#but like. it's whatever. worse things have happened

[writeriguess]

A request/idea.

No one really dives into Bakugo's heart injury after the war. What happens when femreader (who he absolutely has a crush on) visits him in the hospital after the war, and he's like, 'oh shit this is gonna be bad for my heart' .

Fragile Heart

The beeping of the heart monitor was steady, rhythmic. Annoying as hell.

Bakugo scowled at the ceiling, arms crossed over his bandaged chest. He hated hospitals. Hated the sterile smell, the way everything felt too clean, too controlled. Hated how weak he felt lying in this damn bed when he should be out there, moving, training, doing something.

His heart was still fucked up.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew the damage he took during the war wasn’t just a flesh wound. The healers had worked on him for hours, murmuring about how close it had been, how the damage to his heart could have been fatal if they hadn’t acted fast. But he was here. Alive. Stronger than whatever bullshit tried to take him out.

That should’ve been enough.

And then you walked in.

Bakugo felt it before he even saw you—his pulse spiking, the monitor betraying him before his brain could even register why. His head snapped toward the door, and there you were, standing in the doorway like you weren’t about to send his already unstable heart into another cardiac episode.

Oh, fuck.

This was gonna be bad for his heart.

You stepped inside cautiously, eyes scanning over him like you were assessing the damage. Your usual confident demeanor softened just slightly, lips pressing together like you wanted to say something but weren’t sure where to start.

He suddenly felt too exposed, sitting in a hospital gown, bandages peeking out from under the fabric, heart monitor tattling on his every reaction.

"Bakugo," you said softly. "Hey."

His throat went dry.

"Hey," he muttered back, forcing himself to sound normal. Calm. Not like he was freaking the hell out because you were here.

You walked closer, stopping at the edge of his bed. “How’re you feeling?”

He scoffed. “Like shit.”

A breathy laugh escaped you, and he nearly died on the spot. His fingers twitched where they rested on the blanket, resisting the urge to grip the sheets just to ground himself.

“You scared the hell out of us, you know,” you said, voice quieter now. “They weren’t sure if you were gonna make it.”

“Tch. I ain’t that easy to kill.”

Your lips quirked into a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Still. Don’t do that again.”

And there it was—that thing in your voice, the raw emotion that made something squeeze tight in his chest. Not the injury. Not the pain. Just you.

His heart monitor betrayed him again, beeping a little faster.

You noticed. Of course you did. Your eyes flickered to the machine, then back to him, eyebrows raising slightly. “You good?”

No. Absolutely fucking not.

His jaw clenched. “Yeah. Just—stupid machine’s sensitive.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, like you didn’t quite believe him, but you let it slide. Instead, you reached out, fingers hovering over his wrist before making contact. A soft touch. Warm. Grounding.

His heart slammed against his ribs, and the monitor nearly gave him away again.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay still, to not react. But you were touching him, your fingers resting lightly against his skin, and that was infinitely worse than anything the battlefield had thrown at him.

“You’re really okay?” you asked again, quieter this time.

Bakugo wasn’t sure what possessed him, but he turned his palm upward, letting your fingers settle fully against his. His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.

“I will be.”

You squeezed his hand, just once. A promise.

And somehow, despite the mess he was in—despite the weakness, the pain, the stupid hospital bed—Bakugo realized something.

Maybe, just maybe, his heart wasn’t as broken as he thought.

[kingedbishop]

"The attention always falls on the outlier at first. But you can rely on the fact that eventually, they'll give up on trying to correct you in that department."

It was the only viable alternative, as it wouldn't be acceptable to make people choose to mind their business the way he had done.

Bishop returned the glance from behind his shades, though he hardly moved at all, "This is the point where my head scientist would be rambling about the infinite anomalies of a multiverse. You only happened to hear about another Strohmeier who is both a soldier and a romantic interest for a Peter Strasky."

He might as well toss that out there as well. Privacy and manners were things Bishop rarely respected, unless it was convenient for him. It was no surprise he didn't care about what Nines did in that regard.

"Nevertheless, he was the most successful of the survivors. Not only he neutralized one of the abominations threatening his base, he's well on his way to a full recovery, unlike the talking corpse."

The jumbled mess and fragmented memories weren't enough to discourage Willow. Trying to make sense of what Kelvin was sharing was no different from following whatever discourse was going on in Cyberspace.

She took note of what was being shown to her, being especially interested by the moment Kelvin started acting like a deviant. Could there be a connection between the anomaly and what had caused the crash?

That could be analyzed later. Knowing the entity of the damage helped with the solution. Willow raised her other hand to get Kelvin's attention. "Keep talking to me. I will try to fix you now."

She made sure to repeat the message a couple of times for good measure. The Core quickly instructed her nanites on their task, before sending them on their way. She doubted he would be able to physically speak immediately, but her hope was to sort out his software at least enough to make things a bit less confusing for him.

She briefly glanced back over her shoulder, "Calm down. I have dealt with worse."

"Yeah, of course they didn't care." Rook said, "What's stopping you from wearing them now, though? It's not like Peter's going to object to that. He clearly cares about all of you guys."

And it didn’t look like they were short on material either. Rook pushed her shades up, hiding her annoyed look.

"I know that kind of person well. You'd think there's a limit but I get schooled by clients on how to do my job. Some people just like being assholes like that. They did it to each other before they did it to androids. What matters is that you get to tell them off now."

It was hard to say what the intention was there. Even Bishop's compliments sounded condescending.

"I can attest to the effectiveness of that method. There is no place for personal feelings while on duty."

Then one could be particularly wise and never stop working to avoid it completely. Bishop shuffled his cards as he waited on the androids. The question got no major reaction out of him other than the vague frown any attempt at asking him to disclose information got. He sat with his back straight, as expected from an agent of his caliber.

"Well, if you want to know about the human that looks like him," he pointed to John, "Claiming that I know him would be an overstatement. We met less than 48 hours ago. The brief conversations we had and all the flattering things I was told hardly make up for that. All I can tell you is that he was in the military and is of particular importance for Strasky."

And he was mostly neutral despite his interest in the skills of a fellow military men.

Willow showed a distinctively cautious approach as well as the link was established. While she had connected to unstable systems before, it was always best to feel around first, before risking to cause additional damage.

Though she was still confident she could handle this and even attempted talking back. "I would like to have a look at your memories. The others here believe it would help them understand you better if they knew how you were damaged. Additionally, I may be able to repair some of it as well."

Rook shrugged, "It isn't really what I'm aiming for with my streams, but I could steal some of those lines. It might throw them off enough to shut up whenever I stop playing to go back to Minecraft. I just can't be bothered and I don't want to scare my pets with random screams."

She made sure to keep her distance, knowing better than to get in the way while somebody was working.

"Yeah, I figured that was the case. Does that mean you've got to refill sometimes? Like wiper fluid or something like that."

[snakeredbirdbatkatana]

Dick, Tim, Bruce they all hallucinate. And the angst of it is insane but let's talk a bit more about the comfort.

They read each others files they know certain things happen helping each other instead of hurting.

Jason noticing Dick is staring off to the side, his brother getting anxious. He gently moves in front calling him. "Hey dickie whatever you seeing isn't real, it's alright."

Dick who prefers you to remind him it's all in his head.

Damian who walked down to the cave Tim is having an active conversation with the wall. Calling over to him, "Drake let's move to your room, I have a drawing to show you." Leading him by the hand and staying with him.

Damain and Jason both leaving animals specifically with Tim and Dick are after they noticed them relying on the animals not moving or twitching to help decide if something is actually there.

Dick interrupting a panicked Bruce who is seeing a blood covered Jason. Gently steering him to his room, laying down to watch a movie.

It's not abnormal for Tim to grab Jason, Damian or even Dick on a good day to ask if they see anything.

A quick call out of "Anyone else seeing this?" Is expected.

Code words change by the day between them.

Sometimes none of it works but just staying with them until whatever passes.

Bruce who isn't as obvious but will attempt to find Alfred, Jason guides.

Dukes powers doing wonders to help because if he's not seeing it you defiantly aren't.

A movie night interrupted by a panicked Dick asking if anyone else can hear that. Jason and Tim working to ground him.

It's unsetting for Jason, Damian, and Duke but it's absolutely terrifying for them doing everything they can to help.

It's worse though because sometimes it's just voices, or Tim feeling like there's bugs all over him, swearing Alfred the cat was just in here but he's safe in Damian's arms. Working together to try and make it just a bit easier for them.

[deadrobinthoughts]

† unacceptable : damian.

⋆˙⟡ "You are not a hero," he says, voice lower, rougher. "You do not have a suit. You do not have armor.

⋆˙⟡ request: Can I request a frustrated Damian patching up reader, please? 👀 reader isn't a hero! Just wrong place at the wrong time. ↦ kalico note: welcome to deadrobinthoughts --- a damian page, atp.

the cut isn’t deep, but it bleeds. too much. the fabric of your shirt is torn, darkened with the warmth of it, and damian hates it. hates the way it seeps between his fingers, hates the way it stains your skin, hates the fact that it’s there at all.

because this should not have happened.

"sit." his voice is sharp, clipped, thinner than usual. damian is furious at the world. at fate, at chance, at whatever cruel god decided that you, you, should have been standing there when the chaos spilled over, when things went wrong.

you don’t argue, don’t push back. maybe because you can tell that, right now, he wouldn’t tolerate it. you ease onto the chair he pulled out for you, hands gripping the edge of it, body wound too tight.

he crouches in front of you, ripping open the first - aid kit with more force than necessary. he doesn’t speak at first, just works - swift, efficient, deliberate. his gloved fingers press around the wound, checking the depth, and his jaw locks, his throat moving around the words he doesn’t want to say.

he knows pain. knows it intimately. it’s nothing new to him - injuries, blood, patching himself up in some dimly lit corner of gotham before anyone can notice. but this? this is different. because it isn’t his pain. it’s yours.

he exhales sharply through his nose. unacceptable.

"damian-"

"do not." the words are immediate, pointed, rough. he doesn’t want to hear it - doesn’t want your reassurances, doesn’t want you telling him it’s fine, that you’re okay, that it’s not as bad as it looks.

because that isn’t the point.

he presses a gauze pad to your side, just a little too firm, and you suck in a breath, gripping the chair tighter. he doesn’t apologize. he doesn’t soften. he should; he knows he should.

but he can’t.

not when his pulse is still hammering from the moment he saw you. not when he still sees the image of you standing there, frozen, seconds from something worse.

"it’s not like i went looking for trouble-"

"you don’t have to," he interrupts, grabbing the bandages with a little too much force. "trouble finds you."

there it is. that edge of anger. not at you, not exactly - but at the situation. at the idea that you, someone who isn’t trained for this, who isn’t meant for this life, who is supposed to be safe, ended up bleeding in his hands.

you study his expression - the tight set of his jaw, the focused determination in his eyes, the way his hands move without hesitation but not without care.

he’s pissed.

"you are not a hero," he says, voice lower, rougher. "you do not have a suit. you do not have armor. you have-" he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "you have nothing that keeps you safe. and that is unacceptable."

you blink, the weight of his words settling heavy between you.

because this isn’t just a scolding. it isn’t just anger, or frustration, or another lecture about staying out of danger.

this is fear.

raw, unfiltered, still simmering beneath the surface of his control.

"you could have died." his voice is quieter now, but not softer. he does not allow softness. not when it comes to you.

because softness means fragility. softness means something that can be broken.

and damian refuses - refuses - to let the world break you.

you don’t say anything for a long moment, just watching him, letting him breathe, letting him be.

your hand moves. carefully, lightly, you press your fingers against his wrist, over the steady drum of his pulse.

and only then - only when he feels the warmth of your touch grounding him, tethering him to something real - does he let himself breathe again.

[simp-for-love]

Yours

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

What starts as another night getting high with your best friend Mattheo takes a turn when his usual teasing reveals something deeper.

Warnings: substance use (weed), brief swearing, friends-to-lovers trope, mutual pining, fluff, the reader has hair (don't know, maybe it'd a trigger for sb)

The moon hung low, casting silver streaks across the castle grounds. Somewhere beyond the Forbidden Forest, a distant howl echoed, but up here, tucked away in the Astronomy Tower, everything felt quiet. Peaceful. Just the two of you.

Mattheo leaned against the stone wall, rolling a joint between his fingers with the kind of ease that suggested he’d done it a thousand times before. You watched him, amused at the concentration furrowing his brows, the corners of his lips twitching in satisfaction when he finished.

"You know," he said with a proud smile, holding it up like a prize, "we’re really too smart to be doing this."

You laughed quietly, drawing your knees to your chest as the cool night air brushed your skin. "Since when are you the voice of reason?" you teased him softly.

Mattheo gave a mock scoff, flicking his lighter open with a click. "I’m just saying we could be doing something productive right now — like studying, or saving the wizarding world, or whatever it is Potter’s lot are up to."

"Yeah, well," you exhaled, leaning back against the wall. "I’d rather be here." With you, you didn’t say, but the words hung somewhere on your tongue, warm and unspoken.

You weren't surprised by this thought. Mattheo was your one and only best friend. Despite having other friends and acquaintances, he was the one constant in your life. It didn't matter what happened — whether you had a bad day, got an 'Outstanding' on your essay, lost your quill before the exam, or felt like partying — he was always there. Through every high and low, he never wavered. And you couldn’t even begin to describe how grateful you were for it.

But somewhere along the years of friendship, you realized you weren't only thankful, you were in love.

It was silly, really. You felt attracted to him even before you knew what being attracted to someone meant. You craved his attention, too greedy to share it with anyone else. You needed his cheeky smiles and the teasing remarks that made you chuckle. You wanted to be the one he looked at with that playful yet affectionate gaze, the one that made something warm and fuzzy bloom inside you. But you were too scared to do anything about it. The thought of losing him, of making things awkward — or worse, having him pity you — was unbearable. So, if staying quiet meant keeping him by your side, you were willing to live with it.

He passed the joint your way after his first slow inhale, his face tipping back toward the starry sky as smoke curled from his lips. The first hit burned your lungs the way it always did — sharp and sweet. You let your head fall against the cold stone behind you and sighed. "Better already."

Mattheo laughed quietly, the sound low and rough. "Always does the trick, huh?"

It wasn’t the first time you’d done this together. Far from it. The two of you had a ritual — a quiet rebellion against the chaos around you. Whenever the weight of expectations or the noise of the world became too much, you’d find each other here. Safe. Free. No need to be anyone but yourselves.

"You know," he mused, nudging your knee with his. "We really should talk about how I’m a terrible influence on you."

You snorted. "You’re not that powerful, Mr. Riddle," you said, a smirk tugging at your lips.

His grin curled slow and dangerous as he took another drag. "I’m not?"

"Nope." You popped the 'p' and took the joint back from him, the tips of your fingers brushing his in the exchange. "I do what I want."

"Mmm." His eyes darkened just a little, but you told yourself it was probably the haze creeping in. "And yet, you keep ending up here with me."

"Maybe you’re just lucky," you teased.

"I’m very lucky," he agreed, his voice softer than you expected. It lingered between you, thick like the smoke hanging in the air.

Minutes passed in easy silence. The weight in your chest loosened, and the stars above blurred at their edges. It was always like this — simple and warm, the rest of the world falling away when it was just the two of you.

Mattheo’s voice broke the quiet. "If you could be anywhere else right now," he asked, his tone lazy and curious, "where would you go?" You both liked talking about hypothetical things and random stuff while smoking together. Once, you even debated what you’d do if one of you turned out to be Merlin reincarnated.

You thought for a moment, passing the joint back. Tell him the truth, or tease him? The weed was already kicking in, nudging you toward honesty. "Nowhere else."

He hummed, a satisfied sound that made warmth curl in your stomach. "Good answer."

A breeze swept through the tower, brushing strands of hair against your face. Mattheo reached over without thinking, tucking them behind your ear. The touch was brief, but your skin buzzed in its wake.

"You’re always so soft," he murmured, half to himself. Then, as if realizing what he’d said, a crooked smile stretched across his lips. "Or is that the high talking?"

"Maybe." Your heart stuttered slightly as you met his gaze, your breath catching at how intensely he was looking at you. "Maybe not."

His hand lingered on your cheek a second too long, thumb brushing against your jaw before he pulled back. "Dangerous game you’re playing," he warned, but his voice lacked any real bite.

You laughed softly, tilting your head back against the stone wall. "I thought you liked danger."

"Only when I’m the one causing it," he shot back, but there was something in his expression — something raw, unguarded — that made your stomach flip.

You could feel the high settling deeper into your bones now, softening the edges of everything. Your limbs felt light, but your chest felt heavy, too full of something you didn’t want to admit out loud.

Mattheo stretched his legs out, leaning back on his palms as he tilted his face toward the stars, looking as they shine and sparkle quietly. "Y’know," he started, almost too casually, "I used to think you’d run off with someone else one day."

You blinked, the haze in your mind briefly clearing. "What?" you asked a bit baffled.

He laughed, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Yeah. Someone safer, probably." He glanced at you, his lips twitching into a smirk. "Can’t blame you, really. I’m a lot."

You gaze softened when you realized what he meant. "I like 'a lot'," you said quietly, surprising yourself as much as him.

His smirk faded, replaced by something warmer, something almost hesitant. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." The word hung in the air between you, and this time, you didn’t try to tease him or dodge the topic.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the faint crackle of the joint as Mattheo took another slow drag. Then he added in a low voice, "That's why you're mine."

You raised a brow at his words, ignoring the warm flutter in your chest. You weren't ready to say something real in response. "Since when am I yours? The last time I checked, I was my own."

He chuckled, shaking his head, a slight smirk still playing on his lips. "Oh, please. You’ve been mine since the day we met, darlin'. Don’t even try to deny it."

You looked at him from the corner of your eye, brow raised at his words. "Since we met? Like, from the first year when we were eleven years old? A bit much, in my opinion," you murmured with a small chuckle, taking the joint from his fingers and inhaling slowly.

Mattheo laughed softly, leaning his head back against the stone wall. "Hey, a man knows when he finds something precious. And I found you. From day one. Maybe I was a bit younger, but my instincts were sharp even at eleven." He smirked again, watching you take another drag.

You giggled quietly at his cheeky words. "Sharp instincts at eleven? You're an arrogant fucker," you said with a grin, passing the joint back to him.

"Still. You’re mine, even if you don’t know it," he said casually, shrugging his shoulders slightly as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He finished the joint, stubbing out its butt on the stone floor.

The words struck something deep inside you, something you’d been trying to ignore. Your heart pounded, but you managed to keep your voice steady. "So I’m yours, huh?"

"Always have been." He exhaled, not bothering to hide the weight behind his words. "And always will be."

You should’ve laughed. Teased him. But you didn’t. Instead, you let the warmth spread through you and leaned closer, your shoulder brushing his. "Good."

He froze, just for a second, as if he couldn't believe you accepted it so easily, before his hand slid along your jaw, tilting your face toward his. "Good," he echoed, a wicked gleam in his eye. "Guess you’re stuck with me then."

For a few moments, he just looked at you, something unreadable swirling behind his gaze. He was waiting, giving you time to turn it into a joke, to pull away, to say it was the high talking.

But you didn’t, too entranced by his eyes, his words, and the warmth of his body so close to yours. You parted your lips to say something. "Mattheo—"

He kissed you before the words fully left your mouth — soft at first, like he was savoring the taste of a truth he'd wanted for too long. But when you didn’t pull away, when your fingers tangled in his curls, urging him closer, he deepened it, pulling you against him until there was no space left between you. It tasted like weed and hopes you weren’t quite ready to give up on.

He only pulled back when you were both breathless, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm and a little ragged against your skin. "You’re mine, aren’t you?" he murmured. "Tell me I’m not misreading this."

You smiled softly, your fingers tracing gentle patterns along his cheekbone. "You’re not."

His thumb traced slow circles along your jaw as he whispered, "Good. Because I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to. And maybe even if you do."

And in that quiet, hazy moment, with the world far away, you knew one thing for certain: wherever you were, as long as he was there, you’d never want to be anywhere else.

A quiet, breathless chuckle escaped your lips before you leaned in, stealing another kiss with a soft smile.

[jraker4]

You're the one who said 'definitionally Palestinian', again, whatever that means. You said that they were so Palestinian that it couldn't even be questioned-dismissing those very ties you now acknowledge. Well, now you acknowledge them so that's a sort of integrity, I guess. 'Didn't specify or even directly imply violence.' "One thing that's funny, though: Hamas doesn't take very kindly to Palestinians questioning the effectiveness of their 'resistance methods'" What, exactly, did I mean when I said this then? Seems like a pretty direct implication about Hamas's violence towards Palestinians...but it's not surprising that you appear to have missed it. You've basically admitted your indifference to Hamas's violence towards Palestinians, after all. Israel is not a 'settler colonial project', since once cannot be a settler colonist on one's own indigenous land. There are other words that describe the sort of behavior you charge Israel with, but they're much less sexy and, conveniently, they don't help you-as an American-sidestep your own complicity in an actual 'settler colonial project' much closer to home. I say that as an American myself, btw. Those other words, btw, are words like 'tyrant', 'conqueror', 'oppressor', and so on. There's certainly a case to be made that the Israeli government, past and present, are guilty of these things. But those words don't let you deny Israel's right to exist, do they? Why is the South African government doing this? Isn't it curious when you believe governments are acting out of high-minded virtue, versus other motivations? Are you at all familiar with regional politics in and around South Africa, or is it only important to you because you can (incorrectly) invoke apartheid? If 'never again means for everyone' is actually your creed...why Israel and Palestine, and not other places? Other places where (actual) genocides are happening right now? Or have been over the past seventy years? Can you at least admit the possibility that maybe you too are subject to unexamined bias, and that the answer has something to do with the fact that it's Jews, instead of this (supposed) genocide being so much worse than all the others that transpire at the same time so as to be effectively the only one that gets ink? ...

What’s more likely? Hamas killed two crucial bargaining chips, then, instead of simply saying the bodies were lost under the rubble, returned the remains proving they’d murdered them.

Or

Israel killed them when they carpet bombed Gaza, like everyone warned them would happen, lied about the kids being alive for over a year, are now lying again to invoke genocidal fervour and break the ceasefire?

This is the “40 beheaded babies” debacle all over again. The truth will be acknowledged eventually but by then it will be too late.

