#they just really know where to stick the knife in and how to twist it to make me scream

[revelboo]

I always love seeing the asks where people send in their figures :) I wanted to join in as well! My bday was yesterday and I got some nice figures! (Slowly building up a Cosmos corner :) )

Keep up the fantastic work! I love all of your takes on these bots ❤️

Do you think that cybertronians celebrate creation days? Or maybe they don’t until being around humans long enough and kind of adopt that custom?

Happy late birthday! I’d think celebrating creation days probably was a thing before the war, but probably fell to the wayside during

Birthdays

Cosmos x Reader

• Sorting through your mail, you glance at where Cosmos is helping chop veggies for your dinner, the mass displaced mech surprisingly domestic. You start making a pile of junk mail before opening the rest, lips twitching when you open a birthday card and tinny music blares from the speaker. And Cosmos looks over, visor brightening slightly. “What’s that?” He asks, setting down the knife to wander over and you turn the face of the card his way before opening it. Dimly wondering if he can even read your language. You’ve never asked, but he’s able to work the TV well enough, so maybe.

• “Birthday card from an uncle,” you say, setting it on the counter and he reaches to nudge it carefully open with a servo to hear the cheery, jangling music again. “Do your people celebrate birthdays?” You ask and you’re looking up at him when he turns. And it’s still weird. Having someone look up at him. Or having anyone around at all. Knows at this point, he could go back to the Ark and stay. Not just make energon runs, but he likes it here with you.

• “We used to celebrate creation days,” he murmurs and you reach to slide the card away before he can open it again. “How do humans celebrate?” He’s shadowing you as you move to go wash your hands and you smile when he sticks his own hands into the sink without prompting for you to squirt dish soap in his palm. Both of you washing side by side. It’s weird. It should be weird, anyway. But it’s comfortable.

• “My family never really did parties. When I was a kid, I’d get a gift and a cake, but it was never a big deal,” you reply as he washes his hands. And you laugh suddenly, lips twisting. “I remember in school wanting a birthday party so bad, because it seemed so important back then. A big party with lots of friends. Stupid, huh?” Not really. Understands wanting to be seen when he’s spent most of his time alone. Isolated.

• “You get one? A party?” He asks and you shake your head, smiling when his arm brushes yours and he leans his helm against your head. “We could have a party? I could decorate.” And you lay your cheek against his chassis. Because just that he cares enough to want to make you happy is enough. “Are cakes hard to make?” Snorting because the bot enjoys cooking food he can’t even eat, you wrap your arms around one of his. He’s enough of a present any day. Makes you wonder when his creation day is. Maybe you can celebrate both together?

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Mrs. R Part Two

Part One | Part Three

Notes: Hi welcome to part two okay love you bye

Not beta-read.

Warnings: Angst; fluff; all that good stuff

Summary: You can’t remember the last time you and Robby were this close. 

“You got any more lightbulbs in here that need changing?” 

You lean in the doorway of the living room, watching Robby unscrew the old bulb and toss it onto the couch before lifting his hand to screw in the new one. 

“I don’t think so. Unless you wanna go around and change a few preemptively.” 

“Think we’ll just stick with this one for now.” 

You bite your lip, glancing down at your bandaged hand and picking at a stray strand. 

“How was the rest of your shift?” 

“Oh, fine. You know.” 

But you still don’t. You bite your lip, fighting back the argument as you pick at another stray strand. 

“How’s the hand feeling?” 

“Oh, fine. You know.” 

You shoot him a coy smile at his sidelong glance. He shakes his head as he turns his attention back to the light, fitting the fixture back over the bulb. He climbs down from the step ladder, folding it, and leaning it against the bookshelf. 

“Where was that, anyway?” You ask, nodding toward it. 

“In the basement.” 

“Ah. I don’t go down there much.” 

“Yeah, the film of dust gave that away.” 

Your smile widens at the tease, then falters as he turns away, dusting off his hands. 

“Alright. I should head out.”

Your stomach twists as he straightens, heading for the door, and where he left his bag. “Oh?” You fight to keep your tone even as you straighten up. “I ordered pizza. Should be here soon if you’re hungry.”

“You’ll have leftovers.”

“Sure! Sure.” You tuck your hands into your back pockets, wandering after him as he reaches for his bag. “I could just um…Wrap it in foil…Stick it in the back of the fridge…Forget it’s there for a few days until I inevitably remember that it’s in there on Friday. Nuke it, gobble down a couple of slices, give myself food poisoning, and then I’ll, uh…” You smile as he turns to face you again. “I’ll see you back in the ER.”

--

“Does it bother you that they still call me that?”

“Call you what?” 

“Mrs. R.”

You catch the slight delay in his movement, the pause in raising his beer to his lips. His eyes stay set on the tv, and you watch the flash and flare of the screen's glow lighten and shade his face. For as long a day as he’s had, it should be easier to read his expression—or maybe you’re more out of practice than you realized.

But you know that he heard it. It’s not as if he can pretend that he didn’t hear Evans or Langdon say it. You hadn’t gotten a good look at him when they’d had though not for lack of trying. 

“Why would it bother me?” He finally asks.

“Because we’re not married anymore.”

“You change your name yet?” 

You turn back to the tv as Robby’s head turns. It’s your turn to fall silent, to take a sip from your beer. 

“It’s a lot of paperwork.” It’s the lamest of excuses. It’s not a complete lie, but it’s not the entire truth, either. You hear Robby huff a soft laugh through his nose, and you can’t help the embarrassment that pulses through you. You push the feeling down, leaning forward and setting down your beer.

"You want that last slice?” You glance toward him and find his lips pursed. He wants to say no, but you’re positive he barely had anything to eat that day.

“You wanna split it?” You correct, already taking up a knife to cut it down the middle. 

“If you really want it, you can—”

“Oh, shut up and eat the slice, Robinavitch,” You lean back, holding it out and raising your own slice to your mouth. 

“Half slice.” 

“You’re way too particular for this late in the day. Did you get all hangry on the ducklings?” 

“...Not on the ducklings.” 

Your brows rose at the admission as you tore off a piece of the crust, popping it into your mouth. 

“Wanna talk about it?” You asked after a moment. 

“Nope.” 

Figures. You couldn’t even bring yourself to be wholly disappointed. But he’d come over, he’d changed your lightbulb. He’d stayed. Months of not seeing one another and now this. It felt like two steps forward and one step back…Though, for what it was worth, that was still one step forward. 

--  

You chalk it up to muscle memory. A late-night hazy wake up, an infomercial droning on the tv, and Robby's head in your lap. You manage to nudge him up, shut the television off, and find his hand to lead him to your bedroom. He doesn't gripe or grumble. His movements seem as automatic as he strips down to his underwear and climbs into bed with you, each on your own sides. 

You think, as you sink into the pillows, that you’re almost glad Robby is too tired to gripe or argue that he should be going back to his place. 

And you think, as sleep takes full hold of you, that you feel his hand curl around yours under the sheets. 

-- 

You wake up to the steady thump of Robby’s heart beneath your ear, and the rise and fall of his belly beneath your arm. You don’t open your eyes for a few moments—you don’t dare. You can’t remember the last time you and Robby were this close. 

For the last few months of your marriage, the two of you hadn’t slept in the same bed, and with the separation and divorce that had followed, your physical connection had ceased to exist.

The closest the two of you had gotten was when he’d bandaged your hand at the ER the day before. 

Of course, that same hand is now throbbing. 

You wince, wiggling the fingers a little and holding back a hiss of discomfort. Damn, you should’ve taken some Tylenol before you went to bed last night. You just hadn’t been thinking about it. You reluctantly push yourself up, sliding out of bed as gently as you can, wary of waking him.

You freeze as he shifts, watching him roll closer to the warmth you left behind and pressing his face into your pillow. You relax as he settles, and turn to your closet, sleepily fishing out your favorite hoodie and tugging it on over the PJs that you hardly remember changing into. 

--  

By the time you hear Robby coming down the hall, you have 500mg of Tylenol in your system, and coffee has nearly finished brewing. You glance back in his direction as he comes into the kitchen. You’re chagrined (but not surprised) to find him fully clothed. 

“Morning,” You greet. His answer is to take two mugs down from the cabinet, setting them by your wrist on the counter. 

“Sleep okay?” You prod. Robby leans against the counter beside you, and you glance up, watching him scrub his hand across his eyes. 

“Yeah,” He finally admits. “Thanks for letting me crash.” 

“Sure,” You shrug. “My fault, anyway. I talked you into staying for pizza.” You pick up the coffee pot, filling both mugs. Robby mutters his thanks as he takes one up, drawing in a sip. You let the silence settle back in, but you can only handle it for so long: “Do you wanna talk about it?” 

“About what?” 

“About whatever it is that’s been fucking with your sleep lately.” 

“Do you wanna talk about why you haven’t changed your name yet?”

It catches you off-guard, and you whirl around to face him. 

“I told you, it’s a shitton of paper work—”

“If you’d started when we filed for divorce, it would be done by now.” 

“Well if it bothers you that much, why didn’t you fucking say so last night?” 

“I didn’t say it bothered me, I just find it weird—”

“It isn’t that weird—And how the fuck did we get on to me? We’re supposed to be talking about you.” 

“We don’t have to talk about me.” 

“Yeah, we fucking do. Something is off with you, Michael. You’re not sleeping, you’re snapping at people—I get that you’re under pressure—”

“You don’t get it.” 

“Alright, maybe I don’t know how it feels, but I can see how much it’s fucking messing with you—”

“Forget it—”

“Mikey, c’mon, just talk to me—”

“Let it go!” 

The snap and bark of his voice startles you, and you unthinkingly take a couple of steps back. You become more aware of the way your face is crowding with heat, your heart pounding in your chest. You turn away from him, shoving your hands in your pockets and curling your good hand into a fist. You’re not gonna cry, not when he’s right fucking there. He’s going to leave, anyway. 

You hear him push out a weary sigh, chased by the sound of him putting the coffee mug down. He’s going to put his hoodie on and just fucking go—

“Hey.” His hands curl around your shoulders, and he sighs again as you shrug him off. You step away, turning back to your mug and taking it up. Maybe you can take a big gulp and pretend that your eyes are tearing because the coffee’s so hot. 

You feel the heat of him as he crowds up behind you, his hands landing on the counter and caging you in. You open your mouth to tell him to back off, but fall silent as he gently nuzzles his temple. 

“I’m sorry,” He murmurs. “I know you’re just trying to help.”

“And I know you’re a closed book, so why do I fucking bother.”

Robby inches closer, curling his arms around your middle. 

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to take this stuff on.”

“I don’t feel like I have to, Michael.” You turn in his arms, meeting his eyes despite the tears lingering in yours. “I’ve only ever asked because I want to, because I’m not okay if you’re not okay.” Your throat grows tight as you admit it, and you blink rapidly as more tears well up. You drop your chin, closing your eyes as you shake your head, fighting to steady yourself. 

Robby lifts a hand to cup your chin, thumb sweeping tenderly over the apple of your cheek as he tips your head up. You sniffle as he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, then rests his forehead against yours.

“You shouldn’t still worry like this.” 

“I know.” 

Robby tips his head, nose gently nuzzling against yours. You can’t help but chase the touch, a few tears escaping and slipping down your cheeks. You each go still as your lips brush, then stop just a hair’s breadth from one another’s. Robby’s breath puffs warmly across your mouth, and you feel his chin tip up just a touch more. 

“Don’t,” You breathe, then hurry to explain—”Don’t do this if you’re just trying to fix it.”  

For a few harrowing moments, neither of you move; you hardly breathe. And then Robby’s hand lifts to cup your other cheek, thumbs gently disrupting the few tear tracks. He brushes tender kisses to your closed eyelids before his mouth descends tenderly on yours. You shiver, curling your hand in the fabric of his shirt and drawing him closer, until he’s pressing you fully against the counter. Your lips part and your tongue teases gently against his, his beard brushing pleasantly against your skin. 

The kiss breaks slowly, with Robby stealing another two languid pecks before resting his forehead back against yours, his hands smoothing over your shoulders again, fingers rubbing across the familiar fabric. 

"...Couldn't find that last hoodie, huh?" He asks knowingly. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from breaking into a guilty grin.

"Misplaced it."

Robby hums knowingly before he dips his head, giving you another tender kiss.

"How's that hand feeling?"

You grunt, raising it and wiggling your fingers.

"Better now. Hurt like a bitch when I woke up, so I took some Tylenol."

"Good." Another peck before he draws away, and you reluctantly let him go. You expect him to head into the front hall, to grab his backpack. But he goes into the living room, taking up the stepladder. You frown, straightening up.

"Where are you going with that?"

"To check the other bulbs."

Next Part

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa​ ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

@mad-girl-without-a-box ;  @winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989 ; @veryprairieberry

[immoral-stranger]

𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐆𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐲 // 𝐌𝐕𝟏

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟒. 🪐 “I like to stick to walls. Observing conversations, lifting them when they fall.” – Foster the People, Fire Escape.

Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader

Word count: 5k

Warnings: There's a dinner party and reader is a chef, so a lot of talk about food. Reader is also very self-deprecating. Allusions to issues regarding mental health and self-worth, but it's not really the main story. It makes sense, I promise, I just don't know how to warn about it.

A/N: My sister requested this after we watched the movie Sommartider (very swedish), so there's a similar scene in that. I personally find this one very cute. ♡

The apartment smelled of butter and garlic, the scent clinging to the sun-warm kitchen, filled with light that spilled through the sheer linen curtains. It was small but charming, a snug little nest tucked into the hills of the French Riviera, not too far from Nice. You stood at the counter, hands damp from having peeled potatoes, a half-prepared gratin tray in front of you. It had been a gift from your parents, a fittingly named Marseille bleu Le Creuset roasting pan. You would’ve never bought it for yourself—too expensive—but as a gift, you’d been thankful to receive it. 

“Did you decant the wine like I told you?” Imogen’s voice drifted from the other room, where she was preening in front of the gilded mirror you’d picked up at a flea market. It wasn’t her style—too rustic, too worn—but she’d said it added “charm” to your place, always opting for a backhanded compliment instead of the truth. She hated your style because it was the opposite of hers. 

You didn’t look up from your work. “No, uhm—”

“Kinda busy,” she interrupted, breezing in. Imogen always moved like she was on a runway, even barefoot in her sister’s modest kitchen. Her hair was swept into a sleek bun, and she wore a silk blouse that you suspected cost more than your entire apartment deposit. Sponsored, most definitely. She paused to eye the tray in front of you. “What even is that?”

“The base to dauphinoise potatoes,” you said, flicking a glance at her. She didn’t care about the answer; she never did. Imogen asked questions to fill the air, not to gather information. You also suspected that she loved the sound of her own voice so much that she never felt the need to shut the fuck up. 

She wrinkled her nose, but it was half-hearted, like a habit she wasn’t willing to break. “I still can’t believe you do this out of pure enjoyment.”

You shrugged, lifting a knife to thinly slice another potato. “Everyone needs to eat, Imogen.”

“Yeah, that’s what Uber Eats is for,” she said breezily, perching on one of your barstools. “No need to go to culinary school.”

You turned to give her a pointed look, hand on your hip. “And who do you think works in the kitchens at the restaurants you order from?”

Imogen made a face, part exasperated and part amused, and waved you off. “You do not always have to poke holes in other people’s logic. It’s an unattractive trait.”

Before you could respond, the sharp trill of the doorbell cut through the room. Imogen’s eyes widened, and she hopped off the stool in a single fluid motion. “Oh god, that’s them—” She smoothed her blouse and gave herself a quick glance in the reflection of a hanging copper pot. “Do I look good?”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, but your voice softened in spite of yourself. “You always do. It’s your job.” 

As Imogen floated toward the door, a knot of tension twisted in your stomach. It wasn’t jealousy—it never had been. It was more complicated than that: a mix of frustration and yearning that you didn’t want to untangle. Imogen walked through life as though she owned the air around her, while you had spent most of yours holding your breath. 

She pulled the door open with a practiced flourish, stepping aside to let Daniel stroll in first. His confidence and laughter preceded him, a quick kiss placed on Imogen’s cheek, and she giggled in a way that made you want to hurl. 

Daniel moved with the kind of ease that made it impossible to tell if he was posing or simply existing. Former Formula 1 driver, now Imogen’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, who appeared far more interested in globetrotting and sponsorships than in anything truly meaningful with her. With a bit of self-distance, you actually really enjoyed Daniel’s presence. He was funny and kind, even though you had nothing in common. 

“Danny, always good to see you,” you said, managing a polite smile as he stepped into the kitchen, lifting your attention from the food preparations. 

“Whatever it is you’re cooking smells wonderful,” he replied, inhaling deeply. “This is Max,” Danny added, stepping aside to reveal the man behind him. 

Through a gap, you could spot Imogen in the entryway, observing your reaction and how you greeted the both of them. It was almost like she wanted to make sure you wouldn’t embarrass yourself—or, worse—embarrass her. You, of course, knew who she had invited over for dinner. You’d had to sit through hours worth of gossip all the times you and Imogen caught up on each other’s lives. So, having two world-famous athletes stand in your kitchen wasn’t as surreal as it may sound. 

Max was taller than you’d expected, his broad shoulders and quiet presence making the doorway seem smaller. Clad in a simple black t-shirt, he seemed like any other guy your age. He looked relaxed but not indifferent, his gaze curious as he took in your modest apartment.

You raised an eyebrow, unable to resist the rising amusement. “Danny, I don’t know if it’s funny or offensive that you think I don’t know who he is.” 

They both chuckled slightly at your words, and it was like you could see how tension released from Imogen’s shoulders, instantly becoming a couple centimeters shorter. 

“I would shake your hand, Max, but I have oil all over mine,” you said, holding up your slick fingers as evidence, before returning to the food, dealing with a marinated cut of meat. 

“Right,” Danny said, clapping Max on the shoulder and steering him further into the room. “She’s got this whole culinary genius thing going on, doesn’t she? Always smells like a five-star restaurant in here.”

“Not exactly,” you said, though the compliment made your cheeks feel warm. You glanced up at Max, who was still watching you, his smile small but genuine.

“Well, don’t let us interrupt your masterpiece,” Imogen said airily. “We’ll stay out of your way. You’ve got this under control, right?”

You only nodded, turning back to the food. It wasn’t until you heard Imogen’s laughter trailing into the living room that you allowed yourself to relax. There was a faint comfort in being in your element, even if you weren’t entirely alone.

In the background, you heard them talk as Imogen poured up glasses of wine for everyone. The wine she had forgotten to decant—that you knew needed air to taste decent. You heard her talk about the wine like it was something special. You, however, knew that she had stolen all of her knowledge from when she shot an ad for a winery somewhere in South Africa, and it didn’t particularly look like either Max or Danny cared that much. Ironic, for someone who had their own wine company, but you also got tired of hearing Imogen talk about things she didn’t really care enough about to research but talked about anyway to seem interesting. 

As she poured the fourth and final glass, you saw Max pick up two of them in your periphery. You tried to not visibly tense up as you heard his steps approach across your creaking wooden floors. He set both the glasses down on your kitchen island with a careful clink. 

With a wordless nod, you thanked him, picking one of the glasses up and swiveling the red liquid around to aerate it. 

Max lingered near the counter, his hands tucked into his pockets as he studied the array of ingredients you had spread out around you. “Is that you?” he asked, nodding toward a framed photo on the wall. 

It was one of the few remnants of your short-lived modeling career—an editorial shot of you, disturbingly close up, showing skin texture and flyaway hairs, vivid watercolour-like makeup in patches around your face and neck. You didn’t even look like yourself in it, which maybe was why it was the only photo of yourself you could bear seeing every day as you spent time in your kitchen. 

“Totally narcissistic, I know,” you snorted, keeping your eyes on the frying pan sizzling on the stove. 

“No, uhm, I didn’t mean it like that.” Max’s tone softened. “I think it looks cool. You must model too then?” 

