#fucking piece of shit making everything fucking difficult

[the-brainrot-central]

Writing over 30,000 words worth of content for a fic only to realize it’s all pointless because you have no interest in it anymore and you were never gonna finish it anyway….

What even is The Point anymore

[hauntingblue]

Little sister spoiling katakuri's fun who woulda thot

[gumii-bearr]

Alt!Megumi who fucking hates you but has to tolerate you bc you’re Yuuji’s best friend. Yuuji drags both of you to a party and abandons you, leaving the two of you to get drunk off your asses and insult each other. Until Megumi starts getting handsy and leads you off to a room for a nice hate fuck 😇😇

YEEAASSS BOOM SHAKALAKAAAAA–

thinking about... ❝ hate sex ❞

featuring... megumi fushiguro

content warning: MDNI (18+), afab!reader, alt!megumi, hate sex, rough sex, mirror sex, swearing, dirty talk, HELLO SAILOR–

author's note: u have awoken something in me i hope ur ready for my wrath, also i made them actually fucking hate each other it's so funny.

── alt!megumi who has hated your guts from the start.

── yuji was your best friend and was always bringing you around, and it always pissed megumi off because why exactly did you need to be involved in everything?

── you were a rude, insolent brat at the best of times, always had a snarky remark or a smart ass comment loaded in the chamber ready to fire when you could sense megumi was even slightly irritated by your presence.

── it became a thing. everyone knew you hated each other, always bickering and arguing over stupid shit.

── alt!megumi who is normally a very chill and somewhat anti-social guy. but you just bring out this hot-headed, unbridled anger in him. and you do it all with the flutter of your lashes and a cheeky fucking smile on your face.

── you always had something to say. like when yuji and nobara were taking forever to pick a snack at the convenience store down the road from your college campus:

── megumi was cranky, "jesus christ, just pick something, you're taking forever"

── "you'd know all about finishing fast, huh, fushiguro?"

── alt!megumi who simply put, cannot stand you. if looks could kill, you would be so dead. and you, who is equally bothered by him and his fake tough-guy persona and how he's always pretending to be this big scary guy who is just so unbothered by everything.

── except for you, since you always manage to wriggle under his skin and piss him off.

── or when yuji dragged you both along to a party, telling you two to "be nice" to each other then promptly ditched you because, well, he's yuji, a social butterfly who makes friends wherever he goes.

── alt!megumi who isn't a big drinker, but if he has to stay at this god forsaken party, he may as well drink.

── alt!megumi who is chatting up a girl when you appear, bumping shoulders with him drunkenly as you scare away whatever little piece he was talking to because you're you and you make his life difficult for your own enjoyment.

── "why don't you just fuck off?"

── "you'd miss me too much."

── the two of you becoming progressively more drunk at this house party, and the alcohol seems to thicken the sexual tension between you and megumi.

── you're the only person he knows here other than yuji and vice versa, the two of you unintentionally gravitating toward each other no matter how much you try to avoid one another.

── you, who is dancing and grinding up on some guy and megumi is standing by the stairs just fucking watching you and he's clenching his jaw and staring daggers at you because don't you have any fucking self-respect?

── and you're wearing the tiniest mini skirt he's ever seen and a low-cut top that your tits threaten to spill out of and the gawking of these useless frat guys is pissing him off.

── and when you bend over to pick up a drink off the table, megumi just loses it because he can see your lacy black panties and your plush ass from under your skirt.

── and alt!megumi who drags you upstairs and away from all the prying eyes and wandering hands by your arm before laying into you about your lack of self-respect.

── "you want everyone to think you're some fucking slut?"

── "yeah, but you were looking too, weren't you, fushiguro?"

── alt!megumi who just stares at you, absolutely seething before the tension between you two just fucking snaps and he slams you against the closest door, his mouth on yours in mere seconds.

── alt!megumi who's tattooed hands grab and knead at your hips and ass and your tits over your shirt.

── alt!megumi who pushes you into the closest bathroom, his hand squeezing your throat as he kisses you but it's not gentle, it's mean and it's hard.

── and you, who tugs at his hair and at his belt buckle because the two of you just need to fuck out whatever the hell your problem is.

── alt!megumi who is pulling your skirt over your ass and forcing your panties down your legs and you're fucking helping him because there's something seriously wrong with how much you want him to fuck you.

── alt!megumi who bends you over the bathroom sink and squeezes your heated cheeks together as he forces you to watch him fuck you.

── "always acting like a fucking slut."

── "you've wanted to fuck me so bad from the beginning. don't lie."

── alt!megumi who is thick and long and heavy, and his pace is fucking brutal. he's forcing noise after noise out of you as he forces your hips back onto his cock, your knees buckling as he basically holds your lower body up while you brace your hands against the counter.

── and the two of you hate how good it feels.

── hate how good he's fucking you, hate how soaked you are, hate how hard you've got him.

── you hate it all so much you fucking love it.

author's note: HAHAHAHAH I NEED TO MAKE THIS A FIC IM FERAL HELLO– help i'm gnawing at the bars of my enclosure like a rabid gorilla.

[nottswitch]

— if you’ve been naughty, you get…

──────────── 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞.─

summary: they say that the way you spend the new year’s night is the way you’re going to spend the whole year. you never took this expression to heart until now.

pairing: theo nott x reader

cw: 18+ smut, enemies to lovers, fingering, rough p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, semi-public sex, degrading/praise, cursing, italian pet names

wc: 2.1k

a/n: getting back to kinkmas at last !! enjoy some etl theodore filth babes <3

⟡ navigation ; m.lists ; theo m.list ; kinkmas 2024

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You had absolutely no idea how you ended up at the same party as the guy whose entire goal in life was to make yours as difficult as possible. To be entirely honest, you weren’t any better – your taunting seemed to mirror his in its viciousness, for no apparent reason on both sides. Somewhere, at one point, everything went to shit with you two. At first, it used to cause tensions in the friend group, because you just couldn’t stop constantly bickering and throwing all kinds of insults at each other, but over time, your inexplicable apprehension towards each other became a constant – a very annoying one, but a constant nonetheless.

Pansy promised. She promised that the New Year’s Eve party would stay Theodore Nott-free, he had some prior commitment, blah-blah-blah – irrelevant. Because right now, you were looking straight at his infuriating face as he was pressing you against the wall, his deep ocean eyes you couldn’t admit to finding captivating staring into yours. The sounds of the party were muffled, the beat of the music dully thumping through the narrow corridor, sending faint vibrations through the floor.

“You just couldn’t leave me alone, could you?” you hissed, crossing your arms on your chest in a manner that you hoped would come off as defiant, even though you knew it was a defense – same thing, different flavor.

Theo smirked – the smirk that always made your blood boil, a sign that he was enjoying himself way more than he should have.

“How could I ever leave you alone, tesoro?” he drawled, his voice mocking yet carrying a hint of intensity that you had never heard there before. Then again, with him, you could’ve easily just imagined it. “But if I had to guess, I’d say you can’t stay away from me either. And I wouldn’t be that far off, no?”

You huffed, rolling your eyes at his cockiness – it was in no way a surprise, yet it still made your irritation rise to the very top, bubbling up and threatening to escape in the form of another quip.

“Get your head out of your ass, Nott,” you muttered, raising an eyebrow in a silent challenge.

“Nott?” Theo taunted in response, leaning in just a bit closer – and that tiny little bit made your heart skip a beat, which you found to be a completely uncalled-for reaction. “Last time I checked, I was ‘Theo, please, faster!’.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

You hated the way your cheeks instantly flushed at his reminder – you did not need to remember that night when your entire composure crumbled to pieces, and you ended up in his bed, screaming his name so loud the walls were nearly shaking.

And you felt like you were on the brink of doing it again.

“If you insist,” Theo murmured, his lips now at your ear, nearly brushing against your skin – the bastard knew exactly how to get to you, unfortunately. You gritted your teeth, trying to resist for a fleeting moment, but when his hand slipped onto your waist, you gave up – and in.

“I hate you,” you whispered, roughly grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him into a heated kiss. Theo didn’t even gasp, which made a nasty thought spark up in your mind – he’d been waiting for this all along, and it probably wouldn’t be too far-fetched to guess that it was the only reason he came to the party in the first place. The kiss was all tongue and teeth, a stark mirror to the contradictory feelings you both shared – biting, rough around the edges, yet at the core of it there was passion that neither of you could bother to deny.

In a matter of seconds, both of Theo’s hands were on your hips, effortlessly lifting you up and wrapping your legs around his waist. Your hands flew up to his shoulders, breaking the self-imposed physical barrier of your arms across your chest and also symbolizing the last bits of your composure withering away. Theo knew – he had to have known – that this would happen, because his palm was at the ready, closing around your breast as soon as it was free to touch. He kneaded the softness of your flesh, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip as his hips started slowly but firmly rocking against you. You felt his hard, already throbbing cock pressing into your clothed pussy, and once again, you were somewhat amused by his ability to get hard in seconds.

“Been like this all night, bambina,” Theo murmured into your mouth, as if hearing your thoughts out loud. So, not in seconds. “The moment I saw you in this dress… Fuck.”

His other hand gripped the hem of your sparkly red dress, lifting it up just enough for it to bunch up at your waist. His eyes flicked down for a moment, a needy growl escaping his mouth as he took in the sight of your fishnets doing a very poor job at covering up the red lace of your panties.

“Wore these for me?” he asked teasingly, although his hoarse voice completely betrayed the fact that he was insanely aroused. His fingers traced the edge of the lace with an almost reverent touch before hooking through the hole of your fishnets and suddenly tearing them apart.

Your eyes widened, not quite expecting the roughness, but you knew you should have – Theo wasn’t known to be a patient man when it came to getting what he carnally desired, and at the moment, the object of that desire was you.

“What the–” you started, but he quickly shut you up with a kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth and swirling around, effectively making you moan. The sound only got louder as you felt his fingers sliding over your panties, savoring the wetness that started to seep through the fabric; he wasn’t the only one with a one track mind since the start of the party – the sight of him in his dark green dress shirt, three buttons at the top undone, caught your eye as soon as he stepped into the room.

“Such a wet little pussy for me, huh?” he whispered breathlessly into your mouth, rubbing a circle over your clothed core before easily slipping underneath – the feeling of your soft, drenched skin made him groan, perfectly matching your own sounds. “Wish I could keep you like this all the time… So fucking pliant…”

And shit, you wouldn’t be able to deny his words even if you tried – you were pliant under his touch, you did turn into melted butter as soon as his index and middle finger slipped inside you, you did clench your thighs around his waist as he started pumping in and out. He was just as pliant, though – you could tell by the way his cock was poking into your inner thigh, straining against the fabric of his trousers. If you had half a mind to look down, you would see a wet spot forming at the front, clear evidence of the fact that he wanted you with the same ever-consuming intensity.

You grew a bit bolder, the pleasure making your brain turn off and forget all about your surroundings or the consequences of your encounter. Your hand traveled down, grabbing Theo’s cock and giving it a firm squeeze, as if to remind him that he was as crazy about you as you were about him. A groan fanned against your ear at the small yet impactful action – a satisfying sound of Theo’s need. His fingers curled inside you before sliding out with a wet pop. The next moment, your juices were being spread all over your lips, mixing with your gloss and creating a strange, sticky texture of sweetness mixed with the tartness of your natural slick. You parted your mouth, letting Theo’s fingers in, your lips wrapping around them and starting to suck, lightly, teasingly, as your hand continued palming his cock.

“Playing with the damn fire, tesoro,” Theo warned in a hiss, taking your hand off of him impatiently. “Naughty, naughty girl.”

In response, you only started sucking more, your head moving back and forth on his fingers. Theo’s eyes were fixed intently on your lips, no doubt imagining them wrapped around something else. He hastily unzipped his trousers with his free hand, pulling them down to the middle of his thighs along with his boxers. His erection sprung free, slapping against his shirt-covered stomach. You glanced down, feeling even more turned on as you drank in the sight of his swollen, throbbing cock, knowing that it would be splitting you open very very soon.

And it did. Oh, gods, it did. With a single thrust, Theo entered, his tip immediately reaching your cervix. You moaned around his fingers, your eyes rolling back at the mixture of pain and pleasure – the feelings he could easily elicit in you, both physically and emotionally.

He wasn’t holding back, not in the slightest – his pace was rough and unrelenting, fucking all his frustrations of the last year into you. Your back was moving up and down against the wall, the heated surface scratching your skin, your high heels digging into the small of his back each time he pounded. He didn’t mind the sting, though, just like you didn’t mind the dull ache of his hand digging into your hip, without a doubt leaving marks. Finally, his fingers left your mouth and grabbed the back of your neck, pulling you into yet another sloppy mess that could be called a kiss.

The combined sounds of your moans almost drowned out the chatter of the party, but still, you could faintly hear the crowd starting to chant the countdown to the New Year. You pulled away, ignoring Theo’s disappointed whine for a second, trying to hold back on your own noises as you listened.

“The count– The countdown,” you shakily breathed out, meeting Theo’s glossed-over eyes with your misty gaze. He groaned and shook his head, a clear indication that he wasn’t going to stop, not until you were both panting and sweating.

“Who gives a fuck?” he asked in the same breathless voice as yours, his cock somehow reaching even deeper spots, as if trying to coax any stray thoughts out of your head. “What, scared you’re not getting a New Year’s kiss?”

His ability to tease you even as he was balls deep inside of you made you want to slap him, hard. You almost did it, if only you had the strength to move your limbs.

“Yeah, wanted to make a wish,” you tried to retort, your words sounding less convincing than you’d like them to be. “To never see your stupid face again.”

“Oh really? And here I was, about to wish for your charming self every day.”

You would have rolled your eyes at his usual mocking, but they ended up rolling for a completely different reason as Theo pounded into you with an especially rough thrust at the ‘three’ sounding from the main party room.

At the ‘two’, one of his hands was on your cheek, his thumb pressing into the tender flesh. His eyes were fixed on yours again, the intensity from before making you question if there was any truth behind his words.

At the ‘one’, your lips were crashing together once again as the orgasm washed over the both of you, accompanied by the fireworks blowing up outside. Red bursts of light coming from the window on the other side of the corridor cast your flickering shadows onto the wall, the beautiful sight in the sky barely registering in your fucked out mind. The only thing you could feel at the moment was the warmth of Theo’s cum slowly starting to trickle down your thighs, staining Theo’s pants in the process.

“You know,” he murmured, hoarse and panting, his dampened forehead resting against yours, “you make really nice sounds when I’m fucking you brainless, tesoro. I’ll make sure they’re the only ones you’re making with me all year long.”

You breathed out a small chuckle, closing your eyes as you started to come down from the high you were both still stuck on.

“Is that a threat or a promise, Theo?”

“Both, baby. Both.”

[bakugoushotwife]

a/n: omg heyyy i make my grand return with my humble offering to @ohkento 's reddit theme collab!! i also have a piece for shouto coming up next, but here is the first one!! i took a while off after kinktober so if this is bad....lie to me!

warnings: dark content. nsfw. no minors. yandere theme gojo, no physical harm to reader, baby trapping, threats (not to reader), female reader, breeding, pentration, oral (fem!receiving), reader is kinda dumb lol.

summary: STORYTIME: I (28M) CAN'T STOP BREEDING MY GIRL BEST FRIEND (28F)!! it's a serious problem...i'm really reaching my breaking point here. i've been in love with this chick since high school and she keeps chasing other guys...but fucking me when the dates go wrong, help!

it’s been his dirty little secret since his years at tokyo tech. you’ve always been a looker, never were you short on attention from lesser men that aren’t worth your time—and yes, that includes when geto crushed on you all through the second year of school. but they never were quite what you were looking for, and every night of passion or attempt at a meaningful connection always ended the same—dialing up your closest confidant satoru to come console you and stuff your cunt full and wipe your tears–to make it better, like best friends do. 

satoru was all too aware of your little predicament, because he had struggled with the same issues–except he realized his fate years ago and was determined to have it. you are his and his alone, no matter how many scrubs that try to take you from him. if only you would open your eyes. you were obviously hopelessly in love with him, of course—that’s why no one could compare! and that’s why you always turned your teary eyes and pretty pussy to him after yet another date gone wrong. he knew he was the only cure, and he’s given up on hoping you’d see the truth for yourself. 

he tried to play the patience card, licking your tears off your face as he pounds his love into you, telling you that you’re worth so much more than those guys you keep letting break your heart. he tried being the nice guy that holds you after yet another promising prospect never texts you back–buying you dinner and bouncing you on his cock until you were crying from pleasure instead of heartbreak. each time, he buried his load in your womb until it was spilling out around him—hoping to give you no other choice but to pack your bags and move onto his estate to further the gojo clan with the very man at the head of it, but it seems your ovaries were just as stubborn as you are. he didn’t know how much more of this he could stomach—just waiting to be your knight in shining armor while laying in bed at night, staring at the pictures of you, both lewd and cute alike while wondering just how long it would take to have you laying beside him in his bed instead of the pixels on his phone screen. 

he’s had enough. it’s clear his plan isn’t working as designed. you must be on birth control—which is both irritating yet complimentary to him. of course you wouldn’t let these bums knock you up. is it insulting that this applies to his seed too? of course, but then again the whole dynamic was rather insulting wasn’t it? fucking other men and crying to him about it when they aren’t the perfect man for you. no shit—no man will ever know you like he does. none of them could ever compete with the life he could give you if you would just face the music. he doesn’t get it either. why bother? why look elsewhere? obviously you’re attracted to each other—so why won’t you make the next natural jump and stop it with the drama-packed weekly bachelorette episodes?

that’s okay. it’s really fine. satoru is such a good friend that he’ll help you, like he always does. he would simply help you to the conclusion that he wants and then everything can proceed according to plan! it shouldn’t be too difficult anyway, you’ll be calling any moment now! you had a date with yet another sure disappointment that gojo knows will desert you as soon as the date is finished. he’ll be dry and boring after the promising conversations you had in the days leading up to the date—you’ll be confused yet again—and the guy won’t pay either, set for split-bill city. gojo knows all of this because he’s ensured that’s what happens, of course! and this is the thirty-sixth man he’s had to pay off to show up to the date and forget about you. a price he’s more than willing to pay no matter how high, though it’s definitely added up over the years. and you know what—now that he thinks of it, none of them deserve you because their weak nature and corrupt morals. he’s been proven right every time, each one of these bottom feeders would take the money no questions asked—maybe that was due to his threats of horrific death if they so much as answered a text message from you again, but who could be sure? 

this one was especially easy to pay off, too. he didn’t even think twice about taking the money. it almost makes gojo mad. he clearly wasn’t heartbroken to walk away from you, and god you deserved so much better. you deserve a man that is willing to pay off any and every suitor that comes into your life just to make you his. you deserve a man so crazy about you he can hardly recognize himself. you deserve…well, him. he’s devoted himself to you for over a decade and it’s time for that to pay off.

your unique ringtone gets him out of his own head to answer, and of course, you’re crying and asking him to come over. pretty girls like you never learn, huh? that’s all forgiven though, as he is a teacher and it’s his passion to help you understand. 

“of course sugar. i’ll be right over. mhm–don’t mention it. that’s what friends are for.” he hums to you over his end of the phone, picking up his car keys to make it to you in record time. you’re your same beautiful self as you answer the door and welcome him inside, though he can see the tear tracks staining your face. it makes him pout a little at the sight no matter how used to it he is. he hates that you let these cretins upset you like this. 

“hey baby.” he pouts sympathetically with you, ducking under your arm to gaze around your familiar living room for any signs of a man he hadn’t yet heard about. he exhales a deep sigh when he finds none. he’s got his hands in his pockets, lips tightened in a knowing grimace. “so what was it this time? no—let me guess: split the bill and then he let you walk home in this weather?” 

you close the door after he’s entered with a heavy sigh. your bleary eyes fix on your hand still clasped around the doorknob, “yeah.” you tug your lip between your teeth and turn to face him. you didn’t have to answer him, for he already knew. it was borderline routine at this point and you were already embarrassed enough. you draw your arms around yourself to feel your own warmth, shaking your head. what was wrong with you? you used to be pined after, wanted—and now you couldn’t even get non-sorcerers to call you back. you haven’t had a second date in years, nor had an orgasm that wasn’t satoru’s handiwork. but even he didn’t want you permanently. you were a good friend and an even better fuck, that’s all. you knew it was pointless to yearn for him, sure he felt nothing other than his ever-present sense of duty and loyalty every-time he took your pain away–no matter the lies that poured out of his saccharine lips to do so. your sad eyes fix on his face, letting your plump bottom lip bounce out from your teeth’s trap. he smirks softly, cock rising because it knows exactly what that look means. 

but unfortunately for you, he won’t just hold you in his arms and promise that you’re worth so much more than you let yourself believe. tonight, he’s going to take what’s rightfully his—and his plan is already working beautifully. you never look away as you walk from the door to him, bracing your tiny and ineffectual hands on his chest. “what’s wrong with me, sato?” you pout, batting your long lashes up at him. his heart could stop just from that look alone. the comfort of his large hands covering yours soothes you already, making the tension drop from your shoulders. 

“you’re naive.” he answers, eyes as bright as ever as they glow like fireflies in your living room. if you were going just by the expression on his face, you’d think he said something kind or even funny, the way he grins softly and blinks his white lashes down at you in wait of your reply. you’re sure you misheard—every other time you asked this question he always said, “maybe you’re just too pretty, huh? ever thought of that, sugarplum?” 

“huh?” you tilt your head to one side, watching his expression shift to amusement. “naive? wh-what do you mean by that?” 

“well, if you weren’t so naive, you’d know, now wouldn’t you?” he pokes his tongue between his teeth, tucking his hands behind his back while you still lean helplessly against him. he likes feeling the weight of your body on his, and he’ll like it even more when he knows it’s a permanent thing. “you’re on birth control.” he states, and your confusion sets in even deeper. your brows furrow, but you nod. 

“yeah? what about that makes me naive?” you posit, used to his antics for the most part. you’ve been around him far too long to mistake his bluntness as an attack to you, even if it stings just a touch. though you did ask, and you have used him as your sexual relief and shoulder to cry on for years now. maybe he’s fed up with lying to save your feelings. 

he looks around for a second, humming. “where is it?” 

you also know better than to question him. if he’s asking you these questions it has to be for a reason—and you don’t have to understand him in the moment. just do what you’ve always done and trust him, support him on and off the battlefield–and never hesitate. it could be the difference between life and death. you learned that on missions together years ago. 

“in my nightstand?” you tilt your head to the other side. he has to admit your astonishment is adorable. he smiles down at you, cupping your cheek lightly. his fingers are so long that his thumb rests on the corner of your lips, fingertips brushing back your hair. 

“go get it for me.” he says as if he asked you to pass him the remote. you narrow your eyes to really study him—and then you see it. the teeming rage, the simmering crazy behind his eyes as they look at you. he is the most powerful man in the world, even if you were scared, there was nothing you could do but obey. but you trust him. and you nod. you turn to pad off to your bedroom and the clicks of his expensive boots follow. you’re used to the butterflies tickling your stomach as you lead him to bed, but you know something’s different this time. you feel like you’ll puke butterflies. but nonetheless, you pull the drawer of your nightstand open and fetch the little foil pack out of it, only a few pills missing from this month’s prescription. you turn to face him with it, mind racing on what he could possibly be doing. knowing him, he’s toying with you–trying to make you as nervous as possible and all this worrying is for no good reason. 

he sits at the edge of your bed, seemingly watching you with interest. he’s happy that you’re humoring him, that’s for sure. not even the faintest hint of protest. maybe you’re not as naive as he thought. in fact, your effortless obedience has his the crotch of his loose hakama’s tightening quickly. your heart jumps in your throat at the sight of him as it usually does—satoru gojo is far too beautiful to be in your house, supposedly telling you why you couldn’t keep a man. the black compression shirt was nearly criminal when it was wrapped around his perfect body. 

“good girl. now flush ‘em down the toilet for me.” he beams, blinding white teeth baring to smile at you. it was a simple request, really. he needed you to stop taking that poison and to stop entertaining the idea of other men. 

“why?” you swallow harshly, voicing your underlying suspicion. 

“don’t you trust me, baby?” he replies with a quickness, tilting his head to mirror yours. he’s doing well to keep himself together–you don’t understand his love for you yet, but he’ll take care of that. he’s a teacher, remember? “that stuff’s not good for you.” 

you hum. the side effects have been brutal, but you’re hardly in the spot for a baby. you can’t even get a boyfriend, much less a baby daddy. “yeah…i know. sucks taking it. guess i could get an iud or something instead.” you think aloud, voice becoming distant as you turn your back to him and dump your pills in the bathroom attached to your small room. you really undersell yourself. you could have been his bride eight years or so ago and been living large. but he’s going to fix it now. his jaw clenches at that declaration, and you feel him watching you the entire time—the doorway a straight shot from the spot he sat in on your bed. 

“no.” he says simply, the lightheartedness gone abruptly. it sends a shiver down your spine, makes your brain alert to the changes within him as he stands and cages you into the bathroom, broad arms stretching to block off the doorway. 

no? he doesn’t want you to protect yourself in any way? that seems a little ridiculous, but maybe he had a good reason. “satoru…i can’t get pregnant right now.” 

“why not?” he asks, looking over your little body nearly trembling from the darkness of his cursed energy growing more oppressive, nearly sucking the air out of the room. your heart pounds, more confused than you were at the start. 

“because i’m…single?” you try carefully, not sure exactly what you were dealing with here. satoru has always been so happy-go-lucky, even when he shouldn’t be. you remember begging him to talk out his stress so that he didn’t explode right after suguru left. so this anger you see set in his features shocks you, his bright and clear sky-colored eyes are clouded and murky, more cerulean than you’ve seen before. his brow is set and you can see the muscles twitching in his jaw. but he’s still smiling, and that for whatever reason is still real. 

“there’s that naivety again, princess.” he licks his teeth, shifting his weight from foot to foot. you look like a deer in the headlights, and he’s giddy at the rush that gives him. you’re finally in his grasp. “you’ve never been single. not since hmmm let’s see, march fifteenth, 2006.” he grins at you–”which makes all this dating real offensive, sweetheart.” 

you want to laugh, but decide against it considering his unpredictability. you shake your head instead, backing yourself to the wall. “what on earth are you talking about? we’re friends–”

“friends that fuck!” he laughs a strained snicker, straightening his posture. “and make sweet hot love, of course. friends that cuddle on the couch and have sleepovers. come on. we’re both adults, don’t insult me. you love me! which is great, because i love you too. i love you so much i’ve made sure that no one could steal you from me.” 

your brows must reach your hairline at that. “stop, satoru. don’t say that! you can’t mean it–fuck, you’re supposed to be married to a kamo or zen’in girl so you can keep making powerful gojo’s right? isn’t that what you always said in school?” 

“you’d give me powerful gojo’s.” he smirks, breaking the barrier of the bathroom’s threshold by stepping closer to you, leaning down to be on face level. “i was only trying to make you jealous sugar! just like this whole stunt you’ve been pullin’, dating around to try to find someone that makes you feel like i do? tch, hahahaha—it’s impossible!! just stop it, be mine and be happy like you should be.” he grasps your chin with a surprising gentleness given his unhinged and maniacal laughter, smiling down at you with something you recognize as his power-trip going off the rails—but. 

but you’d be lying if you said you were scared. he’s declaring his love for you in the most profound way possible, however crazy it–and he–may be. and you’d be lying if you said he didn’t absolutely see right through you. he has the six eyes after all, you should have known he knew what you were trying to do. you were trying to numb the pain of never being his…but you were actually manufacturing that whole scenario. you’re the only girl he’s ever seen, and it’s clear from the desperation mixed in with the insanity—he needs you. 

you reach back and flush the toilet, letting the little white pills circle the bowl and disappear entirely. satoru gojo has always been insane. you’ve seen it firsthand on many missions and battles against curses and sorcerers alike. it just surprised you to see him turn that look upon you–but now you know it was just to get your attention. 

though you don’t doubt what he’s capable of, you have no intention of pushing him to find out.

his eyes go from crazy to ravenous in seconds. you’ve accepted his proposal with hardly any effort and he intends to show you the difference between his sweet hookups and his passionate need to claim the woman of his dreams. 

“so you…scared off all those guys?” you ask, raising a brow as your face still rests in his clutches. he swipes his thumb over your bottom lip, nodding vigorously. 

“sure did, princess. i was trying to let you figure it out on your own…” he sighs, brushing your hair back behind your ears as his eyes scan over your body again. he needs to feel you. “but you’re not a quick learner, hence why i’m on plan b.” he winks, scooping you over his shoulder moments later. he puts you on your bed, the short walk made shorter by his teleportation. he’s just too impatient, brain swelling with the flashing images of you in traditional wedding attire and round with his heir. it all feels within reach now, and he has to try it out now. “gonna show you how bad i love you–you’ll never go anywhere else.” he mutters, lanky frame swallowing up your body, hips pinning yours to the bed beneath you. “you’re gonna give me a gojo and you’re gonna look so fucking good doing it.” he mutters, lips attaching to your neck reminiscent of the way they have a million times. though this time, there’s intention behind it—or well. this time you’re aware of the intention behind it. 

in all your times together, his dirty talk has been contained to praising your body and how good you feel to him. his incantations to knock you up has your heart beating funny and wetness pooling between your legs. you make a soft gasp sound for him, elongating your neck to let him leave real marks of possession where you’ve previously resisted. your body writhes and twists under his as his teeth knick and nip bruises into your skin. he’d spell his own name with them if he could, even a ring and a baby wasn’t enough in his eyes. he needs the world to know you’re his, that you’ll always be by his side, that you were born to be his. 

“that pesky birth control’s gonna have to wear off though–so we have time to get married before you get pregnant–if that matters to you.” he moans at the idea, hands sliding under your top to push it over your head. his mouth moves to suck the swells of your tits once they’re exposed to him, humming out his satisfaction at the warm skin. your head digs back into the mattress—mind absolutely drunk on his affection and devotion. it’s all you’ve ever wanted and now it’s right here, and from the man you’ve always wished you could have—how could you ever deny him again? 

your hands pull at the fabric on his back, hips bucking up for a source of friction. he breaks away from marking up your chest to bare his to you, throwing his t-shirt into some corner of your room to be forgotten about until tomorrow. this wouldn’t be your room much longer anyway–you’ll be moved into the estate within the next two days, he wouldn’t be able to live without you now. then he’s pushing you up towards the headboard, ripping off your lounge shorts to reveal those cute panties he knows you wear when you’re trying to impress him. color him fucking thrilled at your puffy pussy lips indenting the fabric around them, making him groan at the sight. he thumbs at your clit through the cotton, sparkling eyes flickering between the growing wet spot in your panties and the adorable scrunches of your nose and the pinch of your brow from the pleasure he’s dishing out before he’s even really touching you. you’re so cute he can’t pace himself, needing to consecrate your importance to him in the best way he knows how. 

you help him get you out of your underwear, shamelessly spreading for him after hundreds of rendezvous—you’ve lost your shyness and he loves it, loves seeing your neediness for him in the glaze of your pretty doe eyes and the way you swing your hips around to beg for his attention. “tell me you love me.” he hums, nosing apart your pussy lips. his cock throbs at the scent, and you feel goosebumps break out across your skin at his command. 

“you’re the one for me, sato. i love you.” you whisper so intimately he can feels his cursed energy pulsing like the rest of him. he groans, submerging his face in your cunt with a genuine pleasure you’ve only seen from him. he loves eating you out, loves the taste of you on his tongue—loves how your noises only rile him into fucking the bed, whining and grunting with his own neediness that he could only unleash once he’s properly readied you for it. 

“you taste so fucking good baby…so sweet down my throat. get loud, i don’t care it’s an apartment. you’ll be moving out soon anyway.” he smirks, latching onto your clit to make your legs jolt like they always do. it makes him giggle every time, and the vibrations feel even better against your sensitive bundle. he rolls it around his tongue, letting his index finger explore the wetness he’s helping you create. he pokes into your entrance, knowing how violently you craved something inside. his thoughts are confirmed by the way you clench around the digit, whining and bucking into it for more. he’s more than happy to oblige, finger fucking you with two long and thick fingers while his tongue works overtime on your clit. he loves watching you at this part, enamored by your face as your hips involuntarily jump from the bed, smacking your clit into his nose instead of his skilled tongue. 

your entire body is warm, jerking like you’re receiving electrical shocks from the pleasure satoru reigns down, gasping and sputtering on the edge of orgasm just a few minutes after he started. it’s always like this with him–though this time was special because you knew your life was changing before your very eyes—that satoru’s energy was growing so rapidly because he’s letting go of all kinds of stress and pent up frustration and anger. “please—wanna cum please sato–”

“daddy. i’m daddy now. ask daddy nicely.” he chuckles as he leans his head against his free hand, curling his fingers into the spot he knows so well just to watch your mouth drop and eyes widen in absolute blissful shock. you nod–brain fuzzy from his constant teasing and his new nickname. 

