#it was insane. everything was way too much

[shackleton2]

it's true and I say this as an avid binge-watcher who in the stone age had to look up transcripts of episodes because I couldn't wait THREE ENTIRE DAYS OF MY LIFE FOR NETFLIX TO MAIL ME THE NEXT DVD

Seasons of TV released as one fat drop of 8-12 1-1.5hr episodes, literally being told THIS IS FOR YOU TO BINGE IN ONE INSANE SITTING is the exact definition of my dreams and desires.

......why are they no good??

I can definitely think of exceptions, but "both of them have too much time and not enough time for the characters to struggle and grow and change," as it's well-put above, does seem to be the rule more and more. But what does that phrase really mean??

I saw something recently weighing in on this and saying series in particular seem to think every single thing depicted on screen has to move the story forward, possibly because everything is angled to encourage "binging". It's funny because that sounds like it should do the opposite of making the story feel ponderous and pointless!! So what's going on?

Maybe it's because Real Life™ isn't constantly moving towards one plot resolution, so the more you write a story where that's true, the more impossible true immersion for the viewer becomes?

But also I think actively designing a series to be compulsively watched in one or two massive sittings is hurting them as stories. Maybe it's because bingeing, especially as it's understood in other contexts, is not about enjoying something massively good, at least not after the initial part.

We all know this, right? You don't binge on something because it's just sooooo good. Are there people out there who have never done any kind of binge? Maybe so, so I'll tell you because I surely have: it's inertia. A really scary kind, to be honest, that feels, after a while of getting acclimated to nonstop-consuming the thing, like an absolute involuntary need. Because the second I stop eating the family sized bag of chips, stop taking another drink, stop lighting another smoke, reality will come rushing back in place of the comfort-stimulus. And in reality I am not experiencing joy or even pleasure, I am experiencing the kind of existential horror you get when you try to convince yourself you don't actually have to deal with your own mind. This 100% applies to letting the next episode autoplay after 5 hours of watching one story unfold.

Sorry I got kinda dark there, but the point I'm trying to illustrate is that I don't think you NEED a GOOD PRODUCT in order to get people to binge. And, well, that shows more and more with this "content" streaming services are releasing.

True Blood was a hot mess in so many ways and my mental health sure as shit was too but holy shit watching that obsessively years back was so FUN. That show and other story-loves of mine feel different from stuff getting released in full-season streaming dumps right now, and I don't think it's quality of writing or acting or effects or anything else making the difference as much as whether a show seems to genuinely LIKE itself, or whether it's counting on you finding it preferable enough to reality to let the next episode play and thus get good stats.

we need 15-20 episode seasons again these limited series have the worst pacing in the world and none of the character decisions hold any weight

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 1 - In My Brain and In My Blood

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: This story is non-canon compliant rewrite, but primarily plot wise. Think of it as we're cooking with all the same ingredients (i.e lore, characters, setting, and backstory) but with one change (you) that gets us to a drastically different ending.

What the means is that there will be a lot of similar plot points to the real Supernatural, but the further we go through the story the more it will diverge. I've also take some creative labor with the reader, adding lore that's defiantly not a part of canon, but crucial to this story.

If you have any questions about this, feel free to ask! If not, I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter title is from The End by Halsey

Word Count: 16.3k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: See the Masterlist for a Summary. Contains usual tags.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff

Chapter 2

Read on A03!

You know a few things about the dark.

It’s alive inside you. It has been your whole life. It makes your words too harsh and your brain too sharp and your love too big. It’s makes you too fragile, but still too sharp, and raises everything to a dangerous height you don’t know how to come down from. It makes everyone move away because they can see it. You can see it, always.

It covers every corner of your body, and grows roots in something white in your chest. Something no one but you can see. You’d asked your dad once—does he feel it too, feel the strange glow and pull of everything beautiful around you—and he’d looked at you like you were insane.

You might be.

But it’s hard not to be, in this line of work. 

Hunting. Monsters and ghosts and nightmares, all around you and calling to you in your sleep. It’s where most of the darkness lives, in the way that few monsters lay hands on you, no matter how much of their blood you shed. Ghosts will treat you like any other, but the monsters look at you like they recognize you. 

Like you’re one of them.

And that’s something you’ve never told your dad. You never will. He already hates that you do this, and not a month goes by where he doesn’t glare at you from across the table, beer bottle in hand, and ask you to stop.

“Kiddo,” he’d grunted the last time, narrowing his eyes at you over dinner. “That was the last one.”

“You say that every time-“

“And you ain’t listenin’ to me every time!” He’d snapped. “You don’t have to do this shit, not with your-“ He’d made a face, giving you a pointed look. “Ya’ know. Thing.”

“Witch.” You’d sighed. “You’re allowed to say it. I’m a witch.”

“You ain’t a witch-“

“I’m not a normal witch.” You’d corrected with a frown, picking at the wood of the table. “But I’m still not human.”

“You’re human,” he’d muttered your name, and when you’d looked up, he’d been staring at you with an exhausted expression and you’d felt something eat at your tongue. “But you’re right. You ain’t normal, kiddo, and it’s gonna get you fuckin’ killed-“

“It hasn’t yet-“

“It will. It always does.” He’d stood, giving you one last, tired look. “And I’m not tryin’ to lose you too.”

You’d given him a close-lipped smile. “You won’t lose me. I’m being careful.”

He’d rolled his eyes—you were being careful, and he knew it, but it still pissed him off—and nodded. And that had been it.

It’s like that every time. He tells you to quit, because you don’t need to do this, and you tell him you have to. You’re good at it. You’re more resourceful than half the hunters he knows, smarter than all of them, and better by a mile. He’d trained you. He hadn’t wanted to, but he’d realized it was either him teaching you or you learning through trial and error, and he’d decided you being a pain in his freakin’ ass was better than you being dead.

Because—in the end—all he really cares about is that you’re safe. It’s why you know to be careful, why you know what hunts to call for backup on, and why you know that—if you need to—you can crawl back home with your guts in your hand and he won’t yell at you until you’re better. Keeping you safe is his job, more than hunting, more than research, more than cars. He’d chosen to do it when he’d found you—eight years old and starving on the side of a highway—and it had stayed that way ever since. It didn’t matter what you were, what seemed to be inside of you, or how you were certainly more trouble that you were worth. He always made sure you were safe.

Safe from your real family, for what you know and refuse to be. Safe from the worst of the monsters and ghosts, who don’t seem to care for that horrible kinship you don’t know how to stop. Safe from hunters, and how they’ll hate you for what you know how to do.

Safe from John Winchester, and how he’ll put a bullet in your brain without question for what you don’t know how to change.

It’s the top rule. Stay away from the Winchesters. When John comes around for a hunt, hide in your room. When he drops his boys off before vanishing for weeks at a time, sneak out and call your uncle. He’ll pick you up, keep you safe, and drop you back home when the brothers leave. They can’t see you, because they’re loyal to their father and will tell him about the witch-girl who made the wind howl louder than it should’ve. John can’t know about you, because he’s a complicated man with a good heart, but he’ll hurt you worse than any ghost or monster could. 

But you have to say—at least from this distance—he doesn’t look that dangerous.

You know it’s him. You recognize his car in the parking lot from seeing it in your dad’s yard, and recognize his voice from the living room of your house. It’s clearer now—no longer muffled through a door you’d keep an ear pressed to—and you’re certain it’s him. 

And he’s just a man. A broad-shouldered, tired man with a face that doesn’t seem like it’s ever smiledand dark hair that’s streaked with slight silver. He even sounds exhausted, his voice laced with a thin irritation he either doesn’t know how to hide, or doesn’t care to.

“Dean,” he grunts, and you can’t see who he’s talking to, the bookshelves of the library only revealing John’s cold, set face. “Go back to the morgue and look at the bodies again. See if you can get a blood type on the vics.”

“A blood type?” A second voice, this one so clearly younger, a little defiant and bright, asks. “Dad, why do we care about their blood type-“

“Because this bitch is spilling it left and right, and we need to work out what skin she’s got in that game.” John’s words are short, impatient. “And you’re not here to ask me questions, Sam, you’re here to get through these damn books. Dean, go to the morgue.”

“Yes, sir.” That’s a third voice. It’s pretty. Deeper than the second—Sam’s—but not as tired as John’s. Mostly just cautious. “Can I, uh, can I take Sammy-“

“No.” John snaps. “I need him here for the readin’. Take the car and go.”

There’s a soft sound of metal ringing through the air, a scrape of wood on the floor, and you almost don’t move fast enough. You almost don’t duck behind the shelf in time for the third voice—the pretty one, Dean—to pass you, humming something you’d recognize if you weren’t lost in your panic.

Dean doesn’t see you.

But you see him.

And it’s not just his voice that’s pretty. 

You don’t know a lot about the Winchester brothers. Only what your dad has told you. Dean’s three years older than you, Sam’s a year younger. Dean likes music, Sam likes books. They’re both good boys—better than your dad seems to think John deserves, although he’ll never say that out loud—but Sam can be defiant and Dean can be trouble.

You hope Dean’s trouble. He has to be, when he looks like that. 

Because in only a split second of his side profile, you’re sure Dean Winchester is the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. Will ever see. It’s almost ethereal, and a little unfair. All of his features are clean and strong, like someone carved him from marble, but there’s a scar you could see on his jaw and a cut on his lower lip that made him seem human. Made his seem tangible. 

Touchable.

You’d like to touch him. You’ve seen him once, but everything in your body seems to think the world will collapse if you don’t touch him now. If you don’t at least talk to him. Hear his deep, charming voice directed at you. See at his face up close, see it’s clear resemble to John that feels pointless, because Dean looks like he smiles. He looks like he’s meant to smile, and you’d really like to find out if he’d smile at you. 

And that white thing—the one you feel all the time—seems to really like him. Even the darkness is trying to reach out to him, move into him, and you’re not really sure what the fuck is happening. He’d just walked past you, and your body is suddenly trapped by something overwhelming and dizzying in your lungs, your every nerve prickling the longer your brain circles him. The longer it spirals around his beautiful face, and full lips, and the way his voice sounded like something even bigger than the darkness in your body-

“Hey, Dad?” That same voice cuts through your thoughts, a little raised as Dean calls between the shelves. “Are you feeling anything from the beer earlier?”

“No.” John’s voice is clipped as he responds, and you can hear the frown in his voice. “You feelin’ alright, son?”

“Yeah, uh-“ There’s a heavy pause, and you can hear Dean shuffling slightly just out of your sight. “I dunno. Must’ve stood up too fast.”

“Dad, if he feels light headed he might not be safe to drive-“

“I’m alright, Sammy.” Dean’s words are fast. Not frantic, but rapid. “Nothing’s gonna happen to the car, Dad, I promise.”

John grunts. “Better not. Get moving, Dean, we don’t got all night.”

“Yes, sir.” 

You hear Dean shuffle away, sounds of flipping paper and scratching pencils re-filling the air, and you’re trapped in your spot. You shouldn’t follow Dean. Following Dean will almost certainly end in meeting John, and that’s the one thing you’re never supposed to do. Your dad doesn’t fight you when you leave for months at a time, or cross paths with other hunters, or run dangerous scams to keep yourself afloat. He’s okay with more than he probably should be, and he never tells you that you can’t do something. 

But you can’t talk to John Winchester. 

He can’t know who you are. What you are.

So you can’t follow Dean. Your brain is deeply aware that following Dean would be a truly horrible idea, and your body seems to be on board. There’s iron around your lungs when John mutters something to Sam, and a sore shot of electrically whenever one of them stands up to move books around. You’re really good at running. You know exactly when to call it and go. You can sense danger so easily—it’s the same chill of needles ice running up your spine, every single time—and John is dangerous. And you really shouldn’t follow Dean.

But the White thing keeps bucking around inside you. You can almost see it rush and roar in the air, feel it thrash deep down—past your heart chamber and embedded a little to the right—to try and follow Dean Winchester. And it feeds the darkness. It starts to twinge and pulse, seeping and infecting your muscles and blood, locking around your skull and making everything far too big. You can feel it all. The books on the shelves that all read Dean, and the squeak of the floors that say his name, and the lights start to flicker as the air turns humid and cool.

“Dad-“

“I’m seein’ it, Sammy, grab the gun-“

You raise the back of your hand to your mouth and bite. Hard. Grounding yourself before the flood can burst out of your body, before John Winchester could find out who you are in the worst way possible.

And when you run—out the back and to your stolen Lexus—you don’t even realize where you’re going until you’re halfway there.

To the morgue.

After Dean.

It’s a terrible idea. You have ten, long minutes of driving to figure out every way in which this is a terrible idea. You don’t know him. This will distract you from the case. John Winchester will try to kill you. Your dad will kill you. And there’s a high chance it will all be for nothing, because everything in you that’s calling to Dean belongs to that white thing. And that’s a part of you, and no one else. There’s a chance that this—whatever the fuck this is—is something driven by what you are, what’s wrong with you, so Dean won’t feel it at all.

You know all of that. And you still make it the whole drive without turning around. You park and rifle through your glove compartment for a fake ID, pull on your stiff, too-itchy well officer, would a fraud wear this? Jacket, and still don’t turn the engine back on and book it out of town. You even manage to justify it. You’re working this case too. You were here first. You’d noticed the blood thing from the start—it’s why you took the case—but you just hadn’t gotten to the morgue yet. You’d already been planning on it, and Dean just happens to be here at the same time. 

No matter what, you’ll get through it. You always get through it. And this might be a horrible idea, but that knowledge won’t stop you from stepping out of the car and making your way to the morgue. Know something has never really stopped you, and no amount of twisting bile in your gut—telling you to run, because you don’t love life, but you’d really rather not be murdered today—is going to prevent you from doing this. Nothing is stronger than the White in your chest, and it wants to talk to Dean Winchester. 

So that’s exactly what you’re going to do.

It is, as always, worryingly easy to get into the morgue. Half of the work is flashing the badge and saying the right words—Agent Smith, from the insurance company, I need to take a look at the autopsies for the claims—but most of it is the confidence. You carry yourself like a haughty, too-good-for-this-morgue insurance agent. Your chin is raised when you stop at the desk, and your words to the receptionist are impatient and clipped, and God, it makes you feel like the scum of the earth how she’s nervous and apologetic, but you get in the door. You always get in the door, because this is the simple part. The smiles with teeth, and the lies you spit through them are so fucking simple.

The hard part is always different. Sometimes it’s the ghosts that follow you after a failure, the ones that can’t be killed with salt and fire. Sometimes it’s long nights that you don’t have time tp sleep, and the tug and rot of that darkness in your chest tries to push to the surface. Sometimes it’s a puzzle you barely manage to solve, and it costs a little bit more of your flesh and soul each time.

But today, it’s Dean Winchester. Or, as the receptionist calls him, Officer Costello.

“Officer?” You raise your brows. “So the cops are looking into a serial killer.”

“I, um-“ The receptionist flushes, her eyes widening slightly. “I don’t know, he just said he was from a town over, and our Chief asked him to take a look, I’m not-“

“I’ll just ask him while I’m in there.” You shrug, the receptionist’s mouth opens in likely protest, and you call over your shoulder as you walk away. “I need to know for the report!”

You push through the doors—nobody chasing after you a sign of success—turn into the mortuary’s office, and freeze at the sight before you. 

Dean’s hunched over the mortuary’s desk, frowning at the largest stack of papers you’ve ever seen, and shit, he’s even prettier up close. Spiky hair and slightly tanned, freckled skin, rough looking hands sorting through the files and full lips in a frown and what the fuck is happening to you-

His head shoots up, eyes widening—green eyes, deep and vibrant and you need to get a goddamn grip—and you stare at each other for a long, confusing second before he finally speaks.

“Ma’am, if you could wait for the doctor outside please, this is, uh, official police business-“

You scoff, even as your whole body hums from the deep, smooth sound of his voice. “Is that really the excuse you’re going to use?”

Dean tenses, dropping the papers on the desk and rising to his full height, glaring down at you. He’s really tall, and broad, and probably warm-

“Excuse me? If you don’t exit this office right now, I’ll have reason to put you under arrest-“

“What reason?”

He blinks at you. “Interfering in police business-“

“Fake police business?”

“I’m not, this isn’t-“ Dean shakes his head, eyes narrowing on yours. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a fake insurance agent.” You lift your badge up from him to see, giving a sweet, fake smile. “And you’re a hunter.”

“Lady, I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about-“

“I think you do.” You step forward, dropping into a seat across the desk. “To start, you’re definitely not a cop. Cops don’t drive muscle cars and raid morgue documents.”

He frowns, still watching you wearily. “How’d you know that’s my car?”

You’d slipped a little. You shouldn’t know that’s the Winchester’s car. But you’re quick on your feet, and by the time you say the lie it might as well be the truth. “Only three cars in the lot. Mine, the black one, and a minivan. And you don’t really seem like a minivan guy.”

Dean grunts, his body still braced and words tense. “I could be allowed to drive whatever car I want on duty-“

You give him an amused expression, tucking your knees into your chest as you lean back in your seat.  “You’re like, twenty. There’s no way they’d let you drive your own car. Or,” you raise your brows. “Ask you investigate a bunch of weird murders by yourself.”

Dean frowns, but drops in the swivel chair behind the desk. “I’m twenty-one,” he mutters, and you snort. 

“Congratulations-“

“And you,” his eyes shoot to yours, voice dropping into a low drawl that felt like it could be dangerous, but mostly made you feel a little fuzzy. “Haven’t answered my question. Who are you?”

You say your full name—the real one, that you’d been given at birth and he’d never connect to your dad—and drop your feet back to the floor, extending your hand across the desk. “I’m a hunter too.”

Dean chuckles, but meets your hand with a grin. “Yeah, I figured that part out myself, Princess. Dean Winchester.”

You shake his hand, and your smile must make you look like an idiot. It’s far too wide just from him telling you his name and touching your skin—he is warm, and his hands are calloused and big and still so soft—but there’s something like lightning sparking and shooting over your skin, and the White inside you is shining like a star. Pulsing and glowing and molding with the darkness. Making nothing really seem that bad at all. 

Dean’s smiling back. And you’d been right. His face is meant to smile. It’s meant to have this broad, cocky grin that’s full of teasing joy and a bright-eyed delight in something you can’t quite place. You really can’t tell if he can feel it. There’s a glint in his eyes that’s full of promises, but you can’t figure out if he can feel this. This raging tug in your body that keeps your hand in his longer than it needs to be, that makes his skin feel like a furnace and your heart feel right in your body.

He might. He really might feel it. His hand stays in yours as well, his grip a little tighter than it needs to be, and when you manage to pull away, he clears his throat—a small, adorable blush covering his pretty face—and stares at you like you’ve fallen from the sky, and you’re still covered in stardust.

“So, uh,” Dean glances down at the papers, then back to you. “You here for the autopsy reports?”

You nod, crossing your legs under your body. “Yep. You gonna share?”

“That depends.” Dean shrugs, shooting you another, very mind-numbing smirk. “You gonna help us out?”

“Us?” You tilt your head at him, twisting a ring on your finger. “You’ve got a partner?”

“Partners.” Dean corrects you with a grin. “My dad and brother. We always hunt together, it’s safer and Sammy’s still a kid, so-“ He cuts himself off, his face falling into a small frown. “Do you, are you hunting alone?”

“Mostly, yeah.” You shrug. “But I can help you out-“

“You, you shouldn’t be hunting alone.” Dean cuts you off with a shake of his head, his voice almost disbelieving. “It’s not safe. Gonna get you killed.”

“Uh huh.” You narrow your eyes, your voice becoming dry and bored. “Do you want my help, Dean Winchester?”

“Sure, but-“

“Then drop it, give me the papers, and let me help.”

He frowns. “You’re kinda bossy.”

“Yeah, well, you’re kinda-“

“It’s not bad.” He pushes some of the files across the desk, shooting you a wink. “Just making sure you know.”

“Oh.” You stare at him. He’s so pretty, and his smile does weird things to your gut and ribs and the White inside of you. “Uh-“

“I’ll take these.” Dean taps the files still in front of him, watching you with a strange expression. “You got those?”

“Sure.” You mumble, pulling the papers into your lap. “Um, thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He shrugs. “More hands, we’ll be done faster. You, uh, you know what you’re lookin’ for-“

“Blood.” You flip open the first file, playing with the corner of a page as you speak. “Every vic’s been covered in it. It’s uh,” you grimace slightly, an image of a corpse painted red flashing in your head. “It’s been really gross.”

Dean hums in agreement, giving you a curious look. “You’ve seen all the bodies?”

