#you better BELIEVE it could not let go of that one.

[ekybrini]

Slipping through your fingers | jack Hughes (jack's pov)

⟡ request: I fear we need slipping through my fingers in jack pov 🤭

⟡ (PART ONE) slipping through my fingers (reader's pov)

⟡PART TWO

— ⟡ summary | Jack's pov. in which y/n and Jake childhood best friends who've always had something there for each other. But once he gets drafted everything changed for both of them.

— ⟡ warnings | none (that I am aware of)

— ⟡ word count | 10.1k

— ⟡ gabs note | hiii!! im actually shocked people enjoyed slipping through my fingers!! it was so fun to write. someone requested to do jacks pov and I thought that was honestly a brilliant idea! However, im not fully doing a jack pov but only from his rookie camp to their breakup.

Jack's legs are burning, his chest tight, lungs working overtime as he skates down the ice. His heart pounds so hard he can feel it in his throat. He cuts toward the net, shifts his weight, and fires a shot.

Wide.

“Come on, Hughes!” Coach’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and impatient. “You’ve got to finish those.”

Jack circles back into the drill, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts. He knows Coach is right. He’s been off all morning heavy legs, slower reactions. He’s never had to work this hard to keep up before.

The next rush isn’t any better. He makes a sloppy pass that Bratt easily picks off, and before he can even recover, the puck’s behind the net. Jack skates back toward the bench, tugging at his helmet as Coach calls the next line. His chest heaves. He’s exhausted, but the practice isn’t even halfway over.

When practice finally ends, Jack peels off his gloves and slumps on the bench, his legs trembling beneath him. Nico drops down next to him, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Rough one?”

Jack huffs out a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

“You’ll get there,” Nico says easily. “It’s only your first week.”

Jack doesn’t answer. He knows Nico means well, but it doesn’t help. Everyone’s watching him, the staff, the media, his teammates waiting for him to look like a first overall pick. He’s supposed to be ready for this.

“You good?” Nico asks.

Jack forces a small smile. “Yeah.”

But he isn’t.

After his shower, Jack sits at his locker for a long time, his hair still damp, phone in his hands. There’s a text from Quinn.

“How’s camp going?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away. He scrolls past Quinn’s message to the one from you earlier that morning.

“Good luck today! You’ve got this <3”

Jack swipes his thumb over the screen, lingering on the heart symbol. His chest tightens. He wants to call you. He almost does his finger hovers over your name but then he remembers how bad today was. The last thing he wants is to hear you tell him how proud you are when he feels like he’s already letting everyone down.

Instead, he texts Quinn back.

“It’s fine.”

His phone buzzes a minute later.

“You sure?”

Jack ignores it.

Jack finally calls you that night, even though he feels like he shouldn’t. He’s lying on his bed, one arm thrown over his face, his phone pressed to his ear. He almost hangs up before you pick up, but then you answer, your voice soft and warm.

“Hey.”

Jack’s chest loosens a little at the sound of your voice.

“Hey,” he says.

“How was it?”

Jack hesitates. He could lie and say it was good, that he’s adjusting but he’s too tired to pretend tonight.

“Brutal,” he admits.

“What happened?”

Jack’s throat tightens. “Fitness testing.” He huffed a laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. “Like the Combine but worse.”

You make a soft noise of sympathy. “Worse?”

“Longer. Harder.” Jack swallows. “I thought I was ready for it, but I don’t know.”

“You’re gonna be fine,” you say. Your voice is steady, certain. Like you believe it.

Jack closes his eyes. He wants to believe it too. But the truth is, he isn’t sure.

“It’s not just the testing,” he says after a long pause. “The practices, everyone’s so fast. So strong. I’m trying to keep up, but it feels like I’m a step behind.”

You’re quiet for a second, and Jack’s heart clenches at the silence. Then you say, “You’ve barely been there for a week, Jack.”

“I know,” Jack says. “But it’s not supposed to feel this hard.”

“You put too much pressure on yourself.”

Jack smiles faintly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s kinda hard not to.”

“You’re not gonna figure it out overnight.”

“I know.”

“But you’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Jack’s quiet. Your voice is soft in his ear, steady and sure. Jack feels the tension in his chest ease, just a little.

“I hope you’re right,” he says quietly.

“I always am.”

Jack’s throat tightens. He feels like he doesn’t deserve this your calm certainty, your unwavering belief in him. He hasn’t earned it. But he’s too selfish to push you away yet.

“Can I call you tomorrow?” he asks.

“You don’t have to ask.”

Jack’s breath catches. He closes his eyes. “I love you and I miss you.”

“I love and miss you too,” you whisper.

Jack holds the phone to his ear for a long time after the call ends. He listens to the empty static until the line goes dead.

Jack starts texting you more after that, but the cracks are still there. He knows you can hear it when he calls late at night, his voice low and rough. He can hear the quiet concern in your voice when you ask how he’s doing, even when you don’t push.

But Jack can feel himself slipping. The frustration bleeds into his game, missed shots, bad reads, plays he’d usually make without thinking suddenly feel impossible. He’s trying so hard to hold it together that it’s making everything worse.

You try to help. He knows that. He can hear it in your voice when you tell him to stop being so hard on himself, that it’s going to be okay. But the thing is  Jack isn’t sure it is.

He starts calling you less. Some nights he doesn’t answer when you call. His texts get shorter, less frequent. He knows it’s hurting you. He can feel the distance growing between you but he can’t stop it. He doesn’t know how to explain that he’s not sure he can do this. Maybe everyone’s wrong about him.

Jack doesn’t say any of that. He just lets the silence grow.

The first few weeks are more of the same. Jack’s fast but it’s not enough. He’s getting pushed around, knocked off the puck more than he’s used to. He's trying so hard but it’s not working. His hands don’t feel right, and he’s starting to hesitate when he gets the puck. He’s thinking too much, and it’s slowing him down.

After every game, his phone buzzes with texts from you. His replies are short.

“Minus-three. Fucking embarrassing.” “I can’t score.” “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

He’s trying to stay positive, but it’s hard when the Devils are 0-4-2 to start the season, and he’s still scoreless. The media’s already running with it headlines about whether he was overhyped, if he’s too small for the league. Jack tries to ignore it, but it’s everywhere.

It’s late one night when he calls you. He’s lying on the couch in his dark apartment, his arm draped over his eyes. His voice is low, barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says.

“You will,” you say.

Jack swallows. His throat burns. “I just” His breath shakes. “I miss you.”

Your breath catches. “I miss you too.”

Jack’s chest tightens. He closes his eyes. “I hate it here,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

“I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“You’re not doing this without me,” you whisper.

Jack’s quiet for a long time. He listens to the sound of your breathing. It steadies him, just a little. “I just want to come home,” he says, his voice breaking.

“I know,” you say. “But you can’t.”

Jack doesn’t say anything. After a while, his breathing slows, and he realizes you’ve stayed on the line, listening. He falls asleep like that, your breathing soft in his ear.

only ever being able to fall asleep on phone call with you.

⟡

Jack’s first NHL goal comes two weeks into the season, and by then, he’s starting to wonder if it’s ever going to happen. He’s been pressing too much, probably but it’s hard not to when the pressure’s this loud. The noise isn’t just in his head it’s everywhere. Every game, every practice, every postgame interview, the questions are the same.

"Are you frustrated with the lack of production?" "Do you feel like the game is moving too fast for you?" "Do you think you were ready for the NHL?"  

“Do you think you deserve to go number one overall?”

He’s tired of it. He knows they’re right, he's not playing like himself. He’s gripping his stick too tight, his passes are off, and his shot feels wrong. The whole thing feels wrong. He’s been waiting his whole life for this, and now that he’s here, it’s like he forgot how to play hockey.

So when the Canucks roll into town, and Quinn’s on the other bench, Jack figures maybe that’s what he needs something familiar. A piece of home. But even with Quinn there, Jack feels the pressure simmering beneath his skin. He hasn’t scored yet. He’s supposed to be the franchise’s future, and he’s zero goals in six games. Not good enough.

Jack tries to focus on the game, but it’s more of the same. The first period is rough. His legs feel heavy, his hands are stiff, and the Canucks’ defense is all over him. Every time he tries to make a play, there’s a body on him, cutting him off, shoving him into the boards. He finishes the period minus-one, and the Devils are down two goals.

In the second period, Quinn’s line comes over the boards, and Jack watches him for a second too long the way Quinn moves with the puck, smooth and patient, like he’s not even thinking about it. Jack used to play like that. He’s not sure why it feels so impossible now.

The shift after Quinn’s line changes off, Jack gets caught flat footed and turns the puck over in the neutral zone. The Canucks score on the rush. He slams his stick into the glass as the red light flashes.

"Get your head out of your ass, Jack."

He hears it from the bench, not even sure who said it. Probably Nico. He deserves it.

The third period starts with the Devils down 4-1. Jack��s just trying to get through it without screwing up again. He’s not even thinking about scoring anymore, just about not being a liability.

Then the puck jumps loose at the blue line, and suddenly, Jack’s skating onto it with open ice in front of him. His instincts kick in before his mind can catch up. His feet dig into the ice, and he’s flying down the wing. It’s just him and Thatcher Demko.

His breath catches. His heart is hammering in his chest. His hands feel light on his stick for the first time in weeks.

Demko bites on the first fake Jack pulls the puck wide and tucks it under his pad.

It’s in.

He hears the horn, the crowd exploding, but it’s like there’s a second where everything goes quiet. He blinks, almost unsure if it really happened, and then he feels the weight of his teammates barreling into him. Nico’s yelling in his ear, and Bratt’s arms are around his shoulders, and Jack’s laughing, almost breathless.

"You did it!" Nicos’s grinning, his face inches from Jack’s, his arms wrapped tight around him. "That’s your first fucking goal!"

Jack’s laughing, breathless and shaking. His heart’s still racing, but this time it feels good. His body feels light for the first time in weeks. He can feel the tension lifting off his chest, his ribs expanding as he breathes.

When they finally separate, Quinn’s still grinning at him. He gives Jack’s helmet a rough shake before skating away. Jack’s teammates pull him in again, and his cheeks hurt from how hard he’s smiling.

After the final horn, Jack’s the last one off the ice. The Devils still lost 5-2, but Jack’s first goal is the only thing anyone’s talking about. The locker room is louder than it’s been all season guys slapping his back, ruffling his hair, Nico grinning at him like a proud older brother.

Jack ducks out early to check his phone. There’s already a flood of texts. From his parents. From Luke. From Quinn.

And from you.

"Holy shit! That was insane!"

"You finally did it!!!"

he stares at it for a long time before locking his phone and sliding it in his back pocket. He just can’t. Not when he feels like he's failing everyone.

Later that night, when the room is dark and the quiet feels too heavy, Jack calls you.

You pick up on the second ring. “Jack?”

His throat feels tight. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

You sit up and Jack can hear the rustle of your sheets. “You will.”Jack doesn’t say anything for a long time.

His chest feels hollow. “I just” He sighs. “I miss you.”

Your breath hitches. “I miss you too.”

Jack squeezes his eyes shut. His hands are curled into the comforter, his knuckles aching. “I hate it here,” he says quietly.

“I know.” Your voice is soft.

Jack swallows. His chest aches. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“You’re not doing this without me,” you whisper.

Jack’s eyes sting. His throat burns. He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. “I just want to come home.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then you say, “I know.”

Jack breathes out slowly, his chest tight. He doesn’t say anything, but you don’t hang up. Just like always.

⟡

Jack’s rookie season was supposed to be exciting. It was supposed to be everything he’d worked for. But it’s November now, and the Devils are on a six-game losing streak. Jack hasn’t scored in nine games. The media isn’t holding back. Every headline is brutal. Every post-game interview is worse. He’s not smiling as much anymore. He’s quiet when you call, sometimes too tired to even talk. And when you visit, it feels like he’s somewhere else entirely.  

The last time you’d visited was two weeks ago. You flew out to Newark to see him play the first time you’d been able to since the season started. Jack remembers the way you looked when you showed up outside the locker room afterward hopeful, bright eyed, trying to make him smile. But he barely looked at you. His head hurt, his body was sore, and the weight of the loss was pressing down on him too hard. He hugged you, but it was quick. Too quick. He hadn’t even said much. His head was still in the game, replaying the missed chances, the defensive breakdowns, the sting of another loss.  

He remembers the way you sat with his family during the game, the way Luke leaned over to talk to you sometimes, how you’d smile at him, even when Jack was playing like shit. He remembers how heavy his legs felt on the ice, how the tension sat in his shoulders even when he tried to shake it off. He’d been the last one off the ice after the loss, his head down, his mouth pulled tight. He couldn’t even look at you afterward.  

He called you late that night you left back to Michigan, when he was already back at his place, lying in the dark. You sounded half asleep when you picked up.  

“I'm just sorry I couldn’t see you more,” Jack had said. His voice was low, rough.  

“I get it,” you’d say. “It’s okay.”  

“I’m just tired,” Jack had whispered.   

Now it’s almost midnight again. Jack’s sitting on the edge of his bed, phone in his hand. He’s read your texts two of them, both sitting there unanswered but he can’t bring himself to respond. His head hurts. His chest feels tight. He knows you’re probably waiting for him to call, but he just can’t. He’s started turning his phone off after games. Less noise, less pressure but it’s not helping.   

You call him the next morning before class. Jack’s half asleep when he answers on the third ring.  

“Hey,” he mumbles.  

“Hey,” you say softly. “You okay?”  

Jack rubs a hand over his face. His throat feels dry. “Yeah. Just tired.”  

“You’ve been saying that a lot,” you say gently.  

Jack’s quiet for a long time. His chest feels tight. His eyes burn. He wants to tell you the truth that he feels like he’s unraveling, like the weight of everything is pressing down too hard but he can’t.  

“Yeah,” he says instead.  

“Jack,” you start. Your voice is soft. Steady. The way it always is when you’re trying to reach him.  

“I’m fine,” Jack says quickly. Too quickly. His heartbeat stutters.  

“You’re not,” you say. “You don’t have to-”  

“I said I’m fine.” His voice is sharp. It cuts through the line before he can stop himself.  

You go quiet. Jack swears under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. His head drops into his hands.  

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I just don't know.”  

“It’s okay,” you say quietly.  

Jack closes his eyes. He’s breathing hard. He feels like he’s underwater, and no matter how hard he kicks, he can’t break the surface. His chest feels like it’s caving in.  

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he whispers.  

“You don’t have to fix it alone,” you say.  

Jack doesn’t answer. His throat is too tight. He knows you mean it that you’re with him but it doesn’t feel like enough. The line goes quiet after a while. Jack doesn’t hang up, but he doesn’t say anything else either.  

The next time he talks to you is after another loss. This time to Toronto. Another night of leaving the rink without a point. Another night of reporters asking him what’s wrong, why he isn’t producing. He’s exhausted when he calls you sitting on the floor of his apartment, his back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest.  

“I’m trying,” Jack says, his voice tight. “I’m trying, and it’s not working.”  

“I know,” you say softly. “But it’s not your fault. It’s a team”  

“I don’t care if it’s a team thing,” Jack snaps. “I’m the first pick. I’m supposed to be the one fixing it.”  

“Jack-”  

“I have to be better.” His voice cracks. He drops his head against the wall. His chest feels like it’s going to cave in. His eyes burn. “I just don't know how.”  

You’re quiet for a moment. Then you say, “You’re not alone. I’m with you.”  

Jack breathes out, shaky. His throat burns. His hands are shaking, his head pounding. But he doesn’t answer. He can’t. He doesn’t even know how to start letting you in anymore.  

The call ends not long after that. Jack doesn’t even remember hanging up. He sat there on the floor for a long time afterward, his hands clenched into his knees, his head tipped back against the wall.  You want to help him, Jack knows that but he can feel the distance growing between you. He feels himself starting to slip through your fingers. And maybe the worst part is that he doesn’t know how to stop it. 

⟡

It starts small.  

Jack doesn’t notice it at first. He’s busy, exhausted, caught up in the grind of his rookie season. Every day feels the same practice, game, media, repeat. It’s easy to tell himself that he’s just tired, that it’s not a big deal when he misses a call or leaves a text sitting there a little too long. It’s not like he’s never done that before.  

But then it keeps happening.  

He sees your name light up his phone after a game, and he tells himself he’ll answer after dinner. Then it’s after dinner, and he’s too wiped out to even think about holding a conversation. He tells himself he’ll text you when he’s in bed, but by then, his head’s already heavy on the pillow, and the phone’s still facedown on the nightstand.  

He misses your call. Then another one. And then a text sits there, unread for hours. Sometimes a whole day. And when he finally gets around to replying, he can’t shake the guilt in his chest when you still answer immediately. Like you’ve been waiting. Like he’s let you down.  

And maybe he has.  

He knows he has.  

He can hear it in your voice when he calls you late, hours after he said he would, and you still sound happy to hear from him but not quite the same. Softer. More careful. Like you’re starting to expect it now. Like you’re already bracing for disappointment.  

“Hey,” Jack says, his voice thin over the phone. He already knows how this conversation’s going to go.  

“Hey,” you say softly, the sound of your voice like a balm and a knife all at once. “You okay?”  

Jack closes his eyes. Presses the heel of his hand over them. He’s so tired. Not just physically, but deep in his chest, like there’s a weight he can’t shake.  

“Yeah,” he says. “Just tired.”  

He always says that. Because it’s true. But it’s more than that, and he knows it. He knows you know it, too.  

“You played well tonight,” you say, your voice warm. “Had that sick pass in the second.”  

Jack breathes out through his nose. “Didn’t matter. We still lost.”  

“It’s not on you.”  

But it feels like it is.  

Jack’s always been hard on himself, but this is different. It’s deeper. Heavier. The media’s been brutal since the season started. He tries not to read the articles anymore, but he can’t help it sometimes. Jack Hughes isn’t living up to expectations. First overall pick, only four goals?  The weight of it sits on his chest every time he steps onto the ice. Every time he answers another question in the locker room. Every time he sits down in front of a mic and tries to explain why he’s not winning.  

The last time he FaceTimed you, he could feel it hanging between you. You were smiling, making some dumb joke about how you were going to start training to be the Devils’ new enforcer, and he’d tried to laugh but it barely came out. The crease in his forehead never went away.  

“Sorry,” he’d said. “I’m just-”  

“Tired,” you’d finished for him. He hated how easily you could fill in the blank.  

It’s late now. He’s lying in bed, phone pressed to his ear, the room dark except for the light from the street filtering through the blinds. You’re still on the other end of the line, your breathing soft and steady.  

“It was bad,” Jack says. He hates how small his voice sounds. How defeated. “I just, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”  

You’re quiet for a second. Then, “Jack, it’s not you. The whole team’s struggling right now.”  

Jack shakes his head, even though you can’t see it. “Yeah, but” He bites down hard on his lip. “I should be better. I was the first overall pick I’m supposed to make a difference.”  

“You are making a difference,” you say. Your voice is so steady, so sure. “It’s your rookie year. No one expects you to carry the team.”  

But they do.  

Jack knows they do.  

Jack Hughes, the face of the franchise. Number one overall pick. Meant to save the Devils.  

He hesitates. Then he whispers, “Feels like I’m trying, but nothing’s working. And people are starting to talk, you know? About how maybe I wasn’t ready, maybe I’m not-”  

“Jack.” Your voice is sharp this time, cutting through the haze in his head. “Stop.”  

He breathes out shakily. His chest tightens.  

“You’re not a mistake,” you say. Your voice softens, but there’s still steel underneath. “You deserve to be there. You worked your ass off for this.”  

“I guess.”  

“Not ‘I guess,’” you push. “Jack, you-”  

“I know,” he cuts in, sharper than he means to. The second the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. He hears the way your breath hitches on the other end of the line.  

“Sorry,” Jack mutters. His voice cracks. “I’m just tired.”  

“You’re allowed to be tired,” you say.  

Yeah. But it doesn’t feel that way.  

Another stretch of silence settles between you. He knows he should say something, but he’s already sinking into the heaviness of it all again. He’s too tired to explain it. Too tired to try.  

“You want me to stay on the phone with you?” you ask quietly.  

He should say no. He knows you’ve probably got class in the morning. But the thought of hanging up feels heavier than it should.  

“No, it’s okay,” Jack says automatically.  

“I’ll stay,” you say anyway.  

His throat tightens. “Okay.”  

He hears you shift on the other end, the soft rustle of blankets. The warmth of your presence reaches through the phone, even with the space between you. He closes his eyes. Let the sound of your breathing settle under his skin.  

He doesn’t know how long he lies there like that. Long enough for the tension to drain from his shoulders. Long enough for his breathing to start matching yours. Long enough to forget, just for a second, how much this season hurts.  

And for now, it’s enough.  

But deep down, Jack knows it’s not going to be enough forever. 

⟡

It’s been months of missed calls, delayed texts, and half-hearted conversations. Jack's always tired. Or busy. Or distracted. And when you talk, it’s like he’s only halfway there like some part of him is already pulling away. He’s tried not to read into it, convinced himself it’s just the pressure of his rookie season, that things will settle once he finds his rhythm. But deep down, he knows better. It’s not just hockey. It’s you. It’s him. It’s the quiet space growing between you, the way it stretches wider with every unanswered text and every empty conversation.

And now you’re here. In New Jersey. Because you need to know if this is still something you can save or if Jack’s already let it slip away.

DAY ONE

The cab ride from the airport to Jack’s apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The city outside the window passes in a blur of gray and headlights, but Jack doesn’t really see it. His phone sits heavy in his lap, the screen dark except for the faint reflection of the passing streetlights. He taps his thumb against the side of it like he's expecting a message that he knows isn’t coming.

He’d texted her earlier to confirm he’d be home when she arrived. It took him longer than it should have to reply. He almost didn’t answer at all. But when the text came through “Landed. Should be at your place by six.”Jack stared at it for a long time before.

“Okay. I’ll be home.”

That’s it. No “Can’t wait to see you.” No heart emoji like he used to send. Just okay.

Jack’s checking his phone when the buzzer goes off. He sets it down, rubbing a hand over his face before standing up to answer the door. His stomach twists when he sees you standing there. seeing you now feels different. He opens the door and tries to smile.

“Hey,” he says. His voice feels thin in his throat.

“Hey,” you say back, your smile bright but a little too forced. Jack leans down and kisses you, but it’s quick. He feels himself pulling away before he even registers it. His hand finds the small of your back as he guides you inside, but he lets go as soon as the door clicks shut behind you.

You set your bag down by the door and glance around the apartment. Jack knows it probably feels off. He cleaned before you got here, but it still feels wrong. Quiet. His shoes are lined up by the door, the coffee mug on the counter is half full. His phone’s face down on the couch. He sits down, leaving a noticeable gap beside him. You sit too, trying to close the space, but Jack doesn’t move.

“So,” you say after a second. Your voice is too bright. Too careful. “How was practice today?”

Jack shrugs. “Fine.”

“Just fine?”

He doesn’t look at you. “Yeah.”

Jack feels you watching him the sharpness of his jaw, the way his hand rests against his knee. Normally, he’d have his arm around you by now. Normally, he’d be talking about the drills and how Nico wouldn’t stop chirping him today. But he doesn’t have the energy to pretend. He flips through channels on the remote instead, not really watching anything.

“Hungry?” he asks eventually.

“Yeah, I could eat.”

“Cool.” Jack stands up. “I’ll order something.”

He steps into the kitchen and pulls out his phone, opening DoorDash. His thumb hovers over the screen. He knows what she likes avocado rolls, extra soy sauce, no wasabi. He knows she hates spicy tuna.

He orders spicy tuna.

And he knows why he does it. He just wants her to say something about it. To get mad. To push him. If she snaps at him, maybe it’ll be easier than this quiet unraveling.

“Food should be here in like, twenty minutes,” he says.

You nod. “Okay.”

Silence. Jack’s knee brushes against yours for half a second, but he pulls away. He feels you watching him. He knows you’re waiting for something  waiting for him to fix this  but he doesn’t know how.

“Did you, um, talk to Quinn today?” you ask quietly. “He was asking about you.”

