#okay but do not bathe in neon blue laughing gas it will not give you super speed

[briedegilles]

self indulgent turbo (2013) fan art in 2023

[httpoiks]

cherry slushie hearts

pairing: hinata shouyou x gn!reader

tags: friends to lovers (?), pining, late night slushee runs

warnings: existentialism 

word count: 908

author’s note: hey everyone! this is a repost from my old account (hajiimes) so if it looks familiar i swear i’m not a plagiarizer!!!!! anyway, it’s not one of my favorites but i’m glad to have some content :D 

masterlist

He looks beautiful, bathed in neon. Dim signs in bright colors rest far above you, highlighting that gas station you’d now become familiar with. There’s a highway nearby and despite the late hour, you can hear what sounds like the piling up of cars. 

He takes a sip of his slushie, lips wrapping around the bright red straw as he slurps up his horrible concoction of an icy treat (honestly, who puts every flavor into one cup?!), a content smile resting upon his face. 

You think you could stay like this forever, on the poorly lit sidewalk outside of a 7-11 underneath a midnight sky. It’s bittersweet, the knowledge that soon he’ll call it a night and you’ll be forced to go home (”We wouldn’t want you to get hurt on your way home, now would we?” He always asks with a teasing smile, moments before linking his arm with yours and leading you back home.). 

Hinata tilts his head over until it falls on your shoulder, his grip tightening on his slushie when his temple makes contact with your sweatshirt. You take a sip of your own slushie and wiggle your shoulder the smallest bit, holding back a laugh. He groans and rests one hand on your shoulder to halt your movements. 

“What’s up with you tonight?” You ask, half-joking. Before he responds, you watch the arm holding his slushie begin to fall, starting to go limp and you reach your own hand and grab his to steady it. Your fingers touch momentarily and you feel your face begin to heat up. Pulling his slushie away, you set it on the sidewalk next to you. He mumbles something quietly into your shoulder and you frown, patting his cheek once. “Speak up for me bud, can’t hear you.”

Hinata shifts so that his cheek is resting on your shoulder instead of his forehead. “‘m tired.” He repeats, closing his eyes halfway. 

“Yeah?” You ask, your gaze fixated upon him. 

“Yeah.” He responds quietly. 

Beneath the dull orange and green of the large 7-11 sign, he looks peaceful. He seems subdued now, leaning into your side. His slushie sits forgotten on the sidewalk, backlit from the fluorescence of the store’s LED ceiling lights. A car pulls into the parking lot, stopping in front of a pump. The driver gets out and begins to fill up their car, leaning back against the car door as they do so. The dim lights emphasize the shadows surrounding you, making everything seem darker than it actually is. You wrap your arm around Hinata, pulling him closer to you. 

You wonder how long you’ll be able to stay like this. Moments like these are precious, every one of them something to be savored – and you do savor them, to an extent. Hinata is usually a ball of energy, a boy full of hyperactivity. He’s always going and going, from the moment he gets up in the morning to the moment he falls asleep. Late nights like these are precious, delicate even, and you cherish every moment you get of them. 

You brush his bangs away from his face with a soft smile, reveling in the serenity of the moment. The driver gets back into their car and leaves. You don’t notice. Your full attention is already taken by the boy on your shoulder, the one you support so entirely. 

It’s getting late, you think. One of the gas station’s employees passes you on the sidewalk, heading in for their night shift. Oh, how you hate to be the bearer of bad news, to be the one to disrupt his serenity, but you must for fear that he may fall asleep upon your shoulder without any hope to rouse him. You nudge him lightly, patting his shoulder. “Hey, bubs, we should go home.” He hums lightly, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “Seriously, we should go.” 

He sighs and sits up, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He almost looks like a toddler at that moment, groggy after their midday nap. You hold back a laugh. “Mm okay. I’ll walk you home, yeah?”

You laugh like you always do and stand up, stretching your arms. “I say this every time, but you really don’t have to. You’re too tired to make it all the way to my house and then bike home – I’ll be fine.” 

He pouts and joins you in standing, shaking out his left leg in what you assume to be an attempt to wake it up again. “It’s okay, I want to.” 

While you wait for him to stop shaking out his foot, you lean down and pick up the long melted slushies. Hinata holds out his hand for one and you give it to him, grimacing as he takes a long sip of the multi-flavored catastrophe of an iced treat. He gives you a tired smile and steps towards you, linking his arm with yours in an all too familiar fashion. 

He walks you home underneath the expanse of midnight blue, listening as you quietly chatter on about the upcoming university entrance exams. He listens with dull interest, nodding occasionally or humming in agreement whenever you pause to breathe. He sees you to your front door, waving slowly from the sidewalk. 

You don’t mention it to him, but you spend the next morning daydreaming about how he looked underneath those neon signs, the taste of your cherry slushie lingering on your tongue.

[impossible-rat-babies]

don’t stop (color on the walls)

fallen hero | 2.3k words | post second escape | cw: graphic depictions of violence + mild gore

read on ao3

--

It’s a clear night out tonight, the sky an endless dome stretching miles and miles overhead out into deep inky blackness bespectacled by freckled stars. 

Pollux blows a stream of smoke out of his mouth and it drifts up and up until it dissipates and he wonders if any particles of the smoke will reach that impossibly high ceiling. If they’ll touch moon perched on the roof, staring down at him with her grey blue light. 

He glances down at his hands, still bandaged and aching, lit instead by the fluorescence and the red and green neon glow from the gas station behind him. His shadow stretching long and narrow, falling across the desert dirt towards the dusty two lane highway disappearing out west. He breathes out again, the chill of the dry desert air stings in his nose when he takes a deep breath. It still hurts his lungs and his lips are broken and chapped, the wind sharp against his skin and he scratches the side of his face, sand and dirt rubbing off on his hand. He’s already got a fine layer of sand and dust under his clothes and it itches, but it’s better than what he came from.

The stolen sweatshirt itches and smells like cheap booze and sweat, the oversized sweat pants tied off as tightly as he can manage, but they still need coaxing to stay up. He looks back out east, across the desert and a shiver runs down his back staring into the darkness of those looming hills. It’s been days now, he can feel it in his joints, his aching muscles and in the caffeine shakes making his leg bounce, paranoia sharp as a knife when he hasn’t slept in three days.

If they were going to come after him, they would have by now.

Or maybe they were still busy cleaning up the mess he left behind. He picks at the dark lines wedged under his fingernails, flicking away the dried blood and dirt.

He’d cleaned the worst of the viscera off at the first abandoned house in some podunk hundred and fifty person town--a quick bucket and hose bath to scrub away the worst of it. Patched the worst of the hurts with a stolen first aid kit and cheap vodka to calm the shakes and practiced hands make quick work. He’d scrubbed raw and shuffled away the memories of what he had done too, letting them scab over and scar. Days later and miles away and there’s no regret in his actions—nothing he hasn’t done before.

Fool you once, shame on me, fool you twice, shame on you. A lesson they all learned too late and Pollux quickly rubs goosebump sticky arms.

Thoughts best left for later and he takes another long drag of his cigarette before he drops it to the ground and kicks some dirt over it. He needs to find actual shoes, his feet numb with scraps and burns from desert. He turns back to the gas station, the sad looking thing still clinging to life from a threadbare wire linking it to the rest of the chain which traces the narrow highway. A pulse, a guiding light to the south. Las Vegas and then west further still, down through what highways remain to the ocean—to the city that lies at those ruined shores.

