#trying to talk to him sometimes is difficult

[luviestarz]

lee heeseung fic recs! part 2 ♥︎

♥︎ CATCH US, DISPATCH ! ⎯ l.hs. (completed) - @jalnandanz (being in love is hard. being in love with an idol is even harder. being in love with an idol while being an idol yourself is basically hell. what will girl group member y/n and member of boy group enhypen, heeseung, do while in this situation? and are they even trying to hide their relationship? i mean, holding hands without wearing masks and a cap is basically asking for dispatch to catch you!)

♥︎ eat with me - @fruityhoon (soft yandere!hee x gn!reader)

♥︎ "keep kissing me like that and i'll marry you" (heeseung x reader) - @heeliopheelia

♥︎ 이희승 、PRETTY GIRL - @boyfhee (bsf!heeseung, hints at friends with benefits)

♥︎ — ONE THING BEFORE YOU LEAVE - @flwrstqr (bf!heeseung x fem!reader)

♥︎ 이희승 、DINE AT HOME - @boyfhee (bf!heeseung, established relationship)

♥︎ tides of regret | heeseung - @pprodsuga (in the year since heeseung first rejected your love confession, you've tried everything to get over him. a trip to europe makes you realize you miss your former best friend more than anything, and it makes heeseung realize he's got it all wrong.)

♥︎ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ FORBIDDEN ATTRACTION ┊ LEE HEESEUNG - @jungqkook (if anyone was more popular than you at hogwarts, that person had to be lee heeseung – the young quidditch prodigy who has every girl at his feet and every boy following him like his puppies.)

♥︎ let's collab | (m) - @taeghi (you've always vied for the top spot on onlyfans but "hluvsbabes" makes it tough with his undeniable charm and looks. when you unexpectedly meet him you realize he's even more captivating up close. despite the competition, you find yourself unable to turn down his one request.)

♥︎ MAKE A MOVIE - L. HEESEUNG - @enhaheeseung (smut, unprotected sex, dirty talk, edging, cream pie, missionary position, filming.)

♥︎ 𝓑𝐔𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌 ୨୧ 𝐋𝐇𝐒 - @jlheon (you give heeseung detention once again for his habit of loudly chewing gum)

♥︎ are you jealous or are you jea— - @forallthethingsyouvemadeof (jealous! heeseung)

♥︎ eyes on me ; lee heeseung - @yeonzzzn (heeseung picks you up after a later shift from work and showers you with kisses in front of your work building.)

♥︎ 𝙄’𝙢 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨 | 𝙇.𝙃. - @simjaexy (Sometimes Heeseung gets jealous a little too much when you talk to other guys or when they flirt with you, so you have to remind him that you belong to him.)

♥︎ LATE NIGHT DRIVE ⟡ 𝒻. 이희승 - @fleurre (biker!hee x f!r your boyfriend shows up in the middle of the night to take you on a ride)

♥︎ teeth - @gyuuberryy (you were not thrilled about the move in of your new neighbour. mostly because he was so strange and seemed to be hiding something dark. and partly because you couldn’t stop yourself from getting closer to him because of your unwanted attraction. you were determined to expose his dark secret and get rid of him once and for all. but, it was proving to be a difficult task because he was just so irresistible..and needy.)

♥︎[ ♥︎ ] ── drunkenly in love  |  lhs. - @haerni (in which heeseung comes to you with stupid smiles, slurred words ‘nd with tipsy thoughts of you.)

♥︎ 𝓽𝓲𝓷𝔂 thing | 𝓵𝓱𝓼 - @onlyrains (relationship is scary; what if your partner is too tall for you to kiss them?)

♥︎ I HATE YOU — l.heeseung - @ikeuverse (you and your best friend's brother hated each other, almost as a matter of course between the two of you. but something changes when you wake up in his bed at the weekend.)

♥︎ ⎯⎯͟͟♥︎̼̻ 𝓈inking onto your ֺ  cock ꞌꞋ ࣪ _ 𝐿HS 𓈒 - @shypen (at your company’s afterparty located at your boss’ luxury mansion, the head staff & your co-worker lee heeseung excuses himself to head to the restroom. he doesn’t return after a while, your curiosity causing you to go search for him in every room in the house, pausing when you hear whiny moans from the guest room.)

♥︎ ㅤ ꢾ꣒ㅤㅤ BOY IN LOVE──LHS. - - @hhmnya (resumen ｡｡ when his impulsive thoughts win.)

♥︎ ── anywhere but home. ( lhs ) ּ 𓂅 ⋆ 💋 - @chobunz (“i can give you all the exact same things he can, but a million times better,” or where a hot stranger makes it his promise to be the better choice than the man you came with.)

♥︎ { ☆ the power play ~ l.hs } - @evnseokz (office rival! heeseung x f.reader)

♥︎ ꣑୧ BAD DECISIONS : LEE HEESEUNG - @itsminjify (agent!heeseung x agent!reader)

[cherrysolo]

loooove the way you wrote pissed lu, i remember reading something from his old roommate (?) where he said he never saw him anything but calm so i couldn’t picture it until i saw your reply to the request!! would love to see more of him trying to keep himself calm or how he would react to pissed reader <3

thank you sm!! I remember seeing his old roommate say that! it was very difficult for me to write because I don’t picture him as an angry person, so it was a good challenge! I’m so glad you loved it <3

this little piece is inspired by your request to see how the reader acts when she’s pissed and how lu deals with it. it’s also inspired by Taylor Swift’s song “all too well”. (if u guys get the references hehe). plus I deal with anxiety so this is soooo me lmao.

you and Luigi had flown from Hawaii to Pennsylvania to have a reunion dinner with his fraternity brothers. all of his closest college friends would be there with their significant others. you were so excited to finally meet some of his best college friends, you knew how much they meant to him.

as excited as you were, you were just as nervous. you struggled with social anxiety and meeting new people in large groups, something that luigi didn’t have trouble with at all. sometimes it felt isolating to have a partner who was very social and flourished in large groups. but anyway you did it for him, you just needed to relax and put on a happy face for him.

the dinner was going well as the boys reminisced, and the girlfriends made small talk. explaining their new job titles, talking about post-collegiate bliss, and looking back on their lives at penn.

quickly coming to the realization that you were the only one who didn’t go to an Ivy League school. you just studied English literature in Montreal, nothing special. all of these successful twenty somethings, long history of accomplishments, and you’re just… you. your eyes dotting back and forth at everyone at the table, just realizing how beautiful and blonde all these women are. did lu go to school with them too? my god, you felt so small and insecure with these anxiety-ridden thoughts flying through your mind. the smell of food began to be too much, your hair was sticking sweaty to your neckline, and your leg started bouncing to help calm yourself. you knew that these thoughts were untrue and were created in your mind, but your heart couldn’t stop racing. you didn’t feel good enough, to be by his side.

Luigi has always been a practical person, but he understood you struggled with anxiety and being in unfamiliar situations. He has never truly been in your shoes, but he tries his best to help out in anxiety-ridden situations, by grounding you or repeating your mantras.

Since he was used to comforting you in these situations, you quietly tried to grab his hand while he was talking to his ex-roommate to his left. you grab his hand, placing it on the table and intertwining your fingers. this is typically what you guys do to ground yourself in public, it’s a simple and sweet gesture.

as quickly as you grab his hand, it’s gone. he gives you a side eye, drops your hand, and continues his conversation like nothing happened. he dismisses you, in a way he hasn’t before. the act is cold and shocks you to no end. you then excuse yourself to the bathroom to calm down. while pacing back and forth in the ladies' room, you begin to have even more thoughts about what just occurred. why can’t he be affectionate in front of his friends? do I embarrass him? do you think they’re noticing how long I’ve been gone? taking some deep breaths, you walk back to the table.

…

“why have you been ignoring me the whole way back to the hotel?” luigi confronted you as soon as the door unlocked.

you scoffed, your anxiety and upset eyes had turned into anger. you felt embarrassed and angry that you even felt anxious and that you couldn’t be as socially acceptable as your partner.

“it’s nothing, I just want to go to bed, I’m tired,” you whispered. but luigi was having none of that,

“baby, you’re the one who said we should communicate better. what’s wrong? everyone was so happy to meet you tonight.” he pleaded with you.

“you dropped my hand.” you plainly stated, as luigi looked at you dumbfounded and confused.

his mouth agape, truly questioning what you meant by that.

“you dropped my fucking hand, what am I supposed to do with that?” you raised your voice, noticing the anger take over.

“I didn’t even fucking notice, what are you even talking about?” luigi matched your tone.

“I don’t even know any of these people. They’re all strangers, they’re all older than me, I feel so out of place! you know how bad my anxiety gets!” rushing to explain your anger but it just makes you feel worse.

luigi rolls his eyes, “I was catching up with my friends! you’re literally saying I dropped your hand. like what does that even mean? I don’t even remember the moment. god forbid I don’t pay attention to you for two seconds!” his tone and aggression shocked you. the last sentence is what made you go quiet. your face dropped, and you silently walk into the bathroom to take your makeup off.

lu regrets what it said as soon as it left his mouth. this is why he doesn’t like to be angry in front of you, regrettable things are said. he genuinely wants to help you during times of stress, but he doesn’t fully understand what goes on in your brain. he couldn’t tell that you were so upset over a small gesture.

as you leave the bathroom, getting ready for bed, you sigh, feeling a bit silly about overreacting. your feelings were valid, but the aftermath of a sudden argument makes you feel dizzy. you know that deep down he cares for you, but occasionally he doesn’t fully understand the extent of your anxieties. luigi was already falling asleep, so you lightly got into bed, not wanting to wake him.

the bed shifts as luigi turns over to face you, putting his hand on your waist. “this okay baby?”. you sighed and nodded yes.

rubbing his hands across your waist and your stomach, he begins to apologize, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or scared. I try to pick up on signals, but I can’t always read you that well. I’ll always be there to hold your hand,”

you hummed and placed your arm on his bicep, moments like these remind you why you love him so much. even during overwhelming situations, or not entirely understanding your reasoning, he still comes around, eventually.

“I love you, lu. I just get so overwhelmed and sometimes frazzled, sometimes my mind is like a car alarm that goes off for no reason, if that makes sense,” you explain, giggling. your laughs due to how silly it sounds out loud, but it’s true.

he smiles softly, trying to make sense of your analogy. “I see what you’re saying. sometimes I feel like a car that has no engine, I just shut off completely.” says jokingly, trying to make you smile.

you giggle, nudging your head into his chest, with his warmth enveloping you. “I think we both need to communicate more, amore,” he says softly, you know he’s joking, but there’s the truth behind it.

you felt him pull you closer, “I love you forever, my love. now get some rest” he softly says and presses a kiss on your forehead.

as you fall into a deep slumber, you feel so loved and appreciated by lu.

[occasionalsnippets]

I’m curious about Tim and MC’s relationship.

Like, is Tim grateful for the fact that MC took care of him?

Does he know that MC took his shifts as Robin so he wouldn’t deal with B’s bad days/nights?

Does he know that Jack and Janet didn’t really like MC?

How much does he resent Jack and Janet?

How does he bond/show his love for his sibling?

Also, how would the members of the Batfam bond with MC? (Before and After Damian snitched)

And what do the Batfam think of MC?

- Storm.Anon

Focusing on just Tim for this! Send another ask for other Batfam members owo because I do want to individually dig into each relationship.

Taglist: @dragondevinity, @lonely-star2044, @sheep-from-rad, @ilxandra, @thethingwiththefeathers, @star-wars-lycanwing-bat, @sackofsadstuff, @zonked-times, @paastaboi, @venfia, @fantasy-angelo, @linaisadream, @shirp-collector-of-fixations

Their relationship is both less complicated and more complicated than it should be. On one hand, you’re Tim's older sister-caretaker-parental figure-best friend- who can’t be categorized neatly into any singular category. On the other hand, none of those categories matter when you are the person he trusts more than anyone else in the world. More than he trusts himself.

Your parents do not hate you. You were an accident (huge, immensely big, giant accident) but they do care for you in some nebulous, difficult to discern, rich-people kind of way. They give you all the money you could want. They teach you the rules of high society and how to deal with the company. They try. Sometimes.

In many ways, you are their protege and student before a lot of things but you are still your mother’s child. A reflection of Janet Drake in every way that matters with a mind like a steel trap and a mouth that murmurs sweet poison. It is one of the main things Tim notes as a child when he thinks of you and mother.

The biggest mark against your parents, really, is the neglect. Their children weren’t their number one priority and both you and Tim knew. They could be worse. They could be better. C+ parenting all around.

Tim’s view on Jack and Janet are a bit fickle? Inconsistent? Complicated? He had wished for a very long time when he was younger for them to come home more often but he never really processed the whole situation until you forced everyone to get therapy. There’s quiet sadness in his feelings about his parents but not really resentment, not like you.

Not that those feelings have anywhere to go anymore. Both of you still grieved during their funerals.

Tim gives you gifts on mother and father's day and overtime the message written in the cards attached get longer and sillier. He still remembers the stillness of your initial reaction when he first presented you with a card.

He hadn't really noticed how much you did behind the scenes until he got older and realized you were internalizing a hell of a lot of things. His early days of existence are marked by your ever encompassing presence in his life. His parents leave. You stay. You always stay even as he digs himself into the pit that is becoming Robin.

He can always rely on you. If there is any truth in his life then it is that you will always be there for him. So, when you tell him with dark shadows cast upon your face that he shouldn't go out as Robin tonight, he accepts with minor protests.

You keep detailed reports on patrol to keep everyone updated when you're filling in as Robin and the ones from Tim's early days are... rough. Tim reads them because of course he does, and talks with you about it. A lot. You insist that he shouldn't have to deal with Batman because Tim is like 13 and Tim keeps saying that he chose this. So, the two of you compromise on it. Teamwork makes the dream work, right?

No one else really reads the old patrol reports. What happens during the early days stays between you and Tim and Bruce. Tim thinks Bruce still feels guilty about it, about both him and you.

Tim shows affection for you the same way you show affection. He'll go to company meetings in your stead. He learns to cook and bring meals to you when you're too busy. He orders materials for your hobbies whenever he notices you're running out.

Your relationship is not immune to normal sibling shenanigans though. You yell, you fight, he stands a centimetre away from the entrance of your room for no apparent reason, the two of you want to kill each other sometimes because "mother and father always liked you better-" and "I never wanted to raise you-"

You and Tim are so crazily co-dependent even if it isn't obvious. You're a bit less dependent than he is but you've also revolved your life around him and everything you do is basically for him so how true that statement is can be debated.

Sometimes you think you need him in order to be allowed to exist. There is no role for you except in reference to him, to your little brother who you'd give the world to.

Tim literally doesn't know how he'd survive or live without you. You taught him unconditional love. You're his favourite person. You've always protected him. He can't fathom the idea of existing without you.

You're impossible to separate from him and him from you. Aren't the two of you one and the same? Where does one end and the other begin? Who is he if not a reflection of you and who you raised him to be?

Alsjfjak so yeah. The Siblings. Them.

[astracora]

Turning Point - Part 3

Characters: Poly!LADs x gn!mc

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Angst, Loss of Arm, Lots of emotional struggle with disability.

Word Count: 3811

Written: 5th January 2025

Notes: Pre-relationship with gn!MC with all LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. Unnamed MC, but using my personal MC's basic appearance and adjusted backstory. I take some liberties with what the game offers me. I'm not going to go into every detail of adapting to a prosthetic, there's a lot of stages. For anyone curious, MC uses a multi-grip prosthetic, that relies on electric signals from their residual limb to help communicate movement, using a specialised (fantasy) metal because it's adapted for their job. Also the general adaptive time for one can be up to a year, (even longer depending on how much it needs adjusting and how much active support you have). I'm cutting it down to six months overall (though they continue to learn better ways to use it going forwards). On account of the LADs world having stuff like... AI Robots that can have a conversation with you in the streets, and magic powers. I don't know how long this will be, or how many parts. I have a horrifying number of notes... I guess we'll see how long I can go before my brain shuts down.

Now Playing: The Line, by Twenty One Pilots

Masterlist AO3

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You spend the next few days going through the motions.

You exist where you should be striving, and you breathe where you know you're supposed to laugh.

It's empty, but the angry beast in your heart doesn't snap and growl and howl. Demanding blood as recompense for an existence you cannot justify.

Looking in a mirror has become… difficult, so when you brush your teeth, or wash your face, too stubborn to let anyone help when your hand trembles, and you spill your things on the floor. You stare down. At the floor, as you go through motions you know like the back of your scarred hand.

There are moments when life bubbles up, but it is short and it is tired and you only feel it when you have others around you to bring it out. To ease life back into a hand that's become a claw. Smoothing the stretching torn skin, and tending to broken nails.

You go through the motions, because they wait for you on the other side of the door. If you cannot live for you, you will always live for others.

Sometimes it is all you can do, to motivate your broken heart to beat one more day.

Zayne comes with you to the hospital, to check in with your specialist. A warm older woman, who reminds you too much of Gran to not make you feel like you're seeing ghosts. It's a feeling mixed with guilt, and a small amount of fear. Unbidden but lurking. Everytime she, Meredith, touches you, an ache sparks in your heart.

A memory like static hits you, and you have to steady your breath and your heart with a firm hand before you can resume listening.

If you can even be said to be listening.

You're checked over, made sure that your injuries haven't been made worse by your isolation and lack of care. You're lucky, you're told. That someone found you, that they came to you, brought you back to the hospital.

You want to snap back that luck doesn't tear your arm from your shoulder.

That you're not lucky. You're not brave.

You're not anything.

Zayne is commended for his sutures, and his quick care, he barely responds, hand firmly in your one. Squeezing, loosening his grip, squeezing. Self comforting himself as much as he is comforting you. You return the gesture, staring out the window. Trying to take yourself somewhere else. Somewhere without white walls, and terrible motivational posters.

Somewhere where this ghost of your grandma isn't hovering over you. Where you're not hearing talk about next steps.

Somewhere warm maybe.

His hand grounds you, keeps you tethered. Part of you wants to release and let yourself float, the other is scared to disappear into the clouds without him. So you stay, and you hold on. Like you're a balloon he keeps around his wrist.

"Let's check your prosthetic fit. It will need adjustments going forwards as you learn to use it."

Static.

You're somewhere in the room, staring at yourself as you nod, a hand on your shoulder as your shirt buttons are loosened. As straps are pulled and tightened around skin. Even half aware they feel raw. Itching and burning against you.

Unwanted. Unwelcome.

It's a distant pair of eyes that gaze at the limb fitted into place, staring at the metal. You blink finally. Clearing your head to look. Just… look.

"Comfortable?"

You think back to the bathroom with Rafayel. His gentle hands soothing dirt from your skin, and his eyes glowing as they look at you. You think to a gentle hand stroking your head as you fall into sleep, starry blue eyes watching you carefully. You think about a crow bringing you snacks, of red eyes watching you warmly over a bowl. You think about a doctor's hand in yours, easing the scars over, like you've done to his.

