#and facing Some of his trauma at least. please?

[tinfoil-jones]

Gravity Falls: For Your Own Good, Ch. 16

Summary: A few years after moving to Gravity Falls and having his lab built, Stanford Pines happens upon his estranged twin brother, Stanley. He mentally prepared himself to be suffocated by his brothers neediness all over again - what he wasn't prepared for was Stanley walking right past him like he didn't even notice him.

Rating: M for language, violence, and adult implications

Preface: Dialogue only, but some actions will be annotated for clarity. Cross-Posted on AO3 Here.

When Bill and Ford are in the dreamscape together, their dialogue is written normally. But if Bill and Ford are communicating in Fords head without the mindscape, Bills dialogue is in "italics", and Fords dialogue is in 'apostrophes and italics'.

First - Prev - Next

CH.16

“Stan?”

“What’s up, stretch?”

“To my understanding, you’re familiar with a… sizable number of illicit substances?”

“Why, you looking for a plug?”

“A… plug?”

“Ya know, a guy who can hook you up with stuff.”

“...Stan, I’m not looking for a drug dealer.”

“Good, because all of the ones I know hate my guts.”

“Are you familiar with a substance called Ketamine?”

“Special K? Haven’t used it, but I’ve heard of it. I heard it kinda does what magic mushrooms do, but without all the visions.”

“It’s a dissociative non-opioid, anesthetic, and analgesic.”

“So it’s like heroine, but it isn’t heroine?”

“Ain’t exactly like that, but you can think about it that way.”

“What about it?”

“I’ve reached out to a colleague in psychology about your case - don’t worry none, I didn’t use names or details - she told me about a hypnotherapy that’s assisted by ketamine.”

“Hypnosis? Like, mind control?”

“That’s a popular misconception - hypnotherapy has been called hypnotic suggestion, but the goal is to bring the patient in question into a greater state of focus with less peripheral awareness, so they may relax and turn their attention inward. Are you following me, Stan?”

“It… blocks out background noise?”

“In a way, yes, just with thoughts. I don’t believe your memories are gone, they’re just buried under a lot of mental clutter and distractions.”

“And ketamine helps with that?”

“It’s a dissociative drug, it’s meant to help with trauma by approaching it without connecting to it. Would you be interested in something like that?”

“I thought you said you weren’t an actual therapist, where would you even get-.”

“I’m not going to be conducting the session, it’s going to be that colleague I just mentioned.”

“... I dunno F, I don’t have the greatest history with shrinks.”

“You’ve seen therapists before?”

“Seen is…a word.”

“What happened?”

“Do the words ‘padded room’, ‘cozy jacket’, and ‘solitary confinement’ mean anything to you?”

“... Institutions don’t do sol-.”

“That’s what they want you to think. Anyways, half of the therapists I ever had quit because of me.”

“What about the other half?”

“Ended up in the same looney bin.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Your friend turned crazy as soon as we met.”

“Stanford is not crazy.”

“Can you say that with a straight face?”

“He’s eccentric.”

“Wait, he's gay? I thought he wasn’t anything.”

“That isn’t what eccentric means. And- back to topic, please. What if myself or Stanford were there with you and we didn’t leave you alone with the therapist? Would you agree then?”

“...Alright, if you really think it’ll help.”

“Excellent! Thank you, Stan; we’ll get you right as rain before you know it.”

“...Did we really need to talk about this in the afterglow?”

“Yeah we did.”

(...)

“You guys are on your own, I’m not getting in that thing.”

“Stanley, it is just a boat.”

“So was the Titanic, and it disappeared forever.”

“There have been talks about another expedition to find it.”

“Fiddleford, please. Stanley, this isn’t the ocean, this is a mere lake. Scuttlebutt Island is only accessible by boat.”

“I told you I’d help you on your monster hunting bullshit, but you didn’t mention we’d have to get on the water to do it.”

“Come on, at least get closer than the tree line.”

“No!”

“You are being ridiculous right now. You have faced drug lords, Mothman, loan sharks, and the actual Jersey Devil, and this is where you draw the-.”

“I wouldn’t make you do something if you didn’t want to, PhD.”

“...Fine. Stay here and watch over our campsite at least. If we’re not back by tonight-.”

“Yeah, yeah start arranging your funerals, got it.”

(...)

“What are your theories so far on this cryptid, Stanford?”

“Based on descriptions I’ve gathered from local reports, and limited sonar exploration, I believe the description most closely matches a marine reptile that disappeared in the Cretaceous–Paleogene extinction event; a plesiosaur. Or, at the very least, a distant descendant.”

“Sounds less like cryptozoology and more like paleontology. Maybe we should call it something else.”

“Such as?”

“How about Oddopoddo?”

“No.”

“Scuttlebdis?”

“A mouthful, really.”

“The Gobblewonker.”

“We’ll workshop it.”

“Well kettle my corn, it looks like we’re close to the shore; sure are a lot of big muskrats here.”

“Fiddleford, we both know those are beavers and not nutria.”

“Wait- Stanford, stop. Is that big rock formation over there… moving?”

(...)

“Heya Fordsy! You’re invoking Think Fast?”

“Think Fast?”

“You know, when you meditate into the Dreamscape so you can think faster than the time around you. What you’re doing right now.”

“You’ve never called it that before, my muse.”

“I know but for exposition purposes I need to call it something. Whattaya need to Think Fast for?”

“The cryptid we’ve termed “The Gobblewonker” chased us on our boat and trapped us in the islands cove. In an attempt to catch us, the creature slammed itself into the cave wall and triggered a rock slide. We’re trapped in a cavern and it is filling up with water, and the entrance was the only exit we knew of. Fiddleford is also unconscious, and cannot assist me.”

“Ooh, how dangerous. So, what are you going to do about it?”

“I need to be out-of-body while my perception is sped up so I can check for more exits without worrying about water or gravity. 

“Out-of-body experience coming right up, IQ!”

(...)

‘Man, those guys have been gone for a while. They shoulda been back at least an hour ago.’

‘Whatever, PhD’s the monster hunter here, whatever trouble they get into he can probably handle it.’

‘...’

‘And even if he couldn’t, it’s not my problem. I’m only staying with him so I have a bed to sleep in and a roof over my head. It’s not like I actually care.’

‘He did kidnap me and stick me in his basement after all. And sure his friend is hot and gives great benefits, but it's not like he tried to free me even when he knew it was wrong.’

‘...’

‘So what if they might be in danger? It doesn't bother me.’  

‘It doesn't bother me.’

‘It bothers me!’

‘IT BOTHERS ME A LOT!’

(...)

“Fiddleford! Fiddleford, wake up!”

“Ow… my achin’ noggin-. Wha happened?”

“You saw the cryptid and fainted.”

“Where are we? Why’re we all wet?”

“We are trapped in a cavern that the Gobblewonker chased us into. There’s only one exit left - there’s a tunnel through and up this ridge, but it tapers off from loose rocks from a rockslide. You might be thin and flexible enough to squeeze through the hole that remains.”

“What about you?”

“On the other side I’d need you to manually move enough of these rocks so I can slide through as well. We can’t waste any time - the cavern is filling up with water faster than the exit could drain it.”

“Okay, I’ll get through slicker than owl sh-.”

“Fiddleford, this is no time for Southernisms.’

“Right, right. Yeeow, that’s smarts- I got most of both shoulders through Stanford but I’m gonna need a boost.”

“Alright, I‘ll push you on your count of three.”

“Gotcha. One, two, thre-! SWEET BABY JESUS-!”

“Are you okay?”

“I-. I think I w-wrenched out my damn shoulder…”

“Can you relocate it?”

“L-lemme try- HRK! No, not by myself. I’ll try to clear out the rubble with my good arm.”

“Alright but please, with the best of your ability, be quick.”

“Just keep talking to me, friend, I need to know that you’re still breathing back there.”

“It is not getting easier.”

“I’m moving, I’m moving. Just stay with me. We can do this.”

“I’m running out of headspace…”

“Come on- just a few more more rocks to go, I- Stanford? Stanford!”

“Sixer, I’m going to put your body in hibernation, it’s the only way you can preserve oxygen. It’s not cold enough for you to go into that state naturally.”

‘How much time does that buy me, Cipher?’

“About five more lines.”

‘Lines of what?’

“You’re about to find out.”

*water suddenly starts rushing out much faster, and a hand grabs Ford by the collar, dragging him out of the tunnel forcefully*

“-ay? Can you hear me, Stanford?”

“S… Stanley..?”

“Oh good, you came to on your own. I wasn’t gonna ‘kiss of life’ you.”

“Lord have mercy, you gave us a real fright there! You’re still shaking like a leaf on a tree, though.”

“Can you stand, Doc?”

“Y-yes, yes of course. Just- just help me up, please.”

“Yeah yeah, I gotcha.”

“It’s a good thing you came when you did, Stan, I wasn’t getting those rocks cleared fast enough.”

“What’s up with your arm, specs?”

“I dislocated my shoulder going through the tunnel.”

“Need help putting that back? It’s happened to me a couple times.”

“Actually, I think I’d rather- Stan?! Stan no-!”

POP

“There you go, good as new.”

“Ow…”

“Stanley?”

“What’s up?”

“Why’d you come here?”

“You guys were taking too long, figured something was up.”

“But… we are on an island, how did you get here?”

“Details ain’t important.”

“You’re also soaking wet.”

“Can it, PhD. I said details ain’t important.”

To be continued…

[sunllghtt]

Hi are you up for a messy scene analysis thing

Ofc it's this scene who do you think I am

I've been wanting to do this for God knows how long but I never had the balls and neither the words to (still don't) but I wanna try to properly talk about this scene. My primal instinct is to sit here and tell you how much this 30 second scene changed the trajectory of these characters in the next movies, how it made their friendship grow and develop and how much of a storytelling lesson it is (oh the so so deep understanding you need to have of your characters to have them say things so vaguely and still express exactly what they mean). I could also go down the emotional and subjective road and ramble about how much it means to me and how I resonate with it, but I've done that at least 837382 times and I think everyone knows it by now 😭 so!!! Let's get to the real thing

(I'm trying to keep it as analytical and straightforward as possible but please note that this is my favorite scene that's ever existed so neutrality is not really a possibility)

Rocket is a brat. He's restless, he's loud, he's always puffing up his chest and yelling at someone and picking fights with the wind cuz it was blowing in a way he didn't like and he's just an overall bastard. In this scene, though, we see him inside out. His head is low, his shoulders are slumped, he has his tail between his knees and he looks tired. He speaks quietly (curiously like he doesn't want anybody else to hear him), he's not deliberately insulting anyone and he's just..... defeated??

Up until that point I don't think we ever got to see Rocket like that. From what the movies have shown us he'd never had to. But in the past few days that led to this, Rocket had stolen batteries for no apparent reason (which we'll later learn why💀), ruined their ship, got literally kidnapped by Ravagers, blew up a creepy planet-guy-thing and oh my god attended his friend's dad's funeral. At least half of these things were directly or indirectly his fault and he knows it.

I don't think he ever doubted it was (we see it earlier in the movie when the Guardians leave to "The Chain" by Fleetwood Mac and Rocket scowls and winces like he either stepped in a pile of shit or got hit in the face by regret), but he still argued with Peter even knowing he was in the wrong just to keep up apparences or hold on to a little thread of pride when he was already feeling ashamed for being caught red-handed stealing shit he didn't need AND destroying their ship etc etc, and he just kinda fucked up big time. And I think that's (besides the general exhaustion of parenting a tree and fighting a planet and Yondu's death) is what got him so devastated in that scene.

Ofc Yondu played an extremely important role in that. He was the one to open Rocket's eyes, to give him some sort of reality check and show him the only thing isolation is ever gonna bring him is regret and bitterness (or, in other words, Yondu). Rocket is most of all hopeless and tired and just sad like that because he knows he hurt his friends. He knows he's chasing them away, that he yells at them, that he's always mean and that he steals batteries he doesn't need. He knows he's not awesome to put up with and seeing what happened to Yondu and his former friends probably made him terrified it'd happen to him and the Guardians too. He's stuck in this cycle of pushing them away with everything he can (and we could get into all his trauma regarding betrayal and death and literally endless other things but it's all very clear at this point) and he knows patience doesn't last forever. He's just scared, he feels bad and he's tired.

Now on the other hand we have Quill. He's also destroyed, he lost two fathers (3 if you count what Ego could've been, what he wanted him to be), basically relived his mother's death and had to watch literally every single one of them die. He's also scared and tired, yes, but all he has left is this unstable family of weird idiots who are learning how to show care and he's... pretty much fine with it. He wants it.

And when what Rocket's saying clicks, when he realizes who he's talking about, Quill, who's usually all smirks and teasing and bickering and name-calling, looks at his best friend like this,

because

(From vol 2 script!! Won't even try to comment on that last part before Quill's last line but I also really like that Peter just "shakes his head" over and over like he's just barely listening until he realizes what Rocket really means cuz it also shows a lot about his character. He's naturally a little slow and downright stupid when it comes to this kind of hidden emotional thing and he's also exhausted and depressed from everything that happened and STILL he stops and just. Sees Rocket, and sees Yondu.)

He's not doing well. He's probably sore and hurt and sad and miserable and yet he takes his sweet time to look down at Rocket, let go of his resentment from before and see right through him. In order to understand this scene it's important to remember he most likely doesn't know what Yondu told Rocket at all, he doesn't know anything they said to each other and how Yondu showed him they're mirrors. He doesn't know any of that. He just knows his best friend and his father and how much they resemble each other. He puts up with Rocket's bullshit because he knows how to deal with Yondu.

He could've just ignored him or pretended he didn't know what he was talking about. He could've made Rocket swallow his pride and "teach him a lesson" by making him say what he means without hiding behind metaphors and vague self-deprecation, because Rocket was probably vulnerable and defeated enough to be honest in that moment. And yet, he just looks at his friend, who's usually a loud and mean and restless brat, and is now staring at the floor with his ears droopy and his tail between his knees, and just says, as a form of reassurance and tenderness that's just as subtle and shy as Rocket's insecurities, "Well, of course not."

(The kind and soft and sweet DETERMINATION on his face tho like no!!! No we're not ditching you even though you suck I'm!!! Serious!!!!)

[get-more-bald]

can I PLEASE just get some X6-88 focused fanfiction........

EDIT: more in the tags and the reblog

[vaguely-concerned]

just had the thought 'in the end the most important thing varric taught rook was how to make a home for, with, and in other people' and then I had to go lie down on the floor and clutch at my head in unceasing agony for a few hours, as you may well imagine. hawke and the kirkwall crew........ in the end you kind of saved the world a bit in the most characteristically indirect and chaotic of ways. not by anything in particular that you did or achieved or accomplished (lmao imagine!), but just by -- having existed, and by the love that was always there, despite it all, in all its imperfections, even when no one was saved by it in the end. you're not here right now and you're not quite haunting the narrative but I hear your voices bickering and arguing and laughing from the other room. (and so, I think, does varric. all the time.)

'did you think you mattered, hawke? did you think anything you ever did mattered?' yeah actually, varric says with da2 and keeps saying through the series. you were here. and I loved you. and as it turns out that mattered more than almost anything in the world, no matter how long it lasted or how fucked up it was at the time or what else happens, because varric manages to pass that feeling, that intangible... home, that echo of you all as you were together, that love, hopefully the best parts of it, on to someone else for them to bring with them on their journey, with their family. and maybe the world will be kinder this time. you never know. merrill's line of 'Everything affects everything. We were born, a bunch of things happened, and now we're in a mess with our friends.' varric's greatest fear of becoming his parents. even through the wreck and the ruin of the world, ghosts upon ghosts upon ghosts of love -- malcolm hawke, who we never even see, but his life touched hawke's and hawke's touched varric's and varric's touched rook's and rook is passing it on to the family they're creating. the unbroken legacy of love shines through in ways that are stronger and stranger than any magic. help

[topaziraphale]

"Stop saying Crowley won't help Aziraphale in S3 he'd go back to him in a HEARTBEAT and nothing would stop him" I get it no one likes the idea of Crowley being bitter after what happened for a long period of time but like can we at least acknowledge that he's currently going through probably the most emotional pain in his life since falling? Can we agree that he's opened his heart entirely - something you couldn't pay him to do unless the world is literally ending and he's desperate - to Aziraphale, and got shot down? Can we understand that he did it AGAIN only to lose Aziraphale again? Not that what Aziraphale did isn't without Crowley's own shortcomings (hiding the truth of Heaven's cruelty from him) but like,,,,

The appeal here isn't Scorned Crowley Doesn't Love Aziraphale Anymore, or Never Wants To Help Him Again, the appeal here is Crowley learning enough self respect to not just walk back right to Aziraphale like nothing happened after Aziraphale has had a pattern of consistently refusing him. Going years ping-ponging between "We're not friends I don't even know him" to "That's what friends are for right?" and "We're friends, why would you even say anything?" and "Friends? We're not friends. We are an angel and a demon!"

Like I get it, Crowley is a heartbreakingly forgiving person. Of course he's gonna forgive Aziraphale, I'll be surprised if he didn't forgive him by the time he walked out the bookshop door, but gdi he could at least grant himself the luxury of being at least a little irritated for longer than however long it takes to make a globe and some books float and angrily cry out to God in his flat. But due to the change of pace and dynamic that is establishing part of the conflict for Season 3, I just really like the idea of him for ONCE prioritizing himself and being like "Okay, fine. We'll get back at it when you're ready, then," instead of just taking Aziraphale back like his words and actions meant nothing to him, when clearly they have an effect on him.

What is Aziraphale going to learn if Crowley just accepts what he did so quickly, like he always has the entire time they've been friends? Idk maybe I'm just projecting too much darkness on their dynamic but I mean, if the pattern of Aziraphale pushing Crowley away/disrespecting him one day and then being fine with his friendship the next + Crowley never stopping to be like "Hey, that's not cool, at least give me a little credit" or smth was fine all along and will continue to be fine in the future, then why, after 6,000 years of being friends and loving this demon, can Aziraphale still not accept that Crowley is just fine the way he is, and instead got excited to promote him to an angel in a heartbeat once the opportunity presented itself? You can't blame all of it on Heaven when Aziraphale has demonstrated his free will/defiance to Heaven so many times. Or, I don't know, I guess maybe we can? Maybe I'm just craving too much angst to the point where I'm letting it cloud my analysis of canon. Idk.

[ro-is-struggling]

Self care || Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky always seemed interested in your skin care routine, so when one day he arrives tired and drained from a mission, you take the opportunity to show him the importance and benefits of self-care.

Warnings: established relationship, brief mention to Bucky’s past trauma, a fuck ton of fluff, my little knowledge of skin care lol

English is not my first language

Word count: 2200

Notes: this was inspired by a dream I had. I thought it was cute and I couldn't get it out of my head, so I wrote this little thing. If it doesn’t make sense, blame my dumb dreams lol

It was one of the first times you slept over at Bucky's place that you discovered he didn't have a skin care routine. He would look at you cleansing your face from the bathroom door, watching you apply creams and serums with a mixture of admiration and confusion in his expression. And every time you picked up a new product, he would ask you what it was and what did it do. 

It didn't really surprise you, most of the men you had dated tended to use a small number of personal hygiene products and usually the facial skin was only treated with soap and water. And if that was men your age, it was to be expected that Bucky and his over one hundred years of age were not aware of the benefits of skin care.You found his reactions kind of adorable. It wasn't every day that you caught Bucky acting with the naïve curiosity of a child, and you couldn't help but laugh as you answered his endless questions.

"Please tell me you at least wear sunscreen." You said and Bucky remained silent. "Oh my God, Bucky!" you complained, explaining to him how dangerous the sun was for his skin.

"After all I've been through, I don't think a little sun is going to kill me, doll." He laughed, coming up to you to hug you from behind. You wrapped your arms around his, smiling at him in the mirror as he rested his chin on your shoulder. 

The bastard knew how cute he was —looking at you through the mirror with blue eyes full of love—, and he was using it to his advantage to keep you from scolding him. He was probably right, the super soldier serum surely protected him from skin cancer in the same way it protected him from hits and falls that would be fatal to the rest of humanity. But still, it wouldn't hurt him to take care of himself a little every now and then.

"You smell nice." Bucky praised you, inhaling the subtle floral scent the creams had left on your skin. He gave you a kiss on the cheek, his stubble tickling your sensitive face. You laughed and he knew he had won.

"Don't think you're getting out of this so easily." you warned, tilting your head to the side so you could kiss him. "Flattery will get you nowhere!"

From that day on you decided that you would put together a skincare routine for Bucky. Super Soldier serum or not, everyone's skin needed a little help from time to time. And besides, you believed it was something that could benefit Bucky in more ways than just one. It would teach him to take better care of himself and to value the precious 'me time'. And god knew he needed that. So you made a mental note to buy a couple of products for him the next time you went to restock some of your kit and stopped thinking about it for a while.

That was until one day Bucky came home tired from a mission. You didn't quite know what he had to do and he didn't want to tell you much about it either when you asked him. Not knowing tore you apart, but you respected his wishes and didn't press the issue, deciding to help him in a way that wasn't invasive. You started with running him a bath, filling the tub with warm water and using some of your bath salts and lotions to create a more relaxing environment. You insisted on taking care of him, although Bucky didn't put up much resistance, surrendering to the soothing power of your caresses on his hair. Your fingers gently massaged his scalp, coating it with shampoo to remove all the dirt before rinsing it and repeating the process with conditioner.

He still found such intimacy a bit strange. Even though he enjoyed it, he still wasn't completely used to being cared for with the affection you showed him. It had been so long since anyone had treated him with such love and care that he could hardly remember it. But he felt safe in your hands, happy to have you in his life. A light of hope at the end of the dark tunnel of agony that had been his life. That was what you were to him. His second chance to live, to love. So he relaxed under your touch and let your gentle caresses take all the tiredness and worries out of his system.

But your pampering didn't end when Bucky got out of the tub. After he changed into his pajamas and laid down on his side of the bed, you emerged from the bathroom with a small white bag in your hands. You rested it on the nightstand and began pulling out various products he recognized from your skin care routine, arranging them in a nice neat line. 

"Doll... what are you doing?" Bucky asked, looking at the pink cat-ear headband you held in your hands. It was the one you always wore when you did your makeup or skin care routine, a tool you used to keep your hair out of your face while you worked. He always thought you looked adorable when you used it, but he didn't understand why you were directing it at him this time.

