#oc!reader

[cas-kingdom]

The Night Shift

A/N: First NCIS fic! Decided to keep my OC's name instead of reader as I'm pretty attached to her.

If you're alone on V Day, here's some Gibbs. <3

Title: The Night Shift

Summary: What's worse than a sick Gibbs? A sick mini Gibbs.

Words: 2568

It was two am, and Emmie Gibbs was tired.

She wrinkled her nose as something tickled at it and sat up to reach for the packet of tissues sitting dutifully by the pillow.

It was two am, and Emmie Gibbs was sick and tired.

Tony, the shit-stirrer that he was, leaned precariously back in his swivel chair to stare at her. If it weren’t for the squeak of the chair itself, she still would have noticed his sudden attention by the feeling of his eyes boring into her for perhaps the tenth time since they’d set up camp in the NCIS building about five hours ago. He was relentless.

Emmie paused. Tissue wedged in her nose, sinuses burning, she looked up and stared at him. Tony rose an eyebrow. Emmie hardened her stare. Tony, because he was Tony, purposefully leaned further back so she could see the exact moment he dramatically cupped a hand to his stupid little mouth and—

“Giiibbs!”

Emmie’s jaw tensed. Tony grinned in superfluous victory.

Another squeak, a more familiar one this time, and Gibbs’s swivel chair glided along the carpeted floor around the divider between the cubicles until he could see Emmie. She was still sitting up, looking quite the sight with a tissue halfway up her right nostril and her hair sticking at all angles. On any other day she would have responded to Tony’s pure gall by glaring him straight into the ground. But today was not that day. Today was a bad day. Today, her week-long, just-about-bearable cold had decided to manifest into sinusitis, and she’d woken with a face that felt as though tiny little men were mining for gold in her skull. Ducky had liked that metaphor.

Partly because she was absolutely awful at caring for herself when she was ill, and partly—mostly—because he knew he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on work if she was left to fend for herself at home, Gibbs had dragged Emmie into the office with him. She’d made her rounds all day—curled up on Abby’s little couch at first, then bundled off to an empty room when Abby found working in silence too impossible. At lunchtime, a meeting had been scheduled in the room, and she’d been forced to accompany Gibbs and Tony in the car to a naval base connected to the case they were working on, sniffling and groaning in the back seat like a Victorian child on her death bed.

And here she was now, at two a bloody m, lying on an ungodly amount of blankets, wrapped in Gibbs’s jacket and Tony’s hoodie, on the floor, feeling like her body was readying to explode. Life couldn’t get worse.

Unless you were acquainted with Tony DiNozzo. In which case, life could, and most certainly would, get worse.

Gibbs dipped his head and rose an eyebrow at Emmie. Emmie couldn’t do much in her defence but sniff. Hard. A slight protest only she had the guts to attempt. It was when he pointed a finger at her and motioned with it for her to lie down again that Emmie tossed her arms up.

“Do you know—” Another sniff—“Do you even know how hard it is to lie down and feel your sinuses drain into your throat?” Her voice was so nasally she couldn’t sound stern, even if she put every ounce of effort into it.

Tony, naturally, did not try hard to cover his amusement at that. He snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, spinning from side to side absently in his chair with the tip of his tongue held between his smirking lips when Emmie turned narrowed eyes on him.

“I was getting a tissue, FYI,” she said to him and only him. “So, you can stop being a kiss ass, Anthony.”

“Emmie.” Gibbs disappeared behind the divider again. “Back to sleep.”

Tony, meanwhile, gaped. “Kiss ass who?”

Emmie ignored him and shuffled back down again. She shut her eyes and swallowed. Already the disgusting stuff had decided the place it wanted to be right now was her stomach, and was meandering slowly down her throat towards it.

“You were being a bit of a kiss ass,” she heard Gibbs agree.

“Oh, come on. You said you wanted her to sleep!”

“Yeah, and I do.”

“But you’re gonna call me a kiss ass when I tell you she’s not sleeping? Kiss my ass.”

“What was that?”

“Sorry, Boss.”

In all honesty, there was nothing more that Emmie wanted least right now than to sleep. True, she was exhausted, but the part of her brain not currently still enshrouded in said exhaustion wanted to be up and active again, helping Gibbs with the case like her internship allowed.

And yet, the man still believed she needed her head on a pillow.

The team had been working on a case all day, one she didn’t know the specifics of. It wasn’t exactly often that they stayed in the office well into the night to continue their current case, but it appeared Gibbs had a weird feeling about this one. From the snippets of conversation that she’d picked up and actually retained in her decrepit brain, a potential witness was lying unconscious in a hospital bed somewhere, and Gibbs wanted to speak to him the moment he woke up, which, according to the doctors, could be at any time. That apparently required the entire team to stay behind which, considering the fact Emmie was currently holed up on the floor of Ziva’s empty cubicle, not everyone had complied with.

The moment Tony got out of his chair to help Gibbs with something and disappeared from her line of sight, Emmie eased herself into a sitting position once more. She reached for the tissues again, rubbing at her leaking nose with the sleeve of Gibbs’s jacket and not possessing the brain power to regret that decision. She blew into a tissue, paused to catch her breath, then—

“Gibbs.”

Emmie deflated completely. Wow. The world truly hated her today.

She looked up to see McGee walking in with a bag of takeout. He barely glanced at her as he passed, choosing to instead spend that energy alerting Gibbs to the fact she was, again, not lying down.

Before either Tony or Gibbs could come into view once more, Emmie sighed, stuck two bits of tissue in both nostrils, and scooted backwards to sit against the wall.

“Can’t breathe lying down,” she said before anyone could say a single word. “And I’m tired of being tired. I don’t want to sleep anymore. Leave me alone. Don’t talk to me. Shush.”

Tony’s head appeared around the corner, and he snorted again. Then the squeak of Gibbs’s chair as he got up. A rustling. A moment later he appeared with a takeout box in his hand, walking towards her. He lifted it so she could see, and she groaned, shaking her head. A corner of Gibbs’s mouth lifted but he wasn’t about to back down on this fight. He never did.

He knelt in front of her, close enough to see the pallidness of her face and the slight sickly tremble of her small frame. Emmie visibly relaxed when he reached out a hand to press against her forehead, the coolness of his skin momentarily dowsing the heat of hers.

Gibbs checked the watch at his wrist. “Another couple hours and you can dose up again.”

“Thanks.”

“Yep. ‘Till then…” He went to withdraw his hand, but Emmie’s own hand shot up and pinned his to her forehead.

“No,” she said simply.

“No to my hand leaving, or food?”

“No.”

“You gotta eat. You know the drill. Eat or sleep.” She grumbled something and Gibbs reached with his free hand to lift the lid on the box. The smell of warm chicken soup filled the space between them, and Emmie wrinkled her nose. “Come on, kiddo. It’s only soup.”

“I feel too sick to eat.”

“Sleep it is, then.”

“Dad—”

“Hey. The cure for alll Emmie-related illness is sleep. Always has been, always will be.” It was true. Gibbs knew his daughter better than she knew herself, after all. Everyone was different, but Emmie’s medicine was sleep until she could look him in the eye and confidently tell him she felt a bit better. If years of being a single parent had taught him anything, it was that.

With a bit of reluctance, he pulled his hand from her head and leant forward on his toes. “You don’t have to lie down to sleep,” he told her. “Here—” Emmie wasn’t quite sure what he was doing with the pillows and blankets behind her, but when he sat back and she turned as much as her aching neck would allow, there was a nice little DIY upright-bed against the wall. Gibbs, seemingly proud of his work, was met with a look of absolute discontent on his daughter’s face.

He puffed his cheeks out and glanced at the soup. “Aeroplane?”

“Seriously?” Emmie deadpanned.

He reached for the spoon, a teasing smile pulling at his lips. “Worked when you were a kid.”

“There’re a few keywords in that sentence, Dad. Are you trying to give Tony more fuel to embarrass me?”

Gibbs glanced over his shoulder. Tony had returned to his desk, leaning dangerously back in his chair to gain the best vantage point. The man had absolutely zero shame.

Gibbs jerked his head. “Check with the hospital about Lupin, would you, DiNozzo?”

Tony visibly deflated. Emmie sent him a smug look and he stuck his tongue out. Reluctantly, he wheeled back to his desk and picked up the phone. “Do this, DiNozzo, do that, DiNozzo,” he grumbled to himself. “Oh, while you’re at it, why don’t you polish my boots and write a thesis on my intellectual prowess, DiNozzo? Sure, I’ll get right on it, Boss!” He dialled the number and put the phone to his ear. “Should I get your laundry and your coffee too, Boss? Should I do—hi, there! Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS, calling for an update on a patient? Ryan Lupin. Yeah, I’ll hold. Thanks.”

“Dad.” Such an exasperated voice could only belong to the resident invalid, and after only a second’s hesitation, Tony—slowly—wheeled himself back, as far as the cord to the phone still held against his ear would allow. Emmie and Gibbs were still on the floor, the former looking most disgruntled at the spoon in the latter’s hand.

“I’m being serious,” she said then.

“So am I,” Gibbs said, “very serious. I’m being very serious right now. Soup?”

Emmie rolled her eyes, but a smile was pulling at her lips all the same. She shook her head. “Go back to your desk, old man.”

Tony’s brows shot up and he grinned. “Oohoohoo!” He was close to rubbing his hands together in sheer glee. “You gonna let her get away with that, Boss?”

“Lupin, DiNozzo.”

“I’m on hold!” The fact that Gibbs made no sign that he was going to pick his daughter up on her insult, when Tony knew that if he’d been the one to call his boss elderly he’d be getting a bit more than a slap to the back of the head, hit a sore spot. “Wait,” he said, looking hilariously appalled, “you’re actually gonna let her get away with it?”

Gibbs, defeated in this part only, dropped the spoon back in the box and put it on the desk. “I’ve been called worse,” he called back, “believe me.”

“Grandpa,” Emmie said.

“Thank you, Em, that’s very helpful.”

“Ninnyhammer, pillock, douche canoe, old man—”

“You already said that one.” Gibbs chuckled. “Douche canoe?”

Emmie shrugged. “Dunderhead.”

“Alright.”

“Ugly…nut.”

“Jemima.”

McGee, who’d since been silently working and eating at his desk, paused. Mouth open, forkful of noodles on its way, he turned confused eyes to the ground.

“Her name’s Jemima?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “How long you been here McGee?”

As soon as Emmie looked the slightest bit like she was about to resume her name-calling, Gibbs put his palm over her mouth. He rose a brow in warning. She blinked. Blinked again. Then—

“Aw, come on!” Gibbs’s face contorted into one of absolute disgust as a rush of air and wet stuff flew at his hand. He withdrew it immediately, holding it away from him, while Emmie sniffed and nonchalantly used the jacket sleeve again.

“You little crapbag.” It was the best he could come up with.

“What? You think I plan my sneezes?”

Tony, up until now quite enjoying the performance, rolled quickly back to the desk with the phone at his ear. “Hi, yeah, I’m still here.”

Gibbs stood and walked briskly to his desk so he could grab the stack of napkins the takeout had come with. “I don’t doubt anything when it comes to you.”

“Thank you.” Emmie rubbed at her red eyes with her hand and slumped against the back of the wall. Gibbs, coating his hands with sanitizer, watched with a knowing eye. He shook his hands and walked back around to Ziva’s cubicle, perching on the desk to look down at her.

“You’re sick,” he said.

“I know. And?”

“And, sick people eat soup, and they sleep. Okay? They don’t stay up at all hours of the night—nooo, no, no. I’m talking now, kiddo. I know you’ve been sleeping all day, I know you wanna get up and back to work, but that’s not happening until your fever’s gone. No point in fighting that, and you know full well. Clear?”

Any other day. Any. Other. Day. The protests were practically clawing at her throat. But a sudden wave of nausea rushed over her and she backed down immediately. Still, the thought of lying down again was awful, and the tired eyes she turned on her dad somehow translated that.

Gibbs sighed. “What’s it gonna take, huh?” Emmie didn’t need to think about her answer to that. She wasn’t even sure her expression had changed at all when Gibbs shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “No,” he said, “come on, now. I gotta work.”

This time, she did change her expression, putting it on in the way she knew worked best. Gibbs, naturally, relented.

“Fine,” he said, motioning with his hands for her to move over. She did, though admittedly it was a bit of a pitiful move with her aching body. He breathed a short laugh but came to sit in the miniscule space she’d made beside her anyway.

“Thanks, douche canoe,” Emmie whispered.

Tony put the phone down. “Still knocked out, Boss,” he said, pushing his chair backwards. When he saw Gibbs on the floor, arm wrapped around his daughter, who had her head on his shoulder, he crossed his arms over his chest and positively pouted.

“Hey, why do you get to sleep?”

Gibbs chuckled and shut his eyes. “When you’ve got a sick kid, I’ll let you sleep on the office floor with her. Wake me before Lupin does, would you?”

“How am I—Boss? Boss?” Tony threw his arms up in the air and shook his head, grabbing a notebook from his desk to doodle in. “Kiss my ass.”

“Heard that.”

“I wanted you to.”

Well, one thing was for certain. Gibbs may have won this fight, but so had Emmie.

NCIS Masterpost

[chiefpapermuffinpasta]

i will not ask you where you came from

pairing: sam winchester x oc!reader

summary: In a quiet bookstore tucked between the chaos, Sam Winchester finds unexpected comfort in tea, poetry, and the gentle presence of a woman who never asks him to explain.

word count: 2.6k

first time writing sam! as a sam girl myself, i needed to get this out of my system lol. I'm thinking of turning this into a fic, but i wanted to get this oneshot out to see what you guys think. let me know if you'd like to read a multi-part series about my favorite winchester!

title from “like real people do” by hozier

*****

The bell above the door chimed softly as Sam stepped into the bookstore. He hadn’t meant to stop-just passing through, on his way back from a supply run-but something about the cozy shop tucked between a bakery and a record store had caught his eye. Maybe it was the soft glow of string lights through the window, or the way the world outside seemed to face the moment he stepped in.

The scent of old paper and orange-cinnamon tea filled the air, and the warmth inside was a welcome contrast to the crisp autumn wind still clinging to his jacket. Towering shelves lined the walls, overflowing with books of all kinds. A quiet sanctuary untouched by the chaos of the world he lived in. He debated going in at first, not wanting to taint the innocence of the wooden building. 

“Hi there,” a soft voice called from the counter. 

Sam turned, meeting the gaze of a woman with kind eyes and a quiet smile. She scrunched her nose, situating her glasses back on the bridge rather than hanging off the tip. She watched him with the sort of curiosity that wasn’t intrusive-just gentle, like she was used to people wandering in unexpectedly.  

“Hey,” he said, hesitating near the entrance before stepping further inside. “Nice place.”

“Thanks,” she replied, resting her hands on the counter. “First time in? I don’t recognize you.”

“Yeah.” Sam let his fingers trail along the spines of a few books, more out of habit than intention. “Just passing through.”

The woman nodded, not pressing for more. “Well, take your time. Let me know if you want any recommendations. I’m Anastasia.”

There was something about her voice that made his shoulders relax, just a little. She didn’t fill the silence with unnecessary chatter, didn’t ask him what he was looking for or where he was coming from. She just let him exist in the space, like she understood that sometimes, people just needed a place to be. 

Sam wandered deeper into the store, his fingers brushing against old bindings and crisp new covers. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for, maybe nothing. Maybe just a moment of peace. 

Anastasia didn’t watch him, didn’t hover. She simply returned to the book in her hands, occasionally glancing up whenever the old radiator hummed a little too loudly or when a page turned too quickly in the quiet. 

Eventually, Sam found himself at a small table near the back, book in hand. A collection of 19th-century poetry. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Anastasia’s voice gently interrupted his thoughts. 

“I was about to make some tea,” she called to him from a few feet away. “If you’d like some.”

Sam's brow furrowed, then he looked up at her, surprised by how natural the offer felt. “That would be nice, thank you.”

She gave him a quick nod, disappearing for a few minutes before returning with three steaming mugs. She moved to one side of the room, where an older man sat, completely unnoticed by Sam when he walked into the store. 

“Careful, Otis. Don’t burn your tongue again.” Her tone was sharp, but the look on her face was teasing, and she gave his hand a soft squeeze when he took the mug from her own. 

She moved to set the second cup beside Sam, offering him yet another kind smile. “This one’s my favorite. Hope you like it.” The smell of citrus and something remnant of Christmas filled his nostrils with the same smell that wrapped around the room when he entered. 

For the first time in a while, Sam felt something close to ease settle in his chest. It was only the three of them- Sam, Otis, and Anastasia- in the bookstore, and the sun had long set. Small fairy lights cascaded from the ceiling, the only light in the entire place. A small record player crackled by the counter, some lyrical piece that he recognized, though he wasn’t sure from where. He wasn’t sure exactly what had drawn him in tonight, but as he wrapped a large hand around the warm mug, he figured, maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t a bad place to find himself. 

*****

He came back the next day for the book he hadn’t finished- apparently, he really liked poetry. But really, it was the way the bookstore felt. How no one expected anything from him. How Anastasia smiled at him like he was just someone. Not a hunter, or a soldier. Not unclean. 

Today, she was rearranging the window display when he arrived. She turned when the bell chimed, announcing someone coming in.

“Back again?” she asked, brushing her hands on her apron.

Sam gave a half-smile. “Thought I’d see how it ends.”

“The poetry book?” she asked, tilting her head. Sam internally cursed at himself. What poetry book has an “ending?” Her question wasn’t teasing, though, just genuinely curious.

Sam nodded, the back of his neck growing hot. “Yeah.”

“Well, it’s right where you left it. You’ll have to let me know how you like it.”

He found it waiting for him on the same table- placed there deliberately, though neither of them acknowledged it.

*****

He came back again the day after that.

And then the day after that.

Always quiet, sometimes just browsing, sometimes just reading. Once, he brought his laptop and sat in the back, typing with a furrowed brow and three empty mugs of orange-cinnamon tea beside him.

“Working on something?” she asked that day, passing by with a stack of books for the travel selection.

“Just…research,” he told her. It wasn’t untrue. Just not the whole truth.

She smiled softly. “Your eyebrows get all scrunched up when you’re focused.”

He looked up, a little surprised. “They do?”

“Mhm,” she answered with a small shrug. “It’s sweet.”

Sam laughed under his breath. It wasn’t often someone used “sweet” to describe him.

***** 

Some nights, he’d show up close to closing, clearly exhausted. She never rushed him out.

“You’re welcome to stay a little longer,” she’d say as she flipped the sign on the door. “I usually clean up for a bit anyway.”

And he always did. Just a little longer.

He’d sit in the same armchair near the window, a new spot he had found, abandoning the table in the back, legs stretched out, book resting on his thigh. Anastasia would sweep, Sam lifting his legs wordlessly when she had to get the spot under his chair, or shelve books in her poised, unhurried rhythm. Sometimes she hummed- not songs he recognized, just little tunes that made the quiet feel full instead of empty.

One night, he watched as she fed the resident bookstore cat, an elderly tabby with a notched ear who slept in a basket near the radiator. 

“What’s his name?” Sam asked, dog-earring his most recent read. 

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “I just call him Cat. He showed up one day and never left.”

Sam nodded. “Seems like a good place to stay.”

Anastasia didn’t answer, just looked at him for a moment longer than usual. But again, no questions.

*****

One afternoon, it was raining hard. Sheets of water poured down as Sam stepped through the door, jacket soaked, hair dripping. Anastasia didn’t comment, only handed him a towel from behind the counter, and quietly brewed a fresh pot of tea.

“You okay?” she asked gently, only after he was dried and seated.

Sam gave her a tired smile. “Yeah, just got caught in it.”

“Storms can sneak up on you.” 

Something about the way she said it made his chest ache a little. She wasn’t just talking about the rain.

***** 

She noticed the small things. A wince when he sat down too fast. A healing cut on his hand. The way he always kept his phone face-down, and how sometimes he’d step outside to answer it with his jaw tight and his voice low. 

But she never asked. 

She let him have his silence.

She let him arrive late and leave early. Let him read without speaking. Let him exist.

It was a kind of softness Sam hadn’t experienced in years. Not even with Amelia. No pushing, no prodding. Just a quiet invitation, over and over again.