“Nope.” You shook your head, glancing up at him, surprised by his sincerity. “I mean, I tried to, but I quit a while ago and went to culinary school.”

“That explains all this.” Max said, gesturing to the kitchen.

“I may have gone overboard,” you admitted, laughing softly. 

Imogen, perched on the edge of the sofa like a cat surveying her domain, twirled a lock of her hair idly before cutting in smoothly. “Is she boring you with her food talk, Max?” Her voice had that lilting quality you recognized well—equal parts teasing and dismissive, designed to simultaneously charm and belittle.

You stiffened instinctively, your movements freezing, spatula scraping the bottom of the pan. 

Max, however, straightened slightly, his casual stance shifting. “Not at all,” he replied, his tone easy but resolute, as if dismissing her suggestion entirely. Then he turned toward you. “Actually…” He hesitated, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can I help with anything?”

“Oh, probably not,” you said, trying to recover from sounding too surprised. “Imogen always says that I’m like a dictator in the kitchen and that my recipes are unreadable.” 

Max stepped closer, peering down at your notebook with recipes, pages filled with messy handwriting, arrows, and scratchy diagrams. “No, I get it. It’s like a mind map. Makes it easier to see the process,” he said after a moment. “Even if I don’t know what half of these things mean. What even is… a wild turkey?” 

You tilted your head, genuinely surprised that he could make sense of your ramblings. Looking over, you saw his finger point to one ingredient. You let out an unguarded laugh, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it. “It’s bourbon, for the marinade,” you explained. “Does this look like turkey meat to you?”

The meat sizzling in the frying pan was obviously some cut of beef, to judge by the colour. You didn’t need to be a culinary expert to know that. 

“No,” Max admitted with a grin. “And it would be weird to measure meat in tablespoons.” 

Your lips quirked upward, and you reached for a pear from the fruit bowl beside you, along with a cutting board and a little knife. You were hesitant to give him one of your good knives, worried he’d cut himself the first thing he did. It was quite common for people to do when they were unfamiliar with the sharpness a chef’s knife could have. 

“I guess you can chop that pear in little cubes, if you want to help.” 

Max took the pear from you, turning it over in his hands as if he were inspecting some foreign object. “A pear?” 

“It’s for the salad,” you explained, already turning back to your own task. 

“You can put pear in a salad?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve eaten a pear since I was about seven.” 

You arched a brow, glancing at him over your shoulder to see that he was fully sincere. With swift movements, you took the knife and cut a slice of the pear before dipping it into a vinaigrette you’d already prepared. 

“Try it, for science,” you said, holding it up for him to taste. 

Max hesitated before taking a small bite, his brow furrowing slightly as he chewed. Then he nodded, his expression lightening. “Huh, you know what you’re doing.” 

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you dismissed his comment, turning to look at the stove again. 

Max chuckled in response, shaking his head. He then stepped closer to the counter as he grabbed a knife. His movements were unpracticed but deliberate, the pear wobbling slightly as he began chopping it into uneven pieces. You felt the familiar itch of not being in control, almost taking over your own movements. But, you stopped thinking for a moment. Dinner wouldn’t be ruined just because the pear wasn’t in perfect cubes. And Max was actually putting in effort, biting down on his tongue, a line forming between his brows as he focused.

“Are you always this much of a perfectionist,” you asked, viewing his motions, “or are you just showing off in front of me?” 

“I’ve never put this much brain capacity into anything before,” Max joked, adding a laugh as he examined one of the misshapen pear cubes. 

For a moment, the kitchen fell into an easy rhythm. Imogen and Danny’s laughter floated in from the other room, a sharp contrast to the quiet concentration shared between you and Max. You didn’t usually let anyone help in the kitchen—it was your sanctuary, your domain—but for some reason, with Max fumbling his way through chopping fruit and throwing curious questions your way, it didn’t feel like an intrusion. 

When the food was done, the four of you gathered around your dining table, decorated with pottery and plates that you had collected throughout the years. Nothing matched, just like you preferred it. The golden hour crept through the windows as the room filled with light from the sun and flickering candles. 

And the dinner went fine, just like it always did, even though you couldn’t help but imagine the worst-case scenario of accidentally poisoning someone, or forgetting an allergy, maybe dropping the main dish right on the floor. Your sister and her company ate like they enjoyed it at least. The added blur of wine helping with the atmosphere. 

You were always the most quiet one in group settings, only speaking when spoken to, really. But you liked it that way. The stories Max and Daniel could tell from their lives were vastly more interesting than anything you had experienced anyway. Imogen too lived a more eventful life with fashion weeks and world travelling. Everyone seemed to like it that way too, the scrape of forks against plates punctuating Danny’s latest story. 

“…and when I finally got the bloody thing out of the house, the neighbour’s dog chased it straight back in,” Danny concluded, laughing as he leaned back in his chair. Imogen giggled, dabbing her lips with a napkin in that poised way of hers.

Max chuckled but shifted his gaze to you, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “So, how did you end up going from modeling to cooking?” He asked, after Danny was done telling the detailed story about a snake entering his house back home in Australia. 

You didn’t realise for how long you’d been quiet until you were now forced to speak, your voice sounding foreign to even your own ears. Setting your fork down, you answered, “I gave myself one last runway season to see if I could support myself. I walked three shows, while Imogen walked like thirty.”

“Thirty-two,” Imogen corrected, not missing a beat. She reached for her wine glass, taking a delicate sip before adding, “I’ll always believe you could’ve done it if you didn’t give up so easily.” Her tone was light but pointed. 

Your lips tightened. “I didn’t give up, Imogen—I moved on.” 

“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it,” she said with a faint shrug. “You never see yourself as anything special, always such a plain Jane.” 

The words settled heavily in the air, their weight pressing against your chest. For a brief moment, the table fell silent, the only sound the faint clink of cutlery against porcelain. You forced yourself to maintain an even expression as you reached for your glass of water. 

“It’s kind of hard to when you’re having dinner with three child prodigies,” you answered, letting out a pathetic laugh to conceal your emotions. 

For someone who was so afraid of you embarrassing her, Imogen really had no issue with her own words causing embarrassment for others. 

Max frowned slightly, his hands stilling as he turned toward you. “I wouldn’t call myself a prodigy,” he said, his voice calm but tinged with something else—discomfort, perhaps.

“Yeah, right,” Danny said, nudging Max with an elbow. “Modesty doesn’t suit you, mate. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Max smiled faintly but didn’t reply. There was a softness in his expression that made your stomach twist, though you quickly moved your gaze to look at your plate; the uneven shapes of pear in the salad were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. 

The conversation shifted, as it always did with Imogen, back to her. Something about a designer or a photographer saying she was the best model to work with. Something about a socialite event where ridiculous things had happened. Ridiculous meaning stupidly expensive or over the top. You wanted to laugh, knowing that they most likely didn’t use the real thing for the crazy champagne fountains she talked about, or that the sturgeon caviar they had served was a cheap knock-off, because no chef in their right mind would use the amount she mentioned. 

You zoned out as she talked, only starting to pay attention again when the conversation drifted towards what they were doing tonight and that they might need to call a cab soon. 

“Oh, where are you going?” you asked, unsure if you actually cared. 

“A sponsored event on a yacht in the marina. You know the jewelry company I did an ad for?” she replied casually, her tone almost bored.

You nodded, though the familiar ache of exclusion began to settle in your chest. You knew the exact advert she was referring to, not because you cared, but because those freaking pictures of her were everywhere. In stores, on every social media app, on digital billboards across multiple cities of the French Riviera—hell, you’d even seen it at a bus stop. 

“I assumed you wouldn’t want to come,” she added. The statement wasn’t cruel, but it stung all the same. “You never do.” 

Your fingers curled around the stem of your glass as you gave a small nod, keeping your face neutral. “No, I guess you’re right.” 

Max hesitated, glancing between you and Imogen. “I mean, she could come if she wanted to, right?”

“Yeah,” Imogen said, tilting her head as though the idea had never occurred to her. “I guess I could make a call to get you on the list.” 

“Don’t bother, you know it’s not my scene anyway,” you said quickly, your voice firmer than you intended.

Danny grinned, leaning back in his chair. “A wild night for her is solving a crossword puzzle with a pen you can’t erase.” 

“Or,” Imogen added with a smirk, her eyes glinting with mischief, “when she’s brave enough, watching an episode of Criminal Minds instead of Friends like she usually does.”

Their laughter filled the room, bouncing off the walls with the kind of ease you’d never quite mastered. It wasn’t malicious—at least not intentionally—but it still left a weight in your chest, heavy and familiar.

You kept your head down, pushing the last bit of salad around your plate, and told yourself you didn’t care. This was the dynamic, after all. Imogen had always been the star of the show, and Danny loved playing her supporting act. You had other friends who understood you better, who you had more in common with. Max, though—Max had been a surprise. And even now, as their laughter rang on, you caught him glancing at you from across the table, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

The dinner ended not long after. They had places to be, important people to talk to—while you had sitcoms to watch and dishes to take care of. You were happy to see Imogen every once in a while when she and Danny were both in Monaco, and you loved cooking for people, no matter who they were. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little happy knowing that Imogen was busy with work all throughout the upcoming month. 

As they filtered out, their voices trailing off into the warm Riviera night, the apartment felt suddenly too quiet. Locking the door after them, you slid down onto the floor, sitting with your knees tucked up towards your body, rubbing your tired eyes with the back of your hands, not caring if mascara crumbled all over your face. You felt empty, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. The half-drunk bottle of wine on the kitchen counter looked temping as you considered finishing it yourself. 

— — — — — — — — — — — —

Max trailed behind Danny and Imogen as they strolled toward the cab waiting just down the street. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of the sea, and the stars twinkled faintly above the rooftops.

Danny was cracking a joke, and Imogen’s laughter rang out like a bell, but Max barely registered it. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his mind somewhere else entirely—back upstairs, at the table, watching you push your food around with that faint, detached smile.

He slowed his steps, his feet dragging. The idea of the yacht party, the glitz and endless small talk, suddenly felt suffocating. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought of leaving felt… wrong. Max hated events like that. Everyone knew that. And while it was nice to catch up with Danny since they didn’t see much of each other nowadays, he found Imogen insufferable. He could play padel with Danny tomorrow if he wanted to talk more with him. Before he could think better of it, Max stopped altogether.

“Hey,” he called after them, making Danny and Imogen turn around.

“What’s up?” Danny asked, his brow furrowing.

Max hesitated, then gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “I think I forgot my phone. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

Imogen gave him a bemused smile, her head tilting slightly. “You sure? It’s not like we can wait forever.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Max said firmly, already stepping back. He waved them off. “Have fun.”

He turned before he could see their expressions and made his way back to the building.

The walk up the stairs felt oddly daunting now, each step heavier than the last, as though the weight of his own indecision was pulling him back. The soft hum of the building at night—the faint creak of pipes, the muffled sounds of life behind closed doors—seemed to grow louder with every passing moment. Max reached your door and hesitated, his hand hovering uncertainly near the wood.

What was he even going to say? He wasn’t the type to overthink things, but this felt different. He didn’t want to overstep. What if you didn’t want company? The evening had already been a mixed bag of awkward moments, and the last thing he wanted was to make it worse.

Max sighed, his arm lowering slightly, just about ready to turn back when he heard your voice from the other side of the door.

“I miss you too, like craaazy,” you said, your voice muffled but clear enough through the door. Max froze, his curiosity getting the better of him. You sounded close, as though you were standing right by the door. Picking up the pieces, he figured you were talking to someone over the phone. 

“Imogen and Daniel came over for dinner earlier, and he brought a friend of his, and it was the most awkward thing ever,” you spoke again. 

Max frowned slightly. He was the friend, of course. While he’d sensed some discomfort during the evening, particularly whenever the conversation turned toward you, he hadn’t thought it was that bad. Who would you be talking to like that anyway, debriefing something that had just happened? Did you have… a boyfriend? 

“Mum,” you added, your voice cutting through his doubt, “of course it was a boy.”

He relaxed a fraction, leaning slightly closer to the door without realizing it.

“A cute one, too,” you admitted. 

Max blinked, warmth creeping into his face. A cute boy. That was a twist he hadn’t expected. He couldn’t help but grin, his chest lifting slightly at the thought. And you definitely didn’t have a boyfriend.

“You don’t have to ask if I bottled it. You already know I did,” you said after a brief pause, your voice quieter now. “I’m not like Imogen. I don’t think I’ll ever learn to be that easygoing.” 

Max was back to frowning, this time for a different reason. He didn’t like the sound of that. He wanted to knock, to interrupt, but he didn’t move.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you,” you said, your tone softening into affection as you ended the call. “Tell Dad I said hi. Buh-bye.”

Max barely gave himself a moment to think before he raised his hand and knocked. There was a pause, long enough for him to wonder if you’d heard, and then your voice came through the door. 

“Did you forget something?”

By the sound of your voice, he could tell that you were expecting it to be Imogen coming back for something. Not him. 

Max smiled despite himself. “Yeah,” he said, the words coming out more confidently than he expected. “I think I did.”

For a moment, there was silence, and then he heard rustling from behind the door, almost as if you’d stumbled to reach it. The lock clicked, and the door opened, revealing you with wide, startled eyes. You looked more tired than you had before, makeup and clothes a bit askew. He assumed Imogen had something to do with how polished you’d looked at the beginning of the evening. 

“Max?” you asked, your voice pitched slightly higher in surprise.

He cleared his throat, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I was wondering…” he started, shifting his weight but keeping his tone light, “if maybe, I could stay here and be boring with you?” 

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, though the words sounded stupid the moment they left his lips. He half-expected you to laugh, but instead, you blinked at him, your surprise melting into something softer.

“Uhm, yeah,” you said, stepping back to let him in. “Sure.”

Max stepped inside, and for the second time that night, he was struck by how inviting your apartment felt. The uneven warmth of the terracotta tiles beneath his feet, the mismatched chairs around the small dining table, and the array of plants lining the windowsill. It was nothing like he was used to, yet it felt like the picture-perfect definition of the word home.

Moving into the kitchen, his eyes landed on something on the counter—a tray of something, its surface dusted with cocoa powder.

“You made dessert?” he asked, tilting his head toward it.

“Yeah,” you said, shutting the door behind him, smoothing out your shirt with your hands. “I made tiramisu. Want some?”

Max didn’t hesitate. Moments later, he was seated on your sofa with a fork in hand, his first bite of the tiramisu silencing any lingering awkwardness. “Fuck me, this is like the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he said, his voice filled with genuine appreciation.

You laughed, a soft, almost shy sound that Max couldn’t help but find adorable. You really couldn’t handle compliments well, and Max was going to use that to his advantage to make you wonderfully uncomfortable. “And you were going to have all this dessert for yourself instead of going out with us?” he asked, setting his fork down briefly to give you a look of mock betrayal.

“Well,” you said with a small shrug, sitting down beside him with your own plate of dessert. “I wasn’t really invited in the first place.”

Max frowned. “That’s not fair. They should’ve—”

“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “Really. It’s not my scene anyway.”

Max studied you for a moment, his fork hovering over the dish. You were the opposite of so many people that he knew. And so similar to himself that it was almost scary to him. 

Tucking up your legs under your body, you made yourself comfortable on the sofa before you continued talking. “I tend to stick to the walls in places like that anyway. Just observing conversations, trying but failing to lift them when they fall.” 

“Do you also feel like you’ve got a foot in your mouth whenever you open it?” he wondered honestly. 

“Exactly. Always putting my foot in my mouth,” you replied with a chuckle. 

“Sounds impressive to me,” he joked with a grin. “I’m not that agile.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You were the one to bring it up.” 

For a moment, the apartment settled into a quiet hum, the faint sounds of the outside world barely audible through the walls. Max leaned forward, setting his plate down on your coffee table. The TV was noticeably black in front of the two of you.

“So,” he asked, tilting his head slightly, “what is it tonight? A crime show or… what was the other thing?”

“Friends,” you replied, reading in his reaction. “You’ve never seen Friends?”

Max’s brows lifted. “Not really. Maybe bits and pieces, but I couldn’t tell you much about it.”

“Oh my god,” you said, your tone equal parts horror and humor as your eyes widened dramatically. “You have a lot to learn.”

He laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I’m hoping you’ll tell me everything I need to know.”

You smiled, a real one that softened your whole face. You picked up the remote, turning on the pilot episode. Max wasn’t really paying attention, but he liked how certain funny things made you audibly laugh. The more you watched and the more tiramisu you ate—the more the comfortable feeling spread like a fire through your living room, silently burning as he placed an arm around you and shared your blanket. 

This wasn’t where he’d thought he’d end up as he had entered your apartment the first time tonight, but now, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ♡

౨ৎ [ main masterlist . taglist . other love letters ]

Taglist: @koko-mei @anamiad00msday @floweringanna @lucyysthings @yelenam5 @firefirevampire @alexxavicry @emails-i-can-send @freyathehuntress

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter nine, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, rafe and y/n spending a day together, violence, blood, hunting, them also figuring out the rose thorns in the arena are a paralytic, first sponsor gift bc lowkey i forgot those exist LOL, capitol loves them sm ik it

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous next

the fire crackles in front of you, but it’s the only sound that doesn’t make your skin crawl.

your fingers rub up and down your arm. you don’t even realize you’re doing it at first because your eyes are locked somewhere on the ground. your mind is far, far away.

the bruises are already there. you don’t feel them, not really. not yet. you just remember how tight rafe had gripped you. you know it wasn’t out of anger, never that, but out of desperation, or panic, or survival. he saved your life.

you try not to think about what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t come running, it that thing had chosen you instead of topper. your jaw tenses, throat burning as the memory flashes again behind your eyes—topper’s hand slipping from yours, the blood, the sound, the screaming.

your stomach twists.

you don’t even have your backpack. or your blanket. or your water. all of it is back wherever kie and jj are. or were.

earlier, you and rafe had searched, not too far, not too deep into the woods. every step further away from the cliff made your heart pound louder in your chest, your ears tuned to the smallest noise like the crunch of leaves, the snap of a twig, the awful clicking you now associate with death. but there was nothing. not even a whisper. not a sign of your allies. not a sign of the mutt either, which was somehow worse. so you gave up, just for the night.

rafe found the spot where the cliff bent in slightly, like a broken edge in the wall, where the fire wouldn’t be seen unless someone was really looking. he said it was as good a place as any. and you didn’t argue. you just nodded and sat down.

now, he’s sitting a few feet away, hunched over the small creature he must’ve caught sometime after sunset. it’s long and lean, probably some kind of hare the capitol thought would be a ‘humble’ meal source for tributes. you can hear the soft snk-snk of his knife as he skins it, his hands sure and quiet, knuckles scratched and drying with blood.

he hasn’t said much. neither have you.

your knees pull tighter toward your chest. like the thing is that you’re not mourning topper, not in the way you probably should. you feel sorry, you feel sick, you even feel guilty. but you’re not crying. you’re not lost in grief.

you’ve seen people die before. it’s the games. it’s expected. you’ve always told yourself you’d be fine. you knew death wasn’t going to shake you.

but you weren’t prepared for that.

you remember the way the mutt moved, its eyes, how fast it tore topper apart like he was made of paper and meat, and how real it was when it wanted to tear you apart next. you breathe slowly through your nose, but it doesn’t comfort you.

rafe shifts slightly. you glance toward him and watch as he pauses what he’s doing, adjusting the meat like he’s mentally figuring out how to suspend it over the fire. his brows are furrowed, jaw clenched.

you think maybe he’s trying not to break down or show any emotion. not unless it’s snark, maybe. you go back to rubbing your arm, slow, distracted. at least there’s no screaming now. at least there’s no clicking.

“you should eat,” rafe says finally after a while. you don’t even move. he leans forward, still hovering the piece of meat on the makeshift stick he’s cooking it on. it’s not much. rabbit’s a little paler, probably undercooked, uneven. but it’s warm. and it’s food.

you stare at it for a second too long before answering, “i’m not hungry. i’ll eat in the morning.”

