Sent - 8:18pm]
I’ll send a driver. They’re gonna pick you up in 20 min
[Received - 8:19pm]
Wowow
[Received - 8:19pm]
Private driver?
[Received - 8:20pm]
You’re a real superstar now haha
[Sent - 8:21pm]
alsfjshkafs noooooooo
[Sent - 8:21pm]
It’s just faster
[Sent - 8:21pm]
and safer
[Received - 8:22pm]
I’m not complaining
[Received - 8:22pm]
but I’m going to get your autograph when I see you
[Received - 8:23pm]
If I sell it then I can probably afford my own private driver 🤭
[Sent - 8:24pm]
Knew it
[Sent - 8:25pm]
You’re just using me for my fame
[Received - 8:26pm]
Ah you got me this time
[Received - 8:26pm]
*Your fame, your talent, and your good looks
[Received - 8:27pm]
Even tho you were the one that said you wanted to meet up
[Received - 8:27pm]
Hmmm maybe you’re the one using me?
Chan listens to his phone as it continues to vibrate from where it’s lodged in between two of the couch cushions after he threw it across to the opposite side of the room. His face is buried in his hands and flaming red. He feels both giddy and terribly embarrassed.
Chan’s no stranger to flirting, he’s experienced his fair share being on either side through interactions with the members and with Stay, but he forgot how flustered he was being on the receiving end of your teasing. The part he never understood is that your playful tone always gave way to sincerity. Even when the two of you would joke around, he could always tell that you meant every comment that you made about Chan being talented or attractive and that flattered him almost as much as it baffled him.
[Received - 8:32pm]
?? Speechless that I caught on?
[Received - 8:36pm]
I think your driver has arrived… Otherwise I’m being kidnapped
[Received - 8:40pm]
Don’t think I would survive a horror film… I got into the car with no questions asked
[Received - 8:42pm]
It was nice knowing you I guess
When he realises how much time has passed, Chan grabs his phone and runs down to the back entrance of the company. Luckily you haven’t arrived yet and he takes the time to reply to your messages.
[Sent - 8:53pm]
Sorry, lost track of time
[Sent - 8:53pm]
They’ll drop you off at the back door, I’ll meet you there so you don’t have to get signed in or anything
[Received - 8:54pm]
Don’t think you’re getting away with ignoring my other texts
[Received - 8:55pm]
But thanks
[Received - 8:55pm]
Is this back door, the famous one that only allows in authorised people?
[Received - 8:55pm]
I’m honoured
Chan rolls his eyes at your cheesy reference and is in the middle of typing up a response when he sees the car pull up. You step out cautiously, then brighten when you see where Chan’s propping up the door.
“Hey,” Chan greets you. “Glad that you made it safely.”
“Thanks for the ride,” you say, looking around curiously as Chan leads you to an elevator that takes you to the rest of the building. “So this is the new and improved JYP Entertainment. I’d say that it looks the same as before, but I never got the chance to come in.”
“Yeah,” Chan says, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck as he walks. “I mean it’s pretty nice, but at the end of the day a practice room is a practice room and that’s where we spend most of our time.”
“Hmm I think we might have to agree to disagree on that one. You have your own studio don’t you?”
“Ah, kind of. It’s technically a shared one, but practically I’m the only one that uses it unless we’re out of the country for a long time,” Chan confirms.
“Seems a lot better than what we used to have! Do you remember when we used to cram ourselves into that tiny room that barely even fit two chairs and a table?”
“I almost forgot about that, it was so terrible! In the summer it would get so hot that we’d keep the door open-”
“And then someone would come yell at us because we’d be playing music too loud-”
“I remember begging management to install a portable air conditioner on multiple occasions, but they always refused.”
“Of course! Even if they weren’t so stingy, there weren’t any windows leading outside in there, how could they install it?”
“Is that why? I always thought they just wanted us to suffer.”
“That too,” you giggle for a moment, before your smile fades. “But they weren’t totally unreasonable. Management has a different perspective than us, sometimes they know better than us because of their understanding of the industry. They can see things that we don’t.”
It’s clear that you’re no longer talking about air conditioning anymore. A lump seems to have formed in Chan’s throat when he recalls his conversation with Sana. Luckily, the two of you have just arrived and Chan forces himself to smile.
“We’re here,” he says, opening the door and motioning for you to enter ahead of him. “Welcome to Channie’s Room!”
“It’s cute!” you say as you step in. “Very… neat. It’s actually more spacious than it looks.”
“Oh,” Chan says, faltering in his steps for a second. “You- you’ve seen my studio?”
“In case you didn’t realise, you go live every week from said studio. I think at this point everyone in the K-pop industry and every K-pop fan has seen it,” you tease.
“Right, yeah. I didn’t- I wasn’t sure how much you kept up with that kind of stuff,” Chan stammers.
“K-pop or do you mean specifically Stray Kids?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.
“Either I guess," Chan shrugs.
"I will admit that it took me a while to get back into it," you say slowly. "I wasn't... in the best mindset after I left." Chan stays quiet, sensing that you're not quite finished. "I know that I disappeared and I am sorry for not reaching out. I wanted to, but I also didn't know how. I know that I hurt you. That it was cruel to avoid you, not reply to your messages, ignore your calls. I had my reasons why, but it doesn't excuse the pain that I caused, and I'm sorry for that too."
“I think,” Chan swallows hard. “I think that the most difficult part was that for the longest time, I didn’t know why. I didn’t know what I did wrong. I asked Sana about it finally, after I saw you again. And I just felt so stupid to realise that it was obvious to everyone except me."
“I’m sorry,” you say again. “I wanted to tell you, of course I wanted to. But I also knew you. If I had told you that us being together was preventing your debut-”
“I wouldn’t have cared,” Chan finishes your sentence for you, starting to understand. “I would have done anything to keep you by my side.”
"Even if it meant throwing away your career," you say softly. "I couldn't let you do that to yourself. You worked so hard, how could I live with being the reason that you were stuck in the training rooms? You belong on stage, making music.”
"The part that I still don’t get though is why you left? You should have been able to debut as well, I know it."
“Ah,” you say wistfully. You look around and grab onto the pillow that’s on the couch beside you, fidgeting with it as you figure out what to say next. “You know, I actually was supposed to debut.”
“What? How come I never heard about it?” Chan feels a pang in his chest. All these years ago, the two of you had promised that the other would be the first person that they would tell if they ever found out that they had the chance to debut. It seemed that neither of them had kept their promise.
“It was supposed to be a secret project. JYP wanted to see how successful a surprise debut announcement would be. You should have seen the NDAs that they made us sign.” You shake your head, letting out a huff of air. “It turned out to be a good decision because it meant they could cancel it without anyone knowing that we existed in the first place.”
"Who was in the group?" Chan asks.
"There were five of us. I think you know all of them, Sumin, Ryujin, Sojin, and Hyowon," you list. You're right, Chan is either familiar with or has heard of all the girls that you mention. It doesn't make sense though, the group was filled with talented individuals and Chan can't think of any reason strong enough to lead to disbandment. Even more baffling is that of the five of you, only Ryujin ended up staying at the company long enough to join the lineup for another group.
"And they just cancelled it out of nowhere?"
“No... It was- I know that for any idol, preparing for debut is tough, but I think that in some ways, it’s especially brutal for the girl groups," you say instead. Chan doesn't question you further, knowing that you must have a point that you're trying to make.
“How so?” Chan has an idea, he’s seen what the female trainees went through, the differences in how they were evaluated and criticised. But he wants to hear it from you, wants to understand what you’ve been through.
“The visual aspect feels like it’s more heavily emphasised than our talent or skills. We were measured for our music video outfits the second they finalised the concept. It was really early on, but at the time I thought it was so exciting and fun that I didn’t question it. I think that all of us were so thrilled by the thought of debuting that we didn't think anything of it. We did our final fittings for it a few weeks before filming and they had made them all a size too small, everything was just a little bit too tight. They didn’t outright say it, but it was implied that they weren’t going to alter them. It was a choice to lose weight or our chance to debut was gone. We were devastated and angry and eventually just resigned. If that's what it took then I would do it. We dieted like crazy for the time leading up to filming,” you laugh, but it's in disbelief, the sound is hollow.
Paired with what you’re saying, it makes Chan want to burn the whole world down. He doesn't say anything, not sure if he can even open his mouth without letting his rage escape, something that you don't deserve.
“We were practising, like always," you continue. "There was a tricky step that needed to be fixed by the next day when we’d be recording, a flip that we hadn't quite mastered. I was the smallest one on the team, so I was the one being flipped. It must have been like 3 or 4 in the morning, we were all tired, hungry, and nervous about filming. Honestly, I don't quite remember what happened, it was all a blur. There was just this feeling that something went wrong and then pain."
You roll up the pants on your left leg and show off the skin there. Chan has to hold back a gasp at the sight. Even though it’s long healed, the scarring is extensive and obvious. Chan can't imagine how much it must have hurt.
“I broke my ankle in two places and sprained my wrist. I couldn't believe it, five years of my life just gone in an instant. It took months before I could walk and even longer before I could dance again. Even now, I can't dance anywhere close to the way that I used to," you say with a watery smile. “Sojinnie had a concussion from the fall and Suminnie dislocated her shoulder, I must have knocked into them or fallen onto them or something. What could we do? Three out of the five of us were out of commission, there was no time and no budget for a group that hadn’t even debuted to find replacements or re-record and re-film everything. I woke up after surgery and they told me that they were sorry, but my contract with the company was over. That someone had helped me pack up all my things in the dorm. I went back to Jeju-do as soon as I was released from the hospital.”
"I- I'm sorry that I didn't know," Chan says, clearing his throat roughly when his voice breaks partway through the sentence. " I wish that I could have been there, to help or comfort you. I should have-"
"Oppa," you respond gently. "It's okay. I didn't tell anybody what happened and the company also kept things quiet. I'm glad you didn't find out at the time. You had other, more important things to focus on, I didn't want to distract you from that."
"You're not a distraction," Chan says incredulously. "You're important to me, I would have dropped everything to be with you in such a difficult time."
"And that's exactly why I couldn't tell you. You've always been too good to me, Channie-oppa," you sniffle. "Look at you now! I'm so always proud when I think of how far you've come."
Chan lifts a trembling hand and carefully cups your face, using his thumb to wipe away a tear that has started making its way down your cheek. He hears your breathing hitch, but you don't object to his touch. If anything, you melt into it.
Chan takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around you, bringing you close. The gesture breaks the dam of tears that you must have been holding back. Chan rocks the two of you back and forth gently, just letting you cry and trying to surreptitiously wipe away his own tears. It takes a few minutes before you calm, taking huge shuddering breaths that break Chan's heart almost as much as your sobs had.
"I'm sorry," you say with a voice thick with emotion.
"Hey, no," Chan reassures you. "There's no need to apologise. Are you feeling better now?"
You nod slowly, head still pressed against Chan's chest.
"I think- I think I just missed you. I always thought it would get easier, not having you in my life, but it never did."
At your words, Chan can't help his arms from tightening, squeezing you close.
"I finally found you again," he says. "And this time, I promise that I won't ever let you go."
read it on ao3 | masterlist
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http-shield · 4 months ago
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whatever you say, old man- bucky barnes
~ bucky barnes x fem!reader ~tags/cw: post endgame but no one is dead and life is good, think 2012 Avengers fandom where clint is in the vents yeah that is where I'm at, established friendships, pining, yearning, bucky is not used to new age dating rituals, explicit language, sexual tension ~ wc: 2.6k ~ not proofread
You: Hey, are we still on for tonight? Rita’s at 7?
Him: ye
“So you’re telling me this is normal?” Bucky’s tone is judgemental as he quickly reads over the words on your screen.
You nod, wordlessly confirming that situatuonships are a staple part of the modern dating scene.
Bucky’s brows furrow, eyes flicking from the lack of effort text message to your face as you lean over the bed, phone gripped between expertly manicured fingers. He blinks once, twice, as if taking the time to formulate a response that will rebuke your earlier confirmation without hurting your feelings. This is new for him. A habit he has only recently picked up upon developing his friendship with you. He usually isn't as careful with his words, not caring enough about the recipient's opinion or emotional well-being to warrant enough time and consideration when responding, but with you. It was another ball game entirely. Bucky doesn't want to hurt your feelings, to see you frown because of something he has said; in fact, he wants the opposite. To see you smile and laugh and blush because of him. For you to want to talk to him about anything and everything, share thoughts about your day and how things make you feel. Bucky wants to know everything that happens in that pretty little brain of yours, even if he doesn't necessarily agree with it. Normally he would take the time to sugarcoat his words, sweeten his tone and make it easy for you to swallow but this is a situation where he couldn't, doesn't, want to mince his words.
“There is no world where that is normal.” He stares at you, expression bored and a little annoyed. At you? Never. At the man on the other side of the phone? Incredibly so.
You groan at his very true statement and pull away, slipping the phone into the pocket of your cargos as you turn towards your open closet.
He’s right. You know he is.
There is nothing remotely normal about two grown adults being in a relationship that is defined by the amount of time the other left the first one on read, or how much emotional vulnerability there could be put on the table before the other got too scared and ran. There is nothing normal about being in your late twenties and having a grown man introduce you to his friends as a 'buddy’ despite having an entire draw dedicated to you in his apartment but you can’t admit that, refuse to admit that you know its wrong and desperate and frankly, demeaning. If you can't own up to your own patheticness, how are you supposed to admit it to the man you are secretly interested in. There would be nothing more humiliating than confessing that the only reason you are with and putting up with bullshit efforts from this other guy is to hopefully distract yourself from the desperate need you feel for Bucky. This new guy is mediocre at worst yet attainable at best and that is something you will live with until your crush on the super soldier is dead and gone and you can finally focus on something other than him.
——
You had spoken with Natasha about Bucky last night, her voice a soothing purr over the phone as she encouraged you to disclose your concerns about pushing the boundaries on your friendship with the super soldier.
“The worst thing that can happen is he says no and then you both move on.” She croons, voice laced with comfort and reassurance.
“Wrong.” You shake your head despite being on a voice call.  “The worst thing that can happen is he says no, I lose him as a friend and then I’m stuck pining after someone who wants nothing to do with me” You place another dish in the washer before continuing with your point. “Or I push him before he is ready, again losing him as a friend, and now I’m left with the guilt of possibly taking advantage of a war veteran.”
“You take advantage of Steve all the time, how is this any different?” 
“I take advantage of Steve to get someone to carry in the groceries. I’m not trying to date Steve.”
Natasha huffs a laugh. “What if he is interested in you as well?”
Your hands stop scrubbing at the pan in the sink.
“I can find out.”
Heat fills your body, your stomach twists at the idea of having that information. It would put an end to the constant yearning you feel, but the thought of finding out he doesn’t like you that way, that he sees you as no more than a friend will destroy you, humiliate you beyond all logical reason and you would be forced to cut off the friendship out of pure self-preservation.
You shake your head again. “I’m good.” And return to scrubbing your pan. “I'll just wait out the crush and then move on.”
——
“This isn’t the 1940’s anymore.”  You sigh and completely shift your attention from Bucky to the mess that is staring back at you.
Endless outfit options are strewn about the small closet but so far none of them have come together, just single shirts, skirts, and pants all muddled in a heap of black.
“I know it's not the 40s but I doubt relationships and dating have changed that much." Bucky grumbles from behind you, the bed creaking as he shifts.
Another sigh, this one long and exaggerated as you will the frustration to leave your body. You want to turn to him and explain that you know all this, and are very aware of the fact that nothing about your current predicament is what you want. You want to be wooed with flowers and preplanned dates and soft kisses on hands and longing looks but that’s not the reality of life anymore and having to be reminded of it is getting annoying and your heart is starting to ache at the lack of effort given to you by your current choice of dating partner.
“You know if I was taking..” Bucky starts but you quickly cut him off with a whine of his name.
“James, please.” You don’t turn to face your friend, afraid to even glance at him because you know you will crumble. “I need help picking out an outfit so help me or go back to your room.”
--------
“You know if I was taking…” You don’t let Bucky finish but, God did he want to. His name on your tongue was enough to shut him up, to send a flush rushing to his face in a way that no man his age should blush, but he can’t help it. There is something about the way his name falls from your lips that has his mind racing to thoughts that should not be there, should not appear when the picture of you enters his mind.
“You know if I was taking you on a date, you’d get flowers and chocolates and champagne and those little baby dolls you like” is what he wanted to say before you shut him up with an annoyed grumble.
His intention wasn’t to display how things were different back in his day but to indicate exactly what you’d be getting were you about to go on a date with him, to explain the reason why you should go on a date with him and not some loser who couldn’t even formulate a fully fleshed out text message. How if you were to drop that kid, and say yes to Bucky he would gather the moon on string for you, pick every flower in every field, find every single little Sonny Angel there is and give them to you each and every day for the rest of your life, you would never be sat wondering why he isn’t calling or responding, if you were even going out the next day, if he even liked you. Bucky would make his feelings for you so abundantly clear that even a blind man would be able to see the signs, but you are his best friend and best friends don’t feel that way about each other. It’s all platonic hugs and hair tussles, cheeky jabs at each other over coffee, shared trauma and secrets over whatever dinner you bring to his apartment and he yours. There will be no dates, or long hugs that turn into kisses that turn into you beneath him, whimpering his name as he makes you feel oh so good.
Fuck.
Bucky’s entire body is on fire, and he needs to stop thinking about the way you would feel wrapped around him, his mouth on yours, the taste of you sweet on his tongue.
“Okay, what about this?” you announce as you walk into the bedroom from the ensuite. “Too much?”
You stand in the doorway, dressed in plain jeans and a black shirt.
“Too much?” Bucky is confused. “This is the outfit you wore to breakfast this morning.”
He is right about this too. You had worn a very similar outfit this morning, but tonight isn’t a full-on date, a semi-date, where things shouldn’t be that fancy so why shouldn’t you recycle your outfits. Bucky stands from the bed, readying himself to dig through the mountain of clothes that had formed at the entrance to the bathroom. He crosses the small space and squats before the clothing, fingers expertly rifling through the material, quickly brushing over the lace of bras and panties, before finding purchase on a black dress he thinks he has seen you in before. It might have been the dress you wore to a funeral or press conference, either way, it was not alluring in the slightest, not that you weren’t stunning in everything you wore, hell you could come out wearing a garbage bag and Bucky would be in awe of your beauty. It was just that he didn’t want your date to ogle you, to think of you the same way Bucky does so he is being a little selfish and conniving in his choice of garment.
“Where is he taking you?” His question is disguised as interest in the dress code but his real curiosity is far from an outfit.
There are two reasons why he needs to know where you will be tonight. The first is to judge whether this manchild is even worthy of a date with you, second if he knew the exact location and time, maybe he could show up and show out your date, make you realise what you deserve and how Bucky could be the one who gives it to you.
 “We’re meeting at Rita’s down the road and then might see a movie, maybe something else. I’m not sure yet.”
“He hasn’t planned anything?” Bucky whips his head around to you, finding you standing there looking incredibly embarrassed at the lack of effort. What the fuck happened in the years he was gone?
