#cw for blood/injury and violence (though the violence is just mentioned) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

prentissluvr · 6 months ago

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forget-me-nots — sam winchester

pairing : sam winchester x gn!reader ➖⟢ genre : soulmate!au, fluff, very light angst ➖⟢ cw : light mentions of canon typical death, violence, and monsters, shirtless sam aaaaa, light descriptions of injuries and blood, reader believes in ghosts before knowing about the supernatural, drinking/alcohol mentions, silly criminal minds reference to my gf elle, kissing, poor editing ➖⟢ wc : 5.6K summary : in a world where flowers grow on your skin in the exact places your soulmate is injured, you’re constantly covered in forget-me-nots.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

heartache is one thing. heartache for someone you don’t know, someone whose face you’ve never seen or who you’ve never met, is another, stranger thing. it’s common for many to feel this heartache before they know their soulmate, but sometimes you feel as though you have to worry much more than most.

you try not to let thoughts of your mystery soulmate consume you, but you seem to have constant reminders of them litered on your skin in the form of tiny blue flowers. admittedly, you find it romantic that forget-me-nots are your soulmate flower, with their symbolism of true love, respect, and fidelity. the flowers themself feel like a good omen, a sweet promise of a steady love waiting for you. but, the frequency with which they appear on your skin feels far less lucky and always feeds you so much worry for this person you’ve yet to meet.

this morning, you wake with new blooms snaking along your left collarbone, peeking out from the seam of your sleep shirt. and when you change into new clothes, you find a few more growing on your bicep and the side of your ribs.

sighing, you stand at the mirror lightly brushing your fingers over the small flowers and wonder what sort of trouble your soulmate got into last night. as always, worry floods your chest, but you do your best to tamp it down considering the fact that you only bear a few new blooms. the more severe the injury, the more flowers appear on your skin. today, your soulmate must only be dealing with small surface cuts.

sometimes, you’re covered in so many forget-me-nots that you’re too worried to do much of anything at all. more than once, you’ve wondered how your soulmate could still be alive, and the continuous flowers on your skin serve as your only proof that they're still around. there were a few years where you barely had any blooms, just the usual flower on a fingertip to signify a papercut or the occasional few because of a small accident. but one night the flowers came in bunches and never stopped.

you imagine what you might say or do when you meet them. maybe you’ll want to check on whatever wounds they have, be sure it’s not too bad, or maybe you’ll scold them for making you worry so much. you’ll certainly ask what they do in their life that gets them so injured so often. maybe you’ll do it all.

but for now, you’ll have to move on and get ready for the day. the flowers always linger, though.

⟢⟢⟢

it’s been a rather strange week. the flowers from last thursday have completely faded, and you’ve gone a day or two without any new forget-me-nots appearing on your skin. the strange part has been at work. on monday night, one of your coworkers died in the building, but you still had to come in to work the next day. one of the rooms was taped off, but that was the only evidence of the misfortune. the same thing happened last night, thursday, and you’re ready to do everything you can to get at least the next several days off of work. you don't want to risk anything.

and now, it seems the goddamn fbi is interested in whatever has happened. you’re not a huge fan of the federal government, but you have to admit that the bureau has sent two of its most attractive agents. normally, you’d keep your head down, but you feel inexplicably drawn to one of them. he’s the taller of the two, which is impressive because the other is already tall, and he has pretty brown hair and dimples that you catch a glimpse of as he talks to one of your coworkers.

he looks away from her as he moves away, seemingly done with the interview. he catches your eye, and your breath gets caught in your throat for a moment. he’s a beautiful man; pretty and sweet looking at the same time as he’s traditionally handsome and slightly imposing. you’ve never loved a stranger’s eyes so much.

he approaches you and you can’t help but watch as he grows closer.

“hi,” he greets with a small smile, “i’m agent greenaway with the fbi. can i ask you a few questions about the deaths from this week?”

“i’m not sure i’ll be much help, but sure,” you nod, folding your arms over your stomach. agent greenaway doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but the topic at hand certainly does.

“that’s alright. sometimes the smallest things can really be helpful,” he reassures, keeping the kind look on his face. “have you noticed anything strange about either of the deceased or the building this past week or so?”

you shake your head. “not really. i mean i didn’t work closely with macy, and i never noticed anything off about lex.”

“and the building? any strange cold spots or flickering lights?”

you find the question sort of odd coming from an fbi agent, but you instintually feel like you should take it seriously. “um, yeah, actually. it was really cold by the bathrooms last night when i left. at first i thought the ac finally got fixed, but it was still sort of warm over here. in this area”

“okay. thank you for your help,” he smiles at you again and for a reason you can't quite place, you don’t want the unusual conversation to end. you have to hide a hint of delight from your expression when he hands you his card. “call me if you think of anything else.” you accept the card with a nod. he looks like he’s about to walk away, but he pauses. “and, uh– be careful. you should go home early tonight.”

“oh. okay, i will.” without knowing why, you trust him. you want to see him again.

⟢⟢⟢

saturday night is the second busiest night at the bar, but you’re glad it’s not as crowded fridays normally are. you walk straight to the bar to order your go-to drink. as you wait for the bartender to make it, you stare at yourself in the mirror behind the counter out of the corner of your eye. today, there’s two little forget-me-nots right on your left cheek. they look sort of cute there, and you guess you should be grateful that it’s such a small wound. there’s no other flowers on your body yet, which feels like a good run for your soulmate. that’s a little over a whole week in between different injuries, even small ones.

the bartender slides you your drink and you thank them. there’s a small red carnation on their thumb, and you wonder if they’ve met their own soulmate yet. you suppose that at the end of the day, you’re scared of what just about everyone else is. without trying, you worry about not meeting your soulmate until you're old and left without much time together. you want to meet them, and you think the sooner the better. the idea’s been particularly stuck in your mind since last night.

agent greenaway’s words echo in your head. “be careful. you should go home early tonight.” he seemed so sweet, so genuine and caring, and all you’ve been able to think about since then is meeting someone like him. finding someone kind with a little red mark on their cheek and a forget-me-not on their right pointer finger to match the papercut you got earlier this afternoon.

and simply, you’ve been feeling a little lonely these days. how nice would it be to have your literal soulmate by your side?

you sip slowly at your drink, and when the cup’s empty, you pay the tab. the bar isn’t quite serving as the distraction you hoped it would. as you head for the door, your gaze snags on a mop of brown hair that wouldn’t be considered familiar for the fact that you’ve only seen it once, but feels that way regardless. quickly, you scan the rest of the bar, and sure enough you catch sight of agent greenaway’s partner, across the way and very obviously flirting with a pretty brunette.

for a moment you pause, wondering if it would be weird or too out-of-the-blue to approach agent greenaway, but the pull you feel towards him overrides all else, taking your hand and guiding it to throw all caution to the wind.

he’s facing away from you, and with a friendly smile, you slide into the seat across from him.

“hi,” you greet over the noise of music and talking, “d’you mind if i sit here?” it takes him a moment to answer, like he’s lagging a little bit.

“uh– no, no i don’t mind,” he flashes a quick smile back at you, but his gaze and attention are clearly stuck somewhere on your face. for just a split-second, you’re confused by what he could be staring at, but it clicks not a moment later. you don’t know how you missed it: the red mark on his left cheek, so small that your eyes glossed over it when you sat down. eagerly, you drop your gaze to his hands, one casually wrapped around his beer bottle and the other resting on the table. and sure enough, so tiny and pretty against his big hand is a single forget-me-not on his right pointer finger, exactly where you have a bandaid wrapped around your own.

you suck in a sharp breath, eyes caught on the delicate flower and unable to drag themselves away to look back at his face. just like everyone else, you’ve thought about it a million times over, what it would feel like to meet your soulmate, what you would do, how you would act. in this moment, you feel frozen, but you feel right and you feel a million questions and urges rise up in your heart and mind. you desperately want to reach out to him, to touch his hand and the little flower and make sure that they’re both real.

but you absolutely cannot keep your gaze away from his face for long at all and when you meet his eyes, an irresistible smile stretches across your face. you look at him with nothing short of wonderment. he’s just stunning and you can’t believe that he’s supposed to be… well, yours.

just staring at each other, you feel a little flustered and awkward, unsure what to say to him. then you realize he should probably know your name, and all you know is his last. so you stick your right hand out and tell him your name. he takes your hand with a smile and repeats it back, saying it carefully and savoring the sound and feel of it on his tongue.

when you touch him for the first time, your breath gets caught in your throat and it feels so right that you never want to let go.

“i’m sam,” he says, only letting his hand fall away from yours after a few moments. even then, your fingertips are merely inches apart now.

“sam greenaway,” you echo, easily remembering how he introduced himself yesterday. then you puzzle at his reaction and the way that the name doesn’t feel quite right as you look at him. he cringes slightly, like he’s done something to be guilty of. “or… not?” for a minute, things were starting to add up to you. the way you felt drawn to him yesterday and his job as an fbi agent finally explaining all of his many injuries. you figured he must be in fights often.

“i– i’m sorry, this is so– i mean if we’re really,” he takes a deep breath, trying to reset and figure out how to say things right. “if we’re really, you know, soulmates… well, there’s just a lot– a lot for me to explain. i’m not an fbi agent and my real name is sam winchester. but i swear, there’s a reason for me lying and i promise that i’ll explain it to you if you’re willing to hear it. which i understand if you don’t–”

“i do,” you say in earnest, finally cutting him off. it took you a second because, for a moment, you were too stuck on him saying the word soulmate aloud in reference to the two of you. it felt special and you were only half paying attention to the things he said after because of that. then all you were thinking about was how endearing he seems when he’s flustered and worried. “it’s okay,” you reassure him, “i want to hear it. i– i mean, sure, it’s sort of strange that you lied about, you know, all that, but… i’m not– i’m not gonna just meet my… my soulmate and not give you a chance.” he still looks a little tense, but his shoulders have dropped a bit in relief and there’s the hint of a grateful smile on his features.

“thank you,” he says, glad for your reassurance but still worried about how you might take the rest of the far weirder explanations that he has left to tell you. “can i maybe get you a drink?”

you smile at the offer, but shake your head a bit. “i was actually just heading out when i saw you. would you maybe wanna get out of here? my apartment’s less than a ten minute walk away.” for a moment, you wonder if that’s too much for just having met, but sam visibly relaxes just a little bit more.

“that would be nice,” he smiles. he’s getting ready to stand when he glances across the bar, seemingly remembering about his partner. or not partner. you’re not quite sure. “my brother, dean,” he explains simply when he catches your gaze on the other man. “i should tell him where i’m going.”

“okay,” you nod, filing the new information away in your mind and watching him weave between tables and flirting couples to reach his brother. the exchange is a bit funny to watch. at first dean looks annoyed at being interrupted by sam. then he glances at you with a sly smirk and makes some comment that is probably less than appropriate judging from his expression. and then his face morphs into one of surprise before it’s taken over by a smile. he claps sam on the shoulder and sends him off. you almost miss the look that dean gives you as sam heads back towards you because you’re so focused on the sweet smile that sam’s now wearing. you only catch dean’s look for a second before sam is back at your side. it’s easy to assume dean as the older brother, with his eyes on you being protective, proud, careful, and happy all at once. and they’re close enough that sam told him about you right away.

walking home with sam at your side is both completely strange and familiar all at once. it’s strange for a number of reasons, the main being that you’d never invite any other unknown man to your apartment, especially not one with a cryptic identity and such an imposing build. and yet, you’re not afraid or worried because of how familiar and safe it feels. it feels familiar because it feels right, it feels like exactly what you should be doing.

on the way over, he asks about you a little bit, trying not to overwhelm you with questions or seem overbearing with how eager he is to hear what you have to say. his kindness and carefulness are clear to you, and you love it. you answer happily, despite knowing he’s partially asking to avoid talking about himself until you settle down.

once inside, sam follows you right to the couch in the living room, sitting when you motion towards it and plop down into a chair across from him. he takes in the space, eyes roaming over your furniture, decor, and every little detail. he wants to know about you, just like you do him.

“it’s really nice in here,” he compliments, sounding so sincere that it’s just sweet.

“thank you,” you respond softly, wondering exactly what parts of the room he likes. you let him look around a second or two more before speaking again. “so… can i ask? you know, about it all, i guess? about you?”

he doesn’t say it aloud, but he thinks the way that you ask is so lovely. half of him wants to make up some silly, somewhat believable explanation to spare you the truth, but he knows that would never work out well. not if you choose to stay together in some way or another. already, that’s what he wants. he doesn’t doubt that you’re indeed his soulmate, the one who he’s been sharing wounds and flowers with for as long as he can remember. sam has both yearned for and dreaded this moment. he tries not to be obvious about it or over do it, but he’s sort of a total romantic. he’s had doubts about how this whole idea of soulmates could really be real or make much sense, but those thoughts are eased with each moment he spends with you. he still wants to get to know you before he does anything with you, but the way that he wants to get to know you is something he’s never felt before. it’s undeniably special.

the dread is because he’s known ever since he got back into hunting that he’d never be able to hide the truth of his world from you. he has no idea how he’s going to get to you to believe him or convince you that he’s not completely insane, but he’s going to tell you the truth anyway. even if you do believe him, he wants to give you a choice. you shouldn’t have to get involved with this life in any way at all if you don’t want to. he’d never force you to try things with him if it’s too strange or too scary or hard or anything. and already, he knows that he’ll never stop thinking about you if you do choose to stay away, but he also knows that he’d never try to change your mind or force you to do anything else other than exactly what you want.

“of course you can ask,” he responds, matching the softness of your own voice. “i, um– i’m honestly not quite sure how to say all of this without sounding totally crazy, and i completely understand that, but just– try to bear with me, i guess. and if you need proof, which i also understand, i’ll do my best to get it for you, it’s just– sort of hard.”

honestly, you’re wildly confused as to what the hell he could possibly say that would make him this anxious. it worries you a little bit too. you don’t want him to feel afraid to tell you anything at all. so, you nod at him in encouragement, trying not to seem nervous yourself.

“my brother and i, we– we hunt monsters. real ones. ghosts, vampires, demons, the works. they’re all real. your coworkers who died, they were– they were killed by an angry spirit. we got rid of it last night,” he says those words like they’re a ten ton weight off of his chest, but he’s still got another ten sitting there as he awaits your response. he looks at you so carefully, trying to gauge any sort of reaction.

you raise your eyebrows in surprise, and probably disbelief and a million other things. “angry spirit? like a ghost?” you’re not sure why that’s the first question that slips out, but you suppose it’s an easier one than are you insane? or what the hell are you talking about?

he nods his head carefully, like he’s waiting for you to freak out or call him crazy and tell him to go. “yeah. the ghost, she had died there, near the bathrooms where you felt the cold spot, in the 90s. she was triggered to kill when the man suspected of her murder was granted parole.”

“okay,” you breathe out, sort of nervously. the craziest thing is that you don’t disbelieve him. you’re not convinced by any stretch, but when you look him in the eye and listen close to his voice, there’s nothing but sincerity there. “i mean… that is sort of a kinda crazy thing to say,” you begin, “but i’ve always sort of believed in ghosts, so i don’t think you’re completely, you know, insane.” you laugh a bit, trying to lighten the mood a little. you don’t want him to stress, however unbelievable his words are. “the rest is a bit… shaky, i guess. it’s a hard thing to believe, i mean… vampires. and– and demons. it’s a lot. and honestly, i’m not sure how much i’ll really, truly believe until i see, i don’t know, something, i guess,” you admit, “but… but i don’t think you’re lying to me either.”

“thank you for that,” he says, voice as sincere as ever, “and i completely understand. honestly, part of me didn’t want to tell you at all, but… it’s sort of my whole entire life at this point and it wouldn’t be fair to hide from you. or– or to not give you a choice right off the bat of whether or not you wanted to be involved. it’s– it’s a lot and it’s dangerous. and if it’s what you want, i promise i’ll try to find a way to prove it to you, it’s just… hard to do that without putting you in danger. and i really don’t want to put you in danger.”

“that’s sweet, sam,” you say, not really bothering to hide the way you feel. “i’m not, you know, eager to meet any monsters anytime soon, but whenever it’s… the least dangerous, i guess, you can show me. until then… i’ll just trust you. and in the meantime maybe we can sort of just get to know each other?” you suggest, surprising yourself with how ready you are to trust him on this.

sam smiles at you sweetly. “that sounds perfect to me. i just– i don’t want to force you into something you don’t want for yourself. i live out of crappy motels and my brother’s car while hunting monsters that shouldn’t be real. i’m just… i’m sorry i’m not someone easier.”

you smile at him sort of sadly. “that’s not your fault, sam. i never asked for someone ‘easy’ anyway. just someone kind and respectful and you seem to be just that so far. besides, there’s gotta be a reason, right? that… we’re soulmates. honestly, if you were anyone else i wouldn’t trust you like this. an–and it’s not like i’m trusting you blindly because of something that we’re supposed to be. we just met. i’m only trusting you because it feels right to. and this whole soulmate thing never made too much sense to me until i met you. now it sort of does, because this feels right so far. at least, it does to me.”

“it feels right to me too,” he quickly assures, not wanting for you to misunderstand that for a second.

⟢⟢⟢

as two people who aren’t quite ready to jump into such a committed relationship with completely different lives, it’s a little bit strange to be soulmates. and yet, nothing about it is anything but honey-sweet to you. the night you met as soulmates for the first time, you ended up talking for hours. all you had to do was sort of ignore the huge and slightly unbelievable bomb he dropped on you within the first hour of talking. oddly enough, that was sort of easy. you learned that sam’s appetite for knowledge is just about insatiable, including when it comes to knowing about you.

he had words rolling off of your tongue, asking the best, most interesting questions and providing such sincere and in-depth responses. that night, he was just lovely, and that’s pretty much all he’s been since. he’s this adorable mix of confident and shy, awkward and knowing just the right thing to say. and he’s incredibly smart, an almost stanford pre-law graduate who was headed for bigger things before he was pulled back into hunting a little over two years ago. this explains the difference in all his injuries from the past two years versus the three beforehand. secretly, you mourn for the life that he, and subsequently you, might have had, but only because he gets a little wistful every time he talks about stanford.

mostly, you talk on the phone, only stopping late in the night when one of you catches the other yawning. he seems to sleep so little, yet he lives such a tiring life. you almost always seem to be the one who gets too tired first. one night, you fell asleep to his voice, and since then, you feel like it’s the single best way to drift into dreams.

sam tries to avoid the topic of the supernatural, but you ask him about it anyway. as you get used to the idea of monsters being real, you find yourself wanting to understand it all better. you want to understand him better. and you don’t want him to feel like he has to hide the biggest parts of his life from you or for him to have trouble fitting you into his world.

he always answers your questions, omitting any extreme gore or death, but it doesn’t take long for you to realize how many people he really saves. that’s his life; saving people.

it takes three weeks for you to see him again since the first night, and three more plus a whole lot of convincing on your end for him to bring you on a hunt with him. he tries to hide it, but he’s so worried for you, despite all the reassurances he’s made that this particular ghost isn’t really all that violent or dangerous. by now, you’ve already come to mostly believe all that he's told you, but to see it in real life is still the final confirmation that you need to be fully convinced.

sam keeps you by his side the whole time, one hand on you every moment that he can afford it. the second the ghost appears, he blasts it with a salt round from his shotgun, and he thinks he could cry when you flinch at the loud noise. yet, he feels comforted that you don’t seem all too scared. and strangely, you really aren’t. sam easily makes you feel safe. luckily, the next time the ghost appears, it bursts into flames moments later thanks to dean burning the bones.

the moment it’s gone, sam drops the gun to the ground and turns to you, accidentally ruining the now unnecessary salt line around you in his rush to check on you.

“are you okay?” he asks gently, a hand on your shoulder and the other cupping your cheek as he looks you up and down.

“i’m alright, sam,” you reassure. it’s true that you’re a little shaky, and just the tiniest bit scared, but to have your confirmation and sam by your side is much more important to you.

“i’m sorry,” he apologizes anyway, pulling you into a hug that’s more for his peace of mind than yours. of course, you don’t complain, easily finding his arms to be your new favorite place in the world.

oddly enough, taking it almost slow works well. he kisses you the next time he sees you, a week and a half later, and you’ve never wanted anything more than to have him keep kissing you, over and over again. he just feels like yours and you feel like his and you’ve barely known him for long, but when he kisses you it’s like there’s stars hung from the ceiling and flowers made from nothing but love and healing growing all over you. when he kisses you it’s sunlight and moonglow bottled up and mixed with sweet, pure maple syrup. his lips on yours feel like lucky four leaf clovers, like it’s possible to taste heaven on someone else’s tongue.

and though it mostly works for him to just visit as often as he can, which sometimes isn’t often at all, and to call him at every moment you can, the yearning only grows. you swear that you’re addicted to his lips, to his big hands cupping your jaw all gentle and sweet or his bulky arms boxing you in as he kisses you so hard that you melt right into the sheets.

and some nights, though he tries to hide it, you can hear him struggling with what seems to be the weight of the world on his shoulders. his job is anything but easy or fruitful. before, you thought that you might worry less when you found out exactly why your soulmate was getting injured so often, but now every time new blooms appear on your skin, you spend all day fretting until you can get him on the phone to make sure he’s alright.

you suppose he gets just as worried as you, despite the fact that you’re never in nearly as much danger as he is. a week ago, a jagged edge on a metal wire fence snagged at your skin, drawing a very shallow, but long line of blood down your forearm. seconds later, you had a frantic sam on the phone, so worried about all the little blue flowers on his arm.

it’s not as hard as he thinks for you to tell how much fear and worry he lives in. you know that he doesn’t tell you the half of it sometimes, even when you ask. all you want is to have him a little closer, to be there for him and provide the sort of comfort that you’re sure he’s never really had before. and though he’s told you that having you to talk to, so receptive and encouraging for him, has been a complete blessing, you still wish for more. you want his arms enveloping you and his lips on yours and his warm body in your bed. really, you just miss him. all the time.

⟢⟢⟢

tonight is one of the glorious nights that you get to have him with you. his broad frame takes up so much space in your bed, and you love it more than just about anything. he props himself up on one elbow and you mirror his pose as you let your eyes roam over each other’s features and take turns rambling about every little thing from this past week. unable to resist, sam kisses you often. he just leans over, swiftly closing the small space between you and pressing his lips to yours. he looks so beautiful like this; at peace, his shirtless body and protective tattoo framed all prettily by clean white sheets.

eventually, comforting words turn into a comforting silence, and you drop your head to your pillow. your eyes droop a little as you play with the idea letting a few more words slip from your tongue. you want to say something to him, but you can’t tell if it’s the right time.

sam settles on his pillow, just like you. “what is it?” he whispers, inviting and respectful. his voice tells you that you’re welcome to say whatever you’re thinking about, but that it’s okay if you don’t want to quite yet.

you smile a little at how well he’s able to read you. since he asked so sweetly, you say it. “i can’t be away from you, sam. i love you, i really do.” this isn’t the first time you’ve said the three special words to each other, but his eyes grow infinitely softer than they were before each time you do.

this time, his eyes do soften, but he cringes a little too, because he feels sorry and because he feels the same exact way. “i can’t make you live like i do. i love you, too, so much. and i hate being away from you, but this? this life, it�� it’s sort of awful, and it’s dangerous and hard and–”

you swiftly cut him off with a kiss that he more than willingly melts into. “i know,” you whisper against his lips, barely moving from him to speak. “but– but what if we tried something else? you still go on your hunts and all that, but you and dean can stay here in between. there’s this cabin in the woods i’ve been eyeing, it’s sort of small but it’s isolated and we could ward it. i’ve been looking into protection and warding spells, and i think we could make it work… only, you know, if you wa–”

this time he’s the one to cut you off with a kiss, passionate and sweet all at once. when your lips part, he keeps his forehead pressed against yours like he can’t bear to be any further from you.

“i want to,” he says, voice so sure and sturdy. “i really want to… but how’re we gonna get the house? it’s not like me or dean can buy property, and i can’t make you–”

“i want to,” you echo his words, just as sincerely. “please, sam, let me do this. i’ve been saving money for a long time and it’s a little run down so it’s not too expensive. and i’m getting sick of this apartment.”

“you’re gonna live there?” he asks, not bothering to hide his hope and sparkling joy at that idea.

you grin. “of course. there’s three bedrooms and it’s so pretty and i can’t, you know, pay for that and the apartment at the same time. and i– i wanna be there every time you get home.”

that word gets to him. sam doesn’t really have a solid or normal concept of home—the closest thing he has is the impala. but it sounds so right when it comes out of your mouth. “and– and you’re okay with that?” he asks, still needing to be reassured, “you said it was isolated, and–”

“i’m sure, sam,” you emphasize, “it’s only 20 minutes from town and the roads to and from are never busy. i’ve always wanted to live in the woods, i swear. and if it meant i could be with you more, i’d never ever say no to this. please… can we talk to dean about it?”

“yes,” he gushes. “yes, of course, i– you’re amazing.” he seals the deal with a firm, giddy kiss. “and if dean says he doesn’t like the idea, i don’t care. i’m gonna do this with you.” another kiss and your heart softens infinitely. “besides, he loves the pie from the bakery on morrison street, which means he can’t say no.” he gives you another kiss and pulls away again, and you know that he’s bound to keep rambling if you let him, so you wrap an arm around his neck and thread your fingers through his soft, pretty hair. then you kiss him hard until he can’t breathe. he returns the favor by tenfold, whispering through labored breath how much he loves you and wants you and thinks that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

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htchnr · 8 months ago

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♰ thanks sugar ༻ C. HOWARD.*ೃ˚

➻ masterlist. ➻ buy me a coffee!

PAIRING ➻ southern bounty hunter!reader x Cooper Howard.

CW ➻ mention of drugs ⋆ alcohol consumption ⋆ fallout typical violence ⋆ reader sustains a bad injury ⋆ but it's not too explicitly described ⋆ mention of stitching up said injury ⋆ if i missed anything, lmk!

SUMMARY ➻ "Can i request a bounty hunter reader who is always one step ahead of Cooper and he’s fed up with her? Then the reader is in a deadly situation and he decides to rescue her, because even if he’s fed up that she’s always one step ahead of him, he respects her for that." requested by the lovely @likoplays WC ➻ 2,8K.

he didn't know quite what to feel the first time he encountered you..

his hairless brows furrow the moment he lays eyes on you — his bounty, dead, beneath your boot. you look up from the body beneath you, and smile. a disgustingly sweet smile on your shockingly soft looking lips. “heya sugar,” you grin, “it appears you jus’ missed this fella here,” your tone confident and ever so slightly out of breath from the fight he had missed.

he huffs frustratedly, and when his harsh eyes drag down your form the pieces fit together in his head. so you’re the cowgirl bounty hunter that’s been cashing in his bounties.

he can see it now, why’d people mistake him for you sometimes if they can’t see his face — your body clad in tough jeans and a layer of belts draped across your hips. a worn down cowboy hat atop your head with a bullet hole going through the rim on the right side. he could spot a peak of some leather vest and a worn shirt sticking out from it and atop it all a tattered worn duster draped over your shoulders.

huh, he thought to himself. just that, a contemplative ‘huh’. the conversation that followed was less harsh then he thought it’d be now that he can put a face to your name. he still made his points very clear though.

by the third time the pair of you cross paths he’s gotten used to your honey sweet drawl and even sweeter smiles. he wondered since the day he met you why you always smiled so bright, given the world you live in and the job you do.

the bar smells like spilled liquor and blood, the air is sticky and stuffy in the summer’s heat. the people in it probably smell worse, but he’s thankful he’s can’t smell most of it.

the oh so familiar “heya sugar,” sounds from across the bar in Filly. he looked over and saw you sitting a few stools down from him, sipping on something dark. he huffs and nods in your direction before returning his attention to the bourbon in his dirty glass.

he listens to your stool creak and groan before the thuds of your boots follow you to the stool beside him. “any good contracts on the horizon?” you tease with a grin.

he looks up from his glass, watching you down the remainder of yours. his dark eyes follow a stray drop that drips past your lips and down your chin before you catch it with a finger, dipping the finger between your lips to suck up the liquid. he sighs and downs his own glass, wishing he could feel the burn as the alcohol trickled down.

“well, wouldn't you like to know, hm?” he drawls, his eyes slightly squinting at you. he knows damn well that you know what’s on his horizon. seeing as you’ve probably got the same bounties on yours.

you sigh, swirling a stray drop of liquor in your glass around. “you ain’t bein’ fun,” you huff as you tip back your glass to catch that last drop on your tongue. you stretch your shoulders, groaning in the process before shrugging your duster back over your shoulders.

you nod at the bartender and hand him a few caps, thanking him with that same sickly sweet smile before standing up. you turn back to him, tightening your holster belt. “well, i’ll be seein’ you stud.” you tip your hat to him before walking out the bar and into the fresh air.

he hasn't seen you in a while, he thinks to himself, while he walks along the tracks of his latest bounty — some guy who had plundered a large settlement. who in turn wanted the man alive, so they could convict him or some shit. they were paying a hefty heap of caps for the man, and that was all that mattered.

the trail started to head in the direction of the Super Duper Mart he frequents for RadAway, to his surprise. maybe the bounty needs a patch up or some chems, who knows. if the tracks lead there, he might as well pick up some more vials of RadAway, more could never hurt.

the tracks indeed lead to the front doors of the Super Duper Mart, though are soon joined by a second pair, one he’s grown to recognise anywhere. he groans, head dropping back in frustration. he was starting to get a little low on caps and would really fucking like a job to turn out in his favor before he has to turn to the ones he’ll hate doing.

he rummages through his saddlebags, looking for things he could offer in return, when he hears a loud slam against the window on the right side of the building. he knew what went down there, and this kind of commotion was not uncommon, but definitely relatively unusual. he ignores the sounds as his hand touches some Jet, that’ll have to do for now, he thinks to himself.

he grabs the handful of Jet, hitting the button on the speaker. “transaction.” he drawls, dark eyes trying to look through the dirty glass as if he might see his bounty there.

it’s quiet for a second, before the familiar voice of the Handy comes through, “yes?”

“ten vials for fifteen Jet.”

more silence before the speaker crackles again, “the deal can be further discussed inside, the doors will open.”

Cooper sighs, not looking forward to the hassle of making a deal with the idiots inside. the doors squeak open in a few seconds and he makes his way inside. the relatively cool building was a slight relief compared to the harsh sun.

the moment he steps inside the commotion from the room across from him rings crystal clear through the building. he supposed the guys running it are used to it and barely blink at it. he walks past the room, and reaches the guys in charge sat lazily on the couch in front of the tv.

Cooper clears his throat, the two guys looking up immediately. “ten vials for ten Jet, right?” the left guy says, slightly slurring his words.

“uh huh,” Cooper confirms.

and to his surprise the guys are probably so high they didn't hear what the Handy said and the deal seems fine to them as the left guy rummages through the box of chems to pull out ten vials of RadAway. he wonders for a brief second, if he could rip off the guys and give them less Jet and still get the vials — they don’t seem to be in the condition to properly count anything.

the left guy holds out his shaky hand expectantly and Cooper drops eight Jet into his palm, curious about the outcome. and to his surprise the guy takes the Jet, stares at them blankly, then hands Cooper exactly ten vials. huh, he thinks, well done.

he thanks them after stuffing the vials into his box with the last of his other ones and heads back to the entrance. he nears the room where all the commotion is still coming from and almost passes before he hears a familiar voice yell out.

“dagnabbit! you better get ‘ur grimey saws ‘way from me you asshole!”

your southern twang was even more prominent with your anger and panic, but he could recognise your voice anywhere. he stood before the closed door with a war inside him;

with how little contracts you left him it’d be great career wise for him to leave you here, no more stealing his high paying bounties, he’d finally be able to afford a little more supplies — but a side of him also grew to deeply respect your skill. the way you managed to handle bounties that had even him slightly questioning if he could do it. you clearly had great skill to make it this long in the business and in the world.

he groans, head dropping back as he beat himself for what he was about to do. the panic in your voice sounded genuine, it sounded like you were genuinely fighting for your life. he set his saddlebag down by the door and kicked it open, the door slamming into the wall.

he walked into the room, blood splattered across the floor, the usual tools and coolers around. and then his eyes landed on you, strapped down to a gurney with the Handy trying to hack away at you.

guessing by the blood on the floor he had gotten at least one good slice in. at the sound of the door slamming open both you and the Handy turned to him. “no people allowed in this room!” the Handy crackles, though his blades still hovering above you.