“doesn’t matter,” he says, more quietly this time. “you gotta eat now.”

you swallow hard, eyes flicking away from the fire to the trees again. “you think it’s still out there?” you ask after a long pause, not looking at him.

“probably.”

you nod once, like you already knew the answer. he doesn’t say anything else for a while, and neither do you. then, after another minute of silence, “you did good,” rafe says suddenly.

you blink, turning your head toward him slowly. “what?”

“back there,” he nods, barely. “you didn’t freeze. you held onto him as long as you could.”

“yeah, whatever,” you murmur with a shake of your head, a faint smile on your face to call his bullshit. “i let him go, and he died.”

“you would’ve died if you didn’t.”

your lip twitches. you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, blinking fast. “yeah, but i mean that’s the game, right?” you mutter. “some of us die. the rest of us . . . eat half-cooked rabbit and pretend we’re not next.”

he doesn’t respond. you think he wants to, but the words don’t come. instead, he just watches you.

“you ever seen something like that before?” you ask after a moment.

rafe doesn’t answer right away. “no,” he admits. “not like that.”

you nod again, swallowing, “it’s different when you’re not watching from a screen.”

“yeah.”

he stares at the rabbit like he's not really seeing it for a second, just holding it near the fire. his mouth twitches, jaw flexing like he’s turning something over in his mind. then, without saying a word, he pulls one of the legs off and reaches it toward you.

“just you ‘n me for right now, huh?”

you look down at his hand first, then you look up at him, catching the way his eyes meet yours. you guess he’s right. it is just you and him. kie and jj are gone. maybe not forever, but for now, yeah. it’s just the two of you.

you don’t say anything, just take the piece from his hand. your fingers brush his knuckles for a second, and you feel how warm he still is.

your teeth sink into the meat anyway. it’s dry and tough and probably cooked more by accident than skill, but your stomach grumbles the second it hits your tongue.

you keep chewing, blankly staring at the fire.

rafe pulls the other leg off for himself and sits back with a grunt, picking at it with his fingers, ripping a strip off the bone with a smug kind of smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“greatest thing you’ve ever eaten?” he says, watching you.

you pause mid-chew, blink at him like you can’t even believe he’s trying to be funny right now. “you’re a fucking idiot,” you mutter, food still in your mouth.

“wow,” he says, pretending to look offended. “a simple ‘thank you, rafe, for saving my life and cooking me a gourmet meal’ would’ve been nice.”

you roll your eyes, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “you nearly dislocated my arm dragging me through the trees.”

“yeah, well. you weren’t exactly moving on your own.”

“i was in shock.”

“you were crawling like a drunk baby deer.”

you let out a breath through your nose, half-exasperated, half like you actually want to laugh but don’t have the energy. you shake your head. “you’re unbelievable.”

“you’re welcome, by the way,” he says again, softer this time, like he means it for real now. like he’s not just teasing.

you pause, still chewing. your gaze flicks toward the fire, then back to him. and when your eyes meet his, it kind of settles there in the space between you, so you murmur, quiet and almost too low to hear over the fire crackling, “thanks.”

and you hold his gaze, just for a beat. long enough that he knows you mean it. you’re not brushing it off, not pretending it didn’t matter. because it did. he did save your life.

rafe’s expression shifts. not all smug and cocky like before, just something softer, more real. he smiles, and for the first time since all of this, it actually reaches his eyes. the firelight flickers just enough that you see it. there’s faint dimples on either side of his mouth that clearly only show up when he’s not trying too hard.

your lips twitch before you can stop them. just a small, quick smile. there and gone.

then you both go quiet again. but it’s not tense.

you take another bite, slower this time. he eats too, not looking at you but still kind of aware you’re there. then you tuck your feet closer beneath you, exhale quietly through your nose.

the next morning, your hand brushes against the damp forest floor as you wake, fingers threading through the moss and scattered leaves that make up your bed. it’s still early. beside you, rafe’s already awake, sitting upright with his arms resting over his knees. he doesn’t say anything at first, just glances over once he feels you stir. it’s like he’s been waiting for you to wake up.

you press your palm into the dirt and push yourself up, back aching from the way you slept, but you move quietly.

“i think the coast is clear,” he mutters, eyes scanning the woods ahead. “that thing, whatever the hell it was, it's probably gone now.”

you nod once, just enough to show him you’re listening.

“we should try to find kie and jj. there weren’t any cannons last night, so . . . they’re probably still good.”

your response is silent, but he gets it. you both rise, weapons in hand, neither of you saying much more. the walk stretches into an hour, maybe longer. your legs eventually ache and your throat’s dry.

conversation stays light, if it even happens. just the occasional comment about direction, maybe a weak joke from rafe when a squirrel startles out of a tree and makes you jump. the forest somehow looks familiar now, even though every tree is just like the last.

you stop by the stream again, the same one from yesterday, kneeling to drink as your reflection ripples beneath you. the water’s cold, a little metallic on your tongue, but it works. you wipe your mouth with your sleeve and glance over at rafe just as something sharp pierces the silence.

a yelp.

you both freeze. your head snaps up like a deer hearing the first crack of a branch behind it. your instinct screams to move, to run and find out what it is, but your feet stay planted, waiting, searching.

rafe’s already scanning the trees, his body still but tense like he’s ready to lunge. you both start forward, slow at first, stepping through bushes and uneven terrain. it’s hard to see where the noise came from. your eyes dart around, expecting someone, or something, to burst out from behind the trees, but all you see is green. trees, roses, more trees. nothing.

until something catches your eye near the base of a tree trunk. it’s a rabbit. it’s small, lying still in the grass. not in a way that says it’s sleeping, but like something happened to it. its body is stiff, unmoving, but its eyes are wide open.

you glance up at rafe. he looks back at you with the same cautious confusion, then crouches beside the rabbit. his hand hovers over it like he’s expecting it to snap or vanish. nothing happens. he inspects it, quiet, then slowly lifts his gaze to sweep the woods around you both. his fingers twitch toward the mace strapped to his back.

you get the hint. your hand slowly reaches for one of your daggers, your gaze scanning the trees again.

but nothing moves. no sounds. no twigs snapping under footsteps. the rabbit’s just there. like an offering. a meal.

rafe doesn’t hesitate long. he snatches it up, holding it by the legs, and gives you a look that says he’s not about to question free food.

but there’s a noise.

you don’t notice any at first because you’re too focused on the rabbit, your stomach already reacting to the thought of food. but rafe freezes, and that’s enough. your gaze snaps to the side a beat after his. a branch. like someone stepped on a fucking branch.

your jaw tenses. of course it was a trap, you both think immediately.

your gaze flicks across the trees, and then you see them, two tributes.

they’re standing not far off. the second they spot you and rafe, they go stiff. one of them grabs for something at their side while the other tightens their jaw. they don’t speak. their eyes harden.

you stare at them, straight through them, your breathing slowing like your body’s gearing up for something it already knows how to do. you need to kill them. rafe’s standing beside you still, and for a second, neither of you move. it’s silent.

then one of them takes a step back.

you almost smile. it’s not a real smile, it’s the idea of one. just the hint of amusement pulling in your chest. because it’s been too long since it’s felt like this. the rush. the clarity.

rafe drops the rabbit to the forest floor without a word, the body landing with a thud in the dirt. his hand swings back, fingers curling around the handle of his mace.

you’re already moving.

you vanish into the bushes like a shadow. your body stays low but your eyes stay up, locked on the two tributes even as leaves brush against your cheek. they can’t see you anymore, only rafe, and that's the point. they’ll be so focused on the obvious threat that they’ll forget about the one hiding in the dark.

he doesn’t call after you, doesn’t check to make sure you’re in position. he just knows. that’s the difference between you and them. you’re not clumsy. you don’t break branches.

guess the show’s back on, rafe thinks as he steps forward, the weight of his mace dragging through the air. and just like that, he makes his way over. you don’t wait long to follow either.

rafe barrels toward them like a force let loose. he doesn’t hold his mace back, lets it swing wild in the open air, not to strike just yet, just to warn.

one of the tributes lunges first, the boy. he’s taller than he looked from a distance, quick-footed too. he ducks low, swiping at rafe’s legs with something dull and rusted, a sickle maybe, cut down from a farming blade. it makes a sharp whoosh in the air, and rafe barely steps back in time, the weapon missing his knee by an inch.

rafe exhales hard and pivots, twisting his body with the motion of his mace and slamming it toward the guy’s ribs. the boy blocks it with his shoulder. it’s a bad idea, because the sound it makes is disgusting, bone and muscle crunching under steel, but it works. it slows rafe down. enough for the other tribute to rush him from the side.

the girl, older than you, faster.

rafe’s not fast enough to avoid her punch. it hits his jaw hard enough to rock his head to the side. they’re good. they’re actually good.

he fights both of them like it’s a dance and a slaughter, parrying one while dodging the other. but they’re working together, pushing him back, closing in . . . until you strike.

you explode out of the brush with no warning, boots crashing over the forest floor as you launch yourself at the girl’s back. she hears the snap of leaves too late. she spins, but not enough. you slam into her with the weight of your full body, driving your shoulder into her stomach and taking her to the ground.

the two of you crash hard into the dirt, her elbow slamming against your ribs in the fall. you grit your teeth and roll first, pinning her under you. she twists her body, trying to buck you off, clawing at your arms. you grab for your dagger, but it slips in your grasp, sliding a few feet away in the scuffle. you hiss and reach again, but she elbows you in the jaw.

your head rings, but you don’t move. your knee presses harder into her stomach as your hands close around her wrists. she growls and kicks, wild like she’s dying already, and you feel your lip split as her head knocks yours. pain. blood fills your mouth. you’re holding steady, but you’re not giving her the chance.

meanwhile rafe’s still fighting the boy, both of them panting now, exchanging blows that don’t always land. the boy’s relentless, and even though his shoulder’s broken, or close to it, he still comes at rafe like he’s possessed. rafe gets shoved back, his boots skidding on the dirt, and the boy tackles him.

they hit the ground with a loud thud. his blade catches rafe in the side, and rafe’s face twists in pain. his free hand comes up hard, cracking into the boy’s jaw. it barely fazes him. he’s not just fighting to win. he’s fighting not to die.

you hear the hit, the bodies slamming together, and it drives you harder. you snarl through your teeth and drive your elbow into the girl’s throat, just enough to make her choke, just enough to get her hands to weaken, and you shove her off you, dragging yourself toward your fallen dagger.

you grab it and turn. she’s already on her feet. but so are you, and rafe’s still fighting to his last breath just a few feet away.

your vision blurs for a second when the girl throws a punch that clips your cheekbone, but your body reacts before your brain can catch up. you duck her next swing, grab her arm, and shove her backward with everything you’ve got. she stumbles, hits the tree behind her with a sharp, solid thud that makes the whole trunk vibrate. you don’t stop. you grab the front of her shirt, grip it hard like it’s a lifeline, and throw her to the ground again.

she hits the ground awkwardly, the back of her head catching something behind it. it’s not a loud crack, more like a sudden stop. a soft thump. and then nothing.

you stand over her, chest heaving, face raw and sticky with blood, your own or hers or both. her eyes are open, glassy almost, wide, staring up at you. your grip tightens around your dagger, ready to lunge, to finish it, but she doesn’t move. like not even a twitch.

you hesitate, blinking. what? your blade hangs heavy in your hand, not yet stained. she’s just . . . staring. not really struggling, and not grabbing for her weapon. she’s just lying there. your breath catches. for a second, you think—did it end that fast?

you crouch beside her, slow, and grip her collar again and pull her up by it, trying to see if she’s playing dead. her body’s slack, but not lifeless. her arms dangle, her chest barely rising.

but that’s when you see it.

beneath her neck, a thorn is lodged deep under the skin. a thick one, twisted red. she’s still shaking faintly from the force of her fall. your gaze drops to the ground behind her. there’s a rose. it’s flattened now, crushed by the weight of her body, petals scattered, one’s stuck in her hair.

you look back at her face. she’s still staring. it’s almost worse than death.

you don’t think she can blink or even move. her lips are parted just slightly, but there’s no breath pushing through. the thorn—it must’ve been poisoned. paralytic, you think immediately, like some sick trick of the arena. so the rabbit wasn’t a trap most likely, it must’ve just gotten caught with a thorn like this girl did.

there’s a cannon behind you that makes you blink out of it. rafe killed. so should you. you don’t wait for anything more.

your dagger moves before you even register the decision. you aim clean, right into her chest, right where the heart is. it sinks in deep and quick, and her whole body jolts with the force before it slumps completely. her eyes don’t close. but the light goes out, like someone hit a switch and turned her off. cannon.

you don’t look at her again, but you spit the blood pooling in your mouth onto the dirt beside her body and stand up slow, wiping your blade on your pants. your chest still rises and falls, and your cheek throbs from where she hit you.

when you look up, rafe is already watching you. he’s waiting by the other tribute’s body, one foot pressed against the boy’s back like a hunter posing over his kill. his knuckles are split, mace sticky with blood. but his expression is calm now, like he’s already processed it and moved on. he doesn’t say anything when he holds out his hand.

you take it without a word, and he pulls you to your feet. you wobble just for a second, boots skidding on the dirt, but you find your balance. his eyes lift to scan the trees again, quiet, thinking, his brow tightening just slightly. there’s no celebration. just calculation, like figuring out what your next steps should be.

you wipe your nose on your sleeve again, smearing blood across the fabric, then step over the bodies without hesitation. your eyes scan the ground for weapons, supplies, anything useful. there’s a smaller blade and a matchbook. you pocket both. the girl’s pack is torn but intact, so you unzip it, digging through with one hand as you sling it over your shoulder, then your fingers catch on something small and metal.

a locket.

you pull it free and it dangles in your palm, swinging slightly as you flip it open. inside, there’s a photo. a family, her family. the photo is blurry, probably printed just for this. her arms are around two little boys, maybe brothers. maybe cousins. you don’t know.

your gaze drifts back down to her body, still sprawled on the forest floor. her eyes are still open. the rose beneath her is crushed into the dirt, red petals stuck to her cheek.

you’re not upset. not really. maybe a little. but it had to be them. it was them or you, you and rafe.

“c’mon,” you hear him call for you.

you sigh, slow and sharp through your nose, and toss the locket back beside her body, then you walk away.

you make your way back to the little camp you claimed by the water. you glance over at rafe, at the red streaked across his hands and his knuckles, the corner of his jaw dark with it. there’s a cut on his cheekbone, dried blood where it dripped from his nose. some of it’s splattered up near his eye. it’s mixing now, sweat and dirt and blood, all dried together.

you grimace at the sight. “let me clean you up.”

he glances at you once, silent. no smirk, no smug response. he turns and drops the rabbit beside your things, its neck already twisted at an odd angle. he must’ve done it quietly on the way over, like he said he would. didn’t want to waste the paralytic, didn’t want it running off after all of that.

but he doesn’t argue or shrug you off. he just walks toward you and stands still.

you step toward the stream’s edge and lower yourself into a crouch. the water’s cold. you dip your arm in, just halfway up to the elbow. your sleeve soaks heavy almost immediately. when you pull it back out, water runs down to your fingers and drips off the edge, but it’s the best you’ve got.

you take the edge of your sleeve and hold it between your thumb and fingers, palm cupped beneath it, and step back over to him. he doesn’t move when you reach up.

you drag the wet fabric across his cheek, the water instantly mixing with the dried blood, turning it a little pink before it runs down across his jaw. some of it drips to the ground. that’s fine. better out than dried up and stiff on his skin. you sweep across his cheekbone, over his brow, then down the side of his nose. his eyes close once, just briefly, like it stings.

you make your way to his jawline and just as you reach the curve of it, he flinches.

your hand pulls back by an inch. your eyes scan his face. “sorry,” you murmur.

he doesn’t answer. he’s watching you now, eyes flicking from your hands to your face, unreadable. that must’ve been where the girl hit him.

you move a little slower after that, more careful. your fingers adjust and you press the soaked cloth to a spot just under his eye where there’s a faint trail of red. he hisses again, not loud, but enough to let you know he feels it.

you glance up at him. “you’ve got more cuts than i thought.”

he breathes through his nose, lips parting slightly. “they’ll close.”

you don’t argue. you keep wiping. your sleeve’s half drenched and streaked with red by the time you finish, but his face is mostly clean now.

you reach for his hands next, but rafe pulls them back before you can touch them, his mouth tight as he crouches down near the water, like as if to say that he’s got it. he leans forward and dips his hands in deep, blood loosening off his knuckles and swirling away into the pond.

you crouch down beside him. your legs burn from the motion but you ignore it, your hands reaching for the edge of your soaked sleeve, wringing the blood out into the pond with a twist of your wrist. it turns the water red all over again. you dip the fabric in to clean it. maybe you’ll use it on yourself next, wipe down the parts you can reach. your mouth still tastes like blood, your nose is stinging, and you know you’re probably just as much of a mess.

rafe brings both hands up to splash cold water over his face, rubbing it over the parts you already wiped, like he’s making sure there’s nothing left. you hear his breath hitch a little from the shock of it, but he just wipes the water away with his palm and shakes his head slightly.

and then you feel it. there’s a sudden shift beside you. rafe flinches forward like he’s just remembered something, like something sparked in his head and now he can’t sit still.

“lemme get you,” he says, voice low, already reaching for your arm.

you blink at him, caught off guard, and for a second, you almost ask why, but then you don’t. instead, you pull your sleeve back in, wring it out one more time, and turn toward him.

he dips his own sleeve into the pond and soaks the fabric until it drips between his fingers like you’d done. he reaches out slowly, using his free hand to brush your hair gently out of your face, tucking it behind your ear to see you better.

he doesn’t say anything. he just starts dabbing the wet cloth gently along your cheek, across your jaw, under your eye, just like you did. his movements are careful, maybe softer than you were. you stare at him the whole time, trying not to shift or tense, but your chest feels a little tight.

his eyes stay on your face, focused in a way that makes it feel like you’re the only thing in the world right now. and maybe to him, you are.

you’re his only ally at the end of the day. kie and jj are cool, and topper was useful for the time he was still here, but when it really comes down to it, he knows you’re the only one he can rely on in here. and you know it too.

his gaze flicks up and meets yours, and something about the way he’s looking at you makes your stomach flip. there’s something quiet behind his eyes, something vulnerable.

you stare right back, your lashes wet, your face damp from his sleeve. but he doesn’t break the eye contact. he just keeps cleaning you off, like he’s in no rush at all . . . until something comes.

the beeping starts off faint, almost ignorable, but there’s something about the pattern of it that makes your head snap up. you pause mid-motion, eyes lifting toward the sky. it’s not the kind of beep that belongs to something broken or distant. no, this one moves. it’s getting louder as it gets closer.

you scan the open air beyond the trees. at first, there's nothing. then, in a flicker of motion, you catch the metallic glint of something small descending, slow, swaying slightly as it comes down beneath a small, thin parachute. the beeping is coming from that.

your eyes drop briefly to rafe. he's already watching it too. it’s sponsor gift. has to be.

you stand, cautiously stepping forward to track its float path, watching the way it drifts in the light breeze. it’s soft, almost mocking, the way it takes its time like the capitol wants you to want it. you can’t even imagine how many times tributes in here have been angry just watching it come down while being dehydrated, hungry, or in pain.

the beeping fades with each sway, then spikes again as it shifts direction. it gets lower. lower. almost close enough that you jump. fingers snatch the container mid-air, and you drag it down into your hands. the beeping cuts off.

it’s small in your palm, steel-like and matte gray with a faint latch on the side. you glance down at rafe again as you walk back toward him, but he still hasn’t said anything. he’s watching you now, watching the box.

you try to lift the lid, but it doesn’t budge, locked tight. you frown and twist instead, the seal popping with a quiet hiss as the lid loosens and unscrews in your hands.

a piece of card is folded on top, right on cue. it’s nothing handwritten, just a clear, printed message in bold black type:

BLOOD IN THE WATER ISN’T THE WORST THING YOU’LL TASTE.