There’s a few truckers packing up their things, shuffling around their big rigs and filling up at the meager pumps for the inevitable long days ahead of them. Pollux had picked one out earlier—an older woman heading just the direction he needed. 

She’d seen him inside earlier, moving through the aisles of candy and assorted snacks, poking at the chips and sneakily sticking packages of fruit snacks in the pockets of his sweatshirt when the attendant wasn’t looking too hard. She had saddled up next to him, taking the package of chips he had been reaching for and tucked them under her arm, hand held out expectantly. Her eyes drifting down to the drooping pocket of his sweatshirt with a pointed frown. 

He’d almost panicked, dropped everything and disappeared back into the desert--he could find his own way South. He’d done it before. But...there was no intent to rat him out, only give him a chance to not get caught. Give him a chance to mess this up; care about him a little.

Maybe that’s what made it easy, taking what was in his pockets out and passing them off to her one by one like some kid coughing up the candy they’d stolen from the jar and shoved in their cheeks.

He’d stood beside her like some poor lost child, eyeing everything around them while she checked out. Tucking an energy drink or two under her arm before she’d passed him his own meager bag with yet another look, thick southern drawl of a thank you for the attendant.

He fusses with the plastic handle of the snacks digging into his hand, peeling the wrapper from off the one of two packages of cigarettes she had added on his meager hoard of snacks. A little way to sweeten the pot for his honesty, he had easily picked up from her casual mind. 

She was kindly enough to offer a helping hand, but knowing enough to not get curious--her assumptions secure. Ironic how little work he has to do sometimes when people will fill in the gaps of what they want to see: just a poor runaway with nothing to his name, looking to head south to the coast. Disappear into the big city and be nothing--be a nobody.

He clambers up into the passenger seat, dumping his bagged snacks on the middle seat and it smells like cigarette smoke and cheaply made new care smell trees—half a dozen of them dangle from the rear view mirror. A lanyard hangs alongside them with small polaroids clipped to the key ring. Children, he’s guessing: grown daughter out east, living in up in New York—at some big architect firm and there’s a touch of pride in all those memories. A high school aged son back home, deep in the bowels of Los Diablos. He doesn’t care to poke more, settling deeper into the passenger seat once she too hops in.

He tucks his aching, stinging feet under him and cranes his neck to look out the window, watching a she slowly gets the big rigged turned around and headed off down the highway. The truck lurches and protests with the shifting of the gears, but it gets up to speed and the telephone poles and electric wires fly by, disappearing into the dark once the headlights hit them and pass on by. He counts their movement by the dip and rise of the wires from one pole to the next, the light from the moon too weak to keep pace.

Pollux cranes his neck up to look up at the moon and the scattering of stars this late at night, the buzz of the radio nothing but warm static against his ears. The heat of the vents blasting him in the face and still he looks out the window, wondering what it would be like to fall from the surface of that domed ceiling where the moon makes her home. If there would be anything left to salvage after that catastrophe, hitting the earth at terminal velocity. He would be nothing but a splatter, a crater in the wet sticky mud, utterly obliterated and there’s no coming back from that.

He thought it would be like that after the gun--after the window, nothing left to rebuild. But there was--they did. Dragged him kicking and screaming back with a tube shoved down his throat and white hot lights above an operating table. A new hip, knee and shoulder and spine--a persistent ache and he runs his thumb across the puckered scar near his shoulder. He winces, closing his eyes.

“Hey sugar, you okay?”

A deep breath and he yanks his head up, the driver giving him a long look out of the corner of her eye, cigarette dangling from her lips.

“You look like shit, darling. Go ahead and have a smoke.” She plucks the pack from the cup holder and urges him to take it.

“Thanks...” Pollux mumbles, pulling a cigarette from the package and he quickly sparks it up, sucking in a long breath. The nicotine settles the shakes and he rests back against the seat, head rolling to look out the drivers side window.

“You heading to Los Diablos?” She asks, testing the waters it feels like--getting a read on him.

“Yeah...”

“Got a place to stay when you get there? Someone to look out for you?” She looks over at Pollux again and he nods. Generous, wanting to look out for him--knows a thing or two about runaways. He’s not the first to sit in her passenger seat on this long drive; maybe the worst looking out of all of them. He pulls the hood up on his sweatshirt just a bit, running his fingers over his smooth scalp.

“Yeah, I got a plan when I get there. I’ve been there before--ran away there before.” He purses his lips, a little honesty creeping through. Just to sell it a bit more, give her the right impression.

“Didn’t stick around then, eh?” 

Pollux snorts and shakes his head, cracking the window to let a bit of the smoke out.

“Wanted to stay. But...wasn’t as good at hiding as I thought.”

Hiding in plain sight sure. Should’ve actually hidden, laid low, been a nobody. Carved out a life watching the Rangers on television screens in ancient electronic store windows and listen to them on half broken radios in homeless camps huddled in a sleeping bag. But he just had to stick his nose out--seen some poor chump harassing people in an alleyway, steps one, two, and three to take him down and it was all downhill from the moment his fist made contact. Sure he saved those people from a stolen wallet and some stitches, but then he did it again. And once more after that, and again.

It was just about the rush at first--like the first cigarette in the morning--the consuming way violence felt when deprived of it for so long. Unable to lash out, fists curling in excuses to crack his fingers.

It burned at first, the need to destroy--to wreck and scream and screech and tear out his growing hair all because he could. Or maybe it was like being drunk, high off the power and ability to let go. Let himself destroy a little, grin a little too wide and laugh a bit too loud. He isn’t proud of those first few months, taking down back alley slum lords and drug kings, high off the thrill of being able to do something to people that hurt him. Left a lot of bloodied messes--killed a few people in the rush. 

Not like it changed anything.

Not like he still doesn’t feel that need. Escaping the Farm was just the means to an end and whomever got in the way, got in the way. He’s still nursing a steady ache deep at the base of his neck and his temples, the strain of Numbers and the dampeners almost too much. Clumsy, inefficient--only breaking their brains like a toddler on a rage induced temper tantrum breaks their toys.

Some of them might recover, brains only half turned off, or only a mild seizure to stall their progress. Others won’t. Brains squeezed until they ruptured, seizures enough to hemorrhage, hands breaking windpipes, necks twisted until they cracked. Indulging in the need to destroy, letting his fingernails dig into faces, dig into eyes and oh how easy it was to scoop and pluck them out. Tongues and throats too--the body so soft and pliant like the mind.

Laughing and laughing himself silly while they screamed and begged and there’s no mercy left between his fingers.

“Well...” She speaks up, cutting through his thoughts and she’s back to looking at the dark road in front of them. Swallowing hard, she continues: “whatever was causing you pain where you came from, it’s good you’re not there anymore. No one deserves that...” So resolute and he’s too tired to laugh. Throat still sore.

“If you need a place to stay, or anything like that...I got a spare bedroom at home you can stay at. Long as you need. Maybe a spare pair of shoes, too.”

She wants to help, wants to help so badly and there’s more too it. Little girl, running away from home herself so many years ago--there’s mirrors upon mirrors decorating her thoughts, reflections of the past and the present and he draws his shields up tighter, bundling them around himself to block her out.

“Thank you...” He replies softly, still undecided but her caring...it’s a bit clumsy, a bit messy and tangled, but it’s genuine and its better than most.

