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silent-stories · 9 months ago

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𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 - 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x reader

Series summary: When Noah was left alone to take care of his daughter about two years ago, he never thought he would find someone else he would trust enough to include in his little family. But things can change.

Tw: parent abandoning their child, fluff, angst

Series masterlist

The afternoon sun filtered through the living room window and cast a swath of gold over Noah's house. You were sitting crossed-legged on the couch, watching Luna play silently, her small hands precisely set her favorite toys in a small, neat row, where Mr. Flop, her favorite bunny, had proudly taken the central point, guiding whatever game was in her head.

You smiled at her concentration, something warm blooming in your chest.

She was a perfect blend of Noah's features, a mirror image of him in her own way. She had his warm, deep brown eyes with his same subtle almond shape, dark hair, with a way chubbier face.

Noah leaned against the counter in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee. Some brown locks fell over his eyes as they darted between you and his daughter in quiet contemplation and hesitation.

You could tell something was on his mind. It had been incredible between you and Noah in the past few months, but there was one part of his life he'd held carefully at arm's length: Luna.

That wasn't because he didn't trust you, you knew that. It was deeper than that, more complicated. He was protective of her in a way hard to explain unless you knew the full story, which he had only recently begun sharing with you.

It had been late one night, just the two of you curled up on his couch after Luna had gone to bed, when Noah first opened up about the relationship with his ex. In the beginning, it had been passionate-whirlwind-type love, felt like the kind that could move mountains.

But once Luna was born, everything shifted. She was never ready for the reality of being a mother, and slowly but surely, it dawned on him that with each passing day, she actually resented it. Noah tried to understand her, tried to support her in whatever way he could, but nothing seemed to help. The more he tried, the more she pulled away.

One night, Noah had come home to an empty house. No note, no explanation, just Luna, not even a year old yet, lying in her crib, and complete silence in every room. His ex was gone, had walked out on both of them, and though Noah tried to reach out, tried to get her to come back, she never did.

From that moment on, he'd vowed to protect Luna from anything or anyone that might hurt her. Or perhaps that was his way to protect himself, too.

You both were up late, the only sound in his living room coming from a small lamp in the corner of the room, its dim light.

Noah was sitting next to you on the couch, his back hunched and his elbows to his knees as he stared into the floor for thought collection. You knew he had been carrying something heavy in his head for quite some time.

"I never thought that I'd ever be a single parent," he said gruffly, as though the words hurt him to utter. "But then again, after what happened …I don't really see my life in any other way anymore. She is everything to me."

He stopped, rubbing a hand over his face, and in those eyes you could almost see his tiredness, not physical, but an emotional toll, when one carries so much on his shoulders alone. You said nothing, just let him work through the words at his own pace. You could feel his vulnerability hang between you like some fragile thing he was just willing to show you.

"I didn't have time to process what happened," Noah whispered. "One day I'm in this relationship and we're trying to make it work for Luna, and the next… she's gone. Just like that. I came home and she'd left. No explanation. No good-bye."

Your heart ached with the pain in his tone, even now raw with emotion.

“I didn’t know what the hell I was doing,”, he admitted, shaking his head. Just like that, it was him and Luna against the world.

"I was fucking terrified" he said, the corner of his lip curling up in a self-deprecating smile. "I had to figure out how to be a dad by myself, how to balance that with the band, how to be there for her when I was barely holding it together myself."

He glanced up at you then, his eyes warm with appreciation and a little fear. "She's the reason I'm so careful, you know? With relationships, with people in general. I don't ever want to bring someone into her life unless I am really sure."

He paused, his throat swallowing hard as his eyes drop once again to the floor. You could tell there was more he wanted to say, but it was hard for him to speak.

"I'm scared that…," he started, then had to force himself to continue, his voice faltering. "I'm scared that you're mad at me. Or disappointed, maybe. That I'm taking things too slow with you. That I haven't fully… let you in yet. It's not because I don't care about you, because I do. A lot. It's just—"

"Noah," you said softly, leaning in closer to him. "I'm not mad. I'm not disappointed. I get it, why you want to be careful. It's okay."

His eyes finally met yours, surprise flickering in them. He had been so consumed by his fear of messing things up that it hadn't occurred to him you might actually understand where he was coming from.

"You've been through much," you went on, your voice soft but clear. "And I get why you'd want to protect Luna. I'd be more concerned if you were being anything less than careful, honestly. It says how much you love her, and how much you want to do right by her. And I respect that, Noah. I'm not going anywhere."

He blinked, like he was trying to absorb what you were saying, his shoulders loosening as your words soaked in. You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. His hand closed around yours, clasping at it like he was holding onto something solid for the first time in a long while.

"I can wait," you said with an even voice. "You need more time, I'm waiting. I do care for you, for both of you. And I don't want to make anything if you are not ready yet. What matters to me is that we're moving forward, even if it's slow."

Noah's breath slightly caught, emotion swelling up in his eyes as he continued to carry that weight for such a long time, terrified that by taking things slow, he was pushing you away, when all you wanted was to meet him where he was.

"I don't know how to do that," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I've been so scared of screwing this up, of screwing us up. But you… you've just been there."

You smiled softly and squeezed his hand. "You've been hurt, Noah. And it takes time to heal from that. I'm not here to hurry you or push you into something that you're not ready for. I am here because I care about you. And I care about Luna. I want you only to know that I'm in this for the long haul whenever you're ready."

He breathed shakily, his forehead leaning forward to rest against yours while his hand remained tightly wrapped around yours. You could feel the tension start to seep from him, replaced by a silent sort of relief that he didn't have to bear the burden of his fears alone anymore.

"Thank you." he whispered, his voice full of gratitude. "For understanding. For being… you."

You pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, silently communicating that he had nothing to thank you for, that this was where you wished to be.

You saw Noah in all his completeness: a good father, a man who had been wounded but kept trying, learning how to trust once more. You were more than ready to wait for him to fully open up that part of his heart.

You sat in that silence, the weight of the past there still, yet lighter now. You knew Noah still had a really long way to go before letting go of all the pain he had been carrying with him, but you knew he was on his way. You would be here every step of the way, to build something real, something lasting, with him and with Luna.

Now, months after you and Noah had started dating, you were sitting in the middle of that guarded space he had created around her.

Now you knew why he was being so careful, why he had not pushed for more interaction between you and Luna.

She meant the world to him, and after all she had been through, he would never risk anything that could disrupt her life. But still, you waited. You had cared for Noah, and by that extension already cared for Luna, too. So you gave him the time he needed to let you in.

Today, though, there was something different in the air, something to let you know Noah was about to take a step forward.

"Hey," Noah finally said, breaking the comfortable silence that had overcome the room. He set his coffee cup down and rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous quirk you'd come to know well. "Can I ask you a favor?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Of course. What's up?"

He turned to Luna, still deep in her toys, and back to you again. He paused a beat, you basically saw the cogs turning as he picked his words with all care.

"The band's got a thing later today, just some planning stuff for the new album. I was supposed to go meet the guys, but…" He trailed off, gesturing toward Luna with a helpless look. "Usually, I ask one of them, but they are all busy today."

You chuckled softly at that, imagining Luna in the hands of Noah’s bandmates. As much as they loved her, you knew they weren’t exactly all equipped for child care even if you were sure they all deeply cared about her.

"So… you want me to stay with her?"

Noah nodded, his expression softening as he met your gaze. "Yeah. If you're okay with it. I mean, I know it's last minute and I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, but—"

"Noah," you interrupted softly, standing up and walking over to him. You reached out, resting your hand on his arm. "It's okay. I'd love to stay with her."

He exhaled, the relief washing over his features, but there was still that damned hesitation in his eyes. You knew how big of a deal this was for him, trusting someone with Luna, especially after everything he'd been through.

"Are you sure?" he asked more quietly now. "I mean, she's really shy, with most people and with you too, and I don't want any of you to feel uncomfortable."

You smiled, leaning up to press a kiss against his cheek. "I'll be fine. We'll be fine. She just needs time, that's all. And I think she got her shyness from her dad."

Noah closed his eyes for a second, his head slightly leaned into your touch before pressing a gentle kiss against your forehead. When he pulled back, his eyes were different, warm and a deep well of silent appreciation.

"Thank you," he whispered. "This… this means so much."

Now, you were sitting on the floor, after Noah had gone off to his band meeting. At first, Luna had been quiet, keeping to herself to play with her toys, but bit by bit, she'd started to warm up toward you, like you'd wanted.

You leaned forward for Mr. Flop, the stuffed bunny, and held him out to her with a playing grin. "You think Mr. Flop needs some tea?"

Luna's eyes sparkled, a shy smile overspreading her face as she nodded vigorously. "Yes! He is very thirsty."

You laughed softly, watching her scurry over to her tiny plastic tea set. She first poured an imaginary cup of tea for Mr. Flop and then one for you. As she handed you the pretend tea, your heart swelled with affection for this little girl who was letting you into her world slowly, piece by piece.

"Thanks, Luna," he said, making a big show of taking a sip. "This is the best tea I've ever had."

She giggled, her cheeks blushing with pride. For several moments, the two of you played in comfortable silence, with her showing you through the rules of the tea party.

"You think Mr. Flop would like to go on an adventure?" you asked after some time, breaking the silence as Luna finished pouring more imaginary tea.

With eyes aglow with excitement, she said, "Yes! He loves adventures!"

"Okay, where shall we go?" you asked, leaning in conspiratorially.

Luna tapped her chin, and then a huge grin spread over her face. "The jungle! I love jungle! Dad loves jungle too! We have to find the lost treasure!"

You gasped melodramatically. "The jungle? Wait. Noah made you listen...nevermind. That does sound dangerous! You think we can make it?"

She laughed again, her head bobbing up and down quickly. "We can do it! Mr. Flop is very brave."

And then you both launched into your make-believe jungle adventure. The shyness had left Luna by now, replaced by a bubbly, fearless energy that took your heart soaring.

The front door creaked open a couple of hours later when Noah returned home, but you didn't notice him first, too caught up in the game with Luna sitting next to you on the floor.

Noah stood in the doorway, watching the both of you, and his heart swelled in his chest. He had always known you were special, knew from the moment he met you that there was something different about you, but seeing you now, playing with Luna, made him feel something he hadn't felt in years.

Love, not just for you, but for the idea of you becoming a part of him and Luna's lives in a deeper way.

When you finally saw him standing there, you smiled. "Hey, you're back!" you said. Noah nodded, stepping closer, his eyes soft. "Yeah, I'm back."

Luna ran to him and wrapped her arms around his legs as he scooped her up, holding her close to his chest for a moment before turning back to you. "You two seemed to have fun."

Noah had Luna in his arms, babbly excitedly about some "jungle adventure" and lost treasure. He listened intently, though his eyes never left you. There was something there in his gaze, something so raw and deep, that made your heart go racing. It wasn't the usual softness, the usual affection, it was heavier, like something nestled between you when nothing was said.

"We did," you said, smiling at Luna as she continued her excited recount of the day. "We found the lost treasure, and Mr. Flop was the hero of the day."

Luna giggled, snuggling into Noah's chest as she added her own details. "We were very brave, Daddy! Mr. Flop was so good at being quiet, and we didn't get eaten!"

Noah chuckled, brushing a hand through her hair as he kissed her forehead. "Sounds like you had quite the adventure."

"Yes! We had a lot of fun. And your friend is amazing. I want to play with her again. I think she is my friend too now."

Noah smiled, his brown eyes full of affection for the both of you. "I'm glad you made a new friend. We'll ask her again, okay?"

Luna nodded, her eyelids drooping as the excitement of the day finally started to catch up with her and she rested her head against the soft fabric of his dad's hoodie. Noah glanced at you over her head, a soft smile tugging at his lips once again.

"Would you like to help me get her ready for bed?" he whispered, and with Luna nuzzling her head into the crook of his shoulder, half-asleep.

You nodded, and your heart fluttered with the thought. This felt like some sort of minor but meaningful step in being included in the nighttime routine, part of something as personal and intimate as this.

All three went into Luna's room together. It was not a big room, but it was cozy with soft toys, bookshelves, and a little carpet that glittered from strings of tiny fairy lights.

Noah was soon to gently lay Luna down into her bed, and you sat down beside him, watching as he tucked her in, his hands moving with the sort of practiced ease that came from more than two years of being a single parent. You leaned over, setting Mr. Flop down beside Luna, who smiled sleepily as she cuddled the bunny close.

Noah leaned over her, placing a gentle kiss against her forehead with tenderness that would ache your chest. "Goodnight, sweetheart," he whispered into her hair. "I'll be right outside if you need me."

"Goodnight, daddy," she muttered the tone in her voice drowsy. Then her tiny eyes flickered open just enough to glance at you. "Goodnight Y/N."

You smiled warmly, your heart swelling in the simplest of words. "Goodnight, Luna."

After several minutes of quiet whispers and soothing reassurances, she fell asleep, her breathing evening into the quiet rhythm of her sleep. Noah leaned forward and pressed another soft kiss to her forehead before he eased himself up, motioning you to follow him from the room.

As the door is shut quietly behind you, he let out a very, very long breath, running his hand through his hair, leaning against the wall.

"Thanks," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "For sticking with her. For being so… incredible with her."

You shrugged. "She's a pretty amazing kid. It wasn't hard."

Noah turned fully toward you now, his eyes searching yours with a sort of intensity that hitched your breath. His hand rose and delicately swept a strand of hair back behind your ear, where it lingered on the side of your face. His thumb tracing the line of your jaw sent you leaning into his touch, your heart beating with each passed second a little faster.

"I never knew whether I would find anybody that could fit in this part of my life," he whispered, his voice not a decibel over a whisper. "With Luna, after what happened… I felt I needed to keep her world small, you know? Keep it safe. I didn't want to bring someone in that might hurt her."

His eyes welled with that same vulnerability you had seen before, and you knew how hard this was for him, to open up, to let you into this part of his life he had guarded so much.

"You don't have to worry about that," you said softly, laying your hand over his. "I would never hurt her. Or you."

Noe's thumb stroked over your cheek, his eyes sealing to yours in an tight seriousness, as if you were the only person existing. "I know. That's why I love you."

The words hung between you and him, heavy with tension. You couldn't breathe for a second, heart pounding in your chest as you tried processing what he just said. He loved you.

You hadn't expected it, not so soon, not in that moment, but the way he looked at you, the way he had been with Luna, it made sense. It wasn't just the two of them anymore; it was all three, the small family that had formed.

A soft smile overspreads your face as you looked up at him, your hand clenching a little tighter around his. "I love you too, Noah."

The relief in his expression was genuine, and for him at least, it was as though the weight had finally been pulled off his shoulders. He pulled you into his arms, and you wrapped yours around him, holding close as he buried his face in your hair, breathing you in like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And for a long time, neither of them said anything. They only stood there with each other, wrapped in their own warmth, and the silence just told it all.

Then Noah leaned back, just a little, just enough to look down at you. And then his eyes were deeper and surer.

"I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't met you," he whispered huskily. "I don't think I even knew how much I needed someone like you, not just for me but for Luna, too."

You reached up and brushed a thumb over his cheek. "You're an amazing dad, Noah. You've done everything right for her. But you don't have to do it alone anymore."

He closed his eyes, like almost to let your words sink in. Opening them a second later, there was something soft, something vulnerable, that made you want to pull him closer still.

"I don't want to do it alone anymore," he whispered with his forehead against yours. "I want this. Us. You and me, and Luna. I want a family."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you nodded, your voice barely louder than a whisper. "Me too."

Noah's arms tugged closer, his lips finding yours in a gentle unhurried kiss that felt almost like a vow, like a start, the type of kiss that spoke of love, of trust, of a future that finally was starting to feel real.

He drew back and his eyes shone bright now with a happiness in them that hadn't been there before. He reached down, took your hand in his, and guided you back onto the couch. You sat together in the quiet glow of the livingroom.

You knew you would have one of those movie nights where you definitely fall asleep in his arms on the couch.

Noah for once in a long while felt something he hadn't dared to believe in, peace. Peace in knowing that he didn't have to protect himself and Luna anymore. Peace in knowing he was finally able to let you in, fully without any fear.