“daddy!! yes—daddy! please, oh my god—daddy let me cum!” you sound so good when you say it–it’s all he ever wants to hear for the rest of his life. he can’t wait for you to make him a real daddy. 

“oh missus gojo can do anything she wants.” he coos as if he didn’t make you expressly beg for permission, lowering his face to your cunt again with precise licks, shoving your hood back to absolutely abuse your sensitivity. your legs develop a mind of their own and you’re spiraling over the edge before you can understand what he’s doing. floating balls of color cover your vision and you scream his name just as loud as he wanted. he grins in satisfaction, hands resting on your knees so he can push himself forward for a sloppy kiss; slick covered lips sliding against yours so you could taste your own essence via his tongue shoving its way in your mouth with a hearty moan. you match his eagerness, making out with satoru with more passion than ever before–because you both have the security of knowing it’s real this time. he maneuvers his hips until his leaky tip catches on your hole, his breath shaky as before he shoves in like he always does. you squeeze him so tight it’s not hard to believe why he lost his fucking mind over this pussy. he truly would do anything to make you his, thank god you didn’t put up a fight. 

“fuuuuck–” he whines a little, finding it nearly impossible to even move in the first place. you feel the burn of his fat and lengthy shaft parting your walls like they routinely do, mouth dropped wide open in pleasure. satoru hovers inches away from your face, so close that the ends of his hair tickle your forehead as he picks your legs up—holding you by the back of the ankles before he sets a brutal pace. his nuts clap into your ass from the way he moves, length curving just right to fill you to the brim. he doesn’t even have to try all that hard to bottom out against your cervix, finding the way you moan and twitch so adorable. “this is why you have to be my wife—i need you for life, sweetheart.” 

your eyes widen at that declaration–though you already realized that satoru would never let you out of his clutches again. you knew he would marry you as quickly as possible based off of his desire to also knock you up as quickly as possible—but hearing him call you that, first missus gojo and now his wife, it all felt so real. his cock slamming into you only drilled it in further, his eyes glowing brighter than you’ve ever seen. the air also grows its own electric field, suffocating and thrilling all at the same time. your eyes are glued to him, entranced by the feral look on his face. you try to hold onto him, but he’s moving so punishingly you can’t even get your hands to work, mind and body on cloud nine. “you’re so beautiful. i’ve been in love…with—you–for years now.” he says in between deep breaths, trying to contain all his focus into drilling you unconscious. 

you shudder, feeling that was completely in the realm of possibility. his balls ache, the need to breed you just as heavy as all the other times you’ve come to him to clean up every mess of yours ever since he’s known you, the need to make you his in a way no one else would be allowed to—it’s carnal. he can’t stop until you’re full of his seed and it takes. he needs to see your breasts heavy with milk to feed his baby from. he needs to see you struggle with the weight of your belly so he can urge you to rest and let him serve you like you should be. he needs to see what the combination of your love looks like; what these last ten years of hard work would become. he’s painting your insides white and still pumping just as fast as before, watching your face tick and jerk with the pleasure you’re experiencing as you tip off of your own peak. he grins, shoving that cum as deep as it will go. he stops when he knows your body can’t take anymore, cuddling you to his chest until you fall asleep safe and sound. he has the whole world in his hands, and that’s never been enough. now he can sleep with a genuine smile on his face. he knows your body will regulate in a few months off the birth control—but that doesn’t mean he can’t get plenty of practice until then. after all, he has a problem! he has to breed his pretty little girl best friend turned future wife. 

[moonstruckme]

Okay I’ve been thinking of request ideas for Thawing Out all day while I was at work 😂 What about if something happened with her on the way to practice (nothing serious but maybe it shook her up a bit) and she was late and clearly acting off? Obviously her boys are going to notice…

Love you as always, hope you’re doing amazing! 💖💖💖

Thank you Amber my love!!! Hope you like it <3

collab with @ellecdc

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14 | part 15 | part 16

cw: modern au, chronic pain, mention of harassment

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.6k words

You come into the rink with quick, determined steps, blitzing past every door in your path until you get to the bleachers. Sirius is already on the ice, Remus leaned against the boards while he watches. Both boys turn when you sit down. 

“Hello,” Sirius calls, clearly chuffed to have you here as a buffer between him and your bristly coach. “Where’s my latte?”

“No time today,” you say back. You jam your foot into a skate. 

Remus gives you a scrutinous look. “You alright?”

“Fine. Sorry I’m late.” 

You get your skates on in record time, laced up tight enough to hurt. Sirius is ready for you in your starting position, his hands firm on your shoulders. He gives a little squeeze, meant to coax a smile out of you, but you’re in no mood. 

“I was just fucking with you about the latte,” he says lowly. “I don’t need it to get through practice, though he has been especially insufferable this morning.” 

You glance at Remus. He looks the same as always, half relaxed and half watchful. He and Sirius have fallen into a routine of petty spats that you suspect don’t exactly make him look forward to practice every morning, and yet he seems to be getting used to the both of you. He’s less curt than he had been during your first few days together. 

“You only say that because you were here alone with him,” you say. 

“It didn’t help. Without you here he’s in his most unfiltered, fogey form.” 

Your skating is as near to flawless as it’s been in weeks. You throw yourself into each jump with everything you have, using the hot emotions simmering beneath your skin to your advantage. And it works. Remus looks caught offguard but directs several nods of approval your way, whereas Sirius is all untempered joy. His grin widens with each flawless landing, and when you finish your most difficult move in the routine he actually whoops. You think you see Remus’ lips twitch at that. 

“There she is!” Sirius grips your hand, squeezing tight as you go into a synchronized arabesque. His hair is pulled back into a bun, but a couple of loose pieces flutter around his face as he skates backwards. He looks so happy for you, and some of that tight feeling you’ve been carrying around all morning dissipates. You smile back at him. 

You both go into a lutz. It’s a jump you’ve done half a million times. It should be a given, perfect every time. And yet you catch your mistake in midair. 

You land on your hands and knees. 

You pant a couple of times, and your next breath scrapes on the way in. Tears press at your eyes horrifyingly fast, like they’ve only been waiting for their chance. You press your nose to the ice. 

Skates hiss until they’re next to you, Sirius’ hand on your back. 

“What’s wrong? What happened?” 

You shake your head, humiliated by your fall and even more so by this fracturing, how easily it came on. You feel pathetic. 

“Where is it?” Sirius’ voice climbs, growing shrill with panic. “Let me see. How bad is it?” 

He’s trying to sit you up, hands cold and gentle and frantic, but his touch stills when a warmer one meets your shoulder. 

“Are you hurt?” Remus asks. 

“No.” You finally find your voice, but it’s pitchy and awful. “I’m sorry.” 

“Fuck. Fucking hell.” In the next second you’re smushed against Sirius, who hugs you tight as soon as he knows he doesn’t have to be delicate with you. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

“I’m sorry.” Your face feels hotter than hot in the cold rink. You push into your eyes with your fingertips. “God, what the fuck! I thought I fixed it. I don’t understand why this is still happening.” 

You’re sobbing now, tiny explosions that start in your chest and ricochet all the way through you, but fuming all the same. 

“You were both right, I’m holding myself back. I thought I could stop, but it just keeps happening, and I can’t do this. I’m so incompetent I can’t even do a fucking lutz. We need to find Sirius a new partner. I can’t hold us back anymore, I—” 

“Hey.” 

Remus’ voice is harsh, but not as harsh as Sirius’ grip on you turns at the sound of it. Your partner’s face goes sharp and cruel in an instant, an animal bearing its teeth. 

Remus pays him no mind. He keeps his eyes on yours, firm and unrelenting. “Don’t speak about yourself that way,” he says. 

You feel Sirius’ hold slacken in surprise. 

Another tear trudges down your face, and Remus’ expression gentles. “Everyone falls,” he tells you. “You have been improving, faster than I thought was possible, but you can’t expect it to happen all at once. You’re still going to fall sometimes. It’s alright. We’re working on it, yeah?” 

You sniff, wiping underneath your eyes. “Yeah,” you squeak out. “Sorry.” 

“You don’t need to be sorry. Just give yourself some grace, yeah?” His lips press together in a little grimace that’s likely meant to be a smile. “It’s my job to be hard on you, not yours. You’re allowed to fuck up. It doesn’t make you incompetent, or unworthy of competing with Sirius. You are the best person to be his partner. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here, understand?” 

“Yeah.” You take a deep breath in. “Thank you.” It stutters a bit on the way out, catching on another tiny sob you can’t help. This one comes from a place of relief, but Sirius’ cold fingers dig into your arm anyway and Remus’ brows twitch slightly as though it hurts him, too. 

“No problem,” he says softly. “Are you sure you haven’t hurt yourself?” 

You nod, closing your eyes to will yourself calmer. 

“Good. Do you want to leave off early today?” 

You swallow and start to stand. “No. I’m okay.” 

“No.” Sirius’ voice is bemused enough to sound like a question. He rises beside you, looking at you like he’s trying to puzzle you out. “No, something’s up with you today. We should stop.” 

Remus seems to go along with him, starting back towards the opening in the boards, and you think wryly that if one good thing comes from all this it might be those two finally starting to get along. You also realize for the first time that Remus is out here with you on the ice. It’s the first time you’ve seen him so much as think about coming off of the bleachers, even if he is only in regular shoes and leaning heavily on his good hip as he makes his way back towards them. 

“I’m okay,” you repeat to Sirius. 

He shakes his head. “You’ve been weird since you got here. What happened?”

“Nothing happened.” 

“Something did.” 

You push out a frustrated breath. “Nothing relevant.” 

“But something did happen.” 

He’s steering you towards the exit now. It feels petulant to rip away and stay on the ice even if no one else will, though that’s what you’d really like to do. 

“Are you actively trying to piss me off?” you ask him. 

Sirius shrugs, stepping onto the floor. “If that’s what’s going to work. I only want to know what got you so upset.” 

“Nothing.” 

“Here we are again. Back to ‘nothing.’” 

Remus is watching you both like you’re a show his TV has randomly flipped to. Tentative of where he stands, but definitely entertained. 

You hate that this has become such a big thing. “It’s really nothing,” you say, planting yourself on the bench with a force that perhaps belies your claim. “It was just some git on the way here this morning.” 

Sirius’ eyebrows go up while Remus’ come down. 

“And what did this git have to say to you?” Sirius asks. 

You sigh, starting to unlace your skates since apparently practice is over. “It’s not what he said. He only asked me out, which is fine, but then he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He, like, grabbed onto my arm and wouldn’t let go for a bit.” 

Sirius’ expression goes stormy. It’s almost as bad as the look he’d given Remus earlier, only without a target to be directed at. “Are you fucking joking?” 

“It was fine,” you say. “I made it here, didn’t I? It just freaked me out a little. And pissed me off.” 

“Yeah, you should be pissed!” Sirius starts pacing, mindless of the indents his blades are putting into the rubber flooring. “Who does that? Did he think—what, you were just going to have to go out with him if he took you captive?” 

“I don’t know.” You give him a dead-eyed stare. “I didn’t ask him.” 

“God, you should be able to walk to fucking practice in the morning without being accosted by—by some—”

“Do you need someone to walk with you in the mornings?” Remus seems uninterested in waiting to hear what creative insult Sirius comes up with for the git. He looks at you steadily, his jaw tight but ready to accept whatever answer you give him. 

“No,” you say. “Like I said, it was really nothing.” 

“It upset you,” he says matter-of-factly. “That’s not nothing.” 

“I can walk you.” Sirius plonks down beside you on the bench, seeming to have come to a decision. “Just wait for me inside tomorrow morning, and I’ll come pick you up.” 

You can’t help but smile at that. “If I leave it to you, we’ll never get here. There’ll never be another morning practice again.” Remus’ tongue pokes into his cheek like he’s repressing a grin. 

“Wha—so little faith!” Sirius sputters, straightening before he’s so much as touched his laces. “I’ll be there, okay? We will be needing to pick up my coffee on the way here, though.” 

You give him a skeptical look. “You realize I wake up a half hour earlier to have time to get those?” 

“Fucking hell! Do you really?”

[hemlock-dreams]

Horny brain! Activate!

Just wanted to write a scene of Spidey finally getting to indulge his colossal oral fixation. Wade volunteers as tribute! So here: 4k words of pure filth.

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

Wade's back hits the wall. He's out of breath, body thrumming from the adrenaline, pulse a hummingbird beat against his chest.

Spiderman has him caged against the rooftop access, an inky blot in the darkness, an electric shadow pressed up against Wade. Their masks are halfway up, and Spidey's tongue is halfway down Wade's throat.

Spidey drops his head to the crook of Wade's neck, leaving a series of sucking kisses that make Wade ache in the suit. "I win," he says, smug as shit, but Wade can't fault him for it.

It was a good fucking chase and an even better fucking fight. He just wishes he could keep the bruises.

"Yeah, you did," Wade pants, grinding against Spidey's dense body. It's amazing, a perfect end to the night, except Wade's not ready for it to be over. "Where I come from, winners get a prize." He says, hoping it doesn't come out too desperate. Or maybe just the right amount of desperate.

Who the winner is in this situation is really up for interpretation, but Wade wants to think they can both get what they want.

Clearly, they're on the same wavelength because Spidey grabs the tail end of the thought and runs with it. "I've got some ideas…"

The dark, masculine purr of Spidey's voice makes Wade want to lick into his mouth, so he does, groaning when Spidey lets him have it. It feels so unbelievably good to let himself want without compunction, to take what's on offer without having to break off pieces of himself to pay for it.

It has the strange side effect of making Wade unusually generous. Borderline pliant—especially when it comes to his favorite spider.

"Oh, yeah?" Wade asks. His vision is already starting to sparkle, body twitching under Spidey's hands from the venom. Wandering hands inevitably end up on Spidey's magnificent ass, squeezing hard, knowing he can take it. "You know what they say. Sharing is caring."

A hand comes up between Wade's legs, palming the erection that's been there ever since Spidey tackled him across a fire escape three blocks ago. He's not gentle, either. Wade pushes up into it, shuddering when the pressure doesn't let up.

Fuck it's good. But he's more interested in what's Spidey's got cooking.

"Here's what's going to happen," Spidey starts casually, cool as a cucumber. Wade's heartbeat picks up immediately. Spidey always has spectacular plans, especially when they involve Wade. "I'm going to get on my knees, and you're going to fuck my mouth. My prize, is going to be swallowing you down— as many times as you can take it."

The words hit Wade like a nuclear fucking blast, evaporating all the air in his lungs. He doesn't even pretend to think about it; just shoves his hands between their bodies and starts yanking at his suit like it's offended the honor of his house and name.

“I haven’t done this before,” Spidey’s voice is thick with anticipation, and the way he watches Wade unbuckle his suit, licking his lips like there’s a five-course meal waiting in Wade’s pants makes his hands shake. “But I’ve thought about it. A lot.”

His mouth brushes under the edge of Wade’s mask as he confesses, licking the seam of the merc’s lips before continuing down his chin. 

“Tell me,” Wade grunts, fingers clumsy as he tries to get his fucking zipper to cooperate- difficult when Spidey’s fangs scrape over the sensitive skin of his jaw, little pinpricks of pain and pixie magic that make his trapped cock scream in the suit.

“Been thinking about how it would feel on my tongue,” Spidey indulges, panting wetly against Wade’s neck. “Thought about holding you down and stretching my throat around you, wanna swallow till I’m sore-”

Wade tears the zipper clean off with an unhinged sound. Spidey huffs a laugh, something about being impatient, but he's far past caring. Fuck patience. Fuck the suit. Everything between him and Spidey’s ravenous fucking mouth needs to fucking disappear. 

It takes a few drugged, desperate seconds to summon the coordination, but Wade finally manages to pull out his dick, hissing in relief as he palms the throbbing length of it. He’s already painfully hard from the chase. The thrill of being so thoroughly roughed up has him leaking against the blood-slick leather of his glove where he twists it around the head. 

Spidey bats it away with a low, possessive growl that makes Wade forget to register the tired knee-jerk stab of shame about his scarring. All attention is devoted to the sight of Spidey sinking to his knees with inhuman, predatory grace, and the heavy curl of his hands around Wade’s hips, coupled with the sharp glint of his venom-streaked fangs, has his dick jumping like he’s been electrocuted.

Fuck, fuck— Spidey hasn’t even done anything, and Wade's on the verge of begging.

“C’mon, Fangs,” he pleads because shame is on vacation right now, fisting the edges of Spidey’s suit and spreading his legs as far as the leather will allow. He tries to flex his hips, but it’s no use. Spiderman is carved from marble, his hands immovable from where he’s anchored Wade. 

There’s barely two inches between Spidey’s mouth and his dick, but it might as well be a fucking mile. He glances up at Wade, and his smile is hungry and a little manic, tongue pink and lurid as he swipes it across his fangs.

“I’ll probably hurt you,” he whispers.

Wade’s brain rattles in his head. “Promise?” He begs, breathless because just the thought of it has him panting like a bitch. 

That was apparently the right thing to say because Spidey laughs and gets with the fucking program.

It’s been a while since Wade’s been on his knees for anyone. Even longer since he’s been on the receiving end, but given Spidey’s hungry enthusiasm, Wade expected to be halfway down the man’s throat by now.

But predicting Spiderman is an exercise in futility because instead of going to town or doing any of the normal things people do when presented with a cock, he bypasses it to press his face to the base of the shaft, inhaling through his teeth in heaving gulps.  

Oh, that’s right. 

It's been mentioned once or twice, how Spidey can taste Wade on the air, that their constant proximity means he can parse the merc’s flavor apart from the rest of the ambient soup of the world. 

Wade doesn’t know what that really means, but he doesn’t care because Spidey rolls his face against Wade’s skin, breathing deeply, fingers convulsing around the merc’s hips in fits.

It’s both blisteringly hot and strangely chaste— like Spidey is feeling Wade because he’s pleasing to touch, using his body to satisfy all the little urges he’s had to keep tucked away, just because Wade makes him feel good in some bone-deep way.

The feeling unfurls, rolling outwards till his legs are trembling. His hands scrabble against Spidey because his grip is the only thing keeping Wade from freefalling.

“Jesus, Slick,” Wade pants, trying to swallow around the sudden lump his throat, “You’re gonna fucking kill me, come on.”

“Pot. Kettle.” Spidey breathes, in time with Wade’s spiking pulse, “You’ve been driving me crazy. The way you fucking taste, you have no idea-”

Wade really doesn’t. He’s extremely fuzzy on what keeps Spidey here, but he’s not dumb enough to call his bluff, not when his gorgeous hunter leans back and rolls his tongue over the head of Wade’s weeping dick, groaning like the merc is doing him a favor.

The first real touch of his tongue has both of them shivering, and Spidey suddenly descends on Wade like a man starved. He works his lips over the head of his dick like it’s the world’s most delicious lollipop, leaving tingling iridescent trails in his wake as he kisses down the shaft.

Wade is transfixed at the sight, pulse rabbiting as Spidey traces over the scars with his tongue, dipping into the grooves like he’s trying to ingrain them into his memory by mouthfeel alone. 

It’s the hottest fucking thing Wade’s ever seen. In fact, he wishes he could permanently pluck out his own eyes to make sure it’s the last thing he ever sees. Then again, maybe it's good he can't because there’s no way he’s missing the sight of Spidey chasing a drop of precum like it’s vital to his survival.

“You taste so pretty,” Spiderman slurs like he can read Wade’s mind, or maybe taste it on his tongue— punctuating the statement with a debauched kiss to the leaking tip. “So fucking perfect, wanna keep you here forever.”

The praise goes straight to Wade’s head, hips jerking uselessly against Spidey’s iron grip. “You can,” he sounds pathetic. “As long as you want, all yours.” And he is, fuck, he is— for as long as long as Spiderman can stand him. 

“Yeah?” A pink-slick tongue laves the underside of the head, tracing the throbbing vein there. Wade’s vision crackles; it’s so intense, “Whenever I want?” There’s something deeply satisfying in the way his fingers dig into Wade’s hip, ten sweet points of bruising pain that makes his dick weep.

“Yeah. Anytime, anywhere,” Wade promises fervently, sounding like the lovelorn maiden he is. He’ll let Spidey blame it on the venom. 

That gets him a crooked grin, pleased. Spidey purses his lips around the head of Wade’s cock, content to linger, pressing torturous little licks into his slit. 

Now, Wade is a well-known masochist, but apparently, he’s got a limit. “C’mon, Fangs,” he moans, twitching against Spidey’s mouth, heart jumping when the head of his cock hitches one venom-slicked lip high enough to see teeth, “Let me in.”

That earns him a heartfelt groan and a shiver. 

“I want, but-” Spidey hisses, rubbing his lips against scarred skin. Lips draw back in a facsimile of a snarl.

Wade pulls at Spidey’s shoulders, impatient, “Your teeth? Trust me, baby, it's all I've been thinking about. I want it.” Wade’s cock is literally jumping at the sight. Want doesn’t even begin to describe it. 

Wade needs it; needs to see that pretty needle-lined mouth wrapped around his cock before he wakes up behind whatever dumpster he’s offloaded his body. 

Spidey stares at him, breath coming out in harsh gasps.

"Please," Wade begs, and it must be convincing because Spidey twitches forward in an aborted movement.

“Show me,” Spiderman says, then shakes his head, sounding unhinged, borderline feral. “No…Make me.” 

The demand practically creaks under years of habits born in response to having fangs that don’t retract.

Jesus, he really hasn't done this before, has he?

The thought of being the first person to sink into Spiderman’s virgin fucking mouth drives him crazy. Wade isn’t delusional enough to believe he’ll be the last but fuck, he wants to make it so good that Spidey keeps coming back-

He remembers to tear his gloves off before fisting one hand into the back of Spidey’s mask, tugging hard, forcing the man’s head back until his neck is a pale, elegant line in the dark.

His gorgeous little spider doesn't even flinch; he just leans into the pain like it's a gift. The explicit show of trust sends all voices roaring, and the intensity of Wade's desire takes him by surprise. Violence, lust, love, all the lines blur until Wade can't tell the difference between wanting to fuck Spidey or kill him— whatever it takes to permanently mark him as Wade's.

Spidey chooses that moment to swallow, knowing that Wade's eyes follow the motion like a man possessed. Fucking tease. Wade's going to ruin him.

“Poor itsy bitsy spider,” Wade's voice is a velvet growl as he settles his other hand around Spidey’s jaw, reveling in how the simple touch makes him shiver. Has anyone else ever reacted like that to Wade? “Spent your entire life with that hungry mouth muzzled, huh?”

Wade doesn't wait for Spidey to confirm. He can already imagine the man's civilian life, a sad snapshot of carefully regulated emotions filled with close-lipped smiles and pursed grins. A real fucking shame because Wade recognizes a repressed slut when he sees one. Something, something birds of a feather.

“Don't worry, baby,” He slides his cock up and over Spidey's mouth, watching the wallcrawler jerk and pant as he spreads all that shiny venom over his cheeks, pushing up against the edge of his mask, “I'm going to pry you open just to see how soft you are inside.”

Spidey grits out a wounded noise, jaw hard enough to chew through gravel. He’s drooling through clamped teeth, venom, and spit trailing down his chin in rivulets. He wants it, bad, and Wade wants to give it to him.

Spidey just needs a little coaxing, and the challenge of it, combined with Wade's frayed impatience, makes his touches mean.

“Thought you wanted this?” Wade cruelly squeezes his fingers deep into the bone, right where the hinge is, just to watch Spidey flinch and take it. “Don’t tell me you chased me through the city just to pass on your prize?” 

He presses his cock against Spidey’s closed mouth, pushing past his lips to rub against his teeth and catch against his swollen gums, right up against the sensitive glands.

It must feel intense because Spidey shakes and whines, muscles spasming under Wade's fingers as he struggles to fight years of conditioning.

“Was it all talk?” He taunts, pulling back just enough to watch Spidey fight his grip to chase him. “Is it too much for you? Maybe I should put it away-”

It’s a bluff because Wade is fucking desperate, but Spidey’s jaw flexes in response, loosening just enough to unleash a furious growl. 

“No?” Wade pretends to think about it long enough for Spidey’s grip to turn dangerous. Wade's hips might be splinters by the end, but that’s just icing on the cake. “You want it?” 

“Yes,” Spidey chokes out, and Wade gives him a brutal little shake,

“Then, open up.” His voice is all malice, the way it gets when Wade's face to face with a target he’s looking particularly forward to taking his time with. “Let me break you in.”

That does it. A full-body tremor rolls up Spidey’s entire frame, and slowly, very slowly, his jaw begins to relax. 

What a perfect, fucking freak.

Immediately, Wade pushes his fingers into the soft hollows of Spidey’s cheeks, forcing his jaw wider, crooning in pleasure as he watches bruises bloom under pressure. “That’s it, Slick. Open up those pearly gates, lemme see what heaven looks like.”

The fangs really are pretty- long and graceful, and absolutely drenched, gums swollen around the base of his canines— hypersensitive, if the way Spidey is twitching is any indication. His mouth is plush and bright pink, a salivating mess when Wade jerks his head up for a better look.

His cock throbs at the sight, and Wade reached his limit about two paragraphs into this whole thing, so he starts pushing, dragging the leaking tip past Spidey’s criminally soft lips.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hand shaking around Spidey’s jaw. “Fuck, baby, you feel so good. Wider, that’s it, yeah-“

Spidey makes a garbled, incoherent noise that makes Wade want to slam in. His spider is breathing hard and fast, hands tight across the merc's hips; Wade has to fight for every goddamn inch, earn every shallow, torturous slide into that glorious mouth.

The wet, needy sound that accompanies every slide is addicting.

“That’s it, baby, keep that mouth nice and loose for me. Let me give it to you, fuck-” he’s working his hips in little jerks, just dragging the head across Spidey’s drooling mouth, fighting not to come before he's given Spidey his damn prize.

Wade goes deeper each time, teasing both of them when he pulls out and dips back in, little thrusts that have Wade’s nerve endings sparking. Fuck, fuck, he needs more—

"Is that all you can take?" It's supposed to be a taunt, but the words come out twisted, desperate. Wade needs to get deeper; he needs to carve out a space in Spidey's body just for him.

Spidey makes a frustrated, guttural noise around Wade’s cock as he tilts his head. The new angle makes his fangs look obscene, like two gleaming daggers poised over the head of Wade’s dick, and his voice pitches embarrassingly high at the sight.

“In, wanna see you take it.” Panting breaths, Wade pulling as much as he can, pushing his hips at the same time, but there's no fucking give to Spiderman. “Come on, come on, c’mon, c'moncmoncmon-”

Spidey shifts, and Wade feels his jaw pop under his thumb, the final piece of resistance disappearing as he finally leans in, and god- Spidey's mouth is a fucking revelation, all scorching heat, so wet there's almost no friction, just a long, dripping, sinful slide.

Wade hears himself whine, a perfect counterpitch to Spidey's low animal groan.

It's too fast, especially given Spidey's inexperience, but the promise of bruising that beautiful throat from the inside out burns all of Wade's gentler impulses.

And Spidey sounds so fucking pleased, like Wade is everything he ever wanted, sinking further and further like he can't bear the thought of pulling back— like the weight of Wade's cock is more important than the air in his lungs.

“C’mon,” He’s babbling, comically delirious even to his own ears, leaking every thought right into Spidey's greedy mouth, “Take it, take it, sweetheart, it’s yours, all of it, anything you need, Slick, please—”

He's so close. The world is starting to go hazy, the wet sound of Spidey's mouth, the bruising grip around his hips, the chill breeze over his stomach, everything blurring together to tease the most monstrous orgasm of his life.

Right as he's about to tip over the edge, Spiderman retreats, and Wade nearly breaks his own fingers trying to claw him back over his aching dick. Wade's throat burns, loud and incoherent, a wash of white noise against the coming tide.

It doesn't seem to matter, or maybe it does, because Spidey just breathes deep and sinks all the way to the root, and the resounding crack of Wade's skull against the wall is nothing but a delicious accent to the absolute tidal wave of pleasure that swamps him.

Time turns to spaghetti, and by the time Wade floats back up, it's to the sight and sound of Spidey shaking, whining around the thick length of Wade's cock, nose pressed against the bone. He sounds pained, like he's hurting, or—

“Jesus, Jesus, baby, did you just-?” Wade shudders, staring down at Spidey's kneeling form in disbelief.

Spidey just makes a raw, broken noise, sounding as fucked out as Wade feels. He swallows, then nods.

His hands haven't moved from Wade's hips.

"Where did they make you? Fuck, you're so, —just— fucking perfect. You're gonna kill me," Wade chokes out, hoarse, twitching against the soft meat of Spidey's throat.

Spiderman seems to take this as advice because instead of pulling off, he sinks even further until his face is completely pressed up against Wade's abdomen.

It's immediately too much, and Wade scrabbles at Spidey's shoulders, hissing as his body instinctively tries to retreat.

He doesn't go far because Spidey fuckin’ snarls around Wade’s cock in protest, and Wade suddenly finds himself pushed against the wall hard enough to grind his spine into the brick. He’s pinned, completely immobile, save for his mouth- which is still running a mile a minute, 

“Fuck, baby, Jesus, you're a fucking lunatic—!" His voice cracks as Spidey inhales him, taking the entirety of Wade's shaft like he's going to find the meaning of life at the base of it.

He stays there for a long time, immune to the desperate, inarticulate noises tearing out of Wade's mouth. Wade's cock hasn't even had a chance to go down, and thanks to Spidey, is almost painfully hard against the back of his throat.

Enthusiasm aside, Wade knows he needs to ease up. Spidey can't be getting enough air— but Wade can’t pull back, not when he feels the tips of those fangs threaten him when he tries. Instinct paralyzes Wade, but the sound that Spidey makes, a low hum of warning, vibrates through his cock and all the way up his spine.

Those teeth press close, locking tight enough to be unnerving. There's no pain, not yet, but the threat, the mere idea of it, sends Wade's brain right into the fucking stratosphere.

When his ears turn back on, it’s to the sound of his own babbling, out of his mind on a heady cocktail of terror and pleasure, "Fuck, Slick, your fucking teeth, yeah do it, do it, do it, do it—" Wade’s voice is wobbly, wet as he shakes from the overstimulation.

Spiderman doesn't let up, forcibly pushing Wade deeper into the wall as he speeds up.

Spiderman pulls back and sinks down, dragging the sharp points of his teeth across Wade's cock over and over and over, carving shallow lines of blistering pain and pleasure that coil in the mess of his brain until they're indistinguishable from one another.

Wade is suspended, writhing in pure, terrifying sensation, and the sounds being punched out of his chest are humiliatingly small and honest. 

Spidey’s venom is shimmering on his skin, coursing in his veins, sinking into his fucking soul and staining the ragged thing electric pink. His entire nervous system feels like it's been doused with gasoline and set on fucking fire.

It's too much. Every inch of exposed skin feels flayed. Wade's cock is just a raw nerve, and Spidey’s mouth a fucking black hole, sucking every single thought out of Wade’s head with incredible violence.

“Fuckbabyfuckican't—" But he wants to, wants to give it to Spidey, but there's just no way, he can't.

Spidey doesn't give a shit about Wade's limits, because he pries one of the merc's hands from his shoulder, and Wade valiantly scrapes half a brain cell off the floor to pay attention when Spidey presses the bare palm to the side of his neck—

Everything slows down. Oh fuck. Oh fuck-

Then Spidey swallows and squeezes, and the feel of his fangs pressing in, his throat distending around Wade’s cock, under his palm-

That’s it. Game over. Wade’s entire body locks up, muscles convulsing as Spidey wrenches his second orgasm from the fucking pits of hell. He comes so hard his teeth ache. It lasts for centuries, time stretching and wringing out every drop of pleasure until Wade is whiting out, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

He’s not sure he ever really comes back down; just floats just over the precipice of consciousness, just low enough to hear his own overstimulated whimpers as Spidey swallows around him, just like he promised.

