#this is based off a thing i wrote years ago and lost

[kickedin17]

There's something about blurryface (album) that's kind of like. Sticky. In the way that your skin is sticky when it's summer and it's past midnight and you have the window open to try to sleep but it's still too warm. Or, sticky, in the way that your hands are clammy when it's drop dead winter and you're driving around someone else's suburb, looking down the weird little leftover alleys between houses and wondering if something's going to be standing there looking back at you. And you are profoundly lonely. And you walk to a gas station, it's september maybe, and everything smells like spilled gasoline and stale cigarette smoke and there's brightly colored trash in all the gutters and all the neon signs glare off the asphalt, and when you go into the convenience store the single employee looks at you like maybe there's something weird about you, but you don't know what it is. Too quiet, maybe. Something wrong with your face. You don't smile enough. You don't want to be smiled at. It's dark all the time. But it's also springtime and the sky is pink and everything feels fleshy and delicate and rabbit-esque (tiny little heartbeats bursting everywhere), and you pick the first dandelion you see growing through the sidewalk cracks and it gets sticky milk all over your fingers. And you are profoundly lonely. You're pretending things would be better if you lived in a city where it rained more often and you could feel the hum of passing train tracks under your feet, but the truth is you're going to be lonely everywhere you go because there's this sticky ugly hollowness in you that you can't wash off no matter how hard you scrub. And maybe it would be better if you drove back home and closed the window and never left your house again and let all the lightbulbs die because something about the dark hurts less. You're running from something. What is it? Why can't you ever quite catch your breath? Why are you so sure this all has to end badly? You grew up but haven't yet learned how to grow out of anything. It's dark all the time here. Your face isn't the right one but there are no other faces. Your skin is sticky and you can't sleep. You are profoundly lonely.

[auroracalisto]

Hey can you do a fiyero x reader where the reader is afraid of being vulnerable and he helps them?

yes, superfartninja, i think i can.

to be changed.

movie!fiyero x gn!reader, 3.4k words summary: to be vulnerable meant to be defenseless. it was a liability and that's all it ever would be. fiyero couldn't have that, now could he? a/n: please remember that i only have movie knowledge, so this will be based solely on what i saw in the movie. :P also, shout outs to house song by searows (was on repeat for this fic). erm. this kind of got away from me. i started it was 12 AM and now it's nearly 2 AM. hope it's coherent.

It wasn't like you to be vulnerable. It just didn't happen. It was like... asking a fish or an elephant to climb a tree, or some other weird analogy that you heard oh-so-long ago, when vulnerability aged you more than it helped.

To be vulnerable meant to be hurt. To be ridiculed, to be laughed at, to be made a fool in front of anyone who cared to look your way. It was something that you knew was not needed. You would be fine living by yourself. You came into this world alone and screaming, and you would leave this world the same way.

If you cut out the wound before it began to fester, you solved the problem immediately. Or so they say.

So that's what you did, long ago, when you swore to yourself that the pain you felt would be the very last time. It would never happen again. It couldn't happen again.

Oh, Oz, it couldn't. Your heart couldn't take it.

What was left of your heart, anyway. Sometimes you feared you no longer had one, especially when you feared the pain that would haunt you if someone else came along and made you feel that way again.

It's not that you were afraid. No, fear of being vulnerable was foolish. At least... you believed that you weren't afraid of being vulnerable.

Perhaps that was an act of foolishness in itself. Pretending that you weren't afraid. Pretending that having few friends and few moments of happiness didn't pierce your heart with every passing second.

Perhaps you needed to be better. To be vulnerable, to swear off that silly promise you made to yourself so many years ago.

But it was so difficult.

Being vulnerable was to be in pain. To be lost to a world of sorrow. To be... hurt by the very thing you swore you'd never be hurt by again.

It wouldn't happen.

You wouldn't let it.

He existed in the back of your mind. His beautiful blue eyes, the way those pretty locks fell in front of his eyes when he actually studied his books (if he ever did, of course).

When was the last time he actually tried...? No. You couldn't think of him like that. Too much thinking about his pretty face would ruin you.

You had only talked to him a few times here and there, and the first time was to merely ask him to move out of the way. He took up quite a lot of space—or at least, maybe it was his confidence. It oozed from him like an air of upmost superiority.

No...

You were just being cruel. He was just standing in the way, out of breath from singing to Galinda in the library (because of course—who didn't sing to pretty girls in libraries anymore?).

The second time you spoke to him was over the essay you had to write in your literature class. Peer reviews were the bane of your existence, and this essay, because of course it did, had a simple prompt in response to one of your readings: Taking into account the author's sheer disdain for the idea of magic, write what you believe Oz would be like without magic.

Thought-provoking, yes. You wrote a decent two pages, handwritten of course.

He gave you a paragraph.

If the world of Oz existed without magic, perhaps we would all be better off. No more bickering over the usages of it all, no more idiosyncrasies, no more debates on whether you are intelligent or mediocre if you hadn't the ability to wave a wand or utter a simple spell. If we didn't have magic, perhaps life would be far more difficult, but I also feel as if we should see what it would be like. Maybe there would be less heartbreak. More happiness to go around.

Okay. A piss-poor paragraph that made you wonder how he was even passing Madame Lillabet's literature class.

Maybe he wasn't.

You didn't feel pity for the man—nobility had the ability to do so many things that you would only ever dream of. Why should you feel pity—vulnerability—for a man you didn't know, let alone understood?

Oz, even now, his essay haunted you. You did your best with your review, pointing out the obvious things missing—a decent thesis, body paragraphs that proved his thesis, and just in general, an entire essay that was expected of the entire class.

He merely read over your essay and made one simple comment: Excellent.

Oh, yes, excellent. It was excellent to know that he was just trying to help your essay, yes? Leaving that little comment, even though you didn't make full marks—how was it supposed to help you?

Pity be damned. He was a fool, through and through.

Things muddled in your mind like they often did. Thoughts racing, heartbeat close behind the quick pace.

If you had magic, you'd be sure to quell it.

These thoughts were the one thing that you wished you could squash under the heel of your boot. They were the bane of your existence, the utterance of a foolhardy penance to the god of whatever looked down upon you and wished for pain.

Perhaps that was what was meant for you.

A life of pain—of pity from others, of the amenability to be swayed by those around you even when you tried, desperately, to stay away from those who may catch your attention.

Like him.

Oh, Oz, just like him.

Fiyero.

The man who'd lose his head if it wasn't attached to his shoulders. The man who once told you in passing that if he hadn't a brain, perhaps classes would be easier—then he wouldn't truly be all there, and he'd easily get around the... well, specifics of it all. The man whom you felt tugging at your heartstrings, even when you told yourself no.

It would not happen.

It could not happen.

You would not let it.

In typical, terrible luck fashion, you found yourself wandering the halls of Shiz late at night, unable to sleep. The thoughts racing through your head of so many things, not just him (although they kept leading back to the fool), they just weren't stopping.

An exam was to be held tomorrow. Perhaps you could create a distraction—keep the professors from being able to do as they needed. There were a box of fireworks hidden in one of the many corridor closets, kept for special occasion. You could whip a few of them out and create so much chaos that they'd surely have to cancel the exam!

You leaned against the railing, looking down at the stonework of Shiz's courtyard. A chill ran down your spine from the cold breeze, and for once, all was silent if only for a moment.

His voice brought you out from your thoughts.

"Y/n," he said, an obvious smile playing at his lips.

You squeezed your eyes shut and glanced back at him. Without saying a word, you acknowledged him.

"Doesn't look like your dorm," he continued. "What are you doing out here, all alone?"

"Thinking."

His eyebrow quirked. "Thinking? Oh," he softly hummed, coming to stand beside of you. "Well, that's no fun, now is it? What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

He snorted softly. "You're thinking about... nothing?"

"Whatever I'm thinking is none of your business," you retorted.

He stared you down for a moment, tilting his head curiously. He hummed again and looked out at where you had been staring moments prior.

"You are right," he softly said, voice much quieter this time. "Let me lead you back to your room. We have an exam tomorrow, remember? You at least need to pretend to sleep."

You paused. Since when did he care about exams? You glanced at him, fighting the urge to question him. You let out a soft sigh and shrugged, allowing him to lead you to your dorm.

The walk was quiet, and you almost questioned how he knew where your dorm was, but you didn't. He seemed to pay attention better than most (it was part of that aloofness, you've noticed), and it wasn't the first time he had seen you near your dorm.

It was at least the third. The number had to be easy to memorize by now. 133.

As you opened your door, Fiyero spoke. "You know, I've been thinking..."

"Dangerous thing for you, isn't it?" you quipped, not looking at him as you stepped inside.

He let out a soft chuckle. You amused him to no end.

"Yes, perhaps," he softly said. "But besides. I was still thinking. I've been... well, wondering if perhaps you would—"

"—no."

He blinked slowly. "What? No? Y/n, you didn't even hear what I had to say—"

"—the answer is still no," you said. You glanced up at him from the spot you had been staring at, frowning. "I don't know what this is, but we are not friends. Do not ask me for favors."

"Not friends, hm?" he softly hummed, leaning against the doorway as he locked eyes with you. So knowing your dorm number was just a fluke.

"Not friends. Now if you'll excuse me, I should probably go and pretend to sleep."

His upper lip quirked in a faint smirk. Not friends, but you still joked with him as a friend would do. He rolled his eyes and gave you a rather joking half-bow.

"Of course," he said. "Do not let me keep you up. Perhaps I should find my dorm as well."

"You should do that," you simply said, shutting the door right after.

You didn't give him a chance to say anything else, quickly locking the door and heading back to your bed.

Heart pounding, mind still racing, but not with the thoughts of earlier. No, dear reader, your mind raced with thoughts of him.

So impressionable, so—so kind, so—well, was he really kind?

To you.

He was kind to you.

Nearly a week passed you by. The exam went rather well, without any kind of distraction. Passing marks and a somewhat decent night sleep.

You do everything you can to try and avoid Fiyero. Running this way and that, going through all of the longer corridors instead of the shortcuts you knew by heart. You did everything you could to avoid his handsome face.

You did everything you could to avoid the vulnerability that plagued your heart every time you thought of him.

If you simply embraced the wants of Fiyero, perhaps not having a brain would keep you from thinking this way. You'd still have a heart, sure, but it was much better than keeping yourself on your toes wondering if you'd see the damned man at any passing second.

On the hour of the rising moon, almost exactly on the dot, Fiyero spotted you. And this time, you were not evading him.

He practically took off after you, leaving his friends behind. They scoffed and called after him, but he didn't look back. His focus was on you.

He grabbed onto your wrist as you went to leave, not letting you go.

"Y/n! There you are," he softly said. "I have been looking everywhere for you. I wouldn't have thought it would be so difficult to find you, but—"

"—there you go, thinking again," you blurted, unable to stop yourself. Your tongue was wagging faster than your brain was working.

He weakly smiled. "Yes. I know. How ironic, hm?"

You watched as he stared you down.

"Look," he softly began. "I truly—I do not know what I did to deserve you ignoring me at any which way, but I wish you would tell me why. What did I do, Y/n? I thought—well, I assumed that we were friends, but perhaps I was wrong. I find myself wrong quite often nowadays."

"I—well, Fiyero, I—" you paused. You squeezed your eyes shut and inhaled a deep breath. "I don't have friends."

He blinked slowly. "You don't have friends? What of the one girl you were with the other day? Milla?"

"I do not have friends," you repeated. "I have... acquaintances. People I do not get attached to."

"That is sad."

"What?"

He raised an eyebrow. It seemed like a commonality when he spoke with you. The staple eyebrow raise had to happen or else he wasn't really chatting with you.

"It is sad. Why wouldn't you want to get attached to people?"

"I don't want to have meaningless relationships," you said. You avoided saying, I don't want to have relationships at all. "Not everyone can be as friendly as you, Fiyero."

He rolled his eyes. "Friendly. Yes. I talk to people, but I would rather not have all the attention that I do."

"Oh, that's rich," you said, scoffing. "You play the popular little prince and then claim you do not want it? What is that, Fiyero?"

Fiyero pursed his lips. "It is just—this is not a conversation about me. I wanted to have an intervention for you since you seemed as though you were avoiding me every which way. Now. Just—"

"—an intervention? What? Please. You sound ridiculous."

"So do you!" he returned, hands to his hips like an older man scolding a child for something they broke. "You vex me, Y/n! You act as if you are interested in me, then run away hiding like a scared little pup. You act as if you are afraid to get close to anyone."

You stared at him, lips parted ever-so-slightly. But it was enough. You were done for.

He let out a curt laugh. "You are."

"What?"

"You are. Scared. I can see it in you. You listen to what I have to say, even when the others don't. I've made an effort to pay attention to you. To see what you—"

"—Fiyero, stop."

"Do not tell me to stop, Y/n," he said, voice low with conviction. "Not now. Not when I've finally figured you out. You are scared. But of what? Being close to someone? Having a friend?"

You frowned. "I am not scared—"

"—you look at me like if I were to touch you, you'd melt."

"That doesn't mean anything!"

"I can see it in your eyes, Y/n," he said, not looking away. He held eye contact with you and hoped that you would continue to do the same. "You—you're scared. To open your heart to the people around you."

You frowned, again. It was perpetual anymore. "And you're a sad man who dances and pretends everything is fine because Galinda said you looked pretty one day."

He blinked slowly, a smile quirking on his lips. "Maybe. But this—this isn't about me, Y/n. This is about you."

"What even is this? I didn't agree to have you psychoanalyze everything I've ever done."

"Neither did I, yet here we are," he said. "I've had a lot of time to think, to mull it over, and I know it. I know it now. You are scared. I don't know what happened to you. I don't know who hurt you in your past, or if something tragic happened to make you so cold inside, but there is absolutely nothing wrong with being... with being vulnerable, Y/n. There's something... magical, even, about opening up to others."

"Oh, and you would know, wouldn't you?"

He frowned. "Y/n—"

"—no. Absolutely not. You do not get to sit there and ridicule me for not wanting to be close to people and then not take what I give you," you said. "You do not let anyone close to you. Sure, Galinda, but what does she know about you? Does she know how you half-ass everything? How you hardly even talk to your 'friends' and just let them float along with you like everything is fine and dandy? You're as sad as I am, if that's what you're trying to say. Don't try to fool yourself."

"I am not trying to fool myself," he softly said. "I am only trying to make it known that I see you. I see myself in you."

"Oh, that's rich," you said, scoffing. "The rich, popular boy sees himself in little ol' me. That's perfect."

"Y/n—"

"—no. Don't. Stop. Just. I don't want to talk to you anymore. We're not friends. We never were friends. Just leave me alone."

It's simple, but it shuts him down. And with that, you run from his side, rushing to hide away in your dorm.

You couldn't believe what you did. Blowing up at him instead of listening to what he had to say. He read you like the children's book your heart truly was—while everyone else focused on the words, he focused on the pictures. The minute details that seemed to pass by everyone's mind because the story was flowing far too quickly.

He saw the delicate brush strokes, the intricate colors, the pieces of you that the words did not show.

He knew you.

And it scared you.

Only you knew yourself. If anyone else were to know who you were, deep inside, well, that would be disastrous.

It couldn't happen.

You couldn't let it.

Fear.

Perhaps fear was the best way to describe the way you felt.

You sat by the edge of the lake in the forest just beyond Shiz's campus, fingers gently brushing against the water. The surface rippled, sending small waves to the end of the shore.

You were afraid.

Of what?

Of a man knowing you?

Of Fiyero knowing you better than even your family once knew you?

You sat there, thoughts racing through your mind. It was as if you couldn't avoid them anymore.

Days had passed since you blew up at Fiyero and ran. You couldn't avoid him forever, you knew that, but it seemed as if your thoughts believed the same.

Tears pricked at your eyes. The warm, salty tears began to fall before you could even try to stop them, and a soft sob bubbled at the back of your throat.

"Y/n?"

Shit.

You quickly wiped your tears away and looked back at him—at Fiyero. But your tears wouldn't stop. A soft sob rippled through you and you turned your head away.

Fiyero came to your side, kneeling down in the soft earth beside of you. He inwardly grimaced at the dirt, but he said nothing of it. He'd bathe in mud if it meant you would stop your tears.

He reached forward, gently placing a hand to your cheek. He turned your head to face him.

"Y/n," he softly said. "It's alright. You... you're alright."

Another sob.

He pulled you into his arms, and you let him. You didn't pull away, melting into his embrace as he said you would before. He pressed his chin to the top of your head, situating himself so he would be more comfortable near you.

He softly hummed a soft tune—you remembered it. The one thing he hummed quite often when you caught him alone, or trying to focus on his school work.

Dancing through life, skimming the surface... Life's more painless for the brainless.

He was just a sad boy with needs of his own, much like you were scared of being seen. Of being known.

Of being loved.

Oh. Oh, that's what it was.

It terrified you to no end.

Fiyero pressed a soft kiss to the top of your forehead, gently cupping your cheeks in his hands.

"What's got you so upset, love?" he softly asked, wiping your tears away gently with his thumbs.

You shook your head. "I... later," you mumbled. You leaned into his grasp, and you could have sworn you saw his eyes soften.

He released a soft, shaky sigh of his own, before he pulled you back into his arms. He'd hold you until the end of the world if that's what you needed him to do.

Being vulnerable—it was the one thing you had told yourself you would never do. Ever again. And here you were, letting this man hold you and practically lull you into a calmness you'd never felt before.

Is this what it felt like? To be... weak? To be... frail?

No.

Vulnerability... it didn't mean that.

It meant that you were... open. That you had managed to open your heart to a more... malleable form.

To be changed.

To find the one thing in life that you knew would keep you going for as long as it could.

To be vulnerable meant to be loved.

[myladysapphire]

Forbidden

With a feud older than history, the Blackwoods and Brackens have long been enemies, but now, you, a daughter of lord Bracken, finds yourself in the arms of Benjicot Blackwood, and he will do everyhting it takes to make you his.

based of this request

word count: 3,893

cw: MDI, 18+, smut, dry humping, loss of virginity, p in v, fingering, making out, masturbation, violence, slight breeding kink, pregancy, not proofread!

Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!fem!reader

dividers by @zaldritzosrose

Authors notes: a lot of ocs, alot of canon diveregence and based before the dance.

sorry this took so long to come out and so long for me to update in general! i wrote half of this and then decided to re do the whole thing entirely differently and then I got stuck and started writing two other things but here it is, enjoy!

“You will not marry him” your fathers voice bellowed.

You had begged and pleaded and yet there was no resolve, your father was adamant in a match with the lord Jorah Mallister a man near twice your age. And not a match with the man you held dear to your heart.

Benjicot Blackwood.

You had met him near six summers ago. For six years you had been courting him in private, away from all eyes but each other’s.

It had been easy to fall in love with him, with someone as kind and well mannered as he. But that wasn’t what had drawn you to him.

At the time neither of you knew which house the other belonged too, nor cared. There seemed to be something unexplainable that drew you to one another.

You were like twin flames, so similar and yet you were your own unique force but together you burned brighter.

But this wasn’t something your lord father could understand.

The feud between Blackwood and Bracken had spanned through time and was a never-ending factor. They would always despise one another, the true reason why lost to time and only fuel was added to the fire with each generation.

If the Blackwood’s stood on one side, you can guarantee the Brackens stood on the other.

The sides of their conflict varied, no one knowing the truth, neither history book nor legend.

With both houses being old and ancient, with blood of the first men running though their veins. Both claimed to be kings, the Blackwood’s claiming to have been kings of the wolfs wood before being driven south. And the Brackens had been kings of the Riverlands.

There it is said the Blackwood’s usurped the Bracken lands, where the Blackwood’s claimed the Brackens were petty lords and sells words hired to usurp them.

And though there had been a hundred peace’s between the families over the millennia, with every blackwood comes Bracken blood, and ever bracken comes blackwood blood. But no peace lasted long enough, and each peace ended with a larger wound than before.

When it comes between the two it is often a case of, he said or she said, no one wishes to get involved and no one knows the truth, and no matter the efforts of their overlord of kings, no truce lasted.

And all because of this, a feud neither of you wished to take part in, you were torn apart.

A marriage set between you and an old lord, and the turning of a key locking you in your rooms, separating you from him.

Your father thought it was some infatuation, when in fact it was everything.

You had met as children, playing on the border between your lands. He had tripped and fell over the border stones and you, with your friends having long run off at the sight of a blackwood came to aid him.

Tending to the small cut on his head, you teased him mercilessly, claiming he must be the best knight the Blackwood’s had if he would so easily cross the border as he did.

Andin truth that was how it all started, childish teasing, and the small gesture of caring for his small cut.

With days spent meeting at the border, playing as children did, you forged a bond. A bond that only strengthen as you were sent to ward with your mother’s family over.

With two summers spent together, the third apart it was clear much had changed when you went to meet at the border once more.

You had become a woman and he a man, and suddenly the childish games got lost and suddenly bashful smiles were exchanged in the place of teasing.

“How are you?” he has asked, having spent he summer with no word, unable to send each other letters, with fear of being caught and your friendship ending.

It was clear much had changed, your faces had lost the baby fat, he was now a head taller than you, whereas before you had towered over him. Your clothes had become that of a lady, no longer where your dressed hemmed to your ankles, your tunics and trousers thrown out in favour of gowns and jewels.

Your hair had grown long, and now adorned with jewels and accessories alike.

You looked everything of the lady you were expected to be and more. You had grown into your features, and he was struck by you.

It was almost like you were strangers again, with you blushing as you towards him and he unsure of how to act towards you know.

Stuttering your words, as you recounted your year, blushing as you told him of your kiss with one of the stable hands. How you had helped your aunt give birth, and how you had felt lonely without him, even though you only got to see him for a few hours every few days.

He had recounted his summer, how he had become a squire and his father had started giving him duties, fit for the future lord of Raventree.

The awkwardness left you both as the day passed and the sun set, you both left with a new view of the other. A year apart changing you from childhood friends to newfound crushes.

Neither of you cared that you were from rivalling families, the skirmishes between your cousins and his cousins and even him, never affecting you bar a small argument here and there.

As time passed and you both grew older you found most of your days spent with the other, and soon the friendly hand holding was exchanged for soft kisses and wandering hands.

If you were from any other house a marriage would have been easy, but neither of your fathers accepted the other, and as tensions grew and grew you lost any hope for a future with Ben.

You had kept your friendship, your companionship a secret, a well-kept secret no one not even your closest friends knew off.

Until two days ago.

The news of a betrothal had spurred you; you had run to the border to find Ben and beg him to run away.

But instead of Ben you found your oldest brother Amos, and a man you briefly recognised to be Bryden blackwood, a cousin to Ben. They seemed to be in some argument, over the boundary stones. Luckily no swords had been drawn yet.

You approached your brother cautiously.

“Amos” you started, nodding to the bracken men that stood with him.

“Sister…what are you doing her?” he asked, moving away from Bryden’s glare.

“I could ask you the same, aren’t you meant to patrol the border not step over it?” “I knew you changed the boarder stones!”