STAY SMART.

ENOBARIA

your brows furrow. you flip the card over. nothing on the back. vague. warning? encouragement? enobaria was a career victor. she was brutal and clever. maybe this means something you’re not necessarily getting right now. you tuck the card into your palm and check what was underneath.

nestled into a foam base are two slim vials. clean, unmarked at first glance except for the slightest tint of color. one is a deep navy blue, the other being a darker green.

you lean in, squinting to catch the fine print near the bottom of each vial. it’s almost microscopic but it’s there:

acetafrexan-hydrothrexate. a long name, but your mind sorts it quickly. painkiller. potent and fast. just two capsules inside.

chloralis-wrhydrin compound. it’s a water purifying agent. breaks down bacteria, neutralizes acidity. you’ve seen it used in training. it works.

your pulse kicks a little faster. it’s useful, necessary.

you run your fingers along the vials, thoughtful. two capsules for one dose, as far as the painkillers go. that's how these usually work.

but still, is it for you? or meant to be split between the two of you? there's no label saying ‘district two’ or ‘y/n’ or ‘rafe,’ no names, no confirmation. for all you know, someone up in the stands just liked the blood on your sleeve.

“come here?” you say quietly, reading over the card again. it’s still clutched between your fingers, a little smudged at the corner from your damp sleeve. you let your gaze lift to rafe, who straightens from where he’s crouched by the pond. he meets your eyes and moves.

you walk over to him to meet in the middle, tucking the card into your back pocket with one hand and then pulling out the painkiller vial. you hold it out toward him. he doesn’t take it right away. he hesitates, blinking once, then reaches for it slowly, brows knitting slightly.

“need to figure out the water purifier,” you mutter to yourself, stepping to turn away, already mentally sorting the capsules and what to do next. but his voice stops you before your foot even fully lifts from the ground.

“y/n,” rafe calls. you look back over your shoulder. “these are yours.”

you blink at him. “there wasn’t a name on the sponsor, rafe. it could’ve been either of ours.” he opens his mouth but you keep going, your voice a little too quick, like you’re trying to outrun the argument you know is coming. “you took more of the blows, so just . . . take them. two pills is for one person.”

you’re waving it off. but before you can get another step away, his hand is around your wrist, fingers wrapping gently but firmly, grounding you. you look down at where he holds you, then up at him.

he’s not being rough. not even stern, really. it’s just him.

“one for you, one for me,” he says, calm. “yours hurt too. i know it.”

you open your mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. your jaw shifts. your teeth grind just barely. of course they hurt. your ribs, your shoulder, the side of your face that caught the girl’s elbow. you feel every inch of it, but you’d rather he have the full dose, because that’s what logic says is smarter. because that’s how you survive: by giving someone else what they need more.

but rafe’s looking at you like he sees right through it. through you.

and then it hits you that the cameras are probably still watching all of it. the sponsor gift, your hesitation, his insistence.

it’s probably better for the viewers too, this stubborn little compromise. two halves of one dose. it might be dramatic, tender. they’d eat this up.

you swallow hard, then look down at his hand still holding yours. you don’t pull away. you just nod once.

rafe shifts, turning the vial and twisting the cap open with a faint pop. he tilts it and catches the two capsules in his palm. he holds one out to you, and you take it.

he’s quick with his, actually swallows his dry without a blink, then shakes his head a little.

you hesitate again as you look at the pill in your hand, then rafe, then back again. finally, you tip your head back and force it down. it sticks a little in your throat, dry and bitter. you cough once, then breathe through it.

there’s a weird aftertaste to it that almost pisses you off. you will never understand the capitol and what chemicals it must take to make something as fast-acting as these are supposed to be. the aftertaste is all you’ll need to worry about, if anything.

rafe watches you, just for a second longer, then you both shift back into yourselves. you head toward the edge of the pond again with the green vial in hand, fingers already twitching to open it and check the contents. your eyes flick briefly to the rabbit’s limp body where he left it.

“you should start on lunch,” you say, barely turning your head as you speak.

behind you, you hear rafe huff softly through his nose.

at least now you know the capitol’s watching.

let them.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 10 - Look And See

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

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

Chapter title from Thank You by Led Zeppelin

Word Count: 17k

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

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

Chapter 9 - Chapter 11

Read on A03!

“Can you drive any fucking slower?”

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

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

“We weren’t done, and I was hungry-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My head is in the game-“

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

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

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

“It did-“

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

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

“Ruby’s trying to help-“

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

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

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

“And She was wrong. And I’m-“

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

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

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

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

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

“When did you-“

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

“And that’s-“

“Yep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But-“

“Sam. Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because Dean was damned. 

But he never wanted to be damned for hurting Her. 

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

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

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

But they managed.

And She had no idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Couldn’t tell Her.

Couldn’t fully push Her away.

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

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

Sammy nodded. “Yeah, but-“

“And if you trust her-“

“I do.”

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

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

“Yeah, but-“

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

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

She was trying to make him crash the car.

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

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

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

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

“Shit, sorry, De-“

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

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

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

“Probably?” He asked, and She shrugged.

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

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

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

“That it’s a witch artifact-“

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

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

Dean didn’t know what was happening. 

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

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

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

“What did Ruby say this was for?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t his place to say anything anymore.

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

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

And he needed Her to stop clawing at Her throat. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean would do most anything for Her.

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean-“

“Pie-“

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

His pants got a little tight.

He was fucking pathetic.

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

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

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

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

And he hated this.

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

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

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

“Have you met Ruby?”

Dean blinked at Her. “Yeah.”

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

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

“Eloquent, De.”

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

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

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

“Should I trust her?”

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

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

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

“Alright.” She shrugged. “I won’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was so pretty.

She could never be Dean’s.

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

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

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

“What-“

“See the Cadillac? The silver one?”

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

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

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

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

They were walking towards the Impala.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wanna bet on that-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was faster. She was always faster. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean wouldn’t bet on it.

“Not now, Sam-“

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

“No, she won’t. She’ll leave first.”

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

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

“Because she was sick-“

“Does she look sick to you-“

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

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

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

“Shut up-“

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

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s Sam.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just like, once-“

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

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

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

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

Sam shook his head. “No, uh-“

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

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

“C’mon, Princess, we’ve landed-“

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

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

“No.”

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

“Why.”

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

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

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

“Should I give it to Her?”

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

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

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

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

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

Why the hell couldn’t She just move away.

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

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

“That can’t be true.” 

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

“No. But I could find one.”

“You planning to find it in the car?”

She scowled. “Shut up-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not now.

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know. Just, son of a bitch-“

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

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

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

“What the hell was that-“

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

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

Lie.

That was a lie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not really, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was looking at Her. 

And She looked horrible.

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

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

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

“Take Sam where-“

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

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

Which was understandable. 

She could be scary. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam blinked. “I- are we leaving now-“

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

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

“Fine. Have fun on lockdown.”

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

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

Dean was alone again.

But this was worse.

Because he was alone with Her.

And it didn’t matter what Ruby claimed. 

That was a bigger threat than Lilith.

————

This is going to kill you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe she was just an ugly bitch.

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

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

But you’re going to do it anyway. 

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

In Dean’s proximity.

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

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

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

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

Wherever Dean was.

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

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

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

But knowing that had never stopped you.

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

You can’t leave.

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

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

Not when you’re locked down.

With Dean.

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

“I- uh-“

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

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

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

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

“Gun.”

“In my jacket?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It still hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

It has to stay with you.

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

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

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

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

But they were likely more. 

Because this thing was powerful. 

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

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

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

He’s branded into you. 

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

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

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

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

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

He does.

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

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

It’s eating you alive.

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

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

He didn’t quite drink like this. 

And he still won’t really look at you. 

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

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

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

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

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

And he’s right there. In the dark.

And you’re not running.

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

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

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

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

But the Darkness sinks back down.

So it works.

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

“You shouldn’t do that.”

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

“’S not good for you.”

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

He blinks at you. “What.”

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

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

“Is there a reason for you to drink?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of you mention it in the morning. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s already walking away.

It takes all your willpower not to chase after him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you forget my fucking bacon-“

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

“I’m not seein’ it-“

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

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

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

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

“What-“

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

You blink at him, and nod slowly. 

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

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

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

It had worked.

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

But now you’re putting Dean in danger. 

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

You’re going to break. 

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

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

And your guard slips.

When they arrive, you’re not ready. 

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, we have do not disturb-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t think Dean will live.

And the rush kicks in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you don’t pull punches.

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

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

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

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

You could’ve killed him.

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

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

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

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

You’re fucking pathetic.

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

You’re only you again.

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

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

You already too far gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’d gotten a compartment. And a bed.

One bed.

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

Sleeping next to Dean.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could’ve gotten Dean killed. 

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

“Stop doing that.” 

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

You hadn’t even felt it. 

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

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

Dean isn’t Jo. 

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

He grunts. “What.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You still have that freakin’ arrowhead.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at him. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

You’re bending. You can’t.

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

He scoffs. “You were fucking sobbing-“

“Because I just got attacked by demons-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re really just so fucking tired.

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

“Bobby- He said you were sick-“

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

“How?”

You frown at him. “How-“

“What’s wrong with you.”

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

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

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

“I’m smart-“

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

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

And everything blends, so easily, back to silver.

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

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

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

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

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

“I am asleep.”

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

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are, De. You always are.”

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

“You’re being dramatic.”

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

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

“Because you’re sick?”

“Yeah.” You swallow. “It’s- Yeah.”

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

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

“And now-“

“Nothing.”

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[pandora-writes-one-piece]

ahhh i read all of your works they are so good. also may please request a "how can you still trust me after everything i've done" with an fem!reader with either 🩺 and/or "i've never met someone as infuriating as you and i can't stop thinking about you" with ⚔️? thank you so much! have a good day!

Hi @beachaddict48 ! Here's the second part of your request! I do hope you like this one! Thank you for asking!

Source for pic

Trust

Word Count: 4934

Tags: fem!reader; modern world AU; mafia; blood; threats; torture; slight angst;

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: Doflamingo thinks Law is betraying his trust, and what better way to make him confess than by torturing you?

Notes: Ooff, I feel like I need to really get to these requests, but everytime I start to write one I go: oh well, I'll keep this short, around 1k words, or so... IT'S NEVER SHORT! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this, even though I'm so not happy with the ending...

|Masterlist|

“He's not going to give you what you want, Doflamingo. He's not a traitor, you're just wasting our time.”

You have only been in Donquixote Doflamingo's office once. That one time, you noted the opulence of such a room. The tidy desk, the vintage whisky bottles in the corner, some more expensive than a car, the sleek, glistening leather of the chairs. You also noticed that the room exuded something other than opulence: danger. You didn't quite know why, apart from the presence of the man who owned it, but the air was thick with it. 

But now you know. 

The ropes binding your wrists seem to get tighter by the second, your heart pounds against your chest in such an erratic way that you're almost positive the blond man can hear it. The leather chair has been replaced by a cold metal one, with plastic beneath its feet. At first, you didn't understand why he needed the plastic, but once he took out his knife, it all made sense. 

Doflamingo doesn't want to make a mess in his office. 

And it seems you're about to become one. 

“See, that's where you're wrong, princesa. In my book, the time spent setting out a trap to catch a rat is time well spent.”

Doflamingo caresses your cheek with long, cold fingers. His crimson eyes glint behind tinted glasses, and the mixture of the sweet scent of his cologne and the metallic tang of your blood makes your stomach churn with revulsion. 

“Law's not a rat.”

“We'll see about that.” He straightens, his lips curling into a thin smirk as he opens the door to his office to let his nephew in. “Come in, Law. I have a surprise.”

You stifle a gasp behind your teeth, your wrists twisting instinctively as you try to reach your boyfriend, to touch him. The effort only makes the rope’s bite harsher. The plastic beneath your bare feet sticks to them, the blood trickling down your leg, creating swirling patterns and tiny pools. 

Law's golden gaze falls on you, and you see it. His control silently slipping. It's something quite small, barely noticeable, but it's there. It's in the slight clenching of his jaw; it's in the way he opens and closes his hand; and it's definitely in the flicker of anger that flashes in his eyes as he directs his gaze back to his uncle. 

“What is the meaning of this? Why is she under questioning?” At least his voice still carries its edge and calm composure, though you, who know him like the back of your hand, can detect the barest trace of hate. 

“Oh, but she's not, Law. You are.” Doffy's chuckle is low and unnerving, his chest trembling slightly as he places his hand in the pocket of the trousers of his perfectly pressed pink suit. 

“I'm not following, Uncle.”

Law shifts, his gaze searching yours again, a shadow of pain darkens the gold, and you take a deep breath, trying to smile through your suffering as to reassure him. He's assessing your wounds, but Doflamingo was merely playing with you before: a slash on your leg, a shallow cut on your arm, a trickle of blood on your collarbone. Law takes it all in, his throat bobbing up and down as he tries to steady his own breathing. He needs to be strong for what's to come. 

“You see, Law, it has come to my attention that I am being betrayed. Someone is spilling my secrets to the police, and we can't have that, can we?” You focus on the glint of the knife tapping against Doflamingo's chin, using the rhythmic motion to try to steady your uneven breathing. 

It doesn't work. 

“I'm going to assume you’ve exhausted all other options before deciding that I should be the one under scrutiny and my girlfriend the one under torture?” He can't disguise it now, even though you know he's trying to stay controlled, you can hear the growl behind his words, the leashed anger, ready to snap. 

“Believe me, Law, I wish it weren’t like this.”

You know Doflamingo is a master deceiver, but the way he delivers his words almost makes you believe he actually regrets this. 

With a heavy sigh, the intimidating Donquixote steps closer to you, and each tap of his expensive shoes sounds like another nail in your coffin. 

“I trust you, Law.” You whisper. 

-*-

It was a freaking deluge. The rain was pouring nonstop, the light and blissful pitter-patter having turned into heavy, merciless drops in mere seconds. Your hands held your purse above your head, trying to shield some of the relentless rain away as you rushed to find shelter. 

You heard it before you felt it. The screeching tires, the wet sound of soaked concrete. And then blinding pain as you were hit before collapsing on the ground. 

Everything hurt, and you barely registered as the car drove away, its driver giving no thought to what might happen to you. 

You remember thinking this was how you would die. Having a lifetime of regrets and barely a handful of life achievements. 

This was how you'd go. 

“Hang in there, help is on the way.” His voice sounded distant, but it was so measured and gravelly that it managed to ground you enough for you to focus on his eyes. 

The most hauntingly beautiful eyes you've ever seen, an amber light in the darkness that enveloped you. 

“Am I going to die?” It wasn't fear that brought up the question, it was deep-seated regret. 

“Not on my watch.”

And he was right. He didn't let you die, he helped you before the ambulance arrived, disturbing the rain with its blinding lights and filling the night with its echoing sirens. 

But all you could hear was his voice, and all you could see were his eyes. 

-*-

The tip of the knife presses against the hollow of your throat, Doflamingo's fingers hovering over your pulse point, feeling how scared you are. 

Little does he know, you're not frightened for your life. 

It's Law's life that worries you. 

“Stop this, Doflamingo. I'm not the one you're looking for.” Law's voice trembles slightly, and you hope his uncle blames it on his anger rather than on him being on the verge of confessing. 

“Sadly, I don't believe that. And I also know how much you care about your little charity case here.”

Law bares his teeth as blood starts dripping from the small puncture wound on your neck. You lock eyes with him, silently pleading for him to be strong. 

“You do know what I do to traitors, don't you, Law? It doesn't even matter if they're family or not…”

Law's breath shudders as he closes his eyes, and you know he's reliving the worst moment of his life: the moment his other uncle, the man who raised him, who made him believe in love again, was murdered in cold blood right in front of him. 

And how that broke him. 

“You're unstable, Doffy. Deranged and delusional.”

Doflamingo removes the sharp tip from your skin, and you let out a deep breath. But then, his fingers grip your hair as he pulls and tilts your head back with enough force to draw tears, the knife now resting horizontally against your throat. 

Yet you don't release a single sound. 

“Ohhh, I'm so much more than that, Law!” His cackle is maniacal, and the grip on your hair tightens. “I'm insane! But I have a reputation to keep and a business to maintain. I will not tolerate traitors!” He says it with such rage that you can feel drops of spittle hitting you in the face, making you flinch. “Are you the traitor, nephew?”

“He's not.” You answer for him, too afraid he'll let his heart take over and confess just to save you. 

“Shut up!” Doffy growls and yanks on your hair, making you gasp as the knife digs into your neck, crimson droplets spilling out and marring your collarbone. “I'm not talking to you, princesa.”

Law takes a step towards you, and you can see how coiled-tight he is, every movement restrained and controlled. 

“Doflamingo…” There's danger in Law's voice. The type of danger that would make lesser men flinch in fear and hesitate. But not Donquixote Doflamingo. 

He revels in it. 

“Just say the words, Law. Either prove me wrong and make me proud, or prove me right and be the same disappointment my brother was.”

Tears gather in the corner of your eyes, your heart clenching at the pain Law must be feeling. You can't let him say anything. 

You can't let him die. 

“Law, I trust you!” There's not much more you can say. 

You hope it's enough. 

-*-

“I can never trust you again, Law! I thought we were becoming something. I thought you were the one. I just… I never expected you to have so many secrets.”

You had been dating Law for almost a year, had practically moved into his flat. You loved him, and though he had yet to confess the same to you, you knew he loved you back. He was a man who showed his love with actions rather than words. 

But these actions spoke louder than any words ever could. 

“Are you going to explain what this is?” The high pitch in your voice almost made you flinch, and you could see your own hand trembling as you pointed to a wad of money, a burner phone, and a gun. All things you had found hidden in the back of a cabinet while looking for treats for Law's dog, Bepo. 

Law lowered his gaze, looking defeated and ashamed, two things you would never associate with him. 

And it nearly broke you. 

“I don't have a good explanation.”

“How about the truth, then?” 

Law groaned as he took a seat at the kitchen table, gesturing for you to do the same, only to be met with a huff and your arms crossing in defiance. 

“My uncle belongs to the mafia. Owns it, actually. All sorts of shady businesses you can imagine.” He chuckled darkly, a laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. “And then some.”

“And you?” You couldn't believe what you already knew to be true. Law was a doctor, he saved lives. He couldn't be taking them as well. He couldn't be part of this. He couldn't. 

Your eyes fell back on the gun, on the phone, on the money… 

“I…”

He didn't seem able to say anything else. And you had heard enough. You would never be able to trust him again. 

-*-

“I trust you, Law.” You hope he understands. He can't say anything. Not even if Doflamingo kills you. Law needs to be strong. 

Law grinds his teeth, his eyes locked with yours, burning with fury and determination. You smile at him. He's so strong. 

“I am not the traitor you're looking for, Uncle, but maybe I can help you find them. When you release my girlfriend and stop hurting her.” He takes a step towards Doflamingo, and you see the way his hands flex, like he wants to grab the man and yank him away from you. 

Doflamingo pauses for a moment, his grip loosening slightly as he seems to be lost in thought.

“It's not enough.” He whispers as he finally lets go of your hair. 

Law releases a breath and you gasp for air. 

Then Doflamingo stabs the knife into your shoulder, the blade coming down in a deliberate, arching motion, puncturing your muscle with a sickening sound. The pain is blinding, like nothing else. It radiates down your arm in waves, turning everything too bright and seemingly far away. The wound’s shallow and the knife doesn't seem to have hit anything critical. It’s meant to taunt, not kill. 

You taste blood as you bite your tongue to keep from crying out. You won't give him the satisfaction but mostly, you don't want Law to lose control. 

“Fuck! Doflamingo, stop this nonsense immediately!” Law takes a step forward, determination setting his pace as fury takes hold of him, but Doffy simply uses his other hand to reach for the gun on his back and point it at Law. 

“You stop right there, Law.” Law grunts and halts. You take deep, ragged breaths as your eyes focus back on him, on his gaze, on his pursed lips, and on his clenched jaw. 

