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lamentationsofalonelypotato · 2 months ago

Text

Not Without You Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester xf!reader, Dean POV and Reader POV

Summary: A cursed crown, teenagers, an evil goddess bent on revenge, and two best friends who have secretly been in love for years. What could go wrong?

Word Count: 11.7K

Tropes: Angst, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers (Eventual), Cursed Objects, Supernatural Scenarios.

Warnings: Fluff, Flirting, Cursing, Violence, Drama Mutual Pining, A little bit of self deprecation (Dean), Sadness, Angst (it's me are y'all surprised?). KIDNAPPING (or adult-napping?), Older Dean? A little bit of a fix it fic to the ending of Supernatural, Reader is also a hunter but a bit soft, Reader likes to cook and tease Dean, Sexual Innuendo, Sexualish thoughts? Dean might be a little bit OOC.

A/N: Hey y'all I started writing this fic for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! She made the super awesome moodboard pictured above! I'm not going to lie I didn't mean for this to be more than one part, but I couldn't stop.

Internal monologue is in first person and is in italics.

Here In A Forest Dark and Deep, I Offer You Eternal Sleep...

There is a place where the sun dare not go, where shadows slip and curl over smooth rocks glazed with dew, where the river boils and froths with white, and where a snarl of branches twist and tangle overhead.

A place where the wind breathes through the eaves, sending leaves to scuttle and crackle over stone. A place that no one man can find. A place that time no longer touches.

An ancient place deep and dark and full of secrets.

A hidden crag overgrown with grass and vine where darkness writhes, silent, restless, shielded from sun and storm. Waiting in the broken remnants of a forbidden grove lost to time.

She slumbers there.

Forgotten.

Buried.

Nothing more than a myth from a world bathed in blood and silver. The cave rumbles with the memory of times forgotten. The clash of swords, the sharp tang of blood, the caw of the birds that feasted on the fallen, the roars of men scorned, and the cries of despair from the women left behind to waste into nothing waiting for them to return

Still she sleeps.

Enrobed in emerald.

Entombed in cobwebs.

Waiting in the still silence for someone to speak her name and call her forth from this forgotten tomb.

And when the world burns she will claim what is owed her.

Dean POV

Dean couldn't put his finger on it, but something was wrong.

Frankly, in his life something was always wrong, and years of him living out on the road chasing after things that went bump in the night meant that he was usually better at pin pointing directly what that was.

But not right now.

Right now, Dean Winchester felt like a cardboard box that went toe to toe with a semi-truck.

He groans to himself as he stirs from an unfit sleep, feeling the bones of his arms pop as he stretches them above his head, groaning again before settling down into the creaky bed. He'd been up late researching a case, the evidence of which was strewn all over the small motel room he was inhabiting.

Scraps of paper, books, and printed newspaper articles were in different stages of crumple all over the bed and the small table under the front window was covered in papers and stacked high with ancient books, kept company by a week old half-drunk bottle of beer and a greasy bag full of stale fries that stagnated nearby. A broken pen drips black ink from the table in a steady thump, the sunflower shaped stain growing steadily across the musty red carpet.

Dean presses his palms into his eyes, with another groan, the throb of his head like a thunderclap.

Fuck, I drank too much last night.

He had.

Dean was stuck in a rut and he'd thought that by drinking a little more, maybe he'd be able to crack the case that had held him hostage for the past two weeks in the armpit of America, but he still had nothing.

Zero, Zilch, Nada.

The three murders that had caught his attention two weeks ago now mocked him from every angle of the disheveled motel room. He'd exhausted every option, read every page of his dad's journal, called every number in his phone, but no one seemed to be able to find a connection between the three men who were killed.

The only person he hadn't called was Sam.

A frown pulled on the end of Dean's mouth at the thought of his brother. He hadn't spoken to him in… Dean scrunches up his face trying to remember the last time he talked to Sam.

Can't have been more than a few days? Okay maybe a week-

The thought of his brother made a dull ache throb in the center of his chest, the guilt that Dean was trying to ignore coming to the surface when he was still half asleep and vulnerable.

Things were different now.

Dean didn't want to bother his brother with something like this, not when Sam was living the white-picket fence American Dream out west with Eileen who was pregnant and due any day. Dean knew that his brother didn't need the extra stress, Sam had a new job, he was moving on from all of this, and Sam didn't need a reminder of the life he used to have. Not when Sam had a new life that made him happy.

And not when Dean didn't know who he was or what he was hanging on to anymore. Sometimes Dean wasn't sure if he was still chasing after things that other people ran from or after the young man he used to be.

Dean was reminded of that every morning when he woke up, the gray flecks in his hair and beard that had become more prominent, the crows feet beneath his eyes rimmed with dark circles, and the way his back and knees cracked when he stood up. Dean was still in good shape, but lately he was feeling his age more than anything else.

Maybe it was because everyone else was moving on and he wasn't sure who he was anymore.

The lack of sleep didn't help, but Dean had been dealing with it all the way he usually did, by pushing down his feelings into the deep dark hole where they wouldn't see the light of day. The same feelings that began to unravel in the middle of the night when all was quiet and kept Dean from the sound sleep he so desperately needed.

Dean sits up a little too quick and sighs to himself when his head spins. He was in desperate need of coffee, or something to make the hangover stop. He sniffs the air, still not opening his eyes, and runs his right hand through his hair shaking through the blondish-brown strands.

The strong smell of coffee and cinnamon floats through the air making Dean’s stomach rumble.

Shit. I want it so bad I’m imagining it. Oh wait no. Maybe I’m having a stroke. Is that toast?!

"Morning Sunshine." A familiar voice sing-songs. "How'd you sleep?"

Dean's head snaps up to the small kitchenette, while one of his hands instinctively goes for the gun underneath his pillow.

You're standing there with a wide smile on your face, a spatula in one hand, and wearing one of Dean's favorite t-shirts over a pair of blue jeans. Your eyes sparkle with mirth at the sight of Dean, hair mused from sleep, eyes just a little manic in surprise at your greeting.

Dean blinks for a second, not sure if it's really you or if he's still dreaming. The cold metal of the gun shoved under his pillow grounds him. He says your name hesitantly. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop in, see if you were eating trash." You gesture with the spatula to the greasy brown paper bag on the table by the door and the large pile of to-go boxes in the trashcan. "Something you want to confess to?"

"Those aren’t mine officer." Dean cracks an easy grin holding up his hands in surrender, the gun forgotten.

It felt good to smile. Dean couldn't remember the last time he had.

"Still a bad liar." You roll your eyes and turn back to the hotplate. "I'm borrowing your shirt, because it was pouring when I got here and my duffel got wet. And before you say anything, I know, I know I should get a new one, but it's my lucky bag! And my lucky bag just so happens to not be waterproof."

Dean spots your duffle by the front door where it's split open and multicolored clothes erupt out of it. He leans forward to look into his bathroom, catching a peak of your clothes hanging from various places to dry. Something stirs in the pit of his stomach when he sees a collection of bras hanging from the towel rack, and he tries to avoid getting too excited at the image of you wearing them.

Dean and you had been best friends since you were both twelve. His dad and yours had served in the war together, a fellow soldier who stumbled upon the supernatural in his own right. And every few months your dad and Dean's would plop Sam, him, and you in front of a tv in a motel room and go off to get a drink. They'd be gone for hours, while Sam, Dean, and you gorged yourself on junk food and late-night TV.

And despite what Dean thought about girls at that time, you were cool. You knew just as much about cars as he did, you too were obsessed with rock music, you knew how to handle yourself, and you weren't afraid of anything.

As the two of you grew up, you never lost touch. You’d text each other from the road, complain about your dads, exchange mix tapes of music that you’d burned (Dean had a whole box under the front seat of Baby that was purely music you'd given him), shared motel rooms, joined each other on hunts, and you’d call him whenever you could, talking for hours into the night so long that Dean would close his eyes and pretend that you were laying there right beside him instead of miles away.

Dean loved it when that happened. When his mind wouldn't shut up and he needed something to distract him, and all it took was you calling in the middle of the night to send him off into the sweet abyss of sleep while he imagined you laying beside him.

Dean didn't know how you did it, but you always seemed to know when he needed you, almost as if you had a supernatural alarm that went off in your head whenever he was lonely.

Which was a lot especially now that Sam was gone. And usually Dean would try to find someone to occupy his time at a local bar, but lately he hadn't wanted to, all he'd wanted was to talk to you. Every time that something happened, you were right there, the person that Dean always needed when things went to shit.

But it wasn't just in the bad.