She nods, returning her attention to the road.

The radio is turned up, some song he doesn’t recognize fading out into some late night news commentary. Tensions growing tighter overseas, the economy still hiccuping and sputtering with trade deals still on hold in Los Diablos. Some new villain upstart handedly taken in by the Rangers, cutting to some official press debriefing with Steel’s voice laced with carefully scripted professionalism.

Years ago and it was a different voice, a very different man behind the speaker and he was just some poor kid standing stock straight among the rest of the Rangers, hands tucked into fists behind his back.

No more press conferences with blinding camera lights and too many thoughts roaring in his ears. No more sleeping under bridges, no more tiny radios clutched to his chest. No more rules, no more what those old days represent, the voices coming through the radio--the familiar names talking about anniversaries of six and four years past.

“It’ll be a long ways to Los Diablos, so get some sleep. You look like you need it, sugar.” She adds on and Pollux nods rather than argues, letting the cigarette hang between his feet, ash dripping off the end and onto the floor mat between long drags.

The cigarette burns down to the butt, the heat uncomfortable against his skin but it too dies as the embers burn out. There’s nothing but a stub left and he discards it amongst the others crowding the cup holder, one lost amongst the many. He scrunches the hood up tight, tucking his hands into his sleeves. Letting the rocking and lurching of the truck steadily take over his senses.

Five hours--just a little longer on these first few steps and then he’ll be home.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

Home

Modern AU, hurt/comfort, widomauk. Please consider leaving a comment on Ao3!

----

Caleb had been quiet ever since they’d gotten into the car.

Not his usual kind of quiet, his gentle, observing kind of quiet that simply came from having nothing he needed to say in the moment. The kind that meant there was very little he missed. The quiet he would sometimes punctuate by reaching over and entwining his fingers with Molly’s, no words needing to pass between them. His present, contented kind of quiet.

This quiet gave the impression that Caleb was somewhere else.  He sat with his forehead pressed to the window, not seeming to care that it was rattling a deep rooted headache into skull, eyes fixed past the blurs of green trees and grey road. Seeing what, Molly didn’t know, but he was willing to guess.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he asked, only once, though he’d been thinking it the whole trip.

They were pulled up in a gas station with a clashing sense of familiarity and complete alienation, with all the usual adverts and logos and brands you would see in Dwendalia but all in a foreign language. Molly’s poorly tuned, one man band suit of a car couldn’t get far without needing a refill and he’d already pushed it way past it’s comfort zone. He could hear de Rolo, who’d dragged said car back from death’s door numerous times, moaning in exasperated agony in the back of his mind.  

Face bathed in neon, gas prices tattooed in light across his cheeks, Caleb sighed softly and nodded.

“I promise, I am. It’s just…harder than I thought.”

Molly reached over, closing the gap between them with a hand on his shoulder, just lightly, “We can turn back any time…if it gets too much, I mean…”

Caleb’s left hand snaked up from inside his coat and settled on Molly’s, managing a tired little smile, a smile like someone partway through a long journey, still with far to go.

“I don’t think I can. But thank you.”

It had been Caleb’s idea to honeymoon in the Zemni Fields. Home, though Molly didn’t know if that was how he still thought about it.

Whatever he called it, the Zemni fields would always mean something to him, not entirely good and not entirely bad. A weird, dizzy mix of both. Which was why Molly was surprised when he’d suggested it as somewhere to have the vacation that would mark them starting their lives together.

Caleb had blushed and fidgeted under Molly’s startled gaze when he’d first said it, when they’d been sat at their usual table in the Blooming Grove, amongst the lists Molly had been keeping in his notebook clearly labelled ‘Wedding Shit’.

“I mean, it’s nice, it’s got forests, it would be cheap…” he mumbled, his expression one of ‘I know I just said something significant but I’m going to try and pretend I didn’t’.

“And it’s where you grew up,” Molly pointed out carefully, holding himself ready in case he needed to rocket across the table and hold Caleb, “And you’ve not been back in…well, since you left?”

“No…” Caleb sized his cookie like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world, though he didn’t actually eat any of it, he just crumbled it between anxious fingers, “No, I’ve not been back since I left…uh, the school.”

Molly swallowed tightly. The school. The school that had been a front for an archmage to torture and abuse him, to take the dreams of magic he’d always harboured and turn them against him, to destroy his family. An archmage that was still in power.

An archmage Molly had daydreamed often about assassinating but he couldn’t think of a fool proof way to not get caught yet. One day.

“But you want to go back?” Molly promoted gently after a deep, steadying breath. He’d learned over time how to help Caleb through conversations like this. Building a path for him to follow, constructing a scaffolding and beckoning from the top.

“I do,” Caleb let the golden brown crumbs fall through the gaps in his fingers, “I don’t think I can go anywhere near Blumenthal…not yet. But somewhere in the fields, somewhere everyone speaks the language I do. Somewhere that feels a little like how I remember.”

“As long as you’re sure, we can do that,” Molly gently swept the crumbs into a little mountain and onto his saucer, licking off the ones that stuck to his fingertips, “I’d love to see it with you.”

Caleb gave him a little smile, one of those smiles that reminded Molly why he was marrying this man even when the planning drove him nuts. One of those smiles that would prompt him, in just a few short weeks, to decide he couldn’t stand not being his husband a moment longer, planning be damned.

“I guess…it’s where I want my new life to start too?”

Honeymooning when neither of them had two gold pieces to rub together had been an interesting concept, even after they blew off their actual wedding and settled for a civil ceremony and a group trip to Waffle House that didn’t end until 2am. Hence why they were driving the twenty hour trip to the Zemni Fields, taking turns sleeping fitfully in the passenger seat while the other drove and knocked back off brand energy drinks.

When they’d found themselves a cabin for rent online at a price comfortably within their budget, they hadn’t asked questions. But as Molly looked at it now, noting the strange way the roof sagged and the way the door didn’t seem to sit right in its frame, he wondered if maybe they should have at least asked somequestions.

“Well it…” Caleb paused, hoisting their bag further up his shoulder, “It reminds me of home?”

Molly chuckled, giving his arms a final stretch before marching up the porch, fumbling for the key. Even after he procured it, it took a good few shoves with his shoulder to actually get the door open.

Grinning, he opened up his arms, “Come on then.”

Caleb tilted his head adorably, “What?”

“I’m meant to carry you over the threshold, right?” Molly flashed him a wider smile, “Not like we’re five weeks late or anything…”

“Better late than never,” Caleb awkwardly clambered into his arms, hanging from his neck like a sloth who was terrified of being dropped. Molly had to snicker, his husband weighed about as much as a large handful of grapes, he needn’t have worried.

“Well then,” he put on a grand voice, one of announcement, “Welcome to your first and hopefully only honeymoon, Caleb Widogast!”

He reached over and flicked on the light with a flourish to complete his grand proclamation. For a split second, they were shown the dusty interior of a very cramped cabin, all oaken furniture with motheaten upholstery, a corner where some kind of moss was growing in, a huge swathe of wallpaper that had come away from the wall.

For a split second. Then there was a large pop and a shower of sparks and all of the lights went out.

Caleb clicked his fingers sharply, the sound much louder than it had any right to be. The noise called a leaping flame into being, immediately nestling in the carefully arranged crown of balled up road map, spreading and strengthening into a considerable blaze.

