#nothing of all these things that happened make sense

[holy-mother-of-whumpers]

I'd like to explain why I disagree.

Disclaimer.

I have not been around TikTok stuff so I have no idea what is this against. Maybe I'd agree with them against it, but just don't know. All it follows is NOT against the book tok culture but just a polite disagreement of this post or what it made me think about.

This is not about booktok

"If someone told me... There is an enemy to lovers... Why are you spoiling the story?" -> spoiling is bad and marking the tropes is spoiling.

Spoiling is bad.

Spoiler works on some kind of content, like Marvel, which is a lot of surprise value and 'disposable' stories. If the narrative is good a spoiler (provided it isn't about the plot twist) doesn't decrease the enjoyment but enhances it (there is a whole thing, may even be called spoiler effect? Spoiler paradox?).

If spoiling or knowing the content would ruin things, there wouldn't be classics. Nobody would read LOTR, dracula, the Iliad/Odyssey, Count of Monte Cristo. Yes there are always going to be people who come at it free of previous knowledge, which is great for them, but usually people are aware of the story bits (like that the suspicious count in Dracula is in fact a vampire - I knew that and yet the book was an absolute blast, very suggested! It even got me trying epistolary novel as a format) and read it anyway. More, they read it because they kinda know what they are getting into.

So no, not all spoiling is intrinsically bad, in fact nobody would read a story they know nothing about. I'd say the trick is to 'spoil' the setting and the character dynamics... Just NOT something the author was playing as a reveal. Of course at this point we shouldn't even use 'spoil'.

What can we call the setting and character dynamics?

Marking the tropes is spoiling.

We can call them tropes and genres, they are broad characterizations that help people have an idea of what they are getting into. We all prefer a few genres.

What if we were allowed to prefer a few tropes as well, or just be free to avoid those we don't like?

The entire discussion that happened about fantasy romance (before it had a name) was that people got into what they thought it was fantasy but ended up with just romance, with basic characterization, minimal world building, no intrigue or epic battle between good and evil. It was very unsatisfying; so more classification of the book is better than less (with common sense, nor I nor anybody else wants a list of every single thing that's in there).

'Classification' as in to guide to to find the book you like or to let you know if you want to try something different than usual or again, you found a trope you never knew (like me with the reincarnation trope in webtoons) and you want to proceed and eat that in copious amounts until you have wrung every last bit of serotonine/dopamine from it.

If you don't want to know, you should be allowed to know where the trope markers are, so to avoid and go in blind (like I do with movies I know I'm interested in: I just don't watch the trailer. A legit choice I'm allowed to make and happy because of it).

Conclusion: if you think marking a trope is spoiling, they probably did it wrong, because it shouldn't. It should be supposed to give you an idea, so you aren't buying a book for the pretty cover.

Note! From fanfiction to published books it would be a good idea to use warnings, to some extent - I'd love to skip historical novels with gratuitous sa because it's 'realistic'... At this point it's its own trope which I'd like marked so I can avoid it. I have had enough of it ok. No hate but I want to keep away.

I'd like also a protagonist marker, examples, Reluctant Protagonist (no hate, just dislike) or pov protagonist (especially in fantasy romance so I know they aren't going to do anything and we are admiring together the brooding tragic-backstoried main lead).

Saying: 'I am annoyed by this thing' is legit and I support presenting narratives in a way that allows people to choose how much to know about it. Like a general summary behind, a tropes list inside the cover (or something) for those looking for the tropes. Saying 'you can't use fanfiction terms' is incorrect, tropes aren't fanfiction terms, and wrong in the 'you', because 'you' (publishing industry?) should cater to people taking into account that different people want different things and consume the book in different ways, nobody should be forced to consume a book any other way that the one makes them happy :)

Second post.

Again, I don't know about booktok so I'll keep to "encourages authors to built their entire story around marketable tropes [...] turn more of a profit".

The placing (<- marketing term) of a book on the market is hella hard ok. Like, so much. Very often what makes a book great is subtle, hard to explain, and people have a short attention span anyway. Building a story around a trope may be a bad idea, but many writers start the story around a image or a scene floating in their mind, all stories are Bron from an idea. Tweaking the core idea to a marketable trope make the author sell. "Turn more of a profit" yes?? Yes please??? Begging here??? If I have spent like the last five years working on this story I want people to a) find it interesting (thus I am brought to play on the main tropes in there) and b) make money out of it. I worked on that story for the last five years. Am I so evil to think I want a revenue so I can focus on my next book instead of doing so in scraps of times in this capitalistic hellscape? Yes I want the money so I can do what I want with my life and time (writing in this case) and give people meaningful stories.

If the trope-marketed story isn't meaningful I'm afraid the problem is the writer didn't care for it - which leads to another entire can of worms, kinda related (writing for the money and not for the story is an unfortunate rotten compromise for people who need money and can write but aren't paid enough to afford the time for a proper story).

So: writing a story around tropes is bad if it's demanded from the publisher like this, and with limited time to develop it, because it's what is popular now.

Using the tropes inside the book to market it, is just how you market a book. Who never ran into a great book which never got the popularity it deserves? It's because it was marketed wrong, or unsuccessfully.

Again placing and marketing a book is HELLA hard and often it's what makes it or breaks it for the book itself, even more than the content.

Let's cut authors a break on this ok (lol we can harass publishing companies though, just a little tee hee).

Third post

Do you know I actually dislike long posts??? How did I get here. Ah yes, frustration.

Why is fanfiction considered easier. 'cheaper' narrative?

Because you already know and care about the characters. Making people love our little guys is also rather hard.

If it works you will end up caring though, and people will put them in Coffee au.

This third post seems to misunderstand what tropes are. Characters are kinda always in a trope. You know that joke, after reading the vocabulary all books area remix? Tropes are how we categorize stuff happening in books (technically the recurrent things, but once we have given a name to all thing (and we have actually) everything is low key recurrent). Yes it often devolves into cliches, when a trope is cheap and obvious and kinda gratuitous. But they are 'places' where the characters are.

I, a living person, am always in some place or 'surroundings' since I am made of matter which occupies a space surrounding me. A trope is the surroundings of the characters.

You can made to care about original characters in a coffee shop, like if you are reading a cozy (example) and slowly get to know the people meeting for coffee.

The post seems to suggest that characters in books exist outside tropes. Not really. But also not a crime, I hope I explained politely why I disagree.

Why should you care for some randos meeting in a coffee shop? Well, if this is a book, consider it an essay explaining you exactly that ✨

More disclaimers.

Again, this isn't about booktok

This isn't against the publishing industry, if you have critics of them I'll probably agree.

If you take one of the things I said to the extreme to make it absurd, that is cheap, argumentative and I will ignore you. Same if you warp something away from what I meant, or your reply is based on an incorrect knowledge of this stuff, or you are just being provocative for the sake of it. Be polite and chill people.

Sorry it’s early but you really can’t use fanfiction terms in a non fanfiction context like if someone is trying to sell me a book to read and they tell me there’s an enemy to lovers I would be annoyed because why are you spoiling the story lol

[roosterforme]

Mail Call | Rooster x Reader

Summary: After a long and illustrious Naval career, Bradley was used to months spent on an aircraft carrier. Nothing ever felt quite as good as a letter from home. He thought he knew what to expect this time, but you always made things more exciting.

Warnings: adult language, masturbation, horny love letter

Length: 2500 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Check out my masterlist for more!

Bradley had been in the Navy long enough to know when to expect a mail call. Maybe it was intuition or a sixth sense, but after so many years of deployments, he was certain. When he woke up on Tuesday, something told him to start getting excited. There would be a box with his name written in a familiar scrawl in his hands soon. "Commander Bradshaw." He turned to see a petty officer jogging along the interior corridor of the aircraft carrier with a clipboard in hand. "Sir, here's your schedule for the day." Bradley grunted and skimmed the sheet as he made his way up to the tower. The lightness he felt mere moments ago was replaced by annoyance. Back-to-back meetings filled every inch of the sheet, including a meeting that was scheduled for after dinner.

"Damn it," he muttered, taking the stairs two at a time. His plan to collect his parcel, enjoy a meal, and then head to his private bunk to read the letter was dashed. But he was still convinced that a Comanche helicopter would touch down on deck at some point this afternoon if the weather permitted. He'd get his mail when he could. He needed to wait a little longer to hear from you, which would make him grouchy in the interim.When he pushed open the heavy door to the tower, he greeted the collection of older officers by uttering just one word. "Admirals."

They all greeted him in response with a chorus of overworked voices, and then another clipboard was thrust into his hand. Attached to this one was a sheet detailing the flight schedules for the day, and sure enough, a smile curled along his lips below his mustache when he saw that a Comanche was slated to arrive at 1500 hours with the note US Airmail Transport.

God, a letter from you was sounding better by the minute. Your tone would be soft. You'd tell him how much you missed him. There would be something in there from-

"Commander Bradshaw. Let's get started with your pilots."

His musings were cut short, and he sighed before slipping the offered headset into place and testing out the comms. He was in charge of the training exercises for this deployment, and he needed to keep his mind clear so he could keep his aviators safe. It would do him no good to be focused on what might be happening back at home. He could read about it later.

But as the day wore on, the sky darkened, and storm clouds painted the horizon. When he called his team back to the carrier and watched them land one at a time, he asked the admirals, "Should we check in with the mail transport? It seems to have gone off schedule."

Lightning cut across the sky just as the comms crackled to life with a new voice. "This is Comanche. We're coming in low from the east, trying to avoid the rain. Are we clear to make a quick landing in seventeen minutes?"

Bradley listened to the air traffic team guide the helicopter in, and sure enough, the landing was low and loud, followed by another crack of lightning. He watched from his high vantage point as a team ran out in boots and rain slickers to collect bin after bin of mail, and now his hands were itching again. He could already feel the familiar weight of the box packed with his favorite snacks and some handmade artwork.

"Commander, you'll be late to meet with the pilots."

Bradley was once again yanked from his daydream of being at home where it was warm and dry and cozy, and he was faced with the prospect of having to duck outside into the storm to get to the meeting rooms on time.

The first gust of wind had him shivering and wishing he could grab his mail directly from the helicopter and head back to his bunk. The second gust left him cursing under his breath. He had to go lecture all of these young pilots about where they needed to improve before they could fly their mission, and he just didn't have the energy for it.

"Work now, reward later," he told himself, taking a deep breath and picturing your smile. That was enough to get him through the meetings. It was enough to get him back to his small office where he wrote up his notes for the day. It was even enough to get him all the way to the narrow hallway where the mail was being sorted.

But now there was a massive fucking line of officers in uniform waiting for the same thing he was. And to top it off, his stomach was growling. He could bail out of line, eat dinner, and come back later, hoping there was still someone there to disperse the mail before they closed up shop for the night. But it wasn't worth the risk. He'd be happy to skip dinner in favor of mail from you. It wasn't even a question in his mind.

When he finally reached the window and the rows of alphabetized bins, he told the officer in charge, "Bradshaw, Bradley," and then waited quite impatiently to have an ordinary looking cardboard box thrust into his hands. But his heart leapt with joy as soon as he held it and saw your handwriting. "Thank you."

The box felt a little lighter than usual. Maybe you didn't have time to load it up with as many snacks as you usually did. He hated leaving you for weeks and months at a time to deal with everything at home on your own. He loved being at home for the day to day grind. Loved it. But there was something unique about seeing how much things changed while he was gone.

He shook the box a little bit, curiosity getting the best of him. He passed the cafeteria and ran like a child to get back to his bunk as quickly as he could where he set the box down and tore into it. When he saw the three envelopes on top, he had to fight back his tears and take a deep breath.

He carefully picked up the envelope that said Daddy in purple crayon and opened it up to find several coloring sheets and a note written in light pink crayon that was a little hard to read.

Daddy,

I lost my first toooth. The toooth fairee took it. I got a glittery doller. I drew you the toooth and the fairee.

Love, Wren

Bradley found the corresponding page with a drawing of the tooth along with the tooth fairy. His daughter also wrote her name all over the back of the paper in every color crayon imaginable which made him smile. He read her note again before carefully placing it on his nightstand, and then he picked up the envelope that said Dad in black pen.

Dad,

When are you coming home? Fourth grade is so boring. We are learning how to write in cursive, but I already know how. Mom doesn't make the homework as fun as you do. Don't tell her I said that.

Actually everything is better when you're at home. I had a good report card, so mom let me get a skateboard. I covered it in bird stickers. I can almost stand on it for three seconds. Soccer tryouts are next week, and mom promised to take a video so you can watch it later. When are you coming home again? I'll make sure she doesn't delete the video.

Wren drew you a tooth fairy, but it looks like a demon. So then I started to try to draw the tooth fairy, and it looks really cool. It's on the back of the page. Please write back and tell us when you're coming home.

Love, Hawk

His son's version of the tooth fairy did look pretty cool, and now Bradley was cracking up as he took a second look at the one his daughter drew. Yeah, it was a bit frightening. He set both notes aside, finally ready to read what you had written to him. The third envelope said Bradley in your familiar handwriting, but his heart lurched into his belly. Instead of the thick envelope filled with page after page that he usually received from you, this one was light. His brow creased in concern as he opened it up to reveal just one sheet.

Bradley,

We miss you. The kids are mostly holding it together, but we're waiting until we know your return date to start a countdown. You know how much Wren cries when the countdown goes on for too long. Honestly, it makes me want to cry, too.

I could write you a novel about work and school and how much I miss you, but I thought it might just be more fun to show you. I got a little carried away with the camera a few nights ago when I couldn't sleep. I was too hot, and your pillow still smells like you. It smelled so good. I started thinking about what you and I will do when you get home. Then I couldn't stop. I literally could not stop touching myself, Bradley.

It never feels as good without you, but I do think some of the photos portray just how vivid my imagination was that night. Like I said, I got carried away.

Let us know when you'll be home.

Love, Your horny wife

Bradley immediately started digging through the box, and he soon realized you'd only included a thin layer of his favorite snacks. He scooped them out onto his bed and was left with some Polaroids. A lot of Polaroids.

"Holy shit," he whispered under his breath, reaching in and pulling out a photo of you wearing nothing but a tiny lace thong in his favorite shade of blue. He loved that thing. He loved taking it off of you. Your arm was covering your breasts in the photo, but that was okay. He had a vivid imagination.

Oh, but you didn't leave him hanging at all. The next one he grabbed was you sprawled out in bed, tits on full display, thong present and accounted for. You were biting down on your lip, and he could almost hear you moan. Your nipples were hard and looked just like they did after he had them in his mouth.

"God damn it, Baby. You're killing me." He missed his family. He missed being at home. But right now, all he could think about was fucking the absolute shit out of his wife.

Now he was looking at a beautiful shot of just your face, eyes closed, lips parted in pleasure. That was followed up by you bending over in the thong. And then one where you had your nose buried in his pillow.

There were so many photos, he was getting dizzy. And he was hard. He took a few seconds to unzip his khaki uniform pants while his eyes searched through the photos still inside the box. "Damn," he groaned, wrapping his right hand around his cock while he picked up one of the photos with his left.

You were straddling his pillow in your underwear. Literally grinding your pussy against it. Back arched, tits front and center, riding his pillow like it was his face. He really wished it was.

"Okay, Baby," he murmured, picking up another one while he stroked himself. Your hand was inside your thong. Another one where your blue thong was pulled to the side, showing off your pussy. Another one where you had two fingers knuckle-deep inside yourself. Another one where you were licking your wet fingers.

When he reached blindly into the box again, his hand connected with something softer next to the Polaroids. To his absolute delight, his fingers wrapped around that bit of fabric that he recognized right away. The blue thong. His cock jumped in excitement as he raised your panties slowly from the box and brought them all the way to his face. He knew. He knew you hadn't washed it. He just fucking knew this little thing was put in the box directly after you came all over it and dragged it down your soft legs.

His mouth watered as he pressed it to his nose. Eyes squeezed shut, he inhaled the scent of your arousal. He moaned your name. He could practically taste you as he rutted into his own hand. Bradley inhaled and exhaled your smell, running the lace along his nose, mustache and lips. The fabric was soft on his face, and he could picture you teasing him with it.

He would do anything to have you right now. He wanted you bent over the end of the bed, sobbing and begging him to go harder. He wanted your sweet voice in his ear. He wanted you on your knees. He wanted to bury his face in your pussy until you screamed.

"Jesus Christ," he whined, panting as he jerked himself off. All he could smell was you. It smelled like home and being in love. He couldn't get enough as he rubbed your thong all over his face before lowering it down to his cock. The lace felt exquisite as he ached with need. The fabric glided along in his hand, creating a friction that left him groaning.

He jerked himself off slowly, trying to make it last as long as he could, but the Polaroids were all he could see, and your pussy was all he could smell. He came all over your thong, ribbons of white decorating it while he held onto the wall for support.

"Oh, fuck," he whispered, voice harsh as he drained every drop onto the lace. He held the sticky mess in his hand and huffed out a surprised laugh. From thousands of miles away, you did this to him. This was different from the mail he usually received from you, but he wasn't complaining. He got a nice update on what was happening at home plus a lot more than he bargained for.

Bradley walked into his tiny bathroom and draped your thong over the sink faucet before washing his hands. Maybe he'd have time to grab some dinner before returning to his bunk to write back to you, Hawk, and Wren. He had so much to say. Especially to you. He'd set himself up in bed with one of his clipboards and tell you all about what you made him do.

"Oh, shit," he told his reflection in the mirror as he thought about his clipboard again. "Fuck!"

He had one more meeting left. Starting in just minutes. He eased his cock back into his pants, still zipping up as he left his bunk. Then he walked while discreetly trying to tuck his shirt in and straighten out his uniform.

The further he got from your wrecked underwear, the more he realized he could still smell you. He was going to be able to smell you all night. This was going to be a painfully long meeting. And the letter he wrote to you later was going to be as dirty as your underwear.

----------------------

Thanks for reading! It's been a while since I posted a Bradley one-shot, and this one was hanging out in my drafts for a bit. Much love for a DILF. Hope you enjoy your Valentine's Day as much as Bradley enjoyed his mail!

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[littleindulgences]

Your day was going pretty good for once, all things considered—you woke up feeling rested, it was your day off, you even finally managed to finish the errands you were forced to put off all week!

…Then you get home. Your fridge is dead.

Of course it is.

You stand in front of the open door with one hand on your hip, the other on your chin, contemplating when the fuck, how the fuck, this could have happened. Your fresh groceries sit on the counter behind you, stuff you just went out to get because you assumed your fridge would still be operational when you returned. It’s your fault, really, for putting the bar so high.

Finally, after a whole three minutes of bemoaning your luck, you resolve to pull out the old cooler you shoved into your closet and put everything that would turn into a food poisoning nightmare on ice. Once you get everything put away, and the puddles of water mopped up, you put in a maintenance order and pray the landlord actually sends someone this time.

You leave the cooler in the corner, crack open a bottle of wine, and mourn the loss of your good day.

A couple days pass and you forget all about the work order. You figured out the next morning that the fridge wasn’t dead after all, it just got unplugged…somehow. Just added fuel to your “the building is haunted” fire. You simply plugged the fridge back in and went about your life, no biggie.

It was a big biggie.

You’re just out fetching the mail when it happens.

“Hello? Maintenance! Is anyone home?” The gruff, deep voice carries easily down the hall. You don’t register it at first, flicking through your mail, until the voice calls out again: “Hello? Maintenance, comin’ in!”

Wait. Maintenance.

The fucking fridge!

You dash down the hall, practically skidding to a stop in front of your apartment where two large—and you mean large, damn—men hover.

You avoid looking them directly in the eye as your pulse throbs in your throat, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. You’re sure the whole hall must’ve heard them, fuck.

“I’m so sorry!” you say, awkwardly pushing yourself between the biggest man and your doorway. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing actually wrong, I fixed it already! There was nothing wrong with the fridge, it just came unplugged.” You force a laugh, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. You still don’t look at them.

“‘S alrigh’ ma’am, no problem at all,” says the man, and wow his voice is nice—

“It’s just, there wasn’t a way for me to cancel the work order,” you explain. “I’m so sorry you had to come all the way up here.”

Oh God, what if they try to come inside to double check? You’re cursing yourself for picking today to go out in your house clothes—short shorts and a tank that doesn’t completely cover your stomach—but the building was always so hot and you would’ve melted if you stayed in your work uniform—

“It’s okay, ma’am, really,” he’s saying again, “We’re glad there’s not an issue. You live on the second floor with no elevators, we didn’t want to bring a new fridge up anyway.” You giggle for real this time.

Then you risk glancing up at them.

Oh God…

They’re fucking beautiful. The man in front of you—his name tag reads John—is an absolute bear. Thick and broad, covered with hair, smiling gently at you like he really doesn’t blame you for your mix-up. And the guy behind him, you think his tag says Kyle, could be a supermodel: smooth, dark skin, a little leaner than John but still mouthwatering. The lopsided grin he’s giving you makes your heart race. The cap he wears makes him look almost boyish.

“Right,” you say, hoping you don’t sound as breathless as you feel. “Sorry again.”

Kyle absently licks his lips and you think you might pass out.

“Here. In case something else happens, you can reach me directly.” John hands you a crisp business card, lingering just slightly when your fingers brush his. They’re rough. Makes sense.

“Thanks,” you breathe. Kyle looks at you like he’s suppressing a laugh, then taps John on the shoulder, signaling him to leave.

“Take care, love.” John turns away from you with a wink, and you watch his arm flex as he hoists his toolbag and follows Kyle to the staircase. Kyle waves cheekily back at you before he descends.

Once you’re safely inside the apartment, you bury your face in your hands with a deep groan. And if you already begin brainstorming other things that might mysteriously break in the near future, well, that’s your business.

@beloveds-embrace ✨

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

BEGIN AGAIN

rafe cameron x fem!reader

SUMMARY: a revenge plan turns complicated when y/n falls for rafe cameron—the one person she was never supposed to love. but was it ever just revenge?

based on this ask !! this request has been in the works for a couple weeks (hence the 5k word count😝), i really really enjoyed writing this and as soon as i read it i knew i had to make it inspired by ‘begin again,’ and i hope you don’t mind me taking creative liberty on this one anon, so thank you !! <3

(check out my other rafe cameron & drew starkey works here !!)

WARNINGS: some angst but a fluff ending, cheating (jj to reader), soft!rafe, cursing, allusions to sex, revenge plan to lovers (?), alcohol consumption, rafe has a normal family in this one (😀). (lmk if i missed anything !!)

WORD COUNT: 5.3k (i got insanely carried away🫣)

THIRD PERSON +

Y/N could still feel the sting of JJ's words, the way they sliced through her like a dull knife—slow, painful, irreparable.

"It just happened, okay?" he had said, desperation laced in his voice. "It didn't mean anything, baby. I swear."

But it did.

If it had meant nothing, he wouldn't have done it. If it had meant nothing, he wouldn't have shattered her trust, her love, her belief in him with a single, reckless mistake.

She stared at him, chest rising and falling with the force of her breath, hands curled into fists at her sides. The night air was thick with humidity, the salty ocean breeze doing nothing to cool the fire burning inside her.

"You cheated on me with Kiara?" she spat, her voice trembling, though not with sadness—no, sadness was something she'd felt the moment the words left his mouth. Now, it was only rage. "And you expect me to just—what? Pretend it didn't happen?"

JJ ran a hand through his messy blonde hair, looking more disheveled than usual. "I was drunk, Y/N. It wasn't planned. It wasn't—"

"Don't," she cut him off sharply. "Don't stand there and try to make excuses." She scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. "You know what hurts the most, JJ? It's not even just the cheating. It's the fact that I defended you to everyone. My parents, my friends. They all told me I was stupid for choosing a Pogue over every other guy who actually makes sense for me. But I didn't care, because I loved you."

Her voice broke, but she swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep it together.

"And what did you do with that?" she continued, taking a step closer, her eyes blazing. "You threw it in my face. You embarrassed me."

JJ's jaw clenched. "I never meant to hurt you, Y/N. You know that."

"Yeah? Well, you did."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

Y/N could see it in his face—the guilt, the regret. But it didn't matter. It wasn't enough. It never would be.

She took a deep breath, exhaling shakily. "We're done, JJ."

His head snapped up. "Y/N—"

"Don't," she warned, her voice final. "You made your choice. Now I'm making mine."

And with that, she turned and walked away, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

She didn't cry.

Not when she got home, not when she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, not even when the memories of JJ and everything they had crashed over her like a tidal wave. No, she didn't cry.

She just got angry.

Because she had been loyal. She had been good to him. She had given him everything, only for him to betray her with Kiara of all people—the one girl she had actually trusted.

And now? Now, she wanted him to hurt.

Which was exactly why she was standing in front of Tannyhill, her heart pounding in her chest.

This was reckless. Dangerous, even. But she didn't care.

She needed this.

She needed revenge.

And she knew just the person to help her get it.

—

Rafe Cameron was a lot of things—arrogant, temperamental, a little unhinged—but he wasn't stupid.

So when Y/N showed up at his door at nearly midnight, looking like she was on the verge of either committing murder or breaking down completely, he knew something had happened.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, blue eyes scanning her face. "What do you want, sweetheart?"

She swallowed, straightening her shoulders. "I need your help."

Rafe raised a brow. "With what?"

"Making JJ regret everything."

A slow smirk curled at the corners of his lips. "Interesting."

She exhaled sharply, stepping closer. "Are you in or not?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You really wanna do this?"

She met his gaze, unwavering. "Yeah, I do."

For a moment, he just studied her, as if trying to figure out how serious she was. Then, something shifted in his expression.

"Alright," he said, pushing off the doorframe. "Let's make him suffer."

The plan was simple.

Make JJ jealous. Make him see what he lost. Make him regret ever touching Kiara.

But some point during that evening, the lines blurred.

Because Rafe was Rafe—intense, intoxicating, dangerously charismatic. And Y/N was already teetering on the edge of self-destruction.

So when they ended up in his bedroom, the door slamming shut behind them, it wasn't just about JJ anymore.

It was about the way Rafe looked at her, like she was the most interesting thing in the room. The way his hands skimmed her waist, his touch possessive yet careful. The way his breath fanned against her skin, sending shivers down her spine.

"Still thinking about JJ?" he murmured, fingers tracing slow patterns on her hip.

She met his gaze, lips parted, heart pounding.

"No," she admitted, and it was the truth.

Because in that moment, it wasn't about revenge. It wasn't about making JJ jealous.

It was about the fire in her veins, the ache in her chest, the desperate need to feel something other than betrayal.

And Rafe—Rafe was more than willing to oblige.

His lips crashed against hers, and suddenly, nothing else mattered. Nothing except Rafe Cameron.

—

Y/N lay beside Rafe, her body still humming from the events of the night. The air between them was thick with something she couldn't quite name—satisfaction, exhilaration, maybe even something deeper. The sheets were a mess, tangled between them as she stared up at the ceiling, trying to steady her breathing.

Beside her, Rafe propped himself up on one elbow, smirking down at her. His hair was tousled, his lips still slightly swollen from their heated encounter. There was something different about the way he was looking at her, but Y/N shoved that thought away before she could entertain it. This wasn't about them. This wasn't about feelings.

