#like come on now do I look that depressed

[velaenam]

𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲

                                                                         ◦ ♡

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – non!mc. you are a successful aerospace engineer, a girlboss, with terrible luck in romance. let's hope this strangers website brings you out of that rut! 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – NSFW topics! mature themes, swearing/foul language, slow burn, talks of depression/mental health, guilt tripping, manipulation, tba 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬– not proofread. umm enjoy the domestic bliss before the inevitable 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 6 of many ! previous chapter | next chapter | playlist — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

it was cool, and the wind was picking up. you stood outside as you get out of the car. you patted your skirt downwards, making sure you didn’t have any wrinkles in your clothes. you were in linkon for the day to brief jenna on the findings that you’d discover. it had been a couple of days since you and caleb had your moment, and you were enjoying the casual conversation with him. 

you two would text good morning to each other, and talk about your day as you meandered through work like normal. now more free than whispr, you both had some salacious conversations within the texting parameters. any shit talk, or any funny tidbits that happen in your day you made sure to text each other the news- like two teenagers gossiping. but it was fun. he was enjoying his public ability to talk to his powerful sexy mama super genius girlfriend and you were happy with finding out your internet crush was the 6 pack washboard abs super sweet and smart man that had you melting with one gaze. 

except you weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend just yet. 

there were just a couple of kinks to sort out. like the fact that he hasn’t asked you out yet, and as much as you loved to take the reins— these things were sacred to you. you wanted to feel like a woman loved. he’s supposed to ask you out. you already did your part.

you enter the headquarters and greet the receptionist once again before she pulls you into the room where your sister was at, and as you enter you’re met with a couple of her peers. one of them had glasses, and two other girls who had short and long brown hair. their gaze lingers at you— notably the short haired girl. you could’ve sworn her eyes twinkled at your arrival.

“ladies i’d like you to meet my sister” she introduces you to them as they wave with a sweet smile, “p-pleasure to meet you! i’m tara!” and the long brown haired girl extends her hand towards you, she gives you her name, but you didn't catch it . you give them a small smile with an acknowledging nod before you start the meeting.

you give them a briefing of the tests your team conducted regarding the wanderer and give them any more intel that could further assist them in the workings. after that you linger just a little bit more to discuss any topics that they might’ve had at hand. tara spent the majority of the day ogling you before you look down at your phone to see a text from himself 

caleb: i miss you, pretty you: i miss you too handsome. what’s for lunch? caleb: was thinking of getting takeout, do you wanna come with? im going to linkon just for these famous noodles. you: already in linkon, wanna meet up?  caleb: id never say no. ill meet you in 30?

your cheeks flush as you look up from the phone. jenna stares at you with a soft smile on her face as she turns her attention towards you, “you look like you’ve got an admirer.” and you wave her off, looking away and chuckling, “course not. boyfriend-er.. he was texting me.” you state and her brows raise. your slip up was for the lie, but she thought it was because you accidentally outed yourself “oh? boyfriend? since when?” —“since a couple days ago. we’ll discuss it over a dinner. im gonna go meet up with him for lunch. call me if you need anything.” you rise to stand up, and wave goodbye to the girls as you step out to go and meet caleb for lunch. 

“these noodles are the best in linkon. you have to try it.” caleb nudges his chopsticks toward you as he dangles a piece of thick noodles at you. you were currently chomping down on a dumpling as he patiently waited for you to finish chewing. as he watches his smile gets bigger, and he places his palm on his jawline, leaning on his arm and staring you down— in a loving manner of course. you picked up the pace to finish digesting your dumpling and quickly gulp before you lean over to capture the noodles in your mouth.

your eyes widen at how soft the noodles were. it was paired with chili oil and this sweet red sauce you couldn’t make out. it was peppery and coated in umami as you nod fervently. he nods alongside you as he laughs at your reaction, “holy shit caleb this is so good?” you ask more than you exclaim and he keeps nodding, still laughing. your face is lit up with admiration as you watch him enjoy himself in front of you. he looked like an awe struck child sharing his treat. it was such a sweet moment, so sweet that it formed a core memory in your head. 

you couldn’t help but lean forward and give him a small peck on his lips. aside from the chili oil he felt himself warm as he kissed back, falling forwards a bit from how passionate he was just a split second ago. you bit your lip as a blush crept on your face, “sorry i couldn’t help it..” you trail off as you slowly go to pick up a piece of your dumpling. your chopsticks met resistance as he swipes your last dumpling from you, a shit eating grin on his face, “don’t apologize. matter of fact—you should do it more often.”  and your eyes trail away. he could only smile and enjoy the moment.

“umm, sexy pilot guy is your boyfriend? babes! how long have you kept me in the dark!” stacia cries through your phone as you ride back to skyhaven with caleb. you roll your eyes as she throws a fit through the phone, and caleb sits there, listening and laughing at your friend. “he’s here with me right now, and his name is caleb. also, we’ve literally been talking for a couple days, he’s not my boyfriend.” his smile falters a bit, but you don’t notice- not yet, as you hang up the phone on stacia mid conversation.

you look at caleb, and now notice his smile was gone. you tilt your head at him, “what’s the matter?” – “i’m not your boyfriend?” you roll your eyes again. lord who is this diva, “well you haven’t exactly asked me out on a date… nor have you asked me to be your girlfriend.” you poke his nose, and his hands meet yours. his large hands collapse over yours, as he leans to kiss your knuckles. you give him a small smile, “that’s true.. well… what are you doing tonight, miss ceo?” 

“i was going to study a couple of schematics, buuuut, i can also make time for a handsome pilot. what do you have planned?” he pulls you closer to him, and you place your hands on his shoulder, “was thinkin’ i could cook you dinner tonight at my new apartment. just moved in.” you give him a nod, “wait i have a better idea, caleb.” your eyes twinkle in delight, your smile widening. his eyes widen back. “let’s go to your apartment right now.” you clasp your fingers, 

it was downtown of skyhaven, a bustling hub. gorgeous parks and a good nightlife. caleb managed to snag a nice apartment with the help of his friends, and he just had a mattress in his room. it was real barren. 

you walk around, taking a look at the living room. it was spacious. nice grey and black walls with a large skylight overlooking the downtown central park. he had a balcony that was bigger than yours. although the kitchen was your favorite. it was big, an island sits in the middle attached to a bar. the fridge had a screen as if it was a phone. the drawer and cabinets were in this dark color, maybe navy? it was screaming elegance. 

“i won’t lie— i’m a bit jealous. your house is prettier than mine.” you cross your arms, taking mental notes from what kind of furniture would fit good with his rooms. caleb rounds the corner with your bag. he sets it down on the counter and walks near you, “what’s brewing in that noggin’ of yours?”

“i think we should go shopping for your apartment. what do you say?” he looks off to the side and rubs his arm, a sheepish chuckle coming from his lips. “id love to but i already spent alot of my money on the bills.” and you shake your head, “it’s fine. i can cover the expenses.” you say this and suddenly you feel like some sugar momma. a sense of dread comes over you, completely realizing, but you brush that off. you stare at calebs face waiting for him to respond. “oh no. no no i couldn’t possibly ask you to do that.” — “i promise it’s fine. i don’t mind at all caleb.” you attempt to alleviate him, and you could definitely tell he’d had some hesitancy. you tilt your head in a somber smile, “you seem more against this than anything.” 

caleb holds his hands up in defense, “no it’s not that! i swear. just….majors told me that people only go after you for money.” he mutters, closing the distance between you two as he grabs your hands, placing it on his chest as he looks down at you, “i don’t want you to think that of me.. i can take care of myself, and i really appreciate you offering— it’s just.. i’d feel bad…” he whispers the last part of his sentence. you gave him a soft tap on his shoulder, as your laugh erupts from your mouth, “can’t believe majors is out here making friends with my partner. i thought i’d never see the day.” his face laces in pink embarrassment, and you wipe your tear from the corner of your eyes. his confession starts to alleviate your tenseness from your previous statement and your smile turns from a saddened onto a more relaxed one. you’d never hear anyone say that to you- so it felt new.. it felt really kind. you couldn’t quite pinpoint what the feeling was, but you wanted to thank him, instead, “when’s the last time you spoiled yourself?” 

he couldn’t  give you an answer 

‘atelier seventeen’ 

it smelled expensive in here. something like eucalyptus, polished wood, and linen-washed ambition. the furniture showroom stretched across two floors, all glass and white tile, with a soft instrumental soundtrack playing in the background that made you feel like whispering. caleb shifted beside you, wide-eyed, hands in his pockets like he was trying to keep from touching anything he might accidentally owe a thousand dollars for.

he leaned in and whispered near your ear, “is this place…for people..like you?”

you bit your lip to stifle a laugh. “caleb, you live in a luxury skyhaven apartment with a view of the central park and your fridge can talk back. this store is made for you too.”

“yeah, well,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “it doesn’t feel like it.”

you stopped in front of a display: a modular sectional wrapped in deep black velvet, with a smoked-glass coffee table and low, ambient floor lighting. you turned to look at him, already picturing the whole thing in his apartment.

“this would look amazing in your living room. especially with that huge skylight. it’d catch the morning light perfectly.”

he tilted his head, eyes flicking from the couch to you. “i don’t know… it feels too… put together. like the kind of couch that belongs to someone who drinks espresso looking outside of his balcony menacingly instead of eating breakfast.”

“you literally do that.”

“…right. shit.”

you smiled and took his hand, tugging him toward the next section. he followed willingly, letting your pace lead him past wall-mounted shelves, elegant lighting fixtures, and ergonomic chairs he couldn’t begin to understand. you stopped at a sleek, matte black dining table with navy blue accents.

“here. this is you.”

he raised a brow. “you think i’m blue and black?”

you shrugged, stepping around the table to inspect the matching chairs. “you’re bold without being flashy. solid, grounded. looks sharp. dependable.” he stared at the table. then at you. and then back to the table.

“…i’m weirdly honored.”

you bumped your shoulder against his arm, laughing softly. “come on, maverick boy. this is supposed to be fun.”

“i’m trying!” he insisted. “i just—this is a whole different world, you know? when you spend your life in hangars and barracks, living humbly, and for others, you don’t think about rugs or lamp aesthetics.”

“then i’ll think about them for you,” you said simply, “and you can sit there and look pretty while i redesign your home.”

he blinked. “…i can do that.” – “i know.”

you picked up a dark blue ceramic lamp with a brass base. “bedside. yes?”

he nodded. “whatever you say, boss.”

you paused, looked at him, and smiled. not teasing, not flirty—just quietly fond. “it’s not about spoiling you, you know. it’s about letting you rest. you deserve a home that feels like yours. especially when you just worked so hard the last couple years. think of this as a graduation gift.”

his lips parted slightly like he wanted to say something back. but instead, he just touched your wrist, eyes warm.

“thanks,” he murmured. “really.” 

you squeezed his hand, then gently let go. “now come pick out a rug before i give you one with florals just to mess with you.”

“god. you’re terrifying.”

“and yet here you are.”

and so you wandered deeper into the store—him trailing behind, you in your element. for the first time, he let himself imagine what it might feel like to belong in something soft. something curated. something built not just to survive in—but to live in.

.

“holy shit what is that.” caleb bee lines it towards a bunch of displays showing planes, cars, etc on the shelf of the warehouse. his face lights up as his hands touch a model plane. he’d walk around the model with childlike wonder as he touched the anatomy of. you slowly catch up to him, your laugh escaping your lips as he nerded out, “do you want this one?” you tilt your head at him, examining the price: $15,000. in one swift motion, you snatch the price tag off of the corner of the display as he walked back towards you. his face was in amazement, as you hid the tag away from him, “yeesh. i bet it’s expensive.”  and you shake your head at him, “i’ve got the same model, it’s not too bad.” you lie, leading the salesperson with your index finger towards the model, then you smile up at caleb, “what’s next?” you ask, already walking ahead to the next aisle, your expression all casual charm– but your heart’s still beating from watching his face light up like that.

caleb lingers for a second, glancing back at the model plane like it’s calling to him. then he jogs to catch up, falling into step beside you with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“i still can’t believe they make that in full-scale detail,” he says, his voice trailing off like he’s imagining it in his apartment already. “that’s the aircraft that broke the record in rings five years ago. the way it was built– it shouldn’t have flown like that. i used to watch flight footage of it over and over again when i was a cadet.”

you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “you know all the specs, don’t you?” he shrugs, looking suddenly bashful. “maybe” you give him a giggle, before your brows shot up “nerd,” you murmur, bumping your shoulder into his.

“hey, you’re literally the aerospace engineer here.. and–” he says, playful. “-you’re the one bribing warehouse staff into giving me aerodynamic furniture.”

“i prefer ‘surprise interior design investment,’” you reply, brow falling back in place. he laughs, that easy, magnetic laugh that makes the salesperson down the aisle look over and smile without even knowing why.

you turn the corner into a new section—lighting displays and sleek, modular bookshelves. caleb pauses next to a lamp shaped like a turbine.

“okay,” he says, gesturing at it, “this one feels like it belongs in a spy movie. but like, in the villain’s lair. see it?”

“you mean your living room?”

“...yea.”

you chuckle, stepping ahead again, but he doesn’t move. when you glance back, he’s still staring at the lamp—but really, he’s watching you in the soft showroom lighting. something about the way you casually took the price tag earlier. the way you knew not to make a big deal about it. the way you looked back at him now, pretending you weren’t checking to see if he was okay.

“you keep doing that,” he says quietly.

“doing what?”

“making things feel simple.” and you blink once, caught off guard—but then you offer a quiet smile, gentle and unspoken. “it’s supposed to be.” he rubs the back of his neck again, eyes flicking to the next aisle.

“you think i’m allowed to get a couch with cupholders?”

“caleb.”

“okay, okay,” he laughs. “just checking.” you roll your eyes, but your hand finds the edge of his jacket and tugs him forward again. “let’s find you one that doesn’t squeak when you sit down.”

and together, you wander deeper into the store—his awe still glowing under the surface, your presence guiding it gently, steadily.  you and caleb shop for a couple more things ,until he figured it was too much. you had the men load it in their truck to get it sent to his apartment, and afterwards the two of you go back to his place, picking up some take out on the way. 

the door unlocks with a familiar click, and caleb pushes it open with one hand while balancing the remaining takeout bag in the other. “honestly, i still think that lamp was staring into my soul.”

you step in behind him, ready with a retort—but stop short.

the apartment has transformed.

gone is the bare minimalism, the quiet echoes of an empty space. in its place: the deep velvet couch you picked, settled like it was always meant to live beneath the skylight. the turbine lamp hums gently in the corner, its soft light catching on the edges of the new rug– textured, warm, grounding. and in the center of it all, sitting proudly on the entry console like a centerpiece in a museum: the model plane.

caleb sets the bag down slowly, mouth parting just a little. “whoa.”

you slip past him, your steps soft against the new carpet. “looks like they beat us here.”

he walks in like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to—eyes sweeping the room, pausing at every piece like he’s memorizing it. his hand runs across the back of the couch. “this… doesn’t feel like my place anymore.”

you glance over, caught off guard. “what do you mean?”

“i mean it feels like…” he trails off, looking toward the kitchen. the bar stools are set in place. the lamp is lit. the room has a heartbeat now.

“...like a home.”

you fold your arms loosely, watching him as he slowly turns in a circle to take it all in.

“you sure you’re not overwhelmed?” you ask, half-teasing.

he looks at you then, really looks, and there’s something warm behind his eyes. “no. i’m just wondering how the hell i got this lucky.”

you let out a soft laugh, brushing your knuckles against the edge of the island. “just wait till you see what i’ve got planned for your bedroom.”

he raises a brow. “should i be scared?”

you shrug. “only a little. what if i put a sex dungeon in there?” – “well we’ll put it to good use, then” you brush the comment off, a tint in your cheeks as you look away, laughing to yourself.

he crosses the room in a few steps and stops in front of you, quieter now. “hey.”

you meet his eyes.

“thank you,” he says. not joking. not dodging. just honest. “i’ve never had a space that felt this… mine. and you did that. you didn’t have to, but you did.”

your chest tightens, but you cover it with a smile. “you earned it. you’re the one who brought the maverick home.”

he huffs a quiet laugh, stepping even closer, his voice dropping.

“you realize this means you’re stuck helping me assemble every piece of furniture that comes through that door now, right?”

“caleb,” you say dryly, “i already ordered the tools.” he grins—wide and effortless, and for a moment, he just looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real.

and across the room, the little model plane sits beneath the afternoon sun, catching light like it was always meant to belong.

as you pick up the take out and lead to the couch– that thankfully- was already assembled, and in front of his flatscreen. caleb trails you with the drinks as you both sit down. the couch is ridiculously comfortable. you’re half-sunk into one of the cushions, one leg tucked beneath you, while caleb sits next to you with a carton of takeout balanced on his knee.

the food sits open on the coffee table—chopsticks, drinks, and a barely-touched bowl of noodles because you’ve both been too caught up laughing to focus.

some ridiculous cooking show for failures. it was just simple background noise now as you both talk about random things.

“okay, but what color was your childhood bedroom?” caleb asks mid-bite, pointing his chopsticks at you. “i’m betting something sensible. like... navy.” you scoff. “please. it was custom-painted blush. with hand-stenciled clouds on the ceiling.” he freezes mid-chew. “blush?” – “and the closet was a walk-in. had a chandelier. my mother insisted.”

caleb blinks, then breaks into a laugh. “you’re kidding.” “i’m not,” you say, smirking. “she had an interior designer redo the room every three years. themed. once it was paris. once it was….‘feminine futurism.’”

“what does that even mean?”

“no one knows. the curtains were made of silk. the bookshelves were imported. i think i had a chaise lounge at one point.”

he whistles, clearly impressed and confused. what the hell was a chaise? “and here i was thinking you just came out of the womb calculating thrust ratios.”

you shrug. “i had help getting places. doesn’t mean i didn’t work to stay there.”

he quiets for a second. then smiles, easy and fond. “makes sense. explains the confidence. and the tendency to redecorate other people’s apartments.”

you reach over and steal a dumpling from his box. “i’ll show you the designer portfolios if you ever want your bedroom themed.”

“please,” he says, mock-serious. “give me ‘masculine minimalism’ with a splash of pilot-core.”

you nearly choke on your drink . “pilot-core?”

“you started it.” you roll your eyes, then look around the couch, almost forgetting. you look at caleb with a grin as you pointed at the arm of the couch, “check it out.” you laugh like a goofball as he opens it– cup holders in tow. 

when he finally catches his breath from his childlike excitement, he nudges your knee with his own. “alright, your turn. guess mine.” and you narrow your eyes at him, pretending to analyze. “gray.”

“wrong.”

“beige?”

he makes a face. “worse.”

“oh no. was it—”

“bright orange,” he says, grinning sheepishly. “with blue trim.”

you blink. he holds his hands up in defense, “i was nine! it was ‘space commander’ themed. i thought it looked like a rocket cockpit.”

you burst out laughing, leaning back against the couch. “that’s horrifying. and yet so on brand.”

“yeah, well,” he says, bumping his shoulder lightly into yours, “not everyone gets to have chaise and blush” – “you don’t even know what chaise is, caleb.” – “exactly why i’m mocking you.” you bump his shoulder lightly, as you both laugh in sync. this felt so natural, sweet. like two hearts in love, and a part of you felt like it was healing.

you weren’t privy to romance in this way. you only knew love and romance from as much exposure as you could have, like your parents, your siblings and their wives, but even then, you kept to yourself most of the time. you had no real connection with the men you dated, and so for this one to make it beyond pecks, beyond hand holding, and lavish dates. even something silly like furniture building and take out, not once, but twice. it was kind of mesmerizing to you. 

but something also felt different. you couldn’t place it, you wanted something more, but your brain couldn’t explain to you why that was. you shrug it off, throwing it in the proverbial back burner as you face your attention to caleb once more. you still needed to finish putting the other things together.

.

a soft playlist hums through the apartment—something mellow, old, and easy. the kind of music that belongs in kitchens and sunday afternoons.

the bookshelf pieces are spread out across the floor like a puzzle waiting to test your patience. caleb crouches beside the pile with a half-read instruction manual in one hand and a drill in the other.

“you ever built furniture before?” you ask, handing him a set of screws.

he shrugs. “if planes count.”

“umm.. they don’t.”

“then no.”

you snort, rolling your eyes as you line up one of the side panels. caleb kneels next to you, and as you both settle into the rhythm—measuring, aligning, anchoring. it’s weirdly peaceful.

you steal glances at him when he concentrates. the way his brow furrows a little when he double-checks the alignment. the way he hums along with the music. the way he looks so at home, sitting cross-legged on the rug in the apartment you helped him fill.

“you’re really good at this,” he says suddenly, not looking up.

“what, building things? it's my job sweetie”

“yeah. that. and this.”

he gestures loosely at the room. the warm lights. the scent of leftover takeout. the bookshelf half-assembled between you. his voice softens.

“making things feel like they matter.” you pause, screwdriver in hand, and glance at him.

“well, captain apple, you matter,” you say quietly with a tinge of comedicness, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

his smile is small but genuine. and when you both return to the bookshelf, the silence between you isn’t empty. it’s full of everything unspoken—warm, easy, and undeniable.

the bookshelf stands.

it’s a little crooked at the top because caleb overtightened one of the brackets, but you said it gave it character, and he swore it was intentional after that.

the rug’s been straightened. the coffee table has your tools lined up neatly on one side and two mugs of peppermint tea on the other. the lights are dim now—just the glow from the turbine lamp and the soft under-light from the kitchen island casting a warm haze across the room.

music plays low, something slow and melodic. probably one of your more relaxed playlist.

you’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, a blanket half-thrown over both of you. caleb leans back, arm draped along the backrest, fingers occasionally brushing the edge of your shoulder, never staying long.

