#and they certainly weren't made to hold the weight of the world

[teknikolor-walters]

You WILL look at these messages parker sent me NOW!!! he's so true and correct always #1 cicada knower

[yuvany]

"MS.UGLY DUCKLING" ft SIM JAKE

SYNOPSIS : growing up "ugly" was not for the weak. Being absolutely ignored both in and outside of school was not for the weak. No one is ever ugly forever though. Changing schools and meeting new people, but most importantly meeting him might have been the best choice you've ever made in a very, very long time.

CONTENT WARNINGS : angst (with a happy ending) + bullying + insecurities + strangers to friends + friends to lovers + written in second perspective + self deprication + fluff + long + little rushed + partially proofread

ACTORS : ENHYPEN JAKE x FEMALE READER

WORD COUNT : ~ 4k

CHECK BOX !!

i. "WHY WON'T THEY EVER PLAY WITH ME," you asked your mother after returning home from a long and harsh first day of school. Your hair looked a mess, and dirt was scattered across your clothes, yet your voice sounded like childish innocence and pure wonder. Maybe it was too much for such a young child to realise that her newly made friends maybe weren't actually her friends?

(Read more under the cut)

"I'm sure they didn't mean to?" She replied, her voice sounding soft and vulnurable, feeling like she was responsible for the sorrows and grief that her child had been put through, since she was the one who had bought you into this world. Instead of confronting the problem, she told her child that the world wasn't as evil as it seemed, that thinking on the bright side, or the possibilities, were the correct way to live life.

Eight-year-old girl walked up the stairs with heavy weights glued beneath her feet after dinner was finished. You threw yourself onto your bed that was neatly made in the morning before you went to school happily, just to come home opposite of the way you left. The softness of the pillow and blanket laying on your bed was enough to comfort you as you buried your face deep into it and wrapping the blanket around you tightly. You wished for friends, and you wished to be happy, but most of all, you wanted to be like everybody else.

ii. ONE MORE DAY at school, the daily mistreatment never seeming to come to a halt. You walked through the corridors anxiously holding onto the straps of your backback tightly with your pair of eyes wandering all over the place in case of danger. This was certainly not nessecary for a child your age, but when nobody chooses to help, you've got to start taking care of yourself.

Maybe it was your nerves that made it feel as if everyone's eyes were on you, but their mouths would open to release a fit of laughter that they had held in until specifically you walked past them. You crossed your arms, feeling extra aware of yourself now, guessing that they were laughing and giggling at you, which you didn't appreciate, but you were also too insecure and scared to speak up against them.

You reached your locker, looking forward to being able to collect your throught, away from everyone else, the locker shielding you away from their piercing gazes and judgemental stares and whispers. As you look up from your shoes, you see piles of gum stuck onto your locker, the gum being pressed onto the metal aggressively by the people you wished you didn't see. It was them; the popular girls of the school, and few of many people who seemed to despise you. They saw you standing there, shooting you an all too familiar look before walking away with their hips swaying from side to side dramatically.

You approched your locker to finally see what they were doing up close, "UGLY!" it read. You felt embarrased imagining all the people who passed by and saw this. Did they laugh? Did they feel bad for you? What did they think? You wanted to run away and hide in a deep hole you'd dig up with all the stored up shame inside of you.

iii. "MOM, DO YOU THINK I'M PRETTY?" You asked your mother once more, years after the first, but soon to the recent encounter. "I think you're very pretty." She says, but your gut tells you another story. "Really?" You ask, awaiting her response that takes a long while before she hums lowly. That just confirms it, she wasn't being honest. "Thanks," you say, with no emotion in your tone. She looks away and eats her dinner quietly.

You quickly finish yours, and wash it in the faucet, the soap bubbling up and covering your fingers as you scrub and rub the plate, utensils and glass that you used. After finishing that up, you return to your room, locking it behind you. You hid under the covers for a while until it got too suffocating and warm, leaving you itchy and irriatted before sliding out and standing in front of the mirror. You inspected every inch and detail of your face, feeling not so content with some parts. You sighed at your reflection that looked back at you with tired, red eyes. At just fourteen years old, you began caring about how you looked, and how others precieved you, so you took matters into your own hands. That night, you stayed up all night searching for 'how to be prettier' and scrolled endlessly through social media.

The next day, you had decided to get a new hair cut to maybe fix the way you looked, you knew excatly what you wanted, and how to cut it. Before anyone else woke up, even before the first birds chirped their morning tune, you made your way to the bathroom and grabbed a pair of scissors in your grasp. You carefully cut strand for strand, the same way you remebered how the video showed. "It doesn't look too bad." You think to yourself, and then you hear footsteps outside the door. Your eyes quickly scanned the hair that layed on the tiled floor and faucet, wondering what to do with it.

Too late. The door slowly swung open and in came your mom. She was silent upon seeing the scene, the horror only showing in her eyes. "What happened here?" She asked like a sharp whisper. "I just cut my hair..." You reply equally quiet. You see her shake her head in disappointment, so you turn your head down, looking at all the hair that had been flying everywhere while you had fun cutting your hair, and suddenly you weren't as proud of your hair cut like you were before. "Go get the broom, y/n." You obeyed your mother's order and hurried out of the bathroom feeling tears of embarrassment reaching your eyes.

iv. YOU STARTED WEARING MAKE UP to cover up, but to everyone else, you told them that you wore make up becase you thought it looked pretty. Still, they'd give weird glances toward each others, which you knew was their way of judging you.

Each morning, you woke up early to sit in front of your mirror examining your appearance like you always did. Hoping and praying to somehow change over night, you hated how your features looked together. You opened the drawer of your vanity and picked up sponges and brushes, leaving them aside for later use while you chose the different essintials. You had prepared the whole summer break to look pretty. Every day, you followed a new tutorial, improving as you continued. You did all this to look presentable at school.

You thinly spread the foundation across your face, dabbing the liquid evenly all over as you moved onto the next step. You sat there for a long time, perfecting each detail and mole, brushing your brows and coating your eyelashes with mascara, and lastly smacking your lips together after applying lipstick.

You stood in front of your larger mirror that you had ignored and hidden away since you never wanted to see yourself ever, but now you felt prepared. In your eyes you looked prettier. You wore your hair differently, you had earrings and necklaces, the school uniform from last year looking a lot better than you remembered. The confidence boost put a smile on your face as you made your way downstairs and made yourself breakfast.

In the kitchen, your mum was sipping her coffee calmly, but as she saw you walk in, her eyes widened in shock, but she didn't say anything. "Good morning!" You greeted happily, and she waved her hand slowly, still trying to process what was happening. "You look different." She comments, and you are content with that reply, and answer, "Thank you, mum!" You proceed to eat your breakfast and then made your way to school.

At shcool, you felt everyone's eyes hooked on your face. The corridors got quiet when you walked by, and you heard murmurs and whispers about you, "Is that really y/n?" "No way..." "What happened." You didn't know what context to put it in and just walked with hurry in your steps, wanting to get to your class and focus on your studies.

Lunch also happened to be no different compared to before your make over, the group of three girls made their way to your table, cackling amongst themselves, planning what to do today. You, who already finshed your lunch stood up to walk away, not wanting to have an encounter with them, until one of them, the blonde barbie, knocked into you with her lunch tray, spilling her food and drink all over you. "oops!" he chuckled cheerily, enjoying the laughs and fingers pointed at you from around her in the cafeteria. You angrily stood up and rushed over to the bathroom, feeling embarrassed once again.

v. "I WANT TO CHANGE SCHOOLS." You say to your mother after a long while of thinking, fearing that you might make the wrong decision, but what could possibly go worse than how it already is? Your mother is sneering at you from the side as she puts down the bags of groceries by the sink. She hums, and you wait for her reply, feeling your heart beat through your ribs, beating so hard that you start belive it'd jump out of your body any second. To be fair, you'd rather for that to happen than to be rejected of this preposition. "Are you sure?" She asks with uncertainty in her voice after silence, and you nod your head, "Of course." "Think about it for a little more, and then we can ask your father when he returns home." She says and walks away. How much longer could you ponder it when you're already certain.

You help her organise the groceries, washing them in the sink to sterilise it of bacteria before placing it in either the fridge or freezer and taking your sweet time, not knowing what else to do other than lay in your bed or be on your phone scrolling through social media.

So, that's exactly what you did for the past hour or so after your chores.

Of course it was boring, but you had nothing else to do. Homework was done, your room was clean and you could only wait for dinner with your father. You heard the sound of the stove from your room, and rushed down to help prepare with your mother. You plated the dinner table, helped your mum with the dishes and washed them afterwards, now you waited in your seat for your father to arrive home from work.

You hear the door slide open, the sound of keys jiggling from the entrance. You sit straight in your seat, resembling a meerkat on its legs as you inspect the person who enters the kitchen. Your father walks in with his coat still slung over his shoulders, his briefcase slamming onto the kitchen counter while he sighs. "Hello, dad!" You greet him cheerfully, and he simply nods his head in your direction. Your mum rose from her seat to help him with his jacket and hat, but he just shrugs her off, and you notice both of their irritated moods.

Dinner was quiet - the sound of utenstils hitting each other and then being left on the plates filled the house. "y/n wanted to ask something." Your mum blurts out, wanting something to happen, being too awkward in this stale atmosphere. You see him look at you from the corner of your eye and he clears his thoat. "Really? What is it?" He asks, and you manage to utter the same statement from before. It takes a moment before you get a reply again, but he says, "I'll think about it." You pleaded with both your parents to let you change schools until they finally caved in with an extended sigh.

vi. YOU WALKED INTO THE FULL CLASSROOM feeling everyone's eyes glued on you, the feeling being vagualy familiar yet different. Some leaned over to their friend, whispering something, but as you saw them and they made eye contact with you, you wanted to shove yourself inside a locker. "Everyone, this new student ..." You zoned out her speaking until she placed her palm on your shoulder and asked you to intruduse yourself to everyone. "Hello, I am y/n l/n, and I really hope we can all be friendly," You said, and then walked over to the empty seat that the teacher pointed at.

As you take a seat, you take extra notice of your bench mate. Oh, how beautiful she was, her hair looked neat, her skin looked perfect and her eyes... You finally took a seat and did what everyone else did - copying what the teacher wrote. After class, you observed your schedule, confused by where to go. This school was big, and you were a new student who just joined, there was no way you could ask anyone else for help except the teachers, but the one in you room had already left. The girl from beside you tapped you on the shoulder and you turned your head curiously.

"Do you need any help?" She asked, and you nodded. "Help would be appreciated, thanks."

You spent the day with her, laughing and talking like never before. It was comforting to have someone like her beside you. At the end of school, she walked you outside of school and there you saw a group of other people gathered, and they waved in your direction. You turned to see your newly made friend, Yoona, waving back. Her pace quickened as she rushed over to the group, pulling you along by the sleeve of your uniform when she noticed you standing still.

It was a fairly small gang, but they still stared at you as you arrived. They all greeted each other, hugging and chatting till Yoona introduced you to the rest. Her voice sounding so smooth.

As she spoke, you noticed this guy. His hair was long and swept in waves, his eyes soft and brown filled with warmth and kidness. You learnt that his name was Jake from your friend's introduction. "Y/n, wanna come to karaoke with us?" She asked, and you shook your head. "Sorry Yoona, but I gotta head home now" you say, not wanting to interrupt the harmony established amongst the people. She nodded understandingly and let you go, waving her farewell.

On your way home you realised you had made a new friend. A real one at that, but thoughts of insecurities snaked its way into your mind. What if she was just being kind? To say that this could possibly be one of many occurrence was high, and the possibility that you'd fit in was low.

vii. YOU FOUND YOURSELF IN THE PARK with them. You've come to the realisation that a new start was exactly what you needed. Your feet swung you back and forth on the swing, hearing the laughter of everyone around you and feeling the warmth in your heart expand. You had gotten close to everyone, but Jake seemed to have a special place in your heart for some reason.

"Anyone wanna go to the arcade?" Someone called out, and everyone said yes, including you who never went along with them. On the way there, you walked along side Jake, chatting with him and joking. "So what made you change schools so suddenly." He questioned, and you shook your head with an awkward chuckle, "Nothing, I just wanted to." Jake had this friendly smirk on his face as he nudged his shoulder against yours, "you can't be serious. You probably had a lot of friends there." You had your eyes focused on the road as you tried to comply a decent reply. "I mean-" as you were about to answer, everyone had already arrived at the arcade. You found this to be the perfect escape.

Everyone rushed inside, being bombarded with games and bright lights. Almost immediately, you spotted the claw machines. You eyed it like it was candy. There were many plushies, but you really really wanted the bunny one. Jake who was close by saw the way your eyes lit up and approached you with his hands in his pocket. "If you beat me in any game, I'll get you that plushie." He says, and you turn to look up at, his lips being extremely close to your face. "Are you sure you wanna bet?" You asked and he nodded his head, "Go ahead, choose a game." You pointed at an air hockey board and Jake ushered you over there with his palm resting on your shoulder.

You played a couple of games, and you were determined to win. Jake, not so much. His eyes roamed everywhere except for the hockey puck, his eyes landed on your concentrated face a handful of times, observing your reaction to each goal. You easily won and rushed over to his side, cheering. Your smiles were contagious, and Jake laughed, exposing his pearly teeth. "You wanted that white bunny, right?" He asked, and you nodded. "You could get whichever one, really." He made his way to the machine, you standing beside him. Jake kissed his coin before inerting it into the machine. It took him many tries before he sighed and collected his calm once more. "You don't really need to continue, Jake." You tell him, but she shakes his head and stretches his arms and back. "I'll get it this time. I might need more luck though." You see him point at his cheek with a smug smile. "That's silly." You reply sarcastically and he pleads with you giving you the puppy eyes before caving in. You stand on your toes and quickly peck him on the cheek shyly. Your heart was pounding and you could feel your cheeks turn rosy at the act.

He winks at you once before turning to the machine with one last try. His focus is evident in his fierceful gaze and you also hope for him to win this time, mostly becuase you start to feel bad for all the coins he's lost.

While being consumed by your own thoughts, Jake celebrated his win. He turned around to hand you the bunny, but saw you spacing out. He snapped his fingers in you face and you shook you back into reality. You finally processed the fact that he had won after staring at the plush in his arms. Jake gently hands it to you and you take it with a smile. "Woah! Thank you so much!" You thank him over all the other people's conversations around you two.

The rest of the evening was spent with silent glances that held adoration between the two of you. and eventually, it was time to go home. You all gathered outside the arcade to wave each other off before going their separate ways.

You notice that Jake was taking the same way as you and you stopped in your tracks to let him catch up to you. "Do you also take this way?" You asked him. "Kind of, I actually wanted to walk you home." He rubbed the back of his neck before you two began walking again. "You could've told me before, you almost looked like a creep." Jake chuckled at your remark and said, "I would've, but I guess I got shy." with his thick accent seeping through.

The sound of crickets and owls hooting filled in the silence during the short walk to your front door step. "Thanks for walking me home, Jake." You say as you search for your keys in your purse. He was silent for a while as you unlocked your door. "Y/n, I have something to ask you." You turned to him curiously and arched an eyebrow. He was obviously nervous as you saw him fidgeting with his own fingers and clearing his throat over and over again to muster up the courage to ask,

viii. "WILL YOU GO TO PROM WITH ME, Y/N?" It had totally slipped your mind that prom was soon. You stood there wide eyed at the question. "You're not joking with me right." You wonder if he's pranking you, but he shakes his head. "Why would I joke with a pretty girl like you." His tone sounds genuine, but you still can't shake this feeling of uncertainty. "There's many other people you could've asked, but instead you chose me." The identical feeling of hopelessness returned after finally being chased away. "Becuase I only want you. Y/n, please." It takes a while for you to open your mouth an reply, but you feel the cold sweat coat your hairline and seeing Jake's soft expression was not helping you to calm down.

"I need to think about it, sorry."

You take notice of how Jake's expression turns dark when you shut the door and lock it behind you. You rush up the stairs and sprint into your room, ignoring your mother's calls. The plushy you had gotten from Jake was thrown onto your bed as you hurry to look out the window, observing him walk away from you. To your surprise, you see him look back at your house. Hurriedly, you pull out a diary that you had hidden under your mattress and write about everything, it isn't until after you're done taking notes that you feel bad for Jake. How must he feel?

You take a look at the plush he gifted you, and groan at the dilemma.

ix. THE NEXT DAY at school you searched for Jake everywhere, but you never saw him. Your mood visibly worsened as the day had come to an end without seeing him once. Yoona took notice of this and decided to question you. "Is everything okay?" She asked you and you nodded your head with a hum. "Yoona, have you seen Jake today?" She shakes her head and pulls out her phone. "He sent me a text this morning that he wouldn't come today since he felt under the weather. Why?" "Nothing, just wondering." You quickly blubber, grabbing your stuff quickly. "Hey, what's the rush? Wait for me alright." You hear Yoona chuckle as she packs her stuff. You apologise and wait for her.

You two part ways at the split road with a hug, and you gradually start to jog your way to his place. You stand there on his door step, bag slung over your shoulder with your fingers twisting the hem of your skirt. "Is it too late to turn around?", you think you to yourself. You shake away these thoughts, and raise your curled up fist to knock, but to your surprise, Jake opened the door, his eyes looked equally as shocked as yours. "Uhm, so I wanted to talk to you." You utter, and see Jake sigh. "Sure, I'm going on a walk if you wanna follow along." You nod and walk behind him.

"So, I've been thinking." His interest perks, and he glances your way. "I'll go to prom with you, but I don't understand why me? I'm not pretty. I'm not that ....good." You voice comes out weak, and Jake stops walking. "Don't say that. Not only are you incredibly beautiful, but you're also so, so kind and caring." He approaches you, his hand gliding up your cheek. "Are you not angry at me?" You ask, trying to avoid his eyes. "Angry? At you? That's ridiculous." He scoffs playfully, and you finally get the courage to look him in the eyes. "I might've been slightly upset since I thought you rejected me, but i guess I have a date for prom!" He smiles brightly and you look at him awestruck. "Of course," you reply and kiss him on the cheek once again with your arms swung around his neck, and his arms instinctively wrap around your waist. "You make me so happy." He is smiling widely as he pecks your face with butterfly kisses.

TAGLIST :: @swaivy

[dreamersworldduh]

CRAZY, STUPID, LOVE

• DEAN WINCHESTER x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — In the dangerous, chaotic world of hunting, you and Dean Winchester found solace in a friends-with-benefits arrangement—a simple, no-strings connection to escape the relentless weight of your shared lives. Dean, a man who kept his emotions locked behind walls built from years of pain and loss, treated attachments as liabilities and avoided vulnerability at all costs. Yet, you became the exception.

Your sharp wit, unwavering confidence, and ability to see through his bravado slipped past his defenses, offering him a sense of stability he didn't know he needed. While he tried to convince himself that your relationship was purely physical, the truth was far more profound. You mattered to him in ways he couldn't deny, grounding him in a life defined by chaos. Against his own rules, Dean found himself holding onto the one connection he couldn't let go.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing. Violence.

WORDS! 9.8k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Okay, I have a confession—I have never seen Supernatural! Which is weird because I loveeee any show or movie dealing with the supernatural! However, I seen read plenty of Jensen Ackles fics, enough to fall in love with the gruff hunter, Mr Dean Winchester. Boy, oh, boy. He’s a tough one, so here’s something to melt your heart!😉✨

The story of how you and Dean Winchester became entwined is far from conventional—though it began in the simplest, most unremarkable way. In the unforgiving world of hunters, where every day was a gamble with life and death, and the weight of your duty pressed heavily on your shoulders, finding moments of relief wasn't just a luxury; it was survival. For you and Dean, that relief took the form of a shared understanding—an arrangement born out of mutual need: friends with benefits. No emotional messiness, no strings attached. Just two weary souls seeking solace in each other's company, finding fleeting comfort amid the chaos.

And if there was anyone who could embody that kind of arrangement, it was Dean Winchester. Ruggedly handsome in a way that seemed almost cinematic, Dean exuded a raw masculinity that was both infuriating and magnetic. His confidence was disarming, his smirk a challenge, and his green eyes held the kind of mischief that dared you to keep up. He was a man of contradictions: a relentless hunter who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders but masked his pain with crude humor and unapologetic charm. He had a talent for turning even the most innocent remark into a sexual innuendo, a penchant for classic rock, and an encyclopedic knowledge of pop culture references that would have been impressive if it weren't so distracting. And, of course, there was his unashamed fondness for pornography—a fact he made no effort to hide, even when it made you roll your eyes.

Dean wasn't someone who let people get too close. He had built walls around himself, reinforced by years of trauma, heartache, and the gnawing fear that attachments only brought more pain. Women came and went from his life, their names forgotten as quickly as they were learned, serving as fleeting distractions from the shadows that seemed to follow him everywhere. He had rules—strict, self-imposed boundaries that kept him from caring too much, feeling too deeply. But then there was you. And somehow, without even trying, you became the exception to every one of those rules.

Maybe it was the way you carried yourself in the heat of battle—calm, collected, and fiercely determined. Or perhaps it was your sharp wit, the way you could meet his sarcasm with a quip of your own, effortlessly keeping him on his toes. You challenged him, called him out on his nonsense, and refused to let him get away with his usual bravado. There was a spark between you, an undeniable chemistry that ignited every time you were in the same room. It wasn't just physical, though that was certainly part of it. There was something deeper, something intangible that drew him to you like a moth to a flame.

Dean couldn't ignore the way you made him feel—how your presence seemed to ground him, even when everything else in his life was spiraling out of control. You weren't just a convenient distraction or a fleeting fling. You were a rare constant in a life defined by chaos and loss. And though he might never admit it, not even to himself, Dean found himself captivated by you. Not just your striking features or your commanding presence—though those certainly didn't hurt—but by something deeper. Something he couldn't quite name, but that made him break every rule he had so carefully built to protect himself. Something that made him keep coming back, again and again, to you.

You had an undeniable effect on Dean—an effect so consuming, so all-encompassing, that it shattered any expectations he'd ever had about what someone could mean to him. You weren't just someone he wanted, someone he found attractive or compelling. You were a craving, a fire that burned through his veins and refused to be extinguished, no matter how much he tried to rationalize it. You were in his thoughts constantly, lingering like the hum of a well-tuned engine, always there, even when he didn't want to admit it. You weren't just a desire; you were an addiction—intoxicating, irresistible, and impossible to replace. And the truth? Dean didn't want to escape it. He welcomed the way you consumed him, as terrifying as it might have been.

There was something about you that defied explanation, a magnetic pull that went beyond physical attraction or fleeting infatuation. Maybe it was the way you could match him stride for stride, meeting his sarcasm and teasing head-on with that sharp, wicked smirk that drove him insane. You weren't intimidated by his bravado, his wit, or his rough edges—instead, you seemed to thrive on the challenge of keeping up with him, throwing his words back at him with twice the fire. Dean wasn't used to that. He wasn't used to someone who didn't just tolerate his roughness but met it with their own, blending seamlessly into the rhythm of his life like you'd always been there.

But it wasn't just the banter or the chemistry that set you apart. It was the way your presence made everything feel... lighter. For a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, who lived every day knowing death was just a step behind, you were his reprieve. The chaos and noise of hunting—the relentless guilt, the endless responsibility—felt a little less suffocating when you were around. With you, the world didn't seem quite so heavy. You didn't just make life bearable; you made it worth the fight, worth the endless sacrifices and heartaches. And that was something Dean hadn't felt in longer than he cared to admit.

The thought of losing you? It was more than unbearable—it was terrifying. Dean was no stranger to loss; it was a constant, unyielding shadow in his life, stealing everything he held dear. But the idea of losing you wasn't like anything he'd faced before. It wasn't just grief or sadness he imagined—it was devastation. The thought of you walking out of his life, of your laugh, your presence, your fire disappearing, left a hollow ache in his chest that he couldn't ignore. Losing you wouldn't just hurt—it would break him in a way he wasn't sure he could come back from.

So no, you weren't going anywhere. Not if Dean had anything to say about it. He wasn't the kind of man who easily held onto people—his life was messy, dangerous, and far too uncertain. But for you, he would make an exception. He had to. Because somehow, in the chaos of his life, you had become his anchor, the one thing he could hold onto when everything else seemed to spin out of control. You were his constant, the steady presence that reminded him why he kept fighting, why he hadn't given up. And though he might not be the best at showing it, Dean Winchester would do whatever it took to keep you by his side. Because the thought of losing you? That wasn't just unbearable—it was unthinkable. You weren't just someone to him. You were everything.