“I did not, my sister does not know what she speaks, she rarely comes here!”

“Rarely swear I’ve seen you before” he stepped closer to you, your brother slowly stood to stand in front of you. “Yes…I know you, you’re that girl my cousins spends his days with! hah a Bracken bitch”.

“What does he speak of!” your brother demanded.

“Nothing, I don’t know- “

Ben walked over, a laugh set on his face and hand on his sword, ready to fight if needed. “What is going on here?” he said, facing falling as he saw you.

Bryden turned to face him, “We were simply observing the border stones before your bitch came along”.

“What did you call her?” both Ben and Amos questioned, tone stern and glares set on Bryden.

“a Bracken Bitch” he punctuated each word, stepping closer to Amos, only to be dragged away by Ben and a punch landing swiftly on his face.

Ben’s fists pounded Bryden’s face, blood spattering as groans left Bryden’s lips, ben only stopped as his uncle, Wilheim came running up and pulled him away.

“What is going on here!”

“Your nephew insulted my sister” Amos spoke, his hand reaching for his sword.

“And why is Benjicot bloody blackwood taking it out on him?” he near screamed.

You looked tot eh floor, to scared to speak.

“He called her my Bracken…my Bracken bitch” Ben spoke, his eyes glued to your form as you nervously kicked at the border stones.

Wilheim gave Ben and exasperate look, “is its true boy?”

You looked up, feeling all eyes on yours.

“yes” he said, his face downcast in shame. Not shame for being with you, for the moments you shared or the love he felt but for the way it was revealed, for how you had been spoken off and the laughs that irrupted at the news.

Wilheim pulled him closer, “is she still?” everyone knew what he was asking, no matter how discrete he tried to be.

You knew the answer, and you knew no matter what came out of Bens mouth your brother would be forced to tell your father and your father would demand the maester check your maidenhead, something he wouldn’t find.

As you waited for Ben to answer your mind went back to six moons ago.

Your mind went back to six moons ago.

It was your nameday, you had escaped the celebrations and made your way to the border, where ben awaited gift in hand.

“Happy name day” he greeted, pulling you in for a hug, his face buried in your neck.

“Thank you” you breathed, your touches lingering as you pulled apart, his face close too yours.

Your eyes were locked to his, as you hesitated to step away.

“My gift?” you asked, as you stepped back ever so slightly, noticing the lingering gaze on your lips.

He smiled shyly, before presenting you the gift.

The gift, a book you had long desired. You had been unable to find it anywhere and yet, Ben had found it just for you.

“Ben” you breathed, at a loss for words as you started up at him, a shy smile on his face. “Thank you”, you said taking a step towards him once more, your body’s now impossible close.

“It was no problem” he breathed, your faces breaths apart.

A blush filled your cheeks as you leant forward your lips catching his in a soft slow kiss.

Your mouths moved in tandem, slow and soft as his hands came up to grip your waist, pulling you into him as your kiss became sloppier, his tongue teasing its way into your mouth as your hands came up to grip his hair, your lips never breaking.

Had you not been where anyone could find you, you where sure the kiss would never end, but the fear of being caught, your reputation ruined spurned you to push yourself away from him.

“we should go somewhere more private” you breathed, “out of prying eyes” “won’t they notice if your gone much longer?” “I doubt it, I said the wine had gone to my head and my maid, Farrah was more than happy to vouch the same, and that I wish to be left alone after I gave her 10 silver dragons.”

He laughed, “there is an inn nearby, perhaps we could go there?”

“An inn?” you asked a small smile on your face.

He nodded, “I know you may not wish to spend your nameday in an inn- “ “I wish to spend it with you” you interrupted, “I do not care where”.

And so, you had gone to the inn, it was barren when you got in, not many traveling to kings’ road so near winter, a room was easy to find and for the first time you were truly away from prying eyes.

The room was quaint, at least compared to what you were used too, with a double bed in the centre of the room, a small tub and chamber pot on one side and a dresser and table on the other.

“Will anyone question if you are gone long?” you asked, taking off your cloak.

You knew he most likely wouldn’t, having more freedom than you as a man and heir.

“Perhaps, but as long as I ma back by dawn I doubt I will get in any trouble.”

You nodded, “you leave often in the night then?” you teased, a smirk playing on your lips.

He coughed awkwardly, “my uncle and my cousins, Bryden, Davos and Bennifer took me to a brothel for my nameday”.

“a Brothel?” you asked in surprise, though there was a hint in jealousy in your voice, “and did you?

“No!” he said quickly, “no I wouldn’t do that” to you, he wanted to say, but up until today you hadn’t done anything, bar hold hands and lingering touches here and there.

You smiled, standing up and walking up to him, he seemed frozen, unsure of what to do or what his intentions were of even bringing you here.

You moved cautiously, your hand reaching for his as you moved yourself into his embrace.

Your fingers interlocking with his, “ben” you whispered.

And he whispered your name back, smiling as he did.

“I love you” you spoke, no hesitation in your voice.

“I love you” he breathed back, his face full of uninhibited joy.

Your lips captured his once more, this time it was full of passion, your lips moving together in tandem, his hands moving to your waist and pulling you effortlessly closer to him.

With one hand still interlocked with his, the other reached up and gripped his hair pulling him even closer to you.

Your mouths never broke apart, even as a soft moan left your lips as his tongue moved with yours.

 You started to step back slowly, dragging him with you until your back hit the bed, Bens body covering yours, his hips slowly began to grind against yours, feeling his clothed cock through his breeches as he grinded against your heat.

You moaned softly into his mouth as your body’s moved together.

“Ben” you groaned, as his lips separated from yours and moved to your neck, pressing quick sloppy kisses before leaning over you his eyes staring into yours.

He whispered your name, “do you want to keep going?”

You nodded, leaning up to reach for the laces of your gown, you never broke eye contact as you untied your dress, allowing it to fall slightly and reveal our thin chemise.

He blushed at the sight, leaning back and allowing you to fully remove your dress, before you reached for him and started to undo the ties of his tunic and breaches.

You moved slowly, taking him in as you undid his clothes, your touches lingering as you finally revealed his naked chest.

Now only in your small clothes, he reached over you once more, his body covering yours and his lips once again capturing yours.

Your bodies continued to move against each other the friction casing moans and groans to fall from his lips and yours.

Your chemise bunching up at your waist, revealing your wet cunt to Ben.

“gods” he said, feeling your bare cunt rub against his length, “his hands moved from where he had placed them at your waist to move along your thighs.

He swallowed slightly as your legs began to part, baring yourself to him.

“Do you ever touch yourself?” he asked, his fingers moved closer to your heat.

“yes” you breathed as he lightly teased your folds.

“Show me”

You breathe grew heavy, as you nervously moved your fingers down the length of your body.

Ben moved back from you as your finger dipped into your folds, gathering up your silk.

Circling your clit is slow motions, you never broke eye contact, soft moans leaving your mouth.

With one fingering circling your clit you began to dip another into your folds, circling and teasing yourself before finally plunging a finger into your hole.

You let out a moan as you did, slowly pumping your finger in and out of you.

“Gods, your beautiful,” Ben said, his hand coming to meet yours as he swiftly replaced your fingers, plunging two fingers into your hole.

You let out a high-pitched moan. The feel of his fingers was nothing compared to yours, the pleasure entirely different, even more so when his thumb came to circle your clit.

“Like this?” he asked, his movements unsure as he watched you and took in every moan or whimper you made.

“Yes! Gods yes” you said, feeling your peak wash over you as his fingers moved faster in and out of you.

You breathed heavily, sinking into the mattress as you rode out your peak.

“Good?” he asked, reaching forward to press a soft kiss to your mouth.

“yes” you said, before sitting up and reaching for the bottom of your chemise.

“Are you sure?” he asked, as you began to take of the last layer of clothing.

You smiled, nodding your head, and revealing yourself to him.

He moaned at the sight of you, getting impossible hard as he took you in.

He stood of the bed slowly, moving to take of his final layer and bare himself to you.

You groaned at the sight, “come here” you breathed.

He slowly crawled back onto the bed, his body covering yours once more as he took your lips in a passionate and heated kiss, his legs slowly parted yours as he positioned himself at your entrance.

“Are you sure?” he asked softly, moving to caress your face.

Nodding, you reached up to kiss him, “yes”.

And with that he slowly entered you.

Groaning at the stretch, you felt a slight sting as he slowly entered you, your face contorted in quick discomfort that quickly faded as he settled himself fully inside you, allowing you time to adjust.

He seemed lost tin pleasure at the feeling of your heat wrapped around his length, his face buried in the nape of your neck as he held back from moving.

“You can move” you breathed after a minute, hands wrapping around his neck as you moved your hips to urge him.

He moved slowly, pumping in and out of you, learning every move that made you moan or whimper.

He kissed slowly at your neck as his hips pumped in and out of you, his groans muffled by your neck as he began to pump faster and harder.

Your moans grew more frequent, your hand reaching down to rub at your clit as you felt the familiar feel of your peak hitting you once more, it was fast but no less pleasurable as you and he reached your peak simultaneously.

He swiftly removed himself and finished on your stomach, as your fingers continued to circle your clit, as you rode out your peak.

“gods” you laughed, after a few minutes, ben having gone to get a cloth to clean you up. “I hadn’t expected this for my nameday” you said reaching for him and pulling him into for a kiss once more.

You spent the night wrapped in his embrace, dawn coming faster than you had hoped and you were soon sneaking back into your rooms.

As the moons passed your meetings became ones of lovers, with romantic rendezvous with disguises as you went to Fairmarket parading as smallfolk away from prying eyes.

Your nights spent in each other’s embrace, whether it was in the inn or under the stary sky.

Now six moons later, you did not regret that night or the nights that followed, but the look of disappointment your brother gave you made you wish a part of you desired to take it back.  

“no” Benji spoke, answering his uncle’s question of your maidenhead.

“You will marry” he spoke, your father will approve it and I’m sure we could do with peace with our too sides, with the talk of war and all”.

But your father had instantly refused, saying he would rather a whore for a daughter than a blackwood.

You had been locked in your room for three moons, wedding arrangements made for you a lord Mallister.

You had been unable to escape to leave and see Ben, your every move watched and monitored. Though you had heard he had demanded to see you, begging for your hand and even challenging lord Mallister to a duel.

All had been refused and you were starting to lose all hope of ever seeing him again.

Then there was a tap at your window.

“Ben!” you whisper shouted, seeing him hanging onto the wall for dear life as you opened the window to let him in.

“How did you- “you began to ask only to be cut of with a demanding kiss as Bens lips attacked yours.

“I have missed you” he breathed as you pushed you down onto the bed and began to untie his breeches. “My father agrees we should wed.” he started, kissing you again, as he began to bunch up your skirts, revealing your heat to him. “He says the only way your father would accept us to marry his if you were pregnant” he breathed, his breaches now around his ancles as his finger began to tease your hole.

“Pregnant?” you questioned, “he said he’d rather me a whore than a blackwood” you said, moaning as he began to pump in fingers in and out of your entrance.

“Your father is also a devout man of the faith, is he not” he said, fingers pumping in and out of you.

“yes” you moaned, “and you and your family are followers of the old gods…he would never- “you cut yourself off with a moan as his cock replaced his fingers, plunging in and out of you at fast pace.

“And yet he said to my father that if a babe came, he would allow it…and yet he kept you from me, from any chance of us” he groaned, leaning down to kiss you as he felt your walls clench around his cock as you came.

“I am going to fuck a baby into you, going to fill you up with my seed” he groaned, “I will come, climb the walls of your castle every night until you a bred and then we shall get married and you will me mine, not that cunt Mallister!” his tone was harsh, but as his eyes bore into yours you saw the longing, the love and sense of purpose as he fucked you like he had never fucked you before.

It was primal, pure animalistic as he fucked his seed into you.

He lay on top of you, his cock still in you as you both caught your breath.

That night he took you in more ways than you could count, and in the breath moments his cock wasn’t filling you he recounted his days apart from you.

But as dawn broke, he was forced to leave, just like every other night you shred in each other’s arms.

But he fulfilled his promise visiting you every night until your moons blood stopped, and a pregnancy was confirmed.

Your father was furious, hated how you had defied him, found away to see Ben once more, and now he was forced to marry you.

With a slight swollen belly, it was no secret of why the Brackens and Blackwood’s once again decided to try at peace, even more so when Ben could hardly wait for the bedding ceremony to take you as his wife.

Taglist

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[gilverrwrites]

Section 48: Unlawful Kisses

Pairing: Sam Winchester/AFAB! Reader

GN pronouns used, but reader does have a vagina, breasts, and wears 'feminine' clothing.

Plot: While studying at for a law exam, the reader just cannot keep their eyes, or mind, off of Sam.

Rating: M/18+

This is actually an updated/re-written fic I wrote and posted on a now deleted blog roughly 10 years ago. (Damn I'm old.) If well received I might try re-doing some other fics/writing new ones, who knows!

Don't forget: You are amazing, and worthy of love.

Content: Swearing, vaginal oral/cunnilingus, body worship, nipple play, vaginal fingering, teasing, dirty talk, semi-public, naked female, clothed male, size difference, light hair pulling, light biting, fluids, consensual, dominate Sam (if you squint). Reader is kind of a perv, Sam is a tease. Reader calls the shots, but Sam is Definity in charge.

Section 47; took away privilege against self-incrimination from any person ordered to testify or produce books, p-

Your eyes darted over to Sam for probably the millionth time since he had joined you half an hour ago. You had an exam tomorrow, and you’d hauled up in the library for some last-minute cramming, but since Sam had joined you, you’d lost any and all ability to concentrate. It was hard enough trying to focus on possibly the drollest piece of text you’d ever had to read, without him being here. Without the musky cedar smell of his aftershave, without his deft fingers skimming each page, without his pursed lips filling your head with thoughts of what he might be able to do with them. Those lips…

“You okay?” His hushed voice pierced the silence as he peeked over at you. You’d been staring, again.

“Who me? Yeah, totally.” You lied, pulling your book up to cover your gradually reddening face. The space between your legs was hot, but your face was hotter. “Peachy.”

“Okay.” He shrugged, unconvinced, but returning to his own book regardless.

Section 47; took away privilege against self-incrimination from any person ordered to testify or produce books, papers, etc., and provided that any person so ordered to testify or produce would be immune from any prosecution based on evidence provided….

Movement in your peripheral distracted you. You looked over to see Sam, leaning all the way back in his chair, his toned arms stretched behind him, neck exposed, chest puffed out. The hem of his shirt had ridden up slightly, giving you the tiniest peak at his abdomen, and the trail of hair that adorned it.

Reluctantly you turned back to your studies, not wanting to be caught eyeing him up yet again, but as soon as your eyes returned to the text in front of you, he let out a sigh.

You glanced over just in time to watch his tongue dart out, wetting his finger so he could turn a page. Amazing how such a small action could make your knees weak. Shit… it’s like he was trying to distract you.

Probably feeling your eye burning into him, Sam turned to look back at you, and yet again you dived back into your textbook, hiding behind its paper walls as you tried to rid your mind of Sam and his mouth.

“Section 48; set forth venue in any prosecution for unlawful… unlawful… unlawful things I want you to do to me with those lips.”

“What?” You jumped at the sound of Sam’s voice.

“What?” You repeated back, spinning to look up at his quizzical expression.

“You said something…” His lips squeezed into a smile, his eyes raked up and down your body, and suddenly you knew how Sam must have felt under your gaze just minutes earlier. “Something about, lips doing unlawful things to you?”

“Shit.” You thought your eyes might bulge out of your head, your heart was in the pit of your stomach, and if you’d been blushing before, you must look like a traffic light now. “Did- did I say that out loud?”

“Yeah.” He confirmed, with a nod. His brows furrowed and his jaw tightened as he leaned in closer. You couldn’t resist taking a deep breath in through your nose, indulging in his scent. His hot breath against the ear sent a chill down your spine. “Were you talking about my lips?”

Your brain went into overdrive, was this it? The moment you’d been waiting for? You and Sam had always had a playful, flirty relationship, but was this the turning point? If you confessed, would he give you what you want? Could you both finally stop beating around the bush and get down and dirty together? What exactly would he do? Or would you humiliate yourself? Would he send you packing with your tail between your legs? Could you live with that rejection? Totally, it would suck but you’d get over it, right? Right.

You chanced a look at Sam's face. His eyes bore into you so intensely it made your stomach roll. You’d never seen him look so fierce before, and much like every other expression he wore, it was hot.

Trying to mimic his confidence you straightened your back, locked eyes with him, and nodded.

He smiled, and immediately you felt assured, but that didn’t stop your hair from standing on edge as he pressed into you. This time you felt the softness of his lips on the shell of your ear, and it made you squirm. “Say it.”

“I want you to do unlawful things to me with your mouth, Sam.” You responded, trying your best to sound sultry.

“Oh yeah.” He murmured, lowering his mouth to the back of your jaw, caressing your skin with each word. You wished he could read the dictionary to you in this exact position. “Like what?”

You scanned through your surroundings, checking each aisle of books to confirm your solitude. Nobody else really came this far back in the library, especially at this time of night. You were pretty certain the only other person in the building was the night librarian, who only ever ventured from her desk to make a coffee in the communal kitchen. You had little to worry about as long as you stayed vigilant. Brazen smile on your lips, you turned your attention back to Sam who seemingly had also been examining your surroundings.

Reaching up, you ran your fingers up the warm skin of his neck and threaded them into his hair. You’d always wondered if his hair was as soft as it looked, and now you finally had confirmation; yes. Yes, it was that soft.

“Like,” You hummed, gently guiding him from your neck until you were face-to-face. “I want you to kiss me, slow and gentle to start. Then har-“

He interrupted you, tenderly pressing his lips to yours, just as gently as you’d imagined. Strong hands came up to cup your face and pull you into him, deepening the kiss. Your own hands knotted into his hair as his mouth pressed harder against your own.

“Like that?” He asked, breaking away just enough so that his words were intelligible.

“Exactly like that.” You replied, surprised by the breathiness of your own voice.

“What next?” He pried, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

You could think of a thousand things you wanted him to do next, but… “Aren’t you worried someone might see us? We could get in a lot of trouble.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when, and if, we get to it.” He shrugged, amusement clear as day on his face, completely unable to refrain from grinning. “If you don’t want that to happen, you’ll have to keep really quiet. Or tell me to stop.”

You knew he was into this, both of you at the mercy of each other. The exhilaration of possibly being caught. Besides, you’d already grabbed the bull by the horns, may as well enjoy the ride.

“Well… Next, I want you to keep kissing me, on my jaw, my neck, my ches-”

Clearly, too excited to wait until you’d finished your instructions, Sam leaned in to kiss you once more. His lips never left yours as his arms looped around your waist, lifting you from your seat like you were nothing and placing you on the desk, blinding you from anyone who might stumble to your section of the library. The simultaneous actions made you lose any composure and you moaned into Sam's mouth.

He pulled back, pressing a finger to his lips and shushing you. You barely had a chance to take in his dishevelled form before he reattached himself to your jawline, rapidly tracing his lips against your smooth skin, occasionally swirling his tongue in any crevice he could find. You had to stifle a whimper when you felt his teeth nipping at your throat.

Sam’s calloused hands massaged your shoulders briefly before he hooks his fingers under the straps of your vest top, working them down your arms, along with the neckline, revealing your bra to him.

“These too?” He asks, leaning back to admire you. Still unable to rein back the smile on his face.

“Those too.” You established as he reached out both hands to cup each breast. Not wanting to be completely exposed, you elected against entirely removing your bra. You did, however, guide his hands to grip the top of its cups, folding them down to your underbust, thus exposing them completely, but allowing you a quick and easy way to pull it back up.

“Lucky me.” Sam mused, eyes glazed, his tongue darted over his lips before he dipped down to fix his mouth around your left nipple.

You sucked in a harsh breath and reached out for him. Your hands gripping into the fabric of his shirt. Unable to ignore the growing heat between your legs you started squirming, rubbing your thighs together to produce any sort of friction. Sam clearly noticed and let out a small laugh, the gust of air on your wet nipple only serving to turn you on all the more. Obviously enjoying your reaction Sam moved over to the other side. Using his fingers to play with your left nipple as he sucks on the right. Playfully he nibbles at the hardened skin before blowing on it. Both times you resist the urge to let out a groan.

“Does that feel good?” He asks, kissing his way back up your chest.

“Yes.” You reply, steering him up until he’s close enough for you to plant another kiss on his lips. With a gentle hand, he pushes you back, cutting your kiss short. You pout and he laughs, but you let him lay you down. Your back presses against your long-forgotten textbooks. You should probably check them out when you leave, just so you can wipe them down before anyone else uses them you think. The feel of Sam's fingers squeezing your tits pulls you from your train of thought.

“Should I keep kissing you here?” He asks, before dipping his hand lower, running it across your belly before hitching up your skirt. Gingerly he runs his thumb over your panties, once twice, three times before looking back up at you. “Or do you want my unlawful mouth down here?” He teased.

“Down there.” You respond without hesitation. “Down there is good!”

“I can tell.” He says as he grasps your underwear, quickly pulling them down your legs, over your feet before dandling them above you. “You’re already soaked.”

And he was right, you could see the dark stain your wetness had left against the fabric. You’d blush, but you were already half naked, and sprawled out for him in the middle of a public space. You couldn’t be any more exposed if you’d tried.

Without another word, Sam tucked your panties into his pocket and got to work. He ghosted the tips of his fingers against your folds and your toes curled. Slowly he added more and more pressure until you could feel him firmly rubbing against your clit.

“Fuck.” You whined, Sam immediately removed his hands from you entirely.

“Wh-“ You darted into a seated position only for Sam to clamp his hand over your mouth.

“Shhh.” He hissed, before grabbing you by the wrists and replacing his hand with your own. “Keep your voice down. Not a peep, okay?”

His voice was deadly serious but the look on his face betrayed him. He was loving this. You bow your head in acknowledgement and allow him to lean you back against the table. You watch impatiently as he re-surveys the area. Clearly content that you’re still alone together, he crouches down, levelling himself with you, then slowly leans in and places a kiss on your core.

Content with keeping you on edge he starts slow. His mouth barely making contact with your skin. Blood rushing, and heart thundering you can barely contain yourself. You rest your legs on his shoulders, thighs around his head, and attempt to urge him on, to pull him closer.

Sam chuckles, his breath taunting your slit.

Then without warning, he delves into you. He starts on your clit again, and you fight every urge to clench your legs around him, to cry out. You bite your knuckles instead as he works downward.

He begins darting his tongue in and out, fucking your entrance until you're dripping down his face. You glance down at him, and have to hold back another groan at what you see. Eye closed, brows knitted, Sam is totally lost, blissed out in between your legs.

One of his hands grips your thigh for purchase as he pulls his face up, returning to your clit. The other hand sneaks between your legs, and he plunges two fingers inside. Allowing you no time to adjust, he sets a fast, steady pace. His fingers keep pumping into you, as his mouth continues working over your clit.

You fight back every moan, every cry that attempts to climb out of you, biting onto your hand so hard that you're afraid you might take a chunk out of yourself.