It was about revenge.

"So, how do you wanna play this?" Rafe asked, tracing his fingers lazily over her bare shoulder.

Y/N turned her head to look at him, eyes sharp despite the haziness of their moment. "We make it obvious enough that JJ notices," she said, her voice steady, as if the way his touch sent shivers down her spine wasn't affecting her. "But not so obvious that it looks fake."

Rafe chuckled. "So, we make it look real then?"

Y/N hesitated. She knew what he was doing—he liked to mess with her, push her buttons, see how far he could get under her skin. But she wouldn't let him win.

"Exactly," she said, rolling onto her side, meeting his gaze head-on. "You're his biggest enemy, and I'm his biggest mistake. Nothing will drive him crazier than seeing me with you."

Rafe's smirk widened. "You really are ruthless when you want to be."

"You have no idea."

Rafe hummed in amusement, and with that, their arrangement was set.

This was about JJ. About making him regret everything.

At least, that's what Y/N told herself.

—

The first time they made their "relationship" public, it was calculated. Rafe had picked her up from the country club in his Pogue-killer truck, windows down, music blasting—just in time for JJ to see them as he passed by on his dirt bike.

JJ had stopped in his tracks, his eyes narrowing, jaw clenching so hard Y/N thought his teeth might break.

Rafe had played it up, resting his hand on her thigh, flashing JJ a taunting grin before speeding off.

Y/N had expected to feel triumphant.

Instead, her stomach twisted in a way she didn't understand.

—

The first time Rafe showed up early, it threw her off.

She had told him to meet her for coffee on a random Wednesday, expecting the usual—him strolling in twenty minutes late, making some sarcastic remark, turning their little arrangement into something that felt like a joke.

But when she walked in, he was already there.

Sitting at a corner table, legs stretched out, arms crossed over his chest. And when he saw her, he stood up, gave her a small nod.

"You're early," she said, eyebrows raised.

"You sound surprised."

"I am surprised."

Rafe smirked, pulling out the chair for her. "Sit down, princess."

She hesitated before taking the seat, watching him as he slid into the chair across from her. It felt... strange. Unfamiliar.

JJ had never been early.

JJ had never pulled out her chair.

She shook the thought away, focusing instead on the game they were playing. That's all it was—a game.

Still, she couldn't ignore the way her chest tightened when Rafe leaned back in his chair, looking at her like she was something worth paying attention to.

After they made their orders, they sat with their freshly brewed drinks.

"Didn't take you for a latte girl," he teased, nodding at her cup.

Y/N raised a brow. "Didn't take you for someone who hangs out anywhere that doesn't serve alcohol."

Rafe smirked. "Touché."

It should have been a quick meeting—just another public sighting to stir the pot. But somehow, they ended up talking.

Really talking.

Y/N had expected him to flirt, to push the boundaries of their deal, but instead, they talked about their childhood—about summers spent at the club, about the times they'd been forced to sit at boring Kook events together as kids.

Rafe had made her laugh. Genuinely laugh.

She had almost forgotten why they were doing this in the first place.

—

A week later, he picked her up for a party, and she made a point to wear heels.

JJ had always hated when she wore them, always made a face, always grumbled something about her being too tall next to him.

But when she climbed into Rafe's truck, he barely glanced at them before smirking. "Damn," he muttered, eyes dragging up her legs. "Trying to make it harder for me to behave?"

She rolled her eyes, but her stomach did something weird. Something dangerous.

Rafe drove with one hand on the wheel, the other draped over her thigh, his fingers warm and steady.

It was meant to be for show.

For JJ.

So why did it feel like something else?

Later that night at the party, Y/N and Rafe were standing just close enough that people whispered.

JJ was across the yard, watching them with a glare so sharp it could cut through steel.

Y/N should have been paying attention to him, should have been relishing in the jealousy that was the whole point of this.

But instead, she was too focused on Rafe's hand on the small of her back. The way his thumb moved in slow, absentminded circles against her skin.

When she turned to look at him, he wasn't watching JJ.

He was watching her.

—

A couple days later, she almost slipped up.

They were walking down the street after grabbing dinner—something casual, something that wasn't supposed to feel like a date.

She was about to bring up JJ, to remind herself why they were doing this in the first place.

But before she could, Rafe started talking about his family.

"My dad's obsessed with old westerns," he said, shaking his head. "Every Christmas, like clockwork, he makes us watch The Good, the Bad and the Ugly."

Y/N blinked. "Seriously?"

Rafe chuckled. "Swear to God. Every single year. Sarah and I know every damn line."

She found herself laughing, imagining Rafe and Sarah rolling their eyes as Ward Cameron sat in front of the TV, quoting the movie word for word.

JJ had never talked about things like that.

JJ had never let her in like that.

She pushed the thought away, but the seed had already been planted.

—

Then came the night that the shift between them had started to show.

It was late, and they were sitting on the hood of Rafe's truck, looking out over the water.

The party was still going strong down the beach, but they had drifted away from it, neither of them in the mood for drunken chaos.

Rafe took a swig from his beer, then turned to look at her.

"You ever gonna tell me why you were with him?"

Y/N frowned. "What do you mean?"

Rafe tilted his head. "I just don't get it. You're smart. You've got standards. And yet..." He let the sentence hang.

Y/N huffed, kicking a loose rock off the side of the truck. "He was... fun. He made me feel like I wasn't just another Kook girl. Like I wasn't just..." She trailed off, feeling stupid for saying it out loud.

Rafe was quiet for a second before saying, "He didn't deserve you."

She turned to look at him, expecting the usual sarcasm, but there was none. Just quiet certainty.

Her throat tightened.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I know that now."

And when Rafe threw his head back, laughing at something she said a few minutes later, she thought it was strange.

Strange that he thought she was funny.

Because JJ never did.

—

Another night, they found themselves in his truck, parked by the beach. It had started raining, heavy droplets drumming against the windshield, the air thick with the scent of salt and rain.

Y/N had been rambling about something—some ridiculous Kook drama that, in the grand scheme of things, didn't actually matter.

And then, out of nowhere, Rafe had reached across the console and tucked a strand of damp hair away from her face.

Y/N had gone silent, her heart doing something it definitely shouldn't have been doing.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the rain.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she had asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rafe had only smirked. "No reason."

But there was a reason.

And it scared her.

She knew things were getting complicated when she started noticing things about him she shouldn't.

Like the way his voice softened when he said her name.

Or the way he always made sure she got home safe, even when they weren't together.

Or the way he never pushed her, never made her feel like this was just some game.

Somewhere along the way, the lines between their act and reality started to blur.

And Y/N wasn't sure if she was ready to figure out what that meant.

—

The moment that nearly shattered her resolve happened at another party.

They had been standing close, laughing about something she couldn't even remember now. And then, without thinking, she had reached up and brushed a piece of hair out of his face.

It had been instinctive. Natural.

But when she realised what she had done, her breath hitched.

Because Rafe was looking at her like she had just changed everything.

And maybe... maybe she had.

Y/N kept telling herself that this was just revenge.

That the way her stomach flipped whenever Rafe touched her was just part of the plan.

That the way she found herself looking for him in crowded rooms was just to keep up the act.

But deep down, she knew.

She had fallen for Rafe Cameron.

—

The room was still heavy with the lingering heat from the night—sheets twisted around their legs, the soft hum of the air conditioning barely cutting through the thick humidity of the night. Y/N lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to process the whirlwind that had completely changed her life in the past few weeks.

Rafe lay beside her, his body close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, but far enough that there was space between them—a silent invitation, as if asking her to fill it. His hand rested on his stomach, but his fingers were almost touching hers.

The silence stretched comfortably between them. It wasn't awkward. It wasn't forced. It felt...right.

Y/N turned her head to look at him, the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the window, casting a glow over his face. He was still as handsome as ever, his jaw sharp, eyes intense even when he was relaxed, and the faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. But it wasn't the same cocky smirk that had first drawn her in—this was something different. It was real. It was genuine.

She couldn't stop herself from smiling too. "What are we doing, Rafe?" she asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.

Rafe turned his head, his blue eyes locking with hers. There was a quiet intensity in them, a look that said he knew exactly what she meant but wasn't sure how to say it either. "I don't know," he murmured, his voice rough with unspoken emotion. "But I think it's something good."

Y/N's heart fluttered, the vulnerability in his voice catching her off guard. Rafe was always the tough guy, the one who hid behind arrogance and bravado, the one who never let anyone see the cracks in his armor. But with her, it was different. She could see it now—the cracks were there, but they weren't flaws. They were pieces of him she could understand, pieces that were human, not just a cold façade.

She reached out, her hand finding his, fingers brushing gently over his knuckles. He didn't pull away. Instead, he laced their fingers together, holding her hand with a tenderness that surprised her.

"Do you regret this?" she asked, the words slipping from her lips before she could stop them. She had to know. There were so many things between them, so many things left unsaid, but that was the one question that had been haunting her the most. Did he regret it?

Rafe blinked, the intensity in his gaze softening as he turned his hand to squeeze hers. "No," he answered, his voice steady but with an underlying depth she couldn't ignore. "I don't regret it." He let out a breath, his gaze turning towards the ceiling, as if trying to find the right words. "I thought it was just supposed to be a game, you know? Make JJ jealous, show him that you could move on...but it's not a game anymore."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat. Her mind raced. She didn't know how she felt about that—about the fact that it had started with a plan, a scheme, to get back at JJ for everything. But as the days passed, the more time she spent with Rafe, the more she realized just how much they had in common, how well they fit together.

Her fingers traced the lines of his hand as she spoke. "Neither did I," she confessed. "I started this thinking I'd get back at JJ, but...I don't know, something just changed. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being about him."

Rafe's eyes met hers again, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth. "Yeah," he said, his voice low, but with warmth now. "I know what you mean."

They both lay there in the quiet, holding hands, letting the moment stretch out. There was something peaceful about it—something intimate that neither of them had ever expected when this all began. What started as a plan to make someone else jealous had somehow turned into something much deeper, something neither of them had seen coming.

Y/N shifted slightly, turning onto her side to face him fully. She couldn't deny how she felt anymore. The chemistry between them was undeniable, but it wasn't just that. It was the way they laughed together, the way he made her feel like she was the only person in the room, the way he protected her without even thinking.

"Rafe," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, "I think I'm falling in love with you."

Her heart raced in her chest as soon as the words left her mouth. She had said it before, in the past—I love you—but never like this. Never in this way.

Rafe's breath hitched, his chest rising and falling a little faster now, and for a moment, he didn't speak. Instead, he reached out, gently cupping her face in his hands, as if needing to touch her to make sure she was real. His thumb brushed over her cheek, soft and slow, sending a wave of warmth flooding through her.

"You're not the only one," he whispered back, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm falling for you too, Y/N."

Her breath caught in her throat. The words she had always wanted to hear from him, the words she had never expected to come, were there now. And they were real.

Rafe leaned in slowly, his lips brushing against hers in a tender kiss, soft and slow, like he was savoring it. It wasn't heated or urgent like some of their previous kisses—it was gentle, sweet, and full of the unspoken feelings they had been holding back. It was everything they hadn't been able to say out loud.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against hers, and they both just breathed, their hands still entwined, hearts racing in sync.

"I never thought I'd say this," Rafe said quietly, eyes closed as he let out a shaky breath, "but you make me feel like I'm actually worth something."

Y/N's chest tightened. She could feel the weight of his words, the vulnerability he was offering her. He had always been the guy who seemed so confident, so sure of himself, but in this moment, Y/N saw something different. She saw the cracks in his armor, the part of him that had never believed he was good enough for anything—anyone.

And Y/N? She couldn't let him think that way. Not anymore.

"You are worth everything, Rafe," she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. "More than you know."

For a long time, they stayed like that—just holding each other, letting the night wash over them, the silence comfortable and full of promises. There were no expectations, no pressure, just the understanding that something had changed. Something real had blossomed between them, and neither of them was running from it anymore.

"I've never felt like this before," Rafe admitted after a while, his voice soft but full of sincerity. "With you, it feels like...like I could actually have something real. Something that isn't just a mess."

Y/N smiled, her heart swelling with affection. "You have it, Rafe. You have me."

And for the first time in a long time, both of them believed it.

—

It had been a couple of weeks since the night Rafe and Y/N had finally confessed their feelings for each other. Their relationship had progressed quickly, but neither of them had hesitated. They had fallen for each other in a way that felt right—organic and effortless. The label was there, official now, and it felt like both of them had finally found what they were looking for.

But as expected, the whispers started circulating quickly. Word of their relationship had gotten out, and it wasn't long before people started noticing—especially JJ.

The evening was warm and humid, a perfect night for a party at the Boneyard. The music was thumping, people were scattered around the yard, drinking and chatting, while others danced under the string lights. Y/N, Rafe, Topper, Sarah, and a few other Kooks were lounging around a table near the fire pit, drinks in hand, chatting casually. For the first time in weeks, Y/N felt at ease. There were no whispers, no judgment about her being with Rafe—only the people she cared about and a sense of belonging she hadn't felt in a long time.

Y/N had spent most of her time with Rafe over the past couple of weeks, getting to know him in a way she never had before. She had always known the confident, rebellious side of him, but she was starting to see the softer side—the one who cared deeply and would go to any lengths to protect the people he loved. They had spent lazy days by the beach, late-night drives, and spontaneous trips to places that weren't on any map. She was falling for him harder every day, but it wasn't just the physical attraction. It was the little things—how he cared about her, how he made her feel, how he treated her like she was everything. He had given her more than she could have ever imagined.

She glanced at Rafe as they laughed with Topper, Sarah, and the others, her hand naturally finding his under the table. Their fingers intertwined, and for a moment, she just savored the feeling of being with someone who made her feel seen, understood, and loved.

But as she was about to say something to Rafe, a familiar figure appeared in her peripheral vision. She stiffened. It was JJ.

JJ stormed over, his face a mixture of anger and desperation, his jaw clenched as he walked straight toward them. Y/N's heart skipped, not knowing what to expect. She knew this confrontation was coming—it was inevitable.

Rafe noticed it too, his hand tightening around Y/N's as JJ approached, but he didn't move. He didn't flinch. He stayed calm, but Y/N could see the subtle tension in his shoulders, his jaw tight as he prepared for whatever was coming.

"Y/N," JJ said, his voice loud enough to be heard over the music. His eyes were frantic, scanning her face. "We need to talk."

Y/N narrowed her eyes, her grip on Rafe's hand tightening. She could feel the anger brewing inside her, but she was trying to keep her composure. Rafe gave her a reassuring squeeze, his thumb brushing the back of her hand gently.

"I don't think we need to talk, JJ," Y/N said coolly, her voice steady despite the boiling fury inside her. "But if you really need to hear it from me, I'll tell you. I definitely don't want to be with you anymore."

JJ's eyes widened, his face contorting in disbelief. "What the hell, Y/N?" He snapped, glancing at Rafe briefly, his expression turning hostile. "This isn't about him, is it? You don't really like him. You're just trying to get back at me for what I did. It's all a game to you, isn't it?" His voice wavered, a hint of panic creeping into his words.

Y/N could feel the heat rise in her chest, but she didn't back down. "It's not a game, JJ. It's not about you anymore. It's about me." She stood up, her voice booming over the music, silencing the chatter around them. People had stopped what they were doing, watching the confrontation unfold.

"You're such a horrible person," Y/N continued, her words sharp and cutting. "You broke me, JJ. You cheated on me with Kiara—our friend. You think I can just forget that? You think I'm some fool who's gonna let you walk back into my life after everything you did?" She took a step closer to him, her eyes locking onto his. "You humiliated me. And you have the audacity to stand here and beg for me back like nothing happened?"

The words tumbled out of her, each one heavier than the last, and with each syllable, Y/N felt like a weight was being lifted off her chest. She was finally letting him have it. All the hurt, all the frustration, the betrayal she had been carrying for weeks—it was all spilling out now, and she couldn't stop it.

"I wish I had gotten with Rafe sooner," she spat, her voice laced with venom. "Because with him, I know what it's like to be truly happy. He doesn't lie to me, he doesn't cheat on me. He shows me what love really is. What I've always deserved."

The group around them murmured, and she noticed Rafe's expression go from unreadable to... something else. He was staring at her, his eyes wide, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. His face softened, and Y/N's heart skipped a beat. This was the first time she'd seen him like this—vulnerable, open, and completely in awe of her.

"Y/N..." JJ began, his voice faltering, but he didn't get the chance to finish his sentence.

"Shut up, JJ," Y/N snapped, glaring at him. "I don't want to hear it anymore. You lost me the second you cheated. And now you're just proving how pathetic you are by begging me to take you back." She shook her head in disgust. "You don't deserve me. And you definitely don't deserve to have me back."

The words echoed in the air as Y/N turned her back on him, her chest heaving with emotion. She felt alive, empowered, and something else—something she hadn't felt in so long. Free.

The group erupted into cheers. Topper raised his drink in the air, Sarah clapped, and a few others cheered Y/N on. It was like she had just dropped a bomb, and the energy in the air shifted. The Kooks were no strangers to drama, but this felt different. This felt like the culmination of everything Y/N had been holding in.

Rafe didn't say anything at first. He just stared at her, wide-eyed, his face unreadable. And for a brief moment, Y/N wondered if she had gone too far. But then, without warning, Rafe stood up. He took her hand in his, pulling her gently away from the crowd, leading her toward the exit.

Y/N didn't say anything as she walked with him. She just wanted to get away from the scene, to take a breath and let the adrenaline settle in her chest. The confrontation had been messy, but it had been cathartic. She had finally stood up for herself, and in doing so, she felt like she had reclaimed something she thought she had lost forever.

When they reached Rafe's car, Y/N paused, her heart still racing from the adrenaline of the scene. She turned to face him, her brows furrowed in concern. "I'm sorry for making such a scene back there," she said, her voice quieter now. "I just... I couldn't hold it in anymore."

Rafe looked at her, his expression softening, and before she could say anything else, he pulled her into a kiss.

Y/N's eyes widened in surprise, but she melted into it instantly. His lips were soft against hers, the kiss slow, deep, as if he was trying to convey everything he felt in that one moment. She kissed him back with equal intensity, the heat of the night surrounding them, but the only thing she could focus on was him—the way he made her feel.

When they pulled apart, Rafe rested his forehead against hers, both of them breathing heavily. "I've never had anyone defend me like that before," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "No one's ever stood up for me like that, Y/N."

Y/N's heart swelled, the warmth of his words wrapping around her like a protective embrace. "I meant every word," she whispered. "I love you, Rafe. I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

Rafe's eyes softened, a smile tugging at his lips. "I love you too, Y/N." He kissed her again, a slow, lingering kiss that held all the unspoken things between them.

In that moment, Y/N knew. She had fought for herself. She had found her strength, and now, she had found her true love too.

(divider by @kodaswrld !!)

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

this was such a labour of love and i had SO much fun writing it and i’m so sorry it’s taken a while anon, i just wanted this to be PERFECT !! this has got to be in my top three faves that i’ve written and i hope it’s what you wanted <3

i’ve had this in my drafts (as well as a few more) from the past month of requests, and i’ve just been editing them all now (that’s the toughest part💔), but i’m getting there so thank you all for being so patient <3

[iampikachuhearmeroar]

i think it's also a problem in university arts departments too, in a way. for example, while i was in undergrad, my home uni's philosophy department refused to ever assign presentations (as well as group work) as an adequate form of assessment. this however, imo, gave plenty of students, including myself, excuses to just straight up refuse to do their readings bc "it's only marked as part of my 5% or 10% participation grade.... so what's even the point of reading sindquist, anderson and zazo "the examination of the twin earth problem from the systems analysis standpoint" (not a real paper) or whatever the fuck in the philosophy of mind, for example. "i can just pretend i've done the reading and scab answers off everyone else in the tute, if we have minor unmarked group work".

this bred a student base of mostly uninterested, disengaged, confused students (and some bitter legal and journalism etc/media & comms students who found philosophy to be "a waste of time" bc "i can already argue!!!! bc im going to be a lawyer and/or journalist!" and "i was also in debate/parliamentary/school newsletter team at school!!!!" and also..... HOW and WHY are you doing journalism etc/media and comms or law if you don't ACTUALLY CARE about the fundamentals of argumentation, rhetoric/discourse (which you'll be creating with your so-called "think pieces" in journalism and media!!!), logic and language??? are you fucking stupid??? [tbf they were teenagers. of course they were going to say dumb shit]). i was one of the above philosophy students, obvs. because how the fuck are you meant to communicate these ideas to people when you're NOT doing the readings??

when you're not FORCED to do the readings, for a presentation or, y'know just the essays, you just make excuses not to do them. tbf. like yes, i could do the 2,500 word essays and 500 word essay plans just fine. but when it came to engaging with the readings, i couldn't get past more than the second page of every 50 page reading. but if i was given a presentation to do??? bruh, i probably would have forced myself to do at least 10 to 20 pages of all of the readings??? i DON'T want to look like a fuckwit in front of the 25 to 30 people in my tute time class. but just giving me essay upon essay upon essay??? and the occasional open book exam/take home exam? you're giving me an excuse to just coast by on the bare minimum and then force out an essay 8 hours before it's due, in the hope i'll get at least a credit/65% to 70%, minimum grade.

you're giving everyone the horribly stereotypical impression that the philosophy students are just locking themselves in their bedrooms (their classic ivory towers) to do their essays and nothing else. that they don't know how to communicate complicated, esoteric ideas to the layman through a presentation..... and then, very suddenly, and ironically, you expect grad students to be happy to present to a crowd their dissertation??? or just to their thesis/dissertation advisor every week??? what the fuck??? HOW does that make ANY sense??? how does that give anyone in this study stream CONFIDENCE to present???? the confidence to have the literacy to present their cogent arguments, when in undergrad they weren't deliberately given presentations in this field to practice these skills??? "oh but they'll have them in english. or sociology. or cultural studies.... so why do we need them at all?" to be fair, for me, i had to address this after an anxiety attack before a presentation in ancient history. i went to toastmasters. and lo and behold, i did meet the occasional philosophy postgrad person there. because they were far too nervous to present each week to their thesis advisor. after 3 years of NO presentations in their philosophy undergrad (and possibly their WHOLE degree). we also got plenty of engineering honours people too, right before their thesis presentations. because a similar thing happened in their field, apparently.

okay yes, i had good literacy skills in general in school and in uni, in my actual major, english. i learnt the hard way with exams and inclass tests to DO the readings, or at least do a really good study jamming session at least 2 days before sitting modernists and having to write an essay for james joyce's portrayal of himself in "a portrait of an artist as a young man" (i FUCKING HATE this book. fuck james joyce all the way to hell) , a book i couldn't read past page 10. but my god. the literacy skills in philosophy classes were ABYSMAL. mostly because everyone refused to do their readings and refused to even grasp the topics we were doing. and tbf, probably on this post, my comprehension is in hell. because due to the devaluation of arts in society, i don't engage in textual analysis or read as much dickens or bronte or dickinson, etc, as i should these days. which is what i think is wrong with engineering or science majors (and other high earning degrees) having low literacy skills.... and moreover, the overall bs discourse on YT of "ONLY do degrees that GENERATE MONEY! don't you DARE go into the arts when you KNOW you will NEVER pay it back! who needs reading comprehension and literacy, when they don't PAY THE BILLS AND STUDENT LOANS BAYBAY!?"

all in all, yes. in the end the philosophy dept did introduce marked presentations AND group work (yes philosophy did NO group work the whole time i was in uni), right as i was graduating in 2018. because. of course they did. and yes, a lot of is down to the a student's drive and interests in the subjects they choose. and how they interact with their readings and classmates. but also, i think it can rest on department teaching and assessment tactics as well. certain departments NEED to have presentations in their curricula because HOW FUCKING ELSE are students going to develop the necessary communication and comprehension skills to present or just normally talk to people about their course content??? if the whole general vibe from the student base is "oh we NEVER do the readings!"

i also feel this is an issue with the media and comms dept at my home uni, deliberately cutting off their old cross department majors/minors within the arts department option that was there when i began in that degree. so now if you want to do an english major with your media and comms degree, you're actually now FORCED to do a double degree.... and most esp if you're in the marketing comms and advertising major that i originally chose, you HAVE to do a major or minor within the degree stream ONLY. like i get on some level that it's to do with cross media skills and employability skills. and that in the last 10 years (wow what the FUCK) since i started uni, digital media skills and study IS its own field. but also. but also, what about the broader social context brought from a history major or sociology major or an english double major??? WHY does it HAVE to be a double degree???

ANYWAY. that's my rant. and probably, my reading literacy and comprehension on this post was poor. so piss on me (or don't)- is that what fall out boy said all those years ago???

I cannot stress the importance of paying attention in language classes in high school. Maybe the reason why your English teacher taught you about unreliable narrators is because a lot of the media around you is written by unreliable narrators posing as reliable. Maybe they gave you assignments on interpreting texts so you could draw your own conclusions about news articles. Some of you clearly thought English classes were useless in high school and now are unable to engage critically with media.

[chrollohearttags]

hard to breathe • portgas d. ace

seeing your ‘ex’ boyfriend ace one last time for closure..or so you thought. (based off of this song I’ve been obsessed with for months. It’s ‘old’ but I felt like it fit him and the vibe of this fic)

📝: black fem!reader, lots of relationship angst, modern au, heavy kissing, arguing + lots of dialogue, they’re slightly toxic ( y’all both ain’t shit I’m sorry 😭), riding, car sex, dirty talk, breeding, baby trapping (kinda), infidelity, hair pulling, pet names and daddy used, crying

wc: 4.1K

🎙️: I love writing my faves in a bunch of different scenarios, including ones that aren’t typical for their personality. This is in no way condoning toxicity, infidelity or anything of the sort. I just thought it would be a lil fun to experiment.

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“Where are you right now?”

“I should be with you..”

“You know that’s not a good idea..”

“Yeah, but it’s what we both want..who cares if it’s wrong or not?”

3:30am

the deep drawl on the other end of the line luring you in with each word..it always had a tendency to do so, even when you wished you could just ignore it.

“Ace, what the hell do you want from me? Stop this.”

“C’mon, babe. It’s the truth. Don’t tell me you’re feeling guilty..what did I tell you? You’ve got to stop giving so much a damn about what other people think.”

“Go to hell. Not everyone can just mistreat people like it’s nothing.”

it was a shame honestly..this type of behavior was so unbecoming of both of you. A sweet girl who didn’t like to make much of a fuss for anyone or over anything. And him, the shining example of a stand up guy. Charming, kind, helpful, a little rough around the edges but what every man should strive to be. Yet here you were..whispering into the speaker of your phone as to not wake the one in the room next to you. A mere replacement to dull the ache in your heart caused by him and his stupidity. Meanwhile, he was chuckling in your ear. Seemingly teasing you because he could sense the tension in your shaky voice. He knew you’d bolt the second you heard a ruffle from the other room…but he also knew you’d never hang up. Knew you couldn’t resist answering in the first place and for damn sure, that you couldn’t resist his offer…

“I want to see you. I can be at your place in ten..”

“Are you out of your fucking mind? It’s late, Ace..and—“

“And what? Afraid your little boyfriend might wake up? I know it’s not because you don’t want to see me either.”

