#like 1. it doesn’t even matter 2. it’s just the fucking title

[frederickkittens]

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[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 2 - Under My Skin

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

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

Chapter title from Akaska Sad by Rina Sawayama

Word Count: 15.7k

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

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

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Read on A03!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This magic, witchy bullshit was fake. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dad scowled. “A cat.”

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

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

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

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

That last question did get them kicked out, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That had probably been a lie too.

It hadn’t sounded like a lie. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A really long time. 

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

“Dean Winchester.” 

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

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

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

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

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

Dean shrugged. “I asked louder.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is he okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch it-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think you’re smart-“

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

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

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

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

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

“You got a problem with that, Winchester?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you seen it?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not alone.

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

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

“You’re not going to deal with me.”

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

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

“What makes you think that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he stayed.

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

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

“Where are you staying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You remember my car?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How-“

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

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

Maybe he’d get to keep Her.

Maybe they could start over.

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

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

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

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

“I heard that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why-"

"You don't drink."

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

"Safer?"

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

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

"Because you hunt alone."

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean blinked. "What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's- I-"

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

"That's not-"

"You listen to me, Princess-"

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

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

"No I don't-"

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

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

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

"I am not stupid-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean frowned. He was not obsessed with Her. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean blinked. "Go? Like, now?"

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

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

"You take care of the girl?"

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

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

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

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

—————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

Worse, it meant Dean was here.

And you're going to fucking scream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s Bobby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean, you got the guns?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean it like that, Dad-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t need a gun-“

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

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

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

“You’re getting in my fucking way-“

“You’re-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Dean’s still slumped on the floor. 

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

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

You don’t know what he saw.

“What the hell-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get out.”

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

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

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

“I ain’t askin’-“

“It’s not up to you-“

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

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

“You’ve done enough.“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you just sit in the car. Sit in the cancerous darkness that’s alight in your body, the image of Dean’s pained features burned into your eyes, flashing in front of you whenever you blink. All that boiling hatred for Dean is gone. Evaporated into thin air, leaving you ill and pained and empty. John was right. You hadn’t been fast enough, and Dean got hurt. Your barrier against the poltergeist made it violent, and Dean got hurt. You’re the sick one. It’s why he left to begin with. 

He was better for it. He didn’t need you—no one needed you—and John’s threat hadn’t been empty, so you need to drive away and never look back.

And yet you end up in the motel parking lot. Hunched in your seat as you wait for just a little proof that Dean’s okay. That you hadn’t held him and shattered him, like he’d shattered you. You’re there until the sun breaks the sky, until it’s beating over your head and you have to crack the windows. 

You’re there when your phone starts to ring, and you realize you’d forgotten to call Bobby.

You’ve barely picked up when he starts shouting, and you flinch away from the speaker. 

He uses your full name. First, middle, and Singer. He only uses your full name when he’s proud of you, or furious. And this feels more like the latter. You’re in trouble.

“You wanna tell me,” he hisses. “Why John fuckin’ Winchester knows who you are?”

“I, uh-” You swallow, twisting a ring with your thumb. “I don’t-“

“And I ain’t gonna buy your bullshit, kid, that shit doesn’t work on me.”

You sigh. “Bobby, look-“

“No, you look. I didn’t teach you to be a goddamn idjit dumbass,” he snaps your name, and you curl a little further into your seat. “You know what he’d do to ya’. Shit, what are you plannin’ on doin’ if you have a slip? If he sees that hoodoo shit happen?”

“Um, he might have already seen it.”

There’s silence on the other end for a long second, then a low, “What.”

“We just finished a poltergeist case.” You mumble, hoping he’s too angry to catch onto the why are you on a poltergeist case part. “And it attacked Dean. And I killed it.”

Bobby says your name slowly. “How the hell did ya’ kill a-“

“With my hands. I just, um, burned it.” You take a long breath. “And I think John saw.”

“And he just let ya’ off the fuckin’ hook-“

“Dean got hurt.” You whisper, and the words sting your tongue. “He was focused on that.”

“Balls.” Bobby mutters, and you can picture the frown on his face. “Well, you’re outta there now, we can-“

“No.” You sigh. “I can’t go, I have to-“ You cut yourself off, because it sounds stupid in your head. You do not have to make sure Dean’s okay. He hates you, everything logical in your brain says that you should be remembering how to hate him any time soon, and he’s not yours tocare about. John made that clear with his threat. Dean made it clear by leaving. But you’re still in the parking lot. And you still have to make sure Dean’s okay.

Bobby says your name through the phone, his voice slow. “You gonna tell me what happened last year. On that moroi hunt.”

“I ran into the Winchesters-“

“I ain’t slow, kid, I worked that part out. What happened that made you call me and flop around the house like a widowed fish for a week.”

You bring your knees up to your chest, shaking your head. “It’s… I can’t-“

“What if I ask if that was Dean’s shirt.” Bobby grunts. “That you were wearin’.”

“Yeah.” You drop your head back on the seat, letting out a heavy exhale. “It-“ 

You freeze, watching Dean finally step outside like he’s been summoned. He’s walking slowly, but walking, and he seems really okay, and he’s looking around the parking lot with a frown-‘

Shit.

You drop down in your seat, out of the view of the parking lot, and pray he didn’t see you.

“Bobby, I gotta-“

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, we still got some shit to sort out-“

“I’ll come right home.” You keep your voice hushed, in case it could carry on the wind. “And you can yell at me there.”

Bobby sighs. “I wasn’t gonna yell-“

“Yeah you were-“

“No-“

“Lying is a sin, Bobby.” You smile, carefully pulling the car keys out of your jacket. “You’re not a very good role model-“

“Well, I’m gonna fuckin’ yell at ‘ya now!” He snaps, but you can hear the slight amusement in his voice. “Get home quick, and we’ll deal with this. John don’t know you’re with me, and unless Dean needs a week after your hunt-“

“I think he’s fine.” You mumble, craning your head up to see Dean gone from the lot. “I’ll be safe at home.”

“Not if I kill ya’ for pullin’ this shit on an old man.” Bobby grunts, and you grin he falls silent, a long moment of static before- “You okay, kiddo?”

“I’m okay.” You mumble, and you’re not, but you will be. You always are. “And I’m really sorry for-“

“Apologizin’ ain’t gonna help us,” Bobby mutters. “Get home, and keep outta trouble till we sort this.”

You nod. “I will.”

You’ll try. Dean’s still pulling at you in your chest and consuming your head, but you’ll try. If only for Bobby’s sanity, you’ll really try.

You’ll pretend you don’t stay in the lot for a minute longer to watch Dean walk back to his room, that you don’t glance back at the room as you drive away, and you’ll keep yourself away of trouble. 

Away from Dean.

End Note: I’d say this story is about to be John vs Bobby on who’s a better dad, but that would be like making a mouse (John) fight a dragon (Bobby).

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

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[anxiousnerdwritings]

How did Ra or Talia react to Damian's feelings? (Ra is ready to raise a new generation of child murderers. God, the old man is ready to become a great-grandfather and lock the reader in a golden cage for Damian when he understands all the advantages.: 1. More heirs 2. Damian is at home because Bruce doesn't approve of incest)

Ra’s would be oddly supportive, weary but supportive all the same. Sure there’s underlying advantages to all of this, at least Ra’s can find some, but his main thing is having Twin!Reader home. He’s missed them dearly and knowing everything they’ve gone through and what they’ve been put through by so many, Ra’s would just have the most relief knowing that his beloved grandchild was back home with him. And if it gets Damian to come back too and take his place as heir then Ra’s couldn’t be more content. Although he’d be much happier if Twin!Reader were to become Head of the Demon like he always wanted but after everything they’ve gone through they need much needed rest and time to just be.

Then again depending on Twin!Reader in this situation, I could see Ra’s being all the more protective of them and not allowing Damian anything to do with them. Let alone anyone else for that matter. I could just imagine Twin!Reader being so broken in so many ways that they’re basically catatonic at this point and Ra’s isn’t going to allow for anyone to try and take even more advantage of them than what’s already been taken. Even if Damian were more than willing to give everything up for his sibling and take the title of being Head of the Demon, Ra’s wouldn’t accept it. How could he possibly trust Damian with his sibling after everything, after Damian himself had part in the breaking of his own twin. If, and big if, Ra’s were to allow Damian back he would need to prove himself greatly before Ra’s even considered allowing him anywhere near Twin!Reader again. And any interactions that are granted would definitely be supervised until Damian had fully gained Ra’s trust again and more.

When it comes to Bruce, in any other case, he wouldn’t be accepting let alone tolerating of anything remotely close to this when it came to any of his kids (let alone his literal biological kids) but I imagine him being pretty warped in his own obsession for Damian’s Twin!Reader. Especially as time goes on and things only get worse. He completely and utterly feels like he failed them and even though he would still very much so continue failing them now, I honestly think Bruce would be supportive of Damian’s feelings for his sibling. He doesn’t want to lose either of his kids again, he wants to finally bring the Reader home and take care of them like he should have been doing all this time to begin with. Bruce has his own making up he needs to do, his own making amends when it comes to Twin!Reader and in some fucked up way he thinks that’s what will come out of this. I don’t want to say Bruce would be all for this and fully accepting of it but he is more tolerating than anything else. He knows deep down that this is in no way, shape, or form acceptable whatsoever and it’s fucked up beyond belief but he also knows that Damian would go off on his own for his twin and knowing just how much Damian is barely holding on to his own sanity at this point that worries Bruce more than anything. At least this way Bruce is able to oversee everything, trying to keep Damian in check and not only him but the rest of the batfamily being there to intervene if need be, but either way it comes at a cost and that cost is Twin!Reader. And Bruce knows that, he knows that it makes him even more terrible than he already was.

In another, much more preferable scenario Bruce wouldn’t tolerate any of this whatsoever and would shut it down as soon as it reared its ugly head. His main priority is bringing home the Reader, taking care of them and trying to salvage what he can to give them some semblance of a life they never had, a life they more than deserve. And for a time Damian would push down his feelings once more but at this point it’s too late and he’s just about bursting at the seams. Maybe he can hold on long enough to finally bring his twin home and play the role of the brother he should have been until he inevitably can’t contain himself anymore. And you can bet Bruce is watching every step of the way, observing and planning how he’ll need to deal with this situation before it even begins. Inevitably Damian will feel pushed out and run to Ra’s who will take him in even if it only meant getting Twin!Reader back home to him. In this scenario Bruce would do everything in his power to do right by Twin!Reader, he’s failed them so much already he vows to never do so again. And he won’t. As much as it hurts him, Bruce would fight Damian and Ra’s as many times over as he has to to protect his other child. Bruce would most likely plan ahead for Damian’s inevitable plan to flee though and keep him contained, probably in the batcave until he could be trusted to be moved back into the manor. I could imagine Twin!Reader finding some sympathy in the situation for Damian, he’s still their brother after all and the time they got to have with him as their brother before he went off the deep end, even if it wasn’t entirely real and hid his true intentions, meant a lot to them. That’s all they ever wanted after all. While Damian is in containment it wouldn’t be too hard to believe that Twin!Reader would visit him, spending time with him. But they’re only doing so for their brother and wanting to help him get better, meanwhile Damian is downward spiraling even more now. His feelings only getting worse. I could see an older Damian being able to pull himself together much better than he would have before, being able to deceive Bruce and the other batfamily members into either letting him out or allowing him out of containment and into just being grounded now in the manor. Maybe Bruce sees through Damian’s deception but so long as Damian doesn’t act on his feelings, Bruce can allow him to be with Twin!Reader. Solely as a brother.

I don’t quite have thoughts about Talia in this situation yet, at least not too many thoughts. I’d like to imagine her actually trying to be a good mother in this situation for Twin!Reader and trying to protect them from Damian’s depraved feelings and both Ra’s and Bruce’s enabling (if that’s the scenario we’re going with). And just her overall trying to help her child get away, maybe even seeking refuge with Diana taking the Reader away to Themyscira or Talia herself going on the run with the child she had so loathed long before but now is desperately trying to protect.

[btssavedmylifeblr]

Void - Part 9 - Tuesday (M)

title banner by @rude–jude♡

Genre: Sci-fi with a little angst and a LOT of smut

Pairing: BTS x Reader (yup - all seven)

Summary: You are the only female crew member on a 12 year space mission with seven handsome men. The sexual tension is real, y’all.

Word Count: 5.7k

Part 9 / ?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Warnings: explicit sexual content, entirely too much discussion about semen, some jealousy, possessiveness and slut-shaming, semi-accidental voyeurism

__________

A rush of cold air against your sweaty skin makes you shiver. It’s much cooler out here in the hallway than in the steamy sleep pod behind you. You leave Jungkook behind in the sleep pod, still getting his clothes back on, but your lingering arousal stays with you. 

You’ve barely made it two steps into the hallway when the door across from you opens. Jimin leans against the door frame. Damn, he looks good. He has the sleeves of his dark blue jumpsuit tied around his waist, leaving him in just a loose white t-shirt that rides up his arms as he crosses them. 

“Well, good morning to you,” he says. “And what have you been up to this morning?” The smirk on his face makes it clear he knows damn well what you’ve been up to this morning. 

“Umm…” You wiggle your hips in discomfort, the remnants of Jungkook sliding between your thighs. 

Mercifully, Jimin doesn’t actually make you tell him what you’ve been up to. “Do you have a minute to talk?” he asks, beckoning you to join him in his pod. 

Lord, you really don’t want to have an awkward relationship conversation with Jimin with Jungkook’s semen still inside you. You try to brush him off. “I have a lot of work to do this morning, Jimin.”

He snorts. “Seems like you’ve already gotten a lot done.” He lets the statement hang there as he smirks at you again. It’s very annoying how hot he is right now. 

The click of the door latch behind you startles you into action. The last thing you want is to be trapped in this narrow hallway with both Jimin and Jungkook. “Yeah, okay,” you say, diving into Jimin’s pod before Jungkook sees you. 

“So should I plan on waking up to the sound of you fucking other men every morning or only on Tuesdays?” Jimin asks as he closes the door.

“Well, not on Thursdays.” You are trying to flirtatiously deflect, but irritation flashes across Jimin’s face.

“Yes, well,” he mutters. “I guess I’ll just wait my turn.”

“Hey, you suggested sharing first,” you reply defensively. 

“With one man, not six.”

“Why does the number matter?” You’re already carving yourself into pieces to make them all happy, why did it matter how many? “You’ll still get your turn.”

“Bah!”Jimin stomps his foot in frustration. “I’m not some toddler who is bad at sharing a toy! I don’t want to have you just because it’s my turn.” He almost reaches for you again, but drops his hands in defeat. “I want you to want me.”

You sigh. “I do want you, Jimin.” Even first thing in the morning, with his dark hair falling loosely over his forehead, he’s the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. How can you explain that you are genuinely and specifically attracted to all of your crew members without sounding like a floozy? “I’ve wanted you ever since I watched that damn video of yours. And long before that too.”

“Really?” He bites his plush lower lip. “How long?”

You fold your arms and lean back against the other side of the pod. Memories come back to you of your space walk training at the bottom of the ICSE pool. Jimin always hated the overly warm training suits and would strip out of them long before reaching the men’s locker room. His sweaty t-shirts would stick to his skin, slightly translucent. It was impossible to keep your eyes off him as he’d laugh with the other guys and brush his hair back off his forehead, indifferent to your presence.  “Longer than you’ve wanted me,” you finally answer.

His eyes widen in surprise. “On Earth?” he asks. 

You nod. You chastise your past self for ever thinking that your insatiable thirsting for your crew wouldn’t become a problem eventually.

“Shit.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I had no idea.” He steps closer to you. “You were always so closed off.”

“Well, I’m not supposed to want you. Wanting you is highly inconvenient.”

He smiles as he leans in. “But you just can’t help yourself?” He glances down to your lips.

“Oh, don’t look so smug.” You push against his chest as his hands find their way around your waist. 

“I’m allowed to be smug.” He rests his forehead against yours. “The hottest woman in the universe wants me.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m the only woman in your—“

But his lips are on yours before you can finish your sentence, one hand gripping your waist as the other finds its way to the nape of your neck, pulling you deeper into the kiss. 

All your arousal that had been simmering just below the surface comes rushing back as his fingers caress your neck and along your jaw. His lips are just the right balance of soft and firm. You moan as he breaks away from your lips to begin kissing down the side of your neck. 

“But then how can you only want me on Thursdays?” he asks between kisses. “I want you every day. Mondays. Tuesdays. Wednesdays. All the time. God, I haven’t even bothered to remember what day of the week it is for the last two years and now it’s all I can think about.”

“I obviously don’t only want you on Thursdays.” You gasp as his hand finds your breast over your jumpsuit, closer to the surface then it would normally be since you abandoned your shirt with Jungkook. “I’m just trying to be fair.”

“Fairness is overrated.” He sucks on the junction of your neck and collarbone as you tilt your head back to give him more access. “Shit, are you not wearing a shirt?”

His hand is on your zipper before you can answer, tugging it down to discover the answer for himself. “Good lord,” he mutters, hands caressing your bare sides and breasts. “Where is your shirt?”

“I’m having a bit of a laundry problem.” You run your fingers through his hair, holding tight as he peels down your bra and runs his tongue across your nipple. “Somehow all my clothes are covered in cum.”

He groans out loud at that, sinking to his knees as he kisses down your belly, following the opening in your jumpsuit. “Shit, really? Jungkook?” And then he pauses and looks up at you. “What did he do?”

“You really want to know?” You ask and Jimin nods. You laugh. “It’s more what I did to him.”

“Tell me,” he urges. “And take this off.” He tugs at the bottom of your zipper. 

“Made him beg.” You shrug out of the jumpsuit, in your bra and panties once again. Your panties stick to you where Jungkook’s remnants have merged with your own arousal. Jimin’s eyes are glued to them. “Rode him until he came inside me.” 

Jimin licks his lips and looks up at you. “Can I see?”

You tilt your head curiously. “That doesn’t bother you?”

He laughs a little, shaking his head. “Maybe it will later, but right now, it’s just super hot.”

A whole new rush of heat runs through you as you slide your panties down. This is the dirtiest thing you’ve ever done. One man kneeling rapturously in front of you to see you covered in the release of someone else. It’s debauched and it’s glorious. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if you should stop this and wait for Jimin’s assigned day, but your logical brain vacated its post the moment Jimin knelt in front of you. 

“You do like being messy, don’t you?” He runs a careful finger along your labia and your legs tremble. “Doesn’t matter whose cum it is, does it?”

“Fuck, Jimin, please.” You tug on his hair, needing him to do something, anything. 

He gathers a glob on his finger before flicking it to the floor. He stands up and kisses you again, the hand sticky with cum now caressing your cheek. It’s both tender and filthy. And then he’s turning you around to face the wall of the pod. “Bend over.”

Your legs are trembling so hard you have to cling to the wall, but you allow him to guide you down so you’re bent at ninety degrees, hands on the wall, ass out. You hear him strip out of his clothes and then a finger slips inside you. 

“God, you’re so wet.” His hands grip your hips as he replaces his finger with his cock. “How many times did he get you off?”

Jimin eases his way into you and the tenderness makes you groan. “He didn’t,” you pant. 

“Amateur,’ Jimin scoffs. He reaches around to your front and finds your sensitive clit. The trembling in your legs gets stronger as he begins rolling his hips. 

“He wanted to,” you gasp. “Didn’t let him.”

“Don’t even care about your own pleasure, huh? Just want to take all the cock you can?” He pairs the teasing with a firm pressure from both inside and out and you’re shattering around him, unable to deny how much it turns you on to be used by them all. 

You hear the smile in Jimin’s voice, how proud he is of himself, as he tightens his grip on your hips and speeds up his pace.  

“You’re mine now though. You were mine first and you’ll always be mine. Whenever any of them fuck you, I’ll fuck them out of you. Replace them with me. The only cum you’ll be carrying around inside you is mine.” 

He stills, leans over to kiss your back and neck as he fills you up. You can feel his self-satisfied grin against the skin of your back. 

He slides out of you, patting your ass as he goes. Your whole body flushes as yet more cum leaks from you. God, you’re a mess. He kneels down behind you and picks up your panties, sliding them back up your legs. 