“Well done,” Molly applauded softly behind him as Caleb hurried back to the warmth of their blanket pile.

“We might never find our way home but at least we’ll be warm,” Caleb laughed, winding his arms around Molly, bringing him into his lap.

Molly chuckled, “I think I might be okay with never leaving…”

Caleb looked hopeful, like a worry he’d been nursing had finally fled, “So this wasn’t a horrible idea for a honeymoon? Even if we are freezing cold with no hot water and beds full of bugs?”

Molly grinned and gently reached up and pressed a finger to Caleb’s nose, “Look, I could be anywhere in the world and I’d be happy as long as I was with you.”

Caleb felt something hard in his throat and his bottom lip suddenly had a mind of its own, “Liebling, you know you can’t just say things like that to me…”

Molly laughed and cooed softly, reaching up to hiss him deeply. The firelight played off the two of them, sending a shadow version of them dancing up the wall. Smoothly, easily, Caleb pressed his back against the floor and Molly threw a leg over him.

Before it became inevitable and they forgot everything else, Molly gently stroked a strand of hair away from his husband’s light blue eyes and murmured, “Was it everything you wanted? Coming home?”

Caleb returned a gentle smile, the kind of smile he never would have worn back then, “Home? I brought it with me.”

[wrino]

interstellar border control

Hi, anon! I’m sorry this is so late and if this isn’t exactly what you had in mind when you requested that prompt; I had a lot on my plate this week and I rarely had enough time to write/browse tumblr. I did, however, really enjoy writing this, so I made time for it (though in hindsight I probably should have just studied lol). Plus, although I originally meant to write a long drabble, this ended up being an actual full-length oneshot (that you can read on ao3 here). Thank you for the request <3

Oh, and I might have gone a little overboard with the worldbuilding for this. There’s a glossary of terms at the end for if you get lost.

Kei stares at the tiny yellow spaceship from the control room window. He makes out a few details, like the green Kando flag on the roof and the heavily-tinted windows, but not much else. The ship floats, suspended in space, like some sort of cosmic yellow teki on the black sands of Gamuro.

“Carriage Alfa-15328, you are approaching Yooru territory. Please state your party number and party leader’s name, affiliation, and intention,” he drones into the microphone.

“Yamaguchi Tadashi, uh, traveling alone. Kando affiliation. Kuroo sent me to repair the nucleonic plasma splitter? Clearance code 3648,” the ship replies, voice echoing in the chamber through the station’s speakers. Kei verifies the numbers with the ones scribbled on his palm.

“Oh. Right. Come in.”

The ship slowly nears as the runway extends toward it. Yellow expands in Kei’s vision until the shape is as large as the palm he holds up to shield his eyes from the decidedly bright hue, and Alfa-15328 finally lands on the dock with a loud thud. Kei winces.

He didn’t think it was possible, but Yamaguchi’s bulky neon orange spacesuit and fluorescent pink toolbox shine even brighter than his garish vehicle. Light bounces off his tinted helmet as he walks toward the station. Kei looks around at his monochrome chamber and imagines the orange leaning against the black walls, the pink sitting by the gray nutriment conserver, the orange sleeping on his white too-short bed. It gives him a headache.

A sharp ring alerts him of Yamaguchi’s arrival at the door. The overhead monitor shows Kei a bright orange fishbowl peeking curiously at the security camera, so he presses a green button on his left. 

He’s still staring at the monitor when he hears a swish behind him. Heavy steps thump against the floor; Kei turns around when he counts three.

“Tsukishima Kei?”

“Hey,” Kei nods.

“Hi.”

Yamaguchi presses a button on his wrist, and Kei finds himself staring back at warm brown pools when they had just been an abyss of black space seconds before.

“Ah, you don’t need that,” Kei realizes out loud.

“Huh?” Yamaguchi’s voice is muffled by the spacesuit. His words scratch and thrash against the helmet’s material.

Kei taps his own temple twice. “The atmospheric conditions on this station are set to Yooru’s, and conditions on Yooru and Kando are pretty similar. Kuroo never wears a helmet when he goes here.”

Yamaguchi just gawks at him, or at least that’s what Kei assumes by the way his eyes widen. Kei can’t see his eyebrows, but he imagines Yamaguchi raising one anyway.

He sighs. “What could I possibly gain from tricking you into suffocating?”

“Money?”

Kei rolls his eyes. “I wish. Take off the helmet, Yamaguchi.”

Yamaguchi laughs, doesn’t stop laughing until his helmet’s off, and Kei hears it unrestrained. Without the obstruction, Yamaguchi’s voice is gentle and mellifluous. He places the helmet delicately on the floor.

When Yamaguchi looks up, Kei hopes the gasp he hears from himself is absolutely internal.

Yamaguchi has entire galaxies on his cheeks, on his nose, the tips of his ears. The spots on his face glow against his tan skin in soft old, completely unlike the noisy yellow parked outside the station. Kei’s grayscale room is suddenly bathed in the color. This random mechanic is a star and Kei’s own artifacts are the revolving planets in its solar system.

He wants to ask how Yamaguchi handles the light when all Kei himself has known is dark, murky Yooru and the tenebrific expanse of empty space. He wants to ask if Yamaguchi illuminates every room he enters. He wants to ask if the spots emit heat as they do light, if Yamaguchi’s skin feels thousands upon thousands of pinpricks of fire. If Kei runs his thumb across Yamaguchi’s cheek, will he burn?

“Wow. You’re really tall.”

And the moment is over. Kei blinks twelve times in rapid succession, sees gold-black-gold-black behind his eyelids every split second. He struggles to take back his breath. Does Yamaguchi not notice the room’s brand new decorations?

“Right,” Kei croaks. “The splitter is over there, right behind that panel.” Yamaguchi nods. He walks toward the wall Kei points to and kneels so he faces the only patch of gray on black walls. He procures a screwdriver – an average silver, Kei is more than glad to note – and works to release the panel until it clangs to the floor. The angry sound almost drowns out Yamaguchi’s gasp.

“What? Is it that bad?” Kei’s mind immediately goes to exploding space stations and his long, limp body, forever suspended just beyond his home planet’s atmosphere.

“No, no,” Yamaguchi laughs, waving away Kei’s panic with each lilt. Every bounce of his shoulders makes the gold dance across the walls. “It’s just… this is a really nice model. Do you know who does Materials Procurement for your station?”

“Shouldn’t you know? You work for the company that made it.”

“Ah, I’m just an intern. I’m training to be an aerospace engineer, so I have a background in cisthoron machinery. So…” Yamaguchi trails off, gesturing vaguely to himself and at the plasma splitter: a thin glass cylinder wedged shallowly in the wall.

He takes a flashlight from the toolbox. Kei furrows a brow at that. He considers asking him why he doesn’t just shove his head in the wall and light the work area with the dots on his face, but restrains himself when Yamaguchi flicks the flashlight on. Kei kneels down beside him.

“That’s definitely a fracture. Just a hairline one, though,” Yamaguchi whispers, as if scared his own voice will completely shatter the very thing he’s trying to repair. He points at a thin blue line on the glass that Kei has to inch closer to see.

“Um. Cool?” He whispers back, warming at their proximity. When had they gotten so close?

“Cool,” Yamaguchi affirms, breath hot against Kei’s face before he pulls away. “We won’t have to totally change it.”

