#i mostly have it playing in the background | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

soulofapatrick · 24 hours ago

Text

The Fourth Wing Boys and their Reactions to you being Pregnant

Summary: Just what I think the boys' reactions would be

Words: 7.5K words

Warnings: some angst but mostly fluffy and cuteeee

Xaden Riorson, the man who has made a career of maintaining control in a world that crumbles around him, has never looked more vulnerable than in this moment. His eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes that see everything and give nothing away—widen as the words I just spoke settle between us. The smirk that usually dances on his lips, the one that makes him seem untouchable, vanishes as if it’s never been there at all. His expression, typically guarded and enigmatic, is now a map of raw emotion, impossible to ignore.

I watch him, unsure of whether I’ve just shattered the air between us or opened a door we aren’t ready to walk through. His hands, always confident and steady, grip my waist with a force that seems born of instinct, as if the weight of what I just told him threatens to pull him down. He inhales sharply, and in the way his breath catches in his throat, I can feel it—a tremor, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. The sound of it—soft, like a whisper of disbelief—breathes life into the moment, making it real, making it unavoidable.

His eyes dart to my stomach, that small curve, barely noticeable but unmistakably there. Then, without warning, they flick back to mine, as if trying to find some confirmation that this isn’t a cruel joke, some twisted play to see him unravel. His jaw tightens, his muscles go taut, and for the briefest of seconds, I think he might not believe me. But then he whispers, his voice low and edged with something I’m not ready to identify. “You’re sure?”

I nod, unable to contain the mix of fear, anticipation, and joy that floods through me, and that’s when everything shifts. The tension in his body cracks, splintering apart like ice breaking under the weight of an ocean. His breath, shallow and uneven, spills out in a rush, and his gaze—normally so calculating, so indifferent to everything around him—softens, transforming into something I’ve only seen glimpses of: vulnerability. There, in that look, I see the faintest flicker of hope, a light that barely dares to exist in the shadows of his usual guarded composure.

The silence that follows feels like an eternity, a moment stretched so thin it could shatter at any second. But instead, he moves. His hands, which had been trembling ever so slightly, find their place around me, pulling me close as if I’m the only thing holding him together. His lips brush against the side of my face, pressing against my temple in a gesture that feels oddly fragile for someone like him—someone who has built walls taller than any fortress, whose every breath is calculated, every action precise.

His voice, when it finally comes, is raw—thick with emotion I didn’t know he was capable of showing. “You have no idea how much I love you,” he murmurs, his words a promise. His hands slide down slowly, reverently, until one rests on my stomach. His thumb begins to trace circles, soft at first, like he’s afraid to touch too firmly, as if afraid he might shatter something precious. And maybe he’s right—because in this moment, something shifts inside him, and I’m not sure he’s ready to face it yet.

The man who once seemed so untouchable, so impenetrable, is unraveling in front of me, but not in a way that makes me want to run. Instead, I find myself holding him just as tightly, afraid that if I let go, he might slip away. He isn’t just holding me—he’s holding onto something else. Something bigger than both of us.

We stay like that for a long while, the world fading into the background. His hands, still tracing slow circles over my stomach, seem to speak volumes without words. Each pass of his thumb is a vow—a promise to protect, to fight for, to love the life growing inside me with the same fierce, unrelenting devotion he’s always given to me. Only now, there’s something new in his gaze—something deeper. The promise isn’t just to me anymore. It’s to the little one we’ve yet to meet, the one who has already captured his heart in a way I never could have expected.

We’re lying in bed, the early morning sunlight spilling through the window, painting Garrick’s bare shoulders in a soft, golden glow. The light dances across his skin, highlighting the muscles in his back as he sleeps, his breathing slow and steady, the rise and fall of his chest like a calming rhythm. His arm is draped lazily over my waist, holding me close but not tight, as if he’s still half-anchored to the world of dreams. The warmth of him presses against me, a comfort I never want to lose, but something stirs inside me—something I can’t ignore, something that needs to be said.

I shift slightly, the flutter of nerves in my chest making my heart race just a little faster than it should. His eyes crack open, barely more than a sliver, and he blinks up at me through the haze of sleep. His lips twitch into the softest of smiles, and I can’t help but feel a warmth spread through me, even as my own pulse quickens.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, his voice husky from sleep, a teasing note in the words.

I swallow hard, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment, the gravity of the words I’m about to say. “I have something to tell you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, thick with nerves. I watch his expression shift as he processes my tone—sleep fading from his eyes as they focus on me, sharpening with concern, alertness creeping in. His brows furrow slightly, his grip on me tightening just enough that I can feel the change, the instinctive need to protect, to hold me steady.

The air between us thickens, and I take a steadying breath before finally letting the words escape. “I’m pregnant.”

For a long moment, there’s nothing—no sound, no movement. Just the steady beat of my own heart, pounding in my ears. His blue eyes lock onto mine, and I see the wheels turning in his mind, trying to make sense of what I’ve just said. It’s as if he’s searching for any sign that he’s misunderstood, trying to find some hint that this isn’t real. And then, slowly, so slowly that it feels like time itself holds its breath, a grin begins to spread across his face. It starts small, like disbelief, and then grows—grows until it’s nothing short of radiant, the kind of grin that could light up the world. It’s like the sun breaking through storm clouds, a warmth that fills the space between us, and I feel myself melt under it.

A quiet, breathless laugh escapes him, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, what he’s feeling. He sits up then, pulling me with him, his movements fluid, confident, like he’s always known he’d be here. His hands come up to cradle my face, and his thumbs gently trace over my cheekbones, each touch reverent, as though I am the most precious thing he’s ever held. His touch is tender, full of wonder. His gaze never leaves mine.

“We’re having a baby?” he whispers, voice hushed, awed, like the very idea of it is too beautiful to fully comprehend. His eyes search mine for any hint of doubt, any sign that this might not be true, but all I can do is nod. And when I do, he kisses me—deep, lingering, filled with everything he feels, overflowing with love and joy in a way that takes my breath away.

The kiss is everything—the kind of kiss that promises a future, the kind that says we’re in this together, no matter what. When he finally pulls away, his hands slide down to rest over my stomach, his touch slow and careful, like he’s handling something fragile, something sacred. His voice is thick with emotion as he murmurs, “I’m going to love them so much.”

I can feel the sincerity in his words, hear the depth of his commitment in every syllable. He presses his forehead to mine, the grin never fading, and I can feel his joy radiating off of him, filling me up. There’s no hesitation, no doubt in him, just a certainty that this moment, this new chapter of our lives, is exactly where we’re meant to be. He holds me close, his hands still resting gently on my stomach, as if he’s already thinking of all the ways he’ll love the little life growing inside me.

“I can’t believe this is real,” he murmurs, and the wonder in his voice makes my heart swell. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

And for the first time in a long time, I’m certain too. In his arms, with his heart beating against mine, I know that whatever comes next, we’ll face it together. And I know, deep down, that we’ll be the best parents we can be. Because this moment—this shared joy—is only the beginning.

Liam is in the middle of fixing his dagger, the rhythmic glide of the whetstone over the blade a comforting sound, familiar and steady. His brow is furrowed in concentration, lips slightly parted as he works, his fingers steady and sure. There’s a certain ease to his posture, though—a quiet confidence in the way he holds the dagger, in the way he moves. I watch him for a moment, the soft light from the window casting shadows over his strong features, and something stirs deep in my chest.

I know what I’m about to say will change everything. It will shift the balance of us, of this quiet, simple life we’ve built. It will disrupt the calm. And yet, in this moment, with his presence so solid and steady beside me, I’m not sure if I’m ready for the words to leave my lips.

“Liam,” I say softly, my voice steady despite the whirlwind inside me. My heart is racing, a thudding pulse in my ears, but I push through it. He hums in acknowledgment, his eyes still focused on the blade in front of him. But when I don’t continue, when the silence stretches between us too long, he finally stills. His sharp green eyes flick to mine, reading me in an instant. And in that moment, I feel like he’s already seen it all—the hesitation, the fear, the joy that fights its way to the surface.

The dagger is forgotten, carefully set down on the table beside him, and he stands in one smooth motion, crossing the distance between us in two quick strides. The energy between us shifts, and his hands frame my face, warm and steady, his breath unsteady as he studies me. I can see the question in his eyes, and I know he’s waiting for me to speak again.

“What is it?” he asks, his voice low, steady. But I can hear the uncertainty beneath it—the flicker of confusion, of concern, because he knows something is coming, something big.

I exhale slowly, trying to steady myself, gripping the edge of the table as though it’s the only thing keeping me grounded in this moment. I whisper the words, barely above a breath, but I feel them settle between us like a charge in the air. “I’m pregnant.”

The words hang there, heavy, charged, electric. I watch as his body locks up, the shock rippling through him, a brief stillness in the air before everything changes. He blinks once, then twice, his lips parting slightly, as if he’s trying to find the right response but no words come. The seconds stretch out, thick and heavy, as though we’re suspended in time, before he inhales sharply, his chest rising and falling with an effort that betrays his calm.