Whenever he and Sam were out on the road, sometimes you'd bump into them calling it a 'happy accident,' and Dean and you would lay on his bed at a motel talking and listening to a mixtape through a walk-man, sharing the earbuds just like you used to when you were teenagers lounging in Baby's backseat drinking milkshakes and eating French fries. And when Dean woke up in the morning with his body curved protectively around yours while you curled into him, your soft breath on his neck and his face buried in your hair, it felt right, as if you belonged there in his arms.

But despite everything the two of you had been through, you were just friends.

A thirty-four year friendship and Dean didn't want to mess that up. He'd messed up so many things in his life, lost so much, and he couldn't lose you. You were more than just his friend, you were his family as much as Sam. And Dean knew that his feelings had passed friendship forever ago, but he refused to act on it.

Not when Dean was sure he wouldn't recover if you ever cut him out of your life.

So Dean did his best to pretend. Pretend that he didn't imagine a life with you beyond all of this, beyond all the running, and the hunting. Because Dean would never admit this out loud, but he was tired.

He was so tired and sometimes when the world slowed down and there was only the quiet of the night, the buzz of the whiskey in his system, and the whisper of your voice in his ear, Dean imagined more. He imagined what it would be like if the two of you had something like Sam and Eileen, what that would look like, if it could happen.

Dean wasn't sure that he'd ever be able to have what his brother had. If he deserved that. He'd tried with Lisa and he still couldn't think about her without feeling an ache in the pit of his stomach.

Sometimes Dean wondered if you wanted that too. He'd heard you talk about slowing down in the past, finally settling down, getting away from all of this, but other than a handful of boyfriends that Dean never once got along with (including one whom he broke his nose), Dean had never seen you try.

He wished you would. Not that Dean wanted you to be with anyone else, just that Dean wanted you to be safe, not out along the road God knows where dealing with this shit alone. He'd been doing this as long as you had and he still knew that sometimes he needed help even if he didn't ever admit it aloud or want to.

Not to mention that lately all he could think about was you. His anxiety since Sam left had only worsened and his phone calls to you had gone from 3-4 a week to every day.

Dean needed to hear your voice. He was an addict of the worst kind, but he didn't care. Not when hearing you say his name was like a soothing balm, a cold beer after a long hunt, a hot shower that made each muscle un-tense and unwind, and a strong but steady hand braced against his shoulder.

But being here with you in person, couldn't compare to that feeling.

"But I'm pretty sure this is mine and you stole it." You continue, thumbing the soft fabric at the bottom of the shirt with your free hand, oblivious to Dean's train of thought. "Been looking everywhere for it."

"No way!" Dean exclaims getting out of bed. "That's my Metallica shirt. Got it twenty years ago."

"I remember buying this shirt from a vendor young enough to be my son, who kept mispronouncing the name of the lead singer, while you complained that we were missing the opening song." There's a flash of silver from a knife as you begin to cut up a handful of strawberries with a practiced precision, twirling it in your hand once for show.

"We were missing the opening song." Dean laughs. "And I paid for it!"

"Yes, but you said you wanted to get me something and I wanted to get a shirt before the concert, because who knows what would be left over after!"

Dean only shakes his head at you. "I think you're just getting old Sweetheart. They say the memory is the first thing to go." Dean smirks, while you give him a death glare over your shoulder.

"Say what you want," You point the knife at him in a cute, but threatening way, "but you've had custody of this for twenty years, and now it's my turn."

Dean rolls his eyes, before his gaze sweeps through the small kitchenette and he notices the collection of plastic bags on the counter. It looked like you’d brought enough groceries to feed a small army despite there being only two of you. You always did that whenever you showed up, toting food that Dean wouldn't usually have around. He frowned at the prospect of eating vegetables.

But Dean didn't care, you were here and that's all that mattered. And he also hoped that the large amount of groceries meant that you would be staying with him for a while.

He'd missed you more than he realized.

Sure the two of you talked on the phone at least four times each week and Dean always got a random text from you at sometime during the day, but nothing compared to being here with you.

He approaches slowly, sniffing the air again while he tries to figure out what you're cooking and if he'll eat it. Dean wasn't sure he'd like it. Not that you were a bad cook, but over the past few years you'd been trying to get him to eat a little healthier. Sneaking vitamins into his burgers, making things that had less grease and more greens, and Dean would sigh and eat every bite because you told him to.

Of course you would complain almost as much as he did about eating healthy. You weren't exactly a health food nut and loved fast food, but you knew that Dean rarely got a good home cooked meal and Dean thought it was kinda cute when you'd show up toting bags filled with fruits and vegetables out of the blue talking about A1C numbers.

He stops about a foot behind where you're fusing with a frying pan on the stove, turning over some white object with the spatula.

"Hey." Dean says softly, leaning back on his heels.

You turn around to look at him, really look at him. "Hi." Your smile makes Dean a little weak in the knees.

The hug that follows sets Dean on fire.

You pull him in tight, nuzzling your face into his chest with a happy sigh, while Dean curves his entire body around you. It was moments like this that Dean thought that you were made for him, because there was a little you-shaped nook under his jaw that allowed him to rest his chin on the top of your head while he squeezes you just as tight against him.

The smell of cinnamon and something citrusy comes as he holds you closer, the same perfume you'd had since you were sixteen, the one that you always left behind when you stayed with him. Sometimes Dean found himself using the pillow you borrowed when you left, inhaling the smell of your shampoo until it faded and there was nothing.

When you were with him Dean actually slept, as if just being in your presence made all the anxiety and the memories of the past fade away.

He could feel a melancholic feeling bubbling up in the back of his throat as he holds you, something he can't name, but embraces. Dean feels your hands slowly rub up and down his back in a soothing motion that makes him tighten his grip and lean further into you so heavily that you stumble back a little step.

When you laugh Dean feels like he's in heaven.

"Missed me huh?" You murmur into his shirt, but you don't let go of him.

More than you know.

"Nope."

"Liar." Your body shakes with your giggle as you pull back to look at him, still not completely releasing him. "I missed you too."

"I know. You can't live without me." Dean smirks.

He watches you raise an eyebrow to challenge him.

"Says the guy holding on so tight he's going to snap my spine." You joke, but Dean watches something flash in your eyes that isn't humor, and you gently release him so you can touch his cheek. Your thumb gently traces over his cheekbone, palm cupping his strong jaw.

Dean swallows at the sudden contact, his heartbeat fluttering like a damn teenager, but he can't stop himself from leaning into your hand. Despite your time as a hunter, the palm of your hand is soft, your touch reverent as you cup his jaw, not bothered by the prick of stubble that Dean is sure you can feel.

It was longer than usual. Dean kept putting off shaving, it had been a few days and he was sure that you were clocking the beard.

"I was worried about you." You say with a soft sigh, a worried frown on your face. "You sounded bad on the phone last night, and when I called Sam he said you've been dodging his calls."

"I'm fine." Dean sighs, but he knows that you can see right through him, that there's no point of trying to lie. "And I have not been dodging his calls! He just happens to call at the worst time."

"Uh-huh. Well how come whenever I call, you pick up?"

"Because you have better timing than Sammy, always have Sweetheart."

You roll your eyes at him, but don't move your hand from his cheek. Dean watches your gaze soften as you study him, eyes tracing his features in a way that always makes Dean feel stripped bare, open, and vulnerable.

"Really Dean. How are you?"

He sighs again, debating if he should try to lie again, but he knew that it was fruitless. You knew him better than he knew himself, not to mention you could always tell when he was lying. Your internal lie detector for his bullshit was practically mystical. Dean never understood how you did it, just that he hated it.

Not really.

"Don't try to lie. We both know you can’t do that to me." You narrow your eyes, brow furrowed, but you don't lose the concern that hangs heavy in your gaze.

"I'm a little tired." He admits reluctantly.

"I could have told you that."

"Shut up." Dean snorts out a laugh, but then raises his own hand to touch the dark circles ringed under your eyes. "How long did you drive to get here?"

"Few hours." You shrug.

Dean's frown deepens. Just as you could tell when he lied, Dean knew every tick you had. The twitch of your upper lip, the subtle tilt of your head, the arch of an eyebrow- Dean knew you better than he knew himself.

"Fine, ten but-"

"Are you kidding me? Ten straight?! You should be asleep, not cooking for me."

Damn it she always does this. She always runs herself so thin.

Of course this was also the same thing that you'd said to Dean countless times and he never listened. It was different, he was him and you were you.

You were more important.

"I like cooking for you Deanie." You pinch his cheek with a grin, using the stupid nickname you made up for him years ago. Usually it makes Dean roll his eyes, but not tonight. He missed you so damn much that it makes him smile. "Plus I drank way too much coffee on the way in and I have so much energy. I'm waiting to hit the wall. While you were asleep I also thought about reorganizing your bag, but I didn't want to snoop through your dirty underwear."

