#even if for a fraction of a second . it pulled me out of my panic and paranoia

[spookythesillyfella]

I was doodling HV! stuff out of bored and I ended up with THIS I think you should have it

soup hater vz soup lover – whoz winning

[sunsburns]

i've been thinking abt joaquin's smile all day. he has these small little canines that drive me insane he has such a blinding smile i need him to bite me NEOWWWW

well yes!!! i wanna have his bite marks all over me!!

it starts with his smile. it always does. the one that makes your stomach flip before your brain can even catch up.

joaquín torres grins like he’s never known a bad day in his life, like the whole world is just one big inside joke that only he gets, and for some reason, he’s decided to let you in on it. it’s bright and easy, a little lopsided, all teeth—all easy charm and boyish.

it should not affect you the way it does.

joaquín grins with his whole face, like he can’t help himself, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his dimples cutting deep. but it’s the way his lips curl just a little wider, letting those sharp little canines peek through—that’s what does it for you.

and he knows it.

he sees the way you hesitate. how your gaze flickers, just for a second, a fraction too long on his mouth before you catch yourself.

the second he notices, it’s over.

“you’re staring,” joaquín sing-songs, swaying slightly as he leans into your space, his grin widening.

“i’m not.”

“you so are.” his head tilts, studying you, his grin taking on that smug little edge. and then—then his brows raise, realization dawning. “wait, wait—are you looking at my teeth?”

“no.”

“oh my god,” Joaquín laughs, voice a little breathless, like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him. “you are. you like them.”

he sounds so delighted by the discovery that it makes you mad.

“no, i don’t—”

he gasps “you so do.”

“i literally never said that.”

“but you didn’t deny it.”

you open your mouth, ready to argue, but the way he smiles at you? it knocks the words right out of your throat.

because it’s different now.

not just playful—calculated. there’s a slow kind of teasing in the way his lips pull back, like he’s showing you on purpose, like he’s letting you look.

and that—that is what does it.

you panic.

“what, you think i have some weird vampire kink or something?”

joaquín snorts, shaking his head. “nah, i just think you like when I do this—”

before you can react, he dips down, nosing against your shoulder before he bites.

it’s not a real bite—just a quick, teasing nip against your shoulder, nothing more than the press of his teeth against your skin. but it lingers—just enough to send a sharp little shiver rolling through you, to make your breath hitch.

he laughs when he feels it.

it’s quiet, breathy, a little pleased, his lips brushing against the spot where his teeth just were, like he’s savoring the reaction.

when he finally pulls back, there’s nothing but mischief in his gaze. his hands stuffed in his pockets, head tilting just slightly to the side as he watches you with something too smug, too knowing.

“see?” joaquín murmurs, voice warm, teasing. “shut you up real quick, didn’t i?”

and you should be annoyed. you should push him off and roll your eyes and tell him to stop being so full of himself.

but instead, your fingers tighten in his shirt, and the only thing you can think about is how much you wouldn’t mind if he did it again.

[antiwhores]

Everything hurts for Alpha!Bakugou when he goes into rut. And it hurts even more when your scent lingered around his room from when you guys hung out yesterday.

He’s gonna regret having his phone in his hand right now, he just knows it. Because he has your contact info opened and he’s contemplating ruining the friendship you two have carefully built.

You and him were not just friends but best-friends, since the second year of high school. And ever since then, he’s has a thing for you. His inner alpha goes crazy whenever you’re near, that or its contempt. You guys even happened to end up being neighbors.

And that was all gonna be ruined because he was ringing your phone right now. You answered after 3 rings.

“Whats up?”

He couldn’t help but to wrap his hand around his cock at the sound of your voice. He started a steady pace, trying to respond clear and hoping you couldn’t hear his cum soaked hand going back and forth for the… who knows how many times now.

“Where are you?”

Good. He managed to sound normal, but it came out quiet. It worried you.

“I’m at my place.”

“Come over.”

He said it before he could stop himself. This rut especially hurt and it was making him do things he might regret.

“Why? Are you okay? You sound… weird.”

He sounded weird? He thought he sounded normal. It didn’t matter, he was about to cum from listening to your voice.

“I’m fucking fine. Just… come over…”

“Well, can it wait? I have-“

“Tell me about your day.”

You had to notice he was acting weird now. This was so out of character for him. But he needed to hear your voice to finally get a fraction of his relief.

“Huh? Okay, well… I went-“

As you rambled he pulled on his dick to a picture of you he took one day at the beach of you in that bikini he liked (with your permission, he said it was for Mina).

He was getting close, having to bite his lip to conceal the groans and moans threatening to spill.

His tugging was getting faster and faster as you went on until finally he climbed he got to his high.

Before he could stop himself, he moaned loudly into the camera. He came in ropes all over himself. The other line was silent as he steadied his breath.

The clarity hit him like a bus as his high came down. And just as he began to panic and think up a worthy apology, you spoke.

“I’m coming over.”

[sunsetmaneuver]

yearn, baby, yearn - bradley bradshaw x reader

omg hello! my first ever post on here! hooray! no better way to start off than with a little yearning. i haven't written for a fandom in so long, so forgive me if i seem a little rusty! trust, i'll get back into my groove soon lol. lmk what you think, i hope you enjoy <3 requests always open!!

length: 2.3k words

warnings: swearing, beginning stages of a panic attack, probably some grammar mistakes lol, pining and yearning

You know when you have a secret you've been keeping for so long, it starts to eat away at your insides? Starts to physically hurt to force it down? I am usually a very inconspicuous secret keeper; I have been all my life. But for some reason, this one crawls up my throat and begs to spill every single time he's near me.

His mahogany eyes boring into me whenever we're together, the way his laugh coats every fibre of my soul and tugs on my heart, that cocky little grin that's somehow always present on his face. All of it, all of him, makes it damn near impossible to keep it to myself. Bradley Bradshaw is, in the simplest, yet somehow most incredibly complex way, everything to me. But I can't shake the feeling that to him, I'm just his best friend; someone he met some odd years ago at a bar, both of us far too intoxicated for a casual Tuesday night. I can still remember the hangover and text messages that came the following morning. From that day forward, our friendship solidified and blossomed into something I never could have anticipated. How could someone be in love with their best friend without risking blowing up years of friendship if it ends badly?

I glance over at the clock on my bedside table for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, "2:47 AM" burning back at me in a bright red glow. I've been tossing and turning for almost four hours, reeling over every interaction I could recall having with Bradley, the most recent being the casual dinner we shared last week at his apartment. Sharing a meal together isn't unusual for us, but thinking about it makes my skin burn with frustration and lust I had no business feeling.

"What are we watching tonight?" Bradley asks as he shuts his apartment door, a box of pizza balanced on his arms. He sets it down on the coffee table and moves into the kitchen, grabbing plates and napkins. I can't help but take note of how his shirt lifts up ever so slightly, tanned abs peeking out at me, as he grabs the plates from the cabinet. I will myself to pull my eyes away from him and turn my attention back to the TV screen.

"I don't know, there's nothing good," I mumble, flipping through movies on Hulu with my legs tucked up underneath me. Bradley reemerges from the kitchen rather quickly, setting the plates on the table and plopping down next to me, lazily draping an arm over the back of the couch. The action is so casual, so instinctive, like he's been doing it all his life. My breath catches in my lungs. Suddenly very aware of our position, I clear my throat and click on whatever movie the remote has landed on. The large man next to me lets out a soft chuckle, his knee bumping mine ever so slightly.

"Gnomeo and Juliet?" He doesn't even try to hide his teasing tone or the way his eyes flick from my eyes down to my lips for a fraction of a second. I roll my eyes and lean forward to take a slice of pizza from the box-- green peppers and olives, my favorite for reasons Bradley "just didn't understand". But he always got it anyway, and always ate it with minimal complaints.

The night went smoothly, the occasional laugh coming from Bradley, our plates long discarded and swapped out with a couple of bottles of beer. Sleep tugged at my eyelids, and, eventually, my head found Bradley's shoulder. He let me sleep pressed against him, a protective arm around me, drawing circles on my shoulder, until the movie was over. Then he dropped me back off at home, and I spiraled.

Groaning a quiet "fuck this", I shove my comforter off me and swing my legs over the edge of my bed, hastily putting on the slippers that sit in a neat pair beneath me. Throwing my glasses on, I stride to my house robe, draping it over my pajamas, which consist of one of Bradley's old Navy t-shirts and a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants. I don't bother brushing my hair, but obviously, my appearance is the last thing on my mind. The only thing I can think of is Bradley, and Bradley's stupid mustache, and Bradley's stupid smile, and Bradley's stupid lips. Bradley's stupid lips on mine.

It's like I'm on autopilot -- swiping my keys up from the bowl by the front door, barreling towards my car before climbing in and driving East. I don't even bother to turn on the radio; the only sounds swirling around me are my thoughts, my unsteady breaths, and the bumpy road under my tires. After 15 minutes of driving, I pull up behind that all-too familiar beat-up, blue Bronco I've watched and waited by my window for countless times over the years.

"What the fuck am I doing?" I whisper into the air, but I don't stop myself. Unbuckling my seatbelt and slamming my car door shut, my body starts to tingle, starting in my feet, inching to my fingertips, and finally reaching my face. I'm on fire but ice cold at the same time. The feeling of wood beneath my knuckles suddenly pulls me back down to earth. It doesn't take long for Bradley to appear at the door, confusion and sleep settled deep on his face as he all but pulls the door off its hinges. The chain lock, thankfully, prevents him from losing his security deposit.

"It's fuckin' 3 o'clock in the morning--" Bradley grumbles, eyes barely open as he squints at me through the cracked door. It must register with him that it's me in front of him, because his confusion only seems to grow. His hands come up to rub the sleep from his eyes.

I can't breathe.

"I have something to tell you." I blurt out. My voice sounds foreign, straining to get the words out, garbled and distorted. It feels like I'm watching myself from outside my body, standing at my best friend's apartment door, spewing nonsense at three in the morning. Bradley's eyebrows pull closer as he shuts the door, unlocks it properly, and opens it fully, revealing his nearly naked appearance. A pair of black sweatpants hang loosely on his hips, like he had just thrown them on in a haste to answer the door. I try not to stare too long at his abs, or his biceps, or the hair on his stomach that trails down to his--

"What is it? Are you okay?" His tone dances on the line drawn between sounding concerned and sounding annoyed, but his eyes soften at me. I can't feel my fingers or my nose, and my teeth feel like TV static. I nod my head slowly, sneaking a glance at my hands to make sure they're still there. I look back up at Bradley and clench my fists, trying to feel my nails dig into my palms. He steps aside to let me walk through his doorway, gesturing for me to come in, but I don't move. My feet stay firmly planted on the carpeted hallway of his apartment complex.

Here goes nothing.

"I'm not good at this," I begin.

"Good at what?" He yawns.

"Two years ago, when your favorite mug went missing from your cabinet for a few days-- that was me. I accidentally dropped it while you were in the shower one day, so I bagged up the pieces and shoved them in my purse."

The mug, as ugly as it was, meant a lot to Bradley. Bought at a rest stop in Missouri with his mother, Carole, almost two decades ago. The faded words "There's no place like home" encased within the dark outline of Missouri's state borders on one side, and a huge cornfield on the other. A small chip in the handle. Ugly little thing. He told me the story every time he drank out of it, how his mother had spotted it on a road trip and laughed until tears came out of her eyes, thinking it was the funniest, ugliest thing she'd ever seen. It was the hardest she had laughed since his father died.

Carole Bradshaw has been gone for some years now, so Bradley drinks his morning coffee in that mug every day and replays that memory, hoping to remember her laugh forever. I never miss the way Bradley's cheeks and nose burn a deep crimson while telling that story, or how he grows quiet for the next fifteen minutes after he's finished.

"Okay..?" His brows shoot up, puzzled and a little annoyed. I silently curse my brain for deciding to have this epiphany at the ass crack of dawn. My tongue darts out over my lips, and I continue.

"I felt so awful, I called out of work that whole week, and I drove there. To Missouri."

My hands shake by my sides as I finally get the courage to walk forward into his apartment. I start to pace as he shuts the door, leaning his back up against it with arms crossed over his chest. His eyes burn with something I can't name, and his lips part. I take his silence as a cue to continue.

"I went to nearly every rest stop until I found it, that ugly fucking mug that you love so much--"

"Wait. Slow down. You-- You drove to Missouri?" Bradley's voice rasps, full of shock and bewilderment. I can't stop the word vomit that's about to escape, back turned away from my best friend. I pace and pace and pace before turning back around to face him.

"And when I got back home, I chipped the handle as best as I could to match the original. Then I came here while you were at training, and I put it in your cabinet. I don't know why I did that. Any of it. Friends don't-- friends don't do things like that. They don't drive 50 hours round trip for a stupid coffee mug, and that scares me because I don't know why every time I'm around you, I want to do things like that for you, and I just want to make sure you're happy all the time and I know I sound crazy and I don’t know what’s wrong with m--"

Bradley pushes off of the door and stops in front of me, hands dipping to gently cup my face up towards him. The moonlight seeps in through his windows, hitting the side of his face in a way that makes his eyes appear lighter than they are. He stares at me as I stand there, chest heaving, trapped by his touch, and a silence washes over us. He’s searching for something on my face, frantic and unknowing. He keeps opening his mouth like he has something to say, but it closes not long after. I’ve never seen him like this before. He was usually so calm and collected, the voice of reason, the confident one. But now, for the first time since I’ve known him, Bradley Bradshaw is speechless.

Biting my lip as tears sting my eyes, I swallow my pride, and, finally, the words that have been on the tip of my tongue for God knows how long tumble out.

"I'm in love with you, Bradley Bradshaw. And it is killing me." Words so quiet, so pathetic, but so certain. He doesn't say anything for a few seconds, and fear rises up in my chest. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe this could've waited until the morning, or until I figured out whatever the hell my problem was.

Just as I'm about to plead with him to say something, anything, he leans down and lets his lips hover over mine, eyes flicking up to meet mine for less than a millisecond before he connects us.

The kiss is tender and genuine, and everything I'd imagined it would be like. We stand there, lips moving in sync and hands exploring, before Bradley pulls away. He rests his forehead against mine and lets out a shaky breath, bringing his hand to rest on my face. I lean into his touch instinctively.

"Do you have any idea how long I've been wanting to do that?" He breathes out, thumb brushing my cheek gently.

"Probably not as long as me," I quip back with a tiny giggle. He exhales a laugh out of his nose as a smile grows on his face, then moves his hands so they're wrapping around my body in a tight hug. My arms find their place around his waist as he begins to rock us back and forth softly.

"I love you, too." This has me pulling away again so I can see his face in all of its bashful glory. Even in the darkness of the living room, I can make out the flaming pink blush on his cheeks. I grin wildly at him before pulling him down by the neck and catching his lips again.

"You know, I should've known," I mumble against him.

"Oh really?" He muses back playfully, hands sliding down my back, eager to roam.

"Yeah. There's no other reason you'd willingly eat my bizarre pizza." Bradley's laugh breaks our kiss, but I don't mind. The way he's looking at me right now, like I'm the only thing that keeps him tied to this planet, the only thing that matters, is more than enough for me.

"That pizza is truly God awful." And with that, he plants a kiss on my forehead, grabs my hand, and leads me to his room.

We fall asleep shortly thereafter, my body pressed into his side, head on his chest, with an arm draped over his stomach. Bradley draws circles on my shoulder as he holds me close, our legs tangled together under the sheets.

Bradley Bradshaw is everything to me, and I am everything to him. No doubt about it.

[sickskz]

ily 😭

i was looking for skz sickfics and then i found you, i’m so happy

can you do sth with han being anxious after a concert and it makes his stomach hurt?? i’m not creative at all, lol, but sth like that, and soft comfort cause he’s a bbg

Thank you so much! 🥹 Here is a fic where Han's anxiety gets the best of him (and his stomach) after a performance. I went all in, so be prepared for a full on panic attack ✋🏽

“Breathe with me”

Sickie: Han

Caretaker/s: Bang Chan, Lee Know

___________________________________________

Han Jisung felt his head swim with heat as they stepped off the stage. The lights of the concert hall were still dancing behind his eyelids, and the final note from the speakers still clung to his mind like a faded echo. 

The concert had just ended, and the loud cheers of fans was still ringing in Jisung's ears as he removed his ear pieces, breathing heavy and body slick with sweat.  