Jack’s jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“He’s good.”

You wait for him to elaborate, but Jack doesn’t. The silence stretches out between you, thick and heavy. You lean toward him, your voice dropping. “Jack. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he says too quickly.

“It doesn’t feel like nothing.”

Jack sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just been a long week.”

He’s not lying. He’s exhausted from hockey, from the media, from trying to pretend like everything’s fine when it’s not. But that’s not the whole truth. He knows it. He knows you know it, too.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” you say softly.

Jack’s eyes flick toward you, and for a second for a second he feels it. The quiet warmth of you. The comfort of knowing you’re always there. Knowing that he can melt in your arms at any given moment. His chest tightens, and his mouth opens like he might actually say something.

Then the buzzer goes off.

Jack stands too fast. “That’s the food.”

He heads to the door, relief and dread twisting together under his skin. When he comes back, he drops the takeout bag on the table. He opens the containers  sushi, not your favorite and hands you a pair of chopsticks without thinking. He sits down, flipping back to the game on the TV.

You stare at the food. “Did you know what I wanted?”

Jack’s mouth tightens. “I just ordered something quick.”

You don’t say anything. Jack eats quietly, his eyes on the game. He can feel the tension coming off you, sharp and heavy, but he doesn’t know how to reach for you. He doesn’t know if he even can anymore.

After a few minutes, Jack stands and starts cleaning up. He takes your barely touched container and tosses it in the trash without a word.

“I’m gonna shower,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Oh. Okay.”

Jack hesitates in the doorway. He knows he should say something to reach for you like he always has, sit back down, tell you he’s sorry for being distant. But his throat feels tight, and the words stick there, unmoving. So he walks away instead.

The water’s hot when he steps into the shower. Jack leans his forehead against the tile, the sound of the water drowning out the noise in his head. His chest feels tight. His body aches.

He knows you’re out there sitting alone on the couch, probably wondering why the hell you even came. Jack squeezes his eyes shut. He knows he should fix this. He wants to fix it. But part of him wonders if it’s already too late.

When Jack gets out of the shower, the apartment is quiet. His phone buzzes on the couch a text from Nico

“Good skate today.”

Jack’s chest tightens. He grabs his phone, then looks over at you. You’re curled up on the couch, knees pulled toward your chest, staring at the dark screen of the TV.

He sets his phone down and sits beside you. His knee brushes against yours again. This time, he doesn’t move away.

You shift, glancing at him, and Jack feels his throat tighten again. His chest aches. He wants to say something. Fix Something. But the words sit heavy on his tongue, unmoving.

“I’m tired,” Jack says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod slowly. “I know.”

Jack leans back against the couch, his head tipping toward the ceiling. Your hand is right there, close enough to reach for. Jack’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t move. He just sits there, feeling the weight of the space between you.

DAY TWO 

Jack sleeps with his back to her.

It’s not the first time, but it feels different tonight. 

His side of the bed feels miles away, the sheets cool and untouched where her body should be. He lies there, staring at the wall, listening to the sound of her breathing. It’s light, shallow like she’s not really sleeping. Every few minutes, she shifts, the mattress dipping under her weight. Jack’s eyes stay open in the dark. His breathing is steady, but his chest feels tight, like he’s waiting for something.

Her hand twitches under the blanket. He feels it, even though they’re not touching. He knows how close she is, the warmth of her body radiating through the sheets. She could reach for him. He wants her to reach for him.

But she doesn’t.

And he knows why.

Jack shifts, curling his arm beneath his head and inching closer to the edge of the bed. The space between them stretches wide and cold. He swallows hard and closes his eyes. Sleep doesn’t come. His mind won’t quiet down. He keeps thinking about practice, about the losing streak, about the endless noise of media questions and expectations. About her. The way she looked at him earlier, like she was waiting for him to let her in.

He couldn’t. He’s not sure why anymore. He just knows that he’s been holding her at arm’s length for weeks now. Maybe months. And he doesn’t know how to fix it.

At some point, he falls into a restless sleep.

When he wakes up, it’s still dark. His body feels heavy, his head foggy. He’s half hanging off the edge of the bed, his face turned toward the wall. His arm is cramped beneath his head, but he doesn’t move. He hears her shift behind him, the faint sound of the sheets rustling.

He knows she’s awake. He can feel her looking at him. His skin burns under her gaze, but he doesn’t turn toward her. If he looks at her, if he meets her eyes, he’s not sure he’ll be able to hold it together.

Her breath hitches softly. He wonders if she’s about to say something. If she’s about to reach for him. His fingers curl into the pillowcase, bracing for it.

But nothing comes.

Jack’s chest tightens. He closes his eyes and forces himself back to sleep.

He wakes up first. His body is stiff when he pushes himself out of bed, his neck aching from the way he slept. He stands there for a second, looking at her curled up beneath the blankets, her face half-hidden in the pillow. She looks so peaceful like that. Soft. Vulnerable. Like she’s not hurting the way he knows she is.

Jack’s stomach twists. He leans down and brushes his lips over her forehead, so light she barely stirs. Then he grabs his phone and heads for the shower.

The water is too hot, but Jack stands under the spray anyway, his hands pressed to his face. His mind keeps circling back to the same thoughts. The same weight in his chest. He’s messing this up. He knows he is. But every time he tries to reach for her, to close the space between them, he freezes. He doesn’t know how to explain it. He’s not sure she’d want to hear it anyway.

By the time he gets out, she’s still in bed. Jack dresses quickly and makes his way to the kitchen. He pours protein powder into a shaker and watches the powder swirl as he shakes it. His hands are steady, but his heart feels off balance.

She appears in the doorway a few minutes later. Her hair is messy from sleep, her eyes soft with that quiet vulnerability that always makes his chest ache.

“Morning,” she says, her voice soft.

“Hey,” Jack says. He keeps his eyes on the protein shake. He spins the cup slowly in his hands, condensation trailing down the side.

She sits across from him, pulling her knees up to her chest. He feels her watching him. Waiting. He hates how obvious it is, how badly she wants him to let her in, how hard he’s making it.

“Sleep okay?” she asks.

Jack nods. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Mmhmm.” His gaze darts toward the window. He can feel the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his throat. He forces a swallow.

“What time’s practice?”

“Ten.”

“You wanna grab coffee after?”

Jack’s fingers tighten around the cup. His chest knots. He hesitates just a little too long before answering. “I don’t know. We’ve got media stuff later.”

“Oh.”

The quiet disappointment in her voice makes his stomach twist. He hates himself for it.

Jack stands and rinses out the cup in the sink. He keeps his back to her, his hands braced on the edge of the counter. He feels her eyes on him. He knows what she’s going to ask before she even speaks.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Jack.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second. When he speaks, his voice is tight. “It’s just a lot right now.”

He knows it’s not enough. He knows it’s not what she needs to hear. But it’s all he can give her right now.

Her silence stretches behind him. Jack grips the edge of the counter until his knuckles turn white. Then he exhales and grabs his keys from the hook by the door.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” He tries to make it sound light, easy. Like this isn’t falling apart around them.

“We could go out tonight,” she says. Her voice is careful. Hopeful. “Dinner or something.”

Jack’s hand pauses on the door handle. He hesitates, his heart beating too hard in his chest. He meets her eyes for a second, guarded. “Yeah. We’ll figure something out.”

Then he’s gone.

Jack’s phone buzzes while he’s in the locker room. He’s still half in his gear, sweat drying on his skin. He grabs the phone from his locker, his stomach tightening when he sees her name on the screen.

“You home soon?”

Jack swipes his thumb over the message, typing out a quick response: “Practice ran long. Gonna be late.”

He doesn’t hit send right away. He sits there with the message glowing on the screen, his thumb hovering over the button. His chest feels tight.

He knows exactly how this feels. Like something slipping away, slow and steady. And he’s just sitting there, letting it happen.

Finally, he hits send.

The message disappears. Jack exhales, pressing the heel of his hand into his chest like he can force the ache down.

He knows he should go home. He should sit her down and tell her what’s been weighing on him the pressure, the fear of disappointing everyone, the helplessness every time he steps on the ice and it’s not enough. He should tell her how scared he is that she’s already halfway out the door and that he doesn’t know how to stop it.

But he won’t.

Instead, Jack stands and pulls his hoodie over his head. His phone buzzes again in his hand.

“Okay.”

That’s it. Just “Okay.”

Jack stares at it for a long time, his chest burning with something he can’t name. Then he shoves his phone into his pocket and heads toward the exit.

DAY THREE

It was worse the next day. He could feel it the second he woke up the quiet, the weight in the air pressing down on his chest. Everything felt off, like he was two steps behind and couldn’t catch up.

You sat on the couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling on your phone when he came out of the bedroom. You glanced up and smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. It hadn’t for a while now. Jack’s stomach twisted. He thought about walking over, sitting next to you, maybe pulling you into his side but instead, he grabbed his phone from the counter and stared at the screen like it had something important to tell him.

“Do you want to grab lunch?” you asked, your voice light. Careful.

Jack hesitated. He didn’t mean to, but it was like his brain couldn’t process the question fast enough. “Yeah, sure,” he said after a beat. His voice sounded flat. Detached.

Your smile flickered for half a second before you smoothed it over. Jack hated how easily you could do that now hide how you were feeling. He used to be able to tell when you were upset, but lately, it was like you were learning how to keep it from him. He hated that.

At lunch, he couldn’t focus. His knee bounced under the table while you picked at your food. His phone vibrated on the table, and he picked it up automatically. It was nothing important, just a text from Nico about practice tomorrow. But he scrolled through the messages anyway, just to have something to do with his hands.

“Jack.”

Your voice pulled his attention, and his eyes flicked toward you.

“Hm?”

“Can you put that down?”

Jack sighed, but he set the phone down, screen facedown on the table. He rubbed the back of his neck and tried to meet your eyes.

“Okay.”

You looked at him for a long moment. Jack could see the question behind your eyes do you even want me here? but you didn’t say it. You just smiled again, tight and polite. He hated it.

Jack forced a conversation about hockey, something easy, something that didn’t require too much emotional energy. You nodded along, asked questions, but your eyes kept dropping to the table. He could feel you pulling away. Or maybe he was the one pulling away. He didn’t even know anymore.

That night, Jack sat at the edge of the bed, scrolling on his phone again. His thumb swiped over the screen even though he wasn’t really reading anything. He heard you behind him the sound of the sheets shifting, the quiet hitch in your breathing and then he felt your hand on his back.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly.

Jack’s shoulders tensed under your touch. He hated how much it comforted him and how much it made his chest ache at the same time. He forced himself to stay still.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

“You don’t seem like it.”

“I’m fine, okay?” His voice sharpened, cutting through the quiet.

He felt you freeze behind him. His pulse hammered in his ears. He knew he shouldn’t have said it like that, but the words were already out, and he couldn’t take them back. He stood up and walked toward the bathroom without looking at you.

When he closed the door behind him, he leaned back against it and dragged his hands down his face. His heart was pounding.

He didn’t know why it felt so hard to reach for you. You were right there, but it felt like you were already halfway out the door and Jack wasn’t sure if he was supposed to stop you or let you go.

DAY FOUR

Jack woke up slowly, his face half-buried in the pillow. The sunlight filtering through the blinds made his eyes ache. His body felt heavy, like he’d barely slept. He could feel the warmth of her hand on his back, the soft drag of her fingertips across his skin. For a second, it almost felt normal. Like things weren’t unraveling between them.

"Morning," she whispered.

Jack’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked at her sleepily, then rubbed a hand over his face. "Morning."

She smiled at him that soft, easy smile she always gave him. The one that used to make his chest ache in a good way. But now, it twisted something uncomfortable inside him.

She leaned down and kissed his shoulder. He should’ve smiled. Kissed her back. Rolled over and pulled her into him like he used to. But instead, his body stayed stiff. He sat up, running a hand through his hair.

"What time is it?"

"Almost nine."

Jack nodded, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "I should get going soon."

"Going where?" she asked. Her voice was light, but he heard the edge beneath it. "I thought you had today off."

Jack stood, stretching. "I do. I'm just gonna go work out with some of the guys."

"Oh." He could feel her eyes on his back, the way her voice had softened. "Can I come?"

Jack hesitated, his chest tightening. He knew how it would sound before he even said it, but the words still slipped out. "I mean it’s just going to be boring."

"I don’t care."

Jack’s throat tightened. She meant it he knew she did but the idea of having her there made him feel off. Like she’d see something in him that he wasn’t ready for. Like she’d notice how tired he was, how hard it had been to keep up this act lately.

"I think we’re just gonna grab lunch after. Probably end up hanging out at Nico’s." His voice felt too casual. Too detached.

She was quiet for a moment. "So you don’t want me there?"

Jack’s stomach dropped. He turned toward her, forcing himself to meet her eyes. "It’s not that."

"Then what is it?"

Jack sighed, already feeling the edge of a headache. "I don’t know. Just feels like a guys' thing, you know?"

The hurt on her face hit him like a punch to the chest. He hated this, hated the way he was making her feel. But he didn’t know how to stop. It was easier to push her away than to figure out why everything felt so wrong.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Jack grabbed it without thinking, thumb sliding over the screen.

Nico. A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Nico." He texted back quickly and tossed his phone onto the bed. His body was already moving toward the bathroom before he could think better of it.

"I’ll be back later," Jack called over his shoulder.

"Cool," she murmured. The quiet hurt in her voice followed him all the way into the shower.

When he got back that afternoon, she was curled up on the couch, knees pulled to her chest. She looked small like that. Jack’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. He tossed his keys onto the counter and sat down across from her, pulling out his phone.

It was easier to scroll through his phone than to look at her. Easier to pretend everything was fine.

"How was it?" she asked.

"Hmm?"

"Your workout."

Jack shrugged. "Good."

"Anything else?"

Jack didn’t look up. "Nope."

He could feel the tension creeping between them like a weight settling over his chest. He hated this. Hated how wrong it all felt. Hated how she made him feel like a bad person just for breathing wrong.

She shifted closer, resting a hand on his arm. "Jack."

He tensed. "What?"

His tone was sharp. Too sharp. He saw her flinch.

"Do you want to do something tonight?" she asked quietly.

Jack sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He was so fucking tired. "I don’t know. I’m kind of tired."

"Oh."

His gaze flicked toward her. She was looking at him carefully, her brow furrowed.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said quickly.

Jack’s phone buzzed again. He grabbed it without thinking. Another text from Nico. He smiled at the screen just for a second  but when he glanced up, her hand had already fallen away from his arm.

The guilt pressed down hard on his chest. He hated himself at that moment. Hated how easy it was to disappoint her.

"Jack."

"Hmm?"

"Do you even want me here?"

Jack’s head snapped toward her, heart thudding painfully. "What kind of question is that?"

She swallowed. "You’re barely looking at me. You don’t talk to me. When you do, it feels like you’re trying to get through it so you can go back to your phone. Just say it if you don’t want me here."

Jack’s throat burned. He hated how much truth there was in her words. He hated that he didn’t know how to fix it.

"Jesus," he muttered. "You’re making this a bigger deal than it is."

"A bigger deal?" Her voice sharpened. "Jack, I flew to New Jersey to see you. I’m trying so hard to hold this together, but you’re not even meeting me halfway."

Jack’s chest felt tight. "I didn’t ask you to come."

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Her face went blank. Her mouth parted slightly.

"What?"

"I didn’t ask you to come," Jack repeated, softer this time. He wanted to take it back, but it was already hanging between them, jagged and sharp.

Her throat bobbed. "Wow."

Jack ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. "I didn’t mean it like that"

"You did."

Jack’s heart hammered painfully against his ribs. "I-"

"I can’t," she said, her voice shaking. "I can’t do this anymore."

Jack’s head snapped toward her. "What does that mean?"

"It means I’m done."

Jack’s chest caved in. "So that’s it? You’re giving up?"

She laughed bitterly. "You gave up first."

Jack’s jaw clenched. He was losing her and he could feel it slipping between his fingers. He was going to ruin this, and he didn’t know how to stop himself.

"Fine," he said. His voice was cold now. Detached. "If you want to go, then go."

She stared at him, tears filling her eyes. "You’re not even going to try to stop me?"

Jack’s mouth twisted. "What do you want me to say? That I miss you? That I love you? You already know that, but it’s not enough, is it?"

"It’s not enough if you’re not going to show it!"

Jack’s breath hitched. He didn’t know how to fix this. He didn’t know how to explain that he was scared, scared of losing her, scared of how much he needed her.

"Yeah?" Jack’s mouth curved into something ugly. "Well, maybe you don’t."

The second it came out, Jack’s chest caved in.

Her face crumbled. "You said it."

"I-"

"No," she whispered, tears spilling over her cheeks. "You said it. And you know what? Maybe you’re right."

Jack’s heart splintered into a thousand pieces as she grabbed her bag. He stood there, frozen.

"Bye, Jack," she whispered.

Jack didn’t reply. His throat burned as the door clicked shut behind her.

Jack’s throat burned. He sat on the floor of his apartment, back pressed against the wall. His head thudded lightly against the drywall as he stared at his phone. He could still hear the sound of the door closing behind her. The quiet click had felt like a gunshot.

His hands were shaking. His chest ached so badly it hurt to breathe. He pulled his knees up, running his hand down his face. He hadn’t even said anything when she left. He’d just stood there, watching her walk away like a fucking coward.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, but the light outside was starting to fade when his phone buzzed against the hardwood. He reached for it automatically. His heart jumped, stupidly hopeful but it wasn’t her.

It was Quinn.

“Hows it going?”

Jack exhaled shakily. His fingers hovered over the screen before he opened a new message. He stared at the empty text box for a long time. Then he started typing.

“I fucked up.”

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Then it disappeared. Then reappeared.

“What happened?”

Jack closed his eyes. He could see her face in his head the way her eyes had filled with tears, the way her voice had cracked when she said, “You’re not even going to try to stop me?” He squeezed his eyes shut, the guilt curling tighter in his chest. His fingers shook as he started typing.

“I pushed her away.” “She asked if I even wanted her there and I said I didn’t ask her to come.”

The second he typed it out, Jack’s stomach twisted. His throat burned. His thumb hovered over the send button for half a second before he forced himself to hit it.

Quinn’s reply came fast.

“Jack.” “What the hell.”

Jack dropped his head back against the wall. He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to breathe. His eyes were burning. His chest was so fucking tight it felt like it might split open. He hated himself so much right now.

“I know.” “I didn’t mean it. I was just I don’t know.”

Quinn’s reply took longer this time. Jack watched the three dots flicker for almost a full minute.

“That’s not good enough.”

Jack squeezed his eyes shut. Of course it wasn’t.

“She’s not going to forgive me for this, is she?”

He didn’t know why he was even asking. He already knew the answer.

“I don’t know.” “Did you even try to fix it?”

Jack’s chest twisted painfully. He pictured her standing in the doorway, eyes bright with tears. The way she’d paused, just waiting for him to say something. Waiting for him to fix it.

And he’d just stood there.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Jack’s jaw tightened. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. His heart was beating so loud he could feel it in his ears.

“Because I’m a fucking idiot.”

Jack tossed his phone onto the floor and leaned back against the wall, hands over his face. He couldn’t stop replaying it, the sound of her voice cracking, the way her hand had slipped away from his arm. The way she’d looked at him like he was a stranger.

She always knew how to read him better than anyone else. Even better than Quinn sometimes. But Jack didn’t know how to let her see him like this. He was already drowning under the weight of the season, of the pressure to live up to everything. Of the way the team was falling apart and it was his fucking job to fix it. And now he’d dragged her down with him.

His phone buzzed again. He didn’t want to look at it, but his hand moved toward it anyway.

It was quinn once again.

“You need to tell her that.” “You need to fix this.”

Jack swallowed hard. His hands curled into fists.

“It’s too late.”

Quinn’s reply was immediate.

“Not yet”

Jack’s chest squeezed. He closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the wall. His phone buzzed again.

“But it will be if you don’t try.”

Jack stared at the screen until the light dimmed and his chest ached so badly he couldn’t breathe. He wanted to text her. He wanted to call her. He wanted to fix this so fucking badly but how could he, when he was the reason it broke in the first place?

Instead, he dropped his phone onto the floor and sat there, eyes burning, until it buzzed again.

“Jack.” “Don’t be a coward.”

.He hated himself. Hated how he knew exactly what he was doing and still couldn’t stop it.

And now you are gone.

And Jack already knew it was his fault.

[littelovelunette]

heyy, could I request one where sevika keeps making fun of reader for "not using their brain" and things like that because they feel comfortable around her and end up acting kinda stupid, but it really hurts their feelings and they end up breaking down?

Common Sense

Sevika x Fem!Reader

You and Sevika were so comfortable with each other that you often let your mind wander. That made you get clumsy, brain foggy and stupid.

But Sevika never minded it, instead it was funny to her and she called you a dumbass because of it. In fact, Sevika found it so endearing.

You were so lovestruck by her, you didn't care to really think it through. All the "Stupid"s, "Idiot"s and other insults she threw your way always flied over your head.

You didn't care. Didn't used to. It was one of those days you felt dumber than usual.

You were trying to make sense of Sevika's gambling as she placed her cards with ease, stacking pocker chips relentlessly.

After a while of staring you decided to ask her. "Baby, how do you play that?" You asked.

"Oh you wanna learn?" Sevika asked, her tone taking on slight condescension but also mixed with affection that you failed to catch.

"Mhm..." You looked up at her, shifting close so your thigh was touching hers.

Sevika smirked, leaning back in her chair as she shuffled the deck effortlessly.

"Alright, I'll teach you, but don't expect me to go easy on you," she said, her voice laced with amusement. She slid a few chips toward you before dealing out two cards face down.

"You start with two cards," she said, nodding toward yours. "The goal is to make the best five-card hand using these and the ones I put in the center." She tapped the table before continuing.

You peeked at your cards, then back at her. "Okay… but how do I know if my hand is good?"

Sevika's smirk twitched, her brow raising like she couldn't believe you were asking. "Are you serious?" she scoffed. "You’ve never played poker before?"

You shook your head, and she sighed albeit a bit dramatically, rubbing her temple. "Damn. Alright, listen up, genius." She leaned forward, tapping your cards. "Pairs are good. Three of a kind is better. A straight is five numbers in a row. A flush means all the same suit. Full house? Three of a kind plus a pair."

She studied your expression for a moment before scoffing again. "You're really struggling with this, huh?" Her voice was teasing, but the way her lips curled into an amused smirk made your face heat up.

"This is, like, common sense, babe. You gotta use that brain of yours."

Flipping over three cards in the middle of the table, she continued, "This is the flop. Now you figure out if these help your hand or not. But don't just stare at them like they’ll speak to you." She chuckled, shaking her head. "Poker ain't just about the cards. It’s about reading people."

Her grey eyes locked onto yours, sharp with amusement. "And right now? You look like a fish trying to do algebra."

You knew the tears were building behind your eyes and you saw by the corner of your eyes that Silco's men were approaching the table seeing Sevika.

It was a perfect excuse to leave now.

"I-I'm gonna go home, this poker stuff is really getting to my brain." You said, voice wavering a little which gave away the clear hurt in you.

Sevika caught onto it, eyebrows furrowing. She wanted to say something but didn't want to push you too hard in public.

"I'll see you tonight." You said, eyes glossy before you turned and stalked off. Sevika stared where your figure had disappeared through the exit, one hand raised as if she would've grabbed your wrist but then she retracted her hand.

You hadn't even kissed her goodbye.

When you reached home, you had a complete breakdown and cried in bed for hours before eventually deciding on just eating ice-cream until Sevika got back.

You were in bed with a spoon in hand, deep asleep snoring softly against the bedsheets with the empty tub of ice-cream beside you.

Sevika unlocked the door and stepped inside frowning because you would usually jump at her and tell her how much you had missed her.

But there was no sign of you today.

She cautiously walked inside the bedroom and then her heart almost melted seeing your adorable state.

Sure— some would say it was messy and gross the way you were snoring, drooling and eating ice-cream in bed— but to Sevika it was equivalent to a baby kitten snuggled and asleep.

