#when I see this now I want urgency fly there again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

goodlucktai · 6 months ago

Text

raised on little light (1/3)

rise of the tmnt word count: 2k pairing: leo & oc i've had this idea rattling around since the rise farewell comic earlier this year made it canon that the turtles had another brother and a sister floating around somewhere. we know who their sister is, so this is my take on that 5th brother. i hope you enjoy meeting him <3 big thank you to @soldrawss and @mykimouser for enabling my insane behavior (and thank you again to sol for drawing the art i included in this chapter!!!) title borrowed from northern attitude by noah kahan read on ao3

2020

Leo regretted his last words as soon as they left his mouth.

“Hero moves are totally your style”? As if Raph doesn’t have enough issues already.

But what he meant—what he would have tried to explain if there was time—was that Raph is his hero. He’s always been Leo’s hero. And if Leo could be anything like him, even for a second, even if it was the last thing he ever did, then he could be satisfied with that.

It’s a silly thing to be stuck thinking about, laying on a torn up chunk of earth with a monster ominously lumbering somewhere below, looking for where it threw its toy. Laying there, feeling every bruise and broken bone, and hoping that he didn’t hurt his big brother’s feelings.

They’ll be okay, Leo thinks, trying to make it be the thing that gives him courage instead of just more homesickness. They’ll miss me, maybe for a long time, but they’ll be okay.

Leo’s supposed to be fighting for his life, but it’s all he can do to keep a grip on the photo in his hand, the only thing in this entire dimension worth holding onto. It’s all he can do to keep his eyes open when every blink is longer than the last.

It feels like enough of a rebellion. The Krang looked annoyed that he was still breathing the last time it batted him through the void like a fly, which gives Leo the idea that he should probably be dead by now. He feels a detached sort of pride at how grown-up he’s being about all this. Better late than never

Leo waits for the Krang to come for him, dripping his blood and sneering his daddy’s nickname for him hatefully as it does, and hopes he made his family proud.

Leo hopes he’ll go wherever Gram-gram is. It would be nice to know someone when he gets there.

Movement in his periphery snags Leo’s attention. His brain starts throwing up warning flags, signaling danger—anything moving around in here is another parasite, or a Krang hound, nothing he’ll want to be sprawled out on a silver platter for—but he can’t summon any urgency.

He turns his head and finds himself looking up at another turtle.

It’s the very last thing he expected to see. They both just stare at each other for a moment.

The newcomer appears to be a few years older than Leo, based on the broadness of their shoulders, and half a head taller. Their skin is more gray than green and their plastron is so pale it’s closer to white than yellow. Their carapace, what Leo can see of it, is a deep blue-black and they’re covered, skin and shell both, in white spots. Two of the spots on their face give the impression of eyebrows lowered in a glare, but they don’t seem angry at him.

The turtle is completely unfamiliar to Leo, which is saying something. He thought he and his family had the monopoly on… this whole situation.

Disquieted, Leo remembers that he’s supposed to be the only turtle here. That was a very significant part of the decision he’d made.

It must be a hallucination, he decides, instantly comforted by his own reasoning. That makes sense. He just wished that if his mind was going to conjure him some dying company it could at least be someone he knows. An imaginary Mikey or Donnie or Raphie for one last hug. One last affectionate forehead bonk. An “I still love you,” if that wasn’t asking too much.

Don’t you cry now, he scolds himself sternly when his eyes start to blur and burn. It’s not about you.

With a resounding crash of metal against stone, the Krang finds them at last. He’s snarling something that Leo is too slow to piece together before he cuts himself off—surprising the hell out of Leonardo by acknowledging the hallucination. That’s not how that works.

“Another pest ,” the Krang hisses. His serrated teeth glint when he draws his gummy lips back in an ugly smile. His tone is oily and unpleasant when he adds, “You’re less colorful than those other ones. I would have remembered seeing you. Where were you when your accomplices were fumbling about in my Technodrome like the stupid creatures they are?”

“We won,” Leo reminds the alien, even though it makes him cough. His lips are warm and wet now but he won’t think about why. “Blew up your ugly ship. Who looks stupid now?”

“Shut your mouth!” the Krang roars, going from slimy to homicidal in about three seconds. Leo cringes, every ounce of animal instinct in his body urging him to hide in his shell and ride the rest of this nightmare out.

The spotted turtle snaps, “Don’t talk to him.”

It would have made sense if he was looking at Leo when he said it. Don’t engage, don’t bait the big monster that could kill you with as much effort as it takes you to blink, et cetera ad nauseum. If only he’d had a nickel for every time he heard that.

But instead the turtle is looking at the Krang, and he’s radiating the kind of cold-blooded murder that you mostly only see in movies. He has one arm flung out in front of Leo like he actually means to use it to stop the Krang from getting any closer.

“Don’t even look at him,” he goes on, sounding seconds away from baring his teeth.

This guy is significantly unaware of the danger he’s facing, and Leo ought to warn him about what enormous clusterfuck he’d just wandered into. Leo ought to say he appreciates the reptile solidarity, but you should definitely run, new guy.

But this probably isn’t actually happening outside of his own head. And besides, Leo has to focus really hard on his numb fingers so he doesn’t drop his photo.

“I’ll look where I please,” the Krang says, as unbothered by the hallucination as he was by Leo’s entire family. “Starting with that fool head of yours. I’m interested in whatever backdoor led you here. If it’s my way out, well —”

Adrenaline surges through Leo, and he’s hardly aware of moving before he’s lurching up and shouting out, “No!”

He can’t get out, he can’t. Leonardo won’t be able to trick him again. He won’t be there to help this time.

“I do have one thing for you,” the spotted turtle interrupts to say, reaching over his shoulder for what turns out to be a compound crossbow strapped to his back.

Leo doesn’t know a lot about archery so it’s weird his fictional turtle does, crank-cocking the weapon like it’s an extension of his arm. He watches cluelessly as the turtle slides something very purple out of his jacket pocket and notches it into the groove where the bolts are supposed to go. It’s definitely not a bolt, but it’s a piercing-type projectile of some kind, and it fits in the crossbow like it was designed with crossbows in mind.

The turtle aims the bow at the Krang, who clicks the claws of his metal suit on the ground the way Splinter would drum his fingers on the kitchen counter when he was waiting on the microwave. The Krang looks condescending and mildly curious, like he’s watching dumb little animals do something they’re not trained to do.

“He told me to tell you he’s sorry he couldn’t be here to see this part,” the spotted turtle says, and then shoots without a second of hesitation or unnecessary dramatics.

The Krang bats the projectile away, or tries to, but it explodes on contact with his armor, and suddenly all Leo can smell is burning metal. Then burning meat.

The Krang begins to scream, clawing at something defiantly purple with a mind of its own that eats straight through him the effortless, immediate way corrosive acid chews through soft tissue. It moves like nanotech, covering as much of the Krang as possible in a manner of seconds and clearly designed to consume whatever it touches like a school of cartoon piranhas.

Donnie would love it, color scheme and all.

The Krang stumbles drunkenly, howling like a creature possessed, and Leo and his turtle companion both watch silently until he tips over the edge of the hunk of torn earth they’re on. Gravity is nonexistent in this dimension, so he doesn’t so much fall as sort of drift in another direction while he’s distracted with the purple stuff that’s doing its best to eat him alive.

The last handful of minutes have been so bizarre that it’s actually going pretty far in convincing Leo that none of it happened for real. The Krang hasn’t actually found him yet. This is clearly a dream. Or a pre-death electrical storm as the neurons in his brain fire up to fizzle out.

He tips his head to the side again to stare up at the archer, who is putting his bow away with perfect confidence that whatever that purple thing was, it will do the job.

“Who are you?” Leo asks stupidly.

“Gio,” the probably imaginary turtle replies.

Leo’s mouth runs off before he can stop it. “Just Gio? Like Cher?”

God, he thinks. That was stupid, Leo. Not the time or place, Leo. You’re in the prison dimension. You’re dying here and you can’t even cut the jokes now? Raph was so right about you.

But the imaginary turtle surprises him by smiling slightly, the corners of his mouth pulling just barely upwards in a way that somehow completely transforms him. Not the time or place for jokes or smiling at them but here they are. Like company.

“Giorgio Hamato,” ‘Gio’ says. That lands in Leo’s ears as something remarkably worth making a lot of noise over, but he can’t begin to unpack it. And after a second, he forgets what the remarkable part was. His mind is a deck of cards that got shuffled too enthusiastically and ended up scattered all over the floor. Gio doesn’t seem to mind when Leo just blinks at him, adding, “I’m here to take you home.”

“Pretty sure Uber doesn’t come out this far,” Leo mumbles, the words a paint smear, all thick and wet and muddy. One of his teeth feels broken and it’s keeping him awake, a blistering ache that cracks through the back of his mouth like lightning. “And I’ve got, like, zero bars.”

This is how I cope, he thinks, watching the bigger turtle absorb the second bad joke in as many minutes. Leo’s blinking fast so he doesn’t cry. He’s trying to focus on anything but the pain radiating through his whole body, and the swallowing darkness all around him, and the ruins of ancient metal ships looming where they float unrestricted by gravity, and the ballistic howls of a pissed-off pink alien still dealing with whatever the heck this Gio guy did to him.

He can’t focus on any of that because all of that is scary and he’s already terrified. He needs to not be terrified because he doesn’t want to be that kind of ghost when he haunts his family. He wants to be the friendly, funny kind, the kind that gets to stay at the end of the movie, the kind that will make silly faces at Mikey so he doesn’t get scared, and leave sticky notes for Donnie to remember to charge his phone and drink enough water, and cover Raphie with an extra blanket while he’s asleep because it gets cold at night but he always leaves his bedroom door open for them.

If Leo’s friendly and funny, if he helps, he’ll get to stay. He didn’t get to stay the first time, so this time he has to make it stick.

Larger hands wrap around his. It doesn’t register for a second, and then it does in a big way.

Leo jerks his head up. Moving just that much hurts like his ribs are broken all the way down and the bones in his leg have all melted into liquid agony, but it clears some of the fog away.

Someone is holding his hands in the prison dimension.

An alien like the Krang wouldn’t know the first thing about the human gesture, the togetherness of it, so it’s not some mean trick that’s being played. And it can’t be an imaginary turtle that Leo dreamed up, after all, because kindness would be the last thing he’d give himself.

Possibly very real Gio says, “Fuck Uber. Whatever that is. And don’t repeat that word.”

The punchy breath Leo chokes in is going to punch out again as a laugh or a sob. Leo squeezes the bigger turtle’s hands, photo crinkling between them, suddenly tethered to something in this void and hysterically certain that he’ll die for real if Gio lets go.

“I’m sixteen.” Leo’s voice wobbles. He doesn’t know what to react to first. He doesn’t understand how this is happening. He holds on. “I can say the fuck word if I want to, I’m practically an adult.”

Gio’s face does something it hurts to look at. His eyes are dark and sincere, the shape of them entirely familiar. There’s a warmth inside him that permeates the gloom. A star belonging to a much larger galaxy, but more significantly, belonging to the same crooked constellation Leo belongs to.

I know you, he thinks, surprised by the truth of it. I do. Where have you been?

“We’re going home,” Gio says, the certainty in his voice like one of those huge stones a river parts around, unmoved by the currents and crashing water. “I know the way out. Don’t worry about it. Close your eyes.”

The worst thing that could happen has already happened, Leo thinks. There’s no reason not to trust him. There’s nothing left to lose. He closes his eyes.

He feels himself drawn in, tucked against the built-in armor of a turtle chest, head resting on a broad shoulder. He’s been carried like this a million times before. He didn’t think it would happen again. Somewhere along the line, he’d been picked up for the last time and put down for the last time, and now he’s here, where no one who loves him can reach him, to scoop him up when he falls asleep on the sofa and take him to bed.

But Gio lifts him up like he’s still a kid. The Krang is bellowing hateful promises in between the grating shrieks of pain, promises of what he’ll do when he gets his hands on Leo, but all of that is far away.

Leo isn’t afraid anymore. He isn’t going to be a ghost.

He’s pretty sure he’s going home.

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #hamato leonardo #rottmnt oc #tmnt fic #my writing #the archer au #hamato giorgio #me yesterday: yeah im really not sure whether to post it yet or not #me today: 🕺🕺

190 notes · View notes

goldfades · 1 month ago

Note

weee need Luka dad! x reader!!!!🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

Your daughter is dramatic. Luka swears she gets it from you, but you know better—she gets it from him. It’s in the way she stomps through the house in her light-up sneakers like she’s got somewhere urgent to be, the way she argues with her father like a seasoned lawyer, her little brows furrowed in defiance, hands on her hips.

Most of all, it’s in the way she throws herself onto the couch now, spine melting into the cushions like she’s just been dealt the worst hand life has to offer.

“We have to go,” she says, voice lined with desperation. “Mama, we have to.”

She looks at you with those wide blue eyes, Luka’s copy-and-paste, but softer, rounder—more dangerous. She knows how to use them, too, lashes fluttering with the kind of precision that makes Luka grumble under his breath about how unfair the world is.

You humor her, pushing her curls away from her face. “Go where, baby?”

She gasps, appalled that you don’t already know. “To see Sabrina Carpenter!”

Your lips twitch, but you hold back the laugh, nodding along like this is Very Serious Business. “Right. Of course.”

This is her thing right now. A month ago, she wanted to be an astronaut. Two weeks ago, she was practicing her model walk in the hallway mirror, demanding that you and Luka call her Gigi Hadid. And now? Now, it’s Sabrina Carpenter. She’s been watching music videos on repeat, humming melodies under her breath, twirling around the kitchen like she’s waiting for someone to roll out a red carpet.

You turn to Luka, who’s sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone, blissfully unaware of what’s about to hit him.

“Baby,” you say sweetly, watching him glance up with suspicion. “Wanna take your girls to a concert?”

Luka squints. “What concert?”

Your daughter, already exasperated, huffs loudly. “Sabrina Carpenter!”

Luka blinks, expression blank. You swear you can see the loading symbol in real time. “…Who?”

Your daughter’s jaw drops. “Daddy,” she whispers, horrified. “How do you not know?”

He shifts uncomfortably, looking between the two of you like he’s just realized he’s outnumbered. “I—what? I don’t know her! What she do?”

Your daughter gasps again, clutching her chest like he’s just struck her down. “She sings Feather!”

“That’s supposed to mean something?”

Your daughter turns to you, pleading. Luka looks at you, helpless. And you? You’re just enjoying the show.

You let the silence stretch for a moment, just to watch Luka suffer. He looks between you and your daughter like he’s missed a crucial piece of information, like maybe he should know who Sabrina Carpenter is but has somehow failed a test he didn’t know he was taking.

“She’s a singer,” you finally say, taking pity on him.

“Uh-huh,” Luka nods, still clearly confused. “Like…Taylor Swift?”

Your daughter lights up at the name drop. “Yes! She opened for Taylor! But she’s also her own person, Daddy.”

Luka scratches his jaw. “So she’s like…baby Taylor Swift?”

Your daughter makes a sound so offended, so deeply wounded, you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Daddy, no! She’s Sabrina! You have to know who she is!”

Luka looks at you for help, and you shrug, enjoying this way too much. He mutters something in Slovenian under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face like this is somehow harder than an NBA game. “Okay, okay,” he sighs. “You like her, you want to go to her show. When is it?”

Your daughter is already scrambling for the iPad on the counter, fingers flying across the screen as she pulls up the concert dates with the urgency of a stockbroker watching the market crash.

“She’s coming here next month!” she announces proudly. “And we need to go.”

You expect Luka to hesitate, to ask more questions, to try and find a way out of this. But he just looks at her—his little girl, the light of his life, the tiny human who has him wrapped around her tiny little finger—and sighs in defeat.

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “We go.”

Your daughter shrieks in delight, launching herself at him, her little arms barely making it around his broad chest. Luka catches her with ease, lifting her up like she weighs nothing, pressing a loud kiss to her cheek.

“You’re the best, Daddy!” she beams.

Luka groans dramatically. “I know, I know.”

But you? You know this is just the beginning. Because Luka might have agreed, but he still has no idea what he’s signed up for.

That night, after your daughter is asleep, you find Luka on the couch, scrolling through his phone with a deep frown.

“Alright, what’s wrong?” you ask, plopping down beside him.

“I look her up,” he says, turning his phone to you. Sure enough, Sabrina Carpenter’s Spotify page is open, her discography in full display. “I don’t know a single song.”

You press your lips together to keep from laughing. “You could’ve just asked me, you know.”

“I try to learn!” he says, exasperated. “So I don’t look stupid at the concert. But all these songs…‘Feather’? ‘Espresso’? What is this?”

“They’re hits, baby.”