“i can’t believe it actually looks like someone lives here now,” he says, surveying the room. you smile. “someone does.” he glances down at you, his expression soft and unreadable.

“you made it feel real.” you shrug, not meeting his eyes. “wasn’t hard. you just needed a couch that doesn’t creak and a lamp that doesn’t give off interrogation room vibes.”-- “you say that like you didn’t pick that lamp specifically.” – “well, yes,” you admit, smug, “but if i said that, it’d ruin the illusion of generosity.”

he chuckles, the sound is lazy, tired, and happy. you glance up at him, catching the way his face looks in the low light. relaxed. at peace. you lean your head against his shoulder without thinking. he doesn’t flinch. just breathes in slowly and shifts slightly, enough to let his arm settle behind you more comfortably. 

the show still plays in the background. something light, something funny. but neither of you are really watching anymore. your eyes are half-closed, and caleb’s heartbeat is steady beneath where your temple rests.

“you tired?” he murmurs. you nod softly, “mm. maybe.” and he doesn’t move. doesn’t suggest you leave. doesn’t joke about it. just says: “you can stay.” and it’s the way he says it—like of course you can. like he hopes you will. and as you think about saying yes.. a part of you feels.. odd. you felt blissful, all day. up until now. 

you still didn’t feel right with what had happened between you two and his so called friend. it gave odd vibes. you didn’t quite enjoy being a second choice, and if he didn’t know you weren’t the person he was texting, he probably would have never mentioned it to you. this gives you a sense of dread, as you peel from caleb. your smile lingered, but the trajectory of that smile was no longer of sweetness– it was sad. one that he thankfully couldn’t tell. 

you shake your head– kissing his cheek as you stand up, “i’ve got some reports to review tomorrow morning.. but i’ll text you when i get home, okay?” he stands up as he nods, taking your hand and leading you to the door. this act alone made you want to stay. but you couldn’t fold. not now. even though you wanted to so bad.

he gives you slight puppy dog eyes as he nods, leaning forward, his lips capturing yours. you felt your stomach burn with passion. your breath hitched as you lean forward– before backing away quickly, silent

“i’d ask you if you didn’t enjoy that– but you’re beet red, honey.” you shake your head, clearing your throat as you give him another smile as you leave him for the night. 

the door clicks shut behind you.

caleb stands there for a moment, hand still on the knob, staring at the quiet hallway you just disappeared into. he exhales, slow and controlled, before he locks the door and turns back into the room. the apartment feels different now. not because you're gone – but because you were here.

his eyes sweep over the living room. the couch still has the slight impression where you were curled up. the tea mugs sit empty on the coffee table, one of them with your lipstick on the rim. the blanket is half-folded, crooked, like the way you’d always say, “that’s good enough.”

he drags a hand through his hair, then walks into the kitchen. leans on the island with both hands. he’s still in his hoodie, the sleeves pushed up, fingertips warm from where they’d brushed your shoulder earlier.

it’s never been this quiet in here. not in a bad way. just... noticeable. he opens the fridge without thinking – mostly to do something. nothing inside he wants. closes it again.

caleb moves to the console table by the door. the model plane is already there, centered, catching the soft light from the lamp across the room. he runs his fingers along the wing. careful. reverent.

you bought this. you didn’t even blink when you saw the price. you just smiled and made it happen. he sighs through his nose, then steps back. scans the apartment again. it’s no longer just four walls. it’s a space that breathes now. because of you.

caleb pads back toward the couch. flops down with a soft grunt. one leg sprawled over the armrest. the blanket still smells like your perfume: something faint, expensive, and familiar.

he reaches for the remote. pulls up the last show you were half-watching. lets it play. he’s not really paying attention. just watching the soft flicker of the screen. the movement of shadows across the walls. the way his body still remembers the weight of you leaning on him.

he doesn’t fall asleep. he just stays there — awake, still, and quietly full of something he doesn’t know how to name yet. but it feels good. and it feels like it’s going somewhere.

you wake up before your alarm.

there’s a sliver of morning light creeping in through the blinds, painting pale gold across your bedsheets. everything’s still — the kind of still that only exists before the city fully stirs. you blink a few times, adjusting, and reach blindly for your phone at the edge of the nightstand.

5:23 a.m.

you sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes. for a second, you think about crawling back under the blanket, but your phone buzzes in your hand — a call, not a text.

you blink at the name.

caleb.

you answer, voice still groggy. “hello?” there’s a pause, then: “wait–you’re awake?” you can hear the smile in his voice already. you yawn softly. “barely.” –“i’m genuinely impressed,” he says, laughing. “i thought i was the only one who voluntarily existed at this hour.”

you shift, tucking your knees up under your blanket as you lean back against the headboard. “guess you’re not special anymore– wait you didn’t even know if i was awake or not– you just said fuck it and called me?”

“it’s a talent of mine” he says, lying through his teeth. he genuinely didn’t think you’d be awake. he was going to just leave a voicemail for you to wake up to. he thought that’d be sweet.  “notice when i tell you good morning, i tell you good morning at like 6 am, not 5. ” your voice is slightly muffled as you move around in the bed. he just chuckles, "touche.."

“what’re you doing up?” you ask, rubbing your thumb over the edge of your phone.

“gym,” he replies easily. “i always go early. gets my head right before flight sim. no lines, no distractions… plus it’s quiet. the hangar looks kind of eerie at this hour, not gonna lie.”

“bet you love that,” you murmur, smiling. “i do. it’s peaceful,” he says. then adds, a little softer: “makes me feel like i’ve got the whole world to myself.” you hum, eyes fluttering closed again. “you heading in after?”

“yeah. should be at base by 6:30. i think we’ve got a systems run scheduled, right?”

“we do,” you say. “you’ll see me there.” there’s a small pause, that comfortable kind – and you can picture him leaning against a locker, hoodie on, hair damp from the shower, phone pressed to his ear as the first bits of sunrise creep into the sky behind him.

“well,” he says, voice low and warm, “try not to fall back asleep.”--“no promises.” he laughs again, soft and fond. “i’ll bring coffee. see you soon.” – “see you soon,” you echo. you end the call, smiling into the morning quiet.

 fuck whatever you were just thinking last night. this man made you swoon at 5 in the morning.

-

the halls of the base are alive now – boots echoing off metal, comms buzzing low in the background, the constant hum of movement behind every sealed door. pilots pass by in uniform, nodding greetings, tablets in hand, flight schedules loaded and blinking.

you step out of the diagnostics wing, already halfway through your morning checklist, tablet tucked under your arm. you barely make it five steps before you hear–

“hey.”

you turn and theres caleb’s walking toward you down the corridor, dressed in his uniform and looking infuriatingly good in it – flight suit sleeves pushed to his forearms, hair still a little tousled, like he barely ran his fingers through it after the gym, good…lord..i wonder if he needs a dog so i can- there’s a takeaway cup in his hand.

he grins as he gets closer. “told you i’d bring coffee.” you take it with a quiet smile, fingers brushing his, completely eviscerating the stupid dog comment you were about to make to yourself. it’s warm in your palm – exactly your order. no need to ask.

“you’re good,” you murmur. “i know,” he says, like it’s nothing. “come here.”

he steps around you, guiding you gently by the wrist into a narrow alcove off the main hall – a shadowed space between briefing rooms where the noise of the base softens, and no one ever lingers long. you blink up at him as he sets a hand against your waist, the other resting just above your hip. he leans in slowly, not rushed – just close enough that his breath brushes your cheek.

“been thinking about doing this all morning,” he murmurs.

you part your lips to answer, but he’s already there – kissing you softly, deliberately, like he’s memorizing it. his hand tightens slightly at your waist. your free hand finds the collar of his uniform. it’s quiet, but sure.

when he pulls back, he’s smiling. “hi,” he says, like it’s the first time. you laugh under your breath. “hi.”

a voice echoes down the hall – a name being called for sim prep. caleb glances over his shoulder, then back at you, eyes still warm.

“i’ll see you in the sim bay?” you nod, still a little breathless.he squeezes your waist once before stepping away, walking backward for a few steps before turning fully, still grinning as he disappears around the corner. you take a sip of your coffee, heart pounding steady and full, and start walking the opposite direction – but not without one last glance back. yeah. he can totally fix you.

yknow i was asking myself- who is richer, the reader, or sylus? it's sylus- duh. we cant compete to that man. BUT you know it got me thinking. how much money do you actually have? WELL LETS BREAK IT DOWN BABY GORL.

you're an aerospace engineer, so ur already raking in big big bucks. u have ur own freaking company, and you're the source for A LOT of commissions and creations for aircrafts of all kinds. you invest in stocks/personal investments (bc your brother taught you how to) , you have a trust fund that you haven't even touched yet, you have royalties and patents from the DAA, soo you'd probably be making about 9-figures (10 figs on a gewd year) , with a 500+ mil net worth, and u do get more money as years pass soo..... im throwing random numbers up in the air. feel free to tell me to stfu.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers, @mcdepressed290, @young-adult-summer, @unstablemiss, @britishfailure, @caramelizedpopcirn, @velvtcherie, @lonelylandofan , @llamabois , @i-messed-up-big-time , @mysticcollectionvoid, @iamawkwardandshy, @auraficial, @mxkvlio, @mysticcollectionvoid, @rxelarailuj, @angelwhizpers, @p5ycholuv, @dysphxriaii, @loversobession, @lucifers-silhouette, @alayaaaahhhhhh, @dwuclvr,

[jtargaryen18]

The Arrangement ~ Chapter 8

Series Masterlist

Words: 10.4k (I'm SO sorry)

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: Angst, shaming someone with religion, oppressive historical views on women, pregnancy, arranged marriage to a stranger, references to depression, more angst, references to graphic violence, reference to arson and slaughter.

The stage has been set for your wedding to a farmer you've just met and you're on the edge of despair. Will Rory show up to save you? Will anyone?

You hadn’t slept in days. Even now, standing in the cold little room at the back of the church, you weren’t entirely sure you were awake. Everything felt insulated, blurry around the edges. Like you were watching it all happen to someone else. Just a few short weeks ago you were back at home, working for your mother and just trying not to get on the bad side of your stepfather’s temper. 

Your wedding dress clung heavy against your skin. It was adeep burgundy satin, carefully fitted and it did nothing to hide your swelling belly. It had been deliberately chosen. It was burgundy, not red. No, that would be too bold. It was deep and dark, a shade chosen deliberately, like a stain you weren’t allowed to wash away. Your mother had made you a flower crown of wild flowers with a small bouquet to match, tied in white ribbons. It was small but you were grateful for that small sign of dignity she’d given you. 

Your uncle said it was appropriate and it suited a girl with “experience.” Mature. He said white would’ve been mockery.

You’d wanted to be sick.

But you weren’t arguing. You were too tired and ill to fight much anymore. 

But as your shaking hand slid around that slight bump of your tummy,  you took a deep breath. You would fight for him or her. If you did nothing else with the rest of your life, you wanted to see to it that your son or daughter came into this world to do more than have a miserable existence. Especially if it were a girl. You were being married off to a farmer and expected to bear him sons and help work the land. How would he treat the child of a gypsy? The child of a gangster?

As sad as it made you, you would almost consider trying to get a word to Polly if the day ever arrived that your new jailer said a harsh word or raised a hand to your child. You’d give your child to the Shelbys and be parted from them if you knew they would be safe and loved. And they would be. You had thought more than once that Polly would likely kill someone she caught harming a child. And Tommy…

No, you couldn’t think about him right now.

Your hands trembled as you adjusted the hem of your dress in the mirror, your reflection gaunt and unfamiliar in the small, cracked mirror. Was this really happening?

Feeling dizzy again, you took a seat on the edge of the chair, your stomach churning. You hadn’t been able to eat. You hadn’t even kept water down that morning. The nausea hadn’t let up in weeks, but this was something else. Panic, or maybe despair. Looking back, night of the wager didn’t seem so bad compared to this. You’d do that all again if you could be spared this wedding you didn’t want. And…

No, I can’t think about Tommy… Now you knew for certain he was done with you. 

There had been no word from Rory. No note or knock on the door. Nothing. You’d thought he’d come. You’d honestly believed, with everything in you, that your brother would find a way to save you.

But as the morning slipped away and the minutes blurred together, those thoughts came back to prey on your mind… Did Rory tell Tommy? And if he had, did Tommy forbid him from coming? You wouldn’t have been surprised. Not with how things had been left between you. He’d said it was your choice, but maybe he’d meant it like a punishment. Maybe this was the cost of walking away from him. It was all your own fault. 

You swallowed the tightness in your throat and smoothed your hands down the front of the dress.The deep red caught in the light, casting shadows across the room like old blood. You would walk yourself down the aisle because your uncle refused. He said he wouldn’t escort a fallen woman. He said it would “send the wrong message.”

As if any of this sent the right one.

You were blinking back tears when the door creaked open softly, and your mother slipped inside. She didn’t say anything at first, just closed the door behind her and looked at you, eyes full of quiet worry. Looking up into her eyes you saw that same heartache you were drowing in. You stood when you saw her, hands still trembling slightly at your sides. She crossed the room and took them gently into her own, her thumbs brushing over your knuckles like she had when you were little and scared of storms.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said softly, for what felt like the hundredth time.

You closed your eyes. “Uncle’s not going to stop it, nor let me out of it.”

She didn’t argue because she knew you were right.

“I tried,” she whispered. “I begged him. Told him this wasn’t the answer, that this wasn’t you. But he wouldn’t hear it. He said what’s done is done, and this is how we make it right.”

“Make him feel better, you mean,” you muttered.

Her mouth pressed into a sad line. “Yes.”

You stepped away from her just enough to breathe. Your dress felt too tight suddenly, the room too small. It was hard to breathe.

“I don’t know if I can walk down that aisle,” you said, your voice breaking. “Not like this, and alone.”

She stepped closer again, brushed a hand over your cheek. “Maybe you won’t have to,” she said gently. “Maybe Rory will come yet.”

You looked at her. “Do you think Tommy told him not to?”

Her eyes softened with something like pity. “I don’t know. But I know Rory and so do you. And if there’s a way to be here, love, he’ll find it.”

You looked away, trying to hide the sting behind your eyes. “Feels like the world’s already made up its mind about me.”

“No,” she said, cupping your face, her voice trembling now too. “Just the wrong people. That’s not the same.”

You tried to hold onto her words. You were losing hope that someone, anyone, might still stop this. But the minutes kept ticking by and you were still wearing burgundy. You may have well just pinned a a scarlet letter to your dress to complete the look.

"Did you see him?" your mother asked.

And you knew who she meant. The farmer. You nodded.

You’d seen him, just briefly. A huge, burly man with rough, callused hands and a weathered face that made him look closer to fifty than the thirty-two your uncle claimed. He’d smelled like earth and pipe smoke, nodded politely without meeting your eyes. And all you could think was those hands were meant for labor, not tenderness. Not for you. Not for anything you still had left to give.

She hesitated. “He’s… polite enough, I suppose. Looked like he was trying very hard not to look at you.”

You glanced at her, and she gave a faint, apologetic smile. “He’s nervous. Said very little. Just nodded when your uncle introduced you. Didn’t even try to make conversation.”

You felt your chest tighten. “That’s the man I’m supposed to marry.”

She didn’t try to correct you nor did she tell you it wasn’t too late. She didn’t offer hope she didn’t have. She just reached for your hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I don't get the impress he’s a cruel man,” she said softly, “but he’s not for you.”

That single sentence hit harder than all the rest. You already knew it and you weren’t walking toward a new life.You were walking toward containment.

And suddenly, that burgundy dress felt like a prison.

Your mother Mary had only meant to slip off to the water closet before everything began. One last moment of calm before the storm she couldn’t stop claimed her daughter. But when she turned the corner, nearly bumping into someone tall, she gasped softly and froze.

“Rory?”

Her son looked like a ghost and a stranger all at once. Not the boy she’d kissed on the forehead a few nights ago, but a man in a fine dark suit, shoulders squared, eyes sharp. His overcoat was rich wool, something expensive, protective. And his cap--

Her breath caught. It was a Peaky cap. And yes, there it was. That glint because of the razors sewn into the seams.

Rory saw her staring, and gently grabbed her hand, guiding her into a quiet alcove behind the coatroom, out of sight.

“Mum,” he whispered, eyes scanning the hallway. “Listen to me. I don’t have much time.”

She blinked, her hand still caught in his. “What on earth--”

“She can’t know I’m here. Not yet. Not until it’s time.”

That stopped her. Mary was trying to keep hope from blooming in her chest. Today, she didn't really think she could handle more disappointment.

“Rory--”

“I’ve already been through uncle's house,” he said. “Packed what was hers. Yours too. It’s in the car. All of it.”

Mary just stared at him.

“We’re going home,” he said. “To Birmingham. Tonight.”

"Is he here?" she had to ask.

Rory knew exactly who she meant, answering that with a single nod. 

Mary's knees almost gave out. She had to grab the doorframe to stay upright. Her free hand pressed over her mouth, and her eyes burned before she could stop them.

Rory faltered. “Wait, are you crying?”

She laughed. It was one of those helpless, trembling laughs that sounded half broken and half like music. “Rory,” she choked, “thank God.”

He blinked. “I thought...” He looked at her, truly looked. “I thought you’d have a hard time with it. Me being a Blinder. With your daughter going back to the Shelbys.”

... your daughter going back to the Shelbys. 

The way he worded it got her attention. It was very much in the style of the Peaky Blinders, claiming what they wanted, however they had to get it. It was how all of this begin. Just now, she didn't have a problem with it at all. On top of everything, the man had come here to stop the wedding and take her daughter back. And for once in her life, she was just fine with it. Her daughter was far better off with a man who actually loved her, even if she didn't feel the same. But honestly, Mary was pretty certain she did have feelings for him. She'd come around to it.

She stepped forward, cupped Rory's face like she had when he was a child.

“Son,” she said, her voice thick, “after the hell we’ve lived in? After what your sister’s been through? Thank God you’re one of them.”

And just for a moment, Rory’s mask cracked. Not because she was disappointed. But because she was proud.

You moved like your body belonged to someone else. Your arm wasn’t looped through anyone’s. Your uncle refused to walk you down the aisle. Even the groom didn't offer you an arm which was just a hint about your life to come. So you followed the groom alone, head bowed, hands clenched so tight around the small bouquet in your fingers that your fingernails dug half-moons into your palms. The deep burgundy dress whispered against the polished stone floor with every step, trailing shame and expectation behind you like a veil of smoke.

The music rose with organ pipes thundering gently overhead. The small church was lit with mid-day light, but you felt none of it. Just the weight of the stares. The murmur of judgment all around you. You didn’t look left or right. You weren't about to acknowledge any of their faces. Not the women who’d whispered behind their hymnals, probably about the fact that you'd just begun to show. Not the men who wouldn’t meet your eyes, but would surely talk about you over ale by sundown. The pews were lined with people who didn’t know you and they didn't care to know. They’d heard enough to believe what they wanted.

The priest began the Introductory Rites, his voice solemn, echoing through the still church. There was no joy in the occasion and no warmth at all. Just formality, structure, and most importantly, containment. The groom, silent and massive beside you, didn’t even glance your way as you stood before the priest. 

You heard words about faith, and union, and forgiveness but none of them applied here. You thought about Rory, your mother... Tommy. And for one aching moment, you wished he’d lied. That he’d broken his word and that he’d come looking for you. Your throat was tight, and you were struggling to breathe. Your knees shook as you stood before the altar. And just as the priest’s voice moved into the Rite of Marriage, just as he asked the groom to step forward the church doors slammed open. The sound cracked like thunder, cutting clean through the liturgy.

Heads turned throughout the church as gasps echoed around you. The groom stiffened. And you turned slowly, heart hammering so loud in your ears it nearly drowned everything else out. 

There he stood, framed in light.

Thomas Shelby. 

His coat was flaring behind him like the wings of something unholy. His shoulders squared, boots echoing across the marble. You saw Arthur and John marching behind him, faces carved from stone, eyes scanning the pews with the kind of stillness that made people forget how to breathe. They were flanked by other men, each one built like they hadn’t come for prayer. Caps low. Posture deadly. A wall of calm, silent threat moving through a house of God like they owned it.

And behind them, Rory. Dressed like them. A fine dark coat hung from his shoulders, the Shelby cut unmistakable. His cap bore the same stitch of razor-threaded menace, and his steps fell in time with the rest. He didn’t look like the boy you’d grown up with, not in that moment. He looked like someone else now. Someone dangerous and respected.

But when his eyes found yours, everything softened. That familiar warmth cracked through the armor, just for you. His lips curled up in the smallest of smirks, and he gave you a wink, sharp and sure and quiet as a promise. Your mother was right, he hadn’t let you down after all. He never would.

You didn’t feel so alone. Not anymore.

The priest faltered and the room froze. The only movement you saw was Polly, she was here too, walking up to where your mother sat and stopping by her side. 

But you? All you could was stare. Because Tommy’s eyes weren’t on anyone else. Only you. You couldn’t breathe. For a second, you forgot how to breathe and the world tipped sideways. The pews, the altar, the candles... it all faded into nothing. 