“That’s better,” he says as he slides them up and over your ass, trapping his cum against you.  

“Uh, thanks,” you reply, completely at a loss for what to say as a weird cold feeling begins churning in your stomach. You have the sudden worry that Jimin is going to expect every day to go like this, even those that aren’t his. “Gonna go clean up now.”

Jimin grins and kisses your cheek. “See you soon,” he whispers. 

______________

And so you find yourself once again attempting to de-sperm yourself in the space toilets. Another tinge of doubt washes over you as you stare at the flimsy compostable toilet paper and contemplate trying to do this every day for the next 12 years. Is that what you’ve committed yourself to? Multiple times a day? Multiple men per day? Surely they will grow bored of you eventually, right? This falls way outside your mission parameters. Maybe you should call this whole thing off.

Despite your best efforts with the toilet paper, you’re still gross and sticky. Your jumpsuit and underwear are gross and sticky too. There’s nothing for it. You need a shower and some clean clothes. 

Showers weren’t an everyday luxury on the Minos. You could only manage once or twice a week without outpacing the water reclamation system. Technically you weren’t due for another day or two, but you couldn’t wait any longer. 

The showers and the laundry machines sit in the same section of the ship near the water tanks. Before heading there, you jog back to your sleep pod to gather up the rest of your dirty laundry. Jungkook is long gone. Your shirt/make-shift blindfold lies thrown in a corner. As you gather up your scattered clothes, the stink of your laundry makes another way of regret wash over you. You were only one and half days into your new plan and all your clothes are covered in bodily fluids. This is exhausting. 

The laundry machines and showers also happen to sit right next to Yoongi’s workshop and you can’t help wondering about him as you walk in that direction. You haven’t seen him since your striptease in the kitchen.

“Okay, I’m in,” he had sent you. It betrayed so very little of what he’s thinking. And the question of what exactly he wants from you is still unanswered. But at least he has admitted to wanting you. Your stride slows as you pass his workshop, scanning with your peripheral vision while trying to look like you aren’t checking to see if he’s in there. 

But the workshop is dark and empty. Whatever his feelings for you, they will remain a mystery for now. 

God, what is the matter with you? You’ve already fucked two men this morning and here you are pining for a third. That can’t be normal, can it? The ICSE really fucked up when they decided to send the world’s horniest woman on this mission. 

You continue to chastise yourself as you load your laundry into the machines.  The laundry machines sit in a vestibule just outside the showers with a door to the hallway that locks, so you are able to strip off the clothes you are wearing now as well and run them through the laundry while you shower. Removing your wet underwear makes you cringe. How have you managed to go from “first woman to pass the orbit of Mars” to “woman with two different men’s semen in her underwear”?

You’re so preoccupied with your self-slut-shaming that you don’t hear the water running behind the shower door. The door was unlocked and there weren’t any clothes in the machines, so you just assumed the shower was empty. But you are wrong.

Flight Engineer Min Yoongi is standing in the shower completely naked and dripping wet. His back is to you as he washes his face. His long dark hair runs down over his shoulders. When did his hair get so long?

He doesn’t see you, face still covered in soap, but turns his head as the door clicks open. “Hey! Occupied!” he calls out. 

“Oh shit!” you curse, backing up. Shit. You’re naked too. Shit. All your clothes are in the washing machine and must be soaking wet by now. You attempt to cover yourself with your hands as you debate how to get out of here.

“Oh, is that you, Officer?” he chuckles, wiping the soap and water from his eyes before turning to greet you, smirk on his face. “I thought I wouldn’t be seeing you until Friday. Come to get a sneak peek?”

Your face is on fire, you are so embarrassed. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

He looks totally calm, running his gaze up and down you luxuriously. “No worries. We are in a ‘consensual sexual relationship’ now, aren’t we? Or should I be hiding my dick from you Saturday to Thursday?”

His demeanor is infuriating and you feel so foolish. “Why didn’t you lock the door?”

He shrugs. “Tuesdays are my shower day. No one is ever here but me.” He looks you up and down again and there is really no hiding anything from him. “The real question is what are you doing here?”

Shit. How do you get out of this conversation? “I, umm, needed a shower.”

He laughs, turns off the water and shakes his head, long hair sending drops of water flying around the sealed room. “You know this plan of yours is gonna fuck with our whole shower schedule, right?” 

It’s hard to focus on what he’s saying as he wraps his hand around his hair and pulls it up into a bun behind his head.

“When did your hair get so long?” Your voice is higher pitched than normal and you grimace.

“Oh yeah…” He tucks one of the shorter loose strands behind his ear. “It’s been getting in my way. I was going to ask if you might have time to cut it on Friday.” He pulls a towel from the wall behind him and wraps it around his waist. 

“Oh, no, no, no…” you rush out, heart skipping a beat at the allusion to your day with him.

“Oh.” He frowns. “Okay. That’s fine.”

“No, I just mean, don’t cut it.” You giggle nervously. “I just mean, uh, it looks good. As is.”

“Aha.” He grins and you watch a water drop glide from his jaw down his throat. “Well, in that case, I imagine there are more enjoyable things we could be doing…” He walks closer, and reaches toward you as your heart races. You close your eyes and give up trying to  cover yourself as his warm wet body comes right into your personal space. “On Friday,” he finishes, reaching the door handle behind you and popping it open. 

God, you hate him. “Um, yeah, sounds good,” you mutter as you dive out of his way. 

“Looking forward to it,” he replies, eyes dark with intention, before heading out the door. “Enjoy your shower, Officer.”

______________

A shower has you feeling much more like yourself again. But when you get to the kitchen for breakfast, you nearly walk right back out when you see who’s gathered around the table. 

Jin, Jungkook, Jimin and Taehyung are all sitting at the table, munching on their breakfasts. The prospect of sitting next to three different men you’ve watched orgasm in the last 24 hours makes the idea of eating feel entirely impossible. Not to mention the very hot man you are just pretending to sleep with. How has your life gotten this messy?

You are about to flee down the hallway when Jin looks up and makes direct eye contact with you. 

“Good morning!” Jin greets you and suddenly all four men’s eyes are on you. “Come sit with us!” He pats the chair next to him. “Taehyung made scorched rice.” 

Your brain helpfully chooses this moment to remind you that the last time you saw Jin, you came on his face. 

Taehyung nods enthusiastically and mumbles through a mouthful of rice. “There’s plenty left.” He swallows and gestures to the pot on the cooktop. 

Jungkook springs up from his seat. “I’ll get you some!” He pulls out the chair between him and Jimin, not the one Jin was suggesting. “Have a seat.” 

“Oh, uh, thanks, but I need some coffee too.”

“I’ll get it!” Jimin pops up too. “You rest.” He also clearly gestures at the seat that would put you next to him and Jungkook. Jin frowns slightly, while Taehyung bites back a laugh. 

“Oh, okay…” You run out of objections and sit down at the table while Jungkook and Jimin run to bring you breakfast. “This really isn’t necessary,” you mumble, but they’re not listening. 

Jungkook returns first with a bowl of stew and a plate of scorched rice for you and then sits down next to you. The memory of him on his knees begging to touch you flashes across your mind.

You take a bite of your food as the other men at the table resume eating. Jimin returns a minute later with your coffee. You take a sip and grimace at the too sweet concoction. Jimin still doesn't know how you take your coffee.

“Something wrong?” Jimin asks. 

You swallow it down. “No, it’s fine. Thank you.”

There’s a few moments of silence while everyone eats, before Jin nudges Jungkook with his elbow. “Seems like someone got a pretty early start this morning, huh?” he says teasingly.

“Jin!” you gasp as Jungkook chokes on his food. “You can’t just say things like that!” You pat Jungkook on the back to make sure he doesn’t die. 

“What?” Jin shrugs. “Isn’t everything supposed to be out in the open now?”

“Mmm,” Taehyung nods, hiding his mouth behind his hand as he laughs. “Like the bonobos.”

“Fucking bonobos.” Jimin groans. 

“It seems more awkward not to talk about it.” Jin continues. “We all heard him in there. Why pretend otherwise?”

Jungkook finally manages to swallow. “You heard us?”

“The walls aren’t thick,” Jin laughs. “Impressive that you can go two rounds that early in the morning. Ah, to be young.”

“Two rounds?” Jungkook frowns in confusion. Your entire face feels like it will melt off. Jimin says nothing, but his hand finds your knee under the table next to him and squeezes it.

“Speaking of,” Taehyung interrupts. “Can I take you on a date tomorrow night?”

“We can take you on dates?” Jungkook asks.

“Um yeah, sure.” You answer both questions at once. “Though it’s not like there’s really anywhere to go.”

“Don’t worry. I have a plan,” Taehyung nods smugly. 

“Can I take you on a date today?” Jungkook interjects. “Or do you only get one shot per day?”

“Uh… I don’t know. I didn’t really make rules that specific.”

Jimin’s thumb traces small circles around your knee and it’s a reminder that you’re not really sticking to even the limited rules you set out in the first place. Seven men is entirely too many men.

The conversation is mercifully interrupted by a shipwide message on your tablets. It’s from the commander. 

“A reminder to all crew members that any activities of an intimate nature are to be conducted in the privacy of the sleep pods. They are not appropriate for the public areas of the ship, which are monitored and recorded.”

The choice to put this in a written communication rather than an in-person conversation is surprisingly passive aggressive for Namjoon.

Taehyung looks at you. “What did you do?”

“She took all her clothes off in the kitchen!” Jin laughs.

“Excuse you! I covered the camera! You’re the one who ran me ass-first into our commanding officer!”

Jin sighs in delight. “Man, you should have seen his face.”

Jimin’s hand slides further up your leg and you’ve had enough. “Thank you all so much for breakfast, but Hoseok must need me in the lab by now.” You gather the remainder of your breakfast into your arms and back out of the kitchen. “I’ll see you later.” You’re not even sure which man you’re talking to. All of them really. There’s no escape. You will see all of them later. 

____________

For all your attraction to Hoseok and disappointment that he hasn’t signed your form yet, at the moment, you are a bit relieved. Hoseok puts on another science podcast and the two of you settle into your work for the day, safe in the knowledge that no one will come to proposition you. 

Or so you think until the end of the day, when Jungkook shows up at the lab door with a large plastic storage bin under one arm. Hoseok spots him first. 

“Hey, JK, what’s up?” he asks. “Do you have more samples for us?” He gestures to the box under Jungkook’s arm. 

“Oh, no.” Jungkook swallows, glancing down at the box. “It’s actually food.”

“Food?” Hoseok asks.

Jungkook steps farther into the lab. “I was hoping to treat our biologist to a dinner date.”

“Oh!” You and Hoseok are surprised in unison. 

“So you two are dating now?” Hoseok asks, looking back and forth between the two of you with raised eyebrows. “I thought this whole thing was just...” 

He trails off without saying the rest of the thought out loud and a frown line appears between his eyebrows.

“I’m not really clear on myself.” Jungkook takes this as an invitation to put the bin down on the lab counter and turn to you. “What are the rules exactly? Are we dating? Are we dating all the time or only on Tuesdays? Is it time-bound and when does it end? Does it end at midnight or can we fall asleep together? Can I hold your hand? Can I kiss you? Can I only kiss you on Tuesdays?”

Hoseok’s frown deepens and you rush to cut off Jungkook’s torrent of questions. “It’s not dating,” you try to explain. “We’re not…It’s not a relationship. I’m just trying to help people fill the void of what they’re missing from Earth. Like if they miss dates, we can have dates.”

“But it doesn’t mean anything?” Hoseok asks and you are totally stumped for what he wants the answer to that question to be. “You’re just pretending to be together one day a week?”  

“It’s not personal…” you reply, glancing back and forth between the two men, unsure which one you should be reassuring right now. 

But how could it be personal when you’re the only option? Like obviously they wouldn’t be choosing to date you on Earth. None of them chose you at all. They just miss sex and relationships and you can help them with that. But you can’t let yourself pretend it’s real. Or that it’s about you. 

“Nevermind.” Hoseok begins packing up his stuff. “It’s none of my business. I’ll leave you to your date.” The word “date” has a sarcastic bite to it that is unusual to hear in Hoseok’s voice. The temperature of the room seems to drop as he slings his supply bag over his shoulder and leaves. 

Jungkook turns away from you and busies himself unpacking food from his box onto the counter. His shoulders are a bit slumped and you really wish you could have talked to him alone. “It’s nothing fancy,” he mutters. “Just some sandwiches and drinks.”

You walk over and rest your hand on his shoulder. “That’s really thoughtful, Jungkook, thank you.” He freezes for a moment when you rest your hand on his back, then sighs and leans into your touch. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur as you rub his back. He tilts his neck back and forth and groans in a pleased way. “We can hold hands. If you want. And you can kiss me.”

That’s all the greenlight Jungkook needs as he spins around and pulls you into his arms, He gives you a hungry kiss, then pulls back. “God, I would love you seven days a week if you’d let me.” 

“I know, Jungkook.” A real tinge of sadness creeps into the edges of your mind. You can imagine a world in which it’s just you and Jungkook, passing the time to Europa in an endless string of orgasms and increasingly athletic sexual positions on every surface of the ship as he finds new ways to get you off. You hear Yoongi’s voice chastising you again. Nobody actually gets what they want.

But your regrets quickly melt away the more you kiss him. His kisses are full of fire and desperation. If anything, he seems even more eager than he was this morning. The memory of him kneeling before you, begging to be inside you, is intoxicating.

“I owe you an orgasm,” he murmurs between kisses. 

You can get on board with that plan. “Maybe we skip dinner,” you say as you start steering him toward the door. 

He finds your zipper. “Aww, but I worked so hard. I can get you off and we can still have time for dinner.”

Your hand stops his from pulling down the zipper any further. “Jungkook, this is the lab.”

“So?” Jungkook is too focused on running his hands up and down your hips and ass over your clothes.

“So…” you grab his hands to get his focus back on your face. “Namjoon said sleep pods only.”

There is more to it than that. Something about the lab feels particularly like a betrayal. But it’s hard to put into words. 

“Oh come on, he just doesn’t want us on the cameras.” He starts guiding you by your hips toward the lab bench in the corner next to the door. “But I know where all the camera blindspots are.”

“I don’t know…”

“Just let me show you.”  Continuing to kiss you, he slowly backs you up into the wall just to the right of the door. He leans his forearms on the wall above you, caging you against the wall in between the door and the lab counter. “Pull out your tablet,” he commands.

The camera feed of the lab visible on your tablet appears to show an empty room. “See,” he says, kissing your neck. “No one here. Nothing to see.”

He picks you up and sets your ass on the edge of the lab bench. You like being manhandled by him more than you care to admit. He wiggles his eyebrows mischievously. “And this gets you to just the right height…” And then he’s dropping to his knees again. 

“I don’t know…” Your position up on the counter allows you to see out the window in the center of the lab door and out into the hallway. “What if someone sees us?” You want to sound concerned, but honestly the idea has you squeezing your legs together enthusiastically at the risk. 

“They can’t see us from the main hall. They’d have to be coming into the lab.” Jungkook’s hand cups your jaw and turns your face back down to him. “Watch me.” 

God, he’s so hot. Muscular hands and large eyes fixed entirely on you. 

“Okay, okay, but be quick about it.” You shuck your jumpsuit and underwear down your legs. 

“Yes, Ma’am.” He starts tracing little circles with his fingers up one thigh and trailing soft kisses up the other. “You remember when you were cutting my hair?”

“Yes….” you groan as his fingers reach the very top of your thigh, just short of where you really want them.

“And you were pulling my hair and using it to get my head in just the right position?”

You nod, ability to speak temporarily suspended as his mouth reaches the tender skin where your thigh meets your hip. 

“Well this is all I’ve been dreaming about since then. So feel free to hold on.” He scoots even closer on his knees, resting your legs on his shoulders and guiding your hands to his hair. 

You weave your hands through his soft dark hair and he groans. Arousal floods through you at the sound, your body responding in kind to how turned on he is. And then he dives in. 

He starts slow, but firm, no hesitation. Long slow strokes of his tongue around your clit, holding a steady rhythm. 

“Fuck,” you gasp. “How are you perfect at this too?”

He chuckles, so self-satisfied. “I’m a fast learner. Now will you relax and stop thinking?”

And you give yourself permission to let your guard down. To close your eyes. To relax into the sensations, the pleasure, the slow steady build. You’re so wet and open you barely notice when he slides a finger inside you, but you do jolt forward when he matches that steady pressure on your clit with internal pressure from his finger. It’s so good, you moan out loud and grip his head tighter.

Your eyes remain tightly shut, but you can hear his grin as he groans. “I’m going to make you come so hard.” The pride in his voice, the pleasure, it’s irresistible. 

And the pleasure builds and builds until it is overwhelming, almost beyond what you can tolerate, hands clenched in his hair for dear life, unsure if you’re trying to pull him off or press him in further. But the stubborn man holds his position, even as your hips buck against his face. “Fuck, Jungkook, fuck…” 

And you’re breaking, shattering into pieces under his tongue and clenching hard around his fingers. 

“Ugh…” you groan, leaning your head back on the lab cabinet behind you. Your breathing slows as you calm down, fingers still tangled in Jungkook’s hair as you open your eyes. 

There’s a face in front of yours when you open your eyes. His eyes are so dark that it takes you longer than it should to realize that they're not Jungkook’s eyes. Jungkook is still down on his knees as you process that the other man is standing in the hallway, watching you through the window. 

“Shit,” you gasp, yanking Jungkook away from you. “Hoseok…”

How long has he been there? How much did he see? Was he watching you? His gaze flicks up from where he’s been staring at the connection between you and Jungkook and meets your eyes. The intensity there is so overwhelming that it’s hard for you to make sense of it. Is it anger? Lust? Disgust? Then his eyes go wide as he realizes you see him and he disappears from view.

“Not exactly the name I was hoping you’d yell when you climaxed on my face…” Jungkook grumbles as he stands up and wipes his face on the sleeve of his jumpsuit. 

“Shit, sorry,” You reply as you frantically fight to get your clothes back on. “He was here, he saw us. I have to go.”

“But…” Jungkook gestures across the lab. “I brought dinner.”

“Sorry,” is all you can manage before you race out into the hallway. 

“Hoseok!” you yell as you run down the corridor. “Hoseok, come back!”

He’s not in the kitchen. He’s not on the bridge. “Officer Jung, report your location,” you try on your radio, but receive only silence. 

You are panting by the time you reach the sleep pods. The door to his is closed. “Hoseok!” you shout as you bang on the door. “Hoseok!”

You hear shuffling around inside the sleep pod and know he’s in there. “Hoseok!” you yell, almost on the verge of tears. “Hoseok, please talk to me.” 

The door opens just a crack, not enough to see him. “Please, Hoseok, I need to talk to you,” you plead. 

“I… I… can’t.” he stammers. “I can’t right now. Please. Just… just go away.”

Your stomach is full of lead as you shuffle into your own sleep pod next door and rest your head and arms against the wall, desperately trying to catch your breath. 

He hates you. You disgust him. You’ve betrayed everything you stand for. You’ll never be able to work in the lab again. 

A small knock on the door interrupts your thought spiral. 

“Hoseok?” you ask optimistically, scrambling to get up. 

“No, Jungkook again.” The hot ball of shame in your guts glows even brighter. 

“I’m sorry, Jungkook, I can’t right now…” If you see anyone else, you’re going to cry.

“I have dinner for you.”

“I’m sorry.” The idea of eating anything right now feels entirely impossible. “I’m not… I’m not hungry.”

A long exhale comes from the other side of the door. “Okay, goodnight.”

You collapse to the floor of your sleep pod as the weight of all your shame and guilt and irresponsible choices crashes down upon you. 

