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harmless-variety-of-garden-snake · 19 hours ago

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It's the last day of Fluffebruary. My heart. Today's fill is: Marriage Proposals. I do reference the fills for days one, thirteen, nineteen (sort of), twenty-three, and twenty-six in this one. MCU has nothing on me. There's also switching POV, which I note by doing two lines of dashes. Time jumps within the POV are marked by one line of dashes. You can also read this on AO3 here. Tagging @bucktommyfluffebruary

Buck ambushes Bobby when he gets out of the bathroom, because he’s been trying to get Bobby alone all day.

“I need your advice,” he begs, and Bobby turns toward him with an expectant look on his face. “Is it ethical for me to get my boyfriend really drunk so he doesn’t wake up when I try to measure his ring size?”

Bobby blinks at him and shifts his weight to put his hands on his hips, his body language radiating exasperation and paternal disappointment. “Kid, what the hell do you think my answer’s going to be?”

He winces. “That I should’ve asked Chimney if I wanted a ‘yes’?”

“Probably.” He smiles and reaches out to squeeze Buck’s shoulder, jostling him a bit. “I’m happy for you two.”

“Thanks,” Buck says, smiling and finally not feeling like he’s going to shake out of his skin for the first time since he woke up that morning. “Any ideas?”

“You guys don’t have the same size hands?”

Buck flushes. “No, ah—his are a little bigger. Broader. His fingers are—I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed how big they are.”

Bobby raises an eyebrow, his hand retreating from Buck’s shoulder. “Can’t say I have.”

“Really? It’s, like, the second thing I noticed about him,” Buck says incredulously, and Bobby’s other eyebrow goes up. “Right. Okay, yeah. Straight guys don’t usually notice other guys’ hands.”

“Not unless I need to,” Bobby confirms. “Notice anyone else’s hands that might be the same size?”

Buck thinks about it for a moment and then it hits him. “Actually, yeah. I think I have. Thanks, Bobby.”

“Anytime, kid. Good luck. Let me know if you need anything,” he says, turning and wisely exiting the situation. Buck probably shouldn’t have gotten all gooey about how big Tommy’s hands are. To be fair, they're big and his fingers are thick.

“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling out his phone.

Well, he might as well get a reference photo while he’s at it.

–

Sal slides into the booth across from him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Buck drops the beer mat he’s been playing with and looks around to make sure no one’s listening before leaning in. “What’s your ring size?”

He smirks and lifts his beer to his lips. “Why, Buckley, you know I’m a married man. You willing to fight it out with Gina or is this a side-piece situation?”

“Shut up,” Buck groans, sitting back as Sal cackles. “Also, Gina would gut me.”

“And dump you in a river,” Sal confirms. “You trying to make an honest man of our Tommy?”

Buck flushes and shrugs, picking up the beer mat again and running his finger along the edge. “Hoping to.”

“Good for you, kid. Thirteen and a half.” Buck’s head snaps up, and Sal’s got a real, genuine smile on his face. “But you can get ‘em resized pretty easy. What's yours?”

“E-eleven, I think?” he guesses, trying to remember the last time he'd looked. “Maybe a ten and a half. I don't really wear rings.”

Sal grins and holds out his beer. “Better get used to it.”

Buck feels a smile creep across his face and sighs, lifting his own beer to tap against Sal’s. “Hopefully.”

“I think you'll be okay.”

–

“Ten and a half,” Sal says, dropping onto Tommy's couch.

“What?” Tommy asks from where he's trying to get a pebble out of the tread of his boots.

“His ring size. Ten and a half, maybe eleven.” He puts his socked feet up on the coffee table and shrugs. “I'd go with eleven, it's easier to size down.”

The knife he's using slips and almost slices across Tommy's hand. “What? How—how?”

Sal smirks. “I have my ways.”

Tommy drops the boot and sits back on his heels with a heavy sigh. “Okay. So—I’m doing this. Am I really doing this? It feels soon, right?”

“Couldn't tell you. But from where I'm sitting,” he says, sweeping his hand across to gesture at the living room or maybe the house or just Tommy's entire life, “you two built something together. Just keep building. We don't usually get to live too long—if it's not a fire, it's a building falling on you or a bolt of lightning or cancer. And you're already middle-aged, Maso. You got your boy, he's not going anywhere. Just put it on paper.”

“You're right.” Tommy stands and shakes out the tingling that’s settling into his hands. “Thanks.”

“‘S why I’m here,” Sal says, crossing his arms over his chest. “And the free booze.”

Tommy snorts. “You thought it was free? Buddy, your tab’s been running for years. I’ll finally be able to pay off the mortgage when you settle up.”

Sal looks offended at that. “Hey, just for that, find a new best man.”

“I didn’t ask,” Tommy points out.

“Who the hell else you gonna ask?” Sal shoots back, getting to his feet. “Your other best friend?”

Sal comes around the table and engulfs him in a tight, back-slapping hug, which just turns into a hug.

“Thanks again,” Tommy says as they pull apart.

“Love you, brother,” he says, holding his face and pressing a smacking kiss to his cheek. He reminds Tommy of his Prozio Aldo so much sometimes, especially when he does shit like that. “Let’s go cut down a tree.”

“We’re just trimming it,” Tommy reminds him.

“Uh-huh.” Sal steps around him to grab his boots and starts walking toward the back of the house. “You say that now, but wait ‘til I get a few more in me. You’ll be lucky to have a yard by the time I’m done.”

–

He’s pacing outside the station until he hears Maddie call his name, and he whirls around to see her approaching with a tray of something. They’re doing a late holiday potluck, having passed Christmas and New Year’s, and Tommy had made sure she would be coming.

“Hey!” he says, folding her into a side-hug before taking the tray from her. “Can we, uh, hang out here for a second? Just waiting for Bobby and Athena.”

Maddie’s brows pinch together for a moment. “Sure. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, realizing he probably looks like he’s going to pass out. “Yeah, I promise.”

Bobby steps around the corner, glancing over his shoulder, Athena close behind. “Hey. Sorry, kid’s trying to get my damn dry rub recipe again and keeps cornering me. What’s going on?”

Tommy looks between their expectant faces and wants to dive head-first into whatever Maddie’s brought, which smells like it could be something with apples and brown sugar. “I wanted to ask you guys something. I kind of thought maybe Howie should be here, but he can’t keep a secret at all.”

“He can’t,” the three agree in unison.

He exhales slowly, realizing he’s been barely breathing for the last few minutes. “I wanted to ask you guys something—”

“You already said that,” Bobby points out, and Athena elbows him.

“I know it’s old-fashioned,” he admits. “And kind of backwards, because it’s really his decision, not yours, but you guys are his family. But I am kind of old-fashioned, I guess.”

“Tommy,” Athena says firmly, catching his eye. “Ask us.”

He swallows and looks at the tray and then back at them. “Can I maybe have your blessing to—to ask Evan to marry me?”

Maddie’s hands go to her mouth as she lets out a gasp, and Bobby’s looking at him with a wide, knowing smile. Athena looks proud, probably having sussed him out the second he walked into the station earlier.

“Yes!” Maddie squeals, hugging him around his middle and almost upending the tray. “Yes, absolutely a yes.”

“Yeah,” Bobby agrees, and Athena nods.

“What’d you think we were gonna say?” she asks, and Tommy shrugs helplessly. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Do you think he’ll say yes?” he asks, letting Maddie take the tray back from him.

“Oh, absolutely,” Bobby says, pulling him into a hug. “I think you’ll be fine.”

–

It’s been almost a year since they got back together. Buck doesn’t want to do anything too big, because then too many things can go wrong and there’s all the added pressure. He’s heard horror stories from people who got proposed to in big, public settings who felt obligated to say yes. He won’t do that to Tommy. Tommy melts under romantic gestures, but actually important moments tend to be smaller and quieter. They’d gotten back together in the privacy of a cockpit, they’d agreed to move in together while they were wrapped up in each other on a picnic blanket, they’d talked about marriage and kids in the privacy of their own house and cars and in corners at parties. He’s got no problem screaming how much he loves Tommy from the rooftops, but some stuff is theirs.

He asks Tommy if he wants anything particular for dinner, and Tommy surprises him by saying Miceli’s.

“You really want to risk it?” Buck teases.

“Hey, I like their food,” Tommy protests.

Buck nods. “It’s good. Good enough to risk us breaking up a third time, though?”

Tommy crowds him up against the bathroom counter and wraps an arm around his waist. “You really think I’d let you go again?”

The casual possessiveness does things to Buck, and he shakes his head, swallowing hard as his eyes flick down to Tommy’s lips. “Seven?”

“Six,” Tommy says, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his throat. “I want to get home early.”

Buck shivers, and then he’s leaning against the bathroom counter alone.

“See you tonight, sweetheart.”

He licks his lips and nods. “See you. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” Tommy replies, swooping back in for a quick kiss that turns into a long kiss until Tommy pulls his head back with a gasp. “Eddie’s gonna kill me if I flake on him.”

Buck finally releases his boyfriend and waits for him to leave their room and then listens for the sound of the garage door opening. When he’s sure he’s alone in the house, he goes to his duffel bag and digs down until he comes up with a drawstring bag containing a ring box.

“Alright, don’t Buck this up,” he mutters, kissing the box and shoving it in his pocket.

–

Tommy is going to have a fucking heart attack. He feels like he needs Valium on an IV drip. He and Eddie are skipping basketball so he can pick up the ring, because Tommy had been too nervous to keep it anywhere Evan could find it.

When he finally has the small bag in his hands, he climbs into Eddie’s truck and has to do box breathing so he won’t pass out.

“Dude, you flew into a hurricane,” Eddie reminds him.

“Uh-huh.”

“People used to shoot at you.”

“Yep.”

Eddie looks at the bag and then at Tommy’s face. “I mean, I get it, but maybe you should chill for a bit before we go to the next stop.”

They’re getting Tommy a new suit, because he has two, and one of them was worn to a cowboy’s funeral and the other one was worn to Maddie and Howie’s reception/anniversary party. Evan’s seen him in both of them, he needs a new one. He’s picked that out also and had to get it altered, because he always has to get suits altered or they hang on him weird.

“No, we gotta go,” Tommy says, trying to relax. “Let’s go.”

–

Tommy looks good. Tommy always looks good, but Buck loves seeing him in a suit. He’d loved getting him out of the last one he saw him in, he’s definitely going to love getting him out of this one. It’s simple—black jacket, trousers, and tie with a white shirt—but it’s form-fitting and makes him look like James Bond. He’s glad they’d joked about dressing like they were going to a Michelin-star restaurant, because this is a good look for Tommy.

Buck’s skipped the tie, going for a burgundy suit with a white shirt that Hen had helped him pick out. The shirt has a high collar with no lapels that he’s never worn before and doesn’t use a tie, but it’s also a little tight. Buck hopes he doesn’t somehow stop breathing. Wouldn’t be the first time on a date, and it would suck if it happened on this particular one.

“Look at you,” Tommy murmurs, slipping his arm around Buck’s waist under his suit jacket. “Wanna stay in and fool around instead?”

“Not a chance,” Buck teases, drawing Tommy into a toe-curling kiss. “I wanna show you off.”

–

They Uber to the restaurant, since Buck is too nervous to drive and Tommy says he didn’t get enough sleep. They also want to drink a bit, though Buck’s going to take it slow until he has something to celebrate or needs to soften a rejection.

Their table is a little toward the back, and it’s quiet near them with no one immediately nearby. It’s perfect.

They make it through most of a pitcher of beer and their entrees, and Buck starts to feel like it all might come back up. He taps rhythmically against his knee to ground himself and keep himself from just bursting out everything he’s thinking.

“Hey,” he says, and Tommy looks up from the dessert menu, as though he doesn’t already have it memorized, “so I’ve been thinking about some stuff. Nothing bad, I promise. It’s, uh, good, actually? I think. I hope.”

Tommy sets the menu down and looks pleasantly confused. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s great,” he says, grinning and leaning in a bit, drawn to Tommy always. “I’ve just—there’s so much stuff in our lives that’s unpredictable, you know? Especially with what we do. We talked about this a while ago, I don’t know if you remember? The whole ‘safe haven’ thing.”

“Of course I remember,” Tommy says, smiling and reaching across to take Buck’s hand.

“Good,” Buck says, turning his hand over and wrapping his fingers around Tommy’s. “I’ve thought about it a lot. You’re this steadying force in my life, this thing I’ve been looking for since I can remember. Most of my days are unpredictable, some of them are terrible, and I have an eye in that storm and it’s you. You give me peace and love and comfort. You’re the calm and the safety that I’ve been looking for every single day of my life.”

Tommy’s face softens. “Evan, you’re that for me, too. You’re more than I ever knew to look for. God, I couldn’t have dreamed I’d ever meet someone like you, let alone be lucky enough to love you and be loved by you.”

Buck’s heart starts racing in his chest, because it’s time, and he pushes his chair back so he can get up and come around to Tommy, who looks thrown.

–

Evan is standing next to him and Tommy wants to grab him and put him back on his chair, but when he starts to rise, Evan’s hand presses on his shoulder.

“Just—I don’t know what else to say here,” Evan says, reaching into his pocket and lowering himself onto one knee. “I just want to know if you’ll marry me, Tommy.”

That—that’s his line.

Tommy feels like the air’s been vacuumed out of his lungs, and he doesn’t think he has hands anymore. Or feet. The top half of his head might be gone, too.

“Oh–I—oh,” he gasps when Evan opens the ring box he’s holding. His hands are shaking when he does it. “I—Evan.”

He pushes his chair back and reaches into the pocket of his own trousers before kneeling in the cramped space between this side of the table and the wall. Evan’s eyes are teary and a little confused, and then Tommy holds up his own box, opening it to reveal the ring.

“Will you marry me?” he asks, and Evan’s face crumples before he claps his free hand over his mouth to hold back a noise Tommy’s never heard him make. It’s like a laugh, a cry, and a sob all at once. Tommy's own eyes start to flood with tears even though he's also laughing, because this is ridiculous.

They grasp each other’s faces and laugh and kiss, and then they’re hugging. There’s noise near them—clapping?—and Tommy presses his nose to Evan’s jaw.

“That was a ‘yes,’ by the way,” he whispers, and Evan laughs against his shoulder.

–

He didn’t know. He’d been so focused on his own anxiety that he hadn’t noticed Tommy’s. But there’s a ring on Buck’s finger, and he can’t stop staring at it or the one on Tommy’s.

“How’d you get my ring size?” Tommy asks.

“Sal,” Buck replies, and Tommy laughs. “What?”

“That’s how I got yours.”

Buck remembers Sal asking him, hadn’t thought much of it because it was relevant to the conversation, and laughs. “God, he’s going to be—”

“Insufferable.”

“—the worst,” Buck agrees.

Tommy brushes his thumb over Buck’s ring and smiles. “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked your sister, Bobby, and Athena for their blessing. I asked Howie earlier this week.”

Buck bites his lip and leans in to prop his chin on his free hand. “I asked Bobby if it was unethical to get you drunk so I could measure your finger.”

“It is,” Tommy says, rolling his eyes when Buck shrugs. “But—so everyone knew?”

“Yep.”

“And they still let us—”

“Yep.”

Tommy huffs out a laugh. “Bastards.”

Buck tugs his hand close so he can kiss his knuckles. “Let’s go home.”

Their server appears a few moments later when Tommy flags her down, and she places a bag on the table with a smile.

“Your desserts—packaged to go and on the house. There’s some extras in there, too,” she says, stepping back. “And your dinner was paid for by another patron. Have a great night, guys, and congratulations.”

Someone had already sent them a video and someone else sent photos via AirDrop, and Buck twists around to see if he can figure out who paid. The people who had sent the pictures and video were gone. No one else is paying them any particular attention.

It’s outside, they’re standing in the same spots they had almost two years before, but Buck has his arms around Tommy’s waist this time. This time, they have rings on their fingers, and they’re getting into the same car and going to their home. Where he imagines they’ll have intense celebratory sex followed by celebratory desserts eaten out of take-out containers while they drape themselves over their couch in their underwear.

“C’mere,” Tommy says, holding up his phone.

Buck smiles for the photo, holding up his left hand alongside Tommy’s.

–

In the Uber, Tommy sends the photo to the ‘Fire Family’ group chat with the message: We said yes!

There’s a flurry of emojis and congratulatory messages and questions about when the wedding is. He turns the screen off on his phone and links his hand with his fiancé’s on the middle seat.

“Think we can plan a wedding in under a year?” he asks.

Evan scoffs. “Give me a clipboard and a budget, we’ll be married in six months.”

Tommy smiles and leans over to kiss his cheek. “The sooner the better.”

“In a rush?” Evan teases, smiling at him in the dim light.

“To spend the rest of my life as your husband? A little. Kind of wish I could’ve done it a long time ago. Like, years ago, even though I didn’t know you then,” he admits, and Evan smiles, making a soft noise. “Hm?”

“Something Hen said,” Evan says, shaking his head. “‘You’ll go to bed and wake up every day wishing you’d found each other sooner. ‘Cause life is so damn good that everything before him felt like wasted time.’”

Tommy’s heart slams against his sternum. “Yeah.”

Evan lifts their hands to kiss the back of Tommy’s, tucking it against his cheek. “She said that, and I knew I was going to marry you. I didn’t hope I’d do it or think I’d do it. I knew.”

“I was sitting in a park and had just asked you to move in with me, and I knew I’d have eloped with you that day if you asked.”

“So about three weeks after I talked to Hen.” Evan chuckles and turns his head to kiss his hand again before lowering their hands back onto the seat. “You ever think we’re meant to be sometimes?”

“Sometimes,” Tommy agrees lightly, and it’s his turn to kiss Evan’s hand, his lips landing right next to his ring.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fluffebruary #my fic

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magicalqueennightmare · 1 day ago

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Meeting Belle

Bucky Barnes x Reader (Nicknamed Belle)

You've been best friends with Sarah since high school so when you go to take her boys to school and there's a man on her couch you don't know, you're a bit concerned

You had promised Sarah you’d take the boys to school. It was sprinkling rain and supposed to be like this most of the week. Luckily you didn’t have to be into work until nine so it worked out beautifully. You walked out of your place to your jeep and slid in. Her place was just around the corner from yours. Hers and Sam’s mom had been a god sent when you were younger. That woman had stepped in for you and your brother when your parents checked out. Your brother was living in Texas now but you were still right here home in Louisiana.

You pulled up to her place and jumped out of your jeep, slamming the door behind yourself. The doors on that thing wouldn’t close if you didn’t put a little force behind them. The boys loved it but Sarah would shake her head at them when they’d laugh because of you arguing with it “Aunt Belle likes to act like she’s the beast at times boys” Belle was a long lasting nickname from Sarah, way back from when the two of you were in high school. When you’d raised an eyebrow at her she’d simply tapped your book “Always reading and you’re so damn pretty. Plus she is your favorite princess” so Belle was called nowadays more than your actual name.