“You’re a piece of work, you know that? How dare you? You ended things, Ace. Not me. So why the fuck do you keep hitting me up?”

the line would fall silent for a moment..only the shallow echoes of your breath captured on the opposite end. That was until you’d hear a sigh and his voice once more. This time with a much less arrogant tone.

“Listen, (y/n)..I get it. I fucked up..it’s my fault things turned out this way and I’m sorry. I know I can’t go back or change anything that happened between us but I can try to make it right. Even if it means someone else gets to do what I couldn’t…I just wanted a chance to apologize. In person…which I should’ve been man enough to do from the jump.”

the things in question? Your relationship..a bond of three years to be exact and a union everyone was certain would end in the two of you walking down the aisle. However, life has a funny way of throwing even the biggest of curveballs. This man had all but swept you off your feet one night a few summers ago..both out with friends and enjoying the night life as young singles should. Drinking, laughing and having a blast. Even though you were a bit more on the reserved side, he still managed to spot you out of all the beautiful women in that club that night. And trust, a fair share of them had been vying for his attention. Even so, he couldn’t focus on anyone but you. That was one of Ace’s many wonderful qualities. In a room full of people, he managed to make you feel special..as if you were the only one there. Which wasn’t exactly intentional..his biggest issue was that he tried to be friendly, trying his hardest not to hurt anyone’s feelings anymore. He struggled with his anger quite a bit when he was younger, taking next to nothing to set him off and if he was in the midst of conversation with one person, it was best that no one else tried to interrupt. However, he realized that only caused trouble so he always tried to greet someone regardless. It just didn’t fare very well when it came to women. No girl wants someone that it seems everyone can access to!

But alas, you sat in that section next to him; nursing your drinks and exchanging pleasantries. He was so easy to talk to. He had this awkward yet charming charisma about him. Almost as if despite his good looks, he wasn’t the ‘ladies man’ you’d peg him to be off first glance. Somehow though, he managed to get your number and the rest was history. You began hanging out, going on a couple dates..even spending a weekend together after a bad storm trapped the two of you inside of his apartment. You really enjoyed being around him and as time passed, the bond grew stronger. Six months later, you came over to visit and found yourself greeted by smoke and an obviously frustrated Ace covered in soot..a result of him attempting to cook a dinner to formally ask you to be his girlfriend! It was those goofy yet sweet gestures that made you adore him.

perfectly flawed was the best way to describe him in your book…maybe he made mistakes and maybe he didn’t come from this picturesque family but he was a damn good guy doing his best to be better than what he was used to. He was a hard worker and willing to fight for what he wanted.

You cherished every moment you guys got to spend together and at one point, you even got matching tattoos of half hearts on each of your hands..however, things began to crumble in the once ideal world you had curated together.

going from laughing all the time to petty arguments that seemed intentional. From spending late nights together..making love until the sun shines over your bodies..now you were blowing up his phone to see where he was. You began to suspect that he was cheating. Perhaps somewhere with another woman. But you were wrong..truth be told, he was running.

running away from a healthy home and relationship because he didn’t know how to handle it. Didn’t know how to process being loved unconditionally without expecting the worst to happen…he never figured himself to be good enough for you to begin with but here you were..constantly showering him with affection; buying him gifts, making his favorite meals and even surprising him with massages after long, stressful days at work. You were everything he didn’t deserve! Hence why..he felt the need to blow it up before it could escalate. He couldn’t let you continue treating someone like him as if he were special. Three weeks later, he texted you asking to break up and to say you were devastated? Was an understatement. You loved this man so damned much, you had already begun looking at wedding dresses and contemplating baby names, figuring you guys were in this for the long run. But fairy tales don’t exist and you weren’t getting the story book ending. Instead, you were left heartbroken..trying to piece yourself back together and figure out what went wrong.

“Just one last time, that’s all I’m asking. I want to say I’m sorry and then I’m out of your hair for good, I promise. I won’t bother you ever again..”

a solid compromise, you supposed. Besides, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to look him in his eye and tell him to go fuck himself for how he fumbled you. He’d plead, calling your name until he got a response and finally:

“I’ll be in the lobby, call me when you get here.” Before disconnecting the line and releasing a heavy sigh. You fought back tears but in order for the next chapter of your life to begin, you had to finish this one. But the funny thing about some books…

is that they refused to remain closed!

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page break bc I don’t do filler

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“..it’s nice to see you again. You look beautiful as always—“

“Enough of the small talk. State your business and make it quick.”

the two of you sat parked outside of your luxury apartment complex, downstairs in the desolate parking garage. Your arms folded across your chest in a defensive manner and his stretched across the steering wheel..that goofy snark on his face as he kissed his teeth. He knew you were fighting so hard to stand firm in your boundaries, something you struggled with in the past. And truthfully, he hated to disrupt that peace…but he was selfish, gluttonous even. He wasn’t always this nice guy everyone saw him as. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too and if that meant he’d leave your head a mess once again then so be it. A fucked up sentiment but the truth nonetheless..

“…damn. It's like that then? Fair enough..”

turning in his seat, Ace shifted and focused his attention directly on you. It was hard to maintain eye contact because how could he face you after such a betrayal? Even so, this was his bed he made and it was time to lie in it.

“The truth is...I was afraid. One day, you’d wake up and realize that I wasn’t what you thought I was. That I was broken and I didn’t have my shit together. It’s like no matter what I did in my life, I found a way to fuck it up. Make a mess of things..I’m not like you, (y/n). Honestly, what could you possibly see in me? Don’t you want someone who’s your equal?”

by this time, tears were beginning to swell in his eyes as well. The more he spoke, he realized that these feelings of insecurity were always within him. You promised yourself that you were just going to give him a piece of your mind, storm out and never have to see him again. But it was never that easy with this man.

you knew he was genuine and not just trying to victimize himself. He honestly felt like you could do so much better. But he also knew by the look in your eyes that you were not going to let him get away so easily.. You didn’t hate him, hell, you couldn’t even bring yourself to fully get angry with him for what he did. Looking down, Ace would begin to chuckle; a weird coping mechanism for him in times of stress and uttered the last words you wanted to hear.

“And after all this time, all the bullshit I put you through..you still love me, don’t you? That’s the only reason you’re still sitting here..the only reason you didn’t hang up. When you’re done with something, you never give it a second thought.” sitting cross armed, you’d begin to laugh. Not at his hurt but at the fact that for the first time in almost five years of knowing him, you saw him show genuine, raw emotion. You saw him finally let down his guard and be himself…as sad as it was, it was a bit cathartic.

“Wow…so you are capable of communicating your feelings and there isn’t a ten foot wall of bullshit in that head of yours.” Poking the side of his temple playfully..

“Of course I love you. I never stopped, you inconsiderate jackass. What did I ever do to you? That’s all I could ask myself. You keep talking about me deserving better and all of this bullshit..who gave you the right to decide what I wanted and what I deserve? Shouldn’t I have a say too? You left because it was easy, Ace. Instead of working through it with me, you ran because you don’t want anyone thinking you’re weak. That’s not how relationships work..we’re supposed to see each other at our worst, our best..good and bad days. If you feel insecure about anything, you did it to yourself because you were perfect to me and you know damn well I never made you feel anything less than.”

those words stung like none other. And honestly, no matter what he said, there wasn’t a good enough excuse for any of his behavior. You said it best..he was selfish, immature and didn’t think clearly. Ace had a knack for marching to the beat of his own drum and damn the consequences.

“..you’re right, (y/n). It’s my fault..and I can’t take any of it back…” suddenly, you’d feel his hand clutch the top of your own, intertwining your fingers as he stared you in the eye.

“..but I can try to fix it. Fix us..let me make this right. Please…if you’re happier with someone else, then there’s nothing I can do. But—“ In that moment, (y/n) had finally heard all that you could take. Reaching over the console, you’d clutch his face in your palm and shove your lips together. The sensation of that warm kiss sent a surge throughout your body..a spark you hadn’t felt since the day he left.

“Are you done? God, I swear you talk too damn much.” Prompting him to laugh as you held the side of his face. He was a little taken aback by your sudden dominance. Not knowing you to ever take control like this but he wasn’t mad about it one bit..

“..why’d you kiss me? What about your boyfriend?” A question as disrespectful as it was rhetorical.

“You’re as dumb as you are cute sometimes. You think I came all the way out here at three am to chit chat? Nut uh, you owe me..also, you’re a greedy bastard. No way you’re letting me go back in that apartment unless it’s with you." By this time, your hands were roaming his chest and your faces were only inches apart. His lips would curl into a sheepish grin before his palm snaked to the back of your neck, tugging your head towards him.

“..what can I say, babe? I’m just too damn stubborn..I always have to get my way.” And with that, you’d find your tongues joined together again. Twirling around one another with heavy whimpers mixed in. Suddenly, you’d find yourself crawling into the driver's seat and onto his lap. Just as you’d suspected, he’d worn those gray sweats you’d always loved to see him in and a black tank top to display his muscles, along with a newly acquired tattoo.

This man was not slick at all! Even so, his little tactic worked because all those memories of late nights and early mornings with him came rushing back. When you’d find yourself sneaking out on lunch breaks at work just to come eat his dick up or when he’d show up at your apartment around midnight because he’d work the closing shift again. With a bottle of wine and the intention of putting you through the mattress in every position after two glasses got you turned on. It was always exciting and spontaneous with Ace, something your ‘new man’ lacked. Slowly winding in his lap as you continued to make out, (y/n) caressed his torso..missing the familiar touch of his skin, taking in the scent of his cologne and immersing yourself in him. He’d run his thumbs across your throat, gently squeezing as you took his bottom lip between his teeth.

“You’re so beautiful..I missed you.” “Yeah? You missed me, baby?” Teasing him as you bounced your ass against his crotch, subtly twerking on his visible bulge. Caressing your gentle fingertips across his freshly shaven jawline. You could feel him growing harder underneath him and knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. Even kissing on his neck and licking on his jugular. “Mmmm..fuck. Pull that dress up and I’ll show you just how much.” Without a single bit of hesitation, you lifted the hem and allowed your bare cheeks and slit to graze him. Shuffling around underneath you, Ace slid his thumbs into the sides of those sweats, letting them pool around his waist. Meanwhile, he couldn’t stop marking your neck and lips with tender kisses..or apologizing for how stupid he was! Being here with you again brought back a flood of memories and emotions..ones that he never wanted to lose again. He needed this to be real once more. However, you weren’t much for talking right now..if he wanted to win his girl back, all you needed were actions.

“Why are you still talking? Just fuck the shit out of me before I grow a conscience and change my mind.” Your command being heard loud and clear; forcing him to grip your waist and balance you above that aching tip. Swollen red and seeping with precum, he was eager for you and that warm cunt was welcoming him in.

“Yes ma’am..whatever you say.” Following up his remark with a toothy smirk so you knew he was going to deliver and give you exactly what you were looking for. (Y/N) reclined against the steering wheel for a moment as he slowly infiltrated that entrance. That core drooling as he made home inside of you. Both of your heads fell backwards in a haze of pleasure…enjoying the all too familiar feeling of being one!

“Shiiit..why are so fucking tight? Oh my gosh..” those breathy moans and whines escaped his mouth the second he began thrusting. Not even two pumps in and he was trying to maintain his composure. With you though, he failed pretty quick. Reacclimating to the warmth that was your insides was going to be a challenge. Even so, he’d continue to guide you up and down on his shaft, letting that thick cock stretch open those wet folds.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Take this dick…just like that..” Meanwhile, (y/n)’s mouth fell ajar, overstimulated by the sensation already. You’d paw at his chest, holding onto him as he maneuvered you to his liking. Using your body like that of a flesh light. “’s so good. Missed this big fucking dick.” Hearing those words elicited another chuckle from Ace, prompting him to cradle the back of your neck in a dominant manner, pulling you close. “Yeah? Your little boyfriend ever fuck you like this?” Questioning through clenched teeth as he continued guiding your lower half..

those soft insides wrapping around him with each stroke. You’d then feel the tight clutch of his hand on the back of your head, tugging at those freshly styled wefts coursing down your back..he was aware of the minute fortune you spent each month to upkeep your beauty. From the thousand dollar hair appointments, nail salon visits and waxes..even so, he didn’t give a damn! Turning his gorgeous girl into a sloppy slut was his favorite pastime. A toothy grin on his face, watching your swollen tits bounce and drool seep from the corners of your mouth, along with the loud moans following suit.

“..I’ll take that as a no. You’re squeezing me like you haven’t come in ages, babe.” Those taunts harbored more truth than you’d care to admit. As shameful as it was to be cheating, you’d never be happy with someone who couldn’t give you a nut! Hypocritical as it was abhorrent, you too would never be satisfied until you got what you desired. And that desire was the guy slamming balls deep up inside of you at the moment. Pounding that sensitive little core..letting that fat mushroom tip split you open and begging for that sweet cunt to siphon him for every last drop of cum he had. “You’re fucking dripping..you must’ve needed this bad. Goddamn..” referring to the creamy release you had drizzling his cock. Making a mess of his lap. “Y—yeah..you’re the only one who can make me cream like this.” Cock drunk and giggling as he catapulted you up and down. The vehicle began to sway due to the heavy activity taking place and the windows also began to fog up as a result. That’s when you’d feel his palms colliding with your asscheeks, egging on your bouncing. It was in the midst of those heavy handed smacks that he’d begin pleading his remorse. Telling you how sorry he was for how he mistreated you. As cute as it was, you weren’t interested in any half assed apologies, but rather….

”…if you’re really sorry, you’ll nut in me. This is your pussy so act like it..” Uttering those words with a wide smile on your face whilst meeting his strokes with heavy bounces..nearly made Ace convulse. He loved when you spoke to him in such a domineering manner. You’d feel a sudden twitch inside of you and his hands guiding you as you slammed down on that cock. Your cheeks grazing the outer rim of the steering wheel..both of you so close to your peak that you’d claw into one another’s skin.

Covered in a sheen of sweat and saliva..begging the other to get you there and revealing all of your deepest confessions for one another..including the fact that he wanted you to be his forever and that you weren’t leaving this parking lot without him. You’d clearly chosen who you wanted to be with.

“…damn right it’s my pussy, princess. I don’t care who you bring home. You belong to me and I belong to you..no one else can come between that. Ever again.”

not to mention..you were begging for his cum yet again. You’d often divulge in the throes of pre-climatic bliss that you wanted to have his kid..be so full of his seed that there was no way you weren’t pregnant and Ace certainly had no objections to it. Maybe it was the sensation of being cream pied or the fact that you really wanted a family with him. Either way, he constantly fantasized about seeing you full with his seed; how adorable you’d look with a bump and he just couldn’t maintain his composure.

“Yes..please come in me. Want your baby—“ having to laugh again at how cute and pathetic you were becoming. But alas, there was no room for shame right now. You’d plead with your last breath to feel that womb stuffed again.

“That right, gorgeous? Does my pretty girl want me to get her pregnant?..” “Yes, nut in this fucking pussy, daddy. Please!” certainly a far cry from the headstrong woman who was yelling at him before. Now, you were reduced to a desperate little cumslut, pleading to be bred. Luckily, you didn’t have to wait long. After experiencing your second orgasm in close succession, Ace would pin you down and force his cock up into you, going as fast as he could muster. “Don’t worry, you’re gonna take every drop. You’re going to have my baby and I’m going to take such good care of you both. Gonna marry you—be a better man this time around..” That soft flesh ricocheting as a result..loud grunts and curse words filling the car as he prepared to do the same to you.

“M fucking coming, babe! Hold still—shit!—“ in that moment, that orgasm would rip through his body and just as you requested, all of his warm seed coursed through your insides and didn’t stop for a solid two minutes..having not had a proper orgasm since you guys split up. He was still twitching inside of you, holding you to his chest as you both cried from how amazing it felt. Tears on both of your faces as a result of ecstasy.

“Damn, I guess I wasn’t the only one who needed that.” Teasing him amidst your cute giggles. Leaning up, (y/n) kissed the tip of his nose and caressed his cheek..unable to believe that you were here with him again. He’d gently stroke the side of your face as well..glaring at you as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

“I love you, (y/n)..so much. I never thought I’d get the chance to tell you that again. Feels so good.” And you shared his sentiment. He was the only one it ever felt genuine from and damn sure, the only guy you meant it to. Any guilt or shame had long since absolved and you knew this was exactly where you should’ve been. ”I love you too, Ace. I’m so glad you showed up.” It was going to be a long day, as you had some explaining to do. But for now..

“Shit..he’s calling me.”

“Ignore it..let me hold you a little bit longer, okay?”

you wanted to remain in this moment for as long as possible. After all, this is where you were happiest and there was no one who’d give you the high that he could.

[insidekatmind]

Professional-Hwang Jun-ho

The sharp night wind sweeps through the alleys of Seoul as you walk briskly toward the squad car parked behind the police precinct. The lit cigarette between your fingers burns slowly, while you watch the neon lights reflect in the dirty puddles. You've always been like this—cold, distant, untouchable. Not because you like it, but because it's necessary. In this world, showing weakness means you're done for.

"Are you planning to ignore me forever?"

Hwang Jun-ho’s deep voice cuts through the silence. He’s leaning against the car door, arms crossed, that piercing gaze studying you like he can read every secret you keep.

"Interesting attempt," you reply with a mocking half-smile, flicking away the cigarette and crushing it under your boot. "But you should know I’m not the type to get easily distracted."

"Could’ve fooled me, considering you were the one who asked for my help on this case." His voice drops lower now, almost a whisper, like he's daring you.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting. You’re the best detective on the narcotics squad, and you don’t have time for stupid games. But him… he's different. Stubborn. Sharp. Suspiciously attuned to your every move.

"Don’t mistake work for something else, Jun-ho." You step closer, locking eyes with him. You're near enough to catch his scent a mix of coffee and prefume. "I’m not one of those women who fall at your feet."

He smirks, that smirk that makes you want to either punch him or kiss him—and that’s the problem. Because Hwang Jun-ho is dangerous. Not just as a colleague, but as a man. Because he sees past your mask, senses the cracks in your icy walls.

"I know," he murmurs, leaning in slightly, his face just inches from yours. "And that’s exactly why I like you."

Your breath catches for a second. You shouldn’t let him get this close. You shouldn’t allow him to see that beneath all this armor, there’s something fragile. But it’s too late.

Because deep down, you already know.You’re screwed.

“Come on now, we have work to do” you say coldly as you put your hands in the pockets of your leather jacket.

Jun-ho chuckles, the sound almost like a throaty purr that wraps around your senses. He pushes off the car, closing the distance between you in a few effortless strides. His lips curve into the kind of smirk that says he knows exactly what effect he's having on you."Always business first, huh?"

You cross your arms looking at him seriously. “Are you seriously trying to waste time when we have something important to do?”

Jun-ho raises a mocking eyebrow, clearly amused by your reaction. He knows you’re trying to hold your ground, to keep up appearances. But the spark in his eyes suggests otherwise. “Waste time? No, never. I just happen to believe multitasking is a skill.”He takes another step closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “And a little distraction now and then isn’t necessarily a bad thing, Detective.”

You try to maintain your composure, but the way he says those words,a hint of mockery, yet filled with a deeper meaning,makes your heart flutter betraying your stoicism. “We have a suspect to tail.” Your tone is sharp, but it does nothing to diminish the heat radiating between you. Jun-ho simply smiles, a smirk that feels almost predatory. He leans in, his breath whispering against your ear.

“I know a thing or two about tailing,” he murmurs, the low timbre of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “But I was thinking of a different kind of tailing.”You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, despite your best efforts to contain it. You clear your throat, attempting to regain control. This man is too damn confident.

“Focus, Jun-ho,” you snap, trying to keep things professional. “This isn't a joke. Our case is serious.”

He straightens up, a hint of mockery still lingering in his smirk. “Oh, I am focused,” he says, his gaze dropping to your lips for a moment before meeting your eyes again. “But I can't help but notice you're a little... distracted.”You glower at him, knowing damn well he sees straight through you. He's pushing your buttons, enjoying watching you squirm.

Jun-ho leans in closer, his face mere inches from yours. He reaches up, tracing a finger lightly along your cheek. You try to swat his hand away, but he catches it effortlessly, holding onto it. His thumb grazes over your knuckles, the gentle touch sending electric sparks through your veins."You’re cute when you’re irritated," he murmurs, amusement glittering in his eyes. "But I prefer the look on your face when you’re flustered."

"Let. Me. Go." The words come out in an irritated hiss, but it does nothing to dispel the tension hanging in the air. Instead, it just makes Jun-ho's smirk widen.He leans even closer, his body almost touching yours. You can feel the heat radiating from him, his breaths mingling with your own. “No.”

His answer sends a shiver down your spine, but you try to hide it. Even as his touch ignites a fire beneath your skin, you refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he's gotten under your skin. You try to pull your hand away, but his grip tightens. He steps even closer, his breath warm on your neck. You can feel your heart hammering in your chest, pounding against your ribcage as if it’s desperate to break free. You’re a detective, for crying out loud. You’re supposed to be strong, aloof. But here you are, struggling to keep your cool while your colleague,your friend,is driving you insane.

"What's the matter, Detective?" His voice is a soft purr, his body pressed against yours now. He knows he's pushing all the right buttons, knows he's getting exactly the reaction he wanted. "Can't handle a little distraction?"His free hand drifts up to your chin, tilting your face towards his. His gaze is intense, almost predatory. You feel like prey.

"We have a case to solve" you repeated, trying to maintain your cool facade, but you didn't seem very convinced by what you were saying. You were hating yourself for being so weak, you're not like that. You've always been cold and closed.

"Oh, come on," Jun-ho whispers, his fingers tracing a path down your jawline, "we both know work isn’t the only thing on your mind right now."He’s so damn infuriatingly smug. You’re trying to keep your cool, to keep things professional, but he’s making it impossible. Every look, every touch feels like it’s designed to unravel your defenses.

"You're reading too much into things," you manage to respond, though your voice lacks the usual conviction. Jun-ho gives you a knowing smile, his eyes never leaving yours."Am I?" He murmurs, his breath now hot on your ear. "Or am I just seeing what’s right in front of me?"He's too close, too confident, and it's driving you crazy. Your heart is pounding like a drum, a maddening rhythm that's threatening to drown out your rational thoughts.

Jun-ho senses your internal battle. He steps even closer, his body now flush against yours. You can feel the heat of him, the subtle pressure as he pins you against the car."Just admit it," he whispers, his voice low and intense, "you're not thinking about the case right now. You're thinking about me."

“I hate you so much right now,” you whisper, looking at his lips. Jun-ho's smirk widens, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of satisfaction and arrogance. He knows he's got you right where he wants you, and he's reveling in it.

“You don’t hate me,” he murmurs, his voice lowering into a sultry purr. “You just hate that you can’t resist me.” With a swift motion, he captures your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up towards his. He's so close now that you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He leans in, his lips skimming the shell of your ear.

"Admit it," he whispers, his breath hot on your skin. “You want me just as much as I want you. Stop fighting it. Let yourself go." The urge to surrender is strong, but you stubbornly cling to the last vestiges of your composure. You can't let him win so easily. You're not some helpless damsel in distress.

You push against his chest, trying to create some distance between you two. "You're cocky, you know that?" Jun-ho chuckles at the feeble attempt to regain control, catching your wrists in his hands. "And you love it," he retorts, his grip tightening slightly. "Admit it. My cocky attitude drives you crazy."

You hate that he knows he's right. His arrogant confidence is infuriating, but it's also strangely alluring. It's as if he knows exactly how to push your buttons, how to make you crumble."You're a jerk," you mutter, but the lack of conviction in your voice betrays you.

"Mmhmm." That cocky smirk again. He's enjoying this far too much. He takes a step closer, his body now pressed against yours. You can feel the solid planes of his chest against your back, the heat of him seeping through your clothes."You can call me all the names you want, but I know the truth," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your jawline. "You're craving this just as much as I am."

The speed and ease with which he pins you against the car takes your breath away. In an instant, you're backed up against the cold metal, your wrists caught in his firm grip. Jun-ho's body presses against yours, his hands pinning your wrists above your head, leaving you completely at his mercy. Every part of you is hyper-aware of his presence:the heat of his body, the strength in his grip, the spicy scent of his cologne. His gaze is intense, his eyes dark with a desire that's making your heart race."You’re so stubborn," he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly. "You just can't help but push my buttons, can you?"

He leans in, his lips brushing against the hollow of your neck. The touch is light, barely there, but it sends a shiver down your spine. His breath is hot on your skin, making you feel strangely vulnerable."You know I have a weakness for stubbornness," he whispers, his lips finding the sensitive spot beneath your ear. "But you're really testing my patience."

You try to stay composed, to act like his touch doesn't affect you, but it's a losing battle. Your body betrays you, melting into his touch, seeking more. With a low chuckle, Jun-ho notices the change in your demeanor."You can act tough all you want," he murmurs, his lips now on your jawline, "but I can feel the way your pulse quickens when I touch you."

Jun-ho's gaze locks with yours, his eyes studying your conflicted expression. He's enjoying this,the way you're fighting to hide your feelings, the way your eyes betray your true emotions. He lets out a low chuckle, his grip on your wrists loosening slightly."You're struggling, aren't you?" He murmurs, his lips hovering just millimeters from your own. "Trying to decide whether you want to punch me or kiss me."

His words hit too close to the truth. The mix of anger and desire bubbling inside you is driving you crazy. You want to push him away, to tell him to back off. But the way he's looking at you,with that arrogant smirk and those intense, dark eyes,makes it damn near impossible to resist.

His lips capture yours with an intensity that takes you by surprise. The kiss is hard and hungry, his mouth claiming yours as if he's been craving this moment. He's still pinning you down, his body pressed against yours, his grip on your wrists now loose but possessive.He deepens the kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, and your resistance falter.

You kiss back and moan softly as you cling to him. Your response emboldens him, his kiss growing more possessive, more intense. He releases your wrists, his hands now roaming over your body, exploring every curve with an expert touch. He knows exactly how to drive you crazy.He breaks the kiss, his lips leaving yours to trail down your neck, sucking and nipping at your skin. His hands slip under your shirt, his touch searing against your bare flesh.

You moan softly. “Jun-ho,” you whisper, holding onto him. Jun-ho responds to the sound of his name coming from your lips, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He continues his assault on your neck, his tongue grazing the sensitive skin below your ear.

"Say my name again," he whispers, his voice huskier than before. "Louder."

You try to cling to your remaining shreds of control, but your resolve is crumbling under his touch. The way he's commanding you, the way he's making you feel, it's all too intoxicating.You let out another soft moan, his name tumbling from your lips. "Jun-ho." It almost sounds like a plea.

Jun-ho lets out a possessive growl, the sound low and primal. He captures your lips again, his kiss rougher this time, more desperate. His hands explore your body with fervor, slipping beneath your shirt to touch skin. His touch is electric, setting your senses ablaze.

He grabs your waist, hoisting you onto the hood of the car with ease. He steps between your legs, his body pressing against yours, trapping you in his embrace. The heat between you is palpable, the tension almost unbearable. Jun-ho's hands slide down your thighs, his touch leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He breaks the kiss, his lips moving to your neck once more. "You have no idea the things you do to me," he murmurs, his voice rough and laced with desire.

