#flowers beneath the rotting tree

[ink-drenched-cat]

Adrien can't handle spice

[ink-drenched-art]

Decided to finally let them out of the draft cage.

So here we have the Miraks my Miraculous AU/ rewrite: (Part 1)

1. "Hasiera"

The Beginning. Weaver of all things new

2. "Telos"

The End. Cleanser of all things rotten

3. "Baylanis"

The Medium. River of whispered desires

4. "Arima"

The Eye. Seer of shattered prophecies

5. "Sarafawa"

The Saviour. Crown of golden blessings

6. "Koruma"

The Shield. Protector of the innocent

7. "Ibori"

The Veil. Mask of honest liars

[voxslays]

GOODNIGHT, MY LOVE

Featuring >>> Lucifer x Reader; In which, an attempt to kill baby Charlie goes south. Resulting in a soporific curse placed upon the reader, who struggles to deal with the aftermath of its affects.

Part Four Part Six

A/N: I wanna explain something really quick- i wrote how Lucifer lost his wings when he fell, which isn’t confirmed to be canon or not, however, I saw a theory about it (which I agreed with) and that’s why it’s in this chapter.

Lucifer wasn’t okay. It had been seven long, agonizing years since that fateful day—the one where you were lost to a sleeping curse cast by (Lucifer’s own brother, and also) heaven’s angels, the supposed divine beings. Lucifer had become a shell of his former self, consumed by grief and regret. He barely ate or slept, spending his days locked away in his workshop, tinkering with various rubber duckies to pass the time. He had never told Charlie what had happened to you—it was much too painful…and it was better this way. Charlie was too young to understand at the time, and even now it would still hit her hard, like a tornado. So Lucifer carried the weight of your untimely demise to himself, never outright confirming nor denying your fate. But Lucifer knew it was time to visit you—he just had to.

Inside was a beautiful atrium, surrounded by all of your favorite flowers. There were large apple trees that grew golden apples (that never rot, (thanks to the backflipping rubber duck 3000!)) and invasive rose bushes. Lucifer had never planted the roses, but it seemed wherever you went, roses followed. His steps echo softly across the marble floor as he walks through the atrium, marveling at the golden apples glistening in the moonlight filtering through the stained-glass roof.

The sweet scent of roses fills his nostrils, bringing back vivid memories he's fought so hard to suppress. "My love…" In the middle of the atrium is a glass coffin-like case. What was inside? You. You looked as peaceful as ever, as though you were only taking a small slumber. Lucifer approaches the glass coffin cautiously, his reflection shimmering on the polished surface. Inside lies your sleeping form, frozen in time. Your hair fanned out beneath your head, your skin almost luminescent under the ethereal light as your chest slowly rises and falls.

In your hand lies a simple yet elegant bouquet of white roses, which continue slowly rise up and down as you softly breathe. You're not dead—at least, not really. You're trapped in an eternal slumber, frozen in time. You don’t move in your sleep at all, the only sign of life is your shallow breathing—yet Lucifer refuses to let you go. How could he? The two of you have been together for thousands of years. That’s not something you can easily erase.

Lucifer reaches out, placing his gloved hand against the glass, gently looking at the white roses in your grasp. He slowly raises up his other hand, looking at his golden wedding band—before his eyes flick down to the golden wedding band on your own finger, mirroring his own. He remembers the day he slipped it on, all the joy, the happiness—now replaced by endless sorrow and loneliness. He straightens up, his mind racing with questions and unspoken words.

He ungloves his hand, pressing his bare white palm against the cool glass, as if trying to reach through to hold your hand. He stares at the rings, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Still married, aren't we?” His voice cracks slightly, emotion barely contained as he stares at your sleeping face through the glass. "You always wanted white roses, remember? I used to tease you about it…" His voice trails off, lost in memory "You always looked so beautiful next to them.”

His other hand reaches up, tracing the glass over your cheek softly. Tears threaten to fall as he continues speaking, voice thick with emotion "Do you dream of me? Or are you trapped… lost in some eternal, peaceful oblivion?" He asks, as if expecting an answer he’ll never get. Lucifer’s thumb gently strokes the outer surface of the glass over your sleeping form, creating tiny rainbows from the moonlight reflecting through the stained glass above. "When we fell… I thought losing my wings would be my greatest punishment. But now…” He pauses, trying (and failing) to keep his composure. “Now I know there's nothing worse than existing without you."

His voice breaks slightly as he looks at your peaceful face, a single tear finally falling down his cheek. “I miss you…” He stands there for a long moment, tears streaming down his face as he looks at you, lost in his grief. Finally, he turns away, walking back through the atrium, leaving the glass coffin behind, the sound of his quiet sobs echoing through the castle halls. "Goodnight, my love…"

[nillosgarden]

``𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞. - sukuna.,,

▪︎ 𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: true form!sukuna (heian era) x siren!reader.

▪︎ 𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 1,745 words.

▪︎ 𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: mentions of death.

▪︎ 𝗦𝗶𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀: Sukuna is a feared king, and when he heard about something more powerful than him, he decided he would burn it to ashes, and destroy everything correlated to it. But all went wrong, at the moment he found a beautiful... Woman?

``𝗽𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗹𝘂𝗳𝗳.

`` 𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗼𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱, and English is not my first language! Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. <3

There was a time when everyone lived with fear, being affected by horror and all of the sins that made their scary nightmares. The cause of these so-called fear and horror was the King of Curses, Ryomen Sukuna. A terrifying man who turned himself into a powerful curse, making himself the owner of people's minds, looting villages, taking women like prizes, and turning them into his concubines. All of the sorcerers that tried to win a battle against him were only turned into shreads and bathed Sukuna in their filthy blood.

But, the tales once said something about a magic lake that could clean your soul, turning all of your dust in the most beautiful gold, and send away all your sins. People tried to find this place, only to crumble and rot in their disgrace, doing all of this to relieve their conscience about their crimes whilst mortals. Nobody found this lake, centuries passed, and nothing. But the awful man decided that he would find it and kill all of the magic that he could see there, only to watch the light fading. He couldn't stand something more powerful than him.

Walking across the land, the king only found death and desperation in his way.

"It was meant for give people some hope, but it only killed them and their disgusting dreams of freedom. These damn fools..." He said with an wicked grin in his lips, his eyes showing no remorse or compassion for the people who died in their try, his crimson orbs glowing in the dead of the night.

The forest that he walked in was dense, dark and unforgivable, its trees had no leaves, the roots snaked their way in the ground, making it more challenging not to trip. The sky was nowhere to see, covered by the rotten branches that dared to fall in someone's head. There was a whistle made by the wind that danced between the tree trunks, making a shiver run down whatever spine that was in the way. A feeling of sorrow, a sadness that made the heart ache, the eyelids got heavy, the vision started to be foggy. It looked like the forest was moving, creating a labyrinth of its own to trick anyone's mind, driving them insane second by second.

But the powerful king was not someone who was so easily mistaken or lost, he had a mind that could envy anyone who dared to look inside it. The rote he took was found to be full of dead bodies, rotting into the damp ground, their faces were hopeless. He could almost feel sorry, but he was obviously not, he didn’t feel that kind of emotion, he couldn't. After all, he was the King of Curses, he wouldn't feel remorse or guilt over some trivious thing.

Trespassing by the corpses, walking some miles ahead, he found a ground that had grass, sakuras with blooming flowers, a smell of life in the air, and now the sky could be seen with a beautiful and shiny sun. The wind doesn’t whistled anymore, it singed a sweet lullaby, like it tried bring some peace into a traveler's heart. But all of it couldn't stop the chaos and the storm that was seeping beneath the skin of the King of Curses, urging to be released. Oh, how he would destroy every piece of happiness that existed in this annoying place.

Then, there it was. The Lake of Redemption, its waters were cristaline, so clean and joyful, so... beautiful. Some butterflies flied above it, the birds were chirping happily, and the sun bathed the water, making it look heavenly.

A little ahead, a curious pair of eyes looked at him, above the water. Admiring his form: four arms, two faces, four crimson eyes, pinkish hair, and those tattoos... Well, for them, it was a sight to be seen.

Feeling eyes over him, he searched for the owner, finding (eye color) orbs. Squinting his eyes to the being, he saw it disappear in the water. A few seconds later, a woman with long hair rested her arms in the edge of the lake, showing her upper body to him. Captivated by her form, he couldn't tear his eyes from her. But, he saw something moving in the water, and checked himself. A long siren tail, moving happily, like the woman was happy to see him.

Lowering his body, he sat by the edge, crossing his legs and resting his jaw in the left hand, fascinated by her being, he felt like starting a conversation.

The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable, because they were both admiring each other's features, drinking in the different type of beauty that they had. Lost in the track of time, they were hopelessly gravitating around the strange feeling that pumped in their hearts. Sukuna wasn't known for being such a dedicated admirer, but for her... He would do anything he could to see her face everyday. The woman, suddenly came with a thought, sharing with him.

"You are here to kill me, aren't you?" Her voice was quiet, soft. It sounded like a whisper, because she wouldn't dare to indulge him in such actions. The siren was curious, because... Why such a creature with such an powerful aura came to that place? He didn't show any guilt, or remorse... Unlike the other beings that came a long ago to the magical lake.

His expression was unreadable, almost if he was thinking of how he would put it in words: should he tell her first? Or just kill her and burn that damn place to ashes? It made the king overthink. And he didn’t liked it. Not at all.

"My plans doesn't belong to your knowledge, little one." These were the only words that came out of his mouth after the long minutes of waiting for an answer.

"...I understand." Her face became a little serious, but she lifted her hand to touch the tattoos that painted his arm, the thoughtful face became a little admired. Her touches ignited a spark in him, like it left warmth where it has passed. A smile spread across her features, while he looked at her attentively, enamored by her.

"Come with me."

Her face became a little shocked, her eyes widen a little, the surprise evident. She looked at him incredulously, like he was telling something absurd.

"I'm sorry, but why? And... How? How can... How can I -" Interrupted by his hand cupping her face, he brought it closer to his own. The crimson eyes looked more inviting than scary, and she never knew that feeling before. Before she could ever think about his intentions, he pulled her off the water. Her tail became a pair of legs because of the lack of spell, spell which was created by the lake to give her a tail and make her his guardian.

... A while ago, a young woman was wounded by a group of curses that hunted her. Running between the tree trunks, she looked to the trail she left behind, scared of the demons that were after her. She ran for her life, for her own sake. She was just a little traveler who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Running into the depths of the forest, she found herself lost in the woods, and the worst was that a storm was approaching. The more she ran, the more desperate she came. Her breath came in small pants, her feet were bleeding because of the rocks on the ground, her face was damp with sweat, and her clothes were ripped in so many places.

She couldn't breathe, she couldn't stop. Only run, run, and run. She ran into a cliff, and before she could stop herself, she fell from it. Crashing into the ground, rolling down the hill... Down and down. Her body was limp, she broke a few bones, but she rose from the ground, still fighting for her life, dragging her body across the floor while her legs refused to move. The more she moved, the more her broken bones hurt. Everything seemed bad until her eyes found a lake. A lake full of life, but at the same time, seemed to lack it. So, reluctantly, fighting for a little more time, fighting for more life, she went to the edge of the lake, and as she dipped her hands to drink some of the water, she realized that the bruises on her fingers and wrists were healed by a kind of... golden light. Without thinking twice, she threw her body in there, and when she least expected it, the impossible happened.

Laying in the big man's arms, she looked confused by all the memories that suddenly came into her mind.

"You suddenly looked scared, little one. Some came up in your mind? Or are you just scared of me?" Sukuna said, his voice lacking the sarcasm it used to have.

"Scared of you? Why would I be scared of you?"

Looking deep into his eyes, she saw something she couldn't describe. He seemed to know something she doesn't, and it consumed her thoughts. What could he know? And why does he wants me so suddenly?

"You don't know who I am?" He asked her, looking somehow pissed. How could someone in this land don't know who the King of Curses is?

"One day, one woman told me of a god in land. One that made everyone else fear him, and be in debt with him. He destroyed villages and killed people, and was an ugly monster with a rotten heart."

[Your name] said it with doubt, testing the seas before diving in. All she received from him was a smirk and a mischievous glint in his eyes, making everything more confusing. "That lady said the right thing. And what you think about it?"

Her eyes held something he didn’t know, but it made him feel things he didn't wanted before.

"You don't look like a monster to me, and ugly? Far from it. You are beautiful, something divine. An enticing and rare being in this world, dare I say."

After these words, he couldn't bear the feeling that bubbled hot in his skin. Some kind of feral desire, because the innocent and oblivious look she gave him, praising him at that level... Stirred something deep inside him. And he wouldn't hold back anymore.

Sukuna was obssessed with the light he was supposed to kill.

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Revolving Around You

Beefy!Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your ex, Wanda Maximoff, invites you to her wedding. You have no reason to go, but find a reason to stay.

Word Count: 1.5K

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff, alcohol consumption, and smoking weed

A/N: I really just wanted to write some Natasha fluff and I used the prompt [ wedding ] our muses are sat at the same table at a wedding for a mutual friend

You stared down at the invitation you had received from your long since ex, Wanda Maximoff, she'd be getting married soon. You really didn't talk much with Wanda anymore not since she got together with Vision, but when you did meet up and talk everything was fine.

You weren't expecting this though. Not this soon anyways as you stared down in shock at the lovely scarlet invite to their Spring wedding two months from now. Should you go? She sent the invite so obviously she wants you there, right? You grabbed your phone, scanning the QR code on the invite. It brought you to a page themed in such a way you could only assume it was their wedding theme. You checked off the box to RSVP. You held your breath after hitting send and even once the confirmation came through. Now you had to go through with it.

The ceremony was beautiful. Outside in the blossoming flower fields and apple trees of a rented out pasture. It honestly was a beautiful sight to behold. You'd gone wearing a light blue dress that fell at your mid thigh and a matching pair of open toed heels. Your hair in a half updo of a bun, the rest falling gracefully over your shoulders.

The reception itself was held in a renovated barn on the property. The table you were sitting at you knew no one. Well you didn't know anyone really at the wedding. You knew Wanda, Pietro, Vision, and the parents.

As everyone found their seats a raspy voice called out, “Looks like you're my seat mate for the next however many hours Wanda decides this reception should last.” Your head turned to see a red head, her hair in various braids. She wore a fitting suit that did absolutely nothing to hide all the muscles beneath the fabric. You could see her ear was covered in piercings along with her eyebrow and septum from the profile view you were currently getting. You couldn't help, but stare at the beauty sitting next to you. As you went to respond to the red head, she was shrugging off the suit jacket. The button up and tie she wore were almost the same as your dress. In fact if anyone were to give a quick glance they probably wouldn't be able to tell the difference. She hung the jacket on the chair. Turning towards you and as she rolled up her sleeves, revealing the double sleeves of tattoos on her arms.

“Wow…they're beautiful…” you meant to keep that thought in your head, but it slipped past your lips. A blush adorning your face as you turned away to hide.

“Well thank you pretty girl.” She leaned onto the table, all her attention on you as you downed your drink, suddenly feeling like you couldn't swallow. A chuckle falling past the redhead's lips. “I'm Natasha by the way, what's your name? Though I'll probably stick to calling you pretty girl with a reaction like that.” You looked over to see her smirking, another blush coming to your cheeks.

“Y/N…” you spoke quietly, but Natasha heard and tested it on her tongue,

“Y/N…hmmm I think that's a beautiful name that suits a pretty girl like you.”

A few hours into the reception you and Natasha are talking as if you've known each other your whole lives. Once the dance floor opens up after the first dance, Natasha holds out her hand. “Care to dance, pretty girl?” Her sultry voice finds your ears, sending a shiver through you. You don't speak a word, instead opting to just set your hand in hers. The way her hand held yours felt perfect, it felt right.

Her hand in yours, the other holding your waist as yours sat on her shoulder. She led the dance of you two and everything around you faded away. It was only Natasha. All you wanted to do was lean in and kiss the redhead, but you controlled yourself even though your head was swimming from the alcohol you've been consuming.

“You're, like, really handsome and beautiful.” You blurt out making her chuckle.

“Well pretty girl now that we've both said what we think about each other's appearance maybe we could go on a date outside of this wedding?” She offers cocking the pierced brow at you.

“Where do you live?” you slurred, looking up at her.

“New York.” Your eyes lit up, getting up closer to her face.

“Me too!” She smiled, leading you two outside the reception hall. Grabbing her jacket on the way out, setting it on your shoulders. The air had gotten cold now that the sun was down, but a bonfire was being lit by Vision's brother Tony and Wanda's brother Pietro.

You wanted to go over and get a seat, but Natasha had you against the wall. She wasn't holding you there, but she towered over you as she pulled you closer.

“Are you cold?” She asked in a low voice.

“Only a little. Your jacket is helping and your body heat...” Your voice trails off as you wrap your arms around her waist. You looked up at the redhead who took a hand to your cheek. Her thumb brushing gently over your skin.

“I could warm you up a bit more if you’d like?” You bit the inside of your lip, nodding your head as she pulled you against her, lifting you onto your tip toes as your lips brushed together. “Is this okay?” You didn’t answer verbally as you leaned up further to press your lips into hers. Your hands fisting her shirt and you were sure you wrinkled the fabric, but neither of you could bring yourself to care as you went from a simple kiss to her tongue swiping across your lip asking for entrance. When you opened your mouth for her and her tongue made its way into your mouth you realized she had a tongue piercing too, making you moan into her. She pulled you closer and didn’t pull away until you both were desperate for air.

She looked down at you with a satisfied smile. You knew you probably looked a bit hazy, the alcohol still swimming in your brain. You were normally much more reserved than this, but with everything that was happening you would have let Natasha take you right here in front of everyone and not cared one bit. Instead the two of you shared a handful of slow soft kisses as little whimpers and moans escaped you. It had been too long and you wanted her so badly, but one of your major rules was no sex on the first date and this wasn’t even a first date. This is a first meeting.