Without another word, he steps closer, closing the gap between us. His hands are on me in an instant, cupping my face with a tenderness that makes my heart catch. He’s searching my eyes, his expression intense, as though he’s trying to read me, to make sure this is real. “Say it again,” he murmurs, his voice thick, as if the words themselves are something he needs to hear once more to believe.

I don’t hesitate this time. I say it again, the words rolling off my tongue with a clarity I didn’t know I had in me. “I’m pregnant.”

His chest rises again, this time in a sharp inhale, and his fingers tighten around me as if to pull me even closer, as if he never wants to let go. The moment feels suspended, timeless, and then suddenly—he laughs. It’s a quiet, disbelieving sound, almost as though he can’t quite wrap his mind around it, and the laugh shifts into something softer, something deeper. Something filled with wonder.

He presses his forehead to mine, the weight of his hands on my face grounding me, and then slowly, reverently, his hands slip down to rest over my stomach. His touch is warm, careful, as though he’s holding something delicate, something precious. The moment stretches between us, full of a new, tender energy, and I know without a doubt that everything has changed.

“You have no idea how much I love you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, raw and genuine, like he’s trying to find the words to hold all of it—this moment, this future, this life we’re about to create together.

And then, without another word, he kisses me. It’s slow, deep, and everything I’ve ever wanted. It’s a kiss that speaks of promises, of futures and dreams, of everything we’ve built and everything we will. I can feel the weight of it, the depth of it, and as he pulls me close, as his hands rest gently on the life growing inside me, I know that this moment is the beginning of everything. Everything has changed. And somehow, it feels like it always was meant to.

Bodhi is pacing, his boots scuffing against the cold stone floor with every angry step. The rhythm of his movement is frantic, almost like he's trying to outrun the frustration boiling inside him. His hands are thrown up in exasperation, his voice sharp with bitterness. “Of course, Xaden gets the good shit. Again. Powers? Sure. Now Violet... First in line for the throne? Why the hell not?” His voice cracks with sarcasm, the words biting through the air like daggers. “They both get the good fucking shit.”

I watch him, my heart beating wildly in my chest. It’s not the anger that rattles me; I’ve seen him like this before. But the weight of it all—the frustration that pours out of him—makes my stomach twist with something deeper. It’s all too familiar, this endless cycle of feeling overlooked, dismissed. His voice is thick with old grievances, with wounds that never quite heal, and I know well enough to recognize when he’s spiraling.

He’s about to explode, and I can’t let him. Not this time. If I don’t stop him, I know he’s going to hurt himself in more ways than one. So I step forward, my footsteps silent but determined, and before he can throw his next bitter word into the air, I grab his wrist, holding it firmly but gently.

“Bodhi.”

My voice cuts through his storm of frustration like a calm in the eye of the hurricane, sharp and steady. He freezes mid-step, his body tensing as my name slides past my lips. His hazel eyes, blazing with unresolved anger, snap to mine, and for a moment, everything else falls away.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself, feeling the weight of the words that have been resting on the edge of my tongue for what feels like an eternity. "I’m pregnant."

The shift is immediate, like the world tilts on its axis. His body locks up, rigid and uncertain, and his expression flickers through anger, confusion, and something else—something raw, vulnerable, and unguarded. His lips part, but no sound escapes. For a long moment, he just stands there, staring at me like I’ve just ripped the ground out from under him, like he’s trying to process what I’ve just dropped into the space between us.

The air in the room feels thick, charged, like time itself is holding its breath. Then, as if he’s been holding onto something for too long, the tension in his shoulders suddenly drains away, replaced by something softer, almost fragile. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s unsure of what to do, like he wants to reach for me but is afraid of the weight of what this means.

“You’re—” He stops himself, blinking hard as if he’s trying to shake off the fog of disbelief. “You’re serious?”

I nod, and when I do, his whole body seems to collapse inward. His breath comes out in a sharp exhale, ragged and uneven, and a shaky laugh bursts from him. It’s low, almost disbelieving, like he can’t quite catch up to the reality of it all. His hands tremble as he reaches for me, pulling me close like I’m the only thing holding him together in this moment. His fingers land on my waist, steady and desperate, as if he needs to feel me beneath his hands, solid and real.

“Holy fucking shit,” he breathes, shaking his head with a soft, disbelieving laugh. "Xaden can keep his damn throne." And then, without warning, he’s kissing me. It’s not soft or gentle—it’s desperate, a kiss that’s full of raw emotion, of relief, of something far too big to name. His hands tighten around me, anchoring himself to the moment, to the realisation, to us.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t let go, his hand sliding down to rest over my stomach, warm and steady. His touch is a promise, a grounding force. He’s breathing heavily, still trying to catch up to the reality of everything, but there’s a clarity in his eyes now. A certainty that wasn’t there before.

“This?” He murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “This is ours.”

And for the first time in a long while, I see it—the shift in him, the release of all that frustration, all that anger, replaced with something I can’t quite name. But I know this is the moment everything changes. This is the beginning of something far greater than the chaos we’ve both been drowning in.

Violet slides a glass toward me, the faintest glint of challenge in her eyes as she smirks. “Come on, you’re not seriously turning down a drink, are you?” Her voice has a playful edge, teasing me, but something’s different in the way she looks at me, like she senses that something is off. I hesitate, the words swirling in my mind, threatening to spill, and that’s when I push the glass away.

Her smirk falters. “Wait. What?”

Before she can press further, I feel it—the weight of Ridoc’s gaze on me. I turn, and there he is, standing a few feet away, brow furrowed and head tilted just enough to show he’s putting pieces together. I’ve been trying to hide it, but I can’t. His sharp eyes meet mine, and I know he’s already suspicious. He sees the way my fingers twitch, the way my breath hitches just a little too sharply when Violet teases me. He knows something’s coming.

I swallow hard, grip his wrist, and tug him away from the table. The murmurs of the others fade as I pull him further from the group, needing space to breathe. My pulse is racing now, my heart pounding louder with each step. I know damn well I can’t hold this in any longer, but the moment I say it, things will never be the same.

We stop just outside the circle of laughter and conversation, where no one can overhear us. Ridoc stands there, arms folded, eyes narrowed with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Alright,” he says, drawing out the word. “You’re acting weird, you turned down alcohol, and you’re pulling me aside like you’ve got some massive secret. Should I be worried?”

The weight of it all presses against me, suffocating, but I manage to look him in the eye. This isn’t something I planned to tell him so soon, but I can’t carry this any longer. I take a deep breath, the words burning on my tongue, and whisper, “I’m pregnant.”

The world seems to stop.

Ridoc blinks once, then twice, as if he didn’t hear me right. His mouth opens, and then shuts, his brain visibly scrambling to process what I just said. His eyes dart to mine, searching for any hint of a joke, but there’s nothing. His hands, once folded tightly across his chest, now hang at his sides, fingers twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

For a moment, he’s completely still, like the world around us has fallen silent and we’re the only ones who matter.

And then, his face shifts. The shock gives way to confusion, and that’s when I see it—the joy. The raw, unfiltered joy that bursts through his expression. His lips part, the corners twitching upward in disbelief. He can’t quite believe it. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

In the next breath, before I can say another word, he spins around, his body moving with a force that’s both desperate and excited. And then, as if he’s claiming the moment for himself, he calls out across the room, loud enough for the entire squad to hear.

“I’M GONNA BE A DAD!”

The room goes completely still. Every single person freezes. A glass hits the floor with a dull thud. Violet chokes on her drink. Rhiannon’s jaw nearly hits the floor. Xaden, of course, looks like he already knew, his gaze unamused but somehow fond. Ridoc, meanwhile, is still grinning like the world is his to conquer. He doesn’t even care that we’re the center of attention.

The chaos erupts. Cheers, whoops, congratulations from every corner of the room. The sound of people scrambling to get to us, laughing, offering their well-wishes. But I can’t help but bury my face in my hands, overwhelmed with embarrassment.

Ridoc’s laughter, though, it’s pure, unrestrained. He pulls me into his arms, lifting me off the ground in a tight, dizzying hug. His grip is firm but gentle, as if I’m the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“You really thought I’d keep that to myself?” he says, his voice muffled in my hair as he chuckles, his breath warm against my skin. “Oh, love, you should know me better by now.”

I can barely breathe, laughing in spite of myself. The entire world feels like it’s shifting around us, and yet in this moment, I don’t care. I’m lost in him, in the joy he’s radiating, in the life we’ve just begun to build together. For the first time, I feel like nothing can touch us.

And when he finally pulls back, his hand slides over my stomach, slow and reverent, as if trying to memorise the change that’s already started to take place.

“This?” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “This is going to be the best thing thats ever happened to us.”

The soft sound of footsteps echoes through the quiet hallway, but it's the unmistakable sound of a door creaking open that pulls me from my thoughts. I'm sitting at the edge of the bed, a thousand things running through my mind, but when I hear it, I freeze.

