#something I’ve been trying to get better at as I’ve gotten older is trying to avoid situations that

[gothicprep]

I think the most depressing thing that’s happened in my life over the past couple of months is watching an otherwise intelligent friend descend into paranoia and conspiracy. maybe ex friend now, because I don’t feel all that inclined to talk to him these days, but it’s still sad to be a bystander to this who can’t help even if you try to intervene.

[pencil-n-pen]

I’M STILL TRYING EVERYTHING

⋆° 𐙚 ₊🧦☕🧸₊°⋆ ೀ₊°⋆

previous | kofi | masterlist

post prison!spencer reid x fem!reader

₊ ⊹

I'm still trying everything to keep you looking at me.

-mirrorball, taylor swift

₊ ⊹

summary: you’ve never had a date or a relationship that either didn’t work out or end in disaster. now that you have spencer, you’re determined not to let it happen again

cw: referenced bad past relationships, very very vaguely referenced past domestic abuse that honestly could be taken a different way, referenced child abuse (readers parents are STILL not it) again this is a criminal minds fic so references to graphic violence

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort (do i even need to say this? you all know who i am) insecurity, like one line of misogyny and it’s in the past and not brought up again, spencer being soft n worried, HEALTHY COMMUNICATION, spencer is just as gone for reader as she is for him honestly he's just a sap

a/n: back by popular demand !! seriously guys, you have no idea how much the support and comments and reblogs and asks means to me 🥹 the overwhelming amount of love for the first fic made me so happy when people started asking about a sequel i knew i had to !!

read the crossword on the collage for a surprise :)

this one goes out to all my girlies who’ve ever felt like they needed to be less in order to get a boyfriend or keep one. we’ll have our soft love just the way it was meant to be

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Spencer is a really good boyfriend.

Like… a really good boyfriend. You’re not sure if this is how having a real boyfriend is or if Spencer is just like this.

He’s so good to you. He’s just so- so him. You can’t explain it. Can’t put it into words.

He’s very patient with you. You’ve never explicitly stated it, but he’s picked up on your previous relationship experience- or more accurately, your lack thereof. The morning after you’d gone home with him, night consisting of nothing but easy sleep and warmth, he’d asked you out for real. Asked you if you’d go on a date with him, and you’d agreed, a giddy smile fixed firmly on your face.

But you still worry.

All it takes it one conversation with your parents to push things over the edge.

“Yes, dad. He’s very good to me.”

A laugh crackles over the line. “I tell you, your mother and I never thought we’d see the day.”

The words twinge uncomfortably in your chest. “Hey, I’m not that bad. I’ve just been focused.”

“More like uptight.”

“Dad—“

“You know, you still haven’t come out to visit your poor old parents since getting this so-called cushy job. And now you’ve got this boyfriend. You’re too young to settle down. Don’t you think we should meet him?”

Sometimes conversations turn so quickly they leave you stranded— scrambling to pick up pieces of what you thought was going to happen and piece them together to make something new. Something for the new route the conversation has taken.

You couldn’t hold back your sigh if you tried. “We haven’t been dating for that long dad, I don’t want to spring this on him—“

“Sweetie, if we don’t meet him now, why might never meet him. Who knows how long he’s gonna stick around?”

(Sometimes, in moments like these, for just a split second, you wonder how a father could say something like that, to his daughter. You wonder why, wonder what you did wrong. And then, you imagine Hotch saying those same things, and you can’t, and it almost makes you feel a little better.)

Your blood runs cold. “What could you possibly mean by that?”

“Well, you know how things have ended in the past. I’m just saying I’d like to meet him before he’s gone."

You don't dignify his words with a response.

"Come on, honey. I'm just joking with you."

"It's not funny."

"Don't be like that--"

"Goodbye."

You hang up, snapping the phone shut with a sigh.

The older you've gotten, the more conversations with your parents end up like this. You suppose it's the way you 'wasted your potential' or 'never made something of yourself.' They've always held resentment ever since you decided to become an agent. So you know not to take what they say to heart, because their words only come from a place of disappointment and displeasure. It's not a reflection of who you really are or what you've really accomplished.

Or at least, that's what Hotch told you when he'd overheard one of your phone calls. It meant more than you'd let on.

But your Dad's words linger in your head. They're irritating and sharp where they claw around in your head because they're true.

You can count on one hand the amount of romantic endeavors you've had. And from those, they all ended horribly. Your parents lost sympathy towards the end of your attempts, muttered words of needing to try harder to keep them, that you should be satisfied that somebody wanted you at all, that you should try to be less... you.

Try to be less... you, dear. The books and the facts- nobody wants those. Put some more effort into your appearance. Otherwise you'll end up all alone.

You'd tried to take their advice, of course. But the relationships that were fathered your parents direction were not loving. There was nothing soft or gentle or warm about them. You'd never felt more unlovable.

So when the incident with the shooter happened and you were lying on the lecture hall floor, blood coloring the carpet deep scarlet, you'd vowed to never let it happen again. That you were going to use your intellect and wit and passion for what you wanted to do- you'd promised yourself that if you survived, you would try to make your life your own, one step at a time.

This, of course, is easier said than done.

It's easy enough to refuse to let yourself get involved with men who are clearly only interested in your for your badge or your body --though the latter happens so rarely you really don't have to worry about it-- because you don't care about them. They're blips on your radar.

But Spencer? Sweet, sweet Spencer who makes you hot-cocoa and binge watches Doctor Who with you, even the later seasons, which you know he doesn't like as much but you love. Spencer who always has a grounding touch to offer, or a quiet command when you need him. Spencer who puts you first.

But there's a limit to these things, right? As far as you've seen, romantic relationship's are transactional, or conditional. Sometimes both. He can't just... keep doing this forever. It's too kind. Too sweet. It'll come to an end soon. Like, like the honeymoon era in early relationships. That's all it is. Plus, he's older than you, and you have no illusions about your unavoidable impulsiveness and naivety.

You've been told that your standards are too high before. "Struck by the hopeless romantic's arrow," your brother had said once, back when you were still in school, crying over a boy who'd told you that he didn't want to date you because you were too smart for a girl.

"That's not being hopeless romantic. There's no such thing as being too smart for a girl."

"There isn't," He'd amended, "But you're not going to have an easy time finding a guy. You of all people can't really afford to be picky."

He'd been right, in the end. So you're just... having a hard time figuring out how genuine Spencer's actions are. Guy's don't really act all romantic in the context of you. You've been told your whole life to be happy with what you get, and what you've had in the past is decidedly not lining up with how Spencer treats you.

It's a nasty little thing in your ear. Is it real? Does it matter as much to him?

When is it all going to end?

--

Rossi make's an offhand comment during a mission that you talk a lot when you're excited about the subject at hand.

JJ agrees. "It's a little unnerving when the subject is the bruising patterns of strangulation."

That little voice comes back.

Too much too much too much too much too much--

"It's useful," You protest, mouth dry.

JJ snorts, "I'm not sure about that. We need to know that the victim was strangled, not what happens to the body during blunt-force asphyxiation."

You'd grown quiet then, let the chatter and musings of the rest of the team wash over you.

Is that something Spencer finds annoying? You have always found things other's view morbid and disturbing fascinating. But JJ is right. No one wants to hear about that.

You brush the comment off, square your shoulders, get back on with the case.

Be better. Try harder.

You don't seen the furrow of Spencer's brows from where he's been watching you, or the quick look he shares with Hotch.

--

You'd never really thought about how clingy you can be before Emily makes an offhand comment about it while the two of you wait in line at a coffee shop. There's a couple in front of you, the girl all over her partner, kissing and giggling and hugging them close.

"Ugh," Emily groans once the two get their coffee and move on. "I could never understand the appeal of all that. I mean doesn't it feel stifling?"

A little stab of ice in your stomach.

"I don't know. I think it's nice."

"No, thank you. If I were her partner, I'd feel smothered."

You think about that conversation every time you take Spencer's hand or lean into his simple touches. They're invasive little things, the thoughts. It's not hard to pull back on all the touching. You never really ask for them in the first place- always too nervous to come off clingy. But you suppose just taking, taking, taking is just the same.

A quick shake of your head, not leaning in, a quiet "I'm fine." and that little nagging fear of smothering begins to quiet. It doesn't leave, but it does get quieter. For a little while, at least.

--

The hard part is trying to be less without noticeably being less. Spencer's smart- and he's a profiler. If you pull back too much too quickly, he'll notice, and you don't want to talk about this yet. You just need to make sure he'll stay. That things won't—

That you won't find out too late that you don't mean as much to him as he does to you.

That's the kind of thing that can't happen again. But ascertaining his true feelings and desires is difficult, because this is all kind's of new territory for you. You want to believe it's real. You really, really want to believe it's real.

But it's never been real before, so why would it be real now?

--

You've asked around (subtly and carefully, of course) about the type of girl Spencer's dated or drifted towards in the past. You know he said he wanted something soft and sweet, but you can't help but think that you're not really either, nor are you in line with his type. All things considered, you're a mess. Something tired-eyed and hollow is how you feel most days. Some sort of creature perhaps? You're honestly not sure what you are. You've spent your entire life being singled out or otherwise othered- always too smart or too different or too weird or too much or too loud or too quiet or too shy or too, too, too. Always too something. You have never been called soft or sweet. In a demeaning way, sure, but never with the quiet reverence that Spencer said it with that night.

It feels like a balancing act, a bit. Holding all those too much parts so close to your chest with one hand and shoving the ones you think Spencer wants with the other hand.

You could probably drop the one hand. The one holding the bad parts. But you're just not convinced he'll stay. You're not sure that he won't look at them with some form of disgust or pity or something else terrible.

You know the balancing act isn't sustainable— you'll fall eventually, and everything will come crashing down, but until then, you just keep trying. Trying to see if he'll stay, trying to see what to do if he won't. How to ensure he will, if that's something that's possible.

--

The act does not hold up for as long as you hoped it would. It comes crashing down with a glass. Literally.

You and Spencer are in the kitchen on a rare weekend off, cooking and drinking wine and swaying to some little old love song.

It should be perfect, except you're worrying that you look ugly while you're dancing, and you're probably singing off-key, and he maybe wants you to shut up so he can hear the song or dance in peace.

He reaches towards you and you just— your brain shrieks for a moment, all senses going into overdrive and you jerk backward, and your elbow knocks into your wine glass, and it falls, shattering behind you with a deafening crash.

Your entire body tenses, waiting for yelling or sighing or something, because you broke the glass, there's crystalline shards everywhere, the wine red and it looks like blood, maybe it is, maybe you're bleeding because the glass was really close to your foot when it fell but you're not sure because you can't really feel your feet or your fingers or—

"Don't move," Spencer says, voice serious, and tears well in your eyes, because this is when it all ends isn't it? "I don't want you to— honey?"

"Yes?" You croak.

His eyes are swimming with concern as he takes in your hunched shoulders, shallow breaths, and scared expression.

Understanding flickers in his features, and you resist the urge to hold your breath.

"Nothing is going to happen to you because of the glass, okay? Everything is fine. We're fine. I'm not mad. See? I'm not mad. I just don't want you to cut your feet on the glass. I'm going to clean this up and get your slippers, okay?"

"Okay." You breathe, voice hoarse. You wring your hands nervously as he leaves to retrieve the necessary supplies to clean the mess, heart beating so fast and so hard you're shocked you can't see it through your shirt.

He's not mad. He's not mad. You're not in trouble. Your parents aren't here. You're not grounded. You're not in trouble. He's not mad.

You're silent while he cleans, focused on getting your breathing under control while he babbles quietly about the history of glass making and the significance of types of wine glasses. The facts and history wash over you in steady waves, easing the tension in your shoulders bit by bit.

"I didn't think you were going to hit me, Spencer."

He continues cleaning. "It's okay if you did. I would never blame you for that."

"But I don't," You say, suddenly desperate, "I know you wouldn't, I've never been hit, not like that."

He's quiet for a few minutes. "Does this have something to do with how you've been acting recently?"

You freeze. "What do you mean?"

He looks up, leaning back on his knees. Making himself smaller, you realize. He's trying not to scare you again.

"You're dating a profiler. Also, I speak fluent you, and you've been chewing all your hangnails again. You only do that when you're stressed and pretending like you're not."

Your finger's twitch at your sides.

His hands come up slowly, and he rubs the length of your waist and hips. "We don't have to talk about it right now, but I think we should soon. I don't want you hurting all by yourself. You've had enough of that. That's what I'm here for."

He finishes cleaning up the glass, and finishes cooking dinner- he'd assured you he'd turned off all burners when the glass hit the floor, so nothing's burnt.

Once you've both eaten, he steers you towards the couch and wordlessly puts on Doctor Who.

The Pandorica is just about to open when you finally decide that if you don't start talking, you never will.

"My parents think you're going to leave me."

Spencer makes a wounded noise in his throat. "Why do they think that?"

"Because it's happened before. I'm, um. I'm not very good at getting into relationships. Or keeping them."

"But that's not your fault."

You sniff hard, rubbing your face with your sleeve. "It is though, isn't it? At least a little. I know I can be a lot. I know I'm not easy to—"

You cut yourself off, but the words hang in the air anyway; unsaid.

I'm not easy to love.

"Anyway," You say, pushing through the lump in your throat. "I just thought. I don't know. I was worried that you'd get fed up with me."

"No," He whispers, voice raw and full of something a lot heavier than fond. "No, no baby. I like that you're clingy and you ramble when you get excited, because it means that we get to talk about something together."

He shifts on the couch, sitting criss-crossed, ducking his head down to catch your gaze. "You know what else I like?"

You scoot over, mirroring his position. "What?"

"I like that you always know when I need you. Even when I don't think I do, you're there. Because I do need you. This isn't a one-way street."

His words hit you straight in your chest. "Oh."

He smiles, brows a little scrunched, brown eyes a deep pool of fondness and a splash of concern. "Yeah. And I'm thinking you need me a little more than you want to let on."

The seam of your pajama pants suddenly becomes the most interesting thing in the world. Amazing, the wonders of a sewing machine.

"Maybe."

"Mmm," He hums, "So if I need you, don't you think that you're allowed to need me?"

Your fingers pick and twirl a loose thread around. "...Yes?"

A large, firm hand covers your thigh, giving it a quick squeeze. "Yes. Not only are you allowed to need me, I want you to need me. Cause you know how you're always worried about being the best girlfriend? Well, I'm always worried about being the best boyfriend."

That makes you look up. "Really?"

He chuckles again, a little puff of air fanning your face. "Yes, really. I assure you, contrary to your past experiences, this is one of those bare minimum things in a relationship."

"That does not," He continues, immediately catching the brief flicker of doubt and shame on your face, "Mean that it is your fault at all for how you were treated in the past. You wouldn't expect me to suddenly become an expert in veterinary medicine just because I've been to the vet's office a few times, right?"

"When did you go to the vet's—"

"Shh, I'm being a good boyfriend," He holds up a hand, lips quirking up when you can't suppress a tiny giggle, "But seriously. You had no frame of reference, right? And you were being told it was your fault. But it wasn't. You didn't deserve that."

He lets his words hang in the air for a little while and allows you time to process this new information.

"What do I do now?"

"Well," He leans in, brushing his nose against yours, curls tickling your forehead, "You've got a pretty sweet deal here. Just three things. You have to keep letting me need you, let yourself need me, and one last little thing."

"What?"

You're so close your breaths are mingling.

"Let me show you what this is supposed to look like. How a man is supposed to treat a pretty girl. His pretty girl."

"Oh, well," Heat rushes to your cheeks, your stomach doing flip-flops, "That sounds pretty hard. I don't know how I'll hold up."

His hand comes up to hold the side of your face, his thumb sweeping strokes under your eye.

"You say that now, but I know what happens to you when I get romantic. You swoon."

You laugh. "I do not swoon."

"You will."

He leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss. It isn't a kiss-kiss. He's kissing you just to kiss you; just to let you know that he's here, that you have him.

It's sweet and perfect and exactly what you need.

--

Letting yourself need Spencer is marginally easier now that you know he needs you. Now that you know you're not going all in for someone who isn't.

He also starts needing you a bit... louder.

It's late evening, and most people have gone home except you and a couple other members of the team, all still working on paperwork.

Except Spencer, who's decided to drape himself over your shoulders like a cat, his chin resting on your head.

"Don't you have work to do?"

"Either finished it or it can be done later."

You shift your shoulders, smiling at how his grumbles vibrate against your back.

He moves his head, pressing his cheek to your head instead of his chin, heaving a deep sigh.

"Your hair smells good."

"Like what?"

"You're shampoo. Yours always smell better than mine."

You continue to work through your paperwork, Spencer a continuous and solid weight against your back.

"Is this even comfortable for your back at all?"

"Doesn't matter. Need girlfriend time."

He can't see it, but you're sure he knows how hard you blush.

--

Spencer's cooking the two of you a late breakfast in the kitchen of his apartment, hair still all mussed from sleep. He's quite the sight. You can't stop staring.

You're sitting on the counter, still dressed in your pajamas, legs swinging.

"You wanna know something cool?"

"You know it,"

"Butterflies and moths can drink blood and tears. There's nutrients in them. Purple Emperor butterflies are especially known for this. It's called mud-puddling."

"So you're telling me I should make sure I bandage any open wounds before I go to a butterfly house?"

"I guess. I can't imagine they'd be able to drink enough blood to actually cause any damage."

"Maybe we'll have to go to a butterfly house. For research."

"Should we get dinner afterwards?"

"We'll deserve it, you know, for all the hard research we'll have done."

"Hmm. Yes, I suppose so."

--

Spencer's bed is infinitely more comfortable than your bed. You're pretty sure it's a combination of the fact that it's the only thing in the entire world that smells so much like him and the fact that he spent part of his large FBI paycheck on a fancy mattress. Back support is very important to him.

You're doing a little reading before bed, shamelessly sprawled all over him while he does his own reading. You've got a leg hooked over his hips, the other tangled with his legs, and your arms and head pillowed on his chest. You move a little every time he takes a breath, and more than once you've paused in your reading, mesmerized by the feeling.

He shifts under you, setting his book down on his night stand and making himself more comfortable.

"Should I move?"

"No," he says, voice deep and gravelly with sleep. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush to him, face pressed to the crook of your neck. He breathes deep, scruffy stubble scratching against your skin. "Like you close. Good for sleep."

Even with the lamp on, and your book in your hand, you fall asleep soon after him.

--

It's an ordinary evening for the two of you. Discarded dishes sit on the coffee table in front of the t.v, neither of you paying them any attention, wrapped up in each other and eyes glued to the screen.

You look up at Spencer who's watching Doctor Who with the focus of a man who's never seen it, even though you know for a fact he's seen it before, several times in fact.

"I want to know the things you like," He'd said simply, the one time you'd asked why he takes your nightly Doctor Who watching so seriously.

And tonight's no different. Tonight, he looks... well, he looks like Spencer. His face illuminated by the TV screen, his hair all mussed from you running your hands through it earlier.

And it just kind of all hits you at once. You know.

"I love you."

He looks down at you, his expression soft and surprised. When your words register, his expression is so sickeningly fond and happy you can't help but lean in, burying your face in his chest. He rubs your back consolingly, then presses a little kiss to the crown of your head.

"I love you too."

⋆⭒˚.⋆

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[luvergirl-535]

that’s so true

word count - 8.3k

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

c/w - language, toxic p/toxic relationship (situationship) (kinda toxic a too)? i guess you could call it angst? but it’s very unserious bc i’ve been doing too much serious stuff. fluff and happy ending. very dialogue heavy

a/n - i don’t usually like to incorporate music into my fics but the anon who gave this prompt specifically recommended it so i hope i did it justice! also, this takes place azzi’s freshman year so like 2021/2022, and i know this song didn’t exist then but this is fiction so i can do what i want 😛. hope yall enjoy!!!

They only have five minutes before they’re supposed to leave with everybody else to Ted’s. Unfortunately for Azzi, Paige Bueckers is very hot and also very much on top of her, and both of these things coincide to create quite the predicament: they can’t stop kissing.

It’s normal for them, lately. Kissing is easier than talking, considering talking has gotten harder since they started—whatever this is. Or maybe restarted is a better word, considering they did this same thing in high school. But back then, the kissing was a little clumsier, often fast and desperate, whereas now they’re older, mature (yeah, right) and they take their time with these things, often just making out for hours before they move on to other things, relishing in not having to worry about either of their parents or siblings barging in on them like they used to.

There’s also another difference—back then, they were dating. Like, introducing each other as their girlfriends, going on dates, holding-hands-in-public dating.

That’s different because today—and for the past six months—they’ve been decidedly not dating.

“We don’t need distractions,” Paige had said after they’d fucked, only a month after Azzi came to UConn. (They had both agreed to stay just friends—best friends—but nothing more. But then they had to live in the same building and watch each other get all hot and sweaty at practice and see each other in skimpy pajamas and who were they to blame, really, when they fucked in that club bathroom one heated but sober night? They had spent a year broken up, a year of being long-distance besties, FaceTiming and texting and posting each other on socials with captions like “happy birthday i miss you” and “come see me”. It honestly would’ve been wrong for them to not fuck.)

“Mm—Paige, wait,” Azzi whispers when they finally separate for air.

“What’s up,” Paige says, eyes roving over every inch of Azzi’s face. Her voice is a little raspy from lack of use and it does things to Azzi’s tummy.

“I—you don’t—we need to go,” Azzi urges, pushing at Paige’s shoulders. Paige, of course, just smiles at that, pressing her knee up in between Azzi’s legs. It’s really not her fault when she gasps a little.

Paige chuckles, leaning down to kiss her forehead, then between her eyebrows. “Do we?” she mumbles, pecking the tip of Azzi’s nose and the corner of her mouth. “Like, do we really?”

“Yes, Paige, we do.” Azzi moves one of her hands down to Paige’s occupied thigh, trying desperately to separate the toned muscle from her aching core. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

“Definitely not as much fun as this is.”

“Well, we can continue later, when we get home.” That gets Paige to move her knee back, offering Azzi both relief and leaving an ache between her legs. She does her best to flash a sultry smile. “It’s a weekend. We can stay up all night if we want.”

Paige looks at her skeptically. “I thought you were stayin’ sober?”

Azzi moves her head back and forth. “Might not.”

“For real?”

“Uh-huh.” Azzi winds her arms around Paige’s shoulders, then scratches a little roughly down the length of her back, something Paige has always been into. It works, Paige’s jaw dropping just enough to show the pink of her tongue. “I want it, too, P. We just can’t ditch the team again. I think they already suspect us.”

“What?” Paige makes a face and scoffs. “Nah, we’re sneaky.”

“You called me babe in front of everyone at practice.”

“That’s a friend thing.” Paige waggles her eyebrows and plants a kiss on her lips, as if to prove just how friendly they are.

“Nika saw you basically groping me the other day, too.”

“I never did that.”

“My apartment, the kitchen. Movie night. I was making popcorn and you came up behind me and grabbed my tits.”

“Hm. Don’t remember that.”

“You said ‘I wanna fuck you from behind right now,’ and poor Nika walked in and stared at us and said, ‘This doesn’t look like you’re making popcorn’.”

Paige groans, dropping her head into Azzi’s shoulder and effectively laying the entire length of her body on Azzi’s. “I did wanna fuck you from behind. You were wearing those jeans…”

“Paige!”

“Okay, whatever.” Paige is a little muffled now, buried in the crook of Azzi’s neck. Her breath tingles, sending hot shivers up the length of her arm. “I do that to everyone, Nika won’t think anything of it.”

“Oh, really,” Azzi says, tone dropping into something utterly unamused, and Paige’s head pops up when she hears it. “So you say things like that to every bitch?”

Paige’s eyes widen. “No!” she grapples for something to say, and Azzi just raises an eyebrow at her. “I don’t—I meant—I just didn’t wanna admit you’re right, I wasn’t—baby.” Paige juts out her bottom lip. It kinda works. “You know I wasn’t thinkin’.”

This is another interesting thing about their current situation: because they’re not dating, they’ve never discussed where they stand in terms of other people. Sure, at the very beginning, they agreed since it was just casual sex, there was no reason for them to be exclusive. They didn’t want to get anywhere near that line of the all-consuming, intense relationship they had in high school, and they figured seeing other people—or at least having the option to do so—would steer them clear of that. And it worked for about…two seconds.

But then somewhere down the line things got a little blurry and slowly but surely Azzi stopped thinking of them as friends with benefits and as more of a slightly complicated but also fun situationship. Because at some point they started kissing without the goal of sex or even third base, just little pecks here and there when they had a second alone. And then they started staying a little longer each time after they’d fuck—at first, they’d leave directly after. But then they would stay for some basic aftercare, and then it got to full-on snuggling, and then it got to their clothes in each other’s apartments from how often they’d stay the night with each other. And the most recent development which really cemented things for Azzi: Paige has started using pet names outside the bedroom, something she only ever did while they were girlfriends. It’s only been a few weeks since this started and Azzi was absolutely floored when Paige had picked up her phone call with a, “Hey, baby.”

And now here they are, late for yet another night out because Paige is very clearly scandalized at the mere notion of her seeing another girl—even though it’s supposed to be allowed—and Azzi has to be honest, she doesn’t love the idea, either.

“Aw, c’mon,” Paige says when Azzi doesn’t reply. “Don’t be mad at me, mama.”

Azzi blinks up at her, officially not jealous and not overthinking about their complicated situation any longer. “You’re stupid,” she teases, scooting back and sitting up.

Paige follows closely, so that by the time Azzi is propped up against the headboard she’s on her lap. “You’re really stopping us?” she asks.

“We’re already late, I’m sure everybody left without us,” Azzi says, tapping Paige encouragingly on the hip, “so yes.”

Paige doesn’t yet move and doesn’t look like she’s going to until a sharp knock at the door makes both of them jolt. “Hey!” It’s Aaliyah’s voice. “Y’all cannot be taking this long to get ready.”

“I don’t…we just…” Azzi stammers as Paige scrambles off her, and they both get quickly to their feet, making as little noise as possible, “our hair wasn’t cooperating,” she says, reaching up to fix Paige’s tousled hair. “We’ll be right out!”

“You better be, we’re all waiting outside and it’s fucking cold.”

“Coming!” Azzi calls, letting Paige wipe some of her smudged lip gloss, rolling her eyes when Paige smirks at her and says, “Oh, you will be.”

She has no idea what Paige Bueckers is to her, but an annoyance will always take the top spot.

————————————————

When Azzi had claimed she’d stay sober with the other freshmen, she hadn’t accounted for the fact that she has a best friend who loves to party and who loves peer pressuring even more.

“C’mon, just a few shots,” Paige pouts, leaning in too close to her. Azzi glances around the bar, trying to see if anybody is watching them, but she can’t tell. There’s too many people.

“Nobody can hear us,” Paige assures her, placing her hands low on Azzi’s hips, pressing her into the wall of the corner they’re semi-hidden in.

Azzi swears this girl is horrible for her blood pressure. “Paige,” she hisses, removing Paige’s hands, “not here.”

“You shoulda let us stay home,” Paige says, and now that her hands are placed firmly at her sides her eyes do all the wandering for them, raking slowly down Azzi’s body and back up. “I woulda had you fucked out by now, I swear.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Azzi mumbles.

“You seem anxious, baby.” Bravely, Paige holds her again, though this time it’s at a more friendly place, higher up on her waist. Azzi tries to meet her eyes but they’re held firmly on her lips. “Fuck. I wanna kiss you so bad.”

“No, Paige,” Azzi says, as sternly as possible. She would rather like to kiss her too, but not here, not now, not when Paige is tipsy and Azzi is horrendously sober.

“Okay, I’ma go get me another dirty shirley.” Azzi swears she would marry that drink if she could. “And I’ma grab a couple shots for you while I’m at it. And then we’re gonna fuck in the bathroom.”

Azzi smacks Paige on the arm. “I’m done with public restrooms. Once was enough.”

Paige, still sober enough to have some sort of common sense, wrinkles her nose. “Yeah, you’re right. But I’m still grabbing shots.” She smacks a wet kiss onto her forehead and with that, turns around to head toward the bar.

Azzi doesn’t get a second of peace before someone else is sidling up to her. Though when she looks over she sighs with relief when it’s just Caroline. “Hey, Carol.”

“You’re so lucky you have a girlfriend who’ll buy you shots,” Caroline says, looking wistfully in Paige’s direction.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

Caroline side-eyes her. “Uh-huh.”

“She’s not. We broke up.”

“And then got back together.”

Azzi shoves her away before pulling her back, linking their arms together as she leads them towards their team’s section of seats. “Nope. We’re still exes.”

“Exes who are romantically involved.”

“Carol,” Azzi groans, urging her to shut up as they approach the rest of the girls. “We’re just friends.”

It used to leave a bitter taste in her mouth, lying to her closest friend, the one whose shoulder she cried on when she and Paige broke up. But after six months of doing it, she’s used to it. And it’s not like Caroline believes her, anyway.

“Okay,” Caroline says skeptically. “So if the guy that’s been looking at you since we got here asked for your number, you’d give it to him?”

They’re at the team’s booth now, and Amari perks up at the mention of the slightest possibility of drama. “What guy?”

“I haven’t noticed a guy,” Azzi says, which is the truth. As it usually goes, she’s only had eyes for Paige tonight.

“Over there,” Carol says, leaning against the table and gesturing subtly across the bar. “Muscle shirt.”

“Immediately no,” Azzi replies, not even looking for him in the group of guys across the room. But he must be actively searching her out because just as she’s about to look away she catches his eye, and even though she immediately looks away, she can still see him grin out of the corner of her eye.

“Uh-oh,” Amari mutters. “You engaged him.”

“Don’t make eye contact,” Azzi says, turning away from him to face her friends. “Make yourself unapproachable.”

Caroline turns away, too, and the two of them lean over the table.

Aaliyah looks up from the conversation she was having. “What’re you guys doing?”

“Hiding,” Azzi hisses.

Amari peeks around Azzi’s shoulder, then settles back in her seat. “He’s coming over.”

“What?” Azzi wants to look at him but doesn’t, instead inching herself closer to Caroline. “Save me.”

“Who is that?” Aaliyah asks, not-so-subtly staring at the guy.

“A man about to flirt with Azzi,” Caroline says, nudging her away.

“Oh, Paige is gonna be maddd,” Aaliyah sing-songs, and they all giggle like this is funny and not absolutely awkward and stress-inducing.

Azzi glares at them. “She has no reason to be mad.” And it’s true, she kind of doesn’t, but that doesn’t mean she won’t.

“Oh, yeah?” Caroline asks, glancing behind them just as Azzi feels the man come up behind her. “We’ll see about that.”

And then there’s a tap on her shoulder, and Azzi takes a deep breath before turning around with a strained smile on her face.

“Hey.” Muscle shirt is standing a little too close for comfort, which she’s sure he’ll excuse by the crowded bar but is obviously just him being weird. “You’re Azzi, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Azzi says, leaning back against the table.

“I’ve seen you around,” he continues, smiling cockily, obviously very proud of himself for being brave enough to approach her. “You come here a lot, right? To Ted’s?”

Azzi shrugs, looking casually to her side in the hopes that Caroline will rescue her, but to her astonishment she has slid into the booth next to Aaliyah and is now chatting happily with the rest of the team. “I guess.”

“Noticed you weren’t with Bueckers,” he says, and she winces. Not five sentences into the conversation and he’s already brought up her current situationship. “Thought it was a good opening.” He laughs. She doesn’t.

