#why get to know something that will only remind you of what you can never have

[takes1]

i would LOVE to know which haikyuu boys would be brat tamers… and perhaps their favorite kind of punishments? (overstim, spanking, denial, paddling, etc) :333

basically just an s/o who sasses them all the time, loves to tease and talk back, and loves punishment hehe :3

haikyuu brat taming headcanons (nsfw)

loved this idea! just didn't have the format for when it got requested, then it got buried. tbh kuroo was the hardest to place out of all the names!!

warnings. heavy nsfw. minors DNI

characters. bokuto, nishinoya, oikawa, suga, kuroo, shohei, osamu, tendou, kentarou, daichi, atsumu, mattsun, iwa, tsukki, suna, sakusa, kenma, kageyama, aone, asahi, ushijima, lev, koganegawa, hinata, akaashi, yamaguchi details. lots of kink discussion. (implied mutual understanding, consent, and communication) aged up characters.

links. my masterlist. my ao3. more haikyuu. my imagines. requests open.

spoils you in and out of the bedroom. this guy has too much love in his heart to ever catch a stern tone with you, and especially doesn't like to use his strength against you. that being said-- he will hold you down after your fourth orgasm, as you squirm and tremble, cursing at him that it's too much- you can't take it- and the like. he still kisses you through it, call you his pretty girl, but it doesn't change the fact that you do need to learn some manners. you love that you can never make him upset, and learn to love his endurance, the way he grins and baby-talks you through your tears, because he finds it so cute that you always think you can get away with being such a brat. (BOKUTO, OIKAWA, kuroo, suga, nishinoya)

bondage, blindfolding, restriction. something about robbing you of a sense after you act up has no other match. you're so confident until your hands are tied, useless, behind your back or above your head. he can leave you like that for as long as it takes for you to apologize, or admit that you're wrong. it's usually paired with some type of slow, and cruel play that keeps you just stimulated enough to enjoy it, before he steals it back. it's the most absolute reminder of control and dominance; he's the type to kiss you through a long, and difficult type of tie, because you're too pretty not to taste while he's rendering your arms at your sides, or restricting how much you can breathe. probably the most patient, and twisted, form of punishment. (SHOHEI, osamu, TENDOU, kentarou, AKAASHI)

spanking, striking. loves seeing a clear print of his oversized hand across your skin. he knows you love it, too. that's why you keep pulling petty bullshit to get bent over his knee again, and again, and again. tears might be pricking your eyes, you might yelp- but you can't help but look back, a bitten back smile once the sharp pain becomes a lasting sting. you'll bite him just to get a little lovetap across your face, because you love watching his surprise shift rapidly into this possessive, corrective arousal. it gives you a sense of connection beyond what kissing, or even sex, can give. because, really, who else is going to look at you like that, all preoccupied, full of lust, but secretly attentive, after they hurt you? (DAICHI, ATSUMU, mattsun, IWA)

denial is his game. he takes his time already, keeping you on your toes, frustrated and needy-- he's ultra gentle despite his ability and disposition, never wanting to let you get a true taste of what he can give you if it isn't earned. time with him is filled with baited breath, muffled, almost-there whines, and shaky fingers that stay clenched, only to yourself. don't think he doesn't notice it, just because it isn't explicit. that's his purpose. to read you, analyze you, like a slowburn, steamy novel. he can fuck you so good, but he won't. he wants you to be desperate. be a good girl first, then he'll let you cum. (TSUKKI, suna, sakusa, KENMA, kageyama)

not much of a 'tamer.' while usually opting for a softer, guiding vibe in the bedroom, if provoked enough, he will not just roll over. when he understands what you're trying to do -get a rise out of him- he wears a stern squeeze in his brow. he's all focused on your smile, calculating, like you've just spoken another language. he wouldn't strike you, and doesn't enjoy giving verbal harassment, because when would he ever need to learn those skills? he's gigantic and intimidating. all he needs to do is remind you that you probably shouldn't be barking up the wrong tree. a big, strong hand squeezes around your throat, he finds just the right position to show you that you can't move under him, and a whisper, asking you, "what did you just say?" that's all you need to be subdued. (AONE, ASAHI, ushijima)

he would hardly know what to do with you. the idea of domination/submission, brats/brat tamers probably gets him hard, but there's not enough blood to share between his brain cells and his dick to play around with you the way that you're trying to instigate. he would need to be taught how to fill that role long before you could get what you wanted out of him. (LEV, KOGANEGAWA, hinata, yamaguchi)

notes. if the name is in caps, then i felt like their category is 100% in my brain. if the name just lowercase, then i felt like they could easily be in another one too. rlly liked writing this!

taglist. @integers @paradoxicalwritings @yuchacco @megapteraurelia

links. my masterlist. requests open.

[munsonsmixtapes]

Gotta Get Home to My Girl

rockstar!eddie x fem!reader

Eddie is never able to shut the fuck up about you.

The boys take their seats and everyone besides Eddie are mentally preparing themselves for what they know is to come. But how long is it going to take this time? The most recent record for how quickly Eddie was able to mention you in a sentence without being asked was less than a minute. 

“Oh, y/n has those shoes,” he’d said as soon as the interviewer sat down. She just nodded and then got him talking about you for the next five minutes. 

And that’s the thing, he uses your first name and everyone just knows who he’s talking about. He uses your name and “my girl” interchangeably and it’s assumed who he’s talking about. 

The guys love you, of course they do, how could they not? But that man will never ever fucking shut up about you so it’s gotten to a point where if he brings you up first, he’s got to put a fiver in the jar that they’ve brought along with them. 

The promo tour for their new album has barely even started and now there’s almost two hundred dollars in there because he can’t keep his fucking mouth shut. 

But that’s not stopping Eddie at all. He’s happily paying the money and will continue to talk about you as much as he damn well pleases. 

He just can’t help it. He loves you so much that he thinks that everyone wants to hear about you just as much as he wants to talk about you, not even noticing if they aren’t interested because he’s so caught up in gushing or bragging about you. He’s so down bad and doesn’t even care about how much of a simp he comes off as. 

You’re his girl, the thing that he thinks about all the time. No matter what’s going on, there’s going to be something that inevitably reminds him of you so he’s gotta mention because he’s certain that everyone wants to know. 

It’s gotten so bad that there are multiple compilations of him yapping away about you for however many minutes and the thing is, every single one has millions of views and that majority of comments are positive except for a select few that aren’t so nice. But that’s every video about anything, isn’t it? 

And the funny thing is, he knows that you watch them. Especially when you miss him and can’t speak to him at that moment. Because the love that he has for you is absolutely reciprocated and you know you’d be the same if the roles were reversed and you were the famous one. The multiple years that you’ve been together have all been one big honeymoon phase and neither of you care that people are rolling your eyes, saying that it’s cringey. Because deep down, you know that they’re just jealous. 

“I like your shirt,” the interviewer compliments and Eddie looks down, smiling at the shirt once he recognizes what it is. It’s one of the many band t-shirts he wears often. 

“Oh, thank you,” he smirks and just by seeing it, the boys know exactly what he’s going to say. “It belongs to my girl.” When he’s packing to go away, he makes sure that you throw in a few of your own shirts, making sure to spray them with your perfume so he can smell it when he especially misses you. 

“Do you share clothes often?” She asks and Eddie’s smile widens as the boys are shaking their heads. There goes another five dollars. It’s such easy money. 

“Oh, all the time,” Eddie nods. “Especially when I’m away. I like having a piece of her everywhere I go.” He’s actually counting down the hours until he can see you tonight, having trouble sitting still, like an excited puppy who can’t wait to see its owner. 

“That’s so sweet,” she replies, her smile matching Eddie’s. “So, let’s talk about the album.”

“Yes, let’s,” Gareth speaks up, nudging Eddie in the arm. That is the reason why they’re there, isn’t it? 

Eddie’s actually on his best behavior throughout the entire interview, not mentioning you again until the singular song about you that’s on the album is mentioned. He talks about it for the rest of the interview, which is actually only five minutes, but he could easily talk about it for hours. Well, he could talk about anything involving you for that long. 

They get on a plane after that and Eddie’s going through everything like it’s a race. TSA is so quick and boarding the plane goes by in a flash. He blinks and he’s grabbing his luggage from the baggage claim. When he blinks again, he’s in a cab on the way to the apartment that the two of you share. 

He’s now going up the elevator and as soon as the doors open on the correct floor, he’s running to the door with his suitcase dragging behind him. He doesn’t care if it’s close to midnight and all of his neighbors are probably sleeping. He’s got to get to you as quickly as possible. 

He unlocks the door and as soon as he steps inside, he sees you in the kitchen, making something on the stove. When you turn around, your face lights up and you immediately drop your spoon in the pot, making a beeline over to Eddie. 

He scoops you up into his arms and your legs wrap around his waist as you bury your face into his neck. You’re squeezing each other tight and he’s giggling as you pepper his face with kisses like you always do when he comes home. It’s his favorite part of the whole thing. 

“I missed you,” you tell him as sets you back on your feet, pulling him in for a kiss. His lips are cold because of the temperature outside but he knows you’ll warm him up with a cuddle. 

“Missed you too, baby,” he sighs as you take him by the hand and lead him into the kitchen where you’ve got dinner waiting for him. You pile the pasta into a bowl and hand it to him along with a bottle of his favorite beer. 

After you’ve both eaten, you head to your bedroom where you both get dressed for bed and climb into it, cuddling up under the covers, telling each other about what you did while away from each other while a rerun of your favorite show plays on the tv. And it’s there that Eddie decides that there’s nowhere he’d rather be. He’s got his girl and that’s all he’ll ever need for the rest of his life. 

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Past the Cemetery Gates

I haven't written ak!red hood in a while so here he is! This was originally for a request but I read the ask wrong and didn't realize until it was too late cause I'm mostly running off cough medicine and coffee  CW: You get chased and harassed by some creeps, and then there's some possible murder ~6.2k words

Every Sunday at three in the afternoon, you have a routine. You walk to the train station, take the six train four stops north, and, if the weather is good, you'll walk exactly six blocks to get to Gotham Cemetery. (If the weather is bad, however, you're more inclined to wait for the three-thirty-five bus, which stops almost exactly in front of the old, iron gates that lead into the graveyard)

This is the routine you have followed for every week of your life since Jason Todd died, ripped from your side by a cruel twist of fate. They called it a disappearance, an accident, a runway, all things you knew it wasn't. But it was Dick, after months and months of begging for the truth, for crumbs of anything to help ease your grief, who called it for what it was. A murder. A life ended by the bloodstained hands of the Joker.

It became a fact that engraved itself to the very core of your soul. Jason Todd was murdered. Jason Todd was murdered, so every Sunday, you find yourself standing six feet above where he should lay resting, where he should be resting forever. But the coffin you helped bury is empty, devoid of anyone or anything to care if you appear on Sundays or not.

Even so, visiting him, visiting the headstone with his name, just feels like what you have to do. He was your best friend, your foundation, and no matter how many months or years pass, it doesn't change that he is at the core of who you became. Your jokes mirror his humor, your favorite color was his too, your room is still littered with trinkets that remind you of him. You still throw punches just the way he taught you.

You couldn't just move past Jason, it never felt right to even try. So when you do go see him– his grave– you tell him about your week. Scrub the marble rock and leave flowers while you ramble about whatever is going on in the world, share jokes, relive memories, spill secrets, all to the boy who can never answer again. 

This is what you do, rain or shine, whether the city is in havoc or in some semblance of peace, in a rare calm before the next storm of mayhem whatever rouge designs to inflict on the streets of Gotham. (You've missed this tradition only once. Only the week Batman was revealed as Bruce Wayne, only after Batman died, and you had another empty coffin to stand by as it was lowered into the dirt)

It's something you're so used to, a task you know like the back of your hand. Every other Sunday, you'll run into a family with flowers, the ones that stop at a pristine white headstone to tell their grandmother about how big her grandchildren are getting. Every third Sunday, the flowers and gifts you leave behind are cleaned up by the caretakers once you leave. Every Sunday, save one or two, you smile at the elderly woman who walks in with a coffee and newspaper in hand.

These are all things that you're used to, facts known in your soul. It's why you notice him. The man in the ball cap and hoodie that hovers two rows and seven headstones behind you. The one that's been standing there before you arrive, and stands there no matter how long you stay, for the past three Sundays you've been visiting Jason. 

It's not exactly wrong for him to be there. It's just new. Different. And ever since Bruce died– ever since Dick disappeared without a whisper– you've been on edge. The whole city has been, really, but you can't help but feel like there's still a price you have to pay. That your time is somehow up. That after years of knowing who Batman is– after losing Jason and being able to do nothing about it– you're going to face something. 

You think it might be karma. Or maybe it's retribution. But there's a score to settle with the universe–  with something or someone out there. After all, knowledge has never been free in Gotham, and the weight of being associated with Batman always comes with a cost. 

It's not like you were a hero, or even the slightest bit a vigilante, but it wouldn't take a genius to figure out that you cared for Jason, and that Jason was Robin, Batman's protege.

And with no heroes left in Gotham to exact revenge on, why wouldn't they look for the next best thing? Why wouldn't that eventually make you a target? 

The paranoia isn't exactly your notion, but Tim's last, frantic warning before he went dark. But his words ring true, you've seen how everyone who's ever even talked to Bruce Wayne has been put under a microscope but the media, the GCPD, the world. And even if they haven't gotten their claws into you, it's only a matter of time before they, or someone with a score to settle does.

(Tim wasn't even the only person to warn you to watch your back, The GCPD's very own commissioner mentioned his own hushed concerns at Bruce's funeral. You had thanked him, and tried not to think too hard about what Babs not being there meant)

It should scare you, but all you feel is a vague sense of resignation. You just hope, that if whatever's coming finally catches up to you, if the slow creeping dread and feelings of being watched catches up to you, you'll find your way back to Jason.

You're snapped out of your thoughts when a voice speaks lowly behind you, you jolt, scolding yourself for getting caught off guard. But then his words register, and you whirl around, fuming, "What did you say?"

The stranger jerks his head towards the gravestone– Jason's headstone– "He was a stupid kid."

"He was not–" You start to hiss, huffing up in defense of the boy that meant everything to you, before he cuts you off.

"He was. He got himself caught. Caused a lot of problems. Trusted the wrong people. Did everything wrong and for what," he scoffs.

Your glare hardens as you step forward, trying to see under the ballcap and hood drawn low over his face, "He helped people. You can't just come here and spew whatever you feel like–"

He cuts you off again with the sound of your name, almost a warning, almost a threat. "Why are you really here," He asks, and you feel a chill creep up your spine as he digs his fists further into his pockets.

"I– always come here," you settle on. You know Bruce would chastise you for giving away your routine, but you can't find it in yourself to care when he already knows your name, with your blood simmering beneath your skin. 

"It's a waste of time. There's no one here to care," he protests, lips curling into a sneer.

"I care," you mumble, the fight draining out of you. You know that, in a way, he's right. There's no body. No Jason. No reward or salvation in your weekly visits. But you come anyway. It's just what you do. 

He stares at you for a moment more, you assume if you could see under the shadow of his ball cap he would be scowling. He doesn't say anything more, just turns and leaves you to a silent headstone and an empty grave. 

You don't mean to stay as long as you do, after he leaves. But you linger among the marble and granite gravestones for a long time, lost in your own thoughts, the feeling that, even in death, you find new ways to fail Jason Todd. It's not a feeling that makes sense, but grief rarely is. 

It's not until you realize you've missed your usual train home, that you finally find your bearings, that you force yourself to smile and wave to someone that's not there. Never there. Never will be there. 

The walk to the train station is fine, if not a bit windy. The train ride is normal, if a little quieter than normal. But the problem comes as you step off the stairs of the subway and onto the streets, and a low whistle breaks the strange silence that's been cast over the city just as the sun begins to set. 

"Come join us, sweet cheeks," a voice drawls, stumbling and slurred as he trips over his feet and words, "You look like you need the company." Four equally drunk men follow him, grins leering as they take you in and lewdly gesture for you to come closer.

Dread settles in your stomach, far worse than it did when the stranger approached you in the cemetery. Night is falling, and everyone knows that there's no solace in the shadows anymore, no watchful eye in the dark to save you. You drop your gaze and start walking, steady, but quick as you ignore their groans of annoyance and agitation. 

"Hey, hey, where are ya going," one of the men calls after you, and their pace quickens to match yours, "No need to be all shy. We just wanna be friends."

Another of them snickers, "Oh, yeah, close friends."

A gust of wind blows through your clothes, and you suppress a shiver, every nerve on edge as you focus on putting on foot in front of the other. 

The teasing tone in the air shifts, and a rough hand grabs your shoulder, turning you around– you hadn't realized just how close they'd gotten. 

"Would ya look at that? Knew I recognized you from somewhere. Yer one of the Bat's little friends. Why don't ya tell us what it was like cuddling up to old Brucie, " he leers, grin wide and menacing. 

"Back off," you snap, fed with strangers who think they have a right to your past.

"Don't be such a killjoy," He huffs, half playful, half a real, honest threat, "Just give us a chance to get to know ya. We only wanna have some fun, is all." His hand starts to drop along your shoulder blade, and his voice goes vicious, "It'll be a good time, baby, promise." 

Instinct takes over before you can think better on it, and you aim a hook right for his chin. It's one of your better punches, one that sends him stumbling back into the arms of his drunken friends. 

Everything freezes, their gazes dart between you and the reeling man pushing himself back to his feet. There's a snarl on his face, a manic look in his eyes, and all it takes is for him to open his mouth and start hissing cusses at you for you to turn on your heel and run. 

It takes less time than you'd hope for them to realize you're running, even less for them to start following you. 

You're going to die, is what runs through your head as you duck around corners and rush through the darkening streets. You're going to die and they're going to hide your body and no one is ever going to find you and you're going to rot at the bottom of Gotham Harbor and you'll just be another statistic in the never ending plague crime that always seems to win.

Laughs and jeers sound behind you as you run, the sound of heavy feet hitting concrete follows you down the twists and turns of Gotham's alleyways. They're close, too close. You don't know how a group of drunken catcallers could be so fast, but they are. 

"Come back here," They snap at you, practically breathing down your neck. You can feel fingers brushing against your back, hear their taunts in your ears. But you just need to keep running, if you can make it to your building– make it to other people– 

A hand catches your arm painfully, cutting your thoughts short and throwing you to the ground. "Caught you," the man sneers, grabbing the back of your shirt to drag you in an isolated alley. The other four men follow behind, panting and jostling each other as snide grins fill their faces.

You kick, claw at the hands pulling you into the alley, but it only makes them laugh harder as he hoists you up to slam you into a wall. You wince, head spinning as you push and shove at his arms, but he hardly seems to notice as his friends creep closer, eager and excited. 

"Shouldn't have done that, there ain't anyone here to save ya" he grumbles, the air rancid with the smell of alcohol as he grabs at your jacket, "We coulda had a good time, but ya had to go be difficult and run the fun for–"

The weight is ripped off you in an instant, you barely have time to process the relief that floods your senses when you're jarred to stillness by the blood red bat that meets your eyes. There's not supposed to be any bats left in Gotham, but your mind is quick to supply the faint recollection of whispers you've heard of a new vigilante. Rumors made fact by the truth in front of you, Red Hood.

"You're dead," he says, even and tight, even though the modulator. He says it not to you, but to them, the men backing up wearily and uneasily. "You're all dead," he repeats, voice dropping as they exchange glances, not knowing what to make of him. 

You don't quite know what to make of him either. His fists are clenched, his muscles are tense, but the set of his shoulders is confident, self assured that he can deliver on his threats. He's steady and shaking all at once, and you have the distinct feeling he's shaking out of sheer rage, of holding back from whatever he's planning on doing. 

The air is heavy, you're practically holding your breath as you press back against the wall, unable to look away. They're afraid. You can't help but be too. Red Hood– hero or not– is dangerous. You can feel his anger vibrating against your skin, taste his vow to kill them in the air.

One of the men laughs, "You can't take all of us–" he starts, and the tension snaps, Red Hood snaps.

You know you should run. You know you should turn away, but you can't. You watch every punch that meets flesh, every splatter of blood that hits the concrete, every limb that twists in a way that it shouldn't. You hear every plea for mercy, every sickening crunch of bone, every gasp and wheeze for air. 

You witness it all, every time his boot comes down onto mangled limbs, every time his gloved hands drags back a man that tries to flee. He doesn't stop, doesn't offer a hint of compassion until the alley is silent, save for his heaving of his chest beneath his armor. 