"Hasn’t stopped you before." Dean smirks.

"Shut up, I do not snoop through your dirty underwear. Just your clean clothes for shirts that are mine."

"It's not yours and you're not keeping it!"

"It is and I am. Now sit down." You shoo him away to the small folding table that you'd pulled down from the wall and set for breakfast. "I would have woken you up, but you're like a damn grizzly bear in the morning so I thought I'd play it safe and let you follow your nose."

"For the fruity taste that shows." Dean chuckles.

"You can remember the Fruit Loops commercial, but you can't remember to not eat fried food at every meal?"

"Priorities, sweetheart."

“Dean I’m serious. We’re not kids anymore, you can’t eat how you usually do without consequences. You know that cheese looks exactly the same in your arteries as it does on a plate and I-" You continue to chatter, subtly scraping a spatula along the bottom of the pan on the stove, but Dean doesn't hear any of it.

Yeah. We’re not kids anymore.

He thinks to himself as his eyes trace your figure. Dean could still see the shades of the girl he met when he was a boy, the one with the bright eyes that always saw through him and the wide smile that made him feel like his insides were molten lava. The same girl who knew whenever Dean needed her, the same girl that always made sure he was taken care of, the same girl who always had his back, and the same girl that Dean had loved since the moment he first saw her.

Sitting there, watching you cook in the small kitchenette Dean couldn't help but admire the woman you became. Although you were only a few months younger than him, age had been kinder to you than him.

The few gray hairs that wove through the hair you had tied at the back of your head were like braided silver, the curves of your figure softened by a gentle hand, and the smile lines on your face only made you look kinder, softer. Nothing like the hunter Dean knew you were. There were signs of wear around your eyes that Dean didn't like, the permanent dark circles that curved under your eyes a little more prominent this morning, but you were still just as beautiful as the day Dean met you.

And even though you kept saying that it was your shirt, Dean was trying not to focus on how good you looked in his clothes or how it made him think that you looked like you were his.

The thought makes an uncomfortable feeling rise in his chest.

As much as Dean wanted you, there was another part of him that whispered that you deserved better than him, that out there was a man who was worthy of your love, not him. Not someone broken down from years of hunting, not someone who barely knew who they were anymore, and not someone who would only drag you down.

“Dean did you hear what I asked?” You say raising an eyebrow.

“Nope.” He clears his throat, shaking off the feeling that makes his heart sink into the pit of his stomach.

You huff out a sigh as if you're not surprised. “I asked when was the last time you ate something green?”

“Last night.”

Dean watches you narrow your eyes in suspicion. “A piece of lettuce on a burger does not count.”

“It’s green-“

“And I bet you picked it off.”

“It left it’s essence behind!”

“Ah yes essence of wilted leaf. How nutritious.” You huff out an annoyed sigh, but when you turn back to him there’s humor flickering in your eyes. “Here.” You place a plate in front of him. “Egg white omelet with spinach and onions, a piece of bacon, fruit salad, and oatmeal.”

Dean wrinkles his nose in disgust and mashes his spoon down into the oatmeal like a toddler, squishing it around on the plate.

This looks like brains.

“And if you eat it all," You continue as you turn back to the counter for the glass decanter of coffee. "I’ll give you an extra piece of bacon.”

“Real bacon?” Dean perks up at the thought.

“Yep. 100% heart attack inducing, cholesterol raising, pig bacon.”

“Fine.” He grumbles.

“Good boy.” You snort setting down a cup of black coffee to the left of his plate. “You know, Sam didn’t give me any trouble when I used to make breakfast for him too.”

“Sam’s a health food freak. I wouldn’t be surprised if he and Eileen are vegan now.” Dean says beginning to shovel the omelet into his mouth.

He fights the urge to moan out in pleasure. He wasn't expecting it to taste so good. You were always a good cook, but Dean still hadn’t expected this to taste anything like this.

Dean glances up and sees the triumphant smile on your face. "Good huh?"

"It’s okay." He mutters through a mouthful of egg and spinach.

"You're insufferable." You throw a grape at him. "But I don't think they're vegan. Eileen's got the ultimate diet now. None." You sigh mournfully, trailing one hand down to your stomach, squeezing and make a face. "Oh to be pregnant and not worry about gaining the extra weight. I swear I've been trying to exercise more, and it does absolutely nothing-"

"I think you look beautiful." The words slip out of Dean's mouth before he can stop them, and he tenses, fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

"Aww." You lean over to pinch his cheek with a sweet smile. "Thanks Deanie. But no amount of flattery will get you any brown sugar for your oatmeal."

Dean laughs a little too hard for that to cover up his slip, but something inside sinks a little bit when you don't react to his compliment. He wished that you believed him. The uncomfortable feeling comes back, this time pinching just under his rib cage. He hated when you spoke that way about yourself, and Dean noticed that you had started to say things like that more and more as the years crept by.

Making faces at your reflection and making subtle comments under your breath mocking all the ways your body had changed and aged. But the truth was, you were beautiful, always had been beautiful to him. And even though you could never see it, Dean did. He thought that the years made you only look better, aged you like a fine wine as cliche as that sounded.

"Okay. I am going to take a shower and wash the road off, then we can talk shop and figure out how to solve this case." You say walking over to your duffle, sorting through for your toiletries bag.

"And how do you know I haven't solved it?" Dean asks, glancing over his shoulder at where you're bending over your bag.

He's trying not to stare at your ass, he really is, but damn it those jeans are his favorite. Somehow they're worn in just right, accentuating the natural curves of your body and your butt. He swallows the lump in his throat and starts to think about taxes, AI, Clowns, the skin that shapeshifters leave behind- anything to avoid the situation happening in his very thin sweatpants that would leave absolutely nothing to the imagination if his mind kept going down the road it was.

Damn it. Get it together Winchester.

"The beard is kinda a dead give-away." You straighten from the duffle, cocking your hip to the side, and lean back as you look through the smaller fabric bag of toiletries in your hand, looking for something that Dean can't see.

Dean clears his throat, trying not to notice the way your boobs are pushed out from your chest as you lean back.

Sam’s chubby imaginary friend. That ridiculous suicidal teddy bear. Rowena- Okay wait that last one is not helping.

“You don’t like it?” Dean clears his throat.

It’s so hot in here.

“Oh I love it. Very sexy. Like a lumberjack who lives under the highway.” You smirk. “But when I’m done I kinda hope you take one too.”

“Why?”

“Because you also smell like a lumberjack who lives under the highway.”

“I thought I’d commit to the role.”

“Very convincing.” You start to walk to the bathroom, but when Dean turns around to his plate he feels your arms go around him once more. “I missed you Deanie.” You whisper on a soft breath, burying your face in the space between his shoulder and his neck.

Dean inhales another gulp of your perfume like an addict, relaxing into your embrace. It was the first time he could remember in a long time feeling relaxed, probably since the last time he saw you a few months ago, when you were helping him on a vamp case and saved him from a near miss with a twisted piece of metal.

Dean didn't like to think about 'what if,' but you did. And after when the two of you got back to the bunker, Dean remembered you hugging him and refusing to let him go for a while. It took your favorite mixtape that Dean burned for you when you were seventeen and sitting on his bed for an hour after to help you relax, until you fell asleep curled up against Dean muttering things that he couldn't understand into his chest.

He sighs to himself feeling the tightness of your arms around his body, leaning into you. “I missed you too sweetheart.”

Reader POV

"I cannot believe that you couldn't figure out this was a vengeful spirit." You snort, grabbing the shovel that Dean holds out to you.

The half moon above the cemetery bathed the tombstones in a silver glow, washing the concrete slabs white beneath its rays. The wind that sifted through the trees overhead held the chill of winter, rustling the branches, and sending the loose leaves down around where Dean and you were standing at the back of Baby.

It had taken you exactly forty five minutes to solve the case that had taken Dean two weeks. Maybe it was because luck was on your side and a fourth (not so lucky) victim was found this morning, or maybe it was because Dean was well…

You bite the inside of your cheek as you examine your best friend.

Dean looked bad.

You had heard it on the phone last night when he talked to you, sensed it in the way he spoke. The long pauses, the heavy sighs, even the words he was using… you knew that something was wrong.

And it scared you.

It scared you even more when Sam told you that Dean was dodging his calls. That was also never a good sign.

So you packed up in the middle of the night, abandoning the case you were on, and took a ten hour drive to get to Dean. You'd driven far longer for far less, but you didn't care.