His lips move lower, towards your collarbone, leaving a trail of hot kisses along the way. You're melting under his touch, unable to resist the fire he's igniting within you. His hands grip your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh as if he's trying to brand you as his.

The sharp crackle of the radio breaks through the heated atmosphere, jolting both of you back to reality. Jun-ho's eyes dart towards the sound, his gaze sharpening. He mutters a curse under his breath.He looks back at you, conflicted. He's clearly torn between duty and desire, the moment shattered by the reminder of their job.

You give him one last kiss and walk away to the car. "You drive" you say, adjusting your jacket and returning to your detached attitude.

Jun-ho watches you as you compose yourself, his eyes still dark with unspoken desire. He can't help but feel a pang of disappointment as you put up your detached and professional front again. But he knows that the moment has passed, that the job takes precedence now.

He takes a deep breath, composing himself, and heads to the driver's seat. "Right. Let's focus on the target," he says, his voice cool and business-like.

[bookworrm1999]

How Far Away? Part 3

Caleb x Mc

Tags: unplanned pregnancy, presumed death, depression, miscommunication

Summary: Mc and Caleb fight right before he goes on a long mission into space. Caleb ends up MIA while Mc finds out she's pregnant. She struggles to deal with the grief while Caleb is fighting for his life to make it back home to her.

AO3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Stopping in the hallway, he glanced out a small port window to look at the stars rushing by.

Allowing himself a small sigh in the emptiness of the long hallway.

It had been a long few months, sabotages from plants here from the higher ups, the occasional metaflux incident causing wanderers to show, but worst of all was being away from her.

Caleb looks at his right hand, made stronger by improvements after all that damage in the explosion over a year ago now.

He could take it as a reminder of everything that had been done to him.

The experiments, being treated like a weapon, desperately trying to be cold and calculating all to take attention from the one person he wanted to keep safe.

To him though, it was his reminder of you. What he had sacrificed to keep you safe.

Maybe he should’ve just asked her to stay in his house the whole time he was away.

No, he shook his head a bit, that’s what had gotten him into trouble with her in the first place.

Caleb knew that he should just talk to her about everything.

But it helped his sanity to keep it all to himself, so she wouldn’t be burdened by all this knowledge.

He toed a dangerous line by keeping you so close.

Not that refusing to talk about his relationship with her really helped anything.

It kept him from having to be vulnerable to her though.

He was supposed to be your protector, the feeling that she would leave if she saw how weak he really was when it came to her.

It left him frozen inside, the fear and anxiety too much to bear.

Caleb made himself a promise though. He had left things on a terrible note.

The first thing he would do is apologize after seeing you again. Well after a kiss or two, maybe three.

Then finally sit down to talk.

The ship shook violently out of the blue.

Warning lights and alarms started sounding through the halls.

Caleb rushed to the command center.

“Report!”

“Sir, a wanderer has spawned in the engine room. Our anti gravity thrusters on one side have been knocked out. We’re slowly being pulled to a nearby black hole. The other thrusters are still working, which is keeping us from being pulled in completely but the wanderer is on the move.”

“Send the metaflux incident team to the engine room now, Tell them that I will meet them there.”

“Yes sir.”

Turning on his heel, his coat billowing behind him, he speeds his way to the engine room.

Opening the door, he’s met with a chitinous wanderer snarling at the assembled team.

All of them armed with firearms and specially picked for their evol abilities.

The room is trashed already, if he wasn’t fast, it could destroy life support systems and then they’d really be in trouble.

That is if the black hole looming outside didn’t crush them first.

The wanderer lunged at the team of 6 people with its front legs outstretched.

It manages to swipe one of the men’s forearms before it’s pushed back a bit by a slew of bullets.

Caleb had had enough, using his evol, he stops the wanderer in its tracks.

Doing this took more energy but he saunters over and shoots it straight into the core 2 times.

Letting it go, it slumps to the floor, spent.

Some blood splattering on him but he pays no mind as he casually wipes it off with his handkerchief.

“Salvage it.” He orders, not giving the flabbergasted team a chance to respond.

Caleb quickly left and called the engine crew to come and try to repair the thrusters.

But nothing came through.

“Report!”

Nothing.

Sensing something was gravely wrong, he storms into the command center.

A flurry of activity is happening as no one can contact anyone on the ship over coms.

“What’s the situation?”

“Colonel!”

Someone rushes over, breathing hard.

“In the chaos of you being gone, someone has sabotaged our communications relay for long range and ship wide. All of our escape pods have been ejected with the manual override in the shuttle bay and then escaped in the explorer shuttle!”

Damn it.

He brings his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he asks

“What’s our status on getting communications back up?”

“That’s the other thing sir, all of the containers of spare parts have been ejected.”

He smiles slowly to himself.

“So this was planned well in advance. They took advantage of the happenstance of me taking care of the wanderer.”

Usually he left the containment of those incidents to the metaflux team but the severity of it happening in the engine room led him to intervene.

They were truly fucked. These types of incidents needed to be reported, then help could be sent but with the communications relay out.

Unless they could magically find a way to fix the thrusters without new parts, they were going to be slowly pulled into the black hole.

Slowly crushed as all the oxygen left the environment, a slow and painful death.

Unless.

Well, they didn’t account for Caleb being a crazy bastard.

This wouldn’t be like that time at the academy when he just thought it might be ok to die after his test flight malfunctioned and sent him to deepspace.

He had to get home to you.

His evol was gravity based after all.

A black hole is a gravity well and all Caleb needed to do was create his own gravity well opposite of the black hole.

Using the remaining thrusters they had, he could slowly pull them away from the counter gravity’s influence. It would be achingly slow, grueling and exhausting.

Caleb didn’t know if the food stores would hold out or if any other systems would slowly turn off due to the existing damage.

He didn’t even know if he would last long enough to pull them out.

But he would do it to get home to her.

HER:

The camera turns on

You come into view of the camera holding a piece of photo paper.

“Hi baby! Oh I guess you should be saying that not me, haha. Anyways look!”

You hold up the small piece of photo paper, black and white with a small white blob in the middle.

“That’s our baby! Isn’t it cute? Well it looks more like a jellybean then a baby at this point but I still find it cute!”

You hold up your fingers to indicate the size, the size of a lentil.

“It’s really tiny right now, I’m only 6 weeks. I asked for a photo copy of this because I wanted something tangible. Especially for you, so that way you can keep it when you come home.”

Your head drops a bit, absentmindedly rubbing your firm stomach.

“I really miss you, it’s really hard doing this alone. I’m sick a lot right now and I lost a bit of weight before I realized what was going on.

Don’t worry though! Zayne helped me and I’m seeing an OB now. So I’m eating again.”

You point your finger towards the camera

“That does not mean that I need to be in bed rest when you get home. You hear me? This is normal for pregnancy. Well not the weight loss but the being sick.”

Sighing deeply

“I miss you so much, but I know you’ll be home in 3 months and a week. I’ve got this little bean to keep me company in the meantime. I’ll see you later Caleb.”

The camera turns off.

4 weeks pass, writing little messages to Caleb all the while.

The smell of meat cooking is horrible to me now, what am I going to do?! I want your braised chicken and pork when you come home!

My pants are getting a bit tight. I haven’t told my work that I’m pregnant yet. I’m waiting till I’m 12 weeks but my uniform pants just suck right now!

Maybe I could use a hair band?

Well my boobs are a little bigger now, you’d be happy about that. They’re super sore though so don’t even think about manhandling me!

I’m so tired all the time! It’s hard to go out and do work now. And don’t even start on my working! Pregnant women work all the time safely. Granted my work is pretty dangerous sometimes.

I just know if I tell them, they’ll put me on desk work.

I can’t do that right now, being busy keeps me sane while you’re gone.

I went to your house this weekend to grab some of your clothes. They fit so much nicer and they smell like you too.

I can just see your chest puffing out in male pride.

Yeah yeah, yuck it up.

I really wish you were here. I want to talk to you, cuddle up to you in bed and just be together.

I’m sorry we fought right before you left.

I’m sorry.

The camera turns on

“Caleb! The baby looks like a baby now! They did my ten week scan and it’s got little arms and legs now!

Oh don’t worry, I have the picture right here and a recording of the heartbeat. Ugh, sorry, my hormones just make me cry even when I’m happy.”

You wipe your eyes and display the newest ultrasound to the camera like the proud mama bear you were becoming.

A tiny white blob with little arms and legs.

“I think I can play the heartbeat off of my watch, hold on… there!”

The sound of a fast little heartbeat comes out and you start tearing up again.

“Caleb… Caleb, I wish you were here to do all of this with me.”

You sniff and dry your tears furiously, looking at the camera with a glare now.

“You better come home to me.”

The camera turns off.

3 months have passed since he left, your pregnancy is 15 weeks along now. You had been correct when you said that you’d be placed on desk duty as soon as you made your pregnancy known at work.

Xavier had goggled at you in disbelief, but Tara and everyone else were very happy for you. They wanted to ask you about the father, you could tell but they just gave you inquiring looks every now and again.

It was reaching lunch time as you finished reviewing a report someone had submitted recently.

You had been turned into the captain’s assistant somehow.

Stretching up, you noticed some unfamiliar colored uniforms out of the corner of your eyes.

Wait a minute, those are fleet uniforms! What are they doing here?

Your heart sank into the pit of your stomach.

You watched with bated breath as they caught someone, asking a question before your coworker pointed straight at you.

Oh no. Please.

Two officers walked over to your desk and asked for your name, you confirmed and they handed over a small box.

“As Colonel Caleb’s emergency contact and beneficiary, I regret to inform you that he has been reported as missing in action.”

You sit in stunned silence. They continue on.

“We can’t give too many details but a survivor of the disaster made it back a few days ago on board an escape shuttle, reporting the loss of the colonel and the rest of the crew.”

A strangled sob makes it out of your throat, you look down at the small box in your hands.

“These are the documents left behind for you, granting you access to his estate and trust. The house and everything else he owned is yours.”

You didn’t want this, you wanted Caleb.

Caleb was gone.

You slipped out of your chair, it rolling behind you as you lost all strength in your knees. Sobs coming out of you in frantic gasps.

The officers look uncomfortable as they left you with one last bit of information.

“There will be results of an investigation delivered to you at a later time, the colonels lawyers card is in the box. Good day.”

They left you there on the floor.

World shattered and a baby in your womb from a man you’d never see again.

Tags: @moonberry69 @supermyeon22 @tinnyrabbit @gavin3469 @marina27826 @crowleysthings @tabi-callico @midiplier @rosalyne08 @his-ocean-emissary

[hufflepuffsthunderdome]

Lazy Mornings

Eddie Munson x gn!reader Summary: Just a lazy morning spent with Eddie

Eddie was never really one to spend his days doing nothing. It made him feel antsy, feeling his body thrum with unused energy when he would sit around in his trailer all day, waiting around for something to come find him. He found it hard to sit still, hard to wind down and just be, when his overactive brain was running wild with ideas of things to do and places to be.

But with you came a sense of calm that he was missing. A simple touch from your hand to his shoulder and he feels himself melt against it. You brought peace to his chaos that he badly needed.

The soft hum of his battered cassette player, Pantera playing at half volume, filled the background with a gentle noise to break the otherwise silent trailer. Sunlight streamed through the thin curtains as the sun popped up over the horizon, painting golden streaks across the messy bed, across his bare arms, and most importantly—across you.

You were sprawled against him, head resting on his chest, your fingers moving lazily, tracing patterns against the warm skin of his stomach where you'd lifted his shirt up gently. The delicate, soft feeling of your hand on his body ignited sparks behind his skin, the feeling warm and fuzzy as he gazed down at you.

God, you were beautiful.

Your lashes fluttered slightly as you blinked slowly and lazily as you stared off into space, eyes catching the light in a way that made his chest ache. Your soft lips, were parted just enough to let out those quiet, sleepy sighs that he could feel against his skin, warm air brushing against him. Your hair, hanging messily across your back and face as you leant against him, tickling his skin, soft against his hand as he moved to run his fingers through there.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, voice thick with drowsiness.

Eddie grinned, his fingers moving to trail up and down your back, lazy and slow, “yeah? And what if I am?”

You huffed a little, shifting to peek up at him through lidded eyes as you raise your eyebrows at him, “then I’d say you’re a weirdo.”

He smirked, fingers moving to your chin, tilting it up slightly so he could get a better look at you, “and I’d say you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen if we wanna be stating the obvious.”

Your face warmed instantly, and Eddie didn’t even try to hide his little chuckle. He loved catching you off guard, loved the way your nose scrunched when you got flustered. He’d spend forever making you look at him like that if he could.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled, hiding your face against his chest again.

“And yet,” he teased, running his fingers down your back to wrap around your waist gently, “you stick around. You love it, don't even lie."

You hummed in response, pressing a soft kiss just above his heart, and Eddie melted against you, convinced he’d never move again. Screw the band practice later he’d promised to show up for. Screw the campaign notes that were half-finished on his desk. This—this was where he wanted to be.

You. His bed. Nothing else.

After a long pause, you sighed happily, “we should just stay here all day.”

Eddie chuckled, pulling you closer, his arms tightening around you, “I can only promise that if you relinquish control of the blanket.”

You only laughed softly, your hands trailing lazily up his chest. “Not gonna happen. I’ll keep you warm.”

He smiled, feeling his heart swell in a way that made him feel completely exposed, completely at ease. He didn’t have to be anything special when he was with you.

You tilted your head back to meet his gaze, eyes soft and so full of warmth that Eddie felt his throat tighten. You were looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"You're perfect," he whispered before he could stop himself. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over the soft skin. "Do you know that?"

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, you just smiled, and Eddie could feel his chest fill with something he couldn’t quite put a name to.

You leaned up, pressing a kiss to his jaw, then his lips—soft, sweet, just the way he liked it.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 8 - Keep Us Far Apart

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: This one’s for all my homies who’ve been sure she’s a demon blood kid. I’m sorry.

Chapter title from Tiffany Blews by Fall Out Boy

Word Count: 16.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You get benched by Bobby, and Sam gives you a call. Usual warnings.

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

Chapter 7 - Chapter 9

Read on A03!

You’re warm when you wake up.

Not a sticky, heavy warm that stings on your skin, but a soft, easy heat that settles in your bones. And everything feels Silver, but Dean’s not here. There’s nobody in the room but you.

You don’t have to open your eyes to know that. There’s only a static hum of a fan, that soft warmth, and the smell of grass and spice. A little faded but still obvious. Covering your senses and easing your brain down into peace.

Dean was here.

He’s gone now, but he was here. There’s no other reason for everything to smell like him. No other reason for the world to be blurred to Silver, because that’s something that still only happens with Dean. You know he’s gone because you feel bigger than you and you can’t feel him, but you can feel where he’d been. It’s like an imprint on everything around you, something stained gold that you can recognize even half asleep. 

It's new.

You’d be more worried about it if it was painful. But it’s really not. You can feel everything like you always have, and it’s all Silver and easy like when Dean’s by your side.

He’s left marks all around you. You can feel the comfort of the mattress under your body, and there’s a weight on it that’s Dean. There’s something sturdy right next to you, and it has the same feeling wrapped over and around it. The floor feels worn but settled, and Dean seems to have trekked gold all over it. Left himself everywhere, even as he fades by the second.

Because he’s also gone. 

He left you again. You can’t blame him. You’d leave you to, if you could, and you only lie to yourself a little less than you lie to Dean. 

At least your lies to Dean have been justified. In the name of survival, but still setting scars on your throat because—apparently—the only thing worse than letting John Winchester kill you and driving Bobby to madness is lying to Dean.

Fuck. 

Bobby.

You’re home. It took you a little too long to fully register it—you’ve never felt home like this, vast and unconstrained, but in no way that’s painful—but you’re back in your room. Which means Sam and Dean got you to Bobby’s. 

Which means Bobby knows you’ve been hunting with Dean, and the brothers probably asked questions, and then they left. You don’t know if Bobby told them to leave—to give you space while your body recovered or simply get out of your life all together—but they’re gone all the same.

Bobby wouldn’t tell Sam and Dean to leave forever. He likely didn’t tell the full truth, but he also liked Sam and Dean. He wouldn’t just kicked them out.

So they left because they wanted to leave. Because something—or nothing at all—was more important than you and they didn’t really care to get your answers. To hear you try to justify how you’d lied about Bobby because you had to. Because you’ve been so sick, and they already had enough to worry about, and it wasn’t all that important but you had wanted to tell them.

You might have told them now. If you had woken up and felt Dean in more than just an intangible depression on the world around you, you may have told him the truth. You’re too tired to filter yourself, and you’re so warm, and everything is so easy, so you could’ve told Dean.

Not the careful half-truth you’ll spend the day crafting, but everything. About the Darkness and the White, and how he makes both of them better but also sets them off at a level nobody else seems capable of. How you’re not quite human and that demon had been far from the first. How you hate him, but you can’t hate him, and all he needs to say is sorry and you’ll crash into him until you’re both drowning in nothing at all.

But he’d left. And you don’t know if he’ll be coming back. 

You could’ve sworn you heard a strong, certain voice tell you I don’t want to leave.  

I like you, Princess. I’ll stick around.

But you’ve dreamt of him before. And—even if this feeling of Dean is the last piece of him you ever get—you’ll dream of him again.

Not tonight, sleep no longer lingering in your head, but again. For now, you’re hungry and sore and lonely—the stains of Dean beginning to fade—and you don’t really want to lie in bed being useless anymore. 

When you open your eyes, the room is dim and a chair has been dragged right up to the edge of the your mattress.

That was the sturdy thing.

Dean had been sitting there.

And you can’t know that, but you’re certain. Even as the world comes into full focus and the strange marks of Dean around you start to dissipate, you’d bet more than your life that Dean really was here. That he’d sat on the chair for at least a little while, maybe speaking to you, maybe apologizing, maybe saying goodbye.

But he hasn’t been here in a while. And dwelling—overthinking and picking something apart until it’s raw and bare and you still don’t care for the truth—has never done you any favors before. It’s never made you forget or forgive Dean any faster. And you need to start moving.

So you don’t let it go. It’s Dean. You can’t let anything go with Dean. But you know how to compartmentalize, how to take he was here in a death grip and strangle it until it means nothing at all, and never allow your brain to drift to is he gone. Is Dean gone for real this time.

Did he leave you. Did Dean leave without saying goodbye, again. Did you let the Darkness slip out and didn’t even know, did you say something when everything had started to get hazy, something you don’t remember but he heard and now he gone.

Does he know what you are, does he hate you, he has no right to hate you, you’re the one who’s supposed to hate him-

You don’t hate him. You’ve forgotten how. If you need to, you’ll teach yourself again—beat it down and deep into your body until it sticks enough for you to feel it more than the pull—but until you know he’s gone, you still don’t hate Dean.

But knowing has never helped. And Dean is gone. 

So you’ll get through this. You always get through this.

You just have to fucking move.

It takes a minute to get your bearings. To look around you, twist your palms to press on the mattress, and push yourself upright-

Fuck. 

You have to choke down a scream. Your body shifts, just the slightly use of muscle and limb, and everything explodes with pain. Festering deep in your stomach and untenable, shooting from your gut into your blood like fire and eating at your head as it begins to pound and spin. The Silver rips itself apart as the pain escalates—stabbing behind your eyes as you squeeze them shut and scratching over your skin—and all you can do is curl into yourself and try to rip the darkness back down into your body.

Nails dig into your palm, teeth grit as breathing becomes labored, and you can feel everything. Too much. It all fucking hurts and it’s too much, and the sky is falling but you won’t catch it, not when the sky is made of crumbling and tired paint over your head, and cracked glass on the bathroom wall, and a massive, lonely weight over your chest-

The weight is new. You’ve been more than yourself in this room a million times, and there’s always an odd comfort of knowing what pain you’ll get. The White will bellow and riot around in search of peace and always find none, but the Darkness with settle and fall down faster. The cracked thing is the mirror you’d shattered when you were twelve. There’s a rotting feeling on the carpet from when you’d spilled coffee, and a long, dull ache on the wall from when you’d embedded a nail in it on accident, and the suffocation of the drawers is from all your clothing. 

But the weight is new. It’s right about you, it feels almost forlorn, and it’s the last thing to still be stained with quickly fading Dean. 

When you find enough willpower to bite your cheek until it bleeds and move your hand to grab it, it’s not a blanket. It’s a little rough and cool under your fingers, all the heat seemingly trapped in favor of your body rather than the fabric.

You drag your eyes open through sheer force of will, and it’s a jacket. Your jacket, that you’d left with Dean years ago. 

You’d always assumed he’d thrown it out. That you’d never see it again, because it was ash in a junkyard or tatters in a dumpster. But it was back on your body, and that sensation of Dean seems almost embedded into it. Not fleeting like his presence on the room around you. Woven right into the fabric just as much as cotton and polyester.

It was never your favorite jacket.

It might be now. 

You hope it can be. That this is Dean’s silent apology, instead of a goodbye. You really don’t want it to be goodbye, if only because you need to know why he’d kept it. It wouldn’t have fit him, and it was the exact style he often made fun of you for wearing—yeah, it’s nice, Princess, but it’s not good for hunting—so he’d had every reason to just dispose of it.

He has every reason to just dispose of you. And you know he’s aware of them, because he’d told you as much. But he hasn’t. 

Not yet.

You can’t dwell. You can’t sit here as the Darkness bucks and twists over your organs, trying to make sense of Dean and why he does things. Understanding Dean Winchester is a game you’ll never win, because he’s a pretty, adorable, rouge-ish asshole who can’t just make anything easy. And there’s always something about him that fogs your usually measured and rational judgement. You’re not a picture of sanity—the blinds on your windows are rattling because they can feel how your ribs are trying to rip out of your chest—but you’re never dumb.

And Dean makes you dumb. 

The asshole.

He leaves your jacket on your bed and now you want nothing more than to see him. He marks himself all over your room in a way that calls the Darkness and makes the White sing, all while your body shrieks with pain. He pulls a chair next to you while you sleep and you can hear his voice in your head saying I’m just gonna stay a while. 

And he leaves. He walks away and you can’t find it in you to be truly angry because it’s Dean.

It’s not rational. It’s not logical, or careful, or reasonable. It fucking stupid. It’s against everything you carved yourself so carefully to be, because that’s how you survive. And then Dean shatters you, and lets you mend more colorfully than before, and shatters you again.

You’ll get yourself killed, if you keep ignoring your mind telling you just give it up. Stop following him around like a lost, feral dog, stop giving him grace he doesn’t offer you, stop entertaining the White when it calls for him. He doesn’t feel the pull, he can’t, he won’t, and you’re already in danger so you might as well give it up.

But it’s the pull that forgives him, every time. An instinct that melds the Darkness and White together and whimpers but it’s Dean. 

And if it was Dean who had twisted that same knife into your gut—the one that’s still scarred over your stomach and burning just a layer under your skin—you don’t really know if you wouldn’t have forgiven him.

You’d like to say it would’ve been done there. That Dean would’ve stabbed you where people could see it and sent you toppling down alone, and you’d be done with him forever.

You’re not sure that’s the truth.

And it’s more terrifying than any demon or monster has been. Ever could be. 

But you can’t dwell.

You move slowly. Rolling onto your side and lowering your legs to the floor so carefully, strangling the sheets for a grip and taking slow, careful breaths every time you risk another movement. It fucking hurts. You don’t know what that demon got you with, but it’s killing you. Twisting and rotting you for the inside, making your eyes unfocused and your head feel like a suffocating weight that drips venom into your lungs and gut. You aren’t going to be able to stand up. Your knees buckle when you’re fucking sitting. Standing sounds like trying to balance on a tightrope of ice.

Your palm presses to the wound, and you wince when the pain becomes electric through your body. You need to stop just sitting here, need to do something—anything—besides being alone, but you can taste bile in your throat and it all just fucking hurts.

It takes you a moment to realize that you’re clenching the jacket like a flimsy tether, and it’s helping. Everything still hurts, but when you bow your head you can smell grass and spice and it makes the Darkness flow with a lighter ease. Everything is still too big, but you’re you. 

And you can hover a hand over your stomach, bite your tongue until you taste metallic blood, and let the Darkness flow into the wound. You’d fixed Dean before, and he hadn’t gotten infected with whatever you are. And you’ve been you—sick and rampant—your whole life, so the worst thing that could happen here is you injure yourself. 

And you don’t count.

When you feel the darkness spread into itself and push against the boils, it takes everything in you not to scream and to just push on. You can push on. The White is in an off-key harmony with the Darkness, and you might leave little indents of the jacket in your hand, but you can keep pushing.

Until eventually, you break out the other side. 

It’s gone. All the additional pain from the wound has seemed to turn to thin air, and all that’s left is the usual. The pain that’s always there just a little because you’re you, and that’s the price you must pay.

You don’t know how you did that. You don’t know if you’ll be able to do it again, or if it’s something you’ll have to learn to control later, but in the split second before the Darkness and White fall back out of time in your body, nothing about you is wrong. You fixed something again. Mended instead of destroyed. 

It hadn’t killed you, or hurt anyone at all.

And you feel okay. 

When you walk downstairs with slow steps, you try to be quiet. You’ll maybe get some food, curl up in the library, start rehearsing what you’re going to tell-

Bobby snaps your name from the living room, and you wince. 

Shit.

“You’re up sooner than I thought you’d be,” he says, and when you turn he’s sitting on the couch, watching you narrowed eyes. “How’r the stitches holdin’?”

“Um,” you glance down to your stomach and swallow. “I’m okay.”

When you look back up, Bobby’s followed your gaze, and his jaw is clenched. 

“Before you say anything.” You tug at the hem of your shirt, trying to get ahead of as much as you can. “I really am okay. I great actually. Some might say I’m in perfect condition-“

Bobby grunts your name. “What’d you do.”

“Nothing! I’ve never done anything-“

“We both know that ain’t the truth, kiddo. You’re about as much an angel as I am, and you’re doin’ the nervous bounce-“

“I do not have a nervous bounce-“

“Yeah, ya do.” Bobby gives you a flat look. “You’re a good liar, but not that fuckin’ good. What’d you do.”

You sigh, and raise your shirt. 

The stitches had gone with the pain. You don’t how where they’d went, or what the darkness had done with them, but they’re gone. It’s just perfectly mended skin—save for a bursting, star-like scar right below your ribs—and your close-lipped smile as you watch Bobby carefully. 

“It doesn’t hurt.” You offer. “And I didn’t break anything-“

“You did that?” Bobby nods to your stomach. “With the… you’re freakin’ hoodoo shit?”

You nod, lowering your shirt, and Bobby lets out a long, slow breath, shaking his head. 

“You know you were able to do that?”

“I-“ You glance down to your hands, running your thumb over your palm. “I’ve kind of done it before. Once.”

Bobby raises his brows, and you’re going to have to say it. You don’t want to say it. You don’t want to start that inevitable conversation, or hear the fallout you know it’ll have. 

“I healed Dean.” You mumble, keeping your voice soft enough that—hopefully—it’ll make your words seem less important. “His hand was broken. I fixed it.”