Kei loses track of how many things Yamaguchi pulls out of his toolbox then. Haphazardly spread out in front of them are four different-sized wrenches, two gluckans, an assortment of nuts and bolts, and other tools Kei only mildly recognizes from Kuroo’s routine trips – Kando instruments.

“Why do you need all that for a hairline fracture?”

“Well, cisthoron materials are a lot more complicated than typical Earthen or hassium-based particles,” Yamaguchi starts, sharpening the larger gluckan as he speaks. “With this particular splitter, for example, it would be much better for you long-term to engage the uranium-rutherfordium links embedded in the glass’s lattice to accelerate the self-healing process, but to do that you’d have to, um, re-polarize the multiphasic generator – that’s the tiny cloud thing in the middle – or else attempting anything else with the splitter is pretty moot.” Kei stares at him.

“What, you thought I was just going to glue the break shut?”

Yamaguchi smiles up at him, like he knows Kei thought exactly that. He beams brighter than the glow on his cheeks.

More yellow takes over the room when Yamaguchi takes the gloves off his spacesuit. The spots on his knuckle almost twinkle as Yamaguchi takes the gluckan he’d been sharpening and lightly traces a square on the plasma splitter. The square turns blue, and the area inside it evaporates into thin air. Gas oozes out of the cylinder through the hole.

When Kuroo comes over, Kei naps or reads a book as he pretends to listen to the mechanic rant endlessly about work or fawn over his boyfriend. But Kei watches Yamaguchi work until he finishes, and until the blue light of Yooru’s third moon looms over the station and douses them in blue. Yamaguchi’s spots take on a green tinge.

“Okay. I’m done, Tsukki.”

He stares at the greenish dot on the tip of Yamaguchi’s ear. If Kei moves the slightest bit to the left, the blue from the window is blocked and it becomes yellow again. He forgets to respond.

“Er, I can call you Tsukki, right? Tsukishima is too long, and Kuroo said –“

“I don’t mind,” he cuts him off. He doesn’t. Yamaguchi says the two syllables simply but secretly, like his most favorite song, like a symphony he wants to keep to himself forever.

Kei’s head spins remembering the melody. He really doesn’t mind.

“Everything checks out. The transdimensional conduit’s giving off a weird ‘I’m broken’ vibe, though,” Kuroo says from the bottom bunker, exactly thirty-one cycles since Kei’s splitter was fixed.

Kei himself sits cross-legged near the bunker’s overhead entrance, peering down at Kuroo after every chapter he finishes of the book open in front of him. “There’s no such thing as a transdimensional conduit.”

“Gotcha. Well, almost.”

Yooru’s third moon peeks into the station’s window. Kei’s reminded of gold-sometimes-green spots. If Yooru’s second moon had greeted Yamaguchi instead, would the dots be orange?

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Is it about Yamaguchi?”

Kei drops his book, heart thundering wildly in his chest. He looks down at Kuroo through the bunker’s entrance. “Excuse me?”

“Routine activity check,” Kuroo explains, screwing a panel shut. “Oikawa told me to examine your browser for ‘suspicious activity’. He was laughing, so I expected porn, but the hundred thousand Yamaguchi Tadashi, Kando, glow spots – you don’t have freckles on Yooru? – Wimble searches were pretty funny as well.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’d give you his number, but his internship ended about ten cycles ago. He’s an engineer at Metsua now.”

Kei blinks at that, almost too embarrassed to be properly impressed. Metsua was the pinnacle of aerospace engineering. Only the richest had Metsua hovers, could afford transport with Metsua spaceships, could buy Metsua anything. “Wow.”

“Yeah, wow. Too bad, too. We haven’t really found anyone else with cisthoric experience.”

No Yamaguchi ever again, then. Kei deflates. A pit the size of an ueshi finds a home in his heart. It cuts off his circulation, sends his insides into a frenzy he doesn’t understand and leaves his limbs limp and cold.

Kuroo somehow notices. “If it makes you feel any better, he has the biggest crush on you, too. Wouldn’t shut up about how cool you are and how nice the station smelled. You know he calls you Tsukki? It’s cute.”

The pit in his chest buries itself deeper.

“And no. I don’t know why his freckles glow.”

It is incredibly hard to fracture a nucleonic plasma splitter.

Kei realizes just that when he wipes the sweat off his face for the twelfth time that cycle. An array of sharp, heavy, and sharp and heavy tools lay in between him and the splitter, some marked with red chalk. Those marked lie to his left in a messy pile of metal and condensed plasma, while the only three left unmarked lie to his right in a neat line. A multi-spacial theraknife, a silver nanoparticle abrasant, and a stainless steel nail clipper – just to cover all his bases.

He picks up the theraknife and waves it slowly near the cylinder. Nothing happens. He rubs the abrasant against the glass. Nothing happens either, but the rubbing does make a squeaky grating sound that grinds on his ears. The fracture has to be noticeable, but not big enough that it looks intentional. It shouldn’t be either too near or too far from where the last crack was. The splitter shouldn’t actually break, lest Kei’s station explode with him in it.

It is decidedly difficult to even scratch a nucleonic plasma splitter, but Kei is determined, if only to see Yamaguchi again.

Kei picks up the nail clipper and taps the side of the splitter. There, at the very corner of the cylinder, appears a slight crack.

He runs to the control panel. His legs move faster than his brain can interpret his actions, and he calls Kuroo without thinking.

“Tsukishima? It’s late.”

“Hey. My splitter is fractured again.”

There’s shuffling on the other line. “What? Again? Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Kei replies, voice thick with fatigue. How long has he been awake?

A pause.

“Nucleonic plasma splitters are durable as fuck,” Kuroo says, finally.

“I know.”

Another pause.

“Did you break your splitter so we’d have to bring in Yamaguchi? From another company, in another planet, four hundred light-years away?”

“That’s a loaded question,” Kei replies, slowly.

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“Oh. Then yes.”

Kuroo groans, and Kei can only imagine the slapping sound he hears as an exasperated facepalm.

“Fuck you, Tsukishima.”

Kei hums. “So you can get it fixed?”

“If you don’t kiss him, I’ll kill you.”

Kei can’t say he doesn’t remember why he took this job. Being a Gatekeeper is thankless, but it pays glamorously – certainly much more than any work he could have done back on land. He’s almost never busy, given the fact that his side of Yooru is hardly a tourist spot, unlike the opposite side where Hinata is stationed. As a result, the only carriages he’s ever had to deal with so far were delivery ships, locals, and, of course, Kuroo. He passes the time by reading electronic books and using his exceptional Uninet connection to find obscure music from different planets.

His station’s only big enough for one person, though. Kei doesn’t ever regret being a Gatekeeper, but he’s a lot lonelier than he would ever care to admit.

“Can you pass me the pa – um, the green knife thing,” Yamaguchi says, holding out one hand while the other tinkered with the splitter.

“The paduin. I’ve seen Kuroo use it.” Kei sets the tool on Yamaguchi’s outstretched hand. Yamaguchi hums back at him.

Kei’s room is alight again, sixty cycles after it was last. His usually bland furniture seem as happy as Kei; gold kisses them over and over, even more so than last time.

“You know, splitter fractures are pretty uncommon. Like, really uncommon, actually. I know someone who’s kept his splitter perfect for years, and it wasn’t nearly as nice as this one, Tsukki.”