Only then does he turn back to you. You regret not running while you had the chance. But even as your knees shake and you curse your frozen state, you have the feeling he would have followed you if you had run. 

He walks closer, your mind goes blank in fear, and he gently brushes his fingers over your cheek, observing the wetness that soaks into his gloves when he pulls his hand away. You didn't even realize you were crying.  

"Did they… hurt you," he asks, words short and clipped and not at all comforting. 

It takes all of your strength to will yourself into shaking your head. You're scratched up from being dragged, your head hurts from when it hit the wall, but telling him any of that? You're afraid of giving him any excuse to stay.

He studies you, judges you, and you do the same. His helmet glows eerily in the dim light of the alley, as red as the crimson bat on his back. He's not shaking anymore, but he doesn't seem calm either. You imagine he's still feeling the same adrenaline that's coursing through your veins. But you doubt he feels the same urge to get as far away from the situation as possible.

The silence drags on for too long, and you feel like you have to break it, get him to stop staring at you. Especially when it feels like he's picking you apart, like he knows exactly what's going on in your head. "Thank you," you settle on, words careful and quiet as you do your best to wipe the tears from your face.

He straightens out, a huff of a laugh filling your ears like he can't believe what he's hearing, "You're thanking me for killing them?"

"I'm thanking you for saving me," you correct, focusing your gaze on a random brick of the alley, doing your best to avoid looking at the carnage he laid waste behind him, to ignore the unnatural silence save for you and him. 

He hunches back into himself, and you can't help but feel uneasy that he's still here, like he's waiting for something. "You shouldn't be out here," he tells you.

You think that's obvious enough and you almost want to roll your eyes, but your knees are still shaking, and you can't find the strength to push off the wall yet. So you nod instead, hoping he'll leave you to figure it out alone, to have a moment where you can let it all wash over you and just break down. 

"I can take you home," he says, after another long moment of silence, voice flat without a hint of emotion to betray his true feelings. 

That grabs your attention, pulling you out a spiral you didn't even realize you were in, "No, it's–" you start. 

"You're scared of me," he cuts you off, demanding.

You think that this is obvious too. "Anyone would be," you admit reluctantly, and you hate that you feel like you're answering wrong, like he expects something different from you. 

You watch as his fists clench than unclench, and his head ducks like he's lost in thought, "Fine. You're scared. Be scared," he lifts his head again, tone almost accusing, "It doesn't change that it's not safe for you to stay here, or that I'm taking you home."

"I can get myself back–" you begin, pushing yourself off the wall as your heart rate spikes. The last thing you want is for him to know where you live, for you to get involved in anymore people that wear the symbol of the bat. But your protests count for nothing when pain shoots up from your ankle, making your knees buckle under your own weight.

You wince, expecting to hit the cold concrete, but it's warm, leather covered arms that catch you instead, cradling you against sturdy armor. 

You freeze, you think he freezes too, until he exhales softly, tension draining from his body, "You said you weren't hurt."

"I didn't think I was," you mumble, almost embarrassed as you brace your hands unsurely against his arms trying to push yourself back up onto your uninjured foot. You roll your ankle slowly, wincing quietly at the pain that radiates when you move it. You must sprained it at some point, you realize.

Red Hood just holds you tighter when you try to move, silent as if he's weighing his options. "I'll carry you," he tells you, already maneuvering you to lift you into his arms.

It just makes you squirm, uneasy over this stranger, how easy this all seems to be for him, "I don't need to be carried."

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, a noise you can only hear because he's holding you so close, and says your name like he's trying to find all the patience in the world to deal with you, "You didn't used to mind being picked up."

Your world tilts on its axis and he lifts you into his arms like his words didn't change everything– like the fact that he knows you means nothing at all. You should be scared, should be terrified of him, but you just feel resigned. It was only a matter of time before the consequences of knowing Batman– knowing Robin– caught up to you. Really you're just surprised it didn't happen sooner.

But something about his words itches at your skin. It's not far-fetched for him to know your name. What is strange, what's wrong even, is that he thought you wouldn't mind being carried. Because you didn't used to.

"Why do you know that," you ask, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounds.

He doesn't answer for a moment, just carries you through the dark twist and turns of Gotham's alleyways, "Lots of people know your name," he decides on telling you, once you start to squirm in his arms.

"That's not what I asked," you protest, but even as you press him for details, you're starting to get more concerned about where he's bringing you than why he knows your name.

"I keep track of all of Batman's associates," he says, voice more strained than truthful, even through the modulator of his helmet.

"Is that why you wear the bat," you prompt, curiosity making you speak before you can think on your words, "Did you know him?" Honestly, while you don't claim to know all of Bruce's vigilante friends, you'd like to think you would have known about someone like Red Hood. (and really you would feel safer if he was a friend of Bruce)

His grip shifts on you, the only indicator that he's uncomfortable with your line of questions, "It's a reminder."

You both ignore how he avoids your second question. Even if he saved you, you still haven't gotten comfortable with the vigilante that attacked those men with such ruthlessness and precision. You start to ask another question, torn between wanting to know what it's a reminder of and wanting to know where he's taking you, before he cuts you off.

"Do you always interrogate the people trying to help you," he sighs out, head tipping down as if he's trying to get a look at your face.

"Only when I don't know where they're taking me after," you snark out, with more bite than you probably should have. 

"I'm taking you home," he supplies, picking up his pace like he can't get rid of you fast enough.

"Whose home? My home? You know where I live," you rapid fire at him, throat tightening with panic.

He stumbles a little, a noise of alarm escapes the back of your throat, but he doesn't drop you.

"I– my home?" he tries, but you know it's a lie. He knows that you know he's lying, and his shoulders deflate a little when you start accusing him of it.

"You know where I live," you say slowly, voice sure and steady despite your fear.

"I know where lots of people live," he grumbles, and goes right back to his quickened walk, just shy of jogging and nearly jostling you in his arms.

"Is this some kind of revenge plot," you start, finality sinking into your bones, "Because if you're trying to get back at anyone– at Batman– I'm not gonna try to–"

He snorts, cutting off your words, and you note that it sounds unpracticed. His grip softness before he speaks again, "No, been there, done that. Didn't help. I really am just trying to get you home safe."

A part of you believes him, but a bigger part of you just wants to grab his helmet and rip it off his head. He's frustrating, and even as your apartment building comes into view, even as the ordeal comes towards an end, you find yourself wanting to know him. 

It's a feeling in the pit of your stomach that you can't explain. He knows you. He knows– knew– Batman. And you want to know him, or at the least, how he's aware of all of it. 

"Who are you," you breathe out, the sound barely a whisper. It's the one question that's truly been plaguing you since he said you didn't used to mind being carried. You can count the people who knew that on one hand. And for him to say it so casually, to say it like he's experienced it first hand, you don't like what it implies. 

"Red Hood," he answers gruffly, voice clipped, "Do you think you can get up to your place by yourself?"

"No," you huff out, annoyance creeping into your face. In truth, you probably could limp your way up to your apartment, but you're not willing to let this go. Not when there's more to this– to him– than he's willing to share with you.

He stands still outside your building for a full thirty seconds before mumbling, "Fine," and carrying you inside. Neither of you try to start a conversation. You don't dig for answers when he presses the correct number for your floor in the elevator. You don't even get angry when he walks right to your door without asking for directions.

He starts to put you down, but even with the clear unease and tension in his body, he's still careful.

"Wait," you say quickly, "I need help wrapping my ankle."

"You know how to do that," Red Hood sighs out, annoyance clear as day in his voice.

"I forgot how," you lie. You know you're being stubborn, you know inviting him in is dangerous, but every part of you feels like you need answers from him. That knowing will solve something. 

His silence is enough to pick up on that fact that he doesn't believe you in the slightest. But he doesn't try to pull away or leave when you lean into him and unlock your door. He doesn't even seem upset when you look up at him expectantly when the door swings open, he just loops an arm around your waist and guides you to the couch.

"Where's your kit," he asks once you've settled and seated.

"Bathroom," you supply easily, and he turns and walks in that direction without another word. It unnerves you that he knows where it is without you needing to guide him, but you can't say you're surprised. 

He comes back with the first aid kit quickly, and kneels in front of you to carefully take off your shoe. Red Hood observes your ankle for a moment before he tugs off his gloves and starts to dig through your first aid kit for bandages.

It gives you a chance to observe him. His armor looks strong enough, but his jacket is full of rips and tears. His hood hides most of his helmet, but what you can see seems more technologically advanced than you expected. There's guns and knives strapped to his thighs and you think you see a grenade hooked to his waist. It all radiates danger.

You turn your attention to the rest of him. Even with the hunch in his shoulders, he's big. You think he might be as tall Bruce is– was. You get the distinct, strange feeling that you would like the color of his eyes. 

His voice breaks the silence as he starts to wrap your ankle with calloused, warm hands.

"What," you ask dumbly, so lost in studying him, in the feel of his steady hands ghosting over your skin, you've missed what his words were. 

"You should keep ice on it, about thirty minutes at a time. And elevate it until the swelling goes down," He repeats, movements practiced as he finishes tending to your injury, "You got that?"

You remember that well enough, Jason had more than his fair share of sprained ankles when you were growing up, but there's no point in sharing that when you're meant to be playing dumb. "Got it," you say confidently.

"Good," he murmurs, standing up faster than you expected, like he can't wait to get as far away from you as possible.

"Wait," you startle, grabbing his wrist, "You still never told me who you are."

"I never said I would," he half-growls at you, but he doesn't tear his arm away from your hold.

"What if I need to contact you," you counter, fingers tightening into the fabric of his jacket.

He lets out a heavy sigh, and for the first time he seems genuinely annoyed. Red Hood levels you with a glare you can feel even through his helmet and grits out, "Why would you need to contact me."

You almost drop your grip on him, feeling as uneasy as you did watching him beat your attackers, "Well– those men went after me– they knew who I was. That I knew Batman, I mean, Bruce. And if they can figure it out–"

"You don't have to worry about that," he tells you, voice softening at the nervousness you don't quite mean to show him, "I took care of it already."

That does get you to drop his wrist, "But there's more people out there than them. What if Two-Face decides I'm an easy target? Or Penguin gets out of jail. Or–"

He says name sternly, cutting off your rambling, "I took care of it already."

"You– what" you question, confusion and surprise spreading across your face.

"I took care of it," he repeats again, nothing but fierce, decisive truth in his voice, "Anyone who thought they could get to you. Anyone who wanted to use you because of your connection to– to them. I took care of it."

It stuns you, and half expect him to leave you to your shock. But he stands there waiting, patient as if he's ready and willing to face your fury or your understanding. "Why," is all you manage to ask.

"I owe you," he murmurs, like it's his greatest secret, "If it wasn't for me… If I hadn't– If we didn't–" he cuts himself off with a pained groan, "It doesn't matter. It's too dangerous for you to be involved in this."

"I'm good at keeping secrets, and I'm already involved," you breathe out, feeling like you're at the edge of the abyss, "I might as well have a bat branded on me, you know."

He shifts uncomfortably, and you feel like with just one push, everything will change. You need to know. You need to know why he's gone out of his way to keep you safe, why he's offered you so much help, why his fingers lingered over your skin while he wrapped your ankle. 

His shoulders slump, defeated and drained, "I know. It'd be better if you just got out of the city."

"There's nowhere to go, even if there was, Batman has enemies everywhere," you say gently, shifting forward on the couch. "Please? I'm just– so tired of being in the dark." And it's the truth. You're exhausted by the radio silence from Dick and Tim and Barbara. You're sick of jumping at shadows, and you know it's not wrong to reach for something real– a raft in a storm. 

His head snaps up at your plea, and he lets out a low, almost inaudible curse, "You won't like the answer, sweetheart. They say ignorance is bliss."

"Ignorance is a curse," you counter, eyes meeting the blank red of his helmet in quiet defiance. 

"Just– don't freak out," he mumbles after a strained, heavy moment. You nod, and it takes a long, long minute for him to finally move. He reaches up, and the air disappears from your lungs. You expected him to tell you how he knew Batman, why he feels like he owes you, what he's been through to even want to care about your safety– not to reveal his identity. (Even if you had asked for it)

He removes his helmet, letting it hang loosely in his grip. And suddenly everything makes sense. Desperate, clear blue eyes stare right back at you. Red Hood– Jason Todd– clenches and unclenches his fists gaze unwavering as he waits for your judgement. When you offer none but silence, he speaks, "Do you understand now? Do you get why I took care of it? Why I'll keep taking care of it?"

"Jason," you finally manage to choke out, not bothering to hide the way your vision blurs with tears, "They said– I thought– I thought you were dead."

He cringes slightly, a pained look that scrunches his nose the exact same way it did when you were kids, "Yeah."

"You're not dead," you gasp and you don't mean to cry in front of him again, but your tears spill freely as the entire night, every awful thing that's happened since you've lost him, crashes over you, "You're not dead."

That breaks something in him, and he's back on his knees before you, cradling your face and wiping your tears with his thumbs without you even really registering that he's moving, "Yeah," he repeats, like it's the only word he can find in his vocabulary to say.

You press your palms to the back of his hands, distraught and frantic to keep him there, "I missed you."

A myriad of emotions flick over his face, disbelief, hurt, guilt, and a few you don't quite catch before he squeezes his eyes shut and mutters your name with such pain you want to scream, "I'm not– what you remember. I'm not good. You saw first hand what I'm capable of."

"I don't care," you stumble out quickly, "If you hadn't been there– if you didn't save me they would have–"

Your voice trails off when his finger tighten for the briefest second against your face, and his eyes open, flashing with a darkness you don't recognize, "I wouldn't have let them. It won't happen." His voice is hard, firm with certainty, and if the rage simmering under his voice was directed at you, you think you would have run.

But it's Jason, and the anger disappears as quickly as it comes once he starts drying your tears again. You exhale shakily and lean into his touch, relief outweighing any nerves settling in your stomach, "I'm glad you're here."

His fingers still over your skin for a moment before his fingers continue their soothing pattern against your cheeks and under your eyes, "Me too," he says softly, like admitting it too loudly will break something. His gaze darts to the window, and your heart drops in your chest. 

"I don't want you to go," you plead, and before you think better of it, you push off the couch to bury your face in his throat, arms hooking around his neck like they're your last life line.

He stiffens, and you freeze. You messed up, you messed up and now he's going to hate you and he's going to leave and never come back and you're an awful person for even thinking he'd want to hug you and– and his arms come up to hug you back, crushing you to his chest. 

He runs his hand up and down your spine, soothing you the same way he used to, "I'm not going anywhere, unless you want me to. Okay?"

You nod into his shoulder, the tension draining from your body. He's warm. You have no idea how you didn't catch on to the fact that it was him sooner. He still smells the same– save the gun powder– and he's still as gentle as he's always been when he touches you. 

"I'm so sorry–" you choke out, pressing yourself as close as you can to him, wanting to hold him against you forever, to prove to yourself again and again that he really is alive.

"We don't have to do that," he murmurs, and you nearly melt when he presses a kiss to your temple, "We can save the apologies for later."

You find yourself nodding again, wanting to savor him, the moment, the feeling that for the first time in longer than you can remember, something like hope is blossoming in your chest. You giggle a little when an absurd thought crosses your mind, unable to stifle it.

"What is it," He– Jason– asks quietly. 

"I need something new to do on Sundays now," you say into his shoulder, a smile forming on your face, "I used to– it's not funny– but I'd visit your grave then and now you're not dead and now I–"

"Don't have to," he finishes for you, gentle and almost fond. 

You hum in agreement, even if it wasn't what you were going to say.

"We can do something," he offers, tucking you closer. 

The suggestion makes you feel like you're floating on air, and longing wells in your throat, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he echoes, and this time you do melt when he presses a kiss to the crown of your head, "We'll make a tradition of it."

"I'd like that," you admit, shy to reveal how much that means to you.

Jason squeezes your waist in answer, voice as tender as yours, "Me too." 

Your smile grows wider despite yourself. You still have more questions that you can form right now, but Jason is rubbing slow, soothing circles against your back, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. So, Red Hood can wait. Gotham can wait. Everything else can wait until you both start to stitch yourself back together in each other's arms. 

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY MONTHLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

The fics I’ve read and enjoyed for the month of January. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

DC

Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines by SilverSkiesAtMidnight

He has never argued with a punishment, not since he was a toddler, if then. Surely she’ll listen, surely she’ll see this is too harsh, that he wouldn’t be disrespecting her like this if he was simply sulking over not getting his way. He needs that food, needs to be able to eat enough if he wants to be Robin.

He’s been hungry before, but back then, it never mattered if he was a little weak or dizzy. It never risked his life or the life of his partner when he was a kid.

She turns, sighing softly and pursing her lips. She reaches out to pat his cheek, and for a moment his heart soars hopefully, and he barely restrains himself from leaning into the rare bit of contact and soaking up his mother’s touch. “Oh, Timothy,” she tuts. “This is for the best. And honestly, I think it’s wise for you to cut down a bit on the snacks. I’d hate to have to listen to anyone tittering at the next gala that you’re getting chubby.”

And without another backwards glance, she turns and heads upstairs, leaving Tim alone and frozen at the bottom of the steps.

Day 6 - TOUCH AND GO bruises | touch starved | hunger

Screaming In The Dark (While We All Play Our Part) by WakingNightmares

The boy makes a choked off noise, but slowly, with trembling hands, he pulls the hood of his hoodie down. “I… I… I’m… Robin.”

Immediately, Oliver steps back, pulling the knife out of his bathrobe pocket.

Robin. There’s no way this boy is Robin. Logically, Oliver knows that ‘Robin’, protege to the greatest serial killer in American history, is young, but there’s been sightings of the boy for over a decade. The young man standing in front of him is Roy’s age. Robin, with over thirty suspected kills of his own, can’t be this scared, frightened looking thing standing in front of him.

Dick's kept his promise, and finally escaped with his brothers. Now he just has to figure out what comes next.

Cats and Communication by InkpotSprite

Damian wants to befriend Tim, but after their difficult start, Tim is more guarded than ever.

Then Dick says something that changes everything.

"Treat him like an abused cat."

And Damian does.

Clone Wars

one step back and to the left by sithlordbinks

Cody’s mouth is dry, words stuck in his mind. Which perhaps is a good thing considering in response to I think I may have you, all Cody’s brain is providing him is please do.

And it’s then, Cody realizes, that with the most inconvenient, embarrassing, unprofessional timing ever, he’s hard.

Kriff. Fucking kriff.

or: cody thinks he's doing Real Great at the friends with benefits thing with his general. spoiler: he is not…and somehow this saves the entire galaxy

The Hunger Games

17 Last Words from Hunger Games Tributes That Are STILL Echoing In Our Heads. Yes, Still. by ghostwriterofthemachine

It’s the most wonderful time of the year! We can’t wait until we can say Happy Hunger Games in earnest (only another month!), but in the meantime, we are celebrating the best moment of Games from years past. Make sure you also check out our list of the most iconic final showdowns and our favorite post-victory moments. What’s on the plate for today? Glad you asked! The Games are all about triumph, but they’re also all about tragedy (which makes those victories even sweeter). Today, we’re looking at 17 final moments from Tributes that we are still thinking about. To make it harder for ourselves, we could only pick one from each Games (so if your favorite didn’t make the cut, that could be why!). Some made us scream, some made us cry, and a few even made us laugh (you’ll see!). Read on! 

A listicle from Capitol Buzzfeed.

SVSSS

FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: On My Time as a Student Under Shen Qingqiu by Margo_Kim

On the desk in between Yue Qingyuan and Shen Qingqiu was a printout of the email. Shen Qingqiu refused to look at it. If he tried very hard, he could pretend it wasn’t there. When the email had hit his inbox this morning, Shen Qingqiu had read it and reread enough to have it memorized, as he tried to comprehend the meaning of these words arranged in this order. The second that comprehension dawned upon him, he’d deleted the email then promptly tried to forget everything about it.

He wasn’t being very successful on that front.

The message, written with the extraordinary eloquence that Shen Qingqiu knew Luo Binghe was capable of, had been sent en masse to the entire faculty and student body. It stated two main points. Firstly, that Luo Binghe attested that Shen Qingqiu had never slept with, assaulted, molested, groomed, or was in any way inappropriate to him during his time at Cang Qiong Academy (thanks for the endorsement, Binghe!!). Secondly, that Luo Binghe was announcing this because he intended to marry Shen Qingqiu and did not want even the whisper of false impropriety to stain his Shizun’s name. 