“heya sugar,” you pant heavily. “fancy seein’ you ‘ere,” you somehow manage a genuine smile, which catches him a little off guard, given the situation you’re in.

“quite the predicament you’ve found ‘urself in, huh?” he nods, eyes still watching the Handy as the robot hovers still.

you flinch at something and swallow thickly, “nothin’ i ain’t done before,” he can see the pain through your smile now, and it makes him want to kick himself for what it makes him feel inside.

he unholsters his gun, aiming at the Handy, “hey tincan, how’bout you leave the lady alone?” he drawls, eyes squinting at the robot.

“i afraid i cannot do so, she has been prepared for harvesting.” the Handy states.

Cooper sighs, knowing that whatever happens here means the end of his dealings with this place. it takes a mere inch that the Handy moves towards him and Cooper puts a bullet through it. smoke shoots out the side that was shot. “t-t-that was n-no-o-ot friendly-” the Handy malfunctions, fully turning to him now.

he rolls his shoulder before unloading the other three heavy rounds into the Handy round body. the Handy spurts out smoke and steam from everywhere, dropping to the floor with a loud crash. he really hopes the guys out back are too high to notice all this.

Cooper holsters his gun, side stepping around the dying Handy as he makes his way to you. the closer he gets, he can see what caused you to flinch and where all the blood all over the floor came from — a huge gash in your side. not concerningly deep, but still worrisome nonetheless. you had a few cuts across your bare shoulders as well, he guesses from you thrashing around while the Handy tried to cut you open.

your head drops down onto the gurney and you groan in relief. “oh crud muffin’,” you huff, the muscles in your side flexing in pain. Cooper watches carefully as he begins to unbuckle the restraints, making sure to be extra careful with the one around your hips that’s awfully close to your wound.

“what ‘m i glad to see your handsome face ‘ere,” you pant, massaging your wrists the moment they're free.

Cooper steps back from the gurney a little once he’s unbuckled the restraints around your ankles so you can sit up. he squints at your choice of words. handsome. you sit up, a little shaky. “phew,” you huff, reaching a hand to your side. “my knight in shinin’ spurs-” your voice trailing off just before your body goes limp and drops forward.

Cooper hands immediately find your shoulders, pushing you up before you’re able to drop off the gurney. “damnit girl,” he swears as he lays you down, eyes sweeping over the gash in your side. it was significantly worse than he thought, and given the amount of blood on the floor you had been fighting quite a bit.

he huffs, searching around for med supplies. it surprises him that you kept going as long as you did. he dumps whatever supplies he could find in your lap, before turning his full attention to your wound. you were gonna owe him after this..

bright lights and a warm feeling wakes you, eyes painfully peeling open. expecting the ceiling of the Super Duper Mart, your eyes instead are met with the bright sky, the hot sun beating down on you. you shoot up in a panic, though nearly cry out in pain as the stitches in your side constrict. “sugar honey iced tea!” you shout out with your eyes clenched shut, your hand immediately holding the injury.

footsteps come dashing from behind you, the sun suddenly blocked by someone. your eyes shoot open, wild eyes meeting a familiar pair of dark, hollow ones. it takes you a second, before you sigh in relief and drop back down. you’re quiet for a moment as you catch your breath, before speaking. “where are we?” your throat is sore.

Cooper huffs, the sound of your cry still pounding in his heart. “not too far out from the Super Duper,” he drawls, catching his own breath a little.

when you open your eyes again to look at him, you notice something strange — he’s not wearing his duster. and that’s when it clicks, the heavy coat is draped over top of you. your eyes flit across his form, a raggedy denim shirt sticking out from a thick leather vest that has certainly seen better days with a few missing buttons and what are almost certainly knife shaped holes.

your eyes drag down to his scarred forearms that are exposed below his sleeves that're rolled up, your distracted eyes lingering a little longer than they should.

you reluctantly sit up, groaning as you do so. the duster drops into your lap as you lift your shirt up to assess the damage. “ahw shucks, that ain’t lookin’ good..” you huff, brows furrowed in pain and eyes staring at the roughly stitched gash.

Cooper clears his throat, “did the best i could on a whim, hope that’s okay,” and this is the first time you’ve heard him speak without the confidence and strength he usually has.

you shake your head, “don’t worry ‘ur handsome head, this more than i could’ve asked you for and’m thankful for it,” you tip your head at him, a pained but genuine smile on your lips. god, he thought, was there ever a time you didn’t look so sugary sweet?

he nods in return, “you’re welcome,” he walks over to offers you a bottle of what appears to be bourbon, which you gratefully accept with a pained grin. “should ‘elp take the edge off,”

you take a generous swig, a low moan of relief being pulled from your lips as the liquid trickles down. you relish the sweet burn before handing him back the bottle. “i can’t thank you enough,” you smile.

Cooper shakes his head, “don’t worry your pretty head about it,” he copies your words. he takes a swig before shoving the bottle back in his saddlebag. he pauses as he thinks, “well, there is one thing you could do,” he trails off.

you let out a laugh, and he thinks it might be the sweetest thing he’s heard in decades. “out with it, what d’you need?” you chuckle.

he shrugs, tilting his head with a playful smirk on his lipless skin. “you could always leave me some bounties for once?” he drawls, eyes squinted to aid the smirk.

you let out another laugh, this one equally if not even more sweeter sounding then the last. “well i’ll tell you what sugar, why don’t we stop dancin' around, partner up and split the caps instead?” there's a smidge of hopefulness in your tone, yet he also feels as though you’ve left no room for a no from him.

he sucks his teeth, looking up as if contemplating his answer. though, the both of you already know what he’ll say. finally, he tips his hat to you, “alright then, 's long as you rest up till that’s healed enough. got it? don’t want you messin’ up my masterpiece,” he chuckles.

that earns him another strained laugh from you. “can’t promise i’ll stay out of a good fight, but you got it sugar.” you grin and wink.

oh lord, he thinks, he’s in for a looong ride.

TAGLIST @live-logs-and-proper @looonytooons @seeingstarks @thewastelandwriter @lacey-mercylercy

#⋆୨🩷©2024 htchnr #⋆୨⭐️cooper howard #cooper howard x fem!reader #cooper howard oneshot #cooper howard imagine #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard #the ghoul imagine #the ghoul oneshot #the ghoul fallout #fallout tv #fallout tv series #walton goggins #walton ghoulgins

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lovesculprit · 2 months ago

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just a little something before the full fic {mdni} cw: mentions of blood

Knight!Nanami who...is captivated by your dangerous spirit in battle. And every time he goes into the battlefield with you, he finds himself drawn to you in ways he cannot rationalise. There is something about the way you move with such ferocity, your blade cutting through the air with precision, which hypnotises him.

The moment you land a blow on him that draws blood, it’s like a spark igniting something deep within him—part adrenaline, part raw admiration. The sting of pain from your attack sharpens his senses, and rather than fuelling anger, the thrill heightens. Being this close to someone who so completely challenges him-physically and mentally-only serves to make the blood pumping through his veins hotter.

The line between opponent and something more begins to blur as the threat of injury fans the flames of a desire he can't fully comprehend.

Knight!Nanami who...holds back in battles, not wanting to hurt you. He feels a hesitation, foreign to him, as your encounters grow more frequent. When it comes to you, it's not about winning. There’s a strange, unspoken connection in each clash, as though his blade could do more damage than he wants. It’s a delicate dance—swords clashing, but the tension between you is stronger than any weapon.

It's the spark in your eyes that catches him off guard; the fluidity of your movements, the fire behind every strike. He holds back, not because he's afraid you'll overpower him, but because part of him just can't bear the thought of truly hurting you. Every duel greets a mix of aggression and restraint in him, a barely constrained tension taking his heart racing for reasons other than battle.

Knight!Nanami who...finds the bloodshed strangely exhilarating, especially when it involves you. There’s an edge to your battles that’s more than just combat; it’s a pull, an undeniable attraction that’s heightened with every drop of blood spilled.

When your blade cuts into him enough to draw blood, he relishes in the pain—it’s a thrill, a visceral reminder of how close you are. And when he sees your blood, it only intensifies the strange bond between you, like it’s drawing him closer to something primal and intimate. Every encounter feels like it teeters on the edge between violence and passion, a dangerous mixture of rivalry and lust. The battlefield crackles with sexual tension, a storm that builds with every hit, every glance, leaving him wondering if he craves victory—or you—more.

Knight!Nanami who...feels an unexpected desire stir inside him whenever he sees you in the remnants of battle. The sight of you, fierce and defiant, with blood—whether yours or his—staining your skin, ignites something darker within him. There's something intoxicating about your skin smeared with streaks of crimson, your chest heaving with exertion. The sight shouldn’t affect him this way, but it does.

The blood marks your strength, a testament to your resilience, and it only heightens his desire. His eyes linger too long, captivated by the raw power you exude in those moments. It’s as though the sight of you, bloodied, calls to something primal within him. He can’t tear his gaze away, the mix of admiration and dark desire coiling tight in his chest, leaving him more unsettled—and more drawn to you—than ever.

Knight!Nanami who...always wants to kiss you in the heat of battle. Every time he watches you, fierce and defiant, something inside him snaps. The sight of your bloodied form, still standing strong, stirs an overwhelming need within him—not just to fight you, but to claim you. His gaze falls to your lips, and for a fleeting moment, he’s consumed by the urge to pull you close, taste the adrenaline and blood on your skin. It’s in those charged moments that he wants to forget the rivalry, push you against the nearest surface, and fuck you senseless.

He wonders if you feel it too—that undeniable pull. Every look, every touch of your blade against his, fans the flames of his desire until it almost burns out of control. The thought of having you writhing underneath him, not in pain but of pleasure drives him wild. Knowing that in those moments, the battlefield will be forgotten, and the real fight will begin—one where both of you can finally surrender to the overwhelming need that has been building between you all along.

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sammyluvr · 3 months ago

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take my breath away — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, features dean x reader (platonic), near death experience, suffocation, other canon violence and death, injuries, blood mention, swearing, so much pining, case fic, stereotypical witch, (not) unrequited love, petty arguments, petty sam, kissing, crying, guilt, reader vaguely implied to be shorter than sam, pet names, food mentions, (baby, honey - from sam, darlin’/kiddo from dean), no use of y/n, mentions of end of season 2-4 spoilers, poorly edited, 13.7K words. requested !

summary : because of an unexpected witch’s curse, it’s almost too late for you and sam to confess your feelings to each other.

you see sam when it rains. even if he’s sitting right in front of you, you’ll look out the car window and at the rivulets of water rushing down the glass, distorting the image of an empty highway and summer-time trees at dusk, and you’ll see him at seventeen with rain in his hair and running down his cheeks. you’ll think of that smile he gave you as he took your hand and how that look he had in his eyes haunts you worse than any ghost you’ve seen, because you think it could’ve been love. sometimes, you’ll still see glimpses of that sam, but he can be rare. so, you go as far to wonder if maybe he still looks at you like that when your gaze is turned away.

once, when the windows were down and he was sitting in the back with you for a change, the spring air was nice and clean as it filtered into the sometimes stuffy car, and you felt his multicolor gaze watching you. the look on his face changed when you locked eyes, but for an imagined moment, it seemed that you—your eyes closed against the wind and a light smile on your face that, for once, wasn’t grim—were his everything.

you press your temple to the cold glass of the window, hoping it’ll sober you up a little from your love-drunk state. it’s so goddamn stupid that you’re even thinking about him like this right now, because he’s still sort of mad at you for something rash you did during your last hunt. only you don’t think it was stupid, so you’re half pissed that he won’t let it go. staring at the back of his head and the pretty curled ends of his hair, you sigh quietly. even his shoulders rising up past the seat are handsome. you miss him, and he’s close enough to reach out and touch.

dean’s voice breaks your reverie, and you have to draw in a deep breath. without you even noticing, thinking about sam so hard makes you breathless, almost every time.

“so, why don’t you give us the full rundown, sammy? ‘fore either of you decide to conk out on me,” dean suggests. that means he’s bored, because neither of you will fall asleep for at least another hour or two, and you’ll probably take your turn driving for a few soon.

“sure,” sam agrees, and you hear the shuffle of papers as he digs out a newspaper article and some notes. “three people in the last three weeks all died from suffocation, but with no apparent cause. they just,” sam’s shoulders move a little as he motions vaguely with his hands, “stopped breathing.”

“sounds witchy to me,” dean says, very predictably. you think you could’ve said those exact words at the exact same time if you wanted to tease him about it.

“yeah. what’s weird is that the vics were reported feeling out of breath up to 16 hours before they actually died. says it looks like they slowly died from oxygen deprivation,” sam adds.

“huh. so not hex bags, but another sort of spell?” you wonder aloud, easily talking about the case despite the remainders of tension between you and sam. that’s just how it is, with all of you. even when you’re mad, you still work the case.

“most likely,” sam agrees, “the vics went about their days pretty much normally until they died, so they were in different places as they were dying. seems like a hex bag wouldn’t work unless it was on them the whole time.” you nod, and though he’s not turned around to look at you, you’re sure he knows anyway.

“alright, well. looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us,” dean states, “we’ll be in town in the morning, so we’ll rest up real quick then head to the police station. you two can do your interviewing magic with the vic’s families and hopefully we’ll know more by then.”

this was easily predicted as well. for as long as you’ve been able to pass as an fbi agent, he’s mostly left interviewing the families to you and sam since the two of you tend to be more socially appropriate, and thus, more able to get information without raising alarms. though, the questions you ask never cease to be weird and confusing to the world’s oblivious civilians. of course, dean makes exceptions for pretty girls who he can flirt his way into telling him just about anything. this time, you wish dean would make an exception because it kills you that you and sam aren’t getting along perfectly right now. you know that you’ll work it out soon, probably within the week, but you still hate it.

through the impala’s windows, you watch the sky turn dark and the moon come out. you drive, then fall asleep to the rumble of the engine for a few hours, and wake to see the sky turn light again. keeping it all to yourself, you revel in the sunrise and the way it turns the sky bright and the clouds cotton candy pink around the edges.

you sink into the sight of sam sleeping in front of you, the early morning light kissing his features and shining through his mousy brown hair. if you lean a little to the left, you can soak up the image of his softly closed eyes, the mole by his nose, and the relaxed curve of his lips. you smile to yourself at the way his hair is all messed up on the side of his head that’s resting against the window until you catch dean’s gaze on you through the rearview mirror. you tear your gaze from both brothers and latch it to the moving countryside out the window. for a while now, you’ve figured there’s no way dean doesn’t see that you’re in love with his brother, but despite such, he doesn’t say much outside of lightheartedly teasing for the both of you. he’s the only one who knows that sam looks at you just like that when you’re the one who’s asleep. he’s the one who sees sam turn, trying to be subtle, just to look at the way the moonlight kisses your lips, wishing it was him.

it’s eight in the morning when you pull up to the first motel you see. you wished sam hadn’t woken up on his own half an hour ago. that way, you could’ve put your hand on his shoulder, shaken him all soft and gentle like you do just for him, and mumbled, “wake up, sammy. we’re here.” then he’d stir, still sweet-looking from sleep and give you a little smile if he’d managed to dream without nightmares before remembering he’s supposed to still be upset with you.

instead, he’s fully awake when he climbs out of the car and pops your door open like he does every time you can’t beat him to it. he doesn’t talk about that habit, because he knows you can take care of it yourself. but if it’s so easy for him to do it as you grab your bag, then he thinks there’s no harm. besides, you’ve never told him off for it, so he does that and just about any other little thing he can get away with for you. and much to your chagrin, he still does it all when he’s pissed at you. he’s too good like that, even if you think he should just get over what happened a few days ago.

the three of you are just about wordless as you check in and pile into the room, all tired and without anything of importance to say. when you catch sight of the couch in the room, you sigh in relief. it would’ve been sam’s turn to share the bed, and you’re not sure you could do that this time around. sometimes it’s hard to breathe when he’s right there, so close after you’ve spent literal hours in the car just plain old pining over him. so, you find an extra sheet in the closet and steal a pillow from dean’s bed, all but collapsing onto the couch with a morning-time “goodnight.”

you don’t care that your feet hang over the edge unless you curl up or mind the way the springs dig into the flesh of your side, all you want is to welcome quick sleep. you’re lucky, and drift off moments later. you barely have time to think about how glad you are that you won’t have one of your nights where you lay awake, staring at the ceiling as you wonder why you would fall in love with someone you can’t have. him and dean are all you have, and no matter how your heart aches to pull sam close, you’d never do anything to jeopordize what you have, here and now. he’s your best friend, that’s all you can ask for in this life, maybe even more than you should.

waking as you normally do to the sounds of sam and dean moving about the motel room, you sit up, a little groggy. you glance at the clock, and you’ve slept for about four hours, just as predicted.

“up ‘n at ‘em,” dean says as he walks past you, giving you a playful clap on the back.

“mhmm,” is all you respond with, swinging your legs off the couch and digging through your bag for your pant suit and toothbrush. dean’s already in his, and sam’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom, still in his tshirt and jeans from yesterday. you don’t even have to say a word for sam to move out of the bathroom as you approach. so he won’t have to wait with a mouth full of tooth-paste and spit for you too long, you change quickly, leaving your clothes on the bathroom floor and opening the door for sam as you begin to brush your own teeth. the two of you maneuver around the cramped space with practiced ease, and when he’s done, he disappears back into the bedroom space without a word. when he’s petty to other people, you think it’s kind of hot. but when he does it to you, it makes you want to ring his neck.

“asshole,” you mumble to yourself. it’s a classic tango between the two of you; you want him to just get over it, and he wants you to admit that he’s right, or the other way around. and both of you are far too stubborn to be the one to relent first, so you’ll be pissy at each other for a few days until you get bored of it or dean gets too annoyed. all it takes to get past it is you putting your head in his lap after a long day, maybe him resting his head on your shoulder, or the two of you laughing too hard over something together to keep being mad, and maybe just a few mumbled apologies from the both of you. if it’s really big enough for none of those things to work, then you talk about it until things are okay again.

dean drops you off at the first victim’s house, with the promise that the second is close enough to walk to, and the third he’ll join you for once he’s done at the coroner’s office.

sam still won’t talk to you as you wait on the front porch of the house after ringing the doorbell. a young woman opens the door, probably around your own age, and you smile at her before flashing your badge.

“hi. i’m agent green. this is my partner, agent smith. we’re looking for natalie goh?” you greet, comfortable and at ease in your ruse.

“that’s me,” she confirms for you, sounding nice enough. “how can i help you, agents?”

“we would just like to ask a few questions about your late boyfriend, henry,” sam explains, “may we come inside?”

her face falls when he mentions her boyfriend, but she nods her head. “of course, come in.” you follow her to the living room where she motions for you to sit. “let me grab you something to drink,” she offers, disappearing into the next room before you can refuse. “is lemonade okay? my next door neighbor brought me so much when she heard about henry… you know. i can’t possibly drink it all.”

you want to say no, not wanting to make her go through the extra effort, but you accept for both you and sam out of sympathy. she sounds like she needs to keep her hands busy to distract herself.

she sets the drinks down in front of you, asking as she sits, “what, uhm, what is the fbi’s interest in … in henry?”

“we’re investigating a few odd deaths, like your boyfriend’s, in the area,” sam explains, “now, was there anything unusual the day of or the days leading up to his death?”

“i, um, i don’t– i don’t think so, like what? and, i’m sorry, the police told me he most likely choked on something, how is that strange?” natalie frets. you glance at sam and catch him readjusting his features as a brief look of surprise crosses over his face. it makes sense that that’s what the police told her, but you hadn’t known they’d said so.

“well, natalie, the cause of his death wasn’t entirely clear, and because a few more people have died similarly since, we’re just being extra thorough,” you do your best to placate her before she starts getting too wary of you and sam. “it really could mean nothing, but it’s important for us to cover all of our bases. so, can you tell us if there was anything out of the ordinary? was he acting strange, or did you notice anything unusual around the house, like maybe cold spots or flickering lights?”

she furrows her eyebrows in confusion, “um, no. no, nothing like that. he was just being him, you know, he was such an amazing boyfriend, he made me breakfast that morning even though he said he was tired. i already told this to the police, but he sounded kind of out of breath when we called. that was the last time i talked to him,” her voice begins to tremble, so you reach out a comforting hand and place it atop hers from across the table. “i had to stay late at work, and when i got home, he was … he was gone. i found him in the kitchen.” a tear slips down her cheek, and she moves her hand away from yours to wipe it off. you shift back in your seat and glance at sam, trying to give him the hint to get moving. but, he keeps his gaze trained elsewhere.

you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him, almost ready to pull the “may i use your bathroom” ruse first. it’s almost always sam who does it, and sure enough, he clears his throat to ask.

“would you mind if i used your restroom?”

“oh, sure,” she says, “there’s one by the pantry, through the kitchen and to the left.”

he stands, thanking her a bit awkwardly before disappearing through the doorway to the kitchen.

once he’s gone, you turn your attention back to natalie. “i know that this can be a difficult question, but is there anyone that comes to mind who might want to hurt henry?” absentmindedly, you take a sip of the lemonade after speaking. it’s sweet, but not too sugary. you discover that it’s just about perfect, and you can’t hold back from continually taking a few sips here and there to fight back the heat of the afternoon.

“oh, goodness, no,” she sounds horrified by that prospect, “henry was just the kindest. the best boyfriend i could ask for,” she reiterates. “you think that someone– that someone…?”

“no, no,” you lie, “there would be signs if someone else hurt him, but like i said, we just need to be completely thorough. i’m sorry to even have to ask. now, if you’re okay with it, could you tell me more about henry?”

“yes, yeah, i can do that,” she sighs in relief. it’s clear she wants to talk about him, and probably how much she misses him. you do your best to pay close attention and keep her focused on you and your questions as sam takes forever “in the bathroom.” nothing she says is very useful, it’s all about how loving and kind and just about perfect he was to her. at first, you’re able to listen without a qualm, but the more she rambles about how much she loved him, and maybe even more so how much he loved her, your mind inevitably wanders to sam. sam and your bothersome, bottomless pit of unrequited love.

you kindly cut natalie off and stand when you hear sam’s footsteps approach. “it sounds like henry was a wonderful person. i’m so sorry for your loss.” despite knowing those words don’t mean or do much, you still fill them with as much sincerity as you can. sam is at your side again. “we really appreciate you taking the time to talk to us. we’ll get out of your hair now.”

she shows you to the front door out of courtesy, and you give her one last thank you and kind smile before turning your back and heading to the sidewalk, sam just ahead of you. pushing off the ground a little harder for a few steps, you catch up to him and his long strides, unable to resist the urge to let your gaze wander to his face.

“anything?” you ask, hoping he’ll look at you too.

“nope,” he shakes his head, “no emf, no hexbags, nothing out of the ordinary.” pursing your lips, you let your gaze fall to the sidewalk ahead of you when he doesn’t make eye-contact. “anything on your end?”

“not really. she just rambled about how in love they were. said there was nothing strange about the day, or him, and that he had no enemies. she made him sound like a complete angel.” without you realizing, your lip curls a little in jealousy.

sam just huffs in response, likely bothered by the lack of information. “let’s hope we can find something about the other two.”

you repeat the ruse at the next two homes, and sam’s hopes are dashed, because by the time you, sam, and dean are back at the motel room, just about the only thing of value you bring back is a paper bag of takeout.

spread out in the room, with your respective assortments of food, notes, and computers, you share all the details you can think of to hopefully find a pattern. dean’s on his bed, sam on the couch, and you at the dingy table. the biggest discovery is on dean’s part. according to the coroner, each of the victim’s hearts had inexplicably shrunken and shriveled up. this detail was kept out of the public eye because of how strange it was; it happened after each victim died, as it very clearly did not contribute to the cause of death. that, and the coroner is absolutely stumped by how such a thing could possibly happen.

dean asks if the first two interviews were as fruitless as the last, and you sigh as you explain just how unhelpful they’d been.

“the only common threads are that they were young adults, all in a relationship, and all sounded to be just about the perfect partner,” you report. “i mean, maybe the witch is targeting people in loving relationships? jealousy? or maybe they have some sort of secret we couldn’t dig up just by interviewing. the people we talked to were obviously biased. the first victim’s girlfriend wouldn’t stop talking about how amazing he was, the second’s sister told us she was the sweetest girlfriend out there, and you heard how the third’s husband described them.”

“really?” dean asks. “i mean, yeah, i heard the last guy, but i ran into the first vic’s girlfriend’s sister at the station. she was doing something for her sister there, and she did not seem too impressed with the guy when i asked about him.”

you raise your eyebrows, about to speak again when sam beats you to it.

“so maybe we are looking for secrets. did she say what she wasn’t impressed with?” sam says just about the exact thing you were about to.

dean shrugs. “jus’ said he was sort of a lazy boyfriend. didn’t take good enough care of her or show his love all that much.”

“maybe he was cheating?” you suggest.

“maybe,” dean repeats. “how’s this? you can dig into records and see if you can find any dirt on the vics. sam, you can look for a spell that might’ve caused this, and i’ll scout out a few local places. the officer i was talking to gave me a few places the vics probably spent time at.”

“sure,” you agree, a teasing edge to your voice, “just don’t get too distracted. we all know by ‘local places’ you mean bars. no sex unless you solve the case, and if you solve the case, no sex because you have to report back to us.”

“so no sex?” he plays along, acting all offended.

“nope!” you confirm, giving a firm shake of your head.

dean’s already on his way out the door as he chimes, “no promises!”

“seriously!” sam calls after him, “we need info!” he groans and shakes his head when the only response he gets is the shutting of the door. when he doesn’t make a snarky comment about dean to you, you clench your jaw.

“sam.” it takes a lot of willpower to sound bothered by him, rather than say his name all sweet.

“mhmm?” he’s purposely keeping his gaze on his computer and his response short.

you roll your eyes, “c’mon, can’t you just get over it? it’s not like you haven’t done stupider things to get a case done.”

since you insist on arguing about it, he lifts his gaze, looking unimpressed. “doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have done it. you almost got dean hurt.”

“and i already apologized for that!” you say indignantly, annoyed that that’s his argument. he knows full well, better than anyone, that dean can deal with a measly vamp, even if he wasn’t expecting it. “it’s not like dean can’t handle himself!”

“you should have at least run the plan by us,” he says. you roll your eyes again.

“it was a spur of the moment decision. unless you wanted me to shout it out, compromise my position, and let every single vamp in that nest know exactly what i was gonna do?” you retort. sam sighs, in the way that you can tell he knows your argument is better than his. so, you still can’t figure out why he’s still upset about it, outside of his usual stubbornness.

“it could’ve gone so wrong,” is all he can come up with, “and you know that. it was stupid, and you could’ve gotten hurt. or worse.” there it is. his voice changed when he said you could’ve gotten hurt.

it’s your turn to sigh, this time because you finally understand. it makes your heart flutter a little, and it makes you even more annoyed. “sam, i can handle myself. you know that. sure, it was kind of stupid, and not a fully thought out plan, but i had to figure out a way to get us out of there! four vamps were about to find you, so i had to distract them. easiest way was with my blood. one vamp found dean, but he handled that just as easy as he always does. i knew you’d have my back, so i let the other three come after me. and look! we’re all here, alive and kicking! this is such a stupid thing for you to get mad over.”

“it’s stupid for me to want you to be more careful?” he counters.

“sam, we have to take risks in this job, we do it all the time. that’s just how this works, what’s different about this time?” you question.

“just–” he presses his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose as he tries to come up with a reason that’s good enough. a reason that’s not “i worry about you,” because that’ll make you even more angry, make it sounds like he doesn’t think you’re a good enough hunter. and he certainly can’t explain that that’s not it, he worries because the worst possible thing to him is you getting hurt. because then you’d ask why and he wouldn’t be able to tell you the truth.

“can’t we just be done with this?” you ask, and the tone of your voice is one he can’t deny. you’re upset, bothered, and tired of his pettiness. more so, you’re just plain old tired. it takes too much effort to stay upset with one another. he lets your question sit in the air for a moment longer.

“yeah,” he relents, voice quiet now. he’s holding back words, touches, feelings. he wants to tell you, “just please don’t put yourself in danger, it scares me. i get so worried. it makes me want to pull you close and protect you even though i know you don’t need it. that’s why i’m upset.” he wants to get up from the couch and set his computer across from yours, sit across from you, just so you’re a little bit closer. he wants to touch you so bad that it sort of hurts.

instead, he has to live for the relieved breath that huffs out through your nose, so quiet it couldn’t quite be counted as a sigh.

“good,” you say, voice matching his own quietness. there’s still tension hanging between you, but soon enough, it’ll dissipate altogether, and tomorrow, you’ll be back to joking with one another, brushing shoulders, and hiding how in love with each other you are. maybe he can even convince you to share his bed tonight. the couch is horridly uncomfortable.

only after you’re convinced that sam won’t be all pissy to you until the next time you find something silly to be angry about do you begin on your research. it’s just as fruitless as everything else today, and after hours searching and drawing banks, you go back to the interviews, jotting down all the details you can remember in case seeing it on paper helps something new and useful jump out at you.

all you get is a dull ringing in your ear, probably courtesy of some old motel appliance. but the ringing grows louder, and in your tired state, it becomes completely bothersome. you press your hand against your left ear—it’s loudest there—and shut your eyes. it’s been an hour or two since sam has shifted to sit across from you to escape the digging springs of the couch, so the movement catches his attention quickly.

“you alright?” he asks, already with a little pinch of his eyebrows in worry.

“yeah, ‘m fine,” you say, realizing the ringing must be the beginning of a headache, since sam can’t seem to hear it. “just a headache,” you explain.

“want me to get you some advil?” he offers.

“no, no that’s alright, i’ve got it,” you deny, but you don’t get up. your head doesn’t really hurt, and the ringing fades as fast as it appeared. you’re about to sigh in relief, when suddenly, you’re sort of breathless, and you gasp to take in air. the moment passes, and you shake your head to yourself a little. it’s weird until you remember that sam’s looking at you with that little furrow to his brow, sweet and concerned, like the last thing he wants is for you to be in pain, even if it’s just a measly headache. that look in his eyes as his gaze focuses on you and only you is certainly enough to take your breath away. it just took you by surprise this time.

“you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, worried by your gasp.

“mhmm,” you hum, trying to keep your tone light and trying not to look too hard into his pretty hazel eyes. “jus’ hurt for a second, but i think the headache’s gone away.”

“okay,” he relents, not fully convinced, but willing to take your word for it and refocus on his computer screen. you turn your own attention back to the papers in front of you, away from his face, so close that it sends your heart into wild palpitations every time your mind wanders from the case and to his presence. in other words, it happens often.

you’re determined to find something, some detail that clicks and leads you to anything important. but after another unfocused hour, your eyelids are heavy, almost as much as your head as you wish to just sink down and fall asleep right there on that little table.

“you should get some sleep,” sam says, no stranger to the way you look when you should quit being stubborn and just go to bed. and normally, you’d resist, but the idea of sleep, of closing your eyes and letting your breath even out, slow down, is far too inviting.

so, you relent, and close your laptop. “yeah,” you say as you shuffle the sheets of paper together and set them on a neat pile on top of your computer.

“take the bed, too,” he insists, “you look exhausted.”

“mm, glad to hear it,” you joke halfheartedly, “but, no, sam, that couch is too small for you. it’s small for me, even.”

“and it’s seriously uncomfortable,” he adds.

“so we’ll share. i’ll leave space for you. you should come to bed soon, too. ‘s not like we should wait up for dean,” you snicker. sam rolls his eyes, but easily agrees with your conclusion. as you settle into the covers of the motel bed, you consider waiting up for him so you can feel the dip of the bed, then the warmth that radiates off him as he lays beside you. you want to feel the brush of his long arms, the heel of his foot or nudge of his toe, sometimes you’re treated with the broad expanse of his back. but sleep claims you before you can even make the attempt.

sam’s big hand on your shoulder brings you back into consciousness, and you breathe in long and hard since it seems like you can’t quite fill your lungs. then your eyes flutter open, and sam’s figure is hovering over yours, his hand lingering, then slipping away as he sees you wake. he doesn’t stand fully upright yet, unsure if he should say something or not.

he keeps his voice low, not wanting to alert dean, who’s changing in the bathroom. “are you feeling fine?”

groggy as you sit up, you peek at the clock. 8:43. you slept through the 8:30 alarm. odd.