"Taking care of you." You replied as if it were obvious, "I want to show you the benefits of having a good skin care routine." Bucky hesitated for a moment, but eventually gave in to your soft smile and the sparkle of enthusiasm in your eyes. There was nothing he could say no to if you looked at him that way.

He gave you a slight nod and you took that as a signal to continue. You climbed onto the bed, settling onto his lap with one leg on either side of him, so you could face him and work more comfortably. Bucky put his hands on your hips instinctively, the cold metal of his fingers giving you goose bumps at the unexpected touch. But you didn't move them, you liked his hands there.

"First we have to make sure your hair is out of the way." You announced as you placed the headband on his head, making sure no hair was out of place or near his face. You couldn't help but let out a giggle as you admired Bucky wearing the accessory. The pink, furry cat ears looked so out of place it was ridiculous. The clear feminine energy of the headband clashed against the distinctive masculine look on his expression in a fun and charming way. It made him look adorable if you were honest, especially when he smiled at you. He could definitely pull it off.

"How do I look?" Bucky asked, batting his eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion. 

"Adorable." You replied between giggles, before giving him a quick peck on the lips.

When you broke apart, you began your skin care routine, taking a piece of cotton and your favorite micellar water to cleanse Bucky's skin. He looked at you closely, taking advantage of the position you were in to admire your beauty up close while you concentrated on soaking the cotton ball in the liquid. You were the most beautiful woman in the world, he was sure, and not only that, you were kind and loving too. A wonderful person all around and he still didn't understand how he had managed to get you by his side, but he was happy about it.

"Why do you have to clean my face? I just showered." Bucky mumbled with his eyes closed, feeling your delicate fingers on his chin as you ran wet cotton across his face.

You let out a giggle. "Water is not enough! And regular soap is too harsh on the skin of our face, so you need to use a cleanser or cream that is meant for the face."

"I never heard about that." Bucky frowned, tilting his head slightly to the side in confusion.

"Because you're a guy and guys are used to using one product for everything hygiene related."

“That’s not true!” he tried to defend himself, although he didn't sound very convinced.

You decided to skip a few steps in the routine to keep things simple. The idea was not only to pamper Bucky and help him relax, but also show him that maintaining a skin care routine didn't have to be complicated and could bring him many benefits. So you went straight to the eye cream, taking some with your ring finger and carefully applying it to the bags under his eyes.

"Stay still! You're gonna make me poke your eye if you move like that!"

"It already feels like you're poking my eye!"

"Don't be so dramatic!" You laughed, men really were cry babies. "Just close your eyes and trust me." Bucky grumbled, pouting. You planted a quick kiss on his lips, and that seemed to please him because he kept his eyes closed and stopped moving. Carefully, you spread the eye cream over his dark circles, giving his skin time to absorb the product before proceeding with the last step.

"What is that?" Bucky asked you curiously as you reached for the last tub in the line of products. 

"It's a night cream. You're supposed to use it at night after you wash your face to keep your skin moisturized."

"Isn't that what the other cream did?"

"No, silly! That was just for your under eye area, this helps hydrate the rest of your face. We need to give back all the good things we got rid off when we cleaned your skin of all the dirt and oils clogging your pores."

Bucky made an annoyed face, muttering about how complicated it all sounded. But the truth was, he was enjoying the extra attention you were giving him. He had you all to himself, the warmth of your body enveloping him in a comforting embrace as your fingers gently massaged his face. He couldn't think of a better definition of paradise than that. Just the two of you sharing an intimate moment, far from the horrors of the outside world. He could commit to a skin care routine if it involved at least a third of the pampering you were giving him at that moment.

"You don't need to use much," you continued your explanation, dipping one of your fingertips into the cream before bringing it up to Bucky's face. "Just a little bit here, here, here... and here." You painted a couple of white dots on his cheeks, forehead and chin, kissing the tip of his nose before applying a bit of cream to the area. It was such a cute and intimate act he almost blushed.

The first thing Bucky noticed about the cream was the scent. It had a light rose fragrance that was familiar to him, comforting even. It traveled up his nostrils as you massaged the cream into his face, sparking a warm and fuzzy feeling inside him. It took him a few seconds to understand that it was because that was the same rose scent he recognized on your skin whenever he kissed you, that sweet floral scent he had learned to recognize as home. He finally knew he had your choice in moisturizer to thank for it. 

"You're using your cream on me?"

"Yes, it's the only one I had. The perfume doesn't last long, don't worry. I'll buy you an unscented one tomorrow."

"No, don't! I like this one, it smells like you... it's like having a little piece of you with me all the time."

You didn't expect him to say that, so you weren't prepared for the tingling warmth of love that coursed through your body. The idea that he wanted to keep you close at all times, that he recognized your scent and found comfort and safety in it, made your heart melt with love. Bucky was normally a man of few words, and tended to show his feelings with other things rather than words. Acts of service were his most common way of showing how much he loved you, although he also resorted to spending quality time together whenever you had free time. But every once in a while, he would manage to drop a sentence like that, which in concise words made it clear how much he loved you. Always taking you by surprise, he would drop them at the most casual moments, leaving you completely stupid for a few seconds as you processed his words and wondered what you had done to deserve having someone so wonderful in your life. 

Bucky gave you a shy smile, cheeks turning pink under your gaze, feeling exposed and vulnerable. He looked so adorable that you couldn't help but join your lips with his in a slow, loving kiss. He reciprocated immediately, one of his hands leaving your waist to cradle your cheek, pressing you tighter against him and deepening the kiss. 

"I love you," you muttered against his lips, pressing your forehead against his as you gazed into his deep blue eyes.

Bucky smiled, feeling the last bit of stress evaporate from his system thanks to you and your sweetness.  "I love you too."

[buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger]

Bucky and Touch Headcanons

Bucky x GN!Reader

Description: Just some Headcanons about Bucky and learning to trust human contact again

Warnings: fluff, a little angst, Bucky’s trauma, abuse at the hands of HYDRA, insecurities, self conscious Bucky, pet names, no y/n used, no pronouns used beyond "you"

A/N: if you haven't noticed I definitely have a type when it comes to fic and that fic is hurt/comfort with Bucky. I kinda feel like everything I've written is like the same thing in different fonts, but oh well 😅 anyways, Bucky re-learning that hands on his body doesn’t inherently mean pain and becoming super cuddly and touchy with someone he loves is my SHIT inject that into my VEINS man

((18+ only below the cut please and thank you!!))

It takes Bucky a really long time to get accustomed to human contact again, after you two got together it took him a while to even do something so innocent as hold your hand.

It’s not that Bucky hates it

He loves being close to you, he wants it so badly

And he’s touch-starved

He’s so touch-starved

But he went so long without positive human contact, and now that he’s free he wanted it so badly he could feel his chest aching for it

But it made him so nervous to want to try

After one night where you mindlessly reached up to casually touch his face and he flinched away hard, after all open hand coming towards his face had meant pain for so long, you two had a long conversation about his comfort levels

You two took things slow initially

You would sit on the couch together, watching a movie and talking with your fingers intertwined, your thumb stroking his knuckles.

Sometimes you’ll fall asleep on his shoulder, something he’s slowly started to accept

At the very least he’s stopped freezing when he feels your head droop to his arm

But now that he’s grown used to it and learned to love it? He wants to be touching you all the time

Bucky almost always has his arm around you, or a hand on your back, holding your hand, etc.

He would never admit it to anyone but you, but he’s SUCH a little spoon.

Bucky loves when you hold him, resting his head on your chest while you rub his back brings him a level of calm that he’s never felt before

Or when you hold him from behind and he curls into your body

You slip your hand under his shirt and run your hands along his tummy, gently stroking your fingers along his skin

You know he’s a lot larger than you, being a wall of muscle that has at least a head of height on you

But seeing him sleeping peacefully, wrapped in your arms with a little smile on his face he looks so small

He loves when you play with his hair.

It took him a long time to be okay with it (too many memories of handlers grabbing and/or dragging him by the hair), but now?

If he had it his way your hands would never leave it

Whenever you two are holding each other your hands always seem to find their way to his dark locks, brushing them out of his eyes or carding your fingers through it

You learned that the quickest way to get him to fall asleep is to stroke his hair, and put him to sleep like that every night

When it was long, Bucky loved when you combed it for him after a shower, or braided and unbraided it while he laid in your lap during a movie

Now that it’s cut short (thanks to you, he didn’t trust anyone else to do it) you’re pretty much always playing with it in some way

As much as you loved his long hair, his shorter cut is nice because it’s a bit more manageable and still just as soft

Bucky loves when you massage his scalp, feeling your nails gently scratching against his head makes him melt every time

He also loves when you bathe him or bathe with him

Bucky had a lot of anxiety around being naked in front of you, too many bad memories of being stripped and hosed down after missions or beaten within an inch of his life

But with lots of time and comfort and assurances he eventually opened up and got more comfortable

Long baths with you are his favorite thing.

Whether you get in with him or not, he loves how gentle you are with washing his body, massaging sore muscles and peppering his chest and back with little kisses

He especially loves when you wash his hair (I know, shocking).

Usually when you’re done washing him you’ll guide his head to lay in your lap while you stroke his hair.

When it’s time for him to get out you usually have to wake him up, it makes you smile

Peace looks so good on him, you just want to let him bask in it forever

And oh GOD he loves skin-on-skin contact so much

It took so long for Bucky to learn that he was allowed to want things

When he first started opening up with touch, he would wait until the aching in his chest got unbearable before asking if you would do some skin-on-skin with him

You never wanted to push him, but you tried to teach him that he was allowed to ask for things he didn't need immediately.

He didn't have to wait until he absolutely needed something to ask for it.

He was allowed to just want things.

Once he finally gets used to asking for things he wants skin-on-skin all the time.

Most every night you end up cuddled up in bed, sans clothing, Bucky pretty much on top of you, his head on your chest while you play with his hair.

He'll press little kisses to your chest, making you smile when his stubble tickles against your skin

“I love you,” he whispers into your neck, “how did I get so lucky, hm?”

You smile softly and kiss his forehead

“Believe me Buck, I'm the lucky one.”

[lightseoul]

HOLD ME CLOSE (HOLD ME TIGHT) (3.8k)

pairing. k. bakugou x reader

synopsis. masaru has a stroke that nearly kills him. bakugou handles it well—until he doesn’t.

cw. pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up (32), established relationship, mentions of illness, themes of grief, discussions of past trauma (bkg's)

a/n. i hope y'all cry because this made me cry lmao. writing really is easy if you take heavy inspiration from your personal experiences lol. this is written from bkg's pov, and serves as a mini character analysis as well ig?

bakugou remembers it clear as day.

it was only a few weeks after the two of you celebrated his 32nd birthday in a secluded resort out of town when he got the call.

he was in the middle of chastising his klutz of a sidekick’s ear off for forgetting to submit an important case report when his phone started ringing, and the very fact that it wasn’t your ringtone further soured his already worsening mood.

with a final reprimand laced with an hr-appropriate amount of expletives, he dismissed the rookie, leaving him alone in his pristine, corner office.

he recalls sighing in annoyance upon seeing the caller id, as well as his clipped tone when he greeted the old hag with a curt, “what.”

that annoyance was immediately replaced with alarm, however, when his usually bright mother spoke into the microphone, her typically level voice shaking with unmistakable fear.

“it’s your father, katsuki…” she started, and he instantly braced himself for the impact.

mitsuki takes a shaky inhale. “…he’s having a stroke. we’re on the way to the hospital. please, come here.”

he didn’t need to be told twice.

he remembers being on autopilot—the entire way to the suburban peripheries of musutafu where his parents decided to move after he got his own place at the age of 22. he’s not entirely sure—the journey over now a hazy blur—but he might’ve sent you the link to his location, because you magically arrived at the local hospital around fifteen minutes after him.

the moment he saw you burst into the entrance of the emergency room, a huge, tidal wave of relief immediately washed over him, he thought he could’ve collapsed. the second you lock eyes, he witnessed a whirlwind of emotions dance across your beautiful features, before you ran over to where he stood near the vending machine, unceremoniously crashing into his arms.

at that point, he had no idea what made you drop everything—including the precious work that you do—and just follow him based on an ambiguous gps locator he sent you without context, but he was glad you did.

because it was only as you held him so close to you all the while soothing his back and chanting soft ‘it’s okay’s’ in his ear did it hit him.

the fact that he’s fucking terrified.

it must’ve been at least three hours of stewing in tense silence in the emergency room’s waiting area before the two of you finally saw mitsuki.

he remembers the way his heart ached when he first laid eyes on his mother, someone who’s typically radiant and spirited and happy, now looking too frail and painfully vulnerable.

words weren’t exchanged as the three of you walked towards each other, and he promptly engulfed his mother into a tight hug before he could talk himself out of it.

“how is he?” he whispered into the side of her head, choosing to ask then, in the middle of a hug, because he didn’t know if he could stand the look on her face when she answered.

“he’s alive,” she managed to get out, but she said it so tentatively that he knew it was too soon to feel any sort of relief.

“but…?” he recalls asking with bated breath.

“it was a hemorrhagic stroke. it’s… it’s bad, katsuki.”

it wasn’t until a few more hours later, when the two of you were finally granted permission to enter masaru’s hospital room together with mitsuki, did he realize what bad meant.

some parts of this story are blurry now, but the way his stomach dropped at the sight of his father remains to be unforgettable.

the sight of him paralyzed, head to toe.

masaru remained confined in the hospital for a few weeks more after that. the three of you took turns—one would go home to clean up and catch some sleep while the remaining two kept watch and assisted the man.

you almost got booted out of there on the second day, with the nurse saying only immediate family was allowed due to overcrowding in the hospital, but bakugou was quick to step in and say you were practically married.

when the nurse politely pressed for more details while looking pointedly at your ring finger and the lack of a wedding band, he lied and said you forgot to wear it in your rush to get there.

she didn’t seem too convinced, but she thankfully let it go, probably because it was #2 pro-hero dynamight who said so, eventually exiting the room after checking masaru’s vitals.

he remembers you heaving a sigh of relief once the three of you were left alone, tossing him a small smile that sent a familiar shot of longing straight to his veins.

one day, he recalls thinking to himself, you will be married.

just—not now.

the first day home was as much of a nightmare as he expected it to be.

growing up, and until that moment, he never really found himself wanting siblings.

sure, it got pretty lonely during his childhood, but he almost always had kids following him around what with how flashy his quirk is, and he had izuku, which he can now admit was (and still is) his best friend.

plus, you always said you loved how he’d roughhouse you, which you chalked up to him being an only child and not having had the opportunity to do that with anyone else.

but, as the three of you struggled to lift masaru out of the car and into his newly minted wheelchair, he remembers wishing for a brother or a sister who could lend a helping hand and make sure all of masaru’s numb body parts were carefully looked out for.

it’s fucking hilarious, how he didn’t just lift his father all by himself with his pro-hero muscles, but the fear of accidentally hurting him even more turned out to be more paralyzing than he anticipated.

not that he would ever admit that to anyone.

not even you.

but as he watched you and his mother fluttering around, tending to masaru’s needs not even a minute you get in the house, it struck him that maybe he should.

you might not be his sibling (thank god, no), but you will most likely become his parents’ daughter if things go his way.

and, whether he liked it or not, he’s got to do something about the growing ache in his chest that’s only growing wider by the second.

the next few weeks he spent busying himself with the stuff that came with looking after a stroke patient.

mitsuki, who’s done nothing but throw herself into caring for her husband, insisted on helping him find the people they needed, but bakugou didn’t even let her get a word in.

when he tucked himself into bed right next to you later that night in his new bedroom (you moved in with him to his parents’ despite his protests), he recalls ranting about how the old hag was getting on his nerves with her inability to just let him handle shit.

“have i ever been incompetent?” he huffed, turning on his side so he could lie facing you. “it’s like she doesn’t even trust me.”

“i think the two of you just want the same for the other, kats,” came your steady yet gentle voice, not missing a beat and totally unfazed by his petulant behavior.

“…waddya mean?”

you reached out to caress his cheek, and he remembers how soft your fingers felt and how his eyes momentarily fluttered close at the warmth.

at the sight, you flashed him a sad smile before pressing on.

“you’re both hurting, but the two of you would rather carry the weight by yourselves instead of burdening the other. it’s how you and mitsuki show you care.”

he didn’t say anything after that.

at least, for a while.

finally, he spoke up. “…i just don’t like to be bossed around, is all.”

to that, you only tossed him a knowing look. “yup, just that. definitely. never mind your immense sense of responsibility and the stubborn yet admirable way you carry everybody’s bur—”

“yeah, yeah,” he cut you off before you could ramble any further. “i get it.”

seemingly satisfied, you grinned up at him before pulling him close, cradling his head by your chest.

with the new position, he could feel your familiar, rhythmic heartbeat.

your heartbeat that he liked to listen to for reassurance—telltale evidence that you’re alive and right next to him, and that no villain has wrestled you out of his firm grip.

and as he lay there snuggled into you and listening to the consistent pulse, he found his frantic, loud thoughts slowly but steadily being lulled to a hum.

thoughts that he knew you’d kick to the moon if you found out he’s been thinking them.

thoughts like maybe he’s just selfishly gatekeeping all the tasks so he could distract himself from the pain that’s threatening to swallow him whole.

thoughts like maybe he deserved this for all the wrong he’s done growing up.

thoughts like maybe his mother would be in far less pain if it were him instead of his saint of a father who had to go through this.

he fell into a fitted sleep that night.

after a few more weeks of searching for and screening applicants, and with your and mitsuki’s approval, he finally settled on a stay-in caregiver and physical therapist.

it took quite a while for the two to learn the ropes and master how he wanted things to be done around here, but they eventually got there, and when they did, they cleared a lot of stuff that has been on everybody’s plates ever since masaru had the stroke.

with that, mitsuki insisted the two of you go home to your shared condominium and get back into working full-time again, but neither of you relented. he tried to get you to return, not wanting to hold you back from the important things that you do, but you were quick to dismiss him.

he didn’t tell you then and there, but he secretly wished you would.

he’d never confess this to anybody, but he’d definitely crumble without you around.

he remembers one specific thursday, when you first started getting masaru into exercising his left, albeit non-dominant hand, by drawing.

it was silly, but he recalls not even being able to look his father in the eye as the two of you sat across from him who was plastered in his wheelchair, a small coffee table between you, on which sat a piece of paper, a pencil, a box of crayons, and an all might plushie you swiftly grabbed from his bedroom.

and as he sat there avoiding his father’s gaze, he watched you as you talked animatedly to the man, explaining the deceivingly simple activity: he just had to try and draw the plushie, after which, if he still had the energy, he could color in using the crayons you dug out from bakugou’s drawers.

but masaru wasn’t having it.

the man only stared at you in disinterest as you tried your best to engage him. despite himself, bakugou felt indignation creep up his spine.

he knew. fuck, he really did. after he made sure you’ve fallen asleep, he had spent nights researching his father’s condition, poring over mountains and mountains of information all in the name of being able to better understand and help him.

so he knew—he knew that strokes, especially severe ones, can cause noticeable changes in one’s personality, at least in the short term. it can turn someone sensitive and in tune with others’ emotions into someone who’s apathetic and seemingly self-absorbed.

still, that knowledge doesn’t stop him from jumping on his feet when masaru, his kind, sweet father, angrily wiped off the table with his left arm, sending the materials you worked hard to gather scattered all over the floor.

and, before he could stop himself: “hey!”

you were onto him in an instant, a soothing albeit restraining hold on his shoulder. “katsuki, it’s okay.”

he was about to open his mouth to spit venom when he felt you tighten your grip. he didn’t have to glance at you to know you were looking at him the way you always did when you were begging him to stay quiet.

and because he loved (loves) you, he did.

and as he wordlessly picked up the papers and pens in silence, he couldn’t help but mourn over his father, and the patience and calmness that characterized his being.

the very patience and calmness that he always wished he had, instead of his temper and aggressiveness, because that’s what you, of all people, deserved.

and then the all-too-familiar guilt hit him again.

because why was he acting like his father died, when he was still very much alive?

simple, bakugou thought to himself.

it’s because it feels like he has.

his relationship with masaru didn’t get better after that.

he’d been trying, he really had been. if not for you, who’d been tending to his father like he was your very own, then for his mother, whose fatigue and sadness have been chipping away at her by the minute.

he was washing the dishes in the kitchen after you’ve had dinner—all the while his parents watched tv in the living room—when you walked in, a couple more dirty plates in tow.

he wouldn’t have noticed he was glaring down at the brick of butter on the shelf if you didn’t point it out.

“a few more seconds and that’s gonna melt,” you quipped.

he looked back at you, gears in his head turning for a beat, before he chuckled half-heartedly and turned back to the sink.

behind him, he recalls hearing a click, which he now identifies as you putting down the plates on the kitchen island, before he felt your arms wrap around his middle, encasing him in a hug.

your voice was smooth when you drawled out, “what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, baby?”

still, and despite all the shit that’s been going on in his life, he still found himself shuddering at the pet name.

“nothing.”

“really?” came your immediate response. “because i was getting kinda jealous with how hard you were staring at that butter.”

at that, bakugou couldn’t help but snort. you followed suit, that delightful laugh echoing across the small room.

“stupid,” he simply retorted, although both of you knew there was no bite to it.

you didn’t press him for more after that, choosing to just hold yourself against his back in comfortable silence—which he now knows he’s grateful for.

because at that time, he couldn’t have told you he was feeling nothing but resentment for his pitiful father.

his pitiful father who loved to put butter in virtually every dish he whipped up.

his pitiful father who probably wouldn’t be pitiful if he just led an active lifestyle, monitored his health, and made better choices so that his poor mother wouldn’t have to go through all this.

his train of thought was interrupted, however, when a pang of that same old guilt hit his chest, and then he was once again flooded with scalding shame.

because what else should he be feeling for his father aside from empathy, as someone who has had far too many brushes with death itself?

“…katsuki?”

he recalls jolting ever so minutely, before turning his head to look at you, who, by then, was already standing behind him, apparently already having released him from the hug.

“huh?”