You think about the pieces of you twisted and bunched and stuffed under skin that fits too tight. You think about the pain of waking up every morning now. Of avoiding your own gaze in the mirror.

You think of a limb you can still see the metal piercing through.

You aren't sure how to answer her. Too many things bundled up in your head, struggling to filter and file and understand which is which.

Zayne gives a gentle tug, looks down at you, forest eyes glimmering. Absently you think you see fear, like you're going to disappear, if he lets you go. Float away on a weak breeze.

It should shame you. Feeling this weak.

You're just so tired.

When he speaks, he soothes with his thumb, pressing into skin and drawing the infinity sign against you, "Is it rubbing painfully anywhere?" He clarifies the question.

The noise filters back a little, giving you a direct pathway to your answer, "The straps. They hurt."

The doctor nods to herself, she writes notes down and adjusts them. "They'll soften over use, you'll need to clean them weekly at least, leather conditioner can help ease the initial discomfort."

The raw rubbing softens a little, still too hyper aware of the feeling, you twitch away from her when she adjusts where the metal and sheath touches your skin. "Does it hurt?"

"No. Your hands are cold."

Her laugh reminds you of Gran too, and you can feel the walls getting closer. You have to hold it together. You have to keep it together.

You can't break down here. You can't. You have to be stronger than this.

It's like there's a lump in your throat. A feeling like you're going to be sick, maybe cry. Maybe both.

You can't be weak here.

"Can we take a minute, Doctor Rin?" Zayne asks, voice calm but cool. Like he isn't really asking, like it's a formality. Respect for someone who knows how to help you.

She leans back and nods, "Of course." She looks over at you and smiles, and it's too warm and kind to not make you flinch back, "Take a few minutes outside."

You can't respond because the lump in your throat is rising.

Don't cry.

With a steady hand on your back, Zayne leads you away from the room, steering you through the corridors of Akso. Out into the courtyards. Where it's quiet. Where no one can watch as you finally crack.

As you gulp, and cover your mouth. Trying to force it down as you hiccup and gasp.

There's a burning in your shoulder, everytime you feel the brush of metal, the chill through the sheath. You feel the cool straps, refusing to take your body heat. You reach up with your hand to pull them off but a hand takes yours. Holds it, as another releases the buckles. Removes the offending thing.

Gently. Carefully. Reverently.

He places it down on a bench, then pulls you closer. Rubbing warm circles into your shoulder and skin through your shirt. You cling to his, trembling until the feeling eases out. Relieved from your confines.

From the woman who brings ghosts to your door.

From the memories of ice cold pain and scorching blood.

"What do you need?"

You shake your head. Too much. You want this nightmare to be over. You want to wake up and things be easier. You want things you can't have.

You want to feel strong. Brave. Complete.

A hand, cool to the touch but accompanied by a warm gaze, turns your head. Looking up, as he wipes tears that have escaped against your will. "Do you want another doctor?"

Yes. No.

Maybe?

The ghost of Gran scares you as much as she comforts you.

Meredith Rin is top of her field. You know that. Logically it makes no sense, to turn down the woman who can have your back, get you through this.

If you want to move forward, you have to try. You have to.

"No." You choke out, shaking your head in his grasp, leaning into his palm, "No."

He seems relieved, face relaxing a little, "Very well, I've read her recommendations, testimonies from patients. I trust her abilities."

If he trusts her, you think you can too. You trust him right now, more than you can ever hope to trust yourself. Scared of ghosts and monsters lurking in the shadows.

Scared of yourself.

"Do you want to go home?"

Yes. You do. You do. You want to be anywhere but the hospital. You're so very tired of hospitals.

It is the feeling of fatigue. The feeling of knowing the corridors better than you want to. Of knowing the faces of the doctors. Of knowing the other patients who visit frequently.

It is not just Zayne that tethers you to the hospital, it is the heart in your chest, the illness in your life, the injuries from your job, and now the prosthetic on the bench.

"Darling." His thumb eases, soothes, wipes at fresh tears, "I'm here."

You think about hospital appointments that Caleb had joined you for. How he'd written notes and focused so you didn't have to. Keeping you tethered.

Zayne looks at you with warm, beautiful eyes, and offers you his stability and his brain to keep you standing. Where you waver.

So you shake your head, "I can do it." You can. You can do it. You're not alone, you can do it.

"If you need to leave, tap my hand twice, alright?" It's an offer to escape, but it's spoken with pride in his voice, as you stand a little taller.

Your nod is firmer than before, and this time when he picks up the prosthetic, you can look at it a little longer. Maybe soon you'll look at it and look forwards.

—-

Rafayel is trying to focus on his work. He has an exhibition coming up, that he would cancel if he didn't have some degree of guilt for the stress it would cause Thomas. He doesn't mind tormenting the man occasionally, but breaking promises… it's not something he can bring himself to do. He's not a hypocrite.

If he waited every year for you to return to that beach, he'll carry out the promises he's made to finish his art.

He's only half paying attention to his canvas, though. Paint on his brush drying in the air, because he keeps looking over at you.

You're sat with Xavier, as you work through exercises to help with balance. He can see the strain in your back. A loose vest worn so you don't rub at the shoulder. You wince, but push.

Rafayel's paintbrush is set to the side, sketchbook picked up, and he works.

You are a vision in charcoal, when you finish an exercise you exhale in relief, before moving on. Every hurdle cleared no matter how tall, has you stabilise. Visibly relaxing, flinching less when Xavier's hands touch you. The prince is careful, gentle and observant.

There's life to his page again, he isn't sure he'll ever show you the sketches of you like this. Scars on your skin, hurting, but he keeps it in case there is a day you ask. So he can show you that you live and you move. That stumbling and hurting is ok.

Rafayel records you in sketches because he values every version of you, and he hopes one day you see that, and believe it.

As you finish for the day, falling to the floor, lying down. Breathing heavily, and worn out fully. He hears a soft laugh, "I'll get some water." The prince heads off to the kitchen, while Rafayel puts his work down, closing the sketchbook carefully, and approaching you. So that he can look at you, upside down, nose inches from yours.

"Hey cutie. Nice work."

You hesitate before smiling. It's not the smile you've worn before, but it's not a fake one. It's just tired. He might not understand the feeling fully, but he knows how hard struggling is. How it drains you. He also knows that no matter how proud you can be, stubborn and biting at the bit to be strong, that he should commend every action.

Even if you huff that it should be a simple achievement. It is not, not some days. Some days, he watches you give in. Some days, you power through better than others.

Today you almost gave up, before getting fiery and angry at yourself. Growling and forging on.

So he will commend you, because he wants you to value the effort.

"You're cute upside down too."

This time you do exhale a laugh, hand reaching up to poke his forehead. You miss, frown, and try again. "You're silly."

He joins you on the floor, lying with his head at yours, his legs up on your sofa. Face turned to you. Neither of you make a move to sit up, it is comfortable to simply lie, and stare up at the dimmed lights. "You're doing well."

A shaky exhale is his immediate answer, but you nod, "I'm trying."

He wants to say that trying is enough, he doesn't know if that's the right thing to say, but instead he reaches over towards your hand, and takes it in his. He can watch as the furrow in your brow eases, frown easing a little. He thinks you're finally trying to rely on them. To find comfort in their presence.

To not feel alone.

"It's hard," You speak, guilt in your voice, like you're confessing a sin. He squeezes, so you continue, "I feel pathetic, and sometimes I feel angry. So angry." You look at him, eyes glistening and he nods, "I want to give up."

"But you don't." He offers, watching your eyes waver, you can't hold his gaze for long, but he knows you're still keeping focus on him. Grounding yourself. "I'm glad that you're working through it."

Your exercises exhaust you, movement is harder now so he watches you fray. You let them handle things, food, cleaning, so you can focus on recovery. Rafayel is pleased, smug almost, that his presence here allows for that. It's a warm heat in his chest, like he's watching the tides, because if he can help you stand up tall again, he'll do anything for you.

You don't speak for a while, simply breathing through, relaxing and calming yourself. He reaches his other hand over to brush hair from where it sticks to your skin, revelling in the small shudder he gets from the sensitivity.

He will always be too sensitive to everything you do.

Xavier sits then, on your other side, and he looks up as you look at the glass in the prince's hand.

You release Rafayel's hand, pushing yourself up, shaking your head at the offer of help, and lean over a little to take the glass. Xavier's hand stabilising your back.

As he watches you, Rafayel thinks about your impatience, to be useful again. Back in the field. To overcome the hurdles despite the fact you wish to give up, he returns to his sketchbook.

With a quick pen, a dagger takes pride of place in the centre of his page.

—---

"We are not eating fish every night."

"Who made you the boss?"

"Variation is important in a diet."

"Fish is good for you!"

"Except for one big one."

You leave your bedroom after a nap, to find Sylus, Rafayel and Zayne in the kitchen.

Sylus has instructions on his phone, as he chops vegetables, while Rafayel is sat on the counter, trying to… you assume sabotage his efforts.

Zayne has his head in his hands, trying to read what you can tell is your treatment schedule. "Can the both of you act your age?"

"Tell that to the fish."

"I have a name, crow!"

You feel the laugh bubble out of you unbidden. The image is so out of sorts, and so ridiculous. Sylus of the N109 Zone, and Rafayel the lemurian artist. Arguing in your kitchen. That's far smaller than either of them are probably used to.

While your doctor sits and grumbles at them, barely trying to keep them from killing each other.

They turn at the sound, three pairs of stunning eyes, focusing on you as you try to cover your mouth to keep the laugh from escaping.

It doesn't work though. You laugh, and you laugh, and you laugh.

It's almost hysteric. Like a collapse, like walls crumbling down, and foundations falling.

It's euphoric. A release of pent up feelings you keep struggling to let out.

It's relieving. Tears flowing with it. Hiccups starting, laughter into sobs, then laughter again.

It's stupid but it throws something off of you. A beast of a burden, clinging to your back. Trying to pull you down.

It settles at your ankles, clinging to you, but you can stand up a little taller.

The monster that lurks, that angers, that demands blood. The creature that tells you to give up. It silences itself, curling up, and slumbers. Not forever. It never leaves forever, but for a little while… it is chased away by the realisation that you have something still to see.

These foolish men, living their lives alongside you.

Sylus' eyes are molten pools of affection as he watches you, lips quirking into that small smile you know intimately. "What do you want, kitten?"

"Cutie will make the right choice!"

As you approach, sitting beside Zayne at the counter who wipes your face as you do so, you smile softly, "I want salmon."

Rafayel lets out a whoop, way too close to Sylus' head, who winces and glares at him.

"You truly are a cat, kitten." He tuts, but moves to the fridge to grab it from the groceries Xavier had picked up earlier before heading off for a mission.

Zayne had given him a strict list of food that are good to eat when you are in recovery… even if some cookies had snuck their way into the list.

You try not to think about how you should be out there with him.

Zayne lets out an exhale next to you, "Finally, that argument is over."

"The doctor was very unhelpful." Sylus inputs, raising a brow at the man.

"As long as it's healthy, I don't mind what you prepare." He pushes the schedule close to you, so you don't have to lean over to watch, "I've been making notes for what we can do at home to help alleviate the time spent in the hospital."

You blink at him, and he pushes his glasses up to smile, "Is that alright?" It's a small nod, you're not sure how to explain to him how seen you feel with them.

It's been a long time since there was security in your life. You wish it had come at a time where you also didn't feel like you're standing over the edge of the abyss… but the safety net you can see below you finally… well… going through the motions is looking less like a chore.

"When do you start your prosthetic training?" Raffy asks, swinging his legs.

You check the documents, because you truly can't remember much of what was said to you verbally, and you'd been avoiding reading them since you received them. "A week."

"I'll send a copy around to everyone, if you're alright with it?"

You nod, it's an easy thing to agree to. You think about them finding you curled up in the blanket. It can't get much worse than that…

"Is your exhibit going well, Raffy?"

The man in question jumps, and you think he looks a little guilty, "I have one more thing to finish, it's giving me trouble, but I'll get there. Promise you'll come see it?"

It's hard to promise anything, caught in jewel eyes, watching them like a shimmering luminescent sea. You don't want to let Rafayel down, if you can't go. If you're too tired. If you're sick. If you just can't bear to be out.

What do you want to do? Plays in a loop in your head. If you can, what do you want?

You think about how Rafayel holds to promises like they mean everything. You think about the feeling you have sometimes like you've broken one without meaning to. You think about how warm his voice is when he forgives you if you can't go out with him because you hurt too much or are too tired, long before now. In a way you can't fake your way through, despite how much you hate letting your body pull you down.

It's easy then. What you want… the picture is clearer.

"I promise Raffy." Because as long as you can, you will. Because he'll understand if you can't. If your body hurts too much, if your fatigue is too great, if you're drowning.

His smile is so relieved, so bright, you almost look away from him.

An artist could try to capture him, and fail a million times over. He is too beautiful, and too kind, to ever be recorded on paper or canvas.

"How come the invite wasn't extended to all of us, fish?" Sylus teases, flicking some water off his hands at Rafayel's face. Who instantly looks like a startled cat in response.

"Why would anyone want you there crow?"

"You doubt my eye for beautiful things?"

"I doubt your taste in anything but cutie."

The man laughs, amused and unbothered by the insult, "Perhaps you should paint them, I'll definitely appreciate the art then."

Despite your nap, as you watch them, as the room is warm, you find yourself leaning into Zayne. Eyes drooping, he adjusts himself to place an arm around your waist, "You should go to bed if you're still tired."

The disgruntled mumble makes him huff a soft laugh, but he allows you to stay leaning into his side, as he turns paper, and reads. "Your specialist's work is very clear." He hums in approval.

"Approval from Doctor Li." You manage to tease, "I'm in good hands."

"You are. Though it took a little while to convince Sylus of that."

The man in question half shrugs as he stirs a pot, "There is no compromise with your health Kitten, I'd drag a doctor from halfway across the world if I had to."

This time Raffy nods, as though it's an obvious thing. To have the money to do that. Or, you think in Sylus' case, the power to do that. You'd be a little worried about the doctor's state of mind though. Kidnapped by a criminal and dragged to Linkon.

"It'll be ok." You manage, though sleep is pulling you under yet again. The net is there, ready to catch you. You feel a kiss pressed against your head, but it is dim and it is far away, and you fall before you can respond.

[fatliberation]

Sorry for leaving this in your inbox, but I need to vent and ask for advice in a place where people won't mock me. What do you do when sex is super difficult because of your fat? I've recently gotten into my first relationship and. I thought I had a handle on my internalized fatphobia and self hate but this has made it worse than ever. We can't have satisfying penetrative sex (we've tried all the tips and workarounds. Nothing works. I'm larger than most of the FA community.), and recieving oral sex is also difficult for me. I also get tired and sweaty extremely quickly if I have to like hold up myself on mostly my arms or something, so he has to do most of the work. So sex is just. Mostly the one that works on repeat, and we don't have it very often because it isn't that fun for either of us, and it also makes me cry afterwards sometimes because of how disappointing it is & me beating myself up over it.

I'm genuinely worried my boyfriend is going to leave me for this. He's clearly very frustrated with the situation, even though he tries to be nice about it most of the time. Earlier today I tried to like be flirty and hint at stuff and he just. got a bit sad. and then said that clearly neither of us enjoy the sex we're having and that he has a lot of trouble staying hard.and that he doesn't see the point when we're both forcing it for no reason. I think he's going to break up with me soon. His ex is way lighter than me, so he's probably comparing the normal sex he had with her with whatever the fuck this abnormal shitshow is :/

All the work I've done on myself to be happy with being fat (including working up the courage to date, what a mistake that was lmao) is all gone. This has ruined my self-esteem so much. I feel like one of those fatphobic jokes but a person.

first and foremost, please try your best to remember this: your body is not the problem. one more time. your body is not the problem. I'm so very sorry you're concerned that your boyfriend would leave you over this. it sounds like he has a lot of preconceived ideas about how sex is supposed to go. I promise you that it doesn't have to be this way. if this is something that could really end the relationship, know that this person is not compatible or open to exploring your needs, rather than your needs being "too difficult." I promise it's him, not you. I know folks who are 600+ pounds who have excellent sex lives and partners who satisfy them and enjoy satisfying them. when someone starts treating your pleasure like a chore, that's just shitty. I know how much it hurts. it also does damage to your own openness to pleasure. when you're caught up in feeling like sex/your body is something that needs to be "fixed," nothing is going to feel sexy, because all that pressure puts stress on and takes you out of the mental state where you're able to experience pleasure. does that make sense? so many couples get stuck in this cycle.

there are so many ways to engage in pleasure without penetration or orgasm. there's a lot that goes into foreplay, setting a mood, making your partner feel appreciated and attractive. words and touch play a huge part in this. something as simple as exploring each other's bodies, not with the intention of reaching climax, but simply to be vulnerable and engage each others' senses. have your partner give you a massage. play with your hair. tickle your back with a feather. shower together. kiss you. compliment you. if either of you are into any kinks or dirty talk, that could be a great way to engage each other sexually without the pressure of "achieving" a goal. the goal here is just to feel good, close, and connected. societal messaging about sex has placed so much importance on orgasm instead of pleasure - when taking the time and space to relax and receive attention, is key.

feel free to check out my other posts on fat sex ed, there's lots of assistive toys that can make pleasure more accessible, but I think that should be a tool for later, since the biggest issue here is the pressure to perform. know that pleasurable sex can exist for you! but for now, I would recommend taking a break from sex altogether since it is not pleasurable for you right now. because pleasure is the whole point. forcing it is only going to feel worse. you do not owe it to your boyfriend, especially if it doesn't feel good and is taking an emotional toll. I hope you both are able to take a step back, reassess and communicate, and are able to reconnect and create a safe space to explore.

I understand why you're beating yourself up over this, I've been there too. but also know that it's just another societal standard that's been internalized (and it doesn't sound like your boyfriend is helping). like you said, you've done a lot to unlearn fatphobia. there's a lot of internalized beliefs we absorb from society surrounding sex, just like body image. I promise that there is nothing wrong with you. If your boyfriend takes his frustration out on you instead of making you feel safe to express your needs, then he's not a supportive partner. you deserve someone who takes delight in your pleasure and your body. believe me, we're out there.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 2 - Under My Skin

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: If you're mad at me for getting any lore or myths wrong through this story, consider that Supernatural themselves cannot track their own lore, and I'm doing my goddamn best.

Chapter title from Akaska Sad by Rina Sawayama

Word Count: 15.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean and John take on an odd, difficult case, and you try—and fail—to avoid them. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Read on A03!

Lately, Dean’s life was fucking lonely. It was made of long car rides where Dad wouldn’t speak to him, countless cases where he felt almost useless, and restless nights where he’d get up to use the bathroom, look at the couch, and feel a little piece of him die again when Sam wasn’t there.

Every town looked the same. Every girl did too. He didn’t try to talk to them—he never had—but there was still something in him that was so furiously lonely, he was burning through chicks night by night in a desperate plea that they’d offer him something. Sometimes they’d talk to him, and that would become enough. He was never really all that interested—they all had the same voice and same words and same boring, apple pie lives that Dean would never get to be a part of—but it carried him over until the next one. Until he and Dad got the monster, left town, and nobody there would have to spare Dean a thought for the rest of their lives.