After Natasha had her fill with kissing you she pulled out a joint, flicking a lighter to it until you saw the paper start to burn, red glowing as she inhaled. As she exhaled she looked up towards the sky. You watched the cloud of smoke leave her lips, your jaw slack as you watched feeling a dampness pool between your thighs.

When Pietro came over he handed you a drink and asked if he could take a hit from Natasha who didn't mind as the two caught up. You stood there in awe, downing your drink, as the two went back and forth with the joint and with conversation.

Eventually the three of you made your way over to the bonfire. Wanda sat on Vision's lap as stories were told amongst friends and family. Natasha had sat down and practically mirrored Wanda when she pulled you to sit on her lap. You bit the inside of your lip as she held you against her, carrying on in her conversations. Your eye caught Wanda's, a knowing smirk on her face making you huff and look down.

“What's wrong pretty girl?” You felt Natasha's cheek press against your arm.

“Nothing…” you tried to lie, but she gripped your hip tight. A moan wanting to rip through you. “W-Wanda was looking…” you quietly admitted.

“Didn't the two of you date for a bit?” You nodded in response. “I'm surprised she let you go for someone like him.” Your head turned to face her. “Wanda's my best friend, but I think she's stupid for letting you go.” You felt your whole body go hot and a puddle between your thighs.

“T-thanks Natasha.” You spoke shyly, turning yourself more into her, burying your face against her. The alcohol was wearing off and you were getting tired without more being added into your system.

“Get comfy sweetie. I'm gonna keep talking with my friends.” Natasha's hand found your back, pulling you close. Her other arm hooking around your thighs to hold you there. You smiled against her. You thought this whole thing would be disastrous seeing your ex getting married, but meeting Natasha and getting to spend the whole evening together. Getting to kiss her and her just holding you in her arms. You hadn’t felt this happy or this secure in...you couldn’t even remember how long. You slowly fell asleep against her chest, listening to her heart beat, the sounds of people talking and the bonfire crackling.

[buriedpentacles]

On a walk, I found a dead bird. It lay with its neck snapped beneath a shroud of leaves and thorns - a nettle bit me as I pushed it aside, revealing its hidden treasure. It died last night, I know that, I can see it in the brightness of it's feathers and the fullness of it's body. I lay flowers and berries beside it, a gift to the broken bird, and prayed that from her death will come life.

I realised then, that I do not wish to be cremated or buried, I do not want to trapped in a box or a urn. I want to be like this bird, hidden in the thorny embrace of nettles and thistles, their bites no longer causing me pain. I want to lay in the dirt and grass, my chest bare and ripped open as I display my still heart to the world. I want my organs to feed a fox and her cubs, I want my flesh to be stripped by and their young. I want my hair to sit in the nests of young birds and my bones to feed the soil.

I want life to sprout from my corpse, for my face to be lost to time and my body dragged beneath the surface where it will rot and melt into the earth and feed the world above. I want to return to the world that has fed and housed me, I want my energy to grow flowers and trees and feed bugs and birds.

I want my death to create life.

[lov3-lik3-ghosts]

If I could slip in a request! This is rotting my brain-like I can't get the Mother Knows Best song out of my head.

So Emmett finds his mate but her mother's much like Mother Gothel(from Rapunzel or "Papunzel" as the little one I nanny says). Very controlling and tries to keep her from believing that Emmett is actually interested in her, trying to make her believe she made it all up in her head but Emmett's not having ANY of that!

Please and thank you! <3

Mother Knows Best, Unless She Doesn’t

Pairing: Emmett Cullen x fem!reader.

Warnings: Not beta nor proofread. Insinuations of sexual intentions. Use of an insensitive joke.

Format: Drabble.

Word Count: 770

Note: Hi, sweetheart! I’m so sorry this took me so long, life has been really catching up to me. I hope this turned out how you were hoping. The little one sounds absolutely adorable! @twilightlover2007

| mother m-list

Emmett’s hand smooths over your hair with a tenderness unfamiliar to you. His marble skin is ice against the tear stricken heat of cheek, rest against the bare muscle of his chest beneath you.

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, thick with the confession your mate just pulled free from you. There’s a suffocating silence radiating your proximity, broken only by the scratch of his fingers against your scalp and your steadying breaths.

Emmett’s quiet is all consuming in the way it opens your mind to your mothers taunts.

“You really think a boy like him is interested in anything but what you can give him?” She croons, cradling your cheeks between her cupped palms. There’s something in the way that she thumbs your cheek that makes you flinch.

“Emmett’s different.” You defend, glaring down your nose at her feet.

Her grip tightens around you. “Different?” She scoffs, mocking. “They all want the same thing, sweetheart, and it’s not your heart.”

There’s a moment you believe her, mind rampant with all the times her warnings came backed with half-truths made to keep you safe. But Emmett streaks through your thoughts like a live art piece, wild and free and imprinting so deeply into your soul that he marrs the very essence of all you are and all you’ve ever been.

“You don’t know anything of what he wants.” You snarl, lip curled into a sneer.

Her hand drops as quickly as her face does. A cloud of dark dilutes her eyes, once too sweet now unforgiving. “Oh?” She asks, rhetorical. “Is that how it is?”

You can only swallow.

“Fine. When he breaks your heart don’t come crawling back home to me, simpering for attention.” Her voice is as rough as her gaze. “I’m sure because you’re so in love he won’t mind you living with him.”

When. Not if.

“Trust me,” Your lower lip betrays your squared shoulders, trembling in a fashion not unsimilar to your heart. “I won’t.”

You’d shown at his home in as much a disarray as you felt. Overflowing bag rucked over your shoulder, cheeks wet and flushed and your nose running. He was the only one home aside from Esme, who left your side with a reluctant glance in Emmett’s direction, and you were led to his room without question.

The story fell from your lips through wet blubbers and soft sniffles that calmed only when he’d pulled his shirt over his head and forced you against his chest.

His lack of words is stark from his ever running mouth and the worry gnaws that your mother was right. That now was when he’d give up the ruse and tell you you weren’t enough, weren’t giving him the one thing he wanted.

The tingle of his skin against yours wages you free, sparking only through the lack of your completed mating. Emmett wants you for much more than physicality, proven by the brush of his large palm down your spine. By the grin he bears when he hands you the lunches he made, by the flowers he planted you out by your favourite tress of trees, by the pillow beside his head, cased in your favourite colour just because it was your favourite.

“I’d wait a thousand lifetimes.” Emmett’s voice is a tragically delicate caress against the wary shields of your heart.

“What?” You utter, soft and frail as you feel.

“To touch you.” He clarifies through a humane swallow. “To love you in that manner. I don’t need that from you, I just need you to be here, existing with me. I’ve lived lives without you and none of them have come even close to worth living then the one I’m living with you.”

“What?” You repeat. This time with much more choked awe.

“You’re not going back there.” He diverts. “You’re staying. She can’t take you back if you don’t want to go, you’re legally allowed to refuse now.”

“Em,” You shake your head, swallowing thickly.

“No.” He continues. “You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. I can find you somewhere. But if you think I’m letting my mate go back to a woman that speaks to her the way she does then I’m speaking to Carlisle about getting you on crazy people meds.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself. “That’s insensitive, Em. You know the correct term.”

“Maybe,” He smiles widely. “But it made you laugh.”

“Was that your goal?” You ask with a shake of your head.

Emmett lowers his head, lips skimming yours with every toying word. “That’s always my goal.”

His lips meet yours.

~ 𐀔 ~ 𐀔 ~ 𐀔 ~

Likes, comments and reblogs are extremely appreciated and very encouraging!

[meowf4ngs]

the wanting comes in waves.

mdni.

cw: obsessive behavior, yearning but like sickly, mentions of being followed but for like a second, mentions of being watched, minor violence & blood mention

screaming, crying--throwing up !! i needed to get this blurb outta my head like asap; was listening to angel by massiveattack which is an amazing song & made me gnaw at my cage !!

She’s full of sugar—one could think, will think when they see her–it’s inevitable like teeth rotting to the gums, like graves being dug. When someone smells her, like a man striking gold—pheromones going haywire, could see pupils dilating before their very eyes, hands shake and chests heaving.

Like a flower crushed between rough palms.

It’s her. There’s no secret perfume, no scented lotion.

It’s just her.

When she walks by Gaz once, he couldn’t help the inhale—heart hammering, lashes fluttering shut. Compared her to something of a bakery, soft—warmed, sweet. Tongue darting to lick at canines, easing the hunger away–thoughts of sinking into something honey-filled plagued his mind.

He could feel his teeth itch, his mouth water—Soap was no better, he watched the way her skirt fluttered, the way her tights stretched over her thighs. He rolled his shoulders, body tense–drumming with extra energy suddenly like lightning struck him, fingers digging into his thighs.

He was not a better man.

They think she’s of honey and sugar—easy to drown in, rot on the tooth like sweet milk right before it turns bad, curdling on the tongue making your stomach turn from it. Warms the throat as they beg for more–something hums in their chest, aches in their souls.

They always want more.

But she was never rotten—something closer to cherries hanging on trees, burning from the sun–syrupy, dripping to the floor as ants crawled and scrambled. 

Price standing with Laswell, eyes always on her—protection, wariness—a need to have her in his peripheral at all times. His brain screamed, grunted with the thoughts of the sweat that trickled down her the nape of her neck—temptation.

Soldiers watched her every move as she passed by, a sigh on her lips—a pack of dogs on her heels; not even throwing a glance at their way.

They whined for it.

The kind of girl you’d follow into the dark. The kind of girl you’d beg to hurt you and thank afterwards.

He didn’t like it.

“Don’t let her walk alone,” he told them once, voice low. “Don’t let her get far.”

“She’s not a child,” Laswell said.

“No,” Price muttered. “She’s worse.”

She’s made for obsession, human form of temptation—all for the taking, between hands and claws to dig in.

A mission down in Germany, her words soft and gentle—it’s the way trouble finds her without needing much. Her eyes found ones that tracked her like one with a prey—she hummed soft, sweet; hook, line and–sinker.

Not that she knew what she caused–making worlds tilt, having men and women gaze linger. Wondering, wishing–yearning for her eyes on them.

There’s a constant thrum around her—beneath the noise of the world, something that anchors within your chest, bleeds your soul dry for everything that it’s worth.

The man knew—kissed her hand like one would have royalty; one you’d lay your life down for and bleed at their feet just for a smile.

Ghost watched it—aching teeth, collar tight, dog tags clinking together; reminder of who he is, what he is—better than a stray who whines for attention.

But he watched her turn away, barely acknowledging the man—like a flower billowing in the wind—of course the man followed her–honey attracts all.

Ghost was already behind before the man could reach out–not a graze of a finger, not a soft hum leaving her lips–barely acknowledging the loud thud, a sharp scream. The man crumples to the floor, blood dripping from a broken nose. “Didn’t say you could touch,” He mutters.

She’s tilting her head now, lollipop between teeth, clacking as she licks it for what it’s worth–fingers grazing his knuckles, a wordless thank you.

Ghost feels his mind humming.

She’s of nectar—something forbidden, something to drown and beg for.

It comes in waves, thrashing and dragging everything underneath.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Bravo Ireland

Happy holidays @bitchwitch1981! I'm your Brain Rot Secret Santa! I hope you enjoy your trip to Ireland with Dieter complete with a fire, pretty stars, and Dieter going down on you!! Thank you to @sp00kymulderr for putting all of this together! ❤️🎄

Masterlist

—-

You press your face to the tiny oval window of the airplane, eager for your first glimpse of Ireland. The checkerboard of green fields bordered by stone walls comes into view.

The wheels touch down on Irish soil, your heart quickening when you glance over at Dieter, his eyes lit with adoration as he watches you. “Merry Christmas baby,” he cheerfully says with a wink.

—-

The thatched-roof cottage Dieter rented is tiny, a far contrast from the home you share with him.

Stepping into the quaint home, you inhale the sweet scent of cinnamon and pine. Dieter sets down your bags and wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“What do you think?” he asks.

You lean back against him, admiring the mismatched furniture, shelves lined with books, and bouquets of dried flowers hanging above the fireplace. In the corner sits a Christmas tree wrapped in twinkling fairy lights decorated with holly and ivy.

“It’s perfect,” you whisper, turning to kiss him softly. “I can’t believe we’re really here.”

He grins. “Believe it. A week of nothing but us, the countryside and maybe a couple pints at the pub.”

You giggle, thinking of Dieter’s broad frame hunched over a tiny bar stool surrounded by locals as you cross the threshold into the quaint kitchen.

“Hey! Hold on!” Dieter calls, striding towards you. “Look up.”

Tilting your head up, you spot a sprig of mistletoe hanging above the kitchen doorway. You turn to Dieter, a playful smile lifts the corners of his lips as he leans in close.

“You know the tradition,” he says, his voice low and husky as he pulls you against him.

His lips seal over yours in a tender kiss. It begins soft and sweet until you let out a soft moan and open your mouth, allowing his tongue to slide against yours while his hands roam your back. You tangle your fingers in the waves of his hair, pressing yourself closer to him.

Breathless, he pulls away. His eyes dark as he gazes at you.

“You want to see the bedroom?” he suggests, his deep voice rumbling through you.

You nod eagerly, as he takes your hand, leading you towards the small bedroom.

“We’ll unpack later,” he growls as you fall onto the antique iron bed together.

Dieter’s weight presses against you, pushing you farther into the soft mattress. His lips leave a trail of warmth and tingles as he trails kisses down your neck to your shoulders.

He slips his fingers beneath your sweater dress, pushing the fabric up until you help him remove it and toss it to the side.

His dark brown eyes roam your chest as you remove your bra, the cool Irish air and Dieter’s heated gaze sending a shiver through your body.

He bends over, taking one of your nipples into his mouth with a sweet stinging nip before he soothes it with his tongue.

He moves lower, placing open-mouthed kisses along your stomach until he reaches the apex of your legs, and settles between them.

You're aching and so wet for him, the closeness of having him next to you on a small plane all day has taken its toll. The smell of his cologne and stale weed smoke on his jacket. The heat of his hand on your thigh as he’d try to inch it higher before you swatted it away. The stolen kisses he’d give you when nobody was looking.  

He pulls your underwear aside, far too impatient to take them off, and holds your gaze as his tongue paints its first stroke against your aching cunt. He lazily laps at you with long, slow licks treating your body with softness and love after a long day of travel.

Two of his thick fingers slip into your dripping entrance as his lips close around your clit, gently sucking, pulling a long moan from your throat.

Your hands tangle in the chaotic waves of his hair, holding him close as he worships you with his mouth. His tongue is just as clever as him, dashing, dancing, and delving all around your slick.

The tension inside you builds with each long stroke of his fingers inside your velvet walls and each flick and suck against your sensitive bud.

The vibrations of his moans against you radiate through your body, your fingers twist around his hair harder as his free hand reaches up to palm the weight of your breast, rolling and tweaking your nipple between his fingers.

Your back arches off the mattress, your thighs trembling around his head as you feel like you’re standing on the Cliffs of Moher ready to jump.

He can feel you’re close, years of him knowing your pussy and worshipping it, makes him pump his fingers faster as his tongue swirls against your clit with more pressure.

You can feel the cool breeze and smell the sea salt in the air as your orgasm waves through you and you dive off the cliff.

Dieter groans against your cunt as you flood him, screaming his name and canting your hips against him. Your orgasm flows through your body, constricting then loosening your limbs. 

Dieter slowly withdraws his fingers from your slick heat. He places a final, gentle kiss against your thigh before he begins to trail his lips back up your trembling body. He nuzzles the bristle of his cheek against the smooth skin of your chest as you feel boneless and sated, your limbs heavy against the soft quilt beneath you.

His hands skim along the sides of your body as he settles his weight on top of you, propping himself up on his elbows looking down at you, his eyes filled with adoration. A lone lock of his dark hair falls across his forehead and you reach up to brush it back.

“Get some sleep baby, it’s a full moon tonight,” he says, before settling next to you.

—-

You wake from a nap with Dieter’s arm draped over your waist. You shiver slightly before he pulls you closer, nuzzling into your neck.

“Cold?” he asks, his warm breath ghosts against your skin.

You nod as he kisses your shoulder before sliding out of bed.

“I’ve got an idea,” he says with a devilish grin, rummaging through his suitcase. He tosses you a thick sweater and pulls on one of his own. “Come on, let’s go outside.”

“Are you serious Dee, it’s like… freezing outside.”

“Then here,” he says, tossing you his brown, fuzzy coat. “Bundle up.”

—-

The grass is damp beneath your feet as your boots clomp through the soft earth. The crisp air from the sea stings your face as you tighten your hold of the heavy coat around you.

“What are we doing, Dieter? It’s like—midnight and freezing out here.”

“It’s a full moon baby!” he shouts into the night air as he leads you to a small clearing beyond the picturesque garden.

A fire pit sits in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by a circle of large stones. You settle on the bench as Dieter picks up a few logs and arranges them in the pit before lighting it. The flames quickly catch fire and grow, you stretch out your hands to warm them as Dieter pulls you close, wrapping his arm around you.

“Look at the sky,” he whispers.

You look up and gasp. You’ve never seen so many stars in your life. The full moon hangs so low, you feel like you could reach out and grab it.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe.

“Not as beautiful as you,” he murmurs, his eyes fixed on your face. “Nollaig Shona duit (happy Christmas to you).”

[ink-drenched-cat]

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @insaneintheemembranev2

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

TW: cussing, early seasons Daryl, angst, descriptions of walkers (Zombies) , firearms, mentions of hunting, mentions of dealing with hunted animals, suggestive catcalling, character death (off page)

Part 10

Dead Weight - Part 11

The air inside the hardware store is stale and thick, the kind of silence that feels too quiet—even for the world they live in now. The roof has caved in partially, letting in shafts of waning light. Dust dances in golden beams, clinging to the particles kicked up by every step.