“i was just asking you,” you continued as if he didn’t just zone out. “our friends want to come by and visit, if you’re okay with it. is that alright with you?”

the last thing he needed was for his nerd-ass friends to visit and witness his family’s dirty laundry, which would inevitably be aired out for them to see given the circumstances. his entire life, he always, always, kept those from prying eyes, even if they were his closest buddies’.

but, at the mention of his friends, he found his heart clenching in yearning despite himself.

and so, before he could talk himself out of it, he nodded in approval.

“…and so that’s how i saved the little girl who was convinced i was the bad guy!”

he remembers everyone in the room erupting in laughter at kirishima’s story, even masaru, who’s been steadily gaining control of the left side of his body back.

his right has seen little to no improvement, but you and mitsuki have been making it a point to celebrate every win, no matter how small.

at kirishima’s gag, bakugou himself couldn’t help the somewhat imperceptible smirk that encroached on his face, which izuku, unfortunately, caught sight of. the #1 pro-hero beamed at him, and it took bakugou every ounce of self-control not to roll his eyes at the nerd.

“what about you, midoriya-kun?” asked mitsuki, who’s seated on a stool right beside her husband, who’s nestled comfortably in the reclining chair you got him about a month ago.

at the call out, the green-haired man shifted his attention to the lady, before sheepishly retorting with: “oh, i just try to be funny.”

that granted him his round of laughter, and this time bakugou finally allowed himself to give into the visceral urge to roll his eyes.

he must’ve been being so obvious with his expressions, because it’s you who managed to catch him again, shooting him a chastising but nevertheless playful look.

before he could wink at you or do anything in response, though, he recalls mitsuki standing up quite abruptly, startling the five of you.

you shot her a question before anyone else could. “what is it, mitsuki-san?”

“i didn’t notice! we’ve run out of tea and snacks. sorry—” she leaned down to get the trays, “—let me get some mo—”

“i’ll do it!” volunteered the ever-good-natured izuku, who moved so fast the plates were on him before the rest could blink.

“i’ll help the nerd,” bakugou added, standing up before taking some of the cups from his rival lest the latter drops them.

at the uncharacteristically generous offer, izuku once again beamed at him, which bakugou immediately dismissed with a wave of a hand.

the short trek to the kitchen was quiet amidst the background noise, which has been brought up a notch thanks to kirishima’s vivid storytelling.

without a word, bakugou gestured where to get a refill on the snacks while he busied himself with brewing more tea.

the silence that engulfed them was comfortable—familiar—that was, until, izuku broke it.

“thanks again, kacchan.”

bakugou felt his eye twitch at the nickname. “for what?”

izuku turned on his feet to regard his best friend, a grateful smile gracing his boyish features. “for letting me and ei visit. i just wanted you to know i appreciate it. i’m sure it’s not easy having guests around while, you know…”

he wasn’t about to tell the nerd he and kirishima were the only ones he felt comfortable enough to visit at the moment, so he merely nodded.

(un)fortunately, the greenhead took it as a sign to continue.

“she’s been amazing, huh?”

bakugou met the man’s soft gaze, which was directed toward you.

“yeah,” came his sure reply. he remembers not even knowing where to start, so he just simply left it at that.

a pregnant pause.

“you’ve been doing great, too, kacchan.”

that caught him off guard.

he must’ve looked stunned, because izuku shrugged quite timidly, before: “we all see how hard you’re working.”

the #1 pro-hero hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether or not to say the next thing, ultimately deciding for it.

“…but don’t forget to take care of yourself, too, alright?”

and just as fast as he scooped the trays back in the living room, izuku patted him on the shoulder before taking the cups from him and waltzing rather clumsily out of the kitchen.

later that night, bakugou found himself unable to fall asleep.

it’s been ages since you both got into bed, and you were now on your side with your back turned against him, probably already fast asleep.

he recalls just staring up at the off-white ceiling, playing back in his head the earlier conversation he had with izuku again and again and again.

“you’ve been doing great, too, kacchan,” was what the nerd said.

if he only knew.

if he only knew the terrible thoughts that had been plaguing his mind since shit went down.

there’s a reason why he hasn’t said a single word about the things he’d been thinking since day one.

there’s a reason why he’s kept all of this shit to himself even though they were fucking heavy to carry all on his own.

it was because he was scared of them, and even more scared of what people would make of him when he finally verbalized them into existence.

what you would make of him.

he’s spent most of his life running away from who he used to be, that the mere thought that he might have just always been that guy this entire time is like a fucking 100% detroit smash to the gut.

he didn’t even notice he was crying until he felt a single tear go down the side of his face.

he quickly reached up to wipe it away.

to his horror, he felt you shift beside him, and he found himself frozen in fear as he waited for you to settle into another position in your sleep.

but that didn’t come.

instead, he remembers so, so clearly how you turned to face him—absolutely, evidently wide awake—with such a worried expression on your gorgeous face, and how he just completely lost it at the sight of you.

he remembers how you scooped him into your arms as ugly sobs finally wracked his body, how you led his arms to wrap around your waist to help anchor him as he cried into your chest.

he remembers the soothing circles you rubbed on his back as you started to cry with him, your sniffles the only thing he heard aside from his own weeping.

he remembers the way your voice cracked when you started whispering ‘i’m here’s’ in his ear. and, he doesn’t know if it’s because that line carries a massive fucking weight for him, or that it’s you—the love of his life—who’s saying them, but the words wash over the entirety of his exhausted body like a violent storm, leaving him shivering in its wake.

he remembers deciding then and there, that he was going to tell you everything.

maybe tomorrow, but not now.

for now, and in the safety of your arms, he finds himself finally allowing the grief—the grief that he’s unknowingly been trying to tamp down—to come forward and make itself known.

tagging. @bunnysaursushii @yawnzzzzzzzz @cholios @kashee-h @iluv-ace @lotuslovers @elarakive @sugurusmoon

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 have a nice day!

[nadvs]

the act of unravelling (part one)

pairing rafe cameron x pogue! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary you never expected you’d get tangled up with a kook, least of all, rafe cameron. one night, you make a life-altering decision to get revenge on someone you both despise. after you vow to keep what happened a secret, your relationship begins to twist into something more.

tags very dark! violence, homicide, drug and alcohol use, parental neglect, mental illness, s/a, trauma. no smut.

author’s note thank you to this anon!! this fic deviates from canon. timeline is s2 when rafe is at his most unhinged.

» masterlist

disclaimer there is no explicit s/xual assault scene in this story, but it is referenced and the trauma that comes with surviving it is explored. it is committed by an original character. when writing this, i pulled from personal experience, so please be mindful that if you comment, do not engage in any victim-blaming as it is triggering to me and others.

·········

In a single harrowing moment, you’ve learned that there’s truth to the expression that the enemy of your enemy can be your friend.

Rafe looks all too comfortable holding a gun. The rage coursing through you is deafening, persuading you that the person he’s pointing it at deserves to die.

And then, you utter the words rising in your throat.

“Do it.”

╰┈➤ two days earlier

Your shifts at the country club are a repetitive motion of driving over the golf course’s hills, handing the island’s wealthiest people their overpriced drinks, and accepting their money with a fake smile.

The job was always a predictable bore. Until a week ago, when you started seeing a familiar face.

The moment Rafe’s eyes landed on you and he realized that one of the Pogues he revels in berating is the new cart girl, his lips twitched into a smirk.

Every time you see him, he does the same thing. He orders a beer and says here you go, sweetheart when he tips you.

It’s always a fifty. No other club member gives you nearly this much. It’s like he loves reminding you that this type of money is pocket change to him.

Every time you serve him, you subdue your glare and take the crisp bill that sits between his fingers, wondering why even though the man is an arrogant asshole, you can’t stop staring at him.

You feel weak for not hating him all the way. You can’t help that over the years of your tense, sporadic interactions, a part of you has always wondered if he feels the same pull of attraction that you do.

You have to remind yourself of who he is. A man committed to letting everyone know how much better he thinks he is because he was lucky enough to be born into money. He’s heartless. And you can’t wait for the day that you finally rid yourself of this fixation you have for him.

It’s a sunny Thursday afternoon at the end of a long shift and you’re parked by one of the paved pathways on the course, recording your last transaction in your logbook.

You hear the familiar whirring of a cart passing by. It stops. You don’t think much of it until you hear his voice.

“We’ll take two beers,” he calls from behind the steering wheel. You look up to see him. Rafe.

“I’m obviously off duty,” you reply curtly, looking between him and his friend.

“What, so you can write in your diary, but you can’t give us some drinks?” he calls.

“It’s a logbook,” you reply coldly. “It’s called having–”

You flatten your lips together, trying to control yourself.

“Having…?” he challenges. The mocking tone of his voice is what makes you snap.

“A job,” you reply. “Not everyone can live off of daddy’s money.”

Rafe huffs a laugh, a wisp of amusement flashing on his face.

“Careful, Pogue,” he says. “What’ll your boss say if he knows that’s how you’re talking to me?”

“I’m off the clock, Kook,” you say the label with the same vitriol. “I can talk however I want.”

You close your book and start up your cart before he can irritate you any more. Even though there’s something aggravatingly magnetic about him, you refuse to allow him to taunt you any longer.

·········

You meet up with your friends on the beach that evening, zoning out as the three of them chatter around you, passing a joint you brought.

You stare ahead at the soft waves under the setting sun, thinking of Rafe’s cold stare, thinking of the smirk he seems to always have etched on his face reserved especially for you, thinking of how you wish your body would catch up with your mind because how can you dislike somebody this much but also be so attracted to them?

“Who’s your plug?” JJ asks, seemingly impressed. He pulls you out of your daze as he passes you the joint. Smoke curls out of the end of it, twisting in the wind.

“That guy, Porter,” you say flatly. You take a puff, thinking back to the shaggy-haired Kook who approached you at a party on the north side of the island the other night, offering you half the price on your first buy.

He also tried to convince you to try something harder, but you told him you’re sticking to pot. You weren’t about to get hooked on coke, especially not because a drug-dealing Kook wants to take more of your money.

You continue to stare ahead, passing the joint along.

“What a trust fund kid name,” JJ laughs. “Fuckin’ Porter.”

Your friends chuckle around you, but you continue to stare ahead.

“Hard day at the office?” he says in response to your absentmindedness. You meet JJ’s gaze, shaking your head as if to dismiss your own thoughts.

“Rafe is such an asshole,” you say.

“What’d he do this time?” Pope asks. Your friends await your response, already well aware of your history with the bullshit you’ve ever had to deal with at work lately.

“He said something about ratting me out to my boss for talking back to him,” you reply. You scoff, getting mad all over again. You need to pull yourself out of this funk. “Whatever. All I do is complain about him. He’s not worth it. This is the last time you’ll ever hear me talk about him. I mean it.”

You make an effort to join in your friends’ conversations, feeling guilty that you’re so spaced out. With parents who never give you much attention at all, the guys surrounding you are your family. Your brothers. They deserve better than to hear you ramble on about Rafe.

Rafe’s eyes travel over the silhouettes sitting along the darkening shoreline when he arrives at the beach with his friends.

It’s the sound of his pick-up truck’s door shutting that gets your attention. You look over your shoulder. Then, you glance away, indifference on your face.

It pisses him off. Rafe has always craved what he can’t have. Power. Self-control. You. Every time he talks to you, you act like he’s such a bother, a sharp thorn in your side.

You get under his skin. And he’s never wanted a girl this bad. A goddamn Pogue of all people. Something about you lures him in. It makes him want to see what really lies behind the irritation that burns in your eyes every time he speaks to you.

He needs to crack your armor. And he has always loved a challenge.

As the beach populates, the division between the Kooks and the Pogues is clear, as if an invisible line is drawn in the sand. He stays on your side, you stay on yours.

When night falls, you and your friends have all smoked through the entire joint, and you’re a bit buzzed but not nearly as high as you’d like to be.

You spot Porter by the shoreline, drinking with his friends, and dust the sand off your knees when you stand up.

“I’m gonna go buy some more,” you say to your friends.

“Going into enemy territory?” JJ asks.

“It’s nothing new to me,” you laugh. “I work in enemy territory, remember?”

“You need company? Or cash?” John B asks.

“All good. My treat,” you say. “I’m loaded with tips.”

You don’t mention that a majority of the money in your pocket is from Rafe.

As you approach the boisterous group, you cross your arms and feign confidence. In reality, being around these types has always put you on edge.

Kooks give off a sense of invincibility, almost impunity, like predators at the top of the food chain, perpetually safe from harm and always on the brink of inflicting it.

You notice Rafe’s stare on you from his place in the large group and your stomach twists. Your eyes flit off of him and you wonder how it’s possible to wish someone would stay away but also so deeply crave they’d come closer.

Truthfully, within the tangled way he makes you feel, you’re kind of scared of Rafe, too. He’s reckless and unpredictable. And yet, that side of him excites you. There’s a complexity to him that has an inescapable effect on you.

“You holding?” you ask Porter once you approach him. He’s one of the few Kooks you don’t mind so much. He doesn’t have the cold air of arrogance that you’re so used to.

“It’s good shit, isn’t it?” he says with a smile. “How much you want?”

You leaf through the bills in your hand.

“Just a joint,” you say. The waves crash behind you, almost drowning your voice out. You make the exchange and push through the crowd, eager to get back to your friends.

You thought you managed to get away without any complications, but two words stop you.

“You lost?”

You turn to see Rafe, overwhelming heat rushing through you as he closes the distance between you, towering over you as the breeze brushes his hair over his forehead.

“What, ‘cause I’m on your side of the beach?” you mutter. “Grow up.”

Rafe smirks. He gets such a kick out of fucking with the Pogues. Especially you.

“Is that what you’re spending my tips on?” he asks, eyes darting down to the joint in your hand.

“Yeah,” you answer. “You can tell your father I say thanks.”

Rafe’s mouth curls into a bigger smile. When he looks at you like that, like he wants to be around you, you wonder if he secretly enjoys your company.

“How long you been buying from him?” Rafe asks.

“Why?” you say. The way you glare at him makes every muscle in his body tense. He’d be an idiot to deny how attracted he is to you. “You gonna tell my boss?”

“It was a fucking joke,” he mutters with a laugh. “You Pogues all have sticks up your asses, I swear.”

You grit your teeth. He’s clearly pleased when he riles you up like this. You don’t understand how somebody could be so spiteful.

“What do you want, Rafe?” you say.

Silence settles between you, the chattering of people on either side of the beach intertwined in the air, an overlap of worlds far apart. He reminds himself that he has something important to ask you.

“Did he offer you anything else?” he says. You’ve already heard the gossip about how Rafe’s selling coke now. He must want to offer you a better price.

“I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling,” you reply. Rafe scoffs, his tongue jutting under his cheek as he takes you in.

“I’d never sell to you.”

You huff a flat chuckle. You’re tired of his juvenile obsession with the class divide that sits between you.

“So, I’m good enough to serve you drinks, but not good enough to buy your drugs?”

You feel a sick sense of satisfaction when his face hardens with anger. For a second, you worry that you’re just as spiteful as he is, that you’re no better than him.

Rafe scoffs. He’s seen what coke does to people. To himself. He refuses to see it happen to you. But of course you expect the worst of him. Like everyone else does.

“Did he offer you anything else or not?” Rafe repeats with a note of irritation.

“Why?” you sputter.

“I need to know if he’s trying to steal from me.”

Rafe refuses to be in competition with anyone. Other Kooks can sell weed all they want, but coke is his territory, and if he has to claim his territory, so be it. He’s heard rumblings that Porter’s expanded his offerings now. And Rafe isn’t going to let him fuck him over.

“He did,” you finally answer. “Coke. He said it’s the purest on the island.”

He only nods tersely, lips twisting in frustration, before he turns around and storms away from you. So, that’s all he wanted from you. Information.

“You’re welcome,” you half-shout. Curiosity pulls you in as your eyes follow him into the crowd. Sure enough, Rafe pushes Porter to the ground, shouting indistinctly, earning jeers from the crowd.

It’s typical. Nearly every time you see Rafe out socially, he’s yelling and fighting someone. You walk back to your friends, hoping you can shake off the feeling he left you with.

·········

The only thing getting you through your shift the next day is that tomorrow is a holiday. The night of the Fourth of July is an escape from the stresses of your life, an excuse to get wasted with your friends under the fireworks and let yourself drift off into oblivion.

After you clock out, you’re pacing through the country club’s bar when you hear your name called from the patio. You look to see Porter sitting at a table with a couple of friends, his smile wide.

“Didn’t know you worked here,” he says when you approach.

“Yeah, I’m a server on the course,” you explain. You almost expect him to ignorantly ask for a drink, but have to remind yourself that he’s not like Rafe.

“How is it?”

“It’s fine.”

“Come on, we won’t tell,” Porter chuckles. “You hate it, don’t you?”

“Only sometimes,” you reply with a laugh. “Depends on the day. And on the person I’m dealing with.”

“Fair enough,” he says. He pulls out his phone, punching in the password. “I meant to tell you last night that you should have my number. You know, for when you need to stock up.”

You take his phone, cluing in that he’s making himself more accessible to you for the next time you need to buy from him. As you text yourself his name, one of the men at the table motions to Porter.

“Bro,” his friend says, gaze trained ahead. Porter looks past you to the bar and shakes his head in disbelief.

“Can’t escape him,” he sighs.

You follow his eyeline to spot Rafe at the bar with a friend, dark liquor sitting in the glass he’s holding.

“Not a fan?” you ask.

“Is anyone?” Porter laughs. “He’s a nutcase.”

“Don’t let him hear you,” his friend murmurs.

“Yeah, he’ll kill you,” the other guy laughs.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Porter replies.

Your eyes linger on Rafe a second longer than they need to. Your curiosity for why he’s the way he is is like a flame that won’t burn out. He has everything he could possibly want. Why is he so mean?

“Yeah,” is all you can say. You turn around again and give Porter his phone back.

“Oh, there’s a party at my beach house tomorrow night. My neighbor does this crazy fireworks thing every year,” he tells you. “I’ll text you the address.”

You nod appreciatively, glad that at least some of the rich people you deal with don’t buy into the idea that you’re beneath them.

·········

It’s nearing nine p.m. when you make it to the beach house the next night. The guys are rambling on behind you as you step inside the massive, humid house, filled with chattering people and loud music.

“Where are your car keys?” Pope asks.

“Right here,” JJ says, jingling them in front of his face. “Do I need to show you every five minutes?”

“I’ll just take them,” Pope says, grabbing them and stuffing them in his pocket. “You can’t be trusted.”

“It was one time,” JJ says. You laugh as you think of last weekend when he’d lost his car keys at a party in the Cut.

“Yeah, and we had to search the sand for, like half an hour,” you remind him.

“You know what I’m not hearing?” JJ says. “A thank you for driving all the time.”

“Remind me, who actually drove last time?” John B asks. “And who was hurling in the backseat?”

JJ scratches the back of his neck.

“I’m a man of honor,” he says. “I’m not not going to chug when I’m told to chug.” His eyes fix on something across the room. “Speaking of…”

He heads towards the keg and you and Pope share a disapproving shake of your heads. You follow your friends, grabbing a solo cup and sipping on beer.

A few minutes later, your phone buzzes with a text from Porter: You here? Want to buy?

You’ve already smoked through the joint you bought two nights ago and quickly reply: yes.

He texts: come upstairs.

“I’ll be right back,” you quickly tell your friends before you push through the crowd.

You duck under the string tied across the bottom of staircase, a sign that warns partygoers that it’s off limits hanging in the middle. One door is open in the upstairs hallway. You see Porter sitting on a bed, rolling a joint on a book that’s sitting in his lap.

“Hey. Got a fresh one for you,” he says.

“Thanks.” You dig into your pocket. “Same price?”

“Sure.” He cocks his head. “It’ll take a while. You can come in and chill.”

You sit at his desk close to the door, talking as he packs the thin white paper.

When he stands up, instead of giving the joint to you, he darts across the room abruptly. Your brows knit in confusion when he shuts the door, the loud music reduced to muffles now.

“What are you doing?” you ask, fear twisting your heart in a vice.

He must have read things wrong.

You assume he’ll stop when you tell him no.

He doesn’t.

·········

You fall to the hard floor. You grip the edge of the bed, hardly any light spilling into the room from the hallway as you blink rapidly to gain your bearings.

A loud slam was what woke you up. You don’t remember falling asleep. You don’t even know where you are.

Two shadowy figures stand on the other side of the room. One roughly pushes the other to the floor. You stay still, peeking over the bed. Your body is trembling with pain and you don’t know why.

“Do you think I’m joking?” a man spits.

You know that voice. It’s Rafe.

“Dude, relax,“ the man on the floor says.

You might be sick. It’s Porter on the floor, whimpering like an idiot. You remember why your body is aching now.

He hurt you. He hurt you and you retreated into your mind and you fell unconscious. A cold swirl of anger and disgust and sadness twists your stomach into a knot.

“I told you to stay out of my fucking way,” Rafe shouts. “Where’s your stash?”

“In the desk,” Porter says quietly. “Just take it. I’ll stick to selling weed, okay? You have my word.”

You watch from the floor, Rafe’s broad figure leaning to pull open drawers and shove items off the desk, objects clattering on the floor in the dark. They don’t know you’re here.

Consciousness slowly grips you. Rafe confronted him about selling coke. He told him to stop. And Porter didn’t listen.

Your eyes flood with hot tears. He didn’t listen to you, either.

You just want to leave. To get out of this horrifying room. To figure out how to put yourself back together after surviving one of the worst ways a person can break another.

Loud fireworks abruptly crack in the sky, startling you, shining light in through the window. And that’s when you see it. Porter is by the other side of the bed, still on the floor, and in his raised hand, something is gleaming.

A gun.

“Rafe!” Your throat is dry, sore from the way you’d screamed.

He suddenly turns towards you, confusedly finding your face across the room. Then, his gaze snaps down at Porter. He notices the gun. And he lunges.

You stand on shaky knees as you watch Rafe land vicious punches, every blow making Porter groan.

“Gonna pull a gun when my back is turned, pussy?” Rafe bellows. “Really?”

You round the bed, staring in horror, your mind still in fragmented shambles. You’d told Porter to stop so many times and every strike of Rafe’s knuckles against his jaw gives you a jolt of satisfaction, a desire for him to suffer more.

He was never a nice guy. He’s just like all of them. A predator.

Rafe scrambles to his feet, heavily breathing as fireworks continue their pops and sizzles over the beach.