_____

Part 10

[lizard-on-a-window-pane]

When the Levee Breaks pt.1

pairing: Remus Lupin x reader

tags / warnings: friends to lovers fluff then smut, mutual pining, smoking weed (be responsible irl), high sex, explicit descriptions of oral (f receiving), fem!reader

NSFW notes: A LARGE PORTION OF THIS FIC IS NOT SUITABLE FOR MINORS; DO NOT READ IT IF IT ISN'T APPROPRIATE FOR YOU! HOWEVER, because such a long portion (like 2/3) has no sexual material (except for the implication at the very beginning), i have clearly marked where it becomes NSFW in case any age-appropriate readers want to read only up to that point (i know some people just want fluff not smut even if they're of age, and that's so chill); i will say there is drug use before then, so still adult material, but fluffy around that; please please be responsible for your content consumption

random notes: set in the late 70's / early 80's, following canon of when the marauders would've met but the rest of the world building (e.g. au) left ambiguous title inspired by a song on one of the albums mentioned idk why this turned out similar to The Prettiest Star with Sirius Black, but i guess my fantasy is just to listen to music intensely with someone then fuck lovingly lol

word count: 6.4k

hope you enjoy! thank you if you read it! 🫶

You watch as his long fingers, practiced and adept, roll the spliff. You liked this part. You could stare at his hands under the guise of watching the rolling. Remus didn’t have to know how far from pot your mind wandered when you did. He didn’t have to know it made you wonder every time what else he could do with this fingers. Imagine how they would feel on you. In you. 

At the thought, you squirm where you’re seated on his settee next to him. He chuckles in a low tone. 

“Antsy?” 

“No.” 

He can tell you’re lying. You can tell he can tell. But you don’t care. As long as he can’t tell why you’re lying, it doesn’t matter, and you can keep wriggling.

“Whatever you say, jitterbug.” 

Your wringing hands catch his attention, and his eyes fix on them even as his hands continue their work. 

“Next time, you’re rolling it,” he says through a smile. “There’d be nothing left to smoke by the time you finished shaking it everywhere,” he laughs, too amused with himself, giggling as if he were already high. 

“Remus?” you start, and he shakes his head and chuckles, loving how you get when he teases you. 

“What?” he smiles, eyebrows shooting up at you, both a welcome and a challenge for you to say whatever you’re about to. 

“Can you remind me who provided this wonderful gift on this wonderful afternoon?” You shake the baggy you brought to his flat not 15 minutes ago. 

He laughs, now nodding, and concedes, “You’re right, sunshine. I should be so grateful.”

Remus brings the spliff to his mouth to lick the edge of the paper, and your retort gets caught in your throat as you fixate on his tongue. 

A bit too late, a bit too quiet for your usual banter, you say, “You should be, Moons. I can still take it home and smoke by myself.”

“Oh now I’ve rolled it for you, yeah? Didn’t realize you were just here for my services. Should’ve known you were just pretending to love me till you got what you wanted.” He holds up his finished work — a beauty really — in front of you as he finishes his joke. You hum affirmatively, taking it from him and looking it over. 

You inspect it exaggeratedly and with a theatrical sense of casual satisfaction tell him, “Hm, not bad. I was starting to regret the long con, but I think this was worth it.” 

He’s giggling as he gets up, bumping his body against yours before he does, going toward his record collection. He walks over lazily, unhurriedly, his bare feet quiet on the floor, his hand coming up to mess with his hair. His loose, comfy clothes do a lot to hide the muscles you know are lean but strong underneath.

“Come help me choose,” he says over his shoulder as he falls to one knee to scan a lower shelf. Almost a whole wall of his small apartment is covered in shelves, boxes, stacks of records. It looks a mess, but it’s actually meticulously organized by release date.

You follow him, come up just behind him. You crouch, too, not all the way down like him. You lean on him, resting your head atop his, bringing your arms around his shoulders and neck. 

He moans casually, seeming happy, and grabs your arms where they fall across his chest. 

“Oh, Rem. You should know…”

“Hm?” he asks, looking up at you. You look down at him, seeing his warm smile upside down. 

“This is the real reason I’ve pretended to be your friend all these years,” you fake seriousness as you nod toward the records. Remus rolls his eyes, but his smile stretches further across his lovely face. It pulls on a long scar that runs down his cheek. 

“And may I ask how you knew when we were eleven that one day I would own such an epic collection?” 

“Easy. You wore a Led Zeppelin t-shirt one of the first days we knew each other.”

He’s taken aback by your giving an actual answer. 

“Did I really?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, smiling down at him. The warmth of reminiscing about those childhood years softening you. 

“I think I remember that shirt,” he smiles nostalgically. “How do you remember that?” He twists in your embrace, coming to sit on the floor and pulling you with him. You’re sitting close to each other, and he’s watching you, rapt. 

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I remember being so nervous and lonely at the beginning. Wanting to make friends. And you seemed nice, so I noticed you.” You shrug again, look down for a moment, not wanting to express embarrassment at a more honest recollection: you had a crush on him immediately, even back then, even before you were really sure what it was you were feeling — that came with the years that followed. “The day you wore that shirt, it was like something familiar I could latch onto. Someone who liked something I liked.” Remus is smiling adoringly at you. Listening as intently as he is, looking as giddy, he looks like a child at the greatest story time ever from his seat on the floor. 

“I even tried to talk to you about it,” you confess, cringing teasingly at yourself.

“Yeah?” He sits up straighter like a puppy hearing someone at the door. 

“Yeah,” you exhale. 

“I don’t remember that happening.”

“That’s because it didn’t,” you laugh. “I said tried to talk to you. I got too nervous and ran to hide before I could get the words out.” 

He’s shaking his head in disbelief, his smile still plastered on his face.

“I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed you yet.” Remus looks especially contemplative for a moment then hums, biting his lower lip. “It’s crazy. Trying to think of my life before you is like remembering a blank canvas.” 

Your cheeks warm and so does your heart. 

You’re smiling a beaming smile at him but say, “There wasn’t much to notice. I was pretty quiet. And besides, your attention probably couldn’t handle a single thing more given you were getting to know Sirius and James.” He laughs lightly at the good memories but shakes his head at you a little more pronouncedly. 

“I’m sure there was a lot to notice. I was just an idiot. And quiet, too. By comparison to that lot anyway. They spoke enough for the three of us. I probably would’ve wimped out if I’d tried to talk to a pretty girl like you back then.” The edges of his entrancing brown eyes crinkled from his smile. “I mean… to be honest… I’d get nervous for a while, talking to you at first.”

“You didn’t,” you tease but secretly really want to hear more.  

“I did, yeah. Of course I did,” he laughs at himself. “I had a big crush on you. James and Sirius wouldn’t let me live it down for ages.” 

You’re shocked at this news. And maybe your face shows it. What it doesn’t show is how desperately your mind is racing, questioning: “Wait, could things have been otherwise? Did he actually like me as more than a friend at some point? Did I ruin it somehow?”

Remus tenses slightly, his smile no longer reaching his eyes, which are attentive at your reaction. 

“That was a long time ago,” he jokes to fill the silence that is beginning to stretch too long, his tone awkward.

“What happened?” you whisper, unable to help it. 

He takes a second to answer, like he doesn’t know what to say. He’s searching your face, and you’re not sure how much he can read there. 

He shrugs. His face gives an “I don’t know” scowl. He’s trying to escape answering, but you don’t let him.

“Remus,” you laugh and shove him playfully. 

“I don’t know,” he giggles. “I don’t know. Then I got to know you I guess. And we became friends.” 

You give a scoffy laugh. You know he probably didn’t mean it that way, but your stomach sinks at the idea that getting to know you would remedy him of his crush. You’re staring at the floor when his voice breaks you out of your thoughts. 

“Hey, you okay?” He’s trying to keep the playful atmosphere, but you hear true concern in his tone. “Did I say something I shouldn’t’ve?”

You want to say “yes,” but you wouldn’t be able to tell him which part. So, you don’t say anything.

“I didn’t think you’d mind, after all these years,” he says more softly.

“No, Rem. Of course I don’t mind.” You shake your head as if dismissing the idea, attempting a laugh that still comes out strained. “I was just surprised is all.” 

He’s watching you, nodding subtlety, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. 

“Let’s choose something, yeah?” you nod next to you toward the wall, desperate to redirect attention.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course.” Remus turns toward the records, skimming across his stacks. A thought catches him, and he moves purposefully toward a different shelf.

“What are you thinking?” you notice, your interest piqued. 

“1971,” he says as if it’s an answer. It is to you. 

1971: the year you met. 

He pulls out a well-worn record, and the strain on your smile finally dissipates to easy delight. You come stand next to him, and he hands it to you. 

“Do you remember how much we listened to that then?” he asks. 

“How could I forget,” you smile, your fingers tracing the cover of Led Zeppelin IV. 

It came out November 1971, but neither of you could get it till at least a month later, during Christmas break from school. When you finally did, the two of you listened to it nonstop. You absolutely loved the album, but you knew you listened to it that much because it was an easy excuse to hang out with Remus. You’d been listening to music together, often just the two of you, ever since.

“Fuck, I remember we’d listen to it in my room,” Remus reminisces. “And even Sirius, the biggest Zeppelin fan of us all, couldn’t take it anymore,” he laughs. “He’d turn it off when he found us listening to it, scolding us for ‘abusing a sacred thing.’”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Oh, look at this,” Remus startles you, excited. He pulls another record off the same shelf.

“This is too perfect,” he giggles. “I didn’t remember this came out then,” he muses, looking it over. “Probably didn’t get my hands on it till much later, I guess. But it’s like it was made for us. For you.” He hands you Just As I Am by Bill Withers, but you still don’t get what he’s saying. He sees your confused look and chuckles. “Second track,” he hints. Your eyes land on “Ain’t No Sunshine.” 

“Sunshine”: Remus’s nickname for you for years. You had Sirius to thank for it actually. He’d said you and Remus were like yin and yang. And since you all already called him “Moony,” you had to be “Sunny.” The other three of you cringed at the sound of that, so he tried “sunshine” instead, conceding it was close enough, and it stuck. Over the years, Sirius and James used it less and less, Remus more and more.

“It’s your song,” Remus urges, knocking his shoulder against yours. “There literally can’t be sunshine when you’re gone because you are sunshine.” He sounds too excited, and it’s adorable. 

“You sound like Sirius saying he’s serious,” you tease. He just laughs and takes the record back.

“Whatever, grumpy. It’s an epic song, and you know it, and now it’s yours, and I don’t care if that’s cheesy.”

“I love it,” escapes you, teasing tone gone. His eyes snap to yours, and he looks at you warmly.

“Alright, sunshine,” he whispers. A beat. “Wanna listen to it?” he asks, voice almost normal again. You nod gladly then go back to the sofa as he sets it up.

Remus soon comes back and joins you. He grabs the spliff from between stacks of snacks you’d prepared for the afternoon then looks over at you.

“Ready, sunshine?”

“Mhhm.”

“You do the honours.” He hands it to you and grabs the lighter. Rather than handing that to you too, he lights it for you as it dangles from your parted lips. 

You take a long drag, feeling it enter you and welcoming it. You cough lightly as you exhale slowly. You are no novice but are still always a cougher. Remus still always giggles when you do, but it’s never mocking. He has a glass of water ready for you, knowing you well, always looking after you. You trade him the water for the spliff, which he proceeds to hit with equal enthusiasm and less wheezing.  

You pass it back and forth for a little while. It’s strong stuff and just three hits in, you feel it engulfing you. The settee feels softer; the music sounds better. 

“Ain’t No Sunshine” is playing, and in your dazed state, you’re sure this is going to be the peak of the album even if it doesn’t coincide with the peak of your high. You close your eyes, and you can feel the music on your skin. 

Remus chuckles next to you, and your face turns to him.

“You look so stoned right now,” he explains, giddy. 

“That’s because I am,” you laugh. Once you start laughing it’s hard to stop; once Remus joins, it’s almost impossible. 

You chat easily, observations and jokes from both of you greatly benefitting from the induced assistance. Remus has a revelation about your listening to HI-fi while high. Your mind is blown multiple times at how deep the lyrics are. 

“They’re all talkin’ at him, but he doesn’t hear a word they’re sayin’, Moons! Not a word! I should do that,” you tell him as if it’s the most urgent thing in the world. He cracks up. “He’s so right, you know? Gotta keep the sun shining through the pouring rain, you know?”

“Uh-huh, I know, sunshine, I know,” he just laughs at you.

“You have such a nice smile, Moony,” you observe, dazed just as much from the feelings perambulating through your system than the pot doing the same.

“Yeah?” he asks, exaggerating it till he’s all teeth and squinty eyes. 

“Yeah,” you laugh. “It looked funny upside down over there,” you remember. “Watch!” 

You flip over on the sofa till your feet are up where your neck should rest and your head is dangling off the edge where your knees would normally be. You smile up at him. Remus doubles over laughing with you, bringing his face much closer to yours as he leans into it. 

“You’re right. Looks funny,” he tells you much more softly than you expected after his cackling. He watches you intently then brings a hand to your upside down face. He traces your features lightly, and it’s warm and tingly. His long finger travels down your nose, across your eyebrows. 

“C’mere,” you whisper to him.

“Where?” he whispers back, his voice a gruff chuckle again. 

“Down here!” you whisper-yell. 

You pull his shoulder down and start kicking his legs up as he contorts until you get him in the same position as you. You end up side by side, upside-down on the sofa. 

Each of you giggles at the other as you steal side glances. Your faces, pulled the wrong way by gravity, softened more than normal by the smoking, look even goofier through your incessant giggles and pointless efforts at holding those back.

You listen, and laugh, to at least a whole song like this. You kick each other’s feet throughout. As one of your kicks brings you closer to Remus, he rolls over to tickle you. You laugh so loud you can’t even hear the record over it. 

“Stop, Rem! Stop!” you plead. “I’m already too dizzy.” 

He keeps it up a moment but soon takes pity on you and helps move your body the right way around, his strong hands manipulating you easily. 

“Alright, dizzy. Enough upside-down,” he says as he fixes your now crazy hair. 

You just nod and shift closer to him. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he shuffles to a comfortable height for you, laying his own head on yours. 

A primary reason you enjoy getting high with Remus: you both get snuggly. You’re touchy normally, even more than most best friends you’ve seen, but not overly so. When you’re high, it’s overly so. But it somehow doesn’t feel weird. In fact, it feels wonderful. 

So, it feels wonderful, not weird, when you absentmindedly reach over for his hand. He gives it to you easily, and you begin caressing it. 

“Your skin is so soft, Rem.” You pull his hand closer to you, bringing it close to your face, looking it at like you’ve never seen a hand before. Remus takes the opportunity and quickly grabs at your nose playfully. You giggle at this as he responds to your initial comment.

“In between all the scars maybe.” He sounds matter of fact. There’s a lot less pain in his voice now when he talks about them than when he did in your younger years. You look forward to the day when you hear no pain there at all. 

“No, the scars too,” you correct him gently, and you bring your thumb to a scar that runs from the top of his hand up to his forearm. You trace it with reverence, and he shivers at your touch. You know for a fact you’re the only person in the world he allows to touch them. You’re so grateful for his trust, and in this moment, your emotions heightened, your inhibitions lowered, the vibrations of the music moving through you, you feel the need to tell him so. 

“Thank you for letting me touch you, Moony.” 

Remus has been watching where your hands are connected until now, but at your words, he looks into your eyes. He just looks at you for a long moment. You can’t tell how long, time elongated and indeterminable in your current state, but you’re completely comfortable to sit in it through its entirety, looking straight back at him. 

Eventually, the softest grin blossoms on his face. You mirror it. 

“Thank you for not being afraid to,” he whispers. You genuinely don’t understand. 

“Why would I be?”

“You know what I mean,” he tries to explain. He looks down in shyness but back at you before continuing, “Maybe ‘afraid’ isn’t the right word. Maybe it’s ‘disgusted’ or something…” 

His voice is fading to a low whisper by the end, like the louder the words are the truer they’ll be. 

Without hesitating, you tell him the truth: “Remus, you’re the least disgusting person in the world. You’re beautiful.” He grimaces like he can’t believe you, so you go on. “You are.” 

You turn your body even more toward him, bringing your connected hands to your almost shared lap and bringing your other hand to caress his cheek. 

“Silly Moony. You’re so sickeningly beautiful,” you chuckle. Your hand runs up through his hair. “This hair is ridiculous,” you inform him, tousling it. He leans into your touch like a content puppy. “These eyes.” You trace circles around each of them, first skimming his eyebrows then looping around. “They’re the easiest thing in the world to melt into, no pot needed.” You feel them crinkle as they smile into your compliments. “This nose.” You trace it slowly. “These lips,” you say more softly. You feel his gasp when you touch them then feel nothing, his breath held as you trace them. “And your scars,” you say with some finality. You trace a prominent one across his face. He closes his eyes while you do, opens them again when you reach its end. “You beauty isn’t one to be ruined by scars, Remus Lupin. Your beauty is the kind that incorporates the scar and makes that beautiful too.” 

Remus squeezes your interlaced hands. Your faces are so close to each other that you could see his eyes moisten as you tell him all this. He closes them before full tears form and moves his face that tiny bit closer till his forehead rests on yours. You nuzzle his nose, and he nuzzles yours back. 

“It’s so quiet,” you whisper, breaking the silence — noticing the silence. You didn’t notice when the album ended.  Remus just hums in response. 

The silence is loaded but peaceful. You don’t want to pressure him into having to say something back after you let yourself get so intense with him. It wasn’t about what he said back; it was about his understanding how you saw him, how you hoped he would see himself. 

So, with his eyes still closed, you give the scar that runs across his nose a light kiss, do the same to another larger one across his jaw. Then you bring your head back to his shoulder, snuggling into him to mark the end of the moment, no further pressure necessary. 

Remus shifts his body closer, as close to you as possible. He brings his arm around your shoulders without letting go of your hand. He’s holding you close, and your arm crosses your chest to keep your hands intertwined. He kisses the top of your head — new, sweet — then rests his own there again — familiar, warm. Your thumb absentmindedly strokes the back of his hand. 

You sit together in the quiet a long while. You close your eyes, breathe Remus in, let his body, his presence envelop you then just bask in it. Everything feels pleasantly heavy — the air, his body where it touches yours.

You settle into him, and without your noticing you’re doing it, your hand on his stills. 

“Don’t stop,” he whispers. 

“Hm?” you need to ask, unsure what he means. You look up, and he looks down, and your faces are a breadth away from each other. 

“I liked how you were touching me,” he whispers. “I always like how you touch me,” he adds like a secret. 

He brings his hand that’s not holding yours up to your face. First, the backs of his fingers brush lightly over your cheekbone then he rests his hand there. His fingers hold your jaw; his thumb caresses your cheek. Like you tend to do, you lean into his touch. 

His gentle, soothing touch flutters your eyes closed. Your inability to see his face makes it less scary to respond, “I always like how you touch me too.”

“Yeah?” he sighs, his hand holding you a bit more tightly, his thumb coming down to graze your bottom lip. You nod slowly, his hand moving with your head.

“Do you ever think about other ways we could touch each other?” he whispers. Your eyes fly open at this and land on his: lidded, dilated, gazing into your own. 

“Do you?” 

“I asked you first,” he giggles. “And I’ve already told you a secret today. It’s your turn.”

“What secret?” Your voices are still soft, whispering even though there’s no need for quiet other than your intimacy demanding it. 

“About my crush.” 

“I had a crush on you too,” you tell him. “So now we’re even.”

“That’s not fair, sunshine,” he smiles. You smile back. 

Then, after a moment, like he can’t help it, “You did?” 

“Of course I did.” 

“What happened?” he echoes. 

“Nothing,” you confess. 

His eyebrows furrow, unsure how to interpret this. His eyes hold hope and trepidation at once. 

“I got to know you… And we became friends…” you continue. His expression falls, and you’re pretty sure you recognize this look as disappointment. But you go on, “And it made me love you all the more.” 

You’re ready to read his expression closely this time, but you don’t get the chance before he’s kissing you, before you’re kissing back. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ NSFW beyond this point ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s slow. Deliberate. His lips push on yours; his arms bring you closer. His tongue teases your lips, and though they part in response, his tongue traces them rather than push in. You whimper at the feeling of it, and he moans at your reaction. He breathes you in, covers your whole mouth with his, devouring the sound, devouring you. 

Now his tongue enters your mouth, exploring, playing with yours. You’re not sure whether his movements are slow or whether they just feel slow because you’re still high. You are sure you have no desire to speed any of it up. 

You bring your hands to either side of his face, holding him gently but pulling him to you. He follows easily, and when your chests are almost flush, you trace your hands down to his shirt and pull him on top of you as you lean back, lying down on the sofa.