“With the-“

“With the thing.”

Bobby grunts, and when you look up at him his face is stoic. Solemn. Deep in heavy thought and set with something you can’t read. 

“Sit down, kiddo.”

You nod, shuffling to sit at Bobby’s side and picking at your nails until they’re a little numb. You didn’t get time to practice your explanation, or find a word for what Dean is to you, or figure out how you’re going to justify the past few years to Bobby when you can’t even justify them to yourself-

“They dropped you off here.” Bobby starts, and you nod, still staring at your hands. “Sam and Dean rolled up in that nice car John’s got and told me you got stabbed by a fuckin’ demon. Two idjits just kept sayin’ demon when I asked, and I don’t suppose you’d know what kinda demon-“

“Green eyes.” You say, folding one leg under your body. “I- I’ve seen the knives they use before, but I’ve never gotten hit with one. I’ve been careful, Bobby, I promise-“

“I know ya’ have.” He says. “You ain’t an idiot, and you know what you’re doin’ out there. Even if I wish you didn’t. What I need to know is what happened that got you stabbed.”

“It’s- It’s what it always is.”

“You haven’t told me what it always is.” You can feel Bobby’s glare in his words. You’d still rather not see it. “Ya just told me the demons were back, they weren’t goin’, and you needed to keep huntin’ alone. But,” Bobby’s words slow, his voice lowering slightly. “You weren’t huntin’ alone, were you. I hear you been huntin’ with Dean.”

“I didn’t- Who-“

“Sam spilled the beans.” He grunts. “Said you and Dean been best fuckin’ buddies for years.”

“Years is a bit dramatic-“

Bobby grunts your name, and you sigh. Again, there’s no way out of this but through.

“In 2003, Dean called you for advice about a hunt. Said there were a bunch of people going insane in North Texas. And then I got home a few weeks later and told you I’d dealt with a first century saint.”

There’s a long silence as Bobby ties the pieces together, and then, “Son of a bitch.”

“I, um- I realized what it was, and Dean took it out.”

“So for three years-“

“Yeah.��� You sigh, and there’s a little blood coating your nails. “About once a month.”

“What had you planned on doing if John showed up?” Bobby’s question isn’t angry, but it’s strained, and you can picture his scowl. “If Ol’ Daddy Winchester tracked Dean down and realized what he’s been up to on his time off-“

“I was careful.” As careful as you could be, when it came to Dean. “And it’s- we’ve only hunted together twice since October-“

“Cause John went and fucked off! What if he’d come back, lookin’ for his boys and found you with them!”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“You can’t know that-“

“I can.” You snap, your head shooting up to hold Bobby’s gaze. He’s angry. You can see it all over his face. It’s better than nothing at all. “I didn’t sleep in the same motel room, I kept my own car, and Dean would always leave when John called. He wasn’t going to find me.”

Bobby groaned, shaking his head. “You don’t even like huntin’ with a partner, and we agreed that, ‘less it was me or Rufus, it ain’t safe to put yourself in that situation-“

“It was with-“ You cut yourself. You don’t want it to be safe with Dean. Only Dean. Only Dean had ever made everything feel right, only Dean knew when to listen to you and how to take over when you couldn’t do anything. “It was like this.”

“And all those moments where you ain’t in control?” Bobby challenged, raising his brows. “When glass starts shatterin’ and you make a river disappear?”

You swallow. “He never noticed.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Course he didn’t. Smitten fuckin’ dumbass.” 

You frown at Bobby’s word, ready to ask what that means, but he pushes on.

“What about Sam, huh? He’s been noticin’. Asked me about your episodes, kid. If you been gettin’ panic attacks.”

“It’s- they were talking?” It would be nice if your voice didn’t sound so obviously nervous. “About me?”

“The hell else were they supposed to talk about? They come rollin’ in with you half-dead, laced up with Sam’s shit fuckin’ stitches and Dean clingin’ to you like a puppy dog, we supposed to talk about the weather?”

You use more effort than you’ll ever move on to not let your eyes widen, let your voice squeak Dean was doing what?

It doesn’t matter. He left.

“I-“

“And,” Bobby adds, leaning forwards. “You still ain’t explaining to me what happened. That wasn’t a normal fuckin’ stab wound, kiddo. I had to break out that fancy holy water you’d been cookin’ in the basement.”

That makes you sit up a little straighter. “Oh, did it work?”

You haven’t had a chance to test that stuff. Another random, strange dream in the middle of the night, another idea for something scribbled in a notebook by your bed, almost a week spent tracking down everything you needed until it was perfect. The wings of a heart-broken butterfly weren’t easy to find, but you’d managed, and sugar from a cane by the Nile sounded insane, so you’d settled for sugar bought in Grocery store in South Dakota and hoped you could offset the difference with wine made from Egypt, curtesy of a creepy old man in Chicago. 

If it didn’t work, you’d have to figure out why. Maybe the priest you’d gotten to bless it hadn’t been lustful of the heart. You could find a more lustful priest. You could be a more lustful priest, because you’ve had very detailed dreams about pretty green eyes, scarred and tanned skin, and a cocky grin between your thighs-

Bobby snaps your name, and you blink at him.

“Stop thinking while we’re trying to have a conversation.” He snaps, and you flush. “And the water worked alright. Got you up and stopped that weird infection the knife left. I been lookin’ at the thing, no poison or curses on it-“

“It’s iron.” You mutter, and Bobby frowns at you.

“And why would that be-“

“Iron, it’s- It’s bad. It hurts.”

“Hurts.” Bobby repeats, words slow. “Who, you?”

You nod, and Bobby shakes his head.

“Kid, I seen you touch iron-“

“Pots and pans don’t count.” You mutter. “Not pure iron.”

“Pure-“ Bobby cuts himself off, narrowing his eyes. “How long you known that iron can do that,” he nods to your stomach. “To you.”

You raise your palm, scar up, in a silent answer, and Bobby understands. 

“Shit.” Bobby sighs, scanning over your face. “Any reason you been keepin’ that from me?”

“Didn’t want to worry you,” you mumble, and Bobby scoffs.

“You ain’t half as smart as you seem if you think I’m not already worryin’ about you.” He snaps. “I see what you do to yourself, kid. Saw it when you came back, you’ve been-“

“I have to.” Your voice is almost a plea. You don’t want to talk about this, because you don’t have a choice. This is what you have to do to keep the Darkness down. “I- Nothing else works.”

“I know, but we don’t exactly live a pina colada and sunshine life,” Bobby grunts your name, and you think his gaze is going to sear into your skin. “You still haven’t told me what the hell happened, and just lookin’ at Dean’s little bitch sad face told me it wasn’t good.”

“I-“ You sigh, fully tucking your knees to your chest. “I don’t want to talk about Dean right now. Please.”

Bobby’s brows raise. “Anything I need to shoot him for?”

“No!” Your answer is too fast. Bobby hears it. “I- We just had a fight. Before the attack.”

“You two fight a lot?”

You shake your head, twisting the skin on your finger, and Bobby sighs.

“Fine then. What kinda fight we talkin’, then? I, uh, I ain’t sure how close you two got, and if it was a sorta spat-“

“Bobby?” You grimace, running your hands over your calves. “Please shut up.”

“Alright, just, if you’re doin’ that, be sure to use protection-“

“Bobby!” You gape at him, shaking your head. “He’s- we’re not-“

“I’m not judging you, kid, I mean, you’re young and I known that boy his whole life, he-“

“I- That’s not- You are judging! You were judging like, five minutes ago!”

“‘Bout the hunting. I’m no prissy uptight church gal, I know what people your age get up to, and if you’re, ya know, gettin’ up-“

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bobby,”You shake your head, scrunching your nose in disgust. “Please, shut up before I pour bleach in my ears. I’m not- That’s- Dean’s my partner. No room sharing, remember?”

“Don’t have to be in a room-“

“Bobby-“

“Alright,” Bobby relents, raising his hands, and you’re pretty sure the heat in your face could be felt across the room.

“Thank you.” You mumble, and Bobby just nods.

“See.” He gives you a close-lipped smile. “I worry about you.”

“Yeah, in all the wrong ways.” You return the smile, and take a long breath. “And it’s really not like that. I mean, I don’t- It’s complicated.”

There’s a pause, and Bobby frowns. 

“You gonna say how it’s-“

“I- You know how it,” You gesture around yourself, then the air, and Bobby understands. “Has been getting worse?”

Bobby grunts in acknowledgement, and you take a long, deep breath.

“He makes it better.” You whisper, and Bobby’s jaw twitches. 

“Dean?”

You nod, and Bobby huffs, shaking his head. 

“What are we talking, better.”

“It’s- the pain. It’s not as bad when we don’t-“ You sigh. “When things are good.”

“And when they ain’t?”

“I think made a tree fall,” you mumble. “After the- that last fight.”

Bobby hums in a low agreement, raising his brows. “You gonna tell me what that one was about?”

You shake your head, and he sighs. 

“Well, when they get back, don’t expect Sam to have that same grace. Kid was biting my ear off about gettin’ Dean to say somethin’ about it.”

You frown. “They’re coming back?”

Bobby shrugs. “Seems it. John called them to work another case on that asshole that got Mary, but from what I hear he doesn’t stick around long after. They’ll be heading back here after.”

Here. Dean didn’t leave forever. He’d come back here. Where you’d be. 

Maybe.

If he didn’t see you be you.

“I-“ Your head shoots up, the thought only striking now. “Bobby, what did you tell them about me, and just my- the-“

“Nothing.” Bobby grunts, and something loosens around your throat. “But they’re gonna have questions. People don’t walk around getting attacked by demons every day-“

“Not every day.” You mumble. “And as far as they know it was just that one demon-“

“But it’s not.” Bobby snaps, his eyes darkening slight. “You’ve got demons rooting up your ass like the damn TSA, and knowin’ you it’s probably worse than you’ve been telling.”

“It’s’- not by much-“ 

Bobby says your name, his voice stern. “Any demons are too much. Hell, you got fuckin’ green demons that I ain’t ever even heard a whisper about-“

“I’m sorry-“

“No, you’re not. And I’m sayin’ nobody’s heard of a green-eyed demon.” Bobby rubs his jaw with a hand, shaking his head. “I worry about ya’, kid, cause I can’t find a damn soul who’s gonna be able to help that won’t also put a bullet in your temple.”

“They know.” Your fingers dig into your skin, and your eyes drop to the floor. “That last one, it said it knew what I was. And it’s- it’s really been getting worse, Bobby.” Your breath is shakier than you’d like it. “It’s just more. All of it is more, and I don’t understand it, and it still really hurts. Everything- it hurts.”

Bobby’s expression softens, and he must be able to see it on your face—how even when there’s no wound to heal or screams to choke on—it always just fucking hurts. When there’s noise it’s always too loud, and when there’s air it’s too heavy and sticky in your lungs, and every movement chokes you on this phantom, rootless pain that’s born only from you. There could be nothing in the world but you, and it would all be pain because that’s what you’re made of. Erosive and infectious pain.

It’s only better when you’re not alone in the world. When there’s a grinning, smug asshole next to you that somehow knows how to make all this just a little better, that never even has to do anything to be some kind of fucked up cure. One you’d never asked to take, one you’re addicted to, and one that doesn’t even know how the White has dictated that you simply need him—just Dean, as close as possible—to not be in this much fucking pain.

Bobby must somehow read that over your face, because he clears his throat.

“You said Deans been helpin’-“

“He has. But I- I don’t know why. He just does. But when it’s bad with him- It’s-“ You swallow, curling into yourself. “It’s like something sets off. I- I can’t control it, Bobby, I can’t ever control it, but with Dean it’s so much worse and I don’t know what I am-“

“Hey.” Bobby rises out of his seat, grabbing the blanket from the side table and draping it over your body before dropping at your side. “Breathe, kiddo. In and out.”

You do. And it gets better. Not good, but better. Bobby sitting next to you with his arms on his knees, steadily and firmly here. He hasn’t given up on you. 

He’s still here.

“I-“ You choke on nothing, and force a small smile onto your lips. “I know how breathing works, Bobby.”

He chuckles. “Coulda fooled me. Amazed you managed that long without me telling you.”

You smile—and it’s small, but real—and silence settles over the room in a long, heavy moment.

There’s more you haven’t told him. Small details you’ll need to save for later, when this isn’t raw and you can think out everything you’ve been hiding. Exactly what you’ve been up to with Dean. Just how bad it’s all gotten. What the plan is now, when stupid, adorably oblivious Sam and Dean are going to tell John that you were raised by Bobby. 

But you’ll work that out later.

And you think Bobby already understands most of it. 

So all you can do is rub the scar on your hand and take a long breath, your words soft and measured.

“I don’t know what I am,” you whisper. “I don’t know what to do.”

Bobby sighs, patting you on the back. It’s half rub, half burping a baby, and it’s always awkward, but it’s always the same, and it always works.

Your body relaxes slightly, and you can hear Bobby’s words without any ringing in your ears.

“I know you ain’t gonna like it,” he mutters. “But listen to me, kiddo. You need to slow down ’till we figure this out. You’re a danger to yourself.“

You shake your head. “I haven’t hurt anyone-“

“Yourself.” Bobby repeats, shooting you a stern look. “It’s you that needs to not get hurt. And we’ll figure this out, but you gotta slow down. Stop running around and stretching yourself till you damn snap. Least until we’ve got the demons down.”

“I-“ You let out a long breath, and there doesn’t seem to be any skin left on your nails to pick at. “I’ll think about it.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll be thinkin’ about it on bedrest.” Bobby mutters, shutting down your sound of protest with a firm glare. “I don’t care what magic shit you pulled on yourself with that,” he nods to your stomach. “You still got fuckin’ stabbed.”

“But-“

“And,” he narrows his eyes. “You been runnin’ around with the one person I told ya’ not to. Consider it being’ grounded. No hunting for two weeks.”

You gape at him. “You can’t ground me, I’m not five-“

“You can still be dumb, and need a lockdown. No jackin’ one of my cars and running off, no getting newspapers and looking for something that’s gonna get you stabbed again-“

You scowl. “I wasn’t trying to get stabbed-“

“But you did,” Bobby snaps. “And now we’re sleeping it off.”

“It’s supposed to be walking it off.” You mutter, glaring at the floor. “You’re supposed to tell me I need to go on another hunt.”

“Well, that ain’t what’s happening here. No hunting. You can use the time to try and figure out what the hell is going on with all these fuckin’ demons popping out of the woodworks.”

Bobby grabs a random book off the side table, places it in your lap, and you frown at him.

“This is a cookbook, Bobby.” You raise your brows. “Should I try baking the demons into a pie?”

His mouth twitches, and you’re pretty sure he’s just trying to act like he’s still mad at you. “If that’s what works to sort this out, yeah. Get to work.”

“Can-“ You look down to the obviously useless cookbook in your hands, then back to Bobby. “Can we have dinner, please? Before I get stuck on book duty?”

He rolls his eyes. “Ya’ ain’t stuck on book duty-“

“You just told me to use my time to study the demons-“

“That don’t have to be books. Could be some of your fuckin’ dream shit. A ritual that pops into your head, tellin’ us exactly what these sons of bitches want.” 

You shake your head. “That’s not how they work-“

“How am I supposed to know that.” Bobby mutters, pushing himself to his feet. “I dream about loosin’ my teeth and gettin’ chased by a vamp in a dress.”

You grin, shrugging as you uncoil your body to follow him. “Why is it in a dress?”

“Fuck me if I got a clue. What are ya’-“

“Pasta?”

He grunts. “I got stiff ass spaghetti.”

You nod, trailing after Bobby into the kitchen, forcing down every spiraling thought into focus on what you can see. What you feel can’t be everything right now, and later—when you go to bed, and it’s just you and the Darkness once more—you’ll have plenty of time to take your every thought and strangle them until you’re a little more sick and alone. But now you just need to sit in the kitchen and eat shitty spaghetti with Bobby. 

And he isn’t angry with you. He’s not happy, but he’s not wrathful. He didn’t really yell, and he didn’t tell you that you were a disappointment or problem—he did call you dumb a few times, but you deserved it—so you’ll be alright. You can see Bobby. You can see that he’s not mad, and you can see that he’s here, and that’s more than you can say for other people.

Because the day does pass, and the Darkness is still weighted and painful in your body, but it’s not trying to be more than that. Nothing is easier, melted into Silver or in soft and simple harmony, but nothing is worse. The Darkness is rooted in the White, and the White is loud and lonely, and that’s everything. 

It’s horrible.

And it’s tolerable.

Nothing breaks, you don’t explode, and when you shuffle off to bed that night with a mumbled promise to Bobby that he won’t wake up and find both you and one of his worse cars gone, that’s when it all gets bad.

Because now there’s nothing to hold you down or distract you. Through the day you could see things. Read a pointless, fun fantasy book and not think about the pain. Talk to Bobby about the latest random lady at a grocery store he won’t be asking out, and not think about Dean. Keep moving—even when you were curled in a chair—and not worry about what’s next, because you were home.

But now you’re alone, and all you can do is feel. 

The pain isn’t worse. It really just is as it’s always been. And it’s probably not good that it’s always been like this—stabbing and pounding and biting at your organs and something deep in your body all the fucking time—but it’s better than before. It’s better than its worst. You can get through it. It’s only pain. It’s only twined with the Darkness, and it’s only as sick as you always are.

Because the Darkness is still growing. Not at the rapid pace that happens when everything is too much, but in the slow, steady, weed-like way that’s been happening over the years. You’ve really started to feel it. Feel how it seeps further and further into the White, and with every passing moment you grow sicker, and the Darkness becomes more feral. Every moment it’s leashed and muzzled in your body it seems to become furious, and it’s not sustainable. It’s choking the White. It’s choking you. 

And you still really don’t know what you are. You know that this isn’t fixable, but you don’t even really care to try it right now. 

You’d just really like to know what you are. What you’ve done or what you’ve become that makes these demons track and hunt you like you’re nothing more than a prized deer.

If there are others like you. If they’d know how to control this, to keep the Darkness down so nobody ever gets hurt but you. If there’s some new type of pain you haven’t tried that will keep you in check.

If they can also feel the White. If it’s glowing in them as well, or if that’s just another way that you’re something no one understands.

But if they do feel the White, they must feel the pull. Their White must have staked a claim on something without reason or right, they must have someone that the White whines and bucks until they touch, this can’t just be you, alone and wrong in the whole world.

You have too much time to pass. And you don’t want to be benched, but you’re tired of not knowing. Of being reckless and dumb and dangerous. 

So—just until Bobby stop glowering at you every time you move to the door—you’ll use this time as you always have at home.

Reading. 

You’ve been through every book in Bobby’s house at least twice. You’ve scoured every page for just a clue to what you are, why you’re like this, and always found nothing at all. But Bobby always finds you new books, and you always go in with the same blind determination for something. Even if it’s worse than what you imagined, you’d really just like something. Anything to point to and say that’s me. 

Any solid reason that will drive you away from Dean forever—just for his safety, if you learn you truly are just a monster—or offer you a chance to tell him. To say what you are—because you’ll know—and not have him leave you because there would be nothing to leave. 

So you read. And read and read, and take notes and come up with nothing, and keep reading. At some point—after a few days and a phone call from Sam—Bobby officially demotes you to book duty, and when you’re not reading about strange myths and rare monsters, you’re helping Dean.

He doesn’t know you’re helping him, but you are. They’d asked Bobby for what he knows about demons, if he has any ideas about what got their mom, and Bobby asked you to help find answers. Sam had said they wouldn’t be back for another week or so, and Dean hasn’t called you, but that doesn’t stop you from really wanting to help. To be more than a wasteful, spoiled girl to him, to prove him wrong and give him one single reason to not hate you.

You really need to get a handle on this. Not now—when you’re stuck on half house-arrest and Dean needs your help—but after. You need to beat it into yourself that you cannot hinge your every action on making Dean Winchester not hate you. On convincing him to stay, when he’s made it clear he doesn’t really have an interest in staying for you.

It’s another thing you’ve decided to put off. It’s another thing you’ll work out later, when you have the time. Right now your whole life is sitting in your bedroom and trying to work out what you are, or sitting in the library and trying to help the Winchesters.

Specifically helping Sam and Dean. John can eat glass, and he’s lucky you don’t know how to not care about Dean, or you’d let that demon do whatever the hell it wants to the old fuck.

“You ever seen a red demon?” Bobby asks from across the table, and you frown up at him. 

“I- maybe?” You glance back to your own book—covered in coffee stains to the point of being almost impossible to read—and chew on your tongue as you think. “This one doesn’t have anything about red demons, though-“

“That one’s all theoretical shit,” Bobby grunts, sliding his own book across the table. “I heard of red-eyes before, but ain’t ever seen one.”

“So why-“

“Winchester’s demon don’t sound like average black eyes. I’m lookin’ for alternatives.”

“Could it be the green-eyed demons?” You suggest, making another note about possession in the margins, next to a line that reads any living thing, bound to earth by a human soul, can be victim to demonic possession if unguarded. “The one from last week seemed to know Dean.”

“Don’t seem like it.” Bobby grunts. “Nothin’ to rule out, but this demon sounds like it’s got a vendetta.”

“My demons seem to have a vendetta.”

“You got demons.” Bobby gives you a pointed look. “Bunch of ‘em, all scouring for you. From what the boys have said, this seems like one sorry asshole.”

You shrug, grinning at your paper. “Maybe I’m just more important than the Winchesters. And they need more demon-power to track me.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “That ain’t funny, kiddo.”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Course you do. Find anything on fire?” 

You shake your head. “I mean, demons very famously like fire. I think that lead might be a dead end, at least until I can get a sulfur sample-“

“The hell you mean a sulfur sample?”

“I, uh-“ You swallow, giving him a sheepish look. “I had another idea.”

Bobby sighs, his voice dry. “You don’t say.”

“It’s a good one! I think I could track it, or summon it with the right ritual, I would just need some of the demon’s sulfur-“

“What’re you meanin’, the demon’s sulfur-“

“I mean I think their sulfur is like their fingerprint. And I could, uh…” You trail off for a second, and you hate when this happens. When all these theories and ritual that appear in your brain against your will make you sound downright insane. “Track it?”

Bobby pauses, scanning over your face with a frown. “You think it’d work on any demon?”

“I guess.” You shrug, tilting your head at him. “You believe me?” 

“I’m past worryin’ about belief,” Bobby mutters your name, looking back to his book. “Next time I get a call from Sam, I’ll ask him to start lookin’ for sulfur.”

You nod, and look back to your book. There’s no guarantee your theory will work, but they almost always do. Like your brain is just wired to know this shit. 

That’s another lead you have on yourself. Another route to chase that will likely come up at a dead end.

But you have time to chase it. Because when Sam does call again—you haven’t heard Dean voice in almost two weeks, and it would be amazing if the White would stop being a whiny little bitch about that—it’s to say that they’re in Iowa, looking for a gun, and that they need to know more about how to exorcise a demon.

Bobby tells them. He explains everything about demon traps, and vessels, and most of what you’ve found. He doesn’t mention the green-eyed demons. You’re thankful for that, because you don’t want the questions right now.

Sam says they’ll be gone a little while longer. That there’s another demon—Meg is a really fucking dumb name for a demon—who’s working the one John’s been hunting, and they just wanted to know how to deal with her when the situation arises. 

You won’t be getting that sulfur sample. 

And you’ll keep spending long nights alone in your room, trying to just find something on what you are, and coming up empty handed. 

Night after night passes, and you have nothing. You sort through boxes in the basement, trying to find a book you haven’t read or that doesn’t have your notes already scribbled over the worn pages, but it’s useless. You’re not a demon, or an Alpha monster—whatever that is sounds worrying, but it will have to wait—or a Nephilim, or an angel. 

You’re not even sure angels are real. 

And you’re running out of ideas.

When Bobby unceremoniously drops a book on your lap, you blink at him. It’s leather-bound, with yellowed pages, and you’ve never seen it before.

Bobby doesn’t have any books you’ve never seen before. You’ve even seen the romance books he keeps in his room. 

“What-“

“Went after a few witches last month with Rufus.” He grunts. “Nasty bitches, been usin’ animal bones to try and reanimate their kids. Found this in their attic.”

You wrinkle your nose. “You got me a dead witch book?”

“I got ya a dead witch book we ain’t ever seen before, smartass-“

“I’m joking.” You give Bobby a grateful smile, moving the book into a small pile to your left. “Thank you.”

Bobby grumbles something that’s probably a little rude but likely justified, and shuffles back to the kitchen. 

It takes you another few nights to get to the dead witch book. You had other books to comb through, other notes that became dead ends, and barely enough sleep to properly function. But regardless—after a long night of failed attempts at sleep—you end up with the book in your lap under the covers, a flashlight one hand and a pencil in the other as you scan over the pages.

You don’t know how you developed that habit. You’re a grown woman who’s well within Her right to be reading at three in the morning, and it’s not exactly smart hunter instinct to hide under bedsheets, but you’ve never been that bothered by it. It feels safe, and warm, and helps you focus. You do it at home, and in motel rooms. 

And it helps you pretend that nothing could ever be that worrying. You’re under the covers, reading about witches like it’s never been that important, underlining the pages like you’re studying for a test rather than trying to figure out if you’re human or not. 

The book is long. And old. And complicated. Every sentence seems to double back and turn over on itself, and every spell and ritual is needlessly convoluted to the point that you don’t think half of them will work. There’s a whole chapter about familiars that you don’t make it through, a series of pages about forbidden magic that you only can skim, and a section devoted to ass-kissing a group called the grand coven.

It’s not useless. If your eyes weren’t itching with sleep and your head wasn’t heavy with how everything is a little fucked right now, you’d probably find it interesting. But now you flip between pages, mindlessly looking for anything at all that could point you where to go. There seems to be a witch government, and you don’t really care about their social civics. They have history that will be the same in a few months when you have the brain power to study it, and different magic classification, and different study classifications, and different witch classifications-

That makes you pause, doubling back over the index to find the exact words—witch classification, pg. 683—and flipping to the sections with your pencil between your teeth.

It’s mostly useless nonsense.  Most witches learn magic via study, and others borrow it from demons. You only seem to learn magic against your will—and it doesn’t feel like just magic—and you certainly didn’t make any demon deals that would result in you being… you.

You seem to fall closest to the last kind. People born into magic, who have an affinity for it. 

And that’s when you lean forward, chewing on the pencil as you read. As something starts to stir in the White, and every word feels important.

Natural witches have a predisposition to the practice of magical arts. They have an innate ability to harness the universe within the confines of their practice, and require less exertion to perform any spell, ritual, or curse.

You don’t require any exertion. Most of the time you’re suffocating yourself trying to not perform.

But it’s closer than anything you’ve found before. So you keep reading.

A weaker natural may have an affinity to certain form of magic. It is unknown why this may be-

Not helpful.

Curses are known to be disproportionally cast by naturals-

Useful to remember, but not what you need.

Many natural witches come from a bloodline in which the trait has appeared before. A longer, stronger bloodline will often be connected to a stronger natural. Most powerful witches date back to pre-first century, however there is only one bloodline that has survived since the beginning of witchcraft, often theorized have proceeded or created the very practice itself. However many scholars debate its existence, calling it a witch-tale to create reason for the beginning of the art. As such it is lost to history, whether there was ever even the existence of the-

You can read that word. 