*****

One night, about an hour after closing and her cleaning had wrapped up, she caught him dozing off in his chair with an open book on his chest. Cat had curled up beside him. 

She didn’t wake him up. Just dimmed the lights, pulled a blanket from a small basket behind the counter, and draped it gently over his legs.

When he stirred a little, halfway between sleep and waking up, he heard her voice:

“It’s okay. Just rest.”

So he did.

*****

The first time he came in, he looked like someone who didn’t know how to slow down.

There was a kind of tension in his shoulders that she recognized, not in the specifics, but in the way it carried itself. Like he’d been moving too fast for too long and had forgotten what stillness felt like.

He didn’t give a name. Just said “Hey,” and complimented the store like it had surprised him. 

And he came back. 

At first, she didn’t think much of it. People drifted in and out, especially this time of year when the chill started to but at fingers and the trees turned to fire outside. But then he kept coming. Again and again. Never with company. Never in a rush to leave.

She’d started calling him “the quiet one” in her head. 

She liked quiet. 

He read odd books- philosophy, poetry, mythology, anything with history behind it. Sometimes he’d read the same paragraph for ages, unmoving. Sometimes he’d take notes in a tiny pocket journal she caught a glimpse of once. His handwriting was meticulous. His eyes were tired.

It wasn’t until the sixth or seventh visit that she felt something shift.

*****

Another rainy day. The kind of rain that blurred the world outside and wrapped the store in a hush that felt sacred.

He walked in drenched, again. This guy seriously needed to invest in an umbrella. But she, again, handed him a towel and pointed to the kettle.

He accepted both like they were routine.

When he settled into his usual chair with a steaming mug, she made her way over to the romance section with a stack of novels and gently lowered herself onto the floor to sort through them. After a few minutes of silence, his voice broke the calm.

“Why books?”

She looked up, surprised. He never spoke first. This was new.

“Why not books?” she answered with a smile.

He looked down at the one in his hands, then back at her. “I mean….this place. It’s peaceful. Feels like a good choice. But, there had to be more to it.”

She thought for a moment, then said, “I grew up around them. My mom used to read to me at night- old stories, fairy tales, even old Greek epics. I guess it stuck. I like the weight of them. The honesty in the stories.” 

He nodded like he understood. “They’re a safe place.”

“Exactly.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then, so quietly she almost missed it, he murmured, “Safe places are hard to come by.”

She didn’t press. Just let the truth settle between them.

*****

A few days later, he stayed past closing again, this time without drool on his chin.

She was shelving a collection of essays when he approached the counter with a worn hardcover and a hesitant look. 

“Hey…uh. Is it okay if I just hang out for a while?”

“Of course,” she said immediately, the same answer she always gave when he felt he was overstaying his welcome. “You don’t even have to ask.”

He relaxed slightly, enough for her to see it.

He sat in the chair by the register this time, not his usual corner, and she noticed the way he occasionally watched her, never intrusively. Just…noticing. 

They sat in companionable silence for a long while. Then:

“You always this kind to strangers?” he asked, not accusing, just curious.

She shrugged, pressing her glasses back into place with her pointer finger. “Not all strangers. Just the ones who look like they need it.”

This pulled a faint smile from him.

“Am I that obvious?”

“Not obvious,” she said, looking over at him. “Just familiar.”

He tilted his head. “Familiar?”

“I know what it’s like to carry too much in silence.”

He didn't answer. But he didn’t look away, either. 

***** 

Another evening, she caught the way his leg tensed when he sat down, causing a grimace to bloom across his face.

“Everything alright?” she asked, nodding toward the way he gripped his leg. 

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Just pulled something, I think.”

“Running from a bear? Maybe some Russian spies?” she teased gently.

He laughed- really laughed- for the first time since she met him.

“I’ll let you choose,” she teased back.

She let it drop there, but her chest felt a little funny. Whatever he was running from, it clearly followed him closely. 

*****

And then, there was Cat. 

Cat didn’t like people. He tolerated them. Barely.

But Cat loved Sam. 

She walked in from the archive room one evening to find Cat sprawled in Sam’s lap, purring contentedly while Sam sat there frozen, as though uncertain of the proper protocol for bookstore-cat etiquette.

“He’s…uh, he just sat down,” Sam said, eyes wide.

Anastasia smiled. “That means you’re officially welcome.”

Sam glanced down at the animal. “Should I thank you?”

“Only if you want to keep your ankles intact,” Anastasia answered for Cat.

That made Sam smile again.

*****

Anastasia still hadn’t asked him his name. 

She figured he’d give it when he was ready.

She hadn’t asked why he always came back from phone calls looking weary, or why he sometimes vanished for a week and returned with new bruises or more tension behind his eyes.

She didn’t need to know- not yet.

She just knew that when he was here, he softened. He breathed deeper. Smiled more.

And that was enough.

*****

One morning, when the sun had shone brightly and the breeze was just crisp enough for Sam to wear an extra layer, he brought a book with him. 

Not one from her shelves- a battered old copy of Annabel Lee, edges frayed, pages weather-soft. She loved Poe.

“I figured you might like it,” he said, placing it gently on the counter. “I notice you spend a considerable amount of time in the ‘Gothic’ section.”

She turned it over in her hands like it was something sacred. “This looks well-loved.”

He gave a soft laugh. “It’s been through some things.”

“So have you,” she said before she could stop herself.

Their eyes met. Not uncomfortable, but there was something knowing in the quiet between them.

“I’ll take good care of it,” she told him.

“I know,” he replied.

*****

Later that week, as she restocked the fantasy section, she found his notebook, forgotten on the corner table. She didn’t open it, just ran her fingers over the worn leather cover and carefully set it behind the counter.

When he came back the next day and saw it waiting, his shoulders dropped with unspoken relief.

“I didn’t read it,” she assured him. 

“I know,” he said. “I trust you.”

She smiled. “So, stranger…since I did the nice thing of not snooping, can I be rewarded with your name?”

He paused, then offered a small smile.

“Sam.”

“Hi Sam,” she said for the first time. “Welcome back.”

*****

[streamafterlaughter]

Soundtrack to Disaster

Chapter VIII: Take That For What You Will

masterlist | playlist | pinboard | prev | diaries coming soon

songs for this chapter: sudden desire by hayley williams, two beers in by free throw, i don't care if you’re a monster by mat kerekes

summary: the day after your would-be date turns out to be less than awful, somehow.

chapter tags: dream smut, violence, lots and lots of angst, smoking, drinking, swearing yippee! | fic tags: angst, hurt/(eventual) comfort, (eventual) smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, Eddie Munson x Fem!OC!Reader, Modern AU | This fic is rated 18+ MDNI each chapter will have its own content/trigger warnings

a/n: hey remember that other long fic I was working on? well. it seems I have a pattern of writing bar fights. anyway, enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: I do not consent to having my work fed to AI engines, or reposted in any way, shape, or form on other websites. Unless otherwise stated, this is the only account that features and contains this work, and any replication was done without my consent. Please let me know if you see my work elsewhere. Reblog to support the author, and reply/msg to join the tag list!

--

You writhe underneath him, whimpering when he brings a calloused finger down to meet between your bodies. His thumb circles your clit at an achingly slow pace, forcing you to grind against him where your bodies connect. The noise that leaves your mouth is barely human. He goes deeper, dragging another guttural moan from your throat, and lifts your leg to hook around his hip as he thrust into you again, again, hitting that sweet spot inside of you every time. You move to hide your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent to keep you grounded.  

“Uh uh, look at me.” It’s the voice in your ear that sends you reeling backwards, shoving at the figure on top of you. He comes into focus, a wild mane of frizzy curls framing a soft, smiling face with the deepest chocolate eyes. “There she is. My pretty girl.” The words are said between hot breaths fanning your face, pushing you over the edge of bliss and dragging Eddie with you.

–

There is an unyielding pain in your forehead when you jolt awake, hyperventilating as the images of your dream flash before your eyes as you repeat to yourself, “Not real, not real, not real.”. The sunshine is streaming into the bedroom, hitting you directly in the face. It takes far too long for you to bolt upright, realizing you’re back home, in your bed, in your underwear. You vaguely remember someone driving you home, and flopping into bed after peeling your sweaty outfit off. You glance at the pile of clothes on your floor, confirming that theory. 

Stretching your limbs, you exit your bedroom, deciding against the effort of getting dressed once you realize you’re in your own home. That confidence is cut short when you hear the same voice you’d heard in your head mere minutes ago.  

“Whoa! Mornin’ sunshine!” His voice is gravelly, the effects of last night lingering, and it makes your cheeks hot as he observes you, too frozen to register that you’re not wearing pants. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” You scowl, failing to conceal your embarrassment, still too stuck to wrap yourself in the throw just out of reach. “Was too tired to drive home, crashed on the couch. Hope it’s alright. Good to see you upright, though.” He chirps, far too perky for the early hour. 

“You gonna tell me what happened?” You frown, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, trying to ignore the way he’s staring at you; head tilted, eyes scanning your underdressed form. 

“Yeah, sure. Over breakfast.”

“What?” Why in the world would you have breakfast with him?

“Yeah, c’mon. You’re buyin’ too.”

“What the hell, Eddie?!”

–

He drives the pair of you to Benny’s in your car. Another sigh of relief, followed by several more nagging questions. 

“Can you at least give me a hint, so I know you didn’t kidnap me?” You ask as the waitress leads you to the booth in the corner. You’re desperate for something to latch onto, something to jog your spotty memory. You start to think maybe you shouldn’t drink anymore, because clearly,  you’re not very good at it. 

“Look, I’m gonna spare you most of the details. Nothing that horrible happened, I promise. You’d been bookin’ it to the bar every twenty minutes, downing everything you could get your hands on. I stayed to make sure you were okay. Macy was going to Fiona’s anyway.”

“Where’s your van?” You ask between sips of coffee.

“We took the train in, like smart people.”

“What exactly are you insinuating?” 

“That people who plan on drinking when they’re out probably shouldn’t drive.” He shrugs, sticking his tongue out at you.

You huff. “Touche.”

He snorts. “Seriously? No clever retort this morning?”

You shake your head, then wince again as the lightning bolts of pain shock your nerves. 

“You okay?” His expression softens, but only for a fraction of a second. 

“Yeah, just experiencing the consequences of my actions.” You rub your forehead, trying to massage the migraine away.

Eddie juts his finger out at you and says pointedly, “I know just the thing for that.” “Dude, I’m not smoking weed with you.”

He sucks air through his teeth in mock pain, clutching his chest. “It stings every time, sweets. Not that, though. Let me order for you.” You cock an eyebrow at him. “You got allergies?” You shake your head, gently as you can manage. 

–

It’s as if you’ve never touched alcohol in your life; like a hangover is just a ghost story told by a camp counselor to keep you from sneaking vodka into the hot cocoa again. The supposed cure? A sausage, egg, cheddar, and homefry sandwich, all of which are squished between two toasted, fluffy bulky rolls slathered in butter. 

“Holy shit.” Your mouth is full of salty, greasy goodness when you say this, covering your mouth to lessen the obscenity of your manners. “This is better than–”

“Sex?”

“Let’s not get crazy.” You laugh nervously, the memories of last night’s dream flooding back. You let yourself wonder if it is better than the sex you didn’t have. “I’m assuming this has saved your own life a time or two?” You ask instead, changing the subject. 

Eddie nods, stuffing another bite of his own sandwich into his mouth. It’s only when he stops, turning his head to face you and asks, “Like what ya see?” that you realize you've been staring. At Eddie. For far longer than is normal for you. You clear your throat, darting your eyes, wrongfully, to where his hand is on the table, splayed out, giving you a clear view of the rings adorning his thick fingers. 

“So,” Eddie breaks the silence, not uncomfortably, “You’re goin’ to the show, right?” 

You blink, the spell broken when your eyes meet his again. “Be a bit more specific.”

“Chappell, on Friday?”

“Yeah… are you?” Eddie did not strike you as a Chappell Roan fan. 

“Well, yeah. Macy’s opening. She said that if it went well, this would be huge for the band. I’m happy for her.” Contrary to his words, his tone does not sound anywhere near happy. You tilt your head at him. “What?”

“Nothing, just realized you’re a really bad liar.”

He lets out a loud, curt laugh. “Wow, okay. I dunno, I think we’re probably gonna break up. No big.”

“Oh.” You don’t know what to say, you’ve never had Eddie be vulnerable with you. “I’m sorry, man. That sucks.” 

He shrugs. “I like her, but I don’t know if it’s enough to do long distance. I’m a physical lover after all.”

You gulp at the words, feeling your body temperature quickly rise as your dream comes hurtling back. You’re about to excuse yourself to the bathroom when your waitress returns, placing the check in front of Eddie with a wink. You look from her to where Eddie sits across from you, eyes scanning the bill when a smile develops on his stupid, stupid face. He flips the sheet to show you what he’s beaming at: The waitress’s phone number. Obviously. Her name, Emily, written in purple pen, the ‘i’ dotted with an obnoxiously large heart. 

“That’s kinda fucked up, if you think about it.” You muse, plucking the check out of his hand. “What if I was your girlfriend?”

“Sweets, that’s Emily Gardner. She was in our class, and graduated with you. She used to call me Eddie Manson. Her and her cronies poured pig’s blood in my locker on prom night.”

You didn’t know any of this. Hawkins High had been a small school, but you had separated yourself from Eddie by your first senior year, his second. Luckily you hadn’t had to switch any classes around to avoid him, but you’d always eat lunch in the library just in case it was a day where he’d decide to draw attention. 

“So…?”

“So, now she wants me to call her. She has the fuckin’ balls to give me her phone number like I’d want anything to do with her.”

You roll your eyes, knowing better. “So, you’re gonna call her.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, probably. I’m only human.”

You shake your head. “One day this is gonna bite you in the ass.”

“Ooh, kinky.” He gives you a cocky grin, and you scrunch your face up in disgust as you slap your debit card on the table.

“I was joking, by the way. You don’t have to pay.”

You shake your head, snatching the check out of his hand. “Consider it payment for whatever shit I put you through last night. Now we’re even.”

He backs off, raising his hands in surrender, and Emily comes back for the bill. You swear one more button has popped open on her blouse, and Eddie seems to notice it too. You groan inwardly at the display, rubbing your temples to ward off the second wave of aching in your head.

–

“A sex dream?!” Robin squeals as she jumps beside you onto the couch, crossing her legs and turning her body towards you, like a second grader ready for circle time. “Tell me everything!” Steve’s at work, and Robin had originally invited you over to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer for the seventh time, but you had to get your dream off your chest to someone.

“Who was it? Was it Steve? Was it me?! It was me, wasn't it? I’m flattered, Bee, but I don’t wanna ruin our friendship.” She pouts at you mockingly, and you backhand her shoulder.

“No, my darling, it wasn’t you, and it definitely wasn’t Steve.” You can feel your cheeks warm as you speak, dreading to tell her.

“Okay, then who? Don’t leave me hangin’, I’ll guess everyone in our graduating class right now!”

You mumble his name under your breath, unable to meet her curious gaze.

“Sorry, I didn't quite catch that.” She leans in closer, cupping her ear with her hand. 

“Eddie! God, I was fucking Eddie, okay?! Actually, he was fucking me. And it was hot, Rob.” You whine, ashamed of your subconscious for putting these images in your head, causing you to wonder what sex with him actually would be like. You squeeze your legs together despite yourself. 

“Oh my fucking god. Bee!” Robin’s mouth drops open at your admission, and you clamp it shut for her. 

“We do not speak a word of this, to Steve or to anyone, understood?”

She salutes you, sitting up straighter. “Aye, aye. What do you think it means?”

You shrug. You want to tell her it means nothing, but Robin wouldn’t believe you for a second. Before you can answer her, she’s typing something into her phone. “What are you doing?”

“I’m googling what it means to have a sex dream about your arch nemesis.” You laugh, but she isn’t joking. She pokes the search button, and scrolls through the links to Cosmo articles explaining what different types of sex dreams could mean. 

“Find anything useful?” You half joke, but part of you kind of wants to know the answer.

“Hm. It says here that when you dream of someone, it means that person is thinking about you. Maybe Eddie was having the same dream.” She teases, and you shove her off the couch. “Hey!”

“Get it all out now, Rob, because if you utter any of this again I’ll have your head on a plate.”

She cackles, head thrown back as you seethe at her, willing yourself to be stern.

“Okay, okay. Just one question, though.” You gesture for her to continue. “Was he big?” She can’t contain herself, cackling again as you throw your head back into the couch cushions. “Okay, I’m done!” She can barely get the words out between fits of laughter, and you excuse yourself to the balcony for a cigarette.

–

Chris is behind the bar when you get to work, throwing your bag and coat on the rack behind the counter. 

“Hey, sis!” He greets you as he wipes a mysterious liquid from the bar. “How’d your date go?”

“It didn’t.” You spit venom at your brother, shoving past him to get clean glasses from the dish rack.

“Whoa, what’s your problem?” He pokes at your side, and you swat him away. “Bad lay?” 

“Chris, he didn’t come.” You spin to look at your brother, now wearing that stupid, bewildered expression that had gotten him out of trouble so many times. “He stood me up, okay?”

“Oh. Birdy, I’m sorry.” The childhood nickname feels like a stab wound being ripped back open. “I didn’t think he was that kind of guy.”

“What would you know, Chris? You’ve been away for six years! You don’t know fucking anything!” Sure, maybe it’s an unfair fight to have with him, but you’re tired. You’ve only just recently learned Chris was willing to abandon you to save Eddie’s ass, and you need to lash out at someone. 

“Okay, okay, that’s fair. I shouldn’t have intervened. If you weren’t with Scotty last night though, where were you?”

You bite your lip, backing down. “I hung out with friends.”

He cocks his head at you. “Steve was working. I went to visit him, Rob was there too. You weren’t there.”

“I have more friends, y’know.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know anything.” You don’t answer, and you watch his face morph into a wide, gleaming smile. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Your guard is up. He knows.

“You were with Eddie, weren’t you? He was at Emo Nite. That chick he’s been seeing had a set, right? Milly something?”

“Macy, Chris. He’s your best friend, you should probably learn his girlfriend’s name.”

“Macy isn’t his girlfriend, Bee.”

“Okay, fine. But whatever they are, they’re hanging out. It’s rude not to know her name.”

“Eh, they’ll be old news soon enough. Besides, I already know the name of the one girl that matters to that kid, even if he doesn’t.”

You don’t indulge this line of conversation, knowing it will only make you angry. Eddie doesn’t care about you, not beyond being his best friend’s sister. You’re not stupid enough to pretend he does. “Whatever.” You move past him to take another drink order. 

–

Scotty enters the bar when you’re still too far away from finished with your shift. He approaches the bar with an air of cockiness about him, surrounded by who you can only assume are his friends, people you don’t know well enough to indulge. 

“Hey, Bee.” He greets you, leaning against the counter. You can smell the whiskey on his breath, clearly already wasted even though he’s only just arrived. “Nice to see you again.”

You’re not sure if it’s the night you’ve had, or just the sheer audacity of this guy, but you don’t feel like being an example of good customer service right now.  “What are you doing here, Scott?” 

“It’s a bar. I’m here to drink.”

“There are plenty of bars in Hawkins, why come to the one where the girl you stood up works?”

He bats his eyes at you, big, blue discs, empty of any shame. “Maybe I came to apologize.”

You scoff, turning to grab the whiskey from the back counter. “Something tells me that’s not it.”

“C’mon, baby, I mean it! I should have called.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.” Your skin crawls as he leans in closer, into your personal space as you pour his drink. “That’ll be ten dollars.” You slam the glass onto the bar. “Get the fuck out of my face.”

He looks from your angry face to the drink, then back. “Can we just talk? I can explain-”

“She told you to get out of her face, Scott.” You hear him before you see him. Your heart rate slows as if his appearance is responsible for calming you down. Eddie shoves his way towards you, past drunk patrons to lean against the counter next to Scotty, who still has not moved.

“Yeah, I heard her. You wanna turn with her, pretty boy?” His words string together, each one making you clench your fists more tightly.

“What the fuck did you just say?" The words fly from Eddie's mouth as soon as Scotty stops talking, head whipping to give him the scariest death glare you've probably ever seen.