You keep kissing a deliciously long while then Remus goes beyond your lips, kissing along your jaw leisurely. He mouths at your skin, licking, nipping his way unhurriedly down to your neck. Here he languidly runs his tongue along the length of your neck, kissing your pulse point, nipping behind your ear. 

Everywhere he touches is buzzing, and you shiver at the sensation. When his breath blows cold air on your now wet skin, you shiver even harder, your body shuddering against his above you. He chuckles into the crook of your neck and continues. 

After another while of his working his way down, he has to pull the neck of your shirt down to reach further. You bare your neck to him, loving his exploratory path. 

When his mouth leaves your skin for the first time in several minutes, your impulse is to immediately pull him back to you.

“Let’s take this off,” he whispers sedately, gruffly, tugging at your top. 

You pull it off and don’t waste time unclasping and sliding your bra off as well. Remus looks at you, dopey and delighted, but without further ado, pushes your chest so that you lie back again. His hand stays on you and begins lazily kneading your breast as he brings his mouth back to you.

He kisses the base of your neck and continues his previous ministrations across your collarbones. He seems to be on a mission to trace the entire surface area of your skin with his wandering mouth, and you have every intention of letting him and enjoying every long second of it. 

As he makes his languorous way down your sternum, you arch your back, pushing up into him, and bring your hands to his messy hair, holding him close. You scratch and tug, needing somewhere to release some energy, every part of you he’s touched left humming warm and electric. He groans into your chest, and you’re certain you feel the vibrations move through your skin, across your chest cavity, and into your heart, where they ricochet within it, making it beat faster. 

“Remus,” you whine adoringly. He hums into your skin again in response and speeds up his southward trajectory just the slightest bit. 

His face comes between your breasts, and he runs his teeth down the valley, then licks his tongue up the same path. You shake a little, and his hand squeezes your breast tighter. The other one he mouths across until his tongue traces a slow, wet circle around your nipple. This shoots a hot, jolting current straight from where his mouth is connected to you down to between your legs.

He’s gentle for a while, moving back and forth between your tits, often agonizingly slowly, his hands kneading at your chest all the while. Without your expecting it, though, he bites one of your hard, sensitive nipples and tugs lightly. You squeal and push your chest into his mouth. He keeps going, switching as he fancies between rough and tender. 

At a bite of the side of your breast, you rut up into him, and the movement has you feeling how wet you are. You’ve never been this wet before before direct stimulation. 

Remus holds your hips down to the sofa but moves from your chest to your stomach. His roaming mouth proceeds at its perfect, maddening pace. It meanders to your ribs, down your sides, not following a straight path down. 

Once he eventually reaches the threshold of your pants, he looks up at you. 

Remus looks higher than you’ve ever seen him before. He looks elated, in awe. 

“I want to spend hours and hours on your body like this,” he tells you, nuzzling his face into your lower stomach, kissing it as he detaches from you.

“Remus,” you whimper, running your hand into his hair and inadvertently thrusting your hips up. He chuckles, still sounding high, but his voice is as low as you’ve ever heard it.

He takes your trousers and underwear off in one efficient but slow tug. He pulls his shirt off much faster, and you touch all his skin you can reach before he’s repositioning himself.

Your thighs feel cold now uncovered, but it’s nothing compared to the sensation of fresh air on your soaking cunt. As you adjust your body, you feel a thick wetness drip from your entrance down to where your arse meets the sofa. You feel the coldness of that wetness even more as Remus pushes your legs further apart to position himself between them. 

You’re completely sure you’re wetter than you’ve ever been before, but you’re not sure if you could possibly be as wet as you feel, thinking the high could be heightening your sensation of it. You’re worried it’s too much, worried you’ll put Remus off. 

“I can clean up a little if —“ you start, but you’re cut off by Remus diving in, running his flat tongue slowly, firmly up from the base of your puddle up to your pubic bone. A strangled, prolonged gasp functions as the end of your sentence.

When Remus licks you again, your thighs shake on either side of his head. You feel him laugh into your cunt, and this time you imagine the vibrations shooting all the way up your body, following the chaotic roadmap his mouth left lingering across it.

Remus pulls back from you and rests his chin on your pubic bone, looking up at you. 

He informs you simply, “You taste delicious, darling.” He looks drunk on it. 

“Everything tastes better when you’re high,” you tease.

“Then I’m really going to enjoy this,” he smiles. “But I’m pretty sure you’ll get me high just by letting me do this other times.” 

“Other times?” 

“Well, yeah…” he giggles. His eyes bore into yours even though he’s the length of your torso away. “I though this was a first, not an only…”

“Good.” You sound giddy. “Just checking.”

“Silly,” he shakes his head at you. You thrust your hips up and laugh at the expression he makes when you bump his face, like he’s dazed. He squeezes your thigh harshly where he’s holding you. 

“Behave, sunshine. It’s feeling dangerous down here.” 

“I thought you were enjoying it.” 

“I am.” A bite at your hip. “And I’m seriously getting the munchies, so just…” You don’t understand the end of his sentence, the words muffled against your skin as he starts eating you out.

It’s heavenly. High as you are, in love as you are, you think you’re on cloud nine. This gets you wondering where such an odd expression even comes from. It seems so random. 

“Moony?”

“Hmm?” is grunted into your cunt.

“Why do you think it’s called being on cloud nine?”

He pulls back. The whole lower half of his face shines in your slick. 

“Why are you thinking about that right now? Am I that bad at this?”

“Bad? It’s amazing.” You ruffle his hair in your groping hands. “Which is why I’m on cloud nine, which is why I’m thinking about that right now. Your hair is as soft as clouds, Moons.” 

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Am not,” you giggle.

“Are,” he teases.

“Can you keep going now? It felt so good. Your mouth is ridiculous.” You thrust your hips up at him again.

“Ridiculous and bossy,” he complains, but he’s smiling hard, and before you can even think of a retort, he does as you bid. 

His mouth takes its time between your legs. He spends eternities teasing you: mouthing at the tops of your thighs, licking up your bikini line, nipping at your clit without giving it the attention he knows you want from how loud you whine every time he gives it the slightest graze. He loves all over your vulva, not leaving any part untouched, unworshipped. His tongue fucks into your entrance languidly; it swirls there. He licks your labia, sucks on it, gives the same attention to your clit when you moan loud enough. He travels back and forth, seemingly enjoying all of it too much to stick to any one attention too long. The next time he lands on your clit, he prolongs it.

Your legs shake; your back arches; your whines grow loud before turning strangled, and Remus takes his cue to reserve the relaxed approach for later. He picks up his pace, gripping your thighs tightly and shakes his whole face into you, alternating between licking and sucking rhythmically at your clit. You cum hard, and it feels like it goes on for minutes. 

With your eyes closed, you truly feel like you’re floating, your only anchor to the world Remus Lupin where you feel his body attached to yours. 

You’re laughing in pleasure, and the laughs turn to pants as you slowly, slowly come down. You love coming down to an already high baseline, and you giggle at the sensation of relaxing into a still heightened state. 

It suddenly strikes you it feels like it’s been years since you talked to Remus, heard his mellifluous voice, and you startle your eyes open searching for him. 

You see him immediately. He’s gazing at you with equal parts ardor and adoration, but when he sees your expression, his shifts to concern. 

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong, my love?” He rushes to hover just above you. His face is close to yours again, though it’s scanning all over your body. His hand holds your face gently, his other arm holding him up. “Did something feel bad? Does something hurt?” 

“No, no, I’m fine, Moons, I’m fine,” you rush to reassure. “I just missed you,” you explain.

“Missed me?” His eyes shoot to yours. “I’m right here, love; what do you mean you missed me?” He can’t help a subtle giggle, and his adoring expression takes back its rightful place on his beautiful face. 

“I just thought I hadn’t seen you in too long.” Your hands caress his face, thread through his hair. “Or heard your voice…” 

“Hmm,” he hums, leaning into your touch. “I’m right here. What do you want me to say?”

“Anything,” you smile. 

“I love you.” 

You’ve heard them before, but never like this, and they’re the best words in the world, in the universe. 

“Remus,” you sigh, leaning up to kiss him. He tastes intensely of you, and you laugh into the kiss. “I’m sorry I got you so… so slicky.”

“I don’t mind,” he chuckles. “Means it was good, right?”

“Beyond. ‘Good’ is like… like one colour out of a whole rainbow for how that just felt.” 

He’s beaming down at you and kisses you again, lingering there. 

When he finally separates from you, his caressing thumb comes to wipe some slick at the corner of your lip. You grab his hand and kiss each of his fingers lightly. Then you lick down his long index finger, your tongue finding and following a scar up his hand to his wrist.

You look into his eyes, and he’s staring at you, transfixed. 

“I was thinking about your fingers when you were rolling the spliff.” 

“Yeah?” His voice is a desperate sigh. 

“Yeah.”

“What were you thinking about?” 

“How beautiful your hands are. How they’d feel touching me… How your fingers would feel inside me…”

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You wanna find out?”

“Yes,” you moan. 

“Get them nice and wet for me, and I’ll show you.” They’re already lingering at your lips, but he slowly pushes them in. You welcome them enthusiastically and lazily suck on them, swirl your tongue around them.

“Fuck.” His voice is low. “Fuck, I want to feel everything there is to feel with you.”

“Mmm,” you nod, your mouth still full. 

Remus takes his fingers out, kisses you, and lets his mouth stay on yours as his fingers trace down your chin, your chest, your stomach steadily, leaving a wet path. When they reach between your legs, you squirm in anticipation. 

He rubs a couple of tight, slow circles on your clit. You’re so sensitive, and it feels amazing. You mewl into his mouth where it still hovers just above yours. 

“Ready, my sunshine?” 

“Mmhhmm.”

Remus pushes two fingers into you ever so slowly. You release a low, slow whine the whole time he takes to press in. He gives you gentle kisses, eating it up. When his fingers are in to the hilt, you wonder how you didn’t feel devastatingly empty every moment of your life before this one. When he adds a third, you’re sure you will every moment after.

You clench purposefully around him, and he moans into your mouth. Closing your eyes again, it’s the easiest thing to let yourself be consumed by the sensations, by Remus. 

When he curls his fingers inside you, you clench again, this time automatically. You grip his hair and clutch his back, your arms pulling his body close to yours. 

The spot he starts massaging feels like it’s a blazing fire, but everywhere else you’re connected, your chests, your mouths, is scattered scalding embers.

You’re savouring every second, every sensation, already feeling another high building but relishing in the time it’ll take to get there. 

You run your hands down Remus’s back, feeling the bumps of his scars, the grooves of his defined muscles. For the first time all afternoon, you feel a desire to hurry… 

You start moving your hips to meet his rhythm, eager, even more than for your own climax, for your turn to take your time on him. 

pt. 2!

[babyleostuff]

Hiii!!! so I just read your cheol fic when he was being a dick for his s/o caring (it hurts... it's the beginning of the title, sorry brain is fried from uni) I was wondering if we could get the in-between of the fight like in the practice room after s/o left and everyone was shocked. mingyu fought him?? like gotta know what happened, anyway sorry if this is too long

hope yoyr day, night, evening, morning, or whatever time it is for you is going well!! your writing is so captivating too btw

-Nabi

thank you so much for your request 💜 hope you enjoy this!

you can find part 1 here

HURTS SO BAD | PART 2 | CHOI SEUNGCHEOL

summary | seungcheol’s pov from my previous fic

genre | angst

word count | 1k

pairing | choi seungcheol x gn!reader

“Fuck you, Seungcheol.”

Instantly, as these words escaped your mouth, he regretted every single thing he just said, praying that he could somehow turn back time. But there was nothing he could do now, the damage was done, and he simply watched you leave with a heartbroken expression.

He wanted nothing more than to crumble into a small ball and hide somewhere far from here. 

Despite the music still playing from the speakers, the silence in the room was almost deafening. Seungcheol could feel the hard stares from the boys, as they tried to wrap their heads around what just happened. 

“Did you actually lose your mind?” Jeonghan was the first to speak up. Seungcheol didn’t dare to look up and face the disappointed expressions of his friends. 

“Never in all those years we have been together have you ever said anything so cruel, no matter how fuck up things were. And now you lash out at your, mind you, partner for being worried about you?” Jeonghan scoffed, clearly angry at his bandmate. 

Seungcheol knew that there was nothing he could say or do to make this situation better, he only stood there with hunched shoulders and a tight throat. 

“What has gotten into me,” he thought.

Yes, he was stressed as hell, and everything irritated him lately, but he swore he would never take his anxiety out on you. Well, until now. 

The jacket you threw at him caught his attention, laying abandoned on the floor. Is this how you feel right now - left behind and neglected, by the person who was supposed to love you no matter what? He took a step to pick it up, still feeling the warmth of your body coming from it. 

“I’m going to fix this,” Seungcheol said quietly, putting the fabric to his chest. 

“Did I hear you right, hyung? You’re going to make it right?” laughed Mingyu, approaching the older one. “You just yelled at your partner and told them the worst things you could have ever possibly said. We can put up with your bitchy behavior, but that’s not an excuse to treat them like shit,” he said, clearly very agitated by the whole affair. 

“Let it go Mingyu, he knows what he has done. It’s his problem now how he’s going to get out of this shit,” said Jihoon, putting an arm on the taller’s shoulder to calm him down. 

“Yeah, but it doesn’t change the fact that he just basically emotionally abused one of my best friends.” 

“Hey, don’t you fucking dare saying I abused them in any way,” Seungcheol raised his voice at at younger boy, his emotions getting out of hand. “I know what I have done, and I’m going to make it right again,” he said, not exactly convinced himself. 

“So what, you think you'll buy them flowers, pout and make puppy eyes, and they'll forgive you?” he scoffed and crossed his arms, making him look bigger than he already was. 

“No, making puppy eyes is your thing, I’m not that cheap,” Seungcheol fired right back at him. 

With each exchange between Seungcheol and Mingyu the tension only escalated, the atmosphere becoming charged with a mix of anger, frustration, and hurt. Their tones harsh and cutting, both of them tried to defend their position. Sadness, and disappointment were evident on their faces, further fueling the intensity of the situation. 

“I messed up, alright? But you're acting like I hurt them on purpose-.” 

“Well, to us it looked like you wanted to-.” 

“Could you just stay the fuck away from my relationship and focus on your shitty love life?” 

The rest of the boys, who were skeptically watching what was going on, knew this wouldn’t end well. Mingyu might have been passive most of the time, letting the others walk over him and still not batting an eye, but when it comes to his friends and their well being, he wouldn’t just stand around and watch. 

Wonwoo who was standing by the mirrors slowly came up to Mingyu and patted his back. 

“There is no use Mingoo, you’re not helping here,” he said sternly. 

“Well, I have the right to be angry.” 

“No one said you didn’t, but let’s not add more fuel to the fire, okay?” 

Mingyu glared at Seungcheol for the final time, before turning around and walking out of the room. 

“I’m going to check up on him,” said Mingaho. 

As the tension evaporated the second Mingyu left, Seungcheol could feel his anger turn to sadness and powerlessness. Now not only has he hurt you, but also his friend, who was so dear to him. 

Seungcheol felt trapped, not knowing what to do next and feeling extremely mentally and emotionally drained. He sighed deeply with a blank stare, drained from all of his usual energy. 

With the silence still apparent, everyone parted ways to give Seungcheol some space. Only Jeonghan and Joshua stayed by his side, not knowing what to do. 

“What am I supposed to do now?” asked the oldest, with a tired voice. 

“We’re all here for you, Coups and you're not alone in this. Don’t worry about Mingyu for now, he’ll come around,” said Joshua. “Take a deep breath and try to think clearly about this.” 

“It's just that everything seems to be going wrong, and I feel like I have no control over it.”

“We know, but you should have just talked to them. Why didn’t you do it? Why did it have to come to this Coups?” asked Jeonghan. 

“I don’t know, I really don’t. I thought I was stronger than this, that it would pass and everything would be okay. I just didn’t want to be a burden to them.” 

“Well that didn’t end up too well,” said Joshua, laughing at Seungcheol’s pouting face. 

“Thank you for being here for me. I really need that right now.”

“Of course! That's what family is for. But that doesn’t change the fact that we’re all so pissed at you right now,” said Jeonghan. 

“Yeah, for a second there I thought Mingyu was going to punch me or something,” chuckled Sungcheol. 

“I wish he did,” muttered Joshua, and walked away quickly before the oldest could respond. 

“I’m going to make this right,” thought Seungcheol. “No matter what it takes.” 

[farfaras]

First part to this prompt I posted the other day. This is gonna be eventual steddie (sorry, stonathan) and I’m really excited. Title from the song ‘nonsense’ by Sabrina Carpenter.

I think I got an ex but I forgot him

Part 1. (You’re here)

Part 2.

-

If he heard the words: Robin and in love, in the same sentence, with the melodious voice of one Dustin Henderson, one more time. Steve was sure he was gonna lose it.

Listen, he understands where he’s coming from. The kid just wants him to be happy. But he is! Dustin just doesn’t seem to get that. Happiness doesn’t only come in the form of a relationship. His teenage brain can’t comprehend that fact just yet. He wishes he did though, because he’s absolutely insufferable about getting Steve and Robin together.

No excuse or explanation he gives is good enough. Dustin still insists that he needs to try, that this is his chance at true love. Robin is kind of the love of his life, sure, but the platonic love of his life. His best friend, his soulmate, sister from another mister. All that jazz. Dustin doesn’t buy it though.

And Steve’s tried everything! He even told Dustin about that time in starcourt when they were high off his asses. Told him that he confessed his crush to Robin but that she rejected him, and that they were best friends now and nothing else. He obviously left out the part where Robin came out to him. He’s never gonna reveal Robin’s secret to anyone. The only answer he got was that “It doesn’t even matter now! Things could’ve changed! You never know.” Steve knew. He knew that he would never be into his best friend like that, and she would never be into him. Apparently they were the only ones who knew that.

Because of all the fuss Dustin was constantly making, other people started giving their input. Thanks Dustin. They didn’t get it either, didn’t believe they were just Platonic with a capital P. They made sure they knew it too, the whole party, Nancy, Jonathan, Eddie. Not Argyle, he said that the energy between Steve and Robin was intense but completely friendly, almost like they were twins. Steve liked Argyle. Of course he had to be miles away.

Most of their friends dropped the subject after the second time Steve or Robin explained the nature of their relationship. Even if they weren’t convinced, they didn’t push. Except for one person. Yep. Dustin.

Who was currently harassing Steve at his job. He didn’t know what else to tell him. If family video wasn’t empty he would just ignore him to do his job but there was nothing to do. He couldn’t even sweep or anything because everything was already done.

“Okay well! There must be a good reason why you guys haven’t gotten together!” Dustin exclaimed. He is so fucking stubborn.

“I already told you, Henderson. We’re. Just. Friends.” He knew it wasn’t gonna do anything. It was just a routine at this point.

Dustin’s expression changed to determination. “Nuh uh. There’s a reason there. And I’m gonna find out!” Shit. Could Dustin figure out Robin? He doesn’t think so. But he’s starting to panic. What if he finds out? Robin doesn’t deserve that. He’d feel like it was his fault, and everything would go to shit.

“Okay! Okay! There is a reason.”

“I knew it! You have to tell me.” Dustin demanded. Well, Steve hasn’t thought that much ahead. He needs to come up with something and he needs to do it fast if Dustin is gonna believe it.

“Look, I haven’t told anyone this before.” Building suspense, nice.

Then, an idea popped into his head and it seemed like the perfect response to all of this. Or maybe it’s the only thing he could think of in such short notice. “I’m gay.” He blurts out. It made sense in his head, really. Robin doesn’t get outed, but she can still look at the reaction she might get when she comes out. (It doesn’t hold any kind of truth at all. Not one Steve can see right now at least.)

Dustin is just staring at him. “What? I don’t, you’re not, since when?”

“Since I was born?” It sounds like a question. Steve didn’t prepare for follow up questions to the reply he literally just crafted.

“There’s no way you’re gay.” At least he didn’t seem disgusted or upset? Is this a good or bad reaction?

“Are you not okay with it?” Steve dared to ask.

“What?! Of course I’m okay with it, I’m just. I don’t care, but you don’t really seem gay. It’s hard to believe.” At least he’s okay with it. He’s still being stubborn.

“Way to stereotype, Henderson.”

