#and Sam is the only one of them that’s this smart

[halfmoonaria]

wasn’t supposed to

pairing: sam carpenter & female reader

summary: sam didn’t trust her sister’s new tutor, but the more she pushed her away, the more she started wanting her around.

word count: 10.2k

author’s note: this was a request, but i absolutely hate this so i do apologize if this wasn’t what you imagined.

Sam didn't like the word "friends."

It sounded too soft. Too safe. Too much like something people said before they disappeared or turned on you — or worse, expected you to need them.

Friends asked questions. Friends crossed lines. Friends got hurt.

Sam had tried once, maybe twice, to let someone get close. But people always wanted more than she could give, and when she failed to meet their expectations — when she wasn't open enough or warm enough — they left. Or judged. Or flinched the second her last name came up in conversation.

So she stopped trying. It was easier that way. Keep it small. Tara, Mindy, Chad — even that felt like too much, sometimes.

She didn't like when new people showed up, either. Especially the ones who wormed their way into Tara's life — the ones who made her laugh in a way Sam hadn't heard in months, who knew what she was studying, what she was struggling with, who called her smart and meant it.

Tara had always let people in easier than Sam did. Even as a kid, her little sister never needed convincing — she just trusted people, let them get close, believed that kindness meant safety. But after Woodsboro, after everything they'd survived, that kind of trust wasn't a strength. Not anymore.

Sam had tried to teach her that. Tried to set rules, boundaries, warnings. But Tara never really followed Sam's rules — not when they were kids, and definitely not now. Not when she was older, smarter, and convinced she could handle herself.

People like that didn't show up without wanting something. And Sam had gotten very good at spotting what people wanted.

Which was why her stomach had twisted the second Tara mentioned that one of her professors had recommended a tutoring option after Tara bombed a test she swore she had studied for.

Sam hadn't liked the sound of that. Not the vagueness, not the fact that this mysterious "help" came in the form of a single person, and definitely not that the sessions were happening weekly, sometimes twice a week, in offices or on quiet corners of campus. If Sam had to imagine the perfect setup for someone trying to get close to her sister — trying to study her, learn her schedule, her trust patterns — this was it.

It was the dream Ghostface scenario.

But Tara hadn't seen the danger. She'd barely even humored Sam's warnings. All she cared about was passing the class.

"I'm sorry," she'd snapped one night, exasperated, "so you'd rather I fail psych just to avoid anyone who isn't already on your vetted list?"

And the worst part? She had a point. Because even though Sam hated the situation, she also knew Tara couldn't afford to fall behind. The last few months had already been hell enough. She didn't want her sister to drown in school stress on top of everything else.

So she'd bitten her tongue. Let the tutoring sessions happen. Let this person — this professor — circle closer and closer around the one person Sam couldn't afford to lose.

But she was watching. And the second something felt wrong, she would step in.

She tried not to be dramatic about it. That was the promise she'd made to herself when Tara first mentioned the tutoring thing. Just be calm. Be rational. Reasonable.

It was only one session. The first one. That meant there was still time to shift the plan, make it safer, more controlled. Time to keep things from going sideways before they even started.

She brought it up the morning Tara was supposed to meet you. While Tara was shuffling around the kitchen — still in pajama pants, hair tied messily back, sleep heavy under her eyes as she half-blindly prepared the coffee. Sam stayed seated at the table, pretending to scroll through her phone. Waiting for the right moment. Keeping her tone easy.

"I could come with you," she said finally, watching as Tara dumped spoonfuls of grounds into the machine. "Not for the whole time. Just to check things out. You said it's in the library, right? I could sit a table away. Pretend I'm studying or something."

Tara didn't even glance at her. "No."

Sam blinked. "Just no?"

"I don't need a babysitter," Tara muttered, reaching for the milk as she moved to pour cereal into a chipped bowl. "Tutoring's already bad enough. Do you want me to wear a giant I'm failing sign too?"

Sam had tried not to bristle. She really had. But that stung more than she expected it to.

It wasn't that she thought Tara was weak, or dumb, or incapable. If anything, she was proud of her for being willing to get help. But that didn't mean Sam had to trust the person giving it. Especially not someone she'd never met. Especially not in this city, after everything they'd been through. You didn't just let strangers get that close — not anymore.

So she tried again.

"You could have her come here," she said, keeping her voice measured. "Just this once, maybe. You know... do the session in the apartment. That way you're comfortable, it's a familiar place, I'm around—"

"I said no," Tara cut in sharply, this time turning to look at her. "That would be weird. I don't want some random girl I've never met walking into our apartment just because you're being weird about this."

Sam opened her mouth, then shut it again. Random girl. She hated the way Tara said it like that — like it was nothing. Like being careful was something to roll her eyes at.

Sam blinked, her temper flaring. "Random? I thought you said you knew who she was."

Tara rolled her eyes. "I do."

"But you've never met her?"

"I've heard about her," Tara argued, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. "Other students know her — she tutors, like, half the psych department. And Professor Perry said she's smart as hell and actually gets the material. That's more than enough."

Sam let out a humorless laugh. "So now word-of-mouth and one professor's opinion make someone safe?"

Tara didn't answer. She just looked at her — annoyed, a little tired. Like she'd already had this argument in her head a dozen times and nothing Sam could say would change her mind.

Sam exhaled slowly through her nose, still watching Tara move around the kitchen. "How old is she again?"

Tara didn't look up, turning towards the fridge instead. "I don't know. Twenty? Twenty-two, maybe"

"Right," Sam said. "So she's, what, a couple years older than you? And she's just... made a career out of tutoring undergrads?"

Tara let out a dry laugh as she pulled out the carton of milk and shut the fridge with her hip, "Jesus, Sam."

"I'm just saying it's weird," Sam pressed. "She's not a TA. She's not on payroll. But she's spending her time helping psych majors for free?"

"For free?" Tara turned then, eyebrows raised. "Who said anything about for free?"

Sam blinked. "You're paying her?"

"Of course I'm paying her. What, did you think she was just doing it out of the goodness of her heart?"

Sam didn't answer.

Tara shook her head, her voice sharpening. "I'm trying to pass this class, Sam. I don't need some guilt-tripped pity sessions. I need actual help."

"And you think she's the answer?"

"She gets it. Professor Perry literally said she's one of the best students she's ever had — and that if anyone could explain the material, it'd be her."

Sam's jaw clenched. "Right. The twenty-year-old genius who just happens to be available and interested in helping you."

Tara turned away again, putting a cup down on the counter hard enough to make a point. "You'd rather I fail?"

"That's not what I—"

"Look, Sam," Tara cut in, finally turning around fully. Her coffee steamed in her hand, her expression sharp. "I'm going to this session. You don't have to like it. You don't have to approve. But I'm going."

Sam stared at her, lips parting slightly, like maybe she still had something to say. But Tara didn't wait.

She turned and left the kitchen, footsteps heavy against the floor, retreating to her room without another word. The door didn't slam — Tara wasn't like that — but the quiet click of it shutting still felt final.

She didn't speak to Sam for the rest of the morning. Didn't come out for breakfast, didn't offer a goodbye. When Sam heard the front door open a little after eight, she didn't even get a glance on the way out. Just the sound of keys, the rustle of a backpack strap, and the dull thud of the door closing behind her.

So that was how Sam's day began — and how it stayed. Eight hours behind the counter at the café, apron on, dish towel in hand, wiping down tables that never seemed clean enough. Her mind wasn't there, not really. Not in the espresso shots or the lukewarm tip jar or the regular who always asked for too much syrup.

It was with Tara. With you.

Somewhere in that crowded library, probably at one of the back tables where no one really looked twice. You'd be sitting together, talking. You'd be asking her questions, and Tara would be answering them. Laughing, maybe. Smiling.

Sam hated how much it bothered her — hated the way her stomach turned every time she pictured it. Because it shouldn't have been a big deal. It was just one session. One hour. Nothing.

But it didn't feel like nothing.

It felt like letting her sister walk straight into something she couldn't see — and being told not to get in the way.

After that, it just... continued.

One session turned into two. Two turned into a weekly thing. And soon it wasn't just tutoring anymore — not the way Tara talked about it.

She'd come home with that buzz in her voice, the kind she used when she liked something but didn't want to admit how much. When she'd drop your name into stories about her day like it wasn't anything — like you were just there. Like a given.

"You'd think this class would make more sense," she'd mutter, flipping through a highlighted packet on the couch. "But even she said the material's kind of trash. So, y'know, not just me."

She. Not the tutor. Not some girl from the psych department. Just you now — casual, assumed, familiar.

Sam hated how familiar it sounded.

She tried to be normal about it. She really did. She'd ask how the sessions went, nod along when Tara talked about how smart you were, how patient. How you made things make sense in a way her professor didn't. Sometimes, Tara would laugh and say you reminded her of someone — some dork from high school or a character from a show she liked. Sam would pretend to laugh, too.

But she didn't like it. Any of it.

Sometimes, she managed to keep her mouth shut. She'd just hum and change the subject or excuse herself to go do dishes that didn't need doing. But sometimes the words slipped out anyway.

"Just... don't get too close," she'd said once, barely loud enough to count. Tara had looked up from the couch with a frown.

"What does that mean?"

Sam hadn't answered. She just waved it off. Something about boundaries. About how tutoring was tutoring, and maybe it should stay that way.

But Tara didn't listen. She never really had.

"She's not a serial killer," she said once, dryly, when Sam had brought it up again. "She's literally a TA. You're acting like I'm going on tutoring dates with Ghostface."

Sam hadn't even dignified that one with a response. Just stared at the wall, jaw tight.

Because it wasn't just about danger. It wasn't just about keeping Tara safe. It was about the way things shifted. The way your name came up more and more often, the way Tara spoke about you like she already trusted you.

And Sam knew her sister. Knew how she let people in too easily. Knew how she looked for softness in places that didn't always deserve it.

And she knew — even if she couldn't prove it yet — that something about this wasn't right.

Still, she kept her mouth shut. For a few days, at least. Let Tara have her little victories. Let her pretend this was just school and help and nothing else.

But when another Friday came around — the end of Tara's second full week of sessions — Sam offered to pick her up. Said she'd be in the area anyway. Didn't mention that she'd gotten off work early, or that she'd planned it that way.

The campus was mostly cleared out by then. Late afternoon, sun starting to dip, the building quiet except for the dull hum of vending machines and the occasional echo of footsteps down the hall. Sam found the classroom easily — tucked near the end, just like Tara had texted — and leaned against the wall outside.

The door was open an inch.

Inside, she heard voices. Her sister's — light, relaxed, full of something warm. Then yours, steady and calm, with this almost annoying gentleness in it. Not flirty. Not even particularly enthusiastic.

Just familiar.

Sam didn't move. Not yet. Her hand hovered near the door, but her eyes caught the angle between the wood and the frame. She looked.

Tara sat at one of the desks, papers scattered in front of her, pen twirling between her fingers as she laughed at something. Across from her was you. You were relaxed, leaned back just slightly in your chair, speaking with your hands as you explained something she clearly didn't get the first time — but you weren't annoyed about it. You weren't even trying hard.

It just looked easy.

Like you'd done this before. Like you knew her. Like the two of you knew each other.

Sam's jaw clenched.

She didn't know what she expected — maybe boredom, maybe formality, maybe even tension. But not this. Not Tara smiling like that, not you smiling back. Not the air in the room feeling warm in that settled way. She couldn't hear everything, but she didn't need to.

It was the way Tara kept looking at you. The way you kept looking back.

Too comfortable. Too fast.

You were sitting on the other side of the desk, one ankle tucked over the other, posture relaxed in a way that didn't scream "teacher" but didn't cross into casual either. You wore a dark long-sleeve, something fitted but simple, sleeves pushed halfway up your arms. Your hair was a little messy, but not in the careless way — in the intentional way. Like you didn't care, but still managed to look too put-together.

Not flashy. Not even particularly intimidating. Just... cool. And older.

Mid-twenties, maybe. Comfortable in your skin. And it showed — in the way you tilted your head when Tara said something dumb, or how your smile curved at the edge like you were holding in a laugh.

There was nothing overtly inappropriate about the scene. No lingering looks, no touching, no boundary crossed.

But Sam didn't like the way Tara kept leaning in a little. Or how you mirrored it — subtle, automatic, like you were just used to the rhythm of talking to her.

She could already hear Tara's voice in her head: "It's not like that."

It didn't matter.

She hated the way you looked at her sister. Even worse, she hated how comfortable you were with it — like this was routine. Like you'd both gotten used to each other way too quickly.

Her hand curled into a loose fist at her side, and just as she was about to push the door fully open, you glanced up and noticed her.

You looked straight at her. No startled double-take. No awkward scramble. Just a blink — slow and even — before you stood.

You were tall. Not taller than Sam, but tall enough that it was the first thing she noticed. The second was your expression: polite, faintly warm, like you'd been expecting someone eventually. You offered her a hand, voice smooth and professional.

"Hi," you said, smiling just enough to show it was real. "You must be Sam. I'm—"

She didn't take it.

"I'm just here to pick up my sister."

The words weren't rude, exactly. Just... cold. Dry. Dropped like a pin in the middle of what had been an easy, flowing moment.

There was a short silence after that — not awkward, but definitely clipped. A shift. Like someone had hit pause and turned the temperature down.

You didn't flinch. You just let your hand fall naturally back to your side, the smile on your face slipping into something more neutral. Not offended. Not even surprised. Just... reset.

"Of course," you said simply, still holding eye contact for a beat longer than necessary. "Tara's made real progress."

That was when Sam felt it.

The tone of it. The quiet confidence. The way you said her sister's name like it wasn't borrowed — like it belonged to you too. Like you'd earned the right to say it that way.

Sam hated it.

She hated how you said it. Like you were proud of her. Like you had any idea who she really was.

Not because it was flirtatious — it wasn't. Not even close. But it was familiar. Warm. Like you knew her. Like you were proud of her. Like you saw something in Tara that maybe even Sam hadn't been able to get her to show lately.

She didn't say anything. Just stared at you with that same cool expression, shoulders square, hands in the pockets of her coat. Still holding her ground in the doorway like she had every right to stand there, to interrupt, to judge.

Tara stood behind you, finally rising from her seat and brushing a hand over the top of her backpack. The sound of the zipper gave the moment somewhere to land.

"Hey," she said, turning toward the door. Her voice was lighter than usual. Easy. "You're early."

"Traffic was light."

Sam's eyes flicked to her sister now — finally. Tara was still in the same shirt and jeans she'd left the apartment in that morning, hair pulled up into a messy knot that somehow still worked. She looked relaxed. At ease. Like she wanted to be here.

Like she wasn't in a rush to leave.

You didn't say anything else, just smiled again — smaller this time, polite, purely professional — and turned back to your things. Your hair fell in front of your cheek as you bent slightly over your notebook. Neat handwriting. A few color-coded tabs poking out from the corners.

Sam watched all of it.

You were older than Tara, that much was clear. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. Something about you was put-together in a way college students weren't usually — like you actually slept, actually planned. You wore a soft sweater tucked slightly into black jeans, the kind of look that seemed effortless but wasn't. Your jewelry was minimal — just one small ring and a pair of earrings. Gold. Clean.

Everything about you was... neutral. Soft. Harmless.

Sam didn't believe that for a second.

Tara slung her bag over one shoulder as she reached for her phone. "Same time Monday?"

"Yeah," you replied, glancing up at her with a small nod. "Unless you need to move it."

"No, Monday's good."

You told her to have a good weekend. Then you glanced at Sam again and added, with simple sincerity, "Take care."

And then you walked out — calm, unbothered, collected. Like you didn't feel the strange charge still hanging in the air. Or maybe you just didn't care.

The moment the hallway swallowed your footsteps, Tara turned to her sister.

She shot her a look — one that could've cut glass. Short, sharp, annoyed.

"She was being nice," Tara muttered under her breath. "You could've just said hi."

Sam didn't answer at first. Just crossed her arms, jaw tight.

"She's friendly," she said finally, voice flat.

"She's not a stranger," Tara snapped back.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "She's still new."

"She's literally my professor," Tara said, brushing past her on the way to the door. "And she's helped me more than anyone else."

Sam stood there for a second, catching the door with her hand before it could swing shut behind Tara. She followed, a step behind, her mouth set in a hard line.

It wasn't jealousy.

But something in her felt off-kilter. Like she'd just lost a round in a game she didn't agree to play. Like she'd watched someone else pull Tara further out of reach — and hadn't even been given a chance to stop it.

The car ride home was quiet at first. Just the low hum of the engine and the occasional sound of Tara shifting in her seat, tapping her nails against her phone screen as she texted someone — probably you.

Then she started talking.

Not about anything major. Just bits and pieces from the session. The chapter she finally understood. The way you explained something using examples no one else had thought to use. How it just clicked. How smart you were. How easy you made it feel.

Sam stared ahead at the road, hands locked at ten and two, the muscle in her jaw twitching.

Tara didn't notice. Or maybe she did and didn't care.

"She said something today about cognitive frameworks," Tara added, adjusting the volume of her own voice like she didn't even realize she was smiling. "The way she broke it down — like, actually made sense. It's kind of insane how good she is at this."

Sam didn't respond.

She just tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

Tara knew better. Knew not to trust people so quickly. Not to let them too close, too fast.

And yet here she was — windows down, backpack half-zipped, talking about some twenty-something tutor like she'd known her for years.

Sam felt it again. That quiet, gnawing sense of something slipping just beyond her reach.

And this time, it wasn't going away.

The sessions didn't go away after that day either — if anything, they started happening more often. What began as scheduled weekly meetings turned into casual text exchanges, late-night reschedules, extra time added "just to review a few things." Tara talked about you more often, too — not in any way that would normally matter. Just in passing. Offhanded mentions of things you'd said, concepts you'd helped her understand, the books you recommended that she "actually kind of wanted to read."

At first, Sam told herself it wasn't that deep.

But over the next few weeks, it started to feel deeper.

You were always around. Or if you weren't, it felt like you had just been. Tara would leave the apartment with her hair barely dry from the shower, always rushing, always saying she didn't want to be late — not for class, but for you. She started staying later after school, coming home in better moods, more talkative. More sure of herself in the way she explained her ideas.

It wasn't that Sam didn't want her to be doing better. That wasn't it.

But something about it rubbed against every protective instinct she had.

Because it wasn't just about the studying anymore. Sam could hear it in the way Tara spoke — more relaxed, more familiar. There was this warmth in her voice, one she rarely let slip for anyone else.

You were no longer just her professor. You were becoming a part of her life. Softly, gradually, without Sam's permission.

She noticed it everywhere. In the extra coffee mugs on the counter sometimes — one of them not theirs. In the new books stacked on Tara's desk, all borrowed. In the small, thoughtful things: a sticky note Tara had saved with reminders in your handwriting. The way she mentioned something "you'd" said about learning styles or memorization techniques, like you were a mutual friend they both had.

And then there was that afternoon.

Sam came home early, the front door still halfway unlocked. She had just stepped into the apartment when she heard it — the low sound of laughter coming from outside. She walked to the window just in time to see Tara shutting the passenger door of your car, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, smiling at something you'd said through the window. She lingered. So did you.

Nothing inappropriate. Nothing obvious.

But Sam felt it anyway — the way you both fit into that moment like it had been practiced a dozen times before.

When Tara came inside, Sam didn't say anything right away. Just gave her a quick look and went back to wiping down the kitchen counter, as if it hadn't meant anything.

But later that evening, when she passed Tara's room and saw her curled up on her bed with a textbook open — the corner of a napkin used as a bookmark, with your handwriting on it again — she couldn't help herself.

"She drives you home now?" Sam asked, leaning in the doorway.

Tara didn't even look up. "Sometimes. If we finish late."

Sam nodded slowly, arms crossed. "That's nice of her."

Tara finally glanced over. "Why do you sound like that?"

"Like what?”

"You know what."

Sam just gave a faint shrug and said nothing.

From that point on, her interactions with you became clipped. Cool. The kind of polite that almost bordered on passive-aggressive. Never outright rude — never something anyone could really call her on. But enough.

A slightly too-long pause before answering your greetings. A dry "huh" when you offered a compliment about Tara's progress. A subtle edge to her voice anytime your name came up.

She didn't trust you. She didn't like that she couldn't explain why.

And worst of all — she didn't like how much Tara seemed to.

You weren't around often, not directly. Tutors weren't supposed to linger, and Sam figured you knew that. But still — you existed. Within earshot, within reach, inside her sister's life in a way Sam hadn't agreed to. And somehow, you were still always there.

A name in passing. A quiet chuckle when Tara remembered something you said. A phone vibration Tara answered a little too quickly.

It got under Sam's skin more than she'd admit.

She didn't know how to place you, and that bothered her. You were kind, but never too familiar. Professional, but not stiff. And worst of all, you never gave her a real reason to be mad at you. You never overstepped — not obviously. Not directly. But there was something about you she couldn't shake, something that made her feel like she was being quietly replaced.

Whenever you and Sam crossed paths, the tension lived in the smallest details.

You'd greet her, polite, neutral — "Hi, Sam" — and she'd nod once without looking up from whatever she was pretending to do.

You'd say something encouraging about Tara's work, and she'd mutter, "She's always been capable."

You'd offer a small joke once, lightly, while Tara was laughing beside you — and Sam's smile wouldn't even reach her eyes.

None of it was loud. But it stung, even if no one else seemed to notice.

What made it worse was how Tara started talking about you like you were something more. Not just her professor. Not just a tutor. But a person. Someone funny. Someone helpful. Someone she liked.

It wasn't romantic — Sam could admit that. She wasn't being irrational.

But it was something else. Something worse.

It sounded like Tara considered you a friend.

That part burned. Because Sam knew what that meant. Tara didn't let people in like that — not often, and definitely not gently. But she let you in, and Sam didn't know what that said about you, or worse, about her.

She tried not to care. She really did. There were a thousand ways to reason herself out of it. But every time she heard your name from Tara's mouth, something in her bristled.

She wanted to push you out — cut the cord, find some polite excuse to stop the sessions, make Tara study with her instead.

But she already knew how that would go.

They'd tried before. It ended with slammed doors and Tara storming off, her voice sharp with irritation. "You're not helping," she'd snapped once, back when Sam tried to reteach her freshman psych notes. "You're just making me hate this."

And then you had entered the picture.

And Sam had stayed out of it. At least on the surface.

But the thing that really got to her — the moment that kept replaying in the back of her mind — was the time Tara had invited you over.

It had happened weeks ago, maybe longer, but Sam still thought about it.

Tara had done it without telling her. Said it was because she focused better at home. Said she'd clean the place herself. Said Sam would be at the café all afternoon, anyway.

You had tried to decline, as far as Sam could tell. You'd said you preferred public or campus spaces. But somehow, Tara had worn you down — and for a few hours, you'd been sitting in their living room, with your notes spread out across the coffee table and Tara's knee bouncing as she scribbled down whatever you were saying.

Sam didn't even find out until later — days later, when she noticed a notecard with your handwriting stuck inside one of Tara's textbooks and asked where it came from.

"Oh," Tara had said, way too casually. "That was from when she came here. I needed help before the midterm. You were at work."

Just like that. Not a big deal. Nothing to be defensive about.

But Sam had flipped. Not in front of Tara — not fully — but enough. Her jaw tightened. Her voice dropped an octave.

"You let her come here?"

Tara rolled her eyes. "I didn't let her. I asked her. And it's not like I let her into my room or anything."

"You didn't think to tell me?"

"I didn't think you'd care."

That part stung most of all.

Because of course Sam cared. Because this was her space. Her sister. And it felt like you'd stepped into it — not forcefully, not arrogantly, but comfortably. Like you belonged.

And Sam wasn't sure if that said something about you.

Or something about how far she'd already been pushed out.

But more than that — more than the invisible lines you seemed to cross without hesitation — it was the certainty that got to her. The comfort. The trust.

Because Sam didn't trust anyone.

Not really. Not anymore.

Not after everything they'd survived. Not after what people turned out to be. After how easily someone could smile at you — offer help, offer kindness — only to drive a knife through your spine the second you let your guard down.

She had learned that lesson the hardest way possible. And it was burned into her now, bone-deep.

So when she saw Tara relaxing around you — smiling without effort, leaning in to listen, opening herself up — something in Sam twitched. Alarm bells, sirens, something.

You were new. Polite. Well-spoken. Friendly. All the things Amber had been, too.

That was the worst part.

You didn't seem dangerous. You didn't act suspicious. And that made Sam trust you even less.

Because the ones who meant it — the ones who planned it — never did.

So no, she didn't think you were just some harmless academic. She didn't care how many degrees you had, or how patient you were with Tara's questions, or how helpful your notes might've been. She cared about why. Why you were here. Why you'd agreed to help in the first place. Why you were still sticking around even now.

And whether or not you were waiting for the moment Tara finally let her guard down just enough.

