#people! Let him at least take a breath of air before hunting him.

[bloodlegacies]

Oooh will we see that Hayden's friend again?

I feel sorry for him, but yes, he will go. He will still come back, at a party and tournament...

[prentissluvr]

take my breath away — sam winchester

pairing : sam winchester x gn!reader ➖⟢ genre : angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ➖⟢ cw : features dean x reader (platonic), near death experience, suffocation, other canon violence and death, injuries, blood mention, swearing, so much pining, case fic, stereotypical witch, (not) unrequited love, petty fights/arguments, petty sam, kissing, crying, guilt, reader vaguely implied to be shorter than sam, pet names, food mentions, (baby, honey - from sam, darlin'/kiddo from dean), no use of y/n, mentions of end of season 2-4 spoilers, poorly edited, lmk if i missed something! ➖⟢ wc : 13.7K summary : because of an unexpected witch's curse, it's almost too late for you and sam to confess your feelings to each other.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

you see sam when it rains. even if he’s sitting right in front of you, you’ll look out the car window and at the rivulets of water rushing down the glass, distorting the image of an empty highway and summer-time trees at dusk, and you’ll see him at seventeen with rain in his hair and running down his cheeks. you’ll think of that smile he gave you as he took your hand and how that look he had in his eyes haunts you worse than any ghost you’ve seen, because you think it could’ve been love. sometimes, you’ll still see glimpses of that sam, but he can be rare. so, you go as far to wonder if maybe he still looks at you like that when your gaze is turned away. 

once, when the windows were down and he was sitting in the back with you for a change, the spring air was nice and clean as it filtered into the sometimes stuffy car, and you felt his multicolor gaze watching you. the look on his face changed when you locked eyes, but for an imagined moment, it seemed that you—your eyes closed against the wind and a light smile on your face that, for once, wasn’t grim—were his everything.

you press your temple to the cold glass of the window, hoping it’ll sober you up a little from your love-drunk state. it’s so goddamn stupid that you’re even thinking about him like this right now, because he’s still sort of mad at you for something rash you did during your last hunt. only you don’t think it was stupid, so you’re half pissed that he won’t let it go. staring at the back of his head and the pretty curled ends of his hair, you sigh quietly. even his shoulders rising up past the seat are handsome. you miss him, and he’s close enough to reach out and touch.

dean’s voice breaks your reverie, and you have to draw in a deep breath. without you even noticing, thinking about sam so hard makes you breathless, almost every time.

“so, why don’t you give us the full rundown, sammy? ‘fore either of you decide to conk out on me,” dean suggests. that means he’s bored, because neither of you will fall asleep for at least another hour or two, and you’ll probably take your turn driving for a few soon.

“sure,” sam agrees, and you hear the shuffle of papers as he digs out a newspaper article and some notes. “three people in the last three weeks all died from suffocation, but with no apparent cause. they just,” sam’s shoulders move a little as he motions vaguely with his hands, “stopped breathing.”

“sounds witchy to me,” dean says, very predictably. you think you could’ve said those exact words at the exact same time if you wanted to tease him about it.

“yeah. what’s weird is that the vics were reported feeling out of breath up to 16 hours before they actually died. says it looks like they slowly died from oxygen deprivation,” sam adds.

“huh. so not hex bags, but another sort of spell?” you wonder aloud, easily talking about the case despite the remainders of tension between you and sam. that’s just how it is, with all of you. even when you’re mad, you still work the case.

“most likely,” sam agrees, “the vics went about their days pretty much normally until they died, so they were in different places as they were dying. seems like a hex bag wouldn’t work unless it was on them the whole time.” you nod, and though he’s not turned around to look at you, you’re sure he knows anyway.

“alright, well. looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us,” dean states, “we’ll be in town in the morning, so we’ll rest up real quick then head to the police station. you two can do your interviewing magic with the vic’s families and hopefully we’ll know more by then.”

this was easily predicted as well. for as long as you’ve been able to pass as an fbi agent, he’s mostly left interviewing the families to you and sam since the two of you tend to be more socially appropriate, and thus, more able to get information without raising alarms. though, the questions you ask never cease to be weird and confusing to the world’s oblivious civilians. of course, dean makes exceptions for pretty girls who he can flirt his way into telling him just about anything. this time, you wish dean would make an exception because it kills you that you and sam aren’t getting along perfectly right now. you know that you’ll work it out soon, probably within the week, but you still hate it.

through the impala’s windows, you watch the sky turn dark and the moon come out. you drive, then fall asleep to the rumble of the engine for a few hours, and wake to see the sky turn light again. keeping it all to yourself, you revel in the sunrise and the way it turns the sky bright and the clouds cotton candy pink around the edges. 

you sink into the sight of sam sleeping in front of you, the early morning light kissing his features and shining through his mousy brown hair. if you lean a little to the left, you can soak up the image of his softly closed eyes, the mole by his nose, and the relaxed curve of his lips. you smile to yourself at the way his hair is all messed up on the side of his head that’s resting against the window until you catch dean’s gaze on you through the rearview mirror. you tear your gaze from both brothers and latch it to the moving countryside out the window. for a while now, you’ve figured there’s no way dean doesn’t see that you’re in love with his brother, but despite such, he doesn’t say much outside of lightheartedly teasing for the both of you. he’s the only one who knows that sam looks at you just like that when you’re the one who’s asleep. he’s the one who sees sam turn, trying to be subtle, just to look at the way the moonlight kisses your lips, wishing it was him.

it’s eight in the morning when you pull up to the first motel you see. you wished sam hadn’t woken up on his own half an hour ago. that way, you could’ve put your hand on his shoulder, shaken him all soft and gentle like you do just for him, and mumbled, “wake up, sammy. we’re here.” then he’d stir, still sweet-looking from sleep and give you a little smile if he’d managed to dream without nightmares before remembering he’s supposed to still be upset with you.

instead, he’s fully awake when he climbs out of the car and pops your door open like he does every time you can’t beat him to it. he doesn’t talk about that habit, because he knows you can take care of it yourself. but if it’s so easy for him to do it as you grab your bag, then he thinks there’s no harm. besides, you’ve never told him off for it, so he does that and just about any other little thing he can get away with for you. and much to your chagrin, he still does it all when he’s pissed at you. he’s too good like that, even if you think he should just get over what happened a few days ago.

the three of you are just about wordless as you check in and pile into the room, all tired and without anything of importance to say. when you catch sight of the couch in the room, you sigh in relief. it would’ve been sam’s turn to share the bed, and you’re not sure you could do that this time around. sometimes it’s hard to breathe when he’s right there, so close after you’ve spent literal hours in the car just plain old pining over him. so, you find an extra sheet in the closet and steal a pillow from dean’s bed, all but collapsing onto the couch with a morning-time “goodnight.”

you don’t care that your feet hang over the edge unless you curl up or mind the way the springs dig into the flesh of your side, all you want is to welcome quick sleep. you’re lucky, and drift off moments later. you barely have time to think about how glad you are that you won’t have one of your nights where you lay awake, staring at the ceiling as you wonder why you would fall in love with someone you can’t have. him and dean are all you have, and no matter how your heart aches to pull sam close, you’d never do anything to jeopordize what you have, here and now. he’s your best friend, that’s all you can ask for in this life, maybe even more than you should.

waking as you normally do to the sounds of sam and dean moving about the motel room, you sit up, a little groggy. you glance at the clock, and you’ve slept for about four hours, just as predicted.

“up ‘n at ‘em,” dean says as he walks past you, giving you a playful clap on the back.

“mhmm,” is all you respond with, swinging your legs off the couch and digging through your bag for your pant suit and toothbrush. dean’s already in his, and sam’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom, still in his tshirt and jeans from yesterday. you don’t even have to say a word for sam to move out of the bathroom as you approach. so he won’t have to wait with a mouth full of tooth-paste and spit for you too long, you change quickly, leaving your clothes on the bathroom floor and opening the door for sam as you begin to brush your own teeth. the two of you maneuver around the cramped space with practiced ease, and when he’s done, he disappears back into the bedroom space without a word. when he’s petty to other people, you think it’s kind of hot. but when he does it to you, it makes you want to ring his neck. 

“asshole,” you mumble to yourself. it’s a classic tango between the two of you; you want him to just get over it, and he wants you to admit that he’s right, or the other way around. and both of you are far too stubborn to be the one to relent first, so you’ll be pissy at each other for a few days until you get bored of it or dean gets too annoyed. all it takes to get past it is you putting your head in his lap after a long day, maybe him resting his head on your shoulder, or the two of you laughing too hard over something together to keep being mad, and maybe just a few mumbled apologies from the both of you. if it’s really big enough for none of those things to work, then you talk about it until things are okay again.

dean drops you off at the first victim’s house, with the promise that the second is close enough to walk to, and the third he’ll join you for once he’s done at the coroner’s office.

sam still won’t talk to you as you wait on the front porch of the house after ringing the doorbell. a young woman opens the door, probably around your own age, and you smile at her before flashing your badge.

“hi. i’m agent green. this is my partner, agent smith. we’re looking for natalie goh?” you greet, comfortable and at ease in your ruse.

“that’s me,” she confirms for you, sounding nice enough. “how can i help you, agents?”

“we would just like to ask a few questions about your late boyfriend, henry,” sam explains, “may we come inside?”

her face falls when he mentions her boyfriend, but she nods her head. “of course, come in.” you follow her to the living room where she motions for you to sit. “let me grab you something to drink,” she offers, disappearing into the next room before you can refuse. “is lemonade okay? my next door neighbor brought me so much when she heard about henry… you know. i can’t possibly drink it all.”

you want to say no, not wanting to make her go through the extra effort, but you accept for both you and sam out of sympathy. she sounds like she needs to keep her hands busy to distract herself. 

she sets the drinks down in front of you, asking as she sits, “what, uhm, what is the fbi’s interest in … in henry?”

“we’re investigating a few odd deaths, like your boyfriend’s, in the area,” sam explains, “now, was there anything unusual the day of or the days leading up to his death?”

“i, um, i don’t– i don’t think so, like what? and, i’m sorry, the police told me he most likely choked on something, how is that strange?” natalie frets. you glance at sam and catch him readjusting his features as a brief look of surprise crosses over his face. it makes sense that that’s what the police told her, but you hadn’t known they’d said so.

“well, natalie, the cause of his death wasn’t entirely clear, and because a few more people have died similarly since, we’re just being extra thorough,” you do your best to placate her before she starts getting too wary of you and sam. “it really could mean nothing, but it’s important for us to cover all of our bases. so, can you tell us if there was anything out of the ordinary? was he acting strange, or did you notice anything unusual around the house, like maybe cold spots or flickering lights?”

she furrows her eyebrows in confusion, “um, no. no, nothing like that. he was just being him, you know, he was such an amazing boyfriend, he made me breakfast that morning even though he said he was tired. i already told this to the police, but he sounded kind of out of breath when we called. that was the last time i talked to him,” her voice begins to tremble, so you reach out a comforting hand and place it atop hers from across the table. “i had to stay late at work, and when i got home, he was … he was gone. i found him in the kitchen.” a tear slips down her cheek, and she moves her hand away from yours to wipe it off. you shift back in your seat and glance at sam, trying to give him the hint to get moving. but, he keeps his gaze trained elsewhere.

you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him, almost ready to pull the “may i use your bathroom” ruse first. it’s almost always sam who does it, and sure enough, he clears his throat to ask.

“would you mind if i used your restroom?”

“oh, sure,” she says, “there’s one by the pantry, through the kitchen and to the left.”

he stands, thanking her a bit awkwardly before disappearing through the doorway to the kitchen.

once he’s gone, you turn your attention back to natalie. “i know that this can be a difficult question, but is there anyone that comes to mind who might want to hurt henry?” absentmindedly, you take a sip of the lemonade after speaking. it’s sweet, but not too sugary. you discover that it’s just about perfect, and you can’t hold back from continually taking a few sips here and there to fight back the heat of the afternoon.

“oh, goodness, no,” she sounds horrified by that prospect, “henry was just the kindest. the best boyfriend i could ask for,” she reiterates. “you think that someone– that someone…?”

“no, no,” you lie, “there would be signs if someone else hurt him, but like i said, we just need to be completely thorough. i’m sorry to even have to ask. now, if you’re okay with it, could you tell me more about henry?”

“yes, yeah, i can do that,” she sighs in relief. it’s clear she wants to talk about him, and probably how much she misses him. you do your best to pay close attention and keep her focused on you and your questions as sam takes forever “in the bathroom.” nothing she says is very useful, it’s all about how loving and kind and just about perfect he was to her. at first, you’re able to listen without a qualm, but the more she rambles about how much she loved him, and maybe even more so how much he loved her, your mind inevitably wanders to sam. sam and your bothersome, bottomless pit of unrequited love.

you kindly cut natalie off and stand when you hear sam’s footsteps approach. “it sounds like henry was a wonderful person. i’m so sorry for your loss.” despite knowing those words don’t mean or do much, you still fill them with as much sincerity as you can. sam is at your side again. “we really appreciate you taking the time to talk to us. we’ll get out of your hair now.”

she shows you to the front door out of courtesy, and you give her one last thank you and kind smile before turning your back and heading to the sidewalk, sam just ahead of you. pushing off the ground a little harder for a few steps, you catch up to him and his long strides, unable to resist the urge to let your gaze wander to his face.

“anything?” you ask, hoping he’ll look at you too.

“nope,” he shakes his head, “no emf, no hexbags, nothing out of the ordinary.” pursing your lips, you let your gaze fall to the sidewalk ahead of you when he doesn’t make eye-contact. “anything on your end?”

“not really. she just rambled about how in love they were. said there was nothing strange about the day, or him, and that he had no enemies. she made him sound like a complete angel.” without you realizing, your lip curls a little in jealousy.

sam just huffs in response, likely bothered by the lack of information. “let’s hope we can find something about the other two.”

you repeat the ruse at the next two homes, and sam’s hopes are dashed, because by the time you, sam, and dean are back at the motel room, just about the only thing of value you bring back is a paper bag of takeout.

spread out in the room, with your respective assortments of food, notes, and computers, you share all the details you can think of to hopefully find a pattern. dean’s on his bed, sam on the couch, and you at the dingy table. the biggest discovery is on dean’s part. according to the coroner, each of the victim’s hearts had inexplicably shrunken and shriveled up. this detail was kept out of the public eye because of how strange it was; it happened after each victim died, as it very clearly did not contribute to the cause of death. that, and the coroner is absolutely stumped by how such a thing could possibly happen.

dean asks if the first two interviews were as fruitless as the last, and you sigh as you explain just how unhelpful they’d been.

“the only common threads are that they were young adults, all in a relationship, and all sounded to be just about the perfect partner,” you report. “i mean, maybe the witch is targeting people in loving relationships? jealousy? or maybe they have some sort of secret we couldn’t dig up just by interviewing. the people we talked to were obviously biased. the first victim’s girlfriend wouldn’t stop talking about how amazing he was, the second’s sister told us she was the sweetest girlfriend out there, and you heard how the third’s husband described them.”

“really?” dean asks. “i mean, yeah, i heard the last guy, but i ran into the first vic’s girlfriend’s sister at the station. she was doing something for her sister there, and she did not seem too impressed with the guy when i asked about him.”

you raise your eyebrows, about to speak again when sam beats you to it.

“so maybe we are looking for secrets. did she say what she wasn’t impressed with?” sam says just about the exact thing you were about to.

dean shrugs. “jus’ said he was sort of a lazy boyfriend. didn’t take good enough care of her or show his love all that much.”

“maybe he was cheating?” you suggest.

“maybe,” dean repeats. “how’s this? you can dig into records and see if you can find any dirt on the vics. sam, you can look for a spell that might’ve caused this, and i’ll scout out a few local places. the officer i was talking to gave me a few places the vics probably spent time at.”

“sure,” you agree, a teasing edge to your voice, “just don’t get too distracted. we all know by ‘local places’ you mean bars. no sex unless you solve the case, and if you solve the case, no sex because you have to report back to us.”

“so no sex?” he plays along, acting all offended.

“nope!” you confirm, giving a firm shake of your head. 

dean’s already on his way out the door as he chimes, “no promises!”

“seriously!” sam calls after him, “we need info!” he groans and shakes his head when the only response he gets is the shutting of the door. when he doesn’t make a snarky comment about dean to you, you clench your jaw.

“sam.” it takes a lot of willpower to sound bothered by him, rather than say his name all sweet.

“mhmm?” he’s purposely keeping his gaze on his computer and his response short.

you roll your eyes, “c’mon, can’t you just get over it? it’s not like you haven’t done stupider things to get a case done.”

since you insist on arguing about it, he lifts his gaze, looking unimpressed. “doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have done it. you almost got dean hurt.”

“and i already apologized for that!” you say indignantly, annoyed that that’s his argument. he knows full well, better than anyone, that dean can deal with a measly vamp, even if he wasn’t expecting it. “it’s not like dean can’t handle himself!”

“you should have at least run the plan by us,” he says. you roll your eyes again.

“it was a spur of the moment decision. unless you wanted me to shout it out, compromise my position, and let every single vamp in that nest know exactly what i was gonna do?” you retort. sam sighs, in the way that you can tell he knows your argument is better than his. so, you still can’t figure out why he’s still upset about it, outside of his usual stubbornness.

“it could’ve gone so wrong,” is all he can come up with, “and you know that. it was stupid, and you could’ve gotten hurt. or worse.” there it is. his voice changed when he said you could’ve gotten hurt.

it’s your turn to sigh, this time because you finally understand. it makes your heart flutter a little, and it makes you even more annoyed. “sam, i can handle myself. you know that. sure, it was kind of stupid, and not a fully thought out plan, but i had to figure out a way to get us out of there! four vamps were about to find you, so i had to distract them. easiest way was with my blood. one vamp found dean, but he handled that just as easy as he always does. i knew you’d have my back, so i let the other three come after me. and look! we’re all here, alive and kicking! this is such a stupid thing for you to get mad over.”

“it’s stupid for me to want you to be more careful?” he counters.

“sam, we have to take risks in this job, we do it all the time. that’s just how this works, what’s different about this time?” you question.

“just–” he presses his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose as he tries to come up with a reason that’s good enough. a reason that’s not “i worry about you,” because that’ll make you even more angry, make it sounds like he doesn’t think you’re a good enough hunter. and he certainly can’t explain that that’s not it, he worries because the worst possible thing to him is you getting hurt. because then you’d ask why and he wouldn’t be able to tell you the truth.

“can’t we just be done with this?” you ask, and the tone of your voice is one he can’t deny. you’re upset, bothered, and tired of his pettiness. more so, you’re just plain old tired. it takes too much effort to stay upset with one another. he lets your question sit in the air for a moment longer.

“yeah,” he relents, voice quiet now. he’s holding back words, touches, feelings. he wants to tell you, “just please don’t put yourself in danger, it scares me. i get so worried. it makes me want to pull you close and protect you even though i know you don’t need it. that’s why i’m upset.” he wants to get up from the couch and set his computer across from yours, sit across from you, just so you’re a little bit closer. he wants to touch you so bad that it sort of hurts.

instead, he has to live for the relieved breath that huffs out through your nose, so quiet it couldn’t quite be counted as a sigh.

“good,” you say, voice matching his own quietness. there’s still tension hanging between you, but soon enough, it’ll dissipate altogether, and tomorrow, you’ll be back to joking with one another, brushing shoulders, and hiding how in love with each other you are. maybe he can even convince you to share his bed tonight. the couch is horridly uncomfortable.

only after you’re convinced that sam won’t be all pissy to you until the next time you find something silly to be angry about do you begin on your research. it’s just as fruitless as everything else today, and after hours searching and drawing banks, you go back to the interviews, jotting down all the details you can remember in case seeing it on paper helps something new and useful jump out at you.

all you get is a dull ringing in your ear, probably courtesy of some old motel appliance. but the ringing grows louder, and in your tired state, it becomes completely bothersome. you press your hand against your left ear—it’s loudest there—and shut your eyes. it’s been an hour or two since sam has shifted to sit across from you to escape the digging springs of the couch, so the movement catches his attention quickly.

“you alright?” he asks, already with a little pinch of his eyebrows in worry.

“yeah, ‘m fine,” you say, realizing the ringing must be the beginning of a headache, since sam can’t seem to hear it. “just a headache,” you explain.

“want me to get you some advil?” he offers.

“no, no that’s alright, i’ve got it,” you deny, but you don’t get up. your head doesn’t really hurt, and the ringing fades as fast as it appeared. you’re about to sigh in relief, when suddenly, you’re sort of breathless, and you gasp to take in air. the moment passes, and you shake your head to yourself a little. it’s weird until you remember that sam’s looking at you with that little furrow to his brow, sweet and concerned, like the last thing he wants is for you to be in pain, even if it’s just a measly headache. that look in his eyes as his gaze focuses on you and only you is certainly enough to take your breath away. it just took you by surprise this time.

“you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, worried by your gasp.

“mhmm,” you hum, trying to keep your tone light and trying not to look too hard into his pretty hazel eyes. “jus’ hurt for a second, but i think the headache’s gone away.”

“okay,” he relents, not fully convinced, but willing to take your word for it and refocus on his computer screen. you turn your own attention back to the papers in front of you, away from his face, so close that it sends your heart into wild palpitations every time your mind wanders from the case and to his presence. in other words, it happens often.

you’re determined to find something, some detail that clicks and leads you to anything important. but after another unfocused hour, your eyelids are heavy, almost as much as your head as you wish to just sink down and fall asleep right there on that little table.

“you should get some sleep,” sam says, no stranger to the way you look when you should quit being stubborn and just go to bed. and normally, you’d resist, but the idea of sleep, of closing your eyes and letting your breath even out, slow down, is far too inviting.

so, you relent, and close your laptop. “yeah,” you say as you shuffle the sheets of paper together and set them on a neat pile on top of your computer.

“take the bed, too,” he insists, “you look exhausted.”

“mm, glad to hear it,” you joke halfheartedly, “but, no, sam, that couch is too small for you. it’s small for me, even.”

“and it’s seriously uncomfortable,” he adds.

“so we’ll share. i’ll leave space for you. you should come to bed soon, too. ‘s not like we should wait up for dean,” you snicker. sam rolls his eyes, but easily agrees with your conclusion. as you settle into the covers of the motel bed, you consider waiting up for him so you can feel the dip of the bed, then the warmth that radiates off him as he lays beside you. you want to feel the brush of his long arms, the heel of his foot or nudge of his toe, sometimes you’re treated with the broad expanse of his back. but sleep claims you before you can even make the attempt.

sam’s big hand on your shoulder brings you back into consciousness, and you breathe in long and hard since it seems like you can’t quite fill your lungs. then your eyes flutter open, and sam’s figure is hovering over yours, his hand lingering, then slipping away as he sees you wake. he doesn’t stand fully upright yet, unsure if he should say something or not.

he keeps his voice low, not wanting to alert dean, who’s changing in the bathroom. “are you feeling fine?”

groggy as you sit up, you peek at the clock. 8:43. you slept through the 8:30 alarm. odd.

“uh, yeah, i’m fine,” you answer, voice gravelly from the morning’s first use, “why?”

sam shifts to sit on the bedside opposite you. “nothing just… i don’t know, you were just breathing really light last night. i could barely even tell you were breathing at some points and normally you breathe pretty noticeably while you sleep. and, you know, given this case, i just wanted to check.”

sam notices the way you breathe when you sleep. that’s just about all you can take away from his words. sam pays enough attention to the way you breathe when you sleep to know when your breathing is different. sam thinks about the way that you breathe. maybe that’d be creepy from anyone else, but you think about the way he breathes too. the way it lulls you to sleep when he’s close, the way it catches when he’s surprised, or the way it changes when he’s about to laugh.

then you remember he’s said something you’re supposed to address. “it’s nothing, sam. i feel totally fine, just tired from working back to back cases, is all.” you say this because you’re sure of it; you do feel just fine. and sam makes you breathless all the time, so there's nothing out of the ordinary there.

“are you sure?” he presses, “you slept straight through the alarm, like a rock.”

“i’m sure,” you say.

“okay,” you can immediately tell that he’s not entirely convinced as he says this, “but if anything happens or changes or you feel like you’re out of breath, you promise to tell me or dean?”

“of course.” you may not want to be fussed over, but you certainly don’t want to go out in such a stupid, horrible way. “i promise,” you add, just for his sake. dean’s phone starts ringing, and he appears out of the bathroom.

“either way, let’s get this case done, and quick,” sam insists.

“don’t have to tell me twice,” you agree, throwing off the covers to get ready for the day.

dean’s voice keeps you from lingering by sam’s side. “hey, crazy kids, let’s hurry it up. just got off the phone with the sheriff, there was another death last night.”

“dammit,” you and sam swear in unison. 

on the way to the scene, dean updates you on his findings from last night. he was just as unsuccessful as you in finding major dirt on any of the victims, though he recieved similar testimonials to the sister’s about the first, henry. otherwise, he was able to find the witch’s possible hunting ground in a bar where all three victims have been seen with their partners. sam reports that he’s getting close to finding the right spell after discovering a few similar ones. 

when you reach the victim’s house, sam and dean check in with the police officers, and you immediately head to interview whoever found the victim’s body. he’s obviously distraught, and probably still in shock from losing his boyfriend. you do your best to stay gentle, kind, and understanding as you lead him through the interview, interrupting your questions for the occasional “he sounds like he was a wonderful partner,” or other such comforting phrase as the man, tyler, rambles about how great he was, how guilty he feels, and just about nothing helpful except for adding another data point to the one pattern you have.

“thank you for your help,” you say, giving him a tight lipped smile before standing and drifting over to sam on instinct as you mull over the information you recieved. he’s poking around in the kitchen, subtly searching for anything abnormal and most likely coming up empty as this house follows the unhelpful trend of the rest.

“anything?” he asks once you’re by his side.

you shake your head, “just the madly in love bit. everything was pretty much the same as the other vics as well.” sam sighs like he expected that answer.

“i think we should look more into the first victim,” he suggests, echoing the same thought that you had. “maybe interview natalie again, see if she admits something different about henry if we push it a little.”

“i agree, though i’d say let’s hold off on interviewing her again unless we can’t find the spell soon. even if she admits that he wasn’t as good to her as she said before, i’m not sure how much good that does in comparison to the spell. if you keep looking into that, i’ll check henry’s records more thoroughly. i looked into him less last night since we already had something on him.” you revise the plan a bit, and sam nods in agreement, making that sort of awkward face with his lips pursed and eyebrows raised that he does when someone without the knowledge you have comes in hearing range. you glance behind you to see the figure of a police officer through the kitchen doorway and are fast to quit all talk of spells and witches to avoid sounding insane.

“dean can scout out the bar again to see if this most recent couple frequented there as well,” sam puts the last piece in place for your plan, just as you imagined it. once it seems like there’s nothing left to glean from the house, you grab dean and head out back to the car. the brothers walk a bit ahead of you as sam fills dean in on the plan.

“excuse me! agent,” a voice calls from behind you. the three of you turn, and you wave the two of them away to indicate that you’ll deal with it.

“yes?” you respond as an officer approaches.

“your partner asked for the full coroner’s reports on paper from the first three victims,” she says, holding out a file as she reaches you.

“ah! right. thank you, officer.” you give her a polite smile and take the papers before turning away. sam and dean have made it to the impala, parked a bit away due to the police cars surrounding the house. you jog at a casual pace to catch up, but falter about halfway there as your breaths turn all shuddery and quick. you stop, trying to right yourself and desperate to brush this off, but you just keep gulping in breaths, feeling like you’ve run a mile at top speed without warming up. 

shit. shit, shit, shit, is all you can think. fuck.

as you stare at the car, dean’s already in the front seat and sam is pulling the passenger’s door open, and you will with all your might that neither of them will turn to look for you. you don’t want them to catch you like this. instead, you want to explain it to them, calm and collected and full of breath because your body’s beginning to readjust and you should be fine to walk over in moments and dammit– sam’s twisted around to find you, his hands resting on the top of the car and the door. the second he catches sight of you, just standing there with your chest heaving up and down, he’s launched himself away from the car and towards you. he calls your name, worry flooding his voice. you had tried to recompose yourself the second you saw his head turning, but it was too late, and now he’s jogging your way.

sam is in front of you in moments, his hands on your shoulders and his face fallen in a deep frown.

“you’re not okay, are you?”

“i– i’m–,” you can’t think of what to say, and though your breath is returning to normal, you can’t deny him. “let’s just get in the car. please.” 

his jaw clenches and his eyes flick all over you, from the top of your head to the point of your shoes like he always looks at you when he thinks you might be hurt. he’s taking you in, quick and almost panicked so he can fix it right away. he takes a steadying breath because he’s so ovewrought he can barely think. “fine,” he says, voice carefully hushed. if he doesn’t control it, he might start shouting, panicking even. sam can’t bear to leave you untouched now, so he leaves a hand splayed on your shoulder blade as you finish the short walk to the car. he opens the back door and climbs right in, completely foregoing his spot in the passenger’s seat. you realize he wants to sit in the back with you, and it would’ve been sweet if it wasn’t because you’re probably dying.

jaw clenched, you follow him in, and dean’s already twisted around in his seat, gaze shifting between the two of you to try and read what just happened.

“what was that all about?” he questions, eyebrows raised. you put a hand on sam’s knee to stop him from telling dean.

“the witch got me,” you drop the news without much hesitation, more focused on getting your two cents in before either of them start grilling you with questions and making stupid suggestions to try and fix it, “it’s gotta be someone we met or passed by yesterday. one of the people we interviewed or someone from the diner we had lunch at; these types of spells normally require the victim’s dna. and before either of you do anything stupid or crazy, we’re gonna stick with the same plan. dean, you can drop us at the motel so we can find the spell and reversal, and you find out what you can at the bar. got it?”

dean looks at you like you’re crazy, and you ignore sam’s gaze altogether. 

“got it?” dean repeats back to you, incredulous, “not so much, kid, i’m gonna need you to explain this to me a little better. what do you mean the witch got you? you mean you’re gonna stop breathing in some odd hours that might not be enough time for us to find and gank this witch?”

“yes, dean, that’s what i mean. try to keep up,” you turn a little mean as your frustration takes over in order to compensate for your growing fear. “and i’m not going to die, so quit being so pessimistic. we’ll find the witch, as long as we stay focused on the plan. unless you have a faster way, which i’d be happy to abide by.” neither have a good enough retort to that, so you continue, “can we go now? we might not have that much time.”

with much effort, dean turns back in his seat and starts the engine. his voice is low when he asks, “what do you mean by that?”

“well, i don’t know exactly when this whole thing started!” you answer as he pulls into the street, “sam said my breathing wasn’t totally normal last night. if that means anything, well, i went to bed early last night, around eleven. that could mean it’s been at least, i don’t know,” you check the time, “eleven hours. which gives us five, minimum.” you think you can physically feel sam tense up next to you.

“five hours?” sam repeats, his voice taut, like he’s holding back anger, fear, maybe more. “and were there any times before that you felt out of breath?” 

you think back to yesterday. sure, every time i looked at you, isn’t quite an answer that you can give. “um, i’m not sure,” you say, sounding more cryptic than casual, as you had meant. you see dean’s eyebrow raise through the rearview mirror.

“you’re not sure?” dean asks, unbelieving. the two brothers are starting to sound like a broken record as they repeat every other thing you say back to you.

“yeah. nothing comes to mind,” you say, more firmly this time.

sam sighs. “you can’t seriously think it’s a good idea to hide that sort of thing from us if it happened. this is serious.”

you scoff, “oh, really? i wasn’t aware, it’s not like it’s my life on the line, or anything like that.”

“alright, let’s not get pissy,” dean intervenes.

“pissy?” you scoff again, “right, because this is serious and i’m apparently unaware of that.”

dean says your name, voice a little chiding as he tries to disperse some of the tension that’s building within the small space of the car. “let’s focus on the case here. sam is right, we need to know everything you do. was there anything else weird you noticed last night?”

“i don’t know!” you exclaim before calming down a bit and taking a deep breath. “i had this ringing in my ears for a minute, around ten. i thought it was a headache. and … i did feel breathless, but just for a second. i thought it was … something else.”

“why didn’t you say anything?” sam asks, immediately remembering this. you had pressed your hand to your ear. he believed you when you said it was a headache, but he should have known better. you’re far more likely to rub your temples when you feel a headache coming on.

“i thought it was something else,” you repeat.

“like what?” he presses.

“like–” you hesitate, “like nothing. just nothing, i don’t know.”

dean interrupts again to get things back on track, “so that could mean four hours, not five.” you see sam’s jaw clenching out of the corner of your eye.

“yeah,” you confirm, hoping your voice doesn’t reveal how anxious you really are.

“my question is why just you?” dean asks. “i’d normally figure it’s because they suspect you to be a hunter, but if they were able to get your dna, they probably had access to ours, too. the witch think you’re madly in love with sammy or somethin’?”

you fluster at that, mind scrambling, why in the goddamn hell would dean say that? does he want me dead faster? “uhm, uh,” you laugh a little, completely awkward about it, “why would they think that? we were clearly, you know, in a working relationship, not a, hah– romantic,” you clear your throat, “relationship. i’m sure it’s just the hunter thing, maybe they couldn’t get your dna… or they thought i was more worth killing,” you attempt at a joking insult, but you’re still sort of jerking through your words and reeling from someone saying “you’re madly in love with sammy” out loud.

to your left, sam looks almost as flustered as you feel, which brings you an ounce of comfort.