Because it was him. Not a dream or a memory. Not in some fevered hope you’d barely allowed yourself to hold on to. And he stood in the doorway like the storm you always knew he was. All you could feel were his eyes on you, all heat and truth and reckoning. Your knees nearly buckled, but somehow you managed to stay upright. 

And all at once, the words from weeks ago came rushing back to you. If you walk away, I won’t stop you... But if you stay, you’re mine.

You had walked away. But he came anyway. And now you stood shaking, waiting like everyone else to see what he was here to do. 

Tommy Shelby didn’t knock. He walked into that church like he owned it. Because today, he did. The moment the doors flung open, silence rippled through the nave like a shot across no man’s land. Heads snapped toward him. Mothers gasped. The priest stuttered and froze mid-blessing.

He walked straight down the aisle, slow and measured, boots echoing across the stone, every step a promise. A warning. His brothers were behind him, so was her brother and more Blinders, walking like men who were ready to raise hell in a house of God. Liam stayed by the doors, to make sure no one was leaving. Not until he said so.

Tommy’s gaze never left her.

She stood like a statue at the altar. His girl, wrapped in burgundy, shaking like a leaf in a storm. Her eyes were wide, rimmed red from sleepless nights. Even from here, he could see the dark hollows beneath her eyes. And the dress--Christ. That fucking color. Like shame sewn into silk.

Tommy felt something claw up the back of his throat. Not nerves or hesitation. Rage, cold and poisonous. This was very fucking personal. What the fuck had they done to her? Her shoulders were drawn tight like she was bracing for a blow. Her lips were parted slightly, too stunned to speak. She looked like someone had drained the life right out of her and dressed her up for a burial instead of a wedding. 

Her hands clutched the bouquet like a lifeline, and as he watched, one hand dropped, slow and unthinking. It came to rest just below her ribs. A soft, protective curl of fingers over the slight swell of her belly. His child. It was instinct. She didn’t even realize she was doing it. But to him, it was louder than any vow or confession. It was truth and undeniably beautiful. And it split something wide open inside him. A fierce, unshakable need to get her out of this fucking church and make sure nothing and no one ever touched what was his again. Later, he’d reckon with the rest of it -- what it meant, what they’d lost, what they still had to fight for. But right now? She was standing there, carrying everything he never thought he’d have, and she hadn’t run yet.

Tommy was here to deal with them. Her uncle, the bloody farmer. Anyone who looked at her sideways. He was here for her, and nothing else up to heaven and down to hell mattered in this moment. 

They tried to stop him. The farmer stepped forward, puffing up like a man about to claim something he thought was his. The uncle rose from the front pew, already barking, indignant bluster spilling louder with every breath. And just behind him, the priest looked appalled, his lips pressed into a thin line of silent disapproval, as if the very presence of Tommy Shelby and his men had defiled the sanctity of his church.

Tommy just kept walking, shoulders squared, heart pounding like war drums beneath his ribs. He reached the front of the church and turned, slowly, to face them all. “This wedding’s not going to happen.”

The farmer muttered something and Tommy cut him off with a glance sharp enough to slice bone. "You paid,” Tommy said coolly, “to marry a woman who doesn’t even know you. A woman carrying my child.”

The gaps and murmurs were almost comical and he caught Polly's smirk when his gaze found hers, standing next to his girl's mother. The priest turned white as his chausible.

The uncle blustered, “This is my church! This is my--”

“That’s your niece, not your property,” Tommy said coldly. “And yet you still put a price on her. Took money from a man she’s never met and sold her like a broodmare to clean up your own shame.” 

“Is this true?” the priest asked, breaking the silence. His voice, once a calm guide through sacred vows, now trembled with righteous fury.

Tommy looked to the side--not at the priest, but at the uncle. “Tell him,” he said.

The uncle's lips parted, but no words came. His his eyes went wide, fists clenched, the veins in his neck straining under pressure he hadn’t expected.

“You accepted money for a sacrament?” the priest said, stepping forward now, eyes narrowing. “You lied to me and you lied before the Almighty.”

The groom took a step back, as if distance might save him from the weight of the scandal crashing down. People in the congregation were rising from their seats.

“Father, I--” the uncle finally stammered. “It’s not. It was a gesture of goodwill. A dowry of sorts.”

“A dowry requires consent,” the priest snapped. “From the bride. Did she consent?”

All eyes turned to her. Tommy didn’t. He already knew the answer. Her silence was the loudest sound in the room.

Tommy turned back to the uncle now, one hand in his coat pocket like he was debating something. “I’ve seen men do despicable things to protect their reputation,” he said calmly. “But selling your own blood? That’s a new kind of cowardice.”

The uncle opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Tommy stepped forward, just once, and the man stepped back without even realizing it. 

Tommy let the silence stretch, the words settle like dust.  Then he gave a slight nod to his men. "Take him.”

Two of his men moved instantly, Arthur and Rory, razor-laced caps winking in the light. The congregation flinched as they passed, but no one dared interfere.

The uncle sputtered, backing toward the altar. “I... I am a man of God...”

“No,” Arthur said flatly, gripping his arm. “You’re just a man. And you're leaving this house of God.” 

They grabbed him by both arms, dragging him down the aisle past the rows of stunned wedding guests. His feet scraped along the stone, his protests loud at first, but weakening with every step. When he started pleading with his nephew, Rory didn't even acknowledge him. The priest stepped aside then without a word.

And as the heavy wooden doors swung open to blinding daylight, the sound of them slamming shut behind him was final. Like a judgment.

Tommy shifted his attention to the groom, keeping his gaze sharp and emotionless. “And you. Paying to marry a pregnant woman,” he said, voice low, almost polite. The kind of polite that made men sweat.

The farmer stood frozen just beyond the altar, thick hands clenched awkwardly at his sides. His face was flushed, not from shame, but from fear. Tommy took a step closer, voice low and cold. “You didn't care that she didn't consent.” Another step. “And you still showed up to claim her like a prize pig.”

The farmer opened his mouth, but thought better of it.

Tommy didn’t blink.

"I suggest you return to your farm. Immediately." Tommy just wished he could be there to see the man's reaction at seeing his home and barn in ashes, his livestock slaughtered.  “If I ever lay eyes on you again,” Tommy leaned in slightly, “I will make sure you lose more than you already have.”

There was a spark of fear in the man's eyes because he caught the hidden meaning in Tommy's words. Tommy looked past him, toward John, who stood at the ready with a straightened spine and knowing nod.

“Escort him out.”

John grinned. “With pleasure.”

The farmer didn't resist when John moved forward. Not when two other Blinders flanked him.They didn’t drag him like the uncle. He walked out on his own. 

When the door opened and closed a second time, a hush fell so deep you could hear the creak of the old wooden pews as the people sitting shifted in place, unsure if they were supposed to stay or run. The rest were on their feet.

Tommy's hand remained in his coat pocket. He didn't have a gun there, but they didn’t know that. A few men flinched and a couple of the women looked near tears. Tommy smiled. 

“You can all sit,” he said, voice like velvet over steel, “or you can stand and pray that God Himself can pull me off whoever gets in my way.”

Nobody moved. So Tommy turned back to her. 

“You walked away from me,” he said quietly, the fight drained from his voice, leaving only something raw and real. “And I meant what I said. I didn't stop you. I didn't come after you.” He paused, his gaze didn’t leave yours. “But then your brother came to me. Told me what was happening. What they were planning.” Another beat. “And I couldn’t ignore that."

He stepped forward, slower now, voice low enough that only you could hear. “So tell me… do I leave this church with you, or without you? You know my terms.”

Tommy offered her his hand. That was it. No more threats or speeches.Just one choice and it was hers. He wasn't going to break his word now no matter how much he wanted to. He stood there, hand outstretched. Waiting along the rest of the church and it was silent. For the first time in a very long time, he didn’t know what would happen next. She hadn’t moved or spoken. Her hand was still pressed to her stomach, but her eyes were locked on his with a thousand emotions crashing behind them. 

Tommy Shelby, the man who always knew the next move… waited. Waited for her to run. Waited for her to turn away again, to choose safety or shame or silence over him. He wouldn’t stop her this time either. If she didn’t take his hand, he’d walk out of this church, let the door slam behind him, and bury this like everything else that had ever carved him hollow. 

Jesus Christ… he didn’t want to bury it. He wanted her. Even now, in that awful dress, looking as shattered as she did. He wanted her in his house, in his bed, under his protection and sharing his name. He wanted his ring on her hand. He wanted to be there when she woke up sick in the morning, to see the curve of her belly grow, to know--really know--he hadn’t lost everything he wanted so badly.

He’d never begged. Not once in his life. But right now, he was praying like a soldier under fire.

Her fingers moved, trembling and uncertain. She reached for him and when her hand touched his, just as timidly as she'd taken his hands the night he claimed her for the wager, the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding left him in a quiet, broken rush.

She looked up at him, eyes glassy, knees buckling, and just as his other arm moved to catch her she fainted. Right into his chest. He caught her before she hit the floor, one arm around her back, the other under her legs, pulling her up against him as gasps rippled through the room. She's so much lighter and she's pregnant. 

The priest started forward. Her mother did too. But Tommy just held her, gently cradling her. She’d chosen him.

He didn’t need permission, or to offer an explanation. Tommy didn’t look back. He just turned and marched straight out of the church with her in his arms.

Tommy slid into the back seat beside her, careful not to jostle her as Arthur closed the driver’s door and started the engine.There wasn't a spot of blood on him which meant Rory had the honor of removing his uncle's tongue and hands. He'd speak to him about it later. John was in the passenger seat up front, already lighting a cigarette, both of them quiet now that the tension had finally broken. 

She still hadn’t stirred, even when he'd pulled her into his lap. Tommy’s eyes never left her as he adjusted his coat around her, brushing his knuckles lightly across her hand. She looked so frail... but she was safe now, and now she could get better.

His rear door opened again, and Tommy was suprised when her mother appeared, standing by the car. The woman's face was calm, though her eyes shimmered with quiet emotion.

Tommy looked up at her. He straightened instinctively, unsure if she was about to slap him or sob. Instead, she met his gaze and said, “Thank you, Mr. Shelby.”

He held off saying anything until he knew where this was going.

She glanced briefly at her daughter, then back to him.“For dealing with my brother. And for the other one, too.” She blew out an exhale. “My second husband was a cruel man. I don’t mourn him. Not after what he did.”

Tommy watched her carefully.

She’d looked like hell at the safehouse, frail, bruises hidden under layers of pain and forced dignity. But now? She looked much stronger. Clear-eyed and grounded. The resemblance between mother and daughter was unmistakable. 

Mary noticed him looking her over.

"She took care of me. Nursed me back to health." She reached in to trace her daughter's cheek. "But now she needs the same chance."

"She'll have it," Tommy finally said. "Anything she needs."

"Thank you, Mr. Shelby."

Tommy shook his head. “Tommy.”

She smiled. “Mary.”

Mary continued, voice quiet but steady. “I'm going back home with my son.” Her mouth lifted, just a little. “It’s time, I can start working again.”

Tommy nodded once. “It’s under my protection now. You’ll never have to worry about safety again.”

Mary gave a quiet laugh, the sound low and knowing.“I guess not. Not now that my son’s a Blinder.”

There was no judgment in her voice, just acceptance. Tommy gave a small smile in return. “He’s a good one.”

Mary’s eyes softened. “Takes after his father.” She studied him for a long beat, really looking at him. Not like a gangster or a reviled gypsy. Not like the man who flipped her family’s life upside down. Just a man holding her daughter.

“I trust you’ll keep her safe now… properly safe.” There was no threat in her words, just the quiet, loaded plea of a mother who had already lost too much.

Tommy didn’t flinch. “With my life,” he said.

Mary's gaze moved to her daughter, resting so quietly now in his arms. "Let her know I’ll be by tomorrow.”

He gave a nod.

She didn’t linger. Just closed the door with a soft click, turned, and walked toward the second car where Rory and Polly were waiting. If Mary thought anything of the spray of blood on her son's crisp white shirt, she didn't react. They disappeared down the road seconds later, Arthur already pulling their own car into gear.

Tommy leaned back, eyes moving over the woman he held. And somewhere, buried beneath the weight of everything they'd experienced today... He actually felt hope. It was a fragile, flickering thing. But it was there.

The fire burned low in the hearth once they made it home to the mansion, throwing off the chill of the day and sending flickers of gold across the walls of the sitting room. The scent of smoke clung to everything--coats, skin, the air itself--like the aftermath of a battlefield.

Tommy sat back in the leather armchair with his shirt sleeves rolled up and the top button of his shirt undone. A glass of whiskey rested untouched in his hand, but for once, he didn't really feel like drinking.

Rory sat stiffly at the edge of the sofa, dried blood still dark on his shirt sleeve, his collar. It wasn't his own, Tommy knew, but it didn’t matter. His hands were clenched between his knees, elbows resting tight against his thighs like if he let go, something inside him might snap. He hadn’t said much since they got back. Just kept glancing toward the stairs, eyes flicking up every few seconds, like he was listening for a footstep, a voice, anything to tell him his sister was all right.

And Tommy understood. God help him, he understood. He wasn’t sure where the line between his worry and Rory’s began anymore. He only knew that the two of them were stuck in the same storm, both waiting on the same answer.

Arthur paced near the fireplace, still riding the high of adrenaline.“That priest nearly shat himself when we walked in,” he muttered, shaking his head. “And that poor sod of a groom. I’ve never seen a man go pale that fast without being shot first.” He huffed a dry laugh, but it lacked bite.

John was leaned against the sideboard, arms crossed, nodding slowly. “Felt good though, didn’t it?” he said, looking at Rory. “Giving the bastard uncle what was coming.”

Rory didn’t smile or smirk. Just looked back at John with steady, unreadable eyes. "He earned it.” His voice was flat, calm. 

It was the kind of answer that didn’t ask for agreement or approval. It simply was.

Tommy watched him closely, a flicker of something shifting in his chest. Something final. There was no doubt now. The boy was gone. The man who sat in front of him -- bloody shirt, steady hands, sharp edges -- was a Blinder. Not by name but by nature. And Tommy knew exactly what that meant. Rory could do anything he asked of him now. Whatever it took. But he’d also have to live with it.

Tommy exhaled slowly, tipping his glass in Rory’s direction. "You did right by her.”

And maybe, for the first time in days, Rory allowed the faintest smile in return.

Footsteps on the stairs drew their attention. Polly appeared, her expression unreadable but sharp as ever. Ada was still up there.

"The midwife's having a look at her," Polly said.

Tommy straightened instantly. “Who?”

“Nadya,” Ada replied, gently. “I called her when we got home.” 

That was all Tommy needed to hear.

“We figured you wouldn’t want a doctor,” Polly added.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

He gave a sharp nod, no questions asked. If Polly had called Nadya, the situation had been taken seriously. The Lee midwife had a reputation stretching far beyond gypsy circles. She was trusted, capable, and silent as a grave. Exactly the kind of woman you wanted in moments like this. The kind Tommy trusted more than any bloody doctor in Birmingham.

Polly’s eyes landed on Rory, still perched at the edge of the sofa like he didn’t know how to sit still or breathe properly. His gaze stuck to the floor now, as if looking up might shatter him. She crossed the room slowly and placed a hand on his shoulder, light, but steady.

“She’s strong, love.” Her voice was quiet. “Takes after your mother that way. And she’s not alone, not anymore.”

Rory didn’t look up right away, but when he did, the fight in his eyes had softened. It wasn't gone, but it was banked.

Polly gave him a small nod, her hand squeezing once before letting go. “She’ll be alright.”

Then, as if nothing more needed to be said, she moved to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a brandy, business as usual. That was Polly’s way. Reassurance wrapped in calm certainty.

And in that moment, Rory sat just a little straighter.

Nadya came down the stairs a few moments later, the soft click of her boots nearly lost beneath the low rumble of conversation. Ada trailed behind her, arms folded, eyes locked on the midwife with an unspoken urgency.

The Romani woman’s face gave little away. It was lined with experience, calm in a way that only came from witnessing more pain and joy than most ever would. Her scarf was still tied tight around her dark hair, her hands scrubbed clean, but Tommy could smell herbs and smoke clinging to the folds of her coat.

She spotted Polly immediately. In Romani, quiet and clipped, she said: “I need to speak with you.”

The two women were heading for the side parlor. Tommy was already on his feet. Nadya’s voice was low, too low to catch through the door when he reached it. Polly’s murmurs rose once, then faded again. Whatever was being said wasn’t for him. That much was clear.

And Tommy wouldn't allow that.

Polly had barely shut the side parlor door behind them when Tommy crossed the hall and opened it without knocking. The hinges creaked like they wanted to stop him. They didn’t. Both women turned. Polly’s expression hardened in that way it always did when she was about to scold him. Nadya’s face didn’t change at all.

“This is private,” Polly warned.

Tommy closed the door behind him quietly. “There’s nothing about her that’s private from me anymore.”

That stopped Polly short, but not Nadya. The Romani midwife simply regarded him for a long, measured beat. Then she gave a small nod, as if she’d already known he’d come. She adjusted the scarf around her neck and folded her hands calmly in front of her.

Tommy didn’t sit. He stood there like a soldier at the ready, concerned about what he was about to hear.

“Then listen well,” she said in English this time, her accent thick but clear. “She’s underweight and exhausted.” She held his gaze without flinching.“In the shape she's in... there can be consequences. It can cause problems during the birth, if she makes it that far, for the mother and the baby. The child could be born early, be sickly.”

The words hit with the precision of a bullet. Tommy didn't hear much past if she makes it that far. He knew she wanted the baby. And if she lost it now, it would tear through her like a fatal wound. He'd do all he could to protect them both. But if something happened, they could have more children. He couldn't replace her.

So no, he didn’t flinch or panic. But every muscle in his body coiled tight as steel. “Tell me what she needs,” he said. “Whatever it is, she’ll have it.”

Nadya studied him for a long moment, testing the weight of his words, searching his face for even a flicker of doubt. She found none.

Her voice was quiet, but firm when she answered. “She needs nourishment, water, and deep sleep. No stress, no demands."

Tommy caught her meaning.

"I can visit each day," she offered. "Until she is better."

Tommy nodded. He'd pay her handsomely. 

With that, Nadya gave a small nod and stepped past him without another word. Her boots made no sound as she disappeared down the hall, the door clicking gently shut behind her.

Polly lingered. She watched Tommy a moment longer, arms crossed, her eyes sharp but tired. “You heard her,” she said quietly. “Now do it. No lectures. No hovering. Just let her breathe, Tommy.”

His jaw ticked once, but he gave a nod.

Polly stepped closer, her voice softening just enough to cut past the steel. “You love her, I know that. But she’s not yours to fix. She’s hers to heal. Make room for that.”

He didn’t respond. But the silence said enough. Polly nodded once, then turned and left, her skirts whispering down the hallway behind her.

Tommy stood still for a moment longer, letting her words settle where they needed to. When he stepped out of the parlor, he caught a punch to his arm, small and sharp. Ada stood glaring up at him. 

"Fucking idiot," she said before marching down the hallway to head home. 

She wasn't wrong.

Tommy turned toward the stairs. Each step up felt heavier than it should have, boots pressing into polished wood like the weight of the world was still draped across his shoulders. He hadn’t even reached the landing when he heard it, soft footfalls behind him. He didn’t have to look back to know who it was.

Rory.

Tommy didn’t stop him. If the lad wanted to see his sister, needed to, Tommy wasn’t going to stand in his way. And so they climbed the stairs together in silence, both men carrying different burdens for the same woman. When they reached the top, Tommy paused at the door to his room. The soft glow of candlelight leaked from beneath it. He turned the handle slowly and stepped inside, letting Rory follow behind him without a word.

She was awake when they stepped into the room. The candlelight cast a warm, flickering glow over the space, softening the sharp edges of everything. She looked so small in his bed. Fragile, even, curled slightly on her side beneath the quilt. But her eyes met theirs the moment the door opened. And despite everything, the weight of the day, she smiled. Just a little.

Tommy’s chest tightened at the sight of it. Like the air had turned to glass inside him. He crossed the room slowly, not saying a word, just… He sat at the edge of the bed next to her. Making sure she was really there.

Rory followed, quieter still, lingering just inside the door like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. 

"Rory," her voice was a raspy, tired. "Come here." 

Her brother stepped forward without hesitation, moving to the side of the bed. He came to a stop just next to Tommy, shoulders squared but eyes betraying the ache he carried with him.

Tommy didn’t say a word. Just sat there as her gaze moved over Rory, taking him in, like she hadn’t truly seen him until now. The fine suit. The blood on his sleeve, his shirt. The Peaky cap in his hand. She blinked, eyes glassy, but full of something deeper than fatigue. Recognition. Tommy could feel the moment she saw it, not just what her brother had become, but what he’d done to protect her. What he'd risked. Her fingers twitched slightly above the quilt, like she wanted to reach for him. But she didn’t yet.

And Tommy sat still between them, letting her take it all in, that fragile peace between them settling like dust in golden light. 

“You look… grown up,” she murmured, smiling. “And handsome. But don’t let it go to your head.”

Rory shook his head. “Don’t worry. Tommy’s already made sure I don’t forget who’s boss.”

Her gaze shifted to Tommy and back. She reached out, her fingers brushing her brother’s wrist where he stood beside the bed. “Where’s Mum?”

Rory’s voice softened. “Back home. Getting ready to take in some sewing."

She closed her eyes for a moment. "We missed you," she whispered.