You sat there, his arm around you, knowing this was only the beginning of something beautiful: a life no more his or yours, but one which both of you had started building together.

hello friends in my phone! would you like more parts of this? (｡◕‿◕｡)

Tags: @anything-more-than-human @ladyveronikawrites @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @fadingangelwisp @xmads-omensx @iwasntstable @thisbicc @pathion @mathfairchild1 @flowery-mess @into-the-grey @lma1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @stardustsirenmelody @thewrstinme

TBAF Tags: @aubrey-melinoe

#noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfiction #bad omens #noah sebastian #bad omens x reader #bad omens fanfiction #tbaf #to build a family #x reader

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prentissluvr · 1 year ago

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take my breath away — sam winchester

pairing : sam winchester x gn!reader ➖⟢ genre : angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ➖⟢ cw : features dean x reader (platonic), near death experience, suffocation, other canon violence and death, injuries, blood mention, swearing, so much pining, case fic, stereotypical witch, (not) unrequited love, petty fights/arguments, petty sam, kissing, crying, guilt, reader vaguely implied to be shorter than sam, pet names, food mentions, (baby, honey - from sam, darlin'/kiddo from dean), no use of y/n, mentions of end of season 2-4 spoilers, poorly edited, lmk if i missed something! ➖⟢ wc : 13.7K summary : because of an unexpected witch's curse, it's almost too late for you and sam to confess your feelings to each other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“would you mind if i used your restroom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“maybe he was cheating?” you suggest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i’m sure,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

“dammit,” you and sam swear in unison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yes?” you respond as an officer approaches.

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

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

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

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

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

“you’re not okay, are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“like what?” he presses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“whatever you say,” dean shrugs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

finally, you find it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“please…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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thewinter-eden · 6 months ago

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Don't Look At Me Like That

images are mine (except middle HH pic that I got from pinterest). please do not use without permission. ATE pcs are my inspo for this series.

part 4 of the skz crack!horror series (this concludes the Hyung Line).

pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: hitman!Hyunjin’s next target is you, the child of a foreign diplomat. But when he shows up to do the job and finds you ambivalent to the threat upon your life, he can’t help but ask what the hell is wrong with you.

warnings: Terminal illness, smoking, asshole family, political family, angst, unrealistic trust fund, drugs, implications of overdose, implications of involuntary overdose, assault, discussion of surgery, depictions of cysts/tumors, USD instead of Korean Won, Gossip Girl reference, some language, kidnapping.

word count: 6k

Comment a request to be tagged.

series info PART 2 INFO

The first igniting drags of your cigarette feel like a second glass of wine. For a second, you’re lighter than air and the world tips on its axis.

Your family hates your penchant for cigarettes. They call you disgusting; unhygienic; stupid.

Although, In a way, your literal toxic trait has actually strengthened your personal hygiene—a rigorous unskippable skincare routine, to fight the weathering of your face, expensive and regular dental care to prevent the yellowing of teeth, your hands under a constant layer of hand sanitizer and scented perfume to combat the clinging stench of smoke, every surface of your bedroom cleaned daily and your laundry crisply pressed and regularly washed—just because you’re a shameless human chimney doesn’t mean you intend to wear the grime of cigarette smoke as an accessory.

Not that any of that matters anymore.

You take another drag and feel your body settle into the familiar rhythm. In front of you, on the other side of your glass cage (read: bedroom window) the city stretches out in front of you, lights poking holes in the blanket of darkness that covers it.

The clock reads 6 PM.

Lifting one hand, tapping a black-polished nail against the glass, watching your arm tremble, you give a resigned sigh and blow a puff of smoke through the opening. The plume rises and disperses into the atmosphere, vanishing before your eyes.

You finish your cigarette and crush the filter into your ash tray, yanking the curtains closed. The next few minutes are muscle memory—shrugging out of your robe, spritzing it with vodka to remove the smoke smell, exfoliating your hands and arms with a sugar scrub, brushing and whitening your teeth, covering yourself head to toe in moisturizer.

All for the sake of appearances.

When you close yourself into the bathroom to change half an hour later, all you smell is coffee from the sugar scrub and the sickly sweet aroma of your flowery lotion.

“You’re coming, right?” Your best friend Lisa’s voice booms through the phone, the sound of pounding music and raucous laughter filling the background.

You’re already dressed, brushing excess highlighter and powder off your face as you stand before your mirror. “Of course I’m coming, I promised you I would. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” You take a second to check your watch.

Lisa had made plans with you to meet at the party at 8, but she always arrives early enough to be four or five drinks ahead by the time you show up. This inevitably leads to her finding someone to spend an hour in the closest lockable room with and you calling your dad’s driver to take you home.

It’s not that you don’t ever want a hook up or a boyfriend or anything, it’s just that you’re the seventeen-year-old daughter of a politician and you have rules.

You can’t be out after 11, you can’t be seen with mile-deep cleavage or thigh-high hems, and you certainly can’t be drunk in public—especially as a minor. So you smooth the fabric of the just barely appropriate outfit you’ve chosen and check your reflection one last time.

It takes a second to convince yourself that the heaviness of your eyes isn’t because of your dark liner, that the dullness in your expression isn’t obvious.

“Well hurry on over. I’ve found someone you just have to meet.”

When you arrive, you’re wading through a house that’s teeming with high schoolers, the walls reverberating with pounding music. You find Lisa near the kitchen, one arm slung around the neck of one of her friends, the other hand clutching a plastic cup.

When her eyes land on you, she all but screeches your name over the clamor and reaches for you. The girl that she was just leaning on takes the opportunity to pull away and stretch her arms upward, trying to correct the awkward hunch that Lisa had put her in. She shoots you a grateful smile and disappears into the crowd, looking for her boyfriend.

Lisa’s in your face in the next second, her breath already reeking. She catches you in a tight, sloppy hug, the contents of her cup splashing your shoulder as she trips. “I’m so glad you’re here,” She says, and if her body language says drunk, her voice certainly doesn’t. Her lipstick is smeared and she’s staggering a little but her voice is crisp and sharp. “I was worried you’d change your mind again.”

She runs a hand up the back of your neck and playfully squeezes the knot of your hair that you’ve taken the time to elegantly pin.

It’s a ritual at this point.

You have the worst habits—smoking and drinking and slipping your curfew after everyone’s asleep—but you don’t go anywhere without a Princess Grace-like appearance. Because it doesn’t matter what you do as long as you’re not shitfaced on the front page the next morning. Even if you’ve snuck out at night to meet a boyfriend, when the cameras catch you on the streets you’re perfectly coiffed and sleekly styled.

Even now, you don’t look like you’re dressed for a high school party so much as a cocktail one, but Lisa tells you it makes you look more like Blair Waldorf than the homeschooler you’re always worried you emulate.

You push her hand out of your hair and check to make sure the pins haven’t come out. “Did you get me one of those?” You nod towards the cup in her hand and her eyes light up.

She nods towards the kitchen. “I got you, babe, come with me.”

You follow her, one hand reaching for her hip to steady her when she falls off one of her high heels, and then you’re in the kitchen and the noise of the party is muffled behind the heavy swinging door.

There’s one other person in the room with you, a tall, slender guy near the sink, shoulders hunched slightly as he gazes out the window. You’re still trailing after Lisa, but your eyes are taking in the long black hair that the guy has pulled back in a half pony, the slim-cut jacket with the sleeves pushed up past his elbows, the ripped jeans that cinch at his small waist and hang loosely around his legs.

When the two of you enter, his head turns, and you see the sharpness of his jaw, the definition of his features. There’s a flutter in your chest when his dark eyes land on you, and you whip your head away, crowding yourself behind Lisa.

She’s crushing something with a spoon, dumping it in the cup she’s just poured for you. Then she spins on one heel—surprisingly stable as she does—and passes it to you. “Here.”

You stare at the powder floating on top, and then back at her. “What did you put in this?”

“Nothing heavy.” She assures you, and knocks back a couple of the tablets herself. “Just something to take the edge off. Go ahead.”

It doesn’t matter anyway.

You drink, sucking in the yeasty beer with fervor, trying your hardest not to taste it as it goes down. Before you can finish the cup, Lisa catches your arm and turns you towards the man at the window. She introduces you without giving you a chance to question her, and tells you his name is Hyunjin—the guy she wanted you to meet.

He turns to you fully, eyes tracing you head to toe. There’s a gentle smile on his full lips as he notices the blush that rushes to your face. “Nice to meet you,�� He says kindly. “I think I’ve seen you on TV.”

As the words reach your ears, you feel yourself growing more guarded despite the opposite effects of the alcohol. You’re used to being recognized, you’re used to being used for your dad’s fame and fortune. You’ve been burned before, and you have no intention of using this time to be manipulated again.

So you pull yourself up into a respectful posture and prepare to treat him like the occasional politically-conscious “fan” who asks you to take a picture. It doesn’t happen often, but you do tend to be popular amongst the poli-sci students at the local college.

“He’s a senior.” Lisa says, and gives you a nudge towards him. “He’s going to study art.”

Your eyes widen just slightly, and you look over Hyunjin again. At second glance, he does look the type. He’s effortlessly fashionable, quiet, reserved—at least on first impression. You extend your hand politely. “Pleasure to meet you. Are you a practitioner or a history buff?”

At your strictly professional tone, Hyunjin laughs under his breath and steps in to take your hand, enveloping it in the warmth of his own. “A little of both, I suppose. I sketch and paint. Lisa tells me you’re quite the watercolorist?”

You blush a little at the recognition of your most intimate hobby. “I play around with it a little, but it’s just for fun.” When you notice he’s still grasping your palm, you gently pull your hand back.

Lisa grips your arm again, and leans in so close that you can smell the cologne of the last boy she had her hands on. “Why don’t you two hang out a little? You’re both the same about parties, so I figured you’d get along. Cool? I’m going to go find Mingyu.”

There’s nothing you can say to make her stay, even if you could think of the words to try. So you just watch her disappear, the noise of the party warbling strangely as the door swings back and forth behind her.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Your eyes snap back to Hyunjin. “What?”

“When I said I’d seen you on TV.”

“Oh.” You pull another long sip from your drink and wince. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

“You’re standing like you’re at a press conference.” His eyes are alive with mirth as he watches you subtly try to shuffle your posture, brows lowering.

You’re coming back to yourself, your body acclimatizing to the atmosphere and whatever it was that Lisa put in your drink, your nerves no longer responding to every little glance that Hyunjin gives you. So you just shrug a shoulder and search the kitchen for your drink of choice. “I’m not uncomfortable as long as you’re not interested in some kind of fifteen minutes of fame bullshit.”

There it is.

You drain your beer as Hyunjin chuckles behind you and rinse your cup of the vile liquid, instead filling it with about four ounces of whiskey from a glass cabinet.

Hyunjin watches your movements with an eyebrow cocked. “I’m pretty sure that wasn’t meant to be a party favor.”

You nurse the drink slowly, settling into the comfort of the initial burn. “You gonna tell on me?”

He examines you again, shaking his head. “Not if you pour me one.”

You do, and then settle back against the counter. “Why come to a party if you’re going to hide in the kitchen?”

“I could ask you the same thing. Kinda surprised your dad lets you come to something like this.”

You used to be, too. Now you just huff. “As long as I’m not a scandalous headline tomorrow, he doesn’t care where I go or what I do. And I don’t usually hide in the kitchen.” It’s true, you don’t. There’s a handful of people out there that you like to talk to, a couple of them you even like to dance with if the occasion calls for it, but right now you’re not itching to leave where you’re at.

Hyunjin’s eyebrows raise as he looks at you, and he glances towards the door. “Then why—”

“Because I’m talking to you.” The confidence comes with the whiskey. The taste of it in the back of your throat distracts you from the blush you would ordinarily be fighting if you had said those words soberly to someone as attractive as Hyunjin, and right now you’re just enjoying the way his eyes crinkle and the sweet smile explodes across his face.

It’s cute.

He’s cute.

He shuffles his feet beneath him for a second, the air between you comfortable as he lets the effects of your statement fade. When the flustered state is mostly gone from his face, he glances up at you again, almost shyly. “You’re really pretty.” And then, feeling the weight of his own words as they drop off his tongue, his eyes widen and he hastens to soften their impact. “I like your earrings.”

But you just smile, watching the pink in his cheeks as he swallows a regrettably large gulp of whiskey.

“You’re really pretty, too.” You say, and his head snaps around to you.

For a long second, he just stares at you.

It’s not often that you find yourself talking to someone you want to open yourself up to, someone you like to see so flustered, but he’s so completely enchanting that you can’t take your eyes off him and you don’t want to stop saying things that make him look at you like that.

There are only so many things that you can enjoy in a life like yours, and you want to enjoy this.

Hyunjin pours you both another drink.

You’re grateful, especially because there’s a nagging part of you telling you to go outside and smoke a cigarette, so instead you bring your cup to your lips and sip. You move to reach for a bottle of lemon juice and it puts you right next to him, feeling the radiating warmth of his side as you mix your drink into a whiskey sour.

He doesn’t move away.

Out of the corner of your eyes you catch the faintest tremble of his hand, and a smirk curves your lips.

His eyes are on you as you pinch a sprinkle of sugar into the drink and then suck the granules off your thumb.

You turn slightly, so close that you don’t even have to reach to offer him your drink. “Want to try?”

His eyes flick from yours, to the drink, and back to your face. Hyunjin’s tongue appears to swipe across his lower lip, and then he nods, taking the cup from you.

You thoroughly enjoy the swirling in your stomach when his fingers brush yours.

He drinks from your cup, face scrunching slightly as he takes in the taste of it.

At the crumpling of his eyebrows, you frown, suddenly interrupted from the sense of control you feel. “You don’t like it?”

Hyunjin lowers the cup from his lips with a look of surprise, shaking his head. “I love it.” He holds it out to you. “Would you show me how you made it?”

It’s not a complicated drink, the whiskey sour.

You find yourself smirking again, and push the cup back towards him. “Keep it. I’ll make myself another one.” And you take his whiskey from him, turning to fix yourself another drink. When he just stands there, mentally processing how he somehow ended up trading drinks with you, you know you have him.

So when he edges closer, the heat of his body flooding into your skin, you’re not surprised. You keep your hands moving, your eyes on your drink, pretending you don’t notice the way he’s suddenly leaning into your side.

“You smell good,” He says lowly, and your heart does a flip.

But you play it off casually, focused on getting the lid off the lemon juice bottle. “You like it? I’m not so sure yet.”

It’s gotta be the oldest trick in the book, but he takes the opportunity like it’s a written permission slip and then his face is at the junction of your neck and shoulder, the whisper of his breath on your skin.

“I like it,” He murmurs.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him place his cup on the counter next to you, and then both of his hands settle on your arms. His touch is light, gentle, his thumbs smoothing questioning strokes against your sleeves, asking permission.

When you tilt your head to the side, exposing more of your neck to him, it’s a yes.

His lips are on your shoulder then, his fingers wrapping firmly around your arms.

Your entire body heats up.

He’s leaning into you, trailing his mouth from your shoulder to your neck, then slowly up your throat until your head is edging back, leaning against his shoulder, giving him access. Hyunjin’s hand slides up one arm, cupping the curve of your neck as he litters wet kisses across your jaw, and his other hand reaches around to cover both of yours where you realize that at some point you abandoned your efforts to make a drink.

He turns you around and you let him, throwing your head back as his mouth leaves a glistening trail across your collarbones and up your throat, moving up to suck gently at the point of your jaw beneath your ear. “I really do like your earrings.” He whispers, and you feel him flick the dangling gemstone with his tongue.

You’re trembling under his hands, and you wish you could say it’s from his highly effective ministrations, but you know it’s not. You peel your eyes open, all but panting as his arm circles your waist, pulling you closer. His forehead drops against yours, and you watch his tongue dart out to lick his lips.

“Can we move this somewhere more private?” He whispers, and then he’s sucking at your jaw on the other side, his fingers gripping the flesh at your hips.

You can’t help a laugh. “More private than the closed kitchen where it’s just us?”

“Please?” He whimpers against your throat.

You have absolutely no reason to protest. You’re nodding, aching, allowing him to push you towards the kitchen door, because this could be it. This could be your last. He’s every fantasy you’ve ever had, the absolute embodiment of beauty and seduction, and even one night with him could be everything.

What do you have to lose?

You stand to lose more by turning him down at this point.

So when his hands guide you through the living room, your ears barraged by music and laughter, your eyes assaulted by the flashes of too much skin and way too much pda, you just lean into his touch around your waist and let him find a room to duck into.