It isn’t long before your toes begin curling again, you kick your legs around, rutting yourself against Sam's face to try and relieve the energy building up in you. Sam remains unbothered, completely serene buried in your heat. He’s like a machine, a pussy-eating God, never faltering from his pace.

Your orgasm was fast approaching, you arched your back, craning your head back. Your hips stilled, locking in place when it finally hit you. You felt like there was fire in your veins and it was all pulsing into your pussy. Your nails dug into your cheek as you silence your own screams.

Panting and shaky from your orgasm, you sag against the table, letting your legs dangle either side of Sam, signalling to him that you’d climaxed, if he was even in doubt.

“How was that? Everything you had in mind?” He asked, standing up, towering over you. The lower half of his face glistened with your slick.

“Fuck Sam.” You breathed, reaching for him, needing assistance to get it back up.

The sound of footsteps startled you both, interrupting you before you could even start to compliment him. You launched off the table, stretching up to wipe Sam's mouth. Sam in turn roughly gabbed at your top and bra, yanking it back over your chest before you both bombed back into your chairs, and just in time.

The concerned face of the night shift librarian pokes out from behind a shelf. “You kids alright? I thought I heard some commotion?”

“No. We’re good.” You both said in union, suppressing laughter.

The librarian eyed you both wearily before nodding at you both. “Okay then, I’ll let you get back to your books.”

You both waited in complete silence and stillness until you deemed her footsteps far away enough.

“Sam! That was amazing.” You half whispered; half sang.

Sam in turn looked embarrassed, scratching the back of his head, averting his eyes, unable to hide the growing blush on his own cheeks. You couldn’t believe his sheepishness, as if he wasn’t tongue deep inside you just moments before.

“Thanks.” He grinned. “Do you want to come back to my place? I’d like to do that again, but actually get to hear you this time, you know?”

You glanced down at the open books strewn across the desks, and then up at the clock. It was late...

Screw it, if you didn’t have all the reading memorised by now, you weren’t gonna know it by the morning.

“Absolutely!” You exclaimed, not missing the look of triumph in Sam's eyes before you stood and started packing your notes into your bag. “But can I get my underwear back?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Sam patted his pocket as he stood to pack his own bag. You reached your hand over to him, but instead of returning your underwear, he took your hand in his, and began leading you through the shelves. “You can have them back in the morning.”

[shecriestotheclickingoftime]

for the first time - 1.2k words

ex!Patrick Zweig x college!reader

you guys... i wrote something... and it ends abruptly but i felt like i'd rather post this and then post a follow-up later than keep this in the drafts for another 2 months...

inspired by "For The First Time" by Mac Demarco

based off of a request from a long time ago from @rayhalloffame but then i got inspired by the mac demarco song and lost the original plot- my sincerest apologies for that... (so so so sorry that this was so late and also that i lost the plot...)

basically patrick is your ex and you went off to college trying to forget about him, avoided him for a couple years, but this year you've brought back your new (shitty) boyfriend, taken him to your hometown bar, where patrick also happened to be.