Original Works

Inheritance by Juna_R

Rulin discovers the house his cousin had left him came with three magical “dependants”. And they haven’t been fed since the day of the funeral.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 9 - Does The Feeling Haunt You

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Fixing the Supernatural women problem, one chapter at a time.

Chapter title from All the Stars by Kendrick Lamar & SZA

Word Count: 16.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Bobby sends you on a hunt, and Dean tracks someone down. Usual warnings.

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

Chapter 8 - Chapter 10

Read on A03!

You’ve been trying.

You’ve been trying so fucking hard.

It’s been a long, lonely two years. You haven’t really been home in a way that counts. You haven’t been anywhere that isn’t now stained and cursed with the knowledge that you were there. That something worse than a monster or demon had walked their streets, sat in their coffee shops, and left a little bit of their city razed.

Because you are trying, but that doesn’t mean anything has gotten better.

It really only gotten worse. 

You’d left the hospital, and hadn’t looked back. Looking back would mean the White would win, and you’d turn around. You can’t turn around. It can’t matter how you feel like something inside of you has gone static—kept in silent place, caught and stuck in your body, shifting with the same colors no matter how time passes—or how you want to turn back. What you want doesn’t matter.

You don’t matter. No matter what Azazel claimed, you know deep, deep down that you cannot be allowed to matter. You can’t be the damnation or salvation or obstacle. You can barely be you.

You are the problem. It’s not a detriment, it’s fact. If you let yourself get a little too far out of control, if you sit in your own misery for just a few seconds too long, everything else hurts because of it.

You’re never not in pain anymore. There are no brief moments of reprieve or peace. Nothing has been silver in two years. It’s been hectic, blurring chaos in your body and blood, pushing and rioting and bursting under your skin until you snap, and something breaks.

You’ve become a shark. Drifting through town after town for a hunt, never static, always a little drenched in blood.

You haven’t seen a normal demon in a while. The glinting, rolling, black demons—who had always just watched from the sidelines—have purely vanished. You can stop a demon case or cure a possession just by crossing town lines. 

But the green demons don’t share that habit. They chase you. Most of them just do their job—flying at you with a knife and a sneer—and leave once you’ve either exorcised them or they’d scraped your skin, but some taunt you. They try to goad you into killing them, really properly killing them, and act disappointed when you only fight with your hands. 

Little bitch put herself on a leash. One of them had hissed, their face curled in a mocking grin. Righteous whore thinks she’s too good to just fucking kill one of her own.

You are not a demon. You’d bitten and shoved the Darkness down through sheer force of will, and—when the demon was only green smoke in the air—reminded yourself that you are not a demon.

You don’t know what you are. But it’s not a demon. 

There’s something in you that evil like the demons. Something in you that calls them. But you’d tested that theory. You’d drawn yourself into a devil’s trap, and dumped a bucket of holy water over your head. 

Not a demon.

Still wrong, but not a demon.

That the other thing you’ve been doing. Searching for a final and true answer to what you are, a reason why you’re like this. What you could possibly be to have the Darkness rooted so deep in your body, why you can’t stop those dreams and ideas from forming in your head, why your organs always bubble and blister from the contact of the demon’s knives, but you never die.

It’s always intolerable pain and fire under your skin, but it never kills you. It knocks you down and shreds you apart, and then you simply… put yourself back together. No stitches, no water, no healing yourself with the Darkness.

You’re just in pain, and then you’re moving.

You don’t stop moving.

You alternate days between hunting and sitting in a diner trying to find another answer. You sleep in the corners of motel room, on the floor with your knife clutched in your hands. 

And you’ve learned. Not what you are, but what you’re not. Every single thing you hunt seems to open another door, and every time it’s nothing. You’re no sort of pagan god, no odd hybrid-mutant, no normal monster or ancient lost beast. The closest you come is always witch, but still no normal witch. You’ve hunted dozens of witches and scoured their houses after they were finished, but nothing. No magical cure to fix what you are, no glowing arrow that read freaks of nature this way, no sign that they were at all like you.

There’s nothing like you. The longer you look, the surer you are that you’re alone. You’d only found one other mention of the women of the high. In a book that looked like it might turn to ash at one wrong touch, tucked away in the home of a lovely old woman who was harvesting her neighbor’s organs for spells.

It had mentioned the women of the high in that same, shifting way that Bobby’s book did, and elaborated that they were not quite witches. That witches were theorized to a diluted form of the women of the high, and that while witches are one with the world, women of the god are of the world. 

You don’t know what the fuck that means.

At this point, all you do know is that your skin is littered in bite marks from strangling the Darkness down, and that the iron rings on your fingers leave something scarred on the soft tissue under your skin. That it hurts—it’s destroying you and turning your body into something foreign to the White and your mind—and you’re so fucking tired, but you can’t use the Darkness. Not for anything. You cage it and pay whatever price you have to. You can fight without it. You’re good at fighting without it. And monsters still don’t attack you, so you’re doing fine.

The Darkness is eating and eroding at your body the longer you keep it down, but you’re getting through it. You’ll keep getting through it, until the green demons find a way to kill you.

Every waking hour you spent trying. To find answers, to keep your head down, to do your job, and to stay away from Dean.

Bobby doesn’t really mention his name over the phone anymore.

“They ain’t here,” he mutters, his voice choppy and muffled through the speaker. “You thinkin’ of havin’ another breakdown-“

“They’re not breakdowns.” You frown at the air, poking at your food with a plastic fork. “And I don’t exactly plan them, Bobby. They just sort of fucking happen.”

“I ain’t sayin’ you do, just,” Bobby sighs your name through the phone. “I know you won’t come ‘round if they’re here-“

“It’s not them-“

“Yeah, I know, it’s not them it’s you, this is all for the best, you’re wishin’ them well-“

“We didn’t break up.” You snap. “And this is for the best-“

“You think they see it that way?”

You try really, really hard not to dwell on what Sam and Dean might think of your disappearing act. If they ask Bobby about you. What Bobby tells them. If he says the script you’d fed him—you got sick again, you had to leave and get some treatment, but you’re safe—or admits something closer to the truth. The truth he knows.

Because you haven’t told Bobby the whole truth either. You’d told him Azazel mentioned you were something dangerous, and you needed to know what. That you didn’t want Sam and Dean worrying or wasting time on you, so you’re going to stay out of their way. 

He didn’t buy it. He didn’t push it, but the look on his face when you added and I’m still pissed at Dean, so I need some space was one carved from pure doubt.

It wasn’t your most convincing lie. 

It did the job.

And you don’t think about Dean. When you think about Dean you miss him, and White starts to tug and bend and pull you towards nothing at all. When you think about Dean the Darkness festers, and it all gets so much more painful because you’re sick and tired and alone, and Dean always made that better. 

You can’t afford the time that’s always wasted when you think of Dean. When you rot in the idea of him asking Bobby if you’re okay, of trying to convince Sam to just damn whatever disease you might have and find you. When you wonder if he misses you even half as much as you miss him—deep in your bones and somewhere a little to the left of your heart—or if he hates you. If he curses your name when he hears it and flips off your bedroom door when he passes it in Bobby’s house. If Sam isn’t allowed to say your name because it makes him angry—or makes him sad—or if whenever he visits Bobby’s, he pretends you never existed at all.

Those thoughts make you stumble. They slow you down, and you can’t ever stop moving. So it doesn’t matter how Sam and Dean see this. They don’t get a call on if you should just fall down or come home, because they don’t understand just how fucking wrong this whole thing is. You barely understand it.

“I- please, Bobby.” You scratch at your skin as you speak, forcing the Darkness back down from where it had started to hum and blink awake. “I really don’t want to talk about it. Please.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, then a sigh. “Fine. But I want you home soon. Been damn near seven months-“

“I can’t-“

“The hell you can’t.” He snaps. “You been running around the country without stoppin’ and everyone needs a break-“

“I don’t.” You mutter. Your skin is raised where your nails had been, and the sting is keeping you tethered. “I’m fine.”

Bobby says your name, his voice flat. “Last I saw you, you were cryin’ and screamin’ and tryin’ to rip your skin off. That ain’t fine.”

“I’m feeling better-“

“Try again.”

“I- I am.” You scowl at the air. “I’m just tired, Bobby, that-“

“Could be fixed if you’d actually sleep.”

You let out a long, controlled breath. “I can’t sleep. You know why.”

There’s a pause, and you can almost see the frown on Bobby’s face. “You know, I got demon traps. And a shotgun. You know you’d be safe here, it’s only reason you pop ‘round anymore.”

“Bobby, that’s not true-“

“It is. And I’m makin’ peace with that.” He sighs. “But you’d be safe.”

You would be safe. Home is always safe. When you get too sick, and the Darkness becomes so much that you know there’s not a thing in the world that could contain it, you go home. 

It’s an odd feeling to experience. It’s volcanic. Everything will be fine. Everything will be so fine, and then the Darkness will start to stir so deep in your body—coiling itself, ready to burst forward with enough force to break out—and you can’t be anywhere. 

You don’t count it as stopping. There’s too much pain and exhaustion for it to be stopping. It’s containment. Like you’re a fucking animal, locking yourself in Bobby’s basement with food and books as wasting time until it passes. In the barren concrete room, there’s nothing to infect, nothing to hunt. Just the Darkness vaulting out of you before realizing it’s only cold and harsh stone, and you gain enough control to pull yourself back together by the seams.

But you can’t feel it now.

And you can’t stop.

“Bobby-“

“Listen.” He cuts you off with a grunt of your name. “Sam and Dean are fuckin’ around out near Nashville. Those idjits call before they drop in on me, so if you’re worried about seein’ them, you won’t.”

You sigh, your grip tightening on the phone. “It’s not- I can’t, Bobby. I don’t have time-“

“Make the time. You don’t work a nine to five, kiddo, and there are plenty other hunters who are capable of dealin’ with the big bads. Come home.”

It would be the smart thing to say no. To apologize, hang up the phone, and keep going. You’re a danger. Not in danger.

You’re the thing that could make this end horribly. You could snap and the Darkness would explode on Bobby. You could lose it just a little too rough and quick, and destroy the house. Sam and Dean could forget to call, and it would be a green light for Azazel to make this all so much worse, because you were selfish and tired.

And you’re so tired. 

So your judgement is askew, and your will is loose, and your head is weak.

You want to go home. You’re not supposed to be permitted to want things right now—you’re supposed to keep yourself in line like a sergeant and whip yourself bloodied and broken until you’re not a problem anymore—but you want to go home so bad.

And there are other things you want more, that you’ll never be allowed to have. Smug, confident, charming things that you hear on the wind and see in the dead of night. 

At the very least you can allow yourself to briefly have this, that’s within reach and an idea to the Darkness and not a spark, a natural hum to the White and not a drug.

“Fine.” You run a hand through your hair, frowning around your dirty motel room. “But if they call you-“

“You’re turnin’ around and I ain’t speakin’ a word. I know the drill.” There’s a moment of silence, only the buzzing sound of the line in your ear, and then, “Thank you, kiddo.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you mumble. “I’m in Des Moines anyway. Not too far a drive.”

“You’re in fuckin’ Des Moines?” You can hear Bobby’s indigence through the phone, and it makes you flinch slightly. “And you weren’t even plannin’ on stoppin’ by-“

“I’m stopping by now.” You grab your knife from the mattress, shoving it into your jacket as you jostle the sheets for any hidden papers or socks. “And I can still not come-“

“No, you smartass, just-“ Bobby sighs. “Your rooms always ready. I ain’t touched it since you last been here, so whenever your near, even if near is Iowa-“

“I know.” Your fingers curl in the comforter, and you force a lightness you can’t feel into your voice. “I’ll be there before dinner.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he grunts, and that’s fair. “We’re havin’ pizza. I ain’t warming it up for you, so hit the road soon.”

You nod at the air, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll make the highway patrol wish they’d never been born.”

“Don’t get fuckin’ arrested-“

You hang up the phone.

Bobby can yell at you when you get home.

It’s only ten minutes to pack everything in your room. You’ve grown accustomed to living like this, keeping everything already half stashed to flee, making sure nothing rolls away or gets lost in cushions so that—in the very high chance that you need to—you can just go.

Get in the car and leave, pushing your latest stolen Jaguar to its limits as you hit the highway, keeping one eye on the sharper shadows along the road.

Just in case. 

You’re home in four hours. Pulling into Bobby’s yard with a warning honk of the horn, grabbing your bag from the trunk, and pushing through the door.

“I’m here!” You shout, dropping your bag near the stairs—you can bring it to your room later, and it’s not like Bobby ever hosts dinner parties—and scanning over the space.

That was a mistake.

Dean is stained everywhere. Some places are a little faded—places he clearly hasn’t been in a few days, that he’d brushed past or not paid much attention to—but others are woven and branded with Dean. With that golden thing that only you can see, that waxes in your vision like a spirit and always ignites the White to scream Dean.

Dean’s been here.

He’s been on the sofa, and there are indents and scratches of him on the coffee table, where he’d likely kicked up his feet. There are a few books you recognize to be about demons that have him tattered on the corners of the pages, and some of Bobby’s older DVDs have him sunken into the plastic covering. 

They must have been here more, since you’ve last been home. Because you’ve seen Dean marked in Bobby’s house before—on the front doorknob, or imprinted on the kitchen counter—but he’s never invaded it like this before. It’s almost an infestation over your senses, overwhelmed with the same gravity of Dean.

You almost don’t hear Bobby calling your name. 

“We’re in here!” His voice is echoing from the kitchen, and you have to rip your attention from the couch. “And you better not be gettin’ mud over the floors, I just cleaned ‘em.”

You roll your eyes. “I am not getting mud on the-“

You freeze in the doorway, your body tensing and brace on instinct. 

Nail dug into your palms, chin high, the world already starting to blur in defense. 

Because Bobby’s not alone.

“Welcome home, kiddo. This,” he nods to the woman across the table. “Is Jo Harvelle.”

Jo looks nice. A little like a paper doll—smooth skin, long and blonde hair, doe eyes—but not in a pathetic way. She’s scanning over you the same way you’re scanning over her, and her hands are braced on the table like she’s ready to leap at you and run. You’re pretty sure there’s a gun in her pants, and she’s not holding that fork like it’s just a fork.

And Bobby wouldn’t just let anyone in the house, let anyone meet you.

But she still looks human. Breakable, capable of being wounded by the Darkness if you lose control.

“Bobby.” You keep your voice level, your gaze never leaving Jo’s. “Explain.”

“Jo’s a hunter-“

“Guessed that.” You snap, shooting him a glare. “Why is she here.”

“I’m gettin’ to that.” Bobby shrugs, and you don’t love how he’s not as scared of you as he should be. “Let’s finish introductions first.”

Jo shakes her head, her expression slightly weary as she takes you fully in. “Bobby, I know ya’ said you’d help, but I can come back-“

“Don’t be a dumbass.” He grunts. “Sit down, girl. She’s gonna get over it, she’s just like a cat. Don’t take too well to new people.”

You scowl. “I am not a fucking cat-“

Bobby ignores you. “Jo, this is that trainer I talkin’ about.” He says your name, and Jo’s eyes widen.

“Bobby,” you frown, ignoring Jo’s stare. “What do you mean, trainer-“

Jo interrupts you with your own name, and you’re a little worried her eyes are going to fall out. “Wow. It’s- I thought they made you up.”

“Made-“ You blink at her. “What?”

“You know the Winchesters?”

Something heavy and tight wraps around your neck, and the White bucks against your ribs. “I’m aware of them, yeah.”

Bobby snorts. You’re going to kill him.

“They,” Jo clears her throat, looking over your face like it’s a lovely mystery. “I’ve heard of you. From them. And it sorts sounded like a girlfriend from camp thing-“

There’s a look of glee on Bobby’s face that going to get him stabbed.

“Just because you sounded too cool for those losers to know. Sam’s told me about you, and Dean-“

“Stop.” You raise your hand, trying to not visibly react to his name, and how it’s making the White howl like a sick animal. “Bobby.”

He just grunts, and you narrow your eyes at him. 

“What the fuck is happening.”

He sighs. “Jo’s been lookin’ for something hunting experience. Need someone I trust to show her the ropes-“

“Show her the-“ You blink at him incredulously. “Why can’t you do it?” 

“I’m busy.”

“With what?”

“Stuff, kiddo. I got a life.”

You give him a flat look. “I don’t believe you.”

“Course you don’t.” He mutters, running a hand over his face. “Look, I ain’t able do this. And I’d have thing one and thing two do it, but they’re all on Ellen’s no huntin’ shit-“

“Who’s-“

“Ellen’s my mom.” Jo interrupts you with low, but not soft words. “She doesn’t want me huntin’. And I had one case go bad last year, so now Sam and Dean won’t do it, and I asked Bobby-“

“And he said yes.” You mutter, shooting Bobby another glower. “Why can’t Rufus do it?”

“He’s out in Maine. And you’re a better hunter than Rufus anyway.” Bobby shrugs, and you snort.

“That’s not going to get me, Bobby, you taught me not to give in to ass-kissing-“

“It would be cool to hunt with another girl.” Jo says, watching you carefully. ‘But if you really don’t want to-“

“It’s not that.” You run your thumb over your palm, squeezing your eyes tight. “I- I don’t hunt ghosts. Or most of the other shit you’ve probably seen.”

When you open your eyes, Jo’s nodding.

“I know. Sam told me you did specialties-“

“It’s more than that. It’s- It’s complicated.”

You fucking hate that word. You hate saying it, hate how it’s bitter and heavy on your tongue, hate how it makes Jo slump slightly, hate how it makes a memory of Dean’s voice and glower and laugh ghost over your head. 

“I know what you’ve got goin’ on, kiddo.” Bobby mutters from his chair. “But you know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you couldn’t handle it.”

You narrow your eyes at Bobby, the sneaky old fuck, and it clicks into place that this was a trap. Jo seems sweet in a real, genuine but still tough kind of way—like an old, brittle candy—and you can’t be around anyone but saying no feels like you’d be spitting on a puppy. A blonde puppy that’s still hanging her head, who you can very easily imagine trying to push against Sam and Dean, then subsequently failing massively. They’re big, meat-headed idiots, and she doesn’t have the life of experience to make her bite just as harsh as her bark.

You don’t want to do this. It’s dangerous, and annoying, and just on principle you should drag Bobby into another room and ask if he’s insane. If he’s forgotten that demons hunt you like you’re their prize game, if it’s somehow slipped his mind in old age that you’re unstable and dangerous, and if he’s looking for a safe environment for Jo to hunt in, he might as well have strapped her to a nuclear bomb set to go off without warning.

There are so many reasons not to do this. 

But you’ve been really lonely. And Jo seems tolerable. 

So you sigh, and nod.

“Fine. What am I doing.”

Bobby crosses his arms, and that’s his small, smug, I won grin. “You’re just hunting like you always do. But, wherever you’re goin’,” Bobby nods to Jo. “Take her.”

Jo gives you a nervous smile, and you sigh.

“Can I have some pizza first?”

“Guess I’ll allow it.” Bobby jerks his head to your usual chair, and you drop into it with a scowl. “Got your favorite.”

He did. Bobby got two boxes of your favorite pizza, likely as a silent sorry I tricked you, kiddo gesture. And dinner is long and awkward, but mostly because you and Bobby can’t talk about the thing, Jo doesn’t seems like she knows where she fits, and you’re too tired for small talk.

You’ll find it in the morning, when you leave for the case. For now you just glare at your pizza and eat in silences, tracing your finger around the rim of your glass as Bobby asks Jo about her mom. You’d tease him about how much he seems to like this Ellen lady if you weren’t so tired.

You want to sleep in your bed. Just for the night. You haven’t slept in your bed in two years, trading it for a cot in the basement.

Last time you were in that bed, Dean was there. He’d been at your side and all over your room, more than a voice echoing around your skull and a faint smell of grass and spice. A smell that’s still lingering deep in the jacket on your body because no matter how much you wash it there’s still something deeply golden ingrained into the material. And it’s soothing—a buoy in the storm, that you cling to like a baby blanket and acts as an artificial Dean, blending nothing but softening your harsher edges—and you want to walk through the whole house and find other things that are afflicted with Dean the same way you are-

Bobby grunts your name, and you realize Jo’s gone. “I know you’re angry-“

“I’m not angry.” You mutter, frowning at your glass. “I’m worried. This could go really wrong-“

“I know.” He lets out a heavy breath, and when you glance over, he’s giving you an odd look. “You know when I saw you the happiest?”

You blink at him, your surprise written all over your face, and Bobby takes it as a no.