“Heard she’s been around a couple times. Not sure if the guy that put her brother in jail would have much of a chance, though. Can’t hurt to try!” You barely know this kid, but his malicious comments hit you like a ton of bricks. How did he know that? 

“I’m gonna make it hurt for you to fucking try anything in a second.” He slams his beer bottle on the counter, and you huff at the display. 

“C’mon, Munson. Show me what ya got.” Scotty taunts, beckoning Eddie to swing on him.

“Enough, both of you!” You shout, bringing their metaphorical pissing contest to a halt. “I am not in the mood to mop your blood off the floor tonight. Please, take it the fuck outside.” You swipe Eddie’s bottle before he can grab it, and snag Scotty’s with your free hand. “You’re both cut off, by the way.”

Scotty groans, flipping you off before walking away. Eddie just stares at you, eyes big and glassy. “I’m not drunk, Bee. Just couldn’t let him get away with talking to you like that.”

“Eddie, I’m a grown up. I can handle it. Just, go away. Please.”

He doesn’t argue, just gives you a sheepish nod before turning around to join his friends again. Or, you think that’s where he’s going, but you keep an eye on his figure as it follows Scotty out of the bar, swinging the door shut. It takes all of five minutes before some drunk comes bursting through the door yelling “FIGHT OUTSIDE! THERE’S A FIGHT OUTSIDE!” 

You throw your head into your hands, exasperated, before gaining enough composure to step outside. The door is thrown open, and you embrace the brisk weather of the night while wrapping yourself in your coat. The scene in front of you is one straight out of David Fincher’s Fight Club; two guys beating on each other for absolutely no fucking reason. As you get closer, you realize just how out of hand it’s become; the people surrounding them starting to back off as Eddie spits blood onto the concrete, laughing maniacally. “C’mon, Scotty, I know you got more in you than that!” 

“I’m goin’ easy on you, Munson. Don’t want you gettin’ in any more trouble Don’t think anyone’s gonna bail you out this time.” Scotty is worse for the wear, the blood from his nose dripping right onto his white t-shirt, lip split, hair wild. He charges at the taller man, but Eddie easily dodges the punch and lands one of his own in Scotty’s stomach. You’re close enough to see Eddie, his eyes almost black with rage, hair half falling out of his ponytail. Thankfully, Chris jumps in before you convince yourself to get any closer.

“Hey, HEY! Break it up, boys.” Chris shoves the men apart, a hand on each of their heaving chests. “I need both of you to leave. I just got out of jail, I don’t feel like being questioned by the cops about why I have you two fuckers fighting outside of my bar. Go home, sleep it off.” He turns to Eddie and says something you can’t hear, and you watch as Eddie expressively responds, gesturing to Scotty, then to the bar. Chris turns to where you’re standing, meeting your eyes briefly before turning to Scott, tossing him into the street. “Call a cab, Scotty. Don’t show your fuckin’ face here again. You don’t get to ditch my sister and beat on my friends without repercussions.” 

Scotty doesn’t argue, just shoves his hands in his pocket and saunters down the street. “Alright, enough. Everyone, go back inside. Nothing to see here.” Chris starts shooing the crowd back into the bar, leaving you and Eddie trailing behind.

After an extremely lengthy silence, you’re the first to speak. “How’s your face?” You can’t bring yourself to look at him, not wanting to see the carnage.

He laughs, then winces at the pain it causes him. “Hurts a little, why? ‘S it killin’ you?” You still don’t look at him. “Bee, I’m really sorry. He just pissed me off so bad, I–”

“Why?”

“What?”

“I just," You huff, "I don’t get you, I guess. Why would you do that for me?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and you finally look at him to find he’s already staring at you, his left eye swelling shut quickly. “What's to get? I'm sure you'll figure it out soon enough. Have a good night, Bee.” Before you can respond, he walks ahead of you, past the bar, and into the night. 

–

tag list: @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @kellsck @faggotinie @xplrnowornever @taccobelle @micheledawn1975 @mewchiili @dreamerjj @losingmygrasponreality @munsonburn3r

[theotheronedotorg]

I've read a lot about Twin!Reader al Ghul and how both them and Damian are very close-knit. They love each other to no end, they have a type of mind link because they're so close, and they can get clingy to each other. I'd like to offer a new perspective on this.

Even though the two were raised alongside one another, they were raised to compete, not to be so connected that they'd rather share pain than watch the other go through it. Even though the two were born from the same woman and raised by the same al Ghul, they were trained separately and only together when they needed to fight against one another. This, unfortunately, formed a competition streak between the two.

Their fights would be strictly training at first. They were never allowed to see each other outside of monthly training, a once-a-monthly training session where the two go against each other and study the other to better their training to surpass the other. After each session, they'd trade senseis. Damian at first had Ra's when he first started training, and Reader had Talia. Once the two were old enough to physically fight, I think about 4 or 5, they go against each other for the first time.

The two look identical, but Reader is a female and Damian is a male. They have black hair, like Bruce's, but Reader's is longer, about the same as Talia's, and has some natural streaks in her hair that resemble Talia's lighter hair color. Their eyes are the same shade of green, but Reader's tends to glow a type of honey-yellow when she's pissed because of her special connection to the Demon (in my au, the League of Assassins have a supernatural Demon that hangs around and talks to the one in charge, and the Demon grew attached to Reader ever since she was born. It shows clear favoritism).

Their skin tones are the same, but Reader has dark freckles, almost black, that are dotted around her face, looking a lot like a ritual pentagram. She is a lot calmer than Damian but can be a lot more violent because of her choice to stay with Talia when the League of Assassins base (location?) was attacked.

When Damian follows his mother's orders, Reader goes against them with the words with she wants to stick with her mother so she wouldn't get hurt. The two don't see each other again until they are a few years older, roughly around 16-18. From then on, you can come up with what happens. The two can duke it out, or they can have words. Whichever you choose will ultimately decide how their future relationship will be.

[thevelvetwhispers]

so....

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes it's time for another update babes.

i need to know how Amelia's guts are doing? 🙃

[katxbuckyx]

Remembering you. (Bucky Barnes x OC!Plus-size!reader) Character's card.

Hello! I'm coming with my first Bucky's fic that I've ever written. It's originally published in Polish, but I will try to translate it into English. If anyone is interested in the Polish version, let me know! I have some chapters written, so if you're Polish or know Polish, hit me up! I will upload chapters as soon as I finish translating it!

Here's the Character's card!

The fic description: A girl abandoned at an orphanage with just a mysterious bracelet on her tiny wrist, struggles with her hidden powers and a dark, deadly secret she keeps from the ones she loves. Adopted by Steve Rogers’s family and growing close to Bucky Barnes, while hiding her ability to predict death with her screams and strange electrical powers, she falls in love with him. After devastating losses and years of living with the weight of her immortality, she is reunited with Steve in the present day, learning that Bucky is still alive—though he doesn't remember her. Now, she must confront the secrets she's kept and face a future where nothing is as it once was.

Disclaimer: The gifs are not mine! I only did the moodboards!

Main:

Delilah Rogers

“I'm not like you, Bucky. I don't have your heightened senses or the skills of a super soldier.  I just hear voices in my head and wield power I have no idea about. I'm no one special.”

You will never forget him. You will always remember the colour of his eyes, you will always look for someone with the same contagious smile. You will never fully recover from him, there will be nights when all the pain and grief will return. You will miss him with all your heart. But everything will be alright.

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes

“You know, I wish I could fully remember you. But I can't. And that kills me even more than the thought of those I have killed. I promised to remember you, but I couldn't keep that promise. I hope that you will be able to forgive me for that one day.”

No one ever noticed how guilty he felt, they only saw his fault. No one saw the pain he was in, they only saw the pain he caused. No one realised how much he hated himself. Far more than anyone hated him.

Side:

Steve Rogers

“All I ever wanted was for the world to be a little better. But I had to watch it fall apart. And you know, sister, I think that killed some part in me that always wanted to help this world.”

And you know, ever since I met him, he has carried more anger and pain than even the greatest army could bear. He has been hurt, deceived and wounded. Believe me when I say that he has already been through hell. And the only time I saw peace in his eyes was when he looked at you. You are the only reason he is still alive.

Allison Courtney

“I hope you are proud of me....Mom.”

I remember that it hurt. Looking at her, so hurt and vulnerable. I had never seen her like that. And you know, I guess it gave me hope that despite everything, she was also a human being who had a moment of weakness, but still, she was the strongest person I've ever known. And I would like to be like her when I grow up.

The Avengers

“We were supposed to save this world, and we only made it burn.”

We cannot save everyone.  But we can try.

Moodboards:

Delilah

Delilah and Bucky

[tashs-stories]

Truly Worth Loving

The woods were dead quiet.

Daryl moved through the trees like a shadow, crossbow at the ready. His eyes scanned the undergrowth, ears tuned to the faintest rustle. Something was out here—he could feel it in his bones.

He stepped lightly over a downed branch when he caught the low, almost imperceptible click of a boot behind him.

He spun around, raising his weapon.

“Easy,” came a voice—calm but firm. “I ain’t your enemy.”

A woman stood there, hands lifted just enough to show she wasn’t aiming her weapon—yet. A matte black Glock hung low in her grip, pointed toward the ground. Her stance was solid, practiced. She wasn’t some lost civilian.

She wore dark cargo pants, a weather-worn olive jacket, and a charcoal-gray tank top underneath. Her light brown hair was half-tied back, strands framing her face, streaked with sweat and dust. Bright blue eyes locked onto his, alert but not panicked.

Daryl didn’t lower the crossbow. “You trackin’ me?”

She raised a brow. “I could ask you the same.”

He didn’t answer.

“Name’s Adeline-Briar. I’m on my own. Been that way a while.” She shifted slightly and grimaced. “Not here to steal your shit, Dixon.”

His jaw tightened. “How the hell you know my name?”

She gave a wry smile. “Ran into a group a week back. Some said they’d traveled with a guy—quiet, crossbow, looks like he chews gravel for breakfast. Figured it was you.”

Daryl frowned, but didn’t respond. He didn’t like being known.

Adeline slowly lowered her gun and tucked it into her belt. “Look—I got separated from my people. Heard gunfire, tried to double back, but the herd was too big. Lost ‘em.”

“You sure they’re not dead?”

“Don’t know.” Her voice wavered, but she didn’t look away. “But I’m not about to stop moving. I’m not done yet.”

He finally let the crossbow drop slightly. Just slightly.

“You military?” he asked, noting the way she stood—like she’d been trained.

She shook her head with a smirk. “Doctor. ER. But I learned real fast how to shoot.”

Daryl blinked, surprised. She didn’t look like the doctors he knew. Then again, he didn’t know many that were still alive.

“I ain’t babysittin’,” he muttered, turning back toward the trees.

“I didn’t ask you to,” she replied easily, following a few steps behind. “But if you’re heading somewhere, and you’ve got space by the fire, I’d trade a night’s safety for antibiotics, clean bandages, sutures. I still got ‘em.”

Daryl paused.

She was tough, he’d give her that. He could see it in the way she moved—not cocky, just competent. She wasn’t some burden.

“…Fine. But you keep to your side of the fire. Any bullshit, and I ain’t hesitating.”

Adeline gave a short nod. “Fair.”

That night, the camp was barely more than a ring of stones and a tarp. Daryl watched her as she set her gun beside her pack and knelt to examine a sprain in her ankle she hadn’t mentioned earlier. She worked fast, wrapping it tight, biting down on a piece of cloth as she cinched it.

“You ain’t gotta do it alone,” he said quietly from across the fire.

Adeline looked up. “Didn’t think I had a choice.”

He studied her face for a long moment. “You do now.”

She blinked, then smiled softly. “Thanks, Daryl.”

He looked away, uncomfortable.

Days Later;

They'd settled into a rhythm. Daryl would scout ahead, she’d check their map, track water sources, and share the supplies from her pack with no hesitation. She never whined. Never flinched at walkers. She could stitch a wound while half-asleep and shoot with near-perfect aim. Still, she laughed when it was quiet, sometimes hummed an old song under her breath.

It was messing with Daryl’s head.

He caught her watching him once—just watching as he cleaned his crossbow.

“What?” he barked, more defensive than intended.

She shrugged, leaning against a tree. “You’re careful. I like that.”

He glanced up, wary. “Why you lookin’ at me like that?”

Adeline tilted her head. “Like what?”

“Like I’m worth somethin’.”

She pushed off the tree and walked closer, slow but sure. “Because you are.”

“No I ain’t,” he growled, standing.

She stepped right into his space. “You’ve saved my life three times this week. You make sure I eat before you do. You didn’t have to let me stay, but you did. So don’t tell me you’re not worth it.”

Daryl clenched his fists, eyes darting away. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I am.”

“I know exactly who you are,” she said, touching his arm. “You’re someone who still gives a damn, even after the world burned down. That’s rare.”

He swallowed hard, voice cracking. “People like you don’t... you don’t look at people like me like that.”

Adeline’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe people like me have been looking for someone like you this whole damn time.”

His breath hitched.

She took another step, resting her forehead against his chest. “I’m not going anywhere, Daryl. Not unless you make me.”

Slowly, awkwardly, he let his hand hover over her back—then finally, finally let it fall.

It was the first time in a long while he let himself believe maybe, just maybe... he wasn’t too broken to be loved.

The next morning broke with mist clinging low to the ground, sunlight barely pushing through the trees. Birds sang high above, soft and distant. It was the kind of quiet that usually meant walkers weren’t nearby—but Daryl still stirred awake, tense, hand already reaching for his crossbow.

Adeline was sitting at the edge of the camp, tying her hair back with a leather string, her Glock resting beside her. She looked small there—5’3 and hunched slightly against the morning cold—but not weak. Never weak.

He noticed she’d already started boiling water, using a small fire she’d carefully banked to keep low. Efficient. Smart.

“Didn’t wake me,” Daryl grumbled as he stood and rubbed a hand across his face.

“You needed sleep,” she replied without looking back. “I only slept a few hours.”

He stepped closer. “You keep doin’ that, you’re gonna burn out.”

“I’ll be fine.” Her voice was quiet, but firm.

Daryl didn’t like the idea of her watching over him like that. It made him feel exposed… cared for.

“Got a plan for today?” she asked, glancing up at him now.

“Yeah. If we cut east, there’s a place I seen from a ridge—couple days’ walk. Used to be a hunting lodge, might be stocked.”

She gave a short nod, rolling up a map. “Let’s go. I’ll keep pace.”

Midday.

They moved in silence, broken only by the occasional squawk of crows overhead. Daryl glanced back often—not because he thought she couldn’t keep up, but because she looked pale.

“You sure you’re good?” he finally asked.

Adeline pulled a protein bar from her bag and shrugged. “Ankle’s sore. Everything’s sore. But yeah. I’m good.”

“You don’t gotta act tough for me.”

She stopped walking and turned toward him. “I’m not acting. I’m surviving.”

He looked at her for a long beat, then gave a slow nod. “Alright.”

But something shifted after that. He stayed a little closer than usual. Slowed his pace to match hers without making a big deal of it. When she stumbled on a root, he caught her by the elbow—firm, grounding.

“Thanks,” she mumbled.

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t let go right away, either.

That night; they holed up inside an old red barn that had mostly caved in, but the loft was intact. It smelled like mildew and old hay, but it was safer than sleeping outside.

Daryl paced the floor, listening to the creaks and groans of wood, checking the perimeter one last time.

“You always on edge like this?” Adeline asked from her spot by the wall. She’d cleaned her gun and laid out the map again, marking their route with ash and a piece of twig.

“Yeah,” he said. “Keeps me alive.”

She tilted her head. “You ever... stop? Even just for a few minutes?”

Daryl sat down across from her, resting the crossbow against his leg. “Can’t afford to.”

Adeline reached into her bag and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. Carefully, she unfolded it: a photo. It was water-stained, corners curled. A little girl stood beside a man, both grinning in front of a hospital sign.

“My niece. Ava,” she said. “She had a heart condition. I used to promise her I’d become a real doctor one day and fix it. I was about a year into my residency when everything went to hell.”

Daryl watched her, unsure what to say. He wasn’t good with that stuff. Never had been.

“She’s gone,” Adeline said simply. “So’s my sister. I think maybe that’s why I keep going. Because if I stop, then they really are gone, you know?”

He swallowed, nodding slowly. “Yeah. I know that feelin’.”

She looked up at him, eyes searching. “What about you? Who’d you lose?”

“My brother, Merle. He was… a lot of things. Most of ‘em bad. But he was blood. Then the prison went down. I lost more there.”

“You haven’t lost yourself,” she said softly.

His jaw clenched. “Not sure that’s true.”

Adeline leaned closer, resting her arms on her knees. “I see you, Daryl. All of you. You protect people who don’t even ask. You take the hits, and then keep going. That’s not someone who’s lost. That’s someone worth following.”

He shook his head. “You got some messed-up ideas, doc.”

She smiled sadly. “Maybe. But I mean every word.”

Later that night – after midnight

Daryl hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but when he opened his eyes, the fire was just coals. Adeline had curled up nearby, knees tucked under her coat. She shivered once, even in her sleep.

He hesitated... then slowly peeled off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

As he moved away, she stirred.

“Daryl…” she whispered, still mostly asleep. “You don’t have to protect me all the time.”

“I ain’t,” he muttered, half to himself. “Just makin’ sure you’re warm.”

She didn’t reply. But she smiled, even in sleep.

The next morning, as they packed up camp, Adeline paused beside him.

“You never answered something,” she said.

“What?”

She held his jacket, folding it and handing it back. “Why do you keep me around?”

Daryl took it slowly, staring at the worn fabric.

“I dunno,” he admitted. “Maybe I just... don’t wanna be alone anymore.”

Her eyes softened. “Then don’t be.”

Two Days Later;

The trail narrowed the deeper they hiked. Trees pressed in on both sides, the forest thicker than usual. Birds had gone quiet.

Daryl’s hand hovered near his crossbow, and he kept glancing back at Adeline. She looked tired. Pale. But she didn’t complain—not once.

“You’re limping more,” he muttered, not slowing down.

“Because we’ve walked twenty damn miles, Dixon,” she shot back, brushing hair from her face. “I’m a doctor, not a triathlete.”

He smirked, just a little. Her sarcasm was starting to feel like… something familiar. Something good.

“We’re close,” he said. “Should be over the ridge.”

“Good,” she grunted, “because if it isn’t, I’m staging a mutiny.”

Thirty Minutes Later — The Hunting Lodge.

The place was real. Nestled in a thicket of pine trees, with a rusted gate hanging off one hinge and the words Whispering Pines Retreat burned into a wood-plank sign. Most of the windows were intact. A miracle.

Daryl motioned for Adeline to stay behind him as he crept to the porch.

The door creaked open.

Empty, mostly. Dust and decay. But no fresh blood. No moaning. No immediate smell of death.

“Clear,” he called back.

Adeline let out a breath she’d been holding and followed him inside, carefully stepping around a fallen picture frame.

The main room had a wide stone fireplace, leather chairs still standing, and mounted deer heads on the walls. It looked like the kind of place people used to spend weekends drinking brandy and pretending the world was simple.

Adeline dropped her bag and slumped into a chair. “If there’s a mattress in this place, I’ll cry.”

Daryl disappeared into the back. Moments later, his voice rang out, “Upstairs has beds. Little stiff. Better than the ground.”

She closed her eyes. “Marry me.” she basically moand at the thought of sleeping in a real bed for the first time in years.

He froze in the doorway. “What?”

Her eyes shot open. “I was joking. Kinda. Mostly.”

He looked away quickly, ears pink. “Right. Well. There’s food in the pantry. Canned stuff.”

She smiled as he turned, flustered, and disappeared again.

An Hour Later — After they eat.

Rain pelted the roof like bullets. A thunderstorm had rolled in fast, the sky now a bruised grey.

Adeline was upstairs, drying off by the fireplace with a blanket draped around her shoulders. Her wet shirt clung to her collarbones, and her blue eyes reflected the flickering firelight. Daryl tried not to look. Failed.

He paced.

“You always pace when it rains?” she asked.

“Hate bein’ trapped.”

“We’re in a locked cabin, not a cage.”

“Feels the same,” he muttered.

She tilted her head. “You’re not the only one who’s haunted, you know.”