“uh, yeah, i’m fine,” you answer, voice gravelly from the morning’s first use, “why?”

sam shifts to sit on the bedside opposite you. “nothing just… i don’t know, you were just breathing really light last night. i could barely even tell you were breathing at some points and normally you breathe pretty noticeably while you sleep. and, you know, given this case, i just wanted to check.”

sam notices the way you breathe when you sleep. that’s just about all you can take away from his words. sam pays enough attention to the way you breathe when you sleep to know when your breathing is different. sam thinks about the way that you breathe. maybe that’d be creepy from anyone else, but you think about the way he breathes too. the way it lulls you to sleep when he’s close, the way it catches when he’s surprised, or the way it changes when he’s about to laugh.

then you remember he’s said something you’re supposed to address. “it’s nothing, sam. i feel totally fine, just tired from working back to back cases, is all.” you say this because you’re sure of it; you do feel just fine. and sam makes you breathless all the time, so there’s nothing out of the ordinary there.

“are you sure?” he presses, “you slept straight through the alarm, like a rock.”

“i’m sure,” you say.

“okay,” you can immediately tell that he’s not entirely convinced as he says this, “but if anything happens or changes or you feel like you’re out of breath, you promise to tell me or dean?”

“of course.” you may not want to be fussed over, but you certainly don’t want to go out in such a stupid, horrible way. “i promise,” you add, just for his sake. dean’s phone starts ringing, and he appears out of the bathroom.

“either way, let’s get this case done, and quick,” sam insists.

“don’t have to tell me twice,” you agree, throwing off the covers to get ready for the day.

dean’s voice keeps you from lingering by sam’s side. “hey, crazy kids, let’s hurry it up. just got off the phone with the sheriff, there was another death last night.”

“dammit,” you and sam swear in unison.

on the way to the scene, dean updates you on his findings from last night. he was just as unsuccessful as you in finding major dirt on any of the victims, though he recieved similar testimonials to the sister’s about the first, henry. otherwise, he was able to find the witch’s possible hunting ground in a bar where all three victims have been seen with their partners. sam reports that he’s getting close to finding the right spell after discovering a few similar ones.

when you reach the victim’s house, sam and dean check in with the police officers, and you immediately head to interview whoever found the victim’s body. he’s obviously distraught, and probably still in shock from losing his boyfriend. you do your best to stay gentle, kind, and understanding as you lead him through the interview, interrupting your questions for the occasional “he sounds like he was a wonderful partner,” or other such comforting phrase as the man, tyler, rambles about how great he was, how guilty he feels, and just about nothing helpful except for adding another data point to the one pattern you have.

“thank you for your help,” you say, giving him a tight lipped smile before standing and drifting over to sam on instinct as you mull over the information you recieved. he’s poking around in the kitchen, subtly searching for anything abnormal and most likely coming up empty as this house follows the unhelpful trend of the rest.

“anything?” he asks once you’re by his side.

you shake your head, “just the madly in love bit. everything was pretty much the same as the other vics as well.” sam sighs like he expected that answer.

“i think we should look more into the first victim,” he suggests, echoing the same thought that you had. “maybe interview natalie again, see if she admits something different about henry if we push it a little.”

“i agree, though i’d say let’s hold off on interviewing her again unless we can’t find the spell soon. even if she admits that he wasn’t as good to her as she said before, i’m not sure how much good that does in comparison to the spell. if you keep looking into that, i’ll check henry’s records more thoroughly. i looked into him less last night since we already had something on him.” you revise the plan a bit, and sam nods in agreement, making that sort of awkward face with his lips pursed and eyebrows raised that he does when someone without the knowledge you have comes in hearing range. you glance behind you to see the figure of a police officer through the kitchen doorway and are fast to quit all talk of spells and witches to avoid sounding insane.

“dean can scout out the bar again to see if this most recent couple frequented there as well,” sam puts the last piece in place for your plan, just as you imagined it. once it seems like there’s nothing left to glean from the house, you grab dean and head out back to the car. the brothers walk a bit ahead of you as sam fills dean in on the plan.

“excuse me! agent,” a voice calls from behind you. the three of you turn, and you wave the two of them away to indicate that you’ll deal with it.

“yes?” you respond as an officer approaches.

“your partner asked for the full coroner’s reports on paper from the first three victims,” she says, holding out a file as she reaches you.

“ah! right. thank you, officer.” you give her a polite smile and take the papers before turning away. sam and dean have made it to the impala, parked a bit away due to the police cars surrounding the house. you jog at a casual pace to catch up, but falter about halfway there as your breaths turn all shuddery and quick. you stop, trying to right yourself and desperate to brush this off, but you just keep gulping in breaths, feeling like you’ve run a mile at top speed without warming up.

shit. shit, shit, shit, is all you can think. fuck.

as you stare at the car, dean’s already in the front seat and sam is pulling the passenger’s door open, and you will with all your might that neither of them will turn to look for you. you don’t want them to catch you like this. instead, you want to explain it to them, calm and collected and full of breath because your body’s beginning to readjust and you should be fine to walk over in moments and dammit– sam’s twisted around to find you, his hands resting on the top of the car and the door. the second he catches sight of you, just standing there with your chest heaving up and down, he’s launched himself away from the car and towards you. he calls your name, worry flooding his voice. you had tried to recompose yourself the second you saw his head turning, but it was too late, and now he’s jogging your way.

sam is in front of you in moments, his hands on your shoulders and his face fallen in a deep frown.

“you’re not okay, are you?”

“i– i’m–,” you can’t think of what to say, and though your breath is returning to normal, you can’t deny him. “let’s just get in the car. please.”

his jaw clenches and his eyes flick all over you, from the top of your head to the point of your shoes like he always looks at you when he thinks you might be hurt. he’s taking you in, quick and almost panicked so he can fix it right away. he takes a steadying breath because he’s so ovewrought he can barely think. “fine,” he says, voice carefully hushed. if he doesn’t control it, he might start shouting, panicking even. sam can’t bear to leave you untouched now, so he leaves a hand splayed on your shoulder blade as you finish the short walk to the car. he opens the back door and climbs right in, completely foregoing his spot in the passenger’s seat. you realize he wants to sit in the back with you, and it would’ve been sweet if it wasn’t because you’re probably dying.

jaw clenched, you follow him in, and dean’s already twisted around in his seat, gaze shifting between the two of you to try and read what just happened.

“what was that all about?” he questions, eyebrows raised. you put a hand on sam’s knee to stop him from telling dean.

“the witch got me,” you drop the news without much hesitation, more focused on getting your two cents in before either of them start grilling you with questions and making stupid suggestions to try and fix it, “it’s gotta be someone we met or passed by yesterday. one of the people we interviewed or someone from the diner we had lunch at; these types of spells normally require the victim’s dna. and before either of you do anything stupid or crazy, we’re gonna stick with the same plan. dean, you can drop us at the motel so we can find the spell and reversal, and you find out what you can at the bar. got it?”

dean looks at you like you’re crazy, and you ignore sam’s gaze altogether.

“got it?” dean repeats back to you, incredulous, “not so much, kid, i’m gonna need you to explain this to me a little better. what do you mean the witch got you? you mean you’re gonna stop breathing in some odd hours that might not be enough time for us to find and gank this witch?”

“yes, dean, that’s what i mean. try to keep up,” you turn a little mean as your frustration takes over in order to compensate for your growing fear. “and i’m not going to die, so quit being so pessimistic. we’ll find the witch, as long as we stay focused on the plan. unless you have a faster way, which i’d be happy to abide by.” neither have a good enough retort to that, so you continue, “can we go now? we might not have that much time.”

with much effort, dean turns back in his seat and starts the engine. his voice is low when he asks, “what do you mean by that?”

“well, i don’t know exactly when this whole thing started!” you answer as he pulls into the street, “sam said my breathing wasn’t totally normal last night. if that means anything, well, i went to bed early last night, around eleven. that could mean it’s been at least, i don’t know,” you check the time, “eleven hours. which gives us five, minimum.” you think you can physically feel sam tense up next to you.

“five hours?” sam repeats, his voice taut, like he’s holding back anger, fear, maybe more. “and were there any times before that you felt out of breath?”

you think back to yesterday. sure, every time i looked at you, isn’t quite an answer that you can give. “um, i’m not sure,” you say, sounding more cryptic than casual, as you had meant. you see dean’s eyebrow raise through the rearview mirror.

“you’re not sure?” dean asks, unbelieving. the two brothers are starting to sound like a broken record as they repeat every other thing you say back to you.

“yeah. nothing comes to mind,” you say, more firmly this time.

sam sighs. “you can’t seriously think it’s a good idea to hide that sort of thing from us if it happened. this is serious.”

you scoff, “oh, really? i wasn’t aware, it’s not like it’s my life on the line, or anything like that.”

“alright, let’s not get pissy,” dean intervenes.

“pissy?” you scoff again, “right, because this is serious and i’m apparently unaware of that.”

dean says your name, voice a little chiding as he tries to disperse some of the tension that’s building within the small space of the car. “let’s focus on the case here. sam is right, we need to know everything you do. was there anything else weird you noticed last night?”

“i don’t know!” you exclaim before calming down a bit and taking a deep breath. “i had this ringing in my ears for a minute, around ten. i thought it was a headache. and … i did feel breathless, but just for a second. i thought it was … something else.”

“why didn’t you say anything?” sam asks, immediately remembering this. you had pressed your hand to your ear. he believed you when you said it was a headache, but he should have known better. you’re far more likely to rub your temples when you feel a headache coming on.

“i thought it was something else,” you repeat.

“like what?” he presses.

“like–” you hesitate, “like nothing. just nothing, i don’t know.”

dean interrupts again to get things back on track, “so that could mean four hours, not five.” you see sam’s jaw clenching out of the corner of your eye.

“yeah,” you confirm, hoping your voice doesn’t reveal how anxious you really are.

“my question is why just you?” dean asks. “i’d normally figure it’s because they suspect you to be a hunter, but if they were able to get your dna, they probably had access to ours, too. the witch think you’re madly in love with sammy or somethin’?”

you fluster at that, mind scrambling, why in the goddamn hell would dean say that? does he want me dead faster? “uhm, uh,” you laugh a little, completely awkward about it, “why would they think that? we were clearly, you know, in a working relationship, not a, hah– romantic,” you clear your throat, “relationship. i’m sure it’s just the hunter thing, maybe they couldn’t get your dna… or they thought i was more worth killing,” you attempt at a joking insult, but you’re still sort of jerking through your words and reeling from someone saying “you’re madly in love with sammy” out loud.

to your left, sam looks almost as flustered as you feel, which brings you an ounce of comfort.

“whatever you say,” dean shrugs.

when you get back to the hotel, sam’s practically running inside to pull out his laptop, and dean speeds away the second the car doors close behind the two of you. both of you are fidgety and antsy as you conduct your research in silence. you think sam’s even more nervous than you, with his leg bouncing and teeth chewing away at his lower lip. you’re not sure if you should comfort him, or let him be in favor of getting the research done. it doesn’t take too long for him to find the original spell, and as he tells you about it, some nervousness dissipates when the both of you get back into the groove of a normal hunt, trying to pretend that this time, the consequences aren’t as personal as they could ever get.

you can’t find any dirt on henry in any records, so you focus on staff from the bar and diner from yesterday to see if there’s any overlap that could have gotten dna from both you and all the other four victims. something else entirely jumps out at you as you check employment records.

“sam, it’s natalie,” you blurt out into the silence of the room. he raises his eyebrows, and you explain before he can even ask. “she works at the bar. and i drank some of that lemonade she gave us. she had easy access to everyone’s dna, and henry was the only deviation from the pattern.”

sam stands as you explain, “okay, let’s go.”

“no, let’s call dean and finish finding the reversal spell. i’d like to have a backup plan, if that’s alright.” sam purses his lips, looking like he wants to argue. you propose something more rational than his idea, “we’ll call dean and let him know. he can go to her house and make sure she’s the real deal before we go, too.”

“fine,” sam agrees, pulling out his phone, just as it begins to ring. he answers it and puts it on speaker, “dean, it’s natalie.”

“yeah, i know. that’s what i was about to tell you, the idiots from last night didn’t bother to mention it,” he complains. “i’m headed to her house right now.” to prove it, you hear the car door open and close. “how’s it going on your end?”

“we found the spell, we’re looking for the reversal right now,” you answer. “call us if you need help.”

“mm, you just take care o’ yourself, alright? i’ll call you back.” after that, all you get is the hang-up tone.

a bit later, your concentration is interrupted by the pinging of sam’s phone. you watch him as he checks the messages, then looks up at you with a poorly hidden scowl.

“she wasn’t at her house,” he explains, “dean’s headed to her sister’s to look for her there. but it’s definitely her, he found a secret room full of, y’know, as he’d say, ‘witchy stuff.’”

you try to hide your disappointment and the uneven rise and fall of your chest. sam’s stayed mostly focused on the research, but every now and then, you feel him looking you over, brow furrowed and eyes concerned as he checks for anything abnormal. he’s looking at you like that now.

“damn,” is all you manage in response while still trying to stay casual about it.

“how are you feeling?” he asks. you expected the question, but you still don’t want to answer. you’re about to tell him you’re fine, since you’re not really running out of breath yet, until he speaks again before you can, “and don’t say ‘fine.’”

“i am fine,” you insist immediately, “just extra tired from getting a little less oxygen than normal. but nothing crazy. i can still focus on this research and i can still hold a weapon.” you demonstrate by grabbing one of the knives you keep strapped to your thigh and twirling it a little in your hand. sam’s face spells out the word “really?”

“just– tell me if it gets worse. please,” he’s just about begging, and with a bit of puppy dog eye action, you’re crumbling.

“okay, sam,” you relent, letting your voice go soft. he’s really scared for you, and it makes you feel just about every little thing. you want to comfort him, reassure that you’ll be okay, even when you’re terrified for yourself. you want him to comfort you, for that exact reason, and you want to hold his hand. maybe you can be scared together, a little closer than you are now. you want to kiss him, because what if this is the only chance you get? that thought horrifies you. then you wonder if it’s for the best. maybe you should die as his best friend, because dying as his anything is better than scaring him away first. it’s hard to concentrate on the research, but it’s not hard to find the motivation. the hope is to avoid death completely.

finally, you find it.

“i got it, sam!” you’re excited, then a bit breathless after pushing so much air out of your lungs so fast. the breath you take in is sort of shuddering, and it makes sam frown. he doesn’t even try to hide how worried he is. his face is nothing but unadulterated concern and care and … and something else before that expression melts away and he’s focusing on the computer screen that you tilted towards him. the crease between his brows only grows as his eyes flit down the list of ingredients.

“we don’t have the half of these ingredients,” he worries.

“no,” you admit, “but there’s a witch in town who’s away from home who might.”

to get there, sam doesn’t hesitate to steal a car from the motel parking lot, and this time you can’t even argue given the fact that you’re pretty sure you have less than two hours to live at this point. you promised sam you’d tell him if it got worse, but as it does, you want to say something less and less.

sam picks the lock of the door, entering the house carefully with you right behind. weapons drawn, you walk the route that dean gave you to the hidden room, the door in the wall of the hallway left open for you by dean.

it’s much darker than the rest of the house from the lack of windows and bright lights. this, paired with the eerie assortment of basic herbs to what might be jars of blood, makes it look like natalie really leaned into the witchy aesthetic, which you’d find understandable if she weren’t using her magic to kill people.

sam walks faster than you know is wise to match paces with, so you follow behind him slowly as he rushes to set the computer with the list of ingredients on the table in the center of the room abd begin the spell. you’re a split second too late to shout in warning when you see a figure emerge from behind a shelf of herbs.

sam whirls around at your cry, gun raised, only to be hit on the side of the head, hard, by a wooden bat in natalie’s hand. he crumples to the ground despite his size, and without batting an eye, your knife is flying through the air, straight for the spot between natalie’s shoulder blades. but at the last second, she spins around, and with a flick of her hand, the knife falls to the ground. you reach for your gun, but through your hindered breathing, you’re slow. she has no trouble launching the bat at you at an unnatural speed. the wood slams into your chest, sending you sprawling and gasping in your weakened state. you’re fighting for breath so hard that you can barely register her hauling you up and tying your hands behind your back, then doing the same to sam. somehow, she’s able to get his weight on a chair and tie him to the wobbly piece of furniture. then, it’s your turn, and by the time you come back to your senses, breathing far more labored than before, you’re tied to a chair, back to back with sam.

natalie gives you a horrid smile as she tugs at a knot to tighten it.

“well, isn’t this fortuitous! such a lovely surprise for you two to visit me,” she chimes, just as you feel sam stirring behind you. his head lolls back, brushing against your own. you completely ignore her in favor of calling his name. a rumbling groan escapes his lips as he stumbles back into consciousness.

“that’s right!” natalie grins, “it’ll be much better with pretty boy awake.” she walks around you, and you hear a smacking sound that you presume to be her hitting his cheeks to wake him further.

“don’t touch him,” you practically growl. it sounds far less intimidating than you hoped in your breathless voice. she laughs and sam lets out an audible huff of air as he wakes.

“there he is,” natalie grins. “now i’ve got two love birds at my mercy! much better than i could have imagined. you know, i couldn’t watch the deaths of the others, so this is far more exciting. i thought i’d have to miss yours, too!” she motions to you. “but now i get to watch you die, watch pretty boy watch you die, and then kill him, too! lovely isn’t it? i’ve never had such luck, thank you idiots for bringing it to me.”

“you’re not killing anyone today,” sam retorts, anger filling his voice. with a bit of an uncomfortable stretch, you twist your fingers around to grab a hold of his. it’s awkward, but you take advantage of her horrible ramblings to keep her distracted and try to guide sam’s hands to the tiny blade attached to the seam of your jacket sleeve.

“i’m not?” she laughs, “mmm, you don’t really seem like you’re in the position to determine that, pretty boy.” you hate her calling him that. “well, love will do that to a person. makes you easy targets, blinds you. you two were just too easy, so busy making eyes at each other to pay any proper attention to me.” you conclude she’s crazy, rambling on about what made her angry enough to kill. you’re sure she caught you making eyes at him, but she’s crazy talking like he’s visibly in love with you too. immediately catching on to your plan, sam’s hands are fumbling around with your jacket sleeve, trying to get the knife unstuck so it can slip down and into your hands.

“it’s so goddamn irritating when people are just so in love with each other. makes me want to hurl,” she complains.

“sounds to me like you’re just jealous your boyfriend didn’t treat you like that,” you prod at her weak spot. she whirls on you, grabbing the front of your jacket and yanking you towards her.

“so i killed him. and everything he was supposed to be,” she hisses. “and know i’m going to kill you two pining idiots. you know, you don’t have very long,” she feigns sympathy in the condescending tone of her voice. when she slams you back against the chair, it takes your breath away for a frighteningly long time. sam’s so worried, calling your name out over and over again as you choke on nothing, that he almost doesn’t realize that the movement also helped dislodge the knife and let it fall into your hands. it slices a thin line down your arm, but you couldn’t care less as you begin to work on cutting through his bonds.

“oh, shut up, lover boy,” natalie growls, hating the way he says your name with so much care as she stays leaning over you, a sick smile on her face. why the hell is she calling him lover boy? you know that’s not what you should be so worried about in this moment, but it’s the one thing that you can think about. “i’m busy watching your little lover die! i think you’ll look so good crying over them, won’t you?”

when sam’s ties snap, he stays in place, holding onto the rope so it doesn’t drop to the ground and alert her. he just shimmies the knife from your hand to his and begins working on your own ties. through it all, he pretends to struggle helplessly, cursing at her wildly.

natalie rolls her eyes, then stands straight. “if you don’t shut it, i’m going to make you,” she snarls, stalking around to stand in front of sam. in an instant, he brings the knife to the rope binding him to the chair, snapping it and lunging towards her. judging from the choked cry that escapes her throat, sam’s already plunged the knife into her neck. you hear him grunt, then the sound of her body hits the floor before he’s turned back to you, quickly freeing you all the way and pulling you to your feet. he’s halfway to the door with his hand gripping yours when you tug back.

“wait… sam, wait!” you gasp, and he’s immediately face to face with you, sweet eyes looking you up and down with confusion and worry. “it’s not– it didn’t work. the spell, we need to do the spell.”

“what do you mean? that’s impossible, killing the witch who performed the spell always–,” he fully takes you in for the first time. your chest is still heaving, your breath rattling, and it’s undeniably getting worse by the minute. “okay, okay. just sit down.” he guides you back to a chair, turning it to face the table so he can keep an eye on you as he works. this time, you’re having a hard time hiding the fear from your eyes, and he reads that loud and clear. he lets you have his strong hands cupping your face for just a moment. “you’re gonna be fine. i’m gonna fix this.” he says it with such conviction that you’d do anything to believe him. then his warm touch is gone, and you’re again hit with the reality that it’s getting harder and harder to breathe, to get any satisfactory amount of air.

your eyes follow him desperately as he rushes about the area, checking and rechecking the spell as he adds ingredients to a small cup he finds. his movements become more and more panicked by the second as he notices your breathing getting worse, more fluttery and gulping. sam’s muttering to himself as he works, too scared to look at your face for too long. unable to find one of the ingredients, he curses loudly as he searches, shoving a whole rack of ingredients to the ground. glass shatters and the metal rack clangs against the ground, the sound echoing throughout the space.

flinching at the sound, you cry out his name, struggling to speak, “you have… you have to.. to calm .. calm down.”

“i can’t!” he practically shouts, and you think you’ve never seen him this distraught, this helpless before.

“why?” is all you can manage between gasps.

“because you’re dying! and i can’t let you die, i won’t.” he’s still rummaging through ingredients as he speaks. he’s still refusing to look at you.

you want him to say it, the truth, so you repeat the question, “why?” you wheeze out, desperate to hear it in case he can’t finish the spell on time.

“because i love you!” he’s no longer shouting when he says it. his voice is all desperation and helplessness and utter sincerity, said like all he needs in the world is for you to understand that. you’re not sure if the shuddering breath you let out could count as a sigh of relief, but it’s the closest you’ll ever get.

you take him in. tears running down his cheeks, lips pursed and eyebrows pinched like he’s holding back from crying out. he’s pretty like that, you think. maybe that’s a cruel thought, but you love him too much to think otherwise. he’s always pretty; when he’s mad at you, when he’s bleeding, when he’s stitching himself up, when he’s biting his lip in concentration. when he talks about something that makes him excited or when he’s crying. when he’s oblivious of the way you look at him while he sleeps, and when he makes you love him so hard that it hurts worse than anything a monster could do to you.

you’re lightheaded, and taking in so little air that you can’t say it back. all you want to do is say it back. you slide out of the chair and onto your hands and knees, shaking so hard you can barely hold yourself up. from the ground, you can hear sam, moving around, letting jars fall and shatter to the ground, crying.

when you collapse to the floor, writhing and gasping for any semblance of air, sam snaps. he can’t find the goddamn rosemary, such a simple and common herb, even for a normal kitchen, especially compared to all the other ingredients, but he knows it’s essential for its protection, purification, and healing properties. he can’t give up, he can’t let you die, but you’re writhing on the ground and crying inbetween gasps and all he wants is to hold you close, brush your tears away and tell you it’ll be alright. he barely catches the sound of your voice over the noise of his searching.

“please…”

“what? what is it, honey?” he asks through tears, unable to look at you as his eyes scan a new shelf for the basic pine-needle shape of the leaves, maybe even the little purple flowers to help it stand out.

“hold me,” you wheeze, afraid of dying alone on the stone cold floor as you feel your consciousness slipping through your fingertips like the sand of an hourglass. sam feels like he’s had his heart cleaved in two by a blunt ax coated in the world’s most vile poison.

he chokes on a sob before he can speak again, “i can’t. i’m so sorry, baby, i can’t. i just need the rosemary, it’s so close, please, baby.” he’s not sure who he’s begging to. you, to stay alive? god, to intervene? himself, to finish the spell on time? anything and anyone who will listen, most likely. you don’t have the energy to ask him to hold you again.

that moment of silence is the most horrible of them all, then the door swings open with a bang, letting the bright lights from the rest of the house flood into the dark space. dean’s eyes zero in on you on the floor, grasping helplessly at your throat, and he’s on his knees by your side in a second.

he scoops you up in his arms and to his chest. “hey. hey, hey, hey. it’s okay,” he comforts, his eyes wet because he doesn’t know if he believes himself, given your state. “sam’s gonna fix it, darlin’. you’re gonna be just fine.” he’s holding you too tight to wipe away the tears that helplessly stream down your face and he clings to the fact that your hand is gripping his wrist tight.

“dean, rosemary!” sam barks. dean looks up from you, eyes scanning the mess around you; natalie’s dead body and the blood from her wound seeping slowly over the floor, the shattered glass and clutter of dried herbs along with other magical ingredients. sam realizes dean probably won’t recognize it on his own. “dried bundle, purple flowers, thin leaves,” he instructs as best as he can as he continues his own search. dean feels awful as he lets you fall back to the ground and your weak hands fingers scrape at his arms, but he thinks he sees it, rolled far away and invisible unless you’re crouched to the ground. he scrambles across the floor to grab it and tosses it to sam, who barely manages to catch it with his shaking hands.

sam rips at it with thick, clumsy fingers, crushing the brittle leaves between the pads of his forefinger and thumb into the mixture. he’s silently praying it’s enough as he mixes it in, letting a few drops slosh over the side of the cup in his rush. dean’s back with you, holding you up in a sitting position for sam with a hand smoothing up and down your arm in his best effort of a comforting gesture. he presses a kiss to your temple as sam drops down in front of you. sam uses one large hand to cup the side of your face, and the other to bring the cup to your lips. for a moment, he’s terrified beyond comprehension when the first bit of the liquid he pours into your mouth just dribbles right back out and down your chin.

you’ve gone nearly completely still; your eyes are barely open and your breathing so shallow that only dean knows you’re still inhaling because he’s got you so close.

“please,” sam begs, whispering your name with such conviction, such desperation, that it pulls you away from the claws of unconsciousness just enough to get you to swallow weakly. sam tilts the cup up, just a bit more, and the rim knocks against your bottom teeth as more foul tasting liquid seeps into your mouth. you swallow again, then gag a little when he pours too much for you to handle in your current state. sam’s hopeful when half the mixture is down your throat and he tilts the cup for you again, but the liquid falls down your chin this time, and your eyes are closed. you’ve gone totally still in dean’s arms.

“no, no, no, wake up. c’mon, we’re almost there. you gotta wake up,” sam begs again, more tears spilling onto his cheeks after his hope is stolen away, more cruelly than ever. “please, please, please, honey. please wake up.” his voice breaks as he calls out your name again, setting the cup on the floor and taking you from dean to pull you into his own arms. dean lets him, swallowing hard and not daring to move an inch as he takes in the sight, maybe just about the most horrible thing he’s seen in his fucked up life. that’s the second family member he’s had die in his arms, and the first is holding your limp body as he shakes, cries, and begs, beyond distraught as he denies the fact that he couldn’t save you. dean curses his life. he wishes it was him, thinks about the fact that he’s always too late to make a difference. he’s ready to sell his soul again, ready to go to hell and back.

you’re dead weight against sam’s chest, your clammy forehead and tear-sticky cheeks pressed against the sweaty skin of his neck. he gathers you closer, his hand tugging at your jacket and rubbing up and down your back, begging for you to wake up.

dean’s about to interrupt sam’s mourning to tell him he’s gonna look for the nearest crossroads, that all sam needs to do is keep your body safe. then you shudder in sam’s arms and he’s calling your name again, far beyond desperate that you’ll hear him. he says your name like a prayer, with so much reverence, far more than he could ever muster up for the god he wants to believe in.

you take in a sharp breath, your eyes fly open, and you’re gasping for air, grasping at sam’s sturdy arms like you’ve almost just drowned. sam just about sobs in relief, comforting you through his own tears, “oh, you’re okay, honey, you’re alright. i’ve got you. just breathe, baby, just breathe, that’s all you gotta do.” his voice instantly calms you, and you wrap your shaky arms around his neck to show him you understand. he’s got you. he buries his face into your neck, trying not to hold you too tight for fear of restricting your breathing. you feel the wetness of his tears on you, warm and so tired. you don’t want him to cry. he loves you.

his hands smooth up and down your back, helping you set a pace to calm down your erratic breathing as you let a fresh wave of tears fall on his hot skin. they’re tears of relief, most of all. of exhaustion and leftover fear, and oh, glory, tears because he loves you. he said it, and now he can’t take it back because you love him far too much for that.

“sammy,” you breathe out. he just holds you tighter. “don’t cry, sam. it’s okay. i’m okay.” you slip your fingers into his hair, your hand so gentle as you run it through his pretty locks. you just want to comfort him, take away all the fear from the last few hours that he’s been holding onto, letting pile up and up into an unmanageable, unruly, ugly tower. you suppose him crying so much is him letting the tower topple over, almost as simple as a toddler’s chubby, innocent hands to a wooden block castle. but it still tugs at your heart, pulls at you so hard because you hate to hear him cry, feel him shake and stiffen up around you, too scared to let you go for even a second. “i’m okay,” you repeat, voice fragile from the whispering brush of death’s fingers to your palm, but you try to make it strong and confident for him, “you saved me, sammy, i’m alright. it’s alright. it’s over. you don’t need to worry anymore.”

you think he relaxes just a touch at your words, but he doesn’t move an inch from his spot on the ground, or say a thing to interrupt the sound of your breathing. all he does is cradle you close, one hand to your back so he can feel it shift when you take in or let out air, and the other splayed from the curve of your neck, up to the base of your head. without moving too much, he presses a long kiss to the ambiguous space above your ear. that’s not enough, so he tilts his head more to press his lips to the skin of your forehead.

dean hates to break the silent reverence between the two of you, and it means more than the world, the whole goddamn universe or anything else he could ever think of, to see this instead of you dead in sam’s arms. you might be the love of sam’s life, but that just makes dean all the more protective of you. to dean, you’re family, and you have been for a long time. that’s why he needs to get the two of you away from here, before anyone finds you and the dead body.

“sam,” dean interrupts, voice somehow both gentle and extra gruff, “we gotta go.” he knows sam can get you up on his own, but he still places a firm hand on your elbow as the two of you stand. he doesn’t want to let his hand fall away from you, but he does anyway. on the way out and to the car, you’re tucked safe into sam’s side, and dean’s got his gun in hand, ready to protect the both of you need be.

dean expects it when sam climbs in the backseat with you, just thankful to get away from the damned house and back to the motel. the ride is mostly silent, save the rumble of the engine, and sam’s hand stays securely wrapped around yours, itching to pull you even closer. you yawn and sam tugs at your hand, then drops his gaze to his lap when you look at him, offering to let you lie there. you can’t resist, because historically, your head in his lap has been heaven, and you figure that this time, after having heard him say “i love you,” it’ll be something better than heaven, something undiscovered and infinitely more precious than all the gold and silver in the world. so you drop your head to his thigh, and his hands are immediately on you. you’ve got the warmth of his palms on your head and your shoulder. your own hand is on his knee, taking in the feel of his time-worn jeans, and the muscle, sinew, and bone underneath.

you fall asleep, just 10 minutes from the motel, and sam doesn’t want to wake you, but you always do anytime he tries to carry you to bed.

he calls your name, all tenderness and sweet as he rubs your shoulder. you stir easily, only having fallen into a light slumber. the sigh you let out when you sit up is soft, and sam thinks it’s cute. then he thinks about the fact that, when you both settle down, he won’t have to hold that thought back. “you’re cute,” he can say, and make you both a little flustered before pressing a kiss to your lips. until then, he’s getting out of the car with you, only letting his hands stray from you when dean pulls you into a hug, right then and there. he holds you tight, showing you how scared he was too, so you squeeze back with extra care.

“don’t scare us like that again, kiddo. you got it?” he mumbles into the embrace.

you nod, “i got it.” he lingers for a moment, then presses a quick kiss to the side of your head before parting and letting sam take over again.

he’s got a hand stuck to your back on the way into the room, all the way to the bed you shared last night. you don’t hesitate to peel off your dirty shirt and go to put on a new one, but sam’s already holding one out to you. dean disappears into the bathroom, despite not wanting to let you out of his sight.

you tug on the shirt, then collapse into bed, taking sam with you.