The door clicks shut behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. I can already hear Sawyer’s quiet, steady steps, the way he moves with that lazy confidence, like nothing in the world could make him rush. He's always been like that—unfazed, comfortable in his skin, but also the first one to notice when something’s off.

He leans against the doorframe, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and one brow arches slightly, like he's in on some joke I haven't figured out yet. He watches me for a long moment, his gaze knowing, waiting for me to speak. But I can’t. Words are stuck in my throat, heavy and thick.

I open my mouth, then close it again, trying to find the courage. My fingers brush against the edge of the bed, and it feels like the room is shrinking, the weight of what’s coming making my chest tighten.

Sawyer, ever perceptive, notices the shift in my demeanor instantly. Without hesitation, he pushes off the doorframe, his movements slow but purposeful. His voice is low, calm, but laced with concern. "What’s wrong?"

I glance at him, my heart hammering, and for a second, I almost wish I could keep this to myself just a little longer. But I know I can’t. Not with him. Not now.

I take a deep breath, avoiding his gaze as I stand up from the bed. My stomach churns again, a nauseating wave rising in my gut, but this time, it's different. I press a hand to my stomach, fighting against the bile that threatens to rise.

And that’s when I feel it—the low, guttural sound of me retching. I stumble toward the bathroom door before the first wave of nausea hits, pushing the door open just enough to avoid the inevitable disaster. I’m barely able to make it to the toilet before I’m on my knees, my body doubling over as I empty my stomach. The burn in my throat makes everything spin, and I try to steady myself, but it’s no use.

Then I hear it—the sound of Sawyer’s footsteps behind me, closer now, much closer. The door to the bathroom creaks open, and I don't need to look up to know he’s standing there. I can feel his presence, solid and unwavering. His hands press against the doorframe as he leans in, his gaze searching for me in the dim light.

“Hey… hey, you okay?” His voice is soft but urgent, his concern bleeding through the calm tone. He steps closer, his hand resting gently on the back of my neck, his touch warm and steady, like he’s trying to pull me back to earth.

I try to swallow, my breath still shallow, but I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. “I’m fine,” I say, but it comes out raspy and weak, not even close to convincing. The words fall flat, like they’re already on their way to breaking.

Sawyer doesn’t buy it. He crouches down beside me, his fingers brushing through my hair as he presses a damp cloth to the back of my neck. It’s soothing, but it’s also him, grounding me in a way that only he can.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs, voice low and calm.

And that’s when it happens—the dam breaks. I feel the weight of it, everything I’ve been holding back, and it spills out before I can stop it. “Sawyer, I’m pregnant.”

The words hang between us for a moment, and I can see it in his eyes—surprise, confusion, maybe even a little disbelief. His expression shifts like he's trying to process it, his brows furrowing for a fraction of a second before they smooth out, replaced by a gentle, almost stunned smile.

"You’re what?" he asks softly, his voice thick with the disbelief of the moment. But there’s something else there now, something warmer, a flicker of excitement, and maybe even hope.

I nod, my heart thudding in my chest as I try to steady myself, the nausea still lingering. His hands, once gently cradling me, tighten around me now, pulling me closer as if he’s trying to keep me anchored in the moment.

He blinks, then laughs softly, the sound almost disbelieving. “Holy shit,” he breathes, a smile spreading across his face. “I’m gonna be a dad?”

I nod again, the words tumbling out like they’re finally free, but I can feel the tension lift from my shoulders, replaced by something new, something lighter.

Sawyer’s expression shifts from disbelief to joy. It’s like the moment the words left my mouth, everything clicked for him. His arms tighten around me, pulling me into a warm embrace as he presses a kiss to my temple, the action soft, tender. "I’m gonna be a dad," he repeats, voice thick with emotion.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hand coming up to gently cup my cheek, his thumb brushing over the skin there. “You just made me the happiest guy alive, you know that?”

I lean into his touch, feeling the sincerity in every word, every action. The chaos of the moment, the whirlwind of emotions, all start to settle in a way I didn’t expect. I’ve been carrying this secret, but now, in this moment, it feels like everything is going to be okay. Together.

Sawyer grins, his eyes sparkling with a joy that’s impossible to miss. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but we’ll figure it out. Together.” And just like that, the weight of everything shifts. It’s no longer a burden. It’s a promise.

Dain is already watching me when I step into the room, his eyes flicking over me with that overly cautious, ever-concerned expression that only he can pull off. It's like he has a sixth sense for when something is off. I can feel the weight of his gaze, like he's reading me before I even open my mouth. But this time, I can tell—he has no idea what's coming.

I shift on my feet, trying to steady my racing heart, and exhale sharply. The words feel stuck in my throat, but I can’t keep them in any longer. I have to say it, no matter how much it makes my palms sweat or my stomach churn.

“I’m pregnant,” I say, my voice a little shakier than I want it to be.

For a full five seconds, Dain doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. It’s like time has stopped, and I’m caught in this endless moment, waiting for him to process what I’ve just said. His face is completely blank, like his brain just short-circuited, like I’ve just dropped an impossible bomb on him and his system is still rebooting.

Then, panic. Pure, unfiltered panic. “You’re what?!” His voice jumps an octave, his eyes going wide as his hands fly up in the air, like he’s physically trying to keep reality from sinking in. “How—? I mean, I know how, but—this isn’t—what are we going to—?”

I can almost see the wheels turning in his head, like he’s trying to work out a hundred different scenarios all at once, his mind moving faster than he can process. He starts pacing, running a hand through his hair, muttering to himself like he’s already mentally drawing up battle plans for a war he didn’t see coming. “We need a plan. I need to—fuck, what if—what about Xaden? Does he know? And the squad? And—”

Before he can fully spiral, a sharp smack echoes through the room. Dain jerks forward slightly, his eyes snapping up in shock, and I can’t help but let out a breath of relief at the interruption.

Behind him stands Sloane, one hand on her hip, the other still raised from the smack she just delivered upside his head. She’s unimpressed, as always, her expression a mixture of disbelief and mild annoyance.

“Pull yourself together, Aetos,” she deadpans, like she’s heard enough. “She just told you she’s pregnant, not that the kingdom is burning down.”

Dain blinks rapidly, his hand coming up to rub the back of his head, his brow furrowing as he tries to process what just happened. “Did you just—?”

Sloane doesn’t even flinch. She just raises an eyebrow and gives him an almost bored look. “You were being dramatic.”

I can’t help the small chuckle that escapes my lips at the exchange. I’m still reeling from the words I just said, but Sloane’s dry humor is like a lifeline, and Dain’s still-freaked-out expression helps ground me.

Something shifts in Dain’s face then. The panic is still there, lingering, but it begins to break apart, bit by bit. He exhales sharply, like he's realizing just how deep into this he’s about to dive. His gaze flicks back to me, and this time, he really sees me—really sees me. The fear is still there, but it's quieter now, and there’s something else in his eyes. Something steadier. Something that tells me he’s starting to process it, even if he’s still not sure what the next step is.

Dain steps forward slowly, almost cautiously, like he’s afraid I might slip away from him if he moves too quickly. His hands reach for mine, his grip warm, a little shaky. For a moment, the world feels like it narrows to just him and me, the chaos of his thoughts receding into the background as he pulls me into his orbit.

“You’re pregnant,” he repeats softly, his voice a little raw. The words still feel strange in the air, like he's still getting used to them, but there’s something comforting in the way he says them. Like he's finally letting the weight of it sink in.

Then, to my complete surprise, a small, almost reverent smile tugs at his lips. The kind of smile I’ve never seen from him before. It’s not the typical confident, strategic grin he wears when he’s solving a problem or taking charge. No, this smile is softer, more awed, like he’s realizing something bigger than both of us.

“We’re going to be okay,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, but it’s filled with something more. A promise. A reassurance.

Just as I feel myself starting to breathe again, Sloane claps Dain on the shoulder with enough force to almost send him stumbling forward. She doesn’t even look back at us as she starts to walk away, her voice cutting through the moment with a sarcastic edge.

“About time,” she mutters under her breath, shaking her head.

Dain huffs out a quiet laugh, clearly unbothered by her comment. He squeezes my hands tighter, his grip grounding me as his other arm slides around my back, pulling me into a tight embrace.

“I’ll be better at this,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion, his breath warm against my ear. “I promise.”

I rest my head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat against mine, and for the first time in a long while, I believe him. Together, we’ll figure this out. One step at a time.

The meeting room is tense, filled with whispers and the clink of metal as people adjust in their seats. Violet is leaning forward, her usual soft smile replacing any hint of concern, while the others are deep in debate about who will go on the next mission. The stakes are high, and it’s clear that everyone wants to make sure they’re well-prepared. My heart is pounding in my chest, a tight knot forming as I feel the weight of what’s coming. The group is discussing the flying assignments, who’s going to be paired with Violet on her dangerous mission, and I can’t help but feel like something’s off. There’s a restlessness in me, a hesitation that I can’t shake.