Rory nodded, his throat bobbing with the weight of everything they weren’t saying. Then, with a glance to Tommy: “Now, you'll never get rid of me.”

She looked between them, Rory’s hand still close, Tommy’s presence steady just beyond. “Will one of you do something for me?” Her voice was soft, but firm. 

Tommy gave the smallest nod. 

She exhaled slowly. “Burn that fucking dress.”

Rory huffed a laugh.Tommy’s jaw ticked just slightly, and he smiled. Not because it was funny, but because it was right. That dress had become a symbol of everything he hated about how she’d been treated. What he had done. Seeing her wear it in that church felt like watching her carry someone else’s shame.

But hearing her say it, demand it be destroyed, meant she wasn’t carrying it anymore. It wasn’t a surrender, but a choice. And Tommy, for once, didn’t want to control the outcome.

Gazing up at her brother again, her eyes were gentle. "Thank you for coming for me. For seeing me. For... everything."

Rory cleared his throat, rough around the edges.“You don’t have to thank me for that.”

Her hand squeezed his. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Rory hesitated before bending down and kissing her forehead. With a nod to Tommy, he quietly slipped out of the room, the door closing with a soft click.

The quiet pressed in, gentle but heavy, like the whole room had been holding its breath. 

You didn’t look at him at first. You weren’t ready. Your fingers curled against the edge of the quilt you remembered, still looking and feeling like it was barely used. The lamplight cast flickering shadows across the walls, dancing in time with the pulse pounding faintly in your ears. 

You could feel him. He sat next to you on the bed, still and steady. 

Finally, you took a deep breath and turned your head. Met his gaze.

Tommy looked exhausted, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and hands clasped loosely between his knees. Not just from the day, but from everything. The months and the lies, and the cost of it all. And still, still--he looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense.

“I should’ve known,” you said, pleading in your tone. Tears were already stinging the backs of your eyes. 

Tommy’s brow creased. “Known what?”

You let out a shaky breath. “That it was a lie. The maid and that message. Everything.” You blinked hard. “I walked right into it. Like a bloody fool.”

His whole expression shifted. Not in pity or disbelief. But something colder and dangerous. “The maid?” His voice was like gravel under ice.

You nodded slowly. “The new one. Fair hair, always nervous around you. I... I don’t even think she wanted to do it. She looked terrified when she told me. But she said… she said Mum was badly injured. She didn’t say how, just... gave me an address.” You swallowed, shame threading through every word. “I should’ve known better. After everything. I should’ve known not to trust someone.”

The muscles in his jaw flexed. “You’re not a fool,” he said, voice low. “But someone in my house is about to wish you were.”

The quiet in the room dropped another octave. His mind was already turning, you could see it behind his eyes. The machinery of his fury winding itself up like a slow-turning vice.

No, you were apologizing, not trying to get someone killed. You reached for his hand, taking it in yours. He stilled, it was like you'd temporarily disarmed him.

“She was scared,” you whispered. “My stepfather was responsible. Maybe he threatened her. I don’t know. But she didn’t look like someone trying to hurt me. Just someone trying to survive.”

His eyes stayed locked to yours, and for a moment, neither of you breathed. “That doesn’t mean she’s staying.”

You let that point drop. You knew the look in his eyes that now meant that girl’s fate was already sealed. No amount of mercy from you could unmake the choices she'd made.

But what you had to say next sat like a stone on your chest. Your gaze drifted past him for a moment, to the window. The memory of what happened on the front step, the blood that stained the stone.

“I’m sorry,” you went on, the words barely above a whisper.

Tommy’s brow furrowed. “For what?”

“For the man who died.” Your voice cracked, and you forced the rest out. “He tried to stop them. He died because of me.”

Tommy didn’t flinch, didn’t deny it happened. He moved closer to you. “His name was Ellis,” he said quietly. “He was loyal. Brave. And he died doing what I trained him to do.”

You shook your head, tears threatening to spill from your eyes now. “That doesn’t make it better.”

His gaze met yours, steady and calm in a way that almost made it worse. “It wasn’t supposed to make it better,” he said. “It’s the truth. Every man who wears the cap, including your brother, knows what it means. They make a choice. Same as I did.”

His words were solid and final.They should’ve helped, but they didn’t. He lived with that weight by turning it into steel and control and fury.

You? You just lived with it. And now Ellis's blood would never be anything but your burden to carry.

Tommy saw it in your face, how it still sat in your chest like it belonged there, and he didn’t argue with you. There was just warmth and the quiet promise that at least you weren’t carrying it alone.

Tommy squeezed your hand once, firm but careful, before letting go. “You need rest,” he said gently. “We’ll talk more when you’ve had some.”

You nodded, even though you felt more tired than you'd ever been in your entire life. Your mind hadn’t stopped spinning since the moment he burst through the church doors. But he wasn’t just placating you. There was a quiet worry lining the edges of his expression, tension in the way he watched your every movement, like he didn’t want to crowd you, but couldn’t help checking for signs you might shatter again.

He saw you were struggling physically, more than you were letting on. You saw it in his eyes.

Before he could say it aloud, before he could give voice to the thing that had haunted your sleep and made you curl protectively around your belly in the dark, you said, “I know I'm not... well, right now.”

His eyes softened, but his posture didn’t shift.

You reached for his hand, took it back. Then your voice cracked again, the tears came on. “I’m so sorry I left.”

That made his brow twitch slightly, the only betrayal of how much those words mattered.

You took a breath. “I didn’t know about the baby. Not until weeks later.” You looked down, ashamed.“I left to take care of Mum. That was all it was. My uncle was… he was so insistent. And I thought I was doing the right thing, that it’d only be for a little while. That I could-- But I could have said something and I didn't...”

You stopped. Your throat clenched too tightly to finish.

Tommy reached up then, brushing his knuckles gently against your cheek. “You don’t have to explain everything right now,” he said, voice low. “But I needed to hear that.”

Your eyes flicked to his. “That I wasn’t trying to leave you?”

He gave the smallest nod. “That you didn’t choose someone else. Something else. Over me.”

You swallowed hard. “My mother was in horrible shape. I was scared when I started piecing things together. But... I never stopped thinking about you.”

His thumb rested against your jaw now, steady as ever. “Love, this is all on me,” Tommy said softly, firmly. “Not you.”

You started to protest, to say something -- anything -- to shoulder your share of the wreckage, but he silenced you with the faintest shake of his head.

“You blame yourself for what happened… but I built the house.” A pause. His voice was quiet, full of regret. “I opened the door. And I never should’ve let you walk into it blind.”

More tears as you watched him. Tommy let his thumb brush along your jaw again, like he could ease the ache building behind your eyes.

Your gaze searched his face. “Tommy…”

He looked at you instantly, alert -- but not impatient. 

“The baby.” You hesitated. “Do you…”

His head tilted slightly, like he already knew where your mind had gone, but he let you finish anyway.

"Do you even want it?” Your voice was so soft it barely reached him. But the question stopped him cold.

Tommy stilled, eyes locked on yours. Not in confusion or hesitation. 

“It’s mine.” His voice was low, certain. “I knew it before Rory said the words. I knew it before I saw you today.” His gaze drifted briefly to your stomach, then back to your face. “This child is mine. And so are you.” The words weren’t possessive, not in the way men like Sean O’Grady twisted love into something cruel. Tommy’s voice held something different. A vow, a truth spoken plainly, without theatrics. “Family is sacred. What you give your life for. What you build everything around. It’s not something you toss away because things didn’t go to plan.”

His hand clutched your just a little tighter. 

“You gave me something I never thought I’d have. And now that I do, I’ll protect it, with everything I am.” Leaning forward, he kissed your forehead. “I want all of it. You. The child. The future we're owed, even if I burned the path getting us here.”

Your fingers curled slightly under his, not pulling away, but still unsure if it was real. Because people didn’t talk like that. Not to you or about you. No one had ever made you feel like you were anything special. Like your life -- your love, your child --  was something sacred. The ache in your chest swelled, sharp and unfamiliar. It burned, felt like hope.

You didn’t speak, couldn’t, not with your throat tight and your heart knocking against your ribs like it wanted to break free of your body. But your hand moved. You turned it under his and laced your fingers with his. It wasn’t a declaration, but it was something.

A beginning. A promise that just maybe, you were strong enough to try again with him. With all of it. 

The silence between you then was thick, but not cold. Just… full. Like there were too many words and not enough room to let them out. 

Finally, he spoke. “I’ve been thinkin’.” His voice was rough. “About how we got here.”

You didn’t interrupt, but your heart started flying. 

“All of it started as strategy. One more play on the board. I told myself I was in control.” He gave a bitter, quiet laugh. “And I was. Until you.” He turned slightly to look at you now, the lamplight casting long shadows on his face. 

“I never gave you a choice,” Tommy said quietly, eyes fixed on the space between you. “Didn’t expect to care as much as I did… but once you were here in my house, it stopped bein’ about power or vengeance.” He looked at you then, really looked. “Stopped bein’ about makin’ a point to Small Heath... It became just about you.”

He looked down at his hands for a beat, then back up.

“The war made emotions hard for me,” he admitted, like the confession itself was something fragile in his throat. “Expressing them harder. I made choices that left no room for softness. No time for honesty. Only angles and leverage. And I hate that it touched you, too.” He swallowed thickly. “But I’m not going to get this wrong again. Not with you.”

It wasn't just at the words, but the way he said them. Like they cost him something, scraped against old wounds just to reach you. Tommy wasn’t just apologizing. He was exposing parts of himself he never let anyone see. And for the first time, you realized… He wasn’t the only one who had been afraid. You’d both been surviving. But now, maybe, just maybe, you could start living.Together.

“I handled all of it wrong. I didn’t say the right things. Didn't give you truth when I should have.” A pause. “But I never lied about this -- how I feel about you. I didn’t know how to say it… so I tried to show it. Protecting you. Taking care of your mum. Bringing Rory in close.”

Your mother's words came back to you. The Thomas Shelby fell in love with my daughter. 

He had done those things. Even now, as his voice wavered and steadied, you could see the pieces of it. Nothing had been done out of obligation or strategy. It was something much deeper. Love, your mother had said.  You weren’t sure you could call it that yet. But maybe… maybe you were getting closer.

“You were never just a message, love. You were the moment the game stopped mattering... And I’d do anything to keep you from ever feeling like a pawn again.” The air hung heavy between you. “You’re not here because I won. You’re here because you chose to be." Some emotion flashed in his eyes. "And if you choose to stay… I’ll spend every day earning it.”

You held his hand tighter, just letting him get it out. He had to be able to hear the sound of your heart, racing, hoping. 

Tommy drew in a breath, slow and uneven.“I’ve spent my whole life building walls. Men like me… we don’t get to be soft. We don’t get to want things, not really.” His eyes met yours -- steady now, but tired. “But I wanted you. I did the first time I laid eyes on you... And it scared the hell out of me, how much.”

A silence passed between you, heavy with things neither of you had ever been taught how to say.

“I thought if I kept it all tight, you wouldn’t see the cracks. Wouldn’t see what the war left behind...” His thumb gently brushed away a tear that slid from the corner of your eye. "No more lies. No more silence.” A breath. “I love you.”

It wasn't an admission or a calculated risk. A vow.

Tommy went on before you could respond, your heart melting as he poured his feelings out. And you listened because you knew you weren't likely to see him vulnerable very often, if at all after tonight. But now you understood him. 

“You need to know,” he said, voice lower now, firmer.“I’m not easy. I won’t pretend to be.” He looked down for a moment, jaw working. When his eyes lifted again, they were clearer and his gaze locked with yours.“You’re as good as married to the devil himself. I’ve done things you’ll never want to hear about. I’ll make decisions that don’t always make sense to you. And I won’t be gentle all the time... But I will love you. And I will protect what’s mine.”

The hand at your cheek moved instinctively to your tummy, so carefully. Reverent. “You and this child… you’ll have everything I can give. Not just money or security, but respect. Legacy. A name no one will ever touch. But for that to happen…” he said slowly, “I need you to get well. Strong again. For the baby. For you. For what’s next.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “What’s next?”

He didn’t hesitate. “A wedding.”

You froze at that word, especially given the day you had. 

“Tommy...” The word came with instinct, with nerves, and the hundred doubts spinning inside your head.“What about… what will people say?” You glanced down at yourself, the tiny curve barely noticeable now under his hand, but soon it would be obvious. “I’ll be showing. Everyone will know.”

He leaned in closer, his voice low and resolute. “Good.”

Your eyes shot back to his.

“Let them see. Let them talk.” His gaze never wavered. “They should know exactly who you are... my bride. My family. And they should know what happens to anyone who even thinks about layin’ a hand on what’s mine. You'll show in your dress, love. And I’ll stand beside you like I’ve never been prouder of anything in my goddamn life.”

Tommy smiled. With a dry edge to his voice, he added. “And no fucking red dress. I’ll burn it myself, if Rory doesn’t beat me to it.” 

You had to smile at that. Your brother would beat him to it.

A breath passed, and he softened slightly. “I know it’s the last thing you want to think about today.” His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.“But it’s important. Not just for appearances. Not just for power or status or whatever they all think it means... It’s for us. For the life we’re going to build.”

His hand smoothed over your belly while your heart was crashing in your chest.“You won’t be hidden ever again. You won’t be whispered about. You’ll walk into that church like the woman you are, strong, beautiful, and mine.” He leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours.“It won’t always be soft. But it will always be real. You have my word.”

You nodded, kissed him carefully on the lips. "Okay," you whispered. "And Tommy, I --"

His kiss cut you off, stopped you from telling him you loved him because he knew it was coming. "Not right now," he said meaningfully. "Tell me when you mean it. And I'll know it's true then."

For all that Tommy was, how did he know you weren't there now?

“Nadya’s coming back tomorrow. Every day, until you’re well.” His voice was quiet, but there was no room for negotiation in it. “And you’re to do whatever she tells you. No arguing. No trying to be strong when you’re not.”

You nodded without hesitation.“I liked her,” you whispered, meaning it. “She reminded me of Polly, a little.”

That earned the faintest ghost of a smile from him.“A bit more terrifying, if you ask me.”

“I’ll listen to her,” you promised. 

Tommy leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering for a beat. “Good.” He paused before adding,“Your mother’s coming tomorrow, too."

You hesitated, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before reopening. “My mother’s house…” you began softly. “Will it be safe? Will she be okay there?” You looked up at him, worry flickering in your expression. “Will Rory he be allowed to keep an eye on things? After all this is… settled?”

Tommy didn’t hesitate. “The house and your mother are under my protection,” he said firmly. “So is the shop. No one will lay a hand on either without answering to me.” He let his thumb sweep gently across your hand before continuing. “Rory’s a Blinder now. He’ll keep watch over her. Over both of you. I’ll see to it.”

A breath you didn’t know you were holding slipped from your lungs. Relief, warm and quiet, spread through your chest.

He saw it, felt it. "You’ve done enough worrying,” he murmured then.“Get some rest, love.”

And this time, you thought maybe you actually could.

You were already asleep as he quietly stripped off his clothes, had one last drink of whiskey. Tommy slid into bed and curled up behind you. You were sound asleep, hands tucked under your pillow as your breath came in shallow whispers. You'd chosen him and you were back where you belonged. He slid one arm under your pillow, his other hand draped over what the two of you made, holding you both.

@outlanderuniverse @alyssajunelle @gothic-chinadoll @sparda1234 @mrsnms @alexakeyloveloki @theinheriteddutchess @wiseyouthingluencer @lovinglimerence @goldensunflowe-r @andydrysdalerogers @hellfirehopeless

@wantedby-larry

[clavica]

I've been experimenting last year to try to unfuck my life. COVID left me unemployed and with depression, which was a battle on its own and in the aftermath of it, I found myself in a place where my hobbies and interests were left untouched and under a thick layer of dust for more than three years, because fighting for survival doesn't leave much room for anything extra. To find a job and to get my mental health to so-so place was more important than drawing, cleaning or exercising. And after I finally had some mental and energy room for "something extra" I found myself not really wanting to do anything, so scrolling and mindless media consumption was taking that extra bit I fought so hard to get back and honestly, it made me miserable.

So I started to experiment around getting myself to do more than just survival. I wanted to draw, to read, to exercise, take care of myself, to learn something new. And frankly, it sucked, especially in the beginning. Getting my space cleaned regularly was a struggle. I couldn't stay on track with eating healthy and returned back to bad habits quickly. Creativity wasn't coming and anything I've made felt horrible and ugly, especially that over the years some of my skills eroded and comparing to my old art, I was doing worse...

I guess the best take away from my struggles was to if I can't get something done, is to downsize and limit.

I couldn't get myself to do one day of general cleaning, so I broke it down to 15-20 minutes of cleaning everyday before going to work. At first I used a schedule written on a fridge, then switched to an app to keep track of this and additional tasks and appointments I have, but at this point I know the roster by heart. Monday is for cleaning the stove and counters in the kitchen. Tuesday is wiping mirrors and sweeping floor. Wednesday is cleaning toilet and taking out trash. Thursday is to wipe sink and shower. Friday is free. I do laundry as needed and dishes as well. Dishwasher saved my life as I absolutely detest washing dishes.

Second thing was starting to draw everyday. I got a cheap notebook-calendar and I spend 10-15 mins drawing in it everyday. Even if it's a stick figure. Nobody will see it, and tomorrow I will have another chance to draw something else.

Exercise was the worst. I'm not w sporty person and it's catching up to me. I don't like walking when I have no aim and the weather is bad. Fitness bores me and feels pointless. During pandemic, I got a stationary bike that I was using on and off. So far I managed to put the bike in front of tv and watch Netflix while I cycle, tapping to the crave to watch something and tricking myself to not thinking that I'm exercising. I started with 20min anime episodes, one every day. Currently doing one hour long Netflix shows episodes everyday. Cliffhangers help a bit, because I want to know what happens next and I can't watch without bicycling, so gotta bicycle to know, sorry...

Diet is a problem too, since I eat everything on sight after coming back from work. So I stopped eating after 18:00 because I can't be trusted after that. Deleted all apps where I could order food and I keep in fridge water and vegetables and frozen food for lunch next day. The biggest issue is when I'm out, no rules can stop me there, but fortunately that doesn't happen often.

The last tips I might give basing on my journey:

- if something stands in the way and you can get rid of it - get rid of it

- don't underestimate doing something for fifteen minutes every day, even if it's half-assed

- fuck ups will happen, you will fuck up and that doesn't mean the times you didn't fuck up stopped counting

- it's better to focus on what you're doing now than on possible goals you have

- be kind to yourself

- be patient and don't overextend

Of course everybody is different and their journey might be different. If is, I hope you could share it, as I'm still looking for inspiration to unfuck the rest of my life.

how do u have it all. how do u workout and stretch daily and play an instrument and stay drawing and creative and inspired and have a job. i rlly believe some ppl r living this kind of beautiful and balanced life. its achievable. i think. but how. how does it all become second nature. how do you make it all habit. it feels silly to think something like my phone could be standing in the way of all of it. but maybe it is. or maybe u rlly have to be a specific type of freak person.

[sepublic]

            Went to Weebcon 2025 and actually got to meet Dana Terrace and Zeno Robinson! Luckily I’d found out about Dana’s presence on her Insta near the end of the February, which gave me plenty of time to prepare. On the first day she was absent, and I found her schedule had been updated so she was only available for Saturday and Sunday; On her Twitter, she alluded to something unfortunate happening that day. Told a Knights of Guinevere cosplayer(!!!) about the change when they’d also showed up, so they hadn’t missed or done anything wrong.

            I checked the website for stuff to do, got blindsided by Zeno being there, and got to meet him; I got a signed Hunter and Flapjack print, and forgot to ask him if he knew about Dana’s presence, if he’d be at the Q&A. Then I went to a TOH cosplay meet-up and it was just me and an Amity I’d seen earlier, which tracked with us two being the only TOH cosplays I’d seen that day.

            Per my guess, it meant the line for Dana was minimal throughout the next two days, as was the crowd for the Q&A; A bit sad to see less fellow fans, I wonder if there are factors like TOH's popularity waning over time and/or the location. But I suppose a smaller crowd was kind of my hope, because it’d mean it’s far less of a hassle to do a signature and ask a question for the Q&A!

            (Also gotta get it off my chest; Aside from the surreality of seeing these people of a screen as IRL flesh-and-blood humans who were not pre-determined recordings, I found Dana to be shorter than I expected! I guess it’s because I consider myself relatively short, she’s decently older and far more experienced. And on a psychological level, I look up to her, so that makes Dana “bigger” in my mind, like an authority figure. I shouldn’t put people on a pedestal, I know, but it’s what happened. The real point of this observation was that I kept thinking of Anakin calling Grievous shorter than he expected lol.)

            I thought about what I was going to say, so I said it; When I was a depressed teen, I first saw the announcement of this show back in 2018, and something about it seemed appropriately magical. It lifted my spirits a bit, I had a good feeling about it, I decided to pay attention and invest my attention and hopes. And I could’ve never imagined how much it paid off!

            I also loved how each season of the show was about Eda, King, and Luz, in that order; Dana was pleased by the observation and said “You get it!” I even mentioned how she gave Luz Catholic Guilt without making her literally Catholic, and Dana laughed and repeated You get it. I shouldn’t let this get to my head, BUT…!!!! And when I got my picture, I made sure to take out the Bard sigil sticker as part of the cosplay, with Dana half-jokingly calling it an evil thing.