When it came to you, Dean Winchester didn't just care—he claimed. His protectiveness wasn't a casual thing, nor was it something he apologized for. It was fierce, unapologetic, and at times downright terrifying. He didn't just watch over you; he guarded you with the intensity of a man who had lost too much already and refused to lose again. The idea of anyone even speaking ill of you was enough to make his jaw clench and his green eyes harden with that razor-sharp, dangerous glint that made most people back off without him having to say a word. Disrespect you? Hurt you? They'd better pray Dean didn't hear about it—because when it came to you, there was no forgiveness, only retribution.

It didn't matter that you didn't need protecting. Dean knew you were strong—hell, he'd seen it up close. You weren't just capable; you were a force of nature. He'd watched you take down monsters with a precision and ferocity that left even the most hardened hunters slack-jawed. You handled yourself with confidence and skill, and there was a fire in you that burned so brightly it was impossible to ignore. You didn't need anyone to save you—you'd made that clear from day one. But that didn't stop Dean. It wasn't about whether you needed him; it was about the fact that he needed to be there for you.

Dean had your back in every possible way. He wasn't just a partner in battle; he was an unmovable presence in your life, standing by you like an unshakable wall. He was the first to step forward when things got rough, the first to take a hit so you wouldn't have to, the first to make it clear to anyone who dared cross a line that you weren't someone to mess with. Whether it was stepping in with a cutting remark to shut someone down, fixing that steely glare on a threat, or physically putting himself between you and danger, Dean made sure the message was clear: you were untouchable. On his watch, no one—human or otherwise—would get close enough to hurt you.

But his devotion ran deeper than just physical protection. Dean wasn't just your shield in the field; he was your unwavering support in every part of your life. He stood by you in the quiet moments, too, watching your six not just on the battlefield but in every room, every situation. You'd catch him scanning a crowd, making sure no one was getting too close, too loud, too bold. He didn't need to say a word; his presence was enough. The way he hovered just a bit closer when tensions rose or the way his gaze darted to you when you entered a room spoke volumes. It wasn't just about keeping you safe—it was about making sure you knew you weren't alone. That no matter what came your way, he was right there, ten toes down, ready to stand between you and anything that threatened you.

Dean Winchester might have been a lot of things—brash, stubborn, and infuriatingly sarcastic—but when it came to you, he was steady, loyal, and relentless. His care for you wasn't loud or flashy; it was in the little things. In the way he made sure you had a hot meal after a long hunt. In the way he double-checked that the weapons you carried were in perfect condition. In the way his hand would find your arm or your shoulder when words weren't enough to say, I've got you.

Because when Dean cared, he cared with everything he had. He didn't do half-measures or halfway devotion. You were his person—his anchor, his partner, his everything—and he wasn't about to let anyone forget it. He'd fight for you, bleed for you, and, if it ever came down to it, he'd die for you without hesitation. Because you weren't just important to him—you were everything. And Dean Winchester never let go of what mattered most.

Tonight, Dean Winchester was a man on a mission. It wasn't about hunting monsters or saving the world—though those things had their place. Tonight was about you, about making sure you understood, without question, just how much you meant to him. Grand gestures and sweeping declarations weren't Dean's style. He wasn't the guy who showered someone with roses or planned elaborate candlelit dinners. No, Dean expressed himself through dry humor, protective instincts, and those rare moments when he let his guard slip, showing the vulnerability he kept locked away. But tonight was different. Tonight, he was determined to show you, in his own way, that you weren't just someone in his life—you were the someone.

Even Sam and Castiel couldn't hide their surprise at the effort Dean was putting into planning something special. Sam had raised an eyebrow when Dean muttered something about setting aside some time and needing things to go "just right." Castiel, ever the curious observer, had tilted his head, his unblinking gaze silently analyzing this rare glimpse of Dean's softer side. After all, this was the same man who thought a six-pack of beer and a slice of pie was romantic gold. Yet here he was, mapping out a plan to make sure you felt appreciated, loved, and understood.

Unfortunately, as was often the case in your world, life had other plans. Before Dean could even begin to set his night in motion, the three of you—Dean, Sam, and yourself—caught wind of a small pack of vampires preying on a nearby town. The hunt couldn't wait. Innocent lives were at stake, and in true Winchester fashion, the mission had to come first. Castiel had been ready to join you, but angelic duties had called him away, leaving the three of you to gear up and face the threat alone. The trunk of the Impala was quickly filled with machetes, bottles of dead man's blood, and the familiar weight of yet another dangerous night.

Despite the sudden change of plans, Dean wasn't about to let the hunt derail everything. Even as the three of you strategized, his attention lingered on you in ways that spoke volumes. He handed you a weapon with a brush of his fingers that lingered just a little too long to be casual. His jokes, aimed at breaking the tension, were always delivered with a glance in your direction, his eyes sparkling with something deeper than humor.

The three of you—Dean, Sam, and yourself—pushed cautiously into the abandoned mansion, the heavy wooden doors groaning under their own weight as they creaked open. The air that greeted you was suffocatingly stale, carrying the acrid stench of rot and mildew that made your stomach turn. The grandeur of the once-stately home was long gone, replaced by decay and neglect. The intricate carvings on the wooden banister were chipped and splintered, the elegant chandeliers dangled precariously, and the faded remnants of wallpaper peeled from the walls like forgotten memories.

Dean moved on your right, his machete glinting faintly in the dim shafts of moonlight filtering through shattered windows. His body was a study in controlled tension, each step deliberate, his green eyes scanning the shadowed corridors for the slightest hint of movement. To your left, Sam's towering form moved with equal precision, his flashlight sweeping over the debris-strewn floors and gaping doorways. You could feel the charged silence between the three of you, the unspoken knowledge that danger was lurking in the dark.

The herd of vampires you'd been tracking was somewhere in this sprawling labyrinth, and the unease in your gut only deepened as you ventured further inside. Years of hunting had sharpened your instincts, and right now, every nerve in your body screamed that you were being watched. The oppressive quiet pressed in on you, broken only by the creak of the warped floorboards beneath your boots and the distant drip of water echoing through the cavernous space.

"We should split up," you suggested in a low voice, your words cutting through the heavy silence.

Dean stopped dead in his tracks, turning to you with an incredulous glare. His jaw tightened, and his voice was a low growl as he snapped, "That's the dumbest idea I've heard all week. And that's saying something."

You met his sharp gaze with calm defiance. "The house is too big, Dean. If we stick together, we'll be here all night, and they'll have time to scatter. Splitting up means we cover more ground faster."

Sam tilted his head, his brow furrowing as he considered your point. "He's not wrong," he offered cautiously. "If we stick to a plan—stay in contact and regroup at the first sign of trouble—we might have a better chance of catching them off guard."

Dean let out a heavy sigh, gripping his machete like he wanted to argue but couldn't find the words to refute you both. "Fine," he muttered, though his expression left no doubt he hated the idea. "But if either of you gets in over your head, you call. I mean it. No hero crap."

With a reluctant nod from Dean, the three of you split up. Sam headed toward the grand staircase, his flashlight sweeping over the crumbling steps as he ascended to the second floor. Dean veered off toward the eastern wing, muttering something under his breath about bad ideas. That left you with the western halls—a maze of decaying doorways and shadowy passageways that seemed to stretch endlessly into the dark.

The deeper you ventured, the heavier the atmosphere became. The walls seemed to close in, the corridors twisting and intersecting in a way that made you question whether the mansion's design had been intentional or the result of time warping its structure. Your machete felt solid in your grip, a reassuring weight against the growing tension.

When you stepped into a large library, the air felt different—heavier, charged with a faint energy that raised the hairs on the back of your neck. Rows of dusty shelves loomed around you, their contents long forgotten and crumbling. A massive window at the far end of the room was cracked and fogged with grime, letting in just enough light to cast eerie shadows.

Then you saw it—a flicker of movement in the corner of your eye. You froze, your heart hammering as you tightened your grip on your weapon. Slowly, you turned, scanning the room with practiced precision. That's when you spotted him.

A figure emerged from the shadows, leaning casually against one of the bookshelves as if he had all the time in the world. He was tall and lean, his pale skin giving him an almost ghostly appearance in the dim light. His dark hair was slicked back, framing sharp, angular features that were only accentuated by the smirk curling at the corner of his lips. But it was his eyes that held your attention—cold, calculating, and predatory, glinting with an unsettling mix of amusement and hunger.

"Well, well," he drawled, his voice smooth and dripping with mockery. "A hunter, all alone. What a delightful surprise."

The vampire prowled around you, his movements unnervingly fluid and calculated, each step deliberate as though he were savoring the moment. His sharp, piercing gaze raked over you, studying you with an intensity that felt invasive, as if he could see right through you. The smirk tugging at the corner of his lips hinted at amusement—or perhaps satisfaction—but there was no mistaking the predatory gleam in his eyes.

Your grip on the machete tightened, its weight steady in your hand, a much-needed anchor in this tense standoff. You held your stance firm, but your mind was a whirlwind of calculations. He wasn't lunging, wasn't snarling, and yet his every movement radiated menace. He was toying with you, a predator testing its prey. But why? That lingering question gnawed at the edges of your mind.

"Tell me," he drawled, his voice like velvet, smooth and disarmingly calm. "What brings you here, hunter? Were you foolish enough to wander in alone? Or are you just that brave?" His tone was mocking, but there was something underneath—curiosity, perhaps? Intrigue?

You didn't answer, your eyes tracking him as he circled. Silence was your shield; words could give too much away. He noticed your refusal to speak and chuckled, a low, rich sound that made your skin crawl.

"Ah, the silent treatment," he said, feigning disappointment. "That's fine. Silence can be... telling." He stopped briefly, tilting his head as though examining a puzzle piece he couldn't quite figure out. "But you're different, aren't you? Not like the others. There's something... unique about you."

His eyes gleamed with a strange intensity as he resumed his slow circling. You could feel the air shift around him, heavy and charged, as though the room itself was reacting to his presence. Most vampires you'd encountered had been feral, desperate creatures, attacking with reckless abandon or fleeing when cornered. But this one? This one was composed, confident—dangerously so.

You couldn't ignore the questions clawing at the edges of your mind. If he was here alone, where was the rest of his nest? Vampires didn't operate solo, especially not leaders. And you were certain this one was the leader. His calm, his control, the way he carried himself—it all screamed authority. But if that was the case, why wasn't he surrounded by his kin? And more importantly, where was his mate? Vampires who lived long enough to lead a nest often had a mate—a partner as strong and cunning as themselves. The absence of one was glaring.

Your eyes darted subtly around the room, searching for any sign of movement in the dense shadows. The room was vast, its corners dark and endless, offering countless places for another vampire to hide. If his mate was here, they could strike at any moment. Or was he truly alone? The possibilities buzzed in your mind, each one more unsettling than the last.

"Looking for something?" he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. He had caught the flicker of your gaze, and his smirk deepened. "Or someone, perhaps?" He leaned in slightly, his movements so smooth they were almost imperceptible. "If they're here, you'll meet them soon enough."

You refused to flinch under his scrutiny, your resolve unwavering as you met his gaze. But there was something disarming about the way he looked at you, as if he were searching for something deeper, peeling back layers you weren't even aware of. And then there was that other look—the faintest flicker of admiration, or something more unsettling. Attraction, perhaps? Whatever it was, it left you uneasy.

"What do you want?" you asked finally, your voice sharp and steady, cutting through the thick tension like a blade.

He stopped circling, standing just a few feet away now, his smirk softening into something more calculating. "What do I want?" he echoed, his tone almost playful. "For now? I want to know more about you. You've intrigued me, hunter. There's a strength in you, something I haven't seen in a very long time. Something rare."

His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. You didn't rise to the bait, keeping your expression neutral, your weapon steady. He was trying to disarm you, to draw you into a game you didn't intend to play. But his calm demeanor only made him more dangerous. He wasn't like the others you'd hunted—this one was intelligent, deliberate, and playing a game with stakes you couldn't yet see.

"You're stalling," you said, narrowing your eyes. "If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it by now."

His chuckle was soft, but it carried a dark edge. "Kill you? Oh no, hunter. You're far too interesting for that. Besides," he added, his eyes gleaming with a predatory glint, "I have a feeling this is just the beginning. I'd hate to waste such... potential."

The male vampire took a deliberate step closer, his smirk curling into something darker, more predatory. His eyes gleamed with an intensity that felt almost magnetic, holding your gaze as though he could bend your will with a look alone. Yet, there was an undeniable allure beneath the menace, a strange charisma that made your skin crawl even as it piqued your unease.

"You know," he began, his voice low and smooth, laced with a chilling kind of seduction, "you would make a magnificent vampire. Strong. Clever. Fearless. Qualities like yours don't come along every day." His pale fingers hovered near yours, not quite touching but close enough to make you hyperaware of his presence. "Imagine it. No more running, no more mortal limitations. You and I—forever. Doesn't that sound... enticing?"

The words sank like ice into your mind, freezing your blood as you processed his absurd proposition. Your grip on your machete tightened, the familiar weight anchoring you against the storm of implications behind his offer. Yet before you could summon a response—sarcastic, angry, or otherwise—the tension in the room shattered with a thunderous crash.

The door behind the vampire burst open, slamming into the wall with a crack that echoed through the decaying mansion. A blonde woman stormed in, her every movement radiating fury and disbelief. Her striking features were sharp as a blade, her golden eyes glowing with a mix of rage and disdain. She carried herself with the authority of someone who was used to being obeyed—or feared.

"Elliot," she snapped, her voice cutting through the air like a whip, "what the hell are you doing?"

The male vampire��Elliot, apparently—stiffened briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching in irritation before he turned to her with a calmness that only deepened the tension. "Ah, Celeste," he said smoothly, his tone laced with mock surprise. "You're earlier than expected."

"Clearly," she shot back, her voice dripping with venom. Her fiery gaze darted between you and Elliot, her scowl deepening. "What is this?" She gestured at you, her tone sharp enough to flay skin. "Are you seriously flirting with a hunter? Have you lost your damn mind?"

Elliot exhaled a long-suffering sigh, running a hand through his dark hair as though Celeste's arrival was the greatest inconvenience of his night. "Flirting?" he repeated, his voice tinged with exasperation. "You misread the situation. I'm making an offer."

Her laugh was sharp and bitter, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "An offer? You're trying to turn him, aren't you? Don't even try to deny it."

Elliot's smirk returned, this time more amused than predatory. "And what if I am?" he asked, his voice smooth as silk. "He's exceptional, Celeste. Even you can see that."

The color drained from her face, her fury briefly giving way to stunned disbelief. "You're insane," she hissed. "We've been together for decades, and now you're ready to toss me aside for some random hunter? Is that it?"

Elliot turned to her fully, his expression hardening, the amusement fading into something colder. "Decades of convenience, Celeste," he said bluntly, his tone like a blade cutting through the air. "Don't mistake what we've had for something it's not."

Her face twisted in a mixture of pain and fury, her fangs flashing as she stepped closer to him. "You bastard," she spat, her voice trembling with emotion. "You used me. All this time, you used me."

"You were useful," Elliot said flatly, his voice devoid of sympathy. "But don't delude yourself into thinking you were anything more."

Celeste's golden eyes burned with rage as she turned her attention to you, her expression venomous. "This is your fault," she snarled, pointing a finger at you. "You've bewitched him somehow, haven't you? But it doesn't matter—you're dead. Tonight."

She took a step forward, her fury boiling over, but Elliot moved faster. He stepped between you and Celeste with a speed that made your heart skip, his posture rigid and his voice low and dangerous. "Enough," he said, the word cutting through her rage like a command. "You will not touch him."

Her laugh was a harsh bark of disbelief. "You're protecting him? A hunter? Against me?"

Elliot's gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. "He's not just any hunter. He's mine."

The possessiveness in his words made your stomach churn, your unease mounting as the energy in the room shifted. It was colder now, heavier, as though his claim had weight beyond the spoken word. You could feel the power in him, raw and oppressive, pressing against you like an unseen force.

Celeste stared at him, her chest heaving with suppressed fury. "You've lost your mind," she whispered, her voice trembling with rage and disbelief. "You'll regret this. Both of you."

Suddenly, the room exploded in a flash of violence as Celeste's head was severed cleanly from her shoulders. There was no warning—just a swift blur of silver and the sickening sound of blade slicing through flesh and bone. Her head hit the ground with a dull thud, rolling to a stop, while her body crumpled in a lifeless heap. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood as the shock of what had just happened settled in.

You barely had time to process the scene before your gaze locked on the source of the attack: Dean Winchester, standing tall and unapologetic, his machete glistening with blood. His green eyes burned with a sharp, unyielding intensity, his smirk laced with the kind of swagger that only Dean could pull off.

"Yeah, sorry to interrupt your little soap opera," Dean said, his voice heavy with sarcasm as he stepped forward. He gestured casually with his bloodied weapon, as if he hadn't just executed a vampire mid-argument. "But let's make one thing clear: he's spoken for."

Elliot's body stiffened, his expression shifting from shock to pure, unbridled fury. He snapped his head toward Dean, the calm facade he'd worn earlier disintegrating in an instant. His dark eyes burned with hatred, and his lips peeled back to reveal his fangs, sharp and glistening. "You dare interfere?" he snarled, his voice low and menacing, practically vibrating with rage. "You'll regret that."

Dean, utterly unfazed, rolled his shoulders and adjusted his grip on the machete. His smirk widened, his voice dripping with cocky defiance. "Big talk for a guy who just lost his girlfriend," he quipped. "What's wrong? Did I ruin your plan to turn him into your eternal cuddle buddy?"

Elliot's face twisted in rage, his entire frame vibrating with barely contained energy. His movements were sharp and predatory as he took a menacing step toward Dean. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, the air around him growing heavier as he prepared to strike. He wasn't just angry—he was an apex predator on the verge of attack, his supernatural strength and speed radiating off him in waves.

Dean didn't flinch. He stood his ground, his machete gleaming in the dim light as he squared his shoulders. "Bring it on, Dracula," he growled, his tone daring.

That was all the invitation Elliot needed. He lunged, moving so quickly he was almost a blur. His hand shot out to strike, claws extended, but Dean sidestepped at the last second, swinging his machete in a wide arc. The blade connected with a shallow slice across Elliot's arm, drawing blood. Elliot hissed, barely fazed, and spun back around with terrifying speed, his claws slashing through the air where Dean's throat had been just moments earlier.

The fight was brutal and relentless, their movements a chaotic dance of strength and strategy. Elliot's supernatural speed and power were staggering; he moved with inhuman precision, every strike aimed to kill. Dean, however, was no stranger to impossible odds. He moved with the practiced skill of a man who had faced death more times than he could count. His blows were calculated, his every movement a mix of grit and raw determination.

The sound of their battle filled the room—the clash of steel, heavy footfalls, the occasional grunt of pain. Elliot's strength was overwhelming, and at one point, he caught Dean by the arm and threw him across the room like he weighed nothing. Dean crashed into a bookshelf, the wood shattering under the impact, but he was on his feet again in seconds. He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning through the pain. "That all you got?" he taunted, his voice low and daring.

Elliot snarled, his eyes glowing faintly as he lunged again, this time aiming for Dean's chest. Dean ducked just in time, bringing his machete up in a swift upward strike. The blade bit into Elliot's chest, leaving a deep, searing wound. The vampire howled in pain, staggering back, but it wasn't enough to stop him. He retaliated with a backhanded strike, his claws catching Dean across the shoulder and sending him stumbling.

You stood frozen, your heart pounding as the fight raged on. Dean was holding his own, but barely. Elliot's supernatural strength was wearing him down, each counterattack forcing Dean closer to the edge. You wanted to jump in, to even the odds, but before you could move, Dean's sharp gaze found yours.

"Stay back," he barked, his voice firm and unyielding, despite the strain in his expression. Blood trickled down his arm, staining his shirt, but his resolve was unshaken. "I've got this."

Elliot's head snapped toward you, his cruel smirk returning. "How noble," he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "Trying to protect him? You can't even protect yourself."

Dean's jaw tightened, and without hesitation, he lunged forward with a roar, swinging his machete with every ounce of strength he had left. The fight wasn't over—not yet. And if you knew anything about Dean Winchester, it was that he wouldn't stop until the vampire was dead, even if it killed him in the process.

Dean was struggling, his movements growing slower, more desperate with every swing of his machete. Elliot was relentless, dodging each strike with inhuman speed, his attacks growing bolder and more calculated. The vampire wasn't just fighting—he was toying with Dean, circling him like a predator savoring the moment before the kill. Blood trickled down Dean's forehead from a cut just above his brow, the crimson streak stark against his pale skin. His chest heaved with labored breaths, his shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion, but he refused to stop. Refused to give up.

Elliot's smirk deepened, his predatory eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "You've got grit, I'll give you that," he drawled, his voice laced with mockery as he stepped closer. "But let's be honest—you're out of your league, hunter. Look at you. You're barely standing."

Dean's lips curled into a snarl, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his machete tighter. "Yeah? Well, I've taken down worse than you," he shot back, though the quaver in his voice betrayed just how close he was to his limit.

Elliot chuckled darkly, his fangs catching the dim light as he leaned in, closing the distance between them. "Oh, I doubt that," he sneered. "But don't worry. I'll make this quick." He paused, his smirk turning even crueler. "Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll let you watch while I turn your little friend. Make you see what he becomes."

Those words lit a fire in Dean's eyes, his rage momentarily overriding his exhaustion. With a roar, he lunged forward, swinging his machete in a wide, desperate arc. But Elliot was faster. He caught Dean's wrist mid-swing, twisting it sharply until the blade clattered to the ground. Dean barely had a chance to react before Elliot's other hand shot out, slamming him against the wall with bone-crushing force.

Dean's head snapped back against the crumbling plaster, his breath knocked from his lungs as Elliot pinned him in place with one hand around his throat. The vampire leaned in closer, his smirk widening as he bared his fangs. Dean thrashed against the grip, but it was like struggling against iron chains—Elliot was too strong, and he was enjoying every second of it.

From your position, you could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the scene playing out in agonizing slow motion. Dean's struggles were growing weaker, his face reddening as Elliot's grip tightened. The vampire was speaking, taunting him, but the words barely registered. All you knew was that if you didn't act now, you'd lose him.

Adrenaline surged through you, and you moved without hesitation. Dean's earlier order to stay back echoed faintly in your mind, but you pushed it aside. There was no way you were letting him die—not now, not ever. With your machete in hand, you crept forward, your steps quick but silent, your grip tightening around the hilt until your knuckles ached.

Elliot was so focused on his prey that he didn't notice you until it was too late. Just as he leaned in, his fangs poised to strike, you swung your machete with every ounce of strength you could summon. The silver blade whistled through the air, a deadly arc that struck true.

The cut was clean, precise. Elliot's head severed from his shoulders in an instant, his expression frozen in a mixture of shock and disbelief. His body crumpled to the ground in a heap, lifeless, as his head rolled a few feet away before coming to a stop. The room fell silent, save for the sound of your own ragged breathing.

Dean stumbled forward as the vampire's grip released, coughing and clutching at his throat. He leaned heavily against the wall, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Slowly, he looked up at you, his face a mix of relief and frustration. "You really don't take orders well, do you?" he rasped, his voice hoarse.

"You're welcome," you replied, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins as you tried to steady your breathing. Your grip on the machete remained firm, your pulse thundering in your ears.

Dean straightened, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. His gaze dropped to Elliot's lifeless body, then back to you. A faint, crooked grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Hell of a swing," he muttered, nodding toward your machete. "Remind me not to piss you off."

You managed a small grin in return, though the weight of what had just happened hadn't fully lifted. "You looked like you needed a hand," you said simply, your voice steadier than you felt.

Dean's grin softened, and he reached out to clap a hand on your shoulder. The gesture was brief but heavy with meaning. "Thanks," he said, his voice quieter now. "Seriously. I owe you one."

Before either of you could say more, the silence of the room was broken by a faint noise—a distant creak of footsteps echoing through the mansion. The two of you exchanged a glance, the momentary reprieve evaporating as the reality of the situation returned. The fight wasn't over. There were still more vampires lurking in the shadows, and you both knew it.

Dean bent to retrieve his machete, his movements steady despite the fatigue etched into his frame. "Let's finish this," he said, his voice firm, his green eyes sharp once more.

You nodded, your machete still at the ready.

The heavy iron doors of the Men of Letters bunker creaked and groaned as you, Sam, and Dean pushed them open, stepping into the dimly lit warmth of your sanctuary. The hunt was finally over. Days of tracking the vampire herd, endless skirmishes, and close calls had culminated in one brutal showdown, leaving the herd annihilated—and all of you battered and exhausted. The adrenaline that had kept you on your feet had long since burned out, leaving only the ache of bruises and the bone-deep fatigue that followed every hunt.