She couldn't prove it — not yet. But Sam had learned how to live with that kind of doubt. She carried it everywhere now. Like instinct. Like armor.

And even if she was wrong about you — even if you were just... you — that didn't stop the fear from crawling up her spine every time she saw Tara laugh in your direction.

Because Sam didn't just worry about losing her sister.

She worried about watching it happen. One slow, trusting step at a time.

And that was why Sam felt this deep, burning rage every time she saw you.

Because she knew. Or at least, she thought she did.

She knew what this was. The slow disarming. The calculated softness. The ease with which you'd slipped into Tara's world. The careful way you stayed polite, professional — likable — while making yourself impossible to ignore.

She saw it coming.

She felt it in her gut, the way she used to before a knife came down — the heavy, sick pulse of something about to snap.

You were going to hurt Tara. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But it was coming. Sam could feel it.

And yet... she wasn't sure. Not completely.

Because what if you weren't like the others? What if you were just some regular person — kind, patient, weirdly generous with your time? What if you were actually helping?

She couldn't exactly pull you aside, corner you in some hallway and accuse you of plotting murder. Not without proof. Not without risking Tara looking at her like she was crazy again.

So instead, Sam just stood there. Watching. Seething. Caught between her instincts and her doubt.

Because no one was that soft for no reason. No one stuck around that long — gave that much — without wanting something.

No one looked at Tara the way you did unless they meant something by it.

And Sam didn't know what it was yet.

But she was going to find out.

Because that was what Sam did. She knew how to spot danger — she had to. Her whole body lived in it, breathed in it, woke up every morning already braced for whatever was coming. It was survival now, the way her shoulders never quite relaxed and her jaw never fully unclenched.

And still, somehow, all that tension had to go somewhere.

She wasn't stupid — she knew she walked through life with a fuse already half-burned. Most days, it just sat there, simmering under the surface. But on bad days — really bad days — it felt like the whole world was just waiting to strike the match.

And today had been hell.

The espresso machine broke down mid-rush. The new girl on register kept messing up orders and blaming Sam when customers got pissed. Some guy knocked over a tray of drinks and left without apologizing. And worst of all, her manager — who always pretended she was "just trying to help" — hovered the whole time, correcting Sam like she'd never worked a food service job in her life.

By the time she clocked out, her shirt was soaked with milk, her shoes were sticky, and her hands stung from scrubbing dried syrup off counters someone else was supposed to clean.

All she wanted was to get home, shower, and sit in silence.

But when she stepped into the apartment — dropped her keys onto the kitchen counter and kicked off her shoes — the first thing she saw wasn't quiet.

It was you.

There again, sitting beside Tara at the table. Books and papers spread across the surface, a cup of coffee in front of you like this was your place. Like you lived here.

Sam stood still for a second, frozen in the doorway. Not because she was surprised. Just because of course this was happening.

Of course Tara had invited you over again.

Of course you were laughing softly at something, that same effortless calm in your voice as you leaned over to point at something in her notes. Of course Tara was smiling — open and easy in a way Sam didn't get to see anymore.

Sam didn't say anything. Not yet.

She just dropped her bag a little harder than she needed to, loud enough that the both of you looked up.

Tara blinked. "Hey. You're home early."

"Yeah," Sam said. Voice flat. "Finished my shift."

You smiled — polite, as always. "Hi, Sam."

She didn't answer. Just gave you a look, sharp and unreadable, before turning toward the fridge like you hadn't spoken at all.

She could feel her pulse behind her eyes. Could feel the shift in the room — not dramatic, but enough. Enough to light the fuse a little more.

Because there you were again.

In her space.

In Tara's space.

And Sam could already feel what was coming.

The tension wasn't just in her shoulders anymore — it had spread. Crawled under her skin, curled hot behind her ribs. That low, seething burn that told her something needed to snap.

She headed straight for the sink.

The dishes were still piled up from last night — bowls streaked with congealed sauce, two mugs stained with dried coffee rings, a plate with crumbs hardened onto it like glue. She stared at the mess for a second, jaw tightening.

Of course.

Of course Tara hadn't done them. Because why would she? She had you here. Sitting cozy at the kitchen table. Like you were both college roommates or something.

Sam turned the tap on. Hot — too hot. It scalded her hands when it hit her skin, but she didn't flinch. Just grabbed the first mug and started scrubbing.

One by one, she cleaned them — not carefully, but fast and rough, her fingers slipping from the soap. The sound of plates clattering against each other echoed through the kitchen. One slammed down a little too hard against the next, sharp enough to make Tara glance over.

"You okay?" she asked, casual, half-distracted.

"Fine," Sam muttered.

She wasn't listening. Not really. She didn't want to hear.

But she couldn't not.

Your voice drifted over the clatter — low, calm, patient. Sam couldn't make out every word, but she didn't need to. She knew the sound. That soft, level tone people used when they cared. The kind of voice you used to walk someone through something, to keep them from giving up on themselves.

And Tara responded. Sam heard it in the tiny confirmations, the small hums of understanding. The way she said "Ohhh, okay, that makes sense now," like her world had just unlocked another door.

She didn't sound bored. Or defeated. Or irritated the way she did when Sam tried to help.

No — Tara was focused. Present. Engaged.

And then you said something else — Sam couldn't hear what — but it made Tara laugh.

That light, easy laugh that Sam hadn't heard in weeks.

It made something snap loose in her chest.

She dropped a plate into the drying rack harder than she meant to. It clanged loudly, unmissable. Tara flinched a little at the sound, just barely, and Sam's knuckles turned white around the sponge.

Her stomach twisted.

Because she knew she wasn't being fair.

But rage didn't care about fair. Rage only needed an opening. And Sam could feel it rising now, flooding in fast. Her thoughts turning sharp and cruel, already searching for somewhere to land.

And you, sitting there in her kitchen like you belonged, were the easiest place to start.

Sam dropped the last plate into the sink with a sharp, glassy clink — loud enough to break whatever calm had been hanging in the air.

You flinched. Just slightly. But Sam caught it.

She reached for the dish towel, hands still wet from the heat of the water. She wiped them dry, slow and deliberate, gaze already shifting to you — not polite or casual or curious. Just hard.

She wanted you gone.

"Isn't it time for Y/N to head home now?"

Your head turned, caught off guard by the sudden edge in her voice. You looked surprised. Maybe confused. But you didn't answer right away — which only made her jaw tighten further.

Sam tilted her head just enough to keep the tension sharp. "That's your name, right?" she said, voice low but flat. "Y/N?"

You nodded slowly, uncertain. "...Yeah."

Tara's pencil stopped moving. She looked up from her notebook, frowning just enough to notice.

"She'll leave when we're finished," she said, not rude — but firmer than before. "We're almost done."

Sam didn't move. Didn't blink.

Tara's voice came again, slightly sharper this time. "Why are you in a rush? You just got home."

Sam opened her mouth. Closed it. A million biting things sat on the tip of her tongue — things she could say, accusations she could throw. But none of them would land right. Not yet.

So she just shrugged once. "Didn't realize tutoring needed hours every other night."

Tara rolled her eyes. "Jesus, Sam."

You said nothing. Still seated, still quiet — like you didn't know whether to excuse yourself or stay frozen in place. You looked over at Tara like maybe she would tell you what to do.

And that made Sam's chest clench.

Because now you were waiting on Tara. Like she was your person. Like she made the call. Like she decided when it was time for you to go.

And Sam couldn't fucking take it.

The dish towel hit the counter with a slap, and she turned fully to face you both — barely managing to keep her tone level, but the fury bled through anyway.

"How long is this tutoring thing supposed to go on?" she asked, her arms crossing as if that could contain the heat in her chest. "Or is this just... a new hobby?”

You looked up, confused. Tara turned toward her sister, brows already drawing together.

"Or is this really just tutoring?"

The question landed sharp and sudden, cutting through the ease in the room like a blade.

Sam didn't stop. Didn't breathe.

"Because I don't know many professors who go out of their way like this for one student. Who text late at night. Who show up multiple times a week. Who laugh like that in someone else's kitchen."

Your throat tightened.

Tara straightened in her seat. "What the hell are you talking about—"

"I'm saying," Sam went on, louder now, eyes fixed on you, "that maybe you're not helping her because you care about her grades. Maybe it's something else."

A silence fell — not the usual kind. Not awkward or paused or uncertain.

This was thick. Charged.

"Sam," Tara said, voice low, warning.

But she wasn't done.

"You're what — three years older? You think she's special? You think she needs you? Or are you just bored enough to pretend you're doing this for free out of the kindness of your heart?"

Sam didn't stop. Her voice was low, sharp, dripping with that kind of condescension that didn't even try to mask itself anymore.

"Or is this some little fantasy for you? Tara — the shy, smart student. You — the helpful, older mentor. Is that what this is?"

Your mouth parted slightly, like you were about to speak — like you wanted to explain, to clear it up, to understand. But Sam cut you off before a single word escaped.

"Don't," she snapped. "Don't give me that look like you don't know what I'm talking about."

Tara's chair scraped against the tile, harsh and sudden. But Sam kept going.

"You're too invested. Too available. Too fucking interested. No one just gives this much of a shit about someone they barely know."

You flinched, visibly this time, but Sam didn't care. She was breathing fast now, eyes locked on you like she couldn't look anywhere else.

"Showing up here like it's normal. Acting like you're part of her life. Laughing at everything she says. Do you think she doesn't notice that? Do you think I don't?"

Tara said your name — quiet, a warning — but Sam kept talking like she hadn't even heard it.

"You're not her friend. You're not her fucking therapist. And you're definitely not just her tutor. So what are you?"

That one echoed. That one stuck.

You looked stunned, pale — like the room had shifted underneath you. Because you hadn't thought of it like that. Not even close.

But Sam had. Over and over. For weeks. She'd built it up in her head, let every laugh and every lingering glance rot into something suspicious, something dangerous, something she knew had to be real.

"You're obsessed," she muttered, almost like it was the only thing that made sense anymore. "You don't even see it, but it's fucking obvious."

And then, silence.

Still and tight and ugly.

Because she'd finally said it. Every accusation she'd held in, every awful thought she'd spun in her head — out loud, no way to take it back.

And now it just sat there between you all.

Burning.

That was it. That was the one that landed.

Because even Tara didn't speak for a second.

And Sam knew she'd gone too far. But for a moment, it felt right. Like throwing a punch in a dream. Like finally saying the thing that had been rotting in the back of her throat for weeks.

She wanted to regret it. But she didn't. Not yet.

Not when you were sitting there, stunned, trying not to show how much it hurt.

Not when Tara's face had gone still. Cold.

Not when Sam finally, finally, felt like she had a little power back. FINALLY

___

Everything shifted after that night.

You hadn't raised your voice.

Hadn't argued. Hadn't even defended yourself.

You'd just blinked — once, slow — like you were still trying to make sense of what you'd heard. Then you stood up, collected your things with quiet, deliberate movements, and offered a strained, polite, "I think I should get going.”

Tara had shot up from her seat. "Wait — you don't have to—"

But you were already shaking your head. Already forcing a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.

"It's fine. I've got a lot to do anyway. Tell me how the chapter goes."

Tara had followed — not close enough to stop you, but close enough that it felt like she wanted to.

"I'll text you," she'd said, just as you reached the door.

You gave a soft nod. "Yeah. Sure.”

And then you left. Quiet. Shaken. Gone.

The door had barely clicked shut before Tara turned.

"Thanks," she snapped, voice sharp and unforgiving. "You ruined everything."

Sam hadn't said anything. Not right away. Not because she didn't have a defense — but because none of it would've made her look better. Not when Tara was glaring at her like that. Not when it was already so clear whose side she was on.

Tara shook her head, hands on her hips like she needed something to hold herself together.

"All you had to do was be normal," she muttered. "Just once."

Sam stood in the kitchen, jaw clenched, hands still damp from the dish towel she'd twisted too tightly a few minutes earlier. Her chest ached — from the mess, from the things she'd said, and worse, from how much she'd meant them. Not consciously. Not completely. But enough.

"You always do this," Tara bit out, stepping forward. "You don't like something, so you burn it down. Just because you can't keep your temper in check—"

"She's too close," Sam cut in — too fast, too defensive. "She's not just tutoring you. You don't see it."

"No, you don't." Tara's voice trembled, but it didn't lose its force. "She actually gives a shit about me. She helps me. She shows up. And the second that threatens your little control complex, you tear her apart."

"She could be dangerous," Sam hissed. "You think I'm just paranoid? You think I haven't seen people like her before?"

Tara's laugh was sharp, cold. "You've never seen anyone like her before."

And then she was gone — disappearing down the hallway with quick, angry steps and a slammed door, choosing silence over staying in the blast radius of her sister's fear.

Sam had stayed in the kitchen, motionless, surrounded by everything she'd created. Plates still wet in the sink. One of your notes left behind on the counter. Her breath heavy in her chest.

And for the first time, something like regret had a place to sit.

A week passed.

Tutoring didn't happen.

There were no texts asking if Thursday still worked, no last-minute reminders or reschedules. No shared notes left on the counter. No sign of you at all.

But Tara didn't bring it up. Not once. And Sam didn't ask.

Still — she noticed.

She noticed everything.

She noticed the way Tara's phone barely left her hand now. How she wasn't scrolling through socials or mindlessly watching reels like usual — she was in her messages, always, staring at something, rereading, typing something out and then deleting it. Stopping. Starting again. Changing her mind.

She noticed how Tara would get a reply, and it would quiet her even more. How she'd go still for a second, like she was trying not to react to it. Like whatever she got back wasn't what she was hoping for. Not angry. Just... disappointed. Or maybe sad. It was hard to tell — Tara was guarded now in a way Sam hadn't seen since their first year in New York.

And Sam could connect the dots.

Because Tara didn't just stop texting people for no reason. And Tara didn't just sigh after checking her phone unless she was waiting for someone.

You were still responding — that much was clear. But your replies were short. Not cold, exactly. Just formal. Like someone pulling away carefully, hoping not to cause a scene.

And Sam didn't ask if Tara had reached out again.

Didn't ask how often you texted, or if Tara was the one keeping the conversation going.

She didn't ask if the silence between you and the apartment was mutual — or if it was just what happened after someone realized they weren't welcome anymore.

But she thought about it.

At night, mostly — when the apartment was too quiet, and Tara hadn't left her room in hours, and Sam was doing that thing she always did: reliving every conversation she'd ruined by saying too much too fast. She replayed it all. The plates, the glare, the way you'd flinched. The sound of her own voice, low and cruel and far too confident. The way your face had gone still when she'd said your name like it was something ugly.

She didn't regret the instinct — not entirely. But she regretted how it stuck now. How she'd meant for you to leave, and now you had, and it didn't feel the way it was supposed to.

And Tara wasn't letting it go either.

She wasn't yelling anymore. No slamming doors. No full-out confrontations.

Just cold. Every time she spoke to Sam, it was with a new kind of distance. A deliberate chill. One-word replies, long silences. Conversations that used to last ten minutes were over in ten seconds. If Sam asked how school was going, Tara would shrug. If she asked what she wanted for dinner, Tara would say she'd eat later. If she asked anything else, Tara wouldn't even look up from her phone.

It was punishment. Not loud. Not dramatic.

But it was punishment.

And Sam didn't say anything back, because she knew exactly what this was. Tara was waiting for her to admit it. To say she'd gone too far. To take it back. But Sam didn't.

Because they were both stubborn. Always had been.

Tara thought the silence would break Sam first.

Sam thought Tara would get over it.

And in the meantime, the apartment stayed quiet.

But it wasn't like things stayed broken forever.

Eventually, the next Thursday came. And then the one after that.

And the sessions started again.

No one had asked. No one had said anything. The text from you had just come in — simple, direct.

Still good for tonight?

Tara had stared at it for a long time before replying.

yeah. of course.

And you'd shown up. Right on time. Notebook in hand. Polite smile. The same way you always had.

But it wasn't the same.

Because you weren't asking about Tara's week anymore. You weren't laughing at her sarcastic comments, or telling her weird stories about your walk over. You didn't bring her favorite snacks. You didn't call her out for zoning out during a grammar question or gently tease her about always skipping the last page of assigned readings.

You were still kind. Still patient. Still you, technically.

But something in your voice had changed. Detached, maybe. Just enough that it made it clear: you weren't her friend right now.

You were her tutor. That was it.

And Tara noticed it right away.

The first night, she kept waiting for the shift — like you were just tired or stressed, and it would wear off once you got talking. But it didn't. You stayed focused. Friendly. Distant.

By the second session, it was a pattern.

You asked the right questions. You corrected her answers. You said goodnight with a soft smile and the same quiet professionalism she hated hearing from her professors.

Tara didn't say anything about it. Not during the sessions. Not after.

But it was obvious something had changed.

And when she finally asked — when you were packing up your things one night and she just blurted it out — she regretted it almost instantly.

"Did something happen?"

You looked up, caught off guard.

Tara knew something had happened. She also knew what had happened. Who had happened.

She didn't know why she'd asked. But she continued anyway, she needed to hear you confirm her sister had ruined yet another thing in her life.

Tara tried to soften it. "I mean... did I do something?"

And you'd hesitated. Not because you didn't have an answer. But because saying it out loud felt like picking sides.

"No," you said carefully. "Nothing you did."

Another pause. Your bag slung over your shoulder. A small shrug.

"It's just... I don't want to cause trouble."

Tara's stomach twisted. "You're not."

You gave her a look. It wasn't mean. It wasn't angry. It just... was.

Then you looked down, fiddled with the strap of your bag, and said, "I think maybe I just overstepped."

That caught Tara off guard. "What?"

You offered a small, careful shrug. "Your sister doesn't want me around. I get it."

Tara's jaw tensed. "That's not—"

"It's okay," you cut in, too quickly. "It really is. I'm still happy to help you. This doesn't have to be awkward."

But it was awkward. It had been awkward for days. Ever since Sam said what she said and you just... stopped acting like any of this mattered to you beyond homework.

And Tara wasn't stupid. She could hear it in your voice — how hard you were trying to make it sound like none of this bothered you. Like you weren't hurt. Like it wasn't still happening every time you walked through their door.

"I'll talk to her," Tara said suddenly. "About what she said. She had no right—"

"No, no—" you rushed to cut her off, already shaking your head. "Please don't. I don't want to make this a thing. She doesn't even have to be there."

Tara blinked. "What?"

You hesitated — then tried to make it sound casual. Like it wasn't a big deal. "I was just thinking... maybe we could start meeting somewhere else. Library, coffee shop, whatever. It'd probably be easier for both of us."

And you were smiling when you said it. That same smile you'd been using all week — polite, easy, and completely not real.

Tara stared at you, and slowly, the pieces clicked into place.

You didn't want to come over anymore.

You weren't just pulling back — you were scared. Scared that Sam would say something else. Scared she'd come into the kitchen again, cold and calm and cruel, and throw another grenade into something that had once felt so safe.

"Right," Tara said quietly. "Sure. That makes sense."

She didn't fight you on it. She could tell you didn't want her to.

But she didn't know what pissed her off more: that you were pulling away, or that you were being so damn nice about it.

Because it meant she couldn't even be angry at you.

So instead, she'd taken it out on Sam.

That night, after you left — again — Tara had followed Sam into the kitchen and snapped, "She's still uncomfortable, by the way. In case you were wondering."

Sam hadn't even looked up. "She came back, didn't she?"

And Tara had rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. "Yeah. Because she's nicer than you. Not because she forgot what you said." NICER THAN YOU

Sam had said nothing. She didn't apologize. Didn't explain. Just stood there like she always did — quiet, unreadable, like that made her immune to being wrong.

And Tara had tried again, the next night. Tried to get her to talk about it, or at least acknowledge that she'd messed everything up.

But Sam just shrugged her off again. Told her she was being dramatic. Said maybe if you were that quick to switch up, you were never as genuine as you looked.

And Tara hated her for it. Hated her for acting like none of this mattered. Like you didn't matter. Like Tara hadn't just spent weeks actually feeling okay for once — and now it was all ruined.

And even worse: you weren't even angry. You were just... gone in a way that made it feel like you weren't coming back.

Like you'd already decided it wasn't worth the mess.

Tara could feel it.

And so could Sam — though she'd never admit it out loud.

She noticed the cold shoulders. The one-word answers. The silence between rooms that used to be filled with laughter.

But unlike Tara, Sam didn't take it as a loss.

She took it as confirmation.

You were pulling away — fine. But that didn't mean you were harmless. If anything, it made you more suspicious. More calculated. Because Sam had seen people like you before. Friendly. Charming. Helpful. Too helpful. Always ready to show up, always quick to care — until you got close enough to do damage.

And she'd let you get too close. She'd waited too long.

So she started paying attention.

Not to Tara. Not anymore. This time, she watched you.

She didn't mean to at first. It wasn't like she'd planned anything. But she'd been walking back from the store when she spotted you leaving the library — alone, earphones in, hoodie pulled up like you didn't want to be noticed.

And she'd just... paused.

Watched you cross the street. Watched you duck into that little café you always went to after your study sessions.

It didn't mean anything.

Except it did.

Because the next day, she lingered a little longer in the same neighborhood. And the day after that, she changed her shift so she could take the later train — the one that passed by campus around the time you usually left.

It was never anything direct. Never anything obvious. She just kept ending up where you were.

To make sure.

To be sure.

To prove she was right.

Because something was off about you. Something had always been off. You were too careful. Too nice. You'd formed a bond with Tara like it had been planned — slow, natural, believable — and then you'd backed away the second you were confronted.

That wasn't normal. That wasn't how innocent people acted.

And Sam couldn't shake the feeling that you were still waiting — still watching. That the second she let her guard down, you'd try again. Try to win Tara back. Try to pull her further out of reach.

So she followed.

Not because she was obsessed. Not because she was afraid of losing her sister.

But because she knew something was wrong with you.

And she needed to see it for herself.

At first, it was just once or twice. A passing glance. A coincidence. That's what she told herself.

But then it was three times. Four. Then she started recognizing your schedule — the classes you must've been leaving based on the time, the path you always took down the side of campus, the small moments you didn't think anyone saw.

You usually had your headphones in. You never walked fast. Always polite when someone stopped you — a student needing help, a professor who knew your name — but you never lingered. Never smiled.

You answered everything kindly, patiently. You were never short. Never rude.

Just... distant.

Like you were only halfway there.

It was the same in the café you always went to. You sat in the corner with your laptop open, a notebook pressed flat to one side. You didn't scroll your phone or check your reflection or look at anyone walking in. You didn't laugh. You didn't eat with friends.

You just sat there, sipping coffee that probably went cold too fast, scribbling something into the margins of papers you didn't even have to grade.

Like you were trying to keep busy just to keep from thinking.

By the end of the second day, Sam could see it clearly. You weren't dangerous. You weren't calculated. You weren't planning anything.

You were just... sad.

Moving through your day like a ghost.

And the worst part? Sam hated that she noticed. Hated that it made her feel anything.

So she buried it.

Started making excuses — for herself, for Tara. She wasn't following you. No. She was just taking a different route home. Just checking out a bookstore she'd never noticed before. Just passing by the quad at the same time your tutoring sessions usually ended. That's all.

And when Tara asked what she'd been up to all afternoon — where she'd gone, what she'd been doing — Sam didn't even hesitate.

"Errands."

"Walked around a bit."

"There's this new place opening on 9th."

"Needed some air."

None of it true.

But all of it necessary.

Because she had to be right.

Had to believe there was something she was missing. That you were putting on an act. That she just hadn't caught it yet.

Because if she had been wrong — if she'd said all those things to someone who didn't deserve it — if that was what had shattered everything...

She wasn't sure she could live with it.

So she kept watching.

Even after the truth had started to make itself obvious.

The fifth time she followed you — it was almost by accident. She'd told Tara she needed to go to the pharmacy. Something about prescriptions. Vitamins. Whatever came out of her mouth fastest. She didn't even care if it made sense.

She just needed to see.

You took the bus this time. A short ride. She followed in her car, always two cars behind. Parked on the street and waited, engine still running, trying not to feel like this was completely insane.

You didn't go into a store. Didn't meet up with anyone. You walked for a while down a quieter road, a small paper bag tucked under your arm. You turned into a cemetery.

That was the first time Sam had to turn her car off.

You stayed there for a long time. Almost an hour, just sitting on the grass. You didn't cry. You didn't do anything dramatic. You just sat there, legs crossed, facing the headstone like you were waiting for someone to talk back. After a while, you laid down a small bouquet of flowers from the bag. Daisies. Nothing expensive. Just quiet.

You stayed until the sun started to dip. Until the light caught your profile and made you look younger.

That image stayed with Sam for days. It made her feel something, which pissed her off even more.

But she didn't stop following you.

She went back the next day. Not to spy — or so she told herself. Just to check the grave. Just to... understand.