“you stink,” you complain lightheartedly, looking at him with honey-sweet love in your eyes. he wants to joke back, but he’s not quite there yet.

“i’ll shower after dean, if you want,” he offers, nothing but sincere. you smile at him, his nose inches from yours.

“but then you’d have to get up,” you say.

“sure, but if that’s what you want,” he repeats. he’d do anything for you, you think.

you shake your head. “that’s not what i want. i don’t want you to go. but i also want to fall asleep in your arms, and it sucks that you smell like blood, sweat, and nasty potions.”

“so what do i do, baby?” he asks, voice light, but you think he really means it. you melt at the pet name.

“hmmm,” you consider, truly not sure. you’re all quick in the shower after years of experience in motel bathrooms, but that still feels like such a long time to be away from him, especially since you should probably shower, too. you decide to suck it up. “you shower, then me. dean said the water was still hot yesterday, even when he went last.” you’re not sure when your voice dropped to a whisper, but it’s quiet now. he sighs, half disappointed, but knowing it’ll be much more comfortable that way.

the second you’re out of the shower and dressed, sam’s tugging you back into bed with him and tucking you into his chest. his hold is still protective and a little wary. you want to make him relax, so you wiggle away just a bit to look at his face.

“sam, i’m so hungry,” you complain. he smiles at you, thinking you’re too cute to resist when you whine just a little. and he just loves it when you say his name.

“you’re gonna make me get up again?” he asks, and you hold back a triumphant grin because his voice has turned pleasantly lighthearted.

“you’re gonna let me starve?” you tease back.

“fine,” he huffs, “we can go to the vending machine together.” he really doesn’t want to be far from you.

“no,” you protest, dragging out the ‘o’ just a little. “we had that earlier. and chips don’t count as a meal. poor dean probably hasn’t eaten at all today! we deserve a treat,” you argue.

sam can’t deny you anything you want in this moment. “we do,” he agrees, “what d’you want? maybe we can convince dean to pick it up for us.”

you smile. “mmm, that’s not fair. dean deserves a treat, too. i’ll satisfy myself with vending machine food for a few hours, then we can go out to an early dinner.”

“are you sure?” sam asks. you smile more.

“mhmm,” you nod. “i have the excuse to buy a candy bar too now.”

dean, splayed out on his own bed, has likely been listening in on this whole conversation, and graciously chosen not to interrupt. he smiles at you as you exit the room.

with a glance that no one’s around, sam slips his hand into yours as you make your way to the vending machine down the hall. your heart blooms at the feeling, at the way he’s been looking at you without shame and suddenly you realize you never said it back. sam punches in the number for an excessive amount of snacks, getting all of yours, his, and dean’s favorites, waiting til they all fall down to collect them. he bends over, gathering them all in his big arms and wide pockets and handing a few to you. the crinkling of plastic fills the quiet air as you watch him with a sort of worship and adoration dripping from your eyes. you take in the curve of his back, the peek of his spine that you get from his tshirt riding up a bit, and the pretty brown hair on the back of his head. when he stands, he catches that gaze, and for once you don’t hide it away or tuck it into that corner of the drawer where you keep all the little trinkets you don’t need, but can’t bear to get rid of. because you need this, and you can have this.

“i didn’t get to say it back.” your voice comes out hushed, reverent.

“say what?” he asks, matching his voice to yours without even trying. you take in all the subtle ways that his face changes, as he thinks about what you could mean. the left side of his mouth quirks down, just a bit, and his eyebrows pinch together. it’s not quite the expression he makes then he’s worried or upset, just thinking.

“i love you, too.” when those words finally escape, finally make themselves known and heard, everything is different. it’s like you’ve never really breathed before this, because the simplest of things, like an inhale that fills your lungs with stale motel air, is so good, so satisfying, so much better when he looks at you like that. “for as long as i can remember, sam, i love you. when we were kids at bobby’s, seventeen and getting soaked in the rain, every moment before then and every moment after, and–”

his lips are on yours and there’s a messy ruckus of plastic wrapped snacks being dropped to the floor, because he couldn’t care about anything except kissing you. his warm, rough hands are so gentle cupping your cheeks and pulling you into him, and you follow suit in disregarding the food in your hands to place them firm on his waist, almost squeezing his sides because you need this to be as real and as solid as it possibly can be.

some might question the merit of this being your first kiss with each other. but it’s so you and sam, standing in an empty motel hallway next to the vending machine and it’s crappy food scattered around your feet. plastic crinkling and rustling when you get closer, and a hunger so insatiable that it makes it hard to breathe.

when you finally break away, panting just a bit, sam’s eyes swim with concern as his mind flashes back to you just an hour ago.

“i’m okay,” you interrupt his paranoid thoughts and loop your arms around his neck, “i’m okay, sam. ‘s just you. baby, i know this is a horrible time to say this, but you always take my breath away, in the best way. you’re so pretty, and i’m so in love with you that when i look at you for too long, i forget to breathe, and–”

his lips are back on yours, telling you me too, me too, me too. saying as they push and mold against yours, you take my breath away and i love you for it.

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librababe99 · 4 months ago

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Vigilante's Lullaby |Part One|

cw: Red Hood, Gender Neutral Reader, Angst, Mentions of violence, blood, injury, medical procedure, hurt no comfort, dark romance, hurt no comfort word count: 1.9K summary: In the shadows of Gotham’s underworld, you run a clinic that caters to those no one else dares to help. One night, Red Hood stumbles in, bloodied and defiant, refusing assistance despite his wounds. As you force him to stay, a strange, electrifying tension fills the air.

A/N: Hello! Just finished up the final edits to the first part of this new series. For the sake of dramatics I really liked the idea of leaving Jason's identity anonymous and sticking with his alias. Also as of now I'm wanting this to be a four part series but of course that can change! If you'd like to be tagged in the next part just let know <3 As always comments and feedback are greatly appreciated - Libra * .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

(DC Masterlist) (Marvel Masterlist)

(Synopsis) (Part Two)

The clinic was a small, dimly lit space tucked away in the decaying heart of Gotham’s underbelly. The walls were cracked and worn, the faded paint peeling in corners no one bothered to care about anymore. Shadows lingered in every corner, as thick as the stench of sweat and antiseptic that clung to the air. It was late—well past the time most sane people would be out in Gotham. But sanity was a luxury in a city like this, and you’d long since learned to live without it.

You leaned over the trembling form of a thug, stitching up the gash in his side with quick, practiced movements. He wasn’t important—just some small-time crook who got into a fight he couldn’t win. It wasn’t your job to ask questions. You weren’t paid for that. People came to you because you never asked why, and you never judged. Criminal, vigilante, or something in between, it didn’t matter. In Gotham, everyone bled the same.

The thug winced, muttering a half-hearted complaint, and you hushed him quietly, focusing on the task at hand. It was routine—just another night in a city that never slept, where violence was a constant companion.

Then the door slammed open, hard enough to rattle the rusting hinges.

You looked up, instincts on edge, fingers stilling mid-stitch. A figure loomed in the doorway, casting a long shadow across the floor. The helmet gave him away immediately—Red Hood. His presence dominated the room, his chest heaving, blood dripping onto the worn floorboards.

"Out," his voice growled, distorted through the modulator in his helmet. It wasn’t directed at you.

The thug on the table scrambled up, clutching his side. He didn’t wait for a second warning. As soon as Red Hood stepped into the room, the thug fled into the night, disappearing into Gotham’s shadows.

The vigilante staggered forward, his movements heavy, labored. Blood soaked through his jacket, staining the dark fabric and leaving a trail of crimson in his wake. His breathing was harsh, his body barely holding itself together, but when you moved toward him, his gloved hand shot up.

“I don’t need your help,” he growled, even though his knees almost buckled from the effort of staying upright.

You stopped short, eyeing him carefully. His wounds were bad. Too bad. He wouldn’t last long in this state, not even in Gotham. But you’d seen his type before. The kind who thought they could muscle through the pain, through death itself, out of sheer willpower. Maybe he had cheated death once, but not tonight. Not like this.

“You’ll die if I don’t patch you up,” you said, voice calm but firm. You weren’t afraid of him. That was important. Red Hood’s entire persona thrived on fear. “Sit down. Now.”

His helmet turned slightly, as if sizing you up. There was tension in the way he held himself, every muscle coiled tight, ready for violence even though his body was betraying him. His fingers twitched like they were ready to reach for his gun. But you stood your ground.

“I’m not going to ask twice,” you added, eyes narrowing. “You won’t make it out of this room if you don’t let me help.”

For a long, painful moment, he didn’t move. The silence stretched, thick with tension. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he let his hand drop to his side. A begrudging acceptance. He stepped forward and sank into the chair, the weight of his injuries catching up to him.

You didn’t hesitate. Moving quickly, you grabbed your supplies and knelt beside him, carefully peeling back his jacket to expose the wound. The gash across his side was deep, and there were other cuts and bruises littering his body, evidence of a fight he barely survived.

As you worked, the room fell into a tense quiet, broken only by the sound of his labored breathing. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the mix of blood and sweat clinging to his skin. Your fingers brushed against his flesh, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through you. The air between you seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment, thick with something unspoken.

He watched you from behind the mask, his eyes hidden but his presence palpable. You didn’t flinch, didn’t show any reaction to the violence he wore so plainly on his skin. You’d seen worse, and you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he unsettled you. Still, there was something in the way he sat so still now, the way his body surrendered to your touch, that made the space between you feel... electric.

“You don’t ask questions,” Red Hood said after a while, his voice low, almost conversational now. There was a hint of something behind his words, like he was testing you. “Everyone else does.”

“I’m not everyone else,” you replied simply, not looking up from his wounds as you stitched them closed with quick precision.

He made a noise, somewhere between a grunt and a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “No. I guess you’re not.”

Your hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary as you finished up, the tips of your fingers brushing against the edge of his skin. His body tensed slightly, and you could feel the air shift between you. There was a moment—brief, almost imperceptible—where Red Hood’s guard dropped. His gaze softened behind the mask, as if for just a second, he was letting you see past the armor. Past the walls he had built so high.

But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Red Hood stood abruptly, wincing as he moved, pulling his jacket back into place. He didn’t say thank you—he wasn’t the type. He didn’t have to. The way his eyes lingered on you, just for a heartbeat longer than they should have, told you everything.

“Don’t expect me to come back,” he muttered as he made his way to the door.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.

He disappeared into the night, and you stood in the quiet aftermath, staring at the blood he left behind on the floor. Something about that encounter stuck with you. It was more than just another wounded vigilante passing through your clinic. It felt like the start of something darker. Something deeper.

A week passed, and you tried not to think about him.

But Gotham had a way of bringing people back into your life whether you wanted them or not. The nights were long, the clinic busy as always, but a part of you found yourself glancing at the door more than you cared to admit. You told yourself it was just a matter of curiosity—nothing more.

Until he returned.

This time, Red Hood didn’t burst in with the same dramatic entrance. He slipped through the door quietly, his presence immediately recognizable despite the effort he seemed to make to go unnoticed. He was wounded again, though not as badly as before. His jacket was torn, blood staining his side, but his steps were more measured, less desperate.

You raised an eyebrow as he stepped into the light, crossing your arms over your chest. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

His lips twisted into something like a smirk, though there was no humor behind it. “Didn’t have a choice.”

Without waiting for your response, he sat down in the chair again, wincing as he moved. You took a deep breath, grabbing your supplies once more. This time, there was less urgency, but the tension between you had only grown in his absence. As you worked, the silence stretched again, but it wasn’t the same. The weight of unspoken words hung in the air.

“You live like this every night?” you asked after a while, breaking the quiet. “Bleeding all over the city?”

He chuckled, though it was dark and hollow. “It’s Gotham. Bleeding’s part of the job description.”

You glanced up at him, instinctively drawn to where his eyes should be beneath the mask, though you still couldn’t see them. The white lenses covering his eyes remained in place, a barrier between the two of you, preventing you from truly seeing the man beneath. But you could feel his gaze on you, sharp and unwavering, as if he were studying you just as closely.

There was always something about that mask—how it made him unreadable, cold, distant. Yet, in moments like this, when the tension in the room grew thick, you could feel the weight of emotions hidden behind it. The silence stretched on for a beat too long, the sound of your steady breathing filling the space as you tried to ignore the electric pull between you.

“And what job is that, exactly?” you asked, your tone carefully measured. You couldn’t let your curiosity get the better of you, but the question slipped out before you could stop it.

He hesitated for a brief moment, his head tilting slightly as if considering his answer, though the visor obscured any hint of where his gaze fell. "Righting wrongs. Settling scores," he finally said, his voice low and cold. "Call it whatever you want."

The cold finality in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. He wasn’t just talking about Gotham’s criminals. No, there was something more personal in his words. He was talking about himself—his own demons, his own darkness.You didn’t push further. It wasn’t your place, and you knew better than to pry into the shadows he carried. But it didn’t stop you from feeling the weight of it, the sheer force of the rage and pain he carried with him.

“I’ve seen plenty of people come through here with wounds like yours,” you said softly, focusing back on the gash you were stitching up, your hands steady despite the tension in the air. “They usually don’t last long. This city eats people alive.”

His head tilted slightly, and though you couldn’t see his eyes, you felt the intensity of his attention shift back to you. For a moment, the air felt heavier, thicker. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was low, rough. “I’m not most people.”

You couldn’t help the small, bitter smile that tugged at your lips. “No. I guess you’re not.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, it felt charged, like standing on the edge of something dangerous. There was always something about him that made you feel that way, as though you were staring into an abyss and contemplating whether to jump. Maybe you were a danger to each other, a collision waiting to happen.

When you finished patching him up, your fingers lingered, the soft brush of your skin against his as you pulled the gauze into place. This time, he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, he remained still, the air between you crackling with something unspoken.You glanced up at him again, meeting the featureless gaze of his mask, your breath catching in your throat. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel them on you, feel the tension simmering beneath the surface.

Something was happening between you two—something inevitable, dangerous, and completely out of your control.

Without a word, he stood, pulling his jacket back over his bandaged torso. The movement was sudden, almost abrupt, as if he needed to break the moment before it went any further. He didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t offer any words of gratitude or reassurance.

But you knew he’d be back.

Even as he left, the heavy door of your clinic closing behind him, the presence of him lingered in the room—dark, dangerous, and unmistakably powerful. The pull between you both was undeniable, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever was happening between you was far from over.

And it was only a matter of time before that tension snapped.

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merrybloomwrites · 13 days ago

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I'm Sorry If I Say I Need You (One Direction x Reader - Kidnapped)

Summary: You always thought that getting put into a band with 5 boys would be the craziest thing to happen to you. And then you and those 5 boys all get kidnapped and held hostage. After years of being seen as the strong one, will this experience be the one to break you? Or will the support of your bandmembers be enough to save you?

CW: kidnapping, physical violence, mentions of weapons, inappropriate/unwanted touches, manipulation, gaslighting, injuries (Blood, bruising), hospitals

WC: 6K

AN: Please read the tags, as this is a heavy & violent story. I try not to go in depth with those scenes, focusing instead on the interactions between reader and the boys, but I do include some of the violent parts. Don't read if this makes you uncomfortable, I totally get this isn't for everyone and I understand not wanting to read this.

Also I have Paul Higgins playing a role in this. If you don't know how he is, he was the head of security back in the 1D days and the boys called him their dad on tour.

Back when I was doing whumptober I had a random thought about that "Kidnapped by 1D" trope that's been around forever. I thought about reversing it so it's reader kidnapping them instead. And then decided to write a legit story where reader is also a member of the band and they all get taken together. I'd been seeing a lot of different whump tropes and wanted to test myself and write a story with some aspects I'd never done before. This is the result! It is, of course, filled with the boys being protective and comforting and so there's plenty of that mixed in with the whump!

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Growing up as the only girl with five older brothers had definitely shaped you. You were strong, tough, sure of yourself. You didn’t put up with any nonsense. You never showed fear, or pain, or weakness.

All of your brothers were athletic, and you’d spent so much time watching different sporting events. And while you played a number of sports as well, you didn’t excel the same way they did. So you decided to follow a different path.

That path led you to audition for the X Factor. You had big dreams of becoming a famous singer and getting away from the shadow of your brothers.

And then ironically, you’d somehow been put in a band with five older boys. Well, you were only a couple months younger than Harry, but still. You couldn’t believe your luck. It was somehow good, since you hadn’t been turned away, and simultaneously bad, since you once again had to find a way to stand out from a group of boys.

But you quickly learned that Niall, Liam, Harry, Zayn, and Louis were nothing like your brothers. Sure they were energetic and crazy like them, but they were so different when it came to you. Instead of teasing you and ignoring you because you were young, or because you were a girl, they would support you, compliment you, protect you.

It was nice, but also a little strange. You didn’t know how to accept all of this, so you put up a wall. While you were friends with the others, you kept a bit of distance. They had a way of trying to almost coddle you, and you refused to let that happen. You were just as strong and confident as them. You didn’t need any special treatment.

This is how it started, and how it stayed. You’re now three years into being One Direction, and the boys have learned how to behave around you. Group hugs and high fives are allowed, but other than that, they didn’t enter your personal space. They’d give you compliments but make sure not to go over the top. And even though their instincts had them anxious to protect you when out in public, to put a barrier between you and the paps or the fans, they knew better, and allowed you to walk solo just like they did.

It made you feel respected, knowing that they were listening to your boundaries even when it felt wrong to them. And you knew that if you let them get closer or treat you differently than they treated each other, you’d be seen as weaker by the public. So keeping up these walls was necessary for your success.

But on late, lonely travel nights, you find yourself wishing you could let them in. Sometimes you do feel weak, or tired, or not good enough. And you wish you could go to them for comfort. On a number of occasions you almost do, but then they make some comment about how well you handle everything and how they wish they could be strong like you, and you hold back once again.

That is, until the six of you find yourselves in a situation that pushes you towards your breaking point.

You’re halfway through a leg of tour when some sort of illness travels through your crew. Somehow none of the onstage performers get it, and it seems to be hitting your security team the hardest. On this night in particular, every normal security guard calls out sick and you end up with a group of complete strangers.

It’s weird, but none of you question it, as it seems like the only option at this point. And when the show ends and you’re loading into the van, you’re all too tired to worry about it anyway. You figure they must be safe if management hired them to protect their biggest source of income.

You're in the middle of the back row, squished between Liam and Niall. Your eyes are heavy, and the motion of the car is soothing, nearly putting you to sleep.

But then Liam turns and asks, “Does this look at all like the way we came?”

You shrug and say, “I haven’t been paying attention,” and Niall adds, “It’s dark, how are you seeing anything out there?”

“I can see enough to know I’ve never seen this before,” Liam responds.

“Maybe it’s just a different route,” you say.

“Could be,” he concedes. It’s quiet again in the car, but as the drive goes on you can sense Liam’s growing agitation.

“It shouldn’t be taking this long,” he suddenly says into the quiet van. His anxiety is rubbing off on you and you lean over him to look out the window. You still can’t see much.

But looking inside the vehicle you begin to notice something. The six security guards all look agitated by the conversation. You start to think that maybe something is wrong, that these strangers may be up to something.

And sure enough, after another minute they turn down a road and begin to floor it. There’s commotion, all of you shouting out to slow down, but then one of the men turns around and holds out a gun.

“You belong to us now. Shut up, and sit still. When we get to the house you’ll calmly walk inside. Put up a fight and we'll shoot. We have more people waiting at the house, all armed, so we have the upper hand. Got it?”

All six of you manage to nod, though you’re all practically frozen from fear. Niall and Liam each move to grab your hands, and normally you’d shift away, but you can tell they need this more than you do right now.

The car jolts to a stop, causing you all to slam into the seats in front of you, and you’re all a bit disoriented as you’re taken from the van to the basement of a large house.

It’s straight out of a thriller movie. Concrete floor and walls illuminated by a single hanging light bulb. Dirty mattress in the corner. Various scary looking objects that you don’t want to know the uses of.

“This is where we have fun,” says one of the men. There are twelve in total. And as promised, each of them carries at least one weapon.

“You’ll stay in there,” says another man as he opens a door in the corner of the room. The six of you are pushed inside of a small, carpeted but otherwise bare room, barely big enough for all of you to be able to lay down at once. There’s another door off this room that leads to a bathroom. It’s dirty and smelly but at least you’ll have a private place to pee.

One thing that’s clear, there’s no way out.

“You’ll stay in here until we come for you. Oh, and if any of you does any funny business, steps a toe out of line or fights back, she gets it,” says one of the men emphatically as he points at you with his gun.

The message is clear. And smart. Your band members will do anything to protect you. There’s no way they’ll do something that will put you in danger. Just like that, these kidnappers have prevented any pushback from your group. Not that there seems to be anything you all can do, being outnumbered and unarmed.

It’s truly a nightmare of a situation. And somehow it’s happening to you.

“We’ll be back soon,” he says before closing and locking the door.

The six of you stand there for a moment, utterly baffled and terrified.

“You okay?” Zayn says, and you look up to see him turned towards you.

Repressing an eye roll you respond, “Of course not. None of us are. We literally got kidnapped and taken to a friggen house of horrors.”

“Yea, but he didn’t threaten any of our lives,” Louis adds.

“Pretty sure all of our lives are in danger,” you reply. “We’re being held captive by psychopaths. I don’t think any of us are safe.”

You sit on the floor, tucking your head between your knees. The others follow, and the six of you sit in silence, all trying to think of a way out of this mess.

Being left there alone is unnerving, but what’s even worse is when one of the men comes back. He scans the room as all of you silently and fearfully watch him.

“You,” he finally says, pointing to Niall. “You’re up first.” The man leans down, grabbing Niall and roughly pulling him up. Before anyone can even react, Niall is thrown into the other part of the basement and the door is shut and locked once more.

While the door muffles the sound, you can all still hear the noises of impacts followed by Niall’s cries of pain. Your imagination runs wild with images of what they might be doing to him.

After a few minutes the door opens and Niall is shoved back inside before two men grab Zayn. They bring him out, and once again the rest of you are forced to listen as they hurt your friend. Meanwhile Liam checks Niall and comforts him.

The pattern continues, and each time one of the guys is returned, another is taken. Louis is the last of the boys, and you know it’s your turn next.

But then Louis is pushed back in, and the man closes and locks it. You’re confused, unsure why they didn’t take you.

The boys are hurt, but nothing too bad. A couple bruises, a few small scratches, but it could’ve been worse.

Just when you think you might get away unharmed, the door opens again. “Your turn,” says the man as he looks at you, a disturbing smile on his face.

You see the boys move to block you but you subtly shake your head and stand up and walk towards the door, accepting your fate.

“Good girl,” he says, causing you to shiver in disgust. Once out of the small room, you’re thrown to the concrete floor and all twelve men surround you.

There’s a kick to your back and it knocks the air out of you. And you gasp for breath, another kick lands on your stomach. You’re pulled up, held in the air by two men as others take their turns hitting you.

Suddenly they stop, the men dropping you and you land harshly on the floor. Finally you can catch your breath, but you warily watch the men, waiting for another blow.

It doesn’t come. Instead, the man in charge crouches in front of you, causing you to recoil, but he grabs you by the hair to keep your face close to his.

“You’re the one we want,” he says. You stare at him in confusion. “We didn’t want the boys. But it was impossible to get you alone. Oddly enough it was easier to take all of you. But just know, they are in this mess because of you. So you’d better behave.”

With that he lifts you up and pushes you back into the small room. Immediately after the door closes, the boys surround you, trying to ask if you’re okay, but you put up your hands, alerting them not to touch you. They give you space and you tell them you’re fine, and while they know that’s not true, they also know not to press you to talk.

You sit in a corner of the room holding your head in your hands. You hear the others talk but your mind is too busy to listen to them.

After some time they all lay down to sleep, but guilt keeps you awake. You notice the way they’re all comforting each other, even as they sleep. Liam and Harry are laying together while Louis is holding both Zayn and Niall.

You wish you could curl up with them, get comfort from them, but that would be selfish.

They’re in this mess because of you. They’re hurting and it’s all your fault. So no, you don’t deserve to be held. You deserve to suffer.

Eventually you fall asleep only to be woken a couple hours later by the door slamming open. Water bottles and granola bars are tossed in the room and the door shuts once more.

“Guess breakfast is here,” Louis says. It’s not much, but at least you won’t starve or dehydrate.

All six of you eat in silence, and as soon as you’re done the door opens. Liam is taken first this time, and the pattern from last night continues. You’re all taken three times throughout the day, after every meager meal that you’re given.

You’re always last. The order of the boys switches up, seems random. But you’re always saved to be the final person. After lunch you’re told it’s so that you can see the pain your bandmates are experiencing because of you.

It keeps you docile, willing to take whatever beating they give you.

Which is more than they give the boys. You’ve noticed that when the others come back they only have one or two new injuries each time. Just enough to keep them in line. They boys have also mentioned it’s only two guys there each time they’re taken.

For you, it’s always the full dozen. And they all take turns. It feels like every inch of your body is covered in bruises.

But you make sure not to let the boys see. They tend to one another, make sure they’re all eating, and hold each other whenever someone needs comfort.

As you’re reminded each time the men have you in their grasp, you don’t deserve that comfort. The pain your friends are feeling is your fault.

The men never explain why they want you, just that they need to have you. It had been their goal for years, getting you in their grasp.

Another fitful night of sleep passes followed by another nightmare and pain filled day. There is however an obvious shift on that second full day. While you’re all once again taken three times, the boys are brought back after only a few minutes. Their time with the men dwindles, and yours gets longer.

That evening they take you for nearly two full hours. You know what they want. They’re searching for your breaking point. You refuse to let them find it. They give up out of sheer frustration and throw you back in the room.

No matter what you’d experienced the last few days, you always landed on your feet.

Until now.

You stumble, falling into Zayn. He catches you and gently lays you on the ground. He goes to pull away, knowing you don’t like to be touched, but you grip his shirt in your fists.

Zayn looks at you questioningly and you murmur, “Stay. Don’t let me go.”

“I won’t, I’ve got you,” he replies. He turns to Liam next to him and says, “Help me get her settled. I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Of course, what do you need?” Liam says, altering you to his presence beside you. One of your hands releases Zayn and instead reaches out for Liam.

“Do you want us to lay down with you?” Liam asks.

A weak nod is all you can manage, but it’s enough. Zayn settles on one side of you with Liam on the other.

Louis kneels by your head, and you look at his upside down face hovering above you. “Can we check your injuries, love? Please?”

You can hear the concern in his voice so you nod once more. Giving them permission to see the extent of the beatings you’ve taken is the last thing you want to do.

But you’re exhausted. And scared. And in so much pain.

It’s time to take the wall down. It’s time to let them in, let them take care of you.

Louis starts with what’s visible on your face. There isn’t much there, but he wipes away the bit of blood on your cheek.

“Can Harry lift your shirt to check your belly?” Louis asks and you nod again.

You hear a chorus of gasps as your shirt is moved. You don’t need to look to know it’s not a pretty sight.

“This isn’t good,” Harry says quietly. His hand brushes one of the bruises and you cry out in pain.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. Y/N, this is bad. Like, I think you have internal injuries,” Harry states.

“Who made you a doctor?” You quip weakly.

“Don’t need to be one to know a serious injury,” Niall says. “What have they done to you?” His voice is laced with horror and sadness, and you start to zone out. You know you’ve taken a beating, can feel it all over. But hearing the boy's reactions to it is even worse. Makes it more real.

Harry and Niall continue to check your body, wiping any blood they see and pressing cool water bottles to some of the worst bruises. But you don’t react anymore, choosing instead to turn your head and tuck into Liam.

Louis pets through your hair gently and Zayn holds your hand, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb. You focus on these touches and drift off to sleep.

You startle awake the next morning, and the first thing you notice is that you’re surrounded by the boys. It makes you feel warm, safe.

And then you realize who else is in the room.

“This looks cozy,” says the man. You still don’t know their names, but you do know their temperaments. This one doesn’t hit as hard physically, but he knows how to attack you emotionally. “So sweet of them to comfort you, Y/N. Especially considering why you’re all here.”

It’s a brutal reminder, one the others don’t understand but you do. The guilt sets back in, and you do your best to move away from the boys. You don’t deserve to be taken care of, and last night's moment of weakness can’t happen again.

“Actually, why don’t we have a little chat, make sure you remember the details of the situation,” he adds.

“Y/N, what is he talking about?” Liam asks, but you play dumb, giving a confused shrug in reply.

“Good act,” the man says. “Let’s go,” he adds as he moves in to grab you. The boys move to block him, but you go around them. Maybe letting the men hurt you will ease the guilt of putting your friends in this situation. You feel even worse after showing such weakness last night.

So you follow the man, bracing yourself for the hours of pain you’re about to endure.

But what happens next is worse than you can imagine. There’s no pain, they don’t hit or punch or kick this time. They don’t even throw you to the ground like usual. They’re gentle. Sure, it’s not painful. But the feeling of their hands dragging along every part of your body practically burns you. Makes you want to vomit, right on them. If you do, maybe they’ll stop. Maybe they won’t keep touching you in places no one should be.

Before you can do that, they all back away. “We’re thinking of letting the others go,” one of the men says. It takes you a minute to comprehend that he’s talking, and when you finally understand, you look at him in confusion. “That got your attention huh?”

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

“We really only wanted you, remember? We have another house. We’ll be taking you there tonight. The other five will be left behind. We’ll send a message to your security tomorrow so they can come rescue them. You will be long gone when that happens. Isn’t that nice, though? Your friends will be okay. You should be happy, they’re in this mess because of you. And now they’ll be free. Don’t you want that?”

Knowing they want an answer, you nod curtly. And you do want the boys to be free, to be safe. But they’ve been a comfort to you these past days, and the selfish part of you wants them to stay. You can endure what these horrible men throw at you because you have a safe place to return to, even if it is a tiny, gross room. At least you have friends with you.

But you can’t think like that. If they have a way out, of course they need to take it. Even if it means you’ll never get away. That these horrible people will be able to continue doing whatever they want to you. That will be your punishment for endangering your friends.

“Enjoy the day with them,” says the man as he begins leading you back to the room. “It’s the last time you’ll ever see them.” With that he opens the door and guides you inside before leaving you alone with the others.

They’re quickly at your side, obviously wanting to comfort you like they had the night before, but you hold out your hands, indicating you want space.

“Y/N,” Niall starts, “Please let us help with your new injuries.”

“I don’t have any,” you reply.

“What do you mean?” Harry asks.

“They didn’t touch you this time?” Louis says next.

“I didn’t say that,” you state sardonically.

“I don’t understand,” Zayn adds.

It’s quiet for a moment as you take a deep breath. Finally you look up, your eyes meeting Liam’s. It’s clear the second he understands what happens, his gentle, worried expression shifting to anger.

“I’m going to fucking kill them,” he exclaims, startling all of you.

“What the fuck just happened?” Niall asks.

“They touched her,” Liam says, his voice practically a growl. This time the rest do understand, horror, anger, and pity on their faces. Harry and Zayn move closer, obviously wanting to comfort you, but you cannot have that right now. “Please, don’t,” you say and they all step back further, giving you space.

Louis grows more agitated, walking to the door and saying, “Liam has the right idea, they can’t fucking get away with this.” He grabs the door handle forcefully, fully expecting it to be locked like normal, and gets thrown back when it simply opens.

The six of you stand there, shocked and confused, and Louis slowly and carefully closes the door again.

“The moron forgot to lock it?” Niall asks.

“Seems so,” Liam replies.

“Was anyone out there?” Harry asks.

Louis silently peeks out again, confirming the basement is in fact empty.

“There’s a window,” Liam says. “They opened it one time when I was with them. Guys, it’s a way out.”

“And then what?” Zayn asks.

“Then we fucking run for our lives, that’s what,” Louis says.

“They have guns, Lou. What if they’re out there waiting for us?” Harry adds.

“At this point we have to take the risk. We’ve been here for days. What if they never let us go? What if no one finds us? We have no other way out,” Louis answers.

“Yes you do,” you interject.