For the first time in ages, Wade's head is blissfully silent, and he basks in it for as long as he can.

Eventually, the world begins to filter in, but Wade's body still feels languid, lacking the telltale bite he associates with general living.

Cracking his eyes open— when had he closed them?— Wade is treated to the sight of a very satisfied, very smug spider.

"Fucker." He manages, voice broken and rough with affection.

His legs are completely fucking shot, and the only thing stopping Wade from buckling to the grimy cement are Spidey's hands holding him to the wall, keeping the entire bulk of Wade's considerable weight like he's nothing.

His thumbs are stroking over Wade's hipbones.

It's hot. It's...it's...

He runs a soft hand over the fading bruises on Spidey's jaw and gets a sweet kiss on his knuckles in return. Wade's heart does something funny in his chest, but the accompanying feeling isn't funny in the slightest.

Then Spidey nips the thumb, grinning wide, a little drunk and a lot vicious. The broken rasp of his voice straight up rewires the pleasure centers of Wade's brain, “Again?”

Wade feels the addiction forming, physically impossible but there all the same. And like every substance abuse story, Spidey is going to eat Wade alive from the inside out.

What a way to go.

"Yeah," Wade grins. "C'mon sweetheart, let's see if you can actually kill me this time."

[simpee9000]

Not Just Friends - 2 -

Prologue : Chapter 1 : Not edited : 3.4k words : M.List

Childhood best friends turned into something more, at least with the label. Katsuki Bakugo, a fast-rising hero and fast-learning guy who is ever so slow in getting attached to and loving someone. Even three long years into a relationship, and your friends even forget you're even dating. Nothing happening, spare a few kisses.. like 3 kisses, during high school. Graduated and living together, and you guys have done absolutely nothing to further the relationship. Are you sure you're not just friends? CW: Smut, brief domestic violence discussion, virginity loss, aggressive flirting from creeps, gore with pro hero stuff (lmk if i missed any) Applies to all chapters regardless of it is in said chapter.

---

-suit colors -can shut my quirk completely off -isn't a piece of shit -password. -others cant turn my shit off either      -katsuki

The note Katsuki left was majority scribbles, clearly written the second he left. You found it right when you were leaving, the crumpled sticky note being placed next to your keys.

Getting the watch set up and made for him would be difficult. Mainly making sure others can't tamper with his quirk. Everything else would be easy. Two weeks tops. Simply needed to take the same material used for his gloves and gauntlets and use it for his watch. The password and personal quirk disabled features would also be easy, just using the same techniques that normal quirk handcuffs use.

When you got to your office you immediately got to work. Drawing up the design and adding in the small details you wanted to add. You went through your email as well, getting the details Izuku sent you about what he wants. Unluckily for him, you would have to order the stuff he needs, everything Katsuki needed was already in the building. His case was personally yours so you saved up any left over materials from his suit. The quirk removing feature would take more time to set up though.

---

"Hey!" someone shouted, tacking your name to the end.

You just entered Katsuki's hero agency for lunch, talking with the sweet old receptionist. Ignoring the shout, you thanked the lady for buzzing you up. Walking over to the elevators and pushing the button to go up.

"Don't ignore me!" The voice whined. You rolled your eyes stepping into the elevator and frantically clicking the button to close the doors.

The doors almost shut completely, a hand stopping it a second to late and getting crushed.

"Fuckin' christ!" You opened the door as quick as you could, trying to make sure they weren't injured. They were doubled over, holding their hand to their chest. "Are you okay?" You asked, grabbing their shoulder to lift them away, attempting to see the injury.

They started shaking and panic ran through you, before you could yell to the receptionist to call paramedics they started laughing. Standing up straight and smiling, placing their 'injured hand' on your shoulder to support their laughter.

"Oh go fuck yourself," you brushed them off. Pressing the elevator open again.

"I'm sorry it was too easy!" He smiled. Moving to stand next to you again.

You ignored him once again. Stepping into the elevator that he unfortunately joined. Looking at the door that previously crushed his hand. "You broke the door," you pointed out, crossing your arms.

"Holy shit, Bakugo is going to kill me," he paled.

"That's what you get for activating your quirk between metal, Kirishima," you commented.

"Ouch, last name?" he feigned pain, clutching a hand to his heart, "Come on, how was I supposed to know?"

You glanced at him briefly, "You nickname your quirk unbreakable, what did you expect?" You deadpanned.

"Not that!"

"Be serious, I know you're not that dumb," you said, stepping out of the elevator at Katsuki's floor. Beginning the path to his office.

"I just wanted to talk to you," he complained, "but you ignored me completely."

"I wonder why."

"Come on," he pleaded, "I said I was sorry."

"Don't care," you knocked on Katsuki's office.

"Please," he begged.

"No."

Just as Kirishima opened his mouth to beg more, Katsuki opened his door. "The fuck are you two bitching about?" Katsuki looked at you for an answer. Which you shrugged and made your way inside. Sitting in his desk chair and sorting through the food he ordered for you two.

Katsuki turned his head to Kirishima, wanting an answer. "She won't talk to me," he pointed at you like a child.

Katsuki turned to you, raising an eyebrow, "Really?"

Before he could start getting to you about acting like a child you pointed back at Kirishima, "He broke your elevator."

He glared at the red head.

"I was just trying to talk to her!"

"And you needed to break my elevator to do that?"

Kirishima paused his comeback, knowing anything he wanted to say would be flawed. You choked back a laugh, cause Katsuki to turn to you.

"Don't act like you're innocent," he pointed, "All ya had to do was to talk him and my door wouldn't be broken."

"Nah, he broke my shit," you shrugged.

"I said I was sorry!"

"Yet now you just broke his shit too," you backed.

"What else did he break?" Katsuki asked.

You pointed towards Kirishima, and his hero outfit, "He broke his shoulder guards, again. I've fixed them five times this month because of the stupid shit he is doing."

"Whatever, out," Katsuki motioned for Kirishima to leave. Which he did, with a pout on his face. Katsuki shut the door and walked over. "Why do you insist on stealing my chair everytime?"

"The other ones aren't comfortable," you answered, handing him his food and opening yours to start eating. "Oh!" You perked up, "I finished the design for your watch, just need everything ordered and I'll start on it."

He took a break from his food, looking up at you, "How long?"

"Shipment should get here in two days, they just had a huge order and have a ton of left overs, so I'm using the stuff they have extras of. Wanna see the design?" You smiled, pulling up a picture on your phone when he nodded.

He looked over the notes you wrote down, zooming in on the smaller details, "looks good."

"Good!" You smiled.

His office door opened, "I forgot, we're having a little get together at Denki's place Saturday," Kirishima smiled before shutting the door again.

"No."

"Come on Kats," you begged, trying to meet his eyes.

"Nuh uh," he took a bite of his food, looking up briefly and meeting your eyes.

"Please! We haven't hung out with them in forever!" You pointed out.

"We hung out last night."

"Yeah, with Z', not with your friends."

"No."

He glared at you until he felt your hand rest on the top of his, "Please?"

"Fuckin' fine," he brushed off your hand and continued eating.

---

"This is lot more then a little get together," Katsuki grumbled right after pushing the door open. Disregarding a knock all together and walking straight in, taking a pause in his step.

You took a glance over his shoulder, since he took up the majority of the small hallway that started off the apartment, seeing the solid twenty or more people that crowded Denki's and Sero's apartment. "It's fine, it's not like we are forced to stay long," you pushed his back lightly, getting him to walk in entirely.

"Kacchan! Surprised you came!" Denki smiled once he saw Katsuki leave the hallway, you stepping out from behind him. "Thanks for dragging him here," Denki came up to you, giving you a one armed hug since his other hand was holding a beer.

"What else am I good for," you joked, "Didn't you say this was a small get together?"

"I was just trying to increase the odds of #2 pro hero coming in," he shrugged, Katsuki shooting him a glare and you a look, saying he wished he never came. "Now make yourselves at home, I gotta make sure Mina doesn't eat all the jello shots."

You watched Denki skip to the kitchen, instantly yelling at a stuffed faced Mina. Looking around the room you saw Sero sitting in a chair with two open spots next to it, turning back to Katsuki, he already knew your look, "Go, I'll get you a drink."

Sero saw you heading his way and gave you a wave. He was sitting in a recliner and had a loveseat spaced next to it. You took the loveseat and leaned on the armrest close to him, kicking your feet unto the other half of the couch to prevent someone stealing Kats spot.

"How's work?" Sero asked once you gave him your attention.

"Good, busy as always. But I've been ahead of the game lately, I think I can start branching out more on my own soon," you smiled.

"Exciting," he smiled, " I see you got the grump outside for once," he nodded to Katsuki, who was being badgered by some of Denki's sidekicks/partners.

You laughed, "Yeah, you're not the first to tell me that tonight, but I'm not surpised. He went out with me last night to Z' as well."

"Did you drug him? I won't snitch."

"No, I think his mom yelled at him or something," you pretended to expose. Hiding the truth behind Katsuki's behavior, which was likely the civilian death he had to deal with recently. "But how's your work?"

"Meh, it's hero work," he drank from his cup, "Recently had to deal with a spider villain so it was weird. It was like fighting myself if I had eight legs and eyes."

The two of you continue to talk about work or recent things between friends. Briefly discussing Kirishima and Mina's budding relationship that's been going on for years. Just before Sero could question your own relationship, Katsuki came back.

"Fuckin' nerds wouldn't leave me alone," he grumbled picking up your legs and sitting on the couch with you, handing you a drink.

"You love the attention," you bumped him with your knee, "and careful, might summon them again."

Casual conversation formed once again, banter between you and Katsuki, and annoyance from him to Sero. On the heated topic of old heroes. With Sero caring less, and just wanting to rile him up.

You smiled along with their conversation, more focus on Katsuki. He's rested into the chair despite being annoyed at the conversation. Having a hand rested on your knee and the other rested on the armrest, holding a low carb beer. Which he took a sip of every once in a while before he had to tell Sero he was wrong again. You admired every move of his, from his sharp jaw, to defined cheekbones, and his bright red eyes. Only stopping when Sero called you out.

"Stop eye fucking in front of me," Sero gagged.

"The fuck?" Katsuki question, not ever aware of what you were doing, "We're not."

"You might not be," Sero smirked.

"Oh fuck you, Sero," you rolled your eyes. Ignoring the blush you felt heating your face.

"Don't push your feelings onto me," Sero teased.

"Oh my god," you groaned, " I give up." Sero crackled as he laughed at you. "Shouldn't you be talking about your dumbass celebrity crush in America?"

"Who's that?" Katsuki questioned, willing to change the topic of conversation again.

"He has a crush on an actor, Ryan Reynolds. The one that reenacts the old anti-hero Deadpool," you informed.

"It's normal in America! Every guy loves him, even the straightest!" Sero defends.

"You do know the murders that Deadpool committed right?" Katsuki questioned, wanting to get on the topic of heroes, a topic he knew everything about.

The debate between whether Deadpool committed crimes for good or not was easily started. Giving yourself another chance to look at Katsuki. Not wanting to be caught you looked at the hand rested on your knee. Reaching out your own hand to trace over his. Soft and smooth from his sweat but rough from the work day. He let his hand lose the soft grip on your knee, letting you hold his entire hand freely. You traced over the rough pads of his fingers that you knew would turn soft again in the morning. Rubbing your thumb over his knuckles and the veins that lined the top of his hand. Remembering how a few years ago he would freak out if you tried to do this exact thing. Only this year has he started to let you hold his hand for longer than five minutes.

Yet he still wasn't perfect. Eventually he pulled his hand from your grip and wiped his hands off on his pants. It seemed like he didn't want your touch on him, it stung. You knew that was unlikely, but the thought couldn't leave your mind. you folded up. Crossing your arms slowly and turning your attention back onto Sero. Which caused his eyes to flicker between you and Katsuki, clearly reading your face. Before he could ask anything, he gave him a slight shake of your head.

Eventually Kirishima dragged Katsuki away from the conversation, wanting him as a partner for cup flipping.

"How come you aren't flirting with girls, Sero?" you asked, used to him normally parading the party rooms for someone to flirt with.

"Denki called dibs on everyone here basically," Sero shrugged. He sat up from his slouched sitting, " Now, what the fuck was that?" Sero motioned from you to where Katsuki was now playing games with Kirishima.

Play dumb.

"Whatcha mean?" you took a sip of your drink.

"Don't play that shit with me, He pulled away from you completely," he pointed out.

"I know, he always does that," you pointed out, wanting to stress that this wasn't a big deal.

"Always? You're kidding"

"Nope," you took a sip, "He's actually improved."

"You're saying it used to be worse," His jaw basically dropped.

"It's Katsuki you're talking about right now," you deadplanned, "Speaking of which, we never talked about this. He doesn't know it bugs me and he doesn't need to."

"Yes he does," Sero stressed.

"No he doesn't," you hissed, " I don't want him knowing. It's fine."

"Come on-"

"Sero, stop."

Before he could push forward someone entered your peripheral, standing in front of Katsuki's spot. Turning your head towards him you gave a guarded smile.

"This seat takin?" he somewhat slurred.

"Yeah it-"

"Kidding! I know it's not. No one has sat here for a good 10 minutes from what I've seen," The guy plopped down on the couch, giving you barely enough time to kick your feet off the couch and scoot over the crowd the armrest into order to not touch the guy. You and Sero shared a look. "So, what's a girl like you doing here alone," The guy smiled, slapping a hand down on your thigh to gain your attention back from Sero.

"I'm not alone?" you peeled his hand from your thigh, dropping it back onto his lap, "I was actually just talk to my friend here abo-"

He put his hand back on your thigh, "I was asking why you had no boyfriend here, you're so pretty."

"I do have one-" you tried to cut in.

"I'll be your boyfriend, names Mason," he smiled weirdly.

Once again, you peeled his hand off your leg, "No thanks."

"Is it cause the name? I'm from America, I'm not lying about my name to sound cool," he hurried out, replacing his hand on your thigh.

"Trust me, I know you're not trying to sound cool," you spoke out disgust, "Now could you please not?" Sero and you shared another look, his asking if he should step in, but you shook your head. You could handle this just fine.

He pondered for a moment, "It's cause you don't know me right? Well, I'm from America. Here to learn about the Japanese heroes-"

"Dude," you cut him off, "I could give less of a fuck, please leave me alone."

"Don't play hard to get," he grabbed onto your leg harder.

Just before Sero jumped in-

"I leave for five fucking minutes," Katsuki spits out.

The guy looked over the back of the couch, "Sorry, did you plan to make a move? I swung first sorry dude, better luck next time."

"No, I fuckin' plan to swing first on the dude that's holding onto my fuckin' girlfriend."

You took the opportunity of the guy being distracted to get his hands off you, and to leave the couch.

"Hey, babe don't leave yet, the guys just being an ass, he'll leave soon," the creep called out to you.

Everyone's attention was on the guy now. Staring at him baffled that he called #2 pro hero an ass right in front of him and his girlfriend. You stepped closer to Sero, prepared for what was about to happen.

"That's it," Katsuki grabbed the hair on the back of the guys head and yanked him down. Couch flipping over with the guy. A quick stomp on the dude stomach had him rolling over in enough pain.

"My couch!" Denki yelped.

"Fuck your couch and fuck your party," Katsuki walked up to you, grabbed your hand and pulled you to leave.

"Gimme a second, I want to say bye," you tugged on his hold when he got to the hallway that lead to the front entrance.

He looked at you baffled, "You just got felt up, they could care less if you said bye right now."

"Kats, I'm fine. I would of handled it if you didn't."

"Fine, say bye," he waved you off, crossing his arms and guarding the exit.

You walked up to where Kirishima, Sero, and Denki were standing watching drunk Mina lecture the creep.

"Hey, I'm heading out," you spoke from behind them, getting their attention.

"That's fine girl, Imma kick his ass more for you," Mina slurred as she jumped to hug you, almost knocking you off your feet. She pulled back from the hug and held onto your shoulders, "You okay?"

"Yeah," you nodded, getting her out of your hold and pushing her into Kirishima, "Make sure she doesn't do something stupid."

"I will, I'll deal with the guy too. What he did was fucking gross," you flinched, it was rare to hear Kirishima curse.

"I bet you will," laughed off. Hugging Sero and thanking Denki for inviting you, all of them double checking if you were okay. It warmed your heart that they were heroes, it was truly the right career. So after confirming that you were fine, you walked back to Katsuki.

"Done?"

"Yep," you put your shoes back on and left the apartment together.

Once in his car, Katsuki turned to you. "You sure you're okay? I'll go put the guy in fucking jail."

You laughed, "I'm fine, Kirishima has it handled."

"You sure?"

"It's not the worst thing a guy has said to me," you shrugged, "Can we get some fast food?"

"The fuck else has a guy said to you?"

"Nothing important Kats, can we drop it? I'm fine."

He eyed you warily, trying to find the correct way to go about this. He sighed and gave in, "What fast food?"

"I don't know, I want a shake."

---

The two of you got the food and cozied on your couch, digging in once you had a random Netflix movie playing. With half of your attention on the movie, and half on the situation, you decided to bring it up. "Is it weird that what the guy did doesn't bug me much?"

Katsuki glance your way, "No? Everyone has different reactions to everything."

"The main thing that bugs me is that people can't tell we are dating, like ever," you said honestly. "Like the dude didn't buy I had a boyfriend in general."

He hummed in reply.

"Our own friends forget half the time, like I wish they knew we were together, and took my word for it," you sighed.

"I know how you feel," Katsuki looked down at his hands, that held his half eaten burger.

"Even you feel that way?" you grabbed a couple fries to eat.

He looked at you, "The other night with that Nana girl, just wished it was more obvious."

"We can't blame them though, it's not like we act like a traditional couple," you shrugged and took a sip of your shake.

"Sorry," shame filled his voice.

You turned to him with you're full attention, "Why are you sorry? You haven't done anything?

"That's the issue," he crossed his arms," I don't do anything, I fucking brush you off me," he dropped his arms again. resting them on his knees and putting his face in his hands.

"Hey," you reached for his shoulder. Stopping when he flinched away from you, "Sorry," you mumbled. Forgetting he hates being sneaked up on or touched when he isn't paying attention.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about, I don't do anything but pull away from you. And you're honestly telling me you're fucking happy in this relationship?" Katsuki looked at you. Getting up to pace when you just stared at him, confused by his outburst.

"Are you not?" you asked, watching him pace the room.

He paused, "Why wouldn't I be? You give me everything I need. I don't even fucking acknowledge your primary love language while you hit every goal of mine."

"Kats, what I said to the girls the other night is the truth, I'm okay with it. The things you need are just as important, and if that's to not touch, that's fine."

"Fucking bullshit-"

"Katsuki," you said his name sharply, "I mean it."

"I don't know how-"

"That doesn't matter, you're worried I'm unhappy and I'm telling you that I am happy. Because I am, now can we please not get into this right now? Tonight already hasn't gone well."

"Fuck, you're right, I'm sorry," he rubbed his hands over his face and went back to his spot of the couch. leaving his food half touched. He opened his arms, "You can lay on me if you want."

"Katsuki, I told you, no physical touch is-"

"That's not what I'm getting at, c'mere," he motioned towards himself. And who were you to refuse, quickly curling up into his side and watching a movie to wash the bad day off you're mind.

-Next Part-

In them m.list of this fic comment if you want to be added into a tag list <3

I'll no longer add people to the taglist if they haven't commented there. It's too much to keep up with all the new part. Hope you understand <3

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 2 - Under My Skin

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: If you're mad at me for getting any lore or myths wrong through this story, consider that Supernatural themselves cannot track their own lore, and I'm doing my goddamn best.

Chapter title from Akaska Sad by Rina Sawayama

Word Count: 15.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean and John take on an odd, difficult case, and you try—and fail—to avoid them. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Read on A03!

Lately, Dean’s life was fucking lonely. It was made of long car rides where Dad wouldn’t speak to him, countless cases where he felt almost useless, and restless nights where he’d get up to use the bathroom, look at the couch, and feel a little piece of him die again when Sam wasn’t there.

Every town looked the same. Every girl did too. He didn’t try to talk to them—he never had—but there was still something in him that was so furiously lonely, he was burning through chicks night by night in a desperate plea that they’d offer him something. Sometimes they’d talk to him, and that would become enough. He was never really all that interested—they all had the same voice and same words and same boring, apple pie lives that Dean would never get to be a part of—but it carried him over until the next one. Until he and Dad got the monster, left town, and nobody there would have to spare Dean a thought for the rest of their lives.

He tried to make them remember. He poured all he had to spare into the sex, and making it good enough that maybe—when each woman was married with kids and some sort of boring office job—they’d still use the memory of him to get off. They might not remember his name, or his voice, or his face, but they’d remember how he made them feel. And that did a little more to curb the loneliness. The pit like feeling of uselessness.

But sometimes he’d strike out, and be forced to wake up on an empty, stiff motel mattress. Dad would already be gone—getting coffee or working there leads or just fucking sick of Dean not being Sam—and it would only be Dean in the whole world. And that wasn’t enough. It couldn’t just be Dean. It’s never supposed to just be Dean. When it’s just him, everything gets too loud and too quiet and so hot, but also massive and empty and cold. Corners are shaper and knives are duller and colors are all muted, because only Dean can see them and he doesn’t deserve to. 

And when that happened, sometimes he’d grab his phone and consider calling Sammy. He’d stare at the number—hidden from Dad with a fake contact, just in case—and allow his thumb to hover over the call button, but never press it. He couldn’t. He’d have no way to get to California, Sam probably wouldn’t want to see him, and Dad would freakin’ kill him for even considering it. Dean couldn’t even say Sam’s damn name without Dad’s jaw ticking and an unsettling tension falling over the room.

So Dean stayed lonely. He worked every case lonely, found every bed lonely, and woke every morning lonely. 

But he wasn’t lonely in his dreams. It didn’t matter why he wasn’t, but he wasn’t. That, at the very least, was something Dean could count on. When he slept, he’d never be lonely, because-

It didn’t matter. They were just dreams, and dreams didn’t mean shit. Even it had been the same person starring in them every night—the same beautiful, twisted salvation to the pit that had formed inside of Dean, that he loathed and craved and couldn’t figure out how to get rid of—for the past year, Dean wasn’t some crystals and tea leaves chick who was going to try and find meaning in his freakin’ dreams.

This lady seemed to be, though. She was dressed like she belonged at Woodstock, there were dreamcatchers and random dried plants all over her house, and she kept trying to offer Dean a palm reading. Telling him his aura was strong. That didn’t fucking mean anything, because that shit wasn’t real, and Dean should know. His whole life was figuring out what things were real, and what was fake.

This magic, witchy bullshit was fake. 

The ghost haunting Woodstock Chick’s house was very real.

“You know,” Woodstock frowned at Dean and Dad from across the table. “I’m a little surprised you’re listening to me.”

Dad shrugged. “Well, ma’am it’s routine to investigate complaints. It ain’t our job to judge, just hear what you’ve got for us. Now, we’ve got the objects flyin’ around-“

“It’s just,” Woodstock let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head slightly. “I’ve been filing these complaints for weeks, and all I’ve gotten is made fun of by my neighbors. Then, suddenly, you’re taking me seriously? Sending three officers to talk to me-“

Dean cleared his throat, shooting Dad a weary look. “Sorry, did you say three?”

“Yeah. You two, plus the one yesterday. Young woman, with the rings and lip gloss. She was gorgeous, good skin and hair, bright aura, just like yours.” she smiled at Dean as she continued. “She kind of looked like a,” Woodstock frowned, tilting her head. “Like a cat.”

Dad scowled. “A cat.”

Woodstock nodded. “You know, just like how he,” she nodded at Dean, and he frowned. “Looks like a puppy. It not about their faces, it’s about their energy-“

“And you’re saying this chick had the energy of a cat?” Dean asked, not allowing himself to dwell on the puppy thing. He had too much shit to worry about already. “Ma’am, we-“

“We’re takin’ your complaints seriously, ma’am.” Dad’s voice was firm over Dean’s, and Dean felt a cringe of shame in his chest. “Now, tell us about the lights, and we’ll let you keep goin’ with your day.”

Woodstock continued, Dad asking more careful, smart questions as Dean sat in silence, and the lady’s problem was pretty obviously a ghost. Kind of a douchebag of a ghost, but just a ghost. The hard part was just gonna be figuring out who it was, because Woodstock was insisting nobody had ever died in this house, that she had no dead relatives, and that she’d never even killed anyone.

That last question did get them kicked out, though.

“We ain’t accusin’ you of anything, ma’am.” Dad remained in the threshold of Woodstock’s door, holding the angry woman’s gaze. “It’s a just part of our report-”

Woodstock let out a dry laugh. “Nice try, officer, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but I do know that’s a lie. If you come back, come back with a warrant, or-“ Woodstock paused, looking between Dean and Dad. “Send Officer Brown. She was nicer, and didn’t ask me stupid questions.”

The door slammed, Dad groaned—running a hand over his face before stomping back to the Impala—and Dean was frozen in place as Woodstock’s words rang a loud, clean, golden bell in his brain. When Dad shouted at him to haul ass he managed to move, but barely. Everything was far away, because things that were supposed to be trapped in dreams were starting to follow Dean into the real world. They weren’t supposed to. Dean had promised himself he’d keep Her trapped down, where he never had to think about her until sleep dragged Her back to the surface of his brain.

And that hadn’t really been working. Sometimes he’d smell fruity perfume on a woman, and She’d flash in front of his eyes. Sometimes he’d have some random girl next to him or over him or under him, and they’d moan, and it would sound like a siren. The worst was when someone would look at him and a tiny, traitorous asshole voice would whisper She’d look at you better. She’d be better. You’re a piece of shit, Dean Winchester, because She’d been the freakin’ best and you left her.

He hadn’t left Her. He’d escaped her. Outsmarted whatever bullshit she’d been trying to pull on him, whatever scam She’d been running. And it didn’t fucking matter that his brain was clinging onto every piece of Her he’d gotten to see that day—that the bells were made of Her beautiful voice saying Brown’s a cop—because she’d probably stopped hunting. Realized it wasn’t the fun little rush She thought it was and crawled back home to her fancy, stupid life. 

But She’d told him she’d been hunting since she was fifteen.

That had probably been a lie too.

It hadn’t sounded like a lie. 

Well, maybe She’d just been an awesome liar. 

Dean needed to snap the hell out of it. He’d tread down this path countless times, the voice—it seemed to live in his chest, a little to the right of his heart—trying to work out what that whole thing had been, and a good reason for Dean to track Her down and ask if She’d felt it too. 

But She’d been playing him, and he never wanted to see Her drop-dead gorgeous face again. It didn’t matter what he’d felt, because Dad was right. It had probably been some sort of trick, made of all those pretty lies and words She’d been using on him. So Dean didn’t mention to Dad that Brown had been one of Her aliases, because he wasn’t supposed to remember anything about Her. Dad was seething in the driver’s seat—grumbling about lone, stupid hunters interfering in their case—but She wasn’t here, probably, so it didn’t matter anyway.

Another three days passed, and they still couldn’t figure out who the ghost was. Everyone Woodstock knew was clean—and claimed she was too—and everyone in this town died of old age like a bunch of freaking suckers, so they had nothing. This ghost couldn’t chill the fuck out, Woodstock had been telling anyone who would listen about how it had started to throw plates at her head—how she didn’t feel safe—so Dad had them on rotating watches. Keeping an eye on the house from the forest in case Woodstock started screaming while the other kept working it, searching for just one goddamn idea of who the ghost could be.

They hadn’t figured out who the other hunter was, either, but Dean was growing more and more certain it might be Her. He could’ve sworn he saw a flash of perfectly styled shiny hair on the street. He was either going batshit crazy, or he’d heard Her voice in a corner store while he was buying aftershave. And a feeling like gravity had reformed in his eyes, bringing his attention to shadows that might be Her and making his every nerve flare when he smelled something sweet. Most of all, he’d been in the motel parking lot a handful of times and felt it. That odd, light feeling that had surrounded him when he’d met Her, making it so easy to breathe he’d been certain he’d been doing it wrong before. That he’d started to do it wrong again, after She’d left. It had felt so good and been so impossibly to duplicate—Dean had really tried to, as well, in body after body after body—but it was back like a fucking asteroid, crashing into him and obliterating everything he’d thought had been right.

But he hadn’t told Dad. To start, Dad would look at him like he was a fucking idiot, and ask if Dean had watched a chick flick while drinking one too many beers. Then Dean would mumble no, and Dad would roll his eyes and tell him to get his shit together, because they had a job to do.

Dean could’ve told Sammy. He would’ve listened, made a little fun of Dean, and then started to ask a bunch of  questions about what made Dean think it was Her. Maybe Sam would have found an explanation about how the vampire baby made men go crazy or something. Maybe She’d been a monster, and Sam would figure out what kind the moment Dean explained it.

But Sam wasn’t here, and Dean didn’t have any real evidence. He hadn’t seen that fancy car She’d been driving, and when he’d very casually asked the front desk of their motel—the only one if town—if anyone with Her name was in a room he’d gotten a no, but she’d probably be in a real hotel. With good water pressure and room service and little shampoo bottles that she didn’t need. 

She hadn’t been in a fancy hotel last year. But that had probably just been another part of the scam.

So he didn’t tell Dad. Dean just took his shifts to watch Woodstock, worked the case, and fucking prayed they’d wrap this up and he could forget the whole thing. Dad would find something soon, they’d gank the ghost, and it would be done. 

Dad had even said he had a new lead, when they’d swapped the watch. Dean had dropped off the car and gotten orders to stay here until Dad got back, to call only if it was an absolute emergency, and to message if he thought of anything new. 

He’d been trying to. Dad was off working the lead, and Dean really wanted to help, but no matter how long leaned against the trees—watching Woodstock’s house and frowning into the air—he couldn’t think of shit. His brain felt numb, because this was freaking boring, and none of it made sense. It was just a ghost, it shouldn’t be this hard. Shit, with another hunter on the case, the asshole should’ve been ash days ago. Maybe it had been Her, and she’d realized they were in town, and She’d left. Been worried they’d try to turn her in for her bullshit, even though She had no way to know they’d figured her out. 

Maybe She hadn’t wanted to see Dean. Which shouldn’t bother him at all, but the thought made his stomach turn and heart split down the center. He didn’t get it. It shouldn’t hurt, because he sure as hell didn’t want to see Her. He was looking everywhere for Her, but he didn’t want to see Her. He didn’t. He didn’t-

He did. He could. That was fucking Her. Walking up the steps of Woodstock’s house with a large bag, knocking on the door and being welcomed in with a warm smile Woodstock hadn’t offered Dad or Dean. 

She looked hot. Dean wasn’t sure it was possible for Her not to—She’d even looked sexy covered in blood—but she’d somehow gotten hotter. She wasn’t wearing that horrible jacket anymore, but well-fitting, casual clothing that She moved so easily in. Clothing that suited Her, that She looked comfortable in, that Dean wanted to touch to see what fabric She liked. It would tell him more about Her, about what she deemed suitable for herself, what she enjoyed, what she wanted. And if She allowed him close enough, maybe Dean could rip it off Her body-

Fuck. It was happening again. Dean had just looked at Her and she’d dragged him under some sort of trance. The feeling had returned in full force, like an inevitable kind of cancer over his brain that Dean didn’t know how to cure. Part of him didn’t even want to cure it—it felt right and natural and filled up that pit with a shifting light that was shaped like Her—but he had to. He was useless like this. Useless to the hunt, useless to himself, useless to Dad. Dad would smack him on the head and tell him to get a goddamn grip, because a girl wasn’t worth falling down for. Dean’s job wasn’t staring at pretty things and trying to make sense of them, it was creating ash and spilling blood. He was a solider, not a prince who was going to save the damsel. 

And She wasn’t a damsel. She was a bitch. The prettiest, funniest, smartest bitch Dean had ever met, who seemed like Cinderella but was really a stepsister. Dean didn’t need Her, and he shouldn’t be sparing Her a single thought at all. He should just text Dad that She was the other hunter, that She seemed tight with Woodstock, and that She’d been in the house for a long time.

A really long time. 

