#convinced hes a restless spirit

[kraniumet]

"I was unable to bury him" you're well

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 2

Part 1 2 3

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, smut (piv, loss of virginity, fingering, semi-public sex, Daemon talking you through it), DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, mentions/depictions of death/suicidal ideation/murder, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: i am surprised I got as many comments as I did on chapter 1 🥺🫶 it's not that I think my writing is bad... Well... Idk it felt aimless when I started so I am grateful for the positive reinforcement. 👉👈 I am once again asking for more pls comment n reblog I would love u forever if u did | cross posted on ao3

Tagging: @arabellasleopardcoat

Daemon heads to your chambers, eager to shake you awake and ruin your morning once more. When he arrives to the room, he stops in his tracks, disappointed to see you were risen. That is, until he realizes the state you were in.

You roused long before the sun had and could not find sleep no matter how badly you searched. You decided to draw yourself a warm bath in hopes of finding sleep in the tub; you only find more restlessness and simply accept your fate.

You hear Daemon's entrance and turn to him from the vanity you were wallowing. You were half dressed. Your corset was undone and you had given up on braiding the sides of your head. You smile weakly at him, "good morrow."

Nothing about your tired, sullen eyes agreed with that, and it irritates him to know that you're one of those people. Pretenders.

"Well, finish up then," Daemon furrows his brows, "get dressed. We have yet to accomplish our task."

You mimic his expression, brushing your dark hair back, "task?"

He rolls his eyes, "I do not believe yesterday counts as an introduction."

Upon realizing he meant the introduction to Caraxes, your body tenses. You look sick. You stand to try and convince him out of it, but Daemon reaches you before you can get on your feet. He places a hand on your shoulder, keeping you in place. Your heart thunders when he brushes your hair to one shoulder. He secures your dress from behind, and your breath grows heavy as you watch him from the mirror.

"It is not so bad, riding a dragon," the prince says to plant a false sense of trust in you, "who knows? You might enjoy it."

There is an unnatural warmth that spills across your form when your husband then completes your braids. He weaves in a manner far gentler than Gwayne ever has. It makes your lips part.

He brings you to your feet. Daemon takes in your expression, lips curling slightly, "there you are, wife."

Your brows knit.

He knew his artificial gentleness has you off-guard. There is no better moment to have you do his bidding than now.

One might be surprised to know that Caraxes actually enjoyed having you on his back, as did Daemon, not because they suddenly liked you— gods no, but because the sound of your screams were oh-so satisfying.

You could do little else but release cries of terror as you clung to your husband from behind. Daemon made it a point to do flips and all sorts of unnecessarily moves whilst flying, hoping your hold would falter. The time you spent in the air felt like eternity. It seemed your husband was set on touring the entire 7 realms.

You never thought you would be so ever happy to see the pit. The pit could not say the same about you however. You spill your guts out to the floor exactly like the first time you were here.

Daemon makes a face. He turns to the keepers and orders them to clean your mess up, lest it get on Caraxes' claw.

Woe is you who is forced to repeat the exact thing the next morning. You could not even plead your case, for your throat was sore. The sound of your screams this time were not as entertaining to Daemon, as your voice is hoarse. At some point, the terror is too great, you cannot scream. Because of this, he cuts the flight short in boredom, excited instead at the promise of watching you suffer through another retch. But, oh, by the gods, were you an inconveniencing woman.

Instead of remaining consistent, you just had to make a show and faint into him, did you?

He could not care less for you, which is why he chucks you off into the arms of a dragon keeper, but the damned old man could no longer carry such a weight, and so he was begrudgingly forced to throw you over his shoulder and bring you to a maester himself.

In truth, he'd all forgotten about his wife fainting until the next morning, when he came to the maester's quarters to ask for something to soothe his hammering head from his heavy drinking the night before. He was, in fact, offended, when the maester insinuated that he had come to check up on his bride.

Before he could give the greying maester a piece of his mind, he hears a terrible voice barking from the ward. Its grating timbre made it clear to Daemon that Lord Hand Cunttower was off on a yapping session again.

He walks deeper into the room. Weeping sounds become audible.

"—no, you do not understand," Otto snaps, hunched over at the side of your bed.

Ah, twas you who was being terrorized.

You dare not turn to your father, for you knew your throat would only tighten more that it already has. You force yourself to take deep breaths, but it's easier said than done. You remain still on the bed you laid on.

"You must sire as many children as your body can take, or you will die," the man says.

But you were dying anyway.

"The process will not be pleasant."

Nothing is pleasant.

"It will hurt-"

Everything hurts.

"-but it is a better fate than-"

"Enough!" you snap, glaring at him with angry, red eyes. You repeat, though your voice is weaker, "enough, enough, eno-"

Otto gravely speaks your name. Your body recognized the danger, but having realized upon waking up to the face of a maester, it mattered little where or who it came from, you were destined to hurt- to die.

"Do not fall complacent be-"

"You are no longer my lord," you quip. Sweat forms on your nape. This is the first time you've ever interrupted your father.

He is gobsmacked. He is bewildered. His back straightens, "what?"

You feel yourself descend into heavy fraught. Your saliva tries to choke you.

"What," he presses, "did you say, girl?"

"You are my father," your voice falters, "but not my lord."

Otto's face warps.

Your breath grows shorter and shorter, "my liege lord is my-" pant "-husband, and what he-" pant "-desires, I will-" pant "-do."

Daemon's ears and brows perk at your misplaced loyalty. Part of him wants to laugh out loud and make himself known, but then he sees, even from where he stood, how it got Otto twisted. He chuckles to himself instead.

Your father enunciates as though he means to stab you with them, "you stupid fucking whore."

You crumble like chalk. You fall into another round of body arresting tremors. Your chest is tight and you screw your eyes painfully shut. It becomes apparent to Daemon, as it would anyone who'd witness, where your condition sourced. Otto grabs your shoulders, "you know nothing of-" but then recoils.

Daemon shoves him away, glaring as he says, "unhand her."

Otto manages to balance himself, but he looks as though the veins on his temples were about to pop. He clenches his jaw, "I am speaking to my daughter."

"You mean at her," his silver hair slips over his shoulder as he turns to you, "she does not look like she can hold conversation."

"This is personal matter," Otto steps forward.

"Mmm," Daemon turns back to him, "I do say, I am glad to have interrupted," he shifts on his leg, linking his fingers together, "a dutiful husband should know all personal matters of his wife. Don't you agree?"

Though you were still wrestling with yourself, you heard every word. You knew if you did not interject, they will fight each other for your carcass. You feel lightheaded, but you force yourself to open your eyes and speak.

Of course, the only sound you manage to make is a strangled and pained one.

Otto averts his attention to you, and tries to come to your side.

Daemon steps in front of him and tilts his head back, "oh... I would adore it if you give me a reason to kill you."

You choke out, "Daemon."

Your father stiffens as he looks past the said man to inspect you, missing the way the said man smirks. Otto turns back to Daemon, feeling bile spread in his mouth as the prince says, "see. She does not want you."

Otto's lips curl and his hands ball into fists.

Your husband waves a hand, "go away. You're clearly upsetting her."

Otto does the most to remain calm, "she is my da-"

"She is my wife," Daemon snaps, imposing upon him.

You gulp with difficulty as you catch the way your father's jaw clenches. You force yourself to sit up and open your mouth to speak, but everyone's attention is averted to the Kingsguard that walks into the room.

Daemon's forehead curls at the Cargyll knight, "my prince. Lord Hand."

"Which one are you?" asks the prince.

"Arryk, my prince."

"State your business, Arryk."

"I-"

"I requested a ward for the princess," Lord Hand answers instead.

Daemon makes a face at him and chuckles dryly under his breath.

Arryk looks between the two again then slowly continues, "I and my brother have been awarded the honor of serving ward to the Princess of Dragonstone. I take first watch today."

Daemon chuckles again, "a bit late, aren't you?"

The white cloak stiffens then bows, "I was just given word this hour."

"Hmm. Well, Arryk," he motions, "why don't you go escort the Lord Hand out of the room before someone dies."

He stiffens again, but turns to the said man nonetheless. He does not question it and merely does what was instructed.

Or at least tries to.

"I do not trust you with my daughter's well-being," Otto steps forward, pointing a finger to the ground, "you are the very reason she is in that bed."

Daemon gasps dramatically. At this point, you finally had enough wits about you to speak, "please-" but your voice is easily drowned out however.

"Do you not remember thanking my brother for the, what was it," the prince pretends to think, "joyous union? Or would you like to watch me stake my claim upon he—"

Otto's face twists in horror and repulsion, but that is not why Daemon's words are cut short. It is because of the cold, clammy, trembling hand that takes his own that he looks down. He watches as you sigh out, "leave us, father."

The said man turns to you in grave offence. In your fear, you do not notice the betrayal that is mixed with it. His anger flares and he scoffs. He gives you one last look, and you knew exactly it was just that. This would be last time he would ever look upon you. When he storms away, you feel it in your chest: this is the last time you will ever call him father. You were forsaken, truly forsaken.

Otto is seen out by Arryk.

Your hand slips from Daemon's, as you no longer had the strength. You muster all your remaining energy to reach the drink propped on your bedside table. It was a futile attempt though, as instead of grasping it, you knock it over, which only leads you into another fit of tears.

Daemon curses and shakes his foot that's gotten soaked. He did mean to snap at you for it, but you were already clearly suffering. Your breathing is short and it seemed like you were mumbling something.

He hunches over in an attempt to hear you, "what?"

It takes a myriad of repetitions for him to realize you were apologizing.

His face contorts, "gods," what pathetic creature had he been given to?

Daemon's upper lip curls and he can no longer bear the sound of your whining any further. He calls for the maester, asking for another cup of water because you had knocked over your own. Just as the maester goes off to get you another drink, he remembers he came here for his own affliction because his head begins to hammer again. He rubs his temples and sits on the vacant bed besides yours.

"Here, my prince," the maester says upon arrival, "milk of the poppy enough for the both of you."

Daemon squints as the man places a tray on your bedside table. Daemon is handed a cup first, but does not drink it until after he watches you be helped to drink your own fill. After, the maester promptly leaves with a curt nod. The drink does not take effect on you until after Daemon finishes his own

Your voice shakes, "t-thank you."

Daemon puts his cup down.

"You did not have to come," you say softly.

"Do not flatter yourself," he scoffs, "I did not come for you. I came for my headache."

"Yet it remains," you turn to him, face tight and gleaming from all the tears you've shed, "you did not have to come."

He stares at you for a moment. You looked so frail, so devoid of hope. Truly, death would be mercy to you at this point.

Just then, ser Arryk returns. He finally sees you and gives you a deep bow, "princess."

Being addressed as such makes you feel sad... and lonely.

"I am ser Arryk Cargyll. I will be your ward, along with my twin brother, Erryk, who you will meet after my shift." The kingsguard straightens up, "I will do all that I can to ensure your health does not falter and that you are always seen to."

You think of your own twin as you take in the man's features. The idea that your father purposefully chose twin brothers as your ward made you feel sad and sick, but it was hardly Arryk's fault Otto liked mocking you, so you smile at him, "I have a twin."

The man nods, offering you a smile far more genuine than yours, "aye. Ser Gwayne Hightower. He is deft with the short sword."

You turn to your hands, recalling just a few days ago when you had watched him train. Your lips curl upwards, "though, not as good as I."

Daemon pulls his head back, face contorting. He is taken aback when Arryk's sniggers. The latter nods, "perhaps you will show me your tricks, my lady."

There is a twinkle in your eye as you turn back to him, "perhaps."

Daemon raises a brow at the interaction and decides to stand, "come," he reaches a hand to you, "some fresh air would do you good."

Fresh air? Your jaw slacks and you turn to Daemon with a fallen expression. Be as it was, you were no fool. You did not believe your husband had your best interest in mind, and yet, it was not like you had much of a choice. Against yourself, you to take his hand.

He pulls you up and Arryk comes to your side to assist you. He helps you to your feet, hand on your arm and shoulder.

Daemon is annoyed by his fussing. "Yes. Very good, Cargyll. I can manage to bring her to the dragon pit myself."

You close your eyes and sigh. Just as you dreaded.

"Dragon pit?" Arryk repeats.

"Yes. She needs fresh air." The prince narrows his eyes, "do you contest me?"

Arryk releases you and shakes his head, "I would not."

"Good," he motions with nod, "out of the way then."

You see, after being scorched by the fire of your maker— your father, the sight of Caraxes emerging from the depths did not strike as much fear into you as it did before. In fact, the promise of malice from the beast felt... cathartic, and for once, you welcomed Daemon's insistence on being brought to its maw.

You stumbled against Caraxes' scaly cheek. Having done nothing but lay in the maester's chambers, your hair was not tied or braided in any way. As the wind blew, it tickled against the dragon's face. Caraxes did not seem to enjoy the sensation, and so he growled and snapped his teeth.

Daemon was quick to chastise his mount, and for that, he did not realize your lack of self-preservation. Oh, but Caraxes did; he even growled again, only to be met once more by your unflinching demeanor.

Daemon would only realize your change after taking flight and landing on a beach. Upon dismounting, Caraxes takes it upon himself to screech as you hover. The prince doesn't know who is more bewildered, him or his dragon, when you screech back.

Your neck veins pop and spit comes out of your mouth at the intensity of it all. A harsh wind blows your hair and your skirt. You heave after releasing such a harsh noise.

In truth, perhaps Caraxes is more perturbed as, unlike Daemon's who presses forward, the beast pulls back and shakes his head. He bleats as he watches his rider grab your arm.

The prince means to berate you for your insanity, but then, gods, you rather conveniently succumb to another arrest to your heart and lungs. He does not know why he catches you when your legs give in but he knows exactly why he suggests: "get in the water."

You look up at him, your glassy eyes meeting his violet ones.

He lets you crumble to the ground and bends down to undo your dress, "a swim would do you wonders."

"N-no- you will regret-" you sputter.

But Daemon ignores you, not that it took much effort, for you were incoherent soon enough.

He pulls you out of your dress until you're in nothing but your slip. You sob, and he hushes you, assuring he will be by your side. He removes his tunic. Soon, he is dragging you down deeper and deeper, and you are choking and spitting saltwater.

Daemon decides to simply release you and wait until your body floats lifeless. With how you were gasping, it would not take long. He turns his head when his face is splashed by your flailing arms. When he looks back, the water is calm and your body is nowhere to be seen.

... well, that was rather quick.

He waits for a moment, watching bubbles float up. After a while, he purses his lips and decides to go back ashore. He should have done this sooner.

He freezes when you emerge in front of him, pushing your brown hair off your face. He is perturbed by the serenity across your features; it was as though you were reborn.

You sigh, "I told you you would regret it."

Daemon blankly stares at you.

"There is a great river in Oldtown," you wade around, "the water there is not nearly as pleasant or warm as this, but still... swimming was one of the only ways I could calm myself."

His jaw clenches. He does not even try to hide his disappointment.

You lick your lips at it and turn to Caraxes, who was happily soaking in the sun from the sandy shore, "take heart. Your dragon might entertain himself by eating me yet," you turn to him, "or perhaps my Lord Hand will kill me himself."

His face twists, "what?"

You shake your head and roll your eyes.

He pulls his head back, offended and confused by your sudden nerve.

You allow your body to float up in the water, "you need not pretend. I know you long to kill me."

Daemon is insulted by your brashness. He grabs your floating hip and pushes you down until you're once again face to face. Not a semblance of fear is on your features. It only angers him further.

He snaps, "I could have your tongue for that."

He cannot deny the way his stomach rolls when you place your hands by the base of his neck. The complete change in your temperament puts him on edge. Have you been playing him all along?

"Would it not be simpler to have my head?" you speak plainly, as though you were genuinely curious of his response.

His nostrils flare.

Before he can act, you are swimming off. You emerge from the water, dripping wet. Your clothing is sheer and hugs every part of your body, leaving nothing to the imagination. He could not help but look, but then he was sorely insulted all over when you pet Caraxes head and he lets you.

It was a twisted hallucination. He is suddenly reminded of the milk of the poppy he'd drank; you've probably poisoned him and planned all of this with your cunt father like the conniving whore you really were.

You do not hear him emerge, but only know he did because he is upon you. He forces you around through a severe squeeze on your arms, "what is your game, Hightower cunt?!"

Your body seizes, but you do not succumb to the thundering of your heart, as you had just been relaxed.

He shakes you, making you gasp, "SPEAK!"

"There is no game!" you whimper.

He chuckles dryly, shaking you harshly once more "perhaps it should be said that I need no assistance from my dragon to kill you."

A shiver runs down your spine, "please-"

"Then tell me th-"

"-just do it."

The sound of Caraxes huffing brings Daemon back to reality. And yet it takes you speaking, "just kill me," for him to realize you meant exactly what he thought.

He stills where you descend into further torment. He knows then that it is true. There was no plot, or at least not one where this creature of agony could ever oversee. You were calmed by the water, but not cured. Very truly, he thinks again death would be mercy, convenient for him as well. Yet, in his nature, Daemon does opposite of what he is told and pries his hands off. He mutters under his breath, "ao mūdas run," you terrible thing.

You sob, as if you understood him.

You shed tears unlike the others he's witnessed; there is no panic or fear, only pain.

"Surely you agree it is better than living this way."

The clarity of your voice takes him aback. He turns away, uncomfortable of your sudden agency.

"I have been this way since I can remember," you confess, "and they've all have counted my days for just as long."

"Why must I bloody my hands for you?" he squints, "if you despise living so much, do it yourself."

Your laugh is haunting. You shake your head and wipe your face, "I am not as brave as you. I could not even kill the fishes Gwayne caught for me, though I ate them."

Daemon is unmoved, twice so at the mention of your brother.

"And Gwayne..." you sigh, "he would blame himself." You turn to your feet, warmed by the sand beneath it, "I would not do that to him." You shake your head again, "but again, take heart," you smile, "it will happen soon enough."

His forehead curls.

"I can feel it in my gut," you rub your belly, "it is putrid and festering... whatever it is."

He tilts his head, "then do me a favor and wallow in silence—" he walks off, sparing one last glance, "and try scheming with your cunt father somewhere you will not be caught."

You manically laugh and rip at your hair, "he is my illness, if it is not plain to you."

He stops and turns back to you.

"I am the way that I am because I-" you poke your chest, "am he, had he been born a woman." You rub your sternum, "he loathes me because he is I. I am his hair, his nose, his temper, his... weakness, only amplified because I did not inherit his cock.

"When I pray..." you sniffle, "sometimes I think the gods keep me alive for I am his reckoning— that I must torment him for all the years he has tormented others... tormented me."

Daemon watches the salt from your eyes join the salt on your slip. He stares at your pert nipples then watches you chew your lower lip. He licks his own, "did you mean what you told him?"

You watch as he inches closer, "what?"

"That he is no longer your liege lord," he reaches for your arm, "that I am."

"I-"

Daemon pushes the shoulder of your slip dress down.

Your hand darts to his chest, "i-it is the truth."

He hums and tilts his head. You gasp when he kisses your neck. He licks the saltwater off your skin, enjoying the sound you make when his teeth graze you, "very well then."

Goosebumps form when he pulls your skirt up your thighs.

"It would be beneath a prince to withhold aid for such a tormented spirit."

You do not speak for soon his mouth is claiming yours. It is not as horrid as you imagined it would be. You did not think someone who's shown nothing but aggression could behold you so tenderly. You shiver when he continues to rid you of your sopping clothes. When you break away for air, you manage to mutter, "someone c-could see."

Daemon's expression is changed as stares at you and pushes you to the ground. You gasp as you find yourself atop the garbs he already managed to remove. He undoes his breeches, "who? My dragon?"

You do not know if he means Caraxes.

"You are my wife," he drops to his knees, grabbing yours, "the sin lies with the looker," he pushes your legs apart, "not us."

You bite your lips, feeling the the need to repel him, but decide against it. You simply close your eyes and dig your fingers into the sand.

His loins burn at the sound of your sigh. He sinks into you and relishes your submission. He wraps your legs around him and rocks his hips into yours. You mewl and dig into his back. He bites your lobe before whispering, "you belong to me."

You scratch your nails up his back as his rocking hips send bolts of pleasure in your body.

"Say it."

"I-I-" you heave, "belong to you."

He squeezes your thighs, "you are to do what I so desire."

You gasp softly when he grabs your jaw, making you turn to him.

"-especially if it is against your father, yes?"

You gulp, unable to speak. You simply nod.

Daemon's eyes become hooded. He releases your jaw, claiming your thigh again, "good."

You both remain this way, kissing and rubbing, but then you begin to grow impatient. You bring your mouth to his to catch his attention but do not kiss him. He is taken aback by your unintentional tease and digs his fingers into your flesh. This is why you whimper as you speak, "you- can... enter."

He is broken from his trance, "what?"

"I," you scratch his skin gently, as if to encourage him, "know you are ready. You do not have to hold back. I am accustomed to pain."

He knits his brows, then tilts his head, "how could a virgin know such things?"

He watches bashfulness claim you. You shake your head, "I read it."

"Did your book not tell you it need not be painful?"

"I-" you let out a loud noise when you feel his fingers touch your womanhood, "Daemon-"

He purrs at the sound of his name, "I will show you how good it can feel so that you can tell your father all about it."

The horrifying thought does not even register as he makes you feel things you did not know possible. You begin to shiver and whine, but it is entirely opposite to what your body is accustomed to. Your breath begins to shorten and you instinctively begin to panic, but Daemon's voice keeps you grounded.

"Breathe," he licks your pulse, "it feels good, does it not? Breathe and think of how good I'm making you feel."

You are entirely subservient to him, to his baritone, to his fingers, to his hips. There is nothing but sand and Daemon. You whine when you feel a hard intrusion. The sensation is foreign, and it causes your belly to tense.

He kisses the line that forms between your brows, "relax, my wife. Now is not the time for pain," he hooks his hands behind your knees, "it's a time for pleasure."

It's all a blurry haze after this. Daemon moves into you in a way that makes you wonder how this could ever hurt. Every thrust sends ripples of bliss down your spine. Every hit draws out the lewdest of sounds from your throat. You understand then why they call it love making; you love every moment of it. Your bliss is heightened when he touches something inside you, and again, and again-

For once in your life, as your breath grows heavy, you do not feel like you're about to die.

Daemon alternates tempos, but ultimately resigns to fast and hard. He does not cease until your rigid body goes limp beneath him. The pressure in your stomach breaks into a million burning pieces, and just as it becomes all too much, he pulls out, propping himself up on one arm. You gasp at the heat thats spills on your thigh as he strokes himself. Soon, his arm gives out and he collapses beside you.

You behold the mess of red and white between your legs, but find no shame, only arousal, which you did not expect. You turn to your husband, watching his chest heave, his temples sweat, and his tongue lick his lips.

He's... he's beautiful.

[wolvietxt]

ᰔ what really matters !

pairing : dean winchester x fem!reader warnings : shy!reader, crazy overthinking, friends to lovers, insecurities, implied anxiety, crying, hurt / comfort, jealousy, kiss, dean flirts w other people to show off, happy ending, size diff wc : 6.5k a/n : currently working on a part 2! 

it was supposed to be a simple salt-and-burn. sam had found a lead on a restless spirit haunting a small-town diner, and dean, ever eager for some pie and action, had jumped at the opportunity. you’d tagged along, like always, quietly sitting in the back seat of the impala, offering occasional input between the brothers’ banter.  

the plan was clear: investigate during the day, torch the bones at night. simple enough. yet somehow, being in close proximity to dean for an extended period always felt anything but simple.  

“you’ve been awfully quiet back there,” dean said, turning slightly in the driver’s seat to glance at you. his green eyes lingered a moment too long, forcing him to correct the car’s steering. “everything good?”  

you nodded quickly, avoiding his gaze. “yeah, just… thinking.”  

“uh-oh,” he teased, a grin tugging at his lips. “are you thinking weird again? i told you, sweetheart, you don’t need to do that with us. leave the worrying to sammy.”  

sam huffed from the passenger seat. “thanks for that, dean.”  

you offered a small smile, unsure how to respond. dean’s words felt warm, like a blanket, but your mind couldn’t stop picking them apart. was he teasing, or did he mean it? did he think you worried too much? was it annoying?  

you shook the thoughts away as the car rolled to a stop in front of the diner.  

inside, the place was charming in that worn-down, small-town way. red vinyl booths, a jukebox in the corner, and a waitress who seemed to know everyone’s name. dean leaned against the counter, his usual swagger on full display.  

“so, martha,” he said, flashing the waitress a smile that could’ve melted butter, “anything weird going on around here lately? cold spots, flickering lights, mysterious whispers…?”  

you hovered awkwardly near sam, feeling out of place. martha’s eyes sparkled as she leaned closer to dean, completely ignoring you and sam.  

“oh, weird stuff always happens around here,” she said with a giggle. “but nothing too scary. why, you boys hunting ghosts or something?”  

dean chuckled. “or something.”  

you shifted on your feet, pretending to study the menu even though you weren’t planning on ordering anything. dean’s charm was undeniable, and you’d seen him use it a million times to get information, but it always left you with a strange, hollow feeling.  

not that it mattered. it wasn’t like he meant anything by it.  

“you alright?” sam asked softly, pulling you from your thoughts.  

“yeah,” you lied. “just tired.”  

sam didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push.  

the rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of questions and notes. martha had mentioned a former cook who’d died on the job and hinted at some unusual occurrences in the kitchen, which gave you all a solid lead.  

“we’ll dig up his records, find the grave, and salt-and-burn tonight,” sam said as you walked back to the car.  

“easy peasy,” dean added, slinging an arm around your shoulders as he held the door open for you. “see, this is why you keep us around. all the hard work, none of the worrying.”  

your heart jumped at the casual contact, but you forced yourself to focus. it didn’t mean anything. he was just being dean.  

the graveyard was damp and cold by the time you arrived. armed with shovels, salt, and gasoline, you worked as quickly as possible, trying not to draw attention.  

“you’re sure this is the right spot?” you asked, glancing at the headstone.  

“positive,” sam said. “records match up.”  

“don’t worry,” dean said with a wink, “we’ve got this.”  

you weren’t sure how he managed to be so confident all the time. it was like he didn’t feel fear, or at least he never showed it. you, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about what might go wrong. as the brothers dug, you stayed on lookout, flashlight in hand. the woods were eerily quiet, every rustle of leaves setting your nerves on edge.  

“hey,” dean called, his voice pulling you out of your thoughts. “you good over there, sweetheart?”  

you nodded, gripping the flashlight tighter. “yeah, just keeping watch.”  

“you’re cute when you’re focused, you know that?” he said, grinning as he tossed another shovelful of dirt aside.  

your face burned, and you quickly turned away, pretending to scan the trees. cute? he probably didn’t mean it. he said stuff like that all the time.  

still, the word echoed in your mind, making it hard to think straight.  

the ghost showed up right on cue, just as dean and sam hit the coffin. it was a tall, shadowy figure with glowing eyes, and boy did it move fast. too fast.  

“stay back!” dean shouted, stepping in front of you as the spirit lunged.  

sam was already throwing salt and iron, keeping it at bay while dean lit the match and dropped it into the open grave. flames roared to life, and the ghost let out an ear-splitting scream before vanishing.  

you stood frozen, heart pounding as the grave smoldered.  

“you okay?” dean asked, turning to you. his hands landed on your shoulders, steady and warm.  

you nodded, your voice stuck in your throat.  

“you sure?” he pressed, his green eyes scanning your face.  

“yeah, i’m fine,” you managed to whisper, hoping the fear in your eyes wasn’t too obvious.

he didn’t look convinced but let it go, giving you a reassuring squeeze before stepping back.  

the ride back to the motel was quiet, exhaustion settling over the group.  

“not bad for a day’s work,” dean said, trying to lighten the mood.  

you offered a small smile, but your mind was still racing. every little thing he said, every glance, every touch — it all felt so significant, and yet it probably meant nothing to him.  

“you’re thinking too much again,” dean teased, catching your eye in the rearview mirror. “what’d i tell you about that?”  

“it’s nothing,” you said quickly, hoping he’d drop it.  

but dean being dean, he didn’t.  

“come on,” he said, turning in his seat to face you. “spill it. what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”  

you froze, unsure how to respond. sam shot you a sympathetic look but didn’t intervene.  

“seriously,” dean pressed, his voice softer now. “are you good?”  

you nodded, forcing a smile. “yeah, ‘m just tired.”  

he studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before turning back to the road.  

back at the motel, you retreated to your room as quickly as possible, needing space to breathe.  

dean had always been a little too much — too loud, too charming, too... everything. and yet, you couldn’t help but feel drawn to him, even if you knew it was hopeless. you sighed, flopping onto the bed and staring at the ceiling.  

somewhere in the room next door, dean was probably cracking jokes with sam, completely unaware of the chaos he caused in your mind.  

it was fine. it had to be fine.  

because as much as you wanted to believe he saw you as more than a friend, you couldn’t risk getting your hopes up.  

the day started like any other, with sam at the laptop, you poring over your notes, and dean bustling around with an air of restless energy.  