They all look at you questioningly. You take a deep breath, knowing you need to tell them the truth. That way they won’t risk their lives on this insane break out plan. “It’s my fault you’re all here. They didn’t want you. Just me. But they couldn’t get me alone so they took all of us. Tonight they’re taking me to another location, and tomorrow they’ll tell security where you are and you’ll be rescued. You have a way out, please don’t get hurt now.”

There’s another moment of silence while they process this information.

“Right, okay, we’re going. Now.” Harry says.

“Didn’t you hear me? You’ll be safe!”

“Do you think we can just leave you with them?” Liam asks. “No way. We’re all going or no one is.”

“We’re not leaving you behind. That’s insane,” Niall says.

“Please don’t be stupid,” you implore them.

“You’re the stupid one if you think we’d go without you,” Louis retorts.

“This is my fault-”

Zayn cuts you off saying, “Y/N, this is not your fault. I don’t know what those awful people told you, but they are the only ones to blame. You did not do this to us.”

“But they-”

Liam is the one to interject this time, “They are terrible people who do terrible things. For all you know they’re lying to you to manipulate you. They could be lying about letting us go.”

You hadn’t thought of that. When you don’t speak right away Louis takes his chance to explain what little plan he has.

“We just have to run for it. The window is pretty high. Liam you go first, then Zayn. Harry and I will help Y/N. Harry, you're tallest, you’ll be able to reach the best so you’ll go last. Once we’re free, run. We need to find a person or a house where we can call for help. Everyone got it?”

The rest of you nod. Louis peeks out one more time to make sure the coast is clear, then you all spring into action. The first step of the plan goes shockingly well. You’re all full of adrenaline, and getting through the window without a problem fills you with hope.

After a few minutes of running you start thinking you might actually be in the clear.

The adrenaline wears off.

And the full pain of your injuries comes back.

Running becomes harder, every inhale burning not only your lungs but your whole torso. There’s blood soaking your clothes, and you have no idea if you’ve exacerbated a previous injury or gotten a new one.

You gasp, stumbling and nearly falling to the ground. Liam catches you, encouraging you to keep going, but it’s like your brain and body are no longer connected. As much as you try, you can’t keep going.

Liam senses this and puts his arm around you, helping you stay upright and continue moving forward.

There’s a house up ahead, the obvious destination. You’re close, and then you hear the noise behind you.

The van that you’d been in when this all started is barreling towards your group. They’ve nearly caught up, and you feel like just giving in, admitting defeat.

But Liam won’t let you. “Everyone just keep going!” He yells.

A figure runs out of the house up ahead, followed by at least 20 others. All in uniform. All armed.

You’re scared at first, not knowing if they’re there to help you or help your captors. And then you see him. Paul Higgins. Your true guardian angel.

The van has stopped following, now surrounded by law enforcement, but the six of you can’t stop. Can’t understand that the danger is gone.

Paul, along with a few other members of your normal security team surround you to check if you’re okay. The boys assure them that they only have minor injuries, all saying the same thing: “Help Y/N,” “Y/N’s hurt”, “Y/N needs help”.

The next thing you know, Paul is reaching for you, picking you up and cradling you to him. “You’re safe now,” he says quietly, and you start to believe that.

He carries you towards the house, explaining that they’d gotten a tip the night before and were searching the area, the homeowner allowing them to use the place as a base of operations.

You hear sirens growing louder, and multiple ambulances pull up. Seeing this, Niall says “Paul really, we’re okay. They really only focused on Y/N. We’ve just got some scrapes.”

“You’ll all be going to the hospital and getting checked by a doctor. No exceptions.”

“Yes, dad,” Louis says, but it doesn’t have the normal teasing tone. At this moment, you’re all very grateful for this man you call your tour dad.

When Paul goes to set you down on a stretcher you begin to panic, clutching his shirt the way you had with Zayn the night before.

“I’m not leaving you, I promise. But you have to let them take care of you so you can get better,” he says.

It’s hard to let go but you do manage. As promised Paul stays by your side the whole time. The ambulance ride feels forever, and the longer you lay unmoving, the more pain you feel.

You don’t realize you’re crying until you feel Paul gently wipe tears off your face. You turn to look at him and he gives you a sad smile, saying “I know sweetheart. It’s all over now. I’ve got you.”

He’s able to hold your hand, and he gives you a reassuring squeeze. It’s the last thing you’re aware of before your world turns black.

The first time you wake up, there’s chaos around you. Doctors yelling about internal injuries and needing scans, nurses hooking you up to different wires and tubes. A doctor gives another order, and something is pushed through your IV, and once again everything fades away.

The next time you wake is much calmer. You’re in a patient room, your body wrapped in gauze. Paul is sitting beside your bed, once again holding your hand. This time you squeeze his, and he looks up, clearly relieved to see your eyes open.

He tells you about your injuries, the treatments and surgery you went through, and how you’ll be in the hospital for a few days before needing to recover at home for weeks.

“What about the boys?” is your first question.

“They’re okay. Minor injuries. Doctors are keeping them overnight to be safe but they should all be released tomorrow,” Paul answers.

“Good. I’m glad they weren’t hurt.”

“Louis told me you think this is your fault.”

“It is. They were all taken because of me.”

“Sweetheart, you need to know that’s not the truth. We found a letter from them, after they took you all, and it was clear they always planned to take the whole band. You are not to blame. You didn’t do anything or make anything happen.”

“It’s not my fault?” You ask.

“It is not your fault,” he says, his voice strong and sure.

“It’s not my fault,” you say.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he answers as he strokes the hair out of your face.

A moment later a few nurses and doctors enter. They tell you the injuries you sustained and what they’re doing to treat them. They ask questions that you do your best to answer. Finally they finish taking vitals and leave once more. You’re grateful, as you’ve started to feel tired again.

“Sleep, I’ll be here all night,” Paul says. With that reassurance, you close your eyes and immediately fall asleep.

The next time you wake up the clock on your table reads 7:12am. You’d slept almost ten full hours. As promised Paul is there, sleeping uncomfortably on the couch.

There’s a nurse in the room, and she smiles when she sees you watching her.

“Good morning, I’m just going to take your vitals,” she says. When she finishes that she and another nurse help you to the restroom, and you're glad your injuries haven’t completely bedridden you. You’re given a light breakfast, and while you don’t have the biggest appetite, you do enjoy a little hot food after days of nothing but granola bars.

After you’ve eaten, the doctor comes to check on you, making sure you’re doing well and changing some of the bandages.

You’ve been awake a couple hours when Paul gets an update.

“Louis and Zayn are getting discharged now,” he says.

“What about the others?”

“Should be later today. Apparently their doc was called away before he could get to everyone so they need to wait a bit.”

“Are Louis and Zayn leaving?”

“We’re figuring that out.”

“Can I see them?”

“I think I can make that happen. Are you alright here for a few minutes if I go help the boys?”

While you don’t want him to leave, you know the others need him as well so you say, “Yea, I’ll be okay. I’m kind of tired again, can I sleep?”

“Of course you can, darling. Get your rest, it’ll help you heal. I promise I won’t be far, and Ryan is right outside if you need anyone.”

You do feel better knowing Ryan is there, since he’s basically Paul’s second in command.

Without realizing you’ve even fallen asleep the next thing you’re aware of is voices around you.

“She’s really going to be okay?” You hear Zayn ask worriedly.

“She’s going to be fine. It’ll take some time for her to heal but she’ll make a full recovery,” Paul explains.

“You’re sure?” Niall asks, his voice unsteady.

“I’m sure. The doctors said she’ll be okay. And you know her, she’s strong.”

Strong. The word most used to describe you. But you don’t feel that way right now. You were hurt, bruised and bloodied. You don’t want to be strong anymore.

“Can I be done?” You ask.

They boys all turn to you, gathering by your bedside now that you’ve woken up.

“What was that? We didn’t hear what you said,” Liam asks.

“I want to be done,” you reply.

“Done with what, love?” Louis questions.

“Being strong. I don’t wanna be strong right now.”

“That’s okay,” Louis answers. “You don’t have to be. Lean on us.”

“Yea, we’ll take care of you!” Niall adds.

“Thank you. I’m just so tired.”

“I know. You’ve fought hard, now you can rest,” Zayn says.

You smile softly at them, and then realize someone’s missing.

“Where’s Harry?” You ask, your voice laced with panic as your heart rate skyrockets.

“He’s okay!” Louis quickly assures you. “He just needed one extra test before they could discharge him.”

“Why? What was the test?”

Liam answers this time, explaining, “His oxygen was a bit low when they brought us in yesterday so they’re making sure everything’s fine. Which it is. It was just low because of his asthma and all the running we did. He’s fine. He’ll be here soon.”

As though being summoned, Harry walks in a moment later.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, rushing to your side when he sees how upset you are.

You take a deep breath, relieved to have all five of your boys with you.

“Don’t leave me. Please,” you beg.

“We won’t,” Harry replies. “We’re all here. We’re all sticking together. We promise. Right?”

The others all nod, Harry and Niall each holding your hands to reassure you with comforting contact.

For the rest of your hospital stay, they keep their promise to the best of their ability. None of them are allowed to stay overnight, but all five of them are there with you during every minute that visitors are welcomed.

When you’re finally discharged, you go to the house the boys have been staying at. Of course their families all wanted them to go back to their respective homes, but they couldn’t bear to be away from you.

Your parents also hoped you’d be coming home while you recovered, but it would feel strange to go back there. You’re not the same person you were the last time you left. You just can’t go back just yet, not when so much has changed.

So the six of you, along with Paul and a few other security guards, all live together for the months following the incident. You’re given your own room, but you rarely spend a night alone. At first someone was staying with you in case you needed help at night while you continued to recover from your physical injuries.

They kept taking turns staying with you when it became clear your nightmares wouldn’t go away. The couple of nights that you did spend by yourself you’d woken up screaming and crying, calling out for the boys, panicking that they were gone.

From then on they had a rotation on who would stay with you. Having one of them in your bed often kept the bad dreams away, and when the nightmares did happen, whoever was there could quickly calm and reassure you that everything was okay.

After seven months of recovery and planning, it’s finally time to restart tour. Your emotions are going wild leading up to that first show, but the second you get on stage, you feel alive again. For months you hid away, leaning on your bandmates and truly feeling like a diminished version of yourself.

You’d needed that in order to heal. Letting yourself be vulnerable allowed for others to help build you back up.

And now you feel like yourself again. You know this experience will stick with you forever, and you’ll be dealing with the mental impacts of this for years to come. But you also know that Harry, Liam, Niall, Louis, and Zayn will always be there for you whenever you need them.

You turn towards them at the end of the show, right before final bows, and find them all watching you, their faces full of admiration, awe, and love.

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

AN: Thank you for reading!

After everything that happened recently I knew I needed to give Paul Higgins a moment in the spotlight.

#harry styles x reader #louis tomlinson x reader #niall horan x reader #liam payne x reader #zayn malik x reader #one direction x reader #one direction fanfiction

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the-s1lly-corner · 3 months ago

Note

If it's alright, could I request a Toby, Slenderman, Eyeless Jack, and Jane the Killer x reader (separately), where the reader has no self preservation? Not in a sad way, but more in a "cheerfully confident that they can handle it" kinda way.

Either way, I hope you have a good day!

Crps x overly confident!reader w/ no survival instinct

Points

JANE REQUEST SPOTTED!! Feels like hardly anyone asks for her!!

Side note I could NOT find a good gif LMAO

Characters: Ticci Toby, Eyeless Jack, Slenderman, Jane the Killer

Notes: reader is GN, reader is not suicidal in any way they just think they're built different, reader is written as a human

CWs: injury and blood mentions, canon typical violence and death

SLENDERMAN

hes seen humans die to less, hes not going to let you follow that path... why would have to do any of this when hes right here to do the dirty work for you without complaint? he simply doesnt get it

but still, if he knows you will survive he will let you go- as foolish as he may think you are for throwing yourself into a fight or disaster- he will never fully understand humans so surely you must have a reason for this? stops this when it just leads to you getting hurt over and over, it slowly becomes clear that youre doing it because youre cocky. you truly do think you'd come out the other side unscathed

you dont even get the chance to throw yourself into a fight against a someone wielding a weapon- theyre torn down before you can get too close, leaving behind a mess of gore on the ground. your attitude may have rubbed off on him, he hardly ever displays such strength and violence- but if this is what needs to be done to show that you dont need to fight anymore then so be it

TICCI TOBY

honestly? he might just join you in whatever danger youre about to throw yourself in- he himself doesnt have much survival instinct, though a lot of that hinges off of his inability to feel pain. he minimizes the damage done to his body most of the time

and... that kind of bleeds into how he acts when youre reckless, afterall hes never had to be careful about himself- and you seem to hold the same belief to your own body... its going to take a real nasty injury to snap him out of that and make him realize that youre not invincible- even if the lesson doesnt sink in for you

you still sometimes make light hearted bets on things when stuff gets intense- "oh i bet i can take him-" "oh i can do this with one hand tied behind my back-" and so on and so fourth

youre both a little.... foolish...

EYELESS JACK

painfully aware of human anatomy and what it can and cant take- that comes from being very interested in the topic as well as being able to look inside human bodies first hand

a lot of the time you cant even take a single step towards the danger, hes already got his hand on your shoulder and tugging you into the other direction... and in the case where its dangerous but not deadly? you can feel the look hes giving you under his mask... for someone with no eyes he can give a mean glare

you give him hypotheticals for threats that you can take on and hes just "absolutely not."... he will not spare your ego, your safety is far more important to him- youre the one good thing in his life and hes not going to let you get yourself killed

JANE THE KILLER

it takes her a moment to process what youve said and by then youre already running towards the threat- and shes bolting after you to either back you up or drag you away... preferably drag you away if its something that cannot be stopped or bested

what were you thinking? are you insane? what if you were killed? shes not going to hold anything back, she wants to understand why you would do something like that- especially unprepared... do you have a death wish?

not at all happy or pleased with your little habit of just. running into things head first... she doesnt think its commendable or brave, and shes going to let you know what she thinks as shes trying to stop your wounds from bleeding all over the place

you can tell shes trying to be nice- well, niceish- but her tone does slip out as she speaks

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the-kr8tor · 7 months ago

Text

Once More to See You

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 8.4k

Synopsis: Like Alice in wonderland, you accidentally fall to another universe where everything is different from your universe, including your best friend, Hobie Brown. Will you be able to come home to your best friend before you get ripped apart molecule by molecule? Or will you fail and leave the love of your life wondering where you are for the rest of his life?

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, No specific physical description of the reader, CW Blood, CW violence, TW death, CW injury, CW vomit mention. Bestfriends to lovers (speedrun edition), established relationship, Hurt/comfort, Angst.

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Masterlist

Eyes almost crossed, back hunched and aching, you tinker at the tiny components of the inter dimensional watch Hobie started putting together. He brought it to you last night with a paper bag filled with your favourite takeout to bribe you in helping him. “It's for emergencies,” he said, “I don't trust that vampire from the future,” he grumbled in between bites of chips.

The soft music from your record player filters through the dimly lit room, save for your work lamp, the sun is just about setting in the horizon. You have the perfect view of the expansive London skyline just outside your window. It's a foggy day, clouds hanging above like cotton balls, fluffy and grey— rain's coming, you surmise from the unmistakable smell of petrichor. It's already raining somewhere, you think. And you worry immediately for him since he's still on patrol. Did he bring a raincoat with him at least? But knowing him, he'd just swing around while there's a downpour. And when you scold him while he's dripping wet, soaking your carpet, he'd just shrug and say, ‘I looked bloody good at it though’ to which you'd scoff, but secretly agree.

Distracted, you poke at the wrong wire with your metal pliers, a spark from the main power source shocks you, flinching and yelping, you check for any damages on your fingertips.

“Should've worn rubber gloves, love.” Hobie's sudden whisper in your ear makes you jump out of the stool, goosebumps appearing on your arms as he catches you before you land harshly on your back. “Got you. Maybe you should invent seatbelts on barstools, hm? You'd make a fortune from pubs alone. No more drunkards falling face first.” He jokes, arm snaked along your back, hand splayed over your ribs, and face dangerously close to your own.

You decide to quip back as revenge for making you almost fall. “I would invent it if you weren't dropping so many projects on my lap.” Still floating above the floors with the help from his hold, he fakes letting you go. You squeak, hands instinctively flying to his shoulders for support. Maybe you shouldn't have teased him when he's the only one standing between you and a bump on your head. “You little—”

He raises a pierced brow, “what'd you say again, love?” His mischievous smirk tells you that he's about to do it again, so you surrender. How could you fight him when he looks at you like you're the only person in the world that's worthy of his touch?

Lips clamping down, you still glare at him despite the overwhelming fondness for the man holding you in place.

“That's what I thought.” Chuckling, he sits you upright back on the stool, he even fixes your shirt for you. “There, lookin' mighty fit today, why are you all dressed up?”

It's your turn to quirk an eyebrow, “dressed up? Hobs I basically live in this shirt.” He unabashedly roams his eyes over to the old band shirt that he made himself once upon a time. “Bold of you to assume I have some place to go.” You say even with the searing heat from your cheeks, and clammy hands.

“We could go,” Hobie shrugs, hiding his sudden shyness, you have that effect on him. “There's a new building we could swing to, if we go now we could still catch the sunset.” He inches closer, hand smoothing down the goosebumps on your arms.

“It's gonna rain, Hobs.”

“How'd you know? You a weather girl now?”

“I can smell it, and also my knees feel it.”

“What are you eighty?” He says with a laugh. “Does that make you a cradle snatcher?” Half joking, he really wishes that you'd get the hint.

Eleven years of friendship and counting, you still haven't crossed that invisible line between friendship and something more. It's not from the lack of trying from Hobie's end, no, he has told you a few times that he fancied you, more than a best friend would. But you're too afraid to say it back, to say or even scream that you fancy him, or love him is the better way to put it. But you're afraid that it might not work out, that friendship is the best thing for the both of you, that all the longing looks thrown between you, and all the lingering touches were all just attraction because you've known each other for basically forever; and the feeling wouldn't last once you do get together.

You don't want to risk your friendship only for it to end in tears and heartache. No, you love him too much to hurt him like that, and he knows it too.

He was more bold with his feelings for you a few years before, years before he was bitten and was given the heavy responsibilities. But now that he bears the title of Spider-man, he's starting to think having a romantic relationship with you while he's tangled up in all the danger he faces everyday, isn't such a great idea. So his advances are much less now, Hobie just misses you, he suppose, that's probably why he asked for your help with his own batch of watches even though he can handle it on his own while he's blindfolded. An excuse to just see you, an excuse to be in your presence. Because if you can't be together, he'd settle for staying like this forever, just best friends.

Best friends who unequivocally love each other, best friends who are waiting for the right time. Even if it means waiting for forever.

You smile softly, knowing that his joke is a half wish. “That means you're a coffin snatcher then.”

Hobie leans closer, hands on top of your table that's behind you, arms caging you in. You can smell the leather on him, and the usual scent he sports when he's particularly in a good mood. You'd know, you gifted the cologne to him. He thinks you're uncomfortable because of the position, he was about to move away but you remedy that with a smile, and with your hand placed on the back of his elbow. He can feel how your pulse hammers against your skin.

“C’mon, love, the view's pretty up there.” His view right now can't compare though.

“I can see the view from here, besides, I still have work to do.”

He tilts his head, an act he knows you can't resist. “I’ll swing you back home quicker than you can say ‘cougar’” you laugh, eyes crinkling in the corners, and he thinks your smile is better than any sunset he has ever seen. “You've been cooped up in here for too long. When was the last time you've seen the sun—?” You open your mouth for a quip but he beats you to it, “not including seeing it from your windows.” Nodding, he raises both eyebrows, looking at you through his long lashes.

For a moment he thought you'd agree, that you bought into his charms. But you clear your throat, moving away, lips tightly closed like you refuse to spill any secrets. Or spill out a confession. I don't want to ruin this, you think, if I go, what would happen up there? Your mind runs through a thousand scenarios, a consequence of your genius mind. It's not all good, you suppose, and you're sure that whatever happens on top of that skyscraper, you'll never come back from it.

You love him, you really do, but he has a heavy burden to carry. You don't want to add to it. Leaning to the side, still sitting on the stool, he instinctively hovers his hand close to your side, just in case you fall off again.

“I fixed the problem on your watch by the way.” Changing the subject is good, changing the subject means you don't have to face reality.

“Yeah?” He acts nonchalant, yet, there's a lump in his throat that threatens to choke him. It's not all your fault, he thinks. All the tiptoeing around each other, all the heavy side glances aren't all your fault, it's his too. He might've faced a hundred or so dangers but he can't seem to find the courage to finally say those three magic words. Jaw tightening, he's not mad at you, he's mad at himself.

“Your initial power source didn't have enough juice. Hence why it can't generate the right particles for inter dimensional travel.”

Hobie leans on the table, hand still close to your waist, eyes roaming intently at your handiwork. You're good, too good at making these watches, even better than Miguel could be. Or he's just biased. You made it look good too, even with the hodgepodge of materials he gave you.

“You figured that out in less than twenty four hours?” He's in awe of you, he could've thought of that, but it would've taken him a tad longer. “Fuckin' brilliant,” he says under his breath.

You raise your chin proudly, “I did, it was easy-peasy.” It was not, you barely slept because you couldn't sleep not while this huge glaring problem sits at your work table. If it needs fixing, you're gonna get it fixed within the day or you think you'll crumble into dust. Especially if it's Hobie asking for help.

Hobie beams, he's incredibly proud of you, but, “you crossed your lines, love. If you want me to catch on fire then you did it brilliantly.”

“What?” Your smug smile melts, eyes scanning the colourful wires. Shoulders sagging, you glare at him. “No, it's not.”

“Yes it is,” chuckling, he takes your hand to guide and point it out for you. “Right there. Between the cooling system and the red wires.”

Eyes narrowed, nose wrinkling, he smiles at your cute expression. “I can't see— oh.” You see it, the mess of wires lies just under the new power source that you were so proud of. “Fuck.”

“You owe me,” Hobie pokes your side.

“No, I don't. Not all of us have super eyesight.”

“Really? Blamin’ my poor eyes?” Hobie widens his hazel eyes, brilliant swirls of colours mesmerize you.

“Your eyes are far from poor.” You shove his face away from you gently, smiling, you laugh at his fake glare. “Don't you have to patrol, spiderman?”

He surrenders, huffing, he takes his mask from his back pocket to put it back on his head. “Fine, just make sure to fix your wires, I don't want to come back to a crater the next time I visit.”

“I'll uncross them, don't worry. I'm not an amateur, y'know.”

Hobie pats your shoulder for now, maybe he'll pay you a visit again tonight just to make sure your flat didn't turn into ashes. You call him back before he could exit through your fire escape.

“Be careful, please?” Your worried tone makes him turn back around to face you. You imagine that he's at least smiling under his mask. “Just…I have no idea what to do with your watch if you suddenly croak.”

“Always so bloody sweet,” walking back towards you, he grins even though you can't see it. Your worries make you reach towards him. Holding him by the lapels of his leather jacket, you trace the little stitches he made. His spider senses tingle, and he hears how your heart quickens. “I'll be fine, yeah? Don't worry ‘bout me.”

“You know I'll always worry.” You whisper.

“I know, I'm like that too when it comes to you.” Your breath hitches in your throat. He shuts his senses down so he can't hear how fast your pulse thumps, or how you weakly swallow down your nerves. “Why don't I come back here tonight, ease that genius mind of yours.” He pokes your forehead, you nod. “Good, I'll bring takeout, that isn't instant ramen. Seriously, love, that shit ain't good for you.”

“It's tasty though.”

“You'll get kidney stones.” He begins to walk backwards, so he could still see your face as he goes. For some reason, he doesn't want to go. But he suppose that he always has this feeling whenever he visits.

“I've got a clean kidney,” you softly smile, waving goodbye, hoping that he comes back to you in one piece just like always.

“Sure you do,” one leg after the other, he exits from the window until you're staring into your open window and until his lingering scent fades.

“Right,” you sigh, slapping your cheeks to stay in the present, then turning around to continue your work.

For an hour you painstakingly untangle the wires with your tweezers, minutes turn into hours, and your empty stomach grumbles. Lower back aching once again. For a second you're just about finishing it, then a spark lights up, then a blinding explosion of colours.

You should've worn rubber gloves.

—

Hobie swings casually towards your flat, it's a lot harder to swing with one hand while the other holds onto the plastic bag filled with your favourite. Smiling under his mask, wind blowing towards him, buildings whizz past as he increases his speed.

The smell of smoke hits his nose. Then puffs of black tar greets him where your flat used to be.

Heart in his stomach. He lands on the pavement less gracefully, the bag slipping through his trembling fingers.

A crowd watches on at the burning building, pieces of glass lay under his boots, crunching as he stands frozen on the spot. His eyes roam for your familiar face, around the people that watch the blaze, grief curls around his throat when he doesn't find you amidst the throng of strangers. It slowly suffocates him.

Your name spills out of his lips, hoping with every utterance of your name you'll emerge unscathed. He feels dizzy.

A firefighter notices him. Hope blossoms in his chest when Hobie turns towards the uniformed man. But the forlorn face the man sports under the soot covering his skin says it all. “There's no survivors!” He yells above the sirens, Hobie crumbles to his feet. “There's no survivors. You're too late, Spiderman.”

He's too late. His ears ring, he could only hear the crackling of the fire whilst it eats away at you. Charred wood collapses, nose stinging from the smoke, vision blurry as tears silently fall.

You're gone. And all that's left of you are ashes that float down towards him like grotesque snowflakes. Sticking to his suit, heat clinging to his skin.

It's too soon, he had a lifetime with you. A sudden burst of rain pelts at him. You were right, rain was coming.

He should've tried harder to convince you to go out.

—

A swirl of neon colours whizz past as you fall into the kaleidoscope depths. Scream stuck in your throat, hand stinging from how you grip the watch, or what's left of it. It's now in your hand, jagged metal pieces piercing your skin. There's a light at the end of the tunnel, bracing yourself, you fall on the harsh concrete. The portal spits you out feet first, skidding across, body tumbling on the ground. You're otherwise unharmed despite the harsh landing.

Eyes adjusting in the light, you blink rapidly, shielding your eyesight from the intense sun.

Wait, the sun? Wasn't it sunset a few minutes ago?

Sitting up, you roam your eyes around where you landed. The familiar London skyline is to your right, while on your left are buildings you can't seem to recognize no matter how you try to remember.

“I don't think I'm in Kansas anymore.” You say, full of bewilderment. The watch worked, but in the way you wanted it to.

The roof where you landed on is dirty, full of abandoned broken furniture. Pots upon pots of dead plants stacked on top of the other. Good thing there isn't any broken glass or you'd be bleeding.

Propping yourself up, you stand up on two wobbly feet. Stomach churning, vision warbling, you think you're about to be sick. You can't believe Hobie does this on a daily basis.

You inhale sharply, trying to compose yourself and the instant ramen in your stomach. “Oh fuck.” Exhaling, you calm yourself down. Heart finally steadying to a normal rhythm, you sigh before you check the remains of the cracked watch in your hand. “Shit!” The broken pieces fall off from your palm as you look at it. “I'm fucked!”

Like a child throwing a tantrum, you kick a cardboard box, it soars across the roof. Groaning loudly, you stomp on the ground as if it was its fault that you're in another dimension.

You felt it before it happened. Something spreads inside you, like a bolt of lightning has struck you. The sensation starts from the crown of your head to your fingertips, goosebumps appearing on your skin, you glitch for only a second but it's enough to give you motion sickness.

“Oh my fuck—!” A blast from behind you reverberates, wind rushing around you, whipping your searing skin. “What the—?”

If being stuck in an alternative universe wasn't enough, a guy wearing huge mechanical wings is approaching you quickly. Too quickly.

Before you could duck, the cackling vulture grabs you from the roof. Lifting you up, the whiplash from his momentum almost breaks your neck.

“Got you!” He laughs in your ears, metallic claws digging into your biceps. A black slithering blob weaves around his bicep, crawling up to your own like a slimy worm.

“What the hell, old man!” You scream above the noisy exhaust of his wings. “Let me go! I was literally just standing there!”

He clicks his tongue, like he's chastising a child. “No, no, no, not until he gives me what I want. Then I'll think about letting you go, but it's a long drop.”

“Who—?” As he says the word ‘drop’ you look down, vertigo making you nauseous. You must be a hundred feet above the streets. You wish Hobie was here to save you. Tears in your eyes, panic sets in, making your hands tremble and your chest desperately heave in air.

A flash of red and black, a harsh crack of bone, and a splash of something warm on your cheek, you fall from the vulture’s hold.

Gasping, reaching for something, anything to hold onto, you get snatched up before you turn into a bloody street pancake.

A strong arm envelops you as you hug tighter, face hiding away from the harsh winds. Clinging onto the stranger, they seem oddly familiar under your touch. They smell familiar too, like your nose is so used to it that you can recognize it above anything else. Leather and bergamot, the scent he wears when he's in a good mood.

You raise your head to take a peek at your savior. The spikes on his head are dark and swirly, like an evil unicorn's horn. They don't shine in the sunlight anymore, it's the same deep shade as his mask. He no longer bears the resemblance of your Hobie. He feels like him, smells like him, even the warmth spreading to you is the same. There's a deep familiarity, yet, there's something amiss.

“Hobie?” You call, and when he shifts his head to gaze at you, his grip loosens.

Craning his neck down, the eyes of his mask widens. “Y/N?” He breathlessly asks, arm sliding off from shock. “Shit!”

“Hobie!” Briefly falling, he catches you immediately. You both land on a roof, his arms are around you, hand shielding your head from the collision as you both slide across the terracotta roof. Eyes closed, you hide your face on his chest as he bears the impact for you.

Hobie groans, glad that he's wearing leather that helped with lessening his injuries from the awkward fall. Opening his eyes, he thinks he has died when he sees your face look back at him.

Expression etched into worry, you check for any injuries on his body. You get a good look at his suit, it's different, way different than you saw him last. The only thing that stayed the same is his old leather vest, but it looks like it's more well worn than the last time you've seen it. There's marks on the leather, and holes where it's not supposed to be in. You'd mend it for him like always, but there's more pressing matters.

Hobie reaches for you, black cloth enveloping and swirling around his toned arms, showing a bit of his scarred skin. You don't miss how his hands tremble as he holds your face in his calloused hands. It's all familiar to you, yet, his hands are more rugged, rougher, but you know it's him. You could recognize his touch anywhere.

“Did the vulture finally get me?” You raise an eyebrow at his question. The heaviness in his chest slowly fades for the first time in years, he wants to tell you everything, to hold you forever in his arms until all the holes in his heart are filled by you once more. His thumbs wipe the crimson off of your cheek, an instinct of his.

“W-what?” You shake your head, and he relishes at the sound of your voice. The same voice he has only heard in your old voicemails that he plays before going to bed. “I think you have a concussion, Hobs.” Gently, you reach for his mask, he stops you before you could lift it away.

“Hobs,” he chuckles weakly, “I haven't heard of that name in years.”

You know this isn't your Hobie but you can't help but sympathize with him, you can hear the sadness and hurt laced with his deeper tone. You'd ask, but it isn't your place. Literally.

Hobie sits up with a groan, back cracking, the sound making you wince. “Sounds like you need to stretch more.” You joke.

He laughs, his mind tricks him, making him think of all the teasing you've said to him once upon a time.

“I think my back is beyond saving by just stretching.” Head leaning on his elbow, arm propped up by his knee, he still can't wrap his mind around your existence. “Which dimension did you come from?”

You straighten your back, lips curling into a smile. “How'd you know I'm not from here?”

Hobie reaches for his mask, for a moment he pauses. Still, with an apprehensive tug, he takes off his mask. Shock and confusion is evident in your expression. Reminding him of the time when he told you he was Spider-Man all those years ago.

“You're…old.” A hundred questions flood your mind at the sight of his crow’s feet that decorates his eyes. He has smile lines around his mouth, he still has piercings but there's less of them now. His hair is graying, patches of grey that weave around his locs. Under the wear of time on his face, you could recognize that face amidst a thousand faces. It's Hobie, but not your Hobie. “Definitely not in Kansas anymore.”

He chuckles deeply, he misses that humour of yours. “You look how I remember.” he whispers, you could barely hear his words.

You knit your eyebrows together. “Did I travel to the future instead of a different dimension?” The same sensation passes through you, rattling your bones and wracking your senses. You glitch once again. Stomach churning, you cough out harshly.