Luka narrows his eyes. “She sings about coffee?”

You snatch the phone from his hands and press play. Instantly, the opening beats of Espresso fill the room, bright and bubbly, and Luka’s face twists like you just gave him a pop quiz in a language he doesn’t speak.

“This?” he points at the phone. “This is what she loves?”

You snort. “Luka, she’s six. She thinks Bluey is the height of emotional storytelling.”

Luka exhales loudly, dropping his head against the back of the couch. “I’m not ready for this.”

You hum, settling against him. “You weren’t ready for Barbie either, but you ended up loving it.”

“That was different,” he argues. “That was a movie. This is a concert. A bunch of screaming kids. Loud music. And you know what’s worst?”

You raise a brow. “What’s worst?”

Luka gestures vaguely. “She’s gonna want merch.”

You bark out a laugh. “You mean like the five different Luka Dončić jerseys she owns?”

He glares at you. “That is different.”

“Is it?”

Luka groans, rubbing his temples like he’s already exhausted. “I just—why can’t she be into something normal?”

You tilt your head. “Like basketball?”

“Yes!”

You smile. “Luka, she already loves basketball. But she also loves pop music, and Barbies, and dressing up, and changing her mind every two weeks. That’s the fun of being a kid.”

Luka sighs, but you can tell he’s softening.

“And,” you add, nudging him. “You love making her happy.”

That gets him. He grumbles something under his breath, but you see the fond smile tugging at his lips.

“So,” you tease, “wanna hear Feather next?”

Luka groans, but he doesn’t stop you from playing it.

And as much as he pretends to suffer, you don’t miss the way his foot starts tapping along to the beat.

#luka doncic #luka doncic x reader #luka dončić #luka dončić x reader

143 notes · View notes

harley-sunday · 8 months ago

Text

Vagabond

Summary: There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for Daniel. Even if it means flying out to Singapore on race day.

Pairing: Daniel Ricciardo x reader (unnamed OFC)

Warnings: Language

Word count: 1.9k

AN: How could I not? ♥

Part of the Pieces of Us universe (collection of one-shots).

Pieces of Us masterlist

The sound of your phone ringing pulls you out of your early morning slumber and you blindly reach for where it’s laying on your nightstand, swiping right to accept the call without really looking at the screen, “Hello?”

“Hey,”

You pull the phone away from your ear and look at it in disbelief, thinking maybe this is all a bad dream, but the caller ID confirms it's not, “Blake?”

“Yeah.”

Shit.

“Taff-” there’s an urgency to his voice that makes your heart beat faster and sends your mind racing because there’s no reason to call this early unless- Oh God- Daniel- What if-

“Taff,” Blake says again, his voice kinder now. “I need you here.”

You let out a whimper in pain because no- Not like this- God, not like-

“Oh. No that’s not why- Shit. He’s ok,” Blake quickly tells you, “but I need you to listen, ok?”

You nod, then realise he can’t see you and so you whisper, “Ok.”

“There’s a flight from Perth at twelve ten,” Blake tells you, using what you and Daniel dubbed his ‘manager-Blake-voice’. The one that doesn’t take no for an answer. The one who you trust blindly. And so you listen. Even if you don’t know what the hell is going on. “You’re flying Qantas, so you can use priority. I’ve already checked you in, I’ll send you the boarding pass in a couple of minutes. I’ll text you the rest of the information for when you land in Singapore, but there’ll be someone to pick you up, drive you to the track so you can see him before the race starts, ok?”

Twelve ten. Ok. That’s means you’ll have to be at the airport at ten at the latest, even if you only bring a carry-on, so you’ll have to leave here at nine-thirty, which is an hour from now, so technically there’s enough time, unless-

“Taff?” Blake’s voice interrupts your thoughts. “I need you to make this flight, ok? It’s important.”

It’s important.

The words echo through your mind as you try to connect the dots, try to figure out what it is you’re missing, try to understand why Blake would call you at eight AM on a Sunday morning during the Singapore Grand Prix weekend, asking you to fly out not even four hours later. You try to come up with a million other reasons why he needs you there but it’s no good- You know there can be only one.

People say that whenever something mentally or physically terrifying happens, a person will either fight, or flight. You like to think there’s a third option; save what you can and make sure no one gets left behind. And so you ask, “Do you want me to pick up Joe and Grace?”

“No.”

You push yourself up from where you’ve been sitting on the edge of the bed and walk over to the window, peeking through the curtains to find the sun already high in the sky, “No, they’re driving to the airport themselves, or-”

“No, they can’t make it in time.”

“Blake,” you whisper, something heavy settling deep in your chest because this is not how it’s supposed to go. “If this is- If he’s-” You take a shaky breath, “They should be there.”

“I know, babe, but-” he sounds absolutely defeated. “I looked at all the options but with them at Karroun Hill they’re too far from an airport to make it work on such short notice.”

You feel your throat go dry, because his parents should be there. “Michelle then?”

“She’s got the kids-”

“I can take the kids,” you offer immediately. “If I go over there and watch the kids, Michelle can go. They might still let you change the name on the ticket if you-”

“Taff,”

You start to feel yourself get desperate, “He needs his family there, Blake.”

“Taff,” Blake tries again, his voice filled with sympathy. “You’re his family too.”

***

It takes you forty minutes to shower, pack a small overnight bag, and leave the house. Of course you need to stop for gas, which costs you another ten minutes, but ninety minutes after Blake called you’re at the airport and waiting for your flight to board. Which isn’t for another two hours.

You kill the time by having breakfast, or try to anyway, because you’re way too nervous to eat more than a couple of bites and so instead you find a quiet corner and send a text to Grace and Joe to let them know you’re flying out to Singapore. Michelle gets a text too- by now you know better than to call anyone in a public place, especially with this kind of sensitive information- and she replies within minutes, telling you to give her brother a big hug when you see him.

You decide against texting Daniel, don’t want him to be distracted, and instead you spend your time people-watching and remembering the last time you were in Singapore, two years ago, when Daniel finished fifth in that piece of shit McLaren. It was his best result in that god awful final year with the team and so you ignored Zak Brown’s pleas to celebrate with the team and instead opted for a quiet celebration with just the two of you.

You’re so lost in thoughts you almost miss the final boarding call but there’s a kind gentleman next to you that nudges your elbow and says, “Isn’t that your flight, sweetheart?”

***

In the end, there’s a delay leaving Perth, a delay arriving at Singapore, and a never-ending queue at customs. To say you’re on edge when you finally get into the car Blake sent to pick you up would be an understatement. It’s already past eight in the evening and there’s no way you’ll make it to the track in time to see Daniel before the race. Your already broken heart breaks into a million more pieces at the thought of that and it takes everything you have not to break down right then and there.

The driver seems to feel there’s an urgency, weaving in and out of traffic effortlessly, dropping you off at the paddock entrance a mere twenty minutes later with a hesitant smile. You make sure to thank him by tipping generously before you get out of the car and step into the hot Singapore air.

With only a few minutes left until the race starts there’s an almost eerie quiet in the paddock, most people getting ready in their respective garages, pit walls, or starting boxes, and so you make it through the gates and into the alley behind the garages with relative ease. No one seems to pay you any mind as you walk to the VCARB garage, which suits you just fine.

The formation lap starts just as you enter the back of the garage, the roar of the engines sending a shiver down your spine. You find your way through the maze of corridors, offices, and driver rooms with relative ease, grabbing your pair of headphones as you pass the comms wall, and then all of a sudden you’re in the actual garage and there’s no going back.

You look around and find Blake in his usual spot, near the back, standing a little to the side so he can keep an eye both on the monitors and the pit wall. The pit crew is too busy watching the cars line up on the starting grid and so you’re able to sneak past them to stand next to Blake. You look at him once you’ve put your headphones on and connected them to the comms unit and your heart, oh your heart. He looks so defeated, the sad smile he wears so unlike him, and you hate it.

There’s so much to say and yet you both keep quiet, knowing now’s not the time. It’ll come- After.

And so when Blake puts his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close, just as the red lights come on one by one, you have to bite your lip to keep from crying and try to get time to slow down. You don’t want this race to ever start. Or end.

***

It’s when Daniel gets boxed on lap fifty-eight that Blake nudges you and motions for you to take your headphones off. When you do, he leans in and puts his mouth close to your ear, “Pierre’s going to share his channel with you after the finish, ok?”

All of a sudden there’s a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod.

***

“Ok mate, thanks again for the hard work,” you can hear Pierre tell Daniel. “When we stop at the bridge, P1 on full-car switch-off, P0 on everything else.” On the screen you see Pierre looking at the garage from over his shoulder, “There’s someone here with a special message for you, Daniel.”

“Hi babe,” you start, the tears you’ve been fighting all day finally spilling over. “I just want you to know that I’m so proud of you.”

There’s a lot of static on the line but you think you hear him let out a quiet laugh, “Ah, I can’t believe this.”

“I’ll see you in a bit, ok?” You smile through your tears, “Take it all in, Dan. It’s yours.”

On the screen that shows you his onboard camera, you can see him nod. It takes a while before he answers, but when he does his voice is full of emotion, “Yep. Understood.”

***

It’s when the screens show Daniel sitting in his car, in Parc Fermé after the race, that you need to step out of the garage and into the corridor that leads to Daniel’s driver room. Because all of a sudden it hits you. He’s never going to have a moment like this ever again. The quiet crying from earlier turns into big, ugly sobs because God, it hurts. There’s too many people around for anyone not to notice you and so you use your access code to unlock Daniel’s room and step inside, a safe haven in the middle of all this madness.

You try some of the breathing techniques Michael taught you when he was still working with Daniel and after a few minutes you’ve calmed down, if only a little. It’s then the door opens and Daniel steps inside and all of a sudden it’s like nothing else exists. He looks the way you feel and so you are wrapping your arms around him before he’s even had the chance to close the door behind him and tell him, over and over and over again, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

You know there’s not much time, know he has interviews and debriefs to get to, and so you pull back a little and cup his face, rubbing your thumbs over the stubble of his beard before you lean in and kiss him. Hard.

“I should go,” Daniel whispers against your lips.

“I know-”

“Wait for me?”

“Take as long as you need.” You stand on your toes and press another kiss to his lips, “You know I’d do anything for you, right?” There’s a hint of that mischievous smile you fell in love with all those years playing on his lips, and so you match his smile and add, “And-”

Of course he plays along, “And?”

You rest one hand against his chest, over his heart, “You love me for it.”

He lets his hands fall to your hips and rests his forehead against yours, sharing a breath, “That I do.”

“That you do.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead then, “Always.”

#Daniel Ricciardo x reader #Daniel Ricciardo fanfic #F1 Fanfic #DR3 #Daniel Ricciardo Imagine #Harley Sunday x Daniel Ricciardo

141 notes · View notes

sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth · 22 days ago

Text

Marked (MOC Dean x female reader)

Chapter 6 - Reverse

CWs Broken hearts. Depression. Guilt. Dubious consent. Lots of hurt. 18+. 10.7k words.

Mark of Dean series master list ⏐ SPN masterlist

“Fished you all, suckers!” Charlie exclaims, raising her hands over her head, doing a little dance despite the fact she’s sitting down. Sam smiles at her excitement while Castiel shakes his head in utter confusion.

“I don’t see what a card game has to do with any sea creatures,” he says. “Apart from the fact that you could not play this underwater. The cards would get wet. That seems highly impractical.”

Charlie throws Cas an unbelieving look while Sam scoffs, stands, collecting the empty beer bottles.

“Anyone up for another round?” he asks. Charlie does finger guns at him and even Cas nods, despite the fact that he doesn’t really get drunk. Sam turns to you when you don’t answer.

“You want another one?” he asks.

You blink, pushing your thoughts aside, then look at your bottle. You’ve barely touched it.

“I’m good,” you say, forcing a quick smile onto your face. Sam nods, then moves to the fridge.

You take a slow sip, the warm beer feeling strange in your mouth. You keep your eyes on the table because you can feel Charlie’s and Cas’ gaze on you.

“We could play something else,” Charlie suggests, voice over-the-top cheery and you look up at her. “I think I saw a pack of UNO flying around somewhere last time I was here.” You shake your head.

“It’s fine, really,” you answer but Charlie’s already standing up.

“I’m gonna see if I can find it,” she says, just as Sam’s coming back.

“Charlie, it’s fine,” he says, a slight urgency in his voice and you know exactly why. “Let’s just play another round.” Charlie widens her arms.

“You’re all just scared that I’m gonna beat your asses at UNO, too,” she says, not getting the hint. “So where is it? Don’t hide it from me, cowards.”

“It’s in Dean’s room,” you reply, looking up at her. Charlie’s arms sink down immediately, and the smile drops off her face.

“Oh,” he says, voice quiet.

“I got it for him as a birthday present last year,” you explain, feeling bad about ripping Charlie out of her attempt to make this evening somewhat enjoyable so harshly.

You still remember it, Dean opening the small package, an amused look on his face. He watched you while you explained that it had been your favorite game as a kid, and it would give you something to do in motel rooms or on long evenings at the bunker other than drink and watch TV. Dean had one of those strange genuine moments where he hadn’t made a joke, had thanked you and said you’d have to teach him how to play it. If you hadn’t been trying to hide the blush your already intense crush on him was causing you, you might have noted how strange it was that he didn’t know the game.

You’d like to ask him about it now. How it can be that he never played it.

The thought physically hurts your heart. You want nothing more than to hear his voice, see that soft smile when he realizes something means something to you. You would give everything for it. To see it again.

Sam sits down in his chair opposite you again, handing out the beers and distracting you from your memories. You let out a slow breath.

“I’m kind of tired,” you say, not looking at any of your three friends sitting around you. “I think I’m gonna turn in.” You stand, slowly. A month ago, even last week, they would have tried to convince you to stay. Now they don’t. They’re used to you disappearing at some point, locking yourself in your room.

As you begin walking away from the table, you don’t look back at their faces. You know exactly how they look. Forlorn, worried. Sam looks so sad sometimes that it makes you want to sob. But you don’t. Not in front of them anyway.

Your room is cool as the bunker sometimes is, and you could simply turn the heating on but it feels like too much work. Instead, you walk over to the bedside table where your phone is. Usually you don’t go anywhere without it anymore, but last night, before falling into fitful sleep, you forgot to plug in the charger. You woke up to it having turned off in the night. You panicked. What if he called and you hadn’t been awake?

Of course he didn’t call. Still, even now, there’s that moment before you wake the screen where you wonder if there will be a message. That intense hope, the possibility that everything is about to change, to be better. But there’s no new messages. You sit at the edge of the bed with a deep sigh.

As your nightly ritual dictates, you dial Dean’s number and hold the phone to your ear. It rings - and that alone, that fills you with so much hope and desperation - and you close your eyes, imagine him somewhere, seeing you calling and reaching for the phone, answering, You imagine it so intensely that you almost believe you can bend the world to your will, make him pick up.

But he never does. There’s a click, and then you hear his voice: “This is Dean’s other, other cell. So you must know what to do.” And then another click and silence.

There’s so many things you want to say. I miss you, and I love you. Please come back to me. You want to beg him to let you know he’s okay. Want him to tell you where he is, so you can come and find him.

Why did you leave me?

You don’t think you’ll forget that morning for as long as you live. Waking up, your body so burned up and tired you were hoping for death for a second. And then looking up, Dean standing there. Dean, who you had become one with the night before in a way you didn’t think was possible. And he was holding a knife.

You’d seen the way the Mark was changing him. There was no denying it, no matter how much less and less you cared. Not for a second would you have thought that its wrath would ever be turned on you. But right then, you were sure that it had.

And all you wanted was for him to know that you understood it wasn’t his fault. That you knew that he was simply losing the battle against it. Hope that maybe one day he could forgive himself.

And then he left. Left you lying there, stumbled out of the room and drove away. You sat there for a long time, unmoving, deadly quiet. Waiting for him to come back. Only he didn’t.

Eventually, you got up. Got dressed. You couldn’t find your phone, and then you realized that it was probably in the Impala, probably having dropped from your pocket when Dean laid you down on the backseat after choking you out. To protect you. He did that to protect you.

So you walked outside, and then kept walking. No goal, no idea where you were. You were lost to your thoughts, lost in your head, kept thinking over and over. How could Dean leave you? How could he?

And then, that sudden pain. A sharp stab behind your eye, like you’d eaten ice cream too fast. It lingered for a few seconds, and then it was gone.

Eventually, someone stopped their car for you. An older lady, asking you if you needed help. You lied, said your car had broken down and your phone was dead. She allowed you to use hers.

You tried Dean’s number first. Of course you did. No answer, and that terrified you more than anything. The only other number you knew by heart was Sam’s.