The defeated shake of your head is enough to have Bucky’s chest aching. He sits back on his haunches; the dress discarded back in the pile and gives the outfit another look as he decides on where to go from here. “Yeah, I think it’s too much.” He nods and stands up, brushing his hands as if he had just completed an excavation on some ancient site.
“Go change back into your sweats ‘cause there is no way I’m letting you go on a date with a guy who can’t even plan something.” He nods his chin towards the bathroom, more of an order than a suggestion.
He watches you tilt your head back as you groan in frustration. “I’m not going through this again, old man. This is how it works now.”
Now it’s Bucky’s turn to get frustrated. He takes a step towards you, hulking 6’0 frame rising to tower above you with a somewhat menacing glare, but you know he will never hurt you no matter how much you push his buttons.
“I’m not talking about what it used to be like, little girl.” The jab at your age/generational difference comes out before he can register it, but he notices how your eyes widen. “This is about getting what you deserve.”
He pushes in on the space between your bodies, now chest to chest as you square your shoulders, not ready to back down from an argument despite knowing you will not win.
“And what’s that?” you stare up at him, brows raised in anticipation of his answer. You aren’t sure where this is going. If you are going to receive another lecture or maybe even a verbal beatdown as to why your standards for men are so low, a common topic of conversation between you and Natasha, but instead you are met with a soft smile as his Vibranium hand is raised and brushes against your cheek.
“You deserve flowers and preplanned dates and wine and jewellery and everything you could ever want.” Bucky’s voice drops into a whisper, cold fingers trailing soothing lines against your heating skin. “You deserve a man worshipping you, to be on his hands and knees begging to take you on a date. Not some punk who can barely put together a sentence.”
You hold his gaze, blue eyes staring intently as you shudder in a breath. “Who’s going to do that, huh?” your voice is small, no longer filled with the same bravado you had not a minute ago. “You know anyone who wants to do that for me, you send them my way Bucko.”
His metal hand slips to your cheek to your jaw, fingers pressing into your pulse points so he can feel the speed at which your heart is racing.
“I’d do it.” He states matter-of-factly, eyes dipping to your lips. “I’d do anything for you.”
Breathing becomes a little bit too difficult as his human hand traces up your bare arm.
“Anything?”
Bucky nods and dips his head until his face is mere centimetres from yours. “You didn’t let me finish before, but I'd give you anything you’ve ever wanted.” Fingers move to cup your chin and tilt your head up. “You want flowers, I’m a florist. Moon? Stars? I’m getting Stark to build me a rocket. Anything you want, you’re getting it.”
“And if I want you on your hands and knees barking like a dog for me?” You smirk, the mental image of Bucky on his knees panting like a puppy has your stomach twisting.
“Put a collar on me and call me Spot 'cause I’m yours, doll.”
The confession has your eyes widening.
“I’m all yours, from now until whenever you’re done with me.” Bucky whispers, breathless.
“And what if I want you to kiss me?” you ask, knowing he is waiting for your permission to do just that.
Bucky crumbles, his expression falling from that of teasing into one of pleading.
“I want you to kiss me, James.” You whisper.
His resolve breaks and he presses his lips to yours. Softly and timidly, closed mouth and restrained but as your hands reach out to grip his waist, a delicate gasp slipping past your lips, does he deepen the kiss. His mouth opens over yours, lips slotting against your plush ones, tongue darting out to test to waters only to be met with your slackening jaw. Bucky’s grip on you tightens as he continues to kiss you, afraid to let you go in case this was one of the many, many dreams he had where he woke up alone and confused, but as you bite down on his bottom lip, he is brought back to reality. Your hands on his waist, pull him tighter against you, the softness of your body had Bucky’s mind wandering to places it should not be. You pull back, pupils blown wide and lips parted as you pant. Bucky is just as breathless, hands cupping your face with a gentleness he doesn’t think you’ve ever known from the way you stare up at him.
“You’re not going on that date.”
“Whatever you say, old man.”
。゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
a/n: eee this is my first avengers fanfic since like 2018 pls be nice I just need something happy to think about clint living in the airvents, thor eating poptarts era was my happy place
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luckyblackcatxiii · 5 months ago
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I realized I had a bunch of CoS drawings I never shared here--mainly because they didn't feel 'big' enough to warrant their own post, if that makes sense?--and figured I had enough of a collection for a dump post!
Explanations for each row of images is as follows (if interested):
1.) Ah...Vasili von Holtz. Voted most favored, gentlemanly and least suspicious man in Vallaki. He and Saverio interacted again and I'm pulling out my hair, he's so suspicious but he keeps impressing my boy/ticking all his impressionable boxes...
2.) GUESS WHO MANAGED TO PULL OFF DISGUISE SELF??? Saverio has never been one to attempt magic because he 'doesn't have the brains for it' (it's the past trauma of an emotionally abusive household you see) but he found himself attempting it alone and...well...he'd like to utilize this new found talent down the road :J (Also his choice of look was 'something easy, so no mustache and with my father/brother's looks' because he's always been curious~)
3.) We briefly ran into Escher officially and boy...he and Saverio do not get along whatsoever. The cattiness is immediate and unfortunately Strahd gets a kick out of it, so I drew a non-canonical event but the embodiment of those two's relations already. I can't wait to meet him again and for actual fruit-on-fruit violence to commence
4.) The party! Kaz had found something while everyone was asleep or on watch, so this was just their fits at the moment (Ireena in one of her disguises which I still need to draw...)
5.) Not much else to say but 'they might not be related by blood, but they certainly are siblings!'
6.) Kaz found a little infernal familiar cat-thing that has been lovingly named Soot. We love him and if anything happens to him we will kill everyone and then ourselves
7.) Group had requested a Sav in just his nightshirt and stockings. Figured I could use the practice on conveying his prettiness
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gojoux · 1 year ago
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『 𝐍𝐎 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐄 』
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· Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna x Reader
· Summary: Life has decided to lead you to him or lead him to you, knowing that you two are destined together despite your differences. This told story is just a glimpse of a few memories between you and him, one that he remembers dearly.
· CW: 8.6k // Mostly fluff. True Form!Sukuna. Heian Era. Overprotective + Possessive Sukuna. Very subtle sex scenes. Slight violence.
Late post because the app screwed me over a divider. As you see... it’s thicker like him than usual.
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The infamous King of Curses had only one weakness—you.
Ryomen Sukuna, the most fearsome sorcerer (or used to be one) alive, would melt in your presence. His usual cold and cruel demeanor vanished when he was with you, replaced by a gentle sweetness he showed to no other.
From the very first moment your paths crossed, he was utterly enthralled, something he would never expect to feel in his life. You’re someone he doesn’t even know or heard of and he doesn’t find the appeal from you, but there’s just something about you that makes him enchanted at first sight.
Your luminous soul called to him like a song. He knew you were destined to be his. And so he courted you as tenderly as his blackened heart would allow, coaxing you to return his affections.
Slowly, gently, he broke down your defenses. His smoldering gazes made your heart flutter. His feather-light touches from his big, strong hands and fingers sent shivers down your spine. Before long, you realized you were falling for this demon who looked at you with such longing in his crimson eyes.
He could shower you with all the passion and devotion he had been holding back. He cherishes you, catering to your every desire. Just being near you was euphoric for him.
When apart, he counted the seconds until he could see you again. And when reunited, he was unable to keep his hands off you, showering you with passionate kisses and whispers of sweet words.
“You are mine. Remember that,” he would murmur against your skin as he held you close. “Always.”
You had tamed the beast. Or so you thought.
While Sukuna was nearly defenseless against your love, it also ignited something far more sinister—his jealousy.
The mere idea of losing you made his blood burn with rage. Other men were not even permitted to look at you, lest they get torn limb from limb.
Though deeply in love, Sukuna’s possessive nature remained. And woe befall any who dared threaten what was his.
The first time it happened was weeks after you’d become his. A young lord from a clan sent you gifts and flowers, seeking your affection. When Sukuna discovered this, the fury in his eyes turned them molten gold.
“He dares think he can steal you away from me?” Sukuna seethed. In an instant, he vanished to hunt down the offending lord.
He returned hours later drenched in blood that was not his own. You shuddered to imagine what cruel fate had befallen the misguided young man. Sukuna said nothing of it, simply pulled you into a bruising kiss and swore you’d never leave his side again.
After that, the corpses started piling up.
A guard who eyed you lasciviously, eviscerated.
A peasant whose longing stare lingered too long, executed.
Anyone who so much as looked at you with desire was signing their own death warrant.
You begged Sukuna to show mercy, but your pleas fell on deaf ears. “They try to take what is mine,” he would snarl. “They deserve no less than agony and death.”
His demonic nature had fully resurfaced, and you realized just what you had unleashed. Sukuna would slaughter legions and burn the world to ashes if it meant keeping you.
You were terrified of what he had become. Yet some traitorous part of you thrilled at being so coveted, so passionately loved, even if it came at a bloody cost.
He was an obsession incarnate, and you, his obsession.
No matter where you turned, his shadow loomed.
There would be no escaping the King of Curses’ dark desires.
You were his.
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How did it all start? It’s been too long since it went past your head already.
But you do remember vividly when you were walking that one night when your gut told you not to, you did.
You should have listened to your instincts. But there was something about the forest at night that called to you, beckoning you to explore its moon-bathed paths and whispering trees.
Curiosity won out over caution, and you decided one quick walk couldn’t hurt.
You set out just after sunset, relishing the kiss of cool night air on your skin. The woods were serene and lovely in the deep blue hush just before true darkness fell. Night blooms perfumed the air as you wandered along aimlessly, simply savoring this secret world.
Until you realized you had lost your way. Suddenly the trees seemed more ominous, the shadows deeper. You paused, peering anxiously through the gloom.
How long have you been walking?
Which way was home?
As you turned around in circles trying to get your bearings, a blow of wind appeared behind you. You froze, heartbeat thudding in your ears.
“Well, what do we have here?”
You whipped around with a gasp. Emerging from the trees was a tall, powerfully built man. But what drew your wide-eyed stare were the four arms crossed onto his bare, toned chest.
You stumbled back in terror, but he moved unnaturally fast, appearing before you in an instant. Up close, details that had escaped you at a distance were now frighteningly clear. Tattoos are carved on his face and body. His eyes burned crimson.
You were face to face with the King of Curses himself.
“Please…” you whimpered, trembling. “I mean no trespass...”
Sukuna tilted his head, considering you with evident amusement. He reached out an arm towards you, his fingers gliding along your jaw, tipping your chin up. You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for death.
But instead of tearing you apart, he simply chuckled. “Open your eyes. I will not harm you.”
You cracked them open hesitantly. Sukuna was observing you closely now, intrigued.
“Fear not. I merely wondered who was wandering my woods at this late hour,” he purred. “But I see now… you are no threat at all.”
His touch was surprisingly gentle as he traced the line of your throat. You shivered but did not dare pull away. The heat of his skin felt feverish against yours.
“What brings you here to me, I wonder?” he murmured, his piercing gaze seeming to lay your soul bare.
He tutted, circling you slowly. “These woods are dangerous at night, especially for tempting morsels like yourself. Do you have any idea what lurks in the shadows?” He paused expectantly, but you were too petrified to respond.
You licked your dry lips nervously. “I… I was simply exploring. I did not mean to disturb—”
“Quiet.” A finger pressed lightly over your mouth. “How shall I punish this trespass? I do hate uninvited guests.”
You finally found your voice, though it trembled pitifully. “P-please, I meant no intrusion. If you let me go, I swear I will never—”
“Let you go?” Sukuna tilted his head, looking almost offended. “Now, why would I do that? No, you will not be leaving.”
Your heart hammered at those enigmatic words. Just what did this dangerous being want with you? Surely not anything good.
As if reading your mind, Sukuna laughed once more. “Worry not, little one. I only wish for some company.” In the blink of an eye, he closed the distance between you, caging you with his body. This close, the heat pouring off him was incredible, the coils of his tattoos seeming to slither and shift before your eyes with your heart hammering wildly.
A violent shudder went through you, though not entirely from fear now. Being clasped in his strong embrace had stirred something unexpected within you. A strange exhilaration at having caught the eye of this exotic and terrible being.
He leaned down, inhaling deeply near the crook of your neck. “Mm, such fear. I can taste it rolling off your skin… intoxicating.” His lips grazed your fluttering pulse, making you shudder. “You are afraid, yet also thrilled to see me, aren’t you?”
Heat rushed to your cheeks. Was it that obvious, the traitorous excitement you felt being so close to this dangerous demon? You just couldn’t tear your eyes away from his unusual beauty.
“I thought so,” he purred, looking utterly satisfied. He brushed a finger lightly down your cheek. “It seems fate has brought you to me for a reason.”
Sukuna sensed your reaction and made a small pleased noise. In one smooth motion, he swept you up into his arms and started carrying you deeper into the woods.
You gasped, hands braced against the solid muscles of his shoulder. “Where are you taking me? Please, I never meant to intrude! I am sorry! just—”
“Shut it.” His grip tightened. “Do not fight me. Submit, and it will go easier for you.”
Tears of panic spilled down your cheeks. But despite your fear, you felt your body responding to his proximity, pulsing with alarming warmth. Your thoughts scattered as Sukuna claimed your mouth in a searing kiss, tasting your helpless whimper.
“What are you…” you gasped, too speechless to find a word to fight back.
As if reading your mind again, Sukuna adjusts the way he’s carrying you to brush his lips against your own in a feather-light caress. “I hope you are not too afraid, little one. I have been alone for so long, you will keep me company. And I have no intention of letting you go.”
Some part of you recognized the truth in his words. No matter how your mind recoiled, your body was betraying you, longing for more of his addictive caresses. He sensed your crumbling resistance, his smile triumphant.
“You are mine now. Do not fight it.”
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You stared around in awe at the sprawling shinden-zukuri as Sukuna placed you down and led you inside. Paper screens glowed warmly with lantern light, illuminating opulent tatami rooms decorated with priceless scrolls and vases, and through meticulously tended gardens dotted with tranquil ponds. Everything about this place spoke of immense power and wealth.
It was a far cry from your own humble village dwelling. You could scarcely fathom how a demon lord had come to possess such a magnificent noble estate out here in the remote forest.
As Sukuna guided you deeper into the manse, you passed several elegantly dressed women in simple yet elegant kimonos, all keeping their gazes demurely lowered.
‘Servants,’ you realized. But where had they come from? Were they taken like how you are now? Were you about to become another of his servants?
When you reached the main manor, Sukuna slid open the screen to reveal a grand receiving chamber. Priceless ink scrolls and painted silk screens adorned the walls. The opulence was staggering.
“Do you like it?” he asked, noting your awe. “I claimed this estate long ago from its previous owners.”
You shivered at the implication behind those words but said nothing as he guided you deeper inside.
Your bemused wondering was interrupted when Sukuna slid open a screen door, ushering you into a lavish bed chamber. A large futon covered in silks took up most of the space.
“You must be weary, little one,” he stroked your hair. “Rest now. I will have my servants draw you a bath.”
He pressed his lips to your forehead before gliding from the room. Still stunned by your opulent surroundings, you wandered over to the open window. Beyond the manicured gardens and koi ponds you could see nothing but dense forest stretching endlessly. Just how far had Sukuna brought you?
You had little time to ponder before two servant women appeared, bowing deeply. They poured hot water into a carved wooden tub and then added cherry blossom-scented oils.
You let them help you disrobe and sink into the fragrant bath, the tension in your muscles unwinding. The demon’s domain was still terrifying and foreign, but you couldn’t deny the comforts he lavished upon you. His possession had a gentleness to it that left you conflicted.
This place treated you better in less than two hours than your whole life in the village.
After your bath, the servants dressed you in silken robes layered in rich hues of wisteria and spring leaves. Darkened your lips with crushed berries. They arranged your hair with jade combs and dabbed perfume at your wrists in a courtly fashion.
Examining their work in a bronze mirror, you barely recognized yourself. The simple village girl staring back from the bronze mirror was gone, replaced by someone who looked like a noblewoman.
Sukuna was waiting when you emerged, hungry eyes sweeping over you appreciatively. “Beautiful,” he pulls you close to him. His lips grazed your wrist, inhaling the perfume there. “You will come to appreciate the comforts of being mine.” His words sent an illicit tingle through you.
“Thank you,” was all you could say as you felt your body sway toward him, eyelashes fluttering downward demurely. His attentions were clouding your caution, making you forget the circumstances that had brought you here.
Sukuna seemed pleased by your response. He took your hand and led you to a candlelit room where a feast awaited. You kneeled on plush cushions across from him. There, your eyes widen at the sight—dishes you could only dream of tasting.
“Uraume is my best cook. They know how to make delicious food,” he brags, pointing at the person with white bob hair with his eyes. Uraume bowed respectfully before excusing themselves.
As the night deepened, Sukuna kept your cup full, his burning gaze holding yours in the romantic glow. Here in this place of luxury, it was easy to forget he was someone who had stolen you away.
“Come.” He held out one of his hands. “It is time you rested.”
Back in the bed chamber, he guided you down onto silken sheets while your pulse quickened. His eyes roamed your body hungrily before he leaned down to claim your lips in a deep kiss. You knew you should resist, but his touch ignited a dangerous fire inside.
His fingers trailed delicately along your skin as he peeled away each layer of your robes until you were laid bare before him. “You are so lovely, little one,” he rasped. He pressed you down into the silken futon, his eyes focused on you. “I will teach you pleasures fit for an empress,” he growled.
“And you will learn to crave my body above all else.”
His words sent a spike of fear through you, even as your traitorous body responded hungrily to his. His burning caress left no doubt of his intentions. You trembled, but didn’t refuse him.
Here in this beautiful prison, you were his to do with as he pleased. And some traitorous part of you craved to experience the passions he promised.
As Sukuna’s body covered yours, you surrendered completely to him. Within these walls, you now belonged utterly to him.
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You had been living as Sukuna’s pampered pet in his lavish manor for several days now. He gifted you an ornate silk kimono, adorned your hair with jeweled combs, and ensured you lacked nothing. At night, he would lay you across silken futons and set your body aflame with new realms of pleasure.
But each morning after, as he caressed your skin and murmured endearments, doubts crept in. Were there others that he touched this way? The thought filled you with unease.
You wanted his passion reserved only for you.
When Sukuna appeared in your room this evening, he found you quiet and distant, your smile restrained. Brow furrowing, he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze.
“What troubles you, little one? Have I not provided for you well?”
You gathered your courage. “I… I have a request, My Lord…”
He raised one brow, “Oh? Speak.”
“If we are to share such intimacy, I wish it to be only between us. No other lover, in any way.” You held his gaze evenly. “Will you vow this, please?”
For a moment Sukuna only stared, stunned by your bold demand. Then a sly smile curved his lips.
“My little one wishes to tame me, is that it?” He trailed a finger lightly down your cheek. “You seek to bind me to yourself alone?”
Heart pounding, you gave one short nod.
Sukuna threw back his head with a delighted laugh. “You fascinate me endlessly. No mortal has ever dared make demands of me.” His expression softened by looking at your innocent face. “But for you, I will agree.”
He leans down, face to face with you, “From now on, I am yours alone.”
Relief washed through you at his oath. As Sukuna drew you into a passionate kiss, you yielded completely for the first time, holding nothing back.
“My sweet, little love…” He lifted you in his arms. “I will make you forget any existed before this night.”