Then, as expected, the moment comes. They call my name.

I stand, my legs feeling heavier than usual as I move toward the front of the room, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts. I haven't even had the chance to tell Aaric yet. Haven’t had the chance to figure out what to say, how to handle it, how to let him in on something that already feels like it might be too much for us to process together.

But then, just as the silence begins to settle in the room, his voice cuts through, clear and commanding.

“No.” Aaric’s tone is sharp, his presence suddenly filling the room with an authority that demands attention. All eyes snap toward him as he stands from his seat, his jaw tight, a flash of something determined in his eyes. “She’s not going.”

Everyone blinks in confusion, unsure of where this sudden interruption is coming from. I glance over at Violet, who raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. She’s known Aaric for years, but she’s never seen him this... intense, this protective.

“What do you mean, she’s not going?” Xaden’s voice is incredulous, his hands on her hips as he challenges him. “We need her there. She’s more than capable—”

Aaric cuts her off, his gaze never leaving me. “I’m not letting her go. Not when—” He pauses, his expression tightening, like he’s struggling to hold back the words. But then his gaze flickers over to me, and the moment shifts. He knows. His eyes soften, just for a second, and I realize that somehow, without me even saying a word, he’s already figured it out. He’s seen it.

Before anyone can react, Aaric strides toward me, his hand lightly resting on my shoulder, like he’s grounding himself as much as he’s grounding me. “You’re pregnant,” he announces, his voice thick with the weight of his knowledge. The room falls into stunned silence.

I freeze, every muscle in my body locking up as his words hit me like a physical blow. I hadn’t planned to tell anyone yet. I hadn’t even figured out how to tell him. And now, here he is, pulling me into the center of attention, revealing something so personal that I feel like my entire world is shifting beneath me.

There’s a brief moment of chaos, with murmurs spreading through the room, eyes flicking between us. Some of the squad members look concerned, others confused, and a few seem like they’ve been expecting this. But I can’t focus on them. I can’t focus on anything except the look in Aaric’s eyes.

“I…” I try to speak, but the words stick in my throat. I’m not angry at him, not exactly. But I feel exposed, raw. How did he know?

Aaric’s gaze softens as he watches me, but his tone is firm. “I saw it.” His voice drops, quieter now, only for me to hear. “My signet... It showed me. I can’t... I can’t let you put yourself in danger. Not now.”

The sincerity in his eyes is almost enough to break me. His instinct—his foresight—has always been a double-edged sword. It’s saved us more times than I can count, but now, it’s exposing a vulnerability neither of us were ready for. He’s not just thinking about the mission or the war. He’s thinking about me. About us.

Violet is staring at us, disbelief on her face, but Aaric isn’t looking at her. His attention is fully on me, and the way he holds my gaze makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his hand slipping from my shoulder to gently take my hand. “I know this isn’t easy. But I’m not letting you go out there. Not like this. Not with...” His voice falters for a moment, the weight of his own emotions pressing down on him. “We’re going to be a family.”

His words hit harder than I expected. He hasn’t even had time to process the gravity of what he’s saying, yet somehow, he’s already stepping up in ways I hadn’t anticipated. There’s no panic in his voice, no second-guessing. Just a quiet certainty that, in this moment, makes me feel like maybe everything will be okay.

I open my mouth to argue, to tell him that I’m capable, that I’ve handled worse, but something in his eyes stops me. The truth is, I’m scared. Scared of what this means, what it changes between us. But at the same time, there’s something about Aaric’s confidence, his protectiveness, that makes me feel like maybe—just maybe—he’s right.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice shaky. “I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

He squeezes my hand, his smile a little softer now, though still full of that unshakeable confidence. “You didn’t have to tell me. I knew.”

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m carrying this burden alone.

The war room is quiet, save for the occasional crackle of candlelight and the rustling of parchment as Brennan pores over the map before him. His shoulders are taut, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. He hasn’t come to bed yet. Again.

I watch him from the doorway for a long moment, arms crossed, my heartbeat an insistent drum against my ribs. He’s been lost in his own mind for hours, drowning in battle plans and strategy, and if I don’t pull him out of it, I know he’ll stay here all night.

So, I move.

The air is thick with the scent of parchment and ink, the remnants of a half-finished cup of tea gone cold at his elbow. He doesn’t look up as I approach, not even when I step behind him and press my hands against his tense shoulders, kneading gently.

“Brennan.” My voice is soft, coaxing.

A quiet hum is the only response I get. He leans into my touch, just barely, but his eyes stay fixed on the map.

Stubborn man.

I exhale sharply before shifting, slipping into his lap with ease. That gets his attention. His hands move instinctively to my hips, steadying me, but his gaze flickers only briefly to my face before returning to the table, as if I’m just another part of the world he’s trying to control.

I huff in frustration, threading my fingers through his auburn hair, tugging gently. “You’re ignoring me.”

“I’m working,” he murmurs, voice distant, distracted.

“Brennan.” This time, there’s warning in my tone. When he still doesn’t look at me, I grab his face between my hands, forcing him to meet my gaze.

He startles, his breath catching, and for the first time tonight, I have his undivided attention.

“Look at me,” I whisper.

His lips part slightly, confusion flickering in the depths of his amber eyes, but he doesn’t pull away. My thumbs brush over the sharp lines of his jaw, tracing the tension there, the weight he carries like armour.

I exhale, slow and measured, before I finally speak the words that have been pressing against my ribs all night.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

A long, breathless pause where the world seems to still, time stretching between us like something fragile. Brennan doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His expression is utterly unreadable, carved from stone.

Then—his hands tighten at my waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt like he’s grounding himself, like he’s afraid to let go.

“What?” The word is barely a whisper, hoarse with something I can’t quite name.

I swallow, my throat suddenly tight. “I’m pregnant.”

His chest rises and falls sharply, the only sign that he’s actually processing what I just said. For a long, terrifying moment, he just stares at me—like I’m something impossible, something too precious to be real.

And then, the breath he’s been holding rushes out of him all at once. His hands move without thought, sliding up my sides, over my stomach, reverent and almost hesitant, as if he’s afraid he might break me.

“You’re serious?” His voice is raw, stripped of all its usual certainty.

I nod.

Something in him shatters.

He exhales a quiet, disbelieving laugh, but his eyes are bright, almost feverish with emotion. And then he’s kissing me—fierce, desperate, like he’s trying to press this moment into my skin so he’ll never forget it. His hands tangle in my hair, pull me closer, his breath warm and unsteady against my lips.

When he finally breaks away, his forehead rests against mine, his eyes searching mine for something unspoken. His fingers skim over my stomach again, slower this time, lingering.

“We’re going to have a child,” he murmurs, like he’s only just allowing himself to believe it.

I nod again, my own breath shaky.

Brennan closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling against my skin. And when he looks at me again, it’s different. The storm inside him has quieted, replaced by something deeper, something unshakable.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice rough with promise. “And I swear to you—I swear on everything—I will protect you both.”

Tears burn at the edges of my vision, but I blink them away, letting my fingers trace the strong lines of his face. “I know.”

And for the first time in hours, Brennan forgets about war.

For the first time in weeks, he lets himself hold something other than duty.

Me. Us. Our future.

And for now, that’s enough.

120 notes · View notes

crescenthistory · 2 days ago

Note

could i pretty please with a cherry on top ask you to argue for dialogue prompt 62 with sirius?? 🥹🤭

you absolutely can<33 this is a bit angsty but mostly in the bittersweet way, i promise. i just adore the thought of sirius falling for a slytherin during the war and learning to understand and forgive his brother through them...

✶・•・✦・•・✶・✶・•・✦・•・✶

i will ARGUE for prompt 62 "this means war, my dear" with sirius black

carina's 2k celebration

✶・•・✦・•・✶・✶・•・✦・•・✶

cw: fem!reader, hurt/comfort, pre-established relationship, background wizarding war, reader was friends with the slytherin skittles, implied death eater barty

wc: 1k

Sirius was always the best of the bunch to distract you.

When the meetings became longer and more frequent and when you felt you were spending more time at various safe houses than in your own bed, Sirius had become the one you would subconsciously turn to. Whether he realised the position you had accidentally bestowed upon him or not, you did not know, but he seemed to readily accept it regardless.

Prior to the Order, you never really spoke with Sirius Black, being a year below him and close friends with his little brother and the other Slytherins. Had someone told you four years ago that you would seek him out in corners and laugh quietly together, you would have thought them mad and, perhaps worse, thought yourself a traitor.

Yet, here you were.

When you excused yourself for a glass of water, there was Sirius, ready with the cup. When you got up to pace by the window, he would sit down in the windowsill, so you weren’t alone. When you could not sleep at night, you went to the living room where you almost always found him sitting with some beat up guitar, playing some tune you never knew.

It remained unspoken, but you reckoned he kept you tethered more than you’d care to realise.

Dorcas was with you in the Order, but it was in part because you were such close friends that you struggled turning to her. So, it became Sirius. You weren’t sure how, when or why, but it became him.