“Those three years when you were huntin’ with a partner. When you had a friend that wasn’t a grumpy old asshole-“

“You’re not grumpy.” You cut him off with a small smile, and he chuckles.

“Can it, smartass, you know what I’m talkin’ about. I know you ain’t gonna take Sam and Dean as friend options anymore, so I’m offerin’ an alternative.” He nods up the stairs to where Jo had assumedly disappears. “She’s got a good head on her shoulders, even if can lead her wrong. And I do trust you with ‘er. Don’t think you’ll talk down, or take any bullshit. But ya need it, kiddo. Just as much as she does.”

You pick at your nails, unable to figure out how you can explain to Bobby that it wasn’t just hunting with a partner. It was Dean. You were happy because you had Dean, and Jo seems fine but she’s not what you need. Or even what you want.

But you can’t have what you want. 

So you sigh, nod, and shuffle off to bed. 

Your room is exactly as you left it, with the exception of having gather dust and being entirely empty of Dean.

You wait until you’re sure Bobby and Jo are asleep, and you sneak down to grab a blanket that has Dean stained all over it. 

And you’ll never tell anyone, but you fall asleep easily with the blanket wrapped around you. 

Jo’s up before you. Waiting at the table with an eager expression. 

“Do you have a case?” She asks, watching you shuffle around the kitchen. “Are we- Does Bobby gotta approve it-“

You snort, shaking your head. “No. Bobby’s not my boss.”

“Sorry, I just know my mom will assign cases to hunters-“

“I’m not your mom.” You drop at the table, glaring at the coffee in your mug. “I don’t usually hunt with other people.”

“But-“

You glare up at her—sensing a mention of Dean like a premonition, the hair on your neck standing up and the White scratching at your chest—and she shuts her mouth.

You’re being mean. You don’t want to be mean, you’re just in so much pain, and she’s awfully bubbly, and worse, she unfamiliar. You don’t know her, you don’t know what she knows about you, and you don’t know what to expect from her. 

Maybe Bobby had been right. Maybe you are a cat.

“I-“ You sigh, giving Jo a close-lipped smile. “Sorry. I’m tired.”

“It’s okay.” She returns your smile, sitting a little taller. “I get it.”

“Yeah.” You don’t think she does. It’s really not worth pointing out. “And I do.”

Jo frowns. “You-”

“Have a case. Ever been to Utah?”

“No?”

“That’s alright, it’s kind of shit. Lot of Mormons. And,” you turn your mug between your hands, and it’s burning your skin. You welcome it. “There’s very strange case of a lot of people’s wildest dreams suddenly coming true.”

“Like-“ Jo blinks at you. “Like what?”

“Like marriages and pregnancies out of nowhere.” You shrug. “Promotions, winning lottery numbers, getting your dream house with the owner putting it up for contest. No death yet, but-“

“It could happen.” Jo nods. “And whatever’s grantin’ is probably askin’ for payment.”

You nod. “A payment you wouldn’t want to come due. And the whole town seems to be having something, just once, so we need to at least stop it from moving.”

“The town-“

“Manti. About sixteen hours.”

Jo swallows, looking around the kitchen with wide eyes. “So do we- do we just go?”

“No.” You push to your feet, taking your coffee with you. “We get dressed, pack, leave a note, then go.”

Jo nods, and you’ll give her this. She’s efficient, and quick. She’s packed faster than you are—although you do waste about three minutes failing to talk yourself out of taking the Dean Blanket—and when you start to put on your shoes at the door, she’s already waiting for with her jacket and bag.

You go simple with the note.

Utah. Call you if I need help, message me if there’s a problem.

And you’re gone. Driving with Jo slightly bouncing at your side, putting on the radio to keep the Darkness smothered down just a little easier. You don’t really look at Jo, or attempt to start a conversation, or do anything but tap your fingers in time with the music. When you stop for gas you give a short order of get food if you want it, be back in five, and frown at your reflection in the mirror as you fill up the pump.

You’re a little worried you’re being a bitch. You’re really trying not to be, and you might have been kinder and more eager a few years ago, but you’re tired. You haven’t really spoken to anyone that’s not Bobby over the phone in two years. You can still make small talk, but you don’t remember how to have real conversations. How to talk about anything without your hand still inching towards your knife—stashed in your jacket—just in case. 

You also hadn’t been amazing at conversation before. Dean had been an exception because he was Dean, and it’s not that you’re unlikable, you’re just…

A lot.

And you’re not sure how much of it Jo would be set to handle.

But you still feel like you’re being a bitch.

“So, um,” You give talking an attempt about halfway through the drive, frowning at the road. “You have a mom.”

Everyone has a fucking mom. Even if they’re adopted or something, they still technically have a mom.

Jo doesn’t seem phased by it. “Yeah. Just her though, my dad died a while ago.” There’s a long pause, the radio suddenly not nearly loud enough, but before you can turn it up, Jo’s talking again. “What about you?”

“What about-“

“You have a mom? Or dad? Siblings?”

Your grip on the wheel tightens. “I have a Bobby.”

“Oh.” She sounds surprised. “I didn’t know you were Bobby’s daughter-“

“I’m informally adopted.” You mutter. “It’s complicated.”

Jo nods in your periphery, and you’re about ready to give up on conversation. You had to say complicated, and now you’re spiraling around how Jo had heard of you, but she hadn’t known about your relationship with Bobby, so what had Sam and Dean told her-

“You drive weird.”

You shoot Jo a surprised frown, and she looks incredibly passive for what she just said. “What?”

“I just never seen someone drive like that.” She shrugs, gesturing to your body, and you glance down at yourself with a frown.

You drive normally. Casually and easily. But you’ve spent half your life on the road, so of course you’d drive easily. With an elbow propped on the window, your fingers light on the bottom of the wheel, and a half-glazed attention on the road. You trust your instinct to catch anything before you crash, because this is something bland and easy, so you can trust yourself. You’ve never crashed. 

And you’ve never really thought about how you drive.

“You don’t got road rage either,” Jo adds, and you give her another frown. “A lot of assholes have cut us off, one guy honked at us, and you just didn’t care.”

“I have other things to be angry at.” You mutter. “And we’re in Wyoming.”

Jo blinks at you. “Is that… bad?”

“No. But if we get run off the road the nearest hospital is two hours away.”

“Oh.” She nods slowly. “You just, have hospitals memorized?”

“Yep.” 

Jo’s frowning at you, and something a little sore scratches at your skin. You’re being a bitch again.

You open your mouth to elaborate, try and come across a little sweeter—or at least not downright sour—but Jo’s talking before you get the chance.

“You kinda drive like Dean-“

“No, I don’t.” You snap, your words pushed for teeth. Seems like you’re going to lean into the bitch thing.

And it works. Jo shuts her mouth, giving you an odd look, and the rest of the ride is filled with a tense, frayed silence. 

You have to take one night—It’s a sixteen hour drive, and Jo doesn’t know where you’re going, so you have to rest—but you’re in Utah by morning the next day. And there are a few truly beautiful things about hunting in the Midwest, and the main one is that everything is cheap, and most things are empty. You can get a two-bed motel room without an issue, and buy some food for a reasonable fucking price. 

Jo doesn’t seem as thrilled about this as you are.

She’ll learn.

“When do, um,” Jo’s glancing around the motel room—bland colors, stiff mattresses, and chipped paint—and standing a little too tall. “How do we start?”

“Normally you’d make a plan.” You toss your bag on the bed closest to the door. “Write down what you already know, and what you need to figure out.”

Jo grabs a notepad from her bag, dropping at the table as she starts to write. “We know what happenin’, but we need to know why, so we should probably go to the library-“

“Wrong.” You shrug off your jacket, trading it for your stiff, tweed, professional one. “We’re starting with interviews.”

Jo frowns. “But you said-“

“I said normally. If you’re hunting alone or with someone else. But,” You sort through your bag, grabbing out two fake IDs and tossing one to Jo. “You’re hunting with me. And I already have a plan.”

Jo looks to the ID, then back to you with an expectant expression, and you sigh. 

“Research will be a good idea when we actually have a lead, but right now we only know the basics. We need to be able to rule things out before we start narrowing things down. This,” you tap your own ID, holding it up for her to see. “Is our cover.”

Jo scans over your ID, shaking her head slightly. “But that’s not a federal-“

“I know. Robinson and Miller are journalists. We’re doing a fluff piece on the whole luck thing. These are just normal IDs, because people might ask to make themselves feel better.” 

“Oh.” Jo mumbles, grabbing her own ID and putting it in her bag. “Okay. So we-“

“We’re getting the story in their words.” You say, tucking your knife back in your jacket. “Only push if you see an opening. Hopes are these people slip up themselves.”

Jo nods, moving back to her feet. “And we’re tryin’ to figure out where their luck came from?”

“Yep. Once we find out who’s giving them that luck,” You draw a finger over your mouth with a clicking sound, giving Jo a half-grin “And then we go home.”

Jo goes home. You keep wandering around the country, running from the demons that you’re still scanning for every second.

But Jo doesn’t need to worry about that. And it’s easier to just say go home.

Once you get started—bouncing from house to house, interviewing sudden millionaires and true love marriages—you do have to give Jo credit. She’s good at this part. The people seem to like her, she bounces off of you easily during the interviews, and is good at figuring out where openings for further questions. You catch her shooting you a few odd looks through the process, and you think it’s because you’d flipped on your journalist persona. Wide smiles and bright eyes, still standing tall, but with a relaxed demeanor you don’t really have in real life. 

You know it can be jarring, how quickly you can make that shift. How your voice becomes bright and sweet, and any dry exhaustion vanishes from your expression. Dean once told you he’s shocked you didn’t have a career in Hollywood, because you had the face and charm, Princess, just need to figure out how actually take some direction and you’d be golden.

You’d rolled your eyes and shoved him, snapping that you could take direction, just not stupid direction, and he needed to stop teasing you and focus on the dead guy who’s body you’re supposed to be examining.

He’d shrugged and called you Bossy, dodged your next shove with a laugh, and guided you aside with a hand on your back-

You bite down on your inner cheek, scowling at the air as Jo finishes up with the last interview. She’s doing fine with it, you think, but you can’t really focus because the White is thrashing and whining for Dean, and this is why you’re not supposed to think about him-

“What now?” Jo asks you as you walk back the car, and you blink at her.

“Wha-“

“That was the last interview. What’s next?”

You nod, forcing yourself into focus with your nails dug into your palm. “Now we go to the library, and look for things on…” Trailing off, you scan over your own notepad with a small frown, and Jo jumps in with soft words.

“Deals for luck?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, giving her a small, tight smile. “Thanks.”

She shrugs, and it takes a little while to find the library, but once you do the silence is easier than before. You trade notes as you pour over the books, and even if most of Jo’s ideas end up being blatantly wrong, at least she’s having ideas. She’s obviously trying, and trying hard, so when she gives a hideously incorrect theory, you do your best to be kind about shooting it down.

If it was Dean you would’ve giggled at him, and he would’ve known you didn’t really mean it. 

And Jo isn’t Dean. No one is.

But you’re gaining a little more patience with her, and you don’t hate this as much as you thought you would. Maybe it’s because she’s actually listening to you and respecting that you know what you’re talking about. You line out for her the current evidence—every person you interviewed mentioned karma, being good to the right people, and the golden rule—and offer her your working theories, and she listens. She takes notes, and you don’t have to defend that you do know what you’re talking about, and you’re certain these are the things you want to focus on.

Maybe it’s that when you’d clearly drawn a line about not mentioning Dean, she’d respected it.

A lot of it is probably that she doesn’t ever glance at you with a scowl, like she’s looking for something deeper or darker under your surface.

And you really like that the White and the Darkness are almost indifferent to her presence. The pain is there, but no different than normal, and there’s no pull or detonation set to go off as you sit with her. 

She just seems genuinely nice. A little self-assured, but nice. When she goes to get some coffee and food down the street, she asks if you want any. When she passes you the paper cup and small bag of lemon bread, she compliments your nails, and you flush because you’re not used to that.

You can’t remember the last time you got a real compliment that you just… accepted. With Bobby you roll your eyes, and with Dean you’d always analyzed them. He thought your fighting form was good, which meant he’d been watching, but it could’ve just been in passing rather than the careful, almost hypnotized way you watched him.

But Jo says you have nice nails, and you flush, and that’s it. You drink your coffee and read, picking at your food, and Jo does the same across the table until it’s dark outside and the librarians tell you it’s time to leave. 

You open a library card—technically Ms. Debbie Robinson opens an account, but the library doesn’t need to know that—and check out the books you hadn’t gotten to yet. Jo adds two of her own, and you head back to the motel in silence. 

“Do we need to compare notes?” Jo asks as you enter the room, setting the books down on the table. “Or-“

“I’ll look over your notes.” You pull out a chair, nodding your head to the bathroom. “You can shower first.”

Jo frowns. “But I-“

“After I look them over, I’ll explain what’s right and wrong.” You raise your brows at her. “And you can ask questions. Go shower.”

For a second you think she’s going to protest again, but she doesn’t. Jo nods slowly, places her notepad in front of you, grabs her clothing, and shuffles to the bathroom.

You frown at her back. “What are you doing?”

“Showerin’.” She gives you an odd look over her shoulder. “You- you just told me to-“

“I know, I’m-“ You gesture to her bag on the couch. “You’re forgetting all your shit.”

She raises her hand, sleepwear bundled in her fist. “I’ve got it.”

“No, your shower stuff-“

“What shower stuff?”

You gape at her slightly. “Shampoo? Conditioner? Body-“

“The motel will have it, right? I mean, Sam and-“ She catches herself, shaking her head. “I just don’t know any hunters who bring their own stuff.”

“Of course you don’t.” You roll your eyes, pushing out of your chair and walking to your own bag. “All the hunters you know are dumbasses. Use this.”

You toss your plastic shower bag to her, and she blinks at you. 

“What-“

“It’s my stuff.” You shrug. “Might not be right for your hair and skin types, but it’s better than whatever the fuck the motel is going to have.”

Jo frowns at the bag, sorting through its contents. “But-“

“You don’t have to use all of it.” You say, returning to your seat. “But if you use the body scrub, do it after you shower then rinse it off.”

“I…” Jo pauses, and when you glance back up, she’s watching you with wide eyes. “Do ya’ always use this stuff?”

“Yeah.” You hold her gaze, making yours as blank as possible. “Makes me feel normal. Clean.”

Jo nods slowly, and turns to the bathroom with the bag in her hand. You pour over the notes as she showers, not bothering to look up when you hear the door open.

“Good shower?”

“Yeah,” she mumbles, dropping your shower bag on the table as she sits down. “Thanks.”

You just shrug, leaving your notebook open as you push out of your own chair.

“I wrote down everything,” you tell her, moving all the supplies across the table. “Look over it while I shower.”

She nods, her head hung as she scans over your writing, and you disappear into the bathroom, locking the door behind you.

Jo used too much hot water for it to be scalding, so you keep it ice cold, and the darkness moves a little further down. 

There are no disasters. You’re under your own control, the Darkness is under your control, and when you return to the table all of Jo’s clarification are reasonable and answerable. Her presence isn’t like an axe over your head—more like an annoying buzz in your ear—and as long as this simple lull continues through the week, you’ll get through this without an issue.

“My money’s on witch.” You mutter around midnight, shifting through the last few book pages. “Which means tomorrow we need to start looking for who the witch is.”

Jo nods from her bed, curled up in the pillows with her own notes. “Why witch?”

“At this point it’s either witch or crossroad demon.” You close the book with a shrug. “And no one’s mentioned making a deal. Most of the people we knew didn’t have any relation, so while there’s a chance that’s a coordinated answer, it’s low. This sounded like they think they earned it, and they’re not at all worried about a bill coming due.”

“But there will be one.” Jo frowns at her own book. “There always is.”

“Yep. But we can’t exactly figure it out now.” You move to your own bed, feeling under your pillow for your knife before crawling into the sheets. “We’ll be up at six tomorrow.”

Jo hums, and for a second you think she’s going to try and make conversation, but she just rolls over and goes to sleep. 

You appreciate it. You have no interest in talking. 

Not as the lights turn off, and the case goes static for the night, and it’s just you in the whole world. Jo snores slightly, but it’s not louder than the Darkness creeping up your spine and wrapping around your skull, no more demanding that the White roaring and bursting in your chest.

You grab your knife, sit up against the headboard, and take long breaths. Slow, long breaths in even movements, your eyes squeezed tight in pain as it all starts to leak out. You can feel the suffocating heat of the mattress and disgust of your sweat on the sheets, and this can’t happen right now.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t sleep, if you’re blurry eyed and a little hazy in the morning—your skin still raw from where you’re allowing the knife to bury into your skin—this can’t happen. Bobby trusted you with Jo, and she’s trusting you, so you need to strangle every weak and feral part of you, locking them down until you’re alone again. You’ll get through this. You’ll drown in this agony alone, and Jo will be fine-

“Can you go to sleep?”

You drag your eyes open, looking to Jo’s bed with a frown. She’s still lying down, her face not fully visible in the dark, but you can see the light reflecting in her eyes. 

“Sorry,” she mutters, shrugging slightly. ”I just don’t like to sleep with someone sittin’ guard. Kinda weird.”

You blink at her. “Roll over then.”

“I’ll still know.” She pushes back, and there’s something a stronger in her voice than before. “It’s creepy. And we’re fine, I saw you saltin’ all the entrances and drawin’ those weird symbols on the floor-“

“They’re specialized demon traps.” You snap. “And I’m sorry it’s creepy, but I’m not sleeping.”

Jo sighs. “Alright.” 

You scowl at her, and she sits up, leaning over to turn on the light  between your beds.

“Now we’re both not sleepin’.”

You stare at her, shaking your head. “Are you fucking five? Go to bed-“

“I can’t sleep if you’re gonna be doin’ that.” She waves your tenses body on the bed, your knees clutched to your chest and your grip on the knife white. “Cool knife, by the way.”

“Thanks.” You mutter, turning the blade over in your hands. “Just- go back to sleep, Jo-“

“I said no.” She snaps. “I feel like somethings going to jump out and attack us when you’re doin’ that-“

You snort—it’s a little mean, but she also how no idea just how correct she is—and she frowns. 

“Why don’t you like me?”

“I-“ You gape at her. “I don’t not like you-“

“I’m not dumb.” She says, holding your gaze. “And I’m tryin’ to help-“

“You are helping-“

“I’m slowin’ you down. You coulda just told Bobby no-“

 “But I didn’t.” You narrow your eyes at her. “And if you don’t want to do this, you can go-“

“I don’t want to go!” She’s whining a little, and the sound is scraping at your ears. “I wanna hunt, and maybe you don’t have a lot of female friends or somethin’-“

You let out a small, dry laugh. “I don’t have a lot of friends. Period.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, and then, “Me neither.”

You nod at nothing, and as silence settles over the room, the sore ache of guilt runs and burns over your skin. 

“I don’t- I’m not used to hunting with people.” You mutter, staring at your hands as you pick at your nails. “And most people slow me down. It’s not just you.”

“That’s not much better. Kinda sad.”

You scowl at her. “Sorry I’m not a fun-“

“I don’t need ya’ to be fun, I just don’t-“ Jo sighs, slumping slightly. “You’re not babysittin’ me. And you don’t gotta be nice, but you- I dunno, you just seem-“

“Bossy?” The White whines, and you make your voice flat. “I’ve been told I can be bossy.”

“Yeah. Bossy.”

You scowl at your hands, wishing you could use them to turn your knife on your tongue. You hate this. Not Jo, but known that you’d been right. You were being a bitch, and Jo didn’t deserve that, and you’d been trying but being nice is so fucking exhausting with your whole body feels like it’s shredding itself apart-

“You been kind, though.” Jo cuts through the silence, and you stare at her.

“You just called me bossy-“

“Yeah. But you’ve let me actually do some work, and you gave me the hair and body stuff. It- It did feel nice.”

“Good.” You mumble. “That was the point.”

Jo scans over your face with an odd expression. “I can’t believe Bobby lets you hunt alone.”

You snort, and nothing defensive flares in your mouth. You can hear it in your voice, is not you she’s shocked with. It’s the very idea of anyone just hunting alone. 

She’s likely gotten the it’s dumb speech from Dean.

“Bobby doesn’t let me hunt alone so much as he ruefully accepts that he can’t stop me.” You drawl, giving Jo a half smile. “Whole permission, forgiveness thing.”

Jo hum, nodding. “How long you been huntin’?”

“Alone?” You raise your brows, and Jo nods. “Since I was fifteen.”