Dustin sputters. “Wha- can you even blame me? Who could believe you?”

The next words that came out of Steve’s mouth didn’t actually ask for permission to be said. “My boyfriend can believe it.” He said it so matter of fact that he surprised himself a little. The way he usually took the route of action before thinking was gonna bite him in the ass some day. Would that be today?

“Boyfriend?!! And you didn’t tell me? You don’t have a boyfriend!” He accused Steve. “Who is it?”

Oh. Shoot. Quick, brain. Who could be his boyfriend? Someone his age, that was single, and could be believed to be in a gay relationship.

“It’s Jonathan.” Why did he say that? He just broke up with Nancy, that would just seem like a messy situation. Also is he literally just doing what he scolded Dustin for and stereotyping?

“But he just broke up with Nancy.” Hmm. Did Dustin read his mind or something.

“It’s new. That’s why I haven’t told anyone.”

“Not even Robin?” Oh, crap. Is he gonna have to tell this to people? Well, he should probably tell Jonathan first that he is apparently in a relationship with him now.

“Not even Robin.” Dustin beamed at this.

“You know, even if you and Jonathan are kind of a weird sounding couple, and this is surprising… if you’re happy then I’m happy for you, Steve.” That was weirdly sweet of Dustin.

“Thanks, bud.”

After that and renting a movie, Dustin was on his way. He gave Steve a hug goodbye and hopped on his bike to go home.

Steve had a lot of things to get done now. And he hoped that the first one went well because he didn’t really have a plan B if it didn’t. What had he gotten himself into?

First things first. Asking Jonathan to be his fake boyfriend.

At least for a while.

What could go wrong?

-

Step 1. Get Jonathan to be his fake boyfriend.

Step 2. Probably get Robin in on it?

He’s not sure about that one. This situation was kind of embarrassing, he’d rather just share his embarrassment with the one person who is absolutely necessary. Also Robin doesn’t seem like the type to lie to their friends. Even if it was harmless.

Step 2. Probably get Robin in on it?

Step 2. Make a game plan.

They’d probably need to talk about how this was gonna go. Get all their facts straight in case there were any questions, which there were going to be. Plan how long this was gonna be for. He was getting a bit ahead of himself, but there was no plan B.

Step 3. Hope it’s believable.

He was already outside of the Hopper-Byers home. This shouldn’t be hard, Jonathan is a pretty understanding guy. He wouldn’t judge Steve, or make fun of him. At least that’s what Steve hoped. They’ve been developing a friendship for a while. Which has been going surprisingly well. Fuck. Was this gonna mess it up?

He got out of his car and walked to the door, knocking. El answered the door, she gave him a smile and let him in.

“Is Jonathan home?” Him asking for Jonathan wasn’t a rare occurrence nowadays, so El just nodded and pointed to his room.

He knocked to make his presence known. “Hey, Jon?” He opened the door and stepped inside the room.

“Hiya. What’s up, Harrington?” Jonathan grinned at Steve. Ah. Shit. He didn’t look completely sober. Must’ve smoked something earlier.

“Well, I wanted to talk to you. I’d rather wait until you sober up though.” Jonathan just gave him a thumbs up.

“Happy to have company.” Steve knew Jonathan was having trouble dealing with the break up. They had been together for a while and he thought that those two were gonna beat all the odds and marry each other or something. Maybe they still could find their way back to each other someday. Right now though, it probably sucked.

Nancy was off to college, Jonathan stayed here in Hawkins doing community college. There was no way of knowing how Nancy was taking it, she barely called and when she did it was kinda cut and dry. Although Steve supposed that was a way of telling she wasn’t doing so good either.

They hung out, doing nothing in particular. Just talking, listening to music and Steve sobering him up.

“Did you say you wanted to talk about something?” Jon asked. He looked sober now. Or as sober as his perpetual stoner face could look.

“Yeah… I kinda did something stupid.”

“Don’t we all.” Cute. Was he trying to make him feel better? It would’ve worked if what he did wasn’t as stupid as it was.

“No, seriously. I think this is the dumbest thing I have done.” Understatement.

“It can’t be that bad.” Jon’s words weren’t aligned with his face because it looked like he was starting to worry.

“It has something to do with you too.” With those words, Steve definitely made Jonathan start to worry. “Hear me out first!”

Retelling the events from earlier was excruciating. Steve has never felt this embarrassed before. It sounded so dumb saying it out loud.

“You really couldn’t come up with anything else? Like oh I don’t know. Saying you don’t like Robin like that?” It was like he wasn’t even listening.

“I tried that thousands of times! He wouldn’t buy it!”

“Why haven’t you just dated anyone else? To prove that you’re not hung up on her?” Interesting line of questioning. Honestly, it’s been a long time since someone has made him feel anything at all. No girl caught his attention like before. Has the upside down messed him up so bad that he can’t form romantic connections anymore?

“I just, I don’t really. Taking a break from dating sounded good to me.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” Jon didn’t believe him, whatever.

“Look I just panicked, spoke without thinking.”

“You know, I actually thought that Dustin was right about you and Robin before. But if you’re so determined to prove you’re not, to even come up with something like that.” Steve hated this. Was Jonathan getting a kick out of this?

“Are you amused? I’m kinda suffering here.” Steve lamented. “Can you just please help me?

“Oh god, what do you expect me to do? Pretend to date you to get Dustin off your back?” Yes. Please.

“Look! I only ask for a few weeks! It doesn’t have to be for long. Just, a few weeks of fake dating and then just say it didn’t work out and we decided to stay friends. All that cheesy stuff.” God, he was not being convincing at all.

Jonathan still looked skeptical. But at least he was considering it now. “I’ll owe you, big time. Whatever favor you want.” Steve offered.

Jon looked resigned now. He huffed out a breath. “I never thought my first boyfriend was gonna be Steve Harrington.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I always pictured a nerd or maybe a stoner.” He was confused now. Was Jonathan? “Yes, Steve. You should probably know if we’re gonna do this. I also like guys. And I’m assuming you’re okay with it, considering what you just asked.”

“Of course! Thanks for telling me. I’m glad you could trust me.” He was being genuine. Even if Steve was a little surprised, and now felt even more guilty about words he used in the past to insult Jonathan. All the past apologies seemed insufficient. Even so, he was happy that their friendship could develop into this.

“So? How is this gonna work? You really owe me now, you know.”

“Trust me, I know.”

So their friendship wasn’t ruined. Who knows? Maybe this could make it stronger.

[obsidianstrawberrymilk]

A short list of things I would have changed in HoO

It takes place ten ish years after the end of PJO. Percy and Annabeth aren’t a part of the seven but instead appear as cool older mentors to help out the Lost Hero trio. They both have careers and live in New York and go to Sally’s house for dinner every weekend.

Caleo isn’t a thing. In fact, let’s not even mention Calypso. At most we mention she was freed after the last war as idk proof demigods have some power or something.

More than 1 Asian character. Give this one ADHD and dyslexia bc shocker Asian kids can be disabled as well.

For that matter a properly disabled character. I have a deaf OC I would use if I rewrote the series.

Leo is aroace. His arc is about learning that his self worth doesn’t have to be tied to the people around him and his friends love and care about him and he doesn’t need romance to be complete. His flirting is overcompensation bc he doesn’t feel romantic or sexual attraction and is afraid he’ll be alone forever.

Drew and Piper become friends. Drew’s mean girl bullshit is outdated and boring and it would have been a lot cooler to see her icy exterior thaw and her help Piper with her charmspeck (explaining how Piper learned how to use it to begin with) and take on an older sister role

Neither Leo nor Piper become head councilors to their cabins because that’s dumb

Keep the chapter title style from PJO. It was so fun and one of the highlights of the series for me. The relatable nature of PJO in general was kinda lost in HoO and it’s a shame bc there was such a variety of characters for people to identify with there.

Give Reyna a girlfriend or at least a homoerotic friendship that can become an actual relationship in the next series or something

Frank is 14 and he and Hazel aren’t dating, they just have mutual baby crushes on one another.

For that matter what the fuck was ‘Frank is magically not fat due to Mars’s blessing’ bullshit? Frank is a fat character who stays fat but learns to be confident in himself and his body type.

Stop The Adultification of Hazel 2k23. Hazel is 13, she’s the youngest member of the seven and despite her trauma I think that should be obvious. I think emphasizing her relationship with Nico could be fun here - he’s in his 20s so him taking a more ‘that older sibling who toes the line between parent and sibling’ role here could be fun.

Also, I don’t want Hazel to have Hecate’s blessing or whatever. Between her being a magical horsegirl and the daughter of Pluto there’s already a lot of room to expand on her powers that was never used - I think doing more with her cursed jewels and metals powers and her learning the other aspects of her powers, like Shadow Travel, would be fun.

Instead I think having a daughter of Hecate as a part of the Seven would be cool, because we could still have a witchy character with mist manipulation and magic powers.

Give Jason an actual personality, please. Bro’s been a child solider practically since age 2 and has spent his whole life with the weight of other teenagers’ lives on his shoulders as praetor - give him perfectionism issues and anxiety. We’re told that he’s spent his whole life helping others compromise instead of being his own person - show that. Let his arc end with him deciding to try and live a mortal life and find out who he is beyond being a war general.

Show us that Octavian’s a piece of shit, don’t just tell us.

Leo and Piper are the ones who fall into Tartarus. Nothing romantic ever happens but we get heavy emphasis on their friendship and we get to see their grief over Leo’s mom and Piper’s grandfather respectively

Piper’s grandfather has died a few months ago and she cut her hair herself when her dad didn’t want to let her due to that (correct me if I’m wrong but it’s a tradition in Cherokee culture to cut your hair when a loved one dies, correct?), which is why it’s all uneven. A lot of her insecurities stem from going from growing up in rural Oklaholma (not in a reservation bc there aren’t any there) without much money to suddenly being catapulted into a millionaire Hollywood lifestyle and having everyone criticize everything about her and be really racist, all while her Dad drew farther away from both her and her grandfather. Her arc would be reconnecting with both her culture and Dad and learning to find who she is and her self worth again.

They defeat Gaea in a way that isn’t so anticlimactic and fucking stupid

[takiberry]

OT8 &TEAM KINKS ^__^

🐙: this post contains smut thoughts of: Yuma, Jo, Harua, & Taki! please refrain from reading theirs if you feel uncomfortable abt it!

warnings: it says in the title what it is. 😊

KOGA YUDAI ( K ):

- Daddy Kink: do i even need to explain this..

- Manhandling: He’s a strong buff man 1/2 , i bet he would love being able to throw you around and have his way with you.

- Size Kink: This is pretty self explanatory, he’s huge.

MURATA FUMA:

- Manhandling pt2: What can I say other than how much he loves showing off how strong he is and his muscles, he loves how you grip his biceps while he rams his cock into you

- Bulge Kink: He has a FAAAAAT cock and you can’t tell me otherwise, he would love the sight of the outline of his cock in your tummy :(

- Daddy Kink pt2: again self explanatory…

WANG YIXIANG ( NICHOLAS ):

- Daddy Kink pt3: He just loves being called Daddy what can i say 🤷‍♀️

- Size Kink: He’s a giant too, no doubt he would love how small you’d look being fucked under him <33

- Choking: He has NICEE hands, they’re so pretty, he would love choking you tbh

BYUN EUIJOO ( EJ ):

- Oppa Kink: This isnt ‘cs he’s korean, i swear, i genuinely think he would LOVE being called oppa, no matter if you’re younger or older

- Hair Pulling: He doesn’t care if you have long hair or short hair, he WILL pull.

- Degrading & Praising: His voice is literally sweet like honey, do you realize how much hotter it would be if he starts degrading you but yet praising you at the same time??/?/?/

NAKAKITA YUMA:

- Public Sex: He has a high sex drive and you can’t tell me otherwise 😊

- Restraints ( Giving ): He loves having his way with you, he will use anything to tie you up with like shirts, ties, belts, etc.

- Manhandle: He is one rough man, do you see how quickly he starts gettin all fuckin naggy?

ASAKURA JO:

- Size Kink: I just know he has one, he’s a literal giant if not a fucking titan, he loves being in control and the size kink sets it off for him

- Bulge Kink: He has a big cock, thats it.

- Senpai Kink: Not because he’s japanese, he would love hearing your voice calling him senpai.

SHIGETA HARUA:

- Senpai Kink: He feels a sense of power and dominance when you call him senpai.

- Oral Fixation ( Giving ): He LOVES eating you out, absolutely, 100%. He will overstimulate you.

- Restraints ( Giving ): He wants to have his way with you too, so he will be just like Yuma and use anything to tie you up

TAKAYMA RIKI ( TAKI ):

- Oppa Kink: Something about it to him, he loves how it sounds when it slips your lips.

- Rough Sex: He’s mean as fuck, idc what you say, he will fuck you until you’re SOBBINGGG

- Degrading: Again, he’s def a meanie in bed, like he’s a menace. His degrading is CRAZY.

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

Title: cruel summer | chapter 3

Pairing: Joel Miller/Female Reader

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Rating: Explicit (18+ MDNI)

Chapters: 6/6

Read on AO3 | Join the tag list

Summary:

Joel takes a contracting job renovating a master bedroom and bathroom while the homeowners are away for the summer on a cruise.

He wasn’t expecting their twenty-three year old daughter and the thoughts he’d have about her.

Author’s Note: thank you so much for all the love on this little fic! Please consider leaving a comment because they make my whole day 🖤

Additional warnings/tags: age difference (15 years), explicit sexual content, dirty talk (like a LOT), pet names, vaginal fingering, begging, mentions of overstimulation, mentions of oral (f receiving), p in v, fluff, mild angst. Let me know if I’m missing anything!

The next couple weeks feel like a dream that you never want to wake up from. Joel comes over every morning and gives you a sweet kiss before heading upstairs to start on his work while you study, actually being able to focus now that the air is cleared with him. He comes down at lunch and sits beside you with a hand on your thigh while you chat and eat, his eyes all soft as he watches you gesture wildly about the topic at hand.

He’s come back over a couple times after working hours. If Tommy or his neighbor’s teenage daughter are able to watch Sarah for a couple hours, he’ll stop by your house to spend time with you. Most of his visits just end with making out on the couch like a couple of teenagers because no matter how much you beg, he still won’t fuck you.

You can’t tell if it’s a residual feeling of guilt or something else, but it’s driving you insane. He’ll enthusiastically do just about anything else, including a memorable evening where he laid you out on the couch and leisurely ate your pussy until you had to literally shove him away from how overstimulated you were getting. And while that was amazing, you want more from the older man.

Two weeks after your conversation and subsequent activities, Joel comes downstairs on a Friday with a smile on his face.

“Hey, baby,” he says, leaning down to kiss you. His tongue traces your bottom lip, slipping into your mouth to slide with yours. “How’s studyin’?” He asks as he pulls away, huffing a laugh as you chase his lips with a pout.

“Fine. Boring. How’s the manly manual labor?”

“Comin’ along nicely. Listen, I wanna ask you somethin’,” he says. “Sarah wants to go to the aquarium tomorrow to see the mermaids. She asked if you could come, too.”

You blink in surprise. “Sarah asked for me?”

“Yeah, she won’t shut up about you,” he replies. “You don’t gotta come if you’ve already got—“

“I do! I mean, I do…want to go. To the aquarium with you and Sarah,” you interrupt.

“Good, that’s…good,” Joel says. You’re just smiling at each other like a couple idiots. He clears his throat and glances away for a second. “We can pick you up tomorrow morning. How’s nine?”

“Nine sounds great.”

He nods, knocking his knuckles against the table top in the way he does when he needs to leave but doesn’t want to. He leans down for another kiss, this one chaste and quick as he bids you goodbye.

“See you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

_______

Joel parks the truck in front of your house, sending you a quick text to let you know he’s here. Sarah is bouncing in her seat, her little body unable to contain her excitement.

He watches you come out the front door in a fucking sundress of all things and he has to bite back a groan of appreciation. You’re usually in shorts or leggings at your house, which are tempting enough, but your little blue sundress with strawberries printed on it has just jumped to the top of his list of “best things he’s ever seen in his life”.

Joel gets out of the driver’s seat and circles the truck to open the door for you, helping you up into the lifted cab. His hand lingers on your upper back, fingers dragging across your warm, smooth skin. He smiles with smug satisfaction as he watches your arms erupt with goosebumps from his touch.

Sarah calls your name excitedly. “We’re gonna see mermaids!”

You twist in your seat to respond. “I know! Just like Ariel, huh?”

Sarah nods excitedly and proceeds to list off the rest of the animals she’s excited to see, including the stingrays and otters and sharks. You nod along with her list and tell her about how much you love otters, and did she know that otters hold hands when they’re sleeping so that they don’t float away from each other?

Joel can’t stop smiling. He can’t remember the last time he smiled for so long his cheeks ached. Your eyes flit to him briefly and you smile back, bright and sweet.

He parks the truck amongst the hundreds of other visitors in the parking lot and Sarah frees herself from the confines of her car seat. You hop down and join her on the pavement, his daughter’s arms wrapping around your waist and holding tightly until Joel joins the two of you.

“Let’s go see some mermaids,” he says.

________

Sarah’s sitting beside you, her little hand holding tightly to yours while she breathlessly watches the mermaid show. It’s two young women in gorgeous green and red tail suits, diving and flipping while an emcee narrates the show. They take the occasional break with a breathing apparatus, but otherwise they’re holding their breath while smiling and waving at the kids sitting with their noses pressed to the tank glass.

When the show ends, Joel asks Sarah whether she wants to meet the mermaids, earning him a shriek that you interpret to be a yes. He holds her hand as you get in line for the meet and greet, and gives her his undivided attention while she recounts every minute of the exact show he just watched beside her.

Joel insists that you get in the picture with them. A teen with a Polaroid camera tells you to smile.

You don’t have to be told twice.

Sarah clutches that Polaroid protectively to her chest and proclaims, “This is the best day ever!”

Your heart feels like it’s going to burst.

________

Joel takes his girls out for dinner after a long day at the aquarium. Sarah sits beside him in the booth at a local bar and grill, clutching a stuffed otter you insisted on buying for her despite his objections that he didn’t want you spending money.

“When’s that exam again?” He asks, snagging one of the nachos from the plate in the center.

“Ugh, end of next week,” you groan. “At this point I’m just ready for it to be over. If I never look at another physics practice test, I’ll die a happy woman.”

“What happens next?”

“Well, I go back to school for senior year. If I bomb the exam, I can take it again before April so that I have my scores available to apply to med school in May,” you say, ticking the steps off on your fingers. “Since I graduate before the end of the application cycle, I’ll have a gap to fill. I was thinking of making it a research year.”

Sometimes, especially in moments like this, Joel finds himself in awe of you, of the way you have your life planned out and your goals ready for conquering. When he was your age, he was still working odd jobs until one finally stuck that he could actually make a living from.

It’s also moments like this that he wonders if he’ll fit into your plans. If you’ll even want him to, or if you’ll go after your next goal and leave him behind, just a fun time from a cruel summer. The thought makes him swallow around the lump forming in his throat.

________

“So, did you want me to drop you off or…,” Joel asks when you’re back in the truck, his eyes fixed resolutely on the road.

“Or…?” You reply, voice dragging the word out.

“You could come over,” he suggests. You bite your lip.

“Why Mr. Miller, are you asking me to spend the night?”

His cheeks turn a delicious shade of pink beneath his beard. “Yeah, I am, baby doll.”

Your breath catches at the endearment. “I’d love to come over.”

His hand crosses the center console, gripping your thigh possessively for the rest of the quiet drive back to his house.

_______

Joel pulls up to a cute two story house at the end of a quiet cul de sac about fifteen minutes from your parent’s home. Sarah fell asleep not long after leaving the restaurant, so he carefully gathers her in his arms and hands you the house keys to unlock the front door for him.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he tells you. “I’m just gonna get little miss here in bed.”

“Okay,” you whisper back, watching him disappear upstairs.

You wander through the first floor, into the kitchen with its pretty bay window with a view of a small backyard. You inspect the fridge and the pictures and drawings stuck to it with magnets. There’s a photo of a younger looking Joel with an arm slung around the shoulders of a man you assume is Tommy, based on the resemblance. Another photo with a scared looking Joel holding a blanketed bundle that must be a newborn Sarah.