“Most of them,” you look down to the file, flipping through it until you find the blood report “I’ve been here for like, five days.”

“Huh.” He frowns, looking down to his own paper. “We’ve been here four. Only seen two of them.”

“Well, maybe I’m just better at my job.”

He laughs, and when you glance back up, he’s grinning. “Sure, Princess.”

You kick him under the desk, and he makes a fake sound of pain.

“What was that for?!“

“Making fun of me,” you stick your tongue out at him, not looking up from your papers. “Not very nice, Winchester.”

“You made fun of me-“

“And if you wanna kick me, I won’t stop you-“

“I’m not gonna kick a lady-“

“Well then.” You shrug, unable to fight the smile on your face. “That’s not my fault, is it?”

He huffs, his voice dropping to a low mutter you can still defiantly hear. “Bossy.”

“That’s not being bossy, it’s-“ You cut yourself off, leaning down to re-read the file in front of you. “Shit.”

“It is shit,” Dean complains, and you can hear the pout in his voice as you grab the next file in your stack, rushing through the report to find what you’re looking for. “You’re lucky I-“

“No, that’s not-” you look up at him, your brain moving too fast to fully linger on why you might be lucky. “Give me your file.”

Dean frowns, but slides the paper over the desk. “What-“

You raise your hand, scanning over the file and grinning as you find what you’re looking for. “I’ve got it.” 

“Got what-“

“That blood wasn’t only the vics. It was their’s, plus,” you turn the page for Dean to read, pointing to the words. “All the previous vics. Mixed together. That’s why there’s been more and more every time.”

“Oh.” Dean leans forward, scanning over the page. “Kinda like a really gross blood cocktail?”

“Exactly.” You grin at him. “I know what we’re looking for.”

He looks back up at you, raising his brows. “You gonna tell me, or-“

“It’s a moroi.” You drop the files, leaning back and pushing your feet back up on the desk. “It explains the messiness perfectly.”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “My dad says it’s just a normal ghost with a weird thing for blood-“

“Your dad is wrong. It’s a moroi.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “My dad’s never wrong. And he’s more experienced than both of us combined, he’d know if it was a moray-“

“Mo-roi-“

“And look,” Dean leans across the desk, pointing to the files. “All of them had the same blood type. That’s what Dad said to look for.”

“They have the same blood type because it’s a moroi.” You hold his gaze, because every single part of you might want this man in a way you can’t possibly begin to understand, but you’re also fucking right. “They’re Romanian vampire babies.’

“Vampire babies-“

“Evil infant spirits that didn’t get baptized. They’re really rare, but this-“ You tap the files with a smug grin. “Is their exact MO. Specific blood type that they’ve probably got a taste for, mixing it with their previous victims, incredibly sloppy.”

“Because they’re babies.” Dean mutters, frowning into the air. “And babies, uh, don’t know how to clean.”

You nod. “Because babies don’t know how to clean.”

“And you’re sure?” Dean looks down to the files, his tone cautious. “I mean, you said they’re kinda rare-“

“They are.” You shrug. “And that’s why I’m sure.”

Rare things are your specialty. Things that even the most experienced hunters don’t understand, that were hard to track and harder to kill. Things that were stranger than strange, darker than dark, worse than evil. Things that wouldn’t hurt you, and you’ve taught yourself every way kill. It’s why you’d taken this case in the first place.  It’s why you’re fucking right.

“You, uh,” Dean’s words are slow, like he’s picking them carefully. “You know how to kill these things?”

“Yep.”

“You wanna come with me? To explain it to Dad and Sammy?”

“I, um-“ You start to pick at the skin around your nails, your skin suddenly itching and a weight forming in your lungs. “I mean, I can just tell you how, and you can deal with it, and I can go-“

“Go?” Dean frowns, his brow drawn. “Where are you going?”

“Out of town.” You keep your voice strong and even, because no matter how much the White inside you seems to be trying to move into Dean—no matter how much you’d really like to stay in this office and talk to him for a million years—you have to go. You cannot meet John Winchester. “If your Dad’s as good as you say-“

“He is-“

“Then you’ll be able to handle this. You don’t need me.”

“Well,” Dean leans over the desk, his voice dropping to a charming drawl. “If I ask you nicely, will you consider staying? Giving us a hand?”

You hold his gaze, unable to find enough willpower to shut him down immediately. “How nicely?” 

“Please,” Dean says your name, giving you a taunting, boyish grin, and the White inside you ignites. You’ve heard your name said a million ways, but never like that. Never in Dean’s voice, never like it’s some sort of curse and prayer all at once, never like it’s bigger than just a name. “Please stay in town and help me out. Please explain this moroi shit to my dad, and help us kill the son of a bitch. I’ll buy you a beer, and be in your debt for a million freakin’ years. Please.”

He’s already got you. If the way he said your name didn’t make you fold, the shit-eating smirk on his face and gleam in his eyes that tells you exactly how he plans to repay that debt made you cave. 

“I don’t drink.” You mumble, your face heated and eyes a little wide. “But I’ll take two million years and a promise that you’ll listen to me.”

Dean chuckles. “Awesome.” He grins, his eyes never leaving yours as he stands. “Let’s get outta here, I’ll drive you to our motel.”

That’s where you manage to draw a line. You’ll bow to Dean’s charming words and handsome face, you’ll follow him out of the office and into the parking lot, and you’ll agree to come meet John and Sam Winchester—no matter how stupid and deadly an idea it will certainly prove to be—but you’ll drive yourself. You didn’t steal that Lexus not to drive it, and when things inevitably go sideways, you’ll need a car to escape in. 

“You sure?” Dean walks you to the Lexus, standing right at your side and watching you in a way the White seems to feel. “I mean, it’s not a problem-“

“I’m sure.” You grab your keys out of your pocket, stopping in front of the car. “All my shit is in here, and I can just follow you. It’ll be fine.”

“Well, how am I gonna know you won’t just drive off?” Dean doesn’t budge, barely sparing your car a glance. “Leave me to deal with the vampire babies alone?”

You give him a flat. “I won’t just drive off, Winchester-“

“You might.” He shrugs. “I don’t know you that well, you could be playing me-“

“I’m not- Fine.” You roll your eyes, shoving your badge into his hands. “You can hold onto that, and I’ll have to follow you to get it back. Happy?”

“Very.” Dean winks at you, flipping your badge open to read. “Agent Smith- Who’s Smith?”

“Nobody. Smith is the most common last name in United States.” You shrug, and Dean looks at you like you’re insane. “What?”

“Nothin’, I just-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low laugh. “It’s practical. Smart.”

You narrow your eyes. “But?”

“No but,” He says your name with a bright, cocky grin, and tucks your badge into his pocket. “Can I not call you smart?”

“Not when you don’t really mean it-“

“I mean it. You’re smart.” His grin grows, and it feels like it’s burning its way right into your heart. Kicking it up to a higher speed, warming it until your whole body feels lost in a misting haze. It’s so fucking weird. “Are all your badges Smith?”

“No.” You mutter, crossing your arms to try and stop your heart beating right out of your chest. “Smith is just insurance. Johnson does wildlife, Brown is a cop, and Miller’s FBI.”

“Huh,” Dean looks at you like he’s never seen anything more amusing in his life. It’s not really helpful. “Sammy’s gonna like you.”

“Sammy?”

“My brother.” Dean shrugs. “He’s smart too. Not half as pretty, but smart.”

You flush, leaning back to ground yourself against the cool metal of the car. “You don’t know me, Winchester. I might be a dumbass.”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Dumb people don’t know about vampire babies.”

“I’d argue vampire babies are the exact thing a dumb person would know about-“

“And I’d argue dumb people don’t say I’d argue.”

You scowl. “Touché.”

Dean laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Dumb people don’t say touché-“

“Shut up.” You kick him again, and this time his grin just becomes teasing and smug and a little fucking dizzying.

“That’s not nice, Princess-“

“I said shut up.” You mutter, turning to open your car door. “Go get in your car so we can actually do our jobs.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean’s still grinning at you, his eyes widening as they finally flick to the Lexus. “Holy shit, you drive this?”

“Yeah.” You shrug, dropping into your seat and pointing across the lot to his car. “Go.”

Dean raises his hands in surrender. “Bossy.”

You glare at him. “Winchester-“

He gives you one last wink you feel deep in your core, closes your door, and walks away without another word. But—right after he climbs into the driver seat—he pulls out your badge, holds it up to the window, and mouths Follow me, or this is mine.

You roll your eyes, flip him off, and watch him laugh as he pulls out of the lot. And you could leave. Badges are easy to make, you’re not emotional attached to Agent Smith, and this is your last chance to keep yourself away from John Winchester. To listen to your every instinct, to your dad’s stern voice in your head, and run. It would be so fucking easy to run. To turn around and never look back, never allow yourself to indulge Dean Winchester further than one conversation.

But you don’t want to run. You want to follow this odd pull to him, follow him to the motel, follow him wherever else he seems to be going. Which is fucking insane, because you don’t know him, he doesn’t know you, and he’s almost certainly better off without you. Most people are. Hell, you’d be better off without you, if you could figure out how to do that.

And you know all that. But you still don’t want to run.

So you follow Dean out of the parking lot, through the winding backstreets of the town, and to a backwater motel. You park your car right next to his, close your eyes to take a long, steadying breath, and try to rationalize to yourself how this could possibly end up not blowing up in your face. You’ll keep a hold on yourself. John won’t know who you are, or what you are, or who you know, or what you know, or-

“Shit!” You jump as something raps on your window, and hear a loud laugh from outside your car.

You’ll get through this. You always do.

“You yelped.” Dean tells you as you climb out of the car, a wide, teasing grin on his face. “Real tough of you, Princess-“

“Suck my dick, Winchester.” You glare at him, and his grin only grows wider. “And stop calling me princess.”

“Nah,” Dean places his hand on your back, steering you towards the motel. “Suits you too well.”

“I don’t know what that means-“

“You don’t have to.” He smirks at you, and it does something impossible good to your brain. Makes it calm. A little fuzzy, a little smooth, but so fucking calm. “C’mon, I texted Dad that I found you, he and Sammy’ll be in our room.”

Dean Winchester is dangerous. You should be scratching and clawing and fighting like a feral animal to go, to get back in your car and as far away from here—from John Winchester—as possible. But he says I found you with a proud grin and puff of his chest like he’s bragging, and all that your stupid body knows how to do is lean slightly into his chest and follow him wherever he takes you. Somewhere dark, or somewhere horrible, or somewhere gray or somewhere safe.

Or just a shabby, paint-peeling motel room, where John Winchester and a shaggy haired kid are sitting around a table, looking at you—standing awkwardly in the doorway, watching them wearily, your back straight but arms crossed in defense—like you’re the strangest thing they’ve ever seen.

“This is, um,” Dean glances at you as he says your full name, and you realize he’s more tense than he’d been before. Standing a little taller, his eyes a little more guarded, his expression impossibly neutral. “She’s the hunter I mentioned.” Dean says your name again, pointing to the table as he continues. “That’s my dad, John, and my brother, Sammy.”

“Hi.” The kid—he’s taller than you, and barely younger, but there’s something about him that still says kid—offers you a small smile. “Do you, uh, do you hunt alone?”

“Yeah,” you give Sam a smile back, trying to force your tone to be casual, your body to relax, and your eyes not to wander to where John is tall in his seat, just watching you. “He tell you that?”

You jerk your head at Dean, who frowns. “So what if I did-“

“So, you’re being a real dramatic bitch about that. You’re not my dad, Winchester, let’s calm down.” You give him a small grin, and feel something odd and bright inflate in your chest when his mouth tugs up for the first time since you’ve walked into the room.

Dean looks like he’s going to say something back, but John clears his throat, and something curls and rots in your stomach at how quickly Dean goes rigid, how fast his mouth snaps shut. 

“You got a father, girl?”

You look at John, and he looks even more tired up close, in the dim light of the motel. More threatening as well, watching you like you’re prey, or a parasite, or a disease. Like you’re going to go feral and destroy everything in the room. It would sting less if he wasn’t right. If his attention wasn’t making your skin crawl and the White in you start to twist and pound to escape your body, the darkness rushing out as everything becomes big again. If you weren’t digging your nails into your palm to stop yourself from proving him right, and if you weren’t raising your chin in a weak attempt to be a little taller than you are. 

“I do.” You hold his gaze, and wonder if he can see the darkness. If he already knows what you are, and is trying to work out how to kill you. “We’re really close, actually.”

“He know you hunt?”

“He does.” You shrug. “He’s fine with it.”

That’s a lie. Your dad hates that you hunt. You’re certain the only reason he doesn’t lock you in his panic room to keep you away from the monsters and ghosts is because he knows you’d escape, and he’d never see you again. But John doesn’t know that, and you’re a fantastic liar, so if he doesn’t believe you it’s not because you don’t sell the words, it’s because he just doesn’t trust you. Because whatever you say, he’s going to keep looking at you like he can see right into your horrible center.

John’s face twitches, and as he leans slightly forward, you’re not sure Dean’s breathing at your side. “Your old man a hunter too?”

You nod, realize this is getting a little away from you, and start to run your thumb over your palm as John narrows his eyes.

“What’s his name?”

You use your real father’s name—your biological father, who you’ll never see again if you can help it—and it stings on your tongue. You hate that you have to say it. You hate that you have to repeat it, adding your real last name, but it works. John grunts, and looks away.

“Dean.”

“Yes, sir?”

“How old is she?”

“I, uh-“ Dean looks at you with wide eyes. “How old are you?”

You raise your brows. “How old do you think I am?”

“Twenty…” Dean scratches his head slightly, looking a little afraid. It would be adorable if this wasn’t such an oddly volatile situation. “Twenty-teen?”

“Twenty-teen?”

“I dunno, I mean you gotta be old than Sammy, and you sound like you’re old, but-“

“I sound like I’m old?”

“Just cause of the words you use! You look like you can’t be old than me, but I don’t know-“

“Jesus Christ, dude.” You take pity on Dean—who looks like he’s about to have a panic attack—and pat his shoulder as you speak. “I’m eighteen. And,” you look back to John, cooling your voice and narrowing your eyes. “I can speak for myself.”

John doesn’t waver. You can’t really imagine a world where he would. “I don’t doubt that, girl. But I ain’t lookin’ for help on this case, and you’re barely votin’ age-“

“I’m aware of my age.” You interrupt, crossing your arms over your chest. “But I’ve also been hunting, alone, since I was fifteen, and this,” you gesture through the air, holding John’s cold gaze. “Is my type of case. So you need my help.”

John scoffs. “It’s a ghost, sweetheart, me and my boys will be fine without you-“

“She says it’s not a ghost.” Dean mumbles, paling as John’s gaze shoots to him. “It’s, uh, a moroi?”

You hum in agreement, offering Dean a small grin that John doesn’t seem to miss.  

Sam raises his hand at the table, his expression open and curious. “What’s a moroi?”

“Romanian vampire baby.” Dean says, shooting Sam the first real, full grin you’ve seen on his face since you entered the motel room. “They never got a chance to learn who Mr. Clean is, which is why there’s been so much freakin’ blood everywhere. Right?”

Dean looks at you with a hopeful, bright expression, and it makes the White glow and sing as you nod.

“It’s a ghost.” John grunts, and when you look back to the table, he’s glaring at you. “We got freezin’ temperatures, EMF, and no break ins-“

“Because they’re death monsters. And they can shape-shift, into a guy, or a bug, or a cat.” You shrug. “Wouldn’t be that hard to get into a house.”

John scowls. “And you’d bet all our lives on this-“

“Yes.” You say, the words simple. You’re good at your fucking job, and there’s no doubt in your mind. “It is a moroi. I’ve hunted them before.”

“You have?” Sam’s eyes widen, his tone filled with something that might be admiration. “That’s so-“

John cuts Sam off with a raised hand, his attention never wavering from you. “Well,” he drawls your name, and it’s mocking and cruel and awful. The opposite of how Dean says it, in a way you hope to never hear again. “If you’re such an expert, how the hell do we kill the asshole.”

“Easy.” You shrug, as if there’s not something wired and painful in your muscles that’s trying to force you to run, run, run, far away from John Winchester and his cold voice. “You stab it in the heart with a nail.”

“With a nail.” John repeats, his voice flat, and you scowl. 

“Well, that, or,” you stand a little taller, making your voice cool and bored. “We throw a Romanian funeral for it, and find a living relative to walk around its grave three times with a candle.”

Dean makes a choked sound from off to the side, and when you look, he’s staring at you like you’d fallen from space again. John doesn’t look half as awestruck. He mostly looks pissed.

“This ain’t the time for jokes-“

“That’s not a joke.” You snap. “There are multiple ways to kill something, and that’s one of the ways you can deal with a moroi. It’s that, the nail, or burning resin on a Tuesday, then a Saturday.”

John laughs, no amusement or joy in the sound. “You might think your smart, kid, but how about I see a plan. Stabbin’ something in the heart ain’t gonna be easy, and hell, girl, you said they shape shift. How the fuck are you thinkin’ we find them-“

“There will be blood in its nails and eyes.” You hold your ground, but your palm grows red as you break skin. “And there is a pattern to the tarbets, we’ve just all been looking in the wrong place.”

“A pattern?” Sam’s eyes are still wide, his voice a little eager. “But none of the vics have been the same age, gender, ethnicity, occupation-“

“Have they all been parents? Lived near graveyards?”

All three Winchesters gape at you for a second, and Dean looks at John with wide eyes.

“Shit, Dad, she’s right.” He mutters, running a hand over his face. “The one we looked at yesterday, the house had one of those baby gates-“

“And we’ve driven past a graveyard every time.” Sam adds, looking between you and John with a nervous expression. “So, uh, it could be-“

“I know what it could be, Sam.” John grunts, his glare fully focused on Dean. “You willing to bet on her, son?” 

Dean looks at you, and he shouldn’t be—you’re a stranger, you’re a liar, you’re a monster that’s attracted to him like a magnet—but he nods. He stares at you like he doesn’t really understand what’s going on either, like he’s looking for a reason to not trust you and side with his father, but can’t find one. And—right before he looks back to his father—you see a flash in his eyes that makes you think he feels it. That whatever the fuck is happening to you, it’s happening to Dean too, and he’s just as helpless as you are to fight it.

“I am, sir.” He says, hands flexing at his side. “Sammy and I can do door duty, figure out who’s next on this things hit list-“

Sam frowns. “I don’t wanna do door duty-“

“Blame Dean,” John shrugs, giving Dean a curt nod. “Take my car and be back in two hours-“

You raise your hand, and John cuts himself off with a glower.

“What.”

“They don’t need to do door duty,” you say, your fingers running over your palm. “The moroi will only target parents of infants, so you can look for baby seats in cars. And it’ll all be near same cemetery. Five miles radius.” You catch Dean raising his brows at you, and shrug. “They don’t like to stray far from home.”

“And by home,” Sam jumps in, words slow as he connects the dots. “You’re talking about their grave.”

“Or their coffin.” You offer him a close-lipped smile. “But yeah. It’s already dusk, our best bet would be splitting up and patrolling a few streets until we see the thing. It’ll probably be in its regular form, at least until it spots a house.”

Dean frowns at you. “What’s that gonna look like?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Hairy. Bloody and hairy. It’ll be gross, you’ll see it.”

“And how,” John grunts. “Are you thinkin’ we split up.”

“We’ve got two cars.” You shrug. “Three if you have a second one-“

“We don’t.” John snaps. “And I took a fuckin’ taxi back here, ain’t no way I’m not driving my car, or lettin’ a little girl go off to hunt this on her own-“

“How honorable,” you mutter under your breath—careful to make sure Dean doesn’t hear you—and raise your voice back to a bored, flat tone.  “Then you’ll take your car, and I’ll take one of them,” you nod between Sam and Dean. “So we’re off in pairs.”

“Dad, I could go with her.” Dean takes a small step forward, his tone slightly nervous. “I mean, it would be safer for you to take Sammy. And you know I’d be careful.“

John grunts, jaw ticking, and you can see he’s considering it. That, somehow, you’ve convinced him to go with this, and he hasn’t put a bullet in your brain. There’s a frantic, wired part of you along your skin that’s certain he’s just waiting for an excuse, but for now you’ll take it. You’ll take Dean volunteering to go with you, John not killing you, and everyone winning when you’re right, because you will be. You’re not good for much, but you’re good for this. 