“coffee?” dean asked, holding up a cup for you.  

you nodded, offering a small smile. “thanks.”  

he plopped down beside you at the motel table, his knee bumping yours. “so, what’s the game plan today, professor?”  

“um…” you hesitated, flipping through the notebook in front of you. “so, i think we should — ”  

“let me guess,” dean interrupted with a grin. “the safest, most boring route possible, right?”  

you blinked, taking a second to process what he’d just said, hurt surely beginning to form in your features.

“it’s not boring,” you mumbled.  

“sure thing… but hey, relax!” he said, patting your shoulder. “you’re good at what you do, even if you’re a little… well, a lot predictable.”  

your stomach twisted. predictable? was that how he saw you?  

“thanks, dean,” you muttered, staring down at your notes to hide the burn in your cheeks. sam noticed though. sam always noticed.

sam shot dean a look from across the room. “hey, maybe ease up a little, man.”  

“what?” dean said, shrugging him off, a deep chuckle reverberating from his chest. “i’m just messing with her.”  

the lighthearted tone didn’t soften the sting. you knew dean teased everyone, but his words stuck like a burr under your skin, refusing to let go.  

soon after, the three of you piled into the impala, the rumble of the engine filling the silence as dean cranked up the radio. you stared out the window, letting the music blur into background noise while your mind replayed the conversation from earlier.  

predictable. you thought, the word echoing in your head.  

you weren’t mad at dean — how could you be? he didn’t mean anything by it. but the overthinking wouldn’t let up, weaving a web of doubt and insecurity that clung to you like static.  

“you okay?” sam asked from the front seat, glancing back at you.  

you forced a smile. “yeah. just tired.”  

sam didn’t press, but his concerned expression lingered.  

the diner was bustling with mid-morning activity when you arrived, the smell of coffee and sizzling bacon wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. you slid into the booth, hoping the noise would drown out your thoughts.  

“what can i get ya?” the waitress asked, her voice cheerful as she slid the menus across the table.

“just a coffee, please,” you said quickly, barely looking up as your fingers fumbled over the paper.

“and a stack of pancakes,” dean added, leaning forward and giving her a grin that was just a little too easy. “extra syrup. gotta start the day off right, y’know?”

the waitress’s eyes lit up, and she laughed, her attention lingering on dean as she jotted down the order. there was something almost playful in the way she looked at him, an expression that made your chest tighten.

“you sure know how to charm, don’t ya?” she teased, her voice warm and full of flirtation.

“what can i say?” dean replied, that easy smirk tugging at his lips. “comes pretty easily when i’m speaking to women like you.”

you forced your eyes back to the menu, though you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing at the way the waitress’s fingers lingered on the pen, her attention still fixed on dean. the two of them seemed to be in a world of their own, and you were just... here. watching. waiting.

“what about you, sweetheart?” the waitress turned to you, her smile softening just slightly, though it didn’t reach her eyes.

“uh, just coffee, please,” you mumbled again, feeling heat crawl up your neck. your voice felt small in the noise of the diner, a whisper lost among the clatter of plates and low hum of conversation.

“gotcha,” she said, giving you a brief, almost dismissive nod before turning and making her way to the kitchen. you could still feel her attention on you, like an echo, but this time, it was empty, no warmth behind it.

dean shifted beside you, leaning back and letting out a low chuckle. “she’s got quite the smile, huh?” his eyes were teasing, his grin crooked as he looked over at you and sam. the joke was light, but there was an edge to it that made you feel off balance.

you forced a laugh, but it came out hollow, cracking under the weight of the moment. “yeah, sure,” you said, keeping your eyes fixed on the coffee cup in front of you, the porcelain cool and solid beneath your fingertips.

“you okay?” sam’s voice broke through the silence once again. dean’s teasing slipping away as his eyes studied you too. there was a flicker of concern in them, but before you could let yourself get lost in it, he added, “didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, sweetheart. it’s just... that kind of smile, you know?”

the question hung in the air, and you couldn’t tell if he was talking about the waitress or you. but the sharp sting of jealousy you felt at the thought made your throat tighten. you forced a smile, though it felt like a lie. “i’m fine. just... not hungry, that’s all.”

“you sure?” he pressed, his expression softening as he reached for his coffee. the playful energy had faded, and now there was something else, a vulnerability that felt rare for him.

“yeah,” you said, voice quiet. “just... never mind.”

he leaned back, eyes still on you, but this time, there was a shadow in them, a shift that made your heart twist. he looked away, watching the waitress as she came back with a smile that was just for him. his eyes softened, and he laughed as she spoke to him, teasing and warm.

it was almost too much, the way he could be so effortlessly charming. your chest ached with the realization that the way he looked at her was the same way he looked at you sometimes, though it felt different when it was just the two of you, alone in the dim light of the bunker. 

by the time the food arrived, your appetite had disappeared. dean was still chatting with the waitress every time she came by, his voice low and easy in a way that made your chest ache.  

you stared at your coffee cup, your fingers tightening around it as your thoughts spiraled. was this what dean wanted? someone confident, flirty, and self-assured? someone like her?  

the sting of earlier comments layered on top, building a weight that felt impossible to carry.  

“you sure you’re okay?” sam asked again softly, his voice cutting through the haze.  

“fine,” you said quickly, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over.  

sam’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t push.  

dean, oblivious, kept talking. “man, this coffee’s strong enough to put hair on your chest. might wanna ease up, professor,” he teased, nudging you lightly.  

that was it. the dam broke.  

you barely registered standing up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.  

“excuse me,” you muttered, your voice shaking.  

you hurried out of the diner, your chest tight and your vision blurred.  

sam found you a few minutes later, sitting on a bench just outside. he didn’t say anything at first, just sat down beside you and offered a quiet, grounding presence.  

“you wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asked eventually, his tone careful.  

you shook your head, unable to form the words.  

“okay,” he said gently. “you don’t have to talk. just breathe.”  

his arm slipped around your shoulders, pulling you close. the dam fully burst then, tears streaming down your face as you buried your head in your hands.  

sam held you, his voice low and steady. “you’re alright. just let it out.”  

his hand alternating between rubbing soothing circles on your back and tapping you lightly to the beat of your heart, the steady motions helping to calm the blur.

“‘m sorry, sam,” you choked out between sobs.  

“don’t apologize,” sam said firmly. “you don’t even owe anyone an explanation. especially not dean.”  

you flinched at the mention of his name, fresh waves of doubt and embarrassment washing over you.  

sam seemed to sense it, his tone softening even more. “he doesn’t mean half the crap he says, you know. he’s just… dean.”  

you managed a shaky nod, though the knot in your chest didn’t fully ease.  

“hey,” sam said, tipping your chin up to look at him. “you’re okay.”

he pressed a light kiss to your forehead, the gesture warm and comforting in a way that made you tear up all over again. sam had always had a way of calming you down, knowing what was wrong and when. you were very similar in lots of ways.

inside, dean sat in the booth, fidgeting with his coffee cup.  

“where’d they go?” the waitress asked, dropping off the check.  

“outside,” dean muttered, his gaze fixed on the window.  

he watched as sam wrapped you in a hug, his jaw tightening.  

“everything okay with your girl?” the waitress asked, her tone light.  

“she’s not my girl,” dean said quickly, his voice a little sharper than he intended.  

the waitress raised an eyebrow but didn’t push further, the hint of a smile ghosting over her features.

dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. he hadn’t meant to upset you — he never did — but the sight of you crying, with sam comforting you, made something twist in his chest. he threw some cash on the table and stood, his mind racing with a mix of guilt and something else he couldn’t quite name. jealousy, maybe?  

he pushed the thought aside, heading toward the door.  

“dean?” sam’s voice cut through the noise of the diner.  

dean turned, finding his brother standing outside the far doorway, his arm still draped protectively around you.  

“give her a minute,” sam said, his expression firm.  

dean nodded, swallowing hard as he watched you lean into sam’s side.  

he retreated back and stood in the doorway of the diner, his boots scuffing against the floor as he watched you outside with sam. his jaw ticked, the familiar burn of guilt twisting in his chest.  

you’d looked so hurt when you bolted. he hadn’t meant to upset you — hell, he rarely thought before he spoke, but he hated that his careless words had made you cry.  

and then there was sam, playing the role of the comforter, his arm draped around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.  

dean hated how that made him feel. jealousy wasn’t a look he liked wearing, but damn if it wasn’t fitting him like a glove right now. he shoved his hands into his pockets, staring down at the worn linoleum. when sam finally walked you back in, dean forced himself to meet your eyes.  

you glanced at him briefly, your cheeks blotchy and red, before dropping your gaze to the floor. the pang in his chest deepened.  

sam gave him a pointed look, one that said, don’t screw this up, before gently nudging you toward the booth.  

you slid in first, keeping as much distance between you and dean as possible.  

“hey,” dean started, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “you okay?”  

“i’m fine,” you murmured, not looking up.  

the waitress returned, her cheerfulness only adding to the tension at the table.  

“ready for the check?” she asked, glancing between the three of you.  

“yeah, we’re done,” dean said gruffly, tossing some cash onto the table without counting it. “keep the change.”  

the waitress hesitated, her gaze lingering on dean for a second too long before she turned and walked away.  

sam cleared his throat. “we should probably hit the road.”  

“yeah,” dean muttered, sliding out of the booth.  

the ride back to the motel was quieter than it had ever been. the only sound was the low hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of paper as sam reviewed the hunt notes. dean kept glancing at you in the rearview mirror, but you didn’t notice. you were too busy staring out the window, your fingers twisting nervously in your lap.  

“so,” sam said awkwardly, breaking the silence, “any ideas on how we’re gonna track this thing down?”  

dean grunted. “same as always. follow the trail, kill the thing.” 

sam shot him a look but didn’t press further.  

you stayed quiet, your thoughts miles away.  

back at the motel, you retreated to your room almost immediately, mumbling something about needing to check your notes. dean and sam both watched you go, the motel door clicking shut behind you.  

dean’s jaw tightened as the guilt settled deeper in his chest. he wasn’t used to feeling like this — so unsure, so aware of every single way he’d messed up. he rubbed a hand over his face, frustration building as he stared at the floor. he could feel sam's eyes on him, the tension thick in the air. he didn’t know how to fix it, and that made everything worse.

“dean, what the fuck? that shit you pulled at the diner… it doesn’t impress her you know. flirting with other people. christ.” sam said, his voice getting louder with every word, visibly stressing out. evidently, he’d been holding that in for a while now, waiting to get dean alone.

“i know i fucked up. okay, sam, i know.” dean snapped back.

“you’re gonna talk to her, right? you better.” sam asked, leaning against the kitchenette counter.  

“yeah,” dean muttered, running a hand through his hair. “just… give me a minute.”  

you didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the thin motel walls didn’t leave much to the imagination.  

hearing dean pacing and muttering under his breath made your stomach twist. you couldn’t make out the words, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out he was talking about you. the familiar voice of self-doubt crept in, louder than ever.  

he’s probably frustrated with me. i overreacted. i always overreact.

you sank onto the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands.  

dean knocked on your door a little later, his knuckles rapping softly against the wood.  

“hey,” he called, his voice hesitant. “you busy?”  

you hesitated, then opened the door a crack. “no.”  

he stood there, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself.  

“can we talk?” he asked.  

you nodded, stepping aside to let him in.  

he glanced around the room, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “listen,” he started, “about earlier…”  

you shifted nervously, not meeting his eyes.  

“i’m sorry,” he said, his voice low. “i didn’t mean to upset you. i was just… being a bit of an idiot, like usual.”  

you looked up at him then, surprised by the sincerity in his tone.  

“you didn’t do anything wrong,” you said quietly.  

“yeah, i did,” he admitted, his green eyes locking onto yours. “i was an ass, and you didn’t deserve that.”  

the honesty in his voice made your chest ache.  

“it’s okay,” you said, though you weren’t entirely sure you believed it.  

“it’s not,” dean insisted. “you’re… you’re important to me. and the last thing i want is to make you feel like crap.”  

your breath hitched at his words, the weight of them settling over you like a warm blanket.  

“thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.  

he took a step closer, his gaze searching yours. “are we okay?”  

you nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips.  

“good,” he said, the tension in his shoulders easing.  

he seemed to hesitate a little before taking another step closer, looking down at you as he seemed to study your expression. he smiled once again, a big cheesy dean smile and then after he seemed to contemplate what to do he turned on his heel after planting a soft kiss on your head. as he turned to leave, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d just imagined the way his eyes lingered on you, soft and full of something you couldn’t quite name.  

inside his own room, dean collapsed onto the bed with a groan. he stared at the ceiling, replaying everything over in his head.  

he’d apologized, sure, but it didn’t feel like enough. not when you’d looked so… defeated. for one of the first times in his life he felt awkward, he hoped you hadn’t thought too much of the kiss, however short lived. his chest tightened at the memory of your tear-streaked face in the diner. it was like a punch to the gut every time he thought about it.  

“damn it,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face.  

he hated this. hated feeling like he was losing his grip on something that mattered so much to him. because you did matter — to him, more than you probably knew. and that was the problem. he wasn’t sure how to show you without screwing it up further.  

the tension you thought was resolved seemed to linger between you and dean the next day, hanging over the group like a storm cloud. sam did his best to fill the silence, but it was clear neither of you were really in the mood to talk.  

“i’ll check out the library,” sam said finally, grabbing his bag. “you two stay here, see if you can dig up anything online.”  

dean nodded, not meeting your eyes as sam left. the door clicked shut, leaving the two of you alone.  

“you want the laptop?” dean asked, his voice gruff.  

you nodded, taking it from him without a word.  

he sighed, leaning back in his chair. “look, i don’t know how many more times i can say i’m sorry, but — ”  

“you don’t have to keep apologizing,” you interrupted, your voice softer than you intended. a stark contrast to his.

he blinked, caught off guard. “i just… i hate that i made you feel like that.”  

you glanced at him, your heart aching at the genuine regret in his eyes.  

“it’s okay, dean. you’ve already said sorry, i thought that was it,” you said, even though part of you wasn’t sure it really was.  

he nodded, his jaw tightening as he looked away.  

that night, dean stood outside your door again, debating whether or not to knock. he hated this distance between you two, hated feeling like he was walking on eggshells. but most of all, he hated that he didn’t know how to fix it.  

finally, he knocked, his heart pounding in his chest.  

“come in,” you called softly.  

he opened the door, hesitating in the doorway.  

“hey,” he said, his voice quiet. “you doing okay?”  

you nodded, though the tightness in your chest said otherwise.  

he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.  

“look,” he started, running a hand through his hair, “i know i’m not great at this kind of thing, but… i care about you. more than i probably should.”  

your breath caught, his words hitting you like a freight train.  

“dean, i…”  

he held up a hand, cutting you off. “just… let me say this, okay? i care about you, and i hate seeing you upset. especially if it’s because of me.”  

you swallowed hard, your chest tightening as you fought back tears.  

“you’re not just a friend to me,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.  

your heart skipped a beat, his words sinking in. what could he mean by that? what you’d always wished he felt for you?

“dean,” you said softly, your voice trembling, “you mean a lot to me too.”  

he looked at you, his green eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite name.  

“so… are we good?” he asked, his voice laced with uncertainty.  

you nodded, a small smile breaking through the tension.  

“yeah,” you said, your voice steadier this time.  

he smiled back, the tension in his shoulders finally easing fully. and for the first time in days, things between you felt like they might actually be okay.  

you weren’t sure how it happened, but somehow you and dean ended up crammed together in the tiny motel room armchair, your knees brushing his and his warmth radiating off him like a furnace.  

sam had taken off to follow a lead, leaving you and dean to man the research front. but the computer battery had died, the coffee had gone cold, and now you were both lazily flipping through books neither of you were really reading.  

dean tilted his head, watching you as you squinted at the small print. “you always make that face when you read?”  

“what face?” you asked, looking up at him.  

“that cute little scrunched-up thing,” he said, a teasing grin spreading across his face.  

your stomach flipped, and you ducked your head, suddenly very interested in the book in your lap. “i don’t scrunch my face.”  

“yeah, you do,” he said, leaning closer. “like this.”  

he exaggerated a dramatic squint, furrowing his brow and twisting his mouth into something ridiculous.  

you couldn’t help it — you giggled, the sound soft and bubbling out of you before you could stop it.  

dean grinned wider, clearly pleased with himself. “there it is,” he said, his voice warm.  

for a moment, everything felt easy, natural, like the awkwardness and tension of the past few days had melted away. but then your eyes caught the faint smear of grease on his hand, and your mind drifted.  

you thought back to the first time you’d realized you had a crush on dean winchester.  

it had been a quiet night in the bunker, just the two of you tinkering with the impala. he’d handed you a wrench, his hand brushing yours, and you’d felt it — a spark, like a live wire connecting the two of you.  

he’d smiled at you then, soft and genuine, and it had made your heart race.  

you’d brushed it off at first, chalking it up to admiration or something equally benign. but the more time you spent with him, the more you realized it was something else entirely.  

you’d fallen for him — hard.  

and it wasn’t just his looks, though you’d be lying if you said those green eyes and that cocky grin didn’t make your knees weak. it was everything about him: the way he protected the people he cared about, the way he laughed, the way he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and still managed to crack a joke.  

but he’d never see you that way. how could he? you were just… you.  

and then there was the size difference. it wasn’t something you normally thought about, but around dean, it was impossible to ignore. he was tall, broad-shouldered, and solid in a way that made you feel both safe and utterly self-conscious.  

you, on the other hand, felt small in comparison — too small, too quiet, too unsure of yourself to ever catch his attention.  

“hey,” dean said, his voice pulling you out of your thoughts. “you good?”  

“yeah,” you said quickly, forcing a smile.  

“you sure? you spaced out there for a second.”  

“just tired,” you lied.  

he didn’t look convinced, but he let it go, leaning back in the chair and stretching his legs out in front of him.  

dean wasn’t immune to overthinking either, though he’d never admit it out loud. he’d had a thing for you for what felt like forever, but he’d always convinced himself it was a bad idea.  

you were shy, sweet, and way too good for someone like him. besides, he didn’t want to scare you off — not when having you around was one of the few things that made the job bearable.  

so he kept his feelings to himself, content to just be your friend, even if it killed him a little every time you smiled at him like he hung the moon.  

but there were moments — moments like now, with you sitting so close, your leg brushing his and your eyes darting to his every so often — that made it damn near impossible to keep his cool.  

“you know,” he said, his voice low, “you don’t have to keep everything to yourself.”  

you blinked at him, caught off guard. “what do you mean?”  

“i mean… you can talk to me,” he said, his gaze steady. “about anything.”  

your heart squeezed at the sincerity in his voice.  

“i know,” you said softly.  

he smiled at that, a small, lopsided grin that made your chest feel warm.  

“good,” he said, leaning forward slightly.  

the proximity made your breath hitch, your eyes locking onto his for a moment that felt like it stretched on forever. but then the moment passed, and he leaned back again, running a hand through his hair.  

later that night, as you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, your thoughts wandered again.  

you thought about all the little things dean did — how he always walked on the side closest to traffic, how he made sure you ate on hunts, how he was quick to tease but just as quick to defend you if anyone else tried.  

he cared about you. you knew that much.  

but as a friend, or something more?  

the uncertainty gnawed at you, and you rolled onto your side, pulling the blanket tighter around you.  

dean wasn’t faring much better. he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor, his mind racing.  

he thought about all the times he’d come close to saying something, only to chicken out at the last second.  

he thought about the way you’d looked at him earlier, like you were trying to figure him out. he thought about how often he fucked up infront of you, trying to distract himself from his silly crush only to regret it afterwards. and he thought about the way you made him feel — like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as broken as he thought he was.  

“screw it,” he muttered under his breath, standing up and heading for your door.  

a knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts, startling you. you sat up in bed, heart thudding.  

“it’s me,” dean’s voice came softly from the other side, muffled but familiar.  

“come in,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.  

the door creaked open, and dean stepped inside, his movements careful. he closed the door behind him quietly, as if not wanting to disturb the stillness of the night.  

“i couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar way, his gaze briefly flicking to yours before darting away.  

“yeah, me neither,” you murmured, fingers twisting the edge of the blanket draped over your lap.  

he hesitated for a moment, standing awkwardly near the door before crossing the room and sitting down on the edge of your bed. the mattress dipped slightly under his weight, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.  

finally, dean broke the silence. “so i’ve been thinking,” he started, his voice quiet but deliberate. “about us.”  

your stomach flipped, your pulse quickening as his words hung in the air. “us?” you echoed, barely audible.  

he nodded, his jaw working like he was trying to find the right words. “you mean a lot to me,” he said finally, his voice rough around the edges. “more than i’ve ever really let on. i regret that.”

your breath caught, your chest tightening at the quiet vulnerability in his tone.  

“dean…” you began, but he held up a hand, his eyes meeting yours fully now.  

“let me say this,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “i’ve spent so much time trying to keep things simple, to keep things from getting messy. but with you…” he trailed off, his expression softening as he searched your face. “it’s never been simple. and i wouldn’t want it to be.”  

his words hit you like a punch to the gut — raw, honest, and so undeniably him.  

“i don’t know if i’m any good at this,” he admitted, his hand brushing yours where it rested on the blanket. the touch was light, almost hesitant, but it sent a shiver up your spine. “but i want to try. if you’ll let me.”  

your heart raced, a thousand emotions swirling inside you. “dean, you don’t have to…”  

“i want to,” he interrupted, his voice steady. “i care about you. more than i probably should. and i don’t want to keep pretending like that’s not true.”  

your hand was fully engulfed in his now. you swallowed hard, his words settling over you like a warm blanket. he looked at you, his green eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation.  

dean’s gaze flickered, his lips parting slightly before he closed them again, his hesitation palpable. his other hand hovered near yours, fingers brushing faintly, the touch so light it was almost imagined. the space between you seemed to shrink on its own, the weight of the moment settling over both of you. his eyes lingered, tracing the lines of your face as if memorizing every detail.  

his fingers shifted closer, finally grazing yours with deliberate care. the air grew warmer, each heartbeat louder than the last, as if the world itself held its breath, waiting.

“can i…?” he started, his voice trailing off as he leaned slightly closer, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes.  

you nodded, unable to find your voice, your chest tight with anticipation.  

his hand cupped your cheek gently, his thumb brushing against your skin as he leaned in. his lips met yours softly, testing, like he was afraid to push too far. but when you didn’t pull away, he pressed a little closer, his warmth grounding you.

the moment his lips met yours, the world seemed to tilt. his kiss was slow, deliberate, like he was savoring every second, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. your fingers clutched at his shirt, the fabric bunching beneath your grip as a quiet whimper escaped you.  

dean groaned in response, the sound low and rough, reverberating against your lips. it sent a shiver down your spine, your cheeks flushing hotter. his other hand found your waist, firm but gentle, anchoring you to him. his thumb traced the curve of your jaw as he deepened the kiss, his touch igniting something that left you breathless.

when he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes half-lidded and his breathing slightly uneven.  

“i’ve wanted to do that for so damn long,” he confessed, his voice low and filled with something you couldn’t quite name.  

“me too,” you whispered, your cheeks flushed and your heart pounding.  

he chuckled softly, the sound warm and comforting. “guess we’re both a little stubborn, huh?”  

you smiled, a weight lifting off your chest as his words settled into your heart. “maybe just a little.”  

dean’s fingers traced the edge of your jaw, his touch lingering as if he wasn’t ready to let go. “you’re fuckin’ awesome, you know that?” he said softly, his voice almost reverent. 

you giggled quietly, the sound light and easy. “if i’m fuckin’ awesome, what are you?” you said, mimicking his much deeper voice,

he smirked, his expression softening as he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment. “just lucky,” he said, his voice filled with a quiet sincerity that made your chest ache in the best way. 

ᰔ dean winchester : @person-005, @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[nerdy-novelist017]

Trouble (Eric Draven x Rebel!Reader)

Bill Skarsgard, covered in blood and acting feral as he violently kills people to avenge the woman he loves?? Yeah, that really did a number on me….but I couldn’t help but fall in love with Eric’s quiet character in the first act so pls enjoy my ramblings! 💕

Eric Draven Masterlist

Word Count- 1.5k+

Summary- Eric's carefully guarded solitude is disrupted by a bold newcomer who seems to be trouble incarnate.

“I wanna get in trouble.”

A voice, sudden and electric, broke Eric from his reverie as a figure’s shadow fell across the intricate lines and shadows of his drawing. He glanced up hesitantly, shielding his eyes from the harsh sunlight behind you. His eyes were met with the sight of you – a tempestuous spirit with wild, untamed hair that cascaded around your face like a mane, defying the order and discipline of this facility. There was a glint in your eyes, mischievous and daring, that seemed to challenge the very atmosphere around you. You loomed above him, a figure of restless energy, waiting for a response that he was unprepared to give. 

“What?” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper, a stark contrast to the boldness of your intrusion. 

You grinned cheekily, and with an audacity that left him momentarily stunned, you stepped up onto the picnic bench he was perched at, planting yourself so that you were sitting on the table as if it was your own personal stage. Your feet, clad in worn, oversized sneakers rested casually on the seat in a silent declaration of your disregard for rules. “Don’t you?”

Eric blinked at you, his brows furrowed as he hastily pulled his papers closer, as if to shield them from your encroaching presence. “No.”

“No?” you parroted, a suggestive playfulness tone to your voice. “But this place is so boring.” 

He glanced around the yard, taking in the stark reality of the rehab facility, his eyes lingering on the chain link fence with its towering barbed wire glinting menacingly in the afternoon sun. “It’s supposed to be,” he said with cold detachment. “And you’re not supposed to be fraternizing with me.”

You followed his gaze, casting a sly look to the guards who stood at the back door, and a smirk danced on your lips. “Uh oh, I wonder what the consequences for that will be.”

Eric wanted to roll his eyes at your attitude. This was how all the newbies were when they came in: brash, defiant and convinced they could outwit the system. They came in with fire in their eyes only for it to be extinguished within days by the crushing reality of their situation. Nobody stayed trouble for long. He watched as their bravado withered, soon to be replaced by resignation. And the ones like you – those who pushed the boundaries with reckless abandon – often found themselves confined to solitary confinement, their spirits slowly eroded by the wright of their own demons. 

“You think I could seduce one of these guards to sneak us in some contraband?” you asked, raising your brow in a conspiratorial way as you nodded toward a pair of male guards standing near the backdoor, idly chatting and sharing a cigarette. 

Eric’s gaze traveled over you, from the oversized, ugly pink sweatshirt that swamped your frame to the untamed hair that framed your face like a wild halo. You spoke of “us” as if any semblance of companionship existed between you too. There wasn’t. It was just him and his solitary existence. He had no need for friends, no desire for connections – especially not from someone like you. 

“No,” he said finally as he returned to his sketch, hoping his blatant disinterest would be enough to drive you away. “You need to get off the table.”

He could feel your eyes on him, your gaze almost too intense. When you tilted your head, studying him in amused disbelief, he knew what was coming. Another newbie thinking they could crack him open like some sort of nut, put together the broken pieces like a puzzle. He kept his attention on the drawing, hoping you’d take the hint and leave him alone. 

“C’mon, you don’t look like someone who’s this much of a stick in the mud.” Your voice was playful, teasing but Eric could sense the challenge beneath it. His silence seemed to fuel you, as if his resistance was exactly what you were hoping for. “What’s your name anyway?”

He hesitated, hating how you were forcing him to interact with you like some needy puppy. “Eric,” he muttered, keeping his gaze locked on the drawing.

“Eric,” you tasted his name on your lips quietly. It grated on him, the way you spoke as if you already knew him, already had him all figured out. “You’re an artist, huh? I bet you’re all dark and broody, right? The strong, silent type?”

His jaw tightened, his pencil pressing a little too hard against the paper. He didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him, but he could feel your words digging right under his skin. Dark and brooding? Strong and silent? You didn’t know anything about him, didnt understand the darkness that lingered in the corners of his mind, the weight of the silence he carried, yet here you were, already trying to pin him down with labels. And typically, Eric didn’t care what anyone else here labeled him with, but your unnervingly amicable voice was something he wasn’t used to. It was almost laughable, except it wasn’t. It was annoying. 

Your words struck a nerve. He remained quiet, instead choosing to focus on the shading in the corner of his page, tried to drown out the sound of your voice, but he knew his silence was betraying him. The tension in his jaw, the way his grip on the pencil tightened – it all gave him away, and he could almost feel you noticing it, filing it away for later. God, why couldn’t you just leave him alone? 

Then you leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a whisper for only his ears to hear. “You know, I think you want to get into trouble. You’re just too scared to admit it.”

His eyes snapped up to meet yours before he could stop himself, his heart racing at the sudden intensity in your eyes. And there was something in your gaze that unsettled him. Annoyance flared up first, hot and defensive. But beneath that, he felt a flicker of . . . curiosity. And he hated that too – hated that you were getting under his skin. What the hell did you even know about him? What gave you the right to pry into his life, his thoughts.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he retorted, his voice sharper than he intended, the words escaping in a rush of defensiveness. 