Dumbledore had called the Order together to spend the weekend in Potter Manor, planning an extraction of muggleborns that were held up in Southern Wales by some death eaters there. Officially, you didn’t have any names on death eaters involved yet, but from the minute Moody described one of them as having “acid green hair”, you were mentally checked out for the rest of the day. Everyone knew, you could tell from the weight on their eyes on you, but you couldn’t focus.

You excused yourself early, and found yourself sat on the floor in front of an old record player that had gathered dust, looking through the piles upon piles of records, not really seeing any of them.

A beat up pair of black boots came into view seconds before he spoke. “Some music to drown out your thoughts?”

You looked up to meet Sirius’ eyes, already hearing the joking tone in his voice and relieved to find the same atmosphere on his face. He crouched down next to you, so you wouldn’t have to strain your neck and bumped his shoulder into yours. “What’re we listening to, princess?”

He questioned you, but he didn't hurry you, allowing you to take your time to process your thoughts and connect your mind back into a conversational mode. You gave him a weak smile. “I don’t really know, I haven’t looked at them properly yet.”

Sirius had the grace not to comment on the fact that you had been sitting before the records for a good 20 minutes – on the contrary, he looked completely unphased, still smiling that easy smile of his. The more you got to know him, the more the suspicion that it wasn’t all that easy settled into you. It only made you more grateful to have it bestowed upon you.

“Well, this is Uncle Wulfric’s collection mostly, so it’s quite outdated. None of the David Bowie, Freddie Mercury crowd, but I believe he has some Andrews Sisters, Glenn Miller and the likes.”

You sometimes forgot that Potter Manor was as much his house as James’.

“Oh, that’s alright.” You didn’t quite recognise your own voice as you spoke. “I don’t really listen to a lot of Bowie anyway.”

Sirius turned on his heels to you, grabbing your knee with one hand and his chest with the other as he gasped theatrically. “You simply cannot say any such blasphemous words to me, princess, I’ll have a stroke. I’m terribly sorry, but this means war, my dear.”

He nodded at you gravely but squeezed your knee to show it was all in jest. You surprised even yourself when a laugh bubbled up past your lips, rumbling your body in a delightful way.

Sirius’ eyes widened along with his smile as he took in the sight. His eyes read mission accomplished and you deigned not to think too much about its implications.

You held your hands up in surrender as the mirth continued its dance across your face. “Fetch me a white flag to wave, would you? We’ve got enough war on our hands without me angering the Almighty Music Knower.”

Sirius dropped his chin to his chest and chuckled, looking up at you through his stray dark curls and long eyelashes.

“What do you say then, pretty girl?” He squeezed your knee again. “Can I put on some Ella Fitzgerald for you?”

Your eyes followed his gaze to the Fitzgerald plate propped up against the side of the record player. It seemed well-loved. “You may,” you said with faux recession, to which Sirius’ grin became more beaming.

He leaned over past you, putting his knee down on the ground right beside yours to reach the record player and pop the plate on with skilled precession – a comfortable action, one he has done many times before. You didn’t move to give him more room, instead you allowed him into your space, basking in how it seemed to ground you.

Sirius smelled like his shampoo and leather jacket, even when he wasn’t wearing it, and though his skin was cold whenever it brushed yours, you still ached for its proximity.

This odd feeling going through you was perhaps something to look into after all of this, when the only war that was waged was the one between you and Sirius apparently, over what music to listen to. For now, when he gave you a smile that was equal parts fond and reassuring, you simply did your best to return it.

107 notes · View notes

my-stories-vault · 2 days ago

Text

Chapter 4 ~ Purgatory Series.

Pairing: American Dean Winchester X English Y/N L/N; American Dean Winchester X American Y/N L/N.

Blurb: Purgatory suits you, to be honest. Plenty of distractions to choose from, you can kill as many as to your heart's content. And your heart is one insatiable bastard—it'll do anything to keep the memories of your ex away. Until a face much similar to his struts up into your territory, looking for you, promising you a home you lost too long ago. Your heart melted once before, do you think you would be able to risk it all again for the same criminally handsome face?

Warnings/Trigger Warnings (18+): Supernatural Wars spoilers, major and minor character deaths, mentions of previous major character deaths, violence, gore, tons of angst, (sort of, but not really) love triangle, language, self-sacrifices (not exactly suicide), betrayals, etc.

Note: This was written four years ago and English is my second language - I've tried to edit without losing the past-me's "authenticity", but let's face it, spellings ain't my strong suit, and even Grammerly gave up, soooo all the mistakes are mine 🙂🙃.

{ Series Masterlist ; Main Masterlist }

Purgatory Series: Part 4.

Softly in the background, played Dean's rock music. Your head rested against the cool window pane of the shotgun side. You were nearly dozing, but still alert; the adrenaline was taking its sweet time to leave your system after the three months you'd mostly spent on the sea.

The fast-passing lights from the lamp posts between the trees of the vast forest illuminated your face now and again. The lull of the Impala's engine purred and revved, far more relaxing than you ever thought it would be. You were curled up into a ball, knees drawn to your chest, and your arms held them for warmth.

You were wearing short white shorts, a sky-blue tank top, a black denim jacket, and Dean's leather jacket that he had perched on you when he thought you had been asleep and cold; you adored him for it.

You had known Dean as an acquaintance and an ally, but with the New Law, things had changed drastically. The turbulence in your relationship faded during this three-month retreat, you were starting to see him as a loyal, permanent friend.

You glanced at the said man. He was softly humming to his music, head bobbing up and down, fingers drumming the wheel, the muscles flexing under the rolled-up sleeves of his red flannel, his black undershirt dancing with his playful aura, atop his blue-washed jeans. The light that struck off the surface of the moon was reflected in his green orbs probbing the specks in them throb like liquid gold. His dirty blond strands were tussled in a way that generated a need to run your hand through his hair.

What an ensnaring visual!

Watching Dean drive in his beloved fascinated you - his concentration, his care, his dedication. It did all sorts of things to you, his kindness. You wondered how Dean driving this sleek beauty made you feel all fluffy inside.

A smirk curled up on Dean's lips and you couldn't even care to think if he knew you were staring or not.

This went on for a while: silence, gazing, dozing off, waking up again, and then staring at him again—until Dean steered the vehicle wrong.

'Wrong turn, Mr. Winchester,' you politely informed, voice raspy from sleep.

He huffed in annoyance. 'How many times do I have to tell you that you can call me by my name, darlin'?'

You smiled apologetically, 'Force of habit. I'm not used to taking your name.' The three months in public had caused you to revert to calling him "Mr Winchester" - a title he loathed, only when it came from you.

'Well, if that's the case, then I took the right turn.'

'How so?'

'I kidnapped you and now we are going on a date,' he said, tongue-in-cheek.

You opened and closed your mouth, taking a few moments to process that. You glanced in the sideview mirrors of the car, and sure enough, none of your security was tailing you. Neither was Dean's.

This sly man.

'A date?'

'Yep,' he popped his "p" as mischief took over his face, and a cute happy smirk stitched itself onto his lips.But he was nervous, it could be seen in the way his pearly whites worried his lower lip.

'About time,' you said, pretending to be annoyed, yet barely sustaining your poker face: a smile was about to expose you.

'You . . . won't protest?' Dean checked.

'I get what I want, Mr. Winchester,' you said with a challenging gleam in your eye. 'Some things I get fast, like the monsters I am hunting. And some things I have to wait for, like the only guy I ever liked - you.'

You were relieved when he chuckled. 'You're awesome.'

You whimpered, dreaming of your first date. You'd been reliving all your memories, as life often passes before your eyes before the end. Castiel's struggle was to keep you from the cold fingers of death, but you kept pushing him out of your head, believing you didn't deserve the help.

He would just have to keep trying:

'What are you doing?' Dean asked when you went to your drawers to retrieve a blue gift-wrapped box with golden ribbons.

'I'm putting this under the tree,' you said, doing exactly that.

He chuckled under his breath. 'You know that the parents only do that so the children think Santa left them presents, right?'

'Oh. They never overtly said that in the movies.' You glanced to the main door of your room. 'Do you want me to don a Santa hat and say "ho ho ho"?'

His amusement triplefolded.

'No, darling,' he happily brushed his lips on your forehead. 'It's so that children think Santa is magic that they aren't allowed to see Santa Claus. Never take part in any trivia,' he teased you. 'You'd lose terribly.'

You scowled. 'It's the children you should worry about—allowing them to believe there's good magic.'

'Aw, well—maybe there is,' he grinned smoothly, 'Would make sense why I found you.'

'Good. Lay on the cheesy. Makes my present more practical.'

He rolled his eyes, smacking your butt in retaliation. You gasp-scoffed; any other person would be picking their fingers off the floor but Dean had done this before . . . And you'd kinda liked it.

It was your first Christmas together, and also the night of your first sexual congress - which is why Castiel shuddered out. He waited for your minutes before diving in again to safer memories.