“I want you to drive.” John tells Dean, and you’ll allow it. If it keeps Dean near you—as you so confusingly and desperately crave—you’ll let him drive your stupid, fancy car. Fuck, you’ll let him run it into a ditch if he wants, as long as you’re there with him, and what the fuck is happening to you- 

Dean says your name, and you blink at him as he continues. “I, uh, if you’re good with it-“

“Sure, I don’t give a fuck.” You toss Dean your keys, and he frowns. “I mean, try not to total it, or do donuts-“

Dean gasps, his face full of mock offense that pulls a smile onto your face. “Do I look like a hooligan to you-“

You raise your brows. “Did you just say hooligan?”

“Yeah,” he grins at you, and nothing else seems that real. “It’s a fun word, don’t bash it-“

“I am not bashing it-“

“Kinda sounds like you’re bashin’ it-“

“Well, it kinda sounds like you’re going to try and do donuts in my car-“

“Princess, I would never-“

“Winchester, I don’t believe you-“

John coughs, loudly, and you and Dean fall silent. That keeps happening. You talk to Dean, and everything fades until you’re just smiling like an idiot and watching him like he’s the sun, and you’re just existing in his orbit. And he does the same thing. Dean’s face is red, and he’s staring at the floor as John glowers at him, but you keep catching his eyes darting to you, a small furrow on his brow that you wish you could ask him about. You wish you could ask him a million things. About his life, about his likes and dislikes, why his whole family hunts and what he thinks of your dad—the one he’d know, the one that’s going to murder you when he finds out what you’re doing right now—and if he can feel this too. He must. It’s like a drug, and it’s flashing and loud in the White, and making the darkness blur into something you think would be better. Into something you wouldn’t hate, molding with something that feels foreign but right, strange but just as powerful and certain as gravity. Something secret, that you think you should be fighting but can’t bring yourself to raise a weapon against. 

Something bigger than you. Bigger than him. Bigger than the White inside your chest and the darkness that’s pushed down, down, down as you force yourself to stay in place, and not either grab Dean’s face and scream—shout at him in a begging question of do you feel this, or am I going fucking insane—or run. Flee as John Winchester gives you one last look like he’s imaging your blood on the floor, and you climb into the passenger’s seat of the Lexus.

But you manage to keep it together, and you’ll have to settle for this. For talking to Dean as you patrol up and down a darkened suburban street with white-picket fences, your knees up on the dash and your fingers growing bloody as you pick at them to keep the darkness down. 

“So, uh,” Dean taps his hands on the wheel, staring out at the road. “Hunting.“

You blink at him, raising your brows. “What?”

“I just, mean how’d you end up doing it? You’re young-“

“You’re literally only three years old than me-“

“But I got Dad and Sammy.” He scowls. “You’re alone.”

“Yeah, we’ve establish that.” You cross your arms, curling slightly into your seat. “I’m really good at my job, Winchester, I’m not that worried.”

Dean chuckles, glancing at your half-pout with an amused expression. “Still Winchester? When am I gonna get the honor of her majesty using my first name?”

You glare at him, and it just makes his grin wider. “Shut up.”

He clicks his tongue. “Bossy.”

And he’s so confusingly adorable and handsome—in the soft, shimmering light of the streetlamps and fog—that you speak without even thinking. “You have to earn first names, Deano.”

He freezes for a second, and his grin becomes his whole face. Wide and charming, sweeping you off your feet and knocking the breath from your lungs without even touching you. 

“So,” he drawls, still smirking like an idiot. “Nicknames you’ll pass out like party favors, but I need to work to just be Dean.”

“Seems that way, doesn’t it?”

“Well, can I at least shoot down Deano?”

“Maybe,” you hum. “On what grounds?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs, eyes flashing in the low light. “It kinda makes me sound like a birthday clown?”

You giggle. A small, soft giggle that he pulls out of you with barely any effort, that you want to hate but can’t figure out how to. “Maybe you are a clown-“

“Birthday clown.” He corrects, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Don’t drop the birthday part, that means I’ve got a job. And I can’t be a clown, Sammy’ll never speak to me again.” Dean glances at you, his voice dropping slightly. “He freakin’ hates clowns. Might shoot me before I explain that a pretty lady turned me into one against my will.”

You raise your brows, trying to push down the flush on your face from pretty lady. How he’d said the words like they were teasing, but still so serious, and looked at you with a small smirk when they had his intended effect. You can barely remember how to clear your throat and use words, let alone tease and spar with him when the White is blinding in your body.

“Unfortunately,” you manage to speak, nudging his shoulder with your own. “All sales are final. You’re Deano now.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but his grin doesn’t falter for a second. “Until I earn Dean, though, right?”

“If you earn Dean.”

He hums, shooting you another, oddly heated glance. “And what do I need to do for that?”

You only shrug, running your fingers over your palm to sooth the darkness. It’s starting to eat over your nerves and heart, trying reach out and touch Dean in a way you can’t allow, in a way that will end whatever this is before it begins. Dean only gives you a strange look, his smile still wide on his face.

“Well,” Dean says your whole name, over-pronouncing each syllable. “Am I allowed to return the favor?”

“What favor.”

“Callin’ you a nickname.” He winks at you, and it settles—warm and soft and strong—in your core. “It’s only fair.”

You shake your head. “No. I don’t even have a nickname.”

“Bet I could fix that.”

“Would be a losing bet. I wouldn’t take it.”

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

And just like that, you’ve lost. You’d seen it coming, too. It was too easy a solution for him to have, to easy a path to allow him to take, too easy to let the small part of you—that had wanted to hear him call you Princess again, because it soothed something that was always feral inside of you and blurred the darkness into the White until nothing hurt inside you—allow Dean to coax you where he’d clearly wanted you, and follow with a smile on your face. But all of this was too easy. Talking to Dean was too easy, because the conversation seems to flow and ebb without effort, and you’re almost always in danger of saying too much. He seems to know how to—without any obvious intention—get you to tell him anything he asks, leaving you biting your tongue to keep down bits of the truth that could prove deadly. But he doesn’t push you to speak—which is perfect and terrifying all within itself—and when you fall into silence it’s easy too. It’s easy to control the darkness, calmed only by your thumb and long breathes, and easy to keep everything small. Just you and Dean in the soft silence of the car, just you and Dean in the whole world.

“My mom died.” Dean says suddenly, frowning out the window. “It’s why I’m hunting. And,” he adds, his voice growing a little firmer, a little more defensive. “It’s why my dad’s so careful. I know he can be tough, but we’ve only got each other, and he’s just tryin’ to-“

“I get it.” You whisper, something deep in your chest aching for him. For this pretty, impossible man who might be bigger than the whole word, and how his brow is knit in a confusing kind of hollow pain as he defends his father. Goes to arms for him without prompting, like it’s a reflex. And you really do get it, but even if you didn’t, you somehow care too much about him to force him to rage and spit fire in John’s defense. It looks like it might rip him apart, and you never really want to see him go. So you just offer him a gentle, full lipped but toothless smile, and place your hand on his arm. “And that really fucking sucks.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, and doesn’t try to move his arm away. “It does really fucking suck. Thanks.”

“My dad’s wife died.” You offer, as if that would somehow make this better, and Dean gives you an odd look.

“Dad’s wife? Not your mom?”

You swallow. You did it again. You slipped when you’re usually so fucking careful. “It’s complicated.”

“Ah.” Dean has a little furrow between his brow that you’d like to run your thumb over, but he drops it. “Are you, you gonna tell me why you hunt? If it’s not your Dad’s wife?”

You sigh, a feral instinct of survive shoving the truth just a little further down. “That’s complicated too. I mean it’s not,” you glance up at him, his eyes fixed onto the road. “It’s not like yours. I didn’t lose anyone.”

“Is it a family thing? Like, your dad brought you in?” Dean’s every word is careful, like he’s afraid he might spook you. But that’s another thing that’s too easy. Staying next to Dean and not bristling or fleeing is far too fucking easy. 

“No,” you say, watching the light and shadows shift over his face in a strange, perfect dance. “He tries to stop me from doing it all the time. Shit, he called me last night and asked me to come home.”

Dean frowns. “You-“

“Dean!” You cut him off with a hand over his mouth, and he slams the breaks with a screech. You can see his staring at you from the corner of your eye, but you barely spare him a glance, your eyes locked over his shoulder, out the window, at a shifting figure in the dark. “Look.”

He turns his head, prying your hand from his mouth as he glares out the window. “I don’t-“

“There,” you hiss, leaning a little further forward. “See the-“

“That might just be a shadow,” Dean mutters, his voice dropping to a whisper as he scans over the dark. “Or a fox-“

You turn your head, giving him a flat look. “Do foxes look like babies covered in blood?”

“No.” He grins at you. “But I’ve seen weirder shit, Princess.”

You’re suddenly aware of how close you are. How you’d leaned over the console and started to practically hang off of Dean’s body, how your faces are barely a breath apart and you can see every deep color and fleck of gold in his eyes. He really only gets prettier, and he’s so warm, and there’s molten silver in your chest trying to tangle into him. He smells like fresh grass and spice, his eyes are dilating—but maybe just from the dark—and everything seems to be slowing down as the silver looks for other places to leak out. Places that wouldn’t hurt anyone, like the mist of the night that seems to glow and the wind that seems to bend and creak the trees in your direction, and the golden streetlamps-

Dean’s eyes shoot to the road as the lights start to flicker, his body tensing against yours. “Shit. We should, uh-“

You nod, push yourself away, and try to pretend your body doesn’t grieve the loss of his touch.

John and Sam are taking too long to arrive. You’re tense and bouncing on the sidewalk as you wait, turning a sharp nail between your fingers, and Dean keeps a hand around your wrist as he frowns down the street. You think he can sense that, if he looks away for only a second, you’ll dart into the house and deal with this yourself. You could. This nail has killed three moroi before, and you’d been completely alone then. 

“Winchester.” 

Dean looks at you with a frown, and you tug your arm slightly.

“Let me go.”

“No,” he grunts, his grip tightening. “Dad said to wait.”

“He’s not my dad-“

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean mutters, his gaze moving back to the empty, dark fog. “We’re waiting.”

You scowl. “Fine. Can you let go-“

“No.”

“I swear to god, Dean Winchester-“

“If I let you go,” he snaps, his glare shooting back to you. “You’re going to run in there. So no.”

You narrow your eyes. “You don’t know me-“

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Look me in the eyes,” he drawls your name, holding your gaze. “And say you won’t run.”

It should be an easy lie, but it gets caught in your throat and you can only gape at him. Dean raises his brows as you continue to stare, and the White inside you starts to thrash as you clear your throat, forcing the words out.

“I’d handle it.”

He scoffs. “There is no way you’re gonna be able to handle it alone-“

“So, come with me,” You hiss, leaning forward until your face is only an inch from his. “And I won’t be alone.”

You don’t know why it breaks him. But something flashes in his eyes, he groans—running his free hand over his face and giving you a look of disbelief—and he caves. 

And from there it’s mostly a blur. It’s always a blur. The darkness inside of you latches onto something primal, and it’s all only a blur. 

Usually it’s all but a blackout. Like something overtakes you and you become just as monstrous as what you’re hunting, your brain only holding onto what you’ll need in order to survive next time, and a sticky smell of blood to haunt your sleep. But Dean’s here now, and things come into focus. Time is still a rush, and you’re still moving on pure instinct, but you remember Dean’s body being pressed to yours as you crept through the suburban house. You remember to set look on his face as you swept the rooms, figuring out what the moroi could be, where it might be hiding. You remember seeing it first, and the sound of flesh tearing as it launched at Dean—over you—and you swatted it with your arm like a baseball. 

You remember Dean shouting your name as you raced forward with the nail in your hand, and how it sounded like his chest was being ripped open. You remember finding that small patch of soft flesh on the moroi’s chest, driving the nail home, and tasting bile when it vomited blood up into your face. 

You remember Dean passing you his shirt on the curb a few blocks down, because the very ungrateful almost-victims threatened to call the cops, and you were covered in blood. He’d faced away as your changed—zipping up his own jacket and humming while he waited—and you could’ve sworn he was blushing when he turned back around.

Then John Winchester had arrived—looking at Dean like he’d just sprouted a second, hideous head and you like he was imaging how amazing you’d look in a casket—and everything grew sharp as they drove away. 

More of it comes together as you drive yourself back to the motel. Dean had dumped the body in the gutter, and you had given him your motel address. John had snapped at you to meet them tomorrow for a debrief, and told Dean that they’d talk back at the room. Sam had smiled at you, and it was a nice smile. There hadn’t seemed to be anything beneath it—just a kind smile for the woman sitting on the curb next to his shirtless brother, her hair matted in blood and fingers covered in monster hair—and you’d liked that. 

When you enter your room, it suddenly feels too small. Nothing is big enough for how strange this is, how you might need all the world and a little more to figure out what the fuck just happened. You miss Dean. You’d met him today, and you miss him more than you’ve missed anything before. You keep looking to the side to see if he’s there, when you know he won’t be. The White is bucking and keening inside of you, the darkness falling out of your body—you can feel the pain of the water as it becomes steam in the shower, and you’re almost knocked to your knees by the ache of the phone to be closer to the lamp—and you need to find out if he could meld them together again. If it had been a fluke, or an accident, or if you were simply losing your fucking mind.

You have to be. You must be going mad. It’s the only explanation for why you take a long shower and change into your own clothing, but you still smell grass and leather and spice. It’s purgatorial. You go through your whole routine—scrubbing all the blood off your body with rough sugar that bites into your skin, running your hands under white-hot water that leaves your skin raw but the darkness pushed down, tending to your hair until it frame your features easily, and you don’t look like a bruised and battered animal—but you still smell him. You toss his shirt off to the side, but he’s clinging to the sheets. You change into sleepwear, but your body can still feel a strong, warm touch. You turn your empty flask in your hands, watching light catch off the steel, and someone’s knocking on your fucking door-

Dean hisses your name through the wood, and you freeze.

“I know you’re in there!” He’s half-shouting, and the whole world feels more colorful, and what is wrong with you. “C’mon, Princess, open the door. It’s me!” He pauses, the knocking faltering. “Uh, Dean Winchester.”

He sounds a little defeated, and you can’t stop the smile on your face as you toss the flask back into your bag, cross the room, and open the door. 

Dean gives you an adorable, almost nervous grin and scans over you. Slow and deep and appreciative—taking in your sleep clothes, how your whole body is more relaxed than it had been all day—and his smile grows as his eyes find yours once more.

“You look pretty wearing normal stuff.” He leans a little on the door frame, and it’s so effortlessly and perfectly rouge-cowboy-white-knight-and-knave that he has to have practiced. “Better than that old-lady jacket you hand on before.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s my professional jacket, Winchester. What do you want?”

The words are harsher than you mean them to be, and his grin falters slightly. “I was, uh, I was wondering,” he rubs the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “I got my dad’s car. I was gonna ask if you wanted to go for a drive or something, but you’re obviously ready to turn in, so-“

“Do you want to come in?” 

You’re not sure how he’s doing this. Making you speak without thought, making your words reckless when they’re usually so carefully chosen. You have to be careful with your words, because you’ve spent years weaving a web that shows everyone everything, but not from every angle. And he’s fucking unraveling it. Dean just looks at you, and you pull at a thread so he can see whatever he wants, and you can’t understand how the fuck he’s doing it.

It must be on purpose, but he looks just as shocked as you are—gaping at you slightly, his features open and uncertain—and you don’t think it’s an act. Especially not as his voice becomes slightly hoarse, his feet restlessly shifting his weight as he speaks.

“Yeah, if you want, but I’m good to just head out if you-“

“Do you want to head out?”

Dean’s grin becomes bright once more, and the shake of his head sends a spark of lightning through your body.

“So,” you step to the side, offering him a small smile. “Come in.”

He shuffles inside, scanning over your scattered possessions and stopping at the side of the bed. 

“I can,” he looks back to you, his eyes a little wide. “I can sit on the floor, or we can go outside-“

You shake your head, moving to his side. “There are bugs outside. Sit on the bed.”

Dean glances at the mattress like the sheets might leap up and strangle him. “Floor looks good-“

“Winchester.” You point at the bed, giving him a stern glare. “Sit.”

“I am not a freakin’ dog-“

You place a hand on his chest and push him—just enough for him to get the message—and he sit on the bed with a wide happy? gesture. 

You drop at his side, watching him carefully as you try to work out what is happening. Why he’s here. If he’s looking at you like that—like you’re more than a human, but that’s hypnotizing, and he’d love to find what you actually are—because he can feel this too. 

But Dean beats you to it.

“Can I ask you something?”

You tilt your head at him, pulling your knees into your chest. “Can I ask you something?”

“Huh.” Dean hums, the smile creeping back onto his face. “How about we trade? I ask you a question, you gimme an answer, then we switch.”

You give him an amused look. “That’s just a conversation.”

“Nah, because if I ask you something and you answer, now I owe you a question. You can turn down a question, but you’ll still owe an answer.”

You frown. “What happens if you owe an answer?”

He shrugs, flopping onto his back. “Then the other person keeps asking questions.”

Dean looks so real. He’s grinning up at you, light dancing as his eyes as he obviously baits you into whatever he’s trying to do. 

And you fall for it. Despite your best judgement, you fall.

“I’m going first.” 

He chuckles, but raises his hand for you to shake. “Deal, Princess.”

The moment your hand folds into Dean’s he pulls you down, leaving your smushed slightly against him and his face only inches from yours once more. And your yelp was undignified, and he’s such an asshole—laughing and grinning as you shove his chest—and you’re smiling too. 

Because this is easy. And you have a feeling that, if this strange man—who’s too pretty, and that’s making you feel like you’ve never really been alive before this—dragged you right down to hell, you’d still be laughing and smiling at him. And that’s so fucking dangerous. And you know that, but you still can’t stop looking at him, and you can’t roll away. And you decide that, just for tonight, you’re going to indulge this. You’ll dedicate hours when he’s gone to figuring out what the fuck this is. Right now you get to laugh and smile and act like nothing in the world has ever—could ever—hurt you.

“So,” Dean says your name, and it still sounds too good. “You have a question to go first with? Or were you just bein’ bossy-“

“Shut up.” You swing your leg to kick his shin, he laughs, and it’s like music. Making you high and dizzy as you watch him, running your thumb over your palm. “I’ve got it, Winchester. You ready?”

“Born it, sweetheart,” he winks at you, and that’s dizzying too. “Hit me.”

“Why are you here?”

“I told you already, I wanted to talk to you-“

You hum, holding his gaze with a small frown. “Why?”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s two questions-“

“It’s a ride off of the first question-“

“Well, I still gotta ask my first question before you get a second one.” He raises his brows at you, bump your knee with his. “We shook on this, Princess, you don’t get to change it now.”

You glare at him, but you think he knows it’s fake, because his grin becomes almost blinding. “Fine. Go.”

Dean rolls onto his side, holding your gaze as he speaks. “How’d you get that car?”

You frown. “The Lexus?”

He nods, and you sigh. 

“I borrowed it.” It’s not a lie, but it’s a half-truth. It’s a half-truth that will keep him here, at your side, for a little longer than you might deserve. “For the hunt.”

“Well, it’s freakin’ awesome.” He grins at you, and your face might burst into flame. “Your move.”

“Why are you really here?”

Dean lets out a dry chuckle. “Will you let it go if I say to talk again?”

“Nope. Answer me.”

“It’s, uh,” he rolls flat on his back once more, running a hand over his face. “Tomorrow’s gonna be Dad telling us about safety and Sammy asking you a bunch of questions.” He shoots you a small, amused grin. “I think he’s been writing them down. He’s into all that geek-shit too-“

“I am not a geek-“

“Yeah, you are.” He shrugs. “Don’t worry, I think it’s adorable. But Sammy thinks you’re the coolest person we’ve ever met. So after Dad finishes, he’ll try to use you like a freakin’ library, and I just figured I’m the one who found you, so I should get a night of you all to myself.”

You gape at him for a second, and you’ve defiantly burst into flames. He wants you all himself, and he thinks you’re adorable, and he doesn’t know you, but he doesn’t seem like the type to say all that just to get in your pants, and if he was, he’d be there already. He’d just have to roll on top of you, but he’s only looking at you like you’re something sacred instead of a disease or trophy. 

He must feel this too. He has too. And you want to ask him, but you don’t know how, because you don’t even know what this is. It’s magnetic and infinite and bigger than anything, forging something you don’t know how to name between where the White and darkness live in your body. And Dean might not even have the White and darkness. Nobody else does—that’s something that’s wrong with only you—so if you phrase it like that he’ll think you’re insane-

“My turn.” Dean says, and you’re dragged back down to earth, grounded in his smooth voice. “What’s up with your hand?”

