#like is it mean that i'm just really bored

[witherby]

hello! great work so far :-) im getting into batfam myself and been loving the platonic/familial works you do w littlest wayne! was wondering if you'd ever do an teen y/n or just an older one? I'd love to see you tackle the idea of a robin y/n or jaybe just some angsty kid stuff,,,,,, hope you had a good new years!

-- :33Anon

I love angst with my whole heart and soul, and I'm happy to write it with a slightly older Reader. Hope you don't mind I've commandeered your prompt to showcase the ability you guys voted on.

This one's a long read so I'm splitting it up. This part is roughly 2400+ words.

The Littlest Wayne: Uncertain Home

(Part 1/2)

Masterlist is Here!

Uncle J'onn is looking at you curiously.

He's been doing that a lot, lately. When Daddy brings you to the Watchtower to be babysat so he can go save the world, one of his co-workers that they can afford to spare gets put in charge of keeping an eye on you. Usually it's Uncle Hal, but this time it's J'onn and he's in his natural form, which you don't mind. Green is your favorite color, and his whole body is green! He's nice and calm, and tells you lots of stories and plays any game you want, even if it's hard for him not to cheat and read your mind. He says it's instinct. You don't hold it against him because you still have fun.

Lately, though, when he talks to you, he tilts his head a bit. He usually does that when he can't understand something.

You wipe your face, checking for cookie crumbs. All clean. You search your shirt for any weird marks or stains. All clean. You scrunch your nose and puff out your cheeks, pouting.

"What's wrong, uncle J'onny?" You ask him. Daddy says the way to get honest answers from someone is just to be forthcoming (Dicky told you what forthcoming meant when you asked him later), so you are. "Did I do something wrong?"

That seems to snap his train of thought. J'onn shakes his head and goes back to sorting out the jigsaw puzzle pieces for you. You're good enough at this to do 100-piece puzzles, now, and when you get really stuck you don't even cry anymore!

"Nothing is wrong, Flittermouse," he says, watching you start putting the edges together first like Dami taught you. "You are simply...changing. Differences are not inherently wrong."

"What's inherably mean?"

"Inherently. It means instinctively, or something that is "set in stone." A rule that does not change. I am stating that change is not something that is always wrong. It's not a firm rule."

You pout and try to process all of that in your brain. It was a partial answer. Daddy says that means people might want to hide something from you.

"What's changing?" You ask him. "I got older a week ago. Is that what you mean? I'm four, now. Grandpappy says I'm getting so big and growed up. He says to not do that so fast. I dunno how, though. He's silly."

J'onn hums. His eyes look away from you as he considers what to say. You put one whole edge together before he speaks again.

"You know that I am not a human, correct?"

"Yeah, I know," you say. "I don't care. I love you. And auntie Diana. And uncle Clark. And uncle Barry. And —"

"Thank you," J'onn gently interrupts. "Do you also know that, sometimes, humans are born not entirely human? That sometimes they get special abilities?"

"Yeah, I know that," you repeat.

"I suspect that —" he cuts himself off, hesitates, then starts again. "Little one. You are showing signs of being one of those humans with special abilities."

"I am?" You ask. You perk up. "Can I fly?!"

You immediately abandon the puzzle and climb onto your chair, about to jump off of it to try and fly around, but J'onn catches you by the back of your shirt before you can hit the ground.

"You cannot."

"Aww...then I don't wanna be a megahuman," you complain, stomping your foot.

"Metahuman."

"Whatever."

"I am sorry," J'onn says, "I did not mean to upset you. I do think you are developing powers, however."

"Not fly powers?" You frown.

"No, not flight powers."

"Boring," you say, blowing raspberries. J'onn cracks a smile at your antics and you giggle. "Help me do the puzzle, please!"

"Alright," he relents, sorting more pieces for you. You're both quiet for a while, and you get the whole frame done before he speaks again.

"Little one. Do you know your father's rule about metahumans?"

"Yeah," you say, grinning, because you're a great listener. You pitch your voice down and make it scratchy. It's adorable in your four-year-old tone. "No metas in Gotham. I am Nighttime. Raaahhh."

J'onn huffs in amusement. "Right. He usually means what he says, does he not?"

"Yeah," you agree, "daddy is a bad liar. He lied and said he didn't eated the last cookie once, but he did eated it. Alfie was mad, 'cause it was for Dami, but Dami didn't care. He likes brownies more than cookies. I like brownies, too."

"I figured," J'onn says. He's not looking at you again. This time he's frowning.

"Do you want brownies?" You ask, figuring that was the issue. "I don't have any. I can ask for some when Daddy comes back. I'm good at sharing, 'cause I'm a good noodle, like Jay says."

"No, but thank you for offering to share. Jason is right, you are a good noodle."

You preen. "I know!"

J'onn drops the subject again and helps you complete the puzzle. You squint at every piece in concentration and politely ask him if he can dim the lights so you can work better. He complies, and after another hour and a half, you have a completed image on the table.

"Yay! We did it!"

The sounds of chatter and footsteps appear down the hall moments later, and you spring to your feet in delight.

"Hello!!!" You shout.

A chorus of "hello!" greets you in return from multiple heroes, and the rest of the Justice League files into the room one by one. They don't look too roughed up, so the mission wasn't very dangerous. That's good. You stand by the door and offer them hugs. Everyone complies, to your endless delight.

"Daddy!" You cheer when you see him, running and hugging Batman's legs. He scoops you into his arms and you grin and point at the table. "Uncle J'onny and I dided a whole puzzle! I didn't give up!"

"Good job, Mouse," Bruce says, reaching out to adjust the light. "You did it in the dark?"

"Yeah," you grin, kicking your feet. "Did you punch bad guys?"

"I did."

"Did you win?"

"Yes."

"Can we have ice cream?"

"Maybe after dinner." He carries you down the hall and towards his temporary quarters, the place he'll stay after a particularly tough mission when he can't make it home right away, and deposits you gently on the bed. "I have to debrief with everyone, and then we can pack up and go home."

"Okay, daddy," you say, already digging through the nightstand for a toy to play with. "I stay right here!"

"Good job," he says again, kissing the top of your head, and leaves you alone with a small wave.

--

The next time you need to be at the Watchtower, it's with Uncle Clark and Auntie Diana. The mission wasn't a super dangerous one, so they both got to stay behind and entertain you.

Today, you're a cashier at your world-famous grocery store. You have the best ingredients all over the world.

"Welcome to the groshy store, what do you want stranger?" You demand, getting into character. Clark looks mildly offended.

"Whoa, hello. That's a lot of 'tude for a paying customer," he says.

"You didn't buy nothing yet! Whataya want!"

"Uh. Some carrots please."

"All out."

Clark narrows his eyes at you. "Can you check in the back?"

You turn around. You turn back.

"All out. Whataya want!"

"You barely looked!" He insists.

"FRESH OUTTA CARROTS, BUB. WHATAYA WANT."

"Oh my goodness, now there's yelling. I think I need to speak to a manager."

"Okay!" You shuffle across the room and grab Diana's hand, leading her back to Clark. "This is the manager. Auntie, tell him all the carrots are gone. He can't have any."

Diana covers her mouth to stifle her laughter. "You heard them, stranger. There are no carrots here."

"Well, aside from the blatant nepotism, auntie, I think you're hiding the carrots from me," Clark huffs, crossing his arms. "I need them for my soup. Guess I'll go to the grocery store across town. I hear they're nicer."

"No," you gasp, "wait. Okay maybe I have one secret carrot. I go get it."

You leave their giggling forms and run over to the toy box that was set up for you on the watch tower, thrusting your hands inside to dig around. You squint your eyes, but all the bright colors are hard to distinguish properly. In the dark spaces, deeper into the box, is where you cast your focus. Instinctively, you follow the trail and close your hand around a plastic carrot. You lift your hand triumphantly.

"Okay, got it!" You cry, only to startle when you find both Clark and Diana kneeling beside your toy chest. Diana picks you up around the waist and takes several steps back, and Clark's eyes turn that funny shade of blue they do when he's using x-ray vision. "Umm, I gotted the carrot already. It's in my hand."

"Are you injured?" Diana asks you, expression deadly serious. You frown and shake your head. "You're certain? I could sense something in that box with you."

"No, I'm fine," you promise. Clark stands up and his eyes go back to normal. He shrugs, brows furrowed.

"There's nothing in there but toys."

"Yeah," you nod, "toys and dark spots."

Both heroes look at you. You squirm in Diana's hold shyly.

"Um, want to pay for the carrot?" You ask, holding it up. "It's only ten dollars. Orrr one lollipop." You whisper conspiratorially. "I can be bribed."

Diana and Clark exchange glances. Clark gingerly takes the carrot from you and puts it back in the toy box.

"Sold. Let's go to the kitchen and pick out which flavor you want."

You grin, forgetting about the game, and Diana puts you on the ground so you can follow excitedly after them. With a couple "pretty please's" and your lethal puppy dog eyes, you even manage to get two lollipops. You ask to be hoisted onto the counter so you can swing your feet as you enjoy the candy, and both heroes perch on either side of you.

It's quiet for a while. It feels like that weird, anticipatory quiet you felt with Uncle J'onny, but you don't know what for, so you wait for one of them to speak. You finish off one whole sucker and open the second one when it happens.

"Mouse?" Clark eventually asks, "can you explain what you meant about your toys? That there are dark spots in there?"

"Yeah," you say, "shadows. Dark spots. Light not touching."

"And you can...feel shadows?"

You hum, thinking it over. "Um...yes. Kind of."

Clark and Diana look at each other again. They're frowning. You frown.

"Can you tell us what you mean by that?" She asks.

"Um. I wanted the carrot, for uncle Clark," you say, "so he can buy it at my groshy store. And the dark spots showed me where it was, and I grabbed it."

"Did they also help you complete the jigsaw puzzle, when you were with J'onn?" Diana asks. "It was quite dark when we got back." You nod.

"Yeah. Easier to do in the dark. It's not cheating!" You blurt. "I didn't cheated!"

"Okay, ya' didn't cheat," Clark agrees, gently patting your back. There's a slight drawl in his words which usually shows up when he's stressed out. "We're just curious, is all, darlin'. Seems you've got a... A special talent, we can call it."

"It's a power. They're a metahuman, Kal," Diana says simply, "and you know Bruce's rule."

The rule? Which one? Always brushing your teeth before bedtime? Or maybe no sweets until you finish your dinner? Hmm, but you haven't had dinner yet. That doesn't make sense.