And he did. Laying you down, hands and lips he worshiped you, wringing gasps and cries from your lips as you arched desperately, mindless and pleading beneath him.
At the height of ecstasy, his burning gaze held yours. His heated gaze seared into yours at the pinnacle, fierce and possessive. “No other shall ever know you as I do.”
The feeling when your body joined, the sensation was beyond words, it felt like coming home. Like a missing piece of your soul had been restored. Wave after wave of bliss crested over you both, leaving you entwined in breathless ecstasy.
As lantern light faded to silvery moonbeams, Sukuna held you close, your heartbeats synchronizing. You now belonged only to each other in body, heart, and soul.
“Mine,” Sukuna rasped against your skin, his canine digging into your neck, marking you as his. “Just as I am yours. This, I vow to you, little one, from now until the end of days.”
His words echoed long in your mind, even as spent passion gave way to sleep in his enveloping embrace. The King of Curses himself was now bound to you irrevocably. And you to him.
The vow had been spoken, the ritual complete.
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The days had settled into a predictable routine in Sukuna’s residence. He would vanish for hours or even full days to attend to mysterious “business”, leaving you to wander the chambers and gardens alone. You never ask where he went or what occupied him. Some fears were best left unspoken.
But your heart would lift eagerly whenever Sukuna returned, no matter how late the hour. Just knowing he had come back to you was enough. You took to waiting anxiously by the engawa, ready to greet him.
At first, he returned spotless and composed. But soon the blood became noticeable.
It would decorate his arms, spatter his chest and face in drying rust-colored patterns. The life essence of whatever poor souls had crossed him in the nearby villages. You didn’t need to ask how it got there.
The first time, you gasped and shrank back in horror. But Sukuna just smiled and opened his arms to you. “Come, let us get cleansed of the day’s exertions.”
You forced yourself to look past the gore, seeing only your demonic lord who needed tending. Taking his hand, you led him to the bath chamber.
There you gently sponged away the carnage, breathing relief when his skin emerged clean again. Sukuna watched you intently, eyes glowing with unspoken emotions. You didn’t dare examine it too closely.
When you were done, he would pull you into his lap, nuzzling against your throat almost tenderly. As if your ministries had tamed the beast lurking within.
“My little one,” he would rumble. And your heart would swell under his praises.
Before long, you began living for his returns. The hours apart stretched endlessly, your thoughts consumed with concern for his well-being. Your chest would tighten with loneliness in his absence. Maybe you craved him because you have no one to come home to, that’s why you are willing to be with him.
Surely he must share your needs, right?
The moment his shadow appeared down the corridor, you flew to him, embracing him heedless of any lingering blood. Sukuna laughed indulgently, hands gentling your desperation.
“Such passion, little one. Did you miss me so terribly?”
You nodded, not caring how you exposed your dependence on him. He tipped your chin up, his sharp eyes looking at you softly. “As I missed you. The time apart is agony.”
His admission made you smile in relief. After bathing him, you would prepare tea and draw him into quiet conversation, savoring this domestic intimacy. Here with you, he almost seemed content.
At late night, his lovemaking took on new urgency, as if reaffirming your bond. You matched his intensity, wanting to erase any distance the day had built between you.
“You are all I need,” he whispered afterward, cradling you close. And you knew then you were hopelessly lost to this dangerous creature. He had become your entire world.
When Sukuna departed each morning, part of you went with him. Until he returned to make you whole once more. There was no denying the truth—you were his, mind, body, and soul.
You see, life with Sukuna provided came at a terrible price—the waiting.
And so you hatched a plan.
You requested the finest silks from the seamstress and described the revealing garment you wished to craft. An elegant yet alluring yukata, hinting at the beauty beneath.
On the night of his homecoming, you adorned yourself carefully, arranging your hair over your bare shoulders, sketching your lips crimson. The ensemble left you feeling exposed, but also powerful.
When Sukuna entered the bed chamber, the sight of you made him halt in his tracks. Eyes widened as they traced over you hungrily, taking in every contour the diaphanous fabric outlined.
“Little one,” he rasped. “You look like divinity itself. What is all this for?”
You steeled your nerves and went to him, guiding his fingers to untie your sash with hands that trembled.
“I wish to ease your burdens tonight, My Lord. Will you permit me?”
A growl escapes his throat as your robes slip to the floor. The intensity of his gaze seared into your skin everywhere it touched. Strong arms pulled you fiercely against him.
“You test my restraint, beloved. Are you certain?”
At your whispered yes, his control shattered. With infinite care he bore you down onto silken sheets, praising every inch of newly bared flesh until you were dizzy and pleading.
Even at its peak, he kept the pace languid—long, delirious strokes of passion. The pleasure was sweet agony. You arched and moved as one, minds entwining as deeply as your bodies.
When it ended, you were changed. Sukuna held you tenderly as languor claimed you both, as if you were the most precious treasure in the world.
Perhaps you should have been afraid of this obsessive devotion. But you could not imagine life without him now.
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As nice as it is living comfortably with everything provided for you, sometimes his residence becomes a gilded cage. You yearned to walk beyond the gardens, to visit the nearby villages you glimpsed from afar.
After much pleading, Sukuna finally relented. “If it will make you happy, we shall go. But you must stay close to me.” His eyes held an unspoken warning.
The day came at last. Taking his arm, you ventured out onto the winding forest paths, buzzing with excitement. Sukuna watched you closely, as if to imprint each delighted reaction.
When the first simple thatched dwellings came into view, you gasped. “Oh, look! Real village life, just as I remembered.”
“Then let us explore it,” he said indulgently, strolling by your side.
You moved through stalls selling woven reed baskets, hand-dyed yukata, and carved jade amulets. The smells of grilling fish and blossom-scented steam from tea houses mingled in the air. Your smile was radiant.
Most villagers averted their eyes and scrambled away at the sight of his presence. But their fearful deference only seemed to amuse Sukuna as he guided you along.
Pausing by a fountain, you turned joyfully to him. “Thank you for this, My Lord. I haven’t felt this happy in…” Your voice trailed off as you noticed a young man staring from across the village square. His gaze was fixed on you, his handsome face breaking into a flirtatious grin, looking at you with his eyes signaling interest.
Before you could react, Sukuna had crossed the distance between them in two swift strides. You watched in horror as he seized the insolent youth by the throat and slammed him against a wall, baring razor fangs.
“You dare look at her that way?” he thundered. The young man choked out pleas for mercy as Sukuna’s grip tightened relentlessly.
“My Lord! Stop!” You rushed over, clutching his arm. “I beg you, let him go!”
With obvious reluctance, Sukuna released his hold and stepped back. The terrified man crumpled to the ground, wheezing with his face pale. You tugged Sukuna (he didn’t resist) away quickly as onlookers gaped.
Once you were back within the secluded forest path, he rounded on you. “Why did you stop me?” he demanded, eyes still burning with fury. “That whelp was openly desiring what is mine.”
You trembled. “He meant no true offense, My Lord.”
Sukuna exhaled harshly, drawing you against him. “You are too forgiving, little one. Next time I may not be so lenient.” The promise in his voice chilled you.
Nonetheless, in the days that followed, you persuaded him to let you visit the village markets again. Sukuna acquiesced, but his mood turned brooding whenever you went out together.
It was not long before a repeat incident occurred. A passing noble’s gaze lingered on you a moment too long. Sukuna's reaction was swift and merciless. Before you could intervene, the shrieking lord was engulfed in infernal flames, his ashes scattering to the wind.
This time, Sukuna was deaf to your pleas for restraint. “They continue testing me, presuming they can admire my possession with impunity,” he snarled. “I will suffer this insult no more.”
Numb with horror, you could say nothing as he took your arm and led you from that place of death.
Sukuna would never change his nature. His jealousy and possessiveness were as innate as the demonic power coursing through his veins. And you were helpless to curb them.
Trying to tame such a savage spirit had been foolish. Where his claim over you was concerned, no mercy would ever sway him.
The journey back to the estate was made in tense silence. You could feel the rage rolling off Sukuna in scorching waves as he strode ahead. His jaw was granite, fists clenched and shaking.
Only once you were behind the privacy of the chamber walls did he finally unleash it.
“How can you defend him?” he roared, making you flinch. “Those pathetic mortals who dared to covet what is not theirs. It is unacceptable!”
You stood your ground. “I make no defense, only ask that you temper reactions. This endless jealousy causes nothing but suffering.”
Sukuna’s eyes blazed, his voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. “You ask me to watch passively as they dishonor my claim on you? To permit their vulgar ogling?” He swept a hand savagely across a lacquered table, sending the vase crashing.
You jumped at the destruction but forced yourself to meet his volcanic glare. “I am not possession or prize to be claimed, My Lord. You cannot punish all for one foolish man’s gaze. I have told you this before, but I am not harmed.”
“Not harmed?” Sukuna bellowed, slamming his fists into the bloodwood pillar with a crack. “Not yet! But their desire will grow brazen if I do not act decisively now.”
He stormed toward you, making you back away instinctively. “You are mine. No other shall covet or touch what belongs to me. I would see this whole wretched village burn first.”
As his tirade raged on, you felt tears rising, spilling silently down your cheeks. The possessive diatribes, the limitless fury—you were exposing the folly of trying to gentle the devil’s heart.
Sukuna abruptly halted his pacing at the sight, chest heaving. His blazing eyes took in your hunched, trembling form. For an instant, something like shock flickered across his face. He blinked rapidly, swaying slightly.
“No… My little love…” All at once, the frenzied anger seemed to drain from him. He reached for you hesitantly, as if expecting you to recoil. When you stayed rooted, he enfolded you in his shaking arms.
“Forgive me,” Sukuna whispered. “I should not have raised my voice. But the thought of losing you…” One hand stroked your hair, then gently tipped your chin up. His thumb brushed away the tear tracks on your skin.
“You are everything to me in this wretched world,” he murmured. “I could not bear it if harm befell you.” His eyes were molten and his voice raw. “Tell me you know I would never let anything hurt you, not even myself in the madness of my rage.”
You searched his face and saw the sincerity burning there. With a fragile nod, you laid your head against his chest. His exhale was ragged with relief.
“I will try to be more merciful. For you, at least,” he sighs. “But you must understand it rages in my blood when I see them desire my most precious treasure.”
You stayed silent in his embrace. Perhaps this was the most he could concede—ferocity tempered with remorse. You could not change his possessive heart, only help him master what flowed within it.
And for now, it would have to be enough. His jealousy was a storm that would never fully be calmed. But like the storm’s eye, at the center there was still tenderness he reserved only for you.
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Once more, the days dragged endlessly when Sukuna was away. You had explored every corner of the estate a dozen times over. The loneliness gnawed at you.
So when he left at dawn one morning, you made an impulsive decision. Donning a cloak, you slipped outside the manor walls while the servants slept. Your steps quickened as you neared the hill path leading down to the village.
You had only meant to take a brief, harmless walk to lift your spirits. But the smells of grilled squid and sweet adzuki buns drew you like a magnet. Your stomach rumbled, reminding you it had been ages since you tasted simple street food.
Checking over your shoulder, you darted to the nearest food stall when no one was looking. The elderly vendor smiled in delight as you pointed to the snacks that tempted you most. It felt deliciously naughty, this minor rebellion.
You were waiting for the bamboo skewer of piping hot squid when someone jostled you from behind. Whirling around angrily, you found yourself staring up at a rugged, unkempt man looming over you. His bloodshot eyes raked down your body in a way that made your skin crawl.
“Well now, what do we have here?” His words slurred drunkenly. “You’re that demon’s little toy, ain’t ya? His pretty pet.”
When you shrank away, the brute caught your wrist in a painful grip. Revulsion rose in you. “Let go of me!”
The man just sneered. “Where is your master now, hmm? Bet he doesn’t like you sneakin’ off alone.” He swayed closer, sour breath hot on your face. “Maybe I oughta teach you some manners, whore.”
Outraged tears stung your eyes. You opened your mouth to scream for help when suddenly the man’s hand was wrenched away from you with a sickening crack. His shriek split the air.
Whirling around, you saw Sukuna standing there, eyes blazing infernos. The man who had seized you was now suspended off the ground, clutching his mangled, dangling arm.
“Please, mercy!” he whimpered piteously. But Sukuna’s face was a merciless stone.
With a snarl, he slammed the offender down, pinning him by the throat. “You dare speak to her that way?” His voice was deathly quiet. “Dare lay your filthy hands upon her?”
The man gurgled pleas, legs kicking uselessly. Sukuna tightened his grip. “No. There will be no mercy for you.”
And before your eyes, he ripped the man’s head from his body in one savage motion. Blood sprayed hot across your face and cloak. The headless corpse slumped with a wet thud that echoed horribly in your ears.
You stood there, frozen. You’re sick to the stomach—it’s nauseating—looking at the brutal sight that your lover could do.
Rooted in shock, you barely registered Sukuna turning to you. He grasped your shoulders firmly. “Did he hurt you?” At your numb shake of the head, fiery rage flooded back into his eyes.
“Good. Because I would have drawn out his torment for years if he had.” With that, Sukuna flung the lifeless body contemptuously through the door of a nearby hut.
Screams arose from within as you stared at the gore coating Sukuna’s hands. The brutality finally jolted you from horrified paralysis. Voice trembling, you begged him to take you home.
The journey back was made in silence. Once behind the walls, Sukuna rounded on you like the last time.
“How could you go without my permission?” He paced like a caged beast. “See what nearly befell you? The filth who could do anything to you?”
You flinched beneath the verbal onslaught, too numb to defend yourself as he kept raging.
“You are forbidden from leaving again! Do you understand?” He seized your shoulders roughly. “It is too dangerous for you.”
You nodded, mute and hollow. With a harsh exhale, Sukuna pulls you against him as four of his arms envelop you in a warm embrace, some of the frantic anger leaving him.
“Forgive my harsh words, my little love. But I do not like you being treated like that.” His voice broke on the last word. He clutched you tighter, as if to reassure himself you were real.
After that day, whispers followed you through the residence like ghosts, for no clear reason. Servants offering polite smiles that never reached their eyes, only to resume their hushed gossip once you’d passed.
At first, you tried ignoring the sidelong glances and murmurs. But still, the cruel words leaked through.
“She is just a plaything to him.”
“Once the master is bored, she will be discarded.”
“He is only using her on the bed.”
“Once he tires of those pleasures, her time here will end.”
Their cruel words haunted you, sinking claws into vulnerabilities you’d buried deep. Did they speak the truth? Was your whole purpose here just to entertain Sukuna’s baser appetites? The thought you might be expendable shook you to your core.
You managed to conceal your anguish and distress at first. But the doubts festered, stealing your appetite and sleep. When Sukuna finally noticed the toll on your health, alarm flared in his eyes.
Gently taking your hands, he scoops you onto his lap, facing him. “What is bothering your pretty little head, hm? You know you can tell me anything.”
You shook your head, “It is nothing, My Lord. Not a big problem.”
“I do not like you lying to me, little one,” he shakes his head, not buying your secrecy.
“I am okay. Please, no need to be concerned about me.”
“How can I not? What is it? Tell me,” he holds your chin still to make you look at him.
Both of your stubborn banter goes back and forth until you’re both getting impatient.
You wavered, then spilled out the vile gossip you’d endured in silence. Sukuna listened gravely, thumb idly stroking your wrist. When you finished, he let out a long breath, gazing at you earnestly
“You believe their hateful lies? That you are some plaything to me? You know in your heart these claims are untrue.” He grasped your shoulders, staring intently into your eyes. “You are everything. Your faith in me is worth more than a million mortal lifetimes.”
He brought your hand to his chest, holding it over his steadily beating heart. “Do not let petty jealousies make you doubt what we share.”
Overwhelmed, you buried your face against him. “Forgive my doubts, My Lord,” you whispered.
“There is nothing to forgive. The fault is theirs, not yours.” Stroking your hair, he pressed a fierce kiss to your head. Then his tone turned cold. “As for these spiteful women, I will make them regret ever speaking such lies.”
You quickly squeezed his hands. “Please, do not harm them. I only wished to explain my melancholy, not see others punished.”
Sukuna frowned. “You ask me to ignore those who hurt you so? Who makes you doubt my devotion?” His grip on you tightened. “I cannot be so forgiving.”
“I know it comes from care,” you soothed. “But replying to anger with more anger will only breed misery.”
He paused, then exhaled harshly, pulling you close. Resting his forehead to yours, he went on. “I swear to you, my feelings run deeper than they comprehend.”
“Leave this to me now, little one. Just rest easy.”
True to his word, the gossip ceased quickly. You didn’t ask what Sukuna said or did to silence loose tongues. But the servants now bent over backward to please you, their once spiteful eyes now carefully respectful.
Their newfound reverence somehow bothered you more. But Sukuna seemed satisfied. “Let the wretches make amends for causing you pain,” he said nonchalantly.
Some part of you recoiled at his methods. Yet it warmed your heart to know he would avenge any slight against you without hesitation. Perhaps it was wrong to take comfort from his possessiveness.
But you needed to feel cherished after so much doubt. And Sukuna left no room for uncertainty in how deeply he treasured you. Each tender glance and touch slowly healed the wounds until you were whole again.
When he came to you beneath the silken sheets now, the passion held new meaning. A reaffirming of what you were to each other.
You were his sanctuary. Just as he was yours.
The gossip no longer stung when you knew his heart with such certainty.
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Sukuna had told you he was taking a few days off to spend with you. With him home beside you for a blessed few days, the gloom cast over the estate seemed to lift. His four muscular arms caged you securely against his broad chest as you sank comfortably into his embrace.
He was attentive in ways you’d never seen before, constantly drawing you into his arms, asking questions about your childhood, your dreams, anything to get to know you better.
At first, you were shy, unused to being the object of such focused interest. But Sukuna’s patient gentleness soon had the words spilling freely from your lips.
You happily opened up to him in turn, chatting lightly about your days spent tending the garden, studying scripture with the monks, or watching the koi fish circle lazily in their pond. No detail was too small or mundane—he drank in every insight into your character with eyes that never once glazed in boredom.
He listened intently, his crimson eyes focused solely on you. As frightening as he could be, you knew this powerful being cherished you in his own way. You were likely the only person in the world he cared for.
When you finally worked up the courage to ask about his early life in turn, his gaze darkened briefly. “There is little of worth to tell,” he muttered.
He went on tonelessly to describe his parents casting him out as an infant, cursing his existence. Forced to eke out a living on the streets, he learned quickly that mercy was for the weak.
“I was not always like this,” he rumbled. “Once I was a human, born to parents who did not want me.” His fingers tensed where they rested on your back. “As an infant, they discarded me on the streets to die. But I survived, growing up feral and alone.”
You looked up at him sadly, heart aching at the thought of him helpless and abandoned with no one to care for him. You raised a hand to gently stroke his cheek.
Sukuna closed his eyes and leaned into your touch. “I do not tell you this for pity,” he said firmly. “My past made me strong.”
His eyes opened again. “When my cursed technique manifested, I used them without mercy, cutting down any who dared stand in my way. I reveled in my growing strength, the thrill of battle and blood... they satisfied me. I honed my skills until I became unmatched.”
You nodded solemnly. His description matched the legends told of the terrifying Ryomen Sukuna.