“How so?” she asks, a little nervously.

“I mean, she obviously doesn’t want anybody coming near you.” A girl squeezes past behind him and he takes it as an excuse to inch even closer to her. Azzi presses herself further back into the table. “Can’t even look your way without her looking like she’s gonna fight someone.”

“She’s just protective,” Azzi says. As if Paige would do that for any of their friends, as if that level of pure possessiveness is normal.

“Right.” He doesn’t sound fully convinced. “You didn’t ask my name.”

God. Why are men so…gross? “My bad.” He stares at her expectantly. “Uh…so…?”

“I’m Elliot,” he says, grinning at her. That muscle shirt is really not doing good things for him. “You want me to buy you a drink?”

“Um, actually—“

“She’s good.”

Azzi’s shoulders sag at the mere sound of Paige’s voice. She can’t help but smile when Paige approaches them, moving roughly past Elliot to sidle up next to her. She hands her two brightly colored shots before slinging an arm around her, firmly ignoring Elliot. “Gotchu these. Lemme know if you don’t like ‘em.”

Azzi nods, and usually she’d shy away from the physical contact, especially right in front of their friends, but now she leans into it, safe under Paige’s arm. “Thanks.”

“Sorry I took so long.” As if sensing her discomfort—which she probably can—she rubs her thumb soothingly over her shoulder. “They’re super busy up there. You okay?”

Azzi opens her mouth to respond, but Elliot interrupts her. “She’s fine, dude. We’re just talking.”

Paige looks at him. “Aight. Well, you can be done talking now.”

Their teammates have gone mostly quiet behind them, and Azzi rolls her eyes when she hears them snickering.

Elliot scoffs, but he’s skinny and a little shorter than Paige, and when her arm tightens around Azzi’s shoulder he puts his hands up. “Damn, okay.”

Azzi breathes a sigh of relief when he’s gone. “Thank god. That was so awkward.”

“You shoulda called me,” Paige says, dropping her arm to turn around and face their teammates. “And y’all shoulda helped her out.”

The girls look up at them innocently. Amari smiles charmingly at Paige and says, “We knew you were gonna do it soon enough.”

Azzi shakes her head and downs one of the shots. It is as disgusting as it looks.

“You guys suck,” Paige says, pulling Azzi into her side once again. “Leaving my girl in the trenches like that.”

Dozens of eyebrows raise at that, and it’s then that Azzi smells the booze on Paige’s breath. She flushes, trying to pull away. “P,” she mutters.

“I know,” Paige says, holding fast to Azzi’s waist, setting her shirley on the table so she can wrap the other around her, too.

“Paige,” Azzi urges, pressed completely now into Paige’s chest and trying desperately to ignore the scrutinizing looks from her teammates. She hopes they’re all too drunk to think hard about Paige’s behavior.

“Yeah,” Paige says, her hand creeping slowly down Azzi’s back.

“Did you have another drink?” Azzi asks, trying to walk them away from the booth, but Paige keeps her feet planted.

“I might’ve had another shot.” Paige grins, and Azzi would easily admit she likes it a lot more than muscle shirt’s. “Missed you, baby.”

The girls are pretending not to eavesdrop, but they’re clearly listening, sharing furtive glances with each other. Which is just—great. Because tomorrow the girls are going to have questions and Paige will be sober enough for that to stress her out, which will in turn stress Azzi out, and there will be no saving face if she lets Paige continue on like this.

“Not now, Paige,” she hisses, trying desperately to push her back.

Paige pouts. Their faces are far too close together. “What, you wanna go back to that guy or sum’?”

Azzi knows she’s not serious, but it still annoys her, and she doesn’t feel quite as comforted in Paige’s arms anymore. “Seriously, I’m not in the mood.”

Paige scoffs, maybe a little more serious now. “Course you aren’t.”

Azzi blinks at her, and when Paige’s hands drop to her sides she takes a step back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I dunno.” Paige gestured between them. “Just that you never wanna be around me unless we’re fu—“

Azzi’s overstimulated and irritated, but she still has enough common sense to shove Paige hard enough to shut her up. “Don’t.”

Paige watches as Azzi drinks her other shot. “What? You really don’t want anybody to know, huh? You that embarrassed or something?”

Azzi shakes her head in disbelief, stepping back towards Paige so they can at least have this conversation too quiet for anybody to hear. “Are you dumb? You’re the one who wanted to keep this secret.”

“Because I didn’t want my teammates thinking I was distracted!”

“Our teammates, Paige.” Azzi gives her another little shove for good measure, and then she steps away again. “You’re acting stupid. Go chill out and come back when you wanna be normal.”

“Fine. I will.” With that, she turns on her heel and disappears into the crowd. Azzi rolls her eyes at her hot-headedness. They’re both too stubborn for their own good, but Paige is ten times worse when she’s drunk and Azzi has always been more logical. Little, senseless arguments like this never happened when they were dating—or even when they were broken up—but now that they’re at this weird in-between, they’re becoming more frequent.

Hence why they prefer to kiss instead of talk.

Azzi plops down beside Amari, grateful when nobody questions her, and feels a little better when she thinks about how good the make-up sex will be later.

—————————————

There will be no make-up sex tonight. Or ever, Azzi thinks bitterly, glaring daggers at the girl Paige is currently feeling up.

Okay, feeling up might be an overstatement. She has a hand on her arm. But Azzi knows better than anyone that for Paige, hand-on-arm action might as well be foreplay. And the girl seems to sense it, too, if her batting eyelashes and twinkling smile have anything to show for it.

“She’s just doing it to make you jealous.” Once again, it’s Caroline, sidling up next to Azzi to study the tall blonde across the bar.

“I have no reason to be jealous,” Azzi all but spits out, and Caroline smirks.

“Pretend all you want, Az. But it’s impossible to not see what’s going on with you and her.”

“There’s nothing.” Paige’s fingers trail down the length of the girl’s arm and it’s almost like Azzi can feel it, too.

“Are you guys exclusive?”

“No,” Azzi responds immediately, too tipsy to be thinking straight, and when Caroline smiles proudly to herself, she backtracks. “I mean, obviously not. We’re not anything.”

“Well, if you’re not exclusive, she’s not doing anything wrong.”

Azzi hates this bitter reminder and turns her anger onto her best friend. “Shut up, Carol.”

“You two should probably talk about not seeing other people,” Caroline says, as wise and perceptive as ever. (She is also significantly more sober than Azzi is.)

“She can see whoever she wants,” Azzi seethes, stirring the ice in her drink. “I don’t care.”

Paige’s eyes flit from the girl’s face to Azzi. And then, with a little smirk, she leans in to whisper something in her ear, blue eyes never leaving brown as the girl giggles and grabs onto her arm. She smiles, too, and Azzi takes some satisfaction in the fact the girl has no idea she’s not the one Paige is doing this for.

She’s always been good at putting up a show. And Azzi has always been her captive audience.

Not tonight, Azzi decides as she looks firmly away. It’s about time Paige learns to behave herself.

—————————————-

It’s been a long night of drinking and trying not to watch Paige attach herself to this random girl’s hip when Azzi is approached by none other than random girl herself.

She’s gorgeous up close, but Azzi can’t help but notice her brown curls and crescent dimples, the way they’re the exact same height. It nearly makes her laugh.

“Hey,” the girl says, dropping into the bar seat next to Azzi.

“Uh,” Azzi says, vey tipsy and very irate. “Hey.”

“What’s that? It looks so good,” the girl asks, pointing to her drink. Her voice is soft and kind, nothing malicious gleaming in her eyes. Azzi hates it.

“Just a mango daiquiri,” Azzi responds, kind of unable to be snarky about it with the wide-eyed way the girl is looking at her.

“Oh, fancy! I’m definitely gonna cop that.” She smiles conspiratorially at her. Azzi can’t help but smile back. Okay, now she just kind of hates herself. She’s never been one to be rude to girls she’s jealous of. Especially not harmless, sweet ones.

“It’s so good,” she’s saying before she can help it. “And they come in all different flavors so there’s like, endless possibilities.”

“Stop,” the girl gasps.

“I know!” and then they both giggle like the tipsy college students they are. This is possibly even better than hating her, because it’s almost like a smack in the face: look at me, Paige, being the bigger person. Making best friends with your target of the night. How’s that feel?

“Hey,” the girl giggles, leaning her elbows on the bar. “You’re Azzi, yeah? You play so good.”

“Thank you!” Azzi gushes, flashing her dimples as the girl does just the same. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Haven,” she replies. Even her name is nice. Azzi thinks about how Paige must’ve thought the same thing when they met a few hours ago, but she doesn’t like the thought, so she pushes it firmly away.

“Hey,” Haven says, sounding suddenly hesitant. “Um, I actually wanted to ask you something. About…Paige?”

Azzi’s eyes snap to where the blonde sits at the team’s booth—she always seems to know where Paige is in a room, though she never remembers tracking her movements—before she quickly looks back to Haven. “What about her?”

“Well…that,” she says.

“What?” Azzi asks, stirring her drink casually.

“The reaction you just had to me saying her name.”

Okay, so Azzi apparently does not appear as cool and collected as she thought. “Oh, that was just—I mean, she’s my best friend.”

“Yeah?” Haven asks. “Because I kinda got the impression y’all were…”

“No,” Azzi says, trying to contort her features into something like disgust. “Ew. Never.”

Haven raises her eyebrows. “Never?”

Why is everybody deciding to clock Paige and Azzi’s shit tonight? “Okay, like, maybe at one point. But it’s over.”

“Really.” She does not sound convinced at all. Glancing over at Paige, Haven leans forward, as if she’s afraid they’ll be heard. “It’s just, she keeps looking at you and you keep looking back and she was all over you earlier, so like—“

“I wouldn’t say she was all over me.”

“She totally was.” Haven’s looking at her like she’s clueless. “I just…listen, Paige invited me over tonight.” Azzi’s stomach drops. So definitely no make-up sex then. In fact, Azzi might as well pack up her vagina right now because Paige has ruined everybody else for her, too. “And I don’t wanna get in the middle of anything,” Haven continues, completely oblivious to Azzi’s internal vow of celibacy, “especially nothing messy.”

“Yeah, no, I totally get that.” Azzi sighs heavily; considering their situation is exactly what one might describe as messy, Azzi figures it’s probably the right thing to do to tell this poor girl the truth. “To be honest, we kinda are…I dunno. I mean, we fuck.”

“Okay,” Haven nods, sounding not at all surprised.

“She stays over most of the time. I stay at her’s sometimes, but she mostly stays at mine.”

“Spare toothbrushes in each other’s bathroom?”

Azzi winces. “Possibly.”

“Yeow.”

“And, like, generally, we don’t see other people. We used to, at the beginning, but not anymore. We were just talking about it today, actually. Well, not talking about it—we don’t talk about stuff. We’re not serious enough for Paige to wanna talk about stuff.” Azzi is rambling now, and Haven is hanging onto her every word, and Azzi thinks she loves making fast friends with other girls then realizes this is the exact thing that happens every time she gets drunk. Perhaps she crossed over that line awhile ago.

The two of them have their heads close together now, the rest of the bar completely shut out. “But anyway, she said something and I was like, what, you say that to all your bitches? You know, mostly joking but not.”

“Of course.”

“And she was all, no, baby, I would never ever have other bitches, don’t be mad,” Azzi says, deepening her tone in a stupid caricature of Paige’s voice.

Haven gasps. “That was today?”

“Like ten minutes before we came here.”

“And then she was all up on me tonight.” Haven glares in Paige’s direction. “Damn.”

“I know. But like, yeah, we’re not exclusive or anything so it’s fine. But it’s not, you know?”

“Oh, for sure. That’s fucked up,” Haven says haughtily. “So, wait, how long has this been going on for?”

“Uh…six months?” but no, that doesn’t feel right. “Well, I guess, like, four years? But six months.”

Haven blinks at her.

Azzi sighs. “We were super serious in high school.”

Haven nearly screams, slamming her hand on the bar. “She’s your ex?”

“Yes!” Azzi cries, and it feels so, so good for someone to understand her situation. “We were so in love and shit! And then things started feeling weird the summer before she came here—because, like, I’m a year younger than her so she was gonna be in college while I was still in high school and I—I could tell she didn’t wanna be tied down by her lame hometown girlfriend so I ended things.”

“Girl!” Haven yells.

“I had no other choiceeee,” Azzi groans. “She woulda broken up with me if I hadn’t broken up with her.”

“You’re crazy,” Haven says, shaking her head. “That girl is down bad.”

“Stop,” Azzi says, waving her off.

“She is, horrendously.” Haven gestures over to Paige. “As soon as you got to UConn she wanted to start something with you, right? And then y’all have a little tiff and she’s doing the most with another girl just to get your attention?”

“She asked you to go home with her,” Azzi points out. “That definitely wasn’t for my benefit.”

“Um, I’m sorry, have you not noticed how scary alike we look?” Haven asks, and Azzi flushes. “She was definitely gonna pretend I was you. Which I’m not down for, like, at all.”

“She’s such a dick,” Azzi says. Because she may have been in love with Paige Bueckers since high school, but yeah, she’s still kinda a dick.

“Totally,” Haven agrees. “But…

“Don’t tell me you’re about to defend her.”

“Listen!” Haven places her hands on Azzi’s shoulder. “I think her heart’s in the right place. She wants you. She’s just a little…misguided.”

Azzi shakes her head. “She was the one who said we couldn’t be serious. She said we couldn’t have ‘distractions’.”

“And you didn’t stop to think that maybe she was still insecure and hurt by the fact you broke up with her and was protecting herself from getting hurt again?”

Azzi blinks at this drunk, genius girl in front of her. “Whoa.”

“Yeah. You know what, I’m starting to think maybe you’re both a little stupid.”

Azzi shoves her. “Don’t get so cocky, you could be wrong!”

“I could,” Haven admits. “But where would that leave you? With an asshole ex-girlfriend who messes with your head for fun?”

Azzi thinks maybe, if they didn’t look so uncannily alike, she could kiss this girl. “I love you.”

“Girl, I love you more.” Haven pats her arm and leans back on her barstool. “Now take Auntie Haven’s advice and give her the silent treatment for a few days. She’ll realize her mistakes and come running back real quick.”

“What if I don’t wanna take her back?” Azzi says, already knowing it’s bullshit.

“You do. But you gotta make her work for it. And then you have to communicate with her.”

Azzi makes a face. “Didn’t I already tell you we don’t like talking?”

Haven rubs her temples. “There’s your main fucking problem, Azzi.”

It’s then that Haven’s eyes trail to something over her shoulder and before Azzi can ask there’s a large, warm, all-too-familiar ringed hand on her shoulder. “What’re you two talking about over here?”

Azzi looks first at the hand on her shoulder, then slowly up to Paige’s face. Paige raises her eyebrows, waiting for an answer, and then Azzi looks back at Haven, meeting her eyes.

And then they laugh.

“What?” Paige nearly demands.

Azzi brushes her hand off, still giggling. “Leave us alone, Paige.”

“I just didn’t know y’all knew each other,” Paige says, and Azzi delights at how confused she sounds. “Because you two seem pretty buddy-buddy over here.”

“Didn’t realize you were watching so closely,” Haven quips. Azzi giggles.

“Never said I was.” Paige moves from behind Azzi, going to stand beside them, studying them closely. “You two are drunk as hell.”

“So are you!” Haven and Azzi both say at the same time, and tears are forming at this point. Azzi holds on to Haven’s knee to keep herself from falling off her chair.

“Aight, yeah, I’m getting you an Uber,” Paige says to Haven, before touching Azzi’s arm, “And I’ma walk you home.”

“I can get my own Uber,” Haven says haughtily, but Paige already has her phone out.

Once again, Azzi bats Paige’s hand away. “I don’t wanna go home with you.”

Paige rolls her eyes, still navigating through her phone. “I figured, Az. But we live in the same building. Just lemme walk you.”

“You’re not sober enough to walk me.”

“I’ve been drinking water for the past hour, I’m pretty much good.” Paige shuts her phone off and looks at Haven. “You car’ll be here in fifteen.”

“Wish you were pretty much good a couple hours ago,” Azzi grumbles.

Paige’s expression becomes a little less nonchalant at that. “I know, mama, we can talk about it tomorrow.”

And that almost works. But then Haven sends her a warning glare and she straightens up. “No, thanks.”

Paige’s face scrunches up like it always done when she’s shocked, and Azzi hates that it’s still the cutest thing in the world. “Whatchu mean?”

“Exactly that,” Azzi says, standing from her barstool. Her butt is sore from sitting for so long. “And I’ll walk home with the rest of the team, thanks.”

Paige splutters. Haven gives her the middle finger.

—————————————

Later, when they are walking home—stumbling, more accurately—Azzi is leaning against Aubrey when she hears familiar footfalls coming up behind them and braces herself.

“Hey, Azzi,” Paige calls, catching her arm as she catches up. “Come walk with me.”

“I wanna walk with Aubrey,” Azzi says petulantly.

Aubrey looks awkwardly between the two of them.

“Bro, just—“ Paige stops, mindful of their audience. “Let’s just talk, okay?”

“No, thanks.”

“Azzi, c’mon.”

“I’m drunk and I’m cold and I’m mad at you. Leave me alone.”

Paige looks desperately to Aubrey for help. Aubrey just shrugs and says, “What’m I supposed to do? She said what she said.”

“Thank you,” Azzi huffs.

“Man, fuck this,” Paige says. Azzi feels very satisfied when Paige falls back, leaving her alone. But her arm also tingles where Paige had caught it.

Oh, yeah. This makeup sex had better be good for the trouble she’s going through.

—————————————

It isn’t until the next day that, during a car ride with Caroline, Azzi disovers it.

The two of them have always had similar music tastes, so when an unfamiliar song comes on over the speaker, she’s a little surprised. However, as she listens to the lyrics, she finds herself even more surprised at how much they resonate with her.

I could go and read your mind

Think about your dumb face all the time

Living in your glass house I’m outside

“Hey,” she says, “what song is this?”

“That’s So True,” Caroline answers, still staring ahead at the road. “By Gracie Abrams. Why?”

Looking into big blue eyes

Did it just to hurt me, make me cry

Smiling through it all, yeah, that’s my life

“Oh,” Azzi says casually, “no reason.”

——————————————

It becomes very apparent there is a reason when, over the next week, the song becomes everyone else’s problem.

So apparent, in fact, that the team actually starts to worry about her.

“What did you do to her?” Aaliyah asks as soon as Paige walks into the apartment.

“You broke her,” Amari says.

“That stupid song kept me up all night and it’s your fault,” Aubrey continues, pointing menacingly at Paige.

“I didn’t do nothing!” Paige says, backing away from her angry friends.

“You better fix it,” Amari says. “Like, now.”

“Fix what?”

Oddly, they all go quiet at this. Paige is about to ask what’s up with them when music begins blasting from somewhere in the dorm.

“That,” Aaliyah says.

Paige scrunches her nose. “Bad pop music?”

“It is not bad,” Caroline says defensively, joining them in the entryway. When she gets judgmental looks from the other girls, she sighs. “Okay, it wasn’t bad. But Azzi’s been listening to it nonstop for a week and it used to be my favorite song and now I’m sick of it.”

“We’re all sick of it,” Amari adds unhelpfully.

“I still don’t understand what this has to do with me,” Paige says, but of course she’s lying. From what she can make out the lyrics are about a break up, maybe, something to do with jealousy and anger. With the way Azzi’s been dodging her this week (calls sent straight to voicemail, texts left on read, not even a hint of eye contact when they see each other) she knows she fucked up at the party.

It’s not like them to fight—really, it’s not. They’ve gotten into more arguments this year than they have in their entire friendship. Obviously, there’s a correlation there, something major signaling that this whole friends-with-benefits thing doesn’t work for them. Or maybe it does. Maybe it’s the whole best-friends-who-dated-then-became-exes-then-friends-with-benefits thing that they can’t do.

But either way—fights? Like, actual fights that Paige can’t talk (or kiss) their way out of? Those are rare.

She didn’t think their argument at the bar was that big a deal. Didn’t even think her flirting with another girl would make Azzi mad. (She’d been hoping for jealousy because dysfunctional as they may be, the sex is really good and it’s even better when one of them is all riled up).

She has a sneaky feeling this all has to do with that girl at the bar. Haven. The cute one who looked a lot like Azzi and seemed super into Paige until she turned around and became best friends with none other than Azzi herself. She should’ve known that would happen. Azzi always makes friends when she gets drunk.

She just wishes this bout of silence (and celibacy) between them would end already.

“You can’t be serious,” Amari says.

Paige shrugs.

“We all know you two are fucking, Paige,” Caroline says quite bluntly.

And, okay, the sheer panic that Paige feels at this is maybe a little ridiculous.

She never wanted the team—anyone, really—to know she and Azzi were back together. Because, well, they weren’t, for one, and there’s no good way to tell your parents, “Hey, you know how I was super emo about how the love of my life broke up with me before college? Yeah, well, it’s been a year and I’m not totally over it but I fucked her in the bathroom at a club and we’re going steady—as in, fucking—now!”

But the main reason she didn’t want anybody to know is because she was—is—so afraid of having her heart broken again. And if she keeps this to herself, then she gets to act like she doesn’t care if history repeats itself. Gets to move on and not think about it and use other people as rebounds without anybody batting an eye.

But it’s been six months of them going from friends with benefits to best friends who also kiss and have sex to best friends who kiss and have sex exclusively with each other. She may have gotten a little too cocky, may have thought they were finding solid ground, and may have not put so much effort into hiding it.

But Azzi hasn’t spoken to her for a week and she doesn’t even remember what solid ground feels like anymore so yeah, the notion of her friends knowing about them when they may be on the brink of ending is a little scary.

“Okay,” Amari says tentatively when Paige stares blankly at them, “don’t freak. It’s not a big deal. We don’t care.”

“No, I—I know,” Paige stutters.

“Seriously, P, it’s cool,” Aubrey says, patting her shoulder. “Just, you know, go fix it.”

That song has played three consecutive times since this conversation started. They may be right. Paige might’ve broken her.

Might’ve broken them.

“And while you’re at it,” Caroline adds, giving her a little push in the direction of Azzi’s room, “make sure you guys are official so we don’t have to deal with this again.”

Paige tries to plant her feet to prevent her advance towards Azzi, but Aubrey rounds to her front and starts pulling at her arms while Amari pushes and then she’s directly in front of a door with a pink ‘welcome’ sign hanging off the front. As that song thuds accusingly through the door, Paige doesn’t feel very welcome.

“Okay, stop being a pussy,” Aaliyah pipes up from behind them, “and go in there. Please.”

“Make it stop,” Aubrey says. She almost sounds like she’s about to cry.

Paige stares at them, wondering if they’re really going to make her do this. But they all nod at her before disappearing down the hall so it’s just Paige in front of Azzi’s door and she could leave, could just go back home but she’d never hear the end of it from her teammates. (And she might end up hating herself if she does that, too.)

So, with a deep, steadying breath, Paige lifts her fist and knocks.

“Coming,” Azzi calls. Blessedly, the song turns off and there’s some rustling inside before the door creaks open.

Paige expects a lot of things when Azzi first sees her—anger, upset, a door slamming in her face.

What she doesn’t expect is the satisfied smile that flits across Azzi’s face before she carefully fixes her expression into something more somber.

“Uh, hey,” Paige says. “Can I—“

“Come in,” Azzi says gravely, opening the door all the way to let her through.

“Uh, aight.” Nervously, Paige walks past Azzi, a little afraid that is some sort of trap based off the strange way she’s acting. Once she’s inside and the door’s shut, she faces the younger girl, though doesn’t quite look her in the eye. “So, I just…you know, about the other night. At Ted’s.”

Azzi nods. “Go on.”

“Well, I know I started that lil argument and I feel bad.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was just drunk and I wanted your attention so I acted stupid.”

Azzi crosses her arms impatiently. Paige wishes she had written this down and practiced beforehand or something.

“And with that other girl—“

“Her name’s Haven,” Azzi says sharply.

Paige blinks at her, surprised. “Yeah. Her. Well—“

“She’s actually really nice. We’ve been texting.”

Paige can’t help but scoff a little at that. “What, you gonna leave me for her or sum’?”

“We look related, so no,” Azzi says, raising an eyebrow. “And if I remember right, I thought it was you asking her to come to your place that night.”

Shit. So the two of them really did talk about everything. That’s not great for her.

“I didn’t mean it,” Paige says, which is very much true—she doesn’t know what she would’ve done if Haven had agreed to come over that night, but she certainly wouldn’t have kissed her. “I just, we were arguing and I wanted to make you jealous so we could, like, kiss and make up.”

Azzi crosses the room to sit on her bed, and Paige hovers awkwardly, wondering if she should follow. She decides on staying put. “I was jealous,” Azzi says. “But it just pissed me off.”

“I know, and it was a stupid thing to do.”

“I just—I thought we weren’t really, like, seeing other people.”

Paige freezes. This is completely outside of argument-at-Ted’s territory and it seems a little more like serious-talk-about-us time. Which Paige is just not prepared for at all. She should’ve made notecards for this.

“I mean—we aren’t—but, like…” Paige trails off, and she knows it’s bad how uncertain she sounds when hurt flashes over Azzi’s expression.

“Have you? Been seeing other people,” she asks, and Paige can tell she’s trying to sound nonchalant, putting on a brave face, but in reality she’s terrified of the answer.

Paige rushes to reassure her. “No, Az, no. Not a—seriously, not a single person. Not since that day at the club.” Not since the day Azzi came to UConn, if she’s being a little more accurate. But Azzi doesn’t need to know that.

Again, Azzi tries to act like it doesn’t affect her. But Paige knows her far too well—far too intimately—to miss the way her features relax, her shoulders lowering just a little bit. “Me neither,” she says softly.

Paige lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding at that. “Okay.”

“So…what does that mean?” Azzi asks tentatively.

Now that Azzi seems a little less guarded, Paige takes her chance to sit beside her on the bed, though not too close. “I dunno,” she says lamely, but when she’s met with a heavily annoyed silence, she sighs and tries desperately to think something up. “I mean. We can’t really be casual and exclusive. That’s not really how that works.”

“Yeah,” Azzi says.

Paige waits for her to pick up the conversation at least a little, but she doesn’t, and Paige is forced to go on. “I don’t—I think it’s not even something I want anymore. The whole casual thing.”

It’s hard, getting the words out, like each syllable is a barrier being broken, and maybe it is. Paige looks down at her hands, fiddles with them, anything so she doesn’t have to watch Azzi’s reaction.

“Paige,” Azzi says quietly.

And when Paige catches the hesitancy in her tone—the fear—she is suddenly too desperate and maybe even too in love to keep quiet just because it’s hard. Because she can’t do this, not again. She can’t watch Azzi walk away without at least putting up a fight.

“I know what I did was wrong,” Paige blurts out before Azzi can say anything else. She looks up, stares at the wall ahead, before turning to Azzi. She tries to detect the look in her eyes and what it may mean, but can’t. “At Ted’s. And I’m sorry. I guess I just—these past six months have been so—I mean, they’ve been good, but they’ve also been super fucking confusing and kinda scary, too. It’s like I’m always on edge waiting for you to end things, so whenever we get too close to how we were—before, in high school—I back out, no matter how hard it is. No matter how good it feels to have you again.”

Azzi opens her mouth, the beginning of a word escaping, but Paige’s heart races and she stands, stopping her. “But I’m realizing that I don’t think I can do that with you. I don’t think I can be just friends with you, or friends with benefits, or even whatever the hell it is we’ve been doing. Every day since you ended things I’ve been a fucking wreck, Azzi.” And it’s true. Her freshmen year had been hard, spent sleeping with random caramel-skinned, dimpled girls to try and fill the Azzi-shaped void in her heart. And the summer after was hell, too, reconnecting with Azzi long-distance and trying to become friends again, acting like they were never anything more. And the past six months has been the worst of it all, because having Azzi but not really having her, keeping her at an arm’s length and teetering on this edge of will she do it again and when will it happen proving almost painful.

Azzi stands, too, stepping in front of her, tilting her chin just slightly up to make eye contact like she’s always had to do. “I didn’t want that, Paige,” she says, almost as if she’s pleading. “I wanted—I thought you’d have more fun if you were single. I thought you’d resent me for, like, tying you down.”

Paige looks at Azzi for a solid few seconds, trying to discern whether she’s fucking with her. And when Azzi doesn’t laugh or tell her this was all a stupid prank she turns around, pushes her hand through her hair, and then faces her again. “Are you fucking for real?”

“Yeah,” Azzi says sheepishly. “I thought—I don’t know. I was also sixteen and stupid and insecure, and I just wanted to make you happy. I didn’t think about what I wanted.” She looks down at her feet. “Didn’t realize how hard it’d be.”

“Yeah, you were stupid,” Paige snaps, and when Azzi flinches, she takes a step towards her. “You really thought that I’d—what, not want you? Want to fucking break up so I could hoe around?”

“Kind of!” Azzi says, throwing her hands in the air. “Things already felt off that summer before you left—“

“Because I didn’t want to leave you!” Paige practically shouts, and she wonders briefly why they never bothered to discuss this before. “I had no idea what I was gonna do when we were so far apart, but you know what? We could have handled it. We could’ve handled a year. I wanted to handle it, if it meant we could stay together.” She takes another step closer, so they’re face-to-face now. “I thought you were bored of me or sum’, you know? I was so fucking hurt.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you!” Azzi cries. “Obviously I wasn’t bored, Paige, or I wouldn’t have jumped your fucking bones the minute I got to school.”

“And obviously I didn’t wanna be single or I wouldn’t have let you!”

Silence washes over them, and Paige is sure she could hear a pin drop, almost as sure as she is that their teammates are thoroughly listening to this argument outside the door. But she doesn’t care. Not when she’s looking close-up at the girl she’s loved forever and seeing her for the first time in almost two years—inches apart without hidden hurt or secret regrets tucked between them.

They’re both breathing heavy, both affected by everything they’ve just said and everything that still needs to be said but it’s not a surprise that they hold each other’s gazes, both too stubborn to be the first to look away.

And when the eye contact becomes too much for Paige to bear, she decides she will not chicken out, will not let her trepidations hold her back this time. And she leans forward and kisses her.

They’ve kissed—a million times, probably. Maybe more. At this point, they’ve learned each other down to the last breath, the last hair on their heads. They know exactly where to put their hands, exactly how to tell what the other is feeling based off the way they move their lips, exactly what things to say in between kisses. But despite all that, this—this feels brand new. Gentle, and tentative, but excited, too, like they know it’s the mark of something different. Something better.

———————————-

A week later, when Paige appears at her doorstep with a nervous little smile and flowers to take her on their second-first date, Paige asks her about the ‘lame girly song’ she’d been playing on repeat. Azzi tells her the song is not, in fact, lame, and is actually really quite good. She doesn’t admit that she can’t listen to it anymore.

(And, because I know you’re all wondering—yes, the makeup sex was as good as Azzi’d hoped.)

[yandere-daydreams]

Screening: Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978).

Pairing: Yandere!Carlisle Cullen x Reader (Twilight).

Word Count: 2.1k.

TW: Wildly Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Medical Malpractice, Blood, Controlling Behavior, Deliberate Social Isolation, Misuse of Prescription Drugs, and Generalized Twilight. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

It might’ve just been the isolation getting to you, but you were starting to think that your doctor wasn’t completely human.