You tried the handle and it was unlocked so you walked in “Cass! Aj! Get a move on fellas!” you walked around into the living room where the boys were and instinctively shoved them both behind you when your eyes landed on a man you’d never seen before laying on the couch. He was gorgeous, yeah but the metal arm and you not knowing him meant your claimed nephews were going behind you.

He slowly stood up, hands held out in front of him “Easy doll. Ask the boys, they know me” you shook your head, keeping a hand on Cass and one on Aj. “SARAH! THERE’S A MAN IN YOUR HOUSE AND IT AINT SAM!” she walked around the corner laughing “Belle, you do have a way with words”

She observed the scene and nodded her head approvingly “Got to say, I love that you my boys enough to stand between them and a super soldier but he’s harmless well not harmless but is to us. This is Sam’s friend Bucky” your eyes flew back to the guy, studying him. His hair was shorter, new arm but yeah that was Bucky Barnes. Holy hell, leave it up to you to stand ten toes down against a one hundred and something year old super soldier who could literally snap you like a twig.

Sam came in the backdoor, having been summoned by you screaming and grinned “So you met Belle Bucky” “Belle?” Bucky looked towards you with a slight grin. Damn he really was gorgeous. Standing up where you could see him and know he wasn’t a threat to the boys meant you could fully appreciate the broad chest under that blue henley and those damn dogtags dangling along with how bright his blue eyes were when he smiled at you.

“Belle is a nickname the Wilsons tagged me with in highschool” you explained. Sam told Bucky your actual name then said “But she was always reading, didn’t want to give any of those losers in her high school the time of day and was pretty like Belle plus we have like three different halloweens worth of pictures from when we were younger where she dressed as Belle” you stuck your tongue out at him “Easy Samuel. Just cause you’re Captain America now, don’t get cocky. Me and Sarah can steal take you”

Sarah nodded “I already told him that” Bucky grinned “I like her already” you winked at him “Get to know me Barnes and you’ll love me in no time” and saw a light blush grace his cheeks. Talk about a damn confidence boost to start your day! You just made Bucky fucking Barnes blush!

You saw Sam shoot Bucky a look and weren’t sure what it was about but you cut your eyes at Sarah and she wiggled her eyebrows. You shook your head “Ok well boys now that aunt Belle made a fool of herself, let's get you to school before I’m late to work”

You turned to walk out and Bucky called your name. You turned around and he waved a hand towards where the boys were running towards your jeep “You didn’t know me, you got between your nephews and danger. Nothing to be embarrassed of” you grinned “I hope you stick around Bucky”

You headed down the doorsteps and could hear Sam cackle “Dude, you are as red as a tomato!” and heard Sarah scolding him. You couldn’t get the grin off your face the entire way of dropping the boys off and into work.

You walked into Sarah’s house a few days later, juggling the bags of groceries she’d asked you to pick up. You tried helping her and the boys as much as you could, hell if you were being honest the only real home cooked meals you ate were ones you helped cook in her place. You always just grabbed a little something when left to your own devices.

You kicked the door open with your foot and when you started to walk in the bag nearly ripped but Bucky popped around the corner. Your eyes widened. “Where the hell did you come from?” he smiled “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you” as he scooped up all four bags easily and carried them towards the kitchen. You watched with a raised eyebrow and a grin “I mean, not complaining but I thought you left a few days ago”

He nodded “I did” then looked over his shoulder at you “I came back” you felt your face warm “Where is everyone?” he tilted his head towards the back door “The boys are playing, Sam’s jogging and Sarah was firing up the grill”

You laughed lightly “Oh yeah, you’re a Brooklyn boy. Have you ever had any good Louisiana cooking?” he shook his head and you grinned “You’re in for a treat in that case” he watched you with a smile “I’m up for anything doll” you felt your stomach flip “That sounds promising” and saw a blush grace his cheeks.

You shook your head and grabbed his metal hand, considering it was closest to you. His eyes widened when you didn’t seem bothered and you grinned “What?” he shook his head “You’re something else Belle” you laughed lightly “Oh Bucky, you haven’t seen anything yet. Come on” and pulled him towards the door. “Me, cass and Aj always lure Sam into a water balloon fight. You in?” he laughed “As long as I’m on your team” you nodded “Of freaking course” and he laughed “Then I’m in darlin”

@desimarie12

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you

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moniquill · 2 days ago

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@fantasticmojo47 's tags

#i knew this girl who had a masters degree#she was super educated#also the biggest idiot you've ever met#i can tell you guys that she was quickly slipping into ecofascism#she was vegan too so no surprise there#anyway she was just such a huge fucking idiot who got her politics from tweets#deeply ignorant despite the education#and she basically just survived off of other people's summaries of information#bc she refused to read nonfiction#and full disrespect but the books she DID read were shit like acotar

What this tells me is that you're an elitist bully AND that you have a data point of one individual. I do not claim knowledge about the person you're talking about, their intelligence or civic engagement etc. But in my personal experience (look at me not attempting to claim it's a universal truth!) people who are invested in calling others 'idiots' and caring very deeply about their personal life choices are not, themselves, exemplar members of society.

"Ur dumb and you like dumb shit because ur dumb" is not deeply insightful commentary, nor is it educational, nor does it address any problem in any way. It's just bullying.

god this is so fucking pathetic. i'm embarrassed out of my mind to share a generation with these losers.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 17 hours ago

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Pent Up 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you seek validation through online correspondence with incarcerated men, only for one to lock you down in turn.

Characters: convict/excon!Thor (silverfox)

Note: It's an addiction now.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

'I never thought I'd be writing to someone like you, but you've shown me a different side of things. I hope that my emails give you comfort and can help you through. Even on the other side, they get me through my day. I'm always excited to read when there's a ding in my inbox.

I hope you also enjoy the little bit I could put in your commissary. If I lived closer, maybe I could bring you something homemade. At the moment, bus fare is a bit too much for my pockets.

Anyway, signing off.

Yours,

Diamond'

You add a whole line of heart emojis to the email then hit send. You giggle and click on the next. You don't have the heart to copy and paste so you add a bit of variety to the next.

This one is... Thor? That's his name. He's a funny one. Considering he's in the pen, you're surprised by that. The others are so dire; pushy too.

You hit reply on his last email. Something about a fight and apologising for not replying earlier. He says he was in solitary for a whole week. That sounds miserable. The thought is enough to scare you straight. It's why you've never done anything wrong in your whole life. Until now.

It's not really wrong. It's allowed. It's legal. You're just sending messages. If anything, it's a community service. These men don't have much more contact than each other and that's a recipe for chaos.

You won't admit that other reason aloud. That tickly feeling in your stomach. When they compliment you, when they say they missed you. You can't help but smile, even giggle sometimes. It's nice to be appreciated, even if it's all a fantasy.

You'll never meet these men. That's the fun part. You don't have to worry about any of this. Maybe that helps. Maybe you think too much when you're face-to-face. That explains why every cute guy you talk to sees past you.

'I forgive you, sweetie. It must have been so hard in there. The important thing is you replied. I got so worried! I hope that after all that, my email can bring a bit of comfort. I have to be honest, I never thought I'd be chatting with someone like you. That I could find this type of connection. Please, take care and email soon.'

Another parade of emojis follows and you send it off happily. Now you just have to wait and see who gets back to you first. If it's Ernie, you're not sure you'll respond. He's been fixated on his cell mate and his emails are getting a bit scary. That's the other great part. You can always just delete and block.

The response comes an hour later. You're sleepy and ready to pass out. You read it anyway.

'You are so kind, my queen.' You giggle. Yeah, he calls you that sometimes. If only he knew you were sitting in bed with an ice cream sandwich wrapper and your cell phone. Definitely not queenly behaviour. 'I got through it by thinking of you, of dreaming of the day when we can talk face-to-face. Wouldn't that be lovely? For all my mistakes, I think they will mean something if you and me can be together.'

You make a face. He's so cheesy. You can't help but laugh again. You're not trying to be cruel, you do empathise with his situation, you can't imagine being in prison, but like anyone else, he earned his time. There's one last light.

'If it isn't too much trouble, would you kindly send a picture so I have a face to admire in my lonelier moments? I've attached my own. Forgive me as it dates a few years back.'

You're not smiling anymore. You haven't sent any of the men pictures. They haven't offered theirs but you can look up their mug shots easily. You hate to ruin the fantasy but curiosity has you tapping the attachment.

Oh. You're surprised. He's older than you in this picture and by his own confession, is more so now. But he isn't repugnant. Anything but. Tall, blond, thick! You don't know if you've ever seen a man that size.

Even in a suit, it's obvious that his arms are bulging and his chest is ripe to burst out as the jacket button clings for dear life. The photo is cropped so that whoever he took it with is out of frame. His blue eyes sparkle above a defined smile. Has prison worn down all that?

You squirm. Guilt needles in your chest. You could close out and worry about it in the morning. You shouldn't be that sympathetic. He's still a criminal. You can say no. Easily. What's he going to do about it?

What could it hurt? If he saw your face. It's not like anyone would know. That anyone would recognise you or that he could find you anywhere else. You keep your social media anonymous. You aren't like the influencers who get attention just for being pretty.

It's that that gives you pause. You aren't anything but average. It's easier to pretend you're some pretty thing as you message these faceless men. Well, maybe that's a good thing. Maybe once he sees you, you won't have to worry about all that other stuff. He'll cut you off at the pass.

The thrill of it overwhelms your reluctance. It's like gambling, it could go either way.

You start a new message. More meaningly rewording of previous sentiments. Nothing new. Then you scroll through your photo roll. You take a breath and press down on a photo you think isn't half bad. It's from market day you went to with your aunt. Not exactly cutting edge but fun. She snuck in the shot as you smiled down at your gooey cinnamon roll. The impromptu snap is better than most of your posed ones.

You send and quickly lock the phone. You shove it under your pillow and swipe up the wrapper beside you. You leave it on your night stand and sink down, your insides swimming with anxiety. You're going to regret this in the morning.

🎀

'Will you call me?'

The question makes you sweat. You don't know why you feel bad. You've said no before. To him. To all of them. You draw a thick line between your secret little hobby and your real life. You shouldn't have ever sent that photo.

Despite your regret, you smile. His response was more than you could expect. The praise! You don't know that anyone ever even called you cute but he as good as wrote you a poem about your beauty. You have to remind yourself, given his circumstance, he's starved. He'd probably think your nan is sexy.

Still, you're having a hard time typing those two letter; N-O. Thor is so nice. And he asked so sweetly. But you can't do that. What if someone found out?

This whole thing is starting to feel like a big mistake, but it's so much fun. When in your life will men ever be this into you? When have they ever?

'I could call' you type without thinking. What are you doing? 'Let me know how to do that and we can set a time maybe.'

Don't hit send. Don't hit send.

Email sent.

Shit. Oh gosh. Why did you do that?

You close your laptop and leave it on your desk. You need to get ready for work. You can't be worrying about a man you'll never meet. It's all virtual, it's not real. You'll be okay.

You get yourself together and brace yourself for work. You don't really like your job. You work the counter at a tech repair shop. Independent so it's small and slow. Your boss is a bit strange too.

The only benefit is it's close and it pays a few bucks more than the alternative. You're even allowed to work on your online courses at the service desk. Really, it's perfect. You guess you're just not happy with things being boring.

You blow over the lid of your Sailor Moon travel mug and knock on the door. Jensen lets you in with a grin and stifles a yawn in his elbow. You step past him with a sheepish smile.

"If it isn't the champion of justice," he greets smugly and locks the door. You won't open for another half hour.

"Huh?" You go to the counter and slide your bag onto the shelf underneath.

"Your cup," he crosses the shop. “I am Sailor Moon, the champion of justice. In the name of the moon, I will right wrong and triumph over evil… and that means you!”

"Oh, right," you snort at his cheesiness. "You have espresso or something?"

"Red bull," he admits guiltily.

"This early?"

"Early? I never went to sleep," he comes around and goes back to typing on his glowing gaming computer. "Couldn't let my crew down."

You could roll your eyes. All he does is play Fortnite or Halo. He looks like he does too. Yet, he's in here moping after every rare stunner that walks through the door. That's why you'er there. He gets all tongue-tied with women. Well, all of them but you.

"You should join the party," he suggests.

"Well, I don't really play anymore," you shrug. "It was only for fun. My siblings... like it."

"Oh yeah, how's the family?"

"Good, I guess. They don't really call."

Your mom's too busy rebuilding her life with your step-dad. Rather, building the perfect life she never had. You sigh and open up your laptop. You grab your coffee and sip. You're tired of being forgotten.

"Jake," you say, he winces at the use of his first name, "Jensen," you glance at him, "you're a dude."

"Yeah, I am" he answers uncertainly.

"Well, you might know more than I do. You know anyone in prison? Any guys?"

"What?" He exclaims. "Where did that come from?"

"Mm... I was watching a documentary last night," you lie. "About prison or whatever."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, and about you know," you sway and look at your laptop. You're terrible at lying. "The women who like write to them or whatever."

"Ew, like the Ted Bundy weirdos?" He scoffs.

"Not exactly. I mean, none of them were murderers. I think," you shrug. "But... like, if you were in prison, you'd need that, right? I mean, it's just to get you through."

"I don't know. It'd be lonely, yeah, but like... what about after?" He scratches his neck. "I got a buddy who was in for a while but he's a good dude. He was only selling... stuff."

"Really?" You perk up, "he went to prison?"

"Well, he doesn't like to talk about it," Jensen says. "Why are you talking about this?"

"Making conversation. I was just thinking about the show," you sign into your laptop. "Just thinking... I mean, how do you even end up there?"

"Bad things. I learned my lesson when I was sixteen. I broke into the high school on a dare and the cops put me in cuffs for two hours. They let me go once I cried... I mean, I was a kid so..."

You nod and try not to show any judgment. That sounds about right. A notification pops up in the corner as Jensen goes back to the fluttering over his keyboard. You click on the email.

'I've been granted call-time at noon. You can call the number below and request by my inmate number...'

You quickly minimize and hide behind your cup as you slurp. Shoot. You didn't think he'd be so fast. A call at noon? You can't say no. Not now that he got approved.

Well, this is the only time it's happening.

#thor #dark thor #dark!thor #thor x reader #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au #marvel #mcu #avengers #pent up

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godmadeaterribleerror · 2 days ago

Text

Chapter 10 - Look And See

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Going back to my roots (forced proximity)

Chapter title from Thank You by Led Zeppelin

Word Count: 17k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You, Sam, and Dean finish a case from Ruby, and it has consequences. Usual warnings.

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

Chapter 9 - Chapter 11

Read on A03!

“Can you drive any fucking slower?”

Dean shot Her a glare in the rearview mirror, trying not to get lost in how Her eyes were shining in the low light of dusk, or how all Her features seemed to be washed in the cool, pastel colors of sunset. “No, Princess, because I’m trying not to give the cops an excuse to pull us over after you blew our fucking cover-“

“I did not blow our cover,” She hissed. “I said we needed to leave now, and you decided to stick around and try to find more caviar-“

“We weren’t done, and I was hungry-“

“You’re always hungry! And we were done, you just don’t listen to me-“

“Maybe I don’t listen to you because you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Her eyes narrowed, and Dean could almost feel Her gaze burning and twisting on his skin. “We both know that I’m the only one who knows exactly what I'm talking about-“ She paused, and Dean could see Her giving Sam an apologetic grimace in the mirror. “Sorry, Sam-“

“It’s fine.” Sam shrugs, his attention forcefully fixed on the book in his lap. Dean had a feeling Sam had entirely been tuning them out. “I mean, you’re not really wrong.”

“Don’t tell her that, Sammy, she’ll explode from her ego-“

“My ego? That’s fucking rich from you, Winchester-“

His grip began to strangle Baby’s wheel. “At least my head is in the game, sweetheart-“

“My head is in the game-“

“Didn’t look like it was,” Dean hissed. “It looked like you were more worried about flirting with that old son of a bitch rather than getting the knife-“

“It’s not a knife,” She snapped. “And I wasn’t flirting, I was looking for information, dumbass-“

“Yeah, that seemed to really pay off for you-“

“It did-“

“Dean.” Sam cut in with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “You guys can keep fighting, I just want to make sure you remember-“

Dean rolled his eyes. “I’m going to Norfolk, Virginia, and the black-eyed bitch will meet us there.”

“Ruby’s trying to help-“

“Well, shit load of good it’s doing, we didn’t even get the damn knife-“

“It’s not a knife.” She leaned forward, resting Her forearms on the bench, and Dean could feel the heat from Her body. It was a little dizzying, and She smelled like sugar and fruit, there was that damn fruit again-

Sammy was frowning, shaking his head. “Ruby said it was a blade-“

“And She was wrong. And I’m-“

“Right?” Dean muttered under his breath, glowering at the road. “You’re always right, aren’t you-“

“Yeah, I am.” Her words were clipped, and Dean hated how that made his heart split and howl in his chest. “And you better say thank you, because I didn’t break my nail just for-“

Dean snorted, and he hated the sound. It was louder than it should be, and toxic in his ears. He hated all of this. He didn’t know how to stop it. “How fucking tragic, her majesty broke a nail-“

“It hurt, dickwad. And,” She leaned back, only for a second, and Dean had to bite the inside of his mouth to stop himself from reaching over the bench and pulling Her back to where he could still feel her warmth. “You’re welcome.”

Sam was frowning, twisting in his seat to look at Her, and Dean wished he could do the same. Especially as Sammy gasped, and he felt as if his jaw was going to snap and his teeth were going to grind to ash. What was She doing that made Sam gasp, why did She always have to be so awesome and insufferable and annoying and brilliant, why couldn’t Dean just know when to quit, why wouldn’t she just leave him alone to die in goddamn peace-

“When did you-“

“While Dean was drinking half the bar,” She cut Sam off with almost a sneer, and it was burning over Dean’s head. “I got the museum curator to show me the collection.”

“And that’s-“

“Yep.”

Sam swallowed, and when Dean glanced over, the kid’s eyes were nearly bulging out of his head. “And you’re sure-“

“I’m always sure, Samuel.” Her tone was smug, and Dean could picture the proud, pretty smirk on Her face. “And it’s not a knife. It’s an arrowhead.”

Sam reached back, Dean heard a slapping sound, and when he glanced in the mirror She was clutching something to Her chest, glaring at the front seat.

“Don’t touch it.” She snapped, and Sam blinked at Her.

“It’s just a rock,” Sam said Her name carefully, shooting Dean a what the hell is happening look.

Dean didn’t know. With Her, Dean never fucking knew.

“It’s not- You-“ She took a deep breath, Her voice suddenly far too soft and measured. “Just, I’m going to hold onto it, okay?”

“But-“

“Sam. Please.”

Sam frowned at Her, but nodded, and Dean scowled.

He had to bite down vile, spitting words about Her thinking she was better, about not even trusting them to hold the weapon. There was a line, and Dean refused to cross it. He couldn’t stop toeing right up to it—driven by the bitter, furious part of him that still hated how She’d lied about being sick, how She’d left him fucking dying in the hospital, how She was better and Dean couldn’t be allowed to have her—but he wouldn’t cross it. He couldn’t leave a real mark on Her. It would fully drive Her away, make her finally snap and leave him in the mud for good.