"No metas in Gotham. I'm very aware, Diana."

"Then you see the problem."

Oh. Now you think you know why uncle J'onny was upset that day.

"Now wait a minute," Clark says. He looks genuinely angry, which confuses you. Did they not like that you could ask the dark for help? They had superpowers, too. You figured they would be happy. "They're his kid."

You are. You're Daddy's little Flittermouse, scampering around and bringing joy. That's what everyone tells you. They love you.

"You've seen how hard he works to keep us out of Gotham," Diana says. "We can be trusted to babysit, but we can't enter the city? What does that tell you?"

"That's different. He's territorial, we all know that. He's not a monster, Diana. He would never hurt them —"

"I'm not saying he is. I'm not saying he would. But I am saying that he doesn't bend his own rules. He does not make exceptions."

Oh.

You sit almost numbly on the counter and watch Clark and Diana start to argue over your place in Gotham. Over your place at home.

You think about Daddy's rule about no metas in Gotham. You think about your new ability to interact with shadows.

Oh.

The lollipop tastes like ash on your tongue and the tips of your fingers feel like tv static. When you blink, your eyes sting as they well up with tears. You've been so good about not throwing fits, about not being a crybaby, about being as strong as your super cool daddy and brothers and grandpa.

But you can't call them that anymore, can you? They don't want metas in Gotham, and that's what you are, now. You can't live with your family anymore.

Large, fat tears roll down your cheeks and your bottom lip wobbles. You whimper and both Diana and Clark whip their heads around to look at you in shock.

"No, oh no, don't cry," Diana coos, "you don't need to worry. Your father isn't —"

You bat her hands away when she reaches for you and jump off the counter, running underneath Clark's cape. They don't catch on to what you're doing in time.

Clark practically rips it off and fans it on the floor, floating above it with wide eyes. Diana kneels next to the fabric and frantically pats it, searching for you.

But there's nothing. You've fled into the shadow Clark's body cast and allowed the darkness to swallow you.

[summertimesadnessirl]

It doesn't matter.

If you have done everything you can to try to get the life you want and nothing works, it doesn't matter why you got that way. All that matters is don't keep trying to get love and letting people use your desire for it against you.

I'm pretty sure it's not actually real. And it's just something they made up to sell soap.

So that's the model I work with.

As long as I refuse to allow myself to believe anyone loves me, everything works out well. When I break that, people hurt me.

People will guilt you into saying it's because you don't pick the right people but no matter what criteria you use it's always the same. And no matter what treatments you apply to yourself, it's always the same. And no matter how many new styles of communication you learn to talk to other people, it's always the same.

For me the only thing that kind of worked was doing sex work and being super fake and having several hundred shallow fake relationships that had a lot of sex and weren't boring and miserable, because whenever I've tried to not date and just hang out and do other things like working or something either people bother me all the time and are really mean and annoying or they are always "conveniently" introducing me to people they want to fix me up with. Men and women and like? Those people are always basically on the same emotional level as the people I have already dated and seem really shy and kind of uninterested in me. When I talk them out of their shell, they seem still shy, like they basically admire me for not seeming shy to them and like how I dress but don't have anything in common with me and we wouldn't have anything to talk about, or they have kind of a mental picture of a type of super assertive girl who will be into their lack of experience and want to like... put spices on them and let them sit on the counter top for a full moon cycle and then write out a recipe for them that they can use to attract someone who will love them now that they aren't virgins or something, and they don't want to admit that to me up front, which is very mean to do, to want someone to like... be your character development without asking and then not let them prepare to be left with nothing from that interaction in exchange for being a cute story you talk about with your future spouse or whatever.

Most people don't seem to want a relationship with a particular person or a particular type of relationship or even like have considered their own potential deal breakers. Not "I didn't realize this thing I thought everyone did wasn't a thing everyone did" or "i was wrong about my needs in certain areas" or whatever. They genuinely have no idea like what they do for fun that is a group activity, and they make you spend like an hour trying to figure out what they want every time they want something and most of the time when you give it to them they're unhappy.

It's like people want me to be in a relationship just so I'll be in a relationship and other people want to be in a relationship with me just to be in a relationship and even people with lots of money who can leave and who spend all their time complaining about their relationship don't want to leave their relationship. And when I'm like "I don't want to be in a relationship right now because I'm broke or whatever and I wouldn't be able to leave a relationship easily." People are like *shocked pika* why wouldn't you go enter into a relationship with someone who wants to date you based on you having a normal level of kind conversation that you would have with a person on the street and being able to give them sex? Why would you not want to break up with the person you are dating and date a random old man who did your boss a favor once because he gave you a ride in his truck? Why would you not just let other people make major life decisions for you? Why are you not jumping at every chance we give you when it doesn't look or feel right?

It feels like the goal of the whole thing is having someone else to blame for your problems. I don't wanna do that to someone. I hate when stuff isn't my fault and I have to suffer for it anyway. That's why I cut my own hair and pierce my own ears and stuff. So if it gets messed up, it's just an accident and it's because I have never done that before and I just need to figure out how to fix it and I can take all the time I need instead of trying to like... figure out the magic buttons to push to get someone who broke something to be willing to admit they messed up and will try to fix it and like... having to wonder if I can trust them if they're a specially trained and certified expert and they aren't better at doing something than a person who went on the internet and read a tutorial and kind of guessed.

Idk. It's like if you told me most people in the world don't like sex or dating or anything and they aren't in love either and there's like some kind of mystic force that attacks people who don't live with a partner by such and such a time and have a kid by such and such a time and no one told me? I'd totally be like

"That explains everything."

Was I raised without love or was I born unlovable?

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 2 - Under My Skin

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

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

Chapter title from Akaska Sad by Rina Sawayama

Word Count: 15.7k

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

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

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Read on A03!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This magic, witchy bullshit was fake. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dad scowled. “A cat.”

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

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

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

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

That last question did get them kicked out, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That had probably been a lie too.

It hadn’t sounded like a lie. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A really long time. 

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

“Dean Winchester.” 

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

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

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

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

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

Dean shrugged. “I asked louder.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is he okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch it-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think you’re smart-“

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

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

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

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

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

“You got a problem with that, Winchester?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you seen it?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not alone.

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

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

“You’re not going to deal with me.”

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

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

“What makes you think that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he stayed.

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

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

“Where are you staying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You remember my car?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How-“

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

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

Maybe he’d get to keep Her.

Maybe they could start over.

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

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

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

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

“I heard that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why-"

"You don't drink."

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

"Safer?"

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

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

"Because you hunt alone."

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean blinked. "What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's- I-"

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

"That's not-"

"You listen to me, Princess-"

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

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

"No I don't-"

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

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

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

"I am not stupid-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean frowned. He was not obsessed with Her. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean blinked. "Go? Like, now?"

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

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

"You take care of the girl?"

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

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

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

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

—————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

Worse, it meant Dean was here.

And you're going to fucking scream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s Bobby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean, you got the guns?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean it like that, Dad-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t need a gun-“

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

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

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

“You’re getting in my fucking way-“

“You’re-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Dean’s still slumped on the floor. 

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

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

You don’t know what he saw.

“What the hell-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get out.”

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

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

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

“I ain’t askin’-“

“It’s not up to you-“

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

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

“You’ve done enough.“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh. “Bobby, look-“

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

“Um, he might have already seen it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I ran into the Winchesters-“

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

“Bobby, I gotta-“

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

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

Bobby sighs. “I wasn’t gonna yell-“

“Yeah you were-“

“No-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “I will.”

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

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

Away from Dean.

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

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

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@itsdearapril @speedypersonawhispers @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused @kamisobsessed

[autumnheartsprice]

reader who likes to text a lot, randomly during the day

<no warnings really, suggestive, mentions of spanking. mentions of sex happening under cut but no specific scene tbh>

It became a habit over time once you and Price started dating, random texts during the day when you got bored or had no one you express your thoughts to.

You ever wonder what it's like to be a turtle?

Like what do they think?

In pictures? Sounds? Obviously no words??

Do you always think like this or did you drink something you weren't supposed to?

What would I have to drink that I'm not supposed to?

You think I didn't find your secret stash of alcohol?

.. besides the point & you didn't answer my question. no i didn't drink anything though🙄

kinda wishin i did now

meow

???

why does nobody think how i think

That's why I love that little brain of yours. Just doing some paperwork in my office, wanna come and brain-dump all your thoughts?

are you calling my brain "little"?😓

Just get your arse in here. Miss your voice.

apparently trees have memories or something like that. you think it's from like the bark or leaves or something? how tf do trees have memories

does that mean all plants do, or just trees?

do you think that tree on our morning walk remembers me calling it ugly and thinks im a horrible person every time we walk by?

or maybe it's judging my juicy ass

or maybe how your ass is juicer than mine.

Baby. I just stepped out of a meeting to read these. Out of all things. How would a tree be able to see our arses. Maybe you should be nicer to it if it remembers you calling it ugly, might grow a nice lemon for us.

Anything else before I step back in? You better behave or else you're getting bent over my lap tonight.

is that a threat or a promise?👀

Threat, about to turn into a promise. Behave.

*Picture unavailable at this time*

The hell you trying to send me now?

Why won't it load? It says unavailable.

I hate this technology

Baby, I'm sorry, what's the picture?

Oh well. just wanted to show you the new lingerie i bought but i guess it'll have to wait until you get back. still staying late?

My office. Now.

Better be wearing that damn lingerie.

"Is it a bad time to mention that there was no picture and it's just a TikTok trend I saw where you fake sending a picture?" you mumble as you're bent over his desk. Cum dripping down your thighs as sweat sticks to your forehead.

[revelboo]

HELLO I was the anon who got a random blockee and was hoping for the soundwave figures and while I didn't get him I got Scavenger and he has my whole heart 😭😭😭 he's my lil booboo 🥰🥰 (I will be ordering soundwave tho and more I'm doomed)

He’s lonely. He needs friends 😃 Scrapper finally showed up after his tracking stopped updating Dec 31st and he disappeared off the face of the Earth. Two more to go.

Drive Pt 4

Constructicons x Reader

• “Thank you?” Part of you wants to ask if they’d hurt anyone stealing this stuff for you, but honestly? You’re scared to. Because it looks like Long Haul and Bonecrusher probably went on a crime spree. And Bonecrusher just keeps producing stuff out of nowhere to add to the pile. Food, clothes, small electronics, soaps and candles. Maybe they’d just demolished a mall? They mean well and they’re trying to take care of you, but you really hope they didn’t hurt anyone. Even as a guilty part of you is ridiculously excited about the food and soap.