Not that you’d ever say so out loud. At best, it was awful thing to think about a man who’d only ever been kind to you and, at worst, it proved yet another symptom to your ever-developing, ever-worsening illness had cropped up and would need further treatment to correct. You knew better than to say things that would make you seem more sick than you already were, but it was hard to stop yourself from lingering on the idea – especially considering you only had books, sleep, and his company to pass the endless time. Admittedly, it’d been a while since you’d seen another person, but you could’ve sworn he was paler than he should’ve been, to the point of bloodlessness. He never ate or drank around you, but sometimes when he spoke, the light would catch on his teeth in a way that made them look too sharp, too prominent. You might’ve been dreaming, but once, after you took your medicine but just before you fell asleep, you swore you saw him taking the cap off of the blood sample he’d taken a few minutes prior, like he planned to do something aside from—

You heard a door open and instantly, your paranoia was dismissed in favor of more interesting stimuli. In this case, that came in the form of your doctor, Carlisle Cullen, stepping into your bedroom, an inhumanly perfect smile already painted across his inhumanly perfect lips.

…maybe you should tell somebody about your little conspiracy. If only to be absolutely sure that you were really losing your mind.

“Good morning,” he said, and it occurred to you that you hadn’t thought to check the time, yet. Your life existed in three states: alone, asleep, and with Carlisle. Only that last one really mattered – the other two could easily be lumped into the same category helpfully labeled ‘waiting for Carlisle’s next visit’. “Have you been keeping yourself busy?”

“I’ve only been awake for a couple hours,” you explained, shrugging as he took his usual seat in the chair left next to your bed. He was always polite enough to ask about the boring details of your day, and you were always embarrassed enough to skirt around just how little you had the energy for. Most of the time, it was all you could do to pull yourself out of bed and yourself to eat before retreating back into your little safe haven. On a good day, you’d be able to go for a walk, maybe respond to a few of the calls you were constantly missing, but most days weren’t very good. “Reading, mostly. Thanks again for the recommendation.”

The book he’d lent you – a dry historical drama with characters as bland as water and a plot as boring as sin – sat open on your lap, but you’d only gotten through half a chapter before giving up. It was hard to believe Carlisle was only a few years older than you, sometimes. You couldn’t imagine how someone who seemed so young could have such awful taste.

Still, he looked pleased, his pleasantly aloof expression taking on a defined note of satisfaction. “It’s important to keep your mind occupied while your body’s recovering. You wouldn’t want to waste all of my hard work by letting yourself die of boredom, now, would you?”

“No, doctor.” It was stupid to try, but he’d set himself up for it. You couldn’t seem to stop yourself, your heart beating just a little faster as you grasped blindly for the impossible. “You know, there’s this friend of mine who keeps asking when she’ll be able to visit, and I thought it might help pass the time if—”  

“You’ll have to find a way to let her down.” Carlisle’s voice was smooth, calm. You did your best not to sulk, but still, he let out a labored sigh, only a touch too professional to roll his eyes. “It’s for the best. It’s good that you stay active, but you know what’ll happen if you overexert yourself, don’t you?”

Vaguely. It was hard to remember the details of your condition, and you weren’t in the mood for another lecture. “I do, doctor.”

“And you’re going to behave your check-up, aren’t you?”

“I am, doctor.”

“And that’s why you’re my favorite patient.” Your compliance was rewarded with a beaming smile, an appeased nod as he pulled his old-fashioned leather doctor’s bag into his lap. “We better make good on that promise before you change your mind, then.”

You didn’t protest. Honestly, you didn’t say much of anything. You never talked during your exam, preferring to let Carlisle go through the necessary motions with as little interference as possible. Instead, he filled the silence with mindless chatter about his children and how they were doing at the local public school, the hospital’s ongoings since you were unofficially discharged, and your favorite – Forks’ particularly colorful smalltown gossip, from the sheriff’s wayward daughter moving back into town to the spike in bear sightings on the local hiking paths. “It’ll be a busy week,” he mentioned, as he finished taking your blood pressure. “You might have some unexpected company, after all.”

At that, you perked up. You met nearly all of Carlisle’s assistants (medical students, you guessed, judging by their ages) by now, and even if you didn’t care for all of them, it was still nice to see someone other than him. Your least favorites were the dark haired twins – the wiry boy who always seemed to be biting back a smirk and the pixie-like girl who always acted like she knew something you didn’t – and you were particularly fond of the blonde girl… Rosemary, or maybe Rosaline. She was nice, compassionate, kind enough to keep you company even when Carlisle wasn’t in the room. More importantly, she brought interesting books – romance and horror, novels like Dracula and Carmilla and Interview with a Vampire, always handing over with a sweet smile and a hushed reminder not to let Carlisle know she was breaking his rules. Looking back on it, you probably shouldn’t have accepted anything she tried to give you. You would’ve hated for her to get in trouble just because she was trying to be nice.

Rather than voicing your overwhelming bias, you watched intently as he slipped the loose cuff off of your arm, tucking it back into his bag and removing something else, something long and silver and sharp. Immediately, your gaze shot back to your lap, your throat going dry in an instant. The next time you managed to spit something out, it was nearly too quiet to be audible. “…is there any chance we could, uh, I don’t know,” You paused, shrunk into yourself. “…skip the phlebotomy, this time?”

Carlisle’s answer was as swift as it was ruthless. An airy laugh, a jagged twist to this smile as he took up the needle properly and turned it over in his hand, looking for defects. It was already attached the glass syringe and, even worse, an empty vial; just a touch bigger than you remembered it being, the day before. “And take that kind of risk? How little do you think of me, (Y/n)?”

“It’s not you, it’s just—I already feel a little faint, and you take one every day, and—” You cut yourself off, inhaling sharply. “I just don’t know if it’s really necessary. Considering how careful you are and everything.”

“You’re right, I am careful. Which is exactly why I have to do this each and every time I come to see you.” He sighed, shook his head – suddenly more of a patronizing, paternal figure than any kind of medical professional, let alone peer. “You understand, don’t you? Without regular testing, your condition may worsen, and if you get any sicker than you are now…” You stiffened as he trailed off, bracing yourself. You knew what came next, what always came next.

“You’ll have to go back to the hospital, angel.”

It was strange, how a voice as smooth and as beautiful as his could be so difficult to listen to.

You didn’t like Carlisle. You hated his condescending smile, his repetitive rambling, his terrible taste in books and his creepy little students. You hated how little he let you do, how he talked about your illness – always skirting around the details, never giving you enough information to know whether you were on the verge of dying or a few days away from making a full recovery. No, when you were honest with yourself, you didn’t like him. Hated him, even.

But you couldn’t go back to the hospital, with its blank white walls and sobbing patients and strange, mind-altering drugs that put your sleep and made you feel like someone was biting into your throat. It’d been a miracle when Carlisle first told you about his domestic services, when he offered to have you discharged in exchange for only the promise that you wouldn’t seek care that didn’t come from him. Arrangements were made, your rent and bills taken over by some nameless, faceless local charity, and for the first time in months, you got to go home. You could live with Carlisle and his once weekly, now daily check-ups. You could live with the fact that you didn’t remember the last time you’d gotten to make a decision for yourself.

And, if you had to, you could live with paying for your freedom in blood, too. As long as it meant you didn’t have to go back to that terrible place.

Once again, you didn’t say anything, but you didn’t resist as he sighed and ran a sterilizing pad over your forearm, the antibiotic strong enough to burn. You clenched your eyes shut, but that did nothing to block out the feeling of a thin elastic band being wrapped around the crook of your elbow, of his needle pushing through your skin and burrowing into the vein underneath it. There was a second of pressure, of knotted soreness, and then, the syringe was gone and you were left feeling just a little colder, just a little more empty than you had before.

Even after opening your eyes, you kept them trained on your lap. You easily could’ve spent the rest of his visit in silence, but metal clinked against glass as he rushed to cap his vial and suddenly, you needed to hear the sound of your own voice. “I think I might be getting paranoid,” you managed, with a breath of a laugh. “For a few minutes this morning, I was able to convince myself that you were… I don’t know, an alien studying humanity, or something.”

“If I was, I’m sure that I would still pick you as the best possible specimen for my examination.” It was hollow comfort, but you smiled anyway, nodding along. Your medication came next, in the form of a small, chalky white pill that you still struggled to swallow under Carlisle’s vigilant gaze. You managed to choke it down, though, and as always, the effects were instant; a sudden clearness, blankness, followed shortly by an exhaustion so thick and so heavy, you couldn’t remember what it’d ever felt like not to be tired. You tried to hold yourself up, but faltered – buckling under your own weight. Carlisle chuckled as he caught you, helping you lay down with a soft squeeze to your shoulder, a feather-light kiss to the top of your head. “Sleep, angel. It’s good for you.” And then, his grin still pressing into your scalp. “And try not to dream about vampires, this time.”

So he did know about Rosalie’s books. Pouting, you shrunk into yourself, letting him drag the comforter over your abruptly immobile body as your eyes eased shut, as he pulled away – a vial of your blood still warm in his hand. It would’ve been impossible to stop yourself from falling asleep, but you managed to stave off unconscious long enough to watch him remove the vial’s carefully applied seal, to unscrew the air-tight cap with the kind of tenderness you’d only seen him use while taking your temperature or petting his fingers through your hair after he thought you were already too far gone to remember. He did a lot of things when he thought you weren’t looking, didn’t he? You’d never really noticed that, before.

Through your eyelashes, you watched him bring the vial to his lips before everything went dark.

[my-body-likes-you-in-control]

Dormant Power

I was always quite clear in my Grindr profile—never shy about my age. Yeah, 57 was a bit older to be on here, but I kept myself in nice shape these days. Look at these abs. Not bad for a man pushing sixty.

It wasn’t always like this. Back when I was younger, I was out of shape, awkward, and kind of a loser. That was even with my power.

You see, I was 18 when I first realized I could swap bodies with people if we had sex without a condom. It wasn’t automatic; I had to choose to do it. If I focused just right on their body and let my energy flow, I could transfer myself into their head and push them back out into mine.

Over the years, I’d swapped with a few boyfriends—just for fun, just to see what it was like as them. I never asked first, and would always just explain myself afterward. I don't think any of them would have been super eager to try. In the end, we always switched back. None of them ever wanted to stay in my body, and honestly? I couldn’t blame them.

Then came John.

I’ll never forget that day. I was 22, freshly dumped, sulking on the rooftop bar of some grimy gay bar, drowning my sorrows in overpriced vodka. That’s when he walked up—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of confident swagger that only comes with being 37 and knowing exactly who you are.

"Rough day?" he’d asked, sliding into the seat beside me.

I sniffled into my drink. "You could say that."

He chuckled, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Kid, trust me—this ain’t the end. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you."

I remember staring at him, at the way his shirt clung to his chest, at the stubble along his jaw. "I just wish I could fast-forward to the part where I look like you," I muttered.

He laughed, shaking his head. "Hell, I’d switch with you in a heartbeat. Be young again? Sign me up."

That’s when I told him about my power.

He scoffed at first, of course. Who wouldn’t? But then he shrugged, that same easy grin on his face. "Sure, why not, kid? I’d love to do my 20s over again."

We slipped into the club bathroom, locked the stall, and—well.

We never switched back.

Twenty years later, and I still don’t think it was a bad deal. John’s body was hot back then, and now? It’s mine, still strong, still fucking sexy if I do say so myself. But it still seemed that John fared better. In my old body, he got into fantastic shape, met the love of his life, and settled down. Last I checked, he didn’t look a day over 35, even though technically he’s in a 42-year-old body now. Honestly, I’m happy for him, but it kind of sucks to see what could’ve been for me.

Meanwhile, I’m still on Grindr.

I’d gotten used to the rhythm of it—the flirty openers, the half-hearted conversations, the way so many guys lost interest the second they remembered they were talking to a man pushing sixty. Sure, I still had my abs, my confidence, my charm, but let’s be real: most of the younger ones just wanted the idea of a daddy. A fantasy. Something to get off to, but not actually someone to ever meet up with.

Not that it bothered me much. I’d had my fun with men closer to my age—guys who knew what they wanted, who weren’t afraid of a silver fox in their bed. But still.

And that brings me to tonight, to Charlie.

God, Charlie.

His profile is everything I’d ever wished I could be at his age. Toned but not overly muscular, sun-kissed skin, a smile that could melt steel.

And somehow, against all odds, he was into me. The only problem. He was 24.

I’d never pulled someone that young before—not in this body, anyway. I was old enough to be his father. Hell, his grandfather, if we were being generous.

But then his message popped up, and my doubts evaporated.

Charlie: "You’re way more interesting than anyone else on here. Drinks this weekend?"

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Was this a bad idea? Probably. Did I care? Not even a little.

Me: "Only if you promise not to bail when you realize how old I actually am in person."

Charlie: "Pfft. I’ve got a thing for guys who know what they’re doing."

I smirked. Cheeky little shit.

Me: "Dangerous thing to say to me."

Charlie: "Good, I meant it."

Well.

How could I say no to that?

---

Charlie picked a bar just a few blocks from my place—a dimly lit spot with leather booths and cocktails strong enough to make you forget your own name. Smart kid. Close enough that if things went well, neither of us would have far to go.

He was already there when I walked in, lounging at the bar with a whiskey neat in front of him. Fitted black t-shirt clinging to his shoulders, dark hair slightly tousled like he’d just run a hand through it. Then he turned, saw me, and his smile hit like a punch to the gut.

Damn.

"You’re even hotter in real life," he said, sliding off the stool.

I laughed. "Laying it on thick already."

"Only if it’s working." Sharp grin.

And fuck, it was.

The age difference should’ve been obvious—me with my salt-and-pepper stubble, him with that effortless youth. But Charlie had this way about him, this easy confidence that made the years between us feel irrelevant. He asked about my career, my travels, the things I’d learned—not in that fake, polite way people humour an old man, but like he actually wanted to know.

And the flirting? Relentless.

A brush of fingers when he handed me a drink. A slow bite of his lip when I mentioned the gym. Leaning in too close when he laughed, thigh pressing against mine under the table. Then, finally, his hand sliding up my thigh as I talked about my dating life.

By the third round, I was done pretending.

"My place is five minutes away," I said, voice rough.

Charlie didn’t hesitate. "Lead the way."

The walk back was a blur—his fingers hooking into my belt loop, the hitch in his breath when I crowded him against my front door, fumbling with the keys.

"You sure about this?" I had to ask. Even with all those cheeky smiles and hungry eyes, he was still twenty-four.

Charlie answered by grabbing my collar and dragging me into a kiss that tasted like whiskey and bad decisions.

"Of course, sir," he murmured against my mouth.

---

Damn, he felt good.

I moved with slow, deep strokes, savouring every inch of him. Charlie’s eyes were closed, his expression peaceful, but his hands wandered over my biceps, his touch light and teasing. I flexed for him, smirking to myself, then guided his palms to my chest. His fingers traced my pecs before circling my nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure through me. My hips stuttered in response, my rhythm faltering for just a second before I steadied myself.

Then his hands drifted lower, skimming the sharp V of my waist before settling at the base of my cock—right where the condom clung.

His voice was a breathless whine. “Take it off.”

I froze. “What?”

“I want to feel you.” His pupils were blown black, his chest heaving. “Please. I’m clean, I’m on Prep—fuck, just give it to me raw, sir.”

That last word sent a shiver down my spine.

I hadn’t done this in years. Not without protection. I should’ve been on Prep myself, but I just never got around to it. But Charlie—god, Charlie—was already a wreck beneath me, his legs locked around my waist, his rock hard uncut cock at attention against his stomach.

“You sure?” I growled, gently, but firmly stroking his lubed up cock.

His answer? A sharp gasp as he ripped the condom off himself.

I hesitated before slowly sliding myself back in.

“Fuck—”

Then I was inside him again, bare this time, and—Christ. The heat. The tight, velvety clutch of him. I’d forgotten how good it felt. How primal.

“That’s it,” Charlie moaned, head thrown back. “Fuck me just like that, sir.”

I lost myself in the rhythm, in the way his body moved under mine, in the filthy, desperate sounds spilling from his lips. He was perfect. Young. Gorgeous.

And then, a thought...

I could take this.

I could.

The condom was off. The power hummed under my skin, electric, waiting. All I had to do was want it.

Charlie’s hips stuttered. “I’m close—I’m so close—”

Then, trembling: “Take me, daddy. Take me.”

There it was. The universe had given me a sign.

I felt the shift before I even realized I’d made the choice—my consciousness unravelling, slipping—

And then—

I was looking up at my own body.

My old face twisted in pleasure above me, thrusts turning erratic as my new body clenched around him. The orgasm hit like a freight train, white-hot, all-consuming. Charlie’s—no, mine—back arched off the bed as I came all over my new chest.

“Fuuuuck,” my old voice groaned, hips jerking as he spilled inside me.

And just like that—

It was done.

I was him. I was 24 again.

[moonselune]

Heyo! I was the one to send the ask about a Tav hiding their past from their companions and the romanced one realizing the other day. I forgot to add which romanced companions for the request 😅

Astarion, Karlach, or Shadowheart if that’s ok

No worries! I couldn't actually find the original ask as my inbox likes to snack on them so it worked out perfectly!

Karlach:

The two of you were sprawled out on a grassy hill, the stars blazing above like a million tiny promises of hope. Karlach, ever radiant, had her arms behind her head, her warm laughter still lingering in the cool night air after she'd recounted some ridiculous tale of a fight she'd gotten into years ago. You couldn’t help but smile as you watched her—there was something about Karlach that was utterly disarming.

“Y’know,” she said, rolling onto her side to look at you, her face half-illuminated by starlight, “I’ve been thinking about something.”

“That’s always dangerous,” you teased, earning a playful swat on the arm.

“I’m serious,” she said, her tone soft but thoughtful now. “I realized... I don’t actually know much about you. Like, really know you.”

You tensed slightly, your smile fading, and she noticed immediately. Karlach wasn’t the type to miss when someone’s defenses went up—she was too attuned to cracks in the armor not to see it.

“I know you're amazing, and you're kind, and you’ve been through some stuff, but...you’ve always been pretty vague about your past. Why is that?”

“It’s not important,” you said quickly, brushing it off as if it were nothing. You turned your gaze back to the stars, hoping she’d let it go.

But Karlach wasn’t one to let things go easily.

“Not important? You’re important. What made you who you are is important,” she said, her voice gentle but insistent. “Come on, you know everything about me. You know about Zariel, the Hells, all of it. But you...you’ve got this wall around parts of yourself, and I don’t like not being able to reach you.”

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. “Karlach, it’s...it’s not something I like to talk about, okay? Some things are better left buried.”

“But buried things tend to rot, love,” she said softly, placing a warm hand on your arm. “Please. Talk to me.”

You hesitated, staring at her hand on your arm. The warmth of her touch was grounding, comforting, and yet it made the ache in your chest all the more acute. When you finally looked at her, you saw nothing but patience and love in her eyes. And it broke you.

“Fine,” you muttered, sitting up and hugging your knees to your chest. She sat up too, waiting quietly, not rushing you.

“I grew up in a family that looked perfect from the outside,” you began, your voice low. “We had money, status—everything people think makes a family happy. But behind closed doors? It was a nightmare.”

Karlach said nothing, letting you continue at your own pace.

“My parents...they hated each other. And they weren’t exactly quiet about it. Every day was a war zone. Screaming matches, accusations, the kind of anger that seeps into everything. My siblings and I were caught in the crossfire, always trying to stay out of the way, always trying not to make things worse. But no matter what we did, it was never enough. Someone always got hurt, one way or another.”

You paused, your throat tightening as old memories clawed their way to the surface. Karlach reached out and took your hand, her grip firm but reassuring.

“And then,” you continued, your voice trembling slightly, “one day, it all fell apart. My older brother tried to leave—tried to get out of the hellhole we called home. My father...he didn’t take it well. There was a fight. Things got...violent. And my brother never made it out. After that, everything just...collapsed. I left too, eventually, but by then I’d lost everything that mattered. My family. My sense of who I was. All of it.”

You finally looked at her, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “That’s why I don’t talk about it, Karlach. Because what’s the point? It’s just a mess I crawled out of, and I don’t want it to define me.”

For a moment, Karlach was silent, her expression a mix of astonishment and heartbreak. Then she shook her head, a small, incredulous laugh escaping her lips.

“Damn,” she said softly. “You’re...incredible, you know that?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“How are you so well-adjusted after all that?” she asked, her voice tinged with awe. “Seriously. If it were me, I’d be a total wreck. But you...you’re strong. You’re kind. You’ve got this huge heart that somehow survived all that pain. It’s...it’s amazing.”

Her words hit you like a tidal wave, and you couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. They spilled over, and before you could even think to hide them, Karlach was pulling you into her arms. Her infernal warmth enveloped you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself lean into someone else completely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice muffled against her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. I just...I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” she murmured, her hand stroking your back soothingly. “I get it. I do. But I’m here now, okay? You don’t have to carry it all by yourself anymore.”

You clung to her like a lifeline, her warmth chasing away the chill of old wounds. And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t as broken as you thought.

“I love you, you know,” Karlach said softly, her voice thick with emotion.

You pulled back just enough to look at her, your eyes still glistening with tears. “I love you too,” you said, your voice steady despite the weight of everything you’d just shared.

And as her lips met yours in a gentle, grounding kiss, you realized that maybe you didn’t have to bury your past anymore. Not with Karlach. Not ever again.

Shadowheart:

The two of you sat side by side on a quiet patch of forest floor, the campfire flickering in the distance as the night crept in around you. Shadowheart had been unusually quiet, her sharp eyes scanning the stars above before settling on your profile.

"You know," she started, her voice soft but probing, "for all the time we've spent together, I realize I don’t actually know much about you."

You blinked, glancing at her, caught off guard by the sudden turn in conversation. “What do you mean? You know plenty about me,” you said lightly, trying to deflect.

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a small, knowing smile. “Do I? I know who you are now, sure. But your past? Where you come from? What made you...you? You’ve kept it all locked up tight.”

You shifted uncomfortably, your gaze dropping to the ground. “It’s not important,” you muttered.

Shadowheart leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand as she studied you. “Not important to who? Because it feels pretty important to me.”

Her persistence made you squirm, and you quickly stood, brushing off your clothes as if that would somehow shake the conversation away. “Shadowheart, I don’t—can we not do this right now?”

You started to walk away, but her voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Alright. But I’ll find out eventually. You know I’m not one to let things go.” You glanced back at her, giving her a pointed look, but she just smiled sweetly, her tone deceptively innocent. “You’ll tell me, willingly or not.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real irritation behind it. Still, you didn’t realize how serious she was about her little promise—until the next evening.

Shadowheart wasn’t just clever; she was sneaky. The next day, she found ways to chip away at your defenses. She asked questions that seemed harmless at first—what foods you liked, what your childhood home looked like, what kind of trouble you got into as a kid. Bit by bit, she pieced together fragments of your past until you realized too late that she’d woven a net around you.

It wasn’t until you were sitting by the riverbank after another grueling day of travel that she struck her final blow.

“So,” she said casually, dipping her fingers into the cool water, “was your family always so chaotic, or did the drama start later on?”

You froze, your stomach twisting as you realized she’d cornered you.

“What are you talking about?” you said, feigning ignorance.

Shadowheart smirked, tilting her head. “Oh, come on. I’ve been paying attention. The little things you’ve let slip, the way you dodge questions—it’s obvious there’s more to your story than you’re letting on. So, spill. What happened?”

You sighed heavily, running a hand through your hair. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

She just smiled, her expression softening. “Only when it comes to things that matter. And you, my love, matter.”

Her words cracked something open inside you, and before you could stop yourself, the dam burst.

It all came tumbling out. The family drama that felt like a never-ending storm—arguments, betrayals, and secrets that tore your home apart. The tragedies that left scars too deep to heal. Scandals that painted your family in a light so harsh, you’d spent years trying to escape it.

But it wasn’t all darkness. You found yourself sharing the funny stories too—the times you and your siblings played pranks on each other, the little moments of joy that somehow shone through the chaos. You talked about the people you’d loved and lost, the lessons you’d learned, and the weight you still carried from it all.

By the time you were done, your throat was raw, and your chest felt hollow, like you’d just carved out a piece of yourself and handed it to her.

Shadowheart had been silent the whole time, her expression unreadable as she listened intently. When you finally looked at her, self-consciousness crept in like a cold shadow.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, averting your gaze. “That was...a lot. I probably should’ve kept some of it to myself.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said softly, her voice filled with a kind of reverence that made you look up in surprise.

Her eyes were shining, and there was an almost tangible warmth in her expression. “Do you have any idea how incredible you are?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You’ve been through all of that,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the horizon as if the weight of your past was hanging in the air between you. “And here you are—still standing, still fighting, still...you. It’s astonishing.”

You shook your head, a small, incredulous laugh escaping you. “I’m not incredible, Shadowheart. I’m just...getting by.”

“No,” she said firmly, leaning closer and taking your hand in hers. “You’re so much more than that. You’ve been through things that would break most people, and somehow, you’re still...kind. Still hopeful. Still...loving. I’m in awe of you, truly.”

Her words broke something else inside you—not in a painful way, but in a way that felt like healing. Tears welled up in your eyes, and before you could stop them, they spilled over.

Shadowheart cupped your face gently, brushing the tears away with her thumbs.

“I love you,” she whispered, her voice steady and certain. “All of you. Your past, your present, your future. Every part of you.”

A shaky laugh escaped you as you leaned into her touch.

“I love you too,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

She pulled you into a tender embrace, holding you as if she could shield you from the weight of your past. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you didn’t have to carry it all alone.

Astarion:

It was a quiet moment in camp, the kind of peace that always felt precarious, balanced on the knife's edge of your group's chaotic lives. Astarion was lounging next to you, his chin propped in his hand as he studied you with a curious intensity.

“You know,” he began casually, his voice dripping with charm and mischief, “for someone I’m hopelessly enamored with, you are a remarkably well-guarded mystery.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, already suspicious. “Am I?”

“Oh, don’t play coy with me,” he purred, sitting up straighter. “You’re practically a ghost when it comes to your past. You’ve danced around every question I’ve ever asked, dodging and deflecting like a master illusionist. Honestly, it’s impressive. I think I might even be proud of you.”

You smirked. “Well, thank you, but some things are better left in the past.”

Astarion let out an exaggerated sigh, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “Ah, but darling, I hate being left in the dark. You can’t expect me to simply accept this vagueness when I’m dying to know what secrets you’re hiding.”

You gave him a pointed look. “I don’t expect you to do anything. But I’m not telling you, Astarion.”

That should have been the end of it, but of course, it wasn’t. Over the next few days, Astarion’s curiosity morphed into relentless determination. He needled you at every opportunity, his charm turning into playful persistence. Every time you dodged his questions, he only seemed more delighted, like unraveling your secrets had become a personal challenge.

“You know,” he said one evening, leaning close enough that you could feel his breath against your ear, “this is getting downright insulting. Do you think I can’t handle a little drama? Please, I thrive on it.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” you said, rolling your eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that week.

“And yet,” he countered, grinning like the cat who’d caught the canary, “you still haven’t answered me. Come now, my sweet enigma—indulge me.”

Eventually, you snapped—not in anger, but in exasperation. Sitting by the fire that night, you threw up your hands. “Fine. You want to know? I’ll tell you. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Astarion’s eyes lit up like a child on their name day, and he settled in with a gleeful smirk, clearly expecting a story worth his persistence.

Blasé, almost flippant, you began to unravel the sordid tale of your past.

You told him about the family dinners that ended in shouting matches—or worse, murders over disputes that ran deeper than blood. You recounted the endless scandals: the illegitimate children, the betrayals that made even the most dramatic bardic tales look tame, the backstabbing that left no one unscathed. The drama unfolded like a grotesque tapestry, each thread more tangled and wild than the last.

Through it all, you remained indifferent, recounting events as if they had happened to someone else entirely. “And then there was the time my cousin poisoned the wine at a wedding. That was a mess. Oh, and the twins—turns out one of them wasn’t even my uncle’s child. But really, what did he expect when he married his mistress?”

Astarion sat in stunned silence, his lips slightly parted as you continued to nonchalantly recount the chaos of your upbringing.

“And, of course, there were the power struggles,” you added with a dismissive wave of your hand. “Everyone vying for control, alliances shifting faster than the wind. It’s all so...exhausting, really.”

When you finally finished, the fire crackled in the silence that followed. You looked at Astarion, expecting...something. Disbelief? Judgment?

Instead, he burst into delighted laughter.

“Oh, my dear, dear love,” he said, clutching his chest as if he might collapse from mirth. “You’re right—it does sound like a poorly written bardic tale. But gods, what a deliciously awful one!”

You rolled your eyes. “I told you it wasn’t worth hearing.”

“Are you joking?” he asked, still laughing. “It’s magnificent! The drama! The intrigue! And you—you just walked away from all of that and turned into...well, you. It’s incredible.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re impressed by all of that?”

“Of course I am,” he said, leaning closer, his expression softening into something genuine. “You survived a storm of madness and somehow emerged as the person I’ve fallen utterly in love with. How could I not be impressed?”

Heat rose to your cheeks at his sincerity, but before you could respond, his grin turned wicked.

“Although,” he added, “you simply must take me to your next family dinner. I need to witness this circus for myself.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Not a chance. They’d eat you alive.”

“Darling,” Astarion purred, his voice dripping with confidence, “I’ve been surrounded by vampires for two centuries. I think I can handle a few backstabbing relatives.”

You laughed despite yourself, and Astarion leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek, his hand brushing yours in a silent promise.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “For trusting me with this. It means more than you know.”

awh this was wholesome, as someone who comes from a chaotic ass family this was cathartic to write aha. Hope you guys enjoyed it -Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[aswanlake]

a/n ; Tim Bradford Drabble because I literally hit a standstill and have shitty writer’s block right now and it’s killing me, yet somehow I managed to write this but none of the stories I’ve been trying to write for a week.

CW ; drugs , alcohol , abusive parents , gender neutral reader (I tried my best) , addiction , substance abuse , grief

“ Unit 7, we have a 10-101 down La Brea Avenue. Neighbors complained about loud noises coming from a house, potential 10-99. ” Bradford sighed as he heard the call come in from over the radio, reaching for it before bringing it to his lips and holding down the button. “ This is 7-Adam-21 . Show us responding . ”

He knew that neighborhood all too well, why? Well you. Your parents didn’t have enough money to send you to school so you were often hanging around the wrong type of crowd and he’d booked a few of the kids for their crimes but he took pity on you. You were never directly involved with anything so it was useless to charge you half the time and he knew that if you were arrested then you’d been in the station for days before your parents ever knew you were gone— by the time they did, they still wouldn’t have the bail money to get you out. Even if they did, it was probably spent on drugs.

Perhaps that’s why deep down he’d been letting you go, your parents reminded him of Isabel, a time where he watched her waste away and couldn’t do anything about it. He wanted to give you a chance, to pull you out of that life but every time he handed you a card, you walked in the either direction, like you didn’t want his help or you thought you didn’t need it. He hated it, but he knew the mentality well and something in him wouldn’t let him give up on you.

“ What’s up with you? You tensed up at the sound of the address. ” Lucy was quick, she knew him too well and could tell whenever something was wrong with him. He wanted to play it off, rolling his eyes and groaning. “ There’s nothing wrong with me. ” He said quickly but he hand tightening around the wheel only gave him away further. “ Don’t lie to me. What’s wrong? Do you know who lives there? ” Her voice was soft and smooth, honestly checking on him and not mocking him, she never did and yet for some reason he still expected it whenever it came to his emotions.