And She’d been working with them for several weeks, and Dean was still being a selfish piece of shit.

He couldn’t fall out of Her orbit. He couldn’t bring himself to save Her from himself, from all the horror that came with being in his life, but he couldn’t hate Her enough to lie that he didn’t want Her here and mean it. He couldn’t just mean it.

Dean couldn’t sneer that She knew everything and believe it to be the truth in his bones. He couldn’t snap that She’d been flirting with that old asshole—and he knew it was the museum curator, and he knew it was for the case, and he didn’t care—and not put extra venom in his voice because She wasn’t smiling at Dean like that. She was barely smiling at Dean at all.

He didn’t blame Her. He was being a dick, but it was for Her own good. He was lying, but it was for Her.

He repeated, over and over in the dead of night, that it was for Her. For the best. And, it was but he still couldn’t quite convince himself.

He had five months left. If he was smart, Dean would stop swallowing his crueler words and just vomit up every false reason he hated Her—She was too pretty, She did strange things to his heart and body he didn’t like not being able to control, he’d follow Her anywhere but knew she wouldn’t do the same for him—until She left, and he’d rescued Her from caring about him.

Because Dean was damned.

But he never wanted to be damned for hurting Her.

So he was being a fucking asshole and not crossing the line, because he wanted Her. He couldn’t stop wanting Her, he didn’t know how, it had become such a critical part of him now—to always crash down, down, down into Her and that soft, sliver light that She always cast over the pit inside of him, even when She hated him and he was supposed to hate Her—that Dean was pretty sure he’d only ever stop wanting Her when his soul was carved up and split into pieces.

Yet he still wouldn’t tell Her. He still couldn’t allow himself to look Her in her bright eyes and tell her I’m dying, Princess. I’m pretty much already dead.

Dean didn’t have a good enough memory to keep track of all the lies he was telling Her. And Sammy was barely creative enough to come up with a proper story that explained the Devil’s Gate and Azazel and Lilith while completely omitting the whole demon deal thing.

But they managed.

And She had no idea.

She believed they were hunting Lilith because that was their job. That they were researching crossroads demon because Lilith was known to work with them. That they were working with Ruby, getting this arrowhead for Her, because they needed anything at all to try and kill Lilith.

Dean had called Bobby, and told him that, under no circumstances, could he tell Her about the deal. About Dean’s timer, and how it was slowly creeping closer and closer to zero. That they were hunting together again, and Dean wouldn’t ask Bobby why the hell he’d lied about Her being sick, as long as Bobby didn’t rat them out.

“I won’t say anythin’ unprompted,” Bobby had grunted through the phone. “But if she asks, I ain’t gonna lie to her.”

Dean had scowled into the air, keeping a careful eye on the sidewalk through the window. She and Sammy had gone to get coffee. Dean had needed to wrap this up before they got back. “Bobby-“

“No. You know you’re my family, boy, but she’s always gonna be first.” Bobby had sighed. “Listen, I won’t tell her ‘less she catches it herself. But you know she’s far from dumb, Dean. She’ll pick up that something’s off, and there ain’t nothin’ that’s gonna save you from how pissed she’ll be that you kept it from her. At least try and give her the dignity of learnin’ it from you.”

Bobby had hung up, and Dean hadn’t told Her. He couldn’t. Bobby and Sam didn’t understand that he just fucking couldn’t.

Couldn’t tell Her.

Couldn’t fully push Her away.

“How are you sure?” Sam was watching Her carefully, and Dean kept his eyes on the road. She was there. Right now, Her being there was all the relief he could allow himself. “I mean, I trust you, but we just need to be positive before we show this to Ruby-“

“It’s jade, and that’s what Ruby told you it would be, right?”

Sammy nodded. “Yeah, but-“

“And if you trust her-“

“I do.”

Dean frowned. Sam, for some reason, did seem to trust Ruby. Dean didn’t, because She was a demon. Being trustworthy was against her freakin’ nature.

“Well, she said it would have writing on it, right-“

“Yeah, but-“

“Look.” Dean saw Her shift in the rearview mirror, and felt Her brush his arm as she leaned back forward.

Little sparks flew through his body, and he sat a little taller, and he could see Her side-profile in his periphery and She was glowing, and there was the fruit again-

She was trying to make him crash the car.

“That’s Hebrew.” She tapped the arrowhead she spoke. “That’s Arabic, and that’s-“

“Latin.” Sam finished, and Dean rolled his eyes. Fucking nerds. “What about that one-“

She jerked Her hand back as Sam went to touch the arrowhead, and elbowed Dean in the shoulder.

He grunted, gritting his teeth as the dull pain. “Son of a bitch-“

“Shit, sorry, De-“

“Whatever.” He muttered, refusing to look Her in the eyes. She’d almost called him De. And maybe She’d been about to say Dean, but that wasn’t any better. His whole body felt like it was buzzing and heavy, and took a tight grip on the wheel to stop himself from leaning closer to Her. “Answer Sammy’s question.”

“Yeah, it’s, um-“ She swallowed. Dean could goddamn feel Her gaze. “Sorry, it’s just like, witch symbols. Probably.”

Sam’s face twisted slightly, and Dean didn’t understand that look. It was more tense than Sam’s usual, doubtful bitch-face. It was almost pained. Weary.

“Probably?” He asked, and She shrugged.

“Yeah. You’re the one who said it’s a witch artifact-“

“Ruby said it’s a witch artifact, I just passed it on. And, I dunno, can you not tell-“

“Tell what?” Her voice became clipped again, and something in the air shifted. Became heavier, more taut.

“That it’s a witch artifact-“

“I know all the same things you do. If Ruby says it’s a witch, it’s a witch.”

Sam frowned, Her arm brushed against Dean’s again, and the taut thing was now frayed.

Dean didn’t know what was happening.

“Okay.” Sam broke their odd stand-off first, letting out a slow exhale. “I just wanted to-“

“Be sure.” She muttered. “Yeah, I know.”

There was a long pause—Dean forcing himself to focus on the low sound of the radio rather than how close She was, how her breathing was heavy and measured, how he wanted to follow the pattern with his heartbeat until he was moving with Her all the time—and when She leaned back, Dean couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Her small frown in the rearview mirror.

“What did Ruby say this was for?”

Sam shrugged, turning in his seat as he spoke. “She told me it could help kill anything inhuman or unholy. Stuff that even her knife and the Colt can’t gank.”

“The nasty sons of bitches,” Dean muttered. “Worst of the worst.”

There was another pause, and when She spoke again her voice was small. “I- anything?”

“Powerful things,” Sam explained. “Ruby said it was designed for things outside of nature. Like Lilith.”

“Like Lilith.” She repeated, and She sounded strange. Nervous.

Dean glanced back in the mirror to see Her curled into the backseat, turning the arrowhead between Her fingers with a tight frown, Her body braced in the way it always was when She started to freak out, her free hand gripping slightly at Her throat, that little wrinkle in Her brow obvious and prominent-

He couldn’t reach back and run his thumb over, no matter how much he itched to. She probably wouldn’t even let him.

But God, the sight of Her like this made him feel sick. He hadn’t seen any real, full episodes since Her return, but he’d seen the bags under Her eyes, the raised marks on Her skin, the dried blood around Her nails.

It wasn’t his place to say anything anymore.

But it still torn him to pieces. Still made him feel like he was doing something wrong, still made Dean feel wrong. If he was good, he’d never allow something as amazing as She was to be in pain. He’d stop being selfish and set Her free of his burden, because even his proximity stole and hoarded Her light.

But he needed Her here. Even if She couldn’t be his.

And he needed Her to stop clawing at Her throat.

So he did the only thing he could think of, and coughed for Her attention.

Her eyes flicked to his in the rearview mirror, and they set off fireworks over his ribs. Colorful and hot and bright and Her-

“Nice work.” He muttered. “With the case. You were-“ Dean choked on the word right. Of course She was right. She was the only right thing in the universe. “You did good.”

He wouldn’t apologize. Dad said to never apologize for making the smart, right call, even if it was the tough one. Especially if it was the tough one, because that meant he was being strong, and it wasn’t his responsibility to make sure people understood that.

And what he’d said seemed to be enough. She sat a little taller, Her chin tilting a little higher, and when She spoke again Her voice was back to its usual tone. Smooth and clear and designed to haunt Dean in his sleep.

“Of course I did good.” She snapped. “I know what I’m doing, Winchester. I always do.”

Something in Her suddenly seemed to be glowing, leaking out through Her eyes on Dean’s in the mirror.

It made Dean glow. Like he was being called further down into Her. He didn’t know how the hell She always did that to him. He’d likely never get a chance to find out.

So all Dean did was roll his eyes and look back to road, because now he had a new lie to drill into his brain.

The lie that—if that hadn’t succeeded in returning Her to the proud, sharp, blinding woman She usually was—Dean would’ve said sorry.

That if She ever did lash at him with words that left bigger and more purposeful scars than the ones he already carried—the ones that seemed to line his every thought and breath, where he was haunted by Her when she was gone and consumed by her when she was there, and he was almost certain She didn’t even know how deep she was branding him—Dean would fall to his knees and fucking grovel for Her to heal him. For that shifting, easy light to cast over him and Her warmth to fuse him back together, better than he’d been before. For Her.

Dean would do most anything for Her.

And that meant—even if Bobby and Sam disagreed—lying to Her about the deal.

“Dean,” Sam was shifting through his backpack as they pulled into a gas station, his attention mostly focused on trying to find a credit card that hadn’t gotten frozen. “If they don’t have pie-“

“We’re in Carolina, they’re gonna have freakin’ pie-“

Sam sighed. “Yeah, but if they don’t-“

“They will.” Dean snapped. The world was already fucking tormenting him. They didn’t need to take away his pie as well. “Pie, Sammy. Nothing else.”

“Dean-“

“Pie-“

“We’ll find you pie, you giant baby.” She rolled Her eyes from the backseat, stretching as she scooted to the door. Dean could see a little bit of bare skin from the movement.

His pants got a little tight.

He was fucking pathetic.

Sam said Her name carefully, shooting Dean a weary look from the corner of his eyes. “We can’t control what the gas station has-“

“We’ll figure it out.” She shrugged. “C’mon, buddy. Let Deano brood in peace.”

Dean scowled, half because of Her drawling, bored use of Deano that still made him bend a little much for her, and half because he wasn’t brooding. And if he was, he should be allowed to. He was dying-

She didn’t know that. She was going to find him pie anyway.

And he hated this.

It was the good moments that were the worst. Moments when they glanced at each other when Sam said something dramatic, and he wanted to whisper a joke, but he wasn’t allowed to anymore. Moments where they brushed past each other and didn’t flinch, where Dean would see Her early in the morning and She’d look downright adorable with that small, pouting frown.

Moments like this one. Where She got back before Sam, passed Dean his pie without a word, and sprawled out in the backseat. And Dean could glance at Her as he filled up Baby’s tank, and She fit so naturally that he wasn’t sure how his very foundation hadn’t crumbled to nothing while She was gone.

She looked beautiful. She was wearing the jacket he’d left Her, and Dean could see the poke of the blade he’d given Her, and she was frowning at the broken nail she’d mentioned earlier, and it would be so easy to reach out and run his thumb down Her nose until she let out a soft, easy breath and everything was okay again.

“Have you met Ruby?”

Dean blinked at Her. “Yeah.”

She hummed, not looking away from Her nails. “What’s she like?”

“She’s a demonic bitch.” Dean muttered, glaring at the gas pump, and She snorted.

“Eloquent, De.”

He felt like he was falling from a million feet. She’d really called him De again. Out of fucking nowhere, like nothing had happened, She was smiling at him and calling him De and there was something in Her that was guarded and Dean wanted to shred it down and crash right into Her-

“Why are you working with her?” She asked, tilting Her head at him. “Is it because of Sam?”

“He trusts Ruby.” Dean’s words were pushed through his teeth. “And I trust him.”

“Should I trust her?”

Dean let out a dry chuckle. “Gonna matter what my answer is?”

“Yeah.” She said the word like it was nothing, and Dean’s lungs stuttered and caved for a brief second, as if he’d just been shot. “I didn’t ask for shits and giggles, Winchester-“

“Then don’t.” He grunted. “Don’t trust Ruby.”

“Alright.” She shrugged. “I won’t.”

There was a pause, and Dean didn’t know why She wasn’t trying to fight with him. He didn’t understand Her, how she could be acting like nothing was wrong when it so clearly freakin’ was, when they hadn’t even dared to speak about how She’d left him and lied and obviously didn’t want anything real to do with Dean-

“Did you see Sam trying to flirt with that waitress-“

“I have to shit.” Dean blurted, refusing to meet Her eyes as he returned the gas pump to its station, because She might look sad or surprised or hurt, and he wouldn’t know how to deal with that in a way he could permit. “Watch the car.”

He walked away before She could say anything, and Jesus, he was an asshole.

She’s been trying to be nice to him. Dean didn’t know why, but She seemed to be determined to try and patch at least something between them, and it made everything so much goddamn worse. She’d sneer at him one second—when the air around them was heated and weighted in Dean’s lungs, when Dean was biting at Her and she didn’t resist his silent plea for Her to bite back—and then do something like that the next, and Dean couldn’t live with it.

He couldn’t live with himself. It might be a good thing he was damned, because otherwise he’d have no justification for how he’d just walked away, how Her trying to reach out to him just made him recoil, because nothing had ever been as good as Her, and no one had ever been less deserving of Her than Dean.

And that was why he hated the good moments the most. They reminded him that She really was better, and Dean wasn’t worthy of Her infinite… everything. They forced him to build his walls higher, to line them with further barbed wire, because if he didn’t, She’d slip through a crack without effort.

Dean couldn’t afford to let Her back in. She needed to hate him. This whole thing would be so much easier if She would just hate him.

Maybe one day he’d walk away like that again and not glance over to check that She was still there. He had to drive Her away, but he still made sure She was still there.

And She was. She always was. Every day for the past few weeks, Dean had looked for Her and she’d been there. Legs folded in a chair as She chewed on a pencil, lying flat on Her back and humming to herself in a way that made Dean’s head a little fuzzy, standing tall as She scanned over a room and rubbed Her thumb over that scar on Her palm.

She was doing that now. Leaning over the front seats and rubbing Her palm, head slightly bowed so Her hair blocked a full view of Her face, occasionally reaching down to touch something that was on the bench. Probably Sammy’s book.

She was so pretty.

She could never be Dean’s.

Sam didn’t say anything when Dean shuffled to his side in the station, just raising his brows, glancing out the window, and letting out an unnecessarily long breath with a shake of his head.

“Wanted some coffee.” Dean muttered, grabbing a paper cup and ignoring Sam’s flat expression of disbelief. “Long drive ahead.”

“Sure, dude.” Sam was still looking out the window, an odd expression on his face. “Huh.”

“What-“

“See the Cadillac? The silver one?”

Dean followed Sam’s gaze to the parking lot. “Yeah, what about it-“

“It was behind us, on the highway. For a while.” Sam ran a hand through his hair, shooting Dean a tight look. “Did you seriously not notice?”

“Course I noticed.” Dean muttered, and he very much had not fucking noticed. He’d been distracted. She’d been right there whenever he used the mirror, and there had still been a little bit of lipstick stained on her mouth from the case, and he’d wanted to wipe the smudge on Her cheek off with his thumb, just to test if She’d gape at him or look at him like he mattered. Like he could matter to Her, if that was allowed. “Lotta cars in the world, Sammy, some of them are bound to be going from Carolina to Virginia-“

Dean cut himself off as the Cadillac stopped in the middle of the lot, its door opened, three large men climbed out.

They were walking towards the Impala.

He could see the sun catch light off of something in the largest one’s hand, and it was glinting and long and-

Dean was roaring Her name before he could think better of it. There was red lining his vision and a blaring, alarm-like sound in his ear, and She was in danger-

Sam was right on his tail as he burst out of the lot, sprinting back to the car—back to Her—as the men started crowding the windows, but She was faster. Right before Fuckhead Number One could bash Baby’s windows in, She pushed the door open into his gut, vaulting forward with Her knife in hand as the man let out a guttural noise of pain.

Dean slammed his body right into Fuckhead Number Two—the big, ugly one who’s knife he’d seen—right as Sam caught up to him, grabbing Fuckhead Number Three and pushing him down onto the concrete with a grunt.

They all had the same knives. Somewhere in the whirlwind of the fight—fists flying, Dean trying to reach for his gun but always fumbling as he had to dodge another punch, Sammy scrambling with Fuckhead Three on the ground as She danced around Fuckhead One—Dean realized that it wasn’t just the asshole he was fighting who had a that knife.

It was the same one that had stabbed Her in Colorado. Same curved, sharp blade he’d seen a few times on Bobby’s desk, that had damn near killed Her-

They’d gotten separated. Somehow Sam had ended up wresting with Fuckhead Three in the grass, She and Fuckhead One were the middle of the lot with Her knife in hand, and Fuckhead Two had backed Dean up to the stations walls.

“If it ain’t the Winchesters.” Fuckhead sneered, and Dean barely managed to duck the blow aimed at his jaw. “Didn’t expect to see you here-“

“Shut up.” Dean snapped. “Unless you’re gonna say why you’re trailing us, I don’t wanna here a word out of your ugly mouth-“

Dean side-stepped another punch, and Fuckhead gave him a crude smile.

“Not trailing you.” He sneered. “Trailing what you’ve got.”

“If it’s Sammy, you can have him,” Dean slammed his knee into Fuckhead Two’s side, sending him stumbling back with a grunt. “But I’ll warn you, he snores like a bitch-“

“We have no interest in Azazel’s little experiment.” Fuckhead let out a dry chuckle, not balking as Dean finally grabbed his gun, aiming the barrel at his temple. “Our kind deal in far… bigger, older affairs.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “This the part where I’m supposed to ask you what your kind are instead of just shooting you-“

Fuckhead smirked. “I’d imagine you’d like to know, Dean. Not like you can kill me anyway.”

“You wanna bet on that-“

“I’m not the betting type. To risky. And we- Well, we aren’t the kind to take risks.”

Dean was about to scoff and pull the trigger, but Fuckhead held his gaze, and his eyes shifted.

Eclipsed with a venomous, neon green for a long second, the grin on his face widening until he was laughing.

“You have no idea what you’ve begun to meddle with, Mr. Winchester-“

Dean shot Fuckhead’s foot. He didn’t need a villain rant right now, worst that would result in was a limp for the vessel, and goddamnit why couldn’t anything ever be easy-

“Sammy!” He roared across the lot. “Demons!”

Sam nodded, locking his arms around Fuckhead Three’s neck and started to chant the exorcism, and Dean sprinted forward to where She was still fighting Fuckhead One with a shout of Her name-

She was faster. She was always faster.

Dean watched as She brought Her knife right up to Fuckhead One’s throat, hissed something in his ear, and seconds later bright green smoke erupted out of his mouth.

The same happened with Fuckhead Two and Three, and Dean frowned. He’d never seen Sam do the exorcism that fast.