'The coffee's gone,' Dean groaned, pouting as he rattled his flask. He glanced to see you hiding your laugh. Eyes narrowing, 'It's not funny. I might die of caffeine withdrawal.'

'You had a cup half an hour ago!' you freed your laughter. 'You're like a Basset Hound, you cleaned us out in five hours!'

'What's your point?'

'It was supposed to last us a day,' you mused.

'You don't have to be so mean,' he turned his nose up, frowning at your attitude. 'You know what you signed up for.'

You giggled, 'Okay, princess.'

'What are you doing?'

For you had leaned back to rummage through your duffel bag where you stashed reinforcements. You pulled out an extra flask of coffee you had brought specially for Dean, and a pie you had made yourself.

'Becoming your damsel in shining armor,' you said. 'But that's all I have, so can't whine after you've licked your fingers clean.'

He gleefully took the pie in his hands, 'You're the best thing that ever happened to me!'

You laughed, 'Are you talking to me or the pie?'

He pulled you closer by your neck and slotted his lips against yours, in a quick soft kiss, you could feel his smirk on your lips.

'The pie' he whispered against your lips, kissing you again even though you slapped his chest. When he pulled away, his eyes were raw with emotions.

'But I love you, darlin'.'

Your first "I love you"s sifted through your mind. You were moving chronologically, and Castiel didn't want to find out what happens when you reach the end.

Castiel slightly cursed how the green-eyed hunter taught him to. Roaming your memories cost both of you; you, your life force, and Castiel, his grace. He knew if he didn't manage to successfully meet you in one of your trips down the memory lane, he'd lose you forever.

You were already hyperventilating, writhing and gasping out Dean's name over and over again, because your tortured subconscious somehow knew this wasn't real, and it was starting to really miss Dean. Your Dean.

Castiel was starting to feel your agitation as his own, his empathy grudging his mind but your heart might seize by how overworked it was.

He needed to tread carefully now, perhaps, alter his tactics and go to a memory you and his other self were present in together - a place where he could replace the other Castiel comfortably and breach your nightmarish haze.

Unluckily, he couldn't have chosen the worst possible memory for that.

Dean had sneaked into your room to spend a blissful evening together, falling asleep in each other's arms.If the media knew that you two were canoodling before marriage, they would have your heads. People were usually open-minded, but they weren't being constantly watched by the paparazzi - it was different for you Leaders.

'Good morning,' you rasped, leaning up and kissing the corner of his lips. 'I hate you for waking me up.'

He chuckled. 'I love you, too.'

He took your hand and kissed your knuckles, a smile engraved on his face. A blanket was pulled around the two of you. You were wearing his shirt and underpants, while he was in his boxers. His green eyes twinkled as he played with your fingers, his eyes catching on the soulmate ring he gave you during your engagement.

'What?'

'Hmm?'

'Why'd you seem so happy?'

'Oh, your mom called.'

You grimaced, 'I'm sorry. I told her not to do that. What'd she have to say?'

His grin widened: 'The date for our wedding.'

You gasped, 'Really?' You practically squealed, shooting upright. 'This is awesome! When?'

'Next week,' he smirked, sitting up too.

'Oh, my God!' you shriek-laughed. 'This is great! We will never have to pretend to be formal again!'You threw your arms around him, curling into his lap, and he caught you, laughing at your enthusiasm.

You crushed your lips to his for a long minute until he pulled away, your hearts fluttering in tandem.

'I love you so much!' you exclaimed, unable to stop beaming.

He kissed your forehead, 'I love you more.'

'Impossible,' you teased.

'I'll let you think that because I love you more,' Dean said slyly.

'You're so cheeky.'

'But imagine, this day next week, we'll be husband and wife.'

'I know,' you whispered, and you laced your fingers with his.

You hugged him tightly, your hips straddling his, and he buried his face into your hair, letting all his problems fade, and simply feeling unadulterated happiness for a second.

Your moment was encroached when the door to your room burst open. 'Help—Siege! Attacked! Lady Y/N—Sir-Sir, is—'

'Breathe,' you ordered.

Immediately, you and Dean slipped into your roles. You two untangled, sliding off of your bed; confidence radiated off the two of you, irrespective of the fact that you two were severely underdressed for anyone else to see.

The servant didn't even care that Dean was in your room, shit-scared and pale like a ghost. He was panting, hands on knees, and whimpering in short bursts.

'We've been breached. Lord L/N - he initiated Code Red. Request for all hands on deck.'

You exchanged a glance with your fiancée. 'Request approved,' you and Dean said in unison, eyes still locked, but voices professional.

'Where?' you questioned. 'Who?'

'Uh, the courtyard, swordsmen's training area. It's Castiel.'

Your back snapped straight in shock, jaw clenched with anger and betrayal. Guilt and fear tried to overthrow your other emotions; you wondered what kind of consequences you would face for this . . .

'Noted,' Dean answered for the two of you. 'Go. We'll be there.'

Soon, armored up and armed, you and Dean ran as fast as you could to the makeshift battleground. On your way over, it was impossible not to notice the numerous dead bodies littered about, severed limbs and blood decorating the once beautiful palace like gruesome graffiti.

It depressed you when you recognized most of the faces, and it burdened your heart to know that you were to blame for this somewhat directly or indirectly. Only when, on occasion, you stumbled across a body with a stab wound and burnt-out eyes, did you feel slightly better; even the angels were dying.

Within record time, you had climbed down fleets of stairs, Dean in tow, and were running into the open battle.

'Five o'clock!' you yelled, jumping forward, and Dean blindly followed your command as a huge angel bomb slammed into the ground where you were standing not a second ago.

You both rolled back to your feet, continuing to run. After dodging several more flying magical arsenals like that, you two finally sought shelter behind a tree line, just as a rogue group of fighters passed along the way. But you decided not to help them just yet - you had bigger fish to fry - from what you could see, your aim was the center of the mayhem.

Dressed in a severely abused trench coat, and a suit now painted in God knows how many people's blood - stood the cruel traitor. What shocked you was how much agility he was moving forward with, and he wasn't only killing your people: it was clear that he wasn't below throwing the other angels in the line of fire to protect himself.

Your blood boiled, and rage flooded you. This bastard should not have fucked with your brother's kingdom, he was going to pay . . .

'Y/N?'

You turned to reply when Dean's lips crashed against yours in a firm, devouring kiss. One of his hands made its way into your hair, pulling you closer, and the other stroked your cheek softly, all his actions full of desperate worry, demanding promises of your safety.When he pulled back, concern for you clouded his eyes, and you were sure you mirrored his expression.

'Be careful.'

'Yeah, of cou—'

'Not just of the angels,' he warned. 'Our faction knows he was a friend.'

You hesitated, already knowing the answer before you asked. 'Do you think our people will turn on me? I mean, I didn't know he would betray—'

'I know,' he cut you off in understanding, kissing your forehead. 'But I don't know. Just . . . Just be safe. We will figure this out later.'

'I love you,' you clung to his hand.

'I love you, too, darlin'.'

You releasing him, even though you never wanted to leave. A pit of dread bloomed in your gut, the words to stop Dean from stepping into the battle on the tip of your tongue, but, even though you knew you should have, you couldn't stop him as he ran head first into what would be his demise . . .

Shaking off the bad feeling, you followed suit, your war reflexes kicking in, allowing you to start dropping bodies left and right.You were very much surprised to find hundreds of monsters in here too; it was a combined effort of the three factions of angels, demons, and monsters. How they managed to power down the sigils and the magical borders was ponderable.

Your memory is quite distorted. Parts of the war are fading in and out of your vision.

You chopped the heads of two vampires simultaneously. You'd managed to gank this nest of eight who had ambushed you.

Dean was way ahead of you; he'd already taken down five ghouls, six Djinns, and three werewolves. You both were heading in consistently straight - toward the remnant Leaders and Governors. Your hunters had formed a rough battle circle and were maintaining that position at all costs. Medics were coming and going to save as many lives as they could.

In about twenty minutes, you had been able to join the center circle. The surge of the monster attacks there was more concentrated than anywhere on the whole field. The circle tried to keep shifting, but the monsters wouldn't ease up around them.

Dean was here, pushing back a line of feral rugarus with a little assistance from Joana. Jody, Bobby, Rufus, and B/F were here - all up against different creatures. You couldn't see your brother or Jack on the field. Come to think of it, you hadn't seen Jack in a long while.

But you didn't have much time to yourself when a group of demons set their eyes on you, while you were three-quarters of your way into finishing a group of shapeshifters, dumping them in a heap at your feet.Before you could set the last heart down, they were onto you; you yelped as one slashed for your throat, and you moved back, causing it to scratch your shoulder.

'Dean, fire! B/F, demon blade!' came a shout.

B/F and Dean responded to the call. You only heard it when your name was screamed into the fray of commands.

'Bobby, machette!' You shouted, ducking out of the reach of the demons, and moving onto the angels you'd been assigned. 'Jody, angel gun!'