Dean was the last to step inside, his machete hanging loosely at his side, the blade streaked with dried blood. His shirt was torn in several places, revealing fresh cuts and purple bruises across his arms, chest, and shoulders. He moved with a slight limp, favoring his left leg, and his face was streaked with grime and blood—some his, some not. Yet despite his disheveled state, he still managed to mutter, "Those damn bloodsuckers were on steroids or something," his tone laced with sarcasm as usual.

Sam, equally worse for wear with a gash above his eyebrow and dirt smudged across his face, clapped Dean on the back. "You're lucky they didn't do worse," he quipped, his voice heavy with exhaustion. Without waiting for a response, Sam trudged off toward his room, the promise of a shower and sleep clearly his priority. "I'll patch this up later," he added, gesturing vaguely to his injuries before disappearing down the hall.

Dean made to follow, his steps slow and uneven, but you stepped in front of him, crossing your arms and blocking his path. "Hold it right there," you said, your tone firm yet gentle. "You're the one who looks like you just went twelve rounds with a grizzly bear. Sit down."

Dean rolled his eyes, letting out a huff of annoyance. "I'm fine," he muttered, though the stiffness in his posture and the wince that flickered across his face told a different story. "It's just a couple scratches."

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his bravado. "Uh-huh. And I'm the queen of England. Sit. Down."

He sighed dramatically, but the fight was already gone from him. Dropping into one of the war room chairs with a heavy thud, he leaned back, letting his machete clatter onto the table. "Fine, Nurse Ratched," he grumbled, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

Without another word, you grabbed the first-aid kit from its usual spot on the shelf and pulled up a chair beside him. Dean watched as you opened the kit and laid out what you needed, his lips twitching in a faint smirk. "You're really getting a kick out of this, aren't you?"

"Not even a little," you shot back, already dampening a cloth with antiseptic. "Now sit still and shut up."

Dean complied, though not without muttering something about you being bossier than Sam. You ignored him, focusing on cleaning the blood and grime from his face and arms. The silence between you was comfortable, broken only by the occasional hiss or wince from Dean when you pressed too hard on a particularly nasty gash. Your hands moved methodically, and despite his usual resistance to being fussed over, Dean stayed still, letting you work.

As you carefully wrapped a bandage around a deep cut on his arm, you caught him watching you. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw that his usual smirk was gone, replaced by something softer, almost contemplative. His green eyes lingered on your face, the intensity of his gaze making you pause.

"What?" you asked, glancing up at him.

Dean shook his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Nothing," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "Just... you're good at this."

You raised an eyebrow, your tone playful but pointed. "I've had a lot of practice patching you up, Winchester."

He chuckled, but it was a quiet, almost bittersweet sound. "Yeah, I guess you have." His gaze dropped briefly, as if searching for the right words, before he looked back up at you. "You don't have to, you know. Take care of me like this. I'm supposed to be the one looking out for you."

You frowned, tightening the bandage with a little more force than necessary. "You don't get to decide that," you said firmly. "You're not just some guy I hunt with, Dean. You matter to me, okay? So stop being stubborn and let me take care of you."

Dean's breath hitched slightly at your words, his expression shifting. For a moment, he just looked at you, his usual walls nowhere to be found. His green eyes softened, and the vulnerability there made your chest tighten. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "I think I'm in love with you."

The confession hung in the air like a thunderclap, the weight of it sinking into the quiet space between you. You froze, staring at him, your heart racing as you processed his words. Dean Winchester, a man who guarded his emotions with ironclad defenses, had just let them spill out in the most unexpected way.

"Dean..." you started, but he cut you off with a small, self-deprecating laugh.

"Don't worry," he said quickly, his voice rough. "You don't have to say anything. I just... I needed to get it out there. You deserve to know."

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself before placing a hand on his uninjured arm. "Dean," you said softly, your voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside you. "You're an idiot if you think I don't feel the same way."

His eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable. "You do?"

You smiled, squeezing his arm gently. "Of course I do, you stubborn ass. But we'll talk about it later—after you let me finish patching you up."

Dean let out a breathy laugh, his smile genuine this time. "Fair enough," he said, leaning back in the chair. "But you're still bossy."

"And you're still reckless," you shot back, shaking your head with a grin. "Take your shirt off."

Dean's eyebrows shot up, and despite the fatigue lining his face, a slow, cocky grin spread across his lips. "Well, if you wanted me naked, you could've just said so," he teased, his voice carrying that familiar drawl of Winchester charm. "Didn't peg you as the 'wounded soldier' type, but hey, I'm not complaining."

You rolled your eyes, doing your best to ignore the way his grin tugged at something in your chest. "I'm serious. I need to clean that cut on your chest, and I can't do that with your shirt in the way."

"Mm, bossy. I like it," he quipped, but as he reached for the hem of his shirt, his smirk faltered for a moment when the movement made him wince. He pulled the fabric over his head, tossing it to the floor with a groan.

You tried not to stare, but the sight of his battered torso was hard to ignore. Bruises in various stages of discoloration painted his skin, and dried blood streaked across the angry red gash that ran diagonally across his chest. Even beaten and bruised, Dean Winchester was... well, he was still Dean Winchester.

Focus. You grabbed a cloth, soaked it in antiseptic, and stepped closer, crouching slightly to better reach his chest. "This might sting," you warned, pressing the cloth gently against the wound.

Dean hissed, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. "No kidding," he muttered through gritted teeth. "You're lucky you're cute; otherwise, I'd be kicking you out of my personal space right now."

You raised an eyebrow, barely suppressing a smirk of your own. "Pretty sure I've earned my place in your personal space, Winchester."

He chuckled, though it was rough and breathy. "Fair point." His green eyes lingered on you as you worked, his smirk softening into something more genuine. "Y'know, you're pretty good at this."

"I've had a lot of practice," you replied, dabbing carefully around the edges of the gash. "Mostly because you keep getting yourself into situations like this."

Dean leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze never leaving your face. "Well, if this is how you're gonna take care of me, maybe I'll get banged up more often. Free TLC from my favorite person? Could be worse."

You let out a small huff of exasperation, but his words still sent a flicker of warmth through you. "You're impossible," you muttered, shaking your head.

As you continued to clean his wounds, the air between you shifted. The banter quieted, replaced by something heavier, more intimate. The room seemed to shrink, the space between you and Dean charged with an unspoken tension. You could feel his gaze on you, more intent now, as if he were memorizing every detail of your face. Your hand brushed against his side as you worked, and his breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

When you finally stood to discard the bloodied cloth, Dean's hands suddenly found your waist. His grip was firm but careful, his calloused fingers pressing gently into your sides. The unexpected touch made you freeze for a moment, your heartbeat stuttering as his thumbs brushed lightly against your hips. You opened your mouth to say something, but before you could, you felt the warmth of his lips against your neck.

The kiss was soft, almost tentative, as if he were testing the waters. His breath was warm against your skin, and the way his lips lingered sent a shiver down your spine. You stood still, your hands hovering uncertainly near his shoulders, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

Then he tilted his head up, capturing your lips in a kiss that was anything but tentative. It was slow and deliberate, carrying a weight that left you breathless. This wasn't the impulsive kind of kiss born from adrenaline or heat of the moment. This was something else entirely—something deliberate, something meaningful.

Your mind raced, trying to piece together what this meant. Dean Winchester wasn't exactly known for vulnerability, and this was different. There was no bravado, no smirk. Just him, raw and unguarded.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours, his hands still on your waist as if he couldn't bring himself to let go. His green eyes searched yours, his expression uncharacteristically open. It was as though he was trying to say something but didn't know how.

"Dean," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His lips quirked into a small, almost shy smile. "Don't," he murmured, his voice soft, almost pleading. "Don't say anything. Just... let me have this."

You swallowed hard, your emotions warring in your chest as you placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "Okay," you said softly, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you. "But, Dean... I'm not going anywhere."

He closed his eyes for a moment, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly at your words. When he opened them again, the vulnerability in his gaze was still there, but so was something else—something warmer. His hands loosened slightly on your waist, though he didn't let go.

"Good," he said quietly, his voice carrying a faint trace of that signature Winchester charm. "Because I'm not ready to let you go."

Dean's hands, so steady and certain in battle, now moved with a different kind of confidence. They trailed downward from your waist, his touch warm even through the fabric of your shirt. The shift in his grip sent a shiver through you, anticipation crackling in the air like static.

When his hands settled firmly on your ass, his hold was unapologetically possessive. He gave it a squeeze, a low hum of satisfaction rumbling from his throat, the sound reverberating through your chest. Against your lips, you felt the telltale curve of his smirk, laced with mischief and hunger. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his green eyes alight with that dangerous combination of charm and heat that was uniquely Dean Winchester.

"Didn't think I'd get you in my lap tonight," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that sent warmth pooling low in your stomach. "But I'm not complaining."

Before you could form a coherent response—whether to quip back, scold him for his timing, or give in entirely—Dean shifted. His grip tightened, firm and insistent, and with one smooth, fluid motion, he pulled you forward. Your knees slid onto the chair on either side of his hips, your body straddling his thighs as he drew you into his lap. The sudden movement left you breathless, your chest brushing against his as you steadied yourself.

His hands returned to your hips, anchoring you firmly in place as if daring you to move. His gaze roamed over your face, taking in every detail with a mix of amusement and barely concealed desire. "That's better," he murmured, his lips twitching into a self-satisfied grin. "Now I've got you right where I want you."

Your breath hitched, and before you could retort, he surged forward, claiming your lips once more. This kiss was nothing like the first—it was hungry, demanding, a raw intensity that made your pulse race. His lips moved against yours with fervor, his hands pressing against your hips to pull you even closer, until there wasn't a sliver of space left between your bodies.

As the kiss deepened, his tongue teased yours, every movement deliberate, sending heat coursing through you. His fingers curled against your sides, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of the power he held. Beneath you, you could feel the tension in his muscles, the coiled strength barely restrained as you balanced precariously on his lap.

When his lips finally broke away from yours, it was only to trail down your jaw, leaving a hot, tingling path in their wake. He pressed kisses to the sensitive skin of your neck, each one deliberate, calculated. His breath was warm against your pulse, and when his teeth grazed the tender spot just below your ear, your body reacted instinctively—a soft, involuntary sound escaping your lips.

Dean chuckled, the sound low and rich, vibrating against your skin. "Careful," he murmured, his voice thick with amusement and a darker, more primal edge. "Make noises like that, and I might not let you off this lap for a while."

There was teasing in his tone, but beneath it, there was something deeper—something raw and unspoken. You could feel it in the way his hands moved over your body, exploring with a mix of reverence and desire. He wasn't just touching you; he was committing every curve, every line, to memory, as though this moment mattered more than either of you had expected.

When his lips returned to yours, the kiss was just as searing, just as consuming, but now it carried a weight that left you breathless. There was no rush, no urgency to move beyond this—just Dean, claiming every inch of you with his touch, his kiss, his presence. His hands remained steady on your hips, keeping you tethered to him, as though letting go wasn't an option.

And you realized you didn't want him to let go. Dean Winchester had a way of commanding a room, of making you feel like nothing else existed but the two of you. In this moment, you were more than willing to let him consume you completely.

Your fingers tangled in Dean's hair, the strands soft and warm against your touch as he kissed you with an intensity that made your world narrow down to just him. His hands gripped your ass firmly, his hold unapologetic and possessive, grounding you in a way that made your pulse race. The heat of his palms burned through your clothes, a stark contrast to the cool air of the bunker. Every touch carried a deliberate weight—hunger, yes, but also something deeper, something unspoken that lingered in the space between you.

Dean finally broke the kiss, his breath warm against your lips as he pulled back just enough to speak. His voice was low and gravelly, tinged with a vulnerability you didn't often hear from him. "You know," he began, his green eyes meeting yours with an almost shy flicker, "I had this whole damn night planned for you."

The unexpected confession caught you off guard, and you blinked at him, your hands still resting in his hair. "What?" you whispered, your voice soft, barely audible over the thundering of your heartbeat.

Dean let out a quiet chuckle, equal parts humor and self-deprecation, as his hands slid from your ass to rest gently on your hips. He tilted his head back slightly, his gaze searching yours, as if he were trying to gauge your reaction. "Yeah," he said, his tone quieter now, a rare tenderness weaving through his words. "Candles, music, real food—not diner junk. I even picked out a bottle of whiskey that didn't taste like it came out of an engine block."

Your lips parted in surprise, the image of Dean Winchester—gruff, no-nonsense, and allergic to emotional displays—meticulously planning a romantic evening stirring something deep in your chest. "You?" you managed, a note of disbelief creeping into your voice.

His smirk returned, but it was softer now, lacking his usual cocky edge. "Yeah, me. Don't look so shocked." He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, lingering there for a moment before pulling back just enough to speak again. "I don't do that kind of thing for just anyone. But for you... I wanted to."

Your hands slid from his hair to cup his face, your thumbs brushing gently over the stubble on his jaw. "Dean..." you began, your voice soft, but the weight of your emotions made it impossible to finish the sentence.

Dean cut you off, his smirk fading into a rueful grin. "Of course, the universe had other plans," he muttered, his tone turning wry. "Because why the hell not throw a pack of vampires into the mix, right? Nothing says romance like dead man's blood and machetes."

A soft laugh escaped you, the sound breaking through the heavy tension that had settled between you. "So, what? You're telling me I missed out on some grand romantic gesture?"

Dean's lips twitched into a quiet laugh of his own as his thumbs traced slow circles on your hips. "Not just some grand gesture," he corrected, his voice growing serious again. His green eyes locked onto yours, the sincerity in them hitting you harder than you expected. "I wanted you to know... how much you matter to me. How much this—" he gestured faintly between the two of you with a slight shrug "—means."

His words hit you like a freight train, the raw honesty in them leaving you momentarily speechless. Dean Winchester didn't do vulnerability—not often, and not easily. But here he was, baring himself to you in a way that was rare, even for him.

After a beat, you found your voice. "You didn't need candles or whiskey to show me that," you said, your voice soft but steady. "Just you, Dean... that's more than enough."

He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before his lips curved into a small, genuine smile. "Yeah, well," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead that was so tender it made your chest ache, "I'm still gonna make it up to you. Just wait."

His hands slid back to your ass, his grip firm and familiar, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together again. His lips found yours once more, and this kiss was just as consuming as the first—but now it was softer, filled with something more profound than just hunger. It was a promise, a reassurance that this—whatever it was—wasn't just a fleeting moment.

As the kiss deepened, his touch moved with the same deliberate care, his hands anchoring you to him as though he wanted to keep you there forever. You couldn't help but smile against his lips, your heart full as the weight of his words lingered.

Maybe the night hadn't gone as planned. Maybe there were no candles, no music, no expensive whiskey. But none of that mattered. Because Dean was here, raw and unguarded, and in this messy, unplanned moment, he had given you something far more valuable than any grand gesture.

He had given you him. And that was more than enough.

[girlgenius1111]

You Can Let It Go

not really sure what this is yet, apart from angsty reader and platonic barca femeni :)

warnings: anxiety, panic attack, reader punching wall [in a depressed way, not a straight male way]. general angst + fluff. more comfort probably in the next part

Your alarm rang throughout your dim bedroom, waking you from a deep slumber. With a groan, you rolled over, turning it off. You were exhausted, only having fallen asleep a few hours ago. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you forced yourself up out of bed, getting dressed for training. You ate a quick breakfast, which was 75% coffee and 25% food, before heading to your car. You hadn't snoozed your alarm today, so you were on time, thankfully. You didn't need another reason for your teammates to keep a close eye on you

The last month or so had been... challenging to say the least. You had had an incredible world cup, and were having an incredible start to the season; and as a result the pressure on you had mounted significantly. If anyone had asked, and they had, you would tell them that you were handling it fine, just a little stressed. Nothing you couldn't deal with. In reality, you felt like you were buckling under the weight of other people's expectations. No matter how well you played, it seemed like people always had something to say, making you feel like you couldn't ever perform well enough.

You knew if you could just get yourself out of your own head, you would be fine. The noise would fade away, until it was just you a football again, the way it had always been. You were an anxious person, and you'd dealt with bad months like this before. It had just never been quite this bad. Anxiety and stress swirled within you constantly, and it was a continuous battle to not let it affect how you were playing. You were hoping that even though this time it seemed worse, it would pass like it had before. Preferably before your teammates grew anymore concerned with you.

You didn't think there was a single person on the team who wasn't worried, but there were certainly some that seemed to take their job as older players very seriously, and you'd felt them watching you constantly in recent weeks. You were a younger player, only 20, and everyone was very protective of you. None more so than Alexia and Mapi. Alexia, you assumed, cared because she was the captain and it was her job. Mapi made a little less sense to you, but she had very much taken you under her wing when you'd arrived at Barcelona at only 17.

You could barely breath recently without one of them hovering behind you, worry creasing their eyebrows. You were determined, though, to handle this yourself. No one else was suffering the way you were, so you decided that the problem was you, not the pressure you felt. So, while they couldn't get you to tell them what was going on, they noticed a change in you, definitely. You weren't sure if it was because you were quieter when you were anxious, the bags under your eyes, or the increased intensity with which you'd been practicing. Either way, they'd been bugging you for a while to talk to them, and you resisted.

You pulled into the parking lot, another day of ignoring the older girls' searching looks ahead of you. You tried to muster up some more energy before walking in. It must not have worked very well, because the minute you walked into the noisy locker room, you felt several pairs of eyes on you. Looking up, you made eye contact with Alexia, sending her a half smile. Next to her sat Mapi, Ingrid, and Patri. It seemed that they'd recruited some new people to the "worry about y/n" club, holding their very first meeting right across from you.

You felt them study you as you pulled your training kit on, and wished you'd tried a little harder to hide the bags under your eyes. You talked easily with Claudia and Ona, their lockers on either side of you, about the upcoming game. You were set to play Eintracht Frankfurt the next day in a champions league group stage match. You began to walk with your friends toward the door of the locker room, realizing it was time to head to the pitch. You were interrupted, though, by a hand on your shoulder, and the soft call of your name. Turning, you came face to face with Alexia. Sighing you relented, and remained with her in the locker room as everyone else filtered out. Once the room was empty, Alexia spoke.

"How are you today, pequeña?" She asked, words less firm than her voice was. She'd clearly lost patience over the weeks with your resistance, and had completely abandoned her soft approach.

"I'm good." You replied, forcing yourself to meet her eyes. She raised an eyebrow at you, before tilting your chin up with a hand.

"Really? Because your face is telling me that you barely slept again last night."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I slept fine. Like always." You said, somewhat defiantly, shrugging her hand off of you.

"Watch your tone," Alexia warned, and you withered slightly. "I assume you still won't tell me whats going on with you?"

"There's nothing to tell, Alexia."

She let out a heavy sigh, dragging a hand over her face. "Other people are starting to notice, pequeña, the coaches and physios especially. You can't keep this up forever." You didn't respond, opting instead to stare behind her at the wall. She gave up. "Alright, go to practice, but if Jona asks me what's going on, I'm not covering for you and telling him you're fine to play. You'll have to do that yourself." She said sternly, and you rolled your eyes, darting out of the room before she could reprimand you for that too.

Your talk with Alexia had put you in a bad mood, and it only continued for the rest of practice. You were always irritable when you were anxious, even more so when you weren't sleeping. The other girls had gotten used to your extremely random moods, and knew to leave you be after a talk with Alexia. This time, however, your exhaustion seemed to take all the fight out of you, until you were practicing, no emotion at all expressed on your face.

You didn't protest when Mapi wrapped an arm around your shoulders after a drill, leaning imperceptibly into her. You didn't even really realize what you were doing, until you caught Alexia staring at you. You pulled away quickly, and kept your distance for the rest of practice. You made it through, thankfully without Jona calling you aside. In some miracle, he seemed to not be noticing your exhausted state, or was pretending not to, leaving you to pull yourself together. You smiled when you saw your name on the starting line up, vowing to get some sleep tonight, whatever it took.

-----

You thought you were going to have a good day when you woke up the next morning having slept completely through the night. You were anxious, as you had been on game days recently, but able to function.

You stood in the tunnel, ready to make your way out onto the field. You stood right behind Mapi, and she turned to look at you right before you had to go out. She was always the softer, more lenient one of her and Alexia, so the grin she sent you didn't surprise you.

"You look better today, pequeña. Still, if you need to come out, please tell someone," she instructed. You nodded, with no intention to do that.

It was a tough game, much tougher than the team had been expecting. You were tied 1-1 going into the 25th minute. You'd scored, and you felt like you actually may have been having a pretty good game. Until one of their defenders took our your legs, studs up, leaving a gash on your leg that had to be wrapped up. You were frustrated, even more so when no card was given. It was a completely late tackle, and the ref had seemed to be working against you guys the whole game.

You returned to the field, thigh taped heavily, giving your teammates a quick thumbs up. The ball had gone out for a corner, and Mapi stepped up to take it. You were in the box, prepared to jump for the header, knowing you were the target when Mapi made eye contact with you. Surrounded by teammates and opponents, you jumped, straight into another player. She was bigger than you, and she completely knocked you to the ground, falling on top of you. She crushed all the air from your lungs, and you were furious. There was no whistle, and this girl had just body checked you.

It should have been a penalty, which you were shouting at the ref, as you shoved the offending player off of you. She rolled off dramatically, and you rolled your eyes, accepting Patri's hand helping you up.

"Estas bien chica?" She asked, brushing grass off your legs.

"Si," You replied, eyes on the ref, who was walking towards you. She was reaching for her pocket, and for a moment, you thought she was going to card the other girl. Instead, she pulled out a red, holding it up above you.

"What??" You shouted, your protests echoed by your teammates. You were stunned. A straight red... for what should have been a yellow for your opponent. You were fuming, absolutely fuming. Alexia and Irene argued with the ref as you stood in complete disbelief. The ref was unrelenting, though, and she motioned once again for you to exit the field.

Mapi placed a hand on your back, walking you to the sidelines. "That's a bullshit call, it's not your fault. Keep your head up." She told you, the words not really processing in your head. Numbly, you walked off the field, through the tunnel and slammed the door to the locker room open. You felt staff members patting you on the back, but you ignored them and their words, nothing really processing in your brain.

You'd just gotten a red. Leaving your team with 10 players for the rest of the match, and it was barely even a quarter of a way through the game. And they were tied. And it was a champions league game. They were going to have to play even harder, and someone could get hurt, or we could lose, or both.

You're heartbeat was speeding up, and the world was going hazy around you as you paced around the empty locker room. You were losing control, quickly. In a fit of anger, and a need to regain control, you threw a punch at the cement wall.

"FUCK," You yelled, hearing a crunch. It hurt like a bitch, but it had succeeded in momentarily bringing you back into the present. You cradled your hand to your chest, throwing yourself down in your cubby, now fighting tears for multiple reasons. You sat motionless, staring at the ground in front of you, panic quickly returning. You jumped as the door opened, even though it opened rather softly.

"Hey, someone heard you yell. Y/n, what happened was not your fault, that was an insane call, you have to know that." Came the gentle voice of Ingrid. She was on the bench tonight, resting from a muscle injury, and had clearly been elected to come check on you. You nodded mechanically in response, because you DID know that, you just couldn't accept it. "Y/n... what happened to your hand?" She questioned, moving to crouch in front of you.

You looked down, taking in the sight of the already swelling, and slightly bleeding, limb. Ingrid's touch was feather light when she moved your hand, yet you still winced.

"I got angry. Kinda freaked out and hit the wall." Your words were kind of choked up, as you were still having a hard time breathing. You met her eyes, taking in the concerned look on her face. She didn't seem to know what to say, running a hand back through her ponytail, thinking hard. She focused back on your face, and moved to stand. You assumed she was going to go get someone else; a physio or maybe one of the other captains. You and Ingrid were friendly, she was Mapi's girlfriend so you spent a lot of time together, but you didn't expect her to stick around and help bring you out of your head.

Instead, she took a seat on the bench next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you to lean against her. Your head was pressed right over her heart, and you could hear it rhythmically beating. Unconsciously, you began to try to match your stuttered breaths with hers.

"You're alright. I'm here with you, and you're fine. You can breath, just follow my breaths." Her voice was soothing, and you unconsciously obeyed, slowly calming down. You hadn't realized how bad it had gotten until you had come back to yourself, wiping frantically at the tear tracks on your cheeks with your good hand, horrified that Ingrid had seen you like this. You tried to move out of her grasp, but she didn't let you, keeping you pressed against her.

"Let's just wait another minute, alright? Drink some water and we'll go get your hand looked at." She told you, and again, you found yourself following her instructions without a second thought. You took the bottle of water she offered you, gulping it down, trying to avoid eye contact. Ingrid pulled her phone out of her pocket, looking at it for a second before standing up.

"It's almost half. Let's go to the physios. If Mapi and Alexia see you like this, they'll freak out. Is that okay, or do you need one of them?" She asked. You scoffed at the notion, trying very hard to put back up the barriers that had fallen against your will. Still, Ingrid waited for an answer, undeterred.