The gun is in his hand now. His heart is thrumming, his blood boiling hot. He could’ve died. If you didn’t call his name, he could’ve lost his life.

Rafe’s steady and firm, holding the weapon still, a sharp contrast to how hard you’re shaking.

“Do it,” you say. Rafe’s eyes finds yours, his lips parted, blood splattered on his face. It’s not his. Porter didn’t land any punches. Rafe beat him that badly.

“What?” Porter cries. “Are you insane?”

He’s staring up at both of you through wide eyes as the barrel of the gun remains directed at him. You imagine how terrifying you must look to him, standing over him in the dim room with his pathetic life in your hands.

“Me?” you mutter. Hatred courses through your veins when you glare at him as he lies on his side, bloodied and weak.

The power has shifted into your hands. He was the one looking down at you earlier, hurting you. And now that your body is yours again, you don’t hesitate to kick him in the stomach.

He grunts when you make contact, his body curling forward.

Rafe watches, rendered speechless. He thought he’d seen you angry before. He hasn’t. This is new. This is pure rage. This is a level of wrath he didn’t know you were capable of.

Even through the darkness, Rafe can see that your eyes are shiny with tears when you turn your head to look at him again.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” you snap, your words dripping with agony and rage. “If you don’t do it, I will.”

Rafe is powerless against the angry, malevolent instinct that’s guided him all his life. He doesn’t think.

The blow of the gun cuts through the air.

Your breath catches.

And he’s just a body. Lifeless on the floor. Gone.

You look up at Rafe. Your chests are heaving, broken and shaky breaths spilling out of your mouths. The colors lighting up the night sky tint your tear-streaked face. He’s never seen agony personified. He has now.

You glance down at Porter again. His mouth is agape. His eyes are shut. Forever. Forever.

“Oh, my God,” you whimper. Hot tears fall over your cheeks so quickly that you fear they’ll never stop. The adrenaline escapes you like water spinning down a drain, replaced with a bottomless dread.

Rafe realizes he’s still pointing the gun. He lowers his arm, his palm sweating against the grip. He had to do it. He had to. He didn’t know that taking a life would feel this good. He doesn’t feel a shred of regret or remorse. For once, he has real power.

But then he watches the way you sink down to the floor.

“What did we…” you whisper, words rushed. “What did we do? Rafe, what did we do?”

There’s a dead body next to you. Cold permeates your bones. You know it’s the type of chill that will never leave you.

Rafe kneels in front of you. The gun hits the floor with a heavy thump. The air smells like gunpowder, fried and smoking. He’s trying to meet your eyes, but your gaze is skittering around as you sit, crumpled and trembling.

“Hey,” he says clearly.

You’re staring at the ground, your breaths shallow.

“Hey,” he repeats louder. Finally, you look at him. “It was self-defense.”

You nod weakly, processing how within a second, you’ve tangled yourselves together into a knot that you can never unravel. Rafe pulled the trigger, but you told him to. And you’re sure you would’ve done it yourself if Rafe didn’t. You’re murderers.

Rafe’s hand is an inch away from you, almost putting it on yours, almost touching someone with tenderness instead of anger for once. You saved his life. You loathe him, but you saved his life, reacting in a split second.

“Why were you even up here?” he asks.

“Just be glad I was,” you say, hoping it’s enough to satisfy him.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he mumbles. “Thank you.”

If you weren’t so shellshocked, you’d laugh. You never expected Rafe to have manners, and you never expected that if he did, it’d be a show of gratitude for helping him kill somebody.

Nausea pools in your gut at the reminder of why you were so angry. Did Porter plan it? Did he always have his sights set on you, like a vulture circling the sky, ready to attack?

What happened earlier tonight flashes through your mind. He deserved to die. He did something unforgivable. He said things about how girls always do this, they always tease but never give it up.

You didn’t just save Rafe. You saved all the girls who were fated to cross that monster’s path. You pushed a soul to its death, but it was one not worthy of life.

Rafe stares at you as you blink rapidly, your mind clearly racing.

“He rip you off or something?” he asks, at a loss for why you’d encourage him to pull the trigger.

Of course Rafe thinks it’s about money. That’s all that matters to him.

“Yeah,” you lie, voice cracking. You can’t tell him. You can’t relive it. Especially with someone who you know is cold-blooded. Someone who might blame you for coming up to this bedroom in the first place.

Tease. Porter called you a tease while you pleaded for him to stop. You drop your head in your hands, chest stuttering with your breathy cries, remembering how he’d hurt you.

Rafe stares at you, confused, wondering how you could be so angry and vengeful and ruthless, just to regret it a second after the bullet left the chamber.

“We had to do it,” he states.

“I know,” you tell him. You wipe your cheeks with your palms, well aware that he could never understand why you’re really crying. “We’ll just tell the truth.”

He shakes his head at you.

“Tell who the truth?” Rafe mutters, his stare hard. “We’re not telling anybody.”

Your breath shakes. He wants to hide this. To try to get away with it.

“What if someone heard the gunshot?” you murmur.

“Everyone’s outside,” he says. “And those stupid fireworks are so fucking loud. Nobody could tell the difference.”

You wipe your face again, considering his words. Your phone is buzzing in your pocket. Someone’s calling you. Surely one of your friends. Why didn’t you just tell them where you were going? Why didn’t you just have one of them come upstairs with you?

Impatience quickly rises in Rafe while you stay silent.

“I almost knocked him out the other night,” he says. “In front of everyone. You think backing me up would be enough for anyone to believe I was protecting myself?”

You chew on your bottom lip anxiously. Rafe has a reputation for being violent. Porter put up a front that he was a nice guy. His friends even said right in front of you that Rafe would kill him. Who’d believe that Porter actually pointed a gun first?

Besides, if you vouched for him, who’s to say they’d trust you? They could spin it and say Rafe paid off a Pogue to lie for him.

“And then the cops would dig and find out it was over coke,” Rafe sputters. “It’d be a fucking mess. We’re not telling anybody.”

He’s right. Confessing wouldn’t do you any good, either. It could go sideways and you could never afford a good lawyer.

Nobody deserves to be punished for taking down the evil, lifeless man lying on the floor. Not you. Not even Rafe. You won’t take the risk.

You gaze into Rafe’s eyes, finding comfort in the striking blue hue for the first time, feeling a newfound sense of loyalty to him.

He gave you vengeance in a world that would never punish the man who hurt you. You’re in this together.

“Okay,” you whisper. “What do we do now?”

“We get rid of the body.”

next >

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[tathrin]

Okay but bad enough he just lost his complicated-quasi-daughter-figure to a Kinslayer Adoption, there is no way that Thranduil-I-lost-family-in-Doriath-You-Fuck would let his son run around unguarded when there’s a Fëanorian around. Legolas is going to spend the entire battle basically trapped like an oversized melon under his dad’s arm with Thranduil hissing and doing sword-tricks anytime somebody comes too close. No bat-riding for you this time kid, you’re in the They Will Kinslay You Over My Dead Body And Their Own Zone now.

Hobbit AU where everything is the same except Maglor shows up to yell at Gandalf and Thranduil about the stupidity of going to war over a shiny rock. He’s also disappointed in Bilbo, Bard, and Thorn, but they’re all Second Born, so he’s not sure how much history they know.

They leave the Arkenstone unguarded in Thranduil’s tent for approximately five seconds and when they come back, Maglor is sitting on Thranduil’s fancy chair wiht his arms crossed.

Just… imagine the look on the face of Thranduil (a survivor of Doriath) when he walks into his tent and there’s a SON OF FEANOR sitting there with the Arkenstone in front of him. FUCKKKKK.

No one is certain how he got in there. The guards never saw him.

At this point, everyone in Middle Earth had assumed he was dead, because there hadn’t been ANY sign of him since the Sinking of Beleriand.

Gandalf doesn’t know what’s about to happen, but he knows it has the potential to provide great entertainment (or end in tragedy, but either way, he’s looking forward to it). He’s looking forward to telling Elrond and Galadriel, because he’s certain they will have highly emotional (and very different) reactions.

Bilbo doesn’t know why everyone fell silent when they walked into the tent, so he just politely bows to Maglor and introduces himself as “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

Maglor gives him a funny look - because he knows that offering your service to a Fëanorian is a really bad idea - but he decides the funny little creature looks too innocent to scold, so he smiles and bows his head. “Well met,” he says. “A star shines on the hour of our meeting.”

Thranduil internally screams at the word “star”

Then Maglor just starts shouting at Thranduil and Gandalf, calling them all fucking stupid. He asks Thranduil if he enjoyed the Kinslaying at Doriath, since he’s about to do the same fucking thing (‘It’s not the same!’ Thranduil argues. “Oh really?” Maglor asks, “You’re not about to go into an underground Kingdom to flush out the native inhabitants, ALL OVER A ROCK”)

Bard and Bilbo are looking at each other like ‘do you know him?’ ‘no, don’t you?’ (Bilbo is highly upset because he’s considered an elf that could be so rude or that there was any such thing as an elf with a ‘hobo aesthetic’)

Thranduil is, of course, offended to be compared to the Feanorians, so he shouts back that those are bold words for someone who came to claim the Silmaril for himself.

Maglor stands up - and he’s taller than all of them - and just picks up the Arkenstone in his bare hand.

Everyone goes silent. Thranduil is waiting for him to start burning. Bilbo is seeing their chance at using the Arkenstone to prevent battle slipping away. Gandalf knows what’s coming, and he’s having a BLAST.

“YOU THOUGHT THIS PIECE OF SHIT WAS A SILMARIL?”

[redcherrykook]

──── ⊱ ☆ ⊰ Evidence of a criminal bond- part one

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

enemies to lovers at the detectives office

Jeon Jungkook has been your annoying coworker at the detective´s office for what feels like ages. What happens when he gets assigned as your partner against crime for seouls´s ongoing case of the masked serial killer? Will a vulcano and a tornado manage to find peace in each others chaos, while trying to catch the person responsible for the horror unleashed upon the nation?

content warning: please keep in mind this au revolves around the job as a criminal detective, therefore dealing with darker topics, including sensitive topics such as SA, m^rder, assault, robbery, blackmail, sex work, trauma, therapy.

A large portion of this work is fiction, while some aspects also have valid foundations in actual crime cases as well as psychologically related crime studies and research

further content: slow burn, angst, misunderstandings, comfort, eventual smut, trying to work it out for each other, a lot of plot/work focus, side characters such as officer Kim Namjoon and criminal psychologist Park Jimin, good ending

no taglist! - sorry for misspellings and typos!!

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

6:53 am

Static buzzing sounds around the entire office, a hasty jog through the chattered people and with a slam of your big leather bag to your slightly decorated desk, finally, you arrive at work.

the ordinary, bustling with people in cool blazers and coffes, couple cops and a large story board cluttered with red marker and pictures, at least that's what the countless shows make it out to be,

it wasn't like that in real life

While, surely, there are an array of different people having serious conversations, while there may the occasional cop visit, this whole, rushed overly analyzed office doesn't come close to your neat workspace.

Days mostly consist of reading through the piles upon piles of boring paperwork left by your superiors and attorneys, or investigating some string of robberies that are operated by biker gangs,

Some prostitution rings disguised as karaoke bars or massage parlors,

Nothing like a serial killer, no nothing even close has hit your very own, very organized desk in the span of your bloomed carreer

In fact, seoul hasn't seen an unpleasant visitor like that in 30 long years, three full decades

Wind rushes through the heated room as a window opens down the hall, most likely in an effort to flush out the stress that spans throughout the people- yesterdays events have left the investigation sleepless, having seen the on scene cops and crime scene investigators while passing through the door,

It was fairly easy to tell who it was,

a souless, empty glaze clouds their colorful irises- dark, deep circles making it clear that these people were there when it happened

"What the fuck did you do Hwang?"

your head shoots up, locking eyes with someone you did not wish to see right when starting your shift- with the entire department working on a serial killer case, irritated and occupied with following a majority baseless leads- the last thing you need is him.

"Thats quite the different tone from yesterday Jeon"

he scoffs, cocking his head while pushing his hands deeper into the pockets of his darkwash jeans

"Yeah? Well i called you and-" he sighs, "Explicitly told you not to take the case didn't I?" you nod, irritated at his obvious anger that you knew you had absolutely no business in,

you didn't take the case, hell, you had just arrived at the office

"look, it's too early to blame your issues on me-"

"Blame?" the disbelief in his tone messes with your already risen cortisol, only deepening the wrinkles of your frown, probably prolonging the sprouting of grey hair on your scalp.

"Hwang? Jeon? You already received the order?"

The monotone voice of your superior, also known as chief, makes both of your heads turn to face him in all his pale, 6'2" middle aged glory, the suddeness creating a small Oasis of peace between the two of you, stopping your petty argument for a bit

You had now wished that this blatant, confusing misunderstanding will be easily dissolved,

"There must have been a mix up" he states, his face curling into the typical shit eating grin that is etched into his features, like clockwork, it always appeared whenever he thought he was in the right.

the bubble of hope bursts in a split second, stabbed in full force

"As partners?" you blurt out, eyes practically bulging from your skull, the absurd implication of being Jungkook's partner makes your chief sigh, nodding his head in something you can only label disappointment

"Yes. I deem both of you as highly qualified, young individuals. i'm sure i don't need to remind you how serious this is" the chief explains, the same monotone voice now sounding like a cruel joke, however the lack of sleep and evident annoyance plastered on his face doesn't allow room for further complications

As expected, it earns him a shake from Jungkook's head, looking down and taking a breath to prepare himself to complain,

You were faster,

"We will do it. Thank you chief"

your heartbeat hammers in your chest, almost making you feel sick,

It isn't solely that now, you're being responsible for this huge nation wide case,

As abstract and insignificant as it may sound, alongside that, you're facing the difficult task of working with detective Jeon

"I am relying on your ability to stay professional and not let your personal fuedes get in the way" chief gestures his fingers between the two of you, resting his droopy eyes half lidded on yours, haunted by the Terrors of the previous night as he strides off,

Looking over to you newly aquired partner, he looks back at you with a clenched jaw, meeting your tranquill gaze as he speaks,

"Unbelieveable"

11:23 pm

You find out that working with him is in fact, difficult.

15 long hours had passed since your mangled, conjoined mess of what can be roughly considered as partnership had started,

This would have been hundretfold less hair pulling without the countless complains and microagressions,

"Can you move? I can't read this"

you huff, pushing the rolling chair further to the side of your desk, creating even more of a chasm beetween your two bodies,

This reffering to the monster of a case file that had ben handed to you- consisting of every possible report, witness statement, newspaper, autopsy report, possible subject you name it,

it was there- written somwhere in the horribly unorganized pile of paperwork

It slumps down your heavy shoulders, weight down by the hope and responsibility over the country,

"I can't get a read on this bastard" he utters, shutting his eyes. The same frustration that courses through your veins also shows on him and the way he rubs his forhead with his large hands,

The issue is, surprisingly there is nothing in this everything,

"Me neither. The witness statements all contradict themselves and there isn't anything helpful in the other reports" he watches you erratically reorganize the papers for the hundreth time, humming in agreement,

While you had been sitting at this bitingly cold, empty office for the past 15 hours, analyzing every line- reading between them, speculating upon the relevancy of each syllable, on duty officers are being chased around the city like headless chicken, led by baseless tips that somehow- always end up in sheer nothingness.

Nonetheless, you had read every word, soaked up ever piece of Informationen like a greedy sponge without a filter,

Jungkook is on his third cup of coffee, stratically pacing his caffeine intake to maximise his ability to stay awake,

"The department that had this case before us were nutjobs" he says, making you let out a small laugh, a rare occasion which cuts through tension and inevitable irritation that corresponds with this unexpected partnership

A long sigh of desperation follows as you recall what you have managed to gather in the past 15 hours, recalling the possible profiling there is to make on your killer,

Witnesses all contradict each other apart from stating that the victims had been in contact with an ominous man previous to their deaths caused by the rivers ghost- that man presumably being him

"All we have is his patterns. Women, all dismembered and thrown in the river" you tell him, leaning back in your chair with your arms crossed over your chest,

he nods, granting you a look,

"Very throughly dismembered it says in the autopsies, clean cuts at the right spots. That sick creep must be a surgeon or something" jungkook adds, swiping through his hair

"Yeah, or a butcher" you agree, retracting your mind to the details of the killings. There had been no traces of dna found any where on the crime scene, no hair, fingerprints even scraps of clothes- something rarely seen in murders no matter how premeditated- even if the perpetrator had worn gloves, leaving without a speck is practically impossible,

how does he do it?

Aditionally, by how meticulously dismembered the body parts were, it transmitts the notion that the killer must be experienced,

"Possibly cumpulsions? He's uncharactaristically clean" your question makes jungkook think for a second, contemplating, "i figured. But that usually implies a history of mental illness"

"Yeah, and that narrows it down if he's on file"

you pause, "We should look into that"

He hums before turning the bright screen of your pc torwards him, guiding the mouse along the pad,

"The only reliable witnisses we have are the on scene cops. Let me write a email for an interview" he whispers, prominently groaning as you pry the mouse away from his hands, rolling your eyes at him

"Let me write it, it's my pc" your voice falls into a lower grumble,

"Oh okay miss, didn't know i couldn't use your pc, partner" jungkooks lips turn into a mocking grin, you lamely tell him to shut up

he pushes himself away from the desk, sliding the rolling chair back as he releases himself from the suffocating shakles of a long shift,

"I'm leaving. Another hour of this and i'm going insane" as he puts on his thick black coat, the dim light above you flickers, without a further note, his presence leaving subsides, resulting to your solitude inside the four walls of the eceptionally empty, staticly buzzing office

Your fingers type away at the keyboard, the blue, bright light eliciting from the screen strains your exhausted eyes with all their might, in the email directed towards your loyal friends and helpers, you´re practically begging them for an interview the following day

As you finally press send, your face crashes down into your hands- fingers rubbing the crumbled remains of what once was your mascara into your skin, highlighting the lack of rest you so clearly suffer from

With the obnoxiously loud sound of heels clicking on the floor and the shutting of the floor hall doors, the department falls entirely empty,

gushes of frosting wind hit your skin upon your exit already inhaling the smoke from your freshly lit cigarette, you attempt to make the trainride home to pass in the blink of an eye by disassociating into thought, thoughts that expectedly, revolve around what you had spend the past hours of existance with,

It felt surreal, that he must be out here right when you are as well,

In the same city, inhaling the same polluted air

"This stupid woman"

Jungkook pulls into his usual spot down at the apartment block, the tall lights shining a oddly comforting, yellow glimmer on his street

His hands slam on the steering wheel, blowing out air from his puckered lips as his head falls back- final relief, while simultaneously, dreading to be back at work in a meer time of 7 hours

Reverting back to the thought of you, he curses underneath his slightly labored breath,

he doesn't hate you- at least that what he tells himself, in all rationality, his unfounded fascination with your patheticly annoying "i can do it all" attitude is precisely that, unfounded

The keys jingle between his rough fingers, revealing his dark apartment, before a very hungry- playful Doberman greets him with a jump and about a million licks to his hands,

"heeyy bam.. you hungry bro?" Bam barks and Jungkook giggles in return, throwing his coat onto the hanger while the dog strides happily torwards the empty food bowl

On the other side of town, a siren blares- red, blue lights reflect on your fogged up kitchen window as the vehicle speeds down the road,

both of you silently prayed that it wouldn't be his fault once again

[lurochar]

Loved Potioned (Reversed)

You have been affected by a love potion. But is it really an accident?

Warnings: A little darker than Love Potioned

Love Potioned (Reversed) Smut HCs

-----------------------------------------------

“Vaggie, please calm down.”

Charlie twiddled her fingers nervously, watching as her girlfriend paced the room in clear irritation.

Vaggie snapped her head to look at Charlie. “How can you be so calm at this… this mess?!” She threw her arms up in frustration. “First, Angel Dust smuggles in something we explicitly banned, love potions and aphrodisiacs, and–and now because he ignored that rule, it's turned into… into–!!?”

Vaggie wasn't even sure what to call it.

Charlie let out a weak laugh, looking frustrated, “I know. I saw… them this morning.” Her voice lowered as if she was telling a secret and Vaggie looked up sharply. “I was going to ask if Y/N was feeling any better, if the potion had worn off yet, but Alastor–” Charlie winced at the memory, “I think the only reason he didn't outright kill me for asking that is because it was me.”

Vaggie scowled dangerously, tightening her grip around her spear. “Why is Alastor letting this go on for so long?” She began to pace again as Charlie watched her with a sigh. “Is this just a sick game for Alastor?! Y/N is under the influence of a love potion, I hope that sick bastard is at least above taking advantage of her. I swear, if he asks for her soul…”

Neither saw the dark shape disappear into the shadows…

~♡♡~

“My, my~”

Alastor glanced briefly over at his shadow, acknowledging its return before turning back to your delightful (infatuated) self and found a thrill rise up in him when he saw those heart-shaped pupils of yours staring at him in absolute adoration as you absently played with and stroked his fluffy ears.

As his shadow neared, Alastor settled on his bed and made sure you were nestled comfortably and firmly on his chest before allowing his shadow to report what it heard.

“Really now?” Alastor's brow rose in amusement after his shadow’s chitters stopped. “I suppose it is true I could have stopped this at any point, but how could I possibly do so with such an adorable Darling?”

You looked up at Alastor's face with a dreamy expression. “Can I touch your tail?” 

Alastor's grin widens in surprise as you nuzzle your head under his chin and he purrs. “Quite the naughty Doe, aren't you?” 

His shadow lets out a few more chirps and Alastor's grin turns dark as he ignores your clumsy attempts to take his belt off.

“Why, yes, I do think I'll keep my Darling under the effects of this for a long time to come. I do quite like it. Affectionate, compliant, and obedient, without the trauma of having her soul stolen.”

Alastor rubbed his cheek against the top of your head and you immediately sighed in contentment, squeezing yourself closer to him as you possibly could.

And all because Alastor offered you what you thought was some pink lemonade.

[fatecantstopme]

What I'd Give

Pairing: Dean Winchester x plus size!reader

Summary: When Dean is gravely injured on a hunt, (Y/N) makes a deal to save him--a deal that might just cost her everything.

Warnings: canon violence, swearing, mentions of death/dying. SMUT, dom/sub vibes, choking kink, overstimulation, oral (F receiving), unprotected sex (P in V)

You screamed helplessly as you watched your best friend and fellow hunter be thrown from the window across the room. You'd just managed to stab the demon you were fighting a mere second before you heard the breaking of glass.