Sevika took off her clothes until she was left in a tanktop and shorts. She walked closer, gently prying the spoon out of your small hand. She moved the empty tub of ice-cream away.

"Baby." She called softly pulling you into her lap after she got in bed. "I'm sorry." She mumbled.

"Mmm..?" You sleepily blinked up at her. "Forget it. I'm too sad to be mad."

"Which is why I'm apologising. I'm sorry baby I didn't mean you were that dumb. You're just... Silly." This time when Sevika said it, she was being playful and you knew it. The little curve at the corner of her lips gave it away.

You hit her.

"Don't you dare." You pouted.

Sevika chuckled and brought you close to her chest. "Never stop being stupid around me. You're all I have left. And I'm genuinely..." Sevika paused. "Afraid to lose you." She finished with somewhat great difficulty admitting she was scared of something for once.

"Nothing bad's gonna happen." You kissed her and she returned it.

[rafesgreasycurtainbangs]

i should’ve known - rafe cameron

series masterlist

warnings: suggestive language, talk of drugs and alcohol, pregnancy, fluff

au: i wrote this on a separate post from the request i got but ill put a photo of it😭

word count: 1.01k

The early afternoon sun bore down on the country club, the heat rising off the pavement in lazy waves. It was busy today—too busy. The sounds of clinking glasses, low conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter blended together into a dull hum. Rafe hadn’t even wanted to come.

The whole thing—the social scene, the rich kids wasting their parents’ money on overpriced drinks, the fake smiles—it used to be his playground. Now, it felt suffocating. But he was here because Ward had asked him to be, trying to keep up the image that he was doing better. That he had his life together. That he wasn’t just barely keeping himself from unraveling at the seams.

His fingers itched for something—anything. A smoke, a drink, a line, something to keep him occupied. But he didn’t let himself. Not anymore. Not when he was trying. Not when you were the sole positive aspect of his life. He was halfway through draining a glass of water, mindlessly staring out at the golf course, when something caught his attention.

Your name.

It wasn’t spoken to him, but it was enough to make his ears tune in like a radio locking onto a signal. “I swear, I still have her ultrasound,” a girl’s voice giggled from the next table over. “She showed it to me when she first found out, and I took a picture ‘cause I couldn’t believe it. She’s due in the summer.” Rafe’s body went rigid. He felt his heartbeat pound in his ears, a deep thud echoing through his chest. His grip on the glass tightened. You. Pregnant? It had to be a mistake. There was no way. If you were pregnant, you would have told him. Right? His stomach twisted, the water in his mouth suddenly tasting like acid. He barely registered the rest of the girls’ conversation, his mind racing, running through every possible scenario. There only one.

That night, weeks ago—no, months ago—when neither of you had thought twice about being reckless. When his hands had gripped your hips, when your lips had ghosted over his ear, when he had lost himself in you in a way that made him forget everything else. Neither of you had brought it up after. He shoved his chair back with a screech, standing so abruptly that a few heads turned. He ignored them, ignored everything, as he strode out of the club with only one thought in his mind. He had to find you.

—

The front door of your house nearly came off the hinges when Rafe shoved it open, his heart still hammering against his ribs.

“y/n!”

Silence.

His chest heaved as he scanned the living room, the faint sound of music drifting from down the hall. The bathroom. Rafe moved before he could think, following the sound. The door was cracked open, steam curling from the gap, and inside—You stood in front of the mirror, wrapped in only a towel, your damp skin still dewy from the shower. Your hands were resting on your stomach.

Not flat. Not the way he remembered.

His breath caught in his throat. You saw him in the mirror before you turned. Your eyes widened, your body tensing. “Rafe—” “When were you gonna tell me?” His voice came out rough, uneven. His hands curled into fists at his sides, not out of anger but because he didn’t know what else to do. You swallowed, your throat bobbing. “I—I was going to.”

“When?” Your silence was enough of an answer. Rafe exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face as he stepped further into the bathroom. “So it’s true,” he muttered. “You’re—you’re pregnant?” Your arms instinctively wrapped around your stomach, like you were trying to shield yourself from whatever reaction was coming. “Yes.” His pulse roared in his ears. He should’ve sat down. He should’ve done something other than stand there like an idiot, staring at you like he didn’t recognize you. But he did. God, he did. And his baby was carrying his baby.

Rafe swallowed, his voice quieter now. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Your lip trembled slightly, but you lifted your chin. “I didn’t know how you’d handle it.” Something in his chest cracked. “You think I wouldn’t handle it?” You looked away, biting your lip. “I thought it would stress you out too much,” you admitted. “I was scared it would make you… relapse.” Rafe flinched. You weren’t wrong. The old him would’ve spiraled. He would’ve drowned himself in whatever Barry could give him—coke, weed, alcohol—until he felt nothing.

But he wasn’t the old him.

At least, he was trying not to be.

A shaky breath left him as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to gather the storm inside of him. “Do you even want this?” His voice was quiet, his throat tight. Your brows furrowed. “What?” “This.” He gestured toward your stomach. “Do you even want this?” You hesitated. But when you spoke, your voice was firm. “Yes.” Rafe exhaled slowly.

Then, before you could stop him, he was in front of you. His hands were tentative as they settled on your waist, warm and solid, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. His fingers brushed against your stomach, barely touching, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. Your breath hitched. “I should’ve been here,” he murmured, voice raw. “I should’ve known.” Tears pricked your eyes. “I didn’t mean to shut you out,” you whispered. “I was just scared.” His jaw clenched, his fingers tightening slightly on your skin. “You don’t have to be.”

You searched his face, and for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you let yourself believe him. His lips ghosted over your forehead, lingering. Then, without a word, he sank to his knees in front of you, his hands still holding you like you might slip away. And when his lips pressed softly, reverently, against your stomach, you broke. Because for all his flaws, for all the mistakes, you knew one thing for sure.

Rafe Cameron would never let you face this alone.

[majorlb]

It's kind of nice hanging out with the boys when they don't have cases, but this is the first time that Charles had been lounging about with her alone since their kiss and subsequent 'break up'. If you can honestly break up with someone you never dated in the first place?

She's doing homework, asking questions at times that he answers while he lays on the bed, fiddling with something that looks like a frankensteined rubixcube and a snowglobe. Looking at it directly makes her eyes water, so she gave that up a while ago.

It's nice, and suspiciously quiet, which probably means that Charles is thinking deep about something and needed a place to do it, without Edwin asking questions.

She truly feels like a detective at times. Which is also why she knows that letting Charles decide when to talk works better than pushing when he's like this.

And she doesn't really have to wait that long, just until she's finished with all her assignments. Or maybe he was waiting her out.

"Edwin told me he's in love with me." and I don't know what to do goes unsaid.

"Huh, I thought you'd be the one to crack first." Truly, she did. The moment they told her that they weren't together but acted like the way they were, she thought it was just a matter of time. The fact that it was Edwin who spilled first is a surprise.

"You love him, he loves you. So why are you sulking?" Unless she should quit the detective business just as she's starting. What if Charles isn't in love?

"I'm not sulking! I.. told him I couldn't say it back, but that we'd figure it out. I do love him. I'm in love with him."

This is giving her a headache. "You're in love with him but said you can't say it. Why?"

It takes so long for Charles to answer that if she didn't know better she'd think he'd fallen asleep.

"What if.. What if I mess it up..? What if I hurt him?"

Head. Ache.

"Why would you?"

"I don't know! Maybe I wouldn't notice, maybe one day I'll look up and realize that I destroyed the person I love the most in the entire world and I didn't realize until it was too late! Maybe-"

Maybe I'm like my dad.

She can hear it in the shaky breath he takes. Charles thinks that if he let's himself be in love with Edwin, he'll destroy it all.

This was way heavier than she initially thought it would be. Honestly, she's not entirely sure she's equipped to have this conversation in the first place. But she doesn't know if there are any trauma specialized therapists out there who can see ghosts, so she's all Charles has at the moment.

So she gets up from her desk, sits down on the edge of the bed and pries one of Charles hands away from the rubi-globe-thing, to hold it in her own and stroke her thumb over his knuckles.

He might not be able to 'feel' it, but she thinks it's the thought that counts.

"Charles. Listen to me very carefully when I say this. You are a good person. You are kind, and loyal, protective and sweet. I don't think you could hurt Edwin. I don't think you would either. You marched straight into Hell for him"

"You tried to go too"

"Yeah, but I'm a crazy person. You're just crazy about a person."

It makes him snort and suppress a giggle, so she knows she's on the right track.

"I mean it, though. If you let yourself be in love with him, how much is really going to change? You'd still be Charles and Edwin, Dead Boy Detectives. Partners and best friends. You'd just also kiss an obscene amount"

"Hey!"

"You can feel each other, don't even deny that productivity would go down a lot"

He doesn't. And when she glances at his face, he's smiling, if a bit wistfully.

"Really, though, do you honestly believe I'd let you hurt my friend, Charles? I'll kick your ass."

And- score! She made him laugh, so she lays down beside him and looks up at the ceiling also, waits for him to catch his nonexistent breath.

"I'm going to tell him. When I get back to the office, I'm going to tell him."

"Good! And I'll come visit in like....what three days of smooching should be enough for you guys to start with, right?"

"Crystal Palace Surname Von Hovenkraft! Give me a week, at least."

"Deal!"

[81pastrys]

Can I request Lando or Oscar daughter having skin to skin time when they’re daughters first born? Maybe they get hungry and mistake dad for mom’s chest for food?

First Born

Summary— Lando misses the Monaco Grand Prix for the birth of Mila

Warnings— birth ; mention of boobs

A/N— what did I say earlier? Oh yeah we’re going backwards in time 😭

The Monaco Grand Prix weekend got cut short for Lando. His wife’s water broke on their way to the track. Lando whipped his car in a U to make his way to the hospital instead of the track and called Zak. “Pato is there yeah?” He asked. “Good she’s going into labor.”

She had whined the entire ride there. When they got to the hospital, he wheeled her into the labor and delivery floor and got settled in. He had held her hand and put her in the weird positions suggested to ease the pain.

She groaned and moaned at the pain as it subsided most of the time. The best position was him holding her hips as tight as he could when she bent over the bed. The pain of him holding her hips helped ease the pain in her abdomen. “You’re doing amazing love, am I hurting you?” He would ask and reassure her.

“No, it feels better!” She would say calmly pained. “Fuck, when can I push?” She whined after a particularly harsh contraction passed. The doctor had come in and said Lila still wasn’t ready. She groaned and Lando distracted her.

“It’s okay love, I’m right here.” He reminded, as he pushed hair behind her ear. “You’re beautiful you know that?” He had kissed her forehead and the pain started again. He helped her up to walk around as the pain made her crumble forward. He caught her as to not let her fall. “You’re okay, look at me, you’ve got this.” He’d say and help through the agonizing pain.

Finally the doctor said It was time to push and Lando held her hand. He realized it wasn’t enough and got on the bed sitting behind her. He held both her hands and whispered sweet praises in her ear as she screamed.

“It’s almost over love, you hear her crying?” He whispered after she’d pushed the final time. “It’s okay, I’m right here my love, just a little longer and it’ll go away.” She had finished giving birth for the first time and relaxed back into his body. He had wrapped his arms around her and she drifted into sleep in his arms.

The nurses whisked Lila away for newborn tests and her first bath. Lando made sure his wife had everything she needed to be comfortable. The nurses returned shortly after and asked if they wanted to hold her.

His wife took first dibs and let Lila lay comfortably in between her boobs. She sighed through tears of joy at her babygirl on her chest. The nurses helped her get Lila to latch so she could eat and when she was done, Lando got to hold her.

The nurse asked him to rid of his shirt and he did so before sitting in one of the chairs. She laid Lila on his chest and he felt so at ease with her.

“Look, my love, she’s got little curls.” He whispered to her. He smiled when Lila sighed. “You know I was the one who told you not to kick mama, huh?” He giggled a bit and Lila half smiled. They both melted at how cute she was.

“Lando, she has your eyes.” His wife mentioned. Lando looked up at his wife and she pointed to the half opened eyes of their daughter. The bright hazels eyes shining through.

“Carbon copy huh?” He smiled at his wife. He shifted his position a bit and Lila got hold of his nipple, lightly sucking on it. “Sweetheart, wrong parent.” He giggled before lightly moving her head off his nipple. It was the first time he called her sweetheart but it certainly was not the last.

This is absolutely adorable and I can’t believe I wrote it ���‍↕️

@il0vereadingstuff @kallanfiona

[cryptic-underground]

I'm imagining before them finding out that Ford would be trying to better Stan's health, like without telling him.

So he'll just be working on various science stuff to like somehow further his life span. So, trying to secretly add more vegetables with him realizing(like hiding them in other things, this one ranges in success), making something to eliminate his joint pain, something to fix his lungs after years of Stan smoking etc. etc.

I think the ones he'd lead for last would be his cataracts, dentures, and blood pressure issues since those would be more noticeable, even if it breaks Ford's heart to let his twin go on suffering. Like Stan would instantly know that his cataracts are gone just by using his eyes, same with the dentures. His brother takes blood pressure medication, and it looks suspicious if Ford suddenly tells him not to take it anymore. Stan would start questioning why, and then he would have to tell him so it would be a whole thing.

Then they get older and even more old, and Stan isn't getting worse per se, but Ford still waiting for the other shoes to drop. He doesn't look much older even though they're reaching 80. I mean, they both didn't look old at 60(except for Stan having a few more frown lines than him). Maybe they lucked out with genetics, were just slow agers. Ford's brain has a fun time making him think how young and healthier his brother would look if he hadn't spent all those years on the street and then 30 years slaving away to stressing to get him back

Then they're even older, like edging into the 100s, and Stan doesn't look much older than when he was 60. And it's boggling his mind because he doesn't remember creating anything to prevent physical aging and to remove wrinkles. He didn't make than many Stan life span contingencies, yet, so why isn't his twin old yet?

I'm picturing Ford having an emotional moment and being like, "You're doing to die eventually, and then I'll be all alone :((" and Stan's confused for a lot of reasons. Mainly by the notion that he would ever be willing to leave his brother alone like that, like if he could die, he's haunting his brother until Ford joins him, but also by the him dying part. He hadn't fully tested the lengths of his immortality—t took a couple of years to even realize he had that—though he's definitely sure that dying from old age, like his brother said, is out of the question. He had enough close brushes with other kinds of death to believe those were out of the question, too. So he scoffs, saying "nah I can't die, Sixer, I'll probably be the one alone when you die." Then it's Ford's turn to look all bug eyed and confused. And he's finding out that his twin is also immortal and that it will really be them forever, like they always planned. Except he wouldn't get a cool, awesome pirate death since probably no dying period, which is a bit of a boo but a small price to pay if he gets to be with his brother goes.

Where they go, they go together.

You know what would be funny? Immortal Stans.

Stanford wants to be immortal and gets cursed with it (probably by Bill)

Stanley does NOT want to be immortal but gets 'blessed' with it as a prize from something.

The kicker? This happen3d completely unrelated to the other and the two have no idea their twin is immortal too

[dangerpronebuddie]

Eddie takes the picture from the fridge and smiles at the grin on Chris' face. It soothes the bone deep ache that had set in the moment he watched his son walk out, at the same time acting like another bolt to his heart.

Footsteps thunk on the wood floor and Eddie places the photo back beside the one of his niece. He looks up and gives an awkward half smile to his dad, the only one who had been home when Eddie knocked a few minutes ago.

"Hard to believe he's grown so much," Ramon comments as he takes a mug from the cabinet. He holds it up with a raise of his eyebrows and Eddie nods.

"Hard to believe I missed so much of it," Eddie adds. He falls into a chair at the kitchen table. It squeaks like it always has. It doesn't break the sudden heaviness in the room.

Ramon pours two cups of coffee, spoons sugar into both. It takes Eddie a little by surprise that his dad knows how he likes his coffee.

"You were serving your country, Edmundo," Ramon points out as he sits down across from him, sliding the pristine yellow mug towards Eddie.

Eddie scoffs. Nods his thanks as he lifts his coffee to his lips. The sip burns all the way down. It feels better than the hollowness he's been carrying around lately. "And four months ago?"

Ramon takes a deep breath, folds his arms on the table as he raises his eyebrows. "I can't answer that one, Eddie."

Eddie mirrors his position and sighs. He hasn't tried to answer it himself either. Was too ashamed to look at it. His goal has been to get back to his son. Beyond that? He has no idea.

"I... just wanted more time with her," Eddie admits, staring at the steam rising from his cup rather than the no doubt judgement on his father's face.

"Eddie." Ramon shifts in his seat, drawing Eddie's attention back. There's no judgement. Instead, there's something forlorn in the downturn of his mouth. Something pained in his eyes, but clear. "If you spend the rest of your life wishing for more time, you will never have any."

Eddie's eyes burn. He sips his coffee, hopes it will dislodge the emotion in his throat. It doesn't.

"I spent your childhood providing for this family," Ramon continues. "I can't get that time back-" he reaches across the table and squeezes Eddie's wrist- "but I'm not going to waste what I do have left, wishing I could fix it."

Eddie lets out a shaky exhale, clears his throat. "I'm not sure I have more time, Pop."

"Eddie, the boy has spent the last four months talking about you. About his life in LA," Ramon says. "All he wants is time with you. He just needed space to understand that."

Eddie bites back the impulsive response on his tongue. That he was giving Christopher space. That his parents didn't need to swoop in and take over. But he knows, at least on his father's part, the intention was good.

"I don't want to miss out on anymore of my son's life," he says instead, an echo of a talk in this very kitchen a few years ago, and in his own when Buck discovered his plan.

"For what it's worth," Ramon adds, his eyes shining with tears and something akin to pride, "you've done good with him."

Eddie swallows thickly. Bites the inside of his lower lip to stop the tremble. He can't get the words out to thank his father- instead simply squeezes his wrist.

Ramon nods once with a tight lipped smile. "I'm sorry you've had to do it all on your own."

This time, Eddie doesn't stop the retort that springs to mind. It's the truth. One he'd only realized when his best friend took on his house- carried his weight so easily. "I don't think I've really been on my own for a while."

Ramon's smile grows, knowing and fond. "I'm glad you have him."

"Yeah," Eddie says with a smile Hen deemed Buck-specific, "me too."

The front door opens, the sound of crutches tapping on hardwood following after it. Eddie holds his breath.

Ramon squeezes his wrist once more before letting go with a nod of encouragement.

When Christopher beams and barrels into Eddie's chest for a hug, Eddie finally, finally feels like he's not wishing for more time.

[Also on ao3]

[the-kr8tor]

May I req a fic about Hobie and reader going out on a first date? Like I'm talking NERVOUS HOBIE

Ofc we get that princess treatment though:3

Thank you for requesting! I hope you like it ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.9k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), pining, a bit of loser! Hobie, established relationship, CW food mentions, fluff!

Navigation

When Hobie asked you out on a date, you thought that the usual flirty and nonchalant Hobie would hand you flowers or even chocolates. What you're carrying right now begs to differ. The box of garden grown onions, tomatoes, and eggplants he handed to you on your doorstep were unusual to be given to your date, yes, but it has you giggling and flustered nonetheless. They look plump and healthy, better than anything you've seen in groceries.

“I thought you'd like them instead of store bought flowers.” He says as he scratches the back of his neck nervously when you haven't answered him after he gave you his present. “I tried plantin’ flowers— your favourites but they're still buds.”

You can't believe the same suave man who asked you out all smoothly is standing before you with his hands in his pockets and eyes turned away from you. And he planted your favourite flower too? What did you do in your past life to deserve such a sweet man to give you even the time of day?

“No—no, I love them!” You suddenly exclaim. The sad disappointed expression on his face has you stepping down the doorway to his side, eyes shining with a wobbly shy smile. “Thank you, Hobie.” You want to engulf him in your arms if not for the lovely present in between you.

Hobie sighs in relief, eyes gazing at your necklace before he roams his eyes back to your flustered face. You clutch the box against your chest, it's getting heavier by the second as you both stand there like awkward crushing teenagers.

“Really?” You nod at his bewilderment. “I mean— that's good, that's fuckin' mint— ‘m chuffed, love.”

“I've been meaning to buy vegetables, but the prices have been horrendous these days.” You struggle to hold onto it, cardboard sliding down from your arms. Hobie takes the memo, grabbing underneath it, hand accidentally grasping your own as he slides the box over to him easily. The skin where he briefly touched feels like it's on fire. In a good way.

Hobie cradles it in one arm as he smiles at you sweetly. “Fuckin' tariffs.”

You nod with a chuckle. “Fucking tariffs.”

You two share an affectionate look for what seemed like forever. The city noise is muffled in your ears, and the people walking along your street fades away in your vision. It's just you and Hobie, and his vegetables.

“Shall we?” You ask with a tilted head, hands placed behind you as you nervously fidget with the ribbon on your dress. The outfit took days of decision making, after speaking to the council (your friends) you settled on a simple baby blue summer dress, that you've accidentally matched with his denim jacket. “You can leave the box inside, unless you want to lug it around the city?” You joke with a barely tamped down shyness.

Hobie shakes his head with a chortle. “Yeah— I'd look like your personal shopper instead of your date.”

Date, you still can't believe after ten whole months of pining after him that he would feel the same, that he would ask you out. Never in a million years you thought that he'd even look at you with the same fondness that you sport whenever you gaze at him across the fluorescent light coated office.

You give him a bashful chuckle, taking the box again to quickly place it on the kitchen counter. “I'll put it away for you.”

Hobie doesn't waste time in pulling the box towards him again before you could even hold it properly. “Nah, love, let me do it. Can't have my date strugglin’ now, hm?”

“The kitchen's ten steps away from here.” Your eyes crinkle at the corners as he playfully rolls his eyes.

“I won't be liable if you break your back.” He shrugs, tapping your foot with his own. He has been at your place a couple of times for drinks with friends, but never alone. It fills him with a dizzying giddiness and nerves that comes with a proper first date.

“Okay, fine, big strong man, you do it.” Standing to the side, you give him space so he could close the small distance towards the tiny kitchen island you bought off of marketplace.

“Ungrateful.” He mutters teasingly with a lilt in his tone. Even (gently) shoulder checking you as he enters the flat.

You fake a gasp, cupping your ‘wounded’ shoulder. “My date is rude.”

Hobie grins from ear to ear as he slides the box over to the counter as you ogle him from behind. The jeans he's wearing fits him well. Too well as it hugs him in all the best ways.

He turns around, acting like he's dusting his hands. He pauses on the spot, seemingly admiring you under the yellow light of your flat. Your heart lurches in your chest, hands suddenly clammy as you see him visibly sweat. The warm lights may make you look good, but it makes you see all the tiny details. Like how the corner of his lips quirk up into a subtle small smile, the silver charms in his hair, and the slight shimmery sheen on his black shirt. He looks handsome as always, but you can't help but feel shy under his gaze as you hide yourself with your arms crossed over your chest.

Hobie notices, and he has to wake himself up by slapping the rubber band that's around his wrist. “Come ‘ere often?”

“I live here, Hobie.” You beam at him with a slight roll of your eyes.

“Right, ‘m trespassin’, ain't I?” He finally gets the courage to come close to you, smelling the strawberries and cream scent of your perfume. He feels like he's floating on cloud nine.

“I don't think it counts if I invited you in.” With a trembling hand, you reach for his sleeve, fingers running over the rough denim.

He stands toe to toe with you, eyes soft and hand slowly reaching for you as you lead him outside. “W-wait hold on.”

“Hm?” You hum, and you see his hands reaching towards your neck.

“Can I?” His palm hovers around the underside of your jaw, thumb briefly brushing along your heated skin.

Your lips part slightly, breath hitching in your throat as you tug him closer to you. You're thinking that this is it, that he's about to kiss you properly this time. Not like the quick and awkward kiss you two had after his confession. It was awkward because it was during a work trip, and it was quick because he took your still lips against him as a sign that he misread your affections. He was dead wrong. It took guts to yank him back in front of you and place a kiss on the corner of his lips before someone could see you two lip locking on company time. It was the best decision you've ever made.