That’s how you find yourself pushed onto your back on someone’s bed, your heart in your ears as Hyunjin straddles you, his face returning to its spot against your throat, kissing his way towards your collar.

You feel his hands trail up your sides, his thumbs sweeping at the swell of your breasts, and for a second, you panic.

You’re not sure what he’ll think of you, how he’ll react to you when he finally gets his hands on you, but you can’t even worry about it for long because he’s nipping at your throat, his hands dragging your arms above your head.

Breathing in gasps, heart hammering as he laces the fingers of one hand through both of yours, trapping your hands above your head, you arch yourself into him as his free hand comes back towards his hip.

“You really are very pretty,” Hyunjin breathes into your ear, and then he presses a surprisingly chaste kiss to your cheek. “I just want you to know that.” Still holding your hands, he settles his weight back on your hips and pulls something out of his pocket.

You frown at him, chest heaving with breathlessness, confused. “What do you mean?”

Hyunjin brings his free hand back into view, now holding something cylindrical. Bringing the end of it to his mouth, prying off a plastic cap with his teeth, you can see the object as it catches the light.

A hypodermic needle, filled with something.

He spits the cap out of his mouth, eyebrows pinched in concentration. “Don’t move, angel, this doesn’t have to hurt.”

But you’re not moving, you’re just staring at the needle, trying desperately to make sense of the complete shift in atmosphere. You’re no longer trapped in a lovers’ embrace, you’re trapped. He has your hands immobilized, your lower body caught beneath his own, completely vulnerable.

He arches his body, reaching to slip the needle into a vein in your arm, and you understand.

You understand.

A deep sigh rushes out of your lungs.

You thought you’d have more time, but at this point, what does it matter?

Just before the needle pricks your flesh, Hyunjin seems to realize that you’re not fighting him at all. His eyes flick down to you, and he finds you blinking solemnly at his shoulder, not a single emotion on your face.

He pauses.

You close your eyes, suck in a deep breath, and let it out.

There’s no fear, no more surprise, no apprehension.

Just exhaustion; resignation.

It doesn’t matter. He leans in towards your arm again, angling the needle to prod your vein. You don’t even flinch as it pricks your skin, sliding into your flesh. His thumb hovers over the plunger, but doesn’t press.

He’s never had a mark just lay there.

They’ve never just…accepted it.

He glances at your face again. “Angel…do you know what’s happening right now?” You had only had a few drinks, and the flush of your face could be from the drugs or the drink or his lips on your throat, but surely you should be a little concerned by the sheer volume of what he’s about to push into your bloodstream.

“I know,” You respond flatly. “He shouldn’t have bothered, honestly, but it’s not like he knew.”

Hyunjin’s brain stutters with confusion. “He?”

“My father,” You say, and your eyes meet his. “He wasted his money, hiring you to kill me.”

Huh.

That’s not at all how he expected this to go.

“I guess he’s paying Lisa, too, since she started with the pills.” It stings, knowing your best friend would accept cash to kill you, but you also know that your father wouldn’t have offered an insignificant sum.

Whatever he’s paying Lisa will set her up for life.

“So they’ll find me, tonight or tomorrow, just another stupid teenager who tried to have too much fun, and the two of you are just the dumb high school friends to corroborate that it was just an accident. Right?”

You don’t cry, you don’t fight, you don’t yell.

He stares at you, shocked. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“You don’t seem apprehensive about killing a girl for money.”

Hyunjin’s jaw tightens. “It’s my job.”

“So you don’t go to this high school, then.” You mutter sarcastically.

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t go to any high school.” Then he catches your gaze again. “But it really is my job. It’s not like it’s personal.”

You take a second, absorbing the reality of what’s happening to you. It’s over.

It’s over.

This is it.

Forget three months.

It’s over now.

You weren’t prepared for this timeframe, but you are prepared. You have coped.

It’s not a new idea.

So you just nod. “Okay.”

It’s like he starts to lean to finish the job, and then pulls himself back. “Why did you say he shouldn’t have bothered?”

You laugh then, a loud, inelegant burst of laughter, almost directly into his chest.

He’s startled, eyes wide, leaning back on your hips to stare down at you. “Angel, I’m literally about to kill you, why the hell are you laughing? There’s no way you’re that drunk.”

And you’re not.

The sheer adrenaline of his lips on your skin burned through that alcohol what seems like hours ago, and now you’re just sinking into oblivion, still laughing.

Finally, tears of irony in your eyes, you wheeze up at him. “Go ahead and finish it, Hyunjin, or whoever you are. It doesn’t make a difference anyway. I’m alright. Finish it.” You nod upwards, towards the direction of your joined hands, and wish that the scent of his skin wasn’t still making your head swim.

It’s really not the time to be attracted to the assassin whom your father hired to murder you.

But he’s stuck, indecisive.

Because you’re laying underneath him, sniffling past a rush of humor—of all things—completely unconcerned and telling him that you’re alright with him killing you. That you’re alright with him subjecting you to a drug overdose that’s going to be painful and terrifying and the end of your life.

At this point, you seem to be more alright with it than he is.

And then you’re smiling at him. “Thanks for being nice about it.”

His heart lurches. “What the hell.” He yanks the needle out of your skin, releases your hands, and sits back on your hips again, eyes wide and unbelieving. “I mean—what the hell? What is wrong with you?”

You roll your eyes. “He must not be paying you much if you’re willing to back out just because I’m pitiful.”

Which isn’t true, he’s supposed to be paid quite a lot for this job, but he just can’t comprehend how you’re reacting.

“Why shouldn’t he have bothered?”

You’re no longer trapped except for the way he’s straddling your hips, so now you’re just laying against an uncomfortable pair of pillows, feeling the pins of your updo poking into your neck. If he’s supposed to kill you, why won’t he just do it? You search his eyes, finding only confusion and concern.

Sighing, you reach for his hand—the empty one that used to be holding both of yours against the headboard.

Oh, how you expected a very different outcome from this situation.

He flinches as he suddenly finds you bringing his hand towards your chest, jerking it back when you lay his palm over your breast.

It’s almost comical the way his face heats up.

Clearly, his earlier show of attraction towards you had been aided by a hurriedly consumed volume of alcohol and a professionally put-on flustered attitude, but now, when you made him touch you, he seems genuinely awkward.

And, for your side of things, you were going to let him feel you up anyway, so what’s the difference now?

You quirk an eyebrow. “I’m not asking you for anything, just give me your hand.”

He doesn’t protest when you catch his hand again, his cheeks flushed pink, until you drag his fingers across the slope of your breast and they trip over a lump of flesh that’s hard as a rock. The flustered color drains from his face, and then he’s frowning, leaning in, moving of his own accord to swipe his fingers over the place once more, as though he wasn’t sure he felt it the first time.

You let him.

When he pulls his hand back into his lap and stares at you, you just smile. “Did you know, in the early days of breast cancer surgery, a woman went in to have a lump removed, and when she came out of anesthesia, she was missing an entire breast, some ribs, and like half of the muscle wall of her chest? And the fuckass doctors were like “we got it!” Like, you don’t burn down the house in order to kill a spider and then say, “Don’t worry, we got it!””

Hyunjin blinks at you, mentally parsing your unexpected rambling. “They’ve, uh…come a long way in terms of cancer surgeries, I think.”

A puff of breath escapes your lips, another sardonic laugh. “It’s too late for that. It’s in my bones, my lymphatic, everywhere. I got to it too late.” You roll your eyes and press a palm to your forehead. “So, yeah, he shouldn’t have bothered. Three months and I would have been out of his hair for free.”

A few seconds pass as you process the words you haven’t yet admitted out loud to anyone, as he processes what you’re telling him.

He’s trying to kill a girl who’s already dying.

No wonder she didn’t care.

“So, how much is he paying you?” You question lightly, eyes searching for the syringe. You assume he’ll finish the job—everybody has to pay the rent, and it’s not like you’ve got your life ahead of you anyway.

Hyunjin scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. “Three million.”

You outright scoff at that, shocking him once again. “He’s ripping you off, dude. Did he tell you why he hired you?”

“I don’t ask. I am a professional, you know.” He brings his hand to his chest like he’s offended, and allows the slightest smile to twist his lips when you roll your eyes again.

You wedge your hands under you. “Can I sit up? I need to smoke and you’re killing my back.” You wiggle your hips and try to scoot yourself back. As he lifts his own hips off of you, you raise an eyebrow. “Not that I mind.”

At that, he flushes again.

Laughing softly, you pull yourself up to sit against the headboard, dragging your knees to your chest, and watch as he sits himself in front of you, cross-legged. For the time that it takes you to slide a cigarette from your purse and light it between your lips, he’s silent, watching you.

The syringe is at his side, laying between the wrinkles in the blanket, forgotten.

“My trust fund defaults back to him if I die before I hit eighteen.” You inform him. “And it’s 25 million dollars.”

His mouth falls open. “Why the hell is your trust fund so much money?”

“When my mom was dying, my father promised her he would help her allot her estate into a trust fund for me, plus a hefty sum from his own assets as a romantic gesture. For all his faults, he’s never loved anyone the way he loved her.” You scoff, sucking in a comforting drag of smoke. You’re careful to blow it away from him, to knock your ashes into the ring tray on the bedside table instead of allowing them to fall into the carpet. “But that was fifteen years ago, and I guess he forgot that he loved her once.”

“So he wants your trust fund.” Hyunjin says, leaning forward to rest his chin on his palm. “Because he forgot he loves you too?”

Your lips pinch. “I’m just a reminder of when he used to be a better man.”

Silence ticks between you, and the smell of your cigarette permeates the air. You can’t care enough to apologize to him for your filthy habit, because if it’s the last cigarette you’re ever going to have, you might as well enjoy it.

But he doesn’t seem put off by it, instead wrapping his hands around your ankles and pulling your feet into the criss-cross of his legs so he can scoot closer to you, resting his hands on your thighs.

You’re surprised, but not displeased with the gentle embrace of your legs.

“I don’t want to kill you, angel,” He says, and rests his chin on your knees.

It’s too much, the doe-eyed boy staring at you through the dim light, holding you close to him and running his hands up and down your thighs, fingers sweeping low enough to run across your hips.

You can’t look at him.

Turning your eyes away, you knock the ash off the end of your cigarette and laugh. “That’s so kind, thanks.” You drop the rest of the butt into the tray and brush your hands together. “Alright. I’m ready. Let’s get you paid.” You scoop up the syringe and hold it out to him, eyes wide and inviting.

He takes it from you, but he doesn’t take your arm again.

In the quiet of his indecision, you can’t help yourself. Your fingers find the soft swoop of his hair falling over his forehead, letting a few strands slide through your fingers before you pull yourself together and extend your arm to him. “Do it, Hyunjin.” You say softly, ignoring the way your movements made him look at you. “If you don’t do it, he’ll hire someone else. His campaign isn’t doing well, he’s facing asset forfeiture—he needs the money. If you don’t kill me, someone else will.”

Hyunjin’s hand finds yours, his fingertips smoothing up the underside of your forearm towards that vein that he found earlier. A drop of blood has gathered where he pricked you, the trail where it dripped dry and crusted.

You’re not scared, you’re not worried.

You’re a little relieved, actually, that you don’t have to pretend anymore. Because you’ve known for months that your time is running out. You’ve known for months that no one would care even if you told them.

The pounding of the music outside the door fills the space, reminding you that you were supposed to come in here to have the night of your life, and now, instead, the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen is going to inject poison into your bloodstream and leave you to die on a stranger’s bed.

That does dishearten you a little bit.

He presses his thumb against the vein. His eyes flick up to yours. “When is your birthday?”

You cock your head curiously, wondering. “Next month.”

Hyunjin lets the vein go and sets the syringe down near his hip. “I’ll make you a deal.” He takes your other hand, too, peering into your face with sincerity. “If I keep you alive until your birthday, we split the trust fund, 70-30. Then at least you don’t let your dad win, and maybe you can see if there’s some super expensive doctor who can help you. Or something. What do you think?”

You blink. “You’re going to trade being an assassin for being a bodyguard just for eight million dollars?”

He smirks, a flash of teeth in the dark. “Seven and a half, actually. And it’s a better gig than killing a dying seventeen-year-old just so her asshole father can take her trust fund. So, what do you say?”

You’re almost a hundred percent sure there’s no doctor or surgeon in the world who can fix your cancer at this point. All the ones you’ve spoken to so far won’t even recommend radiation or chemo, because there’s no point. They keep saying things like “quality of life” and “keep you comfortable,” not, “if only you had more money.”

But it’s interesting, this deal he’s put forward.

Die tonight or spend a month with a gorgeous young assassin?

Is it even a choice?

“We split it 50-50.” You say. “All I want to do with my half is give it to cancer research.”

He’s surprised again, his mind now struggling to grasp an influx of almost thirteen million dollars, and he nods slowly. “Okay. So we have a deal?”

He’s already holding your hands, so you can’t exactly shake on it, but you nod with a shrug. “Deal.”

You’ve never seen a smile as sweet as the one he gives you after that. “Good. Get your coat, angel—you’re coming home with me.”

Eyebrows skyrocketing, you follow his movements as he bounds off the bed and scoops up your purse. “So you’re going to kidnap me instead of murdering me?”

He holds out a hand and waits for you to take it. “Are you arguing?”

You let him haul you off the bed and find yourself laughing as his arm circles your waist and he hurries you out of the room. “Not in the slightest.”

Comment a request to be tagged! Han's is next :)

PART 2 INFO

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p1tterp4tter · 29 days ago

Text

“Think about it.”

Chapter One — “In the beginning”

Series Masterlist

Pairing: QZ!Joel x Reader, Jackson!Joel x Reader

Summary: You and Joel share a life together inside the Boston QZ. He leaves for a supply run with Tess one day and doesn’t come back.

WC: 3.5k

Warnings: 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, Infidelity, marriage of convenience/loveless marriages, explicit sexual content, angst, previously established relationship, age gap (20s/50s), abandonment, slow burn, female reader, no use of y/n, Joel doesn’t know how to express his feelings until it’s too late, brief mentions of physical violence, non-canon timeline, some canon characters have been written out of this story, I’m so nervous posting this please be nice to me, I’m the only one that’s proofread this so if it’s awful just ignore that okay?

A/N: First chapter? Zero dialogue? Yeah, sounds about right. Comments appreciated!! Let me know what you think!! I’m so nervous posting this LOL anyways… please be nice to me!! I have pretty much this whole story already planned out, it’s just a matter of putting a pen to paper! Or I guess fingers to keyboard.

Part 1.5 is here!

Dividers by @saradika

Images featured and characters mentioned in this story do not belong to me!

Light filtered in softly through the sheer, make-shift curtains hanging above the window. The stale smell of spilled bourbon and him filled your nostrils. This is how most mornings in Boston began. Quietly; a dichotomous reflection of life outside of these sheets, these walls.

Your eyes stayed shut, despite being awake. Lashes fluttering slightly as shadows shifted in front of your closed eyelids. This was your favorite part of the day. The part where you pretended to stay asleep— when he felt comfortable being vulnerable because surely you wouldn’t realize or remember his tenderness. These were the only times he allowed himself to feel. His lips would graze your hairline, his breath tickling the soft skin of your ears. Calloused fingers would rise out of the blankets to gently brush disheveled hair from your peaceful expression. You reminded him of a different lifetime. A place where the two of you could exist outside of the context of survival. An alternate reality where he’d allow himself to feel more than just these moments— where maybe he’d allow himself to give you more than just this.

It never lasted more than a few minutes. The mattress would whine under his weight as he shifted, separating his body— and heart— from yours. This is when he would turn back into himself. Back to Joel.

You’d listen for the rustle of his denim jeans as he pulled them over his legs, followed shortly by a few coughs as he cleared his lungs and throat from yet another night of whiskey-induced sleep. You could practically map out his movements in your mind as your eyes remained closed. He’d grab the same shirt he wore the day before from where you’d unbuttoned it and slid it off of his tired shoulders before bed. Boots were next, having been discarded by the small futon at the front of the room. One more moment of intimacy— steps as quiet as he could manage with the heavy soles of his boots, coming to kneel by the bed and place one last kiss on your temple.

Then he was gone.

It was like clockwork, every morning.