Your group worked as if parts of a single organism. More commands were screamed, warning the other Leaders in the circle of the weapons they were going to receive and what they had to give, said in this exact order.

You aired your weapon Bobby's way, in return, receiving a gun from Jody's general direction. Reflexively everyone got what they had to. This change was usually made to relieve a pair of Leaders - you think it was Rufus' and Joanna's time for lunch. This also allowed the Leaders to reevaluate if everyone had all the correct weapons for the correct monsters.

Over your head, other weapons were thrown as well, and places were quickly switched. Your impeccable aim slaughtered the bunch of angels. Next to you, Dean unleashed an inferno of fire upon the six wendigos who had wanted to attack you earlier.

And so the war went on, switching back and forth - ruthless killing consumed your little group. The swell of the monsters never ceased.

Sometime later, Sebastian yelled that hellhounds had rampaged the palace - Jo and Rufus were lost, and so were most doctors and civilians. You lost Bobby when he took a blade to his neck for Seth who showed up after a while with back-ups and replenishments in the form of weapons, witches, and more human force.

Still, you were losing.

The grieving soulmates like Jody could only fight so much, she had tears streaming down her face and rage fueled her - but for how long?

Even the youth was struggling to keep up, what of the elderly on the field who might soon start dropping like flies on the ground - but they had no choice. Humans were outmanned.

Castiel was appearing and disappearing. But he was gone more than he was here - sometimes for a couple of minutes, sometimes for hours. Every time looking refreshed and rejuvenated. But he never tangled too much with your group of extremely talented hunters, that bastard.You even cursed him at one instance and challenged him to fight you. He simply ignored your taunts, doing his thing - the seemingly endless supply of his warriors shifting strategies, per his instructions.

You all tried to imply new strategies too, but he was making sure to keep you all occupied so that you couldn't help your subjects. Every human on the field was cornered.

Your concentration first wavered when they killed your brother.

'NO!' you screeched at the top of your lungs, a white ball of energy exploding from your heart and rippling from you in circles - successfully killing all monsters in a five-mile radius. It was your residual archangel powers.

Unfortunately, although the powers managed to kill all the evil - it also managed to weaken your forces by throwing them into the air.

This was bad because no one had known how you'd killed Micheal. People disapproved of using powers to defeat the other factions, they would rather you sacrificed yourself to kill Michael instead of leveling the playing field. Now everyone knew.

Tears welled up and you fell to your knees from dizziness. Your insides were cold and numb from shock. Your brother's eyes glazed over and some more blood gurgled from his mouth as he finally fell limp on the ground, a knife sticking out from his back. A demon backstabbed him in the form of . . . Jody, who now stood over him with a ghastly grin. Before you could even process it, she alleviated her gun, shooting B/F, the last Leader except you and Dean, and most of the humans nearest to you - some die, some take cover. She levied her gun on you and Dean, but never pulled the trigger, tilting her head to one side as if listening to something, and then her neck twisted one-eighty degrees. Black smoke funneled into the air, and her body fell to the ground, unmoving.

Dean's arm slung around you, and you both glanced at each other, equally broken, trying equally hard to not sob in the middle of this bloodbath.

'Tsk, tsk, tsk,' tsked Benny. He was the vampire Alpha's second-in-command and the Captain of the Bloody Princess. 'I really thought that you wouldn't last longer than an hour, let alone days. But, hey, this was more fun, wasn't it?'

'I'm gonna kill you,' you whispered, emotionally wrecked.

'Y/N, no—'

But you leaped out of Dean's reach, practically flying towards Benny. Unexpectedly, someone threw their body weight on you, making you reflexively stab backward.

The gasp was too familiar.

Your entire body froze, and your whole world stopped moving.

Something was terribly wrong, all your instincts screamed: Do not turn . . .

But you recognized it! You recognized him . . .

Your unwilling glance cast to your right, just as Dean's head came to lean down on your shoulder, breath shuddery.

Suddenly, he was on the ground and your memory had progressed. Nothing made sense, including your gibberish words.

'I won't let you die, my love. N-Not while I'm still alive.' A small smile formed on his lips and he locked his green orbs with yours as if he was proud of himself for this little act.

'Why would you throw yourself at me?!'

'Oh, how sweet,' laughed Castiel. He had been standing behind you, and you hadn't noticed him before. 'I didn't think he'd sacrifice himself for you.'

And the heart-breaking understanding dawned on you . . . Dean had seen Castiel while all you'd seen was revenge . . .

A sob tore from your chest, 'You shouldn't have done this—'

He shook his head, a ghost of a smile dancing at his lips. 'That's what fiancés are for, darlin'.'

Incoherent yelling brought you out of your reverie. You looked up in utmost confusion to see Castiel killing . . . himself?

'—fight them,' Dean continued. As if he didn't see this at all.

You gaped at the new guy, a worried look on his face.

You shook your head, tilting it to the side, certain that this shouldn't be happening. 'I-I-I was supposed to duel Benny and Castiel—'

'We need to leave, Y/N,' the lookalike of Castiel said. 'I've been looking everywhere for you. I come from your reality. We should go. Your mind and memories make me very uneasy.'

'Who are you?' you shook your head. 'I need to-to save Dean!' you exclaimed. 'I was . . . this isn't supposed to happen! I don't remember this!'

Castiel's brows furrowed in confusion. 'If you don't leave, you die.'

'B-B-But, if I leave, he'll die,' you said in a low tone, 'he'll die anyway. I'll get him killed. I-I-I don't know . . . he doesn't deserve me, this! I-I get him killed. I deserved to die—I—' Your voice cracked, breaking down then and there.

'Calm down,' he said softly, coming to gather you in a hug. 'I need to listen to my voice, and you need to breathe.'

You wanted to fight it, you knew you should have. But for some reason, you resisted that urge. You didn't want to hurt this new trench-coated guy, you felt as if, if you hurt him, you'd also indirectly hurt someone you cared about - you just couldn't remember who.

'I don't understand,' you whispered, watching as Dean lay on his side, not even acknowledging the fact that Castiel was hugging you. His eyes were stuck at where you should have battled your planet's Castiel, and it was as if Dean was watching the duel unfold . . .

It should've happened. Why was it not happening?

You should have promised Dean that you'll save him, and then dueled Ben and Cas. And Jack - where was Jack?

'This is a memory,' informed Castiel - something that you had already begun to grasp on.

'Who are you?' you questioned, falling against his chest. 'Please go away. I should've died.'

'Dean wouldn't appreciate that,' he told you. His blue eyes were full of sympathy and pain for you. Why did he even care? You would have killed him if a nagging voice in your head didn't stop you.

The voice was continuously telling you to go with him. To save yourself.

'Come with me,' mumbled Castiel. 'Please. Dean is waiting.'

'He's gone,' your voice wobbled. 'He's dead,' you said it, for the first time in more than seven years . . .

Castiel shook his head, 'Please. He's waiting.'

You glanced at the man in front of you. Two knives sticking out of him - both of them, the price of saving you. He'd insisted that you gain powers to fight Micheal which was when Castiel had become your "friend", and now, he insisted on saving you again . . .

Out of seemingly nowhere, a gold necklace appeared on Dean's neck. You remember putting it there. That and the soulmate ring had been the symbols of your love with Dean - both of which you'd let burn along with the battleground.

As the love of your life bled on the battleground - among the rest of your family, the rest of the Leaders - you felt a part of yourself dying, all over again.

It was over. It was all over.

You let yourself fall back against your savior, stemming the flow of your memories but unbearable crying took over you, as you let the magnitude of what had happened hit you all over again, yet, seemingly for the first time.

You gasped awake in the real world, shooting forward on the forest floor.

Sweat beaded your skin, and you were chilled to your bones but your mind was blank. With an unimaginable effort, you blinked away your tears, toning down your devastating cries to slight whimpers.

Not yet - you can't cry yet. It's not safe.

Your e/c orbs fell on the figure kneeling next to you.

'Castiel,' you said, frigidly. You knew you couldn't attack him. You shouldn't.

He gave you a small smile. 'I'm glad you're okay. Save him, please. Goodbye, Y/N.' A sound of a flutter, a breeze gushed around you, and he was gone.

You tightened your arms around yourself, not caring in the slightest if his company on you was reduced. You mustered your strength and stood up on your jelly legs, but something was missing.

Your mind raced to recollect what had happened before you were forced into an unwilling submission to your past.

You understood slowly that your injuries were missing. You looked down to your stomach and then checked your thigh, giving a once-over to your whole body - if your clothes hadn't been ripped and stained, you would have never known that you had been hurt in the first place.

Then you realized that your bow was missing. You felt vulnerable instantly as if you'd gone out in public without clothes.

You would've thanked Castiel but you didn't because, first, you didn't want to, and second, he left defenseless even if he did heal you.

You decided to ignore his existence until he was needed again as a compromise.