tw! for drinking, also abrupt ending, also im not the best writer but i wanted to contribute something...

~~~~~~~~~~~

While she’s been away

Living day-to-day has been tough

Without her by my side

Simply being alive has been rough

And though she won’t be gone forever

There are many times I find it feels that way

And I’m not trying to forget her

Just understand how I’ll be feeling on that day

The bar was surprisingly packed, even for a Saturday night, and the overlapping conversations around him were so loud, it was hard for Patrick to even hear his own thoughts.

It was the weekend before thanksgiving, and it seemed that everyone was back in town for the holiday. Patrick recognized the faces of a lot of his old classmates from high school around him, but not you. 

He knew that you’d come back to town the past few years for the holidays, but he somehow never saw you out. He figured that you must’ve been avoiding him. You two hadn’t seen each other since the summer before you went off to college, the summer that you broke up with him.

He could remember it vividly: it was a hot July day, and you had told him to come over. You opened the door, looking like you had been crying for a while, having that closed-off look that Patrick hated. 

“I just… can’t go off to college with a boyfriend from back home. Long distance never works.”

Those exact words had been engraved in his mind since that day. Patrick Zweig had never been one for commitment, but something about you was different. Losing you had felt like losing part of himself. But he wanted you to do well in college, so he accepted it. And moved on.

Or, at least, he tried to. But even two and a half years later, things without you still didn’t feel right. Patrick felt pathetic; still stuck on some old childhood friend-turned-high school sweetheart that definitely wanted nothing to do with him. But, he still cared. 

So, here he was, standing next to his best friend Art, who had just come back from Stanford, in the middle of a loud, rowdy bar full of college kids. He already knew that you’d be avoiding him again this break, like you’d done for the past two years, but it didn’t sting any less to know that he’d go another year missing you, while you were off at college living your own life. 

Without her by my side

Simply being alive has been rough

It was right then that he saw you across the bar, standing in a group of girls that you’d been friends with back in high school, looking even more beautiful than the last time he saw you. 

You hadn’t noticed Patrick yet, and he was sure that when you did, you’d shut down and push him away again. You’d avoided him for so long, he was surprised that you two had even ended up in the same place. 

Next to you was some guy, standing stiffly and looking completely uninterested in whatever conversation you were having with your friends. It felt like a knife had just been shoved into Patrick’s stomach. He figured that you’d move on eventually, and he’s been with girls that he met on tour since he’d dated you anyways, but seeing you, with this boring, pretentious-looking guy felt unbearable. 

That “guy” was your boyfriend, of about 6 months now, that you’d finally brought home to meet your family. He was boring, and uninterested in the things that you liked, but he was stable, and seemed like a good option for you. So, you two had started dating. 

Everything with him was just… ok. He had a habit of talking down to you, making you feel dumb, and explaining things to you that you’d already known. He didn’t put much care into the relationship, he had never gotten you flowers or anything, but that’s just what guys are like, right? He treated you just fine, and you guys didn’t fight much, so it must be a good match. But something for you was just missing. 

He just… wasn’t Patrick. As much as you resisted admitting it to yourself, deep down you knew that you missed him. Which was basically why you had avoided him at all costs for the past two years, knowing that as soon as you’d start talking again, your progress of “moving on” would be completely wiped away. 

But now, the winter break of your junior year in college, you’d started to be less careful about avoiding the popular spots. Maybe it was just you being careless, or maybe you were hoping that you’d see him somewhere, at the bar, or the club, and have the “chance encounter” that’s been replaying in your daydreams since you started dating your current boyfriend. 

So, already on your third drink of the night, you couldn’t look away when you locked eyes with Patrick Zweig. God, he looked good. He’s gotten more toned from tour, and you’d forgotten just how tall he was. You could feel your boyfriend standing like a statue beside you, scrolling on his phone while your friend updated the group on all of the hometown gossip. But you couldn’t look away from Patrick. And he knew it.

Before you could fully process it, Patrick Zweig was there, standing in front of you. After two years. You wanted to roll your eyes at the smug look he was trying to keep pressed onto his face, but you could see the tenderness in his eyes as he looked at you. He looked so much… softer with you than he did with anyone else. You’d forgotten about that. 

Even your friends smiled when he joined the circle, standing across from you with an almost sheepish smile. Against all odds, they liked him as your boyfriend. At least more than they liked this stuck-up finance bro that you’d brought home this year. As your boyfriend, Patrick had almost become one of the girls, always joining in on a gossip sesh with you all as he held you on his lap, while this current guy acted like he was above that kind of “girly stuff”. 

And you just wanted to fall back into his arms. And god, he wanted that too.

But the idle chatter kept going, as you looked at the ground in silence. Your boyfriend didn’t pay any attention to your current state, he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation anyways. But Patrick did, he always did. 

“So… how have you been?” he asked, as you looked up hesitantly. And, at his voice, your boyfriend finally looked up from his phone. 

“She’s been good,” your boyfriend said, his face contorting into a bitter snarl. “I’m her boyfriend, by the way. Who are you?” he asked Patrick, his voice immediately sounding defensive.

The conversation passed by uncomfortable between them, as you dissociated from the scene before you. Your boyfriend sucked. You missed Patrick. And maybe it was wrong to break up over something like that, but in that moment, you just couldn’t care. 

Finishing your third drink, it all passed by in a blur. You pulled your boyfriend away for a second, ending that relationship before you did anything else. It was impulsive, and not your best moment, but honestly it needed to happen. 

And you ended up back with your friends, as your boyfriend ubered back to the hotel, talking and laughing with them, feeling at home for a moment. 

The rest of the night passed by in a blur, as you fell back into Patrick’s arms as the conversation with your friends continued, him laughing alone, his arms snaked around your waist from behind as you leaned against him, the haze of the bar finally feeling relaxing, instead of too loud or too chaotic. 

[pastafossa]

Haunted (Matt Murdock x TRT!Reader, Fic, SFW)🌧️

Right, so close to 3 years ago, I had an ask in my box: 'what would happen if TRT!Reader/Jane Hind lost her memory just before returning to Matt after her three months away', aka: just before point where they both confessed their love and got together in mainline TRT. So I wrote up a fairly angsty, no happy ending sort of fic about it, which you can find here. But there just felt like there was more to the story, and the idea of a sequel wouldn't leave me alone, so I've worked on it in little bits and pieces over the past few years and I'm finally ready to unleash that into the world now that it's been edited to my satisfaction.

This will have a happy ending and hurt/comfort, once we swim through a lot of Matt Suffering. <3 Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Chapter Summary:

Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it.  He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow.  There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting.  Matt was alone.  You’d left him alone.  It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back. So… why did you feel so very sick?

Wordcount: 11, 805 words so, hilariously, about 3 times the length of Part 1

Warnings for this chapter: angst, alcohol, matt spiraling fairly badly, he throws some things, LOTS of TRT references and spoilers so I wouldn't do this one unless you've finished the Miami arc in TRT.

Sad Matt gif as a reminder that the angst is pretty heavy here because I'm really going to emotionally beat on this poor man for a bit.

At Ciro’s insistence, you gave yourself one month in Hell’s Kitchen. 

A month wasn’t much time, granted, but it would hopefully be enough to see if there was a chance of bringing back the memories you’d lost: memories of friends, of your life here, and of… of whatever it was that you’d had with Matt Murdock. Based on his grief over the loss of Jane Hind—not you, but her surely, the role, the mask you’d worn while here—his attachment to her had been deep and fervent, and those feelings appeared to have been at least partly reciprocated. The dangerously intimate photo you’d found in your memory box was all the proof you needed of that. 

Your past self had already been accustomed to his touch when the photo was taken, based on the way she’d allowed him to press his head tenderly to her temple, his dark eyes warm and fond as he'd smiled in her direction even if he couldn't see her, his arm draped over her shoulders. She should have been put off by the proximity, by such a blatant show of physical intimacy, but instead of looking distressed, she’d been relaxed and comfortable where she’d confidently tucked herself up against his side. Try as you might, you hadn’t been able to find any hint of discomfort, any clue that signaled the obvious affection she’d felt was an act, her shoulder angled in a way that made you think she’d wrapped her arm comfortably around his waist, her grin bright and so very real.

This couldn’t be you.

When was the last time you'd looked that happy?

When was the last time you’d let someone hold you close? 

And when was the last time someone had looked at you like… like they might… 

“Did I… love him, Ciro?”

“I believe that… you might have, yes. Him, and this city. That is why I encourage you to stay, for a time at least. See if the memories return to you. Even should you leave, it would be wise to know of the life you led here.”

Ciro had sent a check to your office, booking you for the month and clearing your schedule. Just like that, you were free to focus on looking for something that might trigger the return of your memories. Though what that something might be, you weren’t really sure. A more thorough examination of the apartment had been your first step. Unfortunately, there’d been nothing there that seemed familiar beyond the same cheap decor and calculated set pieces you’d always used. You’d quickly ruled those out. They were meaningless distractions meant to reinforce the lie of whatever pre-planned identity you’d taken on. In this case, that identity was Jane Hind—practical, professional, detached, likes sailboat paintings and the color grey. Based on the fine layer of dust you'd found coating everything but the kitchen counter and a neat stack of mail, no one else had spent much time here during your months away. That, at least, fit your pattern. You weren’t in the habit of making friends or putting down roots. There was no point in doing so when you’d just wind up cutting them loose and running again. 

What had unsettled you far more were the hints of connection you’d found quietly tucked away:

A fleecy stuffed bear holding a plush crystal ball, the threads connecting the two uneven as if hand-stitched. That kind of time and effort wouldn’t have been spent on anyone but a friend, and the bear’s prominent position on the counter lent it far more importance than any of the other decorations.

A tacky ‘Handsome Devil’ coffee mug, the curling red script and clichéd devil horns design bizarrely out of place amongst the rest of the plain white mugs in the cupboard. An identity like Jane Hind wouldn’t have been caught dead drinking from it, which meant someone else was here with enough regularity to have a mug of their own. Further digging revealed a second decorated mug, this one adorned with the name of the law firm co-run by Matt. You could have written off one mug, but two? Two was a pattern.

An entire drawer in the dresser devoted solely to a pile of dangerously soft shirts that clearly didn’t belong to Jane Hind, the fabric threadbare and worn. They looked about the right size to be Matt’s, though, the faint traces of scent a match for him. The fact that they took up an entire drawer indicated he’d visited often enough to need a space for his clothes. 

You’d… made space for him in your false life. That wasn’t something you did.

Or had you been the one wearing them? 

Maybe…?

You’d spent a long moment holding one of the shirts in your hand, rubbing at the fabric in hopes of stirring something. When that hadn’t worked, you’d even brought it up to your nose to inhale slowly, just in case the traces of scent brought some memory back. 

Clean soap. Salt. Copper. Faint cinnamon. 

All it had done was remind you of holding a grieving Matt in his kitchen after he’d realized your memories weren’t coming back. It was a gloomy enough memory, but ultimately unhelpful.

You'd tossed the old shirt on top of the dresser and moved on. 

While you didn’t know who exactly you’d been here in New York, the longer you searched, the more it became clear what had happened. You’d started to slip, your years of isolation forming a crack in your layers of armor. That fracture had allowed an attachment to form, an insidious connection worming its way in through the open gap like poisonous roots through crumbling pavement. You’d grown weak, and careless. There was no other explanation for why you’d broken so many of your rules, dominoes tipping one by one until it cascaded into a waterfall of mistakes. You’d slipped before, of course—loneliness was natural and expected, which was why you had so many contingencies—but you’d never let yourself get in this deep. Not until now. 

What you didn’t know was… 

Why?

Why here? 

Why these people? 

And why the fuck hadn’t you followed your rules and run? 

If there was an answer to be found in Jane Hind’s apartment, you couldn’t seem to find it, no matter how hard you look, no matter how many of her belongings you dug through. Even your memory box had failed you, the photo of you and Matt at the back of your stack of pictures an outlier you couldn’t explain, this fruit of an as-yet unidentified poisonous tree. You had no real leads, no faint ringing of memory to guide you beyond a vague sense that, somehow, this started with Matt. You didn’t even know where to begin. 

At least, not until some shaggy-haired guy named Foggy—what the fuck kind of nickname was that?—showed up entirely and rudely unannounced at your front door, dressed in a cheap suit and wearing a bizarrely determined look. Despite your doubts, you reluctantly allowed him in. He made it pretty clear he knew you, and if you were lucky he could tell you more about your life here.

“So I know you usually skedaddle when things get uncomfortable, which I imagine they are at the moment. How long are you trying to stay?” 

“One month.” You shrugged casually, a cover for just how warily you were watching him as he paced in your—in Jane Hind’s living area. He knew far more about you than you knew about him, a reversal you were uncomfortably aware of. That vulnerability was almost enough to trigger a retreat beneath that cold, brittle shell you’d used long ago, though you quickly caught hold of that instinct and buried it back down deep where it belonged. Still, you couldn’t quite hide the cool clip to your voice, your walls firmly in place. “Leaving after that. Don’t see the point in staying if the memories are gone. Truthfully I’m not sure why I stayed in the first place, especially once it was clear I was getting attached. No offense.” 

“None taken, my hopefully-still-friend-when-your-memories-come-back.” He abruptly swiveled on his feet to face you, squinting at you thoughtfully. “How badly do you want your memories back?” 

You thought of out-of-place mugs and hand-stitched psychic teddy bears; of faint cinnamon and a worn photo frame; of the way you’d held a broken Matt in his kitchen until he’d carefully pushed you away and asked you to leave, his face closed off and distant despite the tears on his cheeks and yours. 

You’d… been someone here. Someone cared for. Someone whose loss was mourned.  

Even if you left, you needed to know just who that someone had been, if only so you could make sure this never happened again. Not until you reached your island in the sun. 

“Badly enough to stay for the month,” you said quietly. 

“Then put some shoes on. We’re going on a memory hunt.”

Over the next few weeks, Foggy took you all over Hell’s Kitchen. 

You visited Jane Hind’s office, abandoned warehouses, and empty rooftops covered in thick blankets of snow. He reintroduced you to Karen, to your upstairs neighbors, and to a bartender who didn’t seem all that inclined to be introduced to anyone. You drank crappy beer and slightly less crappy vodka, played pool, and went to the zoo to stare for far too long at penguins, which Foggy refused to explain no matter how much you pressed. He had you focus on sights, on smells, on sounds that might trigger a memory. He joked with you in between, and he was just funny enough, friendly and clever enough, that for the first week or so, you were consistently cracking a smile. Hell, you even laughed now and then, much to your surprise. He really did know you, enough so that you gradually began to relax around him, just a little. He was likely hoping the addition of a friend’s voice would bring back what you’d lost, especially when paired with all the other sensations. 

But no matter how much you both tried, your memories remained lost. 

God, you hadn’t thought this would… would hurt as much as it did. Yet with every day that you failed to find your way back to who you’d been, the more that fierce ache, that old longing inside you grew. Your smiles became brittle, your laughter fading, until both finally dried up like withered, crumbling leaves beneath a bitter frost. You couldn't help pulling away really, not when your soul curling up in the dark might protect you from the agony of knowing that maybe, just maybe, you’d finally found what you'd always wanted. How fitting that it had been ripped away from your bloodied, desperate hands like so many times before, one more square for the filthy patchwork quilt of shredded lives and possibilities you’d been forced to leave behind. What was worse: even your memories of that seeming joy had been stolen, too, leaving you with nothing left to carry but the tattered scraps of a ghost and the photograph of a stranger wearing your skin.

It shouldn’t have been possible to miss what you couldn’t remember. Yet here you were missing it all the same. 

It didn’t help that Matt was avoiding you in every way that mattered. You’d thought about calling him if only to ask him questions about your life here, but you could never quite work up the courage to do it. He must have felt the same since he hadn’t reached out to you, either. And why would he? He knew as well as you did that your memories likely weren’t coming back. It made sense to cut that connection, tear it away like a weed before the roots could do more damage—something you should have done sooner, for both your sakes. What you hadn’t expected was just how good he was at dodging you, somehow absent no matter how many places Foggy took you to, places he swore Matt frequented with you when you’d lived here, as if Matt’s mere presence might be enough to trigger some memory in you. Had he been that important? Either way, it didn’t matter. You hadn’t seen Matt once since you’d walked out, doing your best to ignore his hitched breath as you’d opened the door. You’d forced yourself to ignore, too, the broken, agonized sound of grief that he’d let out as you quietly shut the door behind you, leaving him alone. 

Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it. 

He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow. 

There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting. 

Matt was alone. 

You’d left him alone. 

It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back.

So… why did you feel so very sick? 

Sympathy. 

That was all you were feeling. Matt was grieving a woman he’d cared about, one who’d died and left a cold stranger in her place. It was normal to feel for someone in that much pain, and no one should be alone while grieving. Maybe this was for the best. The sooner you were fully out of his life, the sooner all his friends and family could step in, and the sooner he could move on. He wouldn’t be alone, then. And even if he was, his loneliness wasn’t your goddamn problem. You had more than enough troubles of your own.

Protect yourself. 

Protect what you might one day have. 

All else was irrelevant.

You just… hoped he was doing alright. 

He did his best to avoid you, but that only grew more difficult once your ghost began to haunt his every step.

Even Josie’s quickly became off-limits—something he discovered one night when he stepped through the front door where he was promptly met with the familiar, comforting scent of you floating like a haze beneath the smell of cheap beer and sour sweat. His body went rigid the moment he recognized it, your presence across the room a sharpened knife that only widened the wound carved into him by your death. And if the scent of you was a knife, then your bark of laughter was a cruel twist of the blade, one that left him gutted and shaking there in the doorway. He drank in his apartment after that, waiting for that blessed moment when he would feel nothing, waiting for the very second the glorious shroud of night fell. Only then could he finally escape to the streets and drown himself in a far better kind of pain, taking his rage and his grief out on whatever piece of shit had the misfortune of falling into the Devil’s path. 

But Foggy seemed determined to shove the specter of you directly into his face. 

“You need to talk to her!” Foggy snapped, his voice only just shy of a shout. Matt ignored him as he headed for his office, desperate to retreat from your scent lingering on Foggy’s clothes. Foggy had taken you to a coffee shop that morning, one you’d frequented when you’d lived here, and now each inhalation was a vicious torment. It felt like breathing in shards of glass, the sharp pain of it throbbing with every stuttered, choked breath he drew in. If Foggy noticed, he didn’t seem to care. “Christ, Matt! You love her and we both know it. If you talk to her, it might trigger something—”

“Stop,” Matt grit out, reaching up to scrub his hand angrily over his face. He stalked his way over to his desk, still desperate to escape somehow, even if it was into his work. “Just stop, Foggy. I did talk to her, and you know what happened? Nothing. She didn’t remember anything at all. She’s gone, and you dragging this out is just making everything worse for all of us.” 

“So what, you’re just gonna roll over?” Foggy scoffed, crossing his arms as he planted his feet in Matt’s doorway. “Are you sure you actually loved her? Because I’m pretty sure she loved y—”

Matt slammed his fist down on his desk, the furious crack of it echoing through the office like a gunshot as he shouted, “Don’t you fucking dare!” 

Tension hung thick in the air as Matt’s chest heaved, his teeth bared, blood and adrenaline running hot in his veins as if Foggy were some sort of-of threat. Everything in him shook with rage, or maybe unshed grief, the burden of them both impossibly twisted and tangled beneath the sea of his guilt and his self-loathing until he couldn’t tell which was which. He just couldn’t—how was he supposed to force it all down when Foggy had just come so close, so dangerously close to shattering what few pieces remained of Matt’s crumbling armor?

It was bad enough loving you the way he did only for you to slip through his bloodied, desperate grasp like whispering grains of sand. What was worse, this entire disaster was one of his own making, a series of mistakes whose snarled, winding paths led inevitably back to him just like they had so many times before in his life. This loss of someone who’d truly understood him, accepted him, cared for him had already broken something inside him he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to repair. But that fracturing inside him would surely rise up to consume him if Foggy were right, if you’d truly cared for him that deeply before your memories were taken, so deeply that you might even have…

I miss you, sweetheart.

…loved him the way he loved you. 

Abruptly Matt’s surge of rage drained away and his head fell, leaving him feeling all the more empty and broken. He braced his arms weakly against his desk, drawing in a shaky breath as he forced himself to confess, his voice gone hoarse and ragged with grief. “I loved her, Foggy.” He lifted one shaking hand to his face. “God, I loved her so, so much. I can’t… I don’t know what to do without her now that she’s gone.” “I know, Matt,” Foggy said gently. “I know.” “I loved how she always smelled a little like coffee, and the way she always managed to wind up climbing into the oddest places for a case. She had one of the foulest mouths I’ve ever heard, but I swear she could use it to talk her way out of almost anything or to bring someone up out of whatever dark hole they were trapped in. She was… far kinder than she’d ever admit.” His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it, the expression miserable and gutted. You’d have likely argued with him about how kind you were if you’d been here. But there was no chance of that now, no matter how much the scent of you on the air told him otherwise. “Some days it felt like she was the only thing holding me together, like the only time I could breathe was when she held me in her arms. She was always there when I fell apart, or when it all… when it all started to hurt too much. And I tried to give her whatever pieces of me the Kitchen hadn’t already taken, to be there for her like she was for me, to keep her safe. We were finally going to make our relationship official when she came back, her and me, even if there’d… already been something there for a while now if I’m honest.” 

And it had, it had been there, this soft, tender thing that had developed slowly but surely between the two of you, a tangling that came by degrees rather than all at once. It had sprouted, grown, and blossomed so gradually that even now he struggled to point to any one moment where it had truly begun—the night he found you in the warehouse, maybe, or that first game of Devil Hunt, or when you’d both almost taken the leap before he’d realized you were drunk. But the question of where it began didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it was there, something nameless yet still so good and warm and perfect, a connection nurtured in the low light and the blood-soaked soil of the Kitchen. You’d felt it just like he had, and you’d been willing to take that chance with him despite the baggage he carried behind him like an anchor destined to drag him down. You never would have agreed to kiss him when you came back otherwise. Now that chance was gone. 

“How much did she know before she left?” Foggy asked quietly, leaning against the doorframe. 

”She knew that I-that I wanted to be with her, but I never told her that I loved her.” Matt blew out a slow, heavy breath. “I was too scared of chasing her away, I guess. I thought maybe when she came back, if she still wanted me, I would… I decided that I would tell her. But I waited too long. Now she’s gone and I’ll never be able to tell her. All because of me.” 

He finally lifted his head, tipping it at Foggy. Neither of them dared mention the wetness on Matt’s cheeks. Even speaking about this—about how much he’d loved you only for him to ruin it—was almost more than he could bear, the edges of the wound still fresh and raw. Then again, maybe he deserved that pain after how miserably he’d failed you, just like everyone else in his life. “I miss her. And what’s worse is even when she’s right there in front of me, she’s not. She’s not, Foggy. Because I-I fucked up. I’m the reason the woman I knew, the woman I loved, died. I’m the reason she’ll never remember what we had, why I’ll never hold her again, and why she’ll leave New York at the end of the month like she does whenever she’s afraid of forming a connection.” He let out a bitter laugh, waving towards the windows, towards the place you’d once held dear. “I couldn’t even keep her here before. She almost ran last summer and the only thing that stopped her was being kidnapped. That was what slowed her down long enough for our thread to turn red, not me. She won’t let that happen a second time, not now that she’s seen what happens to people I care about. Do you understand?” 

The door to Nelson and Murdock creaked open, Karen’s voice making its way in first. Her voice was followed only a moment later by another’s, one still so familiar. 

“—I mean, winding up in a pool while chasing a kid sounds about right for me, so even if I don’t remember, I won’t argue—”

“I had to keep you here somehow.” Foggy’s voice remained quiet, but there was no disguising the ferocity in it now, the fervent belief. “Get out of your own head and talk to her, Matt. Fight for her. She would want you to.” 

No. 

No, no, no.

Your body may have been here, whole and real, but the woman who’d known him wasn’t. The song of your voice, your sweet scent, the flames of heat and stirred air currents around you flaring into a familiar shape: all of it was nothing but a lie, a snare for his senses, a ghost of his own making, and he wasn’t about to be caught by it again. 

He darted back around his desk, shoving his way past Foggy on the way toward the front door, his heart racing. If he was quick, if he just put up enough of a front, he could get out before they trapped you here with him like they’d planned. He wouldn’t relive this grief again, he couldn’t, not without falling apart. The moment he’d had with you in his apartment had been enough agony for one lifetime. 

“Hey, Matt.” You cleared your throat, shifting awkwardly on your feet where you’d stopped by the front door. Your stance was cautious and guarded, almost wary of him. It was just one more reminder of how uncomfortable he made you now. “Are you—”

“Heading out,” he said stiffly, only belatedly remembering to trace one hand along the wall as if his heightened senses hadn’t given him a clear map of the room the moment his adrenaline spiked. That spike was a curse all its own. It made the scent of you so much stronger, the lie of it fresh and present as it twined around him. His chest hitched just once before he forced himself to breathe his mouth. But that route of escape had been cut off, too. All it did was shift his focus to the taste of you on the air, and the taste of familiar fabric once so tenderly given. 

You were wearing one of his shirts. 

He fumbled for his cane, his hands starting to shake before he finally found it where he’d left it against the wall. He couldn’t let you see him like this. It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t remember him, nor was it your fault that he’d lost you. He’d done enough damage without adding a layer of guilt to what you were dealing with, too. But despite his attempts to hide what he was feeling, his face a hard mask, your fingers still brushed gently against his arm a moment later. It was an offer of help, or maybe an attempt to reach out, to slow him down, to connect. It was a kindness, a sympathy he didn’t deserve. Even now, you read him far too well, this touch the same as it had been that first night he’d met you when you’d gently brushed your hand against his arm. “Hey, do you need… I could walk you home.”

He shied away from your touch, finally managing to roughly unsnap his cane before going for the door. “I’m fine. I just—I have things to take care of. Excuse me.”  