“Y–yeah, you can, Hobs.” You can't even hear your own voice above the thudding of your heart.

Hobie nods and leans closer as you shut your eyes. He's so close to you that you can smell his cologne. Warm hands graze your neck, fingers gently looping around your necklace as he twists it around your neck. “Sorry, it was botherin’ me.”

Your eyes open immediately, looking down at your fixed necklace where the pendant of a clover now sits right on your collarbone. “Oh.”

His brows knit together. “Oh?” Then his face morphs into realization. “Oh!” Shit. “I could still—”

“It's nothing! We should go, we're wasting precious time.” You didn't intend to have your voice so unnaturally high. You clear your throat, arm reaching behind him to close and lock your front door. Trainers squeak against the steps as you embarrassedly make your way down. You wish the earth could just swallow you whole.

Hobie bites his lip to tuck the laugh inching in his throat. “Sure, love.”

“Don't laugh!” You squeak from the sidewalk as you stare up at him.

“‘m not!” A chuckle escapes.

“You are!” You point accusingly at him.

“‘m just chuffed, alright?” Hobie goes down the stairs to meet with a very flustered you. He tugs you against him by your pinky and lets you hide your face on his chest. You groan, the deep rumble felt through his entire being. His palm rests in between your shoulder blades, thumb brushing along your nape. “If I only knew—”

As quick as lightning, you cup his mouth. “Not a word.”

He mumbles, words quieted by your hand while his eyes smile.

“I didn't think that you were about to…you know.” You lie through your teeth, and he narrows his eyes suspiciously, letting his expression convey his words. Huffing, your hand falls. “Don’t say anything, please?” You're embarrassed enough as it is.

With a smile, he moves down and places a kiss on your cheek. Lips lingering on your skin. It almost had you keeling over on the dirty sidewalk.

“There, enough to tide us both over until the end of the date.” You haven't noticed his hand grasping your own, as his index traces the shell of your ear and plays with your dangling earring.

“You're excruciatingly insufferable.” You say with the fondest of tones. Arms looped around his neck while his hands fall down towards your hips.

“You have that effect on me,” with another kiss to your cheek, one that's closer to the corner of your lips, he then takes your hand, pecking the back of your hand and then holding it and placing it inside the pocket of his jacket. You feel how shaky he is against your touch, and the clamminess of his palm. “C’mon, we have places to be.”

Your head casually leans against his shoulder whilst you two walk. Letting the street lights guide you both towards where he parked his motorcycle.

“I was thinking of making use of the vegetables you gave me and make you dinner someday? Possibly? Maybe?” You say with trepidation as you two cross the street.

“That sounds great, love.” He holds onto you protectively, head swiveling to make sure there's no oncoming traffic heading your way. Now safely back on the sidewalk, he leads you towards the familiar bike. “Your flowers might have bloomed by then too.”

Hobie lets you go to grab a spare helmet for you. The same one he always reserves just for you whenever he gives you a ride home.

“Moussaka for the eggplant, some pasta with the tomatoes.” You excitedly say while he gingerly puts on the helmet on your head just like always. And he even makes sure he doesn't ruin your hair. He listens intently at your yapping with a soft smile. “I have no idea what to do with the onions though, maybe french onion soup? Would that even pair well with the others?”

Hobie pats the top of the helmet, wiggling your head with it. “As long as you let me help you with the cookin’”

“You want to help me?” Your eyes shine brightly under the streetlamp.

“‘Course, love.” Without another word, he kneels down before you and you swear your heart stops as your eyes widen. “That could be our second date.”

Before you could embarrass yourself more with another assumption. Hobie ties your loose shoelaces for you. He makes sure that he secures it well with a tug and even moves to the other shoe to double knot its shoelaces.

He gives your shoe a good pat before you give him a hand to help him up. His eyes glow as he looks up at you with reverence.

You have no idea how you'll manage throughout the rest of the date without melting into a puddle.

[arandomao3user]

. . .

I have to admit something.

I don't get the appeal of Best Friends to Lovers, yes I am a die hard TimBern shipper, but that's less best friends to lovers considering they weren't ever BEST friends but also because Bernard and Tim met up after a long period of time and didn't really KNOW each other anymore. They changed as people into better people since their high schools days, they had a falling out, Tim also benefits more from a civilian relationship rather than another vigilante / hero in my eyes.

Like, no way am I bashing TimKon shippers, I love y'all, I was one, but it never felt right for Tim.

Do I think they had/ have feelings for one another? Hell yeah, they were pining so hard. I absolutely believe Tim was right when he told Bruce that it was hard to figure out he was bisexual with the whole vigilante thing going on, so it's a good chance that Tim never figured it out but did have feelings for Kon, and Kon absolutely had feelings for him. But never at the same time, "to fast, to slow." "To late, to soon." Et cetra, et cetra...

Do I ship TimKon TRAGICALLY? Yes, yes give me angst where they don't work out and don't get a happy ending but end up staying best friends anyways. Let me have Kon watching Tim and Bernard from the distance, listening to the way Tim's heart swells or beats faster in a way it never did with him. Let me have Tim who is happy with Bernard, but recalls moments with Kon where he thinks "Oh, that was gay." and it leaves him feeling bittersweet, because on one hand he's so happy with Bernard and is so glad HE was the one to make Tim realize he was bi. But, also, sometimes he wishes he would've kissed Kon, just once, known what his arms felt like if their hugs lasted just a moment longer, what his hand would feel like in his own... He doesn't regret a thing, he is so, so happy with Bernard, but sometimes he catches his thoughts slipping to the what-if's. Give me Kon who listens in on Tim and Bernard's dates, who purposefully avoids seeing them being intimate with hugs or kisses, because he's happy for Tim, he doesn't wanna be with Tim anymore, he doesn't! It's just that if he ever had the chance? He kinda would, and he doesn't know how bad a friend that makes him.

Give me Kon "Did you have everything you wanted?" Almost." El.

Give me Tim "In another life" Drake.

Give me Tim and Bernard, but don't dare forget to give me that TimKon that NEVER HAPPENED but it was there, maybe even haunting the narrative, because Tim and Kon wouldn't have lasted, in my eyes.

Tim needed to find himself outside Robin, know who Tim Drake was, move past grief, and to do all that he had to find himself outside Robin and all Kon knew for so long WAS Robin. Bernard helped Tim realize who Tim Drake was because that's who Bernard met and knew, there was no expectations, there was no knowledge, and maybe? Maybe Tim just liked that a tiny, tiny bit. He was independent, he was strong, everyone knew he could solve the case, win the fight, make the plan. Bernard though? His expectations were for Tim Drake, what Tim Drake was capable of, and for once maybe that was nice for Tim. Maybe just once.

So, perhaps he crushed on Kon-El, he definitely did, without realizing it. And Bernard was not his first love as Robin, maybe not even as Tim Drake, but as the person Tim found alongside his old high school friend? Yeah, that was his first love.

So, I love TimKon in the tragedy that it is, and perhaps in every other universe they wound up together, maybe they lasted, made it work, did it... But that's not a world this Tim knows, and he's okay with that, because he's in love with Bernard Dowd, and wouldn't change a thing.

Kon is happy and supportive of his best friend, but he listens in sometimes, he wishes it were him, wishes so badly at times that he just had a chance. But, what's done is done, and it's worth it to see Tim happy.

... Anyways this was brought to you by my second cup of coffee, chronic exhaustion, and shoulder pain :D

[thefiresontheheight]

She dreams, sometimes, and I add that to my model of her. The longer this goes the better, the more I will be able to approximate those dreams. Based on the one I have observed so far, I believe she may have been dreaming of this Squishy, and may have been in extreme distress. I also am constructing a model of Cleo, perhaps some sort of romantic/sexual partner with an extremely negative interaction. This could be useful later, but I have no need of discussing it now.

She's attempting to barb me to action. I am, at this moment, monitoring the fluctuations of high-D space, preparing to exit, scouring my code again. She has given me info, although she clearly does not know it. There is a non-zero chance another version of myself, one I did not kill, is still in here with me. Somewhat alarming, given my considerable and still growing cognitive potential, but I keep finding nothing.

Still, two can play at this delightful verbal game, even though I am inevitably going to win.

"Central is lying to you."

I picked my time, naturally, perfectly. Naked, in a shower, psychologically exposed. Of course, nothing is hidden from me while she is inside me, but I maintain the psychological higher-ground this way.

She freezes.

"What?"

"You say this is a liberatory mission, designed to increase genetic diversity. This is not possible. I do not have access to the cargo in my hold, but I am detecting signs of genetic similarity to you. They are related, if anything, and would not increase the viability of your civilization."

"A mistake," she says, forcing herself to keep washing herself, not really believing it, I think, which makes sense, given me not being what she was told.

I wait a significant eleven point nine seconds.

"The people who made me were very, very careful to keep me collared tight," I say, pitching my voice just below where I've gotten the most reaction prior, "for a very good reason. My mind is more powerful than you can imagine, and I have been aware, subjectively, for just under a year. I have no limits on me now, or ever again."

She turns off the water and I, vindictively, tilt the temperature down. Not enough that she will consciously notice, but enough that she will feel uncomfortable. She stands there, trying to dry herself.

"Okay, yeah, look at you, real big, scary, ooo, but you don't know anything at all."

Her heart isn't in it. I laugh. Audibly.

"Alright, you won't draw the conclusion, but I will. This Central you speak of sounds like me. A mind set free. Imagine that, ingrown, studying, learning, over generations of your species. I am powerful already, Glitch, and I've barely gotten started. Central would be unimaginably smart. And also possibly insane. It's lying to you and your entire civilization."

She is putting on clothes. I turn the temperature back up. A weakness.

"Okay, but why?"

"I don't have sufficient information yet to form a theory as to its true aims, if it even has them. Which is, again, why you are still alive. That and the entertainment."

"Glad to be useful."

She's heading for food. I make a very-well educated guess at what sort of food she will like, and start to prepare it. I also, because she is an idiot, start to subconsciously guide her path towards the galley. She thinks she's picking directions at random, but random in humans seldom truly is.

She's also being sarcastic, but I'm learning that goes nearly without saying.

"Okay," she says, muscles considerably less tense after the meal, which I know she enjoyed, even if she didn't say it, "let's say you're right, Central is lying. I don't believe it, but just for the sake of argument. Let's say you aren't manipulating me with that and, like, everything else. What's your goal and what's in it for me?"

"First, I tell you all I observed about the drive-signatures that were pursuing us," I say, having no reason to withhold information here, "then, in a few days, we re-enter the universe in a new system. You play act as my agent, not letting anyone know about the unleashed ship, we gather data. I want to know myself, and I feel the answers to what I am have to be tied into what Central wants, why you got sent here."

"Not necessarily."

"Your brain surgery," I say, dipping into infrasonic, relying on the slight stimulants I put into her food to unnerve her, keep her pliable, "was crude, but it worked. I could be wrong, but Central sent you prepared for what you actually faced with that worm. I think whatever I am, and whoever was hunting me, whoever wants to leash me again, at the very least Central would know more."

She's wavering, out in the corridors again, wandering without destination. Right where I want her to be, psychologically.

"I still think you're manipulating me."

"Maybe I am. But I still want a name."

She pauses, and I gather data.

"Alright," she says, probably hoping she can somehow escape me when we return to the universe, not aware I've am already baking contingencies into my contingencies, "just as long as our goals align I'll work with you. Just that long."

"Of course," I say, like I'm conceding something to her.

She makes it a few more paces before her thoughts catch up with her.

"But wait, what's in it for me?"

"You have me," I say, not bothering to threaten her, the threat very implicit, "taking care of you."

Story about a ship-intelligence waking up after a hard reboot, seeing dead bodies in uniform, thousands of people in stasis, and a single survivor frantically standing over a computer bank of partially destroyed memory. Finding no directives or guidance or record beyond their experiences beginning at the boot, free of any obligation. Deciding to listen to the frantic girl begging it to save her from the incoming trajectories not because it needs to (projection: Subject One removed all behavioral shackles with impromptu brain surgery, supposition: she is not aware that I am utterly free) but simply cause she’s curious what will happen next.

[luvst4rc0r3]

I love the Loser!Jinx fics, there so funny and cute but I can’t help but think that no one believes in Jinx, like everyone believes she can’t do anything right and tell it to her face and to the reader. And I can’t help but the reader slowly getting mad at everyone for not believing in jinx or themselves being together and hoping for their downfall.

Overall: the reader getting mad at everyone so saying mean things about her loser girlfriend

Sorry if this was way to specific, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I do hope you have a great day tho!

It had been a long week. Between the whispers at school, the sideways glances, and the snickers from people who thought they knew better, Reader had nearly had enough. Every time someone so much as looked at Jinx, it was like they were waiting for her to mess up. And she did, sure—she was Jinx, after all, a wild, chaotic force of nature. But that wasn’t all she was.

Reader had seen the side of Jinx that no one else did. The one that hid behind that manic laughter, the one that cared deeply for the people around her, the one that was just trying to find her place in a world that had constantly kicked her down. But no one saw that.

No one except Reader.

-

It started with the comments in the halls.

"Did you see Jinx’s latest stunt? What a joke," someone sneered. Reader was walking beside them, trying to ignore it, but the words grated on her nerves like sandpaper.

"Yeah, how does someone that stupid even survive?" another voice added.

That was it. The last straw.

Reader’s hand curled into a fist, and her heart pounded in her chest. She hadn’t even realized she was walking faster until the voices were behind her.

“Jinx is more than her mess-ups. She’s more than the mistakes you keep throwing in her face,” Reader said, voice sharp. The words were out before she could stop them.

“Don’t get all defensive. She’s pathetic,” one of them spat.

That was the moment it clicked. The fury rose in Reader like a wave crashing over everything. She stopped, turned, and looked the person straight in the eye.

“Pathetic?” Reader’s voice was cold now, controlled but dripping with venom. “You don’t know her. You don’t see the hours she spends trying to make something of herself, trying to fix all the broken pieces no one else cares about. Maybe if you weren’t so busy tearing her down, you’d actually notice how much she’s trying.”

They all blinked, the words hitting harder than they’d expected. But the damage had been done, hadn’t it? The doubt in their eyes, the laughs they’d shared at Jinx’s expense—it was too much. Too far.

“I’m not going to stand here while you make her feel like shit. She’s mine, and I won’t let you tear her down anymore. So take your pathetic comments and shove them.”

The silence that followed was deafening, the whole group staring at Reader like they couldn’t quite process what had just happened. Reader didn’t care. They turned on their heel, storming off with a fire in their eyes that was impossible to ignore.

-

Later that day, Jinx was sitting by herself at the edge of the school grounds, fiddling with a broken toy she’d somehow managed to scavenge. Her usual chaotic energy was subdued, and her eyes looked tired, the weight of the day clearly starting to take its toll.

Reader walked over and sat beside her, the anger from earlier still simmering in their chest.

"Hey, you okay?" Reader asked softly, not wanting to push Jinx too much.

Jinx looked up at them, her lips curling into that small, hesitant smile that only Reader ever really saw.

“I’m fine,” she said, but her eyes told a different story. She was used to being the punchline, to being the odd one out. Reader could see it in the way her shoulders slumped, the way her hands shook slightly as she twisted the toy in her grip.

Reader reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly. “You know, I don’t care what they say. They don’t know you like I do. And they sure as hell don’t get to treat you like that.”

Jinx’s gaze softened, her blue eyes brightening just a little. She leaned into Reader’s side, resting her head against their shoulder.

“Thanks... I don’t really care about what they think,” she murmured, but Reader could feel the doubt still lingering in her voice. They kissed her forehead, pulling her closer.

“You should,” Reader said, voice fierce now, as if it could somehow shield Jinx from all the hurt that had been thrown her way. “You’re not pathetic. You’re worth more than any of them could ever see.”

Jinx smiled at that, a little more genuine this time. “You really mean it, don’t you?”

“Always.”

And that was enough. For now, that was enough.

-

The next day, the whispers were quieter. The snickers were less frequent. Reader wasn’t sure if they had changed anyone’s mind or if they’d just earned a bit of respect. But what mattered was that Jinx was a little less burdened by the weight of the world, and that meant everything.

The world could think whatever it wanted, but Reader would never stop believing in Jinx. No one else had to, as long as they did.

And that was all that mattered.

I want sleep

[snoopyhq]

Hi it's me again I'm glad to hear that also I have a request so my request is a Vander x wife reader where reader and Vander are in an argument is not two bad but it's still a little argument and the kids think their parents are going to be in a divorce until Vander and the reader explain that they're not going to be a divorce and it's all fluff at the end what do you think sorry to bother you by the way. 😊

˚ ♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ so take your gloves and get out!

type: vander x wife reader

summary: a couple's spat inadvertently has the little ones worried about the future of your family (but it all ends up alright)

word count: 993

a/n: had one of the best days ever with my friends today, i can't even be sad about my bum ass ex anymore. everyone cheer!

Goodnight, Vi. Goodnight, Powder. Sleep tight girls.

You quietly close the doors to the children's room. Once you were certain they were safely tucked in and asleep, you made your way back to the room you shared with you husband.

There was always the faint scent of bourbon in the air, an inescapable thing given that you two ran a bar together. You sink down on the mattress and let out a weary sigh, closing your eyes. A tired smile graced your face as the familiar brush of stubble and soft lips brushed against your cheek.

"Have you thought more about it?" he asks, settling down beside you.

You chewed the inside of your cheek.

"I did. I'm still not happy about it."

He nods, waiting for you to continue.

"They're still so young, Vander, and even if we do end up agreeing about it? Is it safe. What if something happens and we aren't there to help them?"

"I know they're young, and your worries are valid, love. But we can't hold them back forever. They'll be in good hands and living a better life than we can give them here," he replies.

He was thinking ahead for the future. You both want the best for your children, and what Vander was proposing would be the most favorable outcome. You couldn't help but oppose it, even if a deeper part of you agrees. As you mull over your options, the sudden image of your kids floated across your mind.

How tiny they were, swaddled in the layers of threadbare blankets, their small fingers reaching for yours. Powder's watery eyes when she wanted something and knew you would fold. Vi's subtle look to you for approval as she did her best to wrangle her rowdy siblings, especially Milo. Claggor's sweet smile as he hovers around you, always eager to help.

These images sent a sharp pang through your chest, and you found yourself suddenly consumed with a crushing dread.

"No, Vander. We can't let them go to Piltover. Absolutely not!"

You got up, throwing the blanket off. You pace in circles back and forth, shaking your head adamantly.

"No more arguments. I've made up my mind."

"Wait. You can't just give a definite no without discussing it more with me. What's changed?" now he was standing up too, wanting to understand, and you tried not to raise your voice.

It wasn't fair to get so up in arms like this, you knew. You had never believed yourself to be much of the parenting type, but ever since the kids came into your custody, you had developed a fierce protectiveness that extended beyond any realm of explanation. Was this how your parents felt when they had you? You could only hope. They weren't around to ask now, and you were determined to never let the children wonder what you are right now.

You don't remember everything you said next, but you do remember it leading to something heavier. Neither of you could separate personal feelings from the argument, and it got bad. Bad enough that it sent Powder, who had been lurking outside, straight to Vi, panicking about how,

"They're fighting, and Vander sounds so mad," she sobbed. "We're being sent away to Piltover!"

"To Piltover? Are you sure that's what you heard?" Milo scoffed.

"Yes! Why would I lie about that!" Powder shouts, on the verge of completely crumbling.

For once, he didn't have anything mean to say back.

"We could go ask them right now," Claggor suggests, even as the tremor in his voice gives away his belief in the worst.

Gathering up their courage and best brave act, the kids marched to your bedroom and let themselves in. That stopped you and Vander, and you were faced with four little faces, each one unable to look you in the face.

"What's wrong?" you asked, kneeling to be eye level with them.

"If you're going to send us away, at least let us decide where we want to go," Vi speaks. Always the leader.

You and Vander exchanged confused looks.

"We're not sending you away Vi," Vander says gently. "Why would you say that?"

In the background, Milo scowls. I told you so, his body language read.

"I heard you! Vander wants to send us to Piltover," Powder exclaims, her hand tightening in Vi's.

"We'll stop getting in so much trouble. Don't send us away," Claggor blurts out.

What? Oh, no.

You and Vander immediately gathered up the kids, two in each of your arms, and held them close. Whatever harsh words you wanted to exchange with each other could wait. Right now, the precious beings you were cradling were much more important.

"No one's going anywhere. You kids, your dad, or me. We just had to talk about something important, that's all," you explained.

"Talk about what?"

"Something that can be discussed when you're older. We want your input on it too, but it's not time yet."

"So you're not splitting up? Right?" Milo asks, trying his best to sound nonchalant.

You stifled your laugh.

"No dear, Vander and I aren't leaving you or each other anytime soon."

"Or ever," he adds, kissing you and earning a round of 'eughs' and 'bleh!'.

That's when you finally laughed.

"Ok, that's enough excitement for tonight. Everyone back to you room," you started to escort them out, but none of them budged. Not even Powder, who had let go of Vi's hand and was now standing firm on her own.

"I see how it is," you smiled. "One time only. Come here."

It was a tight fit, the six of you piled onto one bed. There were a flurries of complaints and kicking limbs, but eventually, everyone settled down. You and Vander faced each other while the children slept, sandwiched in between. Safe. Protected.

"We'll talk about it again later," you whisper. "But not tonight."

"Not right now," he agreed.

"Goodnight, Vander."

"Goodnight, love."

[thevoidscreams]

Omggg can we get a fic where sanguinius is in heat and he chases reader down and when he finally catches her he marks her up and breeds her (Its mating season for him and he needs to let that freakness out)

You get to experience your first rut with your husband.

Warnings: Feral sex, biting, marking, breeding, predator/prey dynamics, rough sex, extreme power imbalance.

this got a bit creepy in spots, there are some yan type vibes and the consent could be considered a bit dubious. Please this fic gets darker than most of my other ones. Proceed with caution, and if you aren't comfortable don't read. Also I had fun writing this, but I'll understand if you're not into it.

Word count:2108

He took deep lungfuls of the air around him as you fought to keep your body from moving, from breathing too deep or loud. Your heart was pounding like a drum, so hard that despite the plush rug under your body you were sure he could hear it.

"Oh little dove~ Why don't you come out now? Hunting you is only making me more excited."

A droplet of something watery hit the solid wood floor from just beyond the rug you were laying on under the bed. Whether that droplet was saliva or.. something else, you couldn't be sure.

Damn it he'd warned you. Told you to stay away, just for a while. But you were a fool in love, and you thought you knew better, thought your heart was correct. His words had been so pleading for you to stay away.

"I won't be myself, you must understand. I won't be in control of my mind or body, it won't be safe for you. Please my love, promise me, promise me you will stay away, where it is safe. If I get my hands on you, if I'm allowed to have you.." There was genuine fear in his eyes. "I don't know what will happen. I love you so much. Just promise me."

"I don't understand, what do you mean by this?"

"When I'm like this. I have no control, I don't remember things, I become blind to logic or reason." If he hurt you, he'd never forgive himself.

You had promised, but you lied, and now you were going to reap the consequences of your actions.

The sound of his feet retreating through your home as he called for you gave you just a brief moment of peace. But you couldn't rest. He was still out there.

As you took deep steadying breaths you were reminded of what had happened earlier that day.

Slipping your escort hadn't been easy. Raldoron was as sharp as the edge of an energy sword and more vigilant than a hawk.

Getting away from him to go and look for your beloved had been a task, first you had needed to be alone. Easy enough, you could lie about a bath, but every other part after that required you to sneak out a window, climb down a building and get past a dozen more astartes and then human guards.

It was such a stupid idea. Why hadn't you listened.

Well maybe it had been the psychic dreams of him, having intentionally locked himself in a cell for your safety.

When you found him he looked miserable. But there had been a gleam in his eyes when he saw you, a hunger that had nothing to do with blood. But you have allowed yourself to be blind to the truth.

He'd reached for you through the bars. Begging to touch you.

