#what we're not going to do. is look too closely at this
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barnacles34 · 1 day ago
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Professional Hazard (And Blue Tongues)
Karina x Male Reader
9k words
18+ smut
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'I expected you to have...'
'Grey hair? Glasses thick as tank armor?' You lean back. 'Let me guess—ancient and decrepit?'
'Something like that.' She toys with her iced americano, ice cubes clinking.
'Get that more than you'd think.'
'Can't imagine why.'
'Sure you can't.'
She straightens in her chair. 'Well? Are you going to ask your questions or what?'
'Did you have something specific in mind?'
'I thought you'd at least come prepared.' The sharp edge in her voice softens, adapting. 'After that email you sent.'
'I am prepared.'
'Do you know who I am?'
'I know you're Karina. I know you agreed to fund my little Italian vacation.' You keep your voice flat, unimpressed.
She laughs, short and sharp. 'They really sent someone who knows nothing.'
'Biographers aren't exactly growing on trees these days. Most of them are busy dying off.' [1]
'That's comforting.'
'About as comforting as your enthusiastic response to my email.'
'Ah.' She smirks. 'My monument to hubris?'
'Your words, not mine.'
'Christ, you're not exactly sunshine and roses, are you?'
'If only you knew.'
'Oh, I think I do.' She leans forward. 'People like me—we're your bread and butter. Desperate enough to take the abuse just to get that book written.'
'Quick study.'
'Experience, darling.' She draws out the last word like stretched taffy.
'If immortality's what you're after, we're off to a rocky start.'
'Not even grateful for the Italian holiday?'
You meet her eyes. 'Bribery's nothing new. Don't expect it to polish your image.'
'Tough nut to crack, aren't you?'
'I have what I need.'
'Meaning?'
'Let me put this delicately: my last subject bought me a year at New York's finest.' [2]
'Fantastic.' She rattles her ice cubes harder.
'You know what I think?' She sets down her drink with deliberate care.
'Enlighten me.'
'I think you enjoy this. The whole "unimpressed biographer" act.'
You pull out your notebook, unhurried. 'That'd make a great chapter one. "Local girl psychoanalyzes writer, lives to regret it."'
'There it is again.' Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. 'Tell me, do your subjects usually last long enough for chapter two?'
'The interesting ones do.'
'And the boring ones?'
You flip open to a blank page. 'They get a lovely rejection letter.'
'Which I didn't.'
'Yet.'
She leans back, studying you. The late afternoon sun catches the edge of her glass, throwing prismatic shapes across the table. 'You really don't care that I could walk away right now.'
'The door's right there.' You click your pen. 'But we both know you won't.'
'Because?'
'Because you didn't spend three months negotiating with my publisher just to storm off over hurt feelings.'
'Maybe I just like wasting time.'
'Maybe.' You meet her gaze. 'But people who like wasting time don't usually have a dozen designer brand sponsorships.'
Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe, or respect. 'So you did do your homework.'
'I always do.' You position your pen over the blank page. 'Now, shall we begin with the real questions?'
'Shoot.' She shifts in her chair, the late afternoon sun warming the cafe corner we've claimed.
'Tell me about your sister.'
Her eyebrows lift slightly. 'Not starting with the obvious questions?'
'Would you prefer those?'
'No.' She smiles, genuine this time. 'She's a nurse. Like our mom.'
'Close?'
'Very. She's the only person who still calls me Jimin.' She stirs her americano. 'Probably the only person who can get away with it, too.'
'Why's that?'
'Because she knew me when I was just the quiet kid who'd rather read in corners than talk to anyone. Before all of...' She waves her hand vaguely. 'This.'
'Still prefer corners?'
'Sometimes.' She considers the question. 'There's this tiny bookstore in Seongnam. When I go home, I still visit. They have this perfect spot by the window.'
'What do you read?'
'Whatever catches my eye. Last week it was about sharks.'
You raise an eyebrow. 'Sharks?'
'Don't look so surprised.' She laughs. 'They're fascinating. Everyone thinks they know them, but they don't, not really.'
'Speaking from experience?'
She takes a long sip of her drink instead of answering.
'You don't have to do that, you know.' You set your pen down.
'Do what?'
'Deflect. Turn everything into a metaphor.'
She meets your eyes for a long moment. 'Force of habit.'
'Bad one.'
'Says the person who's been matching my deflections word for word.' A half-smile plays at her lips. 'We're quite the pair, aren't we?'
'Difference is, I'm paid to be difficult.'
'And I was raised to be.' The words slip out before she can catch them. Her fingers tighten around her glass.
You wait.
'You're good at this,' she says quietly.
'At what?'
'Making silence comfortable.' She looks out the window. 'Most people try to fill it.'
'Most people aren't trying to understand.'
She turns back to you, something shifting in her expression. 'Is that what you're trying to do? Understand?'
'Would that be so terrible?'
'No,' she says.
'Progress.' You pick up your pen again. 'Though I've just realized something deeply troubling.'
'What's that?'
'Your americano's been empty for ten minutes, and you're still pretending to drink it.'
She glances at her glass, caught. 'Method acting.'
'Ah yes, the classic "I'm too invested in this conversation to pause for a refill" performance.' You wave to catch the barista's eye. 'Oscar-worthy.'
'Says the person who hasn't touched their...' She leans forward to peek at your cup. 'What even is that?'
'Green tea.'
'Pretentious.'
'Says the person who ordered an iced americano in winter.'
'It's barely spring.'
'Case in point.'
The barista arrives with fresh drinks. Karina raises an eyebrow at your cup. 'Still green tea?'
'I'm consistent.'
'Boring.'
'Strategic.' You take a deliberate sip. 'Can't blame caffeine jitters for whatever honesty slips out.'
'Sneaky.'
'Professional.'
'Same thing.' She stirs her new drink, ice cubes clinking. 'So what's next in your strategic interrogation?'
'Thought we agreed to drop the deflection thing.'
'Old habits. Ten seconds at a time.'
'That's oddly specific.'
'It's how I learned to swim.' At your questioning look, she continues, 'Ten seconds of courage. Then you can panic all you want.'
'Does that work?'
'Got me here, didn't it?' She gestures between you two. 'Letting a stranger with a notebook and suspiciously consistent beverage choices pick apart my life.'
'You could always run.'
'To where? Croatia?' She laughs at your surprised expression. 'What? I have dreams.'
'Of Croatia specifically?'
'Of anywhere that doesn't know my name.'
'That's rather poetic for someone who just called me pretentious.'
'I contain multitudes.' She mock-bows in her seat.
'Walt Whitman now?'
'See? You're not the only one who can be insufferably well-read.'
You make a show of writing something down. 
You flip to a fresh page. 'Tell me about Croatia.'
'Nothing to tell. Just a place.'
'There are plenty of places that don't know your name. Why that one?'
She traces the rim of her glass again, a habit you've started to recognize as her thinking gesture. 'Have you ever seen those old coastal towns? The ones with narrow streets and buildings that look like they're having conversations with each other?'
'Been to a few.'
'I want to get lost in one.' She looks up. 'Properly lost. No GPS, no itinerary. Just... walking until my feet decide to stop.'
'Most people want to be found.'
'Most people haven't spent years being findable.' The sharpness in her voice surprises both of you. She softens it with a smile. 'Sorry. That sounded more dramatic than intended.'
'Don't apologize. It's the first time you've stopped performing since we sat down.'
'I haven't been—' She stops. Laughs. 'Okay. Point taken.'
'Progress. Again.'
'You're keeping score?'
'Always.' You tap your notebook. 'It's kind of the whole point.'
'And how am I doing?'
'In being honest or deflecting?'
'Both.'
'You're averaging about fifty-fifty.'
'Generous scoring.'
'Strategic encouragement.'
'You're good at that.' She stretches slightly. 'Making people think they're in control of the conversation.'
'Are you not?'
'Please. We both know you've been steering this ship since you sat down.' She pauses. 'Though I will say, you're the first interviewer who hasn't asked about my routine yet.'
'Your routine?'
'You know. "What time do you wake up? What's your skincare regimen? How many hours do you practice?" That whole song and dance.'
'Would you like me to ask?'
'God no.' She grins. 'But I'm curious why you haven't.'
'Because routines are what people do. I'm more interested in who they are.'
'And who am I?'
'Still figuring that out. But I know you crack your knuckles when you're nervous.'
She stops mid-crack, caught. 'Observant.'
'Professional hazard.' You lean forward. 'Tell me something real. Not about routines or schedules or practices.'
'Like what?'
'Like what you think about at three AM when you can't sleep.'
She's quiet for a long moment. 'Sometimes I forget what my natural speaking voice sounds like.'
'What do you mean?'
'You spend so many years modulating everything—your voice, your laugh, your reactions—until one day...' She shrugs. 'One day you catch yourself using your "public" voice to order coffee at 3 AM in an empty convenience store, and you realize you can't remember what you used to sound like.'
'And that bothers you.'
'Wouldn't it bother you? Losing something that fundamental without even noticing it was gone?'
'Is that why we're here? Trying to find it again?'
'Maybe.' She smiles, but it's different now. Unpolished. 'Or maybe I'm just tired of having "public" and "private" versions of everything.'
'Including your voice.'
'Including my entire existence.'
'Right.' You snap your notebook shut. 'We're getting gelato.'
[1] The suspicious rate at which biographers are "dying off" has become something of an industry joke. Three prominent biographers mysteriously retired after attempting to write about a certain K-pop company's CEO. Totally not suspicious.
[2] The Plaza Hotel, to be specific. Said subject was a tech billionaire whose autobiography mysteriously never made it to print. The hotel suite, however, maintains legendary status among New York's housekeeping staff for its impressive collection of empty green tea bottles and rejection letters.
She blinks. 'What?'
'We're walking.' You stand, gathering your things. 'Unless you have somewhere to be?'
'Are you actually asking, or is this another strategic move?'
'Both. Neither. Whatever. Does it matter if there's gelato involved?'
A genuine laugh escapes her. 'Fair point.'
The early evening air hits your faces as you step outside. She pulls on a cap—more habit than disguise.
'Left or right?' you ask.
'You're the one who lives here.'
'Technically, I've been here three days.'
'And you already know where to get gelato?'
'First thing I do in any city. Professional secret.'
'Ah yes, the biographer's handbook. Chapter One: locate ice cream immediately.'
'Chapter Two: never reveal your sources.' You turn left. 'Unless they're wearing a questionably large cap and hiding from their own voice.'
'Low blow.' But she's grinning. 'Also, my cap is perfectly sized.'
'For what? Smuggling library books?'
'That's... oddly specific.'
'Says the person who just quoted Walt Whitman in a cafe.'
You find the gelato place tucked between a bookstore and a vintage shop. The owner, an elderly Italian woman, lights up at your approach.
'Due?' she asks.
'Sì,' you reply, then turn to Karina. 'What's your poison?'
She studies the flavors intently. 'What's the most unusual one?'
'Professional or personal answer?'
'There's a difference?'
'Professional would be something elegant. Personal...' You point to a vivid blue flavor. 'That one tastes like your childhood imaginary friend made a pact with a Smurf.'
She doesn't hesitate. 'Two scoops of that, please.'
'Really?'
'What?' She raises an eyebrow. 'Scared of a little blue tongue?'
'More scared of what my editor will say when the interview notes are stained cerulean.'
Ten minutes later, you're both leaning against a stone wall, gelato dripping in the warm evening air. Her tongue is, indeed, impressively blue.
'Yah! Why are you taking a picture?”
'Your tongue. I need photographic evidence for my editor.'
She complains, ‘self-respecting people would’ve walked a long time ago.’
‘And let me guess-’
‘Correct. Take a picture if you want.’
'Pulitzer worthy.' You take another bite of your considerably more dignified pistachio. 'So tell me about the sharks.'
'You're still on that?'
'You brought up marine biology in a cafe and then mysteriously changed the subject. I'm invested now.'
'There's nothing mysterious about it.' She licks a drop of blue from her knuckle. 'I just think they're neat.'
'That's the worst deflection yet.'
'Fine.' She pushes off the wall, starting to walk. 'When I was younger, I used to think they were lonely.'
You fall into step beside her. 'Sharks?'
'Mm. Always swimming, never stopping. Everyone afraid of them.' She shrugs. 'Stupid kid logic.'
'And now?'
'Now I think they're just... misunderstood.' She grins. 'That was terrible, wasn't it? Like a bad movie line.'
'Terrible. But honest.'
'You and your honesty fetish.'
'Says the person who just admitted to emotionally relating to sharks.'
She snorts, nearly dropping her cone. 'When you put it that way—'
'Oh, I'm definitely putting it that way. It's going in the book.'
'Absolutely not.'
'Chapter title: "The Shark Whisperer”. I can see it already'
She tries to hip-check you, but you dodge, protecting your gelato. 'I'm revoking your creative license.'
'Too late. The mental image of baby Jimin crying over shark documentaries is seared into my brain.'
'I did not cry over—' She stops. 'Okay, maybe once. But it was a very sad documentary.' [1]
The sun is setting now, painting the cobblestones gold. You pass a street musician playing something soft and acoustic.
'Your sister know about the sharks?'
'Of course. She bought me the books.' Her smile turns fond. 'Still does, actually. Sends them to me randomly.'
'Recent ones?'
'Last week.' She finishes her cone. 'She has... interesting timing.'
'Interesting timing?'
'Mm.' She wipes her hands on a napkin. 'Right after I told her about the interview. She sent me one about great whites. Said something about facing fears.'
'Subtle.'
'About as subtle as your interview techniques.' She eyes your notebook, still tucked away. 'Not writing anymore?'
'Memory's better when I'm walking.' You tap your temple. 'Also, harder to write about blue tongues while walking.'
'Still blue?'
'Devastatingly so.'
She sticks her tongue out at a passing window, checking her reflection. 'Oh god, it's worse than I thought.'
'Crisis?'
'Please. I once had to perform with my hair half-green because of a dye mishap. This?' She gestures to her mouth. 'This is nothing.'
'Half-green?'
'Not going in the book.'
'Already mentally drafting the chapter.'
She groans. 'I'm starting to regret this whole walking thing.'
'Because of the blackmail material or the exercise?'
'Both. Neither.' She pauses by a small fountain. 'It's just... nice.'
'Nice?'
'Yeah.' She sits on the fountain's edge. 'No schedule. No plan. Just... walking and talking and eating questionably colored gelato with a stranger who probably thinks I'm having a quarter-life crisis.'
'Are you?'
'Having a crisis or eating gelato?'
'Now who's deflecting?' 
And she pauses again, caught.
She dips her fingers in the fountain water, watching the ripples. 'Maybe I just wanted one normal evening. One conversation that wasn't prepackaged and pre-approved.'
'Mission accomplished, I'd say. Your tongue is literally blue.'
That startles a laugh out of her. 'You're never letting that go, are you?'
'It's going to be a running metaphor throughout the book. Deep, meaningful parallels between blue gelato and the human condition.'
'You're terrible at your job.'
'I'm excellent at my job. I got you to walk around Rome with blue teeth.'
'Is that the measure of success?'
'For this chapter? Absolutely.'
The street lamps are starting to flicker on, and the air has that peculiar Roman evening warmth that begs for a drink.
'Know any good bars?' she asks, as if reading your mind.
'Thought you'd never ask[2]. Fair warning though—my Italian's terrible.'
'Better or worse than your interview skills?'
'Much worse. But I can order Aperol Spritz in seventeen different ways.'
'Useful life skill.'
'More useful than relating to sharks.'
She shoves your shoulder lightly. 'One more shark joke and I'm leaving.'
'No, you're not.'
'No, I'm not.' She grins. 'Lead the way, worst Italian speaker.'
You find a tiny place tucked away from the main streets. The kind tourists don't know about, with mismatched chairs and a bartender who looks old enough to have served Caesar himself.
'Due aperol spritz, per favore.' You ask.
The bartender raises an eyebrow. 'Americano? Il tuo italiano è buono!' (your Italian was… apparently… good.)
'Peggio,' you say. 'Giornalista' 
(‘Worse. Journalist.’)
He laughs, already reaching for glasses. Karina slides onto a barstool, looking around with genuine curiosity.
‘He seems pretty impressed by your Italian.’
‘Oh trust me—he wasn’t. He just wanted to be nice. That’s all. The inflections are quite easy to catch.’
‘Alright, whatever you say. Giornalista—.'
You grin at her cute prod.
'How'd you find this place?' She asks; needless to say, she likes it here.
'Got lost my first night here––five years ago. It was either come in or keep pretending I knew where my hotel was.'
'And?'
'Woke up knowing exactly where my hotel was. And how to say "I'm sorry" in Italian.'
She laughs. 'That bad?'
'Let's just say there's a reason I stick to green tea now.'
The drinks arrive, vivid orange against the dark wood of the bar.
'To blue tongues,' you raise your glass.
'And bad Italian,' she clinks hers against it.
[1] The documentary in question was "Blue Planet II." Her sister still has the receipt for three boxes of tissues and a plush shark from the aquarium gift shop. The plush shark now sits in her studio, wearing a tiny version of her debut outfit. Her company has tried to mass-produce it twice. She's vetoed it both times.
[2] You were never this humble about your Italian until you talked to an Italian nonna. "Qui giace la dignità di un giornalista" (Here lies a journalist's dignity).
'Speaking of bad decisions—'
'We weren't.'
'We are now. Tell me about the green hair incident.'
'Absolutely not.' She takes another sip of her spritz. 'Some secrets I'm taking to my grave.'
'Come on. Half-green hair? There's got to be a story there.'
'There is. A great one. You're still not hearing it.'
'I'll trade you.'
'Oh?' She turns on her stool to face you fully. 'What could you possibly have that's worth my green hair story?'
'Remember when I said I learned to say sorry in Italian?'
'The plot thickens.'
'Let's just say it involved a fountain, three angry nuns, and a very patient carabinieri.'
She nearly chokes on her drink. 'You're making that up.'
'Want to bet your green hair story on it?'
'You know what?' She signals the bartender for another round. 'Fine. But if you're lying, you're buying drinks for the rest of the night.'
'Deal.'
'And no taking notes.'
'Now that's just cruel.'
'Professional hazard,' she mimics your earlier tone, then grins. 'Okay, storyteller. Dazzle me.'
The bartender sets down fresh drinks, and you lean in conspiratorially. 'So picture this: my first night in Rome, about five years ago...'
'Wait.' She holds up a hand. 'We need to establish stakes. If this story doesn't involve all three elements—fountain, nuns, and police—you're not only buying drinks, you're telling me where you actually learned to say sorry in Italian.'
'Counter-offer. If my story checks out, I get the green hair story plus whatever happened at that music show in Busan.'
Her eyes narrow. 'What music show in Busan?'
'The one you just reacted to.'
'That's... that's actually impressive.'
'Five years of professional nosiness at work. Deal?'
She clinks her glass against yours. 'Deal. Now stop stalling.'
'Right. So. Five years ago. I'd just finished an interview with this ancient countess at the bar. I mean, it’s the bar. Who else gets to interview a countess at a bar? That’s like crazy Bourdain-level shit right there.’
She nods along. 'Of course you did.'
'Anyway, she invited me to this wine cellar...'
'Oh no.'
'Oh yes. And mind you, I was already quite drunk. And she was very, very insistent about hospitality...'
Twenty minutes and much laughter later, you finish: '...and that's why you should never trust Google Translate to help you apologize to Italian law enforcement.'
She's wiping tears from her eyes. 'The part with the cat—'
'Hand to god. Still have the scars.'
'Okay.' She catches her breath. 'Okay, you win. That was worth it.'
'Time to pay up. Green hair. Spill.'
'Can I have one more drink first?'
'For courage?'
'So I can blame it on the drink.' She waves at the bartender. 'I still can't believe you showed those nuns your interview notes to prove you weren't a street performer.'
'Desperate times.'
'Speaking of desperate...' She takes a fortifying sip of her fresh spritz. 'Ever tried to fix green hair with grape juice?'
'No.'
'Don't.'
'There has to be more to this story than grape juice.'
'Oh, there's so much more.' She settles into her seat. 'Picture this: it's two hours before a live broadcast. I'm sitting in the makeup chair, feeling pretty good about life. You know, like that particular moment where your face just… shines. Then my stylist walks in, takes one look at my hair, and just... screams.'
'Screams?'
'Full horror movie scream. Turns out the hair dye we used was... let's say "not exactly approved by management."'
'Let me guess. DIY job?'
'Worse. My sister's friend's cousin who "totally went to beauty school."'
'Oh no.' You snort, taking a hefty drink of the remaining spritz.
'Oh yes. So there I am, one side of my head this bizarre shade of swamp-thing green, and everyone's running around like it's the end of the world.'
'Which is when someone suggested grape juice?'
'Actually, that was my idea.' She grimaces. 'I'd read somewhere that grape juice could neutralize green tones. What they failed to mention was that this works for swimming pools, not hair.' [1]
'So what happened?'
'Picture a very expensive wig, three cans of dry shampoo, and me trying to explain to the camera director why I couldn't turn my head to the left.'
'Did it work?'
'Define "work."' She takes another sip. 'If by "work" you mean "did I make it through the broadcast without anyone seeing the grape-juice-tinged disaster," then yes. If by "work" you mean "did I maintain any dignity," then absolutely not.'
'The fans never found out?'
'Oh, they did. Someone leaked a backstage photo three months later.' She grins. 'By then I'd managed to fix it. Mostly.'
'Mostly?'
'My sister still has a strand of green hair she saved. Threatens to post it whenever I don't answer her calls.'
'Effective.'
'Terrifying.' She raises her glass. 'Your turn again. What's the worst interview you've ever done?'
'Besides this one?'
She kicks your chair. 'I'm delightful and you know it.'
'You're something, all right.'
Three drinks in, and the bar's emptied enough that her laugh echoes a little too loudly. She covers her mouth, but it's too late – the old bartender shoots them an amused look.
'Sorry,' she stage-whispers.
'For what? The laugh or the fact that it just shattered three ancient Roman wine glasses?'
'Shut up.' She kicks your chair again. 'I don't always laugh like that.'
'Let me guess – there's a public laugh and a private laugh?'
'There's a whole taxonomy.' She sits up straighter, counting on her fingers. 'Interview laugh, variety show laugh, fan meeting laugh, oh-that's-not-actually-funny-but-you're-my-sunbae laugh—'
'Please tell me you're joking.'
'I wish.' She slumps forward, head on her arms. 'I once had to attend a laughing seminar.'
'A what now?'
'A laughing seminar. Professional instruction on the art of the public giggle.' Her voice is muffled against her sleeve. 'There was a PowerPoint and everything.'
'You're making this up.'
She lifts her head. 'I spent three hours learning about laugh-adjacent breathing techniques while a woman named Mrs. Kim hit a triangle every time someone laughed "inappropriately."'
You stare at her. She stares back.
'That's the most horrifying thing I've ever heard,' you say finally.
'I know.' She dissolves into another too-loud laugh, this one definitely not seminar-approved. 'God, I can still hear that triangle.'
'Is that why you're here?'
'Getting drunk with a biographer in Rome? No, that's just poor life choices.'
'Speaking honest truths to a stranger?'
'Oh.' She straightens up, but there's still something loose in her smile. 'Maybe. Or maybe I just really needed to tell someone about Mrs. Kim and her triangle of terror.'
'Triangle of terror.' You shake your head. 'That's going in the book.'
'Along with the blue tongue and green hair? You're really painting a picture here.'
'It's called character development.'
'It's called character assassination.' She signals for water. 'What else are you putting in there?'
'Wouldn't you like to know.'
'Actually, yes. That's literally why I'm asking.'
'Fine.' You pretend to flip through your mental notes. 'Chapter One: Sharks and Empathy—'
'Oh my god.'
'Chapter Two: The Grape Juice Incident—'
'I'm starting to regret everything.'
'Chapter Three: Laugh Taxonomies by Aespa’s Karina—'
'I hate you.'
'Chapter Four: Why Romans Don't Trust Her With Fountains Anymore—'
'That was you! That was literally your story!'
'Was it? Everything's getting a bit fuzzy.' You tap your temple. 'Must be all that professional memory I was bragging about earlier.'
She throws an olive at you. The bartender clears his throat.
'Sorry,' you both say in unison, then look at each other and start laughing again.
'You know what's really funny?' she says, once you've both contained yourselves.
'Mrs. Kim's triangle?'
'Besides that.' She accepts the water from the bartender. 'This is probably the worst interview you've ever done.'
'Oh, definitely.'
'And yet...'
'And yet?'
'It's the most honest one I've given.' She pauses. 'God, that sounded way less cheesy in my head. Must be the spritz talking.'
'Blame it on the altitude.'
'We're at sea level.'
'Blame it on the sea level.'
'You're ridiculous.' She's grinning though. 'Is this how all your interviews go?'
'Usually there's less gelato. More gravitas.'
'Gravitas is overrated.'
'Says the woman who attended a laughing seminar.'
'Hey, I'll have you know my triangle-approved giggle is very dignified.'
'Prove it.'
She sits up straighter, arranges her features into something serene, and lets out the most artificial laugh you've ever heard. It's so pristine it's almost disturbing.
'That was horrifying.'
'That was three hours of professional training.'
'I'm concerned about your profession.'
'Join the club.' She relaxes back into her natural posture. 'We have meetings every Tuesday. Bring your own triangle.'
The bartender slides over the check with a knowing look. Last call came and went without either of you noticing.
'Well,' you say, reaching for your wallet. 'I suppose this is—'
'Wait.' She puts her hand on your arm. 'I have a confession.'
'Another one? The green hair wasn't enough?'
'I read your book.'
'Which one?'
'The one about the ballet dancer who quit to become a motorcycle mechanic.'
'Ah.' You sit back. 'And?'
'And I maybe, possibly, completely changed my mind about this whole interview when I read it.'
'Because?'
'Because...' She fidgets with her empty glass. 'You made her sound so... human.'
'As opposed to?'
'A story. A headline.' She traces a pattern on the bar top. 'Most people would've written about the scandal, the career she "threw away." But you wrote about how she names each motorcycle she fixes. How she still dances in her garage at midnight.'
'Ah. That.'
'That.' She looks up. 'Is that why you haven't asked me about any of it?'
'Any of what?'
'Don't play dumb. The headlines. The speculation. The—'
'The triangle-approved responses you've probably rehearsed?'
She laughs, caught. 'Something like that.'
'Here's the thing about headlines.' You start gathering your things. 'They're usually more interesting than the truth.'
'And what's the truth?'
'That sometimes people just want to eat blue gelato and tell embarrassing stories in a bar and talk a biographer’s ears off.'
She kicks your chair again, barely noticeable. 'Even if those stories end up in a book?'
'Especially then.' You stand, offering her jacket. 'Though I might need you to sign a waiver about the grape juice incident.'
'I knew it! You are using it!'
'Chapter title: "The Perils of Amateur Chemistry: A Cautionary Tale."'
She shrugs on her jacket, shaking her head. 'You're impossible. That AI flair was so intentional'
'Says the woman who legitimately attended a laughing seminar.'
'I'm never living that down, am I?'
'Not as long as I have a functioning memory and a publishing contract.'
The Roman night is warm as you both step out of the bar. She stumbles slightly on the cobblestones.
You offer a hand which she quickly grabs.
'Don't you dare put that in the book,' she warns.
'Put what? The graceful interpretation of contemporary dance you just performed?'
'These streets are rigged.' She steadies herself. 'Also, your hotel's this way.'
'How do you know where my hotel is?' You’re not exactly one to remember locations, probably the reason you were able to gain such a repository of ridiculous stories.
'Because it's my hotel.' She grins at your expression. 'What? You think you're the only one who does research?'
'I'm concerned about your stalking tendencies.'
'Says the person who somehow knew about the Busan incident.'
'Professional hazard.'
'You really need new catchphrases.'
The walk is quiet, comfortable. Rome at night feels like a different city—all golden lights and shadow play. A cat watches you pass from its perch on a window sill.
'Don't even think about it,' she says.
'About what?'
'Making some poetic comparison between me and that cat.'
'Please. I'm a much better writer than that.'
'Sure you are, shark whisperer.'
You reach the hotel entrance. She pauses.
'Well,' she says. 'This has been...'
'Professionally catastrophic?'
'I was going to say enlightening.'
'That too.'
The hotel lobby is all marble and soft lighting. Your footsteps echo slightly.
'I have a balcony,' she says suddenly. 'And a really pretentious coffee machine I can't figure out.'
'Is this a cry for help with appliances?' 
'This is...' She fidgets with her room key. 'This is me not wanting the interview to end yet.'
'The interview ended somewhere between blue gelato and the triangle story.'
'Then what's this?'
‘Believe or not, some people just like having fun on their Italian vacation.’
‘Haha. Very funny.’
'This is...' You pretend to consider. 'Two people who might be friends if one of them wasn't writing a book about the other.'
'Complicated.'
'Professional hazard.'
'There's that phrase again.' She presses the elevator button. 'Come on. I'll teach you how to laugh properly.'
'With or without the triangle?'
She steps into the elevator. 'Depends on how good you are at making coffee.'
'Now who's the impossible one?'
The doors start to close. She holds them.
'Coming?'
You join her in the elevator. 'For the record, I'm excellent at coffee.'
'For the record,' she mimics your tone, 'that's going in the book.'
Her room is on the top floor, with a view that makes you understand why people write poetry about Rome.
'So,' she says, fighting with the coffee machine. 'This button makes it angry, and this one makes it hiss.'
'Move over, amateur.' You reach around her to press a combination of buttons. The machine purrs to life.
'Show off.' But she's smiling as she heads for the balcony. 'Bring your coffee wizardry out here when it's ready.'
The balcony is small, just enough room for two chairs and all of Rome spread out below. She's curled up in one chair, shoes off, looking more real than she has all day.
'Your professional opinion,' she says as you hand her a cup. 'Is this going to be a good book?'
'Depends.'
'On?'
'On whether you let me keep the shark metaphors.'
She laughs into her coffee. 'You're never letting that go.'
'Never.' You take the other chair. 'Though I might be willing to negotiate.'
'Terms?'
'Tell me something nobody knows. Something that won't make the book.'
She's quiet for a moment, looking out at the city lights. 'I sing in the shower.'
'Everybody knows that.'
'No, I mean...' She turns to face you. 'I sing the old songs. The ones I used to practice when I was just some kid in Bundang with a dream too big for my voice.'
'And?'
'And sometimes I still feel like her. That kid. Especially at night, in foreign hotels, when the city feels like it belongs to someone else.'
'Especially at night, in foreign hotels, when the city feels like it belongs to someone else.'
'Wow.' You let out a low whistle. 'That was incredibly profound.'
She groans, covering her face. 'I know. I'm sorry. That was straight out of a drama script.'
'I was thinking more indie movie. You know, the kind where people have deep conversations on balconies in Rome at—' you check your watch, '—one in the morning.'
'Oh god, we're living a cliché.'
'Complete with coffee and two chairs overlooking Rome.'
'Quick,' she straightens up, 'say something unprofound. Save us from ourselves.'
'My tongue is still kind of blue.'
She peeks at you over her coffee cup. 'Mine too.'
'Better?'
'Much better.' She slouches back in her chair. 'Though now I'm thinking about how this would look in your book. "Two idiots with blue tongues have existential crisis on expensive balcony."'
'Don't forget the part where one of them somehow charmed a coffee machine.'
'And the other one used to sing in her shower.'
'Still,' you correct. 'Present tense.'
'Still,' she admits. 'But if you put that in your book, I'll have to tell everyone about your fountain incident.'
'Mutually assured destruction. I like it.'
She yawns, then looks embarrassed. 'Sorry. It's not the company, it's—'
'The five Aperol Spritzes?'
'That. And the emotional toll of remembering Mrs. Kim's triangle.'
'Tragic backstory,' you nod solemnly. 'Very character-building.'
'Speaking of character-building...' She sets down her empty cup, turns to face you fully. 'This is usually the part in your books where something significant happens.'
'Is it?'
'Mm. Chapter twelve. Always a turning point.'
'You really did read my books.'
'I told you that already.' She's closer now, somehow. 'What I didn't mention was that I figured out your pattern.'
'My pattern?'
'The way you write moments like this.' Her voice is soft. 'When everything gets quiet, and the city's just background noise, and someone's about to do something...'
'Inadvisable?'
'I was going to say brave.'
'Brave is just inadvisable with better PR.'
She laughs, barely a whisper. 'You're deflecting again.'
'Professional—'
'If you say "hazard" right now,' she cuts in, 'I'm going to throw you off this balcony.'
'That would be...'
'Inadvisable?'
'I was going to say "terrible for my book sales."'
She's definitely closer now. 'Your book sales are about to be the least of your problems.'
'Because you're going to kiss me or throw me off the balcony?'
'I haven't decided yet.'
'Well,' you murmur, 'for what it's worth, one of those options would make a much better chapter twelve.'
She closes the distance between you, smiling against your lips. 'Professional hazard.'
You and Karina shared an instant spark that neither of you had experienced. Ever. The moment that first tease left your mouth, it was over.
[1] The sentiment of grape juice being able to eliminate green tones turned out to be completely unfounded. Despite this, wine sommeliers around the world have complained about Koreans with their distinct accent asking about grape juice’s ability to change colors.
The kiss tastes like coffee and Aperol and something sweet—probably the remnants of that ridiculous blue gelato. It's soft and quiet and perfect, the kind of moment that would sound made up in a book.
She pulls back slightly. 'Your editor's going to hate this.'
'Definitely.' You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. 'Completely unprofessional.'
'Thoroughly inadvisable.'
'Absolutely perfect for chapter twelve.'
She kisses you again, and Rome keeps existing below, indifferent to your small moment of magic. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimes twice.
'You know,' she whispers, 'this is usually where you'd write something profound about the city of love.'
'That's Paris.'
'Now who's deflecting?'
'Still you. But I'm starting not to mind.'
She laughs, soft and real—definitely not triangle-approved—and rests her forehead against yours, your breaths intermixing, plenty of intimate eye contact. 'Is this going in the book?'
'What do you think?'
'I think...' Her fingers find yours. 'I think some stories we get to keep for ourselves.'
'I think some stories we get to keep for ourselves.'
'Even after I charmed your coffee machine? That's cold.'
She makes a face. 'You're really bringing up coffee machine prowess right after—'
'Right after you thoroughly compromised my journalistic integrity? Yes.'
'Your journalistic integrity was compromised the moment you let me eat blue gelato.'
'My journalistic integrity was compromised the moment I saw you.' You run your thumb across her knuckles.
Her eye contact wavers and her voice falters, ‘Gosh, you’re such a player.’
‘Flirting has never come so easily before.’ You whisper against her mouth.
'Oh really?'
'Obviously.'
'Which was?'
'Stare at that blue tongue some more.’'
She shoves you lightly. 'You're terrible.'
'And yet.'
'And yet.' She settles on your lap, the forehead to forehead more natural now. 'So what happens now?'
'Well, traditionally, this is where I'd write something about dawn breaking over the eternal city—'
'Please don't.'
'—with golden light catching on ancient stones—'
'I'm begging you to stop.'
'—as two souls find each other under the Roman sky—'
She claps a hand over your mouth. 'I will literally pay you to not finish that sentence.'
You kiss her palm before she pulls it away. 'Isn't that technically bribery?'
'Add it to the list. Right after "compromised journalistic integrity" and "suspicious coffee machine expertise."'
'Speaking of compromising situations...' You glance at your watch. 'It's almost three AM.'
'Worried about your reputation?'
'Worried about your triangle-approved schedule.'
'Bold of you to assume I ever sleep.' She stands, stretching. 'Want to order terrible room service and you can tell me about all the other journalists you've scandalized?'
'That's a very short list. Very enticing regardless.’ 
'Good.' She holds out her hand.
The night air has turned cooler, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from somewhere below. Her fingers trace the collar of your shirt, hesitant but deliberate.
'What happened to room service?' you murmur.
'It can wait.' Her eyes meet yours, playful but wanting. 'I'm conducting my own interview first.'
This kiss is different from the first. Slower, more certain. The city hums below, a distant lullaby of late-night cars and echoing footsteps. When she sighs into the kiss, it's the softest sound you've ever heard. When she falters against your forceful touches, it’s the softest you’ve ever felt a woman.
She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against yours. Her heartbeat is quick under your palm.
'Better than chapter twelve?' she whispers.
You catch her lips again in answer, feeling her smile. The wind stirs her hair, sending strands brushing against your cheek. Everything smells like jasmine and coffee and her perfume—something subtle and expensive that you'll probably spend the rest of your life over-romanticizing.
Because that’s what Karina deserves.
Rome stretches out endless and ancient around you, but all you can focus on is how perfectly she fits against you, how real she feels away from cameras and crowds.
Your lips find hers in the dark, soft and certain now. Her fingers trail up your neck, threading through your hair, pulling you closer. There's an art to the way she kisses—deliberate yet desperate, like she's trying to memorize the moment. Your hands settle at her waist, and she makes a small sound that you know you'll remember forever.
Her lips part against yours, deepening the kiss until you're both breathless. The balcony railing presses into your back—when did that happen?—and her body is warm against yours, fitting perfectly in all the spaces between.
Her teeth graze your bottom lip, teasing. You respond by trailing kisses along her jaw, feeling her pulse jump under your lips. When you find that sensitive spot just below her ear, her sharp intake of breath makes you smile against her skin.
She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. Her lips are slightly swollen, her careful composure beautifully undone––hair spread everywhere, but just so that she looks ethereal rather than messy. You brush your thumb across her lower lip, and she catches it with her teeth, playful even now.
‘Still planning to put this in chapter twelve?’ she whispers, breathless.
Your answer gets lost somewhere between her lips and… her lips.
Her laugh vibrates against your lips when you finally break apart. ‘We should probably—’
‘Go inside?’ Your lips find the curve of her neck again.
‘I was going to say breathe.’ But her head tilts back, giving you better access. Her pulse flutters under your kiss like a trapped bird. ‘Though inside works too.’
You pull back just enough to look at her. Hair mussed, eyes bright, that perfect composure completely undone. She's never looked more beautiful than she does right now, with the city lights catching in her eyes and her professional smile nowhere to be found.
‘What?’ she asks, suddenly self-conscious.
‘Just thinking.’
‘About?’
‘How this definitely isn't going in the book.’
Her smile turns mischievous. ‘No?’ Her fingers trace patterns on your chest. ‘Not even a little mention of how you completely forgot about journalistic integrity the moment I—’
‘Then chapter 12 would entirely consist of me betraying my profession in order to catch your lips with my teeth.’
‘Wow. You’re bad. Like, real bad.’
‘You have no idea.’
You cut her off with another kiss, swallowing her laugh. Her hands slide up your chest, around your neck, pulling you impossibly closer. The world narrows to just this: her lips on yours, her body pressed against you, the soft sounds she makes when you run your fingers down her spine.
‘Inside,’ she murmurs against your mouth. ‘Before we really give Rome something to talk about.’
You let her lead you through the balcony doors, both of you stumbling slightly, unwilling to break contact. She tastes like promises now, like stories yet to be written. Her hands are everywhere—your hair, your chest, your face – like she's trying to read you by touch alone.
‘Wait,’ you manage, as her lips find that spot below your ear that makes thinking difficult. ‘What about—’
‘If you mention room service right now,’ she warns, ‘I'm going back to my original plan of throwing you off the balcony.’
‘I was going to say 'what about your triangle-approved image?'’
She pulls back, eyes dancing. ‘Oh, that?’ Her lips brush yours, teasing. ‘I think we thoroughly compromised that at the first meeting.’
"Professional hazard?"
"Shut up," she whispers, and kisses you again.
She sighs into your mouth, a soft, vulnerable sound that makes your heart stutter.
Her fingers tangle in your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp, sending shivers down your spine. You walk her backward until she's pressed against the wall, her body arching into yours.
You trail kisses down her neck, learning her— the spot beneath her jaw that makes her gasp, the curve where neck meets shoulder that makes her fingers tighten in your hair. Her pulse races under your lips, a rapid drumbeat that matches your own. When you find a particularly sensitive spot, her sharp intake of breath is the sweetest sound you've ever heard.
She tugs you back up to her mouth, kissing you like she's trying to tell you something words can't capture. Her lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours with a rhythm that makes you dizzy. One of her legs hooks around yours, pulling you even closer, and you groan into her mouth.
Her hands frame your face now, thumbs stroking your cheeks as she kisses you deeper, slower, like she's trying to memorize every second. You respond in kind, pouring everything you can't say into the kiss—how beautiful she is like this, how real, how perfectly she fits against you.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen. You rest your forehead against hers, sharing the same air, neither of you willing to move away.
"Still thinking about the book?" she murmurs, voice husky.
You answer by catching her lower lip between your teeth, gentle but playful, and feel her smile against your mouth.
Her smile against your mouth turns into a soft laugh. "I'll take that as a no."
‘Take it as whatever you want.’ Your lips find her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. ‘I stopped thinking about the book long ago.’
She hums contentedly, her fingers tracing patterns on the nape of your neck. ‘Good.’ Her other hand is still tangled in your shirt, keeping you close. ‘Because I have a confession.’
‘Another one?’
Instead of answering, she kisses you again, slow and deep. Her tongue traces your lower lip, and you respond by pressing her further into the wall, swallowing the small sound she makes. One of her legs is still hooked around yours, and when she shifts slightly, the new angle makes you both gasp.
‘That wasn't a confession,’ you murmur against her lips.
‘No?’ Her teeth graze your earlobe. ‘I thought I was being pretty clear.’
Your hands slide to her waist, steadying her. She's intoxicating like this, all careful control abandoned, her public persona nowhere to be found.
‘Jimin,’ you breathe, and feel her shiver at the sound of her real name.
Her response is to pull you closer, kissing you like she's trying to say everything without words. Her lips are soft but certain against yours, and you lose yourself in the feeling—the warmth of her body, the subtle scent of her perfume.
The city continues its nighttime symphony outside, but in here, the only sound is your shared breathing and the soft, desperate noises she makes when you find that sensitive spot on her neck again.
She pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. In the dim light, her gaze is soft, unguarded. Her thumb traces your lower lip.
‘What?’ you ask, voice rough.
‘I'm trying to decide something.’
"Whether to throw me off the balcony? Because I thought we moved past—"
She cuts you off with another kiss. Her hands cup your face, holding you there as she explores your mouth with a thoroughness that makes you dizzy. You respond by feeling her firm and perky ass.
‘No—,’ she moans when you break apart for air. ‘I'm trying to decide if this is real.’
Instead of answering, you trail kisses down her neck, feeling her pulse jump under your lips. Her head falls back against the wall, giving you better access. When you reach her collarbone, she makes a sound that's half-sigh, half-moan.
‘Feels real enough,’ you murmur against her skin.
Her laugh is breathy, unsteady. ‘I meant—’ She gasps as you find a particularly sensitive spot. ‘I meant this. Us. This whole night.’
You lift your head to look at her. Her lips are swollen from kissing, her carefully styled hair a mess from your fingers. She's never looked more beautiful.
‘If you think I did all of this for the fun of it, you’re clearly missing something.’
‘A gear in the head?’
‘Definitely—’
‘Gosh, how do I allow this sort of petulance?’
‘Because it’s me.’
‘You’re a player.’
‘Only for you.’ You catch her lips, even more wanting—and she forfeits it all. 
You pick her up, mussing up her perfect outfit, mussing up her perfect lips. And you finally throw her against the bed.
‘You’re really roughing up Prada’s global ambassador.’
‘And ambassador to a dozen other brands worth billions—couldn’t care less.’’ 
She smirks, and her arms open, waiting, pliant, obedient.
You rip off your buttoned shirt, tear off your pants; now, there’s truly no way of going back.
‘Wow. That scar is a lot larger than I imagined.’ She’s referring back to the scar that you received during that drunk haze of a night.
‘It was dark. Might’ve even been a lion.’ 
‘Mm. Heroic. Come here.’
Now, who could ever resist that?
You rip off her clothes, each layer even more decadent than the other. And then, she was there. bra barely containing her breasts, and a layer of dampness along her sexy panties.
‘That was expensive, by the way.’
‘I’ve got a payment plan on course.’
‘Mm. Enlighten me.’
You pull her panties to the side.
She’s dripping wet, nectar spooling right on her pink core. A glorious sheen that makes you stare far longer than you should’ve. She’s red-faced at this point, and her forearms cover most of her sight, and yet, she doesn’t move, doesn’t retreat. 
The first lick you place, just a brush against her engorged clit, crumbles every self-regulated triangle-approved behavior she has. Two pants turn fifty, one lick crumbles everything. Her hips coax you in ways gymnasts can’t even replicate, and of course, you oblige.
Soft licks, teases around her outer lips, swollen from all the anticipation and arousal; tonguing at her inner lips, just at the crux of her clit, gets her screaming in ways her deep voice would never register; and above all, she’s orgasming, squirting, losing every pretense in favor of her built up lust. 
‘Oh~fuck—’
Her fingers find purchase in your hair, and she softly pulls you in��rides your face like it was all that she ever desired: her eternal wish.
‘Ohmygod! Imcumming!’ Her voice turns mousy, and her pupils go back in pure pleasure, coupled with hip movements thought impossible: this was the greatest pleasure of her life.
You grab her chin, squeeze softly, her cheeks molding to your grasp, and you press a soft kiss right on her kiss-bruised lips. You let her taste herself on your tongue.
‘Good. Right?’
And she nods. A complete personality switch from the playfulness she displayed earlier. Delicate.
Her hands land on your boxers as she melted into your kiss. Once you felt her palm your cock, you groaned right in her ear. She starts softly, stroking. But her strokes grow more all-encompassing as you press harder into the kiss.
‘Fuck. You’re so good for me.’
She mewls back, on the gradient slide of unadulterated pleasure.
Softly, you release your shaft from the boxer. And you press your cock right on her core. Feeling the wet heat, the sticky nectar that pooled to a mindbreaking degree. 
‘It goes without saying.’
‘That I’m head over heels for you?’
You grin, ‘Well, that too, but you’re hopeless.’
‘Maybe if we weren’t so compatible.’
You grab a breast, palming it, ‘Well that, that too, goes without saying.’
She smiles, so warmly, every trace of everything else melted off her face––the sort of smile you’d never forget, and the sort of smile you’d want to wake up to… forever.
Finally, you press into her, and her wet heat envelops you, enough to make you groan, enough to make her moan like there’s no greater pleasure––because really, there’s nothing else.
Her pussy clings onto you, a wet suction that is immeasurably soft and yet, a vacuum-seal-like tightness that gets you groaning after every thrust.
Her arms cling to you, and her eyebrows knit, her small face full of emotion—all of it processing how good you fuck her.
‘Oh god. Would it be bad that I want you to declare to the world that you own me?”
‘Chapter 12—’
She cuts you off, ‘Something along the lines of: “Chapter 12: Karina is my fuckslut”’ 
‘I don’t tolerate Karina disrespect.’ You say, truthfully.
‘Even if it’s by myself?’
‘Especially for that case, sweetheart.’
‘Oh… you’re too good.’
‘You’re blind.’
Most popular idol in the world, and… she’s hopelessly down bad for you.
‘If I’m blind. Then you don’t have eyes—complete darkness.’
‘We’re two of the same.’
‘I’m your biggest fan.’
‘We’re two of the same.’
‘I love you.’
‘You have a way with words, Karina.’ You reply, pressing soft kisses along her jaw, whispering sweet nothings into her ear, thrusting into her harder, sharing breaths.
‘You’ve inspired me.’
And you lock lips with her, the thrusts were becoming a blur, and her moans music to your ears—it was all just… heaven.
There was no technique. Nothing too purposeful. It was all just pure affection, pure love guiding all your actions. And the fact that she’s cumming again was no coincidence.
‘Oh. My. Fucking. God!’ Her head goes back deep into the pillow and you follow suit. Pressing soft kisses that covered every square centimeter of her beauty, kisses that made her giggle even in her most orgasmic moment of her life. 
‘If I knew anything that felt like this… I’d be doing it constantly.’
‘Well—’
‘That’s right,’ Karina gives a soft peck, ‘I have you now.’ 
You could feel her heartbeat, her skin precipitate, and her cunt pulse—it’s just heaven at this point. 
‘Are you trying to convince me to follow you?’
‘2 years, finest in New York.’
‘Deal. Though you overbid a little.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Means anything you want, dear.’
The soft slick of her cunt made it nearly frictionless, just pure pleasure for both parties. Her hips gave way every time, an identity of its own, retreating when you thrust too hard, giving in when softer.’
‘Is this like a sugar mommy situation?’
‘Two words I never expected you to say.’ You both share a laugh.
‘I mean that’s what it is right?’
‘A power imbalance? Please. I can get you to buy a New York penthouse for me at this point.’
‘Well. You’re right. But—’
You bring your cock to the hilt inside of her, whilst stealing her lips for a deep kiss. She moans and mewls and gasps—music to your ears. You change positions. You bring her legs to your shoulders, and you begin kissing along her ankle while thrusting inside of her.
This time, you can see the full view. How her breasts bounce against the thrusts, how her slick has completely covered your entire length at this point, and how beautifully her face is framed between it all. 
Her mouth’s agape, moaning, giggling intermittently with the jokes shared through eye contact. You bite softly at her ankle then down her legs, to her calves, then releasing her legs altogether to kiss her again.
She fits perfectly against you, small and delicate but the perfect puzzle piece under you. She’s absorbent, aware of your needs, placing soft kisses along the ridges of your eyebrows, rubbing away the day’s fatigue along your jaw and temple. 
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too.’
‘I didn’t hear.’
You press against her, feeling her breasts spool against your chest, bring your thrust to the hilt, the wetness of her loins pressed against yours, all of them vividly apparent. ‘I love your beauty. I love your humor. I love how clever you are. I love how authentic you are. And I could continue on and on but I’m about to cum.’
Karina sniffled, ‘God, I was about to cry and then you say that.’ She softly smacks your shoulder, ‘just cum inside me and let’s cuddle.’
You oblige, the thrusts turn into a haze of pure pleasure, a desperate moment chasing the local maxima, and finally, you burst inside of her. Cum spooled, all inside her, and she moaned so gracefully, staring at you with all the affection in the world.
‘We can worry about this tomorrow.’ She palmed your jaw.
‘Of course.’ You fall onto her, cuddling her.
Both of you are a mess, gross, bodily fluid spread everywhere, and yet, the both of you fell into a deep slumber.
A/N: I'd like to apologize for switching up styles so much (But if you enjoyed this dialogue-heavy work, then lmk!)
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wileys-russo · 2 days ago
Note
Wally, “they just called me your girlfriend and you didn’t correct them” at a cafe or smth please
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correction II l.wälti
"-and you're sure you know where we're going?" you asked skeptically, shrugging on your puffer jacket and grabbing your scarf from the hat rack.
"of course i do! i am the local here, no?" the swiss woman huffed, raising an eyebrow questioningly as you wrapped your scarf around your neck and shrugged.
"i wasn't aware you grew up on the mountains in the middle of nowhere. were you raised by wolves?" you teased the girl who mocked you and pulled a face, pulling your beanie down to cover your face.
"we are not in the middle of nowhere, we are at a ski resort and going for a walk on a marked trail. it will be fine!"
turns out, those were famous last words.
"we've passed this tree trunk before." you narrowed your eyes, jutting out your hip and looking it up and down. "how would you know that!" lia paused beside you and scoffed, hands on her own hips.
"easy. you tripped over it, see? your boot mark in the snow." you pointed out, squatting down and outlining the partially covered up print, pointing then to lias own boot with a satisfied nod.
"i tripped over? you pushed me!" lia argued as you glanced up with a sly smile. "me? i would never dare." you gasped sarcastically, standing up straight and backing away slightly, noticing lia now had one hand hidden behind her back.
you weren't quite sure what the two of you were, close friends to say the least, though you'd be lying if you hadn't thought about becoming more, wondering if lia had too.
it had started only a few months ago, what had grown to be a comfortable and dependable friendship with the midfielder seemed to shift one night, a group of your teammates over for dinner all but lia had headed off to their own homes.
the two of you had been locked into a very heated game of monopoly, warned by your captain you had training the next morning but both of your competitive natures meant you weren't stopping until someone won.
well that was the plan, until lia, who was surely set to lose, was suddenly just far too tired to continue, insisting the two of you call it a draw and ignoring your accusations she was only saying this so she didn't lose.
she'd wound up staying the night, and not bothered to change the sheets in your spare bedroom she'd crashed with you, only when you awoke it was to the pair of you much closer than you'd been when you drifted off, limbs entangled and lia's face so close to yours you could count the freckles dotting her nose if you wished.
since then you noticed the pair of you, who'd always seemed to gravitate toward one another, had somehow grown even closer, lia seeming to spend the night more often, and every morning you'd wake up wrapped up together, but never did you really speak about it.
from then on it felt a little like the two of you were doing some sort of dance, you'd get close, then closer, then right as it seemed like maybe something a little less than friendly might happen one of you spun away like a top, and a little while later the cycle would repeat itself again.
then came the winning of the continental cup, and the alcohol fueled dance party that carried on till the early hours of the morning, the pair of you both crashing at leahs house too drunk to remember your own addresses to add to the uber.
and around three in the morning, curled up together on the sofa in leahs living room, the pair of you shared a very drunken kiss, a habit which seemed to follow you both though a habit which only raised its head when your bloodstreams pumped with alcohol.
then the next morning would come the fake amnesia, neither one of you choosing to bring up your activities the night before but also not making a choice to refrain from letting them happen again.
and just like that a whole new step was added to your little dance routine.
a lack of new years plans had you roped into lia's, the girl forever eager to gush about her home country was all the more excited to be able to actually show it to you, meeting up with a few of her friends after she'd picked you up from the airport two days after christmas.
"say that you tripped me." lia ordered, her slow steps forward matching yours which moved backwards, hand still hidden behind her back, your lips curling into a smile at the accent which stuck to her words.
"i was raised not to tell lies, wälti." you grinned, a slight mistetp having you tripping over a stick hidden beneath the pilowy white surface of the snow trodden ground, and with that little wobble, the swiss woman struck.
"oh? well then since i was raised by wolves..." you squealed as the ball of snow exploded against the side of your face, lia's own lit up with a shit eating grin, a belt of laughter echoing through the air.
"this means war."
somewhere along the way of your running and dodging and throwing it would seem you'd stumbled back into the ski village, the trail left behind you as you felt your back knock into someone.
"oh god i am so-" but your words fell short as a snowball hit you in the back of the head, the man you'd bumped into giving you an odd look and continuing on his way.
"oh lia it went down the back of my neck!" you whined with a groan, wiggling uncomfortably as the ice cold water trickled down your spine, your scarf now also damp and useless as it was balled up in your hands.
"entschuldigung. come on, let us warm back up!" the woman laughed, arm slung over your shoulders and an apologetic kiss pressed to your cheek, marching the pair of you toward the nearest cafe.
"now will you admit that you got us lost?" you accused, bumping your shoulder into lia's after she'd ordered coffees for the pair of you. "no! i knew where were going the whole time." lia declined as you scoffed and she gave you a cheeky smile.
"you absolutely did not." "i did!" "you did not!" "i did. we got back here, no?" "no thanks to you!"
your little argument was paused by lia's name being called out as she pulled your beanie down over your face again and hurried to the counter to collect them.
"oo wait they have chocolate syrup!" you spied eagerly as lia handed you your coffee, darting off back to the counter as she watched with a smile before looking around the crowded room for a free table.
unable to find one she made her way to a couple sat at a six seater, politely asking if they'd mind sharing which neither one of them did, lia finding you chatting away happily to the barista, catching your eye with a little wave.
you'd made enough polite conversation with the couple beside you to warrant them bidding their goodbyes as they had a ski lesson booked in, though you'd excused yourself to use the bathroom when they arose from the table.
however you did catch the very last of their farewell as you returned toward the table, messing about with the zipper of your puffer which was jammed, a frustrated huff leaving your lips.
"-and tell your girlfriend we said good luck for the champions league for both of you. up the arsenal!" the woman cheered before her partner who appeared a little embarrassed tugged her away, lia laughing and waving them off.
"well we can tell leah that we have converted some non football fans into gooners!" lia teased as you joined her back at the table, both of your coffees long finished and a slice of chocolate cake shared between you.
"they just called me your girlfriend, and you didn't correct them." you stated as you took your seat, lia's cheeks flushing with colour. "i-well yes." she confirmed, a little lost for words and clearly flustered.
"does that maybe mean if i asked you to get dinner tonight, it could be a date?" you weren't sure where the sudden burst of confidence came from, the fear of rejection simmering at the surface the more seconds ticked by without an answer.
"or that was a stupid idea and-" "yes."
"yes?" you asked, wide eyed in surprise as now your own cheeks seemed to flush a rosy pink. "yes. its a date!" lia smiled shyly, knee knocking into yours as a few moments of comfortable silence passed between you.
"so does this mean now you will admit you got us lost?"
562 notes · View notes
myespresso · 22 hours ago
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attractive things they do while you're dating
pairing: batboys (plus clark lol) & reader ❀ׄ ꥈ
𓍢ִ໋☕ cassidy's note: for funsies. not edited. i love reading variations of these. i haven't written since 2020. if you can like this, reblog too.
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bruce 🦇ᡣ𐭩˚.
navigating paparazzi: the careful way he guides you to block the flaring flashes from cameras with his broad shoulders.
bruce wraps his fingers to pull on your waist, tugging you further behind him, ensuring no shots of you are taken on what was meant to be a private night out.
despite the urgency of the situation--his face still stays controlled and imperturbable, but his grip is firm to reassure you, as he leans down and mumbles in your ear, "just a bit farther, the car's close," before his voice cuts through the cries and shutters lowly: "we're done here."
listens intently, and remembers every single detail about you, despite whether you think it's significant or not for him to know.
bruce stores your favorite shampoo and conditioner in his bathroom when you stay the night over.
and when you're sitting on the edge of his sink, removing his makeup from under his eyes, you notice it sitting amongst his own body-wash and pine scented soap.
but when you ask him about it, he simply shrugs and waves it off.
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dick 🏙ɞ♥️*
teaches you self defense: his hands gently curl over yours to demonstrate how they should look before you throw a punch.
his touch is light, "keep your thumb on the outside", dick's finger taps the inside of your palm, "if you keep it inside, you'll break it--not fun."
he whistles when you hit him solidly in the side with a wide grin, despite the force of your blow, "better."
insists on helping you put on all your jewellery and shoes.
he turns you around, and pulls your hair to one side of your neck, before fiddling with the clasp. he's clumsy at first, but eventually gets the hang of it the more he does it. his hands linger on the slope of your neck for a moment longer than necessary.
later, as you reach for your shoes, he beats you to it, kneeling in front of you. dick's motions are all exaggerated as he does it.
your hand cards through his hair when he's looking up through his lashes after he's fastened the straps, and kissing the inside of your calf slowly.
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jason ❤️‍🩹⋆。
reads on public transportation: jason pulls out a beat up paperback he picked up from a secondhand bookstore from his back pocket. it has dog eared pages and a weathered spine.
there's a baby crying on the train, but he doesn't seem to notice as he flicks a ringed finger to the page he last read.
he pulls a pencil from his jacket pocket, and traces a line in a passage--a part he thinks you'd like. when he leans forward, his shirt rides up a bit so a strip of his skin is visible to you.
doesn't wipe your lipgloss from his cheek.
the shimmer from it stains his cheek after you pressed a kiss to it. you go to wipe it with a laugh, reaching with your thumb, and jason catches it mid-air. "you've got glitter on your face jay, people are gonna-"
"next time, wear red."
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tim 🪽❥˚
gnaws at his lip as he concentrates.
the hum of the keys click in the batcave and papers rustle. tim's focus is sharp as he attempts piecing together his newest case, and his teeth catch in his bottom lip. an unconscious habit.
you can't help but tease him about it, "that's a terrible habit to have, you know that?" you lean against his desk."it helps me think."
sure enough, he does it again. "you're gonna chew your lip off your face one day." his lips curve upwards at your observation, but your gaze was now intense as you observed his lip in his teeth, and before you can state another snarky remark, he shoots you a knowing look before pulling your belt loops, and kissing you.
wears your hair tie on his wrist. it was never really ever a big deal. one day you handed it to him while getting ready for bed one night as you pulled out your ponytail and he snapped it onto his wrist without much thought. now, it's routine. it doesn't matter where he is exactly, if tim's at a gala or in a meeting or out in gotham on patrol, the hair tie is around his wrist.
you heard him cursing from the other room when he misplaced it once.
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clark 🌟.*☆
saves you a seat, always: whether it's evenings in or out, clark always makes you feel like you're the most important person there.
it's not something that's said but understood, as he pulls the chair next to him, letting it be out long enough for you to get comfortable, before gently scooting it inwards.
when you eat, and when he thinks you're not looking--clark will adjust your plate, and glace over at your water glass to make sure it is filled. and if you want extra bread, don't even worry because he kept an extra piece on his plate for you.
pushing his glasses up. there's something kinda charming about the way he does it that you wish you could explain it better. it's absentminded, he does it a lot!
when he's looking over articles or reading or just talking to you. in the elevator, he'll lean forward to look over the numbered floors, and they won't stay in place, sliding down the bridge of his nose. you don't say anything, but smile slightly, and he'll return it goofily and with more teeth, before he asks, "what?"
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tags: @retvenkos
513 notes · View notes
lidiasloca · 2 days ago
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hi!! can you write Azriel x reader (established mates) where reader is worried Azriel only wants to be with her because they're mates but in reality he's been in love with her for centuries but thought he didn't deserve her or something like that. maybe angsty at first because she's kinda avoiding him but with happy ending please and thanks :')
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is it love, or just the fear of loneliness?
azriel x reader
summary: Is Azriel’s love for you born from only the mating bond that he was always so desperate for—or was his love always there, hidden beneath the surface? As doubts rise, only he can reveal the truth.
You were on your second refill when you realized Rhys and Cassian had drunk the rest of the bottles themselves.
“I mean,” the High Lord started, already laughing at his story. “I mean—”
“What do you mean, Rhys?” Feyre asked, watching her mate stomach the influence of the wine.
“I mean,” he tried yet again, but his laughter kept interrupting.
Cassian was chuckling as he eyed him with half-closed eyes. “Finish the sentence, brother.”
“I’m trying,” he laughed, now looking at you. Then to Azriel at your side, whose face lay freely joyful.
“I mean, do you remember,” he asked Cassian, “how all Azriel could talk about was having a mate?”
You could feel through the bond the quiet embarrassment of your mate.
But they didn’t, so Cass continued. “Oh—yes. He was desperate.”
“I want a mate? When will I find a mate? Where is she?” Cassian imitated with a stupid voice.
Feyre’s little giggle wasn’t half of the hysterical roars of the Illyrians. However, Az, instead of laughing, gave you a quick shy glance.
Rhysand had a hand on his stomach as he continued laughing with no end. Feyre gave you and Azriel an apologetic look. “Rhys, you are very drunk, my love.”
But Rhys’s eyes widened with a thought. “Do you remember—do you remember when Azriel got drunk?”
Cassian's grin only grew. “Oh, gods. It got even worse.”
“I want a maaaaate,” Rhys drawled, his imitating voice even worse than Cass’s. “Where is sheeeee?”
You couldn’t help but snort, trying to catch Azriel’s eyes. When he didn’t let you meet his gaze, you shifted your attention to your ring, instinctively rolling it. 
“Alright, that’s enough for tonight,” Feyre said softly when Rhys tried to gulp down another glass of wine.
“What do you mean? We're just getting started,” Cass said, then turned to you. “Y/N, you don’t know how much we owe you.”
“Yeah,” Rhys nodded. “I don’t think I could’ve listened to one more hour of Azriel begging for a mate.”
At least now, Azriel was smiling faintly, as if remembering. As if grateful.
But something in your chest… pained.
You suddenly felt it difficult to get air into your lungs, as if you were falling from great heights. 
He was desperate for a mate.
You never let your mind linger there for too long, it always hurt too much. You were scared of what you might grow to believe if you looked at the puzzle pieces for too long.
Desperate.
“I think I’m going to sleep.” The words spilled out before you could muster a believable tone. “Good night,” you said as you rose, not daring to look back at your mate’s face as you headed to your room.
Trying to make no noise, you slowly closed the door of your room and leaned your back on it.
The questions in your head were far too swift for you to dodge them.
What if that was all you were to Azriel? His mate?
Did he only want you because of the bond?
Because he finally found what he was desperate to find? Not necessarily love—but a mate.
‘He was desperate.’
You and Azriel had known each other for many years, and Azriel had barely noticed your existence.
You even believed he avoided you.
He never spoke to you, never looked at you for too long… until the bond snapped for you both at the same time.
And then, and only then, had you found the bravery to get to know him, even asking him out yourself.
Then, and only then, had he started to grow interested in you.
Everything… everything was just because of the mating bond.
A light knock sounded, startling you enough to take a step away from the door.
“It’s me,” the voice said. Azriel’s voice.
Not now. Not now.
You quickly wiped the tears from your face and took a deep breath.
You found that worried look on your mate when you opened the door, and it made it an effort not to cry again.
“The party is over?” you asked, trying to sound somewhat calm.
“I… I’m here to see if you are alright.”
You made yourself breathe before you fainted. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You left,” he said as he came inside the room. “You seemed… sad.”
You closed the door and watched as he silently awaited your answer. It didn’t come.
Azriel took a step, leaving no safe space between you. One deep breath and your skin would brush his.
“Tell me, love. What is it?”
You shook your head.
“Is it… is it about what they said? About me?”
You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t shake your head either, so he took that as a yes.
There was something wary in his eyes as he asked, “About the mate thing?”
You felt dizzy, like you were falling from a cliff.
You had to hold on to somehting.
You tentatively took his index finger between your fingers, making him look down at where your hands joined. A faint smile bloomed on his worried face. “Are you mad at me about it?”
“No,” you murmured. “Not mad.”
“Then?” he urged, moving his other hand to cup your cheek. “You… you feel so quiet on the other side of the bond… I can almost not feel you at all.”
You met his eyes, saying sorry over and over through the sad colors on yours.
“I just,” you breathed. “I just thought about what they said, that you were desperate. And it made me think if maybe… if maybe you only wanted me because I am your mate. Not because—” You had to look away from his face. “You love me.”
Azriel’s long moment of silence was torture, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything else.
At last, he spoke. “Y/N, look at me. Please. Look at me, my love.”
You did, even when you felt another tear slipping down your cheek. He gently wiped it away.
“I love you. I need you to know that. I love you more than anything in this world. And I don’t love you because you are my mate.” More tears rolled down, yet these were not sad. “I’ve loved you long before I knew you were my mate.”
Your mouth opened partly at his confession, yet you didn’t know what to say.
He understood your confusion and further explained. “I did, Y/N. For so long, I loved you from a distance. From the moment I first met you, and you spoke—not to me, but… just hearing your sweet voice, I realized I was going to fall for you.”
“What?” you whispered low enough you weren’t sure he had even heard you.
But maybe he did, for he nodded, caressing your cheek with heartbreaking softness. “I thought you would never like me back.”
“But- I thought you disliked me, Azriel.”
His brows furrowed and his hand fell from your face. “Why would you ever think that?”
“Because,” you said. “You never spoke to me. You didn’t even look in my direction. And when you did speak to me, all you said was one word, nothing more.”
A sheepish smile appeared on his face. “Well, I was… shy around you. It wasn’t easy to talk to you, or to stare too long without making a fool of myself, so I tried to avoid both.”
You tried to take in his words, finding it very difficult to digest this new reality.
He had been in love with you… and you hadn’t even noticed.
“Y/N,” he spoke, seriousness lacing his words. “That ring,” he gestured with his chin, and you looked down at the golden band with a diamond on your finger. “I…”
“You what?”
“This is embarrassing,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “I bought that ring the very first day I met you.”
You were pinned in place, failing to even breathe or blink.
“What?” It seemed like the only word you knew.
“It’s both romantic and psychotic, I know,” he smiled.
You inhaled deeply, meeting his gaze. “You knew? You truly knew it was…”
“You?” he finished. “Yes.” 
You couldn’t help but smile at the sincerity in his words. Azriel pulled you gently into his arms as you let the warmth of him embrace you.
It was no more than a whisper, yet you heard him murmur against your temple, “From the very first moment, I knew, Y/N.”
You closed your eyes, finally accepting the fall.
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-Charcaters by Sarah J Maas
azriel masterlist
a/n: what is this thing with your titles being a question, lidia? mmmm, 🤷‍♀️. anyway, hope you like this one, thanks for the request. and have a wonderfull 2025!!
639 notes · View notes
alchemistdoctor · 12 hours ago
Text
Danny realizes, after two pints of ice cream and three NASA documentaries, that he's not actually upset, really, about the miscommunication. Because that's what it was, and once he set out his boundaries, they've been respectful. It turns out Kon is really great at giving cuddles without pressure, honestly.
And Elle comes over and they watch the fourth documentary, and he realizes he's actually upset because, well, they ARE nice, and he wants them to be happy, and is a little sad it can't be him. He sighs.
Elle sits bolt upright.
"I HAVE A PLAN" she shouts, and disappears.
Danny grumbles and burrows into the sofa.
~~~
"This is a terrible plan," Dan says, and Danny agrees, even as he watches his in-therapy-doing-community-service not-brother tolerate Elle using him as a jungle gym.
"No, listen! Batman needs some control over the situation, you need a parental figure who is able to give you an outlet without you going too far, and you get to meet RR and Kon!" Elle gushes. "It's perfect!"
"You can't just replace one of us with the other. It's a whole thing. I got souped about it. People died," Dan explains, looking vaguely amused instead of angry.
"Not asking you to replace. We're still their friends, and good luck getting rid of us, Kon and I are besties, we made bracelets," Elle says happily, showing hers off. "But it won't hurt you to have a friend you can tussle with, and RR will challenge your noggin to think through things instead of jump them."
Dan huffs. But Danny is starting to figure out how this just could work. Dan has mellowed with Elle around, having someone to care for. He will probably extend that to Kon, and then RR by extension because they're so close...
This might actually work.
~~~
"This was a terrible decision. You never should have met," Danny moans from the floor. Dan is outright cackling, while Tim pretends not to laugh and Kon floats over to poke at Danny's shoulder.
"C'mon, man. You introduce me to a version of you that can kick my ass even more, and likes scheming as much as Tim does, and you didn't see this coming?"
"Batman's gonna kill me," Danny realizes, and Tim snorts.
"Nah. They get along."
Danny rolls over, gives him a disbelieving look.
"I validate his need for contingency plans. And help sometimes," Dan says, shrugging. "I - have something now. I - he should be able to stop me."
"Huh," Danny says, because, well, he didn't see that coming, but Dan is still a kid, technically, and he guess it makes sense. Jazz is always talking about how kids should feel safe that their parents will be able to stop them before they do something truly terrible, and maybe that's Batman for Dan. "Good for you, man."
"And he helped Jason get off ghost booze," Elle adds, grinning. "Speaking of, there's some old man with a ghost booze fermentation pit somewhere in the middle east."
"What?"
"Yeah, he has my spleen," Tim says casually. "Asshole."
"What??"
Dan grins at him. "So anyway. Wanna help me shut an illegal hooch operation, your majesty?"
"WHAT??"
DPxDC prompt: Danny Phantom is an extremely high-level threat due to his capabilities and experience battling against his ghostly enemies. Batman is creating a contingency plan for him and Constantine's advice, as the one who dances the tango with the Infinite Realms? A bone-weary sigh of "plop him down a telly and put on a NASA documentary or something. It's like you haven't been dealing with teen kids for decades now fer fuck's sake."
6K notes · View notes
starrynights-sunnyskies · 3 days ago
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as the flowers bloom, my heart does too ⋆*·゚misa x putellas!femreader, social media au, (17/17)
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when your relationship ends and all you want to do is hide and cry, flowers suddenly start to appear on your doorstep.
or; misa hating to see a pretty girl cry and suffer and going out of her way to cheer her up while staying anonymous
fic: see my masterlist
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tagged: bff3 2,618 likes yourusername: 😉
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marisabel_rguez my sleepy head princess 😘
username1 yo whose hand is that with the engagement ring in the last slide 👀 ↳ username2 💍👭? ↳ username3 😳 ↳ username4 WAIT WHAT
ingridengen 💞
bff3 🖤
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↳ 12h ago: marisabel_rguez added to their story ↳ 11h ago: marisabel_rguez added to their story ↳ 7h ago: marisabel_rguez added to their story ↳ 1h ago: marisabel_rguez added to their story
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↳ 5h ago: yourusername added to their story ↳ 59min ago: yourusername added to their story
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Text Messages
you: hiiiiii babyyyyyyyy
fiancée💞: Hahaha hi, my love
fiancée💞: What do you want? 🤣
you: can we reaaaaally not get a puppy?? 😭
fiancée💞: We talked about this, loveeee. We're all over the place, I'm not sure that's the best environment for a puppy
you: i know, i'm being silly ):
you: another pet then?
you: FISHIES???
fiancée💞: Who'll feed them when we're away
you: the little boys from across the street. it can be their cute little first job
fiancée💞: They're diabolical
you: yea you're right ):
fiancée💞: Once we've settled a bit, like properly... we can think of getting a pet, I promise. One that will fit perfectly with our little two-person family 😊
you: or three-person?
fiancée💞: ○○○
fiancée💞: ○○○
fiancée💞: You mean a child???
fiancée💞: One day
fiancée💞: Maybe haha
fiancée💞: 😅😬
fiancée💞: If we're both sure ig
you: only if we're both on the same page. and if we're both at a point where we're ready and can raise our little one in a good environment so that we can be the best moms ever, as they deserve
fiancée💞: You've really thought about this haha
you: honestly, i just want to celebrate life with you, whatever that will look like
read
you: shit okay you're freaking out, i'm so sorry. it was just a silly comment ahahaha don't stress. it's fine. i wasn't serious.
you: i really wasn't. i promise
you: i was just yapping
you: you know me
you: i much rather have fishies haha (:
read
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tagged: yourusername, bff2, bff3 589 likes bff1: girls night to celebrate knowing something you don't 😈
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albaps9 😈
marisabel_rguez 😍
yourusername 🤫
bff2 😇
alexiaputellas wooohoooo 🤩
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↳ 9h ago: yourusername added to their story
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tagged: marisabel_rguez 2,499 likes yourusername: life is good 🍂
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bff1 can i lend her for a day pls? ↳ yourusername nooooooo ↳ bff1 a few hours then????? ↳ yourusername noooooooooooooooo 😭 ↳ username1 Girl, you right, protect what's yours, Misa's a gem liked by yourusername
username1 not me zooming in on her hand to check for a ring ↳ username2 fr! they've been so sus 😭 ↳ username3 It would so be their thing to be all secretive again lmao
marisabel_rguez 😘
bff3 Thank you for the fun weekend, auntie Misa & YN!!! 🐻💛 ↳ marisabel_rguez We had the best time with your little man!
albaps9 because i'm in it, right? ↳ yourusername ALWAYS 🗣
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↳ 5min ago: albaps9 added to their close friends story
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↳ 5min ago: alexiaputellas added to their close friends story
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Direct Messages
marisbel_rguez: I DIDN'T WANT TO SEE HER IN HER DRESS!!!
marisbel_rguez: FUCK YOU, ALE
alexiaputellas: I'M SORRY!
alexiaputellas: But don't worry, this one didn't make it! She looks even more ethereal in the one she chose. Mami still has not stopped crying and even her friends got silent
marisbel_rguez: What, why? This one's already so perfect! She looks incredibly gorgeous in it. She's like an angel. Fuck, she's gorgeous 😢
alexiaputellas Hahaha you're crying, aren't you?
marisbel_rguez: I admit, I watched your story a couple of times, then cried a little, yeah
marisbel_rguez: I'm the happiest woman ever. And I promise I'll make her the happiest too. I really really really promise that, Ale. She deserves all the good in the world.
alexiaputellas: We're happy to officially call you family soon, but you know you were already part of the family since day one. We're happy she has you, she's the luckiest. And you've already made her the happiest, or she wouldn't be fitting dresses and suits as we speak 😉
marisbel_rguez: It's so weird, but it only now properly hit me that we're actually doing this. That I've found my person. That we're as tight as we've ever been and that I love every day because she's in it. I'm just so thankful that we found our way to each other. I never would have imagined to be here the moment we first met through you. I might have dreamed of it a few times before we were a thing, but never ever ever ever was it this good and sweet in my head.
alexiaputellas: Yeah, I definitely need a special shout out in the vows, because without me, you wouldn't have met 😏
marisbel_rguez: Fuck you 🤣
alexiaputellas: 😜
alexiaputellas: Hey, I can't speak for her, but I don't think she ever expected to be loved the way you love her after all that happened to her. Thank you for showing her she's worth receiving all that love, and for letting her light shine again. She's been the most giggly, smily and happiest version of herself the past few years, and all thanks to you. I don't think we'll ever be able to express our gratitude. Thank you, hermana. From all of us.
marisbel_rguez: ○○○
marisbel_rguez: ○○○
alexiaputellas: You're crying again, aren't you?
marisbel_rguez: I never stopped.
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Text Messages
fiancée💞: Hi, my love
fiancée💞: I know you're at the wedding boutique right now
fiancée💞: But I just want to say that I love you. And I hate how those three words can't even express how much I really really really do. But I hope you can feel it.... when we're together, when I look at you and even when I'm not around.
fiancée💞: You’re utterly gorgeous, the girl of my dreams, and I know that whatever you'll choose today, you're going to shine in it. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me.
fiancée💞: I love you so much.
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21,014 likes marisabel_rguez: This life, forever please.
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yourusername careful what you wish for, chula. forever is a looooong time ↳ marisabel_rguez Still not long enough with you
bff1 I LOVE YOU TWO (TOGETHER)
albaps9 love love love
bff1 never beating the allegations that you are a better singer than a footballer bc wow you have some PIPES ↳ marisabel_rguez 🤣😭 ↳ bff2 Only after some alcohol in her system 😳 ↳ yourusername nope. also in the shower or while doing chores. rip me ↳ bff1 misa stop singing or you're killing your wife before she can walk down the aisle next month this comment is no longer available
alexiaputellas I made it to your slides, am I now officially your second favourite person? ↳ marisabel_rguez Fine, okay 🤣 ↳ yourusername not to interfere, but you always were 🤫 ↳ albaps9 i have receipts that say otherwise ↳ alexiaputellas Shush!!! That was when I was still a little prickly about it 😭 ↳ albaps9 A LITTLE HAHAHAHA
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tagged: marisabel_rguez 21,292 likes meteorabrand: 💚 Misa X Meteora 💙
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yourusername woof 89 likes ↳ username1 did you mean bark? 😭 ↳ username4 she's so unserious, i love her
yourusername wow who is this woman, is she single? 78 likes ↳ yourusername 💍?????????????? 23 likes ↳ marisabel_rguez 😂😘 ↳ username3 🤣😭🤣😭 we love you, don't ever change ↳ username2 everyone saying they want a misa, but i want a y/n. imagine having a super duper supportive gf all the time
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Text Messages
bff1: hiiiiii my buttercup, sunshine, pookie
bff1: the plane leaves in 8h
you: hi idiot, what plane? we didn't book anything
bff1: the plane to your hen party DUH
you: BRO YOU'RE INSANE
bff1: ☺️
bff1: so pack your bags
you: wtf no! i can't get on it!!!!!
bff1: yes you can!!!!! and you MUST
bff1: in fact, we're counting on it. the girls and i are on our way to madrid so you better start packing (: NOW (:
you: ○○○
you: ○○○
you: ○○○
you: ○○○
bff1: aaaand you're panicking ahahahaha
bff1: you won't even have to miss misa for long because your family and misa are joining us with her friends and family the last two days
you: ○○○
you: ○○○
bff1: i'm.... going to give you some time. LOVE YOU. C YA SOON 😘🤪
you: i love you girls but omfg a little warning next time????
you: WAIT no no no no, no next time. this will be my only ever hen party 😊👰
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↳ 23h ago: yourusername added to their story ↳ 12h ago: yourusername added to their story ↳ 5min ago: yourusername added to their story
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4,200 likes yourusername: 🐓🎉🤍
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username1 marriage material? 👀
username2 ma'am!!!! what???
username3 what's with the chicken? 😆 ↳ username4 ....hen..... hen party....? 😱 ↳ username1 OMG
bff2 ❤️❤️❤️
jennihermoso Pretty girl!! You deserve the world!!
marialeonn16 new tattoo? picca pls!
username8 betting money that this was a hen party. coming back to this post when they announce it
sofie.svava 😍
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tagged: bff1, yourusername, bff3 209 likes bff2: On bridesmaid duty while we celebrate our future Mrs!!!
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username1 found my way here through yn's tags.... ↳ username2 ME TOO. omg i want to know who's the future mrs 😳 ↳ username3 Y/N, obviously, come onnn guys!!
yourusername i love you 🥺
bff3 My girls ❤️😘
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↳ 1h ago: marisabel_rguez added to their story
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↳ 1h ago: bff2 added to their story
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tagged: yourusername 562 likes bff1: before and after 🖤🤒🐓💞
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jennihermoso That's the only way you know it was a good hen party 😉
username1 uhhhh did she just reveal the secret by tagging yn ↳ username2 WOW SHE DID
alexiaputellas 🤭
marisabel_rguez 😍
albaps9 i'm still stuck in the 'after' ↳ bff1 come to our room, we're watching high school musical ↳ albaps9 you just want to get me in your bed ↳ bff1 hawana waka waka waka niki pu pu pu ↳ yourusername we're soooooooooarin, flyyyyyyyyin ↳ albaps9 fine, i've been persuaded
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Text Messages
fiancée💞: I love you. Sweet dreams, and see you tomorrow, wife-to-be 😘😉
you: i love you, fiancée-only-for-a-few-hours-left 😊
you: but there's no way i'm going to be able to get a wink of sleep tonight
fiancée💞: What's wrong? You're not catching the next best midnight flight home, are you? 🤣
you: noooooooooo
you: i'm just so nervous and excited and NERVOUS and EXCITED that i'm THIS close to throwing up. i've ran to the batroom thrice already but nothing!!!!
you: and no it's not food poisoning again because i barely ate today because of the NERVES
fiancée💞: Amor 😔
fiancée💞: I know it's nervewracking... everything that's going to happen. But nothing can go wrong, okay? The entire wedding venue could be on fire, the food disgusting and our dresses stolen, and it would still be the most perfect moment of my life. We'll have our loved ones there, everyone has the best intentions for us. We'll make it a beautiful day.
fiancée💞: You deserve this. Don't doubt it. Don't expect the universe to surprise you with something bad, when it's surprised you with something so so so good, too.
fiancée💞: I love you. I'll be there. We're doing this together.
you: oh god i'm bawling my eyes out
fiancée💞: I'm coming over. Which room were you in again?
you: no no no honey you can't
you: i know it's just a silly superstition, but i actually like the idea of not seeing you until tomorrow. i miss you, i'm literally aching, but i think that will make the moment tomorrow so much more magical.
fiancée💞: I agree, angel.
fiancée💞: I just don't want you to be alone and feeling like this
you: i'm not alone. not anymore, never!
fiancée💞: Wdym?
fiancée💞: Oh, wait. I get it 😊
fiancée💞: Sorry, I guess the nerves are getting to my head too hahaha
you: i love you
you: i love you
you: i love you
you: i love you
fiancée💞: I love you too
you: and i can't wait to start the next chapter in life with you
fiancée💞: I know, me neither. I'm so excited 🤩
fiancée💞: But first, I'm most excited for tomorrow!!
fiancée💞: Let's live in the moment for now
you: what are you looking forward to most?
you: because personally i can't wait to just be with you again
you: finally see you and hold your hands again. look at the love in your eyes
fiancée💞: I've been imagining you walking towards me since the second we started dating. Not to sound weird or cocky, but I've always known you were it for me, so imagining you walking down the aisle to become my wife happened pretty early on. I know that's crazy, but I can't wait for it to happen for real. I've been trying to picture it, but I can't. And I know my imagination won't do any of it justice, least of all the way you'll look.
fiancée💞: And since we're sharing what we're looking forward to, well, let's say I hate you for making me promise not to sleep together for a month until our wedding. I thought you were kidding, but your dedication has been real...painful 😭
you: you'll thank me tomorrow <3
you: and we've never really slept together
fiancée💞: Que??? Yes we have, what are you talking about
you: we've always made ✨love ✨
fiancée💞: Ahahaha yeah, of course, you silly woman
fiancée💞: MY silly woman 😚
you: hey remember the first year we were dating?
fiancée💞: I remember every second of it
you: even the time i said that if you called me yours again, i'd jump your bones?
fiancée💞: More so what happened after, but yes....
you: 😁😁😁
fiancée💞: Oh jeez, I'm in it now, aren't I?
you: yessssssss
fiancée💞: I can just picture you grinning like a cute idiot rn
you: ugh i miss you
fiancée💞: Are you alone? Do you want to call...?
you: NO! MISA! RULEBREAKER!
fiancée💞: Are we on Too Hot Too Handle? 😱
you: i will leave you on read. i'm serious about it
fiancée💞: You started it, you minx!!!
you: ugh you're right
you: ok. wait a minute
fiancée💞: Patiently
you: hi im back, sorry. i'm going to try get some hours now, i don't want to look like a wreck on our wedding day
you: thank you for loving me the way i needed from day one. i love you, misa.
you: (i'll save the rest for my vows tomorrow, which i'm going to choke on through tears so be warned!)
fiancée💞: Hahaha, I love you, gorgeous. And always and forever.
you: oh, and sweet dreams 😉
you: [photo]
fiancée💞: 😯
fiancée💞: Y/N oh my fucking god ????????
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tagged: marisabel_rguez 18,235 likes yourusername: We did 🤍
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alexiaputellas 😘 bff3 All the best to the two of you, beautiful 💞😚 albaps9 😭😭😭😭 sakinakarchaoui Congratulations!!! begovargas Felicidades, girls! bff2 Oh, my heart is still exploding 💖 _emilyfox wow 😍 bff1 Look at my moms 😭 keira walsh Nice👌 jennihermoso FELICIDADES OLE OLE marialeonn16 Beautiful couple, beautiful wedding 😘 salmaparalluelo Invested in your love story from the start. Congrats, hermana!!! stephcatley Yay, congrats! 😊 ashley.sanchez 😍 leahwilliamsonn Congratulations, newly weds! leilaouahabi yessss ❤️ ingridengen Here's to you two 💞 sara_doorsoun Congrats! ✨ janafernandez3 Congratulations 😢😊
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tagged: yourusername 41,014 likes marisabel_rguez: Sorpresa 🤍
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__cata13 YAY! 😍 username1 YO I CALLED IT janafernandez3 Congratulations 😊 username2 Y/S/N fridolinarolfo 😍 ona.battle ❤️ jillroord 🤩🥂 username3 Y/S/N!!!!!!! patri8guijarro Felicidades, amigas <3 kika.nazareth CONGRATS!!!! claudiaapina 😍👏 alexiaputellas 😘 aitanabonmati 🎉 leilaouahabi 😍 patri8guijarro felicidades!!! jennihermoso Cat's out of the bag!! 😝 bff2 Here's to an epic love story, lovelies! mariona8co 😁🎉 marialeonn16 💛💛💛💛 username7 we've come a long way, guys <3 ↳ username8 Aww we have ↳ username9 Shipping Y/S/N since the beginning 😭
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↳ 8min ago: yourusername added to their story↳ 8min ago: yourusername added to their story
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a/n: hi, my loves!! this is the unofficial end of the social media au of this universe!! it will continue with a few short parts where we see the rest of their lives as they grow older, for those who are interested! (honeymoon, married life, pets/pregnancy, their little family and some slides that never made it to the existing parts etc)
thank you for sticking around this long to see it through to the end. i hope you enjoyed getting to read your happy ending.
may you find a love like this in real life and cherish it forever! never settle for less than you deserve. you're worthy of all the best things in the world, including an epic love. remember; your person is out there, waiting for your paths to cross to shower you in an abundance of love, respect and devotion.
all the love,
asha.
(and a hapy new year!! 🤍🥂)
164 notes · View notes
burnforyou · 7 hours ago
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POST SURGERY - LUIGI MANGIONE x READER
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!SUMMARY! just some short and sweet fluff about helping lu after surgery :)
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luigi stirred on the bed, letting out soft groans as he woke up from a deep slumber. you heard his soft noises and raised your head off of your arms, your neck aching. you slept sat up all night, leaning against the bed next to luigi. morning light falls over his bedroom.
he tried to sit up but the cold metal brace prevented him from moving. pain shot up his spine and he threw himself back down and shut his eyes tight, praying for the pain to go away.
"lu, what do you need? food, water, your medication?" you asked gently, trying to stand up after sleeping in an odd position.
"water, please, vita mia" he croaked out, his voice very hoarse.
you came back from the kitchen with a glass of cold water, a straw, and a full water bottle. you held the straw up to his lips and he took a long sip.
"kiss me please."
you lean down and press your lips onto his with a peck. after you pull away, he stays laying with his eyes closed and a light smile on his lips.
his stomach lightly growls and you finally take in his body, seeing the metal brace hugging his lower waist.
it broke your heart to see him like this, a normally strong and fit person, so weak, in so much pain. you know his pain has been killing him. it's held him back from so much in life and it physically hurts you to see him like this.
you caught on to the slight signs of his pain: his jaw clenching, he’d blink a little harder than usual and furrow his eyebrows. sometimes he’s walk with a slight hunch in his back.
"vivo nel dolore, nella miseria. I can't take it anymore." he'd cry at night, protected by the darkness of your shared bedroom. (I live in pain, in misery)
"I know, lu, we're gonna get you help soon." your eyes would well up with tears, knowing there was nothing you could do to help him.
"are you hungry?"
"mmhmm," he nods, eyes still closed.
"go back to sleep lu, I know you're exhausted. I'll make soup, is that okay?"
he nods.
"can you bring bread too?" he spoke up.
"of course. soup and bread coming right up!" you cheer, trying to lift his spirits, as well as yours, as much as you can. you silently weep in the kitchen while watching his tomato soup heat up in the microwave. you felt so helpless, almost pathetic. there was nothing you could do to help his pain.
you shove a slice of bread in your mouth, swallowing your sobs, and bring him warm soup with a couple slices of bread.
"here, sit," he said, patting the bed beside him. you sit on the edge of the bed, careful to not create a dip in the mattress.
you scooped up a small amount of soup onto the spoon. you hold it to his lips carefully. he slurps up the tomato soup, the hot liquid running down his throat and warming his whole body. you sit with him for almost an hour, tenderly hand feeding him soup and small pieces of bread.
“why do you look so sad?” he questioned, hand reaching for your thigh. he saw how sad and exhausted you looked, struggling to keep your eyes open as you fed him.
“i’m just really worried about you,” you replied, stroking his face. he looked up at you with pain clouding his eyes.
“you don’t need to worry about me.”
“of course i worry about you lu, i don’t want you to be in pain.” you comb your hands through his soft curls.
you shake your head and put a piece of bread up to his mouth so he can’t say anything more.
he swallows the piece of bread and smiles up at you. "sei buono come il pane.” you furrow your eyebrows down at him. the soup made his lips a shade darker, shining with a deep red stain. (you are as good as bread)
“what does that mean?”
“it means you're as good as bread. its a common phrase, just means you're a good person, and that you're loving and, and stuff like that." he looks down at his hands and fidgets with his brace.
"you're sweet." you pinch his cheek and he smiles to himself.
you put the bowl and utensils on his bedside table, standing up. you yawned and he did too.
“you’re tired?”
"mm, not really," you lied through your teeth.
"I can see the dark circles under your eyes."
“you need to sleep too.”
“i’m not tired.” he blinked his eyes a couple of times, failing to keep them open for long.
“close your eyes, i can see them drooping.”
“lay with me," he pats the bed on the other side of him and settles back on a pillow.
“no lu, you know i can’t” you shake your head.
“per favore, i hate sleeping on my back in a cold, empty bed.” he tilted his head back, getting a sudden stabbing pain up his spine.
"do you want me to put the blanket on you?" he shakes his head. "alright. just go to sleep hun, you'll see me in the morning." you start out of his bedroom, going to turn the light out.
“wait, y/n.”
“what luigi?” you stop and turn your head to look at him.
“what about a goodnight kiss?” he pouted up at you.
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me if making everything I write dialogue based was illegal
MASTERLIST - PREV. WORK
!TAGS!
@strawbrriess @bellobambino @f4nfic-lover @btcowboy @chmpgneprblem @soggysouppp @hereandqueer6540 @poohkie90 @miarosalie11 @v1rtualsalvat10n @hypnotizedbyhood @webanglikethat @croucify @cumdnmp @ga33y3 @zeervzn @marzipanlvr @seesaw-it @raekensluver @ddlydevotion @hujirose @darleneslane @babydollfacedangel @withloveforlu @mxdnvghts @strawbxrryaxolotyl @bricapellan16
requested by @huly4a
141 notes · View notes
godmadeaterribleerror · 1 day ago
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Chapter 1 - In My Brain and In My Blood
Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist
Author's Note: This story is non-canon compliant rewrite, but primarily plot wise. Think of it as we're cooking with all the same ingredients (i.e lore, characters, setting, and backstory) but with one change (you) that gets us to a drastically different ending.
What the means is that there will be a lot of similar plot points to the real Supernatural, but the further we go through the story the more it will diverge. I've also take some creative labor with the reader, adding lore that's defiantly not a part of canon, but crucial to this story.
If you have any questions about this, feel free to ask! If not, I hope you enjoy the story!
Chapter title is from The End by Halsey
Word Count: 16.3k
Chapter Summary/Warnings: See the Masterlist for a Summary. Contains usual tags.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff
Chapter 2
Read on A03!
You know a few things about the dark.
It’s alive inside you. It has been your whole life. It makes your words too harsh and your brain too sharp and your love too big. It’s makes you too fragile, but still too sharp, and raises everything to a dangerous height you don’t know how to come down from. It makes everyone move away because they can see it. You can see it, always.
It covers every corner of your body, and grows roots in something white in your chest. Something no one but you can see. You’d asked your dad once—does he feel it too, feel the strange glow and pull of everything beautiful around you—and he’d looked at you like you were insane.
You might be.
But it’s hard not to be, in this line of work. 
Hunting. Monsters and ghosts and nightmares, all around you and calling to you in your sleep. It’s where most of the darkness lives, in the way that few monsters lay hands on you, no matter how much of their blood you shed. Ghosts will treat you like any other, but the monsters look at you like they recognize you. 
Like you’re one of them.
And that’s something you’ve never told your dad. You never will. He already hates that you do this, and not a month goes by where he doesn’t glare at you from across the table, beer bottle in hand, and ask you to stop.
“Kiddo,” he’d grunted the last time, narrowing his eyes at you over dinner. “That was the last one.”
“You say that every time-“
“And you ain’t listenin’ to me every time!” He’d snapped. “You don’t have to do this shit, not with your-“ He’d made a face, giving you a pointed look. “Ya’ know. Thing.”
“Witch.” You’d sighed. “You’re allowed to say it. I’m a witch.”
“You ain’t a witch-“
“I’m not a normal witch.” You’d corrected with a frown, picking at the wood of the table. “But I’m still not human.”
“You’re human,” he’d muttered your name, and when you’d looked up, he’d been staring at you with an exhausted expression and you’d felt something eat at your tongue. “But you’re right. You ain’t normal, kiddo, and it’s gonna get you fuckin’ killed-“
“It hasn’t yet-“
“It will. It always does.” He’d stood, giving you one last, tired look. “And I’m not tryin’ to lose you too.”
You’d given him a close-lipped smile. “You won’t lose me. I’m being careful.”
He’d rolled his eyes—you were being careful, and he knew it, but it still pissed him off—and nodded. And that had been it.
It’s like that every time. He tells you to quit, because you don’t need to do this, and you tell him you have to. You’re good at it. You’re more resourceful than half the hunters he knows, smarter than all of them, and better by a mile. He’d trained you. He hadn’t wanted to, but he’d realized it was either him teaching you or you learning through trial and error, and he’d decided you being a pain in his freakin’ ass was better than you being dead.
Because—in the end—all he really cares about is that you’re safe. It’s why you know to be careful, why you know what hunts to call for backup on, and why you know that—if you need to—you can crawl back home with your guts in your hand and he won’t yell at you until you’re better. Keeping you safe is his job, more than hunting, more than research, more than cars. He’d chosen to do it when he’d found you—eight years old and starving on the side of a highway—and it had stayed that way ever since. It didn’t matter what you were, what seemed to be inside of you, or how you were certainly more trouble that you were worth. He always made sure you were safe.
Safe from your real family, for what you know and refuse to be. Safe from the worst of the monsters and ghosts, who don’t seem to care for that horrible kinship you don’t know how to stop. Safe from hunters, and how they’ll hate you for what you know how to do.
Safe from John Winchester, and how he’ll put a bullet in your brain without question for what you don’t know how to change.
It’s the top rule. Stay away from the Winchesters. When John comes around for a hunt, hide in your room. When he drops his boys off before vanishing for weeks at a time, sneak out and call your uncle. He’ll pick you up, keep you safe, and drop you back home when the brothers leave. They can’t see you, because they’re loyal to their father and will tell him about the witch-girl who made the wind howl louder than it should’ve. John can’t know about you, because he’s a complicated man with a good heart, but he’ll hurt you worse than any ghost or monster could. 
But you have to say—at least from this distance—he doesn’t look that dangerous.
You know it’s him. You recognize his car in the parking lot from seeing it in your dad’s yard, and recognize his voice from the living room of your house. It’s clearer now—no longer muffled through a door you’d keep an ear pressed to—and you’re certain it’s him. 
And he’s just a man. A broad-shouldered, tired man with a face that doesn’t seem like it’s ever smiledand dark hair that’s streaked with slight silver. He even sounds exhausted, his voice laced with a thin irritation he either doesn’t know how to hide, or doesn’t care to.
“Dean,” he grunts, and you can’t see who he’s talking to, the bookshelves of the library only revealing John’s cold, set face. “Go back to the morgue and look at the bodies again. See if you can get a blood type on the vics.”
“A blood type?” A second voice, this one so clearly younger, a little defiant and bright, asks. “Dad, why do we care about their blood type-“
“Because this bitch is spilling it left and right, and we need to work out what skin she’s got in that game.” John’s words are short, impatient. “And you’re not here to ask me questions, Sam, you’re here to get through these damn books. Dean, go to the morgue.”
“Yes, sir.” That’s a third voice. It’s pretty. Deeper than the second—Sam’s—but not as tired as John’s. Mostly just cautious. “Can I, uh, can I take Sammy-“
“No.” John snaps. “I need him here for the readin’. Take the car and go.”
There’s a soft sound of metal ringing through the air, a scrape of wood on the floor, and you almost don’t move fast enough. You almost don’t duck behind the shelf in time for the third voice—the pretty one, Dean—to pass you, humming something you’d recognize if you weren’t lost in your panic.
Dean doesn’t see you.
But you see him.
And it’s not just his voice that’s pretty. 
You don’t know a lot about the Winchester brothers. Only what your dad has told you. Dean’s three years older than you, Sam’s a year younger. Dean likes music, Sam likes books. They’re both good boys—better than your dad seems to think John deserves, although he’ll never say that out loud—but Sam can be defiant and Dean can be trouble.
You hope Dean’s trouble. He has to be, when he looks like that. 
Because in only a split second of his side profile, you’re sure Dean Winchester is the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. Will ever see. It’s almost ethereal, and a little unfair. All of his features are clean and strong, like someone carved him from marble, but there’s a scar you could see on his jaw and a cut on his lower lip that made him seem human. Made his seem tangible. 
Touchable.
You’d like to touch him. You’ve seen him once, but everything in your body seems to think the world will collapse if you don’t touch him now. If you don’t at least talk to him. Hear his deep, charming voice directed at you. See at his face up close, see it’s clear resemble to John that feels pointless, because Dean looks like he smiles. He looks like he’s meant to smile, and you’d really like to find out if he’d smile at you. 
And that white thing—the one you feel all the time—seems to really like him. Even the darkness is trying to reach out to him, move into him, and you’re not really sure what the fuck is happening. He’d just walked past you, and your body is suddenly trapped by something overwhelming and dizzying in your lungs, your every nerve prickling the longer your brain circles him. The longer it spirals around his beautiful face, and full lips, and the way his voice sounded like something even bigger than the darkness in your body-
“Hey, Dad?” That same voice cuts through your thoughts, a little raised as Dean calls between the shelves. “Are you feeling anything from the beer earlier?”
“No.” John’s voice is clipped as he responds, and you can hear the frown in his voice. “You feelin’ alright, son?”
“Yeah, uh-“ There’s a heavy pause, and you can hear Dean shuffling slightly just out of your sight. “I dunno. Must’ve stood up too fast.”
“Dad, if he feels light headed he might not be safe to drive-“
“I’m alright, Sammy.” Dean’s words are fast. Not frantic, but rapid. “Nothing’s gonna happen to the car, Dad, I promise.”
John grunts. “Better not. Get moving, Dean, we don’t got all night.”
“Yes, sir.” 
You hear Dean shuffle away, sounds of flipping paper and scratching pencils re-filling the air, and you’re trapped in your spot. You shouldn’t follow Dean. Following Dean will almost certainly end in meeting John, and that’s the one thing you’re never supposed to do. Your dad doesn’t fight you when you leave for months at a time, or cross paths with other hunters, or run dangerous scams to keep yourself afloat. He’s okay with more than he probably should be, and he never tells you that you can’t do something. 
But you can’t talk to John Winchester. 
He can’t know who you are. What you are.
So you can’t follow Dean. Your brain is deeply aware that following Dean would be a truly horrible idea, and your body seems to be on board. There’s iron around your lungs when John mutters something to Sam, and a sore shot of electrically whenever one of them stands up to move books around. You’re really good at running. You know exactly when to call it and go. You can sense danger so easily—it’s the same chill of needles ice running up your spine, every single time—and John is dangerous. And you really shouldn’t follow Dean.
But the White thing keeps bucking around inside you. You can almost see it rush and roar in the air, feel it thrash deep down—past your heart chamber and embedded a little to the right—to try and follow Dean Winchester. And it feeds the darkness. It starts to twinge and pulse, seeping and infecting your muscles and blood, locking around your skull and making everything far too big. You can feel it all. The books on the shelves that all read Dean, and the squeak of the floors that say his name, and the lights start to flicker as the air turns humid and cool.
“Dad-“
“I’m seein’ it, Sammy, grab the gun-“
You raise the back of your hand to your mouth and bite. Hard. Grounding yourself before the flood can burst out of your body, before John Winchester could find out who you are in the worst way possible.
And when you run—out the back and to your stolen Lexus—you don’t even realize where you’re going until you’re halfway there.
To the morgue.
After Dean.
It’s a terrible idea. You have ten, long minutes of driving to figure out every way in which this is a terrible idea. You don’t know him. This will distract you from the case. John Winchester will try to kill you. Your dad will kill you. And there’s a high chance it will all be for nothing, because everything in you that’s calling to Dean belongs to that white thing. And that’s a part of you, and no one else. There’s a chance that this—whatever the fuck this is—is something driven by what you are, what’s wrong with you, so Dean won’t feel it at all.
You know all of that. And you still make it the whole drive without turning around. You park and rifle through your glove compartment for a fake ID, pull on your stiff, too-itchy well officer, would a fraud wear this? Jacket, and still don’t turn the engine back on and book it out of town. You even manage to justify it. You’re working this case too. You were here first. You’d noticed the blood thing from the start—it’s why you took the case—but you just hadn’t gotten to the morgue yet. You’d already been planning on it, and Dean just happens to be here at the same time. 
No matter what, you’ll get through it. You always get through it. And this might be a horrible idea, but that knowledge won’t stop you from stepping out of the car and making your way to the morgue. Know something has never really stopped you, and no amount of twisting bile in your gut—telling you to run, because you don’t love life, but you’d really rather not be murdered today—is going to prevent you from doing this. Nothing is stronger than the White in your chest, and it wants to talk to Dean Winchester. 
So that’s exactly what you’re going to do.
It is, as always, worryingly easy to get into the morgue. Half of the work is flashing the badge and saying the right words—Agent Smith, from the insurance company, I need to take a look at the autopsies for the claims—but most of it is the confidence. You carry yourself like a haughty, too-good-for-this-morgue insurance agent. Your chin is raised when you stop at the desk, and your words to the receptionist are impatient and clipped, and God, it makes you feel like the scum of the earth how she’s nervous and apologetic, but you get in the door. You always get in the door, because this is the simple part. The smiles with teeth, and the lies you spit through them are so fucking simple.
The hard part is always different. Sometimes it’s the ghosts that follow you after a failure, the ones that can’t be killed with salt and fire. Sometimes it’s long nights that you don’t have time tp sleep, and the tug and rot of that darkness in your chest tries to push to the surface. Sometimes it’s a puzzle you barely manage to solve, and it costs a little bit more of your flesh and soul each time.
But today, it’s Dean Winchester. Or, as the receptionist calls him, Officer Costello.
“Officer?” You raise your brows. “So the cops are looking into a serial killer.”
“I, um-“ The receptionist flushes, her eyes widening slightly. “I don’t know, he just said he was from a town over, and our Chief asked him to take a look, I’m not-“
“I’ll just ask him while I’m in there.” You shrug, the receptionist’s mouth opens in likely protest, and you call over your shoulder as you walk away. “I need to know for the report!”
You push through the doors—nobody chasing after you a sign of success—turn into the mortuary’s office, and freeze at the sight before you. 
Dean’s hunched over the mortuary’s desk, frowning at the largest stack of papers you’ve ever seen, and shit, he’s even prettier up close. Spiky hair and slightly tanned, freckled skin, rough looking hands sorting through the files and full lips in a frown and what the fuck is happening to you-
His head shoots up, eyes widening—green eyes, deep and vibrant and you need to get a goddamn grip—and you stare at each other for a long, confusing second before he finally speaks.
“Ma’am, if you could wait for the doctor outside please, this is, uh, official police business-“
You scoff, even as your whole body hums from the deep, smooth sound of his voice. “Is that really the excuse you’re going to use?”
Dean tenses, dropping the papers on the desk and rising to his full height, glaring down at you. He’s really tall, and broad, and probably warm-
“Excuse me? If you don’t exit this office right now, I’ll have reason to put you under arrest-“
“What reason?”
He blinks at you. “Interfering in police business-“
“Fake police business?”
“I’m not, this isn’t-“ Dean shakes his head, eyes narrowing on yours. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m a fake insurance agent.” You lift your badge up from him to see, giving a sweet, fake smile. “And you’re a hunter.”
“Lady, I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about-“
“I think you do.” You step forward, dropping into a seat across the desk. “To start, you’re definitely not a cop. Cops don’t drive muscle cars and raid morgue documents.”
He frowns, still watching you wearily. “How’d you know that’s my car?”
You’d slipped a little. You shouldn’t know that’s the Winchester’s car. But you’re quick on your feet, and by the time you say the lie it might as well be the truth. “Only three cars in the lot. Mine, the black one, and a minivan. And you don’t really seem like a minivan guy.”
Dean grunts, his body still braced and words tense. “I could be allowed to drive whatever car I want on duty-“
You give him an amused expression, tucking your knees into your chest as you lean back in your seat.  “You’re like, twenty. There’s no way they’d let you drive your own car. Or,” you raise your brows. “Ask you investigate a bunch of weird murders by yourself.”
Dean frowns, but drops in the swivel chair behind the desk. “I’m twenty-one,” he mutters, and you snort. 
“Congratulations-“
“And you,” his eyes shoot to yours, voice dropping into a low drawl that felt like it could be dangerous, but mostly made you feel a little fuzzy. “Haven’t answered my question. Who are you?”
You say your full name—the real one, that you’d been given at birth and he’d never connect to your dad—and drop your feet back to the floor, extending your hand across the desk. “I’m a hunter too.”
Dean chuckles, but meets your hand with a grin. “Yeah, I figured that part out myself, Princess. Dean Winchester.”
You shake his hand, and your smile must make you look like an idiot. It’s far too wide just from him telling you his name and touching your skin—he is warm, and his hands are calloused and big and still so soft—but there’s something like lightning sparking and shooting over your skin, and the White inside you is shining like a star. Pulsing and glowing and molding with the darkness. Making nothing really seem that bad at all. 
Dean’s smiling back. And you’d been right. His face is meant to smile. It’s meant to have this broad, cocky grin that’s full of teasing joy and a bright-eyed delight in something you can’t quite place. You really can’t tell if he can feel it. There’s a glint in his eyes that’s full of promises, but you can’t figure out if he can feel this. This raging tug in your body that keeps your hand in his longer than it needs to be, that makes his skin feel like a furnace and your heart feel right in your body.
He might. He really might feel it. His hand stays in yours as well, his grip a little tighter than it needs to be, and when you manage to pull away, he clears his throat—a small, adorable blush covering his pretty face—and stares at you like you’ve fallen from the sky, and you’re still covered in stardust.
“So, uh,” Dean glances down at the papers, then back to you. “You here for the autopsy reports?”
You nod, crossing your legs under your body. “Yep. You gonna share?”
“That depends.” Dean shrugs, shooting you another, very mind-numbing smirk. “You gonna help us out?”
“Us?” You tilt your head at him, twisting a ring on your finger. “You’ve got a partner?”
“Partners.” Dean corrects you with a grin. “My dad and brother. We always hunt together, it’s safer and Sammy’s still a kid, so-“ He cuts himself off, his face falling into a small frown. “Do you, are you hunting alone?”
“Mostly, yeah.” You shrug. “But I can help you out-“
“You, you shouldn’t be hunting alone.” Dean cuts you off with a shake of his head, his voice almost disbelieving. “It’s not safe. Gonna get you killed.”
“Uh huh.” You narrow your eyes, your voice becoming dry and bored. “Do you want my help, Dean Winchester?”
“Sure, but-“
“Then drop it, give me the papers, and let me help.”
He frowns. “You’re kinda bossy.”
“Yeah, well, you’re kinda-“
“It’s not bad.” He pushes some of the files across the desk, shooting you a wink. “Just making sure you know.”
“Oh.” You stare at him. He’s so pretty, and his smile does weird things to your gut and ribs and the White inside of you. “Uh-“
“I’ll take these.” Dean taps the files still in front of him, watching you with a strange expression. “You got those?”
“Sure.” You mumble, pulling the papers into your lap. “Um, thanks.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He shrugs. “More hands, we’ll be done faster. You, uh, you know what you’re lookin’ for-“
“Blood.” You flip open the first file, playing with the corner of a page as you speak. “Every vic’s been covered in it. It’s uh,” you grimace slightly, an image of a corpse painted red flashing in your head. “It’s been really gross.”
Dean hums in agreement, giving you a curious look. “You’ve seen all the bodies?”
“Most of them,” you look down to the file, flipping through it until you find the blood report “I’ve been here for like, five days.”
“Huh.” He frowns, looking down to his own paper. “We’ve been here four. Only seen two of them.”
“Well, maybe I’m just better at my job.”
He laughs, and when you glance back up, he’s grinning. “Sure, Princess.”
You kick him under the desk, and he makes a fake sound of pain.
“What was that for?!“
“Making fun of me,” you stick your tongue out at him, not looking up from your papers. “Not very nice, Winchester.”
“You made fun of me-“
“And if you wanna kick me, I won’t stop you-“
“I’m not gonna kick a lady-“
“Well then.” You shrug, unable to fight the smile on your face. “That’s not my fault, is it?”
He huffs, his voice dropping to a low mutter you can still defiantly hear. “Bossy.”
“That’s not being bossy, it’s-“ You cut yourself off, leaning down to re-read the file in front of you. “Shit.”
“It is shit,” Dean complains, and you can hear the pout in his voice as you grab the next file in your stack, rushing through the report to find what you’re looking for. “You’re lucky I-“
“No, that’s not-” you look up at him, your brain moving too fast to fully linger on why you might be lucky. “Give me your file.”
Dean frowns, but slides the paper over the desk. “What-“
You raise your hand, scanning over the file and grinning as you find what you’re looking for. “I’ve got it.” 
“Got what-“
“That blood wasn’t only the vics. It was their’s, plus,” you turn the page for Dean to read, pointing to the words. “All the previous vics. Mixed together. That’s why there’s been more and more every time.”
“Oh.” Dean leans forward, scanning over the page. “Kinda like a really gross blood cocktail?”
“Exactly.” You grin at him. “I know what we’re looking for.”
He looks back up at you, raising his brows. “You gonna tell me, or-“
“It’s a moroi.” You drop the files, leaning back and pushing your feet back up on the desk. “It explains the messiness perfectly.”
“No,” Dean shakes his head. “My dad says it’s just a normal ghost with a weird thing for blood-“
“Your dad is wrong. It’s a moroi.”
Dean’s eyes narrow. “My dad’s never wrong. And he’s more experienced than both of us combined, he’d know if it was a moray-“
“Mo-roi-“
“And look,” Dean leans across the desk, pointing to the files. “All of them had the same blood type. That’s what Dad said to look for.”
“They have the same blood type because it’s a moroi.” You hold his gaze, because every single part of you might want this man in a way you can’t possibly begin to understand, but you’re also fucking right. “They’re Romanian vampire babies.’
“Vampire babies-“
“Evil infant spirits that didn’t get baptized. They’re really rare, but this-“ You tap the files with a smug grin. “Is their exact MO. Specific blood type that they’ve probably got a taste for, mixing it with their previous victims, incredibly sloppy.”
“Because they’re babies.” Dean mutters, frowning into the air. “And babies, uh, don’t know how to clean.”
You nod. “Because babies don’t know how to clean.”
“And you’re sure?” Dean looks down to the files, his tone cautious. “I mean, you said they’re kinda rare-“
“They are.” You shrug. “And that’s why I’m sure.”
Rare things are your specialty. Things that even the most experienced hunters don’t understand, that were hard to track and harder to kill. Things that were stranger than strange, darker than dark, worse than evil. Things that wouldn’t hurt you, and you’ve taught yourself every way kill. It’s why you’d taken this case in the first place.  It’s why you’re fucking right.
“You, uh,” Dean’s words are slow, like he’s picking them carefully. “You know how to kill these things?”
“Yep.”
“You wanna come with me? To explain it to Dad and Sammy?”
“I, um-“ You start to pick at the skin around your nails, your skin suddenly itching and a weight forming in your lungs. “I mean, I can just tell you how, and you can deal with it, and I can go-“
“Go?” Dean frowns, his brow drawn. “Where are you going?”
“Out of town.” You keep your voice strong and even, because no matter how much the White inside you seems to be trying to move into Dean—no matter how much you’d really like to stay in this office and talk to him for a million years—you have to go. You cannot meet John Winchester. “If your Dad’s as good as you say-“
“He is-“
“Then you’ll be able to handle this. You don’t need me.”
“Well,” Dean leans over the desk, his voice dropping to a charming drawl. “If I ask you nicely, will you consider staying? Giving us a hand?”
You hold his gaze, unable to find enough willpower to shut him down immediately. “How nicely?” 
“Please,” Dean says your name, giving you a taunting, boyish grin, and the White inside you ignites. You’ve heard your name said a million ways, but never like that. Never in Dean’s voice, never like it’s some sort of curse and prayer all at once, never like it’s bigger than just a name. “Please stay in town and help me out. Please explain this moroi shit to my dad, and help us kill the son of a bitch. I’ll buy you a beer, and be in your debt for a million freakin’ years. Please.”
He’s already got you. If the way he said your name didn’t make you fold, the shit-eating smirk on his face and gleam in his eyes that tells you exactly how he plans to repay that debt made you cave. 
“I don’t drink.” You mumble, your face heated and eyes a little wide. “But I’ll take two million years and a promise that you’ll listen to me.”
Dean chuckles. “Awesome.” He grins, his eyes never leaving yours as he stands. “Let’s get outta here, I’ll drive you to our motel.”
That’s where you manage to draw a line. You’ll bow to Dean’s charming words and handsome face, you’ll follow him out of the office and into the parking lot, and you’ll agree to come meet John and Sam Winchester—no matter how stupid and deadly an idea it will certainly prove to be—but you’ll drive yourself. You didn’t steal that Lexus not to drive it, and when things inevitably go sideways, you’ll need a car to escape in. 
“You sure?” Dean walks you to the Lexus, standing right at your side and watching you in a way the White seems to feel. “I mean, it’s not a problem-“
“I’m sure.” You grab your keys out of your pocket, stopping in front of the car. “All my shit is in here, and I can just follow you. It’ll be fine.”
“Well, how am I gonna know you won’t just drive off?” Dean doesn’t budge, barely sparing your car a glance. “Leave me to deal with the vampire babies alone?”
You give him a flat. “I won’t just drive off, Winchester-“
“You might.” He shrugs. “I don’t know you that well, you could be playing me-“
“I’m not- Fine.” You roll your eyes, shoving your badge into his hands. “You can hold onto that, and I’ll have to follow you to get it back. Happy?”
“Very.” Dean winks at you, flipping your badge open to read. “Agent Smith- Who’s Smith?”
“Nobody. Smith is the most common last name in United States.” You shrug, and Dean looks at you like you’re insane. “What?”
“Nothin’, I just-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low laugh. “It’s practical. Smart.”
You narrow your eyes. “But?”
“No but,” He says your name with a bright, cocky grin, and tucks your badge into his pocket. “Can I not call you smart?”
“Not when you don’t really mean it-“
“I mean it. You’re smart.” His grin grows, and it feels like it’s burning its way right into your heart. Kicking it up to a higher speed, warming it until your whole body feels lost in a misting haze. It’s so fucking weird. “Are all your badges Smith?”
“No.” You mutter, crossing your arms to try and stop your heart beating right out of your chest. “Smith is just insurance. Johnson does wildlife, Brown is a cop, and Miller’s FBI.”
“Huh,” Dean looks at you like he’s never seen anything more amusing in his life. It’s not really helpful. “Sammy’s gonna like you.”
“Sammy?”
“My brother.” Dean shrugs. “He’s smart too. Not half as pretty, but smart.”
You flush, leaning back to ground yourself against the cool metal of the car. “You don’t know me, Winchester. I might be a dumbass.”
Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Dumb people don’t know about vampire babies.”
“I’d argue vampire babies are the exact thing a dumb person would know about-“
“And I’d argue dumb people don’t say I’d argue.”
You scowl. “Touché.”
Dean laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Dumb people don’t say touché-“
“Shut up.” You kick him again, and this time his grin just becomes teasing and smug and a little fucking dizzying.
“That’s not nice, Princess-“
“I said shut up.” You mutter, turning to open your car door. “Go get in your car so we can actually do our jobs.” 
“Yes, ma’am.” Dean’s still grinning at you, his eyes widening as they finally flick to the Lexus. “Holy shit, you drive this?”
“Yeah.” You shrug, dropping into your seat and pointing across the lot to his car. “Go.”
Dean raises his hands in surrender. “Bossy.”
You glare at him. “Winchester-“
He gives you one last wink you feel deep in your core, closes your door, and walks away without another word. But—right after he climbs into the driver seat—he pulls out your badge, holds it up to the window, and mouths Follow me, or this is mine.
You roll your eyes, flip him off, and watch him laugh as he pulls out of the lot. And you could leave. Badges are easy to make, you’re not emotional attached to Agent Smith, and this is your last chance to keep yourself away from John Winchester. To listen to your every instinct, to your dad’s stern voice in your head, and run. It would be so fucking easy to run. To turn around and never look back, never allow yourself to indulge Dean Winchester further than one conversation.
But you don’t want to run. You want to follow this odd pull to him, follow him to the motel, follow him wherever else he seems to be going. Which is fucking insane, because you don’t know him, he doesn’t know you, and he’s almost certainly better off without you. Most people are. Hell, you’d be better off without you, if you could figure out how to do that.
And you know all that. But you still don’t want to run.
So you follow Dean out of the parking lot, through the winding backstreets of the town, and to a backwater motel. You park your car right next to his, close your eyes to take a long, steadying breath, and try to rationalize to yourself how this could possibly end up not blowing up in your face. You’ll keep a hold on yourself. John won’t know who you are, or what you are, or who you know, or what you know, or-
“Shit!” You jump as something raps on your window, and hear a loud laugh from outside your car.
You’ll get through this. You always do.
“You yelped.” Dean tells you as you climb out of the car, a wide, teasing grin on his face. “Real tough of you, Princess-“
“Suck my dick, Winchester.” You glare at him, and his grin only grows wider. “And stop calling me princess.”
“Nah,” Dean places his hand on your back, steering you towards the motel. “Suits you too well.”
“I don’t know what that means-“
“You don’t have to.” He smirks at you, and it does something impossible good to your brain. Makes it calm. A little fuzzy, a little smooth, but so fucking calm. “C’mon, I texted Dad that I found you, he and Sammy’ll be in our room.”
Dean Winchester is dangerous. You should be scratching and clawing and fighting like a feral animal to go, to get back in your car and as far away from here—from John Winchester—as possible. But he says I found you with a proud grin and puff of his chest like he’s bragging, and all that your stupid body knows how to do is lean slightly into his chest and follow him wherever he takes you. Somewhere dark, or somewhere horrible, or somewhere gray or somewhere safe.
Or just a shabby, paint-peeling motel room, where John Winchester and a shaggy haired kid are sitting around a table, looking at you—standing awkwardly in the doorway, watching them wearily, your back straight but arms crossed in defense—like you’re the strangest thing they’ve ever seen.
“This is, um,” Dean glances at you as he says your full name, and you realize he’s more tense than he’d been before. Standing a little taller, his eyes a little more guarded, his expression impossibly neutral. “She’s the hunter I mentioned.” Dean says your name again, pointing to the table as he continues. “That’s my dad, John, and my brother, Sammy.”
“Hi.” The kid—he’s taller than you, and barely younger, but there’s something about him that still says kid—offers you a small smile. “Do you, uh, do you hunt alone?”
“Yeah,” you give Sam a smile back, trying to force your tone to be casual, your body to relax, and your eyes not to wander to where John is tall in his seat, just watching you. “He tell you that?”
You jerk your head at Dean, who frowns. “So what if I did-“
“So, you’re being a real dramatic bitch about that. You’re not my dad, Winchester, let’s calm down.” You give him a small grin, and feel something odd and bright inflate in your chest when his mouth tugs up for the first time since you’ve walked into the room.
Dean looks like he’s going to say something back, but John clears his throat, and something curls and rots in your stomach at how quickly Dean goes rigid, how fast his mouth snaps shut. 
“You got a father, girl?”
You look at John, and he looks even more tired up close, in the dim light of the motel. More threatening as well, watching you like you’re prey, or a parasite, or a disease. Like you’re going to go feral and destroy everything in the room. It would sting less if he wasn’t right. If his attention wasn’t making your skin crawl and the White in you start to twist and pound to escape your body, the darkness rushing out as everything becomes big again. If you weren’t digging your nails into your palm to stop yourself from proving him right, and if you weren’t raising your chin in a weak attempt to be a little taller than you are. 
“I do.” You hold his gaze, and wonder if he can see the darkness. If he already knows what you are, and is trying to work out how to kill you. “We’re really close, actually.”
“He know you hunt?”
“He does.” You shrug. “He’s fine with it.”
That’s a lie. Your dad hates that you hunt. You’re certain the only reason he doesn’t lock you in his panic room to keep you away from the monsters and ghosts is because he knows you’d escape, and he’d never see you again. But John doesn’t know that, and you’re a fantastic liar, so if he doesn’t believe you it’s not because you don’t sell the words, it’s because he just doesn’t trust you. Because whatever you say, he’s going to keep looking at you like he can see right into your horrible center.
John’s face twitches, and as he leans slightly forward, you’re not sure Dean’s breathing at your side. “Your old man a hunter too?”
You nod, realize this is getting a little away from you, and start to run your thumb over your palm as John narrows his eyes.
“What’s his name?”
You use your real father’s name—your biological father, who you’ll never see again if you can help it—and it stings on your tongue. You hate that you have to say it. You hate that you have to repeat it, adding your real last name, but it works. John grunts, and looks away.
“Dean.”
“Yes, sir?”
“How old is she?”
“I, uh-“ Dean looks at you with wide eyes. “How old are you?”
You raise your brows. “How old do you think I am?”
“Twenty…” Dean scratches his head slightly, looking a little afraid. It would be adorable if this wasn’t such an oddly volatile situation. “Twenty-teen?”
“Twenty-teen?”
“I dunno, I mean you gotta be old than Sammy, and you sound like you’re old, but-“
“I sound like I’m old?”
“Just cause of the words you use! You look like you can’t be old than me, but I don’t know-“
“Jesus Christ, dude.” You take pity on Dean—who looks like he’s about to have a panic attack—and pat his shoulder as you speak. “I’m eighteen. And,” you look back to John, cooling your voice and narrowing your eyes. “I can speak for myself.”
John doesn’t waver. You can’t really imagine a world where he would. “I don’t doubt that, girl. But I ain’t lookin’ for help on this case, and you’re barely votin’ age-“
“I’m aware of my age.” You interrupt, crossing your arms over your chest. “But I’ve also been hunting, alone, since I was fifteen, and this,” you gesture through the air, holding John’s cold gaze. “Is my type of case. So you need my help.”
John scoffs. “It’s a ghost, sweetheart, me and my boys will be fine without you-“
“She says it’s not a ghost.” Dean mumbles, paling as John’s gaze shoots to him. “It’s, uh, a moroi?”
You hum in agreement, offering Dean a small grin that John doesn’t seem to miss.  
Sam raises his hand at the table, his expression open and curious. “What’s a moroi?”
“Romanian vampire baby.” Dean says, shooting Sam the first real, full grin you’ve seen on his face since you entered the motel room. “They never got a chance to learn who Mr. Clean is, which is why there’s been so much freakin’ blood everywhere. Right?”
Dean looks at you with a hopeful, bright expression, and it makes the White glow and sing as you nod.
“It’s a ghost.” John grunts, and when you look back to the table, he’s glaring at you. “We got freezin’ temperatures, EMF, and no break ins-“
“Because they’re death monsters. And they can shape-shift, into a guy, or a bug, or a cat.” You shrug. “Wouldn’t be that hard to get into a house.”
John scowls. “And you’d bet all our lives on this-“
“Yes.” You say, the words simple. You’re good at your fucking job, and there’s no doubt in your mind. “It is a moroi. I’ve hunted them before.”
“You have?” Sam’s eyes widen, his tone filled with something that might be admiration. “That’s so-“
John cuts Sam off with a raised hand, his attention never wavering from you. “Well,” he drawls your name, and it’s mocking and cruel and awful. The opposite of how Dean says it, in a way you hope to never hear again. “If you’re such an expert, how the hell do we kill the asshole.”
“Easy.” You shrug, as if there’s not something wired and painful in your muscles that’s trying to force you to run, run, run, far away from John Winchester and his cold voice. “You stab it in the heart with a nail.”
“With a nail.” John repeats, his voice flat, and you scowl. 
“Well, that, or,” you stand a little taller, making your voice cool and bored. “We throw a Romanian funeral for it, and find a living relative to walk around its grave three times with a candle.”
Dean makes a choked sound from off to the side, and when you look, he’s staring at you like you’d fallen from space again. John doesn’t look half as awestruck. He mostly looks pissed.
“This ain’t the time for jokes-“
“That’s not a joke.” You snap. “There are multiple ways to kill something, and that’s one of the ways you can deal with a moroi. It’s that, the nail, or burning resin on a Tuesday, then a Saturday.”
John laughs, no amusement or joy in the sound. “You might think your smart, kid, but how about I see a plan. Stabbin’ something in the heart ain’t gonna be easy, and hell, girl, you said they shape shift. How the fuck are you thinkin’ we find them-“
“There will be blood in its nails and eyes.” You hold your ground, but your palm grows red as you break skin. “And there is a pattern to the tarbets, we’ve just all been looking in the wrong place.”
“A pattern?” Sam’s eyes are still wide, his voice a little eager. “But none of the vics have been the same age, gender, ethnicity, occupation-“
“Have they all been parents? Lived near graveyards?”
All three Winchesters gape at you for a second, and Dean looks at John with wide eyes.
“Shit, Dad, she’s right.” He mutters, running a hand over his face. “The one we looked at yesterday, the house had one of those baby gates-“
“And we’ve driven past a graveyard every time.” Sam adds, looking between you and John with a nervous expression. “So, uh, it could be-“
“I know what it could be, Sam.” John grunts, his glare fully focused on Dean. “You willing to bet on her, son?” 
Dean looks at you, and he shouldn’t be—you’re a stranger, you’re a liar, you’re a monster that’s attracted to him like a magnet—but he nods. He stares at you like he doesn’t really understand what’s going on either, like he’s looking for a reason to not trust you and side with his father, but can’t find one. And—right before he looks back to his father—you see a flash in his eyes that makes you think he feels it. That whatever the fuck is happening to you, it’s happening to Dean too, and he’s just as helpless as you are to fight it.
“I am, sir.” He says, hands flexing at his side. “Sammy and I can do door duty, figure out who’s next on this things hit list-“
Sam frowns. “I don’t wanna do door duty-“
“Blame Dean,” John shrugs, giving Dean a curt nod. “Take my car and be back in two hours-“
You raise your hand, and John cuts himself off with a glower.
“What.”
“They don’t need to do door duty,” you say, your fingers running over your palm. “The moroi will only target parents of infants, so you can look for baby seats in cars. And it’ll all be near same cemetery. Five miles radius.” You catch Dean raising his brows at you, and shrug. “They don’t like to stray far from home.”
“And by home,” Sam jumps in, words slow as he connects the dots. “You’re talking about their grave.”
“Or their coffin.” You offer him a close-lipped smile. “But yeah. It’s already dusk, our best bet would be splitting up and patrolling a few streets until we see the thing. It’ll probably be in its regular form, at least until it spots a house.”
Dean frowns at you. “What’s that gonna look like?”
You wrinkle your nose. “Hairy. Bloody and hairy. It’ll be gross, you’ll see it.”
“And how,” John grunts. “Are you thinkin’ we split up.”
“We’ve got two cars.” You shrug. “Three if you have a second one-“
“We don’t.” John snaps. “And I took a fuckin’ taxi back here, ain’t no way I’m not driving my car, or lettin’ a little girl go off to hunt this on her own-“
“How honorable,” you mutter under your breath—careful to make sure Dean doesn’t hear you—and raise your voice back to a bored, flat tone.  “Then you’ll take your car, and I’ll take one of them,” you nod between Sam and Dean. “So we’re off in pairs.”
“Dad, I could go with her.” Dean takes a small step forward, his tone slightly nervous. “I mean, it would be safer for you to take Sammy. And you know I’d be careful.“
John grunts, jaw ticking, and you can see he’s considering it. That, somehow, you’ve convinced him to go with this, and he hasn’t put a bullet in your brain. There’s a frantic, wired part of you along your skin that’s certain he’s just waiting for an excuse, but for now you’ll take it. You’ll take Dean volunteering to go with you, John not killing you, and everyone winning when you’re right, because you will be. You’re not good for much, but you’re good for this. 
“I want you to drive.” John tells Dean, and you’ll allow it. If it keeps Dean near you—as you so confusingly and desperately crave—you’ll let him drive your stupid, fancy car. Fuck, you’ll let him run it into a ditch if he wants, as long as you’re there with him, and what the fuck is happening to you- 
Dean says your name, and you blink at him as he continues. “I, uh, if you’re good with it-“
“Sure, I don’t give a fuck.” You toss Dean your keys, and he frowns. “I mean, try not to total it, or do donuts-“
Dean gasps, his face full of mock offense that pulls a smile onto your face. “Do I look like a hooligan to you-“
You raise your brows. “Did you just say hooligan?”
“Yeah,” he grins at you, and nothing else seems that real. “It’s a fun word, don’t bash it-“
“I am not bashing it-“
“Kinda sounds like you’re bashin’ it-“
“Well, it kinda sounds like you’re going to try and do donuts in my car-“
“Princess, I would never-“
“Winchester, I don’t believe you-“
John coughs, loudly, and you and Dean fall silent. That keeps happening. You talk to Dean, and everything fades until you’re just smiling like an idiot and watching him like he’s the sun, and you’re just existing in his orbit. And he does the same thing. Dean’s face is red, and he’s staring at the floor as John glowers at him, but you keep catching his eyes darting to you, a small furrow on his brow that you wish you could ask him about. You wish you could ask him a million things. About his life, about his likes and dislikes, why his whole family hunts and what he thinks of your dad—the one he’d know, the one that’s going to murder you when he finds out what you’re doing right now—and if he can feel this too. He must. It’s like a drug, and it’s flashing and loud in the White, and making the darkness blur into something you think would be better. Into something you wouldn’t hate, molding with something that feels foreign but right, strange but just as powerful and certain as gravity. Something secret, that you think you should be fighting but can’t bring yourself to raise a weapon against. 
Something bigger than you. Bigger than him. Bigger than the White inside your chest and the darkness that’s pushed down, down, down as you force yourself to stay in place, and not either grab Dean’s face and scream—shout at him in a begging question of do you feel this, or am I going fucking insane—or run. Flee as John Winchester gives you one last look like he’s imaging your blood on the floor, and you climb into the passenger’s seat of the Lexus.
But you manage to keep it together, and you’ll have to settle for this. For talking to Dean as you patrol up and down a darkened suburban street with white-picket fences, your knees up on the dash and your fingers growing bloody as you pick at them to keep the darkness down. 
“So, uh,” Dean taps his hands on the wheel, staring out at the road. “Hunting.“
You blink at him, raising your brows. “What?”
“I just, mean how’d you end up doing it? You’re young-“
“You’re literally only three years old than me-“
“But I got Dad and Sammy.” He scowls. “You’re alone.”
“Yeah, we’ve establish that.” You cross your arms, curling slightly into your seat. “I’m really good at my job, Winchester, I’m not that worried.”
Dean chuckles, glancing at your half-pout with an amused expression. “Still Winchester? When am I gonna get the honor of her majesty using my first name?”
You glare at him, and it just makes his grin wider. “Shut up.”
He clicks his tongue. “Bossy.”
And he’s so confusingly adorable and handsome—in the soft, shimmering light of the streetlamps and fog—that you speak without even thinking. “You have to earn first names, Deano.”
He freezes for a second, and his grin becomes his whole face. Wide and charming, sweeping you off your feet and knocking the breath from your lungs without even touching you. 
“So,” he drawls, still smirking like an idiot. “Nicknames you’ll pass out like party favors, but I need to work to just be Dean.”
“Seems that way, doesn’t it?”
“Well, can I at least shoot down Deano?”
“Maybe,” you hum. “On what grounds?”
“I dunno,” he shrugs, eyes flashing in the low light. “It kinda makes me sound like a birthday clown?”
You giggle. A small, soft giggle that he pulls out of you with barely any effort, that you want to hate but can’t figure out how to. “Maybe you are a clown-“
“Birthday clown.” He corrects, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Don’t drop the birthday part, that means I’ve got a job. And I can’t be a clown, Sammy’ll never speak to me again.” Dean glances at you, his voice dropping slightly. “He freakin’ hates clowns. Might shoot me before I explain that a pretty lady turned me into one against my will.”
You raise your brows, trying to push down the flush on your face from pretty lady. How he’d said the words like they were teasing, but still so serious, and looked at you with a small smirk when they had his intended effect. You can barely remember how to clear your throat and use words, let alone tease and spar with him when the White is blinding in your body.
“Unfortunately,” you manage to speak, nudging his shoulder with your own. “All sales are final. You’re Deano now.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but his grin doesn’t falter for a second. “Until I earn Dean, though, right?”
“If you earn Dean.”
He hums, shooting you another, oddly heated glance. “And what do I need to do for that?”
You only shrug, running your fingers over your palm to sooth the darkness. It’s starting to eat over your nerves and heart, trying reach out and touch Dean in a way you can’t allow, in a way that will end whatever this is before it begins. Dean only gives you a strange look, his smile still wide on his face.
“Well,” Dean says your whole name, over-pronouncing each syllable. “Am I allowed to return the favor?”
“What favor.”
“Callin’ you a nickname.” He winks at you, and it settles—warm and soft and strong—in your core. “It’s only fair.”
You shake your head. “No. I don’t even have a nickname.”
“Bet I could fix that.”
“Would be a losing bet. I wouldn’t take it.”
“Whatever you say, Princess.”
And just like that, you’ve lost. You’d seen it coming, too. It was too easy a solution for him to have, to easy a path to allow him to take, too easy to let the small part of you—that had wanted to hear him call you Princess again, because it soothed something that was always feral inside of you and blurred the darkness into the White until nothing hurt inside you—allow Dean to coax you where he’d clearly wanted you, and follow with a smile on your face. But all of this was too easy. Talking to Dean was too easy, because the conversation seems to flow and ebb without effort, and you’re almost always in danger of saying too much. He seems to know how to—without any obvious intention—get you to tell him anything he asks, leaving you biting your tongue to keep down bits of the truth that could prove deadly. But he doesn’t push you to speak—which is perfect and terrifying all within itself—and when you fall into silence it’s easy too. It’s easy to control the darkness, calmed only by your thumb and long breathes, and easy to keep everything small. Just you and Dean in the soft silence of the car, just you and Dean in the whole world.
“My mom died.” Dean says suddenly, frowning out the window. “It’s why I’m hunting. And,” he adds, his voice growing a little firmer, a little more defensive. “It’s why my dad’s so careful. I know he can be tough, but we’ve only got each other, and he’s just tryin’ to-“
“I get it.” You whisper, something deep in your chest aching for him. For this pretty, impossible man who might be bigger than the whole word, and how his brow is knit in a confusing kind of hollow pain as he defends his father. Goes to arms for him without prompting, like it’s a reflex. And you really do get it, but even if you didn’t, you somehow care too much about him to force him to rage and spit fire in John’s defense. It looks like it might rip him apart, and you never really want to see him go. So you just offer him a gentle, full lipped but toothless smile, and place your hand on his arm. “And that really fucking sucks.”
He lets out a dry chuckle, and doesn’t try to move his arm away. “It does really fucking suck. Thanks.”
“My dad’s wife died.” You offer, as if that would somehow make this better, and Dean gives you an odd look.
“Dad’s wife? Not your mom?”
You swallow. You did it again. You slipped when you’re usually so fucking careful. “It’s complicated.”
“Ah.” Dean has a little furrow between his brow that you’d like to run your thumb over, but he drops it. “Are you, you gonna tell me why you hunt? If it’s not your Dad’s wife?”
You sigh, a feral instinct of survive shoving the truth just a little further down. “That’s complicated too. I mean it’s not,” you glance up at him, his eyes fixed onto the road. “It’s not like yours. I didn’t lose anyone.”
“Is it a family thing? Like, your dad brought you in?” Dean’s every word is careful, like he’s afraid he might spook you. But that’s another thing that’s too easy. Staying next to Dean and not bristling or fleeing is far too fucking easy. 
“No,” you say, watching the light and shadows shift over his face in a strange, perfect dance. “He tries to stop me from doing it all the time. Shit, he called me last night and asked me to come home.”
Dean frowns. “You-“
“Dean!” You cut him off with a hand over his mouth, and he slams the breaks with a screech. You can see his staring at you from the corner of your eye, but you barely spare him a glance, your eyes locked over his shoulder, out the window, at a shifting figure in the dark. “Look.”
He turns his head, prying your hand from his mouth as he glares out the window. “I don’t-“
“There,” you hiss, leaning a little further forward. “See the-“
“That might just be a shadow,” Dean mutters, his voice dropping to a whisper as he scans over the dark. “Or a fox-“
You turn your head, giving him a flat look. “Do foxes look like babies covered in blood?”
“No.” He grins at you. “But I’ve seen weirder shit, Princess.”
You’re suddenly aware of how close you are. How you’d leaned over the console and started to practically hang off of Dean’s body, how your faces are barely a breath apart and you can see every deep color and fleck of gold in his eyes. He really only gets prettier, and he’s so warm, and there’s molten silver in your chest trying to tangle into him. He smells like fresh grass and spice, his eyes are dilating—but maybe just from the dark—and everything seems to be slowing down as the silver looks for other places to leak out. Places that wouldn’t hurt anyone, like the mist of the night that seems to glow and the wind that seems to bend and creak the trees in your direction, and the golden streetlamps-
Dean’s eyes shoot to the road as the lights start to flicker, his body tensing against yours. “Shit. We should, uh-“
You nod, push yourself away, and try to pretend your body doesn’t grieve the loss of his touch.
John and Sam are taking too long to arrive. You’re tense and bouncing on the sidewalk as you wait, turning a sharp nail between your fingers, and Dean keeps a hand around your wrist as he frowns down the street. You think he can sense that, if he looks away for only a second, you’ll dart into the house and deal with this yourself. You could. This nail has killed three moroi before, and you’d been completely alone then. 
“Winchester.” 
Dean looks at you with a frown, and you tug your arm slightly.
“Let me go.”
“No,” he grunts, his grip tightening. “Dad said to wait.”
“He’s not my dad-“
“Doesn’t matter.” Dean mutters, his gaze moving back to the empty, dark fog. “We’re waiting.”
You scowl. “Fine. Can you let go-“
“No.”
“I swear to god, Dean Winchester-“
“If I let you go,” he snaps, his glare shooting back to you. “You’re going to run in there. So no.”
You narrow your eyes. “You don’t know me-“
He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Look me in the eyes,” he drawls your name, holding your gaze. “And say you won’t run.”
It should be an easy lie, but it gets caught in your throat and you can only gape at him. Dean raises his brows as you continue to stare, and the White inside you starts to thrash as you clear your throat, forcing the words out.
“I’d handle it.”
He scoffs. “There is no way you’re gonna be able to handle it alone-“
“So, come with me,” You hiss, leaning forward until your face is only an inch from his. “And I won’t be alone.”
You don’t know why it breaks him. But something flashes in his eyes, he groans—running his free hand over his face and giving you a look of disbelief—and he caves. 
And from there it’s mostly a blur. It’s always a blur. The darkness inside of you latches onto something primal, and it’s all only a blur. 
Usually it’s all but a blackout. Like something overtakes you and you become just as monstrous as what you’re hunting, your brain only holding onto what you’ll need in order to survive next time, and a sticky smell of blood to haunt your sleep. But Dean’s here now, and things come into focus. Time is still a rush, and you’re still moving on pure instinct, but you remember Dean’s body being pressed to yours as you crept through the suburban house. You remember to set look on his face as you swept the rooms, figuring out what the moroi could be, where it might be hiding. You remember seeing it first, and the sound of flesh tearing as it launched at Dean—over you—and you swatted it with your arm like a baseball. 
You remember Dean shouting your name as you raced forward with the nail in your hand, and how it sounded like his chest was being ripped open. You remember finding that small patch of soft flesh on the moroi’s chest, driving the nail home, and tasting bile when it vomited blood up into your face. 
You remember Dean passing you his shirt on the curb a few blocks down, because the very ungrateful almost-victims threatened to call the cops, and you were covered in blood. He’d faced away as your changed—zipping up his own jacket and humming while he waited—and you could’ve sworn he was blushing when he turned back around.
Then John Winchester had arrived—looking at Dean like he’d just sprouted a second, hideous head and you like he was imaging how amazing you’d look in a casket—and everything grew sharp as they drove away. 
More of it comes together as you drive yourself back to the motel. Dean had dumped the body in the gutter, and you had given him your motel address. John had snapped at you to meet them tomorrow for a debrief, and told Dean that they’d talk back at the room. Sam had smiled at you, and it was a nice smile. There hadn’t seemed to be anything beneath it—just a kind smile for the woman sitting on the curb next to his shirtless brother, her hair matted in blood and fingers covered in monster hair—and you’d liked that. 
When you enter your room, it suddenly feels too small. Nothing is big enough for how strange this is, how you might need all the world and a little more to figure out what the fuck just happened. You miss Dean. You’d met him today, and you miss him more than you’ve missed anything before. You keep looking to the side to see if he’s there, when you know he won’t be. The White is bucking and keening inside of you, the darkness falling out of your body—you can feel the pain of the water as it becomes steam in the shower, and you’re almost knocked to your knees by the ache of the phone to be closer to the lamp—and you need to find out if he could meld them together again. If it had been a fluke, or an accident, or if you were simply losing your fucking mind.
You have to be. You must be going mad. It’s the only explanation for why you take a long shower and change into your own clothing, but you still smell grass and leather and spice. It’s purgatorial. You go through your whole routine—scrubbing all the blood off your body with rough sugar that bites into your skin, running your hands under white-hot water that leaves your skin raw but the darkness pushed down, tending to your hair until it frame your features easily, and you don’t look like a bruised and battered animal—but you still smell him. You toss his shirt off to the side, but he’s clinging to the sheets. You change into sleepwear, but your body can still feel a strong, warm touch. You turn your empty flask in your hands, watching light catch off the steel, and someone’s knocking on your fucking door-
Dean hisses your name through the wood, and you freeze.
“I know you’re in there!” He’s half-shouting, and the whole world feels more colorful, and what is wrong with you. “C’mon, Princess, open the door. It’s me!” He pauses, the knocking faltering. “Uh, Dean Winchester.”
He sounds a little defeated, and you can’t stop the smile on your face as you toss the flask back into your bag, cross the room, and open the door. 
Dean gives you an adorable, almost nervous grin and scans over you. Slow and deep and appreciative—taking in your sleep clothes, how your whole body is more relaxed than it had been all day—and his smile grows as his eyes find yours once more.
“You look pretty wearing normal stuff.” He leans a little on the door frame, and it’s so effortlessly and perfectly rouge-cowboy-white-knight-and-knave that he has to have practiced. “Better than that old-lady jacket you hand on before.”
You roll your eyes. “That’s my professional jacket, Winchester. What do you want?”
The words are harsher than you mean them to be, and his grin falters slightly. “I was, uh, I was wondering,” he rubs the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “I got my dad’s car. I was gonna ask if you wanted to go for a drive or something, but you’re obviously ready to turn in, so-“
“Do you want to come in?” 
You’re not sure how he’s doing this. Making you speak without thought, making your words reckless when they’re usually so carefully chosen. You have to be careful with your words, because you’ve spent years weaving a web that shows everyone everything, but not from every angle. And he’s fucking unraveling it. Dean just looks at you, and you pull at a thread so he can see whatever he wants, and you can’t understand how the fuck he’s doing it.
It must be on purpose, but he looks just as shocked as you are—gaping at you slightly, his features open and uncertain—and you don’t think it’s an act. Especially not as his voice becomes slightly hoarse, his feet restlessly shifting his weight as he speaks.
“Yeah, if you want, but I’m good to just head out if you-“
“Do you want to head out?”
Dean’s grin becomes bright once more, and the shake of his head sends a spark of lightning through your body.
“So,” you step to the side, offering him a small smile. “Come in.”
He shuffles inside, scanning over your scattered possessions and stopping at the side of the bed. 
“I can,” he looks back to you, his eyes a little wide. “I can sit on the floor, or we can go outside-“
You shake your head, moving to his side. “There are bugs outside. Sit on the bed.”
Dean glances at the mattress like the sheets might leap up and strangle him. “Floor looks good-“
“Winchester.” You point at the bed, giving him a stern glare. “Sit.”
“I am not a freakin’ dog-“
You place a hand on his chest and push him—just enough for him to get the message—and he sit on the bed with a wide happy? gesture. 
You drop at his side, watching him carefully as you try to work out what is happening. Why he’s here. If he’s looking at you like that—like you’re more than a human, but that’s hypnotizing, and he’d love to find what you actually are—because he can feel this too. 
But Dean beats you to it.
“Can I ask you something?”
You tilt your head at him, pulling your knees into your chest. “Can I ask you something?”
“Huh.” Dean hums, the smile creeping back onto his face. “How about we trade? I ask you a question, you gimme an answer, then we switch.”
You give him an amused look. “That’s just a conversation.”
“Nah, because if I ask you something and you answer, now I owe you a question. You can turn down a question, but you’ll still owe an answer.”
You frown. “What happens if you owe an answer?”
He shrugs, flopping onto his back. “Then the other person keeps asking questions.”
Dean looks so real. He’s grinning up at you, light dancing as his eyes as he obviously baits you into whatever he’s trying to do. 
And you fall for it. Despite your best judgement, you fall.
“I’m going first.” 
He chuckles, but raises his hand for you to shake. “Deal, Princess.”
The moment your hand folds into Dean’s he pulls you down, leaving your smushed slightly against him and his face only inches from yours once more. And your yelp was undignified, and he’s such an asshole—laughing and grinning as you shove his chest—and you’re smiling too. 
Because this is easy. And you have a feeling that, if this strange man—who’s too pretty, and that’s making you feel like you’ve never really been alive before this—dragged you right down to hell, you’d still be laughing and smiling at him. And that’s so fucking dangerous. And you know that, but you still can’t stop looking at him, and you can’t roll away. And you decide that, just for tonight, you’re going to indulge this. You’ll dedicate hours when he’s gone to figuring out what the fuck this is. Right now you get to laugh and smile and act like nothing in the world has ever—could ever—hurt you.
“So,” Dean says your name, and it still sounds too good. “You have a question to go first with? Or were you just bein’ bossy-“
“Shut up.” You swing your leg to kick his shin, he laughs, and it’s like music. Making you high and dizzy as you watch him, running your thumb over your palm. “I’ve got it, Winchester. You ready?”
“Born it, sweetheart,” he winks at you, and that’s dizzying too. “Hit me.”
“Why are you here?”
“I told you already, I wanted to talk to you-“
You hum, holding his gaze with a small frown. “Why?”
Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s two questions-“
“It’s a ride off of the first question-“
“Well, I still gotta ask my first question before you get a second one.” He raises his brows at you, bump your knee with his. “We shook on this, Princess, you don’t get to change it now.”
You glare at him, but you think he knows it’s fake, because his grin becomes almost blinding. “Fine. Go.”
Dean rolls onto his side, holding your gaze as he speaks. “How’d you get that car?”
You frown. “The Lexus?”
He nods, and you sigh. 
“I borrowed it.” It’s not a lie, but it’s a half-truth. It’s a half-truth that will keep him here, at your side, for a little longer than you might deserve. “For the hunt.”
“Well, it’s freakin’ awesome.” He grins at you, and your face might burst into flame. “Your move.”
“Why are you really here?”
Dean lets out a dry chuckle. “Will you let it go if I say to talk again?”
“Nope. Answer me.”
“It’s, uh,” he rolls flat on his back once more, running a hand over his face. “Tomorrow’s gonna be Dad telling us about safety and Sammy asking you a bunch of questions.” He shoots you a small, amused grin. “I think he’s been writing them down. He’s into all that geek-shit too-“
“I am not a geek-“
“Yeah, you are.” He shrugs. “Don’t worry, I think it’s adorable. But Sammy thinks you’re the coolest person we’ve ever met. So after Dad finishes, he’ll try to use you like a freakin’ library, and I just figured I’m the one who found you, so I should get a night of you all to myself.”
You gape at him for a second, and you’ve defiantly burst into flames. He wants you all himself, and he thinks you’re adorable, and he doesn’t know you, but he doesn’t seem like the type to say all that just to get in your pants, and if he was, he’d be there already. He’d just have to roll on top of you, but he’s only looking at you like you’re something sacred instead of a disease or trophy. 
He must feel this too. He has too. And you want to ask him, but you don’t know how, because you don’t even know what this is. It’s magnetic and infinite and bigger than anything, forging something you don’t know how to name between where the White and darkness live in your body. And Dean might not even have the White and darkness. Nobody else does—that’s something that’s wrong with only you—so if you phrase it like that he’ll think you’re insane-
“My turn.” Dean says, and you’re dragged back down to earth, grounded in his smooth voice. “What’s up with your hand?”
You blink at him. “What?”
“That one.” he reaches over, tapping the back your hand. “You’ve been touching it all day, and I kinda, uh,” he gives you an apologetic look. “I saw the scar. If you wanna pass on this one, I’ll drop it, but-“
“No, it’s,” you take a long breath, because this would be an easy one to refuse to answer, but his fingers are lingering on your knuckles and setting off little sparks over your skin, and you want to tell him. It takes a moment of just staring at him to you find the words, and his eyes never leave yours, and everything about him seems to drug you into a loose-lipped, trusting ease. “I’ve have it since I was really young. There was, um, an incident.”
Dean still doesn’t look away, his voice slightly lower. “Hunting incident, or-“
“No.” You swallow, turning your hand for him to see the long, clean scar on your palm. Running through it in a neat, raised line. “Just an incident.”
He looks like he’s going to say something. Not push, but say something, and you blurt out your next question before he can get the chance. It’s not what you wanted to ask—you hadn’t offered yourself enough time to find the right words for something really fucking weird is happening to me, and I need to know if it’s happening to you too—but it’s dragged out of you in desperation to learn a little more about him. In a plea for him to only know that you’re marred where he can see, and never discover that you’re twisted where he can’t.
“What’s it like?” You watch him carefully, your fingers starting to trace over the scar. “Hunting with your family?”
“It’s fine.” He shrugs. “I mean, Dad’s a freakin’ genius at it, and it’s awesome to watch him work. Plus I get to keep an eye on Sammy like this. Know he’s safe.” He frowns. “I mean, it’s better than sending him off alone. Letting him be in danger.”
You hum, scanning over the wrinkle in his brow, your thumb starts to itch to press on it, sooth his whole face into a relaxed smile. “You guys are close?”
Dean nods eagerly. “Yeah, I mean, He’s a freakin’ loser, but he’s all I got. He’s a weird little geek-“
You laugh. “He’s taller than you are, De. I wouldn’t call that little.”
“He’s little in spirit-“ Dean cuts himself off, and his grin looks almost manic. “Did you just call me De?”
“No.” You hold his gaze, even as your face warms. “Shut up.”
“I heard you, Princess, you can’t lie to me-“
“Well, is that your question?” You grin at him, your body leaning a little further without you moving it, and Dean eyes flash.
“You gonna tell me the truth if it is?”
You nod, and he smirks.
“Then yeah, it was.”
“Okay. I did call you De.” Before he can gloat, you push on. “Why do you call me Princess?”
“I told you already, it suits you-“
You narrow your eyes. “Try again, Winchester. Real answer this time.”
He sighs, shaking his head at the ceiling. “You just,” Dean waves his hand through the air. “You’ve got a thing going. You don’t look like a hunter.”
“What’s that supposed to mean-“ 
“It means,” He gives you a strange look you can feel flash through your blood, melding the White back into the darkness, turning every simple and bright as he continues. “That if you asked me what I thought you were, I’d have said something fancy.”
You open your mouth, but he’s not done, and he won’t look away from you.
“I dunno, you just seem too pretty to be down here in the mud with us. You should eating caviar and wearing those poofy dresses-“
You snort. “Poofy dresses?”
“Yeah, like in movies, when they dance around like douchebags-“
“So you’re saying I seem like a douchebag-“
“No, I’m saying you should be somewhere that’s not here.” Dean’s attention is washing over you like a rising tide—slow and natural and deep—and you still can’t read that expression on his handsome face. “The mud.”
He’s so close. And if he thinks you’re pretty, he’s a work of art. You’ve never see someone look like him. Like he was created, and not born. Every freckle on his face is more like a star than a flaw, and there a slight crook to his nose that tells you he’s been punched there before, but it only makes you want to run your finger over the bump and see if his pretty eyes flutter or flash. His lips are chapped but they’d still be soft. His hands look rough, but that just means he uses them.
You think it would be nice to let him use you.
“I like it in the mud,” you whisper, daring to inch a little closer, until you’re sharing a breath. “It feels real. And,” you grin at him, everything blurring around you but pretty green eyes and shining silver in your chest. “I’ve got good company down here.”
There it is. The flash in his eyes as they darken slightly, a warm breath fanning over your face, and he looks golden. In the warm light of the lamp, glowing soft on his tan skin, Dean looks like something more than human. You feel like something more than human, and for the first time in your life, that’s not a curse. And he’s still so fucking close, and this is a terrible idea, but you can’t bring yourself to move away.
You should. He’s John Winchester’s son, and you’re not sure how you forgot that. It’s past midnight, and you have a feeling he wasn’t supposed to be here at all, and this is the worst idea you’ve ever had. 
But you still can’t move.
“You should, um,” you swallow, and your lips might have brushed over his. “You should get back. It’s late, and your dad-“ 
“Shit,” Dean mutters, but still doesn’t try to move away. “Yeah.” 
Your eyes dart down to his lips—full and pink, just a small movement away from yours—and you decide you don’t care what’s happening to you. This is—Dean is—too good to care. You don’t need to know why this is happening, or what it means, or if you should be trying to run from it. You just need Dean. You think that—if the world ended and time began to move slowly—you might plant roots in the motel floor and grow into Dean until the world flooded and you were both washed away. 
“I have one last question,” he mutters, breath ghosting over your lips. “If I leave you my number, will you use it?”
You nod without thinking, he grins, and you’re so fucked. You can’t kiss him. You might fall from a million feet if you kiss him. Down, down, down, clinging to him as you both try to find an end to whatever this is and likely fail to. But Dean sits up slowly—like the movement is painful—and when he helps you to your feet you think you might ascend from just his hand in yours. Touching him feels like it’s making you pure and worthy of something, and you have to know what kissing him will do.
Not on the lips. You still have enough of your willpower and caution to not crash all the way down, at least not right now. But you kiss his cheek, and that’s tragedy enough. It snaps something into place inside you, soft stubble and warm skin too much for your entire existence to handle. It’s all too much to handle, and if he hadn’t mumbled a low promise of seeing you tomorrow and left when he did, you would’ve jumped on him to chase whatever this feeling is. How it’s the only thing you’ve ever felt that might belong inside you, and the only easy thing that the darkness has ever bended for.
And when you sleep, that’s easy too. It’s dreamless and deep, no nightmares, no waking up in a cold sweat, no darkness wrapping around you and leaving the sheets only ash when you wake up.
But when you do wake up, something is wrong. You feel it first, gnawing at your nails and blood. And when you roll over to check the time, your phone is gone. 
It had been on the bedside table, a scrap of paper with Dean’s number under it, and it’s gone.
The paper is gone too.
You shoot out of bed, and Dean’s shirt is still in the corner, because he’d told you to give it to him in the morning, to trade it for your Agent Smith badge. But your phone is gone.Your window is open—cool breeze rushing through the room—and your phone is fucking gone.
You’d been smart to pack the night before. You’d been smart to keep your keys in your jacket, and park right outside your room. You can shove everything in the passenger’s seat and screech out of the motel lot in a second. You don’t know why, but you’re heading to Dean first. Something is wrong, and you don’t know what, but the White is trying to strangle your heart and the darkness is already eating up your spine and over your skull.
John Winchester’s sleek, black muscle car—Dean told you it was an Impala, and he’d said it with a pride in his voice that had dragged a smile onto your face—isn’t parked in the lot. And when you knock on the door nobody answers. All the lights in the room are off, there’s no shadows moving through the window, and the door is locked.
You move to the front desk and ask if the men in that room had checked out. And when the clerk gives you a weary look and says that they’d paid for another two nights, but dropped the keys off that morning, your gut twists. 
They were gone. Dean was gone. And something fragile and new shattered inside you, leaving small pieces lodged through your whole body. You stumble back to your car, the darkness moving out of your body and the whole world too fucking big, and you don’t know what’s wrong with you. You’d known him a day. He’d known you a day. Nothing was owed, but you can still feel it. How the White seems to be howling from the loss of him, and the darkness can’t stop growing as it sinks in. 
He left. You don’t know why, but Dean left. He’d probably taken your phone, taken his number, and just fucking left you. Maybe he’d seen you last night, really seen you, and realized what you were. Maybe he’d just been playing you the whole time for some sort of scam. Maybe you hadn’t kissed him, and he’d decided you weren’t worth the chase. And that would mean you had been going crazy, and he hadn’t felt anything at all.
The thought lets the darkness move over you, and you can feel everything everywhere. The electricity in the wires over your head, the wear of painted lines in the parking lot, the hope of the grass peeking through the concrete under your feet. 
The grass that smells like Dean.
It breaks through you before you can stop it. Reaching past your body and down into the pavement, cracking it open with all the force of how much this hurts. How it shouldn’t hurt, it doesn’t make any sense that it hurts, but you’re still breaking and bowing and bending to the way you feel like you’ve been fucking shot. You fall down to the curb, curling into yourself as the ground shakes under your feet, and the wind picks up until—in the forest across the parking lot—a branch falls to the ground.
Then a second one. 
You manage to bring your hand to your mouth, to bite down hard and force all the darkness back into your body, and you still don’t know what to do. 
This hurts so much, and you’re alone in the middle of nowhere, and Dean’s gone.
You still have your burner phone. Your dad makes you keep it in your jacket, just in case something happens, and it only has his number. You dial him with shaking hands, the darkness still trying to climb back out of you, take a deep breath as you raise it to your ear.
He picks up on the second ring.
“Hey,” He says your name, his voice already edged with worry. “I didn’t think I’d be hearin’ from you until after that blood hunt thing-“
“Hunt’s over.” You mumble, staring at the cracked pavement. “Got it last night.”
“Was it a vamp like I told ya’-“
“Moroi.”
“I’d call that vamp enough. Good work, kiddo, Rufus owes us a dinner-“
“Bobby?”
Your voice is soft, and he hears it. Bobby always hears it. 
“What happened,” he says your name, and you can hear the frown in his voice. It makes everything worse, because you can’t tell him. Not now, maybe not ever if you can avoid it. You can’t handle how he’ll help you fix this and let you rest, then spend a week lecturing you and telling you everything you already know. Because you really do know. You fucked up, and you know that.
But Bobby doesn’t have to.
“Nothing, I just-“ you swallow, your nails digging into your calf. “Can I come home?”
There’s a long moment of static through the phone, and when Bobby speaks again his voice is low. “You can always come home,” he says your name, and you choke on the clean air around you. “But you get a week of mopin’ before we’re grabbin’ that dinner from Rufus. Alright?”
You nod, even though he can’t see it. “I’ll be there by tomorrow.”
“Should be two days, if you drive carefully like you’re supposed to.” Bobby grunts. “And ditch that fancy car you’ve been usin’, I don’t need the cops askin’ questions about it.”
You feel a smile tug at your lips. “You never let me have anything nice, Bobby-“
“You never let me have goddamn peace, kid.” Bobby snaps, and your smile grows. “Your bed will be ready for you. And I better not see that bells and whistles hunk of shit in my yard-“
“Aye, aye captain. No fancy cars.” You make a mock salute he can’t see, and Bobby huffs.
“Stolen fancy cars.” He grumbles. “Stop bein’ a smartass and get on the road.”
When the call ends, your smile feels real. The strange, fractured feeling in the White is still there, and the darkness might be trying to fly out of you, but you’re better than before. You’ll go home, Bobby will never know what happened, and none of this will last. You’ll be fine. Dean Winchester might haunt you like a phantom or cancer for the rest of your fucking life—or at least until you figure out what he did to you, and how to fix it—but you’ll get through this. 
You always do.
—————————
Dean’s grip was tight on Her phone. It was just a fucking block of metal—it would be useless when they tossed it off a bridge in a few miles—but he couldn’t let go of it. It felt wrong to let go of it. 
He’d be letting go of Her.
He hadn’t wanted to take it, but Dad said he needed to—Don’t want to let an angry woman have a line to you, son. Especially not a crazy one—and Dad knew what he was talking about, so Dean had done it. He’d snuck back into Her room through the window, grabbed Her phone and the paper with his number, and felt like the lowest piece of trash in the goddamn garbage can. The maggot-ridden chunk of food that nobody had wanted, but was still figuring out a way to fuck everything else up in twisted retribution. 
Because there was guilt eating at Dean’s stomach. He shouldn’t have taken Her phone, not when She wasn’t that much older than Sammy. Not when She’d said her dad would be waiting for her to call, and Dean might have stolen Her only line to safety just because-
Because She’d been using him. And he’d been falling for it. She’d given him that smile like he’d fallen out of the sun and into Her hands, She’d crafted some sort of perfect mask that had felt so real—felt like this strange, mouthy, clever woman had just appeared to him, and he could’ve had something nice for once in his goddamn life—and moved Dean like a fucking pawn. 
Dad had been waiting for him when he got back, and whatever weird spell She’d put Dean under—making him feel a little drunk on nothing, making him act like a fucking idiot—had been ripped away under his glare. 
But Dean hadn’t gotten yelled at. He’d just been sat down—Dad’s gaze filled with disappointment that Dean’s bones didn’t know how to handle—and had papers pushed across the table in his direction. 
“What are these?” He’d asked, and Dad had sighed, because Dean was too much of an idiot to just know, and Dad knew it. 
“Read them.” Dad had grumbled, watching Dean through narrowed eyes. “And tell me if you want to see that girl again.”
He’d frowned but scanned over the papers. Printed out website pages about… Her. Her family. How She was missing, how She’d stolen from them, and how they were rich. Normal, alive, and rich, looking for Her and whatever she’d taken. Warning that She was crazy, a chronic liar, and should be turned over to the police if seen. There was no picture, but there was a description that matched Her perfectly, right down to a scar on her palm.
“Dad.” He’d looked up with wide eyes, something strange bucking around inside of him, insisting that this was a lie. Dean didn’t know Her—they’d had three conversations for fuck’s sake—but this didn’t seem like Her. None of this seemed like the clever, beautiful, almost ethereal woman he’d been lying on the bed with. Dean didn’t know howor why, but this couldn’t be the truth. “I don’t-“
“She’s just usin’ you, Dean.” Dad had muttered, his eyes softening just enough for Dean to know he was sorry. He might not really like Her, but he was trying to protect Dean. He always was. “Chasing a high that her daddy can’t give her, lookin’ for a way to pull somethin’ on us. Probably huntin’ just for some sort of fucked up thrill. This,” Dad tapped the papers, his face twisting in disgust. “Isn’t someone who deserves our time, and I don’t know what her game is, but I ain’t just gonna let my boy fall for it.”
Something in Dean had still been fighting. Insisting that Dad was wrong, he had to be wrong, because Dean might not really know Her but he’d throw his life down at her feet. He’d plummet to the bottom of the ocean to follow Her down, if She called him with that siren-like voice and asked him to.
And that was how he knew Dad was right. Dean had no idea who She really was, and he’d already been ready to become a sword for her to wield. So he’d nodded, asked Dad what to do, and fallen back into the line She’d forced him out of. And it wouldn’t matter that Dean had been an idiot and almost fallen for Her—Her tricks, or just Her—because Dad had saved him. He’d protected him. And it didn’t matter.
Now, as they drove—Dad’s grip tight on the wheel, Sammy sleeping in the backseat—Dean repeated it over and over. That hadn’t mattered. It had been a mistake that Dad caught, so no harm, and it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that She’d looked at Dean like she could see him, or that Her voice sounded like an angel in a dream. It didn’t matter that Her lips had felt right on his cheek, and that his annoying brain kept trying to move the ghost of Her touch to his own mouth. It didn’t matter that he could still smell the sugar and fruit that had invaded his every sense when She’d been pressed against him. It didn’t matter that She’d fit perfectly at his side, like she was just another part of him he hadn’t known he was missing. It didn’t matter that something felt like it had been ignited in Dean’s chest. Golden and light and washing him over with a sense of calm he’d never known, making him feel like—if he had been stupid enough to fall further—the worst that could happen was She didn’t fall with him. And even that would be worth the way this feeling was like lightning over his bones, making him strong and fucking alive. 
But it didn’t matter. He’d fallen for a pretty, spoiled little bitch—his heart almost withered at that idea, still being a freaking dumbass and trying to justify why She’d done this—and he’d never even see Her again, so it didn’t matter.
And it defiantly didn’t fucking matter that he’d taken Her flask, because he was fucking pathetic. Because he’d been sneaking around her room, and the flash of silver had caught his eyes, and he’d stolen it like some sort of street urchin. He’d burn it, just to rid himself of the way She was becoming plague-like on his mind. It wasn’t like she needed a flask, anyway. She didn’t even drink.
But that might have just been another strange lie. So Dean would burn it. He wouldn’t tell Dad or Sammy that he’d taken it—they didn’t really need to know how weak and useless Dean really was—so he’d burn it and everyone would forget this had ever happened. He’d burn it, and never think of Her again.
Dean felt like he was being ripped in half for reasons he couldn’t even start to understand, but it had been nothing, and it didn’t matter.
Dean dreamt of Her when he finally drifted off. And his heart kept trying to beat him back down—back to Her—but he held strong. He could dream of Her and not go back. He’d never see Her again, and dreams weren’t real. 
None of that had been real, and Dean could dream of Her.
So he would.
End Note: I know we’re off to a rough start, and we’ve got a long road ahead of us, but just remember this. What’s about to come could’ve been entirely avoided if John Winchester wasn’t the actual worst.
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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killuabutgayer · 2 days ago
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sonadow is genuinely a really good ship that makes a lot of sense if u let go of homophobia and "cringe" and just think about it.
they match each others dynamic SO well, very protective of one another, literal two sides of the same coin w direct parallel experiences, the fruity looks they give each other, shadow being the only one able to keep up w him even in super form, sonic being a lot like maria
"it'll never be canon" idk the vas and writers seem to like it🤷‍♀️ the takeovers and sonic prime is close enough to make us happy, plus if we're strict to canon nothing would be fun.
and why is everything titled sonic x shadow LMAOO- first the game then the takeover then the jp title.. they couldve used any other name or variation but no. SONIC X SHADOW take it or leave it (they're definitely aware)
sure ig ships and romance can be cringe sometimes but its for fun yk?? every single time i see someone post or mention sonadow as a ship some homophobe always goes in to ruin the fun like "theyre JUST rivals and friends nothing more do NOT ship them they are straight it'll never be canon" even making up shit to make it "problematic" like stfu omggg... i hate plenty of ships but commenting on others posts is so unnecessary just mute/block n move on??
why are you even there anyway? esp on youtube like bro clicked on a sonadow video posted by a channel named sonadow fan and get mad when u see sonadow what were u expecting😹
not just that but sonadow specifically gets way too much hate compared to anything else. the amount of posts ive seen like "worst things in the sonic fandom: *sonic just kissing shadow* *pedophilia* *weird asf fetish* *incest*" then everyone in the comments only dogpiles sonadow like r u fucking srs rn😭😭
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arc-misadventures · 2 days ago
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Care to Share a Drink?
Jaune Arc was walking back from the training halls tired from another grueling training regime. Since becoming a, Specialist, Jaune had taken several courses to broaden his expertise; both in functioning, and technical training.
It was good to widen his expertise as a, Specialist, and he may be taking in all this new information like a sponge, but a sponge can only absorb so much in before it starts to leak out.
Now, Jaune was tired. He needed to relax, and just destress himself for all the worries that weighed him down. He was having a day off tomorrow, maybe he could...
: Hey, Jaune!
Jaune: Hmm...?
Jaune turned around to see the ever smiling, Clover Ebi approaching him.
Jaune: Oh, hey, Clover. What's up?
Clover: Just wanted to ask if you wanted to go out for a drink?
Jaune: A drink?
Clover: Yeah, there's this bar I like to go to, I thought you would enjoy some male bounding. I would have invited you sooner, but we were so busy with everything. Besides, you look like you need someplace to relax for a bit.
Jaune: Oh, is anyone joining us?
Clover: Naww... I asked everyone else; Marrow, can't hold a drink for the life of him. Vine is a tea nut. Elm, likes those fruity drinks, the bar we're going to doesn't have those. Harriet said she was busy doing some paperwork with, Winter. And, Winter... Ya know.
Jaune: I know, Clover, I know.
Jaune: Sure... I wouldn't mind having a drink with you.
Clover: Alright then, let's go!
Jaune: Do they have any good bar food there? I'm starving.
~~~
Clover: So here we are, Jaune! The Squeaky Cog! Best bar in all of, Mantle!
Jaune: I thought we would be going to a bar in, Atlas, not one in, Mantle.
Clover: Nahh, there are plenty of decent bars in, Atlas. But, this place... it has a more homely feel to it, feels more lived in then the bars in, Atlas which feel sterile.
Jaune: Ahh, a by product of the whole, Colour Wars, eh?
Clover: Yeah, pretty much. Now come on, let's get a drink!
The pair walked over to the bar, and took a seat. Jaune grabbed the menu, and gave it a quick glance, finding a item he wouldn't mind eating. The barkeeper shortly came to them, and asked if they wanted anything.
Clover: I'll have a beer, and the chili fries.
Jaune: I'll have the... fish and chips, and a scotch on the rocks.
The bartender took their orders before walking away, as he left, Jaune busied himself with a bowl of pretzels.
Clover: A scotch on the rocks? I didn't take you for the type.
Jaune: A simple beer, thought you had more taste.
Clover: I tend to have whisky after a reward for a rough day, for this a simple beer will do.
Jaune: I'd take a vodka myself if I wanted something simple. But, it's been a while since I had a drink, so I'll take a scotch.
Jaune thanked the barkeeper when he brought them their drinks. He swirled his drink watching the ice cube move about his drink. He took a sip letting out a satisfying breath of air as he did.
Jaune: That's smooth... I was told by some of the locals while I was walking about, Mantle that Mantilian Scotch is really good; That's a hell of an understatement.
Clover: Really? Maybe I should try it, and maybe you can try a beer too.
Jaune: Actual piss has more flavour in it than that piss in a bottle.
Clover laughed at, Jaune's little jab, he looked at, Jaune a serious look crossing his face.
Clover: Uhh... listen, Jaune...
Jaune: Is this where you ask me questions about my relationship with, Winter, or are we going to talk about you, and Harriet instead?
Clover stopped in his tracks, looking dumbfounded at, Jaune who just gave him an inquisitive eyebrow in return.
Jaune: Well?
Clover closed his mouth before giving, Jaune an amazed, yet scared look.
Clover: Again, you notice way too much, and it's scary how much you do.
Jaune laughed as he spun the ice cup around in his drink.
Jaune: Relax, Clover. I've been expecting you to ask me about you two since I caught you making your way to the, Ever Light Hotel~!
Clover: Hey! Keep it quiet about... the hotel!
Jaune gave another light laugh before taking another sip of his drink.
Jaune: Okay, Clover; Let's play a little game then shall we?
Clover: What kind of game?
Jaune: I ask you a question about you, and Harriet. Then you ask me a question about me, and Winter. You game.
Clover: Okay. I'm game... You first.
Jaune: Oh good, because I've been wondering for weeks now; How the hell did you two get together?
Clover: Ahh... Well... before you joined us, the Specialist, we already had six members... But, we lost one, his name was, Tortuga.
Jaune: Tortuga... I remember hearing, Harriet saying that name... She said, 'I was good, but I wasn't anything compared to, Tortuga.' Is that why, Harriet hates me? Because, I'm some sort of replacement of this, Tortuga fellow?
Clover: Kinda. Harriet, and Tortuga always had this older brother, younger sister dynamic to them. So when, Tortuga died, Harriet lost her 'big brother.' She didn't take it well...
Jaune: I can understand that. I have seven older sisters... I can barely handle the thought of losing one of them...
Clover: Well as it's my job as team leader to help my teammates. So, I talked with her, consoled her, and was just there for her when she needed it. A shoulder to cry on, a face to scream at. A friend.
Clover: Then one day, the whole team went here to relax, and have a drink, and while the rest of the team slowly went home one after another, bunch of light weights the lot of them! Harriet, and I stayed there getting absolutely waisted... Then...
Jaune: You woke up in each others arms in an uncompromising position?
Clover: Uhh... ahh.. yeah... that's pretty much it...
Jaune laughed at, Clovers face as it was flushed red from embarrassment.
Clover: There was some awkwardness between the two of us. But, we managed to work it out, and we've been dating in secret for about two months now.
Jaune: Why in secret; is there something against, Specialist dating each other?
Clover: No, there isn't any rule. We just don't want the others to know, I mean if, Elm finds out about us, we'll never hear the end of it!
The pair shared a short laugh that ended when the bartender brought them their meals. The duo thanked the bartender before they went back to their conversation.
Clover: Okay, it's my turn... How the hell did you get together with, Winter freaking Schnee? I mean... I've know, Winter for years, but she never struck me as the type who would be interested in dating anyone. Much less you.
Jaune: Rude...
Jaune nonchalantly replied while enjoying the fries on his fish, and chips. He quite liked the mixed spices they were using.
Clover: I don't mean to be rude, It's just... you seem so... so simple.
Jaune: I guess that's what she likes about me.
Clover: You guess?
Jaune: I don't know, or really understand why they like me. I was just being myself with them; honest, open, being an absolute dork... Honestly, I haven't the faintest clue how those two fell for me. I've flirted with woman before, and I was absolute trash! Like what the fuck was I thinking?!
Clover: Everyone was an idiot when it comes to flirting.
Clover commented this as he was shoveling his chili froes into his mouth.
Jaune: That was a year ago...
Clover: Pfft?!
Clover soon developed into a small coughing fit, before grabbing his beer, and chugging it down.
Clover: (Cough, cough, cough!) Serious, you went to being a loser who couldn't flirt with a girl for the life of them, to having, Winter Schnee fawning all over you?!
Jaune: Yeah, I don't understand it either...
Jaune dipped his fish into the hollandaise sauce, marveling at how nice it tasted. He also flagged down the bartender over to get, Clover another beer.
Jaune: Honestly if feel like I'm just standing there, and some hot girl looks at me like: "Haha! What's a dork!"
Jaune: "I must have him for my own."
Clover: Seriously?
Jaune: It's happened at least four times, two in the past two weeks... Okay, my turn: What's up with, Harriet?
Clover: What do you mean?
Jaune: Harriet's been looking a little queasy lately... Did any... definitions of 'lucky' happen?
Clover: Huw...?!
Clover dropped his fork in shock at the implications at, Jaune's honest question.
Clover: ...?!
Jaune: Well?
Clover: No! N-N-Nothing like that at all! She's just sick from bad fish, I swear! We had it checked! She's not pregnant!
Jaune: Then you better keep using those condoms, or birth control. I don't think you two want that to happen... Yet?
Clover: Well... I wouldn't mind it happening eventually... but, there's too much going on right now...
Jaune: Well, regardless of what happens, I wish you two the best of luck! Not from just your semblance.
Jaune raised his drink in the air before, Clover raised his in the air for a salute. Jaune then finished his drink, asking the barkeeper for another.
Clover: My turn?
Jaune nodded as he finished the last remnants of his meal.
Clover: Okay... When I asked you about you, and Winter. You kept saying, 'they:' Why?
Jaune: Ahh... I'm not gonna lie to you, Clover... but, I'm stuck within a love triangle between two woman.
Clover: You're... in love triangle...?
Jaune: Yep.
Clover: Seriously?
Jaune: Yep!
Jaune gave, Clover a dead serious look as he answered him. Popping the, P to emphasize his point.
Clover: How...?!
Jaune: I don't understand how these things happen to me either.
Clover: Between who?
Jaune: Winter Schnee, and Robyn Hill...
Clover: Robyn Hill?! She's into you? Again, how?
Jaune: Not sure. My best bet is that I was honest with her. Robyn's semblance lets her decern truth from lies. I can only guess what she went through to have a semblance such as that. But, I think saving her from a psycho faunas certainly helped.
Clover: Being the literal white knight saving the damsel...? Yeah, I bet that helped.
Jaune: Now the two of them have given me tokens of affection, and I have no idea what to do...
Clover: The sash, and that falcon pin?
Jaune: Lucky guess.
The pair shared a laugh before continuing their stories.
Jaune: Now the worst part is, is that they both know the other likes me, and they've both staked their 'claims' on me. I'm literally stuck between two badass huntresses who could beat my ass, who are more than willing to fight each other tooth, and nail to get me! I have no idea how to navigate any of this!! And, worse of all: It's fucking hot that I have two beautiful, wonderful woman fighting over me!
Clover: Do you know which one you want to be with?
Jaune: I don't know... They're both among the greatest, and most beautiful people I've ever met! And, as much as I've enjoyed their rather, forceful kiss's. I want to be the one to steal their breath away with a kiss. But, I have no experience when it comes to the affairs of the heart, so I haven't got a damn clue on what to do... And, it's as you said, there is too much going on right now to worry about such things...
Clover: But, if you had to choose: Who would you pick?
Jaune shrugged his shoulders before looking at, Clover.
Jaune: Both?
Clover snorted as he smacked, Jaune on his shoulder before slapping a pile of credits on the bar top after finishing he second beer.
Clover: It's on me. Now come on, let's back to base.
Jaune finished his scotch before getting up, and following, Clover out of the bar.
Jaune: This was nice. Thanks for inviting me, Clover. We should do this again. Only this time, drinks are on me.
Clover: Looking forward to it.
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wheels-of-despair · 2 days ago
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Me Without You Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie's got another weird question for Evil Woman. Contains: A random question, a non-answer, a little panic, fluff. Words: 600ish
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"What would you do if I died?"
"Avenge you," you answer, flipping a page in your magazine. You're lying on your stomach on Eddie's bed, and he's playing guitar in his chair. Just another average Wednesday evening. Alone. Unsupervised. In various states of undress. Doing different things on opposite sides of the room. Just happy to be near each other.
"No, seriously."
You look up to see that Eddie, half-lying in his chair with his bare feet propped up on the mess he calls a desk, is staring at you and waiting for his answer. He's not even looking at his guitar anymore, but he doesn't miss a note in a song that sounds vaguely Iron Maiden-y.
You think about the question for half a second before responding: "Pass."
"You can't pass," he argues, finally setting his other sweetheart aside. "Answer me."
"Nope," you make sure to pop the P as you turn to another glossy page of the magazine you're not really reading anymore.
"I wanna know!"
"Too bad."
"What would you do if I died, dammit?"
You toss the magazine aside, no longer able to focus on whatever the hell it was you found fascinating a few minutes ago.
"Why, are you planning on doing something stupid?"
"No."
"You already have a backup picked out and you want me to justify your choice of skank?"
"No."
"Then why are you obsessing over something so sad?"
"I'm just curious," he shrugs.
"Then you can keep on being curious," you sigh, crossing your arms on the bed and resting your cheek on them. You close your eyes. "Because I refuse to acknowledge a world without you in it."
Silence.
You hear the chair creak as he gets up. You freeze. Why do you feel tense all of a sudden? Your heart feels like it's beating faster and slower at the same time. You feel him approach. The mattress moves. He's put a knee on the bed beside your hip. And then the other. He's going to crawl over you.
No, he's going to lie on top of you.
He eases himself down a little bit at a time. You stay still, welcoming his body heat and oddly comforting weight.
"You can't just say shit like that to me," he mumbles, his lips grazing your ear.
"Why not?" you argue. "It's true."
Eddie kisses your neck, sighs, and rolls to the side. He lands beside you. You turn your head toward him. Your faces are just inches apart.
"You'd be fine without me," he says.
"I wouldn't be me without you," you whisper.
Something sad flashes through Eddie's eyes, and you feel it tug at your heart. He reaches for your hand, then brings it to his lips for a kiss.
"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers.
"You better not," you breathe. "If you die, I die."
Your words hang in the air, heavy between you. You stare at each other in silence. It feels as though the world has stopped entirely. And then Eddie leans forward. His lips meet yours for a kiss so soft, it barely feels real. When he pulls back, your brain screams at you to chase his touch. You can't let him go. Not yet.
"Then we get to haunt the shit out of people, right?" he asks, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
You laugh quietly, relief flooding through you. The spell has been broken, the air has been cleared, the world has started to spin again. You've got him. He's got you. Things are just the way they should be.
"We don't have to wait 'til we're dead for that," you grin. "Wanna know what I've been doing to Gareth every night for the last week?"
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sweetbunpura · 3 days ago
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Limited Time Menu
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Mostro Lounge is moderately busy on most days, mostly due to Azul's marketing and the like. But for tonight, the Lounge was PACKED. Waiters were running too and fro around the dinning room, taking orders and serving food to customers. The infamous first years sat at a booth as they took in the atmosphere.
"Damn, it took forever to get a seat." Ace grumbled. "What's going on today?"
"I heard Azul was running a new limited time menu." Jack responded. "Maybe that's why everyone's piling in here."
"Hmph." Sebek crossed his arms. "What would be so important to bring the student body here?"
"I mean..." Deuce started. "We're here."
Epel chimed. "Yeah, but, we're not here for the promotion and Ortho's here because he wants to hang out. Grim is also a give in."
"Mm-hmm!" Ortho nodded and smiled.
"It's too noisy." Grim huffed. "And Henchhuman said she had stuff to do for the next week."
"Hi, Freshies!" They turned their attention to Ruggie. "Here's the menus! Now, what can I get you started on?"
Jack answered "Water's just fine. Right, guys?" They nodded.
"Sure, sure." Ruggie wrote it down. "And we got a limited time menu going on, only available for the next three days."
"What's the best thing?" Ace asks.
"Honestly? All of it." Ruggie sighs. "We ran out of four things today, so you better get it while it's going."
"Thanks, Ruggie-senpai."
The hyena beastman nodded and left, leaving the first years to look over the menu.
"There's six things on here. Ruggie made it seem like it was a lot." Ace frowns.
"It all sounds good though." Deuce mutters as he looks at the menu. "The Chicken-fried Steak sounds good."
"So do the Biscuits and Gravy." Epel hums as he imagines the food.
"I'm interested in the Jambalaya." Sebek voices.
"Chicken and Waffles?" Ace raises an eyebrow. "I'll guess I'll go for it."
"I wonder what a Shrimp Po' Boy is..." Jack reads the ingredients.
"Gimme those Smothered Pork Chops!" Grim licked his lips.
"Here's your water." Ruggie set it down. " I think I heard Grim yelling out an order." He pulled out his pad. "So, we're ready?"
As each boy gave their order and Ruggie departed to fill in the order, Mostro continued to fill with new customers and those who left sang praises of the menu. A couple of minutes later and their food was out, piping hot and smelling good.
"That smells so good, holy shit." Ace eyed his food.
The others nodded and Ruggie bid them farewell. They took their first bite and an explosion of flavor filled their mouths.
"No way..." Deuce tore into the chicken fried steak. "How is this so good?"
"I want a second helping!" Epel was roughly halfway thought his meal.
"Who knew this food combination would be so good?" Jack took another bite of his sandwich.
Sebek was silent as he nearly finished off his plate. Grim was happily eating, shoving the pork chops in his mouth. By the time Ruggie returned, they had finished as they all looked full and content.
"Thank you for choosing Mostro Lounge tonight!" The hyena beastman took the payment. "We hope you choosing us again!"
As closing time neared, eventually the dining room cleared and the Lounge closed. In the kitchen, Azul addressed the staff with a smile on his face.
"Today was an extremely busy night!" He clapped his hands. "And I'm glad everyone continued to work hard! A round of applause for everyone!" He waited as their cheers settled down. "And thank Yuu-san for allowing us to borrow some of her time!"
Yuu gave a tired smile as she leaned against one of the pillars and cheers filled the room. Afterwards, the dorm members went to bed and Yuu bid the trio goodnight as she left.
"I'm gonna go pass out." She gave a kiss to Floyd's check as she departed. "Night."
"You're in a good mood, Azul. I'm assuming profits were good tonight?" Jade asked once the door closed.
Azul hummed. "Yes! Fantastically so! There was a 65% increase!"
Jade nodded. "And what of you, Floyd? I saw you back to back with Miss Yuu in the kitchen. Since she refuses to share her family recipes with us, surely you know them?"
Azul turned to Floyd with rapt attention. "Oh? Do tell, Floyd."
Floyd shook his head and leaned back in his chair. "Nah. I promised Shirmpy that I wouldn't tell ya anythin'." He yawned. "And I value that promise more than I value anythin' else."
The octopus merman deflated as Jade chuckled. The perks of being the best friend and boyfriend to one amazing chef. Floyd closed his eyes and smiled.
"But~ Her food was so good. She let me try everythin'~"
"Don't tell me that!"
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edward-munson · 1 day ago
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i'm right here - E.M. * Chapter Two
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"I never realized that"
Warning: angst, mentions of weed, fluff
Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem! Harrington reader
Word count: 4.5k
Previous Chapter
⋆˚✿˖°
"Wha- How?" Eddie stumbles over his own words and tries to catch up on what you just said and implied.
You nodded. After the delicate conversation you both just had, it feels awkward to talk about it now. It feels wrong, it's kind of ridiculous too.
"Yeah, I... it's been a while, actually" You look up to him and find Eddie completely static. One of his hand grips tightly the steering wheel while with the other one he fidgets with his rings.
"Wait, wait, wait. You're saying you like me?" He shakes his head a few times and looks at you with widened eyes. "You like me? Shortie..."
"Yeah, I know Eddie! I just wish I wouldn't have told you like that okay? And I know you like her, and that you're still pretty hurt because of everything that happened, but..."
"Oh my God, shut up for a second" His voice was soft and calm, and you notice he's kind of smiling. "I never realized that. It’s kind of cute, I just… It’s just too much to deal with right now. But yes, I'm hurt. I'm so disappointed, I feel used and invalidated by her. I feel like a piece of shit. But I also feel like something has always been different with us. I mean, you and me"
Eddie reaches over to hold your trembling hand and makes sure you feel comforted. He gives you this reassuring smirk as he rests his forehead over his left hand.
"I'm sorry, Eddie. For everything. For not telling you before, for what we just saw. And for confessing my feelings just now" You feel like a twelve year old girl who just told someone her deepest secret.
He pulls you for a hug and you don't protest. Your face is smashed against his fluffy hair and you can even smell his mint shampoo. Eddie rubs his thumb against your back and rests his chin at the top of your head.
"Don't be stupid, sweetheart. We can't control our feelings. And... about that other thing, I guess you should've been honest. I would've never even given her a chance, I think I wouldn't even let her come close and talk to me. But I know you had good intentions"
"Steve wanted to tell you but I told him that if someone had to do it, it should've been me. You know, he's not friends with her but he thought she could've changed. We all grew up, we're almost graduating and becoming adults" Your words came out a little muffled as you were still holding each other.
You pulled back only a little, so you could properly see his face before apologizing to him again. This time, you could smell his cologne and it made you feel giddy from being too close.
"I'm really sorry. I didn't know you guys were together until my first day at school. Steve never wanted to tell me before"
"Hey" He pinched your chin and shook your head playfully. "It's okay, shortie. It's not your fault either way. Neither it was mine"
You nervously chuckled and pinched his chin back. Eddie noticed how close you two were and how suddenly it started to get hot inside his van.
"I, uh- I should probably drop you off before your brother decides to come back looking after you" He cleared his throat trying to avoid eye contact and you noticed how nervous he suddenly became.
The ride back home definitely felt more awkward than you thought it would. You picked the Black Sabbath tape and blasted the songs over the speakers at a higher volume. Maybe it would make him feel more comfortable and less nervous, it should be a good distraction. You didn't want to ask him what he was gonna do about Chrissy and you probably knew the answer.
It wasn't going to end well either way. You just didn't want things to go south that fast. But at least he had a friendly reaction after you told him about your feelings. You just weren't sure he felt the same way, and yet, it's probably not the best time to talk it over.
Eddie parked over your house and waited until you got out of the car. He was leaning his arm against the opened window, tapping against the vehicle while he watched as you walked over your porch. He just said goodnight and nothing else. Should he even say anything else? Is there something to say? His mind was racing with a million thoughts and a lot of them were about you two.
You were looking for your keys, until you realized you forgot to bring one with yourself. You stood there for two seconds and groaned, knowing you'd have to ring the doorbell for Steve to open the door.
"Forgot your keys?" Eddie asked, his arm still lazily resting against the window. You just nodded, biting your lip feeling embarrassed. "Harrington isn't gonna let you in, is he?"
"I'm not sure I will" Steve said through the door.
"Stevie, you better open this fucking door you dickhead" Your voice wasn't one of the most friendliest and he noticed that through your tone.
"Right, sis. Remember when you stepped on my hand at the bowling? I told you, you should find some other place to sleep tonight!"
The only reaction you could have at that moment was to scoff. Eddie was watching all of it and just snorted but it wasn't audible.
"You're kidding me, right? Steve, if you don't open this fucking door I will knock it down!"
"Should've thought about it before being a little shit with me" Steve didn't even mention he would open the door and you looked behind yourself, Eddie still parked on the street. "Munson is still there, isn't he? I'm sure he's a great host"
"I'm not coming over to his house just because you're being childish" You lower your voice so only your brother can listen to you, but you don't expect Eddie to be right next to you that very second.
"Munson would love to give her shelter, but this is her house, Harrington. Stop being a moron and open the door for her" He knocked a few times like it would change his mind.
Eddie actually wouldn't stop knocking and the fact his rings were hitting the door loudly was kind of making up for it. "I can do this all night, bro"
You watched as he kept knocking until Steve gave up and opened the door for you. He deadpanned at his friend for being so annoying and insistent, not looking at you when he took a step back for you to walk in.
"You guys look like you're still children. Jesus Christ, you're a man, dude" Eddie shook his head.
"Yeah and? Didn't ask" Steve kept his demeanor, only this time he grinned at his friend. "Go home, you look like shit, bro"
As a response, Eddie gave your brother a hard punch on his shoulder and walked back to his car. You saw as he waved at you and drove off the street until you couldn't see it anymore.
Instead of going to your bedroom and getting ready for bed, you throw yourself over the couch and breathe heavily. Steve sat next to you and leaned against his knees waiting for an answer. You know he wants to know what happened, but you were too tired to talk about anything.
"I'm not telling you anything now, you weirdo. Fuck off" He laughs at your attitude and pushes your arm playfully before he made himself comfortable and looked for something to watch with you on the TV.
-
Eddie was rushing through the students as he held his backpack lazily, walking towards his locker. Uncle Wayne wasn't home and he overslept, meaning he didn't have time to eat breakfast or pick a good outfit for the day. It's not like he cared about his looks, but he would usually choose something nice to wear during the day.
He had just learned he was going to be in your biology class and couldn't find a way to ignore you. He didn't want to, he just hasn't gotten over the idea of you never telling him how mean and heartless she was. Eddie still hasn't even told you about his mutual feelings either, because everything was so confusing to him. The only thing he could think about the past days was how distressing it was to break up with Chrissy.
And you saw how sad he was just by looking at his face. He had bags under his eyes and his frizzy curly hair was so disheveled you wondered if he even brushed it lately. He didn't talk much with his friends or even the guys from the Hellfire Club. He didn't seem very present during the breaks or while eating at the cafeteria.
You watched as Eddie entered the classroom and made his way to the farther table in the back, not even daring to look at you. Maybe he didn't see you, maybe he didn't want to face you. It seemed like he was running away from you.
The entire time at school he spent with his friends and the boys from the Hellfire Club. It seemed like he was feeling a little better since he was talking to the boys. It made you feel relieved to see him like that, you'd hate to watch him feel like shit because of her. Speaking of, Chrissy was sitting next to Jason along with his basketball team, laughing at whatever shit they were talking about. You watched as Eddie couldn't look away from them, his face holding a grimace everytime they would share a kiss or something. And it made you feel nauseous from noticing how he was still having feelings for her, and not for you.
The basketball leader didn't spend much of his time teasing the other students or making fun of them, but every once in a while he would say something about the guys who liked playing board games. You still didn't know why he was such a bully, but it made you feel so annoyed it was hard to ignore it.
It was the way he was such an asshole that made your friends despise him, especially Steve. As soon as he gave up on being on the team, Jason stepped into it taking away your brother's title of "the best player". He didn't care about it anymore, he wasn't like that in a long while.
You were talking to Nancy and Robin when Eddie's voice made its announcement through the cafeteria. All of you looked at him as he was sitting on the table, one of his legs was bent and he rested his elbow on top of his knee. There it is, the scene he likes to make sometimes.
"You mommy didn't give you enough attention, Carver?" Eddie asked over a sarcastic tone, giving him a playful smile.
Most of the students around the tables were watching and giving both of them looks, whispering to one another waiting for the scene to unfold.
"I don't know, freak. Did yours?" Jason knew Eddie's mother died when he was younger, he just didn't care about that information.
You really thought that was the lowest someone could ever go with. But looking at your friend, you noticed how he didn't shift his demeanor, even though you knew he was hurt. It's not like he could complain about it, Eddie was the one to push Jason.
"Ah, even if she did, I like the attention. You know better than that" He shrugged, dropping his weight on the floor after getting up from the table. Eddie walked up to Jason, staring at him top to bottom. "You're the one calling me out every time you see me. I think you want me to be more noticeable, don't you big boy?"
Jason shoved his hand that was pinching his chin so hard the skin became pink. He looked at Eddie and placed his arm around Chrissy's shoulder, who stood there sitting on her chair without moving in the slightest. "You couldn't even keep the most beautiful girl by your side. You can't keep a reputation"
"I wouldn't want to keep a bitch like her for a girlfriend" Eddie gave him a cheap grin, looking straight at Chrissy, who gasped.
The entire room went silent, and you shared a look between your brother and your two friends. Before Robin even mentioned getting up, you did it first and paced towards Eddie and Jason. The basketball player was about to throw a punch when you pulled the curly brunette by his t-shirt. He didn't take a single step from his place, still staring at the guy in front of him.
"What did you just say, you fucking loser?" Jason closed his hands into fists and looked to his side when Chrissy tried to stop him. She sat back down and looked at you.
Both of you stared into each other. You felt an urge of punching her face because that was her fault somehow, while she just wanted this entire show to end. She just knew she was a bitch, there was no reason to contest his accusation. She wasn't even the one to make a scene in front of people, she was a bitch behind people's backs.
"You better take that back, or I will punch you so hard you won't even remember your name" He teased, his jaw was clenched. Jason tensed his shoulders waiting for Eddie's response.
"Eds" You tried to call out, but he wouldn't listen to you. "Just leave it, come on"
"Yeah, Eds" Jason quipped and mimicked your tone. "Listen to the Texas bumpkin and go back to your stupid cult"
You immediately threw him a disapproving look and frowned. While still holding Eddie's shirt, you noticed how his bicep tightened at Jason's words.
"Fuck you, Carver. Stop being such an ass" He laughed and mocked you with a pout. Again, you pulled your friend by his arm but again, he didn't want to move.
You barely saw when Steve stood next to you, his chest puffing and his arms crossed. His nose was flaring and you didn't even want to think about his thoughts right now. You knew your brother was so pissed that Steve could smash his face with only a punch.
"You better stop, Jason. This isn't going to end well" Steve warned, his face seriously holding a hard expression as he tried to stay away from the blonde guy.
He looked at the three of you and scoffed, pulling Chrissy by her hand and taking a few steps closer to Eddie, looking at you sideways before closing in on your friend again.
"You and your bitch better not do this again" Jason almost bumped his nose into Eddie's when he emphasized he was talking about you.
This time, Eddie didn't care if he was going to be expelled from school. He just couldn't let anyone talk shit about you or treat you like that again. You tried to avoid a fight to start by grabbing him from his tiny waist, while Steve gripped one of his hands over the side of Eddie's neck.
Jason didn't even flinch, because he knew Eddie wouldn't be capable of beating him down. As much as he wanted to. As soon as they left, Steve guided you both to your table, sitting you down next to Eddie. You stood between them, still not having any idea of what to say.
"Sometimes I wish I could break his fucking nose" You hear your brother rage and grab a fistful of his hair into his hands.
To your left, Eddie chuckles and agrees with him. When you look at him, he's shyly staring back at you while he nervously bites his lower lip.
"I'm sorry I dragged you into this, shortie. I didn't want this little show to happen" He frowns and rests his hand on top of yours.
That weird electricity happens again, and you both look from your hands to each other. He doesn't retreat, instead, Eddie closes it and holds your hand tighter. He gives you a sweet smile that makes your stomach flutter. You smile back at him and fix one of the strands of hair from his bang. He blows some air to playfully fix it for you and it makes you laugh at his sweetness.
Trying not to make a big deal out of what just happened, you change the subject. "You're crazy for doing that, Eddie. He's crazy and mean"
"He's an asshole. The biggest. And he deserves to be pitied. Dude doesn't know where his place is. And no one can call you a bitch"
"You called Chrissy a bitch" You remind him and he tilts his head.
"Because she is" Your mouth opens in full shock, he's still wearing a peaceful expression on his face. "I've been thinking about a shit ton of stuff. Things she would do and would never do when we were together, and– Sadly, you're right"
It comes out with a hurting tone, and you feel sad for him. But it means he's finally getting over her and moving on from their relationship. If there ever was one to begin with.
You give him a comforting smile, squeezing his hand tightly. "I'm sorry, Eddie. You're so much better than that and you don't deserve her. Neither does she deserve someone like you"
He squeezes your hand back and for a fraction of time, his first reaction was to place his free hand over your jaw and rub your cheek with his thumb. But then Steve called out to you both and your little bubble was broken by his voice. He doesn't even notice what just happened between you two.
"By the way, I can't give you a ride back today. I gotta go to work earlier with Rob"
Eddie removed his hand from yours. The one that was halfway through touching your face, he used to brush his hair. "I can take her home, dude. No worries"
"You're giving me a ride back to your house?" He laughed and pinched your cheeks, pursing his lips.
"No, you dummy. I meant taking you back to your house"
You nod timidly for misunderstanding what he just said. You feel your face getting warm and you're pretty sure you're red because of the embarrassment. Steve chuckles next you, getting elbowed on his side for the second time in a week.
-
You and Eddie still haven't talked about anything that has been happening between you two since your first conversation about your feelings. He hasn't even been honest with you about his own feelings and instead, he was trying to avoid the conversation with you. He was probably too traumatized to bring up the subject, afraid of being rejected even though you made it clear that you like him. 
You’re sitting on the kitchen island stool at your house with Robin, Nancy and Max. Steve was throwing a gathering for a few people, but turns out, reefer Rick decided to invite the rest of the school. Obviously, it didn’t include the basketball team or the cheerleaders.
Him and his friends were having a nice conversation by the porch, while Eddie, his friends and the boys were playing foosball outside your backyard. Robin couldn’t stop talking about Vicky and Nancy tries to give her some advice even though she’s only been with guys. You watch the conversation unfold next to Max, who’s bored out of her mind. She’s resting her face against her hand, tapping her fingers against the furniture. 
She laughs at some jokes Robin makes, but it doesn’t look like she’s interested. You haven’t talked much to her lately, so you try to distract her from being bored. 
“What are your plans after school?” She looks at you with a funny expression, grimacing at the thought of being an adult. 
“Maybe I’ll move out from this hell and become a veterinarian” Max shrugs, drinking her coke from the can. “What about you? Why did you even come back?”
You didn’t know exactly why. You just knew you didn’t want to live with your parents forever, but you also didn’t want to come back to the place that made you go away, for instance. Your shoulders slump and you give a deep sigh. 
“I like living with Steve, and I didn’t want to live with my parents forever. I think I like this place” Your words made her almost choke on her drink and she laughed. Max laughs so hard, it’s even weird to see her like this after everything that happened to her.
“That’s plain bullshit. Who could ever want to come back to this godforsaken place? Nope, there’s gotta be a better reason” She’s right, you don’t have a good reason or even an explanation. 
Little did you know.
Dustin calls out your name from the door and waves at you. You get up from the stool and follow behind him to the backyard. Eddie is smoking weed with Gareth and the others are playing a match on the foosball. The curly boy guides you to where he’s sitting and makes you sit in front of him. 
“You know I’m a master at playing games and figuring out stuff, right?” You also knew he had the biggest ego for someone so small too. You just nod and wait for him to continue.”Steve also told me you’re a mastermind. So, I wanna know how I can build this small device with the smallest amount of pieces I can” 
He shows you a device you have no idea that is. All you know it’s something digital. You inspect it, squinting your eyes harder than you can to figure out what it is for. Behind you, Eddie and Gareth expectantly wait for you to say something. They clearly look high already. 
It takes you a few minutes to decide what could work for that little device, so you explain it to the kid in front of you and show him the options. He looks at you with delight and smiles. Dustin has the most endearing smile you’ve ever seen. He’s also nice, smart and caring. 
“Dude, she’s a genius!” He exclaims with excitement, happy to be helped by you. 
“She’s always been a brain. But she sucks at math” Eddie helps you up but you manage to trip over his foot even though you haven’t been drinking that much. 
You fall into the comfortable grass and laugh your ass off from being so damn clumsy and he looks at you like you’ve grown seven heads, while Gareth cackles along with you for God knows why. He’s not even paying attention to what’s really happening. 
“Hey-” You choke on your own laugh “Not every brilliant mind knows everything”
He extends his hand and firmly grabs you up again. This time, he makes sure you won’t trip, but you had other plans in mind and pulls him as hard as yo ucan. Eddie falls onto the grass by your side and cracks up, standing on his elbows. He offers you a beer and you sit next to him, taking a swig from your beer as he also offers you the blunt he’s holding. 
You haven’t smoked weed in such a long time. In fact, the last time you smoked one was before you moved out from Texas, but it wasn’t the same thing as sharing it with your friend. You inhale the smoke and it fills in your lungs, giving you a relaxing sensation. 
“It’s great that you helped Dustin. He’s a really cool guy and he likes to blend people in our groups, especially you. Steve is gonna love seeing his sister getting along with his friends too” He smokes again as you pass his weed back and you nod. 
It really makes you happy to be part of Steve’s group of friends. Through the past weeks, you’ve noticed how close they all are to each other and how caring they are. It crosses your mind that maybe it’s because of everything they’ve been through together, and it reminds you that you never knew what really happened to Eddie. 
“What happened to you last year? I mean, Steve doesn’t say much about the others because every experience is different, but he told me he pretty much almost died too” You remember when he showed you the scar on his neck, telling you how those bats almost choked him to death.
Eddie bit his inner cheek and looked down at his feet. Maybe that was a dangerous territory to reach. His eyes suddenly became kind of dull when he stared back at you, roaming through your expression of not knowing what to say anymore. 
“I mean, if you really don’t want to talk about it-” 
He passed the blunt back to you again and sighed. A heavy one, to be honest “They… they almost choked me too. But the worst part was still yet to come. They chewed on me. They ripped my skin open and it was hard to breathe, and you know I’m asthmatic so it was a hundred times harder to find oxygen” 
His words were heavy and he shifted on his seat, sitting straight. As soon as you both finished smoking, Eddie took his leather vest off, lifting up his shirt so you could see some of his scars. They weren’t as nasty as you’d imagine since it’s been only a year, but they were still there. 
He turned on his back to you and you could see a round shaped bite the size of your palm. That one was the most visible, it also had a bump on it. You hesitantly ghosted your thumb over his skin, gently pressing against it with horror stamped on your face. He flinched as a reflex and you pulled back immediately, apologizing for pushing the boundaries. 
“It’s okay… it’s just- It doesn’t hurt much. It’s just a weird sensation it gives me” He sits back and drinks the rest of his beer. 
“I’m sorry this happened to you. I know you were all trying to save Max out there and I’m glad you came back” You feel like you wanna hug him, but instead you snake your arm around his and rest your head against his shoulder. 
He leans against you and you feel the weight of his head over yours, his hair tickling your face again. You smell his scent and again it makes you feel unsteady. Eddie starts to feel weird because of how his heart is racing and the only thing he wants to do is interlock his fingers with yours. 
As you sit there and share a moment for the first time, you know why you came back to Hawkins. Because of him. And right there, you feel lightheaded because that’s what you’ve been wanting to do for as long as you’ve known. And Eddie doesn’t think much about it, but he also knows why you two always have shared this different connection. Because now he knows that’s what he wanted too. 
He just didn’t want you to know that surviving the attack from the bats came with a consequence, and he didn’t want to scare you.
⋆˚✿˖°
@thegirlthatsfalling @strangemaximoff @readergf @sheneedsrocknroll92
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hereghostslive · 3 days ago
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WIP Wednesday
thanks for the tag @carlos-in-glasses !!
yesterday I mentioned reapers and Tommy kinard, so here's some of it. I was going to wait until it was all finished to post but my sister is dragging me a long to lots of places today so I want have time to work on it.
trigger warning, but this does involve major character death for Tommy, although I don't want to totally bum everyone out so I will say it's temporary ... but we're definitely playing in this supernatural realm for a bit though. But this is definitely a Tommy Learns To Fight For His Own Happiness kinda fic.
--
Tommy never makes it to 2025. 
He knows this because he remembers the clock sitting at 11:59 p.m. when the semi hit his truck on New Years Eve. He supposes he could have still been alive while they tried to free him from his car, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? Tommy as he was, a person of mediocre value that held some mildly interesting presences in other people’s lives, was already gone. 
It just took his brain waves a few minutes to follow the rest of him into death. 
But they eventually made it there. 
So when he was fully dead, that was that. Life, completed. 
Was it satisfying? It had its moments, Tommy supposes. 
Did he have any regrets? Well, obviously. Who doesn’t? 
Did he have any unfinished business they should be aware of? I don’t – Wait, what do you —
“— mean by ‘they’?”
Tommy pauses, startled by the sudden sound of his own voice. He looks around but all he can see is a milky sort of darkness, rippling around him like waves in the ocean. If he looks too hard, he starts feeling dizzy, so he turns forward again, and then realizes he’s sitting on one side of a desk. On the other side is a figure of some indistinguishable shape. 
So? It asks. 
Tommy doesn’t see anything he can classify as a mouth move when the shape talks but he hears a voice all the same. 
Tommy clears his throat. “So, what?” 
Is there any unfinished business they should be aware of? 
Tommy’s hit with blue eyes and startled heartbreak, the sound of a door falling closed behind him. And him, the one who locked it and threw away the key. 
He shakes his head. “No. No unfinished business.” 
Good, the shape says. Your processing is complete. Someone will come to collect you soon. 
The shape disappears, there one second and gone the next before Tommy can even blink. 
And just like that, he’s alone. 
Dead, and alone. 
Happy fucking New Year to him. 
“Soon” turns out to be … well, Tommy’s not sure how long he’s been here. Somewhere between five seconds and five months sounds accurate to him. Though, does time even exist when you’re dead? 
He looks around him again, but the only thing he sees is that rippling sort of milky darkness. There’s no sound, either. And there doesn’t appear to be anyone else here, no other souls waiting to be … collected? That’s what the shape said, he thinks, however long ago it was that it said that. 
Tommy was never religious so he never really put a lot of thought into what happens after you die. If this is it, he can’t decide if people will be pleased with the answer that obviously something exists or unsatisfied with the result. Then again, nothing ever really turns out the way we want them too. 
As much as Tommy can guess, this is a waystation between the newly dead, and wherever it is you go after that. Whatever questioning he just completed must be part of the deciding factor. 
He wonders if he should be worried about the result but being dead kind of takes away all your worries. He’s not at peace, he doesn’t think, but maybe that part is what comes next. 
--
no pressure tagging: @liminalmemories21 @lemonlyman-dotcom @bonheur-cafe @thisbuildinghasfeelings @cecilyv
@alrightbuckaroo @whatsintheboxmh @firstprince-history-huh @carlos-tk
some other bucktommy folks: @leashybebes @screamlet @alchemistc @beanarie @vamphours
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contentloadingandstuff · 24 hours ago
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Breaking Up With Them - Beidou & Eula X Male!Reader
A/N: It's been a long time since I did one of these. I hope I didn't lose my skill for writing angst.
CW: Unhealthy relationship dynamics, ambivalent fault (Beidou), alcohol abuse, foul language, not proofread.
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Beidou is a free spirit. Strong, self-sufficient, witty and, most importantly, independent. For years now she has been the one at the helm, steering her life towards any waters she, and only she, feels like. That doesn't matter; she still forms attachments, of course. The ship, the whole fleet, her crew, the Traveler, Kazuha and you are all examples of nice things she holds dear.
Yes. Nice things.
You loved her for her freedom. She decided for herself and walked on her own path, allowing you the same space to do your own thing. You were partners - equals in this relationship. There wasn't a thing she could do that you couldn't. Going out drinking? Allowed. Sleeping over at a hotel or a friend's house instead of your shared corner of Liyue Harbour or the ship? If the situation demands, why not? It's safer than coming back drunk through the streets. Hanging out with pals without the other half? Sure, it's not like you're out cheating. Both of you accepted this and thrived in this setup. You trusted her with your heart, just like you did with your life many times before.
Months went by, then years. You lived a life of adventure, merrymaking and seamanship by her side. This was nice, but just warming her bed wasn't enough for you. She was beautiful, brave and kind. You loved her, you wanted more. But Beidou wasn't keen on talking about marriage. It was always “later” or “we’ll figure it out”, followed by a date that you just knew would net you the same answer. You couldn't honestly say you understood her. Twirling her engagement ring to-be in your fingers, you wondered why. What was making her turn you down? These doubts ate away at you, and soon enough, you wanted to confront her. But she was faster.
“Still holding on to that thing, aren't you?”
You jump, closing your hand the moment you hear a familiar, strong voice behind you. Head turning away from the window and back at the newcomer, you spring up from the chair. You lay eyes on none other than the capitan herself.
“Beidou?” You say, a bit of embarrassment in your voice. After all, being caught like this didn't scream “tough guy”. “Knock first, please.”
She is leaning on the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. “Why should I? You're not playing with yourself here, are you?”
Beidou chuckles, relaxing her arms and walking over. “Besides, I'd gladly join you if you were~” She plops herself next to you, placing her hand on your thigh.
“Mhm…” You muse, gently stopping her hand from going where it's not ladylike to go. “Do you have any business, or did you come here just to fluster me, hun?”
Her face turns to an expression of mock disappointment for a brief moment. “Aw, you're not fun.” Beidou sighs and motions at your closed hand, covering the small, golden ring. “Yeah, I have something to talk about. This, specifically.”
Your heart stops, before beating again at twice the speed. Is she… No, can't be. But, maybe…? You relax your grip, revealing the ornament on your open palm. Both of you look at it, before raising your eyes to meet the other’s.
Much to your chagrin, Beidou doesn't lift a finger.
“Give it a rest, Y/N. Let's not hurry with our relationship. We have a nice thing going between us, and we could ruin it if we're going too fast, you know?”
You furrow your brow. “You always say that. You've said that for the past year.”
“Why won't you just let it go?”
“And why won't you accept it?”
Silence. Beidou bites her lip. There's a spark in her eye, the same that announces she's had enough. You swallow.
“Because I don't want to marry you, alright? I don't want to settle down, I don't want a husband, I don't want children. That's it.”
Your heart doesn't stop. It doesn't even slow down, or flinch, or react with the slightest of movements. Even though her words are not what you ever wanted to hear, the reasonable part of you was prepared for the news. She continues.
“Listen, Y/N, babe, hun, darling.” Beidou takes your face in her calloused hands, touching your cheeks with the gentleness you've grown accustomed to. This time, her touch felt… pointless. “It's not about you specifically, alright? I love you, I still do. Nothing has changed about that. I just don't want to become a house hen, let go of the life I have-”
“But none of this will happen! The only thing that will change will be the rings on our fingers…” You say, but your confidence wanes. Beidou smiles, shaking her head.
“No, babe. That's not what you, or what my children would deserve. You deserve a commited, stable relationship. You deserve a wife and mother at home, and stable land under your feet.” A sigh escapes her lips. She brushes her finger across your cheek, as if wiping an invisible tear from your eye. “You don't deserve the burden of a dangerous life away from home. Remember - a single bad storm and we're fish food.”
“Beidou, listen, I-” You pull back, but she tries to cup your face again. Your pulse rises as you swat her hands away. “No, don't play sweet with me! You…”
Unable to take it, you stand up. Deep breaths, you think, looking for the right words in your head. Finally, they come, but you can only utter them through your teeth. Your head, your chest, your cheeks and hands feel hotter by the second.
“Seven years… We are a couple for seven years now, and you've never told me this…”
Beidou frowns, scoffing. “What? Nope. I did.” The gentleness in her demeanor fades, replaced by a tone of disappointment. “I've given you more than enough clues. It was obvious from the first time you asked.”
“Obvious? Not really.” You point an accusatory finger at her. “Why didn't you tell me outright?”
“Pfeh! I didn't think you'd fail to catch on. Besides, I care about your feelings. It would be a major blow to our relationship.”
“What do you mean “major blow”? Then why are telling me this now? Is it any less major?”
Beidou feels her pressure rise. Why are you this stupid? You press on.
“You appreciate honesty, right? Then how come you weren't honest with me yourself? Hypocritical of you, Beidou!”
“For fucks’ sake, Y/N! Shut up and let me speak for a moment!” You go quiet. She never raised her voice on you before, but Beidou is too agitated to care. “Archons! Sorry, I didn't account for you being a retard I guess? Look, the point is that my answer is no. And my answer will be no, every single fucking time you ask me. What we have now works for me, and if you can't understand it, fuck off.”
Thick silence fills the room. Beidou is red on the face; her eyes are sharp, chest raising and falling with her faster breathing. She points at the door of her cabin.
Unsure, you look back. This… Well, this had to end someday. Even so, you can't make the steps to walk out. It's as if your feet were frozen to the planks below.
“I'm sorry. It's just… I can't really keep this going. I don't want to give you false hope. So, uh…”
Beidou looks down, suddenly unable to face you.
“You have the keys, right? Pack up and go. Don't look back. It will be best for both of us.”
You sigh. Perhaps she is right. But it still hurts to let her go. But regardless, you need time to think, and she needs it as well. Maybe it is for the best.
“Right. See you, I guess…”
Beidou doesn't respond. You press the handle and step over the threshold, turning your head to catch one last glance of Beidou. You hope to see tears, hope to hear her plead for you to come back. But only a vague grimace rests on her face.
You step out, and never come back.
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Eula’s life was a tough one since the day of her birth. For the first half, she struggled with the demands of an aristocratic upbringing under the unwavering scrutiny of her parents and relatives, and her reward was equally unrelenting harassment and ostracism for the other part. Even the strongest of people would struggle to go on like this, so it's no wonder that Eula picked up a few coping methods throughout the years. Embracing the role of a stereotypical Lawrence through speech and mannerisms, while certainly never helping her reputation, did give her a sense of belonging in the liminal world between her pedigree and the whole of society. Inevitably, the main temptation in the Nation of Freedom pulled her in, and Eula soon became a regular at Angel's Share. Thus, a perfect regular she became - the captain always left loads of Mora at the tavern while having the capacity to never become a nuisance, no matter the amount of alcohol in her veins. 
When the first wave of hate sizzled out thanks to her deeds in the Knights and Amber befriended her, Eula's coin pouch suddenly felt heavier as less money was spent on drinks. She opened up to people, and in return, they lowered their guard. She could buy things again, people (most of them anyway) stopped throwing her hateful glances and spitting at the mention of her name. Somehow, the opposite sex stopped resenting her enough to not only stop calling her “the Lawrence whore”, but also show a bit of interest in her as a woman. Just a tiny bit. But clearly, she improved her relationship with the men of Mondstadt sufficiently to become an interesting person in your eyes. And what a guy you were - willing to spend time with her beyond what's absolutely necessary, and enjoying every minute of it. A romantic, a wonderful dance partner, a stalwart companion she could lean on - you were each of those things. She fell in love, and as mutual lovers do, you soon slipped the rings on each other’s fingers. 
And yet, this moment of her life, undoubtedly the happiest at the time, became a spark that ignited a new storm of issues. Her family, while already dissatisfied and looking at the young woman with suspicion, now became disgusted with her. She married a commoner, a commoner that wasn't even rich. Your status as a simple baker was enough to push them to start actively harassing you and your business, for no other reason than that you were “corrupting” the Lawrence bloodline with that street filth they thought was flowing in your veins. Eula, of course, instantly took up the glove and started fighting them in courts and in dark alleys, helping out whenever she could. You were one of the few that treated her well, and she could never let anybody hurt you. Especially if it was because of her. The fight was not so simple, however, as the distaste towards her name returned, now spreading on you as well. People mocked you, called you “the Lawrence fucker”, they harassed you and her, also occasionally attacking your bakery. Broken windows, graffiti, false rumours and allegations - that had to be fought against as well. As your wife, it was her duty to defend you, especially if who they really wanted was her. 
But it was a war of attrition, and no matter how hard she fought, she needed back up. Eventually, the comforting embrace of hard liquor was too powerful to resist and Eula made the first step back on that slippery slope of a path. But this time, she had much to lose. 
Nine. Ten. Eleven. 
You reach under the desk, scanning the area for more. There they are, you think, grabbing the neck of another bottle of wine, filled only with the ever present dust. With a frown of disgust, you kneel on the floor, sticky with… something. 
Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty one. Twenty two. 
The bag, clicking with every added bottle, is becoming unbearably heavy. It's getting heavy, but you wanted to get it over with quickly - another three or four couldn't hurt your back that much. 
Twenty three. Twenty four. 
The front door opens, marking Eula’s arrival. She was late, indicating the obvious. Nonetheless, you remain dedicated to your task - her room was starting to resemble a gang hideout, and the smell and dust were starting to spread across the house. It was unhealthy to be in it, let alone sleep there. Your wife could at least let you wash the duvet and pillows more often. You gave up on hoping she could do it on her own some time ago. 
Twenty five. 
You close the sack and twist the end, lifting it up and heading for the basement. These bottles weren't worth much by themselves, but sold back to the Winery in this quantity, would net you some extra Mora. Maybe you could finally buy a new vacuum cleaner battery from the Fontaine merchant this month - the house could really use a dusting, but you've grown thoroughly sick of sweeping. 
“Good afternoon, dear.” You say as you pass your wife in the corridor. Every part of you is focused on keeping the bag as still as possible. If you'd manage to act fast and inconspicuous, maybe she wouldn't turn her eyes towards you. You really weren't in the mood to talk to her. 
She doesn't respond, walking past you to the bathroom. A little haste, enabled by the ability to be loud without consequence, leads you to the storage and back in seconds. You wave another bag, spreading it out for the task to come. However, by the time you're back on the cleaning’s frontline, she already finished up and returned there. 
Seeing Eula in her underwear, sat down on the unmade bed with her clothes discarded in the corner and a book in her hand, makes you stop in your tracks. Her silence tells you she's in a foul mood, and regardless of the reason, you would not want to interact with her now. Still, the cleaning wouldn't do itself. You clutch the bag and go in. 
Keeping your eyes glued to the floor and your step confident might be overkill, but you really don't want her to question you. She doesn't seem to mind you cleaning her room, luckily. 
Twenty six. Twenty seven. Twenty eight. Twenty nine. 
You get up and look at the bed. The messy, dirty lair was where Eula spent most of her time - no wonder, given that the desk was stacked high with tomes, bottles and trash at all times. You notice a familiar shape on the windowsill. 
Thirty. Thirty one. Thirty two bottles of wine and one miniature of Snezhnayan Fire Water. 
“I'm not done with that. Give it here.”
You freeze just short of putting the small bottle in the trash bag. On closer inspection, there indeed is some clear liquid left inside. Without looking at her, you pass her the bottle. With the corner of your eye you see Eula down what's left and put it on the ground, amongst the dust, hair and dried wine. With a slightly tense hand you pick it up and place it in the bag. 
Turning around to look for the rest, you hear her voice again. 
“Why are you here? Stop cleaning and get out of here. I want to be alone.” She turns her head just enough to look at you sideways. Her eyes are cold and bitter, a far cry to the feelings you saw therein years ago. “Don't you understand that?”
“I need to tidy up here. The dust spreads to other rooms, and I think you could use some more space”, you say, as confidently and casually as you can, continuing to place bottles in your bag. 
Thirty three. Thirty four. Thir-
A creak of the bed makes you spin around. Eula's book is on the floor, a torn off wine label used as a bookmark. You sneak a quick glance at her face to asses her mood, finding a displeased grimace on her face. Her normally pale complexion has a fair bit of colour to it now. 
On no, no no no. Barbaros no. Please no. Not good. Not good. 
“You can tidy all you want when I'm on duty, not now. I come here for peace and quiet, not you plunging this room into chaos with your nonsense. Is that so hard to understand?” Her breath reaches you, and your nose instantly picks up a hint of alcohol amongst the smell of unwashed teeth. 
Your lips tighten. This really needs to be done, maybe you could grab at least one more- 
Eula’s voice grows louder. Her hands find her way to her hips. “Are you deaf? Or just dumb? Besides, it's late and you should be in bed. Fuck off to sleep.”
It is eleven in the evening, and you were usually in bed - if you weren't, your slightly drunk wife would stumble into your room and kill every light source without a word. But this phrase was nothing new to you, and it always spelled incoming anger each time. When drunk, Eula was a ticking bomb - recently, even the slightest annoyance could push her into a frenzy of bitter accusations and foul language. You weren't about to provoke her. 
“Okay, I'll leave. I'm sorry.” You turn around, and head for the door. However, you feel a strong hand grip your wrist, holding you in place. “Y-yes, honey?”
Eula’s face is the same, unchanging frown. Her eyes are misty and unfocused from the alcohol in her system. “Don't honey me. What's the deal with you lately? You either beg me for money or act like a retard.”
Swallowing, you think of an answer. Asking her why she said so was pointless - in her eyes, even the smallest of things could become proofs of infidelity or some flaw of character. But the only thing occupying your mind is her state. Without much thinking, you quietly answer. “Eula, I-I think you're drunk… Can we talk about this later?”
You flinch when her grip tightens. “Again with that bullshit? I told you, I'm never drunk - I know myself, and I know how much I can drink. I am never drunk, and I am not a drunk. Got that?”
A meek nod from you makes her brow furrow. “Look me in the eyes when I speak to you. Do you understand?” She clenches her hand further, eliciting a quiet gasp from you. 
“Yes, Eula. I understand. You're never drunk. I'm sorry for saying that.” Nothing matters in your mind now except appeasing her. You don't want to be screamed at, not again. Hesitantly, you look up at her. “Could you let go? It hurts…”
She does so, and you immediately rub your wrist. It's red and aching, and Eula doesn't seem to care. “So why do you keep asking for money huh? Are you spending it on your whims, Y/N? Or maybe on hookers? The money I gave you was always enough in the past.”
“It wasn't. I always had to chip in too.” You reply, sounding a bit defensive. You can't help it - your income is not great compared to her, but you work hard for it. It's only natural for you to defend yourself, but you instantly regret it when you hear her tone raise. 
“You're lying. I know how much we spend. Don't bullshit me.” She snarls. 
“Eula, please calm down. The sink broke, a-and we needed to change the toilet seat, and I had to buy winter clothes. I'm asking because the floors would really use a make-over, the walls are a bit dirty too… I could paint them, if I had the money.” There was always so much to do around the house, but Eula usually ignored it. She wasn't about to fix anything herself, and you would do it no problem, but you needed Mora to buy the necessary items. More than you could afford on your own. 
“You have the money. You're trying to make a fool out of me again, huh? What, stuffing your mouth with what we have at home doesn't suffice anymore? You wanna eat out?” You try to talk back, but she cuts you off. “Don't you dare try to say anything, you fat, sneaky asshole. You just want to pocket the cash! That's why you married me, huh?”
It's not the first time you hear these words, but they hurt all the same. How can she say those things to her own husband? What did you do to her? “Eula, why are you like this?”
“What? Why am I not taking your lies, you mean? Because I'm not stupid enough to fall for your puppy eyes.” She places her hand on your back and pushes you towards the door. “I've had my share of your shit today. Get out.”
You don't say a word, stumbling slightly as she forces you out. When she's done, Eula leans on the doorway for support. You know it's not right. You know it's toxic. Usually, you would bow and take it. But something in your heart, a small flicker of dignity, bubbles up to the top. 
“You're abusive Eula. You shouldn't treat me like this! I c-clean the house, I work hard, I do everything-”
Eula scoffs in response. “How dare you. I give you money, I give you a roof over your head, I keep you safe from the people, I love you, I care for you and I get this in return. How dare you, you ungrateful bastard!”
She lounges at you. 
“No! Please, Eula, I-” You say, but the words die in your throat when she grabs your collar. Then, with the alcohol clouding her self control, she throws you towards your room. 
You fall on the floor, hitting your head on a drawer. Hand clutching your head in an attempt to shield it, you look back. Eula, her stance wobbling a little, grabs your work bag, opens it, and dumps all the tools and items on the floor. She tossed the empty container at you. 
“Pack yourself, mister. You're no husband of mine. Beg on the street, where you belong - I don't care.” Upon seeing the shock on your face, she stomps her foot and shouts. “Move!”
Scrambling to get up, you pull open your drawer and  frantically scoop up everything inside. Watching you, Eula crosses her arms, using the wall as a support for her blurry world. Once the mass of clothes reaches the top of your pack, she approaches you, causing you to leap towards the door and run. She tries to kick you, but is not coordinated enough to do so. Still, she pursues you and watches as you turn around. 
“Out!”
You shut the door. 
Eula looks at it for a minute with unfocused eyes. Her heart beats rapidly, her body is hot, but there's still some sober though in her mind. 
She turns on her heel back towards her room. After snatching a full bottle from the wardrobe, Eula pushes all the clutter on her desk aside and sits down. She gulps down a third of the bottle in one breath, indifferent to the warmth spreading in her throat. The bottle is slammed down on the desk with a loud thud. 
Her head soon follows.
She falls into empty sleep, your terrified face burnt into her memory. Forever. 
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Thanks for reading.
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kpop---scenarios · 3 hours ago
Text
Whispers Of The Night (5)
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Pairing: Stray Kids x Reader
Genre: Vampire! Au, College! Au
Warning: Violence, Mentions of Blood, Language
Word Count: 2.5k
Taglist: @steddie-steddie @hongtyong @purple-bell @deadpool15
@purplelady85 @wife2straykidss @piscesrising01
@baby-stay92 @kisses-too-the-moon @dwaekkiiracha
@silly250 @rylea08 @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @satosugu4l
@gabriellamarie @tsunderelino @iovecb97 @1810cl @lordmaahes-nsc @sailorkoss @minh0scat @pixie0627
@50-husbands @yaorzu-blog @anskiiz
@joyofbebbanburg @number1jeonginstan @skzooluvr
@jisunglyricist @ambersnowxxx @ayyonoona @31maze13
@stay-tiny-things @thegingerthatwaited @hoesheez
@stayatinykatsy @catlove83 @jeonginstulip @kaleigh-2002
@honeycombbaybee @hyuneyeon @flylis @kpop-choco
@chloe-elise-2000 @eastjonowhere @stephanieeeyang @nightmarenyxx
@0325tiny @m1nn1everse @igot7bulletproofmonstas
A/N: As always, thank you to @skzdust for all your help with this chapter, the last ones, and im sure future ones! And thank you to @xomakara for beta reading when I was heavily questioning myself!
Previous Chapters
Jeongin crawls onto the bed, hovering over you. You watch as he licks his lips, lowering his head, placing his lips onto yours. You move your hands up, grabbing the hem of his shirt. Your knuckles had already grazed his abs, making you groan internally. Just as you were about to get it over his head, the door to his room swings open.
Jeongin turns his head to see who it was, while you partially peek over his shoulder but also try to hide yourself from the intruder.
“Dude.” Jeongin says. “Kinda in the middle of something here.”
“Sorry, uh, we have a problem.” Changbin murmurs. “Hi, y/n.”
“Hi.” You squeak.
“Do I need to be there?” Jeongin asks with a sign.
“It's, uh, a problem in the basement.” Changbin says.
“Shit.” Jeongin says, moving faster than you'd ever seen. A millisecond ago he was laying on top of you, and then he was walking towards the door with Changbin.
“Can I help?” You ask, crawling off the bed, smoothing yourself out.
“Just go to your room. And stay there.” Jeongin says. “Plug your headphones in or something.” He finishes, just before he and Changbin disappear from his room. You take a deep breath, getting off Jeongin's bed, heading towards your room instead now. You can hear slight yelling from downstairs but you try to ignore it. You were told to stay out. It's their house, their basement and you didn't need to know what was down there. You put your headphones on, playing some music with the sole intention of studying… in a second. You lay down on your bed, closing your eyes, just to rest and picture in your head what could have happened with Jeongin.
You didn't mean to fall asleep. But you did, and when you woke up, your headphones were off and it was dark outside. You grabbed your phone with your eyes still closed, only opening only one of them to see a message from Chan.
‘We had to go out, and didn't want to wake you. So if we're not home, don't worry.’
You groan, closing your eyes, still feeling like you wanted to sleep. You tried but there was a sound you could just barely hear.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Your eyes shoot open. You sit up in your bed. Your eyes close for a second, when they open you're at the top of the stairs. They close again.
Open. You're halfway down the stairs.
Closed.
Open. You're in the kitchen.
What was happening?
Closed.
Open. Your hand hovers over the door knob to the basement. The sound is louder now.
Bang.
Bang.
It sounds like chains being hit against a metal pole.
Closed.
Open. You're half way down the basement stairs.
Closed.
Open. You're in the middle of the dimly lit, unfinished basement. You look around, your eyes trying to adjust. You see long black hair a ways in front of you. The whimpers and cries of a woman ring in your ears.
“Please.” She cries. “Please help me.” Her voice shakes as she calls out for you. “They kidnapped me. Chained me up down here.” She whispers.
“Oh my…” You trail off. Your head is screaming at you to turn around and go back upstairs but your body isn't responding. Instead you walk towards her, slowly. Listening to her plea’s and cries. It was like you had no control over what you were doing.
“Why? Why would they do this?” You ask, continuing to take your small steps towards her.
“I don't… I don't know.” She sniffles. “But I'm just so…” she pauses. “Hungry.”
You stop. There's a pit in your stomach. This isn't right. Something about this just isn't right.
“Can I go get you some food?” You whisper.
“You'll do.” She murmurs. “Come closer.”
You walk a little closer to her, an old metallic smell hits your nose.
“What do you mean I'll…” you begin. You're close to her. Too close. She turns around very suddenly. Large fangs spill from his mouth, dried blood covers her face and her body, her eyes shone red like the blood moon. You try to jump back but she grabs your leg, pulling you down onto the floor with such force. You scream, as loud as you can before your head is smashed against the concrete floor, you knew you were at the very least going to have a black eye.
You try to fight as she drags you towards her, nothing but fear flowing through your body.
“Lilith!” You hear a booming voice from behind you. You stop moving. Her hand lets go of your leg. You're picked up with ease, your arms wrapped around your savior. You look up through blurry vision, seeing Minho’s stone cold face, glaring at Lilith.
“What are you doing down here?” He scolds you, turning around to walk away.
“Please just let me drink a little! Please, Minho! I'm starving! Minho! You can't do this to me! Minho!” She screams as he takes you upstairs, closing the door, leaving her and her screams chained up.
He sets you down on the couch without a word, walking into the kitchen, coming back with an ice pack wrapped up into a cloth. “You're going to have a nasty black eye.” He sighs.
“How did you…thank you.” You whisper. “For saving me.”
Before Minho can respond, seven men rush through the front door, stopping in their tracks as soon as they see Minho standing there.
“Why did you leave, what happened?” Felix asks.
Minho steps to the side, revealing you, with an ice pack, dirt all over your clothes.
“Lilith got to her. I'm guessing using her hypnotic state party trick.” Minho sighs.
Chan steps forward, rubbing his face. “Well I guess it's time we had a chat then.” He sighs. They all stand around, looking at Chan who comes to sit beside you. “This isn't a conversation that we have often.” He begins. “We don't tell people, ever.”
“You're vampires.” You murmur. They all stare at you.
“You know?” Hyunjin asks.
“Jeongin admitted but also didn't admit to compelling me the other day.” You murmur. “I also did some… research.”
“Is that why you were reading Just Vampire Things?” Changbin laughs. They all groan.
“Don't read that shit.” Han says. “That's for hunters.”
“Wait, that's a real thing?” You ask.
“Vampire hunters?” Seungmin asks. “Yeah they're very real.” He says, not letting you answer.
“I thought it was just some stupid page.” You murmur. “How do you know who's a hunter and who isn't?”
“Well usually the ones running towards you with a wooden stake are hunters, if they don't do that then typically they are.” Minho smiles.
“Thanks smart-ass.” You grumble. “Okay, so now that's out of the way, why is there a woman downstairs who says she's starving and that you kidnapped her.”
“You can't listen to her. She tells nothing but lies.” Jeongin pipes up.
“Lilith.” Chan says. “She's one of the original vampires from 1047.”
“That's…” You pause.
“She's really fucking old.” Seungmin says.
“She's the one who changed us all in 1884.” Chan goes on. “We were forced to become subservient to her. Bringing her people to feed on, killing anyone who looked at her the wrong way. Doing all her bidding, every single bad thing she needed done, that's where we came in.”
“But now we're done. Especially when we found out our mate was here.” Changbin says.
“Mate?” You ask.
“Usually, each member in the clan has their own mate. On certain, rare occasions one clan can have one mate.” Felix explains.
“We've been waiting for you for a very long time. Since 1890 to be exact. We weren’t sure if we were ever going to find our mate.” Han says. Minho turns, smacking him upside the head. “Ouch! What was that for?” Han yelps, rubbing his head. You sat there, the ice pack now sitting beside you on the couch. You stared at the ground as all the information they just piled onto you swirled around in your head. You were their mate? All of them? And they had been waiting for you? Since 1890?
“What the…fuck?” You sigh. “I'm sorry. I just… I have to go to bed. This is too much.” You say. You stand up, moving past the eight men who were not glaring at Han. You go towards the stairs, your head still spinning. Your face hurt, your head up and fuck did your leg ever hurt.
“Why would you say that?” You hear a few of them beginning to scold Han. You appreciated the fact that they told you the truth and you were no longer in the dark but fuck, there was so much you needed to wrap your head around and you didn't know where to start. You crawled into your bed, your face and your leg throbbing and fell asleep rather quickly, dreaming of Lilith in the basement.
The next morning you woke up with the worst headache you'd ever had. You shuffled with your sore leg into the bathroom, looking at your face. There was no hiding this bruise. The entire half of your face was almost black and blue, it looked like you had gotten into a fight with someone and lost, badly. You dragged yourself around to get ready, not wanting to go to class but you knew you needed too. You had missed a few classes already and unfortunately for you, you weren't a million year old Vampire who was taking courses they had likely taken a thousand times already. You got dressed in a comfy outfit, grabbing your things and headed downstairs.
“Hey.” Hyunjin smiles as you make your way into the kitchen.
“Hi.” You sigh, pouting a little bit.
“Shit, your face.” He says, walking up to you. He gently runs his fingers over your bruise, it makes you flinch a little.
“I'm sorry.” He whispers.
“No it's okay.” You smile. “The coolness from your hands feels nice.” You say. He keeps staring at your face, you lightly push him away. “Stop looking. I know I look awful.”
“Actually.” He begins. “You look as gorgeous as always.” He says, making your heart skip a beat.
“Hwang Hyunjin, are you flirting with her?” Felix asks, walking into the kitchen.
“You bet I am.” Hyunjin says.
“Don't take too long, I'm going to drive this vision to school today.” Felix grins.
“Do you even have a class today?” You wonder, grabbing an apple.
“No.” He smiles. “Ready?”
You shrug your shoulders, waving to Hyunjin as you follow Felix out of the house. He opens the door for you and you climb into the passenger seat of his car, buckling in as he glides over to the driver's side.
“Do you all have your own cars?” You ask.
“Yeah but we often switch it up for fun.” He laughs. You could never imagine being so well off to do that.
Not long after, Felix pulls up to the school. “Have a good day, gorgeous.” He says in his deep voice. Sending chills all down your body and into your clit.
“You too.” You murmur, getting out of the car.
You weren't used to this. Men actually enjoying your company and complimenting you? Mark never did anything remotely sweet like that. Fuck, you were lucky if he would even come back home after a night out. This was new to you and the whole situation still had your head spinning around.
“What the fuck happened to you?” You hear from in front of you. You look around, seeing Mark stomping towards you. You rolled your eyes, you said his name in your head and now he was here. Of course he was.
“What do you want?” You ask, continuing your walk to your class.
“Who did that to you?” He asks.
“Why do you care?”
“Because you're my girlfriend. I care about your wellbeing.” He snaps.
“You didn't care about it when you were out fucking other women.” You say. “And I'm not your girlfriend.”
“It was one of those weird, motherfuckers wasn't it?” He asks.
“No, it wasn't one of those really nice, protective men.”
“Don't lie to me y/n.” He snaps. “I'll fuck them all up.”
You laugh. You laughed so hard it hurt your face. “Okay, Mark. Big tough guy now, are you?”
“I've always been tough.” He scoffs.
“Really? Is that why you pushed me and ran when you were shit talking to that guy at the bar last year?” You ask.
“That was different.”
“How? He was gonna kick your ass and you literally pushed me into him and took off. He took pity on ME.” You spit. “You no longer have an opinion on my life. Leave me alone.” You say, walking away from him and towards the door to your class. You stare at the handle of the door to your classroom. You needed to be here but fuck you didn't want to be.
You turn around, walking away from the door. It was going to be too much, you already knew it. The stares you were getting walking onto campus was already enough. You walked back towards where Felix dropped you off not long ago, seeing a familiar car sitting there.
“What are you doing here?” You ask.
“I was waiting just in case you felt like it was too much.” Seungmin says.
“You do have a sweet side, don't you?” You laugh, climbing into the car.
“Don't tell anyone.” He laughs.
You pass the house, looking over at Seungmin. “Where are we going?” You ask.
“We're going to meet the guys for lunch.” He says, keeping his eyes on the road. While you were hungry, you couldn't help but feel a little sense of annoyance. You weren't sure why, there was no reason for you to be annoyed.
Seungmin pulls into a restaurant parking lot, parking the car. The two of you walk inside, seeing the boys all smiling while sitting at the table, waving you over.
Rage.
Pure rage flowed through your body as you sat in between Han and Changbin. “Maybe tomorrow, hey?” Changbin smiles.
You force a smile back at him, but inside, it was like you were on fire. Your hand shook as you picked up your water, trying to soothe yourself.
You look around the table, looking at each man that surrounds you and you just want to swipe everything off the table and scream.
“You okay?” Han leans over to ask you, whispering in your ear, setting his arm on the table. You watch as he moves his elbow ever so slightly, clanking his knife against the plate. The sound goes straight to your head, and your rage is ready to spill out of your body.
“Yeah.” You snap. “I have to go to the bathroom.” You say. You stand up, without another word, walking to the bathroom. You headed straight for the sink, splashing water on your face. Your leg throbs in an almost unbearable pain. You lean against your hands on the counter, taking deep breaths. You look up into the mirror, gasping at your face. Your bruise was still there but your eyes were bloodshot, and your pupils were almost black.
What was happening to you?
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