He was quicker than usual to get backstage, weaving through the others in his rush to get away, to get out of the blinding lights and escape from the thousands of eyes staring at him. He loved his fans, more than anything. But right then and there, it was all too much.

The adrenaline from the performance was starting to wear off, and what replaced it was much less pleasant. It started building into a knot that settled deep in his chest and made his stomach churn sourly.  It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, the anxiety..

This time, it was just a lot worse. 

Why?

All because of that stupid mistake. 

It was just a small slip of his foot during their performance of DOMINO, barely throwing him off beat for a fraction of a second. It wasn’t a grave mistake, it didn’t ruin the performance, but it had burned itself into his memory. Even though it seemed to go unnoticed by the audience, it was all Jisung could think about. 

The moment it had happened, he’d felt the pang in his chest, but the intoxicating thrill of the cheers had kept the anxiety in check. 

Now that the loud audience died into a faint buzz in the background, the fear washed over him with a vengeance.

Jisung's breath quickened as he staggered past unsuspecting staff, his eyes wide and unfocused. His chest tightened with trepidation, and his stomach twisted so forcefully that he had to stop himself from crying out. 

He rounded a corner and collapsed down against the nearest wall, both hands clutching at his stomach as he grit his teeth in a pained grimace. He tried to take deep breaths, tried to steady himself as his vision blurred around the edges, but it wasn’t working. 

Stop. Calm down. 

Nausea rose in his throat, and before he knew it, his body lurched forward with a gag. Jisung's vision dipped as a harsh heave rolled through his shoulders, spilling his dinner across the black floor between his legs. The bile burned in his nose, and it certainly didn’t make breathing any easier. 

A voice called out to him, echoing in his ears as his surroundings slowly caught up to him. 

Oh my god-

“Han- Han! hey..” Chan's voice became clearer once he placed a hand on Jisung's shoulder, pulling him back down from the panicked haze. Just for a fleeting second. “Are you alright? Hey, Hannie, look at me.”

Jisung looked up, frantic, and he saw the concern etched into Chan's face. Lee Know was beside him, his own expression matching that of their leader. 

“I-“ Jisung tried to speak, but his voice faltered, words blocked by the lump of nausea still lodged in his throat. Tears welled in his eyes, making the other members nothing more than blurry figures looming over him. “I-I messed- I messed up. I-I couldn’t-“  

His chest was too tight. His lungs didn’t work. He couldn’t breathe right. 

“Hey, hey..” Chan interrupted his stuttering softly, crouching down in front of him.

A few tears trickled down his cheeks as the first sob bubbled up his throat. Jisung squeezed his eyes shut, the shame making his skin burn.  

“I-I didn’t me-mean to- god, I’m so sorry! Domino- I-I just- I couldn’t-“ Jisung gasped, his voice breaking as he tried to speak. 

“I-I ruined it, I’m so- I’m so sorry. I-I-I-I can’t - I can’t” he doubled over, gasping for air. His stomach twisted again, the nausea almost making him choke on his own spit.

Chan's face shifted, sympathy flickering in his eyes. They had seen this before, they knew what was happening. 

“Shh, shh, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. You didn’t ruin anything. Try to breathe.” Chan said calmly, hoping his words could be of comfort. 

Jisung was mortified. He wanted to- no, he needed to disappear. 

Everything felt so distant all of a sudden, blurry almost. He heard Chan speak, but his mind couldn’t latch onto anything he said, the panic swallowing any rational thought he’d ever had. 

“Han, listen to me. You need to breathe. It’s okay, you’re okay” Chan said softly, reaching out to carefully settle his other hand on Jisung's knee, trying to ground him somehow. 

Jisung could hardly hear him over the sound of blood rushing in ears. His breaths were coming out too fast, too shallow, and his shirt felt like a tightrope around his chest. He was starting to feel lightheaded. 

“I’m sorry- I’m s-so sorry” Jisung choked out between sobs, his voice thick with the nausea still swirling in his stomach. “I-I couldn’t keep it to-together. H-hyung, I’m so-sorry—“

“Stop.” 

Lee Know's voice was caring, yet firm. It made Jisung flinch, but just a little.  

“Hey, you have nothing to apologise for” Lee Know continued, his tone softer this time. Almost like he was speaking to a frightened kitten. “Seriously, Han-ah. You were amazing out there.”

But Jisung couldn’t stop. He couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t breathe. 

The apologies were among the only coherent words that spilled from his lips, mixed in with the erratic breaths and distressed sobs. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t-I don’t wanna b-be like this-“

He could hear Chan's voice speaking to him again, something along the lines of ‘it’s okay’, but he couldn’t hear anything else. 

The moment of his missed step played over, and over, and over again inside his head. The moment he miscalculated his move, the slight stagger that no one seemed to notice but him. 

The cameras… the cameras would notice. The cameras always noticed.

Jisung willed his mind to stop, to please stop taunting him, but it was unrelenting. The weight of his own thoughts was crushing him, so heavy it stole any remains of air from his lungs.

Chan reached out to place his hand on his shoulder, but Jisung jerked himself away with a flinch that left their leader frozen in shock.

“Stop- please-p-please stop!” Jisung suddenly wailed, startling all of them. He reached his trembling hands up to cover his ears as his knees pulled to his chest, curling him into a tight ball. 

Disappear, disappear, disappear.

Chan and Lee Know exchanged a worried glance, their own hearts sinking with the realisation that Jisung's mind was too garbled and disjointed to process anything they were saying. 

Lee Know exhaled slowly and sank down to the floor beside Jisung, facing him. 

“Come on, Jisung-ah..” he murmured, voice soft. It wasn’t a command, just a quiet invitation. “Breathe with me.” 

As expected, Jisung didn’t react to his words, his body trembling and face paling thanks to the steadily declining amount of oxygen to his brain.

Luckily, Lee Know had an ace up his sleeve.

He gently, carefully reached for one Jisung's hands, prying it away from his ear. 

Jisung resisted for a moment, eyes wide with fear, but Lee Know's touch remained steady and insistent. He guided Jisung's shaky hand down to rest gently against his chest, making sure to keep his own breathing calm and collected. 

Jisungs breath hitched for a moment as he felt the rhythmic rise and fall of Lee Know's chest under his fingertips. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something. Something safe, something real. Something to anchor him through the storm. 

Lee Know kept his hand lightly above Jisung's, keeping him in place as he exaggerated his own breaths, in and out. “That’s it. Breathe with me” he repeated, trying to discern if his words could reach him this time. Thankfully, they did. “In..”

Jisung inhaled shakily. His breath still came in short, shallow bursts, but he tried. He really tried. He shut his eyes tightly, eyebrows pinched as he tried to focus on nothing but the sensation of Lee Know's chest expanding and deflating with each controlled breath. The nausea still swirled in his stomach and his head was spinning, but the feeling grounded him.

“Out..” Lee Know coaxed, letting his hand follow the movement as the air slowly left his lungs. “Good. You’re doing great. Keep breathing.” 

Jisung's sobs started to subside, his breathing slowly becoming a little less erratic. His fingers still trembled against Lee Know's chest, but the steady rhythm of his breathing was beginning to work its way through the wall of panic. 

Slowly, but surely, the world stopped crashing down on him. Jisung's breathing was still ragged, he still gasped out small sobs, but everything seemed a little less overwhelming.

Lee Know stayed with him, his presence patient and unwavering. He didn’t know how much time had passed by the time he was able to look around him again, but when he did, Lee Know offered him a reassuring look. 

“There you go..”

As the world around him came back in pieces, Jisung was made acutely aware of the strong hand at the back of his neck, gently rubbing his muscles as the tension subsided. Chan. 

“That’s it. You’re okay, Hannie. You’re okay. We’re here.” Chan's voice spoke softly beside him, the hand traveling up to gently run through the sweaty hair at the back of his head.

Jisung could feel his breath coming in easier now, his lungs no longer burning with the inability to breathe. For a while longer, they just sat there. No words, just steady and calming breaths. 

Jisung's head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton, and his stomach still rumbled uneasily under his shirt, the dull ache still present. He slowly withdrew the hand on Lee Know's chest, settling it against his own gut in an attempt to soothe it.

“I’m sorry..” Jisung murmured again, voice weak. His head lolled to the side, gently bumping against Chan's shoulder as the older wrapped his arm around him. 

“I’m so sorry…” his voice wavered, like he was going to break out in tears again.

“Yah, I thought I already told you to stop apologising.” Lee Know chimed in, though there was no real bite in his words. “You have no reason to.” He scooted over to sit against the wall on Jisung's other side, his hand gently coming to rest on his thigh. 

Jisung couldn’t help the choked up, shaky chuckle that slipped past his lips at Lee Know's feigned annoyance. The familiarity of it felt strangely comforting. As he leaned into Chan's touch, he felt that his heart was still jittery in chest, but it was beating at a much less concerning pace.

“I-I can’t help it.” He whispered softly, his voice barely audible. “I hate feeling like this… It’s just too much sometimes. I-I need to be better.”

Lee Know's hand remained on his thigh, squeezing it softly in silent support. “Why do you need to be better? Han-ah, you’re already more than good enough..” he said softly, raising a brow as his mind worked around his words. “We all make mistakes, it doesn’t make us any less.”

Jisung bit his lip, turning his head to press his face into Chan's shoulder, hiding away from Lee Know's piercing gaze. He mumbled something unintelligible against the fabric of Chan's shirt, and Lee Know raised his brow further.

“Come again?”

Jisung twisted his head just enough to be heard. “You don’t..”

“I don-“ Lee Know's question trailed off as he caught up to whatever it was he was going on about. He couldn’t help the lopsided grin his lips pulled into, affection warm in his chest as he shook his head disapprovingly. “That’s not true and you know it. I’ve made plenty mistakes.” He scoffed.  

“Yeah, do you not remember the three.. four times Lee Know has almost accidentally done the splits on stage?” Chan quipped, earning a halfhearted flick to his forehead from the dancer. 

Jisung felt his lips twitch slightly at that, but he could suddenly feel himself waver again, emotions bubbling up in his chest. He let out a pitiful whimper as he pressed himself further into Chan's side, his fingers curling into the fabric of the leaders shirt. Chan reciprocated by giving his shoulders a reassuring squeeze, tilting his head so his cheek gently rested against Jisung's damp hair. “It’s okay, take it easy.”

Jisung sniffled pathetically, shaking his head as he sobbed again, the noise muffled into Chan's shoulder. The oldest sighed softly, pulling away slightly just so Jisung wouldn’t start suffocating himself.

Chan placed a hand under his chin, tiling his head up so he could meet his eyes. “Han-ah…” he said tenderly, giving him a small dimpled smile. 

“Agh, s-stop.. don’t look at me li-like that” Jisung shook his head, drawing back with a petulant whine as new tears trailed down the red streaks already marring his face. 

“Dammit, hyung, wh-what is wrong with me?” He groaned out, exasperated, as he tried to stifle the small sobs.

Why couldn’t he stop crying? This was exhausting.

Chan clicked his tongue, ruffling Jisung's hair affectionately as he hid himself away. “Nothings wrong with you, bud.. you’re overwhelmed, exhausted. It happens to the best of us.” he assured him ever so caringly, rubbing his hand over his back.

“Yeah” Lee Know added. “It’s been a long week.. tonight just tipped you over the edge, and that’s fine. I knows it’s hard to believe, but you are human, you know?” 

Chan ran his fingers mindlessly through Jisung's hair, letting his breathing settle again as the tears came to a halt. He was probably all dried up by now. Dehydrated for sure. His eyes burned.

“You know..” Chan's voice seemed pensive, like he’d been brewing on something to say for a while. “You really need to stop treating yourself like you’re worth any less than the people you love.” 

Jisung swallowed hard, a little caught off guard by the weight of his words.

“You always tell us not to be too hard on ourselves, but then you go tear yourself up over the smallest mistake? If it were me, you’d be the first to tell me it was okay.” Chan continued, a small sigh leaving his lips.

Jisung lifted his head a little, looking at Chan with a deadpan expression. With his puffy, red-rimmed eyes and the salty streaks burning on his cheek, his attempt to be earnest was nothing short of endearing. 

“Tsk, that’s bold coming from you, hyung..” Jisung muttered tiredly, before letting his head fall back down again.

Chan paused, then laughed softly, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face. “Hey, this isn’t about me.” he complained, earning a small smile from Jisung. “I mean it, though. Go easier on yourself, you deserve that.” Chan's voice was serious again, and the younger rapper gnawed at the inside of his cheek. 

He didn’t answer, and he didn’t know whether it was because he was too tired or if deep down, he knew Chan was right.

Lee Know poked his side, making Jisung jump and send him a halfhearted glare. The dancer just smirked, holding out a water bottle for the younger to take. “Here, drink. Gotta fill up the tear storage again before you turn into a raisin.” 

Jisung huffed at the teasing but took the water bottle anyway, twisting the cap off with trembling fingers. He took a few long sips, the cool liquid soothing on his throat. Then he paused, looking slowly around the hall as he heard the sound of footsteps around the corner. 

Jisung's breath caught in his throat, his whole body stiffening as the memories seeped back into his mind. 

He had thrown up on the floor. Not just a little. All his stomachs contents. Right there, on the floor. Now, as he glanced at the same spot, it was… cleaner than before.

Embarrassment crept up to him, warmth spreading across his cheeks as he contemplated which was worse; throwing up on the floor, or not being coherent enough to notice when someone had cleaned it up. 

The memories sent a new wave of anxiety and shame washing over him.

“I-oh my god” JIsung choked out, hiding his face in his hands. “I can’t believe…” he trailed off, cheeks red and eyes pleading as he looked up at Chan. “Hyung, you…. get me out of here, please?”

Lee Know and Chan shared a glance, and Chan ruffled Jisung's hair affectionately. “Well, since you asked so nicely... Of course, the car is already waiting on us.” He promised. As Jisung braced himself to stand on his shaky legs, Lee Know held out his hand and Chan gently supported him with an arm around his waist. 

“You know what, Han-ah?” Lee Know spoke up, and Jisung looked at him, still a little dazed. 

“Try not to think too much. I think I like you better dumb.” The dancer declared with a smirk, and Chan suppressed a chuckle into his fist.

Jisung blinked a couple of times, mouth hung open as he processed the words. Then, he gave a soft, breathless laugh. 

“Y'know what… yeah, me too.”

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

"Can't ignore the mistletoe" with Nathan please

I'm so sorry this took so long! <3

Is there anything you want to ask for?

Nathan Bateman x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals • Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • ko-fi •

Warnings: Nathan being a dumbass, allusions to blow jobs, not beta read, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 727

You’d been suspicious the second Nathan had started grinning like the Cheshire cat. Any obvious glee on his face was always a cause for slight concern, especially if you couldn’t work out the reason for his expression straight away. 

“What?” You ask, your voice calm and even as you stop in your tracks. You’re one step away from breaching the threshold of the kitchen.

He blinks once, pulling his grin back into a more reasonable smile. “What?” 

You stay looking at him, so used to this behaviour by now that you don’t even bother to roll your eyes. 

“It’s no fun if you don’t say something else.” He teases, pushing his glasses higher up on his nose. 

“Good.” 

He tuts, pretending to be annoyed but you can see through his facade easily. “Come here.”

You stand firm and raise an eyebrow. 

“What?” He shrugs, stepping back to lean against the counter. 

“What?” 

He gives you a look, “You were coming in here a second ago.” 

“That was before you gave me that killer clown expression.” 

Nathan snorts, “A smile? You’re calling my smile a-”

“Yes, I am.” 

“That’s very mean,” he shakes his head, “You’ve hurt my feelings actually.” He says unconvincingly. 

“Oh, you have feelings, do you get them in the new update?” You try to say seriously but can’t even finish the sentence without smiling. 

“That was a good one,” he mock claps for you, “how long have you been working on that devastating jibe, princess?” 

You give him a playful glare as you walk into the kitchen, your previous mistrust briefly forgotten. “Fuck off Natha-” 

You yelp in surprise as he pounces on you, wrapping his strong arms around your body.

He gives you another cheeky grin and purposefully glances upwards. You inwardly groan when you follow his line of sight. There’s a sprig of mistletoe hastily suck to the ceiling above your head. 

“Can’t ignore the mistletoe.” He gives you a smarmy grin. 

“Is that real?” 

“Of course it is.” 

“Where did you get it?” 