You yanked the angel blade out of the demon's chest and ran straight towards the demon who'd just tossed your friend out the window. You stabbed the demon in the back, bringing an end to the fight.

You looked out the window and saw the horrific scene three stories down. Your heart clenched in your chest as you raced to the stairs, making it outside in record time.

"Dean!" you cried as you reached his broken body. "No, no, no, no..."

You were almost afraid to touch him--afraid to search for a pulse and not find one. You exhaled sharply and pulled yourself together, placing a firm hand against his neck. You could feel a very weak pulse beneath your fingertips and you knew he was in trouble.

The fall had certainly broken some bones and he likely had internal injuries of some kind. The glass from the window had sliced his skin in a million places, and you were worried he would have severe head trauma as well.

Normally, you would call out to Castiel and he would come running to save Dean, but this wasn't a normal day. Cas had been missing in action for weeks, and neither you nor the Winchesters knew where he was.

Dean's safety--his survival--depended solely on you. The two of you had been hunting alone, while Sam was out helping Garth on a different hunt. You'd hunted together countless times, but neither of you had ever been this seriously injured.

You knew he was dying--as surely as if there was a neon sign screaming "death!" above his head. You couldn't stand the thought of losing him, so you made a decision that would change your life.

"Anyone who's listening, I need your help," you called out. "Please...I will do anything...just save him."

You waited in silence for a few moments, hoping against hope someone would hear your call and take pity on you. You weren't exactly on good terms with most angels, but you couldn't help but hope at least one of them would care.

You heard the soft flap of wings that always signaled the arrival of an angel and you looked up hopefully. You inhaled sharply when your eyes met the glowing red eyes of the man who had come to rescue you--or should you say, archangel.

"Well hello, (Y/N). It's nice to see you again."

"Lucifer," you hissed lowly.

"In the flesh!"

"What are you doing here?"

"I heard your call," he said simply. "And well, let's be honest, no one else is coming to help you."

"Did you come here to gloat?"

"Of course not. Even I'm not cruel enough to find joy in the death of Dean Winchester."

"Then why did you come?"

"To save him, obviously."

Surprise lit up your face. Out of all the responses you'd expected, that hadn't been on the list. "Pardon?"

Lucifer smiled darkly. "For a small fee, of course."

"Ahh," you acknowledged. "That sounds more like it. What do you want?"

"Nothing too extravagant."

"Lucifer..." you growled.

"As you can see, this vessel isn't doing so well." He gestured to himself and you had to admit, he looked like absolute shit. "In fact, it's dying...which means I'm in need of a new one."

"Absolutely not," you said instantly. "He would never say yes to you."

Lucifer smirked. "I wasn't referring to him."

Your eyes widened. "I'm not an archangel vessel," you whispered.

"No, but you are a vessel. And I think you're strong enough to contain me long enough to find me a better one."

You swallowed thickly. There was no way you were going to agree to this...you knew what being an archangel's vessel would do to you and you weren't exactly interested in being strapped to a nuclear bomb.

"No," you said firmly.

"Suit yourself," he said with a shrug. "But just remember, Dean's death will be on your hands now."

You exhaled in defeat as you looked down at the man in your arms. You knew he was close to death--no hospital would be able to save him. Lucifer was your only option.

"Save him first," you whispered.

Lucifer smirked, knowing he'd won. "I would, (Y/N), but this vessel is simply too weak. I would need your body in order to save him."

You looked up into his dark eyes and considered his words. "I don't trust you."

"You would be a fool to trust me after all we've been through. However, I need you...and I need Dean alive and well to help me find an archangel vessel. Possessing you is a good motivator for him."

You clenched your jaw as you thought about your options. It took you mere moments to realize you didn't have any. You would rather die than allow Dean to...so your decision was made in an instant.

"Fine," you murmured softly. You looked up at the monster standing before you and exhaled slowly. "Yes," you breathed.

Lucifer wasted no time--immediately exiting his vessel and entering your body, taking over in an instant.

It was painful, feeling his energy within you, and you knew with absolute certainty you wouldn't be surviving this--no way in hell.

To your surprise, you were fully aware of everything happening around you. You could still see and hear--but you had no control over your body in any way.

Lucifer--you--reached out to Dean and touched him. Your palms began to glow and you watched the various wounds on his body heal quickly. His bright green eyes slowly blinked open and he looked up at you in surprise and confusion.

"What happened?" he groaned.

"You got tossed out a window," your voice said, though it was not you speaking.

Dean sat up and rubbed at his head. He looked down at himself, clearly surprised by his lack of serious injuries. "I fell three stories down..."

You nodded.

"How am I not dead?"

You felt your lips curl into a smile--a slightly cruel smile you knew was not your own. "You're welcome."

Dean's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What?"

Unbeknownst to you, your eyes began to glow red, alerting Dean to the presence of someone else in your body--and there was only one creature you knew whose eyes glowed red.

"Lucifer?" Dean yelled angrily.

"The one and only," he replied.

"How the hell...why are you...where's (Y/N)?"

"Oh she's right here," he said with a smile, tapping the side of your head. "Watching and listening like a little creep."

"Well it is my head, you asshole," you mumbled.

"Doesn't mean it's not creepy," Lucifer's voice hissed inside your mind.

You didn't like the idea that Lucifer could hear your thoughts and speak to you like that...and it made you wonder what else he could see within your mind.

"Everything," he teased darkly.

"Fuck."

"Get the hell out of her body," Dean growled.

"Not a chance, buck-o. (Y/N) was kind enough to invite me in, so I think I'll stay a while."

Dean pulled an angel blade out of his back pocket and pointed it at you. You knew he would never use it if it meant killing you too. It was an idle threat and Lucifer knew it.

Lucifer simply laughed. "You're not going to use that, so put it away."

"Get out of her and I won't have to."

"Oh please, you won't kill her."

Dean's expression remained impassive, but you could see his resolve waning. You knew him too well to miss the small tells. Unfortunately, that meant Lucifer knew him just as well.

"Let's make this easy on ourselves," he began. "Everything (Y/N) knows, I know. Every memory, every thought, every feeling, everything. So put the damn blade down before I have to break your arm."

You could see the anger on Dean's face, but he lowered the blade and slipped it back inside his jacket. "Why the hell did she invite you in?"

"You were about 5 minutes from death and she couldn't save you."

"So what, she called out to you?" Dean asked in disbelief.

"She called out to everyone...I'm just the only one who responded." You felt your eyes glance around in slight concern. "Speaking of, we should probably get out of here, just in case."

Dean nodded and lead the way to the Impala, which was parked a short distance away. You got into the passenger seat like usual and you saw Dean tense up at your proximity. He clearly didn't like the idea of the Devil riding shotgun.

"So why did you heal me?"

"I need your help," Lucifer admitted.

"What makes you think I'd ever help you?"

"I knew you wouldn't, which is why I convinced (Y/N) to let me have her body for a little while."

"Convinced?"

"I may have told her a little white lie--that my old vessel was too weak for me to save you. She didn't exactly offer herself up, but she didn't fight very hard when she realized I was her only option."

"You slimy son of a bitch," you growled.

"I'm the devil, (Y/N). What did you expect?"

"You son of a bitch," Dean mumbled, echoing your sentiments. "What exactly do you want from me?"

"I need to find an actual archangel vessel. I'm getting tired of jumping from vessel to vessel...they keep burning out. It's rather tiresome."

"Well you're not touching Sam, or me for that matter."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he insisted. "I know there are others out there, but I need someone with your connections to help me locate one."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "My connections?"

"Well, Bobby Singer's connections, really...but the best way to him is through you, and the best way to you is through her."

Dean exhaled angrily. You knew he was mad at you just as much as he was mad at Lucifer. You were surprised he hadn't given you an earful yet, even with Lucifer listening in.

"Fine," Dean grumbled. "But the moment we find you a vessel, I want you out of her body. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly," Lucifer answered.

"Now just sit there quietly until we get to Bobby's, understand? I want absolute silence."

"Well that's boring--"

"I can't stand hearing you speak with her voice, okay? So shut up."

Lucifer smirked, but fell silent, deciding instead to annoy you.

"He's mad at you, isn't he?"

"I said yes to you...of course he's mad."

"Does he know?"

"Know what?"

"How you feel about him?"

"I would really like you to shut the hell up now, Lucifer," you hissed.

"But I'm so bored," he whined.

"I don't give a damn and neither does Dean. It's about 2 hours to Bobby's place...can you be silent for 2 hours?"

"Fine," he grumbled. "It'll give me more time to dig around in your brain anyway..."

"Shit--no!"

You tried to shut him out of your mind as best as you could, but you could still feel him rooting around in your head...making himself at home and digging into memories and thoughts and feelings that were never meant to be shared with another soul.

**********

"What an unsightly place," Lucifer grumbled as he--you--followed Dean up the stairs to Bobby's door.

Dean shot an annoyed glare in your direction, but didn't comment.

"Bobby!" he called as he entered the house.

Bobby came into view and offered you both a tired smile. "Hey you two. What brings you to Sioux Falls?"

"We were close by on a hunt and now we need your help," Dean answered.

"Sure. Come on in."

Neither you, nor Lucifer, had said a word of greeting to Bobby, which struck the older man as odd.

"You alright, (Y/N)?"

"Oh I'm just peachy," your voice answered.

Bobby's eyes narrowed at you, immediately noticing your voice was off. Besides, you didn't tend to talk to Bobby like that.

Before Bobby could question you, Dean spoke up. "We need to find an archangel vessel...as fast as possible."

Bobby stared at him for a moment. "Dean, you are an archangel vessel."

"Yeah, well I need one to house the devil--and it ain't gonna be me or Sam."

"Why the hell do you need a vessel for Lucifer?"

Your hand reached out and tapped Bobby on the shoulder. Judging by Bobby's shocked expression, you assumed your eyes were once again glowing red. Bobby quickly took a step back, looking between you and Dean in confusion.

"It's a long story," Dean muttered. "But I don't want him riding shotgun in (Y/N)'s head any longer than necessary, so we need to find him another vessel."

"Preferably before this current one starts to rot from the inside out," Lucifer added.

"Seriously, Lucifer?"

"Well that is essentially what happens, you know. I wouldn't want to damage such a pretty face."

"Oh fuck off," you grumbled.

"Why in god's name would she say yes to you?" Bobby asked angrily.

"To save my life, okay?" Dean snapped. "Look--we don't have time for this. I need your help to find another vessel. Please."

Bobby sighed and crossed the room to his desk, which was covered in books and papers--an organizational system only Bobby understood. He eyed you warily, but he didn't comment on the situation further.

"I assume you know how to find an archangel vessel," Lucifer commented.

"Perhaps you could enlighten me," Bobby responded.

Lucifer sighed and began to tell Bobby what he needed to look for. You ignored the words coming from our own mouth, instead focusing on Dean. You could see how upset he was and it made you feel incredibly foolish. You hated seeing him like this, but you didn't regret your decision. The mere fact he was alive to be angry made this whole thing worth it.

"How long do you think it'll take?" Dean asked, interrupting your thoughts.

"A week or two--maybe a little more," Bobby answered.

Dean looked in your direction, eyeing you with concern. "Will (Y/N) last that long?"

"Might wanna keep it closer to two weeks," Lucifer replied.

"You're lying, aren't you?" you asked quietly.

"Do you want me to tell them the truth?"

You sighed internally. "I think Dean deserves to know."

"A week would be even better," Lucifer said aloud.

Dean stared at you, worry deepening the lines on his face. His gaze traced your face, searching for any signs of deception--or maybe signs of damage.

"Well then," Bobby muttered. "Better get started."

**********

You sat in the corner, feet up on another chair as you watched Dean and Bobby. You could tell both of them were extremely worried, but their focus was on finding another vessel. They didn't have time to dive into their fears for your life.

Lucifer, on the other hand, seemed to think he had all the time in the world. He was quite happy to torture you instead of providing the two hunters with any assistance.

"Why haven't you told Dean?" he asked for what had to be the 1,000th time.

"There's nothing to tell, Lucifer. Would you just back off?"

"You're really no fun, you know that?"

"Good. This isn't supposed to be fun for you."

"I can make it fun."

"I'd really rather you not."

"Too late!" he said gleefully.

You could feel him poking around inside your head again, searching for something he could use to hurt you with--or hurt Dean with. You tried to keep him away from your darkest secrets, from the things you'd never shared with another soul, not even Dean. But you noticed it was getting harder and harder to resist him. You weren't sure if it was because he was so strong or if you were becoming weaker. Either way, it was only a matter of time before Lucifer found something he shouldn't.

Unfortunately for you, that moment came much sooner than you'd anticipated.

"(Y/N)--fuck, I mean Lucifer...can I talk to you outside for a moment?" Dean asked suddenly, rising from his chair and heading outside without waiting for a reply.

"Well this should be fun," you mumbled internally.

"I assure you," Lucifer mocked. "It will be."

You felt your body moving, feet heading after Dean whether you wanted to or not.

Once outside, Dean turned to face you, eyes filled with a multitude of emotions you couldn't stand to see. "I want to talk to (Y/N)."

"Oh come now," Lucifer said. "You know that's not how it works."

"I know you can shut up and take a backseat. So that's what I want."

"Hmm..." Lucifer hummed thoughtfully. "You know, I'd rather not. Besides, (Y/N) doesn't really feel like talking to you right now."

"Fuck you, Lucifer. Let me talk to him!"

"Sorry, sweetheart. Ain't happening."

"Somehow I doubt that," Dean grumbled angrily.

"You can doubt it all you want, but I'm the one physically inside her head. I know what she's thinking and let me tell you, it's not very complimentary of you."

"What?" Dean asked in surprised confusion.

"You have no idea what she really thinks of you, do you?"

"Lucifer, what the hell are you doing?" you growled.

He ignored you, instead focusing on his conversation with Dean.

"She's my best friend," Dean responded. "What more do I need to know?"

Lucifer laughed cruelly. "I'm sorry, that's just too funny. You think she's your best friend?"

You could see the look of hurt cross Dean's face for a moment, but he quickly covered it up.

"Sorry," Lucifer said, laughter subsiding. "It's just hilarious that you think she cares about you that much."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"She's tired of you, Dean. She's tired of your stubbornness, your self-loathing, your reckless behavior. She's tired of everything to do with you. She doesn't care about you--not really, anyway. You annoy the shit out of her, but she puts up with you because she feels like she has to."

You fought with everything you had to overpower Lucifer and take control of your mind and body. Not a single word Lucifer was uttering was true and you desperately wanted to tell Dean the truth.

"Stop fighting, (Y/N). You can't win," Lucifer whispered.

"Stop lying to him and I'll stop fighting," you insisted.

"No. I'm simply having too much fun."

Dean's face was impassive to the average person, but you saw through the mask on his face, and so did Lucifer. "I don't believe you," Dean said softly.

"You don't have to believe me. They're not my words. I'm simply relaying (Y/N)'s thoughts," Lucifer said with a shrug. "Haven't you ever wondered how she puts up with all your shit? You're not exactly walking sunshine, Dean. You're one of the most damaged humans I've ever met."

Dean inhaled deeply. "If she hates me so much, why does she stay?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

Neither you nor Dean knew what Lucifer was going to say next...and his words cut deeper than you'd expected them to.

"She's in love with your brother," Lucifer sneered.

"Lucifer, no!" you screamed.

Dean's eyes widened and shock settled onto his face. He turned around, his back to you in an attempt to collect himself.

You fought even harder...you needed to get this son of a bitch out of your body. It felt like you were locked inside your own mind with no way out. Lucifer was too strong and the harder you fought, the weaker you became. You quickly realized the more energy you expended, the stronger he became...there was no use in fighting him.

"You're a monster," you whispered.

"They call me the devil for a reason.'"

You didn't bother responding to him. Your heart was aching for Dean and all you wanted was to comfort him. You knew exactly where his head would be at right now and it was killing you.

He'd always compared himself to Sam--at least as long as you'd known him. He seemed to think Sam was better than him in a lot of ways and certainly more lovable. The mere idea that you agreed with that sentiment...that you loved Sam...it would break him and you knew it.

"Sam is better than you in every way," Lucifer added, stoking the fire. "Why would anyone love you when they could have Sam? He's everything you're not...sure of himself, confident, open and honest. Sam is better for (Y/N) than you could ever be."

Dean turned back around, face a mask of impassiveness once again. "Let's find you a vessel so you can get the hell out of our lives," he said in a low voice. "Besides, I wouldn't want to get in the way of Sam and (Y/N)'s love."

If you'd been capable of crying, you knew the tears would be streaming down your face in that moment. Your heart ached in a way you were unfamiliar with and you hoped Lucifer could feel the pain the same way you did.

"Why?" you whispered.

"Why what?"

"Why'd you say that to him?"

Lucifer laughed. "Simple...I knew it would hurt both of you. You're in love with him and if his reaction was anything to go by, it looks like he feels the same."

"We're both helping you right now. Why can't you just be grateful for 10 fucking minutes?" you hissed.

"Where's the fun in that?"

You knew the question was rhetorical, so you didn't bother responding. Instead, you quietly watched Dean walk away and you knew he was going to lose his shit. You could feel it as clearly as your own emotions.

"Let's follow him," Lucifer said happily.

"Let him take his anger out without an audience," you snapped.

Lucifer ignored you and quietly followed after Dean, keeping a distance to avoid being noticed.

Once Dean was farther away from the house and seemingly alone, he grabbed a crowbar from a nearby bench and began to beat the ever-loving-shit out of a junker car.

If you'd wondered about Dean's feelings for you before (and you had), you didn't wonder anymore. It was clear he cared about you in the same way you cared about him and you hated seeing him in such pain.

You wanted nothing more than to go to him, but Lucifer was much happier standing to the side and watching Dean suffer alone.

"Please," you whispered.

"You can tell him I'm a lying bastard if you manage to survive this."

"You and I both know that's not likely," you sighed quietly. "I don't want him to suffer and I don't want to die with him thinking I hate him."

"Pity. Guess you should have told him sooner..."

"Oh fuck off, Lucifer," you growled.

Lucifer's laughter echoed in your head and you hated him in that moment more than you could even begin to express.

**********

"You alright kid?" Bobby asked Dean when he returned to the house an hour or so later.

Lucifer, and therefore you, had returned shortly after watching Dean fall apart. When he'd dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his face, Lucifer had gotten bored and left.

"I'm fine," Dean lied. "Do you have any leads?"

"I've put out my feelers to every person I could think of. I'm sure someone will have something for me soon."

"Did you call Sam?"

Bobby shook his head. "I assumed you did."

"Call him and let him know what's going on. I'm going out."

"Where are you going?"

"Yeah, Dean," Lucifer chimed in, "where are you going?"

"The nearest bar. Don't wait up."

You tried to say his name, but your mouth refused to form the word.

As soon as Dean was out of earshot, Bobby turned his attention to you. "What the hell did you say to him?"

"Me?" Lucifer asked, feigning innocence. "Why would you think I did something?"

"Maybe because you're the devil?" Bobby answered sarcastically.

Lucifer smirked darkly. "I may have poked at all of his insecurities."

Bobby groaned. "You're a son of a bitch, you know that?"

"That's not a nice thing to say about my Father."

Bobby just glared at you and rolled his eyes. He got up and left the room and you assumed he was going to call Sam.

"I second Bobby's comment."

"I wear it like a badge of honor."

You knew exactly what Dean was going to do and it was killing you. He was going to drink until he couldn't feel a thing, pick up some random girl, and fuck her senseless--anything to feel something other than the ache in his chest. You knew him better than he knew himself...but in this moment, you desperately wished you didn't. You would give anything to not know what he was going to do.

**********

Three days later, one of Bobby's sources had a lead on a potential archangel vessel.

Dean hadn't spoken to you or Lucifer unless he absolutely had to. It was too hard to even look at your face and hearing your voice was a thousand times worse.

Sam was still out on a hunt with Garth, but he promised to be there to help as soon as he could.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Bobby asked Dean as the two of you were preparing to leave.

"The less people involved, the better. Stay here in case we need more intel," Dean responded.

"I don't like the idea of you traveling alone with Lucifer."

"I'll be fine."

Bobby didn't believe him anymore than you did, but neither of you commented on it--not that you could have if you'd wanted to.

As you/Lucifer and Dean climbed into the Impala, Dean didn't spare a glance in your direction.

"Isn't this fun?" Lucifer asked. "I've always wanted to go on a roadtrip."

Dean groaned. "What are the chances you'll be quiet during this drive?"

"Slim to none," Lucifer said with a smirk.

The response almost made Dean smile. It sounded like something you would say and technically it was your voice. He had to remind himself you weren't really talking to him--every word out of your mouth was Lucifer.

Dean took off without another word and you silently prayed this lead would pan out. You were extremely tired and it had only been about four days since Lucifer had possessed you.

By this point, you were having a hard time focusing on what was happening in the real world. You were in pain and you could feel your body weakening...you were dying and you knew it. You just hoped Dean didn't notice.

**********

By the time the three of you arrived at your destination, you were feeling terrible. You weren't even sure how much time had passed since you'd left Bobby's. In fact, you were pretty sure you'd fallen asleep very early on.

"It's been about 12 hours," Lucifer told you.

"I slept for 12 hours?"

"You're dying," he said nonchalantly. "So you're going to have a harder time staying awake."

"Great," you whispered sarcastically.

"Lucifer!" Dean growled. "You coming?"

"Of course."

Lucifer followed Dean into a building you assumed was an apartment complex. Sometime during the elevator ride, you must have fallen unconscious again, because when you opened your eyes again, you found yourself standing in a nice apartment.

Dean was talking calmly to a young man who looked moderately terrified.

"Is he the vessel?" you mumbled.

"Yes. I can feel it," Lucifer responded.

"Thank god..."

"I'm sorry, you want me to allow the literal devil to possess me?" the young man practically yelled at Dean. "That's assuming I even believe in the devil."

"Look man," Dean said with surprising calmness. "I know I sound insane, but it's all real. We need an archangel vessel and like it or not, that's you."

"What if I don't want to say yes?"

Dean grabbed him by his collar. "Then the woman he's currently wearing will die...and I will do anything to prevent that." His voice was low, barely above a growl.