“Fif-“

“Yeah.” You smile at Jo’s open, wide expression. “Started small, got good at it. Bobby’d be hard pressed to stop me now.”

“Sam-“ Jo clears her throat, sitting a little taller. “He told me you were one of the best hunters they’ve ever met.”

You shrug, and bite your tongue to stop yourself from asking and what about Dean, what did he say, did he just give a grumbled agreement to Sam or did he add something else, and was his voice filled with hatred or affection-

“He said you’re hard to find, though.” Jo’s voice is cautious, and your nails dig into your skin. “That you’re… Dean told me you were sick.”

The White is roaring. Dean’s heard Bobby’s lie. And he may have believed it, and you can’t tell if you’re relieved or not, and Jo said you were hard to find. Like they’d looked. Like Sam and Dean had searched for you, even after you left them, and you could never see them again but they spoke about you, and Sam still saw you in that odd, flattering light and Dean still thought about you-

“Are you?”

You blink at Jo. “Am I-“

“Sick.”

“Yeah.” You watch her carefully, vigilant for any form of reaction. “I am.”

Jo nods, glancing to the lamp between your beds, and the knife in your hands. “Are you gonna go to sleep?”

You shake your head, rubbing your palm against the hilt of your knife. “Can’t.”

She sighs, settling a little further into her mattress. “Can you at least tell me why somethings gonna burst through the door-“

“No.”

She gives you a flat look that obviously says why, and you let out a long breath.

“It’s co-“ 

You stop yourself, turning your knife between your hands. You’re so fucking sick of that word. And you’re sick of being alone, and Jo seems genuinely nice, and Jo seems to understand discretion. 

She doesn’t seem like the type who’s going to just try and shoot you. 

Just to test a theory, you start slow. “You know John Winchester-“

“I fuckin’ hate that guy. He got my dad killed.”

You blink at her. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” She leans forward, giving you an odd look. “Why?”

She hates John. She’s friends with Sam and Dean, but not enough to tell them she’s going on a hunt. 

She can keep a secret.

And you’re really fucking tired.

“You can’t tell Sam or-“ You swallow, the White rearing its head. “Dean.”

Jo nods, leaning forward. “Okay.”

“You have to swear-“

“On my mom.” She crosses her heart like a girl scout, her expression purely open, and you believe her. 

You do something incredibly stupid, and Dean’s not even here.

You tell Jo everything. Almost everything. More than you’ve told Bobby, but less than the whole truth. You tell her about the Darkness and the White—but not the whole Dean thing—and you tell her about the monsters, and the demons, and the women of the high. You explain all your odd ideas, and the whole John thing, and that Azazel had threatened you, but you leave out exactly how. You tell her about the green-eyed demons and their knives, and how they never kill you, and how you’re in control of it—the last lie—but you still to be careful.

“You’re not in danger,” you add at the end, just because you’re a little worried her eyes are going to pop out of her head. “I know how to handle them, if they come, and I haven’t seen any but- Yeah. That’s it.”

There’s an odd sense of relief. Cool and soothing over your body like water. You’ve told her, and she hasn’t tried to kill you. 

She’s mostly just staring. 

You’re a little worried you broke her. 

“Jo-“

“Holy shit.” She whispers. “Is that- That’s why you’re always huntin’ alone, right?”

You nod, and she swallows.

“And Sam and Dean don’t-“

“No. And they can’t.” You make your voice firm, rubbing your calves as you speak. “I’m serious, they really can’t-“

“I won’t say anything.” She gives you a small smile. “I swore on my mom.”

You nod slowly. “I- Sorry if you didn’t want to hear-“

She cuts you off with a shrug. “I asked. And it’s explainin’ a lot.” She grabs the TV remote, and begins to flip through the channels. “National Treasure?”

You stare at her, then glance at the TV. It’s playing a grainy, half-static movie, and Jo’s mostly watching it with interest. 

“Are we- what about sleep-“

“You gonna sleep?”

“I- probably not-“

“Then we’re watchin’ TV.” She tosses the remote onto your bed. “You can pick, but I’m still not gonna sleep long as you’re up.”

And that’s it. You look between the remote and Jo’s casual expression, settle back into your bed with a nod, and you’re… okay. You’re still in pain but the exhaustion feels more manageable, and there’s really nothing bad happening. You told her, and nothing died or burst into flames. The only indication to ever told her is how, every ten or so minutes, she’ll ask a casual question about it, you’ll answer, and you’ll go back to watching the movie.

And eventually you make a joke, and she laughs, and bounces back with one of her own.

And when you fall asleep—passing out against the headboard—you wake up to find coffee waiting for you on the side-table and Jo already sorting through a new set of books.

“Mornin’.” She gives you a small smile. “I got you want you ordered yesterday, and I’ve been lookin’ at all the witness statements. Got some idea, if you wanna hear them.”

You nod, moving to sit with her at the table, and something simple and soft is stirring along your muscles. It’s the same feeling you got with Sam, two years ago in the hospital.

You have a friend.

——————

Dean’s really fucking tired.

There’s too much happening. The world has never moved this slow and this fast, and he couldn’t keep up. 

He has six months. It’s not enough, and it’s far too much. All the time feels wasted, and there’s so much to do that won’t end up mattering, because Dean is going to die.

He’s certain of it.

Sammy’s got faith they’ll fix this. That they’re gonna get Lilith and make her shred up Dean’s contract, that Ruby’s actually going to help instead of just ordering them around like a bitch, that this will all work and the year will end with Dean still alive.

It’s not the truth.

And Dean’s trying. He’s forcing himself to ride on Sam’s determination, mostly because it probably makes Sam feel better about the whole situation. And Dean can offer him that.

Whatever lets Sam keep going when he’s gone. 

In return, Sam indulges him. No annoying fights about strip clubs and one-night stands. No bitching and moaning about loud music or fast driving.

No more trying to mention Her, or attempting to convince Dean that they should pry Bobby for more information on where She’d gone.

Dean didn’t want to find her. He needed to find Her—he needed to know She was okay, he needed to ask why the hell she just up and vanished, why Sam said She’d been at the hospital, been crying over his body, but then She just fucking left before he could wake up and didn’t even try to come back—but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want the answers to his questions, because they’d probably just be wasn’t worth it. 

She must have finally realized Dean just wasn’t fucking worth it. 

And if he found Her, she’d tell him that, and he might just die right there. Screw the demons and the deal, She’d look at him with bright eyes, say Dean Winchester, I left because you’re more trouble than you’re worth, and he’d turn into ash.

It was pathetic. She was just a woman, not some kind of magical love-spell chick, but Dean knew—deep in his gut and a little to the left of his heart—that She could kill him like that.

And he fucking hated it.

He needed to be strong. He needed to hold it together for Sammy, and he needed to keep his head level so everyone could grieve him while he was still alive, and She made that impossible. The idea of Her made it impossible. It didn’t matter how many times Bobby told him he was holdin’ it together better than expected, or Sam reminded him that he was an ass, but they were going to work this out because Dean couldn’t die, Dean was starved for Her.

He bended to Her when she was only a phantom in his head. A siren-like voice between the notes in songs, and bright eyes in his dreams, and the smell of fruit and sugar on the wind.

He’d never figured out what that fruit was.

He had a feeling he never would. 

There was the other reason he didn’t want to find Her. Their last fight still circled around his head like lingering smoke after an explosion, and as much as it haunted him that he may never be able to mend things with her, it made him fear Her more.

Fear how She’d react to finding out about the deal, when She’d gotten so pissed when Dean hadn’t died. She’d been ready to throttle him when he’d in one full piece in front of her, with no dark cloud or promise of death lingering over his shoulder at all.

He was afraid that he’d meet a fate worse than Her being indifferent. 

He was afraid that She’d care.

That the wrath from Colorado would return, and She fight for him and rip herself apart for him just as Sammy was, and something would cave where She just kept liking him—despite all odds and reason, Dean was almost certain She had at least liked him—and he got Her. They’d fall into each other because She somehow cared, and Dean was never capable of not bathing and drowning himself in Her light.

And then he’d die. Sammy was a genius, and Bobby was the best damn hunter they knew, and She was Her, but they wouldn’t be able to save him.

And Dean would just fucking lose Her when his time ran out.

He hated that too.

Hated that he’d never had Her, and would never get to have Her. That she’d remain in his thoughts and haunt his sleep like a brilliant tattoo over his brain, but he’d never get to just touch Her. He’d fuck different bodies in town after town and none of them would ever be Her.

She’d left him to crave Her alone.

So Dean wouldn’t die alone. He’d die with Sammy at his side. 

But he’d die without Her, and that felt like he was abandoning something. Like he should maybe give a shit, because he didn’t want Her to know but he couldn’t stand the idea of dying without her there.

He was one selfish son of a bitch, wanting Her to witness his death just so he would die with some strange, deep part of him filled with light.

So he didn’t look for Her. 

And he just kept moving.

“We got a call from Ellen this morning.” 

Dean glanced up with a frown, and Sam hadn’t even looked up from his computer.

“About what?”

“Apparently Jo pulled the disappearing act again.” Sam shrugged. “Our job to go get her.”

“That is not our job.” Dean muttered, placing the gun he’d been cleaning off to the side. “Ellen got a clue where she went?”

“Nope, but you know who probably will?”

Sam raised his brows, and Dean groaned. 

“I don’t want to call him-“

“You have to. It’s not like she’s gonna pick up the phone-“

“That’s not what I- shut up.” Dean scowled. “If we call Bobby and he doesn’t know where Jo is, he’s gonna give us the help her learn lecture again-“

“And we’ll listen to it again-“

“I’ll listen to it! You’ll go hide in the bathroom like a pussy-“

“I’m not a pussy, Dean.” Sam tossed him the phone, attention returning to his laptop. “I’m just smarter than you are. Good luck.”

Dean rolled his eyes, muttering a bitch under his breath—that only made Sam laugh—as he dialed Bobby’s number.

It was five rings before the call picked up.

“Dean, it’s my week off, so unless you boys got a real good lead-“

“Jo’s trying to hunt again.” Dean cut Bobby off with careful words, his body already braced for the lecture. “You happen to know anything about that?”

“Maybe.” Bobby’s voice was bored through the phone, and Dean could picture his flat, neutral expression. “If I do?”

“Bobby-“

“She ain’t here, Dean-“

Dean scowled. “That’s not the fucking question, Bobby-“

“And I didn’t finish, boy.” Bobby snapped through the speaker, and Dean flinched slightly. “Jo ain’t here, but she stopped by. Ate dinner with me.”

There was silence, and Dean took a deep breath as he realized Bobby wasn’t going to keep talking.

“Bobby,” He muttered through his teeth. “If we don’t find her it’s all our asses with Ellen-“

“That ain’t true, I’m not the one who lost her-“

“Technically Ellen lost her,” Sam called from the table, attention still on the laptop. “So you could, I dunno, try telling her that.”

Bobby sighed through the speaker, and Dean almost heard the eye roll. “Why can’t you idjits just let that girl learn to hunt-“

“So she is hunting-“

“Course she’s hunting, Dean!” Bobby voice had grows loud enough for Dean to flinch, and Sammy needed to stop smirking, or he was going to get punched. “Showed up here damn near beggin’ me to help her, so I sent her off with another hunter.”

Dean’s grip on the phone tightened. “Who?”

“Best one I’ve got. She’ll be fine, Dean, Jo ain’t a fragile little bird-“ 

“No, but Ellen wants her home and I’d like to keep my life, Bobby.” Dean ran a hand over his face, frowning at Sam, who was finally actually paying attention. “Where’d they go.”

“Utah.”

“Where in Utah-“

“Don’t know.” Bobby hummed through the phone. “Big state though. Better start searchin’.”

The line dropped dead before Dean could protest, and that was it. Sam raised his brows in silent question, and Dean shook his head, chucking his phone onto the mattress.

“Utah.”

Sam frowned. “Where in-“

“I don’t fucking know!”

Sam ended up knowing. The kid just shrugged, combed over the news, and found a little town with a wish-granting problem in about thirty minutes flat. 

It wasn’t a flawless plan—there could be other cases to work in Utah that weren’t as obvious—but it was better than just driving town to town in Utah and testing their luck. 

And Dean’s luck hadn’t been good in two damn years.

“Did Bobby say who Jo’s with?” 

Dean shook his head, keeping his eyes on the road. “Just that they’re the best.”

“The best?” Sam sounded shocked, and Dean understood that. “Bobby called them-“

“The best.” Dean reappeared, tapping his hand on the wheel with a frown. He had an odd, powerful feeling he couldn’t place rolling around in his chest. “Probably just Rufus or something.”

“Wouldn’t Bobby have just said Rufus-“

“Sammy.” Dean grunted, and the odd feeling was intolerable. Almost sickening, like his heart was being grown over and throttled. “Shut up.”

Sam sighed, but listened, and Dean turned up the music until conversation wasn’t even a damn option. He didn’t know what the hell was happening to his body, or why it was turning against him in such a strangely urgent way, but it was consuming. Loud and sharp and furious and bright-

He only knew one person who was like that.

And he killed the thought before it could take root. She was sick. Bobby had probably sent Jo off with some old guy they’d simply never crossed paths with, who—once Sam and Dean explained the situation and used the proper threats—would let them take Jo home.

The nerves were probably just based in the fact that they were going to have to drive Jo home, and she wouldn’t be happy. Dean didn’t have the energy to hear her whining in the backseat about being treated like a child. He barely had the time for this, because the drive to Utah was damn near thirty hours, and Sammy wasn’t in favor of making it in one trip, so those were three more days of Dean’s fucking life gone. 

And the feeling only got worse the closer they got.

But he was always a step closer to death, and he had at least another three days to lose, and it was nothing. 

It wasn’t Her.

It couldn’t be Her. There was no reason for it to be. Just because Bobby was involved, and he’d said the best hunter—and Dean would never tell Her if he saw her, but his brain did move right to her with her books and knife and smart mouth—and this seemed like Her exact type of case, didn’t mean it would be Her.

So Dean ignored the feeling, and kept driving.

“Do you want to take care of the case after we get Jo?” Sammy asked in their last motel room, frowning at the newspaper clipping he’d ripped out about the town with a lucky streak in Utah. “I mean, mass luck out of nowhere in a small town, it’s kinda screaming-“

“It’s not that.” Dean grunted. “And if it is, how the hell is it gonna help us.”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe this one’s got a line to Lilith.”

“And what, we just ask the son of a bitch to make a phone call-“

“Yeah, Dean. It’s better than nothing-“

Dean rolled his eyes and grunted whatever Sam needed to hear to shut up. It wasn’t better than nothing. At least nothing wouldn’t be filling his body with iridescent butterflies and haunting him with the smell of fruit.

When they rolled into the small town—Sammy had called it Morpi or something—Dean already wanted to just go. They just needed to grab Jo and head out, so this feeling could fade and pass like they all almost always did.

All this pain and suffering would be temporary. Dean reminded himself of that every second now. However tired or sick he felt now, everything would pass.

“Should we get a motel-“

“No,” Dean grunted, scanning over the streets as he looked for a place to park. Maybe Jo would just be walking around, they could grab her, and go. “We won’t be here long enough to need one. Waste of time.”

“Jo’s probably in a motel-“

“And she’s not just going to be fucking sitting there, Sammy-“

“Maybe she is.” Sam crossed his arms, and Dean could feel his pointed look. “It’s not unbelievable that she’s benched for the actual case.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “So we’re just supposed to knock on door and wait for her to open one? Is that your plan?”

“You got a better one?”

He didn’t. Dean had really been banking on the Jo just walks past them idea. 

“Stop looking so fucking pleased with yourself.” He muttered, and Sam scoffed.

“You weren’t even looking at me, jerk-“

“Could feel it.” Dean pulled Baby in a U-turn, heading back to the motel they’d passed a few minutes before. “You’re doing all the knocking, genius.”

It didn’t matter who did the knocking. All they got in result was one very angry old man, a trophy mom that offered Sammy the ride of his life—Dean didn’t bother to hide his wide grin at how Sam was red for several long minutes after—and a bunch of college kids who weren’t very good at hiding that they’d been smoking weed, calling a bong a dildo and hoping that Sam and Dean were cool cops.

On a better day, Dean might have fucked with them, just because this was boring and they seemed like douchebags. But he just wanted to get this done with, and the feeling was building, and he felt like he was going to vomit a rainbow or something-

“That was my idea.” Sam muttered, frowning at the motel. “Your turn.”

“My turn?” Dean scowled. “I’m not the idea man, Sammy, I’m the action man-“

“Fuck off, dude, you have good ideas-“

“Yeah? Cause right now all I’ve got is shouting Jo and hoping something happens-“

Sam’s eyes widened slightly. “Dean-“

“Maybe we can build a fucking trap for her-“

“Dean-“

“Bait it with some beer and hope she walks into it-“

Sam rolled his eyes, grabbed Dean by the shoulders, physically turning Dean around to face the parking lot, and Dean’s heart felt like it had been plunged into lava and ice all at once.

Parking in the back of the lot was a hideous, bright red Jaguar, and climbing out of it was Jo and-

Son of a bitch. 

She’s didn’t look like She was sick. She looking perfectly alright. Her hair was a little messy, but still shiny, and Her skin looked soft, and Dean couldn’t see her eyes yet but they were probably blinding. She was wearing the jacket Dean had left with Her, and there was light catching off Her rings as she gestured at Jo, and Dean could hear the smooth and beautiful sound of Her voice from the sidewalk-

There was nothing soft or weak or hoarse in Her voice. No cracks, and no color lost from Her face when Dean saw her pretty side-profile, and she was standing tall, and She wasn’t sick.

Dean’s blood was hot in his body. She’d left him dying in the hospital, and avoided him for two years, and She wasn’t sick. 

He’d been right.

She just didn’t want him. 

And now She was right fucking here, and Dean wanted to run and grab Her and fold her into his arms until they were stuck together for the rest of time, and he’d never hated Her more.

It wasn’t real hate. Not the hate he’d had for Azazel or Gordon, but the raw and carved open hatred that had festered in him all those years ago after the poltergeist. A furious ache that reminded Dean he wasn’t going to be able to stop orbiting around Her, and that when She bit him it would be poisonous, and when he bit Her back, it would be destructive. Hate that was bigger than most other things he felt, because everything was bigger with Her. She was always prettier, and smarter, and brighter and anger and funnier and more.

Better.

She was still better than anything Dean had ever seen, just from across the parking lot, and he felt like he was catapulting into a star. 

He hated Her, for leaving him and doing this and not letting him properly fucking hate Her.

And then Her head turned, their eyes met, and the world stuttered. A mis-beat in a song or a scratch on a DVD, a brief second where it was only Her and Dean in the whole universe, where everything was technicolor and Dean felt like he was crashing down, down, down-

She was trying to get in the car. Her hands were pulling at the car door, and She was hissing something at Jo that Dean couldn’t hear, and She was trying to fucking run.

Dean was never not grateful for how Sammy wasn’t affected by whatever enchantment She cast on Dean. The car door had barely opened before Sam was sprinting forward, weaving between cars to reach them before they could drive away, and it snapped Dean out of his daze of Her and fruit on the wind.

Sam caught up to them in a few seconds—thank Christ for Sasquatch legs—and slammed the car door. 

None of them were speaking when Dean skidded to a stop. Sam was gaping at Her, Jo was silently bouncing on her feet—face painted with nerves—and She was frozen. Almost like marble, perfectly still to the point that Dean wasn’t sure She was breathing.

He’d be worried about Her if he wasn’t so fucking furious. 

Dean hissed Her name. He hated how right it felt in his mouth. “What the fuckin’ hell are you doing here-“

She just stared at him. Mouth parted slightly and eyes wide—a little blown out in a way Dean didn’t want to think about—and breathing far shallower than it should be. Dean shouldn’t be worried about that. He shouldn’t already be thinking about how there was raw, red skin around Her nails, and visible bags under Her eyes, and she didn’t look sick but She was colorless, and there was that little wrinkle in Her brow that Dean needed to reach out and smooth over-

“We’re hunting.” Jo provided, and Sam sighed.

“We worked that out, Jo. We’re just-“ Sam said Her name. It was a beautiful sound. Dean was going to hurt someone. “What are you doing here?”

She still wasn’t talking. Apparently, Jo had decided to be Her voice. 

Dean didn’t want to hear Jo’s voice.

He wanted to hear Her.

“Bobby asked her to help me-“

“No shit, kid.” Dean snapped, his eyes never leaving Her’s. She looked terrified, and exhausted, and Dean didn’t fucking love how it was making his own stomach twist. “And you’re not hunting anymore, we’re bringing you back to Ellen-“

That seemed to snap Her out of it. She shook Her head, her eyes narrowing on Dean, and his breath caught in his throat as She started speaking.