Shaking his head, Hobie stands up then he gives you a hand. “Not time travel,” you take his hand weakly, lifting you up, he worries for you. “Definitely from another universe. Come with me to the safehouse and we'll fix your watch, yeah?”

Nodding, you trust him completely. “Okay, just to remind you though, don't jostle me around too much—”

“You get motion sick from web swingin’, I know, I remember.” His heart aches, and you can see it hidden behind his hazel eyes.

—

After swinging across the city, and with you fighting the bile rising to your throat, you two finally make it to his safehouse that's masquerading as an old laundromat. You and older Hobie enter from the back door, and another door greets you, all thick steel and seemingly bullet proof.

He enters a set of codes on the numpad that you didn't notice until he was pressing numbers in. You don't bring out the fact that the passcode was your birthday.

The door beeps, an indication that it's unlocked. He looks at you over his shoulder, smiling softly at your nervous eyes.

“Stay behind me, yeah? Don't mind the lads. Or the whispers.”

“Whispers? Why would they gossip about me?”

“Nothin'” he turns back around. “Just stay close to me.”

“Okay, I wasn't planning to wander anyway, it looks like a small house so—” just as you say it, a long staircase leading down to what looks like the abyss makes you think otherwise. “Are you evil Hobie? You planning on bringing me to your little house of horrors to kill me?”

“Are you part of the sinister six?” He asks flatly, slightly enjoying the banter.

“No—”

“Then you've got nothin’ to worry ‘bout.” Hobie continues to walk down the stairs, heavy boots thudding against the concrete with every footstep. Darkness surrounds him quickly, you could only see the outline of him under the dark. He notices the way you stay on top of the stairs, hands wringing together. “I've got a torch if you're scared—”

“Yes!” You exclaim too fast. “I mean, sure, yeah.” He doesn't tease, for that you silently thank him. You hear a click, and then a torch coming from a gadget on his arm lights the way. “Thanks,” you whisper, finally catching up with him.

The stairs lead you down further, with only Hobie's torch guiding the way, you subtly hold the hem of his vest. If he minded, he never said anything. Ears popping, another door greets you at the end.

Hobie knocks, a rhythm that you can't quite place. A panel on the door slides open, a pair of eyes roams over to Hobie's face and then to yours. Brown eyes widening at the sight of you, they close the panel, then they open the metal door with a creak. Light escapes from the opening, and you shield your eyes from the sudden brightness.

“Holy fucking shit,” a female voice exclaims. Their cadence is full of surprise, and somewhat breathless. “W-what— how?”

“She's not from here,” Hobie explains, almost sounding forlorn at his own words.

Your eyes finally adjust, and you see an older Yuri gawking at you. She has aged well and gracefully, you think, as she sports the lighter hair with confidence and wrinkles barely noticeable.

“Yuri?” You still ask even though you're ninety nine percent sure that it's her.

“The one and only, gorgeous.” Without thinking, she drags you inside, pulling you in for a hug. You heard her sniffle, and you felt how her shoulders relaxed just from the hug alone. So you let her embrace you, with your hand awkwardly rubbing in an attempt to soothe her. Pulling away, she holds you at arm's length. She pats your shoulder, smoothing your sleeves, “still gorgeous, and still unfair.” Snorting, she lets you go, turning towards your companion. “Gwen's been waiting for you.”

Hobie gets flung back to the present, the simple sight of Yuri hugging you has brought him to the past, back when everything was better.

You stare at him, and he knows there's a lot of questions swimming in that genius mind of yours. He nods once wordlessly, not trusting his own mouth to form coherent words right now.

You follow him just as he instructed, Yuri reluctantly lets you go. Your nails dig into your sweaty palms, and eyes restlessly looking around the safe house. The place is expansive, walls high up, and when you look down, you see weathered tiles that have cracked from time. There's a train track in the middle, and you realize it's an old metro station. Instead of advertisements and train schedules on the walls, you see several monitors hanging on it, thousands of wires running through all of them, beeping and buzzing coming out of the computers. There's also weapon racks littered around the place, large and something that looks like it came from a sci-fi film.

There's a lot of people running around, all clad in the same style as Hobie. Leather, chains and metal spikes all adorning their forms. You quickly look away whenever you pass a stranger who widens their eyes at the sight of you.

Tugging at Hobie's vest, you peer at him. “Why does everyone give me that same look? And who's Gwen?”

He doesn't stop his strides, “Gwen's a friend, she knows you, kind of.” He decides to tease you. Maybe it's his brain trying to compensate for the time he hasn't done it. “Why? You jealous? Green eyed monster rearing its ugly mug?”

You scoff with a playful smile. “Technically, I don't know you, so…” his smile wavers, “there's no way I'd be jealous. Also you're…old.” His smile returns, there's a question that suddenly pops in your mind. “Are we a thing here?” You suppose you should ask just to get it away, and this isn't even the same Hobie back home so you don't lose anything by asking.

His face flattens, something passes by his eyes and he turns away. “Don't worry ‘bout it.”

“That's not answering my question, or any of my questions—”

“Gwen.” Hobie passes by you without sparing you a glance.

He enters a large open space that is full of computers and screens that blink and beep. There's a dozen or so people that walk around the area, all looking frazzled and tired. It looks like a command center of some sorts. A stranger bumps into you, accidentally shoving you by your shoulder.

“Sorry, I—” The man stops in his tracks, it's Ned, or at least this universe's version of Ned. The wrinkles around his eyes and white hair says that he must've been the same age as this Hobie. The clipboard in his hand falls from his grasp, eyes wide and watery, he gasps. “Y/N—”

Hobie appears next to you, “yeah it's her, Ned.”

“B-but…she's—”

Hobie shakes his head, wordlessly having a conversation with his best friend. “We'll talk later, I promise.” He softens his voice. The interaction has you more confused. They have a stare down with you caught in the middle.

You give Ned an apologetic smile. Crouching, you take the fallen clipboard, giving it back to him. “Here, sorry for bumping into you.”

His hand trembles as he takes it. “It's okay, I gotta go.” Rushing, he leaves you and Hobie.

“Is he okay? Please don't tell me you're working him to the bone.” You scold him.

“No, you know I'll never do that.”

“Just like I said, I technically don't know you.” Exasperated from all the dodging Hobie has done, you walk away and towards the command center where a large table sits in the middle and in-between a huge screen.

Hobie has forgotten has stubborn you can be, following behind you, he can already see Gwen looking furious just standing next to the table, all menacing like.

“Hobie, what the fuck did you do?” The sudden angry tone makes your skin jump, kind of reminding you of your days back in school. “Have you finally lost your damn mind?” The blond woman gestures towards you.

There's red streaks in her braided hair, clothes perfectly suited to her form. She stands out from the rest, she looks sporty in her varsity jacket and white trainers. But of course she wears a pair of leather pants and an old band shirt that says ‘fuck getting fridged!’ You have no idea what that means.

Before she could blow a gasket, you explain yourself. “It's not time travel actually,” you say, voice faltering once you notice all eyes are on you. “It's interdimensional travel— on accident! I didn't mean to.”

Gwen crosses her arms over her chest, “you a spiderperson? Do you answer to Miguel?”

“No, not a spiderperson, just some idiot who made a huge mistake by trying to make her own watch because my best friend asked me to.” You take the broken watch from your pocket to place it on the table. “See? I broke it.”

“Your Hobie asked you to help him?” Older Hobie asks, you nod, his eyes flick over to you and then the bracelet. “Sounds like something I would do.” He whispers to himself.

“Wait, you don't have a watch on you anymore? Then—” Gwen starts but your glitching interrupts her.

It was only two seconds but you felt like your insides were being ripped apart, and your eyeballs were getting scooped out by a spoon. Heaving, hands gripping on the table for balance, you cough loudly as Hobie pats your back.

“Motherfucker—! That one was worse than the last one.” You almost choke on your own spit. “Goddamnit.”

“I was about to ask why you're not glitching, I guess I got my answer.” Gwen hands you a water bottle. “Here.” Turning towards Hobie, who's already picking apart the bracelet, she sternly calls for his attention. “What do you plan with her?”

“Fix her watch then let her stay because she's Y/N.” He nonchalantly says, lying through his teeth to rile up his already mad right hand woman.

“Your real plan, Hobie.” She taps her foot impatiently, you still wonder what his words meant. “We don't have the time or the resources to help her right now. Especially when our little machine still hasn't turned on.”

“Would you rather have her molecules ripped apart or spare a few parts so she could go home?” Hobie places his hands on top of the table, eyes narrowed, challenging Gwen. Whilst you take in his words. “Our main focus still hasn't changed, she's a guest and if we don't help her she will die.” Inhaling, he continues, “you heard her, she has someone to go back too. Someone who's lookin' for her. Do you really want him to experience that kind of—” he stops after feeling your eyes on him. He clears his throat. “We'll help her fix the watch, it'll take me a few hours to finish it and we'll still be on schedule for the attack.”

You set aside your oncoming demise to ask him about ‘the attack’. “Schedule for what?”

Gwen visibly relaxes from your gaze, you surmise that this universe’s you has history with her. “We're gonna take down Osborn once and for all.”

You knit your brows together. “You haven't done that yet?”

Gwen and Hobie blinks in surprise, intrigued, everyone else who wasn't already eavesdropping looks at you expectantly.

“What do you mean ‘haven't?’” Gwen asks, eyebrow raised.

“We already did that in our dimension a few years ago. I still have a few scars from it.”

Hobie cranes his neck towards Gwen, hazel eyes suddenly forlorn, shoulders heavy, and jaw tightening. “You succeeded?”

It all hits you, they've failed in where you and your friends have succeeded. You gained where they've lost, and you feel for their pain, you for*his suffering. You now know why he gave you that look the first time he saw you.

Composing yourself, even though your chest feels heavy, you still act as if their revelation doesn't bother you, when it has impacted you like you're the one who lost. “Y-yeah, I mean everyone helped a lot. I just did the best I can.” You scratch the back of your neck, “we had this thing that can cripple the symbiote inside his men—”

Gwen takes out a small circular device from her pocket. “Like this?”

You shake your head, “no, we just hooked a bunch of amplifiers around the area and Hobie and his band played really fucking loud. My ears ring just thinking about it.”

“Yeah we all know about them hating loud sounds but that didn't work for us before.” Gwen and Hobie's hopes are dashed. “And after all the tries, we stopped trying that method.”

“Why don't you guys ask for help with spider society? I'm sure—”

Hobie cuts you off, scowling at his feet. “I did, I asked for help. And what did that vampire from 2099 say?” He grows frustrated, knuckles shaking, eyes looking away from you. “He refused, saying that no one could intervene. That this was my canon event, and if anybody helped that it'll put the multiverse into dangerous territory.” Shaking his head, the man before shows up, and Hobie turns away from him. “It's bullshit, that's why I left.”

“We did find out why sound doesn't disable the symbiotes. Osborn made some kind of shield around them.” Gwen pipes up, shifting the conversation before Hobie gets angrier from the mere mention of Miguel.

“Like armor?” You ask.

“Yes, it's invisible to the naked eye. Thanks to Hobie, we finally found their Achilles heel. If only we could get this damn device to work then we'll be free of him and his regime.” She continues.

“Maybe I can help—”

“No,” Hobie quickly says, hurt in his eyes, he avoids yours. “No, I'll get your watch fixed up and you can go.”

“But I may be able to help—”

“No,” he emphasizes, with a shaky breath, he calls for Yuri. “Take her to the extra room,” instructing Yuri, she smiles at you apologetically. “Stay there until your watch is fixed.”

“She might be right—” Gwen starts but Hobie ignores her.

You glitch once again, stomach turning inside out, this time you feel like your skin is being ripped away. Eyes rolling on the back of your head, head spiralling. The next thing you know, you're laying on top of a hard mattress. Groaning, vision adjusting, you sit up carefully.

Your eyes adjust to the dim light hanging above, a single light bulb that swings from a draft seeping out of a crack in the wall. The room is small, barely even fitting the single bed. Walls of grey concrete surround you on all sides, there's a few posters on the walls that are tacked lopsidedly. They're all worn down, like they're older than you from the looks of the fading ink. A singular guitar sits at the corner, black and cherry red, hundreds of stickers are placed on it, adding to the roses that are painted all over it. It screams Hobie, but not your Hobie. Just sitting on his bed makes you miss him, even though you know they are not the same.

Stretching your aching neck from awkward angles it was put through because of the glitching, you spot a polaroid picture sticking out from under the pillow. You don't want to be nosy, but seeing your own face smile at you has you reaching for the photograph.

It's you, but not you exactly. Your face is the same, clothes you can't recognize. The only thing you can recognize is the way you hold onto Hobie. This universe's Hobie. Cheek pressed on his own, mirrored smiles on both your lips, his arm around your waist, pulling you close as if you'd fade away. And your arms enveloping around him like you're shielding him from harm. There's one detail that jumps at you with how yellowed the paper is and how crumpled the corners are, you're both incredibly young.

“Oh,” There had been signs, and this now confirms it.

You look at the steel door as if you had x-ray vision, as if you can see through it and see the Hobie that this version of you had loved once upon a dimly lit pub where the polaroid was taken.

Placing the picture back where you found it, you test your shaky legs. You make it two steps before you start glitching out, tumbling towards the door, forehead pressed on the cold steel, you heave dryly.

There's tears in your eyes when you open the door. Silence greets you, the air is cold and stagnant, the lights that were blinking at you earlier are now dim enough that you have to feel your way towards the concrete hallway and out into the warm light. Your hands glide along the almost frozen walls, rough sandy concrete hitting your palms like sandpaper. Footsteps quiet to not rouse the sleeping crew.

Finally making it out, lungs cool, and teeth chattering, you feel sicker by the minute. Hobie stands next to the large console, back towards you. Metals clicking and grinding against each other, Hobie doesn't look over his shoulder from your presence.

You knock on the wall to not startle him and ruin his work. Hobie finally cranes his neck to look at you, shoulders tensed and eyebrows knitted together in either frustration or concentration.

“You okay?” You ask, voice echoing in the vast room.

“I should be askin’ you that.” He goes back to the table, immediately tinkering.

“Well, are you?”

“You're stubborn.”

“My best quality.”

You hear him softly chuckle thanks to the silence hanging in the air. Walking closer, you smile at the sight of his rubber gloves that protect his hands.

“So?” You ask again.

“Never better.” He flatly says, eyes focused on putting your watch together.

“Why'd you leave the society?”

“Thought you were smart?”

“I am, and a consequence of that is being utterly curious.”

Hobie sighs but doesn't stop working. “Creative differences.”

“Ah, I knew it. You and my Hobie would get along well.” Your words trail off when you see the same spherical tech sitting next to him. “Is that the thing you can't figure out?”

He spares it a glance. “Yeah, the bane of my existence.”

You go around him to look at it closely. Eyes narrowed, arms tucked, you lean closer. “I think—” you grab it before Hobie could stop you. The glitching must've taken a toll in your critical thinking because you crack it open like an egg in your hands. “That's your problem.”

“What the fuck?” He says breathlessly, almost yelling, eyes wide, hands already grabbing the tech to fix it. “What is wrong with you?”

“Thin shell.”

“We've established that you have a thin skull—”

“Rude, but I'm talking about that.” You point at the sphere while Hobie's cradling it like a baby. “the shell is too thin,” you take half of it, pointing out its faults. “See? You need to make the shell a bit thicker, put a pressure plate so that—”

Hobie has a growing smile. “When it's thrown it automatically turns on. With the thicker shell it can withstand it and with it helps distribute the energy more evenly. Shutting all the shields down around its vicinity without needing to push a button.” His eyes widen with realization with every word he says that you already know of. “That way we can arm every rebel with a hundred of these and take down Osborn's venoms without risking close combat. Fuckin' brilliant.” He looks at you in wonder. Embarrassment flickers in his eyes, he should've thought of that, yet, he didn't. You might not be his Y/N but you're worthy of her name.

“Sometimes the easier solution is the best.” Your next sentence has your hands shaking, he notices. “Was your Y/N as brilliant as me?” You finally ask.

Hobie's cheery face falls, “She was smart, but not that brilliant. Her bravery makes up for it.”

“I'm sorry.” Tears stick to your lashes, heart aching for the man before you.

“You are curious.” After years without you, he still has no idea how to respond to those exact words. “How you feelin’?”

“Me?”

“Finding out a version of you is dead must be fuckin' weird.”

You shake your head. “I first thought that I'd see an old wrinkly me.” A half joke. You smile at him to make him feel better, but with how forlorn those hazel eyes are, you might've made it all worse. You weren't lying, you wanted to see a glimpse of your future, but finding out the version of you here is long dead doesn't compare to the feeling of losing someone you've known for years, loved even. “It's terrifying, but it doesn't compare to how hurt you must be. Losing her, I mean.”

He didn't see you grow old. He didn't experience growing old with you.

Hobie clears his throat, “I know you're not her.”

“And I know you're not him. But it looks like we both share the same feelings for them respectively.”

“That obvious?”

“Hobie once told me that in every universe there's always someone for Spider-Man. So yes, it's obvious.” You give him an empathetic smile. “How'd you know it's the same for me?” For us?

“You talk about him like how I talk about her. Takes one to know one, love.” He holds your hand briefly, like it was acting on an old instinct. “Have you told him? How much you're bloody smitten? I have a feelin’ you haven't.”

You nervously chuckle, hands fiddling with a loose screw on the table. “Nope.”

“Let me guess, waitin’ for the right time? Scared of what would happen in the long run?” He says knowingly.

You don't look him in the eyes. “Yeah.”

Something flashes behind Hobie's eyes, after a beat of silence, he finally speaks. “She died protectin’ my crew, did you know that? She died protectin' me, and how do I thank her? Years of failing, years of fighting and we've only come close but never winning in the end.” Hobie sniffs, head raised to look at the graffiti painted on the ceiling. “If i just told her that I loved her, I would've had more time with her. Instead, I was a coward, all those years wasted because I'm a coward.” Hobie finally looks at you, the warm light from the lamp lights the trapped tears in his eyes. “Don't wait for the right time.”

You shake your head, heart clenching at the sight. “I don't think all those years were wasted. You loved her quietly, and I think she did too. Time spent together isn't wasted, just like your silent love. Love is never wasted.”

He smiles softly, the resemblance of a younger Hobie is etched under the small smile. “You would know.”

“I would know,” you smile back. Trepidation hangs around your neck like a two ton steel necklace. “How would I know that he feels the same way? What if it doesn't work out? Or worse, reject me?”

“His loss,” Hobie grins, a genuine one that you haven't seen this version of him sport. It's the only thing you need for reassurance. “But I highly doubt that will happen.”

Nodding, you feel determination where the heaviness once resided. “I'll tell him when I get back. I promise.” You say wholeheartedly.

“You better, don't make the same choices I did.” Hobie holds your hands like how someone holds a feather, gentle and kind. “At least I got to see her one last time, eh, love? A bit younger but beggars can't be choosers.” You feel something heavy on your wrist. Looking down, you see a working watch. Hobie slyly put it on you, it even has your dimension already keyed in on the screen. You look back at him, mouth slightly agape. “Too much power, that was the problem. Sometimes the easier solution is the best.” You laugh at him using your own words against you.

“Thank you, do me a favour?”

“Tit for tat, huh?”

You giggle, then you face him seriously. “Crush Osborne. Fucking decimate him. Or I'll come back and bring the cavalry.”

Hobie's finger ghosts above the button. “You know where to find me, love.”

“And you know where I am.” You smile as the portal opens behind you. A gust of air breezes past you, eyelashes fluttering in the wind, a kaleidoscope of colors dancing on Hobie's face, illuminating his hopeful eyes. “I'm serious, if you need help—”

He slides his hands away from yours. “Go home, Y/N, your Hobie is lookin' for you.” With the mention of him, you give him one last smile for him to remember. You take a step back and fall back into the portal.

—

You fall unceremoniously on the wet pavement, body crashing on a pile of discarded boxes and metal trash cans. The crashing sound would've startled anybody and would have their attention, but no one seems to pay you mind as everyone stares at the ashy remnants of your flat. Groaning, you slap your forehead because of your stupidity. You feel relieved because you seem to be home. Everything seems to be in place, and everything seems to be normal.

“Fucking idiot.” You whisper breathlessly at the sight of your charred flat. Your relief gets washed away when you see Hobie in his suit kneeling down in agony whilst bystanders watch on in grief. Your eyes flick over to him and back to your flat, then back to him.

His shoulders are shaking, head in his hands, nails digging into his mask. You'd yell his name if not for the crowd. Instead, you walk to him, legs still wobbly but getting steady with every step. Soon enough, before you could make your presence known with your hand reaching for his shoulder, he moves his head so fast that you're afraid that his neck would snap. The eyes of his mask widens, standing up, he grabs you lightning quick.

Arms holding you close, you feel his warmth as he slides his hand to your pulse. Hobie sighs in relief, even laughing as he slots his face in the crook of your neck.

You mirror him, hands kneading on his back, telling him you're back and you're not going anywhere with the simple touch.

“I thought— where—?” he starts, but you press your lips on his cheek. He practically freezes in place even with his mask acting as a barrier.

“I love you,” you confess, just as promised, and truthfully. “I love you—!” In a half second after the words are uttered, he swings you both effortlessly on a rooftop, away from prying eyes.

Hobie steadies you on your feet, mask discarded in a heartbeat. “You mean it?”

“Of course I do.” You don't miss the sight of his tear stained cheeks. Your hands reach for him, thumbs rubbing softly on each cheek. “I love you, Hobie.”

“Good, then you don't mind me doin' this?” The warmth of his hand seeps through his gloves, that won't do, so he takes his gloves off to feel you. His bare hand is on your nape, the other is placed on your waist, fingers tapping on your skin lovingly.

You already know what he's asking. “Nope, not at all—”

With an inhale, he closes the distance, kissing you, taking your breath away.

You've fulfilled your promise.

Support banner by @/cafekitsune

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gingeralecranberry · 1 month ago

Text

CHAPTER 1

𝟐-𝟏 ; 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

AS YOU’RE RIPPING ME TO SHREDS

☺︎ cw:

mentions of death, fighting, canon-typical violence, gojo may be ooc he's a lil bit of a weirdo, sukuna and gojo both deserve their own warnings, scarring, brief mention/description of injuries, Megumi is an edgy teen, that one scene were itadori is chained to that weird ass pole, mentions of executions, semi-graphic descriptions of Sukuna's finger (cause it really is disgusting)

"Under Jujustu regulations, Itadori Yuji, I will exorcize you as a curse!"

Under the shrouded night sky, the moonlight blanketed the scattered chunks of jagged debris strewn across the school rooftop in a soft radiance. The holes in the structure croaked with a melancholy groan, the noise swept away by the sound of the wind. Spiderweb-esque cracks stretched their slender fingers across the concrete, across the pale gray walls, across the splintered siding of the building.

"Wait, really, I'm fine!"

Across the expanse of carnage, the two teenagers stared each other down.

The older of the two boys sat on the far end of the building, laying in a pool of his own blood. Spiky black hair matted to his forehead, both from sweat and his injuries, he raised both his fists in a false circle. The heightened collar on his gakuran cast an intimidating shadow over the lower half of his face, highlighting the kindlings of desperation burning in his muted green eyes.

The younger of the two, a much more spritely and jovial personality, raised both his hands in mock surrender. The pink hair that'd previously been ruffled to stand up nearly straight cascaded down towards his forehead again, the ominous black markings all over his body seemingly being swallowed by the flesh tone of his skin. The sharp black talons on the ends of each finger dissolved, almost as if they'd never been there in the first place.

"More importantly, you and I are both pretty beat up, let's get to a hospital."

Stuck at odds with his logical rationale and his gut feeling, Megumi Fushiguro could feel the familiar feeling of frustration welling up in his throat.

'I can't tell if the one speaking right now is Itadori or the cursed object! Damn it...'

His hands were stationary, still in the same faux circle he'd arranged them in earlier. He hesitated to drop the stance, fearing an ambush.

'...What should I do?!'

In the near deafening silence, both of the combatants failed to notice the presence of a third person on the roof. As if it were just any other day, the new guy waltzed in seemingly without a care.

"What's the situation?"

Fushiguro immediately dropped his hands in favor of whipping around to look behind him, jaw dropping open as his eyes settled on the familiar sight of his teacher. His internal wheel of emotions seemed to spin back and forth between horror, relief, and utter mortification. Eventually, his wheel settled for a nightmare cocktail blessed by all of the above! "Wha... Gojo-sensei?! What are you doing here?!"

Kitted up in his signature gakuran, blindfold, and a bag from the local pastry shop, his white hair stuck up from the pressure of the blindfold on either side of his face.

Leisurely, he greeted his student with a smile, "Hey." He stood idly on the sidelines with his hands shoved in his pockets, "I wasn't planning on coming, but man, you're roughed up..." As though a million dollar idea flashed on a big screen behind his blindfold, a cruel grin ran its way up the man's cheeks, "I should show the second years."

His student grimaced, doing his best to twist his broken body away from the camera. He hissed through gritted teeth, swallowing both his physical AND mental pain in an effort to keep his dignity. Still, Gojo persisted, leaning in close as he began to snap what the Sendai-student assumed were dozens of pictures. "Hahaha! Face this way!"

Itadori could only stand by and watch in what he described as abject horror-fascination.

Eventually, when it seemed the older man got his fill of amusement, he stuffed his phone back into his pocket. "The higher-ups wouldn't shut up with a special-grade cursed object gone missing, so I stopped by while doing some sightseeing." Curiously, he examined the surrounding area through the confines of the black fabric pressed over his eyes. "So, did you find it?"

"..."

The teenagers exchanged glances momentarily.

"Um..."

Oblivious to the situation at hand, Gojo tilted his head to the side, "Hm?"

"I-"

"He ate it."

Collectively, all heads turned towards the voice originating from the huge hole in the concrete wall of the school.

"Huh?"

Quiet footsteps resounded against the desecrated rooftop in the dead silence of the encounter. Peeking from the shadows cast by the ruined architecture, a tall man in strange attire stepped into the low light of the moon. Donning a pair of black hakama pants and a matching plain black haori jacket, he traipsed towards the trio missing the common trepidation one would have when confronting the strongest curse alive.

He raised a finger, matter of factly, "The finger, he ate it."

The two teenagers blinked at him stupidly.

Gojo's posture, on the other hand, straightened with excited recognition, "Sensei!"

'Sensei? That guy barely looks any older!'

Before Itadori could think about it any further, the white-haired teacher disappeared from view before reappearing on the other side of the rooftop. In the blink of an eye, he was already falling into stride alongside the newcomer with an eerily calculated ease. "What are you doing here?"

Still, the stranger paid no mind to the sudden change in position, walking forward at the same measured pace, "It's been 10 years since you graduated Gojo. You don't need to call me Sensei, especially since we're coworkers now."

The other sorcerer hummed, "Well, calling you by your last name feels too formal, but I don't wanna say your first name..." He trailed off, letting the silence hang in the air for an uncomfortably long amount of time.

"..."

Finally, he tacked on, "So... What are you doing here? Did you miss me so much you had to visit? No need to feel embarrassed!"

Fushiguro could feel his nose crinkle in disgust.

'God, he's humiliating.'

Completely unphased, the older man's eyes were still trained forward and locked on target. "When one of Sukuna's fingers goes missing, it doesn't take a genius to figure out the higher-ups are going to panic. I was sent in as back-up." Finally he came to a stop in front of the pink-haired teen in quest, "Itadori, was it?"

"..."

The 15-year-old gulped down a lump of spit, tilting his neck to look up into the other's (eye-color) pupils.

Instead of trying to kill him (like expected), the stranger offered a hand, "(name) (surname), may I?"

"..."

"...Huh?"

"Oh, uh-" The man shook his head, cringing a little at his own lack of decorum, "Sorry, I should probably explain myself first." He retracted his hand in favor of letting it fall to his side again. "I'm a cursed object specialist. Since you swallowed a cursed object, I want to do a quick check to make sure nothing's wrong with you."

"Oh," Yuji murmured, "Yeah... yeah, that's fine."

(name)'s neutral face shifted to a grateful smile, doing a quick visual inspection first.

'No signs of markings... but what are those?'

Without warning, the older man's hand gripped the teen's chin gently, tilting his head to the side to scrutinize the new scarring on his cheekbones.

A moment of silence passed among the group.

Finally, the specialist's arm returned to his side, "Fascinating..." He placed a hand on his chin, sitting on any potential questions before asking, "Does anything feel off with your body?"

The teen glanced over his appendages, looking for any injuries, "Not particularly."

He hummed again, satisfied, "Truly fascinating."

Laying a hand on (name)'s shoulder, Gojo moved his former teacher out of the way before inspecting the teen himself. "Damn, it really did combine with you... That's hilarious!" He trailed off, continuing to scan the composition of the teen's newly concocted and brewed cursed energy. There seemed to be a particularly mischievous idea forming in his head, indicated by the curling of his lips. "Say, can you swap out with Sukuna?"

Itadori blinked, "Sukuna?"

Gojo nodded, "The curse you ate."

The teen paused, "Oh... Yeah, I think I can do that."

Upon being given the greenlight, the white-haired menace started to stretch. Rolling his shoulders and squatting to open up his legs he continued, "Then give us ten seconds."

Megumi opened his mouth to voice protest, but (name) simply shook his head in response.

The teacher righted his posture, shaking out his arms, "Once ten seconds are up, come back to us."

Seemingly already familiar with the danger pertaining to the entity inside him, the younger teen also seemed hesitant to comply, "But..."

Immediately, he was cut off, "Don't worry. I'm the strongest." Upon seeing the boy's shoulders relax a little, he called over his shoulder. "Megumi."

Fushiguro gave a small grunt in response.

"Hold on to this."

Despite tossing it to his student, (name) ended up catching the bag in one hand and shifting to wedge himself between Megumi and where the fight was going to take place.

Fushiguro's eyes trailed up to the bag, gesturing towards it with his less injured arm, "What is that?"

"Kikufuku from Kikusuian!" As if he wasn't about to go up against the King of Curses, Gojo smiled eagerly and started to make over the top gestures with his hands as he spoke, "It's Sendai's speciality, and it's super good. I personally recommend the zunda and cream flavor!"

Quietly, the eldest of the four released a tired sigh, holding the twine straps in one hand. Megumi, though, narrowed his eyes, mumbling a rather pissed off, "This guy actually went and bought souvenirs when people were out here dying...!"

As Gojo went on to argue about the specifics of his souvenir shopping with his student, (name) closed his eyes, allowing the thrum of cursed energy to trace the outlines of his feet where they connected with the ground. Despite having fought special grade curses as a special grade sorcerer, the man still hadn't ever faced such... malicious decadence twisted into the very source of the energy itself.

Undoubtedly, the King of Curses was only a handful of yards away.

Then he wasn't.

Megumi's body surged forward in alarm, "Behind you!"

His teacher paid his cry no mind, wagging a finger at him with a hand on his hip, "Kikufuku's not like other souvenirs-"

The large cloud of dust exploded from what little remained of the concrete floor, brushing against your closed eyelids. As if tapping into your third eye, the outline of the battlefield appeared like a blueprint before the expanse of darkness in your head...

...two large husks of cursed energy gave particularly strong outlines.

"--And the whipped cream inside is simply exquisite."

You fanned away some of the aftershocks of the explosion with your hand, opening your eyes.

Not even a foot in front of you, the Ryomen Sukuna was hunched over... with your former student perched on his back.

The curse gave an angry laugh, immediately weaving to strike Gojo again. He wasn't expecting the man to match his pace, ducking and sliding out of the way with every fist that came soaring his direction. Eventually, instead of dodging, the man parried, sending the Curse hurtling through the air to the other end of the rooftop.

Another plume of dust flew up like a smoke wall, obscuring the King from view.

"My student's watching, so I'm going to show off a little."

Ah... something about hearing his own former student saying that made a little memory in the recesses of (name)'s heart flutter with bittersweet nostalgia. He remembered when he would've done the same thing.

Oh, to be young and stupid.

With something akin to a groan, Sukuna advanced again.

'He's unbelievably fast? No, that's not it.'

The two met midair, the curse finding itself on the receiving end of a fist straight to the face. Once agaain thrown nearly head first into the decaying building, he clicked his tongue in annoyance, just barely managing to correct his footing before landing, "For crying out loud... You jujutsu sorcerers are always trouble, no matter the era!"