“I'm fine…” You stutter. The knife still stands on your shoulder and you're bracing yourself for another wave of blind-hot pain when Doflamingo decides to pull it. 

“You're brave, little girl.” Doffy seems annoyed. “Not. One. Scream.” He emphasizes each word with a slight twist of the knife, and you can't stop the tears. Frankly, it's a miracle you're holding back your screams. “Are you going to speak, Law?”

“I fucking told you all I had to tell you, already! I'm not the one you're looking for! Release her, fuck!”

“You're lying!” Doflamingo shouts, his nostrils flaring in anger as he pulls the knife away from your shoulder, and you finally let out a scream. 

Law calls your name frantically, an urgency in his gaze and you force your head up to look him in the eyes. 

“I'm fine, I'm fine, Law. I'm fine.” You manage to sputter between deep breaths. 

“FUCK!” Law kicks the chair in front of him and it rolls twice before hitting the desk and stopping. He's clearly seeing you're not fine. “Let her go, now!” He takes another step forward and Doflamingo clocks the trigger of the gun, the barrel still pointing straight into Law's head. 

The shiver that assaults you doesn't come from the blood loss. The small whimper that leaves your lips doesn't come from the pain. The tears marring your cheeks aren't for yourself. 

And Doflamingo knows all of this. 

His laugh starts slowly. A low rumble behind your head that crescendos to a manic chuckle, then to an outright insane cackle. 

“Oh, this is precious. This is so good!” Law's hands clench into fists, and he sways unevenly, both wanting to lunge forward and stop your bleeding and forcing himself to stay still so he doesn't anger his uncle anymore. “I've been doing this all wrong.”

Then he steps away from you, sidestepping the plastic so he doesn't get blood on his expensive shoes. Your breath comes out in shallow gasps, each one making the pain in your shoulder travel through your arm in painful throbs.  

Yet you have no time to consider whether the blood you're losing will kill you, because Doflamingo places one arm above Law's shoulders, the gesture familiar and taunting as he smiles at you. 

“She's very brave.” He says, pointing at you casually with his gun. “And you're a tough nut to crack.” He tsks as he turns his head towards Law, one finger pushing against Law's temple. “I can torture her all night, and she'll barely scream. And you're wound up so tight, she could be on her deathbed, and you'd still be in control of your emotions.”

Law's gaze never leaves you, and you're sure he's watching as you wince every time you breathe, as your breaths grow shallower and shallower. 

“Now, what happens if you're the one being tortured, Law?” The barrel of the gun presses against Law's temple, and your breath hitches, your brows furrowing tightly as you trap a gasp. “You won't scream, I know that, but look at her. Look at your little princesa. I bet you don't even need to scream for her to spill all your secrets. Am I right, mi querida?”

You stay silent, lips pursed and eyes locked on Law. 

“I trust you with my life, Law.”

-*-

“Please, just hear what I have to say.”

“You have said enough, Law.” A bitter laugh escaped your lips as you tried to close the door to your flat. Law’s foot remained wedged between the door and the doorframe, and you pushed further, not caring if you hurt him or not. “Oh, no, wait. You haven’t said anything. You didn’t deny my accusations, which, in a way, was worse.”

You stopped trying to close the door on him, the gesture futile because he was stronger than you. Lacing your arms around your body as if to shield you from his lies, you took two steps back, expecting Law to burst inside your house. Yet all he did was pry the door open, his hands resting on the doorframe as he slumped his shoulders, his head falling forward in such a defeated way you struggled to keep your heart in check. 

“That’s why I’m here. I want to explain it all to you. But I need you to be ready to listen to me.”

“Have you killed people, Law?”

His sigh was soul-shattering, and you gasped, hands flying to your mouth as tears welled up in your eyes. You didn't know him, you didn’t know him at all!

“Can I come in?”

A ragged sob left your lips as you turned your back on him. “Fine.”

You didn’t turn to look at him, but you didn’t have to. The soft click of the door told you he had entered, but his presence always seemed to overwhelm everything else in the room. He hovered near you, yet he didn’t touch you or push your boundaries.

“I never killed anyone. But I never did anything to save them either. So, in a way, I’m an accomplice to those deaths.”

You could almost hear regret tinging his words. He sounded bitter, wounded, and grieved. But was he? 

“How many deaths?” His silence should tell you all you needed to know. “How many, Law?”

“Too many to keep track of.” 

You lost strength in your legs, your trembling hands finding purchase on the nearby table. No more trust, no more love. Could everything be over just like that? 

“Just… please, listen to what I have to say.”

You didn't answer him. But you didn’t stop him either. Instead you took a seat at the table, your head bowed down so as not to look into his hypnotizing amber eyes. 

He had already told you how his family died and how he was raised by his uncles. But he had never told you that his uncle Doflamingo had killed his own brother, Rosinante. You heard every word that Law decided to share with you, trying hard to keep your emotions at bay because you found it hard to hate the man you loved so much. Especially when he was baring his heart, his pain to you. 

He shared all about what his uncle did, the drugs he sold, the people he threatened, the high-profiled VIP’s he kept in his pockets, ready to be played like puppets on a string. Then he got into detail about what he did in the organization. And though he never killed anyone with his own hands, he had tortured and maimed enough to be haunted. 

“Why?” You asked, getting up and ready to throw him out of your house, out of your life for good. Even if you loved him with every fiber of your being. “Why are you still working for him when you know everything he does is evil?”

You watched as his throat bobbed up and down, his hands fidgeting with his phone: a burner phone.

Then his eyes bore into yours, and you couldn’t look away. Not when pain was so evident in them, but that was not what held you trapped in his gaze. It was hope.

No… it was…

“Because I’m spilling all his secrets to the police. I’ve been gathering evidence against him since he killed Cora. I’m going to bring him down, destroy his empire, destroy his mafia, destroy him.”

It was revenge.

-*-

“Trust? Trust is such a wasted sentiment, cariño.” Doffy chuckles before leaning in and whispering into Law’s ear. “She trusts you, Nephew, but do you trust her? Because I don’t. What I trust is that she will spill every little secret she holds dear to her heart once I start hurting you.”

“You wouldn’t!” You cry, using your outburst to release some pent-up pain from your shoulder. 

“Wouldn't what? Hurt my own family?” Another maniacal laugh escapes his lips. “You don’t know me at all, princesa.”

Then, without warning, he points the gun at Law’s thigh and shoots.

It all happens too fast, yet somehow, it replays slowly before your very eyes. The sound of the shot still rings in your ears as Law doubles over in pain, his cry trapped between pursed lips and clenched teeth. The smell of blood mixed with gunpowder is intoxicating and dizzying. 

You can’t bear it.

“STOP!” You scream, thrashing against your restraints as Doflamingo kicks Law’s other leg, causing him to kneel on the floor with a dry thud. “Leave him alone, don’t hurt him, please!”

“Look at the mess you’ve made me cause.” Doflamingo seems disappointed as he looks at his pristine carpet, tainted with the blood of his family. “I love it when you beg, princesa, but that’s not what I want to hear. Spill your secrets.”

-*-

“I can’t do this. He’s going to find out. He suspects already, and if he so much as thinks I’m the one behind it…” Law’s hands cupped your face, his eyes weary as they searched yours. “I haven’t hidden you well enough. He knows you’re my weakness. He will come for you, and I can’t–”

“Law…” You placed a hand on his chest, feeling the irregular drumming of his heart. “Oh, Law, you’re doing the right thing. Don’t doubt yourself. You’re so close! He won’t find out, don’t worry.”

Your lips found his, and he groaned, pulling you against him in a desperate embrace. “I can’t lose you, I can’t. I… God, I love you.”

You thought you had loved before, but the way your heart somersaulted, the way your breath hitched as you tried to breathe, was proof enough that you had never loved as deeply as you did Law. 

“And I love you, Law.” You held him close, your hands tangling in his hair, trying to brush away his feelings of fear and insecurity. “I trust you. You’re doing the right thing. I trust you, Law.”

He sighed, pressing his forehead against yours, his hands tightening on your waist, pulling you closer to him. “How?” A low grunt escaped his lips and he nuzzled his face against your neck, inhaling your scent. “How can you still trust me after everything I’ve done?”

You smiled against his chest, raising your arms to envelop his neck.

“You’re a good man, Law. I’ve known that since the day you saved me instead of leaving me to bleed in the middle of the street. I see it in the way you help people at the hospital, I see it in the way you want to bring justice for Cora. You’re kind, good, whole. I trust you with my life.”

-*-

“Are you going to talk, or should I shoot his other leg?”

Law grunts, ripping the fabric of his jacket to tie it around his thigh, stopping the blood but not the pain. 

“Maybe I’ll just skip to the head and get this over with. If I kill him and the treason stops, then I was right, if it doesn’t…” He shrugs. “Oops.”

“You’re sick!” You spit, your eyes searching Law’s. He shakes his head softly, a silent warning for you to remain silent, but you’re not strong enough. You know you’re not.

“Nobody fucks with my business!” Doffy shoves the barrel of the gun harshly against Law’s head, and you cry out again for him to stop. “And Law should know that better than anyone!”

-*-

“How much longer? Don’t they have enough proof already? What more do they need?” You paced the kitchen, back and forth, hands wringing against each other as your breathing came out in irregular gasps. 

“They say they’re almost ready. Almost.” Law typed away on his computer, his fingers detailing Doflamingo’s latest business. He was using a burner laptop, something that couldn’t be traced, and it was hiding in your flat.

“Almost is not soon enough! Doflamingo is breathing down your neck already. How long until he suspects something? I can’t… Law… what if he kills you?” Your voice broke, and you heard the chair scraping against the floor before Law’s strong arms wrapped around your body, trying to tether you and ground you back. To keep you from spiraling.

“Almost, love. We’ll be free. Soon. Trust me.”

-*-

“You have three seconds, doll.” Doflamingo’s voice sounds dangerous, unhinged, and maniacal. You sob, locking eyes with Law again and shaking your own head. You were never strong enough for this.

You will never be able to live without him.

No matter how selfish that may sound.

“One…” The barrel presses harder against Law’s head. “Two…”

“I love you.” Law whispers as you cry harder, your head falling forward and your shoulders wracking with heavy gasps, not even the pain radiating in your shoulder is strong enough to stop the tears.

“Three.” 

“It was me! It was me! It was always me, not Law! Don’t kill him, don’t! He didn’t know anything about it!”

It’s desperate. It's a hollow lie. But maybe he’ll buy it.

“You?”

“She’s lying! We don’t know anything about it!” Law rages, trying to move, but Doflamingo grips the scruff of his jacket, forcing him still as he steadies the gun against Law's head.

“Well, fuck me.” Doffy states. “Guess you’re going to have to die, then, princesa.”

“No! It’s not her!” Law thrashes and you whimper. 

“Is it you, then?” Doflamingo lowers his head, his lips hovering near Law’s ear. “After all I’ve done for you, after what I’ve taught you, after I’ve raised you? This is how you repay me?” You can't quite discern if what you perceive in Doflamingo's voice is disdain or disbelief. Either way he's upset. And he's taking it out on Law. 

“It’s not him!” You keep pleading, but neither of the men are paying attention to you now. “Doflamingo, listen to me. Leave Law alone!”

Law turns his face to the side, facing Doffy, the most unhinged and satisfied smirk spreading on his lips, even as sweat beads fall from his temple down his face. “It was always me, Uncle. I've wanted you behind bars ever since you killed Cora. I carried on the mission he started. I finished it.”

It’s clear Doflamingo was expecting that confession, but he still looks taken-aback. His smirk turns quickly into a scowl as he bares his teeth. 

“I hate you, Doflamingo. I loathe you with every fiber of my being. And you will rot in prison like the vermin you are.”

Doflamingo straightens up, his throat bobbing up and down as he fixes his glasses and suit. 

“Not before I kill you, dear Nephew.” He sighs heavily. “This was quite the disappointment. Go on, then, go meet my dear brother.” He raises his gun again, the barrel pointed directly at Law’s head and as he speaks, you know he’s addressing you, even though his eyes are locked with his uncle’s.

“I have no regrets. I would do it all over again.”

“Stop… stop… please… anyone… please…” You plead, your chest hurting, your vision blurring. You can’t lose him, you can’t. “Law…”

The bang is deafening. It reverberates around the space, clinging to the room like thick fog. You don’t have any more strength to cry, to shout or even to speak. So you close your eyes, tears dropping in an endless torrent.

It’s over.

It’s all over.

You just hope you’re next so you can meet Law in the afterlife.

…

……

………

“Open your eyes, love. Let me see your wounds, you’re bleeding too much.”

“Law?” It can’t be. “Law! What happened?” You look around the room, Doflamingo is sprawled on the floor, a bullet wound in his forehead, blood dripping in a very thin line and tainting his blond locks. 

“A sniper, I’d guess. The window’s shattered and I heard screaming outside. The police must be storming the place. They’ll find us soon. Keep still.”

But you can’t. You want to hold him, hug him, find out if he’s real. 

“Untie me, Law!” With a soft chuckle he presses his forehead against yours for a second before kissing the same spot and untying your wrists. You don’t mind the sharp stab of pain that travels through your arm or the swell in your chest as you hug Law tight against you.

“You did it, Law. He’s gone. He’s gone.” You manage to say between sobs and kisses.

“He should’ve spent the rest of his life in prison, but I’m not going to complain. You’re alive, love.”

“You’re alive.” You sigh, cupping his cheek in your bloody hands. “I knew my trust wasn’t misplaced. I love you.”

“I love you too.” And when you kiss it's like the world stops spinning, the commotion outside the room disappears and the pain ceases. All that exists, all that matters is Law. And the way he completes you. 

There was a time where you had a lifetime of regrets and yet you had barely lived. Now you have faced death and the inevitability of living a hollow life without the presence of your other half. You've found the person that makes everything worth it and you helped him in his quest for justice and righteousness.

You've lived. 

And you have no regrets left. Only trust.

Tag list: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @lycoriskalmia @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium @keiva1000 @chibinasuu @my-name-is-heartache

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[alchemistc]

fascination with your presentation | bucktommy 1/1

read on ao3

Tommy likes to touch things. It's just a random quirk of his that Eddie's noticed - a hand sliding along the back of the couch as he follows Eddie into the kitchen to grab a beer, fingers balancing along the table as he leans, elbow pressing into the frame of the doorway like he's gauging the space between walls.

He's tactile - a smack to the space between his shoulders, fist bumps and high fives and teasing hair ruffles when he's got Eddie pinned in the middle of a spar and they both know Eddie isn't getting out of it.

It's nice. There aren't a lot of men, especially with their background, in their line of work, who are remotely comfortable expressing affection like that.

He's a fan.

Christopher is less so, when Tommy lays a big hand to the crown of his head and goes for a noogie. He huffs, rolls his eyes, rolls his head forward and away from the touch, makes some noise about a call he's supposed to make later that night and how he doesn't want his hair messed up for it, and Tommy holds his hands up in apology, fighting a grin as Chris smooths his hair back down.

Eddie's used to it already, so it takes him a second to really notice Tommy rounding the edge of the table to flick through papers and pictures and receipts tacked to the fridge as he digs through one of his drawers in search of the bottle opener he knows he has stashed in here somewhere. Eddie's more of a twist cap beer guy, but Tommy's oddly flavored fancy bottles always need an opener.

"Here," Tommy says, and Eddie turns just in time to catch the keys Tommy slings at him.

"I don't like your truck that much," Eddie tells him, which is a lie.

Tommy tips his head forward to indicate the keys. "Bottle opener, Diaz."

Which makes sense. He should get one for himself, actually. It's a little shocking neither one of them carries a utility knife on them. The preparedness rules maybe didn't stick after discharge as well as they could have

Tommy's gaze drifts, and Eddie watches his head tilt, ring and middle finger reaching up to tap at one of the pictures on the fridge. Chris and Buck, a few years back, some trip to the museum during either Buck or Chris' dinosaur phase. Buck's holding a giant stuffed pteranodon ("Pterodactyls were smaller and had cone-shaped teeth and backward-projecting crests, actually, and this isn't technically the most accurate depiction anyway, it's generally accepted they probably had feathers, now." -- So, definitely Buck's phase, now that he's remembering.) and Chris has a specific brand of smile across his face that Eddie has quietly dubbed his Buck-smile. Something around the edges of his eyes that's always just a little brighter for Buck.

"Cute picture," Tommy says, and Chris's eyes draw to it as Tommy taps his knuckles once-twice to it before dropping his hand to his side.

It's not the first time someone in this circle of three has brought up Buck.

The first night Tommy'd been here, camped out on the couch watching a game, Chris had had a million questions, and Buck had come up pretty naturally over the course of them comparing disasters they'd been a part of, or worked.

Chris had brought up the tsunami, which had led to a back and forth where they discovered Tommy had likely flown right over them at least once during that disaster of a day, and then it had evolved into Chris memorializing all of Buck's greatest (most traumatizing) hits - pinned under a fire engine, climbing a crane tower in the middle of a county wide panic about a shooter targeting firefighters (he doesn't bring up Eddie being shot, which - maybe they should revisit that at some point, make sure Chris isn't burying that), Buck getting struck by lightning, Buck taking charge in the bridge collapse.

And obviously, if Chris was gonna debate Star Wars, he was gonna bring up Buck's involved opinions on Machete order and OG vs Prequels vs the Somehow Palpatine Returned era, and be delighted that Tommy's opinion differed from Buck's, because that made Chris the victor in that ongoing battle.

Buck is a big part of Chris and Eddie's lives, so he's gonna be dropped into conversation. Nothing strange about that.

Tommy always calls him Evan, which is a big old dose of whiplash every time, and he can't think why he does that, because despite Buck introducing himself (weirdly) as Buh-Evan Buckley, they've seen each other since, and no one else Tommy talks to calls him Evan, so he doesn't know why Buck hasn't corrected him.

Chris' mouth does something strange as Tommy keeps looking at the picture, his expression going a little curious in a way Eddie can't quite parse, and then he's grinning. There's no reason to be suspicious, except for the way he actually puts down his phone to engage with Tommy as Eddie passes a beer off.

"Yeah, Buck always takes me to exhibits every time there's a new one. He's cool like that."

Tommy hums around his first sip, expression placid, posture relaxed. "Maybe I could take you to the next one."

Christopher's eyes narrow.

Eddie's lost.

"Uh, not without Buck. Carla took me once without him and he pretended to be fine about it for weeks until I asked him to take me again. He was not happy we went without him. But you could come with us."

Tommy tap-tap-taps his finger against the rim of his bottle, unfazed by the slightly territorial way Chris had phrased it. Eddie's fazed. Eddie is not sure there's not a second layer to this conversation he's missing. "I'll look it up. Jot it down in my day book."

Christopher is too young to have a clue what that means, but he doesn't seem to be quite done with whatever the hell it is he's got going on right now. "Good," he says. "Buck's single right now, so he's got a lot of extra time for stuff."

Tommy's gaze flits to Christopher's, and Eddie doesn't have a fucking clue what's going on, but it's a weighted look for half a second before Chris' gaze turns back to his phone.

"You have his number, right? Maybe you should call him and figure out a day we can all go."

Something happens around the corners of Tommy's mouth that he hides by tipping the bottle mouth against his lips again. "Yeah. I've got his number."

For a second Eddie wonders why, before he remembers catching Buck down at Harbor before the fight. When had Buck gotten his number?

"Cool," says Chris, eyes already glued back to his phone. "We usually get lunch first. Buck really likes pizza."

"Everyone likes pizza," Tommy says, eyes glimmering with mirth that Eddie absolutely does not know the source of.

"Yeah, but Buck's picky about it. He says there's a perfect pizza to crust ratio that most places don't get right. Also he likes it when they have a stone oven, and the little pizza risers."

Tommy rolls his tongue over his teeth. And - why is Eddie watching this interaction so carefully? It's not like he's worried Tommy's gonna say something weird to his kid, even if his kid is being weird.

"I'm gonna go throw the game on. You hungry?"