“Um,” is the only thing Kei can reply, lightheaded after hearing the nickname again.

“There. Done.” Yamaguchi wipes his hands on his suit before moving to put away his things. Kei helps him without beng asked to, picking up a bolt that had rolled away from them. It makes a clanging sound when he drops it in Yamaguchi’s toolbox.

They stand. Yamaguchi hesitates before walking towards the helmet on the corner table.

“Wait,” Kei says, before he can stop himself. Yamaguchi whips around to face him. “Wait.”

“Yeah?” Yamaguchi’s voice squeaks, and it is in it that Kei hears his own hope mirrored.

“Why do your spot – freckles, I mean – glow?”

“Oh, um,” Yamaguchi stammers, hands flying to his cheeks, as if he can hide them under his fingers. “Kando thing.”

Kei raises an eyebrow. “Kando thing?”

“People of pure Kando lineage usually have at least one spot on their body. Kuroo doesn’t have one because he’s half Vol, I think. But my friend Suga has one by his eye, and my mother has some on her cheeks. Not as much as me though,” he laughs softly. “I have them everywhere.”

Kei nods. He wants to ask so much more, but he’s deathly afraid he’ll never stop if he starts, like a dam will break and his confessions will come in tsunamis if he so much as makes a noise. Still, he wants to give Yamaguchi words he can keep in his pocket, even if they’re to be forgotten later, buried under the praise of more significant individuals.

“I think they’re interesting,” Kei says finally, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat.

“You can touch them,” Yamaguchi replies, almost immediately. And then, as though he catches himself: “I mean, only if you want to!”

“I want to.”

“Okay.” Yamaguchi gently takes Kei’s hands and guides them slowly toward his face, settling them on his cheeks. He keeps his hands over Kei’s as the latter runs his thumb across tan and gold – and red, because Yamaguchi’s blush is nothing less than violent.

It’s warm. The freckles themselves don’t emit any kind of heat, but Yamaguchi’s cheeks are on fire. Kei prefers it, especially because his own face feels just as warm.

“I broke the splitter,” Kei whispers. He doesn’t dare put away his hands. Neither does Yamaguchi.

“What? Why?”

“I wanted to see you again.”

Kei’s rarely ever this candid, but Yamaguchi’s flush encourages him. He keeps his eyes on Yamaguchi’s widened ones.

“I’ve thought about you every cycle since I met you.” He feels Yamaguchi suck in a breath, feels his head bob slightly up and down as he struggles to breathe.

“Is that… is that weird?” Kei asks, slight panic edging into his tone.

“No. No, no, no,” Yamaguchi shakes his head so vigorously the flashing gold makes Kei dizzy. “Not weird. Me, too, Tsukki. Me, too.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“Great,” Yamaguchi beams. He squeezes the hands still on his cheeks.

Kei smiles back. The tips of his mouth reach out to find the last ounce of courage he has.

“So,” he starts.

“Kuroo said he’d kill me if I didn’t kiss you.”

GLOSSARY (in alphabetical order)

Alfa-15328 - the name of Yamaguchi’s ship. I made them use a variation of the NATO phonetic alphabet, so the ship’s name is actually A-15328.

carriage - more common term for “vehicle”

cisthoron - class of materials

cycle - an Earthen day

Kando - Kuroo and Yamaguchi’s home planet. It’s the most similar to Earth in terms of general content, but it has a lot less water and the colors are all different. Also what you call people from Kando.

Gamuro - a desert planet

gluckan - a common tool

Metsua - one of the biggest aerospace companies in the universe. Imagine SpaceX but in the future and actually in space. It’s on the planet Raghu.

multi-spacial theraknife - a common tool on Yooru. Basically like a swiss army knife but with more deadly lasers.

nucleonic plasma splitter - a component of most space vehicles. I don’t know what it does, but Yamaguchi probably does.

nutriment conserver - a refrigerator

paduin - a common tool on Kando

silver nanoparticle abrasant - like steel wool but with silver

teki - endemic to Gamuro, an insect that is as small as an Earthen ant (hence the simile)

transdimensional conduit - fictional thing Kuroo made up to fuck with Tsukki

ueshi - endemic to Yooru, an animal the size of an Earthen elephant (again, hence the simile)

Uninet - the Internet but in space

Vol - what you call people from Voluri

Wimble - Google but for space people

Yooru - Tsukishima’s home planet. It’s kind of dark and swamp-y and ugly. Sorry Tsukki.

[fanforfanatic]

Movies that End in a Kiss

Relationship: Dean x Reader Rating: Teens and up. Warnings: None. A/N: There is an author’s note at the end because I don’t want to spoil anything.

~3.5k words

Summary: You tell Dean you’re in love with him exactly three times.

Read it on ao3

You tell Dean Winchester you love him three times.

Well no, you’ve said it more often than that growing up with him and Sam, taken in by John at a young enough age that the Winchesters are the only family you’ve ever really known. The only one you can remember, anyway. That’s what I love you has meant so far. It meant you’re my family, I’d die for you too and I’m here.

That’s the brothers’ way of saying it, to you, to each other. Never ones for ‘chick flick moments’ or at least that’s what Dean had decided. Jerk. Bitch. Loser.

That’s not the kind of ‘I love you’ being addressed here. You tell Dean you’re in love with him exactly three times.

The first, in true (honorary)Winchester fashion, happens while you’re dying. Of course, it takes a demon taking a bite out of your jugular to man up and fess up. You’re at the end of your rope, out of time. If you’re ever going to tell Dean, it’s now.

You open your mouth but he shushes you.

“Don’t talk,” he says.

I love you, you think as hard as you can, your eyes going wide as though that will help convey the message. Like you could communicate it telepathically or he could read the words in your irises.

Dean misunderstands. He presses the blue, now blood-black, bandana more firmly onto your fatal wound. “Don’t be scared. Sam’s breaking the angel warding right now and Cas is going to get his feathery ass in here and he’s going to heal you up and then we’ll go get burgers and that’ll be that.”

“Dean,” you rasp.

“Okay fine, we’ll go to a twenty-four-hour breakfast place.”

You chortle out a broken sound and wince immediately but the pain blurs along with everything else. You’ve lost a lot of blood, you know because you’re laying in it.

Dean taps your face and it isn’t gentle. “Hey, hey, stay with me, Loser. Don’t be a wimp, I bet it doesn’t even hurt.”

You chuckle again and say, “Only when I laugh.”

“Well then we’re screwed. I’m a very funny guy.” Dean lets out his own small laugh and grins down at you.

You think it doesn’t hurt at all when he’s the one laughing. That sound could erase all your pains and aches. It has many times before. Has made very bad situations, very dark times, just a little better, just a little easier. His smile isn’t half bad either.

The sunlight spills into the space from the open barn doors behind you, hitting Dean’s face in a way that’s making him hard to see, a little hard to look at. He’s lit up like a greek hero might be. Teary eyes shiny and twinkling in the light, hair more blond than brown as the rays filter through it, his skin goddamn glimmers like bronzed gold. Or maybe that’s just your vision that’s starting to go. Spots dance somewhere between your face and Dean’s so this must be it.

“I love you, Dean,” you say because you think it’s the last thing you’ll ever speak and there are no words more important.

You vaguely hear Dean laugh a broken sound, you think you hear him say Cas’ name, something touches you (other than Dean that has his arms around you), everything tingles and everything goes dark.