He went straight home and showered, but no matter how many times he scrubbed, he couldn’t seem to wash the ghost of your scent away.

You slowly wandered around Matt’s office, taking it in. This was another place you’d supposedly frequented, a place that should have been familiar, and one you'd avoided until now.

Even though Foggy had assured you it was alright, it felt… almost wrong to explore a stranger’s space like this without them present. But you couldn’t help but brush your fingers across the battered desk and the small labels in braille you couldn’t read, run your hands along the chair for clients that you might have sat in once, and trace curiously the small seashell next to Matt’s laptop. The base scents of Matt were stronger here where he spent so much time, only partly erased by the smell of coffee and paper. The room was clean, cared for, and well-organized despite how rundown the office was. Important to him. You could tell that much, even if the scents and sights had failed to spark any memories.

Maybe… knowing his space wasn’t enough. 

This was about more than just figuring out who you were, now. For some reason, you needed to know who Matt was, too: this man Jane Hind had cared so much about and who’d cared so much about her. You told yourself it was practical. Matt was your best bet when it came to remembering who you’d been. But some part of you deep down recognized the lie. No, there was something in you inescapably drawn to him, a pull you couldn’t quite explain. Maybe that strange, unnatural gravity was what had started this whole mess in the first place. What was it about him that was so different, that had driven you to break every last rule you’d lived your life by for over a decade? 

And why… did you spend so long wondering if he’d ever climbed out his office window?

It had been twenty-nine days, and not a single memory had returned. 

Oh, there were beats now and then when you thought that maybe, just maybe something was coming back, but those moments were painfully few and far between. Even in those moments, you couldn’t say remembered anything, exactly. It was more a frustrating sense of deja vu, a fleeting little itch at the back of your mind like you’d forgotten something important, flashing road markers to warn you of the dark, empty gaps in your memory. That sense was probably driven at least in part by Foggy’s growing desperation as he frantically hunted for something that might trigger a return of your memories. 

But the rest of that feeling… the rest was all you. 

There was no denying a traitorous part of you wanted to remember no matter how ill-advised it might be. You wanted to remember this bizarre little family you’d stumbled into and then lost, just like in Los Angeles. You wanted to remember the love you’d had for this place, this city, this taste of mutual affection that had grown up around you after going so long without. After endless ages and ages of drought, of starvation, you hungered for even these bare crumbs of connection, something to tide you over until you found safe haven on the distant horizon. What a tempting thought it was to slither back into the life of this woman who’d been so cruelly murdered and replaced by a stranger wearing her skin.

Was this what a demon felt like when it took over a body? To walk around with someone else’s face, to speak with the unnatural voice of the dead, tormenting the loved ones that remained? 

That, ultimately, was why it didn’t matter what you wanted. Your presence in this city only spread rot and suffering. It would be better for everyone involved if you left like you should have long before now. Then they could all grieve without you tainting the very soil around them. 

Especially Matt. 

You’d seen him once or twice in passing as your time in New York wound down. Even at a distance, you’d marked the growing circles under his eyes, dark enough to be visible despite the glasses he always wore. The rest of him wasn’t doing much better. It seemed like every time he crossed your path, there was another bruise, another cut across his face or knuckles, a shifting canvas of pain painted across skin grown pale and drawn. He didn’t just look tired—that wasn’t what this was. This was something far worse, a haggard exhaustion, a weariness that couldn’t be solved with sleep, if he slept at all. This was someone being haunted. 

Probably because the ghost of Jane Hind kept crossing his path. But that would be solved soon enough. 

You’d already packed up your things, not that you had much to take. Just your bag and your memory box. You’d be leaving the next day. Foggy was still convinced he had a few more days, but you had other plans. You couldn’t give Matt back the woman he’d lost, nor could you give him a body to bury, a grave to lay flowers across, but you could give him what Jane Hind had carried with her until her dying breath. 

“I thought you might… want these before I left tomorrow,” you said quietly. “I… sorry, it’s… it’s a bag with my—with her things.” 

Matt took it carefully from you, the motion mechanical and stiff. He hadn’t really invited you the rest of the way into his apartment, the two of you now stalled out in the hallway just beyond the closed front door. He hadn’t taken his glasses off, either. It made it harder to read him, his face closed off and impassive, a wall of red glass placed firmly between you. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen his eyes even once since that day you’d first come back, and you didn’t blame him. You didn’t like feeling vulnerable, either, though that was just a guess when it came to what he might be feeling. 

“It’s the shirts from her apartment, which I think are yours. And the stuffed bear.” You bit your lip and released it slowly, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “And the… the mug, which Nelson said was yours, too. The one you used at her place. I also put the hoodie in there, the one she had with her while she was traveling. And…” You reached into your pocket, fumbling for a moment. God, you were bad at this, unsure of just how to do this without hurting him any more than was absolutely necessary. It wasn’t a concern you usually dealt with since your goal was almost always the exact opposite, a precaution meant to destroy any threads of connection they held with you. Unfortunately, he wasn’t giving you much to work with, though you didn’t miss his subtle flinch when you drew the key from your pocket. “I thought you might want this, too.”

You cautiously edged forward, daring to breach the ring of radiant heat that surrounded him, the closest you’d come to him in almost a month. He went stiff as you approached, his jaw growing tight as the gap between you both closed. Another step, and his head cocked as if he were listening to your footsteps, or maybe… maybe he was just waiting to find out what you had to give him. But he wasn’t telling you to fuck off or just set your gift aside, which was a good sign. So you hesitantly reached out and brushed your fingers lightly against his bicep, a signal so he knew you were about to pass him something. 

A breath.

He remained absolutely still amidst the sudden, crackling tension in the air as your fingertips skated gently down and around his forearm, stirring all the little hairs, his skin shockingly warm. All you’d intended to do to take his arm and guide it up so you could place the key in his hand, but you quickly found yourself distracted by a ragged scar along the back of his forearm, one your fingers seemingly made their way to on instinct. It was a deep scar, the original cut likely made by some sort of blade, the edges of it rough and uneven from messy stitching. Your curiosity got the better of you, so much so that you missed the way Matt had begun to hold his breath.

“Who fucked up the sutures on that?” You furrowed your brow, your thumb smoothly marking out the jagged line of it. “They did a terrible job. No offense.” 

Matt’s face fell and you only realized too late just who it was that must have patched him up. 

Before you could blink, he’d yanked his arm out of your grip as if your touch had burned him. “Don’t,” he grit out, his chest heaving as he put a few steps distance between you both. “You can—just put your key on the bench.” 

“How did you know—” “Because there’s only one thing left it could be.” 

You nodded weakly, taking a few steps back towards the little bench beside the door. That unfamiliar ache, that sense of wrongness was back, the weight of it settling uneasily in your chest like a stone until you almost wanted to retch. It didn’t help that Matt was just barely holding himself together while you were here. 

Best to say what you’d come to say and leave him be. 

You gently set the key down, and the quiet click of the brass against the wood seemed to echo in the hallway, a graveyard bell tolling with a looming sense of finality. What you were about to tell him would hurt, you knew it would, but maybe one day he’d find comfort in it. This—a sign of what she’d felt—was the real gift you’d truly come to give, the only true token of her you could offer. Your words, when you spoke, were almost as hoarse as his. “I thought you should know I… she wore it. The key. I asked them. She wore your key and she never took it off. Not once. Whatever you both had, she treasured it, and all she wanted was to get back to you. She didn’t leave you by choice, Matt. I hope that… that helps.” 

Of all the things you’d said and done, it was this that finally seemed to break him. His face twisted in a sudden wave of grief, and regret hit you all at once. You quickly took a step towards him, one hand out, though you weren’t sure what you’d do if he reached back—it wasn’t like you knew how to comfort him, and you sure as hell didn’t know if he’d tolerate you holding him again, nor whether he was someone that needed some sort of touch when he was hurting. But before you could take another step he’d flinched away from you, retreating quickly back into the darkness of his apartment, his voice ragged. “Just go. Get out.” 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, backing away towards the door. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”  

It shouldn’t have hurt as you closed that door one last time. But you cried all the same. 

Somewhere within the apartment came the sound of splintering furniture and a hoarse scream wracked with grief.

“Look, Nelson.” You tiredly adjusted the strap of your duffle bag over your shoulder, reaching up to pinch at the bridge of your nose as if it would stem your growing headache. “I know it’s a day early. But another twenty-four hours isn’t going to make a fucking difference.” 

“I don’t need another day!” he pleaded, his arms spread wide where he’d blocked your front door, ensuring you couldn’t leave your apartment until you’d heard him out. You’d had no idea he even had a key until today and, not for the first time, you cursed Jane Hind’s apparent lack of common sense. You did not give out keys, or at least, you hadn’t before coming here to this ridiculous fucking city. “Just five minutes. That’s all. I’ve got one last thing to try.”

“Maybe I don’t want to try one more thing!” you snapped bitterly, dropping your hand. That anger was a good cover for the way something sharp and prickly had begun to catch in your throat, the incident with Matt still fresh in your mind. “I’ve tried for a month, and it’s gotten me nothing. Fucking-fucking bars and random rooftops and a shitty little duck, goddamn penguins and keys, and none of it did shit! Jane’s gone, ok? She’s dead. And I’m sorry, I know you all cared about her, but I’m done—”

“Have you climbed inside a thread?” 

“...What?” you asked in sudden bewilderment, your rage abruptly faltering in the face of pure confusion. “What the fuck does that even me—”

He let out a whoop, practically dancing on his feet. “Yes! I knew it! I can’t believe no one told you!” 

“Told me what?!” You chucked your bag back onto your couch in sudden exasperation. If this was thread-related, at the very least you could stay long enough to listen. “There’s nothing to climb!”

“Ok, so stick with me.” He rubbed his palms together eagerly, a bright light in his eyes. “Because I’m about to get really metaphysical.”

It took you what felt like hours to climb inside the shimmering honey-colored thread that lay between you and Matt—a thread that sang with his sorrow and your reluctant sympathy. 

It wasn’t right having your soul constricted like this, all of who you were narrowing down into something so small as you squirmed through a barrier that tasted and felt like dirt and earth, chasing after the sound of trickling water. There wasn’t supposed to be anything on the other side. It was an emotional connection, nothing more.

And yet here you were, standing in a place that had no reason to exist.

“Holy shit,” you whispered in amazement, spinning on your heels to examine your surroundings. “Holy shit, he was right.”

Despite the late hour, the air was full of a muted light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, tinting the world a hazy, eerie green. High up above you roiled thick, sullen black storm clouds, silent flashes of red lightning carving their way between swirls of charred smoke. It wasn’t much light, but it was enough to see by.

And what you saw was heartbreaking. 

You stood in a dry, stony riverbed. The ground beneath you was cracked and brittle where the water had receded, leaving behind nothing but dust and broken branches. The river itself remained though just barely, the thin trickle of flowing water down the center of the riverbed a far cry from whatever immense force had carved its way through the landscape until the banks were a good ten paces from one side to the other. The terrain beyond the river didn’t look much better, wilted, drooping cattails dotted up the bank before giving way to endless forest that stretched farther than your eye could see. Like the cattails and scrub, the pine and fir trees stood withered and brown, casting their empty branches up toward the sky. 

If it had been beautiful here once, whatever had happened to you had destroyed that beauty. 

“Jesus,” you whispered. 

“Can you hear me?” Foggy’s voice sounded distant and far away, tinny like he was talking through a long tunnel. 

“Yeah. Can you hear me?”

“...Ok, if you’re trying to respond, I can’t hear you. But according to Matt, whenever you were here, it felt like memories. So poke around, see what you can find.”

You sighed and started down the riverbed. “Not super helpful, but ok. Let’s give it a shot.” 

The water was the most obvious place to start, and you made your way over to the thin stream that ran raggedly across the parched soil. Much to your fascination, you quickly discovered that what you’d thought was one current was actually two, one layered over the top of the other, each flowing in the opposite direction. The first of those currents hiding on the bottom was fairly calm, steady if a little restless, swirls of pale color that almost felt like curiosity, though how you understood that translation was a mystery. The second current seemed far rougher where it roiled atop the first, its section of the stream cloudy and thick with swirls of black and the red of an open wound. You hovered over the second current for a long moment, working up your courage, before you finally knelt and hesitantly brushed against it with one finger. It was just water. How bad could it be? 

The moment your skin made contact, your chest seized on a sudden swell of agony. Your mouth filled with the taste of grief, with the sound of an empty home, the lack of some familiar scent that meant affection and warmth and softness and safety, the ache of an old wound reopened just when it had started to heal. Alone, always alone, I deserve it, so many gone, he was right, when will I learn? There was no hope for comfort from that pain, no escape from the darkness into tender arms that could hold you just right when it all hurt. All you had to look forward to was more— 

You threw yourself backward, scrambling away from that terrible current as if what you’d felt might rise up and chase after you, snapping its teeth the whole way. You didn’t stop retreating until your back slammed against the dry soil of the riverbank. Only then did you stop, panting, your eyes wide in shock as you cradled your hand against your heaving chest. 

Emotion. It’s emotion.

That was what the water was. Matt’s emotion. Which meant the other current—one now shifting back to yellow despite a momentary surge of twisting, roiling black—was… yours. 

Right. So you could rule the water out. But if that was emotion, where was memory? 

Examining the rest of the river was the most obvious next step now that you’d ruled out the water. Based on what you could see, the original riverbed had been a mix of silt and stones of varying sizes, a firm foundation beneath a once-powerful river. Now, though, the grey, dried-out silt was covered in a strange sea of divots and dips, as if something—a lot of somethings—had been plucked up and removed. You traced one of the indents in the soil curiously, lifting your hand back up to consider the grit as you rubbed it between your fingers. Another glance around revealed the answer. 

The stones. 

There were still plenty of stones remaining in the riverbed, but the divots in the dry silt told you there’d once been far more. If that was what you’d lost, then maybe…  

You rocked up eagerly to your feet, pacing around breathlessly as you searched for a promising stone to start with. Eventually you made your pick, plucking up a stone just small enough to fit in your palm, flat and smooth save for a little groove in it as if someone had run their fingers over it endlessly. Strangely, it smelled like honey and herbs, the surface oddly warm against your hand like the brush of a thumb against your mouth. You waited for a long, impatient moment, and when nothing else happened, you tapped it a few times. 

Still nothing. 

And something inside you… cracked. 

“Fuck!” you screamed, hurling the stone back down the river in a sudden rage. The pain and the loneliness you’d been suppressing for the last month, the last year, the horrible, endless eternity since leaving your family in Los Angeles began to claw its way up your throat, the clouds churning wildly above you in response. A wild rain came next, each droplet sharp and cold and edged like the blade of a knife, bitter and biting as it beat against your skin. You grabbed another stone, one that tasted like shitty beer—Josie’s beer. You threw that rock, too, then another and another, throwing stones that smelled and tasted and felt like your shriek of laughter as he grinned and caught you against his chest, like torn flesh and a needle held by tender hands, like your face nuzzling fearlessly against Matt’s throat as he whispered comfort into your hair and held you close, like synced breathing and hearts and dances between binary stars as you both fell into sleep, fell into safety, fell into one another, phantom sensations that only made the fierce ache in you grow stronger because with every stone you snatched up it became clear that… 

You’d been loved. 

Not your identity.

Not the image you showed to the world. 

Not the walls you’d put up in front of him before he’d found some way past them. 

You. 

And he’d loved you with every part of him. 

You weren’t sure when you started crying, a violent, vicious stream of tears that was just as much a product of rage as grief. Here was someone who’d loved you fully, loved you despite every asterisk and bit of baggage and sharpened edge that came with being a broken hound, with being a former experiment still on the run. But you barely noticed your tears, spitting up at the unforgiving clouds and the howling wind, because you could howl, too, just as violent, just as much a threat as any storm in this place. “I want my fucking life back! I want him back!” 

You hadn’t wanted it before, or maybe you had and you’d just been too afraid to ask for it. But now? Oh, oh, now you were furious, furious and hurting and screaming, because you’d denied yourself connection all these years only to find it in the last place you’d expected. That was what this had been—home, family, love. That had to be why you’d stayed in New York, why you’d risked everything for these people, for Matt. You weren’t an idiot. You’d have run the numbers and the math, made your calculations.

You couldn’t bear to lose this. Not… not again. 

You threw stone after stone, hunting frantically as your fingers bled dry, desperate fury into the air, reddened drops disappearing before they ever hit the ground. The trickle of water in the center of the riverbed had churned itself into a frenzy, but you ignored it. There had to be something here that would trigger a memory, something that would let you remember being loved again, something big enough, important enough, so you grabbed and you grabbed and grabbed and grabbed and grabbed until at last, you found a stone the size of your fist. You snatched it up with a ragged sob, cradling it greedily against your chest as if doing so might let you carry it out of here, because you wanted it, you wanted him, wanted to remember more than anything in the world. 

“Let me have it!” you snarled, snapping your teeth at the howling winds of the storm as if you might catch this place between your jaws and tear it open until you at last found what belonged to you. “Give it back!” 

And with a blink—

He tore one of his bloodied gloves off, his hand shaking as he reached out to you.

You stilled the moment his fingertips brushed tenderly against your cheek, so very gentle, affection layered over blood and earth and hurt. And god, your skin was so terribly dry and cold, the beat of your heart uneven as it struggled to pump blood through your body, but he could feel you react to him, the barest parting of your lips as you dragged in a startled breath. He didn’t want to startle you further or risk you fighting him, so he let his voice drop into a whisper, soft as the brush of a feather.

“It’s me. I’m here.”

‘I heard you,’ he tried to say. ‘I heard you. I’m here.’

And your weakened heart… skipped.

He wasn’t sure if he reached for you or if you reached for him. All he knew was it was the sign he’d been looking for. In a heartbeat, he scooped you up off the floor, stealing you back from that dry, filthy cement and crusted blood that had tried to take you from him. He cradled your cold body against his chest, then, held you there where it was warm and where you were safe. You made the softest little noise, the sound choked and dry, but there was no disguising the heartbreaking relief in it. He pulled you in further, pulled you up until you were curled up in his lap, not an ounce of air left between your bodies, your head laying against his shoulder.

He would never let you touch the floor of this place again.

“D…” you mumbled, not one hint of fear in you despite what he’d just done, the blood on his hands and the burning heat of violence that still lingered in his bones. You wearily slid your head over, inch by inch, until you’d buried your face against the sweat-slick line of his throat, nuzzling in against him with a hoarse sigh that only made him hold you tighter. You inhaled slowly then, heedless of the blood and dirt and sweat that coated his skin, your fingers coming up to hook weakly in the collar of his shirt. “You came.”

And you… smiled.

He buried his face against your hair and let out a shaky breath. As he did, he dug down past blood and dust and dirt, dug and dug until he found the sweet, familiar scent of you, a scent he never wanted to leave him again.

The stone fell from your limp hands, a ringing in your ears you could barely hear beneath the sound of the water nearby, frothing and wild. 

The increased sensory feedback had been bizarre, and there was… there was no reason he should have been covered in so much blood, his body burning as if he’d been fighting before coming to you. But…  

“Hey, you in there?” Foggy called. 

“D.” The letter felt strange, and yet… natural, as you cradled it on your tongue. “D?”

And you knew what came after that letter, shaping the word again in your mind. 

You knew. 

You… remembered. 

“Always,” he’d said. 

“Always,” you whispered, casting your eyes up the riverbed towards another large stone. “Always, D.”

He didn’t know what you were doing or why you’d climbed inside the thread. 

“Always, D.”

All he knew was that it hurt. 

“You’re stuck with me, unfortunately for you.”

He’d thought catching your scent, hearing your laugh, being forced to take back the key he’d given to you had been the worst of it. But no. It was far, far worse having to relive these memories of your time with him over and over and over without pause, his senses filled with you: with your touch, with your scent, with the taste of you on the air. He heard you whisper, laugh, and sigh; felt the brush of your fingers in his hair and your body shaking with laughter when he snatched you up during a game of Devil Hunt and the safety of you as you’d held him so tenderly after his fight with Foggy. All of it was a reminder of what he’d lost, what he’d never get back. 

“Don’t you give up on me, Matt. Ok?”

He was in agony. There was no blocking you out like this, no escaping your memory no matter how much he tried to push back or retreat, until he wound up trapped and spiraling in his kitchen. 

“Kiss me when you come back.”

On and on it went, memories snapping at his heels until all he had left to hide behind was rage. He swept his arm across the counter, glass shattering as he screamed himself hoarse. Eventually he found himself backed up against the wall, sinking down as he hitched out something like an agonized groan, his hands over his ears, his eyes shut tight. “Don’t do this to me, sweetheart, please—”

“Adoringly yours, because I do adore you, you ridiculous man...”

“Leave me alone,” he whispered. “Just leave me alone.”

“...Remember that. if nothing else.” 

In hindsight, it was a really bad idea to give back your key.

“Matt!” you shouted, pounding frantically on his front door. “Matt, let me in! It’s me, I swear, I can-I can—”

Silence. 

And you weren’t willing to wait any longer. This wasn’t something you could explain through the door, out here in the hall where the neighbors could hear. You needed to get inside. You knew he was in there somewhere. 

Red threads never lied.  

You wiped the blood away from your nose and took off for the stairs. It was only one flight up to the roof, and sometimes he left the rooftop door unlocked. Even if it wasn’t unlocked, you’d use the key under the mat. You didn’t remember everything. But you remembered that. And if the key wasn’t there? You’d break that fucking door down.

He sat unmoving in his meditation pose on the floor, the sound of your attempts to get into the apartment distant and far away. Meditation had been the only thing left he could think of that would allow him to escape the pain and the memories of you that had flooded his thoughts. Like this, with his mind and his focus withdrawn until it lay deep within himself, he’d hoped he’d be far enough away from the world that the ghost of you couldn’t reach. 

Yet even deep in meditation, his instincts were set off by the crack! of his rooftop door slamming open.

He was on his feet in a heartbeat, his heart racing as he bared his teeth, his body prepared to face whatever threat had just broken in. The sensations of you, at the very least, had quieted during his meditation, which should have left him enough space for some small margin of peace as he threw himself into a fight. But that peace was nowhere to be found, because you were here again. 

He recoiled from that thought the second it crossed his mind. This wasn’t you, that much had become painfully clear. You’d passed away somewhere far beyond his reach, away from the home, the life you’d lived here. The woman that stood on his landing now was nothing but a ghost, a fading memory and a terrible reminder of what he’d had and lost, what he’d earned by daring to reach for something good. There was no undoing it, no washing away the blood on his hands. If anything, how he felt for you had doomed any hopes of you staying long enough for him to reform that connection with you. He knew how you operated—hell, you’d tried to run on that hot summer night so many months ago after seeing just how much he’d cared, even if you’d ultimately changed your mind. At the time, he’d thought it was Destiny, the hand of God ensuring you remained in the Kitchen where Matt could keep you safe from the Man in the White Coat, here in this place where you both might… might shape something good out of all the broken pieces you’d both been left with. He knew better, now. Even the hand of God couldn’t break the curse Matt placed on those he loved. You would leave, leave like all the others, and he deserved it. 

The only question that remained was why you seemed so, so fucking determined to make him suffer. 

“Matt.” Your voice cracked as you stumbled down the stairs. “Matt, I—”

“Why can’t you just leave me alone, sweetheart?” he grit out, reaching up to fist his hands tightly in his hair. He’d never known you to be unnecessarily cruel, but there was no other explanation. “God, I-I can’t—you can’t keep doing this to me.”

“Matt, just let me—”

“Do you even care how much you’re hurting me?” He hitched out a broken laugh, something bitter and tormented, the sound absent all humor as you made it down the stairs. “All those months, all I wanted was for you to come back. I begged. I prayed to God, over and over again, that he would bring you back to me. And now that you’re gone, you just won’t leave. I can’t get away from you no matter what I do. Do you know what that’s like? To lose someone you love only for their ghost to haunt you every time you turn around?”

A soft intake of breath. 

There it was. Now that he’d said it, you’d leave. There would be nothing more frightening to the You he’d first known than a word like love. 

“I just…” His breath hitched again, something thick building in his throat. It was just another sign of his weakness, the same weakness that had gotten you killed. 

‘I warned you, kid,’ came Stick’s voice, so smug that Matt bared his teeth. ‘I fuckin’ warned you the night I opened up her eye. But you didn’t listen.’

He started to pace wildly, ignoring your voice as he hunted for some opening through which he could escape, flee from Stick’s voice hiding in the corners of his thoughts, from your ghost. With every step his movements grew more frantic, more furious as his rage built like a rising wave: rage at himself, at God, at the monster who’d taken your memories and the possibility of a life for you here with Matt, and at you, too, because you just didn’t get it. “I just want to grieve, and God can’t even give me that much, can he? Is that what this is? Punishment? Revenge? Congratulations. Job well done. You can go.” 

You tilted your head as you watched him pace, the same cock of your head you got when considering your potential routes forward. As far as he was concerned, the only route he’d give was a route out the door.  

“I don’t know why you came back, and at this point, I don’t fucking care,” he told you hotly, nothing but burning smoke and thick venom in each word. “We don’t have a red thread anymore. There’s nothing to keep you here. Leave. Now. I’m not asking.”

Your soft response was a single letter, one that struck directly at the open wound inside his chest. 

“...D.” 

He snatched up an empty beer bottle from the kitchen counter in a sudden rage, turned, and hurled it past you. 

You didn’t so much as flinch as the bottle came within inches of your head. Nor did you react to the distant shattering of glass, the sound of it barely audible over his anguished roar. 

“Leave me alone!”  

And then he froze in sudden horror at what he’d done, his heartbeat almost drowning out the soft sound of your steps. All he’d wanted to do was scare you away, frighten you away so he could break where you couldn’t see, because it had hurt, it had hurt to hear you call him—

Wait. 

You’d… you’d called him…

“My Devil Man, my Saint Matthew,” you whispered, the touch of your hands cool and endlessly gentle as you cupped his face. His skin was wet, damp beneath your thumbs as you swiped them across his cheeks, when had he started crying? You brought his head down until you could lay your forehead against his, the taste of salt hanging in the air. Your voice grew achingly tender, so longed for that he swayed helplessly on his feet, wanting nothing more than to be held like you’d held him so often before when he was hurting. “I’m so sorry, D. I’m so sorry I left you alone, sweetheart.” 