“whatever you say,” dean shrugs.

when you get back to the hotel, sam’s practically running inside to pull out his laptop, and dean speeds away the second the car doors close behind the two of you. both of you are fidgety and antsy as you conduct your research in silence. you think sam’s even more nervous than you, with his leg bouncing and teeth chewing away at his lower lip. you’re not sure if you should comfort him, or let him be in favor of getting the research done. it doesn’t take too long for him to find the original spell, and as he tells you about it, some nervousness dissipates when the both of you get back into the groove of a normal hunt, trying to pretend that this time, the consequences aren’t as personal as they could ever get.

you can’t find any dirt on henry in any records, so you focus on staff from the bar and diner from yesterday to see if there’s any overlap that could have gotten dna from both you and all the other four victims. something else entirely jumps out at you as you check employment records.

“sam, it’s natalie,” you blurt out into the silence of the room. he raises his eyebrows, and you explain before he can even ask. “she works at the bar. and i drank some of that lemonade she gave us. she had easy access to everyone’s dna, and henry was the only deviation from the pattern.”

sam stands as you explain, “okay, let’s go.”

“no, let’s call dean and finish finding the reversal spell. i’d like to have a backup plan, if that’s alright.” sam purses his lips, looking like he wants to argue. you propose something more rational than his idea, “we’ll call dean and let him know. he can go to her house and make sure she’s the real deal before we go, too.”

“fine,” sam agrees, pulling out his phone, just as it begins to ring. he answers it and puts it on speaker, “dean, it’s natalie.”

“yeah, i know. that’s what i was about to tell you, the idiots from last night didn’t bother to mention it,” he complains. “i’m headed to her house right now.” to prove it, you hear the car door open and close. “how’s it going on your end?”

“we found the spell, we’re looking for the reversal right now,” you answer. “call us if you need help.”

“mm, you just take care o’ yourself, alright? i’ll call you back.” after that, all you get is the hang-up tone. 

a bit later, your concentration is interrupted by the pinging of sam’s phone. you watch him as he checks the messages, then looks up at you with a poorly hidden scowl.

“she wasn’t at her house,” he explains, “dean’s headed to her sister’s to look for her there. but it’s definitely her, he found a secret room full of, y’know, as he’d say, ‘witchy stuff.’”

you try to hide your disappointment and the uneven rise and fall of your chest. sam’s stayed mostly focused on the research, but every now and then, you feel him looking you over, brow furrowed and eyes concerned as he checks for anything abnormal. he’s looking at you like that now.

“damn,” is all you manage in response while still trying to stay casual about it.

“how are you feeling?” he asks. you expected the question, but you still don’t want to answer. you’re about to tell him you’re fine, since you’re not really running out of breath yet, until he speaks again before you can, “and don’t say ‘fine.’”

“i am fine,” you insist immediately, “just extra tired from getting a little less oxygen than normal. but nothing crazy. i can still focus on this research and i can still hold a weapon.” you demonstrate by grabbing one of the knives you keep strapped to your thigh and twirling it a little in your hand. sam’s face spells out the word “really?”

“just– tell me if it gets worse. please,” he’s just about begging, and with a bit of puppy dog eye action, you’re crumbling.

“okay, sam,” you relent, letting your voice go soft. he’s really scared for you, and it makes you feel just about every little thing. you want to comfort him, reassure that you’ll be okay, even when you’re terrified for yourself. you want him to comfort you, for that exact reason, and you want to hold his hand. maybe you can be scared together, a little closer than you are now. you want to kiss him, because what if this is the only chance you get? that thought horrifies you. then you wonder if it’s for the best. maybe you should die as his best friend, because dying as his anything is better than scaring him away first. it’s hard to concentrate on the research, but it’s not hard to find the motivation. the hope is to avoid death completely.

finally, you find it.

“i got it, sam!” you’re excited, then a bit breathless after pushing so much air out of your lungs so fast. the breath you take in is sort of shuddering, and it makes sam frown. he doesn’t even try to hide how worried he is. his face is nothing but unadulterated concern and care and … and something else before that expression melts away and he’s focusing on the computer screen that you tilted towards him. the crease between his brows only grows as his eyes flit down the list of ingredients.

“we don’t have the half of these ingredients,” he worries.

“no,” you admit, “but there’s a witch in town who’s away from home who might.”

to get there, sam doesn’t hesitate to steal a car from the motel parking lot, and this time you can’t even argue given the fact that you’re pretty sure you have less than two hours to live at this point. you promised sam you’d tell him if it got worse, but as it does, you want to say something less and less.

sam picks the lock of the door, entering the house carefully with you right behind. weapons drawn, you walk the route that dean gave you to the hidden room, the door in the wall of the hallway left open for you by dean.

it’s much darker than the rest of the house from the lack of windows and bright lights. this, paired with the eerie assortment of basic herbs to what might be jars of blood, makes it look like natalie really leaned into the witchy aesthetic, which you’d find understandable if she weren’t using her magic to kill people.

sam walks faster than you know is wise to match paces with, so you follow behind him slowly as he rushes to set the computer with the list of ingredients on the table in the center of the room abd begin the spell. you’re a split second too late to shout in warning when you see a figure emerge from behind a shelf of herbs.

sam whirls around at your cry, gun raised, only to be hit on the side of the head, hard, by a wooden bat in natalie’s hand. he crumples to the ground despite his size, and without batting an eye, your knife is flying through the air, straight for the spot between natalie’s shoulder blades. but at the last second, she spins around, and with a flick of her hand, the knife falls to the ground. you reach for your gun, but through your hindered breathing, you’re slow. she has no trouble launching the bat at you at an unnatural speed. the wood slams into your chest, sending you sprawling and gasping in your weakened state. you’re fighting for breath so hard that you can barely register her hauling you up and tying your hands behind your back, then doing the same to sam. somehow, she’s able to get his weight on a chair and tie him to the wobbly piece of furniture. then, it’s your turn, and by the time you come back to your senses, breathing far more labored than before, you’re tied to a chair, back to back with sam.

natalie gives you a horrid smile as she tugs at a knot to tighten it.

“well, isn’t this fortuitous! such a lovely surprise for you two to visit me,” she chimes, just as you feel sam stirring behind you. his head lolls back, brushing against your own. you completely ignore her in favor of calling his name. a rumbling groan escapes his lips as he stumbles back into consciousness.

“that’s right!” natalie grins, “it’ll be much better with pretty boy awake.” she walks around you, and you hear a smacking sound that you presume to be her hitting his cheeks to wake him further.

“don’t touch him,” you practically growl. it sounds far less intimidating than you hoped in your breathless voice. she laughs and sam lets out an audible huff of air as he wakes.

“there he is,” natalie grins. “now i’ve got two love birds at my mercy! much better than i could have imagined. you know, i couldn’t watch the deaths of the others, so this is far more exciting. i thought i’d have to miss yours, too!” she motions to you. “but now i get to watch you die, watch pretty boy watch you die, and then kill him, too! lovely isn’t it? i’ve never had such luck, thank you idiots for bringing it to me.”

“you’re not killing anyone today,” sam retorts, anger filling his voice. with a bit of an uncomfortable stretch, you twist your fingers around to grab a hold of his. it’s awkward, but you take advantage of her horrible ramblings to keep her distracted and try to guide sam’s hands to the tiny blade attached to the seam of your jacket sleeve.

“i’m not?” she laughs, “mmm, you don’t really seem like you’re in the position to determine that, pretty boy.” you hate her calling him that. “well, love will do that to a person. makes you easy targets, blinds you. you two were just too easy, so busy making eyes at each other to pay any proper attention to me.” you conclude she’s crazy, rambling on about what made her angry enough to kill. you’re sure she caught you making eyes at him, but she’s crazy talking like he’s visibly in love with you too. immediately catching on to your plan, sam’s hands are fumbling around with your jacket sleeve, trying to get the knife unstuck so it can slip down and into your hands.

“it’s so goddamn irritating when people are just so in love with each other. makes me want to hurl,” she complains.

“sounds to me like you’re just jealous your boyfriend didn’t treat you like that,” you prod at her weak spot. she whirls on you, grabbing the front of your jacket and yanking you towards her.

“so i killed him. and everything he was supposed to be,” she hisses. “and know i’m going to kill you two pining idiots. you know, you don’t have very long,” she feigns sympathy in the condescending tone of her voice. when she slams you back against the chair, it takes your breath away for a frighteningly long time. sam’s so worried, calling your name out over and over again as you choke on nothing, that he almost doesn’t realize that the movement also helped dislodge the knife and let it fall into your hands. it slices a thin line down your arm, but you couldn’t care less as you begin to work on cutting through his bonds.

“oh, shut up, lover boy,” natalie growls, hating the way he says your name with so much care as she stays leaning over you, a sick smile on her face. why the hell is she calling him lover boy? you know that’s not what you should be so worried about in this moment, but it’s the one thing that you can think about. “i’m busy watching your little lover die! i think you’ll look so good crying over them, won’t you?”

when sam’s ties snap, he stays in place, holding onto the rope so it doesn’t drop to the ground and alert her. he just shimmies the knife from your hand to his and begins working on your own ties. through it all, he pretends to struggle helplessly, cursing at her wildly.

natalie rolls her eyes, then stands straight. “if you don’t shut it, i’m going to make you,” she snarls, stalking around to stand in front of sam. in an instant, he brings the knife to the rope binding him to the chair, snapping it and lunging towards her. judging from the choked cry that escapes her throat, sam’s already plunged the knife into her neck. you hear him grunt, then the sound of her body hits the floor before he’s turned back to you, quickly freeing you all the way and pulling you to your feet. he’s halfway to the door with his hand gripping yours when you tug back.

“wait… sam, wait!” you gasp, and he’s immediately face to face with you, sweet eyes looking you up and down with confusion and worry. “it’s not– it didn’t work. the spell, we need to do the spell.”

“what do you mean? that’s impossible, killing the witch who performed the spell always–,” he fully takes you in for the first time. your chest is still heaving, your breath rattling, and it’s undeniably getting worse by the minute. “okay, okay. just sit down.” he guides you back to a chair, turning it to face the table so he can keep an eye on you as he works. this time, you’re having a hard time hiding the fear from your eyes, and he reads that loud and clear. he lets you have his strong hands cupping your face for just a moment. “you’re gonna be fine. i’m gonna fix this.” he says it with such conviction that you’d do anything to believe him. then his warm touch is gone, and you’re again hit with the reality that it’s getting harder and harder to breathe, to get any satisfactory amount of air.

your eyes follow him desperately as he rushes about the area, checking and rechecking the spell as he adds ingredients to a small cup he finds. his movements become more and more panicked by the second as he notices your breathing getting worse, more fluttery and gulping. sam’s muttering to himself as he works, too scared to look at your face for too long. unable to find one of the ingredients, he curses loudly as he searches, shoving a whole rack of ingredients to the ground. glass shatters and the metal rack clangs against the ground, the sound echoing throughout the space.

flinching at the sound, you cry out his name, struggling to speak, “you have… you have to.. to calm .. calm down.”

“i can’t!” he practically shouts, and you think you’ve never seen him this distraught, this helpless before.

“why?” is all you can manage between gasps.

“because you’re dying! and i can’t let you die, i won’t.” he’s still rummaging through ingredients as he speaks. he’s still refusing to look at you.

you want him to say it, the truth, so you repeat the question, “why?” you wheeze out, desperate to hear it in case he can’t finish the spell on time.

“because i love you!” he’s no longer shouting when he says it. his voice is all desperation and helplessness and utter sincerity, said like all he needs in the world is for you to understand that. you’re not sure if the shuddering breath you let out could count as a sigh of relief, but it’s the closest you’ll ever get.

you take him in. tears running down his cheeks, lips pursed and eyebrows pinched like he’s holding back from crying out. he’s pretty like that, you think. maybe that’s a cruel thought, but you love him too much to think otherwise. he’s always pretty; when he’s mad at you, when he’s bleeding, when he’s stitching himself up, when he’s biting his lip in concentration. when he talks about something that makes him excited or when he’s crying. when he’s oblivious of the way you look at him while he sleeps, and when he makes you love him so hard that it hurts worse than anything a monster could do to you.

you’re lightheaded, and taking in so little air that you can’t say it back. all you want to do is say it back. you slide out of the chair and onto your hands and knees, shaking so hard you can barely hold yourself up. from the ground, you can hear sam, moving around, letting jars fall and shatter to the ground, crying.

when you collapse to the floor, writhing and gasping for any semblance of air, sam snaps. he can’t find the goddamn rosemary, such a simple and common herb, even for a normal kitchen, especially compared to all the other ingredients, but he knows it’s essential for its protection, purification, and healing properties. he can’t give up, he can’t let you die, but you’re writhing on the ground and crying inbetween gasps and all he wants is to hold you close, brush your tears away and tell you it’ll be alright. he barely catches the sound of your voice over the noise of his searching.

“please…”

“what? what is it, honey?” he asks through tears, unable to look at you as his eyes scan a new shelf for the basic pine-needle shape of the leaves, maybe even the little purple flowers to help it stand out.

“hold me,” you wheeze, afraid of dying alone on the stone cold floor as you feel your consciousness slipping through your fingertips like the sand of an hourglass. sam feels like he’s had his heart cleaved in two by a blunt ax coated in the world’s most vile poison.

he chokes on a sob before he can speak again, “i can’t. i’m so sorry, baby, i can't. i just need the rosemary, it’s so close, please, baby.” he’s not sure who he’s begging to. you, to stay alive? god, to intervene? himself, to finish the spell on time? anything and anyone who will listen, most likely. you don’t have the energy to ask him to hold you again.

that moment of silence is the most horrible of them all, then the door swings open with a bang, letting the bright lights from the rest of the house flood into the dark space. dean’s eyes zero in on you on the floor, grasping helplessly at your throat, and he’s on his knees by your side in a second.

he scoops you up in his arms and to his chest. “hey. hey, hey, hey. it’s okay,” he comforts, his eyes wet because he doesn’t know if he believes himself, given your state. “sam’s gonna fix it, darlin’. you’re gonna be just fine.” he’s holding you too tight to wipe away the tears that helplessly stream down your face and he clings to the fact that your hand is gripping his wrist tight.

“dean, rosemary!” sam barks. dean looks up from you, eyes scanning the mess around you; natalie’s dead body and the blood from her wound seeping slowly over the floor, the shattered glass and clutter of dried herbs along with other magical ingredients. sam realizes dean probably won’t recognize it on his own. “dried bundle, purple flowers, thin leaves,” he instructs as best as he can as he continues his own search. dean feels awful as he lets you fall back to the ground and your weak hands fingers scrape at his arms, but he thinks he sees it, rolled far away and invisible unless you’re crouched to the ground. he scrambles across the floor to grab it and tosses it to sam, who barely manages to catch it with his shaking hands.

sam rips at it with thick, clumsy fingers, crushing the brittle leaves between the pads of his forefinger and thumb into the mixture. he’s silently praying it’s enough as he mixes it in, letting a few drops slosh over the side of the cup in his rush. dean’s back with you, holding you up in a sitting position for sam with a hand smoothing up and down your arm in his best effort of a comforting gesture. he presses a kiss to your temple as sam drops down in front of you. sam uses one large hand to cup the side of your face, and the other to bring the cup to your lips. for a moment, he’s terrified beyond comprehension when the first bit of the liquid he pours into your mouth just dribbles right back out and down your chin.

you’ve gone nearly completely still; your eyes are barely open and your breathing so shallow that only dean knows you’re still inhaling because he’s got you so close.

“please,” sam begs, whispering your name with such conviction, such desperation, that it pulls you away from the claws of unconsciousness just enough to get you to swallow weakly. sam tilts the cup up, just a bit more, and the rim knocks against your bottom teeth as more foul tasting liquid seeps into your mouth. you swallow again, then gag a little when he pours too much for you to handle in your current state. sam’s hopeful when half the mixture is down your throat and he tilts the cup for you again, but the liquid falls down your chin this time, and your eyes are closed. you’ve gone totally still in dean’s arms.

“no, no, no, wake up. c’mon, we’re almost there. you gotta wake up,” sam begs again, more tears spilling onto his cheeks after his hope is stolen away, more cruelly than ever. “please, please, please, honey. please wake up.” his voice breaks as he calls out your name again, setting the cup on the floor and taking you from dean to pull you into his own arms. dean lets him, swallowing hard and not daring to move an inch as he takes in the sight, maybe just about the most horrible thing he’s seen in his fucked up life. that’s the second family member he’s had die in his arms, and the first is holding your limp body as he shakes, cries, and begs, beyond distraught as he denies the fact that he couldn’t save you. dean curses his life. he wishes it was him, thinks about the fact that he’s always too late to make a difference. he’s ready to sell his soul again, ready to go to hell and back.

you’re dead weight against sam’s chest, your clammy forehead and tear-sticky cheeks pressed against the sweaty skin of his neck. he gathers you closer, his hand tugging at your jacket and rubbing up and down your back, begging for you to wake up.

dean’s about to interrupt sam’s mourning to tell him he’s gonna look for the nearest crossroads, that all sam needs to do is keep your body safe. then you shudder in sam’s arms and he’s calling your name again, far beyond desperate that you’ll hear him. he says your name like a prayer, with so much reverence, far more than he could ever muster up for the god he wants to believe in.

you take in a sharp breath, your eyes fly open, and you’re gasping for air, grasping at sam’s sturdy arms like you’ve almost just drowned. sam just about sobs in relief, comforting you through his own tears, “oh, you’re okay, honey, you’re alright. i’ve got you. just breathe, baby, just breathe, that's all you gotta do.” his voice instantly calms you, and you wrap your shaky arms around his neck to show him you understand. he’s got you. he buries his face into your neck, trying not to hold you too tight for fear of restricting your breathing. you feel the wetness of his tears on you, warm and so tired. you don’t want him to cry. he loves you.

his hands smooth up and down your back, helping you set a pace to calm down your erratic breathing as you let a fresh wave of tears fall on his hot skin. they’re tears of relief, most of all. of exhaustion and leftover fear, and oh, glory, tears because he loves you. he said it, and now he can’t take it back because you love him far too much for that.

“sammy,” you breathe out. he just holds you tighter. “don’t cry, sam. it’s okay. i’m okay.” you slip your fingers into his hair, your hand so gentle as you run it through his pretty locks. you just want to comfort him, take away all the fear from the last few hours that he's been holding onto, letting pile up and up into an unmanageable, unruly, ugly tower. you suppose him crying so much is him letting the tower topple over, almost as simple as a toddler’s chubby, innocent hands to a wooden block castle. but it still tugs at your heart, pulls at you so hard because you hate to hear him cry, feel him shake and stiffen up around you, too scared to let you go for even a second. “i’m okay,” you repeat, voice fragile from the whispering brush of death’s fingers to your palm, but you try to make it strong and confident for him, “you saved me, sammy, i’m alright. it’s alright. it’s over. you don’t need to worry anymore.” 

you think he relaxes just a touch at your words, but he doesn’t move an inch from his spot on the ground, or say a thing to interrupt the sound of your breathing. all he does is cradle you close, one hand to your back so he can feel it shift when you take in or let out air, and the other splayed from the curve of your neck, up to the base of your head. without moving too much, he presses a long kiss to the ambiguous space above your ear. that’s not enough, so he tilts his head more to press his lips to the skin of your forehead.

dean hates to break the silent reverence between the two of you, and it means more than the world, the whole goddamn universe or anything else he could ever think of, to see this instead of you dead in sam’s arms. you might be the love of sam’s life, but that just makes dean all the more protective of you. to dean, you’re family, and you have been for a long time. that’s why he needs to get the two of you away from here, before anyone finds you and the dead body.

“sam,” dean interrupts, voice somehow both gentle and extra gruff, “we gotta go.” he knows sam can get you up on his own, but he still places a firm hand on your elbow as the two of you stand. he doesn’t want to let his hand fall away from you, but he does anyway. on the way out and to the car, you’re tucked safe into sam’s side, and dean’s got his gun in hand, ready to protect the both of you need be.

dean expects it when sam climbs in the backseat with you, just thankful to get away from the damned house and back to the motel. the ride is mostly silent, save the rumble of the engine, and sam’s hand stays securely wrapped around yours, itching to pull you even closer. you yawn and sam tugs at your hand, then drops his gaze to his lap when you look at him, offering to let you lie there. you can’t resist, because historically, your head in his lap has been heaven, and you figure that this time, after having heard him say “i love you,” it’ll be something better than heaven, something undiscovered and infinitely more precious than all the gold and silver in the world. so you drop your head to his thigh, and his hands are immediately on you. you’ve got the warmth of his palms on your head and your shoulder. your own hand is on his knee, taking in the feel of his time-worn jeans, and the muscle, sinew, and bone underneath.

you fall asleep, just 10 minutes from the motel, and sam doesn’t want to wake you, but you always do anytime he tries to carry you to bed.

he calls your name, all tenderness and sweet as he rubs your shoulder. you stir easily, only having fallen into a light slumber. the sigh you let out when you sit up is soft, and sam thinks it’s cute. then he thinks about the fact that, when you both settle down, he won’t have to hold that thought back. “you’re cute,” he can say, and make you both a little flustered before pressing a kiss to your lips. until then, he’s getting out of the car with you, only letting his hands stray from you when dean pulls you into a hug, right then and there. he holds you tight, showing you how scared he was too, so you squeeze back with extra care.

“don’t scare us like that again, kiddo. you got it?” he mumbles into the embrace. 

you nod, “i got it.” he lingers for a moment, then presses a quick kiss to the side of your head before parting and letting sam take over again.

he’s got a hand stuck to your back on the way into the room, all the way to the bed you shared last night. you don’t hesitate to peel off your dirty shirt and go to put on a new one, but sam’s already holding one out to you. dean disappears into the bathroom, despite not wanting to let you out of his sight.

you tug on the shirt, then collapse into bed, taking sam with you.

“you stink,” you complain lightheartedly, looking at him with honey-sweet love in your eyes. he wants to joke back, but he’s not quite there yet.

“i’ll shower after dean, if you want,” he offers, nothing but sincere. you smile at him, his nose inches from yours.

“but then you’d have to get up,” you say.

“sure, but if that’s what you want,” he repeats. he’d do anything for you, you think.

you shake your head. “that’s not what i want. i don’t want you to go. but i also want to fall asleep in your arms, and it sucks that you smell like blood, sweat, and nasty potions.”

“so what do i do, baby?” he asks, voice light, but you think he really means it. you melt at the pet name.

“hmmm,” you consider, truly not sure. you’re all quick in the shower after years of experience in motel bathrooms, but that still feels like such a long time to be away from him, especially since you should probably shower, too. you decide to suck it up. “you shower, then me. dean said the water was still hot yesterday, even when he went last.” you’re not sure when your voice dropped to a whisper, but it’s quiet now. he sighs, half disappointed, but knowing it’ll be much more comfortable that way.

the second you’re out of the shower and dressed, sam’s tugging you back into bed with him and tucking you into his chest. his hold is still protective and a little wary. you want to make him relax, so you wiggle away just a bit to look at his face.

“sam, i’m so hungry,” you complain. he smiles at you, thinking you’re too cute to resist when you whine just a little. and he just loves it when you say his name.

“you’re gonna make me get up again?” he asks, and you hold back a triumphant grin because his voice has turned pleasantly lighthearted.

“you’re gonna let me starve?” you tease back.

“fine,” he huffs, “we can go to the vending machine together.” he really doesn’t want to be far from you.

“no,” you protest, dragging out the ‘o’ just a little. “we had that earlier. and chips don’t count as a meal. poor dean probably hasn’t eaten at all today! we deserve a treat,” you argue.

sam can’t deny you anything you want in this moment. “we do,” he agrees, “what d’you want? maybe we can convince dean to pick it up for us.”

you smile. “mmm, that’s not fair. dean deserves a treat, too. i’ll satisfy myself with vending machine food for a few hours, then we can go out to an early dinner.”

“are you sure?” sam asks. you smile more.

“mhmm,” you nod. “i have the excuse to buy a candy bar too now.”

dean, splayed out on his own bed, has likely been listening in on this whole conversation, and graciously chosen not to interrupt. he smiles at you as you exit the room.

with a glance that no one’s around, sam slips his hand into yours as you make your way to the vending machine down the hall. your heart blooms at the feeling, at the way he’s been looking at you without shame and suddenly you realize you never said it back. sam punches in the number for an excessive amount of snacks, getting all of yours, his, and dean’s favorites, waiting til they all fall down to collect them. he bends over, gathering them all in his big arms and wide pockets and handing a few to you. the crinkling of plastic fills the quiet air as you watch him with a sort of worship and adoration dripping from your eyes. you take in the curve of his back, the peek of his spine that you get from his tshirt riding up a bit, and the pretty brown hair on the back of his head. when he stands, he catches that gaze, and for once you don’t hide it away or tuck it into that corner of the drawer where you keep all the little trinkets you don’t need, but can’t bear to get rid of. because you need this, and you can have this.

“i didn’t get to say it back.” your voice comes out hushed, reverent.

“say what?” he asks, matching his voice to yours without even trying. you take in all the subtle ways that his face changes, as he thinks about what you could mean. the left side of his mouth quirks down, just a bit, and his eyebrows pinch together. it’s not quite the expression he makes then he’s worried or upset, just thinking.

“i love you, too.” when those words finally escape, finally make themselves known and heard, everything is different. it’s like you’ve never really breathed before this, because the simplest of things, like an inhale that fills your lungs with stale motel air, is so good, so satisfying, so much better when he looks at you like that. “for as long as i can remember, sam, i love you. when we were kids at bobby’s, seventeen and getting soaked in the rain, every moment before then and every moment after, and–”

his lips are on yours and there’s a messy ruckus of plastic wrapped snacks being dropped to the floor, because he couldn’t care about anything except kissing you. his warm, rough hands are so gentle cupping your cheeks and pulling you into him, and you follow suit in disregarding the food in your hands to place them firm on his waist, almost squeezing his sides because you need this to be as real and as solid as it possibly can be.

some might question the merit of this being your first kiss with each other. but it’s so you and sam, standing in an empty motel hallway next to the vending machine and it’s crappy food scattered around your feet. plastic crinkling and rustling when you get closer, and a hunger so insatiable that it makes it hard to breathe.

when you finally break away, panting just a bit, sam’s eyes swim with concern as his mind flashes back to you just an hour ago.

“i’m okay,” you interrupt his paranoid thoughts and loop your arms around his neck, “i’m okay, sam. ‘s just you. baby, i know this is a horrible time to say this, but you always take my breath away, in the best way. you’re so pretty, and i’m so in love with you that when i look at you for too long, i forget to breathe, and–”

his lips are back on yours, telling you me too, me too, me too. saying as they push and mold against yours, you take my breath away and i love you for it.

[tragedybunny]

Sunlight and Stars in the Sky part 2 - Astarion x F!Reader

First part - here

Weary and embarrassed you try to put distance between yourself and Astarion. But you slowly come to realize things are changing between the two of you.

Astarion is gone when you wake up, probably out hunting, and you breathe a sigh of relief. At least you won't be able to embarrass yourself further. Throwing yourself at him, being refused by him of all people, forcing him to let you into his tent to calm down, and that nonsense you'd spouted, gods he must've been so annoyed with you. 

All he wanted from you was a bit of fun, some enjoyable interludes during this journey you'd found yourselves on. You weren't so naive that you thought there was more to it. Yet he'd somehow found a little place in your heart. Which you had stupidly exposed to him last night with that stars in the sky drivel. If he kept his distance from now on, you'd know why. 

Head pounding from the wine, you fumble around for your boots. Slipping them on, you hurry back to your tent, and throw yourself under the covers, glad you didn't run into Astarion. The rest of the night is filled with fitful sleep, the drink making you nauseous and your memories driving you almost to tears. When the sun at last rises, the camp awakens muted and somber. Unable to face him, you wait until the scent of breakfast fills the air to finally leave your tent. 

Naturally he's somehow right there. "Good morning Darling," even he seems muted after everything, probably worried you'll be all over him again, "feeling better?"

"A little, sorry for the trouble last night," you murmur hastily, trying not to look at him before rushing off, unable to make yourself listen to his conciliatory response. 

Breakfast and breaking camp take far longer than they should and your solemn crew takes to the road that leads beyond the monastery to the shadow cursed lands much later than they should. As seems to be your fate though, not even a simple road is easy, and a group of undead bar the way. Body and mind aching, you fumble through the fight, spells missing their target, and reactions slowed. You don’t see the monster that’s crept up on you until it’s nearly too late to dodge its flailing attack. Suddenly the earth lurches and you’re facing the dirt. Panic constricts your chest, death is so close, even all you managed to overcome wasn't enough. Rolling, you try to get your feet under you, and find your assailant hovering over you. Your lungs inhale what is likely your final breath and you tense just a crossbow bolt sprouts from its forehead. It stumbles back and Karlach’s axe removes its head from its body. 

Most of the gory sight is blocked from your view as Astarion appears over you, crossbow back over his shoulder, pale hand outstretched and brow furrowed. “Are you alright my Dear?”

You wince and take his hand, twice as humiliated as before. Reaching a sitting position, you stop, your body unwilling to go further. Everything from the Nautiloid, to the Creche, to making a fool of yourself, bears down on you, and it’s all too much. One win at the Grove amongst a tide of wounding losses. Hands rub at your eyes to push away the tears. “Sweetheart,” Astarion is suddenly crouching next to you, brushing your hair out of your face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head, pulling away from that touch that you want to be real affection so badly. 

“You look exhausted.” Before you can protest, he’s turning to the rest of the group. “We should stop for the night.”

“Tsk'va, we’ve barely made progress,” Lae’zel snaps, any good humor she's developed gone for the moment, “we still have worms in our head, did you forget that whilst basking in the sun.” 

His eyes narrow for a moment, and he looks like he’ll shout back, but he contains it. “We’ve all had a hard time, and we’re in rough shape. Let’s get some rest and start fresh in the morning.” 

They don’t need to be told he’s talking about you, collapsed in the dirt, and you can feel their eyes turn on you. “That sounds eminently reasonable," Gale chimes in and the rest assent.

"Let's go find a nice spot," Karlach says brightly, taking Wyll by the hand and leaving the main road. 

The others follow in their wake until just the two of you are left. Reluctantly, you start to get your feet under you, feeling as weary as he says you were, and silently start off towards them. The crunch of his boots tell you Astarion is just behind you, a small mercy as he can't see the state you're in. Your chest aches, you can't seem to banish the tears that keep threatening, and nothing feels like it has a point anymore. When you catch up with the others, they're already setting camp for the night, with Gale prepping dinner with as much cheer as he can muster and the others barely speaking at all. The whole of it seems like too much and you collapse on a log near the fire, Astarion joining you seconds later. 

Shifting closer, he looks like he's about to speak when the sounds of an argument draws your attention and he just sighs instead. "The Underdark is backtracking, a waste of time and dangerous." Lae’zel is shouting at Shadowheart. 

"Well it might deter the interference of your people," she returns.

"That is a point, this road is already dangerous," Halsin chimes in. 

"What do you think," Wyll has wandered over from setting up his tent and turned to you. For the second time today, your whole group is looking to you, only this time they're expecting that leadership you've shown them this whole journey. 

"I…" you just can't find it in you.

"Gods," Astarion growls, "can you all not make one simple decision without her? She's tired and you're putting this on her. It's bad enough you expect her help solving all your petty problems."

"But it's fine if it's your petty problems, right Astarion," Gale accuses, his face dark. You know his problem is far from petty. 

"Say that again," Astarion hisses and does something you've never seen him do to one of your companions, he snarls and bares his fangs. 

"Astarion," you scold, stirred from your stupor finally and he gives you a wounded look. "Let's just get some dinner in everyone. Then we can discuss the Underdark." They need you, it would hardly do to give up now. 

"Right, you heard the lady, give her some space until dinner is done," Karlach waves them off and gives you a wink. 

Part of you expects Astarion to be angry with you for the reproach but instead he gently takes your hands in his. "How about I get the tent set up, you can rest before dinner. Or you could stay there the whole night, you don't owe them an answer." 

The tent, your mind reels. It's his tent and he's never been fond of anyone infringing on his space. Is he still feeling sorry for you? You cringe, and pull your hands from his. "I can stay in my own tent."

"Oh," he seems to shrink in on himself. "I had been wondering since you were gone when I got back last night. Did I do something wrong? I admit I'm new to having someone close like that.” His voice is quiet and unsure, and nothing like what you’re used to. “Or maybe it's my temperature, I know I'm not exactly very warm," he offers and laughs somewhat awkwardly.

"I just don't want to…" For the first time today, you really look at him, and you don't see the same Astarion you've been traveling with. His eyes are wide and soft, his expression full of hope and longing and not scorn for the world around him. You find his hands where you left them, as though waiting for yours. Something has changed, something that makes your heart flutter and chases away the darkness of your thoughts. You were going to say pretend; pretend he wanted you there, pretend you didn't make an idiot out of yourself; but that doesn't feel right anymore. "Impose," you slide your hands back into his and small smile ghosts over his features. 