He tried to make them remember. He poured all he had to spare into the sex, and making it good enough that maybe—when each woman was married with kids and some sort of boring office job—they’d still use the memory of him to get off. They might not remember his name, or his voice, or his face, but they’d remember how he made them feel. And that did a little more to curb the loneliness. The pit like feeling of uselessness.

But sometimes he’d strike out, and be forced to wake up on an empty, stiff motel mattress. Dad would already be gone—getting coffee or working there leads or just fucking sick of Dean not being Sam—and it would only be Dean in the whole world. And that wasn’t enough. It couldn’t just be Dean. It’s never supposed to just be Dean. When it’s just him, everything gets too loud and too quiet and so hot, but also massive and empty and cold. Corners are shaper and knives are duller and colors are all muted, because only Dean can see them and he doesn’t deserve to. 

And when that happened, sometimes he’d grab his phone and consider calling Sammy. He’d stare at the number—hidden from Dad with a fake contact, just in case—and allow his thumb to hover over the call button, but never press it. He couldn’t. He’d have no way to get to California, Sam probably wouldn’t want to see him, and Dad would freakin’ kill him for even considering it. Dean couldn’t even say Sam’s damn name without Dad’s jaw ticking and an unsettling tension falling over the room.

So Dean stayed lonely. He worked every case lonely, found every bed lonely, and woke every morning lonely. 

But he wasn’t lonely in his dreams. It didn’t matter why he wasn’t, but he wasn’t. That, at the very least, was something Dean could count on. When he slept, he’d never be lonely, because-

It didn’t matter. They were just dreams, and dreams didn’t mean shit. Even it had been the same person starring in them every night—the same beautiful, twisted salvation to the pit that had formed inside of Dean, that he loathed and craved and couldn’t figure out how to get rid of—for the past year, Dean wasn’t some crystals and tea leaves chick who was going to try and find meaning in his freakin’ dreams.

This lady seemed to be, though. She was dressed like she belonged at Woodstock, there were dreamcatchers and random dried plants all over her house, and she kept trying to offer Dean a palm reading. Telling him his aura was strong. That didn’t fucking mean anything, because that shit wasn’t real, and Dean should know. His whole life was figuring out what things were real, and what was fake.

This magic, witchy bullshit was fake. 

The ghost haunting Woodstock Chick’s house was very real.

“You know,” Woodstock frowned at Dean and Dad from across the table. “I’m a little surprised you’re listening to me.”

Dad shrugged. “Well, ma’am it’s routine to investigate complaints. It ain’t our job to judge, just hear what you’ve got for us. Now, we’ve got the objects flyin’ around-“

“It’s just,” Woodstock let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head slightly. “I’ve been filing these complaints for weeks, and all I’ve gotten is made fun of by my neighbors. Then, suddenly, you’re taking me seriously? Sending three officers to talk to me-“

Dean cleared his throat, shooting Dad a weary look. “Sorry, did you say three?”

“Yeah. You two, plus the one yesterday. Young woman, with the rings and lip gloss. She was gorgeous, good skin and hair, bright aura, just like yours.” she smiled at Dean as she continued. “She kind of looked like a,” Woodstock frowned, tilting her head. “Like a cat.”

Dad scowled. “A cat.”

Woodstock nodded. “You know, just like how he,” she nodded at Dean, and he frowned. “Looks like a puppy. It not about their faces, it’s about their energy-“

“And you’re saying this chick had the energy of a cat?” Dean asked, not allowing himself to dwell on the puppy thing. He had too much shit to worry about already. “Ma’am, we-“

“We’re takin’ your complaints seriously, ma’am.” Dad’s voice was firm over Dean’s, and Dean felt a cringe of shame in his chest. “Now, tell us about the lights, and we’ll let you keep goin’ with your day.”

Woodstock continued, Dad asking more careful, smart questions as Dean sat in silence, and the lady’s problem was pretty obviously a ghost. Kind of a douchebag of a ghost, but just a ghost. The hard part was just gonna be figuring out who it was, because Woodstock was insisting nobody had ever died in this house, that she had no dead relatives, and that she’d never even killed anyone.

That last question did get them kicked out, though.

“We ain’t accusin’ you of anything, ma’am.” Dad remained in the threshold of Woodstock’s door, holding the angry woman’s gaze. “It’s a just part of our report-”

Woodstock let out a dry laugh. “Nice try, officer, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but I do know that’s a lie. If you come back, come back with a warrant, or-“ Woodstock paused, looking between Dean and Dad. “Send Officer Brown. She was nicer, and didn’t ask me stupid questions.”

The door slammed, Dad groaned—running a hand over his face before stomping back to the Impala—and Dean was frozen in place as Woodstock’s words rang a loud, clean, golden bell in his brain. When Dad shouted at him to haul ass he managed to move, but barely. Everything was far away, because things that were supposed to be trapped in dreams were starting to follow Dean into the real world. They weren’t supposed to. Dean had promised himself he’d keep Her trapped down, where he never had to think about her until sleep dragged Her back to the surface of his brain.

And that hadn’t really been working. Sometimes he’d smell fruity perfume on a woman, and She’d flash in front of his eyes. Sometimes he’d have some random girl next to him or over him or under him, and they’d moan, and it would sound like a siren. The worst was when someone would look at him and a tiny, traitorous asshole voice would whisper She’d look at you better. She’d be better. You’re a piece of shit, Dean Winchester, because She’d been the freakin’ best and you left her.

He hadn’t left Her. He’d escaped her. Outsmarted whatever bullshit she’d been trying to pull on him, whatever scam She’d been running. And it didn’t fucking matter that his brain was clinging onto every piece of Her he’d gotten to see that day—that the bells were made of Her beautiful voice saying Brown’s a cop—because she’d probably stopped hunting. Realized it wasn’t the fun little rush She thought it was and crawled back home to her fancy, stupid life. 

But She’d told him she’d been hunting since she was fifteen.

That had probably been a lie too.

It hadn’t sounded like a lie. 

Well, maybe She’d just been an awesome liar. 

Dean needed to snap the hell out of it. He’d tread down this path countless times, the voice—it seemed to live in his chest, a little to the right of his heart—trying to work out what that whole thing had been, and a good reason for Dean to track Her down and ask if She’d felt it too. 

But She’d been playing him, and he never wanted to see Her drop-dead gorgeous face again. It didn’t matter what he’d felt, because Dad was right. It had probably been some sort of trick, made of all those pretty lies and words She’d been using on him. So Dean didn’t mention to Dad that Brown had been one of Her aliases, because he wasn’t supposed to remember anything about Her. Dad was seething in the driver’s seat—grumbling about lone, stupid hunters interfering in their case—but She wasn’t here, probably, so it didn’t matter anyway.

Another three days passed, and they still couldn’t figure out who the ghost was. Everyone Woodstock knew was clean—and claimed she was too—and everyone in this town died of old age like a bunch of freaking suckers, so they had nothing. This ghost couldn’t chill the fuck out, Woodstock had been telling anyone who would listen about how it had started to throw plates at her head—how she didn’t feel safe—so Dad had them on rotating watches. Keeping an eye on the house from the forest in case Woodstock started screaming while the other kept working it, searching for just one goddamn idea of who the ghost could be.

They hadn’t figured out who the other hunter was, either, but Dean was growing more and more certain it might be Her. He could’ve sworn he saw a flash of perfectly styled shiny hair on the street. He was either going batshit crazy, or he’d heard Her voice in a corner store while he was buying aftershave. And a feeling like gravity had reformed in his eyes, bringing his attention to shadows that might be Her and making his every nerve flare when he smelled something sweet. Most of all, he’d been in the motel parking lot a handful of times and felt it. That odd, light feeling that had surrounded him when he’d met Her, making it so easy to breathe he’d been certain he’d been doing it wrong before. That he’d started to do it wrong again, after She’d left. It had felt so good and been so impossibly to duplicate—Dean had really tried to, as well, in body after body after body—but it was back like a fucking asteroid, crashing into him and obliterating everything he’d thought had been right.

But he hadn’t told Dad. To start, Dad would look at him like he was a fucking idiot, and ask if Dean had watched a chick flick while drinking one too many beers. Then Dean would mumble no, and Dad would roll his eyes and tell him to get his shit together, because they had a job to do.

Dean could’ve told Sammy. He would’ve listened, made a little fun of Dean, and then started to ask a bunch of  questions about what made Dean think it was Her. Maybe Sam would have found an explanation about how the vampire baby made men go crazy or something. Maybe She’d been a monster, and Sam would figure out what kind the moment Dean explained it.

But Sam wasn’t here, and Dean didn’t have any real evidence. He hadn’t seen that fancy car She’d been driving, and when he’d very casually asked the front desk of their motel—the only one if town—if anyone with Her name was in a room he’d gotten a no, but she’d probably be in a real hotel. With good water pressure and room service and little shampoo bottles that she didn’t need. 

She hadn’t been in a fancy hotel last year. But that had probably just been another part of the scam.

So he didn’t tell Dad. Dean just took his shifts to watch Woodstock, worked the case, and fucking prayed they’d wrap this up and he could forget the whole thing. Dad would find something soon, they’d gank the ghost, and it would be done. 

Dad had even said he had a new lead, when they’d swapped the watch. Dean had dropped off the car and gotten orders to stay here until Dad got back, to call only if it was an absolute emergency, and to message if he thought of anything new. 

He’d been trying to. Dad was off working the lead, and Dean really wanted to help, but no matter how long leaned against the trees—watching Woodstock’s house and frowning into the air—he couldn’t think of shit. His brain felt numb, because this was freaking boring, and none of it made sense. It was just a ghost, it shouldn’t be this hard. Shit, with another hunter on the case, the asshole should’ve been ash days ago. Maybe it had been Her, and she’d realized they were in town, and She’d left. Been worried they’d try to turn her in for her bullshit, even though She had no way to know they’d figured her out. 

Maybe She hadn’t wanted to see Dean. Which shouldn’t bother him at all, but the thought made his stomach turn and heart split down the center. He didn’t get it. It shouldn’t hurt, because he sure as hell didn’t want to see Her. He was looking everywhere for Her, but he didn’t want to see Her. He didn’t. He didn’t-

He did. He could. That was fucking Her. Walking up the steps of Woodstock’s house with a large bag, knocking on the door and being welcomed in with a warm smile Woodstock hadn’t offered Dad or Dean. 

She looked hot. Dean wasn’t sure it was possible for Her not to—She’d even looked sexy covered in blood—but she’d somehow gotten hotter. She wasn’t wearing that horrible jacket anymore, but well-fitting, casual clothing that She moved so easily in. Clothing that suited Her, that She looked comfortable in, that Dean wanted to touch to see what fabric She liked. It would tell him more about Her, about what she deemed suitable for herself, what she enjoyed, what she wanted. And if She allowed him close enough, maybe Dean could rip it off Her body-

Fuck. It was happening again. Dean had just looked at Her and she’d dragged him under some sort of trance. The feeling had returned in full force, like an inevitable kind of cancer over his brain that Dean didn’t know how to cure. Part of him didn’t even want to cure it—it felt right and natural and filled up that pit with a shifting light that was shaped like Her—but he had to. He was useless like this. Useless to the hunt, useless to himself, useless to Dad. Dad would smack him on the head and tell him to get a goddamn grip, because a girl wasn’t worth falling down for. Dean’s job wasn’t staring at pretty things and trying to make sense of them, it was creating ash and spilling blood. He was a solider, not a prince who was going to save the damsel. 

And She wasn’t a damsel. She was a bitch. The prettiest, funniest, smartest bitch Dean had ever met, who seemed like Cinderella but was really a stepsister. Dean didn’t need Her, and he shouldn’t be sparing Her a single thought at all. He should just text Dad that She was the other hunter, that She seemed tight with Woodstock, and that She’d been in the house for a long time.

A really long time. 

Too long. It had been almost an hour since She’d disappeared off the porch, and unless she was there for a sleepover, she should’ve been out by now. Maybe the ghost had gotten the jump on Her and Woodstock. Maybe Dean had to go in and save Her, not because it was Her, but because that was his job. And maybe She’d thank him, and kiss him because She was so grateful he’d put his grudge aside to save her life, and it would be awesome and She’d taste like sugar and be soft under his hands-

“Dean Winchester.” 

He nearly leapt out of his goddamn skin, spinning around with wide-eyes and clenched fists that couldn’t seem to remember how to fly and land square in Her pretty, mocking face. She was standing barely three feet away, Her arms crossed and brows raised, her bag nowhere in sight.

“Fucking hell, Princess.“ The nickname slipped out of him without thought, because She really did look like royalty. He knew why that was now—easy to look smoking hot and fancy when you had the money for it—but it didn’t change the fact. Her lips were glossy, her eyes seemed to shimmer with that pretty color that washed over his dreams, that causal clothing really did look like it was made to touch Her, and Dean couldn’t believe he was jealous of a fabric-

“What are you doing here.” Her voice still had that haunting, angel-like quality, but it was flat. Bored. Almost dead.

He gave Her a smirk, and he wasn’t sure why it hurt that She barely even blinked back. “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing. What could a bitch like you be doing in a place like this?“

Her eyes narrowed, and Dean could’ve sworn She curled a little into her body. “I asked first.”

Dean shrugged. “I asked louder.”

“I- You know what? I don’t care.” She stood a little taller, her voice somehow growing colder. “Whatever you’re up to, stop. This is my hunt. I got here first, I’m handling it, and you’re only going to slow me down.”

Dean let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Ghosts aren’t really gonna respect dibs, sweetheart.”

Her eyes flashed with something Dean didn’t really understand. “They don’t, but I’m not that worried about it, De. Like I said, I’m handling it.”

He glared at Her, ignoring how something in his chest was humming, trying to get Her to call him De over and over again forever. “Sorry,” he drawled Her name, leaning forward and trying not to think about how she didn’t flinch away. How he could smell that same, fruity perfume and sugar from before. “I guess we’ll just have to let the better hunter win.”

She raised Her chin, holding his gaze. “I’m warning you, Winchester. Leave.“

He chuckled. “I’m good, Princess. Think I’ll pass, but trying to warn me was cute-”

“Listen to me.” She hissed, leaning close enough that Dean could pick out every small bump on Her face, isolate every color in Her eyes. “I’m not asking. Go back to Sam and John, tell them you figured it out and it’s done, and get the fuck out of my way.”

Something brittle snapped in Dean’s spine, his jaw clenching as the words pushed out of him like vomit. “Sam’s not with us. He left.”

He didn’t know why the fuck he’d tell Her that. She wouldn’t care. She seemed to hate Dean as much as he hated Her—probably bitter he’d got the up on Her, didn’t want him to mess with whatever scam she was trying to pull on Woodstock—and She’d met Sam twice. He shouldn’t have told Her that, because Dad hated even talking about it. Hell, Bobby barely knew about it. It was family business, and She wasn’t family, and that perfume had to be some sort of pheromone because it was making Dean a freaking dumbass-

“Is he okay?”

Dean blinked at Her, and her expression wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t empty. She didn’t seem like a statue anymore, and whatever was behind Her eyes looked real. Just as real as it had been last year, like there was a whole universe inside of Her that Dean had wanted to explore. To find out what She was made of, and if it was as similar to heaven as it seemed.

It wasn’t. Dean knew that, in his working brain—rather than his heart that stretched for Her and his dick that ached for Her to be just a little closer—She wasn’t heaven. She was temptation in a beautiful form, determined to make Dean weak and pathetic and soft, everything he couldn’t allow himself to be. But he still told Her the truth. His voice lower and without any venom, his body tensed slightly, his brain spinning as the strange look in Her eyes seemed to glow, dragging the words out of him. 

“He’s fine. Off at college. Decided he didn’t want-“ Dean cut himself off with a small shake of his head. He wouldn’t be that weak or dumb, exposing a gap in his armor she’d use to make him crumble to his knees. “He was done hunting. Wanted a normal life.”

She was just looking at him. Scanning over him carefully, holding one of Her own hands and just fucking staring, like Dean might be an illusion or his words might be a lie, and She was trying to look for evidence of it.

“That sucks.” She finally said, and it sounded so real. Like She might actually give a shit that Dean was lonely. That Sam had left him. “Sorry.”

 “I don’t need your pity, sweetheart-“

“I don’t pity you.” She snapped, Her features growing harsh once more. “I’m saying that fucking sucks, I know you cared about him. I’m apologizing because it’s probably complicated and messy and not all that fun to deal with.”

Dean scowled, something raw snapping along his heartstrings. “I’m doing just fine, Princess. I’ve got my dad, and Sammy’s safe in California. He’s still my brother, and it’s not like he’s fucking dead. So I’m good.”

She raised her brows, an amusement that made Dean’s gut boil written over Her face. “Yeah, you really sound it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch it-“

“Or what.” She hissed, leaning forward until Dean was almost drowning in Her. “You gonna run to John and tell him that the little moroi bitch is bullying you? That you need to hurry up on the hunt, because you can’t stand that I’m going to get this thing all by my fucking self-“

“All by-“ Dean stared at Her. “You’re still hunting alone?”

Her face twisted, her words hushed and furious. “That is none of your fucking business-“

“It is if you’re going to get yourself killed-“ 

She snorted. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t pretend like you give a shit about me-“

“I give a shit if you end up monster chow.” Dean sneered, pretending something wasn’t cracking along his ribs at the certain, settled hatred in Her voice. “The job is saving people, not choosing who. You try and jump in front of that ghost, I’ll stop you-“

“Please,” She scoffed, narrowing her eyes. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”

Dean’s breathing was ragged. His heart was violent in his chest, and his hands were curled at his side, and She was so fucking infuriating. Dean shouldn’t give a shit about Her, but his skin felt like it was being flayed at the thought of Her in danger or pain, and She shouldn’t sound like she was wounded by being the little moroi bitch, because She was, and Dean wanted to grab Her by the neck and slam his lips to Her’s-

“Stay out of my way, Winchester.” She hissed, still so close, and looking so warm and soft, and Dean was so close to figuring out what the hell that fruit was-

She was gone. She leaned back in a rough, sharp movement—like Dean was a magnet and She was only just strong enough to pull herself away—and just walked away. 

He might be stuck here forever—on the edge of the woods outside Woodstock’s haunted house—his body trying to cling to her and his brain trying to erase Her forever. It was something he’d been trying to do for a year, something he’d never managed, and something that was made so much more difficult by the fact that She looked back. That their eyes met one last time, and it was like lightning through his blood.

He would have chased Her in Dad hadn’t called right then. He spent the next two days trying to convince himself he wouldn’t have, but it was a fucking lie. He wasn’t sure what he would have done when he caught Her, but he would’ve chased Her. Rushed after Her and asked why had She lied, why did She look like she wanted to punch Dean when She’d been the one to hurt him, if She had looked back because she could feel it too. Feel the gravity, feel the drug, feel the storm that threatened to consume Dean in Her name. Ask if She dreamt of him, ask if She saw him in shadows, ask if She was a monster and beg her to set him free.