When you'd lock picked the motel room door and seen the mess Dean was living in, it only justified the drive. Yes, Dean was usually a little more messy than you, but this was different.

The stacked to-go boxes and bottles of whiskey in the overflowing trash can, the empty beer bottles scattered around the room, the mess of his clothes on the floor, and even Dean himself. The stale smell of him and the beard were dead give aways for you. It broke your heart. You knew that Dean was lonely, had been for a long time, even when he was with Sam at the bunker, but now was worse.

Making him breakfast had made you feel a little better, seeing that he still had an appetite for something that wasn't in a bottle was comforting, but you knew that you weren't going to leave him anytime soon.

You were going to prolong this visit for as long as you had to, to make sure your best friend was okay. Dean was the only person you had left, besides Sam, but Sam was different than Dean. Sam was better at handling his emotions in a healthy way (most of the time), but Dean, no way.

If suppressing your feelings was an Olympic sport, Dean would be a gold medalist a million times over.

Besides, Sam had Eileen now, and that meant Dean was going to have you even if you annoyed him to death.

The thought of you being to Dean what Eileen was for Sam made butterflies erupt in the pit of your stomach. You knew that it was a complete cliché, the stuff of rom-coms and hallmark movies, falling in love with your best friend, but you had.

You can't exactly remember when... Okay you could.

When you were fifteen and Dean and Sam got dropped off at Bobby's, and Dean and you spent the night listening to mix-tapes in Baby's spacious backseat with your legs kicked up over the back of the front bucket seat sharing a milkshake. You remembered looking at Dean with the sound of Open Arms by Journey playing through the headphones and admiring the way the moonlight kissed his skin and how the starlight brought out the flecks of gold in his eyes.

But you couldn't act on it.

Nope, nope, nope.

Dean was Dean. And you didn't want to mess up the thirty four year friendship the two of you had by doing something stupid by confessing that you were in love with him and wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.

You did.

The past few years as you'd gotten older you'd been thinking about settling down. Finding something a little more permanent, maybe finally trying to sell some of those paintings you'd been doing since you were a kid. The ones that your dad told you were a waste of time and Dean only encouraged by stealing the good paint and brushes from art stores to support your hobby. The backseat of your Bronco was loaded down with sketchpads bursting at the seams and each time you took a turn, there was always the roll of an oil pastel or a half-empty bottle of watercolor paint flying somewhere beneath the seat.

It would be nice to actually have a place to paint for real, maybe a small house or an apartment where the sun streamed through the open windows and a cool breeze rustled the hair at the nape of your neck while you lost yourself in the brilliant colors on the canvas. Somewhere it didn't feel like you were running around in circles doing the same thing over and over again, somewhere you could build a life with someone…

The problem was the only person you saw yourself building that life with was standing in front of you holding a shovel and a can of gasoline. And you knew that Dean didn't see you as more than a friend.

But could you blame me?

The years had been kinder to your best friend than to you. He'd grown so much from the little boy with the mischievous green eyes into a man with ruggedly good looks, freckles over his cheeks that kept Dean's boyish qualities, broad shoulders, and a sinfully perfect mouth that made your throat tight.

You'd stupidly thought that over the years your crush would go away, but it only grew. And you didn't know how Dean did it, but the age looked better on him than it did on you. The flecks of silver in his hair made him look even more devilishly handsome, the crinkles around his mouth that shown with his easy smile, and the beard.

That damn beard.

Yes, you'd also thought that Dean looked adorable with his hair all mused from sleep, but the beard. You'd been trying your hardest not to stare at him this morning when he woke up. Made an off-hand joke about how the beard made him look like a lumberjack and homeless, but by the stars that beard made your brain short circuit. Not to mention coupled with the signature Dean Winchester smirk and the brilliant shine of his emerald eyes… fuck. It was like a walking Michelangelo sculpture. Each time you captured the planes of Dean’s face with charcoal, lead, or paint never seemed to compare to the real thing.

But you knew that your little crush was the exact kind of thing that could throw a monkey wrench into the most meaningful relationship you'd ever had in your life, so you pretended it didn't exist.

Pretended that each time you saw Dean and he wrapped his arms around you didn't make you feel like you were coming home, pretended that you didn't sleep the best you ever had curled up in his arms at night, pretended that you could not see a future with him outside of all of this with a stupid white picket fence and a baby that had his smile and mischievous green eyes, and pretended that you weren't in love with him.

More importantly, you pretended that being his best friend was enough.

That being said you did allow yourself the indulgence of cooking for and taking care of Dean. You didn't care how much he complained or how much you didn't like salad, you knew that Dean needed to eat a good heart-healthy, home cooked meal once in a while. And you didn't care if you had to force feed it to him.

Dean Winchester is going to live to be a hundred and five damnit!

"Whoa. You don’t get to judge me for this, not with that super sniffer you have glued to your face." Dean pokes your nose with his fingertip. "How was I supposed to smell the differences in the wife's perfume and the perfume of his mistress?"

"Vanilla and Lavender are two very different smells." You shrug, shouldering the shovel.

In hindsight smelling the corpse at the crime scene was probably not your best move, but the smell of vanilla that wafted up when Dean flicked the victim's collar was so obvious you couldn't keep your mouth shut. And after smelling the strong scent of lavender on the victim's wife had only confirmed your suspicion, that he had been cheating on her.

Everything else had fallen into place, finding the newspaper article about a man who had died in the same way as all of the men forty years ago, talking to the man's son who told Dean and you through tears of his father's sins against his mother who had disappeared a few days before his father was found, and following the trail to the town cemetery was the final step in the process.

Salt and burn. Just like clockwork.

Truth be told you were a little bit disappointed on how quickly you solved the case, now you were coming up with excuses for you to stick around with Dean, maybe even go back to the bunker with him for a bit.

You knew that Dean didn't love to stay there as much as he had. The emptiness only reminded him of Sam's life somewhere else, but you were willing to stay there with him forever if that's what it took.

Even if that meant watching Dean charm the pants off every co-ed on the East Coast.

Because that's going to be so fun for me.

"I thought that somebody as slutty as you would be an expert in women's perfume." You muse with a smirk to hide the hurt at the thought of Dean with someone else.

Him going off with Lisa had hurt enough. That had been a long year.

Sure Dean still called and texted, but it was awkward. You didn't want to step on Lisa's toes. She was his girlfriend and he was living with her. The one time that you'd come by to stay with them for a few days had been one of the most awkward experiences of your life.

For one, when you'd showed up Lisa had been surprised that you were a girl because apparently Dean hadn't said anything to clue her in about that. And when you made dinner for all of them as a thank you for letting you stay, the whole time there had been this weird energy sitting in the dining room with the four of you, like a giant purple elephant that you couldn't see, but you could feel behind you squeezing it's trunk around your chest.

The last straw had been when you accidentally overheard a conversation between Dean and Lisa where he was trying to convince her that he'd never been more than friends with you and she didn't believe him.

"Did you just call me a slut?"

"Yep." You reply.

The cemetery was eerily silent. Somewhere off in the distance you could hear the sound of the ocean, the harsh crash of water against sand and the jingle of the ships at the docks in town where the water gently lapped against the strong wooden boards of the seaworthy vessels. The cloying smell of salt came on the wind that pulled almost playfully at your clothes, beckoning you to the darkness of the vast sea in the distance.

"Takes one to know one sweetheart." Dean calls from behind you before he slams shut the trunk of Baby with a loud 'thunk.' "Not all of us are blessed with a super nose. And unlike you I don't go around smelling dead people. I don't even know if there's a name for that fetish. Kinda feels like necrophilia."

"It's a blessing and a curse."

The beam of light from your flashlight brings a yellowish glow over the smooth tombstones, each one beaten soft by the wear of rain and wind.

"My gut says over there." Dean nudges his arm into yours towards the right.

"Your gut couldn't tell this was a vengeful spirit, why should I trust it now?" You raise an eyebrow, flashing the light into Dean's face.

He squints his eyes at the offensive beam, but it does little to make him look ugly. There was nothing that could do that. You were speaking from experience because you'd seen your best friend covered completely from head to toe in blood and guts and you'd still wanted to lay a big one on him.

Maybe there's a support group online for people who are in love with their best friends. Because I should join that.

"One time I've been wrong-"

"Phoenix." You say immediately.

Dean frowns at the memory. "Okay two times I've been-"

"Tallahassee."

"You're just listing state capitals." Dean sighs heavily.

"No, I am listing places in which you've been wrong. If you want I can call Sam to cross reference my sources."

"Don't call Sam." Dean pushes past you and begins to walk to the right with you following behind him.