"Love, I told you last night, you're not imposing. Well you were very drunk," a small kiss on your cheek makes you flush, “perhaps you don’t remember.” 

“Some rest is probably a good idea,” you admit, giving in to the ethereal moment that seems to be burgeoning between the two of you. 

He squeezes your hands before letting them go. “I told you so,” his usual smirk is back in place but it’s softer than before. 

While he’s gone you try to temper yourself, this could be temporary, and you should focus on your very grim situation, your losses and setbacks are still real. But it all vanishes the moment he’s leading you back to the tent and settling you into a pile of pillows and blankets, some of them from your own supplies. Your things, mingled with his, the two of you, joined together. With your approval very visible from the smile you can't hide, he joins you, pulling you into his arms so your head rests against his chest. From around the fire you hear voices, friendly banter, spirits are lifting, hope is prevailing. You’re glad but still so tired, and it’s so nice here with Astarion, a little peace for just the two of you. “Thank you, I really needed this,” you murmur sleepily. 

“Think nothing of it, my Sunlight,” he kisses the top of your head. 

It brings back the other night, but there’s no awkwardness for you now, you spoke true, no matter what happens from now on, he’ll always be the light of all your nights, the beauty out of darkness. “My Starry Sky.” 

He gives a small hum of approval, “I am growing fond of that nickname,” and he holds you tighter. There’s a note of sadness you think in his voice, but you’re almost asleep, maybe you imagined it. 

[sammyluvr]

take my breath away — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, features dean x reader (platonic), near death experience, suffocation, other canon violence and death, injuries, blood mention, swearing, so much pining, case fic, stereotypical witch, (not) unrequited love, petty arguments, petty sam, kissing, crying, guilt, reader vaguely implied to be shorter than sam, pet names, food mentions, (baby, honey - from sam, darlin’/kiddo from dean), no use of y/n, mentions of end of season 2-4 spoilers, poorly edited, 13.7K words. requested !

summary : because of an unexpected witch’s curse, it’s almost too late for you and sam to confess your feelings to each other.

you see sam when it rains. even if he’s sitting right in front of you, you’ll look out the car window and at the rivulets of water rushing down the glass, distorting the image of an empty highway and summer-time trees at dusk, and you’ll see him at seventeen with rain in his hair and running down his cheeks. you’ll think of that smile he gave you as he took your hand and how that look he had in his eyes haunts you worse than any ghost you’ve seen, because you think it could’ve been love. sometimes, you’ll still see glimpses of that sam, but he can be rare. so, you go as far to wonder if maybe he still looks at you like that when your gaze is turned away. 

once, when the windows were down and he was sitting in the back with you for a change, the spring air was nice and clean as it filtered into the sometimes stuffy car, and you felt his multicolor gaze watching you. the look on his face changed when you locked eyes, but for an imagined moment, it seemed that you—your eyes closed against the wind and a light smile on your face that, for once, wasn’t grim—were his everything.

you press your temple to the cold glass of the window, hoping it’ll sober you up a little from your love-drunk state. it’s so goddamn stupid that you’re even thinking about him like this right now, because he’s still sort of mad at you for something rash you did during your last hunt. only you don’t think it was stupid, so you’re half pissed that he won’t let it go. staring at the back of his head and the pretty curled ends of his hair, you sigh quietly. even his shoulders rising up past the seat are handsome. you miss him, and he’s close enough to reach out and touch.

dean’s voice breaks your reverie, and you have to draw in a deep breath. without you even noticing, thinking about sam so hard makes you breathless, almost every time.

“so, why don’t you give us the full rundown, sammy? ‘fore either of you decide to conk out on me,” dean suggests. that means he’s bored, because neither of you will fall asleep for at least another hour or two, and you’ll probably take your turn driving for a few soon.

“sure,” sam agrees, and you hear the shuffle of papers as he digs out a newspaper article and some notes. “three people in the last three weeks all died from suffocation, but with no apparent cause. they just,” sam’s shoulders move a little as he motions vaguely with his hands, “stopped breathing.”

“sounds witchy to me,” dean says, very predictably. you think you could’ve said those exact words at the exact same time if you wanted to tease him about it.

“yeah. what’s weird is that the vics were reported feeling out of breath up to 16 hours before they actually died. says it looks like they slowly died from oxygen deprivation,” sam adds.

“huh. so not hex bags, but another sort of spell?” you wonder aloud, easily talking about the case despite the remainders of tension between you and sam. that’s just how it is, with all of you. even when you’re mad, you still work the case.

“most likely,” sam agrees, “the vics went about their days pretty much normally until they died, so they were in different places as they were dying. seems like a hex bag wouldn’t work unless it was on them the whole time.” you nod, and though he’s not turned around to look at you, you’re sure he knows anyway.

“alright, well. looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us,” dean states, “we’ll be in town in the morning, so we’ll rest up real quick then head to the police station. you two can do your interviewing magic with the vic’s families and hopefully we’ll know more by then.”

this was easily predicted as well. for as long as you’ve been able to pass as an fbi agent, he’s mostly left interviewing the families to you and sam since the two of you tend to be more socially appropriate, and thus, more able to get information without raising alarms. though, the questions you ask never cease to be weird and confusing to the world’s oblivious civilians. of course, dean makes exceptions for pretty girls who he can flirt his way into telling him just about anything. this time, you wish dean would make an exception because it kills you that you and sam aren’t getting along perfectly right now. you know that you’ll work it out soon, probably within the week, but you still hate it.

through the impala’s windows, you watch the sky turn dark and the moon come out. you drive, then fall asleep to the rumble of the engine for a few hours, and wake to see the sky turn light again. keeping it all to yourself, you revel in the sunrise and the way it turns the sky bright and the clouds cotton candy pink around the edges. 

you sink into the sight of sam sleeping in front of you, the early morning light kissing his features and shining through his mousy brown hair. if you lean a little to the left, you can soak up the image of his softly closed eyes, the mole by his nose, and the relaxed curve of his lips. you smile to yourself at the way his hair is all messed up on the side of his head that’s resting against the window until you catch dean’s gaze on you through the rearview mirror. you tear your gaze from both brothers and latch it to the moving countryside out the window. for a while now, you’ve figured there’s no way dean doesn’t see that you’re in love with his brother, but despite such, he doesn’t say much outside of lightheartedly teasing for the both of you. he’s the only one who knows that sam looks at you just like that when you’re the one who’s asleep. he’s the one who sees sam turn, trying to be subtle, just to look at the way the moonlight kisses your lips, wishing it was him.

it’s eight in the morning when you pull up to the first motel you see. you wished sam hadn’t woken up on his own half an hour ago. that way, you could’ve put your hand on his shoulder, shaken him all soft and gentle like you do just for him, and mumbled, “wake up, sammy. we’re here.” then he’d stir, still sweet-looking from sleep and give you a little smile if he’d managed to dream without nightmares before remembering he’s supposed to still be upset with you.

instead, he’s fully awake when he climbs out of the car and pops your door open like he does every time you can’t beat him to it. he doesn’t talk about that habit, because he knows you can take care of it yourself. but if it’s so easy for him to do it as you grab your bag, then he thinks there’s no harm. besides, you’ve never told him off for it, so he does that and just about any other little thing he can get away with for you. and much to your chagrin, he still does it all when he’s pissed at you. he’s too good like that, even if you think he should just get over what happened a few days ago.

the three of you are just about wordless as you check in and pile into the room, all tired and without anything of importance to say. when you catch sight of the couch in the room, you sigh in relief. it would’ve been sam’s turn to share the bed, and you’re not sure you could do that this time around. sometimes it’s hard to breathe when he’s right there, so close after you’ve spent literal hours in the car just plain old pining over him. so, you find an extra sheet in the closet and steal a pillow from dean’s bed, all but collapsing onto the couch with a morning-time “goodnight.”

you don’t care that your feet hang over the edge unless you curl up or mind the way the springs dig into the flesh of your side, all you want is to welcome quick sleep. you’re lucky, and drift off moments later. you barely have time to think about how glad you are that you won’t have one of your nights where you lay awake, staring at the ceiling as you wonder why you would fall in love with someone you can’t have. him and dean are all you have, and no matter how your heart aches to pull sam close, you’d never do anything to jeopordize what you have, here and now. he’s your best friend, that’s all you can ask for in this life, maybe even more than you should.

waking as you normally do to the sounds of sam and dean moving about the motel room, you sit up, a little groggy. you glance at the clock, and you’ve slept for about four hours, just as predicted.

“up ‘n at ‘em,” dean says as he walks past you, giving you a playful clap on the back.

“mhmm,” is all you respond with, swinging your legs off the couch and digging through your bag for your pant suit and toothbrush. dean’s already in his, and sam’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom, still in his tshirt and jeans from yesterday. you don’t even have to say a word for sam to move out of the bathroom as you approach. so he won’t have to wait with a mouth full of tooth-paste and spit for you too long, you change quickly, leaving your clothes on the bathroom floor and opening the door for sam as you begin to brush your own teeth. the two of you maneuver around the cramped space with practiced ease, and when he’s done, he disappears back into the bedroom space without a word. when he’s petty to other people, you think it’s kind of hot. but when he does it to you, it makes you want to ring his neck. 

“asshole,” you mumble to yourself. it’s a classic tango between the two of you; you want him to just get over it, and he wants you to admit that he’s right, or the other way around. and both of you are far too stubborn to be the one to relent first, so you’ll be pissy at each other for a few days until you get bored of it or dean gets too annoyed. all it takes to get past it is you putting your head in his lap after a long day, maybe him resting his head on your shoulder, or the two of you laughing too hard over something together to keep being mad, and maybe just a few mumbled apologies from the both of you. if it’s really big enough for none of those things to work, then you talk about it until things are okay again.

dean drops you off at the first victim’s house, with the promise that the second is close enough to walk to, and the third he’ll join you for once he’s done at the coroner’s office.

sam still won’t talk to you as you wait on the front porch of the house after ringing the doorbell. a young woman opens the door, probably around your own age, and you smile at her before flashing your badge.

“hi. i’m agent green. this is my partner, agent smith. we’re looking for natalie goh?” you greet, comfortable and at ease in your ruse.

“that’s me,” she confirms for you, sounding nice enough. “how can i help you, agents?”

“we would just like to ask a few questions about your late boyfriend, henry,” sam explains, “may we come inside?”

her face falls when he mentions her boyfriend, but she nods her head. “of course, come in.” you follow her to the living room where she motions for you to sit. “let me grab you something to drink,” she offers, disappearing into the next room before you can refuse. “is lemonade okay? my next door neighbor brought me so much when she heard about henry… you know. i can’t possibly drink it all.”

you want to say no, not wanting to make her go through the extra effort, but you accept for both you and sam out of sympathy. she sounds like she needs to keep her hands busy to distract herself. 

she sets the drinks down in front of you, asking as she sits, “what, uhm, what is the fbi’s interest in … in henry?”

“we’re investigating a few odd deaths, like your boyfriend’s, in the area,” sam explains, “now, was there anything unusual the day of or the days leading up to his death?”

“i, um, i don’t– i don’t think so, like what? and, i’m sorry, the police told me he most likely choked on something, how is that strange?” natalie frets. you glance at sam and catch him readjusting his features as a brief look of surprise crosses over his face. it makes sense that that’s what the police told her, but you hadn’t known they’d said so.

“well, natalie, the cause of his death wasn’t entirely clear, and because a few more people have died similarly since, we’re just being extra thorough,” you do your best to placate her before she starts getting too wary of you and sam. “it really could mean nothing, but it’s important for us to cover all of our bases. so, can you tell us if there was anything out of the ordinary? was he acting strange, or did you notice anything unusual around the house, like maybe cold spots or flickering lights?”

she furrows her eyebrows in confusion, “um, no. no, nothing like that. he was just being him, you know, he was such an amazing boyfriend, he made me breakfast that morning even though he said he was tired. i already told this to the police, but he sounded kind of out of breath when we called. that was the last time i talked to him,” her voice begins to tremble, so you reach out a comforting hand and place it atop hers from across the table. “i had to stay late at work, and when i got home, he was … he was gone. i found him in the kitchen.” a tear slips down her cheek, and she moves her hand away from yours to wipe it off. you shift back in your seat and glance at sam, trying to give him the hint to get moving. but, he keeps his gaze trained elsewhere.

you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him, almost ready to pull the “may i use your bathroom” ruse first. it’s almost always sam who does it, and sure enough, he clears his throat to ask.

“would you mind if i used your restroom?”

“oh, sure,” she says, “there’s one by the pantry, through the kitchen and to the left.”

he stands, thanking her a bit awkwardly before disappearing through the doorway to the kitchen.

once he’s gone, you turn your attention back to natalie. “i know that this can be a difficult question, but is there anyone that comes to mind who might want to hurt henry?” absentmindedly, you take a sip of the lemonade after speaking. it’s sweet, but not too sugary. you discover that it’s just about perfect, and you can’t hold back from continually taking a few sips here and there to fight back the heat of the afternoon.

“oh, goodness, no,” she sounds horrified by that prospect, “henry was just the kindest. the best boyfriend i could ask for,” she reiterates. “you think that someone– that someone…?”

“no, no,” you lie, “there would be signs if someone else hurt him, but like i said, we just need to be completely thorough. i’m sorry to even have to ask. now, if you’re okay with it, could you tell me more about henry?”

“yes, yeah, i can do that,” she sighs in relief. it’s clear she wants to talk about him, and probably how much she misses him. you do your best to pay close attention and keep her focused on you and your questions as sam takes forever “in the bathroom.” nothing she says is very useful, it’s all about how loving and kind and just about perfect he was to her. at first, you’re able to listen without a qualm, but the more she rambles about how much she loved him, and maybe even more so how much he loved her, your mind inevitably wanders to sam. sam and your bothersome, bottomless pit of unrequited love.

you kindly cut natalie off and stand when you hear sam’s footsteps approach. “it sounds like henry was a wonderful person. i’m so sorry for your loss.” despite knowing those words don’t mean or do much, you still fill them with as much sincerity as you can. sam is at your side again. “we really appreciate you taking the time to talk to us. we’ll get out of your hair now.”

she shows you to the front door out of courtesy, and you give her one last thank you and kind smile before turning your back and heading to the sidewalk, sam just ahead of you. pushing off the ground a little harder for a few steps, you catch up to him and his long strides, unable to resist the urge to let your gaze wander to his face.

“anything?” you ask, hoping he’ll look at you too.

“nope,” he shakes his head, “no emf, no hexbags, nothing out of the ordinary.” pursing your lips, you let your gaze fall to the sidewalk ahead of you when he doesn’t make eye-contact. “anything on your end?”

“not really. she just rambled about how in love they were. said there was nothing strange about the day, or him, and that he had no enemies. she made him sound like a complete angel.” without you realizing, your lip curls a little in jealousy.

sam just huffs in response, likely bothered by the lack of information. “let’s hope we can find something about the other two.”

you repeat the ruse at the next two homes, and sam’s hopes are dashed, because by the time you, sam, and dean are back at the motel room, just about the only thing of value you bring back is a paper bag of takeout.

spread out in the room, with your respective assortments of food, notes, and computers, you share all the details you can think of to hopefully find a pattern. dean’s on his bed, sam on the couch, and you at the dingy table. the biggest discovery is on dean’s part. according to the coroner, each of the victim’s hearts had inexplicably shrunken and shriveled up. this detail was kept out of the public eye because of how strange it was; it happened after each victim died, as it very clearly did not contribute to the cause of death. that, and the coroner is absolutely stumped by how such a thing could possibly happen.

dean asks if the first two interviews were as fruitless as the last, and you sigh as you explain just how unhelpful they’d been.

“the only common threads are that they were young adults, all in a relationship, and all sounded to be just about the perfect partner,” you report. “i mean, maybe the witch is targeting people in loving relationships? jealousy? or maybe they have some sort of secret we couldn’t dig up just by interviewing. the people we talked to were obviously biased. the first victim’s girlfriend wouldn’t stop talking about how amazing he was, the second’s sister told us she was the sweetest girlfriend out there, and you heard how the third’s husband described them.”

“really?” dean asks. “i mean, yeah, i heard the last guy, but i ran into the first vic’s girlfriend’s sister at the station. she was doing something for her sister there, and she did not seem too impressed with the guy when i asked about him.”

you raise your eyebrows, about to speak again when sam beats you to it.

“so maybe we are looking for secrets. did she say what she wasn’t impressed with?” sam says just about the exact thing you were about to.

dean shrugs. “jus’ said he was sort of a lazy boyfriend. didn’t take good enough care of her or show his love all that much.”

“maybe he was cheating?” you suggest.

“maybe,” dean repeats. “how’s this? you can dig into records and see if you can find any dirt on the vics. sam, you can look for a spell that might’ve caused this, and i’ll scout out a few local places. the officer i was talking to gave me a few places the vics probably spent time at.”

“sure,” you agree, a teasing edge to your voice, “just don’t get too distracted. we all know by ‘local places’ you mean bars. no sex unless you solve the case, and if you solve the case, no sex because you have to report back to us.”

“so no sex?” he plays along, acting all offended.

“nope!” you confirm, giving a firm shake of your head. 

dean’s already on his way out the door as he chimes, “no promises!”

“seriously!” sam calls after him, “we need info!” he groans and shakes his head when the only response he gets is the shutting of the door. when he doesn’t make a snarky comment about dean to you, you clench your jaw.

“sam.” it takes a lot of willpower to sound bothered by him, rather than say his name all sweet.

“mhmm?” he’s purposely keeping his gaze on his computer and his response short.

you roll your eyes, “c’mon, can’t you just get over it? it’s not like you haven’t done stupider things to get a case done.”

since you insist on arguing about it, he lifts his gaze, looking unimpressed. “doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have done it. you almost got dean hurt.”

“and i already apologized for that!” you say indignantly, annoyed that that’s his argument. he knows full well, better than anyone, that dean can deal with a measly vamp, even if he wasn’t expecting it. “it’s not like dean can’t handle himself!”

“you should have at least run the plan by us,” he says. you roll your eyes again.

“it was a spur of the moment decision. unless you wanted me to shout it out, compromise my position, and let every single vamp in that nest know exactly what i was gonna do?” you retort. sam sighs, in the way that you can tell he knows your argument is better than his. so, you still can’t figure out why he’s still upset about it, outside of his usual stubbornness.

“it could’ve gone so wrong,” is all he can come up with, “and you know that. it was stupid, and you could’ve gotten hurt. or worse.” there it is. his voice changed when he said you could’ve gotten hurt.

it’s your turn to sigh, this time because you finally understand. it makes your heart flutter a little, and it makes you even more annoyed. “sam, i can handle myself. you know that. sure, it was kind of stupid, and not a fully thought out plan, but i had to figure out a way to get us out of there! four vamps were about to find you, so i had to distract them. easiest way was with my blood. one vamp found dean, but he handled that just as easy as he always does. i knew you’d have my back, so i let the other three come after me. and look! we’re all here, alive and kicking! this is such a stupid thing for you to get mad over.”

“it’s stupid for me to want you to be more careful?” he counters.

“sam, we have to take risks in this job, we do it all the time. that’s just how this works, what’s different about this time?” you question.

“just–” he presses his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose as he tries to come up with a reason that’s good enough. a reason that’s not “i worry about you,” because that’ll make you even more angry, make it sounds like he doesn’t think you’re a good enough hunter. and he certainly can’t explain that that’s not it, he worries because the worst possible thing to him is you getting hurt. because then you’d ask why and he wouldn’t be able to tell you the truth.

“can’t we just be done with this?” you ask, and the tone of your voice is one he can’t deny. you’re upset, bothered, and tired of his pettiness. more so, you’re just plain old tired. it takes too much effort to stay upset with one another. he lets your question sit in the air for a moment longer.

“yeah,” he relents, voice quiet now. he’s holding back words, touches, feelings. he wants to tell you, “just please don’t put yourself in danger, it scares me. i get so worried. it makes me want to pull you close and protect you even though i know you don’t need it. that’s why i’m upset.” he wants to get up from the couch and set his computer across from yours, sit across from you, just so you’re a little bit closer. he wants to touch you so bad that it sort of hurts.

instead, he has to live for the relieved breath that huffs out through your nose, so quiet it couldn’t quite be counted as a sigh.

“good,” you say, voice matching his own quietness. there’s still tension hanging between you, but soon enough, it’ll dissipate altogether, and tomorrow, you’ll be back to joking with one another, brushing shoulders, and hiding how in love with each other you are. maybe he can even convince you to share his bed tonight. the couch is horridly uncomfortable.

only after you’re convinced that sam won’t be all pissy to you until the next time you find something silly to be angry about do you begin on your research. it’s just as fruitless as everything else today, and after hours searching and drawing banks, you go back to the interviews, jotting down all the details you can remember in case seeing it on paper helps something new and useful jump out at you.

all you get is a dull ringing in your ear, probably courtesy of some old motel appliance. but the ringing grows louder, and in your tired state, it becomes completely bothersome. you press your hand against your left ear—it’s loudest there—and shut your eyes. it’s been an hour or two since sam has shifted to sit across from you to escape the digging springs of the couch, so the movement catches his attention quickly.

“you alright?” he asks, already with a little pinch of his eyebrows in worry.

“yeah, ‘m fine,” you say, realizing the ringing must be the beginning of a headache, since sam can’t seem to hear it. “just a headache,” you explain.

“want me to get you some advil?” he offers.

“no, no that’s alright, i’ve got it,” you deny, but you don’t get up. your head doesn’t really hurt, and the ringing fades as fast as it appeared. you’re about to sigh in relief, when suddenly, you’re sort of breathless, and you gasp to take in air. the moment passes, and you shake your head to yourself a little. it’s weird until you remember that sam’s looking at you with that little furrow to his brow, sweet and concerned, like the last thing he wants is for you to be in pain, even if it’s just a measly headache. that look in his eyes as his gaze focuses on you and only you is certainly enough to take your breath away. it just took you by surprise this time.

“you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, worried by your gasp.

“mhmm,” you hum, trying to keep your tone light and trying not to look too hard into his pretty hazel eyes. “jus’ hurt for a second, but i think the headache’s gone away.”

“okay,” he relents, not fully convinced, but willing to take your word for it and refocus on his computer screen. you turn your own attention back to the papers in front of you, away from his face, so close that it sends your heart into wild palpitations every time your mind wanders from the case and to his presence. in other words, it happens often.

you’re determined to find something, some detail that clicks and leads you to anything important. but after another unfocused hour, your eyelids are heavy, almost as much as your head as you wish to just sink down and fall asleep right there on that little table.

“you should get some sleep,” sam says, no stranger to the way you look when you should quit being stubborn and just go to bed. and normally, you’d resist, but the idea of sleep, of closing your eyes and letting your breath even out, slow down, is far too inviting.

so, you relent, and close your laptop. “yeah,” you say as you shuffle the sheets of paper together and set them on a neat pile on top of your computer.

“take the bed, too,” he insists, “you look exhausted.”

“mm, glad to hear it,” you joke halfheartedly, “but, no, sam, that couch is too small for you. it’s small for me, even.”

“and it’s seriously uncomfortable,” he adds.

“so we’ll share. i’ll leave space for you. you should come to bed soon, too. ‘s not like we should wait up for dean,” you snicker. sam rolls his eyes, but easily agrees with your conclusion. as you settle into the covers of the motel bed, you consider waiting up for him so you can feel the dip of the bed, then the warmth that radiates off him as he lays beside you. you want to feel the brush of his long arms, the heel of his foot or nudge of his toe, sometimes you’re treated with the broad expanse of his back. but sleep claims you before you can even make the attempt.

sam’s big hand on your shoulder brings you back into consciousness, and you breathe in long and hard since it seems like you can’t quite fill your lungs. then your eyes flutter open, and sam’s figure is hovering over yours, his hand lingering, then slipping away as he sees you wake. he doesn’t stand fully upright yet, unsure if he should say something or not.

he keeps his voice low, not wanting to alert dean, who’s changing in the bathroom. “are you feeling fine?”

groggy as you sit up, you peek at the clock. 8:43. you slept through the 8:30 alarm. odd.

“uh, yeah, i’m fine,” you answer, voice gravelly from the morning’s first use, “why?”

sam shifts to sit on the bedside opposite you. “nothing just… i don’t know, you were just breathing really light last night. i could barely even tell you were breathing at some points and normally you breathe pretty noticeably while you sleep. and, you know, given this case, i just wanted to check.”

sam notices the way you breathe when you sleep. that’s just about all you can take away from his words. sam pays enough attention to the way you breathe when you sleep to know when your breathing is different. sam thinks about the way that you breathe. maybe that’d be creepy from anyone else, but you think about the way he breathes too. the way it lulls you to sleep when he’s close, the way it catches when he’s surprised, or the way it changes when he’s about to laugh.

then you remember he’s said something you’re supposed to address. “it’s nothing, sam. i feel totally fine, just tired from working back to back cases, is all.” you say this because you’re sure of it; you do feel just fine. and sam makes you breathless all the time, so there’s nothing out of the ordinary there.

“are you sure?” he presses, “you slept straight through the alarm, like a rock.”

“i’m sure,” you say.

“okay,” you can immediately tell that he’s not entirely convinced as he says this, “but if anything happens or changes or you feel like you’re out of breath, you promise to tell me or dean?”

“of course.” you may not want to be fussed over, but you certainly don’t want to go out in such a stupid, horrible way. “i promise,” you add, just for his sake. dean’s phone starts ringing, and he appears out of the bathroom.

“either way, let’s get this case done, and quick,” sam insists.

“don’t have to tell me twice,” you agree, throwing off the covers to get ready for the day.

dean’s voice keeps you from lingering by sam’s side. “hey, crazy kids, let’s hurry it up. just got off the phone with the sheriff, there was another death last night.”

“dammit,” you and sam swear in unison. 

on the way to the scene, dean updates you on his findings from last night. he was just as unsuccessful as you in finding major dirt on any of the victims, though he recieved similar testimonials to the sister’s about the first, henry. otherwise, he was able to find the witch’s possible hunting ground in a bar where all three victims have been seen with their partners. sam reports that he’s getting close to finding the right spell after discovering a few similar ones. 

when you reach the victim’s house, sam and dean check in with the police officers, and you immediately head to interview whoever found the victim’s body. he’s obviously distraught, and probably still in shock from losing his boyfriend. you do your best to stay gentle, kind, and understanding as you lead him through the interview, interrupting your questions for the occasional “he sounds like he was a wonderful partner,” or other such comforting phrase as the man, tyler, rambles about how great he was, how guilty he feels, and just about nothing helpful except for adding another data point to the one pattern you have.

“thank you for your help,” you say, giving him a tight lipped smile before standing and drifting over to sam on instinct as you mull over the information you recieved. he’s poking around in the kitchen, subtly searching for anything abnormal and most likely coming up empty as this house follows the unhelpful trend of the rest.

“anything?” he asks once you’re by his side.

you shake your head, “just the madly in love bit. everything was pretty much the same as the other vics as well.” sam sighs like he expected that answer.

“i think we should look more into the first victim,” he suggests, echoing the same thought that you had. “maybe interview natalie again, see if she admits something different about henry if we push it a little.”

“i agree, though i’d say let’s hold off on interviewing her again unless we can’t find the spell soon. even if she admits that he wasn’t as good to her as she said before, i’m not sure how much good that does in comparison to the spell. if you keep looking into that, i’ll check henry’s records more thoroughly. i looked into him less last night since we already had something on him.” you revise the plan a bit, and sam nods in agreement, making that sort of awkward face with his lips pursed and eyebrows raised that he does when someone without the knowledge you have comes in hearing range. you glance behind you to see the figure of a police officer through the kitchen doorway and are fast to quit all talk of spells and witches to avoid sounding insane.

“dean can scout out the bar again to see if this most recent couple frequented there as well,” sam puts the last piece in place for your plan, just as you imagined it. once it seems like there’s nothing left to glean from the house, you grab dean and head out back to the car. the brothers walk a bit ahead of you as sam fills dean in on the plan.

“excuse me! agent,” a voice calls from behind you. the three of you turn, and you wave the two of them away to indicate that you’ll deal with it.

“yes?” you respond as an officer approaches.

“your partner asked for the full coroner’s reports on paper from the first three victims,” she says, holding out a file as she reaches you.

“ah! right. thank you, officer.” you give her a polite smile and take the papers before turning away. sam and dean have made it to the impala, parked a bit away due to the police cars surrounding the house. you jog at a casual pace to catch up, but falter about halfway there as your breaths turn all shuddery and quick. you stop, trying to right yourself and desperate to brush this off, but you just keep gulping in breaths, feeling like you’ve run a mile at top speed without warming up. 

shit. shit, shit, shit, is all you can think. fuck.

as you stare at the car, dean’s already in the front seat and sam is pulling the passenger’s door open, and you will with all your might that neither of them will turn to look for you. you don’t want them to catch you like this. instead, you want to explain it to them, calm and collected and full of breath because your body’s beginning to readjust and you should be fine to walk over in moments and dammit– sam’s twisted around to find you, his hands resting on the top of the car and the door. the second he catches sight of you, just standing there with your chest heaving up and down, he’s launched himself away from the car and towards you. he calls your name, worry flooding his voice. you had tried to recompose yourself the second you saw his head turning, but it was too late, and now he’s jogging your way.

sam is in front of you in moments, his hands on your shoulders and his face fallen in a deep frown.

“you’re not okay, are you?”

“i– i’m–,” you can’t think of what to say, and though your breath is returning to normal, you can’t deny him. “let’s just get in the car. please.” 

his jaw clenches and his eyes flick all over you, from the top of your head to the point of your shoes like he always looks at you when he thinks you might be hurt. he’s taking you in, quick and almost panicked so he can fix it right away. he takes a steadying breath because he’s so ovewrought he can barely think. “fine,” he says, voice carefully hushed. if he doesn’t control it, he might start shouting, panicking even. sam can’t bear to leave you untouched now, so he leaves a hand splayed on your shoulder blade as you finish the short walk to the car. he opens the back door and climbs right in, completely foregoing his spot in the passenger’s seat. you realize he wants to sit in the back with you, and it would’ve been sweet if it wasn’t because you’re probably dying.

jaw clenched, you follow him in, and dean’s already twisted around in his seat, gaze shifting between the two of you to try and read what just happened.

“what was that all about?” he questions, eyebrows raised. you put a hand on sam’s knee to stop him from telling dean.

“the witch got me,” you drop the news without much hesitation, more focused on getting your two cents in before either of them start grilling you with questions and making stupid suggestions to try and fix it, “it’s gotta be someone we met or passed by yesterday. one of the people we interviewed or someone from the diner we had lunch at; these types of spells normally require the victim’s dna. and before either of you do anything stupid or crazy, we’re gonna stick with the same plan. dean, you can drop us at the motel so we can find the spell and reversal, and you find out what you can at the bar. got it?”

dean looks at you like you’re crazy, and you ignore sam’s gaze altogether. 

“got it?” dean repeats back to you, incredulous, “not so much, kid, i’m gonna need you to explain this to me a little better. what do you mean the witch got you? you mean you’re gonna stop breathing in some odd hours that might not be enough time for us to find and gank this witch?”

“yes, dean, that’s what i mean. try to keep up,” you turn a little mean as your frustration takes over in order to compensate for your growing fear. “and i’m not going to die, so quit being so pessimistic. we’ll find the witch, as long as we stay focused on the plan. unless you have a faster way, which i’d be happy to abide by.” neither have a good enough retort to that, so you continue, “can we go now? we might not have that much time.”

with much effort, dean turns back in his seat and starts the engine. his voice is low when he asks, “what do you mean by that?”

“well, i don’t know exactly when this whole thing started!” you answer as he pulls into the street, “sam said my breathing wasn’t totally normal last night. if that means anything, well, i went to bed early last night, around eleven. that could mean it’s been at least, i don’t know,” you check the time, “eleven hours. which gives us five, minimum.” you think you can physically feel sam tense up next to you.

“five hours?” sam repeats, his voice taut, like he’s holding back anger, fear, maybe more. “and were there any times before that you felt out of breath?” 

you think back to yesterday. sure, every time i looked at you, isn’t quite an answer that you can give. “um, i’m not sure,” you say, sounding more cryptic than casual, as you had meant. you see dean’s eyebrow raise through the rearview mirror.

“you’re not sure?” dean asks, unbelieving. the two brothers are starting to sound like a broken record as they repeat every other thing you say back to you.

“yeah. nothing comes to mind,” you say, more firmly this time.

sam sighs. “you can’t seriously think it’s a good idea to hide that sort of thing from us if it happened. this is serious.”

you scoff, “oh, really? i wasn’t aware, it’s not like it’s my life on the line, or anything like that.”

“alright, let’s not get pissy,” dean intervenes.

“pissy?” you scoff again, “right, because this is serious and i’m apparently unaware of that.”

dean says your name, voice a little chiding as he tries to disperse some of the tension that’s building within the small space of the car. “let’s focus on the case here. sam is right, we need to know everything you do. was there anything else weird you noticed last night?”