            I also got an Eda Funko Pop signed by her, since I’d always been meaning to grab it, so may as well take the chance now and not have a prior Eda get replaced and discarded! And since I was so early, I actually got to be one of four people to buy a personal drawing from Dana herself (I saw another one, who had a scrapbook of personal, signed drawings from other showrunners, such as Butch Hartman; Theirs was Lumity). I panicked because the option never occurred to me and now I had to choose, but I kept it nice and simple; Luz, Eda, and King.

            Dana gave me this little cardinal so she could draw other requests overnight at her hotel, and I could come back the next day to receive mine, with the bird as proof of purchase! I lamented the fate of Flapjack but also expressed appreciation for the decision, with Dana half-joking that she hadn’t done it to the poor birb. Came back the next day and saw someone else’s request on the table of Raeda, which leaves me curious about the fourth, if there was one… And I got this personal drawing with my name on it!!!

           And I got to keep my own little Flapjack!!! It really was Flapjack that weekend. I also mentioned how I loved the irony of Raine’s whole quest beginning because they couldn’t look the other way, only to have to look the other way when it came to Eda’s struggle for them, with Hunter’s loneliness (esp due to Terra over their shoulder), etc. And the irony of Raeda breaking up because Eda kept secrets, only for Raine to do the same after they’d reunited years later, keeping them from resuming; Dana, of course, agreed that the two were like one another.

            And yeah; I actually got to go to the Q&A on Saturday and ask Dana a question! More on that here… And as I guessed, of course Zeno showed up as a surprise guest halfway through. Of course! Never thought I’d be there in-person after seeng their Post-Hoots together. And when someone asked what cosplays Dana would love to see, she brought up Knights of Guinevere, and was delighted when someone else brought up that cosplayer, who I sadly didn’t get to see after that first day. On Sunday, there was a second TOH cosplay meetup, and this time people were there that I got to befriend and take pictures with!

            Receiving my drawing wasn't even the last time I saw Dana, funnily enough; In the hours after the final day had closed, I was passing through the lobby of the hotel next door (which was also used to host some events) and just happened to notice Dana with her friends, waved hi and she waved back! Realistically it's of course tempting to hang out with the creator of one of my favorite stories ever and bombard them with all sorts of questions, or just say all sorts of things (esp when there wasn't even a lot of people, sometimes no people, at times), but in the end that's another human being with boundaries, and I had to respect that.

            All in all; I’d say I’m quite chuffed not just from the TOH experience, but really just the fun of the event as a whole, and especially the build up to it! Working on my cosplay, it was a pretty magical experience, and I’m already looking back it fondly.

[lokisprettygirl]

Light into the Darkness (Bill Skarsgard! Eric Draven x Female Reader) (Horror Romance) (18+) (70s AU)

Read Chapter 4 here // Series Masterlist

Chapter 5

Summary : An interaction with a handsome man leaves you spiraling but Eric knows how to put you in your place.

Warning: 18+, Sex, Verbal degradation, blood drinking, Reader is depressed, blood kink, smut, reader has plethora of insecurities, she's passively suicidal, she's in her thirties (for some of you that's a warning I guess), when I say alternate universe i mean it

He must care. Why else would he leave the coin? You wrestled with the thoughts. Was this his way of rewarding you for doing what he had asked or he felt bad about you losing all your money because of him? Or was he just thinking of himself? You were the source of his nutrition afterall and he couldn't afford to make you go hungry.

You placed the coin somewhere safe in the closet, you had made a note to ask Mr Rogers if he'd pay you in advance, for some reason you didn't want to sell it. It seemed special. It was a gift..in a way.

Your eyes then fell upon the plant you had kept on the ledge of the window, dull and lifeless now that you had forgotten to water it. You moved into the bathroom to fill a glass but as you returned you realised it was beyond salvaging.

“I'm sorry” you murmured as you plucked the dead roots out of the pot.

While you bathed your fingers trailed over your skin, tracing the path his lips had traced the last night. And then you felt ashamed again as if you had committed a sin, a crime against nature and everything that was holy in this world.

He wasn't a man, he was a creature and you had let him in every possible way. You had given him your body, your blood and perhaps a piece of your heart as well.

Was he even capable of love? Or was it just hunger?

You mindlessly scrubbed every inch of your skin with the loofah, a sudden sense of disgust wrapped around you from head to toe. Did it come from him or from within you? You couldn't really tell.

*******

The bell above the door jingled with a familiar chime as you stepped into the record store an hour later.

“I'm really sorry again Mr. Rogers” you apologised so he sighed.

“Well I'm glad you got your rest, you do look alive today”

You smiled as he said that. Only if he knew. The air around the store smelled like dust, vinyl, and coffee as usual, but it was comforting in its own way, it was routine. It was normal.

However your life was anything but, you belonged to someone else now. Not visibly. Not obviously. But you felt it in your bones.

The craving, the need you had for him, it was deadly how you felt ashamed of the encounter and still wanted to experience it again when the sun would go down.

The shop was quiet. You tried to focus on refilling the jazz section, but your fingers moved on autopilot. Your mind kept drifting back to him. To his mouth. His hands. The way he looked at you like you were the only living thing left in the world.

His voice faintly echoed in your head. You scowled and rubbed at your temple as if that would make him go away, you couldn't really hear anything but you just knew he was there.. like a parasite, crawling and infecting your thoughts.

The bell jingled again and you straightened instinctively. A man walked in, he was tall, so tall, clean-shaven, early thirties maybe but you couldn't tell. He had a leather jacket on, his hair tousled from the wind.

“Hii” he gave you a smile so you returned it. Gorgeous smile. He moved with the confidence of someone who knew he looked good and also knew that other people thought so too.

“Morning” he said again “Looking for some Nina Simone, but open to suggestions”

You offered a polite smile, grateful for the distraction from your own jumbled thoughts.

“You’ve got good taste. We just got the Little Girl Blue live version this morning..if you want to start there..It truly is magical..must have been surreal for those who got to see it live” you said to him so he smiled again.

“Perfect.. See? I knew you’d have just what I need” you laughed lightly at his words, feeling the first flicker of ease since last night.

“I work here. It’s literally my job” you said as you chuckled, his brows quirked up.

“But you like it..dont you?” he said, watching you closely as you pulled out the vinyl for him “I can tell. You don’t just sell music, you love it”

That startled you a little. No one ever noticed things like that. Not even Adam. You did love music and you loved working at the store.

“I do” you admitted, a little shyly. “Music… keeps me company when nothing else does”

“A woman after my own heart”

You handed him the record and his fingers brushed against yours, lingering just a little too long than it should.

“The name is Clark by the way, what do they call you?” he asked curiously so you mumbled your name.

“Wait I'll wrap it in the case” you said to him so he gave it back to you, his eyes staring deeply in you.

He was flirting with you right? The lingering glance, the way he looked at you, though you didn't quite understand why he'd do that. He was a good looking man and way out of your league. He was handsome. Normal. The kind of man your mother might have called a jackpot. He probably had a job, a dog, maybe even a fancy apartment with plants that were watered regularly.

And for a split second, you saw a different version of your life flash before your eyes. One where you’d waited for something like this to happen to you, maybe there was a love story waiting for you, waiting to be written but..you burned the blank pages before it could begin. Maybe if you had just waited and hadn’t whispered into the night, you'd have a life that was sane and normal, a life where you hadn’t offered your blood, your body, your soul to a creature you didn't know anything about.

Your throat tightened as the panic began to build up.

You could have had this. Something real, something that wouldn't disappear in the morning light.

You should have waited.

But you didn’t.

And now he was inside you. Eric. Eirikr. Whatever he truly was. You could feel him.

He'd bore you in a week, little flame.

You dropped the record as his voice echoed.

Clark looked at you, a bit surprised, a bit concerned

“Hey, you alright?” he asked so you composed yourself.

“Yeah, sorry. Just... clumsy today” You forced a smile as you knelt to pick it up

Your heart pounded in your chest as you quickly wrapped up the vinyl and passed the bill to him.

Before leaving Clark left his number behind for you. After he left, you locked yourself in the stockroom to calm down. The last thing you wanted was Mr. Rogers to see you act this way in front of the customers, you had been behaving weirdly from the past three days since Eric had arrived.

As you stepped out of the store in the evening you found yourself distracted, you weren't even watching as you bumped into a man. He was old, not as old as Mr Rogers but old enough, dressed in a complete five piece suit with a hat and everything. You wanted to apologize but something about him unnerved you in a way that only one other man did.

As you walked past him he suddenly spoke.

“I see he has found a bait”

His words confused you so you turned to look at him and ask whatever the hell he meant but as you did he was gone. He had disappeared.

When you returned home you looked at the mess that was your bed. The bloody sheet, the ripped dress, the smell of sex lingering in every corner of your room only heightened your discomfort.

You couldn't bear the sight of it any longer so you quickly stripped the sheet.

“Well you're going straight to the trash bin” you murmured as you picked the bloodied sheet off the bed and made your way into the kitchen to grab a trash bag.

Your heart leapt out of your mouth as you came back to the sight of Eric sitting on the bed, he was back to his old attire. All black like the darkness he had in him.

“God you scared me” you said as you entered the room, a bit unnerved by his presence when last night you were squirming mindlessly underneath him.

“Why? Were you not expecting me?” He asked as he stared at you, his pale skin seemed to have picked up some warmth, maybe it was your blood.

“No it's just uhh-” you stuttered on your words, not wanting to offend the creature who could bleed you dry instantly if he wanted to.

“Do you regret our union?” He asked so you looked him in the eye finally. Did you regret it? You wished you knew the answer but you didn't, you felt shameful and guilty but was it regret?

“I just..I feel insane okay.. and don't act as if you weren't in my head listening to my thoughts all day.. and you know what .. I don't appreciate it” you crossed your arms as you spoke to him.

“You let me in” he said as he got up and got around the bed.

“No not like that..not in my head..it's too much”

A flicker of hurt flashed across his eyes before he composed himself and smiled. His steps were slow and deliberate.

“You knew what you were getting into” he pressed on every syllable as he spoke.

“No I didn't..you took advantage of me..you saw someone pathetic and desperate and you knew I'd give in-” you retorted, a part of you knew you were being unfair but you just wanted to vent.

“I gave you a choice..why didn't you deny?” he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of anger now.

“Didn't you just hear me? I am pathetic and desperate” you said as a matter of fact, as if that's just who you were deep down.

“I hear you loud and clear but you can not play victim again as you always do. I didn't force you, I could have, I am capable of it but I gave you a choice and you chose me. It can't be undone now. I'm bound to you”

He walked closer to you so you stepped back, fearing as if he'd harm you when he hadn't given you any reason to believe that. As he reached closer to you, his fingers wrapped around the back of your neck, his thumb circling the mark where he had fed from the last night..

“You can run away from me y/n if you wish to” he spoke softly, his nose scrunching, teeth baring. You could tell he was restraining himself.

“I can?” you asked to confirm if you had misheard him.

“It's a choice” he responded.

“And where would you go?” he let out a chuckle as you questioned him.

“It's not your burden to bear is it?”

“It's not..i don't even know you” he scowled as you said that with such ignorance and arrogance. You didn't know him but you had no qualms giving into him.

“You say I used you, that I took advantage of you. What have you done? In the dark of the night you lived a fantasy with me, the morning came with regret and look how willing you are to discard me now” you heard the hurt in his voice, you couldn't even tell if he was manipulating you or not.

“That's not what this is about ..”

“You're ashamed of yourself, ashamed of our consummation because your fragile, limited, mortal mind can not comprehend how much you reveled in it”

“Stop-”

“You can pretend all you want, get rid of the sheets, scrub your skin raw but you can't get rid of me and that scares you. Even given a choice you wouldn't want to lose me” he kept talking, kept saying things you didn't want to hear.

“I don't even know you..I don't know a thing about you except your name -”

“Knowing me isn't going to rid you of your shame, you loathe yourself so much it really is pathetic”

Your eyes teared up as he said that.

“I'm not pathetic” you yelled at him like you had never yelled before, you didn't want him to think of you like that. Not how Adam did. Not how other men saw you, as someone so worthless.

He approached you, his palms cupped around your face as he made you look at him.

“You are not. You truly are not..you see that? You believe that now alright” He said as he cupped your cheeks, his thumb wiping your tears away.

“Stop stop stop..you're doing it again” you said as you pulled away from him, his touch, his words weakening you again.

“What am I doing?”

“You're pulling me in again”

“You think he won't hurt you? After he has what he needs you think he'd not give you up for another conquest? You have been down this road” you scoffed as you knew he was talking about Clark.

“You know when you say such things it makes me feel horrible as if I'm not worthy enough for a man to stick around for me” you turned to face away from him.

“It has nothing to do with you”

He said to you, you knew he was in your head, he was listening to your thoughts and doubts and fear, he knew how insecure you were.

As you didn't answer he sighed deeply before he grabbed your arm to turn you to him.

“Do you want to end this?”

“I thought you said once we are bonded it can't be undone”

“It can't..you'd always have this emptiness in you, a void, when your regret fades, when you're hurt again by someone you will think of me i promise you that, with time you'll forget the sound of my voice or how I look but you'll never forget the way i filled you” you looked away as he said that. A part of you already knew you didn't want him to leave.

“You're manipulating me again”

“I'm telling you the truth”

“And what about you? What will happen to you” he let out a snicker as you questioned him so he let go of your arm and walked towards the window, his fingers brushed over the edges of the now empty pot.

“What happens to a plant when you quit nurturing it y/n?” he asked you, the question was rhetorical.

“It dies”

“Eventually. Not immediately, it survives as long as it can on its own, relishing in the last bit of the moisture it carries in its roots” he paused for a moment before he turned to look at you “And then it wither down slowly, it deteriorate, suffer in agony until it succumb to death”

Your eyes welled up with fresh tears again as he said that. You didn't want him to disappear from your life, you knew you'd regret it if you lose him too, he was already in you, as much as you wanted to deny it he was all inside you, the taste of his lips, the euphoria from his essence, the feeling of complete fullness you had last night, you knew you won't be able replicate it or replace it. You hated how much you wanted him

“You're too intense..has anyone ever told you that?” you spoke between the tears and you heard the sound of genuine laughter erupting from his chest. Oh he had heard that one before.

“I apologise? It's been a while since I have been around someone.. I have forgotten what it is like to be human”

He stared at you intensely, you found yourself burning under his gaze, the need to be close to him resurfaced, all the regret and shame was forgotten now that he looked at you like that.

“I am going for a bath”

You said as you swiftly turned to rush into the bathroom. You didn't ask him to leave so that only meant the other thing.

You wanted him to stay.

You filled the tub with hot water, the steam fogging up all around so much that you couldn't even look at your reflection in the mirror anymore, the same type of fog that he had wrapped around your brain.

You lit up a candle to place it on the window before undressing, then you tied your hair up in a bun before you sunk into the tub until only your head was peaking out. The images from last night flashed as you closed your eyes, the ache between your legs pulsing for his touch again, your blood calling for him, you wanted to feel his teeth sink into your flesh again.

And then you felt him around you, his scent clouded your surroundings, the sound of the leaky faucet dripping water into the tub was the only other sound in the room apart from your heavy breathing.. He was quiet as he sat down at the edge, making you shiver as his fingers brushed your hair from your forehead before they slipped down between the valley of your breasts, his touch cold against your warm skin.

“I didn't ask you to come in” you said boldly, even though your lips trembled.

“You left the door open”

“It's not as if you used it to get in”

“I wouldn't have if it was locked, I come only when you invite me in”

He murmured softly, his fingers slipped between your thighs, gliding with precision on your soapy skin, your breath caught in your chest as he rubbed your lips, his thumb pressing circles on your clit.

“Ask me a question. You said you didn't know anything about me so ask but just one, that is all I'm willing to give you tonight”

He mumbled nonchalantly as if he wasn't torturing you in the same breath.

A gasp escaped your throat as his middle finger slipped into you, he watched as your fingers clutched around the edge of the tub, your head resting at the back.

“Who are you? Who you used to be?” You asked, voice barely a whisper as he pumped his fingers in and out of you.

“A man with a pulse and a dream. I was born..just like you. A son, a brother, a lover” he answered sincerely.

“How old are you now?”

“I don't even know anymore. But i remember the scent of the earth before they filled it with bricks and concrete, i remember when the sky used to be clearer”

You opened your eyes as he said that.

“How did you become this?’ you asked him, even though he had asked you to ask one question.

“I made a choice..a bargain” he said, your eyes rolled into your head as his thumb pressed over the bundle of nerves..

“You chose ..too uhh you chose to become this?” you murmured

“I did but it wasn't for eternal life or glory” your thighs clenched around his hand as you neared your peak.

“Then why?” the words slipped out at the same time as your orgasm hit you like a wave.

“That's a good girl.. so beautiful when you fall apart for me” he mumbled softly, his fingers still working you slowly..

As you breathing leveled he pulled his hand out from under the water and sucked his fingers into his mouth, the remnants of soap and your juices filled his taste bud.

You couldn't keep your eyes off him, the way his skin shined in the candlelight was ethereal.

Grabbing onto the edge of the tub you rose up, water cascading down your skin, his eyes gleamed even in the dim light, his lips parted as if he couldn't wait to sink into you again, you brought your face closer to him until you had your lips on his, he didn't waste a breath, his arms wrapped around your waist as he pulled you on his lap effortlessly, he was so strong, he could do whatever he wanted to do and you knew you'd have no choice. Except you had one.

He gave you a choice. He always did.

As the kiss heated up he fell back into the tub, taking you along with him, your thighs straddling him, water splashing around you as your lips moved from his mouth to his neck..all your thoughts and worries from the day were gone now, disappearing into the thin air.

“I can't give you normalcy, little flame but what I'm offering is real and lasting” you pressed your head up to look at him, he sounded honest but a part of you still felt wary of his intentions, not that you cared at the moment.

“I guess I'll just have to get used to not waking up next to you”

You said as you took his drenched coat off his body, his shirt sticking to his wet body like a second skin.

“I may disappear as the sun comes up but I'll never leave. I'll always come back for you”

You nodded as he said that, his lips then latched onto your neck, his fangs grazing over your skin but something was holding him back.

“Do you want this? Want to feed me?”

He whispered in your ear so you nodded in desperation.

“So eager”

His fangs pierced your flesh and the familiar sensation of being high from the night before filled you again, like a drug you found yourself wanting to take him in again, and you knew the more you let him in the more addicted you'll get to him but you didn't care, along with the daylight also went down your shame and hesitation.

You didn't remember him taking you out of the tub and into your bed, the bed without the sheets, you were too high to think clearly, but you remembered writhing and squirming underneath him as he fucked you ever so slowly while he drank the blood from your wrist. Your naked bodies tangled around with each other.

He didn't stop that night, it was as if he was punishing you for acting out earlier, he knew how much blood you needed to survive, how much he could take that was not too much to make you sick, so he pierced wherever he wanted to, your neck, your thighs, your wrist, the curve of your breasts, his fangs opened you up for his consumption and then his lips sealed you with same urgency.

All while his cock stayed stilled in you as he made you cum over and over again.

At night you didn't dream of some knight and shining prince who'd come rescue you on a white horse or serenade you with a love song, all you needed was a monster, a creature who lived in the shadows, the one who'd pleasure you all night long and would drink from you to his heart's content.

The next morning a thought kept bothering you though.

He never answered your last question. Why did he become this?

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Taglist @mariaenchanted @malenoradgn @muchwita @loushaw131460 @wiseyouthinfluencer

@a-differentbrandof-beans @urmomsgirlfriend1 @serving-targaryen-realness @mskiabbs

[444sturns]

Chris and reader fic where reader struggles with a weed addiction and she hates being sober and she almost never is and when she is, she's moody (ex. depression, anger) but Chris just wants to help her get better and he is patient with her?

‎┈﹒ ꒰ trigger warning: mentions of marijuana & addiction. summary: chris reminds reader that she isn't alone in recovery. ꒱ ﹐ ‏࿐

you hate this part.

the part where the haze is gone. the silence is too loud. everything beneath your skin feels like it’s trying to crawl out of you, you can’t feel without wanting to shut it all off again. you pace the apartment just trying to keep yourself moving, but it really feels like you’re just trying to outrun yourself. you can’t. 

chris just watches from his seat on the couch. he’s not judging, not sighing, not getting angry with you. he’s being patient and still; he’s just watching. watching his girlfriend practically drown on dry land and it’s killing him, but he knows that it’s a warzone in that head of yours and he treads lightly. he’s done this dance with you before, many times.

“you hungry?” chris asks gently, his soft voice breaking the silence that was driving you insane. 

“do i look hungry?” you snap, shooting him a look that at one point, would have cut him like a thousand knives. not this time, though. he knows this isn’t you. he exhales slowly, patting the empty cushion beside him. “come sit.”

you want to scream, or cry, or light up again and forget the world exists. but you don’t. you stand there looking at him, arms crossed over your chest like a shield, jaw tight and sealing up everything you’re trying not to say. he doesn’t deserve to get yelled at. he doesn’t deserve even the slightest bit of attitude that you could give him, and it shatters you a little more the longer you look at him. 

chris leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees while his eyes trail up your frame, from bottom to the top. “i know it’s hard. i know you feel like fuckin’ hell when you’re not high, but i also know that you’re stronger than this, kid. a lot stronger than you think.” he states, voice steady and calm.

you scoff, bitter. “you don’t know what it’s like. you know what it looks like from the outside.” you mutter, your voice shaking slightly. it’s taking every ounce of energy to not cry.