He closed his eyes tight, his breath growing shaky. You couldn’t know that he was two steps away from crumbling in your arms, fractures widening with every breath. He had no energy left to fight your touch, your misplaced mercy, but giving into the lie was another thing entirely. He couldn’t bear to hope again, not when it would crush him if he were wrong. “Foggy told you to… he told you to call me that, didn’t he? To see if you’d remember. But I can’t—you’re going to leave me, you’ll—” “Do you remember what I said before I left? Because I do.” You swiped your thumb gently against his cheek, your uneven breathing skipping and falling into rhythm with his as his hands shakily rose. They hovered hesitantly a few inches away from your face, terrified that you might vanish beneath his hands like a ghost. “I don’t leave my box behind, and I won’t leave you behind, either. I told you that you were stuck with me after Nobu. I meant it. It’s really me. I know you’re tired and hurting, sweetheart, but listen to my heart. What does it say? Truth or lie?”

…Steady. 

Truth.

Could it really be you?  

He held his breath as he dared at last to touch your cheek, stirring the fine hairs as he stroked his way along the familiar shape of your face, one he’d traced so often in his dreams. Your skin was damp with tears just like his, another sliding down to bump against his thumb as your lips quirked up into a brilliant smile. And the moment his trembling fingers passed your lips, you kissed the tip of each with a warm fondness, a mirror of that night you’d held his broken, torn body and he’d kissed your fingers and palm. 

“How much do you… do you remember?” There was a ringing in his ears as the world beneath him seemed to roll beneath him. “Everything?” “Not everything. Some pieces are still missing, with Foggy and Karen and my job, but I-I remember enough. I remember you, and what I had with you.” Your voice grew fierce and fervent then as you drew in a sharp breath, preparing yourself. “I remember you, D. And I remember that I love you. I love you, Matt Murdock, all of you, so, so much. And I will never leave you alone again.” You loved him. 

You loved him. 

The weight of it—being forced to let you leave the city, the ensuing months alone, the agony of the past few weeks thinking he’d lost you entirely, and now this, this, knowing you loved him like he loved you—hit him all at once, and with a sudden groan he started to drop. You caught him in your arms, the two of you sinking to your knees as you held him tight and he wound desperately around you in return. Only then did he start to fall apart in your arms, shaking in your hold, his grief, his hurt, his relief spilling out in choked gasps where you’d tucked his head down against your neck. He fisted his hands in your shirt as you both rocked, and a ragged moan tore free from him, spilling against your skin when you lifted your hands to trail your fingers lovingly through his hair. You knew, you remembered just how to hold him when he was hurting, a balm across every last wound. His shivering, touch-starved body remembered your touch, too, drowning beneath the sudden surge of good, warm, safe, soft after months of nothing but pain, so much so he couldn’t help but gasp out your name. 

“I’ve got you now, D,” you whispered, burying your face against his shoulder until he could feel the heat of your tears against his shirt, too. “I’m here, now. You’re not alone. I’ve got you, Matt.” 

“I thought you were gone.” There was no way for him to truly sync his breathing with yours, not with the way you were both crying, but still his body tried on instinct, tried and failed over and over again. He closed his eyes tighter, burying his face deeper against your throat as he pulled you in even closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space between your body and his, where he could feel every beat of your heart against his skin, as if to make up for the way he’d almost… almost chased you away. “I thought you’d left me and I was alone. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder, and that I didn’t-I didn’t go with you, but I couldn’t—I’m so, so—” 

“Hey, hey, it’s ok.” You kissed shakily at his hair, his shoulder, and whatever other parts of him you could reach, your breath, your tears, your absolution washing over him like rain. “It’s not your fault, D. It’s not your fault sweetheart. None of this was your fault.” 

“But—” “Hey. Listen to me, before you get any further down in that hole.” You lifted his head from your shoulder, cupping his tear-stained face in your hands again. For a moment you both simply breathed with one another, your forehead to his, soaking in the contact, the affection that you’d both dearly missed and needed. “What happened to me outside New York, my memory loss… all of that is not your fault. It never was, D. There are-there are a lot of things we’ll have to deal with in the future, things I need to tell you. Consequences of what we’ve done, and—but this isn’t one of them. Never this. You’re what helped bring me back.” “How? I didn’t…” He let out a breathless, watery little laugh. “I didn’t do anything but try to chase you away.” “Some part of me couldn’t help but be drawn to you. I remembered, deep down, I think.” You gave an amused little huff. “And once Foggy showed me how to get into our thread, all your memories are what brought me back, helped me remember, because I could feel it, how you loved me. That was the key. Speaking of which…” You leaned in to nuzzle up against his cheek, your voice lowering to a whisper. “I think I made you a promise, you ridiculous man. And it’s one I intend to keep.” 

And with one small tip of your head, and a single slow breath… 

“Kiss me when you come back.” 

…your lips brushed against his for the very first time, tender and achingly soft, and so full of love that it would have stolen his breath away if he’d had any left at all. 

It wasn’t the first kiss he’d envisioned months ago just before you left, something triumphant and wild. Nor was it anything like the first kisses he’d imagined before that, the first kiss he’d thought this journey with you might lead to. And God only knew he’d considered kissing you for the first time more than was healthy.

Your first kiss with him was, instead, shaky and gentle, tasting of salt and tears and the fading shades of grief retreating like streamers of night before a welcome sunrise. Slowly, and then more surely, his lips began to move against yours, finally allowing himself to truly taste you for the first time, his eyes slowly falling closed as your fingers ran fondly through his hair, you, it was really you, you remembered. With a quiet moan, he breathed you in deep, calling your grace, your love deep into him until it settled there against his heart, knowing that, no matter what else might come, he would never lose it again, one of his hands rising to tenderly wind around your throat, his other hand finding yours so he could lace his battered fingers tightly with yours.

It wasn’t the first kiss he’d expected, but it felt perfect all the same. 

Because all that was left was him… 

And you. 

[winchesterwild78]

The Hunter pt 2

Master List

Characters: Dean Winchester x Reader (together), Sam Winchester, Jodie Mills, Bobby Singer x Reader (Uncle/Niece)

Warnings: fluff, oral sex (female receiving), SMUT (protected sex), language, angst, hurt feelings

A/N: I’ve been working on getting some stories out and it’s driving me crazy. I’m turning this one into a series, probably short(ish), not 100% yet. This story came to me after starting Supernatural again. We all know how Dean feels about relationships, but let’s just pretend he finally gave in. 😀 

This is my own work, please do not take it or copy it without my permission. It’s based on characters from Supernatural, but doesn’t follow the timeline completely. I wrote it fast and edited it fast. Please overlook any errors. 

Minors DNI 18+

The three of you made your way back to Bobby’s house. Sam carried the food in as Dean got out of the Impala and walked over to your car. He looked it over and whistled. “Y’all did an amazing job on her sweetheart.” “Thank you. Maybe after we eat I can take you for a drive.” “Yeah, I’d like that. Look, Y/N, I really am sorry for how I acted. I’m not good at this and sometimes I say and do stupid shit.” “I get it. I’m sure it was hard hearing your dad and Bobby say those things about you. We all carry crap with us and deal with it in our own ways.” You stepped closer to him, “I can think of something you could do to make it up to me.” You smirked at him. “What’s that darlin’?” “Kiss me.”

Dean leaned you against the car and pressed his body against yours. He slowly took your head in his hands and placed his lips against yours. You could taste the whiskey he had been drinking. The kiss deepened and you moaned into his mouth. 

“Dean, I need you, I want you.” “Oh sweetheart, I want you too. We just have to be smart about it. I don’t need Bobby or my Dad chopping things off.” You giggled, “No, we definitely don’t need that. Can I come to your room or you come to my room tonight, after everyone else has gone to bed?” Dean leaned his forehead against yours, “Anything for you, birthday girl.” 

“Hey, Y/N, where are you kiddo? Food’s getting cold.” Bobby yelled from the door. “Coming, I was just showing Dean the car.” Dean kissed you again and you smiled, “Later baby. I can’t wait.” 

The two of you walked towards the house and Bobby was standing at the door. He looked at you and then at Dean and shook his head. “So Dean, how’d you like the car?” “She’s beautiful. Y’all did a great job on her, Bobby.” Bobby looked at Dean and then at you, but didn’t say anything. He just let out a little huff. 

All of you sat down to eat dinner and just chat. Bobby told you he had one last gift to give you, and thanks to John he was able to get it for you. “Now, this is something your parents had for years, they lost it on a hunt years ago when you were little. Think of it as a family heirloom. Your father bought it for your mother the day you were born. You smiled and nodded. 

Bobby handed you a small box that was wrapped. Inside the box was a heart shaped locket with a diamond in the middle. Inside was a picture of your mom holding you on one side, and your dad holding you on the other side. Tears fell from your eyes. “Oh Uncle Bobby, this is perfect! Thank you!.” You leaped up and threw your arms around him. “Well it was John and Dean who actually found it, but you’re welcome honey.” You hugged John and Dean next. “Thank you both so much. This means more to me than anything.” You placed a kiss on John’s cheek and on Dean’s. 

Bobby and John knew right then you were smitten with the oldest Winchester brother. They both looked at each other and sighed. Bobby brought out the pie with a candle in it and they all sang “Happy Birthday”. You made a wish and blew out the candle, making eye contact with Dean. You didn’t think Bobby saw it, but he did. 

After the pie was gone, the evening was drawing to a close. You were getting tired, well that’s what you let everyone believe. You thanked everyone again and told everyone good night. Before you went upstairs Bobby pulled you to the side, “Y/N, I see how you’re looking at Dean. I know I could tell you to stay away from him until I’m blue in the face, but I know you’re just as stubborn as I am. So, all I’m going to say is be careful. He’s a great guy, but he has so many walls up and I don’t want to see you get hurt.” You hugged him, “I know Uncle Bobby, Dean definitely has walls up, but we all do. The ones that you’re meant to be with are the ones strong enough to kick those walls down. You, Mom and Dad raised me to be strong, and I think I’m strong enough to kick down his walls. I love you, Uncle Bobby.” “I love you too, sweetpea, and I trust you. Go kick those walls down.” You smiled, nodded and went upstairs.

A few minutes later in your room there was a knock on your door. You opened the door to see Dean standing there in his t-shirt and gray sweatpants. “Hey sweetheart, you mind if I come in?” “Not at all.” You smiled and stepped to the side. As soon as you closed the door, Dean’s lips were on yours. You moaned into his mouth as his hands ran up your body.

You both laid on the bed as his hand continued to explore your body. Goosebumps erupted over your skin and his lips left a trail of fire any place they touched. You felt the slick pooling between your legs and an ache you knew only he could satisfy. Dean pulled his shirt over his head and off his body in one fluid pull. Your hands trailed over his toned chest and across the freckles that scattered across his sun kissed skin. “Dean, should we wait until everyone is asleep?” “Dad and Bobby went to the bar and Sammy is asleep. I’m all yours.” 

Your breath hitched. “Are you okay? We can stop if you want to.” Dean asked. “No, I’m fine, just a little nervous.” “I’ve got you baby, and if at any time you get uncomfortable, we can stop.” You nodded, “Okay, Dean.” 

Dean pulled at your shirt and removed it. Since you were ready for bed you didn’t have a bra on so your perky breasts were exposed when he removed your shirt. “Damn you’re beautiful.” You blushed as Dean’s lips trailed to your breasts. His hands cupping them as his lips peppered kisses on them, and his tongue licked your nipples. You moaned and threw your head back as he licked and sucked. 

Dean kissed down your torso to the hem of your sleep shorts. He looked up at you through his eyelashes and you nodded. He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled your shorts and panties down in one pull. His hands gently spread your thighs apart and he kissed up your legs. As he got to your folds he looked up waiting for permission. “Dean, please. I need to feel you. I want you to make me cum.”

Dean took his fingers and softly parted your folds, finding you already dripping wet. He licked a strip up through your folds to your clit. You sucked in air and moaned his name. Dean loved hearing you moan his name. He began to lick and suck your clit and you wiggled under him. He slowly inserted one finger into your dripping wet pussy. You moaned and arched your back. He slowly moved his finger in and out as your breathing became pants and you moaned. Dean inserted another finger and hooked both upwards causing you to moan louder. 

“Shh, we need to stay quiet sweetheart.” He grinned as he continued to pump his fingers and licking your clit. He would lick and suck as he pumped his fingers. Your hands pulled his head deeper into you and you moved your hips. You were fucking his face as he pushed you towards your release. “Dean, I’m gonna cum.” You breathed out. 

Dean lifted his head, “Cum for me baby. Cum all over my fingers.” He pumped and licked until he felt your release. He grabbed your thighs holding you as he kept licking, causing you to moan loudly and your body shake under him. By the time you were coming down from your release, your body was over sensitive. 

You had boyfriends in the past eat you out, but damn it if Dean Winchester wasn’t a gold medalist in it. You had never felt that good after that before. Dean removed his fingers and hovered over your body and kissed your lips. As he leaned over you could feel his arousal on your thigh. 

“Dean, please, I need you.” “Are you sure sweetheart, we don’t have to go any further.” “Yes, Dean. I’m sure. I want you, I need you.” Dean stood up and took off his pants and boxers. His large, hardened cock sprang free. You licked your lips and took in the sight of him. He was much larger than you had ever had, but damn were you excited. 

You felt an ache form between your legs that seemed to beg for him. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

You nodded and handed Dean a condom from your side table. He ripped the package with his teeth and you giggled. He pumped himself a few times and slid the condom on. Climbing back on the bed, he positioned himself between your thighs and lined himself up. 

The head of his cock was pushing inside you. You both moaned and gasped as he started to push in. You moaned. It was a little bit of pleasure and a little bit of pain. He was stretching you like you’d never been stretched before. You grabbed his biceps and dug your nails in. “You okay, sweetheart?” You nodded yes. Dean continued to push in slowly. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight. I need you to relax a little bit more sweetheart.” He leaned down and kissed you deeply. He could feel you relaxing more so he kept pushing. “Dean, please just push in, all the way.” “Are you sure?” You nodded yes, and before you could say anything else, Dean bottomed out with one thrust. You screamed in pleasure and Dean buried his face in the crook of your neck. “Sorry sweetheart, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I need a minute or I’m going to cum right now. You’re so tight.” 

You moved your hips under him and he started to move. His movements were slow. He would slowly pull out and push back in slowly. He didn’t want to hurt you and he wanted to give you time to adjust to his length and girth. When he felt your body relaxing and adjusting more to him, he started to move a little faster. 

“Oh Dean, you feel so good baby.” He kissed your lips. “You feel amazing around me, Y/N. You’re so beautiful.” With each thrust, each kiss, and each touch of his hand your heart filled with so much love for him. You knew you would do whatever it takes to keep him safe and to tear down his walls. He was yours and you were his. In that moment the only people who mattered were you and Dean. 

Dean lifted your legs onto his shoulders and the change in position caused him to hit your g-spot a little more. Sending you closer to your next release. As Dean continued to speed up you felt yourself closer to cumming again. “Dean, I’m gonna cum again.” “Oh baby, just let go, cum around my cock.” He kissed your lips and you felt your release rush through your whole body. As your walls clenched around his cock, he sped up chasing his release. He came with a grunt and spilled his seed in the condom. 

As he finished he pulled out and kissed your lips. “That was amazing, Y/N. Are you okay?” “God, yes Dean. That was incredible.” You kissed him again as he stood up grabbing a tissue and removing the condom. He threw it away in your trash can and crawled in bed beside you. 

He pulled you close to his body and wrapped you in his arms. He kissed your forehead as you laid on his chest. You listened to his heartbeat as your fingers danced over his anti-possession tattoo. “Dean, thank you. That was incredible.” “Oh sweetheart, you don’t have to thank me. That was more than incredible. I’ve never felt like I was going to cum that fast before. You are perfect.” You smiled and kissed his lips. “I could get used to this. Making love to you and then laying in your arms.” You whispered hoping you wouldn't scare him away.

“Me too, Y/N, me too.” “Dean, would you ever consider moving away from your dad and Sam? Like maybe in here with me?” Dean sat up in the bed and looked at you. Panic flooded your brain instantly. “Well, I hadn’t given it much thought, but I don’t know if Bobby would like that too much. But yeah, I’d consider it, if Bobby was okay with it.” You looked shocked, “Really? You’d be willing to move in with me?” 

Dean turned and looked at you, “Of course I would. This (he motioned between the two of you) wasn’t just a one and done thing. I want to be with you. I’ve never wanted to be with anyone ever, but with you I’d give up everything.” “Oh Dean.” Tears filled your eyes as you kissed him. 

When he pulled back his thumb wiped the tears away, “Shh don’t cry sweetheart.” “They are happy tears, Dean. I just can’t believe you’d be willing to stay with me. Of course, I could always go with you too.” Dean’s head spun around, “What?! You’d leave home for me? To go on the road with us?” “Yes, Dean. I’d give up everything for you too.” Dean kissed you again and pulled you back down with him. “Come on sweetheart, let’s get some sleep. We will figure it out tomorrow. Tonight, let’s just be here together.” You nodded in agreement and laid your head on his chest. 

You listened to Dean’s heartbeat until your eyes got too heavy and they finally closed. Dean listened to you as you fell asleep in his arms. He smiled and felt his heart warm when he heard the soft snores coming from you. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was starting to fall for you. It scared him but excited him too. He’d never felt like this about anyone. Could he really leave his dad and Sam to live with you, or could he really let you leave Bobby to go on the road with him? These questions plagued his brain until he finally drifted off to sleep holding you tight. 

Around 3 am the door to your bedroom creaked open. Bobby saw Dean’s bed was empty and knew he’d find him with you. His heart sank when he saw you laying on Dean’s chest and Dean holding you tight. He knew he couldn’t keep you two apart now. At first he was going to wake Dean up and tell him to get the hell out of your bed, but he saw you smiling in your sleep and heard you sigh softly. He saw how Dean’s grip on you tightened when you sighed. He knew, of course he knew. Both of you were falling in love. “Balls!” Bobby said before he closed your door softly. 

He walked downstairs and told John “We’ve got a problem.” “Dean’s with her, isn’t he?” Bobby shook his head yes, “And the problem is they are already falling for each other.” “Damnit Dean! I told that boy to keep it in his pants. Bobby if I would have known this was going to happen I would have told Dean to stay away.” “Hey, John, it's nobody’s fault. They are young and are going to do whatever they want. We just need to figure out where to go from here.” “We will talk to them in the morning. I’m beat. Night John.” “Night Bobby.” 

The next morning you woke up late. It was about 10 am and you felt strong arms wrapped around you. Dean was sleeping next to you, holding you in his arms. You smiled and snuggled closer to him. He started to wake up and pulled you tighter. “Where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?” “Well, I need to pee, so hopefully the bathroom.” You giggled. “Fine, but come back, please.” You leaned over, kissed him, “I will.”

You grabbed some clothes and threw them on and headed to the bathroom. You walked back towards your bedroom. When you got to your door you saw Dean stretched out on your bed with the blanket draped over his hips. His toned chest exposed to the chill of the room. You bit your lip.

“Like what you see sweetheart?” Dean grinned with his eyes still closed. You closed the door and climbed on the bed, “You know I do.” You placed a soft kiss on his lips. He pulled you down into his arms, eliciting a giggle from your lips. “Dean, we really should get up. Do you want to be the one to explain to Bobby and your Dad why you’re naked in my bed?” “If they don’t know why I’m naked in a beautiful woman’s bed by their age, I don’t know what to tell them.” He smirked. “Dean Winchester! You know what I meant.” 

He laughed and pulled you closer, “Yeah I know, I’m just not ready to leave your side yet.” You sighed and laid your head on his chest. “I know, me either, but if we don’t get up soon they will come up here.” Dean grumbled and you giggled.

There was a knock on your door and you froze. “Hello?” “Hey, sweetpea, you and Dean get dressed and come downstairs, we need to talk.” You looked at Dean with wide eyes and he smirked. “Okay, be down soon.” “Shit! Dean, how did they know?” Dean chuckled, “Guess there’s no need to keep it a secret, huh?” “Dean, it's not funny. Bobby sounded pissed.” “It kinda is, sweetheart.” You playfully slapped his chest, “Dean, you’re terrible, now get up and get dressed.” 

A few minutes later the two of you walked downstairs hand in hand and were met with tense jaws and even tenser stares from Bobby and John. You squeezed Dean’s hand and he pulled you closer to him, “I’ve got you, sweetheart.” 

Bobby stood up and got in Dean’s face. “I thought I told you to stay the fuck away from her, Dean!” You jumped at the sound of his voice. You’d never heard him that angry before. You stepped forward a bit, “Bobby, I’m an adult, I can be with whoever I want.” You seemed so small beside the three towering men. Most people would be intimidated, but you held your own. 

“Sweet pea, it’s not a matter of being an adult, I just don’t want to see you hurt.” “Bobby, I love you, but you can’t protect me for the rest of my life. You’ve always told me what good hunters and men the Winchesters were, now you’re telling me Dean isn’t. So which is it? Is he good or not?” Bobby looked between you and Dean and knew he was fighting a losing battle. Before he could say anything else John stepped up and punched Dean in the face. You gasped and when Dean turned his face back he was bleeding, but didn’t react. Bobby had grabbed John and pulled him back. Dean’s jaw clenched and he looked over at you and saw tears in your eyes. He let go of your hand and stormed out of the house. You looked at Bobby and then over at John. “I can’t believe you two. Dean is an amazing person. He practically raised Sammy because you, John, were too caught up in your own grief and need for revenge to be anything that resembled a good father. He had to be mom and dad to Sam. You owe him so much because he raised himself and his brother FOR YOU! Uncle Bobby, I know you mean well, but I’m an adult. You didn’t have a problem with Alex, and he tried to force me into his car. Dean never once forced anything. I pursued him. Even last night before we had sex he kept asking if I was sure. Now that is the kind of man I want to be with. Sure he’s had a past, but which one of you can say you haven’t. Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to find Dean and check on him.” 

Before they could say anything else you walked away and found Dean standing on the porch. When he saw you he pulled you into a searing kiss. He heard you defend him. He pulled away and looked at you, he cupped your face, “Thank you. Nobody has ever defended me like that. Thank you, sweetheart.” He kissed you again.

“I meant every word of it. I don’t know what this means for us as far as where we are headed to live, but I’ll follow you wherever you go, Dean Winchester.” “Good, because I’m not going to let you go, ever.” He kissed you again and could feel so much love between you two. 

Later that afternoon, you and Dean had decided to go off together. Just the two of you, hunting and living together. He couldn’t bear the thought of being with John after what happened, and he knew Bobby needed space. You were in your room packing a bag when Bobby came to the door, “Sweet pea, you don’t have to leave. We can figure this out.” Bobby’s eyes were pleading with you and it broke your heart. “Uncle Bobby, I’m not leaving for good, Dean and I just want to be together, work on our relationship without having to deal with everyone else’s opinions. I love you and you will always be home. I promise.” You hugged Bobby tightly. He kissed the top of your head.

Dean came to your room to grab your stuff. Bobby turned towards him, “Dean, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said. There is no excuse for it. She’s like a daughter to me and it’s my job to protect her. Well, it was. Now it’s your job. I know you’ll protect her no matter what. Keep her safe, bring her home every once in a while, and take care of yourself too. Your father was out of line hitting you like that. I’m sorry son.” He pulled Dean in for a hug. You had tears in your eyes looking at them hugging. 

“Well sweet pea, where are y’all headed?” “Not sure yet, maybe East. I’ll call you whenever we stop and let you know. I love you, Uncle Bobby.” “I love you too, sweet pea. You make him take care of you.” “I will, and he will. I know he will.” You hugged him again and handed Dean your bags.

The three of you walked downstairs and Dean headed out to your car to put the bags in it. Sam was standing there, “Dean, take me with you two. I can’t be with Dad. We’ll kill each other. You know that.” Dean sighed, “Yeah Sammy, I know. Sammy, I want you to apply to school. Get out of this life, go be a lawyer or whatever you want to be. I know you can do it. Meet a girl, get married, have kids. Be normal.” Dean pulled Sam into a hug, “I love you baby brother. Stay with Bobby until you get into that school.” “I love you too, Dean.” 

You stood in the living room and hugged Bobby one last time. John was standing leaned against the doorframe not saying anything. He was just staring. Dean walked in and walked over to Bobby and pulled him in for a hug. “Bobby, I need you to let Sammy stay here and make sure he applies for college. He’s too smart to stay in this life. He deserves a normal life.” Bobby shook his head in agreement. Dean thanked him and started to walk away.

As the two of you approached the door John stepped forward, “Dean, Y/N, wait.” You both stopped and turned around looking at him. “Look, I’m sorry Dean. I shouldn’t have hit you. I was out of line.” Before Dean could say anything you stepped in between them, “John, you were definitely out of line hitting him. I hope you take some time and reflect on yourself about the kind of father, man you want to be. I know Dean loves you, but it’s my job now to protect him and if that means protecting him from you I will. I’m in love with your son, and will spend the rest of my life proving to him what an amazing man he is. A lesser man would have laid your ass out after punching him, but not Dean. You see, that’s the kind of man he is. He knows when to fight and when not to. Hopefully that’s a lesson you learn too. Goodbye John, I wish you nothing but the best.”

You looked up at Dean who was still trying to process you saying you loved him. Smiling softly at him, you kissed his lips, “I’ll be outside.” You knew he needed closure so you left to give him his space to find it. 

Dean stepped towards John, “Dad I forgive you. I just can’t be with you right now. Maybe later down the road the three of us can hunt together, but right now I need to be with her and have space from you. I hope you understand.” He hugged his father and started to walk away. “Dean, for what it’s worth I know you’re a better man than I am. You take care of that little firecracker. She loves you and I can tell you love her. Be safe, and always know I will answer when you call.” Dean nodded and headed outside. 

The two of you climbed into your car and Dean started her up. He took your hand, you looked out your window, waved at Sam and Bobby and Dean drove away. You two had no idea where you were going, but you knew you would be fine as long as you had Dean by your side. 

Part 3

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[fans4wga]

[September 1] Don’t Fall For Hollywood Bosses’ New PR Spin

'Today marks the 122nd day of the Writers Guild of America (WGA) strike and 48th day of the Screen Actors Guild and American Federation of Television and Radio Artists (SAG-AFTRA) strike. The dual work stoppages have brought Hollywood to a standstill, with production halted on films and television programs, and premieres and other promotional events either scaled back or canceled. Both guilds are striking over demands that are more than reasonable, particularly given studio executives’ record pay. These demands include fair compensation for streaming media (particularly better residuals, which currently pale in comparison to what they are for network and cable broadcasts), robust studio support for health and retirement funds, and safeguards around the use of artificial intelligence. (For more on why WGA and SAG-AFTRA are on strike, read the excellent reporting of Jacobin’s Alex Press). 

In a move that has shocked…pretty much no one, Hollywood bosses don’t want to share their earnings with the very storytellers responsible for generating them. At the same time, they’re happy to make workers pay the cost for their own miscalculations about streaming.

The major Tinseltown studios – organized under the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers (AMPTP) trade association – remain stubbornly opposed to striking a fair deal with either guild. Under the leadership of AMPTP president Carol Lombardini, studios have employed brutal tactics to bust the strike, including threatening to drag things out until writers lose their homes and using management-friendly trade publications to pressure the guilds into accepting lowball offers. These tactics have backfired spectacularly: not only have they failed to end either strike, but they’ve also turned the public overwhelmingly against the AMPTP. A new Gallup poll finds that Americans back the WGA over the AMPTP by 72% to 19%, and SAG-AFTRA over AMPTP by 64% to 24%.