“What’s with all the questions?” He leans a fraction forward and you pull back. There’s a small flash of emotion across his face that you can’t quite place. Panic. He freezes for half a second, his muscles relaxing as he lets you go. “I got it on the walk this morning.” He says quietly, his voice softer as he takes a small step backwards. “I just thought…”

“You want to kiss me that bad, huh?” You nudge his arm gently and he scowls.

“No.” 

“Liar.” 

He glares at you, his mouth open to retort. But he doesn’t get the chance. 

You rush forward, pressing your lips to his in a frenzy and slip your tongue inside. 

He gasps, tensing for a moment before he moans softly and kisses you back eagerly. His glasses bump against you slightly as he moves, his hands coming to rest on your waist as he presses closer.

His beard brushes against your skin, his kisses deep and warm and wanting. Needing to devour more and more of you. 

He follows you when you pull back, his eyes closed as he tries to keep his lips pressed to yours. A gulp echos in his throat as he stills himself, breathing hard. 

“I…” He starts.

“I knew you wanted to kiss me.” You tease, smirking at him and raising an eyebrow. 

To your surprise, he looks a little bashful for a moment, almost embarrassed. “Yeah.” 

You bite back a snort. “Yeah?” You press a little closer, enjoying the, for once, slowed down Nathan. You can practically see the cogs whirring behind his eyes. 

He nods, swallowing thickly as you lightly place your hand on his chest and walk him backwards until he bumps into the counter. 

“You could have just asked.” You give him a playful look and he frowns slightly in confusion, as if the thought never even occurred to him. 

You slip your hand down his chest slowly until you can toy at his waistband and the very tip of his obvious erection. “So,” you stretch out the word, “Is there anything you want to ask for?” 

Nathan smiles cheekily, “Another kiss a little lower?” 

You laugh as he presses his lips to your cheek and you slip your fingers under his clothes. 

Thank you for reading!

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[sundaaz-e]

*+:｡.｡10:55

The mission had been rough—rougher than expected. I felt the sting of the wound on my head with every step, the dull ache settling behind my eyes like a storm waiting to break. But I kept my face neutral, shoulders steady as I approached the door. Aizawa didn’t need to worry. I had it under control.

Slipping my key into the lock, I took a deep breath, adjusting the hat I’d pulled low over my forehead. It wasn’t much, but it hid the worst of the damage. I could handle this. Aizawa didn’t need to know.

The door swung open before I could reach for the handle, and there he was—standing in the dimly lit entryway, his sharp gaze immediately sweeping over me. “You’re late.” His voice was calm, but I knew him too well. There was an edge of concern under the words.

“Sorry,” I said, forcing a small smile as I stepped inside. “Mission ran long.”

He sighed, the tension in his shoulders relaxing just slightly. “You should have called.” Then, without hesitation, he reached for me, his hand reaching for the hat upon my head, with the goal of taking it off—to complete his usual greeting, a soft kiss to the lips.

Panic shot through me.

I twisted away, stepping back just enough to make it seem natural, but the way his eyes narrowed told me I hadn’t been subtle enough. His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a second, he said nothing.

Then, quietly, “Take off the hat.”

I forced a chuckle, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s just part of the look. I thought I’d try something new—”

“Take. It. Off.”

A pause. His voice wasn’t sharp, wasn’t angry, but it was unwavering.

I swallowed. Maybe if I played it off, I could—

Aizawa was faster. Before I could step back again, his hand moved, quick and precise, fingers catching the brim of the hat. I barely had time to flinch before he pulled it off.

The room went silent.

I saw it in his face immediately—the way his expression shifted from suspicion to pure, unfiltered alarm. His jaw tightened, eyes going wide for just a fraction of a second before his brows furrowed in something like barely-contained panic.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, stepping closer.

I opened my mouth, scrambling for an excuse, but he was already reaching up, fingers ghosting over my forehead, barely touching the edge of the wound. His touch was careful, but even the lightest pressure made me wince. His sharp intake of breath didn’t go unnoticed.

“What the hell happened?” His voice was low, steady—but I knew him. He was freaking out.

“It’s nothing—”

“Nothing? You have a head injury, and you thought you could just walk in here and hide it?”

I tried for a sheepish smile, but it didn’t quite land. “Didn’t want you to worry.”

His eyes burned into mine, and for a long moment, he just stared. Then, without another word, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the couch.

“Aizawa, I—”

“Sit.”

I sighed, sinking onto the cushions as he disappeared into the bathroom, only to return seconds later with a first aid kit in hand. He knelt in front of me, opening the box with quick, practiced movements. His hands were steady, but I could see the tension in them, the way his fingers curled a little too tight around the gauze.

He didn’t speak as he cleaned the wound, jaw set, shoulders stiff. But when he pressed a cool cloth against my skin, his fingers lingered, just for a moment, barely a brush, but enough to tell me everything he wasn’t saying.

When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, quieter.

“Don’t do that again.”

I swallowed, watching the way his eyes stayed locked on my wound, as if he could will it away just by looking at it.

“I won’t,” I murmured.

His shoulders loosened slightly, but the worry in his gaze didn’t fade. He finished wrapping my head with careful precision, his fingers lingering against my cheek for a second too long before he pulled away.

Then, finally, he exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face before leaning in. This time, I didn’t pull away when he pressed a featherlight kiss to my temple, just beside the bandage.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered against my skin.

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

His sigh was heavy, but there was something softer in it now. His hand found mine, fingers lacing together with just enough pressure to ground me.

“Damn right you are”

[jayflrt]

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝟕𝟖𝟔 37. go piss girl

YOUR HEART WAS POUNDING WHEN YOU HEARD THE LIGHT KNOCK ON YOUR CABIN DOOR.

It wasn't that you were nervous—okay, maybe you were a little nervous—but it felt as if butterflies had swarmed your stomach with their fluttering wings. Now, the space really did feel small. You weren't sure how Jay was going to fit in the same seat as yours, but the idea was strangely exciting.

"Hey," you whispered when you pulled open the door for him. You scooted to the wall so that you could make some more space for him. "I just pulled up the movie."

"Oh, we're actually watching Shrek," Jay deadpanned. When he took his seat and closed the door again, you both became hyper-aware of the proximity once your arms were pressed against each other. "Kinda cramped in here."

"It should be fine," you said quickly, trying to mask how flustered you were by gesturing toward the screen. "Look, they have all three movies!"

"I'm sorry, but I'm not staying around for three whole movies."

You shot him a dark look, feigning great offense as you folded your arms across your chest. Jay seemed to not realize the weight of his words until after seeing your reaction, and he immediately flooded with panic.

"Wait, I meant, like—not that, just—"

"Relax, I'm just messing with you." You giggled, diverting your attention away to start the movie. "Have you ever watched Shrek before? I used to watch it every single day when I was a kid, apparently."

"Really?"

"Yeah, my mom was mortified when I wanted to"—you turned back to look at him and your breath caught in your throat for a moment; Jay was looking down at you with those sincere eyes that were far too easy to get lost in—"dress up as Shrek for Halloween."

"Shrek, huh? Did you ever get to dress up as him?"

"No, I ended up being Fiona. All of my friends back then were dressing up like princesses, and my mom wanted to dress me up."

"Ouch. Well, you can be Shrek this year."

"You'd have to be my Princess Fiona then."

"Whatever you want."

His eyes went a touch unfocused, and you started to get the feeling that he didn't exactly care about Shrek costumes anymore. You weren't even completely sure he was talking about them.

You only started realizing it recently, but why did he always look at you like that?

Like he wanted to kiss you.

You couldn't pinpoint it before because you weren't really looking. It was hard to catch most of the time because he was so well-guarded, but in fractions of seconds, you could catch him looking into your eyes as if they held the world, as if he would fall apart if he tore his gaze away.

So, hypothetically, if you made a move on him, it wouldn't be a completely miscalculated step, right? It was obvious something was going on between you two, and there were clear signs, right? You weren't clinically insane?

Your mind was swimming with questions when you realized that almost half of the movie had gone by, and you were zoning out for its entirety. Reality only sharpened when you realized Jay had leaned back to put his arm around your shoulders. Unfortunately, now you couldn't care less about Shrek and Donkey; you could only think about how warm Jay's body was and how hot your chest felt.

Your chest must have been rising and falling too fast because Jay asked, "Are you good? Am I taking up too much room?"

"No! You're good, it's just a little tight in here—yeah, that's all," you replied absentmindedly.

"Oh, well..." He looked around helplessly. (There wasn't much to look at, anyway.) "Wanna sit on my lap?"

Your heart jumped, leaped, imploded—whatever. So much adrenaline was pumping through your blood that you hardly even processed whether you replied to him or not. All you knew was that you were climbing onto Jay's lap before he could even get adjusted.

"Whoa," he murmured, holding onto your hips to keep you steady (but all he managed to do was ignite a fire inside you). "I thought you said no."

"Did I? Sorry, I mix up yes and no sometimes." What the hell? No, you don't, your brain reminded immediately after.

He grinned. "Oh, yeah, common mistake."

You were too busy staring straight ahead and trying to ignore how badly you wanted to crumble into his arms that you nearly jumped when you heard Jay's soft chuckle against your back.

His hands slid up to your waist, and he murmured into your ear, "I'm gonna move you to sit between my legs—hold on."

(Normally, this would make you horny, but Lord Farquaad and Gingy were getting into their exchange of The Muffin Man nursery rhyme that never failed to make you laugh.)

"This good?" Jay asked once you two were settled. You were leaning back against his chest as you laid between his legs. Jay had his hands on his thighs, but you swore they were inching closer to you.

"Really good."

"Yeah?"

His pointer finger grazed your skin ever-so-slightly, and you fought the urge to press your thighs together. After all, you didn't want him to think his hands weren't welcome. As you two fell into complete silence, watching the movie but not really watching it, you found that Jay's hand was getting closer and closer until four of his fingers were on your thigh.

He used this time to ask (in a much lower voice now), "How about this?"

"Yeah," you breathed out, your voice hitching in an almost humiliating way, and you could feel Jay's chest swell as his hand moved fully onto your thigh. "I like that."

The movie was nearing its end by now, and you were both still silently watching, Jay's hand hardly moving from your thigh. There were a few times where he moved it down, only to bring it back up again, but you were careful not to react in a way that would make things awkward.

But when you realized that he was probably going to leave, you figured this was your chance to make him stay, to see if things could progress. Wasn't this the perfect time, anyway? With everyone asleep and a cabin to yourself, this was probably the most privacy you would get for the weekend.

You turned your head just enough to look up at him, and those butterflies swarmed around in a torrent when his gaze dropped to your lips for a brief second. You straightened up a little to place your hand on his shoulder, angling your body a little to face him.

"Um," you started in a small voice, "do you wanna stay a little longer?"

Jay's hand moved up to grip your inner thigh with just enough pressure to keep you at a comfortable angle, and, again, you fought down the gasp. "With you?"

You smiled. "Yeah."

The space between you two was getting smaller and smaller. It was as if some magnetic pull was drawing your bodies closer and closer... and your lips were inches apart... and then Jay jerked away, as if he had snapped out of some trance.

"I can't, sorry," he said quickly, removing his hand from your thigh to rub the back of his neck sheepishly. "It—it's getting late, and I should really get some sleep before we land."

Disappointed, you started moving so that he could have an easier time getting out of your cabin. You were half-expecting things to end up like this; moving fast with him wasn't going to work, but at least you knew now that he definitely felt some way about you.

"Goodnight," you told him, managing a smile. "Thanks for keeping me company."

"Yeah, it was fun."

He gave you that look again before closing your cabin door. You felt yourself deflate a little. It was an odd feeling, but you felt lonely when he was gone. You never really felt this way about Sunghoon since you got used to the loneliness, but Jay, who made an effort even as your friend, made you feel different.

Suddenly, your cabin door flew open again, and Jay was standing with regret painted all over his face.

"Look, I didn't mean to do all that and just back off," he said in a rush, sitting at the edge of your seat so that he could mutter everything to you in a low voice. "I just... it's hard right now, like, right now, as in—"

"Stop," you said, smiling ear-to-ear as your chest flooded with relief. Yeah, maybe you just needed to move a little slower. "I get it, don't worry."

"It's not that I don't..." he trailed off, gazing at you with deep longing etched in his eyes before he sighed. "Just... doing this right now is—"

"Jay, please," you tried again, reaching out to grab his hand. You tilted your head. "You can just make it up to me later. We can grab dinner in Monte Carlo?"

He seemed to be much less distressed now, merely sighing with contentment and nodding over and over again. "Yeah, let's do that."

"Goodnight, Jay," you sang with a teasing lilt to your voice.

"Goodnight, Y/N."

prev | masterlist | next

SUMMARY ▸ private investigator jay park just wants to complete his mission quietly and move on with his life. you, his new assignment who keeps consuming his thoughts, don't make that very easy for him.

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[halovians]

࿐ ♡ ˚ . 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨: 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞. — 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒐 𝒌𝒐𝒔𝒌𝒊 ˒ ⊹

series synopsis. your friend, your pal, your fuck buddy—sampo koski seems to be getting closer and closer with every heated exchange. you wonder, briefly, if there’s something more lurking under the surface of it all. you have a strict rule set in place, though: don’t catch feelings.

[ prev chapter. | don't you trust me masterlist | next chapter. ]

syn. you wake up and are left to ponder the repercussions of staying over at sampo’s. bad decisions are made. (5.6k)

cw. fem reader / alcohol + drinking / food mentions (he makes u breakfast!) / petname usage (doll/dollface, darling, pretty girl, baby, my girl) / oral (f!receiving) / v!fingering / allusions to piv intercourse / reader has bad coping mechanisms i fear / reader goes to the cluurbbb / we also get angsty up in the clurb :3

love, oak! ༉‧₊˚. i... did not mean for this chapter to take so long to come out. and to think i hard part of it written when chapter one dropped. i fear chapter three may take three to five business years. regardless; lots of plot development in this one. i hope this lives up to everynyan's expectations :p

MINORS + AGELESS BLOGS DNI. NSFW UNDER THE CUT.

You wake to the pale light of dawn filtering in through the curtained window. 

With a yawn, you clumsily push down your blanket, fingers curling over soft fabric. You begin to twist onto your other side when you realize that something is very wrong.

Very, very wrong, like the you are not in the safety of your home kind of wrong.

Your breath catches in your throat. You don’t dare open your eyes.

There’s a heavy weight slung across your waist and a warmth you’re curled up against that isn’t usually there. It takes you a few seconds of wracking your brain to remember that you never actually made it home last night—that it was Sampo’s bed that you had fallen asleep in, and that was Sampo himself you were currently entangled with. The tension that had seized you quickly dissipates—then it slams back into you with a ferocity as you realize that you and Sampo had fallen asleep curled up together.

That’s not normal. That is so very not normal, and it takes everything in you to not start freaking the fuck out.

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, the only movement you risk is tilting your head up a fraction. You find that Sampo is still sound asleep, chest rising and falling slowly against you with every breath he takes. The urge to run your fingers along the smooth skin of his cheek makes your fingers twitch once, twice. You hesitate.

Because for once, Sampo looked… at peace. No scheming, no stress, just… him. His face looked so gentle, so soft, that perhaps waking him up would be a heinous crime. Yet you hold your breath, inching a hand up, up, up, tracing the column of his neck, his strong jaw, the apple of his cheek—

Whatever was running through your head is swiftly cut off when Sampo starts to stir. You feel panic grip and squeeze your heart with clawed fingertips. Shutting your eyes and forcing yourself slow your breathing, you lower your hand to its original position. You didn’t want to be caught staring at him, let alone caught stroking your fingers along his face—the mere thought of that occurring alone was mortifying enough.

A heartbeat passes. Then two. You feel the blanket shifting around, hear how he sleepily mumbles and yawns, followed by the warmth of his body slowly slipping away. You suppress the shiver that wants to run down your spine at the cold that creeps in, resist the urge to pull the duvet tighter around yourself; instead continuing to pretend-sleep as you listen to Sampo move about.

You’re about to shed your façade when you feel the bed dip. There’s a warm breath that caresses your forehead—a forewarning before you feel his lips gently press against your forehead.

The world freezes entirely.

It takes a willpower of steel (and perhaps then some) to remain in place, to not even stir, to not snatch his wrist and ask him what the hell he’s doing when he slowly lifts his head. You wait for him to fully pull away but he lingers, his thumb coming up to sweep over the apple of your cheek, then lower to brush against your mouth, swiping gently at your lower lip before he’s truly moving out of your reach.