You blink at him. “What?”

“That one.” he reaches over, tapping the back your hand. “You’ve been touching it all day, and I kinda, uh,” he gives you an apologetic look. “I saw the scar. If you wanna pass on this one, I’ll drop it, but-“

“No, it’s,” you take a long breath, because this would be an easy one to refuse to answer, but his fingers are lingering on your knuckles and setting off little sparks over your skin, and you want to tell him. It takes a moment of just staring at him to you find the words, and his eyes never leave yours, and everything about him seems to drug you into a loose-lipped, trusting ease. “I’ve have it since I was really young. There was, um, an incident.”

Dean still doesn’t look away, his voice slightly lower. “Hunting incident, or-“

“No.” You swallow, turning your hand for him to see the long, clean scar on your palm. Running through it in a neat, raised line. “Just an incident.”

He looks like he’s going to say something. Not push, but say something, and you blurt out your next question before he can get the chance. It’s not what you wanted to ask—you hadn’t offered yourself enough time to find the right words for something really fucking weird is happening to me, and I need to know if it’s happening to you too—but it’s dragged out of you in desperation to learn a little more about him. In a plea for him to only know that you’re marred where he can see, and never discover that you’re twisted where he can’t.

“What’s it like?” You watch him carefully, your fingers starting to trace over the scar. “Hunting with your family?”

“It’s fine.” He shrugs. “I mean, Dad’s a freakin’ genius at it, and it’s awesome to watch him work. Plus I get to keep an eye on Sammy like this. Know he’s safe.” He frowns. “I mean, it’s better than sending him off alone. Letting him be in danger.”

You hum, scanning over the wrinkle in his brow, your thumb starts to itch to press on it, sooth his whole face into a relaxed smile. “You guys are close?”

Dean nods eagerly. “Yeah, I mean, He’s a freakin’ loser, but he’s all I got. He’s a weird little geek-“

You laugh. “He’s taller than you are, De. I wouldn’t call that little.”

“He’s little in spirit-“ Dean cuts himself off, and his grin looks almost manic. “Did you just call me De?”

“No.” You hold his gaze, even as your face warms. “Shut up.”

“I heard you, Princess, you can’t lie to me-“

“Well, is that your question?” You grin at him, your body leaning a little further without you moving it, and Dean eyes flash.

“You gonna tell me the truth if it is?”

You nod, and he smirks.

“Then yeah, it was.”

“Okay. I did call you De.” Before he can gloat, you push on. “Why do you call me Princess?”

“I told you already, it suits you-“

You narrow your eyes. “Try again, Winchester. Real answer this time.”

He sighs, shaking his head at the ceiling. “You just,” Dean waves his hand through the air. “You’ve got a thing going. You don’t look like a hunter.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-“ 

“It means,” He gives you a strange look you can feel flash through your blood, melding the White back into the darkness, turning every simple and bright as he continues. “That if you asked me what I thought you were, I’d have said something fancy.”

You open your mouth, but he’s not done, and he won’t look away from you.

“I dunno, you just seem too pretty to be down here in the mud with us. You should eating caviar and wearing those poofy dresses-“

You snort. “Poofy dresses?”

“Yeah, like in movies, when they dance around like douchebags-“

“So you’re saying I seem like a douchebag-“

“No, I’m saying you should be somewhere that’s not here.” Dean’s attention is washing over you like a rising tide—slow and natural and deep—and you still can’t read that expression on his handsome face. “The mud.”

He’s so close. And if he thinks you’re pretty, he’s a work of art. You’ve never see someone look like him. Like he was created, and not born. Every freckle on his face is more like a star than a flaw, and there a slight crook to his nose that tells you he’s been punched there before, but it only makes you want to run your finger over the bump and see if his pretty eyes flutter or flash. His lips are chapped but they’d still be soft. His hands look rough, but that just means he uses them.

You think it would be nice to let him use you.

“I like it in the mud,” you whisper, daring to inch a little closer, until you’re sharing a breath. “It feels real. And,” you grin at him, everything blurring around you but pretty green eyes and shining silver in your chest. “I’ve got good company down here.”

There it is. The flash in his eyes as they darken slightly, a warm breath fanning over your face, and he looks golden. In the warm light of the lamp, glowing soft on his tan skin, Dean looks like something more than human. You feel like something more than human, and for the first time in your life, that’s not a curse. And he’s still so fucking close, and this is a terrible idea, but you can’t bring yourself to move away.

You should. He’s John Winchester’s son, and you’re not sure how you forgot that. It’s past midnight, and you have a feeling he wasn’t supposed to be here at all, and this is the worst idea you’ve ever had. 

But you still can’t move.

“You should, um,” you swallow, and your lips might have brushed over his. “You should get back. It’s late, and your dad-“ 

“Shit,” Dean mutters, but still doesn’t try to move away. “Yeah.” 

Your eyes dart down to his lips—full and pink, just a small movement away from yours—and you decide you don’t care what’s happening to you. This is—Dean is—too good to care. You don’t need to know why this is happening, or what it means, or if you should be trying to run from it. You just need Dean. You think that—if the world ended and time began to move slowly—you might plant roots in the motel floor and grow into Dean until the world flooded and you were both washed away. 

“I have one last question,” he mutters, breath ghosting over your lips. “If I leave you my number, will you use it?”

You nod without thinking, he grins, and you’re so fucked. You can’t kiss him. You might fall from a million feet if you kiss him. Down, down, down, clinging to him as you both try to find an end to whatever this is and likely fail to. But Dean sits up slowly—like the movement is painful—and when he helps you to your feet you think you might ascend from just his hand in yours. Touching him feels like it’s making you pure and worthy of something, and you have to know what kissing him will do.

Not on the lips. You still have enough of your willpower and caution to not crash all the way down, at least not right now. But you kiss his cheek, and that’s tragedy enough. It snaps something into place inside you, soft stubble and warm skin too much for your entire existence to handle. It’s all too much to handle, and if he hadn’t mumbled a low promise of seeing you tomorrow and left when he did, you would’ve jumped on him to chase whatever this feeling is. How it’s the only thing you’ve ever felt that might belong inside you, and the only easy thing that the darkness has ever bended for.

And when you sleep, that’s easy too. It’s dreamless and deep, no nightmares, no waking up in a cold sweat, no darkness wrapping around you and leaving the sheets only ash when you wake up.

But when you do wake up, something is wrong. You feel it first, gnawing at your nails and blood. And when you roll over to check the time, your phone is gone. 

It had been on the bedside table, a scrap of paper with Dean’s number under it, and it’s gone.

The paper is gone too.

You shoot out of bed, and Dean’s shirt is still in the corner, because he’d told you to give it to him in the morning, to trade it for your Agent Smith badge. But your phone is gone.Your window is open—cool breeze rushing through the room—and your phone is fucking gone.

You’d been smart to pack the night before. You’d been smart to keep your keys in your jacket, and park right outside your room. You can shove everything in the passenger’s seat and screech out of the motel lot in a second. You don’t know why, but you’re heading to Dean first. Something is wrong, and you don’t know what, but the White is trying to strangle your heart and the darkness is already eating up your spine and over your skull.

John Winchester’s sleek, black muscle car—Dean told you it was an Impala, and he’d said it with a pride in his voice that had dragged a smile onto your face—isn’t parked in the lot. And when you knock on the door nobody answers. All the lights in the room are off, there’s no shadows moving through the window, and the door is locked.

You move to the front desk and ask if the men in that room had checked out. And when the clerk gives you a weary look and says that they’d paid for another two nights, but dropped the keys off that morning, your gut twists. 

They were gone. Dean was gone. And something fragile and new shattered inside you, leaving small pieces lodged through your whole body. You stumble back to your car, the darkness moving out of your body and the whole world too fucking big, and you don’t know what’s wrong with you. You’d known him a day. He’d known you a day. Nothing was owed, but you can still feel it. How the White seems to be howling from the loss of him, and the darkness can’t stop growing as it sinks in. 

He left. You don’t know why, but Dean left. He’d probably taken your phone, taken his number, and just fucking left you. Maybe he’d seen you last night, really seen you, and realized what you were. Maybe he’d just been playing you the whole time for some sort of scam. Maybe you hadn’t kissed him, and he’d decided you weren’t worth the chase. And that would mean you had been going crazy, and he hadn’t felt anything at all.

The thought lets the darkness move over you, and you can feel everything everywhere. The electricity in the wires over your head, the wear of painted lines in the parking lot, the hope of the grass peeking through the concrete under your feet. 

The grass that smells like Dean.

It breaks through you before you can stop it. Reaching past your body and down into the pavement, cracking it open with all the force of how much this hurts. How it shouldn’t hurt, it doesn’t make any sense that it hurts, but you’re still breaking and bowing and bending to the way you feel like you’ve been fucking shot. You fall down to the curb, curling into yourself as the ground shakes under your feet, and the wind picks up until—in the forest across the parking lot—a branch falls to the ground.

Then a second one. 

You manage to bring your hand to your mouth, to bite down hard and force all the darkness back into your body, and you still don’t know what to do. 

This hurts so much, and you’re alone in the middle of nowhere, and Dean’s gone.

You still have your burner phone. Your dad makes you keep it in your jacket, just in case something happens, and it only has his number. You dial him with shaking hands, the darkness still trying to climb back out of you, take a deep breath as you raise it to your ear.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” He says your name, his voice already edged with worry. “I didn’t think I’d be hearin’ from you until after that blood hunt thing-“

“Hunt’s over.” You mumble, staring at the cracked pavement. “Got it last night.”

“Was it a vamp like I told ya’-“

“Moroi.”

“I’d call that vamp enough. Good work, kiddo, Rufus owes us a dinner-“

“Bobby?”

Your voice is soft, and he hears it. Bobby always hears it. 

“What happened,” he says your name, and you can hear the frown in his voice. It makes everything worse, because you can’t tell him. Not now, maybe not ever if you can avoid it. You can’t handle how he’ll help you fix this and let you rest, then spend a week lecturing you and telling you everything you already know. Because you really do know. You fucked up, and you know that.

But Bobby doesn’t have to.

“Nothing, I just-“ you swallow, your nails digging into your calf. “Can I come home?”

There’s a long moment of static through the phone, and when Bobby speaks again his voice is low. “You can always come home,” he says your name, and you choke on the clean air around you. “But you get a week of mopin’ before we’re grabbin’ that dinner from Rufus. Alright?”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “I’ll be there by tomorrow.”

“Should be two days, if you drive carefully like you’re supposed to.” Bobby grunts. “And ditch that fancy car you’ve been usin’, I don’t need the cops askin’ questions about it.”

You feel a smile tug at your lips. “You never let me have anything nice, Bobby-“

“You never let me have goddamn peace, kid.” Bobby snaps, and your smile grows. “Your bed will be ready for you. And I better not see that bells and whistles hunk of shit in my yard-“

“Aye, aye captain. No fancy cars.” You make a mock salute he can’t see, and Bobby huffs.

“Stolen fancy cars.” He grumbles. “Stop bein’ a smartass and get on the road.”

When the call ends, your smile feels real. The strange, fractured feeling in the White is still there, and the darkness might be trying to fly out of you, but you’re better than before. You’ll go home, Bobby will never know what happened, and none of this will last. You’ll be fine. Dean Winchester might haunt you like a phantom or cancer for the rest of your fucking life—or at least until you figure out what he did to you, and how to fix it—but you’ll get through this. 

You always do.

—————————

Dean’s grip was tight on Her phone. It was just a fucking block of metal—it would be useless when they tossed it off a bridge in a few miles—but he couldn’t let go of it. It felt wrong to let go of it. 

He’d be letting go of Her.

He hadn’t wanted to take it, but Dad said he needed to—Don’t want to let an angry woman have a line to you, son. Especially not a crazy one—and Dad knew what he was talking about, so Dean had done it. He’d snuck back into Her room through the window, grabbed Her phone and the paper with his number, and felt like the lowest piece of trash in the goddamn garbage can. The maggot-ridden chunk of food that nobody had wanted, but was still figuring out a way to fuck everything else up in twisted retribution. 

Because there was guilt eating at Dean’s stomach. He shouldn’t have taken Her phone, not when She wasn’t that much older than Sammy. Not when She’d said her dad would be waiting for her to call, and Dean might have stolen Her only line to safety just because-

Because She’d been using him. And he’d been falling for it. She’d given him that smile like he’d fallen out of the sun and into Her hands, She’d crafted some sort of perfect mask that had felt so real—felt like this strange, mouthy, clever woman had just appeared to him, and he could’ve had something nice for once in his goddamn life—and moved Dean like a fucking pawn. 

Dad had been waiting for him when he got back, and whatever weird spell She’d put Dean under—making him feel a little drunk on nothing, making him act like a fucking idiot—had been ripped away under his glare. 

But Dean hadn’t gotten yelled at. He’d just been sat down—Dad’s gaze filled with disappointment that Dean’s bones didn’t know how to handle—and had papers pushed across the table in his direction. 

“What are these?” He’d asked, and Dad had sighed, because Dean was too much of an idiot to just know, and Dad knew it. 

“Read them.” Dad had grumbled, watching Dean through narrowed eyes. “And tell me if you want to see that girl again.”

He’d frowned but scanned over the papers. Printed out website pages about… Her. Her family. How She was missing, how She’d stolen from them, and how they were rich. Normal, alive, and rich, looking for Her and whatever she’d taken. Warning that She was crazy, a chronic liar, and should be turned over to the police if seen. There was no picture, but there was a description that matched Her perfectly, right down to a scar on her palm.

“Dad.” He’d looked up with wide eyes, something strange bucking around inside of him, insisting that this was a lie. Dean didn’t know Her—they’d had three conversations for fuck’s sake—but this didn’t seem like Her. None of this seemed like the clever, beautiful, almost ethereal woman he’d been lying on the bed with. Dean didn’t know howor why, but this couldn’t be the truth. “I don’t-“

“She’s just usin’ you, Dean.” Dad had muttered, his eyes softening just enough for Dean to know he was sorry. He might not really like Her, but he was trying to protect Dean. He always was. “Chasing a high that her daddy can’t give her, lookin’ for a way to pull somethin’ on us. Probably huntin’ just for some sort of fucked up thrill. This,” Dad tapped the papers, his face twisting in disgust. “Isn’t someone who deserves our time, and I don’t know what her game is, but I ain’t just gonna let my boy fall for it.”

Something in Dean had still been fighting. Insisting that Dad was wrong, he had to be wrong, because Dean might not really know Her but he’d throw his life down at her feet. He’d plummet to the bottom of the ocean to follow Her down, if She called him with that siren-like voice and asked him to.

And that was how he knew Dad was right. Dean had no idea who She really was, and he’d already been ready to become a sword for her to wield. So he’d nodded, asked Dad what to do, and fallen back into the line She’d forced him out of. And it wouldn’t matter that Dean had been an idiot and almost fallen for Her—Her tricks, or just Her—because Dad had saved him. He’d protected him. And it didn’t matter.

Now, as they drove—Dad’s grip tight on the wheel, Sammy sleeping in the backseat—Dean repeated it over and over. That hadn’t mattered. It had been a mistake that Dad caught, so no harm, and it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that She’d looked at Dean like she could see him, or that Her voice sounded like an angel in a dream. It didn’t matter that Her lips had felt right on his cheek, and that his annoying brain kept trying to move the ghost of Her touch to his own mouth. It didn’t matter that he could still smell the sugar and fruit that had invaded his every sense when She’d been pressed against him. It didn’t matter that She’d fit perfectly at his side, like she was just another part of him he hadn’t known he was missing. It didn’t matter that something felt like it had been ignited in Dean’s chest. Golden and light and washing him over with a sense of calm he’d never known, making him feel like—if he had been stupid enough to fall further—the worst that could happen was She didn’t fall with him. And even that would be worth the way this feeling was like lightning over his bones, making him strong and fucking alive. 

But it didn’t matter. He’d fallen for a pretty, spoiled little bitch—his heart almost withered at that idea, still being a freaking dumbass and trying to justify why She’d done this—and he’d never even see Her again, so it didn’t matter.

And it defiantly didn’t fucking matter that he’d taken Her flask, because he was fucking pathetic. Because he’d been sneaking around her room, and the flash of silver had caught his eyes, and he’d stolen it like some sort of street urchin. He’d burn it, just to rid himself of the way She was becoming plague-like on his mind. It wasn’t like she needed a flask, anyway. She didn’t even drink.

But that might have just been another strange lie. So Dean would burn it. He wouldn’t tell Dad or Sammy that he’d taken it—they didn’t really need to know how weak and useless Dean really was—so he’d burn it and everyone would forget this had ever happened. He’d burn it, and never think of Her again.

Dean felt like he was being ripped in half for reasons he couldn’t even start to understand, but it had been nothing, and it didn’t matter.

Dean dreamt of Her when he finally drifted off. And his heart kept trying to beat him back down—back to Her—but he held strong. He could dream of Her and not go back. He’d never see Her again, and dreams weren’t real. 

None of that had been real, and Dean could dream of Her.

So he would.

End Note: I know we’re off to a rough start, and we’ve got a long road ahead of us, but just remember this. What’s about to come could’ve been entirely avoided if John Winchester wasn’t the actual worst.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist (If you want to be added, please fill out the form!)

@brtodd @artemys-ackles @sthefferrete @lyarr24 @deansbbyx

@bakugotypecrashout @dailybakugocrashout @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@Youdontknowwe @nyrtopia @Zuberweirrd @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco

@ambiguous-avery @elle14-blog1 @impala67rollingthroughtown

[valandrawrites]

2024 Recommended Fics - Incomplete List

Here's my start at an end of year round up. If you're looking for a specific kind of fic or trope, let me know, and I'll try to find something for you! I have many, many more I could add, and what I've included is in no particular order.

I didn't list the rating or warnings with this because it just got too long, and honestly, I'm lazy. Read at your own risk.

A. fragilis by eachainn @eachainn

This is quite simply the best fic I've ever read. Do not continue until you read this one!

150 million years ago, an Allosaurus finds a stranger had wandered into his territory and he wants the intruder out.

1878, the middle of what will become known as the Bone Wars between O.C. Marsh and Edward Drinker Cope. Castiel Novak is transporting fossils from the latest dig in South Dakota back to Yale. He has to be careful, because there are people who work for Professor Cope who would gladly take the fossils off of his hands.

Those Who Get in the Way of Peace by ladyofthelake17 @ladyofthe-lake

“Don’t make me an optimist. You will ruin my life.”

Dean Winchester finally has his shit together: business is booming at his auto repair shop, he's eating healthy (okay, he's eating salad with bacon bits), he's exercising (in a cemetery). He's single, but he's claiming it as a good thing. And so what if Sam's not talking to him? So what if his dad is marrying an insane artist? And so what if the priest marrying them is hot as hell with a name that sounds like a sin just to say it — Castiel?

AKA: another Fleabag fic, but maybe it'll have a happy ending. Maybe.

Illicit Ink by allmystars @allmystars-i

Dean Winchester has a secret. He does this thing maybe two or three times a week, and he loves it, don’t get him wrong, but… He’s a camboy, and that’s not exactly something he wants shared around the breakfast table. When Dean decides he needs a change, it’s nothing too drastic, just a tattoo. But the hot-as-sin tattoo artist he gets to do the job might just change everything.

Ground Control to Major Tom by MrsShinigamiDaiko @mrs-shinigami-daiko

Dean Winchester dreamed of being a mechanic all his life, but he never thought he would end up working as a mechanic for NASA and going into space. He is thrust into his first ever space mission after a strange lunar body, dubbed Luna-b I, mysteriously appears in Earth’s sky. Teams of astronauts scramble up to the permanent lunar base and begin analysis to determine if the blue orb is any threat to mankind. Most of the first team is sent home after a few months, nearly all of them having fallen ill with devastating cases of space sickness. As time goes on, it becomes clear that something altogether unnatural is going on here. Dean feels like he’s losing his mind as he and his crewmates also begin to succumb to sickness. He races to figure out what could possibly be the root cause. Is Luna-b I really just some weird, deep space rock that got caught in the Moon’s orbit by chance? Or is it something much more sinister, watching and waiting for the opportune moment?

Pinfall by crowleyo @crowleyo

Cas runs the family diner with his adopted son, Jack. His old high school flame rolls into town and he thinks he can just step back into Castiel's life. Well... He's kind of right.