Now you know why he lacked mercy.
You take his hands in yours, kissing his palms. “The past is behind you now,” you told him. “What matters is who you choose to be from this day forth. My love for you is unconditional.” You smiled up at him warmly. “But I promise to teach you the ways of empathy and love, even if you protest.”
Sukuna huffed in amusement, the corners of his mouth quirking up. “Little one, you may try, but do not expect miracles. I am what I am.” But his embrace around you was gentle, belying his words.
You poked his chest teasingly. “I will make it my mission to show you how wonderful love can be, the joys it brings to our lives.” Laughing, you added, “Just you wait, I will have you reciting poetry and picking wildflowers before long!”
“Hmph, do not get carried away,” he grumbled, but you could tell he was secretly pleased by your playful vow.
You cuddled against his chest, determined to shower this damaged soul with all the love and tenderness he had missed in his tragic early years.
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The next morning, as soft sunlight filtered into the bedroom, you lay wrapped in Sukuna’s strong embrace. Your head rested on his muscular chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat. His breathing was slow and even, still asleep.
You traced idle patterns on his bare skin, your fingertips grazing over the tattoos adorning his body. Your mind drifted back to the conversation from the night before when Sukuna had told you a bit of his past.
Abandoned and unloved, forced to survive on his own from infancy. Your heart ached for the small, helpless babe he had been. The thought of him growing up without affection or care weighed heavily on you.
You understood now why love and empathy were so foreign to him. But you were determined to show Sukuna what he had missed, to fill his long existence with the warmth and joy he deserved.
Your short mortal life worried you, however. Sukuna had lived for centuries, he would go on existing long after you passed on. Would he find someone new to love? How would losing you affect him? Immortal beings were not meant to give their hearts to fleeting humans.
You must have tensed in concern, because Sukuna began stirring, his four arms instinctively tightening around you. “What troubles you so early, little one?” his deep voice rasped, still groggy with sleep.
You tilted your head up to peer at him. “I was thinking about what you told me last night, about your past. My heart breaks imagining you alone as a child.”
He regarded you seriously. “It was long ago. Dwelling on what cannot be changed is pointless.”
“I know,” you murmured. “I only wish I could have cared for you then. But now I worry… what will happen when I am gone? My life is so short compared to yours. Will you find someone new to love?” Your voice caught on the last word as you averted your gaze. You weren’t sure you even wanted to hear the answer.
He was silent. When you worked up the courage to look at him again, his crimson eyes were looking at you intensely. With a swift, motion he flipped you beneath him, bracing his weight above you and capturing your face between his big hands.
“You think I could simply replace you when death takes you from me?” His thumb brushed your cheek tenderly. “No other has touched my soul as you have. Long was my existence before you, yet I was empty.” Leaning down, he touched his forehead to yours.
“Your fragile mortality may one day steal you from my side, but what we have cannot be replicated or replaced.” He lifted his head to gaze deeply into your eyes.
“When you are gone, I will be lost again. I accept that your life must end as mine continues.” His jaw clenched. “But I will find no peace with another. What we have is beyond replacement.”
Tears blurred your vision at his heartfelt words. You had not realized the depth of his attachment, that the absence of your love would leave him emotionally desolate.
You threw your arms around his broad shoulders. “Then we must make the most of the time we have,” you declared. “Fill our days with so much joy that you will carry the warmth of our love for eternity.”
Sukuna wrapped you tightly in his embrace. “Yes,” he agreed, nuzzling your neck. “I will cherish every precious moment with you, little one.”
His words made your heart clench, but you understood, he would never love another as he had you. Your lives were tragically misaligned, yet the love you shared transcended such limits.
You spent the day wrapped up in Sukuna, exchanging tender caresses, murmuring sweet nothings, strolling the grounds hand-in-hand. Every shared laugh, every affectionate glance was savored, imprinting your bond ever deeper.
As the sun sets in glorious color, you lay entwined together beneath the cover of a wisteria tree. Your head rested over Sukuna’s heart as he gently stroked your hair. His steady heartbeat and the rhythmic rise of his chest were deeply comforting.
“I wish we could stay like this forever,” you whispered.
“As do I, little one,” he replied, his voice tinged with melancholy. “But we cannot halt the merciless passage of time.”
You leaned up to press a soft kiss to his jaw. “No matter how short my life, I am grateful every moment of it is spent with you.”
Sukuna cradled you close, distress evident in his eyes. “When I am alone again, I will find comfort in the memories we have.”
His grip on you tightened, as if he could hold you to this world through will alone. You tilted your head back to peer up at him. “And when I am gone, will you be okay?”
“I will endure it. As I have endured all hardship in my long life.” He traced his thumb lightly down your cheek. “It will not feel the same, my little love. But do not worry about me, I will be fine.”
Your heart clenched at the raw honesty in his normally stoic demeanor. On impulse, you stretched up to press a soft kiss to his lips. Sukuna went still for a heartbeat before responding in kind, lips moving gently against yours.
“Then do not dwell on the inevitable end,” you cup his face in your hands. “Think only of how much we mean to each other now. If my love can sustain you even a little while after I am gone, that will be enough.”
Sukuna pressed his forehead to yours. “I will brace it when the time comes. But for now, my world is only you.”
You kissed him tenderly, then settled against his chest once more. Bittersweet joy swelled your heart, knowing you had brought some warmth into Sukuna’s grim existence. Though fleeting and painfully finite, your mortal love was a balm to his ancient, scarred soul.
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The years passed swiftly. Sukuna remained your steadfast companion as you grew from a young woman into old age. He was always there to hold you close, whisper endearments, make you laugh with his wit.
In the blink of an eye, your hair became streaked with silver. Your smooth skin wrinkled and your energy waned. But your love never faded.
Sukuna stayed by your side as you grew frail, cradling you tenderly through restless nights, patiently spoon-feeding you broth when eating became difficult. His eyes reflected centuries of sadness knowing your time grew short.
Finally, you lay weakly upon your futon as he stayed close by your side. Your breathing turned ragged and a violent cough wracked your body. He gathered you gently into his arms.
“The end is near, my little one,” he murmured, smoothing back your thin hair.
You gave him a quivering smile. “I am ready. Just stay with me, please.”
He pressed his lips to your wrinkled forehead. “Always.”
You spent your final moments gazing up at his face, etched into your mind after so many years together. His image would be the last you saw in this life. With a contented sigh, you closed your eyes for the final time.
Sukuna let out a broken noise, pulling you tightly to his chest as your body went limp. Rocking your still form, he wept for the first time in his long existence. Anguished sobs wracked his powerful frame.
He had known this moment would come, yet nothing could have prepared him for the sheer devastation of losing you. It felt as though part of his soul had been ripped away.
Sukuna had guarded your mortal form night and day in those final years. Now you slipped away before his eyes, leaving him utterly alone. The crushing pain made him understand the human concept of a “broken heart”.
But he took comfort knowing you had passed peacefully in his embrace. The only mercy was that you were spared a drawn-out decline. He had filled your short life with as much love as one man could give. He has known you for a short time compared to how you’ve known him for most of your life.
Wiping his eyes, Sukuna pressed final kisses to your cooled skin. He would honor you with a funeral befitting royalty. Then he must decide where to wander next. This place held too many haunting memories now.
Sukuna laid you gently on the futon and stood. He cast one last anguished look at your still face.
“My beloved…” he whispered. “No other shall ever take your place.”
Then he turned and strode from the room, jaw clenched against a fresh onslaught of grief. His steps were heavy with the unbearable burden of immortality and loss.
No, he doesn’t cremate you despite having the ability to do so. He doesn’t even want to think of burning you to ashes, or he might as well lose it and burn the world with it for taking you away too soon.
He buried you beneath the cherry tree where you’d spent so many blissful hours in his arms. He marked the site with a stone monument etched with his promise:
“In this life or the next, you are mine. None will ever love you as I have, little one.”
His task complete, Sukuna wandered for many years after. Though the sharp pain dulled to a persistent ache, the emptiness inside him never abated. He fulfilled his promise and took no other lovers, knowing they could only ever be hollow substitutes.
He will wait until his time comes no matter how long it takes to see you again in the afterlife.
He will wait long enough to see you reborn and claim you one more as his.
But the thing he knows for sure, you will always belong to no one but him.
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I got emotional and carried away, I’m sorry 😭😭
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gallusrostromegalus · 25 days ago
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For the Fanfiction Work-In-Progress Guessing Game: Help
From the post-aizen "We have more captain-class shinigami than captain positions so everyone has to interview for the job again" interviews: "Tell us why-." growled Yamamoto, glaring imperiously.
"Tell me why I'm here." Kaname demanded first.
"...Oh no." Groaned Ukitake.
"Ninth's fulla artists, they're 'sposed to be contrary shits." Zaraki nodded.
Yamamoto glared, then realized it wouldn't work and slowly rubbed his face.
"...Tell us why you think you deserve to return to your position." Yamamoto tried again.
"I do not think I've sinned quite so greatly to warrant such punishment." Kaname spat back.
"Goddammit..."Shunsui groaned, wishing he could retract into his hat like a turtle into it's shell.
"You owe the Gotei-13 your debt of service." Yamamoto growled.
"DEBT?" Kaname howled. "WHAT DEBT?"
"You signed the oath of office, the same as the rest of us." Byakuya spoke up. "Your signature binds you to this organization."
"What signature is that, Kuchiki?" Kaname grinned threateningly, opening up the folder he'd brought with him. "I took the liberty of digging up the oath, and it's terms are quite clear- one must join the gotei-13 of one's own will, or the oath of office will not take effect."
He set it on the table before Yamamoto, the other captains peering at it. "I cannot see, but I believe the document rather clearly reflects that I very much did not sign it of my own free will."
Indeed, the magical oath of office was inactive, because instead of a signature, Kaname had written a single word.
Help
"I cannot return to my position as Captain. I never swore an oath to be a Shinigami. I only came here because you utterly failed my sister! I owe you NOTHING!" Kaname spoke with a velvet softness that belied a terrible, shivering rage/
"...But you got it anyway, didn't you?  You got my most genuine efforts to drag the ninth division into the modern world. You got my constant, exhausting battle to thwart Aizen. You got One. Hundred. Years. of my life in service to your cause for free, and worse- you got the entire life of my sister." he hissed, face inches from Yamamoto's.
"Do not speak to me of debt, Captain-General." he whispered, trembling in rage. "-Not when it is you who owes me."
Slowly, Kaname got up to leave.
"You were not dis--" Yamamoto started.
"GO TO HELL!" Kaname snarled, slamming the door behind him.
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14thgalerie · 1 year ago
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under pressure
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• pairing: theodore nott x reader
• now playing: linger by the cranberries
• word count: 2.4k
• genre: angst
— an old piece that i never finished but i just wanted to post something because my account is so dead. i know exams work differently in hogwarts but for this one, let's just pretend that they do a semestral exam also.
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“Theo?” You call from behind him, as you enter the common room where he sits in solitude. 
He makes no sound to acknowledge that he’s heard you, simply continuing to stare off into space. Long, slender fingers rhythmically tapping on his thighs.
Ignoring this, you make yourself comfortable on the nearest available seat, angling your body to face him. “You would not believe what I got for History of Magic!” You excitedly begin and with much enthusiasm, “But first you have to guess!”
Again, a silence greets you. This sparks concern in you since it was very unusual behaviour from him. But before you could ask, he emits a curious hum, still not looking directly at you. “What did you get?”
“You’re no fun.” You playfully jab at him, trying to lighten up the atmosphere. “Anyways! I got an Outstanding! Can you believe that?”
“It would’ve been hilarious if you hadn’t.” Is all he says in a deadpan, hollow voice. “What do you mean by that?” You prod.
“Imagine taking all of my time just for you to fail once again. I would have actually thrown myself off the pitch. ”
The muted glow of the scattered lamps and candles cast shadows on the walls, creating an ambiance that mirrors the strained emotions between you and Theo. The distant sound of chatter and laughter in the dorm rooms only served to accentuate the silence that ensued.
He sighs, “I am tired. Tired of your complaining, of your whines, of your stupidity over such a simple course. You are so excited over this when it isn’t something to be necessarily proud of. You know…” Theo trails off in an amused manner as if he has realised something funny.
“I find it funny how you are sitting all proud and excited about this one exam when in reality, it was all because of me. You wouldn’t have even gotten half of what you had if it weren't for me or with the help of the others. Leeching off of us like a goddamn parasite who hasn’t a mind of her own.”
Words fail you, unable to conjure up even a whisper in your shock. You stand up slowly, breathing out an unsteady exhale.
The words break on your skin like whips, cracking and splitting open still healing wounds. 
“I have never asked you for anything, need I remind you? You were the one who insisted on spending your oh so precious time teaching me. Time and time again, I reassured you that I could do it myself because I didn’t want you to waste it on me. Yet, it was always fine with you and you were adamant on doing it so don’t you dare put this on me now.” You grit out. “I have no idea as to why you are acting like a rabid dog, snapping at me unprovoked, but nothing will ever warrant that kind of behaviour. “ You shake your head sharply, glaring at him from underneath your eyebrow. 
You felt yourself becoming dizzy with panic and anxiety, confusion with the whole situation making it worse by the second. It was spreading so quickly and far into the recesses of your soul that you would fall to your knees if not for the support of the couch behind you.
Not willing to have him see you break down from his nonchalant words that were deliberately chosen to attack your deepest insecurities— unable to understand how it so easily came from the last person you expected it from. You quickly move towards the stairs, ignoring the weak call of your name. 
Tick, tock, tick, tock. 
Seconds—or was it minutes— slipped away since you have made the decision to lock yourself in your room. Leaving the room before everything gets worse. Surrounding yourself with a number of inked parchments that are filled with hundreds of thousands of words, none of which your brain registers. Despite your earnest desire to find solace with work, it was all futile as they were only mere words on paper that held no significance in comparison to what was brewing in your mind.
Instead, an incessant question pesters you. Was it really something to be so excited over? Lost in a silent deep rumination, accompanied only by the rhythmic flutter of an owl's wings as they flew past your open window and the rustling trees to occupy the silence. 
Tick, tock, tick, tock. 
The clock is still there to remind me of the hours that have passed— 3 and a quarter to be precise.
Perhaps you were being too over the top but you hadn’t meant to. The pure, unadulterated exhilaration overwhelmed you after Professor Binns called you aside after your last exam. It had become an accepted knowledge to you that History of Magic wasn’t necessarily your strongest suit. Enough so that it would’ve been perfectly fine for you to receive a less-than-average result.
To hear how exceptional you had done this time, possibly even greater than many of your classmates, your mind instinctively went to share your achievement with Theo. After all, he was the one who patiently dedicated hours guiding you in your review and it took precedence over his own. Assurances, that came off as more of arrogance, of how he would do just fine and that he could ace it even if he wore a blindfold.
Maybe that’s where it all went wrong. Could it have been the lack of sleep before? He does get a bit irritable with a lack of rest. You’ve seen it personally in the weeks that lead up to Quidditch games. The fatigue, in addition to the stress of the final exams before the holidays, must’ve steered him into that state. 
Despite feeling upset and somewhat finding fault within yourself, you couldn’t muster up the will to apologise first. While his behaviour tonight could have been explainable, for goodness’ sake, the way that he has gone about it was unwarranted— shouting and hurling the harshest words that he is capable of, at you. The person that rejected every offer, made by him, because you were scared to impose on his studying hours. Now he cannot even be happy at what you had worked so dedicatedly on with him?
After spending hours in the cold and dark room, doing nothing but ruminating on the argument, you realise that you refuse to allow his words to dampen your joy and excitement any more than they have already. Sitting up straight, you stretch your arms wide. Swiftly tidying the scattered papers and dried pens into an acceptable arrangement in your trunk before you settle down beneath your duvet cover. Giving up on the idea of getting any work done when your mind was elsewhere.
The both of you made plans to have a sleepover in your dorm room after your roommates announced that they would be spending the night elsewhere. However, it will be safe to say that the idea had crumbled into non-existence after the heated exchange of words between the two of you. 
As you lay there on your side, facing the stone wall with your back to the door, you couldn’t help but reflect on your argument. A hailing storm brewed in the furrows of your mind, unable to piece together what exactly you should do. The only thing you wanted was to hear his beating heart beneath you as you lay on his chest. But you knew that it wouldn’t be right for yourself to concede.
Of all the ways that you’ve imagined for him to react, what had truly occurred did not even appear in your mind. It left you tossing and turning in frustration and confusion, unable to fall asleep in peace. Only the warmth and lasting scent of his cologne on your duvet keep you calm— the realisation that you couldn’t even properly be mad at him makes you huff.
In the silent war within you, you were deaf to the aged door groaning in protest as its rusty hinges emitted a creaking sound that left the person behind it wincing. Nor did you hear the unusually gentle footsteps that followed.
So much so that even the shadows that lurked within the walls would have thought that the footsteps were a figment of their imagination. In the way that the presence hesitated outside of your room as if they were heavily contemplating.
It was only at the weighted dip of the bed behind you and the hesitant arm that crept around your waist that were you pulled from your trance. Yet, you bore no intent of recognition for him even as he had fully suited himself behind you with his chin tucked in the crook of your neck.
As his presence enveloped you, he began with a slight tremor in his voice. “Y/N…I-“
“I could write and speak a thousand sorry’s and reasons for why the words had so easily slipped from my lips, but they will never unspeak them from existence. I promised your mama that I will never let a speck of hurt flash across those eyes, and I will forever apologise to her for breaking that promise.” A shaky exhale lines the last few syllables. “I was so unnecessarily horrible and mean to you without meaning to. So consumed by this- this emotion that flooded me, something that I had lost control over.”
Every syllable was accompanied by a hesitant tone that left the words sounding shaky; nervous. Coupled with the drop of tears that lined your neck right where his head sat.
You listened, listening to his apology, but the wounds were still fresh. The echo of his sharp words runs deep beneath your skin, embedded into your bones, prickling with every second you are reminded of them. The sincerity in his voice clashed with the pain he had caused with his words, leaving you torn between the desire to understand and the reluctance to let go of the hurt.
“You really hurt my feelings, Theo.” If he wasn’t already drowning in misery, hearing his name fall from your lips after he worked many weeks to be called something else had him gasping for breath. “I genuinely want to forgive you, but at this moment, I can’t quite find it in me to do so. You blew up on me for absolutely no reason. I need you to help me understand, to give me a reason behind your outburst, not mere words of guilt. Because even if you say sorry a thousand times, I would never be able to forgive you for clearly attacking me where I would greatly feel it.
His voice, meek in the tense air between the two of you, unfolded with a raw honesty that lays bare his desperation for this to be over.
“The exhaustion from lack of sleep and finding that I barely got a passing grade…It was a bit too much for me. I have no idea why it even bothered me when, for so long, I could hardly give a damn about these stupid exams," he shared, sighing with exasperation.
A pang of guilt and shame flared within your chest at the knowledge. The initial shadow of hesitation and guilt that crept on you the days before came rushing back in. You should’ve known better than to allow him to persuade you. Turning around on the bed to face him. But before you could wallow yourself in these emotions, Theo quickly puts your mind to rest.