• Bending, Long Haul begins setting your new things in the mini habsuite they’d made you. Noting that Scrapper and Scavenger had been busy while he’d been out and had tapped into the base water lines to make you a tiny wash rack and waste disposal area. Your little habitat now even bigger as they all keep adding to it. “You needed food and human stuff,” Long Haul mutters, embarrassed when you offer him a small smile. And it’s not like he’d minded. Getting to really let loose and destroy things had felt good. Freezing when you limp closer and lay a soft hand on his ped, he hesitantly brushes a servo over your head before turning away. “It’s either feed you or watch you die,” he adds gruffly, uncomfortable with your affection.

• Venting as you smile up at Long Haul, Bonecrusher reaches to gently scoop you up. Feeling little hands on his servos as he carries you over to his berth and lays back carefully rubbing your jaw. So small you feel insubstantial in his hands, and something about that fragility fascinates him. “You missed us?” He asks, stilling as you grab his servo and smile up at him like you’re not the least bit frightened. That trust shocking him. How can you be so small and not cower?

• Watching Long Haul pimping out your alien, Barbie dream house, you wrap your arms around Bonecrusher’s servo to keep him from petting from neck to navel and further south. It’s not like he knows better or means anything by it, but putting a stop to it as quickly as possible seems a smart move. “It was quiet,” you say opting for honesty. Because the six of them are constantly laughing and jostling each other. Loud and raucous in a way that reminds you of a frat house. Complete with the alcohol, or high grade as they’d called it. After realizing you’re safe as long as you play along at being their collective pet, you’d started consciously trying to make friends. After all, your survival depends on them.

• “Must have been boring,” Long Haul calls from the floor as he arranges boxes of food stuffs in a tidy pile in a corner. You’ll need storage space so this stuff isn’t just lying around. “I’m thinking cabinets and shelves,” he adds, looking at where Mixmaster and Hook are working on reports. Waiting for Mixmaster to vent at him, but set aside his report to help.

• Glancing at his brothers fussing with your space again, Hook checks on you and Bonecrusher. Making sure the much bigger mech isn’t being too rough with you, but so far he’s been shockingly gentle. And right now the huge mech is making a grumbling purr of his engines at you. Something he’d call out anyone else for. Getting punched in the face by Bonecrusher not exactly on his to do list, though, because his brothers definitely don’t warrant the same gentleness you do.

Previous

[treefey]

I like this! But! I wish they had just made it explicitly Eowyn narrating rather than Miranda Otto doing her best Galadriel. I didn't really like the narration except for the prologue and epilogue parts (sorry). I also hate that they open with the Rings theme-- we'll get to my imaginary better alternative later

If they were gonna reference LOTR, I think a frame story where explicitly Eowyn is telling the WOTR story would be perf. She's telling the story to her kids, maybe they're sick à la Princess Bride. Which would also be perfect because she's a healer. We don't even need visuals; honestly it would probably be great without it because the audience could feel like we're the kids. And who doesn't want to feel like you're in a boring post-war Gondor with the best parents tucking you in and telling you a very bloody bedtime story? Also it would shut up the conspiracy theorists who think media is pushing women to not want kids, not that we need to bend to those people

I love the opening over the map, so open over a map of Gondor with the Gondor theme. And then have Eowyn talk about how she is gonna tell a story of her people, maybe that she knows we want to hear about the war of the ring, or Merry & Pippin's homeland, or one of their dad's ranger adventures, but instead she's gonna tell us a little known tale of the Rohirrim, a tale of adventure and loss and the human spirit. A time when the shieldmaidens' banner hung proudly in Meduseld. Then pan over to Rohan and say the story takes place during the first line of Rohan, x years before Theoden reigned. Idk, maybe it's cheesy, but the right lines could make it soo cozy and focus the story a little bit more.

Maybe there's kids in the voiceover, maybe not. Depends on just how much cheese we want. And how much you think the audience would believe that we could have a very maternal storyteller who is also so unfazed by blood she'd tell her kids this story. (I mean, she probably has had her hands up to her elbows inside people when there's a farm injury or a breech baby, so I'm not surprised we get a bit more gore than LOTR)

There's other things I would do to focus the story around the war more, give it more a three-act structure. But specifically in regards to doing a frame story rather than regular narration, I wouldn't do any more Eowyn voiceovers until the end. Or if we did wanna do the whole Princess Bride version, have a kid ask why Gondor didn't help out and have her or Faramir answer what was going on in Gondor at that time (would be funny if Faramir started answering and Eowyn interrupts and says it's time for a Rohan story right now, and the two kingdoms weren't always as close as close as they are now, let's get back to the story). But back to the end, I like the "that's how the first line ended and second line started." We could add more, like the throne passed from uncle to nephew as it did later. And remember whenever you feel alone or scared, that not only does the blood of Helm Hammerhand flow in your veins, but also the blood of his daughter who protected her people by wit and by sword. And even though most accounts have forgotten her name, we're all still here because of Hera's bravery.

I'm obsessed, actually, like parts of the story that reflect Eowyn's (and Eomer's but mostly Eowyn's) story from LotR sort of in an "each stanza rhymes" kind of way until it occurs to you that Miranda Otto is narrating with this sort of implication that it's Eowyn herself telling the story and reading it through her own experiences plus the fact that it's mostly a behind the scenes sort of story and all the great deeds were attributed to other people (Hera isn't even named in the appendices) alongside the explicit statement that Hera isn't remembered in any of the songs, making this something Eowyn either heard passed down in a non-traditional way, reconstructed from historical evidence she found herself, or possibly learned about from Gandalf, which loops back around into Eowyn's own complex with regards of all the great deeds being done by the men and not remembered for great deeds in songs -- and like okay maybe I'm reading too much into it but I'm obsessed okay

[dearlot]

Hey... So I'm gonna need more of baby demon/succubus Lottie 😅🥰

succubus!lottie headcanons 💭

lottie who keeps a special strand of your hair tied up in a bow. she likes to play with it when she's bored or sniff/lick it when she gets off to the thought of you. she's ashamed and feels perverted, but that fuels her to collect more of your things like used tissues when you go out with her to a restaurant, your used panties, your used anything really.

she really doesn't mean to seduce you, really! it just happens. she can't control it. and she doesn't know how, anyway. it's not her fault that her body secretes this hormone that makes you horny for her :( and it's not her fault she finds herself jerking off in your window while watching you sleep because she could smell your heat from her house. she can't help when she mind controls you into thinking about her. she can't help it when she accidentally makes you feel pleasure down there.

Succubus!lottie who kinda accidentally marks you....so now whenever she thinks of you, you feel this faint pulse in your neck.

once she starts to get more comfortable with being a succubus, she gets sooo much bolder. lottie taking you to the lake as a friend date. you sit back eating those bologna sandwiches you made (you're a little upset at the fact that she didn't even try to eat one) and watch her dip her feet into the lake until she starts stripping o_O you kinda just let her do her thing and try not to stare at her naked body as she skinnydips but she's unknowingly secreting those hormones that make you wanna hold her down and ride her. making eye contact with her as she swims back toward you and you're just in a trance.... unabashedly looking down as her wet body comes out of the water, and you can feel this strange heat coming from her. and you can almost smell it too? anyway, she just ends up fucking you raw and leaves you there all sore.

that scene in jennifers body with the lighter.....thinking of lottie burning her tongue and then eating you out @__@ using her hot tongue to trace down your body to make you feel extra good.

jealous!ex!succubus lottie who likes to manifest herself in your room whenever you have girls over to mess with you because she's pissed that you left her.

think it'd be interesting to see succubus!lottie who feeds on boys with a transmasc!reader.... especially if you just started T because your hormones would be all wack and she'd have the most trouble controlling herself from ripping you apart with her teeth <3 she goes absolutely ham on that tdick before your shot day too because that's when ur T is at its lowest. or maybe a needy/chip/jennifer situation where you're dating jackie (anything to include jackielot SORRY!) and after you come out as transmasc, she becomes obsessed and tries to seduce you. she's hungry and follows you to jackie's place, waiting until you walk home because she knows you guys just fucked and your blood is rushing. her food is best when they're like that. idk she successfully seduces you and leads you to the abandoned pool to fuck. or at least thats what you think you're doing. she's annoyed that you're not as into it because she can tell you're thinking of jackie and decides she needs to have her fun now and roughhouses with you. something something she takes a SMALL chunk out of your neck before realizing she can use you for food for, like, ever. she can drain your blood when she's hungry. not too much though, she doesnt wanna kill you.

pain play with her.........she wants you to use a knife. nuff said.

but ughh...baby succubus!lottie who doesnt understand what she's doing 😞 she always comes to you after she gets out of her trance, covered in blood and looking at you with teary eyes, and asks you to help her. she tries to resist the hunger at first but she just gets so weak and sick ;( you've tried to help her find alternatives like drinking pigs blood or seeing if she could regain her strength from eating animals, but she needs flesh. thinking of offering her some of your blood just until she can.....find...someone to feed on. she looks up at you with such teary brown eyes it's adorable 😭😭 she constantly asks if you're alright and takes the best care of you after she cleans you up :( ugh. just thinking of her tapping on your window and you get surprised at the amount of blood covering her chin...and she's still so cute.

[mysteryshoptls]

SR Riddle Rosehearts - Nightmare Suit Vignette

"Absolutely against the rules!"

[Halloween Town – Alleyway]

Riddle: We lost so much time because of that unexpected mishap. We should finish up the Halloween preparations as quickly as possible.

Jamil: Right. We should begin by checking out how the rest of the town is doing.

Riddle: I agree. While Halloween Town was mired in all that confusion, some other issues may have cropped up.

[Halloween Town – Town Hall]

Riddle: Jamil, take a look at that. The candy that we prepared ahead of time seems to have decreased in number since we last looked…

Jamil: You're right. There should have been overflowing mounds of candy in three baskets. But now, I only see one.

Riddle: Someone may have unintentionally moved it, or some ill-advised malcontent may have stolen it…

Jamil: ――Hm? I feel like I just saw something move out of the corner of my eye…

Riddle: THERE! YOU WON'T ESCAPE ME!!

[chair slams against door]

???: Waah! What's with this chair!?

???: Why'd it just appear in front of us out of nowhere?

Jamil: I see, you used your magic to move the chair to block the exit. Good thinking.

Shock: We can't leave 'cause this chair's in the way!

Shock: It's all 'cause you two were so slow in carrying the candy. You blockheads!