You waited in a diner, hour after hour after hour. No money on you, so all you could get was tap water. Eventually, a woman working there took pity on you, bought you some fries. You wolfed them down as if you hadn’t eaten in weeks.

Sam picked you up, half a day and a million weird stares by strangers later. You looked like you’d been beaten, abused, but the one person who asked, the woman who bought your food, you told you had been in a car accident, which, technically, you had been. Her gaze dropped to your throat, to the necklace of red bruising fingerprints, the one Eldon had given you.

“Mmh hmm,” she said, as if she knew something about you you didn’t. Eyed Sam something fierce when he finally showed up. It almost made you laugh. How ridiculous, the idea that Sam could be the cause of your injuries. How absolutely ridiculous.

Sam filled you in, on the drive back. About how Cas had shown up, had healed Charlie while Sam had figured out the spell that could undo the Mark.

“Why didn’t you wait?” you asked, looking over at him. Sam had pressed his lips together, didn’t answer. But you knew why. Because he had been scared Dean would stop him.

Neither of you heard anything from him for three days. Kept calling, texting. The only sign of life you got from him was one message. It arrived when Sam and you were calling contacts late in the evening, going through traffic surveillance. Sam is the one who got the message, not you, and even that fact hurts so much you can’t think about it. Only four words.

Don’t look for me.

Of course you and Sam didn’t stop. Neither of you had that in you. But as the days turned into weeks, the two of you realized one thing: Dean doesn’t want to be found.

You notice that you’ve been staring at the wall opposite you, the phone still raised to your head.

“Dean…” you say, not sure what else to add. What are the magic words that will finally convince him to come back to you? There’s a beep, telling you the time to record has ended.

There’s a knock on the door and you hang up the phone, put it down.

“Yeah?” you say and then the door opens, slowly, and Castiel steps in.

He gives you a careful smile, then walks towards you, finally sitting next to you on the bed. Both of you are quiet for a minute.

“I’m not very good at card games,” he finally says and you turn your head towards him. “So I thought I’d check on you.”

“I’m okay,” you say, and it’s almost not a lie because it is so obvious that you’re not. Still, Castiel nods. You’re both going along with it.

“He just needs time,” he says, turning to you slightly but you avoid his gaze. “A human carrying the Mark, it… it must have been very difficult. Losing it again even more so.” You nod, but it’s just in the hope that Cas won’t stop hammering home the point. Dean is in pain. Dean is unwell. And he’d rather go through it alone than with you by his side.

“Yeah,” you say, just a sound to make. But Cas isn’t done.

“And the effect it likely had on you, too,” he says and you pull your shoulders up, really��not wanting to have this conversation with him. You’re not even sure if he knows about the birds and the bees. “You have to be patient with yourself, your system might not be totally flushed–”

“Cas,” you say, voice small, but he doesn’t seem to hear you.

“It will take a while for things to go back to normal,” he continues, and you almost laugh at that word. Normal. It’s an alien concept at this point.

“Sure,” you say and Cas stops, looks at you again, and this time you look back, see he’s pressing his lips together. He was trying to convince himself more than you, and he just realized. You raise your hand, lay it over his, squeeze briefly.

“It’s okay,” you say, now comforting him. “You’re right, it’s all gonna work out.”

Castiel studies you for a second. He must miss Dean too, you realize. The two argued more often than they didn’t over the last months, things often nearly coming to a head between them. But he loves Dean, just like Charlie, just like Sam, just like you.

And still he’s not here.

“You wanted to rest,” Cas says, bringing you out of your thoughts. You can’t even be mad at him for wanting to excuse himself. You’re not great company right now.

He stands, nods at you again, then turns to leave. When he reaches the door, he throws you another look and you give him a reassuring nod. With that, he leaves.

With a sigh, you lie down on the bed. Stare at the phone on your nightstand. Your eyes close and you dream.

You dream that he comes to you in the night.

It’s dark and he’s merely a silhouette, but you would recognize Dean anywhere. The breadth of his shoulders, the noises he makes even when he’s perfectly quiet, the feel of his skin on yours.

He walks in, and you’re not sure if he opened the door or if there never was one. Either way, it’s his room now. You only live here.

He gets on the bed and you reach out towards him, but he’s so far away. Your fingertips brush over him, but you can’t grasp him. Not until he wants you to.

He climbs over you and you could cry from happiness. You can’t see his face - it stays in shadow, no matter how close you drag him towards you. But it doesn’t matter. You know his features so well.

The knife enters you at the same time as Dean does. Wetness gushes, warm and thick, but in his arms none of it matters. He thrusts and so does the knife, and you would take being stabbed a million times if it means having him close.

“I forgive you,” he says and you nod.

“I don’t,” you say. “We have to get up.”

But Dean shakes his head. You don’t fight him. You never do.

There’s a loud knock and you roll over with a groan. The door flies open and for a moment you’re sure something bad has happened.

“Found us a case,” Sam says, hands on narrow hips, open face looking down at you.

“Sam,” you mumble, “what the fuck. Let me sleep.” You hear him chuckle.

“You’ve slept for half a day,” he says. “Come on. Get up. We’re getting out of here.”

You make sure Sam knows how annoyed you are when he passes you the thermos filled with coffee. He’s driving so he keeps looking at the street, but you don’t take the thermos from him, stare him down until he’s forced to look at you. He does, expression curious and chuckles when he looks out the front again.

“What crept up your ass and made you so damn jovial?” you ask, finally taking the coffee from him. Sam shakes his head, still smiling.

“I just woke up and I was tired of feeling sorry for myself,” he says, then throws you a challenging look. “You should try that sometime.” Your mouth drops open. Who is this person? You can’t think of a good retort, so you pour yourself some of the coffee, blow on it, sip it.

“What’s the case?” you ask after a few minutes of quiet. Sam reaches forward, grabs some papers off the dash, passes them to you.

“We’ve got three more hours to drive,” he says, throwing you another look. “Study up.”

You make a face which he just barely misses.

The waistline of your tights is digging into your stomach, the suit jacket is too warm and your hair is up in a way that is annoying you to no end, but worst of all of these things is needing to admit that Sam was right.

The case is distracting you.

You are talking to the roommates of the college student, Frankie, who died under mysterious circumstances - disemboweled in his room, which was locked from the inside. You’re asking them questions, watching for their responses, weird formulations, testing carefully if there might be something unusual about what happened. Damn it. You forgot you actually used to enjoy this. The study of it. Same as the research.

Sam and you walk outside when you’re done, and you look up at him just as he loosens the top button of his shirt.

“So that Brad guy…” you start, and Sam is already nodding.

“Yeah, he definitely has something to do with it,” he confirms.

“Think it had anything to do with those magic mushrooms he gave Frankie,” you continue, just as the two of you reach the car parked outside and you turn back to Sam with a dramatic raising of your eyebrows. “The ones he claims he found? Who eats mushrooms they found? ”

Sam chuckles, agreeing, and then you turn to the side where Dean would usually be to continue the joke and he’s not there.

It’s like a punch to the chest. It’s like someone sucking all air out of the room, even though you’re standing outside. It’s like realizing you lost a limb, and it will never be reattached.

You look down quickly, hoping Sam didn’t notice. You open the door on the passenger side and when you look at him you’re pretty sure he hasn't.

“Hold on,” Sam says and you freeze. He looks down the street, squinting against the sun.

“Let's go for a walk,” he says. “There's a park down there I saw earlier. We've been cooped up all day.”

You don't want to go to a park. You want to crawl back into bed and marinate in your heartbreak. But you're pretty sure Sam's gonna be insufferable if you suggest that, so you decide to spare yourself the battle.

“Sure,” you say, and close the door again.

Sam and you don't speak as you walk down the street. The park is kind of small and shitty, but there are children running around, screaming and playing, there's people strolling and you can't deny that it has a sort of soothing effect on you.

“So,” Sam says, and you stop in your tracks, turn around to face him, “when are we gonna talk about all this? About Dean?”

You wrap your arms around yourself, immediately defensive, but it seems like today you can't get one over on Sam.

“I know you don't want to,” he says before you have a chance to reply, “but you have to. You can't keep carrying this on your own. And I know that if the roles were reversed, you wouldn't let me shut myself away either.” You look down.

“Sam,” you say, and this time he waits, lets you speak. You sigh. “I wouldn't even know where to begin.”

You look up at Sam again. He's looking over your head, frowning, thinking, and then his eyes land on something and a smile starts spreading on his face.

“I know just the thing,” he says.

Sam towers over the other people standing in line at the ice cream cart. He looks out of place there, in his suit, everyone else dressed for the warming weather. When the two of you reach the front, he orders.

“Two soft serves,” he says, then turns slightly to you, eyes narrowing in thought. “One with caramel sauce and one with chocolate sprinkles.”

You shake your head a little, can’t help the distant smile sneaking onto your lips as you watch Sam pay, then take the two cones. He turns, looks over your head again, then nods.

“Let’s go sit down,” he says.

There's a bench, a little bit off to the side and once you're sitting, Sam passes you the soft serve with the sprinkles. You take it, take a small bite. It's soft and sweet. You bite down on a sprinkle.

When you look back at Sam, he's shoveling some of the ice cream into his mouth with a tiny wooden spoon. Of course he does. He's serious even about eating soft serve.

“Do you wanna start?” he asks, only looking at you once he's finished the question. You lay your free hand in your lap, watch him.

“Is that what we do?” you ask, trying to make your voice sound sarcastic but not mean. “We go around the circle and share?”

Sam takes another spoonful, only giving a small smile in response. Not indulging your destructive words. It makes you feel a little bad about them immediately.

“I can start too,” he says, sensibly scoops up some caramel sauce that is threatening to drip off the side of his cone, before he turns to you.

“I'm… angry,” he says, nodding along a little, lips pressed together when he briefly pauses. “And I’m ashamed of myself for being angry.” You look at his face, and you see it there, the shame he's talking about.

“I know that Dean did what he thought he had to,” Sam continues. “That he got the Mark because he really thought there was no other way to kill Abaddon. But it's also… it's what he does, you know?”

He grimaces, shrugs, spoons up some more ice cream.

“Dean barrels ahead, and it's all for good reason,” he says, briefly chewing on the inside of his lip. “And it almost always leaves a bigger mess than we had originally.”

You look down at where you’re holding the ice cream and a drop of the bright red strawberry sauce is just running down on your finger. You should move your hand, wipe it away, but you simply lack the energy in that moment.

“I don’t understand why he would leave,” you say, still looking at the drop of ice cream, because it is easier than looking at Sam. “I don’t understand why he would stay away. I thought…” You take a deep breath, let it out slowly.

I thought he loved me, lingers on your tongue, but you can’t say it. Saying it out loud, in the daylight, in front of Sam, seems wrong. Dean and your love is a thing for the dark, something you whisper to each other in secret.

“I think he’s just terrified by what he did,” Sam says and you blink, look at him. He’s studying you carefully. “I think that’s why he’s staying away.”

“But we did it together,” you say. Sam presses his lips together, and he might not want to hear it, but it’s the truth.

“I know, but–” he starts, eyes going to the ground, but you interrupt him.

“I killed that Eldon guy, Sam,” you say and his eyes snap back to you. “I did that.”

“You know,” Sam says, quickly, “there’s no telling if maybe being that… exposed to the Mark couldn’t have had some kind of effect on you too. I mean, we don’t know how this stuff really works.”

You try hard not to scoff. Sam’s just trying to be kind, trying to make room for the possibility that you weren’t acting under full capacity. And maybe you weren’t. Maybe the Mark did have an effect on you - all the times you felt feverish when Dean wasn’t around, the sudden outbursts of rage, bashing Eldon’s skull in. He deserved it, deserved every second of it but that doesn’t mean you didn’t enjoy it. Something you’d never thought possible before.

“Then I’m the only one who understands him,” you say, voice small. “Why wouldn’t he want to be with me?”

It’s more vulnerability that you’ve allowed yourself in front of Sam so far. Because this is what it all boils down to in the end, what you’ve really been asking yourself - why has Dean left you? Not Sam, not Cas, not Charlie. You.

The small cone of ice scream looks even more tiny in Sam’s hand, and you stare at it. There’s voices carrying over from the park nearby and a soft breeze is blowing. It feels unreal, all of it. The sun hurts your eyes.

“I don’t know what to do,” you say, then need to swallow.

“I know,” Sam replies, and it’s too much work even to look at him. “I know.”

You look down when you hear a dripping sound - something red has dripped onto your shoe. For a second you stare at it. Wonder if you’re so soaked in blood now that it will just always be there, before you realize it’s strawberry sauce.

Sam and you make it back to the motel. There’s less of the unsaid in the air between you two and it feels good, even though you didn’t really come to a conclusion on anything.

On the drive back, you turn to him, unsure whether you will regret what you were about to say.

“You know,” you say, and Sam throws you a look, showing you he’s listening, “Dean said that you… that you wanted me. When he still had the Mark.”

Sam looks out the front, then shifts where he sits.

“Listen,” he says, voice apologetic, “no offense, but… I don’t.” You chuckle, and Sam gives you a surprised look.

“I’m actually really glad to hear that,” you say and he grins, nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re more like a really annoying little sister.”

“ Annoying? ” you ask and it’s his turn to chuckle. Both of you are quiet for a while, but you have to say what’s on your mind.

“I wonder why he said that,” you say. Sam is quiet, then clears his throat.

“You think maybe he was trying to isolate you?” he asks, not looking at you.

His words feel like quicksilver in your veins. Dean would never try to isolate you, you know that. But the Mark? Maybe that’s a different story.

Back at the motel, both of you dive into research. Your brain feels strangely rejuvenated from the time outside but in the end, you're still no closer to figuring out who disemboweled Frankie, the victim.

“Time we pay Brad another visit,” Sam says.

It’s getting dark by the time the two of you make it back. You’re walking up to the front door when Sam raises his hand, makes you stop. The door is open, the wood splintered where someone kicked it in.

Both of you draw your guns, proceed quietly and slowly. Sam pushes open the door and you follow him. You make it a few steps into the quiet, dark hallway when you hear sounds in the other room.

Carefully, you advance. Someone is there, definitely, and Sam waves at you to go the other way around, cut off their possible escape route. You stay close to the wall, in the shadows, and when you reach the corner that leads to the kitchen, you take a slow breath, then round it, pointing your gun.

Whatever you mean to say, freeze or hands in the air or something else, doesn’t make its way up your throat. Instead, it remains in your chest, your lips parted without any sound coming out of it as you see what’s there at the end of your barrel.

Dean is just reaching for his gun too, but same as you, he completely freezes. He’s frowning, looking concentrated, and in the next second, when he realizes it’s you, his features go slack, his eyes widen. Sam rounds the corner only a few seconds later, and he too stops moving.

Dean is looking at you, something soft and lost in his face. He looks… frightened, you realize. You barely have time to take him in when he looks away, turns as he hears Sam behind him.

Sam is equally dumbfounded. He lowers his gun and for a moment, despite how broad and tall he is, he looks like a little boy when his eyes land on Dean.

Sam says his brother’s name and one corner of Dean’s mouth twitches.

“Small world,” he says, voice raspy. His voice. It feels like you’re hearing it for the first time in years. Sam is slowly shaking his head as he holsters his gun.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, unbelieving, as he steps closer to Dean. Dean puts his gun away too, turns a little to Sam.

“Guessing the same thing you two are doing,” he says, carefully throwing you another look, then quickly looking away. “On the hunt for a Rakshasa.”

“Rakshasa?” you say, and this time Dean’s glance doesn’t make it to your face. He looks in your direction and then it’s like he stops himself from going further.

“Yeah,” he says. “Turns out Brad must have invited it in for some reason, and it's been making itself at home here. Only the it got hungry, and Frankie was unlucky enough to be the only one home.” Sam blinks a few times, like it's all becoming so clear to him suddenly.

“They can make themselves invisible,” he points out and Dean nods. "That's why it looked like Frankie was alone in his locked room when he was killed." You try to tune into the conversation, but you can only listen, watch Dean. Watch him move, the way he does now, movement you know so well, have watched for years.

“Any idea where it is now?” Sam asks, and you don't understand how he can be acting so casual at seeing Dean again.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, steps to the side, then points at something behind the kitchen counter. You see a hand there, splayed on the floor, and a few drops of blood.

You step forward before you think about it. Three long strides take you to the other side of the kitchen counter.

Brad is lying there. The Rakshasa is rolled up next to him, bleeding, eyes ripped open, and Brad's not faring much better, blood and other things coming out of his mouth, his nostrils, bulging under his shirt. He’s dead, disemboweled, just like his roommate.

You feel sickness crawl up your throat quicker than it ever has before. You rush from the room, find the guest bathroom you remember from coming in and a second later, you’re bent over the toilet, puking your guts up.