You’re nearly bursting with impatience when you finally hear the door creak open and click shut.

Shoving yourself up into a sitting position, your mouth drops open in shock as you touch where his lips had pressed against your skin. The feeling lingers, burning like a brand, a mark you felt you would carry with you until the end of time. The thought is enough to have you shaking your head violently.

Suddenly feeling very, very warm, you push the duvet to the side. You clutch your shirt in your hands, balling them into fists—or rather, it’s his shirt that you grasp tightly in fisted hands. His scent still curls around you, utterly maddening, only adding fuel to the fire that consumes you.

If you didn’t confirm it last night, you definitely confirm it then—you were perhaps in the deepest pit of shit known to mankind: having feelings for Sampo. Maybe the revelation of having feelings for the one person you’re not supposed to have feelings for has you imagining things. Maybe you were still asleep and this was just a dream.

You hiss quietly as you pinch yourself.

Nope. This was very much reality.

You sigh.

It takes you several minutes to really process what had just happened—and that you didn’t just make it up in your head. You needed to get the fuck home so you could process it some fucking more. It feels like your entire perception of reality has been shattered with one simple moment of secretive intimacy.

In the distance, a faucet creaks on and begins running, followed by the faint clink of silverware clattering against plates. Whistling. Your crisis is momentarily forgotten as you realize Sampo is whistling your favorite song—it snaps you back into the moment, makes you remember just exactly where you are. This revelation could wait. Just a little bit more, and then you can go home and freak out in peace.

It’s only a matter of moments to gather yourself together and change back into your own clothing thanks to the earlier interaction waking you up entirely. You silently slip out of the bedroom and into the main living area, greeted by a sight that warms your heart.

There Sampo is, in all of his shirtless glory, swaying his hips to the little tune he’s humming as he whisks something together. Food sizzles on the stovetop, adding a quiet backtrack to his song. You lean against the archway that leads into the kitchen area, silent as you take a second to admire him, the portrait of domesticity. Your lips pull into a small, serene smile.

An image flashes before your eyes—a glimpse into the future, maybe—where you could have this sight every day. Sleepy good mornings and quiet embraces, shared laughter and lips pressing together—

The squeak you let out finally alerts Sampo to your presence. He’s quick to turn, whisk in hand and bits of what you assume is flour dusted on his hands, his face—“Doll! How long have you been standing there?”

You stammer dumbly, trying to reel in your head from the outrageous daydream that had barged its way into your thoughts. The outrageous daydream that you know you will never attain. “Um, ah…”

Sampo sighs dramatically, pressing a hand to his forehead as he continues, “And here I was, hoping I could surprise you with a little breakfast—I didn’t think you’d wake up so soon!”

He’s quick to set down the bowl and utensils he held as he approaches you. You tilt your head questioningly at him but he doesn’t give you any indication of what he’s up to until he’s a step away from you.

The devious glint in his eyes being your only warning, he’s suddenly twirling you into his arms and dipping you, a firm hand on your lower back as he grips your wrist with a gentle hand. His eyes crinkle with the smile he gives you.

“Sampo!” You gasp out. You’re so startled by the suddenness of his movements that your free hand grips his shoulder for dear life as you inhale sharply with alarm. Sampo laughs, so unlike his other laughs—the ones where he’s charming his way into scamming a stranger, or when it takes on that darker tinge as his schemes unfold just the way he likes—that you’re blinking in confusion, mouth parting with a question you don’t quite know how to ask on your lips.

“I had to surprise you somehow,” he says by way of explanation. He twirls you again, pulling you flush to his body, and sways you to the cheery tune he hums.

The pair of you dance around the kitchen, laughing and giggling together like there’s nothing else in the world—like it’s just you and him in this pretty little bubble.

Sampo dips you again, forcing your gaze to his. When you meet his eyes, there’s something glimmering there—something that you’d perhaps call… adoration, as delusional as it makes you feel. You pause there, chests heaving in sync as you stare at each other.

You see his eyes flick down briefly to your lips. There’s a question that lies in his gaze—something you can’t possibly answer.

It’s enough to have you scrambling out of his grip.

“Don’t forget the uhm,”—you clear your throat hastily—”the food on the stove. It’ll burn if you’re not careful.”

Sampo blinks, looking at you as if he were snapped out of a trance. “Right.” He pauses—abruptly laughing nervously, clasping his hands together. “I need to be careful.”

He nods his head. After a few moments of tense silence, he glides over to the stove, quietly returning to his task of making breakfast.

Flustered, you take a seat on one of the stools nestled by the island countertop and fold your hands in your lap. You bite your lip as you watch Sampo work. His broad back is turned to you, faint red lines streaking down the hard muscles that ripple as he moves around the kitchen. Your face heats up as you remember just exactly how he received those marks.

The silence lingers in the air, heavy and oppressive, a tension that pulls all of your nerves taut. You’ve never been the type to stay after a one night stand, let alone stay after a night with Sampo. This was entirely uncharted territory you were currently in.

If you’re honest? You’re terrified. You’re not equipped to navigate the unfamiliar feeling that burns bright in your chest. Actually, to take your own mental confession just a little bit further, you want to flee. Really bad. But something—you’re not quite sure what—keeps you tethered here, perhaps like a string wrapped around your pinkie finger that tugs and tugs and pleads with you to stay, just this once. It wants you to see where this goes. It wants you to take a risk, blindly jump into the unknown with nothing to shield your heart but the precarious walls you’ve painstakingly built up over the years. Walls that are swiftly crumbling with every moment spent with Sampo Koski.

Your train of thought is interrupted by the clinking sound of porcelain making contact with the countertop before you register the plate sliding towards you. The sight is mouthwatering—eggs cooked exactly how you prefer (how did he know that?), accompanied by a stack of pancakes that feature a smiling face made with blueberries.

You stifle a giggle, earning you a funny look from Sampo.

“What’s so funny, doll? You’re not laughin’ at Sampo’s hard work, are ya?” He pouts dramatically.

You press your lips together, but there’s no hiding the laughter that glimmers in your eyes. “N-No, I would never! It’s just… it’s so…” Your voice wobbles with the effort it takes to stamp down your giggles.

“It’s so what?” He squints.

“The pancakes are just so…” You shrug one shoulder, searching for the right word. “Adorable? I never would’ve expected that from you, that’s all.”

“I’m full of surprises darling, don’t you worry,” Sampo says with a wink. He sits down next to you with a plate of his own and the two of you dig in. The silence between you evolves into something more.. comfortable. Something normal.

You’d beg to differ (eating breakfast after a night with Sampo felt anything but normal), but you can’t deny that you’re enjoying yourself next to him. And you can admit he’s not the worst cook in the world.

The moment passes in what feels like merely a blink and perhaps too soon you’re already scooping up your empty plate, walking over to the sink to take care of the dishes. The moment Sampo realizes what you intend on doing he rushes over to your side and places a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t worry about it doll, let me take care of it.”

You look up at him and shake your head. “No, no, let me do it. It’s the polite thing to do.”

Sampo’s eyebrows furrow. “I insist—you shouldn’t have to even lift a finger.”

He moves to take the plate from your hands but you pull it out of reach. His eyes narrow as they meet yours—a challenge gleaming there that you refuse to back down from.

He takes a step towards you. You step back. A step forward. A step back. You continue this little dance until there’s a countertop behind you and nowhere else for you to go. He cages you into the corner with one broad arm.

Sampo’s lips curl up in a wolfish grin as you both realize that you’re trapped. “The plate, sweetheart.”

“You’re a real prick, you know that?”

Sampo’s grin widens. “Only for you, dollface.”

Head hanging in defeat, you hold the dish out to him. He takes it, none too smugly, and sets it to the side. His attention immediately returns to you.

You look up at him and tilt your head.

“You going to let me go now, or..?”

Sampo shrugs. “Why should I? I like you right where you are here.”

He’s so big. He crowds your space, enveloping your senses, mingling with the lingering scent of breakfast. It’s something deep and musky. Mouthwatering, if you dare to admit it.

There’s a smug lilt to his voice as he continues speaking, “In fact, I’m still a little famished. Think you can help me out, sweetheart?”

Your lips part slightly, but the question you were about to ask dies on the tip of your tongue as Sampo’s large hands grasp your hips, fingers digging into the supple fat as he lifts you onto the countertop. His eyes are heavily lidded as he sinks to his knees, looking up at you with hunger glimmering in his gaze.

“May I?” Sampo’s voice is darkened with lust, a sort of purr that sends a shiver racing down your spine. A flash of pink between his lips—his tongue darting out to wet them, leaving a thin sheen of saliva in its wake. The grin he shoots you has heat quickly pooling in your core.

You weakly nod your head, too breathless to speak. Sampo’s smile widens.

He makes quick work of your jeans, unbuttoning them and sliding them off of you in one smooth motion. Lithe fingers dip under the elastic of your panties, pulling it taut and snapping the band against your skin. You yelp softly as he snickers.

“So reactive,” Sampo murmurs, fingers dipping once again to slowly pull the fabric off of you. You lift your hips dutifully—you know where this is going. You feel your core tighten with desire.

He tucks your panties into the pocket of his sweats, shoulders rippling as he pulls you to the edge of the counter and slings your legs over them. He looks up at you through thick, dark lashes.

“Doin’ okay up there, pretty girl?” He asks, the deep baritone of his voice making your stomach flutter.

“Mhm,” you respond, biting your lip. You ball your hands up into fists, thighs twitching with the urge to press them together. Sampo seems to notice, because broad hands come up to grip your inner thighs, kneading at the supple flesh. He watches your expression for a moment longer before his eyes dip down to the prize in front of him.

“Thanks for dessert, dollface.”

Sampo’s words linger in the air, a promise of what was to come as he leans forward. His breath is hot as it fans across the apex of your thighs. He presses a kiss to your navel, then dips lower, tongue darting out to drag hotly along your weeping slit.

“Fuck,” you hiss at the contact. Your spine curves slightly, a silent plea for more. His chest rumbles with a dark chuckle as he makes another pass, letting his tongue linger at your clit, lazily lapping at it while your hips tremble.

God. He’s criminally good at this.

“Atta girl. Feeling good?” Sampo murmurs as he slips a finger into your tight heat. It draws a low moan from your lips, one that pulls his mouth into a smug smile before he wraps his lips around your clit. One of your hands grips the edge of the counter for dear life while the other entangles itself in Sampo’s hair as you tremble with just how good he’s making you feel. One tug has him groaning into you, a pleasant vibration that makes you throw your head back as you continue to card your fingers through soft blue locks.

“Feels great,” you murmur, exhaling shakily. Each drag of his finger is tortuously slow, the calloused pad crooking and prodding against your sensitive walls. You tug at his hair again, earning a pleasant moan from him.

You swallow thickly as he adds another finger. He takes it nice and slow with you, a teasing pace that makes you want to beg. You buck your hips slightly to urge him along, to give him the hint, but he’s relentless in his pursuit to drag this out as long as he possibly can.

“You want more, pretty girl?” Sampo purrs softly, pressing a chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs.

“Mhm,” you sigh. He makes a contemplative noise, and then…

He stops.

You let out a cry of outrage as he sits back on his haunches with a smug grin.

“Hey—!”

“You can use your words, can’t you?”

Your mouth drops open, and Sampo can’t help the chuckle that escapes him at your look of shock. He tilts his head as you lean back, chest heaving as you catch your breath.

Fuck, you were getting so close—for him to pull back like this…

“Please…” A quiet, desperate plea. He stares at you expectantly.

You gnaw on your lower lip as he watches you with sharp eyes, glimmering pools of emerald that track your every movement; the way your chest rises and falls with each labored breath, the way your hands press against the cool marble countertop beneath you, the way your eyes glimmer with wanton desire for him.

His grin widens.

“Sampo…” you start, your voice coming out in a shaky warble. You’re none too proud of it, but there’s no room for pride when he dangles your orgasm out in front of you so teasingly, so close and yet so far all at once.

Bait.

And you take it, because you know that Sampo can give you what you need with ease.

“Fuck—” your chin dips slightly as you look down at him, face heating with shame. “I need you, Sampo. Please.”

“Need me to what, baby?”

His voice has lowered an octave—and he crooks his fingers inside of you, giving you a preview of what you could have should you comply with his request.

That subtle nudge is enough to make your hips jump slightly. Your breath hitches in your throat.

You wanted it. You wanted him.

“Need you to fuck me,” you finally breathe. “Sampo, baby, fuck me.”

His resulting grin is feral, eyes glimmering with a wild desire that makes your core clench.

“Whatever my girl wants—”

He withdraws his fingers and stands to his full height. Your eyes rove over his figure, the various love bites littered across his fair skin. Marks you’ve left on him. It sends a sick sense of possession zipping through your veins, and paired with the way he says “my girl”, you wonder what it would be like if he truly was yours in that way. A dangerous train of thought.

You’re distracted, long enough for him to pull his leaking cock out from the confines of his sweats; you’re brought back to reality by his tip pressing to your slit, catching against your clit teasingly.

“—my girl gets, yeah?”

You find yourself in the bathroom again.

This time, you are in your own home.

The rush of water pouring from the faucet is near deafening as you stare at yourself in the mirror. The porcelain is cool against the tight grip you hold on your sink. You glance at the hickeys that litter the expanse of your neck, your shoulder, while you retrace your steps throughout the past week.

You had returned home a couple of hours ago. Only now have you brought yourself to start processing things. You’ve been dreading it, really: coming to terms with something you know will end. As things always do.

You can’t have him. It would never work out.

Sampo is sweet. Kind, even, despite the false benevolent demeanor he displays in order to con poor souls into giving him money. But he’s also as fleeting as a sweet nostalgic memory. The kind of person who comes and goes in your life as they please. You’ve quickly become accustomed to the way that Sampo will sometimes disappear for days, even weeks at a time, and then waltz right back into your life as if nothing happened.

And he does this without any qualms, because this is a casual thing to him. You constantly have to remind yourself that you had told him, “No strings attached. I don’t want feelings involved. This is purely physical.” And he had agreed without further thought, because you’re friends. Friends don’t fall in love with each other.

Friends also don’t eat you out until you’re seeing stars, or fuck you on the countertops so good that you’re babbling and crying, but that’s beside the point.

You think back to how easily the words “my girl” fell from his lips. It’s almost malicious, what that does to your psyche. The way it makes your head spin. The way your heart pounds against your ribs at the mere thought of it.

You frown deeply and shove your hands into the sink. The cold water shocks you momentarily, and the thought fades away, to be shoved in a box and locked away in the deepest recesses of your brain.

Then you scrub your face with the freezing water that pours from the tap. It’s refreshing against your balmy skin, not to mention it doubles as a wake up call for your lovestruck head. Whatever feelings you harbored for Sampo were doomed to die. You may as well just get over it now before it can do any real damage.

And the easiest way to get over things?

You give yourself an uneasy smile in the mirror after drying your face with a towel and shut off the faucet.

The bass thrums through your body as you enter the packed club.

You’ve decided on a rather obscenely short black dress for today—something flattering, something that makes you feel good. You would need some confidence with the goal you have in mind for today.

A goal that feels a little stupid, now that you’re physically here and you’ve sat with it for a little bit. It’s not like Sampo is aware of your inner turmoil; nor would he care that you’re planning on going home with someone that isn’t him. You never agreed on being exclusive when your little arrangement first started.

(Maybe there’s just some sick part of you that hopes that he would care—that it would make him jealous.)

You shake the thought from your head as you weave through sweaty bodies. Whatever kind of goal you set for yourself, it doesn’t matter. There’s truly only one thing that you absolutely need to make happen tonight:

You need to get over Sampo Koski.

And if that involves sleeping with some stranger, so be it. Or perhaps just getting so drunk you forget for a little while. Whatever works.

You steal a seat at the bar and order your usual. Your mind wanders as you wait patiently for your drink—gravitating towards how you felt almost… dramatic, childish even, for feeling so strongly about this.

You can’t help it. You’ve never truly let yourself indulge in romance before; you’re not even sure if this is what it was supposed to look like. If it was supposed to be this aggravating. If you’re supposed to feel as miserable as you do right now.

The clink of ice jostling around as a glass is set in front of you pulls you from your brooding. You swipe up the drink with a quiet “thank you”, turning in your seat to survey the room—and more importantly, the people—around you.

Your frequent spot is busy tonight—bodies upon bodies on the club floor, grinding and dancing salaciously to the bass heavy song that pounds through the speakers. The low lights that glimmer along the ceiling cast deep shadows across everything, making everything look much more dramatic than it really is.