Once you heard the door of your little apartment click shut with his departure, your eyes would open. Sometimes there would be tears that you’d have to blink away— happy or sad, depending on how things had been going between the two of you recently. One thing that never changed, though, was his unspoken morning ritual of tenderness. No matter what had unfolded between Joel and you the day before, his devotion in the form of soft kisses when he thought you were still asleep never changed.

Your arms stretched above your head, and you groaned quietly at the tightness in the muscles surrounding your spine. Laying there for a moment, you stared at the ceiling, focusing on the way your breath filled your lungs before once again circulating out through your nose.

He’d be okay, you reminded yourself, just like you did every day. Like you had to every day. Joel was more than capable of handling himself, you knew, but his smuggling runs and habit of making deals with not-so-trustworthy people still made the knot of anxiety in the pit of your stomach tug itself impossibly tighter. Tess helped ease some of that anxiety. If Joel got caught between a rock and a hard place, you knew Tess would be right there to help him out of it.

The relationship you had with Joel was… complicated, to say the least. Relationship was a strong word.

He came home to you at night, sure, and you didn’t keep track of whose ration cards paid for what. When shit went south on runs, you were the one who kissed his open wounds and nursed his bruises. The knots in his back were second nature to you with how often you’d straddled his hips while he laid belly-down on your shared mattress, rubbing your hands along his broad shoulders and smiling softly when he’d let out quiet groans of relief that he couldn’t quite stifle. He knew about your dad, you knew about Sarah. When someone in the zone said something unsavory to you as you walked by, Joel’s bruised and bloody knuckles said what his mouth couldn’t— ‘I care about you.’

Maybe in the old world, it would’ve meant something. To him, at least. New world, old world— it didn’t make a difference to you. Love was not a word used lightly in the apocalypse. A lot was uncertain in this reality, but one thing that you knew was that you loved Joel.

You hadn’t kept it a secret, either.

Heated nights, Joel on top of you, his breath coming in quick, hot pants as it danced across your collarbone. His forehead pressed into the space between your jaw and shoulder, sweat from both of you making your bodies shimmer in the light of the lantern next to your shared bed. Your fingers would gently scratch his scalp, dark curls slipping through your digits as he rode out the tail end of his high, hips slowing their sporadic ruts inside of you.

“I love you.” You’d whisper, voice trembling slightly as you came back up from the depths of pleasure, feeling as if you were breaking the water’s surface and taking in air for the first time after almost drowning.

He never said it back. Time after time, your quiet confessions went unanswered. Some nights it left a sour taste in your mouth and a gaping hole in your heart— other nights, you didn’t care if he said it back. You just needed him to know that someone loved him. That it was worth it for him to fight, to stay alive.

Joel wasn’t completely shut off from you emotionally. In the same way he’d defend you in a heartbeat from anyone in the QZ, using his brute strength and reputation as a shield to protect you, he had other ways of letting you know this wasn’t completely one-sided. Little things, like bringing home candles after his contraband runs— ones that smelled of vanilla or teakwood, your favorites that you’d mentioned tangentially in a conversation before bed one night.

He somehow managed to surprise you every year on your birthday, too. No fanfare or cake, but you’d wake up to what you assumed was his best attempt at wrapping a gift at the foot of the bed. One year it was a bottle of wine— real stuff, from before the world went to shit, not something brewed in an alleyway by a modern-day moonshiner. Another time it was a thin, golden necklace with a small locket dangling from its braided chain. You had no idea where he managed to find it, or what he must’ve traded to secure it.

The two of you never talked about it. You thanked him with a silent kiss when he got home, and never took it off of your neck.

When he’d go on longer runs, transporting whatever questionable cargo he and Tess had promised to deliver to god knows who, he’d leave a little note on the bedside table. They always said something along the lines of ‘I’ll be home soon, be safe.’ His handwriting was messy, in an old man who doesn’t have time to waste kind of way.

There was one occasion that stood out from the rest. Joel came home and somehow seemed more tense than usual if that was even possible. He sat down heavily on the bench by the door, unlacing his boots and not saying a word. The pot on the stove was boiling water as you prepared to cook dinner. A brief glance over your shoulder at the disheveled man told you it had been a bad day. You didn’t ask why, you just hated seeing him this way. You clicked the gas burner off, abandoning the pot of water and taking a few hesitant steps towards Joel, who had his elbows on his knees and head in his hands. His boots were haphazardly off his feet, one lying on its side on the cold floor.

When he looked up at you, sensing your approach, he had tears in his eyes. No words were exchanged, all it took was seeing his red-rimmed eyes, and you closed the gap between you. Standing between his spread knees, Joel’s arms came around your middle, hiding his face in the threadbare shirt you wore, and cried. His shoulder shook with his sobs as your nails traced gentle, comforting patterns along his spine, your other hand holding his head close to you. You shushed him quietly, whispering how it was ‘going to be okay’ despite not knowing the cause of his tears.

It felt like Joel had handed you his wretched, bleeding heart that night. After he had collected himself slightly, you guided him to the small table that only had two chairs. You finished preparing the simple meal your rations allowed for and set a hefty serving in front of him. The two of you ate in silence, the sound of cutlery on glass plates filling the air in between the occasional sniffle from the seemingly invincible man across from you.

You had helped him undress— sliding the worn flannel off of his body, taking care of his belt and jeans for him. He held you differently that night. His head rested on your chest, one arm slung around your waist, the other tucked away between your bodies in whatever way necessary to be as close to you as possible. Neither of you slept, not at first. That was the night he told you about Sarah. It was the most he had ever shared about his life before. You learned about his brother and their construction business. Everything he had held in, all of that bottled-up history, came rushing out.

Joel had exhausted himself. He fell asleep, his unconscious breaths coming out more relaxed than you’d ever heard before. You closed your eyes after you knew he was asleep, grateful that he had felt comfortable enough to share his pain with you. It made you feel… needed. Too often, you felt like a burden to Joel. A mouth to feed, someone to keep safe.

He was gone before you woke up, another note on your bedside table. This one was different from the rest. More intimate—

‘Thank you baby - Joel ♡’

The heart, scribbled onto the scrap of paper, felt like it meant something. Something he never said out loud, but you’d hoped he felt at the same intensity you did. You carefully folded the note, moving from the tangled sheets of the bed to the cracked mirror hung on your bathroom wall. The golden locket he’d gotten you for your birthday laid against your skin, nestled just beneath your collarbone. You studied your reflection, carefully clicking the mechanism of the charm open, and used your fingers to work the scrap of paper into the locket however it would fit.

Joel’s words were right where they belonged. Resting above your heart.

You didn’t have many plans for today. Joel needed new laces for his boots, so you figured you’d get dressed and head outside, either to haggle with someone trading the supplies he needed or giving the rations line a shot, even though the QZ hadn’t been very well stocked the last several weeks.

Dragging yourself from the bed, Joel’s warmth still radiating from his side of your shared retreat, you shuffled to the bathroom. The water coming from the faucet was cold as you splashed it against your face to wake yourself up. Your hands rested on the rim of the porcelain basin, looking up at your reflection in the mirror. Bags were evident under your eyes, and your hair had seen better days. A huff came from your nose, annoyed at your appearance. You missed the days of moisturizer and expensive soaps.

It didn’t take long to get yourself put together; jeans pulled over your hips, boots that looked like a smaller version of Joel’s tied to your feet. Rather than opting for a shirt of your own, you grabbed one of Joel’s flannels from his drawer of the armoire he’d fixed up for the two of you. It was far too long for you, but you didn’t feel like putting in the effort to change after pulling the soft fabric over your head. It smelled like him.

The air was brisk in Boston— it smelled like rain. Blinking, you brought a hand up to shield your eyes as you looked up at the sky. It was cloudy. It’d be raining tonight, no doubt. You just hoped Joel would make it back before it started coming down too heavily, it always took forever for his clothes to dry out on the rim of the bathtub in your shared apartment.

Following the familiar streets, you made your way to the little center of the QZ where folks gathered to haggle with each other. For a brief moment, you considered surprising Joel with something nice, to go along with the waxed laces that he needed so desperately. A new pair of socks maybe? Or would he rather have a nicer meal for once, rather than the ‘just add water’ rations FEDRA provided? Someone would have a nice slab of protein they’d want a pretty penny for, surely. Visions of beef steak and roasted chicken danced in your mind, but you shut them down quickly before the hunger ache in your stomach grew strong enough to form a wave of nausea.

Your dreams of a hearty dinner were squashed pretty swiftly. You’d been lucky enough to obtain the laces for Joel and had counted your discretionary ration cards to yourself in a less busy corner of the makeshift market area. Joel’s voice echoed in your head, scolding you for ‘counting your money at the table’. There were enough cards for a new, good pair of socks— not quite enough for the fresh cut of venison someone had managed to get inside the walls. You did manage to get your hands on some tomatoes though, and figured a a nice sauce to top off your meal was better than nothing.

The walk home was interrupted by the commotion of a Firefly ambush. Your steps became hurried as you bee-lined for your apartment— Joel was the confrontational one, not you. You were content with staying within the safety of your home, not caring to poke around in political or rebellion ‘business’.

Once inside the familiar walls of your home again, you unpacked the canvas tote you’d carried. Joel’s new socks and laces, the fresh tomatoes, and your leftover ration cards. The cards were quickly stuffed away, back under the panel of flooring that Joel had loosened to store your shared valuables. Besides the ration cards, the rest of the contents were mostly Joel’s. Maps, a bottle of whiskey.

Glancing at the analog clock in the kitchen, you noted how it was still before noon. You had plenty of time before he’d be home for dinner, but the sauce you planned on making would take a good bit of time. Busying yourself with chores around the apartment, you let time pass you by. Your mind wandered to Joel. Today was a run-day with Tess, you knew. Nothing too strenuous, he’d said— he’d be home tonight like normal. As normal as the apocalypse allowed.

As the sky outside grew closer to a hue of orange, deepened by the rainclouds you knew would soon release their downpour, you began working on dinner. Boiling the tomatoes, using whatever seasonings you had in the cabinets to pull something together. The MRE-style food that FEDRA rationed to the QZ civilians wasn’t the best, but you made do. The sauce helped tremendously, you decided as you took a test bite from the stockpot.

Two servings, prepared and plated, Joel’s portion larger than yours like always. You set the table, placing the laces and surprise socks on the bench by the door so he’d see them when he came through the door and sat down to take off his boots.

You waited at the table, fingers fidgeting with the golden locket around your neck.

The ticking of the clock taunted you.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

“Where is he?” You mumbled to yourself, picking up his untouched plate from the table and scraping his portion back into the stockpot still resting on the cooled burner.

The springs at the foot of the bed creaked under you as you plopped down, leaning back all the way, a sigh heaving from your chest. ‘He’s fine,’ you thought to yourself as you stared at the ceiling, trying to keep your anxiety at bay. He was always fine. Plus, he had Tess with him— Tess. Your jaw ticked as she flashed through your brain for the second time that day.

Tess made you feel… small.

It wasn’t something you ever brought up to Joel. Figured he wouldn’t understand— knew he definitely wouldn’t talk about it. Tess could hold her own, unlike you. Not to mention the fact that she was beautiful. The same age as Joel, too…

She was a reminder of everything you weren’t. Joel and Tess both had decades of experience on you. They had lives before the outbreak. You were a baby when shit hit the proverbial fan. You remembered a few things— grocery stores and movie theaters. But all your memories were blurred with childlike observances. You hadn’t really lived in the old world, you were just alive.

Nine.

Ten.

Joel still wasn’t home.

Worry ate at you, gnawing at your stomach and causing bile to rise in the back of your throat. Spending the night alone when he warned you that he’d be gone was one thing. A night alone after he’d told you he’d be back that evening was another.

You went about your typical routine— wash up, lock the windows and door, get into bed. Your fingers found the locket around your neck again, rubbing the pendant between the pad of your thumb and index. Forcing your eyes closed, you practiced your breathing again, just like you had this morning. Feel the air in your lungs, listen to it flow out of your nose.

Dreams haunted you. Nightmares, more like. The night was spent restlessly tossing and turning.

When you woke up the next morning, Joel was nowhere to be found in your apartment. The pot from dinner was still sitting on the gas stove, untouched.

No boots by the front door. Only the laces and socks you’d left.

No kisses to the top of your head. No stolen moments of intimacy.

Your stomach lurched when you woke up enough to realize you were still alone. The apartment hadn’t felt this cold in a long, long time.

Hours alone turned into days.

Days turned into weeks.

Somewhere along the way, you’d heard whispers in the streets, around the market when you would make the lonesome trip out for rations.

“Heard Miller and that Tess woman made their way outta the walls on a deal for Marlene.”

“Ain’t his brother a firefly?”

“D’you think they ran off so he wouldn’t have to deal with that kid anymore?”

The words echoed and danced in your head.

Joel. Tess. Ran off.

Kid.

You did your best to adjust to your new normal. Shock turned into denial. Denial turned into anger— an anger that settled its way deep into your bones, lighting a fire in your stomach whose flames licked at your brain and whispered for you to take control for once and do something about your situation.

So, you bucked up. One day, you’d decided that enough was enough. You pulled the loose plank out of the floor, grabbing your remaining ration cards and the maps Joel had stored. After shoving the mattress off of its frame, you fished out the pistol Joel had kept hidden between the slats. Layered in the most utilitarian clothing you had, including the flannel you’d chosen to borrow from Joel the day he left, you traded away the rest of the ration cards that you’d had saved, stocking up on as many supplies as you could carry.

When nightfall washed over Boston, you made your way through the tunnels that ran underneath FEDRA noses— Joel had taught you about them ‘just in case somethin’ ever happens’.

Figures you’d end up using them because of him.

Somehow, you managed to make it out of the walls and deep enough into non-quarantined territory that you felt safe enough to sit down and study the map in your pack. There were marks and highlights, scribbles all pointing to one place.

Jackson, Wyoming.

You didn’t know why— but figured if it was important enough for Joel to point out, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to head that direction. Orienting yourself with abandoned highways and road signs, you tightened the straps around your shoulders. Thumb and index finger once more absentmindedly fiddling with the locket resting against your chest.

The sky was full of stars. The moon hung high. Your jaw tightened as you began on the path set before you by Joel’s map.

‘Start over,’ you thought to yourself.

‘You can start over.’

Read the next part here!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel tlou #tlou hbo #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x y/n #qz!joel

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xoxolaw · 8 days ago

Text

+ 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗥 𝗗𝗜𝗔𝗥𝗬

in which a quiet visit to her room turns into something else entirely. Hyun-tak finds her diary, and with it, the truth he never saw coming.

+ 𝗚𝗢 𝗛𝗬𝗨𝗡-𝗧𝗔𝗞 𝗫 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

CH 1 , CH 2

Hyun-tak rang the bell of her house, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, a worn-out bandage peeking beneath one sleeve. He kicked absently at a loose stone near the steps, half-watching it skip across the pavement.

Y/N had texted him an hour ago:

“I got the new game. Come over. I want to beat you at it.”

He scoffed when he read it—because she never beat him. But he came anyway. Of course he did.

The door opened before he could knock again.

“Oh, Hyun-tak,” her mom greeted with a smile that he’d seen since he was a kid. “She just stepped out to grab something from the corner store. Won’t be long.”

He nodded wordlessly.

“You know where to go.”

He did.

He always did.

---

Hyun-tak stepped inside like muscle memory—no need to be shown around, no hesitation. He toed off his sneakers at the door, left them neatly beside hers (his always looked too big next to her tiny ones), and made his way past the kitchen that always smelled like vanilla or soup, depending on the day.

Everything about the house was warm in a way his own never was. Quiet, yes. But never cold.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, pausing at her door. It was already half-open, like it knew he was coming.

Her room hadn't changed much over the years. He'd practically grown up in it—seen it evolve from stuffed animals and glitter pens to books stacked in uneven piles and posters from bands he’d never bothered to remember the names of.

His hoodie was still draped over the back of her chair—the one she always stole because she claimed it was “more comfortable than hers.”

Her lamp was on, the light golden and warm. The window cracked slightly, letting in the soft rustle of late spring air.

It was familiar. Safe.

So he didn’t think twice before stepping in, letting the soft click of the door behind him melt into the quiet.

---

That’s when he noticed it.

On the desk.

A diary—open.

Like a secret waiting.

It was nothing fancy. Just a simple notebook with a little ribbon bookmark fraying at the ends. A pen lay across the middle like she’d just gotten up mid-sentence.