[ffleurist]

💌 #one love letter mix-up.

you lived a perfectly ordinary life—until one day, you accidentally sent a love letter to Itoshi Rin, the guy everyone thought you had a crush on his older brother, when in reality, it was rin you were in love with all along.

wc 2.9k

you didn’t mean for it to happen. you were only trying to get the letter to your sister, studying abroad in the UK. but somewhere along the chaos of your thoughts, the letters got mixed up, and somehow it ended up in the hands of itoshi rin instead. to make it worse, that was a love letter you wrote for rin back in middle school. now, standing infront of you, itoshi rin, as he tried to make sense of your mistake—one that would change everything.

you first met rin when you were just 4 years old. you remember him as the small boy always trailing behind his older brother, the two of them standing awkwardly at the edge of your yard. they were the only neighbors your age, and your parents, seeing you bored and your older sister busy with her middle school activities, thought it would be cute to set up a playdate. you didn’t know it then, but that moment would mark the beginning of something far more complicated than you ever could’ve imagined.

"aren't you a little too old to be playing a prank on me? or did you think i was sae?" he said, his voice dripping with anger and confusion clutching the letter in hand. 

confused, that was when it hit you—when you started middle school, everyone thought you had a crush on itoshi sae. sure, he was cute, independent, and exceptionally skilled at soccer at such a young age. but you never once corrected them, even though it was the younger itoshi who had truly caught your heart. you don’t blame him for thinking you still had a crush on his brother, but he didn’t have to be so rude about it.

the way he looked at you felt like you had just insulted him and it stung more than expected. you could feel your cheeks burn under the sun as the silence stretched between you and rin.

“look, rin," you started, your voice softer now, "it wasn’t a joke but it was a mistake. i didn’t mean for you to find out like this."

he crossed his arms, still not buying it, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite read. was it hurt? or maybe confusion? you couldn’t tell.

letting out a frustrated sigh, stepping back slightly. "you know, everyone thought i liked sae. but the truth is, i always—" you stopped yourself. saying it out loud felt like an open invitation for everything to unravel.

"whatever. sae’s not here, in case you didn’t notice. you’re just wasting both your time and mine." he said, his voice laced with contempt, turning and walking away toward the school field.

you let rin walk away while you lost yourself in your thoughts. if only you could go back and tell the 4 year old itoshi rin that the way he was now—unapproachable and cold, wasn't the way it was supposed to be. you liked to think that it was sae’s departure to Spain that had caused him to turn out this way. rin, who had always depended on his older brother, suddenly found himself alone. after sae left, rin pushed you away and buried himself in soccer, determined to become the #1 striker in all of Japan.

it was hard to imagine that boy you once knew, the one who was always by sae's side, now so distant and driven by something else. you couldn't help but wonder if he ever thought about the old days, about how things used to be. and if he did, did he ever regret pushing everyone especially you away?

stunned at his behavior, you almost stormed off. then, a shrill squeal echoed from nearby, and you froze. it was the unmistakable sound of a group of girls giggling like seagulls in a movie scene. at the center of it all stood otoya eita, effortlessly basking in the attention, a cocky grin plastered on his face. famous amongst the ladies, always flirting, always playing around—and once upon a time, you had been the girl hanging on his every word but not anymore. as you almost turned away, you saw it. a pink letter, raised high in the air by one of the girls, fluttering in the breeze. your stomach dropped. the letter was unmistakable yours. it looked just like the one rin had been holding earlier.

No. No. No. No. No. you didn’t possibly send it to him too, did you?

a wave of panic surged through you as you stood frozen, watching the girls pass the letter around, unaware of the chaos it was about to cause. your mind raced, trying to remember every detail of your frantic letter mix-up. how many others had you accidentally sent your heart out to?

you couldn’t bear the thought of having a second letter out there—especially to someone like otoya. he was the last person you wanted involved in this mess.

without another thought, you spun around and ran straight toward rin. your heart pounded in your chest, your breath quickening as you passed through the crowd of students. the girls surrounding otoya, oblivious to the chaos, were nothing but a blur in your peripheral vision. 

when you finally spotted rin, standing by the gates with his back turned to you, something inside you snapped. you didn’t have time to think. the words you wanted to say were stuck in your throat, tangled with everything you felt for him. instead, you reached up and pulled him toward you, closing the distance in one swift movement.

you kissed him. you kissed rin.

the kiss was impulsive, fierce, maybe even a little desperate. rin’s body went rigid at first, shocked by your sudden action, but before you could pull away, his lips began softening against yours. for a moment, everything else faded. the letter, the chaos, the confusion, it all melted away as you stood there, just the two of you. 

maybe your feelings for him had been tangled in the kiss, woven into the way your fingers clutched his uniform, into the way your heart pounded against your ribs. maybe, deep down, you had been waiting for this moment for longer than you realized.

but the moment didn’t last forever.

a sharp gasp from somewhere nearby shattered the illusion. you barely had time to process it before he pulled back, his breath uneven, his eyes wide with something unreadable, shock, confusion, maybe even something deeper. 

“what the hell was that?” he muttered, his voice lower than usual, rough at the edges.

you swallowed hard, hands trembling as you took a step back. “that, that’s why i sent the letter,” you whispered, the words heavy as they left your lips. “it wasn’t for sae. it was always for you.”

rin stared at you, lips still slightly parted, as if he was trying to process what you had just said. you braced yourself for his reaction, for the inevitable storm of emotions that would follow. before he could say anything and before you could even breathe properly, otoya’s voice cut through the air.

“well, well,” he drawled, amusement laced in his tone. “that was quite the show.”

your stomach dropped. you had almost forgotten. he was still holding the other letter and now, judging by the smirk on his face, things were about to get even more complicated.

“fuck off, otoya,” you hissed, attempting to shoo him away like some annoying pest. but, as always, he didn’t know when to quit.

“aw, how could i, when i received such a heartfelt letter? i mean, i’m flattered," otoya drawled, leaning in with that same infuriating smirk. "but after how we ended things, i didn’t think you still cared."

his words were casual, but the implication hit harder than you’d like. of course he’d twist the knife like he always did. he teased, holding up the pink envelope between his fingers like a trophy. then, with that signature smirk, he bent down, his lips brushing the back of your hand in an exaggerated display.

“that letter doesn’t mean anything,” you said through clenched teeth.

he chuckled, tilting his head. “oh? that’s not what’s in the letter.” he mused, waving the letter slightly. “or should i read it out loud? i’m sure rin would love to hear all about it.”

your stomach twisted.

rin.

you had almost forgotten he was still standing there, watching the interaction unfold. you risked a glance in his direction, and what you saw made your heart clench. his expression was stoic, yet his eyes flickered with something darker.

annoyance? anger? jealousy?

you had no idea, but you weren’t about to let him push this any further.

taking a deep breath, you straightened your shoulders, looking at him dead in the eyes. “you can do whatever you want with that letter, but i don’t care,” you lied, voice steady. “because it’s old. that was the past.”

otoya raised an eyebrow, clearly amused but not entirely convinced. “then wh—”

before he could finish, a strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you in close. your breath hitched, your mind barely able to process what was happening before rin’s voice cut through the air— steady, unwavering, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“stop bothering my girlfriend,” he said, his tone sharp and unwavering. “she said it was in the past. let it go.”

your brain short-circuited. girlfriend?

otoya blinked, his smirk faltering for just a second before he let out a low whistle. “girlfriend, huh?” he looked between the two of you, amusement flickering in his eyes. “since when?”

rin didn’t hesitate. “since now,” he said flatly.

you snapped your head toward him, eyes wide. since now?!

“girlfriend, huh?” otoya drawled, but the amusement in his voice didn’t fully mask something sharper. “guess you like to recycle, huh? first me, now him?”

rin’s lips were pressed into a thin line, his gaze locked on the pink envelope. "if you’re done wasting time, we’re leaving." 

"alright, alright. i’ll back off for now," otoya said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. he took a step back, but not before flashing you a knowing grin. "just don’t come running back when he leaves you hanging. again."

with that, he turned on his heel and strolled off, whistling low under his breath like he hadn’t just cracked open something you wanted to keep buried.

the moment he was gone, you turned to rin, still trying to wrap your head around what had just happened. “what the hell was that?!” you whisper shouted, staring at him in disbelief.

rin barely moved. he just clicked his tongue, removing his hands from your waist, shoving it into his pockets, his expression unreadable. “are you seriously asking me that?”

“yes!”

he exhaled sharply, like this was the dumbest conversation he’d ever had. “you kissed me, genius,” he muttered, his tone flat, almost bored. “i just went along with it.”

your face burned. “but you can’t just call me your girlfriend!”

rin gave you a dry look, head tilting slightly. “then don’t act like one.”

your breath hitched, more out of frustration than anything else. he was so—ugh, asshole.

“you’d rather deal with otoya?” he asked, cocking a brow like he already knew the answer.

you opened your mouth to argue, but the words caught in your throat. he had a point. and judging by the smug flicker in his eyes, he knew it.

satisfied, rin pulled out his phone, checked something, then slid it back into his pocket. “meet me here after school.”

you blinked. “for what?”

his gaze flicked to you, disinterested. “figure your shit out.”

and then, just like that, he turned and walked away. not even a glance back. like none of this had mattered at all.

great. not only had you accidentally sent love letters to two different guys, kissed one of them in a panic, and somehow ended up being rin’s girlfriend, but now you had to explain the entire disaster to him after school.

the rest of the day passed in a blur. by the time the final bell rang, your stomach was in knots. you had no choice but to face him.

sure enough, he was leaning against the school gates, hands in his pockets, waiting. his gaze flicked toward you. “you’re late.”

you crossed your arms. “i considered running away.”

rin scoffed. “yeah? and how’d that work out?”

you sighed. “not well.”

“figured.” he pushed off the gate, nodding toward the sidewalk. “come on. talk.”

you clutched your bag to your chest as you walked beside him. the silence was heavy, almost suffocating. but rin didn’t have patience for hesitation.

“well?” he pressed, side-eyeing you. “i’m waiting.”

you exhaled sharply. “okay, look. it was a mistake, alright? i was trying to send a letter to my sister in the UK, and somehow, my old letters got mixed in.” you gritted your teeth. “i didn’t mean for you to get it.”

he scoffed. “right. and i’m supposed to believe you just accidentally sent a love letter to me and otoya?”

you groaned, kicking at a loose rock on the pavement. “yes! i know how ridiculous it sounds, but it’s the truth.”

he didn’t respond right away. his silence was unnerving.

“that letter. middle school?”

you nodded hesitantly. “yeah.”

“no wonder there were so many spelling mistakes.” rin mocked.

“excuse me!”

another pause. then, in a voice so cold and monster-like, it made your stomach twist, he asked, “was it real?”

you stopped in your tracks.

rin turned slightly, waiting for your answer.

was it real? fuck yes. the feelings you poured into that letter, the words you had written with all the sincerity your younger self could muster—were they real?

the truth was, they were. back then, you liked rin so much it hurt. but as the years passed, rin had changed.

you bit your lip, choosing your words carefully. “it was real. back then.”

something flickered across his face, gone before you could catch it. he gave a slow nod. “i see.”

for some reason, his reaction made your chest feel tight.

before you could dwell on it, rin clicked his tongue. “so you kissed me over otoya?”

your face burned. “what, no! i mean—” you struggled to find an excuse, but nothing came.

rin tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “desperate move.”

“so, what are we doing about this girlfriend thing?” you asked, arms crossed.

rin barely spared you a glance, his voice dry and uninterested. “oh, yeah i’m breaking up with you.”

you blinked. “excuse me?”

he let out a slow exhale, shoving his hands in his pockets. “what? you thought i was being serious? you’re not my type.”

your jaw clenched. “then why the hell did you say it in the first place?”

“because it was the fastest way to shut otoya up,” then he shrugged. “and it worked.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“yeah, well.” he glanced down at his phone, clearly done with the conversation. “good luck with your mess.” he turned on his heel, already walking away.

panic surged through you. no, no, no. if rin backed out now, it would be even worse than before. people had already seen you together. otoya definitely wasn’t going to let this go. and worst of all, rin had been the one to say it first. if he suddenly acted like it was a joke, you’d look desperate.

“wait.” the word left your lips before you could stop it.

rin slowed but didn’t turn around.

you swallowed your pride and forced the words out. “please. just… just go along with it. just for a little while.”

rin finally turned, raising an eyebrow. “you want me to fake date you?” he let out a short, humourless laugh. “that’s pathetic.”

your face burned. “it’s your fault in the first place!”

he gave you a blank stare. “and?”

god, he was insufferable. you inhaled sharply, trying not to let your frustration show. “it won’t be for long. just enough for otoya to back off.”

rin tilted his head slightly, considering. then, with the most obnoxious smile, he said, “beg for it.”

your stomach dropped. “what?”

“you heard me.” his voice was smooth, infuriatingly calm. “you want me to waste my time playing pretend? make it worth my while.”

your hands clenched into fists at your sides. this was humiliating. you hated him. absolutely hated him.

but you needed this.

“…please.” the word tasted bitter.

rin’s smirk deepened. “not good enough.”

your nails dug into your palms. “rin, please. just help me out.”

“why do you care about what otoya thinks?” rin asked, voice unusually quiet.

you hesitated. “because once… i did. and it hurt.”

he studied you for a long moment, like he was weighing whether this was worth his time. then he let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “fine.”

relief crashed into you.

“but,” he continued, stepping closer, “you listen to me. no whining, no complaining. and when i say it’s over, it’s over.”

you swallowed, nodding.

rin gave you one last amused look. “see you.”

and just like that, he walked off, leaving you standing there, hating every single decision that had led you to this moment.

notes from lily ❦⋆ : i wrote this on the day i made this fic so i have no idea what i wrote

accidentally yours

taglist: @levihanmyotp @antennaed-kenzy @mixolya @yuukiririix @sindulgent666 @captainshindo @nomyimi @megumismyhusband @kyutiipie @wonubby @anqelkoz @nevvynev @kaz-0e @mochiii-sama @p1z-d0n7jud6em3 @x3nafix @elliehenry24 @bubybubsters @feliwnni @sfwrin @morgyyyyyyy @sapph1r3x @rreporterbby @kaidostwin @saeflrt @etherealrin @suksatoru @rinniebinniebay @yvieliny @ravenbc @luvrrin @dangerousluv1 @lily-isalittlegirl @kaemaybae @suguruscumslut @xumeikyu [tell me if i missed out ur names]

© ffleurist 2025 do not plagiarise, translate, or rewrite my writings without my permission

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 12 - Watch You Work the Room

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Dean in a suit chapter for the whores (me. I'm the whores). Enjoy!

Chapter title from The (After) Life of the Party by Fall Out Boy

Word Count: 17.2k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You and Dean go on a mission, Sam breaks into some cars. Usual warnings.

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

Chapter 11 - Chapter 13

Read on A03!

“Are you-“ San cleared his throat from across the room, and Dean didn’t bother to look up. “Dude, are you reading?”

“You got eyes, Sammy?”

“You know I-“

“Use ‘em.”

Sam sighed. “I- Why are you reading?”

“Because I’m not fucking talking to you.” Dean grunted, glaring at Sam over the top of the book. “And it’s not like-“ He glanced at the bathroom door, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “How to get out of demon deals is going to be on the Cable TV.”

It wouldn’t be. Dean would know.

He’d already checked.

He’d been looking everywhere. He’d gone to libraries and bookstores, stolen Sammy’s laptop, and really started to fucking look. Anywhere that could be somewhere, with anything he could get his hands on. He’d called Bobby six times just this week, with possible leads that didn’t pan out, but could have.

Dean could get out of this. If he really fucking tried, he might make it out of this year alive.

Bobby and Sam had noticed the change. Bobby had been the one to bring it up—over the phone at midnight, when Dean was crouched in the parking lot—and Dean hadn’t been able to give a reason anyone wanted to hear.

“What’s the sudden change of heart, boy? You suddenly not borderline suicidal and stupid?” Bobby’s question had been firm, and Dean had run a hand over his face with a long breath.

“I was never suicidal-“

“You were all but rollin’ over and waitin’ to die, Dean. Now Sam’s tellin’ me you’ve been workin’ harder than he has. And I got a suspicion to what changed your tune, but I wanna hear ya’ say it.”

Dean had swallowed. “Bobby, there’s nothing going on-“

“Then why’re you defendin’ yourself-“

“Cause if I don’t, you’re gonna drive down here and put me on the barrel of a shotgun!”

“I’m only gonna do that if it’ss what I think.” Bobby had grunted. “And if you’re breakin’ her heart-“

“I’m not-“

“If you are.” Bobby had snapped, and Dean had flinched, pulling the phone a little further away from his ear. “You’re gonna end up a lot worse than shot. Demons are gonna have to find your body scattered ‘cross Montana.”

“Gee, thanks, Bobby-“

“I’ve been warnin’ you, Dean.” Bobby had let out a long breath. “Ain’t a single thing on this earth I wouldn’t do for that girl. And if what Sam’s sayin’ is true-“

Dean’s jaw had clenched, and he’d glowered at the pavement. “Don’t listen to what Sam’s saying. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

There had been a brief, static pause through the speaker, and Bobby had let out a long sigh. “You boys still fightin’, huh.”

Dean had just shrugged where Bobby couldn’t see it, and kept the conversation moving back to the empty lead they’d found yesterday.

And they were. Still fighting. But telling Bobby why would’ve led to another fight Dean knew he wouldn’t win, and he’d be stuck with two people helping him that he wanted to strangle.

Because Bobby would always choose Her. And Dean understood that. She was awesome, and cool, and he was still a little haunted by Bobby’s expression when he’d seen Her bleeding out and infected in Dean’s arms. 

But Sam was supposed to choose Dean. He wasn’t supposed to keep tight-lipped and shut down about whatever the hell had happened in that motel room. About why Dean had come back to find Her trying to strangle Herself, why she’d collapsed onto Dean’s chest with ragged breathes and a small, strange sound that had been echoing around Dean’s head ever since. 

Dean knew better than to push Her about what had happened. She’d said she didn’t want to talk about it, and that meant she wouldn’t talk about it. He could’ve tried to drag it out of Her with a fight, but that had never really worked before, and She’d looked so small. Fragile and panicked, almost feral as he’d pulled Her back into bed, and she’d fallen asleep in his arms.

He didn’t want to fucking lose that. He never wanted to lose Her. It had been the final straw on the whole if he died, he died thing. She might be able to live a life where Dean was only a pained memory, but he’d fucking carve out his heart from his chest and ship it to Lilith in a box before he became another thing that caused Her pain. He was finally something that mattered to Her, even if it wasn’t everything She was to him.

And Dean could admit She was a little more than everything to him. Just in his head, he could acknowledge that when he looked at Her and crashed down into the depth of all Her silver light and furious beauty, it was because She was just more. The most. 

And he wasn’t going to lose Her. Not now. If have the short end of three months left to live was offering Dean anything, if was fucking clarity. He wasn’t going to lose Her. 

But Sam was going to get himself fucking punched. Because Dean had cornered him that night while She’d been showering, and demanded to know what the hell had happened, and Sam had given him fucking nothing.

“It’s-“ Sam had swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing around the motel room for an escape route. There wouldn’t be one. Dean had been really fucking careful about that. “Nothing happened, dude-“

“Bullshit.” Dean had hissed. “We both know those things don’t just happen-“

“I mean, they kinda do-“

“But there’s always fucking something. And that,” Dean had pointed to the bathroom door, his eyes narrowed. “Was the worst one I’ve seen in damn years, Sam. What the hell did you say to her-“

“We- uh, we were just talking about the arrowhead. She lost it, and we needed to figure out what to tell Ruby-“

Dean had scoffed. “She would not fucking cry about Ruby-“

“I don’t know what you want to hear, Dean, that’s what happened-“

“No, it fucking didn’t.” Dean had taken a firm step forward, and Sam had a least had the decency to look worried. “You fucking said something, Sam, and I’m willing to bet my Baby that it was something bad if you won’t even damn tell me-“

“So ask her.” Sam had his raised his chin, crossing his arms. “If you think it was that bad, she’ll tell you, won’t she?”

Dean had gone rigid, started to weigh how valuable Sam’s nose was, and the door to the bathroom had opened.

The fight had been put on hold as She returned. But it hadn’t stopped. 

Sam kept refusing to tell Dean what the hell had happened. Dean couldn’t—wouldn’t—ask Her.. 

But yhey were both keeping something from Dean. Something about that fucking arrowhead, something about Ruby, something about Her episodes that Dean wasn’t allowed to know about. And he wanted to loathe Her for not trusting him, but She did. She slept at his side and let him walk one step behind Her, let Dean order Her food at diners when she was too invested in a book and always smiled at him when he walked into a room.

He couldn’t hate Her. That was another piece of the near-death clarity. Dean really needed to stop trying to hate Her, because he was bad at it. She was too beautiful to hate. It was like trying to hate the stars for shining so bright and not just moving into Dean’s hands to be held. 

And She did let Dean hold Her. She let Dean touch Her, causally and without cringing or running away. So Dean couldn’t hate Her. He wouldn’t trust himself with something delicate and important either. And maybe, if he made himself a useful enough tool for Her disposal, She would tell him. 

It wasn’t like he wasn’t keeping a worse secret from Her, anyway. 

And fucking Sam kept reminding him of that. Kept telling Dean that they’d far past the point where She needed to know, and every day that stuttered by was another one that She could’ve been helping, but wasn’t.

Dean didn’t want Her to help. He didn’t want this to be Her problem. And he knew She’d disagree, and likely try to stab Dean for keeping it secret at all, but he didn’t care. Dean had cursed himself to go even deeper than the mud. He’d doomed himself to end up surrounded by fire and pain for the rest of time. 

So no matter what Sam said, Dean wasn’t going to fucking tell Her. 

And if they did their damn jobs, the deal wouldn’t even matter, and Dean would be able to bring it up as a joke in a few years. He’d poke Her in the side and tell Her funny story about 2008, Princess, and She’d shove him but be glad he was alive, and then he’d wrap his arm around Her shoulders and haul her over his body, into a long and deep kiss because he’d be alive and she would’ve stayed-

Dean couldn’t think about that now. He’d figure it out after he fixed this, but he couldn't cross the line until then. When he did—because he would, it was becoming more and more obvious as Dean's will weakened and She only grew more beautiful that Dean would end up damning it all and crashing into Her in a way that stuck—it needed to be when he could keep Her. When he could prove to Her over and over that he was barely more than a weapon, but he was Her weapon and not one single shining, stardust-forged son of a bitch would ever serve Her the way Dean could. He'd send the rest of his damn life proving that She'd been right to—for reasons Dean would never understand—stay, when it would've been so easy for Her to leave him. Dean would've left himself, if he could. And he would've hated Her for abandoning to be as he should be, alone, but She fucking hadn't. 

And when She'd run, she'd always come back. To Dean. 