He muttered Her name, fisting his hands at his side to stop himself reaching for Her. “Are you-“

“I’m fine.” She snapped. “Let’s go before someone calls the cops.”

She didn’t look okay. Sam rejoined them at the car—dusting the grass and dirt off his pants and looking between them with a frown—and Dean had to restrain himself with brutal reminders that She didn’t need him, because She looked the furthest thing from okay and it was eating at his gut.

She wasn’t speaking. For the rest of the drive She was lying on her back, eyes squeezed shut, body half curled into itself and arms wrapped around Her stomach. For the first time since She’d returned, she really did look sick. Colorless and pallid, lips drawn in a thin line as if she was in pain, breathing loud enough for Dean to hear over the music. Sammy kept asking damn questions about the demons, about what Fuckhead Two had said to Dean and what green eyes could possibly mean, but Dean couldn’t really hear him.

His tongue was caught in his throat to stop him from spitting out that they needed to stop, because he was worried about Her. His chest felt like it was contracting and aching and ripping, and his heart was loud in his ears, and why was this so goddamn horrible, why couldn’t he just not care that She was in pain-

“Dean.” Sam muttered, long after the sun had set, a little while after She’d fallen asleep. “We need to tell her. About the deal.”

Dean scowled, his gaze flicking back to Her in the mirror. She seemed to be really, truly asleep.

Dean wouldn’t bet on it.

“Not now, Sam-“

“Bobby was right, she’d going to work it out eventually-“

“No, she won’t. She’ll leave first.”

Sam gave him an odd look, glancing back to Her with a shake of his head. “Why are you so fucking convinced she’s going to leave-“

“She always leaves.“ Dean snapped. “She left at the hospital-“

“Because she was sick-“

“Does she look sick to you-“

“Yeah, she does.” Sam seemed to suddenly, somehow, be taller. “And I know she does to you too, Dean. I mean, just look at her-“

“I did.” Dean muttered, glowering at the passing white lines on the highway. “And it’s not my business. I’m not talking about this, Sammy. So fucking drop it.”

Sam sighed. “You know can convince her you don’t care about her, shit, you can even convince yourself, but you can’t convince me. If it were anyone else, you’d have shot them in Utah, and we both know it.”

“Shut up-“

“I am. Just-“ Sam said Her name, and Dean felt like he was going to vomit. “You’re not good at being right about her. You get blinded, Dean, and I think she needs us just as much as-“

“She doesn’t need us.” Dean couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Her in the backseat.

Hauntingly beautiful in the night, the shadows and moving lights of the road making Her look even more like something that had fallen from the sky, like a piece of a star or comet that had started to breathe and walk the earth. The breeze breaking through the cracked windows blowing through Her hair and giving her cheeks a slightly flush.

Her knife was gripped tight in Her hands, and she was folded around it like it was gravity.

Dean wanted Her to fold around him like that. He wanted to be the thing that grounded Her.

But he wasn’t.

“She doesn’t need anyone, Sam.” He muttered, ripping his gaze back onto the road. “We’ll be there in an hour.”

And when Sam dropped it with a sigh, Dean made himself focus on the music. Normally, he’d turn it up to drown out his own thoughts, louder than even Sam’s chastising voice.

Tonight he kept it low, because louder meant there would be a possibility of disturbing Her. And Dean was already pretty sure She didn’t get as much sleep as she needed.

So he’d give Her this last hour of the drive—going a little slower to extended the time—and he’d let himself look at Her a little more when she couldn’t see.

Then he’d park the car in the motel lot, mutter to Sam that he needed to work out how to get Her up without getting himself stabbed, and steel himself as he exited the car.

He couldn’t care. It would be unfair to Her for Dean to care, when he’d be gone in five months.

Maybe, if he repeated it enough in his head, it would feel true.

Dean stopped in front of the room from Ruby’s message to Sam, and he’d barely had a chance to raise his fist to knock before the door swung open, and Ruby was glaring at him from the other side.

“Where’s Sam.”

“Hi, Dean.” He muttered, shoving past Ruby with an eye roll. “Thanks for taking time to get the thing for me, I’m going to try and not be a fucking bitch for five seconds to show my gratitude-“

“I’m not going to be grateful when you probably didn’t to shit.” Ruby crossed her arms, turning to him with narrowed eyes. “Where’s Sam.”

“I’m here,” Sam’s head poked around the door frame, a tense frown on his face. “Dean, she’s not moving-“

Dean froze at the foot of the bed. “What do you mean, she’s not moving-“

“She woke up, but she said she just wants to stay in the car-“

“She can’t stay in the car, Sammy, she has the arrowhead and we- shit, we just got jumped by demons-“

Ruby stared between them, her eyes wide. “You just got- who the hell are you talking about-“

“Oh, yeah, you guys haven’t met yet.” Sam swallowed, running a hand through his hair. “I- uh- You remember how I mentioned that girl Dean used to hunt with-“

“You told Ruby about her?!” Dean hissed, and Sam shot him an apologetic look.

“Just like, once-“

“Wait,” Ruby looked between them, said Her name, and Dean was going to rip out Her tongue. The bitch shouldn’t be allowed to say Her name. Nothing evil should even be allowed to know about Her. “She’s here?”

“Yeah,” Dean narrowed his eyes. “You got a problem with that?”

“Of course I do, you two idiots weren’t supposed to tell anyone what you were doing-“

“You don’t get to tell us what we do and don’t do,” Dean hissed, his glare turning to a very worried looking Sam. “She’s not coming out of the car?”

Sam shook his head. “No, uh-“

“I’ll take care of it.” He grunted, not looking at Ruby as he moved back to the door, clapping Sam on the shoulder with short words. “You kids keep it in your pants while I get her majesty inside.”

Dean didn’t bother to wait for Ruby to make a snide remark, just marching to the Impala and opening the back door, glaring down and where She still lay.

“C’mon, Princess, we’ve landed-“

“Don’t care.” She mumbled, twisting onto Her side and burying Her face in the seat. “I’m fine here, Dean.”

Dean jaw clenched. “Fine, just- give me the arrowhead thingy-“

“No.”

Dean grunted Her name. “You can wallow in the car all you freakin’ want, but we need that arrowhead-“

“Why.”

“The hell do you mean why, the whole point of that whole damn thing-“

“Why was it the point?” She rolled onto Her back, meeting Dean’s eyes with raised brows. “Who would want this thing?”

“Ruby wants it, and she’s going to be a real bitch if we don’t give it to her-“

“Should I give it to Her?”

Dean stared at Her, saying her name slowly. “What the hell are you talking about.”

“You told me not to trust her, Dean.” She held his gaze, and Dean felt like She looking right down into the pit. Daring him to admit something he didn’t understand. “Why should I give her the arrowhead if I shouldn’t trust her.”

It took a second for Her words to sink in. She was just watching him, a challenging expression on Her pretty face, and when it clicked, Dean had to go rigid and still to stop himself from crashing down into Her pouting, drawn lips.

She was taking him seriously. She was taking Dean—Dean, of all damn people—and his opinion and trust of Ruby, seriously. She wasn’t trusting Ruby because he told Her not to, and there wasn’t an ounce of doubt in Her voice. It had been flat, pointed, filled with that same dry tone She’d used when she’d asked Dean a rhetorical question about a hunt or a monster She’d already known everything about. The voice She used when she was half quizzing him, but She’d also been in charge of designing all the answers.

He couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t sit in how it made him stand a little taller, how Her gaze on his was almost certainly looking all the way into him, how She was seeing into every piece and sunken hollow in Dean’s body and not moving away.

Why the hell couldn’t She just move away.

He couldn’t have this. He couldn’t have Her. Dean needed to keep moving, and Her looking at him like that—like She could see him, like he was real, like She wanted to fall up into him just as bad as he wanted to tumble down to Her—made him want to stay in this parking lot for the entirety of his remaining months.

“We still gotta work with the bitch,” Dean said Her name, forcing his gaze to remain on Her’s, all while trying to remember how he’d ever managed to convince Her to do anything. “She’s our best line to Lilith-“

“That can’t be true.”

Dean blinked at Her. “You got a better idea?”

“No. But I could find one.”

“You planning to find it in the car?”

She scowled. “Shut up-“

“Look, you-“ Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. “You don’t need to give it to Ruby. But you need to come inside.”

Her eyes narrowed, Her mouth opening to probably say something harsh and firm along the lines of shove it up your ass, Winchester, you don’t tell me what to do, but Dean pushed on before She could.

“Please?” He watched Her carefully, trying not to get lost in how She was blinking at him, how he could move just a few inches and brush the hair off Her face, trace his fingers over her parted lips. “Can’t just leave you alone in the car at 3am. You never know when more demons might jump out of the bushes, sweetheart.”

“It’s three in the-“ She cut Herself off with a yawn, and God, she could be real damn cute when She wasn’t glaring at him.

“C’mon, Princess.” Dean nodded to the motel room, hoping She was too tired to hear the affection in his voice. “Let’s go.”

When She pushed herself to her feet, Dean’s hand almost shot out to rest on Her lower back and guide her inside.

He regained control of his body at the last second, and flinched back. He was falling again. Further and further every time, because he always thought he’d reached the deepest part of this strange pull to Her, and he was always wrong.

She didn’t see it. Didn’t see how he recoiled from Her body. Shit, Dean hoped She hadn’t seen it. That might be the line crossed—might be something She took as Dean hating her, when he couldn’t, he didn’t know how—and Dean didn’t want to lose Her. He would. He’d have to.

But not now.

Not when She was listening to him. Not when he could feel something start to bloom to the right of his heart, because She was trusting him. Against all odds and logic and reason, She was trusting Dean. He didn’t understand it. He never did. But this was good, and it would all be gone soon regardless, and Dean can’t be allowed to have something so good just to break it, but he also couldn’t live with himself if he shattered Her without having her at all.

His head was spinning around that idea. How could She still trust Dean, he was Dean, he was damned and selfish and mean to Her, but she still trusted him-

He almost missed the chorus of shouts that broke through the motel room.

She flying at Ruby, knife in hand and eyes slightly crazed, blocked only by Sam jumping in Her path and holding Her back as Ruby scrambled away.

“What the fuck-“

“Let go of me!” She was screaming, thrashing in Sam’s hold and watching Ruby with a slightly crazed expression. “Sam- Fucking let go- I- I can’t-“

Sam said Her name, his voice in the calming tone he used on the vics. “That’s just Ruby, she’s an ally-“

“Just an ally?” Ruby shot him a glare. “Ouch, Sammy, I thought we were friends-“

“I- Maybe wait until after I calm her down to start yelling at me-“ Sam cut himself off with a groan as She elbowed him in the gut, but didn’t waver his hold. “Fuck-“

“Let- Sam, let me go- I need to- fuck- Dean!” She screamed for him, and whatever daze Dean had been shocked into was destroyed by the sound of it. “Dean, it’s a- Dean-“

“Fucking hell,” Ruby shook her head slightly, her back still pressed to the wall, her body a little more rigid than Dean had seen it before. “She’s a dramatic one, isn’t she-“

“Don’t talk about her like that.” Dean snapped, giving Ruby a firm, harsh, don’t fucking test me, bitch, glower before taking Her face between his hands, lowering his voice until only She could really hear it. “You need to calm down, Princess-“

She shook Her head, hair sliding over Her brow, and Dean had a striking realization that this was the closest he’d been to Her in over two years.

“Dean, she’s- If- It’s wrong- Something’s wrong-“

“Ruby’s a demon,” he said Her name carefully, scanning over Her open features. “You knew that-“

“I- I’m not-“ She shook Her head, Her voice more panicked by the second. “It’s wrong, Dean, something’s wrong-“

“I know. Just, son of a bitch-“

He gave in. Dean let his control slip just a little, gave into his every deeply rooted and natural instinct, and ran his thumb down Her nose.

The effect was almost immediate. Her eyes closed slowly, the tension leaving Her expression and body as she half-slumped into him, and this was everything Dean had been trying to avoid, but he also couldn’t ignore how his own bones felt lighter in his body, how the world felt bigger—in a relieving, colorful and bright way that made Dean’s head not feel like a weight on his neck—because She wasn’t freaking out.

He moved Her to the bed without a word, letting Her lie flat on her back and curling his fingers to stop himself from falling further—from tracing Her cheekbones and tucking Her hair behind her ears—and only managed to remember they weren’t alone in the whole universe because Ruby coughed behind him.

“What the hell was that-“

“She must have, uh-“ Sam swallowed, glancing to Her on the bed as he said Her name. “Are you-“

“I’m fine.” She muttered, eyes still closed as She twisted a ring on her finger. “Forgot she was a demon. Sorry.”

Lie.

That was a lie.

Dean frowned at Her, keeping his voice level and casual. “How’d you manage to remember-“

“I must have flashed my eyes.” Ruby jumped in, and she hadn’t moved from her spot on the wall. “Happens sometimes.”

Sam shot Dean a confused, slightly questions look, and Dean gave a small shake of his head.

“I’ve never seen you do that shit by accident, Ruby-“

“Well you don’t look at me, Dean, so kindly stop being an ass and have your girlfriend hand over the arrowhead.”

Dean scowled, but couldn’t bring himself to properly protest the girlfriend thing. Not when his brain was still in a scratching loop of Her face so close, Her warm cheeks under his hands, the intoxicating smell of that goddamn fruit dragging him higher and higher-

“No.” She muttered from the bed, and when Her eyes opened they found Dean’s so fast he’d have thought he was a magnet. “It’s staying with me.”

Ruby’s eyes narrowed as she pushed off the wall, Dean body moved a slight inch to the side—just enough to stop Ruby if she tried something on his- his whatever She was—and Sam sighed.

“Oh, shit.”

“What do you mean, no?” Ruby sneered, taking a slow step forward. “I sent you to get it for me, you can’t just keep it-“

“You ever heard of finders keepers?” Her voice was bored, and whatever panic Ruby’s black eyes had sparked in Her seemed to have vanished entirely. “This is that.”

Ruby scoffed. “That doesn’t work here, you spoiled brat-“

Something hot filled Her eyes, and Dean felt like something was rotting in his chest.

“That’s rude.” She cut Ruby off with a shrug, nothing in Her tone shifting, but Her eyes remained different. Dean wasn’t sure anyone else had noticed. “And I’m sorry, but I’ve never been good at being peer pressured. Try again later.”

“Later? Are you-“ Ruby whipped around to snap at Sammy. “Make her give me my arrowhead.”

“I- uh-“ Sam glanced to Dean, his face filled with worry. “I’m not-“

“Shut it, Ruby.” Dean grunted, and Sam’s whole body seemed to slump with relief. “If her majesty says no arrowhead, you don’t get an arrowhead.”

Ruby glared at him. “Are you fucking kidding me-“

“I dunno,” Dean looked to Her with raised brows, and he could’ve sworn he saw Her mouth tug slightly upwards. “You kidding, sweetheart?”

“Not really, no.”

“Alright.” He shrugged, turning back to Ruby with a shrug. “You heard the lady. No arrowhead.”

Ruby’s jaw twitched. “This is stupid, I mean, even for you, Dean-“

“It’s not stupid.” She snapped from the bed, and Dean glanced over to find Ruby on the end of one of Her coldest, most threatening glares. “I’m holding onto it. No one else.”

“You could try and take it from her,” Dean suggested, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I’ll warn you, she plays it real fast and loose with that knife.”

There was a long, silent stand-off—Sammy shifting on his feet in the background, looking around the group like he was trying to work out which bomb in a pile would go off first—and Ruby caved first.

“Fine.” Ruby sighed, shooting Her a glare. “Be a fucking child. In the meantime, we need to go back to how Sam said you three got jumped by demons.”

“Jumped is a strong word,” She muttered, arms wrapping around Her stomach. “More like snuck up on-“

“This isn’t a joke.” Ruby snapped. “If demons are following you, it’s because of the arrowhead, which means more will be coming if we don’t do something about it.”

She sat up on the bed, an odd and unreadable expression on Her face, but before Dean could ask what the hell it was for, Sam was talking.

“They were- uh-“ He looked to Dean and Her, his voice filled with slight nerves. “They were green? The demons-“

“Green?” Ruby stared at Sam, the almost frightened look returning to her face. “Sam, what the hell do you mean they were green-“

“He means they were green, genius.” Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. “Green smoke, green eyes. Green-“

“Demons.” Ruby was shaking her head, the movement almost frantic. “For- God, for fuck’s sake, can you two not making anything easy-“

“Do you know what they are?” She was fully sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing Her palm with a thumb as Her attention fixed on Ruby. “The green demons, have you heard of them-“

Ruby let out a dry laugh. “Of course I’ve heard of them. They, shit, they’re like nightmares. In hell we use them to scare little baby demons into brushing their fucking teeth-“

Dean frowned. “Hold up, you’ve got baby demons-“

“Obviously not, dumbass, I’m just trying to drive home how fucked we are-“

She took a long breath, pushed off the bed, and Dean was worried he was going insane. He thought he saw Ruby fucking flinch at Her movement.

“Ruby.” She said, and that was the tone She used on a hunt. When She wasn’t looking for anyone to argue with Her, and wasn’t going to give way for the opportunity. “What are the green demons.”

“Hell’s Assassins.” Ruby said, her words pushed through teeth. “They do things that are above every other demon’s pay grade, usually staying in the shadows and only showing themselves when there’s no other option. If they’re out now, that means, shit-“

“We’re screwed.” Sammy muttered, and Ruby nodded.

“Royally fucked. Our best bet is throwing them off the trail.” Ruby sighed, started to ramble about how if they could convince the green-eyed douchebags that they’d taken the arrowhead somewhere else and dropped it, maybe they could buy enough time to figure out how to avoid them once they worked out it had been a trick, but Dean wasn’t listening.

He was looking at Her.

And She looked horrible.

Drop dead gorgeous—just as She always was—but horrible. Sick. She looked truly, awfully, deeply sick again. Sunken and afraid and small, curled into Herself and eye screwed tight, and this was worse than any of the fear because Dean felt like he needed to do something, but he wasn’t a healer, he’d break Her further and She’d leave for good once more, and it would kill him. He was an asshole, and if She walked away now—right as he was starting to see parts of him that had been hollow and cracked fuse back together, brighter and stronger than before—it would kill Dean before the contract even got the chance to catch up with him.

But Her obvious pain was clawing at Dean’s throat and burning over his skin, he needed to fix it, needed to make things better for Her, everything had to be better for Her-

“I’ll take Sam, then.” Ruby’s words cut through his thoughts, and Dean turned with a scowl.

“Take Sam where-“

“To drive off the demons, you meat-headed idiot-“

“Shut up.” She snapped from the bed, and Dean wasn’t imagining it. Ruby flinched. The bitch was actually fucking afraid of Her.

Which was understandable.

She could be scary.

And right now, with Her furiously beautiful features and firm glare, She was downright terrifying.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” She muttered. “And you’re not just taking Sam-“

“I’m- I think it’s a good plan.” Sam scratched his neck, shooting Her an apologetic look. “I mean, she’s right, Ruby. Talk to Dean like that again and I won’t hold her back when she tries to carve your eyes out, but I’ll go with you. For the team.”