"So are you going to tell me why you're dodging his calls?" You ask, sweeping the beam over the tombstones again to see if you can find the right person.

"I am not dodging his calls!" He shouts increasing his speed.

"Dean." You gently catch the back of his flannel.

He stops dead in his tracks, but does not turn around.

"I know you." You whisper. "I know when something is wrong. Come on."

There was something wrong, you knew it the moment you picked up the phone last night before you drove ten hours to get to him. Felt it in your bones. The hard part was just getting Dean to tell you.

"Come on what?" Dean half-turns to look at you. There's something lurking in his eyes, a flash of vulnerability that makes your heart break for him.

The shovel you have no longer seems important, so you lean it against a tombstone and tug on the bottom of Dean's shirt until he turns around to face you.

"It's just you and me here. There's no cameras, no canned audience, no one else. Talk to me." Your hand falls on the arm that Dean is carrying the gasoline in, smoothing the fabric of his leather jacket.

He hesitates for a moment, long enough that the wind picks up and rustles through his golden brown hair. It too seemed just a little longer than he usually kept it, and you fought the urge to run your fingers through it.

"I didn't want to bother him with all this." Dean mutters. "He's out there living his life, a real life, something that he's always wanted and he doesn't need me dragging him back into all of my shit."

"Dean-" You sigh. "He's your brother, you're not bothering him-"

This is so much worse than I thought.

"I am." Dean shakes his head. "He's moved on and I'm still here doing all of this and I-"

"Hey." Your hand moves up to cup his cheek before you can stop yourself. The prickle of stubble beneath your hand is familiar, reminds you of when you would wake up in the morning before he did and his chin would be resting on the top of your head while your face nudged into the space between his shoulder and his jaw. The little place against his throat where you always fit. "You're not going to bother Sam by telling him about what you're doing. He loves you and he's worried about you and I am too. And yes he's doing something different, but what you're doing is a life too. It might look different, but what you're doing matters."

Dean frowns a little, but doesn't answer.

"Dean." You say his name, this time bringing your other hand up to hold on to the other side of his face. "Just because you don't work in a fancy office or have a white picket fence does not mean your life isn't a life. It is. Everyone finds their own way. There isn't one carbon cut copy about what life is supposed to look like. No one can tell you how to live it, the only thing that you should care about is if it's a life that makes you happy." Your thumbs drift to his cheekbones gently brushing back and forth in a soothing movement.

"Does it make you happy?"

Dean's question catches you off guard. He hadn't asked you that in a long time and certainly not before he'd had at least one or two drinks. Dean's shovel leans next to yours and he reaches for your wrist, the warm roughness of his palm against the skin comforting.

You think about lying, but you know that Dean will only clock it. You hated how much Dean knew you.

Not really.

"I mean-" You clear your throat. "Lately not so much." Your hands drop from the sides of Dean's face, but he doesn't release your arm. His thumb gently smoothed over the skin on the inside of your wrist, comforting you the way you had comforted him. "But being here with you is making me feel a bit better. It always does."

Why did I say that? That’s way too much-

"Me too." Dean breathes.

Electricity dances between the two of you, curling up your arm where Dean still has his hand around your wrist gently cradling it between the two of you. And you see something flicker behind the warm, familiar gaze of your best friend, a ghost of something that you can't put a name to.

His words reverberate in your head, vibrating through your skin, bringing a warmth through your body and sending the butterflies in your stomach fluttering.

Dean hasn't looked away from your face, his gaze focused as if he's waiting for something, watching for one of your ticks, but he won't find one. Not when Dean is looking at you the way you always wanted him to. You reach out to lay your hand against the front of his shirt, feeling the gentle beat of his heart beneath the palm of your hand.

Is this really happening?

Thunder rumbles in the distance over the sea, a storm brewing, the flash of lightning shattering the spell between the two of you.

"We better um- get this done." Dean clears his throat, releasing your wrist to find the shovel once more. "Don’t want to get caught in the rain."

"Yeah-" Your voice comes out a little high and squeaky. "Right."

The buzz of whatever the hell that was still thrums beneath your skin as you follow behind Dean, looking from tombstone to tombstone, trying to shake it off. And much to Dean's chagrin, his gut was correct, but he doesn't gloat, he just starts digging.

There's a part of you that wonders if it's because Dean is dwelling on what almost just happened- if there was an almost. You still were a little bit fuzzy about that. Your best friend was far from shy, when Dean wanted something he took it.

The silence grows between the two of you as you start to dig, so you decide to break it.

“How about after all this we drive out West and do some recon on Sam and Eileen?” You say, shoving the shovel deep into the hard earth.

“Really?” Dean asks with a grunt throwing a shovel of dirt over his shoulder.

“Yeah. We can stalk him when he goes to work, test out his security system at his house- just like how we used to when he was at Stanford.”

Dean and you had taken a few trips out West when Sam was at college. You'd always wanted to see the west coast and your dad was letting you go solo just as John let Dean solo. So naturally the two of you met up along the road and decided to cause some mischief.

It had been a nice trip, the feeling of the warm sun on your skin, the wind in your hair when Dean rolled down Baby's windows while the sound of classic rock pumped and hummed through the speakers. It was the closet you had come to a vacation, and something the two of you desperately needed. During the day you'd sit nestled in the front seat of Baby with a sketchpad perched on your lap that you didn’t have to hide from your dad, who told you that should be doing something else, something that mattered. At night Dean and you would share a motel room and when you'd woken up Dean was always on your side of the bed with his head buried in your hair, murmuring things in his sleep.

It was also nice to not worry about your dad for a while. He was as hard on you as John Winchester was on Dean, and you'd cut him out of your life a few years ago. Last time you heard from him was a voicemail two years ago telling you that he'd settled down somewhere in Texas and that he wanted to see you, but you couldn't.

Things hadn't ended well between the two of you and it was Dean who had blocked your father from getting closer to you while he shouted things over Dean's imposing figure that made you want to squeeze your eyes shut and turn away from him.

"That was a fun trip." Dean half-smiles.

"It was." His smile is encouraging. You noticed that in the time you'd been here Dean had been smiling more often, but you were still worried at him.

“You’d do that? Go with me?" He sounds hesitant.

"Of course I would do that for you Dean." You nudge him with your elbow. "I’d walk through fire for you, you’re my best friend. I would sing karaoke to 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun' for you." You hesitate. "Well maybe after a few drinks, but I would still do it."

He snorts. "I'd pay to see that sweetheart."

"Mhmm. And this time we'll be sure to bring sunscreen. Can't have you turning into a lobster again."

The only downside of the trip was that Dean had refused to wear sunscreen when the two of you stopped along the road at one of the beaches, and he'd turned the color of a tomato. Of course later when you were slathering him with aloe at the motel, dragging your hands down his arms and over his face, you could feel your own cheeks heating with your blush.

"How was I supposed to know that the sun was so damn powerful out there?!" Dean exclaims.

"Because I told you! You never listen to me."

"I do too listen to you!" He thrusts his shovel down into the earth with an increased enthusiasm, but instead of hitting the earth, there's a loud 'clunk.'

Guess we found it.

"No, you don't." You say as you crouch down to uncover the coffin with Dean.

"You know what? I'm not talking to you for five minutes."

"Toddler." You mutter under your breath. "You're a bit old for the silent treatment."

He doesn't answer and you roll your eyes again.

When the body is salted and burned, the warmth from the fire flares up from the grave, warming the chilled tips of your fingers, but you still shudder in the cold breeze. Dean's jacket comes down around your shoulders so fast you didn't realize that he noticed you shudder.

"Can't have you catching a cold Sweetheart." Dean flashes a signature grin that makes your knees weak. "Come on, let's get back to Baby. We can plan out where we're going on this road trip."

As the two of you make your way back through the cemetery, you see the beam of a flashlight on the other side of lot coupled with the high pitched squeal of laughter as it sweeps across the smooth weather beaten stones. Another rumble of thunder shakes the sky, rattling your teeth and vibrating against your skin.

Dean and you crouch down on instinct, and he makes a hand gesture.

You look at him confused.

The laughter gets closer, the people weaving through the graveyard, running after one another, oblivious to Dean and you.

He makes the hand gesture again.

"What?" You whisper.

He makes the gesture again.

"Dean, this isn't charades. Use your words. I can't understand what you're saying."

He sighs. "I was trying to tell you that it's okay, it's just kids." Dean whispers back.

"You could have just said that, you didn't have to make the gestures. Especially because you're the only person who understands them."

"I am not the only-" Dean huffs out a breath. He turns his head to watch two teenagers run by, giggling and laughing all the way as they do.