Barrel: I'm not the blockhead, he is.

Lock: She's talking about you!

Riddle: Oh, it's you guys… The troublemaker trio.

Lock/Shock/Barrel: URK!!!

Jamil: There's candy spilling out from the bag they're dragging. They're for sure our culprits.

Riddle: Good thing we captured them before they made off with the candy. There's no place for you three to run now.

Shock: You're so mean, cutting us off from the exit when we're trying to leave!

Riddle: Mean? You seem to be mistaking me for yourselves.

Riddle: No single person can claim all the candy for themselves. It is an unforgivable act to steal it.

Riddle: And just after causing all that chaos in town… Have the three of you not reflected on your actions at all?

Lock: C'mon, we ran around so much earlier that we're so hungry, though.

Shock: Plus, this is the first time we've seen candy like the ones you guys made, and it look suuuper yummy.

Barrel: There's no way we can wait until Halloween to eat 'em.

Lock/Shock/Barrel: [chomp, chomp] … See, it's sooo good.

Riddle: Wha… How dare you add to your crimes by eating the candy mid-testimony! Absolutely barbaric!

Jamil: They keep doing whatever they want, as if they're not to blame for any of the problems we faced in town earlier… Honestly, I can't help but be a little impressed.

Riddle: If we just leave them be, they may cause another problem sooner or later, so if I'd rather it be off with their heads…

Lock: Huh? Off with whose head?

Barrel: Probably Jack's. 'Cause he can take off his head, can't he?

Shock: Sounds awesome! I thought this guy was just a nagging bore, but he can say some fun stuff, too!

Lock/Shock/Barrel: Let's go! Let's go right now! Let's go take off Jack's head!

Riddle: Silence!! You three misunderstand me. When I say "off with their head," I am not speaking literally.

Lock: Eh, really?

Shock: Boooring, I thought it was gonna be something fun.

Riddle: Sigh… I feel a headache coming along just being around you three.

Jamil: Not only do they not show any signs of remorse, they immediately leap at the chance to start something new… They are completely out of our control.

Riddle: However, if we were to leave these children to their own devices, they may interfere with the Halloween preparations again.

Riddle: If that's the case… Jamil, the two of us should keep an eye on these three.

Riddle: And as the Housewarden of Heartslabyul, I shall ingrain into the children proper discipline!

Jamil: It's fine and dandy that you're raring to go, but you didn't need to drag me into this without asking…

Riddle: Did you say something just now, Jamil?

Jamil: …No, nothing at all.

Riddle: Well, then… Ahem! See here, you three. Listen to me well.

Riddle: From here on out, you will not run around as you please, but will accompany us. Understand?

Lock: Ehhhh! Why'd we have to be with you guys?

Riddle: That is because you all keep breaking the rules.

Riddle: In essence, this is the result of all your mischief. …Now, how do you respond?

Shock: I don't really get it, but whatever! We were bored, anyway, so we can stick with you for a tiiiny bit.

Riddle: Good! Then first, return all the candy you stole back onto the table. As soon as that's done, we'll go survey how the rest of the town is doing.

[Halloween Town – Gate]

Riddle: The first stop is the gate to confirm the state of their decorations… And already it seems that we've found the bats they have decorating it with are crooked.

Riddle: As of this moment, they are at about 160° from the ground. However, they should be kept at 180° parallel to the ground.

Jamil: You really have an eye for the smallest detail. I don't know if I should say it's too much, or what…

Riddle: I will not permit any carelessness that could ruin the perfect Halloween. Besides, adjusting the angle is easily fixed with a quick spell…

Lock: Huh? You want to fix the crooked decorations on the gate?

Shock: Then we can fix it for you… With this ball!

Shock: Hyah!

[throws ball]

Riddle: Ack!? That almost hit me! Why would you ever think to fix something like that by hitting it with a ball!?

Barrel: 'Cause we can't reach the decorations ourselves.

Jamil: Then, you should use a stool or a ladder…

Lock: We thought it'd be faster if we used a ball.

Riddle: Hmm… It seems it will be more difficult than I thought to teach these kids proper discipline.

Riddle: Listen up, you three. You shouldn't throw a ball towards where other people are.

Lock/Shock/Barrel: WHY???

Riddle: Because if it hits someone, it could injure them. It's dangerous.

Shock: But balls are for throwing, though?

Riddle: ...I see, so that's the hang up. If that's the case, we may need to begin with re-learning the definition of a ball.

Riddle: I shall start your lesson with what a ball is, and it's origins. There are many theories as to where it was originated, but at first…

Jamil: YOU'RE STARTING THE LESSON FROM THERE!?

Riddle: …And that is why you should not throw balls. Did you understand all that?

Lock/Shock/Barrel: Yup, totally!

Jamil: Liars, none of you were listening at all!

Riddle: Whether they understood the lesson or not will be apparent with how they conduct themselves from now on.

Riddle: We've finished with confirming the decoration progress. Next, we'll look in on the music…

[scamper, scamper]

Jamil: Big problem, Riddle! Those three are already gone!

Riddle: What!? We only took our eyes off of them for a second… We need to hurry and find them!

Shock: MOVE OUTTA THE WAY! YOU'RE STANDIN' IN THE WAY!!

Jamil: Hm? I hear their voices from behind… WAAH!!

[thud]

Riddle: A bathtub with legs just crashed into Jamil!? Are you alright, Jamil? Any injuries?

Jamil: …I'm fine, it's nothing.

Lock: Seeee, this all happened 'cause you're just standing there all spaced out.

Barrel: Lame-o～

Jamil: Krgh! It's obviously their fault, but they have the nerve to speak like that.

Riddle: What do you three think you're doing, now!?

Shock: What do you mean, what we're thinkin'? We were tired of walking, so we brought something to make it easier to move around.

Lock/Barrel: Yeah, it's our favorite ride!

Riddle: That may be so, but you should take care not to bump into anyone.

Shock: That's why we shouted to move out the way.

Lock: Or are you sayin' Jamil owns this road?

Barrel: You sayin' we're not allowed to use this road or somethin'?

Riddle: Well, no…

Lock/Shock/Barrel: THEN EVERYTHING'S FINE!!

Riddle: EVERYTHING IS NOT FINE!!!

Jamil: Those three don't feel any remorse at all, huh… They're so blatant that it's actually refreshing to deal with.

Riddle: Similar to the ball incident earlier, any actions that may bring harm to anyone else is absolutely against the rules!

Riddle: Furthermore, a bathtub is not something to ride in and use as a mode of transportation.

Shock: Eh, but a bathtub is totally something to ride in.

Lock/Barrel: Yeah, it's our ride!

Riddle: …What? How exactly are bathtubs utilized in this town?

Shock: So, you see, basically…

Riddle: Mhm… Mhm… I see.

Riddle: Which all goes to say that this town approves of bathtubs as transportation?

Shock: Right-o, Riddle. If it wasn't, we totally wouldn't ride in it.

Riddle: I see… My apologies, I was in the wrong on my understanding of bathtubs here. I take it back, you may ride it!!

Jamil: THEY CAN!?!?

Lock/Shock/Barrel: YAY!!!

Lock: Seee, you totally get it.

Riddle: However, you are to ride it with care so as to not injure others. And you are to apologize to Jamil.

Lock/Shock/Barrel: 'Kaaaay. Soooorry, Jamil.

Riddle: Good apology, you three.

Lock: Right, right? We did good!

Jamil: He's just letting them off with that half-done apology…? They don't look like they're sorry at all!!

Shock: Riddle! I totally thought you were just gonna yap at us non-stop, but you're actually a good guy who totally gets us.

Shock: We like you! Join our crew and play with us!

Barrel: Here, we'll even let you in our bathtub, our treat.

Riddle: Eh? No, I'll pass on―

Shock: Let's go, you two! Push Riddle into the bathtub!

Lock/Shock/Barrel: HEAAAAAVE… HO!!!

Riddle: Waaah!!!

Lock/Shock/Barrel: Nyahahahehehe! He's in, he's in! Riddle's riding in the bathtub!

Jamil: Hey, Riddle! You alright!?

Riddle: …Yes, although that shocked me slightly, I am fine.

Riddle: Actually, this bathtub isn't that uncomfortable, either.

Shock: Well, yeah, this bathtub's our pride and joy!

Riddle: I see… From my brief time with you three, I see that you have your own rules you abide by.

Riddle: I suppose I was a little too strict on you. For me to teach you all discipline, I would first need to know more about this town.

Requested by @farfalla049.

[winwintea]

the call

PAIRING ↬ lee donghyuck x fem!reader

TAGS ↬ thriller, cheating!?, romance, angst(?), blood, attempted murder, i really don't know how to tag this, non-linear narrative, maybe horror

SUMMARY ↬ haechan leaves you a cryptic phone call on a night out. something about this doesn’t sit right with you.

WORD COUNT ↬3.3k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ↬ surprise! this isn't the jisung fic but i decided to pull this one out of my sleeve as well. title and fic is inspired by "the call" by backstreet boys! the fic is also not written in linear order.

1 HOUR BEFORE THE INCIDENT:

“Hello?”

“Hi, it's me, what's up, baby? I'm sorry, listen, I'm gonna be late tonight So, don't stay up and wait for me, okay?”

“Where are you?”

“Wait, wait, say that again?”

“Haechan. Hello?”

“You're really dropping out, I think my battery must be low. Listen, if you can hear me, we're going to a place nearby, alright? Gotta go.”

4 HOURS BEFORE THE INCIDENT:

“Don’t pout,” Haechan teases, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. His voice is light, but his teasing smile can’t hide the affection in his eyes.

“I’m not pouting,” you argue, crossing your arms in mock defiance.

“You’re pouting,” he insists, stepping closer until he’s standing right in front of you. He tilts his head, studying your expression, before leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “Admit it. You’ll miss me.”

“I won’t,” you shoot back, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

“Liar.” He grins, tugging on the strings of your hoodie playfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll behave. Just a couple of drinks with the guys, and I’ll be back before you even have time to miss me for real.”

“Uh-huh. Famous last words.” You roll your eyes, but you don’t stop him as he walks toward the door.

“Text me if you get bored without me,” he calls out, slipping on his sneakers.

“You mean when you get bored and want an excuse to leave early,” you counter, leaning against the doorframe as you watch him put on his jacket.

“Guilty,” he admits with a wink. “Alright, baby, I’m out. Love you.”

“Love you too,” you reply softly, watching as he steps outside.