But he hadn’t chased after Her. So it didn’t matter. Dad had picked Dean up—long after She’d been gone, Dean still rooted in place, his head still spinning—and he hadn’t seen Her since, so it didn’t matter. Maybe She’d left. Maybe She’d just skipped town, and Dean would never see her again.

That shouldn’t feel horrible. It should be relieving, the idea that he’d won. That he’d gotten the hunt, gotten Her away from him, gotten a justification for why he hadn’t told Dad he’d seen Her. It would mean that She was gone, and Dean could pretend that had never happened at all. But it still felt like fucking shit, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop it. It ate away at his brain as the days blurred together, and they hit dead end after dead end. She remained at least out of sight, Dean still didn’t tell Dad that She’d ever been in town, and the hauntings just fucking stopped. No more lights, no more temperature drops, no more screaming Woodstock. 

It couldn’t have been Her. There were no graveyard disturbances, She hadn’t entered the house since their conversation, and it wasn’t like the EMF was gone. On the second day of no activity they’d had broken into Woodstock’s house, checked to see if it was gone, and it wasn’t. It had just stopped haunting.

Dad was losing his mind. He was barely speaking to Dean, shooting down all his ideas, and mostly just reading book after book and grumbling that it didn’t make any goddamn sense. Ghosts just didn’t stop, they still didn’t know who the hell the son of a bitch was, and they couldn’t leave until this thing was dealt with.

Dean suggested drinks—the motel room was starting to feel like a cage, they both needed it, and maybe the answer would be one or two bottles deep—and Dad had grunted an agreement. It was a small victory, but a victory all the same. Maybe Dean could find a woman there to distract from this disaster, distract him from Her-

He didn’t need to be distracted from Her. There was nothing to distract from. Dean might be dreaming about Her still—dreams where he did grab Her and kiss her, She fell to her knees and he went right down with Her, and it was fucking awesome—but She wasn’t anywhere real around him, so it didn’t matter. Every shadow on the darkened street was shaped like Her, but shadows weren’t real. That gravity in Dean’s chest was trying pull and pry Dean open so She could take a look, but that was just an emotion, and Dean wasn’t about to be some sort of pussy about his feelings. The whole bar seemed to smell like that strange fucking fruit and sugar, but Dean could just be losing his mind. The woman in the booth looked exactly like Her, and sat with her knees tucked up like she did, and was wearing the same shirt-

Shit.

“Dad, I don’t feel great, maybe we could-“

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. Dad had seen Her. His face was drawn in a scowl, the glare he used during hunts was furrowing at his brow, and there was a glint in his eyes that set everything on edge.

He was fucked. She was going to tell Dad they’d run into each other, Dad would fucking murder him for not mentioning it, and She’d just fuck off and get herself killed with the ghost. Dean didn’t know why that last one felt just as terrifying as Dad’s wrath, but it might actually be worse. Dad wouldn’t actually kill him. He’d get yelled at and probably banned from driving for a month, but Dad would never hurt him. 

Dad would hurt Her. He was already stalking over to Her booth—She hadn’t even looked up, which didn’t increase Dean’s faith in Her lone hunting abilities—with white-knuckled fists that would have probably collided with Her face if she wasn’t a chick. Dean barely ran after him in time for them to reach the booth, to stop at Dad’s side right as he slammed his hand on the table.

She flinched slightly as she looked up, and the air around them became wired and electric.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, girl.” Dad lowered himself down to Her eye level as he spat the words out. “Ain’t no way you’re in town just by fuckin’ coincidence.”

She huffed a dry laugh, holding Dad’s gaze as she answered. “Not a coincidence. Just me, having the worst luck in the world.” Her attention finally turned to Dean, he felt alive, and Her words remained just as flat as before. “Hiya, Deano. You look like shit.” She looked back to Dad, her pretty lips curling into a smirk. “You both look like shit.”

“You think you’re smart-“

She snorted, cutting Dad off with a bored grin. “I am smart. Sit down, you’re drawing attention.”

She waved a loose hand around the bar, and She was right. People were wide eyed, watching them nervously, and they didn’t need that. Attention was bad in this line of business. It was downright dangerous. And Dad knew that, so he gave Dean a curt nod to listen to Her, and slid into the booth once Dean was settled across from Her. 

It was a little freaking insane, how She only got prettier. How in the low, golden light of the bar she seemed to have a halo around Her head. But it wasn’t real. Nothing about Her was real, and Dean would have to remember that. Dad was real, was looking at Her like she’d tried to key the Impala, and Dean needed to figure out where that hatred for Her had gone and bring it back. Convince Her to skip town—because She’d get in the way, not because the idea of Her being thrown across a room by a spirit made him sick—and cover his own ass, because he was still in danger of Her snitching on him. 

But She was hardly looking at him. Her attention was divided between Dad, her own hands, and the neon red, cherry and ice and paper umbrella drink in front of Her-

“Are you drinking a fucking Shirley Temple?” Dean spoke before he could stop himself, and She shot him a glare.

“You got a problem with that, Winchester?”

“Nah,” Dean shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I just didn’t know you were that much a prissy little princess-“

“They’re good drinks, dick.” She snapped. “It’s called having fun. Something you two buttheads,” She gestured between Dean and Dad. “Clearly know nothing about.”

Dean learned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “I know plenty about having fun, sweetheart. Some might call me a master at it.“

She snorted. It was freaking adorable. “Some might call you a manwhore-“

“Watch yourself, girl.” Dad snapped, and Dean’s whole body tightened. Everything was rigid from the fury on Dad’s face—all directed at Her, all sick in Dean’s stomach—and raw from Her words. 

Manwhore. She wasn’t wrong, and he’d been called a lot worse, but it still stung like a freaking hornet along the cavity of his chest. There was no way for Her to know that, unless Dean’s whole face just screamed lonely. Lonely fucking trash to be used up and forgotten. It didn’t. He was so goddamn careful to ensure it didn’t. Even Dad didn’t know the extent of that pit, so it was impossible for Her to, and why did it feel like She’d just punched him in the gut-

“Listen to me,” Dad hissed Her full name, and it was a low threat that snapped Dean back into his body. “Skip town. This is our case, and we don’t need some fancy brat gettin’ in our way.”

She glanced at Dean, and he almost didn’t catch the small frown on Her face. It was fleeting—barely a flash on Her gorgeous features—but strong. Reaching all the way to Her eyes and filling them with an emotion Dean didn’t understand.

But then it was gone. And when She looked back to Dad her face was in bored and taunting once more. 

“I’m hate to break it to you, buddy, but ghosts don’t care about dibs.” Her lips curled into a smirk, and this was it. She was going to rat Dean out, he was dead-

“Lucky for you,” She picked up Her drink and leaned back in her seat. “It’s not a ghost. So maybe if you ask it really nicely, it’ll refuse to be killed by anyone but you.”

Dad scowled. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, girl. This ain’t another moroi thing, this is a fuckin’ ghost-“

“It’s not.” She grinned at them from around Her straw, and shit She had nice lips. They were a little puckered, Dean could still remember how soft they’d been, and they’d probably look even better wrapped around Dean’s-

“Whatever game you’re playin’,” Dad hissed at Her, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. “Cut the shit and say what you mean.”

She hummed, still wearing a bright, mocking grin. “You think it’s a ghost.”

“It is a ghost,” Dean muttered, watching Her carefully. “You’re not stupid, Princess, EMF plus random flying plates equals evil Casper.”

“That’s true.” She dropped Her empty glass on the table, leaning toward with a shrug. “But it’s still not a ghost.”

“You heard Dean, girl, it’s a ghost, plain and goddamn simple.”

“Have you seen it?” 

Dean glanced at Dad, and he’d bet a lot of money that their expressions were identical in pure freaking confusion.

“We don’t have time,” Dad grunted, his voice low and edged. “For fucking riddles. You-“

“It’s not a riddle.” She raised her brows, picking a cherry out of the glass. “Have either of you actually seen your alleged ghost? Did Maggie Rose tell you she saw it?”

Maggie Rose. Woodstock. The woman who would’ve definitely seen the ghost by now.

And who hadn’t mentioned it a single goddamn time.

“I’m guessing you haven’t found remains either.” She hummed, picking the cherry off the stem with Her teeth. “And you’ve been looking for who the ghost could be, but you’re not finding anything. You’ve been looking in the wrong place. Poltergeist’s don’t have to haunt the places where they died, and they often have little to no connection with their victims.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “This thing ain’t nearly violent enough to be a poltergeist-“

“That’s because it’s been getting enough attention so far. Maggie’s been screaming about it, and it’s found that satisfying enough.” She spun the stem between two fingers, looking between Dad And Dean with a triumphant grin. “Poltergeist.”

Dean was pretty sure Dad was going to leap across the table and strangle Her. His jaw was clenched, his body stiff at Dean’s side, and his words—when he finally spoke—were pushed through his teeth. 

“Dean.” He grunted, not looking away from Her. “I have to make a call to your uncle. Deal with her.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean nodded, and Dad slid out of the booth without another word. Leaving Dean.

But not alone.

Dean blinked at Her. Dad was gone, and She hadn’t mentioned that they’d seen each other before. Shit, She hadn’t even mentioned Sam, and his obvious absence. Dad would just chalk that up to Her being a bitch, but Dean was clinging to it. She should’ve said it. She had every reason to. But She fucking hadn’t, and some part of Dean was desperate to know why. To know if it was because the idea of him in trouble made Her feel like her skin was being ripped to shreds. It felt like that for Dean, whenever he was reminded that She hunted alone. Whenever a memory of Her covered in blood flashed through his brain. 

And he could still feel it. Feel the electricity in the air that was so different than before. It was charged and tense, but in a way that made Dean feel like he was breathing. He could feel things that didn’t make sense, but they were right. She was right. Across the table, running Her hands over her calves and watching Dean like he might try to take a bite of Her, She still felt like she could fit against him like another piece. 

“You’re not going to deal with me.”

Dean frowned at Her. She wasn’t meeting his gaze, poking the paper umbrella around the glass. “What?”

“What your dad said,” She muttered. “He told you to deal with me. You won’t.”

“What makes you think that?”

She finally looked at him. Really looked at him, for the first time since last year. On the curb She’d seen him, but not looked at him. Not like before. Not like that. Where Dean felt like She was seeing right into the pit—how empty and fucking pathetically worthless he was—and filling it up with something peaceful and silver and molten in his gut, like a melted star lighting him up from the inside. He wished it was real. Dean wished, more than almost fucking anything, that he didn’t know that this was part of Her scam or game. That She was looking at him like that because he made Her feel stripped and raw too. Because She saw something in him she wanted, and just kept digging for more without fear of him breaking Her.

But he also wished he wasn’t so fucking lonely that he could care about that. That he could get a hold over himself and just deal with Her. That She wasn’t giving him a strangely soft smile, and he wasn’t caving from how it made his heart freaking glow like a night-light. 

“Because,” She said, like it was simple. Like Dean should just know what she meant. “You won’t.”

“I might.” He leaned forward, holding Her eyes on his as he smirked. “You’re putting yourself in danger, Princess. Dealing with you would be the responsible thing to do.”

“Really.” Her voice was dry, disbelieving. “How would you deal with me, Dean Winchester?”

God, She was trying to kill him. She was looking at him like that, and there was a smug smirk on Her full lips, and Dean had spent the last year hating Her but now all he could think about was how the universe that existed in Her eyes, and how he wanted to see every inch of it. Bare skin and brilliant eyes that had been phantoms in is sleep, now real and touchable. He had a million ways he’d like to deal with Her, and all of them started with those blinding fucking eyes. Rolling back in Her head and fluttering under him and sparkling on his. Her voice saying his name like it was more than just a breath, like it was the blood in Her veins-

“I’m afraid that’s top secret, Princess.” Dean dragged himself together to shoot Her a wink, and he could’ve sworn she flushed. “But I’ll tell you if you give me that answer you owe me.”

She gave him a strange look. “We were even.”

Dean shook his head. “You had asked me two questions. I only asked you one.”

There was a small, frowning pout on Her lips, and Dean realized She might be trying to work out if he was lying. He wasn’t. That conversation lived in the corners of his brain all the goddamn time, he couldn’t forget it if he tried. And he had. He’d bet his life that he was right. She’d asked him two questions about Dad and Sam, called him De, and his whole brain had short-circuited. He’d only realized on the drive back, and he’d been planning to use that to try and get Her to do the game again, but-

But She’d been tricking him. A con-woman and spoiled bitch who had been planning to use him. He’d seen the evidence. He knew that’s what was real. That between them, Dean wasn’t the liar.

He should care about that more. He should stand up and leave, or threaten Her to get the hell out of Dad’s way, or at least stop fucking smiling at Her. But She’d nodded, dropping Her knees down to lean closer, and he was drugged on Her voice and smell and face.

And he stayed.

“Fine.” She said, and Dean felt a thrill-like rush through his body. She was so pretty. “Go.”

He didn’t have a question ready. He hadn’t really expected Her to agree. But She had, and now he was staring at Her, trying to find something. Anything at all that didn’t make him look like a gaping dumbass, lost in Her eyes and high on her smell. He should ask everything he’d wanted to scream at Her on the street, and throw in a shout of why the hell didn’t you tell my dad I knew you were here. It didn’t make any goddamn sense that She hadn’t, and Dean needed to know why. That’s what he should ask. He should just freaking ask why.

“Where are you staying?”

Son of a bitch. That wasn’t what he’d meant to ask, now She was staring at him like he was some kind of creep or asshole, and Dean had to figure out how the hell he could justify asking that.

“For the case,” he added quickly, his voice drained of most of the artificial, cocky arrogance he prided himself on. “Ya’ know. In case we need to find you.”

“You won’t.” She said, Her finger running over that scar on her palm. “This is my case-“

“Yeah, and you’ve got it handled.” Dean drawled, raising his brows. “You gonna answer the question?”

She sighed. “Same motel you’re at. Down the road.”

He shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen your car-“

“You remember my car?” 

He felt a little heat rush to his face, only worsened by how there was a little, dancing light in Her eyes that was trying to draw him into Her, as if he was only a moth and she was the freaking sun. And of course he remembered that car. It was Her car. He’d felt something seize in his chest every time he’d seen one like it for the last year. 

“I like cars,” Dean grumbled—hoping She wouldn’t see it for the half-lie it was—and a small smile pulled at her lips. It looked a little too real.

“Like your dad’s.” She nodded, starting to fish ice cubes out of Her glass. “The Impala.”

It was Dean’s turn to grin. “You remember my car?”

She definitely flushed that time. “Yeah,” She mumbled. “It’s memorable. Shut up and answer my question.”

Dean raised his brows, remained silents, and tried to bait Her into saying it again. It worked.

“You’re such a-“ She cut herself off with a sigh and roll of Her eyes. “How would you deal with me.”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Dean drawled Her name, feeling his grin overtake his face, every bit of his confidence returning—stronger than before—as She swallowed under his gaze. “I’d deal with you however you’d like.”

She blinked at him, and he was certain Her voice was higher than before. “I don’t, um, I-“ She glanced down at his lips, Her tongue poking out between her teeth. Dean wanted to bite it. “What?”

“However you tell me to,” he winked, and She looked like he’d shot her. Good. “I’ll deal with you. My question is how?”

“How-“

“How would you like me to deal with you, Princess?” 

Dean was pushing it. Shit, he didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, or why he couldn’t bring himself to sneer at Her, or mock her, or deal with her the way Dad had definitely meant. But he did know that Her eyes were wide and blown out, and Her lips looked soft, and he wanted to know if could get Her to be speechless. To gape at him all needy and dumb, so he could show Her exactly what fire She’d been playing with. That he wouldn’t roll over like a puppy, that whatever spell She’d cast on him—whatever aphrodisiac she’d been using—Dean might not be immune, but he could give better than he got. Maybe he’d get Her to bend enough that She’d admit what she’d been doing last year, and Dean would forgive Her because he didn’t know how not to. Because She was like tattoo on his brain that he didn’t want to get rid of.

Maybe he’d get to keep Her.

Maybe they could start over.

“I…” She trailed off, and Dean wanted to smash his lips to Her slack, open ones and start over. She was still gaping at him with a wide, open expression, and fuck he wanted to start over so bad. Against every bit of willpower and intelligence he had, Dean wanted to give into this strange instinct and start over.

“C’mon.” He drawled Her name, shooting her a wink. “Use some words.”

She glared at him, something hot flashing in Her eyes. “Pass. Ask me a different question.”

Dean scoffed under, dropping his voice to under his breath. “Who’s not fun now-“

“I heard that.”

“Course you did.” He rolled his eyes. “Fine, party pooper. What do you like?” 

She blinked at him. "What do I like?"

"Like you said, sweetheart, I like cars." Dean said, trying to make his words sound casual. Like he wasn't desperate to learn everything about Her that she'd offer. "What's your thing?"

"My thing." She said slowly, still looking at Dean like he was insane. "That I like."

He nodded, watching Her carefully, and she frowned into the air as she continued. 

"I don't know. Books? Movies and music?"

Dean gave Her an amused, flat look. "C'mon, you can gimme more than that-"

"No, I can't." She snapped. She was really hot when she snapped. "Movies and music is my answer, Winchester, deal with it."

Dean drawled Her name. “Everyone likes movies and music-“ 

“That doesn’t make it any less important to me.” She said, narrowing her eyes. “How would you like it if I said everyone drives cars-“ 

Dean scoffed. “They don’t drive them like I do, Princess-“ 

“And you don’t watch movies and listen to music like I do, Deano.” 

He chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright. Point proven.” He titled his head at Her. “What’s your favorite movie?” 

She laughed. A real laugh, and it sounded like music and rain and a soft summer breeze that shot right into Dean’s blood like a drug. “It’s my question, De. But nice try.”

He grinned at Her, clicking his tongue. "Bossy-"

"Shut up." She tilted her head at him, and Dean just grinned. "What's your favorite movie?"

"Untouchables." He said with a shrug. "Your turn."

She just looked at him with a small, teasing grin, and Dean realized she was waiting for him to repeat the question.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, sweetheart. What's your favorite movie?"

Her face split into a wide, full grin, and God, he was fucked. Nothing in the world seemed to matter more than that smile, and the way it made him feel like he was circling the sun, crashing down to Earth in a ball of fire, and turning to steam as She swallowed him in her gravity. He really didn't give a shit if it was real. Maybe Dean could get himself to be bloody and bright enough to match Her, and she'd feel this too. She'd feel this, and stay, and offer an explanation about last year. An explanation that would prove it wasn't all that bad, and that She was just as fucking empty as Dean was, and he'd fill Her up-

Fuck, he couldn't think that. Not right now, when She looked like that—beautiful in a way that might be deadly—and was smiling at him, and he couldn't get a damn grip and just hate Her. He wasn't supposed to be crashing back up into Her. Dad would be so freaking disappointed that Dean was dumb enough to fall for this act again.