It’s Dean. He’s in the next room. You almost can’t believe it, almost sure that if you walk out there, he’ll be gone, some kind of hallucination. But when you’re done gagging, you can clearly hear two voices in the next room - Sam and Dean.

You wipe the back of your hand over your mouth, reach up and flush the toilet. There’s a soft knock on the door frame of the bathroom, since you neglected to close the door in your rush.

To say you’re disappointed that it’s Sam is an understatement. You feel a little shaky so you run your hand over your mouth again.

“Are you okay?” he asks, tone gentle and you nod immediately.

“Yeah, just,” you say, “been a hot minute since I've seen someone's guts on the outside.” A lie. You saw lots of guts on the outside in the Styne mansion. Did some gutting yourself. Sam nods.

“Just stay here, okay?” he says. “We’ll take care of it.”

He’s gone again before you can answer. Usually, you would want to be out there, see how they do their job, learn. Be near Dean, because he might teach you something, might lean in to explain something to you. But now you smell like sick. Now you have no idea if Dean will even look at you, never mind teach you something.

You sit down on the floor, lean your back against the tiles of the wall. There’s some dust on the floor across from you, and you stare at it while you listen to Sam and Dean move in the next room, exchanging the occasional sentence.

You know what Sam is doing. He’s trying to act normal, trying to act like it’s not a huge deal to have Dean near again so as not to scare him away, but you saw the look on his face. The pure fucking pain and hurt and longing. He’s just good at hiding it. Unlike you.

It’s a while before you dare to move again. You stand, your legs luckily not feeling too shaky, and then you walk over to the sink, open the cabinet over it. There’s some mouthwash and you gargle some of it along with some water. Then you step back into the hallway.

It seems your timing is perfect, because just then, both men step out of the kitchen. They’re throwing looks over their shoulder at whatever they have done, the crime scene they have fixed. Your eyes land on Dean immediately.

The three of you step outside. The air of early evening is cool and refreshing, and you take deep breaths of it through your nose.

No one speaks, for a minute. Sam looks around, pretending he’s thinking.

“Hey,” he says, addressing both you and Dean, “we haven’t had dinner, we should grab some. Dean?”

It breaks your heart to see Sam putting on his act. He was so gung ho about taking things into his own hands, and you in yours, about not letting life make decisions for you, but he’s just as thrown by his brother being here as you are. You carefully look at Dean, check his reaction.

“That’s alright, Sammy,” he answers. You see the forced lightness on Sam’s face cracking.

“You gotta eat,” he says and Dean smiles sadly, looks at the ground. He raises his hand, scratches at his stubbled jaw.

“I think I should get back to it,” he says, to no one really, and then to your absolute horror, he starts walking across the front lawn. You don’t mean to stop him.

“Dean!” you call out, when he’s just about to start down the street - he must have parked away from the house, not in front of it, like you and Sam did. He stops, his hand on the gate and slowly turns back as you walk towards him. You stop a few feet away from him, wary of crossing that final distance.

“Are you okay?” you ask. Dean’s chewing on his tongue, but then he looks up, right at your face. You look at his in turn, this face you’ve seen make a million different expressions. You’re not sure what you see there, but you know that he’s not coming back.

He lets go of the gate and starts walking down the street without answering. You watch as he becomes smaller and smaller in the distance. You don’t feel your fingers.

Dean makes it back to his motel room at the other end of town. He opens the door, manages to put his gun on the table without submitting to the urge to shoot himself in the head, and then he sits at the edge of the bed, shaking hands pressed against his knees.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He let his guard down. How the fuck did he not know you and Sam were working the same goddamn case as him?

He leans forward, puts his face in his hands. Think, he wants to scream at himself. He should just leave. Grab as many of his things as he can pack in a minute and get on the road again. Everything he owns right now is stuff he’s bought in the last weeks. It would be easy to throw it all into the car and just disappear.

This is how he’s been doing it, the way he’s always been doing it. Pack up, leave, go wherever the next case takes him. That blip of calling the bunker his home - it’s over now, and he’s just gonna have to live with that. It’s fine. He can deal with that.

What he can’t deal with is seeing Sammy. His little brother was nearly buzzing from how hard he was trying to keep it together. Nothing new to Dean, to be the disappointment of his family, to be good for nothing but getting people worried. Sam’s probably used to it too, but that doesn’t make it better.

But you? You’re the last person he wanted to see. Well, you’re also the person he wanted to see the most. If you would have looked happy or indifferent or even angry - he’s played through each of those scenarios in his head a million times. He didn’t expect you to look so broken though.

Not that he doesn’t know what he’s done. Not that he doesn’t know that he’s probably ruined your life. He just preferred thinking you maybe hated him for it. Instead you asked him if he was okay. If he was okay

He nearly died on that stretch of road when the Mark was ripped from him. And then he didn’t and he wished he had. When the layers and layers of protection the Mark had provided him were suddenly gone, when he looked back at the previous weeks, at the pain and the blood and at you - that’s when he wanted to die.

But Dean doesn’t have that in him. He doesn’t have the ability to give up, even though he fucking wished to the heavens then that he did. So instead, he picked himself up. Got all the essentials. And went to work.

And yet somehow he still ran into you. Maybe he can’t escape that - whatever reckoning is coming. Maybe this is the punishment he’s been running from all along. Maybe you deserve your shot.

So Dean picks up his phone and begins typing.

Sam and you don’t talk when you make it back to the motel, nor when you go to buy some food, both only picking at it. You exchange the necessities, and then you sit in front of the TV and you don’t talk again.

All the show of optimism has gone out of Sam. He looks utterly defeated. You’re probably not faring much better.

You say good night to each other and you turn your back to the bed Sam is in. You see the screen of your phone light up, but you’d have to extend your arm to look at it, pick it up, and that seems like too much work. So you don’t.

The next morning, Sam offers to get coffee. You’re pretty sure he just wants to be alone for a bit, so you thank him and accept. You’re brushing your teeth when you check your messages.

There’s one from Dean.

We need to talk, it says. Can you come meet me?

Then the address of his motel. You stand there, toothbrush no longer moving, just staring at the words.

You walk out of the motel room five minutes later. Sam has the car, but you don’t mind stretching your legs. As you’re walking down the street, you smooth down the dress you put on. Suddenly, you feel foolish. You wanted to look pretty. Pretty for Dean. You only brought the dress since it’s part of your standard, dress-up wardrobe. Witnesses are more likely to trust you the softer and more feminine you seem. And now you’re wearing it for Dean. Maybe hoping for the same effect.

The motel Dean is in is run down. You look for the room number he gave you, flex your hands. Then you knock.

There’s movement on the other side of the door and then it opens and you’re looking at Dean. He seems surprised to see you - maybe he didn’t expect you to actually show up.

“Hey,” he says, voice clipped. “Come in.” He opens the door wider and you enter his room.

It’s bare bones. There’s never much spreading out with how briefly you usually stay anywhere during a case, but it looks like Dean hasn’t even done that. The room seems completely untouched. Maybe that means he hasn’t brought anyone here. You blink at your own thoughts.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” Dean says, sounding so formal, so wrong , that it makes you uncomfortable.

“You asked me to, so…” you answer, avoid looking at him.

Dean sits at the edge of the bed, leans his elbows on his knees, and interlocks his hands. There’s an old brown armchair across from where he’s sitting, so you sit down in that. Its seat is worn from use and you sink into it, deeper than you expect. It doesn’t make you feel particularly tough or big or strong.

“I thought we should talk,” Dean says, and you hate how he avoids looking at you. Like there’s something shameful in the air between you. You shift in your seat.

“Okay,” you reply, hoping that if your voice is shaky he won’t hear it on those two syllables.

Dean rubs his fingers over his mouth, thinking.

“What we did,” he says, still not looking at you when he corrects himself: “What I did… I’m so sorry.” He looks up, at you finally, and he really is sorry, you can see it. You run your palm over the back of the other hand, the sound of skin on skin loud in the room.

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” you say, your voice quieter than you mean for it to be. It’s not fully the truth - there are a million things. Leaving you, not answering your calls, ignoring your messages. But you’re so willing to forgive all that, if only it means that you get him back.

“What I did to you, that wasn’t right,” Dean continues, and it’s fine, it’s okay, if he’s sorry about the last weeks then you can forgive him and move on. But then he adds: “Being with you, that was… I shouldn’t have done that.”

You feel as though someone has pulled a lever and made the floor drop away from under you. You’re hoping, praying that this must be some kind of misunderstanding.

“What do you mean?” you ask, a shuddering breath leaving you.

“What happened between us,” Dean continues, and then he finally looks at you, “our relationship . It’s, I… I took advantage of you.”

There is a fuzziness at the sides of your vision. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears.

“I don’t think—” you start, but then stop, need to swallow. “That’s not what happened.” You blink, and then Dean is really looking at you, searching out your gaze.

“Yes, it is,” he says, voice clear, and you don’t understand why he is doing this, why he is saying these things.

“No,” you simply say, and Dean exhales slowly.

“The fact that you think that,” he says slowly, “that I’ve convinced you that this is okay… it’s not. It’s wrong.” You make an involuntary sound in your throat.

“I’m almost twice your age,” Dean says, as if that means anything , as if that somehow undoes everything you’ve done together, everything he’s done for you, everything you’ve done for him. As if it somehow strikes the lies you’ve told for each other from history, the moments of ecstasy. Like they suddenly don’t mean anything anymore.

“So?” you ask, finding Dean’s gaze, and you see him clench his jaw. “I don’t care. That doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” Dean replies, voice calm. You feel your lips shaking, feel like such a stupid girl, such a child .

“So what?” you ask, voice snotty with the tears building in your eyes, but you sound petulant nonetheless. “This was all just the Mark? None of it was you?” And Dean doesn’t shake his head, doesn’t leap in to say that no, actually, it was him.

“It wasn’t,” he says, “not really.”

You’re on your feet before you know it. Your entire body is shaking and there’s a pain in your chest, in your heart, that you’re sure is gonna kill you. Tears are blurring your vision, but you don’t care.

“I didn’t do this to you!” you say, voice shrill and Dean frowns at you. “I didn’t—I didn’t take advantage of you, or, or, I didn’t do anyth—” A deep sob interrupts you and your hand flies up to your face, the back of it pressing against your nose, but the tears are coming hard. You feel like you’re sliding into hysterics. Dean slowly stands, careful, as if you’re some kind of wild animal he needs to be careful in approaching.

“I didn’t say that,” he says, actually extending a hand towards you to calm you. “That is not what I—of course you didn’t take advantage of me. It’s the other way around.”

“B—but you said it was all the Mark,” you reply, voice blubbering, and part of you thinks you should be ashamed of that, but you can’t be. The sadness and hysteria in your chest feels almost ecstatic and you can’t stop it. You can’t have Dean leave you, not want you anymore. Especially not by being this nice, this soft.

“Y—you weren’t yourself, and I, I abused that,” you continue, momentarily regaining some control over your shaking and crying. “I kept coming back, and you couldn’t say no, because of the Mark.”

Dean’s hand drops, as if in slow motion, and he blinks, his eyes remaining closed for a second. He seems tired. Exhausted. His lets his shoulders hang.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, voice gentle. “Yes, the Mark… controlled me in a way, but I still should have done differently.”

“And now you’re back in control,” you say, and you feel something build in you, something that hurts more than anything else has ever hurt before. “And you don’t want me anymore.”

Dean’s eyes widen. His mouth moves, but no words come out. It hurts almost more than him saying yes. That you gave yourself to him, did all those things with him, but he can’t even be bothered to love you. That you will never get him back, no version of Dean. But then he takes a step closer to you.

“Of course I want you,” he says, green eyes focused on you. “Of course I do, but it’s not right. I shouldn’t.”

“I don’t care,” you say, stepping closer to him, and you want him to understand that what you have is special, is different, it’s not what it looks like from the outside, what someone would interpret it as. You’re not some poor, groomed thing, you love him and he loves you and he has made you feel things you’ve never felt before. And not just the sex, that too, but even that, it has to mean something , right? Two bodies can’t possibly connect that well without it meaning something. The way he protected you, the way you became a team, became one, the way Dean was willing to kill for you, to do anything to protect you. No one’s ever loved you like that. How can you go back to not being loved this way? It’s impossible.

You say all that, or some of it, mumble other parts. You’re not sure if you’re making yourself understood, but Dean steps closer again. His hands land on your shoulders and you want to throw yourself at him, into his arms, just have him hold you, tell you everything’s gonna be alright in that gruff voice of his. But he looks at you, so impossibly soft, the way he can only look at you if he’s willing to let you down now.

“I can’t—“ you choke out, trying to move away, but you misjudge how hard Dean is holding on to you. You stumble a little, and he grabs you, holds you, and he’s so close, brow knotted, lips parted, and you press yourself up, lips meeting his, but barely.

Dean immediately returns the kiss, his hands shooting up to hold your face, pull you closer against him. Stars explode in your head at the absolute bliss of touching him again, of holding him.

But then Dean pulls back, and the cold rushes in again. He’s shaking his head before his lips have even stopped touching you. You notice he’s breathing heavier, and so are you. How attuned you are to each other. It can’t just mean nothing.

“No,” Dean says, swallows hard, “we can’t.” But you don’t let him continue, kiss him again, wrap your arms around him in the hope he can’t escape you. That he won’t want to.

“Dean,” you moan against his lips, still watching his face. “Please, please, I need to feel you.” Dean’s eyebrows pull together, and he looks like he’s in pain, in beautiful, blissful pain.

You let one of your hands drop, bring it to his crotch. You press against him through the jeans fabric, needy, desperate. Dean’s breath hitches and his hands wander down to your hips, fists bunching up the fabric of your dress but he doesn’t move it up, seems to just need to hold on to you.

“Stop it,” he says, but you can’t, you won’t. Instead you press your lips against Dean’s jaw, feel it tense under your touch. In response, you open your mouth, bite him there. Dean flinches, breath coming faster. Your hold your teeth clamped over the bone for a few seconds. Then you let go.

“Please,” you say, before you wrap your lips over the spot you just bit, suckle on it. Dean groans and you know he’s yours now, he has to be, he can’t leave you like this.

But then suddenly he’s pushing you back, surprisingly rough. You stumble a little and stare at him, eyes ripped open. Dean’s chest is heaving, and his face is set.

“I said no ,” he says, voice clear and loud. You feel anger and hate flare in you. It’s clear. It’s beautiful.

“You don’t get to decide this,” you say, your voice so raw it hurts your throat. You step closer to Dean and shove him, hard. He must not expect the move, because he needs to take a step back to balance himself. You push again, this time to no avail. He’s unmovable. You can’t get him to love you, and you can’t even get him to fall over. You feel so weak.

“ Fuck you!” you almost scream at him, and then you raise your fists, pummel them against Dean’s chest. “How could you do that to someone!? How could you do that to me!?” Your fists come down again but then Dean grabs your wrists, secures them in place. His face is torn between horror and grief. Disgust at his creation.

His hold on your wrists tightens, the pain making you snap out of your deliriousness and at the same time fanning the flames of your anger. Of your need. You try to rip them free, but Dean holds them fast, but you are thrashing at him in a way that disregards your own safety. Dean can hold on to you, but he can’t control you pulling your arms back and forth. You’re gonna dislocate your shoulder, he suddenly thinks, terror shooting through him. And when you do, he’ll still be holding your wrist.

So he pulls you in, brings you close to his body, turns the two of you. He needs to stop you, somehow, stop you from moving, stop you from hurting yourself. But not from hurting him , he thinks, because he deserves every fucking punch you throw at him.

He’s not sure if he pushes you down onto the bed or if you drag him or if it’s something in-between. What he knows is that suddenly, he’s falling, and he can’t stop the way his body smashes on top of yours, because he doesn’t let go of your wrists. Then you’re there under him, still thrashing, still fighting him, pushing against him, because you want to be close or because you want to get away, he’s not sure.

Dean will never forget the shame he feels in that moment, the second he notices his body responding to you under him like that. The way your neck is stretched and the way your hips are trying to buck up, only stopped by his pinning yours, sends his mind back to the night he spent buried deep inside of you, just like this. The way he became part of you in a way that made him sure the same blood ran through your veins.

But then you scream, something unintelligible, and Dean is back in the moment, back there, on that bed, where he’s pinning you down while you’re fighting him, and he’s sure for a second he’s going to be sick. He lets go immediately, begins rolling off you to the side, but to his surprise, you push against his shoulders, roll with him.

Dean brings his hands up, not sure what he’s going to do, but his own momentum allows you to roll with him, get on top of him. He’s still terrified of touching you, of grabbing you again, hurting you, so he has his hands slightly raised in front of his chest, not sure what to do with them. He doesn’t expect what happens next.