You reach out to trace a finger over the Joel frozen in time, a version of himself that didn’t know he’d grow out of that fear and be an amazing father.

You nearly jump when hands slip around your hips, fingers bunching the fabric of your dress in their grip. Joel’s beard tickles your neck as he kisses your pulse point and down to your shoulder.

“You have any idea how insane you’ve been drivin’ me all goddamn day?” He asks, voice a rough whisper against your skin. “This dress should be illegal.”

“It’s a perfectly respectable dress!” You argue. His laugh is dangerous, the rumble of it making your thighs clench in want.

“The things I wanna do to you aren’t perfectly respectable, honey.” His hands pull your hips back against his, grinding your ass against the bulge in his jeans.

You reach a hand back to bring his face to yours over your shoulder, kissing him with a desperation that’s been brewing and bubbling for weeks now. One of his strong hands grips a breast tightly, making you moan louder than you meant to.

“Be quiet, baby,” he warns. That hand slides down until he’s reaching the hem of your dress, pulling it up and holding it in front of your mouth. “Bite it. You keep that out of my way, okay?”

You nod, fabric clenched between your teeth as his hand trails down your stomach, fingers finding the damp patch on your panties and pressing it against you.

“Fuck , sweetheart. Been walkin’ around with panties this wet? Pussy so desperate it can’t help but weep, huh?”

Those fingers slip past the elastic and the first touch to your sensitive clit has you trying to squirm out of his tight hold.

“Uh, uh,” Joel admonishes. He cups your entire pussy roughly. “You stay still or I stop. Still and quiet so I can take care of you, alright?”

You sob around the fabric clenched between your teeth and he takes that as agreement.

His fingers slide through your wetness and he groans into your ear, nipping at the lobe as he circles your clit, the delicious roughness of his callouses making you whine.

Joel only dips the tip of one finger into your hole, withdrawing quickly and leaving you clenching on nothing. When you whine again, he takes pity on you, finally plunging one deep inside before dragging it out slowly, curling it against you.

“You’re gonna be the goddamn death of me,” he growls as he adds a second finger, the stretch of it making you moan. “But Christ almighty, what a fuckin’ way to go, huh?”

With his fingers stretching your cunt and his thumb pressing to your clit and his dirty words in your ear, it's no surprise that you’re already standing on the precipice of release.

“Come on, baby, don’t hold back on me, I can feel you gripping my fingers so fuckin’ good.” His hand works faster and you cry out, the fabric of your dress falling from your mouth. It’s swiftly replaced by his hand. “That’s it, good girl.”

Joel pulls his hand from your underwear and you slump against him, boneless and sated. He’s turning you around in his arms, gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting you up, urging your legs around his waist. He takes a few steps and sets you on the counter.

“Baby, I gotta fuck you,” Joel says, his voice tinged with desperation. “Can I fuck you, sweetheart?”

________

Joel holds his breath as he waits for you to respond, watching your blissed out expression. You smile at him, reaching forward to wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him into a deep, filthy kiss. Your teeth dig into his bottom lip, pulling it gently with you as you lean back.

“Please fuck me, Joel,” you whisper, spreading your legs. “Been dyin’ to have your cock in me.”

Joel reaches beneath your dress to tear your panties down your legs, letting them drop to the floor. He reaches into his back pocket and hands you the condom he’d stashed. “Open this,” he commands as he undoes the fly of his pants, shoving them down his thighs in a hurry.

You tear open the foil packet with shaky hands, handing the latex over to him to roll down his length. He slides his cock through your wetness, reveling in how your head drops back with a groan of his name.

Joel begins to ease inside, gritting his teeth as he sinks into your warmth. He’d imagined this countless times and yet nothing compares to the real thing. How your body opens up so sweetly, like it was made just for him. How your mouth drops open as you watch him break you apart.

He forces himself to go slowly, to give you time to adjust. You’ve got one hand propping you up on the counter and the other gripping his shoulder so tight he thinks he might bruise.

“I gotta move, sugar, you feel too damn good,” he says through his teeth. “Tell me I can move, baby, please.”

“Yes, yes, move,” you reply.

Joel withdraws slowly before slamming forward, punching a gasp from your lungs. He does it again and again and again, hardly wanting to be disconnected from you for even a moment. He watches your face, committing the flush of your cheeks and the shimmer of unshed tears in your eyes to memory.

“ Joel,” you sob, your hand digging into his hair and pulling him close. You’re not kissing him, too fucked out for that much coordination, but your lips linger against his as the two of you share the same breath.

“That feel good, darlin’?” Joel asks. You nod your head vigorously. “Come on, baby, tell me how good my fuckin’ cock feels.”

“F-feels s-so g-good,” you stutter. “Want more.”

“More? Tell me how to give you more, I’ll give you whatever the fuck you want.”

“Touch me, baby, please.”

Joel maintains his relentless pace as he reaches a hand down to draw sloppy circles over your clit. He watches as you bite your lip, a single tear slipping down your cheek in an effort to stay quiet. He leans forward to kiss it away.

It’s not long before you’re tightening around him, your eyebrows pinched as your orgasm looms. His own hips stutter in their rhythm.

“Come on, sweetheart, need to feel you cum all over my cock. Can you do that for me?”

You wrap both arms around his shoulders, keeping yourself pressed tightly to him as you sink your teeth into his shoulder to suppress your shout as you pulse around him. With a growl, Joel follows your lead to ecstasy, spilling inside of you.

His hips slow to a stop, but he keeps himself pressed inside of you, not ready to break the connection. He pulls back only enough to press a slow, languid kiss to your lips.

“That was gorgeous, darlin’,” he says, and he fights a laugh as you blush and squirm beneath him, as if you hadn’t just been begging for and cumming on his cock not five minutes earlier. He slips from your warmth with a groan and you give a little whimper.

He disposes of the used condom, pulling his pants back up but not bothering to button them. He returns to stand between your legs and you drape your arms around his shoulders, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Joel?”

“Yes, baby?”

“What is it with you and kitchens?” You ask. Your face splits with a cheeky grin.

Joel laughs so hard his stomach hurts, your own giggles echoing him. He drags you off the counter, setting you on your feet.

“Come on, let’s get to bed.”

Tags: @huffle-punk @telepathay @johnwatsn @hopelessromantic727 @caatheeriinee07 @leeeesahhh @whereasport @pedr0swh0r3

[b0tsbby]

Signifying Meaning in Tristamp’s Vash and Knives S1 Designs and Visual Cues: Part 2

TLDR: How Everything but Stamp’s dialogue supports it’s characters

Trigun Stampede spoilers and potential Max/98 spoilers. TW for fucking episode 11 and 12 of this show I hate it.

I wrote this so that the order doesn’t matter and you can read part 2 or 1 first, though I ask of not reading just one part cause the two kinda work together? Sort of???

If you want a fun drinking game, take a shot everytime I mention the other twin (I’m sorry).

Vash the Stampede

Despite my overt support and gravitation to a certain twin in Stampede and Trigun as a whole, I actually started out Trigun like many, and empathised with Vash more. While not my favourite character at first, ( Wolfwood holds that title), the sadness I felt for Mr Vash after that finale was insurmountable, and now he’s like…guy no.3 I like. With that outta the way, let’s get started.

Ep.1 Ghost of the Man

It shouldn’t be a surprise that I started Trigun with Stampede, and later delved into 98 and Max, so my outrage at Stampede Vash’s design wasn’t so genuine. A google search later and I could tell that the difference however, was jarring.

We first get introduced to Vash laughing hysterically, upside down with his hair mimicking his original look and glasses obscuring his eyes (hold on to that, it’s important). Not the most charming of introductions, but a fun reference to sir Diablo nonetheless.

Meryl gets him down, and his attitude changes slightly. This mysterious man turns out to be somewhat approachable if a little looney.

This sequence already introduces a visual cue Orange loves to use in Stampede, the obstruction of eyes, the window to the soul. This is particularly significant for Vash’s character. His words and gestures suggest an open, friendlier nature, but we as an audience are kept at an arms length through this obstruction. Vash definitely makes no effort to separate himself or keep a distance, a good facade, as Vash still keeps his deepest thoughts and feelings to himself.

This changes after a bit, we see Vash’s eyes for the first time at the bar. Vash here has calculated the type of people Meryl and Roberto. This doesn’t mean he lets his guard down, but rather has decided on the best way to now approach them. Like a mask, Vash has now decided the best one to wear for this social charade.

Ep 1 is littered with moments like this. Another significant one is his encounter and our first introduction to the plants. We're shut out of Vash’s psych once again as Vash looks at both the dying and healthy plant, one lens red and the other blue, a visual of Vash’s internal conflict before we ever really get to figure him out.( And yes that is a Matrix reference, red pill, blue pill. Oh my god.)

Contextually we can link these colours to certain themes and characters, but we’ll sum that up later.

With the psychology of his glasses out the way, we can move on to his style.

Vash wears a big red coat, with a turquoise interior, a black turtleneck, black trousers and swept forward, spiky hair. He still has his signature prosthetic arm, however in this iteration, it’s made of turquoise translucent like metal. And of course, Orange kept his very important mole and left earring.

The bright red is undoubtedly pretty flashy in this drab, brown landscape. If you didn’t know he was the main character before, now you do! On its own, his look is, okay, not exactly groundbreaking but visually distinct enough for you to care.

The disappointment really lies in the comparison of this design and his 98/ Max look. It’s jarringly underwhelming, uncharacteristically new age (ew, new things!). They even swept his anti-gravity needle hair forward! This isn’t so much Vash THE Stampede as it is some shoddy pretty boy imitation of him!

Ring the bell though cause that is where the magic is.

EP 8-9, A Whole Lotta Red (and other colours)

(He’s so tiny here stooooop😭)

Our Home and Millions Knives is littered with the use of red. We’re able to finally give meaning to the colour that defines Vash.

Starting off with his teenage design, Vash is not much different from his brother. He’s wearing scrap cloth he found on this downtrodden planet, painfully human and painfully bland. To reiterate, like his brother, he doesn’t know who he is at this point. He hasn’t decided whether to embrace his past, as his childhood plant suit is nowhere in sight, or embrace his future, whatever that may be. A blank canvas with no solid attachments or motivations yet.

We’ll start off with the psychology of blue;

At this stage, both brothers are blank canvases, barely coping with, well, still being alive. Vash is unlucky enough to be taken in by brad and Luida at first. While some sympathy is garnered from Luida, Vash is still very much othered, until he does something for the wellbeing of Ship 3. It’s here we see again that blue from Ship 5, a plant! But blue doesn’t just represent the sole plant existence, it also signifies their safety and vitality. The blue of his healthy plant sister is the marker for some decency earned from the humans on this ship.

It’s here Vash is walking a fine line to be accepted. He may be a ‘monster’, but he did good, so he’s safe, he’s welcome. It’s here Vash sees what he needs to do to stay on with them in the hopes maybe they’ll forgive him for the Big Fall and being who he is.

It’s then he’s gifted, his signature red coat that doesn’t even fit him yet (awwww). A gift from the humans that took him in despite labelling him as a monster, something other. We learn, red now signifies the love he’s received from humans. This red coat is a living symbol of their ability to change. It’s all figured out.

Then he meets his brother, who naturally, is there just to keep us on our toes. (They called the ship Seeds specifically after Knives impeccable ability to plant the seeds of doubt into almost every 20-something year old watching this show for the first time btw)

The psychology of red takes on a whole new form. Everything is red. The dying plants, the warning lights, the pools of blood on the floor, (from Vash too might I add). Red takes on this meaning of violence, corruption, sickness, pain and death. Most importantly the death of Vash’s plant sisters.

With extra trauma to spare, Vash goes home to ship 3 with a red coat and a red bleeding heart for his sisters and very ambitious brother. Both the bad and good of the psychology of red are displayed, the overarching qualities of humanity.

Ep 1-10, Where Vash Goes Back and Forth

As our main character, we have the privilege of watching Vash’s internal struggle for a sense of purpose and value in real time! In the events of Stampede, we get to pick up a few pieces.

Now that meaning has been attributed to both colours red and blue, destructing the colours of his design becomes a lot more fun.

Thank you Silversora for actually bringing this to my attention specifically.

Overall, Vash’s design communicates a want to blend in, not stand out and well, belong! He’s not an idiot. He knows just as much as his brother the dangers he could put himself in if he fully embraced his plant being. He knows the dangers he could put humans in if he just, fully embraced what he is. In that regard, he’s a little bit ashamed of it.

Vash yearns so badly to be a part of humanity, to be accepted by the same humanity his mother believed in, even if it means suppressing who he is, even if it means being humanity’s showdog.

The tragedy of Vash’s existence lies in an overtness in both sides of the plant and humanity spectrum. Vash is painfully human, and would have easliy passed for one, if he wasn’t such an immensely powerful plant. His existence is dizzying in that its constantly oscillating between two extremes, I’d like to think, too human to be a perfect plant, too plant to be a perfect human. At the end of the day, it is not humans in water tanks. At the end of the day, it is not plants that raised him.

Vash’s coat communicates this tragedy pretty clear, its red with inner blue lining. Outside, Vash is as human-presenting as he can possibly be, it’s what he wants people to see. Internally, his planthood will never leave him, it's the shame, insecurity, he keeps behind this exterior.

And no I haven’t forgotten his black turtleneck and black slacks. There’s no better way than to compare that whole setup with looking into void. Fitting, and very similar to his glasses convention, it’s too obscure his body, his build and yes his scars. A terrible indication of his ever cascading self worth and bodily shame. (If you’re wondering where he got all this shame from, he’s holding on to Knives shame too so his brother can come back one day and collect it with 45% interest.)

Ep 11, The danger of indecision

Okay so we’re at arguably the worst episode ever now, but it’s still littered with visual cues so sit down and just trust me.

Ep 11 is jarringly blue.

I hate to bring the other guy into this, (I’ve done that 5 times in this essay already) but the blue representation in this episode doesn’t fall short on me, considering this is when “The Memory World of Knives” plays from the OST. Back to character design though, this is the unfortunate moment Vash is robbed of his autonomy, and his ability to choose who he is and wants to be. This is where a new colour is brought into the mix, purple.

But this purple is not particularly bright, being more of an accent to black with only his glasses being purple, (I’m going to reiterate here how his glasses are a visual embodiment of the window to the soul). It shouldn’t be missed that the geraniums that grow out of him in this mental warp, are a drowned out purple.

While all this could genuinely mean nothing and I’m wasting your time, I believe it’s expressing the danger of Vash’s foot-in foot-out fawning response. If he doesn’t decide who he is and what he stands for, perpetually living in a state of reaction and guilt, someone else will just figure it out for him and he’ll end up being nothing at all, hence the lack of colour and subtle purple (a muddy middle point between blue and red).

Hope is not lost though, and a second meaning is given to this particularly traumatic hue in the finale.

Ep 12, Where Vash Makes a Choice for himself

Despite holding an unfair amount of empathy for Stampede’s Knives, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than when I watched his ass get kicked. The actualisation, reclaiming of autonomy and defining moment of Vash was incredibly therapeutic.

Vash’s forming of identity was definitely met with more resistance than his twin, but characteristically Vash supersedes Knives again in the transformation of his personal identity and purpose. Vash reaches a level of self awareness, confidence and acceptance that even his brother doesn’t get to until he chooses to ultimately off himself. The exceptional defining moment of Vash the Stampede starts here.

Now that we have defined what blue and red mean in terms of theme, Vash’s purple and black final form gains so much significance. The inner lining of his coat takes on a bright purple colour. As well, red and blue mixed creates a purple hue, this design choice symbolises Vash’s acceptance of his dual identity; he’s too much of a human, he’s too much of a plant. This is just the bittersweet nature of his existence and he’s learned to embrace it.

The outer lining and main composition consisting of black is just as important. While being a very clear reference to Vash’s black coat in his last fight in Max, the black again, obscures his form in this nighttime setting. While we know much more now, Vash is still and will always be a mystery to humanity and the audience; the chameleon in a crowd.

And yes there is Yin and Yang symbolism consistently in this fight. The black passive, female principle associated with sustainability and things earthly, dark and cold (yin code for Vash) and the white aggressive male principle associated with creation and things heavenly, light and warm (yang, code for Knives).

Phew…(Don’t make it weird though, I find the imagery genuinely heartbreaking thank you.)

The more obvious references and ties to Vash finally defining himself remain in his hairstyle, being in the style we know so well. It took a whole season, but the Vash we know is finally coming to be! He’s powerful, he’s agile and he’s determined to live for an active cause, not to simply erase the steps of his own existence.

In the end, Vash doesn’t really change much goal wise, and he ironically sticks to the initial coding of the plant’s existence; to be of service to humanity. But what matters is it’s now his choice and his choice alone. No more (entirely) motivated by shame, guilt and seeking repentance, Vash is now fueled by the love and hope he holds for humanity. He is Vash the Stampede!

And that’s all folks. To end off, I wanna mention something I learnt about broadway that is somewhat related to this analysis. Never listen to the lyrics, listen to the music. I think Stamp’s dialogue is genuinely ass and there’s so much to be missed if you kinda take everything at a surface level. From the character design to visual cues to the INCREDIBLE OST, you find that a lot is not what it seems and a parallel narrative is constantly taking place. While I hope but doubt this was intentional, I fucking love meta stuff like that. With the insinuation of warped memory, an unreliable narrator and fraudulent identities, the possible number of paths this show could take for S2 are almost overwhelmingly endless.

Hopefully in the future I can write an essay solely on identity and adolescence in Stampede cause honestly this is only half of it. I might make an extra part 3 on not exclusively character design facts and things I picked up about the brothers. Otherwise thanks for reading. If you didn’t read this whole thing in Philomena Cunk’s voice though, then I take that back sorry.

Part 1 - Millions Knives

[rorywritesjunk]

Oh, go to sleep, Little Skylark. Fly up past the stars

After breaking your heart, Buggy is cursed to be a kid again. The last thing you want to do is be involved with this.

Rating: PG-13ish. Warning: First chapter isn't nice. Buggy is a dick, the Reader is petty. There's tears, a breakup, things like that. Just a heads up about that. No physical violence or anything but Buggy is very much a dick. A/N: This is what I originally wrote before the other Kid Buggy fic. I decided to revisit it and tidy it up before posting it. This has no connection to the other story at all. Completely different.

Title comes from "Little Skylark (safe at home)" by S.J. Tucker.

Chapter 1 + Chapter 2 + Chapter 3 + Chapter 4 + Chapter 5 + Chapter 6 + Chapter 7 + Chapter 8

*Little header made by me

Chapter 1

As much as you loved your boyfriend, he was getting on your nerves lately. It seemed like every chance he got he found something to whine or complain about, like his food being too hot, the bed being too cold, or the sun being too bright, which that last one frustrated you the most because that was out of your control. Why was he acting like such a child lately? It was like he was purposefully trying to make you mad, to get you to give up on him, but you hadn’t yet. You didn’t want to.

You tried to brush it off at first, but after weeks of it you finally snapped at breakfast.

“The eggs are too runny.” He grumbled as he poked at them with his fork, glancing over at you. “Did you suddenly forget how to cook them?”

Your response was to overpour his coffee for him, not caring as it spilled onto the table. Next you slammed your own plate onto the table, ignoring him as you ate your eggs. It was too early for him to complain, but you knew he’d eat the runny eggs so what does it matter? He would have complained if the yolk was too firm, or if they weren’t salty enough, so why were you bothering?

“Just eat them.” You told him as you lifted your fork into your mouth. “No wasted food, got it?”

Buggy made a face at you as he poked at his food. This man was in his damn 30s and was acting like a bratty child.

“Why did you cook them so poorly then?” He asked. “You’re the cook, you’re supposed to be able to cook things properly!”

“Buggy, it’s too early for this.” You said, trying to remain calm as you ate, but he was starting to already get on your nerves.

“You can’t even cook a damn egg right!” He exclaimed as he slammed the fork down.

“Then cook your own damn food next time!” You snapped back. “Or maybe get yourself a new cook, because clearly it’s not up to your refined tastes!”

“How hard is it to even cook an egg?!”

“Not hard, so go ahead and cook your next meal yourself, Buggy!” You pushed your plate away from you as you stood up. “This is ridiculous.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” He muttered as he carefully lifted his coffee cup up, trying not to spill any more out. “This is all ridiculous.”