“Don’t blame yourself, darling.” He tenderly pushes a thumb against the forming frown on your forehead. “I should have told you that I needed to study also instead of leaving it to luck. I guess I was being a bit of a confident prick that got used to not reviewing for an exam that I fully forgot I missed a few lectures a few weeks ago. I truthfully never had and never will blame you, not when I had been the one, adamant enough, to help you out despite your protests.”
His admission carried a mix of self-awareness and remorse. The vulnerability that was clear in his words began to bridge the hesitance inside of you to relax, the layers of miscommunication slowly peeling away. 
You could sense the weight he carried. Despite his casual indifference to his studies, you knew that it was something that he silently prided himself in. To have that be ruined in addition to the cumulative stress that built up over time with his hectic schedule. Being reminded that even if he may seem so perfect on the surface, beneath that, he was still human; flawed, vulnerable, and young. Although the hurt had begun to shift, not fully dissipating yet, it had turned into a sense of empathy that allowed you a clarity of thinking.
A small, understanding hum escaped you. The strain in your voice is gone now, ”We need to work on our communication, then. No longer hiding things from each other for any reason, even if we think it does not matter. Part of our relationship is to work our problems side by side, even if it doesn’t concern the other. We shouldn’t have things fester until it explodes on us.” 
He nods, burying his head back into the crook of your neck. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.” You gently pull his head back and look at him fondly. “And we need to also address the way you spoke to me earlier. Just because we were in the heat of the moment and lost in our emotions does not mean you have the right to do that, not when my mom raised me without raising her voice.”
“I’m really sorry. Merlin…I can still see the look on your face and I don’t think I would ever forget and forgive myself for being the reason behind it”. “I won’t say I forgive you just yet, that’s a boundary crossed for me. We should’ve had this talk in the beginning but better now than never. Let’s take a pause for now, and resume this conversation with a clear head.” He met your gaze with a blend of appreciation and a sense of resolve. 
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masterlist
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antimony-medusa · 1 year ago
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Honestly though like if you're following Philza you should get used to the fact that since the dawn of him streaming RP people have violently disliked his reaction to any angst beats because like, the cc finds angst rp funny and is also a very giggly guy. And if you're here for drama and tragedy it looks like he's not taking the pain seriously, which is obviously going to be something you don't like seeing. Trust me. We have been here before. I have watched DSMP. There were people saying he didn't take Techno's IRL death seriously enough because he was positive on stream. Like, this is top five things people get mad at cc!phil and his characters for, after "breaks the fourth wall" and "is an imperfect person/parent" and "idk his vibes just grate and I read them as Bad y'know".
I personally think that like the fact that he was repeatedly saying to the eggs that they were gonna get Tubbo back, they'll bring him back with the create wrench cause he cares about create, don't worry it'll all be okay; that was all evidence that the character does care about Tubbo and for heaven's sake, if you want angst, read that as denial and you're fully comfortably in one of the recognized stages of grieving. I was making jokes the day people in my life died, this is also one of the ways people deal with loss. But I also see why that's a POV clash if you wanted a more straightforward depiction of grief and angst? Phil was pretty far from being in tears, which is what some people think was warranted. So like, sure, if you've been watching a specific perspective, Phil's reaction was trivializing. I can see that perspective as well.
It is not fun to see someone calling your POV "vile" and "heartless" and "too selfish to consider other people" and the other delightful stuff that I just saw on a scroll through the tag, but like, that's just POV clash, you gotta let people have their own opinions and block the neg tags and maybe block people who are being really loud. Sincerely, it does nobody any good to go beefing about people being mean about your favourite cubito. Post careful lore exploration on your own blog if you want but doing replies, sending anons, all of that is the way down which A Bad Time lies. Sincerely like, this has happened before, this will happen again, just go listen to good music or something and ignore it.
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skzdarlings · 5 months ago
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deleted scene ; sharing a bed with lee know
original sharing a bed one-shot with lee know.
author's note: this is incredibly random, but this is a deleted scene from the lee know instalment of the sharing a bed series. it got cut when i decided to start the story after their big fight rather than show the build-up, but this scene was really cute and i always missed it lol so i am randomly posting it now.
content info: just fluff, some reader crying, and minho being secretly whipped.
word count: 890 words.
-
“Oh no!” 
Minho looks at you over the top rim of his glasses, his mouth full of food.  His phone falls forgotten on the wooden table.
Pouting, you push your salad towards him. 
“They put in the red onion,” you say with more misery than a salad miscommunication warrants.  Much to your horror and his immense bemusement, tears fill your eyes.  “I said no onion.” 
He chokes on his food, trying to swallow quickly so he can talk.  You wipe a stray tear while he hacks into a napkin.  His own eyes are now watery from his spontaneous pork-induced brush with death, but he reaches across the picnic table to wipe your face first.  He’s Minho so it’s more of a gentle slap on each cheek, but you take it with gratitude. 
“It’s okay,” he says, firmly but carefully.  Your behaviour is probably confusing him as you are notoriously composed and pragmatic by nature, so red onion is the last thing he would expect you to cry about.   “Just ask for another one.”  
“I can’t,” you say with a wobbly bottom lip.  You shove the salad further away like a petulant child.  “The line is too long now.  We don’t have time to wait for our turn then wait for them to make a new one.  We have to be back on the highway in no less than twenty minutes or else we aren’t going to beat the rush, and if we don’t beat the rush then we could be late getting to the camp site, and then we could lose our reservation. And I can’t eat this salad because the onion is so strong that it overwhelms everything else.   It’s fine.”   
It’s fine.  It’s fine.  Just one more thing gone wrong this week.  You didn’t cry about the guy.  You didn’t cry about the job.   You are crying about the red onion.  It’s fine.  
Minho takes off his reading glasses as if looking at you directly will help him make sense of your nonsense.  He doesn’t say anything, just stares with his dark brows knit together.  Wisps of dyed blonde hair and their darker roots flutter under the circle of his backwards cap, a cool wind brushing over your picnic spot. 
Of course the weather sucks too.  You and your best friend finally have a shared weekend off and you decided to go camping, so of course it’s been overcast and grey for the whole drive so far. 
Of course the rest stop cafeteria put red onion in your salad. 
“Okay,” Minho says after a minute of just staring at you.  He mutely slides his plate toward you and takes your salad for himself.  When you try to protest, he threatens you with a plastic knife.   “Eat,” he says, pointing to the dish with the knife.  He digs into the salad without further commentary, returning his glasses to his face and picking up his phone to keep reading. 
You stare despondently at the dish for a moment.  Then that bottom lip wobbles more, and more, and more, then suddenly—
Minho drops his phone again, startled when you burst into tears.
“Ahh,” he says, reaching for you with both hands this time.  He tries to reach past your fingers to cup your face, but you are rubbing your eyes and also bouncing with your hiccups.   He eventually gets a semi-stable grip of your chin, thumb pressing hard to tug your face to his when you look away.   “Baby,” he says, “what the fuck?” 
“I’m s-s-sorry,” you say, still hiccupping.  “You just l-l-love me so mu-u-uch!”
“Um,” he says, frowning.  “Sorry.  Here.”  He swaps your plates back.  “I hate you.  Fucking bitch.  Eat your fucking onion salad.” 
You laugh in spite of yourself.  It coaxes you out of hiding, your tear-streaked face turning to his willingly. 
Minho can be loud and goofy, and he’s something of a lunatic around his guy friends, but you and him have always had a quiet, easy friendship.  You are the epitome of regimented and organized, not to mention the very definition of introverted, but he’s so easy-going that your flow as a duo has always been seamless.   You can sit together for hours in silence and not feel awkward once.  His presence alone brings you comfort.  He has seen many sides of you over the years.  Annoyed, happy, content, frustrated, disappointed.  You frown a lot.  You don’t tend to overreact. 
Bawling your eyes out is a new one. 
“I’m fine,” you say with a sigh. 
“Oh, well, if you’re fine,” he says dryly, picking up his phone and pretending to return to it. 
When you giggle, he smiles just that bit, putting the phone down again.  He is clearly out of his element as you seldom require active solace in any sense of the word, so he just sits there flexing his hand and staring at you. 
“Should I… kill them?” he asks uncertainly, pointing over his shoulder to the food stand. 
You laugh again, the sound still a bit shaky.   You shake your head. 
“Are you sure?” Minho asks.  “We could probably run them over on our way out.” 
“Thank you,” you say.  “I’m fine.  I guess I’m just a bit worked up.”
“Hmm.”  He switches your plates again, giving you his food.  “Try being worked down for a bit.” 
“Okay,” you say with a snort.  “I will. Thanks.”
He smiles a little smile, the kind reserved just for you. He looks satisfied he has done his job for now.
You can't help but smile back.
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targaryenrealnessdarling · 2 months ago
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Two - The Blackwood Bitch | Series Masterlist
Summary: In the midst of growing unrest amongst the Realm and his Council, Aemond finally meets his betrothed | Word Count: 6k~ | Warnings: mention of war, canon-divergent, post-Dance Aemond, trauma, arranged marriage
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They did not have the confidence to place the crown atop his head, and yet expected him to sit here, in the stuffy Small Council Chambers, and listen to their endless streams of complaints and judgements.
He was only allowed to grace the seat where Aegon had once been because he'd at least agreed to marry the Blackwood girl.
It did not seem fair, to Aemond, as he sat pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, trying to stay off the migraine. The voice of Tyland Lannister barely bleeding through the haze of utter boredom and contempt.
“And what of Corlys Velaryon?” Tyland pressed, his tone clipped yet cautious.
Aemond’s eye flicked open. “What of him?” he drawled.
“His imprisonment in the dungeons has not gone unnoticed,” Tyland continued, carefully. “There are murmurs among his supporters that holding the Lord of the Tides in chains is a…questionable decision. His family’s influence, though diminished, is still considerable. Perhaps the situation warrants—”
“Release?” Aemond interjected, his tone icy.  “Do you imagine me a fool, Lannister? The Sea Snake is not a man to be trusted. He knelt to Rhaenyra, swore his allegiance to her black banner. And when she fell, his silence was a weapon he wielded deftly, even as her cause crumbled to dust. No. Corlys Velaryon shall remain exactly where he is, for now.”
“And Lady Baela and Rhaena? Surely we can use them as leverage, to barter more alliances?”
“They shall remain as they are on Dragonstone, under heavy guard. I will not allow them into my court to scheme with their grandfather. Their existence in the future may prove useful, but I have no patience for deciding now and will not be pressured so.”
Tyland opened his mouth as if to argue but faltered under Aemond’s penetrating gaze. Instead, he offered a curt nod. “As you command, Your Grace.”
Aemond exhaled, as if one touch could spiral him once more to madness. “The North. Is there much news?”
“Cregan Stark is no fool. He remembers where Winterfell first pledged its loyalty, and he knows how to inspire those loyal to Rhaenyra, even after her death. Rumours suggest he may rally support again if provoked, especially given the state of the realm.”
Aemond hummed, but understood deeply the severity of what this could mean for his rule. It was not so long ago that the North had first taken its stand for the Blacks. He’d once held some measure of respect for Stark, if only for the man’s stubborn resolve. 
But respect did not soften threats, and Aemond would not allow another rebellion to fester, especially one from the cold, unyielding expanse of the North, where his control was not as fierce.
“And what of Stark’s movements?”
Tyland hesitated. “There has been little activity, yet enough to suggest he is watching and waiting. But the recent unrest, especially with the harvests diminished from war, has left the North in a precarious state. Winter is settling in sooner than expected, so it may keep them in place for now…though we must tread carefully.
Aemond leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regarded Tyland with a calculating gaze. But Tyland’s hesitation had not gone unnoticed, and the faint unease it carried twisted like a knife in Aemond’s gut.
“Stark is waiting,” Aemond repeated softly, his tone laced with disdain. “And watching, you say. That means he is weighing his options, biding his time. A dangerous thing to leave unchecked.” 
He glanced at the map to his side, his eye tracing the lines of the Neck and the expanse beyond. “The North’s strength lies in its distance and loyalty to its own. A rebellion from Winterfell could inspire others if we do not act swiftly to secure the Riverlands and the Vale.”
Tyland inclined his head. “Precisely why the matter of your marriage must be addressed with utmost care. A match with House Blackwood has the potential to stabilise our hold on the Riverlands, drawing the house firmly to our cause. Their influence and history may serve as a counterweight to any…discontent from the North.”
Aemond’s lips thinned at the mention of his impending marriage. The arrangement had been presented as a political necessity, a means to cement his rule over the fractured realm. He understood its purpose, of course, the Blackwoods were an ancient house with deep ties to the Riverlands, and their animosity toward the Brackens ensured their loyalty could be leveraged. But the prospect of wedding a stranger, no matter her lineage, still perturbed him.
“Lady Rosaleen,” Aemond said, testing the name as though it might reveal something of its bearer. He turned his gaze to Tyland. “What do we know of her specifically? Beyond her house and the council’s assurances of her suitability.”
“She is young, but not without wit or will. A daughter of Raventree Hall, with blood of the First Men and an unbroken line stretching back to the Age of Heroes. Her mother, a Piper, ensured she carries a touch of Riverlander diplomacy, though it is said Lady Rosaleen herself is more pragmatic than demure.” He hesitated. “She is…untested, but there are no whispers of scandal or unsuitability.”
Aemond hummed again, his mind already piecing together the shape of the woman he would soon wed. Untested, perhaps, but pragmatic could mean cunning, something he might find more tolerable than blind obedience. 
“She is to arrive today, Your Grace. Queen Alicent and Lord Wylde will welcome her personally, and arrangements have been made for you to meet in the gardens this afternoon.”
Aemond’s eye narrowed slightly, his discomfort masked beneath a calm exterior. So soon. He had expected more time to prepare himself for this charade.
Larys, who had remained silent until now, shifted in his seat. “A marriage such as this will not go unnoticed by the realm. The great houses will watch closely to see how this union strengthens your hold. And should it falter–”
“It will not falter,” Aemond insisted, his tone clear that he’d had enough of what little Lord Larys had said.
A tense silence followed. No man daring to fire back. As if testing him.
When would these men tire of poking the dragon.
Aemond rose from his seat, the scrape of his chair echoing in the nearly empty chamber. “Dismissed,” he said curtly, his gaze sweeping over the two remaining men. They would conspire in whispers the moment he left, as they always did, but Aemond had no patience for it today.
The doors clamped shut behind him, the Kingsguard flanking his sides as he strolled with unknown purpose through the Keep’s winding halls. 
Would his intended be pragmatic as Tyland had claimed? Would she understand the weight of the crown he bore, the cost of the realm they had shattered and now sought to piece together? 
Would she see only the scarred dragon who had laid waste to the Riverlands, her homeland, and the monster the realm whispered of in secret?
Or would she have foreseen how much of a farce this union was before it had even been done?
One could mistake Aemond for a cat, the way he stopped in his tracks and widened his stance when his eye clocked upon a retinue he did not recognise. If he had been one, his ears would have been pricked back, fur stood high. 
His brow lowered at the black banners decorated with red, not unlike his own native sigil, but this one adorned with the sigil of House Blackwood. A pair of guards lingered near the great doors leading to the guest chambers, their armour bearing the same emblem.
She has arrived.
Rosaleen’s retinue, no doubt. He felt a flicker of something he could not name, curiosity, perhaps, or irritation at being caught unprepared. But there was no sign of her, no glimpse of the woman who would soon bear his name.
His thoughts were interrupted by a burst of feminine laughter echoing down a nearby corridor. Aemond’s steps stilled, his sharp hearing picking up the unmistakable lilt of idle gossip.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered if the taller figure could be Rosaleen. She bore the Blackwood colours, her hair as dark as the raven of their sigil, her bearing sharp enough to suggest wit even from a distance. But something about the way she carried herself, unguarded and unapologetic, gave him pause.
The clink of metal broke his thoughts as Ser Willis stepped to his side, his voice low and measured. “Lady Alysanne Blackwood, Your Grace,” he murmured, as if sensing his prince’s unspoken question.
Aemond’s lips pressed into a thin line. So, not Rosaleen. But her cousin, a Blackwood nonetheless, and one who seemed to embody every tale he’d ever heard of their infamous fire and sharp tongues.
“And your betrothed’s cousin, Arianne Piper.”
He gave one nod in appreciation to Ser Willis as the man stepped back, one hand laid on his sword at his hip, always.
Alysanne’s voice carried as she spoke, her tone biting and laced with amusement. “Well, he is certainly not wasting any time. Do you think he has the gall to actually meet her without sneering?”
Arianne’s gentler voice followed, tinged with unease. “You oughtn’t speak so boldly, Aly. He is a prince, your future cousin by marriage.”
“And that entitles him to what? My silence? My admiration?” Alysanne scoffed, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. “I’ll grant him none of it. Not after what’s happened to our home.”
Aemond’s jaw tightened as he listened. He stepped forward into their line of sight, his tall figure casting a shadow down the corridor.
Both women froze, Alysanne’s expression shifting to one of defiance while Arianne’s cheeks flushed in alarm. Aemond’s eye fixed on them, cold.
“Lady Alysanne,” he said smoothly, his voice low and controlled. “Your honesty is refreshing, though perhaps misplaced.”
Alysanne did not flinch, though her chin lifted ever so slightly. “Honesty is all I have to offer, Your Grace. I assumed your court would value that over flattery.”
Arianne stepped forward hastily, her voice trembling slightly as she dipped into a curtsy. “Forgive us, Your Grace. We meant no offence.”
We.
He wondered how often this flame-haired beauty felt the need to apologise for her fierce cousin’s behaviour.
Aemond’s sharp gaze flicked between the two women. Alysanne’s defiance was palpable, but it was Arianne who sought to smooth the air, her curtsy deep, her clear eyes cast downward in a show of humility. Yet it was neither of them that truly occupied his thoughts.
Rosaleen. 
She was the reason these women were here, the reason he would soon be tied to the Riverlands by bonds thicker than blood or steel. The woman he had not yet met but who would soon bear his name, his burdens, and perhaps one day, his heirs.
“Offence is not so easily forgiven,” Aemond said coolly, tilting his head toward Alysanne. “Though I suspect you care little for forgiveness, Lady Alysanne. Do you presume to speak for your cousin as well?”
“Rosaleen speaks for herself, Your Grace, when she deems it necessary. You’ll find her no less honest, though perhaps less direct than I.”
Ser Willis cleared his throat, the sound deliberate and firm, cutting through the lingering tension. It was not quite an order, but it carried the weight of one, the subtle assertion of a man who knew when a conversation had run its course.
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“Lady Alysanne, Lady Arianne, it was...enlightening to make your acquaintance.”
Alicent could think of few moments in the Keep as of late that she was truly, truly at rest. Even her baths were monitored closely by maidservants. That is until she flicked her wrist, and ordered that they leave her be, which they would begrudgingly.
Even in the confines of her chambers, she never truly felt calm. Hadn't, since the day Helaena flung herself from Maegor’s Holdfast. The same day she assumed her second son had also perished.
It was one of the darkest days of her young life. Thinking she had outlived all her children.
The Dowager Queen had barely seen Lady Rosaleen off at her chambers before a knock came at hers. Three knocks, the first two close together, to let her know without words who it was.
She sighed internally, hearing it click open, pulled by some imaginary thread towards pouring herself a cup of wine.