You push yourself up on your knees, one arm holding you off the mattress, the other shooting down between your legs. Dean hears the metal of his belt and it’s like the sound is coming from far away, before he understands what’s happening. His hands shoot to your legs, pushing up to touch the sweet, soft skin of your thighs and he feels all his blood leave the rest of his body. He squeezes the skin there, hard, while the tug deep in his stomach becomes as violent as a storm. He pushes your dress up far enough to see your underwear.

He knows the pair, knows how they smell when he’s been teasing you for a while. Knows the feeling of them against the pads of his fingers. He stares at them and he can’t look away.

You are opening his jeans now, and Dean reaches one trembling hand forward, between your legs, pushes your panties to the side by hooking his index finger into the seat. You’re wet, and he could sob from that feeling, the dampness between your lips, all for him, only for him. He’s ruined you, but he’s ruined himself in the process.

Your fingers wrap around his cock, take him out, as you begin stroking him. Frantic, too fast, and it hurts but Dean moans at the pain. Let him feel it for a thousand years and still he wouldn’t have paid for what he did.

He’s hard already, but you tug at him again, one, two, three times, and then you push yourself higher, line him up. You’re not looking at him, instead you’re looking down, concentrated, and Dean wants to change that, wants to look at you, to make sure you are aware of what you’re doing, but then his tip touches you and it’s like all his senses suddenly are captured by this.

You sink down at him with an intense whimper and Dean wants to scream, wants to sob and cry from how good you feel, how perfect. He shudders for a second, the ecstasy of you almost too much, before his hands go up to cup your face again. He wants to see you, needs to see you.

But this time, your hands go around his wrists. You pin them down on the mattress next to his head, and Dean doesn’t fight you. You stare at his face, eyes wet, lips parted, strands of hair falling into your face. He’s pretty sure you’re a goddess. You must be, to subjugate him like this.

“You don’t get to touch,” you say, voice hard but clear. There might be a distant tremor in it, but Dean is willing to ignore it. “You don’t deserve it.”

And you’re right, he doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve it. But then you begin moving, begin rocking back and forth on him and now it’s Dean who’s whimpering, as your wet, warm tightness begins rubbing over him. Your eyes flutter closed, your eyebrows going up a little as your face relaxes.

You begin riding him, slowly. You are concentrated, completely focused on extracting your pleasure from him. Dean’s just a body in that moment, and his chest fills with the voice of heaven at that. Maybe he can repent, after all.

You continue riding him, slowly, but somehow not gently. Every single movement is for your benefit, not his. It throws Dean back and forth between the shores of pleasure. There are some movements that make him sure he’ll burst in only a second, and some that make him want to grab your hips, dictate how you move. But your hands are still on his wrists, and while it wouldn’t be much of a battle for Dean to make you let go, it feels like metal shackles holding him down. The way they ground him, make him absolutely yours.

He starts coming closer, starts to feel the urge grow. His balls are tight and he wants nothing more than to fill you up with himself. Maybe through bodily fluids he can somehow make you understand how sorry he is. No, what is he thinking? Maybe he’s losing his mind.

But you keep moving, occasional small noises in your throat as you keep chasing your own end. So Dean holds back. He wants to flex his ass, drive up into you, pick his own rhythm rather than being victim to the unsteady, unreliable one of you. But he can’t do that. He needs to let you decide, because you’re right – he doesn’t deserve it.

After what feels like a torturous eternity, you begin picking up your pace, lips parting wider as you locate the perfect spot, perfect angle at how you want Dean to make you come. He can feel it, too – the spot he keeps hitting, the way it makes you wetter and wetter, makes him slide in easier and easier, and you are so goddamn soft.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, but he can’t come, he mustn’t come. It’s not about him. You begin tightening on him, and Dean groans as you envelop him, breathing hard, movement stuttering more and more. Dean forces his eyes open to see you, and you are shaking, mouth ripped open in a silent scream. There are tears running down your face, dropping onto his t-shirt.

You drop forward, just as it finishes, only for a moment rubbing yourself against him, then still. Dean doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare do anything to continue, even though he feels like if he doesn’t come now, he’s going to implode. He’s not sure he can hold back if you move.

You do move, then, but only to push yourself off him. He slips out of you, almost gasping, as you crawl and stumble off the bed, nearly topple when you reach the side and stand. Dean’s hand goes to his cock, torn between the handful of strokes it would take to let him finish and between covering himself, hide his shame. He presses his hand against himself, stomach twisting at the promised relief. It would be so easy so just move his hand a little more, imagine it's you.

His eyes must have fallen shut but they fly open when he hears the room door open. For a second, he panics at the thought that someone has found the two of you, has seen him like this then he looks in that direction and it's you opening the door.

So Dean has no choice but to tug himself away, groans at the feeling, and stumbles after you.

You’re walking across the parking lot in quick strides and he catches up with you in only a few steps, grabs your arm but you pull it from him immediately.

“ Don’t touch me,” you hiss and Dean raises his hands, shows you he won’t.

“I can’t let you leave like this,” he says. He sees you open your mouth to say something, but then you don’t. You stare him down, fire in your eyes and it makes Dean love you a thousand times more. Your chest is heaving and your lips are slightly parted. You look beautiful and terrifying.

“Let me call Sam,” Dean says. “To pick you up.”

He watches as you hold on to your reserve and then let it slowly slide from you. You look around once, at the parking lot, and then you nod. Both of you don’t talk as Dean leads you back to the room.

You sit in the brown armchair again while he calls Sam, don’t look at him, don’t speak. Dean leans against the wall at a distance, his entire body still feeling like he has ants crawling all over him. His erection is still painfully pulsing in his jeans.

Sam’s there ten minutes later. Dean opens the door when he knocks. He looks worried, but then he looks past Dean into the room, must see the bed, the blankets disturbed and messy, sees you, eyes down, arms crossed as you walk towards him and Sam’s expression changes. His jaw tenses and he presses his lips into a line.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says as you walk past him, but you ignore him, walk past Sam out of the room. Sam looks after you, then turns back to Dean.

He could probably have seen the punch coming, but right then, he doesn’t. Sam’s fist hits him square against the side of his face, and Dean’s back meets the door with a bang. His hand goes up to his jaw and he grunts, squeezes his eyes shut at the intense pain blooming in his skull. Sam meant for this one to hurt.

By the time he opens his eyes again, Sam is walking away. Dean looks after him and you for a second, then closes the door.

He stands there, hand still on the doorknob, not moving. He’s pretty sure that if such a thing is possible, he’s about to burst into a million pieces, just fall apart on a molecular level. He stands there for a few minutes and when it doesn’t happen, he moves forward, drops himself down on the bed.

He pushes his face into the bedding. Somewhere, somehow, there must be some of you, some of your smell, your presence. He takes deep, hard breaths, hoping to find it, hoping to find anything of yours. His hand slips into his jeans and he wraps it around his aching cock, tries to imagine your face.

But he can’t. As if his brain is trying to punish him, to keep any chance of peace from him, his mind refuses to settle on your image. Instead, when he closes his eyes, he sees blood.

He finds a whiff of you, eventually. Just the tiniest bit there, he’s sure. He presses his nose into the fabric there, gives himself a few hard, rough strokes. He comes with a whimper and a sob and then he lies there.

He wishes the bed was your lap. He wishes he could curl up, make himself small, and just be held by you. By your soft hands. That’s all he wants.

Instead he lies there, in the cold bed. Somewhere someone yells, and someone honks a car, and Dean feels utterly alone.

#supernatural #spn #fanfic #dean winchester #fanfiction #spn fanfic #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #sorry's fics

49 notes · View notes

thursdayinspace · 6 months ago

Text

For today's morning smutlet, I was having feelings about early season 2, because I always have feelings about early season 2 so that's not special. Buuuuut my head was like "omg imagine they'd lost all hope of the files ever being reopened? And they'd decided there was really no point denying their feelings anymore? I mean look at the way they look at each other; THEY'RE IN LOVE YOUR HONOR. Anyway. Smut.

“This is such a bad idea,” she says, but she can’t keep the smile off her face and he can’t remember ever being this happy.

“A terrible idea,” he agrees. He kisses her lips, her nose, her cheeks, her forehead, her lips again. She’s naked beside him on her bed and she’s as gorgeous as he tried so hard not to imagine for so long.

“But why is it a bad idea again?” she asks, and he pulls back, shaking his head, trying to come up with a reason.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe it isn’t.”

She doesn’t mention work, for which he is grateful, but he knows she’s thinking the same thing he’s thinking. The fact that the files are closed, probably forever, hurts like hell, the fact that they may never work together again hurts even worse, but the fact that they no longer have any reason to deny themselves this makes up for all of it.

“I think I don’t care,” she says, and he agrees. None of it matters. All that matters is her. Them.

Her skin is soft under his hands, under his lips as he kisses his way down her perfect body. She’s wet for him and he’s so hungry for her. She tastes like heaven. Her hands come down onto his head and she lets out a soft, eager whimper as he explores her, licks between her folds, flicks her clit with his tongue, sucks it between his lips. Testing and learning how to draw sounds from her, how to make her thighs clench and tremble, how to make her lose control. It takes her a while but he doesn’t care, he’d do this forever. And when she comes he almost comes with her; the knowledge that he did this for her is almost enough to push him over the edge. Instead, he makes his way back up to her, rests his head over her pounding heart and feels like he could fly.

He waits until her breathing has calmed, until she rolls onto her back and pulls him with her, drawing him on top of her. The metaphor is so trite and cheesy and he never liked it, but he feels it in this moment: sliding into her feels like coming home. She’s tight and hot around him and they’re connected, their bodies following where their hearts went long ago. *I love you*, he thinks, but it’s too soon. Maybe tomorrow. He doesn’t know if he can wait much longer than that to tell her, tell her what he now knows he’s been feeling since last year in Oregon.

Moving in her feels like the most natural thing in the world. She clings to him and keeps her eyes locked with his, and he can see it, he can see his feelings reflected back to him. He thinks he might cry but what comes out instead is a laugh of pure joy and gratitude that makes his head spin. She grins at him and cards her hands through his hair, and he lets his forehead drop against hers and rolls his hips harder, making her gasp and grip onto his biceps with surprising strength. He wants her to leave bruises.

Her legs come up around his waist and he thrusts into her in a rhythm set by need, but he feels no urgency, no desperation, none of the things that squeezed like a vice around his heart these past few weeks.

When she comes a second time, he can’t hold back any longer, and his orgasm hits him so hard he can’t breathe, and it’s release and relief and a gift from her all at the same time.

She falls asleep in his arms that night and he stays awake for as long as he can, not wanting to miss a moment. If he couldn’t think of a reason not to do this earlier, he knows now that they’re never going to be able to stop. Another trite and cheesy phrase he’s heard too often and never liked, but suddenly he understands: when you know, you know. And he knows. He knows.

#txf #the x files #msr #mulder and scully #fic #poangpals #morning paper smut #ficlet

75 notes · View notes

aribluedreams · 3 months ago

Text

Cole to the rescue

Cole Walter x fem!reader

Summary: you have a panick attack and Cole is there to save the day.

Warnings: none.

Masterlist!

"There you are!"

Isaac appeared on her left side as she put all her things in her locker, startling her a little and also making her a little suspicious. Everything started last night, when she was triyng to fall asleep after a hard day. Maybe she has been thinking to much about what the future has in it for her, because next thing she knew, she was having a panick attack like she didn’t have in years.

That might have set off something in the Walter’s kids. Because that morning she felt like she was being followed by every single one of them, as if they knew it would happen again today. And she didn't know it, but before going downstairs, Cole threatened all of his siblings about how they shouldn't leave her alone for the day.

Because bad things could happen.

And they were so right for that.

"Hey… you okay?"

She wasn’t really paying much attention to him. She had managed to put her books inside the locker, manage to close it, and even managed to rest both hands against the metal. But her eyes were glossy and her breathing was starting to quicken as time went by. To be honest, she could feel her sorroundings, even Isaac’s hand on her back or the way he was calling her name.

But she couldn’t respond to it.

“Oh god” he panicked a bit too “It’s okay, just breath with me”

He took her gently by the arms, turning her body so she could see him, even if they knew it was no use. She was already lost in thoughts, very close to having a panick attack similar to the one last night. She was overwhelmed with people passing by, clinging to his forearms as a way of trying to concéntrate on his words instead of her mind.

But it was just so difficult.

“Guys?” Nathan’s voice was Heard behind them “What’s going on…?”

His voice trailed off as he watched his cousin try his best to get his brother’s girlfriend to breath with him. She was doing quite good since she did inhale and exhale in rhythm, but he felt that her thoughts were no longer in a happy place. And he only had to look at the way she was clinging to Isaac’s jacket to notice it. The same boy who was holder her from falling to the ground by her bíceps. Cole’s girl was like family to them, and it showed perfectly fine that day.

“I think it’s like last night… it’s…” Isaac finally realice what they should be doing right now “Cole! Go get Cole!” his cousin didn’t move at first “Now! Fucking now!”

The urgency in his voice was enough to make Nathan move, running to Cole’s next class. She was gonna be better with him than them, so he didn’t think twice to almost jump into his older brother, cutting short the conversation he was having with his friends.

“¡Cole!”

“Wow” he chuckled when he notice him “ What’s going on with you today?”

“You need to come”

His brother only needed to say his girlfriend’s name for Cole to understand what was actually wrong today. It was enough for his smile to fly away in a matter of seconds while the folder in his hands fall to the ground with him no paying attention. He knew his friends would pick it up later, so he simply followed Nathan’s directions to the lockers, moving as fast as he could. He knew his leg was going to hurt later, also that he would probably need more rest than usual and ice.

But that didn’t seem to matter much to him.

“What is…?

Cole’s question was forgotten when he saw Isacc holding her body halfway down the hall, aware that if he let go, she would just fall. Maybe it would have work another moment, but right now she was so wrapped up in her head that all she could do was keep her eyes closed as she rested on his shoulder, not breathing properly like he was telling her to do.

“Move, move”

He said hurriedly but softly, almost in a whisper, running his hand down his girl’s back as his cousin pulled away. They were making a little pass with her, not wanting to let her feel the lonelyness, even if it was just for a second. That’s how he managed to get her in between his arms, ignoring how Nathan tousled his cousin’s hair when he moved to stand next to him, indicating he had done well.

“Hey honey, it’s me” Cole whispered to her “You gotta breath with me, okay? Just follow my moves, alright? Just follow me”

Feel him, that’s what he wanted her to do.

Because Isaac did it pretty good, but he wasnt him. He wasn’t talking to her like Cole was and he wasn’t hugging her to his chest as if she was the only thing in the world like Cole was doing right now. The blonde boy was actually talking to her, telling his girl what was going on to make her focus on another things so she could finally calm down.

It was obvious he had experience in these things.

“You are doing great, honey” he say gently against her forehead, kissing the zone once “I’m here… Can you feel me? I know you can… so focus on that”

She had to concéntrate on the hand caressing her back, and the one resting against the back of her neck to keep her steady. One relaxed her muscles with gente caressing, and the other kept her trapped against Cole’s chest so that she would only hear his heartbeat. So that she would only focus on calming her breathing.

“Cole…”

“I’m here” he smile lighlty when he heard her “And you are comming back to me”

She was talking, which meant that her breathing returned to normal and her body wasn’t shaking anymore. It was only a matter of minutes before she finally calmed down, separating only an inch from him. Her eyes were stil on his chest, but they both knew she wanted to look up. So Cole rested a hand on her chin without forcing her yet, but rather indicanting it was okay to look at him.

“This is so new to me”

Isaac couldn’t help but mumble that behind them, instantly getting a punch on his arm from Nathan. He was jocking of course, but there was also some truth in how weird it was to see Cole being that nice with someone that wasn’t himself.

“I’m just saying that maybe we should take advantage of Cole being nice” the boy tried to talk again “Ask him for what we need…”

“Get to class already”

Cole mumble irritated, ready to throw him right to his next class with just one punch. But the idea was quickly forgotten when his girlfriend giggle a little in his embrace. When she finally looked up to conect her eyes with his, leaning into his chest like she needs to be there. There and nowhere else. And god, he just realice how down bad he was for that girl, that he didn’t even care about what others think about him.

He just care about her.

#fanfic #aribluedreams #cole walter #cole walter x reader #colewalterimagine #my life with the walter boys #my life with the walter boys x reader

35 notes · View notes

eternalflowershipping · 3 months ago

Text

A Brief Future

Ship: AZ x Nerine Summary: While locked away in beneath Lumiose City, AZ begins to daydream of the people closest to him. (Or: AZ thinks about his ex(???)girlfriend comforting him while he's jailed 😭)

Written in one sitting after the idea came to me. I haven't done ANY edits, so excuse any typos. 🙇🏾‍♀️ ~1133 words.