He stopped, staring at her.

Adeline set down her cup of water. “I had to choose who to save once. A father or a little boy. I picked the father because he was bleeding out faster. The boy died thirty seconds later. They never let me forget it. Not the nurses. Not the mother. Not myself.”

Daryl sat down across from her, silently.

“I don’t think people like us ever really come back from that,” she whispered.

“Maybe not,” he said. “But you’re still here. You keep goin’. That counts.”

She reached over and touched his hand, fingers barely brushing his knuckles.

He stiffened—but didn’t pull away.

“I meant what I said before,” she said. “About you being worth loving.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough. You’ve never once let me walk behind you. You always wait when I fall behind. You pretend not to notice when I cry in my sleep.”

Daryl shifted uncomfortably. “Ain’t nothin’.”

“It is,” she whispered. “It’s everything.”

A crack of thunder shook the cabin. She flinched, and instinctively, Daryl reached for her hand this time—holding it tight.

“I don’t know how to be what you deserve,” he said, voice rough.

Adeline stood, dropping the blanket. She stepped between his knees and cupped his face gently.

“I don’t want perfect. I want you. Even the broken pieces.”

He looked up at her, breath caught in his throat. “You sure?”

She nodded. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Then—carefully, like she was offering him a choice—she leaned in.

And Daryl didn’t pull away.

Their lips met softly at first, unsure. But then he held her tighter, like maybe if he kissed her long enough, the fear would melt into something warm. Something real.

When they finally broke apart, Adeline rested her forehead against his.

“You’re not alone anymore, Daryl.”

And for the first time in years, he believed it.

‐-------------‐----

Please interact if you enjoyed.

[hesthermay]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 // 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

PAIRING: sergeant hunter x fem!oc reader

SUMMARY: the assignment of miri rocksled to clone force 99 brought an even higher success rate than the two groups presented on their own; in the times of the clone wars a well working and formidable team was necessary for the republic. but little did they know that the decision would become the biggest thorn in the empire's side. master rocksled had never been like other jedi, and the bad batch had never been like other clones, and as they navigate the end of everything they had known and the beginning of something much darker those traits are put to the test. rules no longer exist, lines are blurred, and forbidden waters are tread as the bad batch fight the great fight for everything they deserve.

RATINGS + WARNINGS: general audiences, mature themes, angst, fluff. female oc, jedi!oc, use of she/her, mentions of death/canon typical violence. found family trope. the bad batch time period, follows the timeline of the show.

NOTES: this one...came to me in a matter of days. miri was born quickly yet she is the moment! tbb makes me feral, i apologize for anything that happens during this period in www.hesthermay.tumblr.com history. again, winging it! love it or hate it, it is who i am

STAR WARS MASTERLIST

-: ✧ status: [ongoing]

SEASON 1

part one

part two

part three

part four

part five

part six

[hel1nn]

Okay...soo send me some plots to write my this series by seeing the titles in it to my ask box since i don't really have an idea to how to start this.. uh.

[cas-kingdom]

Twist of Fate

A/N: The Artful Dodger briefly took over my life, so here is a self-indulgent (questionable quality because I am ill) little story. Featuring our favourite thief-turned-surgeon and the girl (my OC) he took in as his own.

Title: Twist of Fate

Summary: When Daisy Dawkins overhears Jack and Fagin discussing a bet with money and a severed hand, she decides to step up.

Words: 1924

When Jack Dawkins had rescued the girl from her father to raise her as his own, the one condition he had given himself was that she would grow to become someone as far removed from his past as possible. The thievery, the tricks, the Artful Dodger – Jack had failed at many things in his life, but he had convinced himself in the twelve years since that to go back on such a condition would be his biggest yet.

Of course, when living under the care of a single person, one cannot help but be like them. Though his blood did not pass through Daisy’s veins, people regularly remarked on their likeness; how their smiles mirrored the other, how their voices carried the same quick-witted sharpness, and how their steps were so often in tandem without even realising. It seemed that, despite his best efforts, parts of Jack had leached onto Daisy. He could only be thankful they were the parts of himself he did not completely hate.

Take medicine, for one. At fifteen, she couldn’t very well perform surgical procedures like him, but if Jack ever struggled to find her, his ward was the first place he looked. She had a wonderfully pure heart, and liked to sit with his patients, ask how they were feeling, if there was anything she could do to help. Jack often liked to hide himself in the doorway just to listen to her. It reminded him he hadn’t gone back on his condition.

So, when Daisy found him in the hallway after a surgery and presented to him a handful of golden coins, he couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit taken aback. Because while she wore the happiest of smiles, staring up at him with those big blue eyes, she had not had those coins that morning, and the only time he had ever held the same amount in the palms of his own hands, he had obtained them in a less than moral way.

Absentmindedly he let her drop them in his hands with a chorus of little clinks. He stared at them, all seven of them, sitting heavy in his palm, glinting at him in the candlelight, and finally looked at her. Slightly disoriented, her name was the only sound that could leave his lips, and even then he sounded unlike he expected she had hoped.

“Dizzy…”

Daisy’s face fell immediately. “What?” she asked. “What is it?”

With a final look at the coins, Jack shoved them in his pocket, glanced around the empty hallway, and gently took Daisy’s hand in his. In the next moment, without a word from either of them, they were hurrying – more so Jack than the rather perplexed Daisy – up the stairs and towards the staff’s quarters. Jack’s mind was racing. Once he had ushered Daisy inside their room and shut the door, he turned to face her.

Daisy crossed her arms firmly over her chest. “What?” she all but demanded.

Jack revealed the coins again. “How did you get this?”

The look that washed over Daisy’s face could have melted the iciest of hearts. Slowly, she seemed to deflate, her shoulders sagging. If anything, guilt vaguely flashed in her eyes before she turned them to the floor. “That… that doesn’t matter,” she said. “Jack, why does that—”

“Did you steal it?”

He had asked the question gently, so as not to accuse her. He had not asked it with the same bite as the man who had caught him fifteen years ago and tossed him in a cell. He had learnt everything from that. But defensiveness clouded her immediately and she stepped back, away from him, her body suddenly rigid.

“No, I did not!”

The abrupt and unfamiliar hostility between them unsettled Jack, and he rushed to assure her with a shake of his head, spreading his arms outwards, free palm up, in appeasement. “That’s good,” he said. “I believe you. But we don’t have this sort of money, Dizzy. You need to tell me how you got it.”

It was then her hand reached for her neck. Jack thought nothing of it at first – the notion of reaching for her locket whenever she felt disconcerted was was as familiar to them both as breathing – but when her hands fumbled and he looked closer, he realised she was searching for something that wasn’t there.

It took him only a moment of silence and careful thought to realise what had happened, and when he did, he let out a long sigh. He put a hand to his forehead and stared at her. “You didn’t.”

Daisy shrugged and dropped her hand, letting it swing by her side.

“Why?”

“I heard you talking with Fagin,” she said simply, as though it explained everything. “If you don’t pay that awful man then he’ll chop your hand off.”

“Oh, Dizz, it won’t come to that. It was never going to come to that.”

“Yes, I know, because you have the money now.” She nodded her head in the direction of his closed hand, and Jack was once again reminded of cold metal against his skin. “You can give it to the man and everything will be fine.”

Jack’s face only grew more tender, a sad sort of smile replacing the disappointment of learning she had sold her locket, the only connection she still had to her mother. She was so innocent, so good, that Jack just wanted to envelop her in his arms and shield her from the rest of the world forever.

Daisy blinked at Jack for a moment, trying to gauge his expression. Then, she sighed and shook her head, pressing her lips in a thin line, her fists balling at her sides. “It’s not enough, is it?”

“Quite far from it, love.”

“But I thought…” Her eyes welled with tears and Jack immediately closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his chest. She hid her face in his waistcoat as he put a hand to the back of her head.

“Please don’t worry,” he said quietly. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll get it back. Alright? I’ll find the person you sold it to and I’ll get it back. I promise.”

Daisy thumped a fist lightly against his chest. “I don’t care about the locket.”

“‘Course you do.”

She made a sort of groaning noise as she ducked from beneath his arms and stepped away from him. “I care more about you, Jack. They can’t chop your hand off. I won’t let them chop your hand off. I’ll—I’ll sell something else, anything I can—”

He grasped her forearms before she could get ahead of herself and ducked to her level, forcing her to meet his steady gaze. “Daisy Dawkins, did I not just say it wouldn’t come to that?”

Daisy scrunched up her nose. “You and Big Lump are coming up with a plan, is that right?”

Jack would not say that Big Lump was an affectionate name for Fagin, but it certainly was better than some of the names he’d given the man since their unhappy reunion.

Smiling, genuinely this time, he took her hand in his and dropped the coins in them, closing her fingers around them. “You know me,” he said. He leant forward to press a reassuring kiss to her forehead and then brushed past her to change out of his clothes, the dried blood on his sleeves long outstaying its welcome. “Now, how many times have I told you never to worry about anyone but yourself? To leave the tricky parts of our life to me and only me?”

Daisy rolled her eyes and carelessly tossed the coins on her bed, watching them bounce and settle in different places. Her disappointment was evident, even more so as her hand automatically went to her neck once more.

“Well, you make that hard,” she said.

Jack chuckled and glanced over his shoulder as he changed into a cleaner shirt. “Oh, really? Do I?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Oh, yeah. Hm. I understand. It’s my fault for giving you a bed to sleep in and food to eat.”

“Yes. And for making me love you.”

“ You wound me.”                                 

“Well…”

He pointed a finger at her. “Don’t you say it.”

“It’s a good thing you’re a surgeon.”

Jack lunged for a pillow and threw it straight at her, laughing as the force of it sent her stumbling backwards and onto the bed. She shot up and tossed it right back at him, after which a most undignified pillow fight broke out, and ended with the both of them laying on the bed amidst a wreckage of feathers and seven strewn coins.

They were both out of breath, and the fight had ended a good two minutes ago, but Daisy used the last of her energy to grasp the pillow by her head and aim it to whack him.

“Alright, little weasel." Jack laughed as he blocked it before it could come down on him. He wrenched it from her hand with little effort before grabbing her and pulling her half onto his chest, fingers tickling at her sides for one more moment of impishness. She squealed as he kept her pinned to him, letting her grasp his hands after a few seconds to stop him.

She settled eventually, head laying contently against his chest, hands still firmly wrapped around his own.

Jack flicked his eyes down at her mop of hair, leaning forward to press his lips against it. “Thank you for trying,” he said quietly.

Daisy made a noise of disapproval. “I don’t want you to thank me,” she said. She lifted their hands to rest against his stomach, stretching his fingers out so she could lay her palm against him. “You couldn’t hug me if you didn’t have two hands.”

“I could. It just wouldn’t be as good a hug.” He smiled. "I couldn't tickle you with—"

"Oh, yes, do you think he would cut off both your hands if I asked very nicely?" Daisy turned her head up towards him, resting her chin on his chest and offering an impish smile, to which Jack made a face in mock consideration.

"Perhaps if you provide a detailed medical report on the trauma you have received from it."

"That's a good idea."

"Of course, you would need the medical report to be written by a medical professional." He twisted his lips in thought. "Sneed?"

"Absolutely not."

"The Professor?"

"Never."

"Well." Jack reached for her ribs. "Since I can't very well provide a report on my own crimes—"

Daisy snatched his hand up again before it could touch her skin. "Stohop."

Jack turned his eyes up to the ceiling, his mind wandering back to Daisy's locket. When he had removed that tiny child from her incompetent father after the death of her mother, he could never have imagined the extent to which she would wrap herself around his heart. That she had taken the one blood connection she had to family and sold it for his sake...it both warmed and terrified him. But he decided to focus on the former for now.

"Tell me who you sold your locket to," he said, carding his fingers gently through Daisy's hair, "and I'll get it back."

“Okay.”

“And, really, Dizzy…thank you.”

He supposed he could accept that Daisy was part him. After all, that meant he was part her, and to be quite honest, he couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Artful Dodger Masterpost

[chiefpapermuffinpasta]

a deadly calm inside 2 -

pairing: dean winchester x oc!witch!reader

TW! there is a small point in this chapter where someone is being burnt with a slight description of the moment - "She could smell the burning wood, thick in the air, suffocating.."

chapter summary: After parting ways with Marjorie, Dean returns to the motel, unsettled, while Sam makes a discovery in their father’s journal that raises more questions than answers. Meanwhile, Marjorie senses something watching her, a presence growing closer until it finally forces her to flee. When the Winchesters track her down, she’s injured and evasive, refusing to let them get too involved. But as the threat looms nearer, she has no choice but to accept their help—whether she wants to or not.

word count: 12k

marjorie outfit inspo

big difference in the word count for this chapter; sorry! i am trying to get chapters out as much as i can while I have the time to, so some may be long, but i always loved long chapters anyway lol. i also didn't mention this in the first chapter, but this is a slow burn, so i apologize for the lack of romance in these first couple chapters. anyway, enjoy chapter 2!

*****

The motel room was dimly lit, the hum of the old heater filling the silence between the brothers. Dean sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it held all the answers. Sam, meanwhile, had his laptop open, scrolling through whatever nerdy crap kept him occupied, his brows furrowed in the way they always did when he was piecing together something big.

“So,” Sam finally broke the silence. “The hunt went well?”

Dean let out a slow breath. “Yeah. The kid’s safe. Something was feeding on nightmares. But…” He glanced up at his brother, his expression unreadable. “That’s not the only thing we walked away with tonight.”

Sam leaned back in his chair. “Marjorie.”

Dean exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”

Sam nodded. “She was a witch.”

Dean scoffed. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Sam closed his laptop halfway and gave him a look. “Just making sure we’re clear.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “Clear about what? That she’s dangerous? That she’s not our problem anymore?”

Sam studied him for a beat, then sighed. “That’s the thing, Dean—I don’t think she is dangerous.”

Dean’s head snapped up. “You serious?”

Sam shrugged. “I mean, yeah, she’s a witch, but from what you told me? She saved that girl. She saved you. She didn’t ask for anything in return, didn’t try to screw us over—hell, she didn’t even stick around.”

Dean let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, ‘cause she knows better.” He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sammy, we’ve been down this road before. She’s got power, and that never comes free. Yeah, she helped on this case, but something about her gives me the heebie jeebies. She’s too nice.”

Sam flipped his laptop back open. “I did some digging while you were out playing cowboy.”

Dean scowled. “Excuse me?”

Sam smirked and turned the screen toward him. “Check this out.”

A black-and-white newspaper clipping filled the screen, the edges worn, the ink faded with time. The image was grainy, but the details were clear enough—a young woman with striking red hair and sharp blue eyes stared back at them. She looked happy. Beside her stood a younger girl, arms wrapped around Marjorie’s legs, both of them beaming.

Dean’s stomach tightened. The girl in the picture—she was exactly the same. No signs of aging. No difference at all.

He read the name below the image: Marjorie Bigland.

His mouth went dry. “Son of a bitch.”

“Born in 1870,” Sam said, scrolling down. “Died in 1892. At least, that’s what the records say.” He shot Dean a pointed look. “Obviously, that’s not true.”

Dean stared at the screen. “So what happened to her?”

Sam kept scrolling. “There were stories. Some called her a healer. A protector. But most?” He tapped the screen. “They called her a witch.”

Dean snorted. “Shocker.”

Sam’s shoulder slumped. “Dean, I don’t think she’s like the witches we usually deal with. She’s been around for centuries, and from what I’ve read, she’s been fighting things like that for a long time.” He met Dean’s eyes. “She’s not the enemy here.”

Dean shook his head. “C’mon, Sam. You know how this ends. Magic like that? It’s never clean. There’s always a cost. Not to mention, she only bothered to mention what we were dealing with after we killed it. Not exactly helpful. What even is a mare?”

“European folklore. A spirit that sits on people’s chests causes nightmares, kills them in their sleep.”

“Okay, Einstein, we get it, you’re the smart one.”

Sam leaned forward. “Whatever. But tell me this— if she was dangerous, why didn’t she kill you when she had the chance?”

Dean rubbed his hand against his chin.

“She wasn’t the enemy, Dean,” Sam pressed. “You know that.”

Dean didn’t respond right away. He thought about the way Marjorie had stepped into that nightmare, how she’d fought like someone who’d been doing this for over a century. How she’d looked at him like she’d seen his kind before—hunters, killers, men who burned women like her at the stake.

Finally, he exhaled. “Yeah, well… she’s not a friend, either.”

“Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Dean stretched back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Something told him neither he nor Marjorie Bigland were done with each other yet.

*****

Marjorie slipped through the tense trees with ease, her boots squelching softly against the damp Earth. The woods whispered around her, the distant hoot of an owl blending with the rustling of wind through the branches. 

By the time she reached the clearing, the moon was high, casting a silver light over the small cabin nestled between towering pines. It was old, older than the town itself. A relic from a different life. 

She traced her fingers on the rough wood door before pushing it open. Inside, the air smelled of dried herbs, aged parchment, and wood-smoke. The space was small but comfortable. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books bound in cracked leather, and glass jars containing things most people wouldn’t recognize. Half-burned candles dripping wax down their holders. A fireplace crackled loudly in the corner, casting large shadows around the room. 

Everything here had a purpose. A protection sigil was carved into the wooden floor under a patterned rug, hidden from potential prying eyes. The windows were warded, not that anyone ventured deep enough into the woods to find her. A few people from the town knew where she stayed; they just thought she was eclectic. A few thought she could be Amish. 

Marjorie set her satchel down on the sturdy oak table, its fringe swaying gently with the movement. She carefully pulled out what remained of the protective hex bag she had left at Abby’s house; the twine was singed, the herbs inside brittle- used up. She would have to make another. 

With a flick of her wrist, the vinyl record next to her filled the room with the familiar melody of Sisters of the Moon by Fleetwood Mac, the song making her chuckle a bit. The universe always had its ways of teasing her. 

With practiced movements, she reached for a bundle of dried sage, grinding it between her fingertips. Next was crushed lavender and iron shavings. The ritual was muscle memory by now, something she did without thinking. But her mind was elsewhere.

On him. 

On Dean Winchester. 

The hunter with a sharp tongue and even sharper instincts. He was fearless; one of the most she’d ever seen. That doesn’t matter.She had met plenty like him before- men who didn’t trust witches or the stereotypes that came with them. Who only saw them as a means to an end. But he was different, curious. He didn’t look at her with a burning hatred, at least not anymore.

Little did she know, Dean was exactly like the men she had met before. He had put down countless amounts of witches, so what made Marjorie different?

That was dangerous.

She couldn’t afford curiosity. Not his. Not her own.

Her grip on the twine she used to tie the contents together tightened, old memories clawing their way to the surface. Ripping and scratching up her throat as they tried pull themselves to the forefront. 

She had learned the hard way what would happen to her if she let anyone too close. 

She could smell the burning wood, thick in the air, suffocating. The way the fire crackled as it climbed higher, licking the wooden stake she had been secured to. The jeering voices of the men who had once been her neighbors, her friends. Singing and laughing, dancing as beer sloshed over the sides of the steins hung lazily in their hands. They shrieked curses at her, their voices slurred moderately from the alcohol. She begged and she pleaded, but no to avail; her skin started to tighten and rip, falling off her bone like a leaf transitioning from Summer to Fall. Her joints locked up tightly, her hands involuntarily clenching into tight fists, her nails breaking the skin of her palms. It was so hot and she could do nothing. Eventually, the flames had invaded her body and the smoke crowded her lungs enough to the point where her breath had no where to go and she died. 

She had trusted them.

She had saved them- kept their crops growing, their water clean, and their children healthy. And in the end, it hadn’t mattered. 

Because she was different. She became something they feared. It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t killed those kids; she loved them. Read them stories and threw pebbles in the lake with them, telling them it would grant them wishes. 

But, she had burned for it. 

Marjorie exhaled sharply, shaking her head as if the movement could dislodge the memories from their place. That was more than a lifetime ago. Another version of herself, that she kept buried deep down where no one could weave their fingers into it. 

But she still carried the scars.  

She sighed, rubbing her forehead with her forefinger and middle finger, remnants of herbs sticking to her skin. She had spent decades avoiding people like him, keeping to the edges of things, stepping in only when necessary. Tonight had reminded her that some things were harder to walk away from than others. 