“i don’t know!” you exclaim before calming down a bit and taking a deep breath. “i had this ringing in my ears for a minute, around ten. i thought it was a headache. and … i did feel breathless, but just for a second. i thought it was … something else.”

“why didn’t you say anything?” sam asks, immediately remembering this. you had pressed your hand to your ear. he believed you when you said it was a headache, but he should have known better. you’re far more likely to rub your temples when you feel a headache coming on.

“i thought it was something else,” you repeat.

“like what?” he presses.

“like–” you hesitate, “like nothing. just nothing, i don’t know.”

dean interrupts again to get things back on track, “so that could mean four hours, not five.” you see sam’s jaw clenching out of the corner of your eye.

“yeah,” you confirm, hoping your voice doesn’t reveal how anxious you really are.

“my question is why just you?” dean asks. “i’d normally figure it’s because they suspect you to be a hunter, but if they were able to get your dna, they probably had access to ours, too. the witch think you’re madly in love with sammy or somethin’?”

you fluster at that, mind scrambling, why in the goddamn hell would dean say that? does he want me dead faster? “uhm, uh,” you laugh a little, completely awkward about it, “why would they think that? we were clearly, you know, in a working relationship, not a, hah– romantic,” you clear your throat, “relationship. i’m sure it’s just the hunter thing, maybe they couldn’t get your dna… or they thought i was more worth killing,” you attempt at a joking insult, but you’re still sort of jerking through your words and reeling from someone saying “you’re madly in love with sammy” out loud.

to your left, sam looks almost as flustered as you feel, which brings you an ounce of comfort.

“whatever you say,” dean shrugs.

when you get back to the hotel, sam’s practically running inside to pull out his laptop, and dean speeds away the second the car doors close behind the two of you. both of you are fidgety and antsy as you conduct your research in silence. you think sam’s even more nervous than you, with his leg bouncing and teeth chewing away at his lower lip. you’re not sure if you should comfort him, or let him be in favor of getting the research done. it doesn’t take too long for him to find the original spell, and as he tells you about it, some nervousness dissipates when the both of you get back into the groove of a normal hunt, trying to pretend that this time, the consequences aren’t as personal as they could ever get.

you can’t find any dirt on henry in any records, so you focus on staff from the bar and diner from yesterday to see if there’s any overlap that could have gotten dna from both you and all the other four victims. something else entirely jumps out at you as you check employment records.

“sam, it’s natalie,” you blurt out into the silence of the room. he raises his eyebrows, and you explain before he can even ask. “she works at the bar. and i drank some of that lemonade she gave us. she had easy access to everyone’s dna, and henry was the only deviation from the pattern.”

sam stands as you explain, “okay, let’s go.”

“no, let’s call dean and finish finding the reversal spell. i’d like to have a backup plan, if that’s alright.” sam purses his lips, looking like he wants to argue. you propose something more rational than his idea, “we’ll call dean and let him know. he can go to her house and make sure she’s the real deal before we go, too.”

“fine,” sam agrees, pulling out his phone, just as it begins to ring. he answers it and puts it on speaker, “dean, it’s natalie.”

“yeah, i know. that’s what i was about to tell you, the idiots from last night didn’t bother to mention it,” he complains. “i’m headed to her house right now.” to prove it, you hear the car door open and close. “how’s it going on your end?”

“we found the spell, we’re looking for the reversal right now,” you answer. “call us if you need help.”

“mm, you just take care o’ yourself, alright? i’ll call you back.” after that, all you get is the hang-up tone. 

a bit later, your concentration is interrupted by the pinging of sam’s phone. you watch him as he checks the messages, then looks up at you with a poorly hidden scowl.

“she wasn’t at her house,” he explains, “dean’s headed to her sister’s to look for her there. but it’s definitely her, he found a secret room full of, y’know, as he’d say, ‘witchy stuff.’”

you try to hide your disappointment and the uneven rise and fall of your chest. sam’s stayed mostly focused on the research, but every now and then, you feel him looking you over, brow furrowed and eyes concerned as he checks for anything abnormal. he’s looking at you like that now.

“damn,” is all you manage in response while still trying to stay casual about it.

“how are you feeling?” he asks. you expected the question, but you still don’t want to answer. you’re about to tell him you’re fine, since you’re not really running out of breath yet, until he speaks again before you can, “and don’t say ‘fine.’”

“i am fine,” you insist immediately, “just extra tired from getting a little less oxygen than normal. but nothing crazy. i can still focus on this research and i can still hold a weapon.” you demonstrate by grabbing one of the knives you keep strapped to your thigh and twirling it a little in your hand. sam’s face spells out the word “really?”

“just– tell me if it gets worse. please,” he’s just about begging, and with a bit of puppy dog eye action, you’re crumbling.

“okay, sam,” you relent, letting your voice go soft. he’s really scared for you, and it makes you feel just about every little thing. you want to comfort him, reassure that you’ll be okay, even when you’re terrified for yourself. you want him to comfort you, for that exact reason, and you want to hold his hand. maybe you can be scared together, a little closer than you are now. you want to kiss him, because what if this is the only chance you get? that thought horrifies you. then you wonder if it’s for the best. maybe you should die as his best friend, because dying as his anything is better than scaring him away first. it’s hard to concentrate on the research, but it’s not hard to find the motivation. the hope is to avoid death completely.

finally, you find it.

“i got it, sam!” you’re excited, then a bit breathless after pushing so much air out of your lungs so fast. the breath you take in is sort of shuddering, and it makes sam frown. he doesn’t even try to hide how worried he is. his face is nothing but unadulterated concern and care and … and something else before that expression melts away and he’s focusing on the computer screen that you tilted towards him. the crease between his brows only grows as his eyes flit down the list of ingredients.

“we don’t have the half of these ingredients,” he worries.

“no,” you admit, “but there’s a witch in town who’s away from home who might.”

to get there, sam doesn’t hesitate to steal a car from the motel parking lot, and this time you can’t even argue given the fact that you’re pretty sure you have less than two hours to live at this point. you promised sam you’d tell him if it got worse, but as it does, you want to say something less and less.

sam picks the lock of the door, entering the house carefully with you right behind. weapons drawn, you walk the route that dean gave you to the hidden room, the door in the wall of the hallway left open for you by dean.

it’s much darker than the rest of the house from the lack of windows and bright lights. this, paired with the eerie assortment of basic herbs to what might be jars of blood, makes it look like natalie really leaned into the witchy aesthetic, which you’d find understandable if she weren’t using her magic to kill people.

sam walks faster than you know is wise to match paces with, so you follow behind him slowly as he rushes to set the computer with the list of ingredients on the table in the center of the room abd begin the spell. you’re a split second too late to shout in warning when you see a figure emerge from behind a shelf of herbs.

sam whirls around at your cry, gun raised, only to be hit on the side of the head, hard, by a wooden bat in natalie’s hand. he crumples to the ground despite his size, and without batting an eye, your knife is flying through the air, straight for the spot between natalie’s shoulder blades. but at the last second, she spins around, and with a flick of her hand, the knife falls to the ground. you reach for your gun, but through your hindered breathing, you’re slow. she has no trouble launching the bat at you at an unnatural speed. the wood slams into your chest, sending you sprawling and gasping in your weakened state. you’re fighting for breath so hard that you can barely register her hauling you up and tying your hands behind your back, then doing the same to sam. somehow, she’s able to get his weight on a chair and tie him to the wobbly piece of furniture. then, it’s your turn, and by the time you come back to your senses, breathing far more labored than before, you’re tied to a chair, back to back with sam.

natalie gives you a horrid smile as she tugs at a knot to tighten it.

“well, isn’t this fortuitous! such a lovely surprise for you two to visit me,” she chimes, just as you feel sam stirring behind you. his head lolls back, brushing against your own. you completely ignore her in favor of calling his name. a rumbling groan escapes his lips as he stumbles back into consciousness.

“that’s right!” natalie grins, “it’ll be much better with pretty boy awake.” she walks around you, and you hear a smacking sound that you presume to be her hitting his cheeks to wake him further.

“don’t touch him,” you practically growl. it sounds far less intimidating than you hoped in your breathless voice. she laughs and sam lets out an audible huff of air as he wakes.

“there he is,” natalie grins. “now i’ve got two love birds at my mercy! much better than i could have imagined. you know, i couldn’t watch the deaths of the others, so this is far more exciting. i thought i’d have to miss yours, too!” she motions to you. “but now i get to watch you die, watch pretty boy watch you die, and then kill him, too! lovely isn’t it? i’ve never had such luck, thank you idiots for bringing it to me.”

“you’re not killing anyone today,” sam retorts, anger filling his voice. with a bit of an uncomfortable stretch, you twist your fingers around to grab a hold of his. it’s awkward, but you take advantage of her horrible ramblings to keep her distracted and try to guide sam’s hands to the tiny blade attached to the seam of your jacket sleeve.

“i’m not?” she laughs, “mmm, you don’t really seem like you’re in the position to determine that, pretty boy.” you hate her calling him that. “well, love will do that to a person. makes you easy targets, blinds you. you two were just too easy, so busy making eyes at each other to pay any proper attention to me.” you conclude she’s crazy, rambling on about what made her angry enough to kill. you’re sure she caught you making eyes at him, but she’s crazy talking like he’s visibly in love with you too. immediately catching on to your plan, sam’s hands are fumbling around with your jacket sleeve, trying to get the knife unstuck so it can slip down and into your hands.

“it’s so goddamn irritating when people are just so in love with each other. makes me want to hurl,” she complains.

“sounds to me like you’re just jealous your boyfriend didn’t treat you like that,” you prod at her weak spot. she whirls on you, grabbing the front of your jacket and yanking you towards her.

“so i killed him. and everything he was supposed to be,” she hisses. “and know i’m going to kill you two pining idiots. you know, you don’t have very long,” she feigns sympathy in the condescending tone of her voice. when she slams you back against the chair, it takes your breath away for a frighteningly long time. sam’s so worried, calling your name out over and over again as you choke on nothing, that he almost doesn’t realize that the movement also helped dislodge the knife and let it fall into your hands. it slices a thin line down your arm, but you couldn’t care less as you begin to work on cutting through his bonds.

“oh, shut up, lover boy,” natalie growls, hating the way he says your name with so much care as she stays leaning over you, a sick smile on her face. why the hell is she calling him lover boy? you know that’s not what you should be so worried about in this moment, but it’s the one thing that you can think about. “i’m busy watching your little lover die! i think you’ll look so good crying over them, won’t you?”

when sam’s ties snap, he stays in place, holding onto the rope so it doesn’t drop to the ground and alert her. he just shimmies the knife from your hand to his and begins working on your own ties. through it all, he pretends to struggle helplessly, cursing at her wildly.

natalie rolls her eyes, then stands straight. “if you don’t shut it, i’m going to make you,” she snarls, stalking around to stand in front of sam. in an instant, he brings the knife to the rope binding him to the chair, snapping it and lunging towards her. judging from the choked cry that escapes her throat, sam’s already plunged the knife into her neck. you hear him grunt, then the sound of her body hits the floor before he’s turned back to you, quickly freeing you all the way and pulling you to your feet. he’s halfway to the door with his hand gripping yours when you tug back.

“wait… sam, wait!” you gasp, and he’s immediately face to face with you, sweet eyes looking you up and down with confusion and worry. “it’s not– it didn’t work. the spell, we need to do the spell.”

“what do you mean? that’s impossible, killing the witch who performed the spell always–,” he fully takes you in for the first time. your chest is still heaving, your breath rattling, and it’s undeniably getting worse by the minute. “okay, okay. just sit down.” he guides you back to a chair, turning it to face the table so he can keep an eye on you as he works. this time, you’re having a hard time hiding the fear from your eyes, and he reads that loud and clear. he lets you have his strong hands cupping your face for just a moment. “you’re gonna be fine. i’m gonna fix this.” he says it with such conviction that you’d do anything to believe him. then his warm touch is gone, and you’re again hit with the reality that it’s getting harder and harder to breathe, to get any satisfactory amount of air.

your eyes follow him desperately as he rushes about the area, checking and rechecking the spell as he adds ingredients to a small cup he finds. his movements become more and more panicked by the second as he notices your breathing getting worse, more fluttery and gulping. sam’s muttering to himself as he works, too scared to look at your face for too long. unable to find one of the ingredients, he curses loudly as he searches, shoving a whole rack of ingredients to the ground. glass shatters and the metal rack clangs against the ground, the sound echoing throughout the space.

flinching at the sound, you cry out his name, struggling to speak, “you have… you have to.. to calm .. calm down.”

“i can’t!” he practically shouts, and you think you’ve never seen him this distraught, this helpless before.

“why?” is all you can manage between gasps.

“because you’re dying! and i can’t let you die, i won’t.” he’s still rummaging through ingredients as he speaks. he’s still refusing to look at you.

you want him to say it, the truth, so you repeat the question, “why?” you wheeze out, desperate to hear it in case he can’t finish the spell on time.

“because i love you!” he’s no longer shouting when he says it. his voice is all desperation and helplessness and utter sincerity, said like all he needs in the world is for you to understand that. you’re not sure if the shuddering breath you let out could count as a sigh of relief, but it’s the closest you’ll ever get.

you take him in. tears running down his cheeks, lips pursed and eyebrows pinched like he’s holding back from crying out. he’s pretty like that, you think. maybe that’s a cruel thought, but you love him too much to think otherwise. he’s always pretty; when he’s mad at you, when he’s bleeding, when he’s stitching himself up, when he’s biting his lip in concentration. when he talks about something that makes him excited or when he’s crying. when he’s oblivious of the way you look at him while he sleeps, and when he makes you love him so hard that it hurts worse than anything a monster could do to you.

you’re lightheaded, and taking in so little air that you can’t say it back. all you want to do is say it back. you slide out of the chair and onto your hands and knees, shaking so hard you can barely hold yourself up. from the ground, you can hear sam, moving around, letting jars fall and shatter to the ground, crying.

when you collapse to the floor, writhing and gasping for any semblance of air, sam snaps. he can’t find the goddamn rosemary, such a simple and common herb, even for a normal kitchen, especially compared to all the other ingredients, but he knows it’s essential for its protection, purification, and healing properties. he can’t give up, he can’t let you die, but you’re writhing on the ground and crying inbetween gasps and all he wants is to hold you close, brush your tears away and tell you it’ll be alright. he barely catches the sound of your voice over the noise of his searching.

“please…”

“what? what is it, honey?” he asks through tears, unable to look at you as his eyes scan a new shelf for the basic pine-needle shape of the leaves, maybe even the little purple flowers to help it stand out.

“hold me,” you wheeze, afraid of dying alone on the stone cold floor as you feel your consciousness slipping through your fingertips like the sand of an hourglass. sam feels like he’s had his heart cleaved in two by a blunt ax coated in the world’s most vile poison.

he chokes on a sob before he can speak again, “i can’t. i’m so sorry, baby, i can’t. i just need the rosemary, it’s so close, please, baby.” he’s not sure who he’s begging to. you, to stay alive? god, to intervene? himself, to finish the spell on time? anything and anyone who will listen, most likely. you don’t have the energy to ask him to hold you again.

that moment of silence is the most horrible of them all, then the door swings open with a bang, letting the bright lights from the rest of the house flood into the dark space. dean’s eyes zero in on you on the floor, grasping helplessly at your throat, and he’s on his knees by your side in a second.

he scoops you up in his arms and to his chest. “hey. hey, hey, hey. it’s okay,” he comforts, his eyes wet because he doesn’t know if he believes himself, given your state. “sam’s gonna fix it, darlin’. you’re gonna be just fine.” he’s holding you too tight to wipe away the tears that helplessly stream down your face and he clings to the fact that your hand is gripping his wrist tight.

“dean, rosemary!” sam barks. dean looks up from you, eyes scanning the mess around you; natalie’s dead body and the blood from her wound seeping slowly over the floor, the shattered glass and clutter of dried herbs along with other magical ingredients. sam realizes dean probably won’t recognize it on his own. “dried bundle, purple flowers, thin leaves,” he instructs as best as he can as he continues his own search. dean feels awful as he lets you fall back to the ground and your weak hands fingers scrape at his arms, but he thinks he sees it, rolled far away and invisible unless you’re crouched to the ground. he scrambles across the floor to grab it and tosses it to sam, who barely manages to catch it with his shaking hands.

sam rips at it with thick, clumsy fingers, crushing the brittle leaves between the pads of his forefinger and thumb into the mixture. he’s silently praying it’s enough as he mixes it in, letting a few drops slosh over the side of the cup in his rush. dean’s back with you, holding you up in a sitting position for sam with a hand smoothing up and down your arm in his best effort of a comforting gesture. he presses a kiss to your temple as sam drops down in front of you. sam uses one large hand to cup the side of your face, and the other to bring the cup to your lips. for a moment, he’s terrified beyond comprehension when the first bit of the liquid he pours into your mouth just dribbles right back out and down your chin.

you’ve gone nearly completely still; your eyes are barely open and your breathing so shallow that only dean knows you’re still inhaling because he’s got you so close.

“please,” sam begs, whispering your name with such conviction, such desperation, that it pulls you away from the claws of unconsciousness just enough to get you to swallow weakly. sam tilts the cup up, just a bit more, and the rim knocks against your bottom teeth as more foul tasting liquid seeps into your mouth. you swallow again, then gag a little when he pours too much for you to handle in your current state. sam’s hopeful when half the mixture is down your throat and he tilts the cup for you again, but the liquid falls down your chin this time, and your eyes are closed. you’ve gone totally still in dean’s arms.

“no, no, no, wake up. c’mon, we’re almost there. you gotta wake up,” sam begs again, more tears spilling onto his cheeks after his hope is stolen away, more cruelly than ever. “please, please, please, honey. please wake up.” his voice breaks as he calls out your name again, setting the cup on the floor and taking you from dean to pull you into his own arms. dean lets him, swallowing hard and not daring to move an inch as he takes in the sight, maybe just about the most horrible thing he’s seen in his fucked up life. that’s the second family member he’s had die in his arms, and the first is holding your limp body as he shakes, cries, and begs, beyond distraught as he denies the fact that he couldn’t save you. dean curses his life. he wishes it was him, thinks about the fact that he’s always too late to make a difference. he’s ready to sell his soul again, ready to go to hell and back.

you’re dead weight against sam’s chest, your clammy forehead and tear-sticky cheeks pressed against the sweaty skin of his neck. he gathers you closer, his hand tugging at your jacket and rubbing up and down your back, begging for you to wake up.

dean’s about to interrupt sam’s mourning to tell him he’s gonna look for the nearest crossroads, that all sam needs to do is keep your body safe. then you shudder in sam’s arms and he’s calling your name again, far beyond desperate that you’ll hear him. he says your name like a prayer, with so much reverence, far more than he could ever muster up for the god he wants to believe in.

you take in a sharp breath, your eyes fly open, and you’re gasping for air, grasping at sam’s sturdy arms like you’ve almost just drowned. sam just about sobs in relief, comforting you through his own tears, “oh, you’re okay, honey, you’re alright. i’ve got you. just breathe, baby, just breathe, that’s all you gotta do.” his voice instantly calms you, and you wrap your shaky arms around his neck to show him you understand. he’s got you. he buries his face into your neck, trying not to hold you too tight for fear of restricting your breathing. you feel the wetness of his tears on you, warm and so tired. you don’t want him to cry. he loves you.

his hands smooth up and down your back, helping you set a pace to calm down your erratic breathing as you let a fresh wave of tears fall on his hot skin. they’re tears of relief, most of all. of exhaustion and leftover fear, and oh, glory, tears because he loves you. he said it, and now he can’t take it back because you love him far too much for that.

“sammy,” you breathe out. he just holds you tighter. “don’t cry, sam. it’s okay. i’m okay.” you slip your fingers into his hair, your hand so gentle as you run it through his pretty locks. you just want to comfort him, take away all the fear from the last few hours that he’s been holding onto, letting pile up and up into an unmanageable, unruly, ugly tower. you suppose him crying so much is him letting the tower topple over, almost as simple as a toddler’s chubby, innocent hands to a wooden block castle. but it still tugs at your heart, pulls at you so hard because you hate to hear him cry, feel him shake and stiffen up around you, too scared to let you go for even a second. “i’m okay,” you repeat, voice fragile from the whispering brush of death’s fingers to your palm, but you try to make it strong and confident for him, “you saved me, sammy, i’m alright. it’s alright. it’s over. you don’t need to worry anymore.” 

you think he relaxes just a touch at your words, but he doesn’t move an inch from his spot on the ground, or say a thing to interrupt the sound of your breathing. all he does is cradle you close, one hand to your back so he can feel it shift when you take in or let out air, and the other splayed from the curve of your neck, up to the base of your head. without moving too much, he presses a long kiss to the ambiguous space above your ear. that’s not enough, so he tilts his head more to press his lips to the skin of your forehead.

dean hates to break the silent reverence between the two of you, and it means more than the world, the whole goddamn universe or anything else he could ever think of, to see this instead of you dead in sam’s arms. you might be the love of sam’s life, but that just makes dean all the more protective of you. to dean, you’re family, and you have been for a long time. that’s why he needs to get the two of you away from here, before anyone finds you and the dead body.

“sam,” dean interrupts, voice somehow both gentle and extra gruff, “we gotta go.” he knows sam can get you up on his own, but he still places a firm hand on your elbow as the two of you stand. he doesn’t want to let his hand fall away from you, but he does anyway. on the way out and to the car, you’re tucked safe into sam’s side, and dean’s got his gun in hand, ready to protect the both of you need be.

dean expects it when sam climbs in the backseat with you, just thankful to get away from the damned house and back to the motel. the ride is mostly silent, save the rumble of the engine, and sam’s hand stays securely wrapped around yours, itching to pull you even closer. you yawn and sam tugs at your hand, then drops his gaze to his lap when you look at him, offering to let you lie there. you can’t resist, because historically, your head in his lap has been heaven, and you figure that this time, after having heard him say “i love you,” it’ll be something better than heaven, something undiscovered and infinitely more precious than all the gold and silver in the world. so you drop your head to his thigh, and his hands are immediately on you. you’ve got the warmth of his palms on your head and your shoulder. your own hand is on his knee, taking in the feel of his time-worn jeans, and the muscle, sinew, and bone underneath.

you fall asleep, just 10 minutes from the motel, and sam doesn’t want to wake you, but you always do anytime he tries to carry you to bed.

he calls your name, all tenderness and sweet as he rubs your shoulder. you stir easily, only having fallen into a light slumber. the sigh you let out when you sit up is soft, and sam thinks it’s cute. then he thinks about the fact that, when you both settle down, he won’t have to hold that thought back. “you’re cute,” he can say, and make you both a little flustered before pressing a kiss to your lips. until then, he’s getting out of the car with you, only letting his hands stray from you when dean pulls you into a hug, right then and there. he holds you tight, showing you how scared he was too, so you squeeze back with extra care.

“don’t scare us like that again, kiddo. you got it?” he mumbles into the embrace. 

you nod, “i got it.” he lingers for a moment, then presses a quick kiss to the side of your head before parting and letting sam take over again.

he’s got a hand stuck to your back on the way into the room, all the way to the bed you shared last night. you don’t hesitate to peel off your dirty shirt and go to put on a new one, but sam’s already holding one out to you. dean disappears into the bathroom, despite not wanting to let you out of his sight.

you tug on the shirt, then collapse into bed, taking sam with you.

“you stink,” you complain lightheartedly, looking at him with honey-sweet love in your eyes. he wants to joke back, but he’s not quite there yet.

“i’ll shower after dean, if you want,” he offers, nothing but sincere. you smile at him, his nose inches from yours.

“but then you’d have to get up,” you say.

“sure, but if that’s what you want,” he repeats. he’d do anything for you, you think.

you shake your head. “that’s not what i want. i don’t want you to go. but i also want to fall asleep in your arms, and it sucks that you smell like blood, sweat, and nasty potions.”

“so what do i do, baby?” he asks, voice light, but you think he really means it. you melt at the pet name.

“hmmm,” you consider, truly not sure. you’re all quick in the shower after years of experience in motel bathrooms, but that still feels like such a long time to be away from him, especially since you should probably shower, too. you decide to suck it up. “you shower, then me. dean said the water was still hot yesterday, even when he went last.” you’re not sure when your voice dropped to a whisper, but it’s quiet now. he sighs, half disappointed, but knowing it’ll be much more comfortable that way.

the second you’re out of the shower and dressed, sam’s tugging you back into bed with him and tucking you into his chest. his hold is still protective and a little wary. you want to make him relax, so you wiggle away just a bit to look at his face.

“sam, i’m so hungry,” you complain. he smiles at you, thinking you’re too cute to resist when you whine just a little. and he just loves it when you say his name.

“you’re gonna make me get up again?” he asks, and you hold back a triumphant grin because his voice has turned pleasantly lighthearted.

“you’re gonna let me starve?” you tease back.

“fine,” he huffs, “we can go to the vending machine together.” he really doesn’t want to be far from you.

“no,” you protest, dragging out the ‘o’ just a little. “we had that earlier. and chips don’t count as a meal. poor dean probably hasn’t eaten at all today! we deserve a treat,” you argue.

sam can’t deny you anything you want in this moment. “we do,” he agrees, “what d’you want? maybe we can convince dean to pick it up for us.”

you smile. “mmm, that’s not fair. dean deserves a treat, too. i’ll satisfy myself with vending machine food for a few hours, then we can go out to an early dinner.”

“are you sure?” sam asks. you smile more.

“mhmm,” you nod. “i have the excuse to buy a candy bar too now.”

dean, splayed out on his own bed, has likely been listening in on this whole conversation, and graciously chosen not to interrupt. he smiles at you as you exit the room.

with a glance that no one’s around, sam slips his hand into yours as you make your way to the vending machine down the hall. your heart blooms at the feeling, at the way he’s been looking at you without shame and suddenly you realize you never said it back. sam punches in the number for an excessive amount of snacks, getting all of yours, his, and dean’s favorites, waiting til they all fall down to collect them. he bends over, gathering them all in his big arms and wide pockets and handing a few to you. the crinkling of plastic fills the quiet air as you watch him with a sort of worship and adoration dripping from your eyes. you take in the curve of his back, the peek of his spine that you get from his tshirt riding up a bit, and the pretty brown hair on the back of his head. when he stands, he catches that gaze, and for once you don’t hide it away or tuck it into that corner of the drawer where you keep all the little trinkets you don’t need, but can’t bear to get rid of. because you need this, and you can have this.

“i didn’t get to say it back.” your voice comes out hushed, reverent.

“say what?” he asks, matching his voice to yours without even trying. you take in all the subtle ways that his face changes, as he thinks about what you could mean. the left side of his mouth quirks down, just a bit, and his eyebrows pinch together. it’s not quite the expression he makes then he’s worried or upset, just thinking.

“i love you, too.” when those words finally escape, finally make themselves known and heard, everything is different. it’s like you’ve never really breathed before this, because the simplest of things, like an inhale that fills your lungs with stale motel air, is so good, so satisfying, so much better when he looks at you like that. “for as long as i can remember, sam, i love you. when we were kids at bobby’s, seventeen and getting soaked in the rain, every moment before then and every moment after, and–”

his lips are on yours and there’s a messy ruckus of plastic wrapped snacks being dropped to the floor, because he couldn’t care about anything except kissing you. his warm, rough hands are so gentle cupping your cheeks and pulling you into him, and you follow suit in disregarding the food in your hands to place them firm on his waist, almost squeezing his sides because you need this to be as real and as solid as it possibly can be.

some might question the merit of this being your first kiss with each other. but it’s so you and sam, standing in an empty motel hallway next to the vending machine and it’s crappy food scattered around your feet. plastic crinkling and rustling when you get closer, and a hunger so insatiable that it makes it hard to breathe.

when you finally break away, panting just a bit, sam’s eyes swim with concern as his mind flashes back to you just an hour ago.

“i’m okay,” you interrupt his paranoid thoughts and loop your arms around his neck, “i’m okay, sam. ‘s just you. baby, i know this is a horrible time to say this, but you always take my breath away, in the best way. you’re so pretty, and i’m so in love with you that when i look at you for too long, i forget to breathe, and–”

his lips are back on yours, telling you me too, me too, me too. saying as they push and mold against yours, you take my breath away and i love you for it.

[lilacxquartz]

FIRST IMPRESSIONS pt. 2

choso x gn!reader

ao3 • masterlist << previous part • next part >>

summary: stumbling upon a strange man while deeply lost on halloween night in the subway, you find yourself quickly in trouble.

tags/warnings: some violence, yandere, reader insert, season 2/shibuya arc references/potential spoilers

a/n: decided to continue this one after all, after this chapter you can expect one more conclusive chapter.

You stared at the man before you, unsure what to think.

In an attempt to tug back your wrist from his almost desperate hold, you found that he wasn’t letting go of you.

The air around the station started to feel thicker, heavier and almost suffocating. The flickering overhead lights were starting to make you nauseated too. The longer he held onto you, the more it seemed as though the walls around you were closing in.

Choso, as you learned the man was now called, pulled you along beside him as you both walked. While being in his presence didn’t feel immediately dangerous, you could tell that something darker was brewing within him as if there was more to him than he let on.

You occasionally looked up at him, watching him pass through the subway with a determined glint in his eyes. Even though he walked with an unwavering stride, his destination locked in mind, he couldn’t help but tighten his hold on you whenever he felt you were potentially straying away.

Such an interaction left you feeling confused as you were unsure as to why he was suddenly helping you with such drive despite the shaky first impression. You didn’t quite understand why there was so much danger down here to begin with, but his serious demeanour was convincing enough so you trusted him.

Or at least, you tried to.

“Stay close to me,” Choso murmured, keeping his voice low. His fingers tightened around your wrist, pulling you a little closer to him.

You could only nod as you tried to swallow away any fear you had. The late autumn night proved cold and stacked with the internal fear that was manifesting in your bones, leaving you almost shivering. Choso’s touch was warm though, surprisingly so, given how almost sickly pale that he looked.

Suddenly, you paused in your tracks and so did he. It felt as though you were being watched and even hunted and upon turning around, you saw a pair of people walking right behind you. Initially, you were relieved but then the longer you stared at them, the more uneasy you felt.

Recognising the confined cursed energy that coursed beneath their unimposing surface, Choso recognised those humans as Mahito’s doing. They weren’t people anymore, just abominations with a temporary cover and being what they truly were, it was no surprise that they were hunting you.

“Stay behind me,” he warned, shoving you slightly back.

Initially, you were about to protest, but then you saw as the people before you became something else completely. It all happened so fast, but their forms quickly became mangled, contorting into grotesque fusions of folded flesh. They lurched forward in a sprint towards where you stood—their movements almost clumsy and erratic—their cold, dead eyes focused right on you.

You tried to step back in an attempt to run away, unsure of what exactly you were seeing but Choso stopped you once again. With a heated growl, he spoke out a warning, “Don’t move. I’ll take care of them.”

His form shielded you from their immediate attack and you couldn’t help but feel your voice lock in your throat. You wanted to scream and ask what on earth was going on, but you couldn’t, with only shaky breaths able to escape your lips.

Choso’s body was tense with anticipation, but he acted swiftly before the now turned cursed spirits could catch up to you and cause any real damage. With a raised hand, his fingers formed a sign and shot out what looked like blood from the tips of his fingers, forming sharp scarlet spears that stabbed through the creature’s bodies, causing them both to be taken down with just one hit.

He remained still for a moment before turning back to you and taking a deep breath. His eyes were dark with tension but he forced himself to soften his stance when he looked back towards you.

“Are you okay?” he asked you, attempting to adopt a gentler tone. Choso had to remind himself that you weren’t a sorcerer, so he had to be patient with you.

You gulped down your fears, attempting to nod but your legs felt weak, as though they would give out at any second.

“I-I’m fine,” you warily stammered, barely hearing your own voice as your heart thundered in your chest, the pulsating echoing against your ears, “what… what exactly are you?”

Choso’s calm demeanour faltered for a second. That was a good question. What was he? His expression turned almost pained, as if he didn’t have a cohesive answer. He found himself stepping forward, trying to hold onto you again as a way to both comfort you but also himself.

“It’s not easy to explain,” he said with a strained tone, the flashback of his fabricated memories still fresh in his mind, “I’m not like you, I was created… not born.”

“Created…?” you repeated what he told you. “So you’re not exactly human? But you look so…”

“I’m what is called a death painting, I believe,” he replied, trying to explain it to you, thinking that maybe if he forces himself to listen to the history he recently learned then it would make it easier, but all it did was torment him. “I was formed in a womb like you, but I was never born. I was made for a… purpose, but that turned out to be a lie because I was misled by someone I thought I could trust,” his voice became more strained, almost rough with emotion, “but that doesn’t matter right now.”

You blinked, unsure how you should process the information he gave you. It was admittedly tough to digest. “It sure sounds like it matters though…”

“My focus right now is you,” he dismissed, shaking his head, “I can’t let anything happen to you, not after everything that has happened tonight.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words as he left you feeling quite strange with the implication. There was something about the way he looked at you that made you feel wary, as though you were his reason for holding on. While flattering, he was still a stranger to you and a dangerous one at that from what you had seen, so such a thought in fact scared you.