Tommy's eyes shift to meet his, and Eddie feels that same frisson of excitement he gets sometimes when Buck is paying close attention to him. "I could eat. Not pizza though. There's nowhere around here with a good stone oven."

"Dad likes pineapple on his pizza, his pizza opinions suck."

Eddie tosses his hands up. This is an old argument, one created entirely by Buck because Chris hadn't minded a good Canadian pizza before Buck declared war on them. "Pizza's just pizza. I was thinking Chinese, anyway."

"Can we get those spring rolls Buck always gets?"

Tommy's gaze slips to the fridge one more time, eyes drifting across the picture he'd pointed out earlier, before he unclips the menu for the Chinese place down the street from its spot half-covering the calendar to hand it off to Eddie. He spots the circle around their plans for Thursday and reaches out to touch the date.

"You invite anyone else for Thursday?"

Eddie rolls his top lip over his bottom one. "Buck hates basketball, turns me down every time I ask. I might ask Chim, though, he and his brother always liked to play."

Literally nothing in Tommy's expression changes, but Eddie feels like he's reacting to something in that sentence anyway. He's trying to figure out how to cut the weird tension in the room when Christopher starts listing off his order, and he's so distracted by trying to get a list prepared to call that he misses two thirds of Chris and Tommy's continued conversation, which is somehow, for some reason, still about Buck. Geez, is Chris pissed that Eddie's got a new friend? He should invite Buck next time he makes plans to hang out at home with Tommy.

----

"It was a date," Buck tells him, a week and a half later, while Eddie's staring at his phone like looking hard enough might make it, and his relationship with Marisol, maybe disappear. Just for a little while, while he squares things up with God.

Eddie tosses his phone, turns to look at Buck in the second before it computes, manages to pull back just enough so that it's not a full, ridiculous double take.

"When you and Marisol ran into me and Tommy, we were on a date."

"Really?" Buck usually tells him the second he's interested in someone, because for some reason he thinks Eddie has any idea how to have a loving, lasting relationship, even though Eddie's been lobbing live grenades straight at love since he was fourteen. He hadn't said a word to Eddie about -

Well.

Well actually --

Well shit.

Oh, he's definitely giving Tommy and Christopher both shit about this later.

"Wait, Tommy's gay?"

A whole host of things are suddenly lining up -- Buck at Harbor the afternoon before the fight, and Buck asking half a million questions after the fight, and Buck and Tommy both picking at the thread of Christopher's praises for the other, and -- Buck had been jealous. Buck had been jealous of Eddie spending time with Tommy. Buck had shoulder checked him to the court and sprained his ankle because he liked the guy enough to lose his head about it.

Oh, he's gonna hold this over all of their heads for sure.

Which for the moment is apparently not that great an idea because Tommy'd pressed pause after one date, which is fast even for Buck. He tells him so.

"When we ran into you guys I kinda made an idiot of myself and he said he doesn't think I'm ready." Buck looks -- sad. Disappointed. Nervous, hands rubbing at his thighs like he's soothing himself. It's a fair point, on Tommy's part, even if he doesn't know all the details.

(Something about hot chicks pings in the back of his mind, but he shelves it for later.)

Buck's never really hinted at romantic inclinations in that direction, although some of his comments about good looking guys are making a little more sense, in retrospect.

"What do you think?" Eddie's pretty sure he knows the answer to this question, but he asks anyway, because Buck likes to work these things out. He likes to talk about them. Eddie imagines not being able to articulate exactly what he was feeling without wondering if his friends would think it was weird probably (definitely) contributed to his wildly dramatic behavior the last few weeks.

Geez, Tia Pepa would be eating this telenovela shit up.

"I kinda can't stop thinking about him," Buck tells him, and it's a voice Eddie's not entirely sure he's ever heard from Buck before -- at least when he's talking about someone he's into. Buck's always got a checklist and a trillion rationalizations. Now he just sounds... smitten.

And Tommy is too, Eddie thinks. He is absolutely gonna call him out for pumping his kid for information. Maybe accuse him of only befriending him to get to Buck -- see if he can make the unflappable Tommy Kinard flap, a little.

"You should call him," Eddie tells him, already imagining double dates with a partner of Buck's he doesn't hope will spontaneously combust in the middle of dinner. Maybe between Tommy, Chris and Eddie they can finally convince Buck to go to one of the car shows he's always rolling his eyes at. Maybe Tommy and his terribly hidden romantic side can actually match Buck's crazy.

Eddie hugs Buck on his way out the door and feels the tension drain from his shoulders.

Maybe touched starved Buck will get to enjoy that little tactile quirk of Tommy's, too.

[jennamoran]

If a strategist from Glitch were to try and go about killing a god (maybe they’ve backslided, maybe the god is just really annoying or trying to kill their friends), how would they go about doing it. What would be the best way to use Eide, Flore, Lore, or Wyrd?

-

Jenna, my readers are always asking me, how do you kill a god? But there is no one size fits all answer to killing gods.

You have to look within yourself.

You have to find the unique way of killing gods that expresses you.

-

Glitch is a game where you tell stories, and an important feature of stories about killing gods is that they are not all the same.

Some are long. Some short.

Some put their protagonists through heck. Some let them just glide through.

Stories can have very different ideas about what it takes, and what it means, to kill a god.

Gods, too, can differ.

-

If you're frustrated, looking at Glitch, trying to find the thing you're supposed to do to accomplish task X, you're misunderstanding the intended flow of play:

To kill a god, decide how you want to kill a god.

Then, express it in the form of actions.

Optionally, discover that you're misaligned with the group zeitgeist on how god-killing stories work, and adjust.

Then, the god dies, or doesn't.

If you're having trouble figuring out how you want to kill a god, then you might need to stick it on a back burner. Over time, you'll have a better understanding not just of the game options the traits provide but of how your character uses them, and some things your character might want to try will gain more dramatic weight in the group zeitgeist.

-

Decide you want to kill a god by shoving it out of your way into the street. Declare that as an everyday Ability action.

Decide you want to kill a god in a complicated flower rite. Declare that as a quest or planning miracle.

Chain it down in a place of sorrow with a Greater Invocation. Erase it with a handwave and your Wyrd. Give in to the wicked voice of your god-killing knife, that whispers to you always, and draw the curtain on the scene, and expect that when the next scene starts it will be dead.

Declare that gods aren't real, and let it poof away.

In every last case, perhaps the group goes, "Yeah, that's a satisfying answer!" Perhaps they don't. If they don't, then your action still "works," in that it happens unless in direct conflict with a stronger action, but it likely doesn't kill the god.

-

A secret is that this is not just how Glitch works.

In almost every RPG, the way you make something happen is get the group on board with that thing happening. All rules can do is help that happen.

If the rules of Glitch could make that happen then you wouldn't even have to read them, you wouldn't even have to know you were playing Glitch, you could think you were playing D&D and accidentally play Glitch instead and the rules would sort that out for you.

They can't.

-

When it comes to killing gods, the game of Glitch bestows a certain implicit authority on higher-level miracles, particularly epic miracles; miracles that take time to play out; miracles that imply in their description that they're on the right power level for killing gods.

Strategy and Greater Strategy are good ones when they apply, because you can get the players on board during the planning process, spend a while playing it out gathering narrative momentum, and then have it feel well-grounded when it works.

If you have a Talent for killing gods, then that probably works well, but also tends to reframe the game as one where you're killing a bunch of gods and more story time gets spent on the ones where there's a twist that makes it difficult. Think of the Traveller in Black; as competent as the traveller is, they still spend most of their time "in play" dealing with entities that are difficult even for them.

Greater Invocation is well-built for attacking gods.

Destruction and Greater Destruction can be good, though honestly they kind of push the GM to make a complex conflict out of it, which in turn means it's actually the Wailing Rite that would serve you best.

Flore is all kind of of one piece, but you'd definitely want to start with a Greater Glorification on a god-killing weapon.

-

If you decide in play to do something that the GM and group think you can probably do, but which they also think should feel difficult and earned, then you probably have to spend some time on either a quest or a spotlight-driven exploration of what's going on with that thing before coming up with a plan people think is cool, executing the plan, and then having the plan mostly work but devolve into some kind of chaotic complex conflict at the end to finish up the final details.

If you decide in play to kill a god ... well, probably the GM and group will believe you can, but also think it should feel difficult and earned. That's kind of what the book implies, at least.

-

In the old days---I once wrote this.

In the old days, they didn't know very much about the world. But they made maps anyway. If they had to map something they couldn't, they just drew whatever they felt like and wrote, "Here there be dragons."

We still don't know very much about the world; and there are things to map of it besides its surface.

How do you write a book?

How do you kill a god?

Can broken things be remade? Can destinies change? Is it worth the risk of hope?

Important questions, but one can only shrug, you see:

Here, there be dragons.

-

As for Glitch, I mean, like ... the game only has two rules, and they're not even a dozen words between them; some things had to be left as exercises for the reader, and the dreamer, and their group.

[theslumberinggod]

The Wanderer's Tagalong Part 1: Couldn't

A series of connected drabbles revolving around The Wanderer grappling with his feelings for an unexpected companion who can't even speak the same language as him.

Pairing: The Wanderer (Scaramouche) X Reader

•~°~•

Rain crashed down on the roof of the abandoned barn. It slipped through the cracks and rotting gaps, down onto old floors, seeling through stones and deteriorating wood into the earth. 

A cold chill crept in with the icy rain, a long with the occasional gusts of wind slipping through the thin walls of the measly shelter barely keeping The Wanderer and his companion dry. 

He tilted his hat, cracking a violet eye open to glance at you. You had pulled your cloak around you, bringing up your knees. Your brows were furrowed, an intense gaze in your eye as you used your body to shield the paper you so intently scribbling on. 

You liked to draw. A lot. It was the one thing The Wanderer knew for sure about you other than your name. You did not speak the common tongue, nor did you seem particularly familiar with anything or anyone here. He could only guess where you came from---a Descender or Outlander. 

You didn't seem to possess any unique or special talents of any arcane kind, unlike Lumine. You were as far as the Wanderer could tell, a squishy human with enormous amounts of audacity, stupidity, grit, and smiled way too much. 

“Wanderer,” Your voice broke the loud yet quiet atmosphere. It had a soft, thickly accented quality to it. The word---name, Wanderer rolled awkwardly yet fondly off your tongue. With a light huff, he snapped his gaze towards you. 

“What?” He asked. 

You smiled, scooting closer much to Wanderer’s chagrin. His body stiffened, tapping his fingers along his arms. You lifted the sketchbook you had been so vigilantly protecting from the rain. Smudged charcoal and thick lines had been expertly dragged across the paper. 

The art was unusual, formed in a way Wanderer had never seen before. It was both incredibly life like yet unrealistic, charming in a way. 

He then narrowed his eyes, “Did you draw me?”

“Wanderer!” You happily repeated, proudly. You had drawn him, leaning against the wall, arms folded with his hat pulled down over his eyes. It both looked like him and not like him at all. What made him really pause was the small, barely noticeable smile you had so painstakingly etched into his features. 

Wanderer huffed out, unsure whether to be flattered or disturbed, either way the attention triggered that deep rooted crack in his soul. He turned his eyes away and shut them, leaning his hat down in dismissal. You didn't seem particularly satisfied with his grumpy, smile falling from your face. 

He watched from the corner of your eye as you twisted your lips, trying to hide a frown behind a think face as you clutched your charcoal stick and stared down at the paper. 

A feeling he wasn't entirely accustomed with---the ugly, twisting feeling of compunction wriggled round in his chest. It was sharp, fleeting, but potent enough to make Wanderer regret dismissing you. 

He wrestled with himself silently, still. He did not know you, therefore he should not care. There was no room in him to care, it was too dangerous. 

Why should he care for a stranger he found lost, bewildered, terrified, hurt and alone on the road?

That was how he found you. Deep into the night on his long travel back to Sumeru. It was unusually warm that night. The stars were out and glinting, false and beautiful all the same. 

You came crashing down a hill to his left, stumbling and tripping over your own bare feet. Your face was smeared in blood, oddly simple clothing ripped at the hems, covered in scratches with a long gash in your arm. You held a rusted knife too big for your fragile hands, eyes wide in utter horror, terror.

Why did you rush to him, when abyssal monsters pour over the hill? Maybe it was just because Wanderer looked human. He could never, ever forget the look on your face when he used his Anemo on the monsters, flicking the parasites away like the dust they were. It wasn't fear, it was awe. 

You repeated some phrase over and over, maybe a thanks he was guessing. He really did assume you'd go back from whatever camp or town you were from, but you followed him wearily, cautiously. 

The Wanderer couldn't help it. You were so clearly lost, tossed aside by fate or abandoned. You were far too clingy to just be lost. 

He could not care. Yet he didnt just leave you there. He could not care, but it seemed trying to scrub some of the dirt off his hands meant to act like he did. 

He opened his eyes again, glancing at you. You were hunched over your book again, scrawling something. Less intensity, and enthusiasm. Dammit. 

With annoyance he reached out, sharply poking you in the shoulder. You jumped, jerking your head up, asking something in your foreign tongue. 

“I want to see it again,” The Wanderer pointed at your book. Brief confusion flashed over your face and you held it up, showing the half-finished sketch on the page. He could make out a start of a person. You didn't hand him the book, looking at him with curiosity. 

Wanderer huffed. The language barrier did get annoying, and really troublesome at times. Sometimes it was a blessing, he could avoid small talk---but trying to communicate with you, especially in complicated situations was a nightmare.

He made a grabbing motion, feeling childish doing so. Realization dawned on your features and you handed him the book and pencil. He didn't correct you in assuming he wanted the pencil and just carefully thumbed the sides of the pages to the one you drew of him. 

“This is so stupid,” He huffed out, “But it's good. I don't smile though.”

You didn't understand him. Both good and bad, he was spared of trying to grapple with complimenting someone but unable to properly apologize for hurting your feelings. Yet, patiently, you waited and watched, bandaged hands folded in your lap. 

He spun his pencil. “So stupid.”

He quickly scrawled a heart at the corner of the page, making deliberate eye contact with you. He could not bring himself to smile nor did he want to, he only wanted to rid of the sour feeling you no doubt felt at his dismissal of something you put so much effort into. 

You were smiling again when you saw the heart. You said something, a phrase he heard a lot. Some version of ‘Thank You’ he thinks. 

The Wanderer graced your clingy self with all he expected or would give you, and folded his arms and looked away, closing his eyes shut to embrace the idle mediation while waiting for the storm to pass. 

You kept scrawling in your little book, happily. 

Soon enough it became too dark to see, and you with a frown tucked your pencil and book away in your little satchel, leaning back on the wall. Your breathing steadied as you fell asleep, curled up and wrapped tight in your cloak. 

The Wanderer did not sleep, he did not need to. At some point he opened his eyes again to see you fast asleep. 

He did not know why you continued to follow him around, and trust him so freely. He realized he gave you no reason to distrust him. 

The Wanderer could've left you behind some towns ago, but he didn't. He couldn't just leave you. 

You'd shown your thanks in the form of art, so tastefully and even lovingly drawn. Language barrier or not, so far you hadn't given him a reason to distrust you either. You didn't leave yet. 

The storm raged on, rain pouring down with the occasional stroke of lightning. He looked up, catching glimpses of the fractals of light in the black sky. 

No, no, he couldn't just leave you. 

You didn't deserve it, and what was the point of perpetuating such needless cruelty? 

Perhaps, he did care.

Just a little. 

[separatist-apologist]

Azris fic recs please? I am more of a plot person though obviously I don't dislike the porn. The best plots you have read recs.

Anyone is welcome to add to this list if they'd like! This isn't comprehensive, just some of the ones I've really enjoyed, with a mix of plot (and some porn sorry anon but I am a simple girl).

Our Bodies, Possessed By Light by @iftheshoef1tz

After Koschei’s war, Prythian rebuilds. While the Inner Circle grapples with the burden of responsibility, they are forced to face the consequences of their choices, both past and present. Azriel finds himself at the center of trouble brewing in the Hewn City, with a certain Vanserra brother sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.

There is always a price for freedom.

Decode This Case by @witch-and-her-witcher

There couldn't be worse timing for the new allegations against Night Co's coder as Azriel struggles with his emotional state of isolation and loneliness as his family and friends seem to move on without him. Enter Eris Vanserra to make Azriel's life even more complicated, smug and regrettably handsome as ever.

Eris has impeccable timing - or is it all just careful calculations? Whatever has aligned their reunion, he knows nothing will be accomplished until he can pull Azriel from his fog.

Only Know You Love Him When You Let Him Go by @fieldofdaisiies

Almost exactly a year after their painful breakup, Azriel and Eris unexpectedly meet again and find themselves trapped together in a snowstorm. With no choice but to spend time together in a small space, the long hours lead to conversations of their past, memories of their adventures togethers, unresolved feelings and heartbreak…

Once More To See You by @buffy-vanserra

Days after Feyre and Lucien are rescued from the Winter Court border, Eris finds Azriel snooping in his father’s woods. They fall into old habits and discuss a path forward.

Or: The story of how Eris entered his alliance with the Night Court

Just Enough Light to Cast Shadows by @jules-writes-stories

Eris Vanserra has been plotting to overthrow his father for centuries. But when the High Lord’s removal becomes a matter of life and death, Eris allies with the Day Court. In his desperate quest, he unearths secrets that will change the course of Autumn Court history, and all of Prythian's, even as his mating bond pulls him towards a male who will only ever see him as a cruel prince.

Rhysand becomes suspicious, ordering his spymaster to keep watch of the Autumn prince. But the more time Azriel spends with him, the more he is drawn to Eris’s cause.

When desire and duty collide, the Shadowsinger is faced with an impossible choice. Will Azriel take Eris at his word, or fulfill his role as Night’s brutal enforcer? And what will become of Autumn’s heir?

games without frontiers by @houseofhurricane

Azriel and Eris, in the Autumn Court at the winter solstice. But who has the knife?

My Heart's Aflame, My Body's Strained (But God I Like It) by @acourtofladydeath

What happened when Azriel brought Eris back to the Hewn City after saving him from Koschei at the end of ACOSF?

I Want To Believe by @secret-third-thing

Azriel travels to Boston to solve a murder case and leaves having experienced Alien dick. Or.... X-files / Roswell, but make it acotar.

Betting Like You Know The Odds by @fourteentrout

"But, if you so choose to believe my display of weakness was entirely genuine, then perhaps a rematch is in order." Eris suggested to Nesta, his mouth twisting into a smile a bit different from his others of the night. Something less soft around the edges, less weighed down by inebriation.

"Well, then, one could argue that it would be just as unfair. You're a High Lord now, after all." Rhys pointed out. Eris' smile melted away naturally, and he reclined back in his spot, throwing a hand around the back of the sofa.

"Why don't we ask him what he thinks? Shadowsinger," Eris called, jutting his chin right towards where Azriel stood, wreathed in shadows. "What are the odds that you could hold up in a fight now that I'm a High Lord?"

Azriel stood rooted to the spot, as if he were in a nightmare. He stared directly at Eris' smoldering eyes. Eris stared back.

Say it With Your Fists for Once by @mudandmire

After their close-call with Briallyn and Koschei's plot, Azriel and Eris crash-land somewhere near the western coast and have an all-out brawl about it.

After blood and tension cools, Azriel begins to put pieces together much to Eris's trepidation and the shadow's delight.

Counter Tension by @ninthcircleofprythian

Eris is wound up tight in more ways than one

Your Scars on My Pulse by @shadowsandlint

For Azris Week 2024. A story following each prompt, where Eris Vanserra navigates an increasingly more confusing relationship with his nemesis-turned-ally.

Eris is haunted by what happened between him and Azriel at the High Lord Meeting, and feels completely overtaken by the male's accursed presence. His usual snarky comments land him in trouble when the furious shadowsinger wraps his raging hands around his neck in front of the whole assembly.