The young man looked terrified, eyes wide with fear. "Are you threatening me?" he whispered.

Dean straightened out the guy's shirt and gave him a dark smile. "Of course not."

"So I have a choice?"

Lucifer chuckled. "Don't think for a moment he'll give you an option, kid."

The guy looked at you and you felt terrible for him. You understood his fear and apprehension...and it felt wrong to force Lucifer onto him. This kid didn't deserve it.

"We shouldn't be doing this," you mumbled.

"Too late, (Y/N). Dean knows he's an archangel vessel. There's no way he's going to leave without getting him to say yes."

You wanted to respond--to fight, but you couldn't. You were too weak...too tired. Everything hurt too much.

"What's it like?" the guy asked softly.

"Like being strapped to a rocket," Lucifer said snidely.

Dean shot him an annoyed glance. "You'll be fine. You were meant for this."

The guy's gaze remained fixated on you. "She looks like shit...am I going to look like that?"

Dean finally focused his gaze on your face and you saw the fear flash in his eyes. He could see you were dying. Your skin was pale, your eyes bloodshot, dark circles adorning them...your lips were cracked and there were slight lacerations appearing around your forehead and jawline.

"She wasn't meant to house the power of an archangel," Lucifer responded. "She's dying, but the same won't happen to you."

"Will she be okay if I say yes?"

"Yes," Lucifer lied smoothly.

The guy looked like he was contemplating what to do, so Dean spoke up again.

"Look, kid. She's important to me...more important to me than pretty much anyone else in this fucked up world. I would do anything to save her...she's--she's my brother's girl."

You wanted to tell him that wasn't true, but you knew it was fruitless to even try. Even still, your heart ached at his words.

"How long?" the guy asked, directing his question at Lucifer.

"As long as I want. You'll never age, never die, as long as I'm with you."

The guy nodded. "Alright. I'll do it." He stood up. "What do I need to do?"

"Just say 'yes'," Lucifer answered.

"Yes."

A bright white light filled the room and Dean had to shield his eyes. When the light faded, you were lying on the floor and Lucifer was now clearly possessing the young man they'd come to find.

"(Y/N)!" Dean yelled as he raced to your side.

Your pulse was faint and you looked even worse than you had moments before.

"Heal her," Dean demanded.

Lucifer's lips curled up in a cruel smile. "No."

"Excuse me?"

"I said no," he repeated. "I'm not interested in saving her."

"You wouldn't have a vessel without us. You owe her!"

"I'm the devil, Dean. What makes you think I give a damn about debts?"

Dean stared at him, anger and terror fighting for control in equal measure. He stood up and went to lunge at Lucifer, but the archangel simply disappeared, leaving you and Dean completely helpless and alone.

**********

Dean had rushed you to the hospital and was currently sitting in the waiting room, hoping to hear something about your condition.

Sam rushed into the room, eyes scanning for his brother. When he saw him, Sam crossed the distance and wrapped Dean in a tight hug.

"How is she?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," Dean said quietly. "But it doesn't look good."

"She's strong, Dean."

"I don't think that matters...her body was never meant to house an archangel and she managed to do it for almost a week. She's dying, Sammy."

Sam's eyes filled with tears, but he blinked rapidly to keep them from falling.

Dean's heart ached, seeing his brother look so upset. He would be lying if he said he didn't feel a broken emptiness in his soul--a space you used to occupy. But he needed to push past his own pain for his brother's sake. After all...you weren't his.

"For (Y/N)?" a doctor called into the waiting room.

Dean and Sam practically ran in her direction. Dean's heart clenched in his chest as he took in the doctor's sad expression.

"Are you (Y/N)'s family?"

Both men nodded.

"Come with me, please," the doctor said quietly.

They followed her to a private waiting area and Dean's dread increased significantly. "What's going on?" he asked worriedly.

"Please have a seat," the doctor asked, gesturing toward the chairs against the wall. She closed the door before taking her seat across from them.

"My name's Dr. Murphy. I'm (Y/N)'s treating physician."

"I'm Sam and this is my brother Dean."

"There's no easy way to say this," Dr. Murphy said gently. "(Y/N)'s injuries are quite severe and she's in critical condition."

"But she's going to be okay, right?" Dean asked hopefully.

Dr. Murphy frowned and shook her head. "Her organs have begun to shut down...it's only a matter of time now. The best I can do is try to keep her comfortable."

"No," Dean whispered. "No, she can't--"

Sam placed a hand on Dean's shoulder, trying to comfort his brother.

"I'm very sorry," Dr. Murphy murmured.

Dean suddenly stood up. "I can't do this. I need--I need air."

He practically ran from the room and Sam got up to follow him, but Dr. Murphy placed a gentle hand on his arm. "I think it's best to give him a moment."

Sam nodded as he desperately tried to push his own emotions away. He adored you, but he knew exactly how much Dean loved you...so he knew how much pain his brother was in right now. It hurt him almost as much as losing you.

***********

Once Dean was outside, he ran around to the side of the building, desperate to be alone for a moment. He collapsed onto the ground, back against the hard stone of the hospital exterior. All of the tears he'd been pushing back for days finally poured out.

He found himself falling apart in public--something he couldn't recall doing before. He couldn't bring himself to care. You were dying and it was killing him. It was all his fault. If he hadn't been so careless, he wouldn't have gotten injured and you never would have had to beg Lucifer to save him.

He knew it wasn't a rational way of thinking, but in that moment, it didn't matter. You were about to become just another name on a never ending list of people who died because of him. He couldn't take it--it was too much.

"I know I'm not exactly on good terms with any of you and I probably don't deserve your help, but I'm not asking for myself. (Y/N) is dying and I can't save her. I'm not normally the kind of man to beg, but I'm on my knees right now...begging for just one of you to find it in yourself to give a damn. She doesn't deserve this. She's the best person I've ever known...so please. Please someone answer me. Please..." His voice was broken by the end of his short speech.

He was desperate and there was nothing he wouldn't do to save her. If no angel would help him...he wasn't above making a deal with a demon. He'd been to hell once before, and he'd do it again in a heartbeat if it meant you could live.

"Hello, Dean Winchester," a soft female voice said from beside him.

He jumped up quickly, ready to fight if need be. He hadn't even heard the woman arrive, which meant she likely wasn't human.

"Don't worry," she said gently. "I'm not here to hurt you. My name is Aliraphael."

"Aliraphael?" Dean repeated. "I've never heard of you."

She smiled. "You don't need to know my name to know what I am."

Dean swallowed thickly. "Why did you come?"

"You prayed for help. I answered."

"But why? We don't know you...what would make you wanna help us?"

Aliraphael smiled. "You, your brother, and (Y/N) have sacrificed much for this world and all of the people in it. I think you deserve a miracle."

Normally Dean wouldn't believe her, but there was something in her eyes that made him feel safe. He was inclined to trust her, but he had to be sure. "What do you want in return?"

"Nothing. This is my gift to you."

"Nothing is free."

"I understand why you may be jaded, but sometimes a gift is simply a gift. This is one of those times."

Dean nodded. "I'm choosing to trust you, but just know if you betray me, I will kill you."

She smiled. "I would expect nothing less of the great Dean Winchester."

Dean led Aliraphael into the hospital and his eyes scanned the waiting area for Sam. He wasn't there, so Dean assumed he'd gone to your room.

"Excuse me. Can you tell me what room (Y/N) (Y/L/N) is in?" Dean asked the receptionist.

The woman typed on her computer without looking up and muttered, "Room 212."

"Thanks," Dean replied. He tried to walk slowly--normally--to room 212, but every instinct in his body was screaming for him to get to you as quickly as possible.

When Dean entered the room, he saw Sam standing beside your bed, his hand wrapped tightly around yours. He was speaking softly to you and Dean felt that ache in his chest intensify.

"Sam," Dean said softly.

Sam turned towards the door, eyes red from his tears. He looked between Dean and Aliraphael in confusion. "Who's she?"

"I am Aliraphael," the angel responded. "I am here to heal (Y/N)."

Sam cut Dean a look. "What did you do?"

Dean shrugged. "I prayed. She came."

"Okay, but what did you promise her in exchange?"

"Your brother has promised me nothing. I am doing this because I wish to. I have no ulterior motive."

Sam still looked worried, but he stepped back to allow Aliraphael access to your bed. Aliraphael gently placed her hand against your forehead and closed her eyes. A soft white glow began to envelop your body and your skin began to return to normal.

After several moments, Aliraphael dropped her hand from your head and turned to Sam and Dean. "It is finished."

You started to stir in the bed and Dean's heart beat faster.

"She will awaken in a moment," Aliraphael assured them.

"Thank you," Dean whispered, unable to take his eyes off your face.

Sam echoed his brother's statement and Aliraphael smiled.

"You are all very welcome." With that, the angel disappeared as if she had never been there.

You groaned softly and your eyes slowly opened. You blinked rapidly trying to clear them and focus on the room around you.

"I have to go," Dean muttered.

"What?" Sam asked in surprise, but Dean had already exited the room.

"Sam?" you asked softly, hearing the younger Winchester's voice.

"Hey, (Y/N/N)," he murmured. "I'm here."

Your bright (y/e/c) eyes focused on his face. "What happened?"

"What do you remember?"

You thought about it for a moment and the memories of the past few days came flooding back. "Lucifer..." you whispered.

Sam sighed and nodded. "Yeah."

"I was dying, Sam--I felt it. Why am I not dead?"

"Dean prayed...and some angel we'd never met before came to save you."

Your eyes widened. "Dean...where is he? I need to talk to him."

"He was just here, but when you started to wake up, he bolted."

"Shit," you murmured. "We need to go after him."

You started to sit up and tug at the IV in your arm, but Sam stopped you.

"Woah! Woah! Slow down, (Y/N). You were almost dead not even five minutes ago."

"And now I'm not, so we need to get the hell out of here Sam," you insisted.

Sam sighed. He knew better than to fight you, so he simply helped you remove your IV and untangle you from the web of other tubes and wires. He handed you your clothes and turned around so you could get dressed in privacy.

"Alright, let's go," you said as soon as you were dressed.

*********

When Dean left the hospital, he'd taken the Impala and started the long drive back to Lawrence. He just wanted to get home before you and figure out what his next move was. If you and Sam were going to be together...he didn't want to be there to witness it. He couldn't.

Dean's phone had rang several times, but he hadn't answered. Most of the calls were from you and a few were from Sam, but he couldn't handle hearing your voice right now. Especially if you were going to tell him everything Lucifer had said was true.

"He's still not answering his damn phone," you muttered, throwing the phone onto the dash angrily.

"I just don't get why he'd leave like that," Sam said for the fifth time.

You sighed and ran your fingers through your hair. "Lucifer said some things to him, Sam...things that hurt him deeply. None of it was true, but Dean doesn't know that."

"What kind of things?"

"Things about me...about how I feel. And about you," you admitted quietly.

"(Y/N), just tell me."

"Lucifer told Dean I couldn't stand him and the only reason I hung around was because I'm in love with you."

Sam scoffed. "And Dean believed him?"

"You didn't see his face, Sam...he believed every word. I wanted to tell him the truth, but I couldn't overpower Lucifer."

"Shit," Sam mumbled. "He's a goddamn idiot if he thinks you love me more than him."

You laughed dryly. "Lucifer played on Dean's insecurities and unfortunately, it worked."

Sam sighed. "Where do you think he'd go?"

"I have to hope he went home."

"Then let's get there before he does." Sam sped up, flooring the stolen car like he'd--well, like he'd stolen it.

You were about five hours from Lawrence and Dean had a head start. You knew it was unlikely you'd get there first, but you had to hope you could get there before he left.

**********

When Sam pulled into the Bunker's garage four and a half hours later, you were relieved to see the Impala parked where it should be. Dean would never leave without his beloved car, which meant he was still there.

Both you and Sam practically ran into the Bunker, calling Dean's name.

The green eyed hunter heard your voices, but he ignored both you and Sam. He couldn't face you...he just couldn't.

"Dean? Where are you?" you called again.

"Come on, Dean. We know you're here," Sam said in annoyance.

You headed into the kitchen and Sam went down towards Dean's bedroom. Both of you hoped to find him before he managed to sneak his way out.

Sam entered his brother's room without knocking and sighed in relief. "Dean. There you are."

"Sam," he said curtly.

"Why the hell did you leave? And why didn't you answer our calls?"

"I just needed to get out of there."

"What, before (Y/N) woke up?" Sam's tone made it clear exactly how stupid he thought his brother's actions were.

"Look man, I'm glad she's okay, but I can't face her. I don't want to have that conversation."

Sam decided to play dumb. "What conversation, Dean? The one where she thanks you for saving her life? Or where you yell at her for saying yes to Lucifer in the first place? Cuz trust me, we had that conversation already."

"That's not what I'm talking about, Sam," Dean said quietly as he started to pack his duffle. "But it doesn't matter. I'm leaving."

"Why the hell are you leaving?"

"I can't stay here. I can't--I can't see the two of you together," he whispered.

"Together?" Sam asked incredulously. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's fine, Sam. I know."

"There's nothing to know!"

Dean glared at his brother and shook his head. "I saw you at the hospital...you clearly feel the same as she does."

"Yeah I do!" Sam yelled. "She's my friend--she's family!"

Dean was about to snap back another retort, but Sam cut him off.

"Just talk to (Y/N), Dean. Let her explain...you owe her that much."

"I don't want to talk to her."

"I'm not going to give you a choice," you said from the bedroom doorway.

Both men turned to look at you in surprise. You crossed your arms and stood firm.

"I don't want to talk," Dean said quietly.

"Good. I don't want you to talk, Dean. I want you to listen." You turned your gaze to Sam and gestured with your head for him to leave the room.

He gladly exited, not wanting to be a part of this particular conversation.

You closed the door behind him and continued to stand in front of it, afraid Dean would try to leave if you moved.

"Lucifer is a liar, Dean. I shouldn't even have to say that. He's the devil, for crying out loud. He's kinda known for his lies."

"But he's also been honest with us before," Dean countered.

"Only when it benefited him. Just like he lies when it benefits him. Hurting you? Hurting me? That shit brought him joy."

"Really? Did it hurt you to hear him tell me how you really feel about me?"

"No," you said angrily. "It hurt me to hear him lie to you about how I feel! The things he said were cruel and terrible, but more importantly, they weren't true!"

Dean stared at you silently, clearly not believing a word you said.

"Do you really think I'm capable of lying to you for years? Think of every moment we've spent together, Dean...do you really think I pretended to care about you? Pretended to enjoy spending time with you? Think about all the times we've laughed together, the times we've had each other's backs, the small glances, the whispers in the dark when one of us had a nightmare. Think about all of those moments and then look me in the eye and tell me it was all a lie."

Tears filled his beautiful green eyes and you knew the same expression was reflected in your own. You took a step towards him, desperately wanting to touch him, but afraid it be unwelcome.

"You're my favorite person in the world, Dean Winchester. You. Not Sam, not Bobby, not Jodi...you. You hold my whole heart in your hands...you always have. If you don't want it, then I understand, but don't for a second think I love anyone but you."

His lips parted in surprise. "But what about Sam?" he whispered.

You sighed loudly. "Weren't you listening? Sam is my friend, Dean, but nothing more than that. I love him like a brother." You took another step towards him. "He doesn't compare to you--he couldn't compare to you. I love you, Dean...and I don't mean like a brother."

Dean inhaled deeply. "I want to believe you, (Y/N/N)..."

"Then believe me," you begged him. "I love you."

Dean thought about what Lucifer had said and he realized why he'd believed it so easily. They were all things Dean was afraid of...he knew he wasn't good enough for you and he was terrified you knew it too.

"Talk to me, Dean," you whispered, taking a final step towards him.

He looked deep into your eyes and found nothing but love there. The same love he held in his soul for you. "I've always been afraid to tell you how I feel because I know I'm not good enough for you," he admitted. "That's why it was so easy for me to believe Lucifer's lies...it was almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I couldn't believe you'd ever want me, so it was easier to believe you wanted Sam. He's better for you in every way."

"Stop," you whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. "I decide who is best for me and I choose you. I will always choose you."

"(Y/N)," he whispered.

You pressed your lips against his, trying to infuse it with all of the love in your soul. Dean's arms wrapped around your thick waist, pulling you closer to him. He deepened the kiss, lips hungrily devouring yours.

You stayed locked in each other's embrace for what felt like an eternity. Your tongues fought for dominance and your hands caressed any part of each other they could reach.

When the kiss inevitably broke so the two of you could breathe, Dean laid his forehead against yours. "This might go without saying, but I love you too, (Y/N). So goddamn much."

You chuckled breathlessly. "After a kiss like that, I'd sure as hell hope so."

He grinned and tugged you even closer to him. His lips pressed against yours again and he found himself wanting to feel every part of your soft body. He needed it, just as much as needed air to breathe.

"Let me show you how much, baby," he whispered against your lips.

"Please," you moaned softly.

“Strip for me, pretty girl,” he commanded.

You gently pushed against his chest, forcing him back against the bed. He dropped down onto the mattress, eyes never leaving your body.

You slowly began to remove your clothing, taking much longer than you needed to. You were teasing him and he was eating it up.

You finally got down to just your bra and panties, nothing fancy as you obviously weren’t planning on this happening, but Dean didn’t seem to care. In fact, you were about to be very glad you didn’t wear anything nice.

“You are so damn beautiful, baby,” he whispered.

You offered him a warm smile, appreciative of the affection in his gaze. He thought you were a goddess among humans, a treasure to behold.

“I think you’re a bit overdressed, Dean,” you teased softly.

“You know, babe, I think you’re right.” He stood up and shed his layers significantly faster than you had. He was extremely impatient, as he was dying to get his hands on you.

You admired his broad chest, thick arms, and sculpted form. He looked incredible, scars and all. You felt the strong urge to kiss every single one of them, if he would allow you.

He now stood before you in nothing but his boxers, his large erection straining against the thin fabric.

“Let’s get this off you,” he muttered, reaching behind your back to unhook your bra.

The moment your breasts were exposed to his gaze, he let out a low groan. “Fuck, baby. These are even better than I’d imagined.”

“You imagined my—“ your question was cut off by the feeling of his lips wrapped around your nipple and his hands caressing your breasts gently.

The gentle movements quickly turned more intense, and he began to truly knead and nip at your flesh. You moaned softly and gently ran your fingers through his soft hair.

You pressed yourself even closer to him, feeling his bulge press against your abdomen. He lifted his head with a small smirk.

“Impatient, are we?”

You nodded quickly.

“Oh come on now, sweetheart. Use those words for me. Tell me what you want.”

“You,” you whimpered. “I want you.”

His smirk widened. “I figured that much out on my own, darlin'. I want you to tell me what you need.”

You weren’t exactly accustomed to expressing yourself verbally in the bedroom. To be honest, a lot of your past experiences weren’t that great anyway. A lot of one night stands with men who only cared about their own pleasure.

You found yourself feeling kind of excited at the prospect of a man listening to you and what you wanted…even more so because that man was Dean.

“I want you on your knees, handsome,” you said firmly.

Dean’s eyes widened slightly, but he dropped to his knees obediently. His normally bright green eyes were dark with lust as he locked eyes with you.

You loved the powerful feeling you had as you stood over him. The great Dean Winchester, on his knees for you.

You touched his face sweetly and he leaned into your palm, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Do you wanna eat my pussy, Dean?” you whispered.

His eyes shot back open, a hungry expression on his face. “Yes,” he breathed lowly.

“Then get to work,” you commanded softly.

Dean was used to being in charge in the bedroom and it wasn’t often he found himself submitting to a woman. You were different than any woman he’d ever been with before—after all, he loved you. If you told him to do a damn handstand naked, lick your feet, and call you “your majesty”, he would have done it in a heartbeat.

His calloused hands slowly slid up your thighs, squeezing the supple flesh. His mouth followed, leaving sloppy kisses as he worked his way closer to your core.

“Baby?” he asked softly, glancing up at you.

“Hmm?”

“Do you have any particular attachment to these panties?”

“No, why—Dean!” you gasped as he ripped your underwear in half, tossing the remains to the floor.

He grinned and made a happy little noise deep in his throat before kissing your mound. He grabbed your right leg and tugged it up over his shoulder, giving him better access to you.

“Lean on me for support, beautiful. I got you.”

The moment you laid a hand on his shoulder and he was sure you were stable, he dove into your pussy with a deep growl.

Your head fell back in ecstasy and a series of moans left your lips. The hand not holding onto his shoulder immediately wound itself in his hair, holding on for dear life.

“Dean—feels so good,” you moaned.

His hands dug into your ass cheeks in response, tugging you even closer to him. He never wanted to stop—hearing those sweet sounds you made mixed with the heady taste of your sweetness was more intoxicating than any drink he’d ever had.

Your legs had begun to tremble and Dean’s grip on you tightened. He wasn’t willing to stop his ministrations, but he wouldn’t let you fall either.

Your nails scraped against his scalp and his shoulder as you clung to him. The pleasure was almost too much and not enough all at once, and you felt your orgasm approaching.

“Dean,” you gasped. “I’m so close.”

He smiled against your core and shifted his focus more heavily to your clit. You cried out and cursed softly, and he knew he’d made the right move.

“I—oh god,” you cried as your orgasm washed over you.

Dean lapped up everything you had to offer, his grip on your body never loosening. As you began to come down from your high, he slipped his hands up to your hips to ensure he didn’t drop you.

He gave your pussy one last lick before allowing you to pull him up by his hair. To his surprise, you mashed your lips against his hungrily, not giving a damn that he tasted like you.

One hand tangled into your hair and the other held you tightly. “What do you want me to do now, sweetheart?” He murmured against your skin.

“Take control, Dean,” you begged. “Make my legs shake. Make me scream. I don’t wanna be able to move for hours.”

“Holy fuck,” he groaned. “Who taught you to talk like that, baby?”

You smirked. “It comes naturally with you.”

"Well it's the sexiest thing I've ever heard," he murmured.

His strong arms wrapped around your waist and gripped you tightly. He spun you both around so your back was to the bed. He pulled you up into his arms and tossed you onto the bed.

You gasped in surprise, not used to being manhandled in such a manner. You sat up slightly, resting on your elbows as you looked at the gorgeous man in front of you. You curled one finger and beckoned him towards you with a smirk.