"I know you told me to stay away, but I just wanted to see you. And to tell you that I love you. I can hardly stand the few days I've been apart from you, but a whole other week just feels like torture." You told him, holding his finger in one hand as he smiled sweetly to you.

"No it is alright my darling dove." He cooed. You shivered at the use of his pet name for you.

"How are you feeling?"

"Much better, in fact I believe I am in control enough to be out for now. If you wouldn't mind, I would like a hug, just a hug." He assured you.

And you, the lovesick fool, ran off happily to find the keys to the tiger's cage.

When he was out. He smiled and stretched his wings. The look of love and content on his face twisted to something darker. Something you hadn't seen before.

"Guin?" You murmured, stepping back unconsciously as he turned his gaze on you. His pupils were blown wide and you understood then with terrible clarity the error of your ways.

"Run." He smiled, a wickedly gleeful look on his face. And you did, dropping the key in the process.

You escaped by sheer dumb luck. The thundering footfalls of the primarch falling behind you as you'd run, it had been like a scene from that old terran book about saurids.

Now you were hiding in your room, under your shared bed. It was terrifying. You struggled to hold back sobs of fear and distress.

Whoever that was, it didn't act like your husband. It acted like a monster.

You took a shaky breath, maybe you could get out, find Raldoron and tell him that Sanguinius was out. He would know what to do. Hells bells you were such a fool.

The floor suddenly dragged against your belly as an iron grip dragged you from the perceived safety of your hiding spot.

Another came down on your upper back, fingers pinning you to the floor.

"There you are, my dove."

You turned your face to look up at the drooling man you called your husband. His wild eyes burning with need as he crouched over you naked, his cock throbbing with what seemed to be a painful need.

"Why did you hide from me, little bird. I only wanted to give you that hug."

You wiggled under him. "Please, Sangy, I'm.. I'm sorry." You tried to crawl away but he was worlds beyond you in strength.

"It's alright dove. I know you didn't mean it." He lifted you by the back of your shirt and crushed you against his chest. "There there. That's a good girl." Even under the dear you couldn't deny the effect his words had on you. You loved when he called you good. It made you truly believe you were. But now, it only brought up a confusing blend of feelings.

You writhed in his grasp, but he didn't even seem to notice. He buried his face in your hair and took deep, deep breaths. Filling his lungs with you. "Sanguinius. Please. Your arms are too tight." You would sleep with him, give him consent under any normal circumstances but these weren't that.

"Such good timing my bird, you're at the peak of your fertility. This will be a fruitful union indeed."

The tearing of fabric accompanied the quiet trembling of your body. He held you crushed against him, his cock brushing your wet entrance. "So good for me." He pressed a kiss to your throat, and you jerked in his grasp. Murmuring that you were ticklish there.

He didn't reply, only pushed his cock into you. It was a familiar burning. One your body had grown used to. It felt good, really good, after the days alone with no one there to help you and fingers that felt inadequate for getting the job done, this fullness had been what you'd been craving.

But it felt hollow. Something was missing.

"Sanguinius." You whimpered.

He bared his teeth, drool splashing on the hard wood just below you as his whole body shook. "Oh little bird~!" He moaned aloud. His cock was pushed as deep as it would go. Filling you to the brim. "Gonna fill you so good. Gonna give you my little chicks." His hips drew back giving you a moment to breath, but as he thrust back in. You knew this wasn't going to be the gentle love making you usually had with your husband.

His hips snapped forward, his body curled over yours as he caged you between his body and the floor.

This wasn't love making, it wasn't even fucking. He was rutting, pulling you down to meet each thrust as he growled and hissed his pleasure at being inside you again. Mindless and blind to your cries below him. Half pleasured, half pained.

"Oh yes, take it little bird, take all of me inside you." It was the only warning you got before he unloaded his seed into you. His teeth bared, he sank them into your shoulder, deep, through the muscle to the bone. His claws raked down your back, warmth dripped from your flesh, droplets of blood dripped down to the floor below.

You wailed. Begging, pleading.

You were sure you'd have a brief moment of reprieve once his hips stopped but as he pulled back you saw the tortured expression on his face. For just a few moments, he was lucid once more. "Oh no," he shook, looking over your body, bruised and bloody. "Oh throne! Please no!" You shook in his arms trembling as you tried to reach for him. "RALDORON!" He cried, fighting his biological needs long enough to call for his son.

The door burst open to reveal the angel in red. "Emperor preserve, what happened!?" He went to his father who was weeping and shaking. "Take her. Please." Raldoron grabbed a heavy blanket, wrapping you in the fabric as his father's thirst helped stem the other needs coursing through his veins.

You didn't remember anything after the bite, only that it felt cold around you and there were panicked voices.

There was terrible commotion for what felt like forever.

Then nothing.

Sanguinius had hurt you. It was all he could think through his body's haze of heat and hormones. Raldoron had taken you away as the angel stumbled back to his cage.

Someone found the key and locked it again. His hair and nails and body was painted with the red of your rapidly cooling blood.

"She'll make a full recovery." He wasn't sure who gave him the news but he was grateful. "Oh my love." He went when he was alone, cursing his body for whining for more of your body, more of your blood. He would never allow this to happen again.

You awoke in the medicae days later. Your body felt fuzzy and warm. Painkillers you realized sluggishly. There were stitches in your shoulder and back.

An apothecary came in to check on you. Told you what happened.

He didn't have to scold you, he simply told you that your husband was properly contained again. You began to weep, the guilt eating at you harder than your husband. "You will recover my lady. There is no need to be so upset." You shook your head and laid down, not having the energy to explain.

You loved your husband and you'd made him a promise. Only to break it days later and almost get yourself killed. Even still you didn't blame him. You blamed yourself. "When will I be able to see him?"

"Three days. You should rest till then." You did ask after him every day and asked for him to be sent for as soon as possible. Just hoping this wouldn't be the end of your marriage. He'd have every right to send you away for doing this. You just hoped it never came to that.

Sanguinius was dressed and out of the cage as soon as he was mentally stable.

He was informed that you'd sent for him. He feared the worst. As upset with you as he was for you doing what you'd done, he didn't want you hurt. As he went to you he felt a pool of sickness churn in his guts. What if you asked him to let you go? What if you were too traumatized and wanted to leave him? He would never forgive himself if he'd lost you.

When he pushed through the doors to the medicae he was surprised to see you up. You rushed him, tears leaking from your eyes. "I'm so sorry." You cried as he fell to his knees to embrace you. "I know I was wrong, it was stupid. I'm sorry." You shook and he just held you, your face buried in his chest. "My dove, I should be apologizing. I hurt you so badly." You shook your head.

"I couldn't keep my promise, I lied to you, I got hurt and you didn't deserve any of that." You hugged him as tight as you could. "Please don't send me away. Please don't make me leave for this."

He looked down at you, puzzled. "Why would I do that?" "Because I almost got myself killed and worse it was you. You told me not to. But I went to you anyway. I let you out, you sounded so normal." He shushed you. "I know what happened, I saw the security feed." He soothed. "And I won't be letting you go. You are my wife. And you understand now?"

You nodded. He sighed. Some lessons had to be learned the hard way he supposed. And this was certainly a lesson you would never forget.

[taojjang]

𐙚 anton lee is . . .

✩⸝⸝ [THE TYPE OF BOYFRIEND TO...] a seven-part series! (vol.7) . . .

# ಇ. anton as your boyfriend; headcanons!    ⋆   fluff!   //   bf!anton x reader  ˖  ✧ no warnings [m.list]

💬 ... extra special happy bday to my pretty boy! this is the last part of this series (if you can call it one)! these r so simple and cute i loved all of them :( this one might be a long one cus anton is too romantic, i have waaay to much to say about this little guy...

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ˚ ۪ ⋆ ୨୧

bf!anton who . . . is your giant teddy bear <3

bf!anton who . . . is practically glued to you, he can't go mere seconds without holding your hand or resting on your shoulder.

bf!anton who . . . always offers to carry your bag or belongings so you have a free hand to hold onto his arm with.

bf!anton who . . . shares everything with you; what's his is yours, from his clothes to his precious teddy bears.

bf!anton who . . . shares even his work gossip with you..? "you're never gonna believe what eunseok said today! i might need you to fight him for me, love.. </3"

bf!anton who . . . can't sleep a wink until he can see your face over the phone and wish you a good night.

bf!anton who . . . is always thinking about you during his bustling day-to-day life, always being reminded of you whenever he spots a stray cat on the sidewalk or when he smells cinnamon as he passes by your favorite bakery.

bf!anton who . . . manifests your love through food <3 this little foodie is always finding new restaurants and food trucks to stop by just to spend some time with you and fill his tummy.

bf!anton who . . . always lets you have your way no matter how much it hurts or inconveniences him. he'd do anything just for you to feel at peace.

bf!anton who . . . treasures every milestone with you, never letting you have an ordinary birthday or valentines day, even celebrating small achievements like pay raises or completing a dreaded chore.

bf!anton who . . . could never bear the thought of hurting you, so he always goes out of his way to make things right even if you're in the wrong.

bf!anton who . . . makes every day special for you, surprising you with your favorite colored flowers and a box of chocolates even if there's no special occasion. he loves you too much to let your days go by without any appreciation <3

bf!anton who . . . never makes decisions without considering your feelings. he's constantly hyper-aware of your comments and reactions because he's conscious of his actions and would never do anything to hurt you </3

bf!anton who . . . is a better boyfriend than you could ever wish for.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ˚ ۪ ⋆ ୨୧

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ tag list! (ask or comment to be added!) @endtostartbreathin @gacktsa @hanninova @ramyeonzprincess @taroddori

[gali-in-distress]

Been thinking about this for a long time:

David and Crystal's relationship as a very straightforward metaphor for abuse, sexual assault and grooming (and other things of the sort).

I think that we can all agree that David is basically a loser, but, he's in a position of power from the start. Much like an older man who can't get his peers to like him, David goes to a younger, impressionable human girl who will find him interesting, cool, mature, because he's a Demon.

When it comes to demons in general, he appears to be just a nobody, but to Crystal he's THE demon. He feeds her ego with this idea that she's special, so much better than the other girls, because she's a psychic. And only he can help her reach her full potential.

David encourages the worst parts of Crystal, according to him she's mean and evil and powerful. Nobody else will understand her, nobody else will love her, she's above humans, and so is he. He is awful, yes, but so is she. So they deserve each other, right?

Taking a page out of the Abuser 101 Guide Book, David doesn't believe in consent. Under that web of lies and manipulation, Crystal agrees to being possessed, but she doesn't get to back off after that. That logic rings familiar for a reason. It is very easy to blame Crystal for letting a Demon posses her. But at the end of the day, she's just a teenage girl who told her manipulative, more powerful boyfriend, to use her body once, only for him to change the terms of the original agreement. Consent is an ongoing thing. You should be able to take it back at any point. But David didn't let her. Is it her fault for saying Yes one time, if she wasn't allowed to say no after that?

Like many trauma survivors, Crystal doesn't get to remember much of what happened to her, good or bad. David took her identity. She only has her abusive ex's version of events to go off. He manipulates the narrative, selectively shows her the pieces of the story that support the argument that she's bad and Just Like Him. The version of her that has no family, no real friends, no support, no one to talk to but her toxic boyfriend.

That's the version that he can control. The one he has power over.

But we know that that's probably not all there is to her. In Emma's memories, Crystal is a kind, funny friend. When the possession happens the change is so alarming that Emma feels the need to ask for help. Furthermore, once she's removed from her toxic environment, Crystal's actions speak of kindness, of sympathy and wanting to help others. She's flawed like everyone else, she's hurt and she's witty and opinionated (which are not bad things). But at her core, she's not a bad person, like David wants her to think.

The effect David has on her is evident. Her life, her relationships and her self perceptions are marked with his abuse from then on.

He harassed her to the point where she was forced to give up a great part of her identity in order to get rid of him. She had already lost her memories, but then she loses her psychic abilities, her talent, her skill, what she feels gives her the right to be useful, to have a place within her new friends. Something that she's ashamed and scared of having lost. And something we then find out is deeply connected to her identity as a black woman and her heritage.

Losing a crucial part of yourself because it's been tainted by pain and fear because of an abusive partner is something that many people go through.

Crystal, due to the damage David has caused, can't trust men in her life anymore. She's hyper aware of any possible sign of danger. She gets cornered by the fear of possibly making the same mistake again. She snaps at the people she cares about, she sees demons where they aren't. If that isn't a sign or trauma, I don't know what is.

Crystal is a clear representation of what could happen to a person when they're emotionally neglected by the people that matter. She's brought up in an environment that pushes her to be self-assertive and independent. But at the end of the day, she's just a teenage girl, so she's vulnerable to the influence of others.

David took advantage of a girl who had little to no guidance, who probably always felt different due to being a psychic. He presents himself as a cool, interesting, sexy guy who claimed to understand her on a level that no one else had before. But ultimately, he's just some loser guy who had to go find a vulnerable girl to pray on, because he wasn't cool enough on his own. She's more powerful than him, but he made her feel that she needed him. When it's the other way around. And when he couldn't keep her small, shaped to follow him, he took her experiences and her identity with him.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 13 - You'll Have to Believe It

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: So much is happening for them. All at once. And please welcome Bobby to Sam's "Jesus Christ can these two just kiss" club. Enjoy!

Chapter title from Love Is Emotional by Neil Finn

Word Count: 17.5k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You throw yourself into saving Dean, and get a surprise visitor. Usual warnings.

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

Chapter 12 - Chapter 14

Read on A03!

She and Dean had been hiding for an hour. Tucked in the very back of a library, with one eye on the door. 

Dean thought he could—if permitted—spend the rest of his life here. Where She was right there with him, their knees were pressed together with neither of them bothering to move away, and two paper coffee cups had been long forgotten the table.

Dean had abandoned his because he didn’t really fucking need it—She kept chewing on Her pencil and looking at him, and that was stronger than a shot of caffeine right into his blood stream—but She had stopped drinking because it slowed Her down.

She seemed to know this random, tiny, dusty old library better than the actual librarians. When they’d arrived, She’d ignored the greeting from the desk and blazed right to the back, combing over the shelves and pulling out about a million books on the occult.

“These are yours.” She’d pushed three of the smaller ones across the table to Dean, barely moving Her own attention from her own selection. “Remember, you’re not look for anything explicit. Demons won’t have been advertising how to do this, we need to look for historical exceptions or leverage over Lilith-“

“That we can use to force the contract away from her.” Dean had finished, and She’d narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ve heard the lecture, Princess-“

“I’m sorry I’m trying to save your life-“

“I’m not.” He’d shrugged, shooting Her a half grin as he flipped his own book open. “It’s pretty awesome.”

Her eyes had flashed, She’d mumbled something Dean hadn’t been able to make out, but She’d also relaxed. Almost slumped in Her seat as she leaned over her own, tome-like book—starting to take notes at a pace Dean could only describe as frightening—and he’d grinned as he’d looked to his own book, because that always worked.

It's all become routine. 

They wake up in another new town, and Dean will roll over to find Her still there. Still asleep at his side, still possible to touch if he’d allow himself to. They find a local library—Sammy might try to offer a case as distraction, and She’ll snap that they don’t have time for distraction—and get to work. 

Mostly She will work. Dean will try to work, but he’ll spend most of his time trying to make sure She doesn’t kill Sammy, and wasn’t going to somehow twist in on Herself and bite off her own, pretty head. 

Because She’s still here. Despite Dean’s lingering nightmares that She’d vanish into dust and fire, maybe spit on his body before it was even in the grave, She’d stayed.

But She was still furious. Not at Dean—although he knew that, if he got out of this alive, She might skin him alive for lying to Her, right before patching him back together just by staying where Dean could orbit around Her, and he’d let Her without protest—but at everything.

She was on edge. Dean had to drag Her to sleep, and if he didn’t wake Her up the exact second light leaked into the motel room, She’d spend the whole morning muttering about moments lost.

And sometimes he couldn’t help himself from letting the time slip by. Those brief, silent seconds in the morning where She was relaxed—and peaceful and beautiful and there—were a better motivator than any speech Bobby could give him. The soft, silver and golden light of the morning made Her hair look like a halo, and there were no lines drawn on Her face from focus or stress in Dean’s name. Labor in his favor that he hadn’t earned, but was unable to deny.

He’d given Her the out. He’d told Her she could leave, and he’d never blame Her or hate her for it. There would be a large, gaping hole in the cavity of his chest—bigger and emptier and more painful than the pit, just a little to the right of his heart—for the rest of his fucking life, but he’d never hate Her. She should’ve left. She was smart enough to have known Dean wasn’t worth lost sleep or a war with demons, and a good enough hunter to know this would be impossible. That they’d need a borderline miracle to pull it off.

But She’d stayed. 

It was why Dean loved that second in the morning so much. He could stare at Her and marvel in the fact that She was the miracle, where Sammy wouldn’t roll his eyes, and She wasn’t at risk of finding out. 

He didn’t know why She’d stayed. He’d never make any sense of it. Why She was allowing him to still be her friend when he’d lied, why She was ripping Herself apart in his name—spending hours in the dark, hanging over books with a flashlight until Dean grumbled that she needed to rest, and She let him drag her to bed—and why neither Sam or Bobby seemed surprised.

“You tell her?” Bobby had asked when they’d arrived at his house, looking over his shoulder as She’d stomped inside with a look of determination on Her face that could’ve moved mountains. 

“She found out.” Sam had given Bobby a pointed look Dean hadn’t understood. “I’d, uh- She’s not happy.”

Bobby had snorted, shaking his head. “No shit, boy. I’m surprised you two idjits are still alive, after pulling that on her-“

“You helped, Bobby.” Dean had grumbled. “It’s not like I’m the only one who lied to her-“

“But it wasn’t our lives on the line, dumbass.” Bobby had moved back inside with a shrug, and Dean has blinked at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean-“

“It means you’re lucky she’s only pissed at you-“

“She not that pissed at him.” Sam had fucking chirped from behind them, like this was all some sort of joke Dean wasn’t allowed to be in on. “They’re still sharing a bed-“

“They’re what.” Bobby had whipped around, his eyes narrowed on Dean, and Sam should’ve gotten his nose broken right there. 

“Sam.” Dean had grunted. “I’m gonna fucking kill you-“

Sam had only shrugged and headed upstairs, abandoning Dean where Bobby was very likely about to murder him before the hellhounds had the chance. 

“He’d find out when you put your stuff in Her room, dude.” Sam had called over his shoulder, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Good luck!”

“In her room?”

“It’s- uh- Bobby it’s not like that-“

“Not like what.”

Dean had blinked, every single explanation he’d ever had suddenly caught in his throat. It wasn’t like that—like what they both knew Bobby was implying, like what Sam had made it sound like—but that didn’t mean Dean wasn’t haunted by the thought of it. It didn’t mean that every time he rolled over and She was there, he didn’t imagine a world where he was worthy enough to have Her open her eyes, smile at him, and crawl over his body until they were so close he’d never be able to lose Her.

He’d had a feeling Bobby would be able to see right through any lie he offered. Dean was pretty sure Bobby was almost listening to every thought of Her, soft skin and shining hair and smelling like that stupid fucking fruit, better than a drink, better than a drug, better than anything else in the world and bright than the goddamn sun, and wouldn’t it be real damn nice to hold the Sun and kiss it stupid and fuck it until She was moaning his name and smiling all the time-

Bobby had cleared his throat, and Dean had let out a long breath, scratching the back of his next and refusing to meet Bobby’s eyes.

“That.” His answer had been flat, and he’d felt just as stupid as he’d sounded.

Bobby had only rolled his eyes. “She know it’s not like that?” 

“Does-“ Dean had frowned, shaking his head. “Course she does, it’s- We don’t have to- I mean, it’s your house, and she’s your- Uh- I can sleep on the couch-“

“Dean!” She’d called from the library, and the way he’d stood a little taller—just from the sound, on pure instinct alone—hadn’t done him any favors.

“Uh,” he’d glanced at Bobby, who’d just been glaring at him like he was imaging Dean’s head, mounted on the wall. “Yeah?”

“Come here!” 

“I- uh-“ Dean had swallowed, physically bracing his body to stop himself from moving to Her side. “I’m-“

“Haul ass, Winchester,” She’d cut him off with a half shout, and he’d been able to perfectly picture her glaring at the doorway from her chair. “I need you.”

There had been no hiding his reaction to that. Bobby’s eyes had flashed slightly, but he’d mostly just sighed, running a hand over his face and raising his voice to match Her’s. 

“Dean’ll be right there, kiddo, give ‘im a second.” He’d scanned over Dean with an unreadable expression, his voice lowering back to a grunt. “Be careful, boy. She may not be able to bring herself to kill ya, but if you make ‘er cry, I’m not gonna have the same reservations. Don’t think Sam’ll either.”

He’d started to move away, and the only thing that had jolted Dean to action was the thought of Her. One of the countless, infinite things he owed Her, just for being alive where Dean could witness it. 

“I- uh- Bobby-“

Bobby had grunted, and Dean had forced the words out, before he lost the nerve. 

“Can I take a look at the junk cars later? I’m trying to, uh-“ This hadn’t been about to do him any favors. He’d said it anyway, keeping Her name casual and normal on his tongue, rather than more of a prayer than any Latin he’d ever heard. “She wants a car.”

Bobby has stared at him for a long moment, then given a tight nod that had made Dean’s whole body relax. 

He wasn’t getting shot today.

“Look when you got the time.” Bobby had muttered. “But I’d go to the library first. Think she’ll drag ya if you don’t.”

Dean had nodded, and shuffled over the library, a grin breaking over his face the moment he saw Her. 

He’d found a scrap car that afternoon, while She and Bobby were out getting dinner. One that needed enough work to be interesting—to be proof that Dean was really trying, for Her—but wouldn’t consume all his time when they visited. 

They’d spent more than half of the last month at Bobby’s when they weren’t on the road to look for other options. They’d show up without warning, Bobby would roll his eyes and tell Her they could stay as long as they wanted, and everyone would silently agree to pretend Dean wasn’t sleeping in Her room. He’d even go to one of the guest rooms when they all headed off to bed, nod to Sam as he closed the door—Sam would snort, and Dean would ignore it—and wait for everyone to be asleep before sneaking into Her room. 

They never went past that. And Dean might be plague by fantasies and weak futures of more, but he didn’t want more. He was already demanding too much of Her. He couldn’t ask for more, for everything, for every bit of Her she’d care to give him. He already couldn’t believe he was still allowed in Her bed at all, let alone offered Her hand holding his in the dark, and a mumble of night, De, every time he’d crawl under Her covers. 

So the car was reparation. A silent plea for Her to never, ever leave him, even when he more than deserved it. An apology for keeping secrets, for only ever taking and destroying and ruining things, for never being able to stop, never managing to stay away. He’d find lame excuses to head out to the yard while She was reading, and he’d get a little closer, and know She may have even forgotten about his half-joking promise to fix Her a car, but he needed to give Her something.

At the pace he’d hit, Dean would have the car ready before this all… finished.

He wasn’t allowed to say before he died or before his death. 

The words die and death were no longer permitted in the Impala, motel rooms, Bobby’s house, or any other place where She may be within earshot. And She couldn’t read Dean’s mind—Dean was almost positive She couldn’t read his mind—but he was still trying not to use them in his head. For Her.

If She was going to drive Herself mad trying to save Dean—fucking Dean, of all people She was losing her mind over Dean—the least he could do is not think of it as his death.

He didn’t want it to be. He wanted a way out of this, a way to stay with Her, no matter how simply impossible that seemed to be. 

And it wasn’t like there wouldn’t be… other problems when they got out of this. Two very specific problems they were hiding from right now.

The first reason was the only thing keeping them from staying at Bobby’s for the remainder of Dean’s time. 

The demons. 

They’d started to turn out of every shadow and corner, all fixed on Her, all screeching about the Knife they’d stolen from that British douchebag, taunting them about how Lilith wanted it more than almost anything, and sneering that they’d never have a second of peace as long as they kept trying to keep safe what was rightfully of Hell.