He didn’t mean to read it. Really. He knew how to respect someone's privacy, and the last thing he wanted was to be that guy. The kind who snoops or pokes around where he doesn’t belong.

Still, he scoffed, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

She wrote in a diary? Like, actually sat down and scribbled her thoughts like some melodramatic protagonist in a coming-of-age film?

It was kind of hilarious.

So very her.

He shook his head and turned away from the desk, plopping down onto her bed like he’d done a hundred times before—arms behind his head, phone out, screen glowing dimly in the warm afternoon light.

Scroll. Tap. Scroll.

Nothing interesting.

The room was quiet. A breeze filtered through the half-cracked window, rustling the curtains gently. The scent of her shampoo lingered faintly on the pillow beside him. A plushie he’d once won for her at a festival stared at him from the shelf, its button eyes crooked and faded.

Everything about her room was familiar. Everything about her felt familiar.

So why did he suddenly feel… restless?

He let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

But even in the stillness, the image of the open diary crept back into his mind. The pen lying across the page. Her handwriting. That soft curl at the end of her Y’s.

He sat up.

Looked over his shoulder.

The diary hadn’t moved, of course. Still open. Still quiet. Still waiting.

"...Tch." He rubbed the back of his neck, brow furrowed.

It was probably just grocery lists or doodles. Maybe drama about classmates. Probably something stupid like “Today I got mad at Hyun-tak because he stole my chips again.”

That made him grin.

And then… the grin faded.

Because even as he thought it, something inside him whispered that it might not be that simple.

That maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t about chips. Or games. Or classes. Maybe she’d written about something else. Something more.

Before he could stop himself, he stood.

Three steps. That’s all it took to be in front of the desk again.

He didn’t sit down. Just stood there, hands in his hoodie pocket, eyes dropping to the page like they were being pulled.

Just one line.

One peek.

That wouldn’t hurt, right? But his curiosity got the better of him and he picked up her diary, sat back on her bed, swung one leg up, leaned against the wall, and opened it.

The first page.

The handwriting was exactly like hers—wide loops, occasional doodles in the margins, sometimes a heart where a dot should be.

And then—he began to read.

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

March 5th, 2013

Dear Diary!!

My mom gwot me this DIARYYY todayyyyyy 🍭 she said it’s for “Writting yur thoughtz and feelings” but that’s kindaaa borinngg??? ☹️

So I’m gonna use it to write about important things

!!Like Hyun-Tak!! 😡

Today he was sooo meeean to me like always 🙄🙄 he said I’m dumb because I forgot my scarf and then he was like

“Tch. You're so stupid. Wear this or you’ll get sick and cry again.”

AND THEN 😤

He put HIS red scarf on me!!! HIS!! It smelt like snack crumbs and him. It was warm 🧣

I looked like a tomato 🍅🍅🍅

and he laughed at me

so I kicked his shoe

but he didn’t get mad???

he just grinned and said

“Don’t lose it or I’m never talking to you again forever.”

so I held onto it SOOOO tight like a SUPERHERO cape 🦸‍♀️

Then at lunch I got milk on my kimbap and I almost criEDDD but then

HE GAVE ME HIS!!

but it was the gross tunaa one so maybe he was gonna throw it anyway

BUT I LOVE THE TUNA ONE!!! So maybe it was TRUE LOVE ❤️❤️❤️

Mama says boys are mean when they like you

but Hyun-Tak is mean ALL the time

SO maybe he LOVES ME the MOSTEST 😤💖

OR maybe he is just a JERK 🙄🙄

(but like… a cute jerk??? shhhh)

Anyway I hope we stay best frends FOREVER and EVER and get married or maybe be astronauts. But I don’t wanna go to space if he’s not going 😣

Okayyy bye diary!!!

Love, Y/N (AGE 5 AND 65 DAYS)

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

Hyun-tak stared at the page for a long time. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. But it definitely wasn’t this.

A chaos of crooked letters and sparkly doodles. Misspelled words, snack-related heartbreak, heroic scarf ceremonies, and—him.

Laced through every sentence, like he’d always been there. All over it. Everywhere.

It felt like flipping open a snow globe of their childhood. Messy. Loud. Blurry. But inexplicably… warm.

Too warm.

He shifted against the headboard, the bedsheets rustling softly beneath him, one hand still resting on the open page like it might flutter away if he let go.

His eyes drifted again to the part she’d written in huge letters—TRUE LOVE ❤️❤️❤️, underlined twice, like a secret shout through glitter pen and breathless belief. The ink had faded just slightly, the hearts smudged at the corners like they’d been touched too many times.

He rolled his eyes. “Tch... idiot.”

But the corners of his mouth gave him away. Just a little. A quiet curve, barely there—but honest. Gentle.

The memory came without asking.

His younger self—scrawny, grumpy, still learning how to tie his own laces—muttering while tugging a too-big scarf around her neck with all the finesse of a grizzly bear.

Checking, double-checking, triple-checking that her ears were covered. Calling her stupid while handing over the better half of his lunch.

Pushing boys off swings who made her cry.

Staring at the ground while walking her home, as if the silence between them had its own language.

He hadn’t known she was writing it all down. Hadn’t known she remembered.

He reached out and brushed his thumb over the messy little heart she’d doodled beside his name. Lopsided. Unapologetic.

Age 5 and 65 days.

Who even counts days like that?

But she did.

Because she was the kind of person who measured everything. Moments. Moods. Melon bread halves. He just never noticed it until now.

He closed the diary carefully, the pages whispering shut like they were tucking themselves in for the night. The edges were soft, worn from being opened and reopened too many times.

He held it for a moment longer, just resting in his lap like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

And then, as his fingers slipped to the next page, he caught the header in bubble letters:

March 6th, 2013

Today Hyun-tak got mad because I licked his lollipop. BUT—

A laugh—a real one—escaped him, sharp and quiet like a secret.

He snorted, shaking his head.

“Of course she kept going.”

And without even thinking about it, he turned the page.

+ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥'𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 + 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

Let me know what you think <333 for now let's just say that the emojis in the diary entries are doodles.

+ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

@keizvn @soobinbunnie5 @chaywkk @l5byrinth @inom17 @randomheyl @coffee-ii @mizxuqii @dna-black-and-blue @kyungjunnies @maxinehufflepuffprincess @deboizzzstay @coolasiangal123 @intoanothermind @satoru2716 @chenlegendj @changbinkisser @xh01bri @jww-sjzyeirie @thebatapex

#weak hero class two #weak hero x reader #fanfic #weak hero webtoon #go hyuntak #gotak x reader #hyun tak #go hyuntak x reader

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antrylis · 8 months ago

Text

✨More Clones Brickheadz !✨

Since I acquired the Small Cody (40675), I found that there was an untapped mine. Why would they only make one ? Well. I don't have an answer to that, but I decided to take matters into my own one; so behold : 11 more. I went mostly for commanders here, but then I went a bit astray and so I added some captains to the mix.

In order, row by row :

Tukk (Not cannon but the colours are so beautiful)/Vaungh (died too soon-)/Rex (obviously)/Fordo (I did Rex, so I had to)

Gree/Doom/Thorn/Neyo

Bly/Cody/Fox/Wolffe

It was a really fun project, and I hope to do more of them in the future - maybe even phase 1s, some day~); supposedly not commanders because I did most of them (except Bacara, I know...The helmet was too tough).

And because I really like challenges, if you want to see another clone turned into one of these (Be it cannon or one of your ocs) feel free to send requests in my aksbox !)

Anyway this post is already far too long for anyone's dashboard, so closeups and details will be under the cut !

Let's start with the easy ones : Cody, Doom, Fox, Thorn

Obviously, Cody was easy, I just rebuilt the original one virtually - Nothing too hard. The printed pieces here are not the right ones, because Cody's are not available on STUDio yet, but the storm trooper ones were relatively similar, so I used these for most of these models. Of course, it means I'm lacking the sun bands, and a few other distinctive elements, but it works well enough for now.

Now, Doom is essentially a colour variation (minus a few antennas). I also used an old space piece, which has this big yellow arrow printed on it. I's not exactly what Doom has, but I feel like it's close enough for a first attempt.

Then, Fox is relatively similar to Doom, but with two DC-17s. I also moved the printed torso brick up to get that red line he has.

Thorn works in a similar way to Cody too, except I removed both accessories on the side of the helmet. I also added this tile with diagonal lines to figure the wings he has. One day I'll slap some real wings on there, but I haven't found the right image yet. I also gave him a Z-6, obviously. I really like it, so I might actually make that one physically, because the way it's build (with old binocular pieces) is pretty nice; although I doubt the pieces are available in black.

Moving on to two captains : Vaughn and Tukk !

Admittedly, not really that different either, except for one thing : I learnt to do custom prints now ! Yay ! Well, these are really basic : the blue line for Vaughn, and some trapezoids for Tukk's helmet (which are, indeed, not visible here - shame, I spent so long making these fit). The Ahsoka pattern was already in STUDio (because Ahsoka already has her own brickheadz, which I'll get my hands on someday~)

I must also add that having some cyan in this whole thing added some much needed colours in here, I'm grateful some people give their clones amazing colours (If somehow someone doesn't know who Tukk is, well just check High Ground Animation. Right now. It's really cool, trust me). Anyway.

As for design changes, I modified the faces slightly by adding 1x1 tiles, to allow for different colours variations on the face. It makes them look slightly blockier, but given the overall size of the head, it doesn't do much.

I also gave Vaughn a DC-15A. It's a bit messy, but it works out well enough. Past me forgot to render it, so here is a raw, in-software picture of it (from Fordo(s hand, but it's the same design for both) :

BARC helmets ? Wolffe, Fordo, Neyo

As I've been told, these look a bit wonky, and I'll admit its wasn't exactly easy, but in my defence, it's relatively hard to get such round shapes with bricks (lego cheated by adding the visor). Anyway, given that doing that with a printed piece was out of the question, I tried to replicate the filter's shape with actual bricks, and I used a printed piece which, technically, is Lando's moustache, but downward. I'd say it does the job relatively well.

I also added a rangefinder to Wolffe, which is a little big compared to everyone else's antennas, but It's still relatively to scale with the head itself. No custom prints for him (not sure where I would find the correct pattern images ?), but I've done it for Fordo and Neyo. Fordo obviously has his well deserved Jaig eyes (and who knew it would be that difficult to find a picture of that on internet ?), and Neyo has his symbol on the helmet, chest plate, and the shoulder not shown here.

The really tinkered ones : Gree, Bly, Rex :

Here, it was a matter of trials and errors to figure out just how to get the shapes right.

I actually started with Bly, by removing the previous visor and adding the macrobinoculars first, then I tried to shape the helmet around. Truth is, it doesn't make sense technically : the two separated parts of the helmet do not connected at all, if you remove the equipment. Luckily, no one has to know that.

Next is Gree. It took me some time to figure out how to properly get a round feel, but I feel like it's as good as I can make it like this. Colour-wise, it was surprisingly difficult to find how to balance the different shades of green, and equally hard was to figure out which silvery colour would render well in STUDio. The answer lied, as it always does, in Bionicle. Of course, none of these pieces exist in this colour, but it's not really my main problem (because none of the coloured printed pieces exist either).

Finally, Rex...He gave me some trouble, I have to admit. Firstly, the part-designing software decided to have some trouble with custom prints, which was problematic, because I simply couldn't do Rex without jaig eyes (and Fordo already had his). Then, I started with Gree's base and tried to go from there to fit Rex's custom helmet. I ended up using Boba Fett's printed visor piece for Rex, because these were all triangles. I also got rid of the printed chest piece and used some black plates to simulate the pouch he has; while also adding a a few more custom printed pieces for the arms and pauldron (barely visible, but they're here. I'm not entirely happy with it, but I don't see much other solutions than more and more custom prints, which isn't my goal, so it'll stay like that for now.

Anyway, that's way too much rambling for one post, so I'll just end by saying that next week I'll post an alt version of this whole build [here !], with some 'slight' colour alterations. Definitely nothing big.

#lego #lego moc #tcw #lego clone wars #the clone wars #captain rex #captain tukk #captain vaughn #captain fordo #commander cody #commander fox #commander thorn #commander wolffe #commander bly #commander gree #commander doom #wow that's too many tags-

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ellesthots · 2 months ago

Text

Fateful Beginnings

L. “immovable objects”

read on AO3 🦇

parts: previous / next

plot: you show Bruce around your hometown, the filter between you both rapidly loosening.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, grief, fluff, yearning

words: 6.8k

a/n: i love this chapter name sm, I love all of them, but this one feels extra sweet to me because they AREEE moving !! they are no longer immovable objects, they’re moving toward each other !! big shifts!! also, because I only have a few weeks left of college EVER 🥲 and we’ve been diving into psychodynamic / object relations in class, so it feels very timely, and this whole trip with them feels so psychodynamic!! going back to childhood, roots, disrupting cyclical maladaptive patterns !!!!

Walter ate his kibble across the kitchen, tail wagging. You couldn’t believe he’d eaten, much less that the only reason he had was Bruce. Hunger strike no more: the cure was a tall, pale man who looked vaguely vampiric dishing out the goods. If the house were any less stale, you might’ve laughed at the image of him opening a can of Friskies and pouring the clump into the bowl while trying—and failing—to avoid Walter’s head as he fiended for his bowl. Walter still had some pureed chicken on his nose.

A fading cluster of daffodils sat in a vase by the microwave. The only sources of light streamed in from the window above the sink and hovered below the oven light. The low buzz from the fridge was a constant backdrop to the click of the wall clock—one that looked painted by you at some point in… elementary school? Bruce didn’t want to judge.

You picked at your bizarrely lemony noodles and stared at where the smear of your mom’s blood had been.

“Don’t like it?”

A piece of basil stuck between your teeth and it practically sent you spiralling; it would’ve been less annoying if your mom wasn’t currently being monitored and if she hadn't banned you from coming back.

“Do you need anything from home before I head over?” You stood in the hallway between your room and theirs, trying to gauge what might be most helpful. Slippers? Change of clothes? Bruce had been playing with Walter in the living room—playing used very lightly, as Walter refused to leave his side, and the man looked like he might’ve never seen a real-life cat before.

“The doctors are discharging me Monday morning, stay put. Throw on a movie for you guys.”

“Mom,”

Your dad had chimed in about how ‘right’ your mother was, and that they expected to see more energy in Bruce’s complexion by the time they arrived. “Let that boy sleep.”

The noodles looked slimier by the second. You shoved another shell into your mouth. “Not like there’s anything else.”

“Is there any fast food around?”

“Next town over there’s a Taco Bell.”

You didn’t sound particularly enthused, but maybe you’d like it more than what was in front of you. Bruce finished his second apple, his stomach a rock, only eating so you wouldn’t worry. His hunger cues were made even more fucked since starting the medication. In fact…

“Gonna grab something from the car.” He could’ve stepped across the kitchen, but he didn’t, opting for the long way around. It felt too sacred to step on the linoleum in front of you while you gazed at it so wistfully. Whenever he started feeling helpless, he reminded himself he’d cleaned the blood and soup, and at minimum, brought you here.

He was helping, even if he couldn’t take the pain away.

The brightness scared him when he stepped out, smacking him at the same second as the wind chime at the edge of the porch. The handle to the car burned his palm, and the leather of the seat stung his elbow as he reached into the backseat. Rustling into his bag, pulling out his meds, then a dry swallow. He capped the bottle, shut the door, and jogged up the ramp. He paused with his hand on the rusty doorknob.

He took in the smell of the breeze. Freshly cut grass. No burnt rubber, car fumes, vomit, or cigarette smoke tainting it. Shit. After breathing this all your life, how the hell had you managed in Gotham?

Melancholy called if he dared to linger, so he pushed his way inside. Walter jammed into his ankle again, giving him a small bite that didn’t hurt, nor break skin. Just in the hour he’d been here, he’d learned that meant he hadn’t given the cat enough attention. He knelt to pet it—him, damn—and startled when you emerged. Carpet really muffled foot sounds, didn’t it?

“Actually, there might be a taco truck open. I forgot it wasn’t the middle of the night.”

“Jesus, Bruce.” You sat back in the passenger as he awkwardly loaded his taco with sauce.

Bruce side-eyed the stuff you practically slurped with each bite. Verde sauce was always the mildest; the angry, orange-red hazard you globbed on was the real enemy. He hovered the bite in front of his lips, wary.