And that's when she saw it:

In loving memory of Harper L/N

Beloved Daughter, Sister, Granddaughter and Niece

★ November 20 2002

✞ April 23rd 2021

More than anything we could've wished for. 

She didn't need to do the math. That birthday year— that was the same as Tara's.

It hit her like a punch to the ribs.

Because suddenly it all clicked. You hadn't seen Tara as some new shiny thing to manipulate or get close to. You hadn't seen her as a project. You hadn't been calculating.

You'd just seen her.

Someone the same age. Someone who reminded you of someone else. Someone you couldn't save.

Sam stood in front of that headstone for a long time, arms crossed so tightly it hurt her ribs.

But even then, she didn't let herself believe it was that simple. That clean.

She'd lost people too. She'd buried people too. People she loved. People who died screaming.

And just because you were grieving didn't mean you were safe.

Just because you were sad didn't mean you were right.

So she walked back to her car with her jaw clenched, heart pounding, trying to forget the flowers you'd left behind.

And trying even harder to forget the way you sat there like you didn't have anyone left.

But she couldn't.

She tried.

She went home, showered, changed, scrolled through her phone like everything was normal. She even laughed at something on TV, once — loud, forced, stupid. She kept waiting for it to pass. That ache in her chest. That image of you, cross-legged in the grass, hands folded like you were praying without meaning to.

But it didn't pass.

Days went by, and it stayed.

It stayed when she made coffee in the morning. When she cleaned up Tara's mess in the kitchen. When she passed your building by accident on the way to the gym. That name —Harper— it clung to the walls of her brain like smoke.

And what frustrated her most — what actually made her angry — was that she started to feel sorry for you.

Sorry.

After everything she'd told herself, after every reason she'd built up for why she was right to push you away — now she felt sorry?

It made her want to slam a door. Throw something.

Because she knew what she saw. That closeness. That softness Tara saved just for you. And it had terrified her. Still did. Because feelings like that could make people blind. And Sam knew better than anyone what happened when you stopped looking over your shoulder.

So why couldn't she stop thinking about the way your fingers smoothed the grass beside that grave?

Why couldn't she stop remembering how you'd smiled — once — the very first time she met you, before she even had a reason to be suspicious?

Why did she keep replaying how quietly you sat there, like you weren't waiting for someone to rescue you, just... sitting with it. Like that's all you had left.

And why — why — did she feel like she'd seen that same kind of quiet before, in the mirror, years ago?

It pissed her off. All of it.

She didn't want to care.

She wasn't supposed to care.

But now that she'd seen it — really seen it — she couldn't stop.

And worse than that, she wanted to apologize.

Not out of guilt. Not out of obligation. Not even because Tara would've told her to — because she hadn't told Tara. Wouldn't. That would've only made things worse. Tara would've gotten upset, said Sam couldn't keep treating people like suspects just because she didn't know their stories. She would've said that again, like it was something new.

But Sam always had the same answer.

You don't know what people are.

That was the rule. The thing that had kept them alive. Amber had smiled at them too. So had Quinn. So had Ethan.

But even saying that to herself didn't land the same anymore. Not since she'd seen you there, knees tucked up in the grass like you'd already learned how to live without being comforted. Not since she heard that name.

Harper.

She didn't even know who that was. And yet it haunted her.

So yeah — she wanted to apologize.

Not because anyone told her to. Just because... she needed to.

But the chance never came.

She kept waiting for you to come back to the apartment. For another tutoring session to happen, like before. She'd come home from work on edge, hoping you'd be there, half-expecting to hear your voice. She even stopped at the store once just to buy more of that tea you drank, the one with the ridiculous name she always rolled her eyes at.

But the table stayed empty. The door stayed shut.

And Sam didn't ask about it. She wasn't stupid. She already knew why.

She told herself maybe it had just moved to the library or a café or wherever else people studied. But deep down, she knew that wasn't it. You weren't coming back. Not while she was there. Not if you could help it.

So she tried something else.

"I'll pick you up," she offered, casual, when Tara mentioned a session one night. "If it's late."

She said it again the next time. And the next.

Tara didn't question it much — just shrugged, said "sure," tossed her bag in the car like it didn't matter. But Sam knew what she was doing. She was creating a window. A sliver of opportunity. One hallway, one sidewalk, one parking lot. That's all she needed.

But every time, it ended the same.

You were "in a rush."

Always with that same tone. Light, polite, no sharp edges. But no room either. No pause long enough for Sam to get a word in.

And she told herself it didn't mean anything. That maybe you were in a rush. Maybe you had somewhere to be.

But she didn't believe it.

She'd seen it in your eyes. That flicker of avoidance. Like you were expecting her to say something and wanted to be gone before she could.

And once, when you'd barely nodded goodbye and disappeared across the street, Tara had muttered something under her breath — just loud enough for Sam to catch.

"She doesn't want to talk to you."

Sam didn't say anything back. Just clenched the steering wheel harder and watched you go.

She couldn't blame you.

But that didn't stop her from wanting another chance.

And eventually, it got to the point where she wasn't just hoping anymore — she was planning. Watching the calendar. Tracking your sessions like they were appointments that mattered to her.

When Tara mentioned the library, Sam said she'd pick her up again — casual, like always. But this time, she left work early. Parked two blocks down. Walked over and stood across the street, leaning against a brick wall with her hands in her jacket pockets, trying to look like she wasn't waiting for anything.

But she was.

She was waiting for you.

She heard your voices first. The soft hum of goodbye. Papers being tucked away, zippers closing. And then the doors opened, and there you were — smiling at something Tara said, gentle and brief, like a reflex you hadn't totally lost yet.

You saw her before Tara did.

Your smile dipped — not completely, but just enough. A quick, soft flicker of nerves across your face, like a kid caught sneaking out. You didn't stop walking, didn't freeze, but Sam could tell you didn't know what to do either. Like maybe you were hoping someone else would make the decision for you.

Tara clocked her a second later.

"Oh," she said, half a groan. "You're early."

Sam shrugged. "Figured I'd come straight here."

You nodded, quiet. Almost like you were trying not to disturb anything.

Tara turned back to you, her voice all easy again. "See you Thursday?"

You nodded. "Yeah of course. Bye."

You stepped back, already starting toward the sidewalk, but Sam cut in before you could escape.

"Actually..." Her voice came out steady, but her heart wasn't. "I'd like to talk to Y/N real quick."

You both looked at her. Tara blinked.

"Why?"

"I just—" Sam shifted her weight. "Just a minute. In private."

Tara's eyebrows knit, defensive before you even needed her to be. "Why? What's going on?”

"Nothing," Sam said quickly. Too quickly. "It's not like that."

Tara didn't move. "I'll stay."

"No," Sam said, sharp. She softened it. "Please."

That just made Tara squint harder. "Why should I—"

"Because I need to say something I should've said weeks ago," Sam cut in, firm now, eyes locked on Tara's. "And because I need to say it without you standing there glaring at me the whole time."

Tara opened her mouth again, but hesitated.

And that was all Sam needed.

"Go wait in the car."

Tara looked at you once — just a flash — before stepping back, clearly unhappy but not arguing anymore. She shoved her hands in her pockets and started walking, slow and sulky, like she expected to be called back any second.

Then it was just you and Sam.

And that silence — it hit hard.

You were still standing there, clutching the strap of your bag like it gave you something to do. You didn't look angry. You didn't look anything, really. Just unsure. Bracing for something. Or trying not to.

Sam didn't waste time.

"I was wrong," she said.

Your eyes flicked up to hers, surprised — but not shocked.

"I don't have an excuse," she went on. "I was wrong. About a lot of things. And I'm sorry."

You didn't speak right away. You just looked at her. And then you nodded — once, small.

"Thank you."

That was it. Just those two words. No hesitation. No bitterness.

And Sam didn't know why, but it knocked the air out of her.

Because she hadn't expected it to be that simple. She hadn't expected you to be that simple.

She thought maybe you'd glare at her. Say nothing. Turn away.

But you hadn't.

You forgave her like it was easy.

Like it wasn't the first apology you'd ever gotten. Or maybe it was — and that's why you took it so quietly, so carefully. Like it mattered.

And after that, Sam couldn't stop seeing it. That thing she'd been trying not to notice.

The way you kept your head down when you walked through crowds. The way you laughed with your shoulders tensed, like you weren't sure if it was allowed. The way you waited outside buildings for a few seconds longer than necessary, like you weren't in a rush to go home.

The way Tara always texted you first.

The way you never asked for anything.

The way no one else really said your name.

She hadn't seen it before.

Now she couldn't unsee it.

And when you murmured a quiet bye and turned to leave, she stood there a second longer than she meant to. Watching you walk down the sidewalk with that same steady pace, bag strap slung over your shoulder like always, hoodie pulled up half-shielding your face from the wind.

No flinching. No final glance back. Just gone.

Tara was waiting in the car with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face when Sam finally got in.

She didn't ask what was said.

And Sam didn't offer.

But the silence was lighter than usual.

That night, Sam couldn't sleep. Not from guilt — or not only that — but something else, something that felt like the tight ache of wanting to redo something. Like the feeling you get when you leave a conversation too early and realize too late there was more you could've said.

So the next time there was a tutoring session — back in their apartment again — Sam didn't hide in her room. She didn't come up with errands to run or excuses to leave.

She stayed. Kept the kitchen door open. Made dinner slow enough that she had a reason to hover nearby.

You greeted her politely. Nothing more. And that made her insane, in a way she didn't expect. Because the apology had been real. She meant it. So why did it still feel like you were folding in on yourself every time she walked in the room?

She tried to let it go.

But the next session, she made enough pasta for three. Left a bowl on the table where you were working and said, "You can have some if you want." Not warm, not cold — just flat, casual. Like she wasn't holding her breath.

You blinked. Hesitated. But then you said thank you. Ate half of it. Said goodnight before you left.

Small things.

After that, it got harder to tell what was guilt and what wasn't.

Because it wasn't just dinner. She started looking up articles she thought you might like — weird ones, sometimes, about obscure history or psychology or whatever you'd once mentioned offhand to Tara. She'd forward them through Tara at first, never directly. But then Tara got annoyed.

"Why don't you just send them to her yourself?" she muttered one night, not looking up from her phone.

So she did.

And it didn't stop there.

Movie night came around — something Tara insisted on every Friday — and Sam found herself asking, too casually, "Is Y/N coming?"

Tara had raised a brow. "No. Why?"

Sam shrugged. "Just thought she might want to. You could invite her."

"You want her to come?"

"I don't care."

But she did.

Because she kept checking the clock during the opening credits.

Because when you actually did show up the next week, something inside her unclenched.

You sat on the far end of the couch, quiet as ever, legs pulled up, sleeves hiding your hands. And Sam watched you when she wasn't supposed to. Watched the way you leaned toward Tara when you whispered a question. The way you smiled at the screen when you thought no one was paying attention.

And when you laughed — actually laughed — Sam didn't even hear the punchline. Her brain just froze, stunned.

She found herself wanting it again. That sound. That version of you.

She wanted you to look at her like that, just once.

And that's when she realized something had changed. Somewhere in the middle of all that guilt and all that trying, something had shifted.

It wasn't about proving a point anymore.

It wasn't about earning forgiveness.

She just... liked you.

More than she should.

And what scared her most wasn't the fact that she felt it. It was the fact that she needed you to feel it too.

And that... made her angry.

Because she wasn't supposed to like you.

That wasn't what this was.

You were Tara's friend — quiet, steady, harmless. Kind in a way Sam didn't know what to do with. You weren't part of her life. You weren't supposed to matter. And yet — now — she caught herself checking the apartment calendar. Looking for the days Tara had scribbled little "tutor 4pm" notes with hearts over the i's. She found herself staring at the clock fifteen minutes before your sessions were set to end, wondering if she had time to fix her hair or change her shirt or at least look like she wasn't waiting.

And then Tara had said it.

"Why are you suddenly inviting her to everything?"

Sam blinked from where she stood at the stove. "What?"

"You never used to care. And now it's like — dinner, movies, sending her articles? It's weird."

Sam clenched the wooden spoon in her hand.

"It's not weird. I'm being polite."

"You've never been polite," Tara said, only half teasing.

"I'm trying," Sam snapped.

Tara raised both brows. "Try a little less. You're freaking her out."

And maybe she was. Because even when you smiled now — soft, polite, quiet — it never quite reached. It felt cautious. Like you were waiting for something to snap.

So one afternoon, after another session in their apartment — another polite goodbye, another tight smile — Sam didn't let it go.

You'd just slung your bag over your shoulder when she followed you toward the door. Tara had already wandered off toward the kitchen.

"Hey," Sam said, a little too quick, voice catching.

You turned, mid-step. "Yeah?"

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Tried again.

"I don't—" she paused, hand half-raised like she needed to physically pull the words out. "I don't hate you."

You blinked. Confused.

She kept going — because stopping would be worse.

"I know I acted like I did. For a while. And I probably came off... hostile. But I didn't— I mean, I don't. I was just..." She let out a breath through her nose, short and irritated. "It doesn't matter. I was wrong. That's all I'm saying."

You stared at her for a beat. Not cold. Not defensive. Just... surprised.

Then you said, gently, "I don't dislike you either."

Sam's chest tightened.

"I just didn't want to get in the way."

She hated how fast her heart moved at that. Like the idea of you feeling in the way lodged itself somewhere behind her ribs.

"You weren't," she said quickly, and softer than she meant to. "You're not."

You nodded. "Okay."

Another silence.

Sam could still hear Tara clinking something in the kitchen, like she was giving them space on purpose — but just barely.

She looked at you, really looked, and realized how much of herself she saw there now. How she'd judged too fast and held on too long and maybe missed a dozen chances to be decent — to be kind — just because she'd been afraid.

Afraid of what it meant to want something soft. Afraid of you.

"I'm sorry," she said again.

You smiled. Not all the way. But it was real this time.

"Thank you," you said.

Then you opened the door and left — like you always did.

But for the first time, Sam stood there smiling, too.

She didn't mean to keep watching the door after it closed.

She just... did.

And for the rest of that evening, she felt like something had shifted. Not huge. Not dramatic. But real. Like a door had cracked open somewhere between you.

She wasn't chasing you out of guilt anymore.

She knew it as clearly as she knew her own name. Guilt had driven her before — that sharp, sour taste of regret in her mouth, the sleepless nights turning over your face in her memory like a puzzle she couldn't solve. But now it was something quieter. Slower. Almost peaceful.

She wanted to know you.

That was it.

Not to fix what she'd broken. Not to earn forgiveness. She just wanted to know you — to be near you, to make you laugh, to hear your voice when you weren't just speaking for Tara's sake. She started noticing the way her day felt better if she knew you were coming over. How she lingered a little too long in the living room under the excuse of folding laundry when you and Tara were studying. How she listened more closely when you spoke, even if it wasn't to her.

And you — you changed too.

Gradually. Carefully.

It showed in how you stopped rushing out the door. In how you stayed behind a few extra minutes to finish a sentence or to ask Sam if she wanted any of the leftover tea. In how you started making eye contact again. Longer. Softer. Less afraid.

One night, Tara fell asleep early on the couch, half-buried under a throw blanket with a textbook open across her stomach. You stayed — you didn't have to, but you did — helping Sam clean up the mess of takeout containers and notebooks without being asked. Sam offered to walk you home.

You said yes.

It was a short walk. Barely ten minutes. But neither of you spoke for most of it. Just the sound of your shoes on the pavement, the occasional hum of a passing car, and the way Sam's hand kept brushing yours by accident.

She didn't apologize for it. You didn't pull away.

At your building, you turned to her like you almost wanted to say something — but couldn't find the words. And Sam, who usually had nothing but sharpness and suspicion in her mouth, just gave you a small nod.

"Get home safe," you murmured.

"You too," she said, like it was habit now.

You lingered a second longer, and then went inside. And Sam walked the whole way home with her hands in her jacket pockets and a strange ache under her ribs — warm, familiar, terrifying.

She didn't see it happening. Not exactly.

It was just that one day, she realized she'd stopped thinking of you as Tara's friend.

You were just you.

It was in the way things quieted around you. How the air in the apartment felt different when you were there — not tense anymore, just aware. The kind of silence that made you listen more carefully. The kind of silence Sam had never been comfortable in, until now.

You started answering her texts more often. A couple of emojis at first. Then a few words. Then full sentences.

You laughed at something she said once — something stupid, something she hadn't meant to be funny — and it caught her completely off guard. It made her feel light. Stupidly, dangerously light.

And she started to notice things.

Not just the way your voice softened when you were tired, or how you'd tug on the sleeves of your sweater when you were thinking. But how being around you didn't feel like a risk anymore. It felt like a want. A quiet, steady want that built itself into her routine without asking permission.

She caught herself cooking more than she needed. Making enough for three even when Tara wasn't home. Asking if you wanted to stay, even when it was late, even when you probably had other places to be.

You didn't always say yes. But sometimes you did.

And those were the nights that lingered.

One of them — after dinner, after Tara had left to crash at a friend's — you stayed. You sat beside Sam on the couch, the TV humming in the background, both of you watching it without really watching.

You didn't talk much. Just shared the same space.

That was new.

And that was when she noticed — how close you'd shifted. How your knee almost touched hers. How you didn't move away.

She didn't know what it meant. Not really. But she knew how it made her feel.

It didn't happen all at once.

But it happened.

And when it did, she didn't fight it this time.

She let herself want you.

Not in the loud, reckless way she used to want things — not like impulse or desperation or fear. This was different. Quieter. Slower. Something that built over time and stayed even when she tried to brush it off.

She started noticing the small things.

How your laugh sounded when Tara wasn't in the room. How you always sat with one foot tucked beneath you. How your fingers fidgeted with the frayed edge of your sleeve whenever you were too tired to filter your thoughts.

She started listening more.

Asking things she'd never cared to ask before. About your day. Your classes. Your favorite movies — even the dumb ones. She made fun of you for liking Twilight but secretly looked up the soundtrack just to hear what you heard in it.

And it wasn't guilt anymore that made her care. It wasn't regret.

It was you.

The way you leaned into her when you were tired.

The way you said her name now — like it didn't hurt anymore.

The way she wanted to keep you in the room just a little longer, every time.

She didn't tell anyone. Not Tara. Not even herself, not really.

But it was there, always. Quiet and stubborn. Settling under her skin.

It showed up in the way she kept sitting closer.

In the way her knee brushed yours and didn't move.

In the way she didn't pretend to care about the show playing in front of you — just let the silence settle between you, comfortable now, soft in a way she couldn't name.

And then

And then you turned to look at her. Smiled.

So did she.

And for a second, neither of you moved.

You were the one who looked away first — down, almost shy — like maybe you were about to say something but didn't.

And Sam... she wasn't thinking when she reached for you. She wasn't planning.

Her fingers brushed your wrist, so gently it almost wasn't there. But you looked up again, and this time you didn't step back.

She kissed you before she could talk herself out of it.

Soft. Careful. Not like a question, but not like an answer either — more like a quiet thing passed between people who didn't know where they stood but knew they wanted to.

You kissed her back.

Not for long. Not urgently. Just long enough for her to know it wasn't a mistake.

When you pulled away, you didn't speak. You just looked at her like maybe you were still trying to believe it happened. And Sam — Sam didn't say anything either. She only watched you nod once, breath shaky.

And in that moment — on that couch, the TV still playing some half-forgotten movie in the background — Sam didn't feel guilty. Or confused. Or scared.

She just felt... full.

Like every version of herself that had pushed people away, that had ruined things before they could matter — all of it had fallen quiet, just long enough to let this happen.

You pulled back first. But only barely.

You looked at her — a little stunned, a little breathless — and she could feel it in the air between you. That shift. That something.

She didn't speak.

Didn't have to.

Because for the first time, she wasn't chasing you to make something right.

She wasn't trying to fix what she broke.

She just wanted you. And you wanted her, too.

And in that moment, she thought — without panic, without fear —God, I think I'm falling for her.

And for the first time in a long, long time...

that didn't scare her at all.

[jakeytkiszka]

No Saints

4.2k words.

warnings: enemies to lovers, yelling, crying, hurt feelings, bruised egos, talks of feelings, SMUT– 18+ ONLY, oral (m. and f. rec.), sex, dirty talk, sleeping with the boss type shit, lemme know if I missed any!

Masterlist

——————————————————————————

If someone had told you that you would be working your dream job on tour with a band, you would have laughed. And if they would've told you that you would be working backstage for Greta Van fucking Fleet, you would have laughed even harder, probably until you cried.

But here you were, running around every show like a chicken with its head cut off, ensuring the band was ready, the outfits were right, and they weren't setting something on fire.

You think your favorite was probably Sammy. All goofy jokes and late night conversations about anything and everything. Josh was always down to talk about something whimsical while you sewed the hem of his jumpsuit. Danny was just quiet, laid back and always so easy to chat with.

And Jake.

Jake was… something else.

Irritating. Arrogant and cocky. All lazy smirks and nonchalant, smart ass comebacks. He pissed you off. And with how the two of you bickered, you were surprised you hadn't been fired yet. Maybe the other three liked you enough to keep you on, overruling Jake. (Unbeknownst to you, Jake liked you just as much as they did, and there was no way in hell he'd let you get fired.)

Tonight was no different than the others, Josh was preening in the mirror, Danny was playing the drums on the coffee table, Jake was lounging on the couch like he owned the place, and you were stuck glueing Sammy's rhinestones back on. He and Daniel had decided that playing a game of ping pong– including Sam diving after the ball and practically faceplanting– was necessary for a preshow warmup.

And you were rapidly sticking the rhinestones on, shaking your head as you neared the end, “You two have got to find less raucous hobbies before the shows,” you say, hoping they weren't going on crooked.

“Sorry, Y/n,” Sammy says, smiling at you from the floor, “We're all very competitive."

“No shit,” you murmur, squinting as you stick the last one on there, “Next time, don't do that in your stage clothes.”

He grins, wordlessly letting you know– No promises. As if you expected anything less from the two.

“Aren't you bossy,” Jake murmurs from beside you on the couch.

“I'm not bossy,” you defend, shooting him a quick frown.

“Yes, you are,” he retorts.

“Shut up,” you say quietly.

“I think we should hit the bar after this,” he says loud enough for the others to hear, “I could use a night out.”

“Yeah, why not?” Josh says from the mirror, turning to the four of you, “We all could, tour's been wonderful, we should celebrate.”

“Y/n, you wanna come?”

You can practically hear Jake roll his eyes as Sam asks you, and that tempts you to take him up on his offer. But you decline, “No, I'll pass tonight,” you say softly, “I'm tired, you four are exhausting.”

“You're exhausting,” Jake retorts quietly, earning a sideways glare from you.

A stagehand pops his head into the door at that time, “Show time!” He calls, all nerves and frantic energy.

You cheer each of them on, even Jake, wishing him luck as he stands. He shoots you a wink, lazy confidence radiating from him.

You hope he messes up.

——————————————————————

Maybe you shouldn't have wished for him to mess up.

He's mad, you can see it from backstage. His guitar strap broke midshow, and when he came to get another from you, it was nowhere to be seen.

“Are you fucking serious?” He snaps, looking around you as if it might suddenly appear.

“I– Jake, I had it right here, I swear,” you defend, panic setting in. You were going to lose your job.

Suddenly, one of your peers finds another, handing it to Jake with a proud smile. Jake shoots you a look, one of frustration, before he's back out on the stage, as if this encounter never happened.

The show ends with everyone praising the success, a few side eyes thrown your way, and you feel like shit. You could cry, and you probably would if it weren't for the sake of professionalism.

“Y/n!” You turn at the sharp snap of your name, finding the production manager making his way to you. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck!

“Yes?”

“Where the fuck was his fucking guitar strap at?!” He says, stopping directly in front of you.

“I don't know where it went– I had it in his case right there before the show, and–”

“It doesn't just fucking walk away,” he interrupts, pointing a finger at you, “If you can't do your job and help this shit run smoothly, you're fucking done, do you understand?”

You don't mean to cry. But the tears are welling up faster than you can stop them. “Okay, I'll do better.”

“You will do better, you're not getting paid to fuck shit up–”

“You're not getting paid to talk to her like that.”

As if your night couldn't get worse. There's Jake, right behind you. The production manager straightens up, the anger quickly leaving his face, “I'm sorry, she just–”

“It wasn't her fault,” he says firmly, “I moved the fucking strap and forgot about it. You're not gonna talk to her that way because you're not fucking prepared.”

He nods, his face pale, “Of course. I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize to me,” Jake says simply.

He grits his teeth, “I'm sorry, Y/n.”

You nod, unsure of what to say. And then you're left alone with Jake, the rest of the crowd quickly dispersing.

“You alright?”

You nod, turning to him as you wipe your eyes, “I'm sorry about your guitar strap, Jake. I promise I'm usually more prepared–”

“I know you are,” he says, “You don't have to apologize for anything. You're doing a great job, sweetheart.”