The hunt was over, they should be miles away by now. 

Why did she have the sinking feeling that this wouldn’t be the last time she saw Dean Winchester? 

Once she felt satisfied with the hex bags, Marjorie moved to a small room at the back of the house. She sat on her bed, legs crossed, fingers gliding over the worn quilt, drenching her in comfort. She held a small wooden box in her lap, the fire in the other room still crackling loudly. Her fingers hovered over the box, hesitant.

She thought of Abby. A girl with the seemingly perfect apple pie life. Trapped in a house filled with people, but feeling nothing but loneliness. She could’ve died tonight. Her parents would come back to their daughter gone, childless and Abby would’ve died without ever experiencing everything she could do. Everything she could be. She is smart and beautiful and so kind; the world needs someone like Abby. 

Marjorie exhaled shakily and lifted the lid off the box. 

Nestled between old yellow pages and rosemary sprigs was the same picture the Winchesters had found. The same one she kept carefully through the years, despite telling herself she should burn it, erase it. It’s edges were completely worn down, any sense of the original shape completely removed. The sodium chloride used to print photographs at the time it was taken had worn the paper down a good deal. But it was perfect. 

The girl in the picture smiled up at her, frozen in time. 

Dark curls framed her face, and her dress- elegant, but simple- hinted at a different era. Her hands wrapped tightly around Marjorie’s lower half, eyes full of light and life. 

Marjorie's fingers trembled as they ran across the paper. Memories again pressed in, but she pushed them away. 

She pushed the picture back into the box, closing the lid with a quick, loud snap. Some things were better left buried. 

*****

Weeks later, the Winchesters found themselves in yet another damp, smelly motel room. Dean sat with his feet propped up on the edge of the bed, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand, while Sam sat at the small table, his laptop open and fingers typing away. 

Dean huffed loudly, breaking the calm silence. “Another hunt for the books. Everyone’s happy.” They had just finished a run-of-the-mill salt and burn in West Virginia. His voice lacked conviction. The satisfaction that usually came with completing a job wasn’t there. Something gnawed at him, something he couldn’t shake and it wasn’t the leftover crumbs on his t-shirt. 

Sam glanced over his shoulder, eyes scanning John’s journal for what seemed like the hundredth time. Something for them to grab a lead on where their father was. Dean knew his brother- he’d been different ever since they wrapped up their most recent hunt. Sam was on the verge of something, and Dean could feel it in his gut. 

“What’s up?” Dean asked, half-interested, more concerned with his brother’s weird behavior than whatever he was looking at. 

“I think I found something,” Sam elaborated slowly, flipping through the journal to a specific page. He started reading aloud:

Late October 1989. Partnered with an unlikely ally tonight. A woman. Said her name was Marjorie. Never heard of her, but she knew the terrain, knew all about the vamp we were hunting, and a lot more random crap I didn’t listen to. Seemed dangerous, but she saved my ass. Not sure I should trust her, but we made a deal. Won’t see her again, probably. Gotta keep moving. 

The words filled into Dean’s head, hitting him harder than he expected. 

“Think it’s a coincidence?” Sam inquired. 

Dean wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his flannel, staring at the page. “I dunno. What’s your point?”

Sam closed the journal and turned to Dean, curiosity in his eyes. “The point is… there’s a possibility that Dad worked with her. And if he trusted her-”

Dean stood up, cutting Sam off. “He literally wrote how he didn’t trust her, Sam.”

“He must have. At least a little bit. Enough to work with her.”

“He worked with her once. She’s a witch man, she saved my skin once too, but she could’ve killed me just as easily.” Dean started to pace a bit. 

Sam’s expression softened, like he was trying to reason with a brick wall. “Look, I’m not saying we should just throw caution to the wind. But Dad- the guy who barely worked with anyone who wasn’t Bobby- admitted that she saved his life. Yeah, he said she was dangerous, but that has to count for something. There’s more to whatever he wrote.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. “What happens when we let our guard down? You know just as well as I do how that ends. Trusting witches is a surefire way to get yourself screwed.” 

Dean stopped pacing, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. What the hell was he getting so worked up about? His fingers dug into his palms, the same way they had when he and Marjorie were on that girls porch. He turned toward the window, looking out at the empty parking lot.

“We should just leave this alone, man,” he muttered. “There’s a reason Dad said she was dangerous. She’s old, man, like ancient, and we know nothing about her. I’m not about to walk into a witch’s web without knowing what’s at stake just because her hair smelt nice.” Dean is rambling at this point. 

Sam shoots him a teasing look. “Shut up.” Dean snaps.

“I didn’t say anything.” 

Sam didn’t argue. “Listen, I get it. But I think we should consider looking for her. Not because we trust her, but because she might know something. She might know stuff about Dad. I mean he wouldn’t have wrote about her in the journal if it didn’t mean something.”

Dean didn’t want to get sucked into this. Into her. They were so close to finding John. They had so many other things to focus on. But there was a part of him- the part that wanted answers- that couldn’t shake the feeling that Marjorie was important. More important than he wanted to admit. 

“Yeah, well,” Dean breathed. “I’m not going on a wild goose chase to look for her. If she pops up again, fine. We’ll deal with it. But I’m not gonna go hunting for some witch just because Dad worked with her.” 

Sam opened his mouth to argue but snapped it shut just as quickly. Dean wasn’t ready to give in, not yet. 

He turned back to the journal, his fingers brushing against the pages. “I just want to find Dad.”

Dean's gaze turned back toward the window. The night outside was still and dark. Nothing moved. It felt like everything was on edge. 

Dean knew they would confront her again, he just didn’t know when. 

*****

The woods whispered like they were trading their secrets.

Marjorie stood on the porch of her cabin, arms crossed tightly around herself against the cold, eyes trained on the tree line. The forest had a rhythm, a cadence she had learned long ago—branches creaked, frost-crusted leaves shivered in the wind, and unseen creatures rustled through the underbrush. But tonight, something had shifted.

The air was too still. The quiet, too thick.

She wasn’t alone.

For the past week, that feeling had lingered—an itch beneath her skin, an awareness that slithered up her spine when she stepped outside. At first, she had dismissed it as paranoia, the ghost of old enemies whispering in the back of her mind. But then came the omens: dead birds scattered in the snow, their eyes missing; the sharp scent of sulfur clinging to her doorstep; the way the wind would suddenly stop, leaving the world breathless.

Something was coming for her. She had no idea when,s he found no way to anticipate the unseen. She tried spells and incantations, scrying more time than she would’ve liked to get a birds-eye view of the situation. She was exhausted. 

Marjorie huffed, her breath curling in the frigid air.

It was only a matter of time.

She turned back inside, bolting the heavy wooden door behind her. She pressed her palm to the wooden table, whispering an incantation under her breath. A flicker of blue light shimmered across the surface before vanishing. The wards still held, but they were fraying at the edges. Whatever force was stalking her was stronger than she had seen in a very long time.

She needed to be ready.

Marjorie grabbed a small blade from the table, the handle smooth and worn from years of use. Her magic was strong but steel had its own power. Sometimes, a knife in the ribs worked just as well as a spell. Using magic was like running a 5k, even for a natural like herself. It took her breath and made her head feel like a thousand little marbles had been thrown inside it. 

The wind howled suddenly, rattling the windowpanes. A single candle flickered, its flame bending unnaturally before snuffing out entirely.

Her pulse quickened.

Then, the first sign of danger—silence.

Not just the absence of sound, but the utter stilling of the world. The trees no longer swayed. The fire in the hearth dulled as if holding its breath. Even the air felt frozen, suspended in anticipation.

It was here. She thought it may have given her a bit more time, but alas, wishful thinking. 

The door exploded inward. Wood shattered like brittle bone, splinters slicing through the air. She felt small fragments graze her face, breaking the skin slightly. The force knocked over a chair and sent papers fluttering from the table like startled birds. Marjorie whirled, knife in hand, heart pounding.

A shadow filled the doorway.

Tall, cloaked in darkness, its face was hidden by a skull mask, a human skull. Its skin resembled stone, small cracks littering its body. Thick black smoke aligned around the creature, like a portal waiting to welcome it back. She knew that it expected her to go back with it. A voice, rasping and jagged like rusted metal, slithered through the space between them.

"Found you. It’s been a long time, witch."

The words curled in the air like the smoke enclosing them.

Marjorie moved fast. With a flick of her wrist, the fireplace roared to life, flames twisting unnaturally, reaching outward like hungry fingers. The figure did not flinch. Even as the flames danced across its hardened skin, it just stood there, cackling at her. 

She barely had time to whisper a protection spell before the creature lunged.

A gust of unseen force struck her, sending her skidding backward, her shoulder colliding with the edge of the table. Pain bloomed across her ribs, but she gritted her teeth, forcing herself up.

No hesitation. No mercy.

She ripped a vial from her belt and hurled it forward. The glass shattered against the figure’s chest, its contents igniting upon impact. A searing burst of white fire engulfed it, a scream tearing through the cabin like a dying animal’s cry. If normal fire couldn’t hurt it, maybe white magic would. She shrugged, impressed at her work. 

It wouldn’t kill it. But it would buy her time.

She bolted for the back door in her bedroom, throwing her hand outward. The bookshelves collapsed behind her, a wall of wood, books, and crystals clattering onto the floor. Maybe that would slow it down. She wasn’t really thinking. She didn’t look back.

The cold hit her like a slap in the face as she tore into the woods, bare branches clawing at her skin. She winced as the air itched at the cuts still fresh in her skin. The ground was uneven, dipping down with every step as the mud around her liquefied, but she kept running. Running was survival. Running was instinct.

Then—pain.

A sharp, searing agony bloomed in her side, white-hot and cruel. She gasped, stumbling, her fingers pressing into the wound. Warmth seeped through her coat. Blood. The hot liquid was abundant, coating her hands and shirt more and more by the second. 

“This was my favorite shirt.” She grunted. 

Marjorie gritted her teeth, forcing herself forward, but the world tilted. Her vision swam. Reaching trees turned horizontally and their leaves blurred with each staggering step she took. 

She needed to get away. Disappear. Get as far away from that thing as possible. 

Problem is, she had no idea where to go.

*****

The morning after their last hunt, Sam sat at the motel room’s small table, flipping through John’s journal again. Dean was nursing a cup of coffee, pretending not to pay attention.

“You’re still on that?” Dean asked, barely glancing up.

Sam didn’t bother looking away from the pages. “It’s worth looking into.”

Dean exhaled, stretching back in his chair. “Sam, we don’t even know if she’s still alive, let alone if she’s got anything useful for us. I say drop it. ”

“She’s alive,” Sam said, certain. 

Dean drummed his fingers on the table. “Even if she is, that doesn’t mean we should go looking for her. I told you, if our paths cross, fine. But until then, stop worrying about it. 

Sam finally looked up, his expression pointed. “Dad worked with her.”

Dean met his gaze, unamused. “Oh my god, Sammy. Are we really gonna do this again?” 

“But he let her live.”

Dean scoffed. “So? He let a lot of things live. He probably didn’t even know she was a witch. Doesn’t mean we should go knocking on her door. I’m serious man, drop it.”

Sam huffed and shut the journal with a soft thud. “Fine.” He threw his hands up in surrender. “You’re right.” 

That made Dean pause.

Dad’s journal wasn’t exactly a diary—he kept secrets, and left things unsaid. If Marjorie was in there at all, it meant something. And with their dad still missing, every lead counted. Maybe she could help them find their dad. The trail went cold and they have hadn’t a case in days. 

Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright. Let’s see what we can dig up.”

Tracking Marjorie down wasn’t easy. She was a ghost, existing only in whispers and half-told stories. Most hunters they asked had never heard of her. The few who had? They were tight-lipped, shifting in their seats, reluctant to say much of anything.

“Hunters are scared of her,” Sam noted after one particularly unhelpful interview.

Dean nodded, pulling the Impala onto the main road. “Yeah. And that’s what worries me.” She didn’t seem scary. She smelled like cinnamon rolls and her nails were painted a soft blue. What’s so scary about that? 

Eventually, a lead took them to a retired hunter outside of Boulder, a man named Elias Greene. He had worked with John years ago and remembered the red-haired woman who had appeared on a hunt, seemingly out of nowhere.

“She knew things she shouldn’t have,” Elias muttered, staring into his drink plainly. “Tracked the thing like she’d hunted it before. Like she could feel it. Spooked your dad, but he let her stick around. Never seen a hunter her age with that much skill.”

A hunter. Funny. 

“Do you know where she went after that?” Sam pressed.

Elias shook his head. “No. But she wasn’t the type to settle down somewhere. Didn’t even say bye, just got into this beat-up truck and ran off. If you’re looking for her, don’t expect a warm welcome.”

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance. Truck. Sam scribbled. 

An old contact of John’s, a woman named June, finally pointed them toward the deep woods of Missouri. Where she and Dean had saved Abby.  “If she’s anywhere,” she said, “she’s out there. She’s a town favorite, everyone there knows her. They love her; for what reason, I don’t know. That girl’s smart, and calculated. Why are you boys looking for her anyway?”

“She’s his baby mama.” 

Sam’s neck cracked at the speed as he turned to look at Dean. Dean’s tongue poked from his mouth, obviously satisfied with himself. “He’s joking.” 

The drive into Missouri was long and quiet, the landscape growing wilder with each mile. When they finally reached the remote stretch of forest June had mentioned, both brothers knew instantly they were close.

Dean cut the engine, letting the silence settle. “Feel that?”

Sam nodded. “Something’s off.”

They followed an overgrown path, moving carefully. It didn’t take long to find the cabin—or what was left of it. A 1980 sky-blue Chevy flipped onto its top in front of the mess. 

Girls got good taste, Dean thought to himself.

The place was wrecked. The door hung from broken hinges, and the windows shattered. The air inside smelled of scorched wood and blood. Someone had torn through the place, and whoever had done it hadn’t been human. Did she do this? 

Sam crouched near the fireplace, where a dark stain had seeped into the wood, still glistening as though it were fresh. “She was here. Not long ago.”

Guess not.

Dean scanned the room, jaw tightening. “Yeah. And she wasn’t alone.”

A rustling outside had them both tensing, weapons raised. The wind picked up and seemed to howl louder, and louder. Crows cawed annoyingly and leaves started to fall by the dozen.

Then, a figure stumbled into the clearing.

Marjorie.

She was a mess—her coat torn, a deep gash along her temple, blood smeared across her hands. A large, deep red spot covered more than half her torso. She clutched her side, barely standing.

“Well, what do we have here?” She laughed weakly, a wheeze following. She could feel the pull of her magic, twisting and grinding inside her, reminding her of the weight she was carrying from all those years ago.

Her eyes met Dean’s first, flickering with something unreadable. Hope? Sadness? Fear? He didn’t have the chance to figure it out. 

Stars flooded her vision and for a second, she thought it was just the night sky. Her eyes flashed blue; not the normal pale either of the brothers had seen, but a brilliant, electric color. Not exactly human. Taking in a deep breath, she collapsed.

Sam was there in an instant, gripping the back of her knees and wrapping an arm around her shoulders, lifting her off the moist ground. Her head lolled to the side, her breathing sporadic. Her arms hung loosely at her sides; she looked dead. 

“So much for staying gone,” Dean spoke, his voice faltering.

****

Marjorie woke slowly, her body aching as she stirred. The motel ceiling swam into view, yellowed with age, the faint hum of a neon light buzzing somewhere in the room. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air.

She wasn’t home.

That realization hit first. Then came the memory—the attack, the fire, the desperate escape through the woods. And then… them.

Her fingers curled into the blanket draped over her. It was warm, kinda itchy, but warm nonetheless. She sat up on her forearms weakly, eyes squinting at the bright light. 

“You’re awake.”

Sam’s voice, calm and steady.

She turned her head, finding him sitting nearby, a book open on his lap. His expression was one of quiet relief. Dean, on the other hand, leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching her with the careful detachment of someone who wasn’t sure whether she was a friend or an enemy.

Her eyes moved between them, and she exhaled, pushing herself up despite the dull throb in her ribs.

“I shouldn’t be here.” Her voice came out hoarse, but there was no bite to it—just weariness.

Sam shut the book, resting his elbows on his knees. “You were hurt. We didn’t exactly have a choice.”

Marjorie pressed her lips together. She should’ve been grateful. Maybe a part of her was. But another part—the part that had spent years keeping hunters at arm’s length—was screaming at her that this was a mistake.

“Not my first rodeo.”

Dean pushed off the wall. “Not to be ungrateful or anything, but you mind telling us why something decided to turn your cabin into kindling?”

Marjorie held his gaze for a beat. He wasn’t being cruel—just direct. That was how he’d been when they worked together months ago. Business first, trust second.

She sighed, reaching up to touch the bandage at her temple. “It’s complicated.” Ha. 

Dean gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah, well, so’s everything in our line of work.”

Sam shot him a look before turning back to her. “We’re not here to get in your way. But we need to know what’s going on. You’re in danger.”

Marjorie looked away. So are you.

But she didn’t say it.

Instead, she carefully swung her legs over the side of the bed, testing her strength. “You saved my life. I appreciate that. But I don’t need your help. I’m fine on my own.”

Dean scoffed. “You sure about that? Because from where we were standing, it looked like you barely made it out.”

Marjorie met his eyes again. There was no malice in her expression, just quiet resolve. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”

Sam listened to she and Dean go back and forth. Dean wasn’t backing down, Marjorie didn’t seem the type to do so either. But he also sense the tension, the underlying panic in her words. Whatever was after her, it was bad. 

He leaned forward. “Maybe. But whatever’s after you isn’t going to stop.” 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, seriously. I should just go home.”

“How you gonna do that?” 

“Astral projection. I’ll project my soul to my cabin, then I’ll manifest my physical body there.” She said openly as if it were common knowledge. 

“Nice try, sweetheart. You’re not going anywhere.” Dean glanced down to her wrist. Around it sat a large iron chain, to the naked eye it would’ve just been a bracelet.

She sighed, rubbing her face. She hated being backed into a corner, having people in her space, relying on anyone. But they weren’t wrong.

She had spent years keeping her past buried, hoping it would stay that way. But the past had found her. And now, she wasn’t the only one caught in its wake.

Marjorie stood by the motel window, arms rubbing at her collarbones, trying to sooth herself. Blood pooled in her mouth, but this time it was her own doing. The night felt too still.

“You’re both really stupid. I mean really stupid.” She didn’t look at either of them. 

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, cleaning a knife. Sam was flipping through their father’s journal, scanning for anything useful.

“So,” Dean said, breaking the silence, “what exactly are we dealing with?”

“It’s not a demon. Not a spirit. Nothing you two would know anything about.”

She didn’t mean to sound angry, she was just scared. It was the truth, they could say they wanted to help, but this thing was way above their pay grade. 

Dean raised a brow. “Then what is it?”

Marjorie hesitated. She didn’t like explaining things to hunters—especially when she knew how quickly they turned on people like her. But they had saved her. And if she was being honest with herself, she didn’t want to face this alone.

“Something old,” she finally admitted. “Something that was locked away a long time ago.”

Dean frowned. “And let me guess—you had something to do with that?”

Marjorie didn’t answer. Dean exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Great. Just great.”

Sam ignored him, still focused on the journal. “If you sealed it away before, can we do it again?”

Marjorie turned from the window, her fingers tightening around her shoulders, hugging herself. “Maybe. But last time, I barely survived. I’m not sure I can muster up that kind of juice again, I mean this was like, a reealllyyy long time ago.”

Dean exchanged a look with Sam before leaning forward slightly. “So why’s it after you now?”

She huffed a breath through her nose. “Because I was the one who put it away.”

Dean let out a low whistle. “Fantastic.”

Sam sat up. “Then we need to find a way to stop it before it gets to you again.” Marjorie hesitated. She had spent years avoiding hunters, avoiding people who might see her as a threat. But these two—they weren’t what she expected.

She let out a slow breath. “Alright,” she said softly. “We do this together. But you listen to me, I mean it. I’m not getting your blood on my hands.”

She rubbed her wrist, the iron starting to burn a bit. She hated the burning. 

Dean smirked. “See? Was that so hard?”

Marjorie gave him a look, but there was no real heat behind it. She had a feeling this was only the beginning.