“We’ve got a case to finish, Winchester. You’re not taking Jo anywhere.”

Dean scoffed. “You think you get a say in this, sweetheart-“

“I think.” Her voice was too controlled. Too measured and cool, and it was a weight on the top of Dean’s chest. “That you can try to take her and see what happens.”

“What, you gonna freakin’ stab me-“

“If I have to, yeah.” She raised Her chin, and her hair always somehow framed her face perfectly. “Get out of town. Now.”

Sam said Her name, his voice soft. “We could just help you, more hands are-“

“No.” She snapped, Her stance going rigid. “You need to fucking go. We’ve got this handled-“

“You’ve got a demon handled?” Dean sneered, ignoring Sam’s so now you think it’s a demon look. “That’s new-“

Something hot flared in Her eyes. “Shut the fuck up, asshole, I can handle a demon-“

“Can you? ‘Cause last I remembered you got stabbed-“

“And I’m perfectly fine.” She gestured to Her body, and Dean wished he could shut down the way his cock twitched in his pants at just the indulgence of looking at Her fully clothed body. “And it doesn’t matter, because this isn’t a demon, dumbass. So you can fuck right off, and I’ll bring Jo home when we’re done.”

Sam frowned at Her. “No offense, but this really does seem like a demon.” He said Her name carefully, and something sunk down in Dean’s heart when Her attention turned away. “We’ve dealt with a lot of crossroads demons this year-“

Dean stomped on Sam’s foot, shooting him a glare. He didn’t want Her to know. She didn’t get to know, not when She’d so obviously decided Dean wasn’t worth Her time. When She was already trying to get rid of him, and she looked so horrified from the sight of him.

Sam glared right back at him, and She cleared Her throat. For a second Dean thought She’d push—ask what the fuck that was about—but she didn’t. She either really just didn’t fucking care enough, or she was that eager to get rid of them.

“It’s not a crossroads demon.” She said, crossing Her arms over her chest. It made her tits look good, and Dean needed to get it the fuck together. “It’s a witch.”

Sam stilled, his jaw dropping slightly. Dean didn’t know what the fuck that was about. Witches were annoying as hell, but they weren’t new, or shocking.

“You’re hunting a witch?” Sam asked, his voice higher than Dean had ever heard it, and She frowned. 

“We’re hunting a witch.” She said, nodding to Jo, still silent on the other side of the car. “And we’ve almost got it, so if you could kindly fuck off and let us work-“

Sam shook his head, his eyes getting wider by the second. “Since when do you hunt witches?” 

“Since a while.” Her voice was dry, and there was a look of pure exhaustion—and something deeper Dean couldn’t pinpoint—on Her face. “So, again, go-“

“We’re not going without Jo.” Dean snapped, and She shot him a glare. 

“I’m not asking, Winchester. You need to leave.”

They were just glaring at each other. There was that deep, heavy thing in Her eyes that didn’t dim them, but felt like a black light. Showing Dean something so far down inside of Her that he was certain he wasn’t supposed to see it, luring him further into Her orbit because everything in Her eyes was bigger than the universe and brighter than the sun beating down in the sky-

Dean needed to get it the fuck together. She didn’t want him here. She didn’t want him. Dean was an obstacle or nuisance to Her, and this is exactly why he hadn’t wanted to find Her. This is what he’d known would happen, and he had no one to blame but himself. 

“We’re not fucking going without Jo,” he grunted. They’d only just met. She couldn’t be that determined to keep Jo around. “Give it up, sweetheart, and we’ll get out of your way.”

He sneered those last words, and She seemed to visibly flinch.

Jo cleared her throat. “I’m not just gonna leave with you, Dean-“

“Jo,” Sam muttered, shaking his head. “Not worth it.”

“But-“

“Sam’s right.” She snapped over Jo, and Sam blinked at Her. “This isn’t worth fighting about. And you two,” She gestured with a wave between Sam and Dean, the movement loose and careless and dismissive. It might have been better if She punched Dean square in the face. “Need to go. Keep hunting Azazel or something-“

“Dean killed Azazel.” Sam said, a small frown on his face, and She blinked at him, almost recoiling.

“What?”

Her voice was suddenly smaller. Dean had forgotten how frequently confused he was in Her presence.

“I shot him,” he muttered, watching Her carefully. “He’s been dead for months.”

Six months. The exact amount of time Dean’s time had been running out.

“Dead dead?” She whispered, glancing at Jo with wide eyes, who gave Her a small shrug and raised brows. 

They seemed to actually like each other. Enough to have silent exchanges.

That could be a problem.

“He used the Colt.” Sam provided, and when Dean looked at him, he had a weary expression on his face. “And Dean’s not lying. We can’t leave with Jo. Ellen will kill us.”

Jo paled. “Mom sent you?”

Sam gave her a grimacing look of sympathy. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Jo said Her name, giving Her an odd look. “How sure are you about-“

“Positive.”

“Then maybe-“

“No.”

“They ain’t gonna leave,” Jo crossed her arms, giving Her a pointed look. “And more hands are better than none.”

Sam frowned. “That’s what I said-“

“And I’m reaptin’ it.” Jo shrugged. “You two can stick around, ‘till the hunts done, and then I’ll go back without a fight. But I’m finishin’ the hunt.”

“I don’t think her majesty over there is gonna give the go ahead on that.” Dean muttered, and She shot him a glare.

But it was less venomous. Less hostile. 

More guarded. Spiked and nervous. 

Dean didn’t know what the fuck was happening.

“Did you really kill Azazel?”

“Do I look like I’m fucking lying?”

She let out a long breath. “No.”

Dean frowned. She wasn’t fighting back anymore. She just looked tired, and he didn’t understand what was going on-

“If I let you stick around,” She said, mostly looking at Sam. It hurt something along Dean’s skull and spine. “You listen to me and Jo-“

Sam blinked at Her. “And Jo?”

“This is our hunt, Sam, we know what we’re doing-“

“No, I just didn’t- Sorry.” Sam gave Her a small frown. “How long have you guys been hunting together?”

Jo shrugged. “A week.”

Sam shot Dean a what the hell look, and Dean just shook his head.

He’d spent years trying to understand Her, and never succeeded. He didn’t think it was going to all click in one damn second.

“You’re certain it’s a witch?” Sam asked, turning back to Her, and She nodded.

“Yep. Coven, actually. Bunch of assholes who travel town to town, pull this,” She gestured to the air around them. “And then bounce. In about five years the whole thing will crash down, and everyone in Manti’s luck will be dogshit until it kills them.”

“Town to town?” Sam looked between them with a frown. “Has this happened-“

“Ten times in the past fifty years.” She shrugged. “I worked it out, and Jo found where they live. House on the edge of this city.”

Sam nodded slowly, shooting Dean a silent, weary look, and Dean understood what it meant. 

They couldn’t leave without Jo. 

Jo seemed glued to Her every fucking word and order, as if in one damn week She was already Jo’s favorite person.

And She was the most stubborn person Dean had ever met. If She said they weren’t taking Jo, they weren’t taking Jo. 

Their only chance was listening to Her and ganking the witches.

Dean’s only chance was falling back in line behind Her, and fucking praying that when this was over, he’d be able to move out of Her orbit. 

And he’d have to beat himself into really, fully hating Her again. Into not caring that She’d left, and She wasn’t sick. She just didn’t want him. She was still something that was higher, and She’d hadn’t learned to not want the mud—She wouldn’t, She’d been raised in it right alongside Dean, only just out of his view—but She’d learned to not want Dean.

He could let that hurt and rip him apart later. Hell, he’d have all of eternity after he died to torture himself with the thought.

Right now all he could do was grunt, give a short nod, and force himself not to watch the way Her shoulders relaxed at his agreement.

“Good.” She muttered, looking between Sam and Dean with a frown, and She was rubbing the scar on Her palm. 

Dean still wanted to touch it. 

“Here’s the deal.” 

The deal was that they were storming the house. Two years Dean would’ve leaned down to Her ear and whispered like a break-in, Princess, then laughed at Her adorable glower, but now all he could do was watch Her silently. She still had that way of speaking and moving that made the world feel like it bent and shifted for Her. 

She barely looked at him the whole explanation, giving short answers to Sam’s questions and letting Jo fill in any gaps.

She didn’t lie once. She’d been so obviously hiding something—She had to be, between the sick thing and how She and Jo kept exchanging glances—but She wasn’t lying. She told them the plan, and how they’d reached the witch conclusion, and that She and Jo had been working well together so they didn’t need Sam and Dean, and-

There was a lie. One lie. 

“We don’t need you-“ She’d said, and Dean had scoffed.

“Says the girl who’s probably still hunting with a knife-“

“I’m serious.” She’d snapped, standing a little taller and twisting a ring on Her finger. “I don’t need you, Dean.”

Lie.

The only time She said his name all day, and it was in a lie he didn’t even understand.

But he was past trying to understand. Right now all he could do was follow Her orders and drive to the house, his grip on the wheel white-knuckled as he followed Her car.

That was another thing he’d die without knowing. Where the hell She got all those fancy cars.

“Dean,” Sammy wad frowning at him, and whatever he was about to say, Dean didn’t want to hear it. “We should tell her-“

“No.”

“She could help, you know how good she is with weird shit-“

“Sam.” Dean shot him a glare, his voice almost a growl. “There is not a chance in goddamn hell I’m telling her. And if you tell her, I’ll vanish and you’ll never fucking see me again.”

Sam sighed, but nodded, and that was it. They pulled up the house, right behind where She and Jo had parked, and Dean had been right.

She was still hunting without a gun.

All that was in Her hands was Her knife. And She held it with even more ease than last time, almost spinning it in Her hand and leaning against her car as she spoke to Jo.

It was memorizing. 

He didn’t have time for it.

“Jo and I are taking upstairs,” She said as Sam and Dean approached, her face painfully neutral. “You two are scoping downstairs and the basement. Don’t fire on anything unless you’re certain, and keep eyes out for hex bags. Got it?”

Sam nodded, glancing at the house with a frown. “Do we just… shoot them? If we find them?”

“Or stab them.” She flipped Her knife in her hand with an ease She definitely hadn’t had two years ago, and it was doing distracting things to Dean’s body. “Stick together, keep in earshot in case we need each other, and don’t be idiots.”

Dean scowled. “Don’t think we’re the ones who need that reminder, sweetheart.”

She sighed, and Her glare was still far too soft. “That’s rude, Deano. Play nice or you wait in the car.”

He blinked at Her, something in his brain sent into shock from hearing Her say Deano—not his name again, but close enough, intimate enough, to dumb his hatred back into desire in only a breath—and he had to physically fucking shake himself to follow them into the house.

The hunt was quick. Brutal.

Efficient.

Because it was Her. 

Jo had mentioned that they were pretty sure the coven had about seven witches. Sam found one chanting like a maniac in a closet, and Dean slammed another’s head into the concrete wall in the basement. From upstairs they heard a gun go off, which meant Jo had gotten one of her own. 

They’d started the head upstairs—exchanging a worried look that they hadn’t found any others, there hadn’t been another gunshot, and they were still missing four dead witches—and Sam nearly fell on his ass as someone blazed past him and out the door.

Dean caught him by his shoulders, glaring around the room and trying to grab his gun as he kept Sammy steady. 

“What the-“

“Fuck!” Dean blinked at Her shout, and She half-kept down the stairs, tearing after the runner.

She was moving really fast. 

He wasn’t sure he’d seen Her right.

There were loud sounds coming from outside, and Jo was running down after Her.

Sam pushed himself back onto his feet, frowning up the stairs. “Jo, what’s-“

“There were eight.” Jo snapped, reloading her shotgun. “Last one got the jump on us.”

Dean frowned. Last one would mean-

There was a crash, and any thoughts were torn from his head as he sprinted outside, coming to a stumbling stop of the porch as he took in the scene before him. 

Her car was folded around a lamppost, and She was stalking towards it, knife in hand, covered in blood. 

She yanked the witch out of the driver’s seat, exchanged low words with it that Dean couldn’t hear, and—when she obviously heard something she didn’t want to, Her whole body tensing—drove Her knife right into the son of a bitches heart.

She’d gotten five.

With just a fucking knife, She’d ganked five of the witches.

Dean’s brain was a little numb. She brushed past him as She returned to the house—they had a lot of cleanup to do—and his whole body felt like it was being dunked under water. Clear, clean water that was being cast in sunlight, and shit, She’d looked hot covered in blood, and even the metallic smell of it couldn’t stop the fruit from breaking through and getting Dean a little high-

“We can give you a ride,” Sam said, and Dean blinked. The idiot was talking to Her. “Since your car is wrecked.”

She just blinked at him. “A ride?”

“Yeah.” Sammy shrugged. He found a new way to get punched every day. “You and Jo can get cleaned up, grab your stuff from the motel, and you can head out of town with us. It’ll be faster than finding another car.”

She nodded.

She just nodded. Like it was nothing.

Dean was pretty damn certain She was just tired. Her shoulders were slumped, the heavy thing was back in Her eyes, and when they stopped at the motel Jo was half guiding her to the room.

They were friends. They were whispering to each other as they moved, and had been the whole ride, and when they returned to the car She gave Jo a look that Jo understood, and Jo moved something around in the trunk. 

It couldn’t mean anything good.

Not when Her eyes started to droop halfway back to the Roadhouse, and when She fell asleep it was against Jo. 

And Jo’s head dropped on Her’s, and now they were both fucking sleeping. Peacefully. They looked like they belonged in one of those chick flicks about girlhood, and somehow all Dean could think about was when She’d fallen asleep against him. When She’d hunted with him, and whispered with him, and they’d been friends. 

He wished he could think about it with distaste rather than longing. Wished his brain could stop trying to work out what he needed to get that back. Wished Sammy could just stop being fucking nice and offering to help people, so Dean could at least try to properly forget about Her.

But now he was stuck with Her in the car, drowning in the smell of fruit and repeating to himself that it didn’t matter.

He didn’t matter to Her.

He couldn’t matter to Her.

So he had to pretend She didn’t matter to him.

Sam tried to get Dean to stop for sleep again. Muttered that She and Jo were already passed out, and Dean wasn’t doing them any favors driving with a clouded head.

Sam could shove it up his ass.

They pulled into the Roadhouse around 3am, and Sam twisted in his seat, nudging Jo awake before helping her out of the car. He didn’t try to make Dean follow him, to face Ellen’s wrath at his side.

He left Dean to just stare at Her, like a fucking creep.

She was gorgeous. She’d always been gorgeous, and enchanting, and almost heavenly. She certainly was here, with the soft golden light of the streetlamps making Her skin glow and shadows casting over Her face in all the right ways. There was a little hair in Her face that Dean wanted to brush away, and that goddamn wrinkle was back, and She was shifting like something was making her uncomfortable, and Dean wanted to reach out and hold Her-

He couldn’t want to hold Her. She didn’t want him. She’d stopped fighting him, and Dean felt like an ass every time he pushed and snarled and She just gave him a look of exhaustion, but She’d just fucking left him. She’d said She didn’t hate him, and then she left. Fucking told Bobby She was sick, when She was obviously fine.

For a brief moment, Dean got a sickening feeling that Bobby had known She wasn’t sick, and had lied to them about it for Her, but he also didn’t hold that against Bobby.

She was the one who was a twisted sort of ethereal, and Dean understood that Bobby’s allegiance was to Her first, just as Dean’s had been to Dad-

Dad.

Dean really tried not to think about Dad that much. About how much he’d hate how useless and pathetic Dean had become. How he’d snap that Dean shouldn’t have put the burden of his life on Sammy, how now Sam was gonna have to live with the guilt of Dean’s death for the rest of his life.

It wouldn’t matter that Dad had done the same thing for him. Dean wasn’t Sam. 

He didn’t matter. 

None of this fucking mattered.

And it had, briefly and blindingly, mattered with Her. Dean had felt like he could’ve mattered with Her, and then she left, and he never wanted to forgive Her for that. 

But when Her eyes shot open and she sat up with a start, Dean couldn’t stop his hands from flexing to reach for Her. Couldn’t stop his chest from feeling cold, like there was something missing that was supposed to be molded into him, and his skin was aching and sore without it.

He was pathetic. Weak. Everything Dad had taught him not to be, doubled and amplified by the woman curling into herself and taking heavy breaths in the backseat.

Dean tried to ignore Her. 

He’d never been good at that.

“Did I fall asleep?” She whispered—Her voice oddly soft—and Dean grunted.

“Obviously, Princess.”

He couldn’t be trusted to be alone with Her. When he was, he’d fall down into Her, and the nickname he’d been biting down all day would slip past his tongue. It didn’t help that She was looking at him. That he could feel Her blinding attention on him, even as he forced his gaze onto the empty dirt lot ahead of him.

“When?” 

“Around Nebraska.”

“Oh.” Her voice was still too soft, and there was a pause before She spoke again. “Where are-“

“Inside.” He muttered. “Sammy’s dropping Jo off, then we’re bringing you-“

“You can just leave me here.”

Dean scowled. “That eager to get away from us, sweetheart?”

She didn’t answer. And when Dean’s will caved—weakened and whining from Her silence—and he glanced in the rearview mirror, She was staring at her hands. 

“Stop doing that.” 

She frowned up at him. “I’m not-“

“Yeah, you are. Stop it.”

“You’re not my boss, Winchester-“

“I don’t fucking care, Princess.” There it was again. He needed to get a grip. “Stop it.”

She scowled, but sat on Her hands—as if that was the only possible way to stop herself from picking Her skin bloody—and wrinkled Her nose at Dean.

“Happy?”

He rolled his eyes, dropping his voice under his breath. “You have no idea.”

She blinked, opening Her mouth with a pouting frown, and Dean was saved from whatever she was about to say by Sam’s return.

“Ellen’s not happy with us.” Sammy slid back into his seat, glancing back to Her. “Or you. She made me give her your number, she, uh, has words for you.”

She just shrugged, sinking a little further in Her seat. “She can get in line.”

Dean frowned, ready to ask what the hell that meant, but Sam was faster.

“Good luck, then. Are you sticking around?”

She gave Sam a look of confusion that must have matched Dean’s. What the fuck was the big dumbass talking about-

“Sticking around?” Her voice was a whisper, and She gave Dean a nervous look he didn’t miss. “I- I don’t-“

“We’re working a big demon case,” Sam said, and Dean was going to slam his head into the dirt if that was where he was going- “Have you heard of Lilith?”

She frowned. “First demon?”

“Yeah, uh, exactly.” Sam blinked at Her. “How much do you know about the Devil’s Gate-“

“I haven’t exactly been keeping up with hunter news.” Her voice was flat as She cut Sam off, and she’d started to rock back and forth on her hands. It was a little distracting. “And Bobby hasn’t told me anything of what you’re up to-“

Dean frowned. He hadn’t expected that. “I thought you knew everything, sweetheart-“

“I’m smart, Winchester, not omniscient.” Her voice wasn’t as angry as Dean wanted it to be. She mostly just sounded tired. “I’ve been busy.”

“Are you still busy?”

“Sammy-“

“She could help, Dean.” Sam gave him a firm look, his brows raised. “Just with Lilith.”

She frowned. “You’re hunting Lilith?”

Sam nodded. “It’s an odd case. We could use some help.”

Dean didn’t know what the hell Sam was doing. If She stuck around, it would be so much fucking harder to work on getting Dean out of his contract, and She said she’d been busy, and She might be a fanatic damn hunter but Dean couldn’t have Her around or he’d lose his fucking mind with need, and She obviously didn’t even want to-

“You- You really killed Azazel?”

Her voice was so fucking soft. Dean didn’t understand why She was so caught on that, or why when Sam nodded, Her body seemed to melt into the seat.

“Yeah. Alright.” She glanced out the window—to the shadows around the Roadhouse—and in this life She really did look like a fallen star. So perfectly fit in Baby’s back seat, drawing Dean back down into Her like she’d never even left.

But She had.

And when She looked back to Sam and Dean, Her chin slightly raised, the world did that odd stutter again, and something to the left of Dean’s heart clenched. 

“What are we doing next?”

The thing near Dean’s heart burst. Exploded into a million fucking pieces and fused back together in a split second, and suddenly the world was colorful in a way he hadn’t realized it had been dulled. 

Sam started to talk about how they’d been tracking Lilith, and Dean’s eyes locked with Her’s one last time.