So he'd prove, when this was done, that She hadn't been wrong. He'd dedicate himself to it, and he wouldn't have to mold or break at all because She'd only ever stayed for him as he was.

He didn't understand it. He'd never understood it.

He was kind of done fucking trying to.

So all that was left to do was find his way out of the deal, and figure out how to keep Her near him all the damn time. 

It was why he was reading. She'd gone into the bathroom to get changed for their next case, and he didn't have anything better to do, so he'd grabbed one of Sam's huge, dusty books and started to comb through it. Going page by page like a nerd, looking for some sort of highlighted sentence that told him this would be fine. That was a neon red exit sign out of a crossroads deal, and promised that He wouldn’t have come so close to having Her, only to have everything crumble and fall through his fingers.

At this point, part of him wanted to tell Her. Not because it was a good idea, but because Sam was, annoying, right. She’d probably have this worked out in an afternoon, pointing to a single sentence Dean, Sam, and Bobby had already read but citing it’s completely different meaning, making them all feel like idiots and fixing it in a heartbeat.

But that only managed to solidify that Dean could not tell Her. He had to work this out himself, if he was going to try and pretend to be worthy of Her. If She did this for him, there’d be no reason for Her to stay. She didn’t need Dean. Nobody needed Dean. So he had to bank of Her wanting him, and why the hell would She want Dean if he needed Her, if he craved Her and followed Her everywhere like a dog that only took Her scraps and never offered anything but gnashing teeth and pointless labor- 

It wouldn’t be pointless. Dean would make sure the labor he did for Her meant something. That every bullet shot was a promise that, when She started to breathe to fast and clawed at Her skin, he’d take care of her, keep her safe, and serve her however she asked.

Even if that meant reading old books that gave him a headache, and wearing this stupid tie, and fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt like they were shackles. 

“She’s taking a while,” Sam muttered from his chair, frowning at the bathroom door. “You think she-“

“She’s fine.” Dean grunted, flipping another page. “It’s not like you’re in there to freak her out.”

Sam sighed. “Dean-“

“What.”

“We’ve talked about this-“

“I didn’t say shit,” he shrugged, shooting Sam a glare. “And she always takes this long. She’s doing girl shit, and unless you wanna get stabbed, I wouldn’t interrupt her.”

“What’s girl shit-“

“I dunno, I’m not a freakin’ girl-“

“Then how to do you know she’s doing girl shit-“

“Cause she walked in there with her fancy bag, and she’s gonna come out looking…” He shook his head, giving Sam a pointed look. “It’s fucking witchcraft, Sammy.”

Sam frowned. “You mean makeup?”

Dean didn’t know what he meant. Maybe that every time She’d go through Her whole girl routine, she’d come out looking pretty much the exact same, but with little features highlighted to make Her look damn near godlike. The witchcraft was mostly how the hell she knew how to use all the tubes and sprays and brushes that Dean had seen in Her hands. 

So Dean just glowered at Sam—trying to find a way to answer the question that didn’t sound stupid—when the door opened, and his heart stopped.

It made sense why She’d taken so long.

That was more than just some of Her features highlighted. Every already perfect part of Her had somehow been carefully enhanced, and Her hair seemed to be absorbing all the light in the room before throwing it out twice as bright, and Dean didn’t know where the hell She’d gotten that dress, but his brain was already memorizing every dip of the fabric and curve of Her body and-

“You look, uh-“ Sam cleared his throat, glancing at Dean with an almost worried expression. “Ready.”

“I am.” She shrugged like it was nothing, like She wasn’t half glowing, didn’t look exactly like that fallen star She always lit in the pit of his body, and Dean wasn’t going to lose his mind. “And look.” She raised the dress with a wide grin, revealing Her knife, strapped to her thigh. “You can’t even see it. I fucking love this dress.”

Dean loved it too. For very different, inappropriate reason that were going to keep him in his chair for at least a few more minutes.

“You’re, uh-“ He coughed, trying to force his voice back from a rasp into at least a casual drawl. “You gonna be able to run in those?”

He nodded to Her heels, and She rolled her eyes. 

“Of course I can, I’m not a child. Plus,” She kicked one heel off, catching it in Her hand with practice grace and pointing the stabby end at Dean with a grin. “That’s three weapons.”

Sam frowned. “Three-“

“Knife,” She pointed back to Her thigh, and Dean’s grip on his book became white-knuckled. “Two shoes. Are you reading?”

Dean blinked at Her, then scowled, slamming his book back onto the table. “Am I not allowed to broaden my horizons, Princess-“

“You are.” She hummed, crossing to room to stand only one tug of Her waist away, and She was so pretty, and She smelled so good- “But this is like, half in Latin. And about demons.” She raised Her brows at him. “Lilith?”

“I, uh- Yeah. Lilith.” Dean gave Her his best smirk, and pretended he couldn’t see Sam’s pointed glare. “I got bored, sweetheart. Figured I might as well try to get something before we headed out-“

“Which we should’ve done,” Sam jumped in, frowning at his watch. “Like, a half hour ago. We won’t be late, but I wanted to be early, while the crowd was small-“

She shook Her head, rubbing Her thumb over her palm. “No, that would be suspicious. Our backstory is already rocky, being early would draw attention we can’t afford. If we’re on time we’ll be just another pair of faces in the crowd. Easier to slip past everyone for Dean and I, easier for you to navigate around security. But we should go soon, are you guys-“

“Born ready,” Dean grinned at Her, pushing out of his chair and keeping his gaze firmly on Her face. He couldn’t look down at Her body—or else they’d be here another hour while he calmed himself down—and Her face was a better alternative, but She was still so fucking gorgeous, and looking at Dean, right at Dean, like She could really see him, but she wasn’t moving away-

Sam snorted. “You’ve been bitching about your tie for like, an hour-“

“It’s choking me.” He snapped, fidgeting with the knot around his neck. It was too much like a noose, too great a reminder of how stolen his every breath had become. “And it looks fucking stupid-“

“No, it doesn’t.” She said, waving Dean off with a hand as She scanned around their motel room, not noticing the way Dean’s heart started to burst out of his chest, how his gaze locked on Her like she was a magnet. “And you can take if off as soon as we’re out, but everyone’s going to be wearing a tie-“

“Why?” He half-whined, pulling at his shirt. It was white. Inappropriate for hunts, prone to being stained, almost see-through white. He felt like a piece of meat. 

She only shrugged, shooting him a small, world-ending smile. “Because, Deano. That’s what happens when we take cases with rich people.”

“I didn’t take this case,” he grumbled, letting Her start to herd him towards the door. “Sammy took it. I just got dragged along-“

“We can leave you at home,” She suggested, nodding to Sam as he grabbed his bag, and they all moved outside, “I can put on some TV, leave you some snacks until we get back-“

“Shut up.”

She giggled, pulling away from Dean as they reached the car and he wanted Her to come back. He didn’t want to do this case at all—it was a waste of time that any hunter could take care of, and a reminder that he would never have the gross luxury he was likely about to witness—but if he had to, he didn’t want to be away from Her side.

Not when She looked like that.

Dean had really never seen anything more beautiful. It was distracting. He looked in the rearview mirror far more than he needed to, but he couldn’t stop himself. Light would catch off of Her in all the best ways, and he’d fall a little further whenever She’d shift in her seat and her soft skin would almost shimmer in the dark. Like She was really just a spirit or vision or figment of Dean’s imagination, an incarnation of every single part of him that had ever dared to want something he shouldn’t be allowed to have. He’d think She was an early torture sent to fuck with him, but She was very real. 

He could smell Her perfume, and it was the sweet and sugary vanilla one She’d been using for years, but it still wasn’t strong enough to overpower the fruit. The fucking fruit. The only part of Her that haunted Dean more than her voice.

Her beautiful, musical, taunting voice that followed him on the wind, that called him down, down, down into wherever She’d stray or wander, and kept his attention on Her words, no matter how they confused him.

And sometimes, they’d really fucking confuse him.

“The Lord isn’t actually supposed to be in attendance, so as long as we remember our cover stories and keep out of larger conversations, this should be really simple.”

Dean frowned at the road. “What’d you mean, Lord. America doesn’t have lords, sweetheart, we got senators and the Kardashians-“

“It’s a British lord,” Sam explained, shrugging in his seat. “I told you already, dude, that’s the whole case-“

“What, killing him?”

“No, Dean-“

“Only if he gets in the way.” She cut Sam off with a grin, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Don’t encourage him,” Sam said Her name in an almost scolding tone, and Dean had to bite down a chuckle as She wrinkled her nose in the backseat. “And no, Dean. We’re not killing anyone. This artifact is said to drive people to insanity, and it’s supposed to go on display at this party, so we need to get it out before the night ends in a half orgy, half bloodbath.”

Dean grimaced slightly. “Damn, Sammy, ease a guy into it-“

“I did, five hours ago, but you weren’t fucking listening to me-“

“Sam,” She said from the back, leaning over the bench with a wrinkled brow, and Her arm was half on Dean’s shoulder. He was going to fucking explode. “Did you ever work out what the artifact was-“

Sam shook his head. “I’ll keep trying while you guys get inside, but I think as long as neither of you touch it, we should be fine.”

She nodded slowly, and Dean could feel Her attention shift to him. “You don’t remember our cover, do you.”

He shot Her a glare, and Sam smirked like a little bitch in his seat. “You know, Princess, we need to have a conversation about how little freakin’ faith you have in me-“

“So you do?” She gave him a teasing smile—beautiful lips curling up and lashes fluttering slightly—and Dean felt his will fold in a heartbeat.

“No.” He muttered, scowling out at the street. She couldn’t be that pretty and be Herself. It short-circuited his whole fucking brain. “I was reading.”

She hummed, propping Her chin on the back of the bench. “That can be dangerous.”

“Shut up-“

“Are you paying attention now?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m kind of a captive audience, sweetheart-“

“You could turn up the radio-“

“You see me reaching for the dial?”

He dared a glance at Her, raising his brows in a silent challenge, and he didn’t know how to deal with the bright, satisfied smile on Her face. It was mesmerizing, in the shifting and flashing lights of the highway, with Her hair perfectly framing her face and her makeup making Her look like a fucking goddess and this wasn’t fair. Dean wanted to grab Her and tangle his whole body into Her’s, forever, until he was always glowing, always full, always alive-

If Sam hadn’t coughed, he might have lost his mind entirely and crashed the damn car.

Dean turned back to the road and cleared his throat, his grip on the wheel almost painful and the shadows of the night only barely hiding his need for Her in his pants.

“Hit me, Princess.”

“You’re Dean Bishop, and I’m your wife,” She said Her own name, and Dean was going to crash the car. She couldn’t do that, couldn’t offer him that thought, because now it would plague him forever. “These people won’t have any idea who we are, so we can use our real names. You,” she poked his arm, shooting him a blinding smile that pulled at his own lips. “Work in stocks. And nobody knows what that means, so if people ask, just start saying words that sound like they’re related to money. You met Lord Appleton-“

Dean snorted. “Appleton?”

“Yep. British.” She shrugged. “You met him at Oxford. Oh, and I’m just a trophy wife.”

Sam sighed, shaking his head. “I still don’t think trophy wife is a good cover-“

“This is an old money, occult-obsessed family of fucking weirdos. Trust me, Sam.” She let out a long breath that stuck to Dean, crawling over his skin as Her voice dropped from a confident drawl to something heavy. “They won’t see women as people. Trophy wife will work.”

Sam shot Dean look he didn’t miss—he knew it was mirrored on his own face—but didn’t acknowledge, either. 

It was another thing Dean would work out when this was over. He knew Her family was old money. And he’d be consumed by the way She’d said that with an almost tragic, haunted certainty, but he’d have to live to fix that for Her. 

He would fix it. 

But after. 

For now, he needed to get this dumbass case over with, so he could go back to looking for his out.

The plan would be simple. Sammy would work out where the artifact was being kept—and, ideally, what it was—and She and Dean would slip out of the party and grab it the moment they had the chance.

Until then, they’d just be wandering through a crowd of rich douchebags, waiting for Sammy to do his job.

They stopped a few blocks away from the Lord’s mansion so Sam could switch into the driver’s seat and Dean could move to the back. She said rich people didn’t drive themselves, and this way Dean could keep Baby out of the hand of some random fucking asshole trying to park his car, and in the hands of Sam. 

“Listen,” he hissed as Sam pulled up to the entrance, leaning over the bench with a scowl. “I see one scratch, one stain, one fucking spot of dirt-“

“You’ll kill me, Dean, I know.” Sam said Her name, and his voice was not nearly afraid enough for how Dean was promising to dismember him. “I’ll text you when I have the location, and I’m going have to park close to the building to get a connection to their security system, so if you need me-“

“I’ll call.” She nodded, smoothing out Her dress as she frowned out the window. “De, are you- wait-“

Dean frowned as She leaned down, shifting through Her bag. He could see the shape of Her waist and small of Her back, and he wanted to touch Her-

They were on a case. They were working. He needed to keep himself the fuck together.

“What’s up-“

“Here.” She sat back up, dropping something in his hand and starting to move Her rings around on Her fingers. “For our cover.”

It was a wedding band. She was giving Dean a wedding band, and it was for their cover, but it felt pretty damn real—catching gold in the light and cool on his palm—and he was going to fucking die, from this alone and nothing else-

“You, uh, you just have these?”

She shrugged, sliding a matching one onto Her own finger. “I’m prepared, Winchester. Ready?”

He was not ready. No part of Dean was ready for how right that ring felt when She was wearing a matching one, for how She felt when she hooked her elbow into his and gave him a perfectly sweet and adoring smile—maybe for the show of the other partygoers, but still seeming so real—and for how She looked in full, shimmering light of candles and chandeliers. 

Heavenly.

There wasn’t another word for it. Dean didn’t believe in heaven, but he sure as fuck believed in Her, and that was the only word that came close to describing it. How the world more than moved for Her. How it was designed for Her, as if everything had only ever been made to make her more beautiful, more happy, more bright. 

She was so fucking bright. 

He was just a shadow in Her wake. Dean was leading her through the crowd, and he was really just a fucking stain or shell of a body, clinging to Her glory and there to spill blood in Her name. And he didn’t hate that. For what he’d been born, what he’d done, how he should’ve been stuck in the mud for the rest of his life and never spared Her glance, let alone Her trust and loyalty—because Her hand had move to hold his arm and Her body was leaning into his side, as if she was trying to shield Herself from the world with Dean and Dean alone—he knew he was long gone from hating Her for how simply awesome she was.

But that didn’t mean he could hate everything else about this. Hate how this crowd was filled with people who could be worthy of Her, who could steal Her attention and whisk Her away from Dean side with promises of the riches and luxury She deserved. She should have. She should be treated like a Queen, and all these assholes where literal fucking royalty—wearing dresses and suits that probably cost more money than Dean had ever seen, but still didn’t compare to the way Her dress looked like it was a second, colorful and shining skin—so why the hell would She ever stay with Dean. 

Maybe this would be the straw. It wouldn’t be a fight about a lie, or the consequences of the deal, or a fatal injury that tore Her away from Dean. It would be one of these suit and tie sons of bitches—eyeing Her on Dean’s arm like She was nothing more than food when She was a fucking predator, a force of nature that could probably kill them with a spoon—offering Her comfort hunting could never provide, riches Dean would never have, and most of the world to Her on a silver platter, and Dean would never be able to blame Her for choosing them.

If it was up to him, She’d have all the world. It was made for Her. It was only right that it belonged to Her too.

“How expensive do you think that champagne is?” She whispered, nodding to the sleek, polished bar, and Dean shot Her an amused look. 

“You drinking now, Princess?”

She rolled Her eyes, elbowing him in the ribs. “I’m bored. And we could probably buy like, a fucking house or something with just one bottle of it.”

Dean knew that face. Narrowed eyes as She bounced slightly on Her feet, watching the barkeeper with an intensity that could brand someone—Dean would know—and a spark in Her eyes that was almost like a flaring warning sign.

He ducked his head to mutter in Her ear, and forced himself to ignore how She shivered slightly against him. “You distract him, I’ll take three bottles. We’ll head to Vegas and triple our money.”

She turned to him with an adorably wrinkled nose, and fuck, She was so close. Dean could see Her pretty flush, and every undertone of Her skin, and all the hidden colors in Her eyes-

“We aren’t going to Vegas, De.”

“Not until after we steal the champagne-“

“We’re not stealing the champagne-“

“You were thinking about it.” He smirked at Her, and there it was. Hitched breath. “I know you, Princess, you were ready to kick that guys ass and run off with his fancy bottle-“

She scoffed. “I was not going to run off.”

“Yeah, you were-“

“I would’ve taken you with me,” She snapped, kicking Dean’s shin lightly. “It’s not running off if I stay with you.”

She’d won. Whatever fake argument they’d been having, She’d just won by a damn mile, because all Dean could do was stare at Her. She couldn’t keep just saying things like that. Over and over and over, like Her staying with Dean was a given, like he was as easy for Her as she was for him.

“You, uh,” he cleared his throat, trying to force his head back into focus. They had a job to do, and it needed to be done so Dean could get back to his real work. To finding a way to keep Her. “You want a drink?”

She glances at the bar, and shook Her head. “I-“

“I saw a Pina Colada on the drink list.” He raised his brows, offering Her a small grin. “I can make them mix it without the fun stuff.”

“The- Oh.” She swallowed, but nodded. “Yes, please. Do you want me to- I can go find some food?”

Son of a bitch, She was perfect.

Dean nodded, forced his body to detach from Her’s and moved to the bar. He managed to get through the order without tugging at his tie or losing Her in his periphery, right up until they served his drink, he turned his back for one damn second, and She was gone. 

He couldn’t see Her. It was a crowded room, and everyone was trying to take up more space than was owed, but Dean couldn’t see Her.

He grabbed the drinks with barely a nod in the bartender’s direction and started to shove through the crowd as his heart began to pound in his throat. She wasn’t in danger. Every bit of Dean’s logical brain knew She wouldn’t be in danger, because this was not a place where danger would pass unnoticed and She was more dangerous than vulnerable, but he still kept envisioning Her on fire on the ceiling, or bloodless and pale and choking on a green-eyed demons blade or Her own hand. Every damn time he’d ever lost Her had been after he’d left, during a fight or to buy something to just to grab fucking ice or coffee or- 

She was fine. Dean was just a pathetic, clingy idiot, and She was fine.

She was more than fine. She was cornered at the long table—full of food that looked more fancy that actually edible—by a man with a slick haircut, a straight nose, and suit that likely hadn’t been stolen from a rental store by his little brother. Haircut was flirting with Her. Leering over and smirking down at Her, angling his body to half cover her’s and matching her every pace down the table as she filled her plate-

One plate. Why did she only have one plate. 

Dean couldn’t move. He was truly fucking weak, truly fucking selfish. He wasn’t moving to take Her back to his side like Dad would’ve told him to—you see a pretty girl, you make sure she knows it, son—but his stomach was twisting because this was it, he’d have to go back to Sammy and tell him She’d gone to be mixed with diamonds and sand and beauty like She deserved-

Haircut said something, and reached for Her arm, and Dean felt fucking sick but he was frozen-

She shrugged Haircut’s touch away, turning to where Dean could see Her profile and saying something he could hear, but he still understood. Her smile was too sweet, too careful, too measured. It wasn’t the wide, happy one She’d always offer Dean that made him crash further into Her.

It was the one She used on every case. Sincere until you knew Her. 

And Haircut didn’t know Her, so he moved closer once more, and She took a step back. Held up Her hand for Haircut to see, scanned over the crowd, and met Dean’s eyes with a wide smile. 

A real smile.

And he couldn’t stop himself from grinning back.

It was like he’d just gone through a factory reset. His legs moved on their own, pulling him back to Her. He leaned down and kissed the side of Her head, passed Her the Pina colada, and grinned at Haircut like he’d won the fucking lottery.

He had. He’d kissed Her. Not fully, but more than She’d allow anyone else to. 

“Hey, dude.” Dean extended his now free hand to Haircut, and he didn’t think most rich people said dude, but he also had Her and she looked like She’d been made to be here, so he wasn’t too worried about blowing their cover. “Dean Bishop. I see you met my lovely wife?”

Haircut mumbled something Dean didn’t really care about and excused himself, and this case was awesome. The champagne was kind of shit, and Sammy was taking way to damn long on the detail they needed, but She was staring at Dean with wide, pretty eyes, drinking Her Pina colada with Her lips wrapped nearly around the straw, and swaying slightly on Her feet, so Dean got to wrap his arm around Her waist to keep her steady, and he never wanted to go back to normal hunts again.

“What a douchebag,” he grinned down at Her, jerking his head to where Haircut had disappear. “You think his hair was real?”

She swallowed, Her voice softer than usual and sparking right through Dean’s whole body. “I- What?”

“His hair, Princess-“

“I heard you,” She frowned, passing Her already empty glass to a passing waiter. “Why wouldn’t it be real-“

“I dunno,” He shrugged, shooting Her a wink. “I’m thinking we could start a real bet, though.“

She smiled, Her body relaxing slightly in Dean’s arms, and he’d never seen anything better. “Stop thinking, De.” She traded Dean’s glass for Her plate, but held the arm around Her on her hip. “You’re bad at it.”

Dean’s grin was almost painful on his face, and if anyone else had said that the words would’ve stung, but it was Her. She said them with a teasing smile, and She was so close, and he knew that nothing hateful or mocking behind them. If She was striking to kill, he’d know it. He’d feel it, cracking up his spine. And She never bit unprovoked. Every time they’d struck each other like that it had been because Dean was a fucking idiot, and couldn’t hold something beautiful as She was and not ruin it. Couldn’t have something so good and destroy it. 

But he had Her—in the moist vague and loose sense of the word, Dean had Her—now. For at least this night, where She was right against him and had chosen to be there, Dean had Her. 

He’d be damned, further down than he already was, if he broke that. 

“You, uh,” he cleared his throat, glancing down to the plate in his hands. “This all for me?”

She hummed, nodding thoughtlessly as She started to sweep over the room. “Do you think Sam will be mad if we start to just search the mansion-“

“No.” He squeezed his hold on Her, and She looked up at him with wide eyes. “But I’m not letting you just fuck around, Princess, I’m taking this job seriously-“

She gave him a flat, amused look. “You just want to party, Winchester.”

“Gotta pass the time somehow-“

“I can search alone, you know-“

“And there’s no damn way I’m letting you.” Dean shoved the plate under Her nose, hold her gaze. “Eat a fancy grape, sweetheart. We’ll move when Sammy calls you.”

She narrowed Her eyes at him, but grabbed a grape with a pouting frown that made Dean feel things. “You think you let me do anything?”