[ alternate link ] [ neocities link tba ]

Somewhere distant, he could hear the sound of a ticking clock. It echoed softly throughout the otherwise empty chamber. He pulled his thin jacket tighter around his body, desperate to keep in any warmth. Several times now he’d banged his fist against the walls of his enclosure, only to be met with silence. When his hands wavered near its bars, he could feel the electricity coursing through. He would not be terribly injured if he gripped them, but it would not benefit him, either. He remained still. He was certain that his Golurk could break the bars once it recovered, but escaping from there would be another issue. The layout to the underground lab was a winding labyrinth, and complex puzzles laid in waiting at every turn. While he had no doubt of his ability to solve these puzzles … he found himself intimidated by the presence of spending panels that laid beneath the floors. He did not do well with dizziness.

His urgency had not left him. He knew it was only a matter of time before Team Flare’s leader returned to make away with his key. Destroying it was the best way to prevent it from being stolen. And yet, each time he tried to will himself to finally commit that act, condemning his machine for the final time… he paused. His hands froze. Feeling its weight in his palms sickened him. The chain it wore around his neck made his body heavy, as if he had spent an eternity trudging through mud. But he could not bring himself to destroy it; this heavy burden was something he deserved, and to release it would be to release himself from his bonds. He could not do that. Not until he was worthy.

I am selfish. He slumped against the wall of his cage. Even when presented with such a horrific possibility, I am selfish.

His back dragged against the cell wall until he was sat on the floor, his gangly legs barely contained within. The waiting was intolerable. With nothing else to do, he closed his eyes, and allowed his mind to wander.

An image came to him: somewhere outside, hidden amongst the clouds, Floette was flying above the city. The wind was gentle with her small body, carrying her far. She would linger for a moment above Geosenge Town, a place she knew well; her childhood had been spent within an ancient village that once dwelled upon the same land. She would wonder for a moment about what lay beneath the earth, and grow concerned when she witnessed strange men in red suits idling about, clearly waiting for something. I promise you I won’t allow this to happen again. Curiosity and concern guides her towards the graves that lay just outside the town. I want to protect you this time.

Elsewhere, his younger brother was sat at a window. Xanthos peered out towards that same sky, watching the weather change; the encroaching grey of a storm. He held a thread in one hand, and a needle in the other. The bundle of fabric in his lap looked like nothing in particular at the moment, but its true shape would soon be revealed. Still, he could not seem to focus. His eyes flitting away from the window, to his work, to the window again. Something crackled in the air, some power that was at once strange and familiar. He stood, and with no particular destination in mind, began walking. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? As the wind picked up, his golden earrings swayed. It still unsettled him how closely he resembled their mother when he wore her jewelry. I wonder if I will see you again soon.

The image of a pink haired girl came to him next. Seeing her, he jolted from his half-awake state.

“I have no desire to see her.” he spoke the words out loud, hoping to reaffirm it to himself. His voice creaked as if his throat were full of rust. He began to repeat it, but paused. He buried his face in his hands, and allowed the thought to come to him.

Nerine. The last time he saw her, he had allowed his frustrations to get the better of him. He hadn’t forgotten the way she looked at him before he left, her eyes wet with tears despite the fury they held. He regretted his lack of sympathy most of all— they were so similar to one another in the end. He thought of the way she would grip his arm a little too tightly, and would at times speak too loudly. He enjoyed it about her. When he saw the strange quirks she had, he knew she was being her most authentic, and that is when they were happiest together. She was likely dressed differently now. Perhaps something elegant, more mature. Considering the time of day (assuming, at least, that he’d not last track), she was likely at work within Lumiose’s historical district. He imagined her for a moment, taking a brush to an artifact that had been found deep below the earth. Her gaze is intensely focused on the task at hand, and no amount of noise is able to distract her. … It was strange to think that she was so close, and yet so far away. Did she know what was happening right now? That her dear friend was here, trapped somewhere beneath the city? Briefly, he thought of her arms wrapping around him. I was so worried for you, she says. You must have been so lonely.

Her face pressed against his chest as she held him. He reached to touch her, brushing his fingers through her hair. You keep punishing yourself…and I do understand. To free yourself from that weight… you’re so used to it by now, the idea must be scary. But it’s time now, isn’t it…? You’ve spent long enough repenting. So I ask of you… for the sake of this world, and for yourself, too… won’t you finally let go?

Footsteps echoing just outside the chamber awoke AZ. His fist had wound itself tightly around his key without his knowledge. He pulled it with all his might— the ancient metal of its chain snapped, and fell from around his neck. It clattered onto the floor below, leaving only AZ, and his key. He stared at it, mouth half ajar, and nearly did not realize when a mess of red hair stood just before his prison cell.

He stood, towering over a face that reminded him far too much of his youth, with his key held tight against his chest. He would not be able to destroy it before Lysandre took it from him— of that, he was certain. But he would not go down without a fight.

#📜 manuscripts #eternalflowershipping #🏹 xanthos #💠 az's floette #<- they're mentioned here too #idk why thinking about this made me so emotional </3

18 notes · View notes

hayleylatour · 11 months ago

Text

Finding peace 🕊️

Content warnings- unprotected PIV (don’t do this that’s how you end up in this situation) Oral (f receiving) this is basically just smut. Future talks about pregnancy and options some fluff at the end cause I already love them

Summary- Mia is a 24 year old new bookstore owner who’s best friend is dating the drummer of up and coming metal band Bad Omens Nick Foilo. Jess is known for trying to set Mia up on blind dates. What happens when Mia meets Noah Sebastian

A/N- I may have been writing this non stop since i posted chapter one.

Pairings- babydaddy!Noah Sebastian x OC (Mia)

Chapter two- Mia’s pov

“Your place or mine?” I whispered

Noah pulled back an inch and smirked “you live alone right? Jolly is at my place, Jess said you live alone.”

I gave Noah my address and told him to follow me there, my nerves felt like live wire. My wrist still tingling where he touched. The five minutes drive to my apartment felt like an eternity but as I threw the car in park Noah was already standing beside the door. We walked up in silence, shoulder to shoulder his pinky ever so lightly y grazing my hip.

Noah is on me before the door is closed, pushing me against the wood and diving into my neck. “Fuck you smell so good angel”

Moaning I thread my hands through his hair. Hands pull at the hem of my hoodie his eyes dilated and asking permission to continue, I nod giving him the go ahead “words angel. I need to hear you say you want this.” He breathes, fingers toying with the hem now.

“I want this, Noah, please” slowly the toying stops and he’s pulling the fabric up and over my head, throwing it across the room as if it had burned him. His fingers graze over my chest and down my belly, popping the button of my pants. I can feel his bulge against my hip. “Stop teasing.” I growl ripping the jeans down my thighs and reaching for his zipper. He laughs at my urgency pushing my hands away to remove his jacket and shirt. Fuck me sideways, seeing his body covered in artwork made my knees weak.

“Bedroom.” I breathe

Noah chuckles “where is it?” He says grabbing the backside of my thighs lifting me, my legs circling his waist. I point him in the right direction before licking a long strip up his neck. Noah lays me on the bed lowering himself to the floor and pulling me by my ankles. A squeak escaping my lips followed my a deep moan as his hot breath fans over my clothed center

“You’re soaked angel, all this for me” Noah says into my pussy before licking me through my panties. His hand coming up and resting on my chest as his teeth nip at the exposed skin. Looking down his eyes are already on mine, dark obsidian pupils bore into me and he takes the band of my underwear in his mouth and pulls. Once off Noah slides my soaked garment into his back pocket.

“You taste so sweet, such a pretty pussy.” The vibrations from his voice sent a shockwave through my core

whining, his name comes out like a chant “Please don’t stop, I’m so close” His head dips again, licking a broad stripe up to my clit, before sucking it in between his lips. His fingers prodding my entrance before siding into me, massaging that spot inside only he has ever been able to reach. The pleasure causing my vision to go black.

When Noah comes up for air his chin is covered with my slick. Pulling myself up to a sitting position I tug his closer to me and smash my lips to his. A surprised gasp leaves him before he begins kissing me back. Crawling over me my hands fly to his jean cover cock. Palming him through the material. Groaning he kicks them away leaving him in his boxers.

“I didn’t bring any protection.” He admits pulling away slightly.

“I’m clean, i promise it’s okay, please” dark eyes staring down at me. Sliding the last of the clothing off his cock springs free from its confinement and rest against my stomach. Noah reaches a hand between our body’s and slowly slides himself into me.

“Fuck you’re so tight” hips rocking slowly, bringing my right leg to his shoulder and leaning down to connect our lips again. My pussy pulsating around him as he slams himself into me so fast i nearly lose my breath. My vision goes blurry and the euphoria feeling fills my brain.

“You look so good like this, look so sexy taking my cock” He moans into my shoulder. The coil in my belly gets tighter and tighter. “You gonna cum? Come on cum for me, good girl”

His pace doesn’t change as he reaches his hand down to rub tight circles on my clit, hurdling me over the edge.

“Fuck I’m coming, Noah please” im not sure what im begging for, but the words rush past my lips before my brain can process it.

“Me too angel just let go, fuck where do you want it?” Lowering my leg to his waist, I lock my ankles behind his back.

“Inside please, inside me” I moan trying to pull him closer.

“Fuck are you sure?” Nodding was all he needed before he coated my walls in his hot release, slowing to a stop. Noah leaves a quick peck on my forehead before standing and exiting to the bathroom. Coming back with a cool washcloth and wiping my thighs.

“Stay.” I mumble sleep already taking my body over. Noah climbs in next to me pulling my head onto his chest, his heart rate is still erratic evening out after a few minutes.

Sleep eventually comes and Noah’s breathing evens to a slow and steady rhythm.

I’m awoken by the smell of pancakes and coffee. Sitting up and stretching I hear Noah humming a tune I don’t recognize, padding over to my dresser and pulling on an over sized tee-shirt I make my way to the kitchen. Noah has his back to me his boxers hanging low on his hips, whisking more batter with a plate of pancakes to his right and a cup of steaming coffee to his left.

“Good morning sleepy head” he says turning to me giving me a toothy grin

“You didn’t have to make anything but thank you.” Noah and I sit to eat as he tells me about the next album he’s working on and how this melody has been playing in his head since late last night. He goes on to ask about the store.

After we eat Noah walks to the front door where our clothes are haphazardly thrown. Picking them up he pulls his phone from the pocket. Before turning to me and handing me the device

“Put your number in, in case you need to blow off some steam again, I’ll be here” his eyes moving across my face and down to my body. I take the phone and quickly type my number sending myself a text.

“Hey i gotta get to the studio. But text me okay? Don’t be a stranger Mia.” Noah said pulling on the white tee before making his way to the bedroom.

After Noah left I sat on my couch and called Jess. “What happened to not trying to set me up Jess?”

“Well I may have mentioned to Noah after we got of the phone yesterday that you were in a dry spell and needed a good fuck, I didn't think he'd actually go for it, BUT! it worked because you’re hair is a mess and you’re face has some more color to it now. Tell me, was it amazing? I’ve heard rumors that Noah is amazing in bed” Jess pulls her phone closer to her face. Laughing I tell my best friend about the best sex I’ve had in a long time.

#noah sebastian #bad omens #bad omens cult #bad omens band #nick folio #jolly karlsson #nicholas ruffilo #badomenscult #badomens #concrete jungle #noah sebastian smut #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian bad omens #noah sebastian davis

44 notes · View notes

stumped-on-bennington · 5 months ago

Text

Mr. Sandman, Showing His Beam

Part 1: Build My Dreams

Summary: Dr. Benzedrine has a new creation that he's keeping under lock and key, but its only a matter of time before Mr. Sandman discovers her.

Pairing: America's Sweethearts!Pete Wentz x Reader

Pronouns used: She/Her

Requested by: @xx-scene-queen-fangz-xx

Word count: 1632

Y/N didn't know much of the outside world. She had only been in the world for a short time, almost a year to be exact. She had been created by the amazing Dr. Benzedrine in his lab.

Y/N’s creation had been a mistake, actually. The Doctor was trying to find a solution to the creatures known as “The Paparazzi” that kept dragging unsuspecting victims to the ooze, changing them forever. The Doctor wanted to create a doll that could fight off the paparazzi, but he mistakenly created Y/N instead, a sweet doll of a girl who had a certain spark in her eyes.

As soon as Y/N opened her eyes, the Doctor knew he had to protect her from the cruelties of the world. He built her a room with many trinkets and toys to keep her occupied. Y/N would sing beautifully, causing the mechanical birds that the Doctor created to fly and chirp, as if they had come to life.

One day, while playing, Y/N was singing around one of the Doctor’s new automatons. The machine was made to mimic a bear, one that was extremely large in size with pointed teeth and claws. The sweet melody that Y/N was singing caused the machine to roar to life, swinging its arms wildly. Y/N wasn’t used to such creatures of violence, causing her to not understand the urgency to run away. The bear swiped at Y/N, gouging her fragile porcelain skin. Before Y/N knew what had happened, fear had taken over her body, enveloping her in a dark shadow, only her glowing blue eyes shining in the darkness. Her personality had shifted, causing her to fight back against the machine and destroying most of the work room. The once passive and sweet girl had turned into a weapon of total destruction.

Hearing the loud sound of metal and wood breaking, the Doctor ran up to the work room, fearing that Y/N could be hurt. When he opened the door, he found Y/N shielded in shadow, her piercing blue eyes darting towards him as he entered the room. Slowly, she creeped towards him, seeing him as her next target. The only thing Benzedrine could do was choke out a whimper of her name.

“Y-Y/N..?” he whispered.

Suddenly, she stopped. Her eyes dilating back to their usual size, before the shadows melting off her body.

Now, standing before Dr. Benzedrine was the small and fragile girl he knew. A crack forming across on her cheek had exposed some of her inner mechanics; Gears ticking as Y/N did her best not to cry as she looked up at Benzedrine.

“D-Doctor, I…” Y/N began. Before she could get out another word, Benzedrine simply hugged the girl, holding her close.

“Oh, thank the heavens, Y/N. I was worried something awful had happened to you.” the Doctor kneeled down to look at Y/N’s broken face. He studied the crack for a moment. “Come now, Let’s get you fixed up, shall we?” The Doctor calmly led Y/N over to a workbench that had seen minimal damage and began working on Y/N’s face.

The fix wasn’t perfect, in fact the crack had just been filled with gold, allowing for Y/N’s mechanics to be covered once again, but for there to be a permanent visual reminder of the event.

Since that day, Dr. Benzedrine hadn’t allowed Y/N out of her room. He was afraid of Y/N getting hurt again, but he was more afraid of her hurting someone else, so he kept her a secret. He would bring her his latest inventions, all small animals that were usually kept as pets; a goldfish automaton that could really swim in water, a kitten automaton that purred in your lap, a puppy automaton that would chase its own tail. Benzedrine made it all to try and keep Y/N happy, to keep her locked away where she was safe.

At night, long after the Doctor had gone to sleep, Y/N would sneak away to a corner of her room that she had kept hidden: A loose set of bricks that she could pull out of the wall and sneak out of the house, down to the garden that was overgrown. Y/N would spend many nights here, watching the stars, seeing real animals, like foxes and raccoons, and dancing quietly through the breeze of the night.

One night, as Y/N tiptoed through the tall grass and wildflowers, someone caught sight of her. The man blended in through the shadows, moving without a sound nor a trace. As he reached Y/N, his yellow eyes glowed, narrowing in on her.

As Y/N turned around, she was met with the glowing eyes of the man, causing her to stumble and fall backwards, looking up at him in fear. But before her instincts could take over, the shadows melted off the figure, revealing an oddly dressed man in black and gold, a pointed collar, and a large permanent smile painted on his face.

“Hello there, dolly.” He said, offering his hand to help pull her back to her feet. Y/N reluctantly took his hand, allowing him to help her back up. As Y/N was pulled back up, she looked up into the man’s eyes, staring for a few seconds before her senses caught up with her. Y/N turned to leave, but the man still had a hold on her hand.

“Hey, wait.” he said, gently pulling her back to him. “I don’t even know your name and you're already trying to leave?” He looked down into her glowing blue eyes, sensing the innocence that she possessed.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t stay, I must get back inside. I’m not supposed to be seen by anyone.” She whispered to him.

“Very well.” he said, letting go of her hand. “But before you go, allow me to give you something.” He pulled a small vial on a chain from his pocket, unscrewed the top, and rubbed his fingers above the opening. Little particles of gold sand began to fall from his fingers, filling the vial. When the container was half full, he stopped and closed up the top, handing it over to Y/N.