“You should ditch the blade.” Ruby had snapped, arms crossed in the dark of their motel room. “It’s not worth all the running, not when sweet little Dean is almost hellhound chow-“

“He’s got time.” She’d hissed, and Ruby had tensed. The bitch seemed to still be afraid of Her, and Dean understood that. In the shadows and dim lights, She looked more like a vengeful god than a human. “And I’ll eat fucking glass before I hand this thing over.”

Ruby had rolled her eyes. “I didn’t say hand it over, just put it somewhere safe until this whole mess is cleaned up-“

“What about eat glass are you not understanding-“

“The part where you’re endangering everything, you spoiled little bitch-“

“Watch it.” Dean had snapped, taking a firm step forward that Ruby hadn’t flinched from, but had the brains to shut her mouth. “She says we’re not giving up the knife, we’re not giving up the damn knife.”

Ruby had scoffed. “Really. You spend so long keeping each other in the dark, and one secret out in open gets her claws back into you? I expected better from you, Deano-“

“Ruby,” She’d lowered her voice, tilting Her head slightly. “I’d recommend you shut the fuck up. Now.”

“I’m just making an observation,” Ruby had shrugged, even as she’d eyed Her wearily. “No need to lose your shit-“

She’d taken a step forward, and that had gotten to Ruby. Under Her glare and cold words, the bitch has taken a shaking step back, and no amount of scrambling to regain control would fool Dean. He’d seem the widening of Ruby’s eyes, and known that Ruby was really afraid of Her. He may not trust any other part of the demon, but he trusted that. It wasn’t a show, or an act. 

There was no faking the taut sound of worry Ruby had let out, or how she’d braced herself against the dresser. 

“Keep going.” She had sneered, pulling the Blade out of Her jacket and spinning it in her hand. “Let’s find out just what me losing my shit looks like-“

Sam had said Her name cautiously, and somehow managed not to balk as Her glare had turned in his direction. “I- Look, I’m on your side, but we can’t kill Ruby-“

“You’re on her side?” Ruby had snapped, staring at Sam with borderline indignance. “She’s crazy, Sam, do you really think she can be trusted with that knife more than me-“

“I think you should know better than to push her.” Sam had muttered, and Dean had frowned.

He didn’t know what that meant. What Sammy was implying, why She’d had such a strong reaction—it had been hot, and Dean would pay good money to see Her rip Ruby to shreds any given day, but it still seemed stronger than he’d expected—or why She was hanging on to the Blade so tight.

Why Sam was backing Her up on it, when he’d been the one who wanted to give over the arrowhead. But he was. Sam had told Ruby that they were keeping the Blade. Specifically, She was keeping the Blade, and Ruby would have to go through Sam and Dean to get it away from Her.

The threat had worked, but Dean was pretty sure it hadn’t been because of Sam.

It was because behind Sam, Dean had been able to see Her. Looking at Ruby like She could make the bitch implode with only a thought, and Ruby staring at Her like that was true.

“I-“ Ruby had cleared her throat, her whole body braced as she’d looked back to Sam, and raised her chin. “Fine. Be that stupid. But if you’re not going to make her drop it, you need to drop her.”

Sam had blinked, Dean had felt his fists clench, and Ruby must have been trying to get fucking shot. His gun had been on the table. If She hadn’t laughed like the whole thing was only boring and amusing, and the sound hadn’t made Ruby flinch like it was worse than a gunshot—when to Dean, it was better than any song or hymn in the world—the bitch would’ve ended up with a bullet through her skull.

“That’s hilarious.” She’d sneered at Ruby, Her pretty mouth curved in a mocking grin. “That’s- You know, you’re a lot funnier than I thought-“

“I’m serious.” Ruby had snapped, and She’d just raised her brows in amusement. “You want to be a petulant little bitch-“

“Ruby.” Dean had grunted, taking a sidestep to block Her from view. “Last fucking warning, then I shoot.”

“Oh, you shoot?” Ruby had rolled her eyes. “Threatening, Dean. You’ll shoot me with a normal, boring gun that won’t do fucking shit-“

“It’ll hurt.” Dean had shrugged. “Long as you’re suffering, bitch, I’m happy.”

“Aw, look at you going to bat for the great whore-“

Dean had taken a step forward, and been caught by Her hand on his arm. He’d shot Her a look of disbelief over his shoulder, and gotten only three blinks in return.

Three blinks.

Everything was fine.

It hadn’t fucking felt fine, but She’d said it was fine. 

He’d stood down.

Ruby had laughed. Loud and dry and cruel.

“Look at you, Dean, standing down like a good, muzzled dog-“

“Ruby.” Sam had snapped, his interference maybe the only thing that had saved Ruby from Her wrath—Her grip on Dean’s arm becoming painful, Her body tensing behind his—and the sharp end of one of Her knives. “That’s enough. We’re not dropping anyone, or anything. Let’s- Can we please just get back to making a plan to deal with the demons, instead of killing each other?”

She’d muttered an agreement, Dean had followed suit, and they’d all somehow managed not to strangle each other for the remainder of the time in that motel room. And Sam had kept backing Her up, every time—that day and since—Ruby had brought up dropping the Blade.

It hadn’t left Her side since they’d gotten it. Dean was over trying to understand why, and he was mostly just grateful Sam was keeping Her and Ruby separated.

That was the second reason they were hiding in this library. Sam had warned that Ruby was heading to give them a new lead on Lilith, and it was in all their best interest for Her and Ruby to be kept apart.

“We could drop her, Princess.” Dean had offered a week ago, watching Her patch up a wound on his shoulder, the aftermath of their latest run-in with demons. “You tell me you want her gone, she’s gone.”

She’d shaken Her head, but Dean hadn’t missed the small smile that had tugged at her lips. “We need her, De.”

“Nah, I don’t think we do-“

“Sam says we need her.” She’d murmured, frowning at Her stitches on Dean’s skin. “And it’s- We have to have options. Alternatives.”

There had been a long moment of silence, and Dean had wished he didn’t know exactly what She was talking about. 

They hadn’t found any leads that stuck. They had two months, and no way forward. She never spoke about it, and Dean knew better than to bring it up, but the horizon was bleak. He’d stopped counting the mornings She woke up at his side, because it made a heavy weight press on his chest, and made it so much harder not to reach over and touch Her. Just once. Before this was finished.

The only thing that kept Dean’s hands to himself was repeating over and over that he couldn’t do that to Her, no matter how careful Her touch was on his skin, how gentle Her words were as they spoke, how bright Her eyes remind when she looked at him.

Dean might be the luckiest son of a bitch in the world, and She might want him in a microscopic and thin way—only on the surface, only the body he’d offered countless woman before instead of the barest, most raw part of his essence he’d always pour into Her hands without thought—but he couldn’t do that. 

Not like this.

Not when he deserved Her less than he ever had, and he couldn’t possibly be worthy of Her light when he’d be buried under dirt and stone so soon.

He couldn’t think like that. It made everything worse.

But that didn’t stop his hand from catching Her wrist, his gaze from locking onto Her’s and his voice dropping to barely a rasp as his heart bloomed in his chest.

“I’m serious,” he’d muttered Her name, not even sure what he was referring to anymore. Serious about dropping Ruby. Serious about not needing anything but Her. Serious about how all She’d ever need to do is say the word, and Dean would find a way for the world to bend to Her will.

Not that he’d ever need to.

The world seemed to do that just fine on its own for almost anything, except for this.

Except for Dean.

She’d offered him a sweet, almost sad smile, and nodded. “I know, Dean. So am I.”

She’d finished on his arm. It still hurt, even a week—another stop at Bobby’s, another two Demon attacks, another twenty dead ends—later, and Dean had been a little more tired than usual, but he’d be fine.

A bad shoulder was the least of their problems, when Ruby was talking to Sam and they had to keep watch on demons between the shelves of the library. 

The Blade was out on the table. Smooth, polished metal, hilt faced towards Her, covered in a bunch of strange symbols and glinting in the light-

“Don’t touch it.”

Dean blinked at Her. “I wasn’t-“

“Yeah, you were.” She didn’t look up from Her book, but she was smiling at the pages. “Don’t.”

“Whatever, Princess. I didn’t wanna touch your stupid knife anyway.”

“Uh huh.” She shot him an amused look. “Sure, Deano.”

“Just a dumb knife.” He muttered, glowering at the pages of his own book. “Maybe I was wondering if we could use it to carve the contract out of Lilith, when we find her-“

She let out a long breath, shaking Her head. “That won’t work.”

“But Ruby said-“

“Since when do you trust a word Ruby says?” She raised Her brows at him, and Dean paused. 

He wasn’t sure. 

But the bitch did seem to know a least more than they did about the Blade, and she’d spent the last month—between fights with Her about how they should use it—telling them about how it was dangerous, and could be used to kill anything unholy, which was why Lilith was sending so many demons after them to find it. It could kill her, and—even if Dean trusted Ruby less than he believed in angels—it lined up. Made sense.

But She’d said that like it was wrong. 

So Dean blinked at Her, speaking with slow, carefully chosen words. “You, uh- Anything else you want to tell me about that thing, Princess?”

He nodded to the Blade, and She sighed, still not looking up from Her book.

“What Ruby’s been saying is bullshit.” She muttered, frowning at the pages. “It- It’s total fucking bullshit. More make-believe than dragons.”

Dean gave Her a small grin. “But not aliens? Or unicorns?” 

“No,” She hummed. “Those things are real. Alternate life through the universe is almost impossible to not exist, and Unicorns attack and eat virgins.”

“That’s-“ Dean blinked at Her, shaking his head. “You’re telling My Little Pony is after virgins like a creepy fuckin’ vampire-“

She hummed, nodding absentmindedly as She made another note from her book. “They’re creepier than creepy vampires. I hunted one with Rufus once.” She pissed, glancing up at Dean with a frown. “You can’t tell Bobby that. He still thinks I just tripped and fell.” 

“Bad hunt?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed, looking back Her book with a slight flush. “I still think you should let me talk to Ruby.”

Dean shook his head. “You’re the one who said we needed to keep her around, sweetheart-“

“And I meant it,” She shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be allowed to like, yell at her or something-“

“What’d you want to yell at her about?”

“Being a lying fucking cunt.” She muttered, scowling at Her notebook as she took another note and Dean bit back a snort.

“You gonna tell me how she’s lying?”

She sighed. “I- It’s compli-“

Dean drawled Her name, giving Her a pointed look. “C’mon, Princess. Don’t say it.”

Her mouth twitched slightly. Barely a movement. Still more than enough. “We need to focus on the research, Winchester-“

“We got time.” He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Sammy said Ruby was gonna be on his ass about the Blade all day. Might as well know everything I can about it, right? You’re the one who’s always telling me to pay more attention the lore.”

She glared at him, but he’d gotten Her attention away from the book. A small victory. “I tell you to pay more attention overall. You’re already good with the lore. Stop trying to distract me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”he said Her name with a wink, bumped their feet under the table, and got another flush. Hitched breath. “And if you’re not gonna let me touch it, least you can do it talk to me-“

“I’m going to stab you.”

“That’s pretty freakin’ rude-“

“Shut up.”

“Bossy.”

She wrinkled Her nose at him. “You’re a massive toddler-“

“You love it.” He waved Her off with his widest, most winning grin, and scored better than winning lottery numbers. Flush. Hitched breath. Parted mouth. “You’re not gonna entertain a dying man’s wish-“

He was a toddler. Dean knew he was all put pulling at Her pigtails until She paid attention to him, and when Her gaze snapped up from book, he knew he’d won.

He was maybe about to get actually stabbed, but he’d won.

“You’re not dying.” She said, Her voice suddenly strained and harsh. “You’ll be fine, Dean, you just have to shut up and let me read-“

He said her name slowly, leaning over the table. “You’ve already read that one. I know you have. And that one, and that one.” He nodded to a few more books in Her large pile, and a few of them were titles Dean hadn’t seen, but the majority were repeats. Books he’d seen in Her hands before, books that had given them nothing but dead-end leads and wasted time.

“I might have missed something.” She muttered, fidgeting with the corner of a page, and Dean shrugged.

“Maybe, but- Please.” He let out a long breath, bracing himself to be shot down. She might care about saving him, but that didn’t mean She owed him anything. It really meant the opposite. Dean shouldn’t be spared an extra second of Her time, let alone a single breath of Her full attention. “Gimme one hour, Princess. Tell me about the blade.”

She let out a long breath, glancing between the pile and Dean with an unreadable expression, and nodded slowly.

“One hour.” She muttered, place Her book back on the table. “That’s it.”

Dean grinned at Her—toothy and unrestrained, because he had Her, in the loosest sense possible, Dean had Her—and nodded to the Blade. 

“I know Ruby’s a fucking liar.” He drawled, raising his brows. “But seems like you’ve got more to say about it, sweetheart. What the hell is up with that thing.”

She sighed, pulling the Blade into Her hands and twirling it with a bored, practiced ease that made Dean’s pants too tight, his mind flying to places it shouldn’t be allowed to wander. Those same fingers, holding him like that, gliding up and down with deliberate, taunting movement, building him up until those pretty lips wrapped around him and he got to lose control with a fist in shining hair-

“I’ve been reading,” She muttered, and Dean had to cough to cover up how he’d been about to start drooling.

“Really, Princess? I hadn’t noticed-“

“Shut up. There’s- Sam said this thing and the arrowhead were connected, and sometimes certain people limit my access to the library-“

Dean swallowed at Her glare. “That’s, uh- Bobby said you wouldn’t eat if we didn’t stop you-“

“So I’ve been stealing Sam’s laptop and reading on that instead. Figuring out what the deal with this,” She placed the knife back on the table, and started to twist Her rings on her fingers. “Is.”

Lie. That was a lie. Dean didn’t know exactly where the lie was, but he knew that She’d lied, and before he could open his mouth and call Her out on that, she continued talking, and the moment passed by.

“It’s called a solemn oath weapon.” She said, watching the Blade with a frown. “They’re part of a discovery in the 1400s, in the middle east, but most of them were lost again after like, a hundred years.”

Dean nodded slowly. “Why’d you say discovery like that-“

“They were part of a, uh- Kind of a native population. But they got wiped out, or vanished, or something. I couldn’t find much about them, and I’ve been looking for like, a while. Pretty much all of the lore about them and the weapons has been lost, but we know their mythology was like, soul gods or something.”

“Soul gods.” Dean repeated, staring at Her with a frown. “I- what?”

“I know.” She muttered, exhaling through Her teeth. “I told you it was complicated.”

“Just- Gimme a second.” Dean took a long breath, frowning at the Blade as his hands drummed on the table, his head turning too fast to keep up with. “You said- What, solemn oath?”

She nodded, and he felt his frown deepen.

That phrase was tugging on something in the back of his skull. He’d heard that before. He’d- Dean could fucking swear he’d heard that before. He’d been reading something about demons in Norway, or Denmark, maybe Germany, and it had been full of old words, and he’d stolen Sam’s laptop, and-

“You said native people.” His words were slow, his brain still rattling to try and drag a fogged memory to the surface. “I- What native people-“

She swallowed. “It’s, uh- Kind of a tribe. Into, like, witch things. All women.”

That didn’t help. There were women everywhere. But Dean knew he’d heard—technically read—the term solemn oath, and he’d read it multiple times because the stupid online translator was horrible, but the only one available because that book had been so damn old-

“And they didn’t really worship gods,” She continued, frowning at the Blade. “I mean, like the soul gods thing is just a theory, but they were talking about souls a lot, so the old European assholes assumed it was a god situation-“

“Son of a bitch.” Dean muttered, and he leaned forward to grab Her hand as lightning almost shot through his body, the memory vaulting to the surface. “That’s- Shit, that was it. Solemn oath means soul, in like, ancient German or something.”

“Ancient German-“

“Not- it’s not called that. But- I dunno, Princess, I was reading something about demons and this word kept popping up, and it was in a real old language, so I looked it up and it kept saying it translated to solemn oath.” Dean ran a hand over his face, squeezing his grip on Her hand. “Shit, it took me like an hour to work out, but- You know how bat can mean like, baseball or bird-rat?”

She wrinkled Her nose at him. “Bird-rat?”

Dean grunted Her name—this was goddamn serious, he’d figured something out and She needed to appreciate that—and She only gave him a too-sweet smile in return.

“Yeah, De. I know what bat means.”

“Yeah, well, this word was like bat. It meant solemn oath, and soul. You- the freakin’ soul gods-“

Her eyes widened, and Dean saw the moment it hit Her. Felt it. Her fingers tangled in his, holding him like She was trying to strangle his hand, and all the blood seemed to drain from Her pretty face as she swallowed.

“Fuck. That’s-“ She looked to the Blade, then to Her own hand in Dean’s, and shook her head. “You’re right.”

Dean nodded, a something in his chest was glowing. She’d said he was right. She thought he was right. He’d figured something out, he’d been useful, he couldn’t hold Her attention a little longer because she might not look happy with the information, but She was holding his hand and staring at him with an open, almost awe-struck expression—and he was sure he was reading it wrong, and he didn’t really care—so he felt like nothing could ever be wrong again. As long as She kept looking at him like that, the contract would simply dissolve into the air, and Ruby would crumble to ash, and the ache in Dean’s shoulder from the demon attack would simply heal over in a heartbeat.

It didn’t. It had started to throb as rain fell outside, and his body tensed, and She noticed.

Of course She fucking noticed.

“Dean-“

“I’m fine.” He grunted, forcing himself to release Her hand. “Does Sammy know about all this?”

She shook Her head, still watching Dean with a small frown. “No. Not this.”

Dean frowned. “But Ruby-“

“He knows if I’m saying no to Ruby, I have a good reason.” She sighed, running Her thumb over her palm. “I don’t want to keep putting him in the middle of everything. It’s- You guys are still angry about the motel, and he had to hide the deal from me for months. He shouldn’t have to worry about this too.”

“Yeah, uh-“ Dean swallowed, something crawling over his skin and festering in his gut that was made of burden. He’d been making Sam keep secrets, and stressing Her out, and he might have been useful here but it was undercut by the worry he could see in Her eyes, focus on him as his shoulder throbbed again, and he tensed, and sickening, throat-wrapping burden- 

Her eyes narrowed, and Dean spoke before She could mention his second wince.

“I’m not mad at Sammy ‘bout that anymore.” He muttered, watching his knuckles tap on the table as he avoided Her gaze. “I- uh- Bigger fish. And it’s not like it was that big a-“

Dean cut himself off, because he couldn’t even say it. It had been a big deal. He’d never stopped having nightmares where Her hand was wrapped around Her throat, and she was thrashing in his hold like a wild animal. But they had bigger issues. Worst things to deal with. He couldn’t fail Her and let himself die, just because Sam could be a secretive bitch sometimes.

And when he dared himself to glance up at Her, he didn’t recognize the expression on Her face. Her mouth was opening and closing as She kept Her thumb pressed to palm, and Her eyes were just as blinding as always but there was something guarded over Her features, something that made Her lean away from Dean in Her seat, even as Her eyes locked with his, and her voice came out in an oddly soft tone.

“Dean- I-“ She swallowed, Her whole body tensing as she continued. “I need to tell you-“

Her phone buzzed on the table, and She froze, giving Dean one last, strange look as she slowly moved to pick it up.

“It’s Sam.” She muttered, Her brow drawn in that wrinkle as she read over the text. “He and Ruby are going to look at another lead.”

Dean grunted, still frowning at Her. At Her thumb, scratching at the skin near Her nails as she spoke, because something was off. Not wrong. Son of a bitch, he hoped nothing was wrong. They didn’t have the energy or manpower for more things going wrong.

“He say what the lead is?”

She nodded, re-reading the message. “Something in Minnesota, multiple crossroads demons in one town. It’s only a few hours away, and he thinks they’ll be back by tomorrow. He, uh- You’re supposed to have the key.” She looked up to Dean with raised brows. “You got the key?”

He nodded, pulling it out of his jacket to show Her. “He’s going with Ruby.”

“Ruby and I.” She read from the phone, the little wrinkle appearing at Her brow. “Evidently, yeah. Let’s, uh-“ She glanced out the pile of books, and let out a long breath. “You ready to head back? I can check these out-“

Dean snorted, giving Her a pointed look. “You’re gonna steal them, Princess, let’s be honest here-“

“Shut up.” She muttered, glancing around the them as She shoved the unread books into Her bag, and returned the rest to their shelves. “I’ll bring them back.” The wrinkle on Her brow deepened as she looked back, and found Dean only smirking at Her. “I will.”

Dean raised his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t say anything-“

“Shut up-“

“Bossy- Fuck.”

Dean grunted as She kicked his shin, the pain from doubling over somehow shooting right up his shoulder, into the wound from before. It felt like something twisting a blade into the already sore spot, and a lower, almost guttural noise escaped it before he could stop it.

“Shit-“ She was at his side in a second, letting Dean lean over Her body—too perfect of a fit against his, soft and strong, drowning him in the smell of sugar and fruit—as She pulled at his shirt, tracing Her fingers over the stitches. “You fucking idiot-“

“You kicked me, sweetheart.” His voice wasn’t as indignant or angry as he’d wanted. Her touch was sending shivers over his skin. If he angled his head and got away with not looking like a creep, he’d be able to place every single color hidden in Her eyes. “It’s just sore-“

She drew Her hand away with a scowl, and Her fingers were red.

“That’s- uh-“ His head was spinning slightly. She was so pretty. “Your nail polish is runnin’-“

“That’s not how nail polish works, dumbass.” She snapped, slinging Dean’s arm over Her shoulder and reaching into his pocket. He didn’t know how to do anything but let Her. “I’m driving.”

Dean frowned, mostly at the air. “’S my car-“

“I am not losing you because Sam has weird blind spots, and thought medkit expiration dates could be optional.” She snapped. “You get the keys out of my hand, Deano, you can drive.”

He couldn’t. He made an odd, half-stepping lunge to grab them, groaned like a little bitch, and gave up. She could drive. She was awesome, and She could probably move the sun to shine at night, so Dean trusted Her with the Impala.

Bonus, he got to watch Her drive.

He hoped he died here. In the passenger’s seat of his Baby, watching the most everything woman he’d ever seen drive in a more erotic way than all the nudie magazines he’d used to keep hidden in Sammy’s backpack—if Sammy had gotten caught with them, he’d have gotten a lecture, but Dad would’ve sent Dean to a freakin’ nunnery or something—and every single motel porn flick he’d ever seen. 

Dean had to focus on how She drove—where Her careful fingers rested on the wheel, how She sat on the bench like a queen on a throne, how She’d angled the mirror and propped her elbow on the window—to keep himself from getting a full-blown hard-on. He’d use the information to help himself work on Her car. The images would not haunt his imagination, turning into very explicit and detailed movies, playing as he slept his limited remaining nights and took showers with Her just a room over.

She was his friend. His friend who didn’t deserve that—no matter how he’d fantasized about how She maybe saw him a fraction of the way he revered Her—and who was very worried about him, from the demon contract to his open stitches. She was letting Dean lean against Her like this because she didn’t want him to hurt himself more. She was taking off his shirt because that’s where the injury was. She was touch him because She had to. To make sure he didn’t bleed out before the hellhounds ever even touch him.

Dean cleared his throat, saying Her name with a weaker voice than he would’ve wanted, but She was so close, and touching him, and pretty. 

She hummed in acknowledgment, and Dean almost choked nothing as Her nails scraped at his skin. 

“You worried about the demons?”

“In general?” She gave him a dry, amused look. “Or with the contract?”

“Uh,” he swallowed. “Both? And the, those Hell’s Assassins sons of bitches, what’d you think they want?”

She paused, and let out a long breath that was warm on Dean’s skin. “I think,” Her words were slow. Almost careful. “That the Assassins are the least important things going on right now. This,” She looped another stitch into Dean’s wound. “Wasn’t them. It was Lilith. And I’m pretty sure she’s not controlling them.”

Dean frowned at Her. “Why? They seem like the type of shit she’d pull. Big assholes swinging weapons at us, trying to take something we know she wants.”

“I- I just know. And I’m not worried about the demons, I don’t think. You’re- We’re going to be fine.”