"A mixture of surprise and panic had taken over Eris, sending his body into a wild, meaningless thrashing, but before he could hope to regain control of his limbs, a third, more confusing feeling had entered him. Azriel’s all-consuming presence had sent a shock wave into the place in his chest where air was supposed to be, and in its absence, a spark of joy had lit up the vacated darkness. The recognition of this had so thoroughly bewildered Eris that all hope of fighting had evaporated, and the bewilderment hadn’t left him since."

Tell me what you want by @lady-of-tearshed

Azriel had too much to drink at a boring High Lord meeting. He decides it would be a great idea to drag Eris Vanserra, new High Lord of the Autumn Court, to an empty bedroom and kiss him with everything he has.

[henry-fox-biggest-stan]

A snippet I wrote yesterday. It was so fun to write, I love plot twists.

-

Will stopped abruptly, and closed his eyes. Mike immediately prepared for the worst, flashlight searching and knife gripped so hard his fingers were white.

“Will?”

“He is here”.

His voice sounded… weird. Not scared, not nervous, just announcing something, like when his mom said she bought the milk his dad liked.

“What?” Mike looked around, as if he expected Vecna to jump from behind some tree and attack them. Now that Mike thought about it, he didn’t know how Vecna looked like. Nancy had described him and said something about Freddy Krueger, weeks ago. Mike hoped that she had been fucking with him.

“Somewhere.” Will continued, eyes still closed. As if he was listening, Mike suddenly realized. “Somewhere around the upside down. I can… hear it.”

“Hear what?” Shit, why had Mike volunteered to go? Why was he in that situation? Because you couldn’t let Will go alone, his mind said. Because you wanted to help, because you didn’t want to be useless and let others do the action, because if Holly died you wanted to know that, at least, you tried to do something. Right, thanks.

Because you’re a child, a voice in his head said. Because you’re a child who wants to do something and feel important but doesn’t consider the risk. Because you’re convinced that you’re some kind of paladin and hero when in reality you’re an incompetent coward, and the closest you ever got to be something was at 10 years old, reading and playing with your friends and pretending that your stick was a sword you could grip, because you know your hands will never fit around one. Because you are nothing. Because you have always been nothing, and you know it. Because you’re a regular guy who likes to pretend that the shoe fits, but it doesn’t. See how it doesn’t fit? See how scared you are, how your heart is wild, how your hands shake? Bet Nancy’s wouldn’t shake. Will’s certainly don’t. So why do yours? You’re not Luke Skywalker, Mike. You’re not even Han Solo. I won’t tell you to stop trembling, because that’s all you know how to do, all you’re capable of doing.

What the fuck. That didn’t sound like his head. That voice was deep and grave.

“His heartbeat.”

“What?”

“I can hear his heartbeat. I bet I can follow it too. Maybe I can lead us.”

Mike stared at him, astounded. Will’s eyes were still closed.

“Lead us where? To him?!”

Will nodded. Why didn’t he open his eyes?

“No, that’s- that’s not the plan. We’re not supposed to go and find him, we’re here to take a look around and see if the upside down changed much with the gates opening. That’s it.”

Will finally opened his eyes. He seemed determined, in the way he hardly had been for days.

“But he doesn’t know we’re here. Think about it. Isn’t now the best moment to attack, when he doesn’t expect it?”

His voice was confident, his words sure, his eyes a bit weird.

His idea was insane.

“What? We already made the plan to kill Vecna, we all go together and-“

“That’s the problem!” Will interrupted him. He was very determined. He seemed like he wouldn’t accept any other answer from Mike other than “you’re right”. Mike knew he really wanted to kill Vecna, and he understood being there maybe made him more desperate. That was what he sounded like, desperate, like he was very close to begging Mike to go through with it. Mike knew Will shouldn’t have came to the upside down. He fucking knew it. But, of course, no one listened to him. “If we all come together he’ll definitely know. But just the two of us? He isn’t expecting us. Sauron was defeated because he was attacked by surprise, how is this any different?”

Because Sauron isn’t real and Vecna very clearly is, because Max is in a hospital bed and you have a scar on your abdomen of when they got the mind flayer out of you. Because we’re not Sam and Frodo but two teenagers. He doesn’t say it, mostly because Will interrupted him again, but he was pretty fucking close to.

“I can hear his heartbeat. I didn’t even know he had a heart but apparently he does and I can hear it. I think I’ve been hearing it for days, but I just realized what it is. I can listen and guide us to where he is. Then, we attack him and kill him. Finished. That way we also save the others the trouble of coming here, and we save time. Time is running, Mike. Don’t you think less time wasted will be better for Holly?”

Holly.

He had a point. A very insane point, but he had it. Holly and her unusually blonde hair. Holly and her smile full of teeth.

The wise thing would be to refuse and drag Will back up screaming if he had to, but Mike found himself thinking about it.

“How will you kill him?”

Will smiled. It seemed he knew that was Mike’s way of agreeing.

“I have a gun with as many bullets as possible, and a knife on my side.” He had a knife? Mike didn’t even notice. “You have yours, we can probably stab him or shoot him.”

“Stab him… Right. And you’ll shoot him? You didn’t shoot that demogorgon.”

Will pressed his lips into a line, and looked forward. Mike looked aswell. There was nothing there.

“It was just an animal, it didn’t feel fair. But Vecna is evil, he’s hurting us, purposely. It’s different.” He turned to him, Mike thought he saw something weird in his eyes again. “Do you have something I can use as a blindfold?”

“What?”

“Something to cover my eyes. To focus on listening better.”

He opened his backpack and grabbed the bandages. Thank god Will was gonna use them on his eyes, and not on any other body part.

With struggle, his bandaged palm aching, Mike helped Will wrap them around his head, with several layers, until he said he barely saw anything. Mike tied them behind his head, careful of not being too tight, and tried to ignore the way his heart halted in his chest and the feel of Will’s hair under his fingers and the proximity of his body to his. He wondered if Will heard it, and if he too felt the the warmth.

Probably not.

Mike realized too late, once Will was blind, what exactly that meant. Someone had to guide him.

After a few seconds of internally hyping himself up, and spoke,

“I’m going to grab your arm, to guide you. Because you can’t see. And I don’t want you to like, fall to your death or something.”

Real smooth, Mike.

He saw Will smile, and he offered his left arm. Mike didn’t dare take it, simply grabbed it with one hand, right above Will’s elbow.

“Uh, where to?”

Silence. Concentration. Then,

“To the left.”

And so they went.

They walked in a silence that was only broken every once in a while, by Will signaling which direction to take. To the right. To the left.

Having only the job of guiding Will and stopping him from tripping, Mike was left with a lot of time with nothing to do but think. His head running with thought after thought, and for some reason they all came back to Will’s eyes.

Not in the usual way.

Mike liked Will’s eyes, he thought about them often. He thought about the color, he thought about Will looking at him, how sad they looked like when he was also sad, like he couldn’t hide it, like all of his feelings had to come out from somewhere if he didn’t let them out willingly, and they all poured from his eyes. How they lit up when he was happy, how they crinkled when he smiled.

He wasn’t thinking about Will’s eyes in the usual way he thought about them. He was thinking about how they were minutes before, before putting on the makeshift blindfold. They were weird, familiar in a way Mike couldn’t put his finger on. He would try to look again, see if maybe something rang a bell, but his eyes were covered.

He almost tripped on a rock himself and sent Will to the ground with him when something finally clicked. Will’s desperation and determination to seek Vecna. Now that Mike thought about it, Will called him Vecna before. He never called him Vecna, Mike did, but not Will. Moments and moments began to flash. Will not looking at him. Will’s eyes being different. Will mentioning Holly to try to get Mike on board. Whatever voice he heard in his head before (which he was sure he probably made up or were maybe his thoughts). Will’s eyes being darker minutes ago. Will currently leading him to Vecna, armed only with a shotgun and a knife. The demogorgon from before, which maybe went to find them and tell Vecna where they were. Will currently tugging his arm, urging him, as if he couldn’t wait.

Mike stopped.

“Mike, c’mon.”

Another tug. Mike remained in place.

“Mike.”

“Will.”

Will stopped, he seemed confused.

“Take off your blindfold.”

“What?”

He had to see Will’s eyes, he remembered how they were years ago, in the shed.

“Take it off.”

“No.”

Hard, almost angry. Mike was right. Mike was fucking right. It didn’t matter how or since when it had been going on, because Mike was fucking right.

[2demondogs]

Hello, I'm the anon who asked if you write autism and now that i know you do, I'd love it if you could do an gender neutral autistic reader/Javier?

I love music, and I don't think I could live without it. it really helps prevent meltdowns and calms me down when things get too overwhelming. I often hear and love listening to Javier play his music in camp. it's so relaxing and serene sometimes. My favorite is Ángel De Amor :)

I don't really have a specific way for this request to go besides including Javier's music into it. So I'd say you have complete creative freedom! Thank you so much for answering my question, by the way. I love your writing :))

Of course! I am a simple man tbh Javier picks up the guitar in game and I sit Arthur's ass the fuck down. Also thank you <3

I kind of went from the comfort aspect. Sorry this took a second (I also have another like. week old request too) fatigue is kicking my ass this week.

Words: 1.9k Tags: fluff, Javier is madly in love with u, reader has sensory issues, established relationship

You wish you could know true silence.

Javier had looked at you perplexed when you asked if the wind ever bothered him, insisting you meant the sound and not that it messed with hair or clothes or bullets. Lucky him, only hear it during storms.

He had taken your mind off of the racing of your heart by clapping his hands over your ears and grinning. "Better?" He'd asked, and you'd felt his voice reverberating enough to offset the overwhelming roar of blood through his hot palms.

What a fool, you thought and still think, but laying on your bedroll has left you with no sleep and a deep desire for his hands on your face, or how he lays on you in the privacy of trips away from camp. The ground is hard, too hard; you feel cold in a way that's deeper than temperature, as if loneliness could be icelike and sting all over, especially through your empty arms; and it's so quiet that your ears are ringing, searching for noise and focusing only on your own heart thudding — the sound gives you anxiety, for some unknowable reason — and the snores of the camp.

Oh, the snores.

You start to get angry, but you blame it on those, usually. Although Javier snores, and that's never bothered you. Because it's you, you've told him for romance's sake but, really, it's hard to know what's irritating you when everything feels raw and cold and burning all at once.

Before your patience can snap, the pressure of it already building in your throat, you sit up and let your eyes re-adjust to the darkness of the night. You had hardly realized how the darkness behind your lids was growing on your bad side, too.

The campfire is still going nearby, and you see Javier sitting with his back against one of the logs, guitar laid over his lap and a knife in hand. He's doing something to it. Arthur's tent flaps are drawn and the light of a lantern fights against the fire for shadows, the dark outline of a large hand passing over the light now and then; as you walk past, you think maybe Hosea is sitting beside the tent post that covers him, Bill, and Lenny.

Besides the four of you, it's eerily dead. Not an unusual occurrence, really, because it seems these three's insomnias are all interlinked and your own tends to join in on their frequency, too— but eerie all the same.

The choice is clear enough of who to join. Only Javier is surrounded by empty space, though you've learned that doesn't necessarily mean he'll be as friendly with others as he is with you. Romantic privileges, or something like that. You believe he's just sour inside and trying to stuff you into the open sore like cotton.

With only the company of your feet shuffling over dirt, Javier's voice seems gunshot loud.

"What're you up for?" He asks, disinterested before he looks up from his guitar's neck. One string is missing out of six, a new gutstring pinched in his fingers as he twists it where travel had unraveled it in storage. Frayed ends stick from the tuning pegs, tied but not trimmed. His eyes soften when he sees it's you, but he leaves the greeting as it is.

"Can't sleep," you say, and take a seat at a polite distance on the same log.

Javier never complains of your proximity and you feel the urge for it now, that prickly sensation of emptiness along your arms and torso, but something stops you from taking indulgence into your own hands. You're happy that he scoots over some, shrugging and waving the small knife in his hand as he speaks. Glinting in the fire, the blade one of the newer silver ones he picked up during a disastorous Van Horn trip.

"I would'a never guessed," he says. Even though his hair is untied — it seems that he couldn't sleep either, because it is tangled in the back — you know he's smiling.

Past his head, as he leans away, you watch him cut the excess from the last string and tie a firm knot around the tuning peg. The easy way he works his skills always quiets your nerves, the same way it does to watch Javier handle his guitar in general.

When you feel unable to handle anything, it's comforting to know there's someone who knows how to handle something. Someone you've got a claim to, whose skills you take a secondary pride in — look at my man, doesn't he know his way around...? — but that's entirely affection speaking.

"What's on your mind, cielo?" He asks, leans his head back on the log beside your hip and looks up at you.

The shadows draw strangely over his features at this angle. His features have filled out nicely since Dutch dragged him in. Nevermind that they were fuller, still, before Blackwater, or that his undereyes look darker than they have in months. He's handsome, and his eyes flutter shut when you draw your nails gently over the hair sprouting from his temple.

Before, he's laughed when you've spoken honestly, but it has never been at your expense. Javier has some humor about him when you are alone — which is the only place you will confide in him, whether it's fear of your dignity or fear for the life of anyone who side-eyes Javier's sweetheart — and at times, you think maybe he's laughing the way men laugh when they see the sun for the first time in years. There is no judgement behind the way he smiles, showing his gums because the curl of his upper lip grows almost timid.

It is sickening, how in love Javier is.

He makes you feel like you are, for the first time in your life, entirely without flaw. You know that's impossible, that no one is, but feelings never do bow to inferior facts.

You realize you've gotten lost in your thoughts when Javier's lips brush your knuckles, having plucked your hand from his hair and taken it in his own, the fingers curled over the wall of his. He says your name. It sounds good in his rasp.

"S'rry," you say, blink once or twice to remember what he had even asked. What's on your mind? Why are you awake? "It's too quiet 'round here. It's botherin' me."

He nods. "Never sounds right when the woods are quiet," he agrees, and you realize he's misunderstood.

"No, it's very loud," you correct.

Javier squints at you, that familiar humor nudging his eyes. "What do you mean?"

You were going to divulge the depth of it, but now you find yourself focused on explaining this part to him. The entire world was beginning to piss you off, anyways, so finding comfort for one thing must be easier.

"The— well, the silence is too loud. It's buggin' me."

He raises a brow. "Silence is literally too loud?"

"Yes," you say, wondering why he's asking. It sounds odd put that way, sure, but it still makes perfect sense to you. Then he smiles faintly, those eyes soften— and it's apparent that this is another one of those things only you experience. "I could hear my blood running while I was layin' down. Hated it. D'you ever hear yours?"

"Only when it's really pumpin'," he says, and you stop trying to find something he'll relate to.

It doesn't leave you quite so empty-feeling as it has in the past that Javier doesn't have the same issues. None of it matters, because he does not care how foreign some of your complaints are: he will solve them, somehow.

No, Dutch's gramophone never makes his teeth itch, but he'll keep you company outside camp until the old man shuts it off or your mind is calm enough to stomach another opera. No, his clothes never feel abrasive, but he'll let you wear his instead, will look proud that they do not bother you as if he wove the fabric himself. The latter had been one of his first unspoken I love yous. It was his favorite vest.

And now, he's asking: "D'you wanna hear a song instead?"

Your brows knit. "Won't it wake everyone up?"

"No, cariño," Javier says, nods to the ground beside him. "You come closer 'n' I'll play quiet. Jus' for you."

You let yourself smile. "Alright," you say, swallow the warmth you feel at his offer and how relieved you are to have it spoken.

He's played his guitar for you before, many times. You've asked it for some of them, under the guise of not remembering words to his songs — he never questioned this reason, although he knows you can't speak Spanish and likely knew there was something much gentler behind it — or boredom.

Only once has it been for the same reason he plays now: to comfort you. The woods had been too quiet, and you'd been bleeding.

Javier asks for a song, and wrinkles his nose playfully when you say Ángel de Amor. "That's a sad one," he says. "Don't you want something happy?"

"They're all sad," you say. You'd be surprised if Javier knew a love song that was not about heartbreak or being eaten alive by it. "Aren't the best ones always sad?"

He huffs a laugh. "So, are they all the best?"

"Yessir."

He grins, and it malforms the usual sorrow he sings the first verse with, until he gets a handle on his face.

That his songs are all sad is true enough. There's not much joy to be sung about in the outlaw life, just as there's always that one-two, disjointed beginning to it when the guitar is picked up and played. Finding the rhythm, you suppose, or just remembering the feeling of the strings before going into a song that is as second-nature as pouring coffee or lighting a cigarette.

Simple, a three chord progression and those familiar, short lyrics— at least, they sound short, because he rolls the words off his tongue fast and smooth enough to be one, long breath. You don't realize until you are relaxing against the log, your side pressed to his, just how lonely and exhausted you have been all day.

Not lonely any longer, at least, with his warmth bleeding into your skin and the vibration of the guitar wondering across your own leg as he strums. It soothes the buzzing feeling in your veins, the one that lingers when your nerves start to tighten and bunch under the face of whatever sourness found you this evening.

Javier smells good, too, and you realize how distasteful the air had seemed without something thicker, more potent in it. He'd been wearing one of your favorite colognes today, and its afterimage is on his neck when your weary head falls onto his shoulder. Javier does not tell you to move back, although it must make strumming difficult. He adjusts so that he isn't jostling you and shortens the motion of his wrist, which he will complain tomorrow is sore with a smile.

Another habit, which makes you feel somewhat guilty, is that you will never smell him wear a scent again if you get a chance to smell it and do not tell him you like it. Although, through the guilt, there's something in you that feels very special.

After a lifetime of feeling other, here is a man who will do anything to be accepted by you.

Sickening, so very.

You turn your nose to smell the remnants of the cologne on his shirt. You think you recognize El Borrachito before he starts singing, but consciousness leaves you thereafter. In the morning, you'll wake up to find yourself slumped over his shoulder blades and Javier, over his guitar.

[ceaselesswatchersspecialboy]

Focused again on Arthur’s poem regarding his parents, especially in light of what we know about his father now.

I’m especially focused on the highlighted bits, which indicated beforehand that the relationship between him and his parents was deeply complicated, before yesterday’s episode. Arthur referring to himself as a cause of grief sticks out to me because it’s almost as though he’s putting some blame on himself for his parents’ alcoholism and their misery, as well as their choice in ending their own lives. Assuming they both did so at the same time, as is implied, it’s no surprise he came to the conclusion he was part of the problem. He is young, and foolish, and is a strain on them and their lives. At least, that’s likely how he rationalised it. We know this poem was written by a grieving boy, so that has to be taken into account.

There’s also the focus on the positive aspects, and I think that’s why I like the portrayal of his parents so much. Arthur, in their death, acknowledges the fact his parents weren’t great, but still chooses to focus on the happier times, because it’s all he has to linger on. Even then, however, the coldness bleeds through, as he rests in their arms, however peaceful and safe he is, it cannot last.

It’s this memory in particular that gets me.

I’m curious as to whether this is before his Father started drinking or not as well, as they could completely re-contextualise the importance of it, of a boy with a father who is ruining his life, latching onto a moment where everything seemed okay.

Him lashing out at William doesn’t just stem from envy, but anger at his own father too, for choosing drink over him, for taking his own life without consideration of Arthur, because Arthur loved and hated his father, and would do anything to lie with his parents again. It isn’t just that William’s father was better than his own, it’s that William’s father is even still here in the first place.

As well as this, going back to those happier memories, William’s father is what Arthur wished his father was like all the time — consistently. He has proof in his memories that his father could be just as loving as William’s, that he could choose to be there for Arthur in the same way, and yet he wasn’t.

As if the poem didn’t hurt already, this new context really twists the knife.

Apologies if this is messy, I’m writing down my thoughts as I have them!