When you come to, you are one hundred percent healed. Your throat is intact. The scratch from two hunts ago that had scabbed over is replaced by smooth skin. The tiny pimple you’ve felt brewing under your skin near your hairline is gone.

You’re in the backseat of the Impala, naturally (where else would you be?), and you sit up just as Dean steps back inside.

“You’re up,” he says, leaning over the backrest of his seat and flicking on the car’s dome light to get a good look at you. “How are you?”

“I’m good.”

His eyes look you over and scan your face for a long moment as though your word wasn’t enough. Then, he’s reaching for you, cupping the back of your head- no sliding down, holding your neck and pulling you closer. It’s a fraction of a second, the stretch of time between when you’re sitting up in your seat and when you’re leaning forward right up in Dean’s face, but it’s agonizingly slow. You think Dean is going to kiss you. You think, this is it.

Dean just looks at you some more, eyes shifting between each of yours. “Cas said you should be fine but I think we should check for a concussion.”

You don’t say a goddamn word but eventually, satisfied, Dean lets go of you and twists so he’s leaning against the door, still able to look at you.

“Sam will do his thing when he gets back. I promised you breakfast food didn’t I?” He grins, wrist poised on the steering wheel and hand hanging behind it, long fingers disappearing just beyond the scope of the overhead light.

You look out the window, away from Dean, assessing your surroundings for the first time to see that you’re parked at a gas station that has a shoddy sign in the window below a neon glow. You frown. “Dubious breakfast burritos from the Gas ‘n Sip is not what I had in mind,” you say already mourning the waffle you apparently will not be indulging in.

Dean ignores you in favour of patting the backrest fondly. “I’ve got my baby all gassed up and my best girl-” He winks at you, because why not fuck you up more? “-still amongst the living and a brother fetching me my road food. What more can I ask for?”

You roll your eyes at him and hope that your blush isn’t as visible as you think it is. “I’m telling Sam you said he’s fetching things for you.”

“Tell him,” he dares you.

You slump back in your seat, crossing your arms. “You think I won’t?”

“You never do,” he smirks. He drops his voice to a whisper like the information he’s about to share is confidential: “I know you like me the most.”

“Dean,” you start nervously, arms uncrossing. “Is this you teasing me about what I said because you’re a shit?”

Dean frowns. “Sounds like me but what are you talking about?”

It’s you who frowns now. “What I told you just before I almost croaked.”

Dean is quiet for a moment, solemn. “You really gave me a scare, you know.”

“Oh come on,” you try to joke. “You know how it is. We die, we come back.”

Dean doesn’t say anything.

“Look, about what I said towards the end there. Or the non-end as it happens. I want you to know that I meant it differently than usual.” You try to sound as nonchalant as you can. “I meant that.”

Dean scrunches up his face and it’s as adorable as every time you’ve seen him do it. Then he laughs and your heart drops as you think he’s laughing at you. “You were barely forming words towards the end there, babe. Just gargling nonsense. ‘mkinda impressed you had your ducks in order enough to remember now.”

“You didn’t hear what I said?”

“No but you can tell me now.”

You inhale sharply. Can you tell him now? Without the promise of being swallowed into oblivion? Without the option of escaping the aftermath? There are a lot of things you’ve accomplished thinking you wouldn’t be able to. Often times it was with Dean by your side. Probably because Dean was by your side. He’s here now too. Dean is always here. And you’re in love with him.

“I-”

Sam opens his door, cutting you off, and your nose fills with the aroma of meat and cheese. Your hands with the burrito Sam offers. Your ears with the bickering of the brothers up front. Then, you watch Dean drive off the lot. The words die on your tongue.

 You’ve read enough novels and watched enough tv to know that when someone pines over their friend chances are the pining is secretly mutual. This is the reasoning you hold on to the second time you try to build up the courage to tell Dean. It’s been months since your last near death experience so the urgency is gone which means you have to create your own momentum.

Opportunities are hard to come by.

“Sam sit still,” you bark at him.

“You take so long. Can’t Dean do it?”

You’re a little harsher than strictly necessary the next time you go in with the needle. “Dean’s too hopped up on post-hunt adrenaline right now.”

“Also,” Dean adds, pacing a few feet away. “I don’t want to.”

Dean laughs as he sees Sam roll his eyes and as he sees you do the same over Sam’s shoulder. He bounces on the balls of his feet, you weren't wrong about him bursting with energy. You three plan to hit the local bar as soon as you’re done stitching up Sam’s shoulder injury.

“Seriously, hurry up,” Dean echoes Sam’s sentiment, then peers at your work and scoffs. “That doesn’t even need to be sewn up.”

“That’s what I said,” Sam agrees.

You concentrate on what you’re doing but spare Dean a glance. “It would scar.”

Sam mumbles, “Like it wouldn’t with you doing the-”

“You’re such an ungrateful shit, Sam,” you say shaking your head and trying to actually be upset. “I’ve gotten better!”

Growing up you’d been… less than skilled with the floss the lot of you used to patch each other up. All three of you had unnecessary marks on your bodies from a job not so well done on your end. That was while you were growing up, though. You’ve gotten better! Sam and Dean still won’t let you live it down.

“Sure you have, sweetheart.”

“Shut up, Dean. You’re done, Sam.” You snip the thread and shove him lightly off the bed. “Get out of my face.”

He laughs a deep bellied laugh. “I’m gonna get cleaned up and then we can go,” he says heading towards the bathroom.

“Make it a whore’s bath Sammy, the patience tank is running low,” Dean calls back and plants himself on the other bed.

You shuffle to the edge of the one you’re on, you’d been kneeling behind Sam, and dump the bloody wipes into the garbage can you’d brought closer. You’re facing Dean now, your knees almost touching his in the space between the two beds.

He takes another swig from the flask he’d been slowly draining since his shower then offers it to you. You’re surprised there’s even any left. When hunts go like they went tonight, when they’re a little too easy and require much less than you were all willing to give, you all- especially Dean- end up with a restlessness that begs to be spent. So you drink and go out and party and generally have a good time.

Maybe that buzzing inside of you is what spurs you on, what makes you decide this is a good a time as any to get this thing off your chest.

“Are you going to take it?” Dean interrupts your thoughts.

“When have I ever turned down a drink?” You grab the flask from Dean’s hand and hate yourself for noticing how your fingers touch his.

“To the heartbreak of many schmucks in many dives, often.”

“Heartbreak, huh?” you say wincing as the liquor burns its way down your throat.

“What else would you call letting someone like you get away?” He winks and takes another drink (you hate yourself for noticing again how your fingers touch).

“Dean, I love you,” you say.

Dean chokes on the booze, some spluttering out onto his hand that he lifts to his face. He laughs, wiping his palm against his chin and then against his jeans. “Is that what you and Sam were whispering about earlier? You two really want to start another prank war?” He laughs again and stands just as Sam comes out of the bathroom.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Dean laughs some more. “Like you don’t know.”

Dean leaves the motel room, leading the way to the Impala, laughing all the while. You watch him leave and, yeah, heartbreak’s the word for it.

You’d been wrong before, that day with the demons holed up in some barn. It hurts when Dean laughs too.

 Very few things matter to you more than the Winchesters.

Yourself, sometimes, because you aren’t that selfless nor do you think you should be.