"Come on Shawn!" A girl shouts with a cackle lost on the wind, her blonde hair like a beacon, turning silver in the moonlight.

"I don't think we should be here!" The boy who you assume is Shawn shouts back, the beam from his flashlight flickers against his glasses.

"Don’t be such a wuss." The girl yells back over her shoulder. The lithe imprint of her form small and petite a contrast to the boy who stumbles behind.

Dean leans so close to you that his nose is pressed into your hair, his breath a warm exhale against your ear. "You wanna mess with them?"

A shiver travels down your spine with Dean's close proximity and you hope that he doesn't feel it. “You have to ask?”

“Come on.”

You leave your shovels and supplies behind, following behind the teenagers who laugh as they make their way through the lines of tombstones, but then something happens. They vanish.

"What?" You whisper in confusion, sweeping your eyes over the end of the cemetery. It came to an abrupt stop over a cliff that dropped off into the ocean over a thousand feet below. "Did they jump?"

The wind is harsher here, pulling and tugging at your clothes as if inviting you to fly with it, to jump into the darkness beyond and sink into the depths of the black sea below that writhes and splashes.

"This way." Dean tugs your elbow and turns you to a small set of steps that leads down the side of the cliff.

Okay. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Dean and you follow down the steps, unable to hear the laughter over the crashing of the waves against rock below, where the water rubs the stone smooth. And just when you think the steps will end, they twist and curve back into the cliff, depositing Dean and you in a cave.

"I still don't think this is a good idea Kayla." The boy, Shawn says. You can hear the tremor on the edge of his voice.

She obviously doesn't listen to him.

"Hey look at this!" You hear a girl's voice say. "I'm Queen of the world!"

Dean and you peer around the wet wall of the cave.

It's a crypt.

The walls further in are lined with bodies embalmed and wrapped in soft cloth, the musty smell of death wafting out to where the two of you are. Armor, chainmail, swords, and axes sit in neat piles to the left of the room, shining in the dull light of the beams. Various intricate designs are carved into the walls, semi-circles that entwine and tangle over the hewn stone, shining in the yellowed beam of the flashlights.

The two kids from the graveyard are standing just a few feet in front of Dean and you, the boy has his back to you while the girl with the blonde hair who you guess is Kayla stands proudly on a rock wearing a crown.

You're sure that she must have found it a few moments ago, but something about it feels wrong. The crown is made of a silver metal, each point encrusted with emeralds that seem to absorb the light in the room rather than reflect it. Odder still is that for something sitting in a crypt, it doesn't look old, it looks brand new, not covered in the thick layer of dust like everything else in here.

Kayla wears it proudly, posing for an invisible camera. A low hum vibrates through the cave, hidden to the untrained ear beneath the distant rumble of thunder, and the crash of waves outside.

But you can.

"Dean." You mutter.

"I feel it too."

"I'm definitely wearing this to prom! Who cares about that plastic tiarra? This is a crown." Kayla giggles, taking it off to admire it in the light. "Oh look there's something written on it."

Oh no.

Before Dean and you can step forward to shut her up and stop her from pulling an Evil Dead, she begins to read the inscription. You have no idea what language it is, just that this is not good.

As soon as she finishes the last line, every single torch mounted on the walls flare to life without being lit.

Oh shit.

Kayla screams, throwing the crown down to the stone floor, clutching her hand. Her palm is seared a bright red, the imprint of the jewels forever etched into her skin.

"Kayla!" Shawn shouts rushing forward to see if she's okay.

"You just had to do it didn't you!" Dean says not bothering to hide as he comes out from teh mouth of the cave. "You just had to read the inscription off the creepy crown!"

"Who the fuck are you?!" Shawn stutters.

"Well I'd say I'm your worst nightmare, but I'm pretty sure we're about to meet whoever that is." Dean throws a knowing glance at you, but you're not focusing on that.

Because the entire room has gone silent. You can no longer hear the rumble of thunder, no longer feel the power of the storm brewing outside, no longer hear the sound of the crashing waves against the rocky cliff outside- there's nothing.

Just an eerie silence that hangs thick in the air.

The temperature in the room drops, sending a shiver down your spine, and goosebumps puckering against your skin while the hair at the back of your neck stands straight up."What the hell is going-" Kayla begins to sob, her ruined hand clutched to her chest, but Dean shushes her.

Shadows flicker and move around the edges of the cave, shifting into the forms of men and women running together like oil over water, rushing towards the crown that lies a few feet away.

The woman forms from the shades, born of darkness, of flesh and shadow as the dark imprints weave together, twisting and knotting, creating her from nothing.

Her skin is almost translucent white in the firelight, her hair a darkly woven web that tangles over her shoulders, while her eyes glow a menacing green. There is a necklace at the base of her throat, a strong mesh of iron to match the crown on her head and a collection of emeralds each one the size of your little finger.

The corpses that line the wall tremble in their cubbies, the rattle of bone and metal, and the stale smell of decayed flesh filling the room as they stir.

"Holy shit." Shawn gulps.

You can say that again.

Her robes are old fashioned, dark green, woven from strong fabric and imprinted with a twisted silver thread that forms sigils of stars and moons, the garments flowing out behind her on some invisible wind that drifts through the crypt, but only seems to touch her. She makes no move towards you, only watches, her eyes piercing in the firelight.

The sound of the thunder outside is back, shaking the walls of the tomb and making the light from the torches flicker over the cold walls of the crypt.

Dean and you draw your guns at the same time, a reflex given you have no idea who or what she is.

You mentally go through the filo-fax in your head categorizing her into classes of what she could be. Comparing her to things you'd seen along the road. If not for the green robe she could be a woman in white. The way her skin is so sallow you can see the criss-cross of black veins beneath and the way her hair falls over her shoulders. But there's something about her you can't place, some throb of energy in the room that scuttles over your skin like a swarm of cockroaches, feels different than any other creature you've come along.

The woman's form flickers once as if she's not quite in the room with you, the motion sends a rustling through the bottom of her skirts, and the crypt fills with the smell of wet earth and dead leaves.

Dean pushes you behind him, a subconscious action that the woman clocks with a twitch of her bottom lip. Her head tilts just slightly, eyes narrowing a fraction.

We have to get the kids out of here.

"Look. We don't want any trouble-" You begin to say as calmly as possible.

Being diplomatic felt like a good idea right now or at least a good enough idea to buy you some time.

The woman moves faster than you thought possible. There's a terrible flash of green light and you feel an invisible force hit you in the center of your chest, propelling your body backwards through the cave. Dean shouts your name, but it sounds far away. Your stomach plummets with the few seconds of weightlessness, before your head hits the rock wall sending a jolt of pain through your body.

You lay there stunned, listening to the sound of the kids screaming, unable to move for a few seconds. Your mind is hazy, memories of the past slipping into these few moments.

The smell of the Impala, the soft scritch of a pencil against paper, the feeling of Dean's arm over your shoulders, the soothing motion of a paintbrush stroke-

You gasp as you come back to reality shaking your head once, twice to clear itself.

The kids are no longer in the crypt and you guess that the screaming you heard was them running for their lives, instead the woman floats in the center of the room, her hand clasped tightly around Dean's throat. She appears to be examining him, her eyes trace his features, unaffected by Dean struggle to get free.

A cold feeling of fear trickles down you spine, a raindrop in a thunderstorm finding the curves and plains of your back, melting snow against warm flesh.

"Put him down." Your voice is hard, the gun in your hand heavy as you train it on the woman.

She turns to look at you.

The rumble of thunder outside shifts to a higher pitch, a crisp sound, the clash of swords and the roar of a battle-cry merging into the howling of the wind.

"Now." You say.

Her mouth opens, and a language you don't know vibrates through the stale air, the sound of her voice is musical, a soft lullaby. The edge of her triumphant smirk curls back to reveal pearly white teeth, but she doesn't release Dean.

Your eyes flick to where Dean struggles in her grasp, his own emerald gaze focused on you. The fear you see in his eyes is not for himself, you know that. Years of hunting together, you knew that your best friend couldn't care less about himself, not if it meant you were hurt.

"Dean-" You whisper.

You didn't know what to do. You had a hunch that the rounds in your gun wouldn't do anything to her, and Dean and you had left the salt in the cemetery overhead, not to mention the iron knuckles you usually carried were still on the front seat of Baby where you'd left them.

And the lady was covered in iron so you doubted it would do anything to her.

"It doesn't have to be this way. We can talk this out. Just put him down. Please." You say it as calmly as you can, trying to think of something anything to do, but nothing comes.

The woman's smirk deepens. "No, more talking." Her voice slips into something harsher, speaking English through a thick accent.