“Not now, Lord Larys. I am weary after greeting our guest.”
The door clung shut behind him, and she heard the familiar step and drag of his two mismatched feet. “I would not disturb you without cause, Your Grace. Yet there are matters that cannot wait.”
Alicent turned to face him, her expression carefully composed, the wine momentarily forgotten. “Matters of the council, I presume.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. The realm demands much of us still. The prince remains...steadfast in his temper.”
"Steadfast, is it? A polite way of saying unruly, no doubt.”
He was neither stupid nor brave enough to respond. Offering an opinion such as that would no doubt place a target on his back, as if there were not already one.
“Rosaleen Blackwood,” he started, “her retinue are...spirited. Particularly her cousin, Lady Alysanne. The young lady has a tongue as sharp as a blade and little hesitation in wielding it.”
Alicent closed her eyes briefly, rubbing at her temple. “Yes, I noticed that myself. And the other cousin? Lady Arianne?”
“Pleasant. Unassuming. Hardly a threat,” Larys replied with a dismissive nod. “But Lady Alysanne, she may prove disruptive, particularly to Prince Aemond’s already volatile disposition. Forgive my saying so, but a prince who scorched their homeland does not yet need the bite of those who hang such crimes over his head.”
Alicent exhaled slowly. “How best do we keep an eye on them? I doubt Alysanne will respond to subtlety.”
“No, Your Grace,” Larys agreed, his tone almost amused. “But the Lady Rosaleen...she is practical, I have heard so. Influencing her may, in turn, temper her cousin’s brazenness. The girl has loyalty to her kin, yes, but she is not blind to the realities of the court.”
 “I will not have her or her kin stoking his fire.. Keep watch over them, all of them.”
His crooked form bowed slightly. Alicent had not forgotten the loyalties of a man who kept Aegon and Jaehaera safe, if only for a short time. And men such as this, expected to be praised and repaid for such acts of simple kindness.
Lord Larys nodded. “You may leave such matters to me.”
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The Red Keep was as much a maze simply following a person as she imagined it would be by herself. In future, she would have to explore it with companions, she thought with distaste. If there was anything Rosaleen Blackwood hated more, it was feeling out of place, stuck seemingly perpetually in a state of not having her bearings. 
She did not know how to feel when the Dowager Queen told her that she would be occupying the former Queen Helaena’s chambers. Though the Keep in general was cold, it felt much more so in those rooms than it did anywhere else, she half expected her sweet, ghostly whisper at any second. How would she be able to sleep? The thought had just occurred to her. 
Everything in that space had smelled faintly of cloves, as if someone had been there trying to mask the stench of distress. To erase the tragedy of what had happened. 
But she as well as anyone in the realm could not escape the tragedy that had somehow squeezed itself into a mere quick war. It felt so intense and unending at the time. But now, when she casts her mind back to those moments, she realises that a mere half year felt like a lifetime, and was faster for others than some.
She wonders. Did it feel hasty to Prince Aemond? Or did he feel as if it were over in a heartbeat?
Such questions were not suitable for someone who was merely betrothed to him. She would save such conversations once she assumed the title of his wife. 
If she would ever reach those heights.
It was not lost on her how quickly Alysanne had voiced her apparent displeasure. Arianne had been quick to tell Rosaleen of their cousin’s quick tongue in the very presence of Aemond himself. She found herself rolling her eyes and wanting to cast it aside, but knew, realistically, that there was a conversation to be had with her fearsome Blackwood cousin, and how quickly her wit would have to cut ties with her mouth, especially in the presence of the future Prince Regent no less.
Such thoughts did not plague her mind yet. As she stared at the back of Lord Jasper Wylde’s head, following him aimlessly to meet her betrothed, she could not find it in herself to think of anything else but the Targaryen prince she would come to meet.
Of course, Arianne, Alysanne and a distant Piper cousin, Sarra, who was very much known even to Arianne herself, followed behind. Heads bowed, as if they felt they had already done a disservice to their future Queen Consort.
Titles, titles, titles. Rosaleen grimaced at the mere thought.
Just as she overheard Alysanne giggle when Arianne asked her in a luckily hushed manner why Jasper Wylde was nicknamed ‘ironrod’, the much rumoured Lord turned and inclined his head. 
“Prince Aemond awaits, my Lady.”
She inhaled deeply, measured. As if to fill herself with courage. Rosaleen straightened, her hands smoothing the dark fabric of her gown. She had never been one for nerves, but there was something about the idea of facing him, finally, that set her pulse quickening, despite herself.
As she stepped forward, she almost questioned herself. Lord Wylde had not referred to him as ‘prince regent’. Several times now. The deep, mysterious mist that shrouded Aemond began to become clear, if not entirely by how one member of his council had referred to him.
Beyond the threshold, where stone became grass and flowers, Aemond stood near the edge of a small courtyard, the gardens stretching behind him in a cascade of greens and blooms that stood in stark contrast to his dark, brooding presence.
So the stories were true, she thought with intrigue. Moonlight hair, tall, hands tucked behind his back as if keeping some great secret in his stance. 
The air seemed to thicken with each step she took toward him, the weight of the moment settling heavily on her chest.
Aemond turned at her approach, his violet eye fixating on her with an intensity that made her heart skip. His face was a map of old battles, his gaze unyielding but not unkind. Perhaps merely distant. She schooled her mannerisms well, trying to not flicker between his seeing eye and the leather eyepatch. Attempting to appear as if it was quite normal, and that she was not at all fascinated.
His features were chiselled, sharp as a blade, and though his expression remained unreadable, there was something in the set of his jaw that told her he was measuring her, much like she was doing to him.
“Your Grace,” she greeted, inclining her head just slightly in a respectful, if not overly formal, manner.
“Lady Rosaleen,” Aemond replied, his voice soft but carrying an undercurrent of authority. The way he said her name sent an odd shiver down her spine, though it wasn’t unpleasant. She couldn’t quite place why, but there was something both unsettling and strangely comforting about him. Perhaps it was the contrast of the man, so feared, so full of war, with the gentleness that lingered in his voice.
She couldn’t imagine him riding a dragon, barking out orders, with a voice like that.
His eye did one sweep of her body, before returning to her dark eyes once more.
“Shall we,” he uttered plainly, glancing at Lord Wylde, who promptly took the hint, bowed his head and turned on his heel.
His tone made it clear it was not a suggestion, so Rosaleen turned to her ladies and nodded, watching as Arianne gave her a nervous look, pulling Alysanne and Sarra back with her without words. Following twenty paces behind as the Blackwood Lady settled into step beside her betrothed.
“I thank you for welcoming me into your home, Your Grace. My greeting has been much appreciated,” she uttered, hands clasped, crimson skirts brushing the grass she glided across the blades. She could not read his expression at all, and very rarely did she see his gaze ever meet hers.
“Of course,” Aemond replied, his tone formal but distant. “It is only fitting that we should meet in person before…” 
“It is,” she agreed simply, offering no more than was required. Silence stretched between them for a moment before he, perhaps foolishly, broke it.
“And your journey?” he asked, his voice low, but the question felt oddly out of place. She saw the faint flicker of realisation in his eye as soon as the words left his mouth, but it was too late to take them back.
Rosaleen allowed herself a small, wry smile, though her tone remained courteous. “Uneventful, Your Grace,” she responded, “my ladies–my cousins, Alysanne and Arianne are good companions.”
Aemond’s expression did not change, though a flicker of memory stirred in his mind. Aegon had once dubbed the Blackwood daughters ‘the Blackwood bitches,’ a crude remark he’d made with a sneer while recounting the Blackwoods’ initial allegiance to Rhaenyra. Aegon’s words, though meant to be dismissive, had a venom that lingered, a reflection of his disdain for those who had dared oppose him. Aemond had said nothing at the time, but now, the memory returned with a faint, bitter taste.
“Good companions are a blessing on such a journey,” he added. “Though I imagine the roads you travelled were less than welcoming.”
Rosaleen nodded slightly, her smile never faltering. “The scars of war are hard to miss, even from a carriage window, Your Grace. But they remind us of what has been endured, and what must be rebuilt.”
Aemond’s gaze darkened slightly at her response, though whether it was irritation, guilt, or something else entirely, she could not say. He did not speak for a moment, as if weighing her words, or perhaps his own. 
Finally, he replied, “Rebuilding is no easy task. Nor one without cost.”
“No,” Rosaleen agreed. “But it is necessary all the same.”
Their conversation lingered in a strange, tense balance, both polite and edged with something unspoken. Whatever judgments they had drawn of one another, neither was willing to reveal just yet. For now, they walked on, their words measured, each step drawing them closer to a union neither had chosen but both were forced to navigate.
“It is a kindness to meet the man I am to wed, rather than relying solely on tales spun by courtiers and whisperers.”
“And what tales have you heard?” Aemond asked, his voice dipping lower, almost testing.
Rosaleen met his gaze at last, her own expression unreadable. “Stories travel, Your Grace. They tend to grow in the telling. Some speak of a swordsman without equal, a man with fire in his veins and the blood of dragons.” Her tone remained even, but her words carried a weight that suggested she had heard much more than she was willing to say.
“And others?” Aemond prompted.
“Others speak of a man who has faced more trials than most could endure. A man shaped by loss, fire, and war.”
There was a pause, her words lingering in the air between them, before she added, “but I prefer to form my own opinions, Your Grace.”
Aemond’s eye narrowed slightly, and for the first time, she thought she caught a glimpse of something behind the mask he wore, a flicker of intrigue, perhaps even approval.
“Wise,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “It is better not to trust tales.”
“Or first impressions,” Rosaleen countered lightly, though not without its undercurrent.
They came to a halt before the towering Weirwood, its red leaves rustling faintly in the breeze like a thousand whispering voices. Its face was solemn and ageless, its crimson sap trailing like ancient tears. Rosaleen’s gaze lingered on the carved eyes, so stark and knowing, and for a moment, she felt herself drawn back to Raventree Hall, to the looming Weirwood there that had stood sentinel over her family for generations.
She remembered her home, the mossy stones of its walls, the echo of crows in the twilight. She felt the roots of who she was, who she had always been, stir within her. A lady of her bloodline was meant to endure, to hold fast, as her ancestors had, and that realisation warmed her.
Her blood seemed to hotten, the faint flush of color rising to her cheeks. She squared her shoulders, her chin lifting slightly as she turned her attention back to Aemond. He stood a step apart from her, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression inscrutable. 
Did he see it as she did, she wondered, or did he view it as merely another relic of the past, its significance swallowed by his Targaryen pride?
“Let us speak plainly,” she replied, tilting her chin slightly in challenge. “We are to be married, and while I may not have chosen this alliance, I intend to make the best of it. Let us not dance around the subject like nervous suitors.”
Aemond turned his head sharply at her words, his violet eye narrowing as if weighing her challenge. The breeze stirred the skin, and the soft rustle of the Weirwood leaves seemed to echo the tension between them. For a moment, he did not speak, his gaze steady and piercing as it settled fully on her.
“Plain speech,” he said at last, his tone even but edged with something unreadable. “A rarity in court, and yet, it seems, a virtue among the Blackwoods.”
Rosaleen’s lips tightened into a faint, controlled line at his response, the shift in her demeanor subtle but unmistakable. It was not anger, not entirely, but a flicker of discontent that she made no effort to conceal. 
“And Your Grace would rather I lie?”
“I do not require appreciation for honesty, Lady Rosaleen. I value its utility.”
A brush of wind came against her skirts, the crimson fabric shifting like rippling blood. “Utility. Yes, that does seem the way, does it not?” she said, “might you tell me what utility the Riverlands offered?”
Aemond’s eye darkened, a flicker of something dangerous passing over his face. “The Riverlands held loyalty to my enemies. War is not fought with pen and parchment, words are wind. And such war demands sacrifice.”
“You dare school me on sacrifice, Your Grace,” she countered, “I have walked through the ruin. Have smelled the burning flesh and seen the sky darken with ash and death.”
Aemond’s jaw tightened, but he did not interrupt, his eye locked on hers with an intensity that seemed to draw the very air taut between them.
“I am to be your wife,” she continued, her voice unyielding. “To stand beside you and call myself your queen in waiting, your partner and your ally in securing my homeland to your cause. To your realm. I have seen sacrifice as clearly as I see you now and I wish never to see it at that measure again.”
Aemond’s gaze did not falter, his expression unreadable. His hands clasped behind his back once more, his posture as rigid as stone.
“You are bold, Lady Rosaleen,” he said at last, his voice cold as the chill of a winter wind. “Bold enough to speak to me thus. Bold enough to be my wife. Perhaps that is why you were chosen. Other’s tongues cut too freely, and the court may find that less tolerable. But you tread carefully, even when you push.”
“I tread carefully,” she replied, her voice steady, “because I must. Not all of us are born with dragons, Your Grace. I merely have my words.”
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“He said WHAT?!”
Rosaleen rolled her eyes as the maidservant assigned to her pulled at the fastenings of her dress. The sun had long dipped beneath the horizon, and only the dim flicker of candlelight lit the room. Alysanne sat laid back on the chaise, one cup of red wine cradled between her fingers.
Arianne was already abed in her chambers, having not slept the entire journey earlier that morning.
It seemed a lifetime ago now. Meeting Aemond Targaryen seemed to have the effect of several days worth of effort.
“He said that I was bold,” she admitted dryly. “And that perhaps I was bold enough to be his wife.”
Alysanne nearly spat her wine. “Bold?” she repeated, incredulous. “Bold enough to marry him? What does that even mean?”
She waved her hand dismissively when the maidservant attempted to plait her hair, wanting to do it herself. “Perhaps I was supposed to take it as a compliment.”
Alysanne giggled, sitting up, a bit weary and slurred from the wine, “Bold enough to be my wife,” she mimicked, her voice pitched low in a mocking imitation of Aemond. “It is typical. He burns half the realm to ash and still thinks he’s the one doing you a favour.”
Rosaleen snorted, “out, Aly. I must undress.”
With a dramatic sigh and flailing hand movements dragged to her feet, “very well, cousin. Good day.”
Rosaleen watched as Alysanne stumbled from her chamber, carrying the oak door with it with a thud. She glances over at the maidservant, who prepares the bed, noting the mortified expression on her face before she quickly lowered her eyes.
“Do not mind my cousin,” Rosaleen says softly, “she might have been a drunken widowed lord in another life.”
The maidservant’s lips twitched, though she quickly suppressed the smile, her hands smoothing over the freshly turned sheets. “Yes, my lady,” she murmured, keeping her gaze respectfully averted as she finished her task.
Rosaleen sat upon the chaise her cousin had just vacated. It was nice to have family in such a strange place like this, yes. But she observed this girl in the Keep’s employ, barely eight and ten by her eyes. So young.
“What is your name?”
The maidservant hesitated, her hands pausing mid-motion as if uncertain whether the question was truly directed at her. “It’s Lyla, my lady,” she answered softly, her gaze flickering upward before quickly returning to her work.
“Lyla,” Rosaleen repeated, testing the name on her tongue. “How long have you served here at the Red Keep?”
“Since I was twelve, my lady,” Lyla replied, folding the edge of a blanket with careful precision.
“Twelve?” Rosaleen echoed, a note of disbelief in her voice. “So young.”
Lyla’s lips curved into a faint smile, though it did not reach her eyes. “The Keep doesn’t care much for age, my lady. Only that the work is done.”
Rosaleen studied the girl for a moment, noting the faint weariness in her eyes that seemed far beyond her years. It was not so different from the look she had seen in her own reflection of late. “Do you have family still within the Keep?”
“My younger brother works with the stable hands,” Lyla said, her voice softening slightly, as though the mention of him offered her some small comfort. “But the rest of my family remains in the Reach.”
Rosaleen nodded, leaning back slightly against the chaise. “It must be difficult, being so far from them.”
“It is, my lady,” Lyla admitted, her hands stilling briefly. “But the Red Keep has its own…rhythm. You learn to live with it.”
The words lingered in the air, heavy with an unspoken understanding. Rosaleen could not help but wonder if she, too, would learn to live with the rhythm of this place. Would it shape her as it had shaped this young girl, or would she remain an outsider, always at odds with the walls that enclosed her?
Rosaleen’s gaze drifted toward the flickering candlelight, her thoughts spinning with the unfamiliarity of her surroundings. Her voice, when it came, was casual, light enough to mask her true curiosity. “Tell me, Lyla… what do you know of Prince Aemond?”
Lyla hesitated, her hands brushing over the edge of the fabric she had just smoothed. “Not much, my lady,” she replied carefully, as though wary of overstepping. “I am not among his attendants, nor do I often see him.”
Rosaleen was silent, but her dark eyes spoke everything she was thinking. That she wanted to know more, even if it came as gossip. It was more than she felt she knew about the man anyway.
The maidservant hesitated again, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her apron. “Before the war, he was rarely within the Keep at all,” she admitted finally, her voice low as though sharing a secret. “He would come and go as needed, but he was…absent, for the most part.”
“Absent?” Rosaleen repeated, her brows drawing together. “And where would he go, if not here?”
“I couldn’t say for certain, my lady,” she murmured, though her tone was evasive.
Rosaleen leaned forward slightly, her sharp gaze pinning Lyla in place. “You have heard rumors, then.”
Lyla shifted uncomfortably, her cheeks flushing faintly. “It isn’t my place to speak on such intimate matters, my lady,” she said quickly, but the words only served to confirm Rosaleen’s suspicions.
Her lips thinned, though she maintained a neutral expression. “I see,” she said evenly, though the insinuation hung heavy in the air between them.
Brothels. It was not so uncommon a practice for men of his station, and yet the thought of Aemond Targaryen, this cold, distant prince, indulging in such pleasures was oddly jarring. It painted a picture of a man more complex, more contradictory, than she had anticipated.
She was strangely unsurprised. 
Her own father had visited such pleasure houses when her mother passed, and made no secret of it. As many lords, princes and kings would do so for the rest of time.
“Thank you, Lyla,” Rosaleen said after a moment, her tone quieter now. “You may go.”
The maidservant dipped into another curtsy, clearly relieved to be dismissed. There was something about Lyla that at this time Rosaleen could not pinpoint. Perhaps it was the way she spoke. The way she stood, visibly anxious.
Rosaleen’s dark eyes lingered on the closed door, her thoughts turning over the maidservant’s carefully chosen words. What would this mean for their marriage? She doubted she would ever truly know.
Aemond’s facade was like a suit of armor, meticulously crafted and nearly impenetrable. He wore it with ease, a shield against prying eyes and unwanted intimacy. Yet beneath it, she sensed something more, a volatile edge, sharp enough to draw blood if she dared to press too hard.
Their earlier conversation lingered in her mind, the weight of his words and the tension that had crackled between them. He had made it clear, if she bared her claws, he would not hesitate to strike back.
And yet…she couldn’t help but wonder, her thoughts skimming a dangerous edge. What would it feel like, that bite? The sharp sting of his retort, the fire behind his gaze, the unspoken challenge in every measured word.
Indeed, how sharp were his claws? How violent the bite? Would he let go once he had the prey in his mouth, until he felt the blood coat his teeth and their hearts fluttering to a stop like the spasming wings of a dying butterfly?
She smiled to herself, drawing her resolve from all the Blackwood women who came before her.