As the night wore on, Marjorie found herself watching the brothers.

Sam was the easier one to read—thoughtful, curious, the type to look for answers before making judgments. He was the one who wanted to trust her.

Dean, on the other hand, was harder. Not cruel, not even hostile—just wary. Like he was waiting for her to prove him right. 

She couldn’t blame him. He had no reason to trust her, sure they worked together, once, but that was months ago and he killed her kind probably weekly.

“You worked with our dad,” Sam blurted suddenly, breaking her thoughts.

Winchester. John Winchester. How did she not connect this earlier?

Marjorie blinked, caught off guard. “A long time ago.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly. “He didn’t exactly sing your praises.”

Marjorie let out a quiet laugh. “No, I imagine he wouldn’t.”

Sam sat up. “He wrote that you saved his life.”

“It was complicated.” 

Dean studied her. “Everything about you seems to be.”

She didn’t argue. “Yeah.” She laughed sadly. “I guess it is. 

Sam, ever patient, proved further. “What happened back then?”

Marjorie hesitated. “Your dad was stubborn. Thought he didn’t need help. But he was up against something he didn’t understand. Just like you two right now. ”

Dean huffed. “That sounds about right.”

She gave him a small, tired smile. “He was a good hunter. But he was also reckless.”

Dean’s smirk faded slightly.

Sam took a breath. “So why did you help him?”

Marjorie looked at him, then at Dean. Her answer was simple.

“Because he needed it. He didn't know about me, though. Just thought I was a hunter.” He believed her. She had helped him when he needed it. 

For a moment, neither brother spoke. Then, to her surprise, Dean nodded—just a little.

Sam sat back, thoughtful. “Guess it’s our turn to return the favor.”

Marjorie wasn’t sure what to say to that. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t fighting alone. And as much as that terrified her—

Some part of her was relieved.

[streamafterlaughter]

Soundtrack to Disaster

Chapter II: A Place Uncharted and Overgrown

playlist | masterlist | pinboard | prev

song(s) for this chapter: Careful by Paramore, 365 by Charli XCX, Hardline by Julien Baker (for half a second)

chapter tags: cocky!kinda mean!fboy!eddie, swearing, drinking, drug (weed) use, implied sexual content | fic tags: Angst, hurt/(eventual) comfort, (eventual) smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, Eddie Munson x Fem!OC!Reader, Modern AU | This fic is rated 18+ MDNI

taglist @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @kellsck @faggotinie @xplrnowornever @taccobelle send a message/comment to be added!

a/n: whatever is happening right now, don’t worry. it will get worse!

DISCLAIMER: I do not consent to having my work fed to AI engines, or reposted in any way, shape, or form on other websites. Unless otherwise stated, this is the only account that features and contains this work, and any replication was done without my consent. Please let me know if you see my work elsewhere. Reblog to support the author!

—

Your voice is hoarse by the time you pull into your driveway, surely waking the neighbors as your music leaks through your cracked windows, an angry repetition of YOU CAN’T BE TOO CAREFUL ANYMORE… You do, however, remember to crank it down before leaving your car, something future you will be thankful for.

You flick the light of your bare bones apartment on, glaring at the half your things still sitting in boxes. You keep telling yourself you’ll get to those.

Much to your discouragement, you’ve mostly accepted that Hawkins has swallowed you back into its cold and unforgiving bosom, at least for a while.

You’d left for college, obviously. Escaped to New York with a dream of becoming a published poet, a voice of the new generation. And though school was insightful, challenging, and everything you wanted; it was lonely. Art students are pretentious and judgmental, especially if you come from somewhere like Indiana. So you’d kept your head down and finished school alone, only to move back home with a useless degree, in thousands of dollars of debt, and with a brother in prison.

At least now my brother’s home, you think, trying to assuage the shame spiral. Home and as oblivious as ever, inviting Eddie to the bar.

-

You rise late, sunshine leaking into your second floor bedroom, provoking a groan from deep within your tired gut. Eddie’s here, in Hawkins. It’s been years since you’ve seen him, even longer since you’ve spoken. It leaves you with a lot of nagging questions you’re not sure you want the answers to.

You roll over, wrestling with your sheets tangled around your bare legs. You barely remember coming home, having blacked out the night with a red, angry rage that seems to have subsided with the night. You’re calmer now, almost zen.

Almost, until you remember what you’ve promised tonight. Parties aren’t usually of any concern; a few old friends and maybe a couple college kids with nothing better to do, but you dread it all the same. Eddie used to frequent Steve’s house parties to deal, even after you’d stopped speaking to him. Something about being “easy money,” he’d drunkenly explained to you once. You hope it doesn’t mean he’ll pick up the habit again, but you know deep down how naive that is.

-

“What’s the party even for?” You lean over the kitchen island to steal a chip from the bag, and Steve smacks your hand out of the way.

“Who says there has to be a reason for a party?”

“Anyone who wants to keep their house clean, for one.” Robin sneaks in from behind, snatching a handful of potato chips before Steve can catch her. “And I, for one, never agreed to hosting this party.”

“Co-hosting,” Steve reminds her, “and if you must know, it’s a party for Chris.”

“Didn’t we just have one of those?” You groan, and Robin hands you a chip, as if to apologize.

“Yeah, but that was nothin’. No offense, obviously I love your mom and the bar, but, cmon, you know he wants a rager.”

You really can’t argue with that, so you divert. “And you feel responsible to throw him?”

Steve presses his lips together, unable to combat the question. “We’re friends. Plus, it gives Robin an excuse to see Nance.” The last part is barely audible, but both you and Robin catch it, locking eyes, and she blushes. Nancy Wheeler, the Hawkins Girl Next door. Robin’s been pining over her since senior year of high school, with nothing to show for it.

Robin is harder to say no to than Steve. “Ugh, fine. I have one condition if you want me at this party.

Steve crosses his arms. “Bee, I can’t just not invite him.”

You shrug. “Okay, fine. Have a good time, let me know how it goes.” You grab your coat from the rack for emphasis.

“You’re bluffing.”

“You willing to bet on that?”

“What is your thing with him anyway?” Robin asks between munching on her chips, searching your face for a giveaway. “Like, I know he was there when Chris got cuffed, but is it really his fault your brother got caught?”

You’d never told your friends that Eddie had confessed, testified against your brother. Truthfully, you’d figured they’d find out on their own. You didn’t want to sway their opinions, you’d all been in the same friend group. Even now, you can’t bring yourself to explain the whole thing. “It’s a really, really long story that will kill the mood to tell.”

Steve huffs, hands on his hips. “You know I can’t use that to justify not inviting him.”

“Ugh, fine. But I’m gonna be pissy all night.”

He cracks a smile. “Whatever keeps you entertained, dork.”

-

Steve leaves you in charge of the music, giggling to yourself as you scroll through his playlist titles: Sad Boy Autumn, Night of Clubbin’, Hot Steve Summer. You land on his Party Rock Anthems, and scroll through what Steve believes to be, according to the playlist description, “The Ultimate House Party Jams.” What a fuckin’ dweeb. The first song to play when you shuffle is 365 by Charli XCX and you can't help but burst into laughter. He’s not wrong, of course, but you can’t even slightly believe that Steve has listened to this song, let alone added it to a playlist.

“Great choice!” A voice, light as a bell, rings from behind you, and you turn to greet its owner only to be met face to face with Chrissy Cunningham. The second to last person you’d expect to know this song.

“Oh, yeah,” You stutter, unsure of how to respond. You wouldn’t call yourself a 365 party girl, especially not right now.

“You here with anyone?” Her ponytail swings as she cocks her head to the side, inspecting you.

“Uh, nah, not really. Chris is my brother, this party’s for him.”

“Oh, yeah! You’re Bee, right?”

“To some,” You laugh nervously, hating to be preceded by your brother’s reputation. “And you’re Chrissy, right? I didn’t know you knew him.”

“Oh, I don’t really. I’m here on a date.”

“Who’s your-“

“Hey, baby.” No. God, no fucking way. Eddie seemingly appears from nowhere, sliding his arm around Chrissy’s waist, hand playfully low on her hip. Suddenly, you’re seething, teeth clenched together and you’re convinced you can feel the beginning of a migraine. “What’s got you talkin’ to the wet blanket? Drink not strong enough?” He eyes you, amused by the way your eye twitches.

“Eddie! Be nice, this is Chris’s sister!”

Eddie scoffs at her, head thrown back. “I know, Princess. Tweety and I go way back.”

“I thought you said your name was Bee?”

You shrug. “It’s one of ‘em. Tweety, however, is not.” Not anymore, but you don’t add that part out loud.

“Whatever. C’mon, let me introduce you to the other, way less sexy Chris.” And without another glance your way, Eddie takes his girl into the backyard.

“Fuckin’ asshole.” You mutter, adding another, much less fun song to the queue.

“Okay, enough moping!” Robin snatches your phone from you just as Julien Baker’s voice starts in, quickly switching it back to Steve’s clubbing playlist. “C’mon, let’s go dance!”

“Only if I can get another drink first.” Your rum and coke is gone, and you’re feeling far too sober to be in the same room as Eddie, let alone his date. The thought sends chills of what you can only assume are disgust up your spine. Poor Chrissy, Eddie must have charmed her into going out with him, how else do you explain that couple? What lies did he tell her to convince her he’s a decent enough guy?

“Hey, stop seething, I can see the foam about to come out of your mouth.” Robin snaps you out of seeing red, handing you a hard cider that you pout at. “I wanted a dirty shirley.”

“And I want you alive in the morning to help me clean this place up. As the host, I win by default.”

You huff dramatically, but take the can anyway. “Can you believe Eddie convinced Chrissy to come here with him?”

Robin only shrugs. “He’s not a bad guy, Beebs. I think deep down, you know that.”

You bite your tongue. It is not your place. Your personal grievances are not your friends’ problems. “Maybe, but they’re so different.”

Robin shrugs. “It was either Chrissy or—“ She cuts herself off abruptly, and when you try to meet her eyes she averts them.

“Or who, Rob?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing, never mind. Hey, look! Your brother’s here!”

You cock an eyebrow at her, but she’s not budging, pointing towards the entryway where your brother is being greeted in all directions. Someone hands him a beer, while another friend sparks a joint before passing it to him. It amazes you how loved your brother is after the hell he raises, and people barely register you exist, let alone that you’re his sister.

“Hey, kiddos!” Chris breaks away from his mob of fans to greet you and Robin, embracing you both in a group hug. Luckily, your brother doesn’t give a shit about how cool the rest of Hawkins thinks you are. He offers a hand out to Steve behind you. “Thank you for putting all this together, man. Means a lot.” Robin opens her mouth to argue, but closes it when Chris looks at her. “And thank you for letting him destroy your place for the night. I’ll help you with the damage in the morning.” He winks at Robin, who gives him the biggest toothy smile possible.

“Chris, man, you comin’ out? We’re playin’ beer pong.” One of Chris’s buddies, Gareth, offers him the tiny plastic ball.

“Oh, fuck yeah, man. But only if you’re on my team, I'm not losing to you and Eds at my own party.”

-

It’s three rounds before Chris and Steve convince you to play, Gareth having tapped out for the night to puke in the bushes. Eddie snickers to his cronies as you approach the table, sliding your windbreaker from your arms. For some reason, the exposure of your skin shuts him up, and you flex your fingers dramatically before plucking the ball from Steve’s hand. “You’re goin’ down, Sweetheart.” Eddie jabs his ringed pointer finger at you, and your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

He seems to notice his slip up, clearing his throat dramatically. “You gonna play, or what?”

You blink once, twice before nodding, suddenly feeling the effects of your earlier drinks. Have you eaten tonight?

You aim as well as your body allows, managing to sink the ball into the back corner cup. Your friends cheer, high diving each other before each extending a hand to you, and Eddie groans, removing the plastic before downing the cup and removing it from the lineup. “Beginner’s luck.”

“Oh, please!” Robin scolds from beside you. “Ballsy for someone to say after losing two out of the last three.” The small crowd of gathered acquaintances chuckle, earning a weak glare from a very intoxicated Eddie before he sets up his shot, effortlessly dropping the ball into the center cup. You begrudgingly remove it, chugging the lukewarm beer while your friends cheer and boo, all in good fun.

It mostly continues like that, a neck and neck game between your team consisting of you, Chris, and Steve against Eddie, Jeff, and a very giggly Chrissy. By the end, the backyard is on a tilted axis, and only one cup remains in front of either team.

“You ready to tap yet?” Eddie taunts, though he’s been leaning over the table for the last couple rounds, arms bracing him from falling to the ground.

“You wish, Munson.” And you let it fly, but your face falls when you realize you’d been too cocky, too soon. It bounces higher than you’d anticipated, sailing right over the cup and onto the ground, everyone’s eyes glued to it. “Fuck.” Robin snickers and you snap your head to glare at her. “Thank you for that vote of confidence.” You sneer, and she stifles another giggle fit.

“This is it, honey, for all the marbles.” You think he’s talking to Chrissy until he winks directly at you, the corner of his mouth pinching into a smirk. You look from him to his date to find her pouting, eyebrows scrunched together and arms crossed. You raise an eyebrow, unsure how to reassure the former cheerleader.

While you’re not looking, Eddie sinks the ball. Which, let’s be honest, you knew that was coming. You roll your eyes and lift the piss flavored drink to your lips, chugging with an open throat to avoid tasting it. Your friends and brother cheer you on, and when you slam the solo cup onto the table, you let out a massive belch. Eddie’s grin has split into a toothy beam, eyes wide with wonder, penetrating your very soul. Fuckin’ weirdo.

-

When your dizziness has subsided, you find Robin on the makeshift dance floor, a drink dangerously spilling over in her hand. “Hey, grouchy!” She calls you over, beckoning with her dance moves. You play along, pretending to be roped in by her lasso. “What’s got you all frowny now?”

You shrug, shaking your hips to a song you can’t place, trying to enjoy your buzz now that you’re not seeing double. “Guess I’m taking beer pong too seriously.”

Robin snorts. “Please, when have you ever given a shit about stupid drinking games?”

“I guess since Chris is home. Wanted to impress him.” Robin eyes you, biting her lip. “What?” You pry, and when she doesn’t answer, poke her in the ribs. “Cmon, spit it out.”

“I don’t think it was Chris you were trying to impress.” She winces, awaiting an outburst that doesn’t come. Instead, you reply with a monotone “Excuse me?”

She smiles tensely, all teeth and gums. “Sorry, I call em like I see em.” Robin’s eyes slide past you, landing over your shoulder. When you snap your head to find what she’s looking at, your eyes fall on Eddie, a beer forgotten in his hand as he whispers in Chrissy’s ear. He must be hilarious, because she can’t stop fucking laughing.

“Oh, you can’t be serious. You think I'm worried about what Munson has to say about me?”

She refocuses on your face, brows furrowed. “Maybe not what he has to say, but definitely what he thinks.” You gape at her, unable to respond with something clever. She only pats your shoulder. “It’s alright, you’ll figure it out soon enough.”

-

“Okay, everyone out. You don’t have to go home, but ya can’t stay here.” Steve is waving people out the door, thanking them for destroying his and Robin’s apartment with a tired smile on his face. Finally, shuts the door. “That everyone?”

“Uh, no. We have some stragglers.”

Steve looks around the main room, then the kitchen. “Where?”

Robin juts her thumb to Steve’s bedroom. “Sorry, man.” You stifle a giggle with a cough, throwing another beer can into the recycling bin.

“Every damn time!” Steve stomps up to the door and starts banging. “Hey, party’s over. Put your pants back on!” He throws his bedroom door open, and you and Robin peer over his shoulders like nosy children.

“Whoa!” The larger figure scrambles, throwing the duvet over their head, while the smaller one shrieks, covering her face as Steve flicks the light on.

“Oh, come on. Eddie?”

“Hi, Stevie.” He slowly emerges from the blanket. “Funny running into you here.”

“It’s my room, idiot! Get out!”

“Okay, okay! Shit, I thought you wanted my help cleaning this shithole tomorrow!”

Steve huffs. “Doesn’t mean you can occupy my room and soil my sheets like this.”

Eddie gasps in mock offense. “I’ll have you know I’m very clean, just had all my shots.” Steve only glares, but he gets the message across. “Okay! Damn. Sorry, Chrissy. I’ll call you, yeah?”

The girl rolls her eyes, face still cherry red. “Whatever, Eddie.” She snatches her shirt off the ground, and Steve turns to give her privacy. “Sorry, Steve. He said it was okay.” She avoids your eyes as she leaves, Eddie waving goofily behind her. Something in your chest hurts, and you chock it up to rage.

“You want sloppy seconds, Bee?”

You ignore him, and make your way back to the kitchen to rage clean. Over your shoulder, you hear your brother exclaims something, but you can’t make it out.

-

[theotheronedotorg]

Mama Walker!Reader AU

• Elias and Mama dance in the living room, listening to slow songs and just being so close that both of their hair seem to blend, not knowing where one ended and the other began. David and Logan watched from the hallway, little heads peeking around the corner as they watched their parents sway slowly and gently to Can't Help Falling In Love by Haley Reinhart.

One of the earliest memories the two Walker brothers can remember of their parents would have to be the time they watched the two from behind the hallway wall, little heads peeking out from the corner as their parents swayed from side to side. Their mother's head rested against Elias's shoulder, his head resting against hers.

Elias's right hand was clasped with hers as her free one was wrapped gently against his nape. His other hand pressed against her lower back, keeping the two together.

The furniture was pushed back against the walls of the living room, the shuffling of their socks against the carpet barely audible as the music continued to play from the record player that sat on the nightstand towards the corner of the room.

Both David and Logan were young at the time, around 5 and 7, but they could tell their parents loved each other dearly. From their closeness to their swaying movements and their sweet kisses placed on skin and lips here and there, it was hard to pretend a kind of love like that.

• Both boys knew they wanted a love like that. A love that would take infinite to wear off.

• They do end up getting that.

• But anyways-

• Water balloon fights. It's something the family has always done during summer, and it was never planned.

Elias liked to see his wife smile. It was one of his most treasured memories after her passing, and it was something he dreamed about when she was still alive and he was off on deployment.

One time, when Mama was attending to the gardens at one of the houses they were staying in (the Walkers tended to move a lot because of Elias being in the military). She was wearing a lovely white summer dress that day that went down to her knees with cherries printed on it. She loved cherries. It was one of many fruits that didn't make her taste buds act up. She had food sensitivity, mainly to the point she couldn't get much food because her body would reject it before she could even swallow it.

Anyways, that day, she sat on her knees, her gardening gloves on and her sun hat sitting on her head with the string tied below her chin to keep it from blowing away. Not that it would. No winds blew at all that day. It was like Mother Nature wanted it to be hot.

She could hear David's laughter from the front of the house. Loud and boyish, just how he was supposed to be. He was a kid. He could be as loud as he wanted. What struck her as odd was Elias's lack of voice. Where was he? She didn't have to question for long.

As she dusted off her gloves, a force that was meant to catch her off guard, nothing else, struck her in the back and made her jerk forward. Coldness seeped into her skin, and she could feel the back of her dress stick to her body as she leaped up and screeched.

The answer to her yells? Laughter.

She quickly turned and saw her husband and 2-year-old son smiling brightly from the side of the white house they were staying in. In David's small hands was a water balloon that seemed the size of his small head, and Elias looked as if he was about to throw another to his wife.

"Elias Walker! You throw another one of those, and!-" Her threat was cut off by a balloon hitting her chest and splashing cold water onto her dress and skin, soaking her face and getting her hair in the process. She let out another yelp and flashed her husband a warning glare, to which he picked up the small blonde and booked it to the front of the house, his wife following after him with a wide smile and a plan of action in her mind.

--

There were nights when Mama would lie awake, unable to fall asleep because of the constant changes in her life. Her childhood was a constant battle against life because of the state she grew up in, and now the family she had was always moving because of Elias being affiliated with the military.

That wasn't the reason for her being awake that night, though. That night, she was awake and fully aware. Aware of what? She didn't even know. Elias was beside her, having been back from deployment for 2 days now. Maybe that was what was keeping her up. The thought of Elias going off to war or something of the sort scared the living crap out of her.