“ It’s a kid, and her parents. They’re addicts, spend on their money on drugs instead of sending their own kid to school. ” He paused, taking some time to actually calm down, if he went into this emotionally then it would only go downhill. “ They . . they remind me of her. I couldn’t just leave the kid alone with them, so I come around sometimes, give the kid some food and homework to do. Not sure if they actually do it. ” Tim couldn’t say Isabel’s name, not at least while they were working. It was still a sore subject, even though it had been such a long time and she’d gotten better.

Pulling up to the house had gone worse than he expected, he thought it was going to be calm, maybe a few noises but instead there was screaming and the sounds of bottles shattering. Indistinguishable yelling at someone came from the voice of a child and an older woman. “ This is 7-Adam-21, requesting immediate backup. Possible RA, standby . ” Tim and Lucy’s hands immediately went toward their weapons, they would have grabbed their batons but a weapon was obvious— or maybe he was acting too irrationally and just thought that a weapon was obvious.

It took two kicks to the door before it finally caved in on itself, revealing what Tim only hoped to have been fake. Your father with a shattered bottle in his hand obvious cuts and bruising on your body and your mother, and your mother for once in her life didn’t look high. She was in front of you, holding onto you for dear life, with her body forcibly in front, taking the brunt of the incident. “ You’re gonna hit them! They were just doing homework! God, why do you always have to be like this?! You asshole! My mother told me I should have left your ass in Texas! ”

Your eyes turned to the sound, immediately drawn to Tim’s face. You’d seen him plenty of times before but you didn’t think it would be for a situation like this. If anything you thought he’d forgotten you. “ Hands! Put the bottle down now or we’ll have to use force! ” Lucy’s voice was calm but stern, your hands immediately flew up even though she wasn’t talking to you, your mother however ignored the girl, still standing before you and refusing to move. Your father hadn’t moved yet, head ticking in the direction of the cops before rolling his eyes. “ You called the cops on me? Over an argument? Woman you’re so fucking annoying! Who cares what your mother said! You’re broke anyways, where the hell would you go? ” Your father’s voice was rough and rich with booze.

You hated the screaming, it was so overwhelming and put you in the verge of tears. You tried to be strong but it was killing you. Instead of holding your hands up they went over your ears now, flinching back from all the fighting. Tim nodded towards you and Lucy immediately took action while he tried to deal with your father. He was drunk off of his ass and filled with nothing but rage, swinging the cut bottle around like a manic because he was threatened. It sliced the top of Tim’s cheek and that’s where he lost it, disarming him with ease and throwing the man’s body up against the wall with such a force it made the pictures on the fireplace shake.

He could have been charged with excessive force but he’d blame it on the man being drunk and erratic. He handcuffed the father and at the sound of sirens from an ambulance was able to put him in the back of the shop, reading him his Miranda Rights until the door shut. Lucy unfortunately had to arrest your mother too, the amount of drugs she had on her wasn’t legal and despite her being your savior this time, it was clear that this was one of the few. She waited for another shop to show up, your mom and dad obviously couldn’t be in the same one, behind her your shaken body stood, clutching onto her side like you’d fly away until Tim came.

He didn’t speak, just simply reached his hand out, you took it, letting him walk you to an ambulance. “ They have to check you out. No one will touch you without me or you saying it’s ok, alright? ” He looked at you, your eyes were towards the ground but your head nodded. He helped you into the ambulance, body littered with bruises and cuts, some recent and some from weeks, even months ago that hadn’t been attended to correctly. “ We’re gonna have to take them to the hospital, some of these need an actual doctor’s approval. They may even have some internal bleeding from the bruising around their ribs. ”

He looked behind the medic, staring at your figure, you were clearly scared and now your legal guardians were in jail and couldn’t speak for you and your family didn’t have enough money for a lawyer. He was going to have to be your legal guardian, at least until they could find some family to take care of you. “ Take them. I’ll be right behind you. ” With his hands on his belt, he came back into your line of vision. You looked up, face now covered by bandages instead of bruises— at least they weren’t as obvious. “ We’re going to the hospital. I’ll be with you every step of the way. After that. . we’re going home. My home. I’m not leaving you again, kid. ”

(Dividers by @ferretmilkshakezzz )

© aswanlake do not copy, steal, translate, repost any of my works

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Part two of this Worst!Logan request

A/N: Thank you for all the love on part 1; I hope you enjoy part 2 just as much! I have a lot of request that I am currently working on but request are still open for both Logan and Bucky!

Where we left off:

Logan was left standing in his room with wide eyes. Wade was trying to convince you that he loves you…why would you need the convincing? Obviously Logan knew that he needed convincing, like look at him? Hundreds of years older than you, from a whole different universe than you, full of a dark past and trauma…but you loved him too? Or at least you did before he threw a hissy fit tonight. 

FUCK! Logan yelled out when he realized that he had to go fix this now! 

*********************************************************************** 

Logan had to fix his stupidness. After the realization hit him like a truck he rushed out of the apartment with no shoes on. You only lived down the hall, something Logan was always thankful for, and he was even more thankful for it tonight. He reached your door in seconds and knocked on your front door with such force that he was slightly afraid that he might’ve broken the door. I’ll fix it later. He thought to himself as he tried to catch his breath and fix his hair before you opened the door. 

You opened the door far too quickly for his liking, yet way too slow. He was already in his head trying to convince himself that it was probably better for you to be mad at him, for you to not want him around anymore. That’d keep you safe…it would keep him safe. Feelings can be dangerous, relationships and getting close to someone can be dangerous. But he would die if he didn’t have you in his life anymore, he’s gotten greedy, selfish, he’s gotten comfortable for the first time in a long time and he isn’t ready to lose that yet. He won’t lose you, not when he knows you love him back. 

He was in the middle of fixing his hair when you opened the door, embarrassment flooded his body and he quickly ripped his hand away from his hair. “Logan?” You croaked out weakly, your voice thick with tears. His heart breaks in a way it never has before when he looks you in the eyes and sees the redness, the puffiness, the tears falling freely. “Oh. Oh darlin I am such a fool.” His shoulders fell and his own voice thickens with tears. The shame he felt when you started to reassure him made him want to dig his own claws into himself, he shook his head interrupting you and started going into a rant before he even realized what he was doing. 

“I am a fool! I was so wrapped in my own head that I convinced myself that for some fucking reason you were already taken and I didn’t want to get in between you and Wade-” You cut him off quickly, “Wade!?!” Logan winced when you exclaimed his roommates name, “I know okay! I know how ridiculous I’ve been, I was so blinded by you being close to Wade and all of the whispers and the sharing of clothes and the touching that I didn’t even notice the way you would get up early to make my coffee or stay up late when I had to work a closing shift even though you had to be up at 5 in the morning, I didn't notice that you always asked me how I was doing and never took okay or fine as an answer. I didn't even realize that you only cleaned my wounds and allowed Wade's wounds to get infected if he didn't clean them himself! I didn’t allow myself to see how much you cared about me because I still don’t think I deserve that; I don’t deserve tenderness, the soft caresses and whispers…I don’t deserve you darlin I just don’t.” He ended his rant with a whisper, nearly ashamed of himself for feeling this way and for admitting this aloud to someone as caring as you. 

He knows how much you care about him, he knows you won’t judge him or be mad at him for long, but he is so ashamed that he ever doubted you, there’s still a part of him that’s upset with himself for being so mad towards Wade when he thought you were with Wade. Wade deserves someone as kind and loving as you, Logan just wants to be greedy and keep you to himself.  You could tell that Logan was starting to get back into his head, he was starting to get that dazed off look in his eyes, it was like he was in another word when he started overthinking like this. “Logan” You called out to him before slowly touching his arm. “Why don’t you come inside? I’ll make us some coffee or tea and we can talk about where you’re taking me on our first date.” He looked at you with clear shock on his face, he was fully prepared for you to tell him to fuck off. Your laugh ringed through the air making his heart mend back together again. “Come on you fool” You teased him with a smirk and a quick roll of your eyes, he stumbled over his feet and ended up on your couch quicker than he could notice. 

It was the first time he had actually been in your apartment, and he never wanted to leave. Looking around it looked very you, very lived in, very homey. Your warmth surrounded him, your scent enveloped him, it felt like home. It felt like peace. 

You came back with two mugs and handed him his with that soft smile that he fell in love with. You sat next to him and started listing ideas for what the two of you could do for your first date; “We could go to dinner, we could watch a movie, we could go to a museum, we could–” You ended up sitting your mug on your coffee table in front of the couch at some point during your ramble, Logan wasn’t sure when it happen but he is positive that it did happen because he’ll never forget the feeling of your head on his shoulder as you finally decided where the two of you would go this weekend for your first official date. 

Tagging:

@userchai

@mahi-tamashi

@100percentlazybonez

@lanassmarty

@western-pyro

@misscrissfemmefatale

@marit332

@navs-bhat

@fluffy-b33z

@chaimshelii

@aoi-targaryen

@eyes-ofhell

@sad0ni0n

@fries11

@squishyfruitloop

@negan-morningstar

@p3ryt0n

@ayamenimthiriel

[leqonsluv3r]

Hello Queen Bee :) Your blog is awesome and Leon is BAE! :D

If you're still taking requests, can I please request headcanons for RE2!Leon falling in love with an older female cop who's of a higher rank (Sergeant or above) and confessing his feelings to her after he saves her from being attacked by a suspect?

guilty as sin?

—re!2!rookie leon kennedy x sergeant!cop reader, a headcanon list 

masterlist taglist prompt game

an: sorry i’ve been so MIA, i suck balls ik. i love you all though for being patient and loving me anyways. this shit was so sweet to write it gave me diabetes ngl. pls reblog and like, yk the drill pookies <333

rookie!leon who notices you the first day at his police academy training, he doesn’t notice that you seem him staring. you think it’s endearing and it’s been a while since anyone has looked at you like that. you decide to let him stare, what’s the worst that can happen?

rookie!leon who enjoys the way you always bite your lips when your worried, when your trying to have a debriefing, he knows your probably worried because of all the pressure that’s on you. but he always makes sure to give you his undivided attention and respect. it’s the best he can give you. for now.

rookie!leon who makes sure your doing okay when you work late hours, he always stops by your office to check on you. sometimes you let him come into your office, sit with you, talk a bit. something about the passion for the job in his eyes, it puts you at ease, makes you feel better. like being a sergeant was worth it at the end of the day.

rookie!leon who tries to make sure he has no problems with issuing complaints to you. he doesn’t like putting more stress on your shoulders but it’s the least he can do, you have a big and stressful job. he just wants to make it easier for you. even if it’s only a little bit.

rookie!leon who tries to deny after four months that he has feelings for his sergeant, he knows he shouldn’t. he knows you probably don’t feel the same way. but after months of getting to know you and being close to you…it was so hard but it was equally as rewarding at the same time.

rookie!leon who goes on his own patrol for the day, hearing over the radio that your taking a 10-64 (a crime in progress) which wasn’t unusual for you as a sergeant. but still, he worried even though he shouldn’t. he knew you were a strong and capable person but things still happened, things that weren’t always in your control.

rookie!leon who hears you call for backup when he stops for gas. you barely ever called for backup, but he jumped in his car as fast as he could (like he normally would’ve for anyone else) and copied on the radio. he had never driven so fast in his life with his sirens on and weaving in and out of cars like his life depended on it.

rookie!leon who makes it there, but it’s too late. you’ve been shot in the shoulder, kicked and beaten like you had gotten into a fight. he calls for EMTs and medical, holding your beaten body close to him. your in and out of it, trying to stay awake and leon does what he can. he even tries to crack those corny jokes that you swore you hated.

rookie!leon who holds your hand when the paramedics come, you hold it back with whatever strength you have left. despite the situation and the immense worry he has for you right now; his stomach flutters. he would jump in front of a bullet for you, he has a feeling you would do the same.

rookie!leon who helps you recover and heal, offering to stay with you on leave while your shoulder and bruised ribs heal. offering to do whatever and help as much as he can, he swears he’s not in love with you, but…he can’t fight the truth much longer and neither can you.

rookie!leon who rubs your back and plays with your hair when your sleeping on your couch, it’s a miracle you finally got into a comfortable position. it’s weird to think that your his sergeant, that he’s supposed to be at your beck and call but your not even strong enough to lift your shoulders. he doesn’t mind, he swears it’s platonic despite the butterflies that swarm his stomach when your around.

rookie!leon who takes you to your chiropractor and your physical therapist, desperate to help you heal. he needs you to be better again so that he can be better again, he needs that more then he needs air (he believes).

rookie!leon who keeps trying to deny it, same as you, that you both have fallen in love with each other. so when he invites you over for dinner, making his famous pasta (it’s really spaghetti), your thrilled and you accept. he’s convinced that he’s doing all this because you’re better and because your healing. but that’s his mind just trying to deny what his heart wants.

rookie!leon who cooks the dinner, watching as you arrive maybe an hour later in a beautiful little sundress. he’s never seen you dress that way, it brings color to his cheeks and makes his heart race. he doesn’t know how to react or even think straight. the scar on your shoulder from the attack is healing, reminding him that your brave and that you survived something terrible. but despite all that, your still here with him.

rookie!leon who serves you both dinner in his tiny apartment kitchen, serving you both wine and spaghetti. he tries to fight down the butterflies long enough to eat the food he spent so long on. but it’s impossible with you smiling at him like that across his small table, your eyelashes fluttering and your face cast in a warm glow. he feels so damn lucky right now to just be in your presence. even if your not aware of it.

rookie!leon who manages to eat, making small talk with you and laughing at your jokes. but when you laugh at his, he feels like the entire earth has been tilted in an axis. he’s so happy, so in love with you and it sucks because he knows you don’t feel the same. you couldn’t feel the same, your his superior, his boss.

rookie!leon who is oblivious to your touches on his arm and the way your looking at him like you want to eat him alive. he’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen, the sweetest man you’ve ever let into your life and you feel like your heart could escape your chest whenever you look at him. especially now, when he’s talking so adamantly about his passions and things he enjoys outside of the station. it’s like he’s coming to life in front of you in a way you’ve never seen before. and it makes your heart palpitate.

rookie!leon who doesn’t stop you when you move his small little chair closer to his at his tiny kitchen table, sipping on your wine and keeping eye contact with him. your just listening to him talk, share his story and his life, something that hasn’t happened yet.

rookie!leon who swallows when you lean in and press a kiss to his lips, his brain freezing and whatever stupid story he was telling dying in his mouth. he has a more important matter because your lips are touching his. they’re soft, they’re moving slowly and gently against his like pillows. he doesn’t know if he can get his brain working fast enough to kiss you back.

rookie!leon who kisses you back a little when you try to pull away, his hand gently coming up to hold your jaw as he moves his lips against yours. his brain and his heart cheering in succession that he’s finally getting something he desires and deserves.

rookie!leon who flushes after you both pull away from the kiss, not quite knowing how to react. your both adults here but the situation causes both of your cheeks to heat up like little kids with crushes. he has no choice but to confess his feelings, explaining things carefully incase you regretted the kiss. he just doesn’t want to have his heartbroken again, he wants you, he needs you. he’s convinced.

rookie!leon who is shocked when you confess that you feel the same, your hand moving to hold his and sooth his worries. the doubts circling his mind like water down the drain. he doesn’t mind now, now he’s got nothing to worry about now that your here. now that your telling him you feel the same. he swears he could die happy.

rookie!leon who makes it official with you two weeks after the dinner. taking you out on an official date. you both go to dinner and he drives you home. another kiss is shared on your front porch, not the first but the second and it’s even sweeter. leon is convinced he could never get tired of kissing you.

rookie!leon who’s not really a rookie anymore, after five years. he’s made a name for himself at the RPD with you by his side. the only difference now is that you both wear rings to signify your love and your carrying his child. he got what he deserved and what he wanted most and he swears that life with you is the best it could get. and he can’t wait for the rest of it.

[thebadboyfanclub]

Will You Teach Me? (Jacaerys x Reader)

Oh I’m on fire! Ok so I think I’m getting my groove back and I’m actually really proud of this one cause it’s been a while since I’ve written something that is so fluff and I hope you guys enjoy it too!

-

(Y/n) Starks name and legend were one that the starks would always bring up when it came to honor and loyalty, the first of their house to have the crown of the seven kingdoms placed on her head, she was two years older than her lord husband Jacaerys and excellent at the art of archery, “the kind she-wolf” was the name that the realm bestowed to her.

Princess (y/n) was the one that had urged Rhaenyra to protect Jacaerys claim, the greens might have been able to digest their defeat but like snakes (y/n) had guessed that they were just waiting for their turn, raising banners to come and swear to protect Jacaerys claim and promising her daughter to the Reach, her eldest son to the daughter of Baela Velaryon and her youngest son to the daughter of the lord of Arryn, ensuring that everyone else beneath them would follow.

The mutual respect and love Queen Rhaenyra shared with Lady Stark was well known in history, they were many witnesses on the morrow that (y/n) brought her second born child to present it to the queen and informed her that the couple has decided to name her Rhaenyra, with tears in her eyes the queen hugged her son and good daughter and thanked them for such a generous gift.

As Princess Rhaenyra was hastily made queen before her dearest father passed, he had commanded to let her take the throne so he could watch his firstborn rule better than he ever could, in reality, he feared what would happen if he passed, as much as he trusted Otto with certain affairs the matter of Rhaenyras realm was delicate and having a queen for the very first time had to be handled with utmost care.

The lady (y/n) had attended the coronation along with her brother Cregan, she had bowed before the new queen with a smile of admiration on her lips, Rhaenyra had seen the girl before, she was a little girl back then but she could recall how well she and Jacaerys had played in the garden, back then (y/n) was wearing a light pink dress that had gotten caught on some type of thorn and Jacaerys patiently worked around the fabric to free her.

“It is an honor to stand before you, my queen”

“You are very sweet, you have grown so much since we saw you last, you are already so beautiful”

“I am trying to catch up to our queen I suppose”

“I hope you remember my son, Prince Jacaerys”

“How could I forget?”

It was the first time that (y/n) broke eye contact and looked at the floor, her cheeks were already a tad rosy and after Jacaerys took a step towards her it grew closer to the color of a tomato. Jacaerys cleared his throat before he took the lady’s hand and placed a subtle kiss on her knuckles.

“My lady”

That was when Queen Rhaenyras's eyes met with Cregans and they both nodded in unison, any person with good vision could see what was happening here, the pair had grown into their comely selves and with brave heart, still, the jitters of the first heartbeat took them over like a storm.

“It is not often that we have the pleasure to have the guardians of the north in our court, may I suggest you stay for another morrow or two”

“I am afraid I must go back and tend to my duties, however, my sister can stay, if that is something that she wishes”

“Can I brother?”

“It is settled then, Jacaerys please escort the lady to all of our available chambers, let her have her pick”

“You are so generous my queen, I must thank you”

(Y/n) bowed again before mother and son, Jacaerys only turned his gaze to his mother and closed his eyes briefly, he mustn’t say anything else, a mother knows when her son is compelled by the eyes and the smile of a woman.

“Go now”

“Right away, my queen”

Jacaerys jested and instinctively took (y/n) 's hand to scurry away, as they walked away as fast as they could without causing trouble Cregan and Rhaenyra watched disappear to the crowd, Cregan adored his youngest sister and Rhaenyra held such undeniable love for her eldest son, the first fruit of her love with Ser Harwin.

“You promise to take care of her?”

“As she was my own, well technically she will be my good daughter, do you promise that she won’t murder my son in his sleep?”

“Unfortunately I cannot, one time she threw a rock at the back of my horse so I would be knocked off because she wanted it”

“Then she will make the perfect queen”

-

(Y/n) had been nervous to attend supper with the Targaryens, her betrothal with Prince Jacaerys had just been announced and so many decisions had to be made, she must be perfect so she can honor her house.

“It is such a blessed day, my grandson is to be married to the lady Stark, a wonderful match that will bond our houses for reigns to come, let us drink to love”

“You do know how the act is done right? Do not sweat I shall be there to watch it all happen I can even happily replace you if you cannot rise to the occasion”

“You can be as nasty to me as you wish,  but hold your tongue in front of my betrothed”

(Y/n) was thankful for the hushed lash back of Jacaerys, Prince Aegon thought himself to be clever with such remarks ever since she stepped foot at court, his gawking made her uncomfortable and now she found herself squeamish of such behavior.

(Y/n) turned her attention to Jacaerys and mouthed a thank you to which Jacaerys responded with a smile and reached for her hand for the gentlest of touches, as the morrows passed the couple was growing their bond little by little, learning new things about one another and spending hours talking about anything they could think about.

As the supper went on smoothly, laughter and chatter filled the room, Jacaerys had left (y/n) side for only a moment so he could entertain his niece Heleana, a timid girl who seemed to keep to her own, (y/n) did not mind, on the contrary, she watched as they messed around and danced, all she could see was how endearing her betrothed prince was.

“I would also like to raise a toast”

“Aemond” Alicent pleaded

“To the health of my nephew Jacaerys, may he grow old and wise in his wedlock, and to the lady of the hour, (y/n), it is not common for such beast as a wolf to have the honor to exist next to a dragon”

“You are vile”

“Why? ‘‘Twas only a compliment, I thought starts took pride in being loyal dogs to their master”

That was enough for Jacaerys to lash out like never before, landing a punch to the eyed prince's face and Aemond responding with a shove, everything else happened in a blink of an eye and Aegon had pushed Lucerys head on the table, (y/n) felt like this was the best time to finally have a go at him and with all her might shoved the silver head drunken fool off the poor boy, when he took a step to attack her (y/n) grabbed a knife that was laying on the table and pointed it at Aegon.

“Come on you low life, let us have it then”

“Wait! Wait”

Daemon was heard in close range, causing the ruckus to stop, (y/n) remained still, she did not trust Aegon enough to give up, a man of his…ways would probably not play fair enough for her to give up her weapon or turn her back on him.

“Go to your chambers, all of you”

Still, (y/n) waited. Aegon eyes were fixated on her with an evil grin, (y/n) held on to appear poised and courageous but her breath was ragged and uneven, she was almost shaking from the sudden rush of emotions, it was only when queen Rhaenyra stuck her hand out with the palm up towards the princess that (y/n) glanced away from him.

“(Y/n)”

Her tone was steady and warning, yet with a touch of softness to reassure her that (y/n) would be safe if she gave away her knife. (Y/n) exhaled deeply and let the knife rest on Rhaenyras hand, at that moment it was when she heard footsteps and turned just in time to watch Jacaerys walk out of the room.

“Go on”

Rhaenyra could read the concern on the lady's face like an open book, (y/n) cared for her son and that brought her comfort, she was ready to harm a prince to protect her good brother, and loyalty ran through her veins, a trait that many lacked.

(Y/n) curtsied swiftly and then shuffled away, as she went up the stairs one after the other she thought over what she shall do, mayhaps the prince wished for some time alone, but on the other side, the comfort one gets from a pair of arms wrapped around you is the remedy to most wounds.

For a few moments, the lady paced in front of his door like she was guarding it until a young chambermaid approached with a wooden bucket.

“My lady, are you alright?”

“Yes I am fine, what is that?”

“The prince has requested more hot water for his bath”

“Oh, give it to me”

“My lady, are you sure”

“Do not fret over it, you may go”

The young girl handed the bucket over and walked away, without thinking over it she knocked on the door a few times only to be met with a man this time.

“My lady, the prince is bathing”

“I am aware, you may go as well”

“My lady-“

“What is it Alfred?”

Jacaerys questioned from inside. (Y/n) did not allow herself to think over this, she stepped into the room and was met with Jacaerys sitting in a tub, his arms spread on the side and the water was so hot that steam came out of it.

She swallowed down the lump in her throat as she stood there, bucket in hand and her lips merely moved halfway up to show some type of an extremely awkward smile.

“Leave us”

Jacaerys simply said. (Y/n) found it quite interesting that when they talked to her they questioned her motives, but for Jacaerys it only took two words for them to literally disappear. As the door closed behind silence overtook them, (y/n) walked closer and leaned down very slightly so she could tilt the bucket over and let the water run without splashing.

“Thank you”

“The water might burn your skin off”

“It helps after sword practice, it is often that my legs ache”

“May I?”

She interrupted him whilst she showed him the sponge, insinuating if she was allowed to scrub him with it. Jacaerys nodded and (y/n) sat on her knees before she dunked the sponge in the soap and let it touch the prince's skin.

Jacaerys skin glistened under the candlelight, (y/n) was holding on to any decency she had to not drool over the prince, as the muscles on his chest seemed to be carved onto him the lady guessed what the rest of his body looked like, his arms also had the appearance like they were drawn to perfection, as the sponge was the only thing that kept her from gracing his skin she let her mind run off to the idea of what it would feel like when he would pull her close.

“Thank you, for defending me”

“You are to be my lady wife, I will always be there to defend you, my nephew had it coming, I should be the one thanking you for protecting my brother”

“As much as I do not wish to see Lucerys get hurt a part of my motive was that I have been praying for a time were I can put my hands on Aegon”

Jacaerys cackled at the little remark of hers, seeing her wash over his skin so gently and how her eyes sparkled was something he did not know he needed, as the lady rose and took a cup that was there she then let her hand touch the top of his forehead before she let the water run on his long hair.

“You are far more careful than the servants”

“I shall hope so, when the time comes I wish for us to not need them for such affairs”

“Is that your way of admitting you’ve been dreaming of seeing me in such a state?”

“No, no my prince, I would”

“You are quite the sight when you get flustered do you know that”

A devilish snicker escaped Jacaerys lips while (y/n) placed her hands on her hips in defense while she pouted, Jacaerys could watch her furrowed eyebrows with pursed lips all day, like a child that was denied cake.

“Ah my eye”

“That is what you get”

(Y/n) reported in triumph after she let the soapy water run over his eyes causing the sting that everyone hates, Jacaerys shook his head in defeat in the meantime he let his head hang back and relaxed his shoulders, as he recalled her childish demeanor he caught himself thinking about having a daughter, dark long hair and piercing eyes that would pout just like her mother, oh how whipped would he be for that little girl.

“If I’m being frank I always wondered what it would be like to run a brush over those locks”

“I like to braid my hair before I sleep, my mother used to say it helped with keeping it neat, she would always make one thick braid in the middle of my head”

“Seems simple enough, will you teach me?”

“Gladly”

Instinctively (y/n) bends down and lets a kiss in the middle of the princess's head. The second she did it her eyes went as wide as they could, her torso snapped straight back and her hand went up to her mouth to hide her gaping lips.

Jacaerys was also taken aback and had followed her on the small gasp of surprise but seeing her so shocked over such a simple matter made him giggle once again, her cheeks turning rosy as he continued to laugh, seeing her in such distress over such a small act was rather amusing.

(y/n) always strived to portray herself as strong and untouchable by anything, being able to view her acting so delicate and sweet made him feel special like he was being let in on this secret world of hers, it made Jacaerys wonder what else would he be able to discover as the years would progress.

“I apologize, I should go”

“No, what is the problem? It was only a kiss, I promise I won’t tell a soul, besides, I need help rinsing, dearest”

Jacaerys had held her by the hand to not let her walk away, as he finished his sentence it was his turn to show his affection by leaving a kiss on her knuckles, the lady bit her lip as she thought over what to do, alas the little voice in her head that pushed her to stay won and (y/n) walked back to her original spot to a prince that grinned from ear to ear.

Jacaerys enjoyed being pampered, as the firstborn son his duties knocked on his doorstep when he was far too young, he never complained though, he yearned to make his mother proud, but there was no harm in indulging in (y/n) 's soft touch.

“It might not be the right time though I was hoping we could discuss something”

“Anything you want”

“I know we have not declared when we shall be wed, however, I wanted to express my concern over a certain part of it”

“Do not worry about anything, no matter what it is it shall be yours”

“It is not a thing I desire, I am afraid it is more complicated”

“Then what is it?”

“I do not wish to have a bedding ceremony”

She blurted out, her movements came to a halt as Jacaerys closed eyes opened to meet hers, (y/n) had kneeled to his eye level so it was not hard for him to stare right out her, her expression showed a hint of fear and a pang of guilt struck him right in the middle of his chest.

“I should have known”

“A public one is what I do not want, my septa has informed me about my wifely duties so I will not resist the ceremony as a whole, I am more than willing to give you children it is just the fact that-“

“You mustn’t explain yourself, I had just completely forgotten about that part since I’ve thankfully never attended to one”

“I understand it is tradition, however, I thought since your mother is the queen and if she agrees we can overlook it”

“The ceremony won’t take place, at all if that makes you happy, I will not start our wedlock by letting everyone see us like that”

(Y/n)s frown quickly turned back to a beam of pleasure, her eyes shining with hope. (Y/n) dreaded the moment ever since she found out about it, to be naked in front of numerous people and let them see her lord husband- no, no, no just the idea made her shiver.

Jacaerys had been honest when he said that he had forgotten about it he could not have been more sincere, he had the arrogance of a man since a ceremony of that nature would not fall heavy on his shoulders as much as if he had been the lady, of course, it is not as nice as a walk on a warm day but being intimate with your lady wife was something sacred.

That time he reached for her hand again, their faces inches away from one another and all one could hear was their deep and shallow breaths along with a few drops of water as Jacaerys remained completely still, (y/n) saw his other hand that extended over to neatly tuck her hair behind her ear before his fingertips casually followed along the line of her chin, his touch was hot and damp though (y/n) felt it was perfect.

For the briefest of moments (y/n) dared to imagine what their future would be like, Jacaerys with grey hair and wrinkles around his eyes bouncing their grandchildren on his lap as they drank tea in the garden, one thing that she could not deny was that amid chaos and the burden of the crown, Jacaerys was her peace, the comfortable silence amongst mindless chatter.

“When I was younger I asked my mother when I have a wife, knowing my mother had lost her first husband, she told me that when I feel like my heart will come out of my throat and when I would be willing to get on my dragon to bring the stars to her”

“I do not-”

“I will bring you the moon if that is what you long for”

“I long for love, honor, and respect”

“Promise me you will never shy away from speaking your mind to me”

“Careful, my brother would advise you to take your words back”

“I quite enjoy your blabbering, your voice is like a song of angels”

Requests are open!

[bingbongsupremacy]

The Lakeside Cabin Pt. 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warning: Y/N Use, swearing, bullying from both Bucky and Y/N

Series Summary: The hate you and Bucky have for each other has gradually increased throughout your time knowing each other. This time, things went too far. Thanks to your arguments, you get sent on a unique consequential mission: You will both live together in a secluded cabin until you're able to come together and settle your differences. You're screwed.

Pt. Summary: You and Bucky spend your first 2 days in the cabin...of course, it's messy.

This doesn't really follow the movies or shows.

*Not Proof Read*

No mentions of body type, skin color, or details of reader's appearance. Reader is able-bodied.

□□□□□□□

As soon as Fury left the room, Steve was sent in to inform us we need to pack our stuff.

"First thing tomorrow I'm driving you two to the cabin." His eyes shift between the two of us.

"Steve, you have to do something about this." I urge the tall blonde. I gesture between myself and Bucky. "We will literally kill each other. 10 minutes tops. I swear."

Bucky scoffs. "With your mouth? Make it five." He shakes his head in annoyance. A strand of his brown hair falling loose in front of his eyes in the process. He is leaned back against his chair, thick arms tightly folded against his chest.

"You couldn't kill me if you tried. Brains over brawn." I snap back at the older man.