Too long. It had been almost an hour since She’d disappeared off the porch, and unless she was there for a sleepover, she should’ve been out by now. Maybe the ghost had gotten the jump on Her and Woodstock. Maybe Dean had to go in and save Her, not because it was Her, but because that was his job. And maybe She’d thank him, and kiss him because She was so grateful he’d put his grudge aside to save her life, and it would be awesome and She’d taste like sugar and be soft under his hands-

“Dean Winchester.” 

He nearly leapt out of his goddamn skin, spinning around with wide-eyes and clenched fists that couldn’t seem to remember how to fly and land square in Her pretty, mocking face. She was standing barely three feet away, Her arms crossed and brows raised, her bag nowhere in sight.

“Fucking hell, Princess.“ The nickname slipped out of him without thought, because She really did look like royalty. He knew why that was now—easy to look smoking hot and fancy when you had the money for it—but it didn’t change the fact. Her lips were glossy, her eyes seemed to shimmer with that pretty color that washed over his dreams, that causal clothing really did look like it was made to touch Her, and Dean couldn’t believe he was jealous of a fabric-

“What are you doing here.” Her voice still had that haunting, angel-like quality, but it was flat. Bored. Almost dead.

He gave Her a smirk, and he wasn’t sure why it hurt that She barely even blinked back. “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing. What could a bitch like you be doing in a place like this?“

Her eyes narrowed, and Dean could’ve sworn She curled a little into her body. “I asked first.”

Dean shrugged. “I asked louder.”

“I- You know what? I don’t care.” She stood a little taller, her voice somehow growing colder. “Whatever you’re up to, stop. This is my hunt. I got here first, I’m handling it, and you’re only going to slow me down.”

Dean let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Ghosts aren’t really gonna respect dibs, sweetheart.”

Her eyes flashed with something Dean didn’t really understand. “They don’t, but I’m not that worried about it, De. Like I said, I’m handling it.”

He glared at Her, ignoring how something in his chest was humming, trying to get Her to call him De over and over again forever. “Sorry,” he drawled Her name, leaning forward and trying not to think about how she didn’t flinch away. How he could smell that same, fruity perfume and sugar from before. “I guess we’ll just have to let the better hunter win.”

She raised Her chin, holding his gaze. “I’m warning you, Winchester. Leave.“

He chuckled. “I’m good, Princess. Think I’ll pass, but trying to warn me was cute-”

“Listen to me.” She hissed, leaning close enough that Dean could pick out every small bump on Her face, isolate every color in Her eyes. “I’m not asking. Go back to Sam and John, tell them you figured it out and it’s done, and get the fuck out of my way.”

Something brittle snapped in Dean’s spine, his jaw clenching as the words pushed out of him like vomit. “Sam’s not with us. He left.”

He didn’t know why the fuck he’d tell Her that. She wouldn’t care. She seemed to hate Dean as much as he hated Her—probably bitter he’d got the up on Her, didn’t want him to mess with whatever scam she was trying to pull on Woodstock—and She’d met Sam twice. He shouldn’t have told Her that, because Dad hated even talking about it. Hell, Bobby barely knew about it. It was family business, and She wasn’t family, and that perfume had to be some sort of pheromone because it was making Dean a freaking dumbass-

“Is he okay?”

Dean blinked at Her, and her expression wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t empty. She didn’t seem like a statue anymore, and whatever was behind Her eyes looked real. Just as real as it had been last year, like there was a whole universe inside of Her that Dean had wanted to explore. To find out what She was made of, and if it was as similar to heaven as it seemed.

It wasn’t. Dean knew that, in his working brain—rather than his heart that stretched for Her and his dick that ached for Her to be just a little closer—She wasn’t heaven. She was temptation in a beautiful form, determined to make Dean weak and pathetic and soft, everything he couldn’t allow himself to be. But he still told Her the truth. His voice lower and without any venom, his body tensed slightly, his brain spinning as the strange look in Her eyes seemed to glow, dragging the words out of him. 

“He’s fine. Off at college. Decided he didn’t want-“ Dean cut himself off with a small shake of his head. He wouldn’t be that weak or dumb, exposing a gap in his armor she’d use to make him crumble to his knees. “He was done hunting. Wanted a normal life.”

She was just looking at him. Scanning over him carefully, holding one of Her own hands and just fucking staring, like Dean might be an illusion or his words might be a lie, and She was trying to look for evidence of it.

“That sucks.” She finally said, and it sounded so real. Like She might actually give a shit that Dean was lonely. That Sam had left him. “Sorry.”

 “I don’t need your pity, sweetheart-“

“I don’t pity you.” She snapped, Her features growing harsh once more. “I’m saying that fucking sucks, I know you cared about him. I’m apologizing because it’s probably complicated and messy and not all that fun to deal with.”

Dean scowled, something raw snapping along his heartstrings. “I’m doing just fine, Princess. I’ve got my dad, and Sammy’s safe in California. He’s still my brother, and it’s not like he’s fucking dead. So I’m good.”

She raised her brows, an amusement that made Dean’s gut boil written over Her face. “Yeah, you really sound it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch it-“

“Or what.” She hissed, leaning forward until Dean was almost drowning in Her. “You gonna run to John and tell him that the little moroi bitch is bullying you? That you need to hurry up on the hunt, because you can’t stand that I’m going to get this thing all by my fucking self-“

“All by-“ Dean stared at Her. “You’re still hunting alone?”

Her face twisted, her words hushed and furious. “That is none of your fucking business-“

“It is if you’re going to get yourself killed-“ 

She snorted. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t pretend like you give a shit about me-“

“I give a shit if you end up monster chow.” Dean sneered, pretending something wasn’t cracking along his ribs at the certain, settled hatred in Her voice. “The job is saving people, not choosing who. You try and jump in front of that ghost, I’ll stop you-“

“Please,” She scoffed, narrowing her eyes. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”

Dean’s breathing was ragged. His heart was violent in his chest, and his hands were curled at his side, and She was so fucking infuriating. Dean shouldn’t give a shit about Her, but his skin felt like it was being flayed at the thought of Her in danger or pain, and She shouldn’t sound like she was wounded by being the little moroi bitch, because She was, and Dean wanted to grab Her by the neck and slam his lips to Her’s-

“Stay out of my way, Winchester.” She hissed, still so close, and looking so warm and soft, and Dean was so close to figuring out what the hell that fruit was-

She was gone. She leaned back in a rough, sharp movement—like Dean was a magnet and She was only just strong enough to pull herself away—and just walked away. 

He might be stuck here forever—on the edge of the woods outside Woodstock’s haunted house—his body trying to cling to her and his brain trying to erase Her forever. It was something he’d been trying to do for a year, something he’d never managed, and something that was made so much more difficult by the fact that She looked back. That their eyes met one last time, and it was like lightning through his blood.

He would have chased Her in Dad hadn’t called right then. He spent the next two days trying to convince himself he wouldn’t have, but it was a fucking lie. He wasn’t sure what he would have done when he caught Her, but he would’ve chased Her. Rushed after Her and asked why had She lied, why did She look like she wanted to punch Dean when She’d been the one to hurt him, if She had looked back because she could feel it too. Feel the gravity, feel the drug, feel the storm that threatened to consume Dean in Her name. Ask if She dreamt of him, ask if She saw him in shadows, ask if She was a monster and beg her to set him free.

But he hadn’t chased after Her. So it didn’t matter. Dad had picked Dean up—long after She’d been gone, Dean still rooted in place, his head still spinning—and he hadn’t seen Her since, so it didn’t matter. Maybe She’d left. Maybe She’d just skipped town, and Dean would never see her again.

That shouldn’t feel horrible. It should be relieving, the idea that he’d won. That he’d gotten the hunt, gotten Her away from him, gotten a justification for why he hadn’t told Dad he’d seen Her. It would mean that She was gone, and Dean could pretend that had never happened at all. But it still felt like fucking shit, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop it. It ate away at his brain as the days blurred together, and they hit dead end after dead end. She remained at least out of sight, Dean still didn’t tell Dad that She’d ever been in town, and the hauntings just fucking stopped. No more lights, no more temperature drops, no more screaming Woodstock. 

It couldn’t have been Her. There were no graveyard disturbances, She hadn’t entered the house since their conversation, and it wasn’t like the EMF was gone. On the second day of no activity they’d had broken into Woodstock’s house, checked to see if it was gone, and it wasn’t. It had just stopped haunting.

Dad was losing his mind. He was barely speaking to Dean, shooting down all his ideas, and mostly just reading book after book and grumbling that it didn’t make any goddamn sense. Ghosts just didn’t stop, they still didn’t know who the hell the son of a bitch was, and they couldn’t leave until this thing was dealt with.

Dean suggested drinks—the motel room was starting to feel like a cage, they both needed it, and maybe the answer would be one or two bottles deep—and Dad had grunted an agreement. It was a small victory, but a victory all the same. Maybe Dean could find a woman there to distract from this disaster, distract him from Her-

He didn’t need to be distracted from Her. There was nothing to distract from. Dean might be dreaming about Her still—dreams where he did grab Her and kiss her, She fell to her knees and he went right down with Her, and it was fucking awesome—but She wasn’t anywhere real around him, so it didn’t matter. Every shadow on the darkened street was shaped like Her, but shadows weren’t real. That gravity in Dean’s chest was trying pull and pry Dean open so She could take a look, but that was just an emotion, and Dean wasn’t about to be some sort of pussy about his feelings. The whole bar seemed to smell like that strange fucking fruit and sugar, but Dean could just be losing his mind. The woman in the booth looked exactly like Her, and sat with her knees tucked up like she did, and was wearing the same shirt-

Shit.

“Dad, I don’t feel great, maybe we could-“

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. Dad had seen Her. His face was drawn in a scowl, the glare he used during hunts was furrowing at his brow, and there was a glint in his eyes that set everything on edge.

He was fucked. She was going to tell Dad they’d run into each other, Dad would fucking murder him for not mentioning it, and She’d just fuck off and get herself killed with the ghost. Dean didn’t know why that last one felt just as terrifying as Dad’s wrath, but it might actually be worse. Dad wouldn’t actually kill him. He’d get yelled at and probably banned from driving for a month, but Dad would never hurt him. 

Dad would hurt Her. He was already stalking over to Her booth—She hadn’t even looked up, which didn’t increase Dean’s faith in Her lone hunting abilities—with white-knuckled fists that would have probably collided with Her face if she wasn’t a chick. Dean barely ran after him in time for them to reach the booth, to stop at Dad’s side right as he slammed his hand on the table.

She flinched slightly as she looked up, and the air around them became wired and electric.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, girl.” Dad lowered himself down to Her eye level as he spat the words out. “Ain’t no way you’re in town just by fuckin’ coincidence.”

She huffed a dry laugh, holding Dad’s gaze as she answered. “Not a coincidence. Just me, having the worst luck in the world.” Her attention finally turned to Dean, he felt alive, and Her words remained just as flat as before. “Hiya, Deano. You look like shit.” She looked back to Dad, her pretty lips curling into a smirk. “You both look like shit.”

“You think you’re smart-“

She snorted, cutting Dad off with a bored grin. “I am smart. Sit down, you’re drawing attention.”

She waved a loose hand around the bar, and She was right. People were wide eyed, watching them nervously, and they didn’t need that. Attention was bad in this line of business. It was downright dangerous. And Dad knew that, so he gave Dean a curt nod to listen to Her, and slid into the booth once Dean was settled across from Her. 

It was a little freaking insane, how She only got prettier. How in the low, golden light of the bar she seemed to have a halo around Her head. But it wasn’t real. Nothing about Her was real, and Dean would have to remember that. Dad was real, was looking at Her like she’d tried to key the Impala, and Dean needed to figure out where that hatred for Her had gone and bring it back. Convince Her to skip town—because She’d get in the way, not because the idea of Her being thrown across a room by a spirit made him sick—and cover his own ass, because he was still in danger of Her snitching on him. 

But She was hardly looking at him. Her attention was divided between Dad, her own hands, and the neon red, cherry and ice and paper umbrella drink in front of Her-

“Are you drinking a fucking Shirley Temple?” Dean spoke before he could stop himself, and She shot him a glare.

“You got a problem with that, Winchester?”

“Nah,” Dean shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I just didn’t know you were that much a prissy little princess-“

“They’re good drinks, dick.” She snapped. “It’s called having fun. Something you two buttheads,” She gestured between Dean and Dad. “Clearly know nothing about.”

Dean learned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “I know plenty about having fun, sweetheart. Some might call me a master at it.“

She snorted. It was freaking adorable. “Some might call you a manwhore-“

“Watch yourself, girl.” Dad snapped, and Dean’s whole body tightened. Everything was rigid from the fury on Dad’s face—all directed at Her, all sick in Dean’s stomach—and raw from Her words. 

Manwhore. She wasn’t wrong, and he’d been called a lot worse, but it still stung like a freaking hornet along the cavity of his chest. There was no way for Her to know that, unless Dean’s whole face just screamed lonely. Lonely fucking trash to be used up and forgotten. It didn’t. He was so goddamn careful to ensure it didn’t. Even Dad didn’t know the extent of that pit, so it was impossible for Her to, and why did it feel like She’d just punched him in the gut-

“Listen to me,” Dad hissed Her full name, and it was a low threat that snapped Dean back into his body. “Skip town. This is our case, and we don’t need some fancy brat gettin’ in our way.”

She glanced at Dean, and he almost didn’t catch the small frown on Her face. It was fleeting—barely a flash on Her gorgeous features—but strong. Reaching all the way to Her eyes and filling them with an emotion Dean didn’t understand.

But then it was gone. And when She looked back to Dad her face was in bored and taunting once more. 

“I’m hate to break it to you, buddy, but ghosts don’t care about dibs.” Her lips curled into a smirk, and this was it. She was going to rat Dean out, he was dead-

“Lucky for you,” She picked up Her drink and leaned back in her seat. “It’s not a ghost. So maybe if you ask it really nicely, it’ll refuse to be killed by anyone but you.”

Dad scowled. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, girl. This ain’t another moroi thing, this is a fuckin’ ghost-“

“It’s not.” She grinned at them from around Her straw, and shit She had nice lips. They were a little puckered, Dean could still remember how soft they’d been, and they’d probably look even better wrapped around Dean’s-

“Whatever game you’re playin’,” Dad hissed at Her, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. “Cut the shit and say what you mean.”

She hummed, still wearing a bright, mocking grin. “You think it’s a ghost.”

“It is a ghost,” Dean muttered, watching Her carefully. “You’re not stupid, Princess, EMF plus random flying plates equals evil Casper.”

“That’s true.” She dropped Her empty glass on the table, leaning toward with a shrug. “But it’s still not a ghost.”

“You heard Dean, girl, it’s a ghost, plain and goddamn simple.”

“Have you seen it?” 

Dean glanced at Dad, and he’d bet a lot of money that their expressions were identical in pure freaking confusion.

“We don’t have time,” Dad grunted, his voice low and edged. “For fucking riddles. You-“

“It’s not a riddle.” She raised her brows, picking a cherry out of the glass. “Have either of you actually seen your alleged ghost? Did Maggie Rose tell you she saw it?”

Maggie Rose. Woodstock. The woman who would’ve definitely seen the ghost by now.

And who hadn’t mentioned it a single goddamn time.

“I’m guessing you haven’t found remains either.” She hummed, picking the cherry off the stem with Her teeth. “And you’ve been looking for who the ghost could be, but you’re not finding anything. You’ve been looking in the wrong place. Poltergeist’s don’t have to haunt the places where they died, and they often have little to no connection with their victims.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “This thing ain’t nearly violent enough to be a poltergeist-“

“That’s because it’s been getting enough attention so far. Maggie’s been screaming about it, and it’s found that satisfying enough.” She spun the stem between two fingers, looking between Dad And Dean with a triumphant grin. “Poltergeist.”

Dean was pretty sure Dad was going to leap across the table and strangle Her. His jaw was clenched, his body stiff at Dean’s side, and his words—when he finally spoke—were pushed through his teeth. 

“Dean.” He grunted, not looking away from Her. “I have to make a call to your uncle. Deal with her.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean nodded, and Dad slid out of the booth without another word. Leaving Dean.

But not alone.

Dean blinked at Her. Dad was gone, and She hadn’t mentioned that they’d seen each other before. Shit, She hadn’t even mentioned Sam, and his obvious absence. Dad would just chalk that up to Her being a bitch, but Dean was clinging to it. She should’ve said it. She had every reason to. But She fucking hadn’t, and some part of Dean was desperate to know why. To know if it was because the idea of him in trouble made Her feel like her skin was being ripped to shreds. It felt like that for Dean, whenever he was reminded that She hunted alone. Whenever a memory of Her covered in blood flashed through his brain. 

And he could still feel it. Feel the electricity in the air that was so different than before. It was charged and tense, but in a way that made Dean feel like he was breathing. He could feel things that didn’t make sense, but they were right. She was right. Across the table, running Her hands over her calves and watching Dean like he might try to take a bite of Her, She still felt like she could fit against him like another piece. 

“You’re not going to deal with me.”

Dean frowned at Her. She wasn’t meeting his gaze, poking the paper umbrella around the glass. “What?”

“What your dad said,” She muttered. “He told you to deal with me. You won’t.”

“What makes you think that?”

She finally looked at him. Really looked at him, for the first time since last year. On the curb She’d seen him, but not looked at him. Not like before. Not like that. Where Dean felt like She was seeing right into the pit—how empty and fucking pathetically worthless he was—and filling it up with something peaceful and silver and molten in his gut, like a melted star lighting him up from the inside. He wished it was real. Dean wished, more than almost fucking anything, that he didn’t know that this was part of Her scam or game. That She was looking at him like that because he made Her feel stripped and raw too. Because She saw something in him she wanted, and just kept digging for more without fear of him breaking Her.

But he also wished he wasn’t so fucking lonely that he could care about that. That he could get a hold over himself and just deal with Her. That She wasn’t giving him a strangely soft smile, and he wasn’t caving from how it made his heart freaking glow like a night-light. 

“Because,” She said, like it was simple. Like Dean should just know what she meant. “You won’t.”

“I might.” He leaned forward, holding Her eyes on his as he smirked. “You’re putting yourself in danger, Princess. Dealing with you would be the responsible thing to do.”

“Really.” Her voice was dry, disbelieving. “How would you deal with me, Dean Winchester?”

God, She was trying to kill him. She was looking at him like that, and there was a smug smirk on Her full lips, and Dean had spent the last year hating Her but now all he could think about was how the universe that existed in Her eyes, and how he wanted to see every inch of it. Bare skin and brilliant eyes that had been phantoms in is sleep, now real and touchable. He had a million ways he’d like to deal with Her, and all of them started with those blinding fucking eyes. Rolling back in Her head and fluttering under him and sparkling on his. Her voice saying his name like it was more than just a breath, like it was the blood in Her veins-

“I’m afraid that’s top secret, Princess.” Dean dragged himself together to shoot Her a wink, and he could’ve sworn she flushed. “But I’ll tell you if you give me that answer you owe me.”

She gave him a strange look. “We were even.”

Dean shook his head. “You had asked me two questions. I only asked you one.”

There was a small, frowning pout on Her lips, and Dean realized She might be trying to work out if he was lying. He wasn’t. That conversation lived in the corners of his brain all the goddamn time, he couldn’t forget it if he tried. And he had. He’d bet his life that he was right. She’d asked him two questions about Dad and Sam, called him De, and his whole brain had short-circuited. He’d only realized on the drive back, and he’d been planning to use that to try and get Her to do the game again, but-

But She’d been tricking him. A con-woman and spoiled bitch who had been planning to use him. He’d seen the evidence. He knew that’s what was real. That between them, Dean wasn’t the liar.

He should care about that more. He should stand up and leave, or threaten Her to get the hell out of Dad’s way, or at least stop fucking smiling at Her. But She’d nodded, dropping Her knees down to lean closer, and he was drugged on Her voice and smell and face.

And he stayed.

“Fine.” She said, and Dean felt a thrill-like rush through his body. She was so pretty. “Go.”

He didn’t have a question ready. He hadn’t really expected Her to agree. But She had, and now he was staring at Her, trying to find something. Anything at all that didn’t make him look like a gaping dumbass, lost in Her eyes and high on her smell. He should ask everything he’d wanted to scream at Her on the street, and throw in a shout of why the hell didn’t you tell my dad I knew you were here. It didn’t make any goddamn sense that She hadn’t, and Dean needed to know why. That’s what he should ask. He should just freaking ask why.

“Where are you staying?”

Son of a bitch. That wasn’t what he’d meant to ask, now She was staring at him like he was some kind of creep or asshole, and Dean had to figure out how the hell he could justify asking that.

“For the case,” he added quickly, his voice drained of most of the artificial, cocky arrogance he prided himself on. “Ya’ know. In case we need to find you.”

“You won’t.” She said, Her finger running over that scar on her palm. “This is my case-“

“Yeah, and you’ve got it handled.” Dean drawled, raising his brows. “You gonna answer the question?”

She sighed. “Same motel you’re at. Down the road.”

He shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen your car-“

“You remember my car?” 

He felt a little heat rush to his face, only worsened by how there was a little, dancing light in Her eyes that was trying to draw him into Her, as if he was only a moth and she was the freaking sun. And of course he remembered that car. It was Her car. He’d felt something seize in his chest every time he’d seen one like it for the last year. 

“I like cars,” Dean grumbled—hoping She wouldn’t see it for the half-lie it was—and a small smile pulled at her lips. It looked a little too real.

“Like your dad’s.” She nodded, starting to fish ice cubes out of Her glass. “The Impala.”

It was Dean’s turn to grin. “You remember my car?”

She definitely flushed that time. “Yeah,” She mumbled. “It’s memorable. Shut up and answer my question.”

Dean raised his brows, remained silents, and tried to bait Her into saying it again. It worked.

“You’re such a-“ She cut herself off with a sigh and roll of Her eyes. “How would you deal with me.”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Dean drawled Her name, feeling his grin overtake his face, every bit of his confidence returning—stronger than before—as She swallowed under his gaze. “I’d deal with you however you’d like.”

She blinked at him, and he was certain Her voice was higher than before. “I don’t, um, I-“ She glanced down at his lips, Her tongue poking out between her teeth. Dean wanted to bite it. “What?”

“However you tell me to,” he winked, and She looked like he’d shot her. Good. “I’ll deal with you. My question is how?”

“How-“

“How would you like me to deal with you, Princess?” 

Dean was pushing it. Shit, he didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, or why he couldn’t bring himself to sneer at Her, or mock her, or deal with her the way Dad had definitely meant. But he did know that Her eyes were wide and blown out, and Her lips looked soft, and he wanted to know if could get Her to be speechless. To gape at him all needy and dumb, so he could show Her exactly what fire She’d been playing with. That he wouldn’t roll over like a puppy, that whatever spell She’d cast on him—whatever aphrodisiac she’d been using—Dean might not be immune, but he could give better than he got. Maybe he’d get Her to bend enough that She’d admit what she’d been doing last year, and Dean would forgive Her because he didn’t know how not to. Because She was like tattoo on his brain that he didn’t want to get rid of.

Maybe he’d get to keep Her.

Maybe they could start over.

“I…” She trailed off, and Dean wanted to smash his lips to Her slack, open ones and start over. She was still gaping at him with a wide, open expression, and fuck he wanted to start over so bad. Against every bit of willpower and intelligence he had, Dean wanted to give into this strange instinct and start over.

“C’mon.” He drawled Her name, shooting her a wink. “Use some words.”

She glared at him, something hot flashing in Her eyes. “Pass. Ask me a different question.”

Dean scoffed under, dropping his voice to under his breath. “Who’s not fun now-“

“I heard that.”

“Course you did.” He rolled his eyes. “Fine, party pooper. What do you like?” 

She blinked at him. "What do I like?"

"Like you said, sweetheart, I like cars." Dean said, trying to make his words sound casual. Like he wasn't desperate to learn everything about Her that she'd offer. "What's your thing?"

"My thing." She said slowly, still looking at Dean like he was insane. "That I like."

He nodded, watching Her carefully, and she frowned into the air as she continued. 

"I don't know. Books? Movies and music?"

Dean gave Her an amused, flat look. "C'mon, you can gimme more than that-"

"No, I can't." She snapped. She was really hot when she snapped. "Movies and music is my answer, Winchester, deal with it."

Dean drawled Her name. “Everyone likes movies and music-“ 

“That doesn’t make it any less important to me.” She said, narrowing her eyes. “How would you like it if I said everyone drives cars-“ 

Dean scoffed. “They don’t drive them like I do, Princess-“ 

“And you don’t watch movies and listen to music like I do, Deano.” 

He chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright. Point proven.” He titled his head at Her. “What’s your favorite movie?” 

She laughed. A real laugh, and it sounded like music and rain and a soft summer breeze that shot right into Dean’s blood like a drug. “It’s my question, De. But nice try.”

He grinned at Her, clicking his tongue. "Bossy-"

"Shut up." She tilted her head at him, and Dean just grinned. "What's your favorite movie?"

"Untouchables." He said with a shrug. "Your turn."

She just looked at him with a small, teasing grin, and Dean realized she was waiting for him to repeat the question.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, sweetheart. What's your favorite movie?"

Her face split into a wide, full grin, and God, he was fucked. Nothing in the world seemed to matter more than that smile, and the way it made him feel like he was circling the sun, crashing down to Earth in a ball of fire, and turning to steam as She swallowed him in her gravity. He really didn't give a shit if it was real. Maybe Dean could get himself to be bloody and bright enough to match Her, and she'd feel this too. She'd feel this, and stay, and offer an explanation about last year. An explanation that would prove it wasn't all that bad, and that She was just as fucking empty as Dean was, and he'd fill Her up-

Fuck, he couldn't think that. Not right now, when She looked like that—beautiful in a way that might be deadly—and was smiling at him, and he couldn't get a damn grip and just hate Her. He wasn't supposed to be crashing back up into Her. Dad would be so freaking disappointed that Dean was dumb enough to fall for this act again.

But he was. His jeans felt tight, he couldn't stop grinning at Her, and that siren-like voice kept Dean in her orbit, with absolutely no desire to leave.

She had a million favorite movies. And She hadn't been lying. She watched movies differently than Dean did. Differently that anyone did. He'd never heard anyone use so many big art words in a row, followed by about twenty, very creative swears at a speed he could only describe as frantic. Like if She didn't get Dean to understand exactly why Indiana Jones was the perfect adventure movie, why chick flicks had irreplaceable cultural value, and sitcoms could be the best medium of television, the world might end.

And it should be reminding him that they weren't the same. That Dean was trapped in the mud—he'd been born here, he'd die here, and he belonged here—because it was the only place for things like him. Gut covered weapons, made of rust that would crumble to dust before they made it out alive. And She was just visiting. Using the mud to make Her feel alive or important until she could return to a world of people with ivory and marble who all spoke like this. She was using Dean to do the same, maybe more. Maybe worse. Maybe trying to pry him open and steal what little he had inside him. 

But, son of a bitch, She could have it. He'd stay right here with Her for a million freaking years, just as long as She kept smiling and rambling and giggling at Dean's small jokes between Her breathes. Maybe he could take that bite out of Her. Taste sugar and fruit and whatever else he was starting crave. He could take Her flesh and blood and call it even for what She’d done, because She was still so pretty, and Dean felt like he could be valuable under Her bright attention.

He’d repay Her for that bite by offering himself. He'd be that smeared, dulled weapon for Her. He shouldn't be. Dad would kill him. But he wanted to be. He wanted to stay here forever. And when the waitress came over—with plastic tits and syrupy words—he didn't even fully realize until She cleared her throat and jerked her head to the side. Even then he just frowned at Her, a drunken trance of her voice and smile still clouding his attention, because what the hell could possibly be more interesting—more important—than listening to Her talk?

Then the waitress leaned down, almost blocking Her from view, and Dean frowned.

"What?" His voice was irritated, impatient, but he didn't really care. He needed think lady to freaking move, before She somehow vanished like a dream through Dean's fingers, and he was alone again.

"You want anythin' to drink, handsome? The waitress asked, and Dean nodded. He could use a beer—it might help dull the raging wildfire inside him, trying to tear him between his hatred of what he knew She was and the raw, feral instinct to latch onto Her and never let go—and Her glass was almost out of ice cubes. If he got Her another glass, he could keep Her here just a little longer. As long as he could.

"Beer for me," he raised two fingers, pointing between Her and himself. "Virgin Shirley Temple for the lady."

The waitress blinked at him for a second, but got the message. Dean had Her. He didn't need to company of another pretty face, because none of them could be prettier that Her's. Shit, it wasn't even a fair comparison. Leaving this booth for anything—leaving Her for anything—would be like trading a burger for a fucking salad. Insane and pointless.

When the waitress finally moved, She was gaping at him, her words suddenly soft. Almost nervous. 

"You, um-" She shook her head slightly. "Thanks."

Dean shrugged. "Not a big deal, you blew through that fancy girl drink in like a second anyway-"

"No, that's not-" She frowned at him, and Dean realized she was touching that scar again. "You remembered. That I don't drink."

"Oh." Dean stared at Her, his tongue almost glued into his mouth, his brain a little warm and soft from Her almost vulnerable gaze. "Yeah."

They were just staring at each other, and all Dean could manage to do was clear his throat, scratch the back of his neck, and force himself to speak. 

"You, uh," he swallowed, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. "Never mentioned why."

"Why-"

"You don't drink."

"I'm not twenty-one yet, Winchester, I don't think I-" She cut herself off, leaning a little away from Dean with a small frown. He waited, the silence resuming for a long, heavy second that sat and froze in Dean's lungs. She wasn't looking at him anymore, twisting a ring on Her finger, and when She spoke again, her voice had dropped to a mumble. "I want a clear head. It's safer."

"Safer?"

"For our job." She curled a little into herself, like Dean was trying to peel her apart. "I mean, I can't really afford to get drunk. It could end, uh, badly."

Something became sharp over Dean's skin. That wasn't it. It wasn't a lie, but Dean could read it all over Her—he wasn't sure how, but he could—that there was more to it. But that's not why there was a sore prickle rooted in his muscles. 

"Because you hunt alone."

She nodded, bringing Her knees up to her chest, and the ache worsened. 

"You could drink." He muttered, leaning back with a slight slam of his hand on the table. "If you'd hunt with a partner."

She sighed. "I'm not going to hunt with a partner-"

"Why?"

He'd snapped. He hadn't meant to, but the ache moved to his mouth and he needed Her to understand. To get that hunting alone was fucking dangerous, and would get Her killed, and he cared about that so goddamn much for no real reason. He shouldn't care. But the thought of Her covered in blood make his gut twist and his heart burn in his chest, so She needed to get it. Now.

She narrowed her eyes, finally looking at him. "Why what."

"Why won't you hunt with a partner." He grumbled, holding Her gaze. "What would make that so fucking bad, sweetheart?"

"Because, as I've told you all week, I don't need to.” Her words were firm, dropped to a hushed sneer. "Anyone else would get in my way."

"I haven't even seen you since the freaking house," Dean said Her name with a low huff. "How could that be getting in the way-"

"I'd be fucking babysitting." She hissed. "I don't need a bunch of assholes tell me what to do, how to fight, how to kill something, how to-"

"Be safe?" Dean cut Her off with a sneer. "Not act like you're too good for anyone else?"

"I never said that, you asshole." She was starting to hug herself, and Dean felt ill, but he wouldn't be the one to break. "I am not too good, I just refuse to be a little hunter fuck-doll beating bag."

Dean blinked. "What?”

She sighed in flat, unamused disbelief. "Hunter's don't have great track records with women. I mean, be fucking real, dude. It wouldn't be the monster's that kill me."

"You," he shook his head. "That's- There are assholes out there everywhere, that doesn't mean you just roll over and accept death-"

"So what should I do?" She raised Her brows. "Be your partner? Be you and your father's little fucking toy until one of you puts a bullet-"

She cut herself off, and Dean gaped at Her, fire crawling over his veins.

"I-" She swallowed, and Dean wished he didn't give a fuck how She suddenly seemed so small. "I'm-"

"Do you seriously believe," Dean muttered, unsure if the fire in his voice was for himself, Dad, or how She looked like a wounded animal. "That we'd- Shit, are you fucking kidding me-"

"It's- I-"

"Save it," He snapped. "We are not killers or fucking savage trash-"

"That's not-"

"You listen to me, Princess-"

"No! I just-" She sounded panicked. Cornered. "I’m sorry, I didn't mean it like that, it's complicated-"

He scoffed. "Not that complicated, sweetheart, you think I'm just as bad as that shit we hunt-"

"No I don't-"

"You do," he hissed Her name. "Drop the act. And, just so we're clear, I'd never hurt you-"

She laughed, shaking Her head. "You can't be fucking serious. That’s-“ She tensed, her face twisting slightly as she scratched at Her skin. "You don't get to tell me what I should and shouldn't do, Winchester. You don't get to act like you give a fuck if I hunt alone."