“Go for it.” You watched as he loaded sauce on the first bite, and cringed when he tasted it. He was making the same mistake you had a handful of years ago—assuming green meant mild, not holyshitwhatthehellisthis. You hadn’t listened when your dad warned you, and Bruce also seemed the type to learn by fire.

He chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. The flavors were rich, complex; the meat seasoned with so much depth it made the ‘top shelf’ shrimp at the meetings taste like cardboard. An acidity hit him, and an “Mm!” slipped out.

You grinned, never seeing his eyes light that much before. “Looks religious.”

He took another bite, basking in it. Maybe Alfred could learn how to make this. Why hadn’t he before? He went in for a third chomp, not finished chewing, not really caring.

“Oh, shit,” his lips tingled, then burned, and his tongue became very apparent. He glanced at the tea in your cupholder, regret washing over him in waves at the ‘No, thanks’ text he’d sent while you waited in line minutes before.

The backdrop of your laughs quieted him a bit, and he made the mistake of rubbing under his sunglasses in his distraction.

“Bruce!”

“Fuck.” Pain slammed against his eyelid. He heard a crunch somewhere, maybe plastic…?

Glasses off.

“Open your eye.”

You poured the dregs of the bottled water from the hospital into his eye, and it cascaded down his chest and pooled into his lap; he felt the slight coolness start to soak through to his thighs. Blink, blink, blink…

“So you can track every centimeter of a crime scene,” you capped the empty bottle and tossed it to the floor as you sat back in your seat. “But some salsa throws you off?”

“Guess Alfred spares me.” He thudded against the seat, shying away from the hot sun jabbing into his skin like he traced it with a magnifying glass. Was there a different sun here? Wasn’t the Pacific Northwest supposed to be dreary and cool? He squinted on each blink, right eye drenched in lukewarm water and adaptive tears.

You finished your tacos, crumpling the foil and taking a sip of jamaica. Never would he have thought rural America would hold more cultured food dividends than he’d encountered in Gotham. Then again… he never went out during the day.

“Maybe if you went out more,”

Reading his mind again. He folded the wrapper around the rest of his food and buckled his seatbelt. You questioned if he was safe to drive, and he scoffed at the clear two blocks it would take to get back to your neighborhood. “I’m good.”

You followed suit, making quick work as the buckle was in direct sunlight. It wasn’t lost on you how he didn’t even turn the car on until you clicked in. So concerned with other’s safety, but none of his own. Curious.

“Whoa,”

You glanced up to see a tractor hogging the road in front. Some hay stuck between its plates.

“Can they do that?”

You laughed at how floored he was. “You’re starting to make me feel like this place is alien.” Sitting up straighter helped your back, and seemed to soothe him. “I’ve gotten stuck behind tractors hundreds of times. And those tacos aren’t even the best in town.”

Bruce hadn’t turned onto the main road yet, the right turn signal clicking diligently while he peered with a ridiculous amount of suspicion at the green behemoth.

“I know another route.”

He side-eyed you as you made him do an illegal u-turn, which you happily pointed out was precisely in his wheelhouse due to his vigilantism—’just make a quick getaway in this… SUV?’—and had the both of you set on a dusty gravel road, flanked on both sides by old wire fencing, the occasional goat or cow, and thick lines of Douglas Fir. You asked a question you might’ve already found the answer to in the roaming of his eyes, but figured it polite to ask. Bringing a little bit of him here. “We only went to the outskirts of Gotham when it was dark. Is it like this?”

He made a sound that was half-bewildered, half tired. You couldn’t imagine he’d slept on the plane, and who knew the last time he’d slept prior to the accidental post-club nap. “No.”

Gravel’s crunch made up the decibel disparity between here and there, and once you thought a halfway point had been reached, you instructed him to turn the car off. “Hop out.”

Hardly enough warning to bring the car to a complete stop, it startled him when you opened his door. “All the way off, Gothamite.”

He removed the keys from the ignition and stepped out carefully, ensuring his ankle was supported in the thick, slippery gravel, and winced as he shut the door behind him. Body tense. Pupils constricting. But no flashes came. Only your grin and the foggy background of flying dust particles and green fields.

“Quiet, right?”

Quiet was an understatement, silent was too benign. He could practically hear his organs. The sky was bright, and every splash of color felt punctuated. Some orange and yellow clusters nestled in the trees and bushes. Low-hanging clouds fluffed the tops of the trees in the mountainous skyline. There wasn’t a building or human in sight.

“Very.”

Standing with him in boring gray gravel helped you realize at warp speed why you’d idolized the city in the first place: shit was boring. Wanna have a rock fight? Get tetanus trying to climb over the barbed wire to talk to a cow that doesn’t care, maybe get shot by a rogue farmer in the process?

Thankfully, a car pulled off where you had and started down the long stretch. You folded your hands in your lap and pretended to care about what passed the side window, trying and failing not to worry about what he thought past the ‘it’s nice’ comment he’d placated you with at the hastened getaway. Trees, grass, and gravel. Riveting.

A few minutes later, he waited at the intersection that looked like the only one in town; a bar of sunlight fell onto his arm, prickling along the already pink skin. He jumped when you touched him, and tried to work the mechanics on why he’d been so off guard the past day. “I have some aloe in the bathroom. Want to get that before it peels.”

The light turned green, and he tried to focus on the road while battling thoughts of you touching him again. It was too overwhelming here. The trees that towered like skyscrapers herding the city limits. The wind that drowned out every other sound, yet still not louder than a whisper. How, for once, he swore he could hear your breathing when he wasn’t holding you.

Bruce’s hands tightened around the wheel, and you tore at your cuticles. Were you being too overbearing?

You didn’t have time to ask. He parked, unbuckled, and walked to your side like he had somewhere important to be. The thought of him opening the door for you was agonizing, so you stumbled toward the porch before he could start and thoughts could meander. If you paused too long to think about how alone you both were, you knew you’d clam up. Not very conducive to being a good host.

Walter ignored you to make a beeline for his new best friend, and as you motioned for him to follow you down the hallway, you wondered if you shouldn’t keep them apart. At this rate, Walter might prove more devastated by his absence than you.

“Is that your room?”

Yellow-gold light popped on in the bathroom with a pfh, a familiar sound you’d never noticed before. “You can check it out if you want, I need to find that gel.” And I don’t want to be in there alone with you for longer than necessary. I might combust.

Surreal was the word bouncing across his thoughts as he strolled the small, olive-green painted room. It was evident life was lived here; the path to your bed, closet, and desk were worn from the doorway, and the brass finish on the doorknob had become tarnished from use. The bottom half of the door had nearly imperceptible grooves, likely from the cat demanding attention. Some paint was chipped by the light switch. Drawings and pictures hung askew on various walls, but the ones on your desk caught his attention.

Two photos sat on the back of your desk, one framed glittery gold, one rainbow. Dust collected in the corners of them, on an evidently used piece of furniture, like they’d been willfully ignored. In the gold frame, you looked a decade younger, leaning yourself hard toward three other girls. You almost eclipsed from view while they huddled close. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

The glare was hitting from the overhead light on the second one, and a single spiderweb covered in dust curled around his palm when he grabbed it. His chest tightened looking at you on a beach, eyes puffy, looking even younger than the previous photo. You leaned your head on one of the same girl’s shoulders, smiling weakly toward them with glistening eyes. They looked at each other, not at you. They seemed toasty in fleece zip-ups while your lips chapped from the chill. He set it down, heart knocking angrily against his ribs.

“Bruce?”

You stood in the doorframe, one hand on the knob. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah?”

A green tube got tossed to him, and he tried not to visibly deflate at not having your hands apply it. For the better. His body was hot as it roared into hyperdrive.

“How’s your eye?”

“Fine.” You’d been a part of that friend group for at least a few years, and a million questions came to a simmer. Was this the friend group that you’d accurately described as not giving a shit about you? And who had taken that photo? Your parents, theirs, another ‘friend’? What were they thinking not intervening? If these were the ones you framed, too—

“You have to actually use it for it to work.” You leaned against the doorframe with your arms crossed, eyeing the patch on his forearm that looked redder than it had in the car.

Did you feel that way with him, and he just wasn’t catching it? Though, he’d seen your eyes crinkle enough to memorize it and could recognize your laugh in a crowd. Did they even know what it sounded like?

“You sure you’re good?”

He cleared his throat as if that were any defense against his inner machinations, and squirted some of it onto his arm. The mindless slip of it across his skin cooled him enough to refocus. Change the subject. “Alfred is going to your apartment at eight. Got a small moving crew.”

“Oh, right.” You stared at the ground, and he wished he could press a button to spill out things unsaid. Would you miss the place? He’d only been there a handful of times, but even he felt a pang.

“I can call them. You don’t have to move out before you’re ready.”

“No way.”

He wanted to press you, but knew better. He snapped the lid shut on the aloe. “Do you want your things moved to the same room?” Your room, but again, he couldn’t press it. Those photos made him so upset he was about to call the construction lead of the Wayne Foundation, get your name up on Wayne Tower instead of his. How’d they like seeing those news articles after leaving you in the dust?

“The room above yours?”

He nodded, channeling his frustration into the divot on the plastic cap. Or his room.

“Sure. Any room’s fine.”

A gray feline curled his way between your legs, meandering lazily toward where he stood at the desk. Walter stretched his paws up the leg of it and yawned. Bruce glanced at your bed, then to the bags under your eyes.

“You should sleep.”

When you didn’t immediately balk at it, he excused himself, knowing it was long overdue. The cat followed in tow, his tail tapping his shin. You started to move down the hallway, but Bruce wasn’t having it. “You’re exhausted.”

“A little.” Your shoulders hunched forward, and your breathing was deep and slow like you were already there.

Bruce heard his order in Alfred’s voice, and once again, felt a little closer to the old man. “Sleep.”

Walter meowed in agreement, and your mouth tilted into a smile. Bruce swore he could survive off of that alone. “Seems I’m outnumbered.”

“A little,” he teased. How you siphoned off his anger so quickly, he might never know. Walter climbed up his leg, and he reached down to pick him up—under the armpits, not touching the belly. The way your eyes lit up then, that could keep him warm in the coldest Gotham winter. You shut the door, slowly, but kept it open a sliver.

You fell asleep in the single worst position your body had ever been in, one leg off the bed entirely, hand bent hard at the wrist, neck tucked to your chest at such an angle you wondered how the hell you’d managed to breathe.

The cracked window let a frog’s croak into your room, the backdrop of grasshoppers making your head buzz. You sat with your head in your hands, rolling your shoulders to wake yourself. So soothing, the silence… moonlight filtered through the half-broken blinds, hatching patterns onto your comforter.

Oh, shit!

You separated the blinds and peeked up at the sky—cloudless. Yes!

You threw on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt, and grabbed a blanket out of your closet before racing out. Walter batted at Bruce’s knee as he sat up from the couch and stared at you with alarm.

“Is your mother alright?”

“Yeah,” you yanked on your shoes and tossed the blanket at him. “Put on a jacket.” You flashed him a smile to show that it was fine, and rushed to the kitchen to fill a water bottle. The image of his inky hair mussed from your parent’s couch would hold you tight later, when you were inevitably alone in bed again.

Bruce was confused; moving with such urgency so late at night, yet nothing was wrong? Walter swatted at him when he stood. A subtle shhk of water from the kitchen sink let him know where you were—thank god Wayne Tower wasn’t carpeted, or he’d never be able to avoid his surrogate helicopter parent, who he realized he was emulating more and more every day he spent with you.

Was it normal to worry so much about someone?

He realized how tired he’d been after he blinked and you were driving onto gravel. At first it was strange to have you in control, but he moved away from the idea when he started feeling how much he liked it.

It was impossibly dark outside of the car; headlights were the only thing that gave any guidance, but they hardly made a dent. Sitting in a moving car with his hands not on the wheel felt so foreign it took until you parked on the side of a disastrously isolated road to pinpoint the last time he hadn’t been the one driving—and not due to crisis. Years, it must’ve been. Over a decade.

He stilled before exiting the car, only hopping out to be able to protect you against a coyote if one appeared. You’d rolled the windows down for a portion of the drive, and he heard one howl. He’d been stiff the next five minutes, struggling to conceptualize how to apprehend one. Sacrifice himself, hope his meat took long enough to chew on that you could make a getaway?

It couldn’t be normal to worry this much.

You tossed him the blanket after he’d carefully placed it in the backseat, and chastised him for not bringing a coat. “You’re going to get annihilated by mosquitos, Bruce.”

Going to get annihilated by you. A silent prayer rattled within him for a different time, a different world, where he might be anyone else. In a timeline where you might sneak looks at him like he had at you the whole drive, where panels of moonlight framed his eyes instead and your breath caught from the passenger each and every time.

“It’s gonna be nasty laying in a buggy field, but I’m willing to endure it for your first time.”

“My what?” His knees went weak as he felt the blanket’s fabric differently now. He dug his hips into the front fender for balance. First time? Certainly you didn’t mean… did you really think he’d never—

“C’mon.”

Tentatively, Bruce stepped away from the car and followed you off the gravel road, eyes trained on your phone’s flashlight lighting the foot in the front of you. There was no reality where you’d actually want to have sex out here, right now, with your mother still in the hospital. You’d regret that. You were riddled with grief, and he wouldn’t take advantage. Did you see him as a weapon to hurt yourself with? Only asking for sex when drugged, overwhelmed, depressed. Did it help you de-stress? Could he help you with that?

No. Obviously, no. You were just as inebriated now as at Penguin’s club. Your mom was in the hospital, for god’s sake. Thought she was comatose, why was he even entertaining this for a second?

You laid the blanket out and adjusted the corners, pulling them tight before you plopped onto your back. Your phone sat on your chest, the flashlight illuminating your face just enough to tell you were looking at him. He froze in place.

“Lay down here.” Rolling onto your side made more space, and you patted the area right beside you. His cheeks burned, sweat beading on his forehead. He plopped down near you, sitting, not wanting to get closer. You pouted, maybe mockingly, exaggerative, but he couldn’t tell for sure.

“No, lay.”

“What are you doing?” He’d be firm. Gentle, but firm. Very gentle, but firm. He couldn’t seem to draw in a full breath.

“You’re like the worst person to surprise.”

“Let’s go back to your place.”

“Seriously?”

Biting the same spot on his cheek made it start to bleed.

You gestured to the sky, letting your arm flop down on the blanket. “I wanted you to see the stars, jeez.”

He flushed with relief, his brain fighting to catch up. “I was getting in my head,”

“Why’d you think I brought you here? I thought it was obvious.”

You watched him finally lay, the brush of his shoulder against yours cording electricity up your spine, making you sit up to dig into him. “No, really. What did you think it was about?”

He had never looked more nervous, and your interest piqued. “Just a misread.”

Your heart was going through it tonight, currently jackhammering. “Can you stop being so cryptic all the time?”

Heavy, awkward, long-winded sigh. Your eyes flashed. What?!

“When you said first time,”

You gasped, all conscious thought vanishing. “You thought I brought you to this lumpy field to hook up?”

“It was confusing,” he admitted. He could blend in with a tomato, and a glow grew in your stomach.

“Now I know what scares you.”

He scoffed.

“You looked scared, Bruce. Truly terrified.”

“Uh huh.” He didn’t doubt he looked it, but for different reasons than you assumed. Falling into you would be a hole he’d never crawl out of. Even burning with embarrassment, feeling the godawful sear of it on the surface of his skin, he wouldn’t rather anyone see it but you.

“Would it be?”

“First time?” For how much he wanted it, it felt strange to talk about it with you. Strange in an enigmatic way. “No.”

“So you’ve stargazed before?” How many women had been so lucky to live the depth of your imagination?

He laughed under his breath, and the glow in you morphed into something harsher. “A few times.”

“Didn’t know you got out like that. Thought you didn’t have time.” Jealousy was its shape, and suddenly the field, the sky, none of it existed. Just him and his extracurriculars.

“Not anymore.”

Bruce was painfully aware how he had time right now, that he was here with you and not there, and really, really, really hoped that for the first time since he’d known you, you didn’t read his thoughts and pluck out exactly what he didn’t want to talk about.

“Is that really all you do? Be Batman?”

Why did dodging a bullet feel so disappointing?

“Guess I hallucinated all those meetings, too.” He hid it with a playful jab, and it worked, and his body heaved with relief when you nudged him, smirking.

“You know what I mean.”