The team. They were a team. And She and Sam were standing up for him, and cared about him enough to maul Ruby or put up with her for an extended amount of time, and this exactly what Dean was afraid of-

“You two will have to go on lockdown,” Ruby snapped, and Dean didn’t miss how she was standing a little too tall. Too guarded. “Buddy system to get food, doors shut day and night, no one in or out that’s not me or Sammy-“

Sam frowned. “Don’t call me that. Or I’m not driving these demons off with you.”

“Well, Sammy, you don’t really have a choice. Just like Elizabeth and Darcy,” Ruby turned her smirk of Her and Dean. “Are going to have to hole up here. Together. Just them, all week.”

“All-“ She swallowed, and something stung at Dean’s heart at the expression on Her face. “Can’t we just go to Bobby’s-“

“In Dakota?” Ruby laughed. “We don’t have time for that. Besides, we’re taking the car-“

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Like hell you’re taking my car-““Don’t worry, Sammy will drive. Ready?”

Sam blinked. “I- are we leaving now-“

“Like I said, we don’t have time. Those things- They’re a bigger threat than Lilith. So unless you’re going to hand over the arrowhead-“

“Not a chance.” Her chin raised slightly, and Dean couldn’t stop a smirk at the sour expression on Ruby’s face.

“Fine. Have fun on lockdown.”

Everything moved in a flash. Ruby and Sam got stopped at the door as She moved in front of it—Dean didn’t know how She was suddenly back to her usual, sharp and quick self, but he did know that Ruby froze at the sight of Her in their path—and She demanded the full, detailed plan. Ruby and Sam were going to draw the green-eyed demons away by fucking off to Oklahoma, She and Dean were going to stay here and keep the arrowhead safe, and once they were in the clear Sam and Ruby would come back.

And before Dean could find the proper words to express how he was so fatally close to completely giving back into Her, to moving fully back into Her orbit and doing everything he’d sworn he wouldn’t—forgiving Her again, being whatever She needed him to be, trying to hold Her when he’d really be nothing more than literal dirt and blood by the end of the year—Sam and Ruby were gone.

Dean was alone again.

But this was worse.

Because he was alone with Her.

And it didn’t matter what Ruby claimed.

That was a bigger threat than Lilith.

————

This is going to kill you.

You should’ve protested more. Insisted that you and Dean didn’t need to go on lockdown together, that there had to be other options.

You couldn’t think of other options, but there had to be some.

Dean wouldn’t have let you stay alone. You had to stay with the arrowhead. There was no world where you’d let Dean go off with Ruby. You didn’t even love Sam going off with Ruby, and she’d only been insulting him while casting a broader net for Dean.

Nobody should go with Ruby. But you had a feeling she wouldn’t have allowed that, just as you wouldn’t have allowed her to take Dean.

And you’re certain she’s not your biggest fan either, given how she flinched at the sight of you, even before you tried to kill her.

You’d almost let the Darkness slip there. If Sam hadn’t held you back, you would’ve let it rush out and stomp Ruby down to nothing, because you’d never seen a demon that hideous. They all had horrid, twisted and marred faces, shifting and moving in the smoke, but Ruby had been awful. Glinting and rolling and stained along her vessel like a disease.

And maybe she was just an ugly bitch.

But maybe you’d have to keep an eye on her. She’d wormed her way into Sam and Dean’s life like a parasite, and you now had to ensure they came out the other side with all their organs intact.

And that’s not your job. Not your place.

But you’re going to do it anyway.

You have to repay them somehow. For putting up with this. For putting up with you, and the danger you brought just by daring to try and breathe in their proximity.

In Dean’s proximity.

You can’t stop drawing closer and closer to Dean.

And you know he hates you. He has every right to, even if you don’t know why. You have a theory it starts and ends with John, and how you never said goodbye, but it doesn’t matter.

You’ll spend your time with him trying to keep yourself on a leash, and pretending you’re not already addicted to his voice and smell and face once more.

You’d never truly been clean of him. You’d never stopped dreaming of him, never stopped wanting him, and the White had never hesitated to whine and buck and scream for you to turn around and return to where you should be.

Wherever Dean was.

But one month back, he hates you, and you’ve never needed him more. Because he makes it easier. The pain is harsher and sharper when it comes—on worse cases and when you don’t sleep for long nights that never seem to end, until color breaks the horizon and Dean is at your side once more—but every waking moment doesn’t feel vile. Sometimes you breathe and it’s not poison in your lungs. Your heart beats and it’s a steady time that isn’t shredding itself apart. Dean brushes past you in the hall, or meets your eyes in the Impala’s mirror, and snaps your name like he cares about, and everything turns silver.

So you can’t stop trying to fix it. Dean so plainly loathes you, but then he’ll smirk at you, or laugh at a joke, or pull you away from danger, and you’ll fall further into himo. It fuels you. To patch this vast crack between you with whatever you can find, scavenging for thread that isn’t frayed in heated moments—when he cares, or when he’s furious—that fuse this back together a little more.

And God, it’s so unhealthy. How you’re scrambling to fix something you’d never had a right to break in the first place, especially when Dean doesn’t even care to see it fixed himself. When, even if you manage to salvage this, it will crumble once more when the Darkness gets a full hold of you, and everything crashes down.

But knowing that had never stopped you.

And it’s Dean. And he’s magnetic and strong and still somehow the only certain thing in the universe. You’re drowning in him every second, and the whole world has become sharp and stained in gold because he’s right there and you could touch him if you tried, so you can’t just give up. He’ll snap and you’ll snap back, but you won’t leave.

You can’t leave.

When Dean’s finally here, you don’t think you could pull fully away if you tried.

Now would be the time to learn. When you know that the demons hunting you are Hell’s fucking assassins, and they’re here for you. You’ll let Sam and Dean believe it’s the arrowhead—and you have a sense that Ruby is already aware it’s not—but it’s you. They’d been there for you, and the Darkness had started to seep out no matter how you chewed your tongue red or dug your nails to your skin, and nobody was safe with you but you still couldn’t leave.

Not when you’re locked down.

With Dean.

You won’t let him touch the arrowhead. You’d caught him, the first day, trying to shift through your jacket and pull it out while you’d been taking a shower. You’d cleared your throat, your arms crossed over your chest, and he’d turned with a wide-eyed, guilty expression.

“I- uh-“

“It’s not nice to snoop, Winchester.” You’d said, giving him a pointed look. “And it’s not there anyway.”

He’d blinked at you, but recovered quickly. Charming, boy-ish grin returning, expression a picture of mock innocence, so painfully unaware of how the White in your chest was begging you to close the space and just hold him-

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart, I was just looking for something. Is a guy not allowed to look for things anymore?”

You’d raised your brows at him. “What were you looking for?”

“Gun.”

“In my jacket?”

He’d paused at that. “Thought it was my jacket.”

“I didn’t know you wore women’s jackets, Deano.” You’d taken at step back into the bathroom, reaching for your spare towel as you continued. “You are not a good liar.”

He’d scowled. “I’m a freakin’ fantastic liar-“

You’d hummed, shooting him a look of amusement. “Sure.”

“I’m better than you are.” He’d snapped. “I always have you figured out, Princess. And I’m lying right fucking now.”

It had been hard not to wince at that one. Dean was better than you were. Everyone was.

And he could be lying, and you don’t even know about what, but he could be. And you’d deserve it. Whether it’s a punishment or just another way for Dean to hate you, you’d deserve it for making everything so much worse.

So you’d sighed, grabbed the arrowhead from folded towel, and held it up for him to see.

“Just- don’t try and take this. Don’t touch it.” You held Dean’s gaze, and there had been something hot inside of it. Something that seemed more turned on him than aimed at you.

It still hurt.

“Please.” You’d added, just because he really couldn’t touch it. “Dean, I need you to say-“

“I won’t touch it,” he’d grunted. “Bossy.”

And the White had relaxed. A little less danger for Dean to be in.

Another thing to take and let ignite you from within. To grab onto and cast around your body, until those fractured pieces could grow a little further back together, and the world could be a little more colorful.

Days later, you’re still keeping the arrowhead under your pillow. Dean hasn’t tried to take it, but there’s no other place for it to be.

It has to stay with you.

Because whatever Ruby thinks it is, she’s wrong.

There had been a brief moment of terror, when Sam had said made to kill powerful things, but then you’d looked at it and you’d known that wasn’t the truth. The weight over your chest and pressing on your lungs had been relieved, but only for a second.

Then you’d looked closer, and it was something far worse.

There were four languages carved into the jade, and one of them was shifting and strange the same way your thoughts always did when you created a ritual, the same way the words women of the high always moved on the paper. You’d told Sam it was simply witch symbols, and it hadn’t been a full lie. They were symbols, just as all letters were. And they were likely carved by a witch.

But they were likely more.

Because this thing was powerful.

And it fed the Darkness more than anything you’d seen before.

Everything was louder and bigger and sharper when you held it in your hands. Even Dean’s presences didn’t fully soften the sheer vastness of everything when the arrowhead was in your hands. The world was still silver, but it wasn’t blurred. It was harsh and bright and violent inside of you, barely contained and pressing up under your skin to be freed.

And then there was Dean. How when you hold the arrowhead, he’s not just leaving stains.

He’s branded into you.

It’s visible. You can feel it. You can fucking taste him, lingering in the back of your throat despite never having been that close to him before. He’s embedded in your chest and marked all over you in places that he hasn’t touched in years. There’s something faint golden painted all over your body—tangled in your hair and glowing in your guts—and it spurs all those fractured pieces into an overwhelming frenzy. They grasp onto every bit of light the gold provides and toss it all over your body until even the Darkness feels like it’s blended into the White and everything is all just silver.

But then you drop the arrowhead, your hand growing weak from just how fucking much everything is, and it all becomes numbed pain and shifting gold on the couch and Dean’s bed.

So whatever the arrowhead is, Ruby can’t have it. And Dean can’t know what it is, or why you keep staring at him with a tight frown when you hold it, watching his… everything. How he’s like a walking, breathing pillar of gold.

“Take a picture, Princess.” He mutters from the table, his attention on the laptop Sam had left you. “It’ll last longer.”

You scowl, shoving the arrowhead back under your pillow. “Shut up.”

He does.

You don’t think it’s because you told him to.

About three days of your lockdown have passed. Dean’s barely speaking to you.

It’s eating you alive.

Every day has been the same. You exist in Dean’s gravity, and he doesn’t even know you can’t pull away, and time passes in barely a crawl. You watch the tiny box TV and flip through the motel’s provided magazines and your own books, while Dean drinks and hunches over Sam’s laptop.

Half your trash is beer bottles, and you haven’t even had one. You still don’t drink—now doesn’t really feel like the time to start—and Dean probably remembers that, but it still worries you. You know he’s had a rough two years, that he had to watch John die, and Sam almost die, and fight Azazel, and deal with the Devil’s Gate, but this seems worse. Dean drank before.

He didn’t quite drink like this.

And he still won’t really look at you.

The most you get from him is grunts about food, strange looks that end the moment you catch his eyes on yours, and muttered words about how Sam sent a message, and he and Ruby are still alive.

It’s moves the Darkness to an edge. Everything is still silver, but the Darkness is still a part of that, and it’s volatile. Hateful and wrathful. Cracking over your ribs and rotten on your tongue, and at night—when Dean snores in his bed and you stare at the ceiling with your knife in hand—you feel so fucking sick once more.

And this is another one of those nights. The day had been the same as all the others, and Dean’s fast asleep across the room, and you allow yourself to look at him.

He’s still so pretty. There are a few more lines on his face and a slightly heavier expression on his face, but he’s still Dean. Still the best thing you’ve ever seen, and the only one that had ever managed to make you falter. To sit down and want to stay there, to have that strong, unexplainable pull that makes you watch him in the dark like a creep, that drags you down, down, down when he’s only existing near you.

It’s just as terrifying as it’s always been. How Dean is just more. How he was like a phantom behind you in the years apart, and how he’s all the world in front of you. How there had been moments—while you’d been apart with no belief you’d ever fall back into him again, when you’d skipped every town you set foot in and never allowed yourself to stop moving—where someone at a bar had smirked at you and asked for your name, and you’d given it, and when they’d repeated it with a drawl and heated promise in their eyes, all you’d been able to think was not Dean.

And he’s right there. In the dark.

And you’re not running.

But you are growing sicker. Watching him makes the White rear its head, and that sparks the Darkness, and Dean has always been able to set you off more than anyone else, and he’s just lying there and looking like everything you could ever need, and you’re losing control.

You push out of your bed—holding your breath and taking light steps on the creaking floor—and move to the bathroom.

You can’t use your usual methods. Dean would wake from the sound or notice the blood in the morning, and you don’t need that right now. So you take the second-best choice and turn the sink on, letting the hot water flow until steam is rising from it, and run your hands under it.

Your skin feels like it’s raw and peeling. It fucking hurts, and you might not be able to really turn a page in the morning without wincing.

But the Darkness sinks back down.

So it works.

You bow your head, eyes squeezed shut, and push on. You need the Darkness to go be tamed, to go so deep into your body that you’ll be able to go at least the whole day with no fear of losing it, with no fear of hurting-

“You shouldn’t do that.”

When your eyes shoot open, he’s right there. Dean’s frowning at you from the door, supporting himself with one hand on the frame and rubbing his eyes as he speaks.

“’S not good for you.”

“Yeah, well,” you narrow your eyes at him, furious at yourself for not locking the door, furious at him for thinking he has any right to tell you what to do. He doesn’t know you’d follow him anywhere, and trust him with your soul in his hands. As far as Dean’s concerned, you’re nothing, so he doesn’t get to tell you what to do. “You shouldn’t drink.”

He blinks at you. “What.”

“Half the motel room is beer bottles.” You snap. “And if you’re allowed to do that, I’m allowed to do this.”

“You-“ Dean jaw twitches, his eyes darting to your hands, still pressed until the steaming water. “There’s no fucking reason for you to be doing that shit-“

“Is there a reason for you to drink?”

He scowls. “That’s different, Princess-“

“Is it?” You hum, looking back to your hands. They hurt. You won’t pull them away. “How?”

“That’s not your business- It just fuckin’ is-“

“So this isn’t yours.” You shrug, letting out a long, slow breath. “Go back to bed, Dean.”

There’s a long moment where you can still see him in the doorway. You think he’s going to argue, or push you, or keep trying to convince you to step back from the sink.

But the floorboards creak, and he’s gone. You follow him, a handful of minutes later.

Neither of you mention it in the morning.

“We need to get more food,” Dean mutters that afternoon. “But Sammy took my fucking car-“

“There’s the shop down the street we used last time.” You don’t look up from your book, because if you do, you’ll meet Dean’s eyes and fall a little further. “It’s like, a five-minute walk.”

“I don’t wanna use that place, they didn’t have bacon-“

“They were out of bacon. Three days ago.” You sigh, glaring at the words on your page. You’ve read them ten times before, and you’re getting bored, but Dean will only talk to you about necessity so repetition is your only option. “I’m sure they’ve restocked.”

Dean mutters something under his breath you can’t hear, and don’t really want to.

But you’re right. When you’ve dressed and walked down to the tiny, acceptably useful grocery store—Dean one pace behind you, your body leaning slightly back as if it can’t help but try to be a little closer to him where it’s allowed—they’ve restocked on bacon.

“I’ve got a list of what we need,” you’re trying to ignore how he’s shifting at your side, like he can’t wait to move away. You wish you could blame him. “Find whatever else you want, and try not to go overboard.”

“You can’t go overboard on food, Princess.” Dean’s words are casual. Easy. Your heart skips and beat then freezes in your chest. “You try not to get lost.”

You glare up at him. “I am not going to get lost, asshole-“

He’s already walking away.

It takes all your willpower not to chase after him.

The grocery store really is small, and you don’t need much. One of the—countless—amazing things about Dean is how he’s a man of habit. Even after two years apart, you can still predict him like he’s the moon in the sky. Beer, jerky, the bacon he was so whiny about, a few pre-made pies. A lot of butter and meatballs because you refuse to not take advantage of having a real, small kitchen for the first time in years, and Dean will be eating with you whether the asshole likes it or not.

And you don’t know where he’s wandered off to at first, but you realize quickly it’s not as far as you thought.

Because you glance over your shoulder at the exact right time, and Dean’s there. Half hidden behind a shelf, glaring at a bag of vegetable broth that is so obviously a cover, you almost laugh.

You don’t know what the fuck he’s doing.

You’re too starved and desperate for his proximity—how easily everything is bright and silver in your body—to confront him.

So the rest of the grocery trip passes exactly like that.

You wander the isles to cross every item off your list. Dean stays several, poorly hidden paces behind you like some kind of oddly trained guard dog. You indulge him and pretend he’s being stealthy, when in reality he’s just a massive man very obviously following you around in a grocery store.

At one point you catch his eye and raise your brows—because you just can’t fucking help it—and you could swear he blushes before he looks away.

This is so strange. He’s barely looked at you all week, and suddenly he’s doing this.

You wish you could bring yourself to care about that a little more.

Around the canned goods isle—chicken soup because it’s easy—a woman approaches Dean. She’s not a demon, just a pretty human with soft eyes that are fixed on your—not your—Dean, but you still feel something stabbing and biting in your gut when he even looks at her.

It’s pathetic. You have no claim there, no valid reason to want to march over and link your arm through Dean’s like you used to, to suddenly wish he’d just fucking stop the whole act and come stand at your side, but that doesn’t stop the feeling

Or the way the whole world—in and out of your body—sings when Dean dismissed the woman barely a chance. When he glances at her, shrugs off her overly sweet words, and doesn’t shift at her fluttering lashes. When she shuffles off with slumped shoulders, and Dean keeps up his stupid little charade of trailing you through the store.

He probably was just being cautious. You’re both a little wired and vigilant given the whole situation.

But those featured pieces still bloom and grow along your body. And you can’t bring yourself to be bitter about it.

Neither of you mention anything when you meet back at the checkout isle. Dean shoves his hands in his pockets with a short nod and grunt of done, stays his usual one step behind you, and pretends nothing odd happened at all.

“I got you one case of beer,” you say as you approach the front of the line. “If you want more, I’d go get it now-“

“One is fine.” He leans slightly forward, and you can feel the heat from his body, and he smells like grass and spice- “Where the hell is my bacon.”

You turn to glare at him, and fuck, that’s a mistake. He’s very close, and you can see the slight crook of his nose and how full his lips are, and if you moved your hand up a little you could trace along his jaw-

“Did you forget my fucking bacon-“

You pull yourself together, and give him a flat look. “Such little faith, Deano-“

“I’m not seein’ it-“

You shift around the basket, pushing items aside as you take a step forward, revealing the three packs of bacon and placing them on the checkout belt.

“It was the first thing I got,” you shrug, moving the rest of the food out of the basket. “Add whatever you grabbed to the belt.”