He quickly discarded his boxers and dropped onto the bed, crawling slowly up your body. He dropped kisses onto your skin as he moved, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

When he reached your mouth, you reached up and grabbed the hair at the base of his neck, tugging him down to you. Your kiss was hungry and needy, leaving no question as to what you wanted.

As the kiss deepened, Dean shifted his body to touch your soft curves. In doing so, the tip of his cock brushed against your pussy, eliciting soft moans from both of you.

Dean's hands traced softly up and down your sides, relishing the feeling of your skin against his. "I love touching you," he murmured in your ear. "You're so damn soft."

You smiled and turned your head to nip at his jaw. He groaned and turned his attention back to your soft lips, sucking the bottom one between his teeth and biting down gently.

Much like Dean, you loved touching his body, but you reveled in the firmness of his body beneath your hands. Every time he moved, you could feel his muscles tense and shift. His body was powerful and beautiful--a vessel carrying the most incredible soul you'd ever known.

Dean shifted again, nudging your head to the side so he could suck at your neck, leaving love marks on the sensitive skin. You lifted your hips up slightly, seeking some kind of friction to relieve the ache between your legs. Once again, his cock brushed against your core and you gasped lightly. Dean, on the other hand, bit gently into your neck to suppress a loud moan.

"I can't wait any longer, baby," he groaned.

"Take me. I'm yours," you whispered.

He sighed softly, kissing you sweetly before pulling away. "Roll over for me, sweetness. Hands and knees."

Your eyes widened in surprise, but you rolled over immediately. You lowered your upper body to lay flat against the mattress, ass high in the air.

"Holy shit," Dean murmured as his hands grasped your large, round ass. "Who said you could have an ass this incredible? I can't wait to watch it jiggle while I fuck you senseless."

Before you could respond, he smacked your ass with an open palm, causing you to gasp slightly.

He seemed to realize belatedly that he should have asked if you were okay with that before doing it, but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't imagined smacking your ass for years. "Is that okay, baby?"

"More, please," you begged softly.

He smacked your ass again with a grin. "You like that?"

"Harder, Dean," you moaned. "Like you mean it."

"Fuck," he groaned, hand coming down against your cheek again.

Each time you moaned loudly, reaffirming your enjoyment of the action. Your pussy clenched around nothing and you were beyond desperate for him to just fuck you already.

"Dean, I need you--please," you cried desperately.

"Where do you need me, baby?"

"Inside me," you whimpered.

Without warning, you felt one of Dean's thick fingers enter your pussy. "Like this?"

You shook your head rapidly.

"Words, babe," he said firmly.

"I want your cock, Dean."

"Yeah? Tell me where."

You turned your head to look at him as best as you could from your current position. "I want you to fuck my pussy with your big, thick cock...please," you pleaded softly.

Dean blinked rapidly and licked his lips. He pulled his finger out from inside of you and sucked your juices from it. "Yes ma'am," he murmured.

He leaned forward and kissed your cheek where he'd left a red mark from his slaps. You turned your head back around, forehead against the mattress, preparing yourself for what would come next.

Dean gripped his cock tightly, stroking it a few times before lining himself up with your entrance. He started to enter you and you gasped at the stretch. It was painful given his larger than average size.

"I've got you, baby," he whispered, running his hands up and down your back in a soothing manner. "Just relax for me."

You took a deep breath and tried to relax your body as much as you could. When he felt the tension leave you, he continued to push forward.

You'd never felt so full before and the pain had begun to subside into pleasure. "You're so big," you mumbled.

Dean smirked and chuckled softly. "I'm not all the way in yet, sweetheart."

"What?!" you gasped in surprise.

He pushed the rest of the way in, bottoming out so deep inside you, you swore you could feel him against your cervix. "Fuck!" you yelped.

Dean continued his soothing hand motions on your hips as he allowed you the time you needed to adjust to his size.

While you appreciated his gentleness, you desperately needed him to fuck you. Instead of telling him what you wanted, you moved your hips forward slightly before slamming back against him so your ass pressed firmly against his lower abdomen.

Dean's blunt nails dug into your hips and he growled lowly. "Fuck, baby."

His hips snapped forward and he held you in place by your hips. He set a brutal pace, unable to move slowly--it felt way too damn good.

Dean was completely mesmerized by your ass, watching it jiggle as he fucked into you forcefully. He slapped the opposite cheek from the one he'd hit earlier and you cried out in pleasure, pussy clenching around him.

"You feel so fuckin' good, sweetness," he moaned. "Tightest pussy I've ever had."

You couldn't formulate a good response to his words as you were already too far gone. His cock slammed into your g-spot with each thrust, making your legs shake and your head fog up.

"Made for me, weren't you baby?"

"Mhmm," you hummed.

Dean smiled, knowing you were overwhelmed with pleasure and unable to respond properly. He leaned forward and grabbed a handful of your hair at the base of your neck. He tugged back slightly--just enough to cause a little pain without truly hurting you.

His thrusts were almost violent, they were so fast and hard. He wanted to feel you come apart on his cock and he knew you were close.

"You gonna cum for me, baby?" he whispered.

You simply whined desperately.

"What do you need, sweetheart? Tell me what you need."

"More," you begged.

"Hmm," Dean hummed. He slipped an arm around your waist and tugged you back against him so you were sitting up as he continued to thrust into you.

One hand slid up to your neck, wrapping around your throat and applying just a tiny bit of pressure to gauge your reaction. His other hand moved slowly towards your core, seeking your clit for added stimulation.

"Dean!" you cried.

He bit into your shoulder. "I'm here, baby. I want you to fall apart for me."

He rubbed at your clit quickly, thrusts slower due to the new position, but nevertheless pleasurable.

You needed just a little more to push yourself over the edge, so you gripped his hand around your neck and put more pressure on it, indicating what you needed.

Dean got the hint and tightened his grip on your throat, just enough to push you over the edge. He didn't want to hurt you--he would never hurt you.

"Cum for me, sweet girl," he murmured in your ear.

You cried out as your second orgasm crashed against you and your pussy tightened almost painfully around Dean's cock. He helped you ride out your high before lowering you back to the bed and rolling you over onto your back.

He was immediately on top of you, thrusting into you more slowly. He put one arm on either side of your head to support himself, effectively trapping you beneath him.

He rolled his hips against you, the motion pressing his pelvis against your clit, causing you to whimper in pained pleasure. Your hands found purchase in his upper back, nails digging in as he repeated the action.

"I love your body, baby," he whispered. "So fucking perfect."

You smiled up at him, pulling him down for a heated kiss. "I like it too," you mumbled. "Yours isn't bad either."

He chuckled lightly, kissing you lovingly. "I wanna see you come apart for me, (Y/N). Can you give me one more?"

Your eyes widened. "I don't think I can..."

"I bet you can, sweetness." He grabbed your hips and pulled your legs up so your legs were wrapped around his waist. He began to thrust in earnest again and your head fell back, a moan escaping your lips.

Dean closed his eyes, focusing on pulling at least one more orgasm from you and keeping his own at bay. The way you were squeezing him made it a hell of a lot harder than he would like.

The harder his thrusts, the tighter you seemed to grip him, and the deeper your nails dug into his back. He knew he was going to have some serious gashes on his back, but he intended to wear them with pride.

"Come apart for me, baby. Let me feel you soak my cock," he begged.

"Dean," you groaned.

"Come on, my love--let go."

Your eyes fluttered closed and your body began to shake as waves of pleasure threatened to overwhelm you. You came for the third time that night, cries of pleasure mixing with Dean's moans of encouragement.

You started to come down from your high, body overly sensitive from the onslaught of pleasure that continued. "Dean, too much!" you gasped.

"Just one more," he begged.

"I can't!" you whimpered.

"Please baby--one more. Need it," he continued to beg.

You didn't think it was possible for you to cum again, but you began to feel a new sensation in your abdomen. It felt similar to the familiar tightening coil that signified an oncoming orgasm, but it was infinitely more intense. You weren't even sure if it was pleasure or pain--the feeling was simply too overwhelming to comprehend.

"Dean--I can't--" you gasped in confusion.

His hand slid between your bodies to gently massage your clit and you suddenly couldn't breathe. You began to writhe beneath him, hands gripping at the sheets to try and ground yourself.

Dean knew you were about to come undone again, so he didn't slow any of his motions. "Look at me, baby."

Your eyes met his for no more than a moment before your vision became blurry. You screamed his name as you came for a fourth and final time. The feeling was so incredible, you couldn't even begin to describe it.

Your vision began to return to normal as you desperately tried to catch your breath. You were practically limp beneath him as Dean began to chase his own orgasm.

He tucked his head into the crook of your neck and murmured soft words of praise against your skin. "Feels so good--squeezing me perfectly."

He kissed your neck as his thrusts became more erratic. "I'm gonna fill up this pretty little pussy, sweetness. Gonna cum for you."

You managed to press a kiss into his shoulder and wrap your arms around him, hands clutching his back. "Fill me up, Dean," you whispered encouragingly.

Dean groaned lowly. "This pussy is mine, baby. You hear me? Mine."

"Yours, Dean. Only yours."

"Oh--fuck--" he groaned. "(Y/N)!"

His hips began to stutter, thrusts faltering as he filled you up with his seed. He whispered your name like a prayer as his movements began to slow to a halt. You clung to him tightly as he came down from his high.

He finally collapsed on top of you, completely spent and breathless.

You rubbed his back soothingly, lips pressing gentle kisses to his shoulder and neck. As the two of you laid there quietly, you began to notice the bedding beneath you was particularly wet--more so than you had expected it to be.

"I love you so much," Dean whispered, lips pressed softly against your jaw.

"I love you too, baby," you said sweetly.

Dean began to lift himself up, each movement making you gasp--body too overstimulated to handle any motion.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he murmured softly.

"I'm not complaining," you assured him.

He grinned slightly as he pulled himself up completely, softened member sliding out of your excessively wet pussy.

He looked down at the bed and his grin widened. "We made quite the mess, baby."

"Yeah, it feels a little...wetter than normal."

He chuckled softly. "That's probably because you squirted, (Y/N/N)."

You gasped, cheeks reddening in embarrassment. You realized that must have been the result of the most intense orgasm of your life. "I did?!"

Dean noticed your discomfort and immediately reassured you. "Yeah, sweetness--and it was the sexiest fucking thing I've ever seen."

You bit your lip and looked up at him. "Really?"

He grinned. "Really."

"I've--uh--well...I've never squirted before," you admitted.

His chest puffed up with pride. "I'm honored to have been the first--and the last." He added a wink for emphasis.

You smiled softly. "Maybe don't make it a regular thing...I literally can't move."

Dean laughed. "Don't worry, babe. I'll take care of you."

You watched the handsome man cross the room and go into the bathroom, emerging several minutes later with two washcloths. He gently picked you up, moving you to the other side of the bed where it was dry. From there, he very gently began to clean you up with the warm washcloths.

You were moved by the loving way he took care of you, making sure you were clean and comfortable before leaving the room in search of another set of sheets.

When he returned, you found you still couldn't move, but Dean didn't seem to mind. "I can change the sheets with you in them, (Y/N)."

"But--"

"Hush," he insisted as he pressed a kiss to your lips.

He made quick work of removing the sheets on the other half of the bed and putting the clean sheets on that side. He then scooped you up again and moved you to the clean, crisp sheets. He removed the rest of the soiled sheets and finished making the bed.

As soon as he was finished, he crawled into the bed beside you. He reached out to grab your soft body and tugged you against his warm chest.

You nuzzled into him and sighed softly. "I could get used to this."

He smiled and kissed the top of your head. "I'll always take care of you, baby...so you might as well get used to it. I'm not going anywhere."

You smiled and pressed a soft kiss onto his chest. "I love you, Dean."

Dean tightened his grip on you and smiled. "I love you more, (Y/N/N). Always."

[dolicekiss]

Hi,

I heard you were taking requests again, so I hope you don‘t mind me dropping one here.

Could you please write a story/one-shot, which takes place in the Hannibal universe, where Hannibal falls for one of his patients, who was a victim of a murderer, but managed to escape unscathed. When the murderer resurfaces again, she needs to stay with him and slowly he makes her depend on him. After hearing the news of his latest kill, Hannibal twists/abuses the situation to make her seek comfort from him.(with nsfw?)

Fragile Minds

PAIRING: Dark!Hannibal Lecter X Fem!reader

CONTENT WARNING: SMUT (18+, mdni please), coercion, adult grooming, taking advantage of reader, manipulation, trauma, mention of kidnapping, mention of nightmares, PTSD, gaslighting, age gap (unspecified but legal), unprotected sex, fingering, kissing, choking, bruising, slight fluff, infatuated hannibal who'll do anything to have reader.

Therapy was merely an escape.

For you, it was.

An escape from the people who gave you pitiful looks, sympathizing with you. Feeling bad for a girl like you who suffered from so much at such a young age.

You resented it. Everytime when you'd attend dinners at your relatives’ houses or when your friends would gaze at you with a sad pathetic look, treating you like some fragile little girl who needed extra care. It was all overbearing for you.

Hannibal Lecter’s office was the perfect escape.

He did not see you as some broken little doll, no. Rather he validated you, understood you, listened to you and made you feel comfortable in his presence. The only person who did not look at you with a pitiful, sad gaze.

You saw him as a kind and polite man who attended to your needs, your mental needs and took care of you in a way no one else had ever before.

You'd attended your session again, with a smile on your face. When the door to his office you opened, your smile widened and Hannibal returned it. You simply loved how he had created a safe space for you, how he did care for your well-being. You were his patient so it was his job but at least he was better than all the other people who only saw you as some broken shell.

“Hello.” Hannibal greeted and you nodded your smile, stepping inside. “Good evening, Doctor Lecter.”

His smile lines deepened. “Good evening. How are you feeling today?”

You slid off your leather coat, hanging it over the hook. Hannibal lead you to your seat and you happily followed, a constant routine which you'd gotten used to. Hannibal sat before you, on his own brown leather couch.

“I feel alright." You coyly said, hands toying with each other. Not a sign of discomfort but rather nervousness. Hannibal had made sure that you were comfortable around him.

Hannibal was not a man that was easily swooned away yet he was completely in awe whenever you played with your hands, twisting one finger over the other. That habit of yours was adorable to him, sort of akin to him.

Hannibal tilted his head.

You licked your lips. “I feel alright but I have nightmares about what happened.”

You had sort of disconnected from your trauma as that was the only way you could possibly cope. Hannibal noticed it but he didn't say much, when he should have. It was only to bring you closer to him, to make you depend on him.

“What do the nightmares consist of?”

“Him dragging me through a dark alley and showing me where he'll bury me.” You said all that so nonchalantly, Hannibal knew you hadn't broken up about it yet.

Ever since the incident, you shut everyone out. Felt like discussing about what happened and how it made you feel was not necessary at all and when the FBI advised you to speak to their psychiatrist, in order to help you regain the suppressed memories of the assault you'd encountered, it worked.

Hannibal smiled. “Does it scare you? You have trouble sleeping?”

You blinked, shaking your head. “No, I wake up numb. I was told it is unhealthy to not feel anything regarding this matter.”

“Are you bothered that he has not been apprehended yet?” You nodded your head in response.

You'd nearly died that rainy night. Your perpetrator had fully planned to murder you that night as you were the perfect victim in his followed pattern but somehow you managed to survive. Got away when he was busy digging up your grave.

The feeling that overcame you when you witnessed your own grave, where you'll be buried after your life has been snatched away from you — it was too foreign. A different type of overwhelming fear which consumed you to the point your brain had entirely shut it out.

As traumatized as you were, Hannibal was aware you had not fully coped up with this painful incident. You walked around and pretended like you were fine but he knew he needed to break you, in order to put you back together.

This time, to his own likeness.

“He has not killed anyone after I got away from him. I think he is going to come back for me.” You spoke, tone impassive whenever you spoke about your trauma. “The thought always lingers in the back of my mind, Doctor Lecter.”

The aforementioned tossed one leg over the other and nodded his head, acknowledging your restlessness. “You survived him with your strong will to live. If he is to resurface again, I'm sure you will be able to defend yourself against him.”

Hannibal was right and you knew it. You'd escaped him with the desperate urge to live and that desperation saved your life.

But then Hannibal spoke up again with certain darkness in his voice. “You'll always have me, love. I will be there for you as I always have been.”

You smiled softly.

He was right. He was there — from the beginning to the end. He had coaxed you out of your shell, helped you express your feelings, much more. Hannibal had helped you beyond anything and you felt like you'd forever be in his debt.

Hannibal’s proclivity for protecting you and caring for you stemmed from the romantic feelings he began to develop for you over the course of the past few weeks. The moment he laid his gaze upon you, he knew you were the one.

You'd climbed over the walls around him without even intending to do so. Your little laughs, your interest in seeing the art he'd created with only a pencil, even reaching you calligraphy.

Hannibal was deeply in love and that was not a good sign.

“I appreciate you, Doctor Lecter.” You smiled, teeth showing. The session soon came to an end and you left for your apartment. Hannibal didn't like seeing you go but he had to let you go. There was so much he could do to bring you closer to him and he noticed how you were already beginning to become dependent on him.

He liked that. The taste of freedom was on your tongue but your strings were controlled by Hannibal.

As soon as you reached your apartment, you could only look forward to another session with him. You were entirely blind to how much you had grown attached to Hannibal, how much he affected you and everything in your life.

You only saw the camaraderie he offered you in a time of struggle, pain and utter loneliness.

But little did you know that was the whole plan. Hannibal had been offered a chance at friendship before too but he rejected it, all and everytime though with you, the case was different. He was a lonely man, painfully lonely and he craved company.

Your company.

So when he saw you, he made it his mission to make you depend on him. Grow used to him, attached and fully bonded like you were his mate.

You turned on the TV, hoping you'd be able to relax but your phone dinged. You reached for it, picking it up and unlocking. Eyebrows scrunching up when you saw the link you'd received from an anonymous number.

You contemplated whether to check it or not and your curiosity finally got the best of you when you tapped on it. It took you to an article — by Freddie Lounds.

Your blood ran cold when you read the contents of it. Fingers losing their strength and your phone slipping out of their grasp, hitting the couch. You blinked profusely, hoping that this was a lie but you were all aware that no matter how problematic Freddie Lounds was, she delivered real events and not some made up ones.

The article included of your killer — finally risen again, taking another victim. Your breathing grew uneven, all the memories your brain had locked out now freeing themselves.

Shattered breathing and a thumping heart reminded you of your suppressed fears when the anesthesia of your mind had wore off.

Body beginning to oscillate on the couch, your teeth ripped the skin off your lips, causing them to bleed. Panic had filled you up.

You were next. You knew it.

In this vulnerable moment, you knew only one person that was capable of calming you down and that was Hannibal Lecter. You didn't think for a moment, grabbing your car keys and heading for the door.

Seeing the weather only increased the fear and uneasiness which you attempted to repel inside you. Grey clouds loomed above your head when you made it outside your apartment building and the rain only felt like droplets of acid pouring over your skin.

Tears losing their identity within the cries of mother nature, engulfing your whole being.

How sad, how pitful that what worked to calm down others was burning you.

You tried to scream but nothing came out.

All your suppressed emotions had swam up to the surface and there was no escape.

You don't remember how you managed to drive through the heavy rain, soaked with a blurred vision. It was a blessing — rather a curse from God to have protected you from an inevitable car crash.

All you remember was ending up outside Hannibal’s house — fist banging over the wood. When the door was pulled open, Hannibal found you soaked and withered like a flower in front of him. Drenched hair sticking to the ridges of your face, dress clinging to your frame, shoulders showing off a perpetual tremor, cheeks flushed and through all that Hannibal managed to pick up on the tears that slid.

He was quick to pull you inside, without a word exchanged between the two of you. His palm opened, laying on your back. You had no idea why you were here but being in Hannibal’s presence sufficiently managed to make you feel a tad bit better.

You looked up at him, mumbling incoherent words and the man didn't hesitate for a moment to bring you in a hug. His own button up and vest becoming wet in the process.

All that mattered to him was comforting you.

You buried your face in his chest, sobbing and finally breaking apart. The way he exactly needed you to. His heart ached feeling your little body shiver in his hold but this was necessary.

He had to do this. Had to trigger you somehow so he could find you in a vulnerable headspace and coerce full codependency out of you.

The killer only helped fasten the process and Hannibal knew Freddie Lounds was an unethical journalist who only cared for content. Working in the FBI wasn't that bad when Hannibal had access to the murder files and photographs. All he had to do was anonymously send to Lounds and then send the article to you.

A smile decorated his features when you crumbled in his embrace.

“He-He'll come—come back for me. He—”

You were a mess. A mix of overwhelming emotions and beautiful flesh. Hannibal shushed you, caressing your head with his palm as you unleashed weeks worth of suppressed trauma and anguish.

“I'm here.” He said softly, tightening his hold over you in a protective manner. “You have me, only me. You don't need anyone else.”

You nodded in agreement, both palms pressed over his broad chest. Your body had grown cold and Hannibal was beginning to worry.

He pulled apart from you, or attempted to but you clung to him like a koala. Fists bunching up the material of his button up, body aching to feel his warmth. Becoming greedy but Hannibal was going to give you all the warmth you so desperately craved.

“You will fall sick, love. Let me bring you some clothes.”

Your hands loosened their grip over his shirt and he peeled from me. Biceps soaked from how tightly they were draped around you, skin underneath them revealed. After sitting you down on the couch, Hannibal went to find you some clothes.

He could not put the paramount happiness he felt into words. Everything, from beginning to end had worked in his favor. He was in control and he enjoyed it more than anything. All he had to do was use your trauma against you, push you into a state of vulnerability where you only needed him.

He brought you his own clothes, a shirt that would be too big on you. Hannibal craved to see how you'd look, he was fucking excited.

You were still shivering, chest leaping up from little hiccups. Hannibal walked over to you with the shirt and a glass of water he'd fetched from the kitchen on his way to the living room.

“Here, drink this. You'll feel better.” You reached for the glass with shaky fingers and Hannibal noticed them. In one single go, you finished the glass. He took it from you and placed it on the nearest table before handing you over his shirt.

“Please change into this. You'll fall sick and we don't want that happening, do we?”

You had no energy to change. It required all your will power to drive here and now you were too far gone to even function like a proper human. Hands numb and frozen.

You raised your gaze at him, glossy and red eyes becoming the cause of his heavy beating heart.