“i don’t,” he admits, not missing a beat as he shifts to stand to his feet. he doesn’t cross the room towards you yet, instead, he tucks his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and just looks at you. he’s so sincere, that helpless but hopeful look on his face makes your heart feel like it’s cracking behind your ribs. “but i know you. i know you’re not just this– this pain.” he continues, and he takes in a breath. “you’re more than the days you can’t get out of bed. you’re more than the shitty moodswings and the whole pushing me away, thing.” 

you shudder at that. he struck a nerve, and it’s exactly what you needed to hear. sometimes, the truth hurts, but it’s necessary. your eyes sting as you watch him walk across the room towards you. the room is too quiet after that and you swallow thickly. 

“why do you even stay?” you ask, your voice barely over a whisper. 

chris stands right in front of you. he doesn’t reach out to touch you yet, but he’s close enough for you to feel his warmth. “because i love you. and because i see the version of you that you’re too tired to see right now.” he soothes, finally reaching forward to brush his fingertips along your arm gently. 

you look up at him with glassy eyes, “what if that version of me never comes back?” 

chris shakes his head slowly, lips curling into a thin smile that comforts parts of you that you didn’t quite recognize until now. 

“then we’ll find her together. c’mon, she’s in there. she’s just.. in there, taking a well-deserved nap.” chris grins at his own stupid attempt at brightening the mood, and he’s absolutely thrilled to see you smile. a small, weak one, but a smile, and he’s fucking proud. 

it doesn’t take much convincing for him to lead you back over to the couch to sit you down, to relieve some of the ache in the soles of your feet from the pacing you’ve been doing for what feels like an eternity. you slide into the seat beside him, and he makes quick work of slinging his arm around you to pull you into his side. you take a slow breath, the weight of his words pressing into you like a comforting pressure. you really didn’t know how you got lucky enough to have someone that wanted to stay with you through hell and high water, but you were incredibly thankful. 

you lean your head against his shoulder, focusing on the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes before he breaks the silence again. “you’ve been running for a long time, baby. from all the thoughts you don’t wanna think about. i’m here, though, and even if you’ve gotta think about ‘em, you aren’t gonna be thinkin’ about ‘em all by yourself. i’m here. through it all.”

you know he isn’t going anywhere. you want to be okay again, for him, for yourself. the silence between you isn’t empty this time– it’s full of everything you didn’t want to feel or think about for so long, and yet chris is here beside you, and the thoughts and feelings don’t feel so suffocating. 

you lift your head to look up at him, the tension that you once held in your shoulders and jaw now relaxing, and you smile. a little bigger this time.

“you’re not gonna miss the late night munchies, are you?” you ask, swallowing back a giggle. 

chris tightens his grip around you, tugging you impossibly closer. he chuckles softly and leans down, planting a sweet, yet firm kiss to the top of your head, “fuck no, i’m not.” 

for the first time in forever, you don’t feel like the battle is impossible to tackle, and chris is there to remind you of it every step of the way.

© 444sturns

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

It’s probably my love of horror and messed up sibling relationships, but I have to wonder how Dark! Ford would approach Shapeshifter! Stan.

I mean, seeing as Stan can escape pretty much most physical cages through shape shifting, I imagine Ford would have to rely on magic, or even the whole emotional mess of being Stan’s most important person.

Which is an interesting dynamic to me lol.

My first thought on Dark Ford Shapeshifter Stan is looney toon ass shenanigans. Think road runner and Wile E. Coyote, where Stan's road running his way through the apocalypse and Ford's desperately trying to catch him both from 'my precious little brother Stan i need to protect' and also 'wtf Stan was a real life shapeshifter and i thought it was a joke? I need to live out all our childhood hypotheticals stat'

Second, more serious thought, is that it would be huge mess on both sides. Stan's moping in his room eating valentines day chocolate when the world ends, and a wave of weirdness rolls through the world. A demon's in charge of the dimension now non stop partying through the planet, and one of his henchmaniacs is looking for Stanley Pines with a picture of Ford on a bunch of billboards saying 'looks like this' with a reward and everything. The reward is 'you get to live' and people are all for it.

Except Stan doesn't look like that, and never will. He has no idea why this random demon is looking for his base form, all he knows is he has to get to jersey stat and save his family. Except when he gets there his family is gone (Ford got there first). So now he's just, cutting loose in the apocalypse. Doesn't need to blend in anymore and now dozens of shapeshifters are seeking him out to learn how to shift like he does. Super depressed at the lose of his base and human family but at least shapeshifters want to hang out with him now?

I imagine it'd be a few weeks before Ford finally got frustrated about his lack of progress on finding his 'human' brother and went to Bill for help, then used his abilities to learn that Stan was a shapeshifter, was always a shapeshifter, and exactly where he was (no need to hide after all, he's not Stanley Pines anymore, and shapeshifters are becoming more dangerous now that they don't have to fit into human society). He'd go from rage (Stan was a shapeshifter this whole time!) to embarrassment (Stan told me he was a shapeshifter and i thought he was joking) to an even stronger need to have him (Stan's a shapeshifter and thought i was super important because i am. I'm important to him, just like he's important to me, and we should always be together. The fact that he has this power means i dont have to worry about him as much). In a way he's almost more possessive of this Stan then normal Dark Ford, because he knows exactly how Stan viewed him (I'm his most important person, and he's mine. mine. MINE!)

It.. wouldnt end great. Stan's thrilled to see Ford healthy and alive, eager to come with him and expressing how sorry he is. But the moment he admits he can't mimic Ford as an adult Ford gets.. weird. Stan's his brother. They should look alike. Why can't Stan just be him and fix it? He's a shapeshifter isnt he, just shift! Doesnt understand Stan's reasoning that while he can look like adult Stan Pines, he doesnt feel like adult Stan Pines. It feels fake, forced, like he's acting and not really himself. Since Ford trusts Stan to take care of himself more than human Stan, he 100% uses emotional manipulation to keep Stan with him to try and 'fix' him, but also gets weird mad scientist and pushes Stan to shift more and more. They're brothers. Twin brothers. They should look the part, and Ford wont leave Stan behind ever again, and doesnt Stan want to stay and 'fix' what they were? Maybe all Stan has to do is never leave Ford's side ever again and eventually he'll feel like himself :)

So Stan's getting hit with a lot of red flags on Ford's possessive behavior, but he was also conditioned to think of Ford as someone important and to stick with him to learn. Logically he knows Ford's just a important person and not 'the most important person on the planet', but throughout their childhood they only had each other, and he leaned on Ford harder than most shifters would. So even though Ford's behavior screams 'get far, far away' he can't help but stick around and try to be the adult Stan Pines that Ford wants. Just telling himself over and over to stick with it until it feels real, and ignore the parts that tell him he's falling into a trap. that a bad guys got him, and is going to take him away. Becoming more of Ford's personal shifter, and not his brother.

Shifty would not be helping in this situation, as here he'd be an awful combination of Ford's son and pet. Ford loves Shifty very much, so wont he do everything Ford asks? Just like Uncle Stanley does :)

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Marked (MOC Dean x female reader)

Chapter 6 - Reverse

Mark of Dean series master list

18+. 10.7k words. Broken hearts. Depression. Guilt. Dubious consent. Lots of hurt.

“Fished you all, suckers!” Charlie exclaims, raising her hands over her head, doing a little dance despite the fact she’s sitting down. Sam smiles at her excitement while Castiel shakes his head in utter confusion.

“I don’t see what a card game has to do with any sea creatures,” he says. “Apart from the fact that you could not play this underwater. The cards would get wet. That seems highly impractical.”

Charlie throws Cas an unbelieving look while Sam scoffs, stands, collecting the empty beer bottles.

“Anyone up for another round?” he asks. Charlie does finger guns at him and even Cas nods, despite the fact that he doesn’t really get drunk. Sam turns to you when you don’t answer.

“You want another one?” he asks.

You blink, pushing your thoughts aside, then look at your bottle. You’ve barely touched it.

“I’m good,” you say, forcing a quick smile onto your face. Sam nods, then moves to the fridge.

You take a slow sip, the warm beer feeling strange in your mouth. You keep your eyes on the table because you can feel Charlie’s and Cas’ gaze on you.

“We could play something else,” Charlie suggests, voice over-the-top cheery and you look up at her. “I think I saw a pack of UNO flying around somewhere last time I was here.” You shake your head.

“It’s fine, really,” you answer but Charlie’s already standing up.

“I’m gonna see if I can find it,” she says, just as Sam’s coming back.

“Charlie, it’s fine,” he says, a slight urgency in his voice and you know exactly why. “Let’s just play another round.” Charlie widens her arms.

“You’re all just scared that I’m gonna beat your asses at UNO, too,” she says, not getting the hint. “So where is it? Don’t hide it from me, cowards.”

“It’s in Dean’s room,” you reply, looking up at her. Charlie’s arms sink down immediately, and the smile drops off her face.

“Oh,” he says, voice quiet.

“I got it for him as a birthday present last year,” you explain, feeling bad about ripping Charlie out of her attempt to make this evening somewhat enjoyable so harshly. 

You still remember it, Dean opening the small package, an amused look on his face. He watched you while you explained that it had been your favorite game as a kid, and it would give you something to do in motel rooms or on long evenings at the bunker other than drink and watch TV. Dean had one of those strange genuine moments where he hadn’t made a joke, had thanked you and said you’d have to teach him how to play it. If you hadn’t been trying to hide the blush your already intense crush on him was causing you, you might have noted how strange it was that he didn’t know the game.

You’d like to ask him about it now. How it can be that he never played it.

The thought physically hurts your heart. You want nothing more than to hear his voice, see that soft smile when he realizes something means something to you. You would give everything for it. To see it again.

Sam sits down in his chair opposite you again, handing out the beers and distracting you from your memories. You let out a slow breath.

“I’m kind of tired,” you say, not looking at any of your three friends sitting around you. “I think I’m gonna turn in.” You stand, slowly. A month ago, even last week, they would have tried to convince you to stay. Now they don’t. They’re used to you disappearing at some point, locking yourself in your room. 

As you begin walking away from the table, you don’t look back at their faces. You know exactly how they look. Forlorn, worried. Sam looks so sad sometimes that it makes you want to sob. But you don’t. Not in front of them anyway.

Your room is cool as the bunker sometimes is, and you could simply turn the heating on but it feels like too much work. Instead, you walk over to the bedside table where your phone is. Usually you don’t go anywhere without it anymore, but last night, before falling into fitful sleep, you forgot to plug in the charger. You woke up to it having turned off in the night. You panicked. What if he called and you hadn’t been awake?

Of course he didn’t call. Still, even now, there’s that moment before you wake the screen where you wonder if there will be a message. That intense hope, the possibility that everything is about to change, to be better. But there’s no new messages. You sit at the edge of the bed with a deep sigh.

As your nightly ritual dictates, you dial Dean’s number and hold the phone to your ear. It rings - and that alone, that fills you with so much hope and desperation - and you close your eyes, imagine him somewhere, seeing you calling and reaching for the phone, answering, You imagine it so intensely that you almost believe you can bend the world to your will, make him pick up.

But he never does. There’s a click, and then you hear his voice: “This is Dean’s other, other cell. So you must know what to do.” And then another click and silence.

There’s so many things you want to say. I miss you, and I love you. Please come back to me. You want to beg him to let you know he’s okay. Want him to tell you where he is, so you can come and find him.

Why did you leave me?

You don’t think you’ll forget that morning for as long as you live. Waking up, your body so burned up and tired you were hoping for death for a second. And then looking up, Dean standing there. Dean, who you had become one with the night before in a way you didn’t think was possible. And he was holding a knife.

You’d seen the way the Mark was changing him. There was no denying it, no matter how much less and less you cared. Not for a second would you have thought that its wrath would ever be turned on you. But right then, you were sure that it had.

And all you wanted was for him to know that you understood it wasn’t his fault. That you knew that he was simply losing the battle against it. Hope that maybe one day he could forgive himself.

And then he left. Left you lying there, stumbled out of the room and drove away. You sat there for a long time, unmoving, deadly quiet. Waiting for him to come back. Only he didn’t.

Eventually, you got up. Got dressed. You couldn’t find your phone, and then you realized that it was probably in the Impala, probably having dropped from your pocket when Dean laid you down on the backseat after choking you out. To protect you. He did that to protect you.

So you walked outside, and then kept walking. No goal, no idea where you were. You were lost to your thoughts, lost in your head, kept thinking over and over. How could Dean leave you? How could he?

And then, that sudden pain. A sharp stab behind your eye, like you’d eaten ice cream too fast. It lingered for a few seconds, and then it was gone.

Eventually, someone stopped their car for you. An older lady, asking you if you needed help. You lied, said your car had broken down and your phone was dead. She allowed you to use hers. 

You tried Dean’s number first. Of course you did. No answer, and that terrified you more than anything. The only other number you knew by heart was Sam’s.

You waited in a diner, hour after hour after hour. No money on you, so all you could get was tap water. Eventually, a woman working there took pity on you, bought you some fries. You wolfed them down as if you hadn’t eaten in weeks. 

Sam picked you up, half a day and a million weird stares by strangers later. You looked like you’d been beaten, abused, but the one person who asked, the woman who bought your food, you told you had been in a car accident, which, technically, you had been. Her gaze dropped to your throat, to the necklace of red bruising fingerprints, the one Eldon had given you.

“Mmh hmm,” she said, as if she knew something about you you didn’t. Eyed Sam something fierce when he finally showed up. It almost made you laugh. How ridiculous, the idea that Sam could be the cause of your injuries. How absolutely ridiculous.

Sam filled you in, on the drive back. About how Cas had shown up, had healed Charlie while Sam had figured out the spell that could undo the Mark.

“Why didn’t you wait?” you asked, looking over at him. Sam had pressed his lips together, didn’t answer. But you knew why. Because he had been scared Dean would stop him.

Neither of you heard anything from him for three days. Kept calling, texting. The only sign of life you got from him was one message. It arrived when Sam and you were calling contacts late in the evening, going through traffic surveillance. Sam is the one who got the message, not you, and even that fact hurts so much you can’t think about it. Only four words.

Don’t look for me.

Of course you and Sam didn’t stop. Neither of you had that in you. But as the days turned into weeks, the two of you realized one thing: Dean doesn’t want to be found.

You notice that you’ve been staring at the wall opposite you, the phone still raised to your head. 

“Dean…” you say, not sure what else to add. What are the magic words that will finally convince him to come back to you? There’s a beep, telling you the time to record has ended.

There’s a knock on the door and you hang up the phone, put it down.

“Yeah?” you say and then the door opens, slowly, and Castiel steps in.

He gives you a careful smile, then walks towards you, finally sitting next to you on the bed. Both of you are quiet for a minute.

“I’m not very good at card games,” he finally says and you turn your head towards him. “So I thought I’d check on you.”

“I’m okay,” you say, and it’s almost not a lie because it is so obvious that you’re not. Still, Castiel nods. You’re both going along with it.

“He just needs time,” he says, turning to you slightly but you avoid his gaze. “A human carrying the Mark, it… it must have been very difficult. Losing it again even more so.” You nod, but it’s just in the hope that Cas won’t stop hammering home the point. Dean is in pain. Dean is unwell. And he’d rather go through it alone than with you by his side.

“Yeah,” you say, just a sound to make. But Cas isn’t done.

“And the effect it likely had on you, too,” he says and you pull your shoulders up, really not wanting to have this conversation with him. You’re not even sure if he knows about the birds and the bees. “You have to be patient with yourself, your system might not be totally flushed–”

“Cas,” you say, voice small, but he doesn’t seem to hear you.

“It will take a while for things to go back to normal,” he continues, and you almost laugh at that word. Normal. It’s an alien concept at this point. 

“Sure,” you say and Cas stops, looks at you again, and this time you look back, see he’s pressing his lips together. He was trying to convince himself more than you, and he just realized. You raise your hand, lay it over his, squeeze briefly.

“It’s okay,” you say, now comforting him. “You’re right, it’s all gonna work out.”

Castiel studies you for a second. He must miss Dean too, you realize. The two argued more often than they didn’t over the last months, things often nearly coming to a head between them. But he loves Dean, just like Charlie, just like Sam, just like you.

And still he’s not here.

“You wanted to rest,” Cas says, bringing you out of your thoughts. You can’t even be mad at him for wanting to excuse himself. You’re not great company right now. 

He stands, nods at you again, then turns to leave. When he reaches the door, he throws you another look and you give him a reassuring nod. With that, he leaves.

With a sigh, you lie down on the bed. Stare at the phone on your nightstand. Your eyes close and you dream.

You dream that he comes to you in the night.

It’s dark and he’s merely a silhouette, but you would recognize Dean anywhere. The breadth of his shoulders, the noises he makes even when he’s perfectly quiet, the feel of his skin on yours. 

He walks in, and you’re not sure if he opened the door or if there never was one. Either way, it’s his room now. You only live here.

He gets on the bed and you reach out towards him, but he’s so far away. Your fingertips brush over him, but you can’t grasp him. Not until he wants you to.

He climbs over you and you could cry from happiness. You can’t see his face - it stays in shadow, no matter how close you drag him towards you. But it doesn’t matter. You know his features so well.

The knife enters you at the same time as Dean does. Wetness gushes, warm and thick, but in his arms none of it matters. He thrusts and so does the knife, and you would take being stabbed a million times if it means having him close.

“I forgive you,” he says and you nod. 

“I don’t,” you say. “We have to get up.”

But Dean shakes his head. You don’t fight him. You never do.

There’s a loud knock and you roll over with a groan. The door flies open and for a moment you’re sure something bad has happened. 

“Found us a case,” Sam says, hands on narrow hips, open face looking down at you.

“Sam,” you mumble, “what the fuck. Let me sleep.” You hear him chuckle.

“You’ve slept for half a day,” he says. “Come on. Get up. We’re getting out of here.”

You make sure Sam knows how annoyed you are when he passes you the thermos filled with coffee. He’s driving so he keeps looking at the street, but you don’t take the thermos from him, stare him down until he’s forced to look at you. He does, expression curious and chuckles when he looks out the front again.

“What crept up your ass and made you so damn jovial?” you ask, finally taking the coffee from him. Sam shakes his head, still smiling.

“I just woke up and I was tired of feeling sorry for myself,” he says, then throws you a challenging look. “You should try that sometime.” Your mouth drops open. Who is this person? You can’t think of a good retort, so you pour yourself some of the coffee, blow on it, sip it.

“What’s the case?” you ask after a few minutes of quiet. Sam reaches forward, grabs some papers off the dash, passes them to you.

“We’ve got three more hours to drive,” he says, throwing you another look. “Study up.” 

You make a face which he just barely misses.

The waistline of your tights is digging into your stomach, the suit jacket is too warm and your hair is up in a way that is annoying you to no end, but worst of all of these things is needing to admit that Sam was right.

The case is distracting you.

You are talking to the roommates of the college student, Frankie, who died under mysterious circumstances - disemboweled in his room, which was locked from the inside. You’re asking them questions, watching for their responses, weird formulations, testing carefully if there might be something unusual about what happened. Damn it. You forgot you actually used to enjoy this. The study of it. Same as the research.

Sam and you walk outside when you’re done, and you look up at him just as he loosens the top button of his shirt.

“So that Brad guy…” you start, and Sam is already nodding.

“Yeah, he definitely has something to do with it,” he confirms. 

“Think it had anything to do with those magic mushrooms he gave Frankie,” you continue, just as the two of you reach the car parked outside and you turn back to Sam with a dramatic raising of your eyebrows. “The ones he claims he found? Who eats mushrooms they found? ”

Sam chuckles, agreeing, and then you turn to the side where Dean would usually be to continue the joke and he’s not there.

It’s like a punch to the chest. It’s like someone sucking all air out of the room, even though you’re standing outside. It’s like realizing you lost a limb, and it will never be reattached.

You look down quickly, hoping Sam didn’t notice. You open the door on the passenger side and when you look at him you’re pretty sure he hasn't. 

“Hold on,” Sam says and you freeze. He looks down the street, squinting against the sun. 

“Let's go for a walk,” he says. “There's a park down there I saw earlier. We've been cooped up all day.”

You don't want to go to a park. You want to crawl back into bed and marinate in your heartbreak. But you're pretty sure Sam's gonna be insufferable if you suggest that, so you decide to spare yourself the battle.

“Sure,” you say, and close the door again.

Sam and you don't speak as you walk down the street. The park is kind of small and shitty, but there are children running around, screaming and playing, there's people strolling and you can't deny that it has a sort of soothing effect on you.

“So,” Sam says, and you stop in your tracks, turn around to face him, “when are we gonna talk about all this? About Dean?”

You wrap your arms around yourself, immediately defensive, but it seems like today you can't get one over on Sam.

“I know you don't want to,” he says before you have a chance to reply, “but you have to. You can't keep carrying this on your own. And I know that if the roles were reversed, you wouldn't let me shut myself away either.” You look down.

“Sam,” you say, and this time he waits, lets you speak. You sigh. “I wouldn't even know where to begin.”

You look up at Sam again. He's looking over your head, frowning, thinking, and then his eyes land on something and a smile starts spreading on his face.

“I know just the thing,” he says. 

Sam towers over the other people standing in line at the ice cream cart. He looks out of place there, in his suit, everyone else dressed for the warming weather. When the two of you reach the front, he orders.