Milkshakes from that shack on the West coast. You’ve told Sam and Dean if it’s between you and a Vanilla Bean Chocolate Delight I’m picking the dairy enough times that they stopped hearing you.

That’s it. That’s the list of things.

So when you realised you were in love with Dean it had startled you, but only for a moment. After that initial shock it all kind of made sense. If you’re going to be falling in love at all of course it’d be with one of them. Giving it more thought made you understand that it had to be Dean, and upon even more reflexion (you’re analytical, who you gonna sue?) you understand that it will always be Dean.

You’re settled into the bunker for a bit of R&R. You’d gotten shot on the last hunt. Just a flesh wound with a clean exit, a lucky break you weren't accustomed to. Sam bandaged you up and you’d been good to go but somehow there was a silent agreement that you three would hang back for a few days. You’d been working a string of cases and had earned some down time. Besides, there was no big bad looming threat which naturally meant one was just around the corner. The smart move would be to rest up for it as much as you can afford to.

Not to mention that the bunker is still a new enough discovery that you guys like to be there just for the sake of being there. You like that there is a there to be, now.

Dean comes into the library, a cellphone pressed to his ear but angled away from his mouth. “The burger joint got shut down,” he says, then with a shiver adds, “Health code violations.”

You snicker at his obvious discomfort.

“Sam’s asking what you’re in the mood for instead.”

You shrug and Dean rolls his eyes. Into the phone he says, “Yeah, she’s as indecisive as ever.”

“Fuck you guys. I’m just not picky.”

Dean ignores you and takes the seat beside you. “Yeah, that sounds good. Don’t forget the- He hung up on me.”

“I’d hang up on you right now if I could,” you tell him with no bite and a grin.

“Shut up, you love me.”

Your breath catches somewhere in your windpipe. Yeah, I do. You beg yourself to say it. This is what you’ve been amping up for but you’re too slow, too paralysed.

Dean says, “What are you reading?”

“A journal of one of the men of letters circa nineteen thirties and let me tell you these tough guys do dance.”

“They’re librarians. I’d hardly call them tough- Wait, seriously? Wife swapping?”

You nod.

“Well, damn.”

You laugh. “It’s much more interesting than all the lore in here.”

“So much lore, right? I don’t know how anyone- Sam- could have the desire to go through it all. Hey wait a minute. You’re reading sex-journals and you judged me when I found the vintage porn magazines.”

“It’s not a sex journal! And I did not judge you.”

“Mhmm.”

“We really should be getting some work done,” you reason. “Sooner we make a dent in their archives the sooner Sam will let us rummage around with what they have in storage.”

“Toys!” Dean grins childishly. He really wants to check out all the magical items the Men of Letters have hidden away on the lower floors.

You laugh again because you love it when Dean is like this, playful and, if you squint, almost untainted by the hardships of his life. “I love you, Dean.” It’s the third time you say it and the words escape you effortlessly.

Dean stops wiggling his brows excitedly at you. “I know that,” he says. “You’re fami-”

“No, Dean.” You shake your head and he frowns in confusion. “I’m in love with you.”

The silence in the room echoes in your chest. You feel bare and like you’re teetering on the edge of something but it’s something great. It has to be. You’re a pair of heroes and after putting down the bad guy the movie ends in a kiss. He gets the girl, she get the guy, the camera pans out on them being sickeningly sweet. You think you can stomach sickeningly sweet if it’s with Dean.

“I...don’t…” Dean trails off. “Understand. I don’t understand, what are you saying?” Dean sits up straighter, his eyes wide.

Your eyes are wider as you remember- somehow you’d forgotten?- that your life isn’t a movie. You untuck your feet from under you and place them on the ground that you swear sways beneath them. Your hands shakily put the journal on the table and the wound in your arm screams to be noticed. The pain is salvation, pulling your focus away from the horror that’s unfolding. It’s also short lived as the sting doesn’t hold your attention once Dean beckons it.

“What are you talking about?” He asks, eyes still wide, still too green and too earnest for you not to feel like a complete and utter loser.

You don’t say anything.

“Where is this coming from? Since when? Why? What?”

You still can’t bring yourself to respond, too busy being hyperaware of how this conversation is going to end. Then again, you’d been surprised initially too. What’s to say that Dean doesn’t just need a minute? You know he cares about you. The rest isn’t that big of a leap.

“Answer me,” Dean says.

“Come on, Dean. You want to try and tell me that this doesn’t make sense?” You give him your widest smile. “You and me… I don’t think I’ve been away from you for more than a week since we met. I don’t ever want to be away from you for more than a week. I want us-”

“Stop. You’re my family and there’s nothing, not a thing, I wouldn’t do for you but this… This isn’t how I feel about you.” Dean has a pained expression on his face.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry, I-”

“No!” You interrupt him, face burning. “No, don’t um don’t apologise.” You jump to your feet, your chair scraping the floor horribly. “You’re- This- You’re probably right,” you start, back peddling out of the room, bumping into chairs (one clatters to the ground) and into one of the book shelves. “This is really dumb. I don’t- I shouldn’t have said any of that because of how dumb it is.”

You swivel to leave and walk right into the wall by the archway that leads out of the room, face first. You instinctively bring a hand up and find blood. You hear Dean stand.

“Don’t, Dean. Just. I’m fine. Don’t.”

You hear him still and that’s a miracle in and of itself. You hightail it to your bedroom, bumping into the door jam on your way out of the library.

You suppose you should have seen this coming. Despite the bullet hole in your arm, you know there is no such thing as a clean exit.

 It takes a while for things to be less awkward and a while longer for you to get over it, but a year down the line it’s like the most mortifying experience of your life didn’t even happen. Mostly.

Dean still tries to be discreet when he bring a girl back with him to whichever motel you’re staying at. Sam asked you once why Dean rents an extra room instead of just taking yours and asking you to bunk with Sam. You sputtered out an answer and Sam gave you a knowing look and didn’t ask a second time.

It’s around that one year mark that you start sort-of dating an FBI agent that’s in the know as far as the supernatural goes. Dean doesn’t tease you, badger you or prod you about loverboy like he has in the past. He makes a point of not making any comments about it. At least not to your face.

You overhear him talk to Sam though.

What kind of name is Timmy, anyway? Come on, man, Timmy?

She can do better than that monkey in a suit. A pencil pusher is what he is.

What kind of relationship is it if they only see each other when a case takes us to the East coast? Huh? Not the kind of relationship she deserves.

You also notice how most of your cases don’t take you to the East coast at all anymore. Sam shrugs and looks anywhere but at you when you ask him about that. Is evil converging in the Hollywood hills?

Things don’t last with Timmy, which doesn’t really surprise you. You might have been wrong about you and Dean but you weren’t wrong about the fact that if you were ever going to be with anyone, it’d be a Winchester. It’d be him. You don’t have the kind of lifestyle that’d allow anything else. That’s the predominant reason, you try to tell yourself. You figure you just won’t be with anyone. Your years are numbered, that’s the kind of lifestyle you do have.

It’s another year and in true Winchester fashion one of you is sort of dying the first time Dean tells you he loves you. He uses the three words, tacks on a Loser at the end and punctuates the phrase with a kiss.

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A/N: This was supposed to be an unrequited love story and it was supposed to end with the scene in the library and in my heart that's where it does end but I figure that might be less pleasant to read. I wanted to twist the trope, which I've obviously failed to do. 

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