“No,” he shrugged. “But I could tackle you and stop you from wandering. Gimme some of my champagne.”

“Get your own fucking champagne-“

Dean drawled Her name, giving Her an amused grin. “You’re holding my glass.”

She flushed, glanced between the champagne in Her hand and Dean’s hand on Her hip, and Dean was ready for her to shove him away. He was braced for it, for how he’d have to grab his glass as She shoved it into his hands, but he’d need to keep full balance because She’d—hopefully—loop their arms back together and drag him after Her, wherever She wanted to go-

Dean almost fell to his knees as She rolled Her eyes, muttered something under Her breath he couldn’t make out, and pressed Dean’s glass up to his lips. All while holding his fucking gaze, glaring at him like he’d broken something or done something incredibly wrong, and keeping his arm around Her body.

She stayed pressed right against Dean, and he didn’t need to damn champagne. He could get drunk on just Her, shining in the light and there and real and fucking intoxicating.

He didn’t know how he’d gotten here.

He never wanted to leave.

“You wanna stand in a corner and make fun of people?” She raised Her brows, taking the glass back from Dean’s mouth, and if the hellhounds came for him here, he’d die a happy man. 

She was so fucking awesome.

“Aw,” he smirked at Her as he said Her name, let the high feeling of Her overtake his body, and pressed anther kiss to the side of Her head. “I thought you’d never ask.”

She rolled Her eyes, but there it was. Flush. Hitched breath. Parted lips. 

“I’m not asking you to the prom, Winchester.” She muttered, starting to move them through the crowd but still holding on to Dean. “Calm down.”

“I’m perfectly calm, sweetheart. And I’ll have you know we would’ve killed it at the prom-“

She snorted. “Who’s we?”

“C’mon, Princess.” He wiggled his brows at Her. “You’ve got the bossy, hot, popular girl thing down-“

“I-“ She stared at him, and Dean couldn’t fully read the expression on Her face. “That’s- Never say that sentence again. To anyone.”

 “Yes, ma’am.” Dean frowned at Her as they stopped in a corner, scanning over Her hardened, beautiful features and tightened brow. “Did you go to prom?”

“I didn’t go to high school, De.”

“I- what?”

She shot him an incredulous look. “You knew that. I was a runaway, my family had a bounty on my head, I couldn’t exactly enroll in Sioux Falls public school system.”

“But you’re…” Dean trailed off, his words bubbling and dying in his throat as he searched for words he didn’t have. She was brilliant, and clever, and a genius who he’d bet on in every situation, She spoke so fast and with such power, She was the only person he knew who was close to as smart as Sammy, and that kid was a fucking genius. “You’re you.”

“I’m aware.” She drawled. “But I learned most of what I know by watching PBS and reading. I got bored. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house, it was like-“

“Bobby didn’t let you leave the house?”

“I didn’t let me leave the house.”

“Cause of, uh,” he cleared his throat, watching Her carefully. “The sickness?”

“Yeah.” She mumbled, frowning at Her own hands. “The sickness.”

“Did you go to like, elementary school?”

“I went up to the first half of third grade. Then I ran away.”

Dean nodded slowly, and he wasn’t sure where the line was. She’d never told him much about Her family. She’d never had the chance, after that fight in Colorado. He’d never grown the balls to push Bobby on it, and he knew that wouldn’t have worked anyway. 

All Dean knew was that Bobby had found her wandering. That She’d been sick. That whoever Her family was, they were hard to speak of. 

And he wouldn’t ruin the chance to hear about them. For Her to trust him like that, with skeletons She seemed to try and ignore and bury, but kept clawing out of the dirt to make Her scratch at Her skin and pick at Her nails.

Dean bumped Her hand with his plate, stilling Her picking without a word, and just watched Her. She’d say what She wanted, and Dean would—for Her—shut the fuck up.

“I, uh,” She cleared her throat, Her gaze fixed on a button of Dean’s shirt. “They were a lot like this. These people. Kind of worse, actually. A lot worse. And I- I still don’t understand most of it. Most of what they did, or why they did it, or-“ She took a shaking breath, running Her thumb over the scar on Her palm. “I just- I knew- I know it was wrong. That was why I got out, and- I don’t know. They were-“

She took another, almost too shallow breath, and there was a darkened expression on Her face. That wrinkle in Her brow as her fingers flexed against her and her hands shifted slightly, moving up before flinching down.

Dean needed to mend this. Whatever was making Her look like a hollow shadow, because She was supposed to be lit up from within and he couldn’t fucking stand to see Her in pain. 

He set down his plate without a thought, squeezed his arm around Her waist, and ran his thumb down the bridge of Her nose until the wrinkle was well and truly gone. Until She was blinking softly at Dean, still not smiling but nowhere near tearing at whatever seams held Her together. 

Dean gave Her a small grin. “You wanna play a game?”

She blinked at him for a second, but Dean knew She understood. That he’d heard enough, and She never needed to say more if She didn’t want to. Even if Dean was going to spend a long time—when he finally had some of it to spare—trying to track down Her family and introduce them to the barrel of his gun, She’d never have to say another damn word about them. Dean would stay here, with Her, no matter what.

She relaxed against his side, returning his grin with teasing words. “No, De. You never have real games-“

“This is a real game,” he shrugged. “Winner takes all-“

“What’s all?”

“Whatever they want.” He winked at Her, and she shook her head.

“I’m not betting my favor, Winchester. And you haven’t even said the fucking game-“

“I’m getting there. See all those assholes?” Dean jerked his head out to the crowd, and She nodded with a frown. “We’re gonna watch them, place our bets on their lives, and then go work out whatever we can. Closest bet wins.”

“Their lives?“ She stared at him, shaking Her head. “What-“

“Names, occupations, personal lives?” Dean suggested, and She nodded slowly. 

“Personal lives like marital status and kids?”

“Sure. Same first letter counts for the name guess-“

“And most correct guesses wins.” She finished. “We pose as the married couple getting to know people until we work out the information.”

Dean nodded, and a smile crept over Her gorgeous face.

“What are we betting?”

Dean knew what he wanted. It was an old desire. One that would be stuck on his brain until it was fulfilled. “I win, I get to hear you sing, Princess.”

“You- why?”

He shrugged, just shooting her a wink. Flush. Breath. Lips. “How about you?”

“I-“ She paused, a small smile crossing Her face, and raised Her chin. “I want to dance. Together.”

Dean scoffed. “No. I don’t-“

“That my bet, Winchester.” She raised Her pinky, giving him a pointed look. “Take it or leave it.”

He’d take it. He was fucking pissed about it, but it was Her, so Dean would take it in a heartbeat. 

He rolled his eyes, but hooked his pinky through Her’s.

“Bossy-“

“That’s rude, Dean.” She fluttered Her eyes at him, and if She wanted Dean mobile and functional, she needed to stop fucking doing that. “No way to talk to your fake wife.”

He shrugged, even as his traitorous fucking heart started to pound in his ears. “You’re the one who fake married me.”

“No,” She let out a dramatic sigh, pouting up at him “The man I fake married would’ve never called me bossy, you’ve changed, and I’m leaving you for the pool boy-“

Dean pinched Her side, grinned at the high squeak that escaped Her lips. ”You’re having too much fun with this, Princess.“

She shrugged. “Well, my husband’s neglecting me, I need to find fun wherever I can-“

“I think,” he drawled, leaning down slightly, unable and unwilling to stop himself. He was drowning in Her. Crashing into Her. So fucking close and for the first time he didn’t feel like She was going to vanish into air, and he could fucking smell Her it was a drug. “You will find that I’m the funnest son of a bitch here. I think you’re gonna forget about your pool boy by the time the night is over, sweetheart.”

“You-“ She swallowed, staring at Dean with slightly glossy eyes, and right fucking there. “Funnest isn’t a word.”

“Uh huh.” He smirked at Her, tilting his head with a grin. “You ready for target one?”

A small, pouting frown crossed Her face, and whatever spell Dean had managed to pull off there vanished in a second. “Why do you get to choose the first target-“

“Because it’s my game.”

“But-“

“Nope. Target one.” Dean pointed over the crowd to a man wearing what seemed to be a bowler hat, grinning down at Her. “Richard. Single. Failed supervillain.”

She giggled, “That’s not a real job, Winchester-“

“It is to me. Your move, your highness.”

Her eyes narrowing in focus, and Dean had a sudden feeling he’d made a mistake with this game. “Jonathan. Married but she’s not here, she’s home with the kids. Banker.”

They moved up to the man, acting drunk and dumb and asking carefully questions as if they were interrogating a vic, and She’d been on the money. 

James. Married with two kids. Not a banker, but not a failed super villain either. 

And Dean knew he’d made a mistake, because She was amazing at this. She was wiping the fucking floor with him, and Dean was starting to suspect everyone here was in on it. That She was somehow saying things that hadn’t been true an hour ago, but then She’d demand they were and they just… would be. She said everything with that mind-numbing, easy confidence like it was fact, and Dean was pretty sure if she looked him in the eyes and said the sun is actually blue, Deano, he’d believe it. Then he’d wake up in the morning tomorrow, and the sun would be blue.

And She won. By a fucking mile. They stopped in a small corner of the room, and didn’t even bother to compare scores because She’d won. And Dean could’ve said he was just off his game, but She was smiling at him and bouncing on Her feet, looking so fucking happy, and he didn’t know how to do anything but stare at Her.

She’d called him Her husband almost a hundred times tonight. 

It was going to haunt him, well past the grave.

“You owe me a dance,” She said, watching Dean like She always had, like he was worth looking at, and Dean would give Her anything.

“Guess so,” he took a long step forward, smirking at Her, and if he played this right he’d be able cast that spell on Her again. Make Her feel half of what he did, when he was trapped in Her orbit with no desire to escape. “You think you’ll be able to keep up?”

“Keep up-“

“I don’t like to dance,” Dean drawled Her name, leaning down. Just a little further down. Flush. Breath. Lips. “But I can. I’m gonna blow your mind, Princess-“

The ring of Her phone cut through the air, and they blinked at each other. Stuck time for a brief, infinite moment before She cleared Her throat, and outstretched Her hand.

Her phone was in Dean’s pocket. 

He didn’t remember putting it there. But he also hadn’t really been thinking about anything but Her.

“It’s Sam,” She muttered, frowning at the screen when he passed it to Her. “I’m gonna, uh-“

Dean nodded, fidgeting with his cuffs as he watched her, and something had grown. Dean wasn’t losing his mind, something had become suddenly heavy and potent in the air, and he knew She could at least feel that too. She was leaning forwards into him, Her fingers moving in an awkward motion on the screen where She was always so deliberate and careful, and She may have never felt the pull but Dean was damn sure She could feel this-

“Hey, what’s-“ She frowned into the air, and Dean could hear Sam’s slightly muffled voice over the speaker. 

He frowned, lowering his voice to breathe and holding Her gaze as he mouthed at Her. “What-“

She held up a finger, giving Dean a stern glare as she spoke to Sam. “Yeah, I guessed that, where-“

Sam started talking again, and Her brow drew into that adorable, concerning wrinkle.

“Are you-“ Sam said something, and She sighed. “Okay. Get the car started, we’ll probably have to make a run for it-“

“A run for it-“

She kicked Dean in the shin as Sam snapped something through the speaker, and She nodded, dropping the phone from Her mouth.

“Sam says to shut up.”

Dean scowled. “Tell him to shut up.”

She grinned, and raised the phone back to Her mouth. “Dean says you should shut up.”

Sam grumbled something, and Her gaze never broke from Dean’s as Her grin grew.

“Sam says you’re a child.”

“He’s the child-“

“Dean says you’re a child-“ 

Sam snapped, and She rolled her eyes.

“I am not encouraging him- Yeah, fine, tell me.”

Dean moved a step closer, trying to overhear what Sammy was saying to Her, but she went tense, and he froze.

“Sam.” Her voice had dropped to a firm, almost harsh tone, and that was never a good sign. “There’s no way- There’s not-“

Whatever Sam said sounded like an apology, and She shook her head, frowning at the air.

“Then I’m not-“

Another pause for Sam to speak. Dean was going to lose his mind.

She let out a long breath, the wrinkle fully on Her brow. “You’ve got to be fucking me.”

———

There were more of them. You’d destroyed the arrowhead and almost lost your mind over it, but there were more of them. 

Those stupid fucking solemn oath weapons. Jo had said there was an arsenal of them, but they were supposed to be rare. That had been a big part of your fight with Sam, after Dean had eased you back together and you’d fully adapted to Sam knowing.

“What about the arrowhead?” Sam had snapped, his voice hushed even though Dean was out getting food. “You just destroyed something that’s like, thousands of years old, and irreplaceable, do you not even care-“

“No.” You’d hissed. “I don’t, Sam, you know why? It was fucking dangerous, and we don’t need any more of that.”

“They’re rare!” He’d snapped, narrowing his eyes. “That might have been the only one discovered in our lifetime-“

“Good. I hope that’s true.” You’d raised your chin, not breaking your ground, and the fight had, eventually, waned off. 

Sam wouldn’t tell Dean. He was still a little pissed you’d broken the arrowhead, but as the weeks had passed and he still hadn’t told Dean, you’d decided he could know more. What the arrowhead did. What the episodes were, and everything you knew about the green demons, and why you couldn’t risk anything. Nothing could be a game, or a gamble, or a chance. You had to place bets you knew you’d win. 

Otherwise everything that was already hanging on such a thin fucking line would fall apart, and you lose Dean.

You couldn’t lose Dean. He’s annoyed that you and Sam won’t talk about the episode in the motel, but he’s still here. Still sharing your bed, in a way that’s not everything but still more than you’d ever dreamed. Handsome in the light of the party and making your knees weak, grinning at you when he says a joke, laughing at your side and making every Silver.

And you’d never said it, but Sam still knows. You can see it in his eyes—when he looks between you and Dean shoving and teasing each other with an odd expression—that Sam’s painfully aware that when you’d described everything to him, you’d glossed over Dean for a reason. Because he’s more. He’s golden and peaceful to exist in the gravity of, and you couldn’t lobotomize him out of you if you tried.

You can’t lose Dean. 

And there shouldn’t have been another solemn oath weapon.

But here you are, moving silently through the halls with Dean one pace behind you, and you keep checking over your shoulder that he’s still there, because you can never fucking get what you want. 

Dean hisses your name, grabbing your wrist and stopping you in your steps. “Sam said left.”

“I-“ You glance around the abandoned area, and shake your head. “He said left after the big cat painting-“

“Yep.” Dean points back down the hall, right to an oil painting of a massive, winged lion. “You’re off your game, Princess-“

“Shut up.”

You stomp past him, your nails digging into your skin, and he’s right. Your head is spinning around Dean’s warm, almost caring eyes on yours at the party and the fact that these weapons were supposed to be fucking rare, and you’re distracted.

Sam had been right. These things were supposed to be once in a lifetime. Not pop up every other month at the worst possible times, ruining your perfectly good chance to crash further into Dean, to make everything about him a little more permanent that just a mark of him on everything you see and a spiderweb of pure, iridescent light in your body. 

That was something you haven’t told Sam. Or Jo. Definitely not Bobby. Since the motel room, since the fractured pieces sealed back together and Dean stayed, the White hasn’t been aching and pulling for him. The pain is still strong and blinding and horrible, but the Darkness seems to have soothed by the light of Dean that moves through your whole body like blood.

You don’t know what it is. The spiderweb. You don’t really have time to figure it out, and it’s terrifying and amazing. It hums and refracts around all the time, and sings when Dean is near, and when he’s gone there’s no anguish or whining plea to be near him again. It like he’s stuck into it, and every bit of you is assured that he will come back. Dean, physically, may come and go, but he always comes back. He may glower and grumble about pointless things, and leave the motel with Sam to research Lilith without you, but he always comes back.

It’s like he’s faithful. He’s not even yours, but he’s still a geyser that you always know with burst up with cooling water and shifting colors in the sunlight, and he’ll come back. 

At least you have that. If you can’t have reasonable lack of dangerous weapons and one moment without some kind of pain in your life, at least you have Dean.

Still a pace behind you, walking in perfectly matching time with your steps and keeping his voice hushed as he says your name.

“You sure you-“

“I know where I’m going, Winchester.” You shoot him a glower, and he just shrugs. 

“Okay.”

“What does that mean-“

“It doesn’t mean anything. I’m just saying okay-“

“No, you said okay-“

Dean grunts your name, taking a large step forward until he’s right at your side, looking down at you with an annoyingly amused expression. “Deep breath, Princess. I said okay. And if you’re wrong, I’ll just pick you up and take you wherever Sammy said the, uh- Thing is.”

It’s impossible not to lean a little into his side when he’s grinning at you like that. Like it’s easy, and nothing is really all that wrong in the world, and he does trust you. You still haven’t told him what you are, and why this is making you lose your mind, but Dean trusts you and that’s going to kill you more than any weapon could.

And he’s baiting you. Giving you a reason to spar back and forth with him, and not dwell on how fucking annoying this is.

It’s never hard to fall for him. It’s impossible not to, when he’s all but asking. 

You raise your brows at him, your mouth pulling up slightly. “The thing?”

Dean shrugs, his attention returning to the hallway as he walks at your side. “You didn’t freakin’ tell me what it is, sweetheart, and I’m not a mind reader-“

“It’s a-“ You sigh, sorting out every word carefully before you speak. “Sam thinks it’s like the arrowhead.”

“Like the arrowhead?”

You hum, nodding slowly. “Same kind of weapon. He said it looks similar, on the camera feed, and the event invitation had a picture-“

“Invitation?” Dean frowns. “I didn’t see an invitation-“

“That’s cause we’re party crashers, De, we didn’t get an invitation-“

“Then how-“

You shrug, shooting Dean an amused look. “Sam can be sneaky. I think he might have broken into some cars.”

Dean snorts. “Don’t know how he ever manages stealth cases, he’s a freakin’ mammoth-“

“It’s easy to commit crimes when no one’s watching,” you shrug, bumping your shoulder into Dean’s with a grin. “That’s why we’re doing so well.”

He rolls his eyes. “And I thought we were just a good team-“

“Two things can be true, Deano. And Sam-” You scan around the hall with a frown. “Do you remember if he said left or right?”

“Right.” Dean’s hand rests on your back, turning you in the right direction as he shoots you a wink. “I thought you were leading us, Princess-“

“Shut up.”

“Bos- Shit-“

Dean groans as you elbow him in the gut, and you can’t stop the giggle from escaping your lips. 

“Do you want to hear about the artifact or not?”

“I thought we were done talking about it,” he grumbles, his hand finding your back once more, almost like a fucking magnet. “C’mon, we can’t stall.”

You shrug, but let Dean keep moving you down the hall. You’d let him move you anywhere. “I wasn’t the one stalling-“

“Artifact, sweetheart. What else is so damn important for me to know about-“

“If you don’t want to know, just say-“

Dean grunts your name, shooting you a glare, and you fucking giggle again.

This is fucking serious. This is, in several ways, your worst nightmare. But Dean’s here, and he’s adorable and touching you and here, and you can’t stop giggling. Not as the spiderweb seems to cling to every drop of his attention and grow stronger, and your head starts to feel light and easy as the pain eases, and the world blurs to Silver.

And Dean’s just watching you. Not snapping for you to focus or get it tougher. Just moving you down the hallway and scanning from door to door, his hand still on your back, and small grin pulling at his face. 

His gaze flicks between two doors, his brow furrowing slightly, and you tug on his arm.

“Three more doors.” You say, angling your head down the hall. “It might be locked, but I can pick it-“

Dean shakes his head. “I’ll just break it down-“

“Do not break it down, Dean.”

“Ooh, Dean.” He shoots you a wink, and you meld a little further into his touch. “You’re serious-“

“Shut up or you get elbowed again.” You mutter, he opens his stupidly pretty mouth with shining eyes, and you wrinkle your nose at him. “You say bossy, and you get stabbed.”

He chuckles—the sound rolling through your whole body—and looks back around the hall. “You actually gonna tell me about the artifact, Princess, or am I just that charming and distracting?”

He is. 

He doesn’t get to know that.

“Sam says we’re not supposed to touch it.” You hum, hitching up your dress as you move over the awfully dusty hallway carpet. “It’s- He said it’s like the arrowhead because it has all the same writing, and looks about the same age, and that means it’s dangerous. I brought a napkin.”

Dean shoots you an odd look. “Where-“

You reach over, patting his suit jacket, and he scowls.

“You know, sweetheart, in another life you’re a fantastic criminal-“

You grin at him. “I’m a fantastic criminal now.”

“So you are a criminal?” He smirks, stopping you in front a large, polished, wooden door. “Years of saying you’re not stealing shit, and-“

“Stabbed, Winchester. Gonna get stabbed.” 

He laughs, loud and echoing through the empty hall, and you’re too drunk on the sound to remind him you’re supposed to be sneaking around. You just roll your eyes, pull out the bobby pin you’d kept in your dress, and drop to your knees in front of the door.

“No touching anything.” You remind him as you work the door, looking up with your best stern expression. “I’m serious.”

“Yeah- uh. No touching. Got it.” Dean shifts on his feet, rubbing his neck and suddenly looking very uncomfortable, and you frown at him. 

“What’s wrong with you.”

He shrugs. It’s not convincing. “Nothing, Princess-“

“Dean.”

“I said nothing-“

“Liar.” You hum, the lock clicks, and you grin up at him. “Ready?”

He blinks at you, nodding, and you tilt your head at him.

“De, you’re being weird-“

“Just open the damn door.” He grumbles, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. “C’mon, Sammy’s waiting.”

You wrinkle your nose at him, but push to your feet, and Dean steadies you with a hand on your back. Your lower back. Right where the depression for his touch had never fully mended or faded, sending a rush of lightning up the spiderweb and making you stand a little taller. 

“Ready?” He grunts, his expression suddenly steeled and firm, and you nod a little stupidly.

“Yeah.”

You’re not. Dean gives a firm nod—his spare hand wandering to where you know he’s keeping his gun—and you didn’t think you could’ve been ready. Not as you open the door and see it.

It’s not an arrowhead this time. It’s a knife. Made in a blatantly similar style to the arrowhead, with all the same writing carved over the blade and handle, but clean. It’s not dusted and faded like the arrowhead was, it’s polished and shining in the low light of the room, and it’s like a flame. The words that you can read shift as they always do—the glint of the metal entrancing and bright—your breath catches in your throat as if the blade had been driven through your neck.