Dean's hand curled into a fist. "Nobody should hunt alone, it's, fuck, it's stupid-"

"I am not stupid-"

Dean huffed a dry laugh. "I got that, Princess. But you know what? I think," he leaned forward, letting the words fall out of his mouth before he could think about them. Before he could stop them. "That you're just too much of a crazy bitch to have anyone stick around."

It was silent, and She was just staring at him, her features moving through a million emotions that Dean couldn't understand. He'd won. She looked like he'd taken a knife right to Her heart, and she wasn't fighting back, so he'd won. And he couldn't fucking breathe. He felt sick, and faint, and freaking awful-

"Choke on my dick, Winchester.” She snapped, but there was something weaker in Her voice. Something that told Dean he’d hit on something fragile. That he was a piece of fucking shit that went for the killing blow because he couldn't help it. Because he was the very fucking, lower-than-the-sewers trash She'd just accused him of being-

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to take it back or say they'd both gone too far, and he felt like shit and still wanted—despite literally everything—to start over. To at least ask Her to tell him the truth, to at least tell Her how hating her like this made him feel wrong-

But She was gone. She'd left the booth and stomped out the door before Dean could even make a sound, and he just goddamn sat there. She wouldn't come back, but he was still just sitting there. Dad was probably waiting for him, ready to demand a reason why he'd taken so long, but Dean still just sat there. Shit, they might have a poltergeist to deal with, but Dean wasn't freaking moving.

What finally got him was the waitress, making her way back to the table and saying some snide comment about his girlfriend not appreciating him. Dean didn't even spare the woman a look as he shot up, shoved past her, and marched out into the parking lot to find Dad and get the hell out of here. If Dad asked, Dean would say he'd taken care of it. Not of Her—She'd looked like he'd torn Her to shreds with his teeth—but the situation. She'd probably be gone by morning, not wanting to be anywhere near two mud and gut covered hunters. Near Dean.

Dad was still on the phone when Dean saw the Impala. Sitting in the front seat with a frown, the windows rolled down to combat the flat heat of air, speaking in a low, gruff voice to whoever was on the other end of the line.

"I don't care," he was muttering as Dean approached, his voice carried on the wind. "I can get the asshole no problem, Bobby, the poltergeist ain't my issue."

It was a poltergeist. If Bobby said it was a poltergeist, it was a poltergeist. She'd been right. And as Dean got closer, Dad obviously couldn't see him in the shadows, so he should probably say something to alert Dad that he was here

"Obviously it's the fuckin' girl." Dad snapped, and Dean froze. "Shit, she just shows up again? On another weird fuckin' case, bein' right about what it is, sinkin' her claws into Dean-"

Dad stopped talking—Bobby was probably saying something Dean couldn't hear—and Dean's breathing was shallow. He shouldn't be eavesdropping. Dad would kill him, and he just shouldn't. He trusted Dad, and if this wasn't something Dad wanted to hear, it wasn't something he had to hear. But She hadn't sunken Her claws into him. She'd just scratched him over his brain and scarred him, but Dad couldn't see that. She just haunted him, and drove him mad, and made him want to-

"She's the one Dean's obsessed with."

Dean frowned. He was not obsessed with Her. 

"She's a hunter alright. That moroi case me and the boys worked-" There was a small pause. "Yeah, moroi. Freakin' nasty little vampire baby shits. She-" Dad huffed, and Dean could hear the muffled sound of Bobby's voice. It sounded urgent. 

Then Dad said Her full name into the speaker, and Dean could hear his frown. "You heard of her, Bobby?"

Bobby must have said no—there was no reason for him to know Her—but whatever he did say made Dad's hands grip the wheel with white knuckles.

"The hell you mean you have to go- Bobby-" John groaned, the click of his phone being closed snapping through the air and Dean swallowed. The call was over. Time to pretend he wasn’t a piece of fucking shit that had been invading Dad's privacy.

Dean moved out of the shadows and opened the car door, Dad barely waiting for him to be seated before he started talking.

"We got a poltergeist." He grunted, turning on the engine. "Let's go."

Dean blinked. "Go? Like, now?"

"Damn right, now." Dad shot him a raised brow. "Why, you fuckin' waiting for somethin'-"

"No, sir." Dean shook his head, and Dad nodded, still watching him carefully.

"You take care of the girl?"

"Uh, yeah." Dean hated that the words tasted rotten in his mouth. "She's gone."

Dad nodded. "Remember, son. No pair of tits are worth more-"

"Then family." Dean finished. He'd heard that sentence enough to recite it in his sleep. It didn't matter. She didn't matter. Dean felt like a fucking asshole, but She didn't matter. "I know, Dad."

"Good." Dad muttered, pulling out of the lot. "Let's kill this fuckin' poltergeist and get the hell out of here."

—————————

Bobby doesn't know you're here. He thinks you're in Louisiana still, dealing with the kelpie.

You're not. You're in Illinois. Trying something on a poltergeist.

You'll tell him when you get home. Explain that you'd just wanted to test your ghost ritual again, and if you'd told that him before, he would've snapped that testing that stuff was dangerous, and the thing had already worked once, so there wasn't any goddamn reason to risk it again. 

And he was right. The rituals and spell and curses that had started to come to you in the dead of night—when it was just you and the White in the world, and the darkness became consuming—weren’t exactly safe to test on hunts. Not because of the rituals themselves, but because of the exposure. The danger of using magic where you could be discovered by another hunter. But you had to test them. You didn't know where they were coming from or how to stop them, but they always worked. You wake up and know that, if you said all these words and mixed these things together, you could make a veil between dead spirits and the living. A barrier that didn't kill the ghosts, but stopped them. A blockade that could be torn down, but bought you plenty of time and minimized any casualties. 

It was why Bobby wasn't stopping you. He insisted you stay far away from other hunters, and update him after every test to make sure you hadn't blown yourself up or worse, but he wasn't trying to hold you back. Convince you to just drown in the darkness until it eroded the White, and you lost control forever. But he still wouldn't be happy about the second test. And you could've justified it by pointing out that this was actually a poltergeist, so you'd had to figure out how to alter the ritual, but then you saw the Winchester's Impala in your motel parking lot. 

Which meant this it would be stupid to keep working the case. It meant you were in danger, because they were probably hunting the same poltergeist you were trying to do magical experiments on. 

Worse, it meant Dean was here.

And you're going to fucking scream.

He'd never left your brain. You haven't stopped moving, you never stop moving, but Dean has followed you everywhere. Into your head every second, still circling around his handsome face and pretty face and beautiful smile. Into the darkness when it started to slip out of you, fueled by an echo of unworthy and sick, edged with the phantom feeling of his body at your side.

He was in countless, lonely motel beds where you looked to the side and expected him to be there. He was on the curb when you were covered in grime and monster guts, and you looked up to find the shadow above you only a shadow. He was in your bag, because you’d never thrown out his shirt. It didn’t smell like him anymore—he was there too, in wet grass in the spring and the spice of cheap aftershave on a man in a bar—but you were still holding onto it. Holding onto Dean.

You weren’t sure what could make you let go. You’d even started to fish for information about him from Bobby with careful questions about the Winchesters. What they usually hunted, so you could avoid them. What Sam and Dean were like, in case you ever ran into them, so you’d know what to expect. If they always hunted with John, or if they ever went off on their own. Bobby would always give you a strange look and a short answer—whatever they ran into, they’re good boys in the same shit situation as every other hunter, and John never let them hunt alone—but you’d pieced more from what you already knew. Sam hated hunting, and Dean loved it, their relationship with John was complicated—you could’ve gotten that one yourself—and Dean was what Bobby called eager with women.

He slept around. He’d probably been trying to sleep with you, and given up when he realized that you weren’t easy. That you were tired and rough and so, so angry all the time. That you might be beautiful, but the same was a thunderstorm is beautiful. The same was a statue is beautiful.

Something you shouldn’t touch. Something you shouldn’t try to hold, even for a night.

Something that wasn’t worth Dean Winchester time. Something he’d seen, turned away from, and then left you. He’d left you because he’d seen you for what you were, and he hadn’t wanted anything from you in the first place, but he’d still fucking left you. And you hated him for that, because you’d been ready to offer him whatever he wanted. Against all reason and logic and caution, you’d wanted him more than you could describe. 

And against all your willpower, you couldn’t let go of him. Because you’d seen the Impala in the parking lot—the one you’d been searching for on every highway, in every small town and city—and the force of Dean is here had hit you like a hurricane. Everything had felt so fucking big, and you couldn’t hold onto the darkness in your body as your breathing became heavy and you attempted to keep yourself together. Nails digging into your skin as the wind howled through your room, the peeled paint on the walls cowering from you as your attention became vigilant, everything crashing back down into you when you bit down, and a lightbulb shattered across the room.

You’d avoided him. You’d hidden in crowds on the street when you saw him, and ducked behind shelves when he entered the corner store. You’d kept your shades angled so you could see the parking lot, and pushed down the way the White howled at the sight of him coming and going. You’d planned to handle the hunt in silence, and then just go.

The house owner was a sweet hippy who agreed to let you do the ritual when you told her she had the aura of a swan. You’d give it a few days after to ensure the barrier could hold, get rid of the poltergeist for good, and then leave without the Winchester’s ever even knowing you were here.

Then you’d seen Dean in the woods, and you couldn’t resist talking to him. He’d seen you anyway, so there wasn’t anything left to lose. And he’d still been so pretty, and your knees still felt weak, and the White still whined for him no matter how much of a dick he was being. It was insufferable, you’d left with darkness eating at your blood, and you’d looked back. You couldn’t stop looking back. Every time you had run on the street you’d turned around to see if he was frowning in adorable confusion around the busy sidewalks. When he was in the parking lot you’d checked to see if he was still pretty, even though you knew he would be. Of course he would be. He was an asshole like that. 

You’d looked back outside of the poltergeist house because you had to. You had to see if he was real or just another flickering dream, and you couldn’t resist the desire to see him—staring at you on the street and suffocating you with that same smell from last year—one more time. It’s why you hadn’t skipped town right after. It’s why you’d stayed so long in the bar. You just fucking had to. You could fight against his winks and grins and smooth words, making you smile when you hated him, making you laugh when you should’ve been running. It had seemed—for whatever strange reason—that Dean hadn’t told John you were here, but he definitely knew now, and you were certainly in very real danger. But Dean had carved you open again, and you’d stayed in that stupid booth until he’d given you a good reason to leave.

And it was a great reason. It would’ve been kinder to shoot you in the temple than say that. At least he would’ve killed you, and you wouldn’t have had to wage this war in your body. The war between your hatred of him, and how you want to go back. He’s such a fucking asshole, but you still want to turn around and go back. To ask him why he left, why he cares, how he seems to know your every raw nerve and if he's still feels this too. If he felt it before. 

You don't really want to know that last one. Because if he felt it before, that means he felt it and left. That he can feel it now and hates you for it. 

Because he does hate you. If it wasn't in his words, it was all over his face. How he’d laughed like you were just a silly little girl. How he’d looked right into you like he could see the darkness. How he’d grinned at you like a wolf, like he wanted to rip you apart. He sees what you are, and he despises it.

And you were fine with that. You despise him. He was an arrogant, smug, dickish, charming, controlling, annoying, handsome, caring, selfish, funny, sexy, adorable, funny, strong, sweet-

God fucking damnit. He was an asshole. He'd left you, he hated you, and you wouldn't fall for the cowboy-in-shining-leather thing again. You were going to take care of this poltergeist now, and leave town right after. Dean and John could be here another week trying to figure out if it was even dead for all you cared. You just had to go. Before this all got worse.

You've barely parked when your phone starts to buzz. You don’t look at the contact when you decline it—you don’t have the time—but then it just starts buzzing again. 

It’s Bobby.

You still don’t answer. If he’s in danger, he wouldn’t call you. If it’s an urgent question, he can handle it himself. If it’s a non-urgent question, he can wait for this to be done. If he was dying-

You almost pick up the phone. The thought flashes through your brain, a small stone grows in your throat, and you reach for the phone with a frantic movement. You’re about the dial him back when the first message comes through, and you sigh in relief.

You better call me back now, kid, we need to talk.

Not dying. Can be dealt with later. You’ll call him back when you’re done, because this will be quick, and you’ll get through it. You always do.

You’d convinced the homeowner to get out of town for a few days, to stay with her sister until you were done. The purification ritual was in the trunk of your latest stolen car—you’d meddled with the ingredients, giving it an extra kick—and this would be quick. 

There’s no blur as you start. You’re alert for your barrier to break—keeping in iron poker in your hands—but there’s no disturbance, so you just go through the motions. The basement is finished in five minutes, the first floor in ten, and you’ve only got two bags left when glass shatters downstairs, and the blur starts to cloud your head. Something cracked in the ritual, maybe because you’re almost done, but now you have to fight-

“Dean, you got the guns?”

You freeze as John Winchester’s voice sounds from down the stairs, and everything becomes too sharp. There’s a creaking sound from downstairs, the darkness is starting to spread up your spine and over the white popcorn ceilings of the house, you’re fucked, and the White is reaching out to-

“I got it, Dad, but I thought poltergeists-“

“Son of a bitch wants attention.” John snaps over Dean, and you might crush the bag in your hand. “We’re gonna give him some until he shows himself, and we find the asshole’s remains and burn them.”

This is bad. That’s not how poltergeists work at all—you’re a little shocked John thinks it is—and they’re going to fuck up your barrier, and you can’t tell them they’ll fuck up the barrier or John will turn one of those guns on you-

“Is the hippy chick home?” Dean asks, snapping you out of your panic as the White howls inside you. “I can deal with her while you take care of-“

“No need. Car ain’t in the driveway.” There’s a pause, and you can hear them shuffling downstairs. “Plus I know how you deal with the vics, Dean. We don’t need that right now.”

Something’s bitter in your mouth that has no right to be there, and no right to vanish at Dean’s grumbled words.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Dad-“

“I don’t care how you meant it. Focus up so we can get this shit done.”

There’s another few muffled sounds, an unmistakable click of a gun, and you’re moving before you think better of it. 

“Stop!” You’re almost shrieking—dropping the poker and shoving your last two bags into your pockets as you run down the stairs—and barely stop your body from colliding with Dean’s in the entrance hallway.

“What the fuckin’ hell are you doin’?!“ John’s roar makes you flinch, his rifle aimed right at your head. You take a stumbling step back as darkness wraps around your hands and your heart kicks into a rapid, frantic rhythm you can hear in your ears. John can see you. He’s going to kill you. You going to die, and they’ll burn your body, and shit you never called Bobby but the darkness is going to burst out of you and John’s going to kill you-

A hand steadies you by your shoulders, grass and spice and leather ease the darkness down, and you wish you didn’t relax into the warmth of behind you, that the pretty, rolling voice a little over your head didn’t soothe your panic.

“Woah, Dad, it’s just-“ Dean says your name, and John scoffs, not lowering his gun.

“I know who it is, Dean, that ain’t my issue.” John’s eyes narrow on you, hatred painted all over his face. It’s worse than Dean’s somehow. There’s something pure about it, like John didn’t have to look into you to see what an atrocity you are. He just senses it. “Why the fuck are you here, girl.”

“I’m hunting my poltergeist.” You snap, forcing your voice to sound angry and not terrified, your face to be a mask of annoyed and not painted in dread. “What possible other reason could I have.”

“Could be looking at real estate.” Dean mumbles with a shrug, and he’s still touching you. You can’t help but glance back as you jerk away from him, and the expression on his face is unreadable. Guarded but cautious, like when he’d watched you and John snap at each other in the booth. Like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off. “I hear this is a good neighborhood.”

You give him a flat look. “This house is haunted.”

He shoots you a wink, clearly fueled by you not just ignoring him. “Won’t once we’re done with it-“

“Once I’m done with it.” You narrow your eyes at him. “This is my hunt, Winchester. I was here first.”

“Poltergeists don’t respect dibs, Princess.” Dean snaps. “And you don’t even have a freakin’ gun.”

“I don’t need a gun-“

Dean lets out a dry, shouting laugh. “I take back what I said earlier, you are stupid if you’re about to try and kill this thing without a freakin’ gun-“

“You’re stupid if you think I’m just going to let you fuck this up-“

“We’re saving your ass from getting whacked by a poltergeist, some gratitude might be nice-“

“You’re getting in my fucking way-“

“You’re-“

“Enough!” John’s shouts over Dean, and you both freeze. You hadn’t realized you’d been shouting, or how close Dean had gotten. You can see his every freckle, every shade of green in his eyes, how his lips are slightly parted so his breath fans over your face-

“I don’t want you two talkin’ unless it’s telling me where the poltergeist is.” John hisses, and you force your body away from Dean’s. “We’re killin’ this thing right fuckin’ now, got it?”

Dean nods, bowing his head slightly, and you just glare at John. All you have to do is get upstairs place the last two bags, and you’ll be fine. If agreeing to work with them does that, you’ll do it.

You split up. John goes to the basement, Dean takes the first floor, you rush upstairs. The bags are in your pants, and you’re so close, but John and Dean are waving around guns and talking about ganking the poltergeist, and it can definitely fucking hear them. The paintings shake on the walls as the temperature drops, and it’s trying break through. You get the first bag just as the lights begin to flicker, and you sprint down the hall to the last wall. Just one more and it will be done, and you can leave-

“Fuck-“ Dean shouts right as you reach the spot, and your blood goes cold. “Dad! It’s on me- shit-“ 

Then he roars your name, and you’re moving before you can think. Grabbing the poker, half-falling down the stairs, and reaching Dean just as his gun is yanked out of his hands by nothing at all. His eyes widen as they meet your, his mouth opens to say something and-

“Dean!” You can barely hear your own scream as he flies across the room, his head knocking on the counter. 

His body slumps, and you’re not in a blur. This is a rush. Everything is wide around you, there’s an airy chill in your lungs, and the darkness is pouring out of you as the lights grow too bright and the windows bang on a windless night. The darkness starts to ignite over your hands—a phantom flame you’re not sure is real, burning and stinging at your skin—you whirl around, and, on instinct alone, shove the air. There’s a high, shrill, horrible sound of pain as the air goes up in flames, and then it all comes down. The room grows warm, the house goes quiet, and the darkness returns to you without a fight.

And Dean’s still slumped on the floor. 

“Dean!” You fall to your knees at his side—rolling his face to the side, grabbing his hand to take a pulse—and only notice John as he silently joins you, taking Dean’s face between his hands with a set jaw. 

You don’t know how long he’s been there.

You don’t know what he saw.

“What the hell-“

“Poltergeist.” You whisper, watching John examine Dean’s head. “Threw him across the room.”

John scowls. “You just let this shit happen-“

“I didn’t- I got the asshole.” You hiss, clawing at the skin near your nail until it stings. “House purification ritual, which I was already doing before! Nothing would’ve happened at all if you didn’t jump in with fucking guns-“

“Just-“ John raises his hand, and you fall silent. You’re still holding Dean’s hand. You don’t let it go.

“He’s okay.” You mumble, mostly for yourself. Mostly to fight the bile in your throat at the sight of him, sweaty and pale, not bleeding but moving, eyes fluttering but not waking up. “He’s gonna be okay.”

You almost miss John’s strange look. You almost forget about the axe over your head, and how he might know what you are. All you can really think about is Dean. You barely hear John order you to stay here while he grabs the car, and it feels a little pointless. You would’ve stayed here no matter what. 

He’s groaning. Dean keeping making low noises of pain, and his hand keeps flexing in yours, but he’s breathing. Shallow breathes, but he’s breathing. And he’ll be okay. He has to be okay. It’s just a Poltergeist, not even a strong one, and he’s young and strong, and he’ll be okay. Your breathing has become a little uneven, and you can feel the White rioting and bellowing inside you as he shudders slightly, but he’ll be okay. You won’t let him not be. He feels clammy when you press your hand to his brow—your fingers brush his hair, and it’s soft, and that’s not important but you’re going to think about it for a million years—so you shrug off your own jacket and toss it over his body. He’s still holding onto you, so you don’t drop his hand. When John gets back you loop his arm over your shoulders, your own arm around his waist, and haul his dead-weight up until John grabs the other side. 

When you reach the Impala—you working in silence with John to slide him carefully into the backseat—he clings to you. John drops his arm and it shoots over your stomach, his head falling onto your chest as he makes another low grunt of pain. And there’s such little color on his face, and he’s still shuddering when you move the jacket back over him, and you could fix this. You’ve never healed anyone before, but you could. You can feel the darkness moving into the tips of your fingers and over your heart as Dean takes a stuttered breath, and you have to-

“Get out.”

You look up and find that John has walked around the car and opened your door. “I-“

“Leave.” John grunts, not even sparing you glance as he speaks. “Now.”

You shake your head, and it’s a weak movement. There’s that feral instinct of survive still in your bones, but it’s not bigger than Dean. Nothing’s bigger than Dean. “No, I-“

“I ain’t askin’-“

“It’s not up to you-“

“My car. My rules.” John’s words sound pushed through his teeth. “Out.”

“I,” you swallow, glancing back down to Dean. “I could help-“

“You’ve done enough.“

“I could fix him!” You shout, and your sounds pleading. You feel like you’re pleading. It’s pathetic, and you don’t care because Dean makes a low, strained noise and you feel like you’re choking. “I could-“

“Listen to me very fuckin’ closely.” John sneers your full name, finally lowering down to meet your gaze. “The out of my fuckin’ car, and stay the hell away from my son. I don’t need you fixin’ him, because he’s not broken, and if he was the last thing he needs is some high horse brat making him weak.”

There’s a high ringing in your ears, and your voice is soft. “I-“

“He’d be fine if you hadn’t interfered with our work.” John snaps. “You’re out of your little pond, girl, and if I ever see you distractin’ Dean or fuckin’ with his brain again, I’ll put a bullet in yours. Got it?”

You nod, something vast and numb spreading over your chest as you carefully climb out of the car—making sure not to disturb Dean, or make his head worse—and leave John without another word. But you look back. You can’t help yourself from turning and watching the Impala pull away, from digging your nails into your skin as you cling to yourself until their headlights vanish around a corner. 

You’re already packed. Everything’s in your car—clothing, tools, books, makeup and hygiene products, first aid kit—and you could just drive out of town, but you don’t. You toss the last purification ritual bag into the truck, sit behind the wheel, just stare into the darkness.

You need to call Bobby. You need to go. John wouldn’t kill you with an injured Dean to care for, but he’d seen. He had to have seen. And not leaving now would be a death sentence. 

But you just sit in the car. Sit in the cancerous darkness that’s alight in your body, the image of Dean’s pained features burned into your eyes, flashing in front of you whenever you blink. All that boiling hatred for Dean is gone. Evaporated into thin air, leaving you ill and pained and empty. John was right. You hadn’t been fast enough, and Dean got hurt. Your barrier against the poltergeist made it violent, and Dean got hurt. You’re the sick one. It’s why he left to begin with. 

He was better for it. He didn’t need you—no one needed you—and John’s threat hadn’t been empty, so you need to drive away and never look back.

And yet you end up in the motel parking lot. Hunched in your seat as you wait for just a little proof that Dean’s okay. That you hadn’t held him and shattered him, like he’d shattered you. You’re there until the sun breaks the sky, until it’s beating over your head and you have to crack the windows. 

You’re there when your phone starts to ring, and you realize you’d forgotten to call Bobby.

You’ve barely picked up when he starts shouting, and you flinch away from the speaker. 

He uses your full name. First, middle, and Singer. He only uses your full name when he’s proud of you, or furious. And this feels more like the latter. You’re in trouble.

“You wanna tell me,” he hisses. “Why John fuckin’ Winchester knows who you are?”

“I, uh-” You swallow, twisting a ring with your thumb. “I don’t-“

“And I ain’t gonna buy your bullshit, kid, that shit doesn’t work on me.”

You sigh. “Bobby, look-“

“No, you look. I didn’t teach you to be a goddamn idjit dumbass,” he snaps your name, and you curl a little further into your seat. “You know what he’d do to ya’. Shit, what are you plannin’ on doin’ if you have a slip? If he sees that hoodoo shit happen?”

“Um, he might have already seen it.”

There’s silence on the other end for a long second, then a low, “What.”

“We just finished a poltergeist case.” You mumble, hoping he’s too angry to catch onto the why are you on a poltergeist case part. “And it attacked Dean. And I killed it.”

Bobby says your name slowly. “How the hell did ya’ kill a-“

“With my hands. I just, um, burned it.” You take a long breath. “And I think John saw.”

“And he just let ya’ off the fuckin’ hook-“

“Dean got hurt.” You whisper, and the words sting your tongue. “He was focused on that.”

“Balls.” Bobby mutters, and you can picture the frown on his face. “Well, you’re outta there now, we can-“

“No.” You sigh. “I can’t go, I have to-“ You cut yourself off, because it sounds stupid in your head. You do not have to make sure Dean’s okay. He hates you, everything logical in your brain says that you should be remembering how to hate him any time soon, and he’s not yours tocare about. John made that clear with his threat. Dean made it clear by leaving. But you’re still in the parking lot. And you still have to make sure Dean’s okay.

Bobby says your name through the phone, his voice slow. “You gonna tell me what happened last year. On that moroi hunt.”

“I ran into the Winchesters-“

“I ain’t slow, kid, I worked that part out. What happened that made you call me and flop around the house like a widowed fish for a week.”

You bring your knees up to your chest, shaking your head. “It’s… I can’t-“

“What if I ask if that was Dean’s shirt.” Bobby grunts. “That you were wearin’.”

“Yeah.” You drop your head back on the seat, letting out a heavy exhale. “It-“ 

You freeze, watching Dean finally step outside like he’s been summoned. He’s walking slowly, but walking, and he seems really okay, and he’s looking around the parking lot with a frown-‘

Shit.

You drop down in your seat, out of the view of the parking lot, and pray he didn’t see you.

“Bobby, I gotta-“

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, we still got some shit to sort out-“

“I’ll come right home.” You keep your voice hushed, in case it could carry on the wind. “And you can yell at me there.”

Bobby sighs. “I wasn’t gonna yell-“

“Yeah you were-“

“No-“

“Lying is a sin, Bobby.” You smile, carefully pulling the car keys out of your jacket. “You’re not a very good role model-“

“Well, I’m gonna fuckin’ yell at ‘ya now!” He snaps, but you can hear the slight amusement in his voice. “Get home quick, and we’ll deal with this. John don’t know you’re with me, and unless Dean needs a week after your hunt-“

“I think he’s fine.” You mumble, craning your head up to see Dean gone from the lot. “I’ll be safe at home.”

“Not if I kill ya’ for pullin’ this shit on an old man.” Bobby grunts, and you grin he falls silent, a long moment of static before- “You okay, kiddo?”

“I’m okay.” You mumble, and you’re not, but you will be. You always are. “And I’m really sorry for-“

“Apologizin’ ain’t gonna help us,” Bobby mutters. “Get home, and keep outta trouble till we sort this.”

You nod. “I will.”

You’ll try. Dean’s still pulling at you in your chest and consuming your head, but you’ll try. If only for Bobby’s sanity, you’ll really try.

You’ll pretend you don’t stay in the lot for a minute longer to watch Dean walk back to his room, that you don’t glance back at the room as you drive away, and you’ll keep yourself away of trouble. 

Away from Dean.

End Note: I’d say this story is about to be John vs Bobby on who’s a better dad, but that would be like making a mouse (John) fight a dragon (Bobby).

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

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[identitty-dickruption]

Is there anything that you see when someone writes addiction/alcohol addiction specifically that really annoys you? As someone trying to write something related rn, having someone who actually knows about it's perspective is really useful :]. Obviously no pressure to answer! Have a nice day <3

oh absolutely yes. I've seen some truly shocking things of late. and also in general very happy to bitch about it for a bit

it may sound obvious but don't. like. blame the entirety of a person's addiction on a single factor or act like "if only they had access to x piece of information, they wouldn't be an addict!". in candy house by Jennifer Egan, one of the characters became an addict because of her dyslexia and her inability to find fictional characters who Truly Understood Her. don't do that.

try not to smooth them out into a singular dimensional person. or even a two dimensional person (where the two dimensions are addiction and trauma or whatever). an addict is a human being. weirdly difficult for people to conceptualise this

NOBODY gets withdrawal right. withdrawal is Not a couple shakes and then you're good. withdrawal can last weeks, if not months, depending on how dependent the person was on the substance and depending on what the substance is

similar to the above, if someone relapses while they're experiencing withdrawal, the withdrawal symptoms do not immediately disappear. if you're throwing your guts up you won't be magically fine the moment you get your substance in you. you will still feel incredibly shit for a good couple hours Minimum

implying that addiction is inherently irrational, or selfish, or stupid. addiction is a response to a set of circumstances that make sense to a person at the time. nobody becomes an addict for shits and giggles. there is always something else going on

likewise, the "high functioning alcoholic" trope has. problems. like I spent an entire year being tipsy non-stop while I was also doing alright in university and whatever. very definition of high-functioning alcoholism I guess. but I think those characters are done Poorly a lot of the time in that the nature of the interpersonal issues they have never feels Quite Right

"I got sober for love" shut the fuck up. "you saved me from myself" go away. "one real human relationship fixed my dependency on substances" no it did not. if love cured all ills, I would be the healthiest guy on the planet. it simply does not work that way <- falling in love makes it easier to love myself and have hope for the future but at the end of the day I'm still a traumatised bitch who struggles with shit

the entire concept of an intervention. addiction does not end with One Grand Event that will make everything better. forcing someone to go to rehab barely ever works. interventions are not one-off events, they are a series of kind and compassionate conversations that occur over a long period of time

sorry this ended up being a lot more than I thought it would. I think if you asked me again tomorrow I would have five to ten more things to bitch about. idk. people get the complexities of addiction wrong A Lot and I've read/seen more bad rep than good rep. but oh well. it's important to me that people are out there trying their best to do better! so thanks for asking

[janeyseymour]

Drunk Actions, Sober Thoughts- part 2

Part 1 @theboreworms @schemmentisbaby @ literally everyone else who bullied me into writing a part 2, i hope this lives up to your expectations.

Summary: Are drunk actions really sober thoughts?

WC: ~2.35k

When Melissa wakes up, she wakes with a groan. Jesus Christ, how much did she have to drink at Janine’s party last night? And who let her drink that- it hits her at a dizzying rate. Barbara was determined to get Sea Barbara to come out, which she succeeded in. And because she and the redhead usually go shot for shot with heavy handed pours, Melissa also got absolutely hammered. 

The second grade teacher turns, and she realizes she’s in her bed. How did she get- Holy shit. She vaguely remembers flirting with you the entire night. Does that mean you brought her home? Did she say anything stupid? Did she try to make any moves on you?

“Never goin’ shot for shot with Barbie again,” Melissa grumbles to herself as she reaches for her nightstand drawer to grab Advil. Of course though, there’s already a glass of water and two pills sitting nicely on top. She downs them and prays to God himself that this hangover will go away quickly.

Once she’s secure in the fact that she isn’t going to get sick standing up, the redhead makes her way out of bed, secures her reading glasses on her head, and heads downstairs. And sitting on the coffee table is your note. Her tired eyes can’t read your note without her glasses, so she pulls them down and sets them on the tip of her nose before scanning what you had written.

“Fuck,” Melissa mumbles to herself. “What the fuck did I do last night?”

As she cooks herself breakfast, memories come back in pieces. She remembers taking shots with Barbara, you coming in, dancing with you- her hand in your back pocket.

Meanwhile, at breakfast, you’re doing everything that you can to try to stay focused and pay attention to what your dad is telling you, but it’s quite difficult.

“What’s got you so distracted today, kiddo?” your father asks. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing, because it’s clearly something.”

You shrug. “Just… had a long night last night.”

“Why would that be?” your dad chuckles. “You knew you had to be up bright and early to be with your old man today.”

“My coworker had a party, and I ended up having to take my other colleague home,” you explain, and you quietly pray he doesn’t pry any further.

  Of course though, he does. “Was it that Melissa character?”