Sort of. 

Not really. 

It looks different than every other word on the page, but you can still understand what it says. Like a shifting mirage you know shouldn’t make sense, but does. And it seems to be one word, but your mind insists it’s four.

Women of the high.

You re-read the sentence. Once, twice, a third time. It still looks like one word. It still says women of the high.

Lost to history, whether there was ever even the existence of the women of the high.

You didn’t know there were witch scholars. You didn’t know witches had tales. And you scan over the whole book, but all you find is one last paragraph in the history section.

There is little known about these very first witches, often called-

There it is again. Women of the high.

They are said to be far more powerful than any other witch, their harmony with the universe extending beyond that of even the most powerful natural. However, there is little to no historical evidence of their true existence, and it is a more commonly held belief among scholars that witchcraft is and always has been an evolving discipline.

The page goes on. 

You stop reading, caught like a scratching vinyl on that phrase. Women of the high.

Harmony with the universe. 

That could be one thing to call it. A heavy, involuntary harmony with everything around you, whether you like it or not. But these women, whatever they are, don’t seem to be real.

It could explain why you’ve never had a lead.

It may be the reason for the scar on your hand.

It would make you human. It would make this truly just a thing of your blood, or affinity, or whatever, and you’d just be a strange human the universe likes more.

Really nothing more than a witch. It would be really nice if you were nothing more than a witch. Not a monster. Not sick. 

But the Darkness has started to spread, the longer you think about it. Focusing on it makes everything worse, and you can feel how the flashlight is burning, and the sheets feel swollen with you presence, and the pencil in your mouth-

There’s a snap, and a heavy taste of graphite as you chew right through the pencil.

There’s nothing left to do here but make yourself more than you are, and spin around this thing that doesn’t have an answer. You could be this.

You could still be nothing.

And you still really do feel sick. So fucking sick. With every passing it feels like air is being ripped through your lungs, and every breath is too thin. Your body feels rotten. Your heart feels like it’s been seized and thrashed and shredded and sown with something thin and bright.

You can feel those pieces again. Those fractured things Dean left deep in your body that haven’t be splashed with anything but agony since that fight. They hit somewhere deeper. Not quite critical, but closer to it. And they’ve been like dull knives along your spine that you’d retaught yourself to tune out, simply because there was too much other pain to spare them a thought.

But they’re powerful. They’re covered in grime and still trying to grow over your body—reconnect and mend and crystallize—and they fucking hurt. All of this fucking hurts, if you’re whatever that women of the high shit is, if you’re supposed to be in harmony with the universe, why does this always fucking hurt. Why do theses strange pieces Dean scattered through your body unravel your heart more than any stain of the Darkness, why do they blister over your gut worse than the demon’s knife, why are they sunken and smoothed and washed out like they’d been drowned when you’ve become so practiced at ignoring them, and why does it fucking hurt-

Your phone rings, and it almost makes you jump out of your skin.

It’s four in the morning. Bobby’s a floor up and a room over, if he wanted to talk to you, he’d come downstairs. If Rufus wanted to speak to you, he’d yell at Bobby to make you visit him. If Dean wanted to talk to you-

That’s what makes you scramble for the phone. This is exactly what Dean would do if he wanted to talk to you. Call with no warning in the dead of night with nothing to say, just because he didn’t think past calling and you always pick up the phone.

But it’s not Dean that’s calling. 

It’s Sam.

You pick up, because Sam never calls you when you’re not on a hunt. Even on those two hunts, he’d wait until Dean called you before yelling in the background. 

But the little, robotic letters on your phone say Sam Winchester.

And you pick up.

“Hello?”

You could swear you hear a breath of relief. “Shit, good, you’re up. Sorry, I didn’t think you would be, but I figured better to try and call in the morning if you didn’t. But you- You picked up. So now I guess I, uh, I have to say it.”

“Say-“ You frown into the air, sitting a little straighter in bed. “Are- Sam, is everything okay?”

“Uh…” Sam swallows through the speaker. “No. It’s bad.”

“Sam-“

“It’s Dean. He’s really hurt.”

You don’t think you heard him right. You couldn’t have heard him right. The Darkness is suddenly and meaninglessly rocketing out of your body, and it’s making the blood pound in your ears, so there’s no reason for you to hear him right. Bobby’s house has shit reception, and your phone is basically a fancy brick, and you’re unbelievably tired, so you didn’t hear Sam right.

Sam says your name, and he sounds cautious. Like he’s worried you’ll explode from just his words. “Are you-“

“Yeah, I’m uh, I’m here.” Your voice is unsteady, and you’re not sure why. You misheard Sam, so nothing’s wrong. “I didn’t- I’m not sure I heard you right, so-“

“What did you hear?”

“I- I’m not sure.” You swallow. The room is suddenly far too dark, and the pain is back. You’re not sure how it hasn’t reduced you to nothing but a stature, frozen and cold from nothing at all. “Can you repeat it?”

You don’t want him to repeat it. You want Sam to say he called you because Dean broke his phone, or because he lost a bet, or because they’re hunting something strange and there’s no one help them but you.

But Sam says something, and this time you really don’t hear it. It’s just a numb sound your brain seems to tune out, and the White feels like it’s being burned and frozen all at once.

“Sam-“

“I- Dad doesn’t know I’m calling you,” Sam continues, and you don’t think he knows you didn’t hear him again. “But Dean would want you here, I think.” He pauses, his voice a little lower. “I’d like you here. I- I think you should be here. For him. Just in case.”

You can’t really breathe. You’re not sure what’s happening. “In case of what?”

“In- Just if-“ Sam pauses, and the static through the phone is like a toxin over your skull. “I- I don’t want to say it. You know, it’s-“ He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “One of those things, right?”

“I-“ Your nails are drawing blood on your skin. You don’t really feel it. “Sam, I don’t-“

“If you don’t want to, I get it. I know you guys were fighting or something, but I- I really-“ You can hear Sam’s long, deep breath. “Please come. For me. I- I don’t really want Dad to be the only other person here. Please.”

“What- what was-“

“Demon.”

You didn’t mishear Sam. 

You can’t really breathe.

“How bad?” You whisper, and anything would be better than this long silence before Sam answers.

“Bad.” 

“Where-“

“Jefferson City.”

“That’s-“ You think you’re choking on nothing. Everything hurts. “Sam, that’s like eight hours-“

“He’ll hold.” Sam mumbles. “Please.”

You swallow, and glance around your room. You can pack fast.

You can drive faster.

“I’ll be there in seven.”

It’s faster to hang up without saying goodbye. You don’t really want to say the word goodbye at all right now. 

Because it’s easier to move without thinking about why you’re moving. You’re getting out bed because that’s what you have to do. You’re grabbing your bag like you’re going for a hunt, because there’s really no difference. You don’t know how long you’ll be gone. You don’t know when you’ll come home again.

So you need a bag. 

Your usual one is still filled with clothing from the kelpie hunt. Half dirtied and crumpled shirts and pants, as whichever Winchester packed your bag hadn’t really bothered with being neat.

You understand that.

You’re not really bothering with it either. 

All you need is clothing—you don’t really bother with style, because that doesn’t really fucking matter right now—some toiletries that you don’t trust motels with, a notebook just in case, and your knife.

The knife Dean gave you. Perfectly weighted in your hand, proof that he at least thinks of you, and no better than any other weapon but soothing. Like a baby blanket that can stab someone and always grounds you in something a little stronger than gravity that reminds you of Dean. Silver, sharpened blade glinting in the low light of dawn, already starting to break through the sky. 

You need to go.

You’ll allow yourself one last combing of your dresser for cleaner socks and bras, but if you can’t find any then you’ll just have to trust that wherever Sam and Dean are will have laundry. And that bra’s covered in blood, and those sock stains don’t really look like something you’d want to touch—again—and there’s something shiny at the bottom of the drawer-

That’s not a sock, or a bra.

It’s a ring. Dean’s ring. The one that your brain has never given note, because it’s always seemed like just as much a part of him as his hair or nose or amulet.

And it’s lying at the bottom of your sock and bra drawer.

He wouldn’t have just left it here. You’ve never even seen him take it off, let alone set it down. But there’s no reason to set it down in a dresser. No reason for him to leave it with you-

He’d left you your jacket. He’d kept your jacket, then left it for you to find. The same jacket you’d shrugged on only a second ago, and had understood to be a silent promise that he’d been here. That he wasn’t here now, but he hadn’t just turned to air and vanished into the margins of your life once more. That he was keeping himself written all over you insides in the way he always did, still never grasping how the marks he left over your spine and heart were more like tattoos than stains.

The ring felt like a promise as well. Dean would never just leave it. If it was goodbye, he would’ve just left the jacket.

But he left the ring.

He’d meant to come back.

You don’t have time indulged the sting behind your eyes or the lump in your throat. You shove the ring in your pocket, grab your bag, and go. You’ll call Bobby later, and explain why you’d left in the dead of night and stolen one of his better cars—you can’t afford to worry about breaking down on the side of the road right now—when you’re not choking on your own lungs. When the Darkness doesn’t feel wired, and those fractured pieces in your body aren’t shaking and sparking and neon.

The drive is eight hours. You’d told Sam you’d be there in seven.

You’re pulling into the hospital lot in six.

There’s a long moment where you just sit at the wheel, your hand threatening to strangle the metal and your eyes squeezed shut. You need to move. To climb out of the car and find Sam, because he’d asked for you to be here and you’re just sitting the parking lot. 

But the Darkness doesn’t feel containable. It’s stretched over everything, you’re stretched over everything, and you feel like you’re about to split in two. The engine of the car is exhausted from the strain you put it through. The seat is tired of your taut weight. The pavement of the lot is distressed from wear, and the telephone wires over your head are strained and tensed. 

You drag yourself back together with a firm bite of your hand, and it leaves a mark. You’ll have to keep your hand in your pocket.

Sam has enough to worry about. 

You realize two things when you walk into hospital lobby. First, Sam isn’t expecting you for another forty minutes, so he’s not going to be waiting. You’d probably have to call him.

Second, you won’t need to call him. Because hunched over the front desk, hissing low words in the face of a poor receptionist with pinned-up hair, is John Winchester.

In the blurring numb of everything, you’d forgotten he’d be here. Sam had even mentioned it, but you hadn’t really registered it until this moment, when you’re staring at the man himself. 

You should run. He’s going to kill you. You can make out the shape of a gun tucked in his pants, and he’s going to press it to your temple and fire. You’ll bleed out through your brow, and that will be the end. 

But you don’t move. A force like gravity is trying to move you forward, and all your willpower is put into being rooted in place. Stiller than a statue to that—maybe when John turns and spots you—he’ll think you’re nothing more than an odd decoration. You’re so fucked.

The receptionist sees you first, and her eyes widen in relief, like you’re a savior from whatever John’s been hissing at her. Before you can shake your head or look away—pretending you’re just wandering or pacing, nothing to mind or speak to—she’d opening her mouth.

And you don’t run.

“Do you need any help, ma’am?”

You cringe a little—being called ma’am is weird—and shake your head. “No, I’m- It’s nothing, thank you.”

You’d made your voice soft, and an octave higher than usual. Like some docile creature John would never need to bother glancing at

But he still recognizes you. You can see his back tense and his hands curl into fists on the desk, and when he looks over his shoulder there’s already hatred in his eyes.

You wish you were more certain he wouldn’t actually shoot you in a hospital.

“It’s alright, ma’am, whatever you need I can take care of now.” The receptionist waves you forward with a sweet, almost hopeful smile, and all you can do is wander forward with small steps. “How can I help you?”

“Um…” You swallow, forcing your gaze not to move to John, right at your side. His eyes are searing into your skin, but not in the way Dean’s do. When Dean looks at you it’s like he can see under your skin, and he’s trying to work out what’s inside of you. It’s hot and branding because he seems to be seeing more than what you are. 

John’s gaze is painful. He sees exactly what you are, and he hates it. He hates you. 

“Ma’am-“

“Sorry, I’m-” you clear your throat, forcing your voice to steady. “I just- I’m here for- I-“

Words feel far away. Everything feels far away. All that you’re certain of is that you need to be here, and you have to leave. John won’t let you near Dean. If your brain had been processing things right when Sam called, you would’ve told him no. That John wouldn’t just not want you here, he’d loathe your presence. You’d be putting everyone in danger, because you can feel the exhaustion of the receptionist’s big, blocky computer and the tension of the scrubbed and sterilized walls, and it’s all too much-

When Sam shouts your name, everything doubles. It’s all too much. You’re everything and nothing and you’re going to die and you’ll never see Dean again and that shouldn’t be your biggest worry but you can see him all over this hospital in gold, just like in your room, and it’s all pain-

Big arms wrap around your shoulder, something tugs you forward, and Sam’s hugging you. 

It takes you back down. It’s doesn’t make anything hurt less, and nothing is in the Silver harmony that Dean gives you, but you’re you again. The Darkness is a little more on edge than usual—it is Sam, and that just seems to be something he does—but you’re nothing more than you.

And you take a long breath, and hug Sam back.

“Thank you for coming,” he mutters in your ear, and you just nod. Of course you came. You didn’t really even think about it, you just did, because it’s Dean. 

You don’t know how to not do something for Dean. You only know how to follow him down.

“Yeah.” You whisper. It’s all you can really think to say. “Is he-“

You don’t know how to finish that sentence. Sam seems to understand that.

“It’s-“ He pulls back, giving you a tight, close-lipped smile. “I think it’s better if you see.”

“There’s no chance in hell she’s goin’ in to see Dean.” John snaps from behind you, and you flinch. Visibly flinch, enough for Sam to notice and frown at you. “I don’t even know what the fuckin’ Christ you’re doing here, girl-“

“I called her, Dad.” Sam’s defending you. You’re not sure why. “She deserves to be here. Dean would want her here.”

John’s eyes narrow. “She doesn’t fuckin’ know Dean-“

“Yeah, she does. They’re friends, Dad, and Dean probably never told you because he knew you’d be an asshole about it-“

“Watch yourself, son.” John hisses, and you feel caught in the center of something. You’d like to run. You still can’t. “Dean knows that she,” John points to you. He still hasn’t actually said your name, like you’re nothing more than an object. “Isn’t the sort I want you boys associating with. And he doesn’t lie to me-“

“Apparently, he does.” Sam snaps. “They’re friends dad. We’re friends. I want her here.”

“You don’t know what you want-“

“I’m not seven, Dad. This isn’t a toy we can’t afford. She’s here for Dean, and she’s staying.” Sam raises his chin slightly, and he needs to stop talking. If John keeps pushing he’s going to reveal your relationship with Bobby, and how you and Dean are…whatever you and Dean are, and Dean might get in trouble for associating with your sort.

But your brain is too caught on the idea of John didn’t know. Dean didn’t just keep you separated, he fully lied. To his dad. To stay near you. And you’re Sam’s friend too. That’s two friends.

You’ve never had two friends. 

And your friendship with Dean has always been more complicated. At least to you, it’s been confusing and consuming and a little dangerous. Like it sinks deeper into your body than where a friendship should stop, and you’ve thought about Dean in ways you don’t think friends should think about friends. 

But being Sam’s friend sounds easier. The Darkness may find him to act as an odd, untraceable trigger, but the rest of you likes him. He’s sweet. He wants you here, and you believe him.

It gives you enough of a spark to clear your throat, and meet John’s glare with a neutral, passive gaze. You’re staying. And if John wants you gone, he’ll have to call you what you are—whatever he thinks that is—to your face, where Sam can hear it. 

“Sam’s not lying.” You say, and your voice is stronger than before. You’ve always been in pain anyways. What’s a bullet to the brain on top of your own body tearing itself apart. “Dean’s my friend. I’m not going.”

You’ve never had someone look at you like that. Like they hate everything that you are, with no exception or ideas for your use. It’s unnerving. 

You’ve survived worse.

“You and Dean are friends?” John’s voice is a vile and poisonous sneer. You force yourself not to flinch. “How long you been friends, girl?”

“Years.” You shrug. He doesn’t get the satisfaction of more.

“And she’s staying.” Sam adds, but John barely looks at him. He seems to be trapped in staring at you. 

You think he can see everything inside of you. All the Darkness and pain and torture you inflict on your own body. That he can see exactly where Dean’s marked and shattered and dulled you, and he’s trying to pry those pieces away from you. You can see it all over his face, how he doesn’t think you’d deserve any piece of Dean, even if it was offered and not created or stolen. 

You’re almost certain that, if he could, John would fashion his hatred of you into a blade, and drive it right into your body. Carving out the White so it can never call you to Dean again. 

But he hasn’t killed you yet. So you stand your ground. 

“Only way you’re getting in that room,” he hisses at you. “Is over my goddamn corpse.”

You hum, and nod. “Alright.”

John blinks, and before he can speak again, Sam’s grabbing your shoulder and looking at you with wide eyes.

“But you said-“

“I’m not leaving, Sam.” You give him a small, tight smile. “But I’m not going to fight in a hospital. Are you hungry?”

Sam nods slowly—his expression weary as he looks between you and John—and you loop your arms together

“You know where the cafeteria is?” You ask, and Sam blinks at you.

“I, uh- Yeah.”

“Then let’s go.” You shoot John a flat, passive smile as you walk away, and that’s it. He doesn’t get to see you fall or crumble. He doesn’t get to know that you’re torn between a desperation to find Dean and make sure he’s still real—do whatever you need to in order to fix this—and an overwhelming sense of relief that you don’t need to see Dean yet. 

You can’t really stand the idea of him being in pain. You’re not ready to witnesses it, not when you can remember the horror of all the worst hunts. You’d be too tired to control yourself, if the Darkness got out of hand.

Right now eating lunch with Sam is all you can really do. 

He doesn’t try to talk to you. You walk in silence through blue and white tile halls, Sam pays for two shitty sandwiches, you pay for coffee, and neither of you say a word until you’re sitting on a plastic bench, staring with slightly glazed attention at the cup of off-brand greek yogurt in front of you.

“He gave you back your jacket.” Sam breaks the silence, and when you look up his expression is unreadable.

“I-“ You glance down to your sleeves, and nod. “Yeah. You knew he had it?”

“I saw it in his bag.” Sam shrugs. “He said he kept forgetting to give it back. Glad he remembered.”

You nod slowly, unsure where this is supposed to be going. “Yeah. It’s- yeah.”

There’s another long stretch of silence, and Sam might be the only person you’ve met who chews as loud as Dean. It’s not as obviously obnoxious—with purposeful vulgar sounds and pouted lips that have always been incredibly distracting—but it’s still loud. You think he’s waiting for you to try and make conversation. That’s fair.

“Thank you,” you mumble, poking at the yogurt with your spoon. “For not… for defending me with your dad.”

“Don’t worry about it. Dad’s just… he’s paranoid.” Sam sighs, frowning at his plate. “It’s been a long few weeks.”

“I guessed that.” You mumble, and Sam gives you a tight smile. 

“How’s your stomach?”

“Fine. Bobby patched me up.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

You grimace, and shake your head. “I’m gonna call him tonight.”

Sam nods, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. “It’s- Bobby told us most everything, by the way. So you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Most-“ You clear your throat, forcing your voice to remain even. Bobby had said they’d have questions. You’d been practicing what and what not to tell them. But Sam sounds like he just knows. “What do you mean?”

“That he found you when you were a kid. And that he had to keep you away from everyone, cause of the sick thing.” Sam gives you an odd look. “I’d guess there’s more, though.”

You give a small nod, your voice soft. “Yeah. Kind of.”

And Sam doesn’t push. He just nods, and goes back to his food. 

More long silences, all suddenly scattered with small talk. Your drive was long. Sam read a good book he thinks you’d like. This food is shit, and the coffee is worse. 

Sam misses the coffee at the country club.

You visibly sit up straighter.

“Did-“ Sam glances down at his plate—like he’s debating just taking another bite to shut himself up—then back to you. “Something happened, right? When you went to go get Dean?”

You only stare at him. And as Sam pushes on, his words are slower. 

“It’s- You don’t have to tell me everything. But you vanished, and Dean was freaking out, and you- you know him. He doesn’t freak out.”

He doesn’t. Dean gets angry and bites hard enough to scar over your bones and muscles, but he doesn’t panic. His head is level, until it’s not, and even then there’s a white-hot rationally to it. 

“I’ve tried to ask him,” Sam mumbles. “He doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“I- I don’t really want to talk about it either.” You whisper, giving Sam an apologetic look. You don’t even know how to talk about it. How to explain that nothing is ever more real than Dean, which means that no pain is ever stronger than when he inflicts it, and no anger is ever as loud when he hates you. You say that, you won’t make it obvious that it’s more than an addiction or additional sickness, how you fall into every beautiful and ugly part of Dean, never with any will or desire to drag yourself back up. He’s like a cure that thinks it’s the disease. 

And you’d sound insane if you said that aloud.

“Okay.” Sam lets out a long breath. “Sorry.”

“No- It’s-“ You don’t really want to look at him, so you focus on peeling the skin around your nails as you speak. “We had a fight. That’s it.”

“I kinda worked that out.” Sam says your name, his voice soft. “I just- I’ve never see Dean lose it like that. I think he flipped a boulder.”

You flush slightly. “Oh.”

“You’re good for him, you know.”

You blink up at Sam, shaking your head. “I don’t-“

“I mean, everything’s been insane. And the kelpie hunt was- It was the easiest I’ve seen him, up until the end.”

You just stare at Sam, and he sighs.

“I just think you should hear it, you know? I- I get the feeling Dad’s going to be kind of a dick to you. So I’m saying it now.”

“Okay.” Your voice is quiet, but the small smile you give Sam is real. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Sam returns your smile, his voice somehow more cautious as he continues. “Do- Are you ready? To go see him.”

You’re not. You won’t be. 

But you nod anyway, and walk behind Sam in shuffled steps to clear your trays and leave the cafeteria. 

Your breathing is shallow as you move back through the halls. It’s an effort to keep the Darkness in your body, an effort to let Sam bring you into the room without running away. You don’t want to see this. You want to believe that everything Sam says has been exaggerated, that you’ll walk through the chipped-paint blue door and Dean will be sitting up in his bed, shifting through the channels on the shitty hospital TV. That he’ll see you and say hey, Princess, didn’t think Sammy would be able to get a hold of you. That he’d wink at you or yell at you or tease you.

That he’d do anything but what’s so painfully and obviously before you.

Nothing.

He’s just lying there. He’s been stripped of whatever he was wearing during the attack, but damage isn’t just tattered and dirtied clothing in a pile on a chair. It’s bruises and gashes and swollen parts of his face, how even as he breathes through a tube it’s not a steady movement. How there are cuts on his knuckles and a line of stitches near his neck.

The White is screaming. It’s rioting inside of you as all you do is stare, and Dean just keeps lying there. Why won’t he move. He’s supposed to move. He’s supposed to be any annoying, bouncing ball of insufferable charm, bumping into you and saying every right and wrong thing every second. But the only sound you can hear is the beep of a machine, and where the White is supposed to be tugging to towards him, it’s tugging you slightly off to the side. 

The Darkness is oddly docile. It seems to be cowering, scratching and clawing at your skin but not trying to break out, just shredding you apart from within. Those fractured pieces are freezing and breaking a little further, and when your legs start to carry you to the side of the bed, you’re too tired to fight them. 

You manage to stop yourself from touching him. You don’t know if he would want you to touch him, and it feels wrong to do it without him knowing.

You wish he’d wake up to tell you, even if the answer was no. Even if he hissed that he wanted you to leave forever, even if he never apologized for your fight and even if said things worse than before, you’d really just like him to wake the fuck up. If he wakes up you can hear his voice, even if it’s laced with hatred. If he calls you a bitch and tells you to go, at least this time you’ll learn to hate him, and it will be justified.

Right now you can’t do anything but stand here and stare, your hand hovering at your side as you keep yourself from running fingers over his face. He’s sweating, and his hair is stiff and muddied, sticking his scalp, and if you ran your fingers through it maybe he’d let out one easy breath.

You don’t know why he would.

But the White is convinced that it’s what you need to do. And you can’t, you have to reign it in and keep it together, just for Dean’s sake, because he wouldn’t want you to-

Something grabs your hand and moves it forward, and before you can yank it back your nails are scraping Dean’s scalp with a feather-light touch, and there’s mud on your hands as you comb through Dean’s hair. It’s still soft, just wet and dried with something you know is dirt and another, darker thing you can’t bring yourself to say aloud.

You should pull your hand away. You can’t. It’s like a force really and truly outside of your control—not the White or the Darkness—is moving it for you, and whenever you try to move back it holds you here.

The White still isn’t calling you further down into Dean’s sleeping body. It’s trying to make you fall back into nothing but air.

And when you hear John clear his throat in the doorway, you still don’t move. 

“Sammy, I told ya-“

“Dad, you make her leave, I leave.” Sam says from behind you, and there’s a long silence as John weighs his words.

You’re not sure what you did to earn Sam’s loyalty. 

You’ll never be able to thank him enough for it.

When you finally drag your gaze away from Dean’s beaten face—your hand still held delicately on his head—John’s sitting in one of the hospital chairs. Holding a paper cup of coffee and glaring at you like he’d like to hack off your arm for daring to touch his son.

If you respected him more, you’d explain that you can’t stop touching him. The invisible force won’t allow it.

“You look like fuckin’ shit,” John grunts your name, scanning over you with a scowl. “You ever sleep when you’re runnin’ around, invading proper hunter’s work?”

“No.” You shrug, turning a little bit of Dean’s hair between your fingers. You could swear he makes a small sound of content. “Usually I don’t sleep because I’m doing proper hunters jobs for them.”

John’s eyes narrow, and Sam’s voice is nervous as he pipes up.

“Dean mentioned you guys went after a demon together, before the one in Colorado-“

John shoots Sam a sharp look. “What demon in Colorado-“

“Not him, Dad. I exorcised this one.”

You look between Sam and John with a frown. “Him?”

“The demon that killed our mom-“

“Samuel.” John hisses. “I don’t want you poking her into our fuckin’ business-“

The force on your hand tightens, and you raise your chin slightly. 

“I’m not going to do or say anything.” You snap. You could say you already knew, but you don’t want to. Not when you think the backlash would fall on Dean. “And you don’t have to tell me-“

“We figured out a way to kill it.” Sam pushes on, ignoring John’s glare. “Have you heard of Samuel Colt?”

“Samuel Winchester-“

“Yeah.” You nod. “I’ve read about him.”

“He made a weapon that kills demons.” Sam says, looking back to John’s furious expression. “Dad, can you-“

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’-“

“She could help.” Sam’s voice is almost pleading. “Please, Dad, she’s a really good hunter-“

John lets out a loud, dry laugh, and it twists in your stomach. “Sammy, I don’t know how you’ve forgotten-“

“About my family?” You cut in, raising your brows and holding John’s shocked expression. “The one you figured me out with?”

“I did figure you out,” John sneers. “You’re nothing more than a spoiled brat, raised by a bunch of soft fuckin’ pussies-“

It’s your turn to laugh. “The same soft pussies who gave me this?” You raise your palm, your other hand remaining on Dean’s brow. “The one’s I haven’t seen since I was eight years old?”