Hannibal swallowed.

He did not know you would grow this beautiful, this breathtaking after breaking apart. In your destruction, you were the most beautiful. Blooming like a new flower. Like a piece of art, you filled his heart with bliss.

“I can provide help.” He tested the waters and all you did was turn around on the couch, moving to the side to reveal the zipper of your dress to him.

Hannibal sat next to you, brawny hands reaching for the zipper. You closed your eyes as tears fell, a few sobs escaping. Hannibal’s fingers slowly dragged the zipper down and you leaned more into his touch when his fingers accidentally brushed over your wet skin. You swallowed — body growing used to the man's minor touch.

He exposed your back when the zipper met the end, glistening bare skin greeting him. He could tell from the way you shifted in your seat or how the goosebumps poked through your skin that you were relishing in this.

Hannibal’s knuckles caressed your skin, your breath hitched.

Hannibal carefully and tenderly pushed the sticky dress off your shoulders, exposing your beautiful shoulders. Bare and raw to his lascivious gaze. He was so obsessed, so infatuated. Fingers dancing across where your shoulder blades sat, tongue swiping over his own lips.

He was a starving madman.

Only the sound of fire crackling over the wood in the fireplace could be heard in the room, along with your bated breathing and sharp intakes of air. Hannibal’s adam apple bobbed up and down as he fully pulled the dress down.

The heavy soaked material of cotton bunched up at your waist. Your bare chest rose up and fell down in uneven breaths, nipples hardening because of the chilly air.

You were ready to stand up to discard the dress but Hannibal’s hands circled around your arms, pulling you back against his chest. Your eyes fluttered shut as he breathed over your nape.

His warm breath leaving chills in its wake and you shuddered in his grasp. The self control Hannibal possessed was worthy of immense respect and appreciation because only he knew how badly he wanted to let go and claim you.

But he had to wait.

He waited for so long, what's more a few hours or days.

He found himself growing obsessed with your mere scent. How sweet you smelled, how hypnotic it was. Worked like magic over him.

“Arms.” Hannibal sounded commanding and you raised your arms, slipping them into the large sleeves of the emerald shirt. Hannibal didn't bother to unbutton it as it was oversized and you slipped right into it.

He soon pulled the dress down to your legs and discarded it somewhere.

He brushed your hair with his beautifully sculpted fingers, mind overthrown by the images of your bare back and gorgeous shoulders.

You slowly turned to face him, face flushed and tears coating the apple of your cheeks.

“Thank you.“ You whispered, stifling the urge to sob. You were still all over the place, hoping that all of this was a dream and you'd wake up soon between your thick blanket.

Hannibal nodded. “I told you, I will always be here. You're safe with me, love. I can protect you from this man, keep you safe but you need to stay close to me in order for me to protect you.”

You thought about it and he was right.

If you'd gone to someone else after reading that article, they would have never opened their door to you. Never would have allowed you in but Hannibal, like your guardian angel, was right there.

Your gaze fell to capture his lips for a moment before flickering back up to his sparkling eyes.

“It is your decision, at the end.” Of course it was.

But your words were driven by Hannibal’s manipulation and gaslighting. Using his wit and psychology to push you over the cliff, only to be waiting down there to catch you.

Your words were yours but your lips were controlled by Hannibal.

You shuffled closer to him, knees coming in contact with his. With hesitation, you threw your arms around him and veiled your face with his nape. Hannibal circled his arms around your frail waist, a smug smile crossing his lips.

A smug smile of victory.

When you broke the hug, Hannibal cupped your face and leaned in to press a soft kiss to the corner of your lips. You didn't complain, knowing that this was unethical but you didn't care. You craved this, a doomed touch starved creature you were.

Hannibal’s blonde strands fell over his face and you reached for them, caressing them between your fingers. He took in a deep breath, fingers nearly digging into your waist from the sheen of desire on his mind.

“You're like spring, my love. Bloom like the flowers.” Hannibal whispered, finally leaning in to press his lips over yours. You allowed him to, your own hands slithering over his nape, fingers tangling in his roots.

Hannibal pressed his body against yours in desperate attempts to feel you as he pushed him down on the couch. His lips devoured you, the kiss full of seeting passion. You felt his tongue coat your lips with saliva and you parted open your mouth, a lustful invitation.

His tongue mingled with yours, breath and spit becoming one. You whimpered into thw kiss as Hannibal’s hands moved up from your waist to unbutton the shirt he'd put you in. Only enough to expose your breasts to him. Hannibal loved how the silk shirt clung to your body, how it complimented your soft skin.

You arched your back when his hands fondled with your breasts, thumbs squeezing your hardened peaks between them. Hannibal had lost all his restraint. He could not stop kissing you, forbidding you the pleasures of breathing.

You tried to pull away but that was a mistake as he began to kiss you with more vigor. Locking your lips together, fucking your mouth with his wet tongue. His saliva had coated your lips as well as your chin, in tiny invisible rivulets

“H-Hannibal, wait.” You whispered and he finally tore himself away from you, breaking the kiss.

When your eyes got used to his vision, your cunt throbbed at how handsomely disheveled he appeared. Hair a mess from all the entanglement of your fingers, lips glossy with your saliva and eyes darkened. His blown out pupils were a full proof of his overbearing need for you.

His face moved to hide in your neck, lips peppering soft wet kisses over it. You winced when you felt him bite into you, a whine leaving you. Hannibal's one hand slithered down to the lace panties you wore, fingers grazing over the hem of them. You inhaled a sharp breath — feeling him slip his hand inside your underwear.

His fingers gathered your arousal before pressing over your clit, rubbing it in soft circles. Your back arched off the couch as your breathy moans grew louder. One hand toying with your cunt while the other twisted and tugged at your nipple, you were in complete bliss.

Hannibal’s fingers dropped lower and he slid one inside your cunt. Your walls clenched around him, a whine escaping you. If you'd been told you would end up with your psychiatrist’s fingers buried inside your cunt, you would probably think of it as a fever dream but here you were.

Hips writhing underneath him. Hannibal stared at you, licking his hungrily. You looked so breathtaking, panting like you'd run a marathon. Cheeks blossoming with a sweet pink hue.

Hannibal pulled out his fingers, losing his grip on patience. He could unfold the layers of your body some other day, right now he needed you and he was going to take was his.

He rid himself of his clothes, discarding the pieces by the couch. You were in awe of what he had to offer especially when your gaze lowered to between his legs. A cock rock hard — standing proudly, deliciously curved. You subconsciously licked your lips and fluttered your eyes back at him.

Hannibal parted open your legs, sliding between them. Holding his cock, he guided it into you and your hands flew to grip his bare biceps, nails piercing.

As you felt him enter you, stretching you past your limits, you flinched. It didn't hurt nor did it bring you unbearable pain but you still needed time to get used to Hannibal’s size.

Hannibal cupped your face, large hands bringing you warmth.

“My beautiful Love. You will feel better soon as all I wish to do is bring you pleasure.” You nodded your head at his sugary words, releasing your grip around his biceps and moving your arms around his neck.

You pulled him closer, an action which gave him the order to fuck you and he did. Hannibal lifted your legs, placing each on each side of his hips before fully driving himself into your soaked cunt.

A whimper emitted from your throat when you felt him fully sink into you. Your gummy walls gripping around him like the tail of a snake around its prey — feeling every protruding vein.

Hannibal started to move, back and forth but slowly to make you feel each and every thrust. A whine of need and desperation echoed in the room, silencing the crackling of the fire.

“Tell me what you need, my love. Tell me what is it that you ache for?”

Your vision blurred. “You.”

That was all Hannibal needed to drill his cock into your tight pussy. Like some animal who'd finally caught its prey and with the intention to tear it apart limb by limb consumed it. Your body jerked forward from each harsh thrust, his balls slapping against the stripe of your cunt.

“Hannibal! Hann—ohmy.” Your moans grew, so did his pace. He fucked you with strong will and determination to draw a rippling orgasm out of you.

Hannibal’s hand wrapped around your throat in a purely possessive manner. To claim that you were his. He bruised your throat but not with the purpose to hurt you, rather taint you as his. Brand you forever.

A fucking collar embedded in your blood streams.

Both your hands held onto his wrist as he bruised your skin, all the while mounting you and chasing his own orgasm. Everytime he hit that spot of yours, tears fell and collapsed against the couch. His cock head driving itself ferociously into your cervix.

Hannibal felt his stomach taut, so did you.

Your thighs shivered, hips stuttering underneath his and Hannibal caught that. How could he not? He captured every little action of yours, every response your body gave to his. He was in love and his love was not the good kind.

“I feel it, Hannibal I-I feel it.” You cried out and he nodded, panting and groaning. All the sounds he made only worked to increase your sex drive — you craved him more, despite him being inside you. Your cunt clenched around him, gripping him and Hannibal nearly whined at how fucking good you felt.

Both of you were close and with one harsh thrust, Hannibal spilled his load inside you while you released all over him. His seed had tainted your walls. He didn't stop there.

He continued to thrust inside you, slow and sensual rolling of his hips inside your cunt.

Your eyes had fallen shut, disappearing into your skull. Seeing the same white Hannibal had painted your walls with.

“You're the prettiest, my pretty girl.” Hannibal whispered against your forehead, pressing a soft kiss to it. He soon pulled out and collapsed right next to you as you shuffled to give him space.

Laying on his chest, you were the happiest. Naked bodies entangled together for eternity and you had no idea just what you'd gotten yourself into. Raising your eyes at Hannibal’s face, you already found him looking at you with a smile.

His fingers trailed along your hair as he held you rightly in his arms. You released a sigh of content. “Hannibal, I-I think I'm in love with you.”

You sounded sure that you had fallen in love with your psychiatrist and as unprofessional as it was, you hoped that he too reciprocated these unbridled emotions. You had no idea just how happy you'd made him by uttering out those words.

He kissed the top of your head. “I have always been in love with you, my girl. You have no idea how much I tried to control these feelings I harbor for you.”

You shook your head. “You don't have to control them anymore, Hannibal.”

He didn't have to, not anymore. He had you right where he wanted you and everything had fallen right into place. Pushing you towards the edge was worth it — when the result was you, in his arms, it was all worth it.

[notyourhetloki]

Can I request dating headcanons for Logan x GN Reader x Wade please?

Logan x Reader x Wade dating headcanons

Reader: gender neutral

/Logan x Reader x Wade/

A/N: Hi anon! I was almost writing this even if no one requested it so thank you! I love them so much and I hope you like these short headcanons I made! This is SFW btw S2

Tags: SFW headcanons, idiots in love, soft!Logan (maybe ooc), Wade is good with feelings, domestic fluff, poly relationship.

—

Dating Logan and Wade would be… interesting, to say the least.

The dynamic between them was mostly violent, particularly because they matched each other’s strengths and that meant they couldn’t really get hurt. But when it came to you, they would show such gentleness it never failed to make you feel like royalty.

It would probably start as a casual thing, and then escalate to a more serious level. When that happened, Logan would begin to worry about whether that was a good idea. But as soon as he saw how happy you were with the two of them, he would relax.

Wade was obviously the clown of the relationship, while Logan was the anchor. He brought you together and made sure to keep it that way, even if he faltered in relation to his own emotions (because of his trauma, he would be afraid to fuck things up).

But even though Wade wouldn’t take things seriously, he was good with feelings. When it was absolutely necessary, he would take a sit and just… talk. Whatever you and Logan needed, he would be there (because he couldn't quite believe he had you both, it was too good to be true and he would make sure to do everything right).

That would bring you even closer to each other, those vulnerable moments being critical to the development of your relationship. Not everything was rose-colored, sometimes you needed to get your hands dirty.

But it was worth it! Because after all, it was good to have them both. You enjoyed watching them bickering at each other, and then only a couple of moments later kissing like nothing had happened... it always brought a smile to your face.

And they would include you, of course. In every activity, even if that meant simple things like cooking or watching TV, you three would always be together.

Let's not forget about the make-out sessions, hm? The way they kissed and touched you brought butterflies to your stomach, made you feel loved and seen. They were mostly gentle... until you asked them otherwise. ;)

They would protect you at all costs, even a little too much at times. You had to constantly remind them you weren't a damsel in distress and that if you needed their help, you would ask. But their concern was appreciated, nonetheless.

And they would also get jealous... Wade's jealousy would be immediately obvious because he had to comment on everything, but when Logan was jealous... things would escalate. He would probably take it out on Wade (because he could take it) until you figured it out and talked to him about it. "You're mine..." He would say, and you would agree.

To cheer things up, you would put some music in the living room and dance along. Wade was a fantastic dancer, while Logan was... not. "C'mon, Wolvie! Dance with us!" Wade would say, and he tried sometimes when the mood was right. You would laugh while they twirled you around, both men giggling to themselves.

You would shower together, helping them out of their clothes and washing them clean. You would also wash Logan's hair and massage Wade's shoulders, they would almost purr with your every touch.

And when you slept together, you would take turns on who would lay in the middle. Cuddling and chatting until you fell asleep always made you warm and fuzzy inside, because after all... you loved them. And they loved you and each other, so that was all that mattered.

—

[runariya]

The Auction (JJK) • Chapter 1

summary: After being sold to a dangerous wolf hybrid at a secret auction, you find yourself bound to him in a game of control and obsession. pairing: wolf hybrid!Jungkook x cat hybrid!female reader genre: mafia!AU, hybrid!AU, dystopian!AU, S2L, dark romance, slow burn, angst rating: 18+, MDNI warnings: DDDNE, angst, violence, trauma, hybrid trafficking, JK is an Alpha, nud!ty, hormone suppressants, b!ting, blood, sniffing, the obsession is slightly showing, murd€r, gun, branding, fainting, lmk if I forgot smth - THX word count: ~ 1.8K

a/n: why would I give you a sneak peek when I could just gift you the first chapter? hihi 🤭 the chapters to this story will be as short as this one...soooo....and PLEASE MAKE SURE TO CHANGE YOUR SETTINGS, I CAN'T TAG SOME OF YOU 😭

a/n 2: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

masterlist • 2

You haven’t slept in days, haven’t felt right in yourself for even longer, but somehow the adrenaline still floods through you, keeping you wide awake, on edge, your senses sharper than they’ve ever been, catching every little movement around you like your life depends on it, which is truly does.

It’s hard to believe that just two months ago, you were innocently walking down the street, not paying any attention to the blacked-out car with its door wide open or the figure standing across the pavement pretending to be on the phone. You had no idea then that you’d soon wake up miles away in another country, surrounded by other cat hybrids, far from the only home you've ever known.

You’re not stupid—you know exactly why they took you, what they’ve got planned, what they want from you. Even so, you stubbornly refuse to accept the grim future they’ve laid out for you.

The factory hall you’re crammed into now, in some grubby back room with the other hybrids, is every bit as filthy as your once-pristine black fur. What was once sleek and soft is now matted with dirt, so vile it makes you want to gag.

You’ve overheard the men who dragged you here talking about some hidden annual auction, where dangerous men from all over the world come to bid on the likes of you. Ever since, the other hybrids have been breaking down, sobbing and begging, their wails so relentless you feel like your brain is going to explode. Yet you stay quiet, ears pricked, your senses locked on every faint sound coming from behind the door.

Soon enough, they come for you all, shoving you roughly through the corridor you were brought down earlier, though this time they steer you down a different path, lining you up on a shabby makeshift stage. The construction site-style floodlights beam down so harshly that you can’t keep your eyes open for long, the brightness overwhelming and painful.

Through your squinting eyes, you catch glimpses of the men gathered in front of the stage—some muttering quietly to each other, others smoking as they lazily size up each woman. You search for even a hint of kindness in their faces, but of course, there’s none to be found—only cold stares from the most powerful predator hybrids. You feel completely exposed, even with clothes on, so vulnerable that it’s a wonder you don’t simply keel over from the intensity of being watched.

The auction starts soon enough, but it drags on endlessly, until finally, you’re the last one to be put up for bidding. It’s a shock when your price rockets past the others by millions. What doesn’t surprise you in the least is when a dangerous wolf hybrid steps forward to claim you. You knew, from the moment they snatched you off that street, that your life was always headed straight to hell. 

When you arrive at your supposed new ‘home’, the wolf hybrid, who had you driven in a separate car from his, two golden retriever hybrids—one male and one female—greet you silently, as the wolf hybrid barks out “Get her ready, run all the tests.”

They bow nervously to him with obvious fear, muttering, “Yes, Alpha,” before leading you stumbling over your own feet away.

They scrub you clean, working the conditioner into your fur, detangling the knots that have formed over time. It ought to feel soothing, and on some level it does, but the very fact you’re being ‘prepared’ for something you can’t even begin to imagine keeps you from feeling any real sense of comfort. They run a barrage of tests—urine, blood, checking for illnesses like STDs—and though there’s some relief in knowing you’re healthy despite your malnutrition, the fear never leaves you. Your tail, now soft and groomed, curls tightly between your legs, trying its best to shield your bare chest from their prying eyes.

Once they’ve finished prodding and poking you, they dress you in clothes that fit a little too well, and when your fur is finally dry, they lead you up several floors until you reach the penthouse.

The space is shrouded in darkness, save for the twinkling lights of Busan’s cityscape outside. Every surface, from walls to ceiling, is dark and gleaming, with deep brown furniture blending into its shadows, the only touches of light come from minimal brass-coloured décor scattered sparingly around the room. The golden retrievers push you silently to the centre, where the wolf hybrid lounges lazily on a leather sofa smoking a cigar, his eyes fixed on you, never wavering. The retrievers do nothing more than bow silently and exit, leaving you alone under his cold gaze.

His stare penetrates you, inspecting every inch of your trembling body from your twitching cat ears down to your feet, while the heat from the nearby fireplace stings your fragile skin. You try to lower your gaze to the floor, hoping to escape the intensity of his, but his dark eyes pull yours back like they have their own magnetic force.

“What’s your name?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

You want to answer, you really do, but it’s as if your voice has been lost since the day you were taken, and your only response is the bristling of your tail in an instinctive attempt to protect yourself.

When it becomes clear you won’t speak, he’s not having any of it, and his voice booms, “I said, what’s your name!”

You flinch at the loud slap of his tone, a frightened hiss escaping your lips before you can stop it. His expression darkens, one eyebrow raised in irritation as his finger taps impatiently against the backrest.

Summoning every ounce of willpower, you manage to whisper your name.

“Speak up,” he snaps. “I’m not a fucking feline.”

You gulp, clearing your throat as best and silently you can, and try again with a parched throat, this time just loud enough for him to catch. He nods, seemingly satisfied for now.

“Strip,” he orders after a long pause, his cold eyes locked onto yours, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The last thing you want to do is obey, but you can see the anger rising rapidly in him again, and you know better than to push your luck. Trembling, you begin to undress, feeling utterly exposed even before your clothes hit the floor. He watches you with the cold detachment of someone examining an object rather than a person, and though you’re fully naked, your tail desperately tries to cover your most private parts.

The wolf hybrid sighs heavily as he stands, exuding a casual dominance that reminds you exactly who he is. He moves around you slowly, inspecting every inch of you while you stare blankly ahead, your ears twitching nervously to follow his movements.

He stops behind you, towering over your smaller frame, and you feel his cold hands glide up your arms, squeezing your shoulders lightly before his nose brushes against your neck up to the back of your ear. He inhales deeply, and you feel your legs grow weak with a dizzying wave of fear.

“You smell divine,” he mutters to himself, though the words ring loudly in your sensitive ears. “But something’s off.”

His hands trail back down your arms, his nose following the curve of your spine, your fur standing on end as goosebumps spread across your skin. He stops at your lower back, just before your tail begins, sniffing intently before, without warning, sinking his teeth into your soft flesh. You yelp in shock and pain as he spits something metallic onto the floor beside you.

“Fucking bastards,” he growls, and you know he’s right. The implant he’s just bitten out was the one messing with your hormones, suppressing your natural cycle and heats, placed methodically where you can’t reach. Though the bite stings violently and blood trickles down your legs, you feel immediate relief now that the implant is finally out.

He runs his hand back up your spine, stopping when he reaches your neck, his fingers grazing over the small burn mark where your slave number is branded into your skin. The sensation makes you shudder violently, triggering nerves that are too raw to keep you standing still, but he seems entirely unbothered by your reaction.

“Alpha…” a voice interrupts. The door opens and a crocodile hybrid strides in without so much as a knock, freezing when his eyes land on you. Instinctively, you try to back away, only to bump into the wolf hybrid behind you, making you tense even further.

The crocodile hybrid doesn’t move, his gaze fixated on you with a predatory gleam in his eye. You hear a low growl rumbling from the wolf hybrid behind you, followed by the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked close to your sensitive ear, and then a deafening shot. You flinch and scream violently, hands flying to your ears in a desperate attempt to cover them, but the damage is already done—your ears ring painfully as you crouch down, overwhelmed by the unbearable noise, tears collecting in your lash line.

It takes a moment for your senses to return, and when they do, you realise the wolf hybrid is crouched beside you, his legs brushing yours, his hands gently rubbing your upper arms soothingly as he murmurs, “I’m sorry, kitten,” kissing against the top of your head. All while the crocodile’s body lies crumpled on the floor in a growing pool of blood nearby.

You tremble uncontrollably, paralysed by fear, your mind struggling and utterly unable to process what happened around you. But the wolf hybrid doesn’t seem to care, helping you back up to your feet, brushing your soft hair over your shoulder to reveal the burn mark once again.

You barely dare to breathe as he steps away, but when you see him take an iron rod from near the fireplace and hold it in the flames, heating it until it glows angry red-hot, memories of the previous branding flashes through your mind like an alarm. You panic, your breath coming in desperate, frantic gasps. “No, no, no…” you chant quietly, but your body is frozen in place, still paralysed by the overwhelming terror.

The wolf hybrid, unfazed to the core, pulls the rod from the fire and walks towards you. Just before the hot metal touches your skin, branding you over the old mark, you hear his voice growl behind you, cold and final, “You’re mine now.”

You scream until your ears begin to bleed, your voice tearing through your throat as you collapse onto the cold, hard floor, the world around you fading into a welcoming, merciful blackness.

masterlist • 2

a/n 3: hope you enjoyed it👀 lmk what you think in any way you like!

a/n 4: please send me a message, ask or comment if you would like to be tagged for this fic 💕 also - character asks and drabble requests are open

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