This Impossible Happiness by FriendofCarlotta @friendofcarlotta

In one universe, Dean Winchester is pushing thirty. He’s just danced at his little brother’s wedding, he likes his job at the garage, and he goes on the occasional hunt with friends and family. He’s also desperately lonely for someone to share his life with. One day, he finds a mysterious package outside his door. It contains a news clipping about an urban legend that just might be real, and a book by Professor Castiel Novak, who happens to specialize in that same urban legend.

In another universe, Castiel Novak’s roadside motel is slowly dying, its business hollowed out by the interstate system. Dean Winchester, the man who asked him to run away together years ago, is only a painful regret these days. Until the day a mysterious letter Castiel doesn’t remember writing brings Dean back to his doorstep.

Out there in the multiverse, a man and an angel look for each other in all the wrong places. In the meantime, they might as well help a few other versions of themselves figure things out.

Then Comes the Rain by someonetoanyone @someonetoanyone-blog - a three part series

“I’m not looking forward to it,” Rowena tells him, as though that will absolve her of anything, “he may have a better solution for this, but the spell requires a smidge of spilled Grace. He’ll need to be hurt for this to work, and — Dean, all joking aside, you may be the only person fit to do this.”

“Oh, this’ll be great — go ahead, tell me why I’m the only one that can get butt-fucked to save the world.”

Mind Your Own Business by BunnyHunter

While the ability to overhear the secret thoughts of the people around him was distracting at best and anxiety-inducing at worst, Castiel had found ways to cope that included a pair of noise-canceling headphones and burying himself in his PhD research. After hearing inner thoughts for his entire life, there were very few things he overheard that surprised him anymore. So imagine his shock when his roommate Sam's brother, Dean, came to stay with them. While Dean may have been able to keep a straight face on the outside, his inner thoughts told a much different story.

Survivalism by bleuzombie @bleuzombie

Genetic engineers Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester are on the verge of a breakthrough in cancer treatment and possibly even a cure, using genetic manipulation and incredibly, shark DNA.

Following a devastating diagnosis of brain cancer, and amid growing pressure from his boss, Dick Roman, for results, Castiel is pushed to an act of desperation. He tests the cure on himself with disastrous and violent results.

He has never been so hungry.

Dean Winchester’s half-way house for orphaned half-monsters (and humans) by foolondahill17 @foolondahill17

What if Dean just kept every kid he’s ever interacted with?

A re-write of season 6 onwards in which Dean slowly collects every conceivable stray that crosses his path.

The eyes of a lamb by naughtystiel @naughtystiel for Shedar

The year is '98 and Spring is approaching fast. For most, the season is a symbol of new beginnings with Mother Nature’s chaste kiss that breathes life into everything once more. It's inspiring, peaceful and beautiful. So, the fact that this is exactly when a certain serial killer loves to strike makes Detective Winchester's blood boil. Two years in a row now, the guy has slipped through his fingers, not leaving a single trace behind. No clues, no leads, just murdered women in the most picturesque places imaginable. And the worst thing of all? Sometimes Dean catches himself admiring the killer's work.

where there is darkness by quiettewandering @quiettewandering @wanderingcas 

When Castiel Milton takes a job to be the new assistant keeper at Whaleback Lighthouse in Kittery, Maine, he expects to live out his new life in quiet isolation. What he gets instead is Dean Winchester: bitter, brash, and, like Castiel, harboring a dark secret. As the spark of attraction between them grows into a flame, the lighthouse walls start closing in—as do the ghosts of Dean and Castiel's checkered pasts.

[burgertaco6]

Pride, the egotistical ignorance of others below you, surrounding yourself with only yourself, you are the best. Everyone is beneath you. Power gets to your head way too easily and you abuse it, because whos going to stop you? Theres no way anyone is above you, you are mighty! They could never compare! Wrath, the overwhelming flames of anger, the rage and grudges you cant let go of and lash out upon others for no other reason than an outlet and for your own entertainment, uncontrollable feelings of frustration at everything around you. Lust, yearning ecstasy through sexual actions of others, harems, orgies, pornagrophy, prostitution. Many have fallen victim to acts of lust, many have acted on their lust in terrible ways. Envy, everyone must be so much better than you and you must match this, you shall be a snob to live amongst them, turning your nose up at what you truly love in order to fit in. You lose sense of yourself. Gluttony, consuming yourself half to death in food to alcohol, even substances. Feasting because you are sad, happy, upset, it doesnt matter. You do not share these indulgences with others, all that food on the table is yours, all that wine in the bottle is for you to drink, the lines of white is for you. Nothing is left. Greed, hoarding everything near you even if its a mere speck of trash because "its yours", prices of what things you sell at inflated at insane rates, consumerism of products are milked until they arent profitable anymore. Sloth, what good is doing anything if it doesnt support you? You dont need to clean your room, it'll just get messy again. Why go out with others when you can laze about? Why even eat or drink when it'd be a waste of energy? So much energy just to stand, cook, clean those dishes after eating. Its not worth it to even get dressed. Theres no reason to be awake, laying there with your eyelids closed, head laying in your arms at a desk or at a table. Dont wanna run errands.

Sins Being Neutered By People Who Don't Understand Sins

The embodiment of lust caring about consent and the embodiment of gluttony caring about self-control is the adult equivalent of this.

[straightoutthehexcore]

"𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝘿𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙜𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙖… 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩…?"

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧: Jayce Talis, Viktor

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: You're a tech designer tasked with assisting with designing and creating Hextech goods for Viktor and Jayce, and during a delirious frenzy (you crashed out) while designing, you thought of the logistics and design for something... new.

𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜: NSFW themes (mainly pegging, humiliation if you squint), AFAB reader

"Alright, as for design ideas, I only have one, and I'm going to ask you to please hear me out on this one..."

"Alright, let us see it."

"I uhh... are you... absolutely sure?"

"Why must you stall? Come, show us."

"...if you insist..."

𝙑𝙞𝙠𝙩𝙤𝙧'𝙨 𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨

"...this must be a gag, yes? I'll admit, this is intriguing."

He did not believe his fucking eyes. Using the hexcore as an energy source for... that? All he can say is that he definitely never thought about it.

He tried to play it off as a joke, sardonically commented on how vulgar it was, and after he realized it wasn't a joke, he looked at you and then looked back at Jayce, genuinely confused and not hiding his flushed face very well.

He pored over the blueprint and sketches, genuinely analyzing the design and the features of it, and had two immediate thoughts. 1) They took this... really seriously. Such depth to something so... trivial. 2) Not even in his dreams could he take that absolute MONSTER. But it was a blueprint, so things can change.

"Is... is there something you want to tell us...?

You tried to act business oriented but when you kept fumbling your words, it became increasingly obvious that you had zero idea what you were on about. The fact that Viktor stared dead into your eyes, watching you trip over your tongue, sure wasn't helping.

"It's a market rarely touched by other companies--" "it can aid in more funding for more important things-" "Bullshit."

Both you and Jayce looked at him, shocked at the profanity. Neither of you could tell if he was angry, flustered, or a little bit of both.

"You know you don't need an excuse, right? I'd much prefer forwardness, though this is... forward. In a different way, albeit."

"You think that's what this is about?" "I know what this is about, dear." "...very well." "That said...? Jayce, the final judgement is yours."

Viktor playing coy, everyone act surprised lmao

𝙅𝙖𝙮𝙘𝙚'𝙨 𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨

"This is... what is this?"

While he looked at the sketches and initial blueprint with intent, he also tried to cover his face with it long after he read through everything. His face was insanely flushed, and he was worse at hiding it than Viktor.

Jayce was also utterly terrified by the size of the HexStrap, and that's part of the reason he got so flustered.

Started dissecting the materials listed down on sketches and trying to remain serious about the proposal, and Viktor looked at him like he was crazy because he was trying to seem actually, unironically serious, whilst failing miserably.

He was trying to back you up and make any excuse for its existence too, and it looked so pathetic to both you and Viktor (in an endearing way.)

"I mean they has a point with the... the sales aspect. Sure we have Councilor Medarda's funds, but it would still be beneficial to--"

At some point the knowing looks from both of you pierced through him. Viktor already called you out, but Jayce is still coping. He is coping hard. At some point, he gives up and leans forward in his seat and pinches the bridge of his nose.

It felt like he was deliberating more with himself and his conscience than he was with you or Viktor. He was, 100%.

He all in all accepted the proposal but for purely selfish reasons, as was made evident by the very visible boner and his hidden face. Teasing him would be too cruel and you were coming down from your own heightened anxiety, but God did you want to tease the crap out of him.

After that awkward session, Viktor did that job for you.

"Looking forward to... er... testing it, are we?" "I never said that, where did that come from--?" "Look at yourself." "Hey--"

Random idea I got, decided I'd add to the HexStrap discussion with how they would initially react to and come to accept the HexStrap :D

Thanks JayVik truthers, Rosey <3

[secriden]

Going legitimately insane because all my brain has been able to chew on has been this particular callback and what it means for the headspace that Fadel is in at the end of episode 6.

Because Fadel starts the episode with his walls so utterly dismantled that he is able to verbally admit this desire to Bison (and, more importantly, himself) out loud . . . only to end the episode brokenheartedly discarding that dream as he instead offers to fashion himself into what he (thinks) Style wants, not knowing that he is already everything that Style has come to desire.

It's insane that Fadel even said that to Bison in the first place because the Fadel of episode 5 knew better than to believe it was possible for anyone to truly bare themselves to another person, knew better than to want to know and be known and chosen despite it all. To the Fadel of episode 5, "laying yourself bare" was an impossibility because of how much power it gives the other person, and Fadel's mind is too practical, his circumstances too complex, his heart too fragile to ever give that to anyone ever again.

But Fadel's walls began to crack in the face of Style's honesty and the shared pain of knowing what it is to loose someone precious; shuddered under the weight of Style pressing kisses to his scar and laying Fadel bare to bring him pleasure; shattered in the face of Style giving himself over to loving Fadel for a whole night and the morning after -- and Fadel woke up half underneath the spread of Style's body and found himself already in love.

And do you know how I know this? Because of all the things Fadel could have said he liked about Style, he chooses this. It's not that Style is effortlessly kind and thoughtlessly generous at times. It's not that Style is hot and sexy and frankly kind of a slut (specifically for Fadel). It's not even that Style has secret, hidden depths and an unexpectedly shared pain which allows him to understand and empathise with Fadel in a way that no one but Bison has been able to for a very long time.

No, it's his cockiness. His arrogance. The way Style is unabashedly himself and makes no apologies for it. The way Style will literally dance to his own tune and sing at the top of his lungs with no care for anyone else's opinion unless it's to appreciate it. The way Style walks into the room and has the confidence to put his body on display and already know that he will be welcomed and wanted; and the way he assumed Fadel would find him attractive (correct), and moreover would not stop until Fadel eventually gave in to that attraction (which, as it turns out, also correct).

It's telling that it's these specific instances that come to mind when Fadel thinks about Style's lips. There are so many scenes and shots they could have chosen (because lbr here Dunk, and therefore Style, really does have amazing lips), so it feels very intentional that Fadel thinks firstly of the time Style refused to back off when Fadel pretended not to miss him, and then the moment when Fadel finally admitted that he did and was rewarded with Style's reassurance and reciprocated vulnerability and wholehearted embrace. Also, because this was the last episode that Style did not Know, and therefore was still being fully honest with Fadel. Both instances are Fadel appreciating in hindsight the way Style's very nature -- the way he would not give up, the way he keeps pushing and pushing even in the face of Fadel's seeming impassivity -- gives Fadel not only the opportunity but the impetus to finally let go of his control and acknowledge his feelings for Style.

It's explicit confirmation that Fadel enjoys and appreciates and has grown to love Style's personality and antics and the way he expresses himself.

So the Fadel in episode 6 dares to ask for Style's honesty and gives with it an explicit promise of trust and acceptance in return. After recognising the effort Style has had to put in to find ways to connect with Fadel (heavy metal vs pop rock), he now asks for Style to be real with him because Fadel understands himself to be ready to love, and in loving Style, is able to offer the very thing he wants the most from Style: acceptance of who Style is.

We also see the evidence of Fadel's unspoken promise in the way that he now responds with an almost easy openness to Style's questions in stark contrast to the Fadel in the early part of the show. Now, he gives Style pieces of himself with barely a thought, and lets Style use them to push and prod and drag to light the very things he used to keep hidden because he thought they weren't useful or helpful or worthy of being loved (see @sherrymagic's gorgeous gifset + my tags on it).

It's also in the way he now allows Style to take him outside of his comfort zone because he trusts that the private joys he's kept to himself are safe in Style's hands; that, moreover, Style will look to Fadel's happiness and not make a mockery of it.

I'm obsessed with the moment in the screenshot on the bottom right because Fadel looks so completely out of his element and almost in a state of shock. He's literally standing separated from the rest of the group in the composition of the shot, hesitation writ in every line of his body, while Style, who isn't even a fan of this band or this music, fits in with the band seamlessly.

But this isn't because of discomfort, it's nervousness and an almost joyous disbelief because Fadel could never have done this on his own, he would never have allowed himself the indulgence of actually showing his love for his favourite band if Style hadn't taken the initiative to drag him there and ask for the photo. And, oh, how wonderful it must have felt to see Style prove his own words by being right there by Fadel's side as he lets himself go, as he lets himself be himself without fear, for the first time in what must have felt like forever.

In a single, perfect night, Style has been exactly, precisely, breathtakingly everything Fadel could ever have wanted; because in a single night of Fadel finally having the courage to bare himself to another person, Style gave Fadel not only acceptance but a celebration of who Fadel is. With everything Style does that night, he ties himself to Fadel, ties his happiness to Fadel's and his comfort to the warmth of Fadel's embrace. Style fashioned himself into exactly what Fadel wanted -- and now that Fadel has had a taste of it, how can he possibly go back?

Which is why Fadel already knows that it's too late for him, he knows that he is already in love; knows, moreover, that he has rewritten parts of himself to love and miss and yearn for Style; has even learned to love Style the way he understands Style wants to be loved.

So Fadel might as well keep the promise he made to Style with his lips pressed shut against the lies he didn't want to keep telling Style. He might as well give Style more days and nights and chances to spin his lies, because at least Fadel has the meager comfort of knowing he spoke the truth.

Because if Style wants to keep playing this game, if Style is able to so be so convincingly deceptive that Fadel can no longer trust himself to tell when Style is lying, then Fadel will take the punishment of choosing honesty in the face of his betrayal. Fadel will pay the price of daring to chase after the impossible. Fadel will fashion himself into a heartless tool and allow himself the indulgence of playing this tantalising part -- because he may just find a way to save Bison in the process.

And to Fadel, it does not matter if his own heart gets broken along the way, because Fadel deserves the punishment of laying himself bare to the man who does not love him in return; he deserves to give Style the power of knowing the hold he has over Fadel.

But doing so is a punishment for Style, too, because if Fadel must love, then he is going to weaponise his own feelings in the fight he now thinks he has to wage against Style. Because two can play this game of cruelty, and Fadel has decided that he will pour himself out on the alter of Style's deception if it means that Style might just end up caught in the web of his own making. And Fadel does not care if this sword is double edged because cutting himself to pieces is a small price to pay if it means dragging Style along with him into hell.

After all, what's another crack when his whole entire world has already been so utterly and completely shattered?

[idkanymark]

[Enemies?]

chenle x f!reader | enemies to lovers | frenemies

INTRO: You and Chenle had always been at odds. Whether it was in the classroom, at parties, or just the brief encounters in between, the two of you couldn't stand each other. Your banter, sharp as it was, became a defining part of your interactions—a mixture of insults, challenges, and the occasional (and frustrating) competitive streak. What no one expected was the night that changed everything. A wild party, fueled by too many drinks and too much tension, led to something neither of you could have predicted. One moment you were arguing, the next you were tangled up in something far more complicated than either of you was ready for.

wc. Around 5k

NOTE: This is not really my style but I tried

-----

He definitely was going crazy.

Otherwise, how do you explain waking up naked next to you—his worst enemy?

Chenle stared at the ceiling, his thoughts racing, desperately trying to piece together the fragments of the night before. The weight of your arm draped across his chest was the last straw. He shoved it off, his face burning, just as you groaned and stirred beside him.

Your eyes fluttered open, and the moment your gaze landed on him, you froze. Then, as if the absurdity of the situation finally registered, you let out an exasperated sigh.

“Damn, was I that horny?” you muttered, slapping a hand against your forehead.

“Shut up” Chenle snapped, his tone sharper than he intended.

You sat up, pulling the blanket around yourself like a shield, your expression shifting from confusion to irritation. “How the hell did we even end up in this situation?” you asked, your hand massaging your temples as if that could ward off the impending migraine.

“I don’t remember” Chenle lied too quickly. His words were defensive, clipped, but oh, he remembered—just not how it all started.

“Great” you groaned, swinging your legs off the bed and scanning the room for your clothes. “I’m leaving”

Chenle leaned back, crossing his arms as he watched you shuffle around the room. A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips when you picked up what was left of your panties, holding them up with an incredulous expression.

“Did you really rip my panties?” you asked, your voice filled with equal parts disbelief and annoyance.

“Maybe you ripped them yourself” he shot back with a scoff, though he couldn’t help but feel a little smug.

You turned to glare at him, and despite your disheveled appearance, you still had that fiery look that drove him insane—in more ways than one. “I swear, I hope the memories don’t come back. I don’t want to know how bad you are in bed” you spat, shivering as if the thought physically repulsed you.

Chenle chuckled, leaning lazily against the headboard. “Opposite, really. You might not stay away from me if they do come back.”

Your glare deepened, but you didn’t respond. You put on your jeans after that you grabbed the rest of your clothes and stormed out, slamming the door behind you.

Chenle exhaled, running a hand through his messy hair. As much as he hated to admit it, your reaction stung more than it should have.

When the room finally fell silent, the memories started creeping back.

He remembered the heated argument—your voices echoing louder than the music at the party. He remembered the sharp sting of tequila burning down his throat as the two of you challenged each other shot after shot. Somewhere in between the taunts and the drunken laughter, the line between hatred and attraction had blurred.

Kissing you on the balcony, your lips tasting like alcohol and defiance. Dragging you into the room, his hands gripping your waist, your nails digging into his back.

And then—

Chenle shook his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. He couldn’t deny it now. Even if he wanted to, last night wasn’t just good. It was one of the best nights of his life.

And it terrified him

----

The aftermath of the night should have been easy to ignore. It wasn’t.

Chenle couldn’t stop thinking about it, about you. Every time he closed his eyes, the images came rushing back—your hands on him, the sound of your voice, the way you laughed in that drunken haze when he challenged you to another shot, the way you begged him, the way you moaned his name.

It was distracting. And annoying.

Especially when he saw you again the day after.

The campus cafeteria buzzed with noise—friends chatting, trays clattering, the faint hum of a vending machine in the corner. You walked in with your tray, scanning for your usual table. As much as you hated most people at this school, your little circle of mutual acquaintances made the hellscape tolerable.

Unfortunately, one of those acquaintances happened to be Chenle.

He was already seated, casually leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, his obnoxiously perfect laugh cutting through the room. You clenched your teeth and made your way to the table.

“Morning, Y/N!” Jisung greeted cheerfully as you sat down across from him.

You groaned in response, plopping your tray down and stabbing at your salad.

“Someone’s grumpy” Renjun teased

“I have a headache” you replied

“Still hungover from the party?” Jeno asked, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t even see you drinking that much.”

Before you could answer, Chenle chimed in, his voice annoyingly loud. “Oh, Y/N definitely drank. Trust me.”

Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing at him. You felt your heart in your throat.

“And what exactly do you know about it?” Jeno asked

Your eyes met, he was enjoying how stressed you looked

Chenle shrugged, his smirk practically dripping with smugness. “Let’s just say she were very… talkative that night.”

Your stomach dropped, but you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means” he drawled, “you were just as annoying drunk as you are sober.”

The table erupted into laughter, and you gritted your teeth, gripping your fork like it might actually be a weapon.

“Can you two not fight for five minutes?” Jaemin sighed dramatically, shaking his head.

“Doubt it” Renjun muttered under his breath.

“Whatever” you snapped, shoving a piece of lettuce into your mouth. You could feel Chenle’s gaze on you, and it made your skin crawl. Or maybe it made your skin heat up—you weren’t sure, and that annoyed you even more.

For the rest of lunch, you avoided looking at him, though you could hear him making snarky comments here and there. You fired back when necessary, but mostly, you were focused on one thing: acting normal.

Because you couldn’t let him know you didn’t remember what happened after the drinking game.

Later that day, you found yourself cornered by Chenle near the library. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk still plastered across his face.

“Do you need something?” you asked, crossing your arms defensively.