Daryl moves slow, crossbow slung across his back, his boots scraping softly over cracked linoleum.

Most of the shelves are overturned, their contents scattered or looted long ago. Rusted tools hang limply from broken pegs.

Old paint cans sit like forgotten soldiers beneath a display that reads ‘Spring Prep Sale!’ in faded letters.

Glen's muttering something to Maggie outside.

Daryl barely hears it.

He’s scanning without really scanning��habit more than focus—until something catches the light beneath a rotted display case near the back.

He kneels. Wedges his fingers under the corner of warped plywood and lifts. The wood creaks in protest but gives.

Beneath it, tangled in a mess of old cord and crumbling paper, is a knife.

He pulls it free.

It’s not military-issue, nor anything tactical. The blade’s maybe five inches, stained but not rusted. The metal is good steel, just dulled by time and dirt. But it’s the handle that gives him pause.

Not plastic. Not rubber. But old wood—dark, polished, the kind of thing someone carried because it meant something.

Carved into the handle are vines—thin, winding stalks that twist around blooming wildflowers. Tiny leaves stretch up toward where the hilt meets the blade. The detail is almost too fine for something meant to be deadly.

He brushes his thumb over them. There’s grime in the grooves, but underneath is a careful handcrafted wood.

Someone made this with patience.

He swallows and nibbles his cheek as he turns it ovsr in his palm.

You don’t have a knife. Not a proper one. He’s seen you fumble with dull blades, seen your hands slip. Once you nearly sliced your palm open cleaning a fish.

He tells himself that’s why he’s taking it.

But there’s something in the flowers. Something that looks like you—not in shape, but in spirit. Stubborn and soft at the same time.

He tests the balance. Good weight. Good bones. Needs work.

“You find anything?” Glenn’s voice breaks the silence.

Daryl stares at the knife for a second longer.

“Yeah,” he says, tucking it into his belt. “Somethin’.”

He wipes it on his pants and tucks it in his belt.

The night is quiet, the kind that presses close to the skin. Moonlight glints off the prison fences, casting shadows across the courtyard.

The dry rustle of leaves from a broken tree nearby is the only sound, besides the faint hum of insects and the occasional distant groan of a walker too far away to pose a threat.

Daryl sits with his back to a support beam by the western fence, crossbow laid beside him, bolt at the ready. But tonight, he’s not just keeping watch.

Balanced on his thigh is the knife.

It’s not much at first glance. The handle’s dull and the blade’s edge is chipped, but the shape is good, and the steel is strong. He saw that right away. What stuck with him—though he’d never admit it—was the carved design on the hilt. Wildflowers, dancing through a curling vine. Someone had taken the time to make it pretty.

It reminded him of you, and that thought irritated the hell out of him.

He huffs through his nose, reaches into the pack at his feet. He pulls out a rag, a whetstone, a small tin of oil he kept for bolts and blades. His hands work in silence, slow and precise.

Swipe. Swipe. Pause.

The rhythmic scraping of stone against metal becomes a kind of meditation. His jaw is tight, his brow furrowed in concentration—but it’s not just the blade he’s working on. It’s his thoughts.

He tries to justify it to himself, You didn’t have a good blade. You needed one. You’re always tryin’ to do stuff for the group—cookin’, helpin’ with Carl, makin’ Beth smile. It’s only fair. Someone oughta look out for you.

But that ain’t really it.

He tests the edge with his thumb, wipes the blade clean, then oils it. The metal gleams now, even in the dark. He can’t do anything about the tiny chips along the back edge, but the blade is sharp enough to cut leather clean, and the handle’s tight and solid.

He wraps it carefully in a new piece of cloth—clean, white cotton, salvaged from one of Hershel’s spare shirts. Then he sits back against the beam again, his eyes scanning the tree line automatically. One hand drifts to the blade resting beside him.

The next supply run had returned just before dusk. Glen’s dividing up cans, Maggie’s organizing boxes, and Rick’s crouched over a list with Hershel. Daryl stalks through the space with his crossbow still slung over one shoulder, dropping items beside people like he's delivering mail—gruff, efficient, silent.

You’re sitting on your haunches beside one of the crates, helping sort the medical supplies.

Your hair’s a little mussed from the long day, your hands raw from soap-making earlier that morning.

"Here,” Daryl mutters.

You look up—and before you can say a word, he drops a small, wrapped bundle of cloth next to you. Doesn’t wait for a reaction. Doesn’t make eye contact. He’s already turning away, muttering something to Glen about batteries.

You unwrap it slowly, uncertain. Inside is the knife.

The one with the delicate filigree.

It’s beautiful. Not just useful, but thoughtful.

You don’t say anything then. You just stare at the knife, your fingers gently running along the edge of the design, and tuck it away like it’s something sacred.

The prison is quiet. Shadows stretch long down the concrete halls. Cell Block C has settled into sleep, the shuffle of Carl’s breathing in his bunk, the rustle of someone turning over. Far off, a moan of a walker echoes against the outer wall, but inside, there’s only stillness.

The cell block quiets down slowly. The adults speak in hushed tones. Somewhere below, a mattress creaks.

Daryl settles into the thin mattress on the grated landing above the cells. He hates the idea of the bars. Hates being shut in. So he sleeps up here—half wild, half watchful.

Tucked just beneath the edge of his pillow—he almost misses it—is a small object wrapped in soft linen. He pulls it free with a frown, unfolding the cloth cautiously, like he's expecting a trap.

It’s a pendant.

Just a circle of smooth, polished antler, still warm from being handled. The marrow has been scraped from the center with careful hands, leaving it hollowed out and faintly golden in the lamplight. It’s threaded onto a short length of dark cord—simple, rough, handmade.

But it’s beautiful.

Not store-bought beautiful—real beautiful.

And tucked inside the cloth… a note.

Your handwriting is small, delicate. Careful.

"I made this from your deer."

"Tch. Whatever" he huffs.

But he doesn’t move for a long time.

His fingers rub over the smoothed antler.

Without another word—he tucks it into the inside pocket of his vest, right above his heart.

The entryway is warm from the makeshift oven. You and Beth sit across from each other, sorting portions of squirrel jerky into strips while Carl lines up a row of playing cards. Lori sips weak tea nearby, her expression finally relaxed for the first time in days, hand absentmindedly stroking her pronounced belly.

A faint melody hums from Beth’s lips—some country lullaby that doesn’t quite make it to words.

The moment is soft. Domestic. Rare.

Then the voice cuts through it like a blade dragged along a cinderblock.

“Well damn,” a man drawls, slow and syrupy, from behind the metal bars just across the hall. “Ain’t this the prettiest picture I’ve seen in a long while.”

You stiffen. Everyone does.

It’s one of the prisoners, tall, muscular, with eyes that look like they haven’t blinked enough in years. He leans lazily against the bars, separated from you by only a layer of metal, but the tone in his voice closes that distance fast.

“Lil’ blonde thing, you even legal? Don’t look it,” he coos, tongue dragging over his bottom lip like a tick. “Hell, don’t matter. Not anymore, right?”

Beth freezes mid-reach, her hand still hovering above the bowl of crumbs. Her fingers tremble before she retracts them into her lap.

“You look sweeter than anything we’ve had in months.”

The air in the room goes cold.

Carl starts to get up, but Lori lays a firm hand on his shoulder, pressing him back down. She’s gone pale—jaw clenched, eyes like she’s already calculating how fast the man could get through if something went wrong.

You stand up slowly, not out of courage but instinct. Your heart races in your throat. Your hand goes to the table, fingers brushing your knife.

His gaze slides over to Beth again. His eyes crawl up her body like roaches through an open vent.

Beth makes a noise in her throat, soft and frightened. You see her jaw tremble. She doesn’t speak.

“Little housewife like you, it’d make this cage feel a hell of a lot more like home.” he says, wide-eyed and manic.

It’s disgusting a reminder that these men weren’t chosen, they weren’t saved. They’re surviving behind those gates, and not all of them have any interest in playing by Rick’s new world rules.

You step forward, even though your knees feel weak.

“Back off,” you say, voice not loud, but shaking. “Get away from the gate.”

He grins wider. “Or what?”

Lori rises now too, hand inching toward her belt—not for a weapon, but out of readiness. Carl’s eyes are wide, darting from face to face like he’s looking for a cue.

Beth is silent, looking at the floor like she’s trying to make herself disappear.

You look at Carl instinctively, trying to gauge if he even understands what’s being said.

But Carl’s not looking confused.

He’s calm.

Too calm.

Before anyone can react, before even Lori can grab his arm, Carl draws the pistol he keeps holstered at his hip, and levels it—hands steady—at the prisoner through the bars.

“Get away from us,” he says. Not loudly. Not angrily. Just flat, like he’s done it before.

The prisoner stares, blinking, unsure if this kid is bluffing. Carl doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

“Now,” he says again.

You can’t breathe.

Lori lunges, one hand trying to push his arm down. “Carl, no—”

He doesn’t budge. He keeps that pistol aimed square at the man’s chest, eyes narrowed, like he’s on a battlefield.

It takes everything in you not to cry.

Not out of fear of Carl—but of what it means.

He’s just a boy.

A boy who plays cards, who still likes stories before bed, who gets embarrassed when his voice cracks.

But there he stands, acting like a man because the world he's in is making him be one.

Finally, slowly, Carl lowers the gun. Lori yanks it from his hand, her face flushed with panic and guilt. “You don’t ever do that again,” she hisses through clenched teeth, voice shaking. “You don’t ever—”

The prisoner, still rattled, backs away with raised hands and disappears back down the corridor.

Carl stalks away before Lori can say more.

The air is damp with the promise of rain.

It hangs low in the sky, thick and heavy, like the clouds aren’t sure whether they want to break or just smother the world in silence.

The trees along the edge of the forest are losing their autumn golds, giving way to bare limbs and crunching underbrush.

Every step you and Glen take toward the long-abandoned gas station echoes, leaves cracking beneath your boots like paper bones.

You glance at him with a small smile. “Thanks for taking me on this run”

Glen scoffs. “Are you kidding? You’re shaping up to be, a pretty good apocalypse buddy.”

You roll your eyes, bumping your shoulder lightly into his as you round the shattered gas pumps.

He gives you a wide grin. “Means I gotta keep you away from walkers with a vengeance through.”

He pushes the door open with his shoulder—it creaks loud, alerting any lingering danger. The station is dim inside, windows long since broken, a faint chemical smell still hanging around the pharmacy section.

But it’s clear.

Glen lets out a low whistle. “This place has been picked clean but…” He hops the counter, rummaging through plastic bins and cracked drawers. “People always miss the bottom shelf.”

You crouch near the snack aisle, fingers running along dusty wrappers and empty shelves. The silence between you is comfortable.

You’ve grown used to this rhythm with Glen—the way he chatters when nervous, the way he checks over his shoulder for you every few seconds.

The way he lets you feel useful without making a show of it.

“Got any plans for powdered milk if we find some?” Glen calls.

“Pancakes,” you answer without hesitation.

He peers around the edge of the shelf, grinning like a kid. “hell yeah”

You hold up a dented can. “Is mystery meat stew our staple to now? Shall we name it ? Like a family recipe?"

Glen chuckles. “Okay, okay how bout ... regret?”

The two of you laugh.

Glen finds a pack of playing cards. “Score. We’re gonna need this for tonight.”

You grin. “To teach Carl poker?”

“To make you lose at poker,” he says dramatically.

Just then, a gust of wind cuts through the broken windows—sudden and cold. It carries with it the faintest sound distant, metallic, unnatural.

Your smile fades.

Glen freezes. Slowly, he lowers the box in his hand.

You both listen.

And then, there it is again—the unmistakable wail of sirens, howling over the trees. Your heart drops.

“Is that the prison ?” Glen says, already moving.

You don’t hesitate. You follow, your breath catching as the peaceful warmth of the run evaporates like morning mist.

The sound curls around your ribs, making your blood go cold. You don’t speak as you run—don’t have the breath or the courage.

You just run.

Boots thudding against cracked pavement, weaving through overgrowth and chain-link. Your lungs burn, your knife bouncing in its sheath. As you draw closer the alarms drown out everything but the pounding in your chest.

As the gates come into view, your blood runs cold.

The light is fading fast.

The once-crimson sky is now a murky violet, bruising against the barbed horizon as the last rays of sun slant the trees. You and Glen skid through the outer yard gate—heaving, filthy, blood-smudged and adrenaline-high.

But as you near the inner cellblock entrance, the noise cuts off like a dying engine.

It’s too quiet.

You exchange a glance with Glen. He swallows hard, and you both keep moving.

You burst through the doors, nearly tripping over a spare crate. Inside the entryway—what once served as a kind of neutral zone between the tombs and the cell block—you see them.

Everyone’s huddled in that narrow space like ghosts after a fire.

Carol is leaning against the wall, tear-streaked but upright.

Maggie sits on the floor with her knees to her chest, arms curled tightly around herself, forearms coated in blood.

Carl is standing alone by the railing, looking far too small, far too still, and Rick—Rick is nowhere to be seen.

You blink. “T-Dog?”

“We lost T-Dog” Hershel mutters, jaw clenched.

You don’t ask how.

But what draws your eyes—what roots your feet to the ground—is Daryl.

He’s sitting on the floor, back braced against the cinderblock wall. And in his arms is the tiniest bundle you’ve ever seen. Wrapped in a tattered, too-big blanket that must’ve been someone’s shirt.

There’s a streak of blood across his left cheek, and the sweat from earlier has long since crusted into salt around his temples. But his hands…

His hands are gentle.

Cradling a baby like she’s glass, one broad palm curled protectively around the fragile shape of her back.

His thumb brushes instinctively against her spine, a motion so tender it nearly makes you ache.

You hesitate in the doorway, your voice a whisper

“Is that…?”

He glances up—just a flick of his eyes—and meets yours.

There’s no smirk. No scowl. Just something raw, something shaken.

He gives a small awe struck nod.

You blink fast, heart pounding, throat tight. “where's Lori ?”

No one answers.

Carl’s shoulders jerk slightly. Glen steps forward, eyes wide, but Maggie grabs his sleeve and just shakes her head once.

You know. You know.

You step farther in, eyes never leaving the small bundle in Daryl’s arms.

Then—unexpectedly—he looks down at the baby and huffs the faintest exhale, more breath than laugh.

Then, unexpectedly, with the gentlest sarcasm you’ve ever heard.

“Lil’ ass kicker.”

The nickname lands like a balm and a wound at once.

You can’t help it—you smile. A small, aching thing. Not at the name itself, but at the way he says it.

He’s holding her almost as if she’s his.

You crouch down slowly beside him, knees creaking, careful not to startle either of them.

You glance toward Carl—your heart catching in your throat as the boy turns his back on the group, pretending not to listen.

There’s blood on his collar. Dried, rusty. Your eyes sting.

Daryl follows your gaze and murmurs under his breath.

“Kid had to put down his owm mom.”

You chest aches for Carl.

[lokis-army-77]

Soul Searching

Demon!Soulmate!Eddie Munson x fem reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Soulmates are rare, even rarer for demons, and yet here you are.

Warning: 18 +. unprotected sex, p n v, not really anything else I don't think.

Thank you to @my-malachai-stilinski for requesting more demon!eddie and @lofaewrites for beta reading💗

Masterlist

It’s closing in on nine at night. Eddie had started his reaping early, hoping there would be more souls to claim when the streets were busy instead of waiting until two or three. 

He was right. Of course, there were more wicked souls to take with him back into the depths of his home, to dump upon some imp who loved to torture and torment. 

As the night went on, he couldn’t help but feel a shift in the breeze as he crouched atop a high roof, watching and waiting for another bounty. Then, the most wonderful scent filled his nostrils. It was like heaven, if there were such a place for him.

He sniffed the air like a hound dog tracking its prey. Magically poofing into thin air only to appear three rooftops away, he searched for what could smell so delicious. 

It only took a matter of minutes until he found you. Your sweet smell permeated through the air and he felt like he could get drunk on it if only he were closer. 

Souls usually never smelled this good, this intoxicating. The ones he encountered on a daily basis, the souls of the truly evil, smelled of rot and decay. Some even smelt of sulfur, pungent, and singed the nose. But not you. Your soul was a bed of freshly picked flowers, honey drizzled on a warm pastry. He couldn’t get enough of it. 

So, he followed you into the night. Sulking through the shadows keeping a watchful eye. 

In his diligence, he sees you stumble and in a flash he's behind you, catching you before you land on your ass. 

You let out a small yelp, expecting to feel the hard ground under you. You don't. You feel two warm hands holding onto your waist, keeping you steady. 

You turn around to thank your savior only to stop suddenly in your movement. You've never felt this feeling before, this warmth spreading through your stomach and the small tingles in your limbs. Yet you know what it is. You've heard of others meeting their soulmates but never had you imagined this meeting would make the group feel like it were shaking beneath your feet.

As you look at him, you realize he isn't entirely human. The back of your mind is screaming at you to cower, to run away and hide. But you don't. The pull of your soulmate stops you from being terrified by those curving horns protruding from his mess of curly hair and the spade tail that had curled its way around your ankle.

It feels like a giant lump in your throat when you start to speak. 

"H-" you swallow. "Hi." 

He stares at you, his golden eyes slit like a cat, taking you in. "Hello."

His voice is deep and rich, almost a purr. 

Eddie thinks you smell even better up close. His nose is picking up even the faintest scents now, the blood running through your veins, the wetness forming between your thighs. 

"Are you my soulmate?" You ask, eyes wide.