But he was. His jeans felt tight, he couldn't stop grinning at Her, and that siren-like voice kept Dean in her orbit, with absolutely no desire to leave.

She had a million favorite movies. And She hadn't been lying. She watched movies differently than Dean did. Differently that anyone did. He'd never heard anyone use so many big art words in a row, followed by about twenty, very creative swears at a speed he could only describe as frantic. Like if She didn't get Dean to understand exactly why Indiana Jones was the perfect adventure movie, why chick flicks had irreplaceable cultural value, and sitcoms could be the best medium of television, the world might end.

And it should be reminding him that they weren't the same. That Dean was trapped in the mud—he'd been born here, he'd die here, and he belonged here—because it was the only place for things like him. Gut covered weapons, made of rust that would crumble to dust before they made it out alive. And She was just visiting. Using the mud to make Her feel alive or important until she could return to a world of people with ivory and marble who all spoke like this. She was using Dean to do the same, maybe more. Maybe worse. Maybe trying to pry him open and steal what little he had inside him. 

But, son of a bitch, She could have it. He'd stay right here with Her for a million freaking years, just as long as She kept smiling and rambling and giggling at Dean's small jokes between Her breathes. Maybe he could take that bite out of Her. Taste sugar and fruit and whatever else he was starting crave. He could take Her flesh and blood and call it even for what She’d done, because She was still so pretty, and Dean felt like he could be valuable under Her bright attention.

He’d repay Her for that bite by offering himself. He'd be that smeared, dulled weapon for Her. He shouldn't be. Dad would kill him. But he wanted to be. He wanted to stay here forever. And when the waitress came over—with plastic tits and syrupy words—he didn't even fully realize until She cleared her throat and jerked her head to the side. Even then he just frowned at Her, a drunken trance of her voice and smile still clouding his attention, because what the hell could possibly be more interesting—more important—than listening to Her talk?

Then the waitress leaned down, almost blocking Her from view, and Dean frowned.

"What?" His voice was irritated, impatient, but he didn't really care. He needed think lady to freaking move, before She somehow vanished like a dream through Dean's fingers, and he was alone again.

"You want anythin' to drink, handsome? The waitress asked, and Dean nodded. He could use a beer—it might help dull the raging wildfire inside him, trying to tear him between his hatred of what he knew She was and the raw, feral instinct to latch onto Her and never let go—and Her glass was almost out of ice cubes. If he got Her another glass, he could keep Her here just a little longer. As long as he could.

"Beer for me," he raised two fingers, pointing between Her and himself. "Virgin Shirley Temple for the lady."

The waitress blinked at him for a second, but got the message. Dean had Her. He didn't need to company of another pretty face, because none of them could be prettier that Her's. Shit, it wasn't even a fair comparison. Leaving this booth for anything—leaving Her for anything—would be like trading a burger for a fucking salad. Insane and pointless.

When the waitress finally moved, She was gaping at him, her words suddenly soft. Almost nervous. 

"You, um-" She shook her head slightly. "Thanks."

Dean shrugged. "Not a big deal, you blew through that fancy girl drink in like a second anyway-"

"No, that's not-" She frowned at him, and Dean realized she was touching that scar again. "You remembered. That I don't drink."

"Oh." Dean stared at Her, his tongue almost glued into his mouth, his brain a little warm and soft from Her almost vulnerable gaze. "Yeah."

They were just staring at each other, and all Dean could manage to do was clear his throat, scratch the back of his neck, and force himself to speak. 

"You, uh," he swallowed, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. "Never mentioned why."

"Why-"

"You don't drink."

"I'm not twenty-one yet, Winchester, I don't think I-" She cut herself off, leaning a little away from Dean with a small frown. He waited, the silence resuming for a long, heavy second that sat and froze in Dean's lungs. She wasn't looking at him anymore, twisting a ring on Her finger, and when She spoke again, her voice had dropped to a mumble. "I want a clear head. It's safer."

"Safer?"

"For our job." She curled a little into herself, like Dean was trying to peel her apart. "I mean, I can't really afford to get drunk. It could end, uh, badly."

Something became sharp over Dean's skin. That wasn't it. It wasn't a lie, but Dean could read it all over Her—he wasn't sure how, but he could—that there was more to it. But that's not why there was a sore prickle rooted in his muscles. 

"Because you hunt alone."

She nodded, bringing Her knees up to her chest, and the ache worsened. 

"You could drink." He muttered, leaning back with a slight slam of his hand on the table. "If you'd hunt with a partner."

She sighed. "I'm not going to hunt with a partner-"

"Why?"

He'd snapped. He hadn't meant to, but the ache moved to his mouth and he needed Her to understand. To get that hunting alone was fucking dangerous, and would get Her killed, and he cared about that so goddamn much for no real reason. He shouldn't care. But the thought of Her covered in blood make his gut twist and his heart burn in his chest, so She needed to get it. Now.

She narrowed her eyes, finally looking at him. "Why what."

"Why won't you hunt with a partner." He grumbled, holding Her gaze. "What would make that so fucking bad, sweetheart?"

"Because, as I've told you all week, I don't need to.” Her words were firm, dropped to a hushed sneer. "Anyone else would get in my way."

"I haven't even seen you since the freaking house," Dean said Her name with a low huff. "How could that be getting in the way-"

"I'd be fucking babysitting." She hissed. "I don't need a bunch of assholes tell me what to do, how to fight, how to kill something, how to-"

"Be safe?" Dean cut Her off with a sneer. "Not act like you're too good for anyone else?"

"I never said that, you asshole." She was starting to hug herself, and Dean felt ill, but he wouldn't be the one to break. "I am not too good, I just refuse to be a little hunter fuck-doll beating bag."

Dean blinked. "What?”

She sighed in flat, unamused disbelief. "Hunter's don't have great track records with women. I mean, be fucking real, dude. It wouldn't be the monster's that kill me."

"You," he shook his head. "That's- There are assholes out there everywhere, that doesn't mean you just roll over and accept death-"

"So what should I do?" She raised Her brows. "Be your partner? Be you and your father's little fucking toy until one of you puts a bullet-"

She cut herself off, and Dean gaped at Her, fire crawling over his veins.

"I-" She swallowed, and Dean wished he didn't give a fuck how She suddenly seemed so small. "I'm-"

"Do you seriously believe," Dean muttered, unsure if the fire in his voice was for himself, Dad, or how She looked like a wounded animal. "That we'd- Shit, are you fucking kidding me-"

"It's- I-"

"Save it," He snapped. "We are not killers or fucking savage trash-"

"That's not-"

"You listen to me, Princess-"

"No! I just-" She sounded panicked. Cornered. "I’m sorry, I didn't mean it like that, it's complicated-"

He scoffed. "Not that complicated, sweetheart, you think I'm just as bad as that shit we hunt-"

"No I don't-"

"You do," he hissed Her name. "Drop the act. And, just so we're clear, I'd never hurt you-"

She laughed, shaking Her head. "You can't be fucking serious. That’s-“ She tensed, her face twisting slightly as she scratched at Her skin. "You don't get to tell me what I should and shouldn't do, Winchester. You don't get to act like you give a fuck if I hunt alone."

Dean's hand curled into a fist. "Nobody should hunt alone, it's, fuck, it's stupid-"

"I am not stupid-"

Dean huffed a dry laugh. "I got that, Princess. But you know what? I think," he leaned forward, letting the words fall out of his mouth before he could think about them. Before he could stop them. "That you're just too much of a crazy bitch to have anyone stick around."

It was silent, and She was just staring at him, her features moving through a million emotions that Dean couldn't understand. He'd won. She looked like he'd taken a knife right to Her heart, and she wasn't fighting back, so he'd won. And he couldn't fucking breathe. He felt sick, and faint, and freaking awful-

"Choke on my dick, Winchester.” She snapped, but there was something weaker in Her voice. Something that told Dean he’d hit on something fragile. That he was a piece of fucking shit that went for the killing blow because he couldn't help it. Because he was the very fucking, lower-than-the-sewers trash She'd just accused him of being-

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to take it back or say they'd both gone too far, and he felt like shit and still wanted—despite literally everything—to start over. To at least ask Her to tell him the truth, to at least tell Her how hating her like this made him feel wrong-

But She was gone. She'd left the booth and stomped out the door before Dean could even make a sound, and he just goddamn sat there. She wouldn't come back, but he was still just sitting there. Dad was probably waiting for him, ready to demand a reason why he'd taken so long, but Dean still just sat there. Shit, they might have a poltergeist to deal with, but Dean wasn't freaking moving.

What finally got him was the waitress, making her way back to the table and saying some snide comment about his girlfriend not appreciating him. Dean didn't even spare the woman a look as he shot up, shoved past her, and marched out into the parking lot to find Dad and get the hell out of here. If Dad asked, Dean would say he'd taken care of it. Not of Her—She'd looked like he'd torn Her to shreds with his teeth—but the situation. She'd probably be gone by morning, not wanting to be anywhere near two mud and gut covered hunters. Near Dean.

Dad was still on the phone when Dean saw the Impala. Sitting in the front seat with a frown, the windows rolled down to combat the flat heat of air, speaking in a low, gruff voice to whoever was on the other end of the line.

"I don't care," he was muttering as Dean approached, his voice carried on the wind. "I can get the asshole no problem, Bobby, the poltergeist ain't my issue."

It was a poltergeist. If Bobby said it was a poltergeist, it was a poltergeist. She'd been right. And as Dean got closer, Dad obviously couldn't see him in the shadows, so he should probably say something to alert Dad that he was here

"Obviously it's the fuckin' girl." Dad snapped, and Dean froze. "Shit, she just shows up again? On another weird fuckin' case, bein' right about what it is, sinkin' her claws into Dean-"

Dad stopped talking—Bobby was probably saying something Dean couldn't hear—and Dean's breathing was shallow. He shouldn't be eavesdropping. Dad would kill him, and he just shouldn't. He trusted Dad, and if this wasn't something Dad wanted to hear, it wasn't something he had to hear. But She hadn't sunken Her claws into him. She'd just scratched him over his brain and scarred him, but Dad couldn't see that. She just haunted him, and drove him mad, and made him want to-

"She's the one Dean's obsessed with."

Dean frowned. He was not obsessed with Her. 

"She's a hunter alright. That moroi case me and the boys worked-" There was a small pause. "Yeah, moroi. Freakin' nasty little vampire baby shits. She-" Dad huffed, and Dean could hear the muffled sound of Bobby's voice. It sounded urgent. 

Then Dad said Her full name into the speaker, and Dean could hear his frown. "You heard of her, Bobby?"

Bobby must have said no—there was no reason for him to know Her—but whatever he did say made Dad's hands grip the wheel with white knuckles.

"The hell you mean you have to go- Bobby-" John groaned, the click of his phone being closed snapping through the air and Dean swallowed. The call was over. Time to pretend he wasn’t a piece of fucking shit that had been invading Dad's privacy.

Dean moved out of the shadows and opened the car door, Dad barely waiting for him to be seated before he started talking.

"We got a poltergeist." He grunted, turning on the engine. "Let's go."

Dean blinked. "Go? Like, now?"

"Damn right, now." Dad shot him a raised brow. "Why, you fuckin' waiting for somethin'-"

"No, sir." Dean shook his head, and Dad nodded, still watching him carefully.

"You take care of the girl?"

"Uh, yeah." Dean hated that the words tasted rotten in his mouth. "She's gone."

Dad nodded. "Remember, son. No pair of tits are worth more-"

"Then family." Dean finished. He'd heard that sentence enough to recite it in his sleep. It didn't matter. She didn't matter. Dean felt like a fucking asshole, but She didn't matter. "I know, Dad."

"Good." Dad muttered, pulling out of the lot. "Let's kill this fuckin' poltergeist and get the hell out of here."

—————————

Bobby doesn't know you're here. He thinks you're in Louisiana still, dealing with the kelpie.

You're not. You're in Illinois. Trying something on a poltergeist.

You'll tell him when you get home. Explain that you'd just wanted to test your ghost ritual again, and if you'd told that him before, he would've snapped that testing that stuff was dangerous, and the thing had already worked once, so there wasn't any goddamn reason to risk it again. 

And he was right. The rituals and spell and curses that had started to come to you in the dead of night—when it was just you and the White in the world, and the darkness became consuming—weren’t exactly safe to test on hunts. Not because of the rituals themselves, but because of the exposure. The danger of using magic where you could be discovered by another hunter. But you had to test them. You didn't know where they were coming from or how to stop them, but they always worked. You wake up and know that, if you said all these words and mixed these things together, you could make a veil between dead spirits and the living. A barrier that didn't kill the ghosts, but stopped them. A blockade that could be torn down, but bought you plenty of time and minimized any casualties. 

It was why Bobby wasn't stopping you. He insisted you stay far away from other hunters, and update him after every test to make sure you hadn't blown yourself up or worse, but he wasn't trying to hold you back. Convince you to just drown in the darkness until it eroded the White, and you lost control forever. But he still wouldn't be happy about the second test. And you could've justified it by pointing out that this was actually a poltergeist, so you'd had to figure out how to alter the ritual, but then you saw the Winchester's Impala in your motel parking lot. 

Which meant this it would be stupid to keep working the case. It meant you were in danger, because they were probably hunting the same poltergeist you were trying to do magical experiments on. 

Worse, it meant Dean was here.

And you're going to fucking scream.

He'd never left your brain. You haven't stopped moving, you never stop moving, but Dean has followed you everywhere. Into your head every second, still circling around his handsome face and pretty face and beautiful smile. Into the darkness when it started to slip out of you, fueled by an echo of unworthy and sick, edged with the phantom feeling of his body at your side.

He was in countless, lonely motel beds where you looked to the side and expected him to be there. He was on the curb when you were covered in grime and monster guts, and you looked up to find the shadow above you only a shadow. He was in your bag, because you’d never thrown out his shirt. It didn’t smell like him anymore—he was there too, in wet grass in the spring and the spice of cheap aftershave on a man in a bar—but you were still holding onto it. Holding onto Dean.

You weren’t sure what could make you let go. You’d even started to fish for information about him from Bobby with careful questions about the Winchesters. What they usually hunted, so you could avoid them. What Sam and Dean were like, in case you ever ran into them, so you’d know what to expect. If they always hunted with John, or if they ever went off on their own. Bobby would always give you a strange look and a short answer—whatever they ran into, they’re good boys in the same shit situation as every other hunter, and John never let them hunt alone—but you’d pieced more from what you already knew. Sam hated hunting, and Dean loved it, their relationship with John was complicated—you could’ve gotten that one yourself—and Dean was what Bobby called eager with women.

He slept around. He’d probably been trying to sleep with you, and given up when he realized that you weren’t easy. That you were tired and rough and so, so angry all the time. That you might be beautiful, but the same was a thunderstorm is beautiful. The same was a statue is beautiful.

Something you shouldn’t touch. Something you shouldn’t try to hold, even for a night.

Something that wasn’t worth Dean Winchester time. Something he’d seen, turned away from, and then left you. He’d left you because he’d seen you for what you were, and he hadn’t wanted anything from you in the first place, but he’d still fucking left you. And you hated him for that, because you’d been ready to offer him whatever he wanted. Against all reason and logic and caution, you’d wanted him more than you could describe. 

And against all your willpower, you couldn’t let go of him. Because you’d seen the Impala in the parking lot—the one you’d been searching for on every highway, in every small town and city—and the force of Dean is here had hit you like a hurricane. Everything had felt so fucking big, and you couldn’t hold onto the darkness in your body as your breathing became heavy and you attempted to keep yourself together. Nails digging into your skin as the wind howled through your room, the peeled paint on the walls cowering from you as your attention became vigilant, everything crashing back down into you when you bit down, and a lightbulb shattered across the room.

You’d avoided him. You’d hidden in crowds on the street when you saw him, and ducked behind shelves when he entered the corner store. You’d kept your shades angled so you could see the parking lot, and pushed down the way the White howled at the sight of him coming and going. You’d planned to handle the hunt in silence, and then just go.

The house owner was a sweet hippy who agreed to let you do the ritual when you told her she had the aura of a swan. You’d give it a few days after to ensure the barrier could hold, get rid of the poltergeist for good, and then leave without the Winchester’s ever even knowing you were here.

Then you’d seen Dean in the woods, and you couldn’t resist talking to him. He’d seen you anyway, so there wasn’t anything left to lose. And he’d still been so pretty, and your knees still felt weak, and the White still whined for him no matter how much of a dick he was being. It was insufferable, you’d left with darkness eating at your blood, and you’d looked back. You couldn’t stop looking back. Every time you had run on the street you’d turned around to see if he was frowning in adorable confusion around the busy sidewalks. When he was in the parking lot you’d checked to see if he was still pretty, even though you knew he would be. Of course he would be. He was an asshole like that. 

You’d looked back outside of the poltergeist house because you had to. You had to see if he was real or just another flickering dream, and you couldn’t resist the desire to see him—staring at you on the street and suffocating you with that same smell from last year—one more time. It’s why you hadn’t skipped town right after. It’s why you’d stayed so long in the bar. You just fucking had to. You could fight against his winks and grins and smooth words, making you smile when you hated him, making you laugh when you should’ve been running. It had seemed—for whatever strange reason—that Dean hadn’t told John you were here, but he definitely knew now, and you were certainly in very real danger. But Dean had carved you open again, and you’d stayed in that stupid booth until he’d given you a good reason to leave.

And it was a great reason. It would’ve been kinder to shoot you in the temple than say that. At least he would’ve killed you, and you wouldn’t have had to wage this war in your body. The war between your hatred of him, and how you want to go back. He’s such a fucking asshole, but you still want to turn around and go back. To ask him why he left, why he cares, how he seems to know your every raw nerve and if he's still feels this too. If he felt it before. 

You don't really want to know that last one. Because if he felt it before, that means he felt it and left. That he can feel it now and hates you for it. 

Because he does hate you. If it wasn't in his words, it was all over his face. How he’d laughed like you were just a silly little girl. How he’d looked right into you like he could see the darkness. How he’d grinned at you like a wolf, like he wanted to rip you apart. He sees what you are, and he despises it.

And you were fine with that. You despise him. He was an arrogant, smug, dickish, charming, controlling, annoying, handsome, caring, selfish, funny, sexy, adorable, funny, strong, sweet-

God fucking damnit. He was an asshole. He'd left you, he hated you, and you wouldn't fall for the cowboy-in-shining-leather thing again. You were going to take care of this poltergeist now, and leave town right after. Dean and John could be here another week trying to figure out if it was even dead for all you cared. You just had to go. Before this all got worse.

You've barely parked when your phone starts to buzz. You don’t look at the contact when you decline it—you don’t have the time—but then it just starts buzzing again. 

It’s Bobby.

You still don’t answer. If he’s in danger, he wouldn’t call you. If it’s an urgent question, he can handle it himself. If it’s a non-urgent question, he can wait for this to be done. If he was dying-

You almost pick up the phone. The thought flashes through your brain, a small stone grows in your throat, and you reach for the phone with a frantic movement. You’re about the dial him back when the first message comes through, and you sigh in relief.