Your cheeks turn red at the memory of last night. “Yeah,” you mumble.

“What happened? Did you tell her how you feel?”

You shake your head. “Of course not. But, uh-” You scratch the back of your head. “She might’ve told me how she feels about me.”

“Oh?” your dad raises his eyebrows as he takes a sip of his coffee. “So what came of that?”

“Well,” you sigh softly. “Nothing yet. I had to leave to come meet you, but I told her I would come back so we could talk about it today.”

“Why the hell are you here with me, kid?” the man across the table asks you. “You should be there with her.”

“I wouldn’t cancel on you, dad,” you roll your eyes. “I haven’t seen you in a while, and I wouldn’t cancel on you.”

“Well, I’m telling you now to get the hell out of here and go to her.”

“We’re in the middle of breakfast.”

“And I’ll see you again next weekend,” your father tells you as he takes a bite of his hash brown. “Go get your girl, kid.”

“Are you being serious right now?”

He nods. “Go. I’ll be waiting for your call to tell me how it went.”

With a heavy breath blown out, you stand, grab your purse, kiss your cheek, and head out of the restaurant.

Your father watches you go before picking up his cell phone and calling your mother. “Jude, I think our girl might finally get her girl.”

“It’s about damn time, Bobby.” 

Your heart is racing by the time you pull back into Melissa’s driveway. You can see her silhouette through the window and take a deep breath for getting out of the car and making your way up to the house.

You have no idea how this is going to go, but you can only hope that it works out in your favor. You knock gently, and she’s at the door about thirty seconds later.

Her hair is up in one of the messiest buns you’ve seen, her glasses are on the tip of her nose, and even though she’s simply in her pajamas, you can’t help but think about how beautiful she looks right now. How waking up next to her this morning was something that you’ve wanted to do for a long time.

“Hey,” she sighs softly as she steps aside to let you in.

“Hey,” you reply just as gently. “How are you feeling this morning?”

She shrugs. “Woke up with a ridiculous hangover. Thank you for the Advil and water this morning.”

“Of course,” you chuckle quietly.

She gestures for you to come inside. “Well, are you going to just stand there, or are you going to come in?”

You make your way into the house on light feet and set your purse down on her couch. “I think we need to talk.”

“Yeah,” Melissa hums. “Listen, about last night… I’m really sorry if I crossed a boundary.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t cross any boundaries,” you promise her. “I just think we need to talk about the things that were said and done last night. How much of it do you remember?”

She relays to you what she remembers- drinking with Barbara, having you near her most of the night once you got there, the dancing… her hand placement.

“You remember more than I thought you would,” you can’t help but giggle. “Especially for how gone you were last night.”

“I’m sure there’s more that I’m not remembering,” the redhead scratches the back of her neck. “Care to fill me in?”

You worry your lip between your teeth for a few seconds before you sigh softly. “Mel, you… you kept telling people I was your girl. When I brought you home, you… you had me pressed up against the wall.”

The redhead’s mouth falls open in shock. “Holy shit.”

“You told me you have feelings for me and what you love about me,” you continue.

“I-” Melissa puts her head in her hands to hide her embarrassment. “I am so sorry.”

You shrug. “I wasn’t mad about it. I just- is that really how you feel about me?” You subconsciously tuck a stray hair behind your ear. You quirk your lips to one side and keep your eyes on the ground. If she didn’t mean what she told you last night, you don’t want Melissa to see the disappointment on your face. That would be beyond embarrassing. What you don’t see is the slight widening of Melissa’s eyes as she remembers something she said last night.

“Hun.” A soft hand cups your cheek and forces you to look into those jade eyes of her own.

“Mel,” you sigh softly. “It’s fine.”

Red hair sways back and forth gently as she shakes her head. “Drunk words and actions are sober thoughts,” she tells you the sentiment she slurred out last night. 

And then her lips are on yours again. And although she had kissed you before previously, you aren’t expecting it this time either. It takes you a few seconds to set your hands on her waist and pull her closer to you. When she pulls away, there’s a warm smile on her face, and her eyes are a softer shade of green than you’ve ever seen. The sparkle in them is as bright as ever.

“I meant what I told you last night,” Melissa tells you quietly. “I just… never thought I’d actually get the girl.”

“I thought I’d never get the girl,” you chuckle softly as you lean in to kiss her again. “Holy shit.”

“Just wait until you can see what else I can do,” the redhead smirks.

You end up spending the day with Melissa. It’s warm, it’s cozy. It’s quite similar to how you would usually spend a day with her outside of school, but there’s more stolen kisses, more hand holding, arms wrapped around your waist as you cook lunch and dinner together.

“So,” you hum out quietly as you sit next to her for dinner today. “I do think we should talk about what… this… is.” You gesture between the two of you.

“I don’t want no fling,” the redhead tells you. “I want you. And if that’s something that you can’t handle, then I think we need to call it-”

You stop her with a kiss. When you pull back you roll your eyes at her. “Melissa Schemmenti, I haven’t even been on a date since I started working at Abbott because the only person I can think about is you. I don’t want a fling either. I want you. I want this.”

She nods with that starry smile of hers. It dims a few seconds later though. “Do you think… think we can just keep this under wraps for a little bit? Like, at least with the work group?”

“You aren’t going to tell Barb?” you chuckle.

Melissa shrugs. “She’ll find out in her own time… probably when I drag you along to one of our brunches over the summer.”

You end up calling your father on the car ride home from your now girlfriend’s house.

“Kid?” your dad picks up. “Hey, I was expecting your call a little earlier than this. Is everything okay?”

“I’m good,” you sigh softly. “Sorry. I was just spending time with my girlfriend.”

You can hear your mother gasp in the background. “Girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend,” you confirm.

You can practically see smile on both of their faces. “Oh, how wonderful.”

“When do we get to meet her?” your mom asks loudly. You can faintly hear your father telling her that she doesn’t need to scream into the phone to be heard.

“I’m sure she’ll make an appearance sooner or later,” you laugh. “We are keeping it quiet for the time being, but… you’ll meet her over the summer.”

Your girlfriend ends up accompanying you to the family fourth of July picnic. As you could’ve guessed, your parents absolutely adore her. She’s the perfect amount of charming while also maintaining that mysterious and sarcastic aura around her. She’s great with your younger cousins, and also their parents. Quite a few of your family members end up pulling you aside to tell you that if you let her go, they’re taking her side in the matter. You just reply with the same thing each time: an eye roll and the statement, “I’m not planning on letting her go.”

The rest of July, you spend a lot of time down at the shore. Melissa and her ex-husband have a time share, and your now girlfriend prefers to use it during July while he would rather have June. It’s convenient the way that all worked itself out. You don’t think you’ve eaten so many curly fries in vinegar before this summer.

July passes by quickly, soaking in the sun, taking in the views (of your girlfriend in her bathing suit), resting and relaxing. And then August creeps up on you, and it’s about time for the two of you to begin thinking about going back to school.

“So we’re still keeping it on the down low?” you ask gently as you crawl into bed the night before professional development starts.

“I think so,” the redhead shrugs. “I like this little bubble that we’re in- don’t you?”

You smile and kiss her warmly. “I do.”

“An’,” your girlfriend shrugs again. “If they find out, they find out. Ain’t like we hiding it like Janine and Gregory.”

“I still can’t believe we saw them at the park last week and they didn’t see us,” you chuckle out.

You somehow manage to make it through the week of professional development, and your kids are starting back up before you know it. You’re down the hall in the classroom next to Gregory’s, and Melissa is right across from Janine. It’s a nice little square that the four of your classrooms make. And it’s funny as hell to both you and your girlfriend how obvious they’re being, and yet they somehow still think they’re so subtle.

You, Barbara, Ava, and Melissa all get pulled to do a talking head for one of the camera men. He asks what you think is going on between Janine and Gregory.

“We all know,” the four of you state at once. The four of you continue on to state that you have no idea how they could even think that they’re hiding their relationship- what dumb asses. The four of you aren’t dumb either, but none of you really care. Well, aside from Ava who thinks that it’s an insult to her intelligence. 

The four of you go to leave the hall from your interview, only for the camera crew to keep Barbara behind. Ava tosses her hair and saunters off while you and your girlfriend just smile at each other before parting ways.

“Are there any other changes that you’ve noticed over the summer?” he asks the kindergarten teacher.

Barb glances around to make sure no one is listening before leaning in just slightly. “Melissa and Y/N? Ooh, they are playing the same game that Gregory and Janine are. And I have a feeling… Gregory and Janine aren’t the only two who got it together that night at the end of the year party. Hmm.” She points to the two of you- you leaning against Melissa’s doorframe.

The camera quickly pans over to the two of you, and you don’t know it… but you and your girlfriend are just as bad as your counterparts. 

TAGS: @schemmentis @thesapphictimelady @marvel210 @itisdoctortoyousir @morgana-larkin @doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou @marvels--slut @sweetcheeksschemmenti @megamultifandomtrashposts @lemz378 @http-sam @melissaschemmentisbranzino @imaginesmultifandoms @sexysapphicshopowner @lilfartbox1 @maybe-a-humanbean @imlike-so-gaydude @a-queen-and-her-throne @notinmyvocab @melanielaufeyson @dvrkhcld @cosmichymns @sasheemo @m1lflov3rrr @ricejucie @temilyrights @emilynissangtr @squinnchy @dopenightmaretyphoon @emeraldoceansstuff @shinyfaerielights  @blkmxrvel @marvelwomenrule @sarahjohannson @casualfoxwitch @babytakeittothehead

[anundyingfidelity]

PRIVATE LESSONS – Sanji x female reader

Summary: on what is supposed to be another of your private cooking lessons, you and Sanji get closer... in a very intimate way.

Pairing: Sanji x female reader.

Word count: 2k.

Warnings: pure fucking, dirty, obscene fingerfucking smut, some plot, heavy hand kink, eye contact, language (also reader thinks herself as a slut at some point), fingering, cum play(?), semi-public, praising, pet names (darling, sweetheart, good girl...).

Notes: this is just full of smut so yeah. Idk, this is my realization that I am a Sanji whore. Enjoy you sinners. And I'm sorry for any errors as English is not my main language. (I'll keep apologizing for this lol).

☕ if you like my writing, support me with a ko-fi !

Probably will make a part 2 to consumate this shit, but I can't promise I will...

GEN MASTERLIST!

Months ago, you started at the Baratie as a waitress but your biggest wish was cooking. And Sanji was there to help you with that. You had absolutely no idea how to start, lucky for you, the blonde chef of the restaurant was aware of your dreams. So you started lessons after your shift.

"Can't deny the wishes of a pretty thing like you," you remembered Sanji saying when you finally asked him to teach you. He winked and put a playful smirk on his lips.

Yes, Sanji was a flirt - but he was a flirt with everyone. So you never took personally his random comments and hits, until you started your cooking classes.

The Baratie was always closed and there was no one but Sanji and you in the kitchen. He had started with the basic stuff, like chopping vegetables and soft meat, and making easy entries and sidedishes.

There was a problem though. This was almost the fourth week you were receiving his lessons and you found out there was something distracting you a lot recently: his hands.

His beautiful, strong hands, that, in a delicate manner, would slice a fish and would convert it in the most delicious dish you ever tasted ever. You became so immersed in his hands doing little to nothing. Even if Sanji wasn't cooking, just fixing his hair or having a cigarrette, everything you could keep your focus on was his beautiful fingers, sometimes wearing pretty rings and jewels around them. And the way the veins on his big hands would appear... Gods, your mind started to wonder a lot of things and it was becoming difficult keeping your focus on the special salad you were preparing that night.

"You're doing great, love," Sanji whispered, staying right behind you and monitoring carefully your chopping like an inspector.

His sweet words were no help for you at all. With a deep breath, you finished with the last eggplant. Sanji immediately came closer and leaned behind your back, and you controled the loud gasp that was about to burst. You felt his strong body pressed against your own, and he suddenly grabbed your hand still holding the knife to start chopping a small piece of the eggplant you just finished. His arms were now sorrounding your figure as he guided softly on how you were supposed to cut it.

"Just make sure to cut them like this, see?"

All you could give was a nod. Fuck, you felt so embarrassed, hypnotized by his hands working on the must mundane activities in the whole world, grabbing firmly the knife between his fingers.

Those thick fingers you fantasized about late at night; not letting you pay attention to the important things Sanji would say to you about cooking. Those fingers you wished to have inside you right now, to lick them, to suck on them until they were completely dry... You rub your thighs together and try to keep your thoughts locked to continue with the lesson.

"Yeah, I see now. Thanks, Sanji," you were surprised you were actually able to talk.

You heard his chuckle behind you before shifting and come by your side, leaving you free of his grip and the warmth of his hands that you were already missing.

"Lets plate then."

Sanji guided you on how to place each ingredient on the bowl, making it harder for you to follow his pace. It took longer than you expected, but you were trying to keep your shit together; your skirt and shirt suddenly felt too tight on your figure and you tried to not rub your thighs, even if you wished for some friction right now.

Once the bowl was done, Sanji took the small plate with the sauce you prepared earlier and gave it a delicate taste, licking the spoon with his tongue.

Why did he look so hot just by doing anything? Was he aware of the effect he had in you lately? Was he teasing you? Or where you just hot and bothered already? No answer you had for any of those questions.

Sanji wrinkled his brows, savoring the sauce with such delicacy, and after a moment or so of thinking he looked at you.

"I think something is missing," he said.

"What? I put everything that was on the recipe for the sauce." In a swift move, you took the spoon from his hand and had a taste yourself. "Seems okay for me."

The chef tsked. "Darling, you need to taste it differently. Deeper, go further than usual."

Sanji dipped his forefinger on the sauce and brought it to your lips. With hesitation, you opened your mouth and licked the sauce from his finger, not only tasting the sauce but savouring the moment. Was he aware of how you looked at his hands? You were not going to question it. Not when you carefully wrapped your soft lips around him, closing your eyes slowly, arousal building up between your legs. His words were no help either, it was like if he was testing the waters and so were you.

You felt Sanji pulling out his finger from your mouth and you let out a soft moan. You wanted to snap yourself. He smirked, he obviously heard your pretty noise.

"Sorry..." you were ashamed but the burning desire was growing and winning over you. What a fucking slut, you thought to yourself. It didn't matter right now. You just had a taste of his fingers.

"So what'd you say?" Sanji interrupted the voice inside your head.

Your dark eyes looked intensely his charming blue ones. "I still think the taste is good."

Sanji leaned down, almost brushing your lips and looking like if he was forcing himself to not press his lips to yours right there and then. Until he did. He captured your lips in a heated and rough kiss, his tongue finding its way into your mouth and tasting the sauce and the sweetness of your plump lips. One of his hands cupped your cheek and the other pulled you closer, forcing your back to press against the counter. Now, you were trapped between his body and the surface.

A moan escaped your throat and Sanji happily swallowed it on the heated make out session you shared. He lifted you up so you were sitting on the empty side of the counter, taking shallow breaths, as he stood between your parted legs, stroking the skin of your thighs without any rush.

"I've noticed you look at my hands so attentively," he mumbled, biting your lower lip softly. You gasped, but he continued. "Why's that?"

His question left you speechless for a moment. Did he really need to ask?

"Sanji, I already licked your finger..."

His palms traced their way under your skirt, and his fingers teased your inner thighs, finding the fabric covering your wet core.

"Well, darling, doesn't that mean we can go further? Deeper?"

"Go ahead then," you mumbled, full of lust. Your skin was aching already for him and this was all you needed to feel complete. Him.

With that, his fingers rubbed you softly over your panties, pressing on the wet patch you were already making. Sanji smirked and he leaned to pay attention to the delicate skin on your neck. His lips pressed soft kisses, leaving a trail of them, until he found the sweet spot that made you melt into his touch, nibbling and sliding his tongue against your neck until he met your collarbone.

"Sanji..." the soft whimper past your lips and you held your breath, eyes closed as he hiked up your uniform skirt and puts aside the panties covering your core from him.

His name falling off your lips made his cock inside his trousers twitch, restraining himself to not fuck you right there in the counter until the only thing that was on your mind was his name and only him. Right now, he decided he would take care of you first. As you deserved it.

"So fucking wet for me, sweetheart," he groaned, forehead pressing against yours.

His fingers found your pussy, spreading your folds softly, coating them with your already dripping juices. Sanji rubbed your clit and he teased your entrance, going at an agonizing rhythm. All you wanted was for him to fuck you with his fingers. Now. You started to grind your hips, needing some more friction, knowing he would get the hint of your despair.

"Please, Sanji," you whined.

Sanji chuckled, and you felt pathetic for begging. You could tell he was enjoying your squirm. His free hand cupped the nape of your neck forcing your dark eyes to look at his own directly.

"Look at me," Sanji ordered. "Do not dare to close your eyes, darling."

You bit your lip and nodded, gripping tightly the edge of the counter.

"Good girl," he whispered with a raspy voice, and with a lustful smile on his lips. "I want to see you come undone."

And with his statement, he eased one digit inside your velvety walls. You moaned louder this time.

"Fuck, you're so ready for me," Sanji growled, noticing how obvious the ache between your thighs was. "You're perfect, darling," he cooed against your lips. His praising caused your walls to clench around him, gaining another dark smile from the blonde man.

The thrusts of his finger started in a delicate pace. Instantly, your eyes clenched, breath hitching, as he filled you up. Sanji gradually increased his pace, curling his finger to reach your deepest spot, and you felt your juices coating your thighs with his moves.

"You look at me, don't forget," Sanji whispered, his other hand now cupping your cheek. You obeyed, opening your eyes for him.

A second finger made its way inside your cunt and he pumped them harder this time. Your legs were spreading wider, moaning against his lips, dying to kiss him one more time. But you tried your hardest to mantain the deep eye contact, realizing where you were right now. In the empty kitchen of the Baratie, with the blonde chef between your legs, fucking you with his pretty fingers. Those he protected and took care of so attentively.

And now, the only place Sanji wanted to have his fingers on was inside of you. You looked flushed, sweaty and simply gorgeous, cyring and whimpering. All for him. Your pussy was throbbing and you let a rather loud and erotic moan.

"Shit, I'm so close," you cried.

"Just come for me, beautiful..."

His lips catching your swollen ones in a heated kiss. He curled up his fingers, thumb rubbing your clit softly. Your hips trying to meet the thrusts of his hand desperately, your smooth walls clenching around his digits. Sanji realized he enjoyed the control and power he had over you as you reached your heavenly climax. He loved it more than he could ever think of.

Your body trembled, and finally, you felt sweet release hitting you, walls spasming in ecstasy around his fingers. Foreheads still touching, eyes locked as he watched you come undone. Exactly like he wanted it to be.

You moaned his name under your breath over and over, filled with pleassure. Sanji felt your thighs closing and your pussy contracting around his digits. He let you catch your breath for a moment, enjoying the heat of your body. For the first time, Sanji then pulled away his forehead, remaining still between your legs, and slowly removing his fingers from your throbbing cunt, eyes looking directly to your wetness.

Still covered with your juices, Sanji used both his hands to spread your folds obscenely to get a better look at your pussyhole. Fuck, you felt so exposed to him, but you couldn't care less. You had a mindblowing orgasm just moments ago.

"Fuck-" you cried.

"So beautiful," he praised. Again, you whimpered and your hips bucked a little.

Sanji pushed a finger slowly inside you, just to gather more of your sweetness, so he could finally have a taste. He licked both fingers he used on you before, humming like he had found the best meal in days.

"So how is it?" you finally asked, teasing him.

"Sweetheart, you're delicious."

You laughed softly, realising you totally forgot about the dish you were preparing that night. "Is this included on your private lessons, Sanji?"

"Only if you want," he leaned down to share a last kiss, this time more gentle than the others.

He already knew your answer.

[bucketbueckers]

I'D RATHER PRETEND

CHAPTER THREE

tags: @angryflowerwitch @avvwritesstufff @melpthatsme @rebecca-woso @bueckersg1rl @l0verl4ne @clouded-whispers @dolliest-thena @katemartinlvr @numberonepartyanth3m @glamourdaya @pbbucks @unadulteratedcyclepaper @paiges-1vur wc: 7.3k notes: same shit, different chapter, masterlist, content warnings, place name backstory stuff. not my favorite chap but lots of paige & tess content so hopefully that makes up for it being boring af 😸 hope we enjoy 🫶

‘Prepare for Take Off! Tess Kennedy and Paige Bueckers Share Sweet Goodbye in Crowded Airport’

Tess Kennedy and Paige Bueckers have been a trending topic ever since Wednesday morning when fans speculated that Bueckers flew out to support Kennedy during her ACL recovery. In that time, Kennedy and Bueckers have shared a total of five pictures to their Instagram stories, each becoming more and more obvious as to who they are spending time with. Kennedy’s most recent story included a photo of her injured leg in the lap of (you guessed it!) a faceless individual, though just a half hour later, both Kennedy and Bueckers were pictured together at the Columbia Metropolitan Airport.

Onlookers said that Bueckers and Kennedy were attached at the hip, all smiles as they navigated the busy airport. Before Bueckers boarded the plane back to Connecticut, she and Kennedy shared a sweet hug before they pulled away. One commenter said that they seemed to share a few words, then Bueckers was off. Another commenter noted a sort of sadness etched on Kennedy’s face as she lingered. She seemed to be deep in thought. While, obviously, we are not in the business of being mind-readers, it is clear that Kennedy had some strong feelings about Bueckers leaving. In the short three days they have been seen together, their bond is evident, and fans are anxiously awaiting their next interaction.

-Penelope Lancaster, Bleacher Report

MAY 6, 2023

Tess is nursing a cup of half-melted ice when the FaceTime call from Paige comes through. It’s nearly startling – she’d been scrolling TikTok for the past hour, trying to distract herself from literally everything. It was difficult at first. Her feed was mostly basketball related things and huge think pieces about her and Paige – people seemed to think that Paige was saving her, which was ridiculous. It took about thirty minutes and countless refreshing, but she’s sure she successfully factory reset her algorithm. She was seventeen parts into a pirated movie and it was nearing the good part when Paige’s contact photo took over her screen.

She accepts the call, forgetting to control her face. “Hey! Woah, who pissed in your Cheerios?”

Paige’s voice flows through her airpods and Tess corrects her scowl, popping another ice cube in her mouth. “You did. I was watching Hidden Figures on TikTok and you interrupted me.”

Paige’s brows furrow dramatically. Tess takes the moment to study her screen, noting the headboard behind Paige and the dim lighting. She’s wearing a pair of glasses that sit low on the bridge of her nose, and judging by the blanket furled around her exposed shoulders, Paige must have just rolled into bed. “My bad, jus’ thought you would wanna talk to your girlfriend or sum’ after a really long plane ride.”

“It was like, four hours,” Tess states, rolling her eyes, though there’s a lingering fondness.

The blonde hums, shifting. “Try four hours and one minute. I sat next to this old guy and he snored the entire time. Like, I had my airpods in and everything and here comes Thomas the fucking train engine and shit. And in case that wasn’t bad enough, none of my teammates could pick me up so I got an Uber home and the driver just kept yapping about how South Carolina destroyed UConn’s last year.” 

Tess nearly chokes on an ice cube as she laughs, much to Paige’s chagrin. “Yeah? How’d that make you feel?”

Paige narrows her eyes at her. “Stop gloating.”

“I’m not!”

Paige waves her hand, kissing her teeth before refocusing. “What’s with the ice cubes?” she asks.

For a moment, Tess considers playing it off. She doesn’t want Paige to think of her any differently if she admits the truth about it. She was slowly getting used to feeling guilt all the time, but she was wholly unprepared for the amount of shame weighing her down. Thinking about the fact she drank herself into an alcohol dependence – not addiction; she is not addicted and that’s a hill she’s willing to die on! – is humiliating. Tess would never lord anyone else’s struggle over their head, but it’s different with her. She’s still not sure how to give herself the same grace and compassion she’d give others. Her Uncle Gio had his fair share of alcohol issues, though he was also a war veteran; Tess understands why he’d turn to drinking, but how could their issues ever compare?

She recalls the promise she made to Kam and Bree, to herself, to Paige before she boarded the plane. She gave Paige her word that she wouldn’t do this alone, so she sinks into her pillows and confesses. “The ice cubes distract me from, you know, wanting to drink. Feels like it kills the urge a little bit – I don’t know. It’s probably fucking up my teeth, but better those than my brain and my liver, right?” She tries to mask the discomfort with a laugh, but it sounds dry coming out of her mouth.

Paige’s eyes soften. “Whatever works, right?” she says. “As long as you ain’t replacin’ it with like, chain smoking?”

Tess rolls her eyes, appreciative of the sentiment, but also Paige’s humorous approach as it takes some of the pressure off. “No chain smoking here,” she vows.

The blonde is silent for a moment. “When’d they start?” she prods. “The urges. If you wanna talk about it.”

Tess contemplates her words for a moment. Paige has given her an out, but at this point, she’s not sure if she wants to use it. “Thursday night. Couldn’t sleep at all. I wanted to drink so bad. So I stayed up, ate ice, and watched TV. I was honestly in the trenches but you know…that happens when you drink for a month straight and then suddenly stop.” When she glances down at her phone screen, Paige’s eyes are laser-focused on her, absorbing every word. Tess cracks a small smile. “My first therapy appointment is on Monday, so I’ll see what my therapist suggests. I’m pretty sure the urges will be here to stay for a couple weeks. Sounds more like a fact of life than anything else, I guess, but if push comes to shove, I’ll get Kam to tie me to the bed so I can’t run away.” Paige smirks and Tess rolls her eyes. “Chill!”

“I wasn’t even gonna say nothin’!” Paige exclaims. Tess shakes her eyes, though she can’t keep the smile off her face. “For what it’s worth, ‘m proud of you for, you know…thuggin’ it out.”

Tess grins. “‘Thugging it out?’” she asks in disbelief.

“I’m being genuine,” Paige says with an eye roll. “I’on know what you’re going through besides the knee. I understand that it’s not easy, though. Everyone thinks I’m like, your knight in shining armor or some bullshit, but you don't need me. Yeah, you got me and I’m here to support you, no matter what. But I’m not saving you or anything. You’re doing that yourself. And I think that’s really cool.”

Tess chuckles, trying to ignore just how touching Paige’s words were. “Don’t get sentimental on me now.” She wipes the tear beading at her waterline, and when she glances down, Paige is smiling at her.

“Alright,” she concedes. “I won’t say anything nice ever again.”

“You?” Tess mocks. “Saying nice things?”

“Fuck off,” Paige says. Her words lack heat and her smile brightens. She runs a hand across her jaw, as if deep in thought. “So, about the airport.” Tess raises a brow in what she hopes is nonchalance, trying to keep her nerves at bay. She’s been trying to push it deep into the recesses of her mind, but it’s clear Paige has other plans. “Was it…okay? Like I didn’t make you uncomfortable or nothin’?”

“Paige,” Tess deadpans, smile widening in amusement, but it does little to hide the flush on her cheeks. “It was a hug.”

Paige scratches the back of her neck. “I mean…it – nevermind, forget it,” she says, her voice trailing off.

“It what?”

Paige shakes her head, pushing her glasses further up her nose. “Nothing, don’t worry,” she says, flashing an easy grin, but something in her expression betrays her image of comfort. “Just checking in with you, s’all. Wanna make sure we’re selling the story, yeah?”

Right. The story. Reminding herself that this was all fake is somehow the only thing on Tess’s mind, but she still manages to forget about it at the worst moments. Trying to mask the foreign feeling burning a hole in her gut, she hums. “I think we’re doing a good job. Have you seen those articles on Bleacher Report?”

Paige nods, the tension on her face dissolving. “A couple, yeah.” Her smile turns smug. “D’you actually look sad when I boarded?”

Tess throws her head back with a heavy sigh. “Paige–”

“C’mon, you don’t gotta hide it,” she says teasingly. “Coulda chased me, begged me to stay, all that cheesy romcom shit.”

“Chase you?” Tess guffaws. “First of all, with whose knee?” Paige snorts, tilting her head as if to say, touche. “Second of all, I don’t chase. I have too much self-respect for that.”

“Yeah?” Paige asks, a laugh bubbling in her throat.

Tess narrows her eyes. “I’m hanging up on you.”

“You won’t.” Tess raises a brow, pressing the red end call button. The silence hardly lasts three seconds before Paige is calling back. Tess answers with a shit-eating grin. “Don’t do that shit to me again,” Paige says, indignant.

“Who’s chasing now?” Tess asks smugly. 

Paige rubs the back of her neck again, having the decency to look caught, but she smiles at Tess regardless. “I’mma let you go take a nap,” she declares. “Let you sleep off this attitude.” Tess shakes her head, but her smile turns fond. “Call me after your appointment tomorrow, okay? Lemme know how it goes…if you feel up to it.”

Tess’s face softens. “Sure.” Tess bites her lip in contemplation. Before she has the chance to chicken out, she clears her throat. “Um, I just wanted to say thank you. For….” Tess’s voice trails off, unable to put to words how much Paige’s support has kept her sane for the past few days.

The lighting in Paige’s room is dim, but Tess can distinctly see the way her smile reaches her eyes, the way she understands what Tess is trying to say. “No need to thank me,” Paige says. “Just focus on getting better.”

Tess flashes one last quiet smile. “I will.” With a final farewell, the line clicks dead, and Tess leans back on her bed, releasing a long sigh.

Fuck.

MAY 8, 2023

Sunday passes by in a blur and Tess finds herself awake at 6am Monday morning. Sunday was chill – with nothing better to do, she spent the day (to no one’s surprise) binging more TV and working through some of Craig’s recommended independent PT exercises. She even treated herself to a solid hour outdoors, which, as popular opinion suggests, actually does wonders for your mental health.

She tries her best to ignore the intrusive thoughts at the back of her mind, urging her to go back on her promises. They become less and less appealing as the hours tick by. Sleep slowly becomes easier, though she’s unsure if she should attribute it to finally taking care of her leg or losing the fog that used to cloud her brain.

Just a week ago, Tess was rolling into bed at dawn, well past drunk and in body shuddering pain. Now, she’s on her sixth day of sobriety and genuine rehabbing, and she holds a different kind of hope for the future that she’d never felt before. There’s a small part of her that’s terrified to feel too positive about the days ahead of her considering it’s hardly been a full week, but she can’t help but feel like things are finally shaping up. And at this point, the only thing standing between her and that positive future she can’t stop thinking about is literally her.

Deciding to put a little extra effort in on Monday morning, she forgoes her usual sweatpants and opts for leggings. Between her brace and her knee, she wasn’t quite ready for jeans, but she figured leggings were at least a step up. Tess fully commits to her skin care, fixes her hair in a simple half-up half-down style, and even sends a sweet ‘good morning’ text to the team group chat – although Tessa, her almost-name twin, immediately responds and tells her to ‘take her ass back to bed.’ Tess sends the middle finger emoji and decides they are never seeing her be kind again.

She eats breakfast with Kamilla and Bree, who wish her luck for PT and her first therapy appointment. When she checks her phone for the time, she finds a couple of messages from Paige, which immediately warms her chest.

Morning Tess 🫶 Sent you a lil gift for PT It’s prolly outside your door Be nice to Craig and your therapist

Confused, although she feels inexplicably touched, she slides on her shoes, grabs her crutches, and with a final goodbye to Kam and Bree, exits their apartment. She’s careful when opening and closing the door so she doesn’t damage whatever Paige has sent. A grin slowly spreads across her face when she sees that it’s a cup of coffee tucked into a Starbucks bag. She snags a quick picture of it before carefully leaning down to pick it up. She sends the photo to Paige, leaning against the wall.

so this is actually insane

Just looking out for the people who gotta deal with you No more cranky Tess

did you order yourself something too since you’re ‘dealing with me’

Yeah lol

The selfie comes quickly – a photo of Paige with her lips wrapped around a straw in a coffee cup. She’s throwing up a peace sign for the camera and her face has an obviously smug expression. Tess can’t help the slight flush she feels, so she opts for reacting to the photo with a thumbs-down emoji.

have i mentioned how insane you are

You could start by saying “Thanks for the coffee” or something like that Wait you can post it on your story I didn’t even think about that

i feel like this was your plan all along

It wasn’t Swear I did it out of the kindness of my heart

somehow you just made it even more unbelievable

Believe what you want I got you coffee Post it on your story, be nice to people, and call me later

so bossy

Learned from the best Talk to you soon 🤩

Tess rolls her eyes, but she can’t keep the stupid ass grin off of her face as she swaps over to Instagram and shares the picture to her story. She ponders the caption for an embarrassing amount of time before writing, ‘845 miles away but still sending shit to my door.’ She hits post and slides her phone back into her pocket before walking to the trainer’s office for her PT.