You put yourself on the Purgatory map pretty quickly. You were in the land of Djinns - you had a safe house in here somewhere, this one underground, you believe. They were as good as nothing in here, so technically, they didn't pose you much threat.

You did contemplate freeing yourself from the torture of watching Dean: the stupid American-accented Dean Winchester who you can't have. Technically, he was safe. You sent him to the safest area in Purgatory, rumor for the portal had been spread so a capable monster would come looking for him, and he could this hellhole in his rearview mirror. All he had to do was blame you for how you aggravated the tryst between the Leviathans and the Dwarves, and they would hunt you, and permit him to stay.

Even as you thought it, you knew your goal was too idealistic. Dean came to save you, you doubted he would throw you under the bus - despite your excellent skills.

He really pissed you off sometimes. You honestly can't deal with another man who has a fucking hero complex! That reckless, beautiful fool thought you were important enough to risk his own life and enter an area you clearly told him not to.

To top it all off, he seemed to care about you! Why else would he kiss you?

He obviously cares, and he protects what he loves. Inevitably, he will die like—

No! came an inward scream. Don't go there, your mind warned.

You had to take a second to compose yourself - the state of mental health was extremely fragile.

Out of the mayhem of your thoughts, a broken voice came through, Promise?

Your self-preservation was ravaged by your soft corner for Dean's namesake and lookalike. You did tell him you would find him . . .

For a distraction, you decided to run for the rest of the day.

No monster bothered your jog as you cut down six miles. Within the next hour, you had touched your safe house. You stitched your clothes more or less and constructed a new bow and a hefty set of quivers; you tested them on three stray Djinns. Before evening, you had jogged over to the edge of the Borax forest again.

The army of Leviathans was doubled, parading around the perimeters of the forest. A small camp had also been set up. These monsters whispered around in harsh voices, and tensed at the slightest noises; you even caught a wisp or two of your and Dean's names. You had seen and planned enough wartimes during your lifetime to recognize one; your little stunt yesterday may as well have been a trigger.

Maybe Dean would need you to keep him safe after all. You doubted he had war experience. You know he'd faced apocalypses before, but war and the end of the world are majorly different things. The latter is quick but wars elongate the pain of an apocalypse until you die a little every day.

You shrugged those thoughts off. Eyes on the goal.

Stealthy as a cat, you scaled a tree, tiptoed to the edge, and swung into the Borax forest, absolutely unobserved.

As you trudged further within the forest, now on the ground while the silence deafened you. Not even crickets. You kept an eye out for traps; if you weren't cautious, you might end up hanging upside down from a rope like a lousy Tarzan.

Just because you can swing your own weight now, doesn't make you Tarzan.

Who's Tarzan?

He has scoffed, Don't tell me you haven't watched fucking Disney - what loveless world did you grow up in?

Just because I don't like television or music, doesn't make me an outcast.

Maybe you should look up the word, you bookworm.

'Shut up, shut up, shut up!' you growled.

Your attention diverted when the air whizzed, your ears perked up and you ducked, letting it slash thin air over your head.

You raised your hands in surrender. 'I come in peace!' you yelled. 'Please. I need to find my . . . friend. I mean no harm.'

You stood rooted to your spot, aware that you could spook them. You strained your ears until you caught the rising decibels as someone approached you.

You bit your lip, giving yourself up. 'I'm a human. Y/N L/N. And, my friend, Dean Winchester, is still in this territory if the stories of you guys capturing prisoners are correct. I just need shelter, and for you to release him. We'll be no harm, I swear. Please, let me talk.'

'Is it right? You slaughtered the fairies!' came an accusing, squeaky voice.

You nodded. 'They betrayed me. Gave my location to the Leviathans.'

The Dwarves gasped and snarled altogether.

'We had to . . . let go of the fairy population because betrayal is one thing I don't tolerate,' you raised your chin in defiance. 'It was my idea if you still want revenge - I hear you were close to them. But kindly release the other human, he is innocent, just trying to get back home. You know how homesickness feels better than anyone, don't you?'

A pregnant pause.

You closed your eyes just in case they wanted to take you up on the revenge, your reflexes would only get in the way.

'Hand low.'

The Dwarf King emerged from the shadows. He was wearing a magnificent crown of bird feathers, befitting his royalty.

You had to hide your mystery disappointment upon not being attacked.

You gave him a small tentative smile, greeting him with a curtsy.

He scowled, deepening the frown lines on his grimy, old, scarred face. If he stayed very still and closed his eyes, you could've mistaken him for the bark of a tree, his skin color matched it, and his battle scars were appropriately carved on all the visible parts of his skin. Even his clothes were made of leaves - without his crown, he would be undetectable to a person who didn't what to look for. More small people peeled away from the trees. They were even smaller than their king, which would have been amusing if you didn't know how deadly they were when they wanted to be; all just as unkillable as the Leviathans in Purgatory.

'They us shoo - the bad Leviathans,' the King sneered, voice as rustly as a dead leaf in the graveyard. 'We you not welcome, just capture-kill. Why? Why us seek shelter?'

You kneeled to shorten the distance and appear less threatening.

'We don't want you to exclusively protect us, we can do that on our own. We just need shelter, there is a house I built here—'

'It stand still,' he huffed. 'Dwarf no-no land.'

'I see,' you said. 'We can keep that arrangement. If you could just lend us a couple days, you won't even know we are—'

'We want hurt Leviathans,' he cut you off yet again. 'You want hurt Leviathans?'

'Those sons of bitches who want to kill my friend? Fuck, yeah!' you scoffed. 'I want them deader than my will to fucking live!'

His eyebrows knitted together. 'Say again?'

You pursed your lips in amusement. It had been ages since you switched languages to connect with a person - otherwise, you know half the European languages for smoother conversations with your Governors.

'Yes. Y/N and Dean want to hurt Leviathans. Very bad.'

He assessed you for a moment. 'You good fighter?'

The smug, self-assured smirk on your lips was your experience's fault. 'The best. Me the reason for security more, uh, beyond your forest,' you accidentally ended in correct English.

He approved you with a grin. 'Pick her.'

'Pick what now!?'

The dwarves came like an all-consuming wave, their tiny hands floated you in the air. One of them blindfolded you with an evergreen leaf so lithely that you were a smidge scared, the miniature creatures forwarded you hand-to-hand, to what you can only assume is their secret lair. You "accidentally" bumped into trees constantly, at that point you could only protect your head with your hands. They were chatting in a foreign language you knew nothing about.

Then all too abruptly, you were dropped on the ground; to be fair, they weren't taller than two feet.

You knew better than to make a sound or move unless they directly addressed you to do so. Anxious minutes stretched on until finally, the blindfold was loosened.

All of the dwarves had already made themselves scarce, leaving you on the edge of the small lake, between the tall trees and your house just in the middle of the lake.

You were wrong, they weren't ready to share their lair just yet. Instead, they'd bought you to your safe house, the gazebo you'd built in memory of Dean's garden . . .

'Your Dean come,' a squeaky voice made you jump. You hadn't even noticed the small Dwarf, the size of a tennis fucking ball, near your elbow. She grinned at your fright. 'You stay. Behave.'

Did a tennis ball just ask you to fucking behave? If you didn't want peace, you would've thrown her into the lake like a pebble.

She trotted away behind the rest of her population and you wondered how many were watching you from the trees.

All you could do was wait, you supposed. And if Dean wasn't handed to you by nightfall, you would attack them.

The Dwarves surprised you by keeping their word. You were expecting them to be as unworthy and dishonest as the Leviathans, but they gave you Dean, relatively harmed - if you don't count his unconsciousness and the bumps on his head from being lugged around like you been, as harm. They carelessly thumped the man at your feet.

The Dwarf King was frowning. 'We no like him, know? He try and kill.'

'He stupid,' you were quick to retort. 'He don't know how great you be. I'll make him understand. I hope this no ruin our new friendship?' you extended your hand for an alliance.

He hesitated, before giving in and shaking his knotty hand with yours. 'Friend. But because you promise to hurt sons of bitches.'

'Aw, you learned how to curse,' you laughed, making the Dwarf King blush grumpily.

He waved his hand in dismissal, 'One favor more!' he demanded.

'Okay?' you quirked a brow.

'Teach English!' he forcefully said. 'Leviathans speak good, we rub good English in face!'

'I think I like you,' you chuckled. 'You got style, buddy. Teach English, got it.'

He blinked both his eyes at you and raised his thumbs. You think he was winking.

He and his entourage left the clearing, telling you that they would be by the next day for their first lesson. One of the Dwarf ladies also told you that she was the healer around there, and if you needed anything, she would be able to conjure it for you within a day or so . . . She reminded you of Selina, but then you slammed the door on those memories as well.

Or, well, you tried too. You had this grim feeling that it was too late to ignore your past anymore. Your breakdown was coming, you just hoped you'd be alone for it.

A/N: Welp, the trauma's out of the bag! What did you think of the glimpses from the Supernatural Wars?

Tag List.

@hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @globetrotter28 @aylacavebear @emma1998sblog

@stanzie