You shrugged, unbothered by his tone, a playful smile tugging on your lips. “Maybe not yet, but I’m good at figuring people out. And I think you’re bored out of your mind here, just like me. You’re dying for something – anything – to happen.”

Eric shook his head, forcing himself to look back down at his sketch. “You’re wrong.” 

Even to his own ears, the denial sounded weak, and that only served to deepen his irritation. 

You let out a dramatic sigh, stretching your arms overhead, and Eric resisted the urge to glance up. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. I’m always up for a little fun.”

“Fun,” he echoed, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He wasn’t even sure why he bothered to respond, but something about your persistence was unraveling him bit by bit. “That's what got us in here in the first place. 

You paused, and for a second, Eric thought maybe he had finally shut you up. He looked up and caught a flicker of something else in your expression, something serious that made his chest tighten with a feeling he couldn’t quite name. But just like that, it was gone, replaced by that infuriating grin. 

“Maybe,” you said, your voice softer, thoughtful in a way that made him uneasy. “But maybe that’s what will get us out of here too.”

Eric watched as you slid off the table, landing lightly on the ground. For a moment, he thought you might actually leave him alone, and the relief that washed over him was sweet. But then you turned back, hands stuffed into the pocket of that oversized sweatshirt, your grin still in place – though it didn’t seem to reach your eyes quite the same as before. 

“See you around, Eric,” you said before sauntering off, as if you didn’t just turn his whole world upside down in a matter of a few minutes. 

He stared after you, watching as you kicked at the feet of another unsuspecting patient who grumbled at you as you passed. His mind raced, his drawing forgotten, the lines and shadows now blurring together in an indistinct mess. He hated how you so easily managed to disrupt his carefully-constructed isolation, how you made him think about things he thought he’d buried a long time ago. He wanted to believe you were just another reckless newbie, just another faceless patient in a sea of addicts who would burn out soon enough. But something in the pit of his gut told him you were different – something he couldn’t shake. 

In the silence that followed your departure, Eric was left to grapple with the realization that the trouble you brought was not just a disruption, but a catalyst for change, a challenge to his solitude. And now as he returned to his meaningless drawing, he wondered briefly if perhaps your indelible, chaotic presence was exactly what he needed to rewrite his own story in the hell hole. 

And that scared him more than he’d like to admit.

Tagging some of you who seemed interested!

@apolloanddaphnis @one-of-thewalkingdead @m00npjm @maimai-0603 @redwitchbitch1 @at-midnight @fandom-fanatix @spoiled-bat13 @alinahdee @mrsalwayswrite

[virelaisnox]

Twice Loved, Once Cursed

Summary : Sacred, yet despicable. You were the lover who was lost in the long night, a night that continues to live in every beat of time that has followed him until now.

She is the symbol of a broken promise, a protection that has failed to be kept.

Previously, her body was tied to a stake, burned alive on accusations of being loyal to dark powers.

A blood-sucking devil—a creature of the night who destroyed cities, who stole and tore apart mercilessly.

Now, that same soul returns —born in the body of a holy, pure, and untouchable person.

And for the second time... he came bringing a fate that could not be avoided.

Warning : Dark religious imagery & spiritual conflict, themes of death, burning at the stake, and reincarnation, forbidden romance & morally complex relationships, power imbalance & emotional manipulation, mild sensuality. Pairing: Remmick x Fem!Reader

⚠️MINOR DO NOT INTERACT⚠️

[Chapter 2]

The creaking of the front door opening made you cringe and send shivers straight to the back of your neck. “Keep quiet. You can’t sleep on the couch. My father will be back soon.” You said in a tone that is so low, almost like a whisper trying to make your arrival unknown. Stepping lightly into the entrance of your house, crossing the sacred threshold that spiritually visited and under the sprigs of overhanging palm trees your movements were hurried as you took off your robe, set down your weapons to where it was usually kept, and the rest of your belongings. You didn’t light the firewood. No, you have to keep it discreet. Since you have no other sensible excuse to reason with your father because the groceries you had bought were scattered around the ground somewhere near the cotton field—you're supposed to make it seem as if you have never left the house.

The lack of response from the man behind you made you wonder and turned,

"Why are you still there?"

He took a breath in as if preparing what he's going to say next. “ —W-well, you didn’t invite me in,” He almost seems like he could trip over his own words, as if he tries his best to sound very convincing when he doesn't need to.

“It's rude to enter someone’s house uninvited, ya know?” He added, with a stiff laugh after. Odd. It is not that you did not appreciate the politeness of a guess. But, I mean, we are already all the way down here—why does he need another invitation from me?

“Oh you need that? why?”

As your question lingered in the air, he began to appear very frustrated, restless. He scratched the back of his head, and his eyes never seemed to meet yours. Avoiding.

You’d wait, yes, of course. After all, we have all the time in the world until Dad gets back, right? Therefore, with no further ado you chose to follow his need to be such a civilized person at just the right fuckin’ time.

“Alright, come the fuck in then.”

His grin spreads wide, seeming almost devilish and proud, as if he had just won a lottery when he stepped inside with a wide smirk plastered on his face.

“Quite a mouth you have there..” The man said.

Something else suddenly clicked in your brain, yet another one of the many to prove that this man was, in fact, who you’d wished him not to be. Nevertheless, you kept your mouth sealed.

“Poor little unfortunate soul had welcomed the grim reaper himself inside her house..” The spirits whispered.

“Here, clean yourself first ‘fore my father comes back.” You tossed him toiletries and clean clothes, a sleeveless shirt and pants that reached below his knees. Borrowed from your Father's.

“You've got to be in my room immediately. He’ll kill me if he finds out I brought a stranger home.” Your tone was assertive, carrying an undertone warning. — “Oh, don’t say that, we ain’t no strangers, eh?” His tone conveyed light-heartedness.

“Yes, we still are. What are ya talkin’ about? I don’t know you, you don’t know me. Far as I know we are strangers.” You turned your back at him.

You could hear him shrug, yet another tease fullness noted in his voice. “you’re in such a hurry to get me in your room?” his voice was low and gravelly. You could feel his piercing gaze even with your back turn to him.

“I don’t speak nonsense, now better get you ass cleaned up ‘fore i change my mind and tell you to get the fuck out my house.” He only returns your scolding with a pleased grin, as if he found satisfaction in riling you up.

†

After a few minutes, the man stepped out of the stall washed up. And by the Mother of God, you didn't realize your mouth was almost watering at the sight. How could you not? After all, no tale of yours has ever included a man setting foot inside your home—your father, God resting him, would’ve drawn his gun before the poor soul even took his next breath. It was hard to deny, his body, that was not completely dry, glistening under the dim white light making his lines and muscles stand out, toned and lean. His biceps contracted with each movement made as if to show off their glory. The v-line that disappeared under the towel wrapped around his waist made your mind wander wild, further than any good Catholic girl supposed to.

As luck would have it, again, he noticed. You quickly snapped out of your daydream. He saw how your eyes wandered across his bare body, the way you swallowed hard, how your legs trembled and pressed together in the mere sight of him.

“Like what you see, lil’ miss?” Goddamn right, i do.

He walked closer, his steps were certain and purposeful, like a wild animal eyeing its prey, his gaze piercing cold to your bones.

“I’m goddamn sure you crave more than you are afraid o’ me, lil’ missy..” He coos, his lips were moist, teasing the tender flesh on your earlobe, the kind of touch he reckon will make your body give out.

“Ey, didn’t i give ya clothes?” Your attempt to change the subject came to no fruition.

The space between you was scarcely more than a breath—too near to dismiss, yet just far enough to remain untouchable. One wrong move, and you'd find yourself entangled in something you couldn’t undo. After all, he was still a stranger, and you knew nothing of what he might be capable of if provoked.

“Oh, yes, yes you did—but I bet you’d prefer me without ‘em” He replied with a smirk, leaving you speechless. These feelings are truly mingled and overwhelming your reason—He was the demon who had charmed his way into the easily swayed hearts of mankind—and somehow, he had slithered his way into yours. But what was it that he truly wanted? What was he scheming behind those eyes that gleamed with too much knowing? As far as you knew, his kind never asked for permission. By his kind, specifically, those whites. They took. They plundered. That was their nature, but for whatever reason—spirits whisper different tales of this man—in his silence, there was something soft and suffocating about him. As if he knows your body can be owned, but your soul must be invited.

His gaze penetrated beyond the naked eye. He read you like the sacred pages of an ancient book that had almost been washed away by time. There was something deeper in his gaze beyond what you could ever know. It was as if he knew you more than you knew yourself.

“We've met before?” You asked once again, only to be certain. It is quite preposterous for two strangers to meet, and such as spider webs, they knead into each other.

“I don’t know—have we?” The question flew right back at you. His gaze filled with sorrow, regret, and longing. Your hands came up to caress his face with tenderness that almost brought tears to his eyes. The sight moved you to witness such a beast being unguarded, like a wound that had learned to stop bleeding. “Why are you crying?” You'd ask in a whispery tone. Your hands that were framing his face made him pull his gaze back at you. But instead of answering you, quiet sobs escaped him, barely audible, unable to contain the feelings that overflowed. Longing. Yearning.

All at once, the air around him transformed into the haunting refrain of a melancholic song, heavy with unspoken sorrow—Remmick despised this situation, as a man and a full-fledged threat like him, he appeared incredibly weak with tears that began to run down and dampened his cheeks.

“Oh, no, you poor darlin’ come here…”

With a quiet pull, you wrapped him in your warmth, allowing his heart to speak where his lips could not

“You’re safe now…” you whispered, though the words felt foreign in your own mouth. Strange, how you’d become the anchor when you were the one still adrift. He buried his face in the crook of your neck. You could feel your skin starting to get wet from his tears. He sobbed softly against you.

“It’s alright, darlin’... you must be exhausted…” The loving nickname easily slipped past your lips, as if it was second nature to you. He then replied with a nod.

“Have you…eaten yet—are you hungry?” Your voice a low hum. You certainly didn't know any better with the question you just inquired him with, thus, he replied with a crooked smile;

“Oh, i have more than enough…”

He looked you over with a slow, deliberate gaze—something in it set your nerves on edge.

“Aight’ in you go, sir.” Your movement was graceful as you led him by the hand towards the entryway of your bedroom. You felt his fingers twitch in your grip. He then obliged so without question, unclothed, unapologetic. His shy steps were tailing you from behind, resembling a puppy.

The door shut softly behind you. Your eyes flicked across the room, searching for any place he could rest. He cleared his throat,

“I could sleep on the floor—anywhere, really. You don't need to trouble yourself.” At his words, you turn to face him.

“No—I don't think so, no.”

He came up yet with another clever remark;

“It's fine, y'know, it's your house, your rules—”

You cut him off before he had the chance to run his mouth any further, “You right—my house, my rules.” Not another word spilled from his mouth, he just stood there and stared at you.

Suddenly, a foolish and irrational decision formed—yet, you were clearly aware of it. “We share, yeah? Just... leave me a little space to breathe—don’t take over the whole bed.” Your tone carried a hint of playfulness. He met it with a shrug, as if silently agreeing. “I'll be right back.” His eyes were practically glued to you, following, until your figure disappeared behind the slowly closing door.

†

Matthew 22:39

“And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

-`♡´-

The land breeze swept across the exposed skin on your back from the opened window, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The reflection of a girl across the silver oracle, was unblinking, staring back with a wavering gaze. You have vowed your unbroken promise before God for he is the one who owned you body and soul, your deepest, darkest secrets and desires was nothing left behind the veil, laid bare before the all-knowing. Your father wouldn't want more than for you to find yourself a man who is kind, loving, and catholic. Yet, here you are, the daughter of this town's sermon-weaver dressed in nothing but a piece of white—draped in silk. The length of the gown itself couldn't quite reach above the knee, laced underneath with a color that matched the wings of an angel.

You turned and clicked open the door handle, only to be met with the sight of the man lying peacefully, eyes sealed and relaxed, as if he had finally found a home, safe enough for him to rest, unharmed. Your steps approaching and your presence didn't go unnoticed. His eyes slowly fluttered open. The lighting in your room is always a shade too bright, though. His eyes always appeared darker than most, lifeless and empty, but now there is something otherworldly reflecting on his gaze. He watched you, then eased himself to the side—a silent invitation, the kind that didn’t need words. Your body landed softly at the edge of the bed with a soft thud.

“I didn't quite catch yer name, Sir.” You spoke softly. He was a breath away from doubt before he opened his mouth, at last, “Remmick. Name’s Remmick.” The man spoke, and I offered him a warm smile.

“Nice to meetcha’, my name is—” His interruption cuts you off before the first letter of your name even gets the chance to leave your lips.

“No. I don't need to know your name.” weird. But, probably better off staying that way.

“Alright, Remmick, whatever suits you.” You gave him a playful wink, a mischievous smile curling at your lips, enough to keep his gaze fixed.

It didn't escape your attention, how the light in your room made him feel uneasy—the way he frowned, squinted, and deflected as though was trying to dodge the radiance spilling from above.

Your arms slowly reached for the switch—the lights went off, and the room stilled in darkness. “Better?”

His smile bloomed as he nodded, clearly pleased,

“Yeah, better.”

The memories of the state he was in when you first saw him, somehow swims back up into the surface—brought back by the darkness that carries heavy secrets the spirits haven't told you about. The sharp crescent of his teeth, the eyes that glows crimson, although, that could be your mind pulling wild tricks on you. You weren't sure, you hoped it to be fully mistaken and proved faulty.

Somehow, you felt your body moved on its own, drawn, you found yourself lying quietly at his side. He shifted, subtly, gaze meeting yours—eyes wandering slow as if soaking up every edge and corner of your face and immortalized the sight of you for eternity. His fingers trembled as he found himself longing to feel you—then went completely boneless when you suddenly pulled his hand closer to your mouth, raining it with kisses. His breathing grows unsteady, eyes closing, sinking in the warmth of your lips.

“Yeah.. yeah.. you sure is. You sure is she..”

“Who?”

“Don't worry ‘bout it, don't you worry about a goddamn thing no more, sweetheart, I'm here.. I won't ever let ya go, no more.” His voice raspy, tone's unyielding as he whispered it against your skin like a silent prayer, sealed with his lips pressed to your wrist where your pulse fluttered.

“Why are you so cold?” You asked, eyes glinting with a flicker of light in the darkness.

A silence lingered in the air as he left you longing for his next words. “—I don't belong to this world no more, sweetheart.” He answered, spoken in a casual tone. You simply nodded, unwilling to press him for more. The night grew warmer, though he remained cold to the touch.

You leaned your head where his heart should've beaten—yet it was quiet. There was no sound, save for your own breathing. His arms found their way to you, encircling you—folding you into a different world of comfort you never knew could exist. You felt yourself grow weary, lids heavy—the Lord's prayer spilled past your lips. Your voice was low, faint against his chest. At that moment, your prayer was a quiet act of resilience—at once a plea, a hope that God might be willing to redeem this man and love him whole.

“Our Father, who art in heaven,

hallowed be thy name,

thy kingdom come,

thy will be done,

on earth as it is in heaven,

Nobody disrupts you, he leaves you reciting the Lord’s Prayer to a God who might have long abandoned you both. You had just come aware—after halfway through a prayer, there was another voice whispering the words alongside you, in perfect unison.

“—Give us this day our daily bread. (Give us this day our daily bread)

And forgive us our trespasses, (And forgive us our trespasses,)

as we forgive those who trespass against us. (as we forgive those who trespass against us.)

And lead us not into temptation, (And lead us not into temptation,)

but deliver us from evil. (but deliver us from evil.)

For thine is the kingdom, (for thine is the kingdom)

and the power, and the glory, (and the power, and the glory,)

for ever and ever. Amen.” (for ever and ever. Amen.)

“Amen..”

Before you drift into a deep slumber, he cups your face and catches your lips in a kiss filled with intimacy, slow yet certain, his kiss almost rewarding—the world seemed to pause for a moment just for the sake of you both. His kiss was a promise, unwritten yet delivered. His petal-cold lips made a trace of wet trails along your neck, like a prayer casted to a living altar, your body—a temple where he kneel, worship, and plead. Your bodies intertwined in a melody that could only be understood by silence and desire. Like an instrument, he picked your strings in an unmatched balance, heaved, and created a choir of heaven. Your bodies danced to precise rhymes—he - the artist, you were the muse. He was a musician, and you were the instrument. You were the lyrics. He was the tune. A fair trade. He leads this dance and lets you pick the song.

A breath that linked to a wild melody, chasing one after another, like wind that blows dandelions in a wild field. His movement was heavy and edged with a rush, like a wild cat hunting down its prey. Too fast, you had to remind him with a firm grip on his hair.

“Hey. Easy, beasty,”

He stared at you and nodded. A flash of guilt evident in his eyes. He kissed your shoulder as a form of apology that seemed too sincere for your own good. As if he was truly concerned for you.

Your smile was welcoming and inviting him to continue his ministration. His kiss grew bolder and purposeful, mapping down your body, trailing below your stomach. At that very moment, the whole world somehow stopped and stared, the deed of two sinners was occurring at the small, heated, oak wood room. As his movement grows urgent, you, on the other hand—grow nervous and anxious once you feel his hands halfway sliding off your laced knickers. He stopped and stared, waiting for you to give him a ‘go’. Your breath came out a shudder, he noticed. His hand reaches yours and gives it a gentle squeeze, reassuring. He kissed the wrist where your pulse is beating.

“Trust me,” He said, almost in a whispering tone.

To be frank, at this given moment, you weren't even sure if you could trust yourself. Yet, something in his eyes speaks aloud more than words ever could. There's a deeper meaning behind those gaze. That once upon a lifetime, you could read it clear as day, with ease, like how you read a Bible my father gifted me.

“I- I haven't—” You couldn’t finish your sentence. If speaking logically, there was nothing to be ashamed of, you couldn’t help yourself but feel so. The self-image of being a Preacher's daughter already comes naturally, from when people were starting to learn you by name and background. They'd expect nothing but a woman who celibate. A holy virgin.

There wasn't a hint of mockery coming from him, not one bit, never. Only the same familiar look he had been giving you from the beginning. You were hesitant, though something in the air tells you to trust him. It was likely the whispers of demons. Tempting you into sin. Thus, you nodded, blessing him with your approval. The rest of the fabric lacing you underneath was peeled off easily by his skillful hand.

Your spine instinctively arched at the feel of something moist and forked—splitted in half. Exploring free along your impatiently waiting bundle of nerves below. The motion was repeating, yet somehow variative enough to send you over heaven to hell. Eden to earth. He slowly brought his fingers toward his mouth, wrapping it around his lips—you almost moaned at the sight of him practically making out with his own two fingers that made you wish it had been you. The mischievous grin that was so distinctively his returned—before you felt his fingers slipped and pushed open the pearly gates underneath. Your jaw slack open, eyes shot wide, you couldn't tell why this man owned some kind of claws—pumping in-and-out of you and making your spine arched.

“Remmick.” You called out.

“Remmick..” The sound of his name spilled past your lips, making him tongue-tied.

“Remmick..” Your voice low. He turned his attention quickly to you, like a puppy whose favorite word had been uttered

“Yes.. what do you need?”

“I- I can't.. I can't..” You whined.

“Yes you can… you can do it for me…" Say it..” he coaxed, which now sounded more like a demand, not a request.

“Come on, who's the good girl..? Say you can finish it for me.” There is a softer edge to his tone this time.

Remmick was a restless, sleepless creature. His stamina was not bound by limit. Despite being the one who had to catch up with his pace. You still feel the need to prove that you were the one he needed, that you were perfect for him, that you were just as he expected.

Curses that spilled past your lips sync in tune along his. He groaned and sent vibration straight into the center of your need. Your body squirmed—the sheets on your bed were all wrinkled. Remmick consumed you whole like a man possessed, dying of thirst, and you were the springs, an antidote to a deadly disease which his soul. He sips it clean, drowns, and is drunk in your love liquor. He gasped, rushed in urgency to drink you down.

Despite the roller-coaster you were put into, you still spare a glance to see how he's being.

The beast mourned you like you were his last meal. He devoured and weeped for you as though he greets you a goodbye, a farewell of which hadn't yet to come. Well, shit! It couldn't be that good, could it?

Your body arched like a bow shoots freely, fingers’ gripping the sheets as if trying to find something to hold onto whilst the world around you collapses in euphoric waves. Your voice was a holy whisper free from the altar, muffled and holy, chanting his name like a prayer you've learned as easy as breathing—and as you are nothing without it.

He stays there, movements growing weary and slow, and he finally learned how to take his time, absorbing the final offering.

And once the storms calmed, the world slowly returned. The pounding of your heart, the sound of your breath, the night humming. He crawled beside you, his face looking like an ancient secret which you have unlocked, no words needed, only a gaze that speaks, and gentle wrapped around your waist. A peaceful silence stretched. It was not an empty silence. But silence that filled with meaning and bond. And you know, even in this state of tiresome, you didn’t feel empty. On the contrary, for the first time in your life, you felt found.

Found.

You exhaled out a breath, like the first breath the earth blows when dawn comes. His hands stroked your your dark-silken locs with such gentleness, tucking them behind your ears. An appreciation formed in a kiss landed on your temple before he started speaking.

“You alright?” he asked, which you replied with a nod.

“Yes, I'm - I'm fine..” Still with the same pace of your heart pumping and your pulse thrumming. You were standing on a thin line between needing to ask or just leave the curiosity unanswered. You'd choose the second option in a heartbeat had it been someone else. But, it's him. A man who had just given you a piece of heaven.

“Rem..” A beat falls after. He responded, with a slow turn of his head. “Yeah, princess..?”

“Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Depends. But, ask away.”

“I saw you cry, you know? Why is that—somethingyou wanna tell me?” he stared back at you with a plain gaze, as if he was some kind of innocent creature, like he wasn't the one behind all those deaths and havoc—succeeded to make it to the newspaper.

You felt a wave of possession washes over you. No. Scratch that question.

“No. Tell me. You better tell me. Why did you cry? Something the matter?” My tone thick with urgency—forcing the answer out of him.

“..it was nothing, just—just that you kinda reminded me of someone from the past.” Your gaze automatically dropped to the eye-catching, sparkly golden object, enlacing his ring finger. The ring appeared too ancient. Too old. An untold history wrapped in gold. The kind of gold that costs an undying oath until death does its part.

There was a comforting silence lingered that none of you need to fill, but you spoke up anyway.

“Was it your lover? Your family?” you asked, your question linked to his last statement.

“She was.. she was both at the time.” He answered, tone sorrowful.

“Oh you poor baby..” Your voice was a melody to his ear. “No, it's fine. I already made peace with it.”

He was the kind of man who viewed kindness and affection as something that came with a price. And he doesn't have enough to pay. Something rough and merciless acts were the only ones he had grown too familiar with.

You could tell, from the moment that feeling touched him as a feather-light touch, he always seemed to force you away. Though as much as he craved for you—he didn't seem to quite let you in, like when you invited him inside tonight.

“Baby, don't be like that..”

“I'm not being like anything, darlin’” his words defensive.

“You're being distant. Yes, we are just two strangers who met in a not very promising circumstances. But, please.. don't push me away..” you had hoped that it would somehow soften his heart. Your tone pitiful, pleading to him. “You may call me naive but.. I care for you..”

A mockery laugh escapes his throat,

“what—cause you is a good Christian girl? Thy shall love thy neighbor as thyself. I'm no neighbor of yours, you know that.” as if the sky is falling onto me, his revelations had my heart dropped. With the way he casually quoted the Mosaic Law, he touched you without laying a hand on you. He sounded better saying it, beats your father. The pastor himself.

“No, it isn't like that.. I..” you rubbed your face in frustration.

“I love you.. more than what the Bible told me too.. more than I'm allowed.. I love you like.. I was a part of you.. men to women, women to men.” He considered your words for a moment before speaking up again, decided to give it a playful twist.

“Lust?”

“Oh God, you seriously think that lowly of me?” you swing your fist, only landed as a light punch to him, he groaned, as if the punch affected him in one bit, then chuckled.

“God ain't here darling, just me an’ you..” with that, you leave him without a choice and give him your name. And you thank the heavens, your father must've been kept up the night, and probably went home by the dawn.

That night, the moon was a silver, a hole of light. Wind breezed in past the halfway closed window, sorrowful, as if heaven turned her face from you and another gate opened—with an entryway burning like amber.

[nayziiz]

It's Rough | LN4

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader (she/her)

Author's note: I'm trying something a little bit different with shorter form fics, so please send through any requests or feedback. These one shots will likely not have a second part unless it really speaks to me to continue with it. Thank you!

Masterlist

Lando watched with a mix of amusement and frustration as she attempted to grasp the basics of golf. Despite her proficiency in various other activities like water sports, skiing, and driving, golf seemed to elude her completely. He had hoped that her natural athleticism and coordination would translate well onto the golf course, but it appeared that golf was a different beast altogether.

Her swings were awkward and uncoordinated, sending the ball veering off in unpredictable directions. Lando patiently offered guidance, demonstrating proper technique and providing words of encouragement, but it seemed as though golf just didn't click for her.

Despite her struggles, she approached each swing with determination, refusing to let her initial failures dampen her spirits. With each missed shot, she laughed off her mistakes and eagerly lined up for another attempt, determined to conquer the elusive sport.

Lando had known from the moment she insisted on tagging along to the golf course that her declaration of merely watching and cheering was likely wishful thinking. Despite her assurances, he could practically see the curiosity and determination dancing behind her eyes, ready to pounce at any opportunity to join in on the action.

Yet, he couldn't bring himself to deny her the chance to be a part of the day. He understood that her company would bring a different energy to the outing, even if it meant potentially disrupting the boys' dynamic on the course. Besides, the thought of her sulking at home while he enjoyed a day with his friends was far less appealing than dealing with the inevitable consequences of her joining in on the golfing shenanigans.

So, with a resigned sigh and a knowing smile, Lando agreed to let her come along, silently preparing himself for the whirlwind of chaos that often accompanied her presence. Deep down, he knew that her insistence on joining them stemmed from a desire to spend time with him, even if it meant enduring a sport she clearly had no interest in.

As they arrived at the golf course, Lando braced himself for whatever antics she had in store.

As Lando focused on his swing, he couldn't help but be distracted by her restlessness. He noticed her initially staying put behind the steering wheel of the golf cart, as promised, but her impatience soon got the better of her. With a hint of amusement, he watched as she hopped out of the cart and began to circle it, her movements fluid and graceful.

Caught off guard by the sight of her, Lando found himself momentarily forgetting about the game at hand. His gaze followed her as she moved around the cart, her skirt swaying gently with each step, revealing glimpses of her smooth, tanned skin. He couldn't deny the allure she exuded, even in such a mundane setting as a golf course.

Despite his best efforts to maintain his focus on the game, her presence proved to be a delightful distraction. He couldn't help but admire her beauty and the effortless confidence with which she carried herself, even in a sport she had no interest in.

As she circled the cart, a playful smile danced on her lips, and Lando felt a surge of affection for her. Despite her initial reluctance to join them on the course, he couldn't deny that her presence added an undeniable charm to their day. And as he watched her, he silently thanked whatever force had convinced her to come along, knowing that moments like these were what made their time together truly special.

“Hey, come on. Focus, man,” Carlos moaned quietly, making sure no one else could hear him.

Carlos's whispered admonition brought Lando back to reality, reminding him of the game at hand. He chuckled softly at Carlos's remark, acknowledging the truth in his friend's words.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Lando replied, shaking his head slightly. “But can you blame me? She's something else.”

Carlos rolled his eyes playfully, understanding Lando's sentiment all too well. Lando made a concerted effort to refocus his attention on the game. Despite the temptation to steal glances at her, he knew that winning the game required his full concentration. With a renewed sense of determination, he squared his shoulders and prepared to take his next shot, determined to put aside any distractions and give it his all. As the game continued, Lando found himself occasionally sneaking glances in her direction, unable to resist the magnetic pull she seemed to have on him.

As the afternoon progressed and the rounds of golf continued, she found herself drawn into the conversation among the boys. Standing in between them, she listened intently to their banter and jokes, occasionally chiming in with her own witty remarks.

Before she knew it, a few of the boys had handed her their clubs, entrusting her with the task of holding them as they prepared for their shots. At first, she accepted the clubs with a bemused smile, unsure of what to do with them. But as the afternoon wore on, she found herself inadvertently assuming the role of their caddy, carrying their clubs from hole to hole with ease.

Despite her initial reluctance to participate in the game, she quickly embraced her new role with enthusiasm, eagerly offering advice and encouragement to the boys as they navigated the course. With each swing of the club, she cheered them on, her enthusiasm infectious as they worked together as a team to conquer the challenges of the course.

“How about you give it a try?” Alex's encouragement rang out across the green, much to Lando's dismay.

He watched with a mixture of apprehension and amusement as she smirked and accepted the club from Alex's outstretched hand. With a playful glint in her eye, she positioned herself on the grass, mimicking the stance Lando had patiently demonstrated to her numerous times before.

“Come on, you've got this,” Alex cheered, egging her on as she prepared to take her shot. Lando couldn't help but sigh, his expression a mixture of resignation and nervousness.