Eddie thinks for a moment. He'd never heard of demons having a soulmate. At least no other demon he knew had one, they all just assumed that would no longer have one thanks to their so-called "fall from grace". 

But that would explain your smell. How it was so unique he had never smelled it before. It would also explain why you weren't running from him, screaming, trying to get away. 

Finally, he speaks. "I believe so."

He reaches out his hand, fingers long and thick, and he catches your upper arm. It's like his mind has been taken over by some primal instinct as he pulls you flush to him.

You don't try to fight it. Instead, you nuzzle into him. He smells wonderful, like the smoke from a burning cedar tree and something you can't quite place. 

Then you feel it. The arousal that's started to pool in your panties. You've just met this creature and now he's making you hornier than you've ever been, and you know he knows too with the way his fingers are gripping your skin. 

Eddie is trying to hold off, trying not to take you where you're standing. He's been so lonely for so long and now here you are smelling so sweet that he just has to have a taste. 

He slides his hands up to cup your cheeks. He surges forward while also bringing you to him. When your lips connect, he feels a strong tingle down his spine to the tip of his tail.

You feel something too. A sense of want and need but also belonging. His lips on yours feel like home, like someplace familiar, where you are meant to be. 

Lips pressing on each other's he opens his mouth and presses his tongue into yours, slipping past your teeth and into the warmth of you. He hums and how well you fit together like this and can't help but wonder how well other parts of you will fit. 

He lets out a groan when you slink your arms around his neck, pulling him into you more. 

You've both become needy. Trying to devour one another in the half-light of the street. 

You whimper, legs pressing together. "Take me." Your voice is quiet against his lips, barely above a whisper. "Take me please." You need him, badly. 

Eddie hums against you. Hands still pressing against your cheeks, still pulling you to him.

You know this is going way too fast and so does he but carnal desires can't be stopped once they've started. Not if you're a touch-starved demon and his soulmate.

A gust of wind whips your hair and your stomach drops like when you move way too fast on an amusement park ride.

You gawk when you pull away from the demon to survey your surroundings. You weren’t on the sidewalk anymore. No, you were in a bedroom. 

He watched as you walked around the enormous room. Fingers danced over the wooden posts to the bed. Your eyes were full of wonder as you took in what could only be described as a room taken straight out of an episode of Game of Thrones. 

There were red and black fabrics thrown about the room, several rugs covered the stone floor. Candelabras were lit sporadically around the room as well as torched lining the walls between tapestries depicting gruesome battles.

You turn back to him and are met with heavily lidded eyes. He disappears only to reappear directly in front of you. You gasp.

He brushes a strand of hair away from your face as he says, "You are mine now. Forever." Then he's crashing his lips onto yours once more. 

You crave him, so deep down in your core that it hurts to not have him touching you. So you claw at his clothes. The 80s metal shirt you hadn't realized he was wearing and the leather jeans. 

He follows your lead, taking each item of clothing off until all that was left was his pale skin glowing in the candlelight. He carefully begins to pull your own clothes off, only continuing when you nod your head at his questioning gaze. 

Then, when you are both naked, he mounds his mouth to your skin. Kissing and nipping up and down your neck and shoulders. He walks you backward catching you with strong hands when your knees hit the bed and give out. 

"You're so soft…" He speaks his hands roaming over your hips and backside. "Never felt something so soft in my whole existence."

You can't help but chuckle and let your own hands drift over his strong chest, nails scratching, creating long red marks down his pecs and stomach. 

Leaning up, you kiss him again. Slow and soft and all at once. You pull him down with you as you fall back on the bed. He follows, catching himself with solid arms on either side of you. 

His body covers you completely. 

You break away from the kiss. His dark, lustful, loving eyes stare into yours with an intensity you've never encountered before. 

As you look back at him, eyes exploring every inch of his face, you ask, "What's your name?" 

He looks a little shocked at the question but answers nonetheless. "Eddie."

You hum in response. "I like that name." You bring his back to you and kiss along his cheek over the bridge of his nose to the other cheek. 

"Yeah? I'll make you scream it after a while." He grins wickedly. "But for now I would like to take my time with you. Feel you. Own you."

He takes his fingers and trails them lightly over the contours of your body erecting goosebumps in their wake. Starting from your shoulder, over your collarbone, between your breasts, and past your navel. They stop just above your pussy. 

Impatiently you buck your hips. 

"Now now." He admonishes, taking his hand away. "Don't try and rush me, pet." 

You whine but concede. 

His fingers begin to touch you between your thighs. Massaging into the plush flesh. You sigh, in contentment. 

"Eddie-" His name is a whisper on the wind. 

His spine tingles when he hears you. He never thought those two syllables of his name could ever sound as good as they do when you say them. 

He wants to hear you say it again. He wants to hear you say it over and over and over until your voice gives out. 

"Say it again," He growls. 

And you gasp it out. "Eddie!" When his fingers gently push through your folds. 

The wetness he finds between your legs has him vibrating. All this just for him, your soulmate. He spreads the slick around, savoring how you shudder in his hold when he swipes over your clit. 

He doesn’t want to wait any longer, he’s hardly holding it together as it is. He wants to feel you wrapped around him. 

So, he moves. Thick fingers wrap around your ankles and pull your legs apart. He slots them on either side of himself before pulling you flush, the backs of your thighs meeting the tops of his. 

With no moment to waste, Eddie takes his cock into his hand and gives it a few pumps. He’s huge. Long and thick around. You have no idea how he’s going to fit but you desperately need him inside of you. 

“Please. Need your cock in me.” You beg and wiggle your hips ever so slightly. 

He just chuckles and guides the tip to your waiting entrance. You think it’s fine when he first pushes in, slowly. But as he keeps going, he keeps stretching you. In seconds you are turned into nothing more than a whimpering mess. 

People had talked about how the first time with their soulmates had gone. How the sex was the best they had ever had, how it was so good they couldn’t get enough. But this… This was earth-shattering. 

Maybe it was because your soulmate obviously wasn’t human but you know this isn’t the feeling that normal soulmate copulation tends to elicit. 

You can practically feel you becoming one. Your walls are molding around him the further in he goes, and his cock hits every single spot inside you that brings pleasure. It’s been less than a minute and you’re already shaking.

Eddie falls forward, caging you in below him. His head rests between your neck and shoulder where he opens his mouth and lets his tongue lave at the sweat beginning to cast over you. Even your skin tastes sickeningly sweet. 

His mind is becoming foggy, your cunt is sucking him in, forming to him. He can't help but mutter, “You were made for me… Fuck you feel so good.”  

His lips brush against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. His chest presses against yours and you can feel his heart beating against your skin. It’s all so much for the both of you. 

You’re moaning, loud, and uncaring as he ruts into you. You cry his name, “Eddie!” He just growls when he hears you. 

“Need you so bad.” He grunts. “Need you so so bad.” 

You can feel him all over you. Every place your skin touches, even the slightest bit, is lit up, tingling with a sensation akin to icy hot. 

It hasn’t been that long. He hasn’t been inside you for that long but you can feel that tightness forming. That all too familiar sensation of ecstasy banging at the door to be let out. You moan, trying to hold yourself back. Your hands cling to the demon, nails biting through his skin. 

You can feel him smiling against your neck as his hips move just a tiny bit faster. 

“Let go.” He says. “Let go and show me how good I can make you feel.”  

It’s like his words have some kind of power over you. You can feel yourself letting go. That tightness pulling ever tighter until it snaps. 

His grip tightens and he's pushing deeper, faster. Your orgasm crashes through you, washing over you in a powerful, unstoppable wave. You feel yourself trembling, your body shaking, and spasming. 

“That's it. That’s a good girl. Feel so good cumming around my cock. 

Eddie is still pumping into you, close to his own release. “Say my name.” He mewls, lips coming to slot against your own. 

“Eddie,” You moan. 

“Again,” He begs.” 

“Eddie.” 

“Louder. Scream it if you have to.”

And you do. You scream his name and as soon as you do you feel his cock twitch inside you and right after he lets go. Moaning and whimpering against your mouth. 

He doesn’t move to get off of you, even after he’s spilled everything he could inside of you. He lays there, his body weight a comfort to you.  

You wrap your arms around him and close your eyes as you savor the moment. He finally pulls away and you open your eyes to see him smiling down at you. He leans in and kisses you softly on the lips. 

“I’m so glad I found you,” he whispers. 

You pull him to you, arms wrapped tightly around his neck, and whisper in his ear. “Me too.” 

[aylacavebear]

Bloodlines & Fate Chapter 11

Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.

Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You

Word Count: 9410

Warning: Angst, Fluff, Dean getting memories, Reader taking care of Dean, Longing.

A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.

A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 11

The change came like a storm. Bones cracked, muscles twisted, fur rushed over skin. But none of it mattered. None of it was strange. None of it hurt. This was right. This was how things were meant to be.

But… his human was silent. Gone.

For the first time, the wolf was alone in the mind. No arguing, no resistance, no voice controlling what they did. Just the wind in his fur, the earth beneath his paws, the steady rhythm of his own breath. The pack ran with him, their voices lifting in song, echoing through the night.

He should have felt free. Should have reveled in the primal joy of running with his pack, in the unity thrumming through their bond. Instead, there was an ache. Deep and gnawing. A weight pressing against his ribs that had nothing to do with the moon above.

Something was missing. Someone.

The pull was there. Faint, but unbreakable. A thread winding through his ribs, tightening with every step. It tugged at his chest, drawing him away from the others. None followed. They had learned to give Dean his space when he needed it, unaware that Dean was nothing more than a distant hum in the back of the mind. Sleeping.

His paws carried him across the land, through the trees of the forest, the ferns of the underbrush, and the shifting shadows. His focus was elsewhere. Without his human’s doubts clouding his senses, his instincts were sharpened, more demanding than ever. The pull grew stronger, relentless, pulling him away, pulling him toward—

Her.

There was no scent trail to follow. No song to guide him. Nothing tangible to explain why every fiber of his being strained onward. 

Only her.

Finally, he stopped.

A fence loomed just beyond the trees, a divider of two lands, two packs. She was on the other side. Somewhere beyond his reach.

The wolf lingered in the shadows, ears twitching, nose lifting, searching for a scent he knew he wouldn’t find. He walked through the trees, keeping the fence to his right as he explored. The forest was dense, but he followed that thread. The pull to her, wherever she was on the other side.

He knew she was over there. He didn’t feel threatened. No need for aggression or possessiveness. This felt different—like there was no threat he’d lose her to another alpha. 

When he came to a place where the moonlight pierced the canopy, spilling over the earth below, he stopped. Lowered onto his haunches, settling into the shadows of the forest.

The sight before him was both familiar and unknown, beautiful yet unsettling in a way he couldn’t name. A towering, half-rotted tree stump stood more than twenty feet away, remnants of its ancient form stretching high into the night. Around it, tufts of grass, ferns, and delicate flowers blanketed the forest floor, untouched and thriving. But it was more than that. More than the way the earth cradled this place, sheltering it like something sacred.

It was a feeling. 

Like something would happen here. Like something was meant to happen here. He didn’t know why—only that this place was where he was supposed to be.

His paws shifted against the dirt, ears flicking as he breathed deep, but there was no scent other than the forest. No sign that she had ever been here. Still, his instincts whispered that she would come. Someday. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not for many moons. But she would find this place. Find him. And when she did, he would be waiting.

A breeze whispered through the trees, stirring the flowers, making them sway as if they, too, were waiting. The moonlight shifted through the canopy above, casting shadows that stretched and danced before retreating once more. 

His ear twitched at the distant sound of howls. His pack sang, but he wasn’t in the mood. Not tonight. He wanted to be by her side. Let her know she wasn’t alone. That she had him.

But she did not call to him.

She did not come.

The moon dipped lower in the sky, marking the approach of morning. He lowered his head, the weight in his chest twisted, sharp and aching. With one last glance toward the land beyond the fence, he rose to his paws and turned away, making the long trek back to his pack. 

He kept his longing buried deep, hidden from his scent. His pack couldn’t know where he’d gone. It was forbidden, even if that was where she was.

—----------------------------

Dean woke with a start. His heart pounded against his chest, breath coming in short, ragged bursts, sweat cooling on his skin. The remnants of his dream clung to him like fog, thick and disorienting, refusing to let go. For a moment, he wasn’t quite sure where he was. His vision was still blurry and unfocused, the dark room around him unfamiliar, his mind caught somewhere between the past and the present. 

Then, warmth.

The soft press of a body against his. The steady rise and fall of your breath. And your scent—deep, grounding—flooded his senses, wrenching him back to reality before his instincts could take over.

His muscles remained taut, tension coiled in his shoulders, but he forced himself to breathe. Slow. Deep. His wolf stirred uneasily within him, a low, uncertain hum in the back of his mind, but he ignored it, shifting instead, pressing closer to you.

His nose brushed the crown of your head as he inhaled, letting the familiarity of you settle him. It felt easier this morning, the way it soothed him.

“Mmm… you okay, Dean?” you murmured. 

Your voice was thick with sleep, and the lazy way you nuzzled deeper against him made his chest tighten. You didn’t open your eyes, but something felt… off.

He exhaled shakily, his arm tightening around you, his body trembling slightly from his dream. “Yeah. I’m okay,” he breathed, but his voice was hoarse, like the words barely made it out. His muscles still hadn’t fully relaxed. His mind still felt… foggy. 

And his wolf? His wolf felt just as disoriented.

You stirred slightly, blinking up at him, taking him in—the dampness of sweat on his skin, the faint tremor in his limbs, the underlying unrest radiating from him in waves. “Dean, what’s wrong?” you asked softly, your eyes searching his face as if the answer was hidden there somewhere.

He swallowed, averting his gaze. The words caught in his throat, something he wouldn’t—couldn’t—share with anyone. Your expression softened. “Hey,” you coaxed gently, reaching up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking soothing circles over his skin. “Talk to me.” 

He stayed quiet for a long moment, jaw tight. It all sounded stupid in his head—like a child afraid of a nightmare. He was a grown man. An Alpha. Dreams shouldn’t be affecting him like this. “Just a bad dream,”  he muttered, still not meeting your eyes.

You studied him, searching his face, before letting out a quiet sigh.

“Dean,” you murmured, voice steady but impossibly soft. “When you claim me, I’m gonna need you, and your wolf with what I’m going to go through. Please… let me be here for the two of you.”

Dean grumbled something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch before he buried his nose in the crook of your neck. So, you did the only thing you could do at the moment. You held him close, letting him take whatever time he needed, hoping he would talk to you.

That was when you noticed your claim mark on him. You leaned a little closer, soothing it over with your tongue, sending a shiver through his body. His grip on you firmed, just a little tighter—like if he held on long enough, he wouldn’t have to say the words aloud.

For several long moments, that was how the two of you stayed—him nuzzling into your neck, you soothing his mark with your tongue. You could feel the tension slowly ease from his body, the way it had trembled before finally stopped, and with a slow exhale against your skin, he relaxed.

“It’s stupid,” he mumbled, voice rough against your skin.

You nuzzled your cheek against his as you began purring softly, a different sort of instinct taking over. “If it’s bothering you, it’s not stupid. That makes it important to me,” you told him gently.

Why does she always seem to know just what to say? Even with his wolf tangled in unease, it still huffed in amusement, ‘She’s our mate.’ 

He was still reluctant, but he finally pulled away, resting his head on the pillow as the morning light slowly peeked its way through the window. “It was a dream, but it was like a memory,” he mumbled, his voice quiet, rough—like a child still shaken from a nightmare he couldn’t quite shake.

You had prepared for this. A week before you’d even brought up claiming him, you’d gone to Professor Saltzman, needing answers. He’d explained how important memories would surface in dreams, while everything else would come to Dean while he was awake, slipping into his thoughts like echoes of a life he hadn’t lived—at least, not until now. Then there was the aftercare. 

You needed to make sure he processed the dream, that he didn’t shove it down like something insignificant. He had to feel it. Work through it. Beyond that, there were the physical symptoms—making sure to keep him hydrated and well-fed was the easy part. It was the rarer symptoms you were worried about. There was the possibility that Dean would be too dizzy or light-headed to be able to walk around much. Or that being too far away from you, the source of your scent, could make him anxious or uneasy. And the headaches, which you had a bottle of Excedrine waiting in the bathroom cabinet.

Dean’s voice pulled you from your thoughts as he started recounting the dream, his words slow and measured. Luckily, he added how things felt—not just what he saw, but the way it settled into him, heavy and lingering. His gaze stayed on the ceiling, but his arm never left you, holding you close like he needed the contact to stay grounded. Absentmindedly, he lifted his other hand, rubbing his temple as a dull throb took root behind his eyes.

You felt it—not physically, but in a way that had no real words. It was like sensing a shift in the wind, or the way you could tell rain was coming before it fell. It was just there. 

“Lemme get you something for that,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his cheek before slipping out of bed. Dean watched you go, brow furrowed like he wasn’t even sure what you meant—until you were gone, and the weight in his head became more noticeable.

His focus shifted to the sight of you, the sway of your hips as you disappeared into the bathroom. Catching sight of you in the mirror, his lips parted, tongue swiping over them instinctively as his gaze lingered. Your hair still mussed from sleep, bare skin bathed in the soft lighting from the bathroom, the soft ease in the way you moved.

The way you were just doing things, taking care of him. Dean’s lips quirked into that familiar boyish grin. He hadn’t even told you his head hurt, but now you were pressing two pills with a glass of water into his hands with that sweet, soft smile on your lips.

At least he took them without an argument while you stood by the side of the bed, almost like a mother hen. He was far more distracted by the way you stood there, utterly unbothered by his gaze roaming over you. But then, the heat of his gaze crawled over your skin, sending a flush to your cheeks—a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the morning sun.