This is normal. Haechan always goes out with his friends on Saturdays. You glance at your phone, opening the chat with him to send a quick, “Be safe. Don’t let them drag you into anything dumb.” You know he won’t see it right away, but it makes you feel better.

30 MINUTES BEFORE THE INCIDENT:

You’re pacing the living room, your phone clutched tightly in your hand. Haechan’s earlier call echoes in your mind. 

I’m going to a place nearby.

The shrill sound of your ringtone breaks through your thoughts, and you nearly drop the phone in your scramble to answer.

“Sunoo?” you ask, recognizing the name on the screen.

“Y/N, hey,” Sunoo says, his voice laced with hesitation. “Um, I’m sorry if this is weird, but I thought I should tell you something.”

Your stomach twists. “What’s wrong?”

“I just saw Haechan… I think,” he says nervously. “He was walking down the street near the bar, but he wasn’t alone.”

Your breath catches. “Who was he with?”

“A woman,” Sunoo admits reluctantly. “She was… kind of close to him. Like, really close. I thought it was weird because he looked tense—like he was nervous, while also trying to relax. But she was smiling, laughing. I didn’t want to assume anything, but…”

You sit down on the couch, your legs threatening to give out. “Where did you see them?”

“Toward the alley near the old convenience store. They were walking away from the bar,” Sunoo says, his words spilling out quickly. “I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure if I should get involved or assume anything, but I thought you should know.”

Your mind races. That’s not far. But why would he leave the bar with a woman?

“Thanks for telling me,” you manage, your voice trembling.

“Y/N, I don’t think he—” Sunoo starts, but you cut him off.

“It’s okay. I’ll figure it out. Thank you.”

You hang up before he can say anything else, your hands shaking as you dial Haechan’s number.

“Come on, pick up,” you mutter, pacing again. The call goes straight to voicemail. You redial, but it’s the same result. “Haechan, please, just call me back. I don’t care what’s going on—I just need to know you’re okay.”

You end the call and clutch the phone to your chest, trying to steady your breathing.

You didn’t think he was cheating. You didn’t want to think that. But what if he really was with another woman? What if he lied about being late?

“No,” you whisper to yourself. Haechan wasn’t like that. You trusted him. But then why did he sound so strange on the phone? And who was this woman?

Your phone buzzes again, but it’s not Haechan. It’s a message from Sunoo: “Don’t make any assumptions. He looked… scared. Either he’s nervous about getting caught or something else. Be careful. Don’t do anything rash.”

Scared? Your chest tightens as panic fully takes over. Something is horribly wrong.

Without another thought, you grab your coat and keys, determined to find him yourself.

3 HOURS BEFORE THE INCIDENT:

The bar is alive with energy—music thumping, glasses clinking, and conversations overlapping. Haechan sits at a table with his friends, a round of drinks between them. He laughs at something Jaemin says, his head tipping back as he taps the table.

“Another round?” Jaemin asks, holding up his empty glass.

Haechan shakes his head. “I’m good for now. You’re not dragging me into your three-shots-in-five-minutes challenge again.”

“Come on,” Jaemin groans dramatically. “You’re so boring these days, man. What happened to the Haechan who used to party like a legend?”

“He got a girlfriend,” Renjun cuts in, smirking. “And he doesn’t want to die if she finds out he got plastered without telling her.”

The table erupts in laughter, and Haechan just shrugs, grinning. “Hey, priorities. Y/N’s cuter than all of you combined.”

As the guys banter, none of them notice the woman until she’s standing right by their table. Her hair is sleek, her makeup flawless, and her gaze sharp as she focuses entirely on Haechan.

“Hi,” she says, her voice smooth and confident. “I couldn’t help but notice you from across the room.”

Haechan blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Oh. Uh, hi.”

She smiles, leaning in slightly. “You looked like you were having fun, but maybe later… I’ve got a little place nearby. Wanna go?”

The air shifts awkwardly at the table. Although her invitation is innocent, her intentions are clear. Haechan’s friends exchange glances, their smirks fading as they realize what’s happening.

Haechan’s smile is polite but firm. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m good. I’ve got someone waiting for me at home.”

Her smile falters for a split second before she recovers, her tone light but insistent. “Are you sure? It’s not far, and I think you’d enjoy it.”

Haechan shakes his head. “Thanks, but no. Have a good night.”

She lingers for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly, before she finally steps back. “Your loss,” she murmurs, turning on her heel and walking away.

As she moves to a dark corner of the bar, Haechan exhales, muttering, “Well, that was weird.”

Jaemin snorts. “You should’ve seen your face, man.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Haechan says, waving him off. But something about the encounter reminds him of something. He glances toward the woman, and for a fleeting moment, their eyes meet. 

Oh fuck.

15 MINUTES BEFORE THE INCIDENT:

The air is cold against your skin as you hurriedly zip up your jacket and step out into the night. The street feels far too quiet for a Saturday evening, the streetlights casting long, eerie shadows on the pavement. You clutch your phone in your hand, gripping it like a lifeline as your mind races.

Sunoo’s text flashes in your head: “Don’t make assumptions.”

But when Sunoo had told the others, they weren’t so sure. 

“Y/N, maybe you should stop and think,” your friend Jihoon had said on the phone. He had called you as soon as Sunoo relayed the information to him. “I mean, I don’t want to make you upset, but what if… what if Haechan’s just—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” you had snapped, cutting him off. “You think he’s cheating, don’t you?”

There had been a long pause on the other end before Jihoon finally said, “I mean, what else could it be? Sunoo said he was with some girl, right?”

You’d hung up after that, unable to handle the doubt in Jihoon’s voice. But then Giselle called, her tone softer but no less skeptical.

“Y/N, I’m worried about you,” she’d said. “I know you trust Hyuck, but... sometimes people surprise you. Maybe he’s not who you think he is.”

“He’s not cheating,” you’d insisted, though your voice had wavered. “He wouldn’t do that to me.”

“Then where is he?” Minjeong asked, and for a moment, you’d felt your resolve crack.

But now, as you march down the sidewalk, your determination solidifies. You know Haechan. You know how much he loves you. And that phone call—the rushed tone, the way he kept cutting out—wasn’t the voice of someone sneaking around. It was the voice of someone in trouble. At least you thought so.

You stop at the corner of the street, glancing around desperately. There’s no sign of him. You dial his number again, only to be met with voicemail. Your heart pounds harder with each failed attempt to reach him.

Finally, with trembling hands, you call the police.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My boyfriend is missing,” you say, your voice breaking. “I think—I think something’s wrong. He called me earlier, and he sounded…nervous. And now his phone’s off, and my friend saw him with a strange woman—please, I need help.”

The dispatcher asks you a series of questions: Haechan’s description, the last place he was seen, the time of the call. You answer as best as you can, your voice growing shakier with every detail.

“We’ll send an officer to patrol the area,” the dispatcher says. “Please stay where you are and remain calm.”

But you can’t stay put. You hang up and keep walking, your eyes darting to every shadow, every alley.

“Y/N, stop.”

You turn to see Sunoo jogging up to you, his face etched with worry. Behind him are Jihoon and Giselle, who look less concerned and more resigned.

“We told you not to do anything rash. What are you doing?” Jihoon asks, crossing his arms. “The cops will handle it.”

“I can’t just stand around and wait!” you snap. “Something’s wrong, Jihoon. I can feel it.”

“What if there’s nothing wrong?” Giselle says carefully. “Y/N, what if he just… didn’t want you to know where he was going?”

“Stop,” Sunoo interjects, glaring at her. “I told you he looked nervous and scared. You weren’t there. You didn’t see what I saw.”

“Or maybe you’re overthinking it,” Jihoon mutters.

You shake your head, tears pricking your eyes. “I know Haechan. He wouldn’t do this to me. If he hasn’t come back, it’s because he can’t.”

Your voice cracks, and Sunoo places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “We’ll find him,” he says softly. “Let’s just keep looking.”

Jihoon sighs, but he and Giselle reluctantly follow as you start walking again. 

Haechan didn’t betray you. You were going to believe in this. And you’re going to find him, no matter what.

12 HOURS AFTER THE INCIDENT:

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor is the first thing Haechan registers as he slowly comes to. His body feels heavy, his limbs weighted down as though they’re not his own. He tries to move, but the sharp sting radiating from his side stops him.

“Where…” he croaks, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. His throat feels like sandpaper.

“You’re awake.”

The unfamiliar voice makes him flinch. His head turns slowly, and he squints through the bright, sterile light. A nurse stands by his bedside, adjusting the IV bag hanging from a metal pole. She’s wearing a kind smile, but there’s a shadow of concern in her eyes.

“Where am I?” he manages, his voice rasping.

“You’re at St. Mary’s Hospital,” she says gently. “You were brought in last night. Do you remember anything?”

His mind feels like it’s wrapped in fog. He struggles to piece together fragments of memory, but it’s all blurry—flashes of faces, the sound of a scream, and an overwhelming sense of fear. His stomach twists.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits. “What happened?”

The nurse hesitates. “You were found unconscious in the middle of the road. You have some injuries—a fractured rib, a concussion, and some deep bruising. You’re lucky someone called the paramedics when they did.”

Someone. Who? His thoughts race, but they’re disjointed, scattered.

“Was I… alone?” he asks, his voice trembling.

The nurse’s expression flickers with hesitation. “There were others. Two men—they were taken to surgery for more severe injuries—and a woman. She’s stable now but hasn’t regained consciousness yet.”

Haechan’s breath catches. A woman. His mind scrambles for answers. The image of a smile—sharp, too wide—flickers in his memory, and a chill runs down his spine.

“Who… who is she?” he whispers.

“We don’t know yet,” the nurse replies. “The police are looking into it.”

Police.

His heart races, and the beeping of the monitor speeds up with it.

“Easy,” the nurse says quickly, pressing a hand to his shoulder to calm him. “Don’t push yourself too hard. You need to rest.”

Haechan squeezes his eyes shut, trying to slow his breathing. But his mind won’t stop spinning. Through the haze, he catches snippets of conversation from outside the room.

“…police said they found them restrained…”

“…looks like they were attacked…”

“…the woman was armed. Dangerous.”

Haechan’s stomach churns. He wants to ask, to demand answers, but his body betrays him, too weak to do anything but listen.

The nurse finishes adjusting the machines and steps back. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake. If you need anything, press the call button, okay?”

He nods faintly, though he doesn’t feel okay. Not even close.