It looks like it was made to be held. The hilt looks almost identical to that of the knife on your thigh—the knife Dean had bought you, the knife that was yours more than anything else ever has been—and you think, if you held this knife, it would fit perfectly in your hand. No callouses or oddly places fingers. An extra limb, easing everything further to Silver. 

The Silver wants to feel it. The knife is calling you forward, and you can vaguely hear someone important and golden and critical calling your name, but you can’t look anywhere but the knife. The closer you move, almost gliding across the room, the more you know that you have to hold it. You can’t read the Latin that well, or the Hebrew and Arabic at all, but the shifting words are all familiar too.

For the Woman of the high, promised of Him. 

Your brain feels as if it’s being muffled. Thoughts of woman, not women, and Him flash over your brain with brief scrutiny, but they shrivel up within a second. Every part of you feels like it’s being suffocated by the almost glowing knife, and the spiderweb is bursting like fireworks through your body, trying to vault you back where you belong, but you have to keep moving forward. It’s like there’s a phantom behind you, pushing you forward, whispering in your ear that it’s yours, made for you, take it because it’s been waiting thousands of years for you, and He’s been waiting longer, and all of this is made for you so take it-

Something louder shatters the spell. For half a second there’s a roar of your name from something that feels weaker than the phantom—but louder than your heart and more vital that the blood in your body—rushing your vision into focus and that’s Dean, colorful and running through your blood and over your bones and a little to the right of your heart and Dean-

You almost turn to see him, almost stop moving to the weapon, but the phantom shoves you forward, and you’re gone.

Your hand wraps around the knife, the Silver flares and flashes and consumes your body. You feel some part of your body give out—you’re not sure, everything feels like you and you don’t know what’s your body and what’s just the rest of the universe—and right before it all gets too big you see a flash of white, radiant light dissipate into the air.

And then you’re gone. 

The whole world booming out and out and out, and you’re the gravity of the earth and the heat of its core and the flood and turning water in every ocean and the infinite loneliness of every star, and everything is-

It’s too much. Too big. You can’t bear it. You can’t really see anything, but you can see everything and you feel thin, stretched apart, not your own. 

There’s no pain in your body for half a second, and you grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut to drag yourself back down as something curses and shouts around you and you crash back down into your own body like a comet. 

And the pain returns. It hits you, blows right into your guts and rips at your skull as you choke on the Darkness, and it’s still too much. The knife is still in your hands and you can’t drop it, and someone is grabbing you and they feel right but something is wrong-

You choke out a word, and you don’t know what it means but it’s a prayer. A name. 

Dean. Where’s Dean-

“I’m here,” the same low voice says your name, and a rough finger in pressed to your brow, running down your nose and easing the world back together. “I- Shit, we gotta go, there’s an alarm-“

You shake your head, repeating the word because it’s making things better. Dean. Dean. Dean-

“I know, I’ve gotcha, just- c’mon-“ Something steady grabs your face, and everything keeps mending as the spiderweb catches the touch and spins it into illuminating color in your body. “Son of a- Sammy said not to touch it, Princess, why’d you-“

You grab the hands over your face, keeping them where they’re supposed to be, and you can see him. 

He’s beautiful. Golden. Better than the Sun, or that strange white light from before.

“Dean.” You whisper, and it pulls you a little further down. “You’re- Dean-“

“Yeah, I got that. Sweetheart, we need to go and if I gotta carry you, I will.”

You think he’s scanning over you for injury, but you can’t really tell because he’s just Gold.

Almost just Gold.

There’s something else. Something you’ve never seen on him before, even when he’s only been this same, striking Gold. It’s like a stain, or a scratch, or a wound. A mark on the Gold that’s wrong, because it’s seeping and pulsing like an infection, and it’s not yours. All of the Gold feels like it’s a little bit you. This dark red, bloodied mark doesn’t belong to you, it belongs to something steel gray and wrong and demonic-

Something clicks in your brain. Snaps into place and rushes through your whole body, and the sound that leaves you isn’t fully human. 

“Dean.” You choke out, and you think your nails are digging into his skin but you don’t care, he’s going to turn to ash and blood but you need him, you can’t fucking lose him, not now, fucking God, no-

He mutters your name, and you shake your head frantically. 

“What-“ You swallow, your gaze fixed on the brand. It’s a brand. 

A claim. 

“What did you do.” You whisper, and you can’t really hear yourself over the blood in your ears, but you know he can hear you. You know because he freezes. Because the spiderweb is aching and howling, and- 

“I-“

“What did you do?!” You’re half screaming. You don’t care. “Dean- you- why?! Why the fuck-“

He grunts your name, but there’s no fire and fight behind his voice. He sounds pained and worried, and it’s too much-

“I don’t- You’re freakin’ me out, I need you to tell me what wrong-“

You shake your head, almost clawing at his skin. “Why. Dean, why-“

“I don’t-“

Something bursts through the ringing and pounding in your head. Something loud and blaring, and Dean freezes again, turning away from you, and he’s going to leave, you’re going to lose him, he’s going to go away and you’re trying to grab at the brand and remove it but everything hurts and you can’t fucking breathe-

“No.” Something drags your hand from your throat—you don’t even remember putting it there—with a firm grip, and suddenly you’re rising. Not on your own legs, shaking and weak and not fully yours, nothing in you is yours but the Silver and the spiderweb, and they’re whining with pain because why, why the fuck would Dean do something so stupid- “We’re not doing that, we need to move. Hold on.”

The words feel like a commandment, and you listen to them without thought. You wrap your arms around Dean’s neck, and everything slowly begins to come back into focus as he holds you. 

He’s warm. Solid and warm, panting slightly in your ear as he hauls you down the flashing hallway, and there are red lights flashing around you but they’re not as bright as Dean. 

Still Golden. 

Still about to be lost.

His touch and the smell of grass and spice are grounding you in your body, but the Silver won’t stop roaring. The Gold isn’t all yours. It’s supposed to be twined and fit with you, but Dean’s marked to be taken away, and it’s all you can do not to burst into tears. Every breath is forced and mechanical. You know you might strangle Dean with your grip, might mark him with your nails sunken into his skin, but then maybe you’d get to keep him. Maybe your stain would be greater than the one on the Gold, and you’d get to keep Dean. 

You don’t notice when the blur begins. Not until it’s too late, and the only thing louder than your blood in your ears and the pounding of the Silver against your heart and ribs is the Darkness. Tearing from the Silver and reaching out, an instinct engraved deep onto your nerves that something is wrong, there’s a danger and it’s coming and Dean-

The first one arrives before you can screech and choke a warning in Dean’s ear. All you’re doing is blinking in a frantic, rapid double-pattern, but he’s looking ahead at the hall and can’t see you anymore that he can see the demon. Almost materializing out of the blood-red shadows, raising a knife from Dean’s back and grinning at you like it knows, like it can see what’s making you fall apart and it’s reveling in it. 

The blur slams into you full force, and before you can think you’re scraping out of Dean’s hold, shoving him away just as the venomous, raging and violent shape of green crashes into him. 

It’s close, but the demon misses. Just barely. It stumbles forwards but recovers fast, and you’re still too much and not enough, feeling all the demons fury and the frantic pulse of the alarms and the ache of the creaking floor under your feet. 

Dean shouts your name, and you hear it over the blur, but you can’t move. You’ve pressed yourself up to the wall as the Darkness starts to rip out of your control, you weren’t ever supposed to stop moving but you’re frozen. Everything hurts. Dean is roaring for you but you’ve already lost him and you’re horrible anyway, you never could’ve kept him, but it just fucking hurts-

He’s fighting. You can hear gunshots echoing in what sounds like the distance, but is barely a few feet away, see through the blur that Dean is swinging punches and slamming the rioting green into walls. They’re attacking him. Not you. None of them are even sparing you a glance, they’re all focused on Dean, and you can’t lose him. You need to get to him but you can’t move. You’re going to lose him and you’re not you and he’s not yours but you can’t fucking lose him, and you’re caught in a loop but you don’t know how to pull yourself out without letting the Darkness over take you, and if you do you’ll hurt Dean, and you can’t hurt Dean, not like this, not with the cancerous pain that always infected him but never made him leave for good, but you’re going to lose him for good and you can’t lose him and he’s gone but he’s right there and you can’t fucking breathe, can’t lose Dean, can’t hurt him, can’t move-

The blur freezes. For one quick second everything is captured stasis, and you can see everything so clearly it feels fake. 

Three wrathful shapes of green, backing Dean into a corner as he swings a vase he must have grabbed from one of the pedestals in the hall, his face set in determination but something flashing in his eyes that you recognize. 

A crack in the armor.

Fear. 

But it’s not aimed inward. It’s not caving into and crushing the Gold, not a knowledge that he’s surrounded, the vase isn’t useful against the demons, and his gun is lost down the darkened hall. It’s fear that’s screaming and reaching to get to you, sunken back down to the floor and choking yourself with a firm hand.

He’s not looking at the demon that has its knife raised, aimed right for his chest. 

He’s looking at you.

And when everything rushes back, it moves to fast. You’re not breathing enough, so you can’t scream. You’re frozen, so you can’t move.

The demon’s blade sinks into Dean, just a little to the right of his heart, and you don’t care that you’re not you anymore. You don’t need to be you for this. 

The Darkness is let out with your will. You urge it on, letting it turn you into more than just a panicking girl in a corner.

You don’t really know what you are. You don’t really care.

All that matters in the weak noise of pain that left Dean when he fell to the ground, and the fact that you want something to suffer for it. 

You’re more than the Darkness this time, though. The White is just as savage, and violent, and righteous. You’re something that makes the Green balk. Cower. Fucking retreat.

They don’t get three steps away before they’re nothing. Not killed. Not exorcized. Eliminated. Crushed and folded and turned into just another part of the sheer power you can feeling, rushing through the world and bigger than anything. It’s a part of you. It’s too much and you don’t care, because it more than you should be able to handle, but you’re not overwhelmed. It feels right. Whatever you’re meant to be, it’s this. Silver and vast and furious and- 

The spiderweb in your body pulses weakly, and something smaller and concentrated makes a noise that sounds like your name. It sounds important. It’s golden and barely a spot on everything you can see, but it’s the only thing stronger than you are and you’re looking through everything for it—even as something pure and White tugs your further into whatever you’re turning into—because you need it, more than anything you need whatever is calling you-

The noise repeats, and the spiderweb is white-hot with pain, and you see him.

Dean. 

Everything falls back into you. And it’s loud—alarms blaring and people shooting from somewhere in the distance—but it’s just you and Dean in the whole world. You fall to your knees at his side because there’s never anywhere else to be, and you don’t know if you’re choking on the darkness, or the air, or your own heartbeat when you see the blood over his chest.

He’s supposed to have time. You’d seen it, on the mark, that he had time. Not enough time, but time. You still need to scream at him for being an idiot, and you need to pretend you hate him for doing this to you when it really just hurts, and you need more time- 

He’s making strained sounds that still sound too much like your name, but he’s so pale, and his eyes are barely open, and when your hand finds his brow he’s already cold.

And the Darkness is still bubbling at the surface. And you might hurt him but he’s always half-gone, and you won’t lose him. Not like this. 

“Dean,” you whisper, and you think you can feel your heart cleaving in half at the moan that escapes his lips. “I- I’m sorry. I didn’t- You’re- If this hurts, I’m so sorry. Just don’t leave. Please don’t go- I- Here-“ You grab his hand, and his fingers through your like it’s an instinct, but his grip isn’t as tight as it’s been before. “Don’t go. You’re not allowed to go, so fucking don’t. And I-“ You take a shaking breath, and you’re choking on the pain. The Darkness rotting and molding around your lungs, trying to claw out and fix this. 

You’ll let it. Just this once, to keep him, you’ll let it. 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, and you know he doesn’t hear you. He doesn’t even move. “I’m sorry, Dean. But I won’t- I won’t.” Another stronger breath. No other way. 

You just need more time.

Your head bows to his chest, you press your brow to his shoulder, take a ragged breath that’s just to keep yourself together, and you let go. The Darkness falls out of you, right into Dean. Not just a drop. All of it.

It’s not painful. It takes you a second to realizes, but there’s no pain at all. 

And it’s not the Darkness, it’s the Silver. Flowing out of you like a breath and rushing through the Gold—driven on by the spiderweb and moving a little deeper into Dean’s body than you’ve ever known existed—as the stench of metal fades. 

When you lift your head back up, Dean’s eyes are fully closed, but his wound is gone, his breath is even, and his heartbeat is steady under your hands. 

But there’s something new. You blink at him, looking so peaceful—his face relaxed and full of color like nothing ever happened at all—and right next to that brand, there’s something that hadn’t been there before. 

It grooved and running over him like little cracks of iridescent color. Glowing and pulsing and rushing through his whole body, and they don’t look wrong but there something deep, deep under them. Shifting and humming and-

Silver.

You marked him. More than just one small spot, more than just condemnation. There’s Silver in the Gold because you’d lost control and marked him, and it doesn’t seem to be painful but you never should’ve fucking lost yourself, you should’ve found another way, should’ve tried harder to only let less of the Silver out, should’ve just called-

Sam shouts your name, and you hear him barreling down the hallway behind you. Dean shifts a little against you, leaning closer to your body, and you don’t know what to do. 

The knife is discarded on the floor, the hilt pressed right against your shin. 

All you can work out is that Sam can’t touch it. You remove your own knife from against your thigh—keeping one hand tangled in Dean’s—and replace it with the new, dangerous one, right as Sam stops at your side.

This is going to be hard. And complicated. And painful.

But you don’t know what to do. 

So you’re glad Sam is here.

“What the hell happened?” He breathes, and you take a deep breath, brushing your hand over Dean’s brow. 

He’s warm again, and something loosens in your chest. 

“We got jumped,” your voice is soft, but you’re afraid that you’ll wake Dean, and he needs rest. “The Assassins. But they went for Dean, and he got hurt.”

Sam drops to your side in a fraction of a second, and you don’t need to look at him to know he’s panicking. “Fuck- Where’d they-“

“He’s fine.” You mumble. “I fixed him.”

“You-“ You can feel Sam’s gaze on you as he says your name. You don’t really care. You don’t want to look away from Dean. “What did you do.”

“I fixed him.” You repeat, and Sam sighs.

“You didn’t use the-“

“I did.”

“And the demons-“

“I destroyed them.” You don’t like how passive you sound about it, but they hurt Dean. He’s the world, and they hurt him, and no guilt festers in your gut.

You hope it hurt. You hope that they didn’t end up wherever dead demons go. You hope that they spend the rest of eternity sufferings as a million disbanded particles, feeling the pain of everything the same was you always have.

Sam repeats your name, and there’s a caution in his voice that he’s not very good at hiding. “I thought you said you weren’t going to use it-“

“I know.” You shrug, finally tearing your attention for Dean’s pretty, consuming face and meeting Sam’s eyes. “And I don’t care.”

“Look, I-“ Sam glances down at Dean, running a hand over his face with a shake of his head. “I know you care about him, a lot. Like, so much I don’t really understand it, but-“

“Sam.” You say, keeping your voice so neutral it rots on your tongue, because this is going to kill you, but you can’t let it. Not when you still have time. “When is it going to happen?”

He blinks at you, his expression faltering slightly. “When-“

“When is his time up.” You whisper. “When are they coming for him.” and Sam flinches, but doesn’t deny it. You’d prayed you were wrong. 

You’re not that lucky. 

“I- did he tell you-“

You shake your head, and every movement is too much. “I saw it. When.”

Sam just stares at you, and you swallow. 

“Please, Sam.” You’re begging. There’s nothing else to do. “I- I need to know. Please.”

“Three months.” He mutters, and he won’t meet your gaze. “We- We should go. We can’t stay here, and this is-“ He sighs, shooting Dean’s sleeping body a glower. “This isn’t the place to do this.”

You nod, everything in you feeling a little numb, and help Sam haul Dean up between your body, shuffling him out a back door to the Impala.

Sam could’ve carried him. Dean’s not small, but Sam’s bigger and stronger, and it might have been faster to just toss Dean into Sam’s arms. 

But you think Sam knows now isn’t the time to pull Dean from your side. Not as your head continues to spin around three months. Dean has three months.

You can’t lose him.

But he only has three months.

You’ve never been so purely numb like this. There’s still the pain—increased tenfold and almost knocking you to your knees as the Darkness shreds itself apart—but everything else is numb. Not numb like nothing. Numb like too much. Numb like the spaces between the stars, filled with something but too big for it to be identifiable. The world suddenly too much in a way you’ve never experienced before, where it’s vast and cold and lonely like a pit left in your chest by something you’d never know was removable in the first place.

It’s numb like grief.

But Dean isn’t gone yet. He has time. You’d marked him in a way you know you’ll never forgive yourself for, and you’re almost strangling the Darkness to keep yourself upright—with nails and bitten lips and held breaths, by fucking force because there’s no other way—but you’d bought Dean more time.

And he’s here. He’s still here. Just for now Dean is slumped into your side on the Impala’s back bench, his head pressed into your stomach as he holds you like you’re a buoy in an invisible storm, breathing heavily but still breathing. 

You can hear him breathing. You can feel him holding you. You can run your fingers through his hair and feel him almost relax from the movement, and you can see every shadow of the road dance over his handsome face. You don’t need to grieve him now because he’s here, and he has time. 

You have time.

“I got the blade.” You mumble, tracing over the line of Dean’s cheekbones. “It’s in my- fuck-“ Your breath catches in your throat, and you look up to Sam as panic start to seize over your chest. “Sam, my knife-“

“I grabbed it.” He mutters. “It’s in my jacket. I know it’s important to you. It’s- Dean got it for you.”

You nod, hoping Sam can feel your gratitude, because you don’t know what to do. To say or figure out, and you’re stuck in loud noise and too much color like a broken TV, and you’d talk to Sam but you really can’t look at him, because he’s still one shade wrong, and you don’t know what to do-

“How’d you work it out?” Sam asks, his voice barely audible over the engine, and you swallow.

“I told you, I saw it. It was like a- sort of- I-“ You take a shaking breath, shaking your head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Please.”

Sam grunts, and time stretches so slow. You don’t speak again until you’re parked back at the motel, until Dean’s hauled back into bed—your bed, the bed you share, if you lose him you’ll have to learn to sleep again without Dean, and you don’t think you ever really knew how—and Sam drops in a chair, running a hand over his face with a long breath.

“I wanted to tell you.” He mutters, and you look up from the dresser with a frown. 

“What?”

“I swear,” he says your name, and there’s something in his voice that so desperate you can’t look away. “I told him, over and over again that he needed to tell you, but he- It’s Dean and he, I think he was worried you- Shit, he thought you’d leave-“

“I know.” You pull out the new blade from your thigh, turning it over in your hands. The words are still shifting, they still read the exact same, and the Darkness wants it almost as much as the White and the spiderweb are screaming for you to return to Dean’s side. “I have a theory about something. I’ll need to run it past Jo and Bobby, but I think I’m right.”

Dean would laugh and say you always think you’re right.

Sam just blinks at you. “A-“

“Theory.” You shrug, grabbing a spare, dirty shirt from the top of the dresser. “I’ve told you about all the colors, like with the arrowhead-“

“Yeah, but-“

“I think I worked out what they are. It- It really makes a lot of sense, and I don’t know how we’d confirm it, but-“

Sam says your name, his voice firm as you wrap the Blade in the shirt. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Because.” You whisper. “I- I need to.”

“But now that you know, you can help us-“

“I don’t know how, Sam.” You flinch at your own tone, and you have to brace a hand on the dress to keep yourself from the ground. “I- I can’t fix this, I’ll make it worse, I’ll make Dean worse-“

Sam mutters something, and you can’t hear him over your own short breaths or the ringing into your ears.

“I hurt him, Sam. I’m going to hurt him and I don’t know what to do- I don’t know what to do-“

You can’t breathe. Sam moves like he’s going to try to help you, but he’s too slow and too hesitant and you stumble back with a strangled, weak sound.

“I can’t- Please- I don’t- I can’t-“

You’re pressed back into the wall when Sam reaches you, and you’re too tired to fight. Too frozen to claw and scream, only able to take uneven breaths and sob into Sam’s shirt as it sinks further into you.

You’d hurt him, and you needed him like he could never need you, but you were going to lose him. Forever. No coming back, no spell or ritual or scream of his name to the sky bringing him back to your side. You marred Dean with the Silver, you’re going to lose him, and he didn’t trust you-

That one’s new. Dean didn’t trust you, and the broken sound you make is almost inhuman. Sam knew. Bobby probably knew. And Dean didn’t want you to know. 

He thought you’d leave. He didn’t trust you enough to know you couldn’t drag yourself away from him—not permanently, not in a way that razed every piece of your body more that it hurt him—if you tried. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You whisper, leaning a little further into Sam’s hold. “I- If we talk about it, it’s real. Please.”

Sam sighs your name, and when he pulls back his expression on yours unreadable, but he nods all the same. “You need to promise you’ll talk about it with him. For my sanity. Please.”

“I will.”

You’re not lying.

You will. You need to.

Because you kick your dress of like it’s poison on your skin, and take a burning shower until your skin is raw, and scrub your body with sugar until everything stings, and the Darkness is totally under your control, but there’s a thin layer of grime over your organs that’s made of Dean. 

Dean didn’t trust you. He wants you enough to keep you around, but he didn’t trust you. He thought you’d leave. He obviously can’t feel he pull—if he did, he know truly leaving is impossible—and that should remind you that you can never really have him, but it just hurts. 

It worms and whines over your heart, and it hurts. More than just pain in your body, pain in something deeper, a little to the right of your heart and bursting will dulled colors because this hurts. 

Dean’s right not to trust you. You wouldn’t trust you. You still haven’t told him about how wrong you are, but that knowledge doesn’t help. Knowing never helps. 

It just makes this hurt more. 

And you should get through this. You’ve always gotten through it. 

But you can’t say that with certainty. This is too much, and you don’t know what to do. 

You’ve always known what to do. And sometimes it was pain and isolation and suffering but it was something. And you’d known Dean was fine. Safer, even, without you there.

But you hadn’t been there, and you’d lost him without knowing it. If you’d been there you might have stopped it. You don’t know what it is, but you could’ve found another way because there’s always another way. You’ve always gotten through it, and you’ve always found another way, and you’re caught in the loop again, but you don’t know what to do-

You don’t know how you end up there—the world blurring in and out as you shuffle around, trying to find something that can keep you busy—but you’re lying flat on the bed, right at Dean’s side. Staring up at the ceiling and caught in the loop with no sign of breaking out. 

Sam said he was going out for a drink, and to call him if you need anything.

He just doesn’t want to be here when Dean wakes up. 