Sometimes, when he was gone, she'd get such bad nightmares about dying when away that she couldn't handle the thought of raising the little one in her belly alone. Others, she had dreams where she'd lose the baby, and in turn, lose Elias.

Of course, nothing would keep Elias from leaving her. Not that she'd know that, but she'd certainly learn it once she'd take her dying breath. But that wouldn't happen until another few years.

Mama blinked from her hazy state as the brunette's arm, muscular and a type of weighted blanket for her, shifted. His hand which was originally resting on her 6-month pregnant belly (21 weeks), slid up her torso and gently squeezed her right breast. They seemed to get bigger by the week.

"I can hear you thinking," Elias mumbled and shifted his hand back down to her belly and moved so he was pressing against her side. His voice was slurred from sleep, and raspy from how much yelling he's been doing nowadays.

"I didn't mean to wake you." She responded to him, moving her hand over his and squeezing it gently.

"You didn't." He responded, "Little rascal woke me up with his kicks." Elias shifted and propped himself up on his elbow, his gentle brown eyes looking down at his wife in soft admiration. "Why are you awake?"

Mama eyed the male for what seemed like minutes. Her own eyes, which seemed more green than their usual color because of the moon's light coming from the window, stared into his. She couldn't explain anything that was going on in her mind. The thoughts she was having and the dreams she was experiencing. She knew he'd listen and reassure her that he'd never leave and that everything was fine, but she just couldn't find a way to explain anything.

"I," she started, blinking slightly, "I don't know how to explain it." Her gaze moved back to the ceiling, tracing the popcorn's, before she looked back to him. "I can't stop having this feeling that something's going to happen, and my dreams are not making them any better."

Elias hummed a gentle reply and laid back down, curling around his wife and helping her move to her side so she could rest more comfortably. His arm moved back around her waist, his hand resting on her swollen stomach.

"What kind of dreams are they?" He questioned lightly as he nuzzled his face back into her neck and placed a soothing kiss on her shoulder. He felt his wife shake her head gently, a telltale sign that she didn't want to speak on them at the moment, so he nodded and hummed gently. "Well, you know I love you. You know I won't ever leave you, even if someone was forcing me to. I'd just crawl back and continue to kiss the earth you walk on."

Mama let out a soft chuckled exhale and intertwined her fingers with his own that rested against her stomach.

"And you know that no matter what, I'll always come back to you. I love you," he spoke so gently, speaking her name like it was a prayer, "I love you so much."

Mama tilted her head down, her eyes soft as she could feel tears fill them at his words. He's know what to say since she's got pregnant. Then again, he's always been good with his words. It's why most of the women back in their hometown called him such a ladies man. He was so sweet, and she was so lucky to have caught his eye.

I wonder if our child will be like you, Elias. She thought to herself, feeling his chest moving against her back in gentle brushes of his breathing patterns, lolling her to sleep.

Taglist: @brokenpieces-72 @rerejunebug

Tell me if you like it! I'd like any ideas that people can throw at me! My inbox is open!

[write-and-wander]

Touch: Chapter 7

Pairing:  Kylo Ren x Fem!Reader

Warnings:  Swearing, angst, and a new version of the sequels

Word count:  7.6K

Author’s note: Everything comes down to this- the final chapter :)

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6)

Chapter 7: Journey's End

He’s searching for someone.  Who?  He’s not quite sure anymore.  A Kenobi not yet brought to the dark side, now running loose, should be his enemy.  Another target to hunt down before the resistance gains another leg up.  A companion gifted to him by the force, however- someone who needs him just as much as he needs her- that’s something entirely different altogether.  If he is meant to rule the galaxy with her by his side, then he now has no way of protecting her.  What if they find her first?  What if she strays from her purpose- from our purpose?

He knows that if you were to turn against him, you could very well be his downfall.  What if I don’t have the strength to stop her?

He paces the room, his mind racing through multitudes of possibilities and their solutions.  The tablet still sits open on the table, the red indicator for the missing ship’s tracker still lying to him.  You are gone.  And he has no way of finding you.  Unless…

The force has brought us together before, he thinks, focusing on you; on the shift in the atmosphere- in the force itself- when you were present.  He calls out to the force.

And it answers him.

As if rounding a corner, you walk in, your name immediately tumbling from his lips.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••  

You’re walking- almost jogging- through the resistance base, discerning faces and scanning over heads in the search for Poe.  Come on, come on, where is he?  You pull a couple of different people aside, asking them if they’ve seen Dameron, only to be met with shrugs and wild guesses.  You start to make your way out of the main rooms and begin to weave through hallways, praying to the force that you don’t get yourself lost in the maze of the bustling base.  You come to a fork and stop for a moment before you feel the force pulling you to the left.  Rounding the corner, you stop dead in your tracks at the sound of your name and the sight of your abandoned Commander.

“Where are you?” He asks right away, his voice gentle.

Why would the force do this now, of all times?  “I need to go,” you say curtly.  You try to move past him, but he steps over, blocking your way.

“You were so close,” he says low, his brown eyes boring into yours.

You pause and take a breath to speak, but you can’t seem to find anything to say.

“Please, come back to me,” he pleads, his voice breaking, “I feel so lost.”

You shake your head, taking a step back.  He closes the gap, his face just inches from yours.

“Come home,” he whispers, bringing his arms up to your sides.  He lowers his eyes to level with yours and moves to grab your shoulders.

Just before his hands touch you, the man right in front of your face snaps to Poe Dameron, whose hands are now holding your shoulders.

“Hey, you!” he greets with a smile.

You jump, breathing hard.

“Woah, woah, hey-” his voice drops as he immediately switches gears, “you okay, Kenobi?”

Relaxing into his grasp, you let his strong arms keep you steady as you collect yourself.

“Yeah, yeah-”

“Deep breaths,” he interjects.

You nod, swallowing hard.  “I need you to come with me to Coruscant.”

“Just me?”

You nod again.

“Why?”

“I have something you need.”  You watch excitement grow in his face as he nods, taking your hand.

“Well, then, what are we waiting for?”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••  

You land on Coruscant shortly before Poe does, as he had followed you closely on the trip over.  You land further off than you normally would, attempting to divert attention to from your house.

When you walk in, you realize that this time, the house feels stale.  There’s a noticeable layer of dust on the surface- this place hasn’t been so well kept.  Did Vilya just… stop taking care of this place?

Poe lands even further yet, and waits a while to follow you into your home.

“So,” he starts, looking around at your home. “this yours, or?”

“Yeah,” you answer quick, focused on what you came for.  You head straight into your parent’s bedroom and withdraw the wayfinder from its hiding spot for the last time. 

Poe is looking around when you return. You hold it out towards him.  His eyes widen.

“Here.”

“How the hell did you manage to get this from them?” He asks with a grin, taking it from your hands to inspect it.

“I didn’t.”

He freezes, looking up at you.  “Then how do you have it?”  Though his words form a question, his sudden shift to a cold tone frames it more like a statement.

“It’s a long story, Poe.”

“Oh, we’ve got time,” he retorts.  He pockets the wayfinder.

Staring back at him, your expression shifts from nervous to hurt.  Does he not trust me?  I guess I didn’t think about how I would explain this to him.  How do I even begin to explain everything?

“You’re lucky I trust you,” he adds, pulling up a chair to sit and motioning for you to follow suit, “or you wouldn’t still be standing.  Now talk.”

You nod, sitting down in front of him.  You know you can’t blame him for his reaction- any person with half a brain would respond in kind.  You’ve never seen Poe this guarded before though- especially with you- and it’s unsettling, to say the least.  Shaking off your discomfort, you collect yourself.

“Remember how my parents left me a few gifts after they disappeared?”

He nods.

“That was one of them.  But it was different then.  The light in there was green.  It felt different when I carried it.”

“Different how?”

“It wasn’t anything... dark; just the opposite, actually- it was light.  And it promised hope.  And I used it to find Luke.”

“Skywalker?”

You nod.  “Turns out, he changed it so my dad could find him down the line- but when my dad disappeared, he changed it so I could use it.”

“That’s a real convoluted way of leaving an emergency contact,” he quips, relieving some of the tension in the room.

“Wasn’t my idea,” you defend, putting your hands up.

“Fair point…” he affirms with a soft smile.  “So why’d it change?”

“Well, Luke smashed it the second I showed it to him.”

Poe laughs, “right.”

You can’t tell if he was being sarcastic, but you’d rather not try to clarify.  Instead, you continue.  “But I wanted it back.  It was still something my parents gave me, and I thought maybe it was worth a shot.”

“So, what, you built a new one?”

“No, no, I, uh…” You pause, realizing this is going to sound ridiculous.  “I reached out to the force, and it… fixed it.”

Poe stares blankly.

Desperate to move things along so as to not waste anymore time, you give up on trying to explain it.  “It would make more sense if I could show you.”

“Sure,” he says hesitantly, clearly not buying your story, but not in complete disbelief either.

“May I?” you ask softly, lifting your hand to his temple. 

He shoots you a confused look, but when your expression remains completely serious, he finally nods. 

You place your hand on the side of his head and call out to the force.  Please.  Let me show him.  Show him what you showed me...  Show him the wayfinder.

Your memories flash through the front of your mind- holding the wayfinder, hiding it, using it to find Luke, watching it shatter, reaching into the dark side to retrieve it, seeing Exegol, hiding it from Poe, hearing of it on the resistance base, and handing it to Poe.  You drop your hand in your lap, watching Poe’s expression shift from confusion to resolution.

“I’ll be damned,” he murmurs.  “You’re a special one, Kenobi.”  He stands.

“So you’ll get it to Rey?”

“I will.”

“Do you think General Organa will be okay with it?”

“I think she’ll be relieved to know it’s almost over.”

You nod, taking a deep breath in relief.  It’s almost over, you repeat to yourself.

“What’ll you do?”

You stand.  “You’ll need time to get everyone ready and get over to Exegol, right?”

He nods.

“I’m gonna buy you some time.”

His face falls as he mutters your name in disbelief, his head tilting slightly to one side.

“I’ll make sure the Order isn’t on your backs.  And if they are, like I said: I’ll buy you some time.  I’m kind of a big deal over there,” you joke half-heartedly.

He shakes his head.  “Are you sure?” he asks, concern saturating his tone.  He knows better than to try to stop you- not because you couldn’t be convinced otherwise, but because he knows damn well he’d try to pull the same card if he were in your shoes.  That was something the two of you undeniably had in common- the guts it takes to come up with big plans, and the iron will to try no matter how risky. 

“I’m sure,” you answer with a deep breath, “it’s the least I can do.”

He nods, reaching out to shake your hand.  You oblige, before he immediately pulls you into a proper hug.  “Just come back to us, okay?” he whispers.

“Only if you promise to come back too.”  You pull away just enough to look him in the eyes.

Poe lets out a breathy laugh.  “You’ve got a deal.”

With one final squeeze, you both let go.

Poe heads straight to his ship and you watch him take off.

You’re about to jump into your own ship when you pause for a moment.  Though you made a promise, you both knew it wasn’t one you were certain you could keep.  You decide that, just in case you don’t make it back to your new home- to your family- you want to get one last look at the place you grew up in.  Just a few minutes can’t hurt.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••  

He’s tearing through space in his TIE Whisper, combing through the galaxy using the force- though it isn’t helping as much as he had hoped.  He feels like he’s holding his hands straight out in front of him, reaching into darkness, feeling around blind, hoping that eventually his fingers will graze your shoulder just long enough for him to understand how he can reach you.  She’s close.  I can feel it.

He glances at the navigator and sees a familiar planet marked on the map.  He looks up, almost as if to confirm that this map isn’t lying to him too.  Coruscant is right there.  He thinks back to the tablet- to the tracker installed in his ship that you managed to remove.  He’s hesitant.  Would she really have come here?  Where I could so easily find her?  Is she leading me away from something else?  He debates diverting his path, feeling stuck between going after his latest lead and going after you.  If she is my way forward, he reasons, then I can have both.

Arriving at Coruscant, he sees a ship parked away from your home and lands next to it.  It felt odd to be back at this place- it’s been a while since he last visited.

With your first trip home, he used the tracker in your ship to pinpoint where your house was.  In between your visits home, he would stop by to search through your house, ensuring his own security.  Unfortunately, on one such visit, he ran into a woman dressed as a stormtrooper stocking up some food in your cupboards, her face red and stained with tears.  Even worse, he recognized her; she tried to replace him years ago.  He knew it would only be a matter of time before she turned you away from him, used you against him, or managed to do both.  He was quick to dispose of her.

He leaves his helmet in his ship and walks up to the doorway, in which the door was wide open.  For a moment, he worries that this is a trap, but the thought vanishes the moment he sees you.  You’re alone, humming to yourself as you stand in the center of the main area, looking around the space.  Again, he speaks your name into the silence.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••  

You jump at the sound of a familiar voice calling to you, whipping around to see Kylo standing in the door.

“I was worried I’d never find you again,” he professes breathily as he rushes towards you, raising his arms to embrace you.

You step back, uncertain of what to say.

He stops while his brows stitch together upward in a pained expression of confusion, arms slowly returning to his sides.

“I don’t need you anymore,” you assert, finally finding your words.  “I found someone to restore my memory.  I just wanna be home now.”

“But you promised…” he trails off.

Your heart breaks as you watch his face.  He looks exhausted.  Desperate.  Lost.  You think of the resistance and the friends counting on you as they prepare for their hardest fight yet.  You think of what Luke had said to you when you first met: ‘You can guide him back.’

“I can’t do this without you,” he adds, his voice hovering just above a whisper.

Taking a deep breath, you nod.  “Okay…  But I won’t go back to the Finalizer-”

“You won’t have to,” he interjects, “I know where to go.  Just come with me.  Please.”  He offers his hand to you.

You take it, your motions stuttering for a moment as a wave of déjà vu hits you- you’ve seen this before too.  Maybe this is how the force reassures me that this is the right way, you wonder, by reminding me of those visions.

As your hands join, you both pause to take in the moment before moving on.  Kylo leads you out of your house and onto his personal ship.  He plugs in a new set of coordinates and takes off.

You’re both silent on the way over.  Kylo is focused on piloting the ship, eager to get wherever it is you’re going as fast as possible.  Meanwhile, you’re thinking about everything that suddenly seems to be happening at once, worried that you’re bound to let someone down.  Before you can worry about it any longer, you seem to arrive at the destination as Kylo lands his ship.

He steps out and offers his hand to help you step down onto the slippery surface of the wreckage, surrounded by raging sea.  The roaring waves seem to you like a physical manifestation of the dark chaos that surrounds this place.  In your mental periphery, whispers tease as your thoughts.  You brush them off, focusing on your footsteps.  One step at a time. Keep moving forward.

Kylo guides you through the wreckage of the destroyed spacecraft, eventually making it to the room in which the wayfinder was kept.  Your heart stops as you watch him pick up a pyramid made of stone and green glass.  There’s another one?  As he picks up the guiding device, admiring it, your heart continues to sink as you realize: not only is our deal over, but now the resistance is in danger.

He turns to you.

“Is that the wayfinder?” you ask, hoping he’ll buy into your clueless act.  Think, you plead with yourself.

He nods.

“So… what did you need me for?”

“We can move forward now- together,” he begins, closing the gap between the two of you.

You pause for a moment, trying to think of something to say, desperate for a course of action.  I can’t convince him to stop.  But I can’t let him have that wayfinder.  Suddenly, it dawns on you.

You hold your hand out in front of you.  “Can I hold it?” you ask, softening your tone as best as you can.

“You won’t be able to use it.  You don’t even understand-”

“I know, but… The Force gives me visions.  Sometimes it shows me the past, sometimes it guides me towards the future.”  You place a hand on his shoulder.  “I want to understand,” you whisper.

He nods, gently placing the object in your hands. 

You take a couple of steps back as you stare down at it.  Visions of Exegol flood your mind again- but this time, darkness grows as lightning erupts from below the surface up into the sky above.  Your eyes widen.  No, focus, you reprimand yourself. You look up at Kylo.  Without another word, you think of Luke and smile.

“What do you see?” He asks as his face begins to light up.

With as much strength as you can muster, you catapult the wayfinder through the massive broken window on your left.

Kylo’s gaze follows the object as it flies into the violent waves outside.  In an instant, curious eyes flip to rage.  He draws his saber.

Without a moment of hesitation, you draw both of your own sabers.

“First, I killed your father,” he growls, his volume rising as he walks around you in a circle, “then, I killed your friend-”

Vilya, you realize in horror, no!

“Don’t make me kill you too,” he yells, his threat echoing against the metallic walls surrounding you.

With a yell, you charge at him, lifting both sabers and bringing them down towards his head.

A clash rings out as his saber crashes into your own, blocking your attack.  Kylo pushes up and to the right, forcing your blades off of his own and bringing them downward.

As he attempts to swipe at your legs, you jump and twist around to swing towards his arm.

He spins out of your blade’s path as you land and jumps off the mass of shrapnel behind him, pushing his blade straight down towards your shoulder.

You roll out of the way and jump up as Kylo swings at you again, meeting his blade with one of yours.  You aim your other saber at his side, but he swings down to catch it with is.

With an angry yell he begins to swing wildly, moving towards you.  You start to walk backwards to maintain distance, catching his blade with one of yours at the end of every swing.

Making your way out of the room, you manage to find an opening and graze his side as you spin your saber around his arm.

He retracts for just a moment- just long enough for you to turn and run.

He chases you outside of the decaying construct, catching the back of your thigh with the tip of his saber. 

With a cry, you reflexively spin around with your blades pointed towards him.  Your foot nearly slips on the soaked metal you stand on, but you manage to catch yourself and use it to slide over to dodge another attack.

Kylo continues to push you backward as he swings at you with increasing speed and ferocity, his anger guiding his every move.  He lifts his saber over his head and forces it downward, meeting both of your sabers crossed over one another in a screaming clash. 

You struggle to keep the red saber away as he pushes down, forcing you onto your knees.

“After everything I did for you,” he spats through gritted teeth, “you destroyed our future.”

Just as your arms are about to give out, the pressure suddenly lifts and Kylo stares out blankly.

He hears his mother’s voice calling out to him. ‘Ben,’ she whispers.

In an instant, you realize this is your only chance to get out alive.  I promised.  You spin back up to your feet and bring your blade down on Kylo’s thigh. 

He feels that she’s fading, and a searing pain in his leg tears him away from her, and then she’s gone.  He drops to his knees with a cry. 

Before he can retaliate at all, you’re sprinting towards his ship.  He stands to chase after you, but as he turns, he sees his father, Han Solo, standing in the way.  Another wave crashes over him.  The water comes down, and with it, Han Solo is gone.

And you are flying away.

I can still buy them time.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••  

When Kylo finally gets back to the Finalizer, you are the only thing on his mind.  Finding you has never been more crucial to his life’s work.

However, the moment he arrives, he’s called to the throne room.  His search will have to wait- just for a while.  Soon.

Walking in, he kneels before Snoke, who briefly delivers the news.

Time suddenly moves differently as the words ring in his mind.  ‘She’s been sent for execution.  She is useless to us now- and only a distraction to you.  A weakness to be eliminated.’

Unbridled fury blinds him and commands his body to move.  Though his mind is far from him, his body is swift in its delivery of judgement.  It all seems to move past him in a blur.  She’s dead, he hears, over and over and over in his mind, screaming louder and louder. She’s dead.  My future is gone before I could even reach her.  She’s dead.

When his body finally stops, his chest heaving in labored breath, he looks around him to see bodies scattered across the floor.  Snoke’s legs still sit in his throne, but his torso lies on the ground beside it.  The blood of the praetorian guards riddles their already-red suits with dark crimson splotches. 

He’s killed his way through everyone that attempted to confuse him- to turn him from his destiny- and yet he’s never felt so lost.

But before he has another moment to think, someone else reaches out to him.

‘Kylo Ren,’ a familiar voice called out in his mind, ‘You are losing your way- straying from the legacy of your grandfather.  Join me.  Allow me to guide you again.’

“Okay,” Kylo whispers to himself.  He finally tears his eyes away from the slaughter he’s surrounded himself with and heads to his ship, on which a map through the Unknown Regions has been transmitted.  Ignoring the unfolding chaos around him, he takes off from the Finalizer’s hangar, headed for Exegol.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••  

As the troopers drag you away for execution, adrenaline slows time down to a crawl.  You think about everything that has seemed to go wrong since you made it to Chandrila, and how every decision- whether for better or worse- has brought you here.  You think about your father, the man you never got to meet again who died just the same way you’re about to.  It’s almost poetic.  Almost.