2 HOURS BEFORE THE INCIDENT:

The bar is alive with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the faint hum of music from the jukebox in the corner. Haechan leans back in his seat, laughing at a joke Jaemin just cracked. His glass is nearly empty, condensation sliding down the sides as he swirls the last bit of his drink absently.

It’s been a good night. Lighthearted, carefree. Exactly what he needed after a long week.

But then, his phone vibrates on the table, cutting through the noise. Haechan picks it up, glancing at the screen casually. The glow of the display reflects in his eyes, and in an instant, the ease in his expression vanishes.

His smile falters. His face drains of color.

The others don’t notice at first, too caught up in their conversation. But as Haechan’s eyes scan the message, his fingers tighten around the phone, his knuckles turning white. His shoulders stiffen, and his breathing becomes shallow.

“Everything okay?” Jaemin asks, nudging him lightly.

Haechan doesn’t answer right away. His gaze is fixed on the screen, his lips pressed into a thin line. His thumb hovers over the screen as though debating whether to respond, but instead, he locks the phone and places it face down on the table.

“I’ll be right back,” he mutters, his voice low.

Jaemin frowns, his brows knitting together. “You good?”

Haechan forces a nod, though his expression betrays him. “Yeah. Just… need some air. Plus I need to make a quick call.”

Without waiting for a response, he grabs his jacket and stands, weaving through the crowded bar toward the exit. His movements are quick but shaky, his shoulders slightly hunched as if trying to make himself smaller.

As he passes by the bar, he doesn’t notice the woman from earlier sitting at the corner, watching him intently. She swirls her drink lazily, her red-painted nails tapping against the glass in a rhythmic pattern.

Her eyes follow him as he pushes open the door and steps into the cold night air. A smirk spreads across her face, sharp and knowing. She lifts her glass, taking a slow sip, and sets it down with deliberate precision.

Her fingers curl around the edge of the glass, tightening until her knuckles strain. The corners of her mouth twitch as if she’s holding back a laugh.

“Right on time,” she murmurs to herself, her voice drowned out by the noise of the bar.

30 MINUTES AFTER THE INCIDENT:

Flashing red and blue lights cast frantic, distorted shadows across the street, the wail of sirens blending with the hum of voices—police officers, paramedics, and onlookers.

You stand frozen at the edge of it all, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Your chest feels like it’s caving in, your pulse racing so fast it blurs the world around you. It’s too much. Too loud. Too bright. Too real.

“Y/N!”

Sunoo’s voice snaps you out of your stupor. He reaches you in seconds, his hands gripping your shoulders as if to anchor you. “Breathe,” he urges, his voice trembling. “You have to breathe.”

But how can you? How can you breathe when the man you love might be—

You blink hard, tears streaming down your face, and your gaze shifts to the ambulance parked nearby. Paramedics wheel someone out on a stretcher, their face obscured by oxygen masks and bloodied bandages.

Haechan.

Your knees buckle, and Sunoo catches you before you hit the ground. “Stay with me,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “He’s alive, Y/N. He’s alive.”

But alive doesn’t mean okay. Alive doesn’t mean safe.

Jihoon and Giselle appear beside you, their faces pale and grim. Giselle’s hand wraps around yours, squeezing tightly. “We don’t know what happened,” she says, her voice hushed but firm. “But he’s in good hands now. They’ll do everything they can.”

You nod, but it’s hollow. Empty. The truth is, you don’t know if anything will be enough.

None of this adds up. And it’s eating at you.

The stretcher disappears into the ambulance, the doors slamming shut behind it. The sirens start again, louder this time, and you flinch as the vehicle speeds away into the night.

“What if this is it?” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Giselle shakes her head. “Don’t think like that.”

But you can’t help it. Your mind spirals, filling in blanks with the worst possible scenarios. Did he crash his car? Was it an attack? Did that woman—

You double over, clutching your stomach as the weight of it all hits you. “I should’ve stopped him,” you sob. “I should’ve done something.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jihoon says firmly, though his own voice shakes. “Whatever happened, it’s not your fault.”

A police officer approaches, his face grim. “Are you Y/N?”

You nod, wiping at your tear-streaked face. “Yes. Is he—what happened? Is he okay?”

The officer hesitates, his eyes flickering to your friends before settling back on you. “We’re still piecing everything together, but… it doesn’t look like an accident.”

Your blood turns cold. “What do you mean?”

“We’ll need your statement,” the officer continues. “But for now, all I can say is… this was deliberate.”

The word hits you like a slap, leaving you breathless.

Deliberate.

“Do you know who might have done this?” the officer asks, pulling out a small notepad.

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out. Because the truth is, you don’t know. You don’t know who she is. You don’t know why Haechan was with her. And you don’t know why this happened.

As the officer steps away, your gaze shifts to the darkened street where it all began. The ambulance is gone, the chaos fading as the night swallows the scene whole.

And as your friends hold you in comfort, you can only wonder. How did everything go wrong?

part 2 maybe 😛😛 ?????

TAGLIST ↬ @lyvhie @aquaphoenixz @galacticnct @yizhrt @polarisjisung @multifandomania @spacejip @peterm4rker @viasdreams @mango-bear

[blackgirlsloveburrow]

NSFW 18+

joe burrow x uc student!reader has been on my mind so this is for my college babes

growing up in ohio, you never really would expect to be in a situation like this.

ohio has a few perks to it, but overall is mostly corn, dingy neighborhoods, and like three big cities.

so how did the top nfl quarterback end up in your bed?

it was kind of hard to look back on as your hangover hurt the harder you tried to think. at least he looked peaceful sleeping next to your hello kitty squishmallow.

shit.

"oh god this is so embarassing," you think out loud. all you remember is going to a dinky bar with your friends after lowkey bombing a history test and then...

oh. now you remember.

the kelces were in town last night. they were of course university of cincinnati alums, and joe burrow was along for their reunion tour. they did a whole interview in fifth third arena, that you got to miss of course because you were crying in your pillow over american history. afterwards they decided to visit the small college bar for the nostalgia, and that's where you saw him and he saw you.

joe was so hot.

everyone was freaking out, you as well on the inside, but you decided to order another vodka cran instead of gathering around them like the rest of the bar was. it was your third drink of the night, so you were definitely feeling it to say the least.

after a while the hype started to die down, and you felt a towering body right next to yours. you looked over and see:

him.

"hey. i'm joe," he said with an awkward smile on his face, sticking out his hand.

you don't feel super nervous, as you had enough liquid courage in your system to form a sentence.

"hi i'm y/n and i definitely know who you are," you laughed and reciprocated his handshake. your friends were behind you freaking out. you cringed a bit.

"i see you're with your friends, but i was wondering if you'd want to come with me to a more private bar? i have a driver out back and i can meet you out there so we don't cause a scene or anything" he said.

okay you definitely drank too much because now you must be hearing things.

"sure! i mean yes haha," you replied, trying to control your excitement.

"cool i'll see you out there y/n".

he walked away. your friends came from behind you, pestering you for the details of you and joe's interaction.

"he just asked how i was doing guys that's all. i do think i am going to head out though. i have to wake up early tomorrow," you told them. it was a pretty solid lie as they just pouted and said their goodbyes.

you made your way through the crowd towards the back door of the bar. someone, probably security, was at the back door and asked for your name. you gave it to them and you walked outside. there were two sleek black cars. one for joe, and one for the kelces. the kelces were still inside, reveling in their hometown glory, so you guessed it would be just you and joe.

the driver opened the door for you and you slid inside. your beat up honda had nothing on this vehicle. you and joe both said hey and he offered you a drink. and who are you to say no to a free drink?

you took it and the driver started going towards your destination. joe asked you questions about yourself and what brought you to the bar that night. you give him details and also embarrassingly told him you flunked a history test.

he laughed, talking about his college experiences and himself as well.

you finished your drink as you both arrived at the bar.

it was really nice. definitely a bar they don't let just anyone go into. luckily you were wearing a slightly cute dress.

joe took your hand as you exited the car. your face got hot at the gesture (or maybe it was the alcohol) and he walked you inside.

he led you to the bar where you guys both ordered some drinks and he started a tab. you guys talked for a while, getting closer and closer with each drink.

"you know i think football is kinda boring," you said without thinking, the alcohol taking over your conversation skills.

"you just have to get to know it better, like how i'm getting to know you better," he replied speaking closely to you.

"you should come to one of my games sometimes," he added.

"i would love to! but only if i can get a ja'marr chase jersey," you joked to him.

"totally not funny, you'd look way better with my name and number on your back," he responded defensively.

before you could respond you heard one of your favorite songs to dance too.

"oh my god! i love this song. come dance with me," you said as you pulled him to the dance floor.

you started swaying your hips to the rhythm of the song with him behind you. he matched your rhythm, putting his hands on your hips, pulling you closer to his hard on. you felt it on your lower back, surprised, and starting to get turned on.

the song finished and you turn around. he grabbed your neck and kissed you. you grabbed the back of his hair and stuck your tongue in his mouth. he kissed you like you were giving him oxygen to breathe.

this led you two out of the club towards the black vehicle, not being able to keep your hands off of each other. you requested to go to your apartment by your college since it's close. and joe just wanting to be inside of you didn't care to object.

you and joe continue to make out in the car. you are rubbing his hard on while he is making hickeys on your neck and grabbing your boobs.

you guys finally got to your apartment, thanked the driver (and probably traumatized him as well), and made your way inside.

you and him rushed to the bedroom, where you and joe immediately started to strip.

joe laid you on the bed where he started to eat you out.

"oh f-fuck joe," you moaned. he sucked your clit, gripping your thighs so that you wouldn't get away from him.

you grabbed his hair, pushing him more into you, which made him grunt in response. he continued pleasuring you for a while.

"i-i'm gonna cum," you whined. this made him get up, kiss you, and flip you over.

"fuck baby you are so wet for me. i wanted to cum just from eating you out," he replied, breathing heavily.

he pulled your ass up into the air, his cock lining up with your hole.

"i want you to cum with me baby," he moans, sticking his girth slowly in your cunt.

oh my god he was so big.

it felt like he was splitting you open in the best way possible. he immediately was hitting your g-spot, having you moan so loud your whole building could probably hear.

he was moaning too, and was gripping your ass so hard as he pulled you into him with deep, hard strokes.

"fuck your little pussy is so perfect baby, he moaned loudly.

you were clawing at your bed sheets, loving how vocal he was too.

"oh daddy i'm gonna cum, oh my god!" you scream. he pulled out, flipping you over again, and reentered you.