When you hear a throat clear, and a low groan escape his lips, and turn your head to find him already watching you. Looking right through your neutral expression with a small frown, shattering whatever composure you’d had in a just a second, just by existing.

Dean opens his mouth to say something. 

He doesn’t get the chance. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

He blinks at you, frown deepening as he scans over your face. “I- uh-“

“The demon deal.” You whisper. “I know, Dean. I- Why?”

You don’t know what you’d expected him to do. Fight. Deny. Lie and spin his way around it. 

But he just… caves.

“Sammy tell you?” He mutters, and you’ve never heard him sound more hollow. No charm lining his tone, no fury laced through his every word. Just heavy exhaustion. “I told him not to tell you.”

“Why.” You repeat, pushing up on your palms to stare down at him. “Why, Dean, why didn’t you want him to tell me- I-“

“You didn’t need to know-“

“You don’t get to make that choice for me!” You half scream, and he doesn’t even flinch. “I- I don’t know why, Dean, I just need to know why-“

“You didn’t need to know. It’s not like you’re the one that’s dying, Princess.” He snaps, but there’s still no fight in it. You wish he would fight. 

Because you want to scream at him. You need to tell him that you’re furious because you are the one that’s dying. Some part of you that you’ve never understood is going to fucking die because Dean’s- 

You can’t say it. You can only be caught on repeat, curling into yourself as you shake your head over and over, repeating the only thing you can think of.

“Why-“

“Why what?” He grunts, and it’s still not angry enough. “Why’d I do something so stupid? Why’d I sacrifice everything for the one person I got left? Mom’s been gone, Dad was gone, you left-“ He pauses, blinking at you with a small shake of his head. “I- It was just Sam, he can live a life-“

“You can live a life!” You protest, digging your nail into your skin to keep yourself from reaching for him, and he scoffs.

“Yeah, okay-“

“I mean it-“

“I know you do.” He mutters. “But that’s not how this shit works-“

“I don’t care! I don’t care how anything works, I don’t care why you did it, I care that you didn’t fucking tell me-“

“Why, you gonna save me, Princess? Gonna work one of your best hunter tricks and pull one over on Lilith for my soul?” He raises his brows at you, and blink.

The Darkness is riot in your body, but caged all the same, and the Blade is over on the dresser, but you can see Dean. Right into him. Past the skin and bone and tissue, right into him. 

He’s vulnerable. There’s something that’s deep, deep in his eyes that you’ve never seen in full light before, but something is shifting and it’s like a floodlight has pushed right through it. As if all the stars concentrated into one thing and aimed to the ocean, looking right down into its trenches and pits and seeing every bit of life hidden under. 

There’s so much color. It’s luminescent and strange and lonely, but there’s so much. It’s beautiful. Dean’s beautiful. Even when you want to fucking murder him, he’s beautiful.

He’s waiting for you to leave. You can see it. How he’s tensed to build up some barricade to prevent a flood of burning gold. How those cracks you’d left on him are already festering, preparing for your departure. 

And that’s something you can do.

You can prove him fucking wrong, and keep him, and save him. 

He’d said it like it was a joke.

You mean every single word that spits out of your mouth.

“You’re not going to die.” 

He grunts, still just staring at the ceiling, and you lean over to eclipsed the ceiling light. He needs to see you.

“I’m not fucking leaving.” You hiss, and he stares at you with a slightly parted mouth. He’s Golden. He’d have to toss you away with his bare fucking hands and bullets, and even then, you’d still crawl back. 

Dean says your name slowly, and you shake your head.

“Partners, Winchester.” You snap. “Safer together, remember? You’re not dying on my watch, so suck it the fuck up.”

Something strange flashes in his eyes, and his voice slightly hoarse. “You should go. Now. Before Sammy gets back.”

“No.”

“It’s your best shot-“

“I don’t fucking care. You’re fucking stuck with me, asshole, and we’re getting you out of this if it kills all fucking three of us. Got it?”

He scans over your face, then down your body, and you don’t understand the expression on his face at all. 

“No.” He mutters, his gaze stealing slightly as it meets yours, and there it is. The fucking fight. “You’re not dying, Princess.���

“You’re not the boss of me-“

“Yeah, I got that, but if you die, and I’m dragging you to hell with me. Swear you won’t die.”

He raises his pinky, and you blink. He looks like he wants to kill you. 

He’s making you pinky promise.

You raise your own slowly, but narrow your eyes and yank it back at the last second.

“Anything else you need to tell me, Winchester?”

“Nah.” He shrugs. “Deal’s kind of a limit one per customer thing.”

He’s smirking. You don’t laugh.

“We’re doing this my way.” You snap. “Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You keep something like that from me again, I’m killing you myself.”

“Got it. You gonna just keep making demands about my death-“

You hook your pinky through his, and shake it firmly.

“Stop calling it your death.” You snap, leaning back to lie at his side. Keeping your pinky hooked. “You’re going to be fine, you fucking idiot.”

He chuckles. “Bossy.”

You roll your eyes, and decide to strangle him later. After this is done, you’ll shout at him all you want. 

But you have three months, and it’s not enough time, but you’ll make it enough time. The only thing you won’t do is use the Darkness—you won’t hurt him further, and he still doesn’t know, and that’s too fucking dangerous and complicated to touch—but you won’t need it.

You only need Dean. And he’s not allowed to die. 

So you’re not going to fucking let him.

End Note: That might have been the most Babylon chapter I've Babyloned yet.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[cod-dump]

*paws at* bruv need more GazKönig, please, I will give you two potato, no three potato

Letters

GazKönig

___

If he pointed it out to Gaz that he noticed the box while laying on the floor, it'll be moved if it truly was anything worth hiding. So he kept quiet, laughing as Gaz lightly kicked his side for laughing in the middle of the floor.

Soap snoops, it's his thing really. He's nosy, too curious for his own good. Finding a secret box hidden under Gaz's bed, pressed all the way back against the wall? Well hidden behind shoes, boxes of personal items. Soap wouldn't have noticed if it sat with the rest, but so far away? Oh he wanted to look.

They were friends, Gaz knows what Soap gets into. And despite what people thought he was damn good at keeping secrets. He's Ghost's walking diary by this point and Gaz hasn't gotten a word out of him. And no one has gotten anything about Gaz out of him. So why not add a few more secrets to the arsenal? It couldn't hurt!

So, Soap waited.

Gaz eventually having to tend to his duties and Soap using Ghost's soft spot as an opportunity to snoop. He grinned, teased Ghost a moment knowing he was in a good mood, and left to slack on his duties just for a minute or two. Really, it shouldn't take that long.

The biggest challenge was reaching the box. Moving stuff out of the way and squeezing under the bed to grab it. And, of course, banging his head on the frame while wiggling out. The works.

"Stupid fucking bed-," It's the bed's fault.

Soap got over the ache and looked to the cheap shoe box now sitting in front of him. It looked like someone threw it away before fishing it back out to reuse it. Crumpled in some points before being smoothed back out. Whatever was in it needed to be hid and Gaz clearly hadn't intended on it.

Oh this was already good.

"Oh Kyle, my sweet Kyle, what secrets do you have for me today?"

A cliché comedy would've had Gaz walking by the door in that moment, overhearing Soap's unneeded spoken dialogue before bursting in to stop him. But, that didn't happen. Soap was able to open the lid, uninterrupted, and he found-

"Letters? Oh! Love letters!"

Soap couldn't help but cackle. Gaz is seeing someone? And he never told Soap? He felt the need to be hurt and upset that his friend would keep something like that from him... he will after reading a singular letter. The oldest one in the box, dated only last year. A recent thing?

Soap carefully unfolds the letter, it wasn't even in a envelope but rather folded up like those fancy letters in period movies. Except the handwriting wasn't as fancy. Soap reads the first line, grinning madly.

"I'm surprised to be writing this but I greatly enjoyed our time together."

The handwriting certainly wasn't anything special. Not horrible, Soap's was worse. But it was... familiar? Soap has seen this handwriting before but not recently. He vaguely could remember seeing it somewhere. It was work related definitely. Was Gaz seeing someone in the SAS? Why keep that a secret?

Soap read more, finding the letter lacking anything juicy other than the mysterious sender expressing their enjoyment of Gaz's couple, the feelings of the night they spent together (nothing indicated they slept together much to Soap's disappointment), the food they had, the usual boring stuff of first dates. The next line got his attention right as he was starting to lose interest.

"I was surprised you approached after you learned who I was considering we're not always friendly."

Gaz could be flirty, people tend to overlook that considering he's not as bold as Soap. Him approaching anyone wasn't the shock, but the fact that this person was surprised he did? Is he seeing an operator?

Suddenly that one letter turned into twelve, that twelve turing into thirty.

Soap searched and searched for a name but none popped up. Who was Gaz seeing?All that Soap gathered from the letters? Gaz was seeing a man, most likely an operator of a PMC (a high ranking one at that), and English wasn't his first language... which basically gave Soap shit. But, there was one more letter remaining.

The lastest letter (last fucking week) was plain out horny in response to whatever Gaz sent. Soap almost couldn't read it all considering they were talking about Gaz, his friend. But the letter gave him something, a start in his heart resembling hope. A small crown doodled at the bottom, the letter 'K' boldly drawn over it with dumb little hearts around it.

Gaz doodled it, thinking about the sender of the unsigned letters. His mistake because Soap could feel the gears turning.

"No fucking way in hell-"

Of course at that moment is when Gaz barged in. Ghost had to have said something considering his eyes were on fire. He saw the box of letters opened and Soap holding the one he doodled on. He was mortified and Soap barely had any time to react before he lunged forward. The box was snatched rather gracefully before Soap was shoved to the floor, the letter in his hands grabbed while he was stunned.

Soap just stared at Gaz as the man tried to find the words to yell at him for invading his privacy. Words went in one ear and out the other. He just couldn't comprehend Gaz of all people sleeping with someone in an opposing PMC who are only friends when they're being paid to be.

"You're shagging a merc!"

Gaz's face was on fire, "At least he's not our superior officer."

Soap gasped, "You fucking did not just say that!"

Gaz's face was still red as he stuffed the letters back in the box, holding it protectively against his chest. Soap waved his hand at it, struggling a moment to find the words to express his genuine shock over what he had read.

"You've been seeing someone over a year and you never told me anything!?"

"It wasn't an option! You would've asked too many questions!"

"Who the fuck is it!? Do I know them? Who are they working for?"

"TOO MANY QUESTIONS!"

Soap stood up, Gaz turning his body to shield the box. He was honestly starting to look panicked by it all. So Soap stepped back and held his hands up.

"I... am sorry. I shouldn't have snooped."

Gaz glared but said nothing. Soap stepped around him, Gaz turning to keep facing him. With the door to his back, Soap continued.

"Let's take a breather. This is definitely being revisited later, privately. For now... I have drills."

Soap delayed a moment, waiting to see what Gaz would do. He did nothing, just glared while clutching his box. So Soap left, rather quickly. Darting down the hall just in case Gaz decided to chase him down and beat his ass for this serious transgression.

But Soap won't say a word. He'll let Gaz come clean about it all, hopefully before the secret identity of his lover came to light in other ways.

Soap really hopes it's not who he thinks it is.

___

[lxvebun]

Another sleepy drabble. Ideas just come to me when I am eepy it seems.

Content: Simon "Ghost" Riley x gender neutral reader. Fluff..crack perhaps. Offputting strange simon representation🫶 he's still a sweetheart dw!!. Not proofread! Lmk if there are any annoying mistakes!♡

Dating Simon, you're going to have to get used to some of his... peculiar tendencies.

First off, Simon has a bit of a staring problem.

He doesn’t do it on purpose, and he could make up a dozen excuses for why he does it—Natural selection of the mind, making sure you’re safe, keeping an eye on you—but it really just boils down to the fact that he likes looking at you. You’re his sweetheart, his precious angel and looking at you while you do your own thing, draped in comfy clothes most likely stolen from his closet, humming a song thats stuck in your head creates this sickeningly sweet, lovesick feeling that curls around his heart and makes it beat just a little warmer and makes him feel just little safer

His expression is always loving, eyes soft and brimming with adoration when you meet his gaze, but the problem is, you constantly feel like you're being watched. The slightest shift in movement from where you're sitting on the other side of the couch draws his eyes from the TV to you. Every time you get up to go to the kitchen, bedroom, bathroom—whatever—his eyes snap towards you in an instant. And Simon's gaze is heavy, loving, but heavy and it's even worse when you can feel his eyes on you, but you don't know where he is. Which brings us to the second "problem" the constant battle of trying to convince your body while it's in its flight or fight mode that no, that’s not some sort of wild predator lurking in the shadows and stalking out it's prey. It’s just your boyfie and his unsettling ability to blend in with his surroundings🫶

You quickly realize why they call him Ghost.

For such a big guy, Simon moves incredibly quietly. His footsteps are nearly nonexistent, the only sound being the occasional creak of the floorboards as he moves through the house or a sudden thud from around the corner.

(You're honestly convinced that if you put Simon in an old empty house it now qualifies as "haunted")

He’s quiet, and he has this tendency to loom—always hovering just on the edge of your awareness. A shadow in the corner of your eye. His movements are so subtle, they feel like the softest ripple across a pond, barely enough to disturb the surface.

It doesn't necessarily scare you, you know it's just Simon but there are certain times when he does this that do give you a bit of a jumpscare.

It happens most often at night, in the bathroom when you're gently easing yourself into your night routine, movements slow and laced with sleep as you wash your face. you know he's there, you know he's near, but still, suddenly seeing his reflection in the mirror, standing behind you as if he just appeared from the shadows- your heart jumps into your throat.

“Simon…” you whine, hand splayed across your chest to calm the rapid beating of your heart "You scared me."

"Sorry, love," he rumbles, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "Force of habit."

Sometimes you wonder if you'll ever fully get used to it. Then again, you don't really mind it. Even if this comes across as strange to some, you like having someone who looks at you like you're the center of his universe—even if that means constantly feeling his eyes on you, following your every movement. And maybe, one day, you’ll stop jumping out of your skin every time he appears out of nowhere. But until then, you'll just keep telling yourself that yeah, he can be a little odd but it's Simon, your Simon and you wouldn't change a thing about him.

[traumawhomst]

Mer Dad

Mer Dad with Mer Reader

Life had not been, well, the kindest to you thus far. You’d been the only one hatched from your clutch, and a single hatching was almost always a bad omen. You’d be lucky that the Matriarch at the time didn’t believe it and you were accepted into your pod. Maybe things would have been better if that Matriarch didn’t die a few short years after your hatching, you weren’t fully grown when the new Matriarch ordered that you were old enough to hunt for yourself, not even bothering to hide her disdain for you. You were the reason the last Matriarch died.

Your last few years of growing were filled with hunger and loneliness. It left you as always the skinniest in the group, your bones poking out and always cold. No one bothered to teach you to hunt, and well, even with years of practice you still weren’t amazing. But you couldn’t practice as much as you like, the others in the pod quickly running you off ‘their’ hunting grounds, the best spots to catch anything. You’d had more than your fair share of nights unable to sleep with an empty belly because you couldn’t catch enough.

After a particular bad set of months were you couldn’t to manage to even pick up your usual meager offerings the Matriarch snapped and drove you off. The rest quickly joined in, chasing you swiping if you dared to even attempt to slow or hide until you were far away from the place you’d spent your whole life. You found a small cave just big enough to hide in you quietly purred trying to give yourself some sense of comfort as even the terrible life you had lead seemed better than this.

You spent longer in the cave than you would have liked to admit nursing your wounds and wondering what it might be like to never leave your cave. But hunger poked at you and the shine of fish scales pulled you out.

It was odd, being able to just eat whatever you caught, you’d only ever been allowed some of what you caught, if any at all. It was odd not to have someone else place judgement. If you wanted to eat you just hunted, it was oddly nerve-wracking and exciting at the same time. You half expected your pod to show up and judge you for daring to waste so much food on yourself. You still weren’t eating as much as you could, the injuries from being driven away ached and were slow to heal, most likely because of the stress before even receiving them. Your body was always slow to heal.

You began to venture further from your little cave trying to take on bigger prey. You’d gone decently far one day, when you found a mostly eaten fish carcass on the ocean floor. The fish was almost your size and as you examined it closer studying the way the meat had been taken off the bone, you realized it couldn’t been some other ocean animal, no this was the work of a mer, a very strong one. A low booming noise cracked through the water, and it spooked you so bad you dashed off as fast as you could. Your panic didn’t abate until you’d spent hours in your in your cave and nothing had come after you. You panicked like a hatchling over nothing.

Then you starting finding injured fish just outside of your little cave. The first one you assumed was uncharacteristic streak of luck. It was bigger than anything you’d ever caught, about the length of your arm. You gleefully ripped it to shreds forcing yourself to finish it even though it’d be more food you’d ever had. You were sure when you curled up in your cave you’d wake up and it was all a dream. But then it happened a few days after, and then again, and again after that. This was on purpose.

Was there a Mer that just liked to injury fish, for the fun of it? Even in your pod that was seen as unnecessarily cruel. Maybe it was even worse than that, maybe this was a warning, what could happen to you if you angered them. Maybe this was their hunting grounds and they were trying to tell you to leave. No matter what it was nothing good you were sure. You had to leave, you had to get away from this other Mer.

The Mer in question was wondering why you had decided to spend your next rest in an entirely new cave, miles away from your usually spot. You’d never done that before in his weeks of watching you. He’d seen you alone and half healed staring at the carcass and tried to speak with you. But he was roughly three times your size and a completely different subtype of Mer, which he didn’t think about when he vocalized to you. He watched you dash off and assumed you were heading back to your pod and he followed you wanting to apologize to your Matriarch for scaring you. His pod migrated and their usual hunting grounds were far enough away that they didn’t bump into stationary pods. He soon realized as he watched you dive for your cramped little cave that you were alone. He sat for hours out of sight as you hide, waiting to hear any other Mer, for someone to come and check on you.

It explained why you were so small, and the half healing injuries that you had. He knew that some types of Mer did cast out their runty hatchlings and it certainly looked like it had happened to you. He knew he should probably leave well enough alone, knew that you probably wouldn’t want his help if he offered it. But he couldn’t just leave you after scaring you. So he caught a fish injuring it to make it easy for you to catch and waited.

He told himself that after you ate it he’d leave. But the delight on your face when you saw it, the glee as you tore it apart, the high happy chirps as you ate. It was the cutest thing he’d seen in such a long time. He found himself judging your past pod, couldn’t they see what a sweet thing you were? He came back a few days later just to watch it again. By the third time he couldn’t deny he was attached. He’d already told his pod about you, and they were trying to get him to bring you with him. But he’d already seen how you reacted to him simply trying to speak to you, so he planned on slowly gaining your trust.

And then you decided to swim so far that you were about to run into a completely different pod’s territory. A pod that he knew wouldn’t let even a strange Mer into near their pod.

You thought you were about to die. You were swimming making progress when an arm the size of your body appeared in front of you and pulled you into the larger Mer. You panicked screeching and clawing at the arm. You’d never even seen another type of Mer before and this one was keeping you trapped as it swam in the opposite direction It didn’t even care as you did your best to make them bleed, biting, it didn’t make a sound. If you had attacked a Mer in your pod they would have screeched back at you but to be met with only silence, it was more terrifying. It stopped swimming seemingly at random, and for a few moments just stared at you as you fought.

He was just trying to figure out how to communicate with you without scaring you further. If you had been one of his pod’s hatchlings he’d just have clicked at you to stop fussing but he had a feeling that would not have the intended affect. He needed you to calm down so he started purring. It was so loud that you felt it in your bone, and you covered your ears making high pitched short squeaks. He’d never thought of quieting it before, but he managed it lowering it until your hands fell away from your ears and you stopped squirming.

You felt his body relax not long after yours did, the purr a steady thrum against your entire body. When you felt a webbed hand pet your hair you snuck a peak at his face to be greeted with a warm relieved smile, you eventually feel asleep in his arms. He swam keeping you tucked close as he tried to imagine how his pod would react to you.

[spider-stark]

THIS THIS THIS

first of all: boy oh boy, i think i am in love with you. seriously, it already means so much to me that you even read my story, but to then take the time to actually keep thinking about it?! and to be kind enough to write out your thoughts aND SHARE THEM WITH ME? it makes every bump in the road while writing completely and entirely worth it.

second: yes. i thought a lot about Matt while writing this. while he's never physically in the piece, his presence is still everywhere. much like God, Matt has become something that lives under her skin, constantly testing the boundary between what is and what is perceived. we--as the viewers--see all the different sides of Matt. we're granted a unique understanding of his thoughts, his choices, his reasoning. but the reader doesn't have that. her viewpoint is limited. more than that, she is directly impacted by everything he does. and matt--as we all know--isn't exactly the easiest to be in a relationship with.

ultimately, my point in saying all that was that, when writing Same Sin, i worried how matt might come across, whether his lines were an accurate reflection of his character. i worried he came across harsh or insensitive. but then i realized that it is an accurate reflection of his character--specifically when being viewed through the lens of another character, especially one who feels like they've been wronged by him (as you said, by either intentionally or unintentionally projecting his own insecurities and self-righteousness onto her)

while Same Sin is a piece about Frank, i have to believe it says plenty about her relationship with Matt, too. aside from the obvious--that she's hurt, their relationship is broken (which, fun little note: ik this is most evident through lines about elektra and what not, but i personally felt her having his name saved as Matthew said a lot about the emotional distance between them. i like to think that, in the earlier days of their relationship, his contact was something like Matty or a pet name or whatever)--it also speaks to more positive qualities. yes, she called Frank and he immediately answered--but does it not say something that her knee-jerk reaction was to call Matt not once, not twice, but seven times? that when she realized someone was following her, she instinctively started towards Matt's place? no matter the state of their relationship, she clearly still trusts him, still views him as someone who will keep her safe.

and he fails. Frank saves the day. and as the one that wrote it, i applaud Frank for it! woohoo! i fully expect him and the reader to get a dog and live happily ever after. but what if things had been different? what if Matt had answered? and, even if the story stayed exactly the same, what about when he finds out about everything that happened?

this is where i think you're right, and i agree with you 100%. no matter the reader's perception of Matt, i don't think his response would have been what she feared. the snippets we're given of Matt are all out of context--they apply to what the reader is thinking, feeling, etc., but they're not being said in that moment, not a direct reflection of what he might actually say or do or think if he was physically there with her.

i have no doubt that if Matt had answered the phone, he would have just been glad she was alive. i don't think he would have turned the situation around to become about religion or guilt or shame. all he'd care about was that she was alive. maybe, in some reality, they might even use that moment to try and mend their broken relationship. maybe it'd work. maybe it wouldn't.

either way, you're right. i agree with you. and i love you for giving me an opportunity to ramble, and apologize that this is so long and all over the place (my brain is fried from schoolwork, organizing is not my strong suit in this state lol)

(what's worse is that I have way more that I could say, but am purposefully holding back since this is getting very, very long. but again: thank you thank you thank you. you're incredible.)