“Yeah" he said, stepping closer. “For you to admit how amazing I am in bed”

You scoffed “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on, Y/N” he said, his voice low but teasing. “I can see it all over your face. You’re trying to piece it together, but the memory’s just not there, is it?And you desperately want to remember”

You stared at him, your heart pounding. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Because I remember everything. And trust me, you’d want to forget if you knew what you said to me that night.”

Your eyes widened despite yourself. “What did I say?”

He laughed, leaning back like he’d won some kind of game. “Not telling. But it’s good. Really good.”

“Chenle” you warned, stepping closer, frustration bubbling up. “We were drunk, get over it and forget what happened.”

“Why?” he asked, his smirk softening into something almost serious. “Do you want me to pretend it didn’t mean anything?”

You froze, your breath hitching. For a second, his eyes locked on yours, and the air between you felt… different.

But then he stepped back, his smirk returning. “Don’t worry, Y/N. I’m sure it’ll come back to you eventually.”

And with that, he walked away, leaving you standing there, more confused than ever.

----

The next day, you were determined to avoid Chenle at all costs. You took different routes to class, skipped your usual coffee stop, and even left lunch early to dodge him. But somehow, no matter where you went, he always seemed to show up.

It was like he had a radar for your misery.

You sighed heavily as you walked into the library that evening, hoping for a little peace and quiet. It had been a long day, and the last thing you needed was another confrontation.

But, of course, there he was.

Chenle was sitting at a table near the back, spinning a pen between his fingers like he didn’t have a care in the world. When he spotted you, his face lit up like he’d been waiting for this moment all day.

“Y/N!” he called out, loud enough to earn a few glares from nearby students.

You froze, debating whether to ignore him, but it was too late. He was already on his feet, making his way toward you.

“What do you want, Chenle?” you asked, keeping your voice low.

“Just thought I’d say hi” he said, leaning casually against the bookshelf next to you. “You’ve been avoiding me. That’s not very nice.”

At least I’m the only sane one between us, you thought

“Maybe I’m just busy" you muttered, turning your attention to the books in front of you.

“Busy doing what? Trying to piece together the night you can’t remember?” he teased, a smug grin plastered on his face.

You stiffened but refused to look at him. “I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, you don’t” he said, leaning closer. “But if you’re curious, I could help you remember.”

That made you pause. You turned to him, narrowing your eyes. “What do you mean?”

Chenle shrugged, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I mean, I could jog your memory. Walk you through the night step by step. You know, fill in the blanks.”

You crossed your arms, skeptical. “And why would you do that?”

“Because” he said, his voice dropping to a mock-serious tone, “I’m a good person, Y/N. It’s my duty to help you remember the night were you begged me to make you feel good.”

You rolled your eyes, but your curiosity was piqued. “Fine. What do you remember?”

Chenle grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Well, for starters, you were the one who suggested the drinking game.”

“Liar” you said immediately, though a small part of you wasn’t sure.

“Not lying” he said, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “You were all fired up about proving me wrong about something. Honestly, I don’t even remember what the argument was about. But I do remember you saying, ‘Let’s settle this like adults.’”

“That does not sound like me” you muttered, shaking your head.

“Oh, it was definitely you” he said, his grin widening. “Then there was the dancing.”

You blinked, taken aback. “Dancing?”

“Yeah. You insisted you were better at it than me. Which, by the way, you’re not.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off.

“Then, we needed some air…” he continued, his voice dropping to a more playful tone, “then we went to the balcony.”

Your stomach flipped, and you suddenly felt like you were in over your head. “The balcony?”

“And the best part?” he said, leaning in slightly, his eyes locking with yours. “You kissed me, Y/N.”

“I did not” you said, your voice louder than you intended. A nearby student shushed you, and you glared at them before turning back to Chenle.

“You absolutely did” he said, clearly enjoying this. “And you didn’t stop there. You—”

“Stop,” you said quickly, holding up a hand. “I don’t need to hear any more.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, tilting his head. “Because I can give you all the details. Every single one.”

You stared at him, your mind racing. Did you really kiss him? Did you really…?

Chenle smirked, clearly reveling in your discomfort. “If you want my help, just let me know” he said, turning to walk away. “But for now, I’ll let you stew on it.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you standing there, torn between frustration and the nagging curiosity of what you might have done.

For the rest of the evening, you couldn’t shake Chenle’s words.

The balcony.

You kissed me.

It echoed in your head, taunting you like a song you couldn’t get out of your mind.

As much as you didn’t want to believe it, the idea of it being true made your stomach churn. Had you really been that drunk? Had you actually kissed Chenle of all people?

But when you got home and lay in bed staring at the ceiling, flashes of something—something more—started to creep into your mind.

The faint memory of the balcony came first. The cool night air brushing against your skin. The blurry sound of music and laughter drifting up from the party below. You’d been leaning against the railing, angry about something, though you couldn’t quite place what.

Then there was Chenle. His stupid, smug face, smirking at you like he always did.

“You’re impossible” you’d said, your words slurring slightly.

“And you’re cute when you’re mad” he’d replied without missing a beat, stepping closer.

You sat up abruptly, heat rushing to your face. No way.

But the memory was there, piecing itself together despite your best efforts to shove it back into the void.

You remembered arguing with him, as usual, your voices sharp but somehow playful. And then—his expression had shifted. His smirk had softened, and for a moment, he just… looked at you.

“You’re staring” you’d said, crossing your arms.

“Can’t help it” he’d replied, his voice quieter now. “You look good tonight.”

The next memory hit you like a freight train.

Chenle stepping even closer, his hand brushing against yours as he leaned in. You’d been frozen, caught off guard, and before you could say anything, his lips were on yours.

Your eyes widened, and you covered your face with your hands as if that could erase the memory.

No, no, no. That didn’t happen.

But it had.

He’d kissed you.

And worse, you’d kissed him back.

And worst of all, he made you think you were the one who kissed him.

----

You wanted to get back at him, even if you were still embarrassed about that night.

Memory started to flow back an he’d been right. That night had been amazing, and the more you thought about it, the more you realized why. The sharp edge of your constant arguments, the heat of your mutual disdain—it had fueled something electric between you two.

You’d never admit it, of course, but Chenle had been… incredible. Confident, teasing, and far better at reading you than you cared to acknowledge. The fact that you’d enjoyed it so much only made your frustration burn hotter.

You couldn’t let him have the upper hand.

You looked for him everywhere but he was nowhere to be found. After checking the usual spots on campus, you finally met Jisung.

“Where’s Chenle?” you demanded.

Jisung blinked, startled by your intensity. “Uh… his classes got canceled. He’s at home.”

Perfect.

With that, you marched to his dorm, the determination in your stride masking the nervous flutter in your chest. If Chenle wanted to mess with your head, you were going to make sure you gave him something to think about.

If he wanted to play

You were definitely going to play

When he opened the door, he wasn’t prepared for you.

Shirtless, his hair a mess, he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. His eyes widened in surprise, darting from your face to the determined set of your shoulders.

“Y/N?” he asked, his voice low and confused.

You didn’t answer, pushing past him into the room without so much as a glance. He scoffed behind you, closing the door.

“Well, come on in” he said sarcastically. “Not like you need an invitation or anything.”

You ignored him, striding straight into his room and perching yourself on the edge of his bed. He followed, he stood in front of you with his arms crossed, his expression shifting from confusion to suspicion.

“Okay, what’s this about?” he asked, his tone cautious

You stood up slowly, locking eyes with him as you closed the distance between you. He didn’t move at first, but when you kept advancing, he instinctively stepped back until his thighs hit the edge of his desk, forcing him to half-sit on it for balance.

Your hand reached up, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before sliding down to his chest. He tensed under your touch, his breath hitching as your fingers lazily wandered.

“You know..." you started, your voice low and teasing

“Y/N” he said again, his voice softer now. “What are you doing?”

“You're a terrible liar” you murmured, your fingers tracing lazy patterns across his skin

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips. “What are you talking about?”

You leaned in closer, the heat between you palpable. “I’m talking about that night.”

He stiffened, and you saw the flicker of panic in his eyes.

“You keep saying I kissed you” you continued, your voice low and dangerous. “But I remember now, Chenle. You kissed me.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his silence speaking volumes. His usual confidence seemed to falter, and you couldn’t help but smirk.

“Nice try, though” you added, stepping back abruptly and breaking the tension. “Trying to get inside my head like that.”

“Wait” he said quickly, pushing off the desk as you turned toward the door. “Where are you going?”

“Home” you replied casually, as if nothing had happened.

He scoffed, gesturing toward the very obvious problem he was now dealing with. “You’re seriously going to leave me like this?” he looked at his pants, he has a very big problem

You paused at the door, glancing over your shoulder with a smirk that only deepened when you saw the frustration on his face.

“Oh, I think you’ll manage just fine, Chenle. You’re good at playing games by yourself, aren’t you?”

And with that, you walked out, your heart racing as you left him standing there, shirtless and undeniably flustered.

Chenle stood there for a long moment after you left, running a hand through his messy hair and letting out a low, frustrated groan.

She’s impossible, he thought, though he couldn’t ignore the way his heart raced every time you challenged him. He hated that you got under his skin so easily—and he hated even more that you knew it.

But he wasn’t going to let you win.

Later that evening, you were back in your dorm, feeling smug about your little stunt. You could still picture the dumbfounded look on Chenle’s face when you’d walked out, and it brought a small, satisfied smile to your lips.

Serves him right, you thought, though your mind kept wandering back to the way his breath had hitched when you touched him.

He looked so good

The knock on your door startled you.

Frowning, you got up to answer it, only to find Chenle leaning casually against the doorframe, a shirt now on and a cocky smirk firmly in place.

“Missed me?” he asked, his tone dripping with amusement.

You rolled your eyes and started to close the door, but he stuck his foot in the gap.

“Not so fast” he said, pushing the door open slightly. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” you asked, crossing your arms.

“About how you can dish it out but can’t take it” he said, stepping into your room like he owned the place.

You glared at him, but before you could retort, he added, “Oh, and about that night. Since you’re suddenly remembering things, I thought I’d fill in a few blanks for you.”

“I don’t need your help remembering” you snapped, though your cheeks burned at the thought of him recounting any details.

“Don’t you?” he teased with a lazy grin. “Because I remember everything, Y/N. Every little detail.”

You froze, your heart pounding as he closed the distance between you.

“For instance” he continued, his voice dropping to a low murmur, “I remember the way you looked at me on the balcony. Like you were daring me to do something about how mad you were.”

“I wasn’t—” you started, but he cut you off.

“You were,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “And when I kissed you? You didn’t push me away. You kissed me back. Hard.”

You swallowed, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “What’s your point?”

“My point” he said, leaning down so his face was inches from yours, “is that you can keep pretending to hate me all you want, but that night? You wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The tension crackled in the air between you, your pulse racing as his eyes searched yours.

But then you snapped out of it, stepping back quickly and putting distance between you. “Get over yourself, Chenle” you said, though your voice lacked its usual bite.

His smirk widened, clearly noticing your hesitation. “Whatever you say, Y/N” he said, heading for the door. But before he left, he glanced back, his expression smug.

“Let me know when you’re ready to accept and embrace what happened” he said, and with that, he was gone.

----

You spent the entire week avoiding each other. Barely speaking, barely acknowledging the other’s presence. You both tried to come to terms with what had happened, but it was impossible to ignore the lingering tension. After all, you still hated each other—or at least, you told yourselves you did.

But soon enough, you had to face each other again. With shared friends and overlapping lives, it was only a matter of time.

It was Friday, and, as usual, there was another party.

You swore you’d stay sober tonight. You really did. But every time your gaze drifted to Chenle—how good he looked, how infuriatingly attractive he was—you found yourself reaching for another drink.

Chenle wasn’t faring any better. From across the room, he admired the way you downed each glass, your confidence mixed with a carefree attitude that made his chest tighten. It was maddening. And then there was the guy next to you, leaning in too close, making you laugh in a way that set Chenle’s nerves on fire.

He wanted to cross the room, grab your hand, and drag you somewhere private. He wanted to kiss you until you stopped arguing with him—until you admitted you wanted him as much as he wanted you.

Renjun’s voice broke through his spiraling thoughts. “Why are you glaring at her like that?”

But Chenle didn’t respond.

“Did something happen between you and Y/N?” Renjun asked, his sharp eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Chenle hesitated but decided there was no point in hiding the truth. “We slept together.”

Renjun choked on his drink, coughing as he tried to process what he’d just heard. “I thought you were going to say you had feelings for her or something, but this? Oh my god, Chenle.”

Chenle wanted to retort, but his attention snapped back to you when the guy beside you left, only for someone else to swoop in. You were swaying slightly, clearly drunk, and as you stumbled, Chenle was already moving.

You didn’t even notice Chenle until he was right in front of you. You stumbled, and his arms shot out to catch you.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice gentle despite his racing heart.

You looked up at him, a lazy smile spreading across your face. “Chenle?” you asked, giggling as your hands clumsily reached for his face. You poked at his cheeks, then squished it, laughing softly and he couldn’t even be mad. You were too cute like this.

“How much did you drink?”

“Just a tiny bit” you replied, holding up your fingers to indicate an impossibly small amount.

Chenle sighed, his chest tightening at the sight of you. “I’m taking you home.”

“Oh, you want me all to yourself?” you teased, laughing like you’d uncovered some great secret.

“Yes, Y/N" he replied, exasperated but smiling despite himself. “Now let’s go.”

----

After helping you punch in the code to your apartment, he guided you inside and got you settled in bed. Just as he was about to leave, your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist.

“Stay” you murmured. “I really liked sleeping in your arms.”

His heart skipped a beat, he didn’t know what to do. Then he nodded, slipping under the covers beside you.

You curled into him, resting your head on his chest “You know” you murmured, your words soft and unguarded “You were right… that night was incredible.”

His breath hitched “yeah” he admitted “It was”

You laughed lightly before your expression turned contemplative. “But aren’t we supposed to hate each other?”

“I thought so too” he admitted. “But either way with you, nothing feels the way it’s supposed to”

Your fingers curled into his shirt “what will happen in the morning?”

“I don’t know” he admitted, his voice quiet

“Probably I’ll mock you and say this was nothing” you murmured,more to yourself than to him

“Do you want it to be nothing?” He asked

You were silent for a long moment. Then, in a voice so soft he almost missed it, you admitted “I wish we could put our egos aside and figure things out together.”

His chest tightened at your words. He knew you were drunk, but he also knew you meant them. And he knew what he needed to do.

“Goodnight, Y/N” he said softly.

“Goodnight, Chenle” you replied, already drifting off.

----

Morning came too quickly, and with it, the realization of what had happened—again.

You paced your room, running your hands through your hair. “I can’t believe I let this happen again,” you muttered to yourself. “What is wrong with me?”

“Y/N” Chenle said, trying to get your attention.

You ignored him, your frustration bubbling over.

“Y/N” he said again, his voice firmer this time. When you didn’t stop, he grabbed your shoulders, forcing you to look at him.

“Please” he said, his voice raw, “just listen to me.”

You froze, your heart pounding as you met his gaze.

“I think I like you” he said, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know how to make sense of it. But I can’t stop thinking about you. And I don’t want to keep pretending this is nothing.”

You stared at him, your mind racing.

“So please” he continued, his voice softer now, “stop running away. Let’s figure this out together.”

You stared at him, his words sinking in. He was right—you’d been petty and defensive, too afraid to face the possibility of what you could have.

Taking a deep breath, you nodded. “Okay. Let’s give us a chance. But if you act like a jerk, I swear I’m kicking your ass.”

He laughed, relief washing over his face as he pulled you into a hug. “Deal.”

“And for the record” you added, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, “I think I like you too.”

His smile was blinding, and before you could second-guess yourself, he leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that was soft, sweet, and filled with every unspoken word between you.

When you finally pulled away, you couldn’t help but smile.

“Guess we’re figuring this out together” you said.

“Together” he agreed, his eyes shining with something you could only describe as hope.

For the first time, the tension between you eased, replaced by something softer, something real. Whatever came next, you were both ready to face it—together.

[cconfusedkat]

The one who wilts being a terrible person is,, probably the least expected thing of them considering how they treated both goat & ram when they were both their vessel

Kiss me son of god was very fitting for Wilt because of their desire for power, which eventually lead them to their downfall and being in Purgatory for three millenia. I guess they were a bit too ruthless

Also additional doodle to accompany this pmv because i am. Very much Not a serious person with lore things,

An actual summary: Shamura—The One Who Wilts—has heavy reasoning as to why they ended up in Purgatory the way they did.

Rather instead of just making their siblings being jealous of their rapid growth rate of the War Cult increasing, it was a mixed bag between jealousy and insanity due to losing their mind (metaphorically and literally) from holding just the Purple Crown of War.

Going so far, they didn't only kill other unfamiliar Gods to increase both fearmongering and faith, they killed their siblings for getting in their way.

Thanatos—the white dog with the other purple crown, being a God of Wisdom—Narinder, etc—was extremely critical of these ongoing events that lead into disaster. He tried to convince Wilt one more time that they weren't THIS violent. Where was that wise and sweet sibling? The one that would stay on Thanato's fur for dear life as a tiny spider, frolicking in the daffodil fields? The one who raised all four of their siblings? Giving them a place and shelter to stay at their very own palace, to eventually being able to create their own cults within palaces?

Well. They were gone. Long gone. Thanato's had been long desensitized on how cults actually worked. Wilt was the one who cared for being in higher power, they didn't reckon their siblings as people anymore.It wasn't until Thanato's panicky plan that made Wilt realize how messed up everything was. Thanatos laid down diagonally on the opening curtain of his bed, knowing fully Wilt would try to kill him in his sleep. A wisdom God still had his ways, despite preferring a pacifist life.Areem who had been on top of Thanato's bed looked over at Hadaf, him nodding as a signal to finally end this war of cults and sentence them to The Above. Wilt saw the hallucination of their dead siblings in Below (essentially an underworld heaven of sort) and actually felt some sort of relief to see them, convinced they were waiting for Wilt all this time in Below and forgave them for all their warcrimes.

Unfortunately for Wilt, it had been quite the opposite. They died slowly to the ichor loss from their already open head from their war crown, their eyes being blinded from ichor spilling in and out of it, and experiencing every painful moment of it.

Off screen, Areem would dig the sword deeper within their body, which then explains why they have a chain right in their head as The One Who Wilts. The sword went that deep to create an empty spot through their organs, the chain being the single thing to keep them alive and tortured within Purgatory for the next three millenia.

That's all to be explained for the video basically- after three millenia the wise and war (wise one referring to goat/giuseppe, where as alluring lamb would refer to lamb/allure in their own world. Twist on words! Yippee!) cult would begin, with a little ram and a goat. Cult of the goat baaaabeeeyyy 🎉🎉

But yes yep that's really it \o/ i still gotta touch up on giuseppe and aaliyah lore and how the war & wisdom cult operates compared to the death cult in allure's timeline,, fun fact there is no death god in rw&rw!! War was the replacement for death for a very long while

Ou wait name guide probably is a good idea

Thanatos is Narinder, he is a dog and is a god of wisdom

Wilt is Shamura (or shamara), they are a pink toed spider and a god of war. Thanatos took the wisdom crown

Hadaf and Bael are Aym and Baal (the white fluffy cats near the end)

Aidos is the blue cyclop squid (kallamar), Phobos is the neon green fuzzy worm (leshy), Limos is the lime green frog with eyelashes (heket), and Areem is a cotl follower oc (he's the snow leopard also at the end)

That's pretty much everyone :o) in the small doodle is giuseppe and aaliyah when they were a year staying in purgatory with wilt to train for which crown suited one or the other the best-

[sky-is-the-limit]

I don’t think people fully understand the sheer gravity of Destiel.

Like, this isn’t just a story about an angel falling in love with a human or another fanon ship that was created just because two dudes were standing too close.

This is an angel, a being forged by God, programmed to follow orders, incapable of free will, the literal embodiment of divine obedience!!! choosing to rebel. For one man. For Dean Winchester.

Think about it. Castiel wasn’t made to feel. He wasn’t made to question. He was made to serve, to follow heaven’s will without hesitation and then he meets Dean. He saves him from hell and in that moment, that exact fucking moment, his entire purpose shifts. Dean didn’t just change his mind cause we are not talking about another mortal being. He changed his entire fucking existence.