He hadn’t grabbed anything. You were pretty fucking certain Dean hadn’t actually gotten anything, because he’d spent the whole time following you. The only reason he missed the bacon was because you’d gotten it first, and he’d been-

Getting something. Dean reaches into his jacket and pulls out a few candy bars and fruits, dropping them onto the belt without a glance in your direction.

“What-“

“They’re for you.” He mutters. He’s still not looking at you. “You never freakin’ remember to get yourself something.”

You blink at him, and nod slowly.

He got you things. He’d followed you through the grocery store and got you things, but he still won’t look at you. He’ll barely speak to you.

Another day passes, and Dean won’t just look at you.

You’re not sleeping. And that’s no different than normal, but this feels worse. When it had been you and Jo—before your party got crashed—Jo had agreed to do shifts. She’d known what was happening, known that there was no world where you’d sleep easy, especially not with another person in the room, and she’d talked you into rotating schedules.

It had worked.

And in the past month with Sam and Dean, you’d had your own room. If demons burst through the door, you’d be the only target.

But now you’re putting Dean in danger.

So you don’t sleep. You keep yourself functional with quick naps in the middle of the day—when Dean’s awake and not looking at you—but you can feel cracks starting to form over your head. Somethings set to snap.

You’re going to break.

You can feel it coming, like a storm moving in and pressure shifting in the air.

Your only hope is to hold it down. You try to hold it down. The hot water is running out faster, and the skin around your nail is raw and bloody, and Dean still won’t look at you-

And your guard slips.

When they arrive, you’re not ready.

Your head is a little fogged. You’d left your knife on your bed, in your jacket from when you’d gone to the motel lobby for more toilet paper. Your back is to the door because the sun is too bright, and it’s giving you a headache. You’re curled on the couch because everything hurts, and Dean’s still in the lobby grabbing ice and you wish he’d just finish the fuck up, because you need him close but you’re never allow to say that-

You’re too tired to think anything of the first bang on the door. It’s likely just housekeeping, even though you’d put the do not disturb sign up, and carried the toilet paper back yourself.

The second bang makes you frown, and you can’t see anyone outside.

Third bang. Your voice is dripping with exhaustion when you raise it, trying not to flinch at the fourth bang.

“Sorry, we have do not disturb-“

“Don’t be sorry, darlin’.” A drawling, almost honeyed voice drawls from the other side of the door, and your blood runs cold. “And I can promise this ain’t gonna be disturbin’ if you make it easy.”

You try to launch to the bed, to grab your knife, but the door crashes open before your jelly-like body can even get off the bed.

You manage to scramble to the edge of the mattress, grabbing the arrowhead and shoving it into your jeans, but you’re barely turning before the violent, rioting and furious green grabs you by the throat and yanks you up-

Instinct kicks in, and you ram your knee into the vessels gut. It’s enough for the grip to falter, enough for you to pry his grip off your neck with shaking finger and scramble back, but there are three more and one grabbing your arms and the second has it’s knife aimed right into your chest-

“Dean!” It’s the only thing you can think to say. Scream. Pray. “Dean, I- Dean!”

You hear a gunshot go off, and a choked sound leaves your throat, but no abnormal pain comes.

The demon behind you slumps, you got right down with its weight, and the one with the knife stumbles right over your head.

You’re still too tired to fight properly. But you’re not useless. You slam your body into the knifed demon’s legs, and roll away as he topples down.

Then you look up, see Dean’s jaw clenched as he wrestles with the fourth demon, and demon you’d kneed earlier is coming up right behind him with the knife-

It wouldn’t have killed you. If the demon on the floor had gotten you, you’d have screamed and shattered but lived.

You don’t think Dean will live.

And the rush kicks in.

You launch yourself at the demon that’s behind Dean, wrapping your arms around it’s neck and squeezing with all the strength in your body.

Dean turns with wide eyes and a roar of your name, and you rear all your body weight forward. Slamming your demon into the one that Dean’s had been fighting, because the dumbass hadn’t knocked him down and he’d been barreling at Dean like a tank.

You jump off right in time, and Dean catches you. Steadying you on your feet and scanning over your face like he’s looking for something, opening his mouth to say something but shutting it closed when the still conscious demon on the floor start to stumble upwards.

Dean shoves you behind him and draws his gun once more, the shot echoing around the motel room as you dunk under his arm and run to the bed-

Dean shouts your name, and you can feel his gaze searing into your skull. “What the fuck are you-“

You grab your knife—jumping up on the bed and spinning it in your hand—and launch forward, grabbing Dean’s head and shoving it down as you land on the first demon’s shoulder’s driving your knife right into its chest.

These vessels weren’t going to live. You hadn’t bothered to tell Sam and Dean at the gas station—it was already a shit day, and you didn’t want to be fucking bummer—but you’d learned the hard way that the moment a green demon possessed a human, they were done. That ripping and tearing violence inside of them killed them the same as any bullet or blade.

So you don’t pull punches.

And you tear your knife right down the demon’s skin.

Dean catches you again, when the demon under you collapses. Holds you right to his side as he shoots the last demon—crawling up behind you with a blade angled at your calf—and keeping you there in the long moments after.

He looks like an avenging angel or something else stupidly beautiful. The arrowhead is still a weight in your pocket, and Dean’s muttering words you can barely hear over the ringing in your ears, and he’s glowing and golden and powerful—rioting in an almost righteous way, in stark contrast to the vicious fury of the green demons, rocketing out of their vessels and screeching out the windows—and you put him in danger.

Dean could’ve died. You could’ve gotten him killed.

You could’ve killed him.

And suddenly you’re not your own anymore. The rush fades and it’s all too real and Dean’s right here, but you could’ve lost him and had no one to blame but yourself because you’re cancerous and evil and wrong and can’t just save him—save something so permanent and beautiful that you have no right to be protected or served by in any way—because you’re the bad thing, you’re the sickness, you’re worse than the demons. And you’re everywhere. You’re the jagged pain of the shattered windows and the ache of the cracked walls and the shredded fever of the torn blankets and ruined couch-

“Hey,” Dean’s muttering your name, his voice low and firm, and it’s the only thing in the world that isn’t painful. “You’re good. We’re both alive, Princess, don’t- Shit, don’t cry-“

Something warm but not burning is cupping your face, and tracing your cheeks, brushing away a white-hot stain that had begun to wash out of your stinging eyes-

You are crying. And Dean—those were his hands, touching you carefully, like he was afraid you’d shatter in his hold when you’ve never felt more whole—is wiping away your tears.

You’re fucking pathetic.

And you can’t stop yourself leaning into his touch, falling into his focused certainty, and letting out a shaky breath when he starts to pet down your nose and the world sinks right back into your body.

You’re only you again.

But you’re still Dean a little, too. He’s so golden and you’re molten silver a little to the right of your heart, and those fractured pieces are surging up and around you, blooming and furious and bright, so fucking bright-

It’s good Dean pulls away right then. You’d been seconds from fusing fully back together, from something not snapping apart, but into place.

You already too far gone.

You still need to be able to pretend you’re not completely, irreversibly his.

Neither of you speak. You don’t really see a reason to. Dean just watches you, and you watch him, and then you’re both moving.

The motel is trashed. Cracks mark up the wall, the bed and couch have been flipped, the door was fully crashed through, and there’s really no universe where anyone who sees this doesn’t call the cops. Ruby checked in, and the room was under her fake name and credit card, so all you and Dean need to do is leave.

Dean starts to gather everything together—including your blood-stained jacket, the arrowhead stuffed safely in the jacket—as he calls Sam, telling him what happened, and that you’re skipping town. You head outside while that fun conversation happens, surveying the cars and picking the fanciest, fastest one you can find.

“No.” Dean snaps, glowering down at you in the driver’s seat. “You’re fucking begging for attention in that this thing, sweetheart, cops will catch us in an hour-“

“So we’ll drop this at 59 minutes.” You say, holding his gaze. “And take the train from there. This car only needs to get us the furthest away, not fully out.”

Dean scowls. “I am not taking the train-“

“Yeah, you are.” You nod your head to the trunk. “Pack up and haul ass, car boy. Now.”

You get a mutter of fucking trains, but Dean does what you’re telling him and soon you’re bound for Chicago, staring at Dean from across the train compartment.

You’d gotten a compartment. And a bed.

One bed.

You’re going to stab someone. You did not pay almost two thousand dollars on a fake credit card for a double private room, only to be stuck in your most beautiful, terrifying nightmare.

Sleeping next to Dean.

You’d been careful. You’d been so fucking careful, for so many years, to not give in to being that more for Dean. Because it would never be enough. Dean could’ve flirt and tease all he wanted, he never wouldn’t convinced you to share his bed because you’d never just share his bed. It would’ve been a catalyst. Something would’ve shifted in you, and there would never be any coming back from Dean. There was the whole, vast, amazing and horrible world, and then there was Dean, and he could maybe be yours.

He’d never be yours. You weren’t something someone wanted to have.

But that being the truth didn’t stop the longing or craving or need. It never had. So you’d made it clear that you barely slept in the same room, and you never shared a bed.

And almost six years of effort—four if you didn’t count those two years apart, which was still far too many years—were crumbled because you said room for two people, the ticket lady added who are sharing a bed in her head, and you’d only caught it when it was too late.

It could be fine. You feel like you’re about to pass out but you’re also far too paranoid to sleep, Dean had been up at the crack of dawn to steal all the hot water and it’s almost midnight, and this is a twenty-one hour ride so eventually you’ll both need to sleep.

You could stagger it. Dean could sleep, then you could sleep.

But then he’d realizes you don’t actually sleep, and that would be a whole thing that you didn’t need. You know you need rest. You are perfectly aware sleep is good for you.

Every single nerve is alight in your body with fear that a demon will crash through that door as well, the Darkness is one wrong nightmare or sound from bursting out of your body, and guilt is swollen in your stomach and sticking in your throat as one single thought loops in your head.

You could’ve gotten Dean killed.

He could’ve died. He’s fine—his arms crossed as the glares at the room around you, splayed out over the compartment’s chairs—but Dean could’ve died. Because of you. Because you’d dragged the green demons there, and you’d put him in danger, and you’d been useless, you’d barely held it together, you hadn’t held it together, and Dean had been there to pull you back up but what if he wasn’t-

“Stop doing that.”

You blink at him, he jerks his head to your hands, and you realize that blood is running down your fingers.

You hadn’t even felt it.

And you make a choice. He needs to know. He needs to understand that you don’t mean to, you never mean to, and he’s in danger as long as he’s with you so he should run, he should kill you or put you down and then run-

“Dean.” You whisper, bracing yourself for the fallout. Telling Jo went alright, and she’d only just met you.

Dean isn’t Jo.

He’s so much more. And even just him running might break something fundamental in your body, that lives just to the right of your heart.

He grunts. “What.”

“I- the demons-“ You stare at his hands, because you can’t stand to look at his face. Maybe those same hands will be strangling you in only seconds. You’ll find out. “I- We need to talk.”

“We’re talking right freakin’ now, Princess.”

“I know, but I-“ Deep breath. Nails in your skin. Keep it together. “They were at the motel for me. The demons, they were there for me-“

“I got that, Princess.” He grunts, and your gaze shoots up find him glowering at you, his words low and his jaw clenched.

He knows. He’s known, or he figured it out, and it’s over but why didn’t he say anything and why aren’t you dead but why does he look like he wants to throttle you or pin you against something-

“You still have that freakin’ arrowhead.”

“I-“ You swallow, your brow furrowing as you stare at him.“What?”

“The damn arrow thing, that you wouldn’t give to Ruby-“

You shake your head, your voice growing a little stronger. “That’s not- I couldn’t give it her-“

”I’m not complaining about that, the bitch is a demon. You’d be better off trusting a damn witch or vamp.”

It’s hard not to flinch at that. You manage. “Then what are you-“

“You’re just-“ He scowls. “You can never fucking listen.”

You stare at him. “What?”

“I told you to fucking wait for me,” Dean snaps, sitting a little taller. “Those sons of bitches never would’ve even gotten to you if you’d just stayed with me.”

You don’t remember that. Your brain had been the same, blurred haze it is now, deprived of sleep and aching for Dean while only knowing that it can’t have him.

It pokes through the fog. Dean grunting wait for me, we gotta stick together as he hunched over the ice machine, and he’d smelled so good, and you’d almost collapsed over him.

You’d barely heard him. You’d just known you couldn’t be there, or you would’ve destroyed something that already barely held together.

But Dean can’t know that. It will lead to more questions you’re not ready to answer, because he’d just said witch like it was barely better than demon, and just as bad as vampire.

You’re bending. You can’t.

So you raise your chin, and hold his gaze. “I didn’t hear you. And I’m fine-“

He scoffs. “You were fucking sobbing-“

“Because I just got attacked by demons-“

“Which happened,” he leans forward, his voice a hiss. “Because you didn’t listen to me. You never just fucking listen-“

You roll your eyes. “Fuck off, Winchester, you’re not my dad-“

“No. And that doesn’t matter. You don’t listen to anyone. You-“ He shakes his head, and you think he’s seeing right into you. Finally, really seeing just how wrong you are, and getting ready to deliver the killing blow with only his words. “You’re so goddamn stubborn, and you’re going to get yourself fucking killed and I won’t be there to save your ass-“

“I don’t need to save my ass.” You snap. “I’m fine, Dean. I can handle myself, and I’m stubborn because I know what the hell I’m doing-“

“You’re stubborn,” he sneers. “Because you can’t stand that sometimes, sweetheart, you’re fucking wrong. You don’t listen because you hate not being in control-“

It cuts deep. You can cut deeper. “At least people listen to me, Dean. At least I can tell people what to do, instead of following someone around like a fucking dog-“

“Well at least I never fucking run! At least I don’t leave people whenever things get hard, when they-“ His shout is pushed through his teeth, and it’s almost venomous. “You fucking run. You just goddamn vanish, and act sick, when you’re fine, just can’t fucking stomach having to deal with something instead of fucking running.”

“Are you talking about the-“ You gape at him, shaking your head. “I had to leave, asshole! I fucking had to-“

He rolls his eyes. “You never have to, you just didn’t want to deal with all of our shit, but you never- You just-“

“Azazel threatened me.” You hiss, the words falling out like vomit, before you can stop them. “He told me he’d kill Bobby if I didn’t vanish.”

Dean stares at you, and you hadn’t meant to tell him that. You’d meant, earlier, to explain what was wrong with you and leave John and Azazel fully out of it. Dean had loved his dad. You’d known that, and you’d known better than to make him face the horrid truth that John was a fucking asshole, shit-headed cunt-face of a father.

Maybe that’s why you still hadn’t mentioned that John had been a part of it. Dean already looks like he’s tearing his head apart trying to figure out if he should believe you for what you did say.

You don’t need to make this worse than you already have. For either of you.

“Azazel…” Dean trials off, shaking his head like he’s trying to physically remove something from his skin. “He fucking- what-“

“He said if I didn’t leave, he’d- He’d kill Bobby.” You let out a slow breath, scanning over Dean’s shocked expression. You’re a little worried he’s going to hurt himself, with how you can see his brain whirling behind his eyes.

There’s not a lot of color on his face.

“And you- You just-“ Dean’s throat bobs, and something flashes in his eyes. “You should’ve fucking told me, I would’ve protect you-“

You shake your head, and whatever burning anger in your body had been there moments before was gone.

You’re really just so fucking tired.

“You have enough people to protect, Dean.” You’re looking at his hands again. Curled back into fists. You want to touch his knuckles, a little bruised and swollen from the fight. At least press ice to them, keep them from getting worse. Keep Dean from being in pain. “And I was okay. Bobby’s okay. Nothing- I didn’t want to.” You swallow, choking on a lump in your throat. “I never wanted to.”

“Bobby- He said you were sick-“

“I am.” You mutter. “Two things can be true.”

“How?”

You frown at him. “How-“

“What’s wrong with you.”

You can’t tell him. Not now. You will, when you have more courage than a martyr and you’re feeling a little less intelligent, but not now.

Now you just give him a sad, soft smile. “My- I don’t know. I’ve never been able to figure it out.”

He nods slowly, and suddenly he won’t meet your eyes. “Sammy could look at you. He’s smart.”

“I’m smart-“

“Yeah,” he offers you his own little half-smile, and his teeth flash white in the low light of the compartment. “But you can be real dumb, Princess.”

He hasn’t said Princess like that since you returned. In a way that feels like a name, in a way that’s almost more than affectionate. Filled with an odd honor you can’t place, and tugging your own smile a little wider.

And everything blends, so easily, back to silver.

You pull out a book. Dean locks the door and starts to clean his gun, humming low music until you chuck your iPod at his face.

He grumbles, but put his earbuds in, and starts to stretch out on the seats.

It’s a silent decision he’s making himself. Dean will sleep on the seats, you’ll sleep on the bed.

You won’t sleep on the bed. You’ll pretend to, ignoring how he’s right there. You’ll stare at the ceiling and count the little dot on it to pass the time, and everything will be better in the morning, when Dean is—maybe, just maybe—your friend again, and he’s safe, and you’re in pain and exhausted, but that’s okay-

“Go to sleep,” Dean mutters your name, and you frown.

“I am asleep.”

You think you hear him chuckle. “Sleep more, than.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are, De. You always are.”

You can hear his frown through the dark. “I don’t love the third degree, sweetheart-“

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Maybe. You need fuckin’ sleep.” He pauses, his voice getting slightly softer. “I’ve- You don’t sleep. You gotta sleep.”

You let out a long breath, frowning at the ceiling. “I can’t.”

“Because you’re sick?”

“Yeah.” You swallow. “It’s- Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence, then- “What does Bobby do.”

“He-“ You swallow. “When I was younger he’d do a sweep of my room. Like a real hunt.”

“And now-“

“Nothing.”

“Oh.”

You think you can hear Dean’s brain moving, and you don’t know why this matters to him so much. It’s just sleep. You’ve lived like this forever, worse and worse over time, and eventually you’ll just pass out and everything will be fine-

“Would it help if I was there? With- uh- with my gun?”

His voice isn’t as firm as usual, and it’s almost nervous. Like he’s afraid of the answer.

And you should say no. A gun wouldn’t even do anything, not with these demons.

But you’re tired, and that always makes you weaker. And Dean’s here, and that always makes you dumber.

“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”

You hear him moving from the seats without any further conversation, and when his weight settles beside you, his thigh presses to yours.

It would be too much if it was Dean. If his warmth wasn’t something you’d always chased after, even when you’d both be sweating in Georgia or Texas, even when your blood had been running high and the sun had been beating down on your skin.

Up close, it’s so easy to fold into. It’s soothing, and he smells like grass and spice all around you, and when your eyes flutter open for even a second the whole world is softly glowing with gold.

It’s imprinting deeper on your body, just from how close he is. Not everywhere, but close. And the gold is sinking so far down you’ll never be able to pull it back out. Those fractured pieces are so terrifyingly close to growing fully back together, and you don’t know what you’ll become when they do.

You can’t really find it in you to care.

The sound of Dean’s snoring is like a lullaby, and the smell of his is like an anesthetic and just his presence is making the world something peaceful.