“What did you say?” You asked with a frown. He paused for a moment, not realizing you heard him.

“Nothing.” He wouldn’t look at you, taking a careful sip of his hot coffee. “Fuck, this is too hot.”

“What did you say, Buggy?” You tried again. Did he really say you were being ridiculous? You couldn’t have heard that right. 

Buggy set the coffee down and crossed his arms, refusing to look at you. “I said you’re being ridiculous. It’s just cooking. Why is it so hard for you to get right?”

“Excuse me?” 

“If you can’t get the food right, I’ll need to find another cook.” He told you. You stood there in shock. What was he even talking about? What did that even mean? Did he realize how hurtful that was? “Got it?” 

“Is this just because the egg yolk was too runny?” You asked, voice wavering a bit as you tried to keep yourself from blowing up at him. “Because I’d like to see Cabaji in here trying to cook. We all know how that will turn out.”

“Sleeping with me doesn’t give you a free pass to slack on your duties, y’know.” He told you as he looked down at his coffee. 

Okay, that stung. Why was he being like this? 

“Is that so?” You said. “Is that what you think is happening? Or are you tired of having me around, Buggy?”

He turned and glared at you. You didn’t back down, staring back at him as tears welled up in your eyes. 

“Can’t have a useless cook on board.” He muttered. “Won’t do any of us any good.”

Useless. He just said you were useless.

You clenched your fists. You weren’t going to cry in front of him. Did he really think that? This felt out of the blue, but the last few weeks it was like he was up to something with how he was acting towards you. Was he trying to drive you away on purpose? Was he tired of you, of having you around? 

“Guess I’ll find a new job elsewhere.” You told him through clenched teeth. He looked away from you again. 

“Fine.”

It was like a knife to the heart. You loved this idiot, but clearly he didn’t feel the same way if he was talking to you like this. Was there even a reason to stick around anymore? When you had joined the crew two years ago, you were excited to be on a pirate ship, to have adventure, but you never anticipated falling in love with the stupid captain, and you thought he was in love with you. Had the last year just been a joke to him?

The ship was due to stop at a port in a day. 

~

You avoided Buggy the rest of the day. 

You didn’t make lunch for him or the crew, which had them confused. Buggy even had the balls to ask where the food was, but you just shrugged.

“You haven’t found a useful cook yet?” You asked. “Well, I’m sure someone onboard knows how to cook better than me.”

And you walked away, leaving behind a very angry captain.

And when it was time for dinner, Buggy was surprised to see you cooking up a steak. Oh, maybe you decided that the stunt you pulled at lunch was petty and were apologizing to him for it. His mouth watered when he saw how tasty the steak looked, and he waited in anticipation as you plated it, but then you walked past him with it, leaving the kitchen and going out on deck. Confused, he got up and followed after you as you went below. The crew looked up from where most of them were lounging, and Mohji appeared to be waiting for you, but when he saw the captain he froze.

Ignoring the beast tamer, you pushed past him and opened Richie’s cage. The lion perked up at seeing the steak. You tossed the cooked meat to him, ignoring Buggy’s frustrated scream.

“You fed the lion before you fed me?!” Buggy shrieked. You held the plate out for Richie to lick clean. “And you fed him a steak?!”

“You did say I was useless.” You shrugged. 

“You still have to cook us meals, you know!” The captain snapped. You stepped out of the cage and shut it before you turned to look at him.

“I’m getting off the ship when we arrive tomorrow.” You told him as you crossed your arms. “I’m sure you’ll find plenty of cooks in town who’d want to join this… crew of yours.”

That seemed to surprise Buggy, which confused you. What did he expect you to do after the way he spoke to you at breakfast? You told him what you were doing and he went along with it. Why was he now acting surprised?

“You’re leaving the crew?” Mohji asked, startling you for a moment. You forgot he was there, and was a little embarrassed that this discussion had an audience. “Why?”

You looked over at him before turning back to Buggy. Did you want to make a scene or just move on? Buggy was one for the dramatics, to have the attention on him, but you… weren’t. You didn’t want any more attention on you than you needed to have. So you shrugged and looked back at Mohji.

“Time to move on, I guess.” You told him. “My cooking skills have been lacking lately, so I think it’s time for you to have a better cook.” You glanced over at Buggy, words you wanted to say were on the tip of your tongue, but as upset as you were, you wouldn’t talk down to him in front of the crew. “You’ll find someone.”

~

You packed your clothes and other belongings into a bag. There had to be an inn to stay at on the island, maybe one of them would be hiring. You didn’t want Buggy’s words about your cooking skills to get to you, but saying you were ridiculous and useless stung more than anything. It was hard not to replay them in your head throughout the day. Why did he say those things? He wasn’t always great at communicating how he felt, but he never spoke to you like that before.

You ducked out of the once shared room once you were packed, leaving the bags at the door while you went to find a place to finally cry. There were some casks stacked up near the quarters that you were able to duck behind, giving you a place to cry. You were choosing to leave. His words made it clear you weren’t needed. 

Once you got the tears out, you hugged your knees to your chest and let your head thunk against one of the casks. He used to say how delicious your meals were, no matter what it was, and you apparently brewed the best coffee whenever he asked. He felt so lucky to have you on his crew, he would tell you after three helpings of dinner while you cleaned the kitchen. And then there was his birthday, where you baked him a cake, and he was drunk and kissed you, saying how much in love he was with the cook. 

But the last few weeks… he changed. You tried a few times to talk to him when he’d make comments about the food, ask him what he would have wanted instead, but he wouldn’t tell you. He stopped seeking you out, wouldn’t sleep near you in bed. He was shutting you out and wouldn’t tell you why.

This morning finally broke you.

~

You didn’t sleep, choosing to stay out on deck. Buggy even asked if you were going to be in the room with him but you wouldn’t talk to him. You just made yourself comfortable against one of the masts until morning when the ship pulled into port. Mohji and Cabaji came out to see you off, as did some of the other crew, but Buggy was nowhere to be seen. Probably for the best because you weren’t sure what you would say to him for some final words. You didn’t even say bye to the others, just gave them a nod as you picked your bags up and stepped off the ship. 

Maybe this could be a new start of some kind.

[celestial-toys]

That I Would Be Good [2/5]

Mind Games

“Contrary to that thing, my monitor doesn’t need to be on in order for you to interact with me. No eye-strain or migraines required.”

You lean back in your chair, muttering as you turn to face him. “Just trading one kinda ‘strain’ for another if you ask me…”

He idly turns your mug over in his hands. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Your brows raise and you cock your head up to look at him. “That’s… mature of you.”

His optic's focus doesn’t move from the mug in his hands. “…One of us has to be.”

- - - - - - -

In This Chapter

Moon walks in on you in a vulnerable state, Sun displays his concern over your health in his own strange way, and they both attempt to care for you as you chip away at your work.

Pairing: Sun x Moon x Reader

Word Count: 4,606

Contains: [AU - Real World | Sentient AI/Automatons | Personality Swap] [depiction and discussion of EDNOS (including mentions of weight gain + disordered eating and its slew of related thoughts and behaviors)] [invasion of privacy (both intentional and unintentional)] [more of Sun’s usual brand of tension and intimidating behavior]

A/Ns: This is a songfic. Lyrics and title are from ‘That I Would Be Good’ by Alanis Morissette.

This fic is part of my AU “[Not] Made by Design”, the full series can be found here.

Links to other parts of this fic: [Ch.1] [Ch.2 (you are here)] [Ch.3] [Ch.4] [Ch.5]

That I would be good even if I gained ten pounds.

You glare down at the bathroom scale in a brief moment of anticipation, and the illuminated digits that soon flash back at you make you regret stepping up here in the first place.

A critical little voice fills your head, speaking to you in a smug tone as you watch the scale’s display time-out and go blank.

“What else did you expect?”

You stand frozen in place, eyes darting over to your phone lying on the counter by the sink. The screen displays a document containing a substantial number of weigh-ins, body measurements, progress photos, and more. It’d gone unopened for a blissful few months before that damned voice urged you to open it again.

“You’d surely feel better if you got healthier,” it said.

“You’d be healthier if you lost some weight,” it said.

“You’ll thank yourself later,” it said.

“You’ll do it right this time,” it said.

“It’ll be worth it,” it said.

You’re familiar enough with this cycle to know not to fall for it’s words, but fuck do they sound good sometimes. They sound right. They manage to convince you that that’s really all there is to this nagging desire. They frame it around your health, they paint it in a pretty, harmless, positive light, and you eventually cast aside all better judgment and wade back into that familiar sea of lies.

You’re surprised it hasn’t drowned you yet.

You do the quick math in your head and frown at the confirmation that you’ve nearly gained back the same damn ten pounds that you’ve lost and gained more times than you’d like to count.

The logical part of your brain is pleading with you to listen to reason.

That your body feels safe here, and that there’s a reason for that.

That there’s a reason you keep bouncing back to this weight when you eat like a normal human instead of an obsessive, restrictive control-freak.

That every time you restrict and deny and starve yourself down toward your “goal weight” you’re only hurting yourself.

That once you inevitably give in to the human need for food, your body is only going to put on more fat-reserves to try and protect you.

That no matter how many times you listen to those lies, your efforts to be “healthy” will never do you any good as long as the focus is on your appearance.

That try as you might to hide it, you’re not living alone anymore. That eventually- sooner or later- your ever-observant house-mates are going to catch on to what you’re doing.

Apparently, “sooner or later” is actually right fucking now. As you stand in place, fully naked and perched on the bathroom scale lost in thought, the door swings open and you aren’t sure if it’s you or Moon that shouts first.

You jump in shock and immediately move to cover yourself, unable to get a coherent word in over Moon’s shouts of “SORRY—SORRY—DIDN’T REALIZE YOU WERE IN HERE—I AM SO SORRY!”

He twists his faceplate 180 degrees on its axis so damn fast that you’re afraid he’s damaged some internal components in his rush to prove that he isn’t looking at you. He rushes back out of the bathroom, swinging the door closed behind him, and you slump against the wall, cradling the bathrobe you’d instinctually ripped off its hook against your chest. As you try to calm your heart, you hear the muffled sound of Sun’s irritated voice growing louder as he presumably approaches the door to investigate the noise.

You hurriedly wrap yourself in the robe before any more unfortunate incidents can occur.

“What the hell are you shouting about?! Is everything okay?”

Moon’s voice is a lot quieter when he answers him. “...Yes—No—I… I mean…” Silence hangs in the air. “I don’t… know.”

“What does that mean? Are they okay or not? Yes or no?!”

“Everything… is fine, Sun. Everything’s fine.”

A pit of fear begins to grow in your stomach at Moon’s haunted tone.

Surely he didn’t have time to realize what you were doing amidst his rush to vacate the bathroom… right?

“Sure as shit didn’t sound fine! What happened?”

“I just… I accidentally walked in on them in the bathroom. We startled each other. That’s all.”

You can feel the tension through the door.

“You’ve always been an awful liar, Moon. Now tell me the truth.”

Your eyes cast across the scale on the floor, the unraveled measuring tape sprawled across the counter, and your phone, its screen still lit up, displaying your detailed list of measurements.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

He put it together that fast?

“…I don’t think the truth is mine to tell, Sun.”

A terribly uncomfortable silence falls between the two of them, and you can only assume that they’ve moved whatever remains of the conversation to their internal chat.

You weigh your limited options as you take a seat on the edge of the bathtub, cursing your past self for ever confiding in them about your history of disordered eating. Why’d you think that was a good idea?

You could try to play it off, make a big deal about getting walked-in on while naked and pray that they conveniently forget what else Moon saw.

Or, you could try convincing them that it's different this time. Use all the same tactics that the disorder uses on you.

Or, you could try being honest. You could try being open with someone about this for a change. You could try asking for some damn help.

A soft knock on the door takes you out of your thoughts. Moon’s strained voice follows it. “Star, uhm… whenever you’re decent, I think the three of us should talk.”

You hear a sudden sound-the reverberation of rubber on metal-and Sun grunts out a muffled “Fuckin’-stop it! Okay- okay- y’ don’t gotta hit me…” before his voice follows Moon’s. “We aren’t… mad, if… if you’re worried about that. We’re just concerned. And we want to talk. That’s all.”

You close your eyes, and feel the pang of a painfully empty stomach.

Your voice comes out colder than you expect it to.

“I’m decent. Just open the door.”

A few seconds pass where you wonder if they even heard you, but then the door handle twists and the last remaining barrier between them and your poorly hidden secret is removed.

Moon enters first, looking concerned, of course, but also… almost… guilty. Internally, you scoff. It’s not like it’s his fault that you’re like this.

His monitor pivots, sweeping across the room but not lingering for long on any one thing, apparently already having seen enough in the brief moment between first opening the bathroom door and then registering your unclothed presence in the room.

You didn’t expect his environmental processing speed to come back and bite you in the ass like this.

His focus eventually settles on the floor tiles as he shuffles into the small room far enough to leave space for Sun.

You wrap your arms around your middle as the solar bot steps into the room, uncharacteristically… distant.

Well. Emotionally, his distance is nothing new, but he’s got quite the penchant for invading personal space, particularly yours, so the way he lingers near the doorway doesn’t go unnoticed. You watch as he silently leans forward, monitor shifting away from you and over toward your phone on the counter. He bends down to get a better look, apparently not shy about confirming Moon’s assumptions regarding what you’d been doing in here. He lowers a pointed finger to the screen, back-scrolling through your records and lingering on a few… unflattering photos.

You grit your teeth and grow restless in the tense silence. The uncomfortable vulnerability that comes with his casual invasion of your privacy manifests itself in your defensive tone. “Either of you gonna say anything or am I supposed to just sit here quietly as Sun reads about exactly how fat I’ve gotten?”

Moon’s head tilts slightly toward you, brow furrowed, and Sun mirrors the expression as he puts your phone to sleep with a defiant huff. You suspect he could easily unlock it and continue his investigation if he so chose, given his penchant for surveillance. He seems to recognize though, or at least finally acknowledge the rudeness of it, pulling back and righting himself, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed. “I couldn’t care less about that. I just want to know what’s going on with you.”

Moon pulls in a breath he doesn’t need, trying a gentler approach. “I apologize for walking in on you. I promise I… didn’t see… much.” He pauses, considering his words carefully. “…I can… show you? What I saw? I’ve already censored it. Or, uhm… I can just fully delete it if you’d like me to.”

The reminder that he can recall exactly what he saw and relive it again as many times as he’d like isn’t something you want to think about right now.

Maybe if you fling yourself backwards into the bathtub, you’ll hit your head so hard that at least you’ll be able to forget that any of this ever happened.

Pushing aside the intrusive thought, you shake your head. “I… appreciate the offer, but honestly that’s not what I’m concerned about right now.” You huff. “Hell, I’ve seen the two of you stripped bare, inside and out. Maybe it doesn’t hurt to level the playing field… I don’t know.”

The expression on Moon’s face changes, looking like he’s about to speak, and you cut him off before you all can wade any deeper into that discussion. “I assume seeing me naked for all of two seconds isn’t exactly what you two are concerned about either.”

Moon nods in both agreement and understanding, presumably answering for the both of them, as usual.

Sun reaches out once again, pinching the loose length of measuring tape between two fingers and lifting it off of the counter. “You know, I was willing to believe you when you started turning down your usual dinner, saying that you wanted to opt for something healthier.” He runs the tape between his fingers, straightening it as he speaks. “I was willing to write it off as your usual, run-of-the-mill lack of self care when you conveniently started “forgetting” meals entirely.” He begins slowly wrapping the tape around itself and you watch as his hands make quick work of re-rolling the tape into a neat little coil. “I was even willing to encourage you when you suddenly started wanting to exercise more. Though I had to admit, you seemed to be pushing yourself too far, too soon.”

He places the rolled tape back down on the counter, gaze suddenly meeting yours. “How long were you going to try and make fools of us?”

Okay… he’s taken this more personally than you thought he would.

“I—I wasn’t trying to “make a fool” out of either of you. Is that what you think this is? Some fun little game of mine?”

Moon jumps in before the conversation can grow heated. “That’s… not what he meant—”

“The hell it wasn’t—”

“Drop the act, Sun!”

Moon’s unexpected outburst catches both of you off guard, but his voice doesn’t waver, monitor swinging over to stare his other half down. “I know you’re worried about them and I know you don’t know how to show it, but shoving your head up your ass and acting like everything they do is some personal slight against you is not the answer.”

For once, Sun actually looks a bit shocked.

His screen flickers, cycling through a few different expressions before blacking out altogether. He’s quiet for a long few moments, monitor angling down toward the floor.

“…Then what am I supposed to do.” His defeated question comes out more like a statement, his head picking back up just enough for the image of you to enter his field of view. “How am I supposed to fix this? How do I reason with this nonsensical part of you that thinks there’s something wrong with your body?”

You search for an answer, a simple shrug followed by “It’s not that easy, Sun.” apparently not enough to satisfy him.

He keeps talking as he slowly approaches you, brushing past Moon’s outstretched arm as the lunar bot fights with his outdated instincts to keep Sun away from you. “There isn’t anything wrong with your body. Never has been. Never will be.”

You guess that his words are meant to sound comforting, but something isn’t right. His tone is off, the approach is all wrong, and he isn’t even technically correct.

“You know what there is something wrong with, though?”

You humor him. “What?”

He’s within arm’s reach of you now, and he reaches out to tap you on the forehead.

Moon’s hand darts in and clamps around Sun’s wrist, losing his internal fight.

Sun ignores him entirely.

“Your brain. There’s something wrong inside your head and it’s gonna fucking kill you if you keep listening to it.”

Moon attempts to interject. “Sun, that’s enough—”

“Tell me how I can help you.” Sun cuts Moon off like he’s not even there, focus locked entirely on you. “How? How? I can’t work on you the way you can work on us! I can’t lay you down, open you up, and pull out all the broken pieces. There’s no antivirus program to run. No broken bits of code that I can repair. I can’t fix you with my own two hands, and these mind games are not my forte.”

He lets his legs fold, collapsing to his knees before you. You wince at the sound of metal hitting tile. “Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it. You know I will.” His voice grows desperate, “Please, please tell me that you know I will.”

You shake yourself out of the near trance you’d fallen into while watching him show you his own peculiar brand of honesty.

“Sun…” You reach for the hand that Moon isn’t holding back. “I do know that you would. I do. I just don’t know how else I can explain to you that this… isn’t something that can be fixed in such a way. Hardly anything on my laundry list of problems can be cured using your preferred methods. I… I’m sorry.”

Sun sinks the rest of the way to the floor, slumping against the sink’s cabinets. With his black screen and lifeless body, he’d seem dead if it weren’t for the voice still coming out of him. “…Moon?”

Sun’s better half answers him as Moon lowers himself to the ground beside him. “Yes…?”

“Could I bother you to talk some sense into the both of us?” Sun breathes out his request, and you’re only a little offended by his use of “us.”

In spite of it all, Moon laughs. A soft, gentle sound.

“I can try.”

That I would be fine even if I went bankrupt.

The door to your office swings open slow and quietly, and if it hadn’t been for your eyes picking up on the movement in your periphery, you’d’ve been none the wiser to Sun’s silent entry. You don’t even need to glance away from your monitor’s screen to confirm which of your boys it is, Sun’s habit of “forgetting” to knock is plenty of a giveaway.

“It’s been an hour.”

Your eyes close as you suck in a deep breath, releasing it with more force than necessary as you will yourself to remain civil about this. “Thanks for the reminder, Sun.”

Your dismissive thanks is far from enough to appease him.

“Which means… it’s time to take a break.”

You reopen your eyes, avoidantly locking your focus on the work spread across your screen. “And I’ve scarcely made any progress yet. I can’t afford to take a break right now.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, and you almost dare to think that was a good enough counterpoint to convince him to leave you alone.

Almost.

He moves wordlessly from his imposing stance in the middle of the small room, and you watch him in the edge of your vision. He approaches the opposite side of your desk in measured steps before dropping down out of sight. There’s no sound or indication of movement for an uncomfortable few seconds too long. You’re about to angrily push away from your desk to look beneath it, mind quickly flooding with any number of nefarious things he could be doing. Namely, unplugging your PC again like the nuisance that he is.