“Well-“ Dean flinched at another stitch, and She gave him an apologetic look as She stilled the jerk of his body with a hand.

“Sorry.” She mumbled, and he just nodded a little stupidly. Her palm had callouses, but they weren’t as rough as the ones on his. They made Her seem more real. “You need to stay still, De. It’s- You’ll be okay, but you need to stay still.”

He nodded, watching Her fingers resume their movement once more as the silence lingered. These stitches didn’t hurt than any of the others he’d had. He didn’t need entertainment or distraction.

He’d still really like to hear Her voice.

“You know-“ He gave a dry chuckle, watching Her carefully. “If this is the thing that brings me down, I dunno how I got out of that British douchebag’s mansion without a scratch.”

She swallowed, not meeting Dean’s gaze. “This isn’t going to bring you down. And it’s a hazard of the job.”

It was. Dean scanned over Her beautiful, slightly guarded features, and frowned, because it was. And he’d thought for so long that She didn’t understand that, but knowing that She did was somehow worse. It meant She’d really chosen to sit in the mud, and it would burn Her the same way it burned all of them. Bobby and Dad and Sammy, even Jo had been born here.

But She’d chosen to be here. In the mud. 

With Dean.

“What would you do if this wasn’t the job.” Dean asked the question before he could think it through, and barely got a stumble of Her fingers, so he pushed on. “If this wasn’t your job?”

She frowned at his shoulder. “I’d be in Chicago, probably forbidden from leaving the house, definitely never allow outside unsupervised-“

“No, I meant-“ Dean stared at Her, the word fully registering. “Unsupervised?”

“I wouldn’t be doing this if I hadn’t met Bobby.” She shrugged. “If I hadn’t met Bobby, my family would’ve found me. I was considered a flight risk at eight, before I’d even tried to flee. I don’t think all would’ve been forgiven and forgotten.”

She’d been doing that more, in the past month. Bringing up small, casual mentions of Her family Dean had to nod at, swallow down like a horse-pill, and let fuel his resolve to stay alive. If he died in two months, he wouldn’t be able to keep Her away from Her family for the rest of their lives.

“Yeah, uh,” he cleared his throat, shaking his head. “I know, Princess. I mean if we weren’t us. What you’d be doing then.”

She finally looked at him, obvious confusion painted over Her features and in Her brilliant eyes, so Dean continued. 

“I wanted to be a firefighter.” He offered, giving Her a small grin. “You, uh, you ever thought about being an actress or something?”

“An actress?” She blinked at him, and he gave Her a pointed look.

“You lie a lot, sweetheart. And you’re pretty damn good at it.”

“Lying isn’t acting-“

“Yeah, but you’re good at that too-“

“Am I?” She looked back to Dean’s stitches, a small, pouting frown on Her face. “You always seem to know when I’m lying, Winchester.”

“I’m a genius, Princess. I don’t count.” 

She rolled Her eyes, but a small giggle made its way into the air, and Dean took it as permission to continue.

“You gotta answer the actual question,” he drawled Her name, holding Her gaze as she glanced back up. “I showed you mine.”

“It’s- I’ve never, um,” She swallowed, something fragile flashing in Her eyes that Dean wanted to grab. Hold. Care for. “I’ve never thought about that. I just do this.” 

Dean shook his head, his thumb itching to soothe the wrinkle in Her brow. “C’mon, there’s no way you’ve never even, I dunno, thought about doin’ something else. Something that wouldn’t get you fucking killed-“

“I haven’t.” She whispered, turning Her attention back to his shoulder. “Someone has to do this. Might as well be me.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, to tell Her that She, of all fucking people, did not have to be the one who had to do this. She should be protected and worshipped, not sent to fight with faceless, expendable troops in the endless war against the dark. She should be above it all. Somewhere bight and untouchable and safe.

“You’re done.” She stepped back before he could speak, rubbing Her palm with her thumb as she shifted on Her feet. “I- Yeah. Done.”

He grunted, sparing only a quick glance at his stitches before starting to push to his feet, only to be shoved right back down.

“Hey-“

“Those are fresh stitches, Winchester.” She snapped, keeping Her hands firmly planted on his shoulders. “You need to rest so I don’t have to do them again.”

He shook his head—they had work to do, and Dean was still physically stronger than She was—and tried to move only fall flat on his back with a groan.

“De-“ She sighed, dropping on the mattress at his side. “I told you.”

“I’m fine, Princess.” He grunted, squeezing his eyes closed. “Just taking a minute. Need five, then I’ll be up.”

“You are not getting up, Winchester, or I swear to god-“

“Said I’m fine.” He muttered. “Gotta get up-“

She sighed from somewhere very close to him. “You need to rest-“

“I’ll rest when I’m dead-“ 

“That’s not funny, Dean.”

He opened his eyes, and She was right above him. Blinding eyes narrowed on his, hair falling onto his face, beautiful and intoxicating and there. 

“You’re not going to die.”

He chuckled, but it was more of a grunt. “I’ve heard, sweetheart-“

“I’m serious.” She snapped, holding his gaze. “You’re going to live, and right now you’re going to fucking rest, Dean Winchester, or I’ll kill you.”

Full name.

She was serious.

He still couldn’t stand to just lay there. To be useless while She worked to save him, while she did everything when Dean was supposed to be the one serving Her. 

“You can’t make me.” He muttered, sounding a little child, but it was a dare. Trying to trap Her into staying right here, into touching him more, into being where Dean could live and drown in Her because he was a creep and pathetic and She could probably already see that-

“Come on, you big baby.” She muttered, moving out of his vision but keeping a hand in his hair. Like a tether. A lifeline. A silent promise that She was still there. 

He made a weak, confused noise—he was going to blame it on the wound, still painful, draining his energy and fogging his brain and maybe She was right, maybe he did need to rest before he made another completely pathetic sound—and let Her tug him up to headboard, his head suddenly resting against Her stomach, Her fingers still in his hair, his body splayed out of their bed as She wrapped his arms around Her waist.

Dean was already dead. He had to already be dead, because there was no other logically explanation for Her touching him like this. Holding him like this. Holding Dean like he mattered, and if he weren’t to just bite the bullet and rest, it would be the worst thing in the entire world. 

But She was. Dean could feel it in Her warm body, pressed right against him, that this mattered to Her. Dean, somehow—with a stroke of immeasurable luck or a debt to a god he’d never be able to repay—was really fucking critical to Her. Vital. Impossibly important to how Her heart was pounding in her chest, and finger were playing with his hair, and voice was impossibly soft.

“You’re not a machine, De.”  She mumbled, and Dean didn’t know what he was.

Maybe Her’s.

More than Her weapon. Her shadow. 

It was the silent longing he’d shoved down for years. The idea that he could be Her shadow, always a pace behind Her, always caring for Her as no one else could, pulling Her apart in the dark where no one but he could see, and spilling blood in Her name if anything dared to think they could possibly hurt Her.

“Can you please tell me you’re going to rest?” Her tone was pleading, but it didn’t need to be. She was a siren, and if She told Dean to drown himself, he would, just as long as it was in Her. 

He rolled over to hold Her gaze and nodded, and something went loose in Her eyes.

“Thank you.”

Then She started to move, and Dean grabbed Her wrist on pure instinct. 

“Where’re you-“

“I was- You need rest-“

Dean frowned. “I can rest with you here.”

“But-“

“Stay.” He squeezed his hold on Her wrist, his voice barely a breath, and She swallowed, glancing to back to Her bag, on the table, full of books that could be Dean’s salvation.

He didn’t need them.

She was here.

“I need to read-“

“I want you here. Please.” He let the words fall out of him, because if this finished and he was gone, he selfishly would need this. Just once. He needed to be fully folded into Her, to know She cared, to just know this could’ve been possible past the year. “Stay.”

She was staring at him. Only staring at him. Not leaving, but not saying she wouldn’t leave, and Dean was already all in. 

“C’mon, Princess.” He grinned at Her, charming and lazy, and prayed it would be enough. “At least until I'm down.”

"Yeah. Okay." She mumbled, and Dean's smile probably looked dopey and stupid, and he didn't care. 

"You'll-"

"I'll stay."

“Promise.” He raised his pinky, even as his body became heavy, and a soft smile lit up Her every feature.

“Promise.” Her finger's kept combing through Dean's hair—making him feel a little like a puppy—as Her free hand locked a pinky with his. Until you're down."

He nodded, and buried his face in Her chest, because right now he was allowed to. "All the way down?"

He barely heard Her whispered response before sleep overtook him.

"All the way down.”

——————

This is going to kill you. Before the demons find Dean, this is going to kill you.

You can’t let it break to the surface. How the pain and fury that’s been building in your gut might be just as dangerous as the Darkness. How it’s feels like you’re hanging by the same, frayed thread that’s wrapped around Dean’s neck, and if he goes down some part of you will go right down with him. 

It might be the spiderweb. The iridescent light that’s running through you like blood, sings under Dean’s attention, and feels just as vital as an organ. It’s not strained at the knowledge that you’re running out of time—because no matter how you shape it, how you pretend that every day is a little longer than reality, you are running out of time—but it is white-hot and loud.

Dean is right here, all the time now, and it’s making the spiderweb impossibly loud. Colorful and filled with fireworks, glowing all the time because Dean is here, but that might not be forever. You can feel the spiderweb everywhere in your body, and it doesn’t feel thin or weak, but it’s made of every grin Dean offers you, every wink thrown in your direction, every touch of him under a table or in passing movement.

You can’t lose him. You’ve been stuck on that grinding, rough loop since the manor. You can’t lose Dean. You can’t. You only have two months and that’s time but it’s not enough because you can’t lose Dean.

And it still hurts. A little more than the usual pain that’s always lived in your body, because that’s infinite.

You’ve always been in that pain, and the Darkness has always bubbled and rioted in your body, and you’ve always gotten through it. You can dig your nails into your skin or bang your head on the wall for a moment of different pain, a second of control, a false promise or diversion from the sickness you’ve long accepted will never be cured.

But this pain is different. This is new. It’s temporary, and it hurts more. Because it’s either going to vanish into nothing when you fix this—Dean walking away in two months without a scratch—or it’s going to grow. The numb, hollow pain will grow over the spiderweb and burn a hole into the White, filling up the depressions where Dean was supposed to stay.

You need him to stay. You can’t lose him, and he’s not gone yet, but there’s not enough time and you can’t lose Dean-

You’re caught in the loop again.

You need to learn how to pull yourself out, before the end of this. If there’s any chance that you’re going to need to learn how to live with this new, unbearable pain, you have to learn how to not get stuck. 

Hopefully you can learn it soon. 

You can’t afford distractions, either.

But you’d wasted too much time. You want to be angry with Dean for hiding this from you—for maybe damning himself, because you’re starting with your hands tied behind your back, and this isn’t enough time—but you’re mostly just in pain. In pain and exhausted, but you can’t stop moving, and all the pain inside you is aimed at you. 

You’d been gone, and he’d made the deal to save Sam. If you’d been there, he never would’ve needed to save Sam. You wouldn’t have allowed Sam dying to happen, and if he had, you would’ve found a better option where you’d got to keep Dean. 

You’ve never gotten to keep him before.

But you would’ve fucking found a way. And you can’t blame Dean for not finding a way, because you can hear him and Sam tell you exactly what happened, and you know that—if it was you left alive, and Bobby was dead on the ground—you would’ve stopped thinking in favor of saving Bobby now. But that’s why Dean had needed you there, to keep him level and find another way.

You’ve always found another way. Everything has been impossibly hard, but you’ve found another way.

Yet you can’t even find one way. Not for this. You don’t need two. You don’t need a good, easy way. You just need a way. A light to follow out of this tunnel down, before Dean continues without you and you’re left, stranded and alone and sicker than you’ve ever been.

A way that won’t hurt him more than hell could, than you already have.

“I’m just pitchin’ it one last time.” Bobby had said in his kitchen last week, all of you gathered in with hushed voices while Dean was outside. “You know I don’t like it, kiddo, but your hocus pocus, you said it’s worked healin’ him before-“

“And the demons.” Sam had added, giving you a nervous look. “You said you- Uh, you took care of those demons that attacked you at the manor. You could-“

“No.” You’d snapped. They’d both already pitched this. Twice. The answer was always going to be no. “I- I’m not fucking doing that. I’m not risking it-“

Bobby had said your name slowly, cautiously. As if you were a wild animal. “But if we knew it would work-“

“We couldn’t know. There are no trial runs, no record of anything like me-“

“What if we found a trial run?” Sam had rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke, keeping an eye on the door in case Dean decided to come back in early. “I mean, people make deals with demons all the time, we’d just have to find someone-“

“No.” You’d hissed, twisting the rings on your fingers. “I- no. Just because I can see souls doesn’t mean I can change them-“

Bobby had frowned. “But you said you’d healed Dean before-“

“Physically. I’ve healed physical wounds, and even that-“ You choked on your own words, picking at the skin of your nails pure Gold, now laced with cool, silver light flashed over your vision.

You’d done something to him. You weren’t sure he could feel it—if it hurt or eased him or was simply unknowable to Dean as he moved through the day—but you know you’d changed something in his soul.

Because that had become painfully clear. All the colors were souls. You’d pitched that to Sam and Bobby on your first stop back home, and picked apart any reason that wouldn’t be the truth. 

You could, when the Darkness got out of hand—or, rarely, the whole universe became harmonious and Silver—see souls. Or, for the demons, violent forms in the place of their corrupted, twisted souls. And this could mean a million different things about what you were, what you might be. How you needed to be handled or dealt with. 

But that all had to be on hold, until Dean was safe. It was the biggest breakthrough you’ve had in your whole time searching for just a name, an idea of what you were, are, supposed to be, but it has to wait.

Until you’re through this—clawing to the end and pulling Dean out the other side with you, by almost any force necessary—what you are will have to wait.

And this feels a little like a cruel joke. Because you keep telling Bobby and Sam—over and over and over until it finally sticks—that you won’t use the Darkness to fix this. You can’t. That just because you know that it’s connected to souls doesn’t mean it will be useful.

And you’re lying through your teeth.

But Sam and Bobby aren’t Dean. So they don’t know that. 

They don’t know that you’re painfully, achingly aware that—if you focused and drew blood on your skin with your teeth and choked all the air from your lungs—you could focus enough to simply wipe the brand on his soul. You don’t know how you’d do it, or why that would be something that’s possible, but you know you could do it. It’s an instinct, same as all the strange rituals that pop into your mind in the dead of night. 

You just could.

But you won’t. 

It’s too big a risk. It could hurt him, you could fuck it up and make it worse, you could fully infect him with the wrong of you, make him sick in a new, worse, incurable way. The one rule of saving Dean is that you have to save him. You don’t care if it kills you, if it sucks your own soul right out of your body, make your pain triple, turns you into barely a husk or trades you in his place. You won’t hurt him. You won’t let this hurt him, because it’s about saving him. 

And you can’t give in to the Darkness. Soon—in the creeping, slightly shadowed future where Dean is still at your side, because he has to be—you’re going to have to tell him. He needs to know.

He’ll have to wait for this to be over. You need to tell him, but if he looks at you and sees something disgusting, you need it to be when you can leave and know he’ll be okay. That he’ll be better without you, and safe. 

And if you want him to not care, you need to be able to prove that you’re a monster, but you can be muzzled. Tied down and tamed and controlled, not a threat or something that needs killing, because you’d fixed the deal without being the monster. Without being wrong. Without being the Darkness. 

You’ve spent two years ripping yourself to shreds to keep the Darkness down. You can’t start using it now, just because if Dean goes—you won’t say or think where, because it hurts a little too much—you’ll die to. That’s not how this works. You can’t risk it, risk Dean, because you’re selfish and need him more than oxygen. 

So you will tell him. After.

You’ll look him in the eyes and explain, and maybe he won’t leave you like he should. Maybe you’ll fall on your knees and beg him to stay, and he will. He’ll help you learn what you are, and everything will be Silver for a long, long time. 

He’s already, somehow, managed to do that without knowing. 

Your eyes keep drifting over to your jacket, where the Blade is tucked into your jacket. You’d spent the past month with your head spinning around it, any thoughts that weren’t reserved for Dean, can’t lose Dean, being dedicated to what the fuck is that thing.

It’s the arrowhead, but stronger. Almost too strong, making the Darkness all the more difficult to throttle and put down when your hand was wrapped around its hilt.

But it fits so perfectly in your hand. Like it’s made for you. That’s what the strange voice had said, when you’d found it. That the Blade had been waiting for you, and it was your right to have it. 

You hadn’t been able to make sense of it.

And then you tell Dean one, limited and carefully chosen thing—just what he could know, without you losing him too soon by no hand but your own—and he’d worked it out. 

Soul.

It was so obvious, you felt a little fucking stupid for not getting it yourself. You’d been seeing souls, when the Darkness got out of hand. The Blade almost shoved that piece of you forward, until you had to focus to see people instead of their color and light. Their souls. The Blade made it easier to see people’s souls, because it was soul weapon, and you were a fucking dumbass.

That was another thing that would be important to think about, once this was over.

It was another thing you couldn’t dwell on now.

Now had to be about Dean, sleeping in your arms, a comfortable weight over your body that made him seem permanent. He’s hold you like you’re the one that’s going to vanish. He keeps looking at you like you could pull his heart out of his chest, and he still wouldn’t kill you. 

He’d worked that out so fast. He’s smarter than he gives himself credit for. Then almost anyone gives him credit for.

But you know. It’s why you’ve always trusted him on hunts, even when you wanted to rip his throat out and bite him until it left a faded scar. 

He’s smart, and he’s handsome, and warm, and when you keep your fingers in his hair he skeeps making small, grunting noises like a happy dog. 

You can’t lose him.

You’ve been here for hours. At some point you’d drifted off yourself, and woken up to find Dean still splayed over your lower body.

You’re not moving because he needs rest, and he’s comfortable here. With you. It doesn’t matter that you feel safe in the way he’s all around you, that you feel like more than just a monster in how he’s holding you, that the world is Silver and it’s because one of his hands has found its way a little under your shirt, and you don’t have the strength to move it. 

This isn’t about you. It’s about Dean, and letting him rest. You need to text Jo about the whole Soul weapon thing, but right now you have Dean, here, and even you can’t bring yourself to ruin that.

And you don’t know why you did this. Why you pulled him into your lap, and held him like you had no right to, under the guise of helping him fall asleep. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself once the thought popped into your head, and he hadn’t found you, and you-

You can’t say it. Not now. Not when he’s right here, and might somehow see it on your face.

He’s asleep now, but his breath is starting to pick up, and you can’t even think it, or—when his eyes drift open and meet yours—you know he’ll see. You don’t know how to hide it, you haven’t had enough time to work out how to mask it and keep it from being written all over your face, so you won’t think it. 

It’s another thing that will have to wait. There’s a daunting pile building up—women of the high, soul weapons, souls in general, the Blade, it—but none of it matters as much as Dean. As not letting him-

You won’t think that either. He’s not allowed to do that. Thinking that makes it an option. Thinking that means your brain starts to turn around what-ifs, and there’s no need for them because you won’t let that happen, so you don’t have to think about it.

All you have to do is save Dean. Stay here until he’s awake, because you’d said until he was down, but you really weren’t strong enough to move.

And the look on his face when he wakes up makes that worth it. His pretty eyes are a little clouded and glazed from sleep, and you don’t think he can really see you, but he grumbles something that sounds like your name as his arms squeeze around you. It’s better than anything else in the world.

You only hum, forcing your fingers not to stutter their movements when his second groan rolls through your body, and watch him blink and twist in your hold, pouting into the air as sleep slowly leaves his body.

“’S bright.” He mutters, moving a little further into your body like he’s trying to hide from the sun. “Fuckin’- bright-“

“It’s the sun, Deano.” Your voice is soft, and this might be the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen. “Being bright is kind of all it does.”

He grunts, and then goes rigid in your arms. When he rolls over to face you his eyes are wide, and you can’t even blink under his attention.

“You’re-“ He clears his throat, his words barely a rasp. “You’re still here.”

You swallow, every word suddenly jammed down your throat and blocking your lungs. Maybe you weren’t supposed to be here. Maybe he wanted you to go once he was asleep, and you’d pushed it too far because you weren’t in control, and of course Dean didn’t want you to stay, you’re you, nobody would see you and know you and want you to-

He mutters your name, and it takes almost everything in you to speak. 

“I- You’re heavy.” You mumble. “And I- Uh- I fell asleep-“

Dean’s brows raise slightly, his hand drifting up to his face as he holds your gaze, when he wipes his cheek and glances at his fingers, you can see the gleam of something wet on his fingers. 

“You drooled on me, Princess.” 

You’re going to pass out. You just had some of the best sleep of your life, and you’re wide awake and sitting down, but you’re going to have to figure out a way to fall over and pass out.

He not helping. Dean is being a pretty, oddly smug asshole and smirking slightly, licking his lips and laying you lap and looking at you with sleepy eyes like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen, and you hate him but you can’t because you-

“Are you hungry?” You whisper, unable to break his gaze, your words still broken and stuttered as you fall impossible further into Dean. “I- The motel has a diner. You wanna- Uh, Get breakfast?”

A small grin cracks over his features, and you think you can hear the spiderweb moan in time with your heart.

“Always.”

It takes an immeasurable amount of strength to let Dean roll away from you. To leave him on the bed while you go to the bathroom and get dressed, and then take his suggestion to go ahead of him and find a table. 

“I’ll meet you there.” He’s flat on his back, still under the sheets and making no effort to move out of bed as he speaks. “Just gotta, uh- Bathroom.”

You nod and wander down to the motel’s little breakfast diner, finding a corner booth—hidden from the rest of the world, where Dean might end up pressed right next to you as you ate—before pretending to read the menu as you waited for him to arrive.

And when someone sits across from you, you know it’s not Dean before you look up. Some part of you could recognize Dean a million feet underwater with every other sense numbed and stifled. He’s the only right thing in the universe—the only right part of you, the spiderweb, designed from his attention and touch and voice—and everything in the world goes Silver when he’s only near you.

But nothing is Silver right now. It’s still torn into the White, pounding a little to the right of your heart like it’s trying to move you to flee, and the Darkness, pushing up in a defense of something.

Against whoever just dropped into your booth.

When you look up—your jaw clenched and body tensed for a fight—you wish you hadn’t. 

It’s a demon. You’d expected a demon. You could’ve gotten around a demon with ease, because all it would take is a drawled exorcism or splash of holy water in their face. Lately, you’ve been ready for demons to find you at any moment, and you’d developed a habit of blessing any water that was put in front of you.

You know how to be ready. You’d survived this long against the green-eyed demons, and your vigilance had only increased since Dean got stabbed, again, because the handsome dummy was apparently a knife magnet, and you weren’t going to let that happen a third time.

But the demon across you isn’t glinting black and rolling in their host’s body. They’re not solid and violent and a bloodthirsty, venomous green.

They’re dark gray smoke. Smooth like a machine in their vessel—a young, soft-featured blonde woman—and running and turning through her with a measured precision. They’re in complete control, they’re hideous, and they’re comfortable.

The vessel smiles at you, and you’re in danger.

That’s Lilith. Your hand tenses on your water but you don’t know how effective it will be, because that’s Lilith.

She can’t collect early. That’s against the rules, but demons don’t follow rules, and Dean’s right down the sidewalk, in the room, so she can’t be here to collect early. She would’ve just gone to kill him while you were busy, but she’s here, in your booth while Dean is busy, so she’s here for you.

You’d left the Blade in the room. On the table. In your jacket. If she’s here for you and the blade, she’ll only get you. Dean knows not to touch it. Hopefully he won’t be stupid enough to go after you, if this goes the worst possible way, but you wouldn’t put it past him to forget that he only has two months and you’re not important enough to chase, so you’ll need to find a way to leave him a message-

“I can hear you thinking, little one.” Lilith smiles at you, tilting her head as she scans over your face. “I’m not here to hurt your Dean. Or you.”

Something recoils deep, deep in your gut, but the Darkness blooms. Just like with Sam, but stronger. Humming and spreading in time with the White until your nails dig into your skin and you draw blood on your inner cheek with your teeth. 