"i wanna see your face when you cum for me," he huffs. he's holding your thighs up, fucking you deeper and harder than before. your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you released. he soon followed releasing deep inside of you.

he kissed you. you reciprocated but were quick to fall into a deep sleep, and so was he.

it was an eventful night.

so now that you remember...

you put on an oversized tee and went into the kitchen to make some breakfast. you are pretty much in your own world, thinking about last nights events, until you hear joe walking down the hallway. he has his clothes on. he looks at you sheepishly.

"hey, so i really had a good time last night," he said to you.

"so did i," you replied smiling.

"i hate to do this but i kinda have to go. my manager called and i'm kind of late to a meeting," he says a little embarrassed.

you're face looks disappointed.

"but-," he adds. "here's my number. please call me. i really want to see you again and have you in my jersey in the stands like i talked about last night".

"i would love that," you reply, mood brightening already.

he moves into kiss you passionately, and then leaves.

how are you just supposed to go back to school monday now?

[gotta-winwin]

teleparty celebration 🍊🍕🐯 ~ booseoksoon love languages

as a little something to celebrate bss' comeback !! i present to you... 🥁🥁🥁... booseoksoon and their love languages! specially: things that i do when i'm in love with someone.

playlist ♪: wasteland, baby! and when we are together

"if i am nothing you are the letters that spell it the word that gave it meaning to be nothing to you nothing is everything so when i feel like nothing you look at me and you say my nothing is everything you are everything and i feel just a little bit more okay"

- serena 2023

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Sends you songs that remind him of you

Spotify links are flooded through your chats whenever there’s even a little moment of silence. Seokmin listens to music like it’s a religion and never hesitates to share with you the songs that scream your name. Wasteland Baby! By Hozier and When We Are Together by The 1975 are his go-tos whenever he misses your face. 

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Names his plushies after you

The first time Seokmin brought you over to his apartment you were greeted with a lineup of stuffed animals - all gathered throughout your courting stages or from his friends. He happily introduces you to them all, pointing at each one and stating their name. Each name is clearly a callback to various reminders of you, like Seokmin’s raising his stuffies to the likeness of you.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Starts secretly planning your future 

Although he won’t ever admit it, it didn’t take long for Seokmin to picture your life together - far, far into the future. He can picture you in your wedding dress, at the end of the aisle, a bright and sappy smile on your face as you wait for him to reach you. He’s secretly named all the kids he’d imagine you guys to have, knows the exact family home he’d love to share with you, and has your retirement planned out as well - only in his head.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Bakes 

Cupcakes, cookies, muffins, cake - literally anything recipe he can get his hands on. It served as an excuse to see you in the earlier stages of your relationship, always sending you a text asking if you wanted a piece of anything he made last night. 

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Texts you every small thing

It’s not every little thing, but pretty much. Random pieces of his day are littered through your chat history - if anyone ever needed to track Seungkwan’s footsteps, your chat history is the way to go. 

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Brings you to his favourite spots

Seungkwan calls them his “secret alcoves,” privy to only him and no one else. The first time he brought you to one of them he had talked it up to be a big deal, stating “i’ve never done this before,” “you’re the first person i’ve ever brought here,” “we’re basically married if I bring you here” - and it is a big deal to him.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Stares at the sunset and thinks of you

Sunsets are one of Soonyoung’s favourite things to look at - a close second to you. Although he often sends you pictures of the brightly colored orange and pink sky, sometimes he just stares, keeping the sunset to himself as he basks in the nostalgia and love coursing through him. “The sunset signifies the end of the day.” He explains when you ask him why he loves it so much. “And the end of the day is when I get to see you.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Write his name with your last name

Soonyoung hates to admit it because it makes him sound like a lovesick teenager (which he really is) but sometimes, when he’s extremely bored, he’ll find himself scrawling his name with yours on a scrap piece of paper - just to see how it’d look. 

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Your enemies are his enemies 

He loves to yap with you whenever you need a release of anger. He’ll side-eye your enemies without a second's hesitation. Soonyoung’s always operated with the belief that loyalty comes before all, not just in relationships, but in general. He’s loyal to you in the sense that - your friends are his friends and your enemies are his as well. It’s just another way to show you that he’s got your back.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Do you think of Ginny as a “pick me girl”? Some of the things you say in your post makes her come across as that, which is sad since she is a strong female character and there’s so many m|m bloggers who shitting on strong female characters these days.

I don't know if you're just looking for a fight or if you're genuine, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt about this subject once.

Yes, I think Ginny comes off as a bit of a "pick me" which I already wrote about here, which I don't think was intentional on JKR's part. I don't think Ginny was intended to come off the way she did.

Like, Ginny in the early books is just, really boring, in my opinion. and I think Ginny in book 5 had the potential to be an interesting character. She had a good sense of humor and she seemed somewhat in line with the twins (though on the crueler side), but I despise Ginny of books 6 and 7.

Like, all power to you for like Ginny and her romance with Harry. Truly, have fun with your canon pairing, I wish you the best and that you find many fics that portray them just as you like to see them.

But I don't see them that way. I think Ginny is a badly written character, and I think her romance with Harry is similarly badly written. It has nothing to do with gay ships. Trust me, if Harry was written into a compelling romance with a well-written female character, I'd be all over that. But he wasn't.

I mean, hell, I don't even ship Drarry, which is the most popular gay ship for Harry because I don't like Draco much. I think he's written well for what he is in the story, but I just don't vibe with him.

Becouse I don't need an excuse to dislike a character or a pairing. I can give my reasons, I have them, but I'm (and anyone else is) allowed to say I just don't vibe with a character. Even if Ginny was the best-written character in literature (she isn't) and her romance with Harry was perfectly written (it isn't) I could still shit on her as much as I want to, you know why?

Becouse she's fictional.

Fictional characters can't be offended. You can't be mean to a fictional character. Because fictional characters don't have feelings. They're not real.

You can say you personally find it sad people don't like Ginny the way you do, and you can be personally disappointed — but it isn't objectively sad. It isn't sad for Ginny becouse Ginny isn't real and only real people have feelings. It's sad to you, that's your opinion.

I love Harry, he's my favorite and I made it no secret, but I have good irl friends who shit on him in casual conversation and I can laugh with them when they make a funny joke about him even when we disagree, you know why? — we agree to disagree. We know Harry is fictional and that he doesn't care. Because he isn't real, he can't care.

So, for me, it doesn't matter if you shit and hate on fictional characters and fictional relationships as long as you're decent to real people.

You aren't a misogynist for disliking a female fictional character. She's fictional. She isn't real. You would be a misogynist if you mistreated irl women because they're women. In the same vein, you aren't a homophobe for disliking a popular gay ship. You would be a homophobe if you mistreated irl gay people because of their sexuality. You aren't wrong for disliking a fictional character or ship for any reason, even if the reason is just "vibes". You would be a dick if you mistreated irl people because they don't think the same as you about a fictional character or ship.

I personally find it sad that fandom seems to have lost the ability to say "agree to disagree" and move on (if the ability ever existed in the first place). I follow some blogs who shit on HJP himself because they post other stuff I find compelling. I follow blogs that post a lot of Drarry because I like how they write Harry even if I don't really care for Draco. You can like someone and enjoy their writing and be friendly with them even if you don't agree with them on some fictional characters and fictional relationships. And if it really bothers you, you can block and move on as many of us do.

So yeah, I think Ginny comes off as a "pick me." I think she's a badly written character, and you can disagree with me on that, you can think she's a strong female character, but that's your opinion, not an objective truth. And I dislike her for being a badly written character, which, I assure you, is gender-natural.

I also think it's important to remember that at the end of the day, we're all just playing with dolls, and the only feelings that matter are those of real people.

[karmaajr]

HEYO Y'ALL!!!! I got bored and decided my last intro post was WAY too unorganised (even by my standards frfr 😔😔🙏) so i made a new one!!! hopefully this ones a bit better or else ima light somebody on fire 🥰🥰

anyways dms n asks r ALWAYS open and if ur new to my person-being-blog-whatevs and wanna get to know me or smth then FEEL FREE TO SLIDE IN GIRLYPOPS!!! I'M ALWAYS BORED SOO 😭😭🙏 (might take like, a billion years to reply tho mbmb >:3)

and thus again, without any further ado, MY INTRO POST 😍

🎶 try to strike a chord but it's probably A MINOR 🎶 -> ✨️im under 18✨️ idm nsfw convos tho bcuz theyre funny :D

sooo tbh you can call me whatever you want? like ppl call me different things (eg senka calls me kam, bea calls me keke/kekere bcuz shes 🎶a meanie, a big meanie🎶 my irl bestie westie pookie poo calls me jeena CUZ HES A LIL BITCH) but MHM!!! CALL ME WHATEVER U WANNA <33 (as long as it dont feel masc bcuz my dumbass got issues w feeling masc for some RANDOM STUPID REASON 💀) (like im literally a cis girl why do i got problems w this....... but YAAAA 😭) (she/her btw!!! if that wasnt obvious!! ^^)

✨️i am cringe but i am free✨️

I SOMETIMES USE GENDERED TERMS LIKE GIRLY/BRO/DUDE/ETC BUT I DON'T MEAN IT GENDERED SO IF YOU FEEL IFFY THEN DONT HESITATE TO HMU N TELL ME TO FIX UP MY SHIT

btw im a tad bit of train wreck but if u enjoy the chaos then we'll get along js fine i think pooks 😋😋

anyways it came to my shitty little attention span one day when i was just being a silly lil girly that some of yall think im white when i say im british....... CHAT NOOO IM BORN N RAISED IN THIS TEA RIDDEN COUNTRY BUT ETHNICITY WISE IM BANGLADESHI!??!?! YALL IM LITERALLY A BROWNIE OMFDS 🤧

also a lot of this blog is a bunch of reblogs of shit im interested in BUT I DO HAVE OG STUFFFFFF, THEY'RE JUST IN THEIR OWN TAGS U GET ME??? anyways some of the tags!!!

karmaajr rambles -> for everything i post besides answers to asks :3

karmaajr answers ig :D -> answers to asks ^^

important thing for me to tag bcuz yes -> random thing i really wanna save (also im bad at tagging so sometimes thing has an "s" or tag has an "s" lmfao, ITS A RLLY USELESS TAG TO TRY SCROLL THRU ICL.... RLLY DRY AS WELL)

karmas mum mentions :3 -> i like to think this one explains itself yall 😘

daddy's unhinged -> anything about my sweet ol' pops (who totes cares abt me yall) 🥰

my sister and I -> anything my sister is involved in that i actually remember to tag LMFAO

NOT MY ASS MENTIONING PANIK -> me wanting to save things that r to do w my gf 🫶

BTW HIS @ IS @panikbutt0n AND SHE'S MY MAPLE SYRUP CHUGGING 4LIFER AND LITERALLY THE BEST THING SINCE RIPPED BREAD AND I LOVE HER SO SO SO MUCH SO ACC HIT HER UP PLZ 🙏🙏🙏🙏

btw yall, ur homegirl aint no gatekeeper so the group matching pfp thingy is from @tuturthecarvroom 's blog (n they very skibidi sbg art btw so i do reccomend frfr) and mY HEADER IS OFF GOOGLE SEARCH 😍😍

ALSO I AM CURRENTLY MATCHING WITH THE SILLIEST GROUP EVER FRFR, GONNA TRY @ THEM ALL BUT IT'S HARDDD (my memory is the shittiest thing since That One Time my friend shit his trousers on call w me 💪💪💪)

@lee1504 -> BRAINROTTED KING 🙏🙏

@d011zk1ll -> both kind af and somewhat unhinged??? like both "do a good deed to make somebody else's life easier ☺️" AND "im gonna eat a bicycle :p"

@sketchingwithlyn -> JUST THE CHILLEST GUY EVERRRR!!!!