He ignores my glare, instead rolling his eyes. "Doll, let’s not fantasize. You talk like you’re a genius, but I’ve met houseplants with better critical thinking skills. At least they know which direction the sun’s coming from. Meanwhile, you still have to be told which hand is your left hand."

My blood boils. I tightly clench my fists, ready to attack Bucky. I narrow my eyes at the man, praying a lightning bolt strikes him down. Some nerve. "First of all, it was one time! I was shitfaced drunk and seeing like 50 versions of my own hand. That gets confusing. Second of all, that’s rich coming from the guy who types with one finger and calls it ‘tactical efficiency.' I know animals who type better than y-"

Steve cuts me. "Enough. Enough! This is exactly why you're being sent to this safehouse. You two are unbelievable, you know that? This is literally the reason you are going to the safehouse." He glares at us. "You're adults! It's time you start acting like it." Steve's voice is stern, like a pissed off father.

Deep down, I know he's right. Bucky and I should be able to work together without feeling the need to piss the other off. Our stupid fights got us into this situation, but unfortunately, they can't get us out.

We need to come out of this civil.

How though?

What are we supposed to do to calm the anger between us? Make friendship bracelets and have heart-to-hearts? Where do we even begin?

"I don't understand this...rivalry between the two of you." Steve folds his arms.

I avoid his gaze. A feeling of guilt begins to gnaw at the inside of my stomach. Something about Steve's disappointed dad demeanor makes me question my behaviors.

Steve continues. "You're both great at what you do. Why can't you just build each other up instead of trying to tear each other down? This is a team. We need to have each other's backs. It's not fair to the rest of us when stuff like today happens. Someone could've gotten hurt, and you wouldn't be able to help because you're so caught up in each other. Think about us. If someone had been injured while you two were bickering, I guarantee you would've come back feeling horrible. Don't let that happen."

Bucky and I are silent while the words settle in our minds.

I hate that he's right.

-------

The car ride to the safehouse is long. None of us speak as Steve continues down the highway surrounded by forest. I keep my head pressed against he passenger side window, watching as the trees speed by.

The radio crackles as we begin to get further and further from civilization before eventually turning into steady static. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Steve turn off the radio before turning his attention back to the road.

After another ten minutes of silence, Steve turns off the highway onto a smaller road. The gravel-covered road crackles as the tires of our car push against it. The car pulls into a large clearing.

Ahead sits a large cabin, a lake visible behind it. The exterior cabin is covered in brown wood that gives off the feeling of Lincoln Logs. Large windows sit on either side of the front door, both covered by curtains. The wooden door is beautifully crafted, with gentle carvings surrounding the small window at the top. The porch is nearly bare, the only things on it being two wooden rocking chairs. The second story of the cabin contains one window, also covered by a curtain on the inside. The roof is a light green color, obviously faded from the sun.

The lawn is overgrown and filled with wildflowers, which stop at the road. Rocks separate the lawn from the road, leaving a small opening for a path to the cabin door. To the far side of the cabin is a small covered car. In the distance, I can see what I think is a fire pit with chairs surrounding it.

Immediately, I spot some of the cameras Fury was talking about. A familiar red dot sits in the corner of the one facing the road we just pulled up through.

They're already watching us.

Steve parks the car, and I immediately get out, ready to stretch my legs. Little rocks from the gravel road push against the bottom of my shoes, adding pressure in weird places. I ignore it, deciding to walk around to the back of the car where my bags are.

Steve pops the trunk open, and I scan over the items. Two boxes of food and necessities are stacked on each other and tucked in the corner, under a few extra blankets. Next to the boxes are our bags and things we brought to do.

I reach into the trunk and pull out my two suitcases and travel backpack. When I turn around, I spot Bucky looking over my luggage with a raised brow.

This morning I woke up late and ended up being twenty minutes late for the car. Both guys were already inside talking when I stuffed my bags inside the trunk.

"We stayin' two weeks or are you planning on making it a year?" Bucky asks while watching me pull on my backpack.

I roll my eyes. "Some of us actually like to change our outfits, Bucky. We don't all wear the same 2 pairs of Henleys and jeans." I snap back without thinking. "It's called style. You might want to try it."

Bucky scoffs, folding his arms over his broad chest. "Style? Doll, if carrying half a department store on your back counts as style, I’ll stick with functional. At least my clothes don’t require a damn instruction manual."

"Fuck yo-"

Steve cuts me off, stepping in the middle of the two of us. "Enough." His voice is stern. He looks back and forth at us. "Remember why you're here. Behave."

Bucky is silent while he grabs his singular bag out of the trunk. He also somehow manages to grab both of the boxes and blankets.

Fucking supersoldiers.

Steve leads us up the path to the cabin entrance. He pulls out a small housekey from his pocket as soon as we get to the door. He unlocks the door and takes a step inside, us following behind.

Sunlight streams into the house from the door. Dust swarms around in the air around the light, sending a tickle up my nose.

This place definitely hasn't been used in a while.

Steve turns on the hallway light, which takes a minute to flicker on.

A deep green rug stretches across the wooden floors. The floorboards underneath groan with age.

To the left, the cabin opens up into a large living room that feels like stepping into another time. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, overflowing with mismatched spines -some worn and cracked, others newer but wedged in haphazardly, like the collection grew too fast to be properly arranged. One of the large windows I saw outside is against the wall. A large, faded floral curtain blocks most of the light from coming in.

On the far wall is a massive stone fireplace, blackened at the mouth from decades of crackling fires. A small stack of wood sits in a woven basket nearby, and a set of iron tools leans beside the hearth, rust-spotted and clearly well-used.

Two large, weathered leather couches face one another in the center of the room, the cushions sunken from use, but still inviting. Between them rests a handmade wooden coffee table -its surface rough and nicked with character, the legs thick and carved with simple swirls. Small side tables, mismatched but cute, flank the couches. On each one sits a tiny lamp with linen shades.

In the corner, nearest the old box TV, a relic from the early 2000s, if not before, sits a lone recliner. The faded fabric is worn along the armrests, and one side sags just slightly more than the other, like it's been very well used. A thick, knitted grey blanket is folded over the back of it, clearly hand-made.

On the opposite side of the entryway is a compact office space, its doorway framed by dark wood molding. Inside, a large, worn mahogany desk sits front and center. Behind it is a battered office chair, the upholstery torn along the edges and stuffing peeking through. The desk itself is surprisingly bare -just a dusty brass lamp with a cracked green glass shade, and a chipped ceramic mug crammed full of pens and pencils.

Another fireplace nestles against the far wall, smaller than the one in the living room but just as old, framed by a simple brick mantel. Above it are several decorative items clearly arranged with a purpose.

Steve leads us past the wide wooden staircase in front of us to the kitchen where Bucky sets down the boxes and blankets on the counter.

The kitchen looks like it was last renovated sometime before color TV was invented. The floor creaks with every step, the faded linoleum peeling at the corners like it’s trying to escape. The counters are scratched-up laminate in a nauseating shade of beige, stained permanently by years of coffee spills and what you can only guess was tomato sauce… hopefully.

The cabinets are all uneven, a mismatched mix of pale wood and dull, chipped paint. One hangs slightly open. The stove is an ancient, avocado-green relic. A dented kettle sits on the back burner like it’s been there for decades, and probably has.

There’s one tiny window above the sink, foggy with age and framed by dusty curtains that might’ve once been floral. Barely any natural light gets in, casting everything in a dim, golden haze. The hum of the fridge fills my ears as soon as I get into the room —loud enough to be annoying but not loud enough to drown out the silence.

A single flickering lightbulb hangs overhead, its yellow glow casting long shadows that make the place feel smaller than it already is. There’s no dishwasher, obviously, and the sink’s faucet drips every few seconds with a metallic plink that quickly becomes infuriating.

It’s cozy in a way. Or at least, it would be -if I didn't have to share it with Bucky.

"There's more food in the pantry and down in the storage cellar." Steve gestures to a closed door. "You guys should be set for the next two weeks. There should be cable and internet, according to Tony, I don't know how well it works up here. If something happens and you need help, there's an emergency button hidden behind the painting above the fireplace in the office. There's more wood outside and an axe in the shed -Not for killing." His eyes narrow at us. "The building should have heat, AC, running water, and electricity. You are not allowed to use the boat or to leave the property unless the trip is approved by Fury. Cameras will be watching. Expect check-in calls every few days. You will also be given tasks to do together as a team. You have to do them. " Steve informs us.

"Can we swim?" I ask curiously.

"Sure. Do whatever you want as long as it leads to you two getting along and not hurting each other." Steve sighs. "Really try to get along, guys, alright? This is for your own benefit."

Doesn't feel like it.

"I've got to get back." Steve says when neither of us replies. He sets the key down on the counter top before beginning to walk towards the door but he stops a few inches shy to look at us once again. "No killing, I'm serious. Goodbye."

Bucky and I say goodbye to the blonde man. We listen to the fading creaking sounds the wood makes under his weight as he walks back to the entrance. The front door shuts with a small click and I immediately turn to Bucky.

"I call the master's suite." I say before he can open his mouth.

"Of course you do." He mutters.

"You snooze, you lose," I say unsympathetically.

"Do you always have to be such a pain in the ass?" Bucky grumbles while sending me an annoyed look.

I grin. "Only for you, Bucky. You're the one special person who brings out the worst in me."

"Aw, I’m flattered. Didn’t realize ruining your mood was my superpower. Should I add it to my resume?" Bucky mocks me.

I narrow my eyes. "A resume? Wow, look at you keeping up with the modern world. What’s next, learning how to use emojis? I mean, it only took you a year to figure out how to answer a phone without hanging up first -color me impressed."

"First of all, we had resumes in the 40s. They aren't that new of an invention. Secondly, yeah, I’m ancient. But at least I didn’t grow up thinking TikTok was a valid news source." He raises an eyebrow. "Pretty sure I’ve fought dictators with more self-awareness than you."

"Do you even know what TikTok is, grandpa? Or did you just hear Sam say it once and decide to be mad about it?" I feel my heart pounding in my chest as my anger builds up. He just won't quit.

To be fair, neither will I.

Whatever.

"I don’t need to know what it is, Y/N. You think I’m wasting my time watching people dance around on the internet?" He crosses his arms, clearly annoyed. "I’ve got better things to do than-" He cuts himself off. His drawn brows slowly pull apart. "We need to stop." He takes a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself down.

His words cut through my anger-filled mind, hitting me with a moment of clarity. He's right. We're doing exactly what we were sent here to stop doing.

"You're..." I hesitate to say the word. It physically pains me. "right." I sigh, agreeing with the man. I glance down at my bags, my fingers fidgeting at the strap of my backpack. Part of me wants to keep fighting. Part of me wants to keep digging in my heels and hating everything about this. But another part... the part that’s more exhausted than anything... doesn’t want to fight anymore. I just want to go to sleep. The stress from the past few days and the long trip really took a toll on me.

Instead of getting cocky like I expected, his brows shoot up in surprise. He wasn't expecting me to give in so easily.

"Alright...well, I'm going to go upstairs and find a room -not the master suite." He picks up his suitcase again. He glances down at the two suitcases resting at my feet. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and I notice something in his eyes—hesitation, like he’s not sure if he should keep pushing or just... back off. "Do you...do you need help bringing up your stuff?" He asks, his voice low, like he’s not sure if I’ll snap at him for it.

It's my turn to stare at him in shock.

Bucky Barnes...helping me?

That's a first.

I blink, thrown off by the sudden offer. For a second, I just stare at him, my mind working to process what he’s saying.

I open my mouth to refuse, to shoot him down like I always do, but something holds me back. Maybe it’s the fact that carrying these damn bags up two flights of stairs doesn’t exactly sound like a fun time. Or maybe it’s the fact that, for the first time, I’m starting to think that maybe, just maybe, there's a possibility we don’t always have to be at each other’s throats.

I let out a breath, trying to steady myself. "Fine. But don’t think this means I’m suddenly your best friend."

He nods, his expression unreadable as he walks over to grab my bags without a word. He begins to carry them along with his out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I watch him for a moment, unsure of what to make of the situation.

And just like that, the argument is over. For now.

--------

The morning light is harsh through the small windows, slicing through the cabin with no regard for the awkward silence hanging in the air. I can feel the weight of two weeks settling over me as I sit up in bed. Bucky’s already awake, of course. He’s always awake early.

If we were at the compound, he'd almost be done training by now. Bucky loves his routines.

I shuffle into the kitchen, still groggy, and see Bucky standing at the counter with a coffee cup in hand. He doesn’t acknowledge me, and I’m not in the mood to acknowledge him either. The moment I reach for the coffee machine, my eyes catch a post-it note stuck to the side of it.

Do not touch the coffee until I’ve had my first cup. – Bucky.

I can feel the annoyance creeping up my neck, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I turn on the stove, making myself a quick breakfast and deciding to leave him to his rituals. His mornings are the same: precise, silent, and filled with the deep frown that seems to permanently mark his face. I don’t get him. I never will.

Spontaneity makes life fun. I like waking up and not knowing what I'm going to eat for breakfast. It's like a little surprise. I also like going throughout my day, not knowing what I'm going to do or who I'm going to see. It keeps things fun.

I’m finishing my toast when Bucky finally speaks, still not looking at me. “You’re gonna need to take your stuff out of the fridge,” he says, his voice stiff.

I glance over at the fridge, where my eggs and yogurt are squeezed in beside his protein shakes and old cans of tuna. There’s a post-it note on the door now.

Keep your food on your side. – Bucky.

My teeth grind together, and I fight the urge to snap something back.

Civil. I need to be civil.

Instead, I nod curtly. “Noted,” I mutter, picking up my food and bringing it along with me.

I retreat into the living room, eager to get some space. I can hear the sound of Bucky pouring his coffee as I settle down on the couch. There’s something comforting about the chaos of reality TV, the drama, the mindless bickering. I turn on the TV, the familiar blaring voices filling the room.

Bucky appears in the doorway, already scowling.

“Really?” he asks, crossing his arms, his eyes narrow as he watches the screen. “You’re watching this crap?”

Of course, he doesn't like reality TV. I bet the only thing he watches is nature documentaries. And he definitely needs to plan that into his day ahead of time.

I barely glance up, but I can feel his gaze burning into me. “Yeah. What’s the problem?” I reply, trying to act casual while I scroll through the options.

Every once in a while, the TV screen will distort, a sign of the horrible signal out here in the middle of nowhere.

“It’s just... ridiculous. It’s all fake. Why would you waste your time on this?”

I can’t help but smirk. “Well, I find it entertaining,” I say, popping a piece of toast into my mouth. “It’s better than, I don’t know, making everything a drill sergeant routine.”

Bucky huffs and shakes his head, obviously irritated. “You could be doing something productive.”

“Like what?” I shoot back, but I don’t care enough to engage in the same conversation again. It’s easier to just keep watching the show. At least reality TV drama doesn't involve me.

He mutters something under his breath, something I can’t quite catch. After a moment, he makes his way over to the partially sunken recliner and turns to look at the show. His entire body is stiff, like he’s holding in some rage.

I can tell he’s not going to leave until I acknowledge his discomfort, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction. I lean back on the couch, my legs stretched out in front of me on the coffee table as I continue watching.

After what feels like an eternity of him seething in silence, Bucky stands up abruptly. “I don’t know how you can watch this trash,” he grumbles, walking toward the kitchen.

We love a passive-aggressive drama queen.

I don’t even look at him, too busy enjoying the ridiculousness of the show. “You’re free to go do whatever you want, Bucky,” I call after him, my voice thick with sarcasm. “If you don’t like it, you can always head out into the woods and have a silent staring contest with the trees. They'll match your vibe perfectly: Silent and broody.”

He doesn’t answer, but I catch the faintest mutter, “Asshole,” as he storms off.

I let out a small, vindictive laugh to myself. That felt good.

Not even five minutes later, there’s a Post-it note stuck to the coffee table.

If you’re going to keep watching that crap, keep the volume down. - Bucky.

I roll my eyes but don’t respond. Instead, I grab the remote and turn up the volume just a little bit louder, letting the voices echo around the cabin.

Later in the afternoon, I’m sprawled out on the couch, now fully invested in the chaos of the show. I’m halfway through the latest episode when I see another post-it note. It’s stuck to the arm of the couch, right by my shoulder.

The noise isn’t the only thing that’s annoying. Can you clean up after yourself once in a while? - Bucky.

I glance around the living room, taking in the few crumbs from my snack and the empty cup I left on the counter. I guess this is his way of saying he doesn’t like the mess. Not that I care. He doesn’t like anything about me. And I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual.

I scribble a quick note on a post-it, sticking it right by his coffee mug on the counter where he’ll see it.

This is my cabin too, right? It’s not like you’re the only one who’s allowed to be here. – Y.

I sit back, satisfied, as I continue watching the reality TV show, ignoring the underlying tension that seems to be building between us.

I wake up to the smell of coffee and something… burnt. Not fire-alarm burnt. Just slightly scorched ego burnt.

Bucky’s already in the kitchen, standing like he’s guarding national secrets in front of the stove. He doesn’t look at me when I shuffle in, blanket still wrapped around my shoulders like a personal shield. But there’s a note waiting on the counter—of course there is.

It’s stuck to a plate holding two very crispy slices of toast and a sad little smear of jam.

Figured I’d make enough for two. Next time, don’t leave your crumb trail in my peanut butter. – B.

I blink at it. Then at him.

He still doesn’t glance over. Just sips his coffee and stares out the window like it personally offended him.

I grab the plate without a word and pour myself some coffee. The toast crunches like gravel when I bite into it. It’s awful. I eat it anyway.

On my way to grab a napkin, I slap a new post-it down beside the coffee pot.

Your 1943 war ration bread is a health hazard. In other words, if your toast were a contestant on Survivor, it would be voted off the island. 1/10. Jam is communal. Like manners. – Y/N

I can feel him read it, even though he doesn’t say anything. His jaw tightens like he’s either trying not to laugh… or not to strangle me.

We eat in silence. The tension is weirdly quieter than usual -not the usual storm, more like fog.

Eventually, we somehow both end up in the living room. Once again, I grab the remote and flip on my reality show, volume low but not that low. The familiar theme music plays, overly dramatic and stupid in the best way.

I don’t look at him, but I hear the faintest groan -like his soul is physically trying to leave his body.

“This again?” he mutters.

I shrug. “I don’t complain about your 5 a.m. brooding walks.”

“That’s because I don’t do them with a dramatic soundtrack and drunk contestants.”

I sip my coffee. “You’d be more fun if you picked a favorite.” A grin spreads across my face. "Ooh, we could watch The Bachelorette. See which bachelor you root for."

“I’d rather eat drywall.” He grumbles.

“You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

He doesn’t answer.

I bump the volume up by one notch.

He doesn’t leave the room.

And neither do I.

I’m halfway through an episode of my show when Bucky’s phone starts ringing -some weirdly intense ringtone that sounds like someone smashing a piano.

He looks at the screen and groans. “Of course.”

“What?” I ask, glancing at the man. He flips the phone around so I can see: Nick Fury, Incoming Call.

I sit up straighter. “Don’t answer it in here.” Panic begins to build in my chest. I look like shit. I haven't been productive. I still hate Bucky. Fury's going to kick my ass.

Or send someone to do it for him.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m in pajamas and if Fury sees this show playing, he’ll put me on a no-screen list.” My eyes are wide while I stare at Bucky pleadingly.

Too late. Bucky accepts the call. And of course it’s FaceTime.

Fury’s one good eye immediately narrows. “Barnes. Y/N.”

I wave, trying to tuck my blanket higher like it’s a disguise. “Hey, Director. What's up? What do we owe this pleasure?”

“Are you two still breathing?” he asks, deadpan, not answering my question.

I glance at Bucky. “Unfortunately.”

“Funny.” Fury’s sarcasm level is dialed to lethal. “I’d ask if there’s been progress, but judging by the tension I can literally feel through the screen, I’ll skip to the point.”

Bucky folds his arms. “Let me guess—another punishment?”

“It’s a team-building activity,” Fury says, which might be worse. “Since neither of you seems capable of existing in the same room without someone developing a migraine, you’re going to create something together.”

“Like… art?” I ask warily.

Yay. Just what I wanted to spend my afternoon doing.

Fury smirks, and I hate that look. “A birdhouse.”

I blink. “A what?” He can't be serious.

“You heard me. I just sent coordinates to the nearest supply drop location. Go pick it up. Build the damn birdhouse. Together. You’ve got six hours.”

Bucky’s jaw is tight enough to crack concrete. “And if we don’t?”

“You’re here for two weeks,” Fury says. “Every task you fail means another two days added to your stay.”

He ends the call.

Bucky turns slowly toward me. “A birdhouse?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You punch robots for a living. I think you can handle wood glue.”

“Can you handle not talking for five minutes while I read the instructions?” He shoots back.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, did I interrupt your sulking schedule? Edward Cullen, is that you?” I gasp.

He mutters something under his breath and grabs his coat that I barely catch. "Who the fuck is Edward Cullen?"

------

The supply drop is an actual metal case hidden under a tarp by a rock outcropping. Like we’re building a tactical avian bunker. We haul it back to the cabin in silence.

Inside: wood planks, nails, a tiny hammer (which Bucky immediately scoffs at), and one bottle of glue.

Plus a packet labeled: "TEAM MISSION – Document With Photo Proof."

Bucky holds up the hammer. “You use this. I’ll break it in half.”

“You’re not allowed to break anything,” I remind him sweetly. “Or it’s another two days in hell.”

We start sorting pieces. Five minutes in, we’re already fighting over who gets to hold the blueprint.

“No, that’s upside down,” I argue while trying to snatch the blueprint from his hands.

“I know which way is up,” he snaps back, moving the paper out of my reach.

“You’ve been frozen for half your life! You barely know what the internet is!”

His glare could melt steel.

An hour later, the birdhouse is somehow standing, though it leans like it’s avoiding us on purpose. There’s glue all over my fingers and sawdust in Bucky’s hair.

“Picture time,” I say, reaching for my phone.

“We’re not taking a picture next to this thing,” Bucky says. “It looks like a war crime.”

“Then smile like you just committed one.”

He doesn’t smile.

I snap the photo anyway. Us standing stiffly on either side of the crooked birdhouse, not touching, not smiling, and practically vibrating with mutual irritation.

I text it to the number Fury gave us.

“Done,” I say, sitting back with a sigh.

Bucky grunts. “We’ve got twelve more days of this.”

I stare at the birdhouse, tilting even more now. “It’s gonna be a long two weeks.”

------

TAGLIST: @buckysdoll85 @starfly-nicole @vxllys @succulent-momma @amandato300

Pt. 3 soon

[sinnabarmoth]

Getting Older

Pairing: Xavier x Fem|Reader

Prompt: You have an existential crisis when Xavier tells you that he is a centuries year old alien.

Length: 1200

Xavier was hiding something.

After months of officially dating him you could tell when he was trying to hide something from you. Problem is you couldn’t think about what he could possibly have to hide. You knew Xavier. There was a lot of him that was a mystery to you but ever since you got together he had been very open and honest about who he is.

So what was it that he was still keeping to himself?

You were lounging at home, you had just gotten a new video game and Xavier was over to play co-op mode with you. It was a pretty typical day until you noticed that Xavier kept glancing at you. Usually when you played video games he was zeroed in on the screen. You had tested him once just to see how focused he was while playing a video game and started stripping right next to him on the couch. The man did not so much as blink until you were completely naked and then he paused and pinned you to the couch. Apparently he had been aware of what you were doing the entire time and was just biding his time until you were bare.

But now he kept looking over and was barely paying attention to the puzzle you were trying to figure out in the game. Finally you had enough and paused. “What is it?” you asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’ve been stealing looks at me the entire time you’ve been here. Something is on your mind so just tell me what it is because if we get a game over on this level again I’m going to slap you.” you crossed your arms over your chest. “Now tell me.”

Xavier sighed. “I…there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you but I could never find the right time. Then again, I’ve had enough time to learn that there is no perfect time for anything. There are better moments but I can’t keep this to myself any longer.”

“Xav,” you took his hand. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. You know that, right?”

“I know. I just don’t want you to freak out when I say this.” Well that was ominous.

Xavier took a deep breath and looked at you. “Do you remember when I said I had killed over 70,000 Wanderers?”

“Yeah. Still have no idea how that is possible for someone so young.” you shrugged. “Is that it? You’re gonna tell me you were exaggerating to look cool?”

“No. I wasn’t exaggerating and I’m not exactly what you would call young.” he cringed away from your inspectful gaze. “I…um…”

“Xavier?” you squeezed his hand. “It’s alright.”

He dropped his head, looking up at you through the fringe of his hair. “I’m not in my twenties like I told you, nor am I exactly human.”

You wanted to ask what he was going on about but remained silent, waiting for his explanation. “The truth is, I come from the planet Philos. The people there age very slowly and about two hundred years ago I came here with some friends. That’s why my record of Wanderer kills is so high. I’ve been around a long time and I’m going to be around for an even longer time.”

“You…” there were so many questions swirling in your head. He was from Philos? Was he really that old? How had no one realized that he had been around for two hundred years if he looks exactly the same? Who were these friends? Were they still around? Who else knew about this?

But what ended up coming out was, “Does that mean you’re still gonna look like this when I’m eighty?”

Xavier blinked at you. “I mean, I suppose. I may look a little older by then but not by much.” he rubbed the back of his neck, “Is that all you have to ask? I just told you I’m a centuries old alien.”

“I know. I just--” your brain was short circuiting. “Do you know what it is going to look like if I’m fifty and I’m walking around calling a guy that looks like he’s twenty my husband? They’re gonna think I’m a cougar or a sugar mommy or something! People are gonna think it’s weird!”

“Did you say husband?”

“Wrong thing to focus on!” you sighed, trying to rein your emotions back in. “Sorry. I know you didn’t want me to freak out but my brain is just flooding with thoughts and I can’t sort through all of them at once.”

“It’s alright. I figured this would happen when I told you.” he turned you to face him again. “But I needed to tell you. You deserved to know the truth.”

“And I’m grateful that you did. I don’t care that you’re super old--”

“I wouldn’t say super old--” he muttered.

“--or that you’re technically an alien. I still feel the same as I always did. I still love you.” you cupped his face. His two hundred year old youthful face. “But now I’m thinking about how long this is going to last.”

“What do you mean?”

“You said people on Philos age slowly, right?” Xavier nodded. “So if you age slowly and you look like this at two hundred years old, that means you’re going to be alive for a really long time. But me, I’m just a human. Our average lifespan is eighty years. By the time I’m old and dying you’re still going to be like this. You are still going to be around and me…”

You took in a shaky breath. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

Pain flashed in Xavier’s eyes, as if this hadn’t occurred to him either. He pressed his forehead to yours. “I…I don’t know what to say to make you feel better. I don’t even know if anything could. I have no answers about what may be waiting for us in the future but I do know this. I do not care how long we have together, I will cherish every single second of it. And if you leave this life while I am still here, know that I will find you in the your next one. I will always find you.”

“I’m going to get so old!” you cried. “I’m gonna be all wrinkly and slow!”

“And you will still be the most beautiful woman in the world to me.” he kissed your forehead. “But if there is a way to match our lifespans, I will find it. Because I would want nothing more than to grow old with you. Be it we are given sixty more years or six hundred. I will always love you.”

You hugged him tight. Whatever fears you had about your future you didn’t want to think about them now. Right now you were young and happy and your lives were full. That was all that mattered. And come hell or high water you would find a way to rewrite fate. You would not leave him, not for anything.

He gave you a tissue to wipe at your tear stained cheeks. Once you had calmed down he left a chaste but loving kiss on your lips. He pulled back with a small smile. “So…what did you mean exactly when you said husband?”

Your face flushed with heat all the way up to the tip of your ears. “Oh uh…about that…”

[ladykailitha]

Share With Me One Love, One Lifetime Part 5

We are now in the latter half of this story and hooboy is going to worse before it gets better. Again this story is done, I'm just putting out the remaining chapters I have.

We have the Forrest talk, The Wheeler House, and Wayne blows a gasket. Poor, poor Wayne.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

~

“Dustin looks up to you so much, Steve,” Eddie murmured. “It’s all he talks about. Hell, it’s all they all talk about. If Jeff and them didn’t know you before they joined Hellfire they would have gotten psychic damage with how much they talk about Steve the hero.”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, well. I wish he’d tell me more to my face instead of all the bullshit I do get from him. Like he had a bag filled with flashlights and I asked him where he got them, do you want to know what he said?”

Eddie let out a pained sigh. “Something snarky and rude?”

“Right in one,” Steve groused. “He said that I was an adult and shouldn’t have to be told everything. Like no one else gets that amount of disrespect. Including you, who is older than I am.”

“That little shit head,” Eddie said with another sigh. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Thanks.”

They walked in silence for a moment or two before Eddie spoke up.

“I’m learning this week that I’m coward,” he murmured, poking and twisting his hands nervously. “I didn’t think I was until Chrissy. But when I saw her raise up to my ceiling...I–I just ran. I could have stayed. I could have tried to help. I knew that this place was and I couldn’t help her.”

Steve shook his head. “Do you remember the first comic I ever drew for you?”

Eddie’s eyes widen and his hangdog expression cleared. “The gun, the boy running to his car before dashing back into save the day, the fear...”

“Yeah, Eds,” he murmured. “It was always about that. Running in is okay as long you know that when the time comes you’ll do the right thing in the right time.”

Eddie ran his hands over his face. “God, Stevie,” he murmured. “I hesitated. To jump in after you. You had just been dragged in and Nancy went in right after you, Robin merely a second later. But I paced that god damn boat before following suit.”

“So what?” Steve said, reaching up to guide Eddie’s face to meet his head on. “I bet I can tell you what your thought process was.”

“Steve...” Eddie whined. “Jumping in after immediately was the biggest sign of true love I’ve ever seen.”

Steve shook his head. “I don’t want her, I want you. Because I know you hesitated to jump because you weren’t sure if you should go back to sure and let everyone know what happened or to jump in and protect me and the girls. You chose to protect us, Eddie. Don’t be so hard on yourself, okay? I love you.”

Eddie closed his eyes and let go of all the jealousy and envy he had over Nancy and what they had before Eddie came along. He knew Steve was gay. He knew that Steve had chosen him and had kept choosing him, time after time. But when he saw the way the two of them teased each other, the green-eyed monster reared its ugly head, causing him to throw his vest at Steve.

He nodded and then accepted the kiss that Steve gave him. They might be in a hellscape running for their lives with an evil wizard and all his minions chasing after them but they had each in other in this.

And they would make it. Together.

~

“They’re gone!” Nancy cried. “They aren’t here. They should be in this shoe box, but all that’s in here are the shoes that I ruined my junior year. I broke the heel on the one and had to toss them both out.”

“What do you mean they’re gone?!” Eddie bit out through clenched teeth. “How could they be gone?”

“It doesn’t make any sense!” she cried gesturing wildly. “They should be here!”

Steve wandered over to the wall and looked up at the poster. “Nance, when did you exchange your Blondie calendar for the poster?”

“Steve is that really important right now?” she snapped and then she turned around to see said calendar on the wall. “Oh!”

“What does that mean?” Robin asked, trying to break the tension that suddenly ramped up in the room.

“I think the Upside Down is stuck in 1983,” Nancy murmured. “But since the revolver isn’t here either, I’d have to guess November 6th.”

Robin and Eddie shared a confused glance.