Dean couldn’t help himself. You were beautiful—beyond just the way you looked, beyond anything that words could pin down. You were his. And for the first time in his life, his wolf felt the exact same thing he did, no conflict, no pull in different directions, but together. 

It was good. God, it was good. 

But it was disorienting as hell.

You caught it, even in the faintest flicker—the way his eyelids dipped for a split second, uncontrolled. His eyes glossed over before he blinked hard, trying to push through it, leaning heavier against the headboard. He still didn’t look right, or feel right. 

Then came the small shake of his head, the slight furrow of his brows as if he was trying to clear away a fog he didn’t understand. That was it. That was the sign you’d been watching for. You exhaled a quiet sigh.

“I was worried about that happening,” you told him with a frown, slipping on a shirt, then a pair of shorts. “Stay here. Don’t get out of bed. I’m gonna go make you something to eat.”

And just like that, you were gone.

Dean let his head fall back, eyes shutting against the dull throb behind them. His vision pulsed in and out of focus, the headache settling like a weighted fog. He ran a hand through his hair, wishing he’d read more of the files back at Saltzman’s office. He’d known there would be an adjustment period, but this? This was worse than any hangover he’d ever had.

Then, his wolf whined. 

The sound hit him sharp and sudden—so sudden that for a second, he wasn’t sure if it had been in his head or if it had actually— 

“What’s wrong?” Your voice cut through the haze, laced with something sharp and worried as you hovered in the doorway. And then you were at his side, sitting on the bed, hands skimming over him like you expected to find something wrong. 

Had the sounds actually come out? Dean blinked up at you, brow knitting. “Uh… headache, and I feel a little dizzy, but it’s not so bad now.” He hesitated before adding, “Why?”

You frowned, gaze searching his, but didn’t answer him right away. You hadn’t even been gone long—barely long enough to pull a few things from the fridge—when that whine had hit you. It pierced something in your chest, knotting and twisting at your gut so badly you had gripped your stomach. But looking at him now? He looked okay. 

Still, you weren’t taking any chances. “Let’s get you in at least some boxers,” you said, already moving, finding them among the scattered clothes. “Then I’ll help you get downstairs. If it’s what I think it is, I’ll need to stay close to you.”

Dean’s confusion didn’t fade, and he swore his wolf seemed just as lost. “Care to share?” he asked just as you handed him the fabric.

As he slipped them on, you explained everything Saltzam had told you—about the symptoms, the adjustment period, the way his body and mind would be catching up with the bond over the next several days, maybe even a full week.

By the time you finished, Dean was already making a mental note to text Sam. If he was gonna be stuck like this for a while, at your cabin, he was gonna need a few more things.

Getting him downstairs was slow work. Between the walls, the railing on the stairs, and you, he managed, though the dizziness flared every time he wasn’t touching something solid. You felt it too—the faint, restless pull anytime there was space between you. You hated seeing him unsteady like this, but he wasn’t fighting you. He was trusting you.

By the time you settled him into a chair, pulled close to the stove for easy access, Dean was quiet. Too quiet. His mind was still buzzing with what you’d told him. But his wolf? 

His wolf was purring.

Purring with pride, with something warm and deep and wholly content. You’d researched this. You’d prepared, for him. You were taking care of him, of them. 

Dean was floored. Speechless. And utterly in awe of you. 

You handed him a cup of hot coffee, giving him that small, reassuring smile. “I like hearing you purr,” you murmured, going back to the task of making him breakfast.

He nearly choked on the sip of coffee he’d taken, not even realizing the sound wasn’t just in his head, as he now questioned the whine from earlier. “Did… did that uh… that whine… Was that why, you uh… you came back?” Dean asked hesitantly, more focused on the cup in his hand than on you.

You hummed softly, cracking eggs into the pan, the scent of butter and bacon already filling the kitchen. “Yeah,” you admitted, glancing over to him. “It felt like someone punched me in the chest and stabbed me in the stomach at the same time.”

Dean frowned, running his thumb over the rim of his coffee mug. That didn’t sit right with him—not because he doubted you, but because the idea of his wolf projecting emotions outside himself, loud enough for you to not only hear them, but feel it, was a whole new level of strange. He’d spent his entire life with his wolf as something internal, instinctive. But this? It was like the damn thing had a voice now.

Another soft rumble slipped from his throat, and he stiffened. You turned fully toward him this time, head tilting, a knowing gleam in your eyes. “Dean.”

“What?” he grumbled, shifting in his seat.

“You’re purring again.” Heat crept up his neck, but he couldn’t even bring himself to deny it. He just shook his head, muttering, “God, this is weird.” He let out a huff, rubbing the back of his neck, but the sound didn’t stop—not entirely. It settled in his chest, deep and steady. The way his wolf’s emotions mixed with his own, he understood it. 

You grinned, setting two plates down at the table. Over-easy eggs, thick slices of bacon, toast with butter. Simple, but comforting. “I know it feels weird, but it’s normal. I promise. And, I like hearing it.” You then helped him move to sit at the table, keeping him steady with your hand on his chest, his arm over your shoulders.

Once settled, Dean picked up his fork, but before he dug in, something flashed through his mind—familiar yet distant, like a memory stirring from the depths of his wolf.

It wasn’t clear at first. Just warmth. The feeling of something solid and comforting. Then came the scent of old leather and firewood, the weight of a thick blanket pulled over his shoulders. He must’ve been young, maybe six or seven, curled up on the couch after sneaking out to watch the pack elders talk. He’d drifted off before he got caught, only to wake up to Bobby pressing a cup of hot cocoa into his hands with a gruff, “You got ears for a reason, boy—use ‘em next time.”

Dean blinked, the memory dissolving like mist, but something about it lingered. The phantom weight of the blanket still clung to his shoulders, and for half a second, he could swear he smelled old leather and firewood, warm and grounding. That same warmth settled in his chest as he took a bite of food, the taste grounding him.

“You okay?” you asked softly, studying him.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Just… remembering stuff.” “If you want to talk about anything, I’m here,” you offered with a reassuring smile.

You sat beside him, letting him have the space to process while still staying close to him. Dean took another bite, savoring the simple meal, feeling the way it soothed something raw inside him. He’d had breakfast a thousand times before, but this? Sitting here, with you, his wolf right there at the surface, with him? It was dizzying.

The rest of the morning passed in a slow, easy rhythm. After eating, you took care of clean up while he drank another cup of coffee, mostly just watching you. Memories from his wolf came and went, the fog in his mind still there, but as long as you were close, it never got overwhelming.

You guided him to the couch once the kitchen was clean, setting him up with a cup of water before pulling a blanket over him. When they came, you stayed close to him, almost able to feel that something was just a little off, even if you couldn’t see his face with how the two of you were cuddling. Hours passed like that—quiet conversation, the occasional purr slipping past his lips or rumbling in his chest. It was the quiet whines when you had to walk into another room for something that always felt the same—that ache in your chest, the twist in your gut, and the need to go comfort them. 

It wasn’t the same feeling you would have if you were normal. If you were normal, it would have been a mutual claiming the night before. You shook the thought away, forcing yourself to focus on the moment. This was how it had to be. How it was meant to be. Even if something inside you ached for more.

Every so often, another memory surfaced—a childhood run through the trees with Sam at his side, the feel of John’s firm hand on his shoulder as he taught him about cars, the warmth of Mary’s voice singing softly when he was sick. Some of them he shared with you as your fingers absentmindedly teased through his hair, his head resting on your shoulder.

Each one felt clearer, sharper than before. Like the bond was untangling parts of himself he hadn’t fully understood. All while weaving them together in an entirely new way.

And through it all, you were there. His rock. His peace. His home.

By the time late afternoon rolled around, Dean wasn’t just getting used to it—he was settling into it. The way his wolf’s memories surfaced—the images, feelings, and scents—playing through his mind as if they were his own. And in a way, they were his. At least his wolf felt content within him. Emotions and thoughts weaving together as Dean got back pieces of his life he hadn’t realized he missed.

He’d almost forgotten to call his brother with everything going on. The two of you laughed, finding out he was just next door, hanging out with Jess in her cabin. Sam took down the list of things Dean had asked him to pick up, letting him know he’d stop by later on that evening to drop them off.

Dean yawned halfway through another movie, shifting against you so his head rested on your thigh, his body stretching out along the couch. It was just after noon, the sun high in the sky, but here, in the quiet sanctuary of your cabin, time felt slower—softer. Before he even realized it, sleep took him under, your scent wrapping around him like a lullaby.

—------------------------

Another full moon. Another shift. 

Six months after presentation, his wolf had full control. This was his time. Almost ten hours where he existed unchained—where the body and mind were fully his own. 

Tonight, though, the air was different. Charged. 

He didn’t linger with his pack. Tonight, he made a beeline straight for that place. His paws kicking up damp earth as he raced toward the place that called to him—had been calling to him for months. His heart pounded harder the closer he got, anticipation coursing hot through his veins. 

Then, he was there.

But still, he remained in the shadows, watching. He’d come here nearly every night of the full moon, but hadn’t always stayed. Tonight though? Tonight, something was different. 

A scent—so faint, like a whisper through the trees, but unmistakable. Her. She was closer.

His muscles coiled, every instinct screaming at him to move, to close the distance. But his paws were rooted to the earth, as if some unseen force held him back.

Then, he heard it. 

She was singing.

The sound hit him like a strike to the chest. Raw. Aching. Beautiful. She was in human form—he could tell with how the notes resinated off the forest, speaking a language she didn’t understand. 

But he did.

Loneliness. Longing. The deep, unwavering love she had for her pack. But there was so much more. Her love for her best friend. Then, there was the pain of never feeling her wolf. 

He not only heard it, he felt it.

If he could have cried, he would have. Instead, he stood there, helpless, every instinct warring against the barriers between them. He wanted to find a way past that damned fence, to reach her, to tell her she wasn’t alone.

But he couldn’t. And then, her song faded into the night. He tilted his head to the moon, answering her in the only way he could, with a howl of his own. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

But she wouldn’t understand, and that was the most heartbreaking part of it all. 

His ears twitched, listening, straining for any sign of her. But all he heard was the soft crunch of footsteps retreating into the woods.

She had left.

The next two nights were the same, but after that, over the next year, there was nothing. 

He spent his days fighting with his human, desperate, frustrated. He couldn’t make him understand, not when all he could push through the barrier between them were fractured emotions. But gods, he tried.He wanted nothing to do with other omegas. They weren’t her. Not like his human did.

He couldn’t make his human understand. She was out there, so damned close yet so far away. It was infuriating. His anger, frustration, and helplessness—it all bled into his human, spilling out in fists and arguments at school.

Then, on a night when he thought he might go mad from the silence—

Her song filled the air again.

It hit him like a tidal wave. Her scent moved with it, twining through the air, sinking deep into his bones. Rain-soaked earth. Vanilla. Something purely, unmistakably hers. Cinnamon.

A purr rumbled through his chest before he could stop it.

And again, he answered, his howl splitting the night. “You’re not alone. I’m here.” 

But again, only silence followed. Only the soft sound of her footsteps as she walked away from wherever she’d been hiding among the trees.

Four years. Four long, grueling years of silence. Some full moons, he went to that spot and sang a sad song for only the moon. Others, he ran with his pack, trying to lose himself in the rhythm, pushing away the ache that never eased. The tension between him and his human worsened after each full moon. 

His ears twitched. The sounds of the forest were always the same—an owl in the distance, creatures scurrying through the underbrush, the faint rustling of leaves. But then, a new sound. Footsteps. Soft, careful, deliberate. His head snapped up, eyes locking onto that ancient stump in the clearing.

Then, her song rang into the night. 

That melody from what felt like a lifetime ago. The sound of her voice hit him like a lightning strike, sinking deep into his bones. She was here, in the place he had been drawn to since his first shift. So close.

And like he’d done every time before, he howled his reply. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

Like before, he waited to hear the retreat of her footsteps, but they never came. Instead, they moved closer, his entire body tensing with anticipation. It was the breeze that came from her direction, bringing her scent with it. Rain-soaked earth, vanilla, and something entirely her. Cinnamon. It was stronger. She was closer.

She wasn’t leaving. 

He rose to his feet, staying in the shadows, watching where the sound of her footsteps came from. Slowly, she came into view, half-lit by the moon. He swallowed hard. Even in her human form, she was breathtaking.

When she spoke, the sound was as beautiful as her song, but her words confused him. All he could do was whimper, a quiet plea. He didn’t want her to leave. He wanted to be near her. If only he could make her understand.

But, she stayed, even came closer. 

Tentatively, he moved, matching her steps, unable to look away as she emerged fully into the moonlight. And there, beneath her skin, he saw her, locked away within her, like his human within him.

Her wolf. 

Like a ghost walking in tandem, or a double exposure photograph, her wolf walked with her—black as the midnight sky, eyes as deep and dark as the ocean. 

She was his everything.

—---------------------

Dean had been whimpering in his sleep. You weren’t entirely sure how to soothe him, so you just kept running your fingers through his hair, down his shoulder, over his arm. Slow, steady strokes, hoping the touch would ground him. His breath hitched, his brow furrowing, muscles tensing beneath your fingertips.

What was he dreaming about?

His hand twitched where it rested on your knee, then lifted slightly, pawing the air like he was reaching for something—or someone. His lips parted, a soft, broken sound escaping before he finally stilled, his breathing evening out again.

You exhaled, relaxing back against the cushion of the couch, fingers still idly tracing over his arm. The movie had long since faded into the background, nothing more than distant noise. Your focus was entirely on him—on the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his features softened in his sleep. 

Your eyes drifted to the mark on his neck, still healing from when you’d claimed him the night before. A small smile to your lips. That bond—the one that tethered him to you—was what was allowing this. Letting him become one with his wolf, rather than just something to fight with in his head.

Then, with a quiet inhale, Dean stirred. His fingers brushing against your skin, a soft, unconscious touch. Slowly, heavy-lidded eyes blinked open, green still clouded with sleep but searching, flickering over your face like he was seeing you for the first time. There was something different in his gaze.

Something deeper. Something that stole your breath from your lungs.

His lips parted like he was about to say something, but he hesitated, his brows knitting together slightly. He just looked at you, a quiet intensity in his gaze, like he was trying to fit words to something too vast, too consuming to be spoken aloud.

He’d been speechless that first day nearly three months ago. But now? After that dream—after seeing you through his wolf’s eyes—language felt almost meaningless.

So, he didn’t try. He just moved, shifting upright before pulling you into him, wrapping his arms around you like he needed you closer, needed you real. His breath was warm against your hair when he finally whispered, “I love you.”

The words were thick with emotion, not nearly enough to contain the weight of everything inside him, but it was all he had.

You stilled, fingers curling slightly where they had rested against his back. He’d never said that before. It wasn’t just the words. The weight behind them held something deeper.

The words settled over you, sinking in slowly, a warmth unfurling in your chest that you weren’t sure how to name. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

But then, you pulled back just enough to look at him, taking in the way his gaze searched yours, the faint crease in his brow like he was bracing himself. Your lips parted, breath hitching slightly before you finally managed, “Dean…”

The sound of his name made something flicker in his expression—something raw, something vulnerable. But before either of you could say more, his stomach grumbled, breaking the moment.

You blinked, then let out a breathy laugh, the tension easing just enough for you to shift back, cupping his cheek briefly before nudging him toward the armrest. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get you something to eat.”

He huffed, rubbing a hand over his face as he sat back. “Yeah, alright. But I’m still not moving too fast, so don’t rush me.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, standing before offering him a hand up. “I wasn’t planning on it, Speed Racer.”

Dean took your hand, letting you steady him as he stood. He still wobbled slightly, his grip tightening around yours, and you gave him a knowing look. “Still dizzy?”

He exhaled sharply. “Yeah. Feels like I’ve been on a boat all day.”

“Could last a while,” you reminded him as you guided him toward the kitchen. “Depending on how stubborn you are about letting it happen.” Dean shot you a pointed look, muttering something about “not that stubborn,” but you just hummed, unconvinced, as you opened the fridge.

With it still a couple of hours until dinner, you pulled out the pie from the day before, glancing at him as he lowered himself into a chair. His eyes were distant again, like he was still caught in whatever he’d dreamed about.

After a moment, you set a plate in front of him, then sat down across from him. “Do you want to talk about it?” Dean hesitated, rolling his shoulders slightly, before dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah. I think—I think I need to.” His voice was quieter now, thoughtful. “I saw things. Remembered things.” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “My wolf’s memories. It wasn’t just a dream.”

You nodded, not pushing, just waiting. He’d tell you when he was ready. For now, you went back over to the freezer, pulling out a roast to prepare for dinner while he ate his slice of pie, piecing things together in his mind. 

The ‘dream’ had shaken Dean more than he wanted to admit just yet. It was a hell of a lot to take in. The emotions alone had his mind reeling. He let out a shaky breath just as you set a glass of water on the table for him.

“You need to stay hydrated,” you said, pressing a quick kiss on the top of his head.

You thought about the book you were going to write, making mental notes of all the little things that had happened since that morning—things others probably had no knowledge of. Then, tucking them away in your mind, you focused on slicing carrots, potatoes, and onions to add to the roast.

Dean groaned. “Carrots? Really?” He knew he was whining like a pup, but he wasn’t a fan of ‘healthy’ stuff like his brother was.

You glanced over your shoulder, amusement flickering in your eyes. You could have pointed out just how much he sounded like a fussy pup, but honestly? A part of you found it endearing in a way you couldn’t quite put into words. You bit back a smile, turning back to your task.

“All I ask is that you try them. You’re a grown man. I’m not going to force-feed you,” you teased, your voice light but knowing. It was a trick you had learned from Beverly all those years ago, the kind that worked on stubborn pups who turned their noses up at anything remotely healthy.