She became more blinding every time he looked. He fell further every time She returned his gaze.

He had six months.

And this was going to fucking suck.

End Note: On god I will make these women three dimensional and likable characters who have personality outside of Dean. Eric Kripke I am in your walls.

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

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[bwobgames]

On the ever-bustling capital

The station awakes

The last time he’d been in the capital it was spring, for a wedding. He remembers sitting by the fan until night came.

And yet, even with such inscrutable proof, he still decided that it was a good idea to come back in summer.

Like some sort of forgetful fool.

Hm- actually, no. Just a fool. He doesn’t like that other word.

He is detective Oliver Beebo and he has solved the mystery of the overheating city.

The answer is global warming and corporate greed. Money now, please.

"Take my hand, alright? Let’s not get lost here"

It’s not that big of a place, but who is he to judge. Guess he’ll have to hold hands with his very hot boyfriend! Hot in multiple ways. He might be used to it, but the heat affects him too.

It must have. he can’t be the only one dying here! With Ángel as the sole survivor! That'd be too cliche now!

Hopefully everyone is fine as well.

Okay. Never mind. Ángel was right. This place is massive.

And absolutely full of people! Are they synthetizing humans here or what? How is it possible to have this many people around every day!

It’s… almost a bit too much. It’s slowly becoming too much. It’s really starting to be too much.

“Ángel. Um.”

“Let’s not enter yet, yeah? We are the first ones here, and the train is not moving anytime soon”

Ah, yes. The train. His salvation from hell city.

He heard there was going to be a free showing of multiple museums, so, like an easily amused fool, he asked Ángel to do a quick visit to the capital.

It was hot.

Usually, his dreams are filled with snow, but the heat won’t leave him even in sleepy land.

Small miracles, he guesses.

And even more miraculously, the Margulis were also sick of the heat, and decided to get a trip to the south as vacation. So why not get the gang back together and hitch a ride back home!

Of course, because they are not normal people who travel by an overnight bus, they simply must try out the new train.

Something about vintage realistic experience from when the country was filled with trains.

Well, he can’t complain much. Trains are awesome.

“Alright, just checked the groupchat. Vivi says she’s gonna be here soon, Marigold says they are leaving the house as we speak, and Nadia told me to die. So, everything seems to be going well!”

“Why is everything here so overpriced. Why was there a shopping mall inside there. When does summer ends.”

“Ahaha, that’s the shark mindset, my beloved. A place with so much people traffic? An opportunity like no other. Reminds me of the good old days, when I was evil and had money”

“You barely did anything economy wise. And you still get money from branding”

“Haha, that’s true!”

“Speaking of overpriced evil things, Let’s go get a snack! The train has bathrooms, so we have nothing to worry about”

“… Inside? In the torment nexus? With the many people and smells and lights?”

“Ah, we don’t have to if you don’t want to! We can wait until the train opens! I wasn’t that hungry anyways.”

Ángel’s tummy rumbles

“Ignore that. My demons.”

“You can go. I’ll wait here”

“.......”

“Really! I’ll be fine! Look! I’m no longer a noddle arms boy anymore! Your workout thing worked! So…”

“This place is dangerous.”

“I know my way around the common mugger”

“No, these guys are even more dangerous! They’d kill for nothing more than your phone! A-And the luggage is-!”

“Ángel.”

“I’ll be alright. You trust me, right?”

“I do... But it’s the other people that-!”

“Then you trust all the years of detective work that I’ve managed to survive. Assassins and Houses included”

“.......”

“...Fine. Fine, I get it. Just... If anyone tries to rob you, just give them everything, okay? Your phone, your shoes, whatever! I’ll buy you anything, so don’t try to fight back, yeah?”

“And don’t wander off! Stay in this street, okay? If you get lost just search for the giant awful clock. Without breaking it this time. I can buy you phones, but I’d really rather not pay another clock you ‘accidentally’ broke”

“It had it coming”

“And try to be close to people alright? Don’t wander off where there’s no people!”

“I’ll stay right here!”

“...Oliver.”

“Yeah, okay, I won’t. But I can always call you, yeah?”

“Yeah… Yeah. You can. It’s going to be fine.”

“I want a muffin and juice, please”

“Protect your luggage. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Be safe, don’t even dare not be safe”

“byebyebyebyebyebyeeee love you!”

“Love you!”

One of the few positive traits of the capital is the wide acceptance of homosexuality.

Now, where to?

NEXT ->

[fishnapple]

Relationship Green flags/ Red flags

This list was a part of another post but I want to make a separated one for it, to serve as a reminder, for myself, and for anyone who needs it. I will update the list if I think of anything more to add.

Green flags

When the couple is also best friends with each other

When they're genuinely curious about each other

When two people walk side by side, not one in front and one behind

They protect each other in front of other people no matter how wrong the other person is (not counting abuse or other legal crimes), but still be able to see the wrong doings clearly.

When both partners put the other's well-being at the top of their priority list

When the first person comes to your mind when you want to share something good or bad is them

When there's a spark in the eyes when they look at the other person

Listen attentively when the other is talking

Ask how you feel

When both can feel comfortable being honest (able to voice their concerns, worries, fears, hidden dreams, aspirations etc.)

Encourage and support each other towards betterment

Celebrate each other's happiness

Keeping their words

Willingness in solving problems

When both are willing to compromise and work together/to face the ugly sides of the relationship or of the self and the other person/ to communicate/ to learn

When both are proactive in the relationship, taking turn to suggest fun things to do, where to go, what to eat etc

All kinds of virtues like honesty, patience, kindness, loyalty, respect, etc. (not just towards you only, but to others in general also)

Love children

Love animal

Consistency: putting in a consistent effort, not being wishy-washy

Fun & humour

Feeling safe in each other's presence

Respect for boundaries and consent

Emotional compatibility

The feeling of being at ease with each other & trust (you can have all the above but without these two feelings, it's kind of meaningless)

and many more.

Red flags

When one is talking and the other is looking elsewhere

When one is in front while the other is behind

Being judgmental and opinionated, about all kinds of topics

Criticising the other person's taste, hobbies, habits constantly. Especially in front of other people.

Calling names (not the cute endearments)

Cruelty & Violence of any kind (obviously)

Silent treatment (refusing to communicate)

Inconsistency

Being avoidant, ghosting (at this point it's not a red flag, it's an ending)

Empty promises. NATO (No Action - Talk Only)

Condescending

Tell you what you're feeling

Unwillingness to compromise/ to understand, unequal effort, one-sided conversations

Lack of care for the well-being of the other person

Lack of appreciation for the other person's achievements and success

When you're low on their priority list ("I will have time for you after I'm done with this or that, after I met with my friends and other important people in my life")

Feeling like you have to tip toe around the other person

Feeling like you have to do something to get the other's attention

Asking the other person for permission to do something like buying something, meeting someone, going somewhere (I'm not talking about getting consent to do something with each other or getting something related to the other person, it's about decisions that normally one can make independently for oneself)

Jealousy & possessiveness (the idea can seem attractive on paper but the reality is usually not)

Demanding to know every secret, every password, getting access to every personal space of the other person

Lack of respect for boundaries and consent

Passivity (waiting for the other to initiate, never initiate anything)

"Why are you doing this to me?", victim mindset, constant blaming

Dating someone while thinking that person is not attractive or up to one's level or vice versa, thinking that person is way above one's level (the idea of "level" is damaging, both ways of thinking can bring illusions, unrealistic expectations and power imbalance)

Lack a healthy sense of self

and many more.

[amusedatreus]

Lips of an Angel

You and Sevika had grown too close for her comfort. You leave and then make the first call to her months later.

Smoke rose from Sevikas lips as she exhaled a deep sign following a drag from her cigarette. The weight in her chest sunk deeper and deeper as she looked out at the night sky. A longing for connection. The same connection she had cut off just a few months prior. Now she had one-night stands with any broad willing to come home with her. The short sex with no meaning. Sevika, holding a woman whose name she has refused to remember. Laying still until a soft snore can be heard so she can get up and sit on the balcony of her apartment looking at the vast nothingness above her.

A vibration in her pocket stopped her thoughts. You. It’s as if Sevika had suddenly lost all of her hearing. Memories flooded her brain. The love. The happiness. The fights. She answered. 

“Honey, why you calling me so late?” Sevika whispered. A rustling coming from the room attached to the patio reminded Sevika that she wasn’t alone. Soft cries coming from the other end of the phone gained her attention. Sevikas eyes widened at the sound. “Honey, why you crying, is everything okay?” 

“Sevika, I miss you.” You hadn’t called since the big fight. Months of hearing nothing made Sevika think you had moved on. Maybe even forgotten about her. The agony of not knowing where you had gone, or who you were staying with.

“It’s really good to hear your voice, saying my name.” Sevika took a breath. A teardrop falling from her chin onto her flesh hand. She hadn’t even noticed she was crying. A rare occasion that Sevika would cry, but it always surprised her when it happened.  “I guess we never really moved on.” A joking tone in the older womens voice. 

A tone shifted. “Moved on? How could I have? I gave every piece of me to you, and yet it wasn’t enough to be in a serious relationship with you.” You took a breath. “I can’t stop dreaming of you. Of you holding me, kissing me. The way you’d wrap your arms around me when we slept. How you’d come home late at night and carry me from the couch to the bed. The way we’d wake up and just stare into each other's eyes for as long as we could without even speaking. I dream of us every night. It haunts me.” When your tangent was done you realize it was your turn to hear sobbing on the opposite line. 

Sevika openly sobbing was a vulnerable thing. Something that you had only witnessed once before. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Was being repeated over and over again. Sevika had shut you out before this moment. She realised that her work was dangerous and tensions were high.

She made it very clear to you that she didn’t want you staying over anymore. So that was the first step, you collected your things and went back to renting a room with your friends. She then started to ignore you when you approached her at The Last Drop. You remember it so clearly. “Just back off.” The words stung as if she had just slapped you across your face. 

The two of you had never disclosed a title to your odd relationship, but domestic it was. Was that what had scared Sevika off? The way you wash her clothes, the way you clean the house and cook her dinner every night. Was Sevika so uncomfortable with the thought of somebody caring so much that it made her shut out the only person in the world she cared about? 

A shaky breath filled the short silence. “Come to me. Tomorrow. I need to see you.” Sevika said.

“Okay.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sooooo this is the first thing I have written in literal years. It's a bit (allot) shaky, but I kept listening to this song and thinking of Sevika!!! If you've read this far THANK YOU and I hope you enjoyed this little blurb I've made. K BYE <3

[andre-and-cal]

hii!! if u dont mind, could u do some submissive cal hcs pls? :3

Of course !! :D

Bottom Submissive Cal

Before Calvin and Andre had sex for the first time, Cal hadn’t really been fond of the prospect of taking it up the ass, even though he and Andre would be the only ones to know. Well— Cal didn’t really mind it necessarily, yet he did at the same time, if that makes sense. Essentially, Cal knew that at some point he’d have to let Andre see him, let him touch him and all— but he honestly kept putting it off. Kept brushing off Andre’s advances every time the other teen put his hand on his ass or inner leg. Later, Andre was initially kind of apprehensive to take Cal’s virginity, not wanting to accidentally hurt him, even though Cal insisted that he going to be fine.

When Andre jerks him off, the teen rubs his thumb over the slit on the tip of his dick, either mumbling out a soft, “You like that, Cal? You’re so fuckin’ wet… yeah, fuck, look at you,” or a hissing out a rough, “You’re such a messy little bastard. Why d’you cum so fucking easily? Horny bitch,”— Calvin’s fair-skinned cheeks redden at his observable taunts, and his groans become strained and animalistic; he sounds like some animal whining. Calvin enjoys it when Andre manhandles him, when he treats him like he’s lesser than, and his cock certainly does, too. Because he knows he’s at the same level as Andre— but feeling so… inferior compared to the older teen, at times, turns him on.

Cal and Andre have fucked before falling asleep before. They were in Cal’s bed, and Andre had gotten a bit of a “stiffy” after he and Cal were messing around and wrestling. Cal jokingly calling him “lieutenant” really made his cock twitch in his shorts. When they were doing missionary, he had to pat Cal’s cheek to remind him to be silent, and he clasped a hand over Cal’s mouth and forced him to be quiet, whispering a sharp, “Shhhh… c’mon, Cal, shut up. You’re getting too loud. C’mon now— do you want them to hear or some shit?”,, and needless to say, Cal shut his mouth. Eventually, they had to shift positions, with Cal on his hands and knees for Andre and Andre fucking into him slowly— yet his asshole still ended up all puffy and red after. It was better this way, with Cal whimpering into his pillows, getting drool all over the fabric. Andre ended up falling asleep on him, his shaft slipping out of his ass.

Cal has sensitive skin and gets rashes easily, so even the most minor scratches and lacerations result in his skin getting puffy and inflamed for a little while— only really for the rest of that day, though. Penetration to his asshole results in the rim getting swollen and red… Andre likes that. He feels like he owns him, like they own each other, and he knows Cal feels similarly because he hasn’t asked Andre to be gentler with his thrusts. When Calvin cuts himself, Andre gets easily aroused while watching the region encircling the thin, bloodied line extending across his wrist or thigh bulging and shifting into a light shade of pink. Sometimes he wonders if Cal has allergies.

Andre uses a lot of rhetorical questions to get Cal flustered. He kind of can tell what Cal’s body language entails when it comes to their intimacy. If he’s being shy, Andre knows he wants it. Cal isn’t shy around Andre anymore. He knows how much of a psycho he really is. If he’s being forward, Andre definitely knows he wants it. Andre doesn’t want them to get caught, either, even though the thrill of doing something kinda risky is appealing. But Cal and Andre will never risk fooling around in public places. Their bedrooms, the woods sometimes, and Andre’s car are one thing, but anywhere else is a no-go— unless they know the area is secluded, like the school bathrooms. They gain thrills from other activities, such as self-harming.

Cal easily cums in his boxers when he and Andre are dry humping or when he holds a gun up to his head. Because Calvin isn’t really afraid of dying anymore or of the prospect of the trigger somehow going off; he never has— he only remembers that fear from when he was younger. But it wasn’t necessarily a fear. It was just a sense of dread toward losing control of himself and his life, his living self. Now that he’s older and getting ready for Zero Day with Andre, he’s accepted the knowledge that he is going to die. The kindest way to go out is to go out with his boy, and he’s fully prepared to see what’s on the other side with the other teen.

[grimestime27]

Find Me (Part Two)

Tag list: @spookygothmommy @clairealeehelsing @itsjustmeandmyanxiety @remuslupinscumslutt @ineffable-husbands-my-dads

Rating: MATURE

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, sex, blood, injuries, violence, etc.

Pairing: Daryl x reader

Aaron immediately glanced at you, as if he was asking for your permission or denial. You sighed heavily before bending down to Judith’s level. Aaron watched you closely.

“Jude, I can’t have you going out there. Uncle Daryl and I promised your mom we would keep you safe.”

“I will be safe.”, she confirmed, confidently. 

She reminded you so much of Rick it wasn’t funny. You attempted to hide the smirk about to cross your lips. She was growing up so fast—faster than any child should have to. But this was the world you all lived in now. All you could do for your children was be there for them and teach them how to survive. 

“Judith.”

“Please Aunt Y/N. I can do this.”

Aaron spoke up. “You know I will keep her safe.”

You turned to look back at Aaron, smiling sympathetically. A deep sigh escaped your chest, your mind trying to make a decision about what to do. 

“I know you would, Aaron.”

“But? I’m sensing a but here.”

Judith rocked back and forth on her feet, waiting for your answer. Now that Rick and Michonne were gone, you and Daryl had been calling the shots, almost playing parents. It was a situation you both never imagined yourselves in. But Daryl was amazing with Judith and RJ, making your heart swell. Maybe this is why it was so easy to let your guard down while having sex with Daryl.

You both felt comfortable and wanted some sort of a future. It was exciting and exhilarating to hear Daryl talk about wanting to put a baby in you. It gave you hope for what was to come next. There had to be something more in this world. Something more than the walkers, the killing, and loosing the people you loved. The people who had became your family. 

“I promised Rick and Michonne. Daryl and I both did.”

“You know I would never let anything happen, Y/Nickname.”

You sighed. “The only way Judith’s going is if I go too.”

“You can’t Aunt Y/N.”, Judith interjected.

“You’re pregnant.”, Aaron agreed.

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms. “Listen, I’m pregnant not crippled. Besides I didn’t know I was pregnant before this morning—I mean, I had my inkling but Daryl and I just went on a run a couple days ago.”

Aaron’s eyes widened lightly. “No, that’s not what I meant—just Daryl would kill me if anything happened to you or Judith—or your baby.”, his eyes moved down to your flat stomach. 

“It’s not going to. The only way I let Judith go is if I go too.”, you finally relented. 

“Fine.”, Aaron finally agreed. “But we’re all coming back alive.”

“Judith, get your gun and let’s go.”

Judith smiled brightly like a kid who had just begged their mom for a juvenile thing like a toy, finally getting them to agree. You’d never imagined life was going to be this way. Judith hurried up the stairs, taking two at a time. Aaron watched her, giving you a soft smile. 

“Imagine it, soon you’re going to have that. A child of your own.”

You smiled back at Aaron. “I sure hope so.”

Aaron patted your shoulder. “You will.”

You smiled softly. 

______________________________________________________________

Daryl had secretly observed Alpha and three of her followers. They were leading part of the horde from another entrance to the cave. Daryl decided once they arrived at the river, he would attack them. If there was one thing about Daryl, he was a very good tracker. In the beginning, he had attempted to help Carol find her daughter, Sophia but to no avail. He had found her doll, but no one could have imagined she was in the barn on Hershel’s farm. 

It was time. Daryl was going in for the kill. Moving quickly and swiftly, Daryl stabbed a Whisperer in the leg with a knife. He screamed out in pain, causing a walker to find him and begin devouring him. Alpha then ordered the Whisperers to spread out. Daryl snuck up from behind and immediately killed the remaining Whisperers, leaving him to face Alpha. 

This wasn’t the first time Daryl had faced danger head on and it wouldn’t be the last. He just had one mission—make it home to you, Judith, and RJ. That’s what kept him going—thinking about the family he had left. His upbringing was difficult. Merle, his older brother, was the only person he had once everything happened. He lost his father and uncle early on when the world ended, leaving him and Merle to survive alone once again.

Merle was the type of brother who would bully Daryl but if anyone ever tried to hurt Daryl, he’d damn near kill them. That’s what made it so difficult when Merle ended up with the Governor. Daryl had a moral compass even if his asshole brother didn’t. But that didn’t make it hurt any less when Daryl found him as a walker and had to put him down. Daryl shook his head, trying to forget it and focusing on the here and now.

But he didn’t have much time to think before Alpha began fighting him, eventually getting the one up on him when she sliced his face under the eyes. This affected his vision, causing it to become blurry with blood. Daryl, still very determined, grabbed a tree branch and thrusted it into her shoulder, demanding Connie and Magna’s whereabouts. Alpha didn’t give him an answer, only taunting him. 

Their fight began to draw the attention of nearby walkers, forcing Daryl to take them out with his blurred vision. Part of Daryl began panicking as he swung blindly, trying to either get Alpha or any of the walkers that threatened him. He tried to focus on you. He needed to come home to you. All he could see was glimpses of Alpha and the walkers. Before his brain could think further, he felt something sharp stab into his leg, causing him to collapse. 

That fucking bitch—she had stabbed him. He grunted in pain, feeling down his leg with his hand. He felt the handle of the knife but he knew better than to jerk it out. Not right now, anyway. Basic survival skills. 

“Fuck.”, he breathed through the pain as he fled the scene, almost stumbling. 

He had to make it out alive. He had to make it home to you, one way or another. He had to keep going. Somehow, he stumbled upon an abandoned gas station where he decided to take refuge. All was well until he heard footsteps stumbling around which he figured was Alpha’s. She had followed him. Or maybe she just took a lucky guess where he was hiding. Daryl was breathing hard, clearly in pain. 

He grabbed a tool, trying to keep his breathing in check. He didn’t want Alpha to hear him even if she had a feeling he was there. Blood streaked down Daryl’s neck. How grave were his injuries? He was worried about it but he couldn’t let on like he was. His hearing felt like it was super sonic, he heard Alpha sit down, probably exhausted from earlier. He knew in that moment she knew he was there. 

His worst fear came true. Alpha began banging her shotgun against the side of the building in an attempt to attract walkers nearby. She would be saved considering she was wearing that ugly mask. Daryl’s heart began racing and he knew he was in danger. Blood adorned his wedding band but that was his reminder that he needed to come home to you and the kids. He had to get through this. He just had to make it back home to you all. 