And here’s the kicker of it all. God, the all-knowing, all-powerful storyteller, couldn’t stop it. God, who controlled the narrative, who created Castiel and set the rules of the universe, couldn’t stop him from falling. Cas didn’t just disobey orders!!!!!!! He shattered the divine design. He looked at Heaven, at the eternity he was promised and said, "No. I choose him." Insane.

Do you understand how fucking huge that is? This isn’t a simple love story. This is cosmic rebellion and the writers couldn’t even grasp the insanity of what they created for a CW show.

It’s tragic and overwhelming because Cas didn’t fall in love with Dean for any selfish reasons. He didn’t want anything back. He didn’t expect Dean to love him, didn’t need his affection or validation. He never got to touch him or kiss him or get the "I love you too" that all of us wanted to hear. He just wanted to be near him. To help him. To save him, over and over, to make sure that Dean knew that he had someone who was looking after him.

And the cost? It was everything and people just brush over that.

Cas gave up Heaven. He gave up grace. He gave up the safety of eternity and purpose to stay in Dean’s proximity. Not because he was destined to, not because God told him to but because he *chose* to. That’s what makes it so tragic. It wasn’t written. It wasn’t meant to happen. Castiel broke the rules of his existence for someone who didn’t even realise the depth of it until it was too late.

Then THAT moment. When Cas says, "You changed me, Dean." It just hits different, doesn’t it??? Cause it’s not just a love confession. it’s a revelation. He confirms it right there that it was Dean's humanity that did it. Not some grand cosmic force, not some divine intervention. Dean himself, in all his flawed, beautiful, self-sacrificial mess, changed everything.

Dean, who always put others before himself, who had to raise himself, who gave everything to Sam and kept nothing for him. Dean, who was destined to always be second, to always sacrifice his own needs for someone else. Dean, whose car that he loved so much, his only constant, even that belonged to his father. Dean, whose clothes were probably second-hand, whose childhood was spent taking care of his little brother. Dean, whose purpose was always for the world, for the greater good and never for himself.

For the first time, Dean had something that was his. Something that wasn’t meant for anyone but him. Cas was HIS. Not for God, not for his father, not for Sam or the world.

This isn’t just a story about love!!! It’s *the* story about love. It’s messy and painful and romantic in the most devastating way cause Cas didn’t just rebel against heaven, people!!! He rewrote the entire concept of free will, of devotion, of sacrifice!!!!

He loved Dean with everything he was and that love was strong enough to defy God himself.

It’s the greatest, most tragic, most insane fictional story of our lifetime. Nothing will ever come close.

[hwnglx]

enhypen on cam vs. off cam

based on tarot. i do not know these idols personally. energies are always changing. what i say is NOT straight fact. pls take it with a grain of salt!

heeseung

on cam

nerves of steel. stable, patient, mild-tempered, agreeable. self-sacrificing, especially when it comes to the team. willing to give in and surrender for the group's sake. holds back and restrains himself a lot. grounded and down to earth. gives the team this significant and essential foundation of focus and practicality. he seems well-rounded artistically too, like the member who has the basic skills down to a tee.

off cam

not easy to satisfy. immensely high standards, good luck trying to have him be happy and content with.. anything, basically. i keep seeing him nagging and possibly micromanaging about minor things. also, can have his immature ways once he's in a negative headspace. more outspoken. will tell you things the way they are. more sensitive than what meets the eye. heeseung seems like the type to let out his inner negativity on others at times, which as a result he can blame himself for; this can cause even more dissatisfaction -> vicious loop here.. might have problems confronting and connecting to his emotions directly, chooses to run away from a lot of them. struggles expressing his feelings in a manner which accurately reflects his inner state of mind. goes back and forth between criticising and feeling sorry or guilty all the time. like he's in a constant inner turmoil.

jay

on cam

personable, easy to get along with. seems like the member who's best at creating parasocial relationships with the public. he's good at making you feel like you're connected, as if you're his friend. a lot of pride and smugness. knows what he can do for the team and isn't afraid to allow his confidence to shine. very much content in his element. can therefore bring a sense of positivity and optimism to situations. also, quite mature and reliable. good head on his shoulders. great business man. loves having people think he's “husband” material. like a grown guy with a strong sense of responsibility.

off cam

fancier. more out there and less restrained. likes showing off, and everything fancy and glamorous. is he the member who dresses up the most in terms of airport fashion? it's kinda giving that to me. seems proud of his fame and status. likes the feeling when people recognize him. more self-focused. cares about things like actively keeping up his popularity, making sure he's well-liked off camera as well. reputation is insanely important to this man. taurus energy is literally dripping from him. i could imagine him looking up his name a lot on social media. extremely ambitious. can get quite obsessive and lean on the gluttonous side at times. very “my way”. might go back and forth a lot, between trying his best to be charitable and accommodating with people around him, while also strongly holding on to his own values, principles and opinions. does not budge easily, you'll rarely catch jay being a pushover. stubborn as a rock once he's convinced about his opinion. more traditionally minded, holds beliefs that lean towards the more conservative side.

jake

on cam

youthful and bright, a childlike nature. sensitive to his surroundings with a dreamy quality to him, he can often find himself in a haze with his head in the clouds, i also heard “delusional”. at the same time, he can be very observant. quick wit. boldly speaks up when he feels the need to, and expresses himself bluntly at times. still presents himself as someone who's generally patient and tolerant, there's a bit of a hot and cold factor here. he's someone who seems calm and collected at first, but allows himself to step out of that once he feels strongly about something. jake can almost be like a child at his most emotional, but quiet and balanced once he's in work-mode. very hardworking, a diligent person who's continuously striving to reach higher goals and willing to put in the necessary effort.

off cam

passionate. gets random sparks of energy and motivation. definitely a “p” in terms of mbti. he's the type to feel strongly about e.g. a random hobby he found and obsess over it, just to get over it after a few days. burns hot once his inner fire erupts, but calms down just as fast. pours a lot of himself into every endeavour he faces. also gives off quite an individualistic and independent vibe, he doesn't really enjoy depending on other people to get things done for him. prefers doing it himself. detaches himself from people a lot of the time to gain a sense of inner balance. easily affected by his surroundings, especially by people's different energies. therefore needs his private space and alone-time to recharge. can be surprisingly introverted. a lot of internalised anxiety he tries his best to release when on his own. not someone to allow his inner stress to stand in the way of his work though. quite perfectionistic and hard to please in regards to himself.

sunghoon

on cam

chill, laidback, comfortable. easy to be around. not very reactive; in control of his emotions, rarely allows things to enrage him. and if he does, it's usually done in a tactful manner. i'd be surprised to ever catch this man fully lose grip on his temper while cameras are rolling. very mature as well, he knows how to present himself in a manner which shows off his best sides only. a lot of quiet but strong confidence he radiates to the outside. he's self-assured, and knows where his charm lies. a lot of natural charisma. his energy is very.. “i know i don't need to do much for you to like me.” like he's aware of the strong effect his presence can have on people.

off cam

good understanding of business. very protective of his career and what he's been able to build for himself. cautious about keeping it in tact. can be quite self-focused in that regard. can be much more “me me me” than you'd think, does desire and enjoy the spotlight to a degree, though he isn't obnoxious about it. i heard “don't ruin my moment” he doesn't like people getting in the way of his plans, feeling entitled to command him around, etc. very much a free spirit who doesn't enjoy having to majorly concern himself with others. careful and guarded when it comes to his private matters; draws a clear line between his professional life and personal life. adamant with his boundaries, i suggest not to cross them. holds grudges and stores much of his negativity inside, rather than letting it out. doesn't come without his insecurities, but they're likely to be so buried down, that he might not be entirely aware of them himself. generous, giving and supportive in his nature though. will offer a helping hand if he feels like someone is in direct need of it.

sunoo

on cam

another member who's quite conscious of his image and what he chooses to display to the public. wants to present himself in the best way possible. like i can see him straightening his back and stroking his hair out his face once the cameras start rolling. can slip in and out of conversations or situations depending on if he cares enough lol. quite intentional about when he speaks up, and when he stays put. although he can have his stand-out moments, usually sunoo prefers just blending in and not pulling too much attention to himself. knows he needs to go with the flow of the people around him, and stays balanced, as well as peaceful when cameras are on.

off cam

the type to work harder when people aren't looking. very much invested in continuously developing his skills and talents and improving his abilities. the type to plan out certain longterm goals for himself in his head without telling anyone, since he doesn't see the need to. for sure more focused on himself.. all i sense is him thinking about his own life. doesn't really concern himself with the group as much, has his eyes on his own path. this can also lead to him dealing with a lot of his negative emotions by himself though. someone who's more used to to withdrawing, and therefore more comfortable isolating himself when struggling. i can't shake the feeling sunoo feels like enhypen isn't the place that enables him to shine as much as he could. like his potential just isn't being fully realized. might feel quite stunted artistically and creatively because he has to match himself to six other guys. there's some pent up frustration here, and i don't really see him having much of an outlet for it. i can also sense some fear regarding his actual ability to stand on his own though; so he can easily feel lost. he doesn't feel like a true part of the group, but can also lack the substantial belief in himself to take steps in the other direction.. very pisces mars of him; he thinks of the idea of doing certain things, but often doesn't decisively act on it.

jungwon

on cam

worthy to note, that all i could think about was the group. he's very much aware of the unique responsibility that comes with being the leader. wants be a person of compassion and empathy for the team; someone who gives them the feeling of comfort. a resting place they can seek in times of stress. not only does he want for the members to be able to talk to him about anything, he also wants to be a source of confidence and inspiration. for the team, and in general. jungwon can often feel the need to remain strong and powerful for the sake of his group. i got reminded of this one quote bada lee once said about her dance team “if i fall apart, you guys will too” jungwon might relate to that in a way. he feels like the main guy pulling the ship forward. at the same time, there's some light and fun energy too. he doesn't want to seem too serious and strict all the time, and also make sure the atmosphere is enjoyable and lively for everyone. a little bit like a cool dad, lol. which is cute since he's the second youngest.

off cam

more business-minded. someone who's always making sure the professionalism is on par, everyone is aware of their jobs and does them orderly. can definitely get sharp-tongued and harsher with his words, if he feels the need to. will give you the reality checks you might be afraid of but are in need of to grow. his intentions are pure; he's just clear in what he expects from people and might not be the best at expressing it in a way that's more digestible for softer hearts. i can sense some fear in him of things going south for the group, so he's very protective over the place they're at now. will definitely be the one stepping up to argue if anyone dares to badmouth them. similarly to jay, he's also a member who can be quite focused on keeping his reputation up. might have a bit of an ego that gets in the way of him being easier to get along with though. i do see his ego being on the side of more quickly damaged, which can result in him getting defensive quite fast. make no mistake, he feels very protective over the group, but it's also because in his eyes, the course enhypen takes is largely reflective of how well jungwon himself is doing as the leader.

ni-ki

on cam

relentlessly hard-working, constantly trying to improve and striving for the top. someone who's just in his element when in work-mode. laidback and reserved. observant and attentive. usually keeps more to himself unless he needs to work. i see him being immensely perceptive, and sensitive to energies around him, which is why he can often consciously choose to detach himself. i got reminded of the quote that says “observe but don't absorb” a member who seems more uncomfortable about all the attention and eyes on him. prone to getting overwhelmed easily. the lines for on and off cam were more blurred for him. i don't see him being good at putting on a mask for the public, as much as he just chooses to stay quiet. it's like, if he doesn't showcase too much of himself, people have less things to judge him for. plus less things that distract them from what's important; his artistry. very professional. wants to primarily be seen and recognized for his work and craft. i don't see him enjoying fanservice, aegyo and silly stuff like that.

off cam

more self-conscious than what meets the eye. not easily satisfied, sees himself as a continuous student of his craft. very protective of his possessions, and focused on himself. can often feel like his work is the only thing he really knows and is good at, so he can be overly fixated on it. the type to get married to his work, to be honest lol. similarly to sunghoon, he doesn't like anyone rubbing their nose into his business. (the two sags, not surprising) can often crave a sense of control and stability in his life, and doesn't want people from the outside meddling in it for that reason. if ni-ki made a plan for himself, best believe he will go through with it till the very end. still, quite fair-minded. i don't see him being extremely greedy persé, but moreso holding himself to higher standards from the very beginning. wouldn't want to steal away anyone's opportunity, but wants to already be established enough, that he'd be first the choice anyway, if that makes sense. can feel trapped in his mind once he gets to a place of overthinking, and subconsciously set himself limitations that don't have to be there.

[momentumblue]

SHOCKED i havent seen more of this (or maybe i’m not looking hard enough) but where’s the survivor’s guilt vi. like am i crazy for thinking she’d be haunted by the fact that everyone she’s loved has died in some way? if anything, SHE’S the jinx, isn’t she?

vi sitting in caitlyn’s office watching her work and she starts fiddling with the hem of her shirt and biting her cheeks lost in thought for the hundredth time this week about “what if?”

what if she didn’t try to save vander and protected her siblings? what if she was a little stronger? what if she never put on that enforcer uniform? what if she left that platform and jinx didn’t have to save her? what if… what if..

what if she loses caitlyn too?

years pass and for someone that lives for the people she loves it feels near impossible to ever truly get over that thought.

like idk. there’s only so much watching everyone die and get hurt around you you can go thru before you start driving yourself half insane. and i know ekko and her have that interaction where he literally tells her to not go down that path but i really think, she’s always been soft on the inside— like that analysis about how she hides the softer part of her face from the world with her hair or whatever, especially after leaving zaun and everything..

[doubledeadstudio]

Finally got the courage to ask a question (Happy New Years Eve/ Day whenever you see this) but just a general question

What was the creative process of making Reanimated Heart, Another Rose in his Garden and Pygmalion’s Folly? What was the inspiration behind those three games? What was your favorite one to work on? Do you plan to make new games in the future?

Happy New Year to you too, anon! I love questions like these. The development and creative process is something I'm very passionate about.

Creative Process? Inspiration? (Just shoving both of this in one, long discussion about how these things came to be)

Okay, you guys will probably think I'm an insane person, so let me explain how I got started on them...

I first started with RH (of course) when my friend Tay told me about this game she was playing where a character really resembled Crux (it was Markus from Red Embrace: Hollywood). And I played it because of that, and I was like, damn??? He really does? And I was on the path of my artist journey that I was like looking at the game assets and the dialogue and stuff where I was like... Wait, I can do that. I can write like this. I can draw everything. Who's stopping me? I had a dream with the tree, and I started writing dialogue in "hypothetical" VN scenarios, and I was like... okay, fuck it, I already got disowned by my family and I wanna kill myself, I've got nothing left to lose.

So I started pre-development for Reanimated Heart and wrote like about 20,000+ words, made sprites and backgrounds, spent an ungodly amount of money for music and fonts and did research, and released the Prologue on itch. It ended up kind of a flop? And I was honestly so mad for years LMFAO, but I kept at it because I liked making it. And then a fan, Ashe, contacted me out of nowhere and suggested I improve my socials. (Thanks Ashe.)

All in all, I think that, if RH never gathered attention... I would still be making it, but releases would've been shorter and weirder, and it wouldn't have the level of polish it does now because "nobody's playing this shit anyway." But having a fandom motivates me to push past my comfort, and inspires me to do releases semi-regularly. So, thank you guys for the support. :>

Anyway, enough RH rambling. Another Rose happened because a couple of members in the chat (I remember Maz and Chat in particular) kept joking about Omegaverse and I've never like... consumed any Omegaverse before, and I literally had no fucking clue what it was other than mpreg and werewolves. And I was like drinking that day and I got intrigued. And I kept thinking about the scenarios and became like ACTUALLY invested, but I didn't know anything about it still, so I kept asking Maz about it and she really helped hash out the "lore" and gave me really good scene suggestions. I honestly think Another Rose is the most indulgent of all my games because...

First of all, it's just straight porn. Second, aside from the quality of the work, I don't think about the audience, at all. There's only a price point to it but it's basically like a smut novel with some path deviations (that also just read to different porn)? Third, I'm like... I'm not going to lie, obsessed with my husband's OC Mars. And it's funny af to me how people ended up disliking him, because this whole game was like just my personal (smutty) love letter to how much I love that godawful man.

For Pygmalion's Folly... There had been long discussions in my server about murdersims. I'll be honest, I didn't get them at first, but I think Adri framed it in a way that I understood it, which was like... it was a morbid fascination to how bad things can get in situations like that. So I ended up playing the first BTDs and obsessively finished TPOF to the point I was having dreams about it, and I'm not going to lie, I had a dream! Again!! And it was Florentin killing the MC over and over. I woke up in a haze and wrote like the first 3000 words of the game in a frenzy with just 2 hours of sleep, and I was like, okay. This is getting made for sure. And because Adri was the avid murdersim fan, I consulted with them about the game, and they were the one that suggested the stats system, as well as some scenarios for endings.

So I guess tl;dr I cannot explain how I make games to you guys because they just kind of form when I'm drunk or get prophetic dreams.

Favorite to Work On?

Honestly, I loved working on all of them equally, believe it or not. (I equally also hate all of them when I'm crunching for the release. /jk)

The thing about these characters is that they're all OCs that are near and dear to my heart, ones that I've had for YEARS (I've had Vin for 12 years, can you imagine that?), and seeing all of them in action excites me so much.

I love that I got to make Abel the protag and I love that I got to put him in fun, sexual situations. I love that I managed to show off Florentin's special powers, and draw amazing grisly CGs with him. I love that Black, Vin and Crux are different, romanceable characters, that you can go to their houses, that you can see CGs with them, that you can follow their character development and be invested in their secrets, that they even have awesome voice actors that bring them to life!

And I love that so many of you also love them too, and write fic of them and draw them... Honestly, that's already my dream, and I'm so happy about it.

New Games in the Future?

Absolutely, yes! I got the VN dev bug and you guys will have to chase me out of here, LMAO.

But this year, considering how busy I'd be... I'd say probably not in case something really pushes me to make something (like, I had an idea I can't stop thinking about). My top priority right now is Reanimated Heart's Chapter 1 finale, and I have some free DLC I'm thinking of adding for Another Rose and Pygmalion's Folly, so those will probably get prioritized first.

[swankytigre]

2024 was something else-I experienced some amazing highs and felt pain like I could never have anticipated…literally some of the worse I’ve ever felt. The stress of this year,both positive and negative,really took a toll on me. And while I still need to continue through the messiness that exists, there was one thing that emerged in 2024 that I shoved away nearly 13 years ago-a whole side of me.

He showed up every now and again throughout the years-mostly in job interviews, meetings with senior management, and every finance class I’ve ever taken-but when I got pregnant back in 2012 he (begrudgingly) went away. There are many things I wouldn’t have been able to do without him, but having a child and getting married was not one of them. I needed to be HER completely for this, and I gotta give credit to her because she is fierce as fuck. Because of this though, I never really reflected on anything. There were many signs of him through out the years and my dear wife obviously picked up on it because I quote “if my wife ever comes out and tells me she’s my husband this would be my reaction:”

I genuinely don’t really think about things too much-I’ve always been myself. But being smacked in the face at a red light on the way to work that the reason I went through many lengths so I don’t get a period or that I was SO miserable during pregnancy/after was because I was feeling dysphoric and it simply didn’t feel right was kind of a new thing. And I don’t think any of these realizations would have happened without other things happening in 2024.

So instead of Jamie just being a “concept” in my head that I created at 13, I realized that Jamie was me. And that kinda freaks me out a little. I don’t have a headmate or anything, I’m just me. I’m really not doing anything I’d didn’t do when I was way younger -super feminine and put together one day, extremely masculine the next, and 100% baller either way. I’m just am going to my adult job instead of school and instead of feeling guilty about it I feel rad as fuck.Have I thought about hormones since this realization-sure. But I don’t know if that’s quite where I need to go yet.

In the same way I needed her to get through certain things, I needed him to get me through 2024. And I’m really glad that he still exists. And I’m glad that he’s accepted by the majority of the world (however If you think I’ll ever tell my mom you’re absolutely nuts).

One of the biggest highlights of my year was being at the fair and @coelii was buying a braclet and I fully expected for her to get the lesbian one but she ended up getting the pansexual one. NOTHING has ever made me feel more seen than that and I feel all mushy whenever I think of it.

In fact, she makes me feel all mushy a lot. And despite everything, she is my world. And sometimes I’m not good at expressing that. But I want her to know I love her no matter what and I’m looking forward to another year with the most gorgeous woman on the planet. (This will be the 14th new year we’ve started together and that is fucking insane!)

So yeah-fuck off 2024 and happy 2025. Please have no earth shattering surprises.