He turned to the stars, noticing how brightly they twinkled; that wasn’t just a nursery rhyme? Was the smog in Gotham that bad? “Just about. Only the past four years.”

“Got your Bachelor’s in vigilantism.”

He snorted, which made you laugh, which made him smile and everything hazier. “I’m trying to stargaze.”

“Mm. Am I ruining the mood?”

“Everyone’s into different things.”

Light, pleasant sounds bubbled out of both of you, and you relaxed under the moon, settling into the eventual silence with ease.

For a few moments the stars were all-consuming. Fluttering and bright, but slowly pushing him younger, smaller. This compaction had him instinctually looking to you for an escape—but your attention focused on a constellation to your right. The space between distraction curdled his stomach, and forced a pause.

Tension. Weight.

Bruce kept his eyes trained on you; sloping down your cheeks and bridge of your nose down to your chin; equal parts begging to magnetize, to pull himself from this feeling, and seeking to admire you.

Tightness.

He threaded his focus back to the sky, though it stayed buried in the thick of his chest. No sounds existed here. Not even the wind.

A whirl of smoke twisted his stomach, and the tension intensified to a tourniquet. As his vision fuzzed and he pulled out of his body, he focused on a particularly bright star. Iris had always said to grow increasingly singular and intentional in these moments. What was there to do when he felt placed in a deprivation tank? No lights, cars, horns, ambulances, voices.

What would his mind do here if left to itself for too long?

“So, what do you think?”

He was trying not to, desperately in fact. “It’s nice.” It came out too mumbly, and he held his breath.

And there you came knocking. “What’s up?”

Cold breath plunged into his lungs as he locked eyes. “Too quiet.”

“You look tense.”

Bruce looked away and snorted, a bit frustrated—and relieved—that you’d read him. The quilt bunched between his shoulders, or was it a rock? “I am.”

“Why?”

He shifted. Yeah, it was a rock.

“Tell me.”

He shoved words out without care for how they tumbled. “Never been where all I can hear are my thoughts. Especially not since…” God, it didn’t make it any easier, he had these defenses for a reason… “The schizophrenia.”

The word was dry on his tongue, far too severe to be real. Bricks balanced on his Adam’s apple, catching his voice, trapping him underneath. Shame.

“Think that’s the first time I’ve heard you say it.”

He turned sharply at the pride in your tone. No pity, no coddling. His bones filled with helium. “I’m confused why you’re normal about it.”

You shifted, your gaze dropping to your feet. “My best friend had it.” Was he making you uncomfortable? Did you not want to tell him? You didn’t have to tell him. You didn’t have to tell him anything. You owed him nothing. Absolutely nothing. “Didn’t want to make it about me, so I never brought it up.”

He fixated on the word friend like how Walter had the laser he’d grabbed on the key holder by the door. “One of the people who hurt you?”

“You remembered?”

The waver in your expression sliced him clean open, a protectiveness swelling in like a sneaker wave that slipped his filter. “I remember it all.”

Oh. You held his stare a millisecond too long, as if you could measure it with him, like time didn’t fold in on itself with his gravity. “No. She didn’t. Didn’t mean to, anyway.” You stammered on, verging on hyperverbal. “Met her in second grade, she left at the end of seventh. She’d always hear and see things, but she didn’t get diagnosed until fifth grade when they pull you out of classes to do evaluations and stuff. We had a whole game about it. I came up with it to make it less scary for her. We named the hallucinations Oinky. She had a guinea pig that would not stop talking, so, naturally.”

He just watched you, carefully, and your stomach flipped. Fuck.

It made sense now. How gently you held him, the complete lack of hesitation you had when he’d clung to you—and probably scared you with his bugged-out eyes and shaking torso. But maybe not.

You’d done this before. Something so terrifying for him was like coming home for you. Hmm.

“What was her name?” He knew you wouldn’t like it, and since he’d promised, he wouldn’t do it without your permission, but if he could find some photo, some video—

“Don’t even think about it.”

Did he even need to speak around you? He turned to see you staring back with a knowing glance. Like it was his hobby to stalk childhood friends, lost connections. He hadn’t even stalked Tommy, though he hadn’t needed to. Still in New York, being the perfect surgeon. Probably…? Did he have a problem with stalking?

“Cooper.” You admitted, crossing your arms over your chest and biting your lip like he’d interrogated it out of you. “Not getting a last name, though.”

Bruce withheld a sarcastic, ‘Don’t need one,’ and flicked his gaze back to the stars. He didn’t realize he was grinning until he felt your eyes on him and it pulled back the veil. He hadn’t felt so in his body in ages.

Talking about Cooper, with her light brown hair that skirted her shoulders and the hyper way she talked next to you in middle school English, made you sore. How suddenly she’d left without a trace reminded you a lot of him. Like you were on the precipice of the rug pulling out from under you, and feeling all of that again. All for the crime of choosing the wrong seat, and letting yourself get a little too comfortable.

Why was he tolerating you, and why wasn’t he admitting that’s what this was? Your head was a storm of swirling leaves, spiraling toward a tornado.

“Do you just want to fuck me?” It blurted out of you, from a depth of insecurity you weren’t willing to admit to and hoped he wouldn’t tug on. You’d unravel. More than you already were. An unbearable amount.

“What do you mean?” His head snapped to you like a gun had gone off, that furrow back between his brow.

“If it’s not because of guilt about Batman, then maybe it’s this power fantasy of getting to fuck the person who knows, I don’t know.” Oh god, this is so embarrassing. Kill me now. You’d opened a box you couldn’t very well close.

His sigh made you squeeze your eyes shut, tense. “I care about you. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because you’re you.” Well, guess it’s all coming out.

“I’m not inhuman because I have money,”

“No, I mean, I kind of think that, sometimes.”

Bruce’s stare fixed on you with a pressure that could’ve drilled a hole. What were you not saying?

“Outside of knowing, I’m not special. And I don’t mean that in some bullshit flatter-me way, just, logic.”

“No, I don’t just want to fuck you.” And yes, you are. The most. The silence from before, the lack of wind, of cars, of people, became devastatingly, intimidatingly barren. He hoped you couldn’t hear the crack in his heart. At how your tears were barely contained. At the bass in your voice he hadn’t heard before. “Did I make it seem like—?”

“No. I’m trying to find an explanation.”

“You think I’m above you.”

He watched you nod, then shake your head. “I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I do. You’re really confusing to me.” Your lip trembled.

“How do we level the playing field?”

You met his gaze to hold it for a few seconds, as if to say you were thinking about it, too. About bitter words shouted on the way to the subway neither of you arrived at. About immovable objects. Mutually-assured destruction.

“I don’t know. You can be really warm, then really cold. I don’t like it. But I don’t want to change you. Then it’d be fake. And I hate that.” And I deserve the coldness, you bit back.

Hate rolled off your tongue with a cutting ferocity. He adjusted, nervous; this felt prickly. “But you still don’t trust me.”

“I trust you. Just not about me.”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“I’m reliable about everything but you.”

“I’m the only one who knows.”

He held the gaze you wouldn’t meet. “You’re fixated on that.”

“Of course I am. It’s like being—”

“What if I like that you know?” His heart pounded. What if you knew that he liked you, too? What if he told you, right now, and settled the score for good?

You laughed. His shoulders sank.

“I do.” Indignance deepened his furrowed brow, fire burning in his throat.

“Yeah, right.”

“Hated it initially. Now it’s relieving.” It became a vow; it was suddenly his life’s mission to convince you.

“Ha-ha.”

“What will convince you I don’t have an ulterior motive?” Would he have to overstep and spill it all? What if he admitted that he treasured every touch, glance, syllable from you, that each minute he spent made him more sure you were absolutely perfect, that everything might’ve happened for a reason; that ecstasy overwhelmed him whenever you smiled and laughed, even right now when he was frustrated, when you didn’t believe him, when you didn’t believe in yourself. Admitted that you weren’t the problem, he was, that he wasn’t good enough for you; that he was a monster, a curse, and he couldn’t bear to bring you into it any more than he already had. That he burned, ached, died against every word unsaid and every restrained touch.

“Nothing.”

The balloon popped at how plainly and surely you spoke. Your profile, half in view, reminded him of how you looked with your friends. Resigned, isolated. Defeated. It wasn’t fair.

He heated with anger, the injustice surging him with newfound energy, and he propped up on his elbow to stare into you. “I saw the photos on your desk. With your friends. From what you’ve told me about them, they didn’t care about you.”

He could’ve sworn the bottom of your eyes sparkled with tears under the moonlight. You didn’t respond.

“And you said they were your closest friends?”

“Yeah.”

Dejected. Worn. God, you didn’t deserve this! “Look,”

“Bruce,”

“I’m not them.”

“I know you aren’t.”

“I’m not like the people at the meetings, either.”

“Obviously.” A bit of you was creeping back in, and you successfully sniffed up tears.

He hadn’t made it easy. He saw it so clearly now, pale blue waters stilling to inspect the mossy bottom; how he kept you at a distance, and how you’d taken it: as rejecting, as not being enough, as him not caring. He cared so much it scared him. Was it possible to tell you without pulling you under? “I’m sorry for being cold. It’s not you. I’m really not used to this.”

When you looked at him, there was something you hadn’t seen before to this extent. Like his mask had fallen off. Something in his ‘really’ gripped you like a vice. He wasn’t used to this at all. He meant it like stumbling in the dark in a room you’d never been in, like trying to speak a language you’d never heard. You hid a tremble. Tried to, anyway.

He meant he’d never navigated this. It felt impossible to imagine him as anything but popular; for his family name and legacy, for how he looked, for his bank account. When had that changed, and the haughty man you cursed became an unparalleled comfort?

He was dry. Nerdy. Insular. Shy. Desperate, reaching. Intent on being understood. Intent on being understanding, and you did the same with him. Because you’d never had it.

Two truths slotted into place with an intimidating thunk. Bruce was kind and self-sacrificing, but Bruce was also honest and straightforward. Which meant… you swallowed, hard. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to be. And fuck, that scared you.

“Let me show you something different. Let me care about you.”

It was like he’d shanked you—at least, what you imagined it might feel like. A sharp, deep ache in the stomach from an external force that was currently rearranging your organs. Vulnerable. Laid-out. Seen. By the most observant man in the history of the universe.

You wanted it. You wanted it so badly you wanted to throw up, but it would kill you if he cared and you let yourself feel it, really feel it, and then he stopped; you clung to every breath your mom took, watched her breathing every night through the crack in your parent’s door ever since you thought that you might lose her. Let me care about you = let me kill you when I pull the plug.

Was it better to feel this than nothing? Under the duress of these fucking blue eyes, your footing slipped. He cared. And wasn’t that all you ever wanted—someone to choose you when they didn’t have to? Now that someone was, you couldn’t breathe.

You’d meant some plebeian from high school you forgot about. You’d meant a cashier in this forgotten town that had the same shift as your day job. You’d even meant an ex coming back and apologizing, some big romantic gesture momentarily overwhelming the suffering they put you through. Not Bruce. He was too…

He said your name with a question mark, sloping and tender.

Him. Too big, too consuming, too real, and overwhelmingly elusive. Your heart bruised itself against your ribs as you struggled to grasp the reality of Bruce Wayne.

Way, way too real. With a big, consuming, terrifying knife that broke skin at Arkham, bled when you wailed into his shirt, and hit deep tissue when he’d hugged your mom like they’d met a thousand times. Why couldn’t he be around that long?

“O-kay.” Stuttered on the dismount, but that was alright. He made you feel like everything was alright, and nothing was.

“What do you want to do tonight?”

Cry. Kiss. Cry some more. Stare at Walter. Hug Mom. Hug him. Shove him away and bolt the lock. “I don’t know.”

“What did you not get to do with your friends?”

You’d only dreamed someone might look at you like he was right now. Like the cosmos orbited you alone. You looked away just in time to see a shooting star—or maybe it was a regular one smeared by the moment. A fluffy childhood dream fluttered to you, and you alluded to it quietly, letting him know it was okay to go back to cold, distant Bruce and stop drinking you in. “It’s dumb.”

“Let me.” He didn’t look away, didn’t flicker in intensity. Like he’d do anything if you asked, with or without reciprocation, because he only existed for you. “No judgment.”

You hated the hope that filled you at his earnestness, and how helplessly you followed him; like a loose petal giving in to a caress.

taglist: @noisylime @jonathancranesgf @hedonisticwomen @vampiresvengeance @serynstorylover @crayzmarvelfan800 @dreamer7black @sarcasticwalrus0 @sad-ghouls @smellingbats @eddiew-k @kha0sblossom @omithemonki @badbishsblog

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levandright · 8 months ago

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BEST FOR YOU ✦ P.SH

pairings : ex! sunghoon x fem reader ୨ৎ content / warning(s) : hurt with comfort, sunghoon gets closure ୨ৎ word count : 1.5k ・ archive

synopsis. sunghoon reflects on his past relationship with you, feeling the weight of your breakup and the distance that has grown between you. as he sees you move on, he is reminded of your shared memories and the love you once had. coming to terms with the changes in your lives, sunghoon finds peace, wishing you well as he lets go of the past and the connection you once shared. lev notes : this is inspired by the song best for you by slchld <3 i actually cried when i first finished writing the draft which was shorter (around 700 words) and this is my first ever angst!! hopefully it doesn't dissapoint >.> i genuinely had such a hard time writing some parts but i pulled through with the power of friendship!!

sunghoon sat in his room, the dim light of his desk lamp casting shadows against the walls. the air conditioning hummed softly, the only sound filling the silence of the quiet evening. he leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as his gaze drifted to the window. the stillness in the air matched the quiet that had settled within him—a feeling he couldn’t shake, no matter how many times he tried to distract himself.

there was something about the loneliness tonight that felt different. it wasn’t just the silence that made it seem so heavy, but the creeping ache in his chest that had been growing for months, ever since your breakup. sometimes, in the middle of a busy day, he would forget that the person who used to be at the center of his world was no longer there. but in moments like this, when it was just him and solitude, the reality of it all hit harder than he cared to admit.

the soft glow of his phone screen illuminated his face as he unlocked it, absentmindedly scrolling through his instagram feed. it wasn’t like he was looking for anything specific—just trying to fill the emptiness in the room with something, anything. his thumb paused when he saw your post. you were smiling brightly, laughing with your friends at some outdoor café. the image felt almost surreal to him.

he had never been the type to go through his ex’s social media, not anymore. but today, something had drawn him in. he couldn’t help but wonder how you were doing, how you were living your life without him. it had been a while since you breakup, and he had been trying his best to move on, to accept that things were over between you two. but seeing you this happy, living the life you’d always dreamed of—it hurt.

your smile was the same as it had always been, bright and effortless. but now it wasn’t for him. it wasn’t because of him. that realization hit harder than he expected. his heart clenched, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

he continued scrolling through your feed, stopping at another post—a picture of you and him, taken months ago at the park. he remembered that day so clearly, the way the sunlight had filtered through the trees and made everything glow. it had been a perfect day, one that had felt like it would last forever. how naive he had been, thinking that nothing could tear you apart.

but everything had changed.

back then, you and sunghoon had been inseparable. high school sweethearts. you had shared everything with each other: dreams, laughter, and even the inevitable frustrations of growing up. you were each other’s safe haven. but life had a funny way of pushing people in different directions, of breaking apart the very things that once seemed unbreakable.

he remembered the late nights he’d stayed up studying, only to have you call him crying, talking about how much the distance between you two was weighing on your heart. and then there were the times he was too exhausted from his part-time job to really listen, too caught up in his own world to hear the desperation in your voice. he was juggling university, work, and trying to hold onto a relationship that was slowly slipping through his fingers.

sunghoon had never been good at balancing everything. he had never been great at handling the outbursts or the tantrums that sometimes came from the overwhelming pressure of your long-distance relationship. back then he had only been able to offer quick reassurances, tired words that meant little in the face of your pain. and when the break-up came, it felt like a punch to the gut.

the reason you drifted apart was simple, yet so complicated at the same time. you both had grown, and in that process, you had grown away from each other. the person he was back then, caught between uni and a part-time job, he had failed to truly see the depth of what you needed. and now looking back, he wished he could have done better.