You better call me back now, kid, we need to talk.

Not dying. Can be dealt with later. You’ll call him back when you’re done, because this will be quick, and you’ll get through it. You always do.

You’d convinced the homeowner to get out of town for a few days, to stay with her sister until you were done. The purification ritual was in the trunk of your latest stolen car—you’d meddled with the ingredients, giving it an extra kick—and this would be quick. 

There’s no blur as you start. You’re alert for your barrier to break—keeping in iron poker in your hands—but there’s no disturbance, so you just go through the motions. The basement is finished in five minutes, the first floor in ten, and you’ve only got two bags left when glass shatters downstairs, and the blur starts to cloud your head. Something cracked in the ritual, maybe because you’re almost done, but now you have to fight-

“Dean, you got the guns?”

You freeze as John Winchester’s voice sounds from down the stairs, and everything becomes too sharp. There’s a creaking sound from downstairs, the darkness is starting to spread up your spine and over the white popcorn ceilings of the house, you’re fucked, and the White is reaching out to-

“I got it, Dad, but I thought poltergeists-“

“Son of a bitch wants attention.” John snaps over Dean, and you might crush the bag in your hand. “We’re gonna give him some until he shows himself, and we find the asshole’s remains and burn them.”

This is bad. That’s not how poltergeists work at all—you’re a little shocked John thinks it is—and they’re going to fuck up your barrier, and you can’t tell them they’ll fuck up the barrier or John will turn one of those guns on you-

“Is the hippy chick home?” Dean asks, snapping you out of your panic as the White howls inside you. “I can deal with her while you take care of-“

“No need. Car ain’t in the driveway.” There’s a pause, and you can hear them shuffling downstairs. “Plus I know how you deal with the vics, Dean. We don’t need that right now.”

Something’s bitter in your mouth that has no right to be there, and no right to vanish at Dean’s grumbled words.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Dad-“

“I don’t care how you meant it. Focus up so we can get this shit done.”

There’s another few muffled sounds, an unmistakable click of a gun, and you’re moving before you think better of it. 

“Stop!” You’re almost shrieking—dropping the poker and shoving your last two bags into your pockets as you run down the stairs—and barely stop your body from colliding with Dean’s in the entrance hallway.

“What the fuckin’ hell are you doin’?!“ John’s roar makes you flinch, his rifle aimed right at your head. You take a stumbling step back as darkness wraps around your hands and your heart kicks into a rapid, frantic rhythm you can hear in your ears. John can see you. He’s going to kill you. You going to die, and they’ll burn your body, and shit you never called Bobby but the darkness is going to burst out of you and John’s going to kill you-

A hand steadies you by your shoulders, grass and spice and leather ease the darkness down, and you wish you didn’t relax into the warmth of behind you, that the pretty, rolling voice a little over your head didn’t soothe your panic.

“Woah, Dad, it’s just-“ Dean says your name, and John scoffs, not lowering his gun.

“I know who it is, Dean, that ain’t my issue.” John’s eyes narrow on you, hatred painted all over his face. It’s worse than Dean’s somehow. There’s something pure about it, like John didn’t have to look into you to see what an atrocity you are. He just senses it. “Why the fuck are you here, girl.”

“I’m hunting my poltergeist.” You snap, forcing your voice to sound angry and not terrified, your face to be a mask of annoyed and not painted in dread. “What possible other reason could I have.”

“Could be looking at real estate.” Dean mumbles with a shrug, and he’s still touching you. You can’t help but glance back as you jerk away from him, and the expression on his face is unreadable. Guarded but cautious, like when he’d watched you and John snap at each other in the booth. Like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off. “I hear this is a good neighborhood.”

You give him a flat look. “This house is haunted.”

He shoots you a wink, clearly fueled by you not just ignoring him. “Won’t once we’re done with it-“

“Once I’m done with it.” You narrow your eyes at him. “This is my hunt, Winchester. I was here first.”

“Poltergeists don’t respect dibs, Princess.” Dean snaps. “And you don’t even have a freakin’ gun.”

“I don’t need a gun-“

Dean lets out a dry, shouting laugh. “I take back what I said earlier, you are stupid if you’re about to try and kill this thing without a freakin’ gun-“

“You’re stupid if you think I’m just going to let you fuck this up-“

“We’re saving your ass from getting whacked by a poltergeist, some gratitude might be nice-“

“You’re getting in my fucking way-“

“You’re-“

“Enough!” John’s shouts over Dean, and you both freeze. You hadn’t realized you’d been shouting, or how close Dean had gotten. You can see his every freckle, every shade of green in his eyes, how his lips are slightly parted so his breath fans over your face-

“I don’t want you two talkin’ unless it’s telling me where the poltergeist is.” John hisses, and you force your body away from Dean’s. “We’re killin’ this thing right fuckin’ now, got it?”

Dean nods, bowing his head slightly, and you just glare at John. All you have to do is get upstairs place the last two bags, and you’ll be fine. If agreeing to work with them does that, you’ll do it.

You split up. John goes to the basement, Dean takes the first floor, you rush upstairs. The bags are in your pants, and you’re so close, but John and Dean are waving around guns and talking about ganking the poltergeist, and it can definitely fucking hear them. The paintings shake on the walls as the temperature drops, and it’s trying break through. You get the first bag just as the lights begin to flicker, and you sprint down the hall to the last wall. Just one more and it will be done, and you can leave-

“Fuck-“ Dean shouts right as you reach the spot, and your blood goes cold. “Dad! It’s on me- shit-“ 

Then he roars your name, and you’re moving before you can think. Grabbing the poker, half-falling down the stairs, and reaching Dean just as his gun is yanked out of his hands by nothing at all. His eyes widen as they meet your, his mouth opens to say something and-

“Dean!” You can barely hear your own scream as he flies across the room, his head knocking on the counter. 

His body slumps, and you’re not in a blur. This is a rush. Everything is wide around you, there’s an airy chill in your lungs, and the darkness is pouring out of you as the lights grow too bright and the windows bang on a windless night. The darkness starts to ignite over your hands—a phantom flame you’re not sure is real, burning and stinging at your skin—you whirl around, and, on instinct alone, shove the air. There’s a high, shrill, horrible sound of pain as the air goes up in flames, and then it all comes down. The room grows warm, the house goes quiet, and the darkness returns to you without a fight.

And Dean’s still slumped on the floor. 

“Dean!” You fall to your knees at his side—rolling his face to the side, grabbing his hand to take a pulse—and only notice John as he silently joins you, taking Dean’s face between his hands with a set jaw. 

You don’t know how long he’s been there.

You don’t know what he saw.

“What the hell-“

“Poltergeist.” You whisper, watching John examine Dean’s head. “Threw him across the room.”

John scowls. “You just let this shit happen-“

“I didn’t- I got the asshole.” You hiss, clawing at the skin near your nail until it stings. “House purification ritual, which I was already doing before! Nothing would’ve happened at all if you didn’t jump in with fucking guns-“

“Just-“ John raises his hand, and you fall silent. You’re still holding Dean’s hand. You don’t let it go.

“He’s okay.” You mumble, mostly for yourself. Mostly to fight the bile in your throat at the sight of him, sweaty and pale, not bleeding but moving, eyes fluttering but not waking up. “He’s gonna be okay.”

You almost miss John’s strange look. You almost forget about the axe over your head, and how he might know what you are. All you can really think about is Dean. You barely hear John order you to stay here while he grabs the car, and it feels a little pointless. You would’ve stayed here no matter what. 

He’s groaning. Dean keeping making low noises of pain, and his hand keeps flexing in yours, but he’s breathing. Shallow breathes, but he’s breathing. And he’ll be okay. He has to be okay. It’s just a Poltergeist, not even a strong one, and he’s young and strong, and he’ll be okay. Your breathing has become a little uneven, and you can feel the White rioting and bellowing inside you as he shudders slightly, but he’ll be okay. You won’t let him not be. He feels clammy when you press your hand to his brow—your fingers brush his hair, and it’s soft, and that’s not important but you’re going to think about it for a million years—so you shrug off your own jacket and toss it over his body. He’s still holding onto you, so you don’t drop his hand. When John gets back you loop his arm over your shoulders, your own arm around his waist, and haul his dead-weight up until John grabs the other side. 

When you reach the Impala—you working in silence with John to slide him carefully into the backseat—he clings to you. John drops his arm and it shoots over your stomach, his head falling onto your chest as he makes another low grunt of pain. And there’s such little color on his face, and he’s still shuddering when you move the jacket back over him, and you could fix this. You’ve never healed anyone before, but you could. You can feel the darkness moving into the tips of your fingers and over your heart as Dean takes a stuttered breath, and you have to-

“Get out.”

You look up and find that John has walked around the car and opened your door. “I-“

“Leave.” John grunts, not even sparing you glance as he speaks. “Now.”

You shake your head, and it’s a weak movement. There’s that feral instinct of survive still in your bones, but it’s not bigger than Dean. Nothing’s bigger than Dean. “No, I-“

“I ain’t askin’-“

“It’s not up to you-“

“My car. My rules.” John’s words sound pushed through his teeth. “Out.”

“I,” you swallow, glancing back down to Dean. “I could help-“

“You’ve done enough.“

“I could fix him!” You shout, and your sounds pleading. You feel like you’re pleading. It’s pathetic, and you don’t care because Dean makes a low, strained noise and you feel like you’re choking. “I could-“

“Listen to me very fuckin’ closely.” John sneers your full name, finally lowering down to meet your gaze. “The out of my fuckin’ car, and stay the hell away from my son. I don’t need you fixin’ him, because he’s not broken, and if he was the last thing he needs is some high horse brat making him weak.”

There’s a high ringing in your ears, and your voice is soft. “I-“

“He’d be fine if you hadn’t interfered with our work.” John snaps. “You’re out of your little pond, girl, and if I ever see you distractin’ Dean or fuckin’ with his brain again, I’ll put a bullet in yours. Got it?”

You nod, something vast and numb spreading over your chest as you carefully climb out of the car—making sure not to disturb Dean, or make his head worse—and leave John without another word. But you look back. You can’t help yourself from turning and watching the Impala pull away, from digging your nails into your skin as you cling to yourself until their headlights vanish around a corner. 

You’re already packed. Everything’s in your car—clothing, tools, books, makeup and hygiene products, first aid kit—and you could just drive out of town, but you don’t. You toss the last purification ritual bag into the truck, sit behind the wheel, just stare into the darkness.

You need to call Bobby. You need to go. John wouldn’t kill you with an injured Dean to care for, but he’d seen. He had to have seen. And not leaving now would be a death sentence. 

But you just sit in the car. Sit in the cancerous darkness that’s alight in your body, the image of Dean’s pained features burned into your eyes, flashing in front of you whenever you blink. All that boiling hatred for Dean is gone. Evaporated into thin air, leaving you ill and pained and empty. John was right. You hadn’t been fast enough, and Dean got hurt. Your barrier against the poltergeist made it violent, and Dean got hurt. You’re the sick one. It’s why he left to begin with. 

He was better for it. He didn’t need you—no one needed you—and John’s threat hadn’t been empty, so you need to drive away and never look back.

And yet you end up in the motel parking lot. Hunched in your seat as you wait for just a little proof that Dean’s okay. That you hadn’t held him and shattered him, like he’d shattered you. You’re there until the sun breaks the sky, until it’s beating over your head and you have to crack the windows. 

You’re there when your phone starts to ring, and you realize you’d forgotten to call Bobby.

You’ve barely picked up when he starts shouting, and you flinch away from the speaker. 

He uses your full name. First, middle, and Singer. He only uses your full name when he’s proud of you, or furious. And this feels more like the latter. You’re in trouble.

“You wanna tell me,” he hisses. “Why John fuckin’ Winchester knows who you are?”

“I, uh-” You swallow, twisting a ring with your thumb. “I don’t-“

“And I ain’t gonna buy your bullshit, kid, that shit doesn’t work on me.”

You sigh. “Bobby, look-“

“No, you look. I didn’t teach you to be a goddamn idjit dumbass,” he snaps your name, and you curl a little further into your seat. “You know what he’d do to ya’. Shit, what are you plannin’ on doin’ if you have a slip? If he sees that hoodoo shit happen?”

“Um, he might have already seen it.”

There’s silence on the other end for a long second, then a low, “What.”

“We just finished a poltergeist case.” You mumble, hoping he’s too angry to catch onto the why are you on a poltergeist case part. “And it attacked Dean. And I killed it.”

Bobby says your name slowly. “How the hell did ya’ kill a-“

“With my hands. I just, um, burned it.” You take a long breath. “And I think John saw.”

“And he just let ya’ off the fuckin’ hook-“

“Dean got hurt.” You whisper, and the words sting your tongue. “He was focused on that.”

“Balls.” Bobby mutters, and you can picture the frown on his face. “Well, you’re outta there now, we can-“

“No.” You sigh. “I can’t go, I have to-“ You cut yourself off, because it sounds stupid in your head. You do not have to make sure Dean’s okay. He hates you, everything logical in your brain says that you should be remembering how to hate him any time soon, and he’s not yours tocare about. John made that clear with his threat. Dean made it clear by leaving. But you’re still in the parking lot. And you still have to make sure Dean’s okay.

Bobby says your name through the phone, his voice slow. “You gonna tell me what happened last year. On that moroi hunt.”

“I ran into the Winchesters-“

“I ain’t slow, kid, I worked that part out. What happened that made you call me and flop around the house like a widowed fish for a week.”

You bring your knees up to your chest, shaking your head. “It’s… I can’t-“

“What if I ask if that was Dean’s shirt.” Bobby grunts. “That you were wearin’.”

“Yeah.” You drop your head back on the seat, letting out a heavy exhale. “It-“ 

You freeze, watching Dean finally step outside like he’s been summoned. He’s walking slowly, but walking, and he seems really okay, and he’s looking around the parking lot with a frown-‘

Shit.

You drop down in your seat, out of the view of the parking lot, and pray he didn’t see you.

“Bobby, I gotta-“

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, we still got some shit to sort out-“

“I’ll come right home.” You keep your voice hushed, in case it could carry on the wind. “And you can yell at me there.”

Bobby sighs. “I wasn’t gonna yell-“

“Yeah you were-“

“No-“

“Lying is a sin, Bobby.” You smile, carefully pulling the car keys out of your jacket. “You’re not a very good role model-“

“Well, I’m gonna fuckin’ yell at ‘ya now!” He snaps, but you can hear the slight amusement in his voice. “Get home quick, and we’ll deal with this. John don’t know you’re with me, and unless Dean needs a week after your hunt-“

“I think he’s fine.” You mumble, craning your head up to see Dean gone from the lot. “I’ll be safe at home.”

“Not if I kill ya’ for pullin’ this shit on an old man.” Bobby grunts, and you grin he falls silent, a long moment of static before- “You okay, kiddo?”

“I’m okay.” You mumble, and you’re not, but you will be. You always are. “And I’m really sorry for-“

“Apologizin’ ain’t gonna help us,” Bobby mutters. “Get home, and keep outta trouble till we sort this.”

You nod. “I will.”

You’ll try. Dean’s still pulling at you in your chest and consuming your head, but you’ll try. If only for Bobby’s sanity, you’ll really try.

You’ll pretend you don’t stay in the lot for a minute longer to watch Dean walk back to his room, that you don’t glance back at the room as you drive away, and you’ll keep yourself away of trouble. 

Away from Dean.

End Note: I’d say this story is about to be John vs Bobby on who’s a better dad, but that would be like making a mouse (John) fight a dragon (Bobby).

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[asarigg]

Inside the Character's Mind: Part 6

CHILDHOOD. SLY AND KOUJAKU. THE AVOIDANT BEHAVIOR: part 3

As if all that wasn’t already enough, at the end of the Re:connect, this happens. Aoba thinks to himself that this is not what Koujaku wanted, as much as Sly wants to think that it is, that he’s in the right. As if what he has done has helped the Koujaku inside, the one who’s like him, the true Koujaku, to come out. As if they could be free inside that cell.

Koujaku reacts to Aoba’s thoughts. Sly thinks for a moment that it’s his imagination, but when Aoba repeats his thoughts, Koujaku says his name. Koujaku, who despite not having articulated a single word all this time, weeks, months, says his name as soon as Aoba “speaks”, that’s what I’m talking about when I mention their spiritual connection, that’s how strong it is. It happening after such a different sex scene, where neither of them can say no, nor show any kind of rejection, is just a reminder that they are both locked away, suffering, and that they will stay there watching this happen day after day until the day they die, not being able to see, or touch, or call each other’s names, or say “I love you” or anything they once wanted to say. They can only just watch each other wither away.

These thoughts of “This isn’t what Koujaku wanted” are very interesting because just like Sly thought, Koujaku really wanted Aoba to accept and love him. But the last thing he wants is having Aoba reciprocate him just because that’s what Koujaku wants. He’d rather be rejected, and even die in the extreme case of the situation hurting Aoba, than having him living something he doesn’t really want, that he doesn’t feel in his heart. Giving himself to Koujaku letting him do whatever he wants without thinking twice, without thinking about his own wishes. A life that doesn’t respect Aoba’s wishes is a nightmare for him. Just like he says in the confession scene “All I can remember is that I didn’t want to touch you like that”.

I mentioned that they don’t treat the tattoo as something that changed Koujaku, but as someone else inside his mind. When Sly appears before him, Koujaku immediately knows that he’s not Aoba, but has a hard time believing it, because physically he’s the same but white. He doesn’t know what’s going on, he can’t process it, but he knows. And the thoughts that tell him that the man in front of him is not Aoba are in red, like someone else’s, with some lowercase and some uppercase, growing more intense as the madness and anger of his tattoo reflects through. Doesn’t it remind you of how Sly’s thoughts appeared in the middle of the screen when Aoba was in charge?

Sometimes I wonder what Sly’s real intention was here. In theory he wants to break Koujaku and bring out the beast because that’s the part of Koujaku that he sees himself reflected in, that destructive entity, his darkest, true side, his pure animal instinct. Exactly what Sly is.

But he still tells the sane Koujaku that he loves him and wants to convince him that he’s Aoba. If that had worked then what would he do next? Because he truly believes that’s what he wanted to hear, and when the narration returns to his point of view he tells us that his love for Koujaku is true. Obviously locked in a cell it would be difficult for anyone to believe him, and Sly wouldn’t get him out of there anyway when he wants to keep Koujaku for himself. But then why does he keep trying to convince him, over and over again, even when Koujaku still doesn’t recognize him as Aoba any time he wakes up? Would he have been satisfied with a sane Koujaku, with those restrictions he hates, just because he accepted his words? It’s only when he sees that Koujaku won’t buy it, no matter what he tells him, that he changes his strategy.

And it’s in this scene that we see Koujaku in control for the last time, and again the last thing he says before losing his mind is Aoba’s name. This ending makes us see how Koujaku once again enters a cycle of abuse. He has gone from being his father’s slave, to Ryuuhou’s, and now Sly’s, and he will probably never get out of that cell alive. He no longer has prayer beads protecting him, only chains imprisoning him.

Sly is aware of what he has done, and he believes that since he has destroyed Koujaku’s consciousness/spirit, it’s only fair that he is the one to destroy his body, not only fair but it even seems like an attractive idea, to die at his hands (Sly try not to be Ryuuhou challenge). I really like this dialogue where Sly tells Koujaku that he can tear off his flesh if he wants, on the condition that he stays. Staying with him, a reflection of his desire to feel loved, accepted, after so many years of abandonment. After hearing Koujaku speak back to Aoba, it must feel like a punch to the stomach to think for a moment that he’s wrong with what he’s chosen for the two of them, to think that Koujaku doesn’t really love him.

Having him locked in a cage somehow is perfect to prevent the slightest chance of Koujaku walking away, as well as keeping him in this state, unable to speak, unable to think, unable to reject him. It’s because of these things that I usually think that at least at the beginning the relationship with Koujaku in a good ending would be quite turbulent. He would like to flirt with Koujaku, but when he realizes that he really feels love for him, he feels vulnerable, weak, and needs to protect himself because the people who were supposed to always be with him and protect him, abandoned him. And Koujaku somehow “abandoned” him once too. So before exposing himself to that, he would rather push Koujaku away. Sly would always come back to him, because as much as he wants to walk away he can’t, he needs Koujaku to stay by his side. It doesn’t matter if it’s love or hate, Sly will take it because it’s intense, real and raw.

Fun fact: Sly and Beast Koujaku both have golden eyes, when they “transform”. Everyone has those three sides of their conscience but Aoba’s just have a distinct personality and identity each, which I think might lead to thinking that beast Koujaku might have a personality of his own. I think he’s somewhere in between, he’s obviously not like them, but he’s definitely his own entity. Like some kind of natural force, like rain, wind, the energy of the cosmos, possessing him, something more abstract than a spirit or god, which we usually see as human or animal-like appearance wise.

The first thing that strikes us when we see Aoba is that his design radically changes. When Sly takes control of his body it’s not like he suffers any physical changes, besides the shine of his eyes, however here he turns completely white. The only time we see something like that happen is when we see the true forms of Sei and Aoba, but those black marks don’t appear. This is what makes me wonder if the white color has something to do with those forms, as if it were some kind of symbolism of Sly “breaking free” and being himself, without restrictions, without Reason, but they don’t add the black marks to not spoil it, or because it looks like shit with the design, or because it simply has nothing to do with that.

The white color is the color of death, mourning, the color with which the deceased are dressed. A sterile color, without impurities, highly related to the spiritual world. Many white flowers are commonly used in funerals, usually Buddhist, such as the white chrysanthemum, used for its meaning of truth and sincerity. Aoba wears a white kimono and also gives one to Koujaku. These traditional elements could be there just to remember Koujaku but nothing in this document could ever be simple of course.

The hair of a dead person is considered to turn white after a certain period of time, meaning that the hair is no longer a source of impurities, it can't be possessed by an evil spirit, and can be transported beyond the border that marks the separation between the sacred realm of the dead and the ordinary world of the living.

His skin, his characteristic blue hair, his eyes and his clothes turn completely white because at this point Aoba is no longer there. Not in a literal sense, of course, but in a figurative sense, Aoba is dead. And this is basically the same thing that happens with Koujaku. They are both reborn, destroyed, spiritually dying so that something else can be created, the ID, the instinct of destruction, the two beasts freed from the bodies that held them prisoners.

His clothes in general resemble those of a Miko, with a more “fantastical” and sexualized appearance. This post talks about it as well. Again it’s a reference to the spiritual realm, their religious side and how Aoba/Sly is an object of devotion, of how Aoba is somewhat a channeler for Koujaku. Just like there are rituals that call the gods to our world, like I’ve said in the section about hair, which serves as a connection with gods, Aoba is the only thing that connects Koujaku with this world, the only reason why he’s still alive.

[sideysvault]

୭ ˚. HOTD; SINGE PARENT AU ₊

The guardian ₊@hotd2025bingo ₊

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───

wc: 1019k

tags: [sfw] fluffy, single parenting struggles, sweet, canon divergence, light mentions of mental disability and grief, multi character.

────────

₊ Helaena Targaryen ₊

She was known to be extremely pleasant and to always be on a good humor. Naturally, everyone could immediately agree that she would make a splendid mother. But Halaena? She wasn’t so sure about it.

Most days, the Queen was afraid. Despite what everyone thought, she really could tell that she was different.

She noticed the awkward, long pauses. She noticed the looks, the contained gasps. And it wasn’t the visions. At least, not exclusively. It was something else, something that went far beyond the prophecies.

And while Halaena loved her queer mind and truly enjoyed spending time with herself, she couldn’t help but wonder if it would ultimately be detrimental when raising her children. Will she be strong enough to endure the difficult challenge of parenting all on her own? Would her sensible and melancholic disposition keep her from being a strong, reliable figure?

When the kid's father died, she did not fall into depression. It was what was expected of a widow, but she knew that the right to mourn her life as a wife would always come after her children’s needs and safety.

It turns out, her oddities only made her children love her more. She would tell them stories, share with them her love for the natural world, decorate their clothing with intricate embroidered patterns, and, above else, protect them from the violence of the Red Keep, trying to teach them to be different than herself, than her family, to be kinder, sweeter, more considerate.

₊ Aegon Targaryen ₊

Initially, Aegon did not take much care of his children. It was mainly due to viewing himself as nothing more than a coward. Poison drips through, doesn’t it? And who is more filled with it than Aegon? Who was drowning in it for as long as he could remember?

When he became a single parent, however, something Inside of him whispered that he had to step up to the situation. As Aegon suspected, he discovered that they were genuinely sweet kids. This confused him to no end. After all, isn’t it true that half of them came from him? How could they be so pure? So happy?

Once he is forced to grapple with this incorruptible innocence, he promises to the Gods to prepare them for not only absolute greatness, but for their tenderness and joyfulness to be preserved throughout their time on this earth.

₊ Jacaerys Velaryon ₊

Jacaerys, always the faithful, devoted husband, was destined to become the sweetest father ever.

Now that he was on his own, some days, especially on the quiet ones, he couldn’t help but feel a little pain while watching his kids. They would repeat the same mannerisms their mother had, or say something exactly the way she used to. Sometimes, for a flash of a second, he could’ve sworn that they looked like his younger brother.

The only thing he wants is to guarantee that his children get to live the life that their mom and his brother deserve to have. He spoils them rotten with hugs, gifts and desserts, yes. But he always keeps in mind that a good parent needs to provide balance. So he tries to teach them the importance of honor and duty early on.

₊ Rhaenyra Targaryen ₊

When she was younger, she viewed motherhood as a prison, nothing more than becoming a birthing machine, she swore to never end up like her mother, like Alicent.

But now that she has them? They are all that matters to her. While it’s true, she can get tangled in the bureaucracy of ruling and strategy making, Nyra would never forget that she is the only one her kids have now.

She is a strong believer in their autonomy, so she spends a lot of time talking to them, truly trying to understand who they are as little people. She tells them stories of old Valyria. And, when they are old enough, she takes them on her rides.

Despite the lack of understanding, the busy schedule, and whatever her family needs to face, there is nothing that Rhaenyra treasures more than having the privilege to ride and see beautiful sceneries, to feel the wind on her face, with her children by her side. Their smiles could paint the most impressive of skies into mere secondary spectacles.

₊ Aemond Targaryen ₊

He never thought he would be the one to have a child. A liability, he thought. An ego project.

Aemond grew up seeing his mother, how hard she tried to please her children and how terribly her relationship with them had turned. It was all in vane. He saw how his siblings' offspring weren’t particularly fond of them, how, too busy with Westero’s constant struggle, they got relegated to a nuisance.

But the truth is, that he was scared of not being lovable enough, good enough, to be a parent.

Although, when he had to deal with raising his child alone, it was like being struck by a flash of lightning. Now suddenly awake and infinitely committed, his parenting skills flourished like they had always been there, dormant.

Everyone at court could notice how dear his little girl was to him. Whispers of surprise initially ensued when they saw how, the cold, one-eyed prince openly he hugs and comforts his daughter in front of other 'king's men, his family notices how much he dreads telling his baby any hard news because he simply cannot stand that look on her face, and how hard he fights to keep his daughter's life a safe and a happy one.

He could, on occasion, become overly protective of her. Paranoia followed him around, plaguing his thoughts, poisoning his mind. Especially when his daughter reached the age in which he was mutilated. The Prince often fights against these impulses, wanting her to enjoy her infancy.

When she grows old, all he wants is for her to grow healthily, to stop the cruelty of adulthood from keeping her from knowing how much she was truly loved, and how much faith he has in her future.

Aemond tries strenuously hard to never make the same mistakes his parents did with him.

────────

Notes: another one while I still have the time 🙏

[haikyu-mp4]

September

word count; 948 – f!reader

Autumn came suddenly, shaking everyone out of summer and sunshine and tucking them into warm coats, scarves and schoolwork. Hardworking students already started making their way to the library to work on whatever subjects they had that semester. Hirugami Sachiro was one of those students and had taken a seat by a table in front of a tall window looking out on the yellowing leaves of a tree. He was what you would call an excellent student, dedicating a lot of his time to school and sometimes even enjoying it.

On this particular day, however, he had a problem with concentrating. Another student sat by the same table, which wouldn’t usually be an issue, but the problem was that this person kept shaking the table by bouncing her leg and harshly erasing half of the things she wrote down. Hirugami didn't have to be a genius to understand your struggle. You looked like the classic stressed student who usually wouldn’t be in there before November. Hirugami has a kind soul, and a soft smile took over his face thinking that at least you were trying. "Tough subject or difficult chapter?" he asked, putting down his pen.

You looked up, startled. Hirugami noted your pretty features before his gaze fell on your notebook. He could barely make out the words. Feeling your cheeks heat up, you subconsciously pressed the back of your cold hand to one of them before chuckling half-heartedly down at the messy notes. "Both, unfortunately," you answered. 

Hirugami moved his bag and scooted his books down the table to sit across from you. "I mean this with the best intentions, but do you need any help? I'm Hirugami," he introduced himself and held out his hand over the table. His calm expression and kind eyes somehow made a few of your worries feel smaller. You almost felt breathless looking at him, but being in no place to turn away help, you shook his hand with a grateful smile.

"Y/n," you said back before letting go of his hand to look over your useless notes again. Teeth chewing on a small piece of skin on your lip, you weren’t quite sure what to say. "I just never know where to start," you admitted, sighing apologetically. He gestured for you to hand over the course book, and you watched as his eyes scanned the first pages almost expertly. The fact of the matter is, you’re not stupid, just prone to getting overwhelmed.

After a minute or two, Hirugami leaned across the table and held up the book so you could read where he pointed. "You can start by reading through one paragraph at a time, then write down in your notebook everything you remember between each. After doing that for about two pages-”

He took a break to look up at you and you quickly nodded to show that you were listening. “Yeah?”

"You can grab a highlighter or something and go over to make sure that you've included all the difficult or important terms. If some are missing, that's no problem. You just have to rewrite, and then you'll hopefully remember it better anyway," Hirugami said, ending the monologue by taking a large breath and looking up expectantly. You were amazed by how he spoke so confidently and perfectly explained every detail.

"It's worth a try. Thanks, Hirugami!" you exclaimed gratefully. The way you said his name and looked so genuinely hopeful made butterflies flutter in his stomach.

"It's no problem, honestly. I'll be here if you need anything. Even a break." His voice went up in tone with the last part. With a warm smile in return before getting to work, you quickly decided that this Hirugami might be onto something.

You and Hirugami spent the rest of the evening in the library, whisper-talking every five minutes about someone doing something annoying or interesting topics in your course books. Eventually, the horizon swallowed the sun and the world turned dark outside the large window.

After several hours of productive studying, you could finally close your books for the day, yawning while Hirugami stretched his back. Looking around, you realised you were almost the only students left in the library.

"Hey, y/n?" Hirugami felt his stomach do flips when you rested your gaze on him. "Maybe we should get some food?" he asked, his voice not quite as confident as when he explained school-related topics. Your lips pursed together in a sympathetic look, and his heart suddenly plummeted.

"Sorry, Hiru. I have to go home now, it's late." Hirugami scratched the back of his head and awkwardly looked away.

"It's fine-" he was about to excuse himself, prepared to probably never talk to you again.

"How about tomorrow?" you asked him casually. He looked up again in surprise and you grinned hopefully.  "We can meet for lunch!"

"It's a date." Hirugami quickly realised his mistake and stuttered a correction. "I-I mean not- not a date. Lunch." You chuckled at the cute man, how could you not? "When?" Nice save, Hirugami told himself, not believing it for one second.

"Noon?"

"Noon is perfect. Perhaps at this one place on the corner by the park?" Hirugami felt his heart beating so quickly that he wondered if you could see it. You were both rolling on the balls of your feet, clutching your books to your chests like a couple of teenagers.

"It's a date," you said and walked away after winking at him confidently, a stupid grin on your face when he couldn't see it anymore. Hirugami’s mouth fell open when he realised what you said, looking after you until you were out the door. A date.

The Schoolyear Series ║ masterlist

taglist: @cottonlemonade

[unhappy-sometimes]

a 2024 writing retrospective (for sxf fanfic)

ignore the fact that i’m a few days late. i’ve been unbelievably busy the past couple weeks.

in this post i’ll go over the fics i wrote in 2024 think of it as an extremely extended author’s notes. i love to talk and will do so when given the chance.

i’ll start from my latest fic and work my way backwards. spoilers for everything i’ve written in 2024.

(Very) Stupid

Something that I try really really hard to maintain in my writing is believability, specifically when it comes to writing characters. Characters acting out of character is one of my biggest fanfic pet peeves: if I wanted to read about someone’s oc, then I would’ve read a regular book. That being said, I think a lot about how Twilight would actually act like if he were in love. I had an interesting conversation with @cantareincminor forever ago about how he’s so emotionally constipated that it’s kind of difficult to write Twilight in love without making him a bit ooc. Right now in canon it’s hard to imagine him falling head over heels for anyone (in my opinion, anyway).

That being said there are moments in canon where he acts flustered in situations that could be interpreted as romantic. So, for right now, my hypothesis is this: if and when Twilight falls in love, he’s going to be an absolute fool. He’s going to do his usual overthinking and overanalyizing, so much to the point that he starts hesitating over the smallest things.

(Very) Stupid is how I imagine all of that unfolding, although for the sake of comedy I did push things to the absurd. Sometimes Twilight does things in canon with such certainty of “Yes, of course normal people do this, I’m nailing this normalcy thing” that he fails to realize he’s being kinda ridiculous. I also wanted to take that element and incorporate it into a fic.

I also wanted to try subverting expectations (ooh fancy literary term) by having them do romantic things that lead them nowhere. I tried to cram in as many tropes as I could—feeding each other with a fork, only one bed, first kiss—but do so under the guise of Twilight completely missing how dumb he’s being the entire time. He only realizes his feelings until after their first kiss, specifically when Yor surprises him with a quick peck on the cheek. This, of course, was deliberate. I figured that it’d make the most sense if Twilight would only realize his feelings in a situation where he wasn’t the one initiating a (somewhat) romantic gesture because he theoretically wouldn’t be overthinking it. Instead, Yor just sneaks in when his guard is down <3

Endings are usually the hardest things for me to write and (Very) Stupid was no exception. I almost had Twilight pass out at the breakfast table when he kisses Yor but then I realized I’d made him faint in almost every fic I’ve written this year and that felt like a cop out. But I figured it out and I don’t mind the way the ending turned out :D

Also, kind of a random reference, but the title is slightly inspired by VERY NICE by Seventeen lol

Holy crap I’ve written so much for only one fic so far. My apologies in advance.

21 Eden Street

I won’t go into too much detail for 21 Eden Street because it’s still ongoing, but I just wanna brag about how fun it is to write hehe. It’s really enjoyable to write pure crack and come up with stupid and insane ideas with Cantare. You don’t need to have seen either iteration of 21 Jump Street to understand what’s going on. Honestly, we’ve taken very little from the source material and treated it more like a loose guide and a basis for brainstorming.

Don’t worry, we haven’t abandoned it! Cantare is waiting on me to finish writing my chapter (hehe sorry, Cantare!) and soon it’ll be back up and running.

Seeing things

Ah, Seeing Things, my beloved <3

This fic has the least amount of hits out of everything I’ve written (which is not surprising to me) but I hold it very dear to my heart. There’s not a specific reason why other than I just really enjoyed writing it. I also spent a ton of time making supplementary drawings and a whole hype campaign for it, too, so I kinda am obligated to feel some sorta way about it.

Anyway, the way this fic came about is simple; I just had the things I am most afraid of happen to Twilight. Yes, I’m scared of serial killers and my loved ones dying like everyone else, but something I am absolutely terrified of are hallucinations. That and doppelgangers.

Not being able to tell reality apart from fiction activates the flight or fight senses in me. Real life can be scary, yes, but reality is bound by the rules of reality. Literally anything can happen in fiction. The most horrific, awful things are possible in fiction and if those things suddenly become possible in reality???? Girl I am GONE. Passing away. Curling up in a fetal position in the nearest corner. I don’t know if that makes any sense. If I ever start seeing things that I can’t be sure are actually happening or not, I am choosing to die right then and there. Doppelgangers as a concept are also really scary to me. It’s like stranger danger but times a thousand because you can’t tell who the strangers are anymore.

In my initial draft, there wasn’t nearly as much of a tension between Twilight and Yor. If I recall correctly, by then I’d written to nearly the end and realized that for Yor this whole experience has been Loid acting just a little more weird than usual. It might’ve been Cantare’s suggestion (just assume everything after Guy’s Night has been beta’d by Cantare and you’ll be mostly right) but I realized that Twilight probably would start to suspect the people around him were screwing with him. I added the scene where his room was messed up and it all fell into place hehe.

I don’t like writing gore or the like because I feel like typical gore quickly starts escalating into levels of pain that the average reader has no possibility of comprehending and it loses its efficacy. Instead I tried feeding into Twilight’s paranoia, adding things that in isolation are just weird but when put together are unsettling. I shamelessly stole the fourth room hallway from Impossible Landscapes, a Delta Green campaign that I highly recommend you check out if you enjoy surreal horror. I purposefully kept some things vague, like the things Anya sees in Twilight’s mind, the way Handler’s face gets warped, or the description of “the watchers” because I felt like going into detail would lose the unknown-ness of it all. That and I’m lazy heehee.

In some way, canon Spy x Family does deal with ideas of doppelgangers and paranoia. Spies are constantly afraid of being listened in on, they don’t know if they can trust anyone, and they always have to keep an eye over their shoulder. For someone who is always a little scared of being spied on (I cover my phone and laptop cameras for that exact reason), that kinda sounds like torture. Seeing Things was a fun way to crank that paranoia up to a hundred. It was especially fun writing the museum scene because I tried thinking of things that are just ever so slightly off, things that theoretically could exist but clearly don’t.

I also threw in other things I’m scared of, like being watched, being followed, the dark, and the bathroom at night just to be extra mean to Twilight <3

Anyway, I’m rambling and this analysis post will be a novel if I keep this up.

Guy’s Night

I do recognize the insane tone shift going from Seeing Things to Guy’s Night.

What is there to even say about Guy’s Night? I got the idea from Psych (the Last Night Gus episode) who got the general basic from the Hangover movies. I wrote it all out in a few days, one of which I was sick in bed. I don’t know what to say.

Looking back on it, I don’t love the way it turned out. I’m glad I wrote it but where I usually don’t mind rereading my stuff for fun I do kinda cringe at Guy’s Night. It relies on a lot of contrivances which I tried masking with humor but it’s still a bit obvious. If you make a timeline of the previous night’s events, it only kinda makes sense.

It doesn’t help that I went into it with no plan whatsoever. I just sat down and said what happens happens. When I wrote in chapter one that something had happened between Loid and Yor, I didn’t know what that was. When I wrote Loid saying “we need to see what’s on that camera film” I was right there next to him saying “buddy, so do I because I have no idea.” When wrote Franky saying that his friend Marko might have answers, I was hoping he would too because I, like everyone else, didn’t know what was going on either.

The ONE thing I DID know was that Twilight got a tattoo the night before. That was it. That’s all.

I don’t typically plan out everything when I write but I usually have a good idea. For Guy’s Night, I had a bad idea in that I had no idea. It kinda shows. Sorry.

That being said, it was incredibly fun writing their drunk shenanigans and banter. The dynamic between Twilight, Franky, and Yuri was so goofy that I’ve seriously debated writing a sequel of sorts. However that’s incredibly unlikely. If I ever do write a sequel, it’d be a Girl’s Night with Yor and a combination of female characters, probably Sylvia and Fiona.

After Peace (and Glimpses of Happiness)

A quick heads up: I don’t go into detail but I do discuss mental illness in this segment.

I am incredibly proud of how After Peace turned out. Not only did it receive a really good reception for being my first fic ever, but it also helped me work through some things in my own life. It’s important to give some context.

I wrote After Peace shortly after graduating college. I won’t go into specifics, but college was really, really difficult for me. I had been so excited for this next step in my life after graduating high school but instead it turned out to be one of the hardest experiences of my life. Depression came out of nowhere and stomped me into the ground.

I used to have very high expectations for myself; I had a clear vision of what I wanted to do with my life and I was taking steps to work towards those goals. Then my mental health tanked and suddenly everything just felt so difficult and pointless. I’d sleep all day and then hate myself when the sun started to set because that meant I’d wasted an entire day doing nothing when I was supposed to be working towards something. But I just couldn’t do it anymore.

That’s something I’ve noticed that a lot of media gets wrong about depression sometimes. It doesn’t always make you feel sad. Sometimes it just sucks everything out of you—sadness, happiness, anger, everything. I stopped drawing, stopped listening to music, stopped eating, stopped exercising, stopped doing everything that I enjoyed because it felt like the equivalent of doing the dishes. Everything was a chore, even the things that I liked.

What really changed things around was when my poor roommate, who was sick of me sleeping for twenty hours a day, dragged my sorry self to the free counseling services on campus. It’s doesn’t fix everything, but having someone who cares about you and you care about can really help your mental health.

Anyway, let’s not forget I’m talking about an anime fanfiction here haha.

After Peace really did start out as a couple of doodles but as I started to write it, I noticed that there were a lot of similarities between myself and Loid. No, I am not a former spy turned grumpy hermit, but I did once have great aspirations and now have to settle for what reality offers me. Realizing that worth comes from simply existing was something that I had to understand in order to begin my recovery process.

I’ve always found it kind of sad that if you took away the goal of world peace from Twilight that you’re basically left with nothing. He doesn’t really have hobbies, no real friends, and he never takes a day off. That’s hardly sustainable. Would he really be happy when there’s nothing left to do? I’d like to think so, but I wanted to see what would happen if he wasn’t.

I mentioned this in the end note, but After Peace was also influenced by this comic I was working on years ago that had the similar premise of “grumpy man learns to enjoy life with the help of a young girl” (very original, I know). I doubt that I’ll ever release that comic in the capacity I once intended, but it does live on in my secret second tumblr account of you ever manage to find it.

Anyway, I was worried about writing After Piece because Anya plays a big role and I am Not Good at writing children. It was hard striking a balance between making Anya likeable but still realistic. I don’t interact with children often and, as a youngest sibling, I don’t have much experience with them. Anya has so many layers—being a test subject, being a telepath, being a child—that it was hard managing them all. But I’m okay with how she turned out.

There is a slight problem in that she basically disappears once Yor shows up D:

I debated having Yor in the fic at all but then I realized that without her the emotional climax would have to rely on a four year old’s emotional intelligence and then decided right then and there that Yor had to be in it haha.

Yor’s whole deal with accidentally killing the wrong person was kind of a last minute addition. I do wish I was able to explore that more, but I also feel like she’s emotionally mature enough to forgive herself more quickly than Twilight would. She ends up serving a bit of a role model to him. It was also nice to be able to write them interacting with the truth out on the table and for them to be honest with each other.

Pacing was something that I was very concerned with. Looking back on it now, I’m still worried that things move along a bit quickly. However, I am reminded of some advice my graphic design professors gave me: “Good design is when nothing more can be take away.” And, because I was writing this as fast as possible, you best believe I was taking things away if I didn’t need them. I didn’t want to fall into the trap of dwelling on Twilight’s thoughts for too long so I instead opted for showing him progressing through experiences instead. I think it worked out.

However because I took so many things out I decided to start Glimpses of Happiness, a supplementary fic to After Peace that fills in the cracks, so to speak. I wanted to have more moments between Twilight and the other characters, like stargazing with Anya and growing close to Yor. Right now there’s only one chapter, but I have plans for at least a few more. I also thought it was important to highlight that mental health recovery never truly ends. Just because Yor and Twilight had a nice chat on the roof doesn’t mean that things are suddenly okay. It’s a long process that sometimes never ends and I wanted to show that.

Of course, I can’t talk about After Peace without addressing the Midwest allegations. As I said, yes, this fic was inspired by my childhood in the American Midwest, even though I was nowhere near any mountains. The Midwest is a silly place full of nothing to do but go to your local Walmart for fun, but I think it served a good enough setting for Twilight to chill out and slow down. If I really wanted to do full Midwest, I’d have Twilight watch a tornado touch down on a cornfield from his truckbed, but that feels sort of out of place.

I feel like there’s more to say but I can’t think of anything and I doubt anyone’s actually gonna read all the way down here anyway. But yeah, that’s After Peace.

Oh, and the A.M. AM by Damien Jurado Youtube video currently has nine comments that mentjon falling from a five story building, which I think is really funny.

So now what?

Against my better judgement, I’m still writing. I have a couple projects in the works, especially one big big big one that hopefully I can start publishing soon. Keep an eye out for that.

In the meantime, thanks for a great year! I hope 2025 holds more great things in store for us all!

-unso ^. .^<

[agirlandherquill]

truths, back again!

it's not even been a week into 2025 but it sure has been a whirlwind - my story truths has consumed a part of me and i've got to say this might be the quickest i've written something - day 6 and i'm writing Part Two already! you can find truths here where the new chapters are all uploaded and ready to be read!

and for those of you that haven't seen my last post about it, feel free to check that out, but in the meantime, i'll leave you with a little sneak peek at something coming up a little later in the story!

~ ~ ~

“Has he been bothering you for coffee for a long time?” AJ asks me as we start down the street.

“Um…” I think. “Sort of. Yes. Why?”

“Explains why he’s so touchy.” He shrugs.

“Why?”

“It’s tough, trying to find a chance to get to know someone you’re interested in.”

“What?” I do a double-take. “Danny’s not- No- Is he?”

“Seems like it.”

“Hang on.” I stop walking and grab his arm. “You sound like you’re talking from personal experience.”

His lips twitch. “Maybe I am.”

My mind spins. He could be talking about anyone. His past. Anything. Not me. He can’t mean me. I don’t want to press further, it’s not my business, but my curiosity takes over and I just can’t help myself. “How would you go about tackling such a problem?”

“I wouldn’t say I’d tackle it. More like… Find a way to be with them without making it so blindingly obvious that you’re spending time together. It’s difficult sometimes, but for the right person… It’s worth it.”

I smile. His words are so sweet I think he might secretly be a Saint. “Well, whoever she is, she’s a lucky girl.” And I hope she deserves him. I really do.

“I wouldn’t call her lucky.” He murmurs, tucking his hands in his coat pocket. “She’s more than that.”

More than I will ever be.

~ ~ ~

now for the tag list!

(p.s if you'd like to be included/notified too, interact with this post :) p.p.s im finally getting around to updating it, so bear with me :))

@humbly-a-doppelganger @imawholeassmood @frostedlemonwriter @yrndrgn @abditorywriting

@riveriafalll @lead-to-code @casualsuitturtle @floweryprosegarden @joeys-piano

@catwingsathena @godsmostfuckedupgoblin @nothoughtsjustmhaandotherthings @anaisbebe

@drchenquill @leahnardo-da-veggie @tiredpapergirl @pastelpinkhobbies @a-mimsy-borogove @the-letterbox-archives @corinneglass @darkluminosity @kuebiko-writing

[madamtrashbat]

Utterly fascinating to hear my Libyan friend say with his whole chest that Jews have always lived in peace in the middle east and everything was peaches and cream until Israel was created.

Like my dude. I love you. There are no more Jews in Libya for a reason my dude. There is well-documented history of Jews being mistreated in Arabic Muslim countries. Dude. My guy. They were forced to convert to Islam or die in some areas. My dude.

[enrapture]

Protecting my peace and learning to move on. Accepting the things I cannot control and taking it all as lessons. You can’t force people to change, you can’t force people to understand you, you can’t force it to work if the other side isn’t willing to put in the effort because they want to. You can’t force friendships, relationships, people to treat you right. You can’t force anyone or anything. Accepting things as they come and as they go.

If they wanted to, they would.

[neon-wool]

Short answer: Buy them yourself or ask your dad, either should be fine. Asking your mum to buy something for your dad’s house sounds more likely to cause drama in an already tense situation.

Long answer: Anon, it sounds like you’ve had a difficult upbringing, and I feel for you. Obviously I don’t know you, so take everything I'm about to write with a big pinch of salt... take anything that resonates and ignore the rest.

It sounds like you’ve formed some pretty intense anxiety around relationships that's affecting your daily life. For most people, buying posters for their room would be a very simple issue that requires almost no thought. They'd never think to ask permission for something they were paying for, and there would be no pressure to open up about liking the tv show in advance, just in case a parent's feelings were hurt. They'd talk about the show if they happened to feel like it, or not, without thinking much of it.

However for you it sounds like there's a strong fear of judgement from your dad if you admit to liking the show, but on the flipside you worry not telling him in advance could somehow hurt him, make him feel betrayed, or undermine your relationship. Most people wouldn't have these worries at all. Has he given you a reason to think he's that judgemental or fragile? Or is it possible you're catastrophising?

Looking at the level of intensity you’re applying to the situation, it seems to me this isn’t really about the tv show or the poster at all. Perhaps the strong emotions are about how you’d like to connect more with your dad and feel closer to him. There may also be some amount of underlying trauma from your upbringing, which sounds like it had some significant issues.

My advice is: be kind to yourself, and try to take the pressure off for now. Your dad is very unlikely to be hurt by you buying a poster. What’s important is finding ways to connect to your loved-ones and feel cared for, and exploring complicated emotions about your childhood. That takes time.

From what you wrote, it sounds like your dad does actually take an interest in your hobbies when you bring them up, and you generally do feel he’s quite supportive. That’s a good thing, and more than some people have with their parents. The main problem you have right now is that he doesn’t approach you first, and he doesn’t open up about himself much either. You also feel he has an outdated view of you and still sees you as a child.

Sometimes it takes active communication to shift your relationships forward in the direction you want them to go. Sometimes parents have their own issues, or just lack social skills, so they may not realise how their words and actions are affecting you. If you think his view of you is stuck in the past, and you want him to see you as who you are now, then you're going to need to have the courage to assert yourself as who you are now.

If talking to him about this show is causing a lot of anxiety I won't push you to do that immediately. But I would suggest you look again at that fear. You said in the past he's been supportive when you talked about your interests, and you know the idea of him thinking the show is too weird/violent is unlikely since he already enjoys that kind of show himself. Putting that together it's hard to see why you're so afraid of mentioning this to him, perhaps this fear is a result of the chronic overthinking you mentioned.

Let's play out the worst-case scenario: you tell him, and he says "oh that's a pretty violent show, it's not for me" or he just doesn't understand why you like it... why is that such a problem? It's ok for him to see that you are an adult with your own taste, which might not always match his. Doesn't sound like there's anything seriously problematic about the show. How would it feel to just sit with the fact that you like it, and he might not like it, and that's ok? Having different taste in tv shows isn't going to mean he stops liking you as a person.

If this whole subject causes you intense stress, and you have anxiety about the relationship being damaged by small things like this, I think that's something you need to take note of, and perhaps get some outside support for.

However if you feel able to, I’d recommend taking a deep breath and just telling him about the show, in a casual way, just for the sake of opening up. It sounds like the odds of him enjoying it too are pretty decent! And if he isn't into it, maybe you could be ok with that. I'd also recommend the idea (when you feel ready) of just telling him, in a positive way, that you enjoy talking to him about your interests, you want to learn more about his interests too, and you’d like to have a good friendship and get to know him more as you become an adult.

Eventually, if you feel closer to him over time, you might feel able to open up about the distance and ‘privacy’ your parents kept in childhood, and how this has affected you. There might be some difficult emotions to process there. Parents have their own baggage, and can be very stuck in their own perspective. If you continue building on the relationship and trust you have with him now, there might be more space for him to reflect on those issues in the future, in a way that would be healing for both of you.

Navigating family relationships can be very complicated. Sometimes you feel someone has hurt you, but it wasn’t intentional, so what do you do with that hurt? Do they even realise they hurt you? Perhaps they do love you and do make an effort, but is that enough? Could they have done more? Will they ever see or acknowledge or make amends for the hurt they caused? Perhaps you wish you could be closer, and perhaps you really wish they would be the one to reach out first, you really wish they would just ‘get it’ and grow of their own accord… but wishing won’t change the situation. Maybe you'll be the one who has to set things in motion and push for growth, even though you didn't cause the situation. Life is messy. Growth is messy. It can be hard to know exactly what you want, or how to achieve it. But there's time, it doesn't all need to happen straight away.

I can’t answer any of these questions, or even know if they're the right questions for you. Finding a healthy balance can be hard. It’s up to each individual to judge their own situation, their own sense of fairness and hurt, and how much effort is worth putting into a relationship. Of course, parents hold the responsibility of forming healthy relationships with their children as they grow up, not the other way round. Sometimes they really fail at that job. Other times it’s a complex mixture of good and bad. Even with genuine effort there are many things which hold people back, people have their own traumas, everyone has their own narrow perspective. You can have sympathy for your parents’ limitations, and be willing to work with them and have patience, but simultaneously accept that you've always deserved to feel loved and safe and supported, and maybe you didn't always get that. The sacrifices and effort shouldn’t all be on your side.

As you become an adult, you have more choices about how you interact with your parents, and more agency in how you handle the relationship. Again, without knowing your situation I can’t say for sure, but just from what you’ve written here… my advice would be to take it slow, and try not to over-analyse every little thing. Don't try to come up with all the answers straight away. Instead, step back and look at the big picture of your upbringing and parental relationships, both the good and the bad.

Maybe start writing a journal about it, just noting down any thoughts that come up and letting yourself vent. A well-hidden private journal is great because it gives you space to try out lots of random thoughts and ideas, and see what actually makes sense. You don’t have to judge what you write, or draw any conclusions. You can write whatever pops into your head, and then ask “is this really what I feel? Does this make sense to me?” Then you can re-read it months later, suddenly see something you didn’t before, and a new piece clicks into place.

Good luck anon, I hope you find a way forward over time, and I hope you enjoy the posters!

This is not a yes/no poll but I don’t know who else to consult.

My parents and I are not close. I'm closer with my dad, but he doesn't know about any of my interests due to the way me and my sister were taught about 'privacy' growing up. I am not close with my mum at all and I only talk to her when I have to.

When me and my sister were growing up, we were not told any of our parents' interests/hobbies, and were always told not to look at what people were doing. I think this is what led us to both be so hidden(?) from our parents, and is why this problem exists in the first place.

My dad doesn’t really buy anything for me, nor does he try to learn about my interests (but he will listen when he does learn about them. He likes that I like stuff, he just doesn’t actively seek that information out). My mum is the one who will buy me things, but it’s gotten to the point where she is just buying me junk for the sake of trying to keep a relationship with me and then holding that fact over my head (I have told her to stop, she hasn’t).

I want to buy a few posters for my favourite show for my bedroom at my dads house (my parents are divorced). I currently do not have a credit/debit card as I lost it a few months ago, however I am going to go get a new one on the 18th of this month, but I would preferably like to place the order before school starts again (for reference, all these options are online orders).

I have a few options on how to acquire the posters, and I’m not sure how to go about it.

Ask my mum to buy them for me.

She will buy me things I don’t want related to this show for the next 10 years, even after I inevitably lose interest in it. She’ll also be extremely upset that I’m putting them up at my dad’s house, and not hers. However I don’t care about her opinion on my interests as much.

Ask my dad to buy them for me.

I do not want to do this one, purely because of the completely irrational fear I have that he’ll think the show is weird, or violent (again, completely irrational. He is the biggest nerd you’ll meet, he’s probably even watched the show before and enjoyed it. It’ll just be awkward and I’m an overthinker). His opinion means a lot to me, and although he’s supportive of me in every sense, I think he still views me as a little kid (I’m 18), hence why I’m worried to tell him about my interests. I do want him to know about my interests in the long term though, and I want to be able to tell him things about me and not be scared about it, but I’m not sure if diving headfirst into this is the right way to go about it (for my own sake).

Wait until the 18th and buy them myself.

This one would be fine, but I’m a little worried that my dad will be confused when they show up for me. He would also have to find out about the posters/my interests in a surprise! Kind of way, which is a little awkward and it might hurt his feelings that he wasn’t asked. This will also be after school starts again, which I would prefer to get them before then. However I think this is the option that’ll give me the least anxiety in the short-term, but probably more as I wait for them to arrive.

I have consulted my sister and she is no help whatsoever.

Thank you for reading this behemoth of an ask, and thank you for any advice you might have (and I understand if this is not submitted to the public as it's not a yes/no question).

[somepinkthing]

"Astarion is evil" "astarion is good" "astarion is misunderstood" IDC IDC IDC!!! Astarion is annoying and he gives me the ick!!!!

(Im romancing him in multiple playthroughs)

[adore-gregor]

Lol I keep on doing this, saying I'd come back to tumblr to only disappear again 😂😭