“Two soft serves,” he says, then turns slightly to you, eyes narrowing in thought. “One with caramel sauce and one with chocolate sprinkles.”

You shake your head a little, can’t help the distant smile sneaking onto your lips as you watch Sam pay, then take the two cones. He turns, looks over your head again, then nods. 

“Let’s go sit down,” he says.

There's a bench, a little bit off to the side and once you're sitting, Sam passes you the soft serve with the sprinkles. You take it, take a small bite. It's soft and sweet. You bite down on a sprinkle.

When you look back at Sam, he's shoveling some of the ice cream into his mouth with a tiny wooden spoon. Of course he does. He's serious even about eating soft serve.

“Do you wanna start?” he asks, only looking at you once he's finished the question. You lay your free hand in your lap, watch him.

“Is that what we do?” you ask, trying to make your voice sound sarcastic but not mean. “We go around the circle and share?”

Sam takes another spoonful, only giving a small smile in response. Not indulging your destructive words. It makes you feel a little bad about them immediately.

“I can start too,” he says, sensibly scoops up some caramel sauce that is threatening to drip off the side of his cone, before he turns to you.

“I'm… angry,” he says, nodding along a little, lips pressed together when he briefly pauses. “And I’m ashamed of myself for being angry.” You look at his face, and you see it there, the shame he's talking about.

“I know that Dean did what he thought he had to,” Sam continues. “That he got the Mark because he really thought there was no other way to kill Abaddon. But it's also… it's what he does, you know?”

He grimaces, shrugs, spoons up some more ice cream.

“Dean barrels ahead, and it's all for good reason,” he says, briefly chewing on the inside of his lip. “And it almost always leaves a bigger mess than we had originally.”

You look down at where you’re holding the ice cream and a drop of the bright red strawberry sauce is just running down on your finger. You should move your hand, wipe it away, but you simply lack the energy in that moment.

“I don’t understand why he would leave,” you say, still looking at the drop of ice cream, because it is easier than looking at Sam. “I don’t understand why he would stay away. I thought…” You take a deep breath, let it out slowly.

I thought he loved me, lingers on your tongue, but you can’t say it. Saying it out loud, in the daylight, in front of Sam, seems wrong. Dean and your love is a thing for the dark, something you whisper to each other in secret.

“I think he’s just terrified by what he did,” Sam says and you blink, look at him. He’s studying you carefully. “I think that’s why he’s staying away.”

“But we did it together,” you say. Sam presses his lips together, and he might not want to hear it, but it’s the truth.

“I know, but–” he starts, eyes going to the ground, but you interrupt him.

“I killed that Eldon guy, Sam,” you say and his eyes snap back to you. “I did that.”

“You know,” Sam says, quickly, “there’s no telling if maybe being that… exposed to the Mark couldn’t have had some kind of effect on you too. I mean, we don’t know how this stuff really works.” 

You try hard not to scoff. Sam’s just trying to be kind, trying to make room for the possibility that you weren’t acting under full capacity. And maybe you weren’t. Maybe the Mark did have an effect on you - all the times you felt feverish when Dean wasn’t around, the sudden outbursts of rage, bashing Eldon’s skull in. He deserved it, deserved every second of it but that doesn’t mean you didn’t enjoy it. Something you’d never thought possible before. 

“Then I’m the only one who understands him,” you say, voice small. “Why wouldn’t he want to be with me?”

It’s more vulnerability that you’ve allowed yourself in front of Sam so far. Because this is what it all boils down to in the end, what you’ve really been asking yourself - why has Dean left you? Not Sam, not Cas, not Charlie. You.

The small cone of ice scream looks even more tiny in Sam’s hand, and you stare at it. There’s voices carrying over from the park nearby and a soft breeze is blowing. It feels unreal, all of it. The sun hurts your eyes.

“I don’t know what to do,” you say, then need to swallow.

“I know,” Sam replies, and it’s too much work even to look at him. “I know.”

You look down when you hear a dripping sound - something red has dripped onto your shoe. For a second you stare at it. Wonder if you’re so soaked in blood now that it will just always be there, before you realize it’s strawberry sauce.

Sam and you make it back to the motel. There’s less of the unsaid in the air between you two and it feels good, even though you didn’t really come to a conclusion on anything.

On the drive back, you turn to him, unsure whether you will regret what you were about to say.

“You know,” you say, and Sam throws you a look, showing you he’s listening, “Dean said that you… that you wanted me. When he still had the Mark.”

Sam looks out the front, then shifts where he sits.

“Listen,” he says, voice apologetic, “no offense, but… I don’t.” You chuckle, and Sam gives you a surprised look.

“I’m actually really glad to hear that,” you say and he grins, nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re more like a really annoying little sister.”

“ Annoying? ” you ask and it’s his turn to chuckle. Both of you are quiet for a while, but you have to say what’s on your mind.

“I wonder why he said that,” you say. Sam is quiet, then clears his throat. 

“You think maybe he was trying to isolate you?” he asks, not looking at you.

His words feel like quicksilver in your veins. Dean would never try to isolate you, you know that. But the Mark? Maybe that’s a different story.

Back at the motel, both of you dive into research. Your brain feels strangely rejuvenated from the time outside but in the end, you're still no closer to figuring out who disemboweled Frankie, the victim.

“Time we pay Brad another visit,” Sam says.

It’s getting dark by the time the two of you make it back. You’re walking up to the front door when Sam raises his hand, makes you stop. The door is open, the wood splintered where someone kicked it in.

Both of you draw your guns, proceed quietly and slowly. Sam pushes open the door and you follow him. You make it a few steps into the quiet, dark hallway when you hear sounds in the other room.

Carefully, you advance. Someone is there, definitely, and Sam waves at you to go the other way around, cut off their possible escape route. You stay close to the wall, in the shadows, and when you reach the corner that leads to the kitchen, you take a slow breath, then round it, pointing your gun.

Whatever you mean to say, freeze or hands in the air or something else, doesn’t make its way up your throat. Instead, it remains in your chest, your lips parted without any sound coming out of it as you see what’s there at the end of your barrel.

Dean is just reaching for his gun too, but same as you, he completely freezes. He’s frowning, looking concentrated, and in the next second, when he realizes it’s you, his features go slack, his eyes widen. Sam rounds the corner only a few seconds later, and he too stops moving.

Dean is looking at you, something soft and lost in his face. He looks… frightened, you realize. You barely have time to take him in when he looks away, turns as he hears Sam behind him.

Sam is equally dumbfounded. He lowers his gun and for a moment, despite how broad and tall he is, he looks like a little boy when his eyes land on Dean.

Sam says his brother’s name and one corner of Dean’s mouth twitches.

“Small world,” he says, voice raspy. His voice. It feels like you’re hearing it for the first time in years. Sam is slowly shaking his head as he holsters his gun.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, unbelieving, as he steps closer to Dean. Dean puts his gun away too, turns a little to Sam.

“Guessing the same thing you two are doing,” he says, carefully throwing you another look, then quickly looking away. “On the hunt for a Rakshasa.”

“Rakshasa?” you say, and this time Dean’s glance doesn’t make it to your face. He looks in your direction and then it’s like he stops himself from going further.

“Yeah,” he says. “Turns out Brad must have invited it in for some reason, and it's been making itself at home here. Only the it got hungry, and Frankie was unlucky enough to be the only one home.” Sam blinks a few times, like it's all becoming so clear to him suddenly.

“They can make themselves invisible,” he points out and Dean nods. "That's why it looked like Frankie was alone in his locked room when he was killed." You try to tune into the conversation, but you can only listen, watch Dean. Watch him move, the way he does now, movement you know so well, have watched for years. 

“Any idea where it is now?” Sam asks, and you don't understand how he can be acting so casual at seeing Dean again. 

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, steps to the side, then points at something behind the kitchen counter. You see a hand there, splayed on the floor, and a few drops of blood.

You step forward before you think about it. Three long strides take you to the other side of the kitchen counter. 

Brad is lying there. The Rakshasa is rolled up next to him, bleeding, eyes ripped open, and Brad's not faring much better, blood and other things coming out of his mouth, his nostrils, bulging under his shirt. He’s dead, disemboweled, just like his roommate.

You feel sickness crawl up your throat quicker than it ever has before. You rush from the room, find the guest bathroom you remember from coming in and a second later, you’re bent over the toilet, puking your guts up.

It’s Dean. He’s in the next room. You almost can’t believe it, almost sure that if you walk out there, he’ll be gone, some kind of hallucination. But when you’re done gagging, you can clearly hear two voices in the next room - Sam and Dean. 

You wipe the back of your hand over your mouth, reach up and flush the toilet. There’s a soft knock on the door frame of the bathroom, since you neglected to close the door in your rush.

To say you’re disappointed that it’s Sam is an understatement. You feel a little shaky so you run your hand over your mouth again.

“Are you okay?” he asks, tone gentle and you nod immediately. 

“Yeah, just,” you say, “been a hot minute since I've seen someone's guts on the outside.” A lie. You saw lots of guts on the outside in the Styne mansion. Did some gutting yourself. Sam nods.

“Just stay here, okay?” he says. “We’ll take care of it.”

He’s gone again before you can answer. Usually, you would want to be out there, see how they do their job, learn. Be near Dean, because he might teach you something, might lean in to explain something to you. But now you smell like sick. Now you have no idea if Dean will even look at you, never mind teach you something. 

You sit down on the floor, lean your back against the tiles of the wall. There’s some dust on the floor across from you, and you stare at it while you listen to Sam and Dean move in the next room, exchanging the occasional sentence. 

You know what Sam is doing. He’s trying to act normal, trying to act like it’s not a huge deal to have Dean near again so as not to scare him away, but you saw the look on his face. The pure fucking pain and hurt and longing. He’s just good at hiding it. Unlike you. 

It’s a while before you dare to move again. You stand, your legs luckily not feeling too shaky, and then you walk over to the sink, open the cabinet over it. There’s some mouthwash and you gargle some of it along with some water. Then you step back into the hallway.

It seems your timing is perfect, because just then, both men step out of the kitchen. They’re throwing looks over their shoulder at whatever they have done, the crime scene they have fixed. Your eyes land on Dean immediately.

The three of you step outside. The air of early evening is cool and refreshing, and you take deep breaths of it through your nose.

No one speaks, for a minute. Sam looks around, pretending he’s thinking.

“Hey,” he says, addressing both you and Dean, “we haven’t had dinner, we should grab some. Dean?”

It breaks your heart to see Sam putting on his act. He was so gung ho about taking things into his own hands, and you in yours, about not letting life make decisions for you, but he’s just as thrown by his brother being here as you are. You carefully look at Dean, check his reaction.

“That’s alright, Sammy,” he answers. You see the forced lightness on Sam’s face cracking.

“You gotta eat,” he says and Dean smiles sadly, looks at the ground. He raises his hand, scratches at his stubbled jaw. 

“I think I should get back to it,” he says, to no one really, and then to your absolute horror, he starts walking across the front lawn. You don’t mean to stop him.

“Dean!” you call out, when he’s just about to start down the street - he must have parked away from the house, not in front of it, like you and Sam did. He stops, his hand on the gate and slowly turns back as you walk towards him. You stop a few feet away from him, wary of crossing that final distance.

“Are you okay?” you ask. Dean’s chewing on his tongue, but then he looks up, right at your face. You look at his in turn, this face you’ve seen make a million different expressions. You’re not sure what you see there, but you know that he’s not coming back.

He lets go of the gate and starts walking down the street without answering. You watch as he becomes smaller and smaller in the distance. You don’t feel your fingers.

Dean makes it back to his motel room at the other end of town. He opens the door, manages to put his gun on the table without submitting to the urge to shoot himself in the head, and then he sits at the edge of the bed, shaking hands pressed against his knees.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He let his guard down. How the fuck did he not know you and Sam were working the same goddamn case as him?

He leans forward, puts his face in his hands. Think, he wants to scream at himself. He should just leave. Grab as many of his things as he can pack in a minute and get on the road again. Everything he owns right now is stuff he’s bought in the last weeks. It would be easy to throw it all into the car and just disappear.

This is how he’s been doing it, the way he’s always been doing it. Pack up, leave, go wherever the next case takes him. That blip of calling the bunker his home - it’s over now, and he’s just gonna have to live with that. It’s fine. He can deal with that.

What he can’t deal with is seeing Sammy. His little brother was nearly buzzing from how hard he was trying to keep it together. Nothing new to Dean, to be the disappointment of his family, to be good for nothing but getting people worried. Sam’s probably used to it too, but that doesn’t make it better.

But you? You’re the last person he wanted to see. Well, you’re also the person he wanted to see the most. If you would have looked happy or indifferent or even angry - he’s played through each of those scenarios in his head a million times. He didn’t expect you to look so broken though.

Not that he doesn’t know what he’s done. Not that he doesn’t know that he’s probably ruined your life. He just preferred thinking you maybe hated him for it. Instead you asked him if he was okay. If he was okay 

He nearly died on that stretch of road when the Mark was ripped from him. And then he didn’t and he wished he had. When the layers and layers of protection the Mark had provided him were suddenly gone, when he looked back at the previous weeks, at the pain and the blood and at you - that’s when he wanted to die.

But Dean doesn’t have that in him. He doesn’t have the ability to give up, even though he fucking wished to the heavens then that he did. So instead, he picked himself up. Got all the essentials. And went to work.

And yet somehow he still ran into you. Maybe he can’t escape that - whatever reckoning is coming. Maybe this is the punishment he’s been running from all along. Maybe you deserve your shot. 

So Dean picks up his phone and begins typing.

Sam and you don’t talk when you make it back to the motel, nor when you go to buy some food, both only picking at it. You exchange the necessities, and then you sit in front of the TV and you don’t talk again.

All the show of optimism has gone out of Sam. He looks utterly defeated. You’re probably not faring much better. 

You say good night to each other and you turn your back to the bed Sam is in. You see the screen of your phone light up, but you’d have to extend your arm to look at it, pick it up, and that seems like too much work. So you don’t.

The next morning, Sam offers to get coffee. You’re pretty sure he just wants to be alone for a bit, so you thank him and accept. You’re brushing your teeth when you check your messages.

There’s one from Dean.

We need to talk, it says. Can you come meet me?

Then the address of his motel. You stand there, toothbrush no longer moving, just staring at the words.

You walk out of the motel room five minutes later. Sam has the car, but you don’t mind stretching your legs. As you’re walking down the street, you smooth down the dress you put on. Suddenly, you feel foolish. You wanted to look pretty. Pretty for Dean. You only brought the dress since it’s part of your standard, dress-up wardrobe. Witnesses are more likely to trust you the softer and more feminine you seem. And now you’re wearing it for Dean. Maybe hoping for the same effect.

The motel Dean is in is run down. You look for the room number he gave you, flex your hands. Then you knock.

There’s movement on the other side of the door and then it opens and you’re looking at Dean. He seems surprised to see you - maybe he didn’t expect you to actually show up.

“Hey,” he says, voice clipped. “Come in.” He opens the door wider and you enter his room.

It’s bare bones. There’s never much spreading out with how briefly you usually stay anywhere during a case, but it looks like Dean hasn’t even done that. The room seems completely untouched. Maybe that means he hasn’t brought anyone here. You blink at your own thoughts.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” Dean says, sounding so formal, so wrong , that it makes you uncomfortable.

“You asked me to, so…” you answer, avoid looking at him.

Dean sits at the edge of the bed, leans his elbows on his knees, and interlocks his hands. There’s an old brown armchair across from where he’s sitting, so you sit down in that. Its seat is worn from use and you sink into it, deeper than you expect. It doesn’t make you feel particularly tough or big or strong.

“I thought we should talk,” Dean says, and you hate how he avoids looking at you. Like there’s something shameful in the air between you. You shift in your seat.

“Okay,” you reply, hoping that if your voice is shaky he won’t hear it on those two syllables.

Dean rubs his fingers over his mouth, thinking.

“What we did,” he says, still not looking at you when he corrects himself: “What I did… I’m so sorry.” He looks up, at you finally, and he really is sorry, you can see it. You run your palm over the back of the other hand, the sound of skin on skin loud in the room. 

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” you say, your voice quieter than you mean for it to be. It’s not fully the truth - there are a million things. Leaving you, not answering your calls, ignoring your messages. But you’re so willing to forgive all that, if only it means that you get him back.

“What I did to you, that wasn’t right,” Dean continues, and it’s fine, it’s okay, if he’s sorry about the last weeks then you can forgive him and move on. But then he adds: “Being with you, that was… I shouldn’t have done that.”

You feel as though someone has pulled a lever and made the floor drop away from under you. You’re hoping, praying that this must be some kind of misunderstanding.

“What do you mean?” you ask, a shuddering breath leaving you.

“What happened between us,” Dean continues, and then he finally looks at you, “our relationship . It’s, I… I took advantage of you.”

There is a fuzziness at the sides of your vision. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears.

“I don’t think—” you start, but then stop, need to swallow. “That’s not what happened.” You blink, and then Dean is really looking at you, searching out your gaze.

“Yes, it is,” he says, voice clear, and you don’t understand why he is doing this, why he is saying these things.

“No,” you simply say, and Dean exhales slowly.

“The fact that you think that,” he says slowly, “that I’ve convinced you that this is okay… it’s not. It’s wrong.” You make an involuntary sound in your throat.

“I’m almost twice your age,” Dean says, as if that means anything , as if that somehow undoes everything you’ve done together, everything he’s done for you, everything you’ve done for him. As if it somehow strikes the lies you’ve told for each other from history, the moments of ecstasy. Like they suddenly don’t mean anything anymore.

“So?” you ask, finding Dean’s gaze, and you see him clench his jaw. “I don’t care. That doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” Dean replies, voice calm. You feel your lips shaking, feel like such a stupid girl, such a child .

“So what?” you ask, voice snotty with the tears building in your eyes, but you sound petulant nonetheless. “This was all just the Mark? None of it was you?” And Dean doesn’t shake his head, doesn’t leap in to say that no, actually, it was him.

“It wasn’t,” he says, “not really.”

You’re on your feet before you know it. Your entire body is shaking and there’s a pain in your chest, in your heart, that you’re sure is gonna kill you. Tears are blurring your vision, but you don’t care.

“I didn’t do this to you!” you say, voice shrill and Dean frowns at you. “I didn’t—I didn’t take advantage of you, or, or, I didn’t do anyth—” A deep sob interrupts you and your hand flies up to your face, the back of it pressing against your nose, but the tears are coming hard. You feel like you’re sliding into hysterics. Dean slowly stands, careful, as if you’re some kind of wild animal he needs to be careful in approaching.

“I didn’t say that,” he says, actually extending a hand towards you to calm you. “That is not what I—of course you didn’t take advantage of me. It’s the other way around.”

“B—but you said it was all the Mark,” you reply, voice blubbering, and part of you thinks you should be ashamed of that, but you can’t be. The sadness and hysteria in your chest feels almost ecstatic and you can’t stop it. You can’t have Dean leave you, not want you anymore. Especially not by being this nice, this soft.

“Y—you weren’t yourself, and I, I abused that,” you continue, momentarily regaining some control over your shaking and crying. “I kept coming back, and you couldn’t say no, because of the Mark.”

Dean’s hand drops, as if in slow motion, and he blinks, his eyes remaining closed for a second. He seems tired. Exhausted. His lets his shoulders hang.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, voice gentle. “Yes, the Mark… controlled me in a way, but I still should have done differently.”

“And now you’re back in control,” you say, and you feel something build in you, something that hurts more than anything else has ever hurt before. “And you don’t want me anymore.”

Dean’s eyes widen. His mouth moves, but no words come out. It hurts almost more than him saying yes. That you gave yourself to him, did all those things with him, but he can’t even be bothered to love you. That you will never get him back, no version of Dean. But then he takes a step closer to you.

“Of course I want you,” he says, green eyes focused on you. “Of course I do, but it’s not right. I shouldn’t.”

“I don’t care,” you say, stepping closer to him, and you want him to understand that what you have is special, is different, it’s not what it looks like from the outside, what someone would interpret it as. You’re not some poor, groomed thing, you love him and he loves you and he has made you feel things you’ve never felt before. And not just the sex, that too, but even that, it has to mean something , right? Two bodies can’t possibly connect that well without it meaning something. The way he protected you, the way you became a team, became one, the way Dean was willing to kill for you, to do anything to protect you. No one’s ever loved you like that. How can you go back to not being loved this way? It’s impossible.

You say all that, or some of it, mumble other parts. You’re not sure if you’re making yourself understood, but Dean steps closer again. His hands land on your shoulders and you want to throw yourself at him, into his arms, just have him hold you, tell you everything’s gonna be alright in that gruff voice of his. But he looks at you, so impossibly soft, the way he can only look at you if he’s willing to let you down now.

“I can’t—“ you choke out, trying to move away, but you misjudge how hard Dean is holding on to you. You stumble a little, and he grabs you, holds you, and he’s so close, brow knotted, lips parted, and you press yourself up, lips meeting his, but barely.

Dean immediately returns the kiss, his hands shooting up to hold your face, pull you closer against him. Stars explode in your head at the absolute bliss of touching him again, of holding him.

But then Dean pulls back, and the cold rushes in again. He’s shaking his head before his lips have even stopped touching you. You notice he’s breathing heavier, and so are you. How attuned you are to each other. It can’t just mean nothing.

“No,” Dean says, swallows hard, “we can’t.” But you don’t let him continue, kiss him again, wrap your arms around him in the hope he can’t escape you. That he won’t want to.