You raise your glass to take a sip when suddenly there’s a hand clasping your shoulder.

“Wha—!” you jump, nearly spilling the liquid all over yourself. You turn to glare at whoever had the balls to just come up to you like that when you’re met with a none too pleasant surprise:

Sampo. Fucking. Koski.

“What are you doin’ here, doll? Especially without even inviting your dear old friend?”

His voice is a smug croon, hard to hear above the club music that envelops you in its embrace. You can hear the hint of surprise, though—and you spot the way his eyebrows are raised, eyes wide and shimmering with curiosity.

So much for escaping him tonight. You resign to your fate with a sigh, settling back into your seat and sipping on your drink properly. Sampo immediately takes to your side, invading your personal space with no regards for your feelings on the matter.

(Usually, you don’t mind. Tonight, it grates on your nerves.)

“I wanted to get out of the house n’ I didn’t wanna bother you. Simple as that.”

Your words are clipped, even if you know you don’t have any right to be upset with him. He hasn’t done anything wrong; you just happen to be in a sour mood.

That he caused.

Indirectly.

“You wound me, doll! I’d never say no to your pretty face, you know that.”

(You want to call him a liar.

You don’t. You smile, and you nod, and you clench your drink so tightly your hand starts to tremble.)

You shrug your shoulders, forcing your gaze back out to the dance floor. Your stomach feels heavy with a feeling you can’t quite put a name to.

All you know is that it does not feel good.

“Sorry, Sampo. I’ll invite you next time, ‘kay?”

Maybe he senses how off your energy is tonight, because typically he’d press the issue further. He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Sounds good, pretty girl. Save me a seat, ‘kay? I’ll be right back.”

He pushes off the bar counter, making a direct beeline towards the restrooms. You let out a deep sigh, a breath you didn’t even know you were holding in the first place.

You turn towards the bartender and move to flag him down, but—

You only get a few moments of peace until a presence returns to your side. You can’t help but scoff, turning to say, “Sampo, what the hell do you—huh?”

You pause as you turn to a person that is very much not Sampo Koski.

Your face blanches.

The stranger offers you a nervy smile, the portrait of bashfulness.

How fucking horrifying—you can feel your face heat up with shame as you stare dumbly at him.

“Sorry if I’m bothering you. I just thought you were really pretty, so I was hoping you’d maybe let me buy you a drink?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck. His cheeks are stained a pretty red and his big brown eyes are wide with an eagerness that makes you shake off your mortification and force yourself to smile gently.

“Oh! Uhm—yeah, that would be nice,” you gesture to the open seat next to you. “Sit?”

He tells you his name, something you’re sure you’ll forget later, as you paste a pretty smile on your face and lean forward in your seat. You can see the way his flush deepens, hear the way he stumbles over his words—it’s endearing. He’s like a puppy.

You exchange small talk over drinks, and he’s true to his word: he puts your drink on his tab, and even offers to put the next few on him, too. He’s a little bit odd, but he makes good conversation, so you entertain him, idly stirring the straw that came with your drink.

You’re about to answer his next question (a question that was rather.. strange, you note to yourself), but your reply dies on your lips as Sampo returns.

And he looks none too happy.

“Doll!” Sampo exclaims loudly, pressing into your side. He slings an arm around your waist as he casts his glare upon the stranger you were just chatting up. “Who’s this, baby?”

This might be the worst possible outcome. Mortified, your shoulders hunch slightly as you try to grow smaller, cringing at the venom that coats Sampo’s usually honeyed tone.

“Sorry, you are..?” The stranger asks, bewildered.

“Her boyfriend. Who are you?”

You cringe even further, turning your gaze. The words falling from Sampo’s lips feels like a lead ball dropping in your stomach. You think you might be sick. So sick, in fact, that you tune out their ensuing conversation as your head spins.

Abruptly you stand, chair clattering loudly with the motion. Both men stop and turn to look at you.

“I—” you pause, inhaling sharply through your nose, “am going to go now. Bye.”

You turn on your heel and all but scramble out of the situation, heels clacking against tile flooring. Your heart is about to burst from beneath your ribs. Your face is hot—you feel like you might melt and never recover.

You burst through the door and the cold air immediately hits you. It’s refreshing and miserable all at once, cooling down your heated veins and making your skin prickle with goosebumps.

You’re about a couple feet down the sidewalk when hurried footsteps sound behind you. Your head whips over your shoulder, eyes wide as you stare down who approaches you.

What a joke. You know fully well Sampo can mask the sound of his footsteps—he’s letting them ring out for you.

The weight in your stomach increases exponentially. You turn forward and pick up your pace. You think your vision is swimming.

“Doll!” Sampo pleads, reaching out to grab your shoulder. You jerk away and swivel on your heel to face him.

“What? What is it now?” Your voice is downright venomous. It comes out much harsher than you intend, but the words are out now and it’s too late to take them back.

“Pretty girl…” He starts, and then shakes his head. There’s a moment of hesitation, and then:

Your name. Said so softly, falling like a prayer from his lips, and yet it’s an explosion of color in your world. Your eyes widen.

“Sampo,” you respond with equal softness, your voice trembling as you ball your hands into fists. Chest heaving, you stare at him, meeting deep pools of emerald green that look at you with such desperation it makes you want to crumble into pieces.

“I’m sorry if that was too much,” Sampo frowns, a dusty pink blush settling high on his cheeks. There’s genuine remorse in his eyes, so you listen, inclining your head as you wait for him to continue. “You just.. you looked uncomfortable, and you’re my friend. I was just tryin’ to give you an out.”

You’re my friend.

Friend.

Nausea claims you again, hitting you with the force of a freight train. But you force yourself to smile, and nod, and again your hands tremble with the effort of keeping them at your side.

No matter how much you wanted to reach out to him.

To touch him, to hold him.

You can’t.

“It’s okay.” You can’t help the way your voice strains, so you keep as quiet as possible, voice coming out in a mere whisper. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It doesn’t seem okay—”

“It’s fine.” You cut him off, shaking your head.

Sampo’s eyes search your face as you stare at him. You need to steel your resolve. So you say:

“I think we should take a break from seeing each other.”

It’s like you’ve dropped a bomb.

The way his face falls makes your stomach twist itself into knots. But this is for the better. Until you can get your shit together.

But fuck, he looks so sad, it makes your heart ache.

“Oh,” is all he says.

You gnaw on your lower lip. You taste a hint of metal on your tongue—you’ve broken skin. You nod your head slowly. You need to steel your fucking resolve. The decision is out there, and you cannot take it back.

“Mhm. Just for a little bit.”

He inhales slowly, and on the exhale he manages to mask the desperation he let you get a flash of. It’s too late, though: the feelings are out there, and he cannot hide it.

“For a little bit,” he echoes. His eyes have lost their spark. Your heart withers in your chest.

The pair of you cannot hide your true feelings from the other. Not for long. Not like you hoped you could. You pray to some long-forgotten Aeon that the space can give you the willpower you need to maintain your walls, at least for a little bit longer.

“For a little bit.” You confirm. “I’ll… see you later, okay?”

He’s silent. Then, he dips his chin. A silent farewell.

This time, his footsteps don’t make a single sound as he walks away.

please don't repost on other platforms. rbs and comments are super appreciated ♡ !!

[mistycreativelilacs]

The Sins We Carry

The next part in my Bruce x Reader series. This one will be a multichapter, so check back for updates! Read the first part here (Kitchen Off Limits) Second part here (Life Knocked You Down? Get Back Up.) Or read it all on (AO3)

The aftermath of Jason's choices and an introspective look on how far the apple falls from the tree.

CW: Angst, Anger, Parental Issues (Mostly Mommy Issues), Refering to People as Monsters, Dysfunctional Relationships

Chapter One: Like Father, Like Son

“Even now, after everything you’ve done, he still believes you can be saved.” You stand in front of the monster that parades around in your son’s face.

 “And you don’t.” The thing speaks with a sadness in its voice. It tugs at the long dead part of you that cared for the boy he used to be.

 “I don’t know.” You turn away from him, unable to continue looking at your dead son’s face. Some part of you, deep in the bowels of your heart, wants to believe that your Jason is still in there somewhere. The smiling, joking boy with a thirst for reading and knowledge that rivaled your own. But it’s hard to see Jason in the face of it. The thin who blew up a city. The very city he knew his brother lived in. How could that… that thing be the same boy who used to follow you around the manor?

 “But you do; you know me, Mom.” You thought you did. Thought that you’d be able to recognize your son anywhere, but the man standing in the room with you is a stranger.

 “No, I have no idea who you are.” He grabs your arm and pulls you to face him once more.

 “Yes, you do. It’s still me, I’m still Jason.” There’s a desperation in his tone, pleading. It’s like a twisted imitation of the boy you once loved.

“You may have his face, his voice, his name, but you’re not my Jason. My Jason would never have done the things you’ve done.” His face hardens at that, a determination setting in. Like a child digging their heels in and refusing to move.

 “I did what had to be done.” He crosses his arms, adjusting his posture to portray indifference and authority. The entire thing oozes Bruce in the worst way.

 “For a man who detests his father, you sure do come off the most like him.” It’s a low blow, and you know it. The vindictive part of you, that part that feels eerily like your own mother, said it to wound this thing wearing your son's face. That part of you wanted him to hurt even just a fraction of the way you hurt.

 “Don’t… Don’t say that. Why would you say that?” His whole demeanour changes, crumbles right before your eyes.

 “Why would you blow up Blüdhaven? WHY? Knowing Richard could be there, having seen my grief. Watched it played out in news spots and gossip columns and Bruce’s security footage. You actively attempted to put me through that once more, and now you stand here in front of me, unrepentant of your actions, and demand forgiveness? You demand I retake up the mantle of your mother while actively trying to rob me of another child, rob me of the very man I love. A man, may I remind you, is the only reason I became the real Jason’s mother in the first place.” You’re in his face now, pushing him back with each new accusation.

“Mom… you don’t understand. You weren’t there. He-” You’d had enough of his excuses. It was always someone else’s fault, always the things that happened to him that made him this way. Never taking any accountability for the very real things he did. The choices he made.

“Batman didn’t kill my son. The Joker didn’t kill my son. You did.” It was the final nail in the coffin, there was no coming back from this one.

“That’s enough.” Bruce’s commanding voice echoes through the hovel of an apartment.

“I was already leaving.” You turn your back on that thing once more, brushing past Bruce without even a glance.

“Mimi, let me take you home.” Richard. It’d been nearly three months since that night, yet you still couldn’t sleep without the nightmares taking over. Every time, you’d awake in a panic and call Richard. You felt guilty about disrupting the boy's sleep, but hearing his voice reacting to you in real time was the only thing capable of calming the panic.

“I bet you’d forgive the replacement if he’d done the things I have.” The thing calls out after you. A last-ditch effort to wound you the way you’ve wounded him. You turn, making sure to make eye contact with it before you deliver the final blow.

“Timothy never would have been in your position to begin with.” With that, you leave the apartment for good. Richard follows close behind you. Both he and Bruce had been hesitant to leave you alone these days, clearly for good reason.

“Mimi, you really should let me take you home. You’re in no condition to drive.” He places himself in front of you. You brush him aside and mount his old bike, you’d practically claimed it as your own at this point.

“I’m not going home, or at least… not our home.” You start the bike and turn to Richard once more. “Don’t follow me, and that goes for Bruce as well. I have a personal matter to take care of.” With that, you place the helmet on your head and take off in the direction of Gotham University.

[retromotherfuckers]

Violet Eyes, Red

Pairing:

rhysand x reader (pretty sure it's gender neutral - there might be a "she" i missed while referring to you from the original draft bc second person pov is not how i write)

Summary:

you and your mate reunite after feyre defeats amarantha and this is the fallout of what the bitch did to him.

Warnings:

aftermath of SA - i can't really tell if it's graphic which tells me it is, loose description of a panic attack, PTSD, please let me know if I missed anything. guys, please, if these topics are triggering for you, don't read this fic. i am not responsible for your media consumption, but i also don't want to throw you headfirst into your trauma.

Word Count:

2,140

A/N:

literally broke my own damn heart with this one. rhys' trauma is so ignored and that needed to be rectified. rhys might be my second favorite bat boy, but he's still a lil baby who needs to be protected

dividers by @strangergraphics

The human girl had beaten her - the woman of his nightmares - once and for all. At the first moment he could, Rhysand winnowed. After fifty years, he knew there was only one place he could go. After all, it was the last Sunday of the month, and that Sunday was the day he and his mate reserved just for themselves. The High Lord and Lady would not conduct any business on that day.

You'd spend most of your day on the balcony. You'd serenade him with the piano. You'd fly around Velaris - creating patterns in the air. You'd cradle each other in your arms. He'd sketch out a new drawing - trying and failing, in his opinion, to encapsulate your true beauty.

One day, he broke that promise, that vow you had made, and went to what he thought was a simple trade meeting. That morning was the last day he saw you, and he still couldn't live with himself.

Those memories alone kept him breathing at times. When Amarantha stole his bed, his body, his hope.

Then the human girl showed up, and he tried to help her. Wanted to give her what she needed to beat the beast he didn't think he'd ever escape. But he had lost the will to pray for it. To the cauldron, to the Mother Above. Despite his pessimism, she persevered. The girl had won. And then he was free.

He was on the balcony before he could even think about it. After a quick glance around, he realized it was empty. At first, he felt a pulse of disappointment, but with the realization of how long it'd been, he breathed deeply. How could he expect you to keep up the tradition? Fifty years of solitude on those Sundays would have made him mad if your roles were reversed.

At the thought, he allowed himself to feel the mating bond. It had gone cold the moment he winnowed away all those years ago, but now it was as beautiful as he remembered. The pull of another person at the end of a tether, forever binding them in the purest forms of fate.

But he heard your thoughts, and he almost broke down in sobs at the sound of your voice in his head. Please come home, my love. I don't know how to do this anymore. Please. The last word, you were begging. Your inner voice, the one he had to get used to living without, was broken. Pleading for him to return - despite everything you'd probably heard.

And with that, he took action, winnowing to every room in the house so he would find you as soon as possible. He knew you were close; your scent wasn't stale. It was fresh, clinging to every piece of furniture you owned together.

It was the last room he checked, his office, where he found you. You sat in his desk chair; the leather more worn than he remembered. But the sight of you stopped him from rushing to you. Nursing a bottle of wine, you slouched on your elbows, hands in your hair, as more thoughts streamed through the bond.

I'm losing myself, Rhys. I don't know how much more of this I can take. I can't let myself believe you won't come back because that- that will ruin me. What she's doing to you, what she's making you do. I don't even know a fraction of it, but I can't stop it. I- I can't protect you. And I hate myself for it. 

He was watching you as you sent the words down the bond, the bond that had been desolate for half a century. You run your hands down your face, not looking up from your wine, the third of many you planned to drown in.

Just get through it. Please just- just survive. Do what you have to do to come home. I'll be here. I love you. My mate.

You'd only allowed yourself to talk to him once a month. Initially, you would try to send him something every day. Thoughts, images, songs you'd learned, prayers for him. You never heard anything back, and it slowly started eating away at you. It shattered your hope every time you didn't get a response.

You'd heard the rumors, Amarantha's whore, he'd been called. Every time you heard it, it ate away at you more and more. As if he would choose that - choose to warm the bed of another when you were waiting for him at home. You knew him better than that, and you winced at the thought. He wouldn't choose it, but would she force him? Was she that much of a monster? 

You had to shake that thought away for the thousandth time that night, downing the rest of the glass. As you reach for the bottle, nearly empty at that point, a hand wraps around your wrist. The touch is gentle but firm - stopping you from drinking more, but not rough enough to hurt. Instead of startling at it, the wine slows your instincts. You can only stare. The tattoos on the dorsal side interweave into vines under the sleeve. Vines you know, vines that you've held, vines that have and will continue to have free rein of your body.

Faster than you thought you were capable of, your eyes flew to its owner's eyes. Violet. The most ravishing violet. Violet you'd feared you were forgetting.

With a new urgency, you pulled yourself to your feet, your hands flying up to his face without thinking. One on his cheek, the other on his neck, pushing, pulling, grabbing, unsure if it was your mind playing tricks on you.

In your desperate touch, you missed the way he flinched.