“I… I have done things,” Choso continued to speak, his voice almost trembling, “things that I regret. I almost killed someone important to me but… but, I was wrong. I was deceived…” he trailed off for a moment, his eyes locking onto yours, “I-I don’t want to be a monster, but, I’ll do whatever I can to protect you, even if it means I have to become one for your sake in the process.”

You could only stare back at him without forming an immediate response. The weight of his words were heavy, especially coming from someone you had just met. A strange feeling formed for you too, though. You knew that you should have been much more terrified than just simply scared, but there was a part of you that wanted to believe him all the same. It was as though his vulnerability had almost touched you…? It made you feel sad for him and what he was forced to do.

“I… I believe you,” you finally said.

Choso stiffened in response, both relieved but nervous all at the same time. He pulled you closer without warning, ensnaring your body in a tight, sudden hug. His arms around your body feel strong, the muscles tight around your frame but you didn’t feel as though you were in danger.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his breath rolling hot down your neck. “I’ll keep you safe, no matter what I have to do.”

You nodded, letting him hold onto you despite not having a single clue as to what was really going on and finally, after a long minute, he loosened his grip on you even if he didn’t let go of you just yet.

“We need to keep moving,” he said, his voice less intense now but still just as determined as before, “there’s still danger here but I’ll protect you.”

You nodded again, unable to form a response that time as you let him drag you forward. You don’t know exactly where it was that he was leading you, but you felt somehow bonded to this strange man who led you through the underground space. For the most part, the station seemed empty but whenever there was even a passing footstep or a slight shuffle, he would turn the corner with you and lead you somewhere else. You stayed close to him, of course, not that he would allow himself to let you go.

Something about him seemed to be changing however, his breathing slowly grew more labourers and his expression gradually turned grave. It was almost as if he was distracted, with his eyes darting around erratically, searching for something—maybe someone—that wasn’t there.

Then without a single hint of warning, he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Choso…?” you tried to ask.

The death painting didn’t reply right away, still reeling from the overwhelming emotions he was experiencing. Finally though, he finally spoke up, but his voice seemed broken, “I-I… I can’t go on… n-not right now.”

His shoulders sagged as his body melted against the wall, bringing up his knees to a tented fold to his chest. Feeling unsure of what do exactly, you decided to settle down beside him, unsure if it was the correct course of action.

The fear that you felt earlier was still there, deep down in your core. However, you could at the same time understand that he was going through something that went beyond your own comprehension of understanding. You weren’t an unreasonable person. You could feel pity, even empathy for what he might have been going through; it was clear that he was struggling with something, even if you didn’t get the true extent of just how dire it truly was.

“Are you okay?” you tried to ask in a soft tone.

Choso let out a shaky breath, his voice barely audible, “I am not… I’m not okay. I don’t know how to deal with this. All of this. The guilt… the… confusion? I thought I knew what I was and what I had to do, but now nothing makes sense to me anymore.”

His words while scattered, did make at least a a shred of sense to you. You just sat beside him with your hand on his arm, even leaning a little bit. You didn’t have anything that you could say to soothe his aching heart, but you could still offer him your company.

Many minutes had since then passed and the tension in his body slowly subsided as he leaned further into your touch. His breathing was no longer laboured as he fought to regain control, but his eyes were bloodshot with tears that threatened to escape. With one look at you, he begins to cry. He did so quietly at first but then he truly let go; his weeping echoing through the confines of the (mostly) empty station as he finally let go of all the raw pain and regret that he had been holding back.

You kept at his side, offering him your quiet support that he desperately needed. A part of you still didn’t understand him and another part of you still feared him and what he might do, but you swallowed those thoughts away for now. In front of you was a broken man and despite his claims of being a monster, you could very clearly see the humanity within him and his warring struggle to hold onto it.

After what felt like forever, his cries finally seemed to subside and Choso at last wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He then turned his head to get a better look at you and although his gaze initially seemed tender—there was something else lurking beneath the surface—something darker.

“You…” he strained, reigning control of his voice once again, “you’re so kind. Too kind. Why are you still here…?”

You hesitated. Overlooking the part where he wouldn’t let you you go even if you tried to leave, you had a different reason for sticking by his side. “I don’t know… I guess I can just see that you’re trying? You don’t want to be a bad person and it’s clear.”

Choso simply stared at you with an unreadable expression written on his face but then he piped up, finally having something to say to you, “You… You don’t know how much this means to me. No one has ever treated me this way, with kindness… with compassion or with hope.”

You thought that his words were quite tragic, as you were unable to imagine such a lonely existence. It was then that you realised that something had shifted between the two of you. The way he was looking at you now, it felt much more intense than before, almost possessive. It was as if he made an internal decision in his mind and just as you were about to ask him about it, he opened up his mouth as though to stay something.

“I can’t let you go,” Choso said, his voice laced with desperation, “I need you. You’re the only thing that’s keeping me… human.”

You looked at him with some uncertainty evident in your gaze, unable to reply to the bluntness of his words.

“Look, I know that this is… sudden,” he mumbled, realising just how insane he must look to you right now, “but I can’t lose someone like you. Not now. Not ever.”

You swallowed hard as your mind raced at the implication. Just like that feeling you had before, you wanted to break free from this man and run away as far as possible. Then there was that other part of you that couldn’t deny that there was some tension between the two of you—something that dared you to stay, to see where this whole thing might lead. You knew that all of this was wrong and dangerous, but something about the way he looked at you was more convincing than anything you had ever known.

“Please,” he urged, his voice raw and almost pleading. “Please stay with me. Don’t leave. I’ll.. Ill protect you, I’ll do anything for you… just don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

Once again, you looked at him unable to form an immediate response. You got it to an extent; the fear of being alone was almost incapacitating and you weren’t quite believing your own words as you spoke them, but finally you gave in, “Okay, I’ll stay.”

Choso’s eyes lit up with a strange mix of relief and almost possessive hope and it wasn’t long before you found yourself locked up in his strong arms yet again. This time his hold on you however felt stronger, almost imprisoning as though letting you go would mean the end of the world.

As you sat there, wrapped up in his embrace and secured within the confines of his taut body, you realise that once again, something had changed between the two of you. His hold on you wasn’t physical, but emotional and it was very unlikely that you were going to go home anytime soon.

It was as fate was triggered by you accidentally stumbling upon him because in the midst of it, you ended up giving something that he didn’t know he needed.

And now that he had it, he would never let you go.

[toxintouch]

Deicide - the killing (or the killer) of a god. Vere x Reader/Unspecified MC. ✦Read on AO3

VERE: DEICIDE

“Fuck fairness. Life’s not fair.”

If life were fair, this would all have happened differently. In a different time. Long before Eridia was even a smear on the maps, back when he wandered the world as a deity. With fresh air in his lungs and sweet blood on his teeth. He'd track the tantalizing scent of you for days once he'd caught it on the wind. His mouth would water at just the echo of your taste; perhaps he'd have to stop for a snack just to keep his palate from tingling.

(But then–the lutist hadn't tasted of you at all, though the delightful promise of you had been heady–vibrant–thrilling to all of his senses. He'd dined on the composition of your suffering, the warm fear in your breath, the quick jump of your pulse beneath his fingertips. He'd kept the taste of you on his tongue, but still, he couldn't chase it fast enough to be satisfied indulging in another.)

He'd wreak havoc on the world to find you. Hunt you.

Let the people who hid you from him stew in terror at his approach. He'd eat a hundred unsatisfying appetizers just to bring the stench of death to those who dared...

Vere would demand you. Cast his shadow on your little shithole of a village and bear his teeth until they hand you over to him.

(And fuck. The way you'd smell up close–the new intricacies he could discern when he loomed over you, his snout bigger than your body. Would you tremble for him, would you fall to your knees?)

Vere should be your object of worship, your every thought and fear and desire, but instead he begs you for scraps. He twines pretty words around you when his chain is loose enough to reach. He tempts. He enraptures you with silky promises when you should be his by right.

Hundreds of years he's wandered looking for a counterpart, some hidden corner of his soul hopelessly devoted to the thought of a kindred spirit– not quite Human, not quite Monster.

You've been owed to him since his lonesome birth. He's ached for your presence ever since that first betrayal, a stinging knife lodged in the soft flesh between his ribs.

��Oh, but he'd have been a kind god to you. Eventually. But you? Selfish, loathsome, greedy little thing. Forever playing keep-away,

( –defiant eyes and quivering lips, in the damp corner behind the Wet Wick, cloying smell drowning out the odor of vermin– )

content to consume his thoughts and mind, ask all your questions and give nothing back.

He's been starving for you for so long. The least you could do is let him take a bite.

[grave-z-boy]

Arthur Morgan x Male!Reader

A/n: Tumblr straight up deleted the original ask :/ also the ending is kinda rushed cuz Ive been working on this for too long.

Request: if ur taking requests, can i request a arthur morgan x male reader where the reader gets kidnapped by o’driscolls, gets injured a lot, and arthur comes, pissed asf, screaming, “where is he” and shit, basically rescues reader, and comforts him later after they set up camp and basically start making out which the leads to sex, but arthur is super gentle, and very careful and isn’t sure if they should because of readers injuries but they do and he’s super sweet and, making sure reader is ok and stuff. (already were in a relationship prior to kidnapping) if this is way too much i get it lmfao. i like your writing a lot!! ~anonymous

Summary: Arthur rescues reader after he's been kiddnapped

Word count: 3,442

Warning: torture, murder, reader gets shot, bruises and scars, guns in general, passing out, smut, bottom!reader, top!Arthur Morgan, hurt/comfort, short smut.

A stray bullet flew so close to your ear that you could hear it cutting the air. The oozing hole in your leg only spit out more blood as you crouched down behind a tree, your shoulder pressed hard against the bark as you tried to keep your head from spinning. You whistled for your horse, only to hear a sudden pained whiny from her somewhere across the O’Driscolls camp, you swore under your labored breath. Another bullet flew past you.

Using the tree you pushed yourself up, the old, sharp bark tearing the skin on your palms. Breathing in, you tried to block out the searing pain in your leg. It worked just enough for you to peek around the tree and aim your pistol at the O’Driscoll. Squeezing the trigger, the man fell back, you hit him square in the chest.

He wasn’t the only one though- this camp was chock-full of O’Driscolls, and they were all looking for you. You spotted another man, hunting rifle in hand, slowly creeping into the tree line, you aimed, but he was faster, shooting you in the shoulder. It hurt like hell, you yelled as you hit the ground. He crept closer- he was fast, but he wasn’t a good shot, you could tell as he nervously reloaded his gun. The shot wasn’t enough to kill you, even if you let it sit and fester. Before he could aim again you raised your pistol and shot him, once in the chest, and when he didn’t go down you shot him between the eyes.

Letting out another breath, you pushed yourself onto your knees. Only to feel warm metal against your neck, before you could even swear, you were hit with the butt end of the gun, your vision blurring to nothing in a matter of seconds.

~~~~~~~~~

“He should of been back by now..” Arthur said for about the fourth time this hour.

“Y/n’s a strong man, he’ll be fine. Probably just…camping out again.” Karen, who’d had to listen to him complain about four times this hour, muttered, her hands and mind more focused on mending a pair of Sean’s pants.

Sitting with Karen tended to comfort Arthur more than it should have, but right now her presence only made it worse. Her husband was out there with you and yet she wasn’t worried. She sat idly sewing like death couldn’t come to her man at any time. Arthur knew all too well how death could sneak up on a person. Especially you, who have had at least a dozen near-death experiences this year alone, and dozens more in the years before that, and that's with Arthur around to try and keep you breathing, he doesn't like to think about the shit you’d gotten yourself into before you met. Some of your little stories, stories you told so casually, made him sick at best and unbearable angry at most. You were everything to him and to think of what people had done to you made his blood boil beneath his skin.

“Look there, it's Sean, Y/n shouldn't be too far behind.”

Looking up, Arthur watched Sean nearly fall off his horse, leaving his lead untied, then bolting straight towards Arthur.

“They got him!” Sean shouted as he ran through camp, “Those fuckers got Y/n!”

Arthur was on his feet faster than he could process, grabbing Sean by the collar, forcing the frantic, fidgety man to stay still- at least a little so he could explain himself.

“Who has him?” he asked through clenched teeth, he knew he shouldn't be mad at Sean but he was. Whatever happened, they were supposed to be watching each other.

He felt Karen's hand on his shoulder but paid it no mind.

“We were just riding around, found some O’driscal camp out North. I swear I didn't mean to leave him, but we were surrounded and I thought he’d get out on his own-”

“You left him?!”

“I heard a horse bolt and I thought he was on it-”

“Bullshit, you're a goddamn coward, Sean-”

“Arthur!” Karen shouted from behind him.

Arthur's grip on Sean loosed enough for Karen to drag him away, muttering comforting words to him.

Arthur was out of camp in less than a minute, pushing his horse to the limit, blowing past trees, towns, and other riders until he came across your horse, standing in the middle of the road, dried blood covering its left side.

He breathed out slowly, hopping off his horse, taking slow, careful steps towards the spooked thing, hesitating for a moment before petting him.

“That's it..” he muttered, listening to the horse whiny, “I know, I know. I'll find him..”

Arthur caught a glimpse of something moving out of the corner of his eye, just beyond the tree line. He took the lead of your horse and guided him off the road, carefully watching the barely hidden man. The only thing keeping Arthur from seeing him was the shadow cast by the trees and the rapidly falling sun.

With his hand hovering over his pistol, he gave your horse one last look before a sudden shiny glint caught his attention. He didn't think, whipping his pistol from its leather holder and firing, watching the glint disappear and the shadowy figure falls back.

Letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding, he walked forward into the treeline, glancing down at the body, and the gun in its hand, then stepping over it.

~~~~~~~~~

Your own senseless muttering was the only thing keeping you awake, pain searing across every part of your body, blood pooling beneath you, dripping from your wounds, down to your feet, and into the waiting puddle below. The quiet dripping of your blood had become too soothing, too rhythmic- in your exhausted form it had begun lulling you to sleep.

You knew you couldn’t, you weren’t stupid enough to let that happen. You’ve seen guys twice your size with wounds yards milder than yours take little naps and never wake up. You weren’t going to risk it.

You blinked in the darkness, you’re husband will be here soon. Sean rode out like his ass was on fire, camp was only a couple of miles away, Arthur will ride in here, ready to blow the whole damn camp- and every O’Driscoll he sees- sky high. You laughed at the thought, wincing when the slight move aggravated every open wound, as well as the robe burns around your wrist.

The door behind you slammed open, the pitch-black room was suddenly flooded with the warm, mid-day sunlight.

Heavy footsteps thudded behind you, getting louder and louder as they came towards you. Without warning, your hair is pulled back, your scalp flared with pain, but subsides quickly. You locked eyes with the man, tall and pale, yet so strong, as you had learned over the past few hours.

“How many times do I have to tell you to shut up?” he growled, a forced glare on his face.

You opened your mouth to respond, something hurtful and defiant, just as all of your other words had been. But you couldn’t, your throat was dry, and the bruise on your cheek was sweltering. So you just stared at the man.

There was a sudden thud from outside, then another, and another.

You blinked hard, the tall man let go of you, hand on his holster, creeping towards the door. He peaked around the door, glanced at you with that same forced glare, then back out the door. When breathed in deeply, then jumped into the doorway, whipping his gun out as fast as he could. It was in his hand maybe half a second before he was shot at least four times, falling back when the first two hit him square in the face, the other two must have just been for fun, once in the neck, then in the chest.