Dean shot you a skeptical look, shoveling another bite of pie into his mouth. Not even his mom had been able to cook carrots in a way that didn’t still taste like carrots. He watched as you prepped the roasting pan, seasoned everything with practiced ease. And… grabbed the honey? His brows knit together, his curiosity pulled him from his seat. 

“What are you…” he trailed off, eyes narrowing as he watched you coat the entire roast, seasonings and all, in a layer of honey. Then, drizzled it sparingly over the potatoes, carrots, and onions that were all around the chunk of meat in the middle.

You glanced at him, raising a brow as you capped the honey. “Never had a roast like this before, huh?” 

Dean shook his head, still watching you like he wasn’t entirely sure whether to be intrigued or horrified.

You chuckled, covering the roasting pan and sliding it into the preheated oven. “Guess you’ll just have to trust me.” 

His curiosity had officially been piqued. You made a mental note of that—just another thing you were learning about him.

“Do you want to watch another movie or tell me about the dream you had?” you asked softly, turning to face him.

Your question pulled him from his mental debate over how you had used honey on dinner. 

Your voice was gentle, giving him an out if he needed it. Dean appreciated that. He swallowed, his fingers tapping idly against the counter supporting him. He wanted to tell you—hell, he needed to—but the words sat heavy in his chest, tangled in a way that made them hard to pull free.

“Movie?” he said instead, hesitantly. It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. He just wasn’t ready yet.

Dean knew you had other things the two of you could do, like board and card games, but with the fog in his mind, he couldn’t concentrate on anything for very long.

You didn’t press. “Movie it is,” you said with a small smile, helping him back to the living room. 

As he settled onto the couch, the dizziness subsiding along with some of the fog in his mind, he watched you scan the shelves. His eyes followed the careful way you moved, the easy familiarity in how you sifted through the movies. He liked that. Liked how comfortable you were, how natural all of this felt. His wolf rumbled in agreement, pushing closer, making its presence known in a way that sent a shiver down his spine.

He exhaled through his nose, your words from earlier replaying in his mind. Instead of pushing his wolf and its feelings away, Dean embraced them, letting his wolf stretch in his body, his own fingers flexing.

“Got any action movies?” he asked, taking slow, deep breaths, the sensation strange but manageable.

You hummed in thought, fingers trailing over the cases before plucking one free. “How about Young Guns?” You glanced back at him, gauging his reaction. “It’s action, kinda Western—you like Westerns, right?”

Dean huffed, the corner of his mouth tugging upward despite himself. “Damn right, I do.” You grinned, slipping the disc into the player and settling beside him as the movie started. He put his arm over your shoulders, pulling you to snuggle into his side, and you let him. His wolf guided him, and this time, he didn’t fight the instincts that coursed through him.

For a while, Dean focused on the film, letting himself get lost in the gunfights, the sharp drawl of the cowboy accents, the reckless loyalty of the gang. But his wolf was more focused on you. Calm within him, just under his skin.

It wasn’t just the lingering weight of the dream—though that still sat at the back of his mind—it was you. The warmth of you against him, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the faint scent of honey and spices still clinging to your skin from earlier. It was different than before, more potent. His wolf leaned into it, its instincts threading deeper into his awareness, merging with his own in a way that made his pulse quicken.

Dean clenched his jaw, shifting slightly. He wasn’t used to this. Wasn’t used to feeling his wolf so much, like it was pressing up against the inside of his ribs. It wasn’t demanding or aggressive—just present, threading through his awareness like the slow seep of warmth from a hot drink on a winter’s day.

It wasn’t bad, not exactly—just… new.

Then, halfway through the movie, the scent of dinner began to drift in from the kitchen.

It hit like a damn freight train.

The rich aroma of slow-roasted meat, the sweetness of hone caramelizing over time, the earthiness of seasoned vegetables—it all wrapped around him, sinking into his senses, pulling a grumble from his stomach, even after the slice of pie he’d had earlier. His wolf perked up instantly, sharp and alert, fully fixated on the meal cooking just a room away.

Dean swallowed hard.

His stomach growled again, a low, insistent sound, but it wasn’t just hunger clawing at him. It was the feeling behind it—the way his wolf recognized the meal as something made for him, something meant to nourish, to provide. 

He turned slightly, glancing down at you, your head resting against his chest. You were still focused on the movie, but he swore there was the faintest hint of a knowing smile on your lips.

You’d done this on purpose.

You knew how to get him to eat the damn carrots without forcing it, just like you knew when to push him and when to let him sit with his thoughts. He wasn’t sure how you did it—how you always seemed to know—but it settled something deep in his chest.

His wolf purred, the sound a gentle rumble in his chest.

Dean paid attention to his wolf, pulling you just a little closer. If he was being honest, this was one thing he and his wolf could agree on—being proud of you, of what you were doing for them. 

Maybe merging with it wasn’t such a bad thing, he thought to himself. Not if it meant more moments like this.

He let himself sink into the warmth of your embrace, losing track of time as the movie played on. When the timer dinged in the kitchen as the credits began rolling, you stirred against him, stretching with a soft yawn. “Lemme pull dinner out. Then, I’ll help you to the kitchen,” you murmured, your voice drowsy but content.

Dean’s first instinct was to wave you off, to let you rest while he handled the rest of dinner. But his wolf stirred, disagreeing. Don’t. The resistance irritated him at first—until he actually looked at you. Not tired. Relaxed. His wolf knew, and as Dean let himself settle again, he could feel that knowing. A quiet certainty. He was beginning to recognize it.

You returned a moment later, helping him to his feet and guiding him to the kitchen. He let you, more out of curiosity than necessity, watching you as you moved through the space with effortless ease. There was something grounding about it, something steady in the way you plated the food with careful precision.

The scent had hit him first—the moment you pulled the lid off the roasting pan. The honey-glaze, the slow-roasted meat, and the rich spices teased his senses. It wrapped around him, familiar and new all at once, making his stomach tighten with more than just hunger. There was comfort there. But what really got him was the anticipation on how these carrots were going to taste.

Dean swallowed, shifting in his seat as you set a plate in front of him, the warmth of the dish seeping through the ceramic. His wolf all but hummed, a quiet rumble of satisfaction curling in his chest. This was meant for him—made for him. He could feel it, the unspoken care in every detail.

You sat down across from him with your own plate, offering a small smile before digging in, giving him space to process. However, you did eye him discreetly, curious as to how he’d react to the carrots. The concept worked on pups, so you figured it would work on adults too, in much the same way.

He picked up his fork, stabbing a chunk of carrot. It wasn’t mushy, offering just enough resistance to make him pause. Huh. He popped it into his mouth—and froze.

It was… sweet. But not too sweet. Tender while still firm. It melted on his tongue in a way he hadn’t expected, the honey balancing out the natural earthiness. His brows shot up as he chewed, surprised despite himself.

The giggle that slipped past your lips pulled his gaze to meet yours. To him, you looked like an amused parent who had just tricked their pup into enjoying something healthy. There was no stopping the slight tug at the corners of his lips, his wolf’s amusement slipping out, and he let it.

“Alright,” he admitted, gruff but good-natured. “I’ll give you this one.”

Dean cut himself a bite of meat. The flavors hit him in waves—savory, sweet, decadent. His wolf pressed close, instincts flaring in quiet approval, and Dean didn’t even try to fight it. He let his wolf stretch beneath his skin, their edges blurring. Not quite merged, but no longer quite separate either. Still an odd sensation, but he was done resisting.

Halfway through the meal, he found himself glancing up at you, his thoughts shifting. “You wanna know about the dream?” he asked, voice low but steady.

You met his gaze, setting your fork down carefully. “Only if you’re ready,”  you said, giving him that same out you knew he might need.

Dean exhaled, rolling his shoulders, his fingers tightening slightly around his fork. “It was of that first night,” he began, his voice quiet again. His gaze was on you, but far away, letting it play out in front of him. “But… it was that whole time before he met you, too.”

You stayed quiet, still giving him the space he needed so he could put words to the emotions you saw swirling in his eyes. Important memories came in dreams, you mentally reminded yourself. 

“He saw you, your wolf,” he whispered. “Like a ghost walking in you.” There was so much, but that had been what stood out the most to him, your wolf. Your breath hitched, and you swallowed hard, lips parting slightly. But you stayed quiet, taking steadying breaths to try to calm your racing heart. None of which was lost on him.

His eyes refocused on you and whispered, “She’s beautiful, like you.”

You fought back tears as the emotions tightened around your chest like a vice, but one slipped down your cheek without permission. You couldn’t hold his gaze anymore, quickly wiping away the tear and attempting to pull yourself together. He got to see a part of you that you had never even been able to feel, and you weren’t entirely sure how to process it, but it hurt.

If he was capable, he would have gone over and pulled you into his arms, but the last thing he needed was to have you end up helping him up off the floor due to the dizziness. So, instead, he reached across the small table and took your hand in his.

For a few moments, he didn’t speak, letting his wolf guide him. 

“He’s always known it was you,” Dean explained softly, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles against your skin. “Ever since the first night I shifted after I presented alpha.” His voice was steady, weighted with something old, something certain. “When he’d answer you, he was telling you that he was there. That you weren’t alone.”

Something inside you broke. The kind of break that wasn’t jagged or painful—but the kind that let the light in.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, silent and unstoppable. Dean and his wolf worked together as he carefully braced against the table, shifting to sit beside you. Then, his arms were around you, strong and sure, pulling you close. He whispered comforting words, softly stroking your hair with one hand, the other on the small of your back, grounding you. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled against his shoulder, voice thick, the words almost swallowed by quiet sobs. You weren’t even sure where the emotions were coming from or why they had spilled over all of a sudden. It had just hit you, out of the blue. Or had it pulled to the surface things you had chosen not to face over the years, a loneliness that no one had truly ever been able to fill?

Dean could smell it in your scent, but with your mutation, his scent couldn’t calm you. So, he allowed his wolf further to the front, mixing with his consciousness, guiding him, so close they nearly blurred into one. A soft rumble in his chest vibrated into you. 

He was purring, again. He didn’t fight against it. This time, he leaned into it.

Slowly, your tears subsided, and your breathing evened out, the tension in your muscles easing as you relaxed against him.

Merging isn’t so bad, Dean thought to himself when you finally looked up at him, and he smiled softly down at you. He cupped your cheek, his thumb wiping away another stray tear. “You have nothing to apologize for,” he told you softly. “You’re here now, with me.” You didn’t have to explain why you were apologizing—he already knew. You saw it in his eyes, the quiet understanding, the way both he and his wolf held no resentment for the years that had passed, for the distance that had once been between you. With a shaky breath, you managed a small smile, then leaned in, pressing a feather-light kiss to the tip of his nose.

“Thanks, for understanding,” you murmured.

Dean exhaled softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, giving you one last gentle squeeze before returning to his seat. It’d been easy to comfort you when he worked with his wolf. Easier than he ever thought it could be. The cabin felt different now—lighter, softer. Falling into conversation was simple, laughing about things from the movies, his sweet compliments about dinner, and the way you would just look at him, like you were seeing something in him no one else ever had.

You did see something in him—the way he was sharing control with his wolf, how they worked together, and how a softness finally found his eyes as the tension eased from his features. 

Dinner wound down with an ease neither of you rushed to disturb. Dean nursed a beer as you started cleaning up, the last of the golden daylight spilling through the kitchen windows. You’d barely tucked away the leftovers when the front door swung open, Jess and Sam’s voices carrying through the cabin.

“In the kitchen!” you called, not looking up from your task.

Sam was the first to step inside, eyes sweeping over Dean as the scents of dinner lingered thick in the air. “Man, if Jess hadn’t already fed me, I’d be all over whatever you made,” he said, amusement tugging at his voice.

Jess beelined for you, looping her arms around your waist as you washed another plate. “Tell me you saved me some?” she teased, resting her head on your shoulder.

You giggled, nudging her lightly. “If Dean doesn’t finish it off tomorrow.”

“Bet he only ate the meat,” Sam quipped, setting down the bag of supplies Dean had asked him for earlier.

Dean took a swig of his beer, shooting his brother a look, but you beat him to it. 

“He ate the potatoes and the carrots,” you informed Sam, matter-of-factly.

Sam’s brows shot up. “How?”

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose—somewhere between irritation and resignation—as your laughter bubbled through the kitchen, warm and easy. Jess smirked, licking her lips as she answered for you. “She uses honey or maple syrup on them when she does a roast.”

Sam huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Too bad Mom never knew that tick.” Dean muttered something under his breath and tipped his beer back, but he didn’t argue. Because, well—Sam wasn’t wrong.

“We’re not staying long,” Jess murmured, her chin still resting on your shoulder. “Just wanted to drop off Dean’s bag.” With her still holding onto you, you managed to dry your hands. “We’ll hang out soon—”

“None of that,” she scolded, voice firm but gentle. “Don’t rush this. I’ll be here when he can walk on his own two feet again.” You knew she was teasing Dean—at least a little—but also that she wasn’t going anywhere. Even if it took him a month to figure out how to merge with his wolf. 

“Thanks,” you whispered, leaning back into her embrace, covering her hand with yours.

“What are sisters for?” she murmured, squeezing you once before finally letting go.

The brothers watched, momentarily caught in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Pack members were close by nature, but this—this was something deeper. It was like the bond they had with each other, something that existed beyond blood or name. It wasn’t just Winter or Winchester or even how the packs had merged. The four of you simply fit, like a pack of your own, bound by something older, something unspoken. Jess had never shied away from your scent, had never hesitated to be close, and that meant something. The two of you had just been connected from the day she was born—like the day the brothers met the two of you, and the day Dean’s wolf had shifted for the first time. 

Jess was the first to pull them all from the quiet moment, ever the one to break the spell before it could settle too deeply.

“Well,” she sighed dramatically, stepping back from you with a teasing smirk. “We should probably head out before these lovebirds start making eyes at each other.” Sam huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he pulled his keys from his pocket. “Yeah, can’t be third and fourth wheeling all night.” Dean scoffed, shooting his brother a look, but he didn’t bother arguing. Not when he knew those two had already done far more than he and you had. 

Jess squeezed your hand once before stepping away, wiggling her fingers in a little wave. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” “Pretty sure that doesn’t leave much off the table,” you quipped, making her cackle as she disappeared out the door with Sam.

The quiet didn’t rush in; it settled, comfortably. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant chirp of night insects through the open window—soft, ambient sounds that made the space feel warmer, more yours. Dean leaned back in his chair, watching you for a long moment before he finished his beer.

“You tired?” His voice was low, rough in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

You glanced at him, shaking your head. “Not yet.” Dean exhaled, slow, watching as you wiped down the stove and counters. You felt his eyes on you, but not in a bad way. It was just different—not just adoration, but understanding. A deep, bone-deep knowing.

His wolf had always been there, waiting. Pacing beneath his skin, a presence he’d tried to keep at arm’s length, control rather than embrace. But tonight, there was no struggle, no tension. It wasn’t separate from him anymore, wasn’t something he had to manage. It was him. Fully, completely.

The steady pulse in his chest, the way his body leaned forward instinctively in his chair, toward yours, how he could feel his muscles relax just with your presence. The pull that had always been there—only now he was finally letting himself accept it.

“I like this,” he admitted, voice softer now, honest in a way that felt like a secret meant only for you. “Not fighting it. Feels… right.”

It was the soft smile tugging at your lips when you turned around that hitched his breath. His words sent something warm curling in your chest, knowing he meant more than just his wolf—he meant you. Meant this. 

“Yeah,” you murmured, stepping closer to him, reaching out and taking his hand. “It does.”

And for the first time, Dean let himself believe it.

He let you help him upstairs, though he barely needed to lean on you at all now. Not when he had finally stopped fighting—both with and against his wolf. He wasn’t losing himself by embracing it. He was becoming whole. 

Instincts he’d been afraid of for far too long settled into place, no longer something to suppress but something to trust. And somehow, being with you now, seeing the world through his wolf’s eyes, it all just made sense. Like the pieces of a puzzle finally snapping together. 

Even knowing you couldn’t feel the bond between the two of you, couldn’t scent him or the emotions woven in it, he knew. 

Your heart belonged to him. Just as his had always belonged to you.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 12

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MORNING SONG ☾

INFO: 1468 words, jing yuan x gn! reader SYNOPSIS: grief steals from those that it latches onto, and jing yuan knows this best. Your disappearance from the Xianzhou creates a rift in his heart, and only death can bring you back together. WARNINGS: gore metaphors used, mention of death, grief and loss AUTHOR'S NOTE: wrote this one ages ago too, kind of proud!! i can feel its gonna flop tho bc i used too many metaphors again

There was a lark perched on his windowsill, and its song reminded him of you. 

Its song, as it was written in age old books, was a mimicry of all those that it heard. A mosaic of all that came before it, translated into a high, rapid tune that marked mornings. 

Mourning-song, he’d once mused. 

Jing Yuan couldn’t decide if he looked forward to these mornings, or dreaded them. There was nothing he could do that could possibly erase your memory completely, nor tarnish the sparkling image he preserved of your meetings. There was nothing that could erase the betrayal he felt when you left so suddenly, and he could only pray that an aeon was watching. 

When you left, the world went cold as the ice that crept onto glass in a stagnant winter morning. Frost in intricate needles, laid perfectly, waiting for someone to breathe and shatter its balance.

There was a hint of you in all he did, as if you wanted to haunt him after your sudden departure. After the ill fate of the high cloud quintet that left you both in shambles, both bleeding, both breaking, both grieving, but finding solace in one another. Remnants of what remained of those golden years, promising each other patience and never to leave. 

Until you did.

He didn’t know why, and didn’t care. It didn’t matter, because you were gone with a whisper of still morning air with only a note left on the hilt of his sword. 

Heal yourself, heal us.