His hands. Mother Above, his beautiful hands were on your neck too, placed at the sides. When your mind would play you for a fool, it would never let you touch him, let alone allow him to reach you. But there he was, and you could feel him. You tugged at the bond, finally noticing it was warm and delicate and sweet and serene and everything you wished you knew how to describe. 

He breathed your name, barely a whisper. "I'm home, my darling. I'm home."

"You're here." The words barely escaped you, and you couldn't stop the tears. He didn't hesitate a moment, pulling you in for a frustratingly rare and fierce embrace. You clung to each other for dear life, tighter and tighter and tighter, like he'd disappear if you let him go. Frankly, you weren't convinced he wouldn't. "You're really here."

You stood like that for a while, holding each other, when he ultimately pulled away first. "Rh-Rhys, don't go-"

"I'm not," he promised, his voice raw, kissing your forehead. He took in every inch of your face. "I just wanted to look at you. My mate."

Since Rhys had been freed by the human girl, nothing had been normal. Not that you expected it to be, but you didn't anticipate just how awful a recovery for him would be. He couldn't share your bed, and you didn't mean that in a sexual manner. He couldn't sleep with anyone else in his room - if he had even been sleeping at all. He could barely stand to be touched. You knew he wanted to be able to let you, but every time you seemed to blink, he would flinch.

You had suspicions about what went on under the mountain, but you had no idea it would be so evil.

He stood before a cabinet, staring blankly into it, lost in a memory - a memory he'd been refusing to share. You understood why, but something in you told you that you needed to see. Not just for curiosity's sake but to know how to help him. Even if it was past your pay grade.

"Rhys," You called quietly for the second time. You didn't want to touch him, shock him back to reality. The fear of that setting him off more held you back. With a harsh and sudden breath, he fearfully glanced at you and around the room, forgetting where he was for a moment. "You're at home, Rhys. You came home."

"I'm sorry," He rasped, ignoring your words. His hands pulled at his hair, and you were nervous he'd start ripping it out. He backed away from you, so far away he was caught by the wall. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Your own formed at the sight of his tears, but you couldn't conjure up what he'd have to apologize for. "It's okay, honey, you're safe. It's okay."

"I didn't- I didn't want it. I swear on my life, I didn't want to."

You shook your head, not understanding. But you knew asking what he was apologizing for was the wrong thing to do. You could see it, the shame, the regret, the blame. "I know you didn't."

He squeezed his eyes shut, buried his face in his hands, and sank to the floor. He kept murmuring apologies, pleading for your forgiveness. "I betrayed you, you have to- you have to leave me."

His words shocked you, and now you were the one that flinched. "Rhysand, look at me." He visibly shrunk at the command, pulling his hands away from his face. "As far as I'm concerned, anything that happened...there...is the furthest thing from your fault. I know there are things you can't tell me, and that's okay. I'll be here when you're ready-"

"I can't!" He bellowed. "You'll never forgive-"

"Show me the memory." You demanded, your voice quiet but assertive. But you wouldn't push too hard if he was adamant about keeping you out. You knew. You knew. Based on the way he had been acting, what had happened. But you also knew he needed to show you. So someone, fucking someone, would tell him it was out of his control. He couldn't govern everything, even if he was the High Lord of the Night Court. The words hurt as they left your lips. "Because I can promise you that I will."

You weren't a daemati, but you could see him battling with himself. Debating, if showing you what really happened, would bury him deeper under the surface or pull him back up for air.

Eventually, he released a rare sob and a barely audible "Okay."

He showed you the first time, how he just laid there like a statue as her hands took everything for herself. Then, the fifth time, when she started demanding he respond, pretend he wanted it. Then, the eleventh time, when his body started reacting. Then, by the next time, he had stopped keeping count.

He showed you, whether he meant to or not, how he prayed for it to end, prayed for someone to rescue him.

How he had been praying for you.

With the confirmation of your theory, you squeezed your eyes shut, trying and failing to hold back the tears. The angry tears, wishing you could've been the one to rip her throat out. Tears that enraged you because that was not Tamlin's kill. Furious tears because that wasn't even your kill. Devastating tears because your mate not only had to play a character for so long, but he had to endure being called her whore. Like he had any fucking say. 

Overwhelming tears because your mate was in pain and there was shit all you could do about it.

"Can I touch you?" The question shocks him, but he nods without thinking, confused at the request. You slowly lift your hands to his cheeks, brushing away his tears with your thumbs. "There is nothing for me to forgive you for. I know you didn't want to do any of it."

"But I-"

"Bodies respond to stimulation whether it's wanted or not. It's how we work." You explained slowly and carefully, keeping direct eye contact. "You forget, sweetheart. I can hear your thoughts when you show me a memory."

"I've-" His voice caught, putting his hands on your wrists, rubbing them up and down your arms until they got hot. "I've been so scared. That it's still happening. That all of this is going to go away, that she's not really gone, that I'm not really here, and this is just another tactic-"

You shake your head, finally pulling yourself together to say what you've wanted to say for weeks. "I swear on my life that I will never let anyone hurt you like that again. I will spend eternity protecting you from her and anyone like her. And if you forget that this is real, just ask me. I'll tell you."

His eyes darted between yours, furiously blinking. Violet eyes, red. Pleading craving begging praying.

"Is it?"

[fallenprophets]

How can I make it OK?

Arthur Morgan x reader

PART 1 🌀 PART 2

Summary : you're homesick.

gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, not explicitly romantic unless you wanna read it that way, 3K words

Warnings : swearing, mentions of suicide, panic attack described in semi detail, not the jolliest thing i've ever written

A/N : first post that's actually writing in 2025 ! wrote most of this on the train while listening to house in nebraska by ethel cain and more than this by wolf alice so yeah. also this isn't arthur heavy in the sense that it's reader rambling about being homesick mostly. to be read in a southern accent as god intended

Of all the places I have travelled with the Van Der Linde gang, I think this is my least favourite. 

Living- or rather, camping- in the ruins of some plantation, bodies of the former owners stagnating in the pond. Sometimes I hear ‘em- the ghosts, in the walls, screamin’. I know it’s my mind, playing tricks on me; but it’s harder to have that rational thought when you’re lying alone in the middle of the night, wind whistling through broken windows. It’s not that I don’t like having a roof over my head. Shit, everyone in this godforsaken gang is happy to have a real shelter from the weather, even one as flimsy as this house. So I shut my mouth, hunt as I’m expected-which is what I am doing now, borrowed bow over my shoulder, quiver resting comfortingly between my shoulder blades. 

Hunting is familiar. Back in the Grizzlies, where my daddy raised me, we’d go out any time of day, in any weather, hunt for the coming storms. I’d do everything the way he taught me to- lay out traps, wait behind a boulder, bow in hand. It builds patience, he told me when I asked why the hell we didn’t just track the damn animal, instead of waitin’ in the cold for it to find us. 

Now, it’s not cold, and dear old daddy ain’t here to help. 

I left my horse hitched by a lake, with enough grass for him to be fed and well until I bring back something worthy of Pearson. It’s near sunrise; already, the heat is uncomfortable; my skin is sticky, my clothes uncomfortable. It’s moments like these that I long for the snow. 

I wipe my forehead with the back of my head. I’ve been walking for a little while now, waiting for a pack of deer to pass by. There’s something that bothers me about killing them- maybe it’s their eyes, so big and brown, caught frozen as they stare at you. Or maybe it’s their resemblance to this little girl I knew, at a local village at the base of the mountain where I grew up. 

I shake the thought of her big brown eyes and twitchy nose as I spot a herd of ‘em, grazing near a small stream. There’s enough light for me to count them- seven, big enough to feed us. 

I get on one knee, like my daddy taught me. Notch an arrow in the bow, pull it back. One of the poor animals raises its head, looks in my direction. 

Before I can hesitate, I let go, and the arrow flies; a fraction of a second later, it has notched itself in the animal’s throat. It falls; its friends, the rest of its herd (its gang, I think, almost laughing) scamper off, into the woods. I don’t go after them. Pearson will have to do with this, and whatever herbs or mushrooms I’m able to pick up. 

The doe is dead by the time I reach her. I kneel. Pull the arrow from her neck; thick, sticky blood gets on my hands. I almost reach for snow, to clean it off; curse myself when my fingertips meet grass and mud. The doe’s dead eye stares up at me, brown and empty as the sky. I resist the urge to close them. 

“Sorry, sweet.” I whisper it as I hoist her up, put her over my shoulder. She’s heavy. I must be getting blood on my shirt- it’s a shame, because it’s my favourite colour, and I’ve just bought it. 

I swallow any regrets I feel as I walk back to my horse, the weight of the doe uncomfortable against my bow and quiver. 

You’re the reason she won’t come home, a little voice whispers in my head. I stop, then, because my chest is tightening and I can’t really breathe. I say something incoherent. The fields around me are empty- it’s just me and this doe. 

I drop her into the mud and loosen my shirt, gasping for air. I want cold, I want crisp mountain air; not this thick, humid, barely-air that clogs my throat and makes my lungs heavy. 

I dig my fingers into the mud and grass, as I would have done in the snow, back home. Home. What a weird thought. I catch the dead doe’s eye again, and that’s when the tears come, thick and hot and nasty, blurring my vision. So stupid, I think, as I force myself to stare at her. She- no, it- is just an animal. She doesn’t have a home, not the way I did. Do. 

I think of crying out for help, but that’s pathetic, and I’m a lot of things, but pathetic ain’t one of them. 

I think I stay there, on my knees, fingers deep in the mud, for a long time- when my vision clears again and I’ve stopped gasping for air, the sky is clear, clear blue, no traces of sunrise left. If I focus hard enough on it, I can almost pretend I’m back in the mountains. 

I get up, teeth digging into my tongue to prevent any new feelings from resurfacing. I’m not in the goddamn mountains. All that’s left for me there is two frozen bodies deep beneath the snow, and a hut that’s probably been raided or taken over by some other gang. 

I pick the doe up, this time careful to avoid looking at her face. Its face. It’s an animal, not my goddamn sister. 

I make it back to my horse without another incident; strap the doe across his back and climb onto his saddle. His name is Coal, ‘cause of the colour o’ him- black and charcoal grey, a streak of white down his face. 

“Hey, boy,” I murmur to him as I flick the reigns. My voice is shaky, hoarse; it’s obvious that I’ve been crying. 

Coal begins to trot back to camp. I think of changing direction, of going to Rhodes, clear my thoughts. But I gotta bring this back to Pearson, or he’ll skin me. 

The camp is still there when I return, which is a relief. I don’t think I’ll forget the moment when I came back after a hunt and found everyone gone, everything burned to the ground. 

I shiver at the memory and get off Coal. “I’ll come ‘nd fix your saddle later,” I say to him, scratching his neck. He grunts, in a tone I hope is affectionate. I remove the doe, put her back over my shoulder. Make it to Pearson’s stand, where he’s angrily chopping vegetables. 

“Hey,” I say, dropping the doe in front of him. I angle her head- her eyes- away from me. “Got some meat.” 

“I can see that,” is Pearson’s kind answer. 

I ignore him and walk away again, into the derelict house we’ve been callin’ home for the last few weeks. My room is on the top floor; I wish I shared it with someone, but I got lucky (Dutch’s words) and got my own, private room. 

I tug off my bloodstained shirt and drop it on the floor. There’s nothin’ to be done about my trousers- they’re the only pair I’ve got (the others have just been washed, and hang soaking wet outside) and I don’t plan on walking around bare-legged. 

I change quickly. Sit down on the bed, stare at the wall. 

I don’t know how long I stay like that; starin’ at the peeling wallpaper, trying to pretend it’s the same white as the snow I used to see out my window. Obviously, the pretendin’ don’t work, because it’s not the snow, it’s a crumbling fuckin’ wall in a crumbling fuckin’ house. I stand, take a deep breath in (of hot, hot, humid, thick air), push it out. It ain’t cleansing- I don’t feel better once I’ve tasted the surrounding bogs- but it’s enough to calm my heartbeat, and make me feel somewhat human again. 

For the rest of the day, I help around camp, doing stupid, mind-numbing tasks. I try not to think of the mountains, and how much better than this godforsaken swamp they were. People talk to me, and I answer, polite and all. I eat Pearson’s stew, listen to another grandiose speech about Dutch’s plan (or, as far as I’m concerned, concepts of a plan). I finally find a moment of quiet sitting on a log, staring out at the swamp. Not the prettiest sight; all brown and green, with hints of yellow dust. 

I’m alone for only a few minutes before I hear footsteps. I turn, and find Arthur approaching, taking his cigarette packet from his satchel. I shift on the log I’m sitting on, making the split second decision that his company is something I want right now. 

He sits next to me, silently. Offers me a cigarette (I decline with a shake of my head and a wave of my hand) then lights his own with a match. He stays quiet for a little while, blowing smoke from his mouth, tinting the world blue and grey. 

It’s strange, sitting next to him. He don’t mind being quiet; seems to like my company well enough, ‘cause he keeps coming back here to smoke. 

He’s the one who found me, all that time ago, on a solo hunt in the Grizzlies. It was at the edge of the mountains, where it starts to get warmer; where the sun melts away most of the snow. Was from Blackwater, he said- I asked if I could go back with him. Promised I’d leave ‘em all alone when I got there, I just needed a job, as far from my daddy’s corpse as I could get. He’d said yes, maybe reluctantly. 

Turns out, I’d found somethin' better than a job. Not quite a family, but a gang, people to rely on, people to distract me from the emptiness created by my father’s death. I suppose it’s these people keeping me here, in this swampy nowhere, sweating my socks off. Here, I’ve got people- back in the mountains, I’ve got two dead bodies and an empty house. 

My chest tightens again, and wordlessly, I take the cigarette from Arthur’s hand, take a long drag. I hand it back, still silent, and dig my fingernails into my knuckles. 

“You miss home?” Arthur asks me, his words marked by the smoke curling from his mouth. I take the cigarette from his fingers again, press it between my teeth, inhale ‘till I can blame the burning in my eyes on the smoking rather than whatever has grabbed hold of me; whatever old, buried feeling I’d thought long gone had chosen to make an appearance. Guess it must be more obvious than I thought, that I’m feelin’ odd, ‘cause he clearly smelled it on me. 

“I don’t know, I guess,” I say, softly, fiddling with the dirty fabric of my trousers as I hand the cigarette back; as if I don’t know the answer, as if I haven’t spent half my goddamn life thinking about this. I exhale, blowing out smoke from my nose.  “Never really thought about it.” The lie burns in my throat, so thick I can hardly breathe. 

It’s not the stability that I miss. The weather in the Grizzlies was nothin’ permanent, not in any sense- one minute it’s a blizzard, the next you’re standing staring at the bright blue sky, knee deep in snow. I guess it’s the wolves howling, it’s the comfort of a fire as wind rattles against the window panes; it’s even the way the stars look after three days holed up inside. There’s no one thing I miss or don’t miss- I just know I miss it, so much that my chest tightens at the thought. 

When my daddy got shot, three- no, four- years ago, I thought the one answer was to leave that place behind; pack up my clothes and go out into the Wild Wild West, make my own future away from the smell of his freshly dug grave, right next to my mama’s frozen bones. And when I came across Arthur, and later his gang of gung-ho outlaws, who seemed ready to take on the world, I thought that was it- my life was set. 

But I don’t like the constant moving like I used to. It don’t feel like adventure anymore; it feels like escaping, like we’re always running from something. 

“I don’t…” I hesitate, reach up to dig my nails into the dip of my collarbone, try to dig the feeling out, hold it up to the light to examine it. “I guess it’s different.” A veiled confession. Away from the Grizzlies (away from home) it’s hot, stiflingly so; I can’t climb onto my horse without breaking a sweat. It’s already too warm by the time the sun rises- clothes sticking to your skin uncomfortably, flies buzzing above, drowning in the smell of swampy nothingness as soon as your eyes open. I don’t hate it- it has become familiar, but familiar in the way the weight of a revolver at my hip has become familiar; the way the constant paranoia that clogs my throat has become familiar. 

“Different how?” 

Another pause, as I scuff the yellow dust ground with the toe of my boot. Different in a whole lotta ways, I want to tell him; even the colour of the sky isn’t quite the same back home. 

Home. I think of the snow as I stare at the yellowed leather of my shoes. Where there’s snow and wolves and no people to shoot at you unless you really look for it. 

“I don’t know,” I say, even though my whole body knows; it courses through me, the knowledge that a few days ride away is the mountains, and the snow. “It just is.”