Unnecessary, rageful- more thuds came from outside, shouting, screaming, gunshot. You closed your eyes, letting your head hang low, finally relaxing your strained neck. You were being rescued.

~~~~~~~~~

The O’Driscoll camp wasn't hard to find, from afar, it looked normal, a couple of guys sat in an unhorsed wagon, drinking, and laughing, a couple more were cooking around a fire. Two were standing guard outside the door of a shack, the only permanent building in the camp, all holding guns. Every last member of the O’Driscoll camp.

Arthur breathed out, he wanted to think this out, he wanted to be reasonable, he wanted to sneak you out the back, a quiet escape. But it was too peaceful here, they were having too nice of a day and you were somewhere, hurt- or…worse- and they didn't care or better yet they were happy about it. About your pain.

Arthur checked his gun, then his knife, it's all he needed.

Then, he charged.

The first man to notice him didn't even get to get a word out before being met with a bullet, the next four followed the same fate. The last man from around the fire made a perfect hostage. Young, the whole crew jumped when he was grabbed. Arthur held a gun to his head, one arm around his throat, glaring at the others as they closed in around him.

“Let ‘im go!” one of the men shouted, gun trained on Arthur.

He wouldn't shoot, it was too close of a shot.

“I'm only gonna ask once,” Arthur yelled, the man shrunk away from him, “Where is y/n!”

Silence.

Arthur pulled the hammer of his gun back.

“We don't know no ‘y/n’, whoever the hell he is, he ain't here!” the same man as before shouted.

Arthur blinked, then pulled the trigger. The man hung limply in his grip for a second before he let him crumble to the floor. A bullet flew past Arthur's ear a second later.

Somebody here is fast- a shame he can't aim.

Arthur shot the five men down before anymore could pull their guns.

The camp erupted into a mix of shouting orders, and screams of pain as Arthur made his way through the camp. His gun was holstered in exchange for a knife and his bare fist.

Another man, also young with dark hair, watched with wide horrified eyes as Arthur practically tore a man open with his knife, then set his sights on him. Running didn't work, he didn't get very far. Jerked back by the back of his collar, turned around with so much force his legs gave up on coordination and ended up in a heap. Arthur held him by his rumpled, red shirt.

“Where is he?!” Arthur said through gritted teeth, his voice deep and guttural, panting from the force he'd used on every man in this camp who stood in very similar positions to the man he was holding right now.

“The shack-” the man nearly cried, choking on his own breath, “it’s-it’s where we keep our meat.”

Arthur shoved the man to the floor, his back hitting the ground with enough force to crack it.

In the short moment he had- he could hear more members of the camp coming- he reloaded his gun.

Two O’Driscolls came from behind a large tent. Arthur got them in one shot, straight through both mens chests, they collapsed on top of each other in a soon-to-be rotting heap.

The rush of O’Driscoll’s was brought to a quick and brutal end. The last line of defense for the meat shack- for you- was a tall, pale man.

With bullets to spare, Arthur emptied the barrel of his gun into the man, storming into the shack. It was dark, the soft light the sun provided wasn't enough, old wood creaking beneath his boots as he took slow, careful steps inside. Vague figures, six, hanging from the ceiling.

Even in the dark, he recognized you immediately. His heart sank as you hung there, unmoving.

A sudden deep breath broke the silence, then a groan. You shifted slightly against the rope around your wrist, muttering something as you did.

Holstering his gun, he sped over to you, putting both hands on your face, and even in the impossibly low light he could still see your eyes staring straight into his.

Cutting you down and carrying you out was a blur, he didn't look at you, your body, he didn't think he could, not with how he was now. He knew you were hurt, you'd hissed painfully when he picked you up, and despite his attempts to keep his eyes off of you, he could see that your shirt, at the very least, was torn and stained with blood.

He felt like he was burning, even with the camp extirpated and you safe in his arms. He still felt a furor building in his chest as he searched for your horses.

Your head rested against his chest, eyes just barely open, vision entirely blurred.

Unaware of your surroundings, you let Arthur’s familiar presence take you over. Listening to his ragged breath and pounding heart.

You don't remember being brought to camp or dozing off, but you felt better, your arms felt lighter and your head had stopped spinning, you could feel bandages on your shoulder, stomach, and leg. You blinked, looking down at yourself, your clothes had been changed, they were mismatched but comfortable. Resting your head back against the cot, glancing around the little camp Arthur had set up.

Kneeling by the fire, swearing under his breath as he stared into the hanging pot.

Pushing yourself up, you realized how sore your wrists still were, but you pushed passed it. Finding your barrings, you walked over to him, feeling dirt and twigs crunch under your boots. Arthur, staring so deeply into the pot, so frustrated with everything and everyone, did not hear you coming.

You sat behind him, wrapping your arms around him, squeezing him tight, feeling his warmth envelope your aching body.

“Hey, Hon..” you muttered into his neck, your throat was a little sore, you realized.

His hand found yours quickly, but they lingered on your wrist, over what would soon be scars. You breathed deeply, setting your head on his shoulder.

“Rope burn ‘s no joke”

You heard him breathe out.

“I was so…” he started, trying to find the word.

Enraged, pissed, livid, angry-

“..scared. With Sean riding into camp the way he did I couldn't help but think the worst.”

Sighing, you moved carefully to sit next to him. Your bruises ached, your cuts and gashed burned, and the bullet wound in your shoulder felt like hell, but you smiled.

“You know I'm not going anywhere, not without you. If I'm going to hell you bet your ass I'm taking you with me.”

Hd smiled softly, “I know, I know,”

Stirring the pot a bit, he said “Food’s not gonna be done for a while.”

“How long?”

“‘Bout an hour.”

You hummed, leaning your head on his shoulder, a moment passed, you pressed a kiss into the leather of his coat, another moment passed, you kissed his neck, right under his jaw. You felt him shift his head to the side.

A few more moments and a few more kisses later he pulled away. He was already hesitant to reciprocate, he'd seen the extent of your injuries when he was cleaning you up, it was a hard sight to see. So many cuts and bruises that no matter how hard he tried he couldn't keep track of them all.

The second he reciprocated, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer to him, kissing you slowly, his hand curling around your hip- he pulled away when a small, pained noise left your throat.

Guilt immediately flooded Arthur, his heart clenching, then dropping into his stomach when you moved your pants down to reveal a deep purple bruise. Still fresh and no doubt painful.

He mumbled your name as you checked out the bruise, then fixed your pants, looking back up at Arthur like nothing had happened.

“I’m okay,” you said, your mood clearly not phased the way Arthur’s was.

“I’m sorry..”

You hummed, getting close and leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Don’t be.”

“You know I can't help it..”

You pressed a short kiss into the crook of his neck.

“Then make it up to me.”

It was a well known fact that Arthur was wrapped around your finger, you knew it, he knew it, and all your friends at camp knew it. So it didn't take much begging, despite his better judgment.

His brain was screaming at him- you were hurt, covered in bruises. Sex would not make you better, it would actually make you worse.

Yet here he was, kneeling on the cot with you laying in front of him, a relaxed smile on your face as he popped each button on you pants open. You spread your legs, hanging them over Arthur’s hips. He hesitated.

Your hands found his in a moment, pulling them up to your lips and kissing from his wrist all the way up to the tips of his fingers. He sat there silently admiring you, every touch of your lips stinging him with a feeling of both guilt and need.

You stopped with a bite, taking the tip of his thumb in your mouth, biting with just a little bit of pressure. Then you kissed it like you had done all the others. It brought to mind a rougher memory, with you at his mercy, with him doing nothing while watching you writhe, pleas falling from your lips rapidly.

He blinked and the memory was gone.

Arthur let out a slow, unsteady breath. Then leaned down, burying his face in your neck, listening to your breath, feeling your pulse, kissing your exposed skin. Hearing the relieved sigh you let out, he began to grasp just how much you wanted him.

With practices ease, he blindly unbuttoned your shirt, moving from marking your neck to marking your exposed chest.

As gently as he could muster, he ran his hands down your sides, feeling the hard, hot bruises that littered your body.

You breathed out as he went farther and farther down, from your neck, to your chest, all the way down to your barely exposed hip. His fingers in two belt loops, slowly tugging your pants lower and lower. He kissed every inch of your skin, and every time he exposed more, he devoured it.

Pulling back to take your pants all the way off, nearly disturbing the now healing cut that went across your thigh. Your already hard cock rested against your stomach. Balling up your pants and setting them to the side. Resisting the urge to run his hands across each scab that had formed on your skin. A deep-seated urge to soothe and comfort, but he knew he couldn't do much more than he already had.

He pressed into you slowly, holding your hip steady in his hands, your thighs flinching several times, bitting down on to your lip as the pain of being stretched open lit every nerve in you body. Letting out a rigid, stuttered breath as he slowly pulled out after a moment of waiting- your hand squeezing his arm, giving him permission to move.

He did, holding your body close to his, reveling in every little whimper and moan, no matter how small. His praise boundless and constant as he thrust into you. You could feel him holding back, you’ve been with Arthur far too long to no know- he’s doing it for your well-being- you probably couldn’t handle more that what he’s giving you now.

Your body clung to Arthur’s as you came, your own shattered breath was the only sound you could hear for a long moment. Slowly releasing Arthur from your crushing grip, you blinked as your vision - which you hardly even realized was skewed- became clear again, and the mildly worried face of your lover came into view.

You couldn't help but smile- not that you wanted to let help it- especially as relief flooded his rigid figure.

“‘You okay?”

You nodded, shutting your eyes for a moment, finding that opening them became harder with every second that passed. You could hear Arthur talking, small mutters to you or to himself, your words only came out as a quiet, incoherent noise. You were exhausted, but quite happy. Even as your body settled and new pains set in with the old ones. You were happy.

[pagesfromthevoid]

Darling, Don’t You Cry | j.m.

Joel Miller x fem!reader

Only you have shown me how to love being alive.

Word Count: 8.4k (ahahah)

Warnings: Canon violence. Mild SA mention (nothing explicit). Murder. Mentions of being drugged and kidnapped, hunted by people. Softie Joel.

Author’s Note: I…don’t know what came over me. Might I recommend listening to Darling by Halsey as you read?

Talk to Me! | Read on AO3

1993 —Austin, Texas

Two years after Tommy joined the military; two years after Sarah’s mom left

“I can’t stay,” she argued, shoving clothes into a suitcase.

Joel stood in the doorway, arms crossed, but made no move to stop her. “Can we at least talk about it?”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Now you wanna talk, Miller? I’ve been trying to talk for months.”

Joel heaved a sigh, running his hands over his jaw. “I know —I’m sorry, okay? It’s complicated —,”

“You think I didn’t know that going into this?” She asked, turning to finally look at him. “You think that I didn’t know how hard this would be, between you having a baby and a wife that just up and left? I knew it would be complicated, Joel.”

“Then I don’t get why you’re leaving,” he pressed, finally stepping into the room. “You’ve lived here your whole life —,”

“I’ve lived here since I was fifteen,” she countered, looking at him with annoyance. “And have had feelings for you since I moved here.”

“Don’t say that,” he warned, crossing his arms. “You’ve had plenty of boyfriends; shit, you dated Tommy.”

“Oh my god, when we were sixteen,” she groaned, throwing her hands in the air. Then she stopped, taking a deep breath to calm herself. “You wanna talk? Let’s talk. I got accepted into a great program in Seattle. I have deferred that acceptance for two years to help take care of Sarah since Tommy left for basic, under the condition that I would go when he got home.

“Just because you have been dancing around whether or not you have feelings for me doesn’t mean I don’t know what I feel. And it damn well doesn’t give you the right to tell me I cannot go.”

“I never said you couldn’t,” he countered, reaching out to take the shirt she had in her hands. “I just —what’s so special about Seattle that you can’t have here?”

“My family is there. That’s what’s in Seattle, Joel. And a damn good aerospace program that wants me. Do you not get how big a deal that is?” She stared up at him, frowning deeply. “I have spent years being told I wasn’t good enough by every fucking teacher I’ve ever had —and now Boeing fucking wants me. I can’t keep blowing them off. Tommy comes home tomorrow, and my flight is booked for the day after. If I don’t go now —I won’t ever go.”

They stared each other down for a long time, Joel’s eyes pleading with her to stay. But she has spent the last two years helping take care of a child that wasn’t her’s, deferring an acceptance that never should have been deferred, and loving a man who couldn’t decide what he wanted. There were a million reasons for her to go; she just needed one good one to stay. 

But she knew he’d never give her that reason. 

“Tell me why I should stay, Joel,” she finally demanded, looking up at him with tears in her eyes. “Tell me what I know you want and I’ll stay.”

“Darlin’, I can’t —,”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, pointing at the door. “Just…just get out of my house, Joel.”

She watched him turn and leave, taking her heart with him. 

2003 —Austin, Texas

Two weeks before the outbreak 

“When are you gonna let me take you back out?” Tommy asked, leaning against the bar. 

The dive bar wasn’t terribly busy; just a handful of people that knew she was back in town for a few days. Boeing was working with Johnson Space Center in Houston on a new project and she was sent down to work with the teams at NASA. It felt a bit surreal, being the lead on such a huge project. 

She’d been back a handful of times since moving back to Seattle; mostly to visit Tommy and other friends. Life got busy, things changed, and it was never easy to just hop on a plane and visit. But now, with this new program, she was going to be settling down in Houston. Austin was a bit of a trek, but she missed her friends and time heals all wounds. 

“We’ve been down that road, Miller,” she reminded him with a teasing grin. “If I recall, you cheated on me with Danielle.”

“And Noelle. And Gina.”

She looked up from the bar at the familiar voice, turning around to see Joel sauntering in with a soft smile on his face. Leaning back against the bar, she lifted her beer in greeting. 

Maybe time didn’t heal all wounds. 

But it sure as hell made the heart grow fonder. 

“Joel Miller, as I live and breathe,” she greeted, though remained seated. “Still out here ruining Tommy’s life, I see. Didn’t know about the other two.” She gave Tommy a pointed look, but there was a grin on her face. 

“Someone’s gotta keep’em humble,” Joel answered easily, taking the empty seat beside her. “How long you in town, darlin’?”

If he saw her flinch at the nickname, he didn’t react. 

“Austin, a week,” she explained, lifting the beer to her lips. Her eyes dragged over his face, taking in every little change she’d missed in him. “Houston, at least a year.”

He raised a brow, sitting up a bit straighter. “Moving back, then? Seattle not cuttin’ it?”

“Seattle is just fine,” she countered, turning back in her seat to face the bar. “I’m working out at the Space Center, with the shuttle program. Lead engineer.”

“Shit,” he chuckled, shaking his head as the bartender handed him a beer of his own. “That’s impressive.”

She just shrugged in response, smiling behind her beer now. It was easy to fall back into it with Joel; like no time had passed at all. But that’s how it always was. Joel was an easy friend to make, and an even easier person to fall for. 

What started as a stupid crush on the older neighbor boy had turned into so much more —ending just like she expected it would. Him not realizing she even existed until she was old enough to make a move herself, and by then he had a little girl and a wife. And even when his wife up and left, Joel couldn’t make up his mind about what he wanted from her. 

“I’ve always been impressive,” she teased, glancing over at him. “Not my fault you’re blind in your old age.”

Joel scoffed, taking a swig of his beer. “I’m almost certain you and I are barely five years apart.”

“Feels like decades.”

They fell into a silence as the bar started to liven up, people wandering in and getting the party started. Her fingers fiddled with a bracelet on her wrist —one that Joel had given her the first Christmas she spent with him and Sarah. She couldn’t find herself parting with it; as much as she knew she should, she just couldn’t. The charm —a single star —was loose and she tried tightening it while she fiddled. 

She stole a glance at Joel, who was looking at her with a small frown on his face. He reached over, taking her wrist without a word to fix the charm himself. His touch on her skin lit a fire that she had to put out immediately. She couldn’t keep looking at him; refused to. The look in his eyes reminded her of the one he gave when she left. 

And she couldn’t fall for it again. 

“I gotta get home,” she announced, hopping off her barstool. “My dad is waiting for me; promised I’d stay with him while I was in town.”

Joel nodded once, looking away from her finally. “Don’t be a stranger; Sarah’s soccer season ended so she’s home in the evenings. Doubt she remembers ya, but I’m sure you remember her.”

It was a subtle dig; a reminder that she had left and tried her damnedest not to come back. But she wouldn’t let him see how it bothered her, giving him a polite smile. 

“I’ll try to stop by.”

Both of them knew she wouldn’t though.

2003 —Somewhere in east Texas

One month after the outbreak

“You sure that’s the address?” Joel asked, looking up at a building.

Just like most places, it seemed abandoned aside from a handful of looters trying to get whatever they could. One of the many luxury apartments of Houston, left to the elements and whatever else found its way into the building. 

Tommy held out a worn out piece of paper to him, the ink faded from being folded over so many times. Joel took it, looked it over a few times, before he cast his gaze up. 

“We gotta get to the eighth floor then.”

“Leave it to her to live on the fuckin’ top floor,” Joel grumbled, shaking his head. 

“If she’s even there,” Tommy reminded him, looking up at the building. 

He glanced at his brother, frowning deeply as Tommy fell prey to the thought that she was dead. Tommy was the one to assume the best; to assume she was alive. 

Joel assumed she wasn’t.

It was easier to assume the worst than hope for the best. 

Trekking up eight flights of stairs was living hell, given that at any moment someone —something could attack. Guns drawn, backing up stairs to cover each other…it was something that the two had grown used to doing over the last month. But silence enveloped the building, and by the time they made it to the top floor unscathed, things seemed…fine.

“Apartment 818E,” Tommy reminded him, motioning for him to follow down the hall. 

Joel had an uneasy feeling as he peered into open apartments, checking for threats. It seemed that looters hadn’t made it up eight flights of stairs, leaving many of the apartments alone. But it was too quiet; too easy. Nothing in this new hell was easy. 

Tommy stopped, standing in front of a closed apartment door. The numbers were eschew, like someone tried prying them off. But the door was unlocked when he reached for it, gun drawn. Joel followed close behind as they pushed open the door. And it was like walking into a memory. 

Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust, but it was clearly still her home. Pictures on the walls, books stacked on the coffee table. Dishes were still in the sink, and the upturned faucet suggested that the water had been running when she left. Joel stepped through the living room, glancing over the photos that littered the space. 

But he stopped in front of one —staring at him through dust and cobwebs. It was a photo of him and Sarah, right after Sarah’s first birthday, not long after his ex left. He remembered that day; she had insisted on taking a new family photo because fuck her, who needs her? And when Joel tried to argue that Sarah needed her mother —she reminded him that Sarah had her, and did he.

There was a photo next to it, one he didn’t remember taking. Tommy had his arm around her shoulders, and Joel had his around her waist. The photo was snapped as she looked up at Joel —like she was caught staring at him instead of smiling at the camera. It was right before Tommy had left for basic, at his going away party. She looked up at him like she was seeing the stars for the first time.  

And Joel wondered, briefly, how he had been so fucking stupid not to notice. 

He lifted the photo off the wall, wiping away the grime. There was a hole in his heart where Sarah was missing; and now another hole where she was too. He glanced at the photo of him and Sarah, taking it down next. Tommy was still searching the house, but Joel was prying the backs of the frames off and taking the photos out. He couldn’t leave them behind. 

“Find anything?” He asked, taking a breath to calm himself down. Feelings didn’t mean shit at the end of the world, anyway.

When Tommy didn’t answer, Joel pushed the photos into his back pocket and returned to searching. He found Tommy standing in her bedroom, staring at the floor. Joel’s gaze followed, and even though he had assumed the worst —seeing the blood stains on the carpet twisted everything inside him until it ached. 

“Maybe it’s not hers,” Tommy mumbled, kneeling down to look the stain over. Joel was about to argue, but Tommy’s voice cracked as he spoke again. “She was always fighting, she probably got away —,”

“Tommy,” Joel scolded gently, kneeling beside his brother. “Tommy, we need to go.”

But Tommy just shook his head, staring blankly at the blood stain. Joel huffed in frustration, pushing himself off the floor. He’d give his brother a few minutes; let him accept that she was really gone. It was easier that way —Joel had accepted she was dead weeks ago. 

He took a moment, looking around her bedroom. It was a mess; like she was in the middle of cleaning up when everything went wrong. Clothes were hanging from her drawers and her curtains were drawn. The bed wasn’t made, with the covers practically pushed onto the floor. The pictures on her nightstand were knocked over from the blankets being thrown, and Joel moved over to set them back up. 

Sitting on the nightstand was a worn, silver star. The jump ring was twisted open, and the star itself had a copper tint from being worn down over years. Joel hesitated just a moment before picking it up, looking it over. He’d tried to fix it last month, but she wouldn’t let him get too close. And now, he held the charm in the palm of his hand, throat closing up. 

“Tommy, we need to go,” Joel finally decided, trying to keep himself together. “We gotta get moving. She’s gone.”

Reluctantly, his brother stood and rubbed a hand over his face. Then, after composing himself, he and Tommy left what was left of their old life behind. 

Joel, however, pocketed the charm. 

2023 —Present Day

Somewhere near the border of Wyoming

“Why couldn't the skeleton share the bad news?” Ellie asked, kicking her feet out in front of her. 

Joel rubbed his face, groaning as she giggled to herself, holding the joke book. “God, why?”

“Because he didn’t have the heart!”

He hunched over, closer to the fire, giving her an unamused look as he shook his head. “Fuckin’ terrible, kid.”

“You’re just not funny.”

As Joel was about to argue, a gunshot rang out in the distance. Both of them went silent, with Joel smothering the campfire and him pushing Ellie behind rocks that they had taken refuge in for the evening. Joel stayed low, pulling out his own pistol. He glanced back at Ellie, who was peering out from behind the rocks, clutching her pocket knife. 

“Stay here,” Joel ordered, giving the girl a hard look. 

“But —,”

“No,” he interrupted, pointing at her. “Stay. Here.”

Ellie huffed in anger, but fell against the rock. Joel took a breath, shaking his head for a moment before he began making his way towards the gunshot. Another rang out —then another. The shots were getting closer —too close, and he was readying himself for a fight as he inched closer to the woods. 

The sound of snowing and ice crunching under boots was loud enough that it pierced the silence of the night like a knife. Someone was being chased, and Joel feared the worst. There were too many possibilities of what could be running towards him, and he wasn’t about to take any chances as he pushed up against a tree, pistol at the ready. 

Another shot rang out, and a high pitch scream came next. 

“Son of a bitch.”

Joel blinked, that overwhelming pain in his chest suddenly taking over as he listened. The voice was painfully familiar —older, hoarse, but familiar. He peered around the base of the tree, catching just a glimpse of a woman, holding her shoulder as it bleed into her hands. Her gun lay on the ground beside her. 

But it was her. 

Twenty years —twenty goddamn years, and there she stood in front of him. Covered in blood —fresh and old —and being shot at in the wilderness of Wyoming. Older too; but they both were. Her lip was busted, bruised and bleeding. But it was her.

He wondered if she had looked for him and Tommy, like they had for her. 

“You can’t run,” a voice called from further away. Joel, unable to catch his breath, leaned back against the tree. 

“Thought that was the fucking point,” she snapped back, reaching down to snatch her gun back up, pointing it hastily into the woods. Joel couldn’t see where she was aiming. “I thought you were hunting me —prey runs, you dipshit.”

“Didn’t think you’d run so damn far.”

The other voice, distinctly male, emerged a few feet away from where Joel hid. He peered around one more time, making sure that it was just her and him. Her gun turned to her attacker, bad arm tucked into her side as she practically bared her teeth in a growl. 

“One more step,” she warned, hand trembling as she held the gun. “And I’ll shoot you.”

“You can barely aim with your good arm, what makes you think you’ll hit me now?”

“Fuck you,” she spat. 

“I gave you that option.”

“And yet I still chose being hunted over your dick.”

Joel had heard enough, turning from behind the tree and taking aim. There was no pause; he did not hesitate. He just pulled the trigger and watched her assailant drop like the fly he was. He didn’t stop, though, emptying his clip until the man was a bloody, unrecognizable mess. Even with it emptied, he pulled the trigger several more times as he saw red. 

She had whipped around, gun pointed at Joel now. Her movements were sluggish, and she was wincing from the wound in her arm. But he put his hands up, finger off the trigger. Her eyes widened as her hand shook, dropping her gun in the snow. It was littered in blood stains, and Joel thought back to that day they had found her apartment empty. 

“Joel?”

Hearing her say his name —after twenty years —felt surreal. Almost like he was hallucinating. How many nightmares and dreams did he have about her? Begging her to stay, trying to find her only to watch her disappear again? He’d forgotten the sound of her voice, how sweet it was —even now, broken and older. But hearing his name from her lips took him back and suddenly he was in the house again, laughing in the backyard with Sarah and her. 

He lowered his hands, slipping the pistol into his holster. She stared at him with wide eyes, as if she was seeing a ghost. Joel hesitated, but took half a step forward. She took a step back, breathing heavily as she watched him. It was like she was a feral animal, afraid to let him near. 

“Joel!”

He turned at the sound of Ellie’s voice, who was running up on him. When he turned back around, she was taking off back into the woods, clutching her arm and holding her gun. 

“Where the hell are you going?” Joel called after her, and she briefly paused —glanced over her shoulder at him —then kept going. 

For a moment, Joel considered going after her. How could she just take off like that? But Ellie sidled up to his side, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket as she watched the woman walk away through the snow. Then he decided he couldn’t. 

“You know her?” Ellie asked, brow furrowed. 

“I…yeah,” was all Joel could muster up saying. “Yeah, I do.”

*****

The remainder of their trip to Jackson was filled with questions from Ellie about the woman in the woods. Who is she? Why didn’t we go after her? Was that your girlfriend? Oh my fucking god it was.

By the time they had called it for the night the first day after seeing her, Joel had given the bare minimum he could to answer Ellie. Admitting anything more would just trudge up memories he didn’t want to relive, and make it harder to not go after her. She clearly didn’t want their help, and he knew well enough that meant she’d fight them tooth and nail to avoid it. It’s what he would have done too. It wasn’t worth the risk to Ellie. Not when they were so close to getting her to Tommy and to safety. 

After two weeks worth of walking and finally arriving in Jackson, Joel had tried to forget he had even seen her. There was no reason to tell Tommy; no reason to give him any hope that he had seen their old friend. Tommy had enough going on —with Maria being pregnant, there wasn’t a good excuse to bring it up anyway. 

Following dinner —where they enjoyed a meal that wasn’t expired, and Joel thanked God for that —Tommy offered to show them down to the stables. Ellie was overjoyed, ready to interact with any and all animals she could. Joel just followed along as Maria explained the different posts that Ellie could help with if they stayed, all working with the different animals the community raised. Joel and Tommy fell back some, though Joel kept his eyes on Ellie. 

“You know, I wanted to wait to tell you,” Tommy started, slipping his hands in his pockets as they both watched Ellie pet the horse in front of her. “But about a week ago, someone showed up at the gate —I don’t think you’ll believe me —,”

But Joel interrupted, whispering her name, before looking at Tommy. The younger man looked surprised that Joel knew. 

“How did you —,”

“We ran into her a few weeks ago,” Joel explained, crossing his arms over his chest. “She was…shit, I don’t know. Being hunted. I killed the guy, but she took off.”

“Explains the shitty stitch job she had when she got here.”

Joel just nodded, trying not to think about her stitching herself up in the middle of the woods, alone. Though he had tried hard not to think about the other things she had experienced, alone, over the last two decades.

“She spent a couple nights in quarantine but we got’er set up in one of the apartments in the center. I’ve been checkin’ on her, but she hasn’t said much; didn’t even mention seeing you.”

Joel just shrugged, watching Ellie still. But he decided it was for the best to change the subject; for now anyway. “I need your help, Tommy.”

*****

When she had arrived in Jackson, she was certain that she was going to die at the gate. Her shoulder was infected —not from a bite, but from lack of taking care of it. She had stitched herself together with a dirty needle and thread she had tucked away in an abandoned cabin not far from where Ryan —her attacker —had died. Her supplies were still there when she returned, and she thanked the universe for not fucking her over even more. 

With Ryan and his brothers gone, she was finally free from the nightmare she had been living in. Even if it meant dying at the gates of the community she’d only heard stories about…she died free.

But when the gate opened and she dropped to her knees in front of the masked guards, she heard her name being yelled. Frantic, shocked, terrified. But goddamn, she knew that voice. 

“Tommy,” she breathed as he froze in front of her. She was covered in blood, worse for wear, and she knew what he was thinking. “I-I’m not infected, I swear, I was shot —,”

“We’re gonna get you to the clinic, okay?” He promised, motioning for the guards to help her up. A dog approached her, sniffing her over for several minutes, before returning to Tommy’s side. “See? Not infected; the dogs can tell.”

He ended up lifting her into his arms and carrying her through the gates. It felt like every part of her was just getting heavy, and her eyes wouldn’t focus on anything around her. But she was with Tommy; she was with someone she knew. And he was safe, and he was there. And when she woke up —if she woke up —she’d tell him she was saved by who she thought was Joel.

“I gotcha,” he promised, “You just gotta stay awake for me. Can you do that?”

She hummed in response, but her eyelids were too heavy and soon, the world had turned to black. 

*****

When she woke, Tommy was sitting next to her bed with another woman. They didn’t notice her staring at them through half closed eyes, taking a moment to consider if she was dead and this was heaven. But then, she moved just enough and she gasped in pain. Her shoulder stung, her head ached, and Christ, she was thirsty. 

“Hey, hey, don’t move,” Tommy ordered softly, pushing her good shoulder down into the pillows. “You’re just fine; you’re safe.”

She stared at him for a long time, reaching out to touch his face. Twenty years was such a long time, and he had changed so much. Everyone changed, of course. The world was nothing like it was when they were kids, but he was still Tommy Miller; still her friend and the boy next door. And as he touched her hand, she started crying. 

*****

After a week in the clinic, Tommy set her up with a small apartment in the center of the community. He tried apologizing for how small it was, but she waved him off, insisting that it was far better than anything she’d experienced in years. When he tried to push for more, she told him she wanted to settle in and that she would tell him more later. 

He left it at that, and left her alone. 

It was a small space, but it was her space. She had a bed, a bathroom, and a kitchen. And for a very short moment, she thought it was some semblance of normal. But when she got into the shower —washed out the grease and grime and remaining blood from her fight —and watched that faded crimson circle the drain…well, it wasn’t normal. It never would be. 

And when she stepped out, feeling cleaner than she had in nearly two decades, she finally saw her reflection. Her lips were bruised and split, with a scar across her cheek to her ear. Bruises littered her skin, enough so that her entire chest and shoulder were completely discolored. The bags under her eyes —not from being hit, shockingly, but from pure exhaustion —made her look sick. Though god forbid, she was incredibly malnourished as it was. 

Maria —Tommy’s wife, she had explained —came by with containers of food. She explained she and Tommy led the community, and that usually people ate the mess hall. But of course, no one expected her to right away. She wanted to joke, to tell Maria that she seemed too good for Tommy. But she stopped herself, because how would she know that? The Tommy she knew before the outbreak and the Tommy Maria knew were two completely different people. 

By the end of her first week, she was finally finding herself trying to explore Jackson. Tommy had offered to give her a tour, but she told him to go help Maria with whatever she was doing. He had hesitated, but eventually left her to her own devices. 

The remainder of her day was spent alone, wandering through the community. People greeted her, and she offered them soft smiles in response, but didn’t linger long enough to talk more. Exploring and socializing were two very different things, and she wasn’t ready for the socialization part of being there yet. 

So she wandered the perimeter, counting her steps as she memorized each entry point. Nodded to the guards and thanked them. Then she made her way back around the other way. It’s what she had done in the Dallas QZ; memorized every weak point that she could sneak out of. It was the only thing that kept her sane for the first few years, before she finally managed to get the hell out. 

Two twenty-three, two twenty-four, two twenty-five, two —

Her name was called, disrupting her counting, and she froze mid-step. Her name was yelled again, and that same familiar drawl that she had heard in the woods —that she thought she heard. 

Slowly, she turned.

Twenty steps away stood Joel Miller, watching her. 

She hadn’t been seeing things. It wasn’t blood loss or drug induced hallucinations —Joel was really eighteen steps away from her. 

Seventeen. 

He said her name again, and she took two steps towards him. 

Fifteen. 

“Joel,” she managed to croak out as she took three more steps.

Ten. 

Eight. 

Joel took four more; she took four. They met in the middle, and her arms were around his middle before she could stop herself. His snaked around her shoulders, pulling her into him without another word and she gasped as she started crying into his jacket. Joel pressed his lips to her hair, and she sobbed harder, clinging to him. 

“It’s okay,” he promised, holding her close to him. “It’s alright, darlin’. Don’t you cry; it’s okay.”

How many nights did she dream of him calling her that again? Even after she accepted he didn’t want her, that he let her leave —she dreamed of it for years, wishing she could see him one more time. Apologize for leaving, and tell him she missed him. Tell him how she wished she had asked him to come with her, to bring Sarah and they could be a family together properly. 

It was too late for that; too late to apologize. To have a family, and a life like what they had before. But he was there, and he was real. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice muffled by his jacket. “I’m sorry, Joel.”

He hushed her, promising her again that everything was going to be okay. “C’mon —sun’s setting. Let’s get inside before it’s dark.”

She nodded, letting him pull away. But his touch didn’t disappear, instead turning into him wrapping his arm around her shoulders to lead her back into town. Nobody said a word to them as she sobbed into her hands, letting Joel guide her wherever they were going. 

She would have let him guide her to hell if it meant being close again though. 

*****

They didn’t actually say anything to one another for a long time. Joel had brought her to the hole in the wall Tommy had given him and Ellie to stay, and when they sat down —she just cried. He didn’t know how to console her, or calm her down. So instead he simply let her cry, and held her while she did so. As Joel held her, he could feel her body shake with sobs. He could tell that she was struggling with something deep and personal, and he didn't want to intrude on her emotions by prying or trying to speak too soon. So he just held her tightly and waited for her to open up when she was ready.

Ellie had come out of her room at the intrusion, no doubt about to make a snarky comment, but Joel gave her a pointed look. It was a warning, and Ellie backed away as soon as the woman let out another broken sob. 

But as her crying slowly subsided, and her tears stopped streaking down her cheeks, she pulled away from him. Joel leaned forward on the sofa, clasping his hands together as she fell against cushions. He wondered how long she’d kept herself from crying; how long she buried all those feelings. 

“Feel better?” He asked, leaning back now to properly look at her. 

She just nodded, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms. “I’m sorry —Christ, I’m pathetic —,”

“None of that,” he scolded, but he tried to keep his voice soft. 

Ellie peered around the corner, and before Joel could say anything, she followed his gaze to the child. Her brow furrowed, staring at Ellie like she was trying to pick her apart.

“That’s not…,” she trailed off, looking back at Joel in confusion. “Did you…Did I miss you having another kid?”

Ellie suddenly snorted, laughing at her question as she finally joined the two in the living room. Joel gave Ellie a careful scowl, frowning deeply as she sat on the floor in front of the two adults. While he never thought he’d have a private moment with her again, he needed Ellie to not interrupt him trying to figure out what was going on.

“I’m not his kid,” Ellie announced, sitting crisscrossed before her now. “I’m his cargo.”

“Don’t say that shit,” he warned, giving Ellie a pointed look. “You’re not –not anymore.”

“But…she was?” She asked, looking between the two curiously. 

“Long story,” was all Joel could manage to say, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll…explain it later.”

She looked between Ellie and Joel for a moment, trying to draw connections between the two before she seemed to give up. Her hands rubbed her eyes again, taking a deep breath as she settled into the couch further. Joel simply stared at her, watching her movements. Her fingers tapped against her thigh, a pattern that he was certain she didn’t realize she was making. Her mouth was bruised, with a split lip that was still healing. 

“Why’d you run from us?” Ellie suddenly demanded, leaning forward.

“Ellie –,”

But she let out a huff that sounded like a laugh, and Joel turned his attention to her instead of the kid in front of them. He wanted to know too; wanted to understand why she took off when she clearly knew it was him. She’d said his name, after all. But Ellie was too blunt for her own good.

“I…,” she trailed off, trying to think of her explanation. “Do you want the actual answer, or the less terrible one?”

Joel and Ellie glanced at one another, both frowning now. It was Joel who spoke. “The real answer. Please.”

She nodded once, looking down at her hands for a moment. “I thought I was hallucinating, that’s all. Twenty years –what are the odds of you being in the same stretch of woods as me, twenty years after the last time we saw each other?”

“Fucking slim,” Ellie mumbled, looking between the two.

She gave Ellie a surprised look, as if not expecting her to curse. But she shook her head, returning to her story. “I…I’d lost a lot of blood, I think. And I was drugged. Been running for days without eating or sleeping, so I…I saw you, and I really did think it was you. But then…well, she…” She motioned to Ellie then to Joel, frowning still. “I thought, ‘That’s not Sarah; that’s not Sarah so that can’t be Joel,’ and I…figured I was just hallucinating from the drugs and lack of sleep. It wouldn’t have been the first time, honestly. But then…I took off before I could think straight.”

Joel stared at her for a long time, taking her explanation for what it was. In a fucked up way, he liked the thought that she had been seeing him in her delirious state. Maybe it was wrong; maybe it was the worst thing to think of. But she thought of him, and he wondered if that meant what he thought it did.

“How’d you end up in the woods?” He asked, eyes roaming over the scars that she had picked up over the years. “Sounded like you knew the fucker that attacked you.”

“That’s…a whole different story,” she sighed then glanced at Ellie. “One I don’t think I can share with a kid.”

“Bullshit,” Ellie complained, throwing her hands in the air. “I’ve seen and heard so much worse –,”

“Ellie, please,” Joel scolded, pointing to the bedroom. “I need you to go find something else to do.”

“What the hell am I gonna do?”

“Literally anything. Go.” Joel's voice was stern, and he knew that Ellie was feeling frustrated not being involved. "Ellie, I mean it. Anything else. Just keep yourself busy and stay safe," Joel said firmly.

Ellie rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Fine," she grumbled, turning to head to the bedroom. 

As she disappeared from view, Joel let out a sigh of relief. He didn't want to hurt Ellie's feelings, but sometimes she was too stubborn for her good, and while he didn’t expect too long a moment alone with her, he wanted her to feel safe telling him what happened to her. And if that meant having Ellie go occupy herself for ten minutes, then he would make it up to her later. 

She watched Ellie walk away, waiting to speak until she heard the slam of the bedroom door. She flinched at the sound, closing her eyes for a moment. 

“I’m sorry, she can stay out here –,”

Joel shook his head, waving off her concerns. “She’ll be fine,” he promised, moving now to sit closer to her. “Sometimes she thinks she’s more grown than she is.”

“I think all teenagers think that way.”

He thought back to Sarah for a moment; how she insisted on doing things on her own only to realize she needed help when it was too late. It was a teenager thing to do, even in the middle of the apocalypse. The thought of Sarah hurt though, and he shook his head to bring him back. He knew that dwelling on the past wouldn't do any good, especially now that he had part of his past sitting in front of him.

“Talk to me,” he ordered, keeping that same stern but soft tone he gave her earlier. It was easier to move forward; keep the conversation going. Even if it meant talking about her past over his. “What happened?”