The ground beneath her feet opens, the sharp sound of stone cracking while the crypt trembles around you, sending you stumbling to the right as the cave begins to tear itself apart.

Before you can do anything, the woman drops into the cavernous fissure dragging a struggling Dean with her.

"DEAN!" You shout, throwing your gun to the side and grabbing for his hand as he's pulled into the earth.

Dean gasps your name, his hand tight in yours, as the woman works her way down his body to hold tight on to his ankles. She hangs there in the space below, smile triumphant, as she playfully tugs on Dean's body as if it's a game.

"I'm not gonna let go okay?" You grunt, tightening your grip on his hand.

The weight of his body and the woman is too much, almost ripping your from it's socket, but you can't let him go. Not when Dean is the only person you have left. The ground beneath your body begins to crack, the stone flaking off to fall into the dark chasm below. You can't see the bottom, the cold hand of fear closing hard around your throat.

Dean says your name again. "It's gonna be okay."

"What?"

"I promise that it's going to be okay."

"I know it's going to be okay because I'm going to pull you up!" You struggle, tugging hard on his arm as you squirm to try and shuffle your body back on the ground, but it only makes more cracks spread and more earth fall into the chasm. "And then we're going to send her back to wherever the hell she came from."

His lips are pressed into a tight smile, eyes flashing with something melancholic you can't place. "Sweetheart. I promise that it's going to be okay. You just have to let go."

"No! I can do it!" You shout back, tears burning and falling from your eyes. "I-"

More of the bodies fall from the crypt into the chasm, disappearing into the darkness around Dean. The ground beneath your body shifts as more of it falls away. And you know at any moment you'll get dragged in too.

Dean looks down at the woman who hangs from his legs enjoying the scene in front of her, her dark eyes glinting as her green robes float out around her, then back up at you. The cold determined look in his eyes familiar.

"Dean please, I can't do this any of this- not without you!" You sob as you see the plan form in his mind. "So no to whatever you're thinking!"

"The only thing I'm thinking is how beautiful you are sweetheart." He flashes a signature smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "And that I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

He lets go, the final flash of his eyes the last thing you see before the darkness swallows him whole.

"No! DEAN!" You scream his name, prepared to dive in if that's what it takes, but the ground closes, shutting up the cavernous mouth that swallowed your friend, smoothing over so that there's nothing left but the cool stone floor of the cave.

Leaving you alone in the chill with the rumble of thunder and the crash of waves against stone, smoothing away the rough edges and taking them out to sea.

A/N: Please don't hate me for the cliffhanger 😅 Or for yah know, throwing Dean into a ravine... I promise that this one will have a happy ending. Eventually?

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated. I love hearing what y'all think and the comments keep me going! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for the next part please let me know!

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nanamineedstherapy · 3 months ago

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The Quiet After

Lima Syndrome/Yandere Gojo Satoru x F!Reader

Summary: You hated him. He loved you for it. But hate stains—and gods don’t bleed. A/N: I had a nightmare about Gojo like this a few months ago.

I. The First Flight

The first time you saw Gojo Satoru, he wasn't a man.

He was a ghost with white hair and ice-burn eyes, descending from the sky on colossal green wings that dripped black feathers and bone fragments onto the ruined streets below. His talons had shredded through the city’s defenses with lazy ease, twisting steel and human bone with the same detached cruelty.

It wasn’t a battle. It was a warning.

You had been kneeling beside the dying heir of the Varis house when Gojo landed, half-shrouded in feathers, the green tint of his owl form reflecting a sickly sheen against the scorched pavement. The heir's blood pooled beneath your knees. His lips were pale and trembling.

The house had been a last hope — the only power left in Japan capable of standing against Gojo’s rule. When Gojo tore through their gates, their legacy ended with the dying breath beneath your hands.

"I’ll do it," you whispered.

The old woman had been trembling behind you, too frail to speak. The heir coughed wetly, blood spilling over his chin.

"I’ll become the Varis."

You didn’t know why you said it. You barely understood what it meant. You weren't even part of that family.

Behind you, Gojo smiled. A slow, cruel curl of his lips.

"How touching," he said, his voice light as feathers. "Too bad you won’t live long enough to regret it."

He had already extended his hand toward you when the old woman’s trembling fingers pressed a ring to your palm.

It burned through your skin. Through your bones.

And then you felt it—a shattering, a splitting—the pressure of something vast and ancient shoving itself beneath your ribs and into your bloodstream. Your vision swam with green light. Feathers curled from your skin. You screamed as your body rearranged itself beneath the weight of cursed energy that wasn’t yours.

Gojo's smile sharpened.

"Interesting."

II. The Breaking

You tried to run.

You begged the neighboring countries for help. They sent weapons and cursed objects — even the damned Shackles of Tenmei — but they couldn’t send people. No one could touch Japan now, not with Gojo’s domain smothering the country like a rotten lung.

You fought Gojo for six months.

You learned to shift your body into a half-bird form. Your feathers were brittle. Your wings strained under the weight of your body. Flying hurt. Everything hurt. But you fought.

You cornered him once. Just once.

The shackles of Tenmei glowed white-hot in your hands as you lunged for him. Gojo’s smile was sharp as glass as he stepped aside — and let you snap them around his wrists.

His eyes widened when the cursed energy cut off.

For the first time in six months, you saw fear in Gojo Satoru’s eyes.

"Did you think," you hissed, "that you would always win?"

Gojo didn't answer. He only watched as you shoved him to his knees.

You were panting. Sweating. The ring of the Varis house throbbed painfully around your finger. Gojo’s head was bowed, silver hair dripping over his eyes. His smile was gone.

"I’m going to kill you," you said.

Gojo’s breath hitched — a sharp, strange sound.

Then he started laughing.

You hesitated.

Gojo lifted his head, smiling lazily despite the blood at the corner of his mouth.

"You should have killed me faster."

A sickening crunch.

Gojo’s arm twisted behind him, bones bending at an unnatural angle — and then the cuffs snapped open.

You didn’t even see him move before he had you pinned to the ground beneath the sharp points of his claws.

"You," he whispered, green feathers curling down his back, "are going to regret that."

The last thing you saw before the darkness swallowed you was the slow, deliberate curl of his smile.

III. The Nest

Fifteen children.

Fifteen.

And you were pregnant again.

Your body ached. Your swollen belly stretched beneath Gojo's palm as he curled his hand over your skin, his thumb tracing lazy circles over the rise of your pregnancy.

You stared at the ceiling.

The room was quiet, except for Gojo’s slow, measured breaths. His wings were tucked against his back, green feathers curling over the sheets. His mouth was pressed lazily against your shoulder.

"You're doing so well," he murmured, voice a low purr against your skin.

You didn’t respond.

You had stopped responding a long time ago.

His hand drifted to your belly. His fingers tightened. You felt the babies inside you shifting restlessly, the weight of them pressing into your ribs.

"You’ll give me strong ones this time," Gojo said softly.

Your eyes blurred with tears.

It had been years. The children — your children — bore Gojo’s white hair and blue eyes. They followed him like shadows, mimicking his smile. They touched their wings and called him father with that same dangerous reverence you once held for the gods.

You didn’t touch them.

You couldn’t.

Gojo kissed your shoulder. His hand slipped to your hip, holding you steady as he rolled closer.

"You’re shaking," he murmured. "Does it hurt?"

You bit your lip. Said nothing.

Gojo chuckled softly. "You’ve gotten so quiet."

You turned your head toward the window. The curtains were closed. He never let you see the outside anymore.

His lips brushed against your throat.

"I’ll give you another one," he said softly. "You can carry another, can’t you?"

Your hands clenched into the sheets.

"You love me, don’t you?"

You closed your eyes.

His hand slid down your stomach. His mouth curled into a smile against your neck.

"You must."

You didn’t answer. You knew better than to answer.

Gojo’s hand curled over your hip. His breath warmed your throat.

"You love me," he whispered.

You stared at the ceiling.

And Gojo smiled.

IV. The Copper

The sky outside was green. The sun had long since disappeared beneath the weight of Gojo’s barrier. The air was always thick with cursed energy—it left a copper taste at the back of your throat.

You sat on the balcony, hands curled over your belly.

There was movement inside you. Small, sharp kicks against the inside of your ribs. Your mouth twisted. Your throat burned.

The door slid open behind you.

Gojo leaned against the frame, green feathers curling down his back. His eyes glittered in the dark.

"You’re awake," he said.

You said nothing.

Gojo crouched behind you, resting his chin against your shoulder. His hand slipped around your waist.

"You know," he murmured, "it’s going to be a boy this time."

You stared at the sky.