“Please, do not embarrass me,” Lando pleaded half-jokingly, knowing full well that her unpredictable nature often led to unexpected outcomes.

Her playful gasp of mock hurt elicited chuckles from the boys, but she quickly shifted her focus back to the task at hand. With a determined expression, she squared her shoulders and prepared to take her shot, eager to redeem her reputation.

But as she swung the club, it was immediately evident that this attempt wouldn't be as successful as she intended. With a wild and uncoordinated motion, she missed the ball entirely, the club swishing through the air with a whooshing sound. A chorus of groans and laughter erupted from the boys, their amusement mingled with sympathy for her failed attempt.

Lando, unable to bear the sight of her struggling any longer, groaned in pain as he moved to take the club away from her.

“Hang on. You all got time to warm up, how about you let me give it another shot?” she insisted.

Her insistence caught the attention of the group, prompting them to pause and exchange curious glances. Lando, his expression a mixture of defeat and resignation, reluctantly stepped away, giving her the space she needed to make another attempt.

With a determined gleam in her eye, she positioned herself once again, her grip on the club steady as she took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Ignoring the teasing remarks and sceptical looks from the boys, she focused all her attention on the ball before her, blocking out any distractions.

And then, with a swift and controlled motion, she swung the club, the sound of impact resonating through the air as the club connected with the ball. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as they watched in disbelief, their eyes glued to the ball as it soared through the air with precision and grace.

Their disbelief turned to astonishment as the ball arced gracefully over the green, heading straight for the hole with unerring accuracy. Cheers erupted from the group as they watched in awe, unable to believe their eyes as the ball came to rest just inches from the hole.

“Wow, that was great!” Alex exclaimed with a huge smile plastered on his face.

“Must be luck. Try again,” Max insisted, challenging her more than Lando would have liked.

“Fine,” she shrugged.

Encouraged by Alex's praise and challenged by Max's insistence, she couldn't resist the opportunity to prove herself once more. With a confident smile, she accepted the dare, her competitive spirit reignited as she prepared to take another shot.

Positioning herself with precision, she focused intently on the ball before her, blocking out any distractions as she visualised her next move. With a deep breath, she swung the club with determination, her movements fluid and controlled.

This time, luck seemed to be on her side once again as the ball sailed through the air, following a perfect trajectory towards the hole. The group watched in anticipation, holding their breath as the ball approached its target.

And then, with a satisfying thud, the ball landed on the green, rolling steadily towards the hole before coming to a stop just inches away. Cheers erupted from the group as they celebrated her impressive shot, their disbelief mingled with admiration at her uncanny skill.

“Please tell Lily she's a wonderful instructor,” she remarked to Alex, her tone laced with a hint of mischief as she acknowledged the guidance she had received. Alex chuckled in response, a knowing gleam in his eye as he nodded in agreement.

After her impressive display on the green, she couldn't resist a moment of playful triumph. With a smug smile directed at Lando, she returned to the golf cart, her steps light with the weight of her accomplishment. Lando, still reeling from the unexpected turn of events, watched her with a mixture of disbelief and begrudging admiration.

As she settled back into her seat on the golf cart, she couldn't resist shooting Lando a smug grin, revelling in the satisfaction of having proven him wrong. Despite his initial scepticism, she had managed to exceed his expectations, leaving him shaking his head in disbelief.

Lando, for his part, could only shake his head in response, still struggling to come to terms with the fact that she had just hit the ball perfectly not once, but twice in a row. It was a feat that seemed almost too improbable to believe, yet there she was, the evidence of her success undeniable.

As they continued their game, Lando couldn't shake the feeling of astonishment that lingered in the air. Despite his doubts, she had managed to defy expectations and leave her mark on the golf course in more ways than one.

As they made their way towards Lando's McLaren, he couldn't help but be curious about her sudden improvement on the golf course. With a lighthearted tone, he broached the topic, unable to resist a teasing remark.

“So, Lily's been helping you, huh?” he asked, a playful smirk playing on his lips as he glanced in her direction. She chuckled in response, the memory of her recent success still fresh in her mind.

“Maybe a little,” she admitted with a wink, her tone tinged with amusement. Lando raised an eyebrow in mock surprise, feigning disbelief at her confession.

“I see how it is,” he teased, a hint of mock indignation in his voice. “Getting private lessons behind my back?”

She laughed at his exaggerated reaction, shaking her head in amusement.

“Nothing like that,” she reassured him, her smile warm and genuine. “Surprisingly enough, it just took a bit of patience to teach me.”

“Are you saying I have no patience?” he countered, his tone tinged with offence as he feigned hurt.

“None whatsoever,” she replied with a grin, her amusement evident in her voice as she teased him gently.

Despite his protests, she knew that his patience had been tested more than once during their golfing adventure. she couldn't help but notice a hint of disappointment in Lando's expression. His competitive nature was undeniable, and the idea of her newfound golfing skills seemed to sting his pride just a little.

“How much does it hurt knowing your girlfriend can now golf?” she teased, her tone teasing yet affectionate as she gently prodded at his ego.

Lando's response was a playful groan, his lips curling into a rueful smile as he shook his head in mock resignation. Deep down, she knew that he was secretly proud of her achievement, even if it meant enduring a few jokes at his expense.

“It doesn't hurt, but it sucks that you're better at it than me now,” he admitted, his tone a mixture of resignation and playful competitiveness. With a soft chuckle, she gently pressed him against the car, her body close to his as she looked up at him with a knowing smile.

“Baby, when will you learn?” she teased, her voice low and seductive as she leaned in closer. “I'm good at a lot of things.”

As she spoke, she subtly shifted her leg between his, a teasing reminder of her many talents and abilities. Lando couldn't help but laugh at her playful confidence, his own competitive spirit momentarily forgotten in the warmth of her presence.

“I know. So, when we get home, you can put your mouth to good use,” he argued, his voice low and teasing as he leaned in to kiss her.

She couldn't help but chuckle at his boldness, her laughter mingling with the warmth of his lips against hers.

“Disgusting,” she screeched in mock indignation, her hand playfully slapping his chest as she pushed him away with feigned reluctance.

Despite her protestations, there was a playful gleam in her eye, a hint of anticipation as she met his gaze with a knowing smile.

“But, with pleasure,” she added with a wink, her tone teasing yet affectionate as she leaned in to return his kiss.

As their lips met once more, they shared a moment of quiet intimacy, their playful banter giving way to the warmth of their affection for one another. And as they finally pulled away, their laughter echoed through the air, a reminder of the love and joy that filled their lives together.

[hurtspideyparker]

⋆₊⊹˚‧✩ Masterlist ✩‧˚⊹₊⋆

My AO3: hurtspideyparker

Irondad and Spiderson

Bomb Gone Wrong

A Much Needed Hug

I'm Not Your Dad (I Know That, Do You?)

Happy Hogan vs. the Chaotic Intern

Peter Takes Tony on a Poor Person's Tour of New York (Part 1)

Tony Takes Peter on a Rich Person's Tour of California (Part 2)

An Irondad Christmas

An Irondad Father's Day

Restless Spirit Tony Stark

Toddler!Peter Loves Cuddles

Tony's Love for Peter Only Pushes Him Away

Peter Wears a Pair of Tony's Glasses in the Lab

Peter Meets Baby Morgan

Emotional Support Intern Peter Parker

Peter Finds Doctor Doom Familiar

Tony Knew Peter for 2 Years and Mourned Him for 5

Texting series:

Irondad Halloween, Peter has a Puppy, Twitter Advice

Domestic Avengers

Avengers High School AU Incorrect Quotes

Babysitter Peter Finds the Avengers' Weak Spot

Avengers' Galentine's Day

Avengers' Beach Day!

Peter Stress Bakes in the Tower

The Team Thinks Peter is Tony's Illegitimate Child

Clint Likes to Wear Dresses

Tony Is Accidentally Put on Avengers' Suicide Watch

Peter Parker Can Wield Mjolnir

If Civil War Didn't End in Divorce and Everyone Lived Together:

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Ship Writing

Steve/Tony:

Tony Shuts Up the Captain With a Kiss

Bad Witch Encounter Leads to Much Worse

Unsent Love Letters & Hate Mail

Stony Move in Together and Discover Their Differences

Clint/Bucky:

Clint Helps Bucky on a Bad Day

Fluffy Late Night Shopping For First Aid

Steve/Tony/Bucky: Stuckony Headcanons

Tony/Bucky: Tony Sleeps With a Stranger (Who Turns Out to Be His New Bodyguard)

Peter/Wade: A Kiss Attack (Fluffy Morning)

Charles/Erik: Erik Loves Charles Like a Dog

Loki/Bucky: Loki Convinces Bucky He Isn't All That Bad

Other Marvel

Bucky Never Fully Comes Back

Yelena Never Answers Her Phone

JFK: The Mutant Magneto Tried to Save & Bucky Assassinated

See Also

I have tons of #incorrect marvel quotes on my blog !

My Peter Parker Spotify playlist + song explanations

[rafeobx]

WHERE DO WE GO NOW?

MASTERLIST

pair: rafe x maybank!pogue!reader

NOTE: part two to the i love you, i'm sorry series! go read part one to be up to date xx

plot: you decided it was best to avoid rafe, believing he hadn't forgiven you and likely wouldn't anytime soon. to cheer you up, your friends—sarah, john b, pope, jj, and kiara—took you to this bike race between kooks and pogues, where jj was competing due to a bet from the gold you'd found years ago. however, their hopes of lifting your spirits were quickly crushed when rafe and his kook girlfriend, sofia, show up.

warnings: jealousy, angst, mean!rafe, depression, miscommunication, sorry sofia lovers :(

the morning light, filtering through the familiar, dusty windows of the chateau, felt softer, less harsh. you’d spent a restless night on the old couch, your mind still thinking about your heated conversation with rafe at the kegger.

you pulled a thread from the worn armrest, fraying the already tattered fabric. each pull was a silent wish, a desperate plea for the earth to swallow you whole. the thought of facing him again, or worse, facing anyone after what he’d said, churned in your stomach, a bitter bile rising in your throat. the quiet hum of the house, usually a comfort, now felt like a suffocating silence, amplifying the echo of his cruel words in your mind.

you pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, as if you could physically push the memories back, bury them somewhere deep where they couldn’t reach you. but they were sticky, persistent, clinging to the inside of your eyelids.

you could still see rafe’s face, twisted with a sneer, feel the heat of shame creep up your neck. it felt like your chest was caving in, a dull ache settling behind your ribs, making it hard to breathe. the sun, once a gentle comfort, now felt like a spotlight, exposing every raw nerve, every humiliating moment. you just wanted to curl into a ball and vanish.

the obx, no matter how familiar, no matter how much you loved the smell of the beach and the sound of the waves, held a different kind of darkness now.

you didn’t even realize the tears were running down your face, a steady stream you hadn't consciously started, until the wetness on your cheeks pulled you back from the suffocating depths of your thoughts. you pushed yourself off the old couch, wiping them away with the back of your hand, a futile attempt to erase the silent testament to your pain.

you wanted to confide in rafe, to tell him everything that weighed on you. after all this time, after everything, he was still the one person who knew you best, who saw past the masks you wore. but you couldn’t. you were too scared. the fear was a cold knot in your stomach, tightening with every breath. you couldn't risk it. not now, not ever. the truth felt like a dangerous weapon, more likely to shatter what little you had left than to fix anything.

he loved you, you knew he did, but was that enough? if he knew, really knew, what had happened to you, would he still look at you the same way? would that love, the one fragile thing you clung to, break under the weight of your unspoken trauma? you couldn't bear the thought of seeing his face contort in disgust or pity, knowing that you were somehow less in his eyes.

it was better to be silently broken than visibly shattered, especially when the person you loved was the one you feared shattering it most.

you pushed all thoughts to the back of your head, a desperate attempt to shove the darkness back into its confined space. a smile, practiced and brittle, stretched across your lips. it had to be convincing. your friends, jj, they couldn’t see it. they couldn’t know. they wouldn't think twice.

when you emerged from the living room, the smell of burnt toast and strong coffee filled the air – a chaotic, comforting symphony that instantly brought a small, genuine smile to your face.

john b was wrestling with a rogue pop-tart that had gotten stuck in the toaster, a cloud of smoke rising around him. kie, ever the responsible one, was frantically fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel, while pope, calmly oblivious, meticulously buttered another piece of toast. jj, your brother, always the instigator, was laughing hysterically at john b's struggles.

"morning, sleepyhead," kie greeted you, a warm smile spreading across her face as she finally got the smoke detector to quiet down. "thought you were gonna sleep all day."

"nah, the smell of burning breakfast woke me up," you teased, the words feeling surprisingly easy. you walked over to the counter and poured yourself a cup of coffee, the familiar mug feeling right in your hand. john b, having conquered the pop-tart, turned to you, a surprisingly gentle look in his eyes.

"seriously though," he began, his voice softer than it had been last night, "it's good to have you back. really good." he even managed a small, genuine smile. a lump formed in your throat. this was the john b you remembered, the one who was your anchor. "it's good to be back," you admitted, the words catching a little.

jj clapped you on the back, a rough but affectionate gesture. "see? i told you she'd come around! now, who's ready to dominate this bike race?" he pumped his fist in the air, his usual goofy enthusiasm infectious.

you laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound that surprised even yourself. it had been years since you’d laughed like that. "slow down, maybank," you said, taking a sip of your coffee. "we still gotta get there."

as the morning unfolded, a comfortable rhythm settled in. they chattered about the race, about local gossip, about the usual pogue antics, and you found yourself seamlessly falling back into the easy banter. it felt like time hadn't passed, like you hadn't been gone for four long years.

the initial awkwardness of your return had melted away, replaced by the familiar warmth of their friendship. eventually, the conversation softened, turning to more personal matters.

"so," kie began, her eyes a knowing kind of gentle, "about rafe."

you tensed, your newfound comfort wavering. you knew this was coming. "what about him?" you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral. "he's been... rough," pope said, his brow furrowed. "even more than usual. he tried to clean up his act after everything with ward and limbrey, but after you left.--he just kind of spiraled again."

sarah, who had been listening quietly, nodded. "he acts like he's fine, like he's moved on, but i see him. he's always looking for something, someone. and i think that someone is you." her voice was soft, laced with a familiar concern for her brother. "he was really hurt when you left, more than he let on."

"he hated you," john b interjected, his honesty blunt as ever, "but it was that kind of hate that's just pure, raw missing, you know? like he couldn't stand that you were gone, but he also couldn't forgive you for leaving." you nodded slowly, the words a confirmation of your own fears. "i know," you whispered, a fresh wave of guilt washing over you. "i caused him a lot of pain. i just--i thought i was doing the right thing. protecting him."

jj, who had been quiet, fiddling with a loose string on his board shorts, finally looked up. his eyes met yours, and the playful glint was gone, replaced by a deep, unwavering gaze. "protecting him from what?" he asked, his voice low, almost a murmur, but laced with an undeniable edge. he shifted, leaning forward slightly, his posture becoming more intense. his voice raising slowly, the hurt evident in the way he spoke "because honestly, you leaving... it didn't exactly help him. he got a lot worse. like, he got really messed up in the head--even more than he already was. started hearing voices in his head, doing horrible things to us... he's different now, but it was bad. he's dangerous, so, seriously, what made you just vanish like that, sis? why didn't you tell us anything? we were here, you know. we were right here, wondering where the hell you went."

the room fell silent, the cheerful atmosphere dissolving instantly as the weight of his questions pressed down on you. you flinched, the questions hitting you like a physical blow. you turn away from jj, locking eyes with sarah, an apologetic look in her eyes. sarah was the only person you had told you were leaving and she was the only person who knew why.

"it's... it was complicated," you mumbled, the familiar excuse feeling thinner and hollower than ever. you could feel their eyes on you, waiting, demanding an answer you weren't ready to give. "i just... i can't talk about it right now." you took a quick, nervous sip of your coffee, desperate to change the subject.

"so, about this race... who do you guys think is actually going to win this year?" cleo sighed, a hint of exasperation in her eyes. "you're just going to avoid it, aren't you?" you didn't answer, just kept your gaze fixed on the countertop. the unspoken tension returned, a stark reminder of the chasm that still existed between you and the life you'd abandoned.

pope sensing the shift in mood, put an arm around your shoulders. "hey, you can't live in the past, alright? what's done is done. you're here now. and maybe that's enough to start making things right." he squeezed your shoulder gently. "are you going to talk to him? really talk to him?"

you looked at each of them, at the genuine concern in their eyes, the unwavering support. this was your family, the ones who had stuck by you, even when you pushed them away. and for the first time since you’d returned, you felt a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, things could be okay.

"i don't know, he didn't seem very happy when i showed up to the kegger a few days ago," you admitted, the words barely a whisper. "i'm gonna try and avoid him as much as possible at the race. i just... i don't think it's gonna work right now." you took a deep breath. "but the race is probably a good place to be, right? everyone will be there."

"yeah," kiara assured you, a soft smiler plastered across her face.

the humid outer banks air, thick with the scent of salt and pine, did little to soothe your frayed nerves. the bike race, a local tradition you'd always loved, felt different this year, tainted by your own heavy heart.

you arrived with your friends, standing on the sidelines as jj prepared for his heat. you tried to focus on the cheers and the energy, but your eyes scanned the crowd for a face you both longed for and dreaded to see.

and thats when you saw him for the second time, except this time, he was laughing, a bright, unburdened sound that pierced through the noise of the race.

his arm was casually slung around a girl with sun-kissed hair and a smile that reached her eyes. sofia. you recognized her from the few social media posts you'd dared to glance at during your years away.

she was beautiful, vibrant, and clearly, blissfully unaware of the wreckage of your past. a cold, sharp pain lanced through your chest, stealing your breath.

it was a physical blow, worse than any punch. you had known, logically, that he'd move on. four years was a long time. but seeing it, witnessing his happiness with someone else, was a different kind of torture. he looked good, better than you'd ever seen him, free from the haunted expression you remembered. his eyes, once so often clouded with turmoil, sparkled with genuine joy as he looked at sofia.

you stumbled back, bumping into john b who caught your arm. your focus shattered. the world seemed to tilt on its axis, the vibrant colors of the race fading to a dull, suffocating gray. every beat of your heart echoed with a single, crushing thought: he’s happy without you. you mumbled an excuse to your friends, something about needing air, and turned, pushing through the throng of people.

you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t be there another second. the familiar streets, once a source of comfort, now mocked you with their normalcy. you walked aimlessly, the sun beating down on your head, each step a leaden weight. the ache in your chest deepened, spreading through your limbs, a pervasive numbness that dulled every sensation.

the image of rafe and sofia, their smiles bright and untroubled, was burned behind your eyelids, a cruel, mocking specter. you were drowning, utterly and completely alone. the self-loathing gnawed at you, a corrosive acid eating away at your resolve. you were a mess, a ghost of your former self, while he had rebuilt his life. the very thought of facing him, of him seeing you like this, was unbearable. what could you possibly say? that you came back to see if he was okay, only to find him perfectly fine, perfectly happy, without you?

the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, but the darkness in your soul felt deeper than the night sky. you were utterly, irrevocably alone. the return, which you had hoped would bring some semblance of peace or closure, had instead plunged you deeper into a darkness you hadn't known existed. the depression, a constant companion since you left, now gripped you with an intensity that left you breathless.

you were back, but you were more lost than ever. you pressed your forehead against your knees, clutching your arms around yourself, trying to physically contain the unraveling within. a tremor ran through you, a memory of cold fear and the sickening violation that had driven you from this island. that night, a specific terror that no one, not even jj, had ever suspected, had splintered something vital inside you. it was a secret kept under lock and key, buried so deep it felt part of your very bones. the thought of anyone discovering the truth, of him seeing the extent of the damage, made your breath catch.

the idea of going back to the chateau, to face the questioning looks of your friends, felt impossible. how could you explain this hollow ache, this profound despair, when you barely understood it yourself? how could you ever explain the visceral revulsion that now clung to every memory of home, to the very concept of touch, of safety?

the image of rafe and sofia, their smiles bright and untroubled, was burned behind your eyelids, a cruel, mocking specter. you were drowning, utterly and completely alone. the self-loathing gnawed at you, a corrosive acid eating away at your resolve. you were a mess, a ghost of your former self, while he had rebuilt his life. the very thought of facing him, of him seeing you like this, was unbearable. what could you possibly say? that you came back to see if he was okay, only to find him perfectly fine, perfectly happy, without you?

the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, but the darkness in your soul felt deeper than the night sky. you were utterly, irrevocably alone. the return, which you had hoped would bring some semblance of peace or closure, had instead plunged you deeper into a darkness you hadn't known existed. the depression, a constant companion since you left, now gripped you with an intensity that left you breathless.

you were back, but you were more lost than ever. you pressed your forehead against your knees, clutching your arms around yourself, trying to physically contain the unraveling within. a tremor ran through you, a memory of cold fear and the sickening violation that had driven you from this island. that night, a specific terror that no one, not even jj, had ever suspected, had splintered something vital inside you. it was a secret kept under lock and key, buried so deep it felt part of your very bones. the thought of anyone discovering the truth, of him seeing the extent of the damage, made your breath catch.

the idea of going back to the chateau, to face the questioning looks of your friends, felt impossible. how could you explain this hollow ache, this profound despair, when you barely understood it yourself? how could you ever explain the visceral revulsion that now clung to every memory of home, to the very concept of touch, of safety?

a different thought, illogical and raw, pulled at you, pushing aside the desire for solace from anyone else. a desperate whisper, a desperate kind of longing, began to surface for rafe. not to tell him everything, god no. not to explain the unspeakable reason you left, or the horror that still clung to you. but just... to be near him. to confide in him, even if it was only the surface-level agony, the general despair. a fragile hope flickered that maybe, just maybe, his mere presence could anchor you, even for a moment.

your feet, which had been carrying you mindlessly towards tannyhill, continued their path. every step was a battle against your own fear, against the crushing weight of pride and the unbearable knowledge of how far you'd fallen. you were heading directly towards figure eight, towards his world, towards the one person who, despite everything, still felt like a jagged piece of your own shattered past.

he porch light sliced through the darkness, harsh and unforgiving. for a beat, he thought he was seeing a ghost, a trick of the humid outer banks night. but no, it was her. standing there, a phantom in the literal sense, her face a raw, devastating portrait of everything he’d tried to bury. the laughter and music from inside died in his ears, replaced by a sudden, violent thrumming in his own blood.

he hadn't moved. couldn't. the shock was a physical blow, followed by a familiar, searing anger that ignited in his gut. she was here. after all this time. after the silence, the gaping hole she’d ripped in his life when she just vanished. he swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw aching with the effort to keep his face blank. sofia’s jeep in the driveway. kelce’s truck. topper. ruthie. the life he’d painstakingly, brutally rebuilt. and now this.

he’d seen her, a few minutes ago, a shadow at the edge of the property. she'd stopped at the end of the driveway, just past kelce's truck, and he'd watched her. her shoulders were hunched, a small, tight knot, and she was absolutely still, like she was arguing with herself, fighting some invisible pull. the sight had been like a phantom ache in his chest, a flicker of something ancient and dangerous stirring within him. he’d thought maybe she’d just turn and leave, disappear back into the night like she always did. he’d almost hoped for it. but then she'd moved, a slow, deliberate trudge towards the house, and he’d known he was screwed. his past, standing on his goddamn porch.

"what do you want?" the words tore out, rougher than he intended, a guttural demand that barely masked the tremor in his chest. he watched her face, searching for an answer, a reason, anything. but her eyes, wide and pleading, were just... empty. hollowed out. she looked like a wreck, worse than he’d ever seen her. the sight twisted something sharp inside him, a bitter cocktail of concern and resentment. a familiar, heavy burden.

he shifted, glancing over his shoulder, a flicker of paranoia. if sofia or anyone else came out... this was too much. he slammed the door shut with a muffled thud that cut off the distant party sounds, plunging the porch into a heavier silence, save for the hum of the air conditioning. he turned back to her, the faint glow from the living room windows barely reaching the porch, leaving her face in shadow.

"hey," he heard himself say, the word soft, against his will. it was the tone he used when she was on the edge, when her world was crumbling. damn her. damn himself. he could feel the old pull, a suffocating familiarity. he hated it. he hated her for making him feel it. but god, the sight of her, broken and exposed, was a raw wound in his own chest. regardless of the jagged chasm she’d carved through him, he couldn’t deny it. the stupid, brutal truth was, he still loved her. the thought burned, a hot, toxic shame.

a single tear escaped her eye, tracing a path down her cheek, and rafe felt a jolt. anger flared again, sharp and cold. don't you dare cry. not here. not now. not after what she'd done. but then he saw the tremor in her hands, the way she clutched herself, like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. the raw, unadulterated fear in her eyes was like a punch to the gut. it wasn't about him. it was about her.

"what is it?" he pushed, the demand edged with a sudden, frantic urgency he despised. he took a step closer, then another, his hand twitching, wanting to reach out, to shake her, to demand answers. "tell me. what happened?"

she finally spoke, her voice a ghost of itself, thin and reedy. "i... i can't." the words were barely a breath. "i just... i need a minute. i just needed to... see you."

see him. the sheer audacity of it. after all the hell she’d put him through, the wreckage she’d left behind, she just needed to see him? a cold laugh almost broke from his throat, but it died. her eyes, pleading and desperate, were fixed on his, and in their depths, he saw a glimmer of true, unadorned pain. not a performance. not manipulation. just utter despair.

"you didn't know where else to go," he repeated, the words flat, heavy with disbelief and the grinding bitterness of years. he didn't try to hide the contempt. "after all this time? after showing up to the kegger with no warning? and you come here?" his gaze swept over her, taking in the bruised hollows beneath her eyes, the stark vulnerability that made him want to rage and pull her close all at once. "you show up out of nowhere, at a party of all places, after four years, looking like a damn ghost, and you tell me you just 'needed a minute'? you think this is some kind of shelter for you now? what the hell is going on? why did you leave me?" his voice was rough, edged with a dangerous mix of genuine concern and explosive frustration. the question hung in the air, weighted with every unspoken accusation and every fragmented memory of the past.

but before you could respond, there was a shift in his demeanor. as if he had just came to a realization of some sort and his eyes turned cold. he raised his hand. "actually," you furrowed your eyes "i don't wanna know. you know why? because you're a user, y/n. you come back when you're at your lowest, just to dump your misery on someone else. go on, run. go find someone else to bleed on." he seethed and before you could respond, he slammed the door in your face, leaving you all alone, once again.

for those who wanted me to tag them

@mirellef2001

[mykingdomforapen]

Cheng Xiaoshi, who felt every classmate's eye turn towards him as soon as the teacher announced the homework assignment for the day. Some were pitying, some were mirthful and smug. A majority of them simply turned to him on instinct, like he was a sudden sound, or a flutter of movement. His grief was their distraction. He did not know which of these were worse.

Cheng Xiaoshi, who--against all odds--knew exactly what he wanted to write. He was brimming with words, as if his rushing blood was ink for his pen itching to scratch itself out from his skin and onto the paper. His dad. He wanted to write about his dad. The way Baba sat him on his lap and read him fables. The way Baba took photos of alley cats at golden hour and made their fur glimmer. The way he joked that the studio was alive and convinced Cheng Xiaoshi that tidying up made the house happy, so remember to throw your dirty clothes in the washing machine.

He loved his dad and missed his dad and wanted other people to love and miss him, too.

Cheng Xiaoshi, who walked scarcely six steps out of the school grounds before the girl wrenched his backpack from his shoulders. Her friends tore into it like a pack of wolves--tossing his erasers, his calculator, his Pokemon trading cards that he had no one to trade with, until she grabbed hold of his notebook and scarpered.

Cheng Xiaoshi, who lost his breath when she taunted him--You've got no dad. What are you going to do, make one up?--and it was only once she killed his dream that he realised he even had one. The dream that he would write everything about his baba, that he would never forget anything from the texture of his stubble to the laugh in his eyes, that he could enchant everyone to believe Baba is alive and well as if he were a fairy thirsting for faith, and maybe that would bring him back home.

Cheng Xiaoshi, who staggered back home that night with a waterlogged notebook, no trading cards left, and a heart that was too tired to be broken. By the time the pages dried enough to accept a pen, he managed only three characters: 我爸爸--My father--and suddenly he remembered too much and not enough about him that any word he could think of felt like a failure. He threw the book aside and crawled into bed, empty of dinner and spirit. If the teacher scolded him for failing the assignment, if Qiao Shushu pursed his lips in disappointment for another write-up from school, if Qiao Ling looked at him with fragile admonition, he still insisted that the fault was on his laziness, and nothing else.

Cheng Xiaoshi, who would find a box of all his old schoolbooks during spring cleaning years later when he was clearing out storage space for Lu Guang to keep his clothes. He touched the crinkled pages of the workbook, river water permanently wrinkling its cover. He would vaguely remember the homework assignment, just like he vaguely remembered his parents' faces, and barely remembered their voices. He flipped through the pages, heart fluttering in his chest like a bird about to be released from its cage and restless for freedom. But he turned to the page and there were only three characters--我爸爸. Three lonely characters, and the only memory that it stirred was the fact that he ever had one.