There were memories that time couldn’t erase, he believed, and you were one of them. A curse or a blessing, he couldn’t tell. Yearning and grief were one and the same, and you were the perfect subject for his emotion to be channelled into – the singular subject for all his grievances. The object of all his hatred and rage, the one who held all the answers to the questions he wanted to scream at the heavens which didn’t deign responses.

There were birds that lined the trees all throughout the Xianzhou, and all of them seemed to want to imitate the lark’s mournful song. 

Their song was something he grew accustomed to, however. He was getting complacent. Less mornings were befell by these hymns of waking, more were filled with plans of the day, which assistants he needed to check up on, Yanqing’s training, investigations and documents and reports that he lost himself in. 

And yet seasons changed, leaves browned, flowers blossomed and your note remained on his desk, now lost amongst countless documents. 

The lark’s song, one morning, marked your return – though he never knew it. It became the tune of his waking hours, one that became white noise in the work he buried himself beneath. 

It shocked him to the core to discover you had become one of the nameless.

You left him to be one of the nameless. 

It tore him apart to see you look upon him with such a strange demeanour, a foreign gaze – hardened, almost cruel – and smile. 

“This is general Jing Yuan.”

You nodded then, and it felt so familiar. As if your past was trapped behind your new face, and that if he tore it off as you had torn out his heart, he’d see that youthful, naive grin he’d always coveted, festering and rotting behind your new visage. Despite it all, he searched for the dregs of loss on your face, only to learn that you were now slivers and shards of what once was. 

You were bleeding when you were with him. Now healed, he had no idea what to do except admire the scars and patchwork.

“Nice to meet you, General.”

The timbre of your voice was familiar long ago, if more meek–wary. Even his title felt distant. Wrong. As if your lips longed to mouth the name that you once so easily voiced. And did your voice carry a new lilt? There was something new in every face and orifice of your existence, and he knew it was childish, naive and brash – like you both were, once – but he wished he could glimpse you again. A small part of him, dark and spiteful, wished you were still suffering. That you suffered as he did. 

What stood before him was a mosaic of memories he was unfamiliar with, hardened beneath the world’s cruel touch. Cold and alien, like the stars of other galaxies, and he cursed the aeons. 

“A pleasure, Y/n.” 

He nearly misses the way your eyes don’t smile with the curve of your lips, the glance you cast at Himeko and the way the redhead’s eyes subtly narrow before returning to the conversation. 

You were reduced to common niceties and courtesies that strangers could exchange, and you both knew exactly what would happen if you deigned to acknowledge the crouching lion that hid beyond the facades. 

“Crouching Lion, Pouncing Tiger.” Is what Fu Xuan ordained, and he soon realised this to be entirely true. 

With Dan Feng’s incarnation making an appearance, he idly wondered where this so-called “Pouncing  Tiger” may come in, only to realise with stark confrontation.

“General.”

Your voice cuts through the still quiet of his office like a knife honed on years of cruelty. He hadn’t heard you enter, and he sits straight as his gaze meets yours through the dim light.

“Yes, Y/n.”

“Do you remember?”

He does, and it suffocates him with a cold that imbues a vengeful chill on hands that have long since lost colour. 

“I remember.”

You blink, and don’t respond for a while. Quiet settles again, and distantly, birds sing their eveningsong. Mosaics of other songs, precisely what they were. 

“Are you angry?”

Of course he is. Was. When you disappeared, he wanted to carve his heart from his chest to ease the ache. He wanted to tear his skin from his bones and use the ivory to form the divination that may lead him to you. He would’ve turned the cosmos out for a chance to find you again, would sacrifice all his memory of all his life to be able to hold you in his hands again – gently, this time, of course – you were a fragile thing, prone to breaking. 

But he did exactly this, and now, you stood before him, completely unaware. 

“I’m not angry.”

“Why not?”

“There is time for everything, songbird.” The nickname slips out far too easily for his liking, and though it tastes like a memory from centuries ago, covered in dust and now cloying sweetness, you still smile. 

It meets your eyes, this time. 

“Time for everything?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“Is there time for us?”

This makes him pause. 

There was, once, time for it all. There was an immortal’s reverie that once perpetuated this suspension from the elements and all that came to it. A paralysis of time that cast everything in an age of gold which gave illusions that there was, indeed, time for it all. Time for the clandestine meetings in parks and impromptu visits, stolen glances and hushed giggles. 

“There is time.”

Your smile falls slightly. 

“Jing Yuan, I’m dying.”

And time stops, the world freezes on its rotation, and Jing Yuan doesn’t know anything but startling disquiet as your eyes become teary.

He remembers, once, wiping your tears away with his own sleeve. There was sunlight in this memory. Sunlight, lush grass and distant birdsong, but it was all meaningless because you were in front of him. 

You were happy. Or so he thought. You cried because you were overjoyed that he loved you the way you loved him, and your pining hadn’t been for nothing. 

But history moved in cruel circles, and his anguish, it seemed, would be for nothing. 

“How?”

“The stars.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been written in the stars.”

“It’s been ordained?”

You nod. “Fu Xuan herself.”

He breathes deeply, and the space between you becomes swallowed up by his footsteps, sealed as his arms wrap around you. His hold is so tight that you almost can't breathe, but you don’t care. You don’t care about anything except how he smells identical to what you remember. How his hair – though longer – brushed against your cheek, and his firm, tall stature that engulfed you. 

You missed him. 

You think the aeons are cruel. 

He wants to curse the stars and draw blood to whoever dares to try and steal you again.

He holds you for longer and longer, until you both sink onto the ground in a heap of tears and grievances, time apart dissipating with proximity.

Neither of you want to leave to wash away the receipt of your regret, because it means it’s real. 

The stars were cruel in separating you, and only crueller in bringing you back together. 

written by @atlaswav , published 29th of January 2025

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Fate vs. Choice - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Jinx has a decision, and a deadline.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Six o’ clock. Late evening.

The Cathedral of Progress.

Lanterns burned in their iron-scrolled brackets; the shadows cut flayed patterns on the granite walls. In the nave, the acolytes chanted, cloaked and cowled. In their palms, the lit tapers cast long, lean shadows across the stone floors. Their voices were a mechanized hymn: harmonized down to the smallest atom vibrating in the air. There was no music riding the currents. Only silence, draping a veil of total stillness over the congregation. Perhaps even eternal damnation, to those who dared trespass.

Jinx didn't give a ripe toot about damnation. She'd already fallen from grace: the moment she'd set a wind-up monkey loose to rescue her family, and jinxed them instead. Her own jinx, since that fateful night, was an inevitability, and a long time coming.

Now, at nineteen, she was the living, breathing epitome of it.

The harsh sweetness of coffee cut through the chants. Jinx cracked an eyelid open; for one long giddy second, the world spun in a sickening circle.

Then it righted itself. Or Viktor did: a cool hand clasping hers.

“Wake up, Jinx.”

Her eyes fluttered open. She lay, starfished in an indolent sprawl, in sweetgrass that swayed as if under an invisible caress. The aroma of lilies was ascendant; twilight had deepened their perfume. The night-garden was tucked into the courtyard at the heart of the Cathedral, abutted by a small cemetery of granite.

Under the surreal refractions of a stained-glass dome, it was a wonderland: teeming with long-dead saints, and the perfumes of late-blooming flowers, all a-glow in holy light. Upon closer scrutiny, the holiness inverted into the uncanny. Every plant, aspirating beneath the multicolored rays, was revealed to hold an almost numerical symmetry: logarithmic spirals of orchids, geometrically-profound petunias, grid-patterns of clovers all fractaling in golden ratios.

As if every organism—from soil grain to leaf tip—had coalesced into life under the touch of a divine hand. Or a very obsessive mathematician.

Or—both.

Then there was the tree.

It was a prehistoric sycamore of darkling wood: five times the height of the average Piltovan oculus; three times as broad across. The branches fanned out into spokes as big as a ferris wheel. The ends of each spathe, splayed wildly under the skylight, erupted into iridescent blooms. They were nearly gem-like in their purity: their crystalline petals glowing in colors of multicolored amethyst, chrysoprase, quartz, topaz, ruby. The canopy spread over the entire garden; the roots curled deep into the bedrock.

By nightfall, it gave off an eerie luminescence: bathing the garden in an ephemeral glow. By daylight, it cast a rainbow halo across the grounds. Its fragrance changed constantly: one minute pungent as wormwood, the next citrusy as lemon zest, another woody as cardamomh. Insects swarmed about its roots; butterflies flocked its boughs. Some even swore they'd spotted faeries dancing in rings beneath its shadow.

The hallucinogenic effects were, by Viktor's accounts, an ur-example of magicoreality: an object, space, or phenomenon that is created through the combined imagination of multiple entities. It was real, because they believed it real. And vice versa.

Like a mobius strip blossoming into being.

Viktor's acolytes had transplanted the tree—roots to stem—from Singed subterranean laboratory. Something in the soil of the Cathedral's grounds nourished it with unique potency: the tree flourished where naysayers, Silco chief among them, predicted it would rot. By the first month, it'd become the centerpiece around which every botanical beauty revolved. By the sixth, it was the brilliant heart of a preternatural paradise: creepers, ferns, lilies, ivies, marigolds, all erupting in a palette of purest life.

By the tenth?

The tree was worshipped as an entity unto itself. It dominated the cultists' rhetoric; it haunted their reveries. It was rumored that Janna herself had breathed life into its veins, rescuing it from the brink of collapse. Pilgrims from the depths below, voyeurs from the heights above, arrived in droves to seek the sheltering boughs as if for the same restorative breath.

And under those twirling branches?

They were never the same again.

Formerly pallid patients were rumored to stagger from their sickbeds, sit beneath the blossoms in solemn ceremony, then unfold from their atavistic comas miraculously reborn. Like larvae metamorphosing into butterflies.

From devolution to evolution.

But though the tree restored a measure of life to its devotees, its own was an hourglass suspended between grains. The fruits hanging off its branches evoked a spectrum of incandescent sea-shells washed by whitecaps onto arid shores. They were entirely inedible; ash and air. And as soon as they fell, their shells fossilized: petrifying into stone-crusted facets within minutes of detachment, before dissolving into inert dust.

It was the tree's perpetual paradox: the promise of life, forever beyond reach. And death, ever-encroaching at its heels.

In its shadow, Viktor, the most devoted disciple of one, held court weekly with the most notorious apostate of the other.

"Wake up, Jinx."

Viktor's hand, freed from its tight leather glove, squeezed hers. His fingers, long and thin, held a delicate strength: there were calluses, velvety, at the tips, and a roughness along the heel. A scientist's hands, evolved into a healer's. Tonight, Jinx saw ink smudges on the knuckles. There was also a tiny nick, from wielding a scalpel during the evening's surgery on a young boy's ruptured appendix.

The boy was safe. Tucked into a cot at the infirmary, with the others under Viktor's care: each dosed with enough poppy-milk to see them through the night. The boy's mother, one of the dozen souls who'd flocked to the Cathedral seeking the Machine Herald's aid, had wept at her son's restoration, kissing the hem of Viktor's robe in a show of gratitude.

It was a scene that Jinx had witnessed, over and over again, during her visits. And it never failed to unsettle.

Devotion, undiluted, had that effect. Especially when it was devoid of desire.

Daily, scores of souls passed in and out of the Cathedral. Each brought with them a problem, a poison, a plea. Each, Viktor addressed in their turn: salving their sores, purging their pustules, and bestowing, with a steady hand and a soft voice, his personal brand of salvation.

He never charged for his chem-modifications. Even the most complex, which took months to design, were given for free.

His payment, his only payment, was everything.

From the start, he’d made plain that his services were offered on a strictly non-partisan basis, and would cease immediately should any faction in Zaun attempt to co-opt his work. Except that was a lie. Everyone knew, in Zaun's hierarchical honeycomb, Viktor had no love for politics. But he was fiercely political: his sacrifices, solely and exclusively, were for the elevation of Zaun's future.

It was his singular obsession: the evolution of the present into an age of transcendence, and the eradication of the past into obscurity.

Viktor hated the past. A past that’d left him broken, disfigured, discarded: an imperfect specimen, unworthy of survival.

The same past, which had yet forged him.

And Jinx, his muse and mirror, who'd been reborn in its bloodshed.

"Jinx," Viktor repeated. "Wake up."

His hand squeezed hers, then let go. A moment later, a metal cup was pressed into her grasp.

The warmth radiated; Jinx's flesh drank it up. The coffee gave off its curls of aromatic steam: a nutty blend of chicory root, black chocolate liqueur, and the sweet whiff of anise.

Diluted, as always, with sweetmilk.

Viktor, his own cup balanced precariously between two fingertips, reclined with an easy elegance in the grass. His staff lay within arm's reach: the undying habit of a boy whose mind is always five steps ahead, but whose body is forever falling behind. Everywhere, leather-bound books were scattered, some facedown with cracked spines, others bristling with raven's feathers that doubled as bookmarks. An inkwell glittered, half-empty, on a stack of maps scribbled with notes.

In this garden, Vitya was ever-studying, ever-searching. Never satisfied with the knowledge already in hand, and the miracles already in motion.

Something he and Jinx shared in common.

Reclining on elbow, Viktor sipped from his cup with the other hand. Then he plucked a notebook from the pile, stirred through its pages with a fingertip, and resumed writing with his cockatrice quill: a rapid series of symbols that, unfurling, imprinted themselves in a secret pocket of Jinx's brain, and the darkest recesses of her heart.

Destiny: charted beyond the stars.

Jinx sat up, knees tucked against her chest, and drank from her cup. The flavor was just as it should be: bitter chased by sweet, complexity balanced by simplicity.

Viktor's handwork: the paradox distilled into metaphor.

Just like the garden, where every blade of grass grew exactly the same height, and every flower, in its arrangement, was a repetition into infinity.

Sipping, Jinx's eyes flicked from bloom to bloom. Then, she noticed:

A single blossom out of place.

A lone iris, curling its way from between the tree's roots. It was sly as an intruder, bright as a fallen star.

The same hue as Powder's wishful blue eyes.

Jinx's lips curled. Tentatively, she reached out. Her fingers traced the blossoming petals. They were silky, smooth. Almost too flawless to be real.

"Is this place," she whispered, "alive?"

It was only half-joking. During each visit, she could never escape the sense that the garden—multiform, deviant—was suffused with a spiritual awareness sister to sentience. And the tree, gathering them both under its protective penumbra, was rooted right to the crux of Zaun's stony heart.

"Not exactly," Viktor replied, without looking up from his notes. "Not by our reckoning. More a kind of... meta-life."

"Meta-life?"

Viktor, dipping the quill in its inkwell, shrugged.

"This tree is but a reflection—an iteration—of something larger-than-life. Something of a piece with the city's vital flow. A conduit of sorts."

"Like, what? A portal?"

"Perhaps," he said, and absently rested a palm on his leg, the site of his first augments. "Or perhaps a lens. Something which reflects, refracts, magnifies. An imperfect metaphor."

"Serpent's tongue. Apple's flesh. Devil's promise."

"Precisely. A system of shorthand within which meaning can be imparted, and context given."

Jinx's eyes lingered on the flower: a star's winking light, buried under layers of soil.

"What's the point, though?" she wondered. "I mean, yeah, I get it: a symbol's powerful. But if you're trying to forget the past—"

"Forgetting is not the same as erasing," Viktor corrected, patiently. "And what good is a symbol, Jinx, if no one knows what it stands for?"

Double-edged question and double-pronged answer: classic Viktor.

Sighing, Jinx returned to her cup. The coffee, cooled, had lost its bite. She drained it anyway, then let the cup rest in her lap. Her eyes, half-lidded, took in her companion.

He was still garbed for his duties: a mauve linen robe with a high collar, its sleeves rolled up, the hem draping past his knees. It was a garment, once, meant to conceal. Now, it served a purpose quite the opposite. Its folds bared the armature that held Viktor together: once emaciated, now elegantly streamlined beneath a segmented exoskeleton of synth-plates. His bad leg, encased in gleaming obsidian augments, now held the flexile precision of muscle, and the springing strength of a steel cable.

The fusion was seamless: the stuff of futuristic fairytale. When he moved, it was with an almost regal glide. As if, somewhere in the gaunt structure of Viktor's frame, there was an ancient drop of royalty, finally emerging from its hardscrabble shell in a blend of princely asceticism and common-born resilience.

Under the tree's canopy, Viktor's pallor was offset by his deep-hued robes. The effect wasn't peaky so much as pearlescent. His untidy curls tumbled freshly-glossed along his shoulders: the barest delineations of a beard teased the contours of his jawline. The sum total was neither masculine nor feminine. Only androgynous; ethereal.

Transcendent as stardust.

The rim's of Jinx's eyes burned. Why was it that even at their closest, Viktor seemed as if he was dissolving into astral orbit, a beautiful moon drifting farther from reach?

And why did Jinx feel herself hurtling on an opposing trajectory: crashing to earth with fatal velocity?

The wind, still unseen, sawed gently through the tree's branches. Its blossoms whispered: the susurration of silk sheets, or a lover's sigh. Jinx found it fitting that, though the Cathedral of Progress was, technically, the building's newly-christened designation, ordinary Fissurefolk referred to it, unofficially, by a different epithet.

The Resurrection Root. The Everbloom. The Glass Garden.

And the most popular—

Der Wunschbaum.

Ur-Nox for Wishing Tree.

Except Ur-Nox was a double-edged sword. It was the language of the ancients; Mages and Guardians who'd lived in the time before Zaun had ever been. Their language, therefore, was the language of enchantment: one half lofty, the other half sinister. Wish, for instance, was rooted in the word Wunschet: to want. To desire beyond the bounds of reality.

But it was also rooted in Wählen: to choose.

A wish could be a heart's deepest desire unlocked. Or it could be a will to power: to take what you want, no matter the cost.

And me? Jinx wondered. What do I want?

And what will I give to seize it—or throw it away?