And just like that, he's gone.

What the fuck?

——————————————————————————

You knew they'd be hungover.

Being crowded on a tour bus with four grumpy hungover rockstars is not something you'd wish on anybody.

Sam's got his head in your lap, sunglasses over his eyes. He had demanded you play with his hair, claiming it made the headache go away. Dany was sprawled out in one of the recliners with Josh in the other, and Jake was sitting in the booth, leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him.

“I need water,” Sam says pitifully.

“I can get it,” you say automatically, knowing he wasn't asking you, but you volunteered. You gently move his head from your lap, standing to stretch your achy legs. You make your way to the fridge beside Jake, opening it and pulling out a water bottle for Sam.

You look over at Jake, “Do you need anything?” You ask, an attempt at being nice.

“I need you to leave me alone,” he retorts.

“Douchebag,” you mutter, glancing at him again, finding a smirk upon his lips.

“Next time we go out, Y/n's coming with us,” Josh says, “I think she needs to go out and have some fun.”

“I have enough fun dealing with you four,” you say, handing the water bottle off to Sam.

“That's why you're single,” Sam says offhandedly, “You won't go out and try to meet someone.”

“Fuck you, Sammy,” you mutter.

“Maybe one day,” he says with a smile, “I'm too hungover right now.”

You scoff a laugh, your eyes somehow making their way to Jake again. You catch the glare he's sending the two of you before he slips his sunglasses back over his eyes.

Jerk.

——————————————————————

“Can you maybe not fucking stab me?”

“Can you stop fucking moving, then?”

“You've got a needle right at my dick, Y/n, it's hard to trust you.”

You straighten back up, shooting a glare up at him, “Jake, I'm not gonna stab your fucking dick. But if you keep it up, I'm going to try to.”

He stares down his nose at you, a frown on his face. You cross your arms, waiting for him to comply. Rockstars.

He huffs, glancing at the clock, “Fine. I've got a show in 15 minutes. Hurry it up.”

“You're the one who ripped the crotch out of your pants,” you mutter, picking the needle back up.

“You're the seamstress right now, shut up and do your job.”

You pause at that, glancing up to see the genuine frustration on his face. You simply nod, continuing your work. You finish around two minutes later, giving him a quiet okay.

“All done,” you say flatly.

“I'm sorry,” he says in response.

“It's fine,” you shake your head, “You're right.”

“No, I'm not. You're– You're not just a fucking seamstress here, Y/n.”

“It's fine,” you say, forcing a smile as you push yourself up from off your knees, “Preshow jitters.”

He shakes his head, staying silent for a moment, “Thank you.”

You nod, “Don't mention it.”

——————————————————————————

You're irritated.

The boys decided they wanted to spend the night in a hotel.

A very shifty hotel, with a whopping two rooms available. A room with two beds and a couch, and a room with one single bed.

Josh, Sam and Danny all agreed to take the room with the couch. Which left you sharing a room– and a bed!– with Jake.

You're both standing in the doorway, staring at the bed in front of you. Jake's got irritation written all over him, his sunglasses pushed up messily into his hair, his hand gripping the handle of his suitcase a little harder than necessary. His jaw is tense, and you don't say a word.

“This should be cozy,” he says quietly.

“I can go sleep on the bus,” you offer, nervously twisting your hand around the handle of your own suitcase, “I really don't mind–”

“I'm not making you do that,” his voice is firm, “And to be quite honest, I don't wanna do that either because I'm a little selfish and I wanna sleep in a bed.”

You hum a laugh, “A bed does sound nice.”

“We're both adults,” he says, “It's… It's a pretty big bed.”

“Yeah, it's a nice size,” you agree, both of you awkwardly nodding.

And with that, he lets out a breath, making his way to the adjoining bathroom. Your shoulders slump, the tour bus sounding more enticing by the minute. You sit on the edge of the bed, and any thought you had of sneaking back out to the bus is gone. It's so comfortable, like a plush cushiony cloud.

You lay back on the mattress, letting your eyes fall shut. With a bed this comfortable, you can definitely stand spending a single night with Jake.

You don't move when the door opens back up, and you hear him snort a laugh, “Comfy?”

“Very,” you reply, “It's like a cloud. I forgot how nice a real bad feels.”

He hums in response, and you can hear him shuffling around the room. You finally push yourself up, knowing you should probably change into your pajamas before you fall asleep in your uncomfortable jeans.

You quietly go to the bathroom, ignoring the sight of Jake wearing only an old t-shirt and his underwear.

Fuck.

You change quickly, eager to get back into the bed and sleep. It'd probably be the best sleep you've gotten in weeks.

You wish your pajamas were just a little cuter, but you don't know why. Who were you trying to impress– Jake? You want to slap yourself for thinking that.

You make your way back out, finding he was still standing, doing something on his phone. You slip by without a word, the room feeling tense and awkward.

You ease under the blanket, surprised at yourself for being so happy about a sleazy hotel bed. But it was so nice. You make sure to stay on one side, facing the wall with wide eyes as you lay there. You tense slightly when you feel him move beside you, getting into the bed.

It's quiet as he flicks the lights off from the nightstand.

“This is nice,” he says softly.

You hum in agreement, scooting a little closer to the edge.

He lets out a quiet laugh, “You can relax, Y/n.”

“I am relaxed.”

“I'm sorry for what I said tonight.”

You pause, before you turn your head to look at him, “It's alright, Jake.”

“No it isn't,” he disagrees, “You're more than that and regardless of how we feel about each other, I should have never deduced you down to that.”

You want to focus on the meaning of his apology, but one part catching your attention, “And how do you feel about me?”

He sighs, “You annoy me.”

You knew he didn't like you, you knew you weren't his biggest fan either, but it wasn't something ever talked about. Hearing him say it just… hurt.

“You're always… It's like you're so fucking perfect.”

You blink, “Me?!”

“Yes, you,” he says without any heat, “Everybody fucking loves you. You're always able to fix everything, and it's just… annoying.”

You frown, processing his words, “Is that why you're mean to me?”

“Yes,” he says honestly.

“I am not perfect, Jake. Nowhere near it. You're the one with the god complex.”

“What?” He sounds surprised to hear you say that.

“Your ego is bigger than any room you're in, you know that?”

“My ego?” He pauses, “I don't have an ego.”

“Yeah, and I don't have crippling anxiety before every show.”

He doesn’t respond for a moment, as if he's surprised to discover you think he's so vain, “I've never– I'm an ass, aren't I?”

“To me? Yes. Everyone else? No.”

“I can't help it,” he says quietly, “You make me feel incompetent.”

“How?!”

“You're just… good at everything you do. It's irritating.”

“Hand me a guitar and then we'll see if you can say that.”

He laughs, the sound breathy and genuine, “It's feels like a competition with you. Everyone loves you, you're everyone's favorite.”

“But I'm not,” you say honestly, “I'm pretty sure the other crew members think I'm sleeping with one or all of you. They're not… They're not very nice.”

“Who?” He says, as if he'll go out there right now and set them all straight.

“I'm not telling,” you say firmly, “Because if you say anything, it'll look worse on me, and they'll be mean.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you really think I'm arrogant?”

“Honestly?” He hums an affirmative, “Yes. It's like you know you're the best thing to happen to modern music.”

“That's a reach.”

“You asked.”

He huffs, “I'm not even– You sound jealous.”

“Jealous?!” You lean up on your elbows, glaring at him in the dark, “Says the one who just admitted that he doesn't like me because other people do.”

“Says the one who just admitted the exact same thing.”

You blink at him, “Are we ever gonna get along, or just fight the whole time?”

“I dunno,” he says, leaning up and mirroring you, “Are you ever gonna cut it with the innocent, charming little sweetheart bullshit?”

“Are you ever gonna cut it with your egotistical, arrogant, cocky asshole bullshit?”

“Y/n,” his voice is low, “Shut up.”

“You shut up. Just because you're my boss out there doesn't mean you can treat me like shit here–”

“I don't want to fight, Y/n,” he says, his words clipped, “I'm tired of it.”

“Then don't fight with me,” you say, as if it's the simplest solution.

He lets out a soft laugh, as if you caught him off guard.

“You're uptight,” he says, leaning closer to you.

“You're irresponsible.”

“You're a control freak.”

“You're frivolous.”

“You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen.”

“You're a liar.”

“I'm a lot of things, crybaby, a liar isn't one of them.”

You swallow heavily, “You're an asshole.”

He nods, his lips now brushing against yours. He uses one hand to push your blankets back as he scoots closer to you, “What else?”

You can hardly focus on your insults as he moves to hover over you, using his knees to separate your thighs for him to settle between. He's still hovering, careful not to touch you aside from the backs of your thighs resting against the front of his. “You're a fiend.”

He lets out a quiet ooh, as if he's mocking you. You frown further, your heartbeat skipping at the condescending attitude he's giving. You aren't sure why it's making your body heat.

“Keep going,” he says, leaning in and placing a single kiss to your jaw.

“You–” You cut yourself off, taking a deep breath to center yourself, but he nips at your throat, “You make me so mad.”

“Is that the best you've got?” He asks, his hand toying with the drawstring of your sleep shorts.

You let out a shuddery breath, “What, are you getting off on this?” You hate how weak your voice sounds.

“Maybe,” he says casually. You open your mouth to retort something about him being a pervert when he presses his hips against you. You can feel him even through the layers of clothing separating you, warm and hard. It makes your entire body heat. The pressure is gone as quick as it came, he lifts his hips once more as if he's teasing you.

“I've spent most of my time here feeling like I was never good enough for your expectations, Jake, and now it's this easy?”

“Imagine how I felt, Miss Perfect,” he says without any heat, “You're the only person I know who had their shit together the entire time.”

“Except for when I lost your fucking guitar strap.”

“Doesn't it get tiring thinking so much?” He asks, tracing a finger along your cheek.

“Yes,” you whisper honestly.

“Then don't,” he says, as if that will solve everything.

“You think I haven't tried that?” You ask sharply. You're silenced by his finger pressing over your lips.

“Just tonight,” he says softly, “It's just you and me. We don't think about anything else.”

You're almost hesitant, you know how impossible it is to shut your brain up, but his lips are on your neck again, like he knows that's what you need to melt into him, and you nod, “Okay.”

“Yeah?” He asks, pressing the tiniest kiss just below your jaw.

“Yeah,” you breathe the word. “But what if–”

His lips are on yours before you can finish your sentence.

You kiss back without much thought, your hands grabbing his shirt and pulling him closer. He grabs your waist, yanking you tightly to him. He runs his tongue along your bottom lip before he bites down, earning a quiet whine from you. Your hands slide up, around his shoulders, pulling him practically on top of you as you move to lay on your back.

His hand lands beside your head on the pillow, the other is still holding onto your waist, slipping down to your hip. His hold is tight, like he wants to grab you and have his way with you. And you want him to.

You let your legs fall open as he settles between them. You nearly buck your hips as he moves his lips to your throat. You let your head fall back as he kisses and nips at your throat, your mouth open with gasping breaths and whimpers.

Then suddenly, his hips are pressing against yours, grinding against you as he kisses along your skin. His lips reattach to yours, and you let out a dreamy sigh as he moves just right against your clit.

His hand appears at the waistband of your pajama shorts, snapping the elastic, “Wanna get these out of the way?”

You nod quickly, a breathy yes falling from your lips. Your eyes widen only a little when he pulls off your shorts and underwear in one quick movement, leaving your lower half completely bare. And when he presses himself against you this time– Oh. The somewhat rough material moving against your swollen clit feels better than you thought it would.

He kisses you again, a quick nip at your bottom lip, before he pulls back just enough to watch as he moves you against him.

You bite at your bottom lip as he spreads your thighs, almost hoping he can't see too much of you in the dim lighting.

He ghosts his hand over your dripping heat, “Is she as pretty as the rest of you, baby?”

“Shut up, Jake,” you say weakly.

And then he's moving back. You open your mouth to ask him what he's doing, when he grabs you, moving you however he wanted. Your eyes widen when you find yourself with your legs spread around his shoulders, and his face inches away from your center.

“She is fuckin’ pretty,” he says, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, “You've been holding out on me.”

“Oh, my God,” you whisper, dropping your head against the mattress. “Are you sure you want to do– that?” You ask, lifting your head back up to look at him.

“What kind of men have you been with?” He asks, running a single finger along your wet heat.

“I– I dunno,” you stutter, cursing yourself mentally.

He hums in displeasure, using his fingers to spread you open. You hate how he takes a moment to stare at you, to take in every detail of your most intimate areas, but he mutters a quiet curse, and his mouth is on you before you can object to his staring.

You let out a much too loud noise, slapping your hand over your mouth as he smiles against you. He pulls back enough just to speak, “Gotta be quiet, sweetheart, we don't want my brothers hearing you.”

You nod rapidly, keeping your hand over your mouth as he suckles at your clit. He lulls his tongue over the swollen bud, before he moves down to your weeping hole. Your eyes squeeze shut as his tongue slips just past the entrance, humming against you.

He grabs your hand, moving it into his hair, groaning when you tighten your grip. You're embarrassingly close, and the moment he eases his fingers inside of you, you know you're a goner within the next two minutes.

You whine his name, hating how pathetic you sound. He curls his fingers up in response, his tongue flicking over your clit relentlessly. “I'm close,” you warn, rolling your hips. You roll your hips on your own, feeling yourself near your own release. It wouldn't take much longer, and you whisper his name in hopes he'll help you along.

“Gonna cum so soon?” He asks, his hands on your hips stilling you completely.

You whine, fighting to move over his mouth once again. “Jake–”

“Use those pretty manners,” he says lowly, “Always so well behaved, don't act up now.”

“Jake please,” you say, huffing when he slowly, slowly, licks along your slit, “Jake help me, please.”

He hums in consideration, pushing back only to slowly drag his tongue once again, “Little more than that, crybaby.”

You feel yourself clench around nothing. The nickname he has for you making an appearance now has you aching. “Please let me,” you tighten your grip in his hair, “Make me cum, Jake.”

That seems to do it for him, his own hand slips back between the two of you. He pushes two fingers inside of you, curling them up before he begins fucking them into you, curling and twisting relentlessly. His tongue is moving just right against your clit, and you begin rocking against him, whimpering a soft curse.

It doesn't take long before you're falling apart, soft cries and your body twitching as he works you through it. Your blood is rushing in your head, and you can barely make out the filthy words he's gritting out as you ride out your release.

You grab at him, melting completely when he eases up, letting you recover. Before he can say anything, you push him back with a hand at his chest, and you slip to the floor on your knees. He lets out a low hum, moving to stand in front of you.

You decide not to take your time, not to work him up or tease him, you just want his dick in your mouth.

So you all but tear his underwear down, your mouth watering at the sight before you. He was big. Long and thick and hard, you should have expected that. You wrap your fingers around him, and swallow him down as far as you can without any preamble.

He lets out a quiet curse, his hand immediately tangling into your hair, “She does look pretty with a cock in her mouth,” he says quietly, as if you weren't meant to hear it. You both know well enough that you were meant to.

It doesn't last long before he's got a hold in your hair, and his other hand is around your throat.

He begins shallowly moving his hips, holding your face in place as he fucks your mouth. You would be content to let him do this to you as much as he wanted. And part of you wanted to try this right after you had pissed him off…

You can't move your head, so you work your tongue along him as best you can, suckling at him with every thrust. He pushes in, the blunt head nestling deep against the back of your throat again. He holds you down on him long enough for you to get dizzy, before he pulls out completely.

He angles your face up once again, his hand on your throat giving a light squeeze as he keeps you still. You're still held there, awaiting his next move.

“Get on the bed,” he says, moving his hands to help you get up off of your knees.

You eagerly move to the bed once more, your heart pounding as he rids himself completely of his underwear. He grabs you, flipping you around so you're in his lap before you can process it. He's leaned back against the headboard, his hands at your waist and he's kissing you again.

You roll your hips, anxious to have him fill you up already.

He wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you up just enough for him to line up with your weeping entrance. When you settle back over him, your eyes widen. He lets out a low growl as you lower down on him, your eyes wide at the fullness. He feels huge inside of you, stretching your walls, sitting snug against that special little bump inside of you.

“Fuck, Jake,” you say, letting your head fall to his shoulder.

His hands are tracing soothing patterns on your hips, his head falls back against the headboard as he lets out a strained laugh.

You begin rocking your hips, slowly, just to get a feel of how fucked you really were. His grip tightens as he lifts you up slightly, before pushing you back down on him.

You whimper, feeling every bit of him inside of you. You continue to rock your hips as he moves you up and down. You feel full in the best way, unable to even form a coherent sentence aside from telling him how good he felt.

He stops moving you, leaving you to do the work on your own, “C'mon,” he says it like a challenge, “Fuck me, pretty girl.”

You let out a slightly irritated sound, doing as he says regardless. You lift your hips, easing back down at a slow, hopefully teasing pace.

You're gripping his shoulders for dear life, your temple resting against his jaw as you move your hips. His mouth is right by your ear, leaving you no escape from the filthy things he's murmuring.

“Just like that,” he rasps, “Such a good girl– Always so good at doing what you're told, aren't you?”

You feel yourself clench around him, and you gasp out a weak, “Fuck you.”

You feel him grin against your skin, “You are.”

You whine at that, digging your nails into his shoulders. His grip on your hips is firm, his fingertips pressing in enough for you to hope for bruises.

Your thighs burn, but you ignore it in favor of chasing your high. It's just out of arm's reach, and you know you'll need his help or your own. And you'd rather die of humiliation than ask him, so you snake a hand down to your clit, just barely rubbing over it before he knocks your hand away.

Before you can do much as whine about it, he's replaced your hand with his own, rubbing tight, slow circles over your aching bud.

“I'm gonna cum,” you warn, your hips moving of their own volition, speeding up despite your aching thighs.

“I know,” he says, still holding you by your hair, his eyes intently focusing on your face, “I can feel it.”

“Fuck, I'm–” It's slipping away from you, your own body too tired to continue working as you were.

He begins fucking up into you, his own hips slamming against you as he continues to rub over your clit. Your entire body is shaking, the build up starting right back up where it left off.

You whine his name, earning a sound nearing a growl from him. “C'mon, baby,” he demands, an air of desperation in his tone. He wants you to finish, to feel you squeezing him as you fall apart around him. And that's what does it for you.

It hits you hard and fast, even more intense than all the other he'd given you that night. Your mind blanks, going black, before flashing white hot. You try to push him away again, the attempt feeble as he wraps his arms around you and pushes you back against the mattress, fucking you relentlessly through it. You don't complain, you couldn't even if you wanted to, you know he's chasing his own orgasm as well as working you completely through yours.

“Fuck, Jake–” It's intense, you're verging overstimulation, but you wrap your legs around him. Your eyes are watering, tears trailing down your temples and into your hairline.

He lets out a pleased hum, “My little crybaby. Does it feel good for you, pretty girl?”

You nod quickly, your nails digging into his back. You know he's going to be marked up, but you know you are too. His mouth has been as relentless as his cock.

It doesn't take him much longer before he lets out a curse, and his hips falter. You whine in approval as he grips your hips tighter than before, and you squeeze purposely around him as he finds his own end. You let out a soft yes, yes, yes, as he fills you with his release.

He stays still inside you for a moment, leaning over you and pressing kisses to your sweat-sticky skin.

You feel empty when he pulls out, cold and lonely as he collapses onto the mattress. Your chest is heaving as he moves to lay beside you, his own chest rising and falling as he fights to catch his breath.

It hits you then.

You just fucked your boss.

You push yourself up with shaky arms, raking a hand through your knotted hair.

“Jake.”

“Stop,” he says softly.

You look over at him, worry clear on your face, “I just–”

“You're thinking too much.” He says, pulling you back down to lay against him. He wraps an arm around you, “It's gonna be fine.”

“Am I gonna lose my job?”

He lets out a loud laugh, “You're not going anywhere.”

[aurumacadicus]

You guys remember this post? Anyway.

--

Steve still had plenty of nightmares from the war. It was impossible not to, when other battle blues had been shot down by Hydra's cannons. Still, he had to admit, if only to himself, his worst nightmares were from when Tony and his red had fallen, even surpassing the horror and dismay he'd felt when Bucky had been shot down beside him.

Tony had been flying ahead of him, again, while Steve still smarted from his protests being ignored. Tony had been on the last eight battle flights he'd taken, and two for Sam before that. The reds were supposed to cycle their shifts. They needed rest to perform the aerobatic feats that helped them distract and survive cannon fire. Tony and his dragon had shown no signs of being tired, but Steve had been exhausted down to his bones, and all he and his dragon had to do were fly straight and aim his dragon's icy breath at the enemy. The generals had even taken him aside to tell him his written protests meant nothing, when Tony was taking shifts to keep younger, less experienced reds from having to go on the more dangerous missions. Steve had had to swallow back his anger, but he'd still been silently seething even as he directed his blue around fiery cannonballs and twisting to avoid bullets.

Then there had been the whistle of one of the smaller cannonballs, the kind that were covered in a gel that clung and burned. Steve had tried to swerve them around, realizing a moment too late that none of the reds and oranges and yellows swarming around them would swing close enough to protect them in time. His blue wasn't agile enough to do the sharp turns and twists to dodge.

In the seconds it had taken him to realize they'd played into Hydra's hand, he'd immediately come to terms with it, only sorry that his blue would die with him. Then Tony had somehow maneuvered his red around to get close, not close enough for them to get between Steve and the cannonball, but enough that Steve couldn't help but respect them for trying. He even had a moment to wryly think it was funny, that all his protests, written and verbal, wouldn't have made any difference at all anyway. Tony and his red still hadn't flagged. It wasn't their fault they were too far away to help, focused on protecting Sam's gray because Steve had been the one who hissed and spat that he didn't want Tony on his wing.

But then Tony had done something Steve had never seen before. It had taken seconds, but it felt like he watched it in slow motion--Tony's gauntlet-covered fingers dropped the thick leather reins directing his dragon, sharp joints being slapped down over his legs to cut through the belts lashed around them to keep him sat. He'd somehow stood in the saddle on his red's back, planting one foot behind the helmeted crest of his dragon's head, and then he'd pushed off, leaping up into the air, off of his dragon. His armor had gleamed, shiny and gold, for a moment. He looked resplendent. Ethereal, almost.

It had taken a moment for Steve to realize that Tony had leapt between his dragon and Steve's blue to take the brunt of the cannonball, and the ball crunched into Tony's arm and shoulder. His armor had immediately begun to glow with heat as the jelly on the cannon ball smeared onto him, but Tony didn't make a sound as he flipped through the air from the force, simply falling from the air like a stone.

Tony's red had made the worst sound Steve had ever heard in his life when it realized what had happened, reins hanging limp from its helmet. It was even worse than the screams of mothers when Steve showed up to tell them their child had fallen in battle, unashamedly animal and still wholly consumed by the fact that its rider was falling, maybe already dead. It had dropped, wings pressed in close, plummeting to wrap around Tony's prone body and letting out another human-like scream as the fire leapt onto its feathers. Steve had never seen a dragon sacrifice its own life for its rider before, and it filled him with such dread that he hoped to never see it again.

Steve's blue had turned and spat a mouthful of icy breath after them, and Steve had barely seen the fire snuff out before they were twisting back to battle Hydra. The red dragon's shrill scream of horror still made bile sting the back of his throat whenever he remembered it, such a contrast from the fact that Tony hadn't made any noise at all, should have shouted and swore and screamed as the fire tore over his body, as his bones were crushed and warped under the force of the cannonball. It hadn't even sounded like it had punched the air from his lungs.

Steve hadn't been part of the recovery team, but he'd heard the whispers ripple through camp. Tony and his red were alive, but barely, and Tony would need months to heal. He would never ride war again. Maybe never ride at all. Steve hadn't gone to see him, something that felt too much like fear making his feet stop just outside the medical tents. Seeing Tony now, scarred hand shaking at the end of the day in a way that he ignored as easy as breathing, it made him regret that he hadn't forced himself to walk inside. He should have said something. Maybe not apologize, because it was war, and it had ultimately been Tony's choice. But he could have thanked him. No one had leapt from their dragon to save him before or since. It had terrified Steve, just how much Tony was willing to give up to see to it that Hydra was wiped out.

"--nd this is cinnamon," Tony continued, and Steve blinked once, hard, to try and focus on what he was saying. Tony was holding up a bottle filled with cinnamon sticks and some dark fluid. "It's soaking in whiskey. I give these to Red as a treat. Just make sure you're outside. And throw them high. It likes to spit fire at them. I think it's showing off."

"Stark," Steve tried, not for the first time.

"And it has this feather, right behind its skull bone" Tony added, pointing to behind his left ear. "You'll see it, it's ready to molt, but ever since... uh... well, sometimes you need to help it out. Massage it. I'm sure you know, but. That feather especially."