“Take this with you and wear it when you go to sleep.” He said as Y/N gently took the chain from the man. She looked down at the vial, perplexed by why he would give this to her. As she looked up to ask the man what it ment, he had already vanished. Y/N clutched the vial before turning to go back inside.

Back in her room, Y/N studied the necklace, watching the sand fall as she turned the vial and how it seemed to glow, even in the dark. The color looked the exact same as the strange man's eyes, a pale yellow with a few specks of a deep gold mixed in. Y/N hung the necklace around her neck, tucking the vial into the collar of her dress, to keep it concealed.

As Y/N began to fall asleep that night, her dreams were filled with the golden sand. Walking through the dunes and valleys, she found herself standing next to the man from earlier that night.

“Hello again, Dolly.” he smiled at her.

“That is not my name.” she said bashfully.

“Then enlighten me, what is your name?” He asked.

“Y/N… My name is Y/N.” she said to the man.

He smiled at her again. “What a beautiful name for a beautiful girl. One good introduction deserves one another in return; My name is Mr. Sandman. Now tell me, Y/N, why have I never seen you before?” He leaned down to look at the smaller girl.

Y/N played with the hem of her dress, looking down at her feet as she spoke. “The Doctor created me. He’s afraid of me getting hurt again, or rather, he’s afraid of what I might be capable of, what damage I might cause, who I might hurt…” she trails off as she speaks.

Sandman laughs, “What you might be capable of? A small thing like you?” he chuckles as he watches how Y/N becomes more bashful, almost fearful as she gently runs her fingers across the gold repair on her cheek. Sandman stops laughing, realizing that what she says is rather real to her. He kneels down, so that he is looking up into Y/N’s face as he grabs her hands. “Tell me what happened, Y/N. Help me understand why you're locked away.”

As they both sat in the sand, Y/N told Sandman the story of what she remembers, and what Benzedrine had told her he saw when she was blacked out.

Sandman held Y/N’s hand, drawing small circles on it with his thumb as he listened. As Y/N finished the story, Sandman let out a low hum before speaking, “Sounds like to me you have a lot of strong emotions. You know, I know someone else who is just like that.”

Y/N perked up, turning to face Sandman, “You do? Well how do I get rid of them?”

Sandman chuckled lightly, “You don’t. You just learn to live with them.” Y/N frowned at the answer. As she looked down and back out to the setting sun on the horizon, Sandman spoke.

“Well, it would seem that our time here is drawing to a close, mon petit chou.” Sandman says as he stands, pulling up Y/N with him. “I’ll see you tonight, but until then, good morning.” as he says his last words, Y/N awakes back in her bed.

#fall out boy #fob #patrick stump #pete wentz #fanfic #fanfics #america's sweethearts AU #x reader #pete wentz x reader #bandom #trick fic #mr sandman #dr benzedrine

20 notes · View notes

armins-main-hoe · 1 year ago

Text

Purple Petals of Velaris

Ever wonder what it would be like if Rhysand had another younger sister, one who had not even been able to fly the day his mother and sister got killed? A baby who got spared by Tamlin who could not find it in himself to kill a such a young soul who looked up at him and gave him a toothless smile. So before his father and brothers could find the youngest child of the night, he hid her away, giving her a sweet flower to suckle on so she's keep quiet, walking over to his brothers and father, trying to avoid stepping in the pool of blood on the floor, saying that their job is done.

His father took the heads of the two women, putting them into a box which were then sent down a river towards the nearest camp while cutting their illryian wings off to keep as a trophy. However, one of Tamlin's brothers remembered that there was a third child of the night court. They began asking Tamlin where that child would be, to which Tamlin faked his lack of knowledge. However, before they could go and search, they picked up on distant shouts coming from the illyrian camp a few miles away.

The high lord of the Spring court saw no desperate need to kill a baby, much less a female baby who doesn't hold that strong of a threat to his power over the urgency to leave the night court before they are found. So he left. When Illryian soldiers flew along the river they saw no signs of the bastards who sent them the heads of their high lord's lady and child. Nothing apart from the remains of their bodies and the blood soaked snow.

Rhysand did not know what to feel yet he felt so much at the same time when he was told of the murder. His father was in an even worse state. Did not help that no one knew what happened to the baby. So when his father came to him, telling him of his plan to kill Tamlin's family. Rhysand did little to think twice and joined him.

Only to come back as the new high lord of the night court.

He had winnowed into his room, his chest heaving. He did not get even a wink of sleep that night. His mind was far to busy going on with what happened over the course of a few hours to even think of laying down on his bed. As the sun began to rise, he sat on the rooftop of his home. The home he now owned. There was this anxiety sitting right on top of his chest that he couldn't get rid of no matter how much he drank.

He was lucky that only Cassian and Azriel were the ones to see him in such a state first. The night court right now was vulnerable since Rhysand had yet to prove to everyone that he was a worthy high lord. If anyone, especially the spies of the other courts that would always be there, saw him like this right now, Cassian only shuddered at the thought.

So Cassian walked his friend downstairs to either sleep off the alcohol or wait it out. Anything just not out in the open. Azriel followed close behind, holding a bundle of a blanket in his hands.

Rhysand woke the next afternoon with probably the worst hangover he had ever experienced. Though his two friends had stayed with him the night and were there when he woke up, helping him ease off his headache.

"Rhys, about you're sister-" Azriel started but Rhysand cut him off.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Cassian stepped forward, putting a hand on his shoulder. "The baby Rhys, he's talking about the baby."

Rhysand looked at him then at Azriel. No one knew where his baby sister was after the murder that yesterday. His father had sent out soldiers of all sorts to find her but no one could. When Rhysand went to the Spring Court last night, he had killed Tamlin's brothers but also had been looking for his baby sister, to see if they had taken her. However, she was nowhere to be seen or scented.

Azriel started again. "We found her last night-"

Rhysand's eyes widened, his body tensed as he quickly walked over to Azriel. "Is she... She's not..?"

"Alive. Rhys, she is alive. She's in her room right now." Cassian told him.

He did not waste a second longer to winnow to the child's room. He opened the door, immediately looking over the cot. He let out a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding when he saw her, playing with purple petals of a flower in her small hands.

"Oh, mother.." He fell to his knees, his hands on the edge of the cot as he sobbed. He had been so sure that he had lost all of his family. All within the span of a few hours but there she was. The most vulnerable of his family, the youngest and weakest, she had survived to stay with him. He isn't alone. He'd never be alone.

He would never lose her. Not in the way he lost his mother and sister, not in any way. He'd never let it happen.

He heard her squeal and coo over his tears. Wiping his wet cheeks, he stood back up. Looking at her again before picking her up. She babbles and reaches out to touch his face, the petals that were in her hands fell to the floor. Putting his forehead against hers, he closed his eyes as more tears fell. The baby simply put her little hands on his face, fingers feeling his stubble, brows furrowing at the feeling. She doesn't know what happened, too young to realise her entire family is gone. Too young to realise she only has her older brother left to rely on.

But that does not matter. He swears to keep her safe. He'll raise her. He'll protect her. He'll do it at any cost, but she can not leave him. She can't leave him in this cruel world alone.

Should I turn this into a fic?

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #rhysand #rhys acotar #high lord rhysand #cassian #acosf #azriel #rhysand's sister #new fic #night court #spring court #tamlin #tamlin acotar

68 notes · View notes

storiesbyjes2g · 7 months ago

Text

3.177 Daredevil

It got late, and I decided we needed to wrap up the night. We were right across the street from the rental, but I didn't want to mess around and find out this city is unsafe at night. My thought was to go inside for a drink, but it was kind of crowded, so we took a bench just outside one of the entrances for my next party trick.

"You know I love you, right?" I said.

"Yes, Luca."

"And you know I'd do anything for you..."

She nodded.

"And you know-"

"Luca! Stop."

Okay, I threw that last one in there to make her laugh.

"Okay. I'll get to the point. When I bought the flowers, I saw they had all kinds of sweet treats..."

Her eyes lit up just like I thought they would.

"They had chocolate, strawberries, and all the usuals. But you know what I got?"

I pulled out the pink box, and she sat on the end of the bench, waiting anxiously to know what tantalizing goodness awaited her. I sat there for a few seconds, toying with her emotions.

"Luca, open the box!!"

I laughed so hard. Upon threat of harm, I opened the box, and she gasped.

"DONUT HOLES?!?!? You really do love me!"

Score! She clamored for the box, but I snatched it away.

"Wait, now. Let me feed you like they do in the movies."

It only took her two seconds to get all doe eyed on me and open her mouth wide.

My plan was to be funny and toss one into her mouth like a basketball, but my plan backfired. I missed her mouth. Like, entirely. It hit her in the nose and crashed down to the ground. Sophia gasped again even louder.

"Save it, Luca!!"

If I weren't trying to go after it like we didn't have eight more in the box, I would have laughed at her concern for this lone donut hole.

Needless, I let her eat her own donuts after that. No, she did not share, and that was fine by me.

The air got chilly, and Sophia wanted to get away from the breeze and go inside. That was actually perfect because I had one last trick up my sleeve. The gift shop also had all kinds of nectars from all over the worlds. Since strawberries are related to romance, I bought a bottle of strawberry nectar and poured us a glass. I don't know what they put in that stuff, but my lips got real loose. Like I said before, I'm not a romantic dude, but I sure was spitting some serious game that night. My tongue was so silver, they could give it out as an award. I didn't know I had it in me, and neither did Sophia. She was surprised at first, but she ate it all the way up.

But I didn't stop there. I went from dropping lines to kicking the hornet's nest. I should have known better than to start something I can't finish, but I just couldn't get enough of her, and it was so nice having uninterrupted time together. She, too, fought a losing battle, and I knew I needed to stop or figure out how to make this happen because there was no way we were taking this back to the house. The way we get down? Dub will never invite us anywhere again, heh. She cut her eyes at me in that way when we're about to fly to Sixam. I looked around to see if we were alone because we just might have to get arrested for public indecency.

"Closet," she said with urgency.

I looked at it with a raised eyebrow, thinking I'd rather go to jail than find out if that closet is clean or not.

"Seriously?"

"Come on! It'll be fun. No one is around anyway."

I've never turned down my wife, and I was not about to start. She always finds ways to get me to do things I've never done.

Closet woohoo!! Who knew?

#ISBI challenge #sims 4 story #sims 4 gameplay #adolting #luca winston murillo #adolting gen 3 #sophia aguilar

26 notes · View notes

bloody-bee-tea · 11 months ago

Text

June of (minimal) Doom 2024 Day 9 - I made a mistake

Satoru fucked up, he knows it. He knows it, but there’s no way to take it back, and that might just be the worst part about it.

He’s in dire need of some advice, so he barges into Shoko’s room, absolutely frantic to get some help.

“Shoko, I need your help,” he rushes out and Shoko only throws him a lazy look, clearly not convinced of the urgency of the situation.

“I’m not here to help you manage your social life,” she eventually says and Satoru frowns, momentarily forgetting his own very real, very serious problem.

“How do you know it’s that? I could be actively dying.”

“You have a voice for that.”

“A voice.”

“A very Shoko-I-somehow-got-my-arm-unattached-from-my-body-and-now-I-need-help-voice. This is not that. This is your Shoko-I-socially-fucked-up-voice. And with that I cannot help.”

“That’s—uncalled for, actually,” Satoru mutters before he gravity of the situation slams into him all over again. “But please, Shoko, I really do need your help.”

“You’re not going to leave without at least telling me about whatever you fucked up, are you?” she asks, clearly already somewhat resigned to her fate and she only sighs when Satoru shakes his head.

“Nope,” he still says for good measure, just so she knows just how serious this is and finally Shoko gives him her full attention.

“Okay, hit me with it, then,” she says and Satoru takes a deep breath.

“I may have implied to my family that Suguru is my boyfriend,” Satoru rushes out, in case Shoko changes her mind again and because it’s actually painful to admit that and immediately Shoko’s eyebrows fly up.

“Oh, damn,” she whispers. “You really fucked up.”

“I did,” Satoru cries out and buries his face in his hands. “Fuck, I fucked up so badly. How am I ever going to explain that to him in a way that doesn’t make him lose it?” he desperately asks and he doesn’t even need to look up to know that Shoko is wincing.

“I’m not sure that there’s a way,” she carefully says and Satoru almost sobs at that.

He knows that this is bad, that Suguru is probably going to hate him for it and he has no goddamn clue how he’s every going to fix it.

“What if I just don’t tell him?” he tries and Shoko hits him over the head for it.

“You know that your family is going to approach him if they think you’re together. Things are not quite that easy for you prominent clan members,” she reminds him as if Satoru could really have forgotten that.

“I know,” he whines out because it doesn’t help with his problem at all. “He’s going to cut me out of his life, I just know it. And then I’ll have lost him and I’ll have to tell my family that we broke up and I’m not going to survive it.”

“Oh, Satoru,” Shoko helplessly says, because what else is there to say, really.

Satoru is right after all.

Suguru is going to blow a fuse, he’s going to be incredibly mad at Satoru and then he won’t want anything to do with him anymore and just like that Satoru will have lost his one and only and all because he’s stupid and can’t function properly when he talks to his mother.

Fuck.

“Maybe he won’t take it so badly?” Shoko suggests and now that makes Satoru snort out a desperate laugh.

“Yeah, right. That seems likely with how vehemently he has always protested any kind of notion in that direction,” he gives back because people have mistaken them for a couple several times already and every time it was brought up, Suguru almost exploded with anger and he always rushes to set things straight: we’re not together, how dare you even suggest that, never say something like that again.

Satoru always found his reaction a little bit over the top, especially since he didn’t mind it at all and what does it even matter if some strangers think they are together, but Suguru was always quick to shut such suggestions down.

It made it more than clear that he’d never see Satoru in that light, that he’d never want a relationship, no matter how much Satoru wished for it and to fuck up like this now is probably going to cost him Suguru entirely.

Satoru just wants to hide himself away for the rest of his life, hoping that like this he doesn’t have to see Suguru be furious with him for a change.

“What are you going to do?” Shoko asks and Satoru deflates where he stands.

She’s right when she says that his clan will most likely contact Suguru somehow so there’s not really much he can do.

“I’ll have to tell him,” Satoru whispers and Shoko hums.

“That sucks,” she says and that’s the understatement of the year. “I know it’s not much but you can come here to get smashed afterwards if you want,” she then offers and Satoru knows how jealously she hoards her alcohol so for her to offer this, he must really be in deep shit.

“Thanks, I guess,” he mutters and turns back around to the door. “I’ll go destroy the best thing in my life now, then,” he adds on and while it sounds overdramatic, that is exactly how it feels to him.

But there’s no way around it—he already knew that before he came to Shoko—and he just has to be a big boy and get it over with.

He makes his way over to Suguru’s room, dragging his feet a bit, but he still arrives at his door sooner than he’d like.

Satoru takes one deep breath before he knocks and then he shuffles unsurely around as he waits for Suguru’s call.

Instead of doing that, Suguru comes to the door himself, and Satoru flinches.

“Satoru? What’s wrong?” Suguru asks and of course something must be wrong because Satoru normally never knocks. He never needed to, he was always welcome to barge right in, but he knows that he’s going to lose that privilege as soon as he tells Suguru what’s going on, so he better starts behaving accordingly as soon as he can.

“Can I come in?” Satoru asks and Suguru’s face clouds over with worry.

“What the fuck is going on?” he asks and then reaches out to take Satoru’s temperature. “Are you sick?”

“No. Suguru, can I come in?” he asks again and cherishes the way Suguru’s name feels in his mouth.

He’ll probably have to refer to him as Geto once this is all over and that alone is almost enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“You’re freaking me out,” Suguru says but he does step aside to let Satoru in.

“Sorry, I just—there’s something I have to tell you,” Satoru mutters and he can tell that his words do nothing to alleviate Suguru’s worries.

“Okay, spit it out then,” Suguru says once the door is closed behind Satoru and Satoru wrings his hands in front of his chest.

“I just want to start this off with the fact that I didn’t really mean to and I’m really very sorry. If that helps at all.”

“It would, maybe, if you could tell me just what exactly it is you did,” Suguru gives back and Satoru knows that there’s no way around this, that he has to come clean about this and yet he still stalls for a few more precious seconds.

A few seconds more where Suguru doesn’t hate him yet and Satoru hoards them as greedily as he can.

“I made a mistake,” he finally starts with and Suguru frowns.

“Okay. What kind of mistake?” he asks and Satoru starts to pace in his room.

“My mother called me today, and you know how talking with her always gets me,” he explains and Suguru nods, because it’s not news to him that talking to anyone from his family fucks Satoru a little bit up every time. “And she keeps pestering me about finding someone to settle down with and to preferably start producing heirs as soon as possible.”