"No, I'm fine," You said, "I can go by myself." Ingrid gave you a weird look, helping you up.

"I'm coming with you." She told you, as if were obvious. Her tone left no room for argument, which frankly you were too exhausted for anyway. She led you out of the locker room and towards one of the medical rooms, as you desperately hoped there was nothing seriously wrong with your hand. Having to explain what happened to it seemed like it might contradict your efforts to convince everyone you were fine.

Once again, it seemed as though luck wasn't on your side. The physios took an xray, confirming a few breaks in your knuckles. They put you in a brace, telling you that if you didn't wear it all the time, they'd know and put a cast on you. Ingrid stayed with you the whole time, silently standing next to you. The only time she spoke was to update you on the score, which was steadily growing in your favor. Thank god. You felt weirdly protected by her presence, not that you'd ever admit it. You were released, and Ingrid walked with you back to the locker room.

"Why don't you shower and then sit somewhere thats not the locker room to wait? You should have enough time before everyone gets off, and that way I can tell Alexia and Mapi what happened, and you won't have to see everyone all at once." Ingrid suggested, hand resting on your back as you walked.

You wanted to tell her that was unnecessary, you really did. It was exactly what you needed though, and while you weren't exactly sure how Ingrid knew how to help you, she clearly did.

"Okay. Thanks, Ingrid. I really appreciate your help." You mumbled the last part, talking mostly to the ground.

"We're all here for you, y/n. Whatever you need." She said, and you nodded. She was slightly surprised; as far as she could tell, it was the first time you responded to an offer of help with anything but direct refusal that something was wrong. You headed into the locker room to shower, and she headed back out to the tunnel to watch the end of the match.

-----

Alexia and Mapi made their way off the pitch directly after the game. Your absence in the locker room during the break did not go unnoticed by them, nor did Ingrid's from the bench for the entire second half. While the rest of the team loitered outside, greeting fans, the two players walked inside, finding Ingrid waiting for them.

"What happened?" Alexia asked immediately, sure beyond a doubt that something had. Ingrid recognized Alexia's captain voice, and got right to explaining. She told them what happened, as fast as she could without sparing any details.

"She's just finished showering, she's in on of the media rooms though, she didn't want to see everyone all at once and answer a million questions." Ingrid finished.

"So she broke her hand, hitting the wall. Was she trying to hurt herself?" Mapi asked, not sure at all where your head was at. Ingrid felt her heart melt a little at the way Mapi's eyebrows creased in concern. One of the Norwegian's favorite things about her girlfriend was how much she cared.

"I'm not really sure. I think she was more angry, but she was fully panicking by the time I got in there, so I'm I don't know." Ingrid said thoughtfully.

Alexia sighed, for what felt like the 15th time that day. "Alright, lets get ready fast and we can go talk to her before anyone else gets in. Ingrid, tell Jona what happened?" She asked. Ingrid nodded, and they went about their tasks.

-----

You were glad this was a home game, at Johan. You knew the building well, and you went to one of the lounges, knowing it would be empty. You curled up on one of the little couches, watching out the window at the parking lot as everyone streamed by.

You felt so incredibly stupid. First the red card, then breaking your hand, then having a panic attack in middle of the locker room. You didn't know what was wrong with you, you just had no grasp on your emotions. Angry tears fell down your face, and you didn't bother to wipe them off. You wondered how Alexia and Mapi would know where to find you, seeing as though you hadn't told Ingrid where you were going.

You underestimated them, though, and how well they knew you. This became evident when the door to the room creaked open, and a soft light spilled in from the hall. Alexia slipped in, followed closely by Mapi. Both of their hair was wet, and they, like you, were in the cozy Barca sweats.

No sooner had you turned slightly in their direction, than Alexia was almost tackling you in a hug, still minding your hand. You let out a huff of air, but relaxed into the contact. Alexia held you close to her as Mapi took a seat on your other side, pulling your injured hand into her grasp, inspecting it carefully.

"Did you tuck your thumb in?" She asked critically, and you snorted.

"Maria!" Alexia scolded, but you were laughing, so she really didn't care that much.

"No, I left it out. Untucked thumb still isn't a match for a cement wall though," You said, trying to joke. It fell flat, and Alexia tugged you closer, resting her chin on your head.

"Pequeña..." She began, but you cut her off.

"I know, I messed up," Alexia shook her head at your words, as that was not what she was going to say, but you continued. "I was just mad and I didn't handle it well. I just need to sleep, and I'll be back to normal." You tried to sound convincing. Both girls saw right through you. Surprisingly though, it was Mapi who spoke first, voice uncharacteristically firm.

"No. You aren't getting away with some flimsy excuse this time. Either you talk, now, or you go home with Alexia, and she doesn't let you out of her sight." You looked horrified at that prospect, and Mapi kept going. "Until we know whats going on inside your head, you've proven that you can't be alone. That's the deal. You get to pick."

Your anger was quickly returning. "I'm not a child. You can't make me go home with you," you argued, ironically sounding a lot like a child arguing with their parents.

Alexia responded this time, her voice firm, "You pick one of those options, or you're benched until further notice." You shifted away from her, looking at her with your jaw dropped.

"You wouldn't do that," you said, trying to call her bluff. A mistake, Alexia never bluffed.

"Try me." She told you, face stony, words unyielding. Suddenly, and most embarrassingly, you felt tears prick your eyes. Hastily, you covered your face with your hand, trying to pull it together. You hated that they felt like the had to watch you like this. You hated both options, but talking truly didn't feel possible right now. You felt both girls lean forward in concern, and you opened your mouth before they could ask.

"I don't want to be a bother," you said, voice incredibly small.

"You won't be. If you aren't ready to talk, that's fine. Neither of us are mad, and we aren't trying to rush you. We just want you to be safe and healthy, whatever it takes." Mapi's voice was comforting, and you nodded shakily. Still, you couldn't help but apologize.

"I'm really sorry." You said, and you weren't sure which thing you were apologizing for, maybe everything.

"You have nothing to be sorry about. Nothing," Alexia said, staring fiercely into your eyes. "Are you ready to go? I brought your bag." Alexia told you, leaving no room for argument.

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably, wanting to do anything else, but you wouldn't risk being benched. You nodded, moving to get up. The minute you stood, though, Mapi was taking her turn and pulling you into a tight hug. You let yourself hug her back, just a little, before the feeling of being about to cry came back, and you hastily pulled back. Both girls were looking at you with faces full of concern, and you couldn't take it.

Turning to leave the room, you wondered how you were possibly supposed to hide how poorly you were coping, let alone avoid Alexia's promised conversation, whilst staying at her apartment with her. You weren't really sure you would be able to. And maybe a part of you was so exhausted, so anxious, so absolutely done with everything, that you weren't sure it was even worth hiding anymore.

-----

let me know if you want a part 2 / what you want to see in it!

[itsa-me-lily]

Okay, it's here, holy shit I did it. Here is the Simon x Thimble Christmas Fic that I dragged out kicking and screaming.

Here is the MPS AU master playlist

Here is Simon & Thimble playlist

Content warnings;

Not really any I can think of? I make a joke involving ham. If anyone finds an issue let me know.

Christmas, a time of year where everything sparkled a little brighter, the world a little kinder, and the perfect way to show someone you cared was with a gift. At least that's what all the commercials said. You could admit it was little pessimistic to view the holiday but well, capitalism did that to a person.

As a kid it was certainly a more magical time, though your mom had more to do with it than anything else. You could appreciate the amount of effort she put into making sure you started the day excited for the possibilities and ended it content with the spoils of a year of good behavior.

Even as adults your mom tried to make sure that the day was good. What was probably the best part was that you could make sure the day was just as good for her as it was for you. Plus there was an extra adult to rope into being your helpful elf. Well there was supposed to be.

You knew Simon didn't have a choice for when he was sent out on missions, but he did seem to draw the universal short straw for being sent out a week before Christmas with no return date in sight. Not that he had been complaining at the time. You were almost convinced he was happy to go given the conversation you had had days prior to him leaving.

"So what do you do for Christmas?"

You'd of thought that you'd asked the man this in a dead language the way he had stared at you as he held greens for the boys to nibble and pull at during floor time. It was a reasonable question and you knew it.

"Don't look at me like that. My mom wants to know if we're going over to hers for Christmas or Christmas Eve. We want to make sure that we're not stepping on toes."

The look on his face either meant he was confused or constipated, and the weekly meals you brought to base was suppose to be helping with the second thing.

When it was clear that you weren't going to retract your question, Simon huffed, looking down at Baker who had gladly made himself comfortable in Simon's lap, and was trying to wriggle into his sweatshirt.

"I don't."

"You don't..."

"Do Christmas."

There were many times where your statements had left your husband to blink at you in response, this was one that had the tables turned.

"You don't do Christmas?"

"Yup."

"Any particular reason as to why?"

It really wasn't an issue if Simon did or didn't celebrate Christmas, you just didn't want to do something that'd insult his family heritage or something.

"Just don't."

Well that answered so much.

"So you've never celebrated Christmas?"

Simon Riley could be Jewish for all you knew, though that would make the times you a gave him a ham sandwich awkward.

Simon was silent for a few minutes, as if he was weighing his words as he idly scratching under Baker's chin.

"It's been a long time since I've celebrated it."

You had wanted to ask what he had meant by that, had wanted to ask so badly, but something had stopped you. He hadn't sounded sad exactly when he had said it, but more like he was remembering something sad.

You restacked the boys cups in silence, letting Jiji and Tombo go to town on them as they searched for the treats you hid in random levels. You didn't want to push too hard but you also didn't just want to leave the guy alone when you went to your mothers.

"So...would you be willing to go to my mom's with me? For Christmas."

The moment seemed to only have room for the sound of tossed plastic cups and weighted silence. You hadn't realized you were holding your breath until Simon had spoken, almost hesitantly.

"Your mum do a good roast?"

"Only the best."

"...Guess I'd be willing to go for that."

You couldn't help but grin then, the breath you were holding coming out in a rush of blooming contentment. Little steps.

Yet here you were, Christmas Eve, standing outside your mother's house as you dialed your husband's cell phone number, knowing he probably wouldn't pick up. You were right, he didn't.

You couldn't help but chuckle at hearing the voicemail set up he had, something that said to state what you wanted and hang up. It was short, curt, and completely him.

"Simon Riley you're missing all the fun. We got a turkey with all the sides and fixings that'll feed us for weeks. Plus there's matching sweaters-"

Beep

Wow this man really did expect people to keep it short. With a sigh you redialed his number, leaning against the side of the house even as a chill seeped into your sweater.

"Simon. Leave your message and hang up."

"Like I was saying, there's matching sweaters. Had to search a little for one in your size but don't worry we weren't going to have you miss out it. Even got-"

Beep

"Even got you a stocking. It's a paper one for now, but I decorated it myself. Put Si-si up on top in sparkly black glitter glue. Figured you'd appreciate the-"

Beep

"The color choice."

You thought about what you wanted to say next, long enough that the voice mail timer ended, hanging up the call. With a deep sigh you looked up at the sky, admiring the few stars you could see as you hit the redial button.

"Simon. Leave your message and hang up."

"Would have been nice to have you here. But maybe next year...Merry Christmas Simon."

You let the call end for the final time, just as snow was starting to fall. You admired it in the glow of your mother's door light, wondering when Simon would be back to get your series of messages.

January. Simon wasn't back until the tail end of January and he didn't know how he felt about it. Sure Price had apologized for pulling them all so close to the holidays, but honestly, at the time Simon hadn't minded.

No you hadn't forced him to agree to go to your mums, but he could still tell that you hadn't wanted to just leave him behind during Christmas. Not that he would have minded.

For years Christmas had been this black hole of things he didn't think about. Didn't think about the few decent ones from his childhood. Didn't think about the first Christmas that Tommy had been clean and sober for. Especially didn't think about the last Christmas with any of them, or the present for Joseph he had held onto for years after being unable to give it to him.

So no, he hadn't been disappointed when the call came in for deployment. But listening to your voicemails now...he could say that it probably wouldn't have been awful to go. He was going to burn the supposed Si-Si stocking, and there was no way in hell he'd ever wear a Christmas sweater.

What he was now though, was worried. The team had managed to come in early enough that he had been ready to get home for a late morning nap. Or would have been. If you hadn't had objected otherwise.

Simon: Back. ETA Soon. Thimble: Don't come home yet.

Simon: Why?

Thimble: Because.

Simon: Because why?

Thimble: Because I said so.

Simon: What did you do?

Thimble: What's with all the questions? Just fucking wait till I tell you to come back.

Simon was half convinced that you had murdered a man and was trying to get rid of the body. Given his occupation he would have assumed that you'd be eager for his assistance. He had history of getting bloodstains out.

Still what was the saying? Happy wife happy life? If you wanted Simon to stay away until you called him back he could do that. The breakroom couch wasn't as comfortable as the one you had picked out for the house, but Simon was used to sleeping anywhere. After managing to get a few fitful hours of sleep and several productive hours of paperwork he finally got his text to come home. Time to see what it was you had been up to.

Simon...hadn't been prepared for it to be this. He had been expecting a range from you having bought out an entire craft store, to having suddenly adopted fifteen more pigs, to straight up illegal activity. But there was no sudden influx of crafts, pigs, or bloodstains. Instead when he walked into your home it was...Christmas. Or as close to Christmas as one could get four weeks after the fact.

There was a tiny plastic tree standing proudly on the coffee table, and five stockings hanging up under the TV. He half expected to see the infamous paper stocking, a sore thumb in the crowd. But instead there were five identical ones, save for the names embroidered onto each one. Yours, Jiji, Tombo, Baker, and his.

A kitchen timer was the only thing that drew his gaze away from the family of stockings. He turned his head in time to see you pull a turkey from the oven, the heat making your face flush. The kitchen told quite the story. The sink was full of dishes, even with the dishwasher chugging away, but the counter space was full of dishes.

Besides the turkey Simon could see stuffing and roasted potatoes, Yorkshire puddings and brussels sprouts. Hell it looked like you even made a little dish of mushy peas, even though he knew you didn't like them. At least Simon waited for you to set the turkey on the stove top before questioning everything.

"What's all this about?

You shrugged, stuffing your hands into the back pocket of your jeans.

"Dinner?"

"It's Christmas dinner."

"I know."

"Why?"

Simon hadn't meant to put you on the spot but he was just so confused as to why you'd go through the effort of cooking a Christmas dinner now.

"You missed the one at my mom's."

"So this is for me?"

"Yeah, it is."

That...threw Simon for a loop. It hadn't been that big of a deal to him. It wasn't the first Christmas dinner he'd miss. He didn't doubt that it wouldn't be the last. But you still went through the effort to give him something. He wanted to question further but the words wouldn't come to him. Instead he just stood there in a vortex of feelings that were caught in his chest at realizing you went through all the effort to give Simon a Christmas that he missed.

While Simon was caught in his inner turmoil, you bustled around, setting a plate in his hands and telling him to have as much as he wanted, that you had even made the peas for him incase he didn't like the other veg. He could only follow the orders given to him, taking his time to look at every dish. It wasn't all pretty. He was pretty sure you fucked up the Yorkshires, and some brussels seemed crispier than the others, but sitting down and tasting it all? It was good. Better than he deserved. But he didn't argue, he sat and ate his fill, ate more than that actually, while you told him about everything he had missed.

He insisted on cleaning up afterwards, saying that if you made everything he could at least put away the left overs. He should have been suspicious at how willing you were to let him because by the time he was done you were standing there wearing the tackiest red and white Christmas sweater that could have ever been made. And you were holding an identical one in what appeared to be his size.

"No."

"Come on."

"No."

"But it's Christmas."

"Actually it's January."

"We gotta match for the Christmas photo!"

"We are not having a Christmas photo."

"But I found little sweaters for the kids! We were all going to match!"

Simon looked past you to the couch and could indeed see your three boys on the couch in what looked like little red and white Christmas shrugs. You were completely serious about this. There was no way he was going to wear an ugly Christmas sweater for some ridiculous Christmas photo. Damnit, Simon had his pride and his dignity!

And yet pride and dignity stood no chance to your pleading face because Simon found himself sitting on the couch, wearing the tacky ugly Christmas sweater, and trying to wrangle two furry potatoes who had realized that they did in fact have sentience. At least Tombo was being a good boy. Couldn't say the same for Jiji and Baker. The first was trying to jump to freedom to continue to presumably sample the coffee table, while the later was trying to burrow under the hem of his sweater to presumably get into it. And you? You were giggling as you were setting up the tripod and your phone to get the damn photo.

After the third time of turning Baker around while keeping Jiji contained, it seemed you finally got it right because you were rushing from the coffee table to the couch as the timer counted down.

You hadn't selected the right timer because honestly the photo was a mess. You had your head thrown back in a laugh, leaning into Simon from the force of you jumping onto the couch. Simon wasn't looking at the camera, but instead was focused solely on you. Jiji was a blur that was landing in your lap. Baker was showing his whole ass because he apparently was determined to get into the damn sweater. Tombo was the only one who seemed to actually be looking at the camera like a good boy.

It had to be one of the most chaotic Christmas photos Simon had ever seen.

He chose a simple black frame for the copy of it that sat on his desk.

Edit;

IT'S DONE! Felt like it took every ounce of try and two days to get this decent. Everyone say thank you to @nightunite because talking about this with her gave birth to the Christmas photo. If you have any ideas or asks feel free to let me know!

I hope everyone has a safe and good holiday season regardless of what you celebrate or don't.

Also this is the boy's sweaters

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Summary: A well deserved hunt with Charles, met with an unexpected surprise back at camp...

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.10

Tags: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character, Widowed, Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Ch 5 - My Heart Beats On As Warmly Now

“What began as a journey had become a retreat into the unknown. We were backing into the abyss; so worried our sins would follow us we didn’t bother watching where we walked. And behind us was a cliff.” ~ Elsa Dutton 1883

Arthur’s anger dissolved with the storm, replaced by a heavy sense of regret as he trudged back to camp that evening. All he wanted was to drown his shame in a few bottles of liquor, away from prying eyes, away from the disappointment he felt in himself. He hadn’t intended for Kate to see that side of him, not yet at least. And certainly not against a sickly innocent man. He let his anger and frustrations get the better of him. Like he switched on auto-pilot and let the outlaw in him take control. He worried now that Kate might actually leave, and he blamed himself for that.

Swiftly, he made his way to the crate of beer bottles behind the chuck wagon, grabbing a few before retreating to his tent. He craved solitude, a respite from the demands of camp life, from the weight of his own mistakes.

Seated on his cot, a beer wedged between his legs, Arthur opened his journal, the one constant in his life since Dutch and Hosea taught him to read and write. It was his confidant, his sanctuary in a world of chaos. John always gave him shit for it growing up, calling him a pansy and constantly trying to snoop in his personal entries. 

Despite being in a gang for most of his life, he still felt incredibly lonely. There weren't many people he would truly open up to. So his journal became that person. It was the one thing that did not judge him, ever. But even as he poured his thoughts onto the page, he longed for a human connection, someone to truly understand him.  

Hosea and Dutch had been like parents to him, raising him from a young age in the ways of the outlaw. They had their flaws, but they had also shown him kindness and guidance when he needed it most. He always saw Hosea as his father, he would consider Dutch his father too, although he was more like an older brother at times. Hosea was probably the only person who truly knew Arthur, and saw the things he wished not to speak about. Neither parent was perfect by any means, and Arthur could recognize that. But even as an adult, there is still a child inside that longs for the comfort of a father. 

It was that fatherly instinct that drove Hosea to Arthurs tent that night.

“Evening Arthur,” he greeted, holding open the tent flap, “may I come in?” 

He put down his journal and nodded. Gesturing for Hosea to join him on his cot. 

“I noticed Kate didn’t ride back with you, is she okay out in this storm?” He inquired.

Arthur smiled with a slight shake of his head, that's Hosea for you. Always worried about others, here he was checking on his son but was more concerned about the lady he left behind. 

“I’m sure she’s fine, saw her heading into Valentine,” he answered, taking a sip of his beer. He handed one of the full bottles to Hosea as the older gentleman sat down.

“I take it things didn't go well then,” he said with a hint of sympathy.

Arthur sighed, “when do they ever.” 

As they sat together in the dim light, the rain drumming softly on the canvas roof, Arthur felt a sense of comfort in Hosea’s presence. He didn’t need to explain himself, didn’t need to justify his actions. Hosea simply listened, offering silent support.

“I don’t know why I do it,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “The man was sick and weak, I should've just given him a warning.” Arthur concluded with a shake of his head. 

Hosea sighed knowingly. “I think you can blame your fathers for that son,” taking a sip to clear his throat, “Dutch and I did what we thought was best at the time and well, you were quite impressionable when you were young. We used that to our advantage to turn you into a grade A outlaw.” He said gently with honesty. 

Arthur chuckled at the memories of his youth, before John came along he was the golden child. He used to love it when Dutch would teach him how to pick locks, or when Hosea taught him a whole book of curse words. Had he not been the son of outlaws, his life would’ve looked very differently. 

“We’ll always be thieves,” he mused with a hint of nostalgia, “only difference now is that the world don't want us no more.” 

Hosea nodded, silently agreeing, “We're doomed just like every other creature on this rock Arthur,” he remarked with a wry smile. “I just wish I had acquired that wisdom at less of a price.” 

After a moment of contemplative silence, Arthur spoke, his voice heavy with regret. "I just wish I’d done things differently," he admitted, his gaze fixed on the floor. His remorse mixed with his actions at the Downes ranch, and for every mistake he’s made in the past that led him here. 

Hosea laid a comforting hand on Arthur's shoulder, a silent gesture of understanding. "We can't change the past, son," he said gently. "All we can do is learn from it and strive to do better in the future."

Arthur nodded, the weight of Hosea's words settling over him like a blanket of reassurance. "I don't want to be the kind of man who hurts others for no good reason," he confessed, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "I want to be better, for Kate, for everyone."

Hosea squeezed Arthur's shoulder affectionately before rising to his feet. “She’ll come around, son.” He offered a parting reminder, “underneath it all, you have a good heart.”

Before he disappeared into the night, Hosea turned back with a final piece of news. “By the way, your brother wants to speak with you about using that oil cart you found to rob the train tomorrow night.”

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. “He ain’t my brother,” he muttered disdainfully.

Hosea chuckled. “Well, you two sure argue like brothers. G’night, Arthur.”

He tipped his head to the old man as he left, “night Pa.” 

Arthur laid back on his cot, tucking his journal into his satchel when something small and round fell out and made a soft pitter on the ground. When he looked down he saw the peach pit, the one Kate gave him on her first night. He reached to pick up the small seed. His thumb ran over its hard wrinkles. 

He held it tight to his chest, and silently promised he would make things right with Kate. If he ever saw her again. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate took in a deep breath of the crisp morning air, reveling in the freshness that lingered after the storm had passed in the night. The scent of newly sprouted grass and moist earth filled her senses, while dew-kissed leaves sparkled under the gentle caress of the rising sun. A light breeze danced around her, carrying the promise of spring on its wings. It felt like the start of something new as if the world itself was awakening alongside her. It was the perfect day for a ride.

She met Charles in the early morning, exactly where he said he’d be. Waiting for her to begin their journey into the wild lands in hopes of finding a fresh hunt. They were a few hours into their journey now, heading north into Ambarino to hunt cow elk. Just one 200 pound elk is enough to feed the entire camp for a month. Maybe more. It was a day's ride there and back, short enough to keep the meat fresh in time. 

With a satisfied sigh, Kate exhaled the tension from her shoulders, “this is exactly what I needed Charles, thank you.”

Charles smiled warmly, guiding his horse closer to hers. "Thanks for joining me, Kate," he replied, his own gratitude evident in his tone.

With her face tilted to the sun, she savored the moment. Allowing Lorena to guide her. A silent trust shared between them, that her mare will take her where she needs to go. “You know, I always thought you preferred hunting alone. I never see anyone go with you.” Kate remarked, eyes still closed in bliss. 

Charles nodded thoughtfully. "Arthur and I have gone together a few times, but other than that, I don't seek much company from the others," he admitted, his words tinged with honesty. It was clear that while he valued his fellow gang members, solitude was his preferred companion in the wild.

“That why you’re always so quiet?” She inquired, innocently. 

Charles chuckled softly. "If the choice is folks thinking I'm dumb but not knowing for sure, and folks knowing I'm dumb because I sound like them, I think I'd rather keep them wondering," he explained with a grin. The confidence in his voice a testament to his strength. 

Kate chuckled, her eyes reflecting understanding. "I get that. Sometimes it's better to keep people guessing," she replied. Under her breath she added, “I know some of those men can be pretty dumb,” loud enough for Charles to hear.