She bit at her lip, though stopped herself when she remembered the split and the bruise. Instead she opted to pick at the skin around her nails, trying to keep herself occupied. Joel waited patiently, frowning as time wore on. He could sense her unease and wanted to help, but he also knew better than to push her. He shifted his weight on the couch, leaning forward some, feeling the weight of the silence between them.

“Where do I even start?” She finally asked, covering her face with her hands. 

“Why not the beginning?” He suggested, reaching out to take her hand. “Tell me what happened, darlin’.”

She hesitated again, looking at their hands. His were a scarred, calloused disaster. Worn and torn from years of violence and labor. Even before the world had gone to shit, they were worked hard from construction. Joel couldn't help but notice the way she hesitated, her eyes darting back and forth between their hands. 

Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with the memory of the last time they touched like this. It was the morning before she kicked him out of her house. She’d stayed the night, having watched Sarah for him while he had gone out to help a friend get their car back and running. It wasn’t the first night they’d spent together, with her waking up in his bed and his lips on hers, lazy in the sunrise. She’d taken his hand, pressing their finger tips together, and asked him if he wanted to talk about her offer to Boeing. 

He didn’t want to talk about it then, promising they could later. He remembered her sighing, burying her face back into her pillow even though she still held his hand in hers. He had been avoiding the conversation for weeks at that point —knew he was pushing his luck in her staying with him without talking about it. They hadn’t talked about what had been going on between them; hadn’t put a label to it. She was young and had a life ahead of her. And Joel…well, he was the father of a four year old and too jaded from his ex to put his heart on the line again. He had been afraid to tell her the truth, and by the time she tried to force it out of him, it was too late. 

Christ. Had it really been thirty years? 

“Joel?”

Her voice broke him from his thoughts, and he focused on her face again. “Sorry, darlin’. I’m listening, promise.”

She nodded again, taking a moment before she finally started to speak. Her free hand ran over her hair as she put into words the last twenty years.

“Uh, so most of the last two decades were in the Dallas QZ,” she explained, “I stopped keeping track around fifteen. Most of my team from the Space Center ended up with me there, and FEDRA had us work on putting the zone together. Guess they thought all engineers were builders –but we basically directed people on how to make shuttles and parts of the shuttle; buildings are completely different.”

“I still can’t believe you were an engineer for NASA,” he admitted, smiling softly at her. “Makes sense since you were always takin’ shit apart and putting it back together, just to see how it worked.”

“I never thought it was an option, but that’s how I managed to get a radio that worked right; I managed to jerry rig something that could pick up on the towers communicating back and forth.” She just shrugged though, looking back down at her hands. “That’s how I found out about this place. Overheard someone passing along the message, and I started to map it out the best I could. I have a shit sense of direction, though.”

“You always did,” he recalled, giving her another small grin. “Remember when you convinced me to drive you and Tommy to Galveston for some concert and you got us lost?”

She smiled, and Joel was certain she was thinking back on it. He remembered that trip well; she’d just turned eighteen, and Tommy was about to head out to basic. They wanted to do something exciting before he left, having asked her parents to watch Sarah for the weekend. Halfway through the trip, she offered to help with Sarah; she hadn’t mentioned getting an offer to go to school in Seattle at that point. He was just happy to have someone who wanted to be there. 

He remembered how packed the cab of the truck was, and how she was practically in his lap the entire trip there. At the time, it was like he was suddenly seeing her for more than the girl who hung out with his little brother. She was lively, and excited. Her laughter filled the cab, and he couldn't help but feel drawn to her energy. He wanted to spend more time with her, to hear her laugh and chat his ear off. Even when he realized they were lost as shit, it didn’t matter because he was just content with her beside him. Until Tommy reminded them they missed the concert, of course.

“We ended up there eventually!” 

“After the fucking concert was over, a day late.”

“We still got there,” she argued, and Joel appreciated that the memory got her to smile just a little. But it faded as she continued to speak. “I told my team, and we were gonna get out of there. After a while though, it's like…like my team just started to disappear. Couple were killed by FEDRA for breaking rules; two others got sick. Then it was just me and…I figured if I was gonna go, I had to go then or never. Think that was, shit. I don’t know? Three years ago?

“I was fine for a year and half, on my own. Didn’t have a fucking clue where I was going, but I was doing okay. And then…I stumbled on this group of survivors –two women, three men. I offered them some supplies to show I wasn’t there to hurt them, and they told me they were headed here too. So I joined them. That’s…that’s when it got bad.

“Lilla, one of the ladies, got infected and attacked us. She bit one of the men, Travis. Obviously we killed them, and got away. But then, I don’t know, the leader of the group –his name was Ryan, he’s the one that you killed –got this sick idea that hunting people was the best way to survive. His wife agreed, and his brother just went along with it. I thought they were psycho, told them and that’s when…well, they decided it was me they would hunt.”

“What the fuck,” Joel mumbled, brow furrowing as he listened to her. Her hand was trembling now, and he reached out to take both her hands in his now. She closed her eyes, tears falling again as she clutched his hands tight. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe now.”

“Long story short, I managed to kill the wife and brother about six months into their stupid ass game; Ryan just kept…he kept finding me. Every time I got away, he showed up. He’d get close enough, get a hold of me –drug me, stab me, whatever he could to slow me down –then let me go again. When you found me…that was, I don’t know, I think the third or fourth time he’d caught me and threw me back out. Like I was some game piece. Then…then you killed him and suddenly, I was free again but I thought I was dying, and…and…”

Finally, he pulled her into his arms, holding her close to him as she started to cry again. Joel’s stomach churned, the thought of her being hunted for nearly two years. He couldn't imagine what she must have gone through, the fear and uncertainty that must have plagued her every waking moment. He had always known that she was strong, but now he realized just how resilient she truly was. Despite the being fucking hunted, she had never given up. He felt a deep sense of respect and admiration for her, and he knew that he would do anything to make sure that she felt safe again. He’d failed her once before; he wouldn’t do so again.

As she cried in his arms, he whispered words of comfort to her, promising her that he would always be there for her. He knew that it would take time for her to heal, to overcome the trauma she had experienced, but he was healing too; he was just as broken as she was. And he wanted to heal with her –with Ellie too. In that moment, as he held her close, he realized he had to keep both her and Ellie safe; that he couldn’t fail them both.

He also realized, then, that he had to continue with Ellie to the university.

Joel pulled back, just enough to take her face in his hands. Tears were in her eyes as she looked up at him, and he couldn’t hold his back anymore. There was hesitation; a fear that lingered before he leaned in and pressed his lips against hers, feeling the weight of all the emotions between them. It was a kiss born out of sadness; trauma. But also one of comfort and understanding. It took a moment for her to respond to the kiss, but when she did, she returned with a fierceness that surprised them both. Their lips molded together, and their bodies pressed closer as the intensity of their emotions heightened. They both needed this connection, this moment of shared vulnerability, to ease the pain of their past. 

They stayed that way for a long moment, lost in each other, before finally pulling away, breathless. Joel rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, feeling grateful for the connection they shared. As they finally broke apart, gasping for air, she looked up at him with tears still in her eyes. But they were different tears now, ones of relief and hope. 

“I have to leave,” he whispered, searching her eyes as he pulled back, taking her face in his hands. “I have to take Ellie to Colorado –there’s doctors there; she’s immune somehow. They…they think they can make a cure.”

Her brow furrowed as she processed what he was saying, trying to understand what he was trying to get at. Her hand fingers wrapped around his wrists, holding him in place. Her eyes dropped, just briefly, on the string around his wrist –to the charm he’d taken years ago. Her tears fell even harder as she realized what it was. “Joel, I-I don’t –,”

“Come with us,” he practically begged, his voice breaking as he did. “I…I can’t lose you again. I won’t. Come with us, and help me get her there. Then we can come back here when the doctors get what they need, and you and I…we can try again; make up for the time we lost.”

She nodded frantically, tears falling over his hands as she started to cry again. He wiped her tears away, pulling her close to rest his forehead against hers once more.

“Yes!” Ellie suddenly exclaimed, running into the room again. 

Joel pulled back, though her hands found his to keep him close. “Ellie –,”

“I knew you wouldn’t let go with Tommy!” Ellie continued, throwing her arms around Joel’s neck from behind. “You fucking softie, I knew it!”

One of Joel’s hands reached up, patting Ellie’s arm with a small chuckle. She looked between the two for a moment, a soft smile coming to her lips. Joel looked back at her, unable to help the smile that came to him either. 

Maybe they’d be okay after all.

[thatfeelinwhenyou]

KINDRED — 11

It’s your final year of highschool, and your only goal is to graduate top of your cohort, as usual. Except as student council president, your advisor can’t seem to leave you alone. What happens when you take Decelis Academy’s top student, their star athlete and put them in front of a camera?

smau + written (2.4k words)

❥･• episode 11 — someone like me

Your fingers fumble awkwardly across the keyboard, pretending to craft messages for Jungwon. Though the conversation had concluded a while ago when he ventured off to hunt for a comic to occupy his next half-hour, you continued typing, feigning busyness on your phone to conceal the fact that you actually did not have a single clue how to act in front of all the cameras aimed at you. You curse Jungwon under your breath once more, silently wishing he’d materialise out of thin air to rescue you from the watchful eyes of not just the film crew but also the oblivious students populating the library.

In the ensuing minutes, a creepy awareness settles in as you notice the cameraman slowly edging closer behind you, aiming to capture your phone’s screen. Panicking, you spring up from your seat, and the chair scrapes harshly against the concrete floor, the jarring noise drawing the disturbed gaze of numerous students in the room. In that stifling moment, for the first time, you feel trapped within the four walls of the library, and you yearn for a breath of fresh air. Under the guise of needing a restroom break, you slip away. Producer Choi seems calm as she calls for a break before the next round of shooting begins.

Outside the library doors, you finally feel like you can breathe. The constant sensation of somebody watching your every move remains an unnerving feeling you’ll never grow accustomed to. Despite the ceaseless reminders to act naturally and behave like you always do, you can’t help but adopt a carefully curated persona, showcasing facets of yourself you didn’t even know existed.

Perhaps Jungwon has a point: you are, in fact, a people-pleaser. Somewhere within, you acknowledge the truth of his observation. The unending urge to fulfil expectations, the lingering dread of letting someone down, even if that person is a mere acquaintance—these sentiments reside within you, and you’d be delusional if you said you didn’t see them. You just, as usual, have too big of an ego to acknowledge it publicly.

Leaning against the rugged building's wall, you find yourself completely lost in the depths of your own thoughts, oblivious to the passage of time. Jungwon had returned to his seat mere minutes ago, his face etched with frustration due to the relentless prodding of the film crew, who incessantly insisted that he find you so the two of you could head off for his training session. It had sent him to the brink of madness, to say the least. Your phone buzzes insistently, but you pay it no mind, mentally willing for the seconds to pass by quicker.

In this fleeting moment of clarity, you become acutely aware of the judgmental gazes of students passing by, yet strangely, you couldn't care less. Park Y/N, perpetually burdened by concerns about how she's perceived, surprises herself by not putting up her customary façade—the studious nerd that everyone has grown accustomed to.

"Nerd! Is that you, looking all melancholic outside the library? What a shocker! Shouldn't you be frolicking in some science fiction book by now?" A group of familiar faces emerges, and you desperately wish they weren't advancing toward you at this moment.

If Chanelle were here, she would probably be unabashedly hissing at them, doing everything in her power to dissuade them from being remotely near you. But she's nowhere in sight, leaving Hana and her two lackeys striding purposefully toward you, their expressions bearing a mocking demeanour that suggests they have no intention of letting you off easily today.

"What do you want, Hana? I'm not in the mood to play your games today." You can't help but wish your words hadn't come off so irritated, for as soon as Hana's expression shifts, a tsunami of regret crashes over you.

"Poor Y/N, had a disagreement with your boyfriend?" You know she's referring to Jungwon; Hana's heart has always been ensnared by him, even if it's a one-sided infatuation. It's never bothered her that she can't have him because, quite frankly, nobody can.

So, when the entire campus discovered that Yang Jungwon was running around with you instead of his usual Taekwondo pursuits, imagine the green-eyed jealousy and envy that gripped Hana's heart. You somehow managed to capture his attention before she did, and you two were even sworn enemies at one point.

You can't quite explain what's come over you, but judging from your aura, it's clear you ain’t having it today. It's likely the reason why you couldn't care less about what Hana, her entourage, or the passing students might be thinking about you at this very moment. Perhaps it's also the source of the sudden surge of confidence that compels you to provoke her—something you probably shouldn't have done.

"Why do you ask? Could it be that you're jealous, Hana? Envious of me? I never thought I'd live to see the day." You let out a mocking laugh, partly savouring the myriad of expressions you've elicited from them. You've never challenged her authority before, no one else has dared to. So, when those audacious words escape your lips, it leaves Hana utterly dumbfounded. Not to mention furious.

"What did you say to me?" Hana seethes, pressing you firmly against the wall, her face contorting into expressions you've never witnessed before.

You must have genuinely enraged her, and oddly enough, you find a twisted satisfaction in witnessing how your defiance is affecting her. It's a stark reminder of how people can don masks of pretentiousness and cruelty just to feel a modicum of superiority over others. At the end of the day, those masks crumble with just a gentle push, much like how you find your own defences slipping around Jungwon when he manages to irritate you, if only a little.

"You heard what I said. Besides, Jungwon would never be interested in someone like you," you retort, your voice unwavering, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Oh? So you think Jungwon prefers someone like you?" Hana chuckles, and her two loyal followers join in with rehearsed disdain as if they had practised this very moment. What did she mean by someone like you? What could possibly be wrong with someone like you? Unlike Hana, you definitely weren’t a raging, jealous bitch. So why can’t Jungwon like you? Not that you’d want him to.

"Y/N, you're just like your mother," Hana continues, her smirk unwavering, her intense gaze never leaving you. Her words cut deep, leaving a gaping wound in your chest. "And eventually, Jungwon will leave you too, just like your daddy did."

The taunt hangs heavy in the air, and you struggle to maintain your composure in the face of such a personal attack. Growing up without a father figure never bothered you, but what does is the fact that she’s right. He left because of the controlling and suffocating grip your mother held over him—the very woman who raised you, moulding you with her unyielding methods and ideals. Now, you're an exact replica of the woman who tore your family apart.

Despite it all, you've never blamed your mother. Your father, in the end, proved to be a coward who couldn't stand up for you. And while you and your mother didn't always see eye to eye, she single-handedly raised you. As stubborn as she may be, your mother genuinely cares for and loves you.

As you grapple with these thoughts, you're unaware of the rivulets of tears streaming down your face, staining your cheeks. Hana, observing your emotional turmoil, sneers at your vulnerability. It's a stark reminder that, no matter how confidently you project yourself, she can shatter your façade with a single-cutting remark.

“That was a low blow, Hana.” Your body tenses at the familiar voice sounding out not too far away. In this moment, you fervently wish it weren't who you suspect it to be. Hana's eyes widen, and her expression instantly morphs into one of complete horror, her gaze locked onto the boy for whom she harboured her one-sided feelings.

Jungwon stands there, his presence commanding and enigmatic as always, his eyes locked on the unfolding drama. He's dressed casually, but there's an undeniable aura of strength and charisma that surrounds him. His brows furrow slightly as he takes in the scene, a hint of concern flickering in his gaze.

Hana, recovering from her initial shock, stammers for a moment, unable to form coherent words. She's caught off guard, her usual confidence crumbling in the face of Jungwon's unexpected appearance.

The tension in the air is palpable as the three of you share this awkward, charged moment. You can't help but wonder how Jungwon will react to this spectacle, and deep down, you're dreading what his response might be.

"Jungwon! I didn't see you there," Hana's voice suddenly rises a couple of octaves, her tone shifting from devilish to sweet in the blink of an eye as she addresses the boy she's been not so secretly pining for. Her personality undergoes a complete transformation with Jungwon's sudden appearance, leaving you incredulous. It's as if she's a completely different person now that he's in the picture. You can't help but scoff at the sheer audacity of the girl, barely holding back a cynical laugh. How can someone be so shamelessly two-faced?

Jungwon's voice cuts through the tension, his tone firm and unwavering, his eyes never leaving yours. "Cut the bullshit and leave her alone."

The words hang in the air, loaded with a protective intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. Hana, clearly taken aback by his sternness, stammers for a moment, searching for an excuse or a way out of this uncomfortable situation. She finally mumbles something about needing to go and hurries away, leaving you and Jungwon alone.

"Park, you okay there?" Jungwon's voice is gentle, tinged with apprehension as he approaches you. You sneak a glance at him, your heart pounding against your chest as you silently curse the universe for allowing him to witness you in such a vulnerable position—one you've been painstakingly trying to conceal from him.

"She's gone now, in case you're wondering; I made sure of it–"

"Go away," you reply, your voice unexpectedly firm, surprising both Jungwon and yourself. You knew he was only trying to help, but deep down, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of anger that you needed his assistance at all. You despise this sense of helplessness, constantly being at the mercy of Yang Jungwon. Perhaps it's one of the many traits of your mother that has rubbed off on you—the absolute refusal to let anyone see your weaknesses.

"That's not a very nice thing to say to someone who just offered their help."

"I didn't ask for your help." You finally lift your gaze to meet his, only to discover that the entire production crew is standing behind him, their intrusive cameras pointed directly at your tear-stained face. You're left momentarily speechless. Revealing your vulnerability to Jungwon is one thing, but being exposed on national television? It must be a joke.

The realisation dawns on you like a sledgehammer. Panic courses through your veins, and you feel the eyes of the crew behind Jungwon burning into your soul. The tears that had welled up in your eyes now feel like an ocean threatening to spill over, but you're determined to regain your composure.

Jungwon seems taken aback by the sudden intrusion of the cameras and the crew, his expression shifting from concern to a mix of surprise and frustration. He glances over his shoulder at the crew, who seem to be waiting for something, and then back at you.

In an instant, he gracefully crouches beside you, his imposing figure acting as an impenetrable shield, blocking you from the invasive cameras. His fingers deftly move to cover the microphone discreetly affixed to his school uniform as he leans in to speak, his voice a gentle whisper that barely reaches your ears.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. I had no idea they were following me."

The softness in his tone momentarily stuns you, causing you to question whether the person before you is truly the Yang Jungwon you thought you knew. It's a contemplative moment that makes you wonder if you've ever really known him beyond the surface. For far too long, you've held onto a deep-seated negative sentiment toward him, rooted in an incident that occurred several semesters ago. Now, faced with his unexpected act of protection, you're left pondering whether there might be more to Jungwon than the one-dimensional image you've held in your mind.

You take a deep breath, your emotions are still raw and tangled, but you muster the strength to speak. "It's not your fault, Jungwon. Thank you.”

He offers a small, understanding smile, and you can't help but be struck by how his presence has a calming effect on you, even in the midst of this unexpected and uncomfortable situation. "Let's get out of here," Jungwon suggests, extending a hand to help you up and you accept his gesture.

“I’m also twenty minutes late for training. Coach is definitely going to kick my ass.” Right, you were supposed to sit in for his training today. Not wanting to delay him any longer, you quickly rise to your feet with the help of Jungwon. In an instant, you transform back into the unbothered, confident Park Y/N that everybody knows, gesturing for Jungwon to lead the way to the gym.

Jungwon, though undoubtedly aware of the sudden shift in your demeanour, chooses not to comment on it. Unlike him, you wear your heart on your sleeve, and it didn’t take him more than a couple days to gain an understanding of your complex nature.

As you follow closely behind Jungwon with the rest of the crew trailing behind you, you can't help but wonder how this moment might change your relationship with Jungwon now that your vulnerabilities have been laid bare for the world to see.

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♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

authors note: i literally JUST finished writing this… took me 2 weeks 💀 also it’s not a smau by me if there’s no angst 😼 please do like, reblog or comment to help me reach!! edens this one is for y’all !

perm taglist. @hajimelvr @s00buwu @urmomssneakylink @grayscorner @bubblytaetae @mrchweeee

taglist open! @uuzhanggggggg @missingemobeomgyu @jiawji @ocyeanicc @s7noo @asterizee @j1nniee @noascats @yunwonie @saturnmooonxx @enhaz1 @jiaant11 @clairecottenheart @i2lain @miumiuoi

[skyward-floored]

ALSO—

what are Sky and Sun and Hyrule's reactions to what happened to Malon????? (Downfall IAU)

- hero-of-the-wolf

@hero-of-the-wolf So only one of those characters ended up actually showing up in this fic, because FOUR somehow snatched the focus (the sneak). But there will be more with the others at some point :)

(Comes after the tunnel argument fic)

...

They’d been walking for hours, and Four was exhausted.

He tiredly blinked rain out of his eyes as he plodded along beside Wind, his older brother looking just as exhausted as he felt. Wind almost slipped in a puddle, but caught himself, and Four sighed wearily.

The tunnel had finally led them out into a little park somewhere, the exit hidden by weeds and the roots of a tree. Legend said that in the springtime the spot was covered in flowers, but at the moment it just had fallen leaves scattered across it that were the color of blood. They’d slipped out of the park and around the business district they’d ended up in, sticking to side streets and taking shortcuts through alleys.

Luckily for them it was a chilly day, and there weren’t many people around to see Legend and Four in their supersuits, and Ravio obviously limping.

They had taken a break somewhere around lunchtime in a spot Legend had deemed safe (behind some dumpsters), but even the nap and food they’d all had wasn’t enough to regain much of their energy. Four couldn’t even be too happy they were out of the cramped tunnel since it had started to rain shortly after they’d emerged, which made their trip even more miserable.

Not to mention they’d had close calls with the authorities twice now, and the stress made Four feel like he was going to throw up.

“Are we there yet?” Ravio groaned, leaning against Legend a little extra-dramatically.

Legend rolled his eyes and shoved him back, though he still kept his arm around his shoulders to support him. “No, we’re not there yet,” Legend grumbled. “If we were there, I’d be taking a hot shower or a nap, not plodding through side streets half-soaked and being hunted by the stupid government.”

“Fair. I would kill for a hot bath,” Ravio sighed dreamily, and Four saw Wind crack a tiny smile.

Ravio had started talking again an hour or two ago, and Four at least appreciated the dark-haired teenager’s dramatics. It was a little bit of light in the sea of unfamiliarity he was currently swimming through, and took his mind off some of the stress.

And with Wind being unusually quiet and Legend focused like a laser on their goal, Ravio was pretty much the only one of them willing to so much as crack a joke.

Ravio opened his mouth to keep talking, but Wind suddenly motioned for them to stop, and held his hand out, obviously listening to the wind.

“Patrol,” he whispered urgently, and Four held back a whimper, sick of the whole thing.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to go home so badly it hurt.

Legend nodded at Wind’s warning, and dragged Ravio away behind a pile of trash cans, Wind and Four hurrying behind them. They all crammed into the damp spot, Ravio hissing through his teeth when his leg got squished, but they didn’t have time to reposition before footsteps pounded down the street, mixing with the sound of the rain.

Four squished himself up to Wind’s side, and they all held their breath as the group marched right past their hiding place. Muffled radio noises and some complaints about the rain drifted through the air, and Four closed his eyes, heart pounding in his throat.

But after what felt like ages, the steps faded away again, and Legend finally whispered an all clear.

Ravio sighed in relief as they all squirmed back out from the trash cans, letting Legend help him stand again. Four was impressed by the dark-haired boy’s endurance— Ravio had made some somewhat dramatic complaints during their trip, but he’d kept up with the rest of them fairly well, even with his leg. He was tougher than he’d expected.

“Hey, c’mon,” Wind said with a nudge to Four’s arm, and Four realized he’d been staring into the distance without moving. “...You okay, Four?”

Four sighed. “Fine,” he replied quietly, ignoring his headache and exhaustion and low-level terror that was hounding his steps. It was fine. They just had to keep going. And Four needed to stay numb to everything or else he’d get so upset he’d probably split and that really wouldn’t end well right now.

“Okay,” Wind murmured in reply, and gave him another gentler nudge.

Then they got moving yet again.

The afternoon dragged on, tense and damp, all of them blindly following Legend. They’d moved a little further out from the city into a more rural area, where the houses had bigger yards, and more trees were visible. There were still signs of the controlling mess that the government had become, but it felt a little less oppressive out here.

Or maybe Four just wanted to think that.

The rain increased, going from a drizzle to a shower as they walked. Four slipped more than once in puddles that were deeper than they looked, and after a while he slipped into something of a daze, just mindlessly putting one foot in front of the other.

Step. Step. Splash.

Don’t think about Mom. Don’t think about Twilight. Don’t think about home.

Step. Step.

Step.

...

The grey sky had begun to darken by the time Legend finally came to a stop, rain pattering steadily on their heads. They’d stopped in front of a medium-sized, perfectly normal-looking house, and Four wearily raised his head to look at it.

After hearing so much about what Sky was supposedly doing, he’d sort of guessed his house would look less... normal.

He’d kind of been expecting a more secret-basey thing. Or an abandoned-looking warehouse, maybe. At least some kind of fake “go no further!” sign that you’d spin around and find a keypad on, and after putting in the secret code, you’d slide into a big secret base.

...Or maybe he’d just read too many of Wind’s comic books.

“This is it?” Wind whispered, and Legend nodded, relief clear in his gaze.

“This is it.”

He shooed Wind, Four, and Ravio into a bush where they’d be hidden, then turned invisible, nothing but a space where the rain should be falling any evidence that he was there. Soft footsteps trailed up to the house’s front step, and then a series of taps came from the door, ones Four thought sounded familiar.

A long moment of silence went by before the door creaked open, a blonde woman peering out at the street. Legend waited a second, then made his body flicker once, just long enough to show that he was there.

The woman’s expression somehow both lightened and creased, and she opened the door wider, saying something that Four couldn’t make out. Then Legend became fully visible, and he turned towards the bush, motioning for them to come over.

“It’s safe,” he called softly, and Wind and Four slowly emerged from the bushes again, tugging Ravio with them.

Legend waited on the porch until they joined him, and then all four of them entered the house, cold and wet and shivery with exhaustion. The blonde woman pulled Legend into a tight hug mere moments later, uncaring of the wet clothes or mud, and Four realized with a jolt that it was their aunt Sun, her hair shorter than what he was used to, face stressed.

“Legend, oh my goodness, I’m so glad you’re okay,” she said as she squeezed him. “The radio was compromised, we had to cut all communication and didn’t get any of your mom’s messages about everything until about an hour ago.”

“Figured it was something like that,” Legend murmured as he tiredly pulled back from her arms, and Sun let him, running a worried hand along his cheek.

“We thought the worst when we tried to reply and nobody answered,” she continued, then exhaled, obviously quite relieved. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Four took the opportunity to look around the house while she and Legend talked, a little disappointed again. It was a pretty normal house all things considered, sort of familiar, but not exactly, and he saw nothing that would suggest any secret resistance stuff.

...Which, now that he was thinking about it, was probably a good thing.

“And these must be our unusual travelers,” Sun said, and Four looked back to see her looking at him and Wind. As with most people in his family here, her gaze lingered on Four for a moment before moving on. “Wind and Four, right? Malon told us about you a bit. It’s nice to... wait, where’s Malon?”

The already quiet room went deathly silent.

Legend looked at the puddle by his shoes, and a few silent seconds ticked by, dread clawing up Four’s stomach.

“...Legend?” Sun asked again, her voice much more serious.

“She got caught,” he said in a flat voice. “She bought us time we needed, and Cryonis arrested her.”

“Warriors?” Sun asked in horror, and Four saw Wind swallow.

“He was there, but it was mostly these soldier guys that did it,” Wind added on, and Legend glared at him. Wind ignored it. “But... yeah. She saved us. And got arrested.”

Sun looked stricken, and she leaned against the wall, processing the information.

“Hey, um, I’m really sorry to interrupt,” Ravio spoke up in a sort of wobbly voice, “but I’ve been shot at, rescued, shot at again, escaped again, been walking on a torn-up leg all day, and the last 48 hours have just kind of sucked. Do you have somewhere I could sit?”

Sun immediately straightened and nodded, putting a kind hand on his back. “Of course, I’m so sorry. You’re Ravio, aren’t you? Malon mentioned you in one of her messages.”

Ravio faintly smiled. “That’s me.“

“I’ll get Hyrule up here in a minute, and he’ll fix you right up,” Sun said, and Four smiled a little at the reminder of him. It’d be nice to see Hyrule again. At least somebody was safe.

“Aunt Sun, where’s Sky?” Legend asked before Sun could move, and her face creased.

“He went to your house to see if he could help. Hopefully he’ll stay hidden when he sees what happened... I’ll contact him and let him know you’re safe,” she reassured. “I’m sure you boys are dying for a rest, why don’t you come get dried off, and then I’ll figure out some beds for you.”

She put her hand on Four’s shoulder as she said it, and to his embarrassment, tears suddenly pricked at his eyes. He quickly swallowed them back, but Sun must have seen them, since she gave his shoulder a light squeeze.

That only made them try to come out more, and Four hurriedly wiped his eyes, stuffing down the emotions swirling to life in his chest.

Not right now, he thought, swallowing back the lump in his throat, his legs shaking. Not right now, you’re fine. Just relax, you’re fine. You’re fine.

“Four?” Wind asked, his voice concerned, and Four sniffed, his lip wobbling against his will. “Aw Four.”

Wind quickly tugged him into a hug, and Four swallowed again, sniffling into his brother’s damp sleeve.

This was dumb, why was he crying? Legend wasn’t crying and he’d lost his mom and had no clue where his brother was and his uncle had practically tried to kill him. Four was just homesick and exhausted. Those were hardly on the same level.

Dumb exhaustion, he thought with another sniffle.

“You know you can split if you want, it’s safe here,” Wind reminded quietly, and Four shook his head. He didn’t want to deal with the rush of emotion that would bring. Not in front of everyone, anyway. “Okay.”

Four let a few tears leak out, letting the ache in his throat ease up a bit as they fell. He didn’t let himself sink into the emotion that was threatening to swallow him, and focused on steadying his breathing as Wind held on to him, riding it out. Then he leaned back, wiping his eyes one more time.

“You okay?” Wind asked, and Four noted with a bit of surprise that his eyes were damp as well.

“Yes. I’m okay, just... tired,” Four whispered, and took a deep breath. He did feel a little better now, actually. Not great. But better. “I’m okay. Let’s get dried off.”

Wind looked at him for a second, then nodded, not saying anything. Four awkwardly glanced back over at where Sun stood beside Legend and Ravio, but none of them said anything about the brief cry. Sun just looked sympathetic, and Ravio and Legend were suddenly very interested in the pictures on the wall.

“Lucky for you all, I just finished a load of clean towels,” Sun said with a smile, and then turned to lead them to a different room. “If we’re lucky, they’ll still be warm from the dryer.”

Everyone followed, and though Wind didn’t say anything further to Four, he took his hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Four swallowed, and silently returned it.

[the-whispers-of-death]

This is an 18+ Only Blog! Minors & ageless blogs will be blocked!! Do not interact if you're a minor or don't have an age in your bio/pinned post!!

A/N: Reader is written as male reader considering it later describes you as a "wanted man", but this can be read as gender neutral because there's no other indication of your gender. (This might change later on, if I decide to continue with adding onto this drabble, in which case Reader's gender will be more clear in the potential next parts.)

Imagine living in a dystopian world and the 141 is a known rebellion, looking to topple the tyrannical government once and for all. And imagine you do something to piss off said government.

So now you're running through the crowded streets, weaving in and out of people, trying to lose the city guards that are gaining on you. You did something so simple, yet here you are, being hunted down like a high-level criminal.

You near the edge of the city, knowing that if you just make it to the woods, the city guards won't follow you. And while the woods are scary and you've never been in them, they must be better than seeing the inside of an unregulated prison.

Safety is so close, you can just taste it. See it.

And then you stumble on a loose cobblestone, falling hard onto the ground.

No, no, no, you think as panic overtakes you as you try your best to get up as quickly as possibly only to fail and still be on the ground. You can hear the city guards run faster, knowing that this is their chance to take hold of you.

It'd be so easy, no one else is going to help you. They're all just staring at the commotion, this would be the highlight of their boring day.

Just when your panic hits its peak, a large figure pushes through the crowd and takes you by the hand. He lugs you up onto your feet and barely lets you gain your footing before pulling you along, both of you running towards the woods.

As you two pass the border of the city and into the woods, you don't stop running despite hearing the city guards stop short at the border. You two just keep running and running.

Until you get to a riverbed, the sound of the water rushing beside you joining the sounds of your heavy breaths. As soon as you two arrive, the man lets go of your hand and you take the time to get a better look at him.

And what you see shocks you.

You see the man wearing a white skull and black balaclava that you know so well from seeing on wanted posts. You take in the massive muscles he has, muscles you've heard he uses in battle so often, if the stories are to believe. You know this man and what they call him, because he's a legend.

"You're Ghost," you murmur in awe, looking at him with wide eyes. You watch him turn to you, short puffs of air coming from him as his brown eyes drill holes into your face.

Ghost nods, grunting gruffly. "I am he. And I am also your savior," he says, his voice dry as always.

You raise an eyebrow at that wording, but he did save you, so you don't comment on it. "Thank you, I really thought I'd end up in prison. I'll just be out of your hair then." You move to turn away, content to part ways with your knight in shining armor.

"Ah, no. You don't get to leave," Ghost replies, his booming voice making you stop in your tracks. His eyes twinkle when you turn back to face him. "I saved you and the least you can do to repay me is to join the rebellion. You already must've done something out of the norm to cause the city guards to chase you, you might as well embrace your life as a wanted man."

You can't deny that it would be better if you stuck with Ghost and the 141, simply because you don't know life outside of the ordered world you were living in before. It'd be nice to learn how to take care of yourself.

"Alright, fine. But I'm only doing this to repay you for saving me. I don't really believe in your cause," you say, still a little hesitant to trust the rebellion you've been told was absolutely horrible.

Ghost's eyes crinkle underneath his mask, clearly smiling under there. "Oh don't you worry, you'll see the truth. Eventually."

Separator made by @une-femme-de-lettres

I had a dream for a book about a dystopian world and then when eating breakfast I thought, what if I placed Reader and the 141 in a dystopian world? So here is what was going through my mind during breakfast.

Reblogs are welcomed & appreciated! Asks are open, feel free to pop in and request something! (Check the rules in "Rules for Requesting NSFW" before requesting.)

[crying-fantasies]

She, Connie

Masterlist

There is a ear popping roar the first time Grimlock saw you, brushing you off, away from him while trashing the town around, almost as you were an ant on his wake while you see at least two other bots, Decepticons you would later know, hanging from his tail to stop him, failing miserably, and a whole group of vehicles right behind, all of them shouting in bops and clicks and apparently trying to stop him.

The second time you met him was in the news, a giant robot tyrannosaurus rex trying to hunt a horse down while two purple jets were hot on his heels.

The third time, as some call the lucky or damned one, you found him, he was so damaged, fallen on the floor, looking at you and growling, no jets or cars or whatever around him.

You had the opportunity to turn on your step and get lost, let him there to his own luck, but you couldn't.

And that made you stay with him for days, a branch on your hand with the purpose to defend him and you, what wishful thinking, really, but you didn't know if some crazy scientist could get their hands on him, it wasn't never good when humans got a cybertronian to mess with and all the planet had to pay for some freak trying to play God.

You sometimes left him there to eat, to go at least to shower and return back, giving an exhausted look at him, how long was he going to be there? Could he even move? He at least consumed the meat you bought on the market, was he good enough with only that? You had no way of getting energon but he still took your meat without a problem before returning to his previous position.

He just stayed there, looking at you, he doesn't blink, you don't know if he can to begin with, he is just there and he roars a "No!" or something like that before you get knocked out, next thing you know you are found wrapped on a burrito of blankets slightly smeared by half processed energon and left in front of a police station.

What a story to tell.

It's the fourth time, just outside the building you are on, when you see him not before you heard him, people is crying out loud and shouting, there he is again, but now he is looking at you, he is fighting with another robot, a very big one, he has a tree on his mouth, and he sees you.

His eyes go big when he takes a deep breath, the tree falls from his mouth and he is looking at you with a pretty much funny face for a dinosaur robot, you could've laughed for the stupid sight but ended up screaming too when a literal train ran him over.

The fifth time he showed up in front of you, he looked better, even healthy if you could say so, and this time he has a piece of unknown meat on his mouth that falls ungraciously at your feet, then he changes (wait, he can change?) and you get a very tall humanoid in front of you that tells you "Now we even" with his hands on his hips before turning away to a space ship you didn't notice before in the park nearby.

Funny thing, the ship couldn't get on air even when they tried multiple times, then it did take a few meters from the surface just to collapse on a deserted area, all your neighborhood looks it happen.

It isn't wise but you go see anyway, halfway there you find him again in bot form.

The rest, is almost history, except for this.

"What are you doing?" His mouth and face are poking just above your abdomen, he is breathing, deep, even if he doesn't have a real need for it, you touch his big face, still amazed by how warm he is, his optics are off while he nuzzles against your body and he does an interesting sound.

You have heard Grimlock roar, say his name times enough to have it engraved on your mind in his peculiar way of talk, and even learned when a growl is for keeping you away or trying to attract your attention.

Now, Grimlock is doing this thing, like, vibrating from where his throat is, you don't know if he has a different name for that, it's a rumbling sound, his frame almost vibrating, then he kind of howls, hard, moving his head so hard in direction to the sky he almost makes you fall back.

It's autumn, and it's the first time Grimlock has ever rubbed the underside of his big jaw to any inch of you that he can, making special emphasis on your head.

"What has gotten into you?" You are nervous, Grimlock has never tried to eat you or anything, but his force and his sudden fear inducing attacks are something to be wary of.

But Grimlock keeps on rumbling, his big body pressed to you and the next moment you are being tossed around, it's not the first time he has you around or inside of him when he transforms, seeing metal move from one place to another, this time, for a change, you get to see a purple light between the wires, when he finishes you are next to his chassis, hands first to stop an impact, he keeps you there, looking at you with his visor, it's so curious how he can show so much emotions with it, he seems to have something to say, but doesn't say anything, he just puts you hand delicately as he can over his chest armor, he looks your hand there and then at you and he rumbles again.