[pinklotushere]

If you're feeling heroes

Infinite Realms: Danny Phantom x DC x Marvel AU

Ok Background set-up:

Tim Drake, convinced that Bruce Wayne is still alive, leaves Gotham to search for him, following the path of what he believes are key "historical events." His journey takes him to the desert, where he and his friends discover mysterious runes.

But instead of death befalling his team, the runes turn out to be a veil between dimensions, and they are accidentally sucked into the Infinite Realms—a multiversal space where ghosts, spirits, and lost souls wander.

>>> The Infinite Realms:

The Infinite Realms are vast, uncharted, and connected to every universe, spanning an infinite number of realities.

It's a place of eternal unrest for souls who can not settle, their energy scattered across the realms.

Ghost King Danny phantom oversees this expanse, helping souls who are unable to find peace. His primary task is to evaluate and guide the dead, but things get complicated when some souls have unstable or underdeveloped cores, making them restless or dangerous.

Meanwhile, Vlad Masters (Plasmius) has been secretly aiding Ra’s al Ghul in the mortal world, providing ectoplasm (which functions as Lazarus water in this universe) to Ra’s, in exchange for the loyalty of Ra’s dead assassins. Vlad’s ultimate goal? To usurp Danny and take the throne of the Infinite Realms for himself.

On the other side of the multiverse, thanos snaps his fingers and 50% of the people turns to dust , Peter Parker and half of humanity has been sucked into the soul stone, they dont die though,It just causes a ripple in the fabric of the multiverse, their souls arrive in the Infinite Realms.

but Peter’s left deeply resentful, confused, and struggling with an unstable core

Someone, either Frostbite or Clockwork, takes notice of Peter’s arrival and brings him to Danny for evaluation. As usual, Danny’s focus is on making sure the new arrivals don’t cause trouble, which is complicated by his deep dislike of paperwork (he’s great at physics and biochem, but don’t ask him about statistics).

Danny is swamped with the paperwork for new arrivals when Peter walks in. His appearance is unexpected—he looks like someone who should have settled, but instead, his core is unsteady and kn the verge of chattering.

Peter’s unhelpful attitude only complicates things further. Danny is immediately concerned.

Peter, a genius by nature, peeks at Danny's paperwork and recognises the problem with Danny's administrative mess and offers a solution. Danny, impressed and possibly a bit desperate, hires Peter on the spot to help with the duties of the Ghost Zone.

As things progress, Peter grows more comfortable in the Ghost Zone, though he’s reluctant to fully settle.

Danny starts offering him more and more outrageous jobs in an attempt to keep Peter nearby and help with his unstable core.

What starts as offering him a simple assistant job escalates into more absurd roles—secretary, concubine, king regent, you name it.

Danny will do anything to keep Peter around because he feels Peter’s the key to fixing the realms—and his heart.

Peter, while impressed by Danny's devotion, is wary of the increasingly bizarre proposals. His love language, however, is acts of service, and he appreciates the lengths Danny is willing to go to help him.

Meanwhile, Tim Drake is trying to blend in with the League of Assassins' ghosts in order to track down clues about Bruce.

He quickly learns that Vlad is controlling the assassins, and, much to his disbelief, Plasmius wants to dethrone Danny.

Tim has access to Danny’s historical records, and after sneaking into the archives (probably under Clockwork’s watchful eye), he realizes that Danny is by far the best leader the Infinite Realms have seen in millennia.

Tim starts to believe in Danny’s leadership—and in his own chance to make a difference.

Tim's plan is an easy two steps:

1. Break the assassins free from Vlad’s control.

2. Go to Danny and explain Vlad’s plans, hoping Danny will be indebted and help him return home to Gotham. But, Tim, ever the tactician, also knows that if he takes down Vlad, he could demand Bruce’s return as part of the bargain.

Tim’s plan goes awry when he’s blasted with ectoplasm during an altercation, which leaves him vulnerable to the strange aura of the realms. His life force begins to drain, and he’s rushed to Frostbite’s domain for care. Panic sets in because his plan isn’t completed, and the pressure causes him to blurt out that he’s come to propose a deal to Danny. But he fumbles the words, not realizing what he’s implying.

The misunderstanding spirals out of control. Tim believes he’s asking Danny for an alliance, but Danny’s court interprets this as Tim proposing marriage. In a frantic attempt to clarify things, Danny blurts out that he’s already in a courtship—with Peter.

Tim, confused but intrigued, takes one look at Peter (the “pretty boy” in question) and casually says, “I don’t mind sharing.”

In the Infinite Realms, relationships of this nature are binding—and the realms themselves interpret Tim’s words as consent to begin the courtship process. Now, Danny is trapped in a situation where, if he doesn't follow through with the courtship (and marriage), his core could shatter, causing the Realms to collapse.

Danny, now trying to keep his new “court” intact, is caught in an increasingly complicated political and personal web. He has to decide his feelings for both Peter and Tim while also trying to maintain control of the Infinite Realms. The Ghost Zone’s stability is at stake, and there’s the looming threat of Vlad’s power grab.

As the stakes get higher, Tim, Peter, and Danny form an unlikely alliance. Tim continues to investigate Vlad’s manipulation of the assassins, and Peter starts to use his genius to help stabilize Danny’s leadership—and potentially help them figure out a way to stop Vlad. And danny? Danny falls hard

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Matthew | All Your Curves And Edges | Romantic

Your body is changing a lot due to your pregnancy. Matthew wouldn’t have it any other way.

Requested by Belle

Even though he has left his old life behind in favour of following Jesus, the luxurious house that Matthew had given to his parents still remains in the circulation when it comes to running the ministry. First, it had belonged to Alphaeus and Elisheva, since Matthew had left without another word and ordered Gaius to hand them the key, which they had kept inside a small box on the mantlepiece, not knowing what to do with it. Once they reconciled more than a year later, it had become the headquarters of the anointing oil business that Zebedee had set up. 

From there, you had been able to run it alongside the other women of the group during the time that the Disciples were sent out two by two. Back then, you had still been so convinced that Matthew was romantically interested in Mary of Magdalene, but it couldn’t have been further from the truth. It had been around that same time that Matthew had confessed his feelings to you, but not without a necessary admittance from yourself first. To find out that he reciprocated the sentiment had changed your life for the better, forever. 

So now, two years after Jesus has gone up to His Father in heaven, it is strange to come back to that same villa in Capernaum. In spite of the place sitting empty for so long, no squatters have broken in to live inside of it. It seems that Praetor Gaius has kept an eye on the place, large sheets of textile covering the furniture to protect it from dust and rot, the blinds drawn shut. 

Your then betrothed, now husband, pulls aside the curtains and lets the light stream inside. The place looks as if it has been frozen in time. A fond smile plays over your lips as you drink it all in. So much had changed ever since you were here the last time. And as far as you and Matthew are concerned, it might as well be one of the final times you are visiting this place, for he has decided to sell it once and for all, so that you can use the finances to fund your ministry as well as the upcoming family life that is at hand. 

“Why don’t you go take a seat, love?” Matthew suggests, “I’ll make you something to eat.” 

With a hand under your bulging stomach, you lean against one of the pillars for support whilst Matthew rummages about in the kitchen. Life is so much different right now, you think to yourself, reminiscing on the moments you’ve spent here in the past. Everyone has branched out into different areas of the world, preaching the Good News to anyone who has ears to hear. Even though you miss Jesus’ presence amongst you, the Holy Spirit has filled you all with newfound vigour and trust in the Lord. Your faith is stronger than ever. 

When you feel a restless kick, you sigh and decide to walk around for a bit, looking at the knick-knacks that still adorn the windowsills and tables. There still hangs a heady scent of incense that makes your head hurt a little, so you make your way towards the upstairs area, Matthew still busy making the two of you something to drink and eat, having purchased some fresh produce from the market earlier.

It takes you a little effort to ascend the stairs and you stay at the top of them for a while to catch your breath, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Once your legs feel strong enough again, you waddle towards the room you knew to be his old bedroom, deciding to maybe take a little nap there. You are certain that Matthew would find you here once he figures out that you aren’t downstairs anymore. 

Another kick has you laugh softly with a hint of pain lacing through. “Easy, little one,” you sigh, gently rubbing your stomach. You enter the bedroom, walking over to the plush bed that you had fallen asleep on in the past more often than once, when you walk by a mirror.

You had caught your own reflection only a few times ever since you have fallen pregnant in the water of a creek or in a polished silver platter, but… Not the full picture. Freezing in your place, you eye yourself, and more specifically, the bulging expanse of your seven-month-pregnant tummy. 

Not only that has increased in size. Your chest and upper arms are definitely a bit bigger than before, your tunic tighter than you remember it to be. Your face is a bit puffy, but this you had known. Your ankles, too, from where fluid retention has begun in your legs due to your current state. 

Your heart drops at the sight. Have you really been walking around looking like this? Your face suddenly warms in shame as your eyes flit over your own reflection, your breaths growing more shallow. 

Another thought hits you hard and square in the chest. Right now, you might be allowed to look like this, since you are pregnant, but what will become of you once your baby has been born? Will your body remain like this, chubbier than before, with more skin around your limbs and around your stomach, where it will forever be visible that you’ve borne a child? The stretch marks that you’ve been noticing on your skin lately suddenly feel like a burden. 

Older women had often said that their bodies had never been the same again after childbirth, and even though you had believed them beforehand, it is now a truth that makes you terrified.

Tears blur your vision and shield you from witnessing the sight any longer. Staggering back, you sit down when the back of your knees hits the bed, panic swelling inside your hammering chest. 

“(Y/n)?” Matthew’s concerned voice bounces off the walls and reaches you upstairs, the last thing you really need. You squeeze your eyes shut and attempt to call out that you are fine, but no sound comes from your mouth. When footsteps approach you, you know that there is no way out of this conversation. 

Finding you in tears, Matthew frowns deeply at the worrying sight. “My love?” he croaks, rushing over to your side. He kneels in front of you, immediately grabbing hold of your hand, and he gives you a once-over. “My love, are you alright? What’s going on?” 

You shake your head slightly, your bottom lip slipping between your teeth. You bite it so hard that you taste iron. “What’s wrong, my love?” 

“It’s just…” you sniffle, nearly unable to speak due to how tight your throat feels. “This… This body!” you gesture at your tummy, “This ugly fat body!” 

A line forms in Matthew’s brow. “What are you talking about? What do you mean?” 

You dare to meet his gaze, albeit tearfully. “Look at the size of it! How round it is— Do you think I’ll ever bounce back to what I was before? Never in a thousand years! Once this child is out of me, I will be fat and disgusting and—” 

Matthew cuts you off by putting a hand over your mouth. “Stop talking,” he commands, giving you a stern look. “Let’s backtrack, okay?” 

It is a form of communication that you and your husband had implemented to avoid miscommunication. With the former tax collector’s struggles when it comes to assessing social situations, the two of you have come up with a way to figure out how to understand each other better. It consists of either of you asking to backtrack, so that you could sketch the situation as you interpreted it, and the other party could either agree or clarify what they meant. So far, it had worked wonders for your marriage. 

You nod at him, your bottom lip quivering a little. “So,” Matthew begins, “What I am understanding from your words and from your tears, is that you think your body is bigger than it was before, and you are afraid that it will not be beautiful once you’ve given birth?” 

Sniffling, you hum. “Yes,” you hiccough, “And I am terrified that I will disgust you.” 

That physically takes Matthew by surprise and he nearly exclaims his answer to that notion. 

“What?! Disgust me?! (Y/n), how could you ever think…” He looks at you pleadingly, with these large dark puppy dog eyes that you had fallen in love with all these years ago. “My love, you are the most beautiful, the most breathtaking and the most incredible woman I have ever met in my entire life, and no one will ever come even close to you when it comes to what you mean to me. Every time I look at you, I—I just—” He lets out a shaky breath. “I still get shy!” 

Chewing your lip, you let your eyes search his face for any sign of deception, even though you are well aware that you will find none to begin with. You begin picking at your own nails, insecurity shining through in the action. “How can you possibly know that beforehand?” you whisper, “You might change your mind.” Your hands fiddle in your lap.

Matthew gently taps your chin to make you look up at him. “Remember what I told you before, about what went through my head when I first met you?” 

You cannot fight the abashed smile at the fond memory. “Yes,” you breathe, reminiscing on the moment. “You thought I was—” 

“—An angel, yes,” he says with a smile, “Even more beautiful so. And you still are. Honestly, you are more beautiful to me every single day, because I somehow love you even deeper with every passing moment.” 

Your heart swells at the words your husband directs towards you; you know that Matthew has struggled with embracing his emotions in general, so the fact that he is so open and vulnerable with you about what you mean to him speaks volumes. 

“You are everything and then so much more. Every time I see you, you take my breath away, (Y/n). Every time I touch you, I get so overwhelmed with the fact that you chose me, out of all the people, in spite of my past, you decided you wanted this life with me. To marry me, to build a family with me. I cherish every single part about you.” 

Your eyes shimmer with new tears, this time out of gratitude and happiness. Matthew isn’t exaggerating; he isn’t the type for it, so you know his words to be spoken from the heart. “And I will make sure to tell you that every single day, that all your flaws and imperfections are so loved, because they are part of you, and there is not one single thing I would change about you, my beautiful, gorgeous wife.” 

The response that leaves you is a shaky sob behind a watery smile, and you stand up to embrace him. “Oh, Matthew. I… I’m sorry— I didn’t want to doubt you.” 

“I didn’t interpret it that way,” he reassures you. “From what I can tell, it just seems you are worried about all the changes we both are going through now that the baby is so close to being born, and all the uncertainties that come with parenthood. I feel overwhelmed, too.” 

You can almost hear your own words reflected in his, the ones you had so often whispered in his ear whenever his emotions confused him. The bond you two had forged over the years was indestructible, strengthened by your unwavering faith. This time around, he was the one comforting you. He’d ease your children’s fears like that, too. Everything was coming full circle.

Inhaling his scent, you sigh and relax in his arms. You wish you could stay in this moment forever. Matthew kisses your cheek, your forehead, before chastely pecking your lips. When his hands protectively rest on your tummy, you pull away from the kiss and smile at him softly. 

“I love you, Matthew,” you murmur, rubbing your nose against his own.

A faint blush creeps over his cheeks. “And I love you, more than anything,” he answers you, “My heart.” 

That makes you melt even further into him, the two of you tangling into another intimate embrace, your soft breaths wafting against the crook of his neck, his fingers gently taking off your veil so that they can play with your hair, carefully scratching at your scalp.

The moment only ends when a sharp kick pulls you out of it, and both of you chuckle at the visible movement underneath your dress. “Oh, someone is hungry.” 

“Good thing I finished preparing a nice meal,” Matthew tells you, taking your hand into his and kissing your knuckles. “Now, my love, will you join me for dinner downstairs?”

You hum, searching his face for a few meaningful moments. As much as you adore the fact that you’ve got a little one on the way and that you are starting a family with him, part of you is going to miss these silent, shared moments of intimacy between the two of you. 

You will cherish every second as much as you’ve been enjoying your life together so far, both terrified and excited about what the future holds. With a small nod, you go, ready to share a meal with him.

[ghouldtime]

Ghost'ed

Been thinking about literal Ghost! Ghost. Maybe it's playing too many ghost hunting games or watching too many shows but I cannot stop thinking about it. You also cannot convince me this man wouldn't be a restless spirit. His entire life is troubled and I don't see him going down in a peaceful way or leaving until he feels the job is done - and likely ending up trapped as a result

I wrote this at work so sorry in advance for any typos or slip ups!

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

Ghost hunting wasn’t exactly what most people would list in "Top ten relaxing hobbies" - but it's not like you were most people. You were simply you. The same you who thought spending your time speculating about spooky specters was one of the best ways to pass by those few stretches of free time that could be all too fleeting in the hellscape known as adulthood.

The stares that followed you when you announced paranormal investigation as a hobby was something you knew all too well. After all, telling someone you’re a ghost hunter only stood as a slightly more socially acceptable version of telling them you believed in bigfoot (you did, but that’s beside the point). The dozens of cheesy TV shows certainly popularized it but they did little to help with the perception of it.

When the face of popular ghost hunting media was full of grown men who screamed like a squirrel high on helium at every little thump of a house settling, it did little to help what people automatically thought of when they heard of your unique hobby. Plenty still turned their noses up, scoffed slightly as they rolled their eyes and sneered, “Aren’t you too old to be doing that?” 

Or worse. They gave a tight-lipped smile, nodded, and crinkled their eyes as they said, "Oh, interesting." While the tension in their body told of holding back laughter or wanting to bolt right on out of there, far far away from you.

Quite frankly, you didn't care what they said anymore as it was your life to live, not theirs. You’d seen enough to know without a fraction of a doubt that there was more beyond the veil of life itself, hiding just out of sight. The hundreds of hours you spent wandering dark hallways and dilapidated ruins with nothing but your flashlight and ghost box proved otherwise. At least it proved it to you.

Proving it to others was a horse of another color. Skeptics who spit their criticism loud enough to deafen even the most positive prevalent of voices in the community were a dime a dozen. Unfortunately, their existence was as certain as the sky is blue. Skepticism was apart of human nature, after all. They would always exist as long as the day and night kept up their eternal dance.

Convincing them was a fruitless effort. You'd sooner be able to convince hippos to fly than you'd convince them of the truth you knew. Trying to get everyone to agree, to acknowledge the paranormal, was hopeless and something you certainly weren't going to waste your life on no matter what they called your or what they said.

As far as you were concerned, being paid to sit in the dark alone and find evidence of life beyond the grimy waters of death itself was a pretty sweet gig. The naysayers could seethe in their own jealousy all they wanted because at the end of the day, you’re getting paid to do what you love. That they never could take away from you.

They'd never be able to have the same thrill that you did as you took on another case, ready to see even more of what the phantasmal realm had to offer.

Anticipation, nervousness, and excitement rolled together in a palpable energy you hid beneath a calmer exterior every time you took a job. There always would be that wonder there, the question of what exactly you might find dangling just out of reach, the hope that maybe, just maybe you might see even more than you already have. Another chance to investigate meant yet another night spent lurking in the shadows, tirelessly trying to find more evidence of the great world beyond the grave and its inhabitants. Tonight certainly would be no different.

An older couple quite reluctantly booked an appointment for a standard investigation after mysterious things that they really could not explain, no matter how they went about it, happened time and time again. They'd tried to ignore it, they said, but it only got worse.

Footsteps that echoed through the house at first in a gentle patter had become confident strides. When they went to look, no one was there. Doors that used to slowly creak open, as if blown by the wind, instead started to rattle the frame with force as they opened or slammed in the middle of the night. The husband looked particularly miffed when he groused about the TV going on at odd hours of the night, while his wife seemed more concerned about the possibility of someone having broken in and the fact that it kept doubling in intensity as time went on. The list went on and on about their complaints ranging from things being moved around to always finding a light turned on in a room in the middle of the night. There most certainly was something going on if all of what they were saying was true.

The glaring parade of red flags that easily would send others running for the hills lured you in. Like a dog with a scent, you weren't going to drop the trail, oh no. You were there to sink your teeth and claws in and not let go. Come hell, heaven, or high water - nothing would stopping you.

True to your title, you were a paranormal investigator which warranted a lot more work and professionalism than the standard ghost hunters you saw on TV who couldn't tell the difference between a gust of wind and a ghost. Your job was to research, conduct a proper paranormal investigation, and provide your evidence - or lack of, if it was truly devoid of haunting. But here hardly sounded like it.

Taking your time and reassuring them that you were, indeed, a professional, you went over all the usual questions with them: when did this start, how old is your house, any history of deaths in it, have you acquired any new items recently, do you have any items that were second hand or antique, any family heirlooms in the house, was it in any particular location, etc etc.

Every angle had to be considered, especially the mundane. Plenty of times, people just had a poorly constructed house, deeply held superstitions, and a touch of paranoia to make for a perfect combination of nothing happening at all. That didn’t seem to be the case here, however. While none of their answers pointed in a clear direction of what it might be, it still all pointed to signs of something unworldly happening. But that's what you were there for. To determine if there actually was a ghost, why it was there, and maybe who it was (if things went well and it felt like cooperating). 

You bid them a good night as they headed off with family friends in a beat up convertible, chattering away without a care in the world as if they didn’t have a paranormal parasite problem. At least they were going to go enjoy their night by having an evening out instead of breathing down your neck like some of those who hired you. Locking the door, you trudged in with your gear and began the initial inspection with practiced ease.

A haunting in a house as young and modern as theirs was quite unusual. Open, airy rooms completed with white, sleek, almost eye-hurtingly clean interiors made up the entirety of the house. Even as night crawled higher and higher into the sky, pulling its dark cloak over the land, the house stayed bright. Nothing about it said haunted or caught your eye. The scariest thing there was likely the heating bill. 

As far as your research showed, there hadn't been a death in it or on the land. The owners also seemed quite appalled at the idea of antiques (go figure) so that went right out the window, too. Normally there might be some stashed somewhere that they weren't thinking about, like the attic, but this house didn’t even have that. No basement, no attic, no creepy graveyard in the back; it was a normal, suburban house that shouldn’t have anything going on.

Perusing the house at a leisurely pace, you browsed each and every room with a thorough consciousness of finding something, anything, that could possibly have started it. Yet you turned up empty handed. Everything was as pure and alabaster as the marble countertops and the expensive sleek metal furniture. 

Oh well, not every job would be easy. And not every haunted house was obligated to look run-down and rustic. Some ghosts just had more upper class tastes - or were unfortunate enough to be stuck in an eyesore like this. Maybe a ghost would add some actual personality to their home...

Seeing as they'd said there wasn't exactly a rhyme or reason as to where things would happen, you decided a central room was your best bet. The living room was open enough for everything and an easy place any spirits could find. It had plenty of room for your equipment and the open layout meant you had a great vantage point for the whole house.

Preparing your gear came as naturally as breathing to you, the tasks you've done dozens of times over were a matter of habit. Moving through the motions was your second nature as you worked, not batting an eye as you checked batteries and strategically stationed your gear. It only took a matter of minutes to have your cameras, light system, motion activated interactable objects, ghost box, and the rest of your fancy gadgets set up all around the room.

Placed on the coffee table was your heaviest piece of equipment - your modified spirit box that you had made some special adjustments to just to make sure your results were as accurate as possible. The broken antenna and attached amp weren't standard, nor were the noise reducers, but they stood as a testament to why you were a professional and why you kept getting called out to different places. You knew how to get results and tuned every tiny thing to your needs. There was no room for error or doubt alike in an already uncertain field.

Double checking everything was ready to go once more once more, you plunged the room into somewhat true darkness as you drew the curtains shut and pressed the button on the spirit box, causing it to crackle to life. Speeding through the static of radio stations, it scanned the many frequencies in a blur, far too fast for any natural noise to come through. The whirring of it evened out into a constant, muffled background noise that you’d spent countless hours listening to. Its familiar hum lulled you into a relaxed state, your heart as steady as your calm breaths despite the slight buzz of familiar adrenaline you always felt when you first started. A small beep signaled the successful activation of the digital thermometer as you walked around in a slow, even pace, checking all around. 

Taking a deep breath, you began as you always had. In a confident, but even tone you called out, “Is there anyone with me right now?”

....

........

Silence.

The static of the spirit box continued to filter through in its usual constant churning hum of white noise. Typical. Many supernatural beings wouldn't want to interact, especially not at first. You don't blame them. If a stranger barged into your house and demanded if you were there, pestering you with questions as threw their belongings around, you'd not want to answer them either. That wasn’t even considering that many were so unused to people hearing them or trying to talk to them, not at them. They didn't exactly register on the same frequency that humans did most of the time.

Walking around the room, your boots echoed on the tile flooring. Your footsteps ricocheted off of the high ceilings, amplified by the lofty ceiling and wonderful acoustics this house apparently had. Keeping your attention ever shifting, you kept alert for signs of anything happening. Looking too long in the dark and expecting things to happen would only yield false results and cause paranoia. You knew far better than to do that. 

Nothing lit up, nothing beeped, nothing changed. There was conclusively nothing happening for the first few, long minutes as everything kept at an unwavering constant. Visiting each room, you rechecked their temperatures and tried to find anything amiss or out of place. Yet all seemed well, still, and normal.

Only when you crossed the hallway back into the living room after a quick visit to the bedrooms did your hair stand on end. A chill ran down your spine, the once warm air now holding the barest bite of cold on the edge. Holding up the thermometer, you narrowed your eyes at the steady decrease. While it wasn't quite freezing, it kept dropping and dropping. Numbers ticked lower and lower, your hair stood further on end as a small shiver ran through you as the chill dipped lower and lower. Bingo. First sign of activity of the night. It wasn’t much but it was plenty to know that something was happening here.

Despite the crisp chill, nothing else shifted in the room. Silence prevailed behind the distant drone of your equipment; mainly the comforting, steady typical static of the spirit box. Even the appliances seemed to have gone quiet, exchanging their usual low thrumming rhythm for a break that suspended them in a noiseless limbo.

Your shifting movements echoed far louder than you would have liked as you paced around the room, looking for something new, anything. An actual tangible reaction you could record would be just what you needed but so far, the haunt was holding out.  “What is your name?” You asked, keeping your voice as steady as you can as you tried to switch it up. 

Continual feedback from the spirit box sounded as steady as can be. Still, there was no voice trying to get through it. The fabricated noise reigned supreme as it did its job, whirring away. Pressing your lips into a thin line, the smallest hint of a frown tugged at your lips as disappointment flickered through you. Okay, that's fine. It usually took a few tries anyways. 

A faint, sparkling crackle escaped from it as you heard one, tiny word in a rumbling timbre. One, single word that halted you mid step, your head snapping towards the machine. 

“Ghost.”

Doing a double take, a grin split across your face as your heart jumped with joy. A response! A true, actual response. Not that it exactly answered your question but it meant something was listening.

There was something here!

Nearly tripping over your own feet, you scampered over to your beloved machine. Your eyes fixated on the glowing orange screen, gleaming with glee. 

“W-what’s your name?” You repeat a bit louder unable to hide the excited tremble in your voice or hands, figuring the ghost likely didn't hear you right. 

Static white noise continued for a few seconds, the little x in the corner flashed once, twice, before it lit up solidly. 

“Ghost.”

The smile you held dropped only for a fraction of a second before you cleared your throat. Well, maybe your slight stutter and excitement got in the way. You did talk fast when excited, after all. Taking a deep breath, undeterred as can be, you repeated in a far steadier voice, “What is your name?”

This time you made sure to enunciate every single syllable, speaking clear and confidently into the air. 

One flashing X glowed in the corner of the screen. Another flash. A third. Fourth. Fifth.

Yet again, the deep voice came a bit louder and rougher this time. A thick Mancunian accent that barely picked up through the filter didn't dull the single word you were trying to avoid, “Ghost.”

Okay. Your brows furrowed deeper, your nose wrinkling slightly as your heart sank. The minor disappointment couldn't be kept off of your face as you really had hoped to hear something else. Approach one clearly isn't working. 

Maybe he didn't speak English. Or maybe he wasn't sure that he was dead. Whatever. There was a ghost and he was answering, that's what mattered, you reminded yourself forcefully until the smile came back to your face and the smallest bit of a headache dissipated. Focus on that. Not on the slight annoyance you felt and the agitated twitch of your fingers.

Exhaling, you pursed your lips. Your grip retightened on your flashlight as you racked through questions in your mind, trying to find something that it would have to answer differently too. 

“Can you do something?”

Hopeful, your eyes trailed around the room, praying that maybe the ghost would do something like interact with the many objects scattered about, or even the motion sensors. 

Nothing happened for a few long moments, silence once again prevailing in the otherwise empty house.

Orange light flashed from the spirit box as the X lit up again, only for a second before the dreaded word repeated itself. 

“Ghost.”

Before you could ask what that even meant, or curse it out for that matter, the spirit box and your flashlight shut off, plunging you into true darkness. The flashlight nearly flew from your hands in surprise as you flinched instinctually, your heart leaping into your throat. Frantically flickering the button of your trusty tool did nothing as you desperately tried to turn on your one source of light with the only way you knew how - only to be met with the continual sight of empty, non-shining bulbs. 

Curses spilled from your lips in all the languages you knew as you fumbled for a battery pack, only to find them missing. What? But you swore that they were right there -- ugh, nevermind. This just wasn't going to be your night.

The initial panic subsided as the chill left the air, the residual regular warmth of the house sinking into the room as if blown in by a lazy breeze. Your hair still stood on end as you walked around with cautious, hesitant steps, having given up on the flashlight. There wasn't coming back from that.

It's only when you approached the spirit box, trying to turn it on to no avail, that you realized what he meant. You asked him to do something and he obliged.

He ghosted you. 

God fucking damn it. 

As you glared at the air in frustration, threw your hands up and personally cursed the fiend, you could've sworn you heard a resonating chuckle behind you as breath brushed against the nape of your neck in a way that sent shivers down your spine for a whole new reason.

Part Two

[ghost-bxrd]

PROMPT.

WARNING: Suicide attempt.

Been on a 'Theatre Kid Jason back from the dead, goes on gaslight mode for revenge' fic binge. Especially loved your version of that.