Charles exclaimed in frustration, “tell me about it! All this death and for what? Just so we can have enough money to be able to run from what we've done?” 

Kate pondered for a moment, she still didn't know what happened all those weeks ago that drove the gang of outlaws here. It was the one piece of information they didn’t talk about around her. Perhaps Charles would share the missing pieces. “What happened to everyone to cause you to run?” Her tone colored with genuine curiosity. 

As Charles recounted the events of that fateful day, Kate couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness for what they must have been through. The gang did not like to talk about Blackwater, and the consequences must have been devastating.

"It was a fucking execution," he began, his voice tinged with regret. "We thought it would a simple job robbing a ferry, carrying payroll. But there were civilians too." Kate could already imagine where this led. $5000 for his head alone, the words echoed in her mind. 

“We raised a lot of hell that day, and things got out of control. Next thing we know, the Pinkertons are on us along with the law. And everyone just starts shooting. I don't know which one of us shot first but that's all it took. There were passengers caught in the crossfire.” He shook his head with disappointment. She couldn't imagine the terror those innocent people must have felt as they found themselves caught in the chaos. 

“Dutch he,” Charles hesitated, “he killed a young girl. Just to get the law off him. And no one batted an eye.” His voice heavy with emotion. Her stomach churned at the thought of such senseless violence. “We lost three good people, and John barely made it out alive.”

He turned, facing her, "I don't kill for fun Kate; I kill when I need to," he urged, his tone pleading. It was clear that he was grappling with the moral implications of their actions, and Kate couldn't help but admire his integrity in the face of such darkness. One so hauntingly familiar. 

“Arthur came out different after Blackwater,” he added with a sigh. 

“Being an outlaw can’t be easy,” Kate added, trying to lighten the mood. She understood the hardships and turmoil that came with senseless violence. 

Charles huffed and shook his head at the memory, “easy certainly wasn't in the job description.” 

As they rode on, the weight of their conversation hung heavy between them. She couldn't shake the feeling that they were all running from something far greater than the law. A feeling she was not immune to. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Their hunt had been successful, tracking and swiftly killing a massive elk. They settled in for a fire and camped near a lake for the night. Enjoying fresh fish for dinner. In the morning they tied their game to the back of Taima, and began their journey back to camp. Kate’s spirit felt lightened in a way, the two of them spent most of the night sharing stories. And she realized she and Charles had a lot in common. A gentle reminder that she is not entirely alone in her struggles. 

The ride home went by quickly, and with the sun tickling the horizon, they arrived at the great plains of New Hanover, and eventually, the familiar overlook. 

As they rode into camp, the air was thick with urgency, Miss Grimshaw's voice cutting through the chaos. "Alright girls, everything into the wagons, now!" she barked, her tone sharp. 

Charles swiftly brought their kill to the chuck wagon, while Kate hurriedly dismounted and rushed to join the flurry of activity. The girls worked frantically, packing crates with blankets and clothing, fear etched on their faces.

"What's happening?" Kate asked, her voice tinged with concern.

Mary-Beth paused in her task, her expression grim. "Arthur and John got into trouble with the law in Valentine," she explained, her hands moving quickly. "Dutch says we need to leave, fast."

A surge of panic swept over Kate at the thought of Arthur and John in danger. "Did they get caught?" she asked, her heart pounding.

Mary-Beth shook her head. "I don't know," she admitted, sympathy in her eyes. "But we have to go."

As Kate’s mind began to spiral with the worst outcomes imaginable, a voice rose above the commotion. Speaking of the man himself. 

Dutch's voice cut through the chaos. "Charles!" he called out, his tone urgent. "Find Arthur at Dewberry Creek, we need a new hideout." Charles turned on his heel with a nod, mounting Taima and taking off back down the trail they came in on only a moment ago. 

With his words she felt a sudden sense of relief, Arthur is okay. Their last conversation weighed heavy on her heart. And she would be damned if that was the last time they spoke. 

Dutch's voice commanded attention once more. "When they give us the all clear, we move out! Let's get to work, people!" he shouted.

Mary-Beth and Tilly went back to their work and left Kate alone with her thoughts. She returned to her belongings, packing quickly. But her moment of respite was short-lived as a sickeningly familiar voice cut through the air like a bullet.

“Well hello Kate,” Micah said with disdain and arrogance. 

“I don’t have time for your bullshit Micah,” Kate retorted, her patience wearing thin. 

Micah advanced, his eyes blazing with hostility. "Funny how you show up right when trouble finds us," he taunted.

Kate scoffed, the idea completely absurd, “you idiots robbed a fucking train, did you seriously expect a welcome home party?” She shot back, her voice filled with sarcasm.

Micah's gaze narrowed. "We were set up in Valentine, someone ratted us out," he growled, his words dripping with bitterness. 

“I was just hunting with Charles,” she explained, not bothering to hide the bite in her voice, she refused to play his game. 

Micah approached with malice, his fist twitched at his side, ready to pull his pistol any moment. "Well Charles ain't here now,” he gestured around the camp, “and we think it was you," he hissed, the accusation cutting through the chaos.

Realization dawned on her that he was setting her up, but the reason why was still unclear. “And when Charles comes back he can testify to that,” she spat, turning to continue her packing. 

He closed the distance between them with predatory grace. In one swift motion, he raised his pistol. Before Kate could react, the butt of the gun connected with her temple, sending a searing pain shooting through her skull. Stars exploded behind her eyelids as she stumbled backward, the world spinning dizzily around her. Darkness threatened to engulf her. 

As she struggled to regain her bearings, Micah loomed over her, a twisted smirk playing across his lips, “we’ll be long gone by the time they come back princess.” 

With a sickening thud, Kate's head hit the ground, the impact reverberating through her skull. As the world faded into blackness, she felt herself being pulled into an abyss of darkness. The last sound echoing in her ears was the distant whinny of Lorena, a mournful cry that seemed to fade into the void. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The commotion of the camp kept her drifting in and out of consciousness for the next hour. She heard Abigail's voice call out to Kate in concern, and Micah snapped back warning her to keep her distance. She also realized her wrists had been bound along with her ankles, with Micah standing guard over her like a dog. Like she could run away in this state anyways. 

The darkness began to creep in again, and in a moment she awoke and Micah was gone. It was almost dark and she was in a different spot now, away from the center of camp and behind the tree line. That fucking bastard tried to leave me here. She thought with bitterness. 

In the midst of the chaos, a familiar voice pierced through the camp, but Kate's mind was still swimming in a fog of confusion. Wagons rattled as they hurriedly departed the overlook, leaving Kate struggling to make sense of the commotion. Summoning all her strength, she pushed herself up onto her knees, squinting through the haze.

Then, like a beacon in the night, Arthur's horse appeared, Belle’s white coat gleaming amidst the darkness. With a surge of relief, Kate locked eyes with Arthur, who rushed over to her side, his expression etched with concern.

Her consciousness flickered like a dim candle in the wind as she slowly regained awareness. The throbbing pain in her head was a harsh reminder of what had just transpired. Blinking away the haze, her vision blurry.

"Kate? Are you alright?" Arthur's voice cut through the fog, filled with concern as he took in the sight of her bound wrists and ankles. Swiftly dismounting Belle and pulling a knife from his belt to cut her free. 

Her head throbbed as she recounted what happened and she felt sick in the stomach. She couldn’t stay with them anymore, not after this. Micah was a real problem, and if what Charles told her about Blackwater is true, then Dutch is likely the same. 

“I’m okay,” she answered wearily, “Micah set me up,” a hint of fear mixed with rage creeped into her voice. Arthur helped her rise to her feet, just as the last wagons were leaving the overlook. Without missing a beat she turned to find her horse. 

Arthur was slightly taken aback, unsure if she was still upset with him from the nights before, all while trying to make sense as to why Micah had set her up. 

“I-I’m sorry Kate,” he pleaded, “I shoulda been here,” his voice was laced with remorse. His strides quickened as he closed the distance between them. Kate's heart clenched at the sincerity in his voice, but she knew she couldn't stay.

“It’s not your fault,” she reassured, “but I have to leave.” She decided in the moment, ripping the bandaid clean off. She longed to stay with Arthur and the gang, but she no longer wanted part in this trouble. “Goodbye Arthur,” she bid him a solemn farewell.

“Kate,” he called out, desperation filling the air. He wanted to stop her, to grab her and beg her to explain what happened with Micah. But the look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know, she had made up her mind. So all he could do was stand and watch as she rode off. 

She clutched at Lorena’s reins, taking off in the same direction as the wagons, intending to ride past them and make her way to Rhodes, hopefully putting enough distance between them so she could get her bearings and be on the move again. Her heart raced with adrenaline and disappointment. Things could not have taken a turn for the worst. 

She used the darkness to her advantage, slipping away from the wagons as they took a path down following the railroad tracks, while Kate veered off towards the twin stacks. As she climbed altitude she watched the wagons below, specifically watching Arthur take off behind them, his mare flying through the train of carts and horses like a butterfly dancing between flowers. 

She paused for a moment, letting herself consider that perhaps she wasn't just running away out of fear, but something else as well. She thought about the girls, and Charles, who had just become a dear friend after their hunting trip. She thought about Abigail, who must be clutching little Jack close to her heart at this moment, praying John will see his family out of this alive. Her last conversation with Arthur still ate at her heart, so many words went unspoken that she wished she had said that night. 

Memories of her past came back in waves along with the painful throb of where she had been hit with Micah’s gun. Her fear, mixed with her disappointment and anger. A reminder of her own weakness. 

Yet, she decided long ago that she would never live in that kind of world again, where the weak would rather guilt the strong than become strong themselves. This world doesn’t care what the weak want. This world eats the weak. Therefore, she became strong. 

The sudden sound of gun fire dragged her from her thoughts, she rode farther up the slope looking for the source of the noise. She saw in the distance the tiny images of wagons and horses, and a group of raiders descending to their location.. 

Gripping the reins with such ferocity, Lorena reared on her hind legs as Kate spun her around and took off back down the slope. She would not let death sink its venomous teeth into the belly of another. 

[satureja13]

And while the others headed over to Porto Azzurro, Vlad and Ji Ho went to the ocean, because Ji Ho is the happiest there. They left their Little Goats at the beach to keep watch. (TMI: I also took a similar pic of Francine and her boyfriend, Jules, here where they look at each other the same way <3 )

Both of them were worrying how to deal with each other now, after all the madness that had happened between them. The spell that made Vlad fall in love with Ji Ho even though he still mourned the death of his first love, Wesley, the curse that kept them from being together, Vlad dying (and going to hell and back) because he wanted to claim Ji Ho back from Genji, who bit Ji Ho and became his first bonded, all the 'Bond Magic' they had to 'do' to 'safe the world' and defeat the Council, Vlad trying to spare Ji Ho from this and his attempts to 'kill' their bond and to bond with Morgan instead, and the Bond punishing Vlad, blinding him and almost made him attack his friends...

Yeah, that was when the Bond had enough. It won't allow any further delay and it certainly won't allow anything that keeps them away from each other. The Bond showed them how strong their love still is. And that neither Vlad nor Ji Ho holds any grudge against the other. Because they know, all they did was for a good cause. For each other, for their friends and for their community. They finally overcame all their hardships and now it's time to harvest the sweet fruits of their love.

Eventually, they relaxed and Ji Ho playfully swam around Vlad. And poor Vlad was stunned. Never before had he seen anything as beautiful and wonderous as Ji Ho in this very moment.

Of course Ji Ho sensed through the Bond how Vlad felt. But he wanted this moment far from any awkwardness and so he decided to splash Vlad out of his stupor 🌊 What they need right now is to get comfortable around each other, and not to become even more awkward and cautious, the rest will follow.

And finally Vlad laughed. A liberating, gleeful laughter. All the weight, he'd carried around for years, fell off him. He'd never been so carefree before, and never so happy. And he's glad he is allowed to share this moment with Ji Ho. This was the moment he realized that he wouldn't have to worry about them anymore.

They are finally at a point from where they could start their relationship without being afraid or dreading what their future might bring for them. And Ji Ho felt it too.

The Bond decided it's time for a kiss to seal their love and to start this new chapter in their life together. Never before a kiss felt so good and so intense for Ji Ho. For the first time he was truely grateful to have his feelings back so he could experience the full magnitude of this kiss. For the first time his new found feelings weren't frightening and oppressive. It felt as they became one when their lips touched, their hungry mouths melted and Vlad's tongue gingerly asked for admission. And time bended to eternity.

And even though Ji Ho is a mermaid, he felt like drowning. But Vlad held him tight. Little Goat: 'What a kiss!' Little Goat: 'I'll go and fetch the others!'

And when the sun set, just a little while later, Jeb and Sai also watched them. Sai sighed contendedly and forgot his worries for a while. If Vlad and Ji Ho can make it, Jeb and him will also succeed. And Sai decided to put more effort in their relationship. He's always letting himself getting dragged in too deep in his leader obligations and, just like Kiyoshi neglected Jack over his duties, he neglected Jeb. He will learn to delegate, just as Jeb (and the others) suggested. And accept help from his friends. Let them carry the burden with him. He's determined to work really hard to stop their on/off relationship and turn it into something steady and fulfilling. He's going to get real close to Jeb and eventually he'll finally lose his virginity! They had their first date (and their first kiss) almost exactly two years ago and they've spend more time apart than together as a couple... And when Jeb asked him, reluctantly, if he could kiss him, he couldn't be happier! Sai wasn't even disappointed that Jeb only kissed his cheek... It's just the beginning.

Maybe he all but missunderstood all that 'we can't woohoo because Jeb can't hurt Sai' nonsense? After all it had been Jack who first brought that up -.-

'I don't want another heartbreak I don't need another turn to cry, no I don't want to learn the hard way Baby, hello, oh, no, goodbye But you got me like a rocket Shooting straight across the sky

It's the way you love me It's a feeling like this It's centrifugal motion It's perpetual bliss It's that pivotal moment It's, ah, impossible This kiss, this kiss (unstoppable) This kiss, this kiss

Cinderella said to Snow White How does love get so off course, oh All I wanted was a white knight With a good heart, soft touch, fast horse Ride me off into the sunset Baby, I'm forever yours'

This Kiss - Faith Hill

From the Beginning 🔱 Underwater Love 🔱 Latest

Current Chapter: 'Here comes the Sun' from the beginning ▶️ here Last Chapter: 'Who killed Jack?' from the beginning ▶️ here

📚 Previous Chapters: Chapters: 1-6 ~ 7-12 ~ 13-16 ~ 23-28

[angstigone]

(A/N): this was prompted because I saw a cute fanart being «you are as beautiful as the day I lost you» and because I can be as delusional as I want in my writing.

WARNINGS: EXTREMELY NOT CANON COMPLIANT (me taking volume 9 and ripping it apart 'what's canon? and why would you need canon?'), gore and violence, she/her - afab character, spoilers for part two and one of chainsaw man.

you weren't getting out of this alive, you thought as the angry mob moved closer to you and nayuta, the sole reason why you were trying to hold out strong and resist although you doubted it'd have made any difference.

you hadn't much to look forward and although denji and the reincarnation of the woman that had taken everything from you were still alive, you doubted that your loss would have been perceived as anything else than a mournful opportunity.

they'd have grieved but moved on and you might have met him again.

wherever he had gone after he had left you.

«nayuta» you muttered feeling the child's irregular breath and looking seriously in her golden eyes «... do you... can you see any escape routes?».

with how the crowd was closing into you, you didn't think that you'd have survived or had any chance to move away fast enough to disseminate them, especially with your sole refuge burned down. still, if you had just a single distraction... if you created one...

«... nayuta!» your voice was now stricteer as you lightly pulled on the smaller girl's clothes to gain her attention «listen to me, closely, alright?».

when she had been dropped into your lap by kishibe, you had refused to feel even the tiniest amount of emotion for what you expected to be another evil incarnate; as selfish as it might be, you had let a seventeen-year-old take care of a child till something had broken the dam when you had come to visit and noticed that her shade of hair remembered of somebody dear to you.

she could have been like a daughter with that specific somebody and that's how your brain rationalized the impropty instict that you felt towards that bratty duckling.

the thought, right now, of her not making out alive petrified you enough to realized that as much as you denied, you had become a parent to her.

«I am not» you certainly loved her stubborness but not right now, as her shy fists hit your gut with little to no effect «I am not leaving you! not now... we ... we are going to make them pay and...».

«nayuta, you are going to leave me, even if I have to be the control devil between us» you replied sternly, hoping she'd hate you in these last moments; you knew all too well what it was like to love somebody in their last moments and you didn't wish for her to carry that weight.

as much as you had feigned disinterest for her opinion, you knew that similarly to how denji felt for you she saw you as an older sister of kind.

she had said as much when she had sleepily asked whether the past her and you could have been friends, hadn't she been a devil.

"... or sisters".

«you are going to be a grown up and fucking bolt it» and to sweeten the pill, you added «... find denji, alright?».

«he doesn't... he doesn't... want me. not anymore!» oh sweet dearie.

«he does, he just...» you could feel the crowd's makeshift weapons being brought up and right as you felt the ring of something akin to a gun being readied you shielded nayuta with your whole body just to be surprised when you felt nothing.

nothing at all. no noise, nothing else as the world stalled till you dared to blink an eye open much to your shock and found that the crowd hadn't magically disappeared - albeit your wish - but it looked scared.

it couldn't be because of nayuta with how eagerly they had been to tear her apart and her own powers were but a wink to the one that makima had donned.

it must be something and with your years of having dated a devil hunter you knew that whatever the crowd was gawking at was much scarier than it.

right what you needed.

still, a distraction was a...

your eyes stopped as you noticed a dark figure that had put itself between you and where the crowd stood, stopping you from moving forward and them from coming closer. especially an arm of the figure was an shotgun.

"no, no... I don't need to see my misery in my last moments" you cursed yourself out, mechanically shielding nayuta further although the girl's eyes were all up in fascination for the upcoming monster. and if she could see him as well.

«... back off».

it was a mechanic buzz, nothing like the slight laugh that had haunted you for months after you had first heard it; that hateful little thing that diverged so much from what that voice truly sounded. as of right now.

no, it couldn't be him. it was your mind. it was a trick.

if they could emulate chainsaw man and other shit, then undoubtedly...

the crowd's animosity still heightened and a round of bullet from that same arm came to intimate to let them go and much to your genuine surprise a good chunk of them moved away in clear fear; they weren't true believer, probably just set off by fear and the height of something, and the rest that remained was quickly disposed of by being incapacitated by nayuta.

"go back home".

it was startling how her power seemed to be fully unlocked after having risked her death and if this was a dream that was too good to be true, you didn't want to wake up, especially as when your hero turned you saw the face that haunted your nightmares.

the gun devil.

and aki hayakawa that you had loved so much, smashed together in one single entity, with a gun above his face and messy hair out of his usual topknot.

this had to be some kind of nightmare.

and if it wasn't, nayuta had to be your first priority.

«go now» you whispered, pushing the child but instead, she simply moved closer to the gun devil and as you rushed out for it, you found that the devil looked awkward at his other fellow while nayuta's characteristic curiosity circled him attentively as one would with another predator «nayuta, get ba...!».

«you smell like denji» she simply uttered as it became clear to you that the gun devil didn't know how to behave with her. he was feeling.. embarassed.

such a human emotion that clashed so deeply with how he had behaved after having been revived as a fiend.

it was so much like...

«are you... are you alright?» it was his voice and yet...

... you hadn't buried him, kishibe had insisted that nothing was left and yet.

«... what... how... I...?».

«he smells like denji» nayuta reinstated as a way to reply and answer your unspoken question and while you felt irritation brewing at her childish antics, you realized that she was speaking the truth.

«apparently they classified me wrongly» no, he had been a fiend. aki hayakawa had appeared among the victims of the gun devil on that beach «some part of my brain stayed and I got offered... a deal».

you didn't wish to know what deal: pochita had been kind in denji's stories but the gun devil... you somehow doubted that he'd have enjoyed being hugged by somebody.

«when I woke up after denji... they... they seized me and...» not a grave, not a burial.

you should have known.

and yet, you couldn't believe it, when the face that was looking at you - or better his feet - was the one of the man that had brought your own lover away.

«the uprising of the hybrid brought... I could escape and I...» his gaze settled onto nayuta «... felt the push to you, control devil».

nayuta, on her own, simply grimaced up to aki before boldly shouting.

«I am not that! that isn't my name!» you doubted that ak... you mean the gun devil cared for technicalities but you were too baffled to intervene again «... my name is nayuta and you must be... aki...».

«he isn't».

you cut through the air immediately gaining the gazes of the two onto you.

«... I saw aki hayakawa die, as a fiend».

«I didn't... I swear... I'd have sought you out and...».

«tell me something that we only should know then...».

it felt, almost like something out of a shoujo manga while the whole world was coming to an end. you might have been as well killed and sent to paradise but you had always thought that maybe it'd have been... chiller up there.

«... something that only aki and I should have known and...».

«one... on the last trip in hokkaido together, we... we played cards and... then we drunk and... I remember us both lazying around on the floor... not tired enough to sleep and not wanting to do anything» if the gun devil was using aki hayakawa's brain you guessed he might have all his memories, but he certainly couldn't reproduced the tenderness that lingered as he carefully moved to you.

you took notice that his shotgun arm had grown into a slobbery mess that trickled down what now seemed a normal arm as you had seen denji do a few times when he turned back from his chainsaws. could he... could he have been... truly an hybrid?

but why?

aki hadn't ever wanted to become a devil.

he fought them for god's sake and you doubted he somehow had mustered up enough resistance in his fight against life and death when the gun devil - the one that had destroyed his family - had come with an offer.

«... still, you fell asleep first and I... I was left with my thoughts... they... they should have been... unhappy and shit...».

you knew and remembered exactly how aki hayakawa always looked when he came back from his memorial trips and you could picture him in the dark without you. a sense of guilt brewed in your chest as you faced the gun devil head on.

«... but all I could think was that... when you came to my family burial, you presented yourself as a dork and insisted on having a shitty conversation with them as if they were alive. asking for their blessing».

it had felt embarassing and shitty and you had thought that it was useless and not as cool as in your mind, but somehow the fact that even in death aki hanged onto it... it gave you something as you noticed that the same gooey substance was forming on the gun on his face.

«that's when I realized that I'd have done everything to come back to you» and then he handled the final hit «... to name our child taiyo as you told me, that night».

you fell onto your knees and from the ruckus you thought the same did aki. he was your aki, your beloved aki, although the moment when you went to gently touch his face, he pushed back.

«I am not... I...» his hand reached out for your own, although without warmth but to stop you from moving any closer «... the last time we saw each other I tried to kill you... I wasn't... I wasn't myself... but how can you...».

«you are as beautiful as the day I lost you» by now his handsome face was back from all that gooey stuff as the gun retracted itself - something that you'd have had to investigate later - and you finally could see him. your aki.

who you had thought had been gone for ever.

and without any further resistance you cradled him softly in your arms, gently hugging him as if he was the most precious. gun devil shit or not, he was back.

he had crawled back to you.

---

«so, ahem... is... is that... why is makima a child now».

«well...».

«I am not makima! she was lame! I am nayuta!».

«... why is she a child and named nayuta?».

«I think we might need to get denji for that».

«wait, why... get him? isn't he... isn't he with you?».

«well, there's this funny story...».

«he's probably making out with that blakchaired stupid girl».

«I died and denji got a girlfriend, in the meanwhile?!»

[bettathanyou]

Cedric x Reader Having A Nightmare

Sponsored by me, who woke up to a nightmare and couldn't go back to sleep so I wrote this lmao. Trigger warning for reference of childhood trauma and abuse

Hopefully y'all can get some better sleep than I could

"(y/n)...! You need to wake up!"

Cedric's voice called out to you from the inky blackness, the in-between place that lies within dreams and the waking world.

Your eyelids snapped opened as the remnants of your dream faded to the back of your subconscious. Your face was buried deeply in your pillow, and immediately you could feel the wetness of tears staining the pillowcase. You take in a sharp breath, exhaling shakily as you feel the weight of your nightmare clinging to your mind.

"...(y/n)?" Cedric calls your name again, more hesitant and lighter this time. You feel his hand curled around your arm, squeezing lightly.

You drag your cheek across the pillow, angling your face towards Cedric. His lean frame was propped up on his elbow, with his torso leaning towards you. Weak moonlight streamed from the balcony of Cedric's workshop, not enough for you to see past a few feet- but it was certainly enough to betray the look of heavy concern Cedric wore as he gazes down at you.

"..Are you alright?" He asks somberly, his voice having a lingering roughness from sleep.