"I can feel it," he said. His hand pressed over the swell of your stomach. "Strong cursed energy. Just like his father."

Your mouth twisted.

Gojo’s hand curled possessively over your hip. His lips brushed against your ear.

"I’ll make you proud," he whispered.

Your eyes were empty.

"I don’t care," you said.

Gojo smiled.

"I know."

POV: Gojo Satoru

I. The First Sight

Gojo Satoru didn’t believe in fate.

He believed in inevitability.

The first time he saw you, kneeling in the wreckage of the Varis house, blood soaking the hem of your dress, he knew—with the cold certainty of a man who had never failed—that you were his.

It wasn’t love.

Love was for humans. For lesser things.

But inevitability—inevitability was for gods.

And he was a god.

You weren’t even supposed to be there. You were nobody. A last-minute survivor, clinging to the ruined legacy of a house that had already died. Yet when you stood, trembling and unarmed, between him and the dying heir—there had been something in your eyes that made him hesitate.

Fearless. Defiant.

Arrogant.

You didn’t beg. You didn’t cry. You stood there, back straight, staring down at the strongest sorcerer in the modern era with nothing but a ring clutched in your fist.

It was almost insulting.

And then the ring flared. The cursed energy shot up like a wildfire through the air—and you screamed as green feathers erupted from your skin.

You dropped to your knees. Blood pooled beneath your hands.

Gojo smiled.

"Interesting."

II. The Hunt

You ran.

It was cute.

You begged other nations for help. You pleaded with diplomats. Cursed weapons, sealed scrolls, objects of immense power were smuggled into Japan — all to stop him.

It was a joke.

There was no weapon in this world that could stop Gojo Satoru.

But you kept trying.

Kept fighting.

And Gojo — well, Gojo was patient.

He watched you for months. Let you think you were making progress. He let you feel the edges of victory beneath your fingertips — and then pulled it away just as you reached for it.

When you shackled him with the Tenmei cuffs, when you slammed him into the ground, he had smiled even as the cursed energy flickered out from beneath his skin.

"You should have killed me faster," he had whispered.

He had let you think you won.

He had let you taste the edge of his throat beneath your blade.

And then he had broken your wrist. Snapped the cuffs. Pinned you to the floor beneath the weight of his body as you screamed and thrashed and cursed his name.

"You really thought," he had whispered against the corner of your mouth, "you could win?"

He took his time with you after that.

He didn’t have to. He could have killed you the second the cuffs came off. Could have crushed your pretty little skull beneath his heel and been done with it.

But he liked watching you break.

He liked watching you struggle beneath him, wings half-formed and fragile as glass. He liked seeing the hatred in your eyes every time he touched you.

That hatred — that loathing — made you his more than any vow ever could.

He fucked you after that. Made you bear his mark, his children—because what better way to destroy you than to remake you?

He made you his temple. His altar.

Your children carried his face. Your body carried his scars.

And you hated him for it.

That hatred... it made him hard.

It made him love you.

III. The Nest

Fifteen children.

Fifteen.

You were pregnant again.

Gojo laid his hand over your belly, feeling the restless shift of life beneath his palm. His eyes flicked up to your face — pale beneath the moonlight. Your lips were slightly parted. Your lashes fluttered.

Beautiful.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, brushing his thumb over your navel. "Does it hurt?"

You didn’t answer.

Your hand curled over your stomach. Your breath hitched.

Gojo leaned closer, brushing his mouth over the swell of your belly. "You’re doing so well," he whispered.

You hated him.

He could feel it.

That hate coiled beneath your skin like a second heartbeat. You never said it aloud — but you didn’t need to.

You didn’t touch the children. You didn’t name them. You flinched when they called you mother.

He loved that.

Because the more you hated them — the more you hated him — the more he knew you would never leave.

Hate was permanent.

Love fades.

But hate… hate stains.

And Gojo liked leaving stains.

IV. The Offer

"You’re quiet today," Gojo murmured, pressing his lips to the curve of your neck. His hand drifted down, fingers curling possessively over the curve of your hip.

You sat stiffly beneath him, hands folded in your lap. Your belly was swollen beneath the thin fabric of your dress.

Gojo’s mouth curled into a slow smile. "Tired?"

You didn’t respond.

"Or are you thinking about running again?"

You flinched. Your throat worked.

"…No."

Liar.

Gojo’s hand drifted lower. His fingers curled beneath the hem of your dress. He felt you stiffen. Your hands trembled.

"I could forgive you," Gojo murmured. "If you tried."

Your breath shuddered.

Gojo smiled against your throat. "But you wouldn’t like the consequences."

You pulled away — or tried to. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you still. His smile sharpened as you froze beneath him.

"Would you like to hear a secret?" he whispered.

You closed your eyes.

"No," you breathed.

Gojo’s mouth pressed against your ear.

"I’m going to keep you pregnant."

Your eyes snapped open.

"Forever," Gojo murmured, smiling. His hand pressed over your belly, his cursed energy thrumming low and dangerous beneath your skin. "I’ll fill you up again and again until you forget why you hated me."

Your hands curled into fists. Your breath hitched.

"And even if you don’t forget," Gojo whispered, "it doesn’t matter."

Your eyes burned with tears.

"You’re mine," he whispered, pressing his mouth to your temple. "Mine forever."

V. The Realization

Gojo’s hand slipped through your hair. Your face was pressed to his chest. His breath was even, steady, as you lay trembling beneath him.

You had cried. You hated yourself for it.

Gojo had smiled.

"You’re perfect like this," he murmured. "Soft. Weak."

His hand drifted down, pressing possessively over the curve of your stomach.

"I’ll give you another one soon," he said softly. "You want that, don’t you?"

You swallowed thickly. Your throat burned.

"You’re sick," you whispered.

Gojo laughed.

"I know."

Your hands curled into the sheets. Your vision blurred. You hated him. You hated this.

But Gojo knew what you didn’t.

Hate was stronger than love.

And as long as you hated him — you would never leave him.

You would never be free.

He smiled against your skin.

"Say you love me," he whispered.

You closed your eyes.

"Never," you breathed.

Gojo smiled.

"I can wait."

VI. The Nest Expands

Gojo woke to the sound of breathing.

Soft. Even. Familiar.

His arm was draped over the swell of your stomach, the warmth of your skin seeping into his palm. Beneath his hand, he could feel the quiet thrum of life — steady, persistent.

Fifteen.

You were already past the point of comfort. Your body strained beneath the weight of it. Your feet were swollen. Your back ached. You could barely walk across the room without losing your breath.

And yet you were carrying another one.

It should have been impossible. Even with his cursed energy reinforcing you from the inside out, you were human. Your body had limits.

But Gojo had broken you past them a long time ago.

He pressed his lips against your temple. You didn’t stir. You lay beneath him like a corpse, eyes closed, hands curled limply beneath the silk sheets.

Gojo smiled.

You hated him.

But you carried his children.

And that…

That was enough.

The house was too quiet.

Gojo stood beneath the high arch of the foyer, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, watching the shadows creep beneath the edges of the windowpanes.

The children were asleep. The maids had long since disappeared to their rooms. Only the sound of the winter wind howling beneath the eaves kept him company.

He tilted his head toward the ceiling. His eyes gleamed in the dark.

You had been quiet lately.

Too quiet.

Not that you talked much these days. He didn’t expect you to. He didn’t need you to. You were soft beneath him, quiet beneath him, yielding beneath him—why would you need to speak?

But it was different now.

You used to fight. Used to spit venom at him even when you were too weak to stand. Used to stare at him with loathing bright in your eyes—enough to burn through his skin.

Now you just... stared.

Silent. Cold. Empty.

He hated it.

Gojo smiled thinly, adjusting his sunglasses over the bridge of his nose.

It was fine. You were his. You weren’t going anywhere.

VII. The Flight

Gojo heard the window creak before he saw you.

You stood at the edge of the glass, hair whipping across your face, the night sky yawning dark and wide beneath your feet.

Gojo didn’t move.

His heart didn’t even quicken.

"You’re not going to jump," he said lazily.

You didn’t answer.

The feathers shimmered along your arms—that same dark green hue, iridescent beneath the moonlight. Your bare feet curled over the ledge. Your breath came thin and shallow through your lips.

"Your wings won’t carry you," Gojo murmured. "Not with my cursed energy running through your veins."

You didn’t answer.

His smile sharpened. "They’ll only take you so far before you fall."

Your eyes flicked toward him. Your face was pale beneath the cold light.

"I know."

Gojo’s brows rose. "Then why bother?"

Your eyes burned.

"Because you won’t stop."

His smile didn’t slip.