John tenses, and you give him a sickly sweet smile, your voice growing cold.

“You don’t know me, John Winchester. You don’t know who I am.” You raise your chin, holding his gaze. “Don’t think for one second that you’ve figured me out.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and it’s like stone around your lungs. You’re almost sure that John is going to lunge out of his seat as rip your theory out, or stab you, or just shoot you and get it over with, because he may not have you figured out, but you remember his warning from the poltergeist. You haven’t forgotten that he knows you’re… whatever you are, and he well within his right to hate that-

“Show her the Colt, Dad.” Sam breaks the silence, his voice soft. “For Dean.”

John scowls, but reaches behind his body and pulls out a thin, well-detailed revolver, placing on the side table with careful hands.

You blink at it. “It’s a gun.”

“No shit, girl-“

“Dad.” Sam mumbles. “Please.”

John lets out a long, slow breath. “It’s a demon killin’ gun.” He mutters, his words pushed through his teeth. “And it’s fuckin’ ours, so don’t you even think about trying to take it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you drawl, ignoring John’s glare as you scan over the gun.

You wouldn’t dream of it. You don’t need a gun to kill a demon, that something your body seems to be able to do all on its own. That could be another women of the high thing. It could just be a you thing.

Because you still don’t feel fully human. And usually the Darkness balks and roars at threats. Lashing and spreading when there’s a monster that could hurt Dean on a hunt, when someone says something that it perceives as a threat, whenever John Winchester walks into a room.

It has no interest in this gun. It’s a gun, in John Winchester’s hands, and it feels like nothing more, and nothing less.

You’d like to hold it, to study it, but your hand is still trapped against Dean.

And you certain John wouldn’t take too kindly to you crossing the room and trying to pick it up. So you remain where you are, and only hum.

“Okay.”

You’re getting really sick of all these long silences. Sam keeps trying to make more small talk—and he hasn’t gotten better at it the last hour—as John refuses to acknowledge you any further, and you just stay next to Dean. You think the sky could fall and the earth could shake and you still wouldn’t be able to move. Not as that invisible force keeps you there, and you can’t feel anything wrong with it. It’s almost calming. Almost natural, keeping you where you’re supposed to be in spite of any fear or feral instinct to run from where John Winchester could decide that Sam’s pleading isn’t enough, and make good on his promise all those years ago.

But he never does. Eventually John—after a long, strange moment of just staring at Dean’s body—excuses himself with a mutter. 

Sam gives you an odd look and shrugs it off, saying he’s going to get some more coffee, because you could all use it. 

And you’re left alone with Dean. Dean’s body. Not Dean himself. 

Dean would smile and tease and joke with you. Dean would be shoving away your hand with a grumble of I’m not a freakin’ dog, Princess, before teasing you about petting him at all.

Right now he’s just a shell. And it’s horrible. It’s mold in your body and over your eyes, and you don’t want to look at him but you can’t look away.

You pull his ring out of your jacket and place it on the side-table. It’s his. He deserves to have it back.

And when you swallow, you know this might be your only chance to tell him something, even if no one but you hears it. You have to tell him something.

“Dean- I-“ You’re choking on nothing. You have to be able to push through this. “I- Stop. Stop sleeping.” 

He’s not sleeping. You know he’s not sleeping.

You can’t find it in you to say the truth.

“Just- Stop.” You take a shaking breath, bowing your head to stare at your hand, still tangled in his hair. “Please.”

Something feels like it’s squeezing your hand, a warm wind ghosting over your knuckles, and then the force is gone. 

You move your hand away slowly, like you’re not sure you’re allowed to. And when you look at your palm, it’s tainted in gold.

In Dean.

Your head shoots up, your mouth opening to call his name, but the door swings open. 

You stare at John Winchester. He stares at you.

“What-“

“Need that.” He grunts, pointing to the Colt, still on the table. “Shouldn’t have left it here with you.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, clearly a terrible choice, given it’s still here.”

John just scowls, grabbing the Colt and tucking it back into his pants. “Stay here until Sammy gets back, and have him call me if Dean starts to move. Got it?”

“Where are you going?”

“Not your-“

“And before you refuse to tell me,” you snap, standing a little taller. “Remember that I am not your kid, and I have no reason to do what you tell me to.”

John’s jaw ticks. “It ain’t telling you, girl, that’s-“

“An order?” You raise your brows. “I don’t take your orders. Where are you going.”

John scans over you with a scowl, his voice low when he answers, like he hopes you just won’t hear him. “I’m fixin’ this. Stay here.”

“Fixing-“ You pause, glancing at the gun. At the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket, right next to a stick of chalk. You can’t read the paper. 

You recognize one of the symbols on it. You’d seen it just a few days ago, pouring over a book in Bobby’s kitchen.

“How?”

“Don’t worry about it-“

“I can help.”

John scoff. “I don’t need your help, girly-“

“John.” Your voice is flat, but it’s all you can bother with right now. “I know what you’re doing. And you don’t have to do it like that.”

You nod to his pocket, to the demon summoning ritual printed on torn paper, and his eyes narrow. 

“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re getting at-“

“I can help.” You repeat. You will help. You don’t know what John’s plan is, but you know that if Dean doesn’t stop sleeping, you’ll… 

You don’t know. All you do know is that the pain is drowning you, you’ll to anything to make it stop, and everything in you wants Dean. It’s all washed out and colorless without him. 

And you can help.

“He’ll come for me.” You rub your thumb over your palm, shrugging like what you’re saying is nothing at all. “Demons always do.”

You don’t know exactly what about your words convinces John, but you don’t really care all that much. Because he glances at Dean, looks back to you, and nods.

And you follow him into the boiler room, hugging your body like you can hold the Darkness in your body as it starts to stretch once more. 

John says the demon’s name is Azazel. It’s a proper demon name.

It makes everything too big. 

And when you say it, when you call for him, you know why you hate the word before he even appears. It tastes like as, and the world goes gray, and this was a mistake.

But it’s too late to run now.

Azazel smiles at you like he has before. It would never matter what body he was occupying, you’d always recognize that smile. It creeped over your skin and haunted your nightmares, the same way Dean’s winning smile followed you into every dream.

The shade of yellow in his eyes is sickly. You’ve only seen it from afar, twisting and rotting in body.

It’s worse up close.

“Hello,” He says your name, and it might be the worst sound you’ve ever heard. “Pleasure seeing you here. Wish I could say I’d been knocked out of my boots, but,” he sighs, clicking his tongue, nod it almost sounds like he’s disappointed in you. “I seen you with the smaller one? Bigger one?” He laughs. You’re going to vomit. “The one that’s wasting away as we chat. Dean.”

“Stop talking to her.” John grunts. “She’s just the caller, you’re here for me.”

Azazel attention flicks away from you, and his grin grows. “Well, if it isn’t old Johnny Winchester. Didn’t think I’d ever see you two pairin’ up. She’s a little above your pay grade, don’t you think-“

“She’s just a girl-“

Azazel laughs at that. You can’t really remember how to speak.

“Just a girl?” He cackles again, and the Darkness feels like it’s going to shred you apart, staring in your lungs and ripping up your spine. “Oh, you have no idea. We’ve been watching you, darling, and you are so much more than you let on. More than any spirit or monster, more than sweet Sammy Winchester and the others, more than me.”

You blink at him, your voice hoarse. “I don’t- Sam’s-“

“Oh, he’s a little more than he seems as well. John knows what I’m talkin’ about, ain’t that right?”

John expression is firm. Unreadable. 

The room is sort of spinning.

“That’s not her business.” John says, and Azazel laughs again. You wished he’d stop.

“Oh, it’s more than her business. Do you really know, John? The grand hunter himself having damnation right under his nose, not able to sniff it out.”

You swallow. “I- I’m not- damnation-“

Azazel shrugs. “That’s fair, you haven’t quite hit that milestone yet. And you could be salvation, but I don’t you will be. You seem to like the pain too much, don’t you.”

John looks between you and Azazel with a frown. “She’s nothin’, and this isn’t-“

“Wrong, Johnny! She’s everything.” Azazel shoots you a wink. “Might end up more, if she lets herself. But she’s a righteous little witch-“

You pray John heard it as bitch. 

You’re not that lucky.

“She’s a what.” 

You thought he’d know. But he’s shaking his head like he doesn’t believe it, and you realize that he didn’t. That he’d only hated you, not what you are.

But he certainly knows now. He’s walking away from you, looking at you like you’re a bomb set to go off any moment. It’s terrifying, and you can’t worry about it right now. Azazel’s wasting time.

Time Dean doesn’t have.

“She’s an obstacle,” Azazel sneers. “Smart, pretty thing. Got Dean wrapped around that finger of hers-“

“She doesn’t have Dean-“

John’s snap is cut off by Azazel’s shrug.

“Not now. But that’s just cause the boy is dying, and nobody’s got him. Nobody but you, John. You’ve always got your sons, always keeping them nice and safe, comfy and hidden from the truth-“

“I’m protecting them.” John grunts. If you weren’t falling and burning from the inside, you’d press about what the fuck the truth is. “And we both know what we’re building up to-“

Azazel sighs. “Well, I was hopin’ you’d try to kill her.” You must visibly go pallid, because he waves you off with a hand. “Don’t worry, darling. John’s gonna take care of Dean first, then deal with you. For now, we’re gonna cut to the chase. I can save Dean, but I don’t just want that gun in your pocket.”

John’s eyes narrow. “What-“

“I want you, John. Damned down in hell, like you shoulda been long ago. Gimme you and the gun, and Dean wakes up like nothin’ ever happened.”

“I want to see him. Make sure you follow through.” John holds Azazel’s gaze, and the demon shrugs.

“Seems fair. We got a-“

“And.” John jerks his head to you, and the Darkness recoils and explodes. Still trapped in your body. “I want her gone.”

Azazel sighs. “That might be a little outside my jurisdiction, I’m afraid-“

“Demons don’t got jurisdictions-“

“With her?” Azazel laughs. You wish you could remember how to scream or speak or move. “We all got jurisdiction. But,” he raises his brows. “I can kill everyone she cares about and make her life worse than hell, if she gets near your boys again. Deal?”

John doesn’t hesitate. He nods, shakes Azazel’s hand, and that’s it.

You don’t get to scream or protest or fight or explode. Your fate is sealed and it’s out of your hands. John doesn’t look at you as he leaves you in the boiler room, Azazel smirks at you again before he evacuates his vessel, and it’s… over.

You won’t get to say goodbye. You don’t doubt Azazel’s promise—if you go near Sam and Dean again, Bobby will probably die and you’ll live a life worse than hell–and you can’t fix this. You won’t even get to say goodbye.

But Dean will be okay. Azazel will heal him, and he’ll be broken by John’s death but that’s not your problem, because you have to go.

And you’ll have to get through this. Alone. 

You will get through this. You’d say you’ve gotten through worse, but if it really does feel like this is something a little lower than low, and that can’t matter.

You’ll get through it. You have to get through it. You always get through it, and you don’t have any other choice.

And then color burst along your vision and over the White, and there’s silver harmony in everything, and Dean’s okay.

But you still don’t get to stick around. You’ll never get to shout at him for almost dying, or fight about how you did the same to him only two weeks ago. You won’t get to know what the gold is. You won’t get an apology, or another chance to try and hate him. You’ll have to learn what you are alone. You’ll tell Bobby you’re searching for a cure—one that isn’t Dean, even if you can’t really imagine there being anything else that could even compare—and you’ll figure out how to not be damnation. 

You don’t really want to be salvation either.

But you’ll have to learn how to be nothing more than you, alone.

And those pieces Dean left over your body aren’t shattering, or eroding, but freezing. It feels like a stasis. Permanent light trapped in your body, gravity calling you back to Dean’s side that you can fight against because you still have that iridescent light lining everything inside of you.

You don’t get to say goodbye.

But you’ll get through this. 

You always do.

End Note: John Winchester you should be glad you’re dead and also not real or I’d kill you with my bare hands for what you did to my husband. Also I’m SORRY but you have to TRUST I’m doing something!!! I’m cooking!! 

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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[httpuckdrop]

ashes – day 122

falling back into a routine with jack was easier than you had expected.

you'd spend the nights at his place, or he would spend them at yours, without feeling like much had changed. if you couldn't fall asleep in each other's arms, then at least you could facetime until sleep took over. and now that you have heard from him every day, you can't fathom how you could have ever ignored him.

it wasn't completely as if nothing had happened; you were a bit more on edge, and your mind had a habit of flickering back to your argument those weeks ago. but instead of letting it consume you, you tried your best to move past it, to accept the fact that it happened, but also understand the fact that it didn't have to mean too much. that you can both grow stronger from it, instead of let it break you down.

it was difficult at first, though. jack's concussion was still present in the room whenever you met with him, despite the fact that he assured you that he was feeling much better. he wasn't allowed to get back on the ice just yet – that's how severe it had been – but he was definitely improving. you knew he still had headaches, even though he tried to tell you that they were completely gone, plus he was a little bit slower and had a harder time multitasking than usual.

this, combined with the fact that he already couldn't cook before his injury, was not exactly a recipe for success for your date tonight.

you were supposed to cook the same dish as the first time he made dinner for you, but this time, he would not allow you to interfere. he had invited you over on the premise that you'd do it together, so how did this make sense? whenever you even came close to the stove, he shooed you away, insisting that he could do it himself.

he definitely couldn't.

when you had sat on his couch for far too long – after eventually being exiled from the kitchen – you began to smell something… that definitely wasn't part of the pasta dish he was making. it smelled burnt, and you no longer could stay away.

but when you made it into the kitchen, jack was moving all over the place, not even noticing your presence. he was trying to handle one pot of spaghetti (currently boiling over) and one pan of bacon (which seemed like it was done frying about five minutes ago) – but you stopped yourself from interfering when you realized that his focus was shared with yet another thing.

"sorry, mom," he groaned into the phone he was balancing between his shoulder and ear. "i'm a bit distracted- trying to cook some dinner."

he grabbed a spatula and flipped some of the bacon onto a plate. yup, definitely burnt.

"ha ha, the whole my son can't cook deal is getting boring. i can cook if i want to." a pause. "well, maybe i want to because i want to do a nice thing for a girl. is that too much to ask?"

your breath hitched in your throat.

"yes, we're back together again. kind of, i guess." he was talking to his mother about you? so casually? "she's good, i'm good, we're good. can i call you back later? yes, my head is okay- no, i'm going back to practice on monday. yes, i'll be careful. i love you but i have to focus on cooking, okay? okay, bye."

he let out a loud groan the second he hung up the phone, clearly dissatisfied with the chaos in front of him. it wasn't until your stifled laughter met his ears that he turned around and acknowledged your presence. "dinner coming along nicely?" you asked, feeling guilty when you spotted the disappointed and frankly shameful look in his eyes.

"i'm sorry," he mumbled as he turned the stove off, hand reaching out for your side when you stepped closer. "i really thought i would do better this time…"

"it's alright," you hummed, one hand reaching for the back of his neck. "you can't be the best at everything. it's sweet of you to leave something for the rest of us."

your lips met in a sweet kiss, one you never wanted to part from. one that made you question how you could ever go weeks without feeling his lips against yours. one that made your heart swell in a clearly uncomfortable, yet warming way.

"i'll order some pizza?" you asked, to which he pouted ever so cutely yet nodded.

every second you spent with him, you were forced to remind yourself of how you couldn't allow yourself to fall too deep.

and yet, with everything he did, he made you want it so badly.

[thatonegreyghost]

Jayce is a sap. But everybody knows that. It's not a shock to see Jayce getting flowers and chocolates during the week leading up to St. Valentine's feast day, but no one questions it much. Jayce is a handsome man, it makes sense that he'd be picking up some nice wine and scented candles and massage oil. The ladies giggle and gossip, wondering and whispering about who his "secret" lover could be. Everybody talks about how lucky that person must be, to be spoiled by the genius who changed Piltover.

No one expects Viktor to be a sap.

He's snippy and irritable, sarcastic and sharp, short-tempered and cold-hearted. So the first year Jayce is spotted buying chocolates, everyone is shocked to see Viktor in the corner of the shop, tucking a rather pricey box under his arm before he picks out a stunning bouquet. and again the next year. And the next. Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times a pattern. By the beginning of the fourth year, one of Ximena Talis' friends has enough courage to approach and ask Viktor who he was buying all that for. Viktor laughs in her face, and shuffles off to pay for the flowers he's acquired.

The next year, Viktor is nowhere to be seen, but Jayce is found buying an entire bag of rose petals and a horrendously overpriced bath bomb. This time, it's a jealous young lady asking invasive question about who that's meant for. "It's for my partner!" Jayce replies with a confused smile.

He refuses to elaborate further.

The sixth year, something strange happens. Plenty of talk has been going around already about the boys' strange habits, but when they're spotted at dinner together, at a rather well-known if lower class restaurant, on the day itself, ...well, the rumor mill doesn't spin itself. The story is halfway around the city by noon the next day. For both those young men to lose their partners, at the same time, on Valentine's day no less! It's nothing short of a tragedy.

Mel mentions it in passing, cooing softly about how disappointed Jayce must have felt.

"What are you talking about?" Jayce laughs. "I had dinner with my partner at a restaurant we both love, and then we got to cuddle and listen to a new record together. I had the best night!"

Mel puts two and two together and immediately dismisses the conclusion. It's none of her business anyway.

The next year, Jayce is found at a gala thrown at the Kiramann estate. Viktor is also there, glaring over the edge of a champagne glass any time Jayce is not by his side. As the night wears on, people lose track of Viktor, and then they lose track of Jayce.

It's Caitlyn who finds them on the balcony, tipsy and laughing at each other, Viktor holding a bouquet of stunning Noxian roses in his hand as he cups Jayce's cheek, kissing them slowly.

"What the fuck?" Caitlyn shrieks, because she isn't above swearing when her fucking older brother gets caught kissing his lab partner.

"Cait, some privacy?" Jayce huffs.

"Language." Viktor quips.

"You two are fucking making out!" Caitlyn shouts.

The whole of the gala has stopped to stare out the doors at the commotion. Whispers fly around the room, and the gossips tell their friends about what they can hear from their perfect spot next to the door.

"Cait, will you chill? We weren't doing anything gross, Vik's just not a huge fan of PDA." Jayce protests. "I would still rather be at home. Your mother had to host the stupid gala on Valentine's?" Viktor concurs. "Since when is this a thing?" Caitlyn yelps. "Since, like, 7 years ago? Cait, you were there."

"Honestly, Miss Kiramann. You would think you would know better." The gossips giggle amongst themselves, but more and more young ladies turn away with crestfallen faces. 7 years of romance is nothing to sneeze at, after all, and to think all this time, Jayce Talis has been giving his heart to someone- a man, no less! "You've been dating this whole time?" Caitlyn groans. "Why didn't you say anything?" "Well, um, actually..." "We're married." Viktor laughs. "And we did tell you. You just didn't listen." The gala goes dead silent. All whispers cease, and even the gossips go still. Did he just- there's no way he meant- he couldn't have possibly just said- "MARRIED?" Caitlyn screeches. "See, this is why we didn't tell you." Jayce snarks.

Unplanned Valentine's Day art because I cannot stop drawing them 🥰

[thefirstlioveyou]

Mike's Core Fear - No, it isn't not being needed/loved, and no, he doesn't actually need El to need him

Disclaimer: this is technically a discussion on whether mike's Enneagram is type 6 or 2, but this is can still read as a general analysis on mike's actual driving fear. i've been stumped on which he is because of his whole thing with wanting to be needed by el, but still somehow matching entirely as a type 6. i realized while how it may seem his fear is not being needed... it's not the core fear driving mike's actions. also, i'm still learning about the enneagram. bare with me if i mess up or misunderstand something lol. and please correct me

Mike isn't a Type Two just because he wants to be needed by El. He just doesn't relate to any of the motivations of a Two. He isn't wanting or expecting appreciation for his efforts. He doesn't feel under appreciated. Even though he technically is, that isn't relevant to him here. He doesn't care about that. It's the exact opposite. Mike doesn't feel deserving. He feels like he does nothing. He feels inferior to El.

If he is not a Two, this means at his core, Mike's deepest fear isn't not being loved/needed like we've been thinking. Don't get me wrong, it is one of his wants (I mean.. Who doesn't want to be needed and loved?). It's something he canonically cares about... It's just not for the reason we've been thinking. It's not what he desires the most. It's not what he truly fears.

I think his core fear is something along the lines of abandonment/rejection and being without support/guidance, making him a Type Six.

i can't really articulate my explanation with all the terminology since i'm still learning more and more about enneagram typing. but I will try to make sense in my own way lol.

here are some quick things that show me mike's afraid of abandonment and to be without support/guidance:

- he is constantly losing will and el throughout the show in different ways, affecting him greatly every time. loss is already a consistent theme in his story.

- mike hides the real reason for his bruise from el, avoiding potential rejection or embarrassment. he doesn't want el to see him the way others do and essentially drive her away.

- before meeting will, he claims to have felt so scared and alone because he didn't have any friends and knew no one. fear went away once he did finally meet someone. not a lot of kids express feeling scared and alone with tears on the first day of school. scared, sure!! who isn't? but scared and alone? now that's another thing, especially just for the first day.

- one of his fears is revealed in dustin's book. he is scared of letting down the ones he loves. what happens when you let someone down? you're at risk of losing that person's respect, love, support, etc.

- will's "what if they don't like the truth?" resonates with mike. this is similar to the point above. mike is afraid to el the truth because he doesn't want to disappoint and let her down - he's at risk of losing her entirely.

- when mike tries to reach el in s2 on halloween through the walkie talkie, he talks about having a bad day and wishing she was there. he also reaches out again to her after having a bad dinner with his parents and being forced to donate his toys as a punishment. he doesn't specify that to her, but it becomes clear why he's trying to communicate to her. he's trying to cope with events in his own life.

- during mike's monologue, he admits he doesn't know how to live without el. hmmm.

that all being said... as you can probably tell, there's a specific pattern when it comes to el lol. i think it's safe to say:

mike doesn't need el to need him - he needs her.

why? well it makes perfect sense. el is his shield. she has protected him from the main thing that brought him trouble his whole life - his bullies (and the supernatural)

But, she is also the superhero he feels inferior to, the superhero he wishes he could be.. but instead is lois lane (actually, he feels even less than her).

season 1, el protects mike and saves him in multiple occasions from bullies. he is saved from getting ass beat by troy. he is saved from literal death. she saves the whole group as a whole in multiple occasions from the supernatural and government.

mike calls her a weapon. this is important because the only thing mike's seen her use her powers as defense at that point was to defend him from his bullies and when him and lucas were fighting. interesting huh?

Before we see her save him from bullies, we are introduced to the group's experience with bullying. we get a scene where mike is tripped and ends up with a scab on his chin, which he hides from her until she manages to get the truth out of him. She tells him she understands.

ALL THIS is why he keeps referring back to her powers and putting her on a pedestal. THIS is why he sees himself as lois lane and her as superman. Without her, he has no actual defense or "weapon." Without her, he would've died because of his bullies. He is projecting what he wishes he could be on her.

"You can fly." no?? she can make you fly, mike

This is one of the reasons why the cliff scene is SO important. Mike and Dustin are confronted with their bullies who are looking for revenge. The bullies threaten Mike. If he doesn't jump off the cliff, they will cut off Dustin's baby teeth. Mike is defenseless. He doesn't have powers. He can't fight someone who has a knife. His aim is shit enough. He can't do anything. He has to jump and throw away his life, ultimately letting the bullies win. With true bravery, he steps off the cliff for his friend. Gone. Oh wait. He's saved by a supernatural force. He doesn't actually fall to death - He flies his way back to the surface instead! Winning against the bullies... The bullies running away scared... Except... that was all of El's doings. Not his. She's the one who saved him and Dustin. Not him. She's the one who gets the praise, not him. Why would he? Over someone like that? Mike gets it. He's just as impressed.

Similar thing happens in the sauna test. While Mike is the only one with the courage to stop Billy from choking El, it still isn't enough. He once again has to be saved by her.

Notice how he doesn't even try to defend himself as Troy goes for him. He's still like he is in the sauna when Billy has him trapped.

He doesn't fight back. He may start the fight... But he never can finish it. It's either physically impossible or because of discouragement. But, that doesn't stop Mike from for some reason trying again. Still no good.

And even more to think about: He goes about how he thinks El doesn't need him anymore. But.. when has she even suggested to him that she needs him? Like, actually? He's literally just assuming that.

S1, before the trauma of losing her, he was genuinely just trying to help her because she actually did need help. S2, she's not even there. He's literally desperately trying to reach out to her without even hearing anything back from her. He's the one that needs her, not the other way around. S3, she literally basically says it to his face she doesn't need him. S4, el's actions to mike are closed off. she lied the entire time. it's not like she was begging for his help and for him the whole time?

We only ever see HER saving and protecting Mike, not the other way around. There is nothing for Mike to think she needs him. Therefore... This whole thing is just another case of mike projecting once again. Classic Michael! Also very much a Six thing - Projection of fears and insecurities.

Now that we got the whole Mike and El thing out of the way..

If he is a Two, and if he fears not being needed the most, and to be needed is *the* desire, where does the forced conformity part of his storyline even come from then?

Seeing him as a Six makes the forced conformity bit align far better than if he really is a Two.

Season 2. He is immediately confused by Lucas and Dustin's interest in Max. He doesn't understand their crushes the whole season and ends up pissed as hell by it. He refuses to let her in the Party and rejects her (something a type two would not do). In his eyes, she is ruining the structure of the group. Lucas and Dustin spend more time with her during Halloween and ruins his day, later complaining about it to El briefly on the walkie talkie.

He just can't understand their obsession with this girl. He is behind all of them, he feels.. at least based on the least possibly obvious blocking /s.

He's alone on this. They all agree on this except him. The structure of the group is falling apart due to crushes and girls when he obviously doesn't want them to go to the direction.

But by the end of the season, while sitting alone at the snowball as the rest of his friends dance with someone, this is where he finally decides to give in and join the rest in growing up and focus on girls. Mike doesn't want to be behind and alone, but he can't stop this change. They have to grow up. He chooses to stick to society's rules because that's the most secure way through. That's where his friends are, his source of support and guidance, so that's where he'll be.

He needs El because he needs the strength and protection she gives that he believes he doesn't have himself, which he must learn to conquer. He does not want to be left behind and therefore conforms to fit in with his friends, pushing aside all the things he really actually wants. Despite his overwhelming insecurities, he wants to be the paladin he is in DnD. He wants to lead a structured group to victory. He wants to lead his own life instead of following societal expectations, even if he's alone on it (which he won't be)

Mike is stuck with lots of fears and insecurities and is afraid of being without support or guidance. "I don't know how to live without you" tells you exactly what Mike needs to learn - How to live without someone like El who shields him. He must become a hero himself and must believe it is possible, regardless of what his little negative head tells him. He is meant to be Superman.

Mike is a six. End of the post.