She was no butterfly. She was a raven. Watchful. Patient. And she would meet his bite with her own.
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featguler · 5 months ago
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DID YOU LIKE HER IN THE MORNING ? ! a part of ' BUZZ '.
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'cause i don't know if i can compete with the former crowned head of your old ford's front seat, and the story goes you blame it on the lonely nights for it ever starting. but answer the question: did you like her in the morning?
SUMMARY : you try piecing the puzzle of jude's ex-lover together. PAIRING : jude bellingham x reader TAGS : reader's gender, ethnicity, nationality, and appearance is not specified. insecurity, angst a little bit-ish, jude is eepy WORDCOUNT : 1,218 NOTES : first one-shot in the series wooo!! 🎉🎉 make sure to check out the series master list!! this one-shot is also inspired by lacy by olivia rodrigo and girl crush by little big town ♡ masterlist.
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Jude’s previous love was a nobody.
Which is to say that no matter the amount of models he follows on Instagram, and no matter the amount of sparkling cars and glamorous lifestyle that he effectuates, Jude Bellingham is, after all, capable of feeling at home with somebody who is a nobody.
Which is to say that you sound like a fucking unbearable, out of touch, bliss-tippled piece of shit whenever you think about her in your stupid little head.
Which is to say that you have not stopped thinking about her in your stupid little head.
How she wears her hair, how she lines her lips. You memorised how often she reapplies her hand cream, how often she takes that sunstick out her bag; you know what warrants a smile from her face and what draws in a laugh.
You might be in love with her just as much as Jude was.
The girl, you learned, had little to no Instagram presence. But she is there, and not a single person on Earth aside from Jude’s inner circle—and you—know about their relationship. She was there on Jude’s private account—you had known him shortly before they separated—filling up his Instagram stories with recordings on how she is cooking him her homeland’s cuisine, how Jude was the only living man on Earth that her pedigree cat would ever let pet her.
And Jude had deleted all of their pictures together the moment they broke up; he calls it bitterness, you see it as resentment. He blocked her everywhere: he blocked her number, he blocked her Instagram account, he blocked her Spotify account, he blocked her Medium account (you didn’t even know that blocking someone on Medium is a thing you can do).
But you don’t share the same pettiness as Jude, right?
No you do not. You still go to her page, even if you don’t follow her, and scan over the love poems she still posts, studying each line and wonder if Jude is still the muse of her writing—her delicate, brittle writing.
Ultimately, your concern lies in how Jude was not the one to break the relationship off. She saw a loss of spark, she saw that fame is getting into his head. And Jude? Jude wanted nothing but forever with her. Something she could not match.
God.
It would be easier if you just mind your own business, shut the case, and not bring her up in whatever chance you got. But it would also be easier if she was not someone he had loved.
A pizza delivery man fell from his Vespa and she was the first person to help him up, he once laughed a fond reminiscence, just a few months before you get together. No one even moved an inch—I certainly did not. I have tried helping others as much as I can since then, y’know? I don’t know, man. I just think of her every time I do something nice.
How are you going to fill such a deep gap?
You accidentally saw a text from his friend one night. “I don’t like this one as much.” You didn’t need much explaining, and pretended to not see how Jude typed a quick “Fuck off????”, but you thought about that comment for a long, hard week. The same friend had pointed out earlier in your relationship that Jude had only blocked her because if he were to hear her voice once again, he would come running back to her. It was something neither of you nor Jude appreciated.
But it made you think.
Thinking sure is the root of disdain.
You stare at your bathroom mirror, and Jude snores softly in the background, lying face down with his lips parted slightly. You wonder why loving Jude Bellingham has turned you into such a narcissist: always looking so deeply into every single crook of your face, every bump and scars and pores.
You have never paid attention to yourself this much, not since forever, not since your first love in middle school.
But somehow, this is worse. Much, much worse.
It’s seven-thirty in the morning, and the sun is barely up. You step out of your bathroom and take in how he lays upon your bed, unknowing how much bigger he is than the small cranny of your apartment.
“Mornin’,” he mumbles, opening his eyes for a quick second before quickly shutting them again. You step closer, sinking the bed with one knee. “Sun’s up early, eh, love?”
“Mhm?” Your fingertips reach to travel on his hairline, fading in clarity and needing another visit to the barber soon. “Sun’s not up, Jude.”
“Jude?” He let out a disgruntled groan, eyes still closed with his hand blindly grasping for yours on his face. “Why Jude? ‘Tcha mad at me?”
The sleepiness is as thick as his accent. You laugh softly and lean in to press a tender kiss against his temple, interlocking your fingers with his, but your mind cannot help but speculate on how she had kissed him like this before, how he would sleep on her ribbon-adorned bedcover, with her Birman just in the corner, curled up on a window sill, as pretty as she was.
“Am not, baby.”
Jude hums. “What’d I do?” He asks again, but before you can answer, he snuggles deeper into his pillow rambling. “Wanna sleep on your lap, wanna cuddle—can I?”
“My love,” you coo, climbing deeper into the bed, letting him climb onto your lap, “come.”
His ear rests on your thighs and arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him, holding on you tight like your air conditioner is going to blow you away.
“Not goin’ back to sleep, candy?”
“That’s a new one,” you wonder if he had used that nickname on her before. “No, baby. I’ve been up a while.”
“Why didn’tcha wake me up?”
You shrug, trying to get comfortable with being in love with him. “You look peaceful sleeping.”
He answers with a grown into your lap, pressing a soft kiss on your thigh before nuzzling into his prior position. “Wanna be awake when you are, love.”
“You need your rest,” you rub your palm along the side of his neck, stopping to move just move your thumb.
“Rest comes everyday,” he says, “I don’t get to see you everyday now, do I?”
This time, you smile. The fear is consistent—it creeps up your veins like anxiety towering and taunting your every breath.
“Well, you’re awake now” —
If he is offering his love to you, though it was once someone else’s, would it be so much of a sin just to try it? Even if he ends up hurting you, even if he ends up leaving you for something that he knew was much sweeter?
— “what would you like to do?”
“Mhm,” Jude opens his eyes, turning his head to catch your eyes.
You freeze, and her face appears in your head: how does she talk about you to her friends? How does she compare you to her? The way you do your hair, or call Jude your baby?
“Dunno, love,” he mutters. “What do you want to do?”
You trace your fingers again on his hairline, drawing down to his neck.
“What about pizza?” You suggest. “Let’s order some pizza.”
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fatkish · 10 months ago
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I found this post you made and idk how old it is but it was about writing stories to heal inner child to give readers someone who stepped up for them as a kid since they didn’t have someone… idk if ur still taking requests for that, but if you are, any chance you could write smthing related to saving a kid from sex trafficking? Specifically where it was perpetuated by the parents if that makes sense?? Idk. I want Aizawa to come get me outta there lol(I’m okay now). Maybe he was undercover or smthing for a bigger operation and came in contact with.. that. Thanks for reading my whole request ^^;;
Aizawa x SA Victim Child Reader
TRIGGER WARNING: please be aware that the following content contains allusions to rape, the sexual exploitation and abuse of minors as well as unwanted sexual advances. Please be warned
Aizawa goes undercover disguised as a potential buyer for an illegal quirk boosting drug that the reader’s parents are selling and finds readers parents offering reader to buyers as well.
Reader is 12 and still hasn’t developed a quirk yet. They are a late bloomer and their parents decided that their kid needed to ‘help out the family’ since they haven’t developed a quirk
Reader is forced to take lessons on ‘dancing’ in order to entertain the clients. The reader’s parents have made them believe that they are not worth saving and that heroes will treat them like a villain because what they’re doing is wrong and because their parents are ‘evil’
Aizawa was back in his underground days and came upon the house acting as a corrupt hero. He had found an actual corrupt hero who used the drugs and knew about the kid. Aizawa followed the hero and was talking to the parents when they offered the reader to him.
Aizawa, not believing this, actually went to the room and paid the parents before going in alone.
The reader’s parents don’t really care how long people are along with the reader, as long as they pay them good money. The father’s quirk allows him to distort electrical circuits and signals rendering any device that investigators might use to capture evidence of their deeds, to be useless.
Once alone with the reader, Aizawa was revolted by the way the reader was sexualized by their own parents. He talked to the reader and it took some convincing but he eventually gave the reader a phone that they could use to gather evidence from the inside.
After Aizawa left, because there wasn’t anything he could do at that exact moment that wouldn’t make things worse for the reader, he informed the police as well as the other heroes he was working with about the situation and within the next three days, they had all the information they needed in order to get a search warrant and arrest the parents
Aizawa was the one who was in charge of the kid. It was during the raid that the reader’s quirk finally manifested.
Their quirk allows them to build up and store massive amounts of electrical energy and basically turn their body into electrical energy as well as manipulate it. The reader can travel through electrical circuits like landline phones and computers. They can create a force field of electrical energy that fries anything within it as well as control electricity and shape it.
The reader was being ‘used’ by a rather violent man who was being far rougher than anyone had ever been before. It was during all the stress and anxiety that the reader finally had enough. When Aizawa busted the door down he saw the man had been electrocuted to death and had electrical burns all over him.
Aizawa realizes the severity of the situation and instead of using his quirk he decided to have the reader try to control their ability themselves. Aizawa gently removed his goggles and slowly approached the hyperventilating child. He gently talked to them, speaking in a soft voice, he told them that it was over. That their parents have been arrested and that they will never have to deal with this kind of treatment ever again.
The reader obviously wasn’t comfortable with touching others and Aizawa understood that. Aizawa had given the reader the space they needed and made sure to always be within the reader’s sight and also made sure that anyone who had to be near the reader, followed the reader’s directions.
If they didn’t want to be touched, Aizawa made sure they wouldn’t be. If the reader was uncomfortable, Aizawa made sure that whatever was causing it was dealt with. For the first time ever, the reader actually saw and believed that someone was willing to protect them and after a few months the reader was finally comfortable with sleeping in the same room as Aizawa.
The doctors and nurses were worried about the reader since they refused to be touched and would use their quirk to defend themselves. It was only after Aizawa was able to gain the reader’s trust that the doctors had Aizawa be their proxy and do the tests needed. With every test that Aizawa had to do, he would explain in detail what he would be doing, why he was doing it and made sure that the reader felt comfortable and safe, making sure that they understood that they had to give consent before anything would be done.
Eventually a therapist and counselor where provided to the reader to help them deal with the trauma from their experiences. The reader wouldn’t really talk to anyone besides Aizawa
Seeing this the courts as well as the reader’s doctors suggested that Aizawa become the reader’s legal guardian
Aizawa adopted the reader and had Hizashi introduce himself to the reader. After that, the two of them decided to take the reader shopping since this was more of Hizashi’s area of expertise rather than Aizawa’s. They bought clothes for the reader, toys, books, electronics, snacks, toiletries, bedding, furniture, etc.
Once they got to Aizawa’s house, they helped the reader get everything inside and showed the reader their own rood with an attached bathroom. The reader even had a lock on their door that they could control from their side. Aizawa even helped the reader instal one of those chain locks on their door
It took a lot of time but eventually the reader began to trust Hizashi too. Eventually one day the reader had fallen asleep on the couch next to Aizawa. Aizawa was so touched and smiled softly. He made himself, as well as the reader, a promise, he would do whatever it took to keep them safe and make sure that they were happy and felt loved and cared for
(I hope this helps you and that you enjoyed this. I hope that your inner child finds some peace with this and that this helps them heal.)
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xoxoladyaz · 2 years ago
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It Hits Different This Time, Part 2
Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Rock Star Eddie x Steve Harrington
TW: Mentions of alcohol, drug abuse
QUICK AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm so sorry that the last entry was so angst heavy, I promise this one provides some comfort! Eddie needed to take a big step here and he really, really does. Also, much love to everyone who commented, I've tagged you at the bottom of the post - let me know if anyone else would like to be notified of the next entry!
Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five
It was another five days before Steve heard from Eddie. Another five torturous days of radio silence, only this time, there wasn’t anything online. No new articles were popping up saying he’d been spotted somewhere, no new TikToks of him meeting fans on the street. The rest of the band was MIA too; Steve had thought about sending Jeff a text to check-in but ultimately decided to wait another couple days. Robin had been texting with Chrissy, after all, and if something bad had gone down, she would know.
When Eddie did finally call, it wasn’t from a number that Steve recognized.
“I’m getting a call from Malibu.”
“Holy shit!” Robin sat up on the other end of the couch and shot him a look. “Okay, just breathe dingus, okay? It’s going to be okay, I’ll be here the whole time.” She squeezed his ankle comfortingly. “You can do this.”
Steve accepted the call with shaky hands and brought his phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Hey Steve.”
He shut his eyes and swallowed, trying to stop his voice from cracking. “Eddie.”
He heard Eddie let out a watery laugh across the line. “Do you, uh, have a minute?”
“Mmmm hmmm,” Steve hummed. He physically couldn’t get an actual word out. 
This was it. Eddie was leaving, he’d cheated, it was over – 
“I’m in rehab.”
Steve’s eyes shot open. “You’re what?”
Robin started rocking back and forth. “Turn it up!” She hissed, and Steve obliged, turning up his volume so she could just barely hear what was being said. (Was this a private conversation? Yes. Did Eddie know he’d probably immediately tell Robin everything? Also yes. 
Was this news big enough to warrant having Robin eavesdrop?
Absolutely yes.)
“Yeah, I’m, uh, at the Promises Treatment Center in Malibu,” Eddie continued. “We got back about five days ago and when I saw your note, I – 
“Look, Steve,” Eddie continued, and his voice was choked up, like he himself couldn’t speak, “I fucked up. I’ve fucked everything up. You are – you said in that note that you didn’t want me to give up on my dreams, and you’re right, making it big and getting famous for my music was my dream for literal years. Because I kept thinking “once I get a record out there,” “once I go on tour,” “once I win a Grammy,” “once I get a million dollars,” then I’d finally be happy. 
“But it turns out the only thing being famous has done is make me pretty fucking miserable,” Eddie let out a harsh laugh. “But I was so goddamn convinced that this was it, you know, that I’d accomplished my dreams so I must be happy that I started taking whatever I could get my fucking hands on to make me feel that way. The thing is drugs and the alcohol and the parties never made it fucking last. It just made every other second that I was in the public eye that much worse.
“But I’d still made it, you know? I felt like I didn’t deserve to feel this fucking miserable. And everyone back home was so fucking proud and I didn’t want to let them down - ” Eddie paused for a few moments to clear his throat before continuing. “I didn’t want to let you down. Because Eddie “The Freak” Munson didn’t deserve you, but maybe Eddie “The Rock Star” could.”
Steve can feel his own throat closing up and he can barely see Robin’s face, his eyes are watering that bad. “Baby,” he sobbed. “I wish you’d told me.”
“Me too,” Eddie sniffled across the line. “I didn’t though, I just kept self-medicating and ignoring it, because that’s always worked,” he huffed sarcastically. “But then - ” Eddie cut off again, and Steve can hear that he’s trying so hard to hold back his own sobs, “then I came home last week and realized that I’d missed our goddamn anniversary because I was too fucking high and that you were gone and I just – I called Jeff and I told him to get me on a plane out here because you – you, Steve Harrington, you are the best thing in my goddamn life. And the only dream I want to chase now is the one where we get married and adopt some kids and grow old together.”
“Eddie,” Steve sobbed out again, and he heard Eddie start to cry too, and then suddenly they were crying together, even from hundreds of miles away.
“So I’m gonna be here for the next six weeks,” Eddie finally continued, his voice still full of tears. “I’m, uh, meeting with a therapist for a few hours every day and working through my shit. I wanna be a guy who deserves good things, baby. I wanna be a guy who deserves you.”
“What – what about the band?” Steve sniffled, rubbing at his eyes. A handful of Kleenex appeared in front of him. Robin must have gotten up to grab them at some point. He shot her a thankful nod and patted at his eyes; Robin nodded back and did the same, her face flushed that bright shade of red that accompanied her own tears.
“Murray wrote a provision into our contract where if one of us checks into rehab, then the band is instantly put on a two-year, non-negotiable hiatus.”
“But – what about your momentum, the label kept talking about it?”
“The label can go fuck themselves” Eddie practically growled over the phone. “Who do you think hosted the party where I first got my hands on the hardcore stuff anyways?”
“Babe - ”
“Murray said he was going to look into some sort of contract termination so we can sign somewhere else. And even if we didn’t have that thing written into our contract, we probably would have gone on hiatus anyways, or worse. That – the last leg was rough. Gareth was just as fucked up as I was and Jeff was fucking pissed. He kept having to pull Gareth out of orgies and shit while babysitting Phil and I too.”
“Did,” Steve swallowed harshly, “did - ”
“No, baby, never,” Eddie declared quickly. “Even when I couldn’t fucking see straight, you were the only one I wanted to be with. I honestly don’t even know who we were partying with at the end there, the label sent them for some PR shit, I don’t know. It’s just another reason why we want out.”
“Oh,” Steve murmured, “okay. Good. Or, well, not good. You know.”
“Yeah, baby, I do,” Eddie replied softly. 
They sat in silence for a few moments, just listening to each other breathe. “I, uh,” Eddie started up again quietly, “I’m wearing the ring.”
“Yeah?” Steve found himself smiling despite the fresh tears welling up in his eyes.
“Yeah,” Eddie’s voice was just as choked up as before. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
“Eddie - ”
“Look, I know, I know I hurt you so, so badly and I’m never going to fucking forgive myself for what I did, but I – you’re everything I want, baby. If I had to give up Corroded Coffin tomorrow for you, I would do it in a heartbeat. And I – I know I can’t expect for you to just, like, forgive me after the shit I pulled, but – will you be there, when I get out? Can I – I want to come home to you,” Eddie finished, and Steve could hear that he was crying again.
Steve looked over at Robin, who was wiping more tears out of her own eyes. They looked at each other for a few moments.
It might be crazy, but I think I want to say yes.
I don't blame you. I mean, this is one hell of an apology, especially from Mr. “I’ll Never Need to Go to Rehab Ever.”
Yeah. And I love him.
And you love him.
“I’ll be there,” Steve murmured reassuringly, and Eddie burst into a new wave of muffled sobs on the other end of the phone. “Just do what you need to do and come home when you’re ready, okay? I’ll be waiting for home.”
“At home?” Eddie’s voice broke on a whimper.
“At home. I’ll even clean the bathrooms and everything,” Steve joked, and Eddie let out a loud laugh despite the quiet sobs Steve could still hear. 
“Really? You’ll be there?”
“Yeah, Eddie. I’ll be there. We can get through this.”
“Together.”
“Together. Because I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone.”
“Fuck, Stevie,” Eddie let out an incredulous laugh again, “I love you so fucking much, baby. I’m going to marry the fuck out of you someday.”
“Save the sweet talk for when you get home, okay?” Steve could feel his heart settling in his chest, and whatever tears he’d had left to cry were all gone now. There was just the twinge of missing Eddie, but that would go away soon enough. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Eds.”
“Thanks, baby.” Eddie’s answer was soft now. “So I, uh, get a couple hours to call people every day from one of the site’s phones. Can I keep calling you?”
“Please,” Steve heard Eddie exhale in relief. “Every day sounds perfect.”