For the first time in years, sleep comes fast, and you go down without a fight.

And for the first time in your life, you feel truly rested when you wake up.

End Note: Sam Winchester you are once again God’s strongest solider for not grabbing them and mashing them together like they’re barbie and ken dolls. I just know he spent his whole trip with Ruby bitching about how impossible they are. Thank you for your service my king.

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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ranunculussy · 1 day ago

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enigma | part 06.

saturday

ꕥ part 01. | part 02. | part 03. | part 04. | part 05. ꕥ pair: Spencer Reid × BAU!fem!reader ꕥ warnings/tags: mentions of IKEA, awkwardness, somewhat oblivious Reid and reader, age gap, slow-burn, mutual pining, rivals to lovers, english isn't my first language so bear with me pls, idk about other warnings ꕥ word count: ~2.5k ꕥ summary: Spencer can't quite figure you, his rival out and this annoys him more than it should ꕥ a/n: hi guys! thank you so much for reading my work. i just wanted to apologise for the shorter chapter and that it took longer to update than usual. i was planning to post this originally around valentine's day but university started and things got a tiny bit busy. [this fanfic is also available on AO3 with the same title and username]

Pouring salt and lemon juice on an open wound would’ve felt like a walk in the park compared to asking for any kind of help or favour. You always handled everything independently and on your own way. You were ready to drop everything on the spot and lend a hand to those who asked but always made sure to deal with your problems by yourself. Among other things, this aspect of yours was a mixture of stubbornness and pride.

So, imagine how embarrassed you felt on that sunny Saturday morning, with your phone pressed to your ears as you anxiously waited for your call to be answered. It’s so dumb, they just got back from the case yesterday. I should hang…

“Hey pretty girl, what’s up?” Derek’s usual playful tone cut through your thoughts, stopping you from pressing the little red icon. You were relieved that you weren’t the one to wake him or at least judging by the lack of raspiness in his tone, he was already up.

“Are you perhaps… free today?” you asked as you quickly paced back and forth in your unusually empty bedroom. One of your cats, who was still very much a kitten, energetically chased after your feet, causing you to come across even less collected, since you had to look out for the little furball too if you didn’t want to accidentally step on him.

“For a woman like you, I’m always free.” Hummed the man at the other end of the line, immediately easing your nerves a bit. You rolled your eyes and let a playful smile spread across your face, which was wiped off just as quickly.

“Ah, for fuck’s sake Nick...!” before you could’ve said anything else, like probably an explanation for why you were calling your colleague, a low scream escaped your lips. “Sorry, my cat is just devil’s incarnate, and he decided it’d be fun to claw his way up on my bare legs.”

“For a moment I got scared that it wasn’t really me you were looking for.”

“Impossible, you know you’re always on my mind, handsome.”

You learned quite early on that Derek’s flirty demeanour was part of his personality and it was never serious when it came to the team. Even in amongst you, he knew that not everyone was open to suggestive comments or playful dirty talk. He made sure to never make anyone feel uncomfortable. Luckily, you were completely okay with this and even became a ‘partner in crime’.

“Okay, out with it. Why did you call?”

“Ah, I need a favour. I know you guys just came home yesterday and it��s totally okay if you say no…”

“Babygirl, I don’t even know what to say no to.”

“Yeah right, sorry. I need to buy a new bed because my last one was older than me and a few weeks ago it decided to end its life, which I can understand. So, I’ve been sleeping on the sofa. I mean, I wouldn’t exactly call it sleeping. And I know that I am even funnier when I’m sleep deprived but now that I’ll soon be back in action, it’d be nice to be well rested, you know. And yes, I could just walk into an IKEA, choose a bed and ask for a delivery, but…” You were definitely rambling and overexplaining yourself, as you did whenever you got flustered or felt awkward. Just like when you gave Reid a gift, you still haven’t recovered from that. The others quickly got used to this, given that they already had a yapper in their company. However, it didn’t mean you weren’t self-conscious if you noticed what you were doing.

“Let me stop you right there. You need help with taking home and putting together a bed, right?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll be there in an hour, but I’m bringing help. These muscles can do a hella lot of things but getting a whole bed to the 7th floor is different.”

“Of course. Thank you, Derek.”

After the call ended, you stood in one place in the middle of your room, trying to calm yourself down, contemplating your life. Asking for a favour shouldn’t make you feel like you’re being hunted for sport. But it did, especially since it included one of your co-workers.

Originally, you planned on getting this done with your brothers, but both were out of the country for two more weeks. You’ve read so many past case files where it later turned out that the UnSubs were previously in one of the BAU member’s homes as maintenance workers or something similar that it made you a tiny bit paranoid. This is one of the reasons why you preferred to fix everything you could by yourself. It was to avoid letting unknown people into your flat. You weren’t that worried about Morgan’s unfamiliar friend though, given that you completely trusted the profiler.

Well, colour you surprised when an hour later as you hopped into the backseat of the black Range Rover Autobiography, you were met with passenger princess Spencer Reid.

“Oh… Hi.” your voice got awkwardly high-pitched. You avoided looking at him both directly and through the rear-view mirror. You weren’t quite prepared for this scenario. It was bad enough that the anxiety caused by being afraid of becoming a nuisance for Derek filled your entire body, now Dr Asshole was there too. And you appreciated the help, you really did. But now this also meant that the man with whom you had an indefinable relationship will enter your home. The home, which was so obviously, undeniably you. It was almost like a piece of your bare soul on display both in a good and bad way.

“Hi.”

“So, IKEA?” clarified Derek before things could’ve gotten even more uncomfortable.

“Yes. I already chose which one I’d like so I won’t be taking up much of your time, promise,” you said and as proof, you held up your phone, with the website open and the specific furniture on the screen.

“Oh, Tonstad was mentioned in a travel brochure I’ve read a few years ago when I was looking for places to visit.” After Spencer took a glance at your phone, his eyes almost literally lit up. He enthusiastically explained what the name of the chosen bedframe and mattress meant. His hands were just as expressive as his mouth. It was sweet, how he probably wasn’t aware the constant movement of his fingers. “It’s a little Norwegian village and was the administrative centre of the old municipality of Tonstad from 1905 until its dissolution in 1960. In 1960, it became the part of Sirdal, and it continued to be the administrative centre there.”

Weirdly, his slightly rambling, lengthy explanation somewhat put you at ease. It was one of those rare moments when his facts weren’t undermining your professional ideas and theories. These facts were simply just facts, it was interesting listening to them, and he was able to keep your attention so much so, that you didn’t even notice how curiously you stared at him.

However, he did. Since you had no reason to use contact lenses on an early Saturday when you weren’t working, those damned glasses were on you again. The sight basically magnetized his gaze to your face through the rear-view mirror, automatically triggering the memory of his weird dream about you from a few weeks before.

For a quick, passing moment he became annoyed. The genius didn’t quite understand why a simple object, invented around the 13th century—with its precursors dated back to the Eastern Han Dynasty in China—had such an effect on him. Spectacles have been around for a few hundred years now, it was quite literally a basic, everyday necessity for almost half the population. At times even he himself had to wear it. So then, why in the hells did you have this weird, unexplainable effect on him? It wasn’t fair, how you were able to cause a ruckus in his extraordinary brain without even trying.

Much to his dismay, he was very well aware how you looked at him from behind. The way the Sun shined on your irises captivated him. All your attention was his. And he had to come to the unfortunate conclusion that he very much liked this.

×××

“Is it okay if I let out my cats now?” you asked the men in your bedroom that got cluttered and chaotic rather quickly. They were in the midst of putting your bed together, however, it didn’t go as smoothly as they planned. Derek wanted to use a simple thing, called common sense, and build the bedframe how it seemed right while Reid insisted on strictly following the manual which he already read and memorised word for word. On top of that, they didn’t let you help them, not even a tiny bit. The one thing that both agreed on was that you’re not going to do anything physically exhausting while you still have a healing wound on your side.

“You have cats?” asked the doctor and he even turned his precious attention from the wooden parts to you.

“No Reid, I just prefer to eat and drink from a bowl on the ground.” the sarcastic reaction came out before you could even register it and, in a way, you almost immediately felt guilty about it. He was there to help you. There was no need for hostility. But you were very much on edge, more than usually, since this was the first time they were in your home. You were aware of the fact that just by looking at the environment you created as a home, he was able to profile the shit out of you, and you didn’t like this at all.

You had various kinds of potted plants everywhere—all safe for your pets—, even on top of stacked books that were scattered around the living room. Your dish rack was filled with colourful mugs, plates and bowls, most of them had different patterns and shapes. You bought the majority of those from artisans who set up stands at different fairs. All of them were unique but the colour scheme matched nicely, making your kitchenware organised and fun at the same time. Some were made to look like a blooming flower, some had animal or geek features on them. Penelope was over the moon when she first saw it, so much so that it wouldn’t have surprised you if she sneaked a few out of your place at the end of the occasional get-togethers.

The bookshelf at the wall between your kitchen and living room immediately caught Reid’s attention, but assembling your furniture was the main priority, so he forced himself not to pay much attention to it. Secretly though, he hoped he could take a closer look at what you read and by what system you organised your books, just so he could possibly get to know you more without having to engage in your usual bickering.

Before the doctor could’ve answered your last sentence, you took a swift turn and left your bedroom. A few minutes later the sound of long, drawn-out meows filled the small flat.

“Yeaaah, I know, I know. I’m sorry.” you answered to your pets in a high-pitched tone. The first one to run out of the bathroom was an adult, slightly chubby black cat with deep, amber eyes. You found her and her brother—the sweetest little calico, who was still chilling in the cold sink, even though you opened the door for him to leave—on a hot summer’s night, during a storm that was one of the worsts you’ve ever seen or experienced a little more than two years ago. The kitten named Nick, is an entirely different story. You found him in a dumpster, near your apartment, squaring it up with a raccoon. He hasn’t calmed down ever since. “But I locked you up for your own sakes. And it was only for half an hour.” To this, another long meow was your answer, to which you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. They were dramatic, for sure.

“Should I consider my win on the last case as a result of you, not having a bed?” Reid’s voice almost made you jump; it was so sudden. He was leaning to the doorframe, curious eyes diligently taking in every single tiny detail of you and your surroundings. You were in the process of taking the sweetest little prince out of the sink. The long-haired calico was rather scaredy and hated unfamiliar people but was a total lovebug for those whom he knew. Unfortunately, the tall profiler wasn’t amongst these persons, so the cat’s instincts took over and, in a blink, he clawed his way out of your warm embrace to hide behind the washing machine.

“Shit! Daisy…” you yelped as you became more and more aware of the tingling, hot pain that spread across your upper and lower arms.

“Ah, I… Khm. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I knew he is afraid of strangers, I should’ve left him alone, but I felt guilty about locking them up for the time you got the bed to my room.” you explained the situation while you started to clean the shallow injuries with some warm water. There were only a few scratches, luckily, but they burned like hell. “The other two will be okay, though. Jordan usually sits on top of the cat tree and judges everyone while Nick brings doom and destruction to all things in existence.”

It didn’t require much brain power to put two and two together, Spencer almost immediately recognised the connection between the names of your cats, however, he didn’t mention a thing. He wasn’t sure how you’d react, and he didn’t want to start a fight. Up until now you’ve only met each other outside of work when the team went out for drinks and even then, you tended to avoid interacting with him. So, instead he silently reached for the soft, salmon-coloured towel and handed it to you, his watchful gaze never leaving your figure.

thank you again for reading my work, hope you're having an awesome day! i hope it isn't a problem that this fic is getting longer, i'm just taking slow burn seriously (only thing i can do lmao) taglist: @halfbloodwriter @starrystormwritings @kspencer34 @maisyyyyyy @theseerbetweenus @throwaway-things divider from @cafekitsune gif from @reidgif

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #cm #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #doctor spencer reid #ssa spencer reid #dr spencer reid #derek morgan #spencer reid enigma #enigma

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archiewantsheetmetal · 2 days ago

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First Official Hello From Archie!

HELLO Layton Nation! Welcome to my Layton blog. My name is Archie, and I go by he/him. I am a minor!

DNI if you:

- Are a pedophile

- Ship any minors with any adult characters. This is also pedophilia

- Are a zoophile

- Are a strictly 18+ blog

- Are homophobic, transphobic, racist, or xenophobic I just post Layton stuff here and interact with the fandom. This is my only Tumblr blog. I really like Professor Layton. I don't tag triggers or spoilers unless it's something major, like if it's very mild blood or if it regards a Layton reveal, but if anyone has an issue, they can come to me through dms or asks! I am not a scary person. Like at all. I love interacting with the Layton fandom and to be honest I am probably just as scared of you as you are of me. So don't be afraid to be friends! I love getting questions and requests! I just won't respond to anything NSFW. I do not reblog NSFW content. On Archive of Our Own, my username is Archierot! You can find any fics I may post there. Currently, there are only three published works on my page, but there will be more to come. My askbox is almost always open! I just may be a little slower to get to some of them, or if you say something very nice or funny, I might just keep it in there so I can look at it when I need to.

Taglist and friends below!

LIST OF MY FRIENDS!! MY LOVELY FRIENDS THAT I LOVE FOREVER!!

@casualfr1days!! My best friend DREWWW!!!!! ! ! ! ! ^^ AMAZING person all around and very very pretty art. THEY ARE THE REASON. I am in the Professor Layton fandom. drew it is ALL your fault. Wonderful to be around and I feel like I can talk to you about my bugs forever.

@justkillingthyme MY LOVELY BEST FRIEND THYME!! ^^ FRIENDLY KIND FOREVER!! I love their art and their writing!! It's very distinct and has inspired several of my own creations. I'm very lucky to be friends with them. Very funny person and joy to be around.

@jesterday00 MY BEST FRIEND SKEETER!! HI SKEETER ^^ I LOVE this person, their art, and their writing. Very very kind and very funny. I'm glad to have met you! Gives you a BIG fist bump.

@hotsaucewmilk BEST FRIEND HOTSAUCE!! !HLELO ^^ FUNNY GUY ALERT!!! GREAT ARTIST ALERT!! And he's also british so maybe he knows layton. idk. were investigating the matter

@toonypow BEST FRIEND BEE!!! HI BEE HI BEE ^^ GREAT writer. Has made me cry on Bsky. Wonderful art that I've seen.

@mysterysnail APPEL. OLIVE. YOU. ^^ shares a similar sense of humor to me. thank you. SSHAKES your hand. VERY FUNNY PERSON AND I'VE SEEN SOME OF THEIR ART!! VERY GOOD!!

@speedygoreman speedy... ^^ I AM still scared of you KIND OF. a little bit. BUT I THINK YOU'RE COOL. AND I LOVE READING THE STUFF YOU POST. KLG. UGH. UURGH. @huevobuevo you/. i remember you. ^^ you're realy fuckin funny man. best first impression. i miss you heuevo............. @constantpan1c ^^ hi!! friend!! yay!! funny kind nice. not part of the layton fandom but i listed them here too. giggle If I didn't include you on here, I'm probably scared of you and I'm not sure if you consider us friends !!

TAGS!

#archiereblogs - what it sounds like !! these are just reblogged posts. #important - probably important ! #archiesfavs - MY MOST FAAAVORITE POSTS!! HIGHEST HONOR I CAN BESTOW!! They go here so i can look at them later. #phantom railway au - the 1930s-esque depression au i created for professor layton! #askarchie - just stuff from my askbox #archiesart - all of my art!! I'm trying to do more of it. #inbox thyme - all of or most of thyme's asks. because theyre in there a lot! #archiestupid - shitposts. this might be considered art too but if its too stupid it goes in there. #archierants - me talking. probably includes all analyses ive ever done. #pl creature au - my mythical creature/monster au i created for professor layton! #archierot - ALL of my fics and fic related content! #archiedoodles - doodle request answers! #pl/professor layton - professor laytong stuff! THAT'S ALL I CAN FIND!! Some tags may not have any posts in them! That's because, moving forward, I want to keep my account organized. That's what the empty tags are there for! So I can use them from now on. I'll try to edit existing posts to include these tags if I see them. I'll tag the taglist so you can use it to like. find stuff. if you need to.

I hope you guys like my stuff! -Archie!

#archiereblogs #important #archiesfavs #askarchie #archiesart #inbox thyme #archiestupid #archierants #pl creature au #archierot #archiedoodles #professor layton #pl #intro post #pl phantom railway au

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vividiana · 3 days ago

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chapter 1

pairing: Astarion x f!Durge · word count: 4.3k

rating: M for now, eventually E (18+)

tags: modern AU, witness protection, strangers to friends to lovers (see AO3 for a more exhaustive list)

summary: It’s been over a year since Eve had to uproot her life and assume a new identity—anything to distance herself from the past she wishes she could forget. When an erratic, if oddly charming, newcomer stumbles into her place of work, she recognizes something familiar within him and the two can’t seem to stay away from each other. But Eve is not the only one running from her past. An alternative, modern take on the Dark Urge x Astarion romance, filled with friendship, secrets, healing, and ABBA.

a/n: IT'S HEREEEEE 📣 a huge thank you to everyone who hyped me up as I was working on this, you guys are the best 🫂❤️

the title is from "Like Real People Do" by our lord and savior Hozier

read on AO3 · dividers

Eve grips the edge of the sink, knuckles white as she tries to ease her breathing.

Only one more hour. One hour and she gets to go home.

Her shift started, rather unfortunately, with a birthday party: pushing together four tables, trying to keep up with the customers who constantly changed their mind about the order and deliberated endlessly on who’s paying for what and with what card, all the while their children were screaming for attention. But even worse was the mess they left, along with the few spare coins they tossed on the table as an afterthought, which somehow made her angrier than if they hadn’t tipped at all.

And then it was back to the usual, mundane torments of her job, the worst of which were the never ending comments that made her scream internally when the most she could do was a polite nod. She thought she would get used to them by now, but alas, the hundredth one was just as insufferable as the first. They were delivered by all kinds of people in a variety of tones, ranging from patronizing to objectifying to just plain stupid. They fueled countless rants that Eve’s roommate patiently listened to before noting that perhaps she should look for a job that doesn’t fill her with rage every single day.

The customers’ words echo in her mind on a loop, like a twisted Greatest Hits compilation.

“Why is a young girl like you slaving away in a place like this? Did you plan to be a waitress?”

“Why would you cover up that pretty neck with a tattoo? Don’t you know what it will look like when you’re older?”

“I’m surprised your boyfriend is okay with you working this late. I wouldn’t be, that’s for sure.”

“Does it cost extra for you to smile?”

Managing to tear her thoughts away from this pity party, she looks up, wincing when she sees her reflection in the chipped mirror. The ponytails she hates but that, without fail and for reasons she doesn’t want to entertain for too long, make people tip her more. The makeup, just enough to conceal her dark circles and soften the edges of the scar running down her cheek, but of course not enough for people to notice she is wearing any, lest they think she’s trying too hard.