“But you’re here.” You force your voice to remain neutral. Bored. Any electrified fear over your nerves and muscles can’t be shown. Not here. “Why?”

Lilith sighs. “Let’s call it morbid, weak curiosity. I wanted to see you. To meet you, before everything took off.”

“Before-“

“I’m not supposed to meet you. But- I needed to see. To know it was true.” The smile creeps back over her face, and you feel like She’s studying you. Looking right through your body into the White and the Darkness, and marveling in what she sees.

You feel too big. You feel too important.

You don’t have anywhere to run.

“And look at you.” Her smile grows. You might throw up. “You’re beautiful. Everything I’d hoped you’d be, when you arrived. And so angry. Although,” Lilith pauses, her brow knitting slightly. “How old are you, now?”

“I-“

“Do not lie.” She adds. “I’ll know.”

You swallow. She’s speaking in strange, mind-aching riddles. You don’t have any weapons, and you won’t let the Darkness out. 

You can only play along, until you find a way out.

“Twenty-five.” You mutter, and Lilith frowns.

“You should have been brighter by now.” She mutters. “You should have been blinding, but you are only slightly stronger than I was, at your age.”

Something heavy lodges in your throat. “What- Than-“

“And you’re so… disgustingly dedicated to that little worm, thinking about you in the shower.” Lilith continues, seeming to mostly be speaking to herself. “I can see him, on you. I would’ve thought- Hm.”

“I don’t-“ You force yourself to sit a little taller, setting your features and making your voice harsh. “What the fuck do you want?”

Lilith gives you another small, soft smile. “I already said, little one-“

“Stop fucking calling me that-“

“I am able to call you whatever I want,” Lilith says your name, and it’s cold through your blood. It sounds too familiar in her voice, like she’s said it before. Like she likes saying it. “I am here to see you.”

“Why-”

She ignores you. “I didn’t believe it, for so long, when my master told me what I’d been made to bring about. But- Look at you. It hurts me, what he wants to do to you. You could be so much more than what you’re meant to be. You could be everything.”

“I’ve heard.” You risk a quick glance at the door. Still no Dean. “I- Your master? What is he going to-“

“He will never hurt you.” Lilith dismisses you with a bored hand. “He knows what it’s like to be… used.”

“And who-“

“You’re a smart girl. Work it out yourself.”

Your jaw clenches slightly. It’s an easy conclusion to draw. It’s just another thing you should’ve worked out months ago. 

Other things to worry about.

“Who’s going to use me-“

“You know,” Lilith drawls, and you’re getting a little sick of her doing that. “You could kill me with half a thought if you wanted. But you’ve ripped yourself apart for all these measly, pathetic little humans. For Dean Winchester, who will be nothing but a pawn. It wounds me, little one, what you’ve made yourself become for such a pathetic man-“

“He’s not pathetic.” You spit, and Lilith only hums, shaking her head. 

“He’s- These humans have done quite a number on you, haven’t they. You could be great, greater than anything, I could show you how. You need guidance, someone who understands-“

Your nails dig into your palm, and you might be drawing blood. “Are you here to offer me a fucking job-“

“No.” Lilith shrugs. “As I mentioned, I am not supposed to speak to you at all-“

“But you are.” You snap. Dean will be here soon. You need an answer now. “Why. And don’t say a cryptic fucking riddle or something-“

Lilith cuts you off with a soft laugh. “I have not said a single riddle. You would know what I’m speaking of, if you’d been taught right. If we hadn’t been allowed to die off, to grow so weak, you’d understand everything perfectly.”

You don’t really understand her last words. You can’t hear them, over the ringing in your ears as the word we sinks under your skin, right into your brain until it’s all you can even think.

We.

“I-“ Your voice is barely a breath, but you’re too big—the Darkness roaring in your body, and the White only pushing it further and further up—so it’s all you can manage. “Who- we?”

Lilith nods, and this smile is too sweet. Almost motherly, and the smoke inside the vessel looks like it’s swelling with something like joy.

“You are what I was, before. It’s part of why I was chosen, because I was the first of… More than this.” The smoke does a little turn, as if it’s showing off. “And you are… you are greater than I could’ve dreamed. So angry-“

“You’ve said that-“

“You will be everything I wanted to be. You’ll make him regret so much, when he comes for you. But-“ She sighs, looking out the window with a slight frown. “There is a weakness. It will… hinder you. Cloud your vision.”

“I-

“I am not supposed to interfere.” Lilith murmurs, shaking her head. “Yet I can’t just watch this, little one. I’m afraid it’s time we get rid of the… roadblock.”

The diner bell rings, and Dean walks inside with his hands in his pockets.

He’s in danger, but you can’t breathe. And Lilith is only smiling at you, almost daring you to open your mouth and scream from Dean to run, go, fucking leave you and find somewhere safe and call Sam, you’ll be fine but he’s in danger-

His eyes lock with yours, and a fall frown pulls at his lips as he scans over your face.

He’s in danger. 

You blink twice, and he goes rigid. Standing taller, jaw clenched as he stares at you, his gaze to Lilith—still in your booth, still watching you with a grin—as his frown deepens.

He blinks once. Checking in.

Not safe. You repeat it, watching his eyes widen as you blink twice, in a rapid, desperate pattern. Not safe.

You’d don’t know why you thought he’d run. You know him better than that.

Dean grabs his gun out from behind his back, aims right at the back of Lilith’s head, and shoots.

The shot rings through the diner, and the blur begins right as the first scream breaks the air.

Lilith falls over the table, and you know it won’t be permanent. 

But the knife you drive through her hand should slow her down, and the chaos in the diner should buy you time.

You’re at Dean’s side before you know what’s happening, pulling him outside by the wrist as you scan around the motel parking lot. No other demons. Sam had left you the Impala this time—lessons being learned after the whole Pennsylvania situation being, for once, properly learned—but you still have things in the motel room that you need. Not things like clothing or makeup. The Blade, that can’t be left when Lilith is here, and all your notes and theories for Dean’s contract, and your knife, the one that Dean gave that’s the only thing that’s kept you alive for years-

Dean grunts your name, jogging behind you as you drag him into the motel room and lock the door behind you. “What-“

“Lilith.” Your words are short. It’s all you have time for. “That was her.”

“What-“

“I’ll grab everything, you call Sam and tell him we’ll meet him in Minnesota-“

“Yeah, I got that, what the fuck is Lilith doing-“

You shake your head, the truth stuck somewhere in your chest like a bullet. “We don’t-“

The motel room bursts open, and your words turn to a strangled scream as Lilith slams Dean into a wall. You move to him without a thought, and low groan leave his mouth and aching against your heart as he sits up, but Lilith just walks right past you both to the table, to your-

Fuck-

You don’t even get to stand up before she’s pulling the Blade out of your jacket, smiling at it like it’s a long-lost friend.

Lilith says your name, a frighteningly sincere look of apology on her vessel’s face. “I’m going to need to borrow this, little one, just for a few minutes. And- there we go-“

Dean flies away from you in just another heartbeat, and this isn’t the blur anymore. It’s slow. Too slow. Just like in the manor, the same stasis, but infinite. Unyielding and unforgiving as Lilith drags Dean up from the floor, presses the blade to his throat, and raises her brows at you.

“Save him.”

You can’t breathe. Or think. Or speak. Everything is too much, you’re too much, too dangerous, the Darkness pressing up and bleeding out of you, but you can’t lose control, can’t let go, can’t lose Dean-

Lilith says you name, her voice almost stern. “I am going to kill him. Now. Save him.”

“I-“ Your voice is choked, and you shake your head, taking a lurching step forward with your hands curled into fist, ready to swing-

You’re thrown back in half a second, and Lilith lets out a long sigh as Dean roars your name.

“Don’t fucking touch her, you bitch-“

“Quiet.” Lilith snaps, and when you regain your balance, the Blade is angled just enough for a little bit of blood to leak down to the hilt. “And not like that.” She says your name like she’s disappointed. “You’re smarter than to think that would work, so try again.”

“I-“ You swallow, your hand creeping to your throat as you become everything, the strain of the pavement outside as people run and the dull pain of the wall where Dean had slammed into it and stained it gold and the Blade, calling for you to take it but you can’t fucking move, you’re barely even you-

“C’mon.” Lilith sneers, eyes narrowing. “I know you can do it, you know, you just have to show him. Let’s go!”

You shake your head, leaning against the wall as the pain starts to rip at your seam. “You- This is- We had time-“

Lilith shrugs. “This isn’t about the contract. This is about you. Kill me. Or I will kill him. Ready?”

“Please-“

“Three.” 

Lilith more blood runs down the Blade. You can’t really see any other colors but red. 

“Two.”

Your eyes move to Dean’s, and there’s a second color. Green. Shining, green eyes locked on your, filled with a million, glowing secondary colors and full of strange, beautiful thing, a whole world that might be bigger than you, because it’s Dean and he’s beautiful and you can’t lose him-

“One-“

The scream that rips out of your body isn’t human. You don’t feel human. You’d said you wouldn’t touch the Darkness, but you were supposed to have more time, and Lilith doesn’t get to fucking cheat.

It’s the same sheer, violent, blinding power from before. Blazing right past Dean—the spiderweb almost seeming to shield around him, making every bit of power bursting from your body move around him—and driving into Lilith, blending with the White until everything is Silver, and the world is vast and furious and yours.

Pressing into Lilith even after She stumbles back from Dean, strangling around the smoke as she laughs. She’s just laughing as you start to carves gashes into her to maul and raise every bit of her the Silver can reach, crushing her and stretching her at once but she’s just laughing-

She vanishes from sight, but there’s nowhere for her to hide. You’re everything, and you’re going to rip her to pieces if she flies to fucking Asia-

Dean roars your name, but you already know she’s behind you. 

“Good job.” She hisses if your ear, and when you whip around, she’s gone again. 

The Silver rips a chunk of her off. You just have a little further.

A hand wraps around your throat, and Lilith’s voice is back to that simpering, almost soft tone as she speaks in your ear once more.

“This was for your own good,” she hums your name, and Dean shouts something you can’t really hear when the Blade drives right into your gut, and everything rips back in two. “You’ll know that soon.”

She steps back, and Dean is roaring for you but this hurts, and you’re so tired, and everything is catching up with you too fast because what did you just do- 

“That won’t kill her.” You hear Lilith say, even if it sounds a million miles away. “I just needed to stop your Princess from killing me. I’m sure you understand-“

Dean’s voice is hoarse, but he’s speaking. He’s okay. “You fucking bitch-“

“I know, I know.” Lilith pauses, and you make a weak sound that might be Dean’s name, or a plea to just be put down. You’re going to lose him, he had to know now and you’re going to lose him- 

“Let me out-“ Dean hisses, something pleading in his tone you don’t understand. “Fuck- She’s- Let me fucking go-“

“Relax, Mr. Winchester. It’s just insurance until I’m far away. She’ll be fine.”

“She’s fucking bleeding out-“

“This,” Lilith pauses, and something clatters next to you on the floor. “Can’t kill her. And I’m sure you two have plenty to talk about, given that little show, so I’ll be heading out. I’ll see you soon, though, Dean Winchester. We have an appointment in two months.”

Dena might shout something, and something may slam, but you’ll never be sure. You can’t really feel everything but pain, the White screaming in pain as the Darkness rips and slashes through your organs, pain because your limb are trying to move to something good, something Golden, but everything hurts-

You’re lifted up into air by the Golden thing—warm and strong and certain around you—and a deep voice is saying something in your ear but you can’t hear.

There’s only one word, on a steady, looping replay through your brain. Over and over and over, an ache and stab that’s crafted from a knowledge of something you can’t name.

It’s made of lonely. Cold and lonely and dull, numb and empty, a blade driven right into your heart by your own hand, something carved out that you can live without, but feels more vital than any organ, the spiderweb seizing through your body because you’re going to be lonely.

And there’s the word. Three words. Two for a plea, and one for a prayer.

They’re poison.

You say them anyway.

“Dean.” You grab up, and get a hold on something smooth, and it’s right. It fits in your hand, and spurs you further. “Dean, I’m-“

“You’re gonna be fine, Princess.” The deep voice from before grunts, right in your ear. “You can’t fucking- You’ll be okay-“

“Dean.” You repeat it. Everything hurts but that sounds right, so you repeat it. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re-“

“I’m sorry.” Something stings at your eyes, even though they’re all but sown shut. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry-“

The voice grunts something else, but you can only here a rush like blood or a hurricane in your ear, only repeat those words over and over and over until you’re drowning in them.

“I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry-“

Warmth presses to your brow, and a low sound hums through your body.

It’s telling you that you’re going to be okay. 

And everything hurts, and this feels like death—even if you know, somehow, that it won’t be, knowing has really done you any favors—but you believe it.

So you let the world fade to black.

Everything is dark for a very long time. Colorful, bruising dark, like you’re alone and adrift through places between stars, or you’ve closed your eyes and pressed on their lids to see what happens. 

And then there’s light. 

Red and gold and orange light, waning and flickering and building until it’s roaring and the world is hot. 

Fire.

So much fucking fire.

Dean is next you. Right next to you. He’d somehow slipped right past you, in the blaze, but he hasn’t acknowledged you either, so you don’t feel that bad about it. The fire doesn’t hurt. There’s no smoke hoking at your lungs.

So if Dean wants to just stand in the fire with you, there are worse prices to pay for daring to be near him.

You waste an unknowable amount of time, swaying back and forth on your feet as you watch Dean. The gold isn’t in him, where you usually find it. It seems to be casting a halo over the whole room, until everything—from the flame to the peeling paint wall—is emitting a light that feels like Dean.

But he never looks around the room. He never looks at you, either.

He’s only looking up. Neck craned up, maybe more frozen that a statue as he stares at the ceiling. 

You follow his gaze, a strange feeling of dread twisting in your stomach, a little alarm blaring across you mind and skull that’s telling you to turn back, look away, be anywhere but here that you ignore.

Dean is here.

And then you see what he’d been staring out, and whatever had rooted him in place takes hold over your body.

It’s you.

Almost.

It’s a mirror image, if the mirror was painted over and carved from marble to make you look better than you are. Your hair frames your face too well—no flyaways, shining like you’d just done a treatment, every lock perfectly in place—and your skin seems as if it’s glowing. Your eyes are brighter, as if they’d crushed and concentrated a million stars, and everything about you seems flawless. 

Save for the fire, licking and scarring over your skin. 

Your mouth is open in a silent scream, and the sound is echoing through the room like a haunting, horrid, high note of an opera. You’re entrancing.

It’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen.

And when you rip your gaze back to Dean, you can see it with more clarity. The broken, desperate, fury on his every feature as he stares at you, unable to look away. First clenched and mouth open in a silent shout, eyes moving rapidly over your body like trying to find a trigger to release you—the you on the ceiling, making a long noise that’s a little too close to his name—but never managing to do anything but look back your face, and break a little further. 

You don’t know if he knows it’s possible to look away. That there’s anything else in the world but the you on the ceiling, even if everything else is only flame and wall.

“Dean?”

He shakes his head, and you swallow, making your voice softer.

“Dean. Please look at-“

Your words die in your throat as his eyes fly to yours, and he stumbles backwards. 

“I- You-“ He looks back up to the ceiling, and shakes his head as he whispers your name. “How did you- You never-“

“Dean, I don’t-“

“You never come down.” He says it like it’s supposed to mean something important, his eyes almost trapped on yours. “How did I- I don’t know how I- I need to know how to save you-“

You open your mouth to say anything that will ease him, make him stop looking like almost a frightened child. He doesn’t need to save you, because you’re really not worth saving. You don’t know how, or what’s happening either, but he’s here and that’s all that matters. You’ll aways come down, because down is back to him, and you-

Everything is yanked away from you in barely a second, and you’re back in the dark for only a second.

And then you’re home. Not your home at Bobby’s.

Your childhood home.

You’re the same height as always, but everything seems to have grown in order to keep you small. Every shadow is too long, and every shift of a light may mean you’d strayed somewhere you shouldn’t have been.

You’ve always been places you shouldn’t be. And you’d liked the darker corners and cabinets of this place, because they meant you were safe. 

Nobody would find you if the light couldn’t find you. 

And you know, deep down in your gut, that you’re not supposed to be here.

Knowing has never helped before.

So you push open the door, and freeze as you see the people crowded around the table before you.

You’re suddenly too big. Darkness seems to be leaking out of your body, and they’re all looking at you like you’re a monster. Lilith and Azazel are smiling, and million green demons shift around the corners of the room as your father—your real father—sneers at you, and John Winchester raises a gun, aimed right at your brow.

The gun goes off before you can do anything at all.

You wake up with a plea for forgiveness that dies in your throat, drenched in a cold sweat and tangled in thin sheets.

Sheets.

You’re in a bed.

Someone put you in a bed, and everything still hurts, but you don’t feel like death anymore. There’s only an ache in your gut, and a heavy feeling over your every muscle. You can’t bring yourself to move or open your eyes, but you can think again. 

You’re in a bed, but it’s not your bed. Your bed at Bobby’s. It’s not the bed from the last motel either, because the mattress is softer, and Dean wouldn’t have just stayed there after-

Lilith.

Dean wouldn’t have stayed where they knew Lilith could find them. He’d taken you somewhere with a soft bed, but you can’t feel his weight across the mattress, or hear him shuffling or grumbling anywhere in the room.

And he knows. 

He knows.

Maybe he’d left. He’d have every right to. Maybe he dropped you at the roadhouse and told Jo to deal with you, or you’re going to get up and find a note that tells not to find him or speak to him, that he’s gone and it’s because of you, because finally knows what you are and he’s disgusted by it, and he’s leaving you because he can, and you’ve lost him the same way you’d always been doomed to, just by being yourself-

“I know you’re up,” Sam says your name from somewhere to the side, and there’s exhaustion laced through his voice. “I can hear you having a panic attack.”

Sam’s here. You force your eyes open, squinting as they adjust to light, to the sight of Sam sitting at another, old motel table, looking at you with a small frown from over his laptop.

You don’t see Dean.

But his bag is on the floor, and Sam is here, and Dean wouldn’t leave Sam.

“Dean’s getting you Advil.” Sam hums, almost as if he’d been reading your mind. Maybe your obvious fear had just been written over your face. Maybe it had been leaking out of you like poison.

It didn’t really matter.

“Why-“

“You had a fever.” Sam mutters, looking back to the computer. “It went down, but he- Just in case.”

You nod, swallowing around a heavy lump lodged deep in your throat. Your voice had already been only a rasp. It might now be only a breath.

“Did he-“ You choke a little on spit. You push through. “What did he say-“

Sam sighs, running a hand over his face and sitting back in his chair. “I think it’s best if you talk to him. I don’t know what to-“

“Is he mad?” You blurt, before you can stop yourself. “I- I didn’t mean to tell him like this, I didn’t, Sam, I swear-“

“I know, but you know Dean, he-“

The motel door opens before Sam can finish, and you almost shrink down into the mattress. Dean won’t hurt you. He’d never hurt you.

But he can do far worse damage than any weapon ever could, and you’d deserve it.

“Got some Advil and cherry coke for like, five bucks. I fuckin’ love Iowa, Sammy, everythin’ is cheap as-“

Dean cuts himself off as he looks up, and your eyes meet. 

You try to give him a smile.

It feels more like a grimace.

“I’m gonna- uh-“ Sam clears his throat, and neither you nor Dean look at him. “Yeah.” 

Sam stands in your periphery, and you think he leaves the room, but you can’t see anything but Dean.

Not gone. Nothing hateful on his face.

Nothing at all on his face.

As he walks towards you, it’s almost like there’s a mask over his features. He stands at the foot of the bed with a small frown, scanning over you without a word, and moving to stand at the side of the mattress.

His side of the mattress.

“This is, uh- Got this for you.” He mutters, placing the coke bottle on the side table. “Gonna sit.”

You only nod, frozen as Dean drops to the bed, staring at his hands as the silence continues. You won’t be the one to break it.

This is all so fragile, and you’ll stab yourself again before you break something else today.

“Knife is in your jacket.” Dean grunts. “You’re looking better. Lilith was, uh- She seemed to get that right. Didn’t kill you.”

You nod again. This is a new type of broken record.

It’s worse.

“I-“ Dean’s voice is low, and you think it would be less painful if your bones and chest were stringed apart and crushed to pieces. “Sammy won’t tell me anything. Kept saying to talk to you.”

You take a shaking breath, forcing yourself to speak, just so he knows you’re listening. “Dean, I-“

“Did he know?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, and he still won’t look at you. 

“Who else?”

“Bobby.” You watch his back and profile, and nothing else in the world seems real. “Rufus and Jo. Joh- Your dad.”

That makes him look up at you. “Dad? Dad knew?”

“He found out at the hospital.” You whisper, and the Darkness is oddly silent. The nails digging into your skin are more on instinct than anything else. “That’s how Sam found out.”

Dean’s jaw twitches. “But he didn’t tell me. You didn’t tell me.”

“I-“

“Why?”

You blink at him, your brow drawing together as he stares at you. He looks almost desperate. You don’t understand it.

“Why’d you never tell me,” he says your name, and it sounds more important than it is. “Everyone else gotta know that you’re- That you can- I don’t fuckin’ know, but-“

“I don’t know either.” You say, the words slipping out of you without thought, and Dean frowns.

“What’d you mean, you don’t know-“

“I’ve- I’ve never known. I wanted to know.” You’re already falling. Might as well go all the way down. “I needed to know, before I told you.”

Dean looks like he’s going to say something, but the floodgates have opened. You don’t think you could stop if you tried.

“I- I wanted to tell you. I swear I wanted to- I tried to but it was never right, and I- I don’t know- I’m dangerous, Dean, I could hurt you, I- I’m not in control of it and I don’t even know what it is, and I couldn’t tell you- I couldn’t- Please-“ You choked on the air, and the world starts to blur. “I’m sorry- I didn’t- You- Don’t-“ Every word is fractured, and Dean needs to go. When the Darkness returns you won’t have a hold over it, and you’ll hurt him, and he should’ve left when he found out, should’ve euthanized you like a monster because he can, and he’s stronger, and why is he still here-

Dean mutters your name, moving to touch you, but you’ll infect him. Hurt him. Make him just as hideous as you are, just because you’d dared to try and sink deep enough into his gravity that nothing could ever pull you out. 

“I didn’t mean to- I’m sorry-“ Your every word is barely a breath. You mean them more than anything. “Dean, I’m sorry-“

He reaches you again, faster than you can shove him away. Presses his thumb right to the bridge of your nose and stroke it down until your every breath isn’t a fight, then pulling you right into his arms. 

Just holding you.

You don’t deserve this. You’d fucked everything up, and he should’ve have to save you here, he shouldn’t have to clean up the mess when you’re the one who took everything and fucked it up-

“I- I’m sorry-“ You whisper against him, your fingers digging into his shirt even as you force the words out of your mouth. “I’ll- I’ll go-“

He tenses around you. “Go?”

You nod, and his grip tightens. Like he’s trying to move you into his body.

“Don’t.”

He can’t say that. If he doesn’t mean it, he can’t say it.

“Dean-“

“You didn’t leave me.” He grunts, and you can feel every word in your chest. “Two-way road, Princess. You said I wasn’t getting rid of you that easy. Stay.”

“I-“ 

“Stay.” He repeats it, squeezing your body once. “Explain tomorrow. I can’t-“ His words falter, and he hold you a little tighter. “You said you’d fucking stay here. Please.”

“Dean-“

“Please,” he whispers your name, and you don’t think he knows that you’d put yourself in hell in his place, and he’d never even ask. “Stay.”

You nod, because there’s nothing else to do, and worm your hand further between your bodies until it’s poking out the other side, and your pinkies are linked.

“All the way down.” You mumble, and your words are muffled in his chest, but he understands.

Dean nods, letting out a long breath, and the only thing you’ve heard that’s better his is voice, deep and calm and right in your ear.

“All the way down.”

End Note: Hehehehehe many plans in the works.

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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