You stare up at him in silence, trying in vain to find an answer that satisfies you. As you do so, you noticed Cedric's silver and ebony locks sticking out in all directions, with a stray lock of his white bangs falling into his eye.

It looks like he had just woken up himself.

"Did I wake you up?" You deflected his question with your own, your voice hoarse.

Cedric nodded, but before he could speak again an apology already left your lips.

"I'm sorry, love..." you trailed off, breaking eye contact for a moment in shame. You knew your nightmares could get bad, and for a while it was the reason you were afraid to fall asleep with the sorcerer. Even though you both have talked about this before, the instinctual need to apologize for the space you occupy always lashes out before any reasonable reaction.

Cedric shakes his head in response to your apology, brows furrowed in disapproval.

His hand leaves your arm, and instantly your heart aches from the withdrawal. Before you could mourn his touch further, however, his hand finds you again as he cups your face to meet his eyes once more.

"Don't apologize; it's okay."

Cedric's voice now sounded clearer, more awake now. His expression that previously held concern had since softened, and his honey eyes were devoid of any judgement or annoyance.

You weren't sure how to respond, except for a small nod of acknowledgement.

Even so, Cedric continues to hold you with his unwavering gaze, and with your cheek being captured in his palm, there was nowhere left for you to hide.

You felt scared for a moment- not of Cedric, but of the vulnerability it takes to look at him whenever old ghosts would haunt you like this. Some days it felt like if he looked close enough- or long enough, Cedric would find out how ugly and rotten those old wounds from your past really are, and how much they can fester. All the way down to your marrow.

Needing a way to channel your anxious energy, your hand automatically lands in Cedric's hair. Wordlessly, you begin to smooth down the rebellious strands of hair on Cedric's scalp. Your fingers tenderly untangle the silky strands, silently admiring the contrasting hues of white and black that slipped through your hand. Even though you've touched Cedric's hair a thousand times, and have looked at it double that amount, it never ceases to fill your heart with happiness.

Cedric knew quite well how you reach for anything in close proximity to fidget with when your nervous- his hair being a popular choice among them. While the idea of you being nervous made him nervous, he chose to close his eyes and let you work through his untamed bed head, giving a low hum of contentment at your touch.

If it helped you calm down, he certainly wouldn't complain.

After you are satisfied with your handiwork, you let your hand slide through his hair once more before splaying your hand across Cedric's cheek. His eyes flicked to yours briefly, their familiar warmth and love for you seeping through his eyelashes.

Immediately he turns his face to lean more into your hand, his nose practically buried in your palm. You break into a smile at the gesture, watching as Cedric covers your hand with his own. You caress his cheek with your thumb softly, and he returns your affection with his lips gently meeting against the soft skin of your wrist in a few soft kisses.

After a moment, Cedric breaks the silence between you.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He mumbles gently into your skin, shooting you a hesitant glance.

"I..." you drift off, momentarily blanking on the question. Cedric waits patiently for you to collect your thoughts, and you continue.

"I don't remember much, really- nightmares always fade fast, for me." You spoke quietly, glancing over at Cedric to gauge his reaction.

"What do you remember, if anything?" He asks, his face neutral.

You give a half hearted shrug, not really wanting to try and actively recall your dream.

"Just the end, I guess. All I remember is feeling like I had to- to get away; before I got hurt." You feel your pulse quicken as you hear yourself speak, your stomach twisting at the implications of your words.

"I see..." Cedric murmurs, nodding his head as your confession sinked in. You see the turmoil behind his carefully masked neutrality, and it eats a hole in your heart. You sigh deeply, trying to alleviate the weight that was settling in your chest.

"I've had plenty worse nightmares though- this one isn't too bad. I'll be alright." You offered, a weak attempt at consoling your partner.

Cedric only gives you an incredulous look in response, and you don't like the way his eyes cut through your bluff.

"You're safe here, (y/n). You know that, right?" Cedric asks, almost as if he was pleading.

"...I know." You pushed the words out slowly, almost grimacing from the effort it took to speak. You know objectively what Cedric says is true, but even still your body refuses to fully believe it.

Cedric noticed your discomfort immediately, and shifted his body closer to yours. His arm gently snakes around your waist, then nudges at your back; his soft brown eyes asking for silent permission to hold you close.

You respond by dipping your face into the crook of Cedric's neck, your arms swiftly embracing him and holding his torso in a tight squeeze. In turn, Cedric pulls you tightly against his chest, lithe arms cradling you like a precious jewel. Your heart feels comforted in Cedric's arms, and the warmth of his body helps your muscles relax into his form.

Taking in a deep breath, you inhale his scent deeply- the smell of petrichor, dried herbs and the sweet musk of old books making you believe, for a moment, in his words that promised you safety.

Cedric mirrors you, and you feel his chest rise as his takes in a deep breath. His breath is warm against you as he exhales in a long sigh, helping you feel grounded.

You both lay in a comforting silence, listening to each other breath. After a while, you almost don't notice how each of your breathing has finally fallen into sync.

"Cedric?" You speak his name hesitantly, cringing at your voice cutting through the silence.

"Hm?" The sorcerer responds, feeling his voice vibrate through you.

"Thank you, for waking me up," you start, your fingers fidgeting with the fabric of his night shirt.

"Of course, darling." Cedric rubs your back for a second as he responds, and suddenly you remember the pleading look as he told you that you were safe.

"And- I know that I'm safe, I promise. It's just... hard getting used to it." You admitted with a heavy sigh.

Cedric stays silent for a moment, and each second you grow worried that you somehow upset him. As you start to move your head to look up at him, Cedric speaks, stopping you in your tracks.

"I know it's hard- trust me, I do." Cedric enunciates, and your mind wanders to the things he had to go through to empathize with your statement. You squeeze his body in comfort, signalling that you understood what he meant.

"One day though, you're going to wake up and realize you can't remember the last time you had a nightmare." Cedric says with conviction, and you almost want to believe it. You scoff into his chest, amused but not convinced.

"I know, it's hard to believe. It'll be so subtle, you'd almost miss it." Cedric lets out a dry chuckle, gazing down at you with a complicated look.

"Just... give it time, love." Cedric finished, kissing your head affectionately.

"That's about all I can do." You said with a sigh, nuzzling him; but you had a smile on your lips regardless.

With your conversation now at a close, you both eventually drifted off to an undisturbed sleep; devoid of nightmares, but full of love and care for one another.

[mercysought]

APPROVAL: Shianni looking at the darkspawn horde coming for Denerim a second time and the fires on the horizon and everything looking like it will end and joking not joking maybe now is the time to get married, Maxima

approval + (prompt) // not accepting // @skyheld

   "You would want that?"

The thought stuns Maxima into silence; a feat in itself. Memorable, even, if perhaps the times they were living in weren't perhaps the most interesting that had happened since she had discovered that ancient elves both existed and some of them were really angry. Some of them even more specifically at her or people like her. Looking at Shianni, though Maxima would not admit it, it did bring some level of relief that the Elvhen Gods of Old seemed just as angry at her and those like her.

It was a terribly selfish thought, but truthful nonetheless.

The thought of marriage had always been one she had sworn off, though perhaps not for the same reasons as Shianni might think, not he same ones that a marriage to her would be a problem. To be a Magister was to make sure that one wielded her power and position; one of House Aurum also meant that any alliance she were to make would mean that their influence would grow tenfold. Maxima, however, had not refused to do so out of some petty reason to hold onto all influence she had amassed (though it certainly was part of it); but it had to do with expectations.

The expectation that she would marry a man, and that she would have children so that whatever magical aspects would be passed to the next generation, strengthening those bonds. The thought made her sick.

That she would bring children to this world when she knew what it did to folks that were born like her; to marry someone under the assumption that she was fully human, for there was no real alternative. To tell the truth was to sign her death. That any children would have to bear the same shame and fear that she had her whole life - that they should, rightfully, blame her.

It was not a punishment she would wish on anyone.

Looking at Shianni, she takes in the nervous smile, the half joking tone and the underlying hope that she would be taken seriously. This would not be an issue, not with her. Just a few moments before she had been feeling overwhelmed at the force of darkspawn just beyond and now she stood overwhelmed before one single woman.

Shianni would hate Tevinter. She would hate the politics. She would hate the people Maxima surrounded herself around with, whoever was left after this was all over - if any of them survived it. Maxima feels a chill in her body. She could not marry a woman under Tevinter law, not as it stood. She could certainly not marry an elven woman. But they were not in Tevinter - moreover, Maxima wondered more and more - despite how terribly fatalistic it sounded that she might not survive it. And now, looking at the darkspawn, the fear that Shianni might not either makes her heart tremble.

The thought that Shianni would still want to marry her, despite knowing all of her flaws. The cracked edges under the fantasy - and that she would leave Ferelden despite loving it or, at least, accept being so far from it far more frequently (for she knew that Maxima would not leave Minrathous or Tevinter) - it was more than anyone had ever given her. More than anyone had ever offered. A love truer than she really deserved, but a love that she was selfish enough to accept.

And, if they did survive it, Maxima would likely be amongst the few that could make that a reality. If there was even any Tevinter to speak of, by the end of this.

Sniffling, Maxima turns back to the darkspawn but not really seeing them, pushing her hair over her shoulder, her hands move into her pockets as she shifts the weight on her feet.

   "I do not want to get married in the middle of a battlefield." she says flatly, she sees Shianni's head snap to her and her brows arch. Grabbing a cigarette from her pocket, she lights it with a flicker of a wrist, pointing at the sky and then at the horde just beyond "In the rain?! In the cold?! With Darkspawn for guests?! In these robes?!"

Shaking her head, she waves her hand in a mirroring motion. If that were to be the case, then perhaps indeed it would be better to be dead. "I need to plan it, have a dress that will literally be impressed into legend by how amazing it is. And flowers."

A sea of flowers from ceiling to floor.

It would be an event for the ages, for the history books because they would have no other choice but to take it and write for what it was. The thought gave her pause, it made her feel fear like she had never done before. Not for her; her own shame and her own flesh and blood need not be in those history books but to expose so much of what could make her bleed frightened her more than she was willing to admit.

   "We will discuss it, once this is over." the smoke fills the air around her head and she pushes past it to approach Shianni. One hand holding hers. Her hand, filled with golden rings, lifts to rest against her cheek. Every fiber of her being told her this was a terrible idea, that this would literally spell out the end for her, for her family in Tevinter.

Taking a deep breath, Maxima leans down, taking her lips, hands holding her waist closer to her. The world was ending and they could be dead tomorrow at their enemies' hands. Her head spins and while she does not know if this is the right thing to do, it feels... it feels like they deserve this softness.

Maxima leans back, enough to break the kiss but not enough to fully separate them. Her forehead against Shianni's, she holds her at the centre of her back "This is not the end."

maxima aurum approves

[robsterskellington]

Sorry this took so long! We struggled to remember what we had originally written, then I caught the flu on top of it. Anyway!

Context: as stated, Chuuya is accused of a crime. Vanitas still doesn't have his memories at this point in time, but he's managed to cure the Port Mafia of Vampirism since Bram was unable to. Bit of a soukoku snippet again, so enjoy!

Days turned to weeks, then soon, Vanitas had been in Yokohama, with the Agency, for just over three months. He still had no memories, only feelings and images, and he had his grimoire that he could use with his Ability. He felt at home, despite everything- Yosano insisted on giving him regular checkups and verified the following: he had started gaining a healthy weight ever since he found out he *loved* Japanese food, his sleep pattern was normal thanks to Kunikida helping him fall into a routine, and his mind was staying active with the amount of paperwork and the drawing he did with Kyouka.

He still felt useless. Sure, he'd joined the Agency, but no Entrance Exam had been arranged for him yet, and he was still under observation. He had managed to settle certain things by curing the Vampires in Yokohama, it was just taking a while for the rest of the world's militaries to gather the remaining Vampires, and it would take a lot out of him to reverse the affects of Bram's Ability.

Thoughts faded once Kunikida started the meeting; Fukuzawa had called everyone, and for once, everyone was able to be in attendance, though Dazai had his feet on the table, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Kunikida dimmed the lights and began a slideshow presentation.

Photos of corpses on the ground, looking like their bones had been crushed in their bodies, buildings with chunks taken out of them, and a blurry image of a man in a hat, glowing red, jumping across buildings. The corpses belonged to a group that were causing the Port Mafia a lot of issues, stealing money, weaponry and even killing some of their thugs. So naturally, they needed to be taught a lesson, which meant having them slaughtered.

Usually, the person responsible for revenge killings was Akutagawa, however he was very true to his promises, and so he was still holding back on killing people. Kouyou was a Higher Executive, so she wouldn't filthy her own hands unless it was absolutely necessary, and the same logic went for Mori, as he was the Boss. Hirotsu was skilled, and could certainly cause this kind of damage, however his parkor skills weren't *that* good, and his Ability was a purple colour. Tachihara wouldn't make this much of a mess, neither would Gin.

Just looking at the photos, it was fairly obvious that the culprit was Nakahara Chuuya. The culprit could walk on air, had a red aura, and though the hat obscured the face, the style of hat he wore was the same as Chuuya's.

The problem with that was, not everyone in the Agency believed what their eyes were showing- Chuuya wouldn't leave evidence of his crimes, if he committed this. He'd never allow himself to be seen on camera, he was always oddly discreet for someone with that amount of chaotic energy. As for the buildings, since civilians may have been inside, he definitely wouldn't have used them. Even during the Dead Apple Incident, he used empty buildings and skyscrapers against Shibuzawa's Dragon, though whether that was because the Fog made people vanish or not was a factor to consider.

Dazai gave a half hearted shrug and looked up at his work partner, "You believe that slug would do all this? Please."

"I know you want to defend him, you have a history, but this can't just be ignored." Kunikida crossed his arms, "This is obvious to anyone that Nakahara Chuuya did this, so-"

"*Wrong.*" Everyone looked at Dazai, who sat up properly and glared at Kunikida, "Even under Mori's orders, Chuuya wouldn't slaughter this many people, regardless of what they've done to the Mafia. At most, he would capture them and have them sent to the torture experts. If you think this is Chuuya's doing, you need new glasses."

Fukuzawa cleared his throat and they both quietened, then Ranpo yawned loudly, "It shouldn't be any surprise that Dazai's right. Mr. Fancy Hat, while capable, didn't do this. Though something tells me that even with *my* deductions, not all of you seem to believe me. So, raise your hands: who believes Chuuya is innocent?"

Dazai's hand was the first to shoot up- usually he'd hide his feelings behind that mask of his, but since joining what was essentially the *good side*, Dazai had learned so much, and knew that things were always more complicated than they seemed. He trusted Chuuya, nothing would change that. Obviously he'd still keep their relationship a secret, but even if they weren't in love... Dazai wouldn't accuse Chuuya of this without seeing physical evidence, not photographs that could easily be forged.

Ranpo's hand rose as well, then Vanitas', Atsushi's and Kyouka's. After thinking about it, Kenji also raised his hand. Fukuzawa trusted Ranpo, and he also had the benefit of knowing Mori almost as well as Dazai, so his hand went up as well.

Kunikida crossed his arms, he still believed that Chuuya was likely an off the rails killer, and Dazai was likely covering for him. Plus, he wouldn't admit it, but after seeing Mushitaro's Ability, and how easily both Dazai and Fyodor could trick even a skilled person such as Ranpo, but he'd lost a lot of faith in his *Ultra Deduction*. Yosano's hand also remained on the table, since she'd seen first hand how arrogant and ready to kill Chuuya had been when they faced each other during the Three Way War.

The Tanizaki's also stayed out of the vote- Naomi did think that this was all incredibly suspicious, but there was no evidence pointing to someone other than Chuuya. She thought that maybe it would be better to investigate the matter first. The only reason she didn't raise her hand was because she simply didn't trust anyone in the Mafia, for the same reason as Yosano: Chuuya had been the one to help use Naomi and Haruno as bait for Steinbeck and Lovecraft. As for Jun'ichiro, he acknowledged that Chuuya had saved him against the Hunting Dogs, but also knew that he only did so on Mori's orders, not because he was a good person.

Even though the majority vote was that Chuuya was innocent, those thinking he was guilty were unwilling to change their stance and Kunikida nodded, "I'll notify Special Operations, see if they can have some sway over the Mafia."

"You can't do that." Dazai stood up and faced Kunikida, staring into his azure eyes, "Chuuya-"

"Whatever your history with him, forget it." He snapped, "Honestly, how do we know you aren't working with him as well? It's not like you're trustworthy, Mr. Port Mafia Executive." That stung. Yeah, Dazai hid his past, but Ranpo and Fukuzawa did the same thing. He saw red when Kunikida spoke, "He's a mindless killer for the Mafia, able to decimate his rivals. He's no better than the Former Port Mafia Boss. Even when you both worked together, he was the one who destroyed, you simply became his *off switch*, but you were the strategist."

"Kunikida." Ranpo spoke with a warning tone, but was ignored.

"How am I supposed to trust you when you never trusted us?!" He was shaking now, staring daggers at Dazai who had zero expression on his face, "Port Mafia Executive, kill count exceeding 800," that part made Kyouka flinch, "and how many of those were innocent?! Would you kill *us* if it suited your goals?!"

*No*, Dazai wanted to answer. He cared about the Agency, it wasn't even just about his promise to Odasaku anymore. Joining the Agency was the best choice he'd ever made, but perhaps his past could never escape him. He was always going to be just a former enemy, wasn't he? So, he decided to ask: "What exactly do you think of me?"

"After seeing everything you're capable of, I'm convinced that you pretend to have emotions. You're manipulative, cruel, and-" Everyone glared at him, trying to get him to stop, but before Ranpo could interject again, Kunikida blurted: "You're *less than human*, for God's sake!"

Dazai didn't respond to that, at least, not verbally. He just stood up and walked away, grabbing his coat and being silent the entire time.

Kunikida seemed to realise exactly what he just said, and before he could take a step forward, he got knocked to the ground, his vision going white as his cheek burned with pain. Vanitas panted slightly, his fist shaking as he glared at Kunikida, "What the actual *fuck* is wrong with you, Doppo Kunikida?!"

"I-..."

But when he looked up, he couldn't talk. Vanitas looked down, ashamed that he didn't speak up sooner, then took a breath, "Chuuya's innocent. I have proof. The only reason I didn't speak up was out of respect for Dazai." That was when he explained:

****

"Aaaand done." Vanitas looked up at the ceiling of his apartment, having hung up the final paper crane. When Jouno gave him the task of folding one thousand origami cranes, he wasn't exactly sure he could do it, but here he was, proving himself wrong. A thousand paper cranes hung from his ceiling, showing his progress, from when he first arrived here. After getting down from his chair, he caught something out of the corner of his eye- since he was on the top floor, he could see the streets below him from his window, and noticed Dazai, a hand in his pocket and the other on his phone.

Vanitas was naturally a little nosey, and hanging around the Agency only made that worse, so he couldn't help but open his window and leap onto the roof, deciding to follow. Dazai obviously had his own life and business, but something told Vanitas to look into this. Like an instinct that made no sense. He walked along the rooftops, thankful that the clouds in the sky made it impossible for Dazai to see his shadow- then again, he wouldn't be surprised if Dazai already knew he was following.

Dazai waited in an alley, leaning against the wall before grinning, "You came."

"...you called." Vanitas saw that the one responding to Dazai was none other than Chuuya, who wasn't wearing his signature hat... actually, he looked exhausted. His suit was a little crumpled, his hair was limp, and his eyes had dark bags underneath, "So you heard about those attacks?"

"Judging by your appearance, you're not the one responsible. No surprises there." Dazai stood up properly and looked at his partner, "What happened?"

Vanitas listened in as Chuuya explained that someone had been murdering enemies of the Port Mafia, and causing general chaos while disguised as Chuuya, which meant the real Chuuya had to work overtime to stop this asshole. Unfortunately, Chuuya was always a little too late, and ended up having to sort out paperwork, run around to examine clues, all mess that an Executive *shouldn't* be doing. He was burnt out and exhausted, he just wanted to sleep.

Knowing that, Dazai took the proper initiative; he scooped Chuuya up in his arms and ran like Hell. Vanitas followed after hearing the situation, knowing that if Chuuya was going to be accused, he might as well make sure Chuuya had an alibi. He watched as Dazai took him for ramen, then a walk on the beach, then grocery shopping. If Chuuya was under suspicion, it was best to lay low for a while, so after a quick drink at Bar Lupin, they went back to Chuuya's apartment for the night.

Vanitas took photos and even filmed some of their interactions, silently vowing to apologise to Chuuya and Dazai later, feeling gross for stalking them. Before they went into the apartment, Vanitas recorded one last thing that Chuuya said: "If the Agency do think I'm the asshole killing those guys, I don't mind turning myself in. I already know you'll fight to prove my innocence."

"That's not necessary, slug. But thanks for the offer. I'll stay with you for a few days, see if my presence alone is enough of an alibi." He tilted his head when Chuuya started shaking, "...what's funny?"

"Oh, please! You'd ever have the balls to tell the Agency we're together!" He laughed hard and grinned at him, "Even if you did, I doubt they'd believe you're in a committed relationship with a Port Mafia Executive."

"Maybe they won't, but we could get them to listen. The Agency aren't foolish. Sure, they've been tricked before, but so have the Port Mafia, the Guild, even the Decay of Angels." He kissed Chuuya's forehead and spoke softly, "I can at least try, okay?"

They both went inside and Vanitas stopped his recording, smiling to himself. He'd heard that they were a team in the Mafia, and if their love had bloomed from that, then no wonder they were so good together.

****

Once Vanitas had presented his evidence, Kunikida looked away, feeling like a moron. He'd been out of sorts for a while now, Jouno's words from before the attack at the airport still had him shaken to his core. The world wasn't black and white, and of course they wouldn't have believed Dazai if he'd come out as being in a relationship with a man, never mind an Executive of the Port Mafia!

They watched the videos and saw the photos, Ranpo looking at one in particular- it was the pair of them walking out of the grocery store. The time stamp on a photo of "Chuuya" leaping across the roof of a building matched. Dazai was his alibi and Vanitas had provided the proof. Ranpo simply nodded, "I'll talk to Poe and Fitzgerald, see if Eyes of God can help us determine who this Gifted is and why he's purposely pissing off the Mafia. In the meantime, nobody contacts Dazai or Chuuya, got it?"

Of course they all agreed, and those who voted on Chuuya being the culprit all left without a word, leaving the others to discuss how to help. Though Kyouka seemed curious: "Atsushi, Kenji... how come you both believed in his innocence?"

"Chuuya's really nice!" Kenji said with a grin, "He actually buys his veggies from my stall in town whenever he gets the chance, and sometimes we hang out over beef bowls. He respects strength of all kind, especially strength of heart."

"Yeah, I only ever ran into him outside of work once, when we went to go see the same movie. But I saw how he protected the people of Yokohama when the Guild initially attacked; he was the reason I wanted the Agency and the Port Mafia to work together." It was actually hard *not* to like Chuuya once you got to know him. Plus, Atsushi's senses were higher than most, so he could see a lot of the real Chuuya- he cared for his friends and family, had a lot of love for Yokohama and its people. He was terrified of losing himself and losing others, so he fought like Hell to protect what he could.

Chuuya was easier to read than Dazai, but that was okay. Dazai knew Chuuya better than anyone, and Atsushi trusted Dazai- even if Ranpo hadn't confirmed his innocence and Vanitas hadn't proved it, Atsushi absolutely would have believed in him anyway. Kenji obviously felt the same way. Kyouka smiled and glanced at Vanitas, who just shrugged, "I hang out with people outside of the Agency, and I could see more of Chuuya than most ever will when I cured his Vampirism. He'd never do anything blatantly stupid, even if he was pissed off. He'll be fine with Dazai."

Yeah, that was right. Dazai would have gone straight back to Chuuya. *Right?*

******

It was cold, and dusty. There hadn't been a need to come back here, not after Oda's death, not after he left the Mafia and got his own place. Even when he hid underground, it wasn't as miserable as this place. Verlaine had joked that Dazai was saving a lot of money by living in a sparsely furnished shipping container, but the fact of the matter was that it was barely suitable for the purpose Dazai originally got it for.

It was meant to be his own safe space, away from the Mafia, where nobody would find him. And if he got carried away on a ship by accident, then all the better, he could leave everything behind. But that never happened, clearly. He had this container bought since before he met Chuuya, and it was still cold, empty and depressing. But Dazai didn't know where to go with his mind and emotions fragmented. His hands curled in his hair, anger bubbling inside his chest, the pain *burned*- it itched and clawed at his sanity.

"...I always get pushed down, don't I, Odasaku?" He muttered to himself, trying to ignore the ringing in his head, "I don't want to get back up anymore."