When she arrives, Craig greets her warmly and they get right into it. He takes her brace off and unwraps her knee. Then, he leads her through some of their typical knee exercises, pausing in between for a cooldown where she ices her knee as he explains what their new recovery timeline should look like. As long as she does what she needs to, she likely won’t need her crutches anymore after two and a half more weeks of good behavior. In a couple months, her PT will change course entirely. They’ll begin introducing hydrotherapy and strength building exercises. For the past few days, she’s been working on the range of motion ones, so she’ll end up alternating and mixing the two somewhere down the line. Come February, she should be cleared for full contact practice. If all goes well by March, she should be able to play in full just in time for the last few days of the tournament season.

PT wraps up and Craig rewraps her knee, tightening her brace around it and sending her off with a kind smile and words of encouragement for her therapy session. Given that the university’s counseling center was across campus and Tess was not fucking with that walk, Amaya made arrangements for the psychologist to meet Tess in the athletic facility since she’d be there already for PT. She checks her phone for the room number that Amaya sent her (dutifully ignoring the Instagram notification reading ‘Paige liked your story!’) and makes her way down the hall to the office room.

Tess opens the door to find a shorter woman shuffling papers around on a desk. She looks up as the basketball player walks in, immediately flashing a beaming smile and sticking her hand out for Tess to shake. “Hey! You must be Tess.”

Tess shifts her weight, shaking her hand and returning a quiet smile. The psychologist has wavy, chestnut brown hair and kind brown eyes that have been softened by the passage of time. The crow’s feet and laugh lines on her face provide Tess with a sense of security, reminding her of a distant aunt who used to liven up the room. “Guilty as charged.”

“I’m Dr. Flanigan, but Yvette is just fine. Please, have a seat.” Tess pulls out the chair, slowly lowering herself into it, cautious of her knee. Yvette motions to the adjacent chair. “Would you want to prop your leg up? It might be more comfortable for you that way.”

Tess hesitates, but the comforting expression on Yvette’s face has her worries washing away. “Sure, please,” she says, and the older woman nods as she adjusts the chair and helps lift Tess’s leg to the elevated position. Almost instantly, some of the tension leaves her body and Tess sighs in relief.

“Perfect,” Yvette says, mostly to herself. She takes a seat in her own chair and begins looking through a couple of papers. “So, I see you’ve had quite the month.” Her words aren’t judgmental, just humorous, and Tess can’t help her snicker.

“Something like that,” she agrees.

“But you’re here now,” Yvette muses, sliding a pair of glasses onto the bridge of her nose. “That’s the hard part, isn’t it? Opening yourself up to receive help, putting aside your pride for long enough to realize you need help. I’m proud that you’re taking these steps.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” Tess jokes.

“You did,” Yvette says gently. Her eyes sparkle. “Your team gave you an ultimatum, but you could have said no, right? But here you are. It’s early, but you’ve already made so much progress in terms of rehabilitation. Can you share what your mental state has been like since Wednesday?”

Tess pauses to think about her words. Yvette doesn’t push her. Tess releases a breath of air, shifting, before responding. “I’ve been kinda all over the place, I guess. I mean, it was a complete 180 – I showed up to the meeting hungover and by the end of the day, I’d done PT, cried a couple of times, but like, my mind was also clearer… in a way? When I was doing what I was doing, sure, I was conscious of my own destruction, but sitting in front of a bunch of other people and having them tell you that you’re destroying yourself was different. It put things into perspective. Then…around Thursday night, the urge to drink started hitting, so I spent the entire night eating ice cubes and losing my mind.” She glances at Yvette, whose head cocks. “Um, losing it figuratively. It was really hard but I don’t think I was actively crashing out.”

“Perhaps the feeling was more like a battle with yourself for control?” Yvette asks kindly.

Tess opens her mouth, puzzled, then closes it. Damn. Yvette is good at her job. “Exactly like that,” Tess admits. “My body wanted it, but I didn’t want it. I felt like I was being pulled in two different directions – the pull was so strong. I sat for hours convincing myself that I knew what my body needed and not the other way around.”

“That’s a huge part of understanding and processing alcohol dependence,” the psychologist says. “The mentality. Treatment doesn’t always require medication – one of the most common ‘treatments’ is cognitive behavioral therapy, which helps people change unhelpful thinking patterns and reactions. A popular approach is what we call the recognize-avoid-cope method. Recognize your triggers, whether external or internal; avoid tempting situations, and cope with the triggers you can’t avoid.

“So, our two types of triggers – external and internal,” Yvette continues, and Tess listens to her every word. “External refers to your environment. Perhaps a person, place, thing, or time of day. You said your urge manifested at night time?” Tess nods. “For people who drank mostly at night, night time could be an external trigger. Your body gets used to drinking at this certain time, right? Internal triggers can be tricky. Many people struggle with identifying where they come from because they appear to come out of nowhere. However, these triggers can be set off by fleeting thoughts, responses to feelings. I believe in your case, an internal trigger could be a pain response from your knee, yes?”

Tess flushes. “I feel like you’re in my head,” she admits, drawing a laugh from Yvette. Some of the tension diffuses.

“Now that we know what to look for when we face that urge to drink, we can address it appropriately,” Yvette says. “It’s difficult to avoid internal triggers, so we just have to cope with them. Avoiding external triggers are more obvious. You may benefit from avoiding a bar or the liquor section in the grocery store, but you can’t avoid night time. This is where coping comes in. For you, chewing ice cubes was an effective distraction – perhaps one your dentist won’t agree with –” Tess chuckles, “– but it’s that idea that we want to work with. I struggled with alcohol dependence when I was your age. Meditation and yoga helped me out a lot, although those may not work for you considering your knee injury. The good thing is there’s a lot of healthy alternatives. Work on a hobby, talk to someone, take a hot shower – if it works for you and it’s not harmful, then it’s a good method! Remember, it’s all mental – if you feel the urge, challenge it. Find the error in your thinking and replace it. Remind yourself why you’re making this change to not drink. Ride it out. Urges are normal, but they’re temporary; they will pass.”

Yvette’s words leave Tess in a contemplative silence. Tess doesn’t think this first session was supposed to be anything revolutionary – Yvette literally just told her something she could have figured out from a Google search, but the psychologist's words just hit a little different. It’s similar to how she knew she was hurting herself after her injury but hearing it from Amaya, Diana, and Coach Staley rerouted the wiring in her brain.

Yvette gazes at her, calculating, before offering a small smile, like she understands that her words have hit home. She shuffles around her papers again. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to discuss your mental health history and your anxiety medication?”

That, Tess could answer without feeling like her world is going to flip upside down. She and Yvette discuss lighter topics for the remainder of their session, such as how long she’s been taking lexapro regularly, what it was like when she fell off schedule before and after her surgery, and previous psychiatric history. Yvette suggests other coping mechanisms for regulating her anxiety. Prior to the injury, Tess’s main source of relief was basketball; now, she has to figure out what else she could do with her life that doesn’t include sports.

Feeling as though a weight is lifted off her shoulders, Tess thanks Yvette for her time. Yvette sends her off with another gentle smile – and on her walk back to her apartment, Tess can’t help but feel like she’s on the right track.

Tess calls Paige later that day after she’s finally settled into bed. After some light stretches, she presses an ice pack to her knee as she waits for Paige to pick up her call. She doesn’t wait too long before the line clicks through and Paige’s face fills her screen. The blonde is laying in bed, her hair in a bun, presumably, but Tess’s eyes catch on the headset she wears and the familiar frame of glasses. She can see the reflection of the TV through her lenses and Tess raises a brow. “Bad time?” she asks, thinking Paige may be occupied.

“Nah, ‘course not,” she says. “Gimme a sec – I’ll hide in a bush.”

Tess laughs, hearing the slight clicking of a controller before Paige turns her attention to her fully. Tess didn’t grow up with siblings, but she did have many cousins with whom she was very close with – if there was one thing she learned, they rarely paused or stopped playing their games unless it was an emergency or their mother was yelling. “What are you playing?”

���Fortnite,” Paige admits shamelessly.

“So, she flirts like a twelve-year-old and plays games meant for one,” Tess muses.

Paige rolls her eyes. “Shut up, it’s fun. You play?”

“Nope,” Tess says. “Never got the appeal.”

“Dude,” the blonde says in near disbelief. “I got to put you on. Wait, do you even have a PS5?” 

“Do you think I do?” she asks. “I’ve done literally nothing but basketball for almost fifteen years.”

“Gotta fix that,” Paige sighs. “Buy one and hop on Fortnite with me. Boom, new hobby and I get a duo.” The blonde grins at her through the screen, excited at the prospect, and Tess finds herself more accepting of the thought the more she thinks about it. Tess opens Amazon, scrolling through the console options and accessories, and Paige notes her sudden silence. “Wait, are you actually gonna get one?”

Tess shrugs a shoulder, smiling slightly. “I mean, might as well, right? I do need a new hobby and I don’t have a lot of options.” She adds the console to her cart as well as a controller, not giving it a second thought before she’s checking out. “Should be here tomorrow.”

Paige pumps her arm in the air, cheering. Tess can’t help but grin at her excitement. “You won’t regret this. Trust. We’re gonna run Fortnite like the navy.” Tess rolls her eyes good-naturedly as Paige adjusts her phone, flashing another smile. “So, what’s up with you? How was PT and therapy?”

Tess hums. “PT was the same as always. Still a little early to tell, but Craig says if everything goes according to plan, I should hopefully be back in time for the last month of games. Thinking about playing again is literally the only thing keeping my head on straight, so I just have to get my shit together for, what, ten or eleven more months? Easy peasy.”

“You’ll be back on the court before you know it,” Paige says confidently. “Do what you gotta do, but don’t lie just so you can play earlier. Don’t fuck yourself up.”

“Careful, Paige – keep saying nice things and I’ll think you care about me.”

“In your dreams,” the blonde says with a smirk. “Just want you at 100% when we play y’all in March Madness. I won’t have as much fun if I gotta drop 30 on Kamilla instead of you.”

Tess rolls her eyes. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Sharks.”

“Shit.”

“Sharks!”

“Sharks – god dammit.”

Paige grins gleefully as they both dissolve into fits of laughter. As she calms, she can’t help but stare at Paige, at the way her face scrunches and the unfiltered joy that permeates her expression. Tess hates how she softens ever so slightly, how any conversation with Paige is enough to collapse the walls she spent so long building. Tess has always been a little caustic, perhaps blunt to a fault, too sarcastic and so uncomfortable in showing affection. But there’s something about Paige that rounds out those edges. She feels like she can be honest; although vulnerability is still a difficult task, she finds that stomaching the thought is a little easier when Paige smiles at her. “So, therapy?” the blonde repeats, her tone light but not pushing her.

Her words drag Tess out of her thoughts. She shakes her head, as if trying to break the thoughts apart. “It was…informative.”

“Yeah?” Paige asks, interested. When Tess looks back at her screen, she can see the slight furrow in Paige’s brow, the look of concentration. Tess averts her eyes, feeling her face burn.

She hums, gathering her thoughts. “Basically, I just have to rethink my approach to drinking. Like, recognizing triggers and either just avoiding or coping with them. I do think I have to find something other than the ice. I bit into a chunk weird earlier and almost cried cause I thought I broke my tooth.” Paige snorts. “Not funny.” She raises her hands, grinning, and Tess sighs. “Being emotionally vulnerable is exhausting. I wish I could go play basketball and ignore most of my feelings.”

“Well, not to mansplain, but–”

“I know, I can’t actually avoid them,” Tess grumbles. Paige laughs again, and the sound is infectious enough that Tess can’t help but smile. “It’s barely been a week but I feel like…okay again. Is that a weird thing to say?”

“Nah, I get it,” Paige says. “You will be okay, though. You just need to believe it.”

Tess nods, leaning back in her bed and picking mindlessly at a loose thread on her blanket. “I think I do. Like, it doesn’t feel like the end anymore. I know that I need to put in a lot of work, but at this point, it’s a new opportunity to compete, but against myself, right? I can do that.”

“You can,” Paige affirms. “And you will.” She speaks so casually, as if Tess’s recovery is something that is already gone and past. Like it’s more truth than manifestation. When Tess smiles, Paige adds in a softer voice, “I know you can.”

“...Thanks, Paige,” is all Tess can muster. She tries not to think about it too much – Paige is so close to being fully healed from her own ACL tear. She, more than anyone else in Tess’s life currently, knows what that process is like, how the mental anguish affects you, how debilitating the pain is most days. Paige knows what it’s like to survive that. The sheer confidence, the belief that Tess can survive it means more to her than Paige will probably ever know. “Your turn, though. How’s, uh, Storrs?”

Paige shoots her a scandalized look. “You say that like Columbia is any cooler.”

Tess laughs. “Well, it’s no Brooklyn – but you know damn well that UConn is the only reason why Storrs has any relevance.”

“I’m startin’ to wonder if there’s anything you like about me,” Paige grumbles.

“I like it when you’re quiet,” Tess says.

“You called me!”

“I like it when you say the sweetest things,” Tess continues, purposefully ignoring Paige. “Like when you say I’m full of sharks or when you said we were star-crossed lovers because Caitlin broke my ankles.”

Paige huffs, trying – and failing – to hide the frown on her face. “You should not be talking about other women when you’re on the phone with your girlfriend. That’s like, relationship rule number one.”

Tess stares at her before erupting into laughter despite the warm, foreign feeling in her stomach. “Are you jealous?”

Paige rolls her eyes, but she angles her phone so Tess can’t see the flush creeping up her neck. “Chill. I’m jus’ saying – wait until that lady from Bleacher Report hears that you’re steppin’ out on me.”

Tess can’t hide her amusement. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Paige seems to forget about her earlier words as she grins proudly. “Been told a time or two,” she chirps.

The South Carolinian guard shakes her head fondly. “Okay, for real. What’s new with you?”

Paige shrugs. “Nothing much, but me and the team’s getting together later tonight ‘cause everyone’s heading home for the summer at some point this week. I’m flying back to Minnesota Thursday morning. You goin’ home, or…?”

“Haven’t thought about it much, honestly,” Tess admits. “My mom called on Sunday and asked if I was, but I’m nervous about flying with the knee and I’d feel bad having my parents drive down twelve hours just to pick me up. I could easily do Zoom or some shit with my therapist, but I feel like I really need good and consistent PT, so I’m not sure if I’d want to leave Craig.”

Paige raises a brow. “You live in Brooklyn, right? That’s where the Liberty is. I saw Sabrina in your comments – you could see if she could get you in touch with their physio.”

Tess laughs, mostly out of shock and because of the absurdity of the offer. “Do you really think I could cold call Sabrina Ionescu and be like, ‘hey, my knee’s fucked, I was wondering if you could see if your team physio would be willing to take over my rehab while I’m home?’”

“Uh, yeah?” Paige says like it’s obvious, her face contorting in confusion. “Have you not been online? Anytime Sabrina’s asked about college athletes or the future of the W, she’s always gassing you up. She might be in love with you, lowkey.”

“You better not be bullshitting me,” Tess says, opening her browser and Googling as Paige huffs dramatically. “You think she’d leave her man for me?”

“Rule number two, Tess Alessandra,” Paige reminds her. “No seeing other people on the DL. And you thought I couldn’t handle it.”

Hundreds of articles appear on her screen. Tess feels something tighten in her chest, even as she jokingly retorts, “It’s Sabrina Ionescu – I couldn’t pass that up.” She opens the first article, eyes scanning the headline as it reads, “Sabrina Ionescu On Tess Kennedy: ‘The Perfect NCAA Shooting Guard.’” Tess’s eyes nearly bulge out of her head, her shock only growing the more she reads.

“D’you seriously not know?” Paige asks curiously.

“No,” Tess answers, and it was the truth. “I stay far away from most basketball reporting and social media. Draft discussions always make me nervous and people always look for a story where there isn’t one. I’m here to hoop, not for someone to debate whether or not I’m the second coming of basketball Jesus.” She reads more, feeling both pleasantly surprised but also touched by how many kind things Sabrina Ionescu had to say about her – it was one thing for her to reach out after her ACL tear, but it’s incredibly flattering to know that she’s had someone like Sabrina in her corner all this time and she never knew it. “Do you really think they could do that?” Tess asks again, referring to their physio situation. “Like, they’re in preseason right now. I feel like their physio needs to focus on making sure their team doesn’t tear their ACLs.”

She watches Paige shrug through the screen, a tender sort of smile on her face. “Doesn’t hurt to ask, right? Plus, I got Husky connections – I can get Stewie to put in a good word.”

“You need to chill, I’m being so for real right now,” Tess says, narrowing her eyes. “You do not need to talk to Stewie for me.”

Paige is quiet for a moment, as if fully grasping what Tess is saying. “I won’t if you don’t really want me to,” she says after a lot of contemplation. “Don’t wanna fight your battles for you, but you know…if I can help, just lemme know.”

“I appreciate that,” Tess says, her voice a lot softer. “I’ll think about it.”

The blonde grins again. “No pressure.”

“So, excited to see your family?”

Paige leans back against her headboard, her grin turning fond. “You have no idea. I feel like Drew grows so much while I’m gone. He’s my little brother. Or was. He’s like a medium brother now.”

Tess can’t help but laugh at Paige’s words. “Yeah? Was he the one who put you on Fortnite?” she teases.

“You act like I can’t make choices for myself,” Paige says indignantly. “I actually put him on.”

“You see how that’s like, worse, right?”

Paige glares at her dramatically, but Tess can easily see the amused smile on her face. “You’re a D1 hater. It’s insane.”

“Been told a time or two,” she says, mirroring Paige’s earlier words, and they both dissolve into fits of laughter. “Do you–”

She’s cut off by the sound of a knock at Paige’s door. The blonde pulls off one airpod, turning to look at whoever’s walking in. “Hey, Lili and I are going to the store to pick up some stuff for tonight – you wanna come?” Tess is unable to place the voice, which doesn’t surprise her, but she watches the hesitation flash across Paige’s face. “Ohhh, are you on the phone with your lady friend?”

“Lady friend is crazy work,” Paige grumbles, which causes Tess to laugh. Paige glances at her screen again, as if studying Tess’s face for a reaction.

“Go hang out with your friends,” she tells her, knowing Paige is the only one who can hear. “Don’t let them think I’m the obsessive girlfriend who doesn’t let you hang out with other people.”

“If the shoe fits,” the blonde teases. Tess rolls her eyes at Paige’s smirk and she feels something simultaneously soften and break apart inside of her. That’s an issue to face another day. “I’ll text you later, okay? Make good choices.”

“Always,” Tess says innocently. Paige’s smirk melts into something more tender before she bids Tess one last goodbye and ends the FaceTime call. Tess exhales, staring at her phone screen, where her and Paige’s earlier text conversation remains. It all feels a little fast, but she can’t deny that she feels so incredibly comfortable with Paige. Sure, she and Paige bicker a lot, but she knows it’s all in good fun and she enjoys their banter and how Paige keeps her guessing. It’s the same way she is on the basketball court, but Tess recognizes something different in their little game: Paige’s slight acquiesce, the natural pauses in any of their conversations where Paige seems like she’s seeing Tess in a different way, understanding her in a way that’s beyond surface level. 

It’s a double edged sword. Being known is terrifying. From a basketball perspective, the understanding that comes with knowing your opponent’s every move manifests in quick interceptions, knowing how to guard them on their favorite wing. On a personal level, being known opens you up to those same vulnerabilities. By now, she knows Paige better than that and she trusts that Paige wouldn't go out of her way to hurt her, but it’s hard to escape the thought that by letting Paige into her life and under her skin, she’s effectively arming her with her insecurities and shortcomings.

But at the same time, she’s letting Paige in, and it’s new and scary because nobody outside of Kamilla has ever wanted to look further. Tess has probably curated that issue herself — she keeps her teammates close enough that they’re privy to only 75% of her; that last 25%, each and every ugly thought or feeling or trait she’s ever had is kept so far away from them and Tess herself. Now, between her knee, her therapy and PT, and the whole situation of having to be Paige’s fake girlfriend, she’s suddenly faced with having to show someone a lot more than 75%. And it’s fucking frightening because Paige is getting to know Tess at her worst; although she doesn’t exactly have the option to run, she’s trying to be closer to Tess despite it all. Tess has spent so much of her life being afraid of the day the mirror would shatter and she would have to face the parts of herself she didn’t like. Knowing that she’s still here now, learning to love the girl in between the fractures, and that Paige has a heart big enough to not be offended by the scrapes and the nicks and the lacerations that come with handling something sharp and broken, fills her with an amalgamation of feelings. She’s hopeful, but she’s fearful and hesitant; she’s confused but so incredibly grateful. 

So, she takes Paige’s advice and reaches out to Sabrina on Instagram. Tess isn’t alone in this. Between her teammates, her friends, her trainers and coaches and mentors, and now the women in the league, there’s so many people in her life that want to help her succeed if only they’d let her. Sabrina’s response comes 15 minutes later — she’d actually been in the trainer’s office getting her wrist checked out when she got her text. Sabrina said their head athletic trainer, Theresa, would be more than happy to take over her her PT while she’s back in Brooklyn, but obviously they would have to work around the Liberty’s game schedule. They would still be able to upkeep Tess’s three times a week requirement, and honestly, that was good enough for her.

Sabrina’s next message came in after Tess said her thank-you’s, reading:

No problem at all! Super proud of your progress and I can’t wait to see you on the court again. Let me know whenever you’re cleared, I would love to shoot around with you sometime

She decides she’d text Paige later, maybe let her know she was right if she felt like listening to her endless gloating. But she smiles as she texts her mom, telling her that she’s got another trainer lined up if she and her dad would be able to make the drive down to South Carolina. 

We’ll be there about noon tomorrow to pick you up, piccola, no drive is too far

Then, feeling both hopeful and excited, she texts Amaya to let her know she’s going home for the summer but that she’ll maintain her PT and therapy sessions, to which Amaya responds with a simple thumbs up emoji that makes Tess immediately regret her thoughtful message. She lets Kamilla and Bree know she’s going and they remind her they’re both a call away if she needs anything. Tess packs most of her things before settling back into bed to relax. 

She texts Paige later that night, shortly after midnight when she should have been well in bed, but she was struggling to sleep. Her thoughts were racing, but they were more positive than anything. She was excited to see her parents; she hadn’t really talked to them since her surgery. They had a lot to catch up on. She was anticipating the arrival of her Playstation, feeling unnaturally stoked to play Fortnite of all things, though a smaller part of her that she was slowly coming around to knew she just enjoyed her time with Paige, anyway. Unable to sleep, she writes:

you can say i told you so now the liberty’s trainer will take over my PT

I told you so Does this mean you won’t be gaming with me?

ill see if i can fit you into my schedule me and sabrina are super tight now 🤞

Don’t play with me.

don’t worry paigey you’re still my one and only

Better be Have a safe drive tomorrow 🫶

Tess sends back a single heart emoji, putting her phone on its charger and staring up at the ceiling. After a beat, a slow smile spreads across her face, and she can't help but think that she's making the right decision by letting Paige in.

[rileyslibrary]

teaching ghost how to make paper cranes but he keeps messing up with his huge ass hands <3333 (gn reader please! love your work❣️❣️)

*taps microphone* one “Ghost struggling” with a side of “Japanese paper folding art” coming right up. (A/N at the end)

———————————————————————

“This is even more annoying than Soap.”

“It’s not Soap’s fault you have sausages for fingers.” You murmur as you finish your tenth paper crane and set it on the conference table.

He examines the back of his hand as if he had just received a manicure. He then flips it over, palm facing up, and curls his fingers into a fist before releasing them.

“My fingers are not the problem,” he argues, “it’s these sheets; they are way too small.”

“Did you say ‘shits’ or ‘sheets’?” You quip, and he huffs at your comment. Yet, he picks up another piece of paper from the stack to try again.

You observe him as he leans over the table. He is pretty crafty when it comes to surviving in difficult situations; he can light a fire by creating a bow drill, build a shelter out of branches, and navigate the woods with a needle as a compass. But when it comes to these types of crafts, he struggles.

He starts folding again, a little gentler than before. Every time he completes a step, he pauses to assess his progress. He occasionally lets out a self-motivational hum and nods to himself.

But then something happens, and he loses it—a misaligned fold caused by his large hands or a paper rip as a result of his inexperience with handling such delicate materials. Sometimes he just feels discouraged, anticipating another failed try, and gives everything up.

Looking at his current attempt, you know the paper crane will fall apart. He completes his final folds and, as you anticipated, it comes loose. He groans and crumbles the paper.

“You can do it,” you assert. “I’ve seen you train unruly recruits with much more patience.”

“For fucks sake, Y/N,” he shouts, throwing his head back, “recruits are easier to shape into soldiers than moulding a fucking Post-it note into a duck.”

“It’s a crane,” you correct him; “ducks have another technique.”

“What’s the difference?” he complains. “Why do they have different folds if they are both birds?”

“For the same reason, an AK47 and an MP5 need different types of ammo, I guess.”

Despite his disappointment, he picks up another piece of paper and folds it again.

“Patience, Lt.,” you encourage him, “treat it as a recruit.”

He pauses for a minute, contemplating your advice, before he begins. He does not treat the paper as a target this time. He carefully pinches it with his fingers and folds it with his nails. In his eyes, the paper has taken on the appearance of something far too fragile. Something that needs to be helped and taken care of. It’s not against him, but with him—they’re allies working towards a common goal.

He completes it and places it in the palm of his hand, stretching his creation towards you. It’s not perfect, but nothing is.

“Excellent work, Lieutenant!” You cheer, and he proudly places his paper crane next to yours.

“It’s relaxing and meditative,” he admits; “all this folding and aligning makes you forget about things.”

“Things?” You ask as he pulls another sheet from the stack.

“You know,” he replies, staring at the paper in his hands, “bad things.”

You can see his emotions shifting through his eyes—they’re half-lidded as if they want to forget the atrocities they witnessed. His hands are fiddling with that paper; they are shameful hands in his mind—hands that participated in the worst horrors imaginable. They’re not worthy of making paper cranes.

“Paper cranes symbolise hope,” you comfort him, “and there’s a Japanese legend that says whoever makes a thousand of them will be granted a wish.”

His eyes light up, and he opens his lips to say something, but Soap enters the room. “What are you doing here?” He yells and sits on the table, right next to your paper cranes.

Ghost rolls his eyes at the sight of Soap but continues with his little project. “I’m making a thousand paper cranes to fulfil my wish.” He replies.

“What are you going to wish for, Lieutenant?” He asks, and Ghost replies with a stern “for you to get off my fucking back.”

You make quiet shushing noises to calm him down, and he inhales deeply.

“What is it that you want, Sergeant?” He finally asks, and Soap begins to report every problem around the base that would require Ghost’s attention.

“And the fridge broke last night, and all the meat has gone bad,” he concludes, “so it looks like we might have to eat a plant-based diet until we fix it.”

“That’s alright,” Ghost shrugs, “as long as we get our nutrients, we’ll be fine.”

Soap looks at you, dumbfounded. “Wow, Lt.!” he shouts, turning to Ghost, “these paper cranes have turned you into a bloody monk, haven’t they?”

“Paper crane, paper crane,” Ghost begins to chant as he folds, “go away, or you’ll end up with a fucking cane.”

“Ghost!” you cry. “Where is the patience and meditative state we discussed earlier?”

“I’m sorry,” he apologises and turns to Soap. “Namaste, sergeant,” he says and waves his hand in dismissal, “now fuck off.”

And who are you to tell him what to say or how to behave? You, too, are a project yourself, just like these cranes lined up in front of you. You look at the trash bin with all the papers he crumbled before completing his first successful paper fold art. Today he learned something new and joyful. Something that makes him feel content and proud rather than something that wakes him up in the middle of the night or, worse, prevents him from sleeping. Making a thousand paper cranes is so much better than watching him with that thousand-yard stare he gets after every mission.

Soap grabs one of your paper cranes, places it in his pocket, and leaves you two be.

Ghost completes his second successful paper crane and grabs another sheet. “Nine hundred and ninety-eight more to go,” he states, “you know, for that wish.”

———————————————————————

A/N: I had no idea how to make a paper crane, so I wanted to teach myself first in order to write this. And yes, I did it on a Post-it note (but not a sticky one). Also, this piece is 1000 words.

[xzaddyzanakinx]

Not That Kind of Guy

Part Three: Stalker!Anakin Skywalker × femme reader series

Warnings: stalking, weirdo behavior, psychotic/delusional behavior, possessive/protective, sexism/misogyny, one-sided relationship, menstruation, sexual content, pervy behavior, male masturbation, murder, serious illness, needles [eventual warning for smut; be sure to pay attention to future warnings in the series]

Info: Anakin loves you SO much that he’s disgusting about it. He’s extra delusional. Anakin doesn’t love drama HE IS the drama. He's still a massive Perv [diary entries from Ani] MDNI 18+

Diary Entry: June 27th

I came to the diner tonight, I love to see you wait tables. You’re so kind and sweet, even to the assholes and shitheads that don’t deserve to breathe your air. Your beautiful smile, those pretty eyes and how you bat those long lashes, that bell-like giggle you pull for those nasty old men’s jokes.

I know it’s not real, but it’s fun to watch you pretend baby. And just as fun to listen to your annoyed retelling of your night when you get home. Gods I could just listen to you talk for hours. Watching your face change as you speak, the acute movements of your eyebrows and lips that tell me how you really feel.

You’re just like me, more than you know.

I ordered some coffee, sat at the bar one of those red spin-y stools, and listened to your sweet lilt tell lie after lie to your customers.

You’re a busy, busy girl aren’t you princess?

Sorry for the messy writing, it was difficult not to laugh as I wrote these little white lies of yours.

1. Saving up money for a car: true, but doesn’t get you good tips

2. This is your second job and life on your own is just real hard: I’m amazed that this one works as well as it does, really pulling on those old lady heartstrings huh?

3. ‘Sorry guys, I’m just- having a hard day. You understand right?’ *sniffle* the only thing those guys understand is the masculine urge to stop a girl from crying and if shoving a few extra bills under their dirty plate makes your day ‘better’, they’re gonna do it.

I don’t know how you continue to use that one on those poor fools, it’s always the same few guys too. They really think you’re something special huh?

You are of course, very special. But they don’t know you like I do. They don’t know that you’re full of shit. I know for a fact you had a really good day. I was there.

You cheeky little minx.

4. Your mom is out of work and you’re helping her out: your mom is out of work, but you’re definitely not helping her out. She wouldn’t take your money if you offered it. (You wouldn’t offer it over your dead body.)

Can’t blame you for this little lie though, your mom really is a piece of shit. Exploit that bitch all you want, she deserves it. I’ve seen those nasty posts she made about your friend. All that because he’s gay?

Oh no! It’s contagious! It’s the vaccines! Gluten!

Come on lady, it’s 2023.

5. you’re getting married! I fucking wish. But, not yet princess, you won’t need to worry about anything when it’s time for that. Thats what I’m here for, I’ll make sure you get everything you want.

6. ‘It’s on the house honey.’ I was so jealous hearing this one for the first time. You’re just absolutely rotten aren’t you? Refills are free.

You’re perfect for me and you don’t even know it.

Diary Entry: June 28th

Angelic. Cherubic. God-kin.

A biblical beauty if I’ve ever seen one.

The way your hair creates a halo around your face. Tendrils gracing the soft contours of your cheeks, the twitch of your nose when you shift just alittle too much and a strand tickles it. The subtle pull or purse of your lips that tells me you’re deep in the land of dreaming.

Sleep is one of the most basic human needs. It’s not meant to be as glorified as you make it, but somehow you do.

It’s intimate. They way your breathing slows and your body melts into the soft hands of sleep. It’s an event that I’ve been graciously given the opportunity to witness.

It was so, so, so worth waiting for.

SleepyTime Tea, a cute name and of course perfect for my purposes. You drank a cup almost every night. It’d been on my mind for a while and I figured… it couldn’t hurt to open it up and help you get an even better sleep.

Now that I’ve had the privilege of seeing an angel at rest… well I don’t think I could ever witness anything more breathtaking.

Except for maybe your sweet little pussy.