Aware of their reputational damage (but willfully ignorant of the anti-worker attitude that caused it), the AMPTP announced a “reset” to its approach this week – not by negotiating in good faith or meeting the guilds’ demands, but by hiring a pricey crisis-management PR firm to revamp its image! According to Deadline, the AMPTP has hired The Levinson Group – a D.C.-based PR shop best known for representing the U.S. Women’s  National Soccer Team in its campaign for pay equity – to “reframe the big picture for studio and streamer CEOs who have been characterized as greedy, imperious and out of touch.”

If you’re feeling like you’ve seen this movie before, you’re not wrong. During the last WGA strike 15 years ago, studio bosses hired former Clinton comms strategists Mark Fabiani and Chris Lehane to revive the AMPTP’s flagging public image. The revolving-door duo were paid a jaw-dropping $100,000 per month by the AMPTP to strike-bust, deploying campaign-style spin attacks designed to break the WGA’s resolve. 

As I wrote for The American Prospect in May:

“Fabiani and Lehane created a website with a live tally of the millions of dollars in income that guild members and on-set crew had purportedly lost by striking. They urged studio CEOs to publicly refer to WGA representatives as “organizers” rather than “negotiators” because the former “sound[ed] more Commie.” Lehane even told the press at one point that striking writers were “making more than doctors and pilots,” cynically arguing that the strike was harming “real working-class people” like below-the-line workers who had lost income from struck late-night talk shows […] Fabiani and Lehane were [also] the brains behind a “strongly worded and downright menacing” AMPTP press release breaking off negotiations with the WGA in December 2007. This move allowed the studios, which cited a protracted strike as an “unforeseeable event,” to invoke force majeure contract clauses and cancel multiple writer-producer deals worth tens of millions of dollars, severely demoralizing the WGA’s rank-and-file members.”

The parallels between 2008 and today are striking. Like Fabiani and Lehane (who have worked for scandal-plagued clients like Gray Davis, Bill O’Reilly, Lance Armstrong, and Goldman Sachs) the Levinson Group has no qualms about representing greedy and unsavory characters. Over the years, Levinson has done PR for predatory student lender Better Future Forward, reviled monopolist Live Nation/Ticketmaster, a talc mining company linked to the Johnson & Johnson baby powder cancer scandal, and Theranos fraudster Elizabeth Holmes. 

And just like the ex-Clinton spin doctors, the Levinson Group boasts close revolving-door ties to powerful politicians and the news media. The firm currently represents President Biden’s personal attorney Bob Bauer and previously represented John Podesta’s family lobbying firm. Levinson partners have previously worked for an array of influential politicians, including former President Bill Clinton, Senators Jon Tester and Amy Klobuchar, Representatives Maxine Waters and Ted Lieu, and former and current Los Angeles Mayors Eric Garcetti and Karen Bass. The firm’s founder and CEO Molly Levinson spent eight years working for CNN and CBS, while two of the Levinson Group’s top managing directors are alumni of CNBC and The Wall Street Journal. With a web of strong connections to power players in the entertainment industry’s twin capitals of LA and New York, along with the nation’s capital, Levinson could help the AMPTP tilt the regulatory and media scales back in the bosses’ favor. 

Though this may sound demoralizing, striking writers and actors shouldn’t lose hope. For one, consider a surprisingly uplifting parallel between 2008 and 2023. Fifteen years ago, after Fabiani and Lehane took the AMPTP’s contract, the SEIU and other unions that had previously worked with the duo severed ties with them for trying to bust the writers’ strike. Fast forward to this week: the U.S. Women’s National Soccer Team Players Association (Levinson’s star client!) publicly rebuked the firm for doing the AMPTP’s dirty work and voiced support for the dual WGA and SAG-AFTRA strikes. If history is any indication, it’s only a matter of time until other pro-union Levinson clients – like the majority SEIU-owned Amalgamated Bank – follow suit and sever ties with the firm. 

There is also one crucial way in which 2023 is thankfully not like 2008: The Levinson Group is bad at their jobs. 

Consider an August 27th New York Times article about AMPTP President Carol Lombardini*, which was almost certainly pitched or otherwise molded by Levinson flacks. The article goes to ridiculous lengths to rehabilitate Lombardini’s image:

The article passively describes Lombardini’s tenure as “marked by labor peace until now” (a peace that she has now broken) and shifts blame for her unpopular decisions to anonymous AMPTP members (how convenient!).

Article co-authors Brooks Barnes and John Koblin quote a 2014 email from then-WarnerMedia CEO Kevin Tsujihara praising Lombardini’s negotiation skills and recommending she receive a $365,000 bonus. Curiously absent from the article is any mention of Tsujihara’s high-profile 2019 resignation from WarnerMedia for pressuring actresses into non-consensual sex.

Barnes and Koblin attempt to paint a “she’s just like us” picture of Lombardini (who reportedly earns a $3 million annual salary), mentioning her upbringing in a “working-class town outside Boston” and love for Red Sox and Dodgers games.

Barnes and Koblin paint a rosy picture of the AMPTP’s “sweetened proposal” (their words) to the WGA, describing the studios’ August counteroffer as “including higher wages, a pledge to share some viewership data and additional protections around the use of artificial intelligence.” Barnes & Koblin never quote the WGA’s well-founded reasons for turning down this lowball offer, saying only that the WGA is “holding firm to demands related to staffing minimums and transparency into streaming-service viewership.”

Bizarrely, the core issue of underpaid streaming residuals (the main reason writers are demanding greater streaming transparency) is never mentioned in the article.

Barnes and Koblin frequently imply that criticism of Lombardini is unfair, describing her as an “easy target” for the “grievances of striking workers” and singling out a tweet purportedly “mocking [Lombardini] as a fuddy-duddy who hangs out at chain restaurants”.

Barnes and Koblin quote a pre-strike September 2022 Deadline interview with Teamsters organizer Lindsay Dougherty to claim that Lombardini has the “grudging respect” of union leaders who see her as a “fair individual.” They did not quote more recent statements from Dougherty, who last month tweeted that the “greedy” AMPTP had “declared war on Hollywood Labor” by refusing to negotiate in good faith with WGA and SAG-AFTRA.

In one unintentionally eyebrow-raising line, Barnes and Koblin state that Lombardini was “inspired to become a lawyer by reading articles about F. Lee Bailey.” Neither Bailey’s sordid clients (like OJ Simpson) nor his multiple disbarments are mentioned in the article.

And it’s not just me who finds the Levinson Group’s efforts laughable. Discussions of the NYT story on Reddit and Twitter are dominated by comments tying the story’s blatant reputation laundering for Lombardini to the AMPTP’s concurrent hiring of Levinson. A recent New Yorker puff piece on Warner CEO David Zaslav has been met with similar ridicule – with many commenters also pointing to Levinson’s potential influence. So too have recent stories from management-friendly trades like Deadline – all of which have failed to make a dent in strong public support for WGA and SAG-AFTRA. This is a good sign: not only is the public more inclined to side with striking workers than it was in 2008 – it’s also seemingly more attuned to the role of corporate PR flacks in shaping the media narrative. If studio bosses think they can remake the same movie and end another strike with flashy spin-doctors, they’re sorely mistaken. 

So here’s my advice to the AMPTP (and it won’t cost you six figures per month to hear it): the way to fix your reputation problem is to end the strike by giving writers and actors what they want. No strike-busting comms team can rescue you from the hole you’ve dug yourself into. 

As the LA Times’ Mary McNamara recently put it, “You’ve lost the war. The best thing to do now is negotiate the terms of surrender.”'

[zippidi-dooda]

So, years ago I was rewatching Cars and since the Bakugou brainrot was strong, I suddenly got the idea that "Hey, Lighting's a bit of a prick at first ... what if I made a story based off this movie with Bakugou as McQueen?" I was specifically looking at the scene where McQueen gets the white-wall tires, y'know his "suit change to impress Sally, and that one drawing someone made of Bakugou in a white suit occupied my brain and it solidified my "this is a good idea" thoughts (ps can't find that specific image no matter how I search it, but if I do I'll add it here sometime)

I had planned to take notes, rewatching the movie over and over to see what I could replace some scenes with since the characters for this story would be human racers and stuff.

Now, I never got around to it

But I took mental notes only writing the important things (what characters would best fit as who) and imagining scenes between Y/N and Bakugou (but not writing those down for some reason??? Still remember bits of some of them though) And wrote half of the first chapter

Here they are to finally see the light of day, (I'll explain why I wrote the characters as who if I remember why):

Summary

Life going was perfectly for the speed racer, Bakugou Katsuki. He had it all, the speed, the fame, the money, and was just one race away from becoming Japan's number one racer. But life seemed to have other plans in mind for him.

***

Speed.

That's what was always needed of Bakugou on the track. And Bakugoy always delivered. Today would be different though. 

He was speed.

He'd push it to the limit - no. Past the limit.

He would win this race and Deku would no longer be number one.

Deku . . . .

Man how he hated the curly haired, green eyed freak. Deku would never amount to nothing, all of those days Bakugou spent playing in the backyard with the kid, racing their remote control cars and playing video games taught him that.  

He never once lost to that loser and made sure to let Deku know that would never change. Ever. Bakugou would always be on top. Number one.

Boy did karma hit him hard.

"Dynamite! You gotta get out there already!"

"I fucking got it!"

Bakugou opened his red eyes, looking around his trailer. 

He was sitting on top of a cabinet with his eyes closed, waiting for show time.

Being alone in his trailer doing nothing was a ritual he always did before a race.

No reason why. He just did it.

The trailer had space for tools and such in case he needed to tune up his car on the go. But there were also shelves lined with his trophies from past races and merchandise featuring him or his car. A single picture waited for him on top of a small cabinet, which held snacks and an extra pair of clothes for him. A mini fridge was next to it holding drinks and such in case he got thirsty on a long drive.

Bakugou practically lived in the trailer. Always having to travel here and there to get to races. He sat in his car the whole time. It was a little cramped sure, but he preferred it to taking a plane, flying to his hotel, having to deal with paparazzi, possibly bumping into Deku or other competitors and having to talk to them.

Bakugou had a short fuse and often ran his mouth to the point rivals would try to fight him. And when that happened Hakamada would force him to have grade school lessons for manners and etiquette and all that to teach him how to "play nice."

That was useless. (And for some reason he was always forced to wear jeans and over-brush his hair?)

Katsuki Bakugou didn't need to be treated like a kid. So the trailer became his favorite place.

Through the tinted windows he could spot the extra from his pit crew who yelled walking away, past the other trucks. He rolled his eyes at them, he knew he could finish every race without a crew but it was required in order to race. So he (had to) let them stick around. They never got along, but it was fine by him since it meant no unnecessary interactions outside of the racecourse.

His manager, Hakamada, did chew him out for it saying he needed a good relationship with the team in order to get a better performance. But they did just fine now so there was no need to try with them.

Bakugou tightened his gloves, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then got ready to walk out the trailer door. He took a second to pick up the photo sitting on the cabinet. He looked at it for a second, memorizing again every detail on the piece of paper, his grip tightening before pressing a chaste kiss to it and tucking it into his chest pocket.

It was a good luck charm you could say. Never raced without it on him.

It was go time.

He was instantly blinded by flashing cameras clicking away, mics up in his face, people waving at him, and shouting - from both the reporters and the crowd.

"Mr. Dynamite!"

"YESSSSS!"

"DYNAMITE!"

"Over here!"

"Tulsa from Konto News, can I get a statement?"

"SIGN MY FOREHEAD!"

"Do you think you'll win this race?"

Bakugou held back a groan.

He always had to walk with a crowd of reporters towards his station. Still, he hadn't entirely warmed up to all the randos always in his face but he indulged them with some words.

"Sit down and watch the damn race for your answers."

"Mr. Dynamite, over here!"

"Dynamite, I'm with Dai Press-"

"I LOVE YOU DYNAMITE!"

"MARRY ME!"

He paused in his walk and addressed the people around him.

"All I have to say to you is, I'm gonna win. That is one sure thing you can get from this race so stick around."

They grew louder. Bakugou ignored them and continued walking until he heard one thing.

"You and Deku have been neck in neck since the start of your career, Dynamite, and you've only been first in the beginnings of every race. You've never actually ended any race in first. Never went home with a first place prize. How do you expect to come out on top today?"

Bakugou turned on his heels and scanned the people, "Who the hell said that?"

He wasn't sure and everyone continued speaking over one another. So, he yanked a random mic out of someone's hand.

"Deku's had his undeserved moment in the sun long enough. I can promise you this: his lucky streak ends with me. Got that? Put that in the papers."

Shoving the mic into whose ever hand, Bakugou continued to his spot, picking up the pace and blocking out everything else anyone had to say.

***

"Alright Dynamite, if you want to win this race for once you need to get your ass over here for a pit stop. Every time we call you over. Can you do that or are you enjoying eating greenies dust all the time."

Bakugou scowled at the extra handing him his helmet.

If they really wanted him to listen maybe they shouldn't be such assholes to him all the time. He wasn't the problem here.

"Fuck off extra, I don't need to stop for you losers every lap. You're just here freeloading off my success so sit down and shut the fuck up."

Bakugou snatched his helmet and shoved the guy out of his way. Right into another extra dressed in aquamarine. 

The two fell down, knocking over a dresser full of tools on the way. Tools were scattered all across the ground.

Bakugou couldn't be bothered to help.

He took a waterbottle from another extra's hand and took a big sip.

"What the fuck man!'

"My bad ... man ... I'll help clean this up."

"Get the hell out of here, I got it."

"What's going on here?"

Bakugou scowled at the last voice. 

It was Deku. And he had no business coming over to him like this. Every goddamn race. The two were always stationed next to each other meaning every pit stop and start and end of the race Bakugou had to see his rival's annoying face. 

And every chance they were near each other, Deku felt the need to say hello.

Idiot.

"Nothing just fell down."

"Is everyone okay?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it. I got this."

"Are you sure cause we can totally help out."

"Don't worry about it, it's our station we'll handle it."

"Get the fuck out of here Deku, you got stuff to do and so do we." Bakugou said.

"You're right, but I only came over for a second. Just to check up on you."

"I'm fine. Now leave. And keep pink cheeks out of here. I don't need her or anyone else distracting my crew, got it?"

"Got it."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to make a mess," The short, brown haired, brown eyed girl walked over to him with a pen and paper in hand. "I just wanted to see if I could get an autograph. It's for my nephew, you're his favorite racer and it's his birthday next week so I thought it'd be a nice surprise for him."

Bakugou rolled his eyes before taking the page and getting ready to sign it. It had a crudely drawn image of himself besides a little boy, the girl's nephew he assumed, the both of them holding up a trophy as confetti rained down on them. 

Bakugou froze for a moment.

The picture, though ugly, warmed his heart. He knew he had fans but this drawing just showed that they believed he would win a race. And the fact that he had a fan that probably knew Deku, met with him face to face (there was no way the dumbass didn't like pink cheeks since she was always around him, so he probably went to her house once or twice) and they still picked him over the momentary number one . . . It made him feel good inside. 

Maybe one day he'd have a kid of his own and they could cheer for him too . . . .

He smirked and began to sign.

"What's the extras name?"

"Hiro."

"Tell him he's on the right team." Bakugou gave back the paper. "There you got what you came for now leave."

"Thank you so much. C'mon Deku."

The girl began to drag him away.

"Hold on, Uraraka. Kacchan . . . ?"

Bakugou frowned again. "What now?"

The boy's mouth opened and closed for a bit as he searched for the right words to say.

He held out his hand to him. "Good luck out there today."

Bakugou scoffed and slapped his hand away.

"You'll need the luck more than I do cause I'm gonna beat your ass this time."

Deku smiled a bit as he watched Bakugou walk away. He may not have said it the normal way but at least he'd told him good luck back for once.

Deku turned and walked back to his own car.

***

Notes

McQueen: Bakugou - main character, acts like him and their traits align, need that Life Could be a Dream scene to happen with him

Mater: Kiri - the best friend that will make him realize things, who else could fill thus roll, their energy would match well

Chick Hicks: Todoroki - he's not a hick and personalities don't match but he fits as a well known figure that Bakugou would hate yet want to race, Todo will remain calm and aloof and claim BK is his best friend

Dinoco: Midoriya - BK hates him and would also want to beat him as a racer so of course he's here, could be switched with Chick but since the Dinoco brand was a dominant figure/sponsor in Cars I imagine the brands they race for as the old Pro Hero's and the biggest retiring Pro is All Might and he trains MD so obviously it'd be the same in this universe and so Dinoco's Dad: All Might - for those reason's

Doc Hudson: Aizawa - the mentor figure, he does watch and help BK so I think it's fitting, their personalities and morals seem to align and they both stay away from the cameras so despite Jeanist also being a good choice here, I thought that AZ fits better (Jeanist ended up as BK's current/first sponser)

Sherrif: President Mic - (I was today years old when I realized it's Present Mic not President) since he also helps watch and guide these kids I think he could work this role, using police sirens would make sense considering his quirk, can't separate him and AZ

Army Dude: Shinsou - also one who can't be separated from AZ, not particularly a connection to the character but the Radiator Springs residents kinda seem like they don't like McQueen at first so they'd need to hate BK as well and Shinsou would be good at that, he can also cause some drama by being close with Y/N if so desired

Red: Eri - another who can't be separated from AZ, Red is shy and timid which can be applied to Eri especially since she may be scared upon seeing BK wreck the town as a first introduction, Red listens to Sally's requests which can apply as well

Filmore: Mineta - uhm, why? I honestly don't remember but he may be subject to change, Filmore is kinda another form of comic relief I think and Mineta can be useful to create certain situations, a reason to stir up protectivness in BK, and since Denki will be in here I'd like to put them in shared scenes since I think they're funny together

Guido & Luigi: Sero & Kaminari - need the BakuSquad here and I think it'd be interesting to have these two co-run a store, Guido and Luigi are interested in McQueen at first but then aren't (cause he's not a Ferrari) and Sero and Kaminari seem to have no trouble poking fun at BK so I think it could work

Flo: Ashido - again the BakuSquad, their personalities really seem to match, sassy confident Mina is a must and I think she'd run an amazing dinner, so fun, she would also be one of the only gal-pals for Y/N and vice-versa

Sally: Y/N - MC and love interest, I can make personalities match a bit and BK would need people that question and prod him, lots of liberties here

Granny: Y/N's grandma - honestly who else is this gonna be, loved this lady in Cars and would derive most dialogue and scenes using what was in the movie, could write scenes where Granny is no longer out of pocket and senile and gives serious advice and warnings to BK when they're alone (delivered through one line of dialogue and she's immediately back to appearing crazy as if nothing happened)

I never wrote anything about the flame sticker car Ramone and honestly don't know who could fit as him now, maybe I'll search for suitable characters or write up a specific one if I decide to continue this.

If you'd be interested in reading a story like this, feel free to tell me and I might pick this up again

And if you do want this, also share suggestions for who in mha can fill in for the role of Ramone

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Tim Visits Curly in the Reformatory

Small fic I wrote based on @pumpkinsy0 's addition to this post.

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

The reformatory is the exact same as it was when Tim was here last, five years ago, before he got old enough and his juvenile record long enough the courts decided he was beyond reforming and started sending him to the cooler at the ripe old age of sixteen and a half. Impersonal grey stone walls, hard faced staff, heavy locks on each and every door. Tim is sure if he was in the cafeteria it would have the same chipped yellowish linoleum and serve the same barely palatable slop, just like he knows the barracks probably still house the same iron bunks and lumpy mattresses they make the inmates- sorry, students- make with tight hospital corners before anyone is allowed so much as a bite of food.

Of course, Tim won’t get to see any of his old haunts because as a non inmate the only place he’s allowed is the visitor area. He’s lucky even to be here- unsurprisingly Curly hasn’t proven himself to be a model inmate, and so was supposed to have lost visitation privileges for the month. Tim had to make up some sob story about a dead auntie and god rest her soul just to be allowed in the door.

The visitation room is made up of the same grey walls as the rest of the place, but the room has a half decent carpet and plastic chairs and tables scattered throughout. It’s better than the visitation he’s allowed in the cooler which is all cold metal benches and glass screens, two way telephones and ‘fifteen minutes no longer’.

Keys rattle and the door off the side of the room opens, a hard faced guard practically shoving Curly through the door, who’s grinning like a chessy cat, cussing the guard out in creole and looking extraordinarily pleased with himself.

He practically swaggers over, leaving the guard at the door- yet another perk of the reformatory, that they’re not chaining him to the table- and takes a seat across from Tim.

“Hey Tim.”

The reformatory has always suited Curly, always left him entirely in his element, able to wreak havoc and cause trouble without ever really getting punished for it. For someone who loves nothing more than attention and consequences he can deliberately fight back against, it’s perfect.

Tim dreads the day the courts give up on Curly too and start sending him to the cooler. The reformatory suits him, but the cooler might break him. There’s an undeniable softness to Curly- he hides it well, but it’s there, always has been, and Tim knows the Curly that goes into the cooler for the first time will not be the same Curly who comes out.

“Curly,” he nods, and Curly’s grin widens. He’s a feral housecat raised in a lion’s den, and has never once managed to actually keep his cool, “I see they chopped off that mop of yours.”

That makes him frown, rubbing a hand self consciously across his shaved head. 

“Ain’t like I had a choice now is it?”

Curly hates looking lousy- Tim blames the vanity on him sharing half a soul with Angel- and short hair has never suited him. 

They lapse into silence. Tim because silence is the only thing in the whole world that makes Curly uncomfortable and because the little shit deserves to squirm. Curly because he must know he isn’t supposed to have visitors, which means he knows Tim isn’t here for a mere social call. This visit is important, and Tim knows Curly knows it. His kid brother is stupid but he isn’t dumb, and he’s scarily perceptive when it comes to reading emotions. 

“How is it,” Tim asks when Curly starts fidgeting proper and glancing at the guard like he might try something to piss him off, “that you were sentenced to six months and after being here less than a week they’ve upped it to seven?”

Curly shrugs, that shit eating grin taking over his face once again, “got into it with some asshole in the dining hall. The guards didn’t much like that.”

“And how is it,” Tim continues, wishing for a cigarette and knowing he’ll get kicked out faster than lightning if he pulls one out here, “that you’ve already lost your visitation priviledges?”

“Poor old auntie delilah,” Curly drawls, dodging around the question, “good thing they were nice enough to let you come and comfort me about her passin’.”

“Cut the shit Curly.” Tim orders, “enough causin’ trouble. You could be outta here in four months if you keep your head down. Hell, maybe even three considering this place is prone to overcrowding and this is only your second offence. But only if you play right with the staff and make like a good little reformed schoolboy.”

“Why?” For all he likes his games, Curly’s done playing, eyes sharp, “What’s goin on?”

“We need you back in Tulsa.” 

“Why?” Curly demands again, a spark of panic lighting in his eye. This is unusual behaviour, especially for Tim, and loathe as he is to admit it, Curly can tell right off, “is something wrong with Angel?”

Per usual, Angel’s been the exact definition of a fucking piece of work ever since Curly got locked up, because the twins don’t do well with separation. Yesterday she and ma had gotten into it, and he’d practically had to pry her off the old bitch, but not before she’d ripped out a chunk of ma’s hair. Then she’d gone and baited his two best bruisers into a brawl at the dingo, and now Ricky was getting charged and Danny would be recovering for a few weeks. Just this morning she’d gone over to Buck Merril’s and if rumours were true had hooked up with one of Merril’s shadier friends, some asshole new in town and determined to cause trouble. If she kept up like this until Curly got back, Tim was gonna have to keep her on a very short leash- and Angela never liked following rules.

“She’s fine. Shackin’ up with that buddy of Merill’s, Jack or whatever the fuck, but she’s fine.”

Curly curses. “That asshole will swing at her sooner or later.”

“He won’t,” Tim and some of the gang had made that very clear to him before he drove down here, “and if he does I’ll take care of it.”

“Then what’s goin’ on? How come you want me playin’ goody two shoes in here, huh?”

Tim sighs. “You read the paper in here at all?”

Curly looks at him incredulously, and yeah, that’s fair. It was a stupid question.

“Of course you didn’t. I forgot you can’t read.”

“I can too!” Curly shouts, lowering his voice when the guard makes a move to grab him, “I can! It just…it ain’t easy. The letters all jump everywhere.”

“We need you in Tulsa,” Tim tells him, brushing past it. Reading has always been a sore spot with Curly, and Tim doesn’t want to shame him more than he already has. It wasn't his fault every teacher he’d ever had had glanced at his name on the registrar and immediately abandoned him as a lost cause. “Shit went down last week. You missed a hell of a rumble last week.”

“Fucking socs,” Cury scowls, “did we win?”

“Of course,” It’d be a cold day in hell before any of them lost a rumble to the socs, “but uh, the rumble wasn’t all that happened.”

“TIm.” Curly is as serious as he ever gets, “What happened? Why are you bein’ so weird?”

“Dallas is dead,” Tim admits, and hates that it stings. He hated Dally as much as he liked him, but it was rare he ever found someone he understood so well. The guys in his gang were all a little afraid of him and he liked it that way, and the Curtis’ were too nice for all they were good fighters, but Dally Winston was the same type of asshole as him, loyal to no one, and just about the only person Tim ever really had fun with. Much as he hated to admit it, he was really gonna miss him.

“Winston?” Curly’s eyebrows shoot up, “Shit, I’m sorry man. What happened?”

“Shot,” Tim manages, “he was pointing a heater at the fuzz, the dumbass.”

“Shit,” Curly repeats, shaking his head, “Dallas ain’t stupid. The fuck was he doin’ baiting the cops?”

“He was mad. That little dark haired kid, Johnny. Him and Ponyboy Curtis got caught up in a murder rap, stabbed some soc in the park and skipped town. Got caught up in some fire at the church they ran to, saved a bunch of kids. But Cade got caught up in it, died in the hospital a few days later. Guess ol’ Dal couldn’t take it. Shit kid, you really ain’t heard a lick of this from the papers?”

“Ponyboy was in a fire?” Curly asks, ignoring every other piece of Tim’s story just like he knew he would. Curly was stupid over that Curtis kid as much as he pretended he wasn’t, and it was obvious to anyone with eyes. Tim had seen Curly with crushes before, but none half as bad as the one he had on the Curtis kid. “Is he alright?”

“He’s fine. Got a concussion in the rumble but other than that he’s ok. Darry says he’s taking the whole situation mighty hard though. Him and Cade were good buddies, and Dal was in their gang.”

“They just lost their folks too,” Curly recalls, biting his lip. “Hey, uh, next time you see him tell him I said to take it easy, ok?”

Tim rolls his eyes at his kid brother being reduced to an absolute lovesick fool. “Tell him yourself, I ain’t your messenger.”

“C’mon man,” Curly whines, “don’t be a dick.”

“Don’t get mouthy,” Tim warns, rising when the guard starts making his way over, no doubt ready to tell them their time is up, “and quit causing trouble. Things haven’t cooled down with the socs yet. We need you in Tulsa.”

He allows himself a self satisfied grin as he’s escorted outside. If there’s one thing that can motivate Curly to do anything these days, it’s mentioning Ponyboy Curtis.

Maybe he should pay a visit to the redheaded kid. See how he reacts when he mentions Curly to him. After all, if Curly’s gonna date the kid, Tim should probably get to know him a bit first. Vet him y’know. Plus it’ll annoy Curly.

Four months later Tim makes the drive out to the reformatory and if he just so happens to bring a redheaded Curtis kid with him, so be it.  He’s helping Darry out ‘cause apparently the kid’s been too quiet since everything went down.