"Stark," Steve said again.

"It likes pickled vegetables, too," Tony said, raising his voice just slightly, still not turning to meet his gaze. "If you have any to spare, when the cinnamon sticks run out. And, um, of course you can use the whiskey in your own beverages. Reds are not... pleasant drunks. Haha. But anyway, it likes pickled carrots best, especially the sweet and sour of it, I think--"

"Tony," Steve barked, finally standing up. He felt a smidge of shame when Tony jerked around to look at him, eyes wide and expression anxious, but it was the only thing he could think of to get his attention.

"...S. Steve," he offered, brows furrowing together in confusion.

"We're not going up to the mountains," Steve informed him after a beat, just to make sure Tony wouldn't start talking over him again.

Tony blinked at him, frowning. "...That doesn't make sense. Your blue will want to go home to be comfortable. And. It's. It's a blue. So you guys have. More say." He tipped his head, looking genuinely distressed. "Did it. Change its mind? About my red?"

"No. It seems very cuddly with your red," Steve assured him with a bit more gentleness. "But you can't stay up in the mountains, so we're staying here."

Tony shifted on his feet, as if he wanted to pace but didn't have the room in the small space of his storage room. "...But. You don't. Need me."

"Your red will want the familiarity of its rider," Steve answered simply. "Tony. We're not going to leave you behind."

Tony's face did something strange. "That's not what I was offering," he finally said, swallowing thickly.

"Well, I'm just telling you," Steven answered firmly. "We're staying in the valley for the winter. I just need to find somewhere to stay. I don't want to impose on you, but I'm not sure I can afford room and board for the entire wet season."

Tony blinked at him again, slow and syrupy as he tried to parse what he meant. "...You can stay at my place," he said, as if realizing Steve really had no ulterior motives. "There's plenty of room."

Steve shifted on his feet awkwardly. "I wouldn't want to put you out."

Tony blinked again. Slowly, his leaps spread into a smile. "It's fine. I won't be put out. I have to go get the house ready for guests, but Rhodey or Pepper will lead you over once you're ready."

"I'll find one of them after I go talk to Sam and Bucky," Steve promised, even as he tipped his head in confusion. Tony said nothing else, though, just gave him that peculiar smile and left the smithy.

.-.

"...Ah," Steve said after a moment, putting his hands on his hips as he stared up at what was, quite clearly, a mansion. "That's why he smiled like that."

"...You didn't know the Stark family owns practically the entire valley?" Jim asked, raising an eyebrow at him. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Steve, how do you think he bullied his way into every flight he could?"

"I'm beginning to figure that out," Steve answered, and Jim didn't even do him the service of pretending not to laugh in his face.

[bruisedboys]

thinking of jacob giving u the best hugs after a long week. maybe your social battery has died and people keep asking u to help them so he scares them off (temporarily)

drew my angel thank you for the request!! love u

jacob black x fem!imprint!reader (reader is shorter than jacob)

Jacob Black has a one track mind when it comes to you. You’re all he ever thinks about, all he cares about, the only thing that really matters to him. He worries about you when you’re not together and clings to you when you are together. He’s totally obsessed, and he likes to think that if it weren’t for the whole imprint thing, he’d still be equally obsessed with you. Who wouldn’t? You’re kind, and smart, and beautiful. You don’t care that he’s a monster and you love his pack family even when they’re a pain in the neck.

Like now, when they’ve dragged him out for patrol and left you at Sam’s, when all Jacob wanted to do tonight was take you home and kiss you stupid. You’ve let him go without a complaint, ‘cos you’re perfect.

Jacob, in his wolf form with the rest of the pack spread out within the woods around him, realises too late that he’s been musing over you in his mind. The others are laughing at him.

Really, Jacob? Paul’s voice says in his head. We haven’t been gone ten minutes.

Shut up, Jacob thinks back, but he stops picturing your face in his mind and tries to focus on the task at hand instead.

A few uneventful hours later, the pack finally heads back to Sam’s. Jacob, the fastest not only because he’s naturally quick, but because he’s desperate to see you, gets there first. Back in his human body he feels much more comfortable, and at least now no one can read his thoughts. He can think about you all he likes without getting an earful for it.

He’s unsurprised when he finds you in the kitchen with Emily.

“Hey,” he nods to Emily, who’s getting something out of the oven, and crosses to where you’re standing over the sink, up to your elbows in suds.

“Hi,” he says fondly, moving up behind you. He pushes an arm across your lower back and dips his head to lay a kiss in your hair. “Missed you.”

You turn to look up at him and smile, and you’re so, so pretty, but your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Hello,” you say softly. Your voice is heavy and slow, like someone’s poured honey down your throat. “Missed you, too. Where’s the others?”

“I beat ‘em,” Jacob tells you proudly, at the same time as voices and laughter start trailing in from the living room. Jacob winces. “Just.”

You laugh softly. “Will you dry these for me?” You ask, nodding towards the clean dishes on the bench. “Before it gets too rowdy in here?”

Jacob helps you with the dishes. You were right when you guessed it would get rowdy — the pack are starving and eat the meal you and Emily have made like, well, wolves. Paul’s in a mood tonight, a good one but a loud one, and as a result everyone jokes and laughs and talks over one another. You’re decidedly quiet, and when you’re done eating Jacob pulls you into the hallway, out of the way of all the noise.

“Hey, are you okay?” He asks, hands on your upper arms.

You heave a sigh. “I’m really tired,” you admit. You’ve long since given up on trying to hide how you’re feeling from Jacob, because he’s so persistent and stubborn that he always ends up weasling it out of you, anyway. “Not like, sleepy. Just, my battery is really low.“

Jacob frowns and rubs his thumb over the hill of your shoulder. “I’m sorry, honey,” he says. It somehow feels like his fault.

You give him a look like you know what he’s thinking. “S’okay,” you say. “Just had a long week, you know?”

Jacob hums. “Yeah, I know. You want a hug?”

You nod like you were waiting for him to ask, and Jacob makes quick work of wrapping you up in his arms, pulling you into his chest like he’s done a million times before. You push your arms around his waist and cling to him, while he rubs your back with a warm hand. He’s tall enough that he can rest his chin atop your head so he does, and lets you push your face into his neck, your mouth warm where it presses against his skin.

You sigh softly and go almost completely limp in his arms.

“Thanks,” you say, muffled.

Jacob opens his mouth to say let’s go home, but then Embry appears, calling your name in an unnecessarily loud voice.

“Y/N! Can you come help me— oh.”

He stops short at the sight of you limp as a ragdoll in Jacob’s arms. That, plus the look Jacob gives him.

“What, Em?” Jacob says, and it comes out a bit more harsh than he’d intended. He amends, “Sorry, she’s really tired. What do you want?”

Embry has the grace to look a bit sheepish. “Never mind,” he says.

You pull your face from Jacob’s neck, one arm still curved around his waist. “What is it, Embry? I can help, it’s fine—”

“No you can’t, we’re going home now,” Jacob interrupts, throwing you a look, annoyed and endeared by how sweet you are. “Ask someone else,” he tells Embry bluntly.

He’s pretty sure Embry rolls his eyes as he leaves, but he doesn’t care. You turn to look at him once Embry is gone.

“You’re mean,” you say, but you make it sound like I love you, and you wrap your arms around him again.

“And you’re tired,” he says back, ducking his head to press a quick kiss to your forehead. He pulls away but rubs your arm as he goes. “C’mon, I really am gonna take you home now, okay? Dad’ll already be asleep so it’ll just be me and you.”

You raise both eyebrows, pleased. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask, feigning intrigue.

Jacob grins. “Whatever you want it to mean, sweetheart,” he says, though he hopes he’ll get to kiss you stupid like he’s been wanting to do all night.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Hold Me (More Like That)

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, fluff, pre-established relationship, lotta smut (oral m! receiving, p in v sex)

Summary/Warnings: Dean takes a second to pick up on what you want, but doesn't disappoint once he starts to play your game.

Author's Note: Sorta request from an anon! I wanna be thrown around so bad you guys don't even know.

Word Count: 3.3k

“I bet I could beat you in a fight.”

“Sure, sweetheart.”

“I could.” You push up on Dean’s chest, glaring at him in the shifting light of the TV. “You don’t believe in me.”

A small smile plays on Dean’s lips, but he doesn’t look away from the movie. “Never said that. I’m pretty damn sure I agreed with you-“

“Yeah, but you said sure.” You drop your tone to mimic his, and that gets his attention. “That’s how you say sure when you don’t really agree, Dean, I know you-“

“Alright.” Dean catches your finger as you poke his chest. “I don’t think you could beat me in a fight, baby. You win.”

You whack his chest, and his grin only grows. 

“That what you wanted to hear?”

“You know it’s not-“

“Then you want me to keep lyin’?”

You roll your eyes at him. “No, I want you to admit I’d beat you.”

“Okay.” Dean shrugs, kissing your knuckles before turning back to the TV. “You’d beat me. You’d kick my ass, Sammy would have to drive me to the hospital, and- Oof-“

You’d climbed on top of him, straddling his waist and bracing your hands on his shoulders. Dean raises his brows with a half amused, half befuddled expression, and his hands fly to your hips in half a second.

He could push you off—easily, too—but he won’t. 

You really want him to. 

“I bet I could beat you.” You lean down until your noses are almost bumping. “In a fight.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” Dean hums your name, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing small circles on the bare skin under your shirt. “What’re you doing?”

You shrug. “Trying to make you take me seriously.”

“I always take you seriously-“

“No. You don’t think I could beat you.”

For a man you know looks for any reason to jump your bones—you’ve seen him walk you back against a wall because the wind blew up your skirt, and he needs to check you’re okay—Dean is impressively confused about what’s happening. He just keeps looking at you in confusion, holding you firm enough by your hips you know he’s not going to take your bait and toss you around. You’re going to have to step it up. 

You love him. He’s adorable and sweet and trying really hard to be a good boyfriend, to the point that you feel sort of bad about what’s about to happen, but you’ll get over it. Call it vengeance for when he tried to prove he could change a tire faster than you could, and it was just an excuse to fuck you on the hood of the car. 

“C’mon.” You drag his hands off your hips, pinning them to the couch, and he doesn’t fight you at all. “I can win, Dean.”

“Yeah, you could-“

“Stop agreeing with me-“

He snorts, putting on a weak, mock show of trying to push out of your grip, but mostly just flexing his arms and making the heat in your core spark. “Look, sweetheart, you’re stronger-“

“I didn’t say I was stronger,” you grind down onto him, disguising it as a just a shift of your body, and Dean’s jaw twitches slightly. “I said I could beat you.”

You grind again, and he lets out a long, slow breath. 

Progress.

“You want the truth, baby?” He gives you a pointed look, still not struggling against you, and you nod. 

“I could-“

“No, you couldn’t.” Dean shrugs, and to sort of obviously prove his point, pushes just one hand out of your hold to wrap around your waist. “Not ‘cause I don’t think you’re strong, or smart, or sexy as fuck when you kick ass. But I would beat you. I’ve beaten Sam, and he’s a fuckin’ Sasquatch. It’s my freakin’ job-“

“It’s my job, too-“

“It’s your job when we’re real short on hands.” Dean eyes narrow, and that was the right button. He doesn’t like the maybe you should hunt more conversation. “And we’re not.”

You raise your brows. “So I couldn’t beat you because I don’t hunt?”

“Yes- No-“ He sighs, hauling you a little further up his chest. “You just couldn’t beat me, baby, I promise-“

“Prove it.”

Dean frowns at you. “What?”

“If you think I can’t beat you.” You grab his arm around you—he lets you move it again, but that’s fine, you don’t actually care about winning—and pin it back down. “Then prove it.”

“I’m not gonna fight you, sweetheart-“

You shrug. “Then I win. And if I can beat Dean Winchester in a fight, maybe I should hunt more-“

That does it. Your words turn into a yelp as Dean flips you over like it’s nothing, pinning your hands over your head and pressing his hips down to keep you pinned to the couch. You have to take a quick breath to stop from caving right away, but you can see his muscles rippling through his shirt and his eyes shamelessly scanning your form below him, and he’s half-hard already and pressed right into your thigh-

“I don’t know what goin’ on with you.” His voice is a half growl, and the sound almost vibrates through your body. “But I can beat you, babygirl. And you fuckin’ hate hunting-“

“Maybe I just miss you when you’re gone,” you challenge, hooking your leg around him and flipping him back over with a grunt. “You always leave me, De, and I get lonely-“

He snorts, standing up with you almost thrown over his should. “I call you every day, smartass, and I never hear you complaining when you cum from just me talkin’ to you.”

“Not the- fuck-“ You’re trying to squirm away as he walks through the halls of the bunker—the movie long forgotten—but it’s not working in your favor. “It’s not the same-“

“Then you can come on a few hunts and stay in the hotel.”

He needs to stop being so rational and sweet. “No, I want to hunt-“

“No, you don’t.”

“Don’t tell me what I want, Dean-“

You squeak as he drops you onto the mattress, standing over you with a glower. 

“You don’t want to hunt,” he grunts your name, grabbing your face between his hands with an adoring, vaguely annoyed expression. “You hate it, you always get mad about blood on your clothing- Hell, you get pissed about blood on my clothing-“

“I’m over it.” You lie quickly, and throw all your weight into pulling Dean down. He lands on the mattress with a grunt, and you crawl back on top of him with a grin. “I can beat you, Dean. You haven’t proven I can’t.”

He shakes his head. “I told you I’m not fighting you, sweetheart-“

“Cause you’ll lose.”

“I-“ His eyes narrow on yours, right as you wiggle slightly, and you know that expression.

You won.

“If I beat you, you drop the hunting thing.”

You nod quickly, and don’t even get the chance to say deal before Dean’s moving. He flips your back over with practiced ease, and he probably could’ve won right there, but you’re determined to put on a mock show. So when his hand go to pin both of yours, you worm then against his chest and shove right into his gut. It catches him off guard, just enough for you to roll away and scramble up onto his back, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Dean grunts, and rises up on his knees before dropping onto his side, just enough to knock the wind slightly out of your chest, and pry you off his neck. You try to roll away, but he’s—somehow—faster, and catches you by the waist, hauling you right up into his lap and pinning your arms behind your back with one hand, the other grabbing your jaw to keep your gaze trapped on his. 

And you’ve lost. It was only a few seconds of fighting, but you lost dramatically. 

In Dean’s eyes, at least, you lost.

But you feel a little high, right now. Dean’s big and warm and all around you, touching you everywhere with his chest pressed right against your breasts and his legs wrapped around you to keep you pinned to him. There’s a building, almost mind-numbing ache for him between your thighs, and you can feel his muscles every time he shifts, and he barely out of breath but you’re a giggling, needy mess his arms, and-

You can see the exact moment it hits him. He blinks at you for a second, his grip tightening on your jaw just enough to pull out a tiny, soft moan, and his cock twitches against your leg.

“You’re fucking-“ He cuts himself off with a groan and shake of his head. “Son of a bitch, sweetheart, if you wanted to be fucked, you coulda told me.”

You shake your head, still beaming at him like an idiot. “Better when you mean it. I- I wanna feel you, Dean, please-“

“Please, what?” He hums, squeezing your jaw again, right as he thrusts up against your clothed cunt. “Please fuck you? Toss you around? Or should I make you wait, for giving me a damn heart attack about hunting?”

You flush, and shake your head. “I’m sorry, I just- You weren’t getting it and I- I wanted-“

“I know what you wanted.” Dean shrugs, grinning down at you. “You wanted me to touch you, didn’t you.”

You nod desperately, and he’s so close. His lips brushing over yours, his grip on you tight and perfect and god-

“You wanna touch me, babygirl?” His question is a low, teasing hum, his hips jerking up again to make sure you can feel how hard he is, and a high, needy moan escapes your lips. 

“Dean, please-“

He shakes his head, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Answer the question, sweetheart-“

“Yes- I do, I need it-“

“Yeah, you do.” He mutters, his hand on your jaw dragging down to rest lightly on your throat. “Lie down.”

You scramble back the second Dean lets go of you, settling into the pillows and giving him your prettiest, most hopeful doe-eyed look. He just chuckles, peeling his shirt and jeans at a painfully slow speed, and gives you a pointed expression. He doesn’t have to say it aloud to know what he’s asking. You know him well enough.

“Not those,” he grunts when you go for your panties, the rest of your clothing now discarded onto the floor. “Wanna rip them off you.”

You sigh, pouting up at him, and it hard not to get dizzy from his attention—standing at the edge of the bed, all strength and softness, stroking his cock to the sight of you below him—but you manage. “You always rip them off of me, Dean, I’m going to run out of underwear-“

“Good.” He mutters, starting to prowl over you with an almost feral grin, and you roll your eyes.

“Dean-“

“Don’t worry, baby.” He hums, and your protests about the panties die in your throat as he stops right over you, pressing his thick cock right on your lower lip. “I’ll buy you new ones.”

You hum, blinking hopefully up at him as you open your mouth, and he nods. Dean’s hand tangles in your hair as he slides into your mouth, and you moan shamelessly around him, making his hips jerk and his dick press right against the back of your throat. 

“Fuck,” Dean groans your name, and you suck on him, swirling your tongue around the head of his cock as he pulls slightly out. “You’re gonna choke, you can’t- Shit-“

It’s too easy to whine and run your tongue up his shaft, and he ruts into your mouth with a groan. 

“God- You’re-“ He glares down at you, and you return it with an innocent expression. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

You just blink at him sweetly, grabbing his thighs, and trying to guide him deeper into your mouth, and his brows raise, his voice suddenly a slight rasp.

“More, baby?” 

You hum, already grinding into the sheets from the feeling of him heavy in your mouth and the intensity of his gaze, and Dean groans. 

“You gotta stop me if it’s too much-“ You swallow around him, and his words turn into a loud moan that goes straight between your legs.

The leash Dean’s been keeping on his movements snaps, and your eyes roll back in your head with pleasure as he starts to fuck your mouth. You can feel his gaze as the lewd sounds of his balls slapping your chin and his cock sliding in and out of your lips fills the room. Your nails are digging into his thighs, and your breathing is heavy through your nose, but it feels so good.

There’s all the power of him over you, making you lightheaded and your pussy start to clench around nothing every time he groans your name. You can taste the salt of his precum on your tongue whenever you manage to flick it over the head of him, and when you whimper around him, he always pulls all the way out before slamming back it and groaning your name. 

He’s getting close. You can feel it in the growing sloppiness of his thrusts and the tightness of his grip on your hair. So you double your effort and start to suck him off best you can, but all you can really remember how to do is wiggle and moan-

Dean pulls aways with groan, and your eyes flutter open to see him looking down at you with borderline wonder, his arm braced on the headboard above you and his chest heaving.

“You’re too good at that.” He mutters, moving his hand from your hair to wipe a little bit of drool over your cheek. “Almost came in your mouth, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth again, sticking your tongue out, and he groans, leaning back with a shake of his head. 

“Need to fuck you,” he grunts, shifting so your caged below his arms, his brow pressed against yours. “I’m gonna make you cum ‘till you can’t walk, baby. That sound good?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, spreading your legs as wide as you can. “Good. Touch me, Dean, I- I need you-“

“I know you do.” Rough, warm fingers dance on your panties, teasing on your inner thigh for a second before ripping them away, and running over your pussy. “So fucking wet for me, babygirl, need it that bad?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yes, please-“

Dean cuts you off with a long, sloppy kiss, and you gasp his name into his mouth, grinding onto the palm of his hand in chance of any relief.

“You wanna try and wrestle again?” He hums, rubbing his hand right over your clit. “Or you gonna let me take care of my girl.”

“Take care.” Your voice is barely a breath, but you might fly out of your mind if he doesn’t really, properly fuck you. “Dean, your cock, I need it-“

His hand moves away, but you don’t get a moment to complain before Dean’s shoving himself into you with one rough movement, and your back is arching off the bed.

“That’s right, baby.” His voice is a teasing coo, but you don’t really care. He’s earned it, and it feels so good, being filled up and split open with him all over you and kissing up your neck- “You’re so fuckin’ tight, son of a bitch-“

“Dean.” You gasp, and his mouth crashes back over yours, kissing you into the pillows until you’re limp in his arms, only fluttering desperately around his cock. “Move-“

He groans into your mouth, and your breath hitches in your throat as he slams into you. You wrap your arms around him tight enough to strangle him, just he doesn’t even flinch, just moaning your name and repeating the movement once more. Pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, then starts to fuck you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. 

Sometimes, Dean likes to sit up and watch you come apart below him, or flip you over and fuck you into the mattress. But he knows what you need right now is to just keep feeling him, everywhere, and he’s perfect so that’s exactly what he gives you. Almost holding you off the mattress like it’s nothing, fucking into your pussy with a feverish pace, until your head is falling back with pleasure as he hits that deep, painfully needy spot deep inside you. 

His lips attach to your throat, biting and sucking small marks that make your mouth fall open in a silent scream, and your start to grind onto him. Trying to get your clit to rub on his abdomen, because you’re so fucking close-

Dean grabs your ankles, shifting your around below him without ever breaking pace, and only once you’re securely hanging off his body does his arm wrap around your waist and-

You spasm as his fingers find your clit and start to rub tight, firm circles, and you cum with a scream of his name. He just groans, fucking into you harder as you spasm around his cock, and you’re not coming down. Dean pushes your back down onto the mattress, slams his lips back over yours and angling your hips further up, and you stare up at him as he just keeps fucking you. Your orgasm crests into another one, and there’s a strange, new heat building in your core that’s hot and tight, and-

Dean slams hip hips at the right angle to almost bruise your g-spot, right as his fingers on your clit pinch, and your body goes loose as the coil snaps. Something wet is gushing out of you and running between your legs, and Dean’s jaw is clenched as he drops his brow to yours, his eyes fluttering as he tenses over you.

“Dean.” You whisper, running your fingers through his hair. “Please. On me.”

He stares at you for barely a second before giving a tight nod, and sitting up on his knees. He pulls out with his hand braced on your hip, and it’s a beautiful sight. Dean beating his cock into his hand at the sight of you wrecked and fucked out, thick white cum shooting over your stomach and cunt as he cums with a moan of your name. 

He collapses over you with a grunt, and you hum happily, your fingers shooting into his hair. 

“That what you wanted, baby?” He hums into your ear, and you nod.

“Perfect. Thank you, my love.” 

He grunts as your kiss the side of his head, shifting down to bury his face between your breasts. 

“Love you too.” He grumbles, wrapping his around your body, and you beam up at the ceiling. “Even when you play dumb tricks.”

“I think you liked that trick.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But next time, just freakin’ ask me to fuck you stupid.”

You hum. “Dean?”

He grunts, and you tug on his hair, forcing his gaze up to yours. 

“Can you fuck me stupid.”

His lips twitch and he grabs your hand, turning it to press a kiss to your palm. “Jesus, sweetheart-“

“Please?” You flutter your lashes at him, and he sighs. 

“Gimme ten. In the shower?”

You give him an amused look. “You just wanna cum on me again.”

“Yep.” He grins up at you. “You love it.”

“I do.” You mumble. “But you like it when I play dumb tricks.”

He rolls his eyes, but hauls your upright, standing with you cradled in his arms and a kiss to the side of your head. “Yeah, sweetheart. But I think I just like you.”

End Note: It's probably good for my productiveness that Dean isn't real. I'd never get anything done again.

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[chaoticwriting]

Part 1

Gotham New Rogue 2

It's been a few weeks since Danny started to become the Trickster. To be honest, it is working very well. His core is expanding fast as ectoplasm is regenerating faster than ever before. He is also slowly developing new abilities and gaining more control and powers to his already established abilities.

For instance, Danny used to struggle making clones, but now he can easily create dozens of them with just a thought. He can also change his clothes to whatever he imagines using ectoplasm now. His ice power is also stronger and easier to control. His superhuman body is developing and slowly getting stronger and faster.

Overall, Danny will say that make a smart decision to become a rogue especially since no one has caught him yet. Danny is currently laying on top of a building watching the sun slowly set in the horizon. His stomach suddenly grumbles and he decides to hit the shack before he gets to "work" tonight.

Jumping off the roof, Danny lands and walks to the nearest Batburger while still wearing his rogue suit. He has a totally funny idea today and it involves him being seen in public. Entering the Batburger is like entering a library for some reason. As soon as he enters, everyone goes deathly quiet.

Danny slowly walks towards the cashier and orders his food.

Danny: 5 sets of set C please.

Cashier: Ermm, that will be 60 bucks.

Danny: Here.

After paying for the food, Danny gets his food and sits at one of the tables alone. It's only after he is through his 3rd set that reality is set in for the people. They begin to move and contrary to Danny's expectations, approach him to ask for pictures. Danny allows them some pictures and unknowingly raises his status as Gotham's friendliest rogue.