“Good, good. I’ll have to, uh, use some of my time to talk to Wayne, but the rest of it is yours, baby. And Gareth, Jeff threw him into a different center too. His check-in was much less voluntary though.”
“Shit,” Steve winced. “Is there anything Robin or I can do to help?”
“Take Jeff and Chrissy out to a nice dinner and use the Amex,” Eddie snorted, causing Steve to laugh.
“Consider it done.”
“Good." Steve heard the sound of another voice behind Eddie. Eddie replied something Steve couldn't understand, but it was in the affirmative. "Doc says my time is up for today. My, uh, talk with Wayne took up a lot of time,” Eddie returned, and his voice trembled as he spoke. “But I’ll call you tomorrow and I’ll see you in six weeks.”
“Yes you will.” Steve shut his eyes and imagined Eddie was standing right in front of him. Eddie with his riotous curls and holey graphic tees and tight jeans. Eddie with his rings on his fingers, with Steve’s ring on his finger. Eddie, standing across from him and smiling at him with that twinkle in his eye that had first caught Steve’s attention all those years ago. 
“I love you, Eds.”
“I love you too, sweetheart. I’ll see you on the other side.”
Tags List: @gregre369 @starman-jpg @skoomy-doompy @thequeenrainacorn @sleepyboosstuff @strawberrykore @paintsplatteredandimperfect @amoris-no-smut-allowed @steve-the-hairrington @iknewyouweremuggle @swimmingbirdrunningrock @sunfloweringstories @loverkasp @hyperfixationgoddess @steddie-as-they-go @zerokrox-blog @messrs-weasley @thelittleclare @lovelyscot
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javierpena-inatacvest · 1 year ago
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Fight
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Summary: When you get a phone call from your elementary school that your girls got into a fight, Javi leaves work to figure out what happened.
Word Count: 3.6K
Pairing: Dad!Javi x Wife!reader (No use of y/n)
Warnings: Violence (the Peña girls get in a fight at school), bullying, the Peña girls being little badasses, Javi being a proud dad, idk everything I post for this series is gonna be sickeningly sweet, I'm not sure what to tell you 😩
A/N: I literally had this idea on the drive into work this morning, got a terrible migraine, went home, woke up and wrote this in like an hour 🤪 This was inspired by @bbiophiliaa asking me about the girl's personalities, and I think this sums it up pretty darn well! GOD I LOVE THIS FAMILY YALL GOTTA SEDATE ME
Can be read as a standalone or as a part of the NTL universe!
Series Masterlist Never Too Late Masterlist
The phone number for Alma Pierce Elementary was one you recognize like the back of your hand. If it weren’t for all the years you’d worked there as a teacher, the fact that two of your three daughters now attended there as 1st and 3rd graders meant that you had the school’s phone number memorized almost as well as your own. That’s why when you got a phone call from Alma Pierce in the middle of the day, while waiting in the lobby of your pediatrician’s office for an appointment with your youngest (and her never ending cold that she couldn’t seem to shake), you were surprised to see the number that you knew all too well pop up on your caller ID. 
Being a former teacher, your girls knew better than to try and play sick and call home to get out of school, and noting their usual chipper and enthusiastic demeanor this morning when you dropped them off, you found it hard to believe that a mystery illness had plagued them enough in the past few hours to warrant a call home. You ran through your mental checklist in your head of your morning routine, almost positive that Lucy and Elliot had both their lunches, gym shoes, and no after school activities that they would have forgotten anything for. Your phone continued to ring, a now slightly unsettling feeling building in your stomach as you began to wonder the reason for the midday call. 
“Hello?” you answered, bouncing a sleepy, snotty Harper in your lap as you sat waiting in the uncomfortable fake leather of the doctor’s office chair. 
“Hi Mrs. Peña, it’s Principal Coleman.” 
Oh god. 
While Lucy and Elliot were your daughters in every sense that they were just as feisty and stubborn as you, they were sweet girls, and knew better than to do anything to break the rules or be disrespectful at school.
Or, so you thought.
Your heart began to sink to the pit of your stomach, knowing that a call from the Principal at 1:30 in the afternoon most likely didn’t mean good news, letting out a quiet deep breath before responding. 
“Hi Principal Coleman, how are you?” 
“Well Mrs. Peña, I’m going to start off by saying I’m just as shocked as you probably are about the reason behind this phone call.” 
Oh sweet Jesus, what did these two do? 
You paused for a moment before Principal Coleman spoke again, without even giving you a chance to ask what had happened. “Today at recess, Lucy and Elliot beat up a boy in Elliot’s class pretty badly.” 
Was this a joke? There’s no way that she could be serious, right? You girls fought at home, but to gang up on another boy? At school? Heat began to flood through your cheeks in embarrassment and anger at your daughters as you tried to compose yourself enough to speak. “Principal Coleman, I- I’m so sorry. I’m- I don’t even know what to say. Do you know what happened?” 
“No, not yet, the girls are in my office right now, but I was hoping that you’d be able to come join us to have a conversation about it, considering what a serious thing this has become. Especially since your girls aren’t ones I see in my office often.” 
You stared down at Harper, wiping the back of her little arm against her boogery nose as she groaned and leaned against her chest. It had taken you a week to make an appointment for her, and for her sanity, or yours, you didn’t want to have to wait another week longer, but there was no way you weren’t finding out what the was reason why your girls had attacked someone out on the playground. You looked around frantically, trying to brainstorm a solution until you remembered the other half responsible for creating your fist fighting monsters. 
“Yes, absolutely Principal Coleman. I’m at the doctor with my other daughter right now, but I’ll see if my husband can come down to the school to talk with the girls.” 
“Perfect, thank you so much, Mrs. Peña.” 
You had barely hung up before you were punching the keys of your cell phone, dialing up Javi and anxiously chewing on your bottom lip as you waited for him to pick up. 
“Hey, Hermosa!” You could almost hear Javi’s smile through the phone, his voice sweet and unassuming, considering it wasn’t uncommon for you to call him during the day, and especially not about things like this. “What’s going on, baby?” 
“Um, I just got a call from the Principal saying that Lucy and Elliot beat up a kid during recess.” 
“Woah, woah, woah. Wait, Osita, you can’t be serious?” Javi responded, almost more in shock than you were at the news. 
“I’m being serious, Jav. She wants one of us down there to go talk with him, but I’ve got Harper at the doctor’s right now and I don’t want to have to reschedule if I don’t have to. Is there any way you can go?” You sighed, rubbing your fingers on the sides of your temples from the impending headache your girls were causing you. 
“Holy shit. Yeah, yeah- of course, I’ll head over right now. What the hell happened?” 
“I don’t know, she didn’t say. Jesus Jav, I’m so embarrassed, I know the girls fight at home, but to beat up someone at school? What did we do wrong that would make them think that’s okay?” You could feel the nervous, frustrated tears beginning to well in your eyes, guilt and shame creeping through every inch of your body, currently feeling like the worst parent to have ever existed in that moment. 
“Shhhh, hey, Osita, it’s alright. I’m sure there has to be a reason. I’m gonna head out right now and figure it out, okay? I love you. Give Harps a big kiss for me, yeah?” 
“Okay. I love you too. Thanks, Jav.” 
With a gentle click of the receiver, the other side of the line went silent, leaving you and Harper in the bright, sterile lights of the waiting room. The ceiling lights may as well been spotlights beaming down in your direction, now sensing several pairs of eyes on you after your phone call. You’d never been so thankful for your 4 year old’s sleepy, sick state, because if she was any more awake, she would be happily babbling about your phone call to everyone in the lobby, letting them know her big sisters got in a fight at school. 
“Harper Peña?” A voice called from across the lobby. 
Well, at least one of your 3 daughters you could help take care of. 
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Javi was pretty sure the last time drove this fast anywhere was after your water broke with Elliot, making it to the hospital in record breaking time. Whipping into the first empty parking spot he found, Javi practically sprinted through the parking lot to the front of the building, his heart pounding as he stepped into the main office, greeted by the familiar faces of your old co-workers, with unfamiliar grimaces on their faces. 
“Principal Coleman’s back this way.” Señora Gonzalez mumbled, almost avoiding eye contact with Javi as she pointed to the open door behind her desk. As if the phone call from his wife earlier didn’t have him worried enough, the dismayed look on everyone’s faces sure didn’t help. 
“Hi Mr. Peña. Please, take a seat.” Principal Coleman smiled politely after outstretching her hand for Javi to shake before gesturing towards the empty seat between Lucy and Elliot. If there was one thing Javi was not shocked about, it was the way both of his daughters seemed to be handling the current situation. Lucy, being the empathetic older sister she was, was in tears, trying her best to keep from bawling as she looked up at her dad, her face riddled with guilt. Elliot on the other hand, was leaned back in her chair, arms crossed against her chest, seeming almost completely unbothered by her current situation, giving Javi a little shrug, as if to say I’m not sure why we’re here either. 
“Principal Coleman, I just want to start off by saying I’m so sorry. I was shocked when my wife called me and said the girls had been in a fight.” 
“He was asking for it…” Elliot mumbled under her breath, arms still crossed, slouching even lower. 
“Elliot Marie.” Javi snapped, giving his daughter a dangerous glare, knowing her stubborn attitude he was all too familiar with. 
“Well why don’t you go ahead then Elliot. Can you explain to us what happened?” Principal Coleman asked, nodding at Elliot. Elliot let out a deep sigh, sitting up a little straighter in her chair, uncrossing her arms and bracing them on the armrests of her seat. 
“Principal Coleman, do you know Hunter in my class?” Elliot asked, prepping the room as if she was getting ready to argue her case in court. Principal Coleman slightly cocked her head, intrigued by Elliot’s question. 
“Yes, I do.” 
“Okay. Well at the beginning of the year, Mrs. Walker told us that Hunter’s brain is kind of different than ours. He says the same things over and over and makes silly noises and moves his body around even when he’s supposed to be sitting still. She said it’s because he has Autumn-tism. I don’t know why it’s called that because he doesn’t really like the fall, but he does really like outer space.” 
“He has Autism, Elliot, not Autumn-tism.” Lucy groaned, rolling her eyes at her sister. 
“Whatever.” Elliot sighed, rolling her eyes right back. “Anyways, no one ever wanted to play with Hunter because he was different from other kids, and everyone called him weird, and I felt really sad because everyone should have friends to play with at school. So one day I decided to ask him if he wanted to play and now we’re best friends and play rocket ships every day at recess.” Elliot adjusted again, scooching up taller in her chair, looking back and forth between her dad and Principal Coleman. “And even though Mrs. Walker always says be kind to everyone, Max in my class is not very kind, especially to Hunter. He always makes fun of him and calls him mean names, and I always tell him to stop because it hurts Hunter’s feelings.” 
“Well I’m very glad that you are standing up for your friend Elliot, but how did this end up with you and Lucy both beating up Max?” 
“I’m getting there Principal Coleman, I promise.” Elliot nodded, already halfway out the door to law school at this point. “Today at recess, Hunter and I were on the swings playing rockets, minding our own business, when all of a sudden Max came up out of nowhere and pushed Hunter so hard off the swings he landed in the wood chips and started crying. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he said that Hunter deserved it because he was a freak and freaks shouldn’t get to have friends.” 
“It’s true, that’s what he said…” Lucy quietly chimed in, barely lifting her eyes off their fixed spot on the floor. “I was out at recess too and I saw Max push Hunter so I went over to help.” 
“So I helped Hunter up and then I told Max that he can’t talk to him like that, and if he keeps making fun of him, I’m gonna kick him in the nuts.” 
“She did also say that…” Lucy grimaced, looking over at her sister. 
“Well. He called him a stupid loser who should go fly to outer space so no one ever has to see him again. So I kicked him in the nuts. I warned him.” Elliot responded, holding up her hands in defense. 
“I may have kicked him too…” 
“I’m really sorry, Daddy. And I'm sorry Principal Coleman.  I know we’re not supposed to fight and use our words but I couldn’t let him make fun of Hunter anymore. It’s not fair.” 
“I’m really sorry, too. I should have told her to stop. She is right, Max is always so mean to him for no reason besides the fact he’s different and he can’t help it.” 
The girls both looked up at their dad with remorse, their sweet little faces filled with a mix of guilt and pride, knowing they were in the wrong for what they had done, but also knowing they had done what was right for Elliot’s friend, even if it meant finding themselves in the Principal’s Office. 
After hearing his daughter’s story, his face mirrored theirs. While he also didn’t think he’d find himself in the Principal’s Office this afternoon, he also couldn’t help but feel proud knowing that his daughters cared so deeply about this boy, and had gone out of their way to stand up for him with no hesitation. There had been so many times since the girls had been born that Javi wondered if he had ever done right by his daughters. But seeing them here today, knowing all they wanted to do was stand up for the person who needed it most had him feeling like maybe, just maybe, he was doing something right. 
Even Principal Coleman’s face began to soften, realizing the circumstances of the situation, recognizing the Peña girls wanted nothing more than to protect their friend, even if they perhaps hadn’t gone about it the right way. 
“Well girls. I think that we can all agree that moving forward, violence is never the right way to solve our problems, correct?” Lucy and Elliot softly bobbed their heads, looking down at the ground. “That being said, I do think that it is very brave of you that you stood up for Hunter. He is very lucky to have such thoughtful friends.” Principal Coleman smiled, Lucy and Elliot’s heads now perking back up in shock. “I do think that you still do need to apologize to Max for what you did, so tomorrow, the three of us are going to meet, sound fair?” 
The girls shook their heads in agreement, still bracing themselves for the rest of their punishment. “Mr. Peña, while I do not condone fighting in the slightest, I do think there is something to be said for the fact your girls have such big hearts.” 
“Thank you.” Javi beamed, peering down at his two girls, resting a hand on each of their knees and giving them a little shake. “Again, I am really sorry, I promise we’ll talk about using our words instead of fighting if something like this ever happens again.” 
“Of course. Alright girls, you two can both head back to class and-” 
“Actually, if it’s okay, I’m gonna sign them out and take them home.” Javi interjected, the girls now staring at their dad in confusion. Principal Coleman nodded, her and Javi shaking hands once again before the 3 Peñas made their way out of the office.  
“Daddy, why are we going home?” Elliot asked, puzzled by her dad’s proposition. 
“Just go get your stuff, okay?” Javi smiled, nudging the two girls towards the door as they speeded off to their classrooms, quickly returning with their backpacks. 
The 3 loaded into Javi’s truck, Lucy and Elliot exchanging silent, confused looks in the backseat before Elliot worked up the courage to speak. “Daddy… Are you mad at us?” 
Javi turned back around to face the girls, tilting his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. “You guys know you shouldn’t be fighting at school, right?” 
“Right.” The little voices said in unison. 
“Good. I’m not mad, girls. I’m really proud of you. You did the right thing standing up for that kid. There may be times in life where there isn’t always an easy answer to things, but you girls did what you knew was right, and that’s what mattered most. Sounds like Max is a really big jerk anyways.”  
“You can say that again…” Elliot snorted, the 3 of them laughing along at her comment. With that, Javi turned over the ignition in his car, the engine roaring to life as he began to pull out of the parking lot in the opposite direction of home.  
“Dad, we don’t go home this way?” Lucy pointed out, in her lovingly know-it-all voice. 
“I know. That’s because we’re going to get ice cream.” Javi grinned, the girls now cheering in excitement, dancing in their seats. 
“Just don’t tell mom.” 
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Your mind hadn’t stopped racing since the minute you had gotten the phone call from school a few hours ago, now only beating faster as you saw Javi’s truck parked in the driveway at 3:30, before he or the girls would have been finished with work or school. You scooped Harper out of her carseat, rushing inside to see what in the world was going on, only to be greeted by the sounds of giggles and laughter from Javi, Lucy and Elliot along with Mario Kart Double Dash dinging and clanging in the background. 
“No Dad, you have to throw the banana!” 
“What do you mean, throw it? I still have shells I have to get rid of, right? This game makes no sense and I’m in last place.” 
“Maybe if you threw the banana, you wouldn’t be in last place!” 
“Uhhhh… What’s going on?” You asked, wondering how in the world you had gone from a very serious phone call with your husband a few hours ago to him and the girls playing GameCube on the couch like it was any other day. 
“Hi Mom!” The girls shouted in unison, throwing down their controllers and running over towards you, wrapping their arms around your waist in a tight hug. 
“Hi?” You asked wearily, starting to wonder if this phone call had been a fever dream given everyone’s happy demeanor. “Are we not gonna talk about the phone call I got from Principal Coleman earlier today?” You raised an eyebrow at Javi, now making his way towards you, standing on the other side of the girls to sandwich them in between you and him in a hug, leaning over them to press a kiss onto your lips. “Taking them out of school early to play Mario Kart doesn’t look a lot like a punishment, Jav.” You grumbled into his ear, his face still pressed against yours. 
“Girls, why don’t you go play so Mom and I can talk about what happened, okay?” The girls happily agreed, taking Harper back over to the couch and resuming their game while you leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms folded over your chest in disappointment at Javi, waiting for an explanation. 
“You’ve heard Elliot talk about Hunter in her class before?” You could already feel your guard starting to come down, knowing you had a feeling exactly where this conversation was headed after hearing who was involved. “Apparently, a kid in Elliot’s class was picking on him for being Autistic and pushed him off the swings, so her and Lucy kicked him in the crotch.” You couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief, relief slowly turning into laughter as you buried your face in your hands, letting out a deep exhale before looking back at Javi. “I talked to them and they feel bad about it and know it’s wrong and they’re gonna apologize to the kid, but I couldn’t be that mad at them, right? They stood up for the kid even if they knew it was gonna get them in trouble. I’m honestly proud of them.”
You took a step towards Javi, pulling him in for a hug, resting your head against his shoulder as you spoke into his chest. “God, what are we gonna do with these girls?” The two of you chuckled, Javi snaking his hand down to cradle your cheek, tracing his thumb along your jaw. 
“Ask for a raise so we can send Elliot off to law school, apparently. Made a hell of a case in Coleman’s office. Just as head strong as her Momma.” Javi leaned down, letting his nose brush against yours as he tenderly placed his lips on yours, letting them linger for a moment while your smiles crept between them. 
“And their Daddy’s sense of right and wrong. Guess we must be doing something right if they care that much.” You smiled, looking up at Javi, his sweet brown eyes beaming down back at you, wondering how in the world you had ended up with 3 of the sassiest, sweetest combinations of the two of you in your daughters. “Okay, well, this was not how I was planning the rest of the day to go, but I guess it’s a happy surprise to have all of us home, so I’ll take it. I love you, Jav.” 
“I love you too, Osita.” 
You wrapped your arms around Javi’s waist, squeezing him in a long, tight hug as pressed his arms against your back, pulling you in closer as he planted a soft kiss on the top of your head. 
“Hey Munchkins, you want a snack and then we can pick something to play outside together?” 
“Okay!” The girls shouted from the family room over the background noise of their game until Elliot piped up again. 
“Honestly, I’m okay on snacks, I’m still really full from the ice cream.” 
You spun back around to look up at Javi, running his hand over the back of his neck, darting his eyes away from yours as you rested your hands on your hips, shaking your head. “Ice cream? Really?” 
“Hey, kickin’ ass is hard work.”
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