Could this be part of his dinosaur behavior? Or him being an alien? There is no direct answer before he looks again at the sky of autumn, little sprouts of spring already popping around.

You don't see Grimlock for a day but your whole neighborhood hears him, he is doing a strange sound again and you hear the scandalized shouts of his cons companions, the next day he comes to you, he seems happy and people are coming to see in a distance the big dinobot is comfortable with before getting on you level and opening his mouth-

There is a baby, Grimlock has a purple baby on his dangerous and sharp teeth filled mouth that is sleeping so peacefully that makes this whole thing look surreal.

"She, Connie" he said without a problem, his glossa dangerously moving along the baby that woke up, the baby had red eyes that looked at your very soul.

Someone fainted, someone shouted, and someone said: "How did you knock up a fucking space dinosaur?!"

And, in all honesty, you don't know how, because he is an alien and maybe it did happen but you don't know how???

[journey-to-the-attic]

3rd anni req 2: [DRAGON AU] mammon / first encounter

ao3 link

note: requested by @whensam! i have to admit, i was hoping this'd pop up. i know i can write what i want, but i always feel i need an excuse anyway. you didn't indicate a preference for pov and i also just ended up wanting to do both, so this is a little longer than expected as a result!

∎ ∎ ∎ ∎ ∎

Baker's children don't make good hunters. We’re used to carrying sacks of flour, not sprinting across fields with pitchfork-wielding mobs in hot pursuit. We don't make good kindling, either, but that hasn't stopped about half the adults in the village - for shame, I'd say, if I had the breath to speak.

Here's the thing. Our village isn't exactly a popular spot by any definition of the term. We're too far from any big cities to make good business, we don't make much worth selling, and the people certainly aren't charming enough to warrant a detour.

More important, though, are the creatures we share land with. Through the grassland that border the crop fields, there are invisible lines drawn in the soil - ones that no one crosses.

These lines mark dragon territory, and everyone knows that a dragon would sooner eat you for breakfast than stop for a reasonable conversation. Reasonable conversation is not something I have the luxury of at the moment, which is why I’m already several hundred paces over the line.

Just fifty already takes you into the forest. I don’t hear footsteps in pursuit anymore - they’d have to be mad to follow me so far in, which is exactly what I'd been banking on. The issue now is that, rather than being pitchforked, or burnt at the stake, I’ll probably just get eaten instead.

I pick my way through rotting leaf litter and ridged roots before collapsing against an old oak, wondering if the moisture dripping from overhead is safe to drink - or at least to wash my mouth out with. Gnawing through rope seems like a clever idea until your teeth start bleeding.

I can’t stay here, I think. Dying now would be like letting them win. Then Dad will have smacked the alderman for no reason.

Just as I get back to my feet, something whooshes overhead. I freeze. Those wings were larger than any bird I’ve ever seen.

Surely it couldn’t see me through the leaves. I crouch low to the ground and try to hide in the undergrowth - the wingbeats disappear until all I can hear is distant birdsong.

At least they’re having a nice day. I duck my head and trudge through a hedge - and come face to face with a dragon.

“Argh!”

I leap backwards. Bad move. The sunlight falls across its pointed face just in time for me to watch its pupils expand into full moons, like a cat on the hunt.

It doesn’t pounce. It doesn’t charge, snap or growl. It creeps slowly, eyes fixed on me the whole way forward, as if making sure I know that I can’t escape.

Nowhere to run. I press my back against a wizened old pine and shut my eyes tight - throwing out an arm, as if that might shield me.

Nothing happens. Then something cold presses into my palm.

My eyes snap open. The dragon blinks down at me. Its eyes are such a deep shade of blue that it’s almost dizzying. Oh. Oh, okay.

Its - his? I wonder, noting the ridges on his nose - snout rests carefully in my palm. He seems to register me staring at him, and snorts. The hot air is just on the brink of scalding, but not quite enough to hurt.

Then, almost experimentally, he opens his mouth - a yawning chasm of teeth, poised as if to ever-so-gently bite off my head. Except he doesn’t do that. There’s no pain - no crunch of broken bone or split sinew - far from it. The dragon leans down, carefully hooks his teeth into the collar of my shirt, and takes off.

I’d have screamed if it wasn’t for all the air leaving my chest at once. The forest shrinks to a dark blanket beneath us faster than I can even register it happening, and I realise very quickly that I’d be dashed to bits if I so much as slipped.

Wyvern, says an unhelpful voice in the back of my head as we soar. The dragon’s white-and-gold wings blot out the sun, but they’re so brilliant that it’s hard to tell the difference. They’re good fliers.

Before long, the dragon lands - legs first, digging his talons deep into the soil as he skids to a stop. After a moment, he huffs, then (strangely gently) drops me in a heap on the stony ground.

There’s a rumble, a swoosh - then several thuds, a swoosh of wings. I watch a shadow fall over my field of vision, then slowly raise my head.

Oh, I think a little faintly. 

All sorts of colours, all sorts of demeanours. One in particular steps forward - dark, with crimson eyes, and the sort of air about him that tells me he's the leader. Boss, I'll call him, if only to settle my own nerves. The dragon that brought me here (Goldie, I decide, still trying to settle my breathing) steps forward with a sort of chirrup in greeting.

It's a spectacle, if nothing else. Here are seven dragons, horns and wings and all. I've heard cautionary tales and horror stories, but they never really tell you how majestic they look in real life - scales shinier than any jewel I could imagine. Marvels of creatures, really. If only I had the wits to appreciate it.

Boss is growling now - there's a sort of heat rolling off him in waves. Some of the feeling coming back to my numb legs.

If only I knew what they were saying...

-

It isn’t often that the forest bears treasure - usually it’s all very boring things, like meat and berries and leaves. To be fair, Mammon's used to treasure of the shiny, golden kind - not this weird little critter crouched against a tree.

It smells faintly of smoke and burnt wheat. He stalks closer, but he's testing it more than anything - it doesn’t look like any prey he’s familiar with.

When he gets close, it sticks out a little starfish-shaped appendage and closes its eyes. He smells bitter fear now.

Is it greeting him? Telling him it isn’t a threat? That’s smart. He thought only dragons could be smart, but it’s not behaving - nor does it look - like any dragon he's ever met.

So he returns the greeting with his snout. He half expects to be stung, like the time Asmo brought that little spidery thing home, but all the critter does is look up at him fearfully.

Interesting. On a whim, he scoops the little round thing off, and decides to take it back home.

The weird not-prey goes still as soon as he takes off. Once home, he lets it disembark (drops it on the floor, though he tries to be gentle), then looks up to face his brothers as they land around him.

The others decide to keep their distance. Lucifer is the first to plod forward and investigate.

He sniffs carefully at the air, then makes a crackling noise somewhere at the base of his throat - which isn't usually a good sign.

“That’s a human, Mammon," He says, glaring at the little critter. It’s still sitting, frozen.

“It’s a what?”

“What’d you bring that for? Stupid.” Belphie settles back on his haunches, blowing out a puff of frost. “Can’t go around snatching humans. We’ll get hunted. Stupid.”

“Shut up,” He grunts. “And I didn’t snatch it. Found it walkin’ around in the forest.”

“That’s impossible,” Satan says nearly immediately. His tail swishes back and forth - slow and deliberate, an analytical glint in his clever eyes. “They don’t let their young anywhere near us.”

“Well, whaddya call this, then?”

The human - apparently - suddenly seems to regain use of its limbs. Springing to its feet (Levi shrinks back, crest flattering over his head), it stumbles for a moment, then abruptly ducks under one of Mammon's wings.

The rest of his brothers - who'd similarly drawn back - relax again with a simultaneous murmur of vague confusion. Mammon blinks. Then his tail starts flicking at the end - like it always does when he's pleased.

“...you are not keeping it,” Lucifer says, looking as if he'd very much like to fly off into the sunset.

“It might have a disease!” adds Asmo.

“I don’t care what any of ya say,” Mammon says stubbornly, snapping at Beel when it looks like he might creep in for a bite. “I’m not sendin’ it back to the forest. It’ll be dead in a day.”

"It might be dangerous," Levi hisses. "It's totally giving me the evil eyes."

"Stop scaring it, then,” Mammon says loftily. “Relax, ya big baby - You’ve got teeth bigger than its whole head.”

“You are not keeping it,” Lucifer says again, as if repeating himself will make him sound more in charge.

“Pfft. Can’t tell me what to do.” He snaps at Beel again. “Oi! No bitin’! Go raid your stash or something.”

Beel’s horns seem to droop a little. “...fine. C’mon, Belphie.”

“I was busy,” complains Satan with a huff as the twins flap off. "This is boring. I've seen deer carcasses more interesting than that weird little thing."

"Go look at your stinkin' carcasses, then," Mammon shoots back, fighting the impulse to spit something at him.

Satan does exactly that. Levi soon slinks off as well, apparently still intimidated - and Asmo seems to have disappeared as soon as he decided the human wasn't going to make a good accessory.

Lucifer, meanwhile, stands his ground. His tail is beginning to lash in agitation. If Mammon’s lucky, maybe he’ll even start spitting fire.

“I'm not gonna eat it,” He says stubbornly.

“I wasn't going to tell you to,” Lucifer replies, but he sounds very much like he’s considering it. “Belphie was right. If a hunter sees us with one of their young, they’ll take it as a threat.”

“Like we wouldn’t win,” He scoffs, sitting down with a thump. "Anyway,don't ya smell the fire on it?"

A single scarlet eye narrows a little. Evidently he hadn't - though Lucifer's always smelling smoke, by virtue of the literal furnace in his chest, so he can't really be blamed for not noticing.

The human is peeking out from beneath his wing with a little more bravado now. Lucifer eyes its round little face as if it might start spitting poison at him.

"...humans don't usually try to set fire to their young," Lucifer says after a moment. "You're sure she doesn't have anywhere to go?"

"Wouldn't've been in the forest if it— uh, she did." He glances down. "C'mon! Not like we don't have the space."

Lucifer is silent. Then he gives a long-suffering sigh - sending a plume of dark blue smoke into the sky - and bends down to the human’s eye level again.

“Will you behave?” Lucifer asks her severely, as if she can understand dragon-speak.

The human child blinks up at him. Then she reaches up and plants a hand on his snout.

Mammon holds his breath. After a moment, Lucifer’s wings flutter, then settle.

“I’m not having any part in this,” He announces, stepping back. “This is to be your responsibility only. Don't make any trouble for your brothers. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, yeah,” He says dismissively, occupied with keeping his triumph from showing in his tail. Got it.”

Lucifer glances down at the human one final time. “...take care of her.”

And off he flaps - to attend to his usual nighttime duties. He says he's keeping watch for danger, but mostly they seem to involve gazing darkly into the sunset.

With his brothers dispersed, Mammon takes a moment to actually consider his situation. He doesn’t actually know what taking care of a human child involves. He doesn’t know much about humans in general - it’s not like he usually pays them any attention. Maybe some of his brothers could give him some advice… if any of them were interested in the kid’s well-being, at least.

They’ll come around, He decides after a moment, unfurling his wings and attempting to nudge the human in the general direction of their living caves. First, I gotta figure out what these things eat…

[lastsubstance]

How the TS gang feels about Vere

(The Alchemist.) When everyone disperses and you have to choose who to follow.

Asking about Vere.

You follow Ais.

MC: I was surprised to see you and Vere are close.

Ais: Mm. Blessing and a curse.

MC: From what I’ve gathered, most people think he’s… I don’t know. An asshole?

Ais: And water’s wet.

I wait for him to elaborate or add his thoughts, but he doesn’t.

MC: So, what do you like about him?

He lets out a quiet laugh, as if amused by my question.

Ais: Lotta things. You already named one.

MC: You like that he’s an asshole.

Ais: Temperament matches the drapes. Look good in blood and better in tears.

               Favorite thing’s the tail. Sometimes, it frizzes up if you –

He catches himself, clear his throat. It’s hard not to let the disappointment show in my expression.

Ais: Vere is one of the most honest people you’ll meet. Just don’t listen to a single thing he says.

Those sound like complete opposites to me.

You follow Kuras.

MC: How do you know Vere?

Kuras visibly stiffens, and I remember the venom in Vere’s voice when he grabbed me.

“That fucking doctor.”

It looks like the feeling is very mutual.

Kuras: Regrettably, Vere is one of my worst patients. How did you cross his path?

MC: He stole my room key.

Kuras: You are fortunate that he did nothing else.

               He is far deadlier than he seems. There is a reason he is not at liberty, a reason for the collar and chain.

He seemed pretty dodgy to me already. I hesitate, waiting for Kuras to elaborate, but he seems to find even the thought of Vere distasteful.

You follow Leander.

MC: What do you know about Vere?

Leander shakes his head slowly, his expression grave.

Leander: Vere. A living example of the Senobium’s cruelty.

               Most days they keep him on a short leash. I’m surprised you ran into him.

               So, tell me, what’d you make of him?

—OPTION SELECT—(Select "I want to know him more")—

MC: I want to know more about him.

Leander: Wouldn’t we all. He’s mysterious, and not just because the Senobium keeps him locked up.

               The way they treat him…it’s just not right.

MC: Do you know why he’s a prisoner?

Leander: Nobody knows. He’s been imprisoned for as long as anyone remembers, but whatever he did must’ve been awful considering the punishment.

               He’s charming, but like any Monster he’s dangerous. If you ever seen him out hunting, you’ll know what I mean.

Leander swirls his glass, choosing his next words carefully.

Leander: Don’t fall for his looks. He’ll rip your throat out for fun.

—OPTION SELECT— (Select "He’s rude")—

MC: Is he always so rude?

Leander snorts, but a smile tugs at his lips.

Leander: To everyone but Ais.

               If Vere’s ever since to you, you should take that as your hint to run.

MC: Why would the Senobium let someone so dangerous hang around in bars?

Leander: As long as he gets his job done, they don’t care.

               And I mean, I don’t mind having him around. He can be fun, and he’s got a real…presence.

MC: What exactly does that mean?

Leander shrugs and laughs under his breath.

Leander: He’s nice to look at. Mouthy, but his tongue’s the least dangerous part of him.

You follow Mhin.

MC: How did you meet Vere?

Mhin’s face scrunches like they’ve just bitten into a rotten lemon.

Mhin: That perverse fleabag jumped me during Fogfall. So I stabbed him and left him in the futter where he belongs.

My heart thuds hard in my chest. Their voice is icy with disgust; the night air feels warm by comparison.

Mhin: It’s only a shame it didn’t stick. I suppose I’ll just have to keep trying.

I swallow hard, a sour feeling twisting in my stomach.

MC: I take it your opinion hasn’t changed?

My voice comes out a little shakier than I would like.

               They glance at me, and a flicker of something – guilt? – flashses across their expression, before it’s buried by irritation.

Mhin: He fucks with people for kicks, every sentence out of his mouth is either crass innuendo or a conceited putdown, and whatever he’s done is bad enough that the Senobium has him on a leash.

               There are Monsters living on every other street. He’s the only one who needs a muzzle before he’s taken out for a walk.

Belatedly, I close my mouth.

[alexanderlightweight]

Hi ! I really really love the way you write, especially dark scenes.

Do you think you can write something about a very matrixed by the Clave Alec sent on a hunt to kill the High Warlock of Brooklyn but falling in love instead ? 💕

hahahahahaha oh gosh let me tell you how excited i am about this prompt because i have a backburner thought about this and hahaha yeah i jumped on this prompt like Nightshade on a moth. thank you and i hope you enjoy

lumine

-

Alec dresses with a solemnity that befits his mission, but not his rank.  He is a warrior and a diplomat by trade, a leader forged of his own making, but a darkened blade by the Clave’s demand.  

There was no real choice —there has never been a choice— in whether or not he takes the missions given him.  

What the Clave asks of him, he gives and while he knows all the laws and loopholes of the Accords and can twist them as eloquently as a seelie could twist the truth.  

This had no loopholes.

It is a command from his leaders, and he will follow through. 

As he always does.

Whether he wants to or not. 

Because Alec is a weapon and weapons cannot argue with those who wield them. 

His target's address is not a physical thing, nor even actual knowledge, but the remains of a confiscated and fading tracking spell that Idris sent to him.  

Alec leaves the institute quietly and unquestioned —long before the nightly patrols have begun to put on their gear— sinking into the growing shadows that he has been born and pledged to hunt within.

The first whisper of wards from his target’s domain brush against him with an almost intelligent spark. Once again, he wonders just what his parents did for the deeds to restore their honor to require this. He wants to know so badly, how upholding the Lightwood name turned to his blade being soaked blood and his soul battered with deaths on orders he’s not allowed to question.

The entire building is warded so thoroughly that it feels almost alive. Alec shouldn’t be able to see the magic without his spiritum rune activated, but somehow, he can.  It’s beautiful and Alec feels the tiniest pang of regret before he pushes it aside and leaps up.  Somehow the magic doesn’t hinder him, even when it sparks against him, and it is the work of an infant nephilim to make it to the top.

Alec uses the roof to take a rare minute of rest.

He breathes in the cold night air as he checks the tracker.

And then he throws himself off the roof, rolling to soften the sound and settles into the shadow of the balcony he lands on, letting the darkness swallow him back up.

His quiver shimmers into existence against his back and Alec strings his bow as he centers himself. 

Alec learned archery to protect from afar, but he was also trained to kill.

There is no room for Alec Lightwood on this mission, for now, he is but an instrument of the Clave.

He is a weapon of his people and nothing less… but also nothing more.

—

Magnus lets his uninvited guest get as far as his roof before he begins to dress himself.  It’s an auspicious occasion after all, and he does pride himself on being a good host. 

His wards spark about him as his guest moves and Magnus has to admit that there is something truly unique about his unexpected visitor.  If not for the strength of Magnus’ wards, he might not have noticed them at all.

As it is, Magnus’ magic has found and clung to his intruder since they first touched Magnus’ wards. Magnus finishes buttoning his cuffs and straightens his vest, and he waits. 

He finds that he’s almost charmed by the interruption.  

It’s been at least six months — or possibly six years — since the last blatant assassination attempt and this one is already much more promising.  The fact that he can literally feel and taste nephilim blood ensures it. 

It’s been a long time since the Clave was willing to risk another attempt on him.

He tilts his glass to the ceiling, admiring the blood red hue of it and turns with a smirk on his face, ready to greet his would-be-assassin.

His drink falls as his grip loosens in shock. Glass shatters and liquor and crystal shards cover his shoes as his mouth clenches in a snarl of surprise.  

The arrow that pierces his chest leaves no burning pain behind, just a tingling ache.  None of his once holy but now twice damned royal blood spills, the only evidence of the wound ever existing is a sizzling hole in his shirt.  

His shadowhunter assassin growls, a low rumble in his throat, but before he can notch another arrow, he’s pulled through the glass of the window he shatters and thrown into Magnus’ wall. 

Magic presses against him. 

Covering every inch of him as Magnus stalks forward.  He gives the tiniest twitch of his fingers and his magic, as if apologetic for its misstep, quickly deposits the arrow into his hand.  

He rolls it between his fingers, studying it.  

Not even during the uprising had a nephilim blade ever truly pierced his skin.  He wonders what reward he should give the wielder for this particular wound. 

What punishment would be most fitting?

His wards, which have been gently chiming since the beginning, ring with a final, ominous toll as Magnus presses glowing, blue fingers to the intruder's chin and lifts up.

Oh.

Well now. This changes everything.

— 

“Well, aren’t you a pretty thing,” Bane murmurs, his fingers a strong pressure on Alec’s jaw as he speaks.  

Even with the limited information on Bane that he has access to, there was nothing that could have prepared Alec for Bane’s response to the attempted assassination. 

Nor was he expecting Bane to be quite so... magical.

“No?” He asks, because of all the things in his life that he’s been called, pretty hasn’t been one of them. 

“You intrude on my domain, ruin one of my favorite outfits and now you lie to me? Truly appalling behavior from one of the Clave’s beloved.”  Bane tells him and his thumb presses higher on Alec’s face in what is probably meant to be a threat but feels much more like a caress.  

The words themselves make him roll his eyes and a scoff escapes him.  He’s not one of the Clave’s beloved and even if he was, his hidden but very real desires mean he never will be.  

Alec opens his mouth to object, to ask what is going on, anything to figure out exactly why Bane hasn’t already killed him, and Bane’s other hand comes up.  Two neatly painted fingers press to Alec’s lips and tap against them in warning.  His words are stifled — not by magic — but by the mere touch of Bane’s smooth calluses against his mouth.  It’s a mindless act, to lick his lips and they both stiffen when his tongue flicks against hot skin and magic.

Energy crackles around and over him and Alec bites into his bottom lip, surprised by how it doesn’t hurt — and by how good it feels.

When it’s done, Bane steps back.  He looks faintly surprised, but mostly pleased, and Alec wonders at just what he’s learned. 

What Alec did that’s betrayed him enough to put that look on his target’s face.

That much glee on Bane’s face can’t mean anything good for Alec, even if Bane looks gorgeous when he smiles.  As it is, he can barely resist the urge to lean forward and chase the fleeting warmth of Bane’s touch.  It is surprisingly soft, for an enemy.  In fact, it’s lot gentler than Alec’s experienced from most of the allies in his life.

“I think we can be a bit more civilized about all of this.” Bane offers and his fingers curl in a flourish and when Alec blinks his eyes open — startled to realize he’d closed them at all — it’s to see two new chairs in the room.  Bane sits in one with an odd smirk and points to the empty one. 

“To start with, what exactly have I done in the last two decades that warrants a kill order from the Clave?  It’s been at least a century since I last earned one of those pesky things.” 

Alec swallows, wrong footed by the question.  He’s never heard of anyone surviving a kill order by the Clave before, much less thriving and flaunting their existence after one was placed.  However, it makes sense, in a strange way, that of all the beings in the world Magnus Bane would be the one to accomplish it. 

He hesitates to move, but Bane’s magic doesn't give him a choice and a moment later he’s comfortably seated.  Well, as comfortably as one can be when magically bound to a leather chair.  

“The Clave—” he starts, because as with most things, this is the fault of the Clave. But he pauses, “the Accords—” because he’s hoping that will somehow be better and finally, he grits his teeth.  His eyes close and to his relief his hand is allowed to come up, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.  “I don’t know why they want you dead. Probably because you’re a threat.”  Alec finally admits.  Perhaps it’s magic, or his situation, but the truth flows easily past his lips.

“The Clave doesn’t like threats.  It’s been years since the Uprising, and they still haven’t fully regained their strength.  New York is one of their strongest Institutes and yet it’s you who holds the power in our local region.”

Bane blinks at him, as if astounded and then laughter rings through the air.  

“A political threat.  They are doing this because of politics? And they sent you, sweet innocent cherub for the reaping. Darling, I’m not simply the High Warlock of Brooklyn.”  And here Bane rises back to his feet, “I’m a king.  In some ways, all the important ways even.  I’m your king.”

— 

Magnus stares at his would-be-murderer and magic coils around him, ready to strike and drag him so close that they can never be parted.  The magic of his soul dislikes his restraint and the dominion magic that lends itself to his service wants to claim and take now. 

All of Magnus’ magic demands that he takes what is rightly owed to him, to bind the counterpart of his soul to himself.

Magnus wants that as well but knows that he needs to err on the side of caution, as much as he doesn’t wish to. 

His own personal magic, however, has other ideas.  Which is clear from the protective blue sparks still coming off of his soulmate’s skin, the hole in Magnus’ shirt and the phantom ache of a wound that doesn’t truly exist. 

Magnus never expected to meet his soulmate like this — never expected them to truly exist.  But his lips curl into a smirk as his magic dances along his boy’s body and he remembers the elegant stance and fearless way he’d tried to kill him.

It’s delightful and new and Magnus knows that when he’s done with this, his shadowhunter will be not a sword at his throat but one at his side. 

The Clave has done what Magnus’s own father hasn’t been able to accomplish for centuries, given him his soulmate.

It’s only fair that Magnus pays them back, tenfold for the gift given.

[thevegandarkelf]

Finding Myself, Finding You: Chapter Thirty

Masterlist

AO3 link

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist <3 (18+ only, MDNI)

Please please please proceed with extra caution for this one & read the TWs for this chapter below. This is your warning. Take care of yourself first 🖤

Story is 18+ for mature content/themes, minors do not interact please

TW/CWs for this story--implied/referenced past rape, canonical violence, non-canonical violence, blood, gore, referenced past suicide, swearing, surgery, excessive drinking, nightmares, panic attacks, mention of scars, vomiting, amputation, medical procedures, non-con medical procedures, referenced past medical torture, referenced past drugging, attempted sexual assault, panic attacks, mental health struggles, referenced sibling death, referenced parent death, PTSD

Each chapter will have its own TW/CWs listed

This story, Lydia Vector, her family, her bestie, Jake, and Adam (c) me, TheVeganDarkElf

TWD & its characters (c) AMC & Robert Kirkman, the writer of the comic series

TW/CWs for this chapter--swearing, blood, violence, gore, vomiting, someone who was raped being taunted by their rapist (seriously, proceed with caution), guns are used in this one, memory loss around a traumatic event, victim blaming, a sex toy is used as a weapon, allusion to past rape

Word count: 3.3k

It’d been a few days since I came clean to Daryl about my past. He was out on a hunting trip for a couple of those days, which gave me a lot of time to think over 1) our relationship and 2) everything I had said in the follow-up, particularly about how I didn’t think I could ever go by Lydia again. I’ll admit, I didn’t totally hate the way my name sounded when he said it. But it wasn’t in the cards right now. Maybe one day, he’d have permission to call me that. Maybe. Or maybe I’d just go by Vec forever. I don’t think he cared either way.

But he was back now, and he had taken me out for another day of hunting practice.

We were somewhere outside the walls, far enough out that we had to take the car to get there. Daryl and I had to practically beg Rick to take it out for something other than a run. Why not the bike, Rick had asked. But after a series of stories from me about people I’d fixed up in the ER after a motorcycle accident, and me putting my foot down and refusing to get on the bike without a helmet, he obliged.

Hunting practice was still just target practice for me, but calling it hunting practice in front of the others did a number in terms of boosting my ego. My skills had certainly improved over time, and I was so damn close to being able to hit a target dead center. I was past the point of needing to balance the bow on a log or another surface to steady it, but Daryl always insisted on having a hand, or two, on me to help keep me steady. A need? No. A want? Yes.

I was on the ground on one knee, and the scrap of paper on the tree in front of me was my target. I’d hit close to the center a couple of times, but I was determined to hit the center at least once before we were finished. Daryl had his hands on my hips, “keeping me steady.”

“Think ya got this one,” he encouraged as I loaded the crossbow one more time.

“Know I got this one,” I said. I lined my eye up with the scope, balancing the bow on my shoulder and aiming center like I had so many times before. I took a deep breath, and on the exhale, I released the trigger. And this time, I hit the paper just off of dead center. The excitement coursing through me nearly sent me catapulting into the air like a cannonball.

“I did it! Holy shit, I did it!” I dropped the crossbow next to me and threw myself around to hug Daryl, falling into his arms and nearly knocking him over in the process.

“Knew ya could do it,” he congratulated. The tight embrace he had me in, with his perfectly sculpted arm muscles flexing and relaxing against my back, was better than any trophy I could receive for such an accomplishment.

I picked up his bow and handed it to him. “I’ve got the best teacher around. Of course I could do it.”

He got up to grab the bolt out of the tree, and I slung my backpack over my shoulders. We’d been out there for hours, the sun was high in the sky, and I was in desperate need of sustenance. Daryl twirled the car keys in his hand, the soft jingle echoing through the otherwise quiet wooded area.

“Gonna hafta start bringin’ ya on huntin’ trips,” he commented, “y’know, good luck charm ’n all that.”

“To be honest, my hunger was the primary motivation,” I confessed as we stepped out of the tree line near the car.

“Hey Vec?” Daryl asked. He grabbed me lightly by the arm to turn me around. He looked nervous, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. And his eyes were darting between mine and my lips.

Daryl had never looked at me like that before, but I knew exactly what he was about to ask.

“Yeah?” I replied, unable to keep a huge grin from forming on my face. I kept my eyes locked with his, and my cheeks were quickly changing from baby pink to an electric fire-engine red. He brought a hand to my face, his fingers lightly dancing over my cheek. I feared the heat radiating off my face would burn him.

“Can I—“

A rustling in the trees across from us followed by a figure stumbling out interrupted our blissful moment.

Daryl whipped his locked-and-loaded crossbow around. I didn’t have time to grab my spear out of my bag and unsheathe it, so I grabbed my gun out of my leg holster. It wasn’t loaded, but whatever just stumbled out in front of us wasn’t going to be around long enough to find out, I hoped.

Its back was facing us when it came careening out of the tree line. At first, I thought it was a walker, but it wasn’t making any of the typical moaning or groaning noises that were quintessential to walkers. Then it had to be a person, but the way they were walking was off, like they had two left feet.

Or like their feet were backward.

He stumbled around to look at us, and his horrifyingly familiar face came into view. Immediately upon seeing him, I recognized him. That evil smirk warped its way across his face, eyeing me up and down, realizing it was me. My body physically recoiled, and without even a second of warning, I turned into the grass and started vomiting.

“No, that’s how you’re gonna react after not seeing me for so long?” His voice was like nails on a chalkboard, and I covered my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear him speak. Hot waterfalls of tears began to flow freely, already clouding my vision.

This can’t be happening, I thought. It shouldn’t be possible. There’s no way he would’ve survived, and even if he did, his limbs…how was he walking?

Daryl’s crossbow tapping on my back pulled me from my spiraling thoughts. “Vec, you know this guy?”

I whipped around and held my gun up at the man, my hands shaking violently, unable to keep the weapon steady. I spoke through gritted teeth, afraid I would start vomiting again if I opened my mouth. “Daryl, look at him.”

“All I see’s some jackass—“

“No Daryl, I want you to really look at him.”

He stared at the man for a minute, looking him up and down over and over again, scanning over every small detail. I saw a shift in his face when it finally clicked. He didn't have to say anything. The look of realization on his face said it all.

The man who had raped me, whose wicked face and lifeless eyes haunted my dreams every single night, who should’ve died over a year ago, was here, alive and well, right before our very eyes.

“Vec, you’re shakin’, put the gun down,” Daryl instructed. He stepped around me towards the man, getting between us and blocking his view of me. “Ya gonna get one of us hurt.” He didn’t know it wasn’t loaded, but that didn’t matter.

“How is it possible?” I whispered, my jaw starting to ache from how hard I was gritting my teeth together.

“Put the gun down,” Daryl demanded. I could tell he was trying his hardest to speak softly to me, like he always did, but the rage was seeping through. The redness of his face and the bulging vein in his neck further corroborated that.

“Name’s Adam. Maybe you can help me,” he asked as he put his hands in the air, his face still donning that horrific smirk. That was the first time I’d ever heard his name. “I’m looking for a place called Alexandria. Supposed to be a safe zone. Just point me in the right direction and we can part ways peacefully.”

Every joint in my body weakened, and I was on the verge of collapse. The heavy dose of adrenaline pumping through my system was the only thing that kept me on my feet. I slowly lowered my gun, sliding it back into my leg holster and reaching for what was supposed to be my knife. However, in the chaos of that morning, it'd appeared I accidentally grabbed my most unique weapon, the vibrator, and put it in the holster instead. It was going to have to do. I pulled it out and held it in a way that hopefully, from his distance, would make it look like a knife.

“Peace ain’t an option for ya,” Daryl seethed. He was practically foaming at the mouth in anger now.

“You’re not g—getting anywhere n—near my p—p—people,” I snapped, my voice beginning to shake as violently as my hands were.

“Your people? Would you look at that. We can be together again.” Adam paced back and forth in front of us, hands still in the air. He still hadn’t pulled out any weapon of his own, and he didn’t look like he had any on him. It was as if he had a death wish. “Do you remember all the fun times we had? Though you weren’t conscious for most of them.”

I turned to the grass beside me and began vomiting once again. My face was soaked with tears, and my vision was so blurry, I almost couldn’t see anything. Fun times, with an S? As in plural? As in more than once? My head was spinning, and I was sure I would pass out at any second.

Daryl reached into his pocket and absentmindedly threw the car keys back in my direction, not taking his eyes off Adam for even a second. The jingle of the keys landing at my feet cut through the thick tension that lingered in the air. “Vec, get in the car.”

“Yeah Vec, be a doll and get in the car,” Adam taunted, “let the men talk.” I wasn’t sure what I hated more—him calling me ‘doll’ or him calling me Vec. He turned his gaze to Daryl, gesturing to me. “This your woman?”

Daryl and I hadn’t made anything official yet. I expected him to say ‘no’, ‘none of your business’, or nothing at all. But he didn’t say any of those things.

“And if she is?”

Under different circumstances, I might’ve had the energy to ask what he meant by that.

“Did she tell you? She’s damaged goods, buddy.” Just when I thought I’d emptied my stomach of all of its contents, I threw up in my mouth, the acid singeing my teeth and tongue. I leaned over and spat it on the ground, coughing and gagging as my stomach heaved, attempting to pump more acid up my esophagus.

“Vec, get in the damn car!” Daryl ordered. Though I didn’t appreciate being snapped at, I knew he was just trying to protect me from Adam’s vile words and soulless eyes. He probably still felt guilty about what happened with Jake and didn’t want me to have to go through the same thing again.

I slowly knelt down and grabbed the keys, keeping my eyes locked on Adam, though I don’t know why I bothered. My vision was so clouded with tears that everything before me was a blur of vague shapes and colors. I put the keys in my pocket. Thankfully, I hadn’t accidentally thrown up on them.

“You two are cute,” Adam teased, far from complimentary, “you got him whipped, doll?"

"Ya best shut the hell up 'less you wanna get whipped, doll." Daryl took a few steps closer to him, his crossbow aimed at the center of his forehead. I shakily walked up and stood next to Daryl, the sex toy in my hand poised and ready to knock him upside the head if he so much as leaned further in our direction. This wasn’t Daryl’s fight to be had—it was mine.

“I’ll f—fucking k—kill you,” I threatened. My trembling voice made the threat seem far from credible.

“Couldn’t do it the first time, you coward,” he taunted. He was eyeing me up and down, and I could only imagine what sorts of thoughts were swirling around in his sick and twisted mind. It made me queasy.

“C—c—could a coward f—fuck up your limbs that b—badly, y—you f—f—fucking incel?” I swallowed hard and tried to control my rapid breathing. If it got out of control, I was going to start hyperventilating and pass out.

“Oh yeah, these,” he acknowledged, holding his hands up in front of him and lightly kicking his feet up one at a time, “took some getting used to. Learning to walk again took ages. You’re a pretty good doctor.”

Didn’t matter how good of a doctor I was—they never should’ve reattached in the first place. But we now lived in a world where the dead were walking around with the living. Stranger things had happened.

“Pretty good at a few other things too,” he taunted. I couldn’t see his face, but I could feel him undressing me with his eyes.

My body couldn’t handle the stress any longer. My knees gave out, and I dropped to the dirt road, catching myself and falling on my butt. Tiny pebbles dug into my hands and the back of my legs. The jagged dirt particles scratched my skin, the heat from the road bathing in the sun all day adding to the pain. I wrapped my arms around myself, like I was giving myself a hug. In reality, I hoped that if I squeezed tight enough, I would shrink down so small that I’d vaporize and disappear.

If I was with anyone other than Daryl, the embarrassment coursing through my veins surely would’ve killed me.

Daryl had decided that that was enough, and before I could say or do anything to stop him, he launched himself in Adam’s direction, tackling him and sending them both flying back and onto the ground a few feet away. Daryl started wailing on him, and he wasn’t holding anything back. Blood was flying, but thankfully, none of it was Daryl’s. He alternated between punching him in the face or chest and grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and slamming him into the ground. I’d seen Daryl angry before, but I’d never seen him this angry. I didn’t witness him beat the shit out of Jake, but if I had to guess, this was worse.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill ya!” Daryl screamed, once again grabbing him by the collar and slamming him into the ground head first.

I knew Daryl was going to keep that promise. If I let him continue, Adam would be dead in minutes, if not sooner. But something came over me. Whatever little fight my body had left in it came shooting to the surface, swelling in my chest and dancing across my fingertips, making them tingle. A small, almost non-existent glimmer of hope flickered in my eye.

This was my opportunity to do what I should’ve done a long time ago.

“Daryl!” I cried out. He ignored me and kept swinging. The only sounds echoing through the quiet forest were the man’s cries and groans of pain and Daryl’s fist making contact with him. I shakily brought myself onto my hands and knees, calling out to him again. “Daryl, let me do it!”

I got myself to my feet, my legs shaking like a baby deer as I stumbled my way over to them. Daryl was holding him up by the collar of his shirt, his legs straddling the man and keeping him pinned in place. As I approached them, Daryl took his eyes off of him for the first time since he’d shown up. He looked back at me, and even though I couldn’t see his beautiful face through the waterworks, it brought me some comfort to have his eyes on me.

“Let me do it…I wanna do it,” I choked out. A set of fingers touched my boot. It had to be Adam’s, so I stomped my foot onto his hand and twisted it back and forth, causing him to cry out in pain once again.

“Ya sure?” Daryl asked. I nodded and swallowed hard, my throat bone-dry from all my vomiting and heavy breathing.

“I need to,” I iterated, “I should’ve done it before. Let me do it.” He nodded and let go of Adam’s collar, his body and head hitting the ground with a loud thud.

Daryl got up and grabbed his crossbow off the ground, handing it to me. I took the stealthy weapon in my hands, which were still trembling ever so slightly. Daryl’s fingers touched mine, offering little strokes of encouragement. I turned my attention to the bloody pulp of a human on the ground, his moans and groans further evidence of just how much pain he was in. I stepped forward and stood over him, one leg on each side of his body.

“Shut up,” I ordered, bringing the crossbow up and striking the side of his face with it. He screamed, and based on the breaking of his voice, he was on the verge of tears. I dropped to my knees, using them to keep his arms in place. I brought the crossbow up again and struck the other side of his face. Y’know, to even it out. Daryl stood behind me, occasionally patting my shoulder, making sure I knew he was there to back me up.

“Fuck…you,” he seethed. He attempted to spit on me, but he was so weak that it just dribbled out of his mouth and onto his chin. I held the crossbow up, the bolt centered on his face.

"There's a special circle of Hell designed just for you,” I sneered. I aimed for his face, but not his brain. I didn’t want this to be the fatal shot. I had another idea for that.

I placed a quivering finger on the trigger and lined the bow up with his mouth. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger. The bolt hit the back of his throat at point-blank range, causing him to scream the loudest he had so far, followed by a string of sick, twisted cackles. I expected him to start crying at this point, but he didn’t—he started laughing.

I tossed the crossbow beside me and rubbed my eyes with my fists, clearing my vision for the first time since the waterworks had begun. I saw his face, crystal clear on the ground in front of me, covered in blood and dirt. There wasn’t a single sparkle of life behind those cold, dead eyes. He was smirking, but not smirking like he did when he was undressing me with his eyes or recollecting the day he assaulted me. He was smirking like he was pleased with me, delighted by my actions even. I grabbed the vibrator, which I had tossed on the ground earlier, and held it up to his face, ready to deliver the fatal blow.

Taking my rapist out with a sex toy felt fitting.

“Well look at you,” he coughed, spitting blood up onto me. The tone of his voice was that of a proud parent. “You got it in you after all, Vec.”

I brought the vibrator up, pointed end facing him, and used every ounce of measly strength I had left to force it into his eye socket. He howled in pain as blood poured from it, his howling becoming slightly gurgled as some of the blood pooled in his throat. I pushed it in slowly, as I wanted to make sure my voice would be the last thing he heard before death scooped him up in its arms. As it penetrated his brain, his screaming began to die down, and his body went limp underneath me. Before he faded completely, I locked eyes with him and hissed the final words he’d ever hear as I pressed it all the way into his head.

“My name is Lydia.”

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