[lyrasunreality]

my thoughts while reading sunrise on the reaping:

~ pre-reading ~

ok, a new hunger games book, featuring haymitch’s games… interesting, guess i’ll add it to my tbr

{not that longish later & unable to stop thinking about it}: ok, stop the world, guess i’m reading this now. i have to know what happened

~ while reading ~

ok, so it’s haymitch + lenore dove, got it

so haymitch has the same-ish background as katniss where they do illegal things to survive. i have a feeling this will be the first of several parallels / reasons why katniss + haymitch had a connection

not a drinker haymitch, aw this is already sad. for once knowing a character’s fate makes a book better. this is going to be such a tragic decline. i can’t wait.

haymitch + lenore dove are just not going to be ok, there is no way they are getting this sweet ending meeting back in the field after the reaping. it’s not happening

maysilee donner, described as stuck up and the meanest girl in town… i think i’ve found my favourite character

ok, so the reaping has started, haymitch is doomed

ok ok so he doesn’t get reaped at the reaping

… this is so much worse + way more tragic + messed up, but it’s the hunger games. this feels actually more fitting than being genuinely reaped

yep yep yep, maysilee donner is officially my favourite character. she is audacious and i love her and i think that is not going to be good for my heart

i hate drusilla

sweetheart… aw

favourite scene so far: i love maysilee sticking it to them, eating a sandwich with a knife and fork

“If you let them treat you like an animal, they will. So don’t let them.”

very interested to see how these games and pre-game events differ from the 74th games

ok, katniss had it way better

katniss and peeta getting escorted by the team of effie + haymitch is looking like a much better deal now

no mentors… way to make a doom-bound situation feel more hopeless

this treatment of the tributes + the pre-game requirements + the living conditions + the training conditions are so much worse than it was for the year katniss got reaped

these names. they are… so lame and obvious and on the nose and i… don’t hate it? i kind of like an extra helping of cheese in my make-believe stories. of course, i am going to try and connect the names to the district industries like a detective bc i have forgotten which did what and i cant resist

i know they are going to get the coal black, dull, terrible outfits but i want so much better for them

i hate magno stift

louella… holy hell

will lenore dove replace her? as punishment for hatmitch’s rebellious move? it’s twisted but i really want that to happen

alliance offer… interesting

oooh, head of the parade person executed for the mess up, not strictly fair but that tracks

this whole scene is disturbing and weird

what. the. actual. hell. lou lou

i really wanted lenore dove to be the replacement

this alliance is getting interesting

this scheme is getting interesting

no way it works the way they want

curious to see how it goes wrong

maysilee + the necklaces

all of maysilee’s scenes

a one… idk, i get it, but it but it feels a little contrived honestly

i hate magno stift again even more

these capitol people are so lovably sweet and stupid in their ignorance and tactlessness

effie trinket!!! i love effie trinket

that was actually a perfect effie intro

lou lou hissing + everyone being ok with it

until she starts screaming murder at least

cringe. a lot of cringe at this interview

maysilee is still the best

sweet tribute moments made to break hearts in a few hundred pages

i… kind of love this idea for the arena? sweet pretty poison and death

yeah… expected the stuff to be poisonous, with the apples in the bag + the general peace and beauty of the setting + the fact he didn’t add tablets or boil the water first

well, running off alone + poisonous everything is a solid way of accounting for off page deaths

i get the covey naming conventions are important but i am actually tired of reading lenore dove every second line. she’s not even in the games, she’s not even here and she is constantly mentioned and her name is forever appearing and it is exhausting me and driving me mad. she has been mentioned fifty thousand times at least

i get it. he loves her.

pls we can stop with the lenore dove mentions

i wonder if suzanne collins just copied and pasted lenore dove so she could just ctl+v instead of typing it out every time

camping is not… super exciting. still more exciting than the harry potter camping situation though

bye lou lou, you had so much more potential to be far more chaotic + problematic and do something really impactful but i guess you were an interesting presence for a while

woah, that’s going to lead to a lot of deaths

twisted + perfect that even the ash is pretty

ampert, yay, i’m pretty sure you’re future dead meat but i like you

there is still… so much book to go. this is not going work.

i don’t think haymitch will die but I’m pretty sure ampert will

yep. sad.

that’s such a twisted death but amazingly tragic imagery

… the results / impact / execution of that whole end-the-games plot was kind of underwhelming considering how much in-universe thought and character involvement risk + out of universe writing was dedicated to it

well, on to the next play

perfectly convenient timing maysilee, but i’m just glad you’re here. also not glad bc it means you’re probably going to die soon

woah, hello gamemakers, this is interesting. poor interns. getting the rough jobs everywhere

this… ladybug stuff? feels weirdly small-time considering all the other massive arena threats + mutts + murderous tribute attacks

and… more ladybug hedge stuff

nooo… maysilee

idk… silka’s death feels too lucky to be satisfying. she was standing in that perfect, just right spot + it happened just in time so haymitch wouldn’t bleed out. think i would have liked it better if haymitch had actually killed her

that is so grim, being caged glorified prisoner in that tribute house

this is a nightmare homecoming

well, i want to feel more sad about this but the book kept going on about lenore dove so much she was really just annoying me and she was barely even around doing anything

still tragic though

we can stop with the song now, i get it.

ok, and here’s how haymitch stopped holding it together and finally fell apart

this epilogue is sweet-sad-cute. bittersweet to the core

aw katniss reminding haymitch of louella

i know it’s supposed to be romantic + tragic doomed lovers but reallyyyy haymitch could have moved on + found a new love considering how much time has passed and i wouldn’t have been annoyed by it. i kind of shipped effie and haymitch tbh

~ post ~

idk, with how much snow was dead set on killing haymitch for all his rebelliousness + the fact that they had mutts trained on killing specific tributes, i feel that “realistically” by the book’s standards, snow would have made sure haymitch was killed for sure

but whatever, his survival might feel contrived but i’m glad he did make it

except i wish maysilee survived too

the origins for all the reasons haymitch bonded in his way with katniss were cute stand outs

maysilee was the best. i loved her every line + scene

i still really wanted lenore dove to be lou lou’s replacement as a punishment for haymitch

also just so she could stop being mentioned. or if she had to be mentioned so much, at least it would be because she was actually there doing something on page

thinking back, lenore dove had so much page time compared to her actual physical presence, it did not make me like her. it actually started to make me actively dislike her

this is now a rant bc just her name constantly popping up on every second page and being reminded of what a lovely singing angel she was just made me become irrationally annoyed by her character when she herself really didn’t do anything worthy of being hated except be constantly thought about and mentioned in her perfectness and i started to wish she had been offed in the beginning at the reaping then haymitch would never have had to go to the games

see? she was barely in the actual book and she dominates so much of it + my thoughts and memories about it + i’m irrationally annoyed by that fact?!?! she would have been fine if she had just been mentioned maybe 1/3 of the amount

kind of felt like there was more that could have been done with having lou lou as louella’s replacement - a bigger actual contribution to disrupting the games or a bigger fallout from it afterwards - kind of felt like a sparkler of a plot point that just fizzed out

overall i was invested

and i liked it. enough that i’m still thinking about it. the story actually stands out amongst the books i’ve read

happy with how tragic it was, the story felt messed up just right

this story is going to live in my head for a while now

[cienie-isengardu]

Episode I: Journal of Anakin Skywalker by Todd Stasser

I also had a secret. But mine was private. It had to do with the dreams I had. My dreams were different from the dreams of other kids I knew. Take my friends Kitster and Seek, for instance. They both wanted to be pilots like me. But they dreamed of leaving Tatooine forever and never coming back. I dreamed about leaving, too. But I would come back. As a Jedi Knight. I dreamed about leading a slave rebellion here on Tatooine. I dreamed of holding a lightsaber, and of driving every last Hutt, criminal, and bounty hunter off this planet. But I had another secret as well. A dark secret. It was about the way my dreams always ended. It was a secret that frightened me, one I could never tell.

Star Wars Episode I Adventures #5: The Ghostling Children by Dave Wolverton

He stopped at a pile where an old Jawa silently leaned on a crooked stick. Its gloves were wrapped around the staff.

At its feet was an odd assortment of items - shiny blue stones from the edge of the Dune Sea, polished bones of Krayt dragons, a rope woven from bark. Among some pieces from old blasters Anakin noticed a very strange cube that looked to be far, far older than any piece of equipment that Anakin had ever seen.

He picked it up. The cube was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, like a large dice. Intricate designs showed on its face, but the designs were so worn that they could hardly be recognized.

On one side of the cube, it looked like a picture of two Jedi Knights, fighting with lightsabers.

Another side of the cube showed a volcano. A third side was so worn that he couldn't tell if it had ever had a picture. A fourth side revealed a star map, with instructions on how to land on a certain moon. The fifth side was also worn smooth. A last side showed a lamp with a knife blade through it, the symbol of forbidden knowledge. All along every corner of the cube was writing in some language that he couldn't decipher.

Anakin imagined that tens of thousands of people must have touched this cube over hundreds or thousands of years.

He hefted the cube, thinking that it was some sort of storage container. But it was so light that it had to be empty.

Yet, when he squinted, he could feel… well, there was something inside. Something … evil.

The cube had no latches on the outside, no locks or hinges that he could see. Anakin could almost imagine that the cube wasn't a box at all, but some component to a machine whose purpose was forgotten ages and ages past.

"For you, very cheap," the old Jawa said to Anakin.

"What?" Anakin asked haltingly. The Jawan language was very hard to understand.

"Very cheap."

"But I don't want it," Anakin said. "I was just looking." He glanced toward home. It was getting late.

"Three wupiupi," the Jawa offered, twisting the knob of his cane. It was exactly the amount that Anakin had in his pocket.

"No," Anakin said. "I don't even know what it is."

"Three wupiupi is a small price to pay for knowledge," the old Jawa said. Under his gray-black hood, the Jawa's eyes gleamed.

"No," Anakin said. He started to put the cube down, but couldn't. What if it really was evil? What if it was dangerous - like a bomb or something? By just leaving it, he could be setting a trap for some unsuspecting person. It really was better to take the thing. Maybe Watto would know what it was.

In the deepening shadows, he took out his last three credits and handed them over to the Jawa.

Star Wars Episode I Adventures #6: The Hunt for Anakin Skywalker by Dave Wolverton

Anakin rolled over on his bed and felt the strange cube in his pocket. He took it out and laid it in the cubbyhole above his headboard.

He fell asleep with his clothes on.

In a dream, he was in a huge room, shouting for help. He banged on the walls, trying to get out. He thought it might be Gardulla's fortress, but the high walls were square, and the roof had no transparent dome overhead. He wasn't at Gardulla's. He was inside the cube!

He could see no doors or windows, no way to escape his prison. "Help me!" he cried. "Help me get free!" He pounded on walls of cool gray metal.

"No one can help you," an evil voice whispered. "No one can help you. You must open the cube!"

"How?" he shouted. "How do I open it?"

"From the inside," the mysterious voice whispered.

Anakin started, found himself awake on his bed. It was late at night. The mysterious voice was ringing in his ears, and his heart was pounding.

He'd heard the voice, he felt sure. It wasn't a dream. It had been too real to be a dream.

But in the darkness he couldn't detect any movement nearby. No one was in the room with him, hovering above his bed.

From memory, Anakin tried to recall where the sound had come from.

The voice had spoken to him from above his bed, he was sure. It had come from the cubbyhole.

He reached up, felt for the strange cube that lay there. He grasped it in the dark and felt its square edges. Somehow, he was disappointed. He'd thought that maybe it would have opened itself, like a flower blooming. But it was still closed.

"Did you say something?" he whispered to the cube. "Did you talk to me? Are you trapped in there?"

He listened hard, and this time he thought maybe he could hear the voice answer. Or maybe it was more of a feeling that there was an answer. Yes. I called to you.

"How can I let you out?" Anakin whispered.

From the inside, the voice seemed to whisper.

Anakin held the box up and squinted at it. He wasn't sure if he really felt an answer. Was it possible that he could open the box, that he could find a way to open it from the inside?

And if so, what would the box contain? A tiny alien perhaps, some creature so small that it could live for a thousand years trapped in that box, trying to get out.

It seemed only barely possible.

I'm going crazy, Anakin thought. That is what's giving me these dreams. I'm caught in a trap, and Pala and all my friends with me. No wonder I'm dreaming about being trapped inside of boxes.

Yet even as he considered these doubts, he noticed that the cube was warmer than the night air, as if it generated a tiny amount of heat.

Live creatures give off heat, he realized.

Rogue Planet by Greg Bear

Anakin dreaded sleep. It seemed, in his dreams, that something inside was testing him, something very strong, and it did not care whether it was loved or feared.

***

"I seek to escape pain," Anakin said. "My mother-"

Mace lifted his hand, and Anakin instantly fell silent. "Pain can be our greatest teacher," Mace said, barely above a whisper. "Why turn away from pain?"

"It… it is my strength. This I see."

"That is not correct," Obi-Wan said, placing his hand on Anakin's shoulder. The boy looked between them, confused.

"How is it wrong, teacher?" Mace asked Obi-Wan.

"Lean upon pain like a crutch and you create anger and a dark fear of truth," Obi-Wan said. "Pain guides, but it does not support."

Anakin cocked his head to one side. He seemed slight and even insubstantial among these Jedi Knights, all this overwhelming experience. His face collapsed in misery. "My most useful talents are not those of a Jedi."

"Indeed, you throw your spirit and your anguish into ma chines and useless competitions, rather than directly confronting your feelings," Mace said. "You have cluttered our Temple halls with droids. I stumble over them. But we are away from the crux of our present matter. Try again to explain your error."

Anakin shook his head, caught between stubbornness and tears. "I don't know what you want me to say."

Mace took a shallow breath and closed his eyes. "Look inward, Anakin."

"I don't want to," Anakin said breathlessly, his voice jerking. "I don't like what I see."

"Is it possible you see nothing more than the tensions of approaching adulthood?" Mace asked.

"No!" Anakin cried. "I see … too much, too much."

"Too much what?"

"I burn like a sun inside!" The boy's voice rang out in the chamber like a bell.

***

Anakin felt as if he were inside a gigantic colony of myrmins.

Then he felt the voices of the seeds. They are afraid. The heat is baking them. Their shells are crisping.

Most of the heat rose in rippling sheets of air, but as the fuel blazed and embers settled out, the seeds were being roasted like sugar hulls in a campfire.

Perversely, Anakin shivered as if with cold.

Obi-Wan put an arm around his shoulders. Anakin saw that his master's face was beaded with sweat. He, too, could feel the seeds in the fire.

"Something wrong?" Vagno asked, his face glinting and flowing in the yellow light from fire, as if he were part of the blaze, a stray ember given human shape. He walked around them critically.

"We're fine," Obi-Wan said.

But Anakin did not feel fine. He wanted to curl up and hide, or run, but he knew the seeds no longer had legs, no way of escaping, even if they wanted to.

"I've never lost a client. No fear, no fear," Vagno said.

The seeds were afraid but did not move under their burden of embers and flame. Theirs was courage, and also an awareness of fate or destiny.

The seeds were not nearly as intelligent as a human-they did not really think for themselves-but inside of each was the potential for awareness and intelligence. The fire was bringing that awareness to the fore.

This will happen to you.

Anakin gasped. He was not dreaming.

This is your destiny, your fate.

Obi-Wan had said nothing. Anakin knew where the voice was coming from, whom it belonged to, but could not believe what he knew.

There will be heat and death and resurrection. A seed will quicken. Will it burn or shine'? Will it think and create or be ruled by fear and destroy?

And then the voice fell silent.

Obi-Wan's arm tightened around Anakin, as if he would protect the boy. "The wave is not what we expected," he said.

Anakin stared into the flames, his inmost self suddenly calm. The seeds were changing. They were no longer afraid.

Clone Wars (2003)

Anakin's Vision on Nelvaan

The Clone Wars (2008)

Anakin's Vision on Mortis

[p-e-n-i-s-c-o-r-e]

Obsession

He has to have you.

Warnings: Lando dies, obsessed!Max, knife usage, kidnapping, cursing, murder, use of Y/N

A/N: Hello! This is my first lil story on here. Im pretty proud of it if I do say so myself. Enjoy please! 😼

He had been watching her. Ever since Lando brought her to the paddock he'd been hooked. The way her eyes looked in the sunlight. Her smile when she congradulated him on his win. God she was perfect, but she was with Lando. And he hated that. Hated that she wasn't his. Oh he was obsessed. He couldn't help it. He knew what had to be done.

A stench filled the room as her eyes fluttered open. A low tick being all that she could hear.

tick

tick

tick

She couldn't move, her limbs tied to the chair she was sitting in. Where is she? An what is that smell?. A stream of light seeps in as she sees a door open, followed by someone.

"You're awake."

He said, voice rough, like he had just woken up himself. She lifts her head to meet him. Max?

"Max..? Where...-where am I..?"

He chuckled slightly before speaking once more, his dutch accent prominate with his words.

"Don't worry about it liefde. All you need to know is you're mine now."

What? What is he talking about? She thinks. Wheres Lando? Why does it smell so bad in here?

"Where's Lando..?"

She asks, fear etching her voice. Max smiles widely, like hes proud of something.

"I took care of him."

He says, not explaining further.

Four days prior

Max had knocked on Landos door, she was at a party, so he knew this was his time to strike. Lando opened the door, surprised to see the dutchman in front of him

"Max! Whats brought you by mate?"

"Just wanted to chat."

Max says coldly, Lando smiles bright, allowing the dutchman in. Lando takes a seat on the couch, Max following.

"Anything up with redbull?" Lando says, looking at Max.

"Not really, Christians thinking about replacing Checo though. Not sure with who yet."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, something how hes lost his touch, that hes just bringing the team down. Which I can see, we've had to pay alot to repair his car from the constant times hes crashed it."

Lando nods. Understanding. Checos performance at redbull hasn't been the best lately. So maybe retirment could be in the bag for him. Lando decides to change the topic bringing her up.

"Y/n's at a party right now. Won't be back til late. I really love her mate."

Max keeps a stoned face. Not wanting to show his emotions at the moment

"Really?"

"Yeah, Im pretty sure she might be the one. Even got a ring picked out, let me show you"

Lando gets up, walking to his bedroom, the one he shared with her. Max followed him, playing with the knife that was in his pocket. Lando rummages in his dresser, searching for the velvet box that held the ring.

"I really love her mate. I really do. I hope she says yes. I don't know what I'd do it she didnt."

Max listens, twirling the knife around with his fingers, flicking it open as Lando talks. Stab and twist. Stab and twist. The knife connects to Landos side. Stab and twist.

Landos eyes widen, a sharp, burning pain shooting through his body, he grabs onto Max's arm, trying to keep himself upright.

"M-max? Wha..-what..?"

He stutters out, pain steadily running through his body. Max looks at him, a cold look, like he didn't care.

"Sorry mate. Can't let you take her from me."

He states coldly, not a look of guilt swimming in his eyes as he pulled the knife out, sticking it in Landos stomach this time, twisting.

Lando coughs, specks of blood landing on the dresser in front of him, trying to push Max away as he cries out in pain, his hands covering the stab wounds.

"You...-you're fucking insane.."

Lando coughs up. Stepping back, hitting the dresser, his hands covered in blood.

"No..Lando.." He chuckles, walking towards him slowly, "I'm in love."

Landos face twists into a mix of confusion and pain as he holds his hands out to keep Max away.

"Thats..-thats not love. Thats f-fucking obsession."

Lando coughs out more blood, this time splattering onto Max's face. The crazed look on his face intensifying.

"So what?"

Max stabs this knife into Landos stomach again, deeper this time, twisting the knife.

He cries out again, collapsing to his knees from the pain. His eyes wide with disbelief as he coughs from the pain.

Max uses the tip of the knife to lift Landos chin up, forcing him to look Max. He smiles at him, as if he wasn't about to take the young drivers life.

"I'll take good care of her." Max says softly, before sinking the knife into the pulse point of Landos neck.

He tried to protest, his words being cut off by a soft gurgle as blood flows through his airway. He slumps forward, landing on the ground with a soft thud. A trail of blood leaves his mouth, pooling onto the floor, and his body shivers in pain, the life leaving his body.

Max leans back on his heels. Looking down at the body of the man who was his friend and fellow driver. He didn't feel bad.