Suddenly, a white man that screams rich guy, a woman with blonde hair and a black guy wearing Signal's merch approach him. Danny has learned a lot of things from his 14 years of life and 2 years of half life and Danny knows when a rich guy approaches you, it's never good (Sam doesn't have the rich vibe).

Rich guy: Hello Trickster! May we have a meal with you?

Danny: Sure.

Rich guy: Ah, how rude of me. My name is Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne. These two are my friends, Stephanie Brown and Duke Thomas. You can call me Tim by the way.

Danny: Sure, Tim.

They sit opposite him with their meals and try to make small talks with him while eating. The trio realize that Danny seems to respond a lot better when Steph or Duke is the one to ask the question.

Steph: So, Trickster. Why don't you like my friend here?

Duke: Way to go in being subtle, Steph. Why not ask who is he really next?

Steph: Hey, I can't help it you know. He seems so snarky whenever Tim asks questions. I wanna know if Tim pissed him off or something.

Danny: He is rich, right?

Duke: Err, yes?

Steph: Let's say he is. Why does that matter?

Danny: I hate rich people. And government. But who doesn't hate the government?

Duke: So, eat the rich?

Danny: Yes.

Steph: Cool cool. We are also here just so we could leech him off anyway. We're not really friends.

Tim: Ow, you hurt me by saying that. What happened to our vow of eternal friendships?

Steph: I cross my fingers.

Duke: I lie.

Danny: Hahahaha. You're like my friends.

Tim: You have friends?

Danny: Of course I have friends. And unlike you I don't need money to have friends.

Tim: Sorry sorry. Are your friends also rouges?

Danny: Wouldn't you like to know? Last I need is Batman investigating my friends. I'm sure Batman is part of you rich people group chat or something.

Steph and Duke: *Snickers*

Tim: *Glares at the two* Why would you think Batman is in contact with the rich people?

Danny: Isn't it obvious? Batman has all these high tech gadgets and is always there fast whenever a Wayne is kidnapped. I would even say Batman is being sponsored by the Wayne.

Danny: I also don't like most heroes in general. They are just the government lapdog doing whatever the government wants.

Tim, Steph and Duke frowned at that statement. From the way Danny speaks, it is clear that he has some history against the government. Him being here also means he is at least confident enough to run away if any of the bats are here. Is it just blind confidence or a truly competent ability will remain to be seen.

Tim is just about to refute him when Danny suddenly stands up. All of them tensed up and ready for battle when Danny turns towards one side of the window, waves and disappears right in front of them. They are very confused and when they turn towards the direction Danny was just looking at, they see Batman and Black Bat right on the rooftop across the building.

Batman and Tim nod to each other and they all return to the caves.

-Batcave-

Tim: So you all hear the conversation right?

Dick: Except at the end where the sound becomes blurred for a moment, we hear everything.

Tim: Good. So what are your thoughts on this?

Damian: It is pretty self explanatory Drake. He has a personal hatred towards the government and that extends to all bodies of government or people he thought is connected to the government.

Tim: But why though? Is the hatred towards the government something as simple because he is a criminal? Or is there something else towards it?

Bruce: There is nothing to find about him currently with our limited resources about him. Return to the manor for today and take some rest. We will investigate it later.

All of them return to the manor and rest for the night.

-2 weeks later-

The Trickster is standing in front of an unconscious and tied up Batman. He is giggling loudly that evolves into full blown laughter.

He takes off Batman's belt and starts to pull out stuff one after another. Soon, he found the item that he needed.

Trickster: Hahahahahahaha. I have finally got it. The strongest weapon in the world!

The batfam that is watching the live broadcast shiver as they watch Trickster holds out the black object high in the sky.

Part 3

[ellerial]

Yeah, Danny is smart af and learned a lot by helping his parents and altering their inventions to not be so murdery, but he's also learned a lot from the various denizens of the realms. So this guy's not only an engineer and inventor, he's also an artificer with knowledge and techniques from the infinite realms of infinite possibilities (as long as the physics of the dimension you're in mesh, it works!). Constantine might think tech and magic don't mix, but add a little ecto and anything is possible.

And of all the inventions that Danny's created, his most used go on what looks like a janitors keychain. It's got a collapsible thermos, a collapsible mace, 2 laser lipsticks and his more magical toys. The barrier Tuck and he invented is created by little nickle sized nodes that pop out of a cylindrical tube like mentos. The illusion breaker is a tiny hammer whose metal shimmers oddly in the right light (be careful when using against livings that are under an illusion. That was not fun to clean up, Sam). But his favorite are the chapstick looking stamps that he created using all his knowledge and a little help from his ghostly mentors.

All the stamps run on realms magic and the internal ink is powered by his own ecto. He's got a one time use summoning sigil that can be stamped on any surface (preferably something you're down to destroy). Tear up the sigil and boom! Danny at your service! (Cannot be copied or replicated and can only work if stamped by Danny or one of his fraid.)

He's also got a temporary anti-overshadow runic stamp. Works for 72 hours or until it's washed off with his personal sigil removal wash. No, he can't make it a permanent anti-overshadow stamp. Do you know what that would do to your own soul?? Let that shit breathe, homie. On the same note, don't constantly wear any specter deflectors for the same reason! You're blocking almost all ecto and that's part of life, too, ya know? Ecto is good for the soul~ literally.

He has two favorites. One is a quantum spatial hexcode that, when stamped on a wall, show the view of space as if the wall, trees, earth, everything was no longer there (lasts 4 hours). The other was an instant jolt of caffeine like you just had 5 shots of espresso. He's saved so much money from going to the café even if he misses the actual taste.

Right now he's working on one that works like a laser pointer where you point and click and it'll stamp whatever you were pointing at. He's gonna make it so it can change the color of ectoplasm, specifically to make the Observants different colors and patterns whenever they bug him to solve whatever inane problem they have next. Greg is gonna be plaid one of these days, you'll see! Show them what happens when ya keep trying to bother a guy about paperwork by popping into existence while he's on the can. No manners at all.

[wendichester]

Hiii I was wondering about a really intelligent reader, like they do regular research conferences, go to an Ivy League school, are getting their PhD etc. With Dean, Dean starts to feel insecure because he catches them and Sam having long talks about subjects he doesn’t get but reader comforts him, saying how much they love how strong and safe he is, he his the brawn to their brain, how he is smart but either way it doesn’t matter bc they love him even if he was a dumb as a bag of rocks. I NEEDDD them to coddle his head in their chest n rock him while they lay in bed and they reassure him he is smart and lovable!!

I LOVE MY SWEET BOY RAHHH‼️‼️

Than you preemptively🫶🏻

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ brawn & brain,

summary. you're book smart. dean's street smart. it's the perfect mix.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 394

notes / warnings. we love us a smart reader ehe 🤭

The sound of laughter pulls Dean from sleep.

He blinks against the dim bunker lighting, rolling over to find your side of the bed empty. The clock reads 3:17 AM.

Padding barefoot down the hallway, he finds you and Sam hunched over the library table, surrounded by open books and half-empty coffee mugs. Sam's gesturing wildly about some obscure lore, and you're nodding along, eyes bright with that sharp focus Dean's come to adore—even if he only understands every third word.

"—so if we cross-reference the Enochian with the Sumerian tablets—"

"Right! Which means the ritual would've needed—"

Dean lingers in the doorway, something heavy settling in his chest.

You notice him first. "Dean?"

Sam turns, grinning. "Hey, man. We were just—"

"Yeah," Dean cuts in, voice rough with sleep. "Heard."

The way your smile falters tells him he's been too sharp.

Later, when Sam's gone to bed and you're curled under the covers together, Dean can't stop replaying it—the easy way you and Sam fit together intellectually, like puzzle pieces he can't force himself into.

You sense it. Of course you do.

Turning in his arms, you press a kiss to his jaw. "What's wrong?"

Dean shrugs. "Nothin'."

You give him the look—the one that cracks him open every time.

He sighs. "Just... you and Sammy. All that research crap. You get each other."

Your fingers still where they'd been tracing his collarbone. "Oh, Dean."

And then you're maneuvering him, gentle but firm, until his head rests against your chest. Your fingers card through his hair as you rock him slightly, like he's something precious.

"You listen to me," you murmur. "You're brilliant. You keep us alive out there—your instincts, your reflexes? That's a kind of smart no book can teach."

Dean huffs, but he doesn't pull away. "Yeah, well—"

"And even if you weren't," you continue, tipping his chin up to meet your gaze, "even if you were dumb as a box of hammers, I'd still love you. Because you're you."

Something tight in Dean's chest unravels.

"You mean that?" he whispers, uncharacteristically small.

You kiss his forehead. "With my whole damn PhD."

Dean's laugh is muffled against your skin as he pulls you closer. Maybe he'll never quote Latin or debate ancient texts. But here, in your arms? He feels seen.

And that's better than smart.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[novelistwriter]

Children of the Future

DP x DC Prompt

The Justice League has been tracking the movements of a person or group that's taking any CADMUS cloning tech. They need to track them down and put a stop to whatever plan they have.

When they eventually made it to the hideout they discovered, it was just one scientist who was a former CADMUS scientist, and he had already made clones with the DNA he had collected. The scientist didn't even try to put up a fight or anything. He was just happy to give the Clones to them and be put away (The scientist is one who believes that these clone children be the turning point in the world when they are older, he's happy that the Justice League found him first, and not his former colleagues).

All the clones are children, and they were raised as siblings and actual people by the scientist they apprehended. They even got to choose their own names.

The oldest clone is a girl who is the clone of Nightwing and Flash (Wally). She is smart, and the notes on her by the scientist said that she'll develop the speedster power in her teenage years. She named herself Jasmine, but prefers Jazz

The next clone was a boy who was cloned from Red Robin, Superboy, and their civilian boyfriend Bernard. The notes on him said that he'll get the strengths of a kryptonian that was raised on earth, and the mixture of the Lazarus Waters in his DNA had somehow negated his weakness to Kryptonite. He named himself Danny.

The next is another girl cloned from Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn. The notes for her said that she'll have Poison Ivy's ability to control plants when she's a teenager. Her chosen name is Sam.

The next is a black boy cloned from Aqualad and Cyborg. In the notes, the boy is said to develop sand powers, unlike Kaldur, who has water and electricity related powers. His chosen name is Tucker.

The next is yet another girl cloned from John Stewart Green Lantern and Wonder Woman. The notes on her said that she's chosen to train in martial arts and is expected to be a good fighter by her teenage years. She chose Valerie as her name.

Amd finally, a boy who was cloned from Red Hood and Arsenal. While the notes on him said that he won't develop any powers, he is smart and has sharp eyes. He chose Wesley as his name.

Elsewhere, the Ghost of Time looks at the world his King and his fraid have been put in for their rebirth. They had all perished at the hands of the GIW and the Fentons, Dani was the only one to be saved, the GIW and the Fentons had her contained and were about to end her like the others, but Vlad, Dan, and the other Ghosts had overwhelmed them to save the Princess. Vlad will be the Regent for a while, with Dan as his personal guard. Fright Knight is always following his king by being in his shadow, intending to keep his oath to the Crown. While his King and his fraid will not remember their past lives, they will most definitely return to the Infinite Realms, but on much better terms than their first time.

[whowantstobenormalanyway]

Tipsy Confusion

Bsf!Reader x Dean who thinks they’re dating

A/N: First attempt at a one shot, and first time writing anything supernatural!! Might make more of these with different readers and the same. Reader in this is a bit naive? But she's drunk, and I think we can let her off because of it! Summary: Dean thinks you're dating, you think you're besties, and usually you're okay with that, but right now you're drunk. Sam is a little menace, but at least he's having fun.

What Dean had done to deserve this, he didn’t know. 

Ever-serious Sammy was flirting with his girl, for no reason. Well, sure there were some reasons. I mean, you're hella smart, curvy in all the right places, funny, and have a bangin’ taste in music, but still.

Worse of all, to Dean’s dramatic and pissed off view, it seemed like you were flirting back, laughing and leaning into Sam.

In reality, neither of you were flirting. For one, Sam was fully aware of Dean’s obsession with you, and he saw you as an awesome, annoying sister than anything else; in his mind you were part of the family, but would never be his in that way, and nor would he want you to be. Secondly, you were pretty touchy with everyone, and you were tipsy. Three beers in and you were ready to start serenading the barkeep - it’s just how you were. 

Frankly, you would practically be on Dean’s lap right now, but he went to the bathroom and hadn’t come back yet, so you were just chilling with Sam. 

You noticed your bottle was empty, and pouted slightly when you noticed Sam and Dean’s were too. You didn’t notice the way Dean’s eyes softened at your expression, or the way they hardened again once you had skipped over to the bar to get them all more drinks and he could focus solely on Sam again.

“You two seemed pretty snug,” Dean said, making Sam jump as he slid into their booth. He ground his jaw at the amused smile playing along his brother's face. He was lucky he was his brother, else Dean would have bashed his face in for smiling like that, thinking about you.

Dean may have been a bit tipsy too.

Sam snorted, “Dean.”

“You think this is funny, Sammy?” Dean growled, “Stealing another man’s girl, man, come on!” He was undoubtedly about to go off on a tangent about the betrayed brother, so Sam cut in before he could spiral.

“I am not trying to steal your girl!”

Dean squinted at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

Now Dean just looked offended. “Why not?”

“What?”

“She’s gorgeous, and smart, and funny. Who are you to think you’re too good for her, huh? She’s too good for you, and anybody else in this crappy bar, did you know that?”

“Oh my god, Dean!”

“What?”

Sam was about to reiterate that he didn’t want you, when you came back and plopped next to Dean holding drinks. “FINALLY!” He threw his hands up exasperated, “You can deal with him.”

“Dean!” You chirped, already invading his personal space, although he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he melted into you, as if your presence was able to relax him enough to melt him into a pile of goo. 

“Hi, Sweetheart.” He grinned at you, acting totally cool.

Sam just rolled his eyes and picked up his drink.

“You were gone for ages!” You said glaring at the oldest brother suddenly. “What, did you find a girl or something while you were over there?”

Now Dean was bewildered. You always said shit like that when you were drunk, insecurities festering beneath your skin, waiting to come out. In all honesty, you were just a tiny bit jealous of all those girls, I mean Dean was Dean!

But you could live with being his best friend most of the time. Only when drunk did you feel in anyway inferior. 

“The hell would I find a girl for when I’ve already got one?”

“You have a girlfriend?” Your eyes watered. Dean didn’t do girlfriends, and the fact that he hadn’t told you about one hurt just a little.

Dean panicked at your shining eyes. “I think you’ve had enough to drink tonight, huh, baby? Getting a bit forgetful.”

“I’m not your car!”

“...No, you’re you.”

Sam was biting his lip as hard as he could to keep from laughing. The little shit knew exactly what was going on. Dean was never one for grand declarations or romantic dates, so he didn’t think he needed to ask you to be his Girlfriend, but he had told Sammy about a gift he wanted to get you for your anniversary in a few months, which was apparently just a random day Dean had decided you two were officially together.

On the other hand, Sam knew you were pining over his brother, but was fully under the impression that both you and he were single. A couple of weeks ago you had mentioned how, if you were dating someone (Cough, cough, Dean) you would have taken them to a cute little riverside restaurant in the town they were staying in at the time. Another time, you were going on about how you wished his brother would see you as more than a best friend, but understood that commitment was hard for him in general and in their line of work.

And, yeah. Sam could have mentioned the situation to Dean, or to you, but that would have taken the fun out of it. He wanted to see who would realise the other’s beliefs first; he had a bet about it with Bobby actually.

Plus, Dean made his dating life hell as a teenager, so a little payback was rather refreshing.

[clockwayswrites]

Birdritch... something. I hurt so much. It's some number. You'll figure it out. You're smart, darlings.

masterpost over on @clockwaysadmin

Danny stayed at the back, trailing after the rambunctious flock of Waynes as they made their way behind the stage and to the other, hidden side of the theater. It made Danny smile, to see the family bumping shoulders, teasing, and laughing with each other.

His life in Gotham was something that Danny loved. He’d clawed it out from the proverbial grave of his death and everything that came with it: nearly failing high school, his failing health after, the trauma it left him with, the relationship with his parents he left behind. But he’d gotten to the surface. He got his Bachelors and Masters and PHD. He got a job that he traded for another and another until he rose up to where he worked at an amazing company and got mostly left alone to dream up new ways to make the world better.

Danny loved it.

But that didn’t mean that Danny didn’t miss the close friendships that (metaphorically and physically), Danny had moved away from to achieve what he had. Visiting Jazz and Taylor, Sam and her brood, or Tucker and his partners wasn’t the same as living with them close. He missed what the Waynes had with an ache so deep that he had to push it aside so that it didn’t swallow him whole.

“Cass!”

Tim calling his sister’s name shook Danny out of his rumination. He found a little out of the way spot of wall to lean against between some boxes and rolls of scenery.

“You were amazing, darling,” Bruce said as he leaned in to kiss Cass’ cheek.

Bruce handed over the bouquet of white roses and babies-breath that he had brought from where it had been stored in the sitting room. Cass basically buried her face in the flowers and inhaled.

“For real, little sis, your moves were amazing. You have to show me how you hold some of those poses so still,” Dick said.

“As if you could stay still,” Barbara teased with a well placed poke to Dick’s side that made him squeak and move defensively behind Cass.

“Pretty sure she beats you in flexibility now too, dickhead,” Jason said.

“It is okay, love you still,” Cass said in her soft tone. She pulled out one of the roses from the mass of flowers and tucked it behind Dick’s ear.

Dick looked momentarily torn if he should be insulted or fond, though fond quickly won out and he pressed a little kiss to the top of Cass’ head. It seemed to be a signal, somehow, and suddenly all of the family was talking to Cass or to each other. The fatigue was starting to pull too heavily on Danny for him to make out most of the chatter, so he simply closed his eyes and let the happy voices wash over him.

There was a gentle pressure on his arm. Danny blinked his eyes open to a worried Cass, dark brows furrowed above the dramatic white and glitter of her stage make up. Danny smiled, though he knew it probably looked a little drawn.

“Hello, Cass,” Danny signed.

The furrow between the bows only grew as she signed. “You okay?”

“Okay. Tired,” Danny replied before he gave up to talking verbally. The sleep clouded his mind about signs right then. He really would have to practice. “I’m just a little out of sorts, but I’m very glad I came. Thank you for inviting me. You danced absolutely wonderfully. I don’t know much about ballet, but even I could see how skilled you are.”

“Thank you. I am glad you came. Could have not,” she said.

“Of course I had to come, you invited me and it’s an important night for you. It should be!” Danny made himself stand up away from the wall and put a bit more energy into his smile. “I’m fine, really, fatigue just gets me sometimes.”

Cass turned his frown away from Danny and directed it at her father.

“I already talked Danny into letting us give him a ride home,” Bruce replied.

“I really would be fine,” Danny couldn’t help but argue. “I’ve made it home in worse states than this.”

“Oddly enough,” Jason interjected, “you really aren’t helping your case.”

Danny couldn’t do anything else but give an unrepentant little shrug to that. He probably wasn’t, but it was true. Besides, he had already agreed to the ride, not that he felt he had much choice. It was too easy to be swept along by the Waynes.

Barbara may be right that they did absorb people.

[emacrow]

Sam Manson dropped a black credit card on his lap..

"I know what you do in gotham, but you will have to stop temporarily.. until we can find some ground after this.."

She was willing to pay anything because she had heard the stories between him and Walker family and what he does in gotham as a villain. He was incredibly good at hiding from his own family during family reunion, considering he was half related. He was smart enough to nearly best batman, but with a Tucker, her, Jazz, and Jack. They can hide indefinitely until they built another portal after permanently sabotaging the one at the fenton house, Tucker already had the blueprints in a usb port.

Hide them for now, Tucker already making fake ID in the back of the seat, and she'll buy an apartment large enough in gotham. Just help them keep danny safe until they figure out a plan to contact the Justice league after making sure they aren't connected to the GIW.

Edward Nygma stared back at Sam, his eyes narrowing a bit as he held the black card that held more money, he thought, considering it was Danny's inherited by clockwork once he got the throne of the infinite realm, before glancing at the rear view mirror of the car.

"I'm not doing this for you, Jack, but I'm doing it for them." Edward said softly, glancing the side where Jazz was asleep in the passenger seat. Toddler danny, newborn babies, danta was asleep with ellen innocently looking at him with her grayish blue eyes far too similar to Danny when he was born for Edward's comfort.

Edward Nygma would be dead to the world for now. Eddie Mockingbird Walker was back from a long 15-year disappearance after losing The Chopin Competition.

He took a long, heavy breath that nearly stuttered, the old, nearly forgotten memories resurface of soft, smiling elderly Meemaw Gretchen Mockingbird in a baby green blouse sitting in the audience among thousands.

A young Eddie plays his final performance, as the crowd silent only for Meemaw to never stood up like she usually did, remain seat with a soft smile and her eyes close.. then the lady next to her cried out for the ambulance as she was not getting a pulse.

Eddie stared in silent shock of the sudden chaos, waiting and hoping for Meemaw to get up and yell that was her grandbaby Eddie that was going to win this tournament in the middle of his performance like she always did in every single one.

He kept his eyes on the road, tightening his jaw as a single tear drip down his eyes. His arms tightened on the wheels as he ignored his heartache...

Part 2 here <- part 4 -> here

[mind-empty-just-fictional-people]

Too Many Beds

main masterlist | supernatural masterlist 

summary: you want nothing more than an excuse to sleep next to dean again

pairing: (pre-s1/s1) dean winchester x female reader

rating: R for language

word count: 2.1k 

warnings: none really, language, bed sharing, kissing, mutual pining, idiots in love, brief mention of the death of reader’s dad

timeline: starts slightly before season one, ends near the beginning of season one

author’s note: a spin on the classic 'just one bed, what ever shall we do?' trope lol

You’d known Dean all your life, practically. You met him when you were six and he was eight; two lonely little kids stuck with absent (job-driven) fathers and baby brothers you felt responsible for. Over the course of the last eighteen-or-so years you ran into the Winchesters during hunts enough that you considered them family. 

When Sam left for college you were there for Dean and when you lost your dad in a hunting accident Dean was there for you. He actually stayed with you, not wanting you to hunt alone since your brother was off at college too.

So, for the last six months you’d been hunting with Dean (who hadn’t spoken to Sam for over a year).

“One room, two queens,” Dean said to the woman behind the counter, placing “his” credit card on the space between them before sliding it toward her.

“We’re all booked up I’m afraid,” she said.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I was actually about to turn on the no vacancy sign.”

“This is the third motel we’ve been to,” you said, “every one of them has been full—you’ve gotta have something!”

“I mean, there’s technically one room left but the heater’s out and my boss said not to let anyone sleep there because of that.”

There was a silent pause; you and Dean shared a knowing look.

“We’ll pay in cash, your boss ‘ll never know,” you told the woman. She smiled and nodded as you paid her with cash. 

“Room 209, my boss gets here at ten tomorrow morning so please leave before then.” She handed you the key and you nodded in thanks.

You had underestimated just how cold the room could be, but when you unlocked and opened the door you understood why the owner didn’t want anyone staying here.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean mumbled, following you into the room and feeling the cold air. “We’re gonna freeze our asses off in here!” he quickly closed the door behind him, hoping the icy air hadn’t swept any snow into the room.

“It’s either this or we sleep in the Impala,” you shrugged, “and, no offense to your car, but it’s fuckin’ uncomfortable to sleep in.”

“And there’s only one bed,” Dean sighed.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” you told him, ignoring his complaints. 

**

“Are you shivering or crying?” Dean asked.

You rolled over so you could meet his stare; “Shivering! It’s fuckin’ cold in here!”

“You wanna…cuddle up, maybe?” he asked hesitantly.

“Excuse me?” you laughed a little.

“Look, I’m not thrilled about it either, but it’s cold in here and unless we both wanna catch fucking pneumonia we better be smart and share body heat.”

You sighed, weighing your options; “Fine. But we never, and I mean never speak of this again, you hear me?”

“Understood.” He nodded.

You rolled back over as he scooted closer to you. He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you into his chest.

“This okay?” he asked quietly, his lips ghosting the back of your head.

“Yeah,” you mumbled back. “Thank you, Dean.”

**

You woke up to the sound of Dean snoring loudly. You were used to his snores, sure, but he’d never been this close. He was laying on his stomach and resting on your chest; his mouth open and his hair tickling your neck. Your first reaction was annoyance but then it quickly washed away as you realized you didn’t want to move a muscle, so Dean could continue sleeping. 

And the more you laid there, listening to his snores, the more you realized how comfortable you were…even in such a physically uncomfortable situation. 

As the time passed and the sun began to rise, you cursed the light that was slowly but surely peeking through the curtain and onto Dean’s face. 