You think about the people you care about.  Vilya, who sacrificed her livelihood and her life for you.  Poe, whose promise you’d be breaking.  Kylo, who may never make it back to the light.  Finn and Rey, who trained with you and welcomed you into the family you never had.  Luke, who became like a father to you.  Obi-Wan, the man who believed in you despite the odds, and would now have to be let down.

Be with me, Grandfather, you think as the troopers bring you to your knees, the laser ax humming near your ear.

‘Bring balance back to the force,’ his voice replied urgently, ‘balance, padawan.’

You hear the whispers of the dark side teasing your mind again, and this time, you take its hand.  In one swift movement, you wrench from their grasp, turn around, and lift both troopers off the ground in a chokehold with the force.  The moment they fall unconscious, you dash to the hangar, taking the lesser-known hallways and shortcuts you've grown acquainted with to get there as fast as you can undetected.  When you arrive, you run to the closest ship and hop in, taking off the moment the ship starts running.  Though some troopers notice your sudden departure via an unauthorized ship, their blasts are powerless against your escape.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••  

Arriving back to the resistance base, you’re surrounded by chaos.  Countless ships are beginning to take off, while many others are speeding around to gather their supplies and say just-in-case goodbyes and well wishes.  Looking for any familiar face, you find Finn handing off gear to some pilots.

“Finn!” You call out over the noise of the crowd, weaving through the bodies to reach him.

His head perks up at his name, and upon your arrival, he greets you.

“Have the others left yet?”

“Rey is already there.  I think Poe is on his way, but he’s still reaching out to our allies for help.”

You nod.  “What about General Organa?” you ask, realizing the normally hands-on general is nowhere to be seen.

Finn's face falls.  He glances to the pilots, who wear a similar expression, and they take the rest of the gear before promptly heading off to their respective ships. 

“She’s gone,” he says finally.

Your heart sinks.  I didn’t know…

“But we carry on,” he adds.  “In her honor, and in the name of everyone we've lost along the way.”  Finn puts his hands on your shoulders.  “We could use your help.”

“I’m no pilot-”

“No,” he interjects, shaking his head, “Help Rey.”

“I don’t know if I can-”

“You have to try,” he pleads.

His look of desperation takes you back.

“Someone has to try,” he reiterates.  “I’ve seen you train.  You’re the only one of us who can keep up with her, and I’m worried she can’t do it alone.”

“Okay,” you nod, “I’ll try.”

He pulls you in for a hug, whispering a ‘thank you’ beside your ear.

“I’ll see you later then,” you suppose.

“See you there,” he confirms as he takes off towards the base.

You get back into the ship you had taken from the Finalizer to find that Finn sent you the map they had retrieved from the wayfinder.  With a deep breath and a prayer to the force, you take off to Exegol.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••  

Rey steps off of her ship and onto the ground of Exegol with Leia’s lightsaber in hand.  Before her stands- no, floats- what must be an old Sith temple just above the planet’s surface.  She looks up at the massive black structure as lightning strikes the ground nearby at random.  She moves forward, eventually finding a platform that begins to lower her underground.

She watches the statues surrounding her grow in height as the platform falls lower and lower until it finally stops.  She steps off and follows the guidance of the force as it leads her into the amphitheater that holds Darth Sidious, held by the Ommin Harness, and his throne.  She slowly walks up to Sidious, who greets his granddaughter with an all-too ominous sense of anticipation. 

With words he knows will sting, Sidious taunts her, insisting that her legacy is here.  Though a comment on her parents and a threat to her friends tempts her for a moment to give in, the force pulls her back as she realizes:  I’m not alone.

You’ve arrived- she can feel it. And you’re just in time.

She steps away, the hum of her drawn saber echoing in the massive room.

Sidious senses a shift and pulls back.  At the same time, the Sovereign Protectors make their way out of the shadows.

Rey brings her blade up with a smile.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••  

Kylo lands beside an old X-Wing fighter when he arrives to the stormy planet.  The dark side is potent here, meaning that the light stands out all the more- and Rey is a crimson stain on a blanket of snow.  He doesn’t need to see her to know that she’s already here.  In his mind, though, it’s just one more person from a long line of people that must be eliminated.

“All these lives, just for control?” The voice of Han Solo beckons from behind, stopping Kylo in his tracks.

Kylo keeps his back to the ghost of his father.  “They’re sacrifices for the greater good.  Control can put an end to the suffering.”

“The suffering will never end, son.  It’s life.  And no matter how hard you try, you’ll always find more like me- people who want to really live.”

“I killed you!” Kylo bellows, fists clenching at his side. “What makes them any different?”

“Did you?” Han asks, taking steps towards his son.

Kylo stops.  For once, he’s wordless.

“No matter how hard we try to run, we always end up back home.  The sooner you accept that, the easier your life is gonna be, kid.”

“I have no home,” he laments, turning his head back just over his shoulder.

Then, Leia speaks: “Oh, that’s a terrible excuse.”

Finally, Kylo turns around to see his father and mother standing side by side, looking at him with nothing but compassion in their eyes.

“Pave a new path, Ben,” Leia beckons.

He takes a few long moments to think. 

“There’s so many choices,” he finally whispers.

“It never matters how many options there are,” she reassures him, “you’ll know which one is right.”

“But even the right path seems so dark now.”

“The light will find you,” Leia encourages.

“It always does,” Han adds.

His parents fade, and he turns to stare out to the horizon.  With a grunt, he throws his saber.  As it arcs in the air, a bolt of lightning strikes down, running through the lightsaber and reaching the ground.  The hilt cracks as it falls to the dead earth, the kyber crystal inside shattered into pieces.

No more.

“Ben?”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••  

When you arrive to Exegol, you take comfort in the feeling of having been here before; it gives you more confidence in your ability to help Rey.  Landing near the massive black box that seems to float on the planet’s surface, you notice two other ships are already there.  You take your place in line with them and step out of your ship. 

Your eyes are immediately drawn to the man you had been running from for so long now.  He stands at a distance, his body half-facing you, and yet he seems to be staring off into nothing, taking no notice of your arrival.  You watch as he throws his lightsaber into the horizon, a lightning bolt catching it as it flies.

You hesitantly walk towards him, but as you approach, you realize something is off.  The man before you is not at all the man you had come to know, and at the same time, he has never seemed to be more himself.  Suddenly, you’re reminded of one of the first times you had seen into his mind, all those months ago: the visions of his mother longing for him to come home- the sound of her calling his name.  As you look to the man before you, only one name comes to mind; so, in a shaky voice, you call to him:

“Ben?”

He turns to you.  The light.  His mind takes a moment to process the sight in front of him. He runs to you.  Before you can embrace, he stops just short.  But what if she’s only a ghost, too; here to haunt me for my failure?

You sense his hesitation, his fear, and his aching heart.  You take his hand in both of yours.  “It’s me,” you affirm softly.

His shoulders relax as he lets out a shaky, thankful breath.  She’s alive.  Despite his moment of blissful victory, he is still left unsure of what to do or say next.

Something tells you he didn’t come here to help.  Yet, you know now that he can.  Together, you think. 

“I have to do this,” you finally say, your voice carrying a greater confidence than you were used to.

“I know,” he says softly.

“And you do too.”

He nods.  “Together.”

You remove your sabers from your belt and hold them out in front of you.  Your eyes linger on the saber in your left hand- Anakin’s saber.  The one Kylo unknowingly brought you to in Tatooine.  The one Luke gifted to you and trained you with.  The one that could bring balance to the force when carried with the other.  Looking back up at Ben, you hand him his grandfather’s lightsaber.

You both draw your grandfathers’ blades as the Knights of Ren suddenly surround you.  Clashing blades and strained yells and thuds of bodies ring out in a cacophony accompanied by the sound of thunder as you fight.  As blades once turned against each other return back to weapons meant to work together, you both feel the spirits of Obi-Wan and Anakin guide your minds and your blades to act as one.  Though fighting well, the Knights of Ren could not stop the power set in motion by the two of you.

It's as if the force is using you both to heal a wound neither caused.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••  

Luke was first caught off guard by the smell of smoke, as if a giant bonfire had been started somewhere nearby.  It wasn’t until he saw the source of the smoke that he began to panic.

Running towards the old tree, he’s horrified to see flames engulfing the trunk.  As he begins to hopelessly attempt to put out the flames, he realizes Yoda has been standing there all along in his ghostly form.

“Help me!” Luke cries out in desperation.

“No need, there is.  Start the fire, I did.”

Luke stops as Yoda’s words sink in.  “You did what?”

“Time, it is.  Pave a new path, we must.  One of balance.  Set in motion, you must,” Yoda explains.

“But we could still use those!”

“Create something new, you cannot, if, cling to the old, you will.”

Though a little reluctant to admit it, Luke sees the truth of Yoda’s words, even if he disagreed with the drastic actions taken to underline them.  It was time to let go of the idea that there could only be one or the other- light or dark.  He could still leave a legacy, but it could be a better one; it could be dedicated to accepting the balance already within the force.

“So how do we start?”

“Your nephew- needs you, he does.  To Exegol, you must go.  Made right, wrongs will be.”

Luke wonders if perhaps the force will make a way for him, so he could still help guide his nephew; perhaps he didn’t fail Ben completely.  Maybe he could help his latest padawans, too.  But there’s only one way to know.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••  

You and Ben manage to finish off the Knights of Ren and make it down to the throne room of the Sith Citadel by the time Rey defeats the last of the Sovereign Protectors.

As Rey steadies herself again, the three of you line up and ready your blades.  For a moment, with the each of you giving it your all, it seems you just manage to counter every move Sidious can throw at you.  We have a chance of winning this.  However, after only a few moments of vicious back-and-forth attacks, Sidious forces the three of you backward.

Holding Rey and Ben back with the lightning that streaks from his hand, Sidious force chokes you, lifting you up and towards him.  “Give into your pain,” he growls at you. 

He then turns to Ben.  “Your anger made you stronger,” he taunts.  He throws you off to the side, your back slamming into the stone wall surrounding you. 

Using the force, he holds you there, a few meters off the ground.  “And you cannot save them all,” he cackles to Rey as the ceiling of the Citadel splits open.

Hanging above you are hundreds and hundreds of ships flying amidst a massive Sith fleet.  Canon blasts riddle the sky as the ships all fire at each other.  Suddenly, a gigantic bolt of lightning arcs up into the sky, splitting into hundreds of small branches, each attaching to a resistance ship.

As the lightning shoots upward, Sidious slams you to the ground.

You hear both Rey and Ben yell as you hit the ground with a thud and blackout.

When you come back to consciousness, you look up to see Luke standing a few yards away from Sidious.  Casting out from his hands is a cluster of lightning, aimed directly for Luke.

Luke’s eyes are set on Sidious, his determination made clear in his expression.  On the other side of the bolts of lightning are Luke’s hands, catching the lightning and pushing it backward.

Sidious laughs as Luke begins to slide backwards due to the force of the attack he’s holding back.

Blueish spheres of energy begin to build in front of Luke’s palms as he finally holds his ground and begins to take steps towards Sidious.

Sidious’ expression shifts to concern as Luke overtakes the power used against him and harnesses it.

With a shout, Luke pushes the energy he had channeled back to Sidious, and suddenly the lightning bolt branching out in the air above disappears as Sidious is forced backwards.  Cracking and crashing sounds ring out as the harness holding Sidious up and keeping him alive breaks down, some pieces falling to the ground.

Luke flies backwards from the resulting explosion, landing hundreds of feet away from the fight.

Ben jumps up with his saber, set to fly down on Sidious and split him in half, but he’s stopped just inches before his blade can touch the Sith.  His saber falls to the ground as he’s held in the air.

You finally manage to get to your feet and run to Luke, but before you can make it even halfway to him, you’re suddenly being dragged backwards towards Sidious.

In just a few moments, You and Ben have been forced to your knees side by side.  You watch helplessly as beams of whispering, swirling light are drawn out for your chest and his.  You feel the force cry out as you become increasingly weaker.  Your body fights to get into overdrive as death draws near, but to no avail.

A sick laughter echoes in the chamber as Sidious watches his decomposing body come back to life, sapping the power of a dyad.

Suddenly, the pressure holding you and Ben up relieves and you both drop.

Rey stands between you, two sabers clutched in her hands.

Another arc of lightning crackles over your head, which Rey catches and pushes back with Obi-Wan’s saber.

“I,” Sidious bellows, his voice ringing out in the room and in your minds as you struggle to stay awake, “am all the Sith.”

Rey begins to push forward.  As she passes you, you can hear the voices of countless people whispering.  This time, the whispers aren’t dark, hissing threats.  Instead, light seems to glow around her as the whispers make her stronger.

“And I,” she answers through gritted teeth, drawing Anakin’s saber and crossing the blade over Obi-Wan’s, “am all the Jedi.”

She reaches the steps of Sidious’ decayed throne and forces the lightning back onto him. 

His flesh begins to rip and tear away from his bones.  He cries out in agony as his power, his throne, and his life are finally ripped away from him for the last time until there is nothing left.

The moment he’s gone, you glance up at the skies to see the Sith ships explode as the resistance ships- now recovered and revitalized with hope- destroy everything that’s left.

You smile weakly, looking back to Ben to make note of the victory, but he’s no longer there.

He sits beside Rey, who lies limp on the ground.

You manage to crawl over to her.

“Do something,” he pleads to you.

I’m the healer.  I should be able to do something.  You look down and gingerly take Rey’s body from Ben’s hands.  As you hold her, though, you sense that she is too far gone for any tincture or medicine.

“Give her to me,” Luke instructs softly as he kneels down next to you.

You look up at him hesitantly as you shift Rey from your lap into his.

“It’s time we bring an end to the Jedi, too,” he begins, looking between you and Ben as he holds Rey, one hand cradling her head while one rests on her stomach.  “One extreme will always foster the growth of the other.  Forge a new way.”

You nod, and though you don’t understand why, something churns in your stomach telling you that this is goodbye.

Ben nods, and it seems he understands more than you do.  “Thank you,” he whispers, his eyes sparkling as they well up.  A tear gently rolls down his cheek in silence.

With a soft smile, Luke closes his eyes and calls out to the force one last time.  He takes a deep breath.

Rey’s breathing grows stronger as color comes back to her body.  She looks over to you, then to Ben, then to Luke.

You smile at the sight of Rey sitting up, her strength renewed.

She turns to Luke to thank him, but before the words make it out, Luke disappears.

You blink a few times as you look down to see his robes left behind in his place.

Rey turns back to you both with a grin, sharing a knowing look.

Though he’s gone, you realize you can still sense his presence, and you finally understand.

Without wasting another moment, you pull Rey and Ben into an embrace.  You all let out a breathy, almost incredulous laugh.  We did it.  We won.

You all help each other onto your feet and stand.  Rey gathers the robes of her mentor and calls the stray sabers to her hands.  You and Ben take your sabers back from Rey and look up to the skies. 

Though the ships are no longer firing, and most are still, you can almost hear their cheers from down here.  One by one, the resistance and their allies begin to take off, heading back to wherever they came from.

The three of you silently return to your ships.  Rey gets into hers first.

“I’ll meet you there,” you promise.

She nods, thanking the both of you one last time, and takes off to return to the resistance base.

You watch her leave before looking back down at Ben, who can’t seem to take his eyes off of you. 

He closes the gap between you and wraps his arms around you in a strong embrace.

You return the affection without a moment of hesitation.

While you’re holding each other, it feels as if something has finally finished; as if a chapter is closed- one that you both-and the force itself- were waiting for all along.

You let go just enough to see Ben’s face and, with as much courage as you have left, kiss him.

When you finally pull away from each other, you both wear a bright smile.

“I need to return to my friends,” you finally say.

“Go,” he encourages, walking backwards to his ship.

“Where will I find you?”

“I’ll be home.”

You laugh as you watch him take off.  You know he means your home, in Coruscant- but, you do like the idea of sharing it with him.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ •• 

Arriving back to the resistance base, you struggle to find a place to land among the scattered ships that were hastily parked and the masses of people celebrating the final victory.  Eventually, you do find a place to comfortably park your ship.

Although you’re exhausted from the insane day you had just endured, you’re also antsy to see your friends again.  You wander through the clusters of people, scanning for anyone you recognize.  You realize trying to ask anyone for direction would be hopeless- not just because they would have no real answer, but also because they’re caught up in their own moments.  Finally, your eyes land on Rey and Finn, locked in a tight embrace. 

You jog over to them and see a weary looking Poe approaching the couple.  You run straight to him, nearly toppling him over in a hug.  He lets out an easy laugh.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“For what?”

“For keeping your promise.”

“Only because you kept yours,” he answers, relief clear in his voice. 

You lightly peck his cheek and pull away.

He gives you a wink before Finn barges in and hugs Poe, the two of them laughing.  You turn to Rey and the two of you embrace again, your laughter joining the cacophony of jubilation that surrounds you all.

It’s over.  You all won.  And you can change the future for the better.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ •• 

After some retellings of the battles you each fought and making plans to meet up again to discuss the journey that now lies before you all, you decide it’s time to head back home.  You start making your way back to your ship to see Luke leaning against it, grinning as he waves at you.  Beside him is Obi-Wan, arms crossed, watching with a smile.  The two of them, though appearing to you clear as day, seem to be somewhat translucent.  You stop in your tracks.

“Thank you,” you whisper to them, “for everything.”

With a wink from one and a nod from the other, they fade away.

You get back to your ship and arrive at Coruscant to see Ben standing outside, leaning against the doorway of your home as he watches the sunset.  When you reach him, he lifts and spins you in another hug, setting you back down with a kiss.  There is so much to say, but for now, it will have to wait.

The two of you head inside to celebrate, rest, and dream about the future you will create together.

(Epilogue)

[nanamisweetgirl]

🜼 ⋆ trying to be sneaky and ride nanami whilst he only agreed for cockwarming.

you’re in his lap, straddling him, fully seated on his cock—and he hasn’t moved in ten minutes.

his hand rests loosely around your waist. the other? flipping pages in the open file on his desk, highlighter cap between his teeth, eyes lazily scanning fine print as if he’s not balls-deep inside you.

your thighs tremble. your panties are shoved to the side, the head of his cock kissing your cervix in a way that makes your lower belly ache. he hasn’t even fucked you yet. just sat you down on it and said, calm as ever, “be still for me. just a little while.”

a little while feels like forever.

his cock is hot and thick inside you, stretching you perfectly, pulsing with every beat of his heart—and you swear it twitches every time you breathe too loud.

you whimper, hips shifting just slightly to ease the ache.

his fingers dig into your hip without looking up.

“don’t.”

you freeze.

his voice is low, not mean—but there’s a warning in it. a sharpness.

“sweet girl,” he murmurs, highlighting a sentence, “if you can’t sit still with my cock in you, maybe i’ll make you kneel under the desk instead. would you like that?”

you whimper again, leaning into his chest.

he finally looks at you—over the rim of his glasses, eyes lazy but stern.

“what is it?”

you pout. “just wanna move a little…”

he chuckles, the pad of his thumb rubbing soft circles on your waist. “you’re already so greedy. i let you warm me, and now you want more?”

his tone is light, but then your hips roll again—just a twitch—and he hisses through his teeth, grip tightening hard around your hips.

“stop.”

your breath catches.

he sets the file down finally, eyes meeting yours, jaw tense.

“i’m trying to concentrate here, sweet girl,” he says lowly, voice laced with heat and restraint. “if i start fucking you now, i’m not getting any work done.”

your cunt clenches around him involuntarily. his eyelids flutter.

“…don’t do that either,” he mutters. you blink up at him. “do what?”

“that thing you just did,” he growls, suddenly sliding his hands under your ass and grinding you down once, hard, making you cry out. “you’re gonna make me lose my patience.”

and then he pauses—looks back at the file.

sighs. like this is just another delay in his long day.

“…five more minutes,” he murmurs, adjusting you in his lap. “and then i’ll give you what you want. until then…”

his lips ghost your ear.

“don’t. fucking. move.”