At her silence, Viktor stopped scribbling. His eyes, deep-gold, met hers.

"All right, Jinx?"

"Y-Yeah."

"You should wake up."

"Don't wanna."

"No?" Scritch-scritch went the pen, runes blossoming in its wake. Distantly, Jinx heard the acolytes singing, a ghostly engine of harmony. And—could it be?—Sparky's yips, cutting through the choir: a dissonant counterpoint. The greedy mutt, somewhere, was begging for treats. "If you do not wake, how will your Name Day be celebrated?"

"Multitasking's a thing. I've always been a pro."

"You are terrible at multitasking."

"Am not!"

"You fell asleep during the surgery."

"You told me not to interrupt. So I closed my eyes. But I was listening. I always listen."

"You were drooling." And, closing the notebook with the coordinates plotted inside, he set it down. In a single graceful movement, he'd shifted closer. Close enough to touch his thumb against the corner of her lips, where a grin had stolen in. Viktor's own lips, palely-parted, were a few inches away. "You look like a child when you sleep. Peaceful. It is... rare."

"I was havin' a sweet dream."

"Oh? Tell me."

"A night full of stars. Wishes a-popping like fishes. And a beautiful boy." Her voice, at half-octave, came breathless. Always, his proximity did that to her: an unravelling of everything she held dear about herself. Like deja vu—except more desolate. Dying, when you longed to be reborn. "Except he won't wish me a Happy Name Day. He won't even gimme a kiss."

At that, Viktor smiled: a slow, secret curl that was yet the saddest expression in the world.

"Perhaps," he murmured, "he is a fool."

"Yeah?"

"And a coward." The thumb, tracing the full jut of her bottom-lip, was cool as snowfall, and as chaste. "Because he knows, deep in his heart, that you are still a child. The child he sees when you sleep. And because, despite whatever tradition or legality declares, you are not yet a woman. Certainly, not the woman who, once she comes into herself, will outrace him, and his grand designs, and fly off on wings of stardust."

"You talkin' about Silco?" Jinx quipped. "'Cause, no offense, but he's no competition. I can outrun that fossil anytime."

The levity fell flat. Viktor's golden eyes, augmented to their depths, lost their imperceptible luster. A moment later, his hand retreated, as if it'd never been.

"I know," he said, "that this is only an interlude."

"You think so?" Jinx, impulsively, caught the hem of his sleeve. "Pretty harsh frame to put 'round forever."

"Forever means little in a cosmos of infinite permutations."

"Not so long as we're still us, right?"

"A conundrum in itself." He didn't withdraw, exactly. Only laid his fingertips over hers, knotted into his sleeve. "Are our mirrored selves—in the physical, in the quantum—so very different at their crux? Is one less worthy, less agentic, than the other? Or are they simply two sides of the same coin, flipped endlessly, until the universe collapses on itself."

"Yikes. Talk about buzzkill."

"I am not a man for platitudes, Jinx." The smile, sadder, stayed on the surface. "Not will I feed you falsehoods, in hopes that the future may hold more than the present."

"So you say."

"So I mean." And, surprising her, he caught her hand in both his own: a tender clasp. "We've pledged our spirits as one. We've plotted our course. Escape velocity is inevitable. But the path ahead will not be easy. Not for either of us. If anything, it will be harder, given what we must renounce to see the destination through. And I—I cannot be sure—"

A crack in his faultless equilibrium. In turn, Jinx felt her own fragile serenity evaporate.

"Sure of what, Viktor?" she said, with quiet ferocity. "That I'll change my mind halfway? Chicken out before the starting gun goes off? Let Silco dictate my choices, like I've always done?"

"No, Jinx, no."

He shook his head; the curls danced, a ribboning cascade of cornsilk. There were silver streaks beginning to thread at the temples. Thirty-three, and a full-grown man where Ekko was still shedding the last vestiges of boyhood. But moments like this, it struck Jinx that Viktor was, at his core, even younger than Ekko. Two orphans prematurely thrust into roles before their time: the savior leading his flock to the promised land, and the savant saving souls that the world would sooner crush underfoot.

But both, in their hearts, still children. Still seeing Jinx, and what she'd become. But never, ever seeing her for who she was: the girl, not the legend.

The woman, not the jinx.

"Never that, Jinx," Viktor said. "Never would I think so little of you."

"...But?"

"It's been difficult, these past months, for us to speak frankly."

"Vitya," Jinx said, a touch exasperated. "We're speaking now. Aren't we?"

"We are." A squeeze, gentle, on her fingers. "At risk on both ends. But I have never once doubted your commitment. Your passion far exceeds mine; far exceeds whatever designs I may conjure. The world will be a better place, with you striving to make it so. My only fear is that, if you choose this path, yours will be the lonelier one."

"Lonely, how?" The ghost-prick of tears. "We're bonded, aren't we? Even if it's not what either of us planned—"

"A bond that can never be consummated. Never, in any sense, bear fruit." His grip tightened; yet the timbre of his voice held no rebuke. Only truth. "I am a creature born of disappointment, Jinx. Faulty in form and function. Unfit for any world except the one I will create, and even that shall be a long time coming. Yet, in the Void, you gave me a glimpse of paradise, and it was... indescribable. All I will ever want."

"And?" Her lip quivered, but held. A child, he'd called her, and yet her voice was steel. "Wasn't it enough? Wasn't I—?"

"You? Not enough? My dearest." Even though his sigh was bittersweet, a mote of passion shot through: the same passion that'd flowed, so effortlessly, between them in the otherworld. The same passion that now translated itself—sublimated and yet quartered—into the gentle dexterity of his hands on a circuitboard fused to a sobbing boy's flesh, and the consoling caress afterward as the boy's mother, sobbing too, laid a kiss of gratitude upon her savior's robe. "You are the only star in a universe without light. But because you are, you are far too much. For anyone's good. Least of all mine."

The tears, against Jinx's will, spilled free.

"So I was a mistake?"

"Yes. And no"

"How?"

"You were a miracle," Viktor said, and his smile, in its sadness, was radiant. "And a miracle is a gift bestowed by Fate. Without factors such as deservingness, or suitability, or even equity, thrown into the equation. A miracle, simply, is. As you, Jinx, always are. I know you've made your peace with our bond. You've acclimated yourself to it, the same as I have. But if we commit—truly commit—to the path ahead, we must renounce the rest, in every way. And Jinx... I cannot, in good faith, ask that of you. Not when I know what you stand to lose. Not when I know all the ways you need, and deserve, to be loved."

The tears kept falling. Jinx made no effort to stop them. The garden, with its Wishing Tree, was a time-out from pretense. Not sanctuary, but as close as Zaun's chaotic confines allowed. The other one—the Wishing Wagon, in civilization's shadowed cul-de-sac—was her true refuge. But that was a different her, with a different future.

A girl who'd yet to realize her greatest wish. A woman who, at the crossroad's fork, could take a chance.

She'd never told Viktor about the Wishing Wagon. Same way she'd never told Ekko about the Wishing Tree. Both were secrets within secrets: mirrored halves of a fractured whole.

And Jinx, at the liminal space in between, wondering: What's it mean?

What did it mean that one man had her soul at knifepoint, but another was holding her heart hostage? What did it say that she and Viktor fit together just right, but she and Ekko were built from perfectly mismatched puzzle pieces? What did it matter if she needed them both, but in ways so opposite they might as well be a different language?

How could she make the ends meet?

Especially when her life—her death—still hung on Silco's strings?

And her past—her future—still hinged on Vi's?

"Maybe," she said, and caught her lip in her teeth, "that's the point."

"Oh?"

"Maybe... the glimpse of paradise was all it was. A glimpse. The rest's about struggling to make it happen. Because it's the only way. Because choice is nothing but fate with a kick."

"Jinx, no."

"Why not? It makes sense. In a twisted sorta way." Her eyes, smarting-wet, blinked hard. "Fate's not a pretty delivery-gal on the front step with a package. He's a blind old pirate, throwing darts at a map and laughing as they land. Doesn't matter who gets skewered. Once that bullseye hits, it hits. And you're on the hook. No takebacks." Her other hand, lifting, aligned itself with Viktor's jaw: stubble yielding velvety beneath her palm. "We were always gonna be on the hook, Vik. At least, in the Void, I saw where we’re headed. What, in the end, we could become. And sure, the path's not a fairytale. But if we don't take it, the rest'll be fucked. And blind old fate'll be laughing his ass off, watching us sink under the waves."

"Perhaps," Viktor said, and leaned into her touch. But the smile, always, stayed sad. "But Jinx?"

"Yeah?"

"Fate is not the same as choice." Turning his head, he laid a kiss, pure as a snowflake, in the heart of her palm. "Even the cosmos, no matter its dictates, allows breathing-room for free will. I have mine, and I know what they will cost. Now, and in every incarnation. But you, Jinx: you are still so young. Your wishes, the ones that matter, have yet to be made. And once they are lost, you will not have the chance to reclaim them."

"Because I'm a child, right?" The anger, a flashfire that filled her to the seams, in this garden only left her aching. "Too dumb to know what I want. Too naive to make the tough call."

All at once, Viktor closed the gap.

Silently, he swept Jinx into an embrace: a cradle and a coffin holding both living and dead in sacred embrace. His arms made a crossbones at her shoulderblades; his breath stirred the top of her scalp. They were both clothed, but Jinx felt her heartbeat resonating through their ribcages, keeping time with the rhythmic dirge of the Cathedral's chants, and the Old Hungry's distant chimes

Reality and dream: melded into one.

Somewhere, Sparky was pawing at Jinx's slumbering shape in search of belly-rubs. Behind her eyelids, neon bled through. She heard fireworks; smelled engine-grease. Felt an odd pressure on her spine that had nothing to do with Viktor's cool fingertips tracing its curve, and everything to do with being bound, on a visceral level, beyond this communion they both shared.

"Fate," Viktor breathed, and his lips, against her temple, imparted prophecy, "will always come due. But choice? That, my dearest Jinx, is an arrow aimed straight for the heart. And to deny it: that is an error far graver than anything science, or the cosmos, could dole out." He kissed her forehead: the sweetest absolution. "Your choice must be yours. Do not allow a hand, no matter how divine, to dictate it."

Jinx, closing her eyes, lay her cheek to his chest.

"Not even yours?" she whispered, as the tears stopped falling.

"My hand, like my heart, will belong with you, Jinx. Even if you choose another path."

"Mirror, mirror on the wall."

"In every iteration," Viktor murmured, a tender withdrawal, "of this cosmic joke. An imperfect metaphor. Do you understand?"

"I do," Jinx lied, and lifted her face. "Kiss me?"

"This is not a space for secrets, Jinx."

"Then it's a perfect place, ain't it? 'Cause I won't have any left, after tonight."

"You will," Viktor said, and his thumbs smoothed the fading tear-tracks from her cheeks. "You do. We all carry secrets within ourselves. But to hide one, here, is to desecrate the very vow we must keep. And to deny our truth—any of our truths—is the greatest dishonor to the other. Do you understand?"

Foreboding rippled over Jinx's skin. The garden, the tree, the chants: all the beautiful trappings of ephemera, slipping like sand through the hourglass.

"Viktor." She caught his hand in hers, holding it fast. "Please."

"I'll see you tonight, Jinx."

"Don't—don't go—"

"Tonight. When you make your choice. Whatever that choice may be."

"But—"

"Wake up now."

The hourglass, upended. The Cathedral, the garden, the embrace, dissolving. All the dreamscape and its dazzling details, blotting out.

"Viktor!" Jinx cried. "Viktor!"

"Happy Name Day, Jinx," he said, and the ghost-imprint of his kiss died before it met her mouth. "I will kiss you, truly, tonight."

The ceiling spun above: a galaxy's worth of stars, winking out. Her hands, searching, found nothing.

Nothing but the blue iris, unfurling at the tip of a finger.

And Viktor's voice, deep as midnight.

"Make a wish."

The last winking star: her own.

[junosmindpalace]

Kento needs something good in his life.

For most of it he was fairly indifferent to a lot of things, his face often, if not always, chilled or some kind of annoyed. This seemed to be on the surface, perhaps, but Kento found pleasure within and among many things. Sakura trees, baked goods, the feeling of warm sand beneath his feet and cool ocean water washing it away.

They're the little things, even just thoughts of them, that keep Kento moving through this god awful world. As he gets older, goodness is found in even more trivial things, because with age also comes additional burden and various disappointment. Restock of a favorite product. Flowers in bloom. Small things that bring colour into a life that very frequently threatens to drain it all until he only knows to identify shades of grey and black.

The withering of leaves and flowers hanging onto dying branches amidst chilling winds, threatening to leave them completely bare, is when Kento is reminded more than ever that he needs you. He needs something good, something to work toward. Something to come home to. Something pleasant to fall asleep to. Something beyond material means to motivate him.

His work, in theory, serves him well enough. Pays him well enough if he sacrifices enough of his physical and mental strength to commit to working with difficult people and staring at a blue light that drains his energy almost as much as the routine of it all itself. In the end, he gets a paycheck, and that's what matters.

But truly, it makes Kento a little sick when he thinks that just can't be all life is. Meant to constantly choose which is the more daunting path. Meant to rot at some miserable desk around miserable people in a world that thrives off misery. When the leaves wither and gain spots, when the baked goods don't taste right, when even the thought of a satisfying future isn't enough to push out the nauseating images of curses, he needs something constant. He needs a good thing. He needs you.

You need something good in your life.

Beyond academics, beyond a 9/5, beyond completely busy and hectic days where, by the end, you struggle to remember half of it. Something besides validation from others, besides the constant need to catch up.

A rest would be good, perhaps. A rest from your responsibilities, a rest from the nonsense and vileness that spouts out of people's mouths on the daily, from the streets to your work to the bubbles on your phone. A rest to remind you that in this world, there was still something worth going on for. Something that made all the work worth it. That there was still time to do you, to be with someone who appreciated you. You need something good in your life.

And you've had something good, both of you: you've had each other. For quite some time.

Neither of you would've been able to predict that your futures would intertwine in such a personal and intimate way. Neither of you would've been able to predict from your high school years that you'd steadily fall in love with each other over trauma bonds and shop run-ins and whatever else there was. Neither of you would've fathomed sharing a home together, a small one, but yours, nonetheless.

Never would you both think that the good thing would consist of each other.

But it's been good. It's been grounding, it's helped you retain some semblance of identity and hope in a world that seems adamant on stripping it from you. Besides late-night conversations about bad memories and the heaviness of the world, there were joint cooking sessions. There were silly debates about nonsensical topics. There was reading together. There was indulging in each other's hobbies, when time made room for them. There were attempts at movie marathons: such as the one you were attempting tonight.

It usually never worked out because often you and Kento both came home exhausted from work, but sometimes a shower, a light dinner and a change of comfortable clothes was enough to wake you both just enough to want to spend the remainder of your energy together. So, you agree on trying a movie you've wanted to see for a while, making yourselves comfortable with blankets and pillows.

Your legs are sprawled over his lap, hugging a cushion pillow close to you as the arm of the couch supports your back. Nanami's slouched and still with his arms crossed over his chest. They'll occasionally come down to settle on your knees. It's a little after midnight, the only light resonating throughout your living room being the blue light from the television. The more time that passes, the more Kento becomes aware of the power it has over his senses, lulling him in and out of sleep. When he tilts his head against the cushion toward you, he can see from the crescents in your eyes that the effect was the same.

"Hey," he mutters quietly, gently nudging your side. "Don't doze off on me, now."

You object with a groan as you sit up against the cushion, lulling your head to look up at him. "M'not."

"Didn't look like it."

"Oh, don't start. I saw your eyes close."

"And you thought that'd save you?"

"Maybe."

Kento has never, but especially not since high school, believed that anything has any real permanence to it, besides maybe death. Everything is fleeting. Life is fleeting, he sees it in the shrivelled lines and drained colored from plants through the changing seasons as well as in the creases of skin and unusual paleness of corpses from the morgue. Routine is not always consistent, it's reminded when he's forced to work overtime, to take a detour to a location, when he falls behind some sort of schedule.

But when he looks over at you, takes in the small smile on your lips, the glow on your skin from the TV lights, he thinks of how badly he wants this good thing to last. Even though it's selfish, even though there was no guarantee that it would no matter the thought of a ring on your finger, there was something in him that wanted it anyway.

The only thing that holds him back from letting the question fall from his lips is the guilt he’d feel for not being more thoughtful in the gesture. No ring, no nice day spent together. Truly, he’d resent himself if he were to propose to you in such an undeserving, unaffectionate and unromantic way. But when he watches you with his head lolled to the side, your own eyes cheerfully boring into his as you sit in the dead of the night trying to enjoy some semblance of peace in your togetherness, he wants so badly to just say it:

Marry me. Let’s have something good.

You know, for good.

He holds his tongue though, and instead gives you a smile of his own, a small but meaningful curve of his lips. The TV light illuminates the sides of your faces, and soon enough the blue light and dialogue will lull you to sleep, and you’ll both abandon your movie session in favor of some much-needed rest. So he stands up from the couch before it could get to that point, letting your legs gently swing to the side to accommodates the sit up. He turns toward you, and offers both of his hands out. "Come on. Let's go to bed."

You whine in protest. "But the movie..."

"We'll finish it another time, promise. I have a day off, soon."

"Really?" A quiet gasp escapes you, and your smile gradually widens as you take hold of his hands as he aids in pulling you up and leading you down the hall.

"Next week, I'm pretty sure. We can do something."

"Not spending the whole day in bed."

"Awfully tempting."

He has a good thing, Kento thinks as you swat his chest, but he doesn't move his hand from your lower back to block at all. He has a goddamn good thing, he thinks when your chuckles break the silence within your home, and through the good, bad, and ugliness of it all, it'll be something that keeps some order and hope in his life.