“Morning,” he mumbled to you as he lifted his head up. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his right hand before wiping his mouth. “Sorry,” he chuckled, noticing the small spot on your gray sweater dampened with his drool.

“It’s okay,” you mumbled back. “I think it’s your sweater anyway.”

“I thought it looked familiar.”

He rolled off of you and out of bed. 

You watched as he padded across the dirty carpet and over to the small kitchen. He turned on the coffee maker and the loud, off putting grinding noise made his face scrunch before he quickly shut off the (definitely broken) machine.

“So much for coffee,” he grumbled. “You gonna sit there all morning or you wanna get outta here? We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

“I’m getting up,” you replied. You would usually be annoyed at him for rushing you to wake up, but this time the annoyance was…different. Something about his bedhead, the way his lips were pouting over the lack of caffeine, and how he looked in his brown Henley and baggy sweats just made you wanna hold him again. All you wanted was to pull him back into bed with you and hold him in your arms forever.

**

You were beyond frustrated at this point. How many stupid fucking hotels had to have vacant rooms with two beds and a functional heating system!? 

It had been nearly six months since you and Dean shared a bed and you had been looking for an excuse to sleep next to him ever since. 

But the last couple weeks had been different—Sammy was back. Yes, you loved Sam like a brother, but you missed getting to be alone with Dean. You missed sitting shotgun in the Impala and watching him drive.

Sam definitely noticed the way you looked at Dean, but the younger Winchester didn’t say a word. Without being too obvious about it, he tried to do little things that would let you be close to his brother. He’d sit in a certain chair or part of the couch so that you and Dean had no choice but to sit together. Or he’d make some lame excuse so that he got his own room while you and Dean had to share. “I need to do some more research and I need the light, why don’t you two just sleep in the other room?” for example. 

**

“Two rooms, please,” Dean said, reaching into his coat pocket for his wallet.

“Unfortunately we’ve only got one room left,” the cashier replied. 

You almost couldn’t believe your ears, fucking finally!

“Oh, that’s too bad,” you faked your best frustrated look, of course Sam saw right through that.

“Well, I am not sharing with either or you,” he said with a teasing smile. 

“There’s actually a pullout couch in that room, as luck would have it,” the cashier informed the three of you. 

God fucking damn it, you thought to yourself.

**

It was barely after two when you felt the bed behind you dip, and you shook yourself awake. 

“The hell?” you asked, still half asleep.

“The pullout couch isn’t working,” Dean mumbled quietly. “You mind sharing with me?”

You smiled a little and scooted closer into his arms, indicating you were okay with him sleeping next to you.

“Of course I don’t mind sharing with you,” you whispered and his grip tightened.

**

“I’m gonna go get breakfast,” Sam announced. “I’m assuming you want your usual?”

Dean put his right pointer finger to his lips and furrowed his brows angrily. He gestured to you as you slept and Sam got the message. 

“Usual is good,” Dean whispered before Sam left.

Dean stayed laying perfectly still as you slept on his chest, soft snores escaping your lips and to Dean they were the sweetest sound. 

As you stirred awake slowly, he rubbed your back a little.

“Morning,” you mumbled, a small smile on your lips. “Where’s Sam?”

“He went to grab breakfast,” Dean told you. 

You furrowed your brows as you sat up, looked across the room, and realized something; “The pullout bed looks fine? I thought you said it wasn’t working?” You turned back to Dean, who had a sheepish grin growing on his lips.

“So…maybe I’ve just been looking for an excuse to sleep next to you again. Like we did back in that motel when the heat was out.”

“Really?” You attempted to hide the smile trying to find its way onto your face. 

“When we were checking in last night I noticed how your face lit up when they said there was only one room left,” Dean admitted. “And I saw that disappointed look you made when they said there was a pullout couch. So, am I wrong, or have you been wanting an excuse too?”

“I really liked sleeping next to you that night,” you said, avoiding eye contact. “And you’re right, I have been hoping for another ‘oh no just one bed, guess we’ll have to share’ situation but…”

“But what?” Dean asked when you trailed off. You looked down at him. 

“Dean, you and Sam have been like my brothers for as long as I can remember. I mean, Bobby practically raised all three of us and my actual brother as siblings! Your dad and my dad knew each other basically forever and I guess…I guess I figured our lives are too entangled for anything to ever actually happen between us. We’re family.”

“Chosen family, Y/n.” Dean smiled softly. “Doesn’t mean you have to be my chosen sister, you could be my chosen…you know…” 

You leaned down and placed a soft kiss on his full lips. 

“That,” Dean finished his previous statement. 

“Let’s just keep this between us for now, okay?” you suggested. “If Sam finds out, then your dad will find out, and he’ll immediately tell my brother, then before we know it Bobby—”

“I get the picture, sweetheart,” Dean chuckled before kissing you again. He put his hands on your cheeks as he sat up. He pulled you onto his lap, your legs now straddling his hips. His hands moved to your shoulders then trailed down to your lower back as yours went into his hair. You pulled away from him after a moment, huge smiles on both your faces.

You looked into his eyes, his truly beautiful eyes, and you bit your bottom lip ever so slightly. Your right hand rested on his left cheek, your thumb stroking his skin lovingly. 

“You’re awesome, Dean Winchester,” you whispered. 

“You’re fuckin’ incredible,” he replied before he kissed you again. “And gorgeous, too,” he added. “You know how fuckin’ annoying it’s been, sleeping without you every night since that one time?”

“I do know, Dean, I’ve been just as annoyed about it.”

Dean kissed you one more time before he wrapped his arms around you in a tight embrace, tucking his head into your neck. You wrapped your arms around him too, pressing your lips to his temple.

You pulled out of the hug so you could once again look at his face. Resting your forehead on his, you smiled before you kissed him again. 

“Breakfast,” Sam called out as he opened the door, “is served!”

You and Dean froze for a split second before you hurried off of him.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Sam said, “did I interrupt you two?”

“What?” you scoffed. “Of course not!”

“Interrupt? There’s nothing to interrupt?” Dean added.

“Oh…wow you two are fast,” Sam mumbled, shaking his head as he made his way to the kitchen before putting the food down. “Well, pancakes, eggs, and bacon from the continental breakfast.” He gestured to the food now on the table. “Hope you’re hungry.”

As Sam sat down to eat, you looked at Dean anxiously. Say something you begged him with your eyes.

“Sammy,” Dean started as he got out of bed, “would you mind uh…not telling dad? About me and Y/n…kissing just now? When we find him, I mean.”

“Dad’s never really been invested in your love life, but he’s not an idiot,” Sam laughed. 

“So…you are gonna tell him?” Dean furrowed his brows in frustration.

“Dean, he knows you two are together, it’s not some big secret?” Sam replied, shoveling more food into his mouth. “Damn that’s good.”

“Okay, just hold on—what?” Dean asked. “What do you mean dad knows? There’s been nothing to know since like four minutes ago?”

“Wait,” Sam stopped eating and fully turned to face you and his brother, “are you trying to tell me this is the first time you two have kissed?” Sam furrowed his brows deeply as you and Dean both nodded. “So…never in high school?” You shook your heads again. “That prom we crashed?”

“Sam you were there the whole time? When would we have kissed?” you asked.

“Huh,” Sam let out a laugh. “I genuinely thought you two had been a thing since like… ‘98.”

“What!?” you and Dean exclaimed in unison.

[itsnotyouithink]

without you

pairing: tara carpenter x fem!reader

summary: long distance isn’t for the weak, especially when you visit your girlfriend in new york city - just to see her all over somebody else.

warnings: mentions of ghostface & blood

word count: 7.0k

author’s note: that viral video of the girl surprising her boyfriend while another girl is sitting on top of him and all his friends are like “yoo holy shit wtfff” and laughing at the girlfriend haunts me to this day.

——

You were the smart girl. The golden girl. The one with annotated poetry books and hair that always looked a little too perfect in the wind. Your teachers loved you — that kind of quiet reverence usually reserved for prodigies and people who already had TED Talks queued up in their futures. You wore Harvard on your chest before you even applied. Because of course you'd get in. Of course you did.

But none of it ever made you feel like Tara did.

Tara Carpenter — with her bite and her bruises, her too-dark eye circles and the way she rolled joints like it was an art form. She used to call you "Valedictorian Barbie," but only when she was feeling flirty. Which was often. She made you feel like being brilliant was hot. Like being soft and sharp at the same time was something to be worshipped, not tolerated. You loved that she didn't treat you like you were breakable.

And she loved that you saw her.

Not Sam's little sister. Not Ghostface bait. Not the girl who almost didn't survive.

You knew her before all that.

Before Amber's house. Before the hospital.

You were the one holding her hair back while she cried on the bathroom floor the week after her stitches came out. You were the one who wiped blood off her collarbone and kissed her anyway. You were the one who told her she was more than what happened to her. That she was still here. Still worth everything.

You spent your last year in Woodsboro fused. That was the only way to describe it. Two people who knew they wouldn't survive the year unless they clung to each other. It was desperate. Beautiful. And when you got your Harvard acceptance letter, she screamed louder than your mom did.

"I told you," she said that night, sprawled across your bed, a bowl of grapes between you. "You're gonna be running the whole world by 30."

"And you're gonna be directing horror films in a basement somewhere," you teased.

"With Chad holding the boom mic," she grinned. "And Mindy threatening producers."

You looked at her and said it without thinking:

"I wish you were coming with me."

She had blinked at that. Quiet. Uncharacteristically quiet.

Then: "We'll be fine. I'll be in New York. You'll be in Boston. It's like—what? A four-hour train ride?"

That was the plan.

Or so you thought.

Harvard was cruel in a subtle way. It didn't punch you in the face so much as bleed you dry by a thousand little paper cuts. It didn't feel like success at first.

It felt like punishment.

You sat in lecture halls the size of churches and felt like a fraud. You got A-minuses and wanted to scream. You called your mom crying twice in the same week because your roommate played club lacrosse and thought Nietzsche was "just okay." You started eating dinner at 9 p.m. and sleeping four hours a night. You excelled, of course — you always did — but it didn't feel like winning. It felt like surviving.

Like a fever dream made of fluorescent lights, frigid air, and classrooms that smelled faintly of erasers and old money. You walked through campus in your thrifted wool coat like a ghost wearing someone else's skin — the only person in the lecture hall taking notes by hand because you couldn't afford a new laptop after your financial aid went toward books in the first month of school.

But then you met them.

Gwen. Samira. Alex. Cassie.

The weird girls. The brilliant ones. The ones who built forts out of unread textbooks and spoke about grief and girlhood like it was a second language. You found them on the floor of a dorm hallway during a fire drill. Someone quoted Adrienne Rich. Someone else cried. You stayed until 3 a.m.

They didn't just like your mind. They saw it.

You weren't too intense or too emotional or too ambitious here — you were exactly enough. And when you spoke, people leaned in. You started to laugh again. You started to write again. You stopped apologizing for taking up space.

But the thing is, when you start becoming more of yourself... Sometimes the people who loved the earlier version of you start to disappear.

You were halfway through a half-eaten pack of seaweed snacks, balancing a laptop on your knees while everyone around you argued about which sad girl singer deserved the "haunting voice of the decade" crown - it was clearly Mitski - when your phone lit up.

Tara Carpenter ❤️ calling.

Your heart stuttered.

You dropped the snacks.

"Shh—guys, shut up—Tara's calling."

They all fell dramatically silent.

You answered on the second ring, suddenly too aware of the chaotic mess behind you.

Her face filled the screen. Sleepy, soft. She looked like she had just climbed into bed, hair half-damp and hoodie swallowing her frame.

"Hey," she murmured. "Did I call too late?"

Your chest ached. Her voice still did that to you.

"No, it's perfect."

From behind you, Samira waved dramatically. "Is that the famous girlfriend?!"

You laughed, startled, and turned the phone slightly so Tara could see the room: Gwen wearing Alex's hoodie like a cape, Samira eating instant oatmeal with chopsticks, Cassie in your bed pretending to meditate.

Tara blinked at the screen, clearly caught off guard.

"Oh... wow. You have a cult now."

"They worship me," you deadpanned.

"Obviously," said Gwen.

"Duh," said Samira.

Tara laughed. Kind of. But there was something off in her voice.

"They're cool," she said. "Different from Woodsboro."

"They're insane," you grinned. "But in the best way."

Tara nodded slowly. But didn't say anything right away.

Then: "You look happy."

You glanced down. That kind of compliment — simple, sincere — shouldn't hurt. But it did. It made you think about how long it had been since she'd said anything like it.

"I am, I think," you replied. "It's hard, but... yeah. They make it easier."

More silence.

Tara's thumb brushed the edge of her screen. Her eyes flicked somewhere just out of frame.

Then: "You're still coming here next month, right?"

"Yeah. I booked the train. Didn't I tell you?"

"You didn't," she said, smiling faintly. "But I'm glad."

And for a second, it almost felt normal. Easy. Like you were still the girl who patched up her stab wounds in a bathroom and whispered "I'm not scared when I'm with you."

But then Gwen asked if you wanted to stay up for tarot readings and Samira announced she was making "grief popcorn" — and Tara suddenly looked very far away again. "I should let you go," she said. "Looks like you've got a whole... thing going on."

You frowned. "No, wait, stay on. I'll kick them out."

Tara shook her head.

"It's fine. I'm just tired."

And then she was gone.

Just like that.

Call ended.

No I love you.

No goodnight.

Just a gray screen and a slow, sinking ache in your chest.

Then, it just got worse.

"I'm just tired, babe," she'd say, voice raspy. "Long day. I'll call you tomorrow."

Tomorrow turned into the weekend. The weekend turned into "shit, sorry, I forgot."

You told yourself it was okay. She had her own life. You couldn't expect everything to stay the same. You were both adjusting. But something shifted in the silence. Something you couldn't name.

You started overanalyzing her texts.

Started noticing how often Chad's name came up. Started wondering why she laughed in his stories but never in your calls.

You visited her once in early October. Took the Amtrak with an overstuffed bag and nerves like static in your chest. It was a surprise. You brought her favorite cold brew, wore her favorite sweater. You imagined the way her face would light up when she saw you.

She answered the door in someone else's hoodie.

It smelled like cologne.

The apartment was buzzing with noise — Mindy was yelling about a horror remake, Chad was tossing popcorn into his mouth like a Labrador, and Tara... Tara was tired. You could see it in her eyes, the way she hugged you like she was checking off a box.

You stayed two nights.

She kissed you once. She slept facing the wall.

By November, you'd memorized what it felt like to fall asleep without her voice in your ear. You'd stopped telling her about your day unless she asked. (She didn't.) You'd stopped sending cute videos you saw on Instagram because she rarely watched them anymore. Your late-night-post-essay-due-date drunken pictures of you just in the Harvard sweatshirt and the pair of black lace panties she loved on you stopped.

You caught yourself wondering what the point of it all was. Of you. Of her. Of trying.

You called her on the anniversary of the attack.

You cried. She didn't.

She said she didn't want to "dwell on it." Which, obviously, you understood. She was the one to get stabbed while you were just the one who found her bloody on her kitchen floor.

She said Chad took her to Coney Island to cheer her up.

She said she'd call you later.

She didn't.

It became a kind of masochism — loving her. You started to feel embarrassed when you mentioned her in conversations with new friends. Like it was obvious you were the only one still in it.

You kept trying anyway.

You remembered what she was like in Woodsboro, when she'd press her forehead to yours and whisper things like "I didn't know I could feel this much without falling apart."

You thought maybe — maybe if you just showed up again, you could remind her of that version of yourselves.

Of the "us" she used to cry over.

The train into Manhattan rattled like a pulse beneath you. Loud and relentless.

You sat pressed against the window with your cheek resting on the glass, watching the East River blur past like a half-forgotten memory. Your duffel bag was jammed under your legs, your phone was dead, and your head ached in that particular way it always did when you hadn't eaten properly in two days. The cold from the window crept through your coat and up your spine, but you didn't move. You didn't want to miss the skyline.

You hadn't seen her in 62 days.

You counted.

You told yourself you weren't counting, but of course you were. That's what people do when they miss someone. They count days. Silences. Excuses. And lately, you'd had too many of all three.

Still—this wasn't some dramatic last-ditch attempt. This was love. A surprise. A grand, spontaneous thing you used to dream about when you were fifteen and scribbling your future into the margins of your AP Lit notebook.

You imagined her opening the door, eyes going wide, smiling so hard she forgot how to speak. You imagined her pulling you in by the collar, kissing you like the wait was unbearable.

You imagined it so clearly it started to feel like a memory.

You got off at Penn Station just before sunset. The city buzzed around you in that way only New York could — like it didn't care who you were, what you were carrying, or why your hands were shaking slightly as you pulled up her address from memory. The air was sharp with early winter. You could taste metal on your tongue.

Brooklyn wasn't far. You'd made this trip before — once, back in September, when things still felt like they were holding together. When she met you at the subway stop in that green jacket you loved, kissed you like she needed you to breathe, and made you pancakes at 1 a.m. even though she didn't know how.

But tonight, you went alone.

No warning. No texts. No "I'm outside :)"

Just your bag, your college sweatshirt, and that familiar pressure in your chest that always showed up when you were about to do something brave or stupid.

Her building looked the same. Beige brick and flaking paint, a crooked buzzer panel and the smell of someone cooking aggressively seasoned lentils on the first floor. The hallway was dim, light flickering above the stairs, the sound of a muffled bass line bleeding through someone's door.

You climbed the steps slowly. Your legs felt heavier than usual. Each floor seemed longer than the last.

You reached her apartment and stood there for a full ten seconds.

Just breathing.

You adjusted your hair. Wiped your hands on your jeans. Told yourself to relax.

Then knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Then you heard it.

A laugh.

Her laugh.

Muffled, but unmistakable. That slightly raspy, breathy little sound she made when something actually got to her. When she wasn't faking it.

You smiled.

And then you waited.

Waited for the sound of her footsteps.

Waited for her to fling the door open, throw her arms around you, gasp "oh my god, you're here."

But nothing happened.

Another laugh — and a second voice. Deep. Familiar.

Chad.

You knocked again. A little louder.

A beat.

Then the doorknob turned.

And there she was.

Her face was flushed from laughing. Hair pulled back into a loose bun, a smudge of eyeliner under one eye like she'd rubbed it in the middle of a joke. She was wearing a hoodie. Too big to be hers. You recognized it instantly.

She froze when she saw you.

And something flickered behind her eyes — not joy. Not even shock.

Panic?

"Y/N?"

Her voice cracked on your name. Like she wasn't sure it was really you.

"Hi," you said, heart thudding. "Surprise."

There was a pause. Too long. Like she had to recalibrate her entire brain to process what she was looking at.

You smiled, nervous. "I couldn't stay away anymore. Midterms ended yesterday. I took the train."

Her mouth opened. Then closed again.

You watched the confusion settle into something else — a practiced calm. Controlled. Neutral.

She stepped aside.

"Oh. Uh... come in."

Not come here.

Not I missed you.

Just... come in.

And that's when the noise behind her hit you fully.

Voices. Laughter. The rustle of blankets. The glow of a paused TV.

You stepped through the doorway and into the warmth.

And stopped.

Chad was on the couch, controller in his lap, half-turned toward the door like he'd already seen you coming. Mindy was curled up in the bean bag, legs tucked under her, phone glowing in her hand. Anika waved weakly from the kitchen. There were empty beer bottles on the coffee table. Two mugs of something warm.

It wasn't a party.

But it was close.

It was a night in.

And she hadn't told you.

She hadn't said, I'm busy tonight.

She said she was tired. Ready for an early night.

Because she hadn't expected you to come.

Because maybe she hadn't wanted you to.

And yet, here you were — still smiling like an idiot. Still holding your bag like you didn't already know.

Still pretending you didn't notice the way she didn't hug you.

"Hey," Chad said, nodding like you were a regular delivery guy, not the girlfriend who hadn't been here in weeks. "Didn't know you were visiting."

You swallowed. "Yeah. I wanted to surprise her."

Mindy raised an eyebrow. "Well... you certainly did."

No one laughed.

Tara cleared her throat and sat down — not beside Chad, not exactly, but close enough to make your stomach churn. Her arms folded tightly over her chest.

"We were just watching something," she said quickly, gesturing to the screen. "You can sit if you want."

You sat.

Of course you sat.

In the far corner of the couch. Bag still in your lap. Sweatshirt still on. Like a guest.

Like a stranger.

And the worst part?

You told yourself it was fine.

Because you were tired.

Because you loved her.

Because you'd made it this far.

Because if you let yourself really feel what this was turning into — you might not be able to crawl back out of it.

So, you stayed.

Because what else could you do?

You sat stiffly on the far end of the couch, half-perched like a piece of misplaced furniture, still clutching your bag like it was armor. No one told you to relax. No one offered to take your sweatshirt that was obviously overdressed for the warmth of the living room. You waited for her to shift closer. She didn't.

The movie started again. Something loud and gory, the kind of film she used to tease you for squinting through. She used to tuck herself under your arm during the bad parts, fingers curled into your hoodie, whispering things like "okay that part was kinda hot actually" when someone got their arm chopped off.

But tonight she sat three feet away, laughing too loud at Chad's dumb commentary, chewing her nails like nothing was wrong.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Once. Twice. Then a steady stream.

You didn't have to look to know who it was.

HARVARD GAYS 💌 — the groupchat.

Samira:

are you THERE???

what's happening is she like sobbing in your arms rn or what

Gwen:

PICS OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN

don't make us go all poetically unhinged for you

Alex:

if she didn't jump into your arms like a war widow I'm gonna be sick

Samira:

y/n 👁👁

You let the screen fade to black.

Didn't answer.

Your chest buzzed with something sticky and slow, like syrup over a wound. You could almost hear your own heartbeat in your throat — that tight, pulsing ache that came whenever you forced yourself to stay in situations that didn't love you back.

It didn’t get any better. The feeling in your gut, your mind, your heart, your soul. It didn't help that she didn’t touch you once.

Not even a hand on your knee. Not a passing brush of fingers. You watched her laugh at Chad's jokes and lean her chin into her hand and mouth the words to some stupid commercial on Hulu and all you could think was—

This isn't the girl who used to fall asleep on your chest.

The girl who cried when you left for college.

The girl who wrote you a letter the night before you moved into your dorm. A real one — with her messy handwriting and a pressed flower between the pages.

The girl who was obsessed with you - always wanting you underneath her in her bed. In her clothes. In her hands.

The girl who said you're my safe place.

But this girl sitting beside you?

This one wouldn't even meet your eyes.

By the time the movie ended, your bones ached from how still you'd been.

Tara stood up and stretched, then mumbled something about getting ready for bed. She didn't look at you when she said it. Didn't invite you to come with her.

You followed anyway.

It felt pathetic.

It was pathetic.

But you followed her down the hallway, past the peeling paint and the poster of Jennifer's Body Mindy taped to the wall and the echo of Chad's voice yelling something behind you. You tried not to think about how different this walk was from the last time — how you used to race each other down the hallway, out of breath and laughing and already half-undressed before the bedroom door even closed.

Now it was just footsteps.

Hers first.

Yours echoing after.

Her room was small.

She clicked on the lamp and stepped out of her hoodie. You tried not to notice how she didn't offer it to you. How she folded it and set it neatly on the chair instead, like it meant something.

You sat on the edge of the bed.

She rummaged in a drawer. Pulled out pajamas. A pair of soft shorts and a worn t-shirt. Not yours. Not anything you recognized. She changed with her back to you, and you stared at the cracks in the ceiling to give her privacy.

She climbed into bed without a word.

Didn't ask if you were coming.

Didn't ask anything.

You stood for a second too long, waiting for her to say something. Anything. A glance. An invitation.

Nothing came.

So you slipped off your jeans, peeled off your socks, and eased in beside her.

She didn't reach for you.

She didn't turn toward you.

She just laid there.

Like sleep was something she owed to someone else.

Throughout the night, you stayed very still.

So still your back started to cramp. So still your throat felt like it might close.

You thought about texting Samira. About typing something's wrong, and waiting for her to send a voice note, one of those soothing ones with sleepy affirmations and stupid jokes and a promise to egg your ex's dorm if things went south.

But you didn't.

Because that would mean admitting it.

Admitting that this trip — this grand romantic gesture — wasn't going the way it was supposed to.

That you were losing her.

That maybe, somehow, without you even realizing it… You already had.

Like always, you didn't sleep.

Not really.

Your eyes stayed closed, your breathing even. But your body never softened the way it used to in her bed. You laid perfectly still, listening to the faint sounds of the city outside — the occasional honk, the distant thrum of a train, the rhythmic creak of the radiator. You used to find it soothing. Now, it just felt like a countdown.

You felt her shift beside you. Not dramatically. Not the exaggerated toss of someone trying to fall asleep — more like the quiet, guilty stir of someone who never planned to.

Her breath caught. Just for a second. You could feel it.

She thought you were asleep.