I checked and double checked the measurements on those sleeping pills I promise. I would never ever hurt you sweetheart. I was so anxious, trying to make sure I got the mixture perfect.

It worked like a dream. Didn’t it?

Damn right it did. Worked well enough that I was able to tuck your hair behind your ear and kiss your forehead before I left.

I also did you a little favor or two as well while I was there. It wasn’t a completely selfish visit.

I replaced an old beat up scrunchie, it was past time for you to retire it in my opinion. Now it’s serving a better purpose: squeezing the base of my cock while I fuck my fist to the sounds of your desperate moans, both of us needy for a never quite satisfying finish. If only I had the courage to open that door.

You need a man sweetheart. You need me. Those toys of yours just don’t hit the spot for you do they? Hurts my heart that it takes you so long… and I know it’s not on purpose. I can tell the difference.

Nothin’ can mimic that sinful feel of flesh on flesh.

I took out your bathroom trash, I know you hate doing that. And maybe I accidentally knocked your toothbrush off the sink.

Sue me.

But I promptly rectified the issue, I just so happened to notice you were out of brush-head refills a few days ago and came prepared. You’re welcome baby.

I also purchased the same brand of brush that you have.

Reduce, reuse, recycle.

Date:

June 29th

You woke up, rolling out of bed at 9:30. An absolutely ridiculous time to be awake on what was meant to be a lazy stay at home day. But alas, you are a good friend, and good friends go through with their plans.

Even if you made those plans a month ago and completely forgot them.

Your cat laced it’s way through your legs while you stood on unsteady feet. You’ve really gotta stop with the caffeine, it’s definitely not normal for someone as young as you to wake up with the shakes. But you’re a creature of habit and an absurd amount of sugar and caffeine were included in those habits.

Staying true to those habits you made your way to the bathroom across the hall, absentmindedly grasping at air for a few seconds before realizing your toothbrush wasn’t where you always left it. With a frustrated groan you looked around and saw that someone… or rather something had knocked it into the floor.

“Boogie!” You turned around and made your way to the living room, interrupting her morning routine by scooping her up and forcing her to face the music.

“How dare you.” You whispered, trying to pull out a stern voice. “I don’t have any new tooth brush heads. What am I supposed to do you little shit?”

You bent down, picked it up and popped the replaceable head off, tossing it into the… empty trash can? When did you take out the trash?

Whatever. Focus. “You better hope I have a spare regular one.” You shot a nasty glare at your cat who sat unbothered on the bathroom counter.

You searched through the cabinet below the sink and through all the drawers and found none. Not even that travel one from last year’s vacation. Finally you opened up the medicine cabinet-mirror combo and was pleasantly surprised but also annoyed, to see that you did actually have a replacement.

“Well shit.” You scoffed, “I should’ve just checked there first.”

Next on the list was a giant tumbler of coffee and a hit of your vape for breakfast. Delicious.

You searched in the catch-all drawer in your kitchen for a hair band, not finding any of the small black ones you settled for a stray scrunchie that lived in this drawer specifically for circumstances like this.

Grabbing the light blue silk scrunchie you went to slide it on your wrist and gather your hair but stopped mid movement. No sharpie mark. You could’ve sworn last time you wore this it had a sharpie mark on it from being trapped in the drawer with a cap-less marker. Weird, but not weird enough to care about.

With your caffeine withdrawal taken care of and your morning duties finished, you slipped on some tennis shoes, grabbed your small backpack and walked to the gym two blocks away. Your wonderful and lovely, much more active friend had invited you to a yoga class to meet ‘someone who isn’t a lazy bastard’.

Which… doesn’t really make any sense considering your last boyfriend liked to lift weights but couldn’t bear to lift a finger to help you.

But you love Luke, and Luke loves to play matchmaker. So you’d suffer through this with a smile. It couldn’t hurt and it might be fun, if all else fails at least you got to hang out with your friend and giggle at him drooling over the ‘guy with this sexy scowl, big broad shoulders, oh my god he’s so soft but like in a buff way it’s insane.’.

“Lukey!” You jogged up to him where he was waiting for you outside the gym.

“You’re late.” He stated sternly despite the little smile curving his lip.

“No I’m not. It’s 10:20.” You scoffed.

“Yes and class starts at 10:30.” He retorted.

“I’m not sure if you know this, but 20 comes before 30.” You said feigning concern as you touched his forearm while walking inside.

“Shut up.” He rolled his eyes, “I mean you’re late to meet this guy I was telling you about!”

He shoved you gently past the various equipment and to a smaller room with mirrors along one wall. He very conspicuously pointed toward a younger guy with… a mullet?

“You’re joking.” You gasped. “Luke I swear to god you’ve gotta be kidding.” You squeaked smacking his arm.

“What?!” He squealed, pulling his arms up to his chest and curling in on himself. “Stop I didn’t invite you to kickboxing! Ow!”

“A dude with a mullet?” You glared at him.

“Wait till he turns around, the mullet will be forgiven I swear.” He said, holding up his hands in an offering of peace.

That peace treaty was immediately ripped to shreds when Luke loudly dropped his metal water bottle on the hard floors, a smile that could beat the devil’s smirk on his face.

The guy whipped his head around, eyebrows raised in concern, soft greenish tinted blue eyes taking a moment to glance over you.

“Everything alright?” He asked, a soft accent lacing his voice as he walked over to you.

Is it strange to say that a man with a mullet is… graceful? Yes, it is.

“Oh yeah, everything is fine.” You answered quickly, not missing the snicker that Luke made when he kicked the water bottle over to you.

You bent down and picked it up, holding it with a grip that would surely snap your officially ex-best friends neck in half.

“Here let me take this for you.” The blonde haired stranger said, reaching out for your backpack and for some reason you let him take it.

He just… exuded a calming energy. No wonder he likes yoga, he’s probably the most zen person you’ve ever met. Everything about him was soft and comforting. His voice, his beard, even his knuckles as they ghosted across your arm when he grabbed your bag.

“Th-thanks?“ You said in a statement that sounded more like a confused inquiry.

You followed him and Luke inside, the blood draining from your formerly flushed cheeks when he unrolled your yoga mat in the front row. What kind of cosmic curse has Luke unleashed? You shot him a look to burn through brick but he just seemed giddy as if you weren’t planning on disposing him in the sewer after this.

“I’m Ben, your instructor. Luke told me you’d be coming today, he mentioned you’ve never taken a class like this before?” He looked over at you, an understanding smile on his face.

THE INSTRUCTOR?

“R-right yeah. No, I’ve never taken a yoga class before.” You shook your head and introduced yourself in return, holding out your hand for a hand shake and being utterly shocked at Ben’s reaction.

“I’m a hugger, hope that’s alright darling.” He laughed softly, enveloping you in a warm embrace that could smelt iron. It certainly made you malleable, maybe even alittle bit melty.

The kicker though? A kiss to the side of your mouth.

You blinked at the audacity, did he just-? But as he pulled back you realized it wasn’t a creepy thing… it was a friendly thing. He just greets everyone that way because he’s a genuinely kind person. You knew that to be true because he turned and did the same to Luke, ending his with a firm pat to his shoulder.

A little green monster clawed it’s way through your stomach at the sight, but you drowned it quickly with the use of your knowledge as a sane person. You don’t know this guy. Luke brought you here because of this guy, he’s not after him, he’s after Beefy McBeef in the corner. You don’t know him, you’re purely getting jealous going off the fact that he is pretty and the realization that you’re not special.

You spent the rest of your time thinking peaceful thoughts to chase away the images of Luke’s tiny pea brain being squished betwixt your fingers for this horrible idea of his, while failing many attempts to mimic the variety of poses and stances Ben showed the class.

Even Beefy McBeef was doing better than you, and you could definitely see why Luke had his sights set on him. Masculine, but not in an intimidating way. He’s right, he’s soft but buff.

After class ended Luke insisted on dragging you over to Ben to say goodbye.

“Thanks, I enjoyed the class.” You said awkwardly, forcing a polite smile.

“Oh I’m so glad, I was hoping you would.” Ben said, a bright smile on his face, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

“I’d love for you to come back next week.” He said sincerely, reaching out to give your arm a gentle squeeze that made your mouth dry.

“I’m not super sure that yoga is my thing, but I’ll definitely think about it.” You smiled, surely he’s just being nice. Like he was earlier.

“Well if yoga isn’t your thing, I’m sure we can find something that is, hmm?” He chuckled, ripping a scrap of paper from his class schedule and scribbling his number down.

“O-oh.” You blushed. That was the smoothest pickup line you’d ever heard… you couldn’t even be mad about it. “Thank you, I’ll… text you later?” You said unsure about your own words.

“No rush darling,” he gave you a warm smile that matched the softness of his hand that took yours and pressed his lips to your knuckles.

When he pulled back he’d somehow snuck the slip of paper into the palm of your hand, he left you there buffering. You turned slowly to look at Luke who was standing there with a shit eating grin on his face.

“Your turn.” You said sternly, nodding toward Mr. McBeef.

“No.” Luke said with an air of finality, scooping up his bag and spinning on his heel toward a few of his class friends.

Luke so kindly helped you make a fool of yourself. It’s only fair that you return the favor. You marched over to Beefy with a sweet smile.

“Hey!” You said, introducing yourself to him.

“Hey little lady.” He chuckled, taking your hand for a handshake, his palm dwarfing yours. “Names Han.”

“Han. Suits you.” You added with a small smile.

“So, Han. You know Luke?” You said, nodding in his direction.

“Y-yeah I do,” he answered, rubbing the back of his neck with a nervousness you didn’t expect. “Why?”

“Luke is- he’s alittle shy.” You said in a hushed tone. “He’s been talking about you an awful lot.”

“Me?” Han questioned, a downturned grin creeping up his lips as his eyes darted between you and your friend who’d migrated across the gym.

“Yeah, you.” You laughed, “he’s got a massive crush.” You gave him an accomplished grin.

“H-he does?” He gulped, starting to get red in the cheeks. “He’s hardly ever spoken to me.”

“Like I said, he’s shy.” You reminded him gently. “You should go talk to him.”

“Yeah… I will.” He smiled, standing up and placing a kind hand on your shoulder.

“Go get ‘em Beefy McBeef.” You said in a tone so normal that he almost didn’t notice.

“What did you call me?” He laughed.

“Beefy McBeef.” You shrugged, unable to hide your devious smile. “that’s what Luke calls you.”

“No he doesn’t.” Han laughed, big and hearty, Luke turning his head with a jealous scowl until he realized he was laughing with you and it morphed into a mask of pure panic.

“Oh yes he does.” You said firmly. “Can you do me a favor?” You asked.

“Sure babe.” He laughed, still recovering.

“Introduce yourself to him as Beefy McBeef.” You said with pleading eyes.

“Seriously?” He laughed, almost a giggle if you could consider a guy like him a giggler. “What’d he do to you?”

“Just trust me when I say he deserves it.” You said sincerely.

“Can do.” He shook his head with a snort and made his way over to Luke.

“Hey, Luke.” He said, a slight tease in his tone. “Just wanted to introduce myself.” He stuck out his hand and watched with amusement as Luke struggled to comprehend what was happening.

Good. You thought. He deserves alittle embarrassment after the way he forced you into conversation with Ben.

“Beefy McBeef.” Han said, struggling to contain his laughter as he shook Luke’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

You watched from behind a nearby pillar as Luke turned fire truck red. He frantically searched for you until he spotted you with a massive grin and waggling fingers.

“I’ll kill you.” He threatened but there was no real malice in his voice.

“Sure you will Lukey.” You said with a laugh, running over to the wall where you’d propped up your bag and tossed it over your shoulder. Blowing Luke a kiss as you walked out of the gym.

After returning home you showered and sat down on the couch, resigning yourself to rotting on the couch. You’d done your good deed for the day, two actually:

1. attending a social event

2. helping Lukey talk to Han

You’d also done your one terrible deed for next few months. It’s never intentional that you do something bad, except this time it was. But was it really all that terrible if it got Luke what he wanted? Nope.

Add that to the good deeds list then.

3. embarrassing Lukey while helping him talk to Han

All’s fair in love and war.

Speaking of potential love and possible war, you rummaged through your bag to fish out that phone number, you even dumped out all the contents and searched your clothes as well.

It was no where to be found and you were actually kind of bummed about it. You can’t go ask for his number after all that, that’s just… embarrassing.

Shit.

Diary Entry: June 29th

Sweetheart.

If I knew you didn’t love Lukey, I’d have been scraping him off the sidewalk right about now. That little twerp was trying to set you up with someone else.

I know it’s not his fault. He’s being a good friend, he just wants you to be happy. He doesn’t know about me and that’s okay, it’s all okay.

But god, could he have picked a worse guy? I mean… really?

*Ooh look at me and my beautiful luscious locks.* GAG.

I could tell he was making you uncomfortable so I got rid of that little paper as quickly as possible. I would’ve hated for you to have the reminder of that fucking creep. The way he kissed your hand? What the hell was that?

So, I slipped it out of your bag and stayed around to listen to your sinister revenge plot.

I’ll say it again baby, you’re more like me than you know.

Ps. Beefy McBeef? Please.

Diary Entry: July 1st

I’m not an unreasonable guy baby. Really I’m not, but you’re on your phone so much. It just really bugs me you know? We don’t spend quality time together like we should.

I want you to dance around and sing. I want you to lay in the living room floor and color. I to watch you suck ass at MarioKart and laugh when you get frustrated and scrunch your nose.

I want to watch you read so I can read aloud to you, with my e-book copy. I want to watch The Witcher with you, I love that show. Shits cool as fuck, sword fights are so awesome I’ll ignore the fact that you only watch it for Geralt.

He’s not real and I am. So fuck it, can’t hurt to fantasize. I’d be one hell of a hypocrite if I said you couldn’t.

Anyway, sorry I’m rambling.

Are you okay? You’re just… quieter. Is it something I’ve done?

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

I think I’ve figured it out sweet girl, I did some online research and replayed some footage. You’ve not been taking your birth control like you should. Come on baby you gotta remember to take it on time alright? Skipping it and taking it out of routine will mess you all up and we can’t have that.

I’ll try my best to remind you.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

You know me, I’m always worried.

Just… I’m gonna need to borrow your phone so that I can install some software for you. I’m just alittle concern that you’re hiding something from me princess. I just want to make sure you’re okay.

Diary Entry: July 2nd

That SleepyTime tea is a lifesaver.

God I just feel so relieved knowing that I can monitor you. I swear it’s not in a weird way, I just needed to make sure you were in a good headspace you know?

Your search history is so funny. I makes me happy to know you’re just as goofy as me. It also makes me happy that you’ve not searched anything concerning.

Your socials are clean. Your camera roll is full of cute pictures of you and your friends, as well as a few of your ex that I swiftly trashed for you. Maybe just a few naughty ones in the hidden album, don’t worry I didn’t stare. I’ll have plenty of time to do that in person.

Your texts are mostly dry. That’s a good thing though, that means you have more time for me. Even better? No dating apps. Good girl. Those are terribly dangerous, they should require a background check for users, you never know what kind of weirdo is on the other side of that screen.

I’m proud of you babydoll. You’re such a good girl, my good girl.

I’ll help you stay a good girl too. Your phone is mirrored to my laptop, so I’ll be able to see everything you see. No room for mix-ups or miscommunications between us this way.

Communication in relationships is so important.

Which is my reasoning behind the new phone software. You understand don’t you doll? I mean, I can only tell so much from your diary. You like to write and that’s amazing, it’s a great outlet and you should keep up with it. You’re the reason I started my own journal. You were so right when you said ‘it sorts my thoughts and soothes my heart’.

I never thought I’d be a journal guy. Look at me. Self care king.

Diary Entry: July 3rd

I have the most amazing news princess, after careful research and a very thorough deep dive into all of your neighbors, I’ve come up with the perfect solution to our distance issue.

Did you know that the old man across the hall from you is a widow? Poor guy, 10 years without his wife. They were married for 53 years. 53.

That’s the goal baby. That’s the kind of love I have for you.

If Alan Jared Nelson is anything like me, he’s miserable without Gloria Anne. Just like I’d be miserable without you.

He’s sick you know? He’s on a wait list for a liver, has been for 2 years. Isn’t that just the worst kind of hope? It’s cruel really.

Why give the man and his remaining family the hope of a ‘few’ more years, knowing damn well the guy is old enough that he might turn to dust they minute they cut into him. Why put him on the list at all? He’s 92. No one is giving him a liver.

The liver disease he’s diagnosed with is a doozy too, it’s aggressive, painful, and necrotic. He’s in constant pain. He’s got a port for morphine.

Do you know what kind of horrible pain a person has to be in to get a morphine port? Excruciating.

Alan has lived a long and beautiful life. Between the heartache of loosing his love and the debilitating disease he suffers from… it would be a mercy to lay him to rest don’t you think?

He’s a patriot through and through, he was in the army reserves. Now, that’s not my cup of tea but good for you Mr. Nelson.

America’s birthday is a good day for a guy like him to die isn’t it?

Date:

July 4th

Anakin counted the windows over and over, repeating the number in his head as he quietly trekked up the creaking rusted fire escape on Mr. Nelson’s side of the building. Not only was tonight a poetic release of this man’s long and happy existence, it was a very good cover.

Majority of the city was busy watching the fireworks at the celebration in the park, including you. Anakin had ensured you’d left before he even considered walking over to your building. He couldn’t bear the thought of committing a heinous, though arguably merciful, crime in the vicinity of such a pure form of radiance.

As expected the din of booming explosions and crackling sparks masked the noise of the quiet power drill Anakin used to remove bottom piece of the outer frame of the out-dated window. Internally cursing the fact that you lived in such an old building, there’s absolutely no way that these windows are up to code. It might make this task easier, but it made him a nervous wreck to think someone could break into your home in under a minute as long as they brought a drill and a magnet. The process was almost silent, you wouldn’t realize anything was amiss until it was too late.

Once the piece of frame was laid aside Anakin used the heavy duty magnet to coax the loose curved clasp that held the window shut, out of the hoop that it rested in. He sighed, thinking he should definitely complain to the super once he moved in. The ease of breaking and entering wasn’t comforting in the slightest.

Sure it was a wonderful thing for Anakin, there would be absolutely no trace of the break in. The man is old, there would be no autopsy, there are no outdoor cameras on this building or the one next to it. This unit is tucked into a well hidden alleyway and no one saw him walk this way. But his worries were based on thoughts of you and your well-being.

Anakin sprayed Wd-40 along the tracks of the metallic frame and waited a moment before wiping off the excess, hopefully ensuring a silent entry.

The moment of truth arrived, Anakin lifted the window just a hair to test it. Finding it whisper quiet despite its age as he opened it and stepped inside.

The interior of the home was just as you’d expect, family pictures, a fridge covered in cards and handwritten reminders. An obscene amount of carved wooden trinkets and the forever mysterious wooden fruit that seemed to adorn the tables of many an old folks homes. Apples and roosters strewn about the space in the form of paintings, lampshades and oddly detailed itchy blankets.

A gorgeous abalone jewelry dish held a silver pendant, trapped beneath was an intricate lace cover that seemed to be made specifically for the coffee table they rested on. Upon closer inspection Anakin determined that it was tailor made. Gloria Anne Nelson must’ve been a talented craftswomen, the quality of work was amazing.

Alan’s display of his wife’s work, her jewelry dish and her favorite engraved pendant… he’d made an altar for her and probably didn’t even realize it. He’d even placed a tall, thick white candle next to the abalone dish. It left Anakin with a lump in his throat, imagining the horrible loneliness this man must feel.

He stood up from his crouched position and took a breath, smoothing his shirt to iron out his emotions. There would be time for proper mourning and reflection later.

He walked toward the short hall that housed Alan’s bed room and bathroom, but stopped short when something on the wall caught his attention.

A calendar depicting a summertime scene of a lake and a small fishing boat was tacked to the wall above the dock for his home phone, a small note pad and pen resting beside it.

A small smile turning the corner of his lip, the sight bringing a fond memory of his grandmother keeping a set-up very similar to this. Must be a universal old person habit.

He stepped closer to read the writing in the small squares and came to the realization that this calendar was not up to date. This calendar was from 2013, ten years ago.

Anakin knew from his deep dive into the Nelson’s life that Gloria had passed on July 16th, but he didn’t realize that July 4th was the anniversary of Gloria and Alan’s first kiss.

She’d kept up with that anniversary for the entirety of 53 years. Poetic.

He took a look around the kitchenette and living room again. Really and truly looking this time, not just glazing over the bigger items, the things that caught his eye. This time he looked at the in between.

He wished he hadn’t. He wished he hadn’t cared enough to pay attention, it was something he’d never forget, an achievement he’d strive for for the rest of his life.

Alan’s home was a shrine.

A neatly kept time capsule full of warmth and fondness. It oozed from the very walls of the space. Gloria had never stepped foot in this space, but she dominated every inch of it. Her devoted husband had rebuilt his life in her image, even in death he worshipped her just as Anakin worshipped you.

A heavy weight settled in Anakin’s heart, this was the right choice. This confirmed it.

He quietly entered the bedroom, Alan’s C-PAP machine humming with a rhythmic flow of air, in, *scish*, *puftk*, out. It was soothing in a strange way, or maybe it was just a relief from the suffocating silence that compressed Anakin’s lungs when he was absorbing the space past the door.

He kneeled at the edge of the bed, pulling a small tube of lidocaine from his jacket hoodie pocket, along with a pair of gloves that he quickly donned. Wincing at the snap of the latex against his sweating palms, but the man continued his peaceful slumber, unaware that it would be his last.

He lifted the corner of the blanket and grimaced as he placed a small dollop of the cream via his index finger between Alan’s fourth and fifth toes. He didn’t even flinch.

Anakin kept the time on his watch and waited until the ointment did it’s job to numb the tender flesh. Fishing a small needle meant for insulin injections from a ziploc bag in pocket. Drawing a bit of air into barrel before carefully pricking the soft skin, holding his breath as his victim twitched.

When he stilled Anakin gently pushed the plunger and created a pocket of air in a vein that would soon end this poor souls life on earth. He withdrew the needle and stored it and the gloves in the ziploc bag, returning the blanket to its previous position.

He should’ve left then, but morbid curiosity had a tight hand around his wrist. Urging him to stay and wait out this event to its completion. So he tugged up his hood and stood motionless.

No one should be alone in their last moments. The least Anakin could do is provide silent support from the darkened corner. He counted the seconds on his watch until the man’s fingers twitched and his throat visibly tightened as a gurgled ball of air left his lungs. His eyes opened, wide and terrified as his body acted of its on volition.

Wrinkled hands weakly pawing at the C-PAP that was fitted over his head, Anakin watched his chest heave and collapse rapidly, the swell of his ribcage caving in on itself with each labored breath.

He’d heard of the ‘death rattle’ before but had never considered it to be anything other than a wives tale, until now. Alan’s choked coughs and gasping breaths reverberated in his chest and rolled up the stretch of his esophagus, coming out in a groan muffled by his lolled tongue.

He brought his fist to his chest in weak thumps, while his other reached over the side of the bed in the general vicinity of the night stand. It’s incredible what the human brain is capable of during such critical moments of stress. Anakin watch with a fascination that went beyond curiosity, wondering how the hell this guy was aware enough to try to grab the phone laying there.

Alan let his head fall to the side and his fading eyes blurred, but didn’t miss Anakin’s figure. To him, he was just a silhouette of midnight black. For some reason Anakin noticed a bit of the fear leave Alan’s tired eyes, softening as though he was accepting his quickly approaching end.

He stopped struggling, stopped reaching for the phone and instead held out a shaking hand to Anakin as though he wanted him to take it.

What kind of monster would deny a dying man?

He stepped forward on silent feet until he clasped the man’s wrist and felt his weak grip on his. The leathery skin was clammy, sickly to the touch and it made Anakin’s stomach churn.

“Death?” A small creaking attempt at the word eeked out of Alan’s lips.

“Yes sir.” Anakin responded. Was it true? No. But was it a lie? Also no. He was and he wasn’t.

“A-about…” the old man heaved, spittle flying from his mouth. “About damn time.”

Anakin was usually quick on his feet with his quips but this man’s nonchalant attitude, his welcoming of his fate was unexpected.

“Sorry Mr. Nelson.” He chuckled. “I’m a very busy man.”

He laughed. A rare occasion if not the only occasion that someone’s dying breath was a laugh. Anakin’s brow pinched together, wetting his lips with his tongue before chewing the inside of his cheek as he watched the life drain from his eyes.

Once his hand went slack and limp Anakin gently laid it across his chest, checked for a pulse and found none. He patted the old man’s shoulder and turned to exit the room, he didn’t look back and he didn’t take another breath until he set foot on the fire escape and the window was shut. Making quick work of closing the clasp and reassembling the metal frame.

He took a shaky breath and checked his watch. Bewildered by the passing of time. He literally couldn’t comprehend it, pulling out his phone to confirm. The times were indeed matching.

Three minutes and 57 seconds.

He was only inside for three minutes and 57 seconds. He felt like hours of his life had flown by, he felt both aged and more alive than he’d ever been. The only thing he could compare this feeling to was… the feeling he got because of you.

He’d done a good thing.

Alan said so himself, the man was ready, beyond ready to embrace death. Anakin had done him a favor by taking his life returning his soul to his soulmate.

It gave him a warm feeling in his chest. He thought maybe he would feel sick, he almost did, until he didn’t. He decided not to question his contentment, instead pocketing it to tuck away in the recess of his mind that he stored his more unhealthy thoughts and experiences in.

He liked that about himself, his ability to compartmentalize at will. He liked to be neat and tidy, it was only natural that his mind mirror that. He knew that it was just his mind’s creation; his mind didn’t really look like a neat room of filing cabinets.

He had one for childhood memories, one for his favorite happy memories, one for his mother, one for his friends, one for his work life, one for his home life. But the two most important things housed in the confines of his skull were the golden pedestal holding the beautifully crafted, one of a kind ceramic vase he poured his love for you into; and The Pit.

He didn’t like The Pit. His inner self kindly transported the things that belonged there via a lockbox and unceremoniously tossed it over the edge at a safe distance. Even the figment of his imagination in this scenario was too afraid to peer over the edge of the chasm. He’d never heard anything hit the bottom, if he got too close he would fall, and fall, and fall, and fall, and fall for eternity.

Then what would you do? Suffer through a sad existence like poor Mr. Nelson?

No. He can’t let that happen. He won’t let that happen. You’re to precious, too pure, too good to experience anything but radiant joy.

He breathed in relief as he found himself suddenly outside his front door, he’d traveled on autopilot.

He showered and tucked himself into bed, exhausted and drained emotionally. But not too much, not enough that he could neglect his duties. He checked the tracker on his phone, pleaded to see that you were abiding by your unspoken agreed upon curfew. Home before 2:00am. Always.

It was only 12:30. Good job princess.

He waited, following the little blue dot to the larger red one and switched over to the live camera feed and witnessed you chatting happily on your phone as you trotted up the stairs.

He thanked his past self from this morning and grabbed the laptop from his nightstand and patiently waited for the mirror image of your phone updated.

Luke. It was just Luke making sure you got home safe; maybe Luke wasn’t too bad after all. He wasn’t a threat to Anakin in anyway and he was concerned with your well-being. Not as much himself of course but enough that Anakin could throw a smidgen of respect his way, it’s nice to know he already has something in common with your best friend.

He did his routine night-time walk through of your device, seeing that you’d turned on your alarms for the next day already. He smiled fondly, his sleepy girl.

He turned up the sound on your bedroom camera, plugging up his phone and putting the laptop on the night stand. He placed his phone next to his head and listened to your breathing slow and relax.

He loved this. Sleeping with the sound of your soft snores and mumbled sleepy words. It was an intimacy that he craved to manifest into the flesh world.

Soon he would.

Someone please tell me that if you’ve waitressed/known a waitress who’s done shit like that?? If not I just told on myself for being a big fat liar.

Part Four

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[jadeylovesmarvelxo]

a best friends to lovers trope with eddie where he goes to reader about every date, hookup etc for her advice which she sadly provides. that is until she sets a boundary with the excuse that she’s tired of constantly helping him like this (but also because she’s in love with him and it hurts)

happy ending please (or not) do what you want and i hope this helps 🩷🩷

May I request a fluffy Eddie piece where reader had a long day and she quite literally collapses in Eddie's lap cause she's so tired, and her head is in his lap and he's stroking her hair cause he's so in love with her??

Combined these two requests because I thought it would be cute. You'll see ❤️🥰

Request by anon.

❤️

"Do you think Sammy will like this shirt?" Eddie asks worriedly. He's holding up another band shirt and you nod, feeling the familiar ache inside of you.

It happens every time Eddie has a date. To Eddie you were his official advice giver, he asked you for help with every date he had and it ranged anywhere from what to wear, to what flowers he was to get, to kissing etiquette on a first date.

Dutifully you answered every query and worry but over the last few months, it has been tiring. It's been difficult to separate your feelings for Eddie and act like him going on dates isn't killing you inside.

The pressure was too much and you can't hear any more about Sammy or Tina or Anna or whoever he's dated in the past couple of months. You don't want to be selfish as he's your best friend but if you don't say something then you'll just get even more upset and withdrawn inside.

"Eddie, stop. Stop please I can't do this anymore. We need to have some boundaries" Eddie stills and gazes at you stunned. He literally looks like a deer in headlights and you feel so bad but this has to be done.

"What's wrong princess?" he sounds so concerned and your heart aches even more that you have to do this.

"I'm so in love with you and I can't do this anymore, I can't. It's killing me inside because I so desperately want to be with you but you don't feel the same and I have to hear about all of your dates when I know you would never feel that way about me, ever"

It all comes out in a big rush and by the time you've taken a breath, Eddie looks stunned.

"Uh, I... Shit" he gasps out and you feel absolutely humiliated. Fuck. What if you've ruined everything with Eddie.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I have to go" you rush out before he can say anything else.

❤️

You're going to stay in your room forever and not see anyone. It's the only way that you could get over confessing your biggest secret.

Now Eddie would be on his date and what if he had a problem and felt like he couldn't turn to you because you made everything so awkward. So you were staying right here and hopefully after some time everything would be okay.

You would face Eddie tomorrow. Unfortunately for you Eddie has other plans. There's a knock on your window and Eddie is sitting outside on the slate of your roof.

Panicking that he might fall you rush to get the door open and he tumbles inside. He gets to his feet and smiles impishly, all dimples. God you loved him.

"Hi Eddie, uh how was the date?" Oh real smooth you idiot. Ask him that after you blew up at him. Eddie blushes and ducks his head shyly.

"There was no date, sweetheart, I've been thinking about what you said and I can't believe that the girl of my dreams is in love with me"

"Sweetheart, I never thought you'd ever be interested in me. So I dated and shit, hoped I'd forget you but that's impossible" he caresses your cheek and rests his forehead against yours.

When his lips meet yours for your first kiss, you feel like you're in heaven, you can't believe that this is happening.

"Would have saved a lot of heartache if you just told me that Eddie" you point out and his cheeks darken.

"I know princess but if you give me a chance then I will make it up to you, I promise. What do you say?"

Pleased you nod, "Okay" he's beaming at this point and presses his lips you yours again.

"Get ready for Eddie Munson's guide to wooing, will sweep you off your feet baby" he winks and you roll your eyes giggling at his antics. Idiot.

But now he was your loveable idiot.

❤️

Six months later

Geez you were so tired. It had been a busy day at Family Video and you were so tired, like you could barely keep your eyes open because you were so sleepy.

Some of the customers had been trying on your patience today and you had a headache on top of being so tired.

Steve had dropped you off at Eddie's and all you wanted to do was cuddle up with your adorable boyfriend. Eddie cuddles healed all (at least in your opinion)

When you head inside and straight to Eddie's room he's waiting up for you and pats his knee so you collapse on it and feel the tension leave your body for the first time today.

"Ugh, today was shit" you moan as Eddie softly strokes your hair, his big brown eyes gaze down at you lovingly. The love in his eyes always took your breath away, you couldn't believe that Eddie loved you this much.

It mirrored how much you loved and adored him.

"Oh, my princess, you want me to run you a bath? We could watch The Princess Bride and eat the cookies that Max baked for us?" that sounds so nice but for now you just want Eddie to hold you.

"In a bit babe, can we just stay like this for a little bit longer" he agrees with this and continues stroking your hair softly.

"As you wish"

❤️