@rot-decay-erosion -> gramps 🧓🏻 (also known as the desendant of our king garfield 😙✨️)

@afrogwhocantdraw -> RESIDENT BENLOR POOKIE

@low-senka -> the brokest senior citezen youve ever met 💔💔💔💔 (yall need to donate to my guy 🥺🥺🥺)

(also the thing below had me stuck looking at it for literally AGES so hehehehehhehehe GET TRAPPED IDIOT!!!!!! >:3!!!!!)

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(dots r fun)

anyways i have no clue what else to write!!! which is weird bcuz im a yapper frfr :D

ANYWAYS LOVE Y'ALL ✨️✨️✨️

WAIT

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THEY 👥 DONT🙅🏼‍♀️ LOVE 😘 YOU 🫵🏼 LIKE I 👀 LOVE 🥰 YOU 🫵🏼🫵🏼🫵🏼

[glitter-covered-bodybag]

I don't think we talk about how awful the Dubai penthouse really is. I mean look at the dining room.

HUGE table that encourages distance (especially as there's only 2 of them living here). When it's only Louis with his little bowls of blood he's gonna sit there alone with the heaps of space available at this table and no one else sat at it and be reminded that he really is alone. The bland walls with only a painting or two. The crisp and cleaners of everything. No warmth.

Then there's Louis's (supposedly) relaxation room with Armand's magnolia tree and Armand's library. A library that book-obsessed Louis cannot access. He's wholly dependent on Armand to retrieve things from it. "Please daddy Armand, may I have a book?" 😒 We literally see this when Louis asks to see the removed pages. Those belonged to Claudia, Louis's companion/sister/daughter. Why should that be something he has to ask for? Bare, grey walls like concrete. Like a prison. White stones in the zen garden the same as those Louis was buried in.

Then the bedroom. LOOK AT THIS BED. ITS MADE OF ROCKS. You CANNOT convince me this is comfortable to sleep in. The width of it meaning Louis and Armand can sleep entirely separately. The coffins, padded as they were look so much more comfortable and we know Louis likes laying in his coffin more than a bed from when he was recovering from the full body burns and asked to be put in his coffin even though the room was sun-proof and he would have been safe on the bed. Then the bars surrounding the bedroom. He's sleeping in a cell. (I've seen other people point out the similarity between the bars over the arches and the turning of Louis which is a detail I LOVE for reasons unrelated to this post. Here's a visual)

Everything is controlled through Armand's iPad. Armand controls the lighting. Armand controls the window shades. It just shows this unequal dynamic between Louis and Armand. "Armand protects my happiness"?? No, Armand is the one with the power here. You're his pet. You're his ward. Armand is an owner, a parent, almost a jailer (I'm not saying Louis can't leave or Armand is Evil, at all, just that the power dynamic is heavily tipped towards Armand as he tries to prevent a repeat of San Francisco. I wholeheartedly think he's just so overprotective that it tips into unhealthy territory). Louis doesn't do anything for himself. This is not how romantic relationships work. This is the first clue that their relationship is not what it seems, the first sign that Armand is trying to keep control of the narrative.

There is not one thing that shows me that Louis enjoys his space. Nothing to show it's lived in. It's cold and plain and boring. Compare to Daniel's apartment, a man who has had a long successful career and also lives alone.

Warm. A little messy. Lived in. An apartment of Daniel's size is hardly cheap either. But you can feel that Daniel's space is Daniel's space. The Dubai penthouse has no identity. I know this is just a modern, high-value aesthetic but there are so many other 'rich person' aesthetics that could be adopted that would be comfortable. Even keeping the clean lines. Look at these...

Still clean, still modern but warm. Everything about the penthouse is depressing to me.

[annakabeybeh]

Batman & Robin #17 Review

I don't know if there's too much or too little to unpack here. I'm really loving this chapters and leaving me wanting more. It's steady and calm in the pacing without feeling boring. It's just perfect. Little by little it's opening the story of Memento and I absolutely love it.

The mix of past and present could be a little annoying to some but I feel it has a good effect because even if tells you almost nothing it still gives you a precedent of things to happen.

I love the way Damanian's character is being build, it's a change from his always sure demeanor. He always had doubts about himself but he tried to no show them so this Damian is a nice breath for his development.

Spoilers ahead

This panel is important.

1st Is he talking about the way he was raised? Talia and Ras or was a small backhanded comment about Bruce? It could be both but I love the idea of it being about Bruce. Yes, Damian is intellingent and brilliant for his age but that doesn't mean that he should be doing what he's doing. He might at that moment saying that Bruce could be more and do more by being a normal citizen than as Batman and it is a good take, boring in comic sense but it is an amazing take.

2nd The doubt about the need of Batman in Gotham, it is a issue talked about in a book I read, Batman and Psychology. The question is Batman the reason everything happens or everything happens and that's why Batman is needed. The question as far as I know has arose outside comics not in them and this being questioned for me it is interesting. It's a doubt beyond capacity of a character but more of need and reason (Do I make sense? I hope so)

This panel is something that I feel writers had made Bruce do over and over again. Bruce blames others for his failiures (Blamed Dick for Jason's death. Tried to guilt trip Jason about Damian's death -DAMN BRUCE, FUCK YOU!- and he even blamed and guilt tripped Damian about Alfred's death -Again, Fuck you Bruce) but this goes beyond that in my opinion, why? Because this is a Bruce that relies on his Robin, he's not an accessory, he's an extension of himself and it was shown not only with this interaction but with the chapter before but it also goes beyond just passing blame because it also shows that Damian is getting away and he doesn't like that.

Is this just jealousy of a parent as he watch his son drift away?

Damian had been raised to be a villain or a vigilante, his choice nevertheless and his connection with Thomas Wayne was bigger than Bruce expected. He understood him and he liked him, in a way that Damian might not like Bruce but in the way Damian liked and loved Alfred. I love the idea that Damian is seeing Dr. Bashar's as some sort of Alfred's substitute (I do not trust the man but Damian needed that support because let's be honest Bruce is not that, not for Damian and not for anyone.) This show Damian in a nutshell. A person that sees the world and sees not only what's infront of him but what it can be. He sees he can be bigger and better than what he's that moment.

I mean Bruce, your ego, keep it in check. He should have done this since the beggining but he didn't because of his ego but now that Damian is interested in someone else, looking up someone that is not him he became this kind of person. That's what I feel. I find it funny and it will funnier that there's nothing to doubt the man.

This interesting. She had been suspicion that Jack is Batman but this is not a comfimation of the suspicion but to show that despite everything Damian is Bruce's son and I love it. They're different but similar. I feel that this is like comfirming that he won't stop being Robin (Don't do that to me, I need more Damian content I love him so much).

The team up with Jason is something that would fuel more disputes between Bruce and Damian. Some sort of jealousy from both of them and I love the idea, they need to communicate but they are too stuborn to do so. Damian's fears and doubts about himself and what he thinks Bruce wants from him push him to not tell him stuff. That kind of stuff was something he shared with Alfred and he hadn't found someone to confide in so Bashar had stepped because he communicates and Bruce hadn't communicated he never had ease Damian's worries.

The title of the new chapter seems Chef's kiss to me. A reference to both Death in the family and Death of the Family. I have big expectations in next chapters. Tbh this is what Damian is for me.

[shiny-jr]

I read the ignihyde update, and idk if it was just my mood that day or your writing this chapter but i tell ya i breezed right through it. it flowed so nicely i was like "bruh, i dont even like the hercules movie that much but now im interested in watching it again"

the way you wrote idia was also interesting and it made me remember that although he's a sad sack, he is also quite normal and snarky. like, the dude refers to himself as a nerdy freak but really he's just a nerd and not really a freak, and i think you really captured and portrayed that idea very well.

also it wasnt until i reached the end and i was really absorbing everything i read and then i thought about ortho being "pain" in the pain and panic duo and i realized "oh THAT'S why he's so violent and like relishes in torturing others and is so graphic" that was a GENIUS move. like, ortho IS violent in-game, and really casual about his lasers and like exacting revenge on students who wrong him (can't remember if that was dorm uniform vignette or not), so of course the role of Pain really fit him seemlessly.

it was a fine addition to the damnation series. good luck with diasomnia!

Hold on. What do you mean you don't like Hercules? It is legit one of the best movies of the Disney Renaissance age. The only movie that tops it, hands down, without any debate, is The Hunchback of Notre Dame. I need to calm down.

Yes, Idia. Okay, so I noticed a few comments on my last post in regards to the topic of Idia. When I said, "Hot take, y'all. I'm about to say it. I'm tired of nervous stuttering Idia." I meant that others tend to write him like that, and it really gets boring because it happens so much! I mean, I was never a big fan of it in the first place, but yeah, just clarifying what I meant. Spice it up a bit, you know what I mean? He's much more than just an anxious mess.

As for Ortho, I'm so glad people are appreciating how I wrote him, because that little dude is most definitely not normal. Sort of related to my complaint of how people write Idia, most people write Ortho as just this cheery little guy and they blatantly ignore how terrifying he really is. I mean, we've seen mention of it and even moments throughout several events and parts of the story. Really, making him one of the imps just made sense. Add to the fact that the imps do some really horrible things in the movie and such, and how Ortho is not above wrecking havoc in order to achieve his goals, it just fit together so perfectly.