“I don’t know what that means,” Eddie admitted, sticking his hands in his back pockets.

“That’s the day Will disappeared,” Steve said absently. He poked the calendar a couple of times. “What is so important about that day...?”

Nancy just shook her head. “What are we going to do now?”

“Well,” Steve said with the shrug of his shoulders, “we can always make my weapon again.”

Nancy raised her eyebrows and then grinned. “That will certainly help, yes.”

~

They thundered down the stairs, but Steve stopped. Nancy and Robin kept going, but Eddie slowed down and looked back.

“What’s up, Stevie?” he asked as he watched his boyfriend strain as if he was hearing something the rest of them couldn’t. “Hey, guys wait up!”

Nancy and Robin turned around to see Steve inch down the stairs, his head cocked upwards.

“Can’t you hear it?” Steve asked. “It’s Dustin, I’m sure of it! And I think...Max.” He shook his head. “I can’t quite make it... out...”

Before Nancy could scoff again, Robin giggled.

“I can hear them too!” she said excitedly jumping up and down and clapping.

It didn’t take them long to figure out how to communicate with them and they found out that they had picked up Erica and she had been read in.

“How many times do I have to be right before you believe me?” Dustin barked angrily.

“Jesus Christ. This kid's gotta get his ego in check,” Steve said twisting his lip and shaking his head ruefully.

Eddie leaned over to look past Nancy and Robin, “It’s his tone, right?”

After everything was decided that they all meet up at Eddie’s trailer, Eddie grimaced. “How are we going to get there? It’s like seven miles from here.”

Nancy looked around for a moment. “Well if it is the 6th, then all the kids would have had their bikes here. I mean it might be a little tight for the boys, but it’s better then walking.”

~

Once they were back top side, Wayne bullied the four older teens into showers and changed before sitting Steve down to do a proper stitch job while everyone caught up with what everyone had learned, but especially Nancy’s vision.

“We have to attack now,” Nancy said. “We don’t know who he’ll pick next and Max shouldn’t have to live on borrowed time.”

“Yeah,” Dustin said, nodding along with her. “We know that while Vecna is in the void his body is vulnerable to attacks. If we can lure him into attacking someone to open the fourth gate then we can attack his body in the Upside Down?”

“Oh is that all?” Eddie sneered, rising to his feet.

“Yep!” Dustin said cheerfully and Eddie slowly said back down in disappointment.

Wayne crossed his arms in front of his chest and sat back, allowing Steve to stand up. His back arms had been cleaned and properly bandaged, his sides had been sterilized, stitched, and re-bandaged, his neck cleaned and bandaged to keep further dirt out of the wound.

“Yeah?” Wayne said, “And who’s gonna be fighting this evil wizard of yours? Steve? The fella I just spent the last twenty minutes putting back together? Or the two ladies who are still in high school? Or any of the other children here, present?”

Dustin opened his mouth, but no words came out and everyone shifted around nervously as for the first time an adult put their foot down and said they shouldn’t be doing this.

Max came back into the front part of the trailer. “I tried reaching the Byers again and it’s a busy signal again.”

“Which means we have even less time then we thought,” Nancy insisted, putting her hands on her hips. “We need to take him out now before our friends get hurt, especially since we don’t know who his next victim will be.”

Wayne licked the bottom of his lips slowly. “Well you ain’t doing it with the eight of ya.”

Everyone looked around in confusion as it seemed like they were all counting their numbers.

“Before we get further,” Steve said quietly. “We do know who his next is. I read the files from Ms. Kelly’s office. I know how they all started. For Fred, Patrick, Chrissy.” He paused and then looked up. “Max.”

She froze in place and fought the urge to look over at the person she knew he was talking about, trying to look everywhere else.

“Yeah, Stevie?” Eddie asked gently. “Who’s next on the evil wizard’s hit list?”

Steve sat down hard between Lucas and Eddie and propped his chin on his knuckles. “It always starts off with visions. Visions of things he thinks you’re guilty of. I’m guessing in Max’s case it was Billy, like it was Nancy’s siblings in hers.”

Nancy wrapped her arms around her waist and looked down at the ground, rocking back on one heel of her shoes.

Both Wayne and Eddie tilted their head in the same direction at the same time as they regarded Nancy.

“Something tells me,” Eddie said wetting his lips, “that she knew that. Didn’t ya Nance?”

Max looked back and forth between Eddie and Nancy. “I was about to suggest using myself as bait, because if we can distract him long enough for a strike team to destroy his physical form, we can get rid of the Upside Down for good. But you’re telling me that she knew she was the next victim and was still going to let me be the sacrificial lamb?”

Steve shook his head. “Good ole Nancy Wheeler, only looking out for herself. We could wait a week and have Nancy be bait. Hell, we all have Walkmans. We get enough batteries and enough tapes I’m sure Max could last that long. But she doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want to go through the visions and guilt. Because she knows deep down Vecna, Henry, whoever is right. It is her fault Barb died.”

“Uh...” Lucas said into the resulting silence. “So are we going with Max or Nancy because that is really something we should decide before we get any further...”

“I’m all for taking the bastard out now,” Wayne said with a shrug. “But not with just us. We need more people.”

Steve turned to Eddie. “Are the boys still in town?”

Eddie got up and started waving his hands. “No. Nope. Absolutely not, Steve. We aren’t dragging them into this. Ignorance is hella bliss in this case. You know it is!”

Dustin shook his head ruefully. “If you’re suggesting who I think you’re suggesting, it couldn’t hurt. I mean Jason is amassing a lynch mob and we need all the help we can get.”

“I’d want to know,” Lucas said softly. “After what Jason and his goons did to Gareth. If I were them, I’d want to know.”

Eddie turned to glare at him. “And what did they do to Gareth?”

Lucas explained why he was no longer with the basketball guys to Nancy, Robin, Wayne, and Eddie.

“God damn it!” Wayne cussed. “That’s how they found out about the lake house? And Chief Powell just let them go? I’m going fucking sue this whole incompetent asshole county!”

“Well,” Nancy said, “I’m against it. We need a small strike team not a god damned army.”

“The hell you don’t,” Wayne snapped. “I saw the beast that damn near took out the mall and if it’s Henry Creel like we think it is, then we’re going to need everyone we can. And since we’re spread pretty thin on the ground right now with the Cali crew in the wind and Hopper dead... we need people. I would rather it not be children, but I’m out of options right now.”

Eddie pushed his fingers into his eye in frustration. “Fine.”

They all turned to him in shock.

“Fine,” he bit out again, flopping back onto the sofa. “I’ll round up the Hellfire crew. Shit, I’ll even see if Marty and Janice are in town for the week, because if we’re dragging people into this shit, we’re getting the whole band back together.”

“We’re going to need weapons and supplies,” Steve said with a sigh. He didn’t like the plan, but it was all they had. “And way to get all us of there.”

“The weapons are easy,” Wayne said with a huff, “War Zone. They’ll have everything you need. For both.”

“If we’re trying to avoid people from town,” Erica said, rolling her eyes, “maybe we should avoid a store called War Zone.”

Wayne snorted, “And you got somewhere else we can load up on supplies, little miss?”

Erica opened her mouth but no words came out.

“That’s what I thought,” Wayne said smugly.

“That takes care of one,” Robin said with a nod. “But what about transportation?”

“I have something,” Eddie said with a grin.

Steve came up to stand next to him. “You got some hidden car we don’t know about?”

“It’s not exactly a car,” Eddie said smirking at Wayne, “and it’s not exactly mine, but it’ll do.”

“Boy...” Wayne said warningly.

Eddie willfully ignored him. “Hey, Max you got a bandanna or mask I can use?”

~

Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Tag List: SEVEN SLOTS REMAINING

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @irregular-child @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @beelze-the-bubkiss @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @themoonagainstmers

9- @steddieislife @chaotic-waffle @strangerfolks

[penkura]

only if you want to queen but i can’t stop thinking about how this conversation went😭😭

Queen?? I do not deserve that title omg.

BUT anyway, I've been thinking about this, and I've finally figured how I think it would happen and how Zoro and Reader would have their twin boys. 💚

Added a little extra for their older two being excited for their new little siblings and getting to meet them. :)

Having kids wasn’t originally in Zoro’s life plans, but when Keitaro and Kuina come along one after the other in about three years, how much joy and happiness they’ve brought, he's not sure he could imagine your lives without them now. They were more than anything he could’ve ever asked for, and watching them grow up, watching you be a mother to them, he thinks this is the only way things could’ve turned out.

There’s been nothing better lately than watching the two learn more about their world, seeing how you comfort them when they get upset or need help understanding something. When Keitaro comes to him begging to start practicing with swords or Kuina holds onto him tightly after a nightmare, the moments where your family of four is able to relax and enjoy your evenings have become his favorite part of the day. It’s more than Zoro ever expected after you’d first told him you were pregnant with Keitaro, and then Kuina, but none of it has been unwelcome.

Sometimes Zoro thinks about you two having just one more child, it feels like something, someone is missing if he starts to dwell on it too long. It’s weird, he knows that when he starts to think about it, but he can’t help it when he sees you playing with or holding someone else’s baby. With Sanji’s newest child you’ve been welcoming his older three over every day to play with Keitaro and Kuina so they have some time with their friends, not having to worry about or hear the newest baby crying. While five kids at once was a lot to take care of, you did so well at it. You wore them out with games and playing outside, Sanji was thankful for that when he’d come to collect his children and they all wanted to go home and sleep, your two kids already asleep on the floor beside each other. Even just watching or helping you tuck them in at night made Zoro think more about another child, he doesn’t understand why honestly.

It takes him some time before he can even admit to himself that he wants another child,  before he even dares to bring it up eventually. Zoro spends some time watching you with other babies and how easily you’re able to calm to them down if they cry, trying to gage if you might want another one yourself. Since you’re the one who would once again be carrying the baby, he wants to make sure you’re okay with it. Make sure you want just one more to make your family complete.

When he finally brings it up, you’re surprised by it.

“You…want another baby?”

Zoro nods, causing you to sit up beside him in bed, while he barely looks at you. Honestly you believed he’d never want to have another child. You’d had Keitaro and Kuina so close together, that any thoughts of another one were out of your mind until recently, you figured there was no way Zoro would go for it if you suggested having another one. But it looks like you were wrong.

“I don’t know, it just,” he shrugs a but, sighing as he tries to get his thoughts in order, “I’ve just watched you lately with Sanji’s kids, and seeing how big Keitaro and Kuina have gotten. Weirdly enough I kind of miss when they were little, you know?”

“I do actually,” Laughing, you lean against Zoro’s arm and take his hand in yours, “I miss when they would just want to be held all the time, even with the crying and diapers…and it’s fun to watch them grow up…”

“Keitaro’s going to start sword training soon, and I know Kuina will want to join in…but it feels like they’re growing up too fast.”

“It really does…”

“…and like something is missing.”

“You’ve felt it too?”

Zoro nods again, before leaning back with you still holding onto him. You’re both quiet for a few minutes, lost in thought, before you finally smile with a nod of your own.

“All right then, it’s settled.”

“…what is?”

“Let’s have another baby!”

+!+

You said a baby, not twins, but that’s what you have about a year later. Two little boys that come into the world crying their lungs out, before they’re passed to you and Zoro, your newest additions slowly calming down to small cries and whines. You’re quick to tell Zoro no more since you ended up with twins this time, and he has no problems with that.

You’ve given him far more than he ever could have asked for, he’s not going to ask you to go through this again, he swears.

Keitaro and Kuina don’t meet their new brothers until the next day, giving you and the twins some time to rest. You’re still sleeping when they finally get to come home from staying at Sanji’s the day before, but Zoro takes care of introducing the four to each other, your older two in awe at the fact they have twin brothers now.

“Mama said it was one baby.” Keitaro can’t believe he has two brothers now, on top of a sister, but he’s not exactly mad about it.

“We didn’t know until yesterday, buddy.”

“I wanted a sister…” Kuina pouts a bit, but it slowly fades into a smile when the younger of your twins grabs onto her finger when she pokes at his hand.

“Sorry, princess,” Zoro smiles too, watching as she starts to accept having two little brothers a little bit at a time, “Mama said no more babies, so looks like you’re our only girl.”

“Mmm…that’s okay then,” She nods, Keitaro doing the same as they both take everything in, “I’ll help Mama take care of them!”

“I will too! …when I’m not practicing…”

“Good, I’m sure Mama will like that.”

You don’t make it known that you’re awake ans listening to your family, but it does make you smile to yourself. Everything feels perfect now, there’s no longer any feelings that someone is missing from your lives, not with your twin boys. One more than you expected, but it works all the same.

Now you just need to figure out names for them.

[sixpennydame]

Make. Believe. ❖ Act 1

Actor!Levi x Fem!Reader

It’s your first sex scene as a leading actress, and it’s with none other than Levi Ackerman. But you both can stay professional….right?

Warnings / Content: NSFW, Minors do not interact, oral sex (fem receiving), vaginal sex

A/N: I've been working on this one shot since April and it's finally here! There will be a Part 2, written from Levi's pov, available now!

Act 2 | Act 3

“Oi, you ok? Ready to do this?”

Levi stands naked before you. It’s nothing new - you’ve seen his nude body several times already while shooting this film. But today is the day that you shoot the main sex scene with him - the first you’ve ever done as a professional actress.

And despite all the preparations you’ve done, you’re nervous as hell about it.

You take a deep breath. “Yeah…I’m ready.”

The Camera Assistant raises the slate, “Scene 24, Take 1…” *Clap*

“Action!”

When your agent told you about the role you knew you were perfect for it. An ingénue role: innocent, pure, but headstrong, and when you finished the audition, you knew you’d gotten it. 

The movie is set in the 1920’s and tells the story about a woman who had been married off to an older, powerful man who owns a large estate. She has an affair with the quiet, mysterious groundskeeper. It’s all about class, duty, and desire.

You knew the role would require several sex scenes, and quite risqué ones at that. But that didn’t bother you. You’d been nude on stage while in acting school and you took your craft seriously.

What made you nervous was that you would be doing the sex scenes with Levi Ackerman. 

You’d had a crush on him since your teenage years, when you saw him in the Attack on Titan series. You, and every other girl that saw him in that show. Ten years later, he was still one of the most sought-after actors in film and television. He excelled in dramatic roles and was a skilled physical actor, even doing most of his own stunts. In interviews, he was always cool and quiet, letting the other actors take the spotlight. He also kept his private life particularly private, and this gave him an air of mystery.

 You weren’t sure what to expect when you met him for the first time with the rest of the cast at the first script table reading.

“Mr. Ackerman, I’ll be playing the part of Anna. It’s an absolute honor to be working with you.”

His grey eyes give you a once over, then he shakes your hand. “Please, call me Levi. I hear this is your first leading role.”

Just shaking his hand, you’re already blushing. How will you react when you actually have to touch him romantically?

You shake those thoughts out of your mind right now. “Y-yes, it is. I’d appreciate any advice you can give me.”

“This director is pretty strict about sticking to the script. I’ve worked with him before. But with love scenes, he’s going to give us a lot of freedom to kind of just do what we want.”

Oh god. He’s already bringing up the sex scenes. And he calls them love scenes. You feel your face getting even hotter. 

He notices. “I’m guessing you’ve never done a love scene before.”

“I uh..” you were going to try to think of something witty to say, but it feels difficult to talk suddenly, “I haven’t, actually.”

He smiles. “It’s normal to feel nervous. The most important thing is for you to trust me, and for us to respect each other.”

The room is filling with more cast and crew as the table reading is about to start. Levi gestures for the both of you to have a seat. “Why don’t we start by getting to know each other after the table reading? When we’re not shooting we can get together and help each other with lines and maybe eat together during breaks. That way, I won’t feel like such a stranger.”

“That would be so nice. Yes, let’s do that,” you reply, feeling better and more comfortable with him already. He just seems so…normal. Not at all the broody, rude character he’s made out to be in the tabloids.

After that, you spent most of your free time with Levi. You’d hang out with each other in your trailers, working on memorizing lines or just talking. The director insisted on shooting most of the movie on location and not in a studio, so you were all left to basically live in a small town in the countryside. Levi would invite you out with other cast and crew friends. He was friendly - much friendlier than you’d imagined him to be - but you noticed that the larger the crowd got, the quieter he became. You much more enjoyed the time when it was just the two of you.

Leading up to your sex scenes, you and Levi were required to meet with an intimacy coach. She was pleased to hear that you and Levi were already getting to know each other, since trust is key. The three of you talked over the scene and the movements required. 

“There will be moments where you two will have to be naked with each other, but when you two actually recreate sexual activity, you can use intimacy barriers and skin colored thongs and underwear,” the coach suggests. “Levi, I know you’ve done sex scenes totally nude in the past.”

That’s right..the independent film he was in a few years ago. There was a lot of controversy about the very explicit sex scene in that movie. So they were completely nude during that scene? Why do you feel jealous?

“Whatever Reader is comfortable with. I’ll follow her lead,” he says, matter-of-factly. 

The coach looks at you. “And you’re comfortable being nude with Levi?”

You’re trying so hard not to blush and look professional, as if this conversation isn’t giving you butterflies in your stomach. You feel Levi’s grey eyes on you. “Yes, it’s not a problem.”

Later that afternoon, your words were put to the test. You were to shoot a scene where your character catches Levi washing outside his cottage. It’s a short scene but you’re nervous. When you arrive on set, Levi is already in a robe waiting. 

The scene is set, and Levi takes off his robe. His body is even better in real life. He’s toned, and he has a perfect six pack with a deep v shape on either side. A black trail of hair leads down to his..

No, you shouldn’t look, it’s unprofessional. But you want to so badly.

“Reader, go to your mark,” the Director’s Assistant says.

“Y-yes, of course.” You take your place by the wall that surrounds his character’s cottage. When the director yells action you walk along the wall until you get to the entrance, but before you enter his garden, you see him washing at a basin near the home. You’re supposed to look for just a moment, then turn back against the wall and blush at seeing him. 

But when you peek around the corner, you can’t help but let your eyes linger for just longer than you’re supposed to. He’s washing himself, the water flowing over his beautifully toned body. His hair is wet and he pushes it back.

“Cut!” the director commands. “Reader, you were staring too long. Remember, she’s shocked at what she sees and quickly turns away, but she’s also titillated.”

You blush and look over to Levi, who you hope is far enough away that he can’t hear what the director is saying. “Got it. Sorry about that.” You take your mark and do it again.

The next day, you had to shoot some other scenes and didn’t see Levi all day. Although the day’s shoot went without a hitch, you couldn’t help but think about that perfect body of his and how you would soon be touching and kissing it. 

You arrived at your trailer earlier than usual the next day. There were a few cast and crew members ambling about, but it was otherwise quiet. You knock on the door of Levi’s trailer.

“Come in,” he answers. When you enter, Levi is casually sitting, drinking his tea and reading through today’s scenes. “I thought we could discuss how we wanted to block today’s physical scenes. It’s no nudity, but since it’s their first time,I think there are some particular movements they want us to include.” 

It’s strange, talking to Levi about, “me grabbing your breast,” or, “when I enter you for the first time,” as if these are the most normal conversations to have in the world. But even hearing him say these words in his deadpan way of speaking is making the blood rush to your cheeks. After a lengthy discussion, you scribble some notes in your script for later, then make your way to your trailer to get into costume.

The scene is set in a hunting cabin far from the main estate. As your character has just left a dinner party, you’re wearing a beautiful wine colored gown that everyone remarks on. Everyone except Levi. He sits in his chair and seems to be in some kind of ultra-focused state. You’d never noticed before, but maybe that’s how he gets into character.

Or maybe he’s nervous too.

Your heart is pounding when the director says action. “Please don’t go,” you say, as you grab Levi’s arm. 

You’d blocked out the scene with Levi this morning, but you suddenly have an urge to deviate slightly from the plan, not because you want to, but because you now feel like that’s what your character would do at this moment. 

You hold his hand and begin to kiss his palm and wrist, then you place it on your cheek. It’s so innocent, but full of yearning.  Levi’s body goes tense, but then he unexpectedly moves his thumb to your lips and you open your mouth. You begin to suck on his thumb, then his pointer finger, looking at him seductively when he finally pulls it out. He lets out a sigh and then he’s kissing you passionately; you pull down his suspenders while he lifts up the gossamer layers of your dress. Your mouths crash together as he undoes his pants. He tastes like spearmint, and you wonder if he did that on purpose. He moves away from the kiss and pulls off your underwear, and then he’s on top of you and between your legs. 

Although his bare ass is showing, the camera angle doesn’t necessitate him completely against your crotch. But he pushes slowly as if he is entering you for the first time and after a few thrusts, he starts getting faster. 

Your character is going through a lot of emotions at this point: desire, guilt, pleasure. You look away and your cheeks begin to flush as Levi continues to move, a certain kind of desperation in every thrust. You both begin to breathe heavily, your hands in his hair and his head in the crook of your neck. One final thrust, and there’s only silence, until..

“Cut!” the director cries out. “Good work, you two. Now, let’s do that again, with some closeup shots.

“You okay?” Levi asks as he gets off of you and grabs a rag to wipe off his sweat. 

You straighten your dress and a makeup assistant comes over to touch-up your makeup. “Yeah..I’m fine.”

“They way you approached me, with the kisses on the palm and taking my fingers - that was a nice change.” He looks at you as he returns to his mark. “You have good instincts.”

“Thanks.” You laugh to yourself, because the compliment makes you blush more than when he was rutting against you.

The cinematographer changes cameras and gets closer. “Alright, let’s do that again..”

——

The next day, you meet with the intimacy coordinator to choreograph the next sex scene scheduled for the end of the week. In the midst of taking notes and discussing with Levi the motivations for each movement, you become quiet, your thoughts drifting elsewhere. Because for the last few days, you’ve had trouble differentiating your feelings for Levi and your character’s feelings for his character. The line seems to be blurring between them, and that concerns you. 

In between scenes, you truly enjoy spending time with Levi. He’s smart and funny. He nerds out about tea and kung fu movies, and you’ve spent many an evening just listening to him go into more detail about the two than you ever thought possible. He gives you ideas when you struggle with character notes, and even helps you to memorize lines. At night, in the privacy of your hotel room, you’ve fantasized about what it might feel like to be desired by him, to hear him say your name as he touches your body.

Then you hear your name being called by the coordinator and you snap out of it. “Is that ok with you? Being completely nude for the scene?” she asks.

“No..no..I’d like for both of us to be covered,” you answer. It’s better this way, you think to yourself. It keeps it professional.

Levi shrugs. “Fine by me.”

You both walk back to the hotel at the end of the day, but Levi stops you before you enter the building.

“Hey, you ok today? You seem distracted.”

“I’m fine. I guess I’m just nervous about tomorrow.” 

“I get it. But we’ve put a lot of work into this. And I’d like to think we trust each other at this point.” He puts his hand on your shoulder. “You’ve got this.”

Just like that, you feel more at ease. He just has such a way with you. “You’re right, we’ve done well so far. And I do trust you, Levi.”

——

When you arrive at your trailer the next morning, there’s a to-go cup on your table. 

To calm your body and mind. —Levi

Your makeup artist smiles as you read the note. “Levi just brought that by. You sure have a great leading man.”

You smile. “Yeah, I sure do.”

The scene takes place in the forest in the afternoon. Your character has snuck away from her home to meet him, far away from spying eyes. The Director has decided to film the scene in sections instead of one long scene, at least for now. 

The marker board is clicked and you and Levi walk hand-in-hand among the trees. He pulls you into a small clearing, then grabs the back of your neck as he starts kissing you fully. You pull away and look him in the eyes.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Your character is a lady of high society; it’s scandalous for someone of her stature to say such a thing, but here she is, with this man that is ‘below’ her, and she wants nothing else than for him to ravage her.

You can totally relate to your character, in that regard.

He moves closer to you and begins to fondle your breasts, then he grabs the front of your white cotton blouse and tears it off of you, revealing your bare chest. 

He lays his chore jacket on the ground. “Undo my trousers,” he commands, and you do so. You then lie down on the jacket beneath you while he pulls down his trousers and takes off his henley shirt. When he takes off his trousers, you look away.

“No - don’t look away. Look at me,” he says with authority. He crouches over you and easily pulls off your skirt. 

“Cut! Let’s get them ready for closeup shots.” The Director and his team set up for the next shots as you and Levi sit awkwardly on the ground. You can’t move too much because you don't want to spoil the continuity of the scene, so you freeze as your hair and makeup team tousle your hair and touch up your makeup.

Both of you have your groins covered but other than that, you are completely naked, except you’re still wearing your stockings and boots. The Director tells Levi to get on top of you and he does so.

“Ready to do this?” He whispers.

“Yes, I’m ready,” you answer.

“Scene 24, Take 1..”

*Clap*

Levi is immediately kissing your lips, then moving down to your neck and collarbone. He looks back up at you and begins to thrust, each one hard and deliberate. You begin to move your hips to meet his thrusts and he breathes heavily into the skin of your neck. Even without actually having sex, the friction enough is turning you on; that, and Levi’s kisses on your body.

Then you feel it. A hardening bulge rubbing up against your clit. You look into his eyes and see a brief flash of recognition, but neither of you break character. 

He pulls you up and your legs are wrapped around him. He continues to thrust into you but it’s slower now, your bodies working together as you grind. His hard cock is rubbing your clit just right, and you feel like you could come from just this feeling alone. You’ve forgotten about the hoards of people watching both of you right now and you’re completely in the moment, letting him pull you even closer to him. 

“Levi..” you whisper in his ear. It slips from your mouth before you know it; there aren’t any lines scripted for this scene, and you’re hoping it wasn’t loud enough for the boom mic to pick up. It earns a look from Levi and then he smirks - you’re not sure if that was in character either. 

Your hands grasp at his hair and he starts slowing down. You look up at the sky thinking about the pleasure you - and your character - just felt. Then your lips graze against each other as your breathing becomes more calm.

“And cut! Great work you two I loved how that flowed. Let’s take a 15 minute break. I’ll look through the footage and decide if we need to re-shoot anything.”

Just like that, the moment is gone. The Director and others begin to move equipment and Levi’s assistant brings him a robe. He has it on and around him before you can barely get off of him.

“Good work,” he says curtly as he walks off. Your assistant takes a little longer to get to you, so you’re sitting there, naked, trying to figure out just exactly what happened between the two of you.

Levi keeps his distance during the break and as he listens to the director’s notes. You have to re-shoot a few closeup shots, and although the energy is still there, something is different. You can feel it. 

——

Levi doesn’t come out with you and the crew for dinner that night, and he doesn’t reply to your text messages. You’re worried - did you do something to offend him? Was it because you moaned his name during the scene?

That has to be it. It probably made him feel awkward. Maybe he thinks you’re unprofessional. It makes your palms cold and clammy just thinking about disappointing him, you can’t bear it.

But you can’t deny that he was turned on during the scene. You felt him against you. You couldn’t have imagined that.

You walk back to your hotel room lethargically. You think about texting him again, this time apologizing for your behavior, but before you can, there’s a knock on your door.

“Levi?”

“Hey.” He shifts one leg to the other, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Can we talk?”

“Of course,” you open the door wider for him to enter, “come in.”

He enters, his body language clearly restless and troubled. “What’s up?” you question.

“About today’s shoot….I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’m always professional. I respect you as an actress.”  

He paces the room and has a difficult time looking at you. You assume he’s going to reprimand you for your behavior today, so you prepare yourself. “I know you do, Levi. And I respect you.”

He finally stops in front of you. “But me getting turned on today…I don’t want you to think less of me. It’s just that you’re-“ he runs his hand through his dark hair. 

Butterflies begin to form in your stomach. You’ve never seen Levi this flummoxed before. He takes a deep breath and it seems to give him focus as he moves closer to you. 

“You’ve done something to me. When I had you in my arms today, I couldn’t help myself. Then when you said my name like that…”

He looks into your eyes. “I’ve kissed you countless times during this filming. But right now, I want to kiss you as myself.”

Your heart does backflips and your throat is suddenly dry. “So kiss me,” you invite, moving even closer to him.

It takes him a moment, almost as if he is checking if it’s truly ok. Then with a deep breath, he grabs the back of your neck and crashes his lips into yours. Even though you’ve kissed him many times, this time it’s different. There’s an electricity to it, an honesty, as if he’s laying bare his entire self to you. 

His hand moves from your hip bone to under your shirt, his soft touch sending shivers down your spine. It doesn’t take long for his other hand to make it under your shirt as well, and soon he’s pulling it over your head and off of you. 

You also start letting your hands roam, first down his back and then under his t-shirt. You grab the hem and pull it off of him, but before you can do more he’s working on unclasping your bra. 

“I want you so badly.” His voice is low and raspy as he lays you on the bed.

You’ve started peeling off your leggings but he takes them and pulls them off roughly, desperately. “There are condoms in the drawer of the bedside table.” He gives you a look. “You know..just in case.” He smiles, then reaches over to the drawer. As he does so, you pull off your underwear and start touching yourself. You rub your clit in circles, watching him as he stands over you.

There’s a giant bulge in his grey sweatpants and you can see the lust in his eyes. “God, you’re beautiful.” He throws the condom packet down and dives in between your legs, kissing the inside of your thighs.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to have you like this? To take this beautiful pussy as mine?” He starts licking at your folds and you swear you’ve entered heaven. He starts flicking his tongue over your clit, alternating between fast and slow. Your back arches and your hands reach down to grip his hair. 

“Yes, yes, right there….fuck…” You can’t believe this is happening. Levi is here, he wants you, and he’s eating your pussy in a way that no man ever has.

Just when you feel you could climax, he stops. He reaches down next to the bed and picks up the condom package, sticking it in his mouth as he takes off his sweatpants and underwear. 

You’d seen him naked on set, but his cock had been flaccid at the time; now that he’s hard, it’s even more impressive. As he puts on the condom, you lick your lips, preparing yourself to truly - finally - have him inside you.

He can see the desire in your eyes. “Look at you - so eager for my cock are you?”

“Yes, Levi, I want it so badly. I’ve always wanted you.” You open your legs a little wider, inviting him to go between them. 

He moves in and looks down on you as he touches his cock. “Fuck, you’re so pretty like this. I don’t know how I’ve kept myself in check for this long.” 

You smile. “So you’ve been thinking about me?”

“Of course I have. How could I not?” He positions himself above you and rubs his cock on your entrance, covering it with your juices. “When I’m not on set with you, you’re all I think about.”

Before this night, Levi had always had a quiet, awkward confidence to him, as if there were a multitude of thoughts happening just below the surface; but now, he was assertive and cocky, telling you his thoughts and desires without any restraint. You loved seeing this new side of him.

He enters you slowly and you both take a deep breath, then he begins to move faster as he sees a smile form across your face.

“You feel so good…fuck…” 

Your words encourage him to pick up the pace, the sounds of his hips slamming into you reverberate throughout the room. “Shit, you’re so wet, I can’t get enough of you.” He moves down to kiss you passionately, then he starts to kiss and suck on your neck.

“Be careful..I have to shoot a scene tomorrow,” you warn, halfheartedly.

“Makeup can cover it up,” he growls in your ear and then continues.

He feels so good, you can’t resist anything this man does to you, so you give into him completely as his cock rams into you and his mouth claims you.

The evening is a flurry of moans and grunts, him having his way with you on the bed, against the wall, in the shower - it was as if you were both discovering pleasure for the first time. Real pleasure - not performative. 

As the sun begins to rise, you both lay exhausted and satisfied in the bed, the sheets in a tangled mess around you.