Following his proclamation, he leapt into the air, bringing his wrath down onto the roof where his opponent stood. Before he could make contact with the floor however, it seemed the concrete hardened and reinforced itself with an electrifying concentration of cursed energy. Two of his four eyes glanced to the source, widening.

'That volume of cursed energy... and yet it doesn't feel as though he has any.'

(name) stood to the side, hands behind his back. His eyes were, once again, closed.

"Seven... Eight... Nine..."

Sukuna let out an exasperated growl, chest heaving with the excessive exertion.

"Should be time."

Instantaneously, all muscle control seemed to slip through the curse's fingers like sand through a sieve. Any attempt to grasp at motor function only served for it to escape him quicker.

'Damn it... Again? I can't take over. Who the hell is this... Itadori... brat?'

(name) peeled his eyes open, enamored as he recollected his cursed energy from the environment. He watched the malevolent aura of the King dwindle and dwindle until it was no more than a blot of the outline of Itadori's soul.

The teen's body slowly returned to normality, tattoos and nails regressing to that of the average human. The eyes on the side of his head closed into scars once again, "Oh, was everything okay?"

From the heart of the explosion, the remaining sorcerer sauntered back over the group. Gojo gave a lopsided smirk at the sight, looking over Itadori again with his Six Eyes. "I'm shocked. You really can control it!"

The pink-haired teen nodded, hitting at the side of his head with furrowed brows, "He's kind of annoying though, I can hear his voice."

(name) hummed, "That's to be expected when you're a vessel."

The other teacher expressed his own agreement, "It's a miracle that's all he's doing."

Just like the cursed object specialist had done earlier, when Gojo approached and outstretched his hand towards Yuji's face, the highschooler didn't pay any mind. This time however, when two fingers made contact with his forehead, something didn't quite feel right. With maybe a millisecond to register the strange sensation, his eyelids started to droop. Fighting to keep them open, he made a noise between alarm and discomfort, instantaneously confronted with the creeping, rapidly expanding feeling of his body turning to lead.

"What did you do?"

The youngest of the four crumbled, chin unceremoniously knocking on the sorcerer's sturdy shoulder.

"Knocked him out," he rearranged the Sendai student's body to drape across his back. "If he isn't possessed by Sukuna when he wakes up, he might have potential as a vessel. Now, Megumi, I have a question for you."

"..."

"What should we do with him?"

(name) grimaced, watching the uncomfortable bend of the teenager's spine over the curvature of the other man's back.

Like the responsible kid he was, Fushiguro ruminated on his thoughts before he made a final decision. It was almost as though his eyes reflected each and every one of the potential outcomes while his brain parsed through the best and worst what-if scenarios.

"Even if he is a vessel, Jujutsu regulations demand Itadori be executed."

The cursed object specialist hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath the entire time he observed the first-year. Whether out of interest or apathy, he couldn't tell. Still, he offered a small sigh.

"...However,"

(name) paused.

Fushiguro's eyes met Gojo's, piercing through him with a thousand-yard stare, intense and packed with conviction, "I don't want to let him die."

"..."

His teacher's lips peeled back into a coy smile, "Personal feeling?"

The young man nodded, completely resolute in his decision, "Yes. Please do something about this."

His teacher's smile only grew wider, a single hand reaching up to brush through his untamed white hair with a quiet snicker, "Now it's a request from a precious student... Leave it to me."

"Wait."

Teacher and student whipped around to the other man situated just a few feet away.

The man cleared his throat, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed that all attention was situated squarely on his shoulders.

"..."

"...Let me carry him, Satoru."

"..."

A breeze drifting by was seemingly swept up in the silence that wrapped up the destroyed rooftop like a blanket.

There was a snort.

Then Gojo broke out into laughter.

(name)'s cheeks sprouted a flustered pink hue, extending from the roots to fan the flame over his nose and cheekbones. "You're holding him like a sack of potatoes," He averted eye contact, looking towards the waning moon, "he's already going to be sore after being thrown around like a ragdoll, I thought I would at least spare him the unnecessary back pain."

The sorcerer, despite his blindfold, made the motion of wiping a fake tear from his eye as his boisterous laugh echoed into a near silent chuckle. He took another deep breath, resting his hand on his stomach, "Always so doting to students... I wonder where all that was when you were teaching me."

Fushiguro felt like he wanted to vomit.

'God, he's so fucking cringe.'

"But... the recap and current events don't line up."

The room was dark, its only challenger being the gentle light offered by a generous collective of candles haphazardly stationed around the gloomy chamber. While their burning wax dripped onto the dirty concrete floor, the flame dancing at the end of each wick revealed the hundreds--thousands--of sigils and talismans looming above. The pages, yellowed with age, acted like impromptu wallpaper. A few corners beginning to peel, a few ink-stained fingerprints on others, the imperfections in the calligraphy didn't stifle the atmosphere in the slightest. The energy seeping in from the unknown, shadowy corners of the room was suffocating.

“Hey, I did my best.”

Sitting with his front pressed against the back of a plain wooden chair, Gojo observed the teenager through his blindfold. His Six Eyes traced over the intricacies of newfound cursed energy, almost mesmerized by the twisting, turning, warping of the two souls manifested in his singular body. He rested his forearm against the back of his seat, “The execution’s still on, but I managed to get your sentence suspended.”

“Suspended?”

Itadori sat flat on the ground, leaning against the room’s singular pillar. Large, steel manacles weighed heavy on his wrists. The chains that bound his cuffs to the room’s far wall were thick like pythons. Wrapping around the pillar like a pair of constrictors, they criss-crossed over one another in an x before melding into their respective anchors.

“So you’re not killing me right away?”

Staring into Gojo’s blindfold felt weird and unnatural, but the teen didn’t really have any other options.

“Yup,” The man would be the one to break eye contact first, maneuvering to reach into his gakuran’s pocket, “I’ll explain it from the top.”

His slender hand returned with something that looked very familiar. He presented the object proudly, holding it up in front of Itadori’s expectant face. “This is the same as the cursed object you ate.”

Amber eyes raked over the grotesque appendage. Ugly, wrinkly purple skin scrunched around the knuckles in an uncanny manner that sent uncomfortable tingles down Yuji’s spine. The texture was only made worse by the lack of a clean cut, bits of flesh left hanging off the finger. Being this close to it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“There are twenty in total. We currently possess six.”

Looking at it was like watching an accident. It was deeply disturbing but it retained this all powerful magnetic quality that made it near impossible to look away.

“Twenty?”

Fighting his compulsion to stare, Itadori made eye contact with the sorcerer sitting in front of him, “Each finger and toe?”

Gojo’s smile only grew wider and more unsettling in the low light, “No, Sukuna has four arms.”

Without a heads up, the older man tossed the cursed object into the air. In the nanosecond it took the Sendai Student to glance at the sudden movement, an abundance of cursed energy crackled to life like electricity. It snapped like a whip, launching the finger in a cloud of smoke.

“...”

“...As you can see, we can’t destroy them. The curse is just that powerful.”

The boy’s jaw hung open like the fat koi fish in the pond he’d pass on the way home. Staring at the fresh crater in the previously unblemished wall of talisman, he failed to notice the teacher standing up from his seat.

Delicately plucking the curse from the steaming indentation he’d lovingly branded into the side of the room, he sauntered back over to his wooden chair. Completely relaxed, his airy lilt carried through the room, “The curse grows stronger every day, and the seals of modern-day jujutsu sorcerers just can’t keep up.”

Tucking the finger back into his pocket, he threw his leg over the wooden seat, “That’s where you come in.”

Finally closing his mouth, the teenager blinked at him.

“...Huh?”

“You see, when you die, the curse inside you dies as well.” Dramatically, the sorcerer slumped forward with a sigh, “Our elders are total cowards, you know? They’re demanding we kill you right away.”

“...”

Gojo pursed his lips, “But that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?”

Itadori cocked his head to the side, struggling to process the clusterfuck of information he had unceremoniously dumped onto his unsuspecting lap, “A waste?”

Resting the side of his face against his palm with an awkwardly cheerful ‘mhm!’, the white-haired stranger went on, “There’s no guarantee another vessel capable of handling Sukuna will ever be born again, so this is what I proposed,” he held up a pointer finger, waving it around to punctuate his statement, “If we’re going to kill you anyway… why not kill you after you’ve absorbed ALL of Sukuna?”

“...”

Gojo crossed his arms over the back of his wooden perch, offering a non committal hum, “It took a lot of convincing, and Sensei had to pitch in, but eventually, the higher-ups agreed… so now you have two options before you.”

Staring into the blank darkness of the black blindfold, Itadori finally seemed to notice how dry the inside of his mouth was.

“You can either die right now…”

He swallowed.

“…or you can find all the parts of Sukuna and die after you’ve absorbed them.”

JAZMIN BEAN : FAVORITE TOY

☺︎ taglist:

@angelkazusstuff @ahoeindeedinneed @wutap @mysouleaten @ilovebattinson @satansdaughter123

masterlist ☓

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just-some-random-blogger · 1 year ago

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Safe Keeping | 5

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6

What say you, lady? Don't you think the Hound would make a fine husband? He would protect you, yes, and you would bear him many babes." I curtsy again but this time, my voice falters when I speak, "I- I think he would," I turn to my left, "Lord Sandor would make a fine husband... a fine father."

Sandor Clegane x Reader | 6k+ | cw: fem!reader, mentions/depictions of injury/violence/death/trauma, forced marriage, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, miscommunication, baby fever, fluff!, typos, etc.

A/N: i said i'd end this on p5 but i think i'll be ending at p7 HAHHAH lol originally posted on ao3 but felt like posting it on here

Tagging: @otteropera @poisonsage808 @glitterandgoldfinds @the-queen-of-sorrows @minttea07 @fluffpudel @j3nn-1

I suck in a sharp breath as I rouse due to the sound of groaning. I sit up from my bed and vaguely hear mewling.

I light the oil lamp by the bedside table and wipe my face, "Sandor?"

I inspect his face but realize he is turned away from me. He is laid on his chest on the edge-most part of the other side of the bed.

He lets out a shaky breath. He sounds like he'd been running when he finally speaks, "fine."

I knit my brows and swivel on my knees. I move to his side and hear his heavy breathing. I ghost a hand over the blankets covering him, "is it your back?"

He hisses shakily, "sss- m'fine!"

I slowly take the blanket in hand and pull it down.

"F-fi-"

The white bounds on his back are bloody red. "You're bleeding."

"Fine," he whispers.

I get up from the bed and run out of the bedroom. I immediately head for maester Yannick's room and knock on his door. The moment the door opens, I tell him Sandor's wounds are bleeding. We immediately go back to our room.

Sandor mutters he's fine as the maester inspects him. He mutters it even though no one is speaking. To say I am worried is a deep understatement.

"His wound has festered," Yannick declares.

A line forms between my brows as Yannick walks off and Sandor continues to mutter he's fine. I follow after him, "what are we to do?"

"We need to burn his wound to stop it from festering any further."

I clench my teeth at the thought.

"Worry not, my lady," he says, "I will give him something for the pain."

I sigh, "is there not another way?" I think about his facial scar, "he's been burned once."

Yannick offers me a look, "yes," he sighs, "but this one is necessary for his health, Lady Clegane."

I walk back to my bedroom to prepare Sandor as maester Yannick prepares the things he will use.

I go to the side of the bed. I kneel in front of the Hound, "my lord."

"M'fine."

I make a face at the sight of the sweat permeating around his forehead and neck. I brush his hair back, "maester Yannick says your wound is festering."

"F-fine-"

"He says we have to burn your wound to stop it from-"

I jolt back when he screams, "NO!"

I fall on my butt and look back at him as he pushes himself up to stand.

"NO FUCKING FIRE!" he growls as he gets on his feet. I half expect him to walk away, I half expect him to do something to me, instead he just stands there. He looks at me then screws his eyes shut, "no fire."

He lets out a deep breath and I stand. I freeze a second when I see him reach out to me. He quickly withdraws his hand when I get on my feet.

"Sandor," I step closer, "if we don't do this, your wounds are--"

"I don't like fire!" he quips.

We stand there in silence.

Maester Yannick walks in with a tray. He looks at his lord and motions with his head, "you needn't stand for this. Please, lie back-"

"NO FIRE!" he snaps, turning around.

The old man stops in his tracks.

The Hound turns to him, and when he does, I get a view of the blood on his back. I make a face, "Sandor."

He looks back at me when I take his arm.

His expression is so unlike him. He looks at me in a way I've never seen before. His eyes stare back at me with the same intensity his scar had in this moment. I feel my throat tighten, "I know this... this procedure makes you feel... hesi-"

"Scared."

My jaw drops. My ears ring at the sound of the word. I step forward and grip both of his arms. My eyes widen in concern and my brows furrow, "Sandor."

"Don't make me do this," he whispers.

My breath hitches when he grips my arms with trembling hands. My eyes dart to maester Yannick, "is there another way, maester?"

Yannick stares at me for a moment and sighs, "I could remove the puss and change the dressings of his wounds, but I fear it might seep through his lungs. We would be risking his life."

I turn back to Sandor, "would you rather risk that?"

He closes his eyes.

Before he can think to answer, I do, "I would not."

He opens his eyes.

I make a sound when I see how his eyes watered. I get on my tip toes and take his cheeks in my hand, "we'll give you something for the pain."

"Yes, my lord," maester Yannick walks towards the bed and places his tray there. He grabs the ewer and the cup on it and hands it to Sandor, "you may have as much as you desire."

"I don't want to do this," he tightens his grip on me and pulls me closer. This is when I realize he was trembling all over.

"Sandor."

He chokes out a sob, "don't make me do this."

"San-" I cut myself off with a gasp.

He drops to his knees and wraps his arms around my waist. He sinks his face into my belly and muffles out, "please."

I bring my hands up in shock, extremely unsure of what to do. I turn to maester Yannick for guidance. He frowns, "my lord, please. We understand your fear. What we wish to do is meant to help you however. We want to help you get better."

Sandor cries into my nightgown.

I finally bring my hands down. I brush his hair back, "it's alright," I hush, "I am here for you, my love. I want to keep you safe. Believe me."

He presses his cheek against me and pulls me closer. I feel his fingers dig into my flesh, "don't make me do it."

I look at maester Yannick. He looks back at me. I sigh, "Lord Clegane does not want to go through with it."

"But my lady-"

"Perhaps he will change his mind in the morning, maester," I raise a hand, "we did take him off-guard."

Yannick sighs. He nods, "of course."

I feel Sandor look up at me. I look down at him and brush his hair back, "will you at least let him change your wounds?"

Sandor stares at me for a long moment before nodding. I nod back and slowly pull away from him.

Maester Yannick undoes Sandor's bandages and I offer him milk of the poppy. He takes a cup from me, and downs it.

Just before he's about to get rewrapped, he turns to Yannick, "wait."

The maester looks down at the kneeled man.

"Will you burn my whole back?"

"Just the worst gash, my lord. There is a large one and a small one."

Sandor turns to me, "I'll do it."

I nod and smile at him.

"But only if you'll hold me," he reaches out a hand.

I nod quicker and take his hand, "of course."

Sandor immediately rips me into him and buries his face into my belly again. He mumbles, "be done with it."

Maester Yannick prepares his tools in haste.

I stroke his head and sing him a lullaby, the one that was sung to me when I was scared. I whisper in between the lyrics, "it'll be alright."

He shudders hotly against me.

Sandor remained kneeled the entire time. He did not make a sound when his wounds were being burned. All he did was embrace me for dear life and sink his face into my side.

When it was done, he would not let me go nor let maester Yannick bind his wounds. He only let up when I promised him he could hold me again after.

And right after he was wrapped up, he stood up and nearly flung himself onto the bed where I had been sitting. He grabs me and begs to hold me until we sleep. I warily wrap my arms around him, making sure not to hit his wounds, and whisper, "you can hold me for as long as you want, my lord."

He lets out a shaky breath, "thank you."

My eyes flutter open. I turn to other side of the bed. Though it's been a three days now, it's still a wonder to see him beside me when I wake. It gave me a strange sense of joy to be around him. I figured it was due to the safety I felt in his presence. I tried not to think about it too much, nor dwell on the fact he's been sleeping in, for I knew it would be short lived.

He hadn't been able to do much for the past days. He was still a long way from recovering from his injuries. Maester Yannick said it would take at least another week for him to be able to walk around again. He got rather dizzy when he did right now.

And as horrible as it is to say, I liked him like this. He could not fight me, for he had no energy to, I didn't have to worry about him, for he was stationed nearby, and I felt no guilt in speaking to him about issues of our house, because he had no choice but to listen if he wanted to be filled in, which he did.

The Hound is flat on his chest, cheek pressed against a pillow, hair covering his face.

I sit up and pull the blanket down, checking his bandages, finding they were exactly how maester Yannick had kept them last night.

Satisfied, I get out of bed and go about my day.

I break fast with Lucy then begin daily rounds of seeing the people. Many of them came to speak out their concerns for their houses, which had been affected by the recent storm, and many others came to give their regards to Lord Clegane for what he has done for them. They were so gracious in giving food and herbs for his recovery.

You can then imagine the stir that happened when the Hound, himself, walked in the room. I nearly jump from my spot when I see him. I dash over and grab his arms, "what's wrong?!"

"LORD CLEGANE!"

"MILORD!"

"MILORD HOUND!"

"Thanks the gods!"

Sandor does not know where to look. He darts back and forth between me and the people calling out to him. His lips twitch, "I'm leaving."

My heart leaps into my mouth. I release him, "what?"

"I'm going outside Brown Wood."

I immediately feel like I'm being choked, "what? Where are you going?" I knit my brows deeply. I feel hurt by his words because it sounds like he means to leave me. Soon enough, irrational rage rises up my stomach. Was he trying to make a scene? Was he trying to upset me in front of everyone?

The Hound's face contorts in confusion, "just outside for a walk..." he peers his eyes up and looks at the faces of the people in the room. He looks back at me, "have they upset you?"

I drop my expression. I clear my throat and shake my head. I step back, "no, I- ... you shouldn't be walking around."

"What good is a caged hound to a pretty squirrel?" he asks.

"You're not caged," I snap and shake my head, "you're in bed rest so to regain your strength!"

I stiffen where I stand when he steps forward and takes my hand. He rubs my knuckles with his thumb then cocoons my one hand in both of his. It was so tiny in his grip. My heart races.

"Do not wait up for me. I want to walk to the Sterling River. With my pace now, it will take me the whole day."

I scowl at his words. How treacherous of him to speak them so softly. I feel a line form between my brows. I shake my head, "if I cannot tell you what to do, you cannot tell me what to do," I pull my hand out of his grip.

I turn away from him, "if you must go, then go. Do not be foolish enough to injure yourself any more than you already have."

Sandor stiffens. He feels embarrassed. He deflates and bows, "no, my lady."

When I look back at him, he is slowly making himself out of his room. I wipe my face in frustration.

Sandor makes his way out of the estate.

He's now walking down the path by the edge of the forest. He finds himself wondering if his wife would mourn him if he was killed by a monster on his walk.

He freezes when he hears a whine by the thicket. He reaches for his hilt.

"Fuck."

He didn't bring his sword.

Sandor stills when a whining sound catches his ears. His instinct to rip his sword out is futile for he had no sword to draw. When his initial reaction of shock and agitation settled, he spots something moving in the bushes.

He bends down as he walks towards the sound. Whatever worry he felt melted away because he soon identified the whimpers as nonthreatening, judging by how high-pitched they were. He gets lower and reaches out to the foliage once he's close. He pushes the bushes apart and sees 3 pups huddled together, spooked by the sudden intrusion.

They run deeper into the bush. That's when he spots a large dog. He pulls away, not expecting to see it. He was glad he saw before it lunged.

It takes him a good few seconds to realize the thing wasn't going to move at all because it was dead.

Sandor sighs.

He doesn't think, he just acts. He looks over his shoulder; he could barely see Brown Wood. He really doesn't want to go back and so he walks off, looks for soft soil, gets on his knees, and begins to dig with his hands. The action is hard on his back, but image of Daisy at the front of his mind won't let him stop.

He was covered in dirt and sweat when he finished. He huffs as he gets up. He goes back to the bushes and grabs the mother first. It was apparent now that she was likely attacked by an animal its size or a bit larger, maybe a fox, a wolf, or even a small bear, judging by the bite mark. Her body was already rigid. He tries not to compare her to Daisy too much.

The pups bark their head off as their mother is taken away from them. Sandor moves as quickly as he can in his state and puts the dog in the grave. He comes back for the puppies and takes them in his arms before covering the grave; he does so with his feet, pushing the dirt into the hole.

Sandor looks at the three pups in his arms. He makes himself believe the dog saved all her babies, that she did not lose one or two and died anyway. He makes himself believe she died knowing all her pups were safe.

He examines his surroundings and spots a blueberry. He stands still for a moment as the puppies in his hands begin to realize their yapping was for naught. Sandor nods, "I'll take care of your pups, Blueberry."

With that, he walks away.

He looks at the warm creatures in his arms. They were all long and dark coated with floppy ears. He wonders how they ended up in the forest. He wonders if they were abandoned. He begins to get angry at the thought.

He huffs and decides to think nothing of it. It wasn't like he could do anything about it anyway. He busies himself instead with thinking of names.

Then he stops.

Literally.

His feet plant him in his place as he wonders if it would even be alright to bring the pups back home with him. His wife, after all, was still mourning the one she lost.

Sandor's face contorts.

He proceeds to then think of the fact that even if she did want a dog, she probably wouldn't want one from him.

The realization stings more than his back did. He sniffles and begins to walk.

He stops again when he's just outside the gates. He knows it's a matter of time before that stable boy, Polly, comes out. He swears that kid could smell him, and ya know, maybe he could.

Sandor finds himself walking to the garden to Daisy. He looks down at the growing daisy bush and sighs, "what do you think, girl? Should I give these pups to the villagers instead?"

He notices the puppies were beginning to fall asleep.

"You actually miss 'er?"

Sandor looks over his shoulder.

Lucy is walking up to him, looking at him like she couldn't believe he cared for Daisy. Yet there was something in her eyes that said otherwise. She crosses her arms, "you shouldn't be walking around, worrying milady like this."

Sandor sighs and looks away. He looks at the lone flower bud before him, "you think she'd feel better if I gave her a gift?"

"What?"

Sandor turns, and in turn, reveals to her the puppies.

Lucy's face falls. She unclasps her arms.

Sandor is filled with dread because of her expression. He shakes his head, "tell her you found these puppies," he hands them to her.

Lucy takes the small creatures, unable to do anything else really, and gives Sandor a look as he continues, "tell her you want to find them homes. If she wants to keep one, good, if she doesn't... well, good as well."

Lucy makes a sound as the puppies stir in her arms. She shushes them as she watches the Hound walk away. She knits her brows when he sees his dirty hands. She looks down at the pups, wondering where her lord found them. She's about to call out to him to ask, up until the little boy, Polly, runs up to her and gleefully cheers, "PUPPIES!"

When Maester Yannick and I finished hearing the last concern for the day, tis I that began to complain to him. It's mostly empty complaints about exhaustion, but he takes it all rather seriously.

Yannick was a sweet old man. His scrawny body and sunken cheeks do not deter him from looking otherwise. He barely had any hair left on his head and yet I would say he was still a handsome elder.

He leads me into the ward to give me another dose of the herbs and medicines I had been consuming as of late.

"This will help you relax," he hands me a cup of tea, "and it is also known to help increase fertility."

I offer him an apprehensive smile as I take the cup from him.

He watches me drink it and sighs, "have you talked to Lord Sandor about it yet?"

I take a sip before I ask, "about me taking tea that aids conception?"

"About how he got on his knees and held you to calm himself," he walks off to clear his table.

I watch the old man fix his things and begin to pace around the room as I drink from my cup. I sigh, "I was too upset about him announcing he would leave for there to be any other conversation."

I stare at my tea as I wait for the maester to rebuke me for doing that. When he doesn't, I turn to him. He walks off to put his herbs away.

"Aren't you going to tell me off, maester?"

"Mmm, perhaps it was uncalled for, objectively speaking," he spares me a glance, "one cannot make any sound or good judgements under a haze of anger," he continues tidying his stuff, "but sometimes we cannot help it. Didn't you tell me he's done that to you many times over?"

He looks back at me, expecting an answer.

I nod.

He shrugs and looks away, "an eye for an eye." Yannick finishes his task, "in fact, you're owed much more eyes, my dear."

I cannot help the chuckle that leaves me. The old man walks over to me, chuckling himself. I smile at him, "I don't want either of us to end up blind."

He smiles back, "and that's what makes a lady different from a hound," he motions, "drink up."

I press my lips into a line. I set my cup down, "Yannick-"

"MILADY!"

Both of us turn to the door just as Lucy bursts in. She grins from ear to ear as she runs inside with three puppies in her arms.

"Lucy!" I gasp, "what have you-"

"IT'S A GIFT!" she excitedly comes up to me. The puppies whine as she hands them to me.

I really was about to protest, but then they begin to lick my face. I am too shocked to do anything but look away in hopes they don't lick my lips or eyes.

Lucy gasps, "sorry, milady," she reaches for them, "I just fed them and they got really rambunctious."

"That's why they smell like that," I mutter.

She takes two from me but stops getting the last one when I begin to laugh. Lucy's lips part and eyes widen. That was a sound she has not heard in a long time.

Maester Yannick takes one of the puppies for himself and immediately chuckles the tiny creature.

I coo at the dark brown colored pup and lightly scratch its round belly, "where on earth did you find these pups, Lucy?"

"Milord wanted you to 'ave 'em."

I blink and freeze.

Lucy shakes her head as she cuddles the pupper in her arms. The maester and I look at her, taken aback by her admission.

She continues, "but 'e told me not to tell you it was from him, and I can't make 'ead or tail as to why."

"He told you not to tell me it was from him?" I furrow my brows.

"Aye. He wanted me to say that it was I that found the pups," Lucy purses her lips, "I couldn't shake that there was something ill about it, so I had Polly-boy go pester his master."

"And what did Polly say?" maester Yannick asks.

"Polly said he told him to go fuck off but eventually the 'ound told him he found the pups in the forest," Lucy kisses the puppy, "their mum was dead so he buried her and took the pups for safe keepin'."

I raise my brows.

Lucy looks at me, "he did that for you. He probably hates the fact he had to kill Daisy."

My cheek twitches, "had to kill Daisy?"

I knit my brows tightly when Lucy speaks my name. I huff as she continues, "I told you what I saw that day our dog was buried. He was heart broken about Daisy. I wasn't just seeing things. It was real."

The puppy in my hand begins to wrangle out of my grip. I put the small thing down and take a deep breath as I straighten up. Yannick and Lucy stare at me.

Upon seeing their sibling on the floor, the other puppies begin to wrangle out of their captors' hands, and soon enough, there are three puppies exploring the ward and playing with each other.

Yannick begins to run after them.

Lucy takes my arm.

I look at her as I feel hot confliction coil up in my belly. I feel the corner of my lips pull downward.

"I can't believe I would be to one to tell you... but I think he cares for you. Truly. Milord wants to do good by you."

The thought overwhelms me. It makes me sick to my stomach. I huff through my nostrils, "Lucy."

"I wouldn't lie to you, milady."

I feel my chest tighten as I look at her.

She rubs my arm.

"No you wouldn't."

She nods.

"I should speak with him."

Lucy nods faster and releases me.

My head was spinning with a thousand thoughts as I walked out of the ward and began looking for Sandor. I search all over for him and end up being told by Polly that he was in our bedroom, and that he had just been there helping his lord change his bandages.

I immediately make my way to the bedroom and halt before the door. I suck in a breath for courage and walk inside.

"Sandor?"

I step into the room and spot a body laid on the bed. I repeat, "Sandor."

He says nothing.

I go up to his side and see him sprawled on his chest. I press my lips as I inspect the handiwork of him and the boy. They did a pretty good job. I gently run my fingertips down the bandages on his back and then cover him with the blankets. I look at his face and watch him exhale. He looked peaceful.

I catch myself reaching out to his face just before I can touch his scar. I pull my hand away and mutter, "sleep well, puppy."

I walk out of the room.

Sandor opens his eyes and watches.

It took me a whole day to decide what to call the new members of the Clegane clan, and I settled with Rose, Lilac, and Sage, keeping them on theme with Daisy's name.

Rose was the biggest of the three, which was why I assume she's the oldest of the pack. She was really excitable and loved roughhousing with her siblings.

Lilac was second in size. She was also the loudest, as she made it a point to bark at literally everything that moved, including herself.

Sage was the smallest and lone boy of the group. For what he lacked in size, excitability, and vocal prowess, he made up for affection. He was the sweetest boy in the whole world and loved snuggling with his sisters, and with any person wanting to hold him.

I had let them sleep in our bedroom, in a basket with blankets, but then I realized it was not the best idea as I was awoken by three puppies barking for my attention.

I had no choice but to attend to them. I was glad Sandor was a heavy sleeper, and slightly envious of him in all honesty.

Envy aside, I didn't regret waking up though, as the pups and I spent the entire early morning together. We ate together, played together, and when they tired out, they sprawled on my belly as I read in the living area. I was now halfway through my book.

I straighten up when I hear a gruff voice speak up.

"Mornin'."

I watch as Sandor walks over while scratching his eye. I raise my brows when it dawns that he going to sit beside me. I begin to panic, "Sandor- my lord- I-" I scoop the puppies closer to me and quip, "good morn."

Sandor comes in front of me then stops when he sees the puppies. He stares at them for a moment then looks at me. He parts his lips then points, "where..."

I look down at he puppies. I look up at him and begin to tense under his gaze, "hmm?"

Sandor drops his finger and blinks rapidly for a moment. His lips twitch, "where'd you find those... fucks?"

I furrow my brows tightly, "what?"

The Hound clenches his jaws and whispers, "where'd you find the fucking puppies?"

I raise a brow in confusion of his words. Was he... pretending to be cross? Is he actually about to act like these puppies where not the ones he chose to save in the forest?

I open my mouth, "Lucy... Lucy gave them to me..."

The Hound makes a sound and speaks with no conviction, "keep them in line."

I tilt my head and slowly push the puppies off me. I do my best not to rattle them, as they were on the precipice of falling asleep.

Sandor watches me as I gently move them off my lap. He instinctively reaches out to me. I look at his hand, confused and curious, then slowly take it. He helps me stand up. I am wholly puzzled. Do I look like I need help standing from my seat?

I call out his name with uncertainty.

He speaks mine in a tender manner.

I look at our joined hands. His hand is massive, rough, and warm against mine. I wonder why he hasn't let me go. My body burns when he rubs my knuckles. I stutter, "a-are you al-right?"

I finally look at Sandor. He was already looking at me. I catch how his lips twitch. He releases a deep breath, "I am," he cocks his head side to side, "my back is still fucked up."

I turn to our joined hands again.

He finally releases me, as if he'd forgotten he was holding me in the first place. He wipes his hand on his trousers. He clears his throat then wipes his face.

I am baffled when his ears begin to grow red. I knit my brows, "did you need something from me, husband?"

Sandor freezes. He clenches his fists. He points behind him. He stares at me for a moment, finding the words to say. He opens his mouth then closes it. He looks at the puppies then lowers his hand. He closes his mouth then huffs through his nostrils.

I raise my brows, "is it something in the bedroom?"

"If... I..." Sandor starts, "it's just my back."

I nod and look at him expectantly.

"I... I need help... changing."

I straighten up and furrow my brows, "are you going to leave ag-"

"No," he quickly blurts, "I'm going to continue training those scrawny boys. It's been too long since the last time I did."

I relax at his words. I tilt my head, "why do you have to change?" I eye his dress shirt and pants, "is this uncomfortable to train in?"

Sandor mirrors my head tilt, "... I figured I... should dress like a lord."

"You are dressed like a lord," I shake my head, "you are a lord."

Sandor takes a moment to respond. When he does, he speaks softly again, "I'm normally in my armor when I train them because I'd go on rounds after."

I part my lips in realization of his sentiment. It was a matter of his pride. I'm about to tell him I will help him dress, but he dismisses the thought altogether.

"It's probably better for my back not to wear something so constricting anyway," Sandor says.

With not another word, he turns around and walks away.

"Wait!"