Only, the thing is... this is Gotham. Mindgames have a way of going really really wrong, especially when it comes to dealing with a bunch of should-have-been-in-therapy-last-decade folks like our Bats.

Jason targets Dick, first. Maybe Bruce is away on a Justice League mission or something.

Starts calling him from burnerphones, appearing randomly as a (fake)blood and dirt coated walking corpse, etc. Intending to reduce Dick to a mess.

Only, Dick has been on some mission with a supernatural touch. Maybe something to do with restless spirits. He doesn't think Jason is a hallucination, he believes it is his dead brother back for revenge.

To make matters worse, Dick gets unknowingly exposed to a bit of Fear Toxin somehow - and actually begins hallucinating Jason's broken corpse talking to him. He doesn't think to check his blood for toxin, because he checked the first couple of times Jason turned up. So he figures this is real too.

But this being fear toxin, Hallucination!Jason is way horribler than the real one. Keeps telling Dick, that it was his fault, all his fault. Tells him that life for a life is fair, that he should kill himself if he is actually sorry about letting Jason die.

And Dick, messed up from the toxin and convinced this is really his little brother...tries just that.

Real!Jason, on his usual gaslighting trip, turns up to find Dick unconscious and bleeding out, having slit his wrists according to Hallucination!Jason's command.

Jason naturally panics, forgets all about the plan and the being dead part, and ends up rushing into the Batcave with Dick's unconscious body in his arms, screaming for Alfred and scaring Tim half out of his wits.

Leaving this here :)

[percyjavksongf]

𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐭➾

➤𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐋𝐞𝐨𝐧 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

➤𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜��𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟒’𝟐𝟓𝟔

➤𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐛𝐡 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐜, 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝟐 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐬 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐋𝐞𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐘.

“𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮“

“𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤“

“𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮“

-𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐄𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬

Cupid was a mean, mean man.

He loved to play the cruelest games with you, your heart had been a punching bag for the little guy with wings for as long as you can remember, but now he’s finally taken the cake.

His punishment coming in the form of Leon Kennedy, a man with baby blues and ashy blond hair. A man gifted with a bucket load of confidence and stupid dad jokes, everyone adored him in some way or another, whether it was his ability to raise the spirits of a group with ease or his determination to help anyone he needed him. Everyone in the bullpen loved him, everyone. You were surprised with yourself if you were completely honest, blue eyes and blond hair? You had never been attracted to that type but God did Leon pull it off better then any man ever could. His hair was a little funny, swooped over to the side and covering his eye in a casual yet obviously styled way. Everything about him seemed to be effortless and it ate away at you desperately, how could someone come back after a day out on patrol of a restless and demanding city and still look so beautiful? Your heart ached whenever he walked into the room, painfully so that you had to force yourself to look away, scared he’d catch your gaze and spot the lovestruck gleam in your eyes.

Being a secretary in the Racoon police department had it’s ups and downs, people loved to come to you with convincing smiles and a stack of paperwork, ask about your day while slipping you a couple of reports to look over. You’d always shoot them an unimpressed look but would end up taking on the papers anyways, understanding that after a long week of saving the city that the last thing someone would want to do is lean uncomfortably over a desk and write about it, besides, at the end of the week you’d all usually go out to the local bar for drinks and you’d never have to pay for a thing, a thanks from the officers for doing the boring part of their job.

You had landed the job a couple of years after Leon had joined, you were shown around the building quickly and then promptly brought to your new desk, bright eyed and excited to introduce yourself to everyone. You weren’t prepared for the first person you met at your new job to be so breathtaking, it made you shiver uncomfortably when you recalled your first interaction with the cop, he had strolled over to your desk and placed a large hand on the wood, leaning against it casually with a warm smile. Leon introduced himself and you exchanged small talk for a couple of minutes, he complemented your hair and you swear your heart stuttered for a moment, your shoved your hands under your desk to hide how much they had started to shake with nerves and put on your best casual smile, it must’ve looked so obvious to Leon how nervous you were to talk to him when you look back on it.

The bullpen was bustling with life when you ran into work this morning, the traffic had been horrific and had delayed you by twenty minutes, your outfit suddenly felt to warm and your fingers tugged at the cream fabric of your tight blouse roughly. You walked coolly to your chair in attempts to look as though you had been around the whole time, unfortunately working with officers meant you could never really get away with anything.

“twenty one minutes late? That’s not like you” the loud voice had you rolling your eyes and plopping yourself at your desk, your eyes caught the playful glare of Chris Renfield as he sat lazily against his chair, tapping his index fingers against his watch. Before you could reply your eyes were drawn to the man leaning against his desk in the corner of the hectic room, head tilted back and laughing away at something Jill had said. You wished Leon was the one who had noticed your absence, you knew it sounded childish but the thought stilled coaxed a small sigh from your lips. Brushing it off you turned back to your desk and sweared to not think about Leon for the rest of the day, you were going to do your work with a level head and absolutely zero distractions.

“there you are, I couldn’t find you this morning when I came in, I was worried you were gonna leave me all alone today” well fuck that entire plan.

Your eyes left your computer screen instantly and met Leons, he smiled down at you and placed a to go cup next to the stack of papers on your desk, you glanced at it in confusion and looked back to Leon

“I didn’t ask for-”

“I know. you weren’t here when they went around collecting orders so I put it down for you. Tea with two sugars right?” you nodded and distracted yourself with taking a sip of the beverage, even though you already felt warm it was exactly what you needed right now.

“you like your drinks sweet” it was a statement more then a question, you put your cup down and turned back to Leon

“I like sweet things” you said with a small smile, praying to whichever goddess of love that was watching you with pity at the obvious nerves rolling off of you.

“so do I” Leon’s gaze never wavered from yours and your mouth was overflowing with all the things you wanted to say but just couldn’t, his eyes flickered down for a second and shot straight back up. You sucked in a quiet breath as he rounded the desk to your side, leaning down to you

“your top button is undone, just thought I’d let you know”

if the floor could open around you and drag you down now would be the perfect time.

“oh! I didn’t know- thank you” you spun your chair putting your back to Leon, your shaky fingers fumbled but after a couple of seconds managed to pop the button back into place.

“Kennedy! Come on we’re heading out”

you spun back around quicker then intended and brushed your palms against the smooth material of your skirt, Leon had already rounded to the front of your desk and moved a couple steps away. You slouched in your seat internally cursing yourself for wasting precious time that you could’ve used to chat to Leon, but even then you knew you’d probably would’ve just gawked up at him while he rambled on about some crazy thing that happened while he was on patrol, you wouldn’t have minded of course. The only thing that made you shift self consciously in your seat was that you never had any fun work stories of your own to recall to Leon, besides that one time a drunk college boy who had been thrown in the holding cell had sang his rendition of ‘I want you back’ by NSYNC to you a couple of months ago, Chris still gives you a hard time because of it.

Leon turned back to give you a quick half grin and strolled out the door with the rest of the officers, leaving you alone in a mostly empty room but you had grown accustomed to it, usually the only company you had most days was the rundown radio that sang you static the majority of the time. You felt eyes burning into the side of your face and you shot Chris an annoyed look, quickly noting his was trying to coax you into some staring contest you sat up in your chair and attempted to distract your mind by bundling papers together and figuring out which files needed to be completed today and which ones you could leave future you to deal with.

“what is it Chris?” you eventually huffed, sparing him a half glance while you continued to write down the reports of the robbery that happened down town the other day, seriously how could they dump shit like this to you and expect you actually knew what to write? You weren’t even there.

“your so obvious, I feel like you should have those cartoon heart eyes shooting out of your eyes for fucks sake” his words stilled you momentarily, your heart almost felt suffocatingly tight at the thought of people knowing about your not so small crush on Leon.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” you said, attempting to seem bored as you flexed your hands under your desk, if you start fidgeting he’ll pick up on it straight away.

“sure you don’t” Chris chuckled to himself “you know I’m trained in this type of stuff? I can smell a liar from miles away”

“i’m sure you can” you spoke back sarcastically earning some protest from him.

There was a few hours of peace between Chris and you, both having your respective work to complete before the clock struck six. Chris shuffled out of his seat and you peered out from your desk as he moved to walk past you towards the bathrooms.

“hey, you know-”

“what, Chris.” you huffed, putting your pen down to face the man who seemed delighted in the fact that he has captured your attention

“I like sweet things too” the shit eating grin that smeared across his face had you questioning if this job was worth having to deal with someone who acted like an irritating older brother, you felt your face warm up knowing exactly what he was trying to poke fun at

“never speak to me again” you stated and turned back to your work, listening to Chris laughter boom across the room.

Officers crawled back into the bullpen one by one, each one ready to have to day be done and over with, it was a Friday evening so everyone in the room was excited to go out and have a few drinks after the hectic week. With a proud grin you shuffled your papers into a neat pile and slid them into a large envelope ready to be sent off to whoever, you didn’t really care who as long as they never sat on your desk again.

“you’re a happy girl” Leon grinned, his hands moving to their designated spot on your smooth wooden desk, you gave him a short hum in response and stood up from your chair

“i’m finally done these reports” you returned Leon’s smile and stepped around him “I’m just glad I never have to look at them again” you sighed happily, grabbing your coat and tucking yourself into it snugly. You brought your attention back to Leon and caught his gaze, his eyes glued to you shamelessly. He pushed himself off your desk and stood beside you, for the past year you’ve been working here you’ve come to appreciate how much bigger Leon was than you, usually you were never one for muscles and all but there was something about Leon that made it all so appealing, the way he stared down at you made your stomach bubble with excitement and brain turn to mush.

Aware of have badly you must’ve been staring at him you schooled your features to seem relaxed and unfazed by his sudden closeness, “how was patrol?” you asked, hoping to get him talking so you had time to pump yourself up to talk converse normally to him.

You walked side by side to the door and Leon quickly moved ahead to open it for you, with a quiet thanks you walked through with Leon following swiftly behind

“surprisingly quiet for a Friday evening, not that I’m complaining” Leon said, stuffing his hands lazily in his jacket pockets “would’ve been more fun if you were with me”

“yeah?” you breathed out a small laugh

“yeah, I’d say we’d make a pretty good team” Leon said, opening another door for you and a couple other people who were leaving the station, you waited patiently for him to catch up, trying not to look so eager.

Leon was kind, you had picked up on that on his first day, opening doors wherever he could and always taking the time to talk to people. He befriended everyone with little to no effort, you envied his ability to get along with people as if he’d known them his whole life. Leon was selfless too, he was the one to pick up pretty quickly that a lot of the officers seemed to take advantage of your yes attitude, not having the ability to reject their offers of doing their work ‘just this one time’, a lie obviously but you took it all on with a smile on your face, just happy to help. Leon never dumped his workload onto you. He had come over to you on your second week into the job to tell you that it wasn’t necessary to do other peoples jobs and that you were allowed to say no, you had thanked him but stated that you didn’t mind giving them a hand, with that Leon had taken half the files that sat on your desk, ignoring your protests and saying it would all get done quicker if two people handled it.

“you’re coming out this evening right?” Leons question snapped you from your thoughts, you gave him a quick nod “yep, and you better be going out too, you owe me a game of pool”

“I’d never dream of missing it” Leon replied

“be ready to have your ass handed to you, again” you teased, fishing for the keys in your pocket and unlocking your car. You and Leon had this unspoken routine, He’d wait for you to finish up your paperwork and you’d walk out together, you’re not sure when exactly it started but you certainly didn’t mind the arrangement.

“I’m looking forward to it” he said with a small wave, jumping onto his own motorbike and driving off. You hopped into your own car and sat still in the drivers seat, listening to your quick breathes as you recalled the last fifteen minutes, you let yourself squeal in delight for a moment before turning your car on and heading home. Seeing Leon at work was obviously amazing, but seeing him outside work? It felt so much more personal. As handsome as he was in his Racoon City Police Department uniform, seeing Leon out of uniform was also just as breathtaking, his skin tight navy shirt left little to the imagination, and usually left you with a burning face.

The last time officers had decided to meet outside of work for drinks had been one of the best nights out you’d ever had, you swear you’d never laughed so hard in your life and it was nice to see your friends without the usual stress lines dancing across their foreheads. You had ended up spending most of the night with Leon who had sworn up and down that his pool skills were unbeatable, this however was quickly refuted when you managed to beat him four out of five rounds, towards the end of the night your own pool skills had dwindled as the alcohol had made you sloppy which an equally as tipsy Leon loved to point out.

The night had become a blur quickly but you remember catching a taxi with Leon, leaning into him as you both laughed when recollecting Chris’s drunken attempt to order more beer, the poor man not even remembering the name of it. You remember cringing in the morning, the realisation of how clingy you had become making you feel sick when you walked into work the following Monday, you were prepared to have Leon ignore you but to your surprise he had come straight over to your desk and asked how the rest of your weekend had gone, saying he couldn’t wait to go out again.

You were determined to make this night as good, or even better than the last.

The booth was a lot more crowded then you had expected, the bar was packed full of drunk party goers and left little to no room to navigate your way around the floor, You were squished up between Chris and Marvin, who were arguing over who had better aim while you sipped away on your vodka coke, trying not to let your eyes drift over to the door with little restraint, you had been here for an hour now and Leon had yet to grace you with his presence. With a bit of struggle you managed to squeeze your way out of the booth, placing the empty glass on the bar you waited to ask for another drink in attempts to distract yourself. It’s fine if he doesn’t show up, totally fine, you just wished you hadn’t worn out your best outfit-

A drink was pushed in front of you and you shot the bartender a confused glance “I haven’t ordered-”

“I did” came a voice from over your shoulder, you turned you body quickly to face Leon and you swear your heart was beating at a hundred miles per hour, he stood tall over you with a boyish grin splashed across his face. You didn’t miss the way his eyes drifted quickly down your form before jutting straight back up to look you in the eyes, he was going to be the death of you.

“thanks” you said, quickly realising you were stuck between the bar and Leon “did you just get here?”

‘Yeah sorry, traffic was shit” he passed the bartender a ten dollar bill and grabbed the beer from their hands “you ready for me to kick your ass in pool?”

you rolled your eyes at his cockiness and made your way over to the empty pool table “loser pays for the next round?” you challenged, grabbing a pool cue and setting up the table.

“oh you’re so on”

You were five drinks in and leaning the majority of your bodyweight onto the pool cue in your hand, admiring Leon as he rounded the table a few times, still deciding where to take his shot from, when he rounded the table for the third time you finally let out an impatient groan “Leon come on, you’re taking forever”

Leon shot you a playful glare before lining up his shot, which to your surprise landed perfectly into the hole across from it.

“looks like you’re paying for the next round, sweetheart” that was another thing about tipsy Leon, he preferred to call you anything but your name. Leon moved to stand next to you, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you both back into the booth behind you with a thud, drawing a bubble of giggles from your throat “I think we should take a quick break from drinking” you laughed, shuffling so you could sit up in the booth, Leon’s arm moved to pull you up against his side and you happily leaned into the embrace.

“yeah, I’m not sure how much more damage my wallet can take” Leon said, attempting to grab his wallet from his pocket

“and who’s fault is that?” you teased, poking a finger against his chest with a playful smile. Leon grinned down at you and reached for your hand, intertwining your hands together firmly.

“it’s your fault” he said, making no movement to drop your hand. If you had been sober you’re sure you would’ve been speechless at the lack of space between Leon and you, your jean cladded thigh was pressed up snugly against his, and a strong arm was wrapped securely around your waist. You gave Leon a cocky smile “It’s not my fault I’m better than you”

the calloused pad of Leon’s thumb drew circles on the exposed skin of your hip, sending thrilling cracks of electricity up your spine and making you shiver. Your eyes tore away from Leon’s for a moment to check your surroundings, the clock read twelve thirty and the bar was still packed, you and Leon had snagged an isolated area of the bar so you probably weren’t in view of anyone. Leon seemed to realise that at the same time as you and you felt a hand brush against the side of your face, tucking a fallen strand of hair behind your ear gently. The movement turned your attention back to Leon who seemed delighted to have it, his hand had stalled on your cheek and you couldn’t help but lean into the heat of it

“you’re so warm” you said in awe, it almost felt like leaning against a human heater

“yeah?” the deep rumble in his voice made your chest tighten, you realised just how close you were.

“yeah” you breathed softly, letting his hand guide your face closer to his. Suddenly everyone in the bar din’t matter, the voices of party goers drowned out by the drumming of your heart in your ears, Leon’s eyes seemed to darken the closer you both grew, noses bumping into each other until all you could focus on was the sound of your shared breaths

“Leon..” you whispered, waiting for him to move, to do something.

“is this ok?” he asked, his grip on your cheek moving to grasp your chin, making sure you were looking at him. you nodded.

Leon’s head dipped down and he captured your lips in his gently, you gasped softly against him and Leon used this to deepen the kiss, arm wrapped around your waist pulling you flush against him. The kiss was soft and clumsy, not that you minded one bit, the last thing you had expected to do tonight was make out with Leon. A whistle from the barman who had spotted you pulled you apart, breathless and blushed. When your eyes met Leon’s it felt like being in one of those cheesy eighties movies, when the girl finally kisses the guy and everything starts to fall into place, the world around them seems more fluorescent and some old love song is playing quietly in the background. It felt like something from a dream, a dream you never wished to wake from.

Leon tilted his head back slightly, his hand snaked up to push some of the hair out of his eyes and you couldn’t help but admire him. You hands moved without you thinking and aided Leon with guiding the hair out of his eyes, the soft touch stole Leon’s attention.

“you ready to get out of here?” Leon asked, his hand leaving his hair and seeking your touch again

“we’re definitely getting a taxi” a statement which Leon’s agrees with instantly, you couldn’t imagine walking home in this state.

Practically skipping out of the bar you hung off Leon’s arm and stared up at a rambling Leon who was smiling like a fool, the streets were bustling with life and the pavement beneath your feet glowed with the help of the street lights above, views of the city you had seen for years suddenly meant so much more when you had Leon beside you to see them too.

“you’re not working tomorrow, are you?” you asked curiously, you know lots of other officers have rocked up to work hungover but Leon never seemed the type, always wanting to be the best he could.

“no I asked for the day off” he replied, his infamous brown was currently draped over your shoulders and Leon couldn’t take his eyes off of you, your hair flung around wildly from the midnight breeze and you were sure your mascara had most likely smudged a bit during the night, but Leon didn’t seem to notice a flaw on you.

Once you had successfully called a taxi over you hopped inside with Leon close on your tail, you had given the taxi driver your address and had turned to Leon to ask for his address but he paused, staring at you almost shyly “listen, you don’t have to say yes obviously but I got this game recently and I was wondering if you wanted to come over and, you know, check it out?” you watched Leon pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh, a light pink hue overtaking his skin “ok that sounded weird but I swear it would only be that-”

“I’d love too” you said, watching Leon’s face morph form embarrassment to relief with a laugh.

True to Leon’s word you had strictly played this new game he brought that night, you woke with a fright when the games loading screen screamed at you to ‘start now!’ at around eight in the morning. You attempted to stretch from your snug position but realised pretty quickly that you weren’t able to move, peeking your eyes open a small bit they delightfully landed on the heavenly sight that was a sleeping Leon Kennedy, face flushed from the heat of your combined body’s and worry lines relaxed out, you realised he looked so much younger when he didn’t have the days work piled onto him.

Maybe you were too quick to judge, to soon to point fingers and blame that archer for your heartache, you supposed there were stories from myths like this, weren’t there? The goddess of love would watch lovestruck people from afar and guide them in their journey into becoming one, the possibility was there.

Maybe Cupid wasn’t that mean of a man to you after all.

𝐀/𝐧: HEYYY IM BACK school has been kicking my ass so i’ve been lavking in the posting department. I legit have so many unfinished drafts and i keep getting stuck at certain oart BUT i will have another Percy fic out, i’ve just been going through a re4r phase and had to make this. Also valentines days coking up so i wwnted something sweet cus yeah, also someone be my valentine pls 🥲❤️

[rainforestakiie]

AdamsApple Month Harvest!

Devil's Night~

gosh, i'm so happy. i really love this idea. it is inspired by @things-arent-what-they-seem66's AU of adam and lilith switching places.

i know harvest is over but i have a few more things to write!

hope you all enjoy it!

part 01 - part 02

@adamsappleweek

Hell felt different now. Smoke hung heavy, thicker than usual, as though mourning in silence, and the very ground under Lucifer’s hooves pulsed with a faint, restless throb, like a wound struggling to close. He stood in solemn stillness, his back perfectly arched, hands folded over the twisted surface of his apple-wood cane, fingers tapping rhythmically as if to an unseen clock counting down something. His gaze, red and yellow like smouldering embers, fixed on the lifeless form of Adam sprawled on the darkened ground, surrounded by a shimmer of golden liquid and the soft glint of fallen feathers.

Adam lay motionless, eyes shut, lips the colour of a fading bruise. Lucifer’s throat tightened. Part of him wanted to whisper thanks to his daughter, Charlie, for guarding Adam’s body from the ravenous cannibals of the underworld, but he knew if he opened his mouth, his voice would crack, betraying him.

The silence pressed in, cold and oppressive, creeping into his bones. Hell was hot, stifling, but Lucifer felt chilled to his core—a hollow, biting emptiness that gnawed at him. His gaze remained unbroken, staring with a strange, desperate hope that this was some twisted joke. Perhaps any moment now, Adam would shift, laugh in that carefree, Edenish way of his, and sit up, as vibrant and stubborn as ever. But Adam remained still, silent, chest unmoving. An uncontrollable shiver ran through Lucifer, twisting painfully in his stomach.

He had never truly believed Adam could die. He had always assumed—no, convinced himself—that Adam would outlive them all, his spirit too relentless to surrender. And somewhere, hidden in the darkest corners of Lucifer's heart, was a naïve sliver of hope that Adam would eventually come back to him. That the bond they had once shared in Eden, a bond so profound it had nearly eclipsed the heavens themselves, would find a way to mend. They would rebuild, somehow. It would be different, yes, but they would laugh together again, walk side by side once more. Those stolen moments in Eden, when Lucifer was Adam’s guardian angel and Adam, his purpose… those memories clung to him, a bittersweet poison he couldn’t let go of.

Back then, Adam had been his everything. His duty, his joy, his reason to exist. Lucifer remembered the thrill that had sparked through him, the first time he heard the voice of God declare his purpose. He was to be Adam’s protector, his guide, his companion in that boundless garden. And he had thrown himself into that role, relished it. He had loved Adam in a way he hadn’t understood at the time. The garden had been theirs alone. No one else existed in that timeless paradise, only him and Adam, with eternity stretched out before them like a golden promise.

But then Lilith entered the garden, and everything had unravelled. He thought he had loved her, thought she understood him, saw him for who he truly was beneath the wings and heavenly light. He had let his heart slip through his fingers, foolishly entrusting her with every secret, every fractured part of himself. He had given her everything: a home, a family, the taste of power. Yet, for her, it was never enough. She wanted more, always something beyond his reach, until she had finally abandoned him and Charlie the moment something more alluring came her way. The emptiness she left was raw, a void gnawing at him even now.

He had tried to convince himself he deserved it—that he was vile, selfish, the snake of Eden. He had thought he deserved every torment she dealt him, every moment of betrayal. He had hurt Adam, and that wound, though buried, had never fully healed. He could still see Adam’s green eyes, filled with tears and betrayal, piercing through the centuries. That look had seared itself into Lucifer’s soul, a scar he tried endlessly to ignore. The first betrayal had been shattering. But there were others. With each one, he had watched something precious in Adam’s eyes die, replaced by a steely resolve, a silent ache that mirrored Lucifer’s own.

During their last battle—the one that had forever severed the fragile thread between them—Lucifer had let slip a remark about Eve. He had done it to provoke Adam, to elicit some reaction, any reaction, just to feel Adam’s gaze on him again, even if it was filled with fury. But Adam’s reaction hadn’t been what he’d expected.

That fleeting hint of betrayal in his eye—the exact shade Lucifer knew so well—had cut deeper than any physical blow could. Adam hadn’t been blind to it, hadn’t let it slide as Lucifer had hoped. The anger had transformed into something colder, something Lucifer couldn’t quite name, but it lingered, long after they parted.

Now, standing here, watching Adam’s motionless form, Lucifer felt the full weight of those mistakes crashing over him, a tidal wave of remorse he could no longer fend off. Every unspoken word, every fractured promise, every fleeting glance they had shared in Eden came flooding back to him with agonizing clarity. The irony was sharp—Adam, his purpose, his only joy, lay gone, and Lucifer was left adrift, lost in a void he had fashioned for himself. The garden, their laughter, their whispered secrets beneath the endless, star-strewn sky… all of it had turned to ash, leaving Lucifer alone with nothing but the ghosts of memories that would never fade, haunting him like shadows he could never escape.

Lucifer clenched his eyes shut, the whispers of memories swelling in his mind, pressing into the silence until they filled the air around him. He could hear it all—every laugh, every teasing remark, every stolen moment under Eden’s endless skies. The phantom echoes of their laughter rang through his ears, so vivid it felt as if Adam were right there beside him again, as though any second he’d feel Adam’s hand slap his back or hear him call his name with that familiar, playful lilt. He could almost smell the dewy grass and the scent of fresh, untainted earth that had once been their playground, their sanctuary.

They had been so close, he and Adam, so tightly bound by a friendship that felt eternal, unbreakable. Lucifer’s heart had belonged entirely to Adam in those days, every bit of him dedicated to his charge, to his purpose. Adam had been his light, his reason to be, his only true companion in the vast, bewildering beauty of the garden. And yet, Lucifer had lost it all, torn it apart with his own hands, with his own selfish heart. He’d destroyed something precious, something he thought could never be lost. He’d always believed they’d somehow find their way back to each other. That one day, Adam would look at him with those green eyes, softened with forgiveness, and they’d be… something again. Friends, perhaps. Or more.

A soft, broken sniff escaped him, and he forced his eyes open, the agony tightening in his chest as his gaze fell once more on Adam’s still, lifeless body. His sharp teeth clenched as his hooves trembled beneath him. He took a faltering step forward, his legs weak, as if the weight of centuries was pressing down on them, the memories and regrets dragging him down. His knees felt brittle, ready to buckle as he moved closer. His eyes burned, a stinging heat prickling at them, growing worse with each step until he found himself standing directly over Adam’s body. He looked down, his chest tight, his breath ragged, hardly daring to believe this was real.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice barely a rasp, clinging to some thread of hope that seemed to slip further from his grasp. His gaze was fixated on Adam’s chest, willing it to rise, to betray some hidden breath.

“Hey, oi… this isn’t funny.” His claws tightened around the apple-wood cane, his knuckles whitening, desperate to ground himself against the unrelenting horror of the truth. “Adam, this isn’t funny. Stop… stop playing around.”

His voice cracked, shaky and hollow. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as he searched Adam’s face for any sign of movement, any flicker of those warm, golden eyes. But Adam remained still, lips tinted blue, his skin pallid under the dim, smoky light. Lucifer’s hands trembled, and with a sharp intake of breath, he dropped to his knees, his cane clattering to the ground beside him.

“Please…”

The word slipped out, soft and broken, barely a whisper. He reached out a trembling hand, his fingers brushing against the cold skin of Adam’s cheek. The chill bit into him, a harsh, unyielding reminder that this wasn’t a nightmare he could wake from. He closed his eyes again, unable to bear the sight of Adam like this, and the memories surged back once more, flooding him with bittersweet echoes.

“Do you remember, Adam?” he murmured, voice barely holding together, his hand resting gently against Adam’s cheek. “Do you remember… the nights we’d talk until the stars began to fade? When we’d chase each other through the trees, laughing like nothing else in all creation mattered?”

His voice wavered, choked by the memories, by the weight of a love he’d buried so deeply he’d almost forgotten how much it hurt.

The memories of Eden shimmered behind his eyes—memories of Adam grinning, his face lit up with that carefree, boyish charm that Lucifer had adored. Memories of Adam leaning on him, both talking under the vastness of the heavens, lost in their own world, a world they had once believed would never end.

But it had ended. He’d been the one to end it.

And now, here he was, left alone with nothing but his regrets and the fading whispers of a love that could never be repaired. His shoulders sagged as he leaned closer, his forehead almost touching Adam’s. He spoke again, his voice barely more than a breath, as though he feared the silence would shatter beneath the weight of his words.

“Adam, I’m sorry,” he whispered, the confession torn from him like a piece of his soul. “I’m so… sorry.”

But Adam remained silent, cold, unyielding, and for the first time, Lucifer understood the full extent of his loss, the emptiness that would haunt him for eternity. His hand slipped from Adam’s cheek, his head bowing as the first, silent tear fell.

Lucifer shuffled closer on his knees, inch by inch, his face warming with a painful flush as his eyes misted over.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked, voice quivering as he leaned over Adam’s body.

His fingers trembling as they reached out, brushing just the edge of the bloodstained fabric. He wanted to touch Adam’s hand, to feel that familiar warmth once more, but he couldn’t bring himself to close the distance. His breath hitched, his hands hovering, shaking, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

“I was supposed to be your guardian, Adam,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. “I was made for you… to protect you, to be whatever you needed, whatever you deserved.”