And finally, the dragonfly tattoo lining her throat. The artist did a great job with the cover-up, but despite the quality of the craft, all Eve sees when she looks at it is the dagger concealed within the insect’s body, the ever present reminder that no matter how far she runs, or how much she tries to conceal it, her past will forever be carved into her skin.

She takes another deep breath, counting seconds as she inhales, holds, then exhales—one of the only useful skills she’s gained from her series of short-lived flings with therapy.

One more hour. I can do this.

Eve fixes her crooked name tag and heads out the door. She makes her way through the backroom into the kitchen, and perhaps the smell of grease would assault her senses were it not already embedded into her skin, hair, and clothes.

On the center counter, she spots a tray with a ticket for booth four. Yes, booth four she can do. It’s largely unproblematic, if a little strange. She grabs it and heads out the kitchen, past the main room to a smaller side one with the bar, a couple smaller tables, and a line of booths.

As she enters, she spots a man sitting by the bar, looking a bit lost. His hair is bleached so light it’s basically white. He’s wearing a t-shirt with a patterned sweater vest over it that’s a couple sizes too big and way too warm for May. He’s hunched over the bar counter, pen in hand, working fervently on something or other.

She passes the newcomer and makes her way to booth four, featuring her favorite regular: an older man, wrinkled beyond belief, who arrives at 4 p.m. every single day. He always comes alone and without fail, orders the same exact thing every time: a plate of chicken tenders and a Dr. Pepper. No sauce, no sides. Just the chicken and the beverage. Eve stopped bothering to take his order months ago.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” she says, placing the plate in front of him. She opens the soda can and starts pouring it into his glass. “How are you doing today?”

“Fate spins along as it should,” he says in that trademark monotone voice.

“Mhm,” she hums, trying to think of a way to stall, so she doesn’t have to return to her other customers. “Did you hear there is going to be a thunderstorm tonight?”

“That may be so.”

“Right. Well, enjoy your meal then.”

“Thank you.”

She scans the room, but seeing no one who looks like they need help, she fishes out the notepad from her apron and makes her way behind the bar.

The white-haired man doesn’t look up when she stands before him, seemingly lost in thought as he scribbles something in a journal in sweeping, messy handwriting. Through the scent of stale beer and fried food, she singles out a hint of his cologne—citrusy, fresh, and far more pleasant than anything the men frequenting this establishment usually wear, if they even bother.

“Hello, my name is Eve–”

He startles at the sound of her voice. There is a trace of panic in his eyes as he looks up at her, one that he instantly tries to cover up by straightening in his seat and donning a forced smile.

The moment their eyes meet, Eve gets the strangest feeling of déjà vu she’s ever experienced. There is something familiar in the creases of his smile lines, in the way his hair curls around his ears. It catches her off-guard, the rehearsed introduction dying in her throat mid-sentence.

“I’m sorry, do I know you from somewhere?” she asks instead.

The man instantly tenses up with a loud scoff.

“Of course you would know me from somewhere. What else did I expect?” He gestures animatedly as he speaks, Eve blinking in confusion as she listens to his rant. “Are you one of those true crime freaks? Do you want an autograph or are you content with just standing here and gawking?”

Great. Just great.

Exactly what she needed to top off this hell of a shift: entertaining a man’s delusions of self-importance. The True Crime Celebrity has to go into this month’s top three, along with The Alien Abductee and Mr. FBI-Poisoned-My-Cows. At least those guys were more polite.

“You move halfway across the country to finally get a break for once and– Fucking hell!”

He drops his fountain pen on the counter with a loud thud and slips his glasses off to massage his temples, eyes shut tight in frustration. A couple patrons turn their heads to glance their way, Eve’s cheeks growing hotter at the sudden attention.

And perhaps, after seven hours of being on edge, that was simply the last straw.

“Do not raise your voice at me,” the words escape her lips before Eve can think better of it.

The man seems genuinely taken aback and he opens his eyes, brows furrowed when he asks:

“Excuse me?”

“You seem to think you’re some sort of big deal. Sorry to burst your bubble, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. And no matter who you are, you shouldn’t speak to people that way, but especially not to those who handle your food and drinks.”

She didn’t mean it to sound like a threat, but she has no emotional energy left to dull the edge of her words.

Maybe getting fired wouldn’t be so bad. Then I’ll never have to come back here.

For a moment he just looks at her wide-eyed, opening and closing his mouth a couple times. Eventually he clears his throat and puts his glasses back on, sounding genuinely embarrassed when he admits:

“You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just– It’s been a long day. But still, that’s no reason to– I’m sorry.”

The anger pent-up in her body starts to dissipate at his tone. He sounds… tired. In a way she recognizes all too well.

“It’s been a long day for me, too,” she says. “Maybe we can try again.”

She turns away and takes a couple steps along the bar, then returns with a polite smile on her face to say:

“Hello, my name is Eve, I’ll be taking care of you today. Can I get you started with something to drink?”

He chuckles softly and now that his face is more relaxed, Eve can’t help but think that he is quite handsome, in a manner that feels utterly out of place.

“Well, that depends,” he says. “Do the drinks come with spit or poison?”

“You’ve apologized, so neither. But you’re on thin ice.”

He scoffs, but there is no real edge to it. He watches her intently, a hint of curiosity in his gaze that she is not sure what to make of.

“So, do you need more time?” she asks after a moment.

“Time for what?” he asks, stumped.

“To order. Do you know what you want to order?”

Suddenly, as if a prompter whispered his lines to him, he remembers they’re in a restaurant of all places, and he is, in fact, playing the role of the customer.

“Ah, yes. Food,” he says, gaze falling upon the empty bar counter before him.

Eve sighs and retrieves one of the folded menus from a holder to her right.

“Is this your first time?” she asks, handing the paper to him.

“First time here?”

“First time in a restaurant.”

“Let’s say it is,” he chuckles, grabbing the menu from her. “What then?”

“Well,” she starts, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the counter. It’s a tad sticky, but she chooses to ignore that unfortunate detail. After all, the more time she spends with this fumbling, if oddly charming, idiot, the less she has to deal with the other, less-than-savory regulars. She unfolds the menu, trying to sound as patient as she can when she says:

“Here is the list of foods, here are the prices. Here, for some unknown reason, are the calorie counts, which I suggest you ignore, for the sake of your sanity.”

“Hm,” he hums thoughtfully, eyes gliding down the list. He looks up, a curious glint in his eyes when he asks: “So, what do you recommend?”

She doesn’t have a response at the ready, mostly because no one ever asks her that. Nothing, she wants to say, but with the final remnants of self-control, she dons her best service-industry smile, the one that says: I love my job and I haven’t been dying to go home.

“Well, that depends: how hungry are you?”

“Not terribly.”

She flips the menu over to their All-day Lunch selection.

“The club sandwich is a crowd favorite.”

“Alright. But what is your favorite?”

Eve looks up to meet his eyes, their greyish blue alight with amusement, and she can feel the edge of her lips tugging up into a disbelieving smile. She finds no hint of mockery in his tone, just sheer curiosity. He seems to genuinely care about her opinion, which is a rarity in this place.

“The grilled chicken panini is not half-bad,” she whispers, like she is revealing some meticulously guarded secret.

“I’ll have that, then.”

“Got it,” she says, standing up straight. “And to drink?”

“Surprise me.”

“I can’t put a surprise on your tab. You do actually need to pick something.”

“Do you have diet cherry coke?”

Eve summons all of her mental strength to not roll her eyes at him.

“We have diet, non-cherry pepsi. Is that okay?”

“It’s a travesty, more like. But I’ll make do.”

“Great. One sec.”

She scoops some ice into a glass, then retrieves the pepsi from a small fridge under the bar. As she starts pouring it into his glass, she asks:

“So, are you visiting someone, or just passing through?”

“I actually just moved here a couple days ago,”

“Oh.” It’s not often that they see a new face around here. And certainly not one this good-looking. “In that case: welcome.”

“Thank you. I suppose I wanted to get to know the town a little more. Check out the…” his gaze wanders around the room, the flickering Coors Light neon signs, the truckers belly-laughing at one joke or another, “…local scene.”

“And how do you like it so far?”

“Well, so far you’re the only person in this place I’ve managed to have a half-decent conversation with. So yes, I suppose it’s alright.”

“Half-decent? You wound me.”

He smiles, but before he gets a chance to respond, Eve hears someone snap their fingers at her like they’re in a fucking Tarantino movie. She’s surprised they didn’t yell garçon!

“I’ll be back with the panini,” she says, and however, reluctantly, pries herself off the bar counter to attend to the obnoxious client at booth one.

The pace picks up, as it always seems to do when she is almost done with her shift. When she brings him the food, they exchange a couple more amusing if largely meaningless comments, before she has to go tend to her other customers.

Eventually the man asks for the check and pays with cash. By the time Eve comes to collect it from him, he’s gone. Opening the tab, she sees two $20 bills and for a moment she’s convinced it must be a mistake, because the total was just over $17.

But then she notices a small ink stain on the thin receipt paper and turns it around to read a note in that same sweeping font: Sorry again for being a dick. Enjoy your weekend.

Eve chuckles softly and pockets the receipt on a whim.

When she’s clocking out 15 minutes later, she hears that grating voice behind her, the one that always manages to set her on edge.

“I saw you arguing with a customer.”

“That’s odd. I don’t recall doing that,” she says, not looking away from the keyboard.

“You know damn well who I’m talking about. The one with the glasses, dressed funny.”

Eve sighs and turns around to meet the man’s eyes. He’s a couple inches shorter than her, a fact he tries to make up for by puffing out his chest and glaring at her in a way that is presumably supposed to be intimidating. It’s funny, she thinks, how much of a power trip he gets from being a manager at a run-down place like this. She wonders sometimes what must be going on in his personal life that he’s trying to make up for.

“Oh, him!” she says with a forced cheeriness. “Well, he actually seemed quite pleased with the service, he left me a very generous tip. Did you hear any complaints? You know I would hate to leave a bad impression on a new customer.”

His lips tighten into a firm line as he watches her, and Eve is fully aware he has no arguments left. After a moment of tense silence, she nods politely before turning towards the exit.

“See you tomorrow, Wulbren.”

Eve frees her hair from the ponytails and runs her fingers through it the moment she steps outside. The afternoon sun cradles her skin as she crosses the parking lot and makes her way to Gizmo—her trusted 2012 Toyota Prius that has seen better days.

It’s a fairly nondescript car, what with it being a Prius and a bland beige, but she has taken to decorate the inside with some personal touches. The back is adorned with two bumper stickers: one with the logo of her roommate’s youth soccer team, the Clinton Comets, and another that reads: “My other car is a 2006 Honda Civic.” It’s a leftover gift from the previous owner that Eve is too amused by to peel off, despite how worn and faded the lettering has become.

She starts the car, turning the radio off immediately—she listens to it enough at work and right now, she just wants to enjoy the silence. As she pulls out of the parking lot, she rolls the windows down to welcome in the fresh air, warmed with the promise of summer.

It only takes her seven minutes to get to the elementary school. Surprisingly enough, she managed to leave at 5 p.m. sharp, so she still has some time before practice ends. She decides to park in the visitor’s lot and walk towards the pitch.

The shrill whistle reaches her ears, and as she steps up onto the mostly empty bleachers, she takes in the sight of 20-something children running around in navy blue uniforms, Lae’zel standing off to the side as she watches them intently.

Her thick chestnut hair looks immaculate as always, interspersed with small braids here and there, the upper half pulled into a near-perfect bun. Despite the temperature, she’s wearing a matching cream-and-black Adidas tracksuit, the light fabric bringing out the warm hue of her skin.

Suddenly, there is a commotion as an argument breaks out between two girls. Someone missed a clear shot, or something of that nature—Eve was not paying attention. Others join shortly, the bickering growing incessantly loud.

A whistle cuts through the chatter and Lae’zel waves her hand in a beckoning motion.

“Mol! A word.”

The group immediately falls quiet and from the crowd emerges a short girl with russet brown skin, her hair gathered into a high ponytail. Her expression is sour as she approaches, like she’s ready to argue further.

Lae’zel lowers herself into a squat, her eyes leveled with the girl’s. From her seat, Eve can make out most of their conversation:

“You’re the captain, Mol. You need to act like one. If you don’t have faith in your teammates, then who will?”

The girl’s defiant expression melts into one of embarrassment, her gaze suddenly very focused on the tips of her cleats.

She mutters something that sounds like: “I’m sorry, Coach.”

“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to your team,” Lae’zel says, rising to her full height, which, admittedly, is not a lot. “Now, go out there and be a leader. Understood?”

The girl nods decidedly and runs back onto the field as Lae’zel blows the whistle, resuming the game. Eve smiles as she recognizes her gift: a silver whistle with the words #1 Coach engraved on the side. Lae seemed very flustered when she gave it to her, but Eve has never seen her go back to the plastic ones she’d used before.

The game ends 2:1.

Lae’zel makes some closing strategy-related remarks, then reminds the girls about the game next week with the team from a neighboring county.

“And remember that there will be summer practice available all throughout June, and then resuming in August. I’ve emailed the details to your parents. Any questions?”

When none arise, Lae gathers the team in a circle, and on the count of three, they erupt into a group cheer, accompanied by dance moves that look awfully close to the “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” song.

“UP, DOWN, LEFT, AND RIGHT, CLINTON COMETS WIN THE FIGHT!”

The group disperses, and as the children are gathering their things and getting ready to leave, Lae’zel checks her notes and says:

“Arabella, Yenna, and Ide, I still haven’t gotten those permission slips back. If you don’t want to miss out on the last game of the season, I’ll need them by Wednesday.”

“Yes, Coach Medina,” the three girls in question say in a practiced unison.

The pitch eventually empties out as the children leave, along with some of the parents who were waiting on the bleachers. Lae’zel is gathering the orange plastic cones from the field as Eve makes her way down to help her.

When Lae turns around and meets her eyes, Eve breaks into dance with unparalleled enthusiasm:

“UP, DOWN, LEFT, AND RIGHT, CLINTON COMETS WIN THE FIGHT!”

“Do you have a problem with our battle cry?” Lae’zel asks, trying her best to look unamused.

“No, I love it. It’s adorable and so, so corny.”

“The girls wrote it themselves. I didn’t want to interfere with their creative process. It’s good for team morale and their self-esteem.”

“Of course. You know I would never question your pedagogy.”

They pick up the last of the cones and as they’re heading to Lae’zel’s office, Eve says:

“Oh, you know what I just remembered?”

“What?”

“UP, DOWN, LEFT, AND RIGHT–”

“Keep doing that and I will evict you.”

“Oh, but then who would drive you around?”

“I’ll take my chances with the bus.”

Once they put everything away, they make their way back to the car and head home.

“Are you doing anything tonight?” Eve asks as she turns onto the main road.

Lae’zel picks up her phone and then directs the screen towards her.

“Her, if all goes well.”

Eve glances sideways to catch a glimpse of a Hinge profile. Jen, 25, the caption informs her. The girl in the photo sports heavy makeup and short bangs, her hair split down the middle with half-white, half-black dye.

“Pretty.”

But Lae’zel just hums approvingly in lieu of a response.

Before Eve can probe any further, her phone rings, and a message appears on the center screen: Call from: Wyll Ravengard 😎

“Hi Wyll,” she answers. “You’re on speaker. I’m in the car with Lae’zel.”

“Hello Lae’zel,” the man responds in his signature friendly tone.

“Hello. Don’t worry, I’m not paying attention,” Lae says, not looking up from her phone.

“She’s not paying attention, she’s busy texting a goth girl on Hinge.”

“Been there. Anyways, Eve, sorry to disturb your Friday evening, I just wanted to confirm that we’re still on for coffee, Monday at 4?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Perfect. And you remember that I scheduled that… consultation appointment for you at 2 pm that same day?”

Eve sighs softly. Another therapist. Agent Ravengard has been relentless in trying to find a good match for her. She’s pretty sure she’s gone through everyone within a 20-mile radius.

“Yup. I do remember that.”

“Mhm. And do you plan on attending?”

She pauses for a second, and then says, unconvincingly:

“I do.”

“Lovely. Can’t wait to hear all about it over coffee.”

“Sounds delightful,” she says dryly.

“I’ll text you the details again, just in case. It’s up in Fairview, so about a half hour drive. You should have plenty of time to be back by 4.”

“Okay.”

“Alright then, have a wonderful weekend, Eve, and I’ll see you soon, yes?”

“Yes. I– Thank you, Wyll. I appreciate you.”

“Happy to help. Bye now!

“Bye, have a good one!”

The moment he hangs up, Eve lets out a pained groan.

“You sound frustrated,” Lae’zel remarks, still typing. And when Eve doesn’t respond, she adds: “Maybe you should sleep with him.”

“With Wyll?!”

“Yes. You are attracted to him, are you not?”

“I suppose I am, a little. I mean, have you seen him? But no, that is either illegal or unethical or both.”

“I don’t see the issue.”

“Well, I do. Plus, not all of life’s problems can be solved with sex, you know?”

“It sounds like you just haven’t had great sex, then.”

“It sounds like you really want to walk home. I can pull over at any moment, just say the word.”

There is a moment of silence before Lae’zel asks:

“In all seriousness though, do you want to talk about it? This appointment of yours?”

“No. That’s the last thing I want to be thinking about right now.”

“Understood.” Lae’zel seems to ponder something, then adds: “I’m meeting her for drinks at 9, so I still have some free time. Do you want to pick up ramen and watch people be idiots on the Game Show Network?”

“Yes, please.”

Lae’zel calls the ramen place on the first floor of their building to put in their usual order. Once they get back to the apartment, she goes to pick up the food while Eve heads to her room to change.

The space is quite bare, especially in comparison to Lae’zel’s room, which is full of photos, trinkets, and memorabilia to remind her of home. Eve doesn’t have any of those, but she still tried to make her room her own, whatever that means. A couple plants line the windowsill, and her shelves are overflowing with books she thrifted: mostly non-fiction, with the occasional Stephen King novel tucked between her usual reads. There are plenty of lights, too: a salt lamp, numerous candles, and a cascade of fairy lights above her bed. Anything to not have to turn on the harsh overhead light.

Before they sit down to eat, she wants to get rid of that ever-present diner smell. When she pulls her jeans off, a piece of paper flies down onto the wooden floors. She snatches it up, ready to toss it into the trash, when she spots the now familiar, swirly handwriting.

Eve chuckles, remembering this oddly charming man, looking entirely out of place, who probably had an even worse day than she did, somehow.

She unfolds the paper fully, straightening out the wrinkles, and heads over to the small desk in the corner of the room. There is a cork board above it with a couple ticket stubs from events she went to with Lae’zel and a few holiday cards from Wyll. It’s the closest she can have to a picture board, ever since she was explicitly instructed to never allow herself to be photographed.

She isn’t sure what propels her to pin the receipt to one of the empty spaces on the board.

But it fits right in.

a/n: thank you for reading! lmk if you would like to be tagged when I update this, or when I post in general. have a lovely rest of your day/night, whenever you're reading this 💛🧡

taglist: @roguishcat ✨

#astarion x durge #astarion x the dark urge #durgestarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fanfiction #bg3 modern au #my fic

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