The answer dissatisfies him, I think. “C’mon,” he says in that gruff voice of his. “You gotta be able to find one difference between here and the goddamn Grizzlies.” 

“’S warmer,” I say, the words followed by a short, slightly forced laugh. “Don’t snow as much.” 

He snorts, shaking his head. “Alright,” he responds, maybe a little condescendingly. “Think o’ anything else?” 

“You got less wolves down here,” I add, after a few moments. I don’t say that I miss the sound of them howling; that when I close my eyes, I try to picture it, try to pretend I’m back there instead of here. 

“Alright.” He says it kinder this time, like we’re getting somewhere. 

“The sky looks different.” I dig my fingers in deeper. He offers me the cigarette; I take it, repurpose the burning in my throat. The smoke flickers around me as I exhale. “It’s- clearer, up there. More blue.” Here, the sky is tinted almost yellow. It ain’t ugly, but it ain’t home. 

He doesn’t answer, now, staring out at the swamps. I don’t know how he feels about this place- about Rhodes, and the foreignness of Saint Denis, with its factories and smoke and cobbled roads. I wonder if he misses home- if he ever had one to begin with. “I guess I do miss it,” I say, to fill the silence more than anything. “But… I don’t know, I don’t think I wanna go back.” Alone is the word I don’t add. I think- maybe- if I had the gang, my new family, I’d go back to the Grizzlies. After we escaped Blackwater, and hid out in that abandoned town up in the mountains; that was the happiest I’d been for a long time. 

But alone isn’t something I want to be. Not the way I was alone, the few weeks after my father passed- just me and the freshly dug grave, me and the wolves, me and the gun that killed him, sittin’ on the table, an unwanted temptation. 

“I don’t wanna be alone again.” It comes out soft, hoarse, pathetic, the words grating in my throat, like sandpaper on my tongue. 

It’s true. Yes, home is in the mountains; I know that now, when my chest clenches at the simple thought of the snow. But home is also with these people- with Arthur, and Mary-Beth, and Pearson, and the rest of them. Hell, even Kieran, the O’Driscoll boy, has become home, in a way. Home is not just the place where I grew up (the place where my daddy now lies); home is also the people that have become my family; who have embraced me so kindly and warmly. I know deep in my stomach that if I were to leave now, take a horse back to the hut, I’d end up like my daddy, a bullet in my head and a gun in my hand. 

He did it ‘cause he was lonely. So lonely that even I wasn’t enough to stop him from pulling the trigger. Lived in the mountains his whole life, but he had my mama then, and his parents. I guess fifty years of snow and not much else can drive you insane. 

My hand goes to my temple; I dig my fingers into the skin, right where I found the bullet in his head. 

“Y’won’t be,” he responds gruffly. He’s finished his cigarette, and yet he’s not made any attempt to get up, leave me with my thoughts. I snort, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. 

“Don’t know that,” I say. “With the Pinkertons on our asses, ‘nd all.” It’s meant to be lighthearted, but it comes out quiet, rough. 

“Yeah, but they’ve always been on our asses.” He puts a hand on my leg; it engulfs my entire knee. “Tell you what.” He hesitates, clearin’ his throat a little. Squeezes my knee. “I’ll take you huntin’, once a week- or twice, or less, if you want.” 

“I go huntin’ anyway,” I answer. “Not in the mountains, y’don’t.” My chest both tightens and loosens at the same time. I swallow; my heart is thumping in my chest. I put my hand to my collarbone again, digging my nails in. “C’mon, it’ll do you good. Cold air and all that.” 

I know there’s a deeper meaning to that. Cold air- he’s giving me the chance to go home, and not by myself. Even if it’s not for long, it’s enough- to feel the snow again, to hear the wolves. Maybe once I’ll camp overnight, ride back to camp in the morning. The idea fills me with hope- a feeling we’re all starved of, these days. 

“Really?” Is all I manage to croak out. 

“What, you don’t wanna?”

I laugh, and it’s genuine this time. “No, I- I wanna.”

“Alright then.” He gives my knee a last squeeze, then stands. I stand with him, smooth my shirt with the flat of my hand. “Tomorrow then?” Tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. I’d sing, if my throat weren’t so damn tight. My eyes sting, and I wipe at my nose with my hand. 

“Thank you,” I say, quietly. He don’t respond, but he nods, and I think maybe he smiles a little. 

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll get to take a piece of my new home to the place I grew up- someone I love, to the place that holds my heart. 

I watch him walk away; and suddenly, the humidity don’t feel so bad anymore. 

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

WIP Weekend

Weekly WIP Update

Saltwater Symphony is finished, people! I'm gonna miss those boys, but I'm also very excited to share the final chapter with all of you in a few days, so stay tuned!

The next thing on the to-be-finished list is The King's Gift, which is around 5-7k from the end, and then it's just me and my big bang fic against the world.

Speaking of my big bang fic, it's sitting at 11k, and I'm submitted and ready for claims! 🎉

Send me an emoji, and I'll write and share three sentences from that project. 🏰 The King's Gift ❓ Steddie Big Bang 2025 (snippets will be redacted) 🎲 Steddie Bingo 🏴‍☠️ Gift fic for @sourw0lfs

Snippet from 🎲 (CW: death of parents, grief and mourning ... somehow, it's complicated)

“Okay,” he says, shoving the glass into Steve’s hand and pulling out a chair for himself. His hip pops audibly as he lowers himself into it, and he pauses for a fraction of a second. “That's the worst panic attack you've had in years. Do I need to call in the A Team, or-” 

Steve shakes his head. The throbbing pain has made way to a dull exhaustion. Eddie’s hand settles on top of his. 

“You're pale as a ghost, sweetheart. If this isn't an Upside Down thing, then what-”

“My father is dead,” Steve blurts. It feels good to say it out loud. Like some of the weight that has been pressing down on his chest ever since he read the message has lifted. 

Eddie’s eyes go large. 

“Oh,” he says. Draws a breath. Shuts his mouth again and wrinkles his brow, one hand coming up to play with his hair. It’s more salt than pepper these days, especially with the low-hanging sun hitting it the way it does. “I’d say good riddance, except I just found you catatonic on the kitchen floor, so I feel I should say condolences instead? Sorry, I’m a little lost here.” Steve huffs. “Tell me about it! I thought I’d do a fucking jig the day he finally kicked the bucket, and instead I have a goddamn panic attack? Trust that old asshole to mess with my head even from beyond the curtain.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie nods solemnly. “He’s probably having a very good laugh with his buddy Satan about it right now.”

[frollosversion]

Hello! This idea has been itching my brain for a while now.

"How much of a Father am I?"

Frollo's slight backstory of raising Quasimodo.

This is a story about that phrase Frollo said to his ward:

"When your heartless mother abandoned you as a child, anyone else would've drowned you. And this is my thanks for taking you in as my son?"

This story will probably have three parts. This is gonna be part 1.

Part 2

Part 3

"What must I do?" Frollo asked the Archdeacon.

It was the first time Frollo spoke softly in fear. He never does it nor does he follow anyone's orders or commands. The only person that could tame his heavy heart is the archdeacon and maybe a tad bit of conscience.

"Care for the child..." Said the Archdeacon. "And raise it as your own."

Frollo's eyes widened at the thought of nursing a child let alone an 'unholy demon' (according to him). He was about to protest but his conscience still devours him alive.

"Excuse me? You what— I am to be saddled with mishapen—" he paused. "very well."

After few negotiations, they settled of letting the baby live in the cathedral's bell tower under Frollo's care. The church had becometh the child's sanctuary.

The Archdeacon was conflicted of Frollo's push and pull attitude the whole time but he was tolerant even after the murder of the baby's mom.

After the arrangement of everything— the room, the crib and other things, The minister tiredly puts the baby down. Just as soon as he did, the baby started wailing.

"Oh what the devil—"

"The baby is hungry, Frollo. Do something about it. I already did my part of staying and helping with all this. It's on you now." The Archdeacon calmly leaves the bell tower.

"Hey! Hey! How do I even—" Frollo ask with a trace of panic. "Father!!! Get back here at once!"

But the Archdeacon already left. He was left alone with the baby.

"STOP.. JUST STOP CRYING!!!" Frollo commanded which led to no avail. "I SAID STOP OR I'LL THROW—" no he can't.

"Fuck..." he mentally cussed.

"Milk..." Frollo immediately thought.

He looked at the baby and looked at his chest, madly thinking about breastfeeding the baby because it was his first instinct.

"Stupid of you to think that i can breastfeed you" He says, blaming the child for being hungry.

He wanted to ignore it but he knows he can't. One, it's noisy, two, it's haunting his conscience, three, he just wants everything to go back the way it was.

The night became complicated but he eventually had a solution of letting the child drink milk from the milk glass bottles they use in the olden days.

After a while, frollo sat down the wooden chair. The child had slept in his arms soundly.

"The fact that I have to to this everyday stresses me." He looked at the child. Despite the baby's deformity, Frollo had find it somehow angelic when it slept. It makes his heart soften towards the boy for a fraction of second.

"Right. I still have to name you. A name shouldn't sound like a name. I don't want to get too... attached."

That night, he decides to think of the child's name. He could've just named him any sweet name a child deserves to have but his heart was still bitter.

He could've named him like Alain, Von, Arthur, Gabriel, Blaise, Karl, or any other names but no...

"Quasimodo..." He speaks. "Yeah. That should do it."

Frollo gave the child a cruel name. A name that means half-formed. Quasimodo. He was downright menace on that one but he wants no attachments with the baby. He's doing it out of conscience.

Frollo wanted to just leave the baby in there and call it quits. But he refuses to. He's not gonna wait for his own soul haunt him if he goes back to the palace of justice and leave the baby here.

"Lord. You've sent me a test. This child is my cross to bear. But I shall prove you i am worthy of overcoming this. I'll raise this... thing. as promised."

Instead, he falls asleep... with the baby in his arms.

His night was fucked up and he just wants it to go back the way it was but he knows it's not gonna happen. This will be his first of many more routines in the future, but that night, he just wants it to pass.

[sykesandskittles]

CHAPTER 11

Harlow

“SO YOU SAW HER TONIGHT?” I ask the guy leaning over me. “Who was she with?”

He smells like soap and woodsmoke, and I don’t hate it. Not as much as I should. He’s just like the other guys here at ExU. Rich. Attractive. He has bright blue eyes, and brunette  hair that falls over his forehead, making him look both hot and disheveled all at once. But it’s that smile that gets me. Damn. Perfectly straight teeth, and dimples that could probably enslave any woman under the age of eighty.

“So you’re Noah’s girl,” he says instead of answering my question. He rakes his gaze down my body, before leaning in just a fraction closer.

I’m starting to feel suffocated like there’s an iron band wrapped tightly around my chest. My heart is suddenly racing, and I can’t pull in a full breath.

I push against his chest. It doesn’t matter how hot he is. I’m feeling trapped, and it’s triggering my panic. “I need some space. ”

He laughs a little under his breath. “I can see why Noah has taken an interest in you.” His gaze roves over me again. “You’re different from the

others.”

I don’t know if I’m supposed to take that as a compliment or not, but right now, I’m focused solely on my breathing—or the lack thereof. And despite the cold evening, I feel hot, like my body temperature just rose by ten degrees in three seconds flat.

“I-I need some space,” I say again, louder this time, desperation in my tone. If I don’t get some fresh air soon, I’m going to pass out. My breathing becomes heavier, more labored.

Suddenly, the guy is torn away from me. Cold air rushes in where his body was, and I suck in a lungful of air, dropping into a squat. Holy fucking shit. I was three seconds away from losing it.

When I’m finally breathing again, I look up and see the guy pinned against the wall, with Noah in his face. “Stay away from what’s mine, Ash,” Noah yells with such violence, that everyone stops to look, recoiling collectively.

The guy—Ash—lifts his hands in surrender, laughing like this is all just a joke gone wrong. “Dude, chill. She was asking about her friend. We were just talking.”

Noah shoves him—hard–and then stalks toward me. I swallow and get to my feet. The look on Noah’s face is murderous, and all that ferocity he was directing toward Ash is now directed at me.

Oh, shit.

I back up a little as he approaches. When he’s within a couple of feet, he reaches out with his large hand and snatches me by the elbow. “We’re leaving.”

I don’t know what comes over me–now is not the time to argue with him, but that guy Ash might have actual information about Talia . I try to pull my arm out of his iron grip, but he just squeezes tighter, painfully tight. “I’m staying,” I protest, digging my heels into the sand. “That guy said he might have seen Talia .”

I’m desperate for some good news. After what happened with Tyler, I’m beginning to wonder how safe this fucking town is. And I need a safe town. I can’t handle another year of fear and uncertainty. So when a scholarship came through for ExU, I jumped at it. And Talia followed. I figured an area as obscenely wealthy as this would be safe. I guess safety is just an illusion

—no matter where you go, or how wealthy the community is, there’s always risk.

I try to mentally shake myself, though. I don’t know that Talia is in any danger. I found her phone in the sand, but maybe she was drunk and lost it. That happens. It doesn’t mean anything sinister has happened.

But I just can’t shake the feeling in my gut. The feeling of darkness that surrounds this place and Talia is somehow caught up in it.

Noah just ignores my protests and continues to pull me across the beach, away from the party. We get further and further away until the bonfire is just a spec in the darkness.

Finally, he stops and whips around to face me. “You’re a brave bitch, you know that. No one fucking talks to me that way, especially in front of other people. You won’t do that again.”

I snicker at the audacity of this guy. “The fuck I won’t,” I spit back at him, yanking my arm out of his grasp. I’m only successful because he allows it. I take a step back, my heels sinking into the soft sand. “If you wanted some simpering, eye-lash-fluttering slave, then you should have picked someone else at the Preference ceremony. It’s not too late, we can call this all off now.”

The second the words are out, I regret them though. The words flew past my lips in the heat of anger, but the truth is, I need his help. At least until I find Talia . But the second I see the whites of her eyes, Noah Sabastian can go fuck himself.

It’s dark, and I can’t see Noah’s face, but his body is rigid, and when he stalks toward me, his movements are stiff. But I don’t retreat, I don’t back down. The only way to deal with guys like Noah Sabastian is to call their bluff. Assholes like him love to see fear in another person’s eyes. They thrive on it.

I won’t give that to him. I’ve felt like the victim so much in the last year, and I’m fucking sick of it. I refuse to live in that place. At some point, you have to start fighting back.

“But I didn’t pick someone else,” he says. “I picked you. And, Little Rabbit, I always get what I fucking want. Always.”

I straighten my spine and call on all the strength I have. “Well, you can’t have me.”

He approaches slowly—I can only see his silhouette, but his large frame inches closer. “Is that right?” I shiver, but it’s from the cold. It’s definitely not from the deep timbre of his voice that somehow reaches inside my very soul. Goddamn. “Why don’t I show you just how much I own you, Harlow

?”

And before I can even pull away, his hand is under my tank top and brushing up my ribcage, his warm hand making me shiver. In three seconds flat, he has my bra unhooked, and his palm is cupping my breast.

Holy fuck.

He nips at my throat as his thumb flicks my nipple, pinching it a little, too. I grip his shirt, my hands fisting in the soft cotton fabric. My mind is in chaos right now—flipping between white-hot desire, and disgust that my body has betrayed me so quickly.

A protest bubbles up in my throat, but I can’t manage to get it out. He smells so damn good, and the heat of his body lures me in. It’s all I can do not to melt into him.

His hand leaves my shirt and finds the button of my jeans. Unbuttoning and unzipping them, he slips a hand into my pants, under my panties, until he finds the curls shielding my sex. I immediately stiffen, my entire body going rigid.

I swallow. “Noah…”

His free hand finds my throat, and he squeezes. Not painfully, but enough to let me know he’s the one in control here. “Shhhh.”

I clamp my mouth shut and squeeze my eyes shut, the air slowly leaking from my lips. All I can hear is my own breath, quick and harsh, waves crashing violently in the distance.

One long finger finds my clit, and I almost launch out of my skin. I haven’t been touched this way in a long time, and the sensation is both blissful and strange all at once.

With my hands flat on his hard chest, I try pushing him off me. But he’s too strong. He’s immovable, and it’s clear he isn’t going to move unless he chooses to.

I hate that my body is responding to him. I hate that with one flick of his wrist, he has me on the brink of climaxing. But, again, it’s been a while.

Tilting his head, he whispers in my ear. “You like that, Little Rabbit?”