He swallowed, his chest tight as the words clawed their way out, raw and unfiltered. “But I failed you. I failed you in ways I can’t even… can’t even justify.”

His fingers trailed across Adam’s robe, tracing the familiar folds, the dark stains of blood, each one a reminder of how far they’d fallen from what they once were.

He took a shaky breath, his mind dragging him back to the painful memories, to Lilith.

“She was… God, she was everything to me then,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “I thought… I thought I loved her. I thought she saw me in a way no one else ever had. I thought she understood me. She was fierce, and powerful, and beautiful, and I thought—”

His voice broke, and he looked down, the shame tightening like a vice around his heart. “I thought she would stay. I thought… I thought she wanted me, that she wanted what we could build together. I cut off my own wings for her, gave up everything I had, my power, my place in heaven. And then, at the first chance she got, she left. Left me and Charlie as if we were nothing.”

He let out a bitter laugh, empty and hollow. “But maybe… maybe I deserved it. I had it coming, didn’t I? For what I did to you.”

His gaze flickered to Adam’s face, hoping desperately to see a flicker of forgiveness, but Adam remained still, cold and lifeless. Lucifer clenched his teeth, forcing himself to keep going, to lay everything bare before him.

“You saw us, didn’t you?” he whispered. “Back in Eden. You saw Lilith and me… together. And I knew. I knew it wasn’t fair to you, that you didn’t understand. You didn’t deserve that, Adam. You didn’t deserve to be hurt like that, to be left alone, wondering what happened to me, wondering why everything changed.”

He looked away, ashamed. “And I can’t explain myself. I wish I could. I want to, but… I don’t know what happened. I was so… blinded. I couldn’t see you, couldn’t see what was right in front of me. I was too wrapped up in her, in what I thought I felt for her.”

His voice dropped to a whisper; his words laced with regret. “But before Lilith, it was always you. It was always you, Adam. I was so… so sure I loved you, I just didn’t know it then. I loved every moment we spent together. I would have done anything for you, anything to make you happy. And then Lilith appeared, and it was like… I lost sight of everything, even myself. And I’m so sorry, Adam. I’m so sorry for hurting you like that. I can’t… I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

His breath came faster, his heart racing as he leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching Adam’s.

“Please,” he gasped, desperation bleeding into his voice. “Please believe me, Adam… please, just believe me.”

But Adam didn’t move. His chest remained still, his lips unmoving, his eyes closed. Adam was gone, lost to him forever, and there was no forgiveness left to give.

And the truth was, it didn’t end there. He knew that. It had only gotten worse. With every betrayal, every hurtful word, he had crushed any possibility of Adam ever forgiving him. The garden’s peace had been shattered the day he offered Eve the apple of knowledge, sealing their fates, twisting their lives in ways they could never repair. And… he’d done worse, so much worse. Seducing Eve, leading her astray beneath the same tree where he and Lilith had once been together—it was a cruelty he couldn’t justify, a cruelty he could barely comprehend. God, what had he been thinking? What kind of twisted satisfaction had he found in that, in taking from Adam everything that mattered?

He had shattered Adam’s life piece by piece, and yet, even then, Adam had been forced to face him time and time again. When Heaven and Hell would meet, when Sera dragged Adam into those dreadful meetings, he’d seen the reluctance, the pain in Adam’s eyes, how he didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to face either him or Lilith. But he had no choice. And Lucifer… he hadn’t been kind. Neither he nor Lilith had shown him an ounce of mercy. They had ridiculed him, humiliated him, found twisted joy in watching him squirm, powerless and betrayed. And why? Why had he been so cruel? What purpose had it served?

He looked down, his heart aching as he remembered those meetings, the way Adam had silently endured every word, every insult, sitting there, taking it, never once fighting back. Adam had suffered, and Lucifer had watched, almost revelling in it, as if punishing Adam would somehow heal the cracks in his own broken heart. As if hurting Adam could numb his own pain. But he had only hurt himself in the end, lost the one person who had ever mattered to him.

And when the Extermination finally came, when the heavens unleashed their wrath, Lucifer had known, deep down, that they deserved it. Every drop of blood, every scream, every life lost—he and Lilith had brought it upon themselves. They had forced Adam’s hand, driven him to the breaking point. And now, here he was, kneeling in front of Adam’s lifeless form, begging for forgiveness that would never come.

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to Adam’s cold chest, his voice barely a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his words broken and raw. “I’m so sorry… I’m so… so sorry…”

And there, in the quiet, he finally allowed himself to cry, his tears falling like ashes, a silent lament for the life he had destroyed, for the love he had lost forever.

With trembling hands, Lucifer finally reached out, his fingers brushing over Adam’s chest, desperate to feel any sign of life, any hint of warmth. But there was nothing. No steady drum of a heartbeat, no soft rise and fall of breath. Just silence, a vast and hollow silence that ripped through him like a jagged blade.

His eyes widened, hot tears spilling down his cheeks as memories surged to the surface. In Eden, he had often rested his head against Adam’s chest, lulled by the comforting rhythm of his heartbeat. It had been one of his favourite things, to lie there and listen to that soft, steady pulse. It had felt like… like home. It had felt like safety, like something real and lasting. He had loved it, loved Adam, loved him more than he had ever been able to admit.

But now—now there was nothing. Just silence.

Lucifer's throat tightened as he leaned down, pressing his face against Adam’s chest, willing the warmth back, willing that familiar heartbeat to start up again. He held his breath, straining his ears, hoping, begging for the faintest thump of life. Just one beat, one inhale, anything. But there was nothing. Nothing.

Nothing.

A sob wrenched from his throat, harsh and broken, as the realization finally crashed over him, too powerful to deny. Adam was gone. Truly gone. There would be no laughter, no teasing words, no forgiveness. The connection he had always felt with Adam, that subtle warmth in the back of his mind that told him Adam was alive, was… gone. Severed, leaving only an aching, freezing emptiness in its place. For the first time in eons, Lucifer felt truly, utterly alone.

He clutched at Adam’s robes, his claws slicing through the fabric as he buried his face deeper into Adam’s chest, his sobs tearing through him, raw and desperate.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a broken breath. “Please… please come back. Adam, please… I’m begging you. Just… just come back.”

But Adam lay silent, unmoving, his body a hollow shell. His soul, the vibrant light that had filled Lucifer’s darkest moments with hope, with warmth, was gone. Lost to him forever.

Lucifer clutched harder, his claws rending the cloth, his entire body shaking with the force of his sobs.

“I’m so sorry, Addie,” he choked out, the nickname slipping from his lips as if by instinct, a final, broken plea to the friend he had loved and failed. “I’m so… so sorry.”

He lay there, crushed beneath the weight of his own grief, pressing his face into Adam’s chest as if he could somehow force life back into him, as if he could somehow undo all the harm he had done. But the silence was deafening, a cruel, unyielding reminder that it was too late. Adam was gone, and no amount of sorrow, no amount of regret could bring him back.

Lucifer’s cries echoed through the barren, smoking expanse of Hell, raw and unrestrained, like a wound torn open, bleeding out all the pain and love he had carried for so long, hidden even from himself. And for the first time, Lucifer understood the full measure of his loss. There would be no redemption, no second chance. The love he had been too proud, too blind to claim was gone, leaving him hollow, shattered in a way that no amount of time could heal.

And there, alone in the endless silence, Lucifer wept, clutching Adam’s lifeless form as if he could somehow hold onto him, even as everything he had ever loved slipped through his fingers, leaving nothing but an aching void where his heart had once been.

Lucifer’s body was numb, every muscle trembling and strained as he finally stepped back from Adam’s grave. Beneath the smoky sky of Hell, in his hidden garden—a small oasis of fragile memories and forbidden nostalgia—Adam now rested. The garden had been Lucifer’s sanctuary, his one secret, private place built from the remnants of Eden that still clung to his soul. It was his slice of paradise in the darkness, a testament to the life and love he’d lost. Lilith had scoffed at it, her distaste a constant reminder of their fractured souls and desires, but he had never let go. The garden had been everything to him.

Slowly, Lucifer lowered himself to his knees, his hand hovering over the freshly turned earth. His claws brushed the soil, and as his fingers spread, a stream of red carnations and roses bloomed from the earth, unfurling over Adam’s grave like blood-red whispers. The blossoms curled around his fingers, soft and warm, almost as if they carried Adam’s presence.

"I’m so sorry, Addie,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, hoarse from days of weeping. He traced the petals with delicate care, caressing the earth as though it were Adam himself. “I wish things had been different. I wish I’d known… I wish I’d understood what you truly meant to me back in Eden.”

Lucifer’s voice cracked, and he closed his eyes, the weight of his regret pressing down like an ocean. He had always thought he had time, always thought he could mend things one day, that somehow, he could make Adam see the love he had hidden, buried deep under pride and mistakes. But there was no longer time—just this garden and a grave he had made for the only one who had ever really understood him.

“I turned you into something you weren’t,” he continued, his tears flowing freely. “You were gentle… so full of life. That angel who became a soldier, who destroyed so much—he wasn’t you. He was my shadow, my mistake. You deserved so much better.”

He wiped a tear away, though more kept coming, unbidden. “I wish I could have made you happy.”

He struggled to his hooves, his body exhausted, but as he rose, a glint of gold caught his eye. He paused, his heart lurching painfully. A golden feather lay on the ground, dusted with earth yet still gleaming faintly in the dimness. He bent down and picked it up with reverent fingers, holding it to his chest as his vision blurred with fresh tears. Adam’s feathers had always captivated him, their radiance beyond anything he had seen. They had been perfect, beautiful… like Adam himself.

With a shaking breath, Lucifer held the feather close, pressing it against his heart as though it could fill the empty void that Adam’s loss had left behind.

“I love you, Addie,” he whispered to the flowers, to the silence, to the golden thread of memory still tethered to his heart. “I know you never believed me… but I did. I do. Even if I ruined everything, even if I hurt you. I love you.”

A tear slipped down his cheek, and he bowed his head, clutching the feather as if it were his lifeline. He had made terrible, unforgivable choices—choices that had cost him Eden, that had shattered whatever Adam, and he had once shared. And now he was alone, doomed to live in a Hell he could never escape.

A quiet, desperate plea escaped his lips, broken and raw. “I wish… I wish I could die too. To be anywhere but here, to be free… but Hell won’t let me go.”

Lucifer’s shoulders slumped, weighed down by endless despair, and he closed his eyes, cradling the feather as though it were Adam himself. He cast one last lingering look at the grave before he disappeared in a shuddering burst of golden flame.

He reappeared in his chambers, the cold and darkness pressing in on him as he sank down onto his bed. Around him, rubber ducks filled the room in bright, absurd little heaps, mocking him with their silly smiles. They were his only companions now, his only solace. Adam was gone. There was no one left.

Lucifer crawled into the pile, uncaring as the ducks scattered and tumbled around him, and clutched Adam’s feather to his face, breathing in its faint, lingering scent. He curled up tightly, his wings folded around him as he nestled into the feather, as if trying to burrow into the memory of the man he had lost.

In the silence, he closed his eyes, willing the pain to ebb, but it only sharpened, growing more intense as he nuzzled the feather, desperate for any remaining trace of Adam. He lay there, alone, his broken heart bleeding into the darkness, haunted by the love he had lost and the choices he could never undo.

Lucifer’s eyes felt gritty, his head pounding as he slowly stirred from a cold, fitful sleep. The darkness seemed alive, pressing in on him like a weight, filling his chest with a pain that twisted and grew until he whimpered, his claws clutching at the thick blankets tangled around him. As he drifted into sleep, his mind unravelled into strange, painful visions—memories and dreams stitched together into a haunting tapestry.

He saw Adam, standing in Eden’s sunlight, looking as he had in the earliest days—soft, serene, his golden wings shining as he laughed, his warm gaze fixed on Lucifer. Lucifer reached out, heart swelling with a desperate need to close the distance, to be with Adam again in their paradise. He stumbled forward, calling out promises he’d failed to keep, promises to do better, to be better for Adam. But Adam only stood there, smiling that same distant, heartbreaking smile, as though Lucifer’s words were a faint echo.

The harder Lucifer tried to reach him, the further Adam seemed to drift, like a mirage on the edge of his vision. Lucifer’s six wings beat furiously as he tried to fly, but the space between them widened, and his strength faltered. He stumbled, his robes—once pure and pristine—dragging him down as he fell to the earth. Mud splattered over him, and when he looked down, he saw his hooves—his demonic, twisted form reflecting back at him. One of his eyes had turned red, dark and unholy, a cruel reminder of what he had become.

Adam stood there, golden and radiant, watching him with unreadable eyes before turning, his wings folding as he started to walk away.

“Wait,” Lucifer gasped, his voice raw, clawing at the earth to pull himself forward. “Please, Addie, wait! Don’t leave me!”

But Adam only grew smaller, his image fading until there was nothing but a memory slipping away like sand through his fingers. Lucifer screamed into the darkness, his voice breaking with grief.

With a strangled gasp, he jolted awake, heart pounding as he sat up, clutching his chest. His chamber was dim and quiet, the dark blankets draping over him like the weight of his despair. His skin felt clammy and wrong, as though he were covered in a thin layer of despair he couldn’t shake. Curling forward, he hugged his knees, his claws digging into the quilt as choked sobs slipped from his lips. The pain of loss, of loneliness, stabbed into him like shards of ice.

Suddenly, a gentle, almost ethereal touch grazed his shoulder, soft and warm. Lucifer froze, his body going rigid as a familiar voice broke the silence, filled with tenderness.

“Luci… did you have a nightmare?”

He dared not breathe. His pulse roared in his ears as he slowly turned, his gaze locking onto a pair of golden eyes—soft, kind, impossibly familiar. For a moment, he could only stare, feeling as if he’d slipped into yet another dream. The face before him, full of compassion and warmth, was one he’d thought lost forever.

“A-Adam?” he stammered, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes grew wide, disbelief painting every line of his face.

Adam looked at him with gentle concern, his golden eyes glowing faintly. “Hey, Luci… you look pale. Are you alright?”

He raised a hand to touch Lucifer’s face, but Lucifer jerked back, as if burned. His heart raced, his mind reeling as he scrambled backward, his gaze darting around the room.

He blinked, noticing that the cramped piles of rubber ducks—his bizarre, lonely treasures—were gone. In their place were shelves filled with carefully arranged, exquisite little ducks, each displayed with precision and care. His chamber seemed larger, familiar yet somehow transformed, warmer.

"Luci?" Adam’s voice brought him back, and Lucifer turned to see Adam still sitting there, his eyes filled with a soft, steady patience. He was so close, so real—Lucifer could almost feel the warmth radiating from him. Adam poked his cheek playfully, brows knitting in confusion.

“Are you alright? Did you hit your head?”

Lucifer’s breath caught. He stared at Adam, searching his gaze for some sign, some confirmation of what he was seeing.

“What… what’s going on?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Why are you… why are you here? Why are you in my bed?”

Adam chuckled softly, his expression as open and pure as it had been in Eden. “Luci, how hard did you hit your head?”

He reached out, his hand brushing Lucifer’s hair with a tenderness that made Lucifer’s heart ache.

Lucifer swallowed, his mind racing. This couldn’t be real—it was impossible. But as he looked into Adam’s golden eyes, feeling the soft warmth of his touch, he felt something long dead flicker within him, fragile and terrified of breaking.

“Addie…” he breathed, reaching out, his fingers hovering just inches from Adam’s cheek, too afraid to touch. The reality of Adam’s warmth, his nearness, felt like a forbidden dream. "Is it… really you?"

Adam smiled softly, the warmth of his presence settling around them both like a balm. "It’s me, Luci. I’m here.”

Lucifer’s heart skipped, his chest tightening with an emotion he hadn’t felt in eons. The ache that had haunted him for so long began to soften, the darkness retreating just enough to let in a flicker of hope.

Lucifer’s body surged forward with a frantic energy, scrambling onto the bed with a clumsy urgency. His usually pristine golden hair was a dishevelled mess, wild locks sticking out as if echoing the storm of emotions within him. Reaching for Adam’s hands, Lucifer clasped them tightly, his fingers trembling. He let out a shaky, half-choked laugh that dissolved into a sound halfway between wonder and despair.

“You’re… you’re alive! Addie, you’re alive,” he whispered, his voice thick with disbelief, each word a shuddering breath as though speaking might shatter the fragile reality before him. His heart, long numbed by guilt and despair, throbbed now with a vulnerable intensity.

Adam’s golden eyes, warm yet puzzled, met his with a quiet concern, his gentle gaze unchanging, almost cautious. But Lucifer couldn’t stop. Words spilled from him like a dam bursting, rushing forward in an almost feverish cascade.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so—so sorry. Please, forgive me. For everything I did, everything I didn’t do. I never wanted to hurt you; I just… I just wanted us to be close again. I ruined it all, Addie. I don’t deserve—”

His voice cracked, the words piling up, unable to keep pace with the grief he’d buried so deep.

As Lucifer leaned forward, trying to draw closer to Adam, he suddenly stopped, his chest jolting as something solid pressed against him, keeping him just out of reach. His brows furrowed in confusion, and he glanced down, seeing the curve of the blankets bulging slightly, pressed firm against his stomach. Whatever was hidden beneath them felt solid, almost weighty, and he instinctively reached to pull the covers back, baffled.

Adam giggled softly, a rosy blush colouring his cheeks. “I think I’ve gotten… bigger,” he murmured, an air of shy humour in his voice.

Lucifer blinked, his gaze darting from Adam’s face back down to the mysterious curve beneath the covers. It was then he noticed how strikingly different Adam looked: healthier, more radiant, his cheeks free of the hollow shadows and weariness Lucifer remembered. Adam’s skin seemed to almost glow, and atop his head were two delicate horns, a soft shade of blue that stirred memories of his own former self, back before the fall.

Adam fidgeted slightly, his expression shifting to one of slight embarrassment.

“You don’t think I’m… fat, do you?” he asked, eyes dropping self-consciously, though they glimmered with a touch of humour.

Fat? Lucifer thought, dazed. He remembered a time he’d teased Adam about putting on weight, but now his throat tightened with remorse. Shaking his head, he murmured, “No, Addie. You’re not… you’re not fat. You’re beautiful, like always.”

He leaned forward, but again that mysterious object kept them apart. Growing impatient, Lucifer carefully drew back the quilt, eyes widening as the reality settled over him.

The rounded swell of Adam’s stomach was unmistakable, pressing against the soft blue fabric of his shirt. It wasn’t the softness of excess but rather a firm, natural curve—like a promise, a secret harbouring a fragile new life. Lucifer’s mouth dropped open as he stared in shock.

“You’re… you’re pregnant,” he whispered, a high, incredulous pitch to his voice, awe and disbelief mingling in his words. “How—how did this happen?”

Adam laughed, a soft, musical sound that seemed to fill the room with warmth. His cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink, and he reached down, placing a gentle hand over the curve of his stomach.

 “I think you know exactly how, Luci,” he teased, voice tender, but with a knowing light in his eyes. “Six months ago… don’t you remember? It was after our anniversary.”

Anniversary? What did that even mean?

Lucifer’s mind spun, the ancient gears in his head struggling to find traction. His brow furrowed as he tried to grasp Adam’s words, though they slipped through his understanding like sand. The weight of confusion pressed on him as he blinked furiously, shifting his gaze to steady himself, to ground himself in Adam's presence.

"It was just after our 300th anniversary," Adam murmured softly, a warm hum that filled the room. He wore a gentle, almost shy smile as he glanced down at the small but unmistakable swell of his belly. "It was… a bit of a surprise. Neither of us expected it—not after Charlie. But we’re happy, aren’t we?”

Adam’s gaze lifted, and Lucifer caught the flicker of vulnerability there, the unspoken fear that nestled in his husband’s eyes. The usually composed Adam looked almost… fragile.

His voice quivered, softer now, as he asked, “You’re still happy, aren’t you, Luci? About the baby?”

Adam’s hand drifted protectively to his stomach, his brow creased with worry. “You… you haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

Lucifer’s throat tightened. The question held weight—no, not weight. A gravity. He didn’t fully understand what was happening, but he could see how much it mattered to Adam. Whatever was going on, he would figure it out. Somehow. Later.

"Of course, I’m happy!" he said, his voice cracking slightly, and he winced at the sound of it. Still, he moved closer to Adam, his hand instinctively reaching out to rest on his shoulder. He let his fingers slide to Adam’s stomach, his touch cautious, reverent. “I’m… I’m so very happy about… our baby.”

Adam released a slow breath, his tension ebbing away. He leaned into Lucifer, who quickly wrapped his arms around him, supporting him as though he were cradling the most delicate treasure. For a moment, Lucifer felt unsure, but Adam's warmth, his trust, softened something deep within him.

"I love you, Luci," Adam whispered, his voice thick with sleep and sweet with affection. His eyelids fluttered, and he yawned softly, pressing closer to Lucifer. "I’m so happy we… fell together.”

Lucifer’s eyes widened. Fell together. The words struck him as if he were hearing them for the first time. He took in their room—a chamber he knew well, yet tonight it was somehow transformed, bathed in a serene, tender shade of blue. Every edge of the room softened, a haven unlike any place he'd ever known.

"Luci…" Adam murmured, tugging him down toward the bed. "I’m tired. Let’s go back to sleep.”

Lucifer nodded slowly, lowering himself beside Adam. His gaze stayed glued to his face, mesmerized by the peaceful smile that lingered on Adam’s lips, the faint glow of pure contentment that radiated from him.

“I love you, Luci,” Adam whispered, eyes finally closing, his breathing slowing as he drifted into sleep.

Lucifer swallowed, the words catching in his throat as he reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he gently stroked his hand along Adam's arm. "I… I love you too," he whispered, his voice fragile yet earnest.

Adam sighed softly in his sleep, and as Lucifer held him close, he felt something blossom inside him—something ancient, eternal, but also achingly new. An inexplicable longing settled over him, as if he were relearning the meaning of love in the warmth of Adam’s steady breaths, the rise and fall of his chest.

ucifer lay still beside Adam, watching his husband slumber, mesmerized by the soft rise and fall of his chest, the faint smile lingering on his lips even in sleep. Lucifer didn’t know how long he lay there, simply unable to look away. He couldn't. Not when, in the life he remembered, he had just been kneeling by Adam's corpse, his face drenched in tears. What was going on? Adam had died… hadn’t he? Lucifer had buried him, laid him to rest in the heart of Eden, his most cherished garden, a place he had never allowed anyone else.

Carefully, Lucifer slipped from the bed, ensuring he didn’t disturb Adam. He swung his legs to the floor, glancing down and feeling the faintest flicker of surprise. He was shirtless, and instead of his usual dark pajamas, he wore an unexpected pair of bright, duck-themed boxers. They were… adorable? He squinted, not recognizing them at all.

He padded softly across the room, his hooves sinking into the plush carpet that covered the floor. This, too, was new—a rich, comforting shade that he’d never seen before in his chamber. His gaze drifted to the walls, noticing how they were no longer draped in the austere, heavy tapestries he remembered. Instead, they were painted in soothing colors, warm and soft, lending the room a sense of calm he hadn’t known he craved. Lucifer frowned, his chest tightening, feeling both out of place and strangely at home.

His eyes caught on a golden-framed portrait on the wall. He knew this painting well—or at least he thought he did. The original painting had been a bittersweet reminder of his life with Lilith and their young daughter, Charlie, back when she was just a toddler. A painful relic. But as he approached, he realized this was… different.

Adam stood beside him in the painting, taking Lilith’s place. His face radiated joy, his arm around their daughter. And Charlie—her hair wasn’t the familiar gold from his memories but a soft hazel, like Adam’s. Lucifer’s heart skipped a beat, his pulse thundering in his chest as he stared at this family that, impossibly, seemed his own.

He tore his gaze away and slipped out of the chamber, the quiet of the corridor wrapping around him like a gentle mist. As he wandered through the halls, he noticed more and more differences. The cold, intimidating decor Lilith had favored was gone, replaced by something warmer, softer, and infinitely more welcoming. The walls, once adorned with shadowy tapestries and harsh colors, now bore gentle hues, punctuated by warm lights that cast a peaceful glow along the polished floors. Lucifer felt his chest tighten, an ache he couldn’t quite name blooming within him. The more he saw, the more he found himself… liking it. It was a home, not just a fortress.

Eventually, Lucifer found himself at the door of his office—the room where he’d spent countless hours handling his duties as King of Hell. He reached out, grasping the door handle, and pushed it open. The moment he stepped inside, he froze. His office, once chaotic and piled high with endless, neglected paperwork, was now spotless. Everything was in perfect order, from the neatly stacked files to the immaculate desk. His neglected paperwork—months, no, years of backlogged duties he’d ignored in his grief—was nowhere to be seen.

His eyes drifted to a shelf by the window. A collection of small, duck figurines, each carefully placed inside a glass box, caught his eye. They looked rare and almost precious, and as Lucifer studied them, he felt an unfamiliar sense of warmth, almost amusement, stirring within him. There was something endearing, something so distinctly Adam about their presence here.

Slowly, Lucifer moved to his desk, trailing his clawed fingers along its smooth surface before picking up a small picture frame. He lowered himself into his plush chair, his eyes fixed on the photo. In the picture, he was cuddling up to Adam, who was visibly pregnant, his belly round and full. Adam looked radiant, though there was a hint of tiredness, even fragility, in his face. But they both looked… happy. So happy it made Lucifer’s chest ache.

He set the frame down carefully, his gaze flicking around the office once more. Books he recognized lined the shelves, yet they seemed to have been meticulously organized and, shockingly, read. The daunting pile of work he had once allowed to fester was not only done but years ahead. How… had that happened? He swallowed, feeling an odd mixture of awe and unease.

Standing up, he left the office and drifted back into the corridor. His eyes caught on more paintings adorning the walls—scenes of a life he had never lived, and yet somehow they felt achingly familiar. One painting showed him standing beside Adam, each with an arm around Charlie, who was beaming with happiness, her red and yellow eyes bright with love. Another showed them all on a picnic under a willow tree, Charlie tugging at Lucifer’s hand as she laughed. There was one where a teenage Charlie, looking every bit like her mother, was rolling her eyes at Lucifer, though her mouth held a small, affectionate smile.

Lucifer’s steps slowed as he studied each painting, heart thudding as he took in the thousands of moments they depicted. They painted a life he had never dared to dream—a life where he had fallen not with Lilith, but with Adam, a life where they had been damned together and yet had somehow found a way to build a family, a future, a love that shone even here, in Hell. In this life, he had watched Charlie grow, had raised her with Adam by his side, had been part of her life even in her teenage years, when she’d likely rebelled against them both. And she looked so… happy. Every image radiated the joy she’d shared with them, a warmth that lingered in her gaze, a trust and love she had for her parents.

In his own life, there had been no paintings of those years. No laughter, no memories captured of a teenage Charlie by his side. He had lost her trust, had watched her pull away, leaving him with only the shadow of what might have been.

But here… here she was, smiling. Bright-eyed. Free.

Lucifer's breath hitched, a wave of raw emotion rising within him, fierce and unfamiliar. He reached out, fingers grazing the frame of a painting where they all stood together, a family complete, unbroken by the pain that had shadowed his own life.

How was any of this possible? Had he been given another chance, a glimpse into what he could have had? Or was this some cruel illusion, designed to haunt him? As he stood in the corridor, surrounded by memories of a love and a family he had never truly known, he realized that he didn’t care whether this was real or not. This life, these moments—it was a world he wanted to live in. A world where he was loved and had chosen love in return.

He inhaled slowly, his gaze lingering on one last painting—one where he and Adam were dancing, eyes locked, laughter spilling from their lips. In that moment, Lucifer vowed that, however this had happened, he would not let this world slip away. Not again.

Lucifer returned to his chamber, standing outside the heavy doors as he drew a deep breath, his heart pounding wildly at the thought of what awaited him within. He reached out, his hands trembling slightly, and pushed the door open, slipping quietly inside. His hooves felt strangely unsteady, and his fingers twitched at his sides as he approached the enormous, inviting bed.

There, nestled in the tangle of blankets and quilts, was Adam, still fast asleep. The sight made Lucifer pause. Adam looked so peaceful, his expression soft and untroubled as he burrowed further into the cozy warmth of the bed. It was endearing, seeing him like this, utterly relaxed. Lucifer felt a pang of something sweet and gentle, something he hadn’t felt in far too long.

Adam looked… perfect, like he belonged here, like he had always belonged in Lucifer’s bed, in his life.

Swallowing the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm him, Lucifer reached down, gently pinching the corner of the blankets, lifting them, and sliding himself under. He moved slowly, carefully, until he was right beside Adam. Close enough to feel his warmth, to catch the faint scent of him. And then, with a trembling hand, he reached out, brushing his fingers against Adam’s cheek. The skin was soft, warm, alive.

He’s really here.

He could feel the gentle heat radiating from Adam, the slow rise and fall of his chest, each breath a quiet reminder that Adam was, impossibly, still with him. And as he lay there, watching, he heard something else—a soft, sleepy hum, an occasional quiet laugh, as though Adam were lost in a pleasant dream.