SAME SIN

pairing - frank castle x reader

summary - in your darkest hour, matt doesn't answer the phone. but frank does.

warnings - blood, death, violence, attempted robbery, religious trauma, possible infidelity, matt's lowkey kind of a bitch in this but that's ok, probably deviates from canon at times but fuck it we ball, MDNI 18+

word count - 3.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Blood wept from your fingertips, dripping onto the asphalt.

It had soaked through the man’s shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didn’t blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens. 

Sickness hit in a crushing wave. 

You doubled over, clutching your stomach as bile surged up your throat, burning over your tongue. The gagging continued long after there was nothing left, saliva dribbling from your bottom lip. 

Then there was stillness. 

Not the stillness of calm, or peace. But punishment. Sentencing. The solemn gaze of an all-forgiving Father as he stands before you, stone in-hand.

[To kill is a violation of Faith—] 

{—You or them?} 

The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet. 

Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand.

Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.

You found none. 

No pulse. No absolution. 

Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–

Rain. 

It was raining. 

Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands. 

You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call. 

Calls. 

In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense. 

Seven times you called the Devil. 

Seven times he didn’t answer. 

You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence. 

At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done. 

Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered. 

A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again. 

{In case you ever need it—} 

[—I don’t trust him.] 

What is trust? 

Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold. 

Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?” 

You almost laughed. 

No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate? 

“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant. 

In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered. 

Unless… 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

{—That what we are?} 

On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?” 

“An alley.” 

A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.” 

Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought. 

“Off West 51st,” you said. 

“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.” 

Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next. 

You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin. 

And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him. 

Only that you had. 

{You call, I come—} 

[—Frank Castle is a murderer.] 

Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands. 

So am I, you thought. So am I. 

Frank said your name. Once, twice. 

Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?” 

The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw. 

It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante. 

It was a soldier. 

After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.” 

Time dragged. 

Hell’s Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall. 

Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp. 

You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights. 

What if someone noticed? 

Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night. 

But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin… 

He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable. 

[To a judge? Or to God?—] 

God doesn’t matter. 

[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?] 

Why didn’t you answer? 

Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?” 

“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.” 

You did. 

Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse. 

When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.” 

Cool and calculating—two descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest. 

You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior. 

“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?” 

A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob. 

“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.” 

There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction. 

Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” 

Another weak laugh faded into quiet. 

Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?” 

Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them. 

[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—] 

Even secret sins are exposed in His light. 

{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?} 

By believing in it. 

Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists. 

“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?” 

You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out. 

Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired. 

Existence had become an arduous task. 

“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?” 

You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s. 

You didn’t want to feel alone. 

As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?” 

The world was ending. 

And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things. 

[What do you see in him?—] 

{—Let me take care of all this.} 

You nodded. 

Frank’s apartment was bleak. 

One room total—unless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom. 

He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay. 

Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t. 

It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe. 

Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank? 

That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar. 

Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.” 

Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?” 

You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts. 

“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird. 

He’d need a flock. 

Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle. 

Still, the warmth lingered. 

“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.” 

You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at. 

“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer. 

Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl. 

You pretended not to hear him anyway. 

After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began. 

Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend. 

You knew better now. 

You should’ve picked the dog. 

Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, “You’re fucking up my couch.” 

You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended. 

“So you gotta make it worse?” 

You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is. 

“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?” 

“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.” 

It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair. 

Frank deserved better than that. 

[Have you forgotten?—] 

[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder] 

[—Why are you so attached to this case?] 

With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.” 

Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. 

“Guess so.” 

Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his. 

The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions. 

His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined. 

Not that you ever had imagined it. 

As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails. 

Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other. 

Only then did you confess. 

“He had a knife.” 

Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening. 

“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.” 

An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–” 

He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you. 

But that had been a stupid, childish thought. 

“I figured I could lose,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–” 

Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe. 

“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–” 

Frank cut you off. “How do you know?” 

Your brows furrowed in answer. 

His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.” 

“I don’t, but–” 

“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?” 

{You or them?—}

Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!” 

[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.] 

Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued. 

“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.” 

Religion, you’ve learned, is a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter. 

Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further. 

Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot. 

“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.” 

This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched. 

“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact. 

“I did–” 

He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a no nonsense Marine.  

“No. I did.” 

You blinked at him. 

“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.” 

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him. 

“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.” 

[You care about him—]

[—Don’t you?] 

Do you care about her? 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

… 

[—Can you say the same about Frank?] 

You studied the man before you. 

Frank Castle. The Punisher. 

The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget. 

A number not saved, but remembered. 

No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t. 

Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you. 

“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you. 

“You know,” you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.” 

Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?” 

You nodded, and he chuckled. 

“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.” 

You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text. 

Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK? 

Your thumb hovered over the message. 

In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected. 

Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path. 

You cleared Matt’s message. 

Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?” 

“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank. 

You shook your head. “Is it good?” 

Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.” 

A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.” 

He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.” 

You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"

Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Maybe a dog.”

a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3

[wellamarke]

11 across: Give one’s word, pledge (7)

for @cabinpressurechallenge Carolyn Month of May 2022 because time is fake and nothing is real except my feelings about these characters ok <3

Also on AO3

“Do you promise?”

Carolyn looks up from her accounts book, having already assumed Arthur had left the car. “I’m sorry?”

“You said… that whatever happened…”

She rewinds the conversation in her head. Oh, goodness. “Whatever happens, Arthur, I will be proud of you. For trying.” He’s still waiting, so she adds, trying not to sigh with it, “I promise.”

He nods. “Okay. Thanks, Mum.”

He still isn’t moving. Carolyn gives a significant nod in the direction of the building they’ve parked outside. “Well, go on then.”

She is not usually the type to offer reassurance and he isn’t usually the type to need it so openly, so sorely. On special occasions, though:

“You’ll be fine, Arthur. It’s only an interview. You’ve prepared really well — you can do this.”

He leans over to give her as much of a hug as is possible, sideways, in the front of a car, with Carolyn not particularly turning to receive it. She just about manages to join in before he’s pulling back and saying, “Thanks, Mum,” again, and this time, mercifully, he does actually get out of the car.

Despite herself, and despite the paperwork on her lap, Carolyn watches him all the way to the door, and even stays looking when it closes.

She had gone back and forth on this birthday present. Gordon had told her it was a ridiculous idea and that had played more of a part in her decision than she would like to admit. She couldn’t bear to hear him sneer — not about Arthur. She was first to admit that their son’s strengths were not the usual ones prized in the aviation industry — or in any ‘industry’ she was aware of, to be fair — but Gordon’s refusal to even think that he could succeed in anything infuriated her. So, she had phoned up Oxford Aviation Academy and booked the interview, ready to tell Arthur the date of it on his seventeenth birthday. And Gordon would see.

What, precisely, Gordon will see, she isn’t quite sure. There’s every chance she’s just created a worse situation — in the (sadly, rather likely) event that the Academy don’t take Arthur on, Gordon will gloat about it forever, or at least until Carolyn finally strangles him with a pillow.

But ultimately it’s not about Gordon, of course. It’s about Arthur actually trying for something, letting it play out, not just assuming that he’s incapable of even the first steps just because he’s, as Gordon puts it on a good day, a flaming galah.

Arthur quite likes the name, to be fair. He’s got a book on Australian birds and he was delighted to find that the galah is so pleasantly coloured and “fun-looking”. There’s even a little fact box that says, “Despite its name being used as an insult, the galah is a very intelligent bird!”, for which Carolyn could kiss writer Steve Parish, whose name she only remembers for this reason.

In any case. What happens inside the interview room is out of her hands now. They’ve done loads of practice runs, and one or two times — including this morning’s — she actually thinks he distinguished himself. A handful more were acceptable; some would have depended on a very kindly interview panel filling in the gaps, but would probably have been alright if they were having a dry year for intake, and the rest were… not hopeless, exactly, just… a little too ‘Arthur’ for the world outside their house.

Still. It’s not a foregone conclusion, by any means. She may yet have a pilot for a son.

Which she would value because it’s valuable to Arthur, not because it’s an easier thing to say to acquaintances than “Arthur… is still thinking about what he wants to do.”

Hmmm.

In any case. Back to the accounts book. Gordon’s expenses are curious this month. A three-digit sum she can’t seem to account for. He must have forgotten to give her a receipt or two. Well, the argument they’ll have about that sounds like it will be a lovely distraction from discussing Arthur’s interview this evening.

Arthur’s interview — how long has he been in there? She checks her watch. Barely five minutes. Goodness, she’s as bad as him.

By force of will, she keeps her mind on the accounts until they’re as balanced as they can be, without Gordon there to explain himself. Then she brings out her calendar and cross-checks the next fortnight’s worth of bookings. Nothing particularly interesting. If Arthur does end up taking his CPL, they might have a bit more leeway with longer flights, and not always rely on Gordon’s pal Tommo, who’s exactly as irritating as his name advertises. That’s a long way off, of course, but interesting to think about. She dares to imagine her husband and son actually bonding in the flight deck, Gordon finally seeing Arthur as an asset, a protogé, anything other than an accident of fate that happened to carry half his genes.

She congratulates herself on having taken almost twenty minutes to return to the subject of Arthur’s interview. He mightn’t be long now. She takes out her crossword puzzle book from her bag and flips to one she’s nearly finished.

11 across. Give one’s word, pledge. 7 letters.

Promise, she writes in the boxes, and rolls her eyes upon realising she’s now going to think about the last time she heard that word. Arthur, twenty-five minutes ago. Making her promise to be proud whatever happened.

It’s funny, because a lot of the time he can be quite perceptive, for all his bumbling, but he’s never really understood this simple fact about his mother: she is proud every time he breathes. Not because he lives up to all expectations but because he doesn’t.

Living with Gordon Shappey is trial enough. The idea of living with Gordon Shappey and a Gordon Shappey in training is unthinkable.

She returns to the crossword. By the time she turns the page to finish another almost-completed puzzle, it’s been thirty-one minutes and there is a figure standing in the open doorway of the Aviation Academy. All dressed up in his blazer and tie and… for some reason, not walking to the car.

She waves. He waves back. Then all of a sudden he’s hurtling towards her. She feels the vehicle shake a little as he all but leaps inside.

“Well then? How did it go?” she asks, unsure what the hesitance followed by the speed is supposed to be leading her to.

“It was — alright,” says Arthur, uncharacteristically careful with his words. “Although I don’t think I realised there would be loads of other people there.”

“Well, they took you into a room for your own interview, didn’t they?”

“That’s — yes, that’s what they were doing. We were all sitting in the hall and then the lady would come out and call someone’s name.”

“I see. And so what happened when she called your name?”

A silence. Carolyn feels a twinge of dread. Arthur is a terrible liar, always has been — and she’s not ungrateful for it. It does, however, mean she needs to put him out of his misery.

“Arthur,” she says. “You remember our conversation before? Whatever happens, I’m just proud that you went to the interview.”

To her horror, he buries his face in his hands.

“Arthur—oh, Arthur, don’t. Look, it doesn’t matter. Whatever they said in there — or didn’t say — there are plenty of other things you can do, other than being a pilot. Plenty. You could… you could help me with the passengers. Properly, not just on school holidays. We’ll train you up as a steward. You can have a uniform. A hat, even.”

She sighs.

“Arthur. Light of my life. I did mean it, you know. I am proud, still.”

His voice is small and quiet and full of shame.

“I didn’t go in to do the interview.”

“What?”

“So you can’t be proud. I didn’t go in.”

“But I— I saw you go inside.”

“Yes.” Finally he takes his hands away from his face, becomes easier to understand, if more difficult to look at, eyes rimmed red. “I went into the hall. But I… all the other people there… they looked like pilots already, Mum. Or… going-to-be-pilots. They looked like… like they knew what they were doing. And I realised that I just didn’t know at all what I was doing there. I can’t be a pilot. I can’t do it.”

“Oh, Arthur.”

“I’m sorry, Mum. I wasted your money. And my birthday present. Next year I don’t need anything.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Arthur. For one thing, your next birthday is eighteen, which is the important one. But never mind about that. You can’t really think I mind about the money? Not with you… being like this.”

“Money’s important, though.”

Not nearly as important as you, Carolyn thinks. Then, though it isn’t easy, says it out loud.

He drops his head onto her shoulder in response. Then:

“I should have just… gone in. Had a go. Now I’ll never know how it would have gone.”

“There’s no upper age limit, dear heart. I can book another.”

“No, don’t, Mum. I don’t think… I don’t think I can. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Do you know, Arthur, in a way this makes me prouder than ever.”

“You don’t have to fib to make me stop crying. I’ve stopped. It’s fine.”

“I’m not fibbing, so kindly don’t accuse me of such a thing. I am proud. Sometimes just walking out of a situation is the bravest thing of all.”

She deliberately does not look at her wedding ring. For good measure, she hides the hand that bears it on the other side of Arthur, so it’s truly out of sight. As a happy side effect, her arm is now around him. What a paragon of motherhood she is.

“Do we have to tell Dad?”

“No. I shouldn’t think he’s even remembered it’s today.” This morning, she’d been furious that he left without so much as a word of encouragement. Now, she’s rather pleased that Gordon’s self-absorption plays into their hands. “And if he does, we can honestly say the interview didn’t take place today.”

“What if he asks — when it is?”

“I’ll handle your father, Arthur. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.”

“Now — home, or… I couldn’t help but notice that we passed a crazy golf course on our way here…”

“Oh! Can we go to it?”

“I think that might be acceptable.”

“Brilliant!”

There he is. She can finally breathe properly again.

[clumsiestgiantess]

Even more bonus scenarios! (courtesy of @tinyascanbe and @protector-of-tinies)

Even tinier screen: Someone who wants to be even smaller than the 4-5 inches the phone screen allows can instead travel through the screen of a smart watch!  Their scale would be absolutely tiny; probably only an inch tall or even smaller.  The watch owner would have to be very careful with their little friend, but the tiny’s new size would lead to all sorts of new adventures I’m sure.

Cracked/broken screen: If the phone owner accidentally drops their phone and breaks the screen (flickering with dead pixels), there’s a good chance they won’t be able to then contact their friend who’s planning to come through the very same screen later that day.

When the tiny first portals through, their friend watches with bated breath, but nothing out-of-the-ordinary happens.  Their hangout goes all according to plan- until the tiny says they feel a bit uneasy, like they have a prickly pins-and-needles feeling all over their body.  That’s alright, they have a giant friend who’s hand is the perfect place to lay down and rest on.

However, as the tiny continues to stay they start to feel less and less like themself before they start.. glitching?  Their limbs fizzle in and out of existence; they appear on top of the nearby table one minute, then on the floor, then back in the giant’s hand.  One second they get the feeling of falling, the next floating — being crushed, getting stretched — they don’t feel like they’re experiencing things the way they actually are.  It doesn’t hurt, it just doesn’t feel right.

Thankfully, their giant friend manages to catch them before they glitch away again and pushes them quickly back through the screen.  Hopefully they’ll be alright — that going back through will reverse whatever happened and not make things worse.

Once they get the screen fixed they immediately call their friend to see if they’re alright.  In seconds, before the phone call even ends, they leap through the screen and hug the giant’s face happily.  They were fine, they just missed their friend — and getting to be tiny.

The second scenario kinda got away from me there!  I swear every time I see this post come back around it gets better.

I think it would be so funny if someone from the tiny side of the g/t community just like fell through the phone or something and ended up smol with someone from the giant side of the community.  

Of course the initial first meet would be wacky.  Maybe the giant is scrolling through their phone before they go to bed (potentially scrolling thru g/t stuff) and the tiny just falls onto them.  Or maybe the giant happened to have it open in their hand and they have to quickly catch the tiny that fell through.

‘Who are you?  How did you come out of the screen?’

‘Where the hell am I?’

Meanwhile both are frozen in shock because OMG ITS FINALLY HAPPENING!!!!  Idk whether one or the other would actually flat out tell them they’re in the g/t community, or explain what that is, but maybe they find out another way.  Maybe the giant is immediately gentle and lowers their voice like they knew what to do.  Maybe the tiny enjoys being held a suspicious amount for having just shrunk.  Either way, once the ‘secret’ is out I’d imagine it’s like the Spider-Man meme where they point at eachother like ‘no way, you’re in the g/t community too?’  

Imagine it though, two people who want the exact same thing but in reverse.  The giant badly wanting someone to protect and the tiny desperate to feel protected.  Or just a silly idea like ‘hey, there’s this dollhouse I have…’ and the tiny’s already been thinking about exploring it.  No need to imagine g/t scenarios anymore, you just tap your gigantic friend and ask to sit on their shoulder, or fiddle with their hand.  Though I guess they can still imagine scenarios, and maybe the giant and tiny can experiment and try some of them out irl.

The phone could also consistently work as a teleport spot too, so they could both go on with life like normal, but whenever the Yearning Hours set in they could meet up and both have that niche longing filled.  The tiny could just be bored and message the giant like ‘pocket ride? 👉👈’ and the giant laughs and agrees before sticking their phone in their pocket and letting the tiny slide in through the screen, safe and completely unnoticed by the rest of the world.

This could also work as a story with two random people that meet by one falling through their phone and coming out the size of the screen.  Idk, but I want a little friend to hang out with and I feel like this would be the perfect way to achieve that.

[d1xonss]

What if…The World Never Ended?

✧ Pairing : Daryl Dixon x Rose

✧ Era : No Apocalypse AU

✧ Word Count : 3.4k

AN ~ To the annon that sent me the question about how Daryl and Rose would’ve met if the apocalypse didn’t happen; thank you for inspiring me. If you’re new here, this is a oneshot based off of my fanfic called Desert Rose which you can find in my masterlist. Meaning this isn’t just any reader oneshot like I occasionally post. But obviously you’re still free to read even if you aren’t following along with the series as this was just written for fun:)) xoxo

“Shit, shit, shit!” Rose exclaimed, hitting her hands on the steering wheel of her car that was currently sitting on the side of the road. She knew she should’ve filled up before leaving the hotel she was staying in, but a part of her was just too anxious to wait any longer. After all, meeting up with a friend you hadn’t seen since high school, it tends to make you just the smallest bit nauseous. And apparently, it makes you forget to gas up your car too.

Because the woman had lived in the boring state of Ohio all her life, she wasn’t quite used to the bigger cities she found herself in currently. Hell, there wasn’t even a time where her family took a vacation other than camping at their regular sight with their regular RV. It was way out of her comfort zone to get out on her own in the city of Atlanta of all places, but she figured life was too short to live with the fears you held. Only now that motto was biting her in the ass, seeing as she didn’t have a cell phone to call anyone for help. Much like her father, she didn’t like the idea of them, figuring she would never need one that was off the chord. But now that was ironically biting her in the ass too.

With the heaviest of sighs, Rose slowly peeled herself out of the vehicle, the heeled boots she wore clicking on the side of the two-laned highway where cars continued to pass. Locking the door with her car keys, she glanced both ways to figure which direction to go, before beginning the dreadful walk toward civilization. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for here; a phone, a tank of gas, a shooter of vodka. Maybe all of the above. But whatever the case may be, being late to the dinner that was planned was now inevitable. So, really it made no sense to rush now. 

The weather was surprisingly cool given summer was just around the corner, a nice breeze passing every now and then to distract from the sun that was on its way toward the west. It almost surprised her that so many people had driven by without stopping to offer some help, but then again it’s not like she necessarily expected it either. Even the smaller town she was from, the people around weren’t all that nice and friendly, and apparently here it was worse. In fact, they all just stared as she did the walk of shame, she didn’t even need to look up to know. It was like she could simply sense it.

It felt like she had been walking the length of a marathon, her eyes searching for that finish line that she prayed for. All that she had come across thus far was a few run down houses and an old trailer park that sat within the trees. And it seemed as though it wasn’t that big of an emergency where she felt comfortable enough to knock on someone's front door. Though she figured there had to be a grocery store or even a fast food restaurant close by considering the amount of neighborhoods popping up in the area.

And then, suddenly she spotted it. A small, beat up Shell gas station just sitting on the corner of the highway, where she assumed people bought snacks and gas before heading out for road trips. Breathing a sigh of relief, she picked up her pace the smallest bit in hopes this would have the three exact things she was looking for. The place was just slightly busier as people came and went with their needed necessities, but she could hardly pay them any mind. The moment she spotted a payphone sitting just outside, she made a beeline for it.

Her hand reached for her jean pocket to fish out some change, putting the coins in the slot and holding the phone up to her ear, ready to punch in the number she had repeated to herself the whole way here. Though all she was able to hear was silence coming from the phone, not a sound of the usual dial tone she was used to which caused her to place the phone back, before picking it up to try again. Yet the outcome was still the same, causing her to try and dial the number instead to see if that would get her anywhere.

Though she was so focused on the task at hand, she didn’t even notice the man leaning against the side of the building, his gaze occasionally flickering toward her.

“Wonder if she knows it’s broken,” he thought to himself, his eyes diverting again from her as he instead picked at his thumbnail. An anxious habit he had since he was a kid. Really he wanted to light up a cigarette as he hadn’t had one in about two hours, but he knew better than to do that. Some other assholes would light up right here without a care in the world, like his brother for instance. But again, he knew better.

The bell then rang, signalling someone’s departure from the convenience store. Speak of the devil.

“Come on, little brother.” he called, his hands full of lighters, Marlboro reds, and beer. “I promised Jim we wouldn’t be late, you know the guy needs his shrooms.”

The other man nodded his head wordlessly, beginning to head over to where their truck was parked up front. Though he couldn’t help but glance back over at the woman whom was still trying to use the phone, feeling a nagging pull like he should say something.

He heard his brother open the driver’s door, tossing the things occupying his hands carelessly in the back before glancing over the vehicle at him, “Aye, Darylina.” he mocked, “The hell you doin? Get in.”

Daryl grunted, shaking his head from his thoughts before opening his own door, but it was then Merle realized what he had been staring at. He scoffed, “Lady!”

The woman’s head spun around at the sound of his loud shout, her eyes slightly wide from the fright, “Damn things busted, yer gonna have to try yer luck somewhere else.”

She blinked a few times before slamming the phone back down in frustration, waving a hand in his direction as if to silently thank him for sparing her from any more embarrassment. She looked stressed as if she needed some help, and Daryl noted she came here on foot. Walking for who knows how long. He didn’t even realize he was still staring at her as she made her way into the gas station to try her luck in there, his gaze catching with his brother’s which ultimately caused him to focus on the ground instead.

“If ya need some pussy that bad, I’ll pay for a hooker.” he offered sarcastically.

The younger Dixon made a sound of annoyance, rolling his eyes, “Just looked like she was in trouble.”

“So is everyone else,” Merle clapped back, “We got better things to worry about than some stuck up girl throwin a hissy fit.”

Daryl didn’t know if it was the sound of his brother's mockery, or the fact that he didn’t have an ounce of sympathy left in his body, but whatever it was it caused him to snap. No longer caring about the places they needed to be, they always seemed to benefit Merle rather than him anyway. So without a word, Daryl made a beeline over toward the entrance to take the highroad, something that was rare for him. Ignoring the calls of his name from behind his back.

The bell jingled on top of the door as he entered, his eyes briefly scanning around for the woman. Though he heard her before he saw her.

“No, you don’t understand, this is an emergency. My car is stranded and out of gas back a few miles on the highway and I need to make a call.”

His ears perked up at the sound of her situation, and the fact that the guy behind the counter clearly wasn’t letting her use the phone was only frustrating her even more. Though before any kind of fight broke out, Daryl stepped in, cutting in front of her in line.

Her eyes widened in disbelief, “Hey, I was-”

“Gimmie twenty dollars on pump four,” Daryl interrupted her, not even looking in her direction as he reached back for his wallet, “I’ll take one of them gas cans, few of them scratchers right there too.”

“Now, wait just a damn-”

“You need anything else?”

Her eyebrows raised in surprise, suddenly realizing that he was helping her instead of being an asshole like she originally assumed. Now she just felt like an idiot. As for his question, she didn’t answer. Not verbally anyway. She stood there silently for a moment, her eyes glancing off to the side, before grabbing a small pack of powdered donuts and setting them down on the counter.

The bell on top of the door rang out again to signal their departure, the duo heading towards the selected pump that Daryl had already put money into, wordlessly getting to work on transferring it over into the gas can. Rose stood there awkwardly holding onto the plastic bag, not knowing what to say to the random stranger that just decided to help her out of the blue. She should’ve been thankful, but instead she only felt the slightest bit of suspicion. 

“You didn’t have to help me…”

The man grunted, “I know.”

She swayed awkwardly on her feet, watching the numbers on the gas pump as she began to overread the situation. “I really could’ve handled it on my own. Called my friend to come save my ass instead of burdening you.”

“I know.”

A sigh of frustration left her lips at his default answer, “My point is, you didn’t have to go out of your way-”

“M’ not goin out of my way,” he interrupted her, “I wanted to. And for someone who was bout to be stranded out here without no phone to call for any help, ya don’t seem all that grateful.” he grumbled as he finished up, tightening the lid closed.

“I am grateful.” she defended, “I just- I don’t want to owe anyone anything.”

“Yeah, well, I reckon you do owe me a little something. Some silence.” he said before jerking his head for her to follow him, “Come on.”

Her mouth dropped at his bluntness, her feet stomping on the pavement as she kept up behind him, “Hey!” she called out to get his attention, “First of all, it’s that way,” she directed over her shoulder, “Second, I thought you had a truck. You really expect us to walk all that way back?”

“Nah, my brother has a truck. The same asshole who told ya the payphone was broken, and the same asshole who peeled outta here the second he realized I was gonna help ya. Can’t exactly pull another car right outta my ass.”

She shook her head, “But-”

“Woman, you got two options. You can either come with me to get yer car started back up. Or you can sit your ass here and wait for me to bring your car to you, after I loot all the valuable shit you got for my troubles.”

His tone was dry, an only indication for her to know he was being sarcastic about the last part. But still, it managed to get her to shut up. Wordlessly beginning to walk beside him toward the right direction where her vehicle was stuck. The man didn’t strike her as some kind of criminal, but she also wouldn’t put it past him if he robbed her just out of plain spite.

There wasn’t a word uttered between the two for about half of the way there, mostly because he said he wanted silence in the first place. But it also gave Rose time to think. She couldn’t seem to shake the familiarity that came with him, the way they argued alone proved that they were both equally stubborn and thick headed. That was something they had in common, along with enjoying the quiet rather than wanting to squirm away from it. Perhaps they were soulmates in another life or something. But that was a crazy thought to have, right? They had only just met, yet she felt as if she somehow already knew him. Maybe that’s why she trusted him enough to be alone with him in the first place.

Though the further they walked, the guiltier she felt for reacting that way when he was only showing her a simple act of kindness, one that no one else seemed to offer. Sure she was weary of the unfamiliar place, but she may have jumped the gun when it came to questioning his intentions.

She looked over at him for a moment as she munched on the powdered donuts he had bought for her, wordlessly extending the package as a silent offer. Daryl glanced down at her hand, scoffing quietly to himself before taking one anyway, popping the whole thing into his mouth.

“Thank you…for helping me.” she spoke up quietly, “I…I wasn’t trying to come off as a bitch. I’m just not from around here,” she tired to explain.

“Ya don’t say.” Daryl muttered sarcastically.

Her eyes narrowed a little, “I’m trying to be heartfelt here, can you just listen for a second?”

“Right, sorry.” he muttered, nodding for her to continue as a ghost of a smile appeared on his face.

“I’m not from around here, and I guess new places make me anxious. Especially since I’m alone, and people around here don’t seem too helpful. So, can you at least try to understand why I was weary?”

He nodded again, “Nah, I get it. Bein cautious…it’s smart.”

She nodded in return, thankful that he somewhat understood from her perspective. While he on the other hand was relieved the tension was out of the way, not wanting her to think he was just some dick. “So, where are ya from? I don’t hear no accent.”

Rose noticed his attempt to keep the conversation going. It was refreshing, “No, I’m not from the South, that’s for sure. I live in Ohio. The most boring state you could probably think of.” she informed as her nose scrunched a bit.

He chuckled quietly, “Eh, I dunno. Kansas, Nebraska…I think they got Ohio beat.”

“Well, that’s a relief at least,” she laughed a little as well.

“So, what brings ya all the way down here then?” he asked, seeming genuinely curious.

“I’m here to see a friend I’ve known since grade school. Apparently he’s living larger than I am.”

Daryl chewed the inside of his lip, “He an asshole bout it?”

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly, “I haven’t really seen him in years, and I know people can change over time. But I hope it hasn’t changed him too much…he’s sorta the only good friend I had.”

There was a moment of silence after she said that, the weight behind her words hitting her only after she’d spoken them. It felt a little pathetic, the fact that she was a grown adult and didn’t have many people she could count on. Not many people she could even call a friend. But surprisingly, Daryl understood better than she realized.

“Well, he don’t gotta be the only friend ya got.” he muttered quietly before gesturing to himself.

Rose couldn’t help but smile, “Don’t say that just because you feel bad.” 

“I ain’t,” he promised, “Hell, I know the feelin. I only really hang out with the assholes my brother brings back to our place. Most of ‘em are already high the second they walk through the door. Can’t say m’ too fond of ‘em.”

She blinked, “Okay, I’ll pretend I didn’t just hear that.”

Daryl scoffed, “What, are you some cop or somethin?”

“Yes.”

He paused for a moment upon realizing she was serious, “Oh, shit…”

“Relax,” she laughed softly, “There’s nothing I can do about it here anyway. Plus you’re doing me a favor.” she said before popping another donut in her mouth.

He let out a small breath of relief, knowing Merle would absolutely murder him if he found out he had accidentally slipped up in front of a cop. Especially one he was trying to help out. Or…at least that’s what he was telling himself. Not wanting to admit that he was actually enjoying this a little. He too felt a sort of simplicity when he was around her which was odd considering his disinterest in meeting anyone new. But he found he liked her presence, seeing they had the same kind of humor that made them sort of click in a weird yet natural way. Like the universe had somehow pushed them together.

“Well, anyway…m’ just sayin I know what it’s like to not have a lotta people in yer corner.”

She nodded slowly in understanding, “You’re…not close with your family? Besides your brother, I mean.”

He huffed softly, quickly shaking his head, “Nah…you?”

“No.” she answered just as simply as he did, both of them knowing that subject was a can of worms neither of them wanted to open. As victims of abuse, both physical and mental, it’s like they both silently knew without even having to admit it out loud.

Rose then cleared her throat, “I appreciate the offer…you sure you wanna befriend someone like me?”

“Hey, you ain’t bad.” he said, a small smile growing on his face.

Her eyes softened as her eyes lingered on him, feeling flattered that she had made such an impression. But maybe he was just feeling the same connection.

It didn’t take long then for them to find where he car was parked off to the side, the conversation that flowed really helped time move faster. They filled the car with gas and heard it roar to life, feeling like a weight had been lifted off Rose’s chest now that everything was in working order. And of course, she insisted on giving him a ride home considering how fast his brother seemed to bail on him from the utter impatience he held. Daryl tried to decline, but she wasn’t taking no for an answer, not after how much he had helped her when really he didn’t have to give her the time of day. She could see right past his rugged demeanor, noticing his kind heart and gentle nature despite him putting up a front for others to see.

He navigated her through the streets, getting stuck in traffic in certain intersections with how bustling the city always seemed to be. But that only gave them an excuse to spend more time together. And suddenly, she wasn’t so worried about being late to meet up with her friend, finding she was having much more fun with him than she would’ve at dinner.

Though everything has to come to an end eventually, feeling a hint of mild disappointment when they finally rolled up to his run down apartment complex.

“Thanks…for the ride.” he mumbled as he unbuckled his seatbelt, only wearing it because she scolded him to.

She smiled, “Thanks for everything else.”

He nodded in return, a small smile crossing his face before he hesitantly exited the vehicle, his slow movements only showing that he was just as disappointed as she was. Rose watched as he walked toward the building, wanting to make sure he got in safely. But he surprised her when he suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned around, making his way back over to the driver’s side door. With her curiosity peaked, she rolled down the window with an anticipation for him to speak. 

He cleared his throat, “I just, uh…if yer ever in town again to visit, and wanted someone to show ya around…” he trailed off, as if scared to say what he really wanted to say. Nervous as if she would reject the offer.

A slow smile was brought to her face, like somehow she had a good feeling about this. “I’d like that…”

~ Thanks for reading!

[skeletonh0e]

Darling, just start the Chase

Description: You unfortunately go into heat, dealing with that alone is unpleasant but your pheromones trigger each of their own respective heats. Four of the most deadly men in the multi verse are desperate to compete for the right of mate, can you escape or will the boys kill each other trying to get to you? A/N: Extremely self indulgent that's been rumbling around in my brain for a bit, had to write it out. There will be multiple parts, rest assured. Fem Reader with AFAB anatomy, x Killer Sans, Horror Sans, Nightmare Sans & Dust Sans. Everything is consensual (though not safe or sane), but it's a heat fic with the typical elements of dub con/cnc, lost of control, possessive behavior, etc. Reader is a monster, species is vague, kinda went the route of them having an implied romance with all four Sanses going on already but it kind of left all up to interpretation regarding the exact history with each Sans. I did my best to spell check and beta read but it's probably still messy, sworry

MINORS DNI

You're up early, really early. The sun hadn't even properly risen yet, your body felt flush and the moment you went to simply sit up, your nearly groaned as something extremely sensitive coursed through your sex. It didn't quite click yet, you've woke up horny before but as you got onto your feet properly you feel the sheer dampness in between your legs.

Then you remembered the time of month and the year.

Fuck.

This was not the ideal time for this, far from it, your heat cycle was never a pleasant time. You always rode it out alone for better or worse, the thing about it was that once you really got going on it you just couldn't stop. And it tended to go on for a week at best, only cutting short if you managed to get yourself properly knocked up within a few days. Having a kid was one thing but going deep into a craze of non stop week sounded nice at first but it'd leave you tired after the fact as well as throw all current ones out the window.

That couldn't happen you had plans, that's not even mentioning you promised to meet with Nightmares Crew, fuck, those stupid toxic assholes

You nearly whine, flashes of their faces coursing through you and images of being pinned underneath him. Fuck, your insides clench and your can't help but wonder how fucking ruined your underwear is. Your pussy is so fucking ready for this, that instictinual part to be claimed, fucked, breed good and proper. You cringe a bit, it's hard to tell how much that idea naturally appeals to you and how much of it is hormones going crazy. It's probably just both when you get down to it.

No, you cannot see any of them like this. That's not even mentioning how they might react to this news, you could trust Nightmare and Axe to be mature, maybe Dust, but Killer? You're already dreading the thought.

You'll make up some excuse, for now...? You gotta take care of this, wasn't there some medicine that helped with the severity of these? You should get on looking into that. Quickly, your force your feet to your closet, picking out....whatever. It was a pretty boring set of clothes, but it gave you some much needed layers to your sensitive body. More skin covered the better.

The moment you have your bedroom though, there's someone in the hallway. Someone you just decided you were going to try to avoid right now,

"Dust...." you breathe out in clear surprise.

He's leaning against the wall, face completely covered though from his posture it didn't seem like he was looking at anything in particular, he doesn't respond at first but slowly turns to look at you, "good mornin' sleeping beauty"

"I think I'm the one that should be saying that to you....you've been up longer," not that you minded too much, though him visiting was one thing him doing so while you were asleep? That was new, "Do you...uh, need something?"

"boss ordered me and the others to escort you today somethin' happened and he wants look outs on all our resources" he's not telling you everything.

You frown trying to put the pieces together....something was concerning enough for Nightmare to send all his goons to look after you? You'll need to get onto that but, "Where are the others?" you ask, trying once again to ignore your clit throbbing at the idea of the other two here

"on their way here soon I imagine I got here early," he stops leaning on the nearby wall, taking a step closer to you, "seems like a good thing I did"

There was something....strange in how he was looking at you, a brief flash of his multi colored eyes and you felt like prey under the gaze of a far large more dangerous animal, it triggers your instincts to run away but you resist. "Guessin' there's no point in telling ole' Mare that I'm fine for today?"

"cut the shit," his tone was unusually blunt, "I can smell that"

You frown again, about to ask him to elaborate but he motions to your hips, taking another step closer and you take a step back.

"don't think boss knows, would have come to get you himself otherwise, but i'm glad for it I get you all to myself," he presses forward and you're slowly being backed up before you know it.

Your mind is racing, arousal surging through you as you're both scared as hell yet impossibly aroused by the scene unfolding before you. He's already figured out you're in heat? You wanted to hope you had been at least a little subtle but your back is pushed against the wall and loud thuds ring out against both sides of your head. His hands tightly planted on both sides of you as you're face to face with him.

You can even make out a decent chunk of his face from his hood, that's saying something.

"Back off," you hiss out, but he doesn't even falter.

"do you actually want me to?"

You don't respond back instantly, your expression clearly mirroring the flurry of conflicted emotions. You know you want this, need this, but you also know once this starts it's not going to stop. That's not even accounting for other factors like how you liked Dust but you've never gone as far as to sleep with him or even any of them before.

Your lack of immediate response was confirmation enough, as his hands are then placed on your shoulders, an alarming amount of force added just to keep you pinned and in place. Another factor that was added to this already intense situation getting tenser but his forcefulness turned you on even more. You can call it you being a freak or pure instinct but it's there

"you like making us work for it? you like knowing your struggling gets us off?" his voice is nearly a growl, the sound rendering your mind blank enough you don't think about what the implications of 'us' means here, "i'm not much better honestly keeping you here, holding you down, not lettin' you escape, it does something for me"

You're starting to question where all this aggression is coming from, not that Dust was ever gentle in the sense but less violent than Axe or Killer. However his hips grind against your own and you can feel how fucking hard he is through both of your clothes. Heat shoots through your core, further empathized as you manage to fully smell him.

He's in heat too.

You're still tightly pinned underneath him, Dust goes to lean down to bite your jugular, it wasn't extremely painful but it was firm, definitely felt, definitely leaving a mark and the mewl you make in response to it is nearly embarrassing as his hands go to grope at your body, hurtedly burying themselves underneath the several layers of clothes.

How can he be in heat? How? There ain't no way you two both happened to have perfectly synched cycles unless you were truly unfortunately unlucky, did...did you do this to him? Fuck, does it even matter? His smell is making you further messy and needy and your smell is fueling his growing aggression, it's so fucking tantalizing

"Dust," you grasp out, his hips continuing to rut against yours desperate for some frition.

Fuck, what would the others say? They were coming soon weren't they? Is this how it's going to be? The other two walking in on each other dry dumping like horny teenagers trying to hide from their respective parents?

He certainly doesn't seem to care, if you probably asked he'd probably like the idea of fucking you right in front of them. Once again it's hard to tell where these are natural desires you're both having or just getting pushed on by the pheromone filled heat.

"god fucking damn," clearly getting frustrated with all the clothes in-between you two, his hands curl into tight balls clutching your attire clearly about to rip the fabric off you, "inside. i need inside you now."

Was this happening? He was going to rip off your clothes then mate you here probably in front of his other coworkers once they arrive? And how bad was it that at this rate you'd happily let him? Even if resisting would have encouraged him more.

"Dus-" you were going to rasp out his name again, parts of your shirt already torn and the chill of the room hits you, but the scene is quickly stopped as in a blur of red and black, Dust was kicked off you.

Literally. Kicked. And flung across the room.

"You fucking slut," Killer arrived, clearly less than amused by the sight before you. His annoyance at Dust, not you, "You know damn well boss has a soft spot for this bitch, if he finds out you were trying to put your dick in her, he'd be pissed as all hell, especially if I let you."

Dust didn't respond as he got back onto his feet, glaring daggers at the other. Killer already dawning his knife as if expecting a fight already. "And if I'm getting his trouble it's because I put my dick in her, capiche?"

"fuck off" was the only reply that Dust barked back with,

Killer actually looked disappointed, "C'mon your comebacks are usually better than that, don't tell me that-" he froze, smelling something and that's when he turned to look at you. Something...changing in his expression, one that made your stomach twist.

Okay, clearly you and Dust weren't the only one being affected by your heat. Is this going to be the case with Axe too? Nightmare even? That odd mix of both fear and arousal shot through you again, unfortunately Dust and Killer took note of this.

"Oh ho, maybe I was wrong, does Boss know she's all like this?" he took a step forward, you were worried you were about to be pinned for a second time but Dust immediately stands in his way, the two glare at each other but you take the opportunity to shuffle to the other side of the room to gain some much needed distance.

Your pussy was going crazy with want, there were now two other monsters both in heat here and the desperation of your state was starting to show. Mentally you were cursing yourself, at this rate you're starting to think you might as well give up on your plans for the week, the universe was clearly conspiring against you in the best worst way possible.

"I see what's going on here, you were trying to keep her all to yourself? If Boss sent us all to take care of her, we should share shouldn't we?" Killer hummed, though honestly it didn't seem like he actually believed Nightmare sent them out for this reason alone. But it's clear that he wasn't willing to back down and let Dust have you either.

Your eyes scanned the area, you knew your own home like the back of your hand though you weren't aware of how familiar the boys were with your universe in particular. How far could you actually get?

The hooded skeleton let out a huff, "you won't share, I won't share, Axe ain't gonna fucking share either, you know that."

"he's right on that part," the gruff voice startled you as you turned around to see Axe looming off in the shadows, he's....salivating....okay the heat is affecting him too. Fuck, you have not one not two but three lust filled unhinged skeletons in your house, your thighs desperately clenched together.

God dammit....

"H-hey guys, don't I get a say in this?" your voice comes out a bit strained, "I don't want to be with any of you."

That's a lie, it's a bold face lie, the boys can all smell how it's a lie. But you don't want to just give in to it, not yet at least.

"you wouldn't be smellin' that good if that was really the case," Axe informed, his gaze inherently predatory as the others also stalked forward.

"I think she just wants us to chase her? Don't you? She loves being a tease after all," Killer laughed, "Or maybe she wants to see which one of us can successfully hunt her down."

"you both seem to be forgetting that I got here first," Dust added on.

"This isn't dibs, you don't win the game by being first," Killer chuckled, "It's a matter of who gets to her and who keeps her, she's already planning to run away. And when she runs from you she'll run right into my arms."

What is even happening? God, things are escalating, how long can you outrun any of them? They all have shortcuts, maybe Axe uses them far less than the other two but they still have them and how far can you get from three dangerous killers. You feel like easy prey in a growing impossible situation. Maybe you should just summon Nightmare to have him call off his lackies, but that's assuming he wouldn't be affected by his heat.

But honestly even if he wasn't there's no guarantee he might insert himself as a player in this game, despite what he claims he could be just as immature and petty as his underlings.

"You all couldn't even manage to catch me if you tried," you hissed out, playing along for now. If you actually did manage to escape them, then good, you could continue the rest of this week out mostly according to plan. If not well....it took everything in your will power to stop your legs from trembling.

Worst ways to spend a week you guessed.

"so it is a challenge then," Axe hummed, an sinister sounding chuckle erupting from him, "you might wanna be careful with those words, unlike these two i actually have experience tracking down prey and with that scent you won't get far"

"You underestimate me," Killer cooed, Dust pointedly saying nothing. "Let's be a little fair to her, hows about a five...maybe ten minute head start?"

Neither of them interjected, guessed that was agreed upon. Only ten minutes? How much ground could you cover in that time? Does it matter when it doesn't even seem like they're willing to negotiate on that?

"Clock starts now rabbit," Killer informed, pointing to his non-existent watch.

You took a deep breath, this was definitely happening. "Catch me if you can, boys." was the only response you could properly huff out, before immediately turning to book it out the back door. Not before hearing Killer smugly shout out,

"Nine minutes left!"

Silence lingered in the room among the three Sans as they allowed you to at least gain some ground, Dust being the one to break it with a realization.

"boss isn't gonna be happy about this," the one thing Killer was right about.

"What? You gonna snitch?" Killer asked, his tone making it clear that he was against the very idea of this getting back to their boss in any form. "If he finds out, worst case scenario we're all punished for it....best case scenario he joins in on our game."

"you mean he'll cheat," Axe informed tactfully, "already don't trust you on that front,"

"What?" Killer huffed, clearly offended, "I would never!"

"you would," Dust snarled, "so here's the deal, any of us start playing unfairly then we call boss, got it?"

Killer and Axe shared a look, no one wanted Nightmare involved. They were all under his thumb in some form or another and his "soft spot" for you was fairly well known at this point, he'd just steal you away before any of them could come close.

Silently they just both nodded.

"how much time does she have left?" Axe asked, eyes scanning to the door you left open in your haste.

Killer's smirk widened, "Five minutes."