And maybe that was the only reason she whispered, "Shit," under her breath. Like the night was closing in on her too.

You opened your eyes.

The lamp was still off, but a thin strip of light from the hallway cracked through the door and cast a sharp outline of her back. She was sitting up now, legs pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees like a kid.

"Tara?" you said, voice hoarse, small.

She didn't answer right away. Just tilted her chin toward you, not all the way.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't.”

A pause.

Then: "Couldn't sleep?"

Another pause.

She nodded.

You sat up slowly, the comforter falling from your shoulders. The bed was still warm beneath you, but your skin was starting to go cold.

"Tara," you said again. This time with more weight. "Talk to me."

Her eyes closed like the sentence physically hurt.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"That's a lie."

You said it gently. Not like an accusation — more like a confession.

She inhaled. Sharp. Controlled. Like she was bracing herself.

You stared at her, really stared, and realized how small she looked in that moment. Not physically — emotionally. Like she was pulling every piece of herself inward, trying to disappear inside her own silence.

"I feel like I don't know you anymore," you said. Quiet. Not a threat. Just a truth you'd been trying to avoid for weeks.

Tara didn't flinch. But she didn't deny it either.

"You've barely looked at me since I got here."

Still nothing.

You reached for her hand — tentative, slow — and she let you hold it. But it was limp. Heavy. Not how it used to be. Not the way she used to need you.

You squeezed anyway.

"I'm not mad," you whispered. "I just... I need you to be honest with me. Please."

Her thumb twitched against your palm.

And finally, finally, she turned toward you.

Her voice was so soft it nearly disappeared.

"I didn't think you'd actually come."

That shattered something in you.

You tried to keep your voice steady. "Why wouldn't I?"

She looked at you like the answer should've been obvious. "You're at Harvard. You're... happy. You have this whole new world."

"So do you."

"No, I have this," she said, gesturing vaguely toward the apartment. "I have late-night movies and dumb jokes and group projects with people I barely know. I have Chad."

Your mouth went dry.

The name hit like a slap. Not because she said it with affection. But because she said it instead of you.

"You could've told me you were struggling," you said. "You could've called."

"I didn't want to ruin it."

"Ruin what?"

Her voice cracked: "You. Everything you're building."

You wanted to scream. Shake her. Tell her that she was never a distraction. That she was part of the dream. That every hard night at Harvard still ended with you whispering her name into your pillow like a prayer.

Instead, you said: "Tara, you don't have to protect me from your sadness.”

"I wasn't protecting you," she said. "I was hiding."

Silence.

You stared at her. Your Tara. Or the girl who used to be.

"I'm still here," you said. "Even now."

And for a second — just a flicker — she looked like she might believe you.

But then her gaze dropped to your hands, still loosely clasped.

And she said: "I don't know if that's enough anymore."

—————

You woke up cold.

The kind of cold that doesn't make sense at first — the kind that feels like it came from inside you. Like it had been building overnight, slow and secretive, seeping through your bones while you pretended everything was okay.

The bed beside you was empty.

Her side: cold. Sheets slightly wrinkled. Pillow still shaped like her head had been there hours ago. She didn't just get up. She'd been up. Long enough for the impression to start fading.

You sat up slowly. Blinked against the light filtering through the cheap blinds. The room looked almost exactly the same as it had last night. Except now, it was unbearable.

Your throat was dry. Your heart felt like it was bruising itself against your ribs.

Still, you gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Maybe she ran out for coffee. Maybe she went to the bathroom. Maybe she—

—maybe she didn't want to be there when you woke up.

You tried not to think that.

You tried not to think anything at all.

You got dressed without turning the light on. Pulled your jeans on quietly. Tugged your sweater over your head like you didn't want to disturb ghosts. You didn't brush your hair. Didn't fix your face.

You didn't want to see yourself.

When you stepped out into the kitchen, the apartment was alive in that half-awake kind of way — music playing low from someone's phone, the scent of cheap coffee burning slightly in the pot, a pan on the stove with something scrambled and overcooked inside it.

Chad was at the counter. Shirtless. Making eggs.

Mindy sat cross-legged on the couch, phone in hand, thumbing through something with a blank expression.

Anika leaned against the wall, sipping from a chipped mug, eyes flicking up when you entered.

No one said anything at first.

You could feel it.

The thing in the air.

The quiet kind of discomfort that stretches across a room like a spiderweb. No one wants to touch it. No one wants to be the first to speak.

"Morning," you offered, voice raw from not talking.

"Hey," Anika replied, like someone cautiously approaching a dog they don't trust not to bite.

Chad gave a small nod. "Tara ran out. Said she had class."

You stood there.

Still.

"I thought she had Fridays off."

Chad shrugged. "Maybe she picked up a makeup lab?"

Mindy didn't look up.

She didn't say anything.

That's when it hit you.

Not all at once — not like a gunshot or a scream.

More like drowning. Like realizing, slowly and too late, that you're already underwater.

They knew.

Not everything, maybe. Not the details.

But they knew something.

And none of them would meet your eyes.

You sat down at the tiny kitchen table. Didn't ask. Just sat. Folded your hands together and stared at the chipped tile on the counter, willing yourself not to cry.

You didn't belong here.

Not anymore.

This wasn't your place. This wasn't your girl. Not the way she used to be. Not the way you still were.

You felt your phone buzz in your back pocket.

Once.

Twice.

Then again.

You didn't check it.

You knew who it was.

Samira. Gwen. Alex.

Asking for updates.

Sending jokes.

Probably picturing you wrapped up in Tara's arms, happy and safe and home.

And you couldn't bear to tell them the truth.

That she didn't stay.

That she left before you could ask her to.

That maybe this entire time — while you were holding your breath in Massachusetts, counting the days, promising yourself this would all be worth it —

She was already letting you go.

————

She came back around three.

Sunlight was bleeding through the blinds in that slanted, golden way that made everything feel too soft for how sharp the ache in your chest was becoming. You'd been sitting on the edge of her bed since noon, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, bag zipped tight and ready by your feet. It had started to feel like you weren't even waiting anymore — just sitting with the loss.

When you heard the key turn, your body stiffened.

Not with relief.

With resignation.

The door creaked open. You listened to her boots hit the floor, the scuff of her tote bag against the wall. She was humming. Humming.

Like nothing was wrong.

She walked into her room half-distracted, pulling her phone from her pocket. She didn't see you until she was already inside.

"Oh," she said, nearly dropping her coffee. "You're still here."

You blinked up at her slowly. "Of course I am."

The way she stood there — surprised but not sorry — made something nauseating bloom behind your ribs.

"I thought..." she trailed off. "I figured you'd be gone by now."

"Yeah," you said flatly. "So did everyone else."

Tara's expression faltered. She set her coffee down and crossed her arms. Defensive. Tired. Distant in a way you were starting to recognize as permanent.

She nodded at your bag. "You're leaving?"

You stood. Slowly. Shoulders heavy, breath uneven.

"I don't think I ever really arrived."

That's when she looked at you. Really looked.

There were bags under her eyes, purpled and sunken from sleepless nights. Her lips were chapped. Her posture curled inward like she was trying to become smaller — less real. She looked like a person unraveling quietly. Like someone who'd long since forgotten how to ask for help.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," she said.

And god, you wished she had. You wished it had been intentional. Because at least then you could be angry instead of just... broken.

You shook your head, voice tight. "But you did, you stopped choosing me.”

It came out quiet, but it landed like a bomb. Not because of how loud it was, but because of how true it was. The kind of truth that makes people flinch. And she did. Not dramatically — not like someone slapped her — just a blink, a recoil. A subtle, almost imperceptible jerk of her chin like her body had finally caught up with the thing she'd been pretending wasn't real.

"You say you love me," you continued, voice rising now, shaking in that way that meant you were either going to cry or break something. "You say you didn't mean to hurt me. But you didn't fight for me either. You didn't reach. You didn't try. You let me show up here with hope in my chest like an idiot while you've been slipping further away every single day and letting him fill in the blanks."

Tara's arms crossed tighter over her chest, like she was trying to contain herself — or maybe cage something in. Her eyes were glassy but hard, like she was tired of being accused of something she didn't mean to do. But meaning didn't matter anymore. Intentions didn't keep people warm at night.

"I told you," she snapped. "It's not about Chad. It's not like that."

"Then what is it like?" you shot back. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like you replaced me with convenience."

Her expression cracked, sharp and sudden. "Fuck you."

You blinked, stunned for just a second.

"Fuck me?"

"Yes, you," she said, stepping forward, voice trembling with rage and heartbreak tangled together. "You come here and act like I'm the villain for needing someone when you're not around. You say I stopped trying, but when was the last time you asked if I was okay? When was the last time you noticed I was falling apart and didn't just tell me I'd be fine?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but she cut you off.

"You send pictures of your weird little study group and talk about how seen you feel and how you've finally found your people. And that's good. I'm happy for you. But you talk about it like I'm not one of them anymore. Like the version of you that loved me is someone you already buried back in Woodsboro."

"That's not true," you breathed. But it was weak. Paper thin.

"Isn't it?" she said, voice cracking now. "You say I stopped calling, but half the time when I tried, you were too busy or too tired or in some deep, intellectual spiral with Gwen or Alex or whatever the fuck. You outgrew me. I just didn't realize it until I was watching you shine from across a screen like I didn't even belong in your orbit anymore."

The room felt too small. Too hot. You wanted to scream or run or throw something just to make the pressure in your chest stop.

You stepped closer, teeth clenched.

"You think I outgrew you? I built everything around you, Tara. I made space for you everywhere. I wrote you into every story, every plan, every thought about my future. You were the constant I was holding onto, even while everything else felt like it was swallowing me whole."

Her breath hitched.

"I was drowning too," you whispered. "But I kept calling out for you."

Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back fast, stubborn.

"You weren't supposed to need me," she said, voice suddenly small. "You were supposed to be the one who made it out."

"And you were supposed to be the one I came home to."

Your voice wasn't quiet when you said it this time. It wasn't trembling. It was full. Solid. Final. It echoed through the small bedroom like a bell toll — sharp and sickening and absolutely true. And Tara didn't move. Didn't deny it. She just stood there, arms still crossed over her chest, mouth parted like she might say something, but nothing came out. She just stared at you with that same hollow, stunned expression — the kind people make when they realize the building is already on fire, and it's far too late to save anything inside.

And that was what pushed you over the edge.

"Oh my God," you snapped, stepping back, your hand running down your face like you could wipe the pain off your skin. "You're not even gonna try, are you? I came here, Tara. I showed up. I left everything I had going for me to be here with you, and you're just gonna stand there and let me fall apart in front of you like it doesn't fucking matter?"

Her jaw tightened. "You think it's that simple?"

You laughed — sharp, bitter, like broken glass under bare feet. "It was simple. Until you made it complicated."

"I never asked you to come," she said, and there was venom in it now, like she was trying to hurt you first. "You showed up without warning, expecting me to—what? Drop everything and wrap my arms around you like it's still high school?"

"I showed up," you hissed, "because I missed you. Because you wouldn't answer my calls and I started to wonder if maybe something was wrong—and guess what? I was right."

Tara's voice rose, suddenly sharp. "You think I don't miss you?"

"You have a hell of a way of showing it."

"You think I'm not trying?" she yelled. "Do you have any fucking idea what it feels like to sit in this apartment every night, surrounded by people who only know the broken pieces of me and pretend that's all there ever was? You think Chad knows me? You think I want him?"

"Then why does it look like you do?" you screamed back. "Why did I walk into your space and feel like a guest in my own relationship?!"

Tara shook her head but didn’t respond, her mouth opening and closing while she tried to find a word, a phrase, a sentence - anything, to say back to you.

You felt the tears slide down your cheeks, you never cried. “I miss my caring girlfriend, Tara. The one who used to send me letters every two weeks with flowers and small drawings between the words. The girlfriend I made plans to have a future, a family, a life with!”

"I don't think that version of me exists anymore," she said.

And for a moment — a single, frozen heartbeat — the entire room went quiet. Like even the walls were waiting to see if you'd break.

You didn't. Not right away.

You just stood there, blinking at her like you couldn't quite comprehend the weight of what she'd just said. Like you were waiting for the punchline.

But it never came.

Just her. Just that look on her face — exhausted, hollow, wrecked in all the wrong ways. Like she wasn't sorry enough to take it back. Just sorry enough to say it.

And that's when something inside you snapped.

"You don't think that version of you exists?" you repeated, slowly, voice rising with every syllable. "Then what the fuck have I been holding on to, Tara? What the hell have I been fighting for all this time?"

"I never asked you to fight," she bit back, voice sharp now, ugly.

"No," you spat. "You just let me."

You were shaking — full-body shaking — like your grief was trying to claw its way out of your skin. You took a step toward her, not to threaten, but because standing still hurt too much. "You let me call. Let me text. Let me write letters. You let me lie awake at 2 a.m. wondering if you were okay, if you still loved me, if I'd done something wrong. You let me keep giving when you knew you'd already checked out."

"I didn't know!" she snapped, stepping forward now too, fists clenched at her sides. "I didn't know what the hell I was doing! I was scared and numb and just trying to survive and every time I looked at my phone and saw your name I felt like I was drowning in all the ways I was failing you."

"You weren't failing me," you shouted. "You were leaving me!"

Tara's face twisted. "I didn't know how to be with you and be broken at the same time."

"And I didn't know how to be without you," you said, and it came out a sob. Not a scream. Not even a sentence. Just a raw, trembling ache you couldn't keep down any longer. "But I tried. I tried so hard. I tried when you went quiet, and when your texts got short, and when you started saying Chad's name more than mine. I tried when it felt like I was talking to a version of you that had already decided I was part of a different life. One you were trying to forget."

She flinched at that.

You kept going, because there was no turning back now.

"You think I'm thriving, don't you? That because I have people and lectures and some bullshit little academic glow-up, I don't need you anymore? That I forgot what it felt like to kiss you with blood still on your shirt? That I stopped waking up in the middle of the night wanting to hear your voice just so I didn't fall apart?"

"I didn't want to be your trauma!" she shouted suddenly, like the words had been rotting inside her for months. "I didn't want to be the thing that held you back! I didn't want to be the reason you couldn't fucking breathe."

"And now you're not," you whispered. "Now I'm just the girl you forgot to say goodbye to."

Tara's face collapsed.

But you weren't done.

"Do you have any idea how humiliating it felt to walk into your apartment and realize everyone knew before I did? That your friends had already seen you pull away and just let me show up like some lovesick idiot begging for scraps? That they watched me sit on your couch while you laughed at Chad's fucking jokes like I was invisible?"

Her mouth opened. Her voice cracked. "It wasn't—"

"I loved you more than anything," you said, stepping back, chest heaving. "And you let me come here thinking we were still us."

"I didn't know how to tell you," she said, breathless.

"You didn't even try."

You said it like it was the last thing you'd ever say to her.

And maybe it was.

[hurtspideyparker]

Avengers High School AU

based on this post of mine

At a Party:

Clint: Here's a drink Pete

Tony: *takes solo cup from Peter* You idiot, he's underage!

Clint: So are we dipshit

Tony: *Chugs Peter's drink*

Clint: Whatever, I'll get him a lemonade

Tony: *Chugs his own drink*

—

Natasha: Steve I saw Tony heading for the janitor's closet

Steve: Okay?

Natasha: With Clint

Steve, sprinting down the hall: NOT THE TOILET PAPER BARTON

—

Bucky: Would you like to go out sometime?

Natasha: No

Bucky: I respect that. *Turns to Sam* would you like to go out sometime

Sam: Wait—but you just. What the hell man

Bucky: I'll take that as a no. *Turns to Clint* would you like to—

Clint: Fuck yeah

—

Tony: Did you hear about the fire in the chem lab?

Steve: Tony, what did you do

Tony: It wasn't me this time!

Steve: Oh. That's new

Tony: I mean I did text Bruce the calculations, it's not my fault he didn't see the decimal

Steve: Tony!

—

Natasha: And that's why I transferred in the middle of last year

Sam: Isn't that like...a crime

Natasha: Nobody will believe you.

Sam: What? What do you mean by that

Natasha, disappearing into the crowd:

Sam: What do you mean by that?!

—

Peter: Hi Captain!

Steve: You know only the football team calls me that Peter. I'm not your Captain

Peter: Yes sir

Steve: I'm only 2 years older than you, you don't need to call me sir either

Peter: Okay Captain!

Steve: No just...whatever

—

Tony: Hey Bruce whatcha reading

Bruce: AH! Oh hey dude

Tony: Wow you're jumpy. You need to relax

Bruce: I don't think I've relaxed once since I met you but thanks for the advice

—

Clint: Do you think Thor was held back?

Sam: Naw man, he's pretty smart

Clint: But he looks like he has a 401k and a mortgage

Bucky: Talks like it too

Sam: Maybe it's a Europe thing, school is different there

Clint: Maybe. Hey Thor! What's up buddy, how's the wife and kids?

Thor: Ay? Um...well? And yours my friend?

Clint: Fantastic! Well it was good seeing you

Thor: Alright then, farewell

Sam: What an odd guy

Bucky: Nice though

Clint: Real nice dude

—

Pepper: Tony, stop flirting with me to make Steve jealous

Tony: Whaaaaat, I would never

Pepper: You very loudly told your table, which is right next to mine, "I'm going to go flirt with Pepper to make Steve jealous"

Tony: Well do you think it's working?

Steve, at Tony's table: No

—

Peter: The decathlon supervisor is already one of my references, and I tutor for Mrs. Warren's freshman class a lot so I have her too. I also volunteered at a special needs camp over the summer, plus I applied for this competitive course where you write a research paper under a university professor for junior year, and if I get it that will look really good on my MIT application. I just hope it doesn't interfere with my internship at Oscorp. What about you, what are you doing to prepare for graduation? Aren't college apps due, like, next month for you?

Bucky: Well my boss at Dunkin Donuts said he'd give me a reference. Chicks in the drive through always tip me well

—

Sam: Why'd you punch Rumlow!

Steve: Cause he was saying creepy stuff about Natasha!

Bucky: You shouldn't have done that man

Steve: What do you mean, he was being a total asshole, I don't care if I get detention

Sam: It's not him you should be worried about

Natasha: Rogers, that was MY punch to throw

Steve: Oh no

Natasha: You think I'm some damsel in distress? Come here and I'll show you a damsel in distress

Steve: I, uh, gotta go *runs out the door*

Natasha: Which way did he go.

Sam: I didn't see nothin'

Bucky: Out those doors and to the left

Sam: Bruh

Bucky: A true friend understands when the consequences are necessary *kicks Rumlow who's still lying on the ground as he walks away*

—

Bruce: What did the racing hot dog say when he passed the finish line?

Tony: What

Bruce: I'm a wiener!

Everyone:

Bruce: Get it? Like winner?

Tony: It's okay man, just stick to academics

Thor: I have one! A priest, a pastor, and a rabbi walk into a bar

Everyone:

Thor: HAHAHA, what a coincidence for them all to arrive in the establishment simultaneously!

*Everyone bursts out laughing*

Bruce: Oh come on, that wasn't even a joke!

Tony: See he has charisma. It's all about the delivery Brucie Bear

—

Sam: Wait, you're saying that the elephant toothpaste all over the second floor right before midterms was you?

Rhodey: Hell yeah it was

Sam: But everyone blamed Tony. Even Tony's parents and the principal. The only reason he wasn't suspended was because the cameras were wiped of evidence, which was also blamed on Tony

Rhodey: Yeah you'd be surprised about how much stuff I do that Tony gets blamed for. Public image does wonders to create bias

Sam: What the hell? I thought you were the responsible one and Tony was your monkey on a leash. Why does he let you blame him?

Rhodey: Cuz he's a good bro. He gets to piss his parents off, I don't get kicked out of ROTC, and then we laugh about it afterwards

Sam: You evil geniuses...

—

Wanda: I want to get married

Natasha: Are you pregnant?

Wanda: What? No

Natasha: Oh thank goodness. Wait, then why do you want to get married

Wanda: Because it's romantic!

Natasha: And the tax benefits?

Wanda: No! Well, yes that would be nice, but no! I want to be a stay at home mom and have a nice family

Natasha: Girl you failed home economics and your type is men who think calling you their "situationship" is making it official, why don't we focus on finding the vertex for now

—

If u like this vibe I have a domestic Avengers "in a timeline where Civil War didn't end in divorce" series as well:

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 :P

[upat4amwiththemoon]

Hey I’m sorry to bother, but can you do a Tony x teen reader? Platonic or familial obviously, but like where the reader isn’t smart academically and she’s constantly doing bad on tests and Tony comforting her? It’s fine if not thank you for your time either way :)

Academic validation

Summary: Tests aren’t the only thing that determine children’s intelligence.

Pairing: Tony Stark x teen!reader, Avengers x teen!reader

Warnings: I have no understanding of American education system

Word count: 870

a/n: I need that academic validation

Tags: @thought-of-you-and-me @rafecameronswhore

masterlists | guidelines

The huge encircled D on Y/N’s physics exam is the only thing on her mind as she walks towards the Avenger’s tower.

There’s a permanent frown on her face. She really studied for this test, she even got Tony to quiz her, but clearly that didn’t help. He’s going to be so disappointed in her.

Y/N walks into the tower, giving the security guard in the lobby a small wave before going into the elevator. She holds onto her backpack’s straps tightly as she waits for the elevator to stop on the common floor. She hopes Tony won’t be in there.

The elevator doors opens and Y/N gets out of it. Her steps are slow and quiet, she doesn’t want to announce her arrival to anyone. A shaky sigh leaves her mouth when she hears people talking in the common room.

She tries to walk past everyone, quickly but quietly, but it’s not very easy to sneak past Avengers. “Hey, kid!” Sam exclaims, waving her over to the small group hanging out on the couches.

Y/N lets out a breath, putting on a smile as she makes her way over to them. “Hi, guys.” Her eyes move over everyone. No Tony, that makes her relax just a bit. “What are you doing?”

Natasha’s arm is is laying on the couch’s back rest, her fingers gently rubbing Wanda’s shoulder, as she gives Y/N a cheeky look. “Wanda got offended when Sam said Fuller House is better than Full House, so she is making us watch Full House.”

Wanda pushes Natasha’s side, glaring at her before turning to Y/N. “No one in their right mind thinks a sequel of an iconic show is better than the show itself.” At the end of the sentence, she glares at Sam too, who raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Okay.” Y/N giggles with a shake of her head. At times she thinks of herself more mature than the adults.

“Want to join us, honey?”

“Uh,” she bites her lip, “no, I can’t sorry.” She has decided to beg her teacher for a retake of the test to get a more respectable grade to show Tony.

“Okay, but don’t think you’re getting away from watching Full House with me.” Wanda grins.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Y/N waves at the trio and makes her way to her room.

In her room, she takes out the physics exam and looks it through over and over again, until she has fully memorized which parts she did wrong. It takes two hours. Two hours, which Y/N didn’t notice going by.

A knock on her door makes her jump. Her wide eyes glance at the clock, grumbling when she notices it’s over dinner time.

“It’s open!”

Tony walks inside the room, a small grin on his face and a plate of food on his hand. “I know everyone says we’re too alike, but please don’t take up on my habit of missing meals.” He sets the plate down on her desk. “It’s a bad habit, kiddo.”

“I won’t.” Y/N lets out an airy laugh, setting the test paper on the desk and pulling the plate in front of her.

“That your physics test?” Tony grabs the sheet of paper before Y/N is able to hide it.

“No!”

“What?” Tony glances at her with a frown. His eyes skim over both sides of the paper.

Y/N bites the inside of her cheek, her gaze going straight to the floor as she feels disappointment seeping into her body. “I did badly.” She mumbles, waiting for Tony’s criticism.

“So?” Tony sets the test back down. “Do you know how bad I did in school? I’m still absolutely brilliant.” He sits on her bed.

“Yeah.. but you’re great at physics, and math, and all that important stuff.”

“Sure.” Tony nods. “But this is only one test,” he taps the paper, “and you’re so great at so many things. You get As on history and English, you have a great eye for design, you have impeccable people skills, even though you hate most of them.” He laughs. “One physics exam doesn’t mean shit.”

Y/N looks at Tony, a small frown on her face. “But I want to be like you.”

“Kiddo, no one is going to be like me, not should they try to be like me.” Tony pats Y/N’s knee. “Is physics your passion?”

“I don’t know what my passion is.”

“Well, when you find your passion, I will be the one to hire you to work in a job that you love. Because no child living under my roof will work a day in their life in a job they despise. Yes, I will always encourage you to do your best at tests, but I’ll be proud of you no matter how well or bad you do in them.”

Sniffling, Y/N lunges to hug Tony. He embraces her right back, holding onto her tightly as long as she needs to be held, because even though he doesn’t love physical touch, he refuses to be the first one to pull away when a kid he considers his needs comfort.