Curly’s eyes widen the second he stumbles out the gate and lays eyes on Tims new passenger. He stammers out some half crocked greeting, clearly caught off guard, and Ponyboy grins, despite looking a little confused. Tim watches Curly’s failed attempts to flirt the whole way back to Tulsa, hiding his laugher the whole time.

[sagesolsticewrites]

Hot Summer Night (John Brady x Juliet (OFC))

In which John Brady helps his wife through a stiflingly hot night in upstate New York.

a/n: wrote this forever ago after seeing that 👀 pic of Ben, came back to it after suffering through an AC-less Tennessee summer when we lost power last night 🫠 enjoy Brady girlies!

Word count: 1k

Warnings: mature content (unprotected PinV penetration) (18+ MINORS DNI), John Brady being husband of the year, I think that’s it? Please let me know if I missed anything!

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Taglist: @winniemaywebber @ginabaker1666

Masterlist

Juliet threw off the thin sheet with a huff, unable to stand one more thing covering her. At first she had been fine with the fact that the air conditioning in their home didn’t quite reach the master bedroom— happy, in fact, for the excuse to keep the windows open at night. But this year’s New England summer was even more hot and humid than the last, and the stagnant air outside was doing nothing to soothe her.

“Jules? Everything okay?” Came her husband’s concerned voice from the other side of the bed. John Brady was a notoriously light sleeper, and even after just a few months of marriage somehow always knew when his wife was anything less than perfectly content

“‘M fine, honey, just… hot,” she whines, fanning herself, and stopping when all that did was push more hot air towards her.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” he chuckles softly, “Maybe I can help.”

She rolls to face him, gaze tracing over the significant lack of clothes on her husband— clad in just a sleeveless undershirt and boxers in an attempt to ward off the heat, moonlight glinting off the dog tags he wears even now and highlighting the sheen of sweat along his forehead and collarbone.

A gentle hand on her waist draws her closer, closer, until their noses are nearly touching. Her confused expression— how exactly is this meant to help?— falls into relief as he gently blows a stream of cool air over her face.

“Better?” He murmurs, breath fanning over her as his thumb strokes along her cheek.

“Much,” Juliet sighs, “Thank you.”

“Anytime, sweetheart.”

He resumes his role as her personal fan, occasionally leaning in to brush soft kisses to her forehead, her nose, her cheeks. The combination of cool air and kisses has Juliet nearly melting into his arms, their legs tangling as his hand drifts lower on her hip to pull her flush against him, sparking heat in her belly that has nothing to do with the humid summer night.

It seems to have the same effect on John, given the way he abandons the pretense of cooling her off in favor of skimming his lips across her cheek to capture her lips in earnest. She sighs into the kiss, her hand trailing up his chest to toy with the soft hair at the nape of his neck as he pulls her impossibly closer.

Lost in each other, Juliet isn’t quite sure how John ended up on his back with her straddling him, his shirt tossed to a corner of the room, but she isn’t complaining. His hand tangles in her curls, lifting them from her neck to allow what little breeze there is to reach her as her hands wander over his broad, sculpted shoulders and chest, their soft sighs and groans punctuated by the occasional gasp as they broke for air the only sound in the room.

She can’t help but grin at the way his breath hitches, her name escaping him in a groan as she moves down his neck, sucking the salt from his skin. Her lips glide over every inch of him she can reach, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of his throat before recapturing his lips with hers, slowly rocking against him as heat pools between her thighs.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he gasps into her mouth, his hands moving to rest at her hips before trailing up her sides, taking her thin nightgown with him, the gauzy fabric sliding over her head to be tossed aside as she pulls back to meet his gaze. His eyes are a stunning silvery blue in the moonlight, pupils dilated, lips deliciously kiss-swollen, and she knows she must look just as dazed as he does.

“You’re beautiful, Johnny,” is all she can think to say as she grinds against him once more in earnest, her fingers tracing along the waistband of his boxers.

He lets out a desperate groan, his head falling back against the pillows as his hips buck up into her, “Jules—”

She knows what he wants, and she can’t wait any longer either, his hips lifting as she sheds both of their underwear. She lets out a moan as she drags her slick folds along his bare cock, one hand planted on his chest to steady herself. 

Their breaths mingle as he positions himself at her entrance and she slowly, slowly, sinks down onto him, biting back a stuttering moan as she stretches around him.

“Oh sweetheart,” John groans, pretty blue eyes fluttering shut, “Fuck— you feel so good, honey, so tight—”

She lets out a soft whine at the praise, slowly rocking in his lap as she adjusts to his size, gradually moving up and down his length.

She leans down to capture his lips once more, his mouth moving hungrily against hers as he grips her hips. There’s no words as they slowly move together, just soft sighs and gasps, her fingers closing around the dog tags dangling in the middle of his chest, his hand moving up her back to tangle in her hair. 

The tension in her core builds like an ember into flame, and the gasping moan she lets out in warning— “John…”— is acknowledged with a squeeze of her hip and a gasp of “Me too, honey” as she reaches her peak with a soft cry, burying her face in his neck as her husband follows suit shortly after, spilling into her with a muffled groan.

Juliet scatters kisses up his neck as they each catch their breath, slowly lifting herself off of him to lay beside him, the sheets suddenly cool against her skin.

John pulls her into his arms, playfully blowing a gentle stream of cool air onto her neck, eliciting a squeal from his wife. 

“Feel better, sweetheart?”

She can hear the satisfaction in his voice— not of the smug variety, more in a way that tells her he’s glad he could make her feel good.

“Much better, my love,” is her soft reply, punctuated by a tender kiss. She settles her head on his chest, her fingers reaching up to rake through his sweat-damp hair as they both drift back to a contented sleep, and a smile stretches across Juliet’s face as a gardenia-scented breeze drifts in through the window.

[apollabarnes]

Hiiiiiiii back for more snippets 😁😁😁 some 🚁🚁🚁🚁 and 💰💰💰💰💰 please!

make me write

hi friend! i didn't forget about this (i wrote too much and had to select parts)

🚁 - we’re crashing that helicopter, folks (bucktommy post-breakup)

"Right, were you unconscious for the week before that? Or…" Sal looked over at him. "Because I'm really interested in the reason I didn't get a call as soon as you woke up. Or one from the goddamn ambulance." "Sal," Tommy sighed. They'd had this fight before, after the mall explosion when Sal had swapped off with Howie and wondered why there was no one there to see him. Explaining that he didn't have an emergency contact had set something off in Sal's eyes — Tommy was pretty sure the only time he'd seen him look like that since had been Captain Number Four after Cook, just two before Nash, when they'd tried to send Howie into a building on his own and Sal had lost it. "Start talking or start walking." Even knowing that the threat was empty, Tommy caved. "I swapped it to Evan a few months ago," he admitted. "Haven't got around to changing it back." "That explains why the hospital didn't call me. Why didn't you?" "What were you gonna do, Sal?" He sighed. "I was just killing time until they said I could go home." "Well I would have made sure you didn't have to rely on the kindness of fucking strangers while I busted my ass to get up here and pick you up," Sal muttered, shaking his head. "You think I don't need to brush up on my gin rummy skills? Gina's mom murdered me last month at game night." "I've told you before, you've got to stop letting her pick gin ru—" "Tommy," Sal looked over at him, his lips pressed together. "Next time you run into trouble, you give me a call right away." "You've got a station to run, Sal." "If you weren't injured I'd be giving you a beating right now," Sal snapped. "You call me. I'll come get you. End of story."

💰- we provide… emergencies (meet tommy’s bff eliot spencer)

"You want to see his dating profile?" Hardison gestured expansively at his laptop screen. "Meet Firehose, lady and gentlemen." "Is it active?" Tommy asked, grimacing to himself. This was the opposite of not getting involved. "Never mind. I don't want to know." "I'll tell you if it's active," Hardison bargained. "If we can put it up on the big screen." Tommy stared at the three of them. He knew — he knew — that it was a trap. There wasn't an answer that would get him out of this without being roasted to hell and back. He should have left the room the second Hardison mentioned finding something on Evan. "Fine," he sighed, waving a hand. He might as well understand all the references later when the three of them started teasing him. "It's not like I can stop you anyway." Hardison pressed a button with a flourish and Evan's dating profile whooshed up onto the big screens. Tommy wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or not. The photos were obviously old, though there were a few of him in uniform — Tommy figured that was his probie year, based on some of the photos Evan had shown Tommy of him and Maddie when she'd first moved to L.A. It was probably a good thing that Tommy had transferred when he had. "Did he change the name when he got the job as a firefighter?" Eliot asked mildly. "No sirree, that is the name that he signed up with six years prior to being accepted to the fire academy." Hardison said, his voice purposefully bland. "I would assume that it's a reference to his…" "It's not inaccurate," Tommy conceded, doing his best to not stare too hard at Evan. He was thinking about a lot of things, and there was no good place for them to go to. But getting hung up on the number of tattoos Evan used to have and the number he had now was… one of the safer things for him to think about. "A reference to his…" Parker tilted her head, considering the photos. "Huh. Yep. I can see it." Hardison started coughing and Eliot whacked him in the back, laughing. "Y'all are nasty," Hardison managed, after he'd finished choking on his coffee. He scowled at Tommy and hit another button, switching from the dating profile to a series of news articles.

[junkyarddawgz]

I'd love to know which of my fics (only one is currently up on ao3) I should prioritize based on what people like most, so I thought I'd leave it up to you guys here! Full descs are under the poll and cut.

Mortalizer: This fic gets deep but when things start to get chaotic outside of Kenny's own crisis, the action really picks up. I have so much plot going for this story and I'm really excited about it lol. Apart from dying, there will be lots of Crenny and Style, lots of character development, interactions with the Goth Kids, interesting disguises, hero-Cartman, friendly kidnapping, climbing through bedroom windows, etc. Currently there are nine chapters up on my AO3 (junkyarddawgz)

Heres the AO3 Desc

Kenny McCormick discovers he's been rejected by death. As denial drives him mad, he begins to toy with his own life- until a series of horrifying crimes remind him that not everyone comes back from the grave. Or... One year ago, Kenny's entire life fell apart, and the new version of it is not worth living. Every time he tries to end it, though, he only wakes up again; alive and with a beating heart. No one even remembers he was ever dead... that he knows of. After weeks of dying almost every day, two new things happen too close together to be coincidence; someone else is dead, and another anonymous someone seems to know Kenny has been too. He hardly even gets a chance to panic before things start to get way worse, and Kenny realizes he might be the only person who can stop whoever is behind it all. (Mysterion vs Serial killer)

Creek Fic (Untitled): When something goes way wrong with young NASA astronaut Craig Tucker's mission Feldspar, he finds himself trapped in an endless solo mission that should only have lasted 28 days. With NASA refusing to keep him in the loop about what the hell is even going on, he is surprised to discover he actually looks forward to those informationless ground-control calls each day. Maybe he just misses human contact, or maybe there really is something more behind his infatuation with that one twitchy, blond ground-control agent.

I wrote that desc just now, but it probably won't be the same one I write in for the eventual AO3 upload. No I don't have an outline or even really a full plot going for this one yet, but I do have a general idea of what it might be. Soooo.... slowburn, angsty, trapped in space Creek fic, anyone?

Children on the Edge of Forever: A tragic spin on the season 2 episode "City on the Edge of Forever" (which is itself titled after a Star Trek episode) in which instead of telling silly stories while they sit in the bus hanging off the edge of a cliff and wait for Miss Crabtree's return, the kids find themselves confessing deep honesties in their last moments before the bus finally gives in to the temptation of gravity. Confessions range from those of love- requited or not, personal identities, crimes, and final forgivenesses. Each chapter is written in the POV of one kid on the bus (I'll be doing about 12 of them) with a final chapter detailing their shared ending.

Yes, they do all die in the end, but that doesn't mean we can't have Style, Creek and Bendy fluff before their final demise lol. I haven't written an official desc yet, but the first chapter should be up before the end of December regardless of poll results (simply because it's already mostly written).

Totally Killer AU (Untitled): This one is based on the 2023 slasher film Totally Killer, which was ALMOST a good movie lol. I decided to make it actually good. Heres the AO3 desc:

When the decade of materialism and Madonna finally began to draw the curtains of a close, three teenagers at South Park high had their lives brought to their own abrupt ends. The face of their killer is never unmasked, slipping away through the cracks of passing time. 35 years later, as the third decade of the century hits a halfway point, a fourth victim is claimed to mark the killer's return. Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski find themselves thrown not only in the middle of it all (and maybe even at each other), but also back in time- to the point just before everything first began.

TIME TRAVEL STYLE!!! This one is going to be so good because I'll be writing their parents as teenagers and showing so much background. I feel like fresh characters (or fresh versions of them at least) in a South Park fic is something you rarely see, so I think it will be fun to try and pull off.

Anyway, this fic involves Stan and Kyle working together to try and prevent the first murders from ever happening so as to save the fourth victim from dying in the future. Theres angst and fluff to come no matter who dies lol.

[firesofdainix]

solarballs fics masterlist

A collection of ALL my solarballs fics, all 44 (and counting) of them! I don't even know how I wrote most of these in a month; most of these fics are part of the same universe, an alternate universe heavily relying a lot more on fantastical lore and complex characteristics of each character rather than scientific accuracy. Most scientific theories have been handwaved or explained differently. I'll be posting them in chronological order to better understand the entire series.

some of them will be labeled on whether or not they're AU-adjacent or something that can be read without them.

Spacetime Continuum AU

Spacetime Continuum Extras

Extra scenes, headcanons, concepts, prompts, and designs of my Alternate Universe. Used as a companion piece for the main series as a whole.

As The Years Go By

Uranus reckons his past relationship with Jupiter as he deals with his present feelings for the largest Gas Giant.

(A/N: This is a Jupiter/Uranus story first and foremost, with other relationships like Jupiter/Saturn, Saturn/Planet X being in the background. Because this is set in a nebulous, pre-canon era, all of the characters are based on my interpretation of what they were like.)

Ouroboros

Ouroboros: a circular symbol depicting a snake, or less commonly a dragon, swallowing its tail, as an emblem of wholeness or infinity.

Jupiter experiences the same day over and over. The main constant is he always gets killed, lost, or mauled in the end.

Better Off Dead

Hades kills Jupiter. This changed everything. This changed nothing.

or; a canon-divergent ending of the first chapter of Ouroboros.

History is a Story Told By the Winners of the Fight

Jupiter commits murder, and he's in bad shape to even think about anything else. Uranus and Neptune help plot his schemes.

Ursa Major

Callisto's creation and what comes after. Featuring some Jupiter and Callisto father daughter bonding!

Pride Cometh Before The Fall

Saturn and Planet X find out Jupiter's best-kept secret and undermine his authority.

The Consequences of Our Actions

Five times Earth and Theia are warned about their sharing of orbits, and one time the warnings ring true- but it's already too late.

Moons Should Know Their Place

Luna has recently formed from what he believed had been space debris; yet why are some planets looking at him like he'd committed a crime?

After the Battle

Jupiter and, additionally Saturn, did something bad a few billion years ago. Just how bad was it?

Masterless Cattle

After kicking Tyche and Planet X out of the solar system, the giants along with the remaining planets talk about dividing their spoils of war, such as paraphernalia of the deceased and banished planets, the moons, and new orbits, along with some emotional confessions along the way.

A Name Forged From His Skin of Sins

The beginning of Ganymede.

(A/N: This one is more of the fanon interpretations of the character and its origins. It's for the plot I swear!)

Still Living The Same Life

One shots covering Ganymede's new life.

Nature Abhors A Power Vacuum

Jupiter and the VOICES.

Remember My Name

Planet X's ejection, the aftermath of it, and the begining of their fall from grace.

Seeds of Love Planted in a Faux Gift

Saturn finds out about Jupiter's less-than-stellar vision. He helps in his own way, not predicting the consequences coming with it.

Lamentations of a False King

Thousands of years after the conflict that had shook up the entire solar system, Jupiter and Saturn talk about their regrets and understand each other a lot better. Meanwhile, Saturn's promise to Planet X continues to break down.

Tsunami

Neptune's capture of Triton in egregious, gory details.

(A/N: Because of the new episodes, this fic will be considered divergent from the Solarballs premise of Triton's origins. More eldritch and messed up things happen in this fic.)

Accidentally In Love

Jupiter confesses his romantic feelings for Saturn, who reciprocates; not before discarding a terrible secret that will haunt him for eternity.

Everyone Knows

Jupiter tells everyone that he and Saturn are together. The reactions reaped are mostly positive with... a few odd ones out.

It Starts With Sorry

Saturn apologizes to Jupiter for the things he'd done to him during the Proto Era, letting himself be honest about his feelings just this one time. Jupiter forgives him, because of course he does.

When the Paint Dries

The seventh planet's views on his artistry over the eons.

Break The Cycle

The Giants find out about the revolution, but instead of becoming angry, they realize they are perpetuating the same mistakes as their Sun.

(A/N: This is canon divergent and doesn't really happen. This is a simple "what if.")

You Must Be Haunting Me

The planets are haunted by the ghosts of the past. They aren't actually ghosts, of course, ghosts aren't real, but no one is going to tell them that.

If You Need To Be Mean

Mercury thinks about the past often, and how so many things have changed in the past four billion years. Not for the better, according to him.

Saturn's Moons Hanging By A Thread

In the aftermath of the Moon Revolution, Saturn's moons return to their planet and back to their old lives. However, one insult against Titan goes too far, and he finally lets all his feelings over being their main punching bag out in the open.

(A/N: This fic and the next two fics are canon divergent from the episode "Saturn Gets His Moons Back!" But The Moon Club will still happen, although Europa and Ganymede will be included.)

Galileo Figaro

Following Titan leaving his orbit after a spat with his fellow moons, he ends up in Jupiter's orbit talking to familiar faces, who end up, surprisingly, sympathizing with his situation.

Moon-Eater

Saturn uses his power to give his moons a stern talk and a fair warning about the consequences if they ever take things with Titan further than normal. Titan finally gets an apology from one of the moons.

Mars, God of War

Even Mars once had an ocean on its surface. Even the red planet was given the chance to shelter life before it led to its destruction.

(A/N: No longer canon! This one-shot is a what-if conspiracy theory is true, thus I wrote it.)

Take On Me

A collection of moments in time covering Mars and Earth's very tumultuous relationship. Includes copious amounts of codependency and pining from both sides as they struggle to pretend they're not at their wit's end.

I Need Someone To Remember Me

Mercury, Venus, Earth, and Mars talk about the planets they've lost during one of the rare times they hang out. Surprisingly, they're acting civilized for once; as civilized as they can be.

You Didn't Know?

Planet X returns to the solar system, not only to gloat at how he is still alive but also to enact the first part of his revenge: to tear Jupiter and Saturn apart with the only promise Saturn had broken.

(A/N: Canon divergent for the future Planet X arc.)

Aftermath

The return of Planet X has ever-lasting consequences on the dynamics of the solar system. The Giants are the first to feel its effects.

(A/N: Canon divergent from the Planet X arc.)

I Want You All The Time

Saturn and Planet X finally have their long-awaited fight. It goes about as well as you'd expect-- Saturn being an asshole and Planet X being delusional.

Antithesis

The Iris and Earth are complete opposites in both action and concept. They talk about it.

(A/N: Canon divergent from the Planet X arc, and focuses on a crossover for plot.)

You Got Mail!

The Sun and Jupiter, trapped in powerless human forms, face a deadly challenge never experienced before: surviving a beast-infested Earth, and trying to make their way back home while meeting familiar faces. Along the way, the two must overcome their deadliest hurdle to return to space: their eons-long grudges against each other.

Yorick's Skull

Earth and Iris get a rematch on fairly equal terms. Someone dies this time.

Scorched Earth

After Earth defeats the Iris, he and The Sun have a short conversation over the things that happened within the solar system.

Mania

Earth has had enough of humanity taking advantage of him and destroying his resources, so he retaliates by making their own home planet their biggest mortal enemy, forcing them into submission. Three hundred years later, Astrodude is sent as an ambassador to convince the Earth to stop his massacre of human lives.

(A/N: Canon divergent and futuristic fic. Not actually compliant to the main story as a whole.)

You Want What You Can't Have (Ooh Girl That's Too Damn Bad)

Planet X is allowed to return to the solar system, and is struck by how in love Jupiter and Saturn are- because it had been them and Saturn first.

Lucifer Morningstar Had Once Been Beautiful

Planet X is self-conscious about their appearance, and Saturn notices, trying to do something about it, despite the wounds they've inflicted on one another.

War and Destruction

Planet X has been dealing with their feelings since returning to the solar system, but these violent emotions often come to a head when they are alone. Mars is tasked to help them through it, due to their destabilized relationship with the Giants.

Non-AU-adjacent fics

And I'll Be Yours Until the Stars Fall From the Sky

Iapetus believes Titan has bewitched him, making him fall ill when he is around the other moon. Dione thinks he just has a crush on the least popular moon of Saturn.

[COMING SOON] Pierced With Nitrogen and Methane

[COMING SOON] Solarballs x Chainsaw Man AU Part One

NSFW fics

you guys are going to be sane about this, right?

In the Likeness of His Image

Earth and Mars's journeys over learning intimacy, through the years.

[COMING SOON] Take Me Down (A Little Bit Harder Now)

[rv3rblog]

gaz as your bf pt2

warnings: maybe some ooc (so srry), military inaccuracies (ik nthn abt it), english people inaccuracies (bc idk anything abt british ppl ?? like so srry i only know things abt mexicans and americans)

genre: fluff (so sweet im gna cry)

kyle “gaz” garrick x male!reader (can also be read as ftm! trans reader bc no genitalia is mentioned)

part i

look at him, so pretty hes so bf i wanna kiss him so bad. just look at him :((

gaz as ur bf pt. ii — officially dating headcannons (beginning of relationship!)

i will always imagine gaz as a silly loverboy who is so head over heels for you

when you two first started dating he’s kinda bashfull, he has a small smile on his face as he rubs his neck as he talks to you

first time he calls you pretty it catches both of you off guard

he starts trying to apologize, stuttering as he does so but once he sees you laughing and telling him it’s fine? he never stops calling you pretty :(

especially when you get shy about it and hide behind your hands

he just thinks you’re so pretty :((

he’s also most definitely the type to pepper kisses onto your face

just going all over your face when he sees you after being deployed

the first time he comes back from a mission he just sends you a text letting you know he’s back and you’re like vibrating in your seat at home

you tell him to come over whenever he wants and you send him your address

he’s slightly baffled but, he’s also so head over heels he goes over the next day

you two hang around each other all day and he sees how homely your home is and it makes him so happy

he definitely stalks around your house as he takes in every little knick knack and notices your interests

you make him dinner and he just watches you with adoration in his eyes

you just laugh at him and tell him to stop bc it’s flustering you and he doesn’t bc he think you’re just so cute when you’re pouting at him and trying to hide your face

gaz as ur bf but uve been dating for months/years

the type of bf that pouts when you don’t give him a kiss before you leave the house

if you guys go shopping he’s always following you around like a lost puppy, carrying your bags and saying you look good in everything you try on

“oh you’re so pretty baby.”

“you should get that love, it’d look nice on you.”

“you’re such a pretty boy, how did i get so lucky?”

you guys exchange letters when he’s back on base

i miss you gaz, come home soon and healthy. i need you to be safe out there. you mean a lot to me.

he carries a letter with him every time he leaves on a mission, either the first one you ever wrote him or the latest one he got

when he writes you letters he always addresses you as: lovey, baby, or my pretty boy

hey lovey, today was a hard day. training with ghost was tiring, he’s always expecting the best of us and i don’t hate it. my body is just tired right now…

to my pretty boy, your shirts stopped smelling like you a while ago. i miss you a lot…

baby, thank you for your letter (and the polaroid). i really think you should talk to your boss about it…

he has all your letters in a box under his bed at base :(

he keeps the photos you send him there as well

he wishes he could keep one with him in his wallet but he knows he’d put you in danger if he were to get captured or kia

he isn’t trying to hide them, it’s just the easiest place to grab them from after training

he takes at least two of your shirts with him to base and puts them over his pillow and cuddles it wishing it was you

whenever he has nightmares he re reads your letters as they calm him down (he imagines you’re in the room with him speaking to him)

when he’s back home he hugs you immediately and the two of you just cuddle in silence once you’re back home

he isn’t picky about the position at all, he just wants to be close to you (only really picky after a harsh mission)

he puts his dog tags on you when he’s on leave with you

the first time it happened caught you off guard

kyle looks at you, his eyes impossibly soft as he watches you reading on the couch. it’s a lazy day and all you’re really wearing is one of his shirts and your boxers.

he walks over to you and leans over your shoulder, kissing your cheek. you hum softly and look over at him.

“mm?” you hum.

“you looked peaceful,” he whispers. “cute.”

“was reading,” you whisper back. “the main character just found out that their mom is still alive.”

he hums softly and kisses your cheek again, walking over to sit next to you. he keeps his eyes on you.

“have i got something on my face?” you ask.

he shakes his head and you hum, not fully content with his answer. when you go back to your book, he takes off his dog tags and holds them in his hands for a second.

“hey love?” he asks.

you look up at him.

“come here.”

you move to sit closer to him, your book on the other side of the couch. he smiles at you, caressing your cheek as he kisses your forehead softly.

it’s then, when he does it.

he puts his dog tags over your head and watches as it settles on your chest. you gasps softly, surprised by the action. he twirls his tags around his fingers and pulls you closer to him.

“this?” he whispers, his voice dropping. “this means you’re mine pretty boy.”

[haztobegood]

WORDPLAY 2024 by haztobegood

I had an amazing time writing for the eighth round of @wordplayfics this year. Going into this challenge, I didn't set any expectations or rules for myself. I wanted to let the prompt word guide me each week. The random words were great inspiration. I finished three wips that had been long abandoned, some for more than five years! I also wrote a completely spontaneous fic based on a tumblr post, and added a third part to one of my favorites series. Here are my five incredible works that I'm so happy to share!

⭐️ 8.1 Nest - Necessities of Nesting (Larry, 5k, G, non-traditional omegaverse, nesting classes)

“I know this is a sensitive topic and you probably don’t want to talk about your nest with me. But I have a friend that teaches nesting classes. Maybe they could help.” “So you agree: my nest sucks and I’m a shit omega.”

⭐️ 8.2 Tight - A Tight Space (Larry, 2k, T, reverse werewolf, cat, curses)

Niall pushes the bedroom door open. A huge mass of brown fur bolts between his legs. Louis startles with a hand to his chest. “What the fuck was that?” “Oh, that’s the cat. I told you Liam found a stray a few days ago. That’s him.” “Are you sure that’s a cat?”

⭐️ 8.3 Carry - The Grundy County Corn Maze Incident (Niall/Greg James, 2k, T, meet cute, corn maze, injury)

Niall was getting tired and a bit worried about actually getting out of the corn maze. He had lost track of time and the fun was wearing off. Then, he heard someone shout for help.

⭐️ 8.4 Press - Special Instructions (Zouis, 2k, T, meet cute, chef Zayn)

He didn’t mean for the drawings to become a thing. But they have. Every Tuesday night around eight o’clock, a take out order from Louis T. appears. Each order has new special instructions, requesting some change to the carefully curated dishes that Zayn has concocted. And every Tuesday night, Zayn doodles a response to those special instructions.

⭐️ 8.5 Interference - A Wrench and a Rodent (Larry, 5k, T, Danny Phantom au, college, ghosts)

Louis just wants to study astrophysics, do some research, and graduate from Casper University. Fate throws a wrench in his plans.