I don’t say anything, because, honestly, anything I say is going to come out as a moan, at this point. I’m beyond all rational thought. So I just clamp my jaw shut and swallow back the moan that bubbles up in my throat.

My clit is throbbing when he pushes one long digit inside me. For fuck’s sake. My entire body is trembling. From desire. From fear. From the anger that he can do this to me, touch me in the most intimate way, and I’m powerless to stop him.

His thumb gently rubs my clit as his finger pumps inside me. I’m so wet, he’s having trouble finding traction.

“You’re drenched for me,” he says, a smile in his voice. He’s pleased that I’m responding exactly as he expected me to. The fucker.

Now I understand the term “treacherous body.” I’ve read it in books before, and it always kind of confused me. How can your body betray you? You like someone, and you get turned on, right? If only it were that simple. I hate this guy, and yet, he’s in complete control of my body. And the worst part is, he knows it.

I release a breath, almost a moan, and he pulls away. Just…stops completely. Pulling his hand away, he steps back, removing himself from me, and on instinct, I reach out for him.

“You see,” he laughs. “You’re mine, Harlow . I have you wrapped around my finger. Literally.”

I swallow, my entire body trembling, electricity buzzing in my veins. Is this guy fucking joking? He revved me up to prove he could? My cheeks burn with embarrassment. I fell right into his trap.

Fuck this guy.

Noah Sabastian is officially on my shit list.

[impala-dreamer]

Carrion

A Supernatural Story

~He always was The One, and no matter what, Y/N couldn't deny him...~

Demon!Dean x F!Reader, Sam Winchester

3,018 Words

Warnings: Angst. Injury. Demonic Fuckery

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

“You really think you can do this?” 

His voice was deeper than she remembered, echoing slightly off the concrete walls. His smug laugh punched her in the gut and Y/N chewed the inside of her cheek, desperate to pull up her best poker face. Not that it would matter; he could always call her bluff.

“Actually, yeah,” she replied as calmly as she could. “I think we already have.”

He offered a smirk; pearly white teeth peeking out like fangs from behind his ruddy lips. “You can’t cure what I got, Sweetheart.” He blinked and the demonic darkness appeared, flooding the green and taking away everything that was Dean. “Besides, I don’t wantcha too.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Didn’t ask for it, don’t want it. Thanks but no thanks.” He dipped his chin and Y/N shook her head at him, pulling up a smile. 

“Well, I didn’t ask to spend my summer chasing you around the country with your half-crazed brother, but...we get what we get.” Turning her back on him, she pulled the second syringe of consecrated blood from the pack and uncapped the needle. Dean held her gaze as she walked to him, blood in hand, ready to proceed. He visibly cringed when she stopped by his left arm and batted her lashes sarcastically at him. “And don’t call me ‘Sweetheart’, dick.” 

She could have been kinder, gently pressed the needle into his forearm, but he’d been riling her up for the better half of an hour, and it felt good to stab something, even if it was Dean. 

He grit his teeth and tried to hold in the scream, but the blood burned in his veins, making his body shake with fever and pain. It exploded through him; holy acid to wash away the demon. 

When the blood was gone, Y/N pulled back and bit her tongue as he convulsed, trying not to panic. It was almost the same as when Sam had done the first round, but something was different. Dean didn’t seem to fight it as hard, losing the battle against his scream a bit sooner. It rang loud through the dungeon and her heart broke for the man she used to love. 

Hissing and panting, Dean regained a fraction of composure and cracked his neck loudly. “That is… fucking uncomfortable,” he grit. 

“Is it?” she asked, trying to sound uncaring and above him. “Good.” 

With a huff, he stilled, eyes blinking back to familiar green. The forest called to her, but Y/N kept her distance. 

“Why’s that good? You suddenly enjoy torturing your friends?” 

The word cut like a hot knife through her heart and Y/N flinched. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dean said with a pout. “Friend. Hurts, doesn’t it?” 

She licked her lips and squared her shoulders, refusing to let him win. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but do us both a favor and shut the fuck up.” She popped the P and turned on her heel, hiding the hurt in her eyes. He knew just what he’d done, knew how that word hurt her, knew why. 

“Oh, come on, Y/N/N,” he teased; the clench in his jaw giving away the pain he still felt. “Don’t leave me now, we’re just getting started!”

A bottle of holy water stood on the table next to her and Y/N grabbed it, flipping the cap as she spun back around, splashing his freckled face with the blessed liquid. His flesh sizzled and steam filled the air around him as he yelled. 

“Fucking bitch!” 

The bass in his voice made her shiver and Y/N backed away quickly. 

Dean gasped and shook himself. Demon versus human, battling for the cracks in his soul. “You can throw holy water at me all you want, but it ain’t gonna change nothing.” 

Y/N pressed her palms into the table, holding herself steady. She refused to look at him, keeping her eyes on the tools at her disposal. “Yeah, but it’s fun.” Her voice cracked and she shut her eyes, hating the tremor in her lips. 

“You can’t do it,” he went on, mocking her, tempting her. “You love me too damned much.” 

Her heart nearly stopped and Y/N sucked in a shocked breath. Her spine stiffened but she clung to the table edge, trying to stay calm.

“Yeah, there it is.” Dean laughed. “Love. The ultimate ‘fuck you’, isn’t it?” Testing the ropes again, he twisted his wrists and shifted a bit in the seat. “When you fall in love, you’re vulnerable. Your priorities change, your brain stops working the way it should. It’s a liability: love.”

“Are you ever going to shut up?” 

Dean smirked, knowing he was getting to her. “It’s a shame, really. You used to be a good hunter. Not great, mind you, but good. Competent. But then something happened. You let yourself fall in love, and that’s when it all went down hill, didn’t it?” 

Y/N grit her teeth and took a deep breath; nails digging into the table. 

“Your mind started playing tricks on you,” he continued, slowly drawing out her emotions, enjoying watching the muscles in her back tense, the color change in her cheeks. “It wasn’t just fun, harmless flirting after a while, was it? You fell and you fell hard. Started thinking what we had was more than we did. You let yourself dream of a future with me, let yourself believe it as if anything could really happen between us.” 

His laugh was cruel and Y/N closed her eyes, begging the tears to stay back. 

“Honestly, I just felt bad for you,” he said simply. “The last two times we fucked, it was just out of pity. Well, and to shut you up. Sad thing is, Sam always kinda had a thing for you.” He leaned forward as her eyes turned to him. “Guess you picked the wrong Winchester,” he whispered, the devil on his tongue. 

“Fuck you,” she snapped, tossing the bottle at him once more. The bulk of the wave barely reached him, but what did shut him up, searing his skin and making him groan painfully. 

“Wanna know a secret?” he asked, out of breath and exhausted. “When I get out of this chair, I’m going to rip your heart out and stomp on it.” Again, he broke into a sick laugh. “How’s that for love?”

Y/N slammed the door behind her, but she could still hear his cackling. It dug into her bones, twisted and churned inside of her like a wayward curse. She took a moment, pressing her back to the wall, letting the cold of the tile seep into her flesh. 

With her eyes closed, the tears fell, a silent betrayal of her strength. Everything he’d said was true; nothing they didn’t both know, but to hear it from him, to feel the disdain in his tone, it was gutting. 

“You OK?” 

Sam dropped a heavy hand on her shoulder and Y/N looked up, blinking away the tears. 

“Yeah,” she lied, clearing her throat. “Just needed a moment.” 

Sam nodded thoughtfully. “He’s getting to you, huh?” 

She looked away, eyes following the lines in the tile towards his old room. The room they’d carried his body to, the room they’d found empty just hours later. 

“Nah.” She wiped at her cheeks, slapping the wetness away. “Just hot in there. Did you get a hold of Cas?”

Sam sighed. “Yeah, but he’s…” 

She looked up expectantly. 

“He’s on his way.”

Y/N pulled in a deep breath and let her shoulders fall. She rolled her neck and set her jaw, ready for more. “Alright then. Backup’s on its way- let’s do this.” 

She hung back, hiding in the shadows around the edges of the room while Sam took the lead. Dean had a field day with his brother, taunting him in ways she couldn’t have dreamt up in her darkest imagination, slowly chipping away at Sam’s resolve. 

Sam stood strong through it all, fighting back when he couldn’t hold it in anymore, standing tall through each of Dean’s lies and verbal jabs. 

When he couldn’t break Sam, Dean turned his eyes to Y/N, following her slow trek around the perimeter, surely counting each heartbeat that pounded in her chest when he smiled so slickly at her. She refused to answer his catcalls, never took a step closer, skirting the walls like a thief in the night, hidden and silent, waiting, watching. 

The next dose of blood was worse than the last. 

Y/N turned her face as Dean screamed, his blood boiling, his body convulsing in pain as the cure worked on him. His voice was deafening and Y/N pressed her forehead against the stone wall, hoping the chill would calm her soul. bly shaking, Sam walked away, leaving her alone once more with the demon. 

Dean was gasping, head down resting on his chest, eyes closed, shoulders shaking. 

Y/N took a step into the light. 

“Dean?” 

He didn’t respond, had no snappy words to break her heart with. He tried to lift his head, but his body was too weak. “Is that- that all you got?” he chuckled, expelling just enough breath to make a sound. 

Y/N grabbed the Demon Knife from the table and moved closer, stepping into the circle. “Dean, look at me.” Worry laced her words and he did his best to oblige. His head rolled to the side but he managed a pathetic smile. 

“What, you gonna slice me open now?” 

“What? No. Shit.” She tossed the knife back onto the table and went to him, stopping at arm's length. “Are you OK?” 

His breath was shaky, shallow but heavy; she could see it in the quick rise and fall of his thick chest. “No. I’m not OK. I’m-” His eyes rolled back for a second and his face contorted with pain. “I think I’m dying.” He let out a sad laugh at that. “Again.” 

“You’re not dying.” Y/N held her breath as he coughed badly, a trickle of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “Shit.”  

Dean’s tongue darted out to lick away the blood and he shook his head, grinning righteously at her. “See? You’re fucking killing me with this- this cure.”

“We’re saving you.” 

Dean spat at her feet; a tiny puddle tinged with pink. “Agree to disagree.” 

Y/N shook her head. “Did you really think we wouldn’t come save you? Did you think we’d just let you run around killing people, dropping bodies wherever you went?”

“Hey, most of those were demons,” he corrected, shifting in his seat. His lips twitched as a sharp pain struck his spine. 

“Whatever.” Y/N stepped back and jumped up to sit on the edge of the table, swinging her feet above the Devil’s Trap. “We looked everywhere for you.”

Dean looked up at her through thick lashes. “No one asked you to save me. I left for a reason.” 

“Crowley tricked you.” 

“Crowley didn’t do shit. I left. Me. I chose to leave.”

Y/N crossed her arms, shook her head. “No.” 

“No?” His laugh was cut short by a pained grunt and his body twisted from the middle. “I could have stayed. Coulda come running down the hall screaming your name. Y/N, I’m alive!” He winced and clenched his jaw. “But no. I left. Take the hint.” 

“You’re being cruel,” she whispered, lip trembling. “This isn’t you.” 

“You don’t know me, you...pathetic…” Pain gripped him tight, strangling his words, his breath. “You- pathetic...cun-” He screamed again; his entire body clenched until his limbs shook. His face turned bright red and Y/N watched his struggle, green eyes flickering to black and back again too quickly for her to count how many times.

“Dean?” Her feet hit the floor.

No breath, no movement, not even a scream. 

“Dean!” She shook his shoulder, uncaring of the danger. “Come on, dammit!” She touched his cheek and Dean sucked in a deep breath. 

“Y/N?” His throat was raw, his voice soft. He looked up with clear, wet eyes filled with fear. “Help me.” 

His plea tugged at her heart but she took a step back, her hand dropping from his face. “What?” 

He swallowed hard, cringing at the pain of it. “Please,” he begged, panting and weak. “Please, you have to help me. This-the blood is killing me. Please, Y/N/N.”

Y/N screwed her eyes shut tight and shook herself. “No. I can’t.” 

He coughed again, hard; the echo rang in her head. “I’m-I’m so sorry.” 

Tears were back in her eyes and she struggled to ignore them, to push aside the tightness in her chest, the guilt. “What? What are you saying?” 

He looked up, eyes just as wet as hers. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t mean anything I said before. It’s… I can’t…” He lost his breath, choking on nothing, on the weight of his choices. “Help me.” 

A single tear slipped down his cheek and Y/N reached out to catch it, brush it away. Her palm lay flush against his skin and Dean leaned in towards her touch, closing his eyes as the small taste of comfort wrapped around him. 

“I need you,” he whispered, lips barely moving. 

Y/N broke, falling to her knees in front of him, her hand still holding his face, thumb swiping away at another tear as it trickled down. “I’m here, Dean. I’m going to help you. We’re going to save you, I promise.” 

He nodded gently and a soft smile pulled at his raw lips. “I know.” 

Both eyes were wet now and Y/N pushed up on her knees, cradling both his cheeks, holding him lovingly. 

“I think it’s working,” she said with a hopeful smile. “Dean… you’re crying. You’re… I think it’s working. Do you feel different? Anything?” 

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “I-I think so.” Green eyes opened, locking on hers. “I love you, Y/N,” he said suddenly, his face twisting with familiar guilt. “I’m so sorry I never said it before, but I do. I always have.” 

Of the million things she thought he’d say, that wasn’t even in the top thousand. Her heart swelled, the tightness in her chest lifted just a tiny bit. “I…”

Dean dropped his chin and his forehead brushed against hers. She shivered and leaned up closer, unconsciously reaching for his lips. 

“I love you too, Dean.” 

The kiss was slow, soft, full of pain and apology. Y/N held onto him, refusing to let go as they struggled to breathe around the kiss, their mouths hungry for each other. When his tongue slipped into her mouth, Y/N came alive, something deep inside of her sizzling like water in a pan. 

“I need you, Y/N,” he said again, breath hot on her cheek. “Please.” 

Her mind in a fog, Y/N climbed into his lap, knees pressing into the small space beside his hips. She kissed him like it was the first time and the last all rolled into one; excited and sad, scared and aroused. Her fingers tugged through his hair, marveling at the length, using her grip to turn his face where she needed. 

She moaned his name as his tongue traced the shell of her ear, teeth scraping the tender dangling flesh at the end. “God, I missed you…”

Dean bit down on her shoulder and bucked his hips, sending Y/N into a frenzy. She closed her eyes and rolled her hips over him, grinding down on the hardness growing in his jeans. “Fuck.” 

“Untie me,” he whispered, “just one hand and I can make you feel so good, Y/N, please.” 

Her head was swimming, blood singing with lust and love. “I… no, I can’t.” 

He licked at her pulse, sucked a heavy kiss against her throat. “Please, baby,” he growled, “just one.” 

He bit down a little too hard and Y/N snapped out of the spell, the clouds lifting from her mind. “Wait. No! Fuck!”

She sat back and Dean grinned devilishly. 

“Ya know what?” he said, cracking his neck, “I don’t need your help. I think I can get it myself…”

When Sam returned, the door was open. Eyes narrowed in suspicion, he walked in, breath instantly halting as he saw the empty chair, its broken arm, the frayed ropes. 

Dean was gone. 

Sam rushed inside and fell to his knees. Y/N lay at the foot of the chair, clothes torn and hair a mess. 

“Y/N!” He reached for her, carefully turning her onto her back. She was breathing but barely, her face and throat splattered with blood. “No, no, no…” 

Her eyes fluttered open and she pulled in a heavy breath. “Sam-”

“Hey. Hey, it’s OK. I got you.” 

She shook her head and winced as she tried to sit up. Pain spread through her body from the top down and she grit her teeth, trying to stay strong. “He tricked me. He’s…you have to stop him.”

Sam huffed out a deep breath. “I will. I promise.” 

Dean’s voice echoed through the halls and they both turned, fear shrouding their faces. “Come on, Sammy. Wanna hang out with your big brother? A little quality time?”

Y/N shuddered. “Go. Hurry.” 

Sam grabbed the Knife from the table as he ran off, leaving Y/N to pull herself together. 

She stood slowly, every inch of her aching where his fists had landed; not a part of her left unmarred by his attack. Her chest burned as she moved and Y/N pressed a hand to the letters he’d carved into her skin, a lesson, a warning, a horrid joke she could never forget. 

L O V E

“It’s a liability,” he said, rounding off the O with the tip of the knife. He held her down, arms pinned beneath his knees, throat closing under his fist. “I warned you…” 

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