“Dean,” you moan against his lips, still watching his face. “Please, please, I need to feel you.” Dean’s eyebrows pull together, and he looks like he’s in pain, in beautiful, blissful pain.

You let one of your hands drop, bring it to his crotch. You press against him through the jeans fabric, needy, desperate. Dean’s breath hitches and his hands wander down to your hips, fists bunching up the fabric of your dress but he doesn’t move it up, seems to just need to hold on to you.

“Stop it,” he says, but you can’t, you won’t. Instead you press your lips against Dean’s jaw, feel it tense under your touch. In response, you open your mouth, bite him there. Dean flinches, breath coming faster. Your hold your teeth clamped over the bone for a few seconds. Then you let go.

“Please,” you say, before you wrap your lips over the spot you just bit, suckle on it. Dean groans and you know he’s yours now, he has to be, he can’t leave you like this.

But then suddenly he’s pushing you back, surprisingly rough. You stumble a little and stare at him, eyes ripped open. Dean’s chest is heaving, and his face is set.

“I said no ,” he says, voice clear and loud. You feel anger and hate flare in you. It’s clear. It’s beautiful.

“You don’t get to decide this,” you say, your voice so raw it hurts your throat. You step closer to Dean and shove him, hard. He must not expect the move, because he needs to take a step back to balance himself. You push again, this time to no avail. He’s unmovable. You can’t get him to love you, and you can’t even get him to fall over. You feel so weak.

“ Fuck you!” you almost scream at him, and then you raise your fists, pummel them against Dean’s chest. “How could you do that to someone!? How could you do that to me!?” Your fists come down again but then Dean grabs your wrists, secures them in place. His face is torn between horror and grief. Disgust at his creation.

His hold on your wrists tightens, the pain making you snap out of your deliriousness and at the same time fanning the flames of your anger. Of your need. You try to rip them free, but Dean holds them fast, but you are thrashing at him in a way that disregards your own safety. Dean can hold on to you, but he can’t control you pulling your arms back and forth. You’re gonna dislocate your shoulder, he suddenly thinks, terror shooting through him. And when you do, he’ll still be holding your wrist.

So he pulls you in, brings you close to his body, turns the two of you. He needs to stop you, somehow, stop you from moving, stop you from hurting yourself. But not from hurting him , he thinks, because he deserves every fucking punch you throw at him.

He’s not sure if he pushes you down onto the bed or if you drag him or if it’s something in-between. What he knows is that suddenly, he’s falling, and he can’t stop the way his body smashes on top of yours, because he doesn’t let go of your wrists. Then you’re there under him, still thrashing, still fighting him, pushing against him, because you want to be close or because you want to get away, he’s not sure.

Dean will never forget the shame he feels in that moment, the second he notices his body responding to you under him like that. The way your neck is stretched and the way your hips are trying to buck up, only stopped by his pinning yours, sends his mind back to the night he spent buried deep inside of you, just like this. The way he became part of you in a way that made him sure the same blood ran through your veins.

But then you scream, something unintelligible, and Dean is back in the moment, back there, on that bed, where he’s pinning you down while you’re fighting him, and he’s sure for a second he’s going to be sick. He lets go immediately, begins rolling off you to the side, but to his surprise, you push against his shoulders, roll with him.

Dean brings his hands up, not sure what he’s going to do, but his own momentum allows you to roll with him, get on top of him. He’s still terrified of touching you, of grabbing you again, hurting you, so he has his hands slightly raised in front of his chest, not sure what to do with them. He doesn’t expect what happens next.

You push yourself up on your knees, one arm holding you off the mattress, the other shooting down between your legs. Dean hears the metal of his belt and it’s like the sound is coming from far away, before he understands what’s happening. His hands shoot to your legs, pushing up to touch the sweet, soft skin of your thighs and he feels all his blood leave the rest of his body. He squeezes the skin there, hard, while the tug deep in his stomach becomes as violent as a storm. He pushes your dress up far enough to see your underwear. 

He knows the pair, knows how they smell when he’s been teasing you for a while. Knows the feeling of them against the pads of his fingers. He stares at them and he can’t look away.

You are opening his jeans now, and Dean reaches one trembling hand forward, between your legs, pushes your panties to the side by hooking his index finger into the seat. You’re wet, and he could sob from that feeling, the dampness between your lips, all for him, only for him. He’s ruined you, but he’s ruined himself in the process.

Your fingers wrap around his cock, take him out, as you begin stroking him. Frantic, too fast, and it hurts but Dean moans at the pain. Let him feel it for a thousand years and still he wouldn’t have paid for what he did.

He’s hard already, but you tug at him again, one, two, three times, and then you push yourself higher, line him up. You’re not looking at him, instead you’re looking down, concentrated, and Dean wants to change that, wants to look at you, to make sure you are aware of what you’re doing, but then his tip touches you and it’s like all his senses suddenly are captured by this.

You sink down at him with an intense whimper and Dean wants to scream, wants to sob and cry from how good you feel, how perfect. He shudders for a second, the ecstasy of you almost too much, before his hands go up to cup your face again. He wants to see you, needs to see you.

But this time, your hands go around his wrists. You pin them down on the mattress next to his head, and Dean doesn’t fight you. You stare at his face, eyes wet, lips parted, strands of hair falling into your face. He’s pretty sure you’re a goddess. You must be, to subjugate him like this.

“You don’t get to touch,” you say, voice hard but clear. There might be a distant tremor in it, but Dean is willing to ignore it. “You don’t deserve it.”

And you’re right, he doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve it. But then you begin moving, begin rocking back and forth on him and now it’s Dean who’s whimpering, as your wet, warm tightness begins rubbing over him. Your eyes flutter closed, your eyebrows going up a little as your face relaxes.

You begin riding him, slowly. You are concentrated, completely focused on extracting your pleasure from him. Dean’s just a body in that moment, and his chest fills with the voice of heaven at that. Maybe he can repent, after all.

You continue riding him, slowly, but somehow not gently. Every single movement is for your benefit, not his. It throws Dean back and forth between the shores of pleasure. There are some movements that make him sure he’ll burst in only a second, and some that make him want to grab your hips, dictate how you move. But your hands are still on his wrists, and while it wouldn’t be much of a battle for Dean to make you let go, it feels like metal shackles holding him down. The way they ground him, make him absolutely yours.

He starts coming closer, starts to feel the urge grow. His balls are tight and he wants nothing more than to fill you up with himself. Maybe through bodily fluids he can somehow make you understand how sorry he is. No, what is he thinking? Maybe he’s losing his mind.

But you keep moving, occasional small noises in your throat as you keep chasing your own end. So Dean holds back. He wants to flex his ass, drive up into you, pick his own rhythm rather than being victim to the unsteady, unreliable one of you. But he can’t do that. He needs to let you decide, because you’re right – he doesn’t deserve it.

After what feels like a torturous eternity, you begin picking up your pace, lips parting wider as you locate the perfect spot, perfect angle at how you want Dean to make you come. He can feel it, too – the spot he keeps hitting, the way it makes you wetter and wetter, makes him slide in easier and easier, and you are so goddamn soft.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, but he can’t come, he mustn’t come. It’s not about him. You begin tightening on him, and Dean groans as you envelop him, breathing hard, movement stuttering more and more. Dean forces his eyes open to see you, and you are shaking, mouth ripped open in a silent scream. There are tears running down your face, dropping onto his t-shirt.

You drop forward, just as it finishes, only for a moment rubbing yourself against him, then still. Dean doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare do anything to continue, even though he feels like if he doesn’t come now, he’s going to implode. He’s not sure he can hold back if you move.

You do move, then, but only to push yourself off him. He slips out of you, almost gasping, as you crawl and stumble off the bed, nearly topple when you reach the side and stand. Dean’s hand goes to his cock, torn between the handful of strokes it would take to let him finish and between covering himself, hide his shame. He presses his hand against himself, stomach twisting at the promised relief. It would be so easy so just move his hand a little more, imagine it's you.

His eyes must have fallen shut but they fly open when he hears the room door open. For a second, he panics at the thought that someone has found the two of you, has seen him like this then he looks in that direction and it's you opening the door.

So Dean has no choice but to tug himself away, groans at the feeling, and stumbles after you.

You’re walking across the parking lot in quick strides and he catches up with you in only a few steps, grabs your arm but you pull it from him immediately.

“ Don’t touch me,” you hiss and Dean raises his hands, shows you he won’t.

“I can’t let you leave like this,” he says. He sees you open your mouth to say something, but then you don’t. You stare him down, fire in your eyes and it makes Dean love you a thousand times more. Your chest is heaving and your lips are slightly parted. You look beautiful and terrifying.

“Let me call Sam,” Dean says. “To pick you up.”

He watches as you hold on to your reserve and then let it slowly slide from you. You look around once, at the parking lot, and then you nod. Both of you don’t talk as Dean leads you back to the room.

You sit in the brown armchair again while he calls Sam, don’t look at him, don’t speak. Dean leans against the wall at a distance, his entire body still feeling like he has ants crawling all over him. His erection is still painfully pulsing in his jeans.

Sam’s there ten minutes later. Dean opens the door when he knocks. He looks worried, but then he looks past Dean into the room, must see the bed, the blankets disturbed and messy, sees you, eyes down, arms crossed as you walk towards him and Sam’s expression changes. His jaw tenses and he presses his lips into a line.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says as you walk past him, but you ignore him, walk past Sam out of the room. Sam looks after you, then turns back to Dean.

He could probably have seen the punch coming, but right then, he doesn’t. Sam’s fist hits him square against the side of his face, and Dean’s back meets the door with a bang. His hand goes up to his jaw and he grunts, squeezes his eyes shut at the intense pain blooming in his skull. Sam meant for this one to hurt.

By the time he opens his eyes again, Sam is walking away. Dean looks after him and you for a second, then closes the door.

He stands there, hand still on the doorknob, not moving. He’s pretty sure that if such a thing is possible, he’s about to burst into a million pieces, just fall apart on a molecular level. He stands there for a few minutes and when it doesn’t happen, he moves forward, drops himself down on the bed.

He pushes his face into the bedding. Somewhere, somehow, there must be some of you, some of your smell, your presence. He takes deep, hard breaths, hoping to find it, hoping to find anything of yours. His hand slips into his jeans and he wraps it around his aching cock, tries to imagine your face.

But he can’t. As if his brain is trying to punish him, to keep any chance of peace from him, his mind refuses to settle on your image. Instead, when he closes his eyes, he sees blood. 

He finds a whiff of you, eventually. Just the tiniest bit there, he’s sure. He presses his nose into the fabric there, gives himself a few hard, rough strokes. He comes with a whimper and a sob and then he lies there.

He wishes the bed was your lap. He wishes he could curl up, make himself small, and just be held by you. By your soft hands. That’s all he wants.

Instead he lies there, in the cold bed. Somewhere someone yells, and someone honks a car, and Dean feels utterly alone. 

[ladyloveandjustice]

Winter 2025 Anime Overview: ZENSHU

Premise: Natsuko Hirose is an animator and director lauded as a genius, but she’s struggling with her newest movie, insisting on doing everything herself. Then she dies from food poisoning and is transported to the world of her favorite anime movie, the one that inspired her career. Natsuko finds she has the power to literally draw and animate beings that will then fight the monsters attacking them—can she use her power to save the day and avoid the movie’s tragic ending?

Zenshu is a love letter to animation, artistic inspiration, and stories in general. I’ve been waiting for an isekai anime that actually uses the “transported into the world of my favorite piece of media” in a creative and meaningful way that explores storytelling and the ramifications of interacting with a narrative, and Zenshu is finally it.

Natsuko is struggling with creating a movie about "first love" because she’s never had one, and then bam, she’s transported into the world of A Tale of Perishing, a movie that flopped hard (likely due in part to how depressing the ending is) but it’s been Natsuko’s favorite since childhood and was what inspired her to become an animator.

Natsuko specifically using her animation prowess to save the day is just also an amazing idea, and it looks great. She basically pulls out her pegboard, and then undergoes a magical girl transformation that just ends with her being at her desk. The animation she creates then rises up and beats the monsters, and they’re usually references to something—the first one being the God warrior from Nausicaa.

There’s a lot of fun little gags, like her needing to sleep for three days after because that’s how long that sequence would normally take to animate and a lot of little nerdy in-jokes, like Natsuko being in rapture at finally getting to eat anime food, or coming up with a sentai pose for her team.

(And speaking of references, Natsuko's first hit show was a clear combination of Sukeban Deka and Sailor Moon, which I now dearly want to exist in real life).

Suiting a show about an animator, the animation for the series is consistently gorgeous and full of individuality. The comedic and storytelling strengths of the director and screenwriter duo of Mitsue Yamazaki and Kimiko Ueno (two women who previously worked together on adapting Gekkan Shoujo Nozaki-Kun, one of my favorite anime) are on full display here too.

Natsuko is a fun and relatable character, avoiding some of the typical tropes for anime girl leads- she’s an adult, she spends the entire anime in an oversized hoodie and jeans and a lot of it with her hair covering her face Cousin It style, and when her “style” is pointed out as sloppy, her response is “I’ll dress how I want." She’s cynical and sarcastic and a huge nerd. It’s fun to see her automatically clash with the characters she’s loved since she was a child, showing that characters we love can be annoying as real life people, which I’ve always wanted isekai to explore.

The other characters are fun too—Luke is our stereotypical Hero character, but spending all his time fighting evil has actually made him extremely socially clueless, and he reveals himself pretty adorable after a while. Natsuko and the cute little mascot unicorn hate each other on sight, and it’s incredibly fun.

The often puts a clever twist on some tired tropes—Natsuko runs into Luke’s damsel in distress love interest (who's supposed to end up fridged, to boot) and rather than fight with her over Luke, Natsuko leads her to realize she actually has agency and can be whoever she wants—the result is amazing, and includes some lighthearted criticism of misogynist narratives. I go into it in detail in this post, minor spoilers.

The show is also very queer positive. We’re introduced to a dragon-person who, in the dub, uses they-them pronouns. In the sub, some viewers interpret them as a lesbian, but whatever your take, they're queer regardless, and Natsuko indicates some physical attraction to them. They’re also a great character, funny and tragic and cool all at once.

One episode goes into the people who have crushed on Natsuko over the years (while she remains oblivious) and the first one is a young girl and classmate of hers, who identifies Natsuko as her first love. I go into more detail about how sweet this part is in this post. It’s just a very casually queer show, and I appreciate that.

The themes of the story are interesting, the show explores the pressures of being a creator, the way you can shut others out and insist you know best, and what inspiration is. Natsuko begins to struggle with the fact A Tale of Perishing is her favorite movie in part because of how it puts a more dour spin on a fantasy story, and it's inspired her so much...but now the characters are real people she cares about. So she has to stop their fates even if it messes with the creator’s vision. But the question is, CAN SHE, or are they literally doomed by the narrative?

The ending is where things get a little muddled. It isn’t bad, but it’s rushed compared to the rest of the show, and feels a little too easy. I wish Natsuko had interacted way more with the original creator and we’d really gotten a clash of their opposing viewpoints. I feel we barely scratched the surface.

Going into slight spoilers territory with this paragraph, skip if you don't want any: The ending I think, can either be interpreted as either 1. Fanworks and interpretations are valid as hell and creators who look down on them are wrong (this is a bit of a stretch since the series doesn’t mention fanfic or doujinshi at any other point) or 2. It’s fine to take inspiration from your creative heroes, but you have to be willing to do something different, and accept the support of others. Conversely, a creator that is too precious about their work, who shuts out others and who looks down on those who take inspiration from them because they’re doing something different, is wrong and misguided.

That’s my best guess, but as I said, the themes get muddled in the last episode, in a way it takes some serious thinking to decipher a message that’s super applicable to real life. Like “these characters are real people now” is a nice motivation and drama, but not one that seems to a ton about art, though it does play into the theme that Natsuko needs to learn to let others in and connect to them.

Like I said, it’s not a bad ending, I was happy with it, it just felt a little undercooked. There were characters I wanted to explore a bit more. show’s message about art could have been stronger, and it left some potentially really interesting and meaningful stuff on the table...but the show was still amazing. I loved its creativity and characters all the way through.

The story is good, the characters are lovable, and the animation is top-notch. This has already earned it’s place on the top anime of the year list and I really implore you to check it out if you love anime and art at all! It's a thoroughly good time.

[pineapplesoda]

let’s examine aiden’s half a bit.

aiden has always had his autonomy taken from him. by the justice system, by society, by his peers- i imagine/my theory is when his wife died he fell into a deep nasty depression and someone related to ava had taken her illegally into custody for her own safety- obviously without his knowledge. then he’s arrested, (which, i also believe aiden has some diagnosed Scary Disorder, personal hc is bpd but aspd is also up there) (and probably was cited as a clause for him being unstable and killing ava) (but no diagnosis on his adhd an angel lost its wings he so has adhd) (and ALSO if he’s trans. You already know the nasty shit they’re saying abt him) and nobody will believe him. NOBODY believes him and he’s forced on medication, kept alone in a cell, has his body and mind tampered with. then the combine come along

they offer him freedom, tell him that his mental issues don’t effect his morality, he’s a good person despite what he’s done. as long as he’s an obedient good soldier.

we know what happens from there. he realizes they’re using him and when he attempts to do something about it he has his mind and body and overall autonomy violated again by people he sincerely thought he could trust

he helped wilson gain a sense of autonomy. wilson is quite literally an incomprehensible being now- as you said, a hyperobject. he helps aiden slowly claw back his own freedom. they save eachother. could almost say complete eachother. aiden is a man with machine parts stuffed inside him and tech constantly monitoring him and wilson is a man trapped in the code of whatever technology he’s haunting occupying. they make eachother more human. I could have a whole other rant abt possible post canon dynamics and slowly trying to act like people again but let’s save that for later maybe. if u ask ill happily tell some of my ideas though ;] wilson mark III hev gijinka..

now onto the trans aiden thing.

aiden’s intro monologue is also very reflective of many queer and neurodivergent experiences- his exact words;

They used to tell me, it wasn’t normal to be like me. They locked me up, medicated me, outcasted me. Because of the way i am, my family, my morality. People. Took. Everything.

now the average person could write that off as him ranting abt being treated weird for being crazy- which, yeah, by the time ez2 rolls around the combine has conditioned him so much and also let’s be real put him on so many drugs for performance he’s a big of a violent maniac. AS HE SHOULD BE. HONESTLY FOR WHAT HES BEEN THOUGH HE IS INCREDIBLY NORMAL. but what strikes me is the “my family” line. the people he mentions as most important to him are his grandma, his wife, and also bec (2810 idk if you know about entropy uprising BUT! bec isn’t actually from ez2 he’s from a whole other fan mod of ez1 and he’s really interesting u should look into uprising i could talk even longer abt bec and victor sixty) but we can ignore him for now

was he raised by his grandma? he doesn’t feel the need to mention his parents- estranged from them? maybe they don’t support him? maybe his wife was also trans and/or they were in an unconventional relationship? his family- hell, maybe ava is adopted or even if he did have her himself, people would consider that gross and unnatural and “harmful to a developing child” to be around odd dynamics. if you just probe a little bit he is REALLY representative of a lot of queer experiences and also disabled experiences. he’s so fascinating

anyways in short aiden and wilson are sort of fucked up soulmates and they’ll figure out a way to kiss abt it

yknow i think we need to talk more about Wilson in the true ending

how he starts out as this small and helpless thing trapped inside a defective non-mobile body despite being fully sentient, only to then become part of (and consequently become) something unfathomably large and powerful, something more than just a building, or just a compound, or just a control system. i could (and just might) argue that uploaded Wilson (and with him the Arbeit and Combine systems) approaches the definition of a hyperobject, or perhaps fits it to a t. but my point here is: all of that was possible because, back when he was small and powerless to enact any sort of agency over even his own existence, someone helped him. yes, meeting 36 was basically a coincidence, and yes, originally he took Wilson with him because he had no other choice, but what matters is that when he was given a choice to leave him (which would make his traversal infinitely easier), 36 took him along. and it matters so much that even when he had every reason to believe Wilson was gone, he still fulfilled the wish timidly shared with him hours prior. underneath the snappy remarks and the "shut up"s and the emotional constipation, 36 cared, and in the end, that was enough to save Wilson. so of course, when the roles are suddenly reversed, and now it's 36 who is powerless to escape the torture inflicted on him, Wilson comes to help with no hesitation. of course he does.

[pleasedontcareaboutme]

[lovesodeepandwideandwell]

It's crazy how I can be like "I'm having a depressive episode" until I'm with the right people and then it's like oh no I'm ok actually

[theunconcernedembalmer]

Got excited to see you in my notifications again. How's it been?

Maybe things will get more lively here. Who knows?

[worstloki]

My issue with Thor not ‘realizing’ why Loki was acting off in Avengers 1 isn’t that Thor didn’t recognise Loki was acting unlike himself—Thor did note that—or that Thor didn’t figure out what was wrong—he did try asking—it’s more along the lines of Thor giving up, and that he accepted Loki was bad now within two days while knowing something was off when Thor himself behaved just as bad for much longer before without any specific compromising event.

[magnolia-sunrise]

you ever feel so in love with your own OC-

(probably wont be able to finish this today... but maybe this weeks # Wolfgang Wednesday 🤫watch this space etc )

[cockworms]

so I work two jobs, at an auto parts store and a cafe and I've noticed that people at the parts place think im a dude and the cafe customers assume im a girl its so interesting to see