“This won’t change how we work together, will it?” you ask with a worried look on your face.

“Why would it? If anything, it’ll make our chemistry on screen more believable.” He kisses the top of your head. “And this will make the preparation for the other sex scenes much more interesting,” he says with a boyish grin. 

You can’t argue with that. “I suppose life sometimes does imitate art.” 

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[loverslantern]

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: A trap is set to save John.

Warning: Cannon violence, gun usage, abuse mentioned, trauma, death, guilt, reader gets a little feral at the end, demonic possession, John Winchester

Word Count: 12.9k

Devil's Trap

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Outfit Board)

  “They’ve got Dad,” Dean announces, his phone clutched tightly in his hand—his knuckles white. His jaw is set as he takes the Colt and tucks it into the back of his jeans. 

  “What are you doing, Dean?” Sam asks.

  Dean grabs his duffle bag, the movement quick and harsh. “We gotta go.”

  “Why?” 

 “‘Because the demon knows we’re in Salvation, alright. It knows we got the Colt. It’s got Dad- it’s probably coming for us next.”

  “Good. We’ve still got three bullets left. Let it come,” Sam reasons.

  “That’s a horrible idea,” I interject.

  “We’re not ready, okay?” Dean adds, his voice far harsher than mine. “We don’t know how many of them are out there. Now, we’re no good to anybody dead. We’re leaving now!”

**********

  The Impala speeds down the road, my body jerking as a sharp turn is made. 

  “I’m telling you, Dean, we could have taken him,” Sam says.

  “Right, because three bullets against an army makes total sense,” I remark, rolling my eyes at his insistence.

  “You don’t know that he wouldn’t have shown up himself,” he argues.

  “Why would he?” I counter. “It would be better and smarter to send other demons in to take the bullets than himself and—”

  “And we need a plan,” Dean cuts our arguing off. “Now, they’re probably keeping Dad alive, we just gotta figure out where. They’re gonna wanna trade him for the gun.”

  Sam shakes his head, prompting a “What?” from his brother.

  “Dean, if that were true, why didn’t Meg mention a trade?” His voice breaks as he continues, “Dad, he might be…”

  “Don’t!” Dean barks.

  “If they kill him, then they lose any leverage they currently have,” I point out, fearing I sound more matter-of-fact rather than sympathetic.

  “That’s not a guarantee,” Sam shakes his head. “Look, I don’t want to believe it any more than you. But if he is, all the more reason to kill this damn thing. We still have the Colt. We can still finish the job.”

  “Screw the job, Sam!” He shouts.

  “Dean, I’m just trying to do what he would want. He would want us to keep going.”

  “Quit talking about him like he’s dead already,” Dean grumbles. “Listen to me, everything stops until we get him back, you understand me? Everything.”

  The car falls into a beat of silence, the lack of usual music becoming painfully obvious. “So how do we find him?” Sam gives in.

  “Maybe we go to Lincoln. Start at the warehouse where he was taken,” He suggests.

  “Come on, Dean, you really think these demons are going to leave a trail?” Sam questions.

  Another pause envelopes the quiet car. “You’re right. We need help.”

**********

  “I told you I should’ve waited in the car,” I mumble, my hands raised above my head as a shotgun is pointed directly at my chest by an older bearded man in a baseball cap.

  “Bobby, look, she’s cool. She’s not gonna do anything,” Dean reasons, trying to get his friend to stand down. His concern is sweet, but this situation is, frankly, more annoying than it is scary. If this wasn’t a dear family friend of theirs, I probably would’ve done something already.

  “Heard you were running around with a witch but I thought they were jus’ bein’ bitches,” he remarks, his bluntness amusing despite the predicament. 

  “No, Bobby, this is our friend Y/N. We’ve talked about her before, remember?” Sam tries.

  “Yeah, Dean—” He gets cut off by a sharp look from the man in question. “But you never mentioned she was one of ‘em,” he continues. 

  The words should hurt, and the othering should feel like a stab in the gut, but I suppose I’ve gotten used to the expected reaction. The Winchesters have always been the only hunters I’ve known, it’s always been safer that way. And yet, just knowing them was enough exposure to the reaction I would receive for being what I am. The boys never gave me crap for it, except for that one time when I was around twelve and Dean had called me some horrible things. And maybe I was, or am, a pushover, but I couldn’t, and still can’t, find it in myself to hate him for that. We were kids, and for all I know, it could’ve been from John’s beliefs and everything else that was put onto him. But, John? Him I can despise. Maybe that’s biased and stupid, but he also hated a child. Even now, he still can’t stand me or trust me, even though I’ve done nothing to give him that impression. Then there’s all the stuff he put my boys through, but that’s another story.

  Regardless, I learned. I know how to hide who I am, and in the case I can’t, then I know how to show I’m harmless. “Look, we’re just here for some help. If it makes you feel better, you can get some iron and cuff me up ‘till we leave,” I offer. Yet, the thought makes me feel sick. Bile burning in my throat the same way the metal had dug into my skin—

  “No one is cuffing you,” Dean says sharply, shutting the idea down fast. 

  “But you can get the help you guys want and—”

  “No,” he says firmly, cutting me off before I have the chance to say anything more.

  “Dean…” Sam says with a frown, as if feeling bad for agreeing with me. I know he’s probably not so fond of the idea, but considering the situation, it seems like the better option.

  “No! No one is touching her!” He shouts, his voice powerful against the wooden walls of the house. The words hang in the air as if embedding themselves into the groves of the wood, each figure grasping it within its curl as if holding it close so that it could repeat the words to itself in the dark of night. 

  Bobby stares at him, his expression unreadable. And for some reason, he lowers his gun. “Fine,” he grumbles. “But if you try anythin’, this boy vouchin’ for you won’t be able to protect you.”

  I nod, lowering my arms back to my side, a slight ache lingering in my biceps. “Yes, sir.”

*********

  Dean had insisted on me staying right by his side even though everything had cooled over, and I could have been doing something productive like helping Sam go through the many books that surrounded him. But, no, I stay right by Dean's side. 

  Bobby left the gun in arm's reach on the table we stand over, lying down with the mouth of it facing me. I suppose I can’t blame him for being paranoid, as annoying as it is. He holds up two round silver flasks with crosses on them and hands one to Dean. “Here you go,” he says.

  “What is this–holy water?” Dean asks.

  “That one is,” he answers, holding up the other flask. “This is whiskey.” He takes a swig from the flask and hands it to Dean, who also drinks, his head tilted back a little. My eyes trace the column of his throat. He doesn’t react to the liquor, no grimace or scrunch of the nose. He tilts the flask at me, offering me some, too, but I shake my head.

  He hands the whiskey back. “Bobby, thanks. Thanks for everything. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure we should come.”

  “Nonsense,” he answers, his voice like a permanent grumble. “Your Daddy needs help.”

  “Well, yeah, but last time we saw you, I mean, you did threaten to blast him full of buckshot. Cocked the shotgun and everything,” Dean reveals.

  I wonder what John did to warrant getting a gun pointed at him. Though, something’s amusing about that image: someone finally so sick of his bullshit that they pulled one on him. I’m sure it didn’t take long for John to piss Bobby.

  “Yeah, well, what can I say? John just has that effect on people,” Bobby answers. 

  I laugh before I can stop myself, not yet used to his bluntness. His hard eyes turn to me, his face expressionless. “Sorry…” I mumble, calming it down to a smile, “You’re just…really right.”

  “None of that matters now,” he responds. “All that matters is that you get him back.”

  “Bobby, this book…” Sam says from the other side of the room. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  He walks over to Sam, who is hunched over a very large book, and sits on the corner of the crowded desk. “Key of Solomon? It’s the real deal, alright.”

  “Woah, wait,” I say, taken aback, walking closer to them. “You know the book deals with magical operations and spells, right? So, like, you're essentially using magic…”

  “And?” he grumbles.

  “And…does anyone see the hypocrisy there?” I ask, looking between the three. If there was one thing I learned about hunters, it is that they’ll use things related to or originating in magic, or even just magic itself, but will be the first to target a witch. Doesn’t make much sense.

  It’s quiet for one, two…three beats as if the thought had somehow never occurred to them. “She’s got a point,” Dean speaks up, breaking the silence.

  “So then these, uh, protective circles. ‘They really work?” Sam asks.

  “Hell, yeah. You get a demon in–they’re trapped. Powerless. It’s like a Satanic roach motel,” Bobby answers, earning a chuckle from Sam.

  “Man knows his stuff,” Dean says proudly, coming over to us.

  “I’ll tell you somethin’ else, too. This is some serious crap you boys stepped in,” he warns.

  “Oh, yeah? How’s that?” Sam asks with a hint of disbelief in his voice.

  “Normal year, I hear of, say, three demonic possessions. Maybe four, tops. This year, I hear of twenty-seven so far. ‘You get what I’m saying? More and more demons are walking among us—a lot more.”

  A chill runs down my spine, the atmosphere seeming to change with the warning, and something else. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I turn to look at the window behind me. 

  “Do you know why?” Sam asks, his face grimmer than before.

  “No, but I know it’s something big. The storm’s coming, and you boys, your Daddy—you are smack in the middle of it.”

  Suddenly, the dog outside starts barking, the sound powerful and jolting. “Rumsfeld,” Bobby grumbles, walking over to the window. The barking turns into whining. He mumbles something to himself as he looks out the window. My eyes go to the front door. “Something’s wrong,” he announces. 

  “She’s here,” I breathe.

  The door bursts open. Meg saunters in, an unamused expression on her face. “No more crap, okay?”

  Dean lunges at her, unscrewed flask in his hand. But Meg hits him, sending him into a stack of books. “I want the Colt,” she demands, “The real Colt. Right now.”

  “Sorry,” I say, moving directly into her line of sight as Sam stands in front of Bobby. “I can’t give you the Colt, but I can give you a round two.” I take a few steps back, and she follows. “And I’ll play fair this time.”

  A smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. “Where is it?” 

  “We don’t have it on us. We buried it,” Sam answers. 

  “Didn’t I say ‘no more crap’? I swear–after everything I heard about you Winchesters, I got to tell you, I’m a little underwhelmed,” she says, taking a step forward for each one I take back. “First, Johnny tries to pawn off a fake gun, and then he leaves the real gun with you three chuckleheads. Lackluster, men. I mean, did you really think I wouldn’t find you?”

  “Actually, we were counting on it,” Dean answers, looming behind her. She turns to look at him, and he meets her eyes before looking up at the ceiling, where a large protective circle has been made. “Gotcha.”

********

  She’s tied to a chair in the middle of the floor, right at the center of the circle above. Her wrists are tied to the arms, and her ankles are tied to the legs of the chair. “You know, if you wanted to tie me up, all you had to do was ask,” she muses with a teasing smile.

  “You’re kind of freaky,” I remark, staring at her from the outskirts of the circle.

  “You’re one to talk,” she retorts quickly. “Gettin’ inside people's heads– making them do whatever you want.”

  “To be fair, I didn’t make you do anything, I just showed you something,” I correct, taking a step closer to her. “How was that, by the way?” 

  It’s cruel, and I know it is with a sick twisting in my gut. But the words are already said, and there’s no taking them back. I didn’t think before speaking. I rarely do.

  Her smile widens like a cat's, and her eyes drag up and down me. “I like you,” she says.

  “That’s a shame because I’m not too fond of you,” I quip, stepping out of the circle. That was probably more talking to her than I should’ve done.

  Bobby steps back into the room, carrying a large container of salt. “I salted the doors and windows. If there are any demons out there–they ain’t getting in.” And with that confirmation, Dean stands up, his unbuttoned blue shirt rolled up to his elbows.

 He circles her like a predator circles its prey before stopping in front of her. “Where’s our father, Meg?” he asks, his voice eerily calm.

  “You didn’t ask very nice,” she purrs.

  “Where’s our father, bitch?”

  “Jeez. ‘You kiss your mother with that mouth? Oh wait, I forgot, you don’t,” she teases. Everything a joke to her.

  He lunges at her, hands on the arms of the chair to steady her. “You think this is a fucking game?” he yells, and I think it’s the loudest I’ve ever heard him. “Where is he?! What did you do to him?”

  “He died screaming. I killed him myself,” she answers, smiling.

  He stands straight, something akin to hatred washes over his face, and then a loud smack echoes in the room, her face forced to the side from the sheer force of his hand, his hand lingering in the air. I step closer against the wall, arms crossing against my stomach.

  “That’s kind of a turn-on—you hitting a girl,” she muses as if it didn’t hurt, and maybe it didn’t when she is what she is. 

  “You’re no girl,” he corrects. 

  Then, Bobby stands, moving into the next room ever with a nod of his head, beckoning us away from what is being done. “Dean,” he calls, making sure he follows too.

  “You okay?” Sam asks his brother.

  “She’s lying. He’s not dead,” he answers, expertly avoiding the question. He’s still calm about it, but you can hear the fuming just below it.

  “Dean, you got to be careful with her. Don’t hurt her,” Bobby warns.

  “Why?”

  “Because she really is a girl, that’s why,” he explains.

  “What are you talking about?” Sam asks.

  “She’s possessed. That’s a human possessed by a demon,” he answers. “Can’t you tell?”

  “Are you trying to tell me there’s an innocent girl trapped somewhere in there?” Dean asks. Bobby just nods as if the words are too much to handle.

  “Fuck,” I curse at the same time Dean declares that it’s good news.

  “No,” I say, something burning behind my eyes, “It’s not. She fell from that building, and it should’ve killed her, but it didn’t, and if we–” 

  “She’ll die,” Sam finishes for me.

  I nod. It’s my fault. God, it’s all my fault. I’m the reason she fell, and the reason an innocent girl will die. She’s going to die. The blood has been on my hands since that night the shadows came, and I can’t wash it off.

  “Come on, get your book,” Dean tells me, his mind made up despite it all.

  “Dean, no, that’s a death sentence,” I argue, my hands beginning to shake. She’ll be dying by my hands a second time.

  “She’s an innocent girl,” Bobby adds.

  “And we’re gonna put her out of her misery,” Dean declares.

  “I don’t think you—”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I understand just fine,” he cuts me off, his words sharp and harsh, his accent coming through a little heavier. It's a different side of him, one I haven’t seen before. As I look at him, I know I should be wary of this side of him, an almost barbaric side that’s willing to do anything. Maybe I should be scared of him, yet I can’t be. “You can heal her, can't you?” he adds.

   I can’t. I can’t fix things. I try to, and it just doesn’t work; I’m just not good enough. I am not good at fixing things. I could not fix and heal Dean when he was sick and dying, nor could I do anything when those kids were sick and dying—I may as well be powerless. I’m far better at ruining things than I am fixing them, and I wish it weren’t that way, and I try to do good, I try not to ruin things, but they break beneath my hands anyway, and I don’t know how to stop it, I just—

  “Can’t you?” he repeats himself, a little harsher this time.

  I shake my head, but I say, “I…I guess so.”

  “Get your book,” he says again.

  It appears in my hands in less than a second, and I follow him into the room, the pages flipping by themselves to the right one.

  “Are you gonna read me a story?” she teases.

  “Something like that,” Dean answers. “Hit it.”

  “Regna terrae, cantate deo, psallite domino…,” I start, the Latin rolling smoothly off my tongue— my second language.

  “An exorcism? Are you serious?” she questions Dean.

  “Oh, we’re going for it, baby— head spinning, projectile vomiting, the whole nine yards,” he answers, referencing The Exorcism even at a time like this. 

  “...tribuite virtutem deo,” I continue, speaking power into God. She flinches, sucking in a sharp breath. Dean looks at me, and I stop. This was torturing her into a confession before ripping her away.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” she spits, her eyes locked on me. Then, her gaze turns to Dean, “I’m gonna rip the bones from your body.”

  “No, you’re gonna burn in hell,” he corrects. “Unless you tell us where our Dad is.”

  But Meg just smiles at him, no amount of pain seemingly enough to pull the truth from her lips. “Well, at least you’ll get a nice tan,” he says, knowing it is not yet enough. He looks at me then, green eyes boring into me.

  I know my role. I know my fate: the blood I am born to bear. I look down at my spellbook, which is just a little too foreign in my hands. I read, “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” she shakes violently, “omnis satanica potestas, omnis incuriso infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, onmis congregatio et secta diabolica....”

  The chair rattles beneath her lashing movements, and finally, she gasps in pain. I stop.

  “He begged for his life with tears in his eyes. He begged to see his sons one last time. That’s when I slit his throat.”

  “Ergo…” I continue. Therefore.

  Dean leans down to her, hands bracing either side of the chair's arms. “For your sake, I hope you’re lying,” he says. “‘Cause if it’s true, I swear to God, I will march into hell myself and I will slaughter each and every one of you evil sons of bitches, so help me God!”

  “Perditionis venenum propinare. Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae.” A breeze blows through the room, shifting the curtains and loose papers. “Hostis humanae salutis. Humiliare sub potenti manu dei. Contremisce et effuge. Invocato a nobis sancto et terribile nomine. Quem inferi tremunt…”

  She sucks in a sharp breath. “Where is he?” Dean tries again.

  “You just won’t take ‘dead’ for an answer, will you?” she answers through gritted teeth.

  “Where is he?!” he yells.

  “Dead!”

  “No, he’s not! He’s not dead! He can’t be!”

  “Ab insidis diaboli, libera nos, domine. Ut ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias, libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos.” The chair slides around the circle. “Ut inimicos sanctae ecclesiae humiliare digneris, to rogamus audi....”

  “He will be!” she yells. I stopped again.

  “Wait! What?!”

  “He’s not dead. But he will be after what we do to him,” she elaborates. 

  “How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Dean asks.

  “You don’t,” she smiles.

  “Y/N!”

  But before I can read the words spew from her. “A building! Okay? A building in Jefferson City,” she answers.

  “Missouri? Where, where? An address!” he demands, circling her.

  “I don’t know,” she says firmly.

  “And the demon, the one we’re looking for…where is it?” Sam asks.

  “I don’t know! I swear! That’s everything. That’s all I know,” she pleads.

  “Finish it,” Dean demands.

  “What? I told you the truth!”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You son of a bitch, you promised,” she spits.

  “I lied!” he yells, turning towards her.

  I suck in a deep breath, looking at the next verse.

  “Wait!” Sam says, pulling Dean towards me, creating a mini huddle. “Maybe we can still use her. Find out where the demon is,” he suggests quietly. 

  “She doesn’t know,” Dean answers.

  “She lied,” he points out.

  “Sam, there’s an innocent girl trapped somewhere in there. We’ve got to help her,” he reasons.

  “To what degree is this really helping?” I point out. “She’ll die. This whole thing was stupid. I can just use a scrying spell.”

  “We can’t leave her like this,” Dean says. I look at Meg then, weak and tied to the chair. If the demon is gone, then she’ll be free. Her life was ripped away from her with this possession, and it could be given back; she’d have freedom…But free at what cost? I do not know. Morality is a very fine line; I should know, I walk it each day with my very existence, and I fear what may happen if I toe too far out of line. 

  I wet my lips and glance down at my book, the decision is already made. “Dominicos sanctae ecclesiae, terogamus audi nos, terribilis deus do sanctuario suo deus israhel. Ipse tribuite virtutem et fortitudinem plebi suae, benedictus deus, gloria patri....”

  She throws her head back, mouth opening in a blood-curdling scream. A black cloud shoots from her mouth as if being pulled from her stomach; it spreads out in the constraints of the circle before vanishing as if it never existed. Her body slumped forward, blood dripping from her mouth. I step forward before I can think about it. I drop to my knees beside her, my spell book slipping out of my hand to be discarded to the side. I reach my hand up carefully, as if dealing with a wounded animal. My fingers brush her jaw and cheek, carefully lifting her heavy head an inch or two. I duck my head a little to try and better examine her face. I can feel their eyes on me and, most importantly, hers. 

  Blood is dribbling down her chin, but she’s still breathing. It’s ragged and uneven, but it’s there. She’s practically a miracle that I cannot begin to fathom. I don’t waste another second because seconds could be all she has. Soft purple light emits from my palms, seeping into her pale skin. “Please don’t just stand there,” I say, not looking back or breaking focus from her. My plea seemed to snap them out of whatever trance they were in. “Call 911. Get some water and blankets,” Dean orders one of them.

 I can feel how overwhelmed her body is, working overtime as it struggles to keep her alive. So much is hurt in her body that it feels like drowning. She sucks in a sharp yet weak breath, her shoulders shuttering. I move my power forward, trying to focus solely on her. She trembles beneath my touch. I bring the jagged edges of bones together, guiding the power to connect them like puzzle pieces, filling the gaps and breaks with pure energy until the zigzagging breaks themselves disappear as if they were never there in the first place. Sam and Dean surround us, working around me to untie her. “Thank you,” she whispers. 

  “Shh, shh,” Sam hushes. “Just take it easy, alright?”

  “Come on. Let’s get her down,” Dean directs. I slip my hand down to hers, shuffling around to give them room while actively healing her. They lift her easily from the chair, a crunching noise filling the air. I feel the breaks, the further ruining of her body like it’s an echo of my own, her blood-curdling scream pressing itself into the grooves of my brain. 

  I kneel beside her the second she’s lowered to the floor. The energy spread throughout her body, separate tendrils moving through shattered ribs and torn muscle like fingers brushing over the cracks of the pavement. It finds the breaks and tries to mend them, trying to spread out as much as it can to mend as much as possible at once. I urge myself to hurry, to heal more, but there's so much. It’s not just one broken bone or one issue; it's the entirety of her. It's more bones than I can count or heal quickly enough when her entire body is under duress—

  “It’s been a year,” she croaks, her voice strained.

  “What?” Sam asks the very same question going on in my very busy mind. 

  “It’s been a year,” she elaborates.

  I can feel the labour she’s putting on her lungs and her heart with the simple action of speaking. I follow the shot of pain, chasing after it and wrapping myself around it, mellowing out the festering beast as if I were petting an agitated dog. I soothe it back, pulling the wave back from the shoreline until the waves calm down enough. 

  “Shh, just take it easy,” Sam directs, holding her other hand.

  “I’ve been awake for some of it. I couldn’t move my own body,” she explains. “The things I did– it’s a nightmare.” 

  “Was it telling us the truth about our Dad?” Dean asks.

  “Dean,” Sam warns firmly, and I’m glad he did. 

  The air feels instantly thicker, like a blanket trying to snuff out a fire. It’s almost suffocating but not as much as it is to feel sharp tangs prick at my palms and run down my spine, a sharpness I know is from her. 

  “We need to know,” Dean responds. 

   “Yes. But it wants…” She says. I can feel her weaken, like everything suddenly felt miles away. “…you to know…that…”

  “Shh, it’s okay, don’t,” I cut her off, losing focus for a second. “Don’t talk, you’re hurting yourself.”

  But she shakes her head I feel this pull from her like she’s getting further away. 

  “They want you to come for him,” she finishes, her face paler and the bags beneath her eyes darker. I’m losing her. She’s fading, and I can feel it. I send some power forward, chasing after this disappearing force that’s nothing more than a feeling. 

  “If Dad’s still alive, none of that matters,” Dean answers. 

  I can’t grasp her. I can’t hold on, it’s more than just the shaking of my hands or the ache in my head—I just can’t hold her. It’s like her body has long made this decision, and I can’t get it to change its mind. I knew this would happen, that I’m not good enough at this to keep her here. She’s dying, and I can’t change that. Yet, I can’t give up. It’s hopeless, yet I can’t bring myself to tear my hands away because what if something changes? What if I’m capable of more? So, I push more energy forward, ignoring the sharp pain that throbs in my head. 

  Footsteps come forth, and a navy blanket is laid upon the girl by aged hands. A water cup is put into Dean's hands, the droplets of condensation running down the sides. He holds her head up gently, her neck extending to gulp down the water like it’s the paradise she’s been searching for. 

  “Where is the demon we’re looking for?” Sam asked, tucking the blanket more tightly around her. 

  “Not there. Other ones. Awful ones,” she answers, her voice quieter. She’s getting further away. I try to put more energy forth, my hands shaking more, my head aching, a knot forming in my stomach, and warmth trickling down my nose. I’m doing all I know to keep her on this plane. 

  “Where are they keeping our Dad?” Dean pushes.

  They don’t seem to understand this delicate process, this moving away that she’s doing. They don’t understand how they aren’t helping, and I cannot break focus to tell them to stop. I can’t waste these precious moments, but God, I wish they’d just stop. 

  “By the river. Sunrise,” she says faintly. Her heart is beating too slowly, her lungs failing to keep up. 

  “Sunrise,” Dean echoes. “What does that mean?”

  She slips further like the tide going out.

  “What does that mean?” he repeats. 

  Her eyes close, her heart thumping one last beat before it stops. I feel her body shut down, like lights going out. Pure energy searching in a void. “She’s gone,” I whisper, my hands falling from her and into my lap as I stare at her lifeless body. 

  A numbing static fills my ears. The ache in my head, the shaking of my hands, and the blood dripping down my lip are the only proof that I had tried and failed. 

  It’s funny. I can destroy without thinking, without even breaking a sweat. But the moment I try to heal, to reverse my own doing, I can’t. 

  The room is silent. What more could be said? What more could be done? She’s dead, and the eyes that watch her corpse are the very same ones to blame. How are you supposed to move on from that?

  I stare at my hands resting on my lap, searching for an answer that has to be written in the lines on my palms, some sort of explanation as to what went wrong. How could I always be bad when all I try to be is good? It doesn’t make sense. There has to be some sort of explanation in my DNA, something tangible, so that I could know how to fix it. 

  “You better hurry up and beat it before the paramedics get here,” Bobby says. I don’t understand how they move on, how the guilt doesn’t try to eat them whole the second it takes its place. 

  “Come on,” Dean says softly, a gentle hand brushing my shoulder. When had he moved over here?

  I look up, my head inclined far back to make up for the distance of my kneeling and slumped position. “What?” I ask as if I can’t quite hear him. I can hear how weak my voice sounds, like a breath of a whisper rather than a conviction. His eyes soften, and it’s such a drastic change from his previous stern and demanding appearance. He crouches down, coming to my level, his eyes tracing me. His hands find my face, cradling my cheeks, his fingers slipping into my hair.

  I feel sick, my heart feels like a void, and I don’t think it’s from using my powers. I don’t deserve this softness, this kindness, especially when her corpse is just a couple of inches in front of me. But that doesn't stop him. He pulls one hand away, tugging down the blue sleeve of his button-down. He runs his covered hand beneath my nose and carefully over my lips like he didn’t care that my blood would stain the cuff of his sleeve. “We gotta go, sweetheart,” he repeats.

  I feel myself tremble in his hold, beneath his gaze. I wish I could collapse into him.

  I feel like a kicked puppy looking up at him with misty eyes. I feel pathetic because I keep failing those around me. I wish it were different, I wish I were different. But maybe I am just a kicked puppy looking for someone to take away these feelings.

 His hands slip from my face, dragging down my neck and over my shoulders. He squeezes lightly, encouraging me to stand with him, and I do. I stand even though I feel like I’m in some sick trance, like the world is shifting on its axis, and I can’t see straight. He picks up my spell book, pressing it into my hands. I clutch it to my chest, holding onto it like it’s a lifeline because I cannot hold onto him even though it feels like I must. 

  I’m aware of the eyes watching what should feel like a private moment. I’m not afraid to be vulnerable in front of others, but Dean is. Yet here he is— soft with me in front of the very people he feels he has to be strong for— and it only makes me love him more.

  “Here, take this,” Bobby says, ripping me from this moment in the same way his eyes move from us. He hands the Key of Solomon to Sam without a second thought. “You might need it,” he adds.

  “Thanks…for everything,” Dean says, his softness just barely remaining. “Be careful, alright?” 

  His hand finds my shoulder, guiding me to the front door as if he knew I wouldn’t be able to do it myself—he’s right. 

  “You just go find your Dad,” Bobby replies, brushing off the thanks. “And when you do, you bring him around, would you? I won’t even try to shoot him this time.”

  We walk out the door, out of that wooden home and away from a person we could not save, all in hopes of saving another. 

  I’m scared. The fight we’re walking into is more like a war; it’s bound to have casualties. I’m worried I’ll be as powerless as I feel now. I won’t be able to help, and I’ll lose the two boys I care for most.

  The ride to Missouri was long, but what else is new? Most of our rides were long, they were bound to be when we travel all around America. But they don’t always feel long; you’re with friends, there’s music playing, and you get to see the treeline blur into vast fields—essentially, you know you’re moving. It’s a road trip that I know is a little messed up, yet I can’t help but enjoy it just a little because I’m with people I can’t not see being in my life.

  I can’t say the same for this trip.

  South Dakota to Missouri. 

  I can’t get her corpse out of my head.

  I can hear the crunch of bones in the crunching of leaves rolled under the wheels of the car. Or, when I closed my eyes to nap (which Dean insisted I do), I could feel the way her soul slipped through my fingers, the loss like trying to grasp onto a stream of water as if it were rope. 

  Luckily, we've arrived in Missouri. It doesn’t make me feel better. I’m leaning against the Impala, watching a train move by in a mass of red color; we’re parked by some train track for a reason that I didn’t pay attention to. I can feel the breeze the passing train creates, tickling my skin. I know I’m alive and she isn’t. 

  I can feel Dean's eyes on me, long glimpses stolen between loading guns from the trunk into a duffle bag. He’s been checking up on me often since we left Bobby. He’s trying to help. He did succeed in getting me to drink copious amounts of water, but water couldn’t wash away the guilt carved into my bones.

  I have so much guilt that I don’t know what to do with it. Hunting comes with losses, I know that. We lose people by figuring it out too slowly, or messing up in one way or another; we deal with that guilt because we have to. You learn to move on. I’ve never been very good at moving on. And with her, there’s no one to blame here. I solely caused this. 

  It’s like suddenly everyone who accused me of doing bad things just because I was a witch or believed I was bound to do something wicked, was right. I killed her. Death is normal, yes, it’s a natural part of life, but what is unnatural is the taking of another’s life—the exact thing I did. I’m bound to hurt the people around me because I cannot control myself. 

  I run my hands over my face, trying to clear my mind and fix myself. I don’t know what to do. There’s nothing I can do. I wish I could fix this part of me, I wish I knew how. I want to crumble to the floor and lash out like a child, but I can’t. I have to control my emotions, especially now when I’ve already messed up badly. If I lose control of my emotions, then I’ll just hurt more things. But it feels impossible to ease myself when it feels like a little monster is in my gut, eating me from the inside out. 

  I’ve already tried a couple of things. I went for a short walk, and I changed my shirt into something lighter, thinking that it would, in turn, make me feel lighter. It didn’t really work. Once more, I don’t know how the boys do it; how they are able to compartmentalize these feelings. I guess they have their own little things they do. Sam is reading the book Bobby gave him, resting it against the hood of the car, and Dean’s loading up weapons.

  I wonder if it’s eating at them too, if they too have little monsters in their guts. 

  “You’ve been quiet,” Sam comments, his voice directed away from me, towards his brother.

  “Just getting ready,” Dean shrugs it off. 

  “He’s gonna be fine, Dean,” Sam answers, figuring him out.

  Unsurprisingly, Dean doesn’t respond. I should’ve picked up on his quietness, I’m usually good at reading him, but I guess this time I was stupidly caught up in myself to realize his own feelings. 

  The car shifts a little, easing as the weight of a man and his very large book is removed. Sam moves to the trunk. Intrigued, I follow his movements, watching as he uncaps a thick white marker and begins to write something. 