[letherightonein]

"And your “side” can recognize that dismissing all calls to empathy as guilt trips and using other empty woke tactics like using the fact that some people can’t be healthy on a vegan diet as a way to paint even the suggestion as classist/ableist."

In that regard, I'm not asking for empathy or compassion, but mostly remembering to the accusing vegan that for some people it's not sustainable nor practical. I can't afford to buy 100% vegan, eating two eggs at breakfast is cheaper, that's a fact, while "animals see you as their oppressor" is more doubtful and rooted in a particular view of animal life.

And as an attempt to highlight the hypocrisy, yeah, you are so awake and have so much conscience, but yet you are here projecting human qualities on animals and forgeting about humans that already have those human qualities and are struggling right now. Doesn't sound full of compassion and understanding, just full of itself.

I'm honest: I'm practical and I will act on what benefit my own survival; the same principle applies to animals. If someone wants to start to quantify oppressions and obstacles for every single subject to reach full well being on this planet, then I call for them to do it well and consistently.

"And vegans can still understand that a plant based diet is not accessible or even safe for all people despite your side sometimes being too quick to leap to those terms."

I have yet to see it, tbh

"My whole point is EVERYONE can be less reactive and listen. And yes, that means the people you’re talking about and it means people on your side too!

I genuinely do believe everyone here makes good points! I don’t really disagree with anything you said! I just think people don’t consider the very valid points the other side makes."

I don't think that they have valid points, tbh

The points I can give them is that in some cases plant based diets can be helpful to some people and that certain practices towards animals are immoral, outside that, the whole concept of linking what you eat -need to survive- to a sloopy feelings based ethics is not a good idea.

"And this is the only personal note, but in the USA and many other countries eating meat only once a week is insanely low. Most Americans eat meat with every meal except breakfast, and more elaborate breakfasts at restaurants or for days off and some fast food/food truck often feature meat as well. It’s much more reasonable to criticize the excessive meat consumption of the USA vs where you are from.

Do you mind if I ask what country you are from? Because I think that makes for better communication if we know where our perspectives come from."

Well, from a third world country, so here we don't eat that much. It seems like an integral part of american culture to aim bigger in everything, tbh

It seems to be not like a carnivore problem, but an american hyperconsumption problem.

[rose-tinted-kalopsia]

2024 fics in review ; aka, a chronological breakdown -> overall thoughts -> summary -> highlights, of all the writing i've done in 2024 !! <3 thank you for the tag @starmocha! <3 (you can view her post here! :D)

this was vvvv cool and fun to do hehe so im also tagging @reilemon @rafayelsheart @always-just-red + any other writers who may want to join in, just in case you guys might want to do it too !!! (no pressure though <3333)

Total number of fics: 47

Total word count: 142,420 (a rough estimate!)

Chronological Breakdown:

including fics, chapters, and formally-formatted hc posts. not including unformatted hc posts, rps, nor character analyses.

January

"awaken (hold my hand)" | ffxvi | 4k words (i did still want to include jan here because i did write one fic, but it's part of a paid project and unfortunately i won't be able to share the piece anywhere until feb ><)

February

your eyes | lnds | rafayel | 659 words have we met before? | lnds | xavier | 4.2k words in the bedroom | lnds | hcs - rafayel xavier zayne caleb | 484 words got me thinkin' nonsense | lnds | caleb | 868 words treacherous | lnds | caleb | 4.1k words pretty little mess | lnds | xavier | 3k words teasing | lnds | hcs - rafayel xavier zayne caleb | 777 words so it goes... | lnds | jeremiah | 4.5k words i'll do anything you say, if you say it with your hands | lnds | rafayel | 2.7k pick me up, no headlights | lnds | mini drabbles - rafayel xavier zayne caleb | 1k words

March

youtiful | lnds | zayne | 5.4k words youtiful | lnds | rafayel | 7.9k words awkward moments | lnds | hcs - rafayel xavier zayne caleb | 1k words somnophilia | lnds | hcs - rafayel xavier zayne caleb | 1.5k words candy | lnds | xavier | 4.5k words youtiful | lnds | xavier | 6.1k words

April

eating you out | lnds | hcs - rafayel xavier zayne caleb jeremiah | 754 words muse | lnds | rafayel | 3.2k words

June

begin again | lnds | jeremiah | 5.1k words once upon a december | lnds | sylus | 1k words - suggestive

July

every word feels like a shooting star | lnds | xavier | 13.4k don't let me love you | lnds | kieran | 7.7k words

August

red lights | lnds | xavier | 4.1k words you look wonderful tonight | lnds | zayne | 3.1k words

October

pretty girl | lnds | luke & kieran | 4.9k words ignite | ffxvi | joshua | 1.8k words pulse | lnds | zayne | 1.3k words my pace | skz | seungmin | 1.5k words allow me | lnds | greyson | 1.3k words my reward | haikyuu | shirabu | 1k words listless | bllk | nagi seishiro | 842 words this love is ours | lnds | caleb | 5.4k words to love you more | lnds | xavier (lumiere) | 3.7k words your highness, believe me. | lnds | prince xavier | 9.7k words limbo | skz | lee know | 1.6k words sit still | lnds | rafayel | 1.2k words

November

the stars are jealous knowing you're by my side | lnds | xavier | 1.8k words kiss me or leave me | lnds | kieran | 1.5k words if i can have you | lnds | dawnbreaker | 1.8k words lock me in this dream | lnds | luke | 1.5k words praise | lnds | hcs - rafayel sylus xavier zayne caleb jeremiah luke kieran | 3.2k words to you who shines the brightest (i'll give you everything) - prelude | lnds | kieran | 200 words

December

sunday morning | lnds | caleb | 3.8k words to be loved is to be seen | lnds | caleb | 871 words - fluff warm you up | bllk | yoichi isagi | 1.6k words types of kisses | lnds | caleb | 875 words - suggestive

Overall Thoughts:

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d predicted?

WAY WAY WAY WAY WAY MORE oh my gosh. i knew i had a hyperfixation on lnds, but this is sincerely the most i've ever written for a fandom ??!! for comparison i wrote maybe like 10-ish in 2023 for various fandoms, and maybe like.... 25-or-so (give or take) for haikyuu once upon a time (though one of them was a multichaptered fic)... THIS, though?! absolute insanity omfg i never thought i could write this much in a year, and holy cannoli i really almost made it to at least one fic a month ?!

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted in January? 

you'd never believe me but. UHH.. SMUT, I GUESS? i mean, i've written like 1-2 smut fics before this year, but i didn't think i'd be writing this much of it LMFAO HGKJDFGKJ AND,,, HONESTLY yeah the love and deepspace fandom in general WHKJDF i did NOT expect to get this attached to the game, usually i don't tend to write for otome games? but this one had me in a CHOKEHOLD and i cant escape omg

What’s your own favorite story of the year? 

oh geez just ONE....!!! nooo it's too hard !!!!!!!! i'll go with my top three instead, in order, but they're actually all quite close together and i'm really proud of them :> (1) your highness, believe me. ; (2) don't let me love you ; (3) every word feels like a shooting star

Did you take any writing risks this year?

a LOT. like i mentioned, it's not like i was,,, super super experienced in writing smut before this, or anything? and i thought it'd be like a one-off fic once in a blue moon, because i definitely didn't start out all super comfy with writing it LMAO so i'd consider starting an nsfw-fic blog a risk? (i just wanted an occasional outlet, you know?) but WELL. LOOK WHERE WE ARE NOW (if you look through my writing chronologically... honestly... looking back im not super proud of my older fics LMAO you can def see the improvement there i think)

Do you have any fanfic or profic goals for the new year? 

PHEW I HAVE. THE UNHEALTHY HABIT OF TAKING ON SEVERALLLLLLLLLLLL NEW IDEAS ALL AT ONCE. I HAVE LIKE. DOZENS OF WIPS AND TO-WRITE-FICS (ok maybe not dozens, i CHECKED and it's about... nine) and the thing is i also love getting ideas??? so i HOPE to balance this moving forward omg and,,, that i can actually (1) get through all pending requests and (2) write that kieran series to my heart's content

From my past year of writing, what was…

My best story of this year:

honestly? i'd tie between "your highness, believe me." (xavier) and "don't let me love you" (kieran), because i'm super extremely happy with how those came out !!! like they're those kind of fics that just,,, i look at them and sometimes i can't believe i wrote them WHNJVFDKJ

My most popular story of this year: 

so including headcanons, then most definitely my "somnophilia" post WHKGSJDG it was at like 9k-ish notes the last time i checked (last month)???? absolutely INSANE to me because i didn't think it was my best writing (plus it's SO short?!), but it makes me happy to see it so well-received !!!!!!!!! if it's just actual fics though, there's "youtiful" (rafayel) at 1.4k notes !!!!! <3

Story of mine most under-appreciated by the universe, in my opinion:

oh geez i think i'll actually say "begin again", but also at the same time i'd understand why that is, considering jeremiah is a side character and not one of the LI's? i do think i wrote it pretty well though and regardless i do wish it reached a wider audience ngl HWFKSJNG if i had to choose from the fics i have of the LI's though, i think i'd go for "every word feels like a shooting star" !!! purely because it is a 13k words+ fic, and it did take me quite a lot of time to write, that i wish it got a little more engagement hehe (the same for "your highness, believe me." at 9.7k) but THAT'S TO SAY, I'M STILL SUPER GRATEFUL FOR ALL AND ANY OF THE SUPPORT I'VE GOTTEN NONETHELESS !!!! <333

Most fun story to write:

"don't let me love you" IMMEDIATE ANSWER because THAT. was the most fun i had writing FOR THE WHOLE ENTIRE YEAR oh god whgddnkf i wrote that during entrance exam season?! my exam kept getting postponed due to typhoons, and i was like fuck that and wrote this in probably like.... two days or so HGSKNDV i had SO much fun with it, like a piece of comfort for me <3

Story with the single sexiest moment:

personal opinion i'm torn between "i'll do anything you say, if you say it with your hands" and "muse" which............. coincidentally are both rafayel fics whoopsie HGSNKDVMDHG i'm actually not very sure what others would choose though, but i did see "pulse" (zayne) and "pretty girl" (l&k) quite well-received !! (the tags were fun to read hehe)

Most “holy crap, that’s wrong, even for you” story:

HM,,,,,, I DON'T PARTICULARLY THINK I'VE WRITTEN ANYTHING REALLY INTENSE SO FAR................... but i do know that "candy" was a stretch that some people weren't happy with (because. you know. candy.), "red lights" was definitely on the more intense side at least out of the fics that i do have, and "muse" (the paintbrush scene.......) had some people pretty shocked lmfaooooo BUT UH,,, CAN'T HELP MUCH i tend to write on the fluffier vanilla side of things GHKSDJG

Story that shifted my own perceptions of the characters:

"youtiful" (rafayel), "youtiful" (xavier)! really had to do some digging for rafayel's so i could get his personality right for it, and i do have to say that writing it made me appreciate his character more! xavier's had me focusing more on the shining traces card which i'm not super fond of because i get sensitive to anger and there was quite a bit of it in that card, but i did get to appreciate the exploration of the whys and hows of his anger, which in turn made me appreciate him even more, too! (funny... after misty silhouette...)

Hardest story to write:

ANY of zayne's fics that i've written, but ESPECIALLY "if i can have you" (dawnbreaker) ... because oh geez. i say this ALL the time but i get SUCH perfectionist tendencies whenever i write him, like i never feel satisfied with how i portray him and sometimes i'd just rather not write rather than write something i feel is a lackluster portrayal of his character, you know? i love him to death, all of you know this, but writing for him does take a toll out of me x_x

Biggest disappointment:

nothing really comes to mind immediately i think...? i'm pretty happy with the things i've written and all the support i've been getting! if i'm disappointed, it's mostly because . i do owe . quite a number of requests HWFJVNSKDJGNKSVJ I'M SOSOSOSOSOSOSO SORRY I DIDN'T THINK I'D BE BAD AT GETTING THROUGH REQS BUT WE'RE GOING TO GRIND ON THEM THIS MONTHHHHHHHHH

Biggest surprise:

everyone's support honestly omfgggggggggg i feel like a broken record but really truly i never thought i'd be receiving so much love from everyone. i started this blog very much on a whim, didn't even expect to be active on it????? but waaaaah it makes me incredibly happy sharing little pieces of myself with you all, and hearing it offer comfort, or joy, and all the little things!!

Most unintentionally telling story:

HMMMMMMMMMMM. either "begin again" (jeremiah), "youtiful" (zayne), or "youtiful" (xavier)! those three are very personal to me and also my own personal comfort fics!!! though... they were written intentionally to be personal fics? i'm not sure if i've found which fics of mine are unintentionally telling.... but lemme know which ones you think so, i guess!! :>

Highlights + Wrap-up:

5 Favourite Opening Lines:

1. "You knew well what it was like to drown. The tilt of his head, the subtle tug of the corner of his lips—his eyes were half-lidded, eyebrows raised as he looked at you. But whether from amusement or sheer exasperation at your lack of response, you couldn’t quite tell anymore. You’d been trapped in his allure from the start—there was no more escaping. You knew well what it was like to drown." - once upon a december

2. "This was how it was to be in love with you. The sweet smell of roses, a walk under the cherry tree…. The calm breeze of morning and soft, fresh linen sheets. Sunlight peeking in through the window, pages of a book. Of words that could mean more to him than he could ever think to describe." - to love you more

3. "It was like stardust. Speckles of light gathered around his figure, illuminated in such a glow that wouldn’t dare allow you to look away. If a few moments ago he’d brought you out for a walk under the stars, that view of the sky was nothing compared to the view in front of you now." - the stars are jealous knowing you're by my side

4. "You don't fall in love with someone in the span of a few days. It didn’t work that way—love was a fickle emotion; complicated, unpredictable… terrifying. To approach it meant silent steps. It meant biding your time, holding out your hand, moving forward little by little…" - if i can have you

5. "You’d made many mistakes over the course of your life—some, then, including the ones you’d made tonight." - kiss me or leave me

[honorable mention]: "The fact of the matter was this: Blankets were comfortable." - sunday morning

5 Favourite Closing Lines:

1. "The moonlight illuminated many things. Now, it cast both your bodies in an ethereal glow, settled together in an intimate, loving embrace." - pulse

2. "The warmth of his words, blending in with his familiar, most precious nickname for you, had you easily forgetting whatever trepidations you had in your heart. Maybe, you thought, whatever came with this new door in your relationship was worth it—especially if you could be in his arms the way you were now, listening closely to the lull of his heartbeat." - treacherous

3. "To be loved is to be seen. And he sees you, and you see him. To you, there's no greater love than that." - to be loved is to be seen

4. "His eyes fell closed. This time, he felt—this was a promise he could make for you. This time, knowing he had you, he thought… Perhaps, he could. "…Mhm. Rest now,” he whispered. “And I’ll be by your side. Always."" - every word feels like a shooting star

5. "“I believe you. I do, and I will, and you—you will be my Queen. I will make sure of it. Beside me, with me.” A slow, shaky breath— “Your Highness, believe me.” - your highness believe me.

5 Favorite Lines from Anywhere:

1. "And I love you became goodnight; I love you became stay; I love you became come back; I love you became come with me. It became a glance. It became a touch, it became the tug of your hand. It became gentle ruffles of your hair, it became smiles, it became laughs, it became—you. Love became you." - every word feels like a shooting star

2. "“If your vow is to protect me,” he murmured, “then mine is to protect you. If your vow is to love me… then, so, too, will my vow be to love you. You are not behind me. You’re with me.”" - your highness, believe me.

3. "The music had since been long forgotten. Familiar, yet faded within distant memory, as the world, once more, became filled with you." - every word feels like a shooting star

4. "All fragrant perfumes as petals unfurl one by one, a sea of beautiful pinks and reds enough to blind you into their allure and have you bleed—you had always felt this way. Every rose had their thorns; and you’d just never learned to love… without them." - begin again

5. ""Don't let me love you." You could hear it in the way he kissed you, the way he moved against you, the way he almost seemed to have lost any control he had in his body and his only thought was to consume you. "Don't let me love you." But it was too late." - don't let me love you

Fic-writing goals for 2025: 

i should organize my wips and actually finish them </3 IM ALSO GOING TO WHFKSJDNGK GET THROUGH REQUESTS I PROMISE OMG. IVE TAKEN FOREVER FOR SOME OF THEM IM SO SORRY

[fandomfablesunleashed]

Birthday Boy

Ace x reader

hurt/comfort

Summary: On Ace's birthday, amid a lively celebration on the Whitebeard Pirates’ ship, you notice the guest of honor is missing.

Something small for our birthday boy.

🫶 @captainportgasdace 🫶

It was a big day today—the start of a new year and, coincidentally, Ace's birthday. To celebrate, Whitebeard's pirates threw a big party.  Everyone seemed to be having a great time. There was one thing amiss, though—the birthday boy was nowhere to be seen. So, you made it your little quest to find him.

Luckily, you didn’t have to search for long, as he was in his room. You knocked gently and opened the door slowly, peeking your head through. He was sitting on his bed, playing with his hat, a sorrowful expression on his face.

“Hey. What’s wrong?” you asked. 

“Nothing,” he answered quickly, still not looking at you.

Shaking your head, you stepped inside, closing the door behind you and sitting beside him. “Bullshit. I can see that something is troubling you. You know you can talk to me, right?” you said, wishing he would open up to you. It pained you to see him so sad—especially on his birthday.

You sighed when you were met with silence. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” you continued, gently putting your hand on his arm and rubbing it softly.

He made a face at the word friends, and you narrowed your eyes at him, trying to understand his behavior. Had you offended him somehow?

“Aren’t we?” you asked, worried.

He was quick to shake his head and reassure you. “No, no, we are. We so are.”

Relief flooded through you immediately. “Oh, good. Then please tell me what’s wrong,” you practically begged, wanting nothing more than to see his beautiful smile. “Or… do you want to be alone right now?” you added hesitantly. You didn’t want to leave him like this, but you wanted to respect his space if that’s what he needed. “I can go if you want me to. I just—” Your voice wavered. “I saw you upset, and I couldn’t just leave you like this. I care about you too much to ignore it.”

You were about to ramble on more, but he cut you off.

“Why do you have to say such things?” His question sounded fragile, quite different from what you were used to hearing from him.

“What do you mean?”

He stayed silent for a moment, fiddling nervously with his hat, before finally breaking the silence. “You always say how you care for me, how good it is to have me around, or how I make you laugh. And today… today, you told me that you’re lucky I was born…” His voice cracked slightly, and it tugged at your heartstrings.

“Is it a bad thing that I compliment you or that I genuinely like having you around?”

“No, it’s just… I don’t deserve it,” he murmured.

The words hit you like a blow. You froze, stunned by the weight of his confession. How could he possibly think that way? He was the most extraordinary person you had ever known, and it pained you to see him unable to recognize it.

“That’s insane. You’re great, and you deserve everything,” you stated firmly.

“But—”

You interrupted him right away. “No buts, Ace.” You hesitated briefly before reaching out, taking his hand in yours. “You’re so amazing, so brave, so kind… Nothing—not your heritage or anything else—can ever take that away.”

Before you could say more, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace. The gesture took you by surprise, but it was far from unwelcome. You responded instinctively, wrapping your arms around him, your hands gliding over his back in gentle, soothing strokes.

“You’re everything to me,” he whispered against your shoulder, the vulnerability in his voice almost breaking you. You swallowed your emotions, trying not to let them overwhelm you.

Leaning back just enough to meet his gaze, you cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing away the tears streaking his cheeks. “And I’m really, really glad you were born,” you said, your voice filled with conviction.

“You are?” he asked, sounding so unsure yet so hopeful.

“Yeah, I definitely am,” you stated firmly before kissing his forehead tenderly.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

He hugged you once again, hiding his face in your neck. His grip was almost crushing, but you didn’t have the heart to tell him, so you simply brushed his hair gently with your fingers.  If this was what he needed, you were more than willing to give it to him.

You stayed like that for quite some time until he eventually loosened his hold and pulled back, and you were rewarded with his beautiful grin. It was softer than usual, more sweet and fond.

“Well, I guess I should go back to my party,” he said with a small chuckle.

“Yeah, let’s celebrate how amazing you are,” you replied, standing up and extending a hand to help him.

He put his hat back on and took your hand, standing up with ease. Then, with a playful tug, he pulled you toward the door. Apparently, he had no intention of letting you go, and you certainly didn’t mind that.

As you walked together, your hands still entwined, you made a mental note to remind him more often just how incredible and important he truly was—and how glad you were that he had been born.

And that the world was infinitely better because he was in it.