As the palms of your hands press into the edge of your desk in preparation to push yourself away, your attention is caught by movement at the top of your monitor. You watch with impatient confusion as Sun’s rays peek above the top of your screen, the curve of his faceplate rising into view akin to the sun over the earth’s horizon. His motion halts when he’s risen halfway, and you’re rendered speechless in a mixture of annoyance, amusement, and shock as a pair of hyper-realistic human eyes stare back at you.

“Can you ‘afford’ to damage your eyesight?”

He’s replaced his display’s usual simplistic, circular approximation of eyes with an uncanny digital replica of what seems to be yours. You can hardly focus on the point he’s trying to make given the odd sight before you. “I—Sun, now really isn’t…”

He blinks at you, unwavering.

“Sun—quit lookin’ at me like that!”

He stifles a brief laugh. “Take a break from your screen and I will.”

You huff, shaking your head as you tear your gaze away from both screens in front of you, gaze pointedly darting around the room. “And look at what instead? You? What good’s it gonna do for me to look at your screen instead of this one?”

True to his word, once your eyes are off the screen, he rids himself of his disturbing new look. You glance at the motion as he rises fully from behind your desk, and take note of the way his monitor goes black instead of defaulting to his original face. He rounds the desk, hooking a finger through the handle of your long-empty mug and planting his ass on the corner where said mug just sat.

“Contrary to that thing, my monitor doesn’t need to be on in order for you to interact with me. No eye-strain or migraines required.”

You lean back in your chair, muttering as you turn to face him. “Just trading one kinda ‘strain’ for another if you ask me…”

He idly turns your mug over in his hands. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Your brows raise and you cock your head up to look at him. “That’s… mature of you.”

His optic's focus doesn’t move from the mug in his hands. “…One of us has to be.”

You sigh. “Sun, I appreciate your attempts to preserve my eye health, I do. But right now really isn't a good time…”

His monitor swivels on its axis, turning a near 180 to look at your monitor on the desk behind him. He surveys the day’s work: a messy assortment of various windows, tabs, and programs, recognizing that one client’s unreasonable list of requests among the disarray. From how long he spends staring at it, you begin to wonder if he’s got anything else to say at all.

“…You ever think about quitting?”

A surprised laugh escapes you. “Quitting? Uh—aha—I mean…” You give your answer a bit of thought. “…Of course I think about it. Especially when I’m stuck with a project like this one. Or, well… a client like this one. But that’s not… practical. I can’t just walk away from a job when things get hard.”

His monitor reverses the path it took to face the screen, swinging around slowly and pausing halfway through the motion to face you. “What’s stopping you?”

Another breathy laugh leaves you. “You mean aside from not wanting to feel like an even bigger failure than I already constantly do?”

He doesn’t respond, and you barely give him any time to. “Aside from that, y’know… when I said I can’t ‘afford’ to take a break right now, I meant it in the financial sense as much as any other.”

It’s not like losing out on the profit from one project would hurt your finances too much, at least not in comparison to how badly the failure to deliver would affect your reputation in your field. But quitting altogether? That’d be a different story.

“You… have money.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, reminding yourself that in spite of his intelligence, some knowledge can only sink in when you experience it firsthand.

“Yeah, but I won’t continue to have it if I just up and abandon this job with nothing else to fall back on. I’ve got bills to pay, a house and car to upkeep. Mine and Zero’s food and water, you and Moon’s maintenance—these things aren't free.”

His monitor swivels away from you as he considers your words. “Well they should be.”

You bite back a smile at his indignant response. “You’re not wrong… and in a better world, they would be. But unless you guys have figured out how to universe-hop and just haven’t told me yet, we’re stuck in this one. And I’ll stick with this company as long as they’ll have me if it means we can keep living comfortably.”

He resumes his idle toying with your drinkware and the thought suddenly occurs to you that maybe you should look into gifting him a fidget toy of some sort. He and Moon both would likely benefit from one, though you suspect Sun will reject the notion and Moon will just end up with two. Not that they’d go unused regardless, the lunar busybody could likely work one in each hand and still find himself restless.

Perhaps you should look into something more involved, like… complex puzzles? Intricate crafts? Something to keep his hands busy, given his preference for physical tasks as opposed to Sun’s love of idle entertainment. For someone who hates so-called “mind games” the solar bot sure does spend a lot of time in his own head. Regardless, you ought to find something for Moon, because you don’t think your house can get much cleaner or more organized. Though, the solution to Sun’s penchant for micromanaging your behaviors will likely be more difficult than a simple fidget toy can solve…

As your mind gears up to run off with the ideas, Sun’s next abrupt question halts it in its tracks.

“Did you want to quit when you were working on us?”

You freeze for a moment as the vulnerability in his tone catches you off guard, but the truth comes out easy when you answer him. “No. …No, I never did.”

His head tilts just enough to angle halfway back toward you, and if he wore any expression at all you assume it’d be one of skepticism.

“I mean it, Sun. I mean— hell, talk to any of my colleagues and they’ll tell you how insufferable I was back then. How difficult it was to get me to focus on any other project. How hellbent I was on executing the vision. How… well, I guess you saw at least some of those fights there toward the end when things got kinda… tense. No one could even get me to entertain the idea of giving up on you.”

The finger he’d been tracing in endless circles along the rim of your mug comes to a standstill. “…Why?”

You spin your chair around a bit, swiveling further into his avoidant line of sight, tilting your head and attempting to catch his invisible gaze. “Because I wasn���t doing it for money. You two were a labor of nothing but love.”

In the silence that follows, you hear his cooling system kick up a notch, and that’s the only sound that fills the room for a long moment. 

But like all moments, it eventually passed.

A soft knock on the doorframe pulls your attention away from the flustered automaton on your desk, and toward his counterpart standing in the open doorway of your office. One look at the tray effortlessly balanced in one of his hands answers the question of his arrival before you can even ask it.

“Am I interrupting anything?”

Sun unexpectedly answers before you can, and when your gaze flicks back over to him you’re surprised to find his default expression returned, and his demeanor completely shifted. “Nah, I was just reminding them of the importance of taking breaks to rest their eyes.”

He motions Moon over and the lunar bot accepts the invitation. “That is very important!” Soft-spoken and positive as ever, he presents you with a very reasonably proportioned and healthy spread of food. “You know what else is very important?”

You gaze up into his blue crescent eyes and he answers his own question on your behalf. “Lunch!”

Your grateful smile is involuntary as you reach out to lift a plate from the tray, turning toward Sun in a silent request for him to vacate the dedicated food-and-drink corner of your desk. He’s already moving before you even turn to him though, rising and striding to the middle of the room as you offer your gratitude to Moon and listen to him describe exactly what he’d made you.

You do your best to fight the long-memorized caloric numbers that rack up in your head as you take stock of what all he’s brought you.

“I’d offer to refill your water bottle, but it seems to still be quite full…” Moon’s commentary brings your attention back, and you sheepishly answer him.

“Yeah, I… finished the coffee first and… kinda forgot about that.”

He pets you gently on the head, calm as ever. “It’s alright, starlight, I understand.”

As you guiltily reach for the water bottle, Sun pipes up, excusing himself. “Well, now that you’ve been sufficiently distracted, I’ll be taking my leave—”

Moon cuts in, “Oh, don’t let me run you off, I just wanted to bring this in.”

Sun begins walking effortlessly backwards toward the doorway. “Oh, you’re not. I’ve got… my own plans. Starting with washing this mug.”

You can’t resist the urge to tease him, ‘talking to yourself’ plenty loud enough for him to hear on his way out. “Oh, thank fuck, he’s gone. Now I can get back to work!”

He halts in his tracks halfway through turning to face the exit. “You know, on second thought—”

You grin and wave. “Goodbye, Sun! Thanks for washing that for me!”

He shifts his weight onto one leg, idling in the doorway and thoughtfully dangling your mug from one hooked finger. “I mean, The American Academy of Ophthalmology actually recommends—”

“Good-bye, Mr. Sun.”

Moon chuckles at your deadpan dismissal and Sun huffs, turning and trudging away down the hall.

As you sip your water and begin to poke at the lunch with your fork, Moon walks around behind you and leans forward, surveying the work spread across your screen. “Do you mind if I take a look over this while you eat?”

You know it’s probably mostly an excuse to stay in here and make sure that you do eat, but you nod anyway. “Uh, sure! Have at it.”

The hunger hits you once you’ve had a taste of Moon’s cooking, and you muse aloud, mumbling around a mouthful of food. “Hell, maybe you’ll find some workaround that I can’t.”

A/N: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. I’ll be back soon with part 3! You can also find my notes and commentary on this fic right here on Ao3. Links to the playlist and moodboard for [N]MbD can be found on this blog’s pinned post, as well as in the series notes on Ao3. Image Sources: x - x - x

[xoxoladyaz]

When Stevie Harrington was nine years old, she wrote her future self a list on the front page of her diary. The title of the list read

RULES FOR STEVIE’S FUTURE HUSBAND

and it felt necessary to her nine-year-old self to have this list. Sure, she was young, but she wasn’t dumb. Her parents weren’t like Tommy’s parents who had date nights and kissed each other every time they said goodbye. Stevie’s parents never hugged or kissed each other (or her). And sure, they spent all their time together, but they never looked happy. No, they were always angry, and no matter what Stevie did she couldn’t figure out why. 

(At least, not until Tina Kline’s birthday party.) 

And as soon as she returned home from the party, she ran up to her room and started her list because Stevie Harrington wanted to fall in love someday, she wanted to have a house and a husband who was nice like Tommy’s dad, so it was important that she remembered the Rules.

1. He couldn’t be too old

(They’re ten years apart in age, she heard Mrs. Kline say. That’s just such a large age gap. It’s no wonder that it’s not working, they’re clearly at two very different stages in their lives.)

2. He couldn’t travel all the time for work

(It’s not the age gap that’s the problem, dear, Mrs. Hagan had scoffed back at her. It’s all of Richard’s frequent ‘business trips.’ It’s hard to have a family or a relationship if your husband is never around.)

and most importantly,

3. Any guy who dated around too much before was BAD NEWS

(Girls, we all know what the real problem is, and it has nothing to do with how old Richard is or how much he travels, Mrs. Perkins spoke with determination. Richard has never had a serious relationship in his life. We all know that he made it abundantly clear he was never interested in settling down. He had a new girl every week and she was one of them, for god’s sake! A tiger doesn’t change his stripes and Victoria was a fool to think a baby would change that.

Maybe if they’d had a son, Mrs. Kline had offered, but then they noticed Stevie was there and they stopped talking.)

It was a short list, but it was a good place to start. And as Stevie grew older she added more on to it, like make sure he wears deodorant and has to be a good dancer and never date a guy with a mullet (looking at you, Billy Hargrove.) And that’s not even to mention her large period of self-growth after college when Robin finally convinced her to go to therapy to talk about her family issues, at which point she added on you deserve someone who loves and appreciates everything about you and doesn’t just use you for sex (and fuck, that was a hard and painful lesson to learn. It also put a bit of a damper on dating in her early-twenties but, well, seeing the quality of man that was out there? It was probably for the best. She didn’t want to be Victoria Harrington, after all.)

So why, if Stevie had this list, if she’d had all of these years of preparation, if she knew exactly what she wanted – and more importantly, what she didn’t want – then why, at the age of twenty-six, was Stevie Harrington falling headfirst into a relationship with a world famous rock star who was

1. Twelve years her senior

2. Currently on tour and

3. Had a long, long string of famous (and infamous) ex-lovers?

(And why was her heart telling her that despite all evidence to the contrary, Eddie Munson was going to be the exception to all her rules?)

A/N: LMK if you want to see more of this!

[louisisalarrie]

Do you actually know something/seen something that makes you even more sure in your Larrie believes? Like where you are Larrie first and then got some “proves” from your job, or?

Understand if you can’t say anything 😊

Wow ok this accidentally turned into a welcome to the show. So, anon, without further ado, welcome to the show!

I’ve been a larrie since like… 2011. When we were “larry shippers” lol. So the confirmation and further info didn’t happen until I started in the industry. I always knew they were together but it’s interesting. People say they don’t believe they’re like… open about it to the industry but they kind of are. Not in a “I’ll prove it to you” overt way, but it’s just far more conservative in front of fans/the public eye. Plus… so much of this industry are contractors/suppliers who work with big names all the time. While yes, there are NDAs and contracts to assess and sign, a lot of crew just don’t give a fuck. They’re there to get paid and do their job and move onto the next one. Whether it be specific artist’s phone calls or in the cases they’re (larry) at each other’s shows… it just… doesn’t matter to the crew, a lot of the time. There will be a fan here and there who works a show, but you have to be so careful. Many folks in this industry know things and do have proof, but they hold onto it.

It is what it is, at the end of the day. A lot of these folks work with people like P!NK, Taylor Swift etc., like… some seriously high profile names. But there are also times where NDAs are enforced more specifically in specific regions or tours, in which the artist’s mgmt will ensure crew and staff and anyone external to the touring party sign a much more thorough contract, due to… particular “friends” being there/another higher personal matter risk. It’ll be far more specific, as opposed to a blanket basic contract. And the artist requests this if they feel they need to for their own personal comfort and freedom. SO whenever I see those, I know that there is someone on tour with that artist who shouldn’t be identified, or like… something very personal may happen. Which, yeah. If there’s more of a risk, there’s more contracts.

Now, not everyone has to sign these contracts, but if something leaks, like… a photo or an in depth story (less so for fans bc no one believes receipts, more so selling to the media with proof), said touring party often (depending on the artist/level of fame/level of risk) have a spreadsheet of every person there who’s external to that party with contact details, job titles etc. They know who to interrogate. So even if you don’t sign a specific NDA for that specific artist, they will find you if something drops.

Now, that’s important for multiple reasons - the main one being that some receipts can actually be real. Without photo proof, a lot of mgmt teams just don’t give a fuck, because particularly in the case of larry, we’ve been debunking/calling bullshit on folks for so long, that without proof, stories may get some attention but often just… disappear. Unless sold to the media with proof, it kind of…. Doesn’t matter to them. Plausible deniability, etc. ya know.

Say that 2 people saw something at one of Harry’s shows. Let’s role play it.

Person 1: *sends an anon to a popular larrie tumblr and a popular Larrie Twitter because they have to get it off their chest and they can’t hold back* “omg harry was talking on the phone to louis backstage at one of his shows!!! I know because I heard blah blah blah”

Person 2: *sends a voice recording/shitty video that catches his voice but no face as well as an anon to a popular larrie tumblr/twitter* “omg harry was talking on the phone to louis backstage at one of his shows!!! I know because I have proof but please either post carefully or not at all, you just need to know”

And listen… of course proof helps obviously. People are gonna believe person 2 over person 1 because it’s way easier to write a fake receipt than try and AI/fake a voice recording for anon clout. And also… that’s such a different thing since back in the day. Louis really be out here like “you never know what’s AI and what isn’t” because it’s fucking true. When we got photos/videos/shitty recordings or whatever back then, we sat down and pulled it apart so damn intensely that it’d be debunked, or at least considered somewhat proof/might be a thing. But now? Mgmt can just ignore that shit unless it’s very clear proof, because of AI and the lengths people will go to for internet clout nowadays. It’s just… yeah. It has to be very explicit for them to care.

I have no doubt we have had recent legit receipts, and yes, the majority are fake. But folks just don’t have as much to lose these days. It’s easy to not be traced if there’s no solid proof. So, people are getting away with more because more can be faked. It’s an interesting dynamic to a long running “conspiracy theory”, and provides mgmt with plausible deniability.

So, a lot of people know a lot of things. Some people don’t care, some people sit on solid proof because they’ve signed an NDA or will be found out 100% if they post it even on anon, and some people lie to get kicks. It’s just… So much more complicated than it used to be, which makes it easier for larry, and harder for us to prove things are real.

For example, louis may not require an extra NDA signed by all members of external parties because a certain “pal” won’t be with him on that tour. Anything else he does (trash a hotel room, or get really stoned for example), will be covered by a blanket NDA. Extra contracts come into it when there’s extra risk.

SO Harry may not have needed extra signatures/contracts for certain legs of his tour, but had them for other bits. In the case that a whole region may be a risk in terms of a pal joining him/where he is in his stunt contract, it’ll be a requirement to provide an extra NDA. it won’t be for particular shows because it’s too obvious, more so for a whole leg, and a US promoter isn’t gonna compare NDAs to a UK or AU promoter (even if they’re the same company) because like… why would you? A lot of worldwide promoters don’t actually have access to each other’s folders or content, either. Like… Live Nation US can’t see Live Nation UK’s stuff, because it’s not relevant. It’s regional and different sizes and too much data. Only very specific touring stats/fees would be shared. Same with AEG Presents, and so many other global promoter companies. So, yeah. Plus the personal promoters who tour Harry etc. through their companies, are the big dogs who’ve been doing this for 20+ years and have seen so much shit that they don’t care. They’re more worried about the money. It just… yeah. They’re not ones for delving into the interests of personal lives for artists, because they’re already working on 7 other big name tours. It’s… interesting. The blasé of it all, when you’re in this wild world. It’s so different to the fandom.

So yeah. It’s a topic that’s often debated, but without saying too much more, there’s a little squiz into what people know, and hold, and what mgmt care about and don’t care about. Larry are often together, but no one believes shit without solid proof. And the people who have solid proof, can’t/wont share it, 99% of the time.

I’m not saying believe every receipt, and I’m not saying everything is true, and I’m not saying everything is fake. I’m saying that some stuff is plausible and should be entertained because it very well could be true. But yeah… I hope this makes sense. Sorry for the chaos, and thanks for the chats. I know this isn’t exactly what you asked but yeah.

[kiestrokes]

kieee!! here to request snippets from ‘GDragon’ and ‘SVT as pickup lines’ i need to see this 🙏 gimme gimme pls

i was about to use this emoji 🫴 but what even is that??? lol

Ren, you being an undercover GDragon stan was not on my 2025 bingo card, and I love it.

1. I just have notes at this point, not even a title. BUT this does involve a trans woman and I did do extensive GAS research before writing the scene under the cut!

2. Sooo the SVT thing involves cringey pick-up lines I received while on a dating app in 2023...that upon re reading I am going to cancel because I gagged too hard at the majority.

- High level burlesque show in France, Jiyong is looking to bring to Seoul. Where you can request a woman for more. She also has to agree. It’s all consensual.

- Jiyong has insane chemistry with the trans bartender and requests her. She’s stunned, having retired from dancing due to foot issues.

- She consents to meeting Jiyong in a back room with the owner, to inform him she is trans.

- Jiyong doesn’t flinch. “Does that matter?”

- The owner meets her eyes and she nods, agreeing to more with him.

- This leads to Jiyong taking them on a date in France.

- The owner has the bartender and a couple of seasoned dancers go to Seoul to help scout talent and set up for the Korea location for Jiyong.

- The whole time Jiyong is having them over, she writes it off as professional because he didn’t make a pass at her after their date.

- After a night of planning the style of the venue, he invites her over for ramen.

- Thinking she knows what that means because she seemed pretty well versed in Korean culture and slang.

She’s confused when he pulls her to him after taking off her shoes and putting on her slippers, “do you want some wine?”

“With ramen?”

He smiles at her not realizing she’s unaware.

He takes her hand and takes her over to the couch. She gasps when he pushes her down, and climbs on top, “is this alright?”

“Yes.”

He kisses her and she kisses him back and it’s like they can’t shed clothes fast enough. He admires her lingerie set, hand tracing down her stomach to cup her intimately.

“Can I kiss you here?”

His eyes meet hers, mischievous glint in them.

“Please.”

He’s kissing her again as his hand delicately tugs the lace down her hips, lips leaving a trail to his destination. She whines when he kissed her mound and his eyes flick up to hers as her spears her open, tongue lapping out.

“Holy shit,” she gasps and he chuckles before sucking her clit into his mouth and placing her hand in his hair.

She falls back against the arm rest, hips rocking softly into his face.

“Oh fuck Jiyong.”

He sucks the sensitive flesh with a hum. She tries to move away but he locks his arms around her thighs and she comes hard. He keeps lapping at her until she whines at him to stop and he climbs up her body to kiss her.

“Is this your version of ramen?”

He’s laughs “I thought you knew that was code for sex...”