He immediately stops and looks back at me, "yes?"

I realize then what I've just done. I am overcome with embarrassment for I really had nothing to say, "I just... Forgive me. I was taken aback by... how you just walked away."

Sandor visibly tenses.

I smile at him, raise my hand, and stop him before he speaks, "it's alright. It's my mistake."

"It's not," he retorts. He turns to his feet and back to me. He shrugs, "I'm just an arsehole."

Taken off guard, I chortle. I slap my hand on my mouth and clear my throat, "I beg your pard-"

"S'fine," he speaks through a breath, "it's funny cos it's true."

He and I look at each other for a moment. I notice how his lips curved upward.

I rub my arms when I begin to feel the weight of his gaze.

"I'll be... going then," he says.

I gulp and step forward, "may I watch you?"

He blinks.

I bite my lip in agitation.

"You want to watch?"

I slowly shrug, "the book I'm reading is not very interesting."

Sandor turns to the couch, looking at the dogs sleeping next to said not-very-intresting book. He looks back at me with a solemn expression, "I'd never be one to deny you."

My stomach drops at his words.

He cautiously motions with his head then walks off. I follow after him.

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stareaterau · 1 year ago

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Chapter 1 episode 1

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Let's start with a familiar face, shall we!

CW: violence And the mention of blood and injury

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The heat is unbearable. Scar wakes, wheezing out a hot breath that circles in his sealed helmet, fogged by the last of his moisture. A building headache pulses behind his eyes. He reaches up to rub the soreness out, but his gloves clank uselessly against the visor. He blinks, squinting through the harsh light. His first instinct is to rip the helmet off for the relief of fresh air, but as his eyes adjust, he doubts it’ll make a difference.

He’s in a desert. The dusty and cracked ground stretches all the way to the horizon. Nothing about this place feels familiar, in fact, the bright orange gradients in the sand look alien. He has no way of telling if the air here is breathable, and though it’s tempting, testing it isn’t worth the risk. The sheer lack of life in the landscape certainly doesn’t bode well in that regard.

He tries to think back to how he got here, but there’s nothing. He doesn’t remember falling asleep outside. Definitely not here, and definitely not with his helmet still on.

Reflexively, he reaches for his communicator, but it’s not there. With rising anxiety, he pats down the rest of his person. His gun, enderchest and communicator are all gone. The only useful thing he still has left on him is the helmet on his head.

That’s concerning. He keeps those things on him at all times. It’s mandatory. As much as Scar would push the rules, he can’t deny the sense in keeping his gun, enderchest and communicator at all times. Even with his reputation, he wouldn’t just wander into the wilderness with none of his gear. He’s more competent than that at least, right?

There are no constructed landmarks nearby to use to figure out where he is, and he won’t be able to figure out the star system he’s in until the sun has set. At least whoever left him here had the decency to leave him with his helmet on. He can panic about being stranded, while puffing recycled air.

He thinks for a moment that maybe if he stays put the Vindicators will come looking for him, but that idea is quickly squashed by the realization that he’ll probably die of heatstroke before they realize he’s gone. His best bet is to walk until he finds some sign of intelligent life… or run out of oxygen in the process.

Not the most optimistic reality, but nevertheless Scar picks himself up, bushes the desert dust off his clothes, and scans the horizon for the most promising direction. Hoping, desperately, that he's not about to get himself even more lost than he already is.

With a sigh, he squints at the horizon with his hands on his hips. He finds cracks and grooves in the sand that open up beneath him to form long ravines. The gouges in front of him seem to open up into larger trenches that follow a relatively straight path, a much better scenario than splitting into maze-like passages. He nods approvingly. It’s his best bet to make his way down into the ravine. It’s depth is about double his height, which should still provide some shade from that glaring sun.

He spots a relatively safe way to get down— a sandy slope built up against the otherwise harsh stone. He walks tentatively towards it, but stops at the sound of a beep. Looking around for the cause of the noise, he sees a collection of rocks protruding from the sand, but no movement. He checks the soles of his boots too, in case he stepped on some kind of device hidden in the sand, or maybe a small creature, but he sees nothing there, either.

He’s probably just imagined it. Continuing on, he hurries down towards the slope, desperate to escape the heat. The sound of sand scrapes against his leg braces as he slides, and he keeps a hand pressed into the sand behind him to stay steady. He manages to avoid slipping as the sand shifts below his feet, but only barely.

The shade cuts the temperature in half, and Scar sags with relief. The ravine is just as lifeless and empty as the surface, albeit far more claustrophobic. The curving, orange walls hide the vastness of their expanse from view. Scar’s footfalls echo down the chasm. He’s not sure if he prefers the company of the extra sound or if it just makes him feel more exposed. Everything is so empty and open, and an almost perfect mirror to the clear sky. The entire atmosphere radiates with a yellow glow, as if the sun takes up the whole sky. Maybe it does. Out of the corner of his eye, Scar finally detects movement— a shadow across the dusty scenery, but he reacts too late, and looks up to see the shadow is gone, and the sun’s still bright.

He walks for at least five minutes before another beep is heard again, except this time it doesn’t stop there. Quickening, it takes about thirty seconds untill the next one, forcing Scar to accept he hadn’t imagined it.

He listens, face wrinkled with concentration. The beep isn’t coming from anywhere around him. It feels like it’s in the back of his head. Whatever it’s trying to tell him, he can’t figure it out.

He turns to his left, kicks a few stones, tests if the sound reacts. Maybe it’s something hidden in his jacket pocket. He rifles around in them, remembering they’re all empty, and goes back to struggling to understand the pattern of the beeps. It keeps slowing and quickening— even when Scar is walking in a straight direction, so it can’t possibly be leading him to a fixed place, and he tried waiting a few minutes after each beep, just for nothing to happen, so it can’t be warning him about anything.

Frustrated, Scar tunes it out eventually, and focuses instead on making his way through the desert. He'll be glad to find anything other than rocks, sand and the sourceless beeping at this point. At one point he sees movement again, another shadow darting across the ground. It looks almost like a bird, but Scar can’t be sure, the shape vanishing almost as soon as he notices it. It’s like it’s evading his view, like it’s trying to make him second guess himself.

Scar groans. It’s been a long trek through the winding canyon. The sweat drippin into his eyes taunts him— he wishes more than anything to be able to wipe it from his brow, but alas, Scar’s not quite desperate enough to risk removing the helmet.

Almost on autopilot, he trudges on, trying to think through the heat about what it could mean. He racks his melting brain for more things that might cause beeping in your head, or what it means. Scar’s so caught up in his thoughts that he almost misses the beeps getting faster, faster than they had gotten before. When he finally notices, he stops in his tracks, snapping to attention as it continues to speed up.

He doesn’t notice the winged figure swoop down until the impact pushes him to the ground.

Scar screams, head ringing as his visor smacks into the earth. He struggles, trying to roll over to face his assailant, but he’s immediately pinned to the ground by long, dark talons. The figure stares at him through their own helmet, like his except for the visor, which is split into two deep, dark, void-like eyes. They make no sound as their wings spread out, blocking out the sun with their feathers. A glowing blue knife held above their head.

"No wait- wait!"

The figure ignores his pleas, bringing the weapon down. Scar barely manages to deflect the stranger's aim, the knife sinking into his shoulder instead of his heart. Choking back a yell and instinctively shutting his eyes to the pain, he didn’t feel the blade being pulled out, nor see the figure grabbing their own shoulder in confusion.

"What?“ Head swiveling wildly, they balk. “Where?"

Scar shifts on reflex under the weight of the stranger, but this only brings the attacker’s attention back to him, their grip tightening. Without anything to defend himself with, his gun missing and this stanger holding a clear advantage, Scar scrambles for leverage.

He wasn't given time to collect himself as the stranger brings down the hilt of their weapon into his visor, shattering the thick glass.

Scar flinches back as the glass slashes into his cheek, but by some miracle misses his eye.

He pants, unable to catch his breath,helplessly expecting another hit— but the stranger stops. Scar is finally given a moment to reign in his panicking senses, and focuses on the vacant eyes of the stranger’s helmet. Thoughts swim in his slightly concussed mind, and he fishes one up at random.

"...Are we done fighting now?" Scar asks with a nervous laugh, trying to keep eye contact despite one eye now being exposed to the desert sun.

The stranger doesn’t answer.

They’re no longer putting all their weight on him, and eventually slides backwards to a stand, gaze still locked on Scar.

Grateful for the temporary relief, but still cautious, he shuffles slightly to check how the stranger will react. Once he’s sure he isn’t about to be whacked again, he shakily folds his legs under himself to stand, only slightly wobbly, wincing from his injured shoulder.

"So…” Scar tries again, “I think it’s fair to say the air is breathable here."

Scar coughs as he pulls off his helmet, doing his best to avoid the broken glass. The stranger, eerily quiet, considers Scar for a moment, then reaches to take off their own helmet, revealing eyes as deep and dark as their visor, with the same soulless look.

The person in front of Scar is painfully familiar, but he doesn’t skip formalities.

"Well, hello there!" He puts his hand out, but the stranger does not shake it. Their eyes remain locked onto his own, like they’re studying them.

Scar meets the gaze for a while, then his eyes wander to the blood on their face.

"Oh, your cheek-" he gasps, pointing towards it.

They do not move to check their face, pointing to Scar instead.

"Well, same." the stranger mumbles, their voice strained.

"Oh!- " Scar reaches for where the visor had cut him. He'd almost forgotten.

He looks back up at the stranger, to find him pulling a very uncomfortable face. And it clicks.

"Wait- I recognise you."

#stareater au #life series au #gtwscar #grian #cw violence #desert duo #cw blood #trafficblr

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eepyuii · 4 months ago

Text

to embrace and consume

pairing ; childe x gender neutral!reader

content ; childhood friends to enemies to lovers?

cw ; violence, choking, frequent mention of injuries and blood, blood drinking, hurt/comfort? angst??? kinda???

notes ; sorry folks, not a new frostbite chapter!!!! life still pretty hectic, preparing for college now but i’ve had this idea for a while now and i thought trying out a oneshot would be cool!!! :3

this is kinda like an alternate reality of frostbite where the reader and childe still grew up together but they do actually grow to hate each other instead of that pussy shit i wrote before LMFAO. perhaps in this instance the reader didn’t join the fatui or maybe moved away from snezhnaya??? idk and they face off like they did in the golden house

also bear with me with this idea… i got it from that video of the boxer’s laying down and rubbing blood all over each others faces IM SORRY I JUST THOUGHT IT WAS RLY COOL ;w; this is the steamiest thing i can write that’s not smut, i don’t think i could ever write smut

ANYWAY I HOPE U LIKE IT

small tip-taps of two children running simultaneously. uncontrollable giggles echo from either side. they run circles around each other, in an infinite futile attempt of catching one another— they care not, for the point isn’t to win.

silent, calculated footsteps. they’re slow and careful, like a predator and its prey rounding each other, or perhaps even two predators— they only serve to postpone the inevitable clash of claw and teeth, in which only one will leave alive.

ajax tackles you into a bed of snow that steadily cushions your fall. he falls on top of you with a ‘puff!’ and you’ve both gone past the point of any hope in containing your laughter, chests shaking against each other as you cackle. you feel your head grow warm from the excitement and exertion, the fluffy snow that surrounds it creating a pleasant juxtaposition.

right as the two of you have finally managed to catch your breaths, panting out the last few giggles remaining inside you, ajax’s mouth grows into a devious grin. he leans back above you, arms winding back behind him… and lunges down at you— his small skittering fingers tickling your sides in a vicious attack. you roar in unceasing laughter as you shake from side to side in a futile effort to evade your best friend’s tickles.

“aja- ahahah.. s-stop! i can’t- hahah.. can’t breathe!”

the first arrow is fired, you dodge— then the second, then the third. they’re shot almost rhythmically, very predictably into your previous position, like childe is expecting you to dodge them. his expression is unreadable, unrecognizable even. he’s entirely unrecognizable to you. thinking about it nearly distracts you from the woosh of his arrows around you and the sound rushing water as he charges the next one with hydro energy, but your instincts thankfully take the wheel and allow you to evade childe’s onslaught of arrows almost subconsciously.

you’ve long since given up on maintaining a poker face, as your expression had slid down into a frown of pure resentment. you hate him, whatever he is right now— not ajax for sure. it feels as though it’s been an eternity since that name last left your mouth, the fond familiarity that it set on your tongue long dead, much like the boy the name once belonged to. he’s dead now, he must be.

within a flurry of varied attacks, a particular sharp wave of water finally outsmarts you— you’re a breath away from successfully evading it when it slashes your bicep in a cut as thin as a hair strand with a sting that feels cold and ruthless against your skin. the coldness of the cut is quickly replaced with a seeping warmth, your blood slowly making its way out of the incision as you huff with frustration and finally decide to get on the offensive. your polearm swooshes through the air with heavy, vicious swings hellbent on landing on your opponent.

a millisecond after one of your swings lands on childe’s shoulder, he’s already reacting with a near animalistic growl and unforgiving slashes of his transformed hydro blades.

and so ensues a bloodthirsty back-and-forth.

it’s akin to a battle between birds of prey, or africanized bees— violently and ceaselessly, the two of you clash at the center of the battlefield and the sheer force of your exchange in hits and counterattacks pushes you back apart, sending either one to opposite poles of the arena. two magnets on the wrong end that insist on approaching each other by the pure drive of utter hatred.

childe, much like his namesake, still manages to find a window to be cocky and throws taunting words at you with an overconfident smirk. even as a living weapon of war, he doesn’t forsake his immaturity.

after feeling like you might die from laughing too hard, you finally obtain the advantage on ajax and his fierce onslaught of tickles and manage to push him off of you— he lands on the snow behind him with an equally cushioned ‘puff!’. you stand over him, half-triumphant and half-malicious with the intent of paying him back in full for his sudden attack.

ajax comprehends your wordless intention immediately and kicks his feet into the ground to slowly back away from you as nervous giggles leave his lips. like a reversed déjà vu, you wind your arms back to prepare your own tickling power— only now, as your in the midst of lunging down at your best friend, he disappears and you land face down on the snow, ajax’s roaring laughter ringing out from a distance behind you.

it doesn’t take much to spot the fiery blur of ginger hair, plus his favorite red scarf, zooming through the trees. you start chuckling once again and take off after him.

“get back here, ajax!”

“you’ll never catch me, slowpoke!” he taunts.

“all you do is run!” you retort.

a raspy grumble escapes childe, one that sounds a lot like the words ‘all you do is run!’, but you’re far too simultaneously tired and pumped with adrenaline to process it properly. thinking those words are truly what he said brings a burning to your chest, one unlike the physical injuries you’re sustaining— no, it feels more like the ache of a fond memory now long lost. you can’t bring yourself to remember why that would be the case.

you’re both exhausted at this point, panting uncontrollably, movements turning sluggish.

childe’s steps falter, knees shaking as if he’s about to fall, and he braces himself to summon the power of his delusion as violet sparks of electricity emit from him. you feel the hairs on the back of your head rise to attention as you tense up and prepare for the new challenge your opponent seems to pose— only for him to utterly fail.

being far too weak, the electro particles dissipate and childe’s legs finally give in when he falls to the ground with a miserable groan. shouldn’t have left his delusion as a last resort.

that previous seeping warmth of blood has since taken over your entire body as you’re practically dripping in your own blood, soon enough it’s far too much for you to handle and you join childe as you slump on the floor pathetically. the silence becomes deafening as both you and your opponent become far too incapacitated to do anything but pant and stare at each other with burning glares ridden with loathing.

you utterly despise him. how far he’s fallen, how much he’s done. all for the sake of a loveless ruler and the thrill of the bloodshed she promises him.

“i-i…” you mutter, voice strained and shaky, yet it still catches childe’s attention in full. “i hate you.”

those three words seem to irk childe to his very core, as his anger grows into seething growls completely rid of any previous composure. he roars ferally as he uses his remaining strength to launch at you, slamming you down into the cold floor. your head painfully lands against the hard surface and leaves you with an overwhelming ache in your cranium.

a shaky but determined hand rises to your throat and tries its mightiest to squeeze. your own hands immediately rise to fight back and push him away, feeling the air in your throat grow thinner and thinner. you instinctively panic and thrash under him, terrified that you might actually die by childe’s hands, like pathetic prey. your heart is drumming in your ears like it itself is drowning in a panic attack. oh god you’re going to die.

miraculously, your protests prove to be needles as the harbinger himself doesn’t have the strength to properly choke you to death—he gives up and resorts to just looming over you while choked, heaving breaths and coughs leave you, filling in the silence. within the dizzy haze that your head injury brings, your vision blurs for a moment and you’re almost able to see the shining face of a grinning, ginger-haired young boy above you. it’s gone within the next second.

you wonder if childe sees the same thing you do. you wonder if he, even for a millisecond, sees your giggly younger self beneath him. you wonder if that’s what makes him falter in his attempt to strangle you.

your questions seem to be sensed by him and wordlessly answered as he slowly lowers his forehead to yours, tired eyes falling to a close. his nose drips blood like a faucet and it lands warmly onto your face. you’re far too tired to bring yourself to care about it, you just close your own eyes instead. you remain like that for a while, just breathing in the metallic scent of each other’s blood. your wounds scream at you, you don’t listen— you listen to childe’s journey into regulating his breathing instead and subconsciously follow suit. you’re so unbelievably fucking tired, you’re 99% confident you’ll pass out underneath childe any moment now. there aren’t enough words in the world to explain what happens next.

a sudden wetness drags itself across your face and you perplexedly open your eyes to discover that it turns out to be childe dragging his blood-soaked face against yours, cheek rubbing onto your own and spreading crimson all over it— like a slobbering puppy. it’s utterly inexplicable.

just like how it’s utterly inexplicable that you don’t pull away. no, you laugh. you’d like to blame it on your delirious exhaustion, how you just stay and accept it. allow your blood to mix with his, more than it ever would’ve if you had just killed each other and been done with it. childe soon joins you with his own weak giggles and the two of you, for even a fraction of a moment, feel like children again.

it’s mindless, it’s silly, it’s uncaring. like you’re merely playing in the snow again and rubbing the melting snow that clings onto your faces on each other.

your hands irrationally rise to cup childe’s cheeks but you still don’t think to push him away, nor does he think to leave your touch. it’s utterly familiar and completely foreign all at once. though not as much as what happens next— in the harbinger’s mission to slobber blood all over you, your lips brush several times but neither act upon it. until childe finally decides to firmly clamp his mouth onto yours, like a parched man desperate for water.

he kisses you. and it’s okay, you’re okay. you’re both okay.

the sanguine soup that you two create inevitably to slither into your mouth and you gulp it down— it feels like the freshest sip of water you’ve ever taste. you must’ve hit your head catastrophically hard. you feel childe’s content sigh blow over you from his nose and realize you’ve got your own sigh of utter fulfillment to let out. perhaps this is more familiar than it is foreign, this subconscious affection. perhaps if you had had more time together, grown up together, you would’ve noticed the effortless childhood connection the two of you had would’ve blossomed into something more at some point. you know it would have.

you know this because you and childe seem to only kiss harder and deeper, pulling away only when breathing seems to be absolutely necessary and falling back in. drinking more of each other’s blood, intertwining further. the taste makes you nearly delirious.

you pass out from exhaustion in each other’s arms, both thinking that it might not be so terrible to be killed by the other’s hand if it means you’d get to consume each other so purely once again.

#accidentally wrote this with no mention of y/n LMFAO #childe genshin x reader #genshin impact fic #childe imagines #childe x reader #childe x y/n #childe x you #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #childe fic #tartaglia x y/n #tartaglia x you #childe tartaglia ajax #tartaglia x reader

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worldstarz · 6 months ago

Text

saving kaeya after his fight with diluc

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

pairing: kaeya alberich x fem!knight!reader

summary: after his fight with diluc, kaeya is thrown out of the manor to fend for himself. stumbling, bleeding, and on the verge of death, he finds you.

tags: hurt + comfort ; some angst ; mutual (?) feelings ; tbh could also be seen as platonic ; pre-storyline ; not proofread ; prolly ooc i’m so sorry

cw: blood ; injuries ; mentions of violence

notes: going through my notes app that is filled to the BRIM with oc x canon pairings. i haven’t played genshin in over a year (and this blurb was originally written like two years ago lmao) but i still love my flirty slutty cryo man! anyways i altered it so it’s reader x kaeya and removed some oc stuff, but idk how to fit in an explanation on why you’re in the forest… let your imagination run wild!!!

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

kaeya stumbled out of the winery, hand trembling over his bleeding eye.

'it's fine... everything will be fine.' thoughts raced through his head. his whole entire body was throbbing in pain. it’s not like he could go back inside the winery to rest—not after a fight as nasty as that.

"diluc will be running over to some maid any second now. ha, lucky bastard," kaeya muttered.

diluc had a team of servants that he could go to. kaeya only had diluc, emphasis on had.

at the dead of night, there was no way he could get care at the cathedral. he couldn't hold in a chuckle, realizing the situation he was in. he had no one, huh? though popular, kaeya didn’t have any particularly close friends who he could spend the night with.

with that, he knew he had no choice but to pitifully limp to the favonius headquarters—a long, long walk away.

he barely made it into the forest before he fell to the ground, wheezing against a tree. his ears were ringing, but he could hear footsteps cautiously approaching him. he didn't even have the energy to lift his head.

"kaeya? what the hell are you doing out here this late?" whose voice was that...? was it an angel’s? oh, wait. angels wouldn’t swear. it was your voice.

in the state he was in, he could only muster a grunt in response. you kneeled down in front of him, and gasped at the sight of his collapsed body. "just what have you gotten yourself into this time?" you muttered. "can't stand up anymore, huh?"

you tilted his chin up, and both of you wince—him as a result of pain, you due to getting a clear view of his injuries. his blue hair, usually tied into a low ponytail, cascaded down his shoulders, caked in blood. his crimson-soaked chest rose and fell rapidly. "ooh, that is nasty. come on, lean on me. we're going to headquarters." you kneeled down to wrap your arm around his torso, gingerly lifting him up.

"well, would you look at that. that’s exactly where i was heading,” he chuckled, leaning against your body. typically, he would never accept support from another. but, with this arguably being the lowest point of his life, his pride was the least of his concerns. plus, you were just so undeniably warm. if he’s on the verge of death, then maybe being by your side wouldn’t be so bad for a final memory.

you don’t respond, your pace slower from his weight and for his comfort. silence follows. you obviously had a million questions for him—what the hell happened? did he get in a fight with an abyss mage? why was he out so late?—but you could tell he was beyond exhausted, and from the sight of his gushing wounds, getting answers was far from a priority.

the two of you arrived in the city, streets barren in the pitch black of night. the tavern was closed, so, thankfully, no drunkards were hanging about near the path.

the inside of the headquarters was equally empty. the soft glow of lanterns lit the way up the stairs to the barracks. "kaeya, where is your room?" you asked, your voiced barely above a whisper as to not wake the other knights.

"all the way at the end of the hall. but... i forgot my keys," he whispered. you could tell he was smirking.

"how sly of you. if i didn't know any better, i would've thought this was another trick of yours to be close to a lady," you responded, though there wasn’t a hint of accusation in your voice.

"ha, you know me so well."

"to my room we go." you walked further up the steps.

after a moment of silence, you mumbled, "i know you're not the type of person to sneak into a lady's room."

"i'm grateful you understand me so well."

"zip it. i don't even know your favorite color."

unlocking your door, you gently set kaeya down on your bed. you immediately get to work, removing his coat and shoes. usually, his slick tongue would say something suggestive, but tonight, he had no choice but to refrain.

even with your limited knowledge of first aid, you knew just a damp rag would do nothing to help. "i have no tools with me," you say, beginning to walk away. "i'll go grab so-"

kaeya suddenly grabbed your arm, effectively stopping both you and your sentence. he looked so... pained. "please don't go,” he whispered. you never could have expected this level of venerability from him.

"...kaeya?" you whispered, turning to face him. "i have to find a way to tend to your injuries. you're in pain, aren't you?"

his hand slacked.

after coming back with medical supplies, the two of you were silent as you tended to his wounds. he gazed at the ceiling, the silence occasionally broken by you asking for permission for actions such as unbuttoning his shirt. you don’t comment on the new cryo vision in his pocket.

deep gashes littered his body, most notably a diagonal one across his chest. as you applied pressure against the gaping wound in an effort to stanch the bleeding, kaeya couldn’t help but hiss in pain. “sorry, sorry, i’m trying to be gentle,” you whispered hurried apologies, using one hand to continue applying pressure and the other to hold his hand.

his grip tightened, and the poor boy whispered, “i know, i trust you. or, well, i’m trying to.”

all you could do regarding his eye was wrap it in bandages to get it checked out in the morning. the basic first aid lessons you were required to take to become a knight did not cover an injury like that.

once you finished, you sat on the floor, leaning against the bed frame. he was still holding onto your hand.

"what happened?" you asked softly.

"..."

"was it an ambush?"

"..."

"i'll report it in the mor-"

"don't. please, don't," he whispered. “i swear i’ll explain everything to you one day.”

you grimaced. "fine. just... promise not to do anything stupid like that again, alright? i was worried."

kaeya didn't respond, going over your words in his head. you were worried? you didn't seem worried. but... you were worried. why would you so willingly take care of him like this? how would you react if you knew who he really was? would you still be worried?

he couldn't hold back his tears and restrained sobs. you lifted your head in surprise, leaning in closer to scan his expression.

"...kaeya?"

"my apologies," he tried to smile, covering his face with his free arm in embarrassment. no one has seen him like this before, and it was far too foreign for him. "especially when you let me use your room."

in response, you squeezed his hand, whispering, “it’s fine. i don’t think of you any differently.”

how do you always know exactly what to say? to grant him at least a little bit of privacy, you turn away as he quietly sobbed into his forearm.

after a while, he sniffles, saying, “i apologize. i don’t know what came over me.” trying to get some humor out of the situation, he adds, “well, i guess we are bonded for eternity now, aren’t we?”

you turned your head to face him, the furrow of your brows causing him to chuckle. “archons, you’re going to be the death of me,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“seeing how you saved me from death, that wouldn’t be fair, would it?” his foxy grin made you let out yet another exasperated sigh, but you still couldn’t help but smile slightly. it was obvious he was trying to act tough for you, but for now, you would follow along with his fantasy.

“alright, whatever. get some sleep.”

“and what about your sleeping arrangements?”

“i’ll manage. i’ve slept on the forest floor for missions, i can handle a hardwood floor.”

“oh? i couldn’t possibly let my savior sleep in such horrible conditions,” he teased. “won’t you join me in bed?”

“barbatos, give me strength,” you muttered.

he laughs softly, and you can feel your stomach tighten at the sound. even during such a rough moment, kaeya can still manage to put up a charming appearance. his single eye twinkled in the low dim of the candlelight, and you realized your falling for his sly tricks. “please, [name], won’t you grant a poor, injured man his dying wish?”

with a groan, you let go of his hand and climb into the bed beside him, careful not to touch him to avoid any unnecessary pain.

“i knew you were a saint!” he gives you a triumphant smile as you lay on your side to look at him. his tanned skin, though scratched, still was as enchanting as ever in the moonlight. the deep blue of his eye pulled you in deeper, and once again, you realized you were a victim of his charm. but, this was different—though he would never admit it, with your tender care of his wounds and unwavering support, he has unknowingly fell victim to your charm, too. his hand seeks out yours once again, intertwining your fingers.

neither of you commented on the continuation of the hand-holding, nor would you ever.

only then, as you two shared the cramped bed space, does kaeya come to a realization—he had you.

his grip on your hand tightened.

he has you.

#kaeya x reader #kaeya alberich #genshin impact kaeya #genshin impact #genshin kaeya #genshin x reader #kaeya headcanons #hurt/comfort #drabble #genshin imagines #how fucked am i if the word grimace reminds me of grimace shake #the brainrot has consumed me #tension

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sammyluvr · 3 months ago

Text

forget-me-nots — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, soulmate!au, fluff, very light angst, light mentions of canon typical death, violence, and monsters, shirtless sam aaaaa, light descriptions of injuries and blood, reader believes in ghosts before knowing about the supernatural, drinking/alcohol mentions, silly criminal minds reference to my gf elle, kissing, poor editing, 5.6K words. requested !

summary : in a world where flowers grow on your skin in the exact places your soulmate is injured, you’re constantly covered in forget-me-nots.

sometimes, you’re covered in so many forget-me-nots that you’re too worried to do much of anything at all. more than once, you’ve wondered how your soulmate could still be alive, and the continuous flowers on your skin serve as your only proof that they’re still around. there were a few years where you barely had any blooms, just the usual flower on a fingertip to signify a papercut or the occasional few because of a small accident. but one night the flowers came in bunches and never stopped.

but for now, you’ll have to move on and get ready for the day. the flowers always linger, though.

⟢⟢⟢

he approaches you and you can’t help but watch as he grows closer.

“hi,” he greets with a small smile, “i’m agent greenaway with the fbi. can i ask you a few questions about the deaths from this week?”

“i’m not sure i’ll be much help, but sure,” you nod, folding your arms over your stomach. agent greenaway doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but the topic at hand certainly does.

you shake your head. “not really. i mean i didn’t work closely with macy, and i never noticed anything off about lex.”

“and the building? any strange cold spots or flickering lights?”

“okay. thank you for your help,” he smiles at you again and for a reason you can’t quite place, you don’t want the unusual conversation to end. you have to hide a hint of delight from your expression when he hands you his card. “call me if you think of anything else.” you accept the card with a nod. he looks like he’s about to walk away, but he pauses. “and, uh– be careful. you should go home early tonight.”

“oh. okay, i will.” without knowing why, you trust him. you want to see him again.

⟢⟢⟢

the bartender slides you your drink and you thank them. there’s a small red carnation on their thumb, and you wonder if they’ve met their own soulmate yet. you suppose that at the end of the day, you’re scared of what just about everyone else is. without trying, you worry about not meeting your soulmate until you’re old and left without much time together. you want to meet them, and you think the sooner the better. the idea’s been particularly stuck in your mind since last night.

and simply, you’ve been feeling a little lonely these days. how nice would it be to have your literal soulmate by your side?

he’s facing away from you, and with a friendly smile, you slide into the seat across from him.

“hi,” you greet over the noise of music and talking, “d’you mind if i sit here?” it takes him a moment to answer, like he’s lagging a little bit.

when you touch him for the first time, your breath gets caught in your throat and it feels so right that you never want to let go.

“i’m sam,” he says, only letting his hand fall away from yours after a few moments. even then, your fingertips are merely inches apart now.

“it’s really nice in here,” he compliments, sounding so sincere that it’s just sweet.

“it feels right to me too,” he quickly assures, not wanting for you to misunderstand that for a second.

⟢⟢⟢

he always answers your questions, omitting any extreme gore or death, but it doesn’t take long for you to realize how many people he really saves. that’s his life; saving people.

it takes three weeks for you to see him again since the first night, and three more plus a whole lot of convincing on your end for him to bring you on a hunt with him. he tries to hide it, but he’s so worried for you, despite all the reassurances he’s made that this particular ghost isn’t really all that violent or dangerous. by now, you’ve already come to mostly believe all that he’s told you, but to see it in real life is still the final confirmation that you need to be fully convinced.

the moment it’s gone, sam drops the gun to the ground and turns to you, accidentally ruining the now unnecessary salt line around you in his rush to check on you.

“are you okay?” he asks gently, a hand on your shoulder and the other cupping your cheek as he looks you up and down.

“i’m alright, sam,” you reassure. it’s true that you’re a little shaky, and just the tiniest bit scared, but to have your confirmation and sam by your side is much more important to you.

⟢⟢⟢

this time, his eyes do soften, but he cringes a little too, because he feels sorry and because he feels the same exact way. “i can’t make you live like i do. i love you, too, so much. and i hate being away from you, but this? this life, it– it’s sort of awful, and it’s dangerous and hard and–”

“i want to,” he says, voice so sure and sturdy. “i really want to… but how’re we gonna get the house? it’s not like me or dean can buy property, and i can’t make you–”

“you’re gonna live there?” he asks, not bothering to hide his hope and sparkling joy at that idea.

you grin. “of course. there’s three bedrooms and it’s so pretty and i can’t, you know, pay for that and the apartment at the same time. and i– i wanna be there every time you get home.”

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