He did end up on his knees, trying to breathe. It wasn't a cold day, but the container may as well have been below freezing, the icy temperature bleeding into his chest and making it so damn hard to inhale and exhale. His brain was slow to react, he didn't expect it, but Mori crouched down beside him, wrapping his arms around Dazai.

*When the fuck did he get here?!* He wanted to scream, he wanted to pull away, he wanted to yell for his to get off, to not touch him! But all he said was: "*How?*"

"I have eyes everywhere, Dazai. You should know that better than anyone..." cooed Mori, a smirk forming in the darkness, sending shivers down Dazai's spine. He hated it, he absolutely fucking hated it. "I know everything. About you, and your relationship with Chuuya." He continued, tilting Dazai's face and running his thumb across Dazai's lips.

That made his breath hitch, a lot. He began to panic, how could he not? He felt like a child again in the Mafia's infirmary, feeling like Mori had just told him that he knows he took a drug he shouldn't have.

*Oh, no. Nononononono!!*

"Living in such a disgusting and shameful way..." whispered Mori, as he cupped both of Dazai's cheeks, "You do know that you're a selfish psychopath, causing such issues for the pair of you, and the Agency who claim to care for you?"

Dazai shook his head, which was a mistake considering how much it was already spinning, caught up in the middle of a thought. He can't respond, the heaviness in his chest restricting everything he had. He wasn't sure if anyone ever cared or loved him, or if it was all out of fear, knowing what Dazai was capable of. "Don't touch me..."

If only he kept his mouth shut. But he's scared, he's still broken, fighting back the only way he knows how to. He felt Mori shift and wrap his scarf around him instead, and listened as Mori spoke quietly, "Remember when you were young? What did I teach you?" Dazai found himself slowing his breathing, then covering up his now closed right eye with his hand, like a terrible instinct, "That's right. Calm yourself. Then fight, if that's what you want, *Little Demon*."

Mori, despite his fears, had a soft spot for Dazai. His cold apartment was like this shipping container, which stored nothing but a few belongings, nothing more than a roof and a place to sleep. No matter how much Dazai hated Mori, he leaned into him, his muscles begging to relax, and he wasn't actively crying anymore. But that still didn't stop the tears.

"I want to know who the person behind this is," there was no hesitation in his next words, "and I want them *dead*."

"I can help with that. I'm already having my men looking into it." His manipulative grin couldn't help but make an appearance, "If you agree to do something for the Mafia at a time that I choose, then I'm sure I can keep the bastard alive until you get there. Then, he's all yours."

"Yeah. *He's all mine*." It was a foolish choice, but Dazai was angry. He couldn't help it, especially when as twisted as he was, Mori always kept his word. So, he agreed.

Mori nodded his approval before helping Dazai to stand up, "Even if you don't want to come back, you're certainly not staying *here*." He sneered, even he would never allow Dazai to suffer, regardless of what he personally wanted, "...I'll take you *home*."

Dazai knew what that meant from Mori's voice- he was going to take him to Chuuya's place. For a split second, Dazai actually looked alarmed when Mori caught his arm, then tugged him a bit to let him know that if he chose to pull away, Mori would understand, that it's *his choice*. "No. We shouldn't be spotted together. If... if the Agency found out..." he trailed off, unable to finish his train of thought.

Mori chuckled, "You *can* tell me that you hate me and don't want to be caught dead with me, you know." He tilted his head, "My offer stands if you ever want to rejoin, but it will be your own choice. In the meantime, all I ask is that you do your best to be safe."

"Yeah... you, too." Dazai had thought about it many times, however... he loves the Agency. He loves solving mysteries with Ranpo, drinking tea and playing sudoku with Fukuzawa, but he knew that he never truly fit in, and Kunikida was a decent partner, but he wasn't close to Chuuya's level. That was when his eyes darkened, deadening, to the point of no return all of a sudden. He'd never asked for much or anything, especially from Mori, but: "Don't push him so hard. Stop putting so much pressure on him. *Please* keep him safe."

Mori looked away, "You know I can't promise that, and you know why. However, I give you my word that I'll try to. And if I fail, well." He looked back at him, "Then everything in the past no longer matters. You can kill me." Mori simply left after that.

Dazai laughed a harsh, hollow and bitter sort of laugh. He didn't expect a response, let alone something that sincere, as he watched as Mori left. He felt mortified, to actually find comfort in that. To *lean* into it. It made him feel nauseous, he lost count of how many breaths he'd been taking. The room around him was an utterly mess, and for an ugly moment, Dazai had forgotten why he was mad at Mori to begin with. He jerked backwards, breaking away, out of his poisonous thoughts.

Unfortunately, the stress made Dazai lose the contents of his stomach. It was horrible, Mori was the true monster in this world- manipulating, calculating and simply fucked in the head. And yet... there was a dark part of Dazai's past that had looked up to Mori, as a sort of parental figure. Even now, he technically gave Dazai good advice: he needed somewhere to rest that wasn't this shithole. No wonder he'd desperately sought out comfort in whoever was closest to him, basically. It was disgusting.

"...I hate that man, and how *right* he is." He needed Chuuya, even if it was just being at his apartment until he got home. *Chuuya would be happy to see him. He's right, he's always fucking right.*

He stood and looked at the reflection of himself in the mirror he had over his makeshift sink, hating his jittery appearance, especially with Mori's red scarf still wrapped around his neck. He'd never heard the whispering in his mind that bad before- but what do people expect from someone so inhuman? A little frantically, he ripped off the scarf and threw it to the floor, before punching the mirror, shattering it completely- obliterating it.

*shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup*

He didn't feel better for it, he actually felt far worse. He could have thrown up again when he fell to his knees and gripped that stupid scarf for comfort. He wanted to slit his wrists, or hang from the ceiling for even thinking of being grateful to *Mori*. If he ever went back, then what was the point of leaving in the first place? What was the point of Oda's last wish? Why did he leave Chuuya?

Enough was enough. He ran, he sprinted far away from the container and the memories it stored there. His legs knew where he was going before his brain did, as he headed across town, to Chuuya's apartment. After picking the lock, he entered, then shut the door behind him and fell back against it, letting his head tap the back of it with a slight thump. He dropped down without thinking, catching his breath. It was starting to get a little dark inside, due to the sunset outside the window, but there were no stars out just yet. Dazai was aware that he'd lost the concept of time a while ago, but he didn't care, at least it wasn't so bright he needed to cover his eyes.

He swallowed, looking at the clock to attempt to get his bearings, and noted that Chuuya wouldn't be home for another few hours. He couldn't help but whisper to himself, "I hope your day was better than mine, Chibi."

In case it wasn't, Dazai decided that he'd make sure that Chuuya could relax immediately upon coming home. It'll take his mind off things, but he won't do anything extravagant, he couldn't take it if he fucked anything up. It *was* actually pretty cold this evening, so Dazai would make Chuuya something to eat that would be warm and comforting. He silently thanked Vanitas for teaching him how to cook a decent meal, since nobody else had the patience to teach him.

As he prepared everything, he put little sticky notes around the apartment, with stupid words of affirmation, though after how tense he'd been earlier in the day, his movements were less fluid and so he had to be extra cautious of not screwing anything up. He'd settled on making a nice warm taro soup, toran-guk, as he knew he could make it without it going gross, and the hearty broth and vegetables would do Chuuya the world of good. The vegetables were likely from the stall in town that Kenji set up to sell his crops from his farm, which explained their excellent quality. He placed it on the kitchen table, covering it with a plate to keep it warm.

Once the food was done, and he'd cleaned up after himself in the kitchen, he decided to run Chuuya a bath. He only used hot water so it would stay warmer for longer, giving Chuuya more time to come home and get it while it was fresh, before throwing in some strawberry scented bubbles. He debated pouring Chuuya a glass of wine, but thought it best to leave that for Chuuya, since sometimes after work he was too stressed to *drink*, because that's a thing apparently!

Once that was done, Dazai began to stumble, feeling his body sway as he finally made it to Chuuya's bed, having to lean against the wall for support. His vision started pulsating, his head thumping. He'd already taken off his shoes and coat at the front door, so Dazai just slipped into the bed and curled up, falling asleep immediately.

It had been a shock to Chuuya to come home and see everything that happened! He had a warm bowl of soup that helped him feel better about life, then saw a bath had been run for him! Dazai used to slip into his place and do things like that to cheer him up when things were rough in the Mafia, and Chuuya suspected he continued to do so on occasion after he'd left, but once they reunited, Dazai stopped being discreet again.

Good food, a hot bubble bath and some heartfelt complimentary notes later, and Chuuya headed into his bedroom wearing surprisingly sloppy pyjamas. Everyone assumed that he'd wear silk pyjamas or maybe ones from an expensive brand, but Chuuya just liked wearing short pyjama shorts and an overly baggy t-shirt for pyjamas, because that was simply what made him comfortable.

Chuuya gasped softly when he saw Dazai asleep in his bed. He looked... rough. He'd cried himself to sleep from the looks of it, and had clearly been running on empty. Sighing, Chuuya slipped in beside him, pulling Dazai so his head rested over Chuuya's heart; because of the height difference, Chuuya never got to be the big spoon, so he took advantage whenever he could. He ran his fingers through Dazai's hair and kissed his forehead, smiling softly, "G'night, 'samu. I hope you're still here when I wake up."

Dazai shifted a bit in his sleep. He'd always been a light sleeper, even in the Mafia. For him to not wake up to the door opening or closing... Dazai murmured Chuuya's name in his sleep, and he noticed that he didn't even take his bandages off this time, seemingly too exhausted. Chuuya just continued to stroke his hair before dropping off into sleep as well.

Dazai didn't sleep the full night, the uncomfortable sensation in his body woke him up, his hand and arms were aching with a dull, cold tingling feeling. He shifted a bit, relaxing when he felt Chuuya's breath rise and fall- Chuuya wasn't snoring this time, and his arms were wrapped around Dazai loosely. He had a smile on his face, looking relaxed, and Dazai could tell that Chuuya took advantage of everything Dazai had done for him: he smelt nice from having a bath, and his stomach was quiet.

Dazai curled into himself a bit, as if to appear smaller. He did something right, just one thing. He closed his eyes again, still feeling heavy and exhausted, but he felt warm and safe, listening to Chuuya's breath and his rhythmic heartbeat.

****

"Ah, Snow White finally awakens." Dazai woke up, feeling Chuuya kissing his forehead and smiling, looking like he was in a great mood. Dazai hummed then leaned up to join their lips together properly, and Chuuya smiled against Dazai's lips before stroking his face with a sad look, "Your eyes sore?"

They *were*. Dazai had almost forgotten how much crying could hurt- though, he did also feel less stressed. He nodded to answer Chuuya, his eyes had burned from the scalding tears, but it felt irrelevant when he was here. It was strange, how time seemed to move a little slower when he was with Chuuya. Not in a bad way, either.

Chuuya nuzzled Dazai and sighed, "I'm guessing your colleagues still think I did it, then?" Chuuya wasn't one for subtlety, but knew when it was necessary- instead of calling them his friends or simply the Agency, he called them Dazai's colleagues; stating that at this moment, it's just business. Again, Dazai nodded, briefly explaining just how rocky things had gotten, but he kept Kunikida’s comments to himself. Chuuya just stroked his hair again, "They must've really pissed you off, huh? Well then, you're staying with me until you feel better, then. Boyfriend's orders."

Dazai felt a small smile tug at his lips, as he studied Chuuya's face. He liked Chuuya's warm hands against his own face, even if they stung his sore cheeks slightly, its still pleasant, "Ordering me around, huh?" He whispered lightly, though it was obvious that he didn't mind. While Kunikida’s comments weren't going to be repeated, he still felt hurt- no matter who he was partnered with, they always had a habit of insulting each other, but they never joke about each other's humanity. The question of whether he was human or not burned Dazai's skull, and he asked weakly, "Does Chuuya think I'm... just a monster? Less than human?"

Ah, that was something that used to come up in the past, though never asked so sincerely. Chuuya knew that even though he hated Dazai being upset, he couldn't lie. So he didn’t:

"You can be monstrous, but then again, who isn't capable of that? Listen to me, Osamu Dazai. You're a strong, and good man. And I love you. Even though you're a jackass for insulting my exquisite taste in closed and blowing up my car," He laughed, "...but you never abandoned me, even when you left. You're nothing less than a good man with a kind heart. A true human."

Dazai knew that Chuuya was being honest, he was always honest with his feelings and thoughts. But Dazai couldn't deny feeling like some sort of beast, eager to kill and lose himself, then wanting to die afterwards. He sacrificed so much, for his promises, for the love he felt towards those around him, but he'd always revert to his old ways if it had to be done. "I just... I don't know anymore..."

He always feels guilty. If he can't convince himself or the Agency that he's human, how can they ever trust him? How is Chuuya supposed to feel safe around him?

Chuuya thought about everything for a moment then took a breath, "Y'know, I think that while this is all happening, Yokohama isn't good for you right now. So, let's bail." Dazai looked at Chuuya in shock! He'd never suggested *running away* before, but... maybe a vacation wouldn't be such a bad idea? And that would certainly give Chuuya an alibi if any more attacks happened before Mori or Fukuzawa caught the prick. "How about somewhere like England? I didn't take you to London last time I went. Ooh, or maybe Paris? Somewhere we won't be bothered for a while."

"Paris?" Dazai echoed, smiling softly, "The City of Love. It's an appropriate choice, for such a hopeless romantic such as yourself." His words were teasing, but his heart was racing at the prospect.

"Paris it is, then." Chuuya cupped Dazai's face, and they shared a quick kiss before making some quick arrangements and doing some packing.

They really needed to get out of Yokohama for a while, they were exhausted and needed each other. Thankfully the Port Mafia always had some private jets that could be borrowed.

[anastasiareadsnwrites]

you already know why I’m here 😅 At Last pt. 5!! 🫶🏼

At Last Part V (Portia Featherington x Fem! Reader)

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V

Author's note: I definitely do but don't fret. I LOVE full filing out your requests. But I do certainly hope this reached your expectations.

Summary: You and Portia navigate your growing romantic relationship. After a night of special activities it's time to head back Featherington House. Penelope teases her mother about such an evening and soon reveals that she and Colin are leaving to an event.

Warning(s): NSFW, 18+, reader! Receiving, playful banter, mild teasing, emotional vulnerability...more to be added.

The MAIN Masterlist

The Bridgerton Masterlist

As the firelight flickered gently across the room, Portia settled into your embrace, her breathing slowly returning to normal as she rested her head against your chest. The warmth of your bodies mingled with the cozy glow of the hearth, casting soft shadows on the walls. You could still feel the thrum of intimacy in the air, the quiet aftermath of shared passion, but there was something more—a deep, unspoken bond that stretched beyond mere desire.

You gently traced your fingers along Portia's back, feeling the delicate rise and fall of her breath. She seemed so content, so at peace in this moment, as though the world outside had vanished, leaving only the two of you in this quiet cocoon of warmth and affection. It was moments like these, the quiet after the storm, that filled your heart with the deepest kind of love.

Portia shifted slightly, her eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, there was a vulnerability in her gaze that you hadn’t seen before. It was as if she was silently asking you to stay—to be the anchor she had longed for. You smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair away from her flushed face.

"You’re beautiful," you whispered, the words flowing naturally, effortlessly. They weren't just about her appearance, though she was stunning. It was about the way she made you feel—about how, in her presence, everything else seemed to fade away.

Portia’s lips curved into a small, shy smile, her cheeks tinged pink, though not from embarrassment this time. “I don’t think anyone’s ever looked at me the way you do,” she admitted softly, her voice barely audible as she leaned in closer.

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “And how do I look at you?”

Her eyes flickered with a mixture of amusement and sincerity. “Like I’m the only thing that matters.”

Your heart swelled at her words, and you pulled her even closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Because you are, Portia. You’re everything to me."

For a moment, she simply stared at you, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and affection. It was as if she wasn’t used to hearing such raw, honest emotion. But slowly, she smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that lit up her entire face.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice soft but filled with conviction. "So much."

You kissed her gently, your lips lingering against hers as the weight of her words sank in. You had never been more sure of anything in your life. This was love—true, undeniable love—and you would spend every day proving it to her.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your heart swelling with the sheer enormity of it all.

Portia sighed contentedly, her body relaxing completely against yours as she nestled back into your arms. For a long while, neither of you spoke, content to simply be in each other’s presence, to let the warmth of the moment carry you both into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

And as you lay there, holding her close, you knew that no matter what the future held, you and Portia would face it together.

As you held Portia close, the quiet sounds of the night filled the room, the gentle crackle of the fireplace, the soft rustle of the sheets, and the steady rhythm of her breath against your chest. You felt a deep sense of peace settle over you, as if the world outside had ceased to exist for just a little while. It was just the two of you, wrapped up in each other, sharing a moment that felt timeless.

Portia’s fingers absentmindedly traced patterns across your skin, and you could sense that she was lost in thought. There was a stillness to her, a quiet that felt almost pensive. After a few moments, she tilted her head up to look at you, her eyes reflecting the soft glow of the firelight.

"Do you ever wonder what’s next for us?" she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she were afraid to break the delicate intimacy of the moment.

You smiled softly, brushing your fingers through her hair, enjoying the silky feel of it. "I think about it all the time," you admitted. "But I’m not worried. Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together."

Portia’s gaze softened, and she let out a quiet sigh, her head resting against your chest once more. "I’ve never felt this way before," she murmured. "It’s... different. Good. But sometimes, I don’t know if I’m ready for all of it."

You could hear the vulnerability in her voice, the uncertainty that lingered beneath her words. It wasn’t that she doubted the love between you—it was more that she was unsure of how to handle the enormity of it, the way it seemed to envelop everything else in her life.

"That’s okay," you said gently, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. "We don’t have to rush anything. We’ll take it one step at a time. As long as we’re together, nothing else matters."

Portia’s arms tightened around you, and she smiled against your skin. "You always know exactly what to say," she murmured, her voice filled with affection.

You chuckled softly. "I try."

The room fell into a comfortable silence again, the warmth of the fire casting a golden glow around you. You couldn’t help but feel grateful for this moment—for Portia, for the love you shared, for the quiet peace that wrapped around the both of you like a protective cocoon.

After a while, Portia shifted slightly, propping herself up on one elbow as she looked down at you, her expression serious but tender. "I want you to know something," she said softly, her voice steady. "I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and... I don’t want to keep holding back. Not with you."

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?"

Portia bit her lip, her eyes flickering with a mixture of determination and nervousness. "I’ve always been so careful," she admitted. "Always trying to control everything, to keep myself from getting hurt. But with you... I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I want to let you in—all the way."

Her words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. You could see the vulnerability in her eyes, the way she was opening herself up to you in a way she hadn’t before. It was a risk for her, a step into the unknown, and it made your heart swell with affection and admiration.

"Portia," you said softly, reaching up to cup her cheek. "I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to be afraid. I’m here, and I’ll always be here. For you. For us."

Her eyes shone with emotion, and for a moment, she simply gazed at you, her expression filled with something deeper than words could express. Then, without warning, she leaned down and kissed you—slowly, tenderly, with a depth of feeling that took your breath away.

The kiss was different from before. It wasn’t driven by passion or urgency. It was softer, more intimate, as if she were pouring every unspoken emotion into that single moment. You responded in kind, your hands gently cradling her face as you kissed her back, matching her softness with your own.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were filled with love and trust, the kind that only came from knowing someone was truly there for you.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I’m not afraid anymore."

You smiled, brushing your thumb across her cheek as you looked into her eyes. "I love you too," you whispered back. "More than you’ll ever know."

And in that moment, you both knew that whatever the future held, you would face it together—fearlessly, with all the love and trust you had built between you.

As the warmth of Portia’s confession lingered between you, you both settled into a peaceful silence, her head resting against your chest once more. The firelight continued its soft dance across the room, but now it felt different—like a quiet witness to the unspoken promises you had just exchanged. The bond between you felt even stronger, solidified by her vulnerability and your shared understanding of the love that had blossomed between you.

Portia shifted slightly, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin as if grounding herself in the reality of this moment. There was a tenderness in the air, one that neither of you were in any rush to disturb. It was in these quiet moments that love truly revealed itself—not through grand gestures, but in the way you both simply existed together.

“I’ve spent so much of my life trying to be perfect,” Portia said softly, her voice carrying a weight of reflection. “To maintain the image, to uphold what’s expected of me. It’s exhausting.”

You glanced down at her, gently brushing your fingers through her hair. “You don’t have to be perfect with me,” you whispered. “You never did.”

Portia smiled faintly, though her eyes still held a certain sadness. “I know that now. But it’s hard to let go of the habits I’ve built over the years. The idea that if I’m not perfect, everything will fall apart.”

You squeezed her hand gently, intertwining your fingers with hers. “You’re allowed to be human, Portia. You don’t have to carry everything alone. I’m here with you, for all of it.”

Her eyes softened at your words, and she turned her face up toward yours, a mixture of gratitude and longing written across her features. “I’ve never really had that before,” she admitted. “Someone who sees me, who wants me without expecting perfection in return.”

You smiled, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “I want you, all of you—the good, the messy, the vulnerable, the strong. I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she nestled closer to you, as though she were finally allowing herself to let go of the weight she had carried for so long. For a moment, she was quiet again, and you simply held her, content to let her feel safe in your arms.

But then, Portia pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting yours with a glimmer of mischief that you recognized all too well. “You’re far too good to me, you know,” she teased, though there was a genuine affection in her tone. “Always saying exactly the right thing.”

You smirked, brushing your fingers along her jawline. “I just know you that well.”

Her smile grew, and she leaned in to kiss you softly, her lips lingering against yours. When she pulled back, there was a playfulness in her gaze that made your heart skip a beat.

“You know,” she said, her voice lower now, almost seductive, “I think I still owe you for earlier.”

You raised an eyebrow, your heart quickening at the shift in her tone. “Owe me?”

Portia’s eyes darkened slightly, and she ran her fingers down your arm, sending a shiver through you. “For teasing me earlier. For making me so flustered and... distracted.”

You couldn’t help but grin, thoroughly enjoying this side of her. “Oh? And how do you plan to repay me?”

Her smile turned sly as she shifted to straddle you, her legs on either side of your hips as she leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear. “I think I have a few ideas,” she whispered, her breath hot against your skin.

Before you could respond, her lips were on yours again, but this time there was nothing soft or tender about the kiss. It was heated, passionate, filled with the desire that had simmered between you all evening. You could feel the intensity of her need, and it sent a spark of electricity through your entire body.

Portia’s hands roamed over your body with purpose, her fingers slipping under the edge of your nightshirt, her touch igniting every nerve in your skin. You let out a soft moan, arching your back slightly as she deepened the kiss, her tongue teasing yours in a rhythm that made your heart race.

“You’re insufferable,” she murmured between kisses, her tone filled with playful frustration. “Making me feel like that... making me want you so badly.”

You chuckled softly, pulling her closer so that her body was flush against yours. “I think you enjoy it.”

Her lips curved into a smirk against yours. “Maybe,” she admitted, her voice a low purr. “But now it’s my turn.”

Without another word, Portia’s hands slid lower, her touch sending waves of pleasure through you as she teased and explored your body. Your breaths grew shallow, your heart pounding in your chest as the heat between you intensified, and soon you were lost in her, in the way her hands moved with expert precision, in the way her lips left a trail of fire along your skin.

It was overwhelming in the best way possible—her touch, her lips, the way she knew exactly how to drive you wild. You gasped as she pressed against you, your body trembling under her ministrations, and soon you were completely at her mercy, just as she had been earlier.

“Portia...” you breathed, your voice thick with desire. “Please...”

She grinned wickedly, clearly enjoying the way you had become the one begging now. “Oh, I will,” she whispered, her voice dripping with promise.

And as she continued her slow, deliberate teasing, the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you tangled together in a perfect storm of love and desire.

In this moment, there was no fear, no doubt—only the pure, unfiltered connection between you. And as the night stretched on, you both knew that whatever came next, whatever challenges or uncertainties the future might hold, you would face them together.

The intensity of Portia’s gaze as she hovered above you sent a thrill through your body, and you could feel your heart racing in anticipation of her next move. Her fingers, delicate yet firm, traced slow, deliberate patterns across your skin, teasing you with their feather-light touch. Each movement heightened the tension between you, and you could sense that she was savoring every second, relishing the control she now held over you.

“You’ve always been so composed,” she murmured, her voice low and sultry as she leaned in, her lips brushing your ear. “But now, you’re the one unraveling beneath me.”

A soft, breathless moan escaped your lips as her words sent a wave of heat coursing through you. She was right—you could feel yourself giving in to her completely, your usual poise slipping away with every touch, every kiss. There was something liberating about it, about surrendering to her like this, and it only made your desire for her burn even brighter.