____________________________________________________________

Aaron made sure to put himself in the front. Judith walked beside you, keeping a close eye on you. You had a knife and gun, but hoped you wouldn’t have to waste any ammo. The ground crunched softly under your all’s steps, but you were careful to keep noise to a minimum. Unless you knew that there was no imminent threat, most trips were done in silence. 

Back in Alexandria, Mary, another one of the Whisperers stood before a map and told everything she knew about the cave and its entrances. She also explained that most of Alpha’s forces were situated around the cave, meaning the borders were defenseless. Gabriel proposed that they send two rescue teams much to Rosita’s dismay. Gabriel and Rosita didn’t want you and Aaron to go look for Daryl but their protests would have fallen on deaf ears. Rosita couldn’t blame you for wanting to find Daryl. She would feel the same if it was Gabriel. 

“Feeling okay?”, Aaron asked softly.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Aaron rolled his eyes playfully. “You’re pregnant. You’re worried about Daryl. It would be understandable if you were worried.”

You rolled your eyes in response, crossing your arms lightly. “I’m pregnant, yes. And yes, I am worried about my husband. But I’m going to be fine.”

“If you feel sick or need a break, let us know. We’ll find shelter.”

You nodded. You had felt nauseous earlier that morning, but thankfully it had subsided. There were a few symptoms you had that prompted you to take a test. Feeling nauseous early in the mornings, having certain food aversions which was unlike you (and something you probably shouldn’t be during the apocalypse was picky), your breasts were sore, fatigue. But then there was the real kicker—the missed period. 

If anyone needed to know if having a period during the zombie apocalypse was a bitch, it indeed was. You could confirm that. Nature didn’t stop just because life had changed. Daryl always did his best to make you feel better during them whether it was scavenging and finding your favorite candy or just bringing you some supplies if he found them. You truly couldn’t ask for a better man—a better husband than Daryl Dixon.

Continuing on your way, you all kept going until darkness fell. Aaron found you all a safe place to stay for the night, telling you he’d take first watch so you and Judith could rest. You argued with him that you could help keep watch but he reminded you that you needed extra rest. That’s part of the reason why you held off telling anyone—you didn’t want to be viewed as weak or a liability just because you were pregnant. You were still a badass and you’d continue to prove that. 

Aaron was only looking out of your best interest. You were part of his family after all. He had brought your entire group to Alexandria. For that, you could never thank him enough. Your group finally knew some peace, giving you all a chance to lead a semi-normal life. Even if it was for a short time, thanks to Negan and his antics. He was no longer a threat—only the Whisperers. 

Holding Judith close, you closed your eyes and tried to get some rest. 

“I love you Aunt Y/N.”

“I love you too, Jude.”

“What do you think the baby will be? A girl or boy?”

“I’m not sure.”, you laughed. “We’ll just have to see.”

If only you all knew what was about to happen in Alexandria. There would be no sleeping. Beta was coming to Alexandria. 

____________________________________________________________

As Daryl tried to get his wits about him, three walkers were lured to the gas station. Quickly, Daryl began kicking a fire extinguisher to get it free. Using it as a weapon, he managed to take out two of the walkers. If this whole scenario wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, the third walker that Daryl was unable to take out was coming for him.  

Daryl was weak, already struggling. The walker fell on top of him, a struggle Daryl had encountered before. His adrenaline was sky high, giving him strength to fight it off and hold it at an arms length to keep it from biting him. If he got bitten, it was over. How would you know what happened to him? You could deduce your own theories, but he wasn’t going to let that happen. He was coming home to you, his wife. 

Without another thought, Daryl knew what he had to do. He grabbed the handle of the knife, bracing himself. As he cried out in pain, he jerked the knife out of his leg. Blood began to squirt everywhere, but he didn’t have time to think about that. He quickly stabbed the walker in the head, killing it. Once that fire was put out, his attention was brought back to his leg that was squirting blood at an alarming rate. The knife had to have hit an artery. 

Daryl was panicking, quickly placing his hand over his leg through his muffled cries of pain. Fuck, he was bleeding out. He couldn’t bleed out—he had to make it home to you. He could hear the blood squirting through his fingers and his chest heaved, adrenaline coursing through him. He laid down, trying to pull himself together. How was he going to make it out of this? 

[zaddizu]

finding comfort in the k͟n͟o͟w͟n͟ denies you the pleasure of the u͟n͟k͟n͟o͟w͟n͟.༄.°

something i see in the shifting community - typically in newer/baby shifters - is the fear of the unknown. the out of the ordinary. in this case, the out of the ordinary is shifting.

its not your usual routine, your usual practices you have grown so used to. so, when it comes to the act of actually shifting; you freeze. you tense. you panic, overthinking every little scenario. "what if i cant shift back?, what if i shift to the wrong reality? what if they all find out i'm a shifter and hand me over to the shifting police, never to be seen again?"

the fear holds you back, it hinders you. thats okay, everyone has that. but stop doubting yourself. no one will kidnap you, you wont die, you wont go into some coma. things only happen if you intend them to. yes, i know, it always circles back to that, doesn't it? its on every shifting blog. but its true. and thats why i restate it over, and over, and over again.

stuff only happens with intent.

if you intend to shift your consciousness to another reality, it will, because thats what you intend to do. your intent is not your thoughts. your thoughts can talk shit, but you can do a method with the intent to shift your consciousness and shift with those thoughts of denial. intent in particular is the little thing in the back of your mind you don't notice until you're reminded of it.

think of it like this; you intend to get a bubble tea. a brown sugar one with extra tapioca. you get up, put your shoes on, and leave the house to walk to the shops. see, if you didn't intend to go to the shops for a drink, you wouldn't get up, would you? because you didn't want it in the first place. you got up with purpose, you walked there, you got your tea. you didn't think of it in particular, you craved it and got it.

if you had no purpose to get that particular drink, you would've been left there, aimlessly walking for hours. maybe you stumbled across the shop and thought about it, looked at the menu, thought it was appetising, planned your order, but never acted on it because you were too scared of all the posibilities. what if you didn't like it? then you'd be disappointed. maybe they ran out of all the bubble tea? theres the shop across the road, but theres no point of going there because they could be out too. of course, you don't know that, but now you're scared of asking and getting denied again.

why deny yourself other wordly opportunities simply because of a "what if?" you haven't gotten to step 2, why are you worrying about step 5?

★ sorry if this dragged on a bit and didn't make sense, i think i talked about bubble tea for too long and lost track of what i was saying.

[prettyangellllll]

Just for Tonight

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: Rafe has always had an obsession with control—especially when it comes to you. When he sees a dress he likes, he doesn’t just ask you to wear it. He buys it, demands you put it on, and then makes sure you won’t be wearing it for long. He never needed an occasion to spoil you, but tonight, there’s only one reason for his gift—to tear it off of you.

Warnings: possessiveness, dominance, slight manhandling, dirty talk, minor degradation, jealousy, praise kink, and general toxicity.

----

The silk feels cool against your skin as you examine yourself in the mirror, twisting from side to side to take in the way the dress clings to your curves. It’s gorgeous—deep red, thin straps, a slit high up your thigh. Expensive as hell, and most importantly, hand-picked by Rafe. He hadn’t even asked if you wanted it. Just showed up at your door, threw the bag at you, and told you to put it on.

And you had. Because you liked playing his game.

“You just had to get me this, huh?” You smirk, running your hands down your body. “What, you like playing dress-up with me now?”

Rafe leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, gaze dark. He looks like he’s already won, and you hate that it thrills you. “I didn’t buy it for you to admire yourself in the mirror.”

Your smirk widens as you turn toward him. “Oh, I know why you bought it.” You step closer, tilting your head. “But you’re forgetting something.”

He raises a brow. “Yeah?”

You hum, trailing a finger along his chest. “I look damn good in it.”

Rafe lets out a low chuckle, but his hands are already on you, large palms gripping your waist, fingertips digging into your hips like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. “Yeah, you do,” he murmurs, voice dropping, rough and possessive. “Which is exactly why I can’t have anyone else seeing you in it.”

You scoff. “Jealous, Cameron?”

His grip tightens. “Not jealous.” His lips brush against your ear, his breath warm. “Just greedy.”

Before you can respond, Rafe is already on you, his mouth claiming yours in a way that leaves no room for argument. His fingers skim up your spine, finding the zipper and tugging it down with practiced ease. The dress slackens against your body, but he doesn’t let it fall just yet.

“Bet you thought you were so fucking cute,” he murmurs against your lips, tugging the fabric at your shoulders. “Strutting around in this little thing, knowing exactly what it’d do to me.”

You smirk into the kiss. “I always know what I do to you.”

His laugh is low, almost dangerous. “Cocky little thing.” He takes a step forward, forcing you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. “Guess I’ll just have to remind you who’s in charge, huh?”

You don’t get the chance to respond before he yanks the dress down, the silk pooling at your feet in a whisper of fabric. His hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, trailing up your stomach, wrapping around your throat with just enough pressure to make you shiver.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

You smirk, but before you can retort, Rafe pushes you down onto the mattress, crawling over you with a hunger that sends heat straight to your core. He’s on you in seconds, lips tracing a hot, open-mouthed path down your neck, his hands mapping out your body like it’s the first time he’s touched you.

His lips find your collarbone, sucking and biting just enough to leave a mark, just enough to let you know you’re his. You arch into him as his hands slide lower, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thighs before parting them, dragging you closer.

“Mine,” he growls, pushing a knee between your legs, letting you feel how hard he is through his jeans. “You know that, right?”

You tilt your chin up defiantly, even as your breath stutters. “What if I don’t?”

Rafe grins—dark, dangerous. “Guess I’ll just have to make you remember.”

His mouth crashes against yours again, all tongue and teeth, swallowing the little gasps you let slip as his hands roam your body. He’s not gentle. He never is. But fuck, you love it. Love the way he grabs at you like he’ll die if he’s not touching you, the way he presses himself against you, grinding against your heat with a desperation that makes your head spin.

You barely register the sound of fabric tearing before you feel the cool air against your now-exposed skin. Rafe’s grin is pure sin as he tosses the ruined underwear aside, hands already reaching for his belt. “Told you,” he murmurs, voice thick with want. “Didn’t buy the dress so you could keep it on.”

His jeans hit the floor, and then he’s on you again, his body pressing you down into the mattress, his mouth claiming every inch of exposed skin. You gasp as his fingers slide between your thighs, teasing, taunting, pushing you closer and closer to the edge with every slow, deliberate movement.

“Rafe—”

“Say it,” he demands, voice rough, low, dangerous. “Say you’re mine.”

You bite your lip, eyes locked on his as he presses his fingers deeper, pushing you right to the brink. Your breath hitches, your body arching into him, and when you finally break, gasping his name, he’s right there to catch you, his mouth covering yours as he swallows every last sound.

And just like that, the dress is nothing more than a pile of silk on the floor, and you?

You’re his. Just like he wanted.

[sophieinwonderland]

I hate having to wonder if any space even slightly system-adjacent is safe for me. Not even as a self-proclaimed endo. As someone who doesn’t label their origin because I don’t feel like analyzing my entire life with a microscope for if I actually count as traumatized.

I joined a Moon Knight discord because I want to maybe talk about the character and don’t know any fans in real life. They have a role for systems. But I’m scared to take it. Searching the terms “endo” and “endogenic” only brought up negativity. I don’t want to be caught in syscourse if it gets brought up again. I still don’t understand how you can have read all the comics and have come out of it still anti-endo. But that’s another story.

I’m reminded of the time that I left a discord for The Brave Little Toaster because of a prominent anti-endo in it. We’re literally here to discuss cartoon sentient appliances. Why do you care if endos interact with you. I hate it.

I've been thinking about how to answer this for a while...

First, right off the bat, I will tell you that there are plenty of places that are open to all kinds of plurality if you look. But you do have to look, unfortunately. It's not going to be clear immediately where those places are going to be. Obviously, any plural server that is dedicated specifically to endogenic and mixed origin systems is probably going to be safe. But it's going to get more complicated as you venture out from there.

Once you do get out of there, you might have to make room for yourselves.

And that means asking yourself if it's worth it to fight for your place in the community. And knowing that you could very easily end up dogpiled and banned anyways if the community is against you.

Let's say that you were out in the server as pro-endo. What is the worst thing that could happen? Well, I guess it's that everyone gangs up on you and accuses you of faking. But if this happens, you can at least be prepared for it. And it will hopefully not be as bad if it's expected.

You could also respond by linking and quoting academic sources that discuss endogenic and non-disordered systems.

Eric Yarbrough's Transgender Mental Health is the most explicit source stating for a fact that you can be plural without trauma or a disorder. And it has the backing of being peer-reviewed and published by the American Psychiatric Association. You can also quote the boundaries with normality from the ICD-11, which make it clear that you can experience multiple distinct personality states without a disorder.

You can also point out how Moon Knight is himself a mixed origin system. I'm sure that could stir up some fun discussion.

You can work to educate people in that space, and maybe make them more accepting. And maybe you will fail anyways. That's part of the problem of taking any risk. But really, there isn't much risk for trying aside from people saying mean things to you.

I mean, sure, they could ban you. But you probably wouldn't have stayed in a space you didn't feel safe in regardless.

To be clear, I'm not saying this to pressure you into a confrontation you don't want to be in. It is totally valid to take care of your mental health first. If you don't want to be involved in syscourse, you shouldn't have to involve yourself in it. That is completely 100% fair.

I guess what I'm really getting at is that... It absolutely sucks that more spaces aren't just accepting by default... But there aren't going to be any spaces that are accepting without people who are willing to educate others. That absolutely doesn't have to be you. Again, nothing wrong with prioritizing yourself and your mental health. But it will have to be someone. If these spaces that hold bigoted views aren't even exposed to anyone with contrary opinions, they will never change. Because no one can possibly realize that they are wrong about something without education. Misinformation has never been corrected by silence.

Again, this is not me trying to get you to be the one to break the silence. I don't want it to come off that way. But I want to explain why there are a lot of servers with anti-endo views still today. In some cases, it is just irrational hate and bigotry. And these people will double down no matter what research they are presented with to the contrary. But in other cases, it is being misinformed. It is people whose only frame of reference for what endogenic systems are has come from anti-endos.

If you look at queer acceptance, it didn't just come out of nowhere. Queer people had to fight at every turn to achieve what they did. And the fight is still far from over. But if you look at virtually every place that is accepting of queer people today, it is that way because someone decided to fight for it. Because someone made an effort to educate and spread information. And doing this put themselves at risk. Not just risk of enduring mean words, but risk of being beaten or jailed for what they were, if not much worse.

These types of physical risks don't exist online. But it still holds true that if we want acceptance, we will have to put the work in. I wish that we could have been born in a century where someone else had already done all of this. Where systems of all kinds were already fully accepted. But sadly, we aren't there yet.

And that means that it will fall to us, to this community, to be an instrument of change that will let systems in the future be born into a world that we wish we had been born into.

[crevassier]

Ferdinand’s voice became more and more grating with each passing minute. It was baffling, really- they had never talked before in any meaningful way, and now suddenly the guy is butting heads with him out of the blue- to the point Sylvain couldn’t help but wonder if Dorothea was behind all of this. Both were Black Eagles after all, and he wouldn’t put it above her to use the same methods as any other girl hurt by his thorns. The urge to sic their friends and family on him just to try to get a glimpse of his misery and take it as a war spoil.

“Why do you want me to open up to you, anyway? So you can admonish me and tell me things I’ve been already told infinite times by now? I know you’re doing this out of worry for others rather than for myself, so nothing I tell you will satisfy your thirst for ‘the truth’.” Or perhaps Ferdinand was just that nosy, and that eager to barge into situations that do not call for him. With how the young man seemed obsessed with a noble’s posture, it wouldn’t be that unlikely.

Sylvain grit his teeth, his side-eye shifting into something closer to a full glare but not quite. Golden irises were framed by blazing yet aloof irritation, his eyelids oddly relaxed as his frown remained unshaken. “Only people who matter can see beyond this ‘impenetrable wall’ that you claim I have. The only validation I need comes from them and no one else, and especially not from you or a bunch of nameless girls.” The heir of Gautier leaned back, one elbow supported on the carriage’s window frame. 

Then, a laugh. Harsh, sharp and full of jagged edges as the smile resulting from it is one of mockery rather than joy. “Grandeur? Is that what you think it is? Doesn’t surprise me, with how obsessed you are with your image and status as a noble. I don’t care for grandeur, don’t compare me to yourself because I’m not interested in any of these things.”

At last, he turned to fully face Ferdinand- for the first true time in the night, and something in his demeanor took a turn. Flames gave way to ice burns, his stare’s edge becoming less like a sharp dagger and closer to the uneven, painfully blunt crooked blade of the Gautier’s relic. A reminder that behind all the varnish, all the honey smiles and strawberry-like freckles and curls of bronze, he was a son of Margrave Gautier. 

“You think I do this for fun, Ferdinand? Because I like it? Going around, messing with girls who don’t care about me, stomping my image and reputation into the dirt, watching while they look at me like I’m some hot catch that can take them into upper Faerghan society through marriage, like some get-rich-fast ticket? Just like how in Adrestia people run around desperate to get a crested wife or husband or child to enter high nobility? Do you think I like this? I don’t.”

“I hate this, Ferdinand. I hate them. All of them.” I want to make them suffer tenfold for putting me through this. "Just like your songstress friend, who does the very same thing, but gets away scot free because of her convenient situation. Liars know of one another's dirty tricks."

He then looked away, eyes fully fixated into the carriage’s window as an unexplainable mix of emotions coiled in his heart.

“It’s easier than to waste away on a battlefield, that’s for sure."

@nobilisseoblige

validation complex { Ferdinand & Sylvain

⁂ Cupido Bash | continued from here

[s0fter-sin]

i need ghoap frantically making out against a door finally taking the leap on their feelings. need ghost grinding against soap, expecting to find him just as hard as him, only to feel nothing

and in all his wisdom and experience, he concludes soap was tortured and never told him

he’s trying to think of a delicate way to say he understands, that he’s been through it and it doesn’t change anything about how he feels (and who the fuck touched him so he can hunt them down and rend them limb from limb)

meanwhile trans!soap’s just trying to find the best angle to grind his cunt on ghost’s thigh

just it never even entering ghost’s head bc he’s never known a trans person but he has met plenty of people who’ve been tortured - himself included - so of course that’s his logical leap

soap takes off his shirt and he sees his top surgery scars and ghost asks if he wants him to kill the one who did it and soap just hums like, “actually, man did pretty good, they healed real well,” and ghost’s just teary-eyes with awe at how well he’s coping, “looking on the bright side, that’s my johnny.”

imagine he thinks johnny was fully castrated but sees he’s determined to still have a sex life with him so he buys packers and straps to help him bc hell yeah healing and soap’s just like, “holy shit i’ve never had such a thoughtful partner before, such a sweet man, lt.”

[kimi-no-chikara]

I'm sorry, I've been trying so hard to accept Izuku becoming a UA teacher but I just can't. I love Horikoshi for the happiness he and his story have brought me over the years, but Izuku being a teacher is just bugging me so hard. I know he'd be an incredible teacher, I'm not arguing against that. But beyond the fact that I think Izuku himself would want to at least stay in the hero industry, I don't think there's any chance Katsuki would've let him give up on being a hero.

I think that's why Horikoshi at least made it a point in canon to emphasize that Katsuki especially was behind funding Izuku's hero suit. Because he of all people could not let Deku go. He needed him to be a hero. And I appreciate that we at least see that much in canon. But honestly I think Katsuki would've stepped in sooner than 8 years later and never would have let Izuku give up on being a hero in the first place.

I don't know at what point Izuku gave up on being a pro hero and started looking at other career options, but whenever it happened, I just know he must have spoken to Katsuki about it. Izuku, unreliable narrator that he is, probably fooled even himself into thinking that he's okay with it. That he's blessed to have lived his dream as long as he did. That his time is over. But Katsuki would've shut that shit right down.

Kacchan Bakugou did not watch Izuku spend 10+ years wanting nothing more than to be a hero, while quirkless, just to then watch him give up on being a hero because he lost his quirk. He would've called bullshit on that immediately.

Katsuki knows Izuku intimately. He knows how badly Izuku needs to be a hero. Being quirkless never stopped Izuku from wanting to be a hero before. There's no reason it should stop him now. And he'd say as much. Ain't no way he'd let Izuku give up on being a hero just because he lost OFA.