"i should have tried harder," he whispered to himself. "i should have been there more."

but that didn’t change anything now. he couldn’t go back in time and fix his mistakes. all he had now were memories, and the reality that those memories would never become anything more.

the pain of that realization had hit hardest after the breakup, it felt like the ground had shifted beneath him. for so long, he had imagined his future with you. suddenly, he was adrift, lost in a world that no longer made sense. he remembers nights lying awake, replaying the last few months of your relationship, questioning what he could have done differently, feeling anger, confusion, and heartache twist together inside him.

eventually, he learned to let go of the resentment, to see things with a little more clarity. you both had grown, and sometimes people simply grow in different directions. even now, he knows that his feelings for you haven’t faded, that part of him will always love you in some quiet, unspoken way. but he’s come to accept that you’re better off without him, that he needs to let you go fully.

and then, one night, it happens. he’s scrolling mindlessly again when he sees it. a new photo—one that’s different from the rest. you’re standing next to someone, a guy with an easy smile and a warm, gentle presence. jay.

jay, sunghoon had heard about him from mutual friends. he was kind, thoughtful, everything sunghoon wished he could have been for you back then. and now, it was clear: you had found someone new. someone who made you happy. someone who could give you everything he couldn’t.

sunghoon sat back in his chair, feeling a lump rise in his throat. it felt like the final confirmation that you had truly moved on, that his place in your life was nothing more than a shadow now. he’d always imagined a future with you. he’d imagined growing old together, supporting each other through everything life threw at you. but now, all he had were his memories—and even those felt like they were fading, slowly but surely.

he looked at the photo again, your smile still as bright as ever, but this time, it wasn’t for him. it was for jay. and a strange peace settled over him. you had found love again. you were with someone who made you feel the way you deserved to feel.

sunghoon took a deep breath and opened your chat. he had been avoiding it for so long, unsure of what to say, but now he knew. he wanted to reach out one last time. he didn’t expect anything in return, but he needed to say what was in his heart. after all, he had never been good at letting go, but it was time.

his fingers hovered over the keyboard as he searched for the right words. they trembled slightly as he types:

“hey y/n… i saw your post. i just wanted to say, i’m really happy for you. you deserve all the happiness in the world, and i know jay will treat you the way you’ve always deserved to be treated. thank you for everything, for all the memories. i’ll always wish you the best.”

he paused, staring at the message for a moment before pressing “send.” a weight lifted off his shoulders as soon as he did, his heart heavy yet at peace. by saying goodbye in that simple message, he was letting go, wishing you well—even though he knew he’d never see your smile in person again.

sunghoon sat back in his chair, his eyes drifting back to the photo of you and jay, the one that had started all of this. for the first time in months, he wasn’t angry or sad. he wasn’t resentful. instead, he felt an odd sense of closure, a peaceful acceptance that the two of you were no longer meant to be.

his mind wandered back to the first time he saw you, in the school library. you had been sitting at a table, a pile of books in front of you, your head slightly down as you concentrated. when your eyes met his, you smiled shyly, and something in him had shifted. it was as if the world had slowed down just for that moment. that smile had been the first spark, the first flicker of something that would grow into an overwhelming love. that first smile had stayed with him, a memory he carried through every moment you shared.

“i fell for you right then,” sunghoon whispered to the empty room. “and i think, a part of me will always love you.”

he closed his eyes and leaned back, letting the memory of that smile wash over him. it was bittersweet, but in that moment, he finally understood. you had been his first love, and though that chapter had closed, it would always be a part of him. and that was enough.

he whispered a final goodbye to himself, letting the memory fade into the stillness of the night. with it, he carried a silent promise to move forward, even if it meant holding a small piece of you with him forever.

as he drifted off to sleep that night, he silently wished you well, hoping that wherever life took you, you would find everything you were looking for and more.

perm taglist. @honeychocos @honeybelleee @manaah02 (open!)

©levandright

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devilw-rites · 9 months ago

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Behind Closed Doors and Paper-Thin Walls

Tags: switch!Matt Murdock x switch!Reader, Reader is being horny and fantasizing a lot (bondage & pegging), Matt is a voyeur, Foggy is an innocent bystander. (2,767 words).

Being a paralegal under your husband's and his best friend's law firm seems like a dream come true, but sometimes the close proximity gets to you and Matt. (Read on ao3!)

The only thing that separated you and your husband, Matt Murdock, was a papery-thin wall and a cracked window.

You sat at a desk in the main room in the office, prepping Wednesday’s case file for Matt and Foggy. With every trial the law firm only got bigger and bigger, and they desperately needed help planning cases. In the other room, Foggy’s office, the duo were on the phone with some-such or another. It apparently wasn’t going well because you could hear Foggy slam close his desk drawer. You huffed yourself, not exactly in the mood to deal with two very grumpy men, no matter how professional they maintained.

Matt walked out of the office, hands running through his hair. He made a beeline to the coffee pot, hoping to drown his woes into a cheap brew. Of course, it had been emptied by the three of you in the morning, so he went to work looking for the ground beans.

“Sounds like you guys are dealing with a nightmare,” you said. You stood from the desk to help him find the coffee, fetching the bag from one of the top shelves. “Let me make your coffee so you can breathe for a minute.” You knew you didn’t have to do this, Matt was capable of making his own drink no matter his mood, but you wanted to alleviate his stress in any way you could.

“You don’t have to do that, honey, I got it,” Matt objected, going to take the bag from you only for you to snatch it from his reach.

“I know, now go sit down. I love you,” you said, throwing out the old filter and putting a new one in the brewer.

Matt obeyed, quickly accepting a chance to be doted on. He sagged into one of the chairs by the entrance door, loosening his tie and leaning back with a sigh. You glanced over for just a second to check on him, but stopped all movement when you saw him. Disheveled hair from running his hands through it, loose tie, head leaned back… it was a position all too familiar to you. You coughed to keep yourself from whining, a blush rushing to your face and running down your neck.

You tried to keep your thoughts from trailing off the task, telling yourself that you were at work, Matt was in a bad mood, and Foggy is literally right there. Like playing tug-of-war with a team of oxen, you quickly fell down the horny rabbit hole. Your mind flashed with images of all the times the two of you had fucked at work–when you were still the newbie, after a date night that turned into a work night, the week before your wedding–there were definitely a dozen more examples, but those stood out to you the most. Your thighs squeezed together, suddenly so desperate to touch yourself. You hoped Matt would be too distracted to notice your sudden change in mood.

Matt didn’t notice at first, too caught up in his own whirlwind of thoughts, only none of them were anything like yours. It was only when the coffee pot beeped, alerting that it was finished, that the two of you were ripped from your trances. With shaky hands you filled a mug. Still oblivious, not paying attention to anything beyond how the hell he was gonna get his client to cooperate, he took the cup from your hands. It was when he felt the small tremors in your fingers that he perked up.

At first he thought you were upset, considering that he’d let his bad mood rub off on you, but that possibility was almost instantly eliminated when he took in the rest of you. Your hands had been abnormally warm, your heartbeat stuttering and speeding up, and that smell he knew all too well. You were needy, for whatever reason, and he knew you were already wet.

You gulped, fiddling with your skirt. “Anything else I can do to make it easier?” You asked, trying your hardest to keep your tone appropriately concerned and not desperate. Matt’s eyebrows were furrowed together–god fucking damn it, he was so hot–like he was still frustrated from what happened earlier. No, little did you know, he was trying to figure out how you got so aroused in between the time he left Foggy’s office and now, unless he’d somehow missed it even earlier.

Matt hummed an indication of no, taking a drink of the coffee to ground himself for totally different reasons. “Thank you, I really appreciate this,” he said.

You bit your lip, deciding to lean down and give him a chaste kiss to his lips. Just a taste, that’s all you wanted, all you needed, you told yourself. He eagerly returned it, reaching up to rest his hand on the side of your neck to let you know he didn’t want you to pull away. He was trying his hardest to control himself, but you were so tempting, and you always knew all the right ways to destress him.

An awkward cough echoed in the room and you jumped, pulling away from Matt despite a quiet huff from him. There Foggy stood, clearly still annoyed, but definitely not at you two. “Sorry to interrupt, lovebirds, but I heard the coffee. Matt, hands to yourself, buddy,” he said lightheartedly. He’d walked in on much worse in his three years of knowing you.

With a blush, you licked your lips, trying to savor the lingering taste of your husband. You glanced one last time at Matt before you walked back to your desk and pretended to get back to your work. He definitely knew.

“How you holding up, Fog?” You asked, flipping between the same two pages in the case file like that would exorcize your brain.

“You do not want to know, this guy is probably as big of a nightmare to work with as Castle. He’s not telling the truth about something, I just know it, and it’s making this a whole lot harder than it has to be!” Foggy freely ranted, pouring his coffee much closer to the top than was safe for your floors.

You tried to be sympathetic, you really did, but your will was not that strong and your cunt was soaking your panties. You thought back to last night, when Matt’s cock hitting the back of your throat satisfied every part of you. He was so thick, stretching your lips more than you ever thought you could handle before you met him, and the feeling of him throbbing against your tongue had you whining around his cock. When you finally had him cumming down your throat, it was your turn, Matt throwing you back on the bed so he could worship you between your legs until you couldn’t stand to cum anymore and then some.

“Okay, I know the first two pages aren’t that interesting,” Foggy teased. “If you’re bored you can do something else, you’re not bound to this case forever.”

God, he really should’ve said anything else, because now you were picturing tying Matt’s wrists together, riding him and taking care of him after a long day of bullshit. Leaving scratches down his chest, feeling his hand wrapping around your neck, and forcing his cock as deep as it can go inside of you... The warmth in between your legs exploded into tingles and your face got hotter with each passing fantasy.

Matt tried his hardest to keep himself together, focused entirely on tuning in to your body. He sensed every little reaction, could hear your thighs rubbing and squeezing together behind your desk. He wished Foggy was anywhere but here right now so he could touch you in all the ways you so desperately craved.

“Uh, yeah, sorry, guess I’m not all the way here right now,” you said, brushing off Foggy’s comment, “maybe I need some of that coffee for myself.”

“I got it!” Matt rushed, all too eager to serve you. Foggy rolled his eyes at how lovestruck Matt always seemed to be for you, but deep down he found the pair of you adorable. You were like the power duo, a classic Romeo and Juliet–minus the family feud, the weird age gap, and the suicide.

You slyly stared as Matt poured you a cup. Your eyes trailed up and down his body, taking your time when they landed on his ass. A shiver ran up your spine as you pictured him bent over for you, maybe over your very desk, presented and waiting for you to fill him up. It was a fantasy you’d discussed before, even planned to try out soon, because recently he’d been obsessed with the idea of you fucking him. Using one of your dildos, stretching him out, and filling him up in ways no one else ever had, touching him in ways he’d never let anyone else even think about.

“Thanks, hon,” you said when Matt brought you your coffee. “I’m gonna go finish these up in my office, okay? Let me know if you guys need anything.” You were hoping with a little more privacy you could ease the ache a little bit. You pecked Matt on the cheek and entered your little sanctuary, adorned with a cat calendar and a couple dying succulents.

You closed the door and plopped the small stack of files on your desk. You sat in your rolly chair and leaned back with a sigh that was somewhere between relief and frustration. You pushed your lap all the way under the desk to ensure a little more modesty. You ran your fingers over the front of your skirt at first, letting the small tingles run their way through your body. There was no way Matt couldn’t hear you right now, but part of you was hoping that he was getting as riled up as you were.

Meanwhile, Matt was trying his best to split his attention between you and Foggy, with you clearly dominating. Even with Foggy’s loud ranting and raving about the woes of their client, all he could hear was your shuddering breaths and the rustling of your skirt. The picture was almost crystal clear: you leaned back against your chair, skirt hiked up to your waist, and hand shoved down your panties. He could feel a warm flush of his own traveling lower and lower.

“You know what I mean?” Foggy finished, almost out of breath after his long winded soapbox. Matt quickly snapped out of his trance.

“Hm? Yeah, this guy’s a nightmare, Fog. Hey, why don’t you go on a walk to clear your head?” Matt suggested. He was hoping and praying to every Saint above that he would just leave the office already so he could get his hands on you.

“Maybe later. Let’s just get this done today, I’m sick of this case,” Foggy said.

Deep down, Matt was crying on the inside.

You were too, but for a totally different reason.

Your skirt was well up past your hips and your panties pulled down to stretch across your thighs. Your fingers are slowly stroking the length of your clit to really tease yourself. A shiver reverberates across your body and you let out a small moan. It doesn’t feel nearly as good as Matt’s fingers, but you’re still left melted against your chair.

Matt’s legs are crossed in a desperate attempt to hide his erection from his best friend. He gulps when he can hear a shaky whine slip past your lips. He has to grip the arm of his chair to keep himself grounded.

You’re not oblivious to the effect you’re having on Matt, though you can’t actually see or hear him. Instead you use your imagination. He’s probably fiddling with his tie, one of his nervous habits. His breathing is probably getting heavier, sweat dripping down the back of his neck, and hard cock straining against his dress pants–you throw a hand over your mouth the stifle a moan. Your fingers start rubbing tight circles against your clit, sometimes dipping down to tease your hole every once and a while.

Matt felt like his skin was on fire at this point. How Foggy hadn’t noticed him dying in his chair was beyond him. He was barely able to grit out brief answers to whatever bullshit was being discussed. He could practically taste you from across the office.

You were using both hands at this point, one hand fingering your cunt and the other stroking your clit. You could feel the orgasm building up as your clit pulsed and throbbed from your touches. Flashes of Matt danced across your closed eyelids. Memories of him fucking you up against these very walls, his cock impossibly deep inside of you while you scratched at his back. Him dropping to his knees to tongue fuck your pussy from under your desk while you completed work. You teasing your poor husband as he begged you to finally let you cum after denying him for the third time.

Your heart was pounding against your ribs and you could hardly catch your breath. Your fingers pounded against your spot relentlessly. You were surprised you could stay as quiet as you had been, yet Matt could still hear everything. Your labored breathing, your racing heart, the wet noises of your cunt. He was gripping his knee, so desperate for you, he could hardly stand it. He could tell you were close and that made it all the more painful. He should be the one driving you to the edge, not your hands.

It hit you suddenly, the first wave of your orgasm. The hand rubbing your clit flew up to cover your mouth once more while you fingerfucked yourself through each and every wave of euphoria. You whimpered Matt’s name under your breath as quietly as you could, knowing that it would rile him up even more. It worked, Matt’s cock leaked precum into his boxers.

Once the final wave passed, your muscles collapsed and you sagged against your chair. You pulled out your fingers and limply laid your hand against your thigh. You took deep breaths to ground yourself. You wished Matt was here to help you clean up.

Matt could hear that your breathing had slowed and the wet sounds of your fingers slipping in and out of you had ceased. He matched your slow, deep breaths to bring himself down as much as possible. His cock still painfully throbbed and the flush on his neck refused to go away.

The sound of your clothes rustling, then your office door opening, alerted Matt that you were going to the bathroom to clean up. He lamely excused himself from Foggy and rushed to meet you on your way there. When he stepped out into the main room, you stopped just at the bathroom door and waited for him. He made his way over to you and stood close, nearly right up against you.

“You know I heard that,” Matt breathed into your ear. You couldn’t resist shivering.

“I know, baby. I’m surprised you were able to keep yourself together,” you teased back.

“You know you’re paying for that when we get home, right?”

Your heart jumped at the implication. What did Matt have in store for you? Would you fuck you the minute the two of you passed the threshold, shoving you against a wall and taking what was his? Or would he take you to bed and tease you, going tortuously slow. Would he deny you, making you wait to cum the way you made him wait? Would he refuse to stop, making you cum over and over again until you were shaking and couldn’t cum anymore? Your cheeks burned bright red from all the possibilities.

While you were stuck in thought, Matt gently took the hand that had been inside of you. He raised it up to his lips and slowly took them in his mouth. His tongue swirled around each finger to catch any of your cum that he could. You whined without thinking, definitely too loud to be discreet. Matt slowly pulled your fingers out with a quiet ‘pop’ and dropped your hand back down.

“Just needed a taste, sweetheart,” Matt teased through his grin. “Go clean up and I’ll let Foggy know we’re going home early.”

“Fuck, okay Matt,” you replied. You rushed into the bathroom and all but slammed the door behind you, nervous and excited for whatever your consequences might be.

#matt murdock x reader #switch!matt murdock x switch!reader #switch!matt murdock x reader #switch!matt murdock #matt murdock x reader smut #daredevil x reader #matt murdock smut #my writing

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