Portia’s fingers slid down your sides, teasing the hem of your shirt before pulling it up, her nails lightly grazing your skin as she undressed you. The cool air of the room hit your exposed skin, but it was quickly replaced by the warmth of her body as she pressed herself against you, her lips finding yours in a heated kiss.

You reached for her, your hands tangling in her hair as you deepened the kiss, your need for her growing with every passing second. But Portia pulled back just slightly, her lips curling into a mischievous smile.

“Not so fast,” she whispered, her breath warm against your cheek. “I’m in charge tonight, remember?”

You groaned softly, both frustrated and thrilled by her teasing, but you nodded, letting her take the lead. She grinned at your compliance, clearly enjoying the power she had over you, and she moved slowly, deliberately, her hands exploring every inch of your body with a tantalizing precision that left you trembling.

Her lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, and you couldn’t suppress the moan that escaped as she kissed and nipped at you, her tongue flicking against your pulse in a way that made your breath hitch. You could feel the heat building between you, your body responding to every touch, every kiss, and it was almost too much to bear.

“Portia, please,” you gasped, your voice shaky as your hands gripped the sheets beneath you.

She smiled against your skin, her voice a low purr as she whispered, “I love hearing you like this.”

Before you could respond, she shifted slightly, her hand slipping between your thighs, her touch light but deliberate. Your body arched into her hand, your breath catching in your throat as she teased you, drawing out your pleasure with a slow, methodical rhythm that left you breathless.

Your fingers tightened in the sheets, your body trembling as the sensations built, the pressure growing with every movement of her hand. You were completely at her mercy, and she knew it—relishing in the way you responded to her touch, the way your body gave in to the pleasure she was so expertly giving you.

“Do you want more?” she whispered, her lips brushing your ear as she continued to tease you, her fingers moving with agonizing slowness.

“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to form the words as your body trembled beneath her. “Please, Portia...”

Her smile deepened, and she pressed a soft kiss to your lips before quickening the pace of her hand, her touch sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. Your body responded instantly, your hips moving in time with her rhythm as you let yourself go, lost in the sensation, in the way she made you feel.

The pressure built rapidly, the pleasure intensifying with every second, and soon you were on the edge, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you clung to her, your body trembling with anticipation.

“I can feel how close you are,” she whispered, her voice thick with desire. “Don’t hold back. Let go for me.”

With her words, you couldn’t hold on any longer. A cry escaped your lips as your body arched beneath her, the pleasure crashing over you in waves, leaving you breathless and trembling as you reached your climax. Portia held you close, her hand still working against you, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you were completely spent.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You lay there, panting softly, your body still trembling from the intensity of your release. Portia kissed your forehead, her touch gentle as she shifted to lie beside you, her arms wrapping around you as she held you close.

“Was that good?” she whispered, her voice soft, almost vulnerable now.

You turned to face her, your breath still coming in short, shallow bursts, and smiled. “More than good,” you murmured, your voice filled with affection. “That was incredible.”

Portia’s eyes softened at your words, and she leaned in to kiss you gently, her lips lingering against yours in a tender, loving gesture. “I’m glad,” she whispered, her fingers brushing through your hair. “Because I want to make you feel like that every time.”

You sighed contentedly, your heart swelling with love as you cuddled closer to her, the warmth of her body a perfect contrast to the cool night air. “You already do,” you whispered, your voice filled with sincerity. “You make me feel like the luckiest person in the world.”

Portia smiled, her eyes glistening with emotion as she held you tighter. “You make me feel the same way,” she whispered, her voice thick with affection.

The two of you lay there in each other’s arms, the quiet of the night settling around you like a comforting blanket. There was no need for words now—only the quiet assurance of your love, the deep connection that had grown between you, and the knowledge that no matter what came next, you would always have each other.

As you both drifted into a peaceful sleep, the flickering fire casting soft shadows across the room, you knew that this—what you had with Portia—was something rare and precious. A love that would last, one that would carry you through whatever life threw your way.

And with her by your side, you were ready for it all.

The soft glow of the morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a warm light across the room. You stirred first, gently waking to the sight of Portia still curled up beside you, her head resting on your chest, her breathing slow and even. The serenity of the moment filled you with a deep sense of contentment, and for a while, you simply watched her sleep, basking in the quiet intimacy of the early morning.

Eventually, Portia shifted, her eyes fluttering open as she blinked in the soft light. She smiled sleepily when she saw you watching her, her fingers gently brushing against your skin. “Good morning,” she whispered, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Good morning,” you replied, your voice soft as you leaned down to press a tender kiss to her forehead. “Did you sleep well?”

Portia sighed contentedly, snuggling closer to you. “I did. Better than I have in a long time.”

You smiled, stroking her hair as you both lay there for a few more minutes, savoring the peaceful quiet of the morning. But soon enough, reality began to creep back in, and Portia shifted again, her expression changing as she remembered the day ahead.

“I suppose we should head back to the Featherington house before Penelope starts wondering where I’ve been,” she said with a playful smile, though there was a hint of reluctance in her voice.

You chuckled, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “I’m sure she’ll have plenty to say.”

Portia laughed softly, though there was a fondness in her tone. “She always does.”

With that, the two of you reluctantly pulled yourselves out of bed, getting dressed and preparing to face the day. The quiet intimacy of the night before lingered between you as you both moved around the room, sharing soft smiles and gentle touches as you readied yourselves to return to the world outside.

Once you were both dressed and ready, you made your way back to the Featherington estate. The walk was peaceful, the streets still quiet in the early morning hours, and by the time you reached the grand entrance of the house, the warmth of the sun had fully settled over the city.

As you stepped inside, you were greeted by the familiar sound of Penelope’s voice drifting through the hallways. It didn’t take long to find her, sitting at the dining table with Colin, who was flipping through a stack of papers and books. Penelope looked up as you and Portia entered the room, a mischievous smile immediately spreading across her face.

“Well, well, look who’s back,” she teased, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she glanced between you and her mother. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to send out a search party.”

Portia rolled her eyes, though you could see the faint blush that colored her cheeks. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Penelope.”

Penelope chuckled, clearly enjoying herself. “I’m just saying, Mother, it’s not like you to disappear for an entire night without a word.”

Colin, who had been quietly scanning his papers, looked up with a grin, clearly amused by his wife’s teasing. “Leave your mother alone, Pen,” he said with a chuckle, though there was no mistaking the playful glint in his eye. “I’m sure she had a lovely evening.”

You exchanged a glance with Portia, who raised an eyebrow at her daughter’s teasing, but there was no real irritation in her expression. If anything, she seemed amused by the entire situation, though she was trying to keep her usual composure.

“Honestly, Penelope,” Portia sighed, though there was a faint smile on her lips. “You’ve been married for how long, and you still insist on teasing me like this?”

Penelope’s smile widened as she shrugged innocently. “It’s my duty as your daughter to make sure you’re properly entertained, Mother. Besides, it’s not often I get to see you so flustered.”

Portia shook her head, clearly trying to maintain her dignity, but there was no hiding the affection in her eyes as she glanced at her daughter. “You’re impossible.”

Penelope simply laughed, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she leaned back in her chair. “I do try.”

Colin, who had been listening to the entire exchange with a quiet grin, set down the papers he had been reviewing and looked up at you and Portia. “Well, it seems we’re all up and about this morning,” he said, his tone light. “Penelope and I were just going over a few last-minute details for our upcoming travels.”

You glanced at the stack of papers on the table, noting the various maps and travel itineraries scattered across the surface. “Off on another adventure?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Colin nodded, his expression brightening. “Yes, we’re heading to Italy next. There’s a small village we’ve been meaning to visit—apparently, there’s a festival that only happens once every decade, and Penelope has been dying to see it.”

Penelope smiled fondly at her husband, leaning over to glance at one of the maps he had been studying. “It’s a literary festival, actually. Authors from all over the world gather to read their works, and I’ve always wanted to go.”

Portia smiled at her daughter’s excitement, her earlier flustered state forgotten as she focused on Penelope. “That sounds lovely. You and Colin will have a wonderful time.”

Penelope nodded enthusiastically. “I’m sure we will. And don’t worry, Mother—we’ll be back before you know it.”

Portia’s smile softened as she looked at her daughter, her eyes filled with a quiet affection. “I know you will, darling.”

As the conversation continued, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of warmth settle over the room. It was moments like these—filled with teasing, laughter, and quiet affection—that made everything feel right. You exchanged a glance with Portia, and she smiled softly at you, her eyes reflecting the same contentment you felt.

Whatever challenges or adventures lay ahead, you knew you’d face them together, surrounded by the people you cared about most. And that, more than anything, was what made every day with Portia and her family so special.

[tiredassmage]

the lovers and the devil for the rook asks!

thank you so much!!! i meant to answer this way faster, lol, but apparently i'm in a 'miss my boy' phase, so we're back!!!

[rook tarot-themed asks!]

THE LOVERS: Who is your Rook's most significant relationship within the Veilguard? How do they help Rook feel seen and understood?

I might cheat a little with this one and be a bit greedy, lol. The easy, short answer is Neve, and it is part of why Tyr falls so hard for her. For him, it's an easy aide to developing a rapport that they both work alongside the Shadow Dragons, and, whether she likes to admit it or not, he sees some of his own idealism in her, even if hers has perhaps had a rough few rounds around the block a bit more than his. In Neve, he sees someone who has chosen to keep fighting and believing even though it's hard, and it's only getting harder, which is a trait he both admires and shares. But since I've already talked a bit about their relationship (find that here), it's certainly not the only friendship on the team that does a lot for him!

So this is where I cheat and pick two, actually, because I couldn't quite decide which to go with. For the sake of dashboards and some later-game spoilers, the rest will go under a cut. <3

So, I think the first that deserves good mention is our girl Lace Harding! Besides Neve, she's the one that's been on this road the longest with him, and they, too, have some similarities in areas that I think made them really interesting and good friends. The Lace that Tyr knows and loves is something of a burning optimist that all but can't help but look for the bright side of a scenario, and still holds to that candle even when she's uncertain - something, again, that Tyr admires about her, but I think that also served a lot to build their bond. Lace and Tyr are both deeply driven in that way - Tyr by I think a lot of ideals and Lace I think by a lot of compassion for those around her. They're two people I can easily see pushing through challenges because they believe they have to, because what are these beliefs they've held onto if they can just... give up on them so easily? And clearly they both do this in the course of the game.

But, importantly, they're usually around to catch each other when they stumble with that weight. They get playful and tease trying to cheer each other up, but it's from a well-meaning heart, even if sometimes the words come out a little funny.

And I think both of them are the type of people - the type of friend - to care so deeply that they try to take burdens upon their shoulders that they really shouldn't have to shoulder alone, either. Lace was funny and spirited and put so much effort into holding a love for the world that you can't find on just any old corner, and I think part of Tyr might regret not getting to insist on telling her that more - being more direct and clear about seeing that in her and appreciating it. She was there when Varric brought him into this, and it... hurts that she's not there to see the sunrise on the other side of it. She put her heart into everything, 1,000%, even to the last. And that's an aching loss that I think is going to keep coming back and hurting the way a bruise does - the way you almost think you're okay until you shift wrong or brush it against a table on your way out of the house one day and it's still tender all over again.

They're both people that put a lot into being okay for the people they cared for, even if they weren't actually all that okay. And I think they both knew that, to an extent. And that's nice, for letting go of some of the burden that can be.

So, the other honorable mention (because I wrote all of that and realized I've already gone off a deeper tangent than I anticipated, lol) is for Bellara! That's a relationship that really kind of snuck up on me, and I think I appreciate even more in hindsight for Tyr - because I'm not certain he fully realizes the extent of it in the present moment. But Bellara brings him into a lot of conversations about grief and purpose that let him express a lot of what drives him where he may otherwise have carried most of that fairly privately, and the importance of getting to externalize some of that really can't be understated. And there's something about the honesty in it and her near-endless energy I just think he comes to appreciate quietly a lot more than he might've ever expected. He's not got nearly the same talents or understandings with magic, in particular, as her, but a spirit of curiosity and learning is something I think Tyr sometimes forgets he likes to nurture in himself, so he's happy to be along for the ride in her own explorations.

THE DEVIL: What type of demon is most likely to target Rook? Why?

Tyr is someone who I think finds a lot of his drive in what he considers his ideals, and he believes strongly enough in them that they can keep him going even through a pretty significant amount of wear, tear, and strife. This is usually something I'd credit mostly as a strength of his, because it takes a lot to beat and grind the ability to still hope out of him. He's not usually the kind that knows how to quit - even when it seems like the world's all but lost because there's two corrupted ancient elven gods with blighted dragons on the loose hellbent on remaking the world in their image, for example!

But it's not impossible. And in the absence of hope, there is Despair. Tyr's a Shadow Dragon in Minrathous; he's only ever known Tevinter growing up, and he's a Shadow because he's seen the way the system is rigged. Part of him is a fighter by nature of being raised in military family with service as the only apparent reasonable option. And a lot of him is the kind of fighter he is because despite all those flaws, the challenges, the heavy rains in the city... he's also seen a lot of the little ways people hang on anyway. A little kindness alone may not remake the whole of Tevinter, but it keeps the world going in the little ways that make the passing of a day seem a little easier. Being a Shadow Dragon helps that. It's good to have a network of others that believe in these little moments of kindness, of something like a 'better way' of doing something. It's a space to keep those kinds of hopes alive.

Unity like that can be dangerous to certain powers, but to Tyr, it's always been worth those risks. But it's a precarious balance. It is a fight they haven't yet won. It's a space that can still be stolen from them, from him. Tyr would fight it probably about to his last, but a feeling of isolation could bring something of a downfall. Despair and ruin ever looks for the thinness in hope's armor, for the cracks in the masonry and linked fingers that keep hope alive.

I'd say ask me how I handled my Crow!Rook in comparison saving Treviso and going back to Minrathous after to find the Shadow Dragons nearly decimated, to see the horrors of Venatori control in the streets, but I'm still probably not entirely emotionally recovered - because that's a reality Tyr's fought hard to keep away with the Shadows, and it's one that's still all but ever-present anyway. That's a Minrathous he never wants to see, and why it's so important he has connections like the Shadows that share the fight.

Tyr might not know how to quit as an individual. He's one of the people that'd be of the dwindling numbers and still trying to fight off a total loss with blood on his teeth and fatigue in his muscles, but there's still only so much one individual can do, and only so far that luck tends to hold, as Neve's reminded him. Which is... sort of it's own point to it. Tyr's driven by a belief in the ideals of it firmly enough to keep fighting even when he's lost a lot, but a fair amount of that drive is also because he believes in doing it for the people he cares about, the people beside him. And losing that support network is its own kind of blow in a potential downfall.

[abbeykitchenmouse]

Both Paws

   The mouse buck laid out his plain sword and pike, though the blade gleamed with a pacifist's soul and the pike was more of a spear in regards to any larger beast. He knelt before figurines of his ancestors and the idols of his gods, lighting incense with a wood scrap spill as he tried to clear his mind. His oldest daughter sat beside him and mimicked his motions, though she certainly seemed to have her mind elsewhere. Of course he wasn't her age so long ago that he'd forgotten what that was like.

   He took another breath, deeper and steadier than before as the world faded out and he found his center. He was with the gods now. The first of them was the Spouse of Many, depicted amongst the others as a full figured ungulate of rather indeterminate species and dimorphism. Typically carved from dark wood, most chose to see a deer with impossible antlers, whereupon rested countless little gods who were often unseen. They supposedly perched and hung there, nesting and supping on the many fruits of the Spouse's crown. 

   And holding the Spouse's hoof was the wolf, the First Wife and the Eternal Chase. It was she, always in pursuit of her first love, that turned the world and moved the skies. Shaped from clay, she held the necessary dichotomy that allowed the seeding of life like she held the Spouse's pelt betwixt her jaws and bone carved teeth. Depending on who you asked she could be a fox or a coyote. It wasn't uncommon for her to be depicted as a cat if it suited their purposes. The mouse had even seen her as a weasel once, just to muddy up the waters of interpretation.

   Finally the mouse's gaze settled upon the third major idol upon his den's altar, this one placed apart from the Spouse of Many and The First Wife. This one was made of unflinching stone, cracked and worn in the way only purposeful violence could manage. The god of mice and small folk whose pitted surface and winding cracks marked the never ending struggle of all beasts. Was he a rat? A mouse? A vole or a mole? Maybe a shrew? His tail was broken off at its base and the shaping was intentionally deceptive so it was difficult to tell in any case. 

   This was the mouse's own god and the god of many mice; the Gouged Consort. 

   The idol was always to be positioned such that it eschewed the protective brambles and boughs of The Spouse's winding, sprawling antler crown. He wore a look that invited both challenge and cruelty, but derided the pity of others. He held his sword aloft with both paws that all beasts, prey especially, might follow. He resisted, nay thrived despite wounds and indignities innumerable. It was he that gave his flesh to the other gods so that they might see the spring and in doing so permanently diminished himself. His pointed glare matched that of the Wife's, never to break away.

   They were three lovers in concert. The birth of all things, the inevitable end of all things, and the small things often unseen in the center.

   And yet, despite the prayers of the mouse buck at their feet, the gods and his ancestors did not speak to him. He knew they weren't omnipresent or omniscient, but looking upon them he couldn't help but feel left behind. Lost like a babe that had scurried away from their family at the market. Of course that was the lesson he always came back to; the only beast that could wield his sword and don his armor for him was himself.

   The weight of that reality was enough to make the pint sized warrior's ears droop and drive his whiskers to agitated twitching. He frowned at all the gods, seen and unseen, features creased in worry as he sheathed his blade once more and stood with the help of his trusty pike.

   A mouse had to hold their sword with both paws after all. The only way forward was to be as relentless as the world that arrayed itself against them.

I try to write rodents with more martial cultures that are often based on resistance, endurance and communal strength. They're not always soldiers or actual physical fighters, but they're very often warriors who scoff at being considered soft or cute. The smallest folk of the world have a deep generational trauma and a bloody history that propels them.

[alphareleasemedia]

Daily Drabbles for 12/6/24 - 12/10/24

12/6/24 Brenda really didn't see the point in decorating for Christmas. Putting it all up just to take it all down again a month later. It hardly seemed worth the effort. It would be one thing if there were little kids living in the house, but there weren't any children at all. It was just Brenda and Dave and the dog Mildred. And Mildred certainly didn't care one way or another about Christmas decorations. But Dave sure did. Every year he dutifully dragged their bins of Christmas memorabilia out of storage and turned their home into something like a Christmas card.

12/7/24 Nubby smacked the ball of dough against the counter and worked it with the heel of her hand. She'd been at it for nearly ten minutes and her arms were starting to get tired. She leaned over the counter to put her full weight into the kneading. She wasn't used to making bread and hadn't built up the muscles for it like her mother had. Across the counter from her, Nubby's mother was cheerfully and vigorously kneading her own lump of bread dough. It looked a lot better than Nubby's. Hers was still far too sticky. She needed more flour.

12/8/24 Thick, fluffy flakes wafted down from the bright white sky onto a bright white world. But the snow was hiding a dangerous secret. Underneath the thin layer of soft powder was a hard shell of slick ice. Trish had to step very carefully as she made her way down the driveway. The fresh snow provided some traction, but she was one misstep away from falling flat on her back. It took far longer than it usually did, but at last Trish reached the end of the perilous drive and was able to drop off her Christmas cards in the mailbox.

12/9/24 Corky held his ham sandwich in one hand while he watched Susan and the boys pelt each other with snowballs in the front yard. They had been at it for several minutes and showed no signs of slowing down anytime soon. Corky took a bite from his sandwich and slowly chewed it while Susan hit Tommy square in the face with a snowball and ducked behind a tree to avoid getting hit by Ned's own snowball. So far Susan had had the upper hand over the younger boys, but they had banded together and were starting to drive her back.

12/10/24 Jericho nearly burned his hands as he pulled the hot dinner plates out of the dishwasher. The dry cycle had only just finished and a cloud of steam was wafting up from the freshly cleaned dishes. Jericho quickly shoved the plates in the cupboard with the rest of the dinner plates and turned back to the dishwasher. Luckily, the plastic bowls were much easier to handle. He stacked them up inside each other and stuck them on the shelf in their appropriate cupboard. By the time Jericho got to the silverware it had fortunately cooled down enough to hold comfortably.

[regulus-regent]

Torno was observed closely, picking up on every shift in his gaze, every nuance in his tone. The larger saiyan's uncertainty and hesitancy weren't lost on him, though Torno's restraint and respect didn't go unappreciated. His approach was oddly refreshing, he bore neither the naïve admiration of those who didn't know Vegeta's history, nor the empty respect that was often forced or fabricated. This was a warrior who understood the weight of consequence who perhaps had his own regrets tucked away. There was a sincerity in the larger royal's words that Vegeta found rare and despite himself, welcoming.

Crossing his arms tighter over his chest, Vegeta glanced off to the side, gathering his thoughts before speaking. "Hmph. So you sought me out simply for...knowledge?" Vegeta let out a light scoff the notion of such a request catching him off guard. Many had seeked him out to fight, this was certainly a first for the prince. "And what exactly is it you expect to learn from a prince who has outlived his people? You'd do better seeking answers in the stars themselves than here."

His brows drew together as Torno's words settled, eyes narrowing as he considered the implications of stepping into a realm where saiyan pride and tradition might still hold their place. His gaze flickered with a mix of skepticism and intrigue, he understood the offer was made with no expectation of acceptance, yet something about it stirred a forgotten ache in Vegeta, a pang of what could have been. It wasn't weakness, he told himself. No, it was simply the pull of curiosity, of nostalgia.

And that curiosity tugged heavily on his soul, drawing him toward a past he thought he'd long since buried. He wouldn't indulge in fantasies, but there was a part of him that missed the pride of his people, the rituals and rites that he had once heard of. The chance to bare witness to another universe of saiyans, untouched by the harsh realities that his own universe had succumbed to was something he couldn't easily dismiss. "You make an interesting offer, while your invitation is unexpected I won't dismiss it outright. My ties to my heritage may be fractured and buried but they're not entirely gone."

He was fully aware that his lack of royal formalities might make him come across as crude and disrespectful, to those in Torno's world. There was no elegance left in his interactions, no sign of the formal polished throne.

"But" he continued a hint of caution in his tone. "don't mistake my acceptance as an open door to some lost brotherhood. I'll humor this curiosity only to see whether your universe saiyans hold up to my expectations."

Even as he felt Vegeta scrutinizing him, Torno kept his own thoughts relentlessly focused on remaining cordial with the other royal Saiyan, and choosing his words carefully, and yet... Not so carefully that he couldn't comfortably conduct himself, and dilute his behaviors from what they would've been, otherwise. A sharpened gaze from the smaller male was perceived as nothing more than a hardened warrior's careful observation by the one on the receiving end, and how could anyone blame Vegeta for it?

The fate of Universe Seven's Saiyans, and the fate and condition of Torno's universe's own... They were night and day; a fact that the larger warrior wouldn't quickly divulge to Vegeta just yet, but a notion that Torno, himself, would keep under consideration when it came to his company's cadence towards him.

When Vegeta spoke, however, a subtle, albeit noticeable hitch in Torno's breath and a slight aversion in his gaze, even if just for a split second, would convey a sort of understanding for the Prince's viewpoints of his life; the larger Saiyan, perhaps, feeling the same about his own deeds and the path he walked. Should he empathize with Vegeta, and share his own understanding of such a view of his life, or allow Vegeta to share, and not be burdened with the Mighty Saiyan's own existence. It was Torno who sought Vegeta out, and the former surmised that sharing anything about himself was best saved for if or when the other royal wanted him to do so, not whenever Torno felt like it.

"I suppose I don't have a clear answer on that, myself." Torno would begin, almost allowing a smile to creep onto his face, as he almost always had certainty in his actions, and clear reasoning behind the things he did, presently. "As it stand, right now, I suppose this encounter, itself, is what I've sought, and the knowledge that may come from it. Ever since I first learned about the Saiyans of this universe, and that their prince still lived, I've had this itch to seek him out."

Stoic as ever, however, the larger royal seemed to pick at his own words, and huff at how he couldn't immediately answer Vegeta's question. "Your honesty, meanwhile, has me considering the idea of offering an invitation to visit my home, and perhaps be a guest among our kind. Though, turning such an invitation down wouldn't be seen as offensive." It was then, that Torno found himself crossing his own arms, and involuntarily mirroring Vegeta's stance.

"The only thing I can tell you, with the utmost certainty, is that I haven't come here to entertain the idea of coming to blows with you." Would his answer to Vegeta's inquiry suffice, given that the Mighty Warrior found himself uncharacteristically unable to truly answer the question? He wouldn't show it, but a sliver of unease nestled its way into his psyche, after he came to understand that he wasn't entirely sure of what he wanted out of this encounter with Universe Seven's Saiyan Prince.