  “Dude, what are you drawing on my car?” Dean exclaims, watching in horror as his brother graffiti’s his Baby. I move towards them, peeking from the side to see Sam drawing a circle with a star inside of it on the inside of the trunk lid. “That’s a Devil’s Trap,” I identify.

  “Demons can’t get through it or inside it,” Sam adds. 

  “So?” Dean spits, baffled. I’m kind of surprised he hasn’t tackled Sam. 

  Sam shifts to the corner of the trunk, drawing another little symbol there. “It basically turns the trunk into a lockbox,” he explains. 

  “So?” Dean repeats. 

  “So, we have a place to hide the Colt while we go get Dad,” Sam answers. 

 “What are you talking about? We’re bringing the Colt with us,” Dean counters. 

  “We can’t, Dean. We’ve only got three bullets left. We can’t just use them on any demon, we’ve got to use them on the demon,” Sam reasons.

  “When did you suddenly change your mind?” I comment. “‘Just a couple hours ago, you were willing to face an army with guns ablazing.”

  He gives me a look like he knows I’m right and yet wishes that I hadn’t remembered that detail. “It’s different now,” he says, and I decide not to push him on his stubborn response. 

 “Well, we have to save Dad, Sam, okay? We’re taking the Colt. We’re gonna need all the help we can get,” Dean argues. 

  “Dean, you know how pissed Dad would be if we used all the bullets? Dean, he wouldn’t want us to bring the gun,” he points out. 

“I don’t care, Sam. I don’t care what Dad wants, okay? And since when do you care what Dad wants?”

“We want to kill this demon. You used to want that, too. Hell, I mean you’re the one who came and got me at school!” Sam yells. Dean scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’re the one who dragged me back into this, Dean. I’m just trying to finish it!”

  “Well, you and Dad are a lot more alike than I thought, you know that? You both can’t wait to sacrifice yourself for this thing,” Dean accuses, his words as sharp as a knife as it glides through the air. “But you know what? I’m gonna be the one to bury you. You’re selfish, you know that? You don’t care about anything but revenge.”

  “That’s not true, Dean. I want Dad back,” Sam responds, earning another scoff. 

  “Alright, come on guys, arguing isn’t going to help anyone here, let alone your Dad,” I try to mediate even though I know it’s futile, they’ll keep going back and forth. I should take my own advice. I need to put aside my guilt and fear because it won’t help anyone.

  “They are expecting us to bring this gun,” Sam continues, completely ignoring me. “They get the gun, they kill us all. That Colt is our only leverage, and you know it, Dean. We can not bring that gun. We can’t.”

  “Fine,” Dean answers firmly, giving in rather easily. 

  “I’m serious, Dean,” Sam says.

  “I said fine, Sam,” he repeats. He makes a show out of taking the Colt out from his jacket's inner pocket, holding it up before putting it in the trunk. 

********

  A metal fence separates the sidewalk from a park with a river flowing through it, the wind coming off the small stream adding the slightest chill to the hot day. A bird chirps loudly from a hanging branch, stealing my attention away from looking for what Meg could have meant for us to find in Jefferson City. Regardless of our search, my eyes stay on it for as long as I can as we pass by it. 

  “Hey, hey,” Dean says abruptly, moving my attention away from the chunky bird and onto him. He stops beneath the very branch the bird sits on, and as if the bird is pleased with that fact, it makes a little jump. “Think I know what Meg meant by Sunrise,” he reveals. I follow his eyesight to an apartment building, a sign perched outside of it reading “Sunrise Apartments.”

  “Very on the nose,” I remark, mostly to myself. 

  “Son of a bitch,” Dean curses. “That’s pretty smart. I mean, if these demons can possess people, they can possess almost anybody inside.”

  “So we won’t know who it is,” I add. There are certainly way over 50 apartments in the building, each one containing any number of people. 

  “Yeah, and anybody could attack us,” Sam adds.

  “And so we can’t kill them— a building full of human shields,” Dean builds onto the seemingly never-ending predicament. “This fucking sucks.”

  “Tell me about it,” Sam mumbles. “Alright, so, how the hell are we going to get in?”

  “Make an anonymous call with a descriptive enough threat to make them leave?” I suggest, shrugging.

  “Or.. we could just pull the fire alarm…” Dean offers, giving me a strange look for my suggestion. “Get out all the civilians.” 

  “Okay, but the city responds in, what, seven minutes?” Sam points out, trying to figure out how big our window would be.

  “Seven minutes exactly,” Dean confirms.

  “Isn’t that, like, a crime?” I ask, though I’m not sure if pulling a fire alarm under false pretenses is a crime.

  “When has committing a crime ever been an issue for us?” Dean points out.

  “Touché,” I respond.

  “Did you think what you suggested wasn’t a crime?” Sam adds.

  I look at him with pursed lips, answering, “Double Touché.”

**************

  The plan had worked perfectly: Sam pulled the fire alarm, the firefighters showed up almost exactly seven minutes later, and Dean distracted a fireman with a ridiculous story while I used a tap of my finger, with some magic, to unlock a compartment on the firetruck.

  Now we walk down one of the halls in full fireman gear. We wear large helmets that cover our entire face, a breathing apparatus strapped to our backs as well as a small water tank and hose, and, of course, the classic jumpsuit. In truth, the uniform was far bigger and a lot heavier than I thought. There weren’t a whole lot of size options in that compartment, considering they were supposed to be used as a “just in case” for the firemen. The jumpsuit I got stuck with was intended for someone two times my height and weight, but considering all that’s at stake, it doesn't matter. 

  Dean is using his EMF reader to check the doors we pass, looking for any sign of the Demons.

  “I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up,” he remarks. 

  I remember that. I remember him admitting it when he was just a little too drunk that time we celebrated his 21st birthday a little late. It was one of the few times I felt comfortable drinking, despite it being technically illegal for me to do so at 19. But it was with him so I felt safe—almost invincible even.

  He drove to my college, we spent the day together eating greasy food and watching a western film he liked. Then at night, he drove us to this clearing where you could see the stars perfectly. We laid down a blanket in the grass and shared a case of beer (he definitely had more than I did, though). It tasted disgusting, but he had this easy, almost sloppy, smile on his lips, and he looked so lovely and himself that it was more than worth it—he’s always been worth it.   

  When the drinks wore down, and everything was all mellow and slow-like, he admitted this little fact, his words not slurred but bitter. I don’t hear the same bitterness now, as if he had accepted his fate or had long given up on this dream. I hope he hasn’t. He’d make a good firefighter, he’s good at saving people, and he’s certainly fit enough, skilled enough, and hot enough—you know, the whole stereotype that firefighters are hot. 

  “You never told me that,” Sam reveals.

  Unfortunately, I’m not surprised that he hasn't told his brother. I’m not sure if he would’ve told me if it hadn’t been for a drunken conversation. I’m not sure if he remembers telling me. 

  I hope he gets his dream or something similar to it. I really want him to get out of the hunting life at some point, even though it’s probably unfathomable to him. But I want him to understand that his life is more than this, I want him to be happy, I want him to live for himself rather than following the wants or orders of—

  The EMF beeps loudly, the noise pinging against the walls. A look is shared, and just to double check he leans it closer to the door, the beeping becoming frantic. He shuts it off quickly. He knocks at the door, loudly stating, “This is the fire department. We need you to evacuate.” He holds up a hand, directing us to be quiet as well as ready. 

  I hold my breath, listening closely for movement and the sound of a door unlocking. The door knob turns and the boys barrel through first, a woman stumbles back from the force of the door her eyes pitch black. Quickly, I grab the hose attached to the water canister on my back, spraying the man with holy water. Sam joins me in spraying; smoke, and the sound of sizzling fills the air, burning the couple. Dean lunges forward, punching the man square in the face and shoving him back into an open closet filled with coats. He slams the door shut before looking back at us and yelling, “Come on!”

  We are out of water, and on order, we stop spraying the water. The Demon lady is cowering in pain. Sam grabs the woman’s wrist, timing it with his brother to shove her in the closet too. Dean leans against the closet door, holding it closed.

  “Told you it would work!” I say, referring to the holy water tanks. “We should get Super Soakers next.”

  The door thumps behind him, nearly throwing him forward as the door lurches. “Hurry up,” he says through gritted teeth, trying to prevent them from escaping. 

  “Oh, right,” I mumble, creating a salt canister in my hand, light purple energy sparking around it as it forms. Quickly, I move towards him, pouring a line of salt around the door, making sure there are no gaps in the white lines. The pounding suddenly stops, and the Demons go dormant inside. 

  Moving in near synchronization, we take off the firemen's gear, the heavy equipment, and the yellow jumpsuits. I hop out of the mess of clothes, nearly tripping on the helmet as I bound towards the closed door on the far wall. I put my hand on the doorknob, taking a quick look over my shoulder to make sure the boys were close behind and ready for whatever lurked behind the door. 

  But before I can turn the doorknob, firm hands grab hold of my waist, moving me to the side. The cold metal of his ring brushes against a sliver of skin exposed between my shirt and my pants as his hand drags off of me. My breath hitches, unable to stop myself when I am taken by surprise. It goes unnoticed as he slowly opens the door. 

 John is lying, unconscious, wrists tied to the metal frame of a bed in the center of the room. His face is bruised, a nasty yellowish-green blob splayed beneath his left eye.

  “Dad?” Dean exhales, rushing over to the bed. He leans down, his ear hovering over his father's face. “He’s still breathing,” he reveals. Sam exhales beside me as if he were holding his breath while awaiting the news. He steps further into the room, standing on the opposite side of the bed.

  Dean shakes his father, “Dad, wake up. Dad!” He shouts, fear laced deep in his voice. Yet, there’s no response from the unconscious man. He pulls out a knife from his waistband, the blade inches from the rope. 

  “Wait. Wait,” Sam cuts in. 

  “What?” Dean asks, eyes wide.

  “He could be possessed for all we know,” Sam points out.

  “What, are you nuts?” Dean exclaims.

  “No, that’s a good idea,” I nod. “Especially because they still want the Colt.”

  Sam takes a flask out of his pocket, twists the little cap, and sprinkles it on John. But, there’s no effect.

  “At least we checked,” I comment, shrugging. Better safe than sorry.

  Suddenly, John groans, his head turning back and forth, straining to each side. “Sam? Why are you splashing water on me?” He grumbles, his eyes peeking open.

  “Dad, are you okay?” Dean rushes out.

  “They’ve been drugging me,” he reveals, his voice strained. That’s…weird? Why would they drug him? I would think they’d be powerful enough to have other means to keep him from escaping. But, I guess, why wouldn’t they drug him? 

  “Where’s the Colt?” He asks, his priorities skewed. 

  “Don’t worry, Dad, it’s safe,’’ Sam replies.

  Dean lifts his knife again, cutting the ropes with one great slice.

  “Good boys. Good boys,” John mumbles. 

  They carefully help him to his feet, an arm around either boy's shoulder. I lead the way out of the bedroom, making sure there’s a clear path for them. Then the front door suddenly bursts open, and a man with short hair and a fireman with an axe move forward, both with black eyes. I turn around swiftly, “Go back. Go back,” I urge, a certain nervousness rising in my heart. I spin back toward the demons, throw my hands up, and send a surge of energy forward. They soar backward, crashing into the hallway wall. I look over my shoulder at the boys on the bedroom threshold.

  The two demons rise again and charge forward. I move into the bedroom the second the Winchesters are in, quickly closing and locking the door behind me. Suddenly, an axe barrels through the door, fragments of wood exploding outwards as a strike is made at the door.

  “Calm yourself, Johnny,” I remark, running my hands down the air to create a forcefield directly in front of the door. 

  “Sweetheart, let’s go!” Dean calls. I turn around swiftly. He’s on the fire escape, Sam and John nowhere in sight, though I figure they’re further down, the white curtain blowing from the open window. I nod, moving to him. 

  We move down the fire escape, one quick step after the other. On the safety of the sidewalk, Sam leads the way while Dean lugs John forward. Suddenly, Sam is tackled to the ground, a man with spiky dark hair on top of him. He lands punch after punch, fists soaring down with a fierceness that could only come from a madman or, in this case, a demon.

  I run over before any more damage can be done. I grab onto his forearm before he can land another punch. I push energy forward, sending a blast that sends him flying into a parked mail truck, the windshield spider-webbing. He slides off the car like nothing happened, his head tilting a quarter inch, his eyes as dark as night. It becomes a staring match or a standoff. I, nervously, look over to the side where Dean is leaning his father against the wall. I look back at the demon, and with a mere blink, I soar backwards, crashing into the door of a parked car. Pain erupts up and down my spine, my mouth left agape with the pain. 

  He saunters back over to Sam, straddling him as he lands mindless punch after punch, something crunching. I drag myself up off the ground, the pain vanishing with ease. The demon lifts his fist for another strike, but before it can land, I throw out my hand, shooting him off Sam with an invisible force. He flies backward, crashing into a lamp post, the glass above shatters, and the metal bends backward as if it were a glowstick. 

  He rolls onto his feet, head tilted down and upper lip lifted in a snarl as if he were going to charge forward. I yank him into the air with a flick of my wrist, then hurl him down onto the street, the asphalt caves beneath him–a shallow circle around him. I keep him pinned down with tendrils of energy, pressing him hard into the earth as if it is holding him itself. I saunter over, eyes on him as I speak, “Regna terrae, cantate deo, psallite domino. Tribuite virtutem deo.”

  He thrashes, teeth bared like a mad dog.   

  “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” I continue.

  Suddenly he launches forward, somehow escaping the binds of energy, he tackles me. He lands a swift punch that makes my head turn and my eyes water as a tingly sensation ignites on my skin. I shove him off, using enough force to send him a couple feet away. I roll onto my stomach, lifting myself to my hands and knees. This is just getting annoying now. 

  But, he doesn’t go after me again. He doesn’t face me, he doesn’t lunge, he doesn’t raise his hands to fight or throw something, instead he rushes towards Sam who is leaning against the brick wall with John and Dean. His back is to us, unsuspecting of the danger that lurks behind him. I launch to my feet, my hand outstretched to whip energy forward that could pull the demon back but his hands are already on Sam, one on his shoulder and the other on his chin ready to snap his neck.

  I stop the line of energy before it can touch him, worried that the pull back would cause the damage. The demon takes steps back, dragging Sam with him, away from Dean and John. He whips around to face me, to show me that I couldn’t do anything here without potentially hurting Sam. He’s smiling wickedly, eyes dark enough to see one’s own reflection in them. 

  His hand tightens on Sam’s chin, fingers pressing into his skin. Then, a single shot pierces the air, a hole cut right through the center of his forehead. Its hold goes slack, its body seizing as great strikes of electricity seem to go through it—lighting it up. It slumps to the floor, revealing Dean standing some distance behind with the Colt in his outstretched hand.

  An abandoned cabin located deep in the middle of nowhere surrounded by a vast amount of trees sounds like the beginning of a horror movie, which wouldn’t be that far off from the current reality. Each entrance to the house, both windows and the front door, are lined with salt and various sigils meant to keep spirits and demons out.  

  Chalk dust sticks to my hands as I draw another protection sigil on the wooden wall, Sam pouring the final salt line on the nearby windowsill. His face is a mess of bruises; his eye swollen, a cut on his lip and cheek, he wouldn’t let me heal him. He said it was the least of our worries and he was probably right about that too. We’re essentially protecting ourselves from impending doom, from ravenous beasts with one track minds. Does that make them easier or harder to beat? I don’t know. 

  The wooden floorboards creak beneath the weight of familiar footsteps. “How is he?” Sam asks without needing to see who it is. 

  “He just needed a little rest, that’s all,” Dean answers. “How are you?”

  “I’ll survive,” Sam replies easily, turning to his brother. “Hey, you don’t think we were followed here, do you?” 

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean, we couldn’t have found a more out-of-the-way place to hole up,” Dean responds. 

  “Even if they did follow us, they won’t be able to get through this,” I add, gesturing to the various sigils drawn on the walls. It sort of looked like a toddler got access to markers and decided to doodle on the walls. I suppose that’s not too far off for someone who’s not familiar with sigils. 

  “Yeah…” Sam answers, merely acknowledging my response rather than absorbing it as if something else is on his mind. “Hey, uh…Dean, you, um……you saved my life back there.”

  “So, I guess you’re glad I brought the gun, huh?” Dean muses.

  Sam scuffs, a smile pulling at his lips. “Man, I’m trying to thank you here.”

  “You’re welcome,” Dean says a little more seriously. 

  Sam walks across the room, and I add another mark to the wall; a ‘Y’ with a line sticking up from its middle. 

“Hey, Sam?” Dean breaks the silence.

  “Yeah?”

  “You know that guy I shot? There was a person in there,” he states. The room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker with underlying guilt.  

  “You didn’t have a choice, Dean,” Sam answers firmly. 

 “Yeah, I know, that’s not what bothers me,” he responds. 

  “Then what does?” Sam asks.

  “Killing that guy, killing Meg. I didn’t hesitate, I didn’t even flinch. For you or Y/N or Dad, the things I’m willing to do or kill, it’s just, uh…it scares me sometimes.”

  I look over my shoulder at him. The information settled into the air and into the cracks of the cabin, holding onto truth as if to use it against him one day—at least that’s what his face reads of, like he knows how it sounds and he’s terrified to see our reaction. Maybe I’m entirely biased or blinded by love, or both, but yet again I do not fear this side of him—whatever side you want to call it. In fairness this feeling of his makes perfect sense, he was raised a soldier so now his priorities and reactions are that of a soldier. John got his wish. 

  I wish I knew what to say. I wish I knew how to ease that worry in his eyes. And the last thing I want is for him to believe that we’d ever be terrified of him, well maybe I should just speak for myself and say that I don’t think I could ever be terrified of him. He’s Dean. He’s my Dean that I’ve known almost my entire life. Terrified is the last possible thing he could make me feel. And yet I struggle to articulate this, to make the words form or flow in a way that could ease the furrow in his brow. I want to ease him in the way he eases me. How does he do it so easily?

  Does stating he doesn’t make me afraid really change anything when he’s afraid of himself? Do we say it’s normal to feel protective over the people you care about when that’s not exactly what he’s describing? What do you say? Is there anything that we can say? 

  “It shouldn’t,” John says, breaking the silence as he enters the room. “You did good.”

  “You’re not mad?” Dean asks, the raw astonishment in his voice enough to make me despise John all over again.

  “For what?” John responds.

  “Using a bullet.”

  “Mad? I’m proud of you,” John proclaims. “You know, Sam and I, we can get pretty obsessed. But you—you watch out for this family. You always have.”

  I can’t mask the shock on my face. Did my ears deceive me? Never in all my days did I ever think I’d see John actually express some sort of love of appreciation for his kids. Maybe John was turning over a new leaf—admittedly a very late leaf but a new leaf nonetheless. 

  “Thanks,” Dean exhales. 

  Then, suddenly, the lights begin to flicker as if slowly blinking. 

  “It found us. It’s here,” John announces. 

  “The demon?” Sam asks.

  “Sam, lines of salt in front of every window, every door,” John orders. 

  “I already did it,” he answers.

  “Well, check it, okay?” John insists. 

  “Okay,” he gives in, exiting the room.

  “Y/N, go with him,” John adds.

  “Oh, okay, sure,” I answer, leaving the piece of chalk on the floor before following out the same way Sam went. I go the opposite direction as him, swiftly checking each room to make sure each salt line is unbroken and each sigil on the wall is complete.

  Once more, nothing was going to enter this house, so In less than a minute I’m walking back to the main room catching the last bits of a conversation.

  “What the hell’s gotten into you?” John accuses.

  I hasten my steps, swinging around the corner as Dean responds, “I could ask you the same thing. Stay back.”

  The colt is aimed at John’s chest, a hard look in Dean's eyes. 

  “What’d he do now?” I ask, entering the room carefully. 

  “Dean? What the hell’s going on?” Sam exclaims, four feet behind me. 

  “Your brother’s lost his mind,” John answers.

  “Yeah, dude, you’re one to talk,” I remark. There’s likely only a few things that would ever get me to side with John and yet frankly I can’t name a single one.

  “He’s not Dad,” Dean reveals, the air seeming to thicken. 

  “What?” Sam asks.

  “I think he’s possessed. I think he’s been possessed since we rescued him,” he explains, his jaw wobbling a little bit. 

  Frick.

  “Don’t listen to him,” John adds quickly.

  “Uh uh,” I shake my head. “You don’t get to do that, ‘take a couple steps back.” He rolls his eyes but makes a show of taking a single step back. Regardless, I'm not impressed or convinced. I move a little closer. 

  “Dean, how do you know?” Sam asks, not so readily convinced as I am. 

  Dean swallows roughly, his Adam's apple bobbing harshly, his eyes rimmed with a sort of glossiness that comes from impending tears. “He’s…he’s different.”

  “You know, we don’t have time for this,” John bites. “Sam, you wanna kill this demon, you’ve gotta trust me.” 

  Sam looks back and forth between his father and brother. Dean glances at him, but doesn’t say anything more to convince him. 

  “Sam?” John tries.

  He looks back and forth again. He shakes his head, muttering, “No. No,” as he moves to Dean's side.

  John stares at them in silence, glares at me for half a beat and then returns back to his sons. “Fine. You’re all so sure, go ahead. Kill me,” he orders. He looks down.

  The gun is pointed at him. The trigger isn’t pulled, of course it isn’t. I figure whatever is possessing him likely knew that was to happen which puts us in a difficult situation. 

  “I thought so,” he remarks. He looks back up slowly, his irises yellow. Sam lunges forward but in a sweep of a hand the three of us are thrown against the wall, an invisible force pinning us there, the Colt tumbling to the floor. Again it feels like the weight of a house is being pressed upon my limbs. 

  John picks the Colt up. “What a pain in the ass this thing’s been,” he remarks.

  “It’s you, isn’t it? We’ve been looking for you for a long time,” Sam spits. 

  “Well, you found me,” he muses.

  I push on the invisible binds, trying to detach myself from the wall. He’s got us spread out enough so that we could all see each other and him which likely means he’s going to kill us here and make one watch as he takes out the other. 

  “But the holy water?” Sam questions.

  “You think something like that works on something like me?” He counters. 

  Suddenly, a wooden chair goes flying, crashing into him. He stumbles forward, the wood breaking against his back.

  “No, but apparently a chair does,” I laugh; turns out being pinned to a wall doesn’t mean I can’t use my powers.

  A smirk pulls on the corner of his lips. He slowly walks towards me, “The guard dog does bite,” he remarks. 

  “‘Want me to show you how hard I can bite?” I ask.

  “Gladly,” he answers, holding his arms out wide.

  I push against the hold again, my arm shaking as I manage to pull it off the wall, pushing back against the crushing weight. But, again like a rubber band my arm sticks back to the wall.

  “Oh, that’s right, you can’t,” he teases. “The most powerful Witch in history and yet you can’t do anything more than some party tricks.”

  My eyebrows furrow, I’m not the most powerful anything, let alone witch—I’m mediocre at best. He steps closer, grabbing ahold of my chin. I try to twist out of it but he holds firm. “Wasted potential,” he states, looking me in the eyes. 

  He’s probably right about that. There’s so many things I’m capable of but I’m too afraid to try. I’m afraid one wrong move or spell would sour my name more than it already is. I don’t want trouble. I’ve never wanted trouble. 

  “Evil bastard,” I spit.

  He steps away, shrugging. “Well, this is fun.” He walks over to the window beside Dean. “I could’ve killed you a hundred times today, but this…” He sighs, “This is worth the wait.”

  It’s Dean’s turn to struggle against the invisible force. John looks over at him. “Your Dad—he’s in here with me. Trapped inside his own meat suit. He says “hi,” by the way. He’s gonna taste the iron in your blood.”

  “Let him go, or I swear to God—“ Dena threatens.

  “What? What are you and God gonna do?” He mocks. “You see, as far as I’m concerned, this is justice.” He goes over to Dean. “You know that little exorcism of yours? That was my daughter.”

  “Who, Meg?” Dean asks.

  He nods. “The one in the alley? That was my boy. You understand.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dean remarks.

  “What? You’re the only one that can have a family? You destroyed my children. How would you feel if I killed your family?” A slow smile creeps onto his face. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. I did. Still, two wrongs don’t make a right.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Dean spits, trying to lunge at him despite the restraints. 

  “I wanna know why. Why’d you do it?” Sam asks. 

  He turns to Sam. “You mean why did I kill Mommy and pretty little Jess?”

  “Yeah.”

  He turns back to Dean, “You know, I never told you this, but Sam was going to ask her to marry him.” He backs up toward Sam. “Been shopping for rings and everything.” 

  Oh God. He had a whole life set up for himself, that interview he was supposed to go to, a girlfriend he planned on marrying. God. As if we needed anymore reason to want to kill this bastard. 

  He turns to Sam. “You want to know why?” he mocks. “Because they got in the way.”

  “In the way of what?” Sam pushes, jaw clenched.

  “My plans for you, Sammy. You…and all the children like you,” he reveals.

  “Listen, you mind just getting this over with, huh? Cause I really can’t stand the monologuing,” Dean cuts in, a bored ring to his voice. 

  He saunters back over to him. “Funny, but that’s all sort of your M.O., isn’t it? Masks all that nasty pain, masks the truth.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  “You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is they don’t need you. Not like you need them. Sam – he’s clearly John’s favorite. Even when they fight, it’s more concern than he’s ever shown you.” 

  The air crackles. 

  “I bet you’re real proud of your kids, too, huh?” Dean muses. “Oh wait, I forgot. I wasted ‘em.” 

  John steps back, his head down in defeat. Then he looks back up and suddenly Dean is yelling, the sound curling around me, blood soaking his shirt. 

  Something snaps in me then. I rip forward, the invisible weight nothing more than a blanket. I vanish and appear beside him, landing a punch that throws him across the room and into the far wall. Deans screams stop, whatever pain he was causing him vanishes but they remain pinned in place. 

  “There she is!” John practically cheers, picking himself up with ease. The Colt launched out of his hand.

  “You want to fight someone, I’m right here piss eyes!” I shout. My powers thump in my veins like fire igniting down my hands; if he’s going to hurt anyone, let it be me. 

  He laughs. A short singular little laugh.

  “You want to hear something funny?” I ask, stepping closer, my body shaking with an anger I cannot control. “I was the last thing your kids saw before they died.” I take another step closer, “I fucking tortured them! I messed with her mind until she couldn’t take it anymore. I threw that guy around like he was a fucking ragdoll, ‘wrapped him around a pole like he was a damn car!”

  Now, don’t get it twisted, I’m not proud of the things I’ve done—I can barely stand myself but for some reason I just kept talking.

There’s an invisible force thrown at me, trying to pin me to the wall again, but I don’t budge.   

“Where was all this bite when Daddy was beating you?” He mocks, using a mere look to send me flying back. Old images flash in my mind, a simple reminder enough to bring them forth. The force put onto me is stronger than before, something harder to tear through.

  He walks over to me, a force wrapping around my throat tightly. I choke on the lack of air, my eyes watering at the restriction. 

  “Stop!” Dean shouts, fighting against the force that pins him there. His shout ends in coughing, blood I hadn’t seen before pouring from his mouth. 

  “Shut up!” He barks, barely looking over at Dean. “You’re still the scared little girl that begged Daddy to stop.”

  His hold on my throat gets tighter, black dots swimming in my vision. The house creaks. The lights flicker rapidly. The floorboards rip open, great big roots bursting through them. They latch onto his legs, yanking him back and send him skittering across the floor.

  The lights stop flickering. A single light burns brighter and brighter, igniting the room in a sharp bang of white before the bulb bursts. I break through his force again, crumbling to the floor as I suck in breath after breath—my throat and chest burning. 

  “I should gut you the same way I did dear Jess and Mom!” The yellow eyed demon roars. The roots return to the earth, creeping away from the fight. 

  I suck in one last deep breath before pushing myself to my feet. 

  “You have to shoot him!” Sam yells. 

  I know I do. I can’t fight him forever. He’s powerful. There’s only so much more back and forth that can happen. 

  I reach out for the gun with one hand the other directed on him. I push him to his knees, purple tendrils keeping him in place.

  The Colt slides across the floor to my feet. I pick it up, the metal cold in my hands. I aim at his chest. He stops fighting the restraints. 

  “You kill me, you kill John. Those two will never forgive you. You’ll always be a monster to them.”

  “I know,” I croak. I cock the gun, the click ringing in my ears. I press the trigger, aiming at his thigh. Dean and Sam fall to the floor, the demons hold gone. The demon crumbles the rest of the way to the floor, the tendrils letting him go.   

  “Oh God, you’ve lost a lot of blood. He’s lost a lot of blood! Y/N!” Sam shouts, panic weaven in his voice. 

  Dean. 

  Immediately I spin around, avoiding the hole in the floor and wood chips as I rush towards them. Dean lies on the floor with too much blood soaking his shirt and dribbling from his mouth. I fall to my knees beside him, pressing the gun into Sam’s hand without a second thought. Dean repeating the order of “Go check on him,” to his brother. 

  Sam gets up reluctantly, taking the gun with him. 

  I don’t know where to touch him. I can’t tell where he’s hurt, just that he’s bleeding. He’s turned his head to look at me and I can’t read the expression in his eyes. I carefully touch his cheek, my other hand high on his chest to avoid possibly hurting him more. His head leans more into my hand. 

  “It’s okay. I got you,” I say, my hands lighting up with a soft glow that makes his lips part. I focus on him. I try to find what’s wrong. I try to figure out what that demon did over the sound of John yelling.

  “Sammy! It’s still alive. It’s inside me, I can feel it. Sammy! It’s still alive. It’s inside me, I can feel it. You shoot me. You shoot me! You shoot me in the heart, son!,” he shouts. 

  I, internally, search through Dean’s body, light guiding the way to internal bleeding. 

  “Do it now!” John orders. 

  Dean’s head whips the other way, leaving my hand to face his father and brother. “Sam, don’t you do it. Don’t you do it.” 

  Light wraps around damaged blood vessels, knitting them back together. Dean sucks in a sharp breath of air.

  “You’ve gotta hurry! I can’t hold onto it much longer! You shoot me, son! Shoot me! Son, I’m begging you! We can end this here and now! Sammy!” John pleads.

  “Sam, no,” Dean says weakly.

  “You do this! Sammy!! Sam.....”

  Black smoke shoots from his mouth, seeping into the floor. 

********

  “Sam! Drive faster!” I demand from the back seat of the Impala, hands still on Dean who’s slumped against the left hand door. 

  “Hold on, alright. The hospital's only ten minutes away,” Sam answers. 

  I repaired as many blood vessels as I could but I could not do anything about the blood he had lost. And he lost a lot. 

  “You fought good,” he mumbled to me, eyes lidded and face pale, when we first got into the car.

  “If that’s what you want to call it,” I answered quietly. I wouldn't consider it good at all. Psychotic? Probably. But not good. 

  “I’m surprised at you, Sammy. Why didn’t you kill it?” John asks from the passenger seat, gasping in pain every now and then. “I thought we saw eye-to-eye on this. Killing this demon comes first – before me, before everything.”

  Sam looks in the rear view mirror, looking at his brother. “No, sir. Not before everything. Look, we’ve still got the Colt. We still have one bullet left. We just have to start over, alright? I mean, we already found the demon…”

  Something hits the Impala hard. Everything goes black. 

(Next Chapter)

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