(specifically 6w7 but not the argument here lol)

[nomie-11]

Right Wing - Part 1

masterlist!

synopsis: everything this year should have gone great—your second year as the starting center, your first year as captain—your last season at Boston university should have been amazing, until your new right wing showed up (soulmate au)

pairings: ellie williams x reader (no use of y/n)

All of your friends had something cute tattooed on the inside of their wrists. All of them had something soft, something endearing, that made them excited to meet their soulmate. 

Caitlyn had ‘cupcake’ in a bright red on her left wrist, and Vi had ‘my love’ in a soft, deep blue (and the two of them were soulmates, because duh), but you? You had ‘fuck’ in a deep forest green, too dark to fully cover with any concealer no matter how hard you tried. 

What batshit crazy soulmate did you have? 

You tried to rationalize it a hundred different ways. Maybe your soulmate had a terrible habit of cursing and just… said fuck a lot. Maybe it wasn’t even directed at you—maybe they just had a foul mouth and you just happened to be in the vicinity every time they opened it. 

It was wishful thinking. Everyone else got something sweet, something that made sense, something that didn’t make their parents tense up every time they saw it. Even Abby got something adorable, but you, on the other hand, had been stuck with the eternal mystery of why your one true love couldn’t seem to say anything to you without swearing. 

Still, it wasn’t like you had too much time to dwell on it. Between keeping up with pre-med classes and training for the Boston University Women’s Hockey Team, you had plenty to keep yourself busy with. You were starting your senior year now, already solidified in your spot as starting center and captain, and things were looking up. 

At least, until the first team meeting of the season. 

Your coach had brought in the new recruits, a handful of fresh faces standing near the lockers as the returning players tricked in. You took a seat on the bench, idly tapping your stick as you half-listened to Coach’s rundown—same drill as every year, welcome the new girls, be a team, say hello to your new captain and vice-captain (wave, smile, show all the other girls that you got this), don’t be an asshole, blah, blah, blah. 

Then you heard her. 

Or more accurately, you heard, “For fuck’s sake–” followed by the distinct clang of a hockey stick hitting the metal lockers. 

You turned just in time to see a girl standing there, auburn hair tied messily back, green eyes sharp with frustration as she yanked the laces on her skates like they’d personally offended her. 

“Ah, there she is!” Your coach beamed as she clambered in. “This is Ellie Williams, transfer from University of Vermont. She’s a junior and our new starting right wing. Get used to her.” 

Ellie Williams. The newest right wing. And, apparently, the most pissed-off person in the room. 

“Fucking—stupid—goddamn—” she muttered under her breath, her fingers struggling with the knot before she finally growled and yanked it loose. 

Your wrist burned, your stomach dropped. 

Oh, fuck. 

You looked down at the dark green script on your skin, the very same word that had plagued you for years. Then, slowly, your gaze lifted back to her, your supposed soulmate—still cursing, still scowling, completely unaware that she had just shattered your entire world with nothing but a pissed-off comment about her skates. 

Holy shit. 

You were so screwed. 

—------------------------------

Ellie was impossible. You were convinced of it by the third practice of the season. You were hot on her tail as she closed in on Dina, Caitlyn open and waiting by the net for her pass to get it past Dina, who was entirely too focused on the steadily approaching battering ram of 5’5” Ellie Williams. 

The scrimmage was going well before she had gotten the puck and gotten it into her head that she needed to be the one to score, and you were seething as you approached. 

“Pass the stupid puck!” You barked, skating up behind her. Despite being on the opposing team for this scrimmage, you did want to see improvement in your team as a whole, and that depended on Ellie meshing well into the starting line-up you had already solidified and perfected last year. 

Ellie ignored you, because of course she did. She always did. She had a goddamn problem with listening to anyone, but it seemed as if it was worse when it came to you. 

She weaved past Abby, barely keeping control of the puck as she advanced on the goal. Caitlyn was wide open, her stick tapping against the ice in anticipation. It would have been an easy shot—a guaranteed point. 

But Ellie refused, she always refused. 

And then, in the span of a second, her mistake cost her.

Vi had been waiting, watching, and as Ellie tried to cut inside for a last-second shot, Vi stepped up, her shoulder slamming into Ellie’s chest with brutal precision. Ellie hit the ice hard, her stick skittering away, the puck stolen in one clean motion. 

You skated past her without so much as a glance, catching Vi’s pass and redirecting the play back down to the other end of the rink. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ellie groaned from the ice, shoving herself upright with a wince. “What the hell was that?” 

Vi smirked, adjusting her helmet as she skated backward. “That was defense from someone built like a brick wall, dumbass. Maybe if you passed the puck, you wouldn’t have eaten shit.” 

“Fuck you,” Ellie shot back. 

Vi just winked. “Not my type, sweetheart.” 

The whistle blew, signaling the end of the scrimmage. 

You didn’t even wait for Ellie to get up before you stormed toward the benches, your blood boiling. This wasn’t the first time she had refused to pass, and it wasn’t going to be the last. It wouldn’t matter how many times Abby and Vi managed to knock her down on her ass, you could already tell, she was stubborn, reckless, and completely insufferable. 

“Nice one, Cap,” Dina called as she peeled off her goalie gloves, grinning. “You looked like you wanted to kill her.”

“I do,” you muttered, yanking off your helmet and running a hand through your sweat-damp hair. 

Ellie finally made it to the bench, still rubbing her ribs as she flopped down next to Caitlyn, scowling. “Vi plays like an asshole.” 

“You play like an idiot,” you shot back, not even looking at her. “If you had just passed the puck, you wouldn't have gotten laid out.” 

“Oh, my bad Captain Perfect,” Ellie sneered. “I didn’t realize we were running drills for the peewee league.” 

You turned then, your jaw tight. “We’re a team, Williams. Not a one-man show. If you can’t figure that out, you’re useless to us, and I’m benching you.” 

Ellie’s glare darkened, her hands clenched into fists over her pads. The locker room was quiet now, everyone else watching the two of you with varying degrees of amusement and concern. 

Finally, she let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah? Well, at least I don’t sound like a broken record.” 

You scoffed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

Ellie leaned back, tilting her head at you. “Pass the stupid puck, pass the stupid puck,” she mimicked in an exaggerated voice. “Fuck, you ever say anything else?” 

Your stomach twisted, your wrist burned, because of course she would say it. Because that was the word. 

Ellie didn’t know. She had no idea. And you were starting to think maybe she never would. 

“Jesus christ, just shut up,” you snapped, shoving your gear into your bag before standing. “Don’t test Vi or Abby next time, listen to the call, and pass the puck. Or don’t, I will not hesitate to bench you for the rest of the season.” 

Ellie just smirked, eyes flickering down to where you pressed your hand against the sleeve that covered the tattoo on your wrist. “Yeah, sure, Captain Perfect.” 

You were ready to strangle a bitch. 

—------------------------------

You were already regretting your decision to let Ellie join the team’s late-night study session. 

The dorm common room was dimly lit, the overhead fluorescent lights of the student athlete housing casting a dull glow over the cluster of books, notebooks, and laptops strewn across the floor and coffee table. It smelled like stale coffee and the remnants of whatever takeout Abby had picked up earlier. Every had settled into their usual spots–Caitlyn cross-legged on the couch, neatly organizing her color-coded criminology notes; Vi leaning back with her arm draped of Caitlyn’s waist, flipping through an anatomy textbook like it personally offended her; Abby hunched over her laptop in the armchair, typing what had to the the world’s most aggressive essay on east asian monks; and Dina curled up with her tablet, half-studying early childhood education, half-watching some dumb sitcom with the volume so low it was barely a murmur. 

And then there was Ellie. 

Ellie, who had taken over the floor, stretched out across the rug with her hockey stick balanced across her shoulders like she was waiting for practice to start instead of actually studying. She didn’t even have a book in front of her—just a ratty black sketchbook, which ske kept flipping over and tapping at with her pen in boredom. Every few minutes, she would sigh dramatically, shift positions, or—worst of all—start spinning her pen between her fingers like a baton. 

You gritted your teeth, eyes scanning the physiology textbook in your lap as you tried to stay focused. 

A moment of silence. 

Then: tap, tap, tap. 

You inhaled slowly. Another pause. 

Tap tap tap tap tap. 

You slammed your book shut, looking up. “Ellie, if you don’t stop, I swear to God—”

Ellie blinked up at you innocently, shifting her grip on her stick. “What? I’m not doing anything.” 

“You’re tapping.” 

She shrugged. “Didn’t know tapping was a crime.”

“It is now,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “Either sit still or go back to your dorm.” 

Ellie smirked, tilting her head as she propped herself up on her elbows. “Why? Am I distracting you?” 

“No. You’re annoying me.” 

Vi, who had been watching this exchange like it was the most entertaining thing in the world, let out a low laugh. “Ellie, I think you should take this win. That’s like the most words Cap’s said to you outside of screaming at you on the ice.” 

Your ears burned, and you scowled at Vi. “I don’t scream—”

“You definitely scream,” Abby muttered from across the room, not even looking up from her laptop. 

Dina snorted, adjusting her (old lady) reading glasses as she smirked at you. “Yeah, I think you’ve told Ellie to pass the stupid puck at least a hundred times today alone.” 

Ellie grinned, her green eyes gleaming with mischief. “Kinda cute, honestly.” 

Your stomach did something you definitely didn’t like. You immediately buried it under a wave of irritation, refusing to let yourself react. 

“If you actually studied,” you said through gritted teeth, “maybe you wouldn’t be failing chemistry.”

Ellie gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand to her chest. “Wow, Captain Perfect, you’ve actually been paying attention to me.” 

You wanted to throttle her.

“I pay attention to all my teammates,” you said flatly, flipping your textbook open again. “That’s my job.” 

Ellie hummed, rolling onto her side, facing you. “Y’know,” she mused, tapping her fingers idly against her knee, “for someone who’s always telling me to use my team, you sure don’t let anyone close.” 

The words sent a sharp jolt through your chest, and you hated how much they hit home. 

You stiffened, your grip tightening on the highlighter in your hand. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Ellie shrugged. “You keep everyone around you at arm’s length. You’re the captain, and these girls are all your best friends, but how much do they really know about you? You don’t make jokes about yourself, you deflect every time someone asks you about anything remotely personal, you’re always first to shut someone up and the last to let anyone see you slip up. Kinda weird for someone who’s supposed to be all about teamwork, don’t you think?” 

Your pulse pounded in your ears. 

She didn’t know. She couldn’t know.

You had spent years perfecting this distance, keeping people at just the right length to avoid anything too personal, too close—to dangerous. Despite the attachment you had formed to your core four teammates, if any of them figured out why you kept your sleeves pulled down, why you flinched just slightly whenever Ellie muttered a frustrated fuck under her breath, the whole team dynamic would crumble. 

Because if anyone found out the truth—that the words permanently inked on your wrist, the words you would hear most often from your soulmate, were the same ones Ellie Williams spat out every other second—

You didn’t even want to think about it. 

So you didn’t. 

You pushed it down, locked it away, and forced yourself to keep your expression unreadable as you turned back to your textbook. “Focus on the playbook, Williams.” 

Ellie watched you for a long moment, her smirk fading into something more thoughtful, more curious. It made your skin prickle, like she was seeing something you hadn’t meant to let slip. 

Finally, she let out a low breath, shaking her head. 

“You’re hiding something.” 

Your stomach twisted. “What?’ 

She turned her head slightly, eyes sharp. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Her gaze flickered down—to your wrist, still covered with tape. 

Your pulse spiked. 

Ellie tilted her head. “You always wear that.” 

You shrugged. “Old injury.”

She didn’t look convinced. “Whatever you say, Captain Perfect.” 

And just like that, the moment passed. 

Ellie went back to fidgeting, Caitlyn returned to her notes, and the others resumed their work as if nothing had happened. 

But you felt it. 

The way your wrists burned just a little hotter, the ink a little darker than before. 

It was like fire on ice, and deep down, you knew that you were melting. 

This is the first part of a multi-part series!

If you enjoyed this, please check out my other series!

[marauder-misprint]

A regular thing

Sirius Black x fem!Slytherin!reader

series masterlist

2.6k words

cw: fluff

When you exit the broom closet, both of your clothes are disheveled. Sirius has a pleased grin on his face.

“So, is this going to be a regular thing or…?” Sirius asked.

You rolled your eyes as you fixed your uniform. 

“Take me out and we can decide later,” you said firmly.

You reached out and fixed his tie for him.

“Hey! Maybe I liked the ruffed up look!” he protested.

“Just not.. Too ruffed up..”

You finished adjusting your own clothes before leaving Sirius behind. You had no clue when this date would be, but that would just be a reason to talk to him later. All you could do right now is hope that no one saw you two go into the closet together, or worse, leave it. You weren’t displeased with what went down. You just weren’t sure you were ready for the whole castle to know.

‘Those boys will make your life complicated.’ 

Beatrice’s words echoed in your mind as you walked back to the Slytherin Dungeons. How do you explain to someone you’re barely on speaking terms with, someone who somewhat counts as your ex, that you snogged their brother in a broom closet and were going to go on a date with him? That was the most complicated part. 

The other complicated part was fully convincing yourself that you liked Sirius. He was just so damn magnetic and certainly understood you better than his brother did. It was most definitely going to be the talk of the common room whenever this date happened. So many things told you that you shouldn’t like him, and yet, you did. You kept wearing the ring, knowing Sirius would see it. You’d be dumb to not see Sirius wearing his. You knew he was wearing it to get to you, to get under your skin, to have an excuse to talk to you, and you liked that. It was a private grand gesture, if those could exist. 

“Girl, do you brush your hair?” Dorcas asked when you entered your dorm.

“Yes?” you replied, turning to look in the mirror and groaning. 

Sirius. It was the consequences of your actions. You reached for your brush to fix the mess upon your head. 

“Definitely was brushed earlier,” Pandora muses. “Before Defense class, even.”

“Rosier,” you warned. 

“Didn’t say nothing,” she said, smiling at you in the reflection of the mirror.

“Oh?” Dorcas said, her interest piqued. “Something you want to share?” She turned her attention to Pandora. “Has she moved on from mystery Ministry boy?”

Pandora gave you a wicked grin as she said, “More like made a move on Ministry boy.”

Dorcas sprung up and grabbed your shoulders. Your eyes were wide, hers narrowed.

“Thought you said we didn’t know him. How can we not know him if he goes here?” 

You sent a quick glare at Pandora. At least it’s only those two in the dorm. You really didn’t want to share all of your secrets with Beatrice right now; you knew she’d be the worst one to break the news to. 

“I… may have lied… while I figured shit out.”

“And you’ve figured shit out?”

You nodded.

“Then spill. Who. is. he?” 

“Sirius.”

“Black?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Dorcas gasped, releasing your shoulders. “Godric, you’re fucked.”

“Yeah. I know. That’s why I didn't tell anyone,” you said with a sigh. “Well, Cora knew. And obviously, Pandora knows and can’t keep her damn mouth shut.”

“And now everyone but Bea knows!” Pandora said cheerfully. 

“Don’t sound so happy about that!” you groaned. “She cares the most about blood status and the possibility of me dating a so-called blood traitor? She’ll make being in this dorm insufferable!”

“I mean, she’s tolerated me ‘n’ McKinnon,” Dorcas said, sitting down on her bed yet still watching you as you leaned against your bedpost. 

“It’s only your first strike. This is my second. And if our date goes well…”

“You are going on a date?” Pandora asked excitedly. 

“We’re going to, yeah. Makes sense given… everything,” you said, flourishing your hand in front of your chest.

“Fill me in, darling. What’s this everything?” Dorcas asked.

“Besides kissing at the party, there’s been some flirting and now, um, like just now, we made out in a broom closet.”

“Which is why her hair was a mess,” Pandora added. 

“Rosier!” you exclaimed, making her laugh. “But, yeah. That’s why. He’s just so… infuriatingly magnetic? It’s like I’m drawn to him ever since he’s really crossed my path. We danced at the party and he’s a lot, but it’s a good lot. If that makes any goddamn sense.”

You let out another groan. You fell backwards onto your bed. 

‘Those boys will make your life complicated.’

Well, one of them would because you honestly feared what Beatrice would say and do when she found out. 

“You’ll keep it under wraps until after the date and we know if it’s going anywhere, yeah?”

The two girls hummed in agreement before Dorcas said, “Beatrice won’t hear from us.”

---

You swore Sirius was looking at you more than normal; you, however, only knew that because you were looking at him more than normal. You kept making eye contact and you couldn’t prevent yourself from blushing at his smile. The way his friends acted told you that they were very aware of what transpired in the broom closet. 

You wanted to talk to Sirius about the date that you were going to go on. You needed to know when, where, what, the details. If you could kiss a boy, you should be able to talk to him. 

Right? That logic made sense? 

Every time you thought you could approach him or you saw him approaching you, Beatrice was around or all of his friends were surrounding him. If it was his friends, you chickened out. If it was Beatrice, you made yourself scarce so that she wouldn’t see or hear anything. It was a frustrating scenario, but it was life. 

Then you were walking with Dorcas to Charms when someone pulled you into a broom closet. 

“It’s me,” Sirius’ voice said.

It was pitch black in the closet so you couldn’t even make out his outline. He was just a voice you could hear and a body you could feel pressed against yours in the cramped space.

“I said we could decide if this was going to be a regular thing after our date,” you hissed.

“Yeah, well, it’s hard to figure out when that’s happening when you disappear every time I try to talk to you about it.” 

“Because you keep trying to talk to me when I’m around Beatrice.”

“So?” 

“I haven't told her about this.”

“So?” 

“Salazar, Black, have you met her? She thinks you’re a blood traitor?”

“Again, so? My own brother thinks that of me.”

You threw your head back in a groan, hitting your head against the shelf behind you and making you groan loader.

“If you keep that up, someone will hear you,” he whispered with an entertained tone. 

“Until we know if this is going to be a thing, you don’t talk to me around her,” you told him firmly. 

“Right, why we’re in here. Our date.”

“Yes. Um, when are we-”

“Are you doing anything after classes tomorrow?”

“Homework?” 

“Great, you can do that later. Now, library or quidditch pitch?” 

“What? Black, you are not getting me on a broom.” 

“No brooms. I promise. Only thing you might be riding is this di-”

You smacked him upside the head. 

“Jokes! I joke!”

“Library. I’m not going outside when it’s cold as shit,” you said, not appreciating his joke. “You certainly know how to ruin a moment.” 

“Can’t a guy make a joke?” 

“Can’t a guy be tolerable for more than a minute?” 

“You’re the one who led me into the first closet, remember?” 

“You’re the one who told me to think about you!”

“You’re the one who listened.” He paused. “And then shoved me for calling you a good girl.” 

“Why are you so infuriating?” 

“Because you like it.”

“I do not like-”

You didn’t get to finish your sentence because Sirius pressed his lips against yours. As soon as he did, you knew that you would both be late to Charms. Very late. When he left you to compose yourself in the broom closet, he told you to meet him in the library after dinner tomorrow and to not eat dessert. 

Rather than walking into Charms after Sirius and extremely late, you decided to skip it entirely. You would freshen up in your dorm and meet your friends in the next class. You told them that you weren’t feeling well and ignored the knowing look that Dorcas gave you. She whispered something into Pandora's ear and suddenly she was giving you the same knowing look. There were only so many people in the castle who would pull you into a broom closet and make you miss an entire lesson, one of such people having shown up to Charms late. 

---

From what you could tell, Dorcas and Pandora kept their word of not telling Beatrice anything. You hadn’t had a moment alone with Cora so while she knew that Sirius was the Ministry boy, that’s all she knew. 

At dinner the next day, you tried your best to not look over at the Gryffindor table every other minute. You knew Sirius was over there, probably talking about whatever he had planned. You didn’t tell any of your friends about the few details you knew. The less they knew, the better. You would tell them about it eventually. You had debated bringing your books to dinner with the excuse of going to the library to study after, but if you had, you’d risk one of the girls saying they’d come study with you. So you decided that you’d tell them you were going to see about a book you wanted to read for fun. No one would come with you for that, especially when all of their things were in your dorm. 

You saw Sirius leave the Great Hall with his friends a bit before your group headed out. You gave your excuse and like you expected, no one offered to come with you. Your heat started to pound in your chest as you neared the library. What had that boy planned? 

Sirius was waiting for you just inside of the library. There weren’t many students around. 

“So, what do you have planned?” you asked as he took your hand. 

He didn’t say anything. He led you down a few shelves until he stopped in front of a fireplace. You gave him a curious look as he pulled out his wand and cast a freezing charm on the fire. 

“After you, m’lady,” he said, gesturing to the now cool hearth.

“Excuse me, what?” 

“Fine, follow me then.”

He crouched and went into the hearth. When he disappeared from sight, you crouched yourself and gasped. There was a room behind the hearth. You followed Sirius in and then he relit the fire, giving you privacy and the room a warm glow.

“How do you discover something like this?” you asked in awe.

“Aw, love, I can’t share all of my secrets,” he told you. “Plus, if I did, there is a good chance I would end up expelled tomorrow.”

You laughed and looked around the room, really seeing it for the first time. There was a blanket spread on the ground with a platter of various desserts. 

“Holy-” you started to say as you sat down on the blanket.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked and the house elves didn’t mind sending a bit of everything. You know how they are.”

You rolled your eyes. Sirius sat down on the blanket with the platter in between you. He reached for a custard tart. 

“So, why wouldn’t you get on a broom?” he asked.

“I’m utter shit at flying.” “But what if I were flying?” 

“Don’t think I’ve seen you fly since… first year? I don’t know if you’re to be trusted with my life hundreds of meters in the air.”

“Okay, fair, fair,” he chuckled. “Then, for next time, what is your favorite dessert?”

You leaned forward, considering everything he had gotten from the elves. You reached for your favorite and lifted it in front of his eyes.

“This. Mum can’t figure out the recipe so we only have them when we buy them.” You took a bite and moaned at how good it tasted. “And they always taste better fresh. Merlin, I love these elves.” 

“At least your mum tried. Sweets weren’t too common in the Black household…”

“And the Potters?” you questioned.

“Effie always has something made. A real kitchen witch, you know? I believe it’s impossible to go hungry in that house.” 

“Must’ve been a welcome change…” you mused.

“Everything was a welcome change when I ran away.”

You didn’t know what to say in response so you took another bite of the dessert in your hand. The silence that fell between you wasn’t uncomfortable though. The two of you ate your desserts. Then your curiosity got the best of you.

“You say everything was a welcome change. But you left stuff behind, or forgot stuff, I guess. What did you go back for on Christmas?” 

Sirius coughed in surprise. He was mid-bite and considered himself lucky that he didn’t start full-on choking. 

“Well, it was kind of hurried packing. I had to get out before I got caught. And I thought everything I was leaving behind I could live without. Then, erm, I found myself needing something. I searched for it in my stuff at the Potters, but alas, not there. I had to get it.”

“What was it?” 

“Bit embarrassing to say. Maybe I’ll tell you later.”

You frowned at him. “Come on, Sirius. Tell me.”

“If you won’t trust me on a broom, how can I trust that you won’t laugh at me?” 

You laughed. 

“Those are completely different things! Yours is something you can tell me. Mine is my life!” you defended. 

He shook his head before finishing a slice of pie he’d been working on. 

“Think of it like third date or so information,” he told you. “Maybe we’ll go for a broom ride and I’ll tell you when we land with you completely alive.” 

“Fine,” you said with a soft smile. “Besides getting dragged to the party, how was your first Christmas at the Potters? I figure it’s different?”

“You figure… correctly.”

Sirius delved into the extravagant activities, meals, presents, decorations and everything else that one could do during the holidays. All of it was above and beyond. He briefly described Christmas at the Blacks, just so you would have something to compare the Potters’ version of Christmas to. You hated how you related more to the Blacks’ Christmas than the Potters’. After that, the conversation drifted into lighter topics until the tray in front of you was completely empty. 

Sirius stood up, froze the fire again and gestured for you to leave first. He followed you out before relighting the first again. 

“I mean, it’s totally your call, but I’d really like for those broom closet snogs to become a regular things,” Sirius said as you walked toward the front of the library.

Madam Pince gave the two of you sharp looks. She didn’t recall seeing either of you when she did her latest sweep of the library to tell students it was nearing curfew. 

“As long as we also make the dates a regular thing too,” you replied with a teasing glint in your eye. “I am more than a pretty girl to snog.” 

“You’re a pretty girl that I’d love to flaunt around Hogsmeade and take on broom rides.”

tags: @nsr-15, @kabekusa, @made-for-oliverwood, @sunflowerscloudydays, @salvatt1, @sammyreid, @ravisinghs-wife, @petrificustottally, @stanzie, @moonjellyfishie, @1989-taylors, @urmykindofwoman, @mrspotatas

y'all, I apologize for the wait for the update. The Remus requests have me in an irongrip rn (and I'm not complaining 🫣)

[deadchannelradio]

@jpeg-dot-jpeg no yes exactly you understand exactly whats happened here money means nothing to jason he's just bored and Dick has like three pennies and a dead moth in his pocket and semi-upscale dining pays the bills. he's a brilliant server and people love love love love him he makes so much cash in tips it's just that he burns it all attempting to keep a roof over his head and tires on his motorcycle and eating 2x a day. Jason is just bored and its fun do to something he doesn't need to be good at. Dick always hits a wall however when his coworkers begin to see him as like a normal guy and so he doesnt even get the reward of being the restaurants pet freak anymore on top of having to deal with customers. and so because theyre really hesitant to fire him he just starts doing things that every server wishes they could do but wont because they want to keep their jobs.

people are like "um this is cold" and dick will grab a fork and take a bite of THEIR MEAL and go "no it's not" and walk off. "hey i didnt like this i want to send it back" you ate all of it "I didn't like it" and i don't like you. do you want dessert or just the check. it's not just rude people when people do the accidental "enjoy your meal" "you too!" he'll go "aw thank you!" and sit down with them. "hey there's a hair in my soup" (looks) "thats gross." (leaves). he spills drinks on people on purpose. he just decides to act like someone who was maybe raised in a cave by wolves who had no sense of social niceties boundaries or like how to talk to other human beings. it's been a long time since i thought about this specific au/thing that is always kind of happening in the background of specific fics i write or think about writing and i was never FOH and haven't been BOH in over a year so i don't have as many examples as i did at one point.

it sometimes doesn't even work. he does this at every restaurant he works at and sometimes he just has to quit. he's a really good server he could sell a towel to a fish. he had to quit this one i think. it's been years since he worked there on purpose and he still gets calls like once a month asking if he'll cover.

anyway i bring that up because i think jason's singular hobby is that he's a line cook. which you would argue isn't a hobby at all and i would agree with you but Jason doesn't know how to have fun outside of the context of work and restaurants take all kinds of nutjobs. he interviews and shit and gets the job because he doesn't care about things like "being paid" a "livable wage" and seemed like he was on the least amount of drugs at the time of the interview. upon showing up the first day he's getting settled on the line and the servers come in to be like hey whats up man welcome and like the 5th server is none other than dick grayson. they look at each other in silent horror for 5 seconds before dick visibly comes to some sort of decision and is like. Hi Man I'm Rich Nice To Meet You. and jason is like. im jason. and then they have to pretend not to know each other from there on out until dick gets fired for exhibiting freak behaviors