Lucifer’s heart fluttered, a warmth spreading through him. He realized he was smiling, his own breath catching in his chest as he whispered, “I want to see more.”

He inched closer, and as he did, Adam shifted, instinctively snuggling into him, pressing against him with the innocent trust of someone who felt safe, completely at ease. Lucifer’s heart swelled, and he couldn’t resist the urge to nuzzle into Adam’s hair, letting its softness tickle his face, breathing in his scent.

“I want to see more, Addie,” he murmured, his voice low and full of wonder. “I want to see more, Addie. I want to see what else is different.”

He let his fingers trail gently through Adam's hair, the silky strands slipping through his claws as he breathed in the familiar, comforting scent of him. It was an intimacy he’d never quite allowed himself before, a closeness he hadn’t known he craved until now. He nuzzled his face into Adam's hair, letting the warmth settle into his bones as he wrapped his arms around Adam, holding him like a lifeline.

“I want to see how our lives have changed… together,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, but the words felt monumental, a promise spoken into the quiet stillness of the room.

As he lay there, breathing in sync with Adam, Lucifer felt the exhaustion of countless lifetimes begin to ebb away, replaced by a warmth that wrapped around him like a blanket. A life like this… it was something he’d never allowed himself to even imagine, but now, in this quiet moment, it felt possible. Real. His eyelids grew heavy, and his breathing slowed, matching Adam’s as he drifted closer to sleep, nestled against the man who had always been his tether.

Just before sleep took him, a thought drifted through his mind—a wish, a quiet yearning, Please… let this be real.

And as he surrendered to slumber, Lucifer felt the unfamiliar but deeply welcome sensation of feeling safe, cocooned in a warmth that he wanted to last forever.

When Lucifer awoke, his whole body felt uncommonly… good. There was no lingering ache, no dull exhaustion pressing on his bones, and the familiar cold pang that usually twisted in his chest was… gone. He shifted within the warm embrace of the blankets, savoring the comfort of the bed. A soft, contented yawn escaped him as he rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, taking in the hazy morning light filtering into the room. He blinked a few times, rubbing his face with one hand, feeling well-rested in a way he hadn’t known in what felt like ages.

But then he noticed something amiss—his side felt unusually cold, the spot beside him vacant. Lucifer frowned and rolled onto his side, sliding his hand across the sheets in search of the warmth he expected to find there. Only emptiness met his touch.

His heart leapt into his throat, panic flaring in his chest as he scrambled upright. The sheets tangled around his legs, and before he could steady himself, he stumbled, crashing to the floor in a tangle of quilts and limbs. He winced as his chin hit the ground, but the urgency pulsing within him was far too strong to let that stop him. Ignoring the faint ache, he quickly scrambled to his hooves, his gaze darting around the chamber, anxiety tightening in his chest.

The room was just as it had been last night—spotlessly tidy, softly inviting, as if crafted to hold a sense of peace he’d longed for but never believed he could have. Yet something was wrong.

Where was Adam?

Just as he was about to rush out the door in a desperate search, it swung open, and there stood Adam, looking somewhat startled as he took in the sight of Lucifer, wide-eyed and slightly dishevelled, in the middle of the room. Adam’s golden eyes flickered over the mess Lucifer had made in his hurried rise from bed. He blinked, then met Lucifer's gaze with a concerned, puzzled expression.

“Um… a-are you okay?” Adam asked softly, his brow furrowing as he took in the room and then settled his eyes back on Lucifer.

Without hesitation, Lucifer crossed the room, grasping Adam’s hands as if afraid he might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight. “Where were you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with relief yet tinged with the lingering panic that had clawed at him moments before.

A sheepish smile curled across Adam’s lips. “I had to… you know, pee.”

He gestured toward his round belly, and the explanation clicked into place in Lucifer’s mind. Oh. Of course. That made perfect sense. Lucifer’s face flushed, and he released a small, embarrassed whine, his head dipping as he let out a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice softened with self-consciousness. “I woke up, and you were gone, and I just… I thought…”

Adam reached up, his hand gentle as he cupped Lucifer’s chin and tilted his face up to meet his gaze. The warmth in Adam’s golden eyes melted away any lingering fear, the softness of his expression like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He smiled, a soft, loving curve of his lips that made Lucifer’s heart skip a beat.

“I’m fine,” Adam reassured him, his voice gentle and soothing. “I’m not sick or anything. You’ve got to stop worrying so much.”

Lucifer trembled under that affectionate gaze, his own heart beating so fiercely he was sure Adam could feel it through his hands. Then, without warning, Adam leaned in, his lips brushing over Lucifer’s in a brief, feather-light kiss that sent shockwaves through Lucifer’s entire being. Adam’s lips were warm, softer than he’d imagined, and the brief press of them against his left him frozen, every thought scattering like dust on the wind.

When Adam pulled away, Lucifer’s face burned crimson, his mind still reeling. He’d just had his first kiss with Adam—a kiss he had never dared dream would happen. It was perfect, in every way he’d never imagined it could be.

“I love you,” Adam murmured, his hands giving Lucifer’s a gentle squeeze. “But remember, I’m not made of china. I’m just… pregnant.”

He smiled with a playful glint in his eyes, as if inviting Lucifer to relax, to let go of his worries.

Lucifer nodded slowly, his face still a bright, unmistakable red as he absorbed the warmth of those words. Adam had kissed him. He had actually kissed him. And, more importantly, he’d said… I love you.

Lucifer could barely breathe, the words echoing in his mind, wrapping around his heart and lighting something within him that he’d thought long dead.

Before he could respond, Adam chuckled softly, stepping back and giving Lucifer a teasing smile. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Maybe I have,” Lucifer murmured, more to himself than to Adam, his voice still laced with wonder. This felt like a dream, a vivid and impossibly sweet vision he feared would dissolve if he blinked too hard.

Adam laughed, shaking his head as he rubbed his belly. “Well, this ghost is starving. Come on, Luci—let’s go see if there’s anything good in the kitchen.”

He started to shuffle toward the door, glancing back with a playful smile, and Lucifer, still reeling, followed.

As they walked through the halls, Lucifer's gaze lingered on Adam, unable to look away from the quiet beauty of this life. He was here, in a world that felt too beautiful to be real, and for the first time in what felt like centuries, he allowed himself to believe it was possible.

Lucifer followed Adam down the hallway, lingering a step behind, still grappling with the strangeness and sweetness of this new reality. As they entered the kitchen, Lucifer paused, taking in the space with a faint frown. The room was cozy, modestly sized, a far cry from the grandiose kitchen in his dominion. Here, everything seemed designed for warmth rather than grandeur—cabinets of warm wood, a sturdy stove, countertops speckled with flour dust and softened by the morning light filtering in through the window.

He barely had time to absorb it all before Adam made a beeline for the cupboards, his movements full of purpose and energy. Lucifer watched, feeling a strange fondness wash over him as he saw Adam pull out ingredients with practiced ease, his hands working with a confidence that seemed almost ritualistic.

“Adam, you’re pregnant,” Lucifer began, stepping forward and watching Adam stack flour, eggs, and milk on the counter. “You should be resting.”

Adam glanced over his shoulder, an easy laugh escaping him as he shook his head.

“You know I don’t like to rest, Luci. I need to be doing something—always,” he said, his golden eyes dancing with amusement.

Lucifer’s chest tightened. He didn’t know that. He didn’t know this about Adam. The realization settled over him, heavy and unsettling. There were layers, entire dimensions of this man, that Lucifer hadn’t known in his former life. His voice softened as he reached forward, taking Adam’s hand in his own.

“We could just… call for a servant to do it. You don’t need to strain yourself.”

Adam’s brows arched. “Servant? What servants?”

Lucifer blinked, caught off guard. “I… well, I mean, I assumed…”

He trailed off, searching for an explanation. “I could conjure whatever you want to eat. It’d be nothing.”

But instead of agreeing, Adam laughed again, a sound so pure and sweet it made Lucifer’s heart clench. Adam reached up, gently patting Lucifer’s cheek. “Oh, Luci, you always know how to make me laugh. But you know I don’t like it when you use your magic for things I can do myself.”

Lucifer’s gaze held a flicker of confusion. He wasn’t joking, yet somehow, without even intending it, he’d managed to make Adam laugh.

“But, I just… I really want you to rest,” he muttered, shifting his weight, his hooves shuffling on the floor. “You’re six months pregnant, Adam. You should be taking it easy.”

Adam’s gaze softened; his expression so tender that Lucifer felt his resolve begin to melt away.

“Luci, we’ve talked about this,” Adam murmured, reaching for his hand and lacing their fingers together. The warmth of Adam’s hand in his own was grounding, an anchor in this unfamiliar world.

“Cooking… it makes me happy,” Adam continued, his voice filled with gentle reassurance. “It’s how I show my love. And I know you get worried, but you don’t have to. I’m alright. I’m stronger this time.”

Lucifer swallowed, his gaze lingering on their intertwined hands. The love and confidence in Adam’s tone soothed something restless within him. This Adam was gentle but unwavering, full of strength yet tender—a warmth Lucifer hadn’t dared let himself imagine before. Lucifer took a shaky breath, squeezing Adam’s hand, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I… I guess I just want to make sure everything’s perfect for you,” he whispered, his voice raw with an honesty he hadn’t realized he’d been holding back. “This… everything about this—about you—means more to me than I can even say.”

Adam’s smile widened, and he reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair back from Lucifer’s face. “I know, Luci. And that’s exactly why it already is perfect.”

Lucifer’s face flushed, his heart racing as he let Adam’s hand slip from his, watching as he returned to the counter with that gentle, devoted smile. Standing there, seeing Adam pour love and care into every movement, Lucifer felt a new determination settle in his chest.

He would protect this, Lucifer vowed silently to himself, this world, this life, this love.

He would do whatever it took to keep it safe, and perhaps, just maybe, let himself believe he truly deserved it.

Lucifer slipped around Adam with practiced finesse, his fingers closing around the bowl before Adam could react.

"How about I make breakfast for a change?" he suggested, his voice smooth and enticing as he flashed Adam a charming, radiant grin—the kind that could melt anyone’s heart.

Adam raised a sceptical eyebrow, not in the least bit swayed. He snorted, reaching to reclaim the bowl. "Oh, really? And what exactly would you make, hm?"

With a playful wink, Lucifer twirled out of Adam’s reach, holding the bowl just out of reach.

"Only my specialty... pancakes!" he announced with an exaggerated flourish.

Adam’s laugh was pure and warm, bubbling up despite his efforts to keep a straight face. “Pancakes, you say? But Luci, you can’t cook."

Lucifer's face morphed into a mock expression of scandalized surprise. "What? Of course I can! I'm an amazing cook!"

Adam laughed harder, clutching his side as if to contain the joyful sound.

“Oh, Luci…” he managed between giggles. “Have you forgotten what happened the last time you tried? Whatever that was supposed to be, it ended up… well, let’s just say it was a bit of a disaster. Black as a hockey puck."

Lucifer pouted, folding his arms in playful indignation. Then, as he caught sight of Adam’s still-giggling face, he let his pout melt into an amused, toothy grin. Ah, so it seems his other self couldn’t cook to save his life. How fascinating.

His eyes glinting with devilish excitement. “But, trust me, I’ve been practicing.”

Adam narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms as he tried to look stern, though his smile betrayed him. "Alright, alright. I suppose I’ll give my lovable husband a chance."

Lucifer practically skipped with joy. "Wonderful! Now, go sit down, put those feet up, and let me take care of everything!"

He leaned in and pecked Adam on the cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin linger against his lips. "Trust me, Addie—you’re going to love this."

Adam let out a resigned sigh, but his eyes were filled with affection as he settled himself at the small kitchen table, resting his hands on his belly. His sceptical smile followed Lucifer as he moved back to the counter, fully claiming the kitchen as his temporary domain. As he glanced back, Lucifer’s heart skipped—a sight that, for all his centuries, felt thrilling and entirely new.

Determined to impress, Lucifer turned to the stove, summoning a light flicker of flames with a single snap of his fingers. He poured flour and cracked eggs with careful focus, hoping his newly claimed cooking confidence wasn’t just bluster. As he whisked the batter, he stole a glance over his shoulder to see Adam watching him with quiet amusement.

There was a softness in Adam’s gaze as he observed Lucifer’s every move, as though watching someone he loved and trusted implicitly. And for the first time, the weight of that trust hit Lucifer with stunning clarity. Here was a man who knew his every flaw and, despite everything, still loved him fully, without hesitation.

After a few moments, Lucifer poured the batter onto the sizzling pan, smiling as the pancakes began to rise and golden, filling the kitchen with the faint, sweet scent of vanilla. He added a bit of flair, flipping each pancake high into the air, turning just enough to catch Adam’s eye. Adam’s chuckle was immediate, and the warmth it sparked in Lucifer’s chest was indescribable.

When the pancakes were finally done, Lucifer arranged them on a plate, meticulously layering them with a pat of butter and a drizzle of syrup, along with a handful of fresh berries he found tucked away in the fridge. He set the plate down before Adam, who looked at him with eyebrows raised in surprise and amusement.

“There you go, Addie,” Lucifer said, sliding into the seat across from him and looking at him expectantly. “The finest pancakes in all of Hell, made by yours truly.”

Adam lifted a fork, spearing a bite of pancake with a hum of approval as he took his first taste. A look of surprise flashed across his face, quickly replaced by delight. "Oh, Luci… these are actually good!"

Lucifer preened under the compliment, his grin widening. “See? What did I tell you? Only the best for my beautiful Queen~”

Adam leaned forward, reaching across the table to brush his hand over Lucifer’s. "Thank you, Luci. It’s perfect."

Lucifer’s heart skipped again, his pulse thrumming in a way it hadn’t in centuries. He squeezed Adam’s hand, the realization dawning on him all over again: he was living in a world he never knew he wanted, with a love he’d never dared believe he deserved.

In this life, every moment was something precious, and he vowed then and there to cherish every single one.

As Lucifer watched Adam from across the table, every glance, every subtle movement of his was a treasure. He leaned forward, his chin resting on his hand, careful not to let his curiosity spill over into suspicion. He wanted to drink in this new life, to savour the unfamiliar tenderness between him and Adam, and he was desperate for more details.

"So, what’s the plan for today?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

Adam’s face lit up immediately.

“Charlie invited me to her hotel!” He beamed; eyes sparkling. “I’m really excited to go!”

The mention of Charlie sent a thrill through Lucifer. His grin spread wide, his mind spinning with questions. Charlie had opened her hotel here too—had it succeeded? What was it like in this world? Was her vision the same as in his own? His heart pounded with anticipation.

"That's wonderful, Addie," he said warmly, eager to learn more but reining himself in. "You know, I’d love to see Charlie too. It’s been… too long."

Adam tilted his head, a bit of confusion creasing his brow.

“You’re… okay with me going, right?” he asked, a hint of apprehension in his voice. “I didn’t want you to be upset.”

Lucifer chuckled, surprised. “Why wouldn’t I be? She’s our baby girl, after all. I’d never stop you from seeing her.”

Relief washed over Adam’s face, and he released a soft laugh. “Oh, that’s good! I was worried you’d get mad…”

Lucifer’s smile slipped ever so slightly, something prickling at the back of his mind. “W-why would I be mad?”

Adam’s gaze dropped to his lap, his expression clouding over.

“It’s just… after the last time I left the mansion…” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

A pang of protectiveness surged in Lucifer, but he held himself back, sensing it was a sensitive subject for Adam. He offered a gentle smile instead, brushing his fingers over Adam’s hand.

“Well,” he said softly, “You’ll be with Charlie. I’m sure she’ll keep an eye on you.”

Adam’s face brightened at that, a grin breaking through the worry. “That’s true! Charlie’s got a good head on her shoulders. Besides, I miss her so much. She’s been so busy with… with the redeemed souls.”

Lucifer’s breath caught. Redeemed souls?

His eyes widened just slightly, the implications overwhelming. Had Charlie actually managed to redeem souls in this world? How had Hell—how had Heaven—reacted? His mind buzzed with a thousand questions, each one more urgent than the last. But he kept his expression calm, pretending as if this was all perfectly normal.

“I really wish you could come too…” Adam’s voice pulled him from his racing thoughts, his words laced with a faint sadness.

Lucifer felt his chest ache, wanting to join him, to witness this new version of Hell alongside his family.

“Why can’t I?” he asked, his tone almost teasing.

Adam arched a brow, giving him a knowing smile. “Luci, you know you can’t just cancel another meeting. I know how you feel about running Hell, but with all the changes going on, it’s… important, right?”

Lucifer quickly nodded, mimicking the confidence he assumed his counterpart would’ve had.

“Of course,” he said, his voice steady. “I can’t neglect my duties.”

Adam let out a quiet sigh, his eyes dropping to the plate of half-eaten pancakes. “Just… don’t work yourself too hard, alright? We hardly have time together as it is, and… I miss you.”

There was a vulnerability in Adam’s tone that struck something deep within Lucifer, a quiet ache that told of lonely nights and missed moments.

He reached across the table, letting his hand rest over Adam’s. “I promise, Addie. I’ll make time. For us.”

Adam’s eyes softened as he squeezed Lucifer’s hand.

“You better,” he teased gently. “Because once this little one’s here, they’re going to want a lot of time with their father.”

Lucifer's heart clenched at the mention of the child—their child. A sudden wave of protectiveness and tenderness washed over him, and he fought to keep his voice steady. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Adam's smile returned, warmer and brighter. "Good. You’d better keep that promise, Luci.”

They finished breakfast in comfortable silence, the weight of unspoken words lingering in the air. As Adam cleared the plates, Lucifer couldn’t help but steal another glance, his mind awash with the marvels of this new life. This world was everything he hadn’t known he wanted, a world where love and redemption were not merely ideas, but truths shaping their lives.

He’d do anything to stay here, to see what other beautiful moments were yet to unfold.

...there was only one problem.

What has happened to the other Lucifer?

[heliads]

HEY HEY HEY!! can u make a the darkling x reader soulmate au?? one where reader is a powerful grisha and has lived nearly as long as he has? they walked the earth and met each other a few times, not knowing they were the same people. sometimes, a romance almost happened, but because they knew they would outlive them, it never happened. How about aleks meets reader by chance in a village near fjerda and they recognize each other for the first time and realize they are each other's soulmate? ♡ U!!

HEY HEY HEY!! your au is that your scars stay on your soulmate's skin.

masterlist

You would think that the centuries would go by faster once you’d experienced enough of them. When you grow up, it’s like the years pass with greater and greater speed, but there must be a leveling point to that mad exponential curve, because you reached it a long time ago. The decades don’t fly by anymore, they drag like the heels of your boots in the soft mud connecting the Wandering Isle to Novyi Zem.

That particular sinking earth is gone, much like most of the places from your memory. The land bridge between the two nations, which was already tentative at best back when you were born, has long been pulled under the current of the True Sea. Now, the recollections of old work boots falling into dirt have just as much hold as the place itself. Everything you knew is gone, constantly replaced by newer, flashier people and cities.

It haunts you sometimes, more often than not. You lie awake at night with a melody stuck in your head, one you haven’t heard in over two hundred years. There’s no chance that anyone remembers it except you, so you hum it to yourself, wondering if the ghosts of friends past can hear you or if they, too, are just ash and dust by now. Supposedly, they would have been folded into the welcoming arms of the Making at the Heart of the World, but you still harbor a hope that they’re still looking out for you.

Hope is all you have. As if it doesn’t mess with your head to trust your footsteps through a Ravkan town you’d lived in for decades, only to find that it’s doubled in size and population since you were last there. Or, when you finally remember that you owe a neighbor a favor, only to recall that their great-great grandchildren died out a century past. Nothing in this world is yours, not in the way that it was at the start. You can keep reinventing yourself, but it’ll never make anything stick.

All that musing over places long gone, and you still can’t convince the hours of the clock to turn by any faster. You’d like nothing more than for the years to skip by, to finally bring about your end of days or at least a change in them, because if you have more centuries under your belt, it’ll mean you’ll have searched all of the lands as many times as you can, and maybe then, you just might be able to meet your soulmate.

That, of all things, might calm your restless spirit. If it were not enough to have far more centuries in which to live out your life than the rest of the Grisha, you have to do it alone, too, knowing that most everyone you pass has someone out there built for them, someone to keep them company in a way you will never understand, no matter how many generations you live.

You often wonder if your soulmate might be out there somewhere. It’s an easy matter to spiral over. They could have been alive at the very start of your life, and died centuries before you could even meet them. Maybe there were only a few days in which your lives overlapped, or maybe you were born on the exact same day and never knew it until they died and you stayed, relentlessly, alive.

Or, worst of all, they could still be out there now, forever condemned to orbit the land at the other side of you, forever crossing paths but never meeting, always one step behind or hours ahead of schedule. There is, hypothetically, a way of telling if the person before you is your soulmate, but it only works if you have the fellow in front of you and the certainty only mad love can bring you.

In this world, in a world full of pain and pleasure, power and pride, the only way that you know for certain that you are connected with your soulmate are your injuries. They’ll show up on your soulmate’s skin, exactly at the same time and the same places as you receive them. They won’t feel the sensation of hurt as you do, and the bruises and cuts will fade as yours do, but in the minutes and hours in which you are bloody and damaged, they will be, too.

Scars last. That’s how most people know. When you see a childhood injury reflected on someone else’s knee or arm, you can tell it’s them. It’s as if a hook has been pulled through both of you, tying you together in a celebration of glitter and gore. It’s horrific, and it’s love, and no one has dared to mess with the process for the millennia in which soulmates have been around.

Least of all your soulmate. They marked you a long time ago, and although you weren’t there to see it happen, you can’t help but wonder at their rationale now. A scar curls around your left hand ring finger. It looks like a burn, and it must have been a serious one too, judging by the fact that it’s lasted this long. 

You can imagine your soulmate somewhere out there, forcing a white-hot band of metal around their finger and keeping it on despite the unendurable pain until they knew the scar would last forever. Imagine what that must mean to them, to you. There is a message that they’re trying to send to you, patterned in the syllables of their scorched flesh:  I love you to the point of agony, and past it. What a terrible sort of devotion for a soulmate. What a devastating burden of love for you to bear.

It makes you sick to your stomach, at times, and other days, it just makes you numb. Perhaps this is what you get, the Saints’ way of evening the scales. Everyone knows that the greed of a Grisha never goes unchecked, and maybe this is your diving retribution at last. You strove for too much too quickly, and now you have an excess of time in which you can ponder your failings, all alone for all eternity. It would make a sad sort of joke were it not at your expense.

After all, you should have died a long time ago, soulmate be damned. You started out life as a Heartrender, although you left the typical roles of that particular type of Corporalki behind long ago. At first, you merely shattered bone and spilt blood, but then you learned how to do more. Why kill one man when you can end dozens of lives with just as much force? Then, why kill when you can turn your attention towards yourself, healing not just surface wounds but deeper things, erasing the signs of age and wear until you were just as strong as you were at your prime?

Some would call it immortality. Others would curse it as witchcraft. You don’t need anyone’s misguided explanations anymore, though, your power will long outlive both them and their whisperings. It is power, plain and simple, and it is yours. You don’t just transmutate flesh and bone anymore, you shape life itself. Your life. Your life, extended forever, waiting for a soulmate who can keep up with you or die trying.

At times, you hate it, this prolonged life that you’ve given yourself. At the same time, the thought of dying without accomplishing all that you could is terrifying. The easiest thing to do is to keep living, keep drawing breath and wondering when things will change. If they don’t, well, at least you were here to see it. 

After all, have you ever been satisfied with your lot in life? You send a silent plea to any Saints up there, if they're still listening at all or merely content to keep pulling their strings and directing you down darker, rougher roads. Let me rest. Please. They send only one word back, after everything:  No.

So you continue your journey. Ravka needs your attention for a time, then you cross the True Sea to Kerch and Novyi Zem, and another century has passed by the time you think about returning to the eastern shores. The Shadow Fold makes things more difficult, certainly, but death is no enemy of yours, so you find ways of crossing, even if they take a while.

This time, you decide to cut through Fjerda on your various journeys. The wintry landscapes take your breath away, as they always do, but it’s a little difficult to marvel at the wonders of the country when they’re so fiercely dedicated to exterminating your fellow Grisha. You take it upon yourself to take out a few branches of the witch hunters, those treacherous drüskelle, and so you have a purpose for at least a little longer.

You get to take action upon this initiative while stopping in a small town close to the Fjerdan border for the night. While attempting to book a room in a local inn, you can’t help but pick up on the uncanny sensation of racing hearts somewhere closeby. You step away from the inn, distracted, and chase the sound of blood pounding through veins until it takes you into the surrounding woods.

There, you stumble upon what had been causing you such an uncanny sensation. A young woman, a Grisha Tidemaker by the looks of it, is attempting to evade capture by two upstart drüskelle captains. She hasn’t yet mastered her gift, and they’re well armed, so the situation is not good, to say the least.

Grisha are your people, even if you’ve become somehow separated from them by your many years. You fling out an arm and the two drüskelle go flying into the distance, clutching at their hearts as they burst in their chests. One more witch hunter materializes out of the gloom, but before he can fire off a round at you, a wave of shadow cuts off his breath and he falls to the ground, choking into stillness. The Tidemaker runs off the second the coast is clear, leaving you alone with this new stranger.

You turn around slowly, but the man emerging from the woods doesn’t seem to be a threat. He’s some kind of Etherealnik, but you’ve only heard of so many Shadow Summoners in your time. Perhaps there’s another one again.

“I came out to help,” he says, voice relaxed despite your hands raised at him in anticipation of a strike, “It appears that you didn’t need it, though.”

He doesn’t seem inclined to attack you, but you don’t trust the way he’s still hanging back in the shadows. You can’t see much of his face, nor his demeanor. “I’m no stranger to the drüskelle. They’ve always been the same sort of fools.”

“Always?” The stranger asks, allowing a note of humor to enter his words, “Have you been around long enough to judge them, then?”

You sigh. “Longer than you’d think.”

Instead of being put off by this, the stranger just grins, moonlight flashing on his teeth. “You’d be surprised what I think. I’m older than I seem.”

You look curiously at him. The man steps out of the shadows and into a patch of moonlight. Your breath catches in your throat. “No. That’s impossible.”

He’s not lying when he talks about being older than his appearance. You’ve seen this face before. Several times, if you’re not mistaken. A rebel against the Ravkan king a few centuries ago. A scholar of the Saints. A son trying to care for his mother. He’s been here whenever you passed through Ravka, but you never dared to assume that he could be anything but a familiar face passed down through the generations.

For some reason, on this night, you stop letting yourself doubt. This is a man who has been alive quite as long as you have, if not longer. Perhaps it’s the unearthly shine of the moonlight on the Fjerdan snow, transfiguring this scene into one of your memories, or perhaps it’s the fact that he’s taken his gloves off so he could summon his shadows, and you can see the imprint of a burn around the ring finger of his left hand.

No. It couldn’t be. After all this time, your soulmate cannot be the same young man you’ve crossed paths with half a dozen times before. What a cruel joke to play.

“Y/N?” He asks slowly, eyes as wide as yours.

You told him your name in one of your lives. He trusted you enough to say his back to you. “Aleksander?”

“Show me your hand,” he tells you, voice as steady as it’s always been.

When you hesitate, he crosses the clearing in a flash, standing in front of you. One of his hands curls around your wrist, holding it still, while the other holds up your fingers to the moonlight. He looks at the burn there, his burn, and at last, he smiles. It’s a proud look, almost vicious.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I always thought I’d marry you. I was a child then, and foolish, but I find I don’t mind the idea much anymore.”

He cocks his head to the side, staring openly at the scar he’d bound to both of you. You had wondered if you would fear your soulmate when you first met him, but instead, you just feel whole. A broken half has finally been reunited with its other part.

“Do you remember when we were both in Kribirsk together?” You ask slowly, haltingly, “I got a house right by the Unsea so I could study it. I think you were there for the same reason. We were the only two people in that whole town who weren’t afraid of it.”

He nods, eyes white with moonlight. “You fascinated me even then. When you left, I didn’t know how to live with myself. I started a whole new life just so the old one wouldn’t have to figure it out.”

You’d done the same thing. It took every bit of strength in you to go. You hadn’t wanted to leave the little house with the captivating man next door, but the other townspeople were starting to ask why you hadn’t aged since you’d shown up there decades ago, and the questions are only ever the start of your downfall. You’d cursed his name and yours in turn for the next few years until the heartbreak subsided.

“Before I left, though. We were alright.” You whisper.

He takes your other hand. “We’ll be alright again. It’s us now. Just us.”

“Just us,” you repeat, and for once, you let yourself believe it. You have it, your soulmate, him.

And at last, after centuries of wandering the land and sea alone, of second-guessing every shadow, of wondering what you did to deserve so much time by yourself without love, you realize that it has come to an end. All of it. There is no more solitude for you. Here by your side stands your soulmate. The long day has passed, and the rest of a quiet night shadows your threshold. It’s time to go home, so you think, but you’re already there.

requested by @cassiecrown, i hope you enjoy!

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