“You’re not even eighteen yet,” Suguru interjects and Satoru shrugs, because that really has never mattered to his family.

If it were up to them he would probably already be a father, preferably a few times over, just in case they can have more overpowered Gojo’s.

“Not the point,” Satoru mutters.

“What is the point then?”

“The point is that I may have panicked?” he asks and then falls silent again, unable to find the words.

“And done what? Satoru, seriously, do I have to pull every word out of you?” Suguru wants to know, clearly getting impatient now and Satoru takes a deep breath before he finally spills it all.

“I may have blurted out that I’m already seeing someone, but that I wasn’t ready to tell them yet, just so she would get off my back, but of course she didn’t and instead pestered me to know who it was and her guesses were getting increasingly disturbing so I eventually just blurted out that I’m seeing you.”

He doesn’t dare to look at Suguru, doesn’t want to know what kind of face he’s making at hearing that and he’s sure that the yelling is going to start any moment now.

Instead Suguru stays quiet. Eerily so.

“Suguru?” Satoru finally asks and when he looks at Suguru he’s not prepared for the crestfallen look he sees on his face.

“Why would you do that?” Suguru asks, his voice barely above a whisper and he looks so hurt that Satoru feels like the scum of the earth, knowing he was the one to put that look on his face.

He would have preferred anger, he thinks.

“I just—I panicked. I didn’t think.”

“How is that the first thing you can come up with, though? Shoko is right there. Why did it have to be me?”

“Maybe—” Satoru starts and then decides to fuck it. Suguru is going to hate him one way or another, so it’s probably best to put it all out there. “Maybe because it was the first thing I thought of.”

“But why?” Suguru demands to know again and Satoru locks his eyes with.

“Because it’s something I wish was true, so I couldn’t think of anything—anyone—else,” he admits and then waits for the unavoidable anger that’s sure to follow his words.

“You—want me to be your boyfriend?” Suguru mutters and Satoru shrugs.

“Yeah. I have, for a long time. I know how you feel about that, though, so I get it. I know you must be mad, I know you must be disgusted. And I wish I could change it, I wish I could take it all back, but things with my family are not quite that easy and they are not going to ignore this. I expect them to contact you some time this week, so I thought it’s best to warn you before that.”

“Wait, hold on, stop,” Suguru rushes out and holds up his hands as if that could force Satoru’s words to a stop. “What do you mean, you’ve felt that way for a long time?”

“Just that. I’ve been in love with you for months now, Suguru. What else do you want me to say?”

“But you never said anything!”

“Right,” Satoru lets out a bitter laugh. “You think I am that eager to get rejected? I know how you feel about that, I’ve seen the way you react to people assuming this about us, so I always knew I had no chance at all. But I didn’t think with my mother, and now it’s all fucked up.”

“How I feel about that?”

“Suguru, please, can we just skip ahead to the point where you yell at me and tell me to get out and never come back? I can’t do this,” Satoru begs him, because he’s not a fan of dragging the inevitable out like this but he was not prepared for the way Suguru steps forward and takes his hands in his.

“Satoru, I love you,” Suguru says and it’s so out of left field that Satoru doesn’t even understand what’s happening.

“You’re mad at me,” he gives back and watches how Suguru shakes his head, his hair flying.

“I’m not, gods, I’m not! Satoru, I love you. I’m in love with you.”

“But you—that can’t be, you always yelled at people who assumed things about us,” Satoru mutters out, because he wasn’t imagining that. “Even Shoko knows that you’re going to kick me out of your life for this, that’s how much you hate the notion of a romantic relationship with me.”

“Fuck, that’s so not true,” Suguru rushes out. “I’m sorry it came across like that! It’s just—whenever people assumed that I was so hurt because it wasn’t true and there was no way in hell that you’d ever feel that way about me, so I got defensive.”

“What do you mean, I’d never feel that way?”

“I just mean—what would you ever see in me?” Suguru asks and squeezes Satoru’s hands. “I thought I had no chance. I’m not from a big clan, I am nothing special, so why would you ever feel that way about me?”

“Because you’re Suguru,” Satoru gives back as if that explains everything and to him it does.

Suguru is Suguru and that’s why Satoru loves him.

“I didn’t know,” Suguru mutters and rests their foreheads together. “Satoru, I didn’t know. I never would have expected this.”

“So—you’re not mad,” Satoru has to say, because it still makes little sense to him what is happening.

“I’m not mad. I’m overjoyed. I want to be your boyfriend.”

“Really?” Satoru has to ask to make sure.

“Really,” Suguru immediately gives back. “I’m sorry I ever made you think otherwise.”

“It’s not as if I ever said anything to make you think you have a chance, apparently,” Satoru replies even though he wonders how that can be, but maybe that’s a conversation for a later point.

“But I know better now,” Suguru says and tilts his head to brush a kiss over Satoru’s lips. “Boyfriend.”

The word makes Satoru all tingly and he can’t help the big smile that breaks out on his face.

“Boyfriend,” he agrees and dives right in for a real kiss. “I like how that sounds.”

“Me, too,” Suguru admits and when he pulls Satoru in for a bone-crushing hug, he goes easily.

They stay like that for a long time and even though Satoru knows that there will have to be at least one more conversation to be held about this—at least about the expectations his clan will have for Suguru—he thinks that all of that can wait because there’s no power out there that could make him pull away from Suguru at that moment.

Or ever again, but he thinks it might be a little bit too soon to admit that as well. Small steps, he thinks, and buries his face in the crook of Suguru’s neck. He already has what he wants in his arms after all. Everything else can come later.

#bt writes #june of doom 2024 #jjk #satosugu #geto suguru #gojo satoru #shoko ieiri #misunderstandings #getting together #not actually unrequited love #first kiss #love confessions #hurt/comfort

38 notes · View notes

rainbowfey · 7 months ago

Text

28 Written but never sent

@flufftober

For a few weeks now, Shinobu had felt like something was missing but she could not put her finger on what exactly was off. It was in the middle of treating her last patient for the day that she suddenly realized what it was. Her head shot up and the patient winced in surprise, looking up at her with big eyes. “Is something wrong?” he asked, sounding a bit scared.

Shinobu quickly turned her focus back on what she was doing and gave him a reassuring smile. “No, don’t worry,” she said calmly. “Your wound is healing really well, you’ll be better in no time.”

That seemed to soothe the demon slayer’s concerns and he relaxed again, allowing Shinobu to finish her examination without further hiccups. And when she was done, he even bowed as far as that was possible when laying in bed, making her smile again.

Shinobu took off her scrubs and threw them away while leaving the room. She looked along the hallway, hoping to see Aoi scurrying around but unfortunately, she was nowhere to be seen. With a feeling of urgency, Shinobu quickly searched the rooms until she finally found Aoi in the room where they stored the medicine for their patients. She sighed in relief when she spotted Aoi in a corner, preparing healing herbs.

“Aoi,” she said a bit more loudly that she had planned on, making Aoi jump. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just … I have to leave for a while. Do you think you and the girls can handle the patients on your own for one or two days?”

Aoi carefully set down the herbs and gave Shinobu a worried look while nodding. “Of course. Are you okay, Shinobu? Did something happen?”

Shinobu paused. She had not thought that her behavior was unusual enough to catch Aoi’s attention. She was about to put her off when she saw the genuine concern in Aoi’s eyes, making her change her mind. “I … I don’t know,” she said slowly, trying to make sense of her inner turmoil, “I have to check on someone. I just want to make sure they’re okay.”

For a moment, it looked like Aoi wanted to ask her who she was talking about. But then she just nodded and gently said, “Take your time. We’ll be fine for a few days, it’s been rather slow anyways.”

Shinobu smiled at her gratefully, her mind calming a bit. With Aoi in charge, she knew that she could safely leave for a few days which took an edge off her uncertainty. At least, this way she did not have to worry about her patients.

When she had said goodbye to Aoi, she quickly hurried to her room and packed a few things, just enough so that she would not have any trouble staying away for a few days. Then, she hurried towards the entrance hall of the butterfly mansion, hoping that nobody would try to flag her down on her way out. And to her luck, she managed to dodge everyone else, making it to the door and out of the mansion without engaging in any conversation.

Outside, Shinobu turned left without hesitation, her feet leading her along the path already even before she had set her mind on it. Now that she was on her way, she finally had the time to think about her realization and notice her feelings at it swirling through her body. For weeks, she had felt increasingly off, asking herself late at night what caused this feeling of unease. And when she had looked at the claw mark on the injured demon slayer’s arm, she had remembered the last time she had treated a wound like this. And when the image of a familiar face had popped up in her mind, all the puzzle pieces had fallen into place.

“Giyuu,” Shinobu muttered to herself, her feet flying along the path. While Giyuu certainly did not show up at the butterfly mansion very regularly, he never let more than one or two weeks pass before visiting Shinobu again, usually with a more than flimsy excuse for doing so. But for more than a month, he had not come to the butterfly mansion. And while at first, Shinobu had not even noticed his absence, her unease had grown with each passing week without any sign of him. And when she had seen the wound that looked uncannily like Giyuu’s wound she had treated three months ago, the realization of his absence had come upon on her, shaking her to her core.

Shinobu quickened her pace until she was almost running. While she could not explain to herself why she felt this urgency, something deep within her unrelentingly pushed her to Giyuu’s mansion, hoping that she would find him there. He probably had very mundane reasons for not showing his face at the butterfly mansion for quite some time. But somewhere in a dark corner of Shinobu’s mind, a small voice whispered, ‘What if something happened to him?’. And even though Shinobu did not want to admit that thought to herself, she increased her speed until it almost felt like she was flying.

When Giyuu’s mansion appeared on the horizon, Shinobu’s heart started fluttering even more. She had thought she would calm down as soon as she reached it, but the opposite happened when she hastened towards the door. When she reached it, she had to take a moment to regain her composure before she knocked three times. And when she heard steps coming closer and the door slowly started to open, her heart sank in relief.

“Kochou-san,” a woman said, her eyes widening in surprise. “We did not expect you today. How can I help you?”

Shinobu’s shoulders sank down when she forced herself to smile at the young Kakushi. Her thoughts had been so fixed on Giyuu that she had not anticipated an attendant to answer the door. “I’d like to speak with Tomioka-san,” she said politely.

The Kakushi’s eyes took on a sympathetic expression when she bowed. “I am sorry, but Tomioka-sama is not here currently. Would you like to come in and wait for him?”

Shinobu nodded and followed the attendant as she led her into the mansion, offering Shinobu something to drink and eat while she waited. Shinobu politely declined as she was sure that she was not able to stomach anything right now. At least the attendant did not seem overly concerned about Giyuu and if he had gotten hurt or was missing, the Kakushi surely would have told her about it.

When she left the room, Shinobu sank down on a chair, her heart still beating faster than it should have. While her heartbeat slowly calmed down, she looked around and noticed that the room seemed to be an office of sorts which she had not expected. She could not imagine Giyuu sitting at a desk doing paperwork. Then, however, her gaze fell on the rows upon rows of bookshelves lining the walls and a smile formed on her face. Giyuu spending whole days holed up in here reading was a thought that did seem very fitting. And since she loved books as well, she felt their presence slowly calming her down until she did not feel like she would explode at any moment anymore.

After a while, Shinobu could not sit still any longer. Instead, she got up and started exploring Giyuu’s bookshelves, curiously reading the titles and once in a while even gently pulling a book out of the shelf and flicking through its pages. When she had worked her way to the other side of the room, her gaze fell on the desk standing only a few steps away. Her eyes lit up when she saw another pile of books towering on the desk. Shinobu hesitated for a moment and silently asked herself whether Giyuu would mind her taking a closer look at those books. And even though she was not entirely sure, she could not pass up on the chance of finding out which books Giyuu currently liked the most.

Feeling like a sneaky rogue, Shinobu slid into the chair and curiously started looking at the first book. One by one, she examined the books until she reached the last one in the pile. Mesmerized by its beautiful binding and the golden letters glistening on its back, Shinobu carefully pulled the book closer. And while she touched it, her hand grazed something uneven.

Curious, Shinobu turned the book to the side and noticed one page that seemed to stick out further than the other ones. Before she could stop herself, she opened the book, intending to fix the page. But when she found it, she realized that it was not a page slightly torn but rather a piece of paper that was covered in an elegant handwriting. Intrigued by the beautifully written letters, Shinobu looked at the first line – and froze when she read the words ‘Dear Shinobu’.

When Shinobu reached the door, she heard the attendant behind her, calling out to her. And even though she knew it would seem impolite, Shinobu did not stop and quickly shouted back, “Thank you for your effort. I’ll be on my way now.”

And before the attendant had the chance to say anything else, Shinobu left the mansion and headed for the forest. Now that she knew where she had to go, her heart started beating faster again, fluttering at the thought of what she had read and what expected her at the clearing she was heading for. She had not even known of this secret place that was special to him and even though she knew the letter had not been meant for her eyes to see, she was grateful that it had given her an idea of where to find Giyuu.

It took her some effort to find the narrow path to the clearing and she had to slow down in order to not miss it which made her body tense up with impatience. When she finally spotted it between two particularly massive trees, she sighed in relief and hastily followed the path leading her into the heart of the forest. Her teeth gritted, she made her way through bushes and thickets and just when she thought this trail would never end, she reached the clearing.

Shinobu slowed down and suddenly, the fire burning in her chest driving her forward turned into a single, tiny flicker. Her hands felt cold when she reluctantly stepped out of the forest and onto the clearing. Her gaze fixed on the silhouette sitting at the other end of the clearing, their hands absentmindedly plucking blades of grass to pieces, she slowly walked closer.

And when Shinobu had almost reached him, she plucked up her courage and softly asked, “Giyuu?”

Giyuu’s head shot up and his eyes went wide as saucers as he quickly struggled to his feet. “Shinobu?” he gasped. “How did you … what are you doing here?”

Shinobu felt her cheeks starting to blush when she looked down at the ground, trying to find the right words. Her heart still ached when she thought about what Giyuu had written in this letter that he had never sent to her. Her shoulders sank down and without being able to stop herself from doing so, she quietly said, “I am sorry.”

For a moment, silence engulfed them. She swallowed hard and forced herself to look up, only to be met with a bewildered, almost scared look out of blue eyes. “What for?” Giyuu asked.

Shinobu sighed and straightened her shoulders. “I would like to apologize for what I said to you. For the jokes I made. I didn’t realize that I hurt you with them.”

Giyuu’s face grew pale and when he took a step back, Shinobu’s heart fluttered in her chest. “I never wanted you to think you were be a bother,” she quickly said and fought against the lump forming in her throat. “And I would be very sad if you stopped coming by every now and then.”

Giyuu blinked rapidly and for a moment, it almost looked like his legs would give in. “How do you know …?” he asked weakly.

And with the feeling of jumping off a cliff, Shinobu braced herself and said, “I found the letter.”

Giyuu’s face went white as a sheet and Shinobu noticed his hands starting to tremble. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” he squeezed out. “I shouldn’t have written it, I should’ve just thrown it away.”

Shinobu quickly shook her head and took a step towards him. She reached for him but when she saw the anguish in his eyes, she paused and her hand sank down again. “I’m so sorry, Giyuu,” she said. “I didn’t mean to snoop. But when I read it, I just had to find you and tell you …”

Her voice trailed off and she struggled for words. Giyuu stood frozen in place, looking at her with wide eyes. And when Shinobu met his gaze, her heart ached and she took a deep breath. With two quick steps, she closed the distance between them and gently reached for Giyuu’s hand. He winced and stared down at their hands but he did not pull away. Instead, his face took on such a vulnerable expression that Shinobu’s heart melted.

And suddenly, she had the courage to say what was on her mind. “And tell you,” she continued, her voice quivering ever so slightly, “that every time I see you, the world seems lighter and more vibrant. That your smile means the world to me and that I don’t want to go without it … and without you.”

The forest turned still when Giyuu looked at her. Shinobu held her breath, bracing herself for him pulling back, her chest tightening at the thought. And then she felt Giyuu’s hand slowly closing around hers. Careful, almost timid, he intertwined his fingers with hers, never averting his gaze.

And when he spoke, his voice was so soft that she almost did not hear him. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

Shinobu smiled and came even closer, looking up at him. “It means exactly what you think it does,” she whispered when she closed the distance between them.

And the last thing she saw before closing her eyes was Giyuu’s face softening, a tender smile forming on his lips. Then, all she felt was his warmth and his arm gently wrapping around her.

#flufftober2024 #alt 8 #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #giyuu x shinobu #giyushino #shinobu kocho #giyuu tomioka #friends to lovers #romance #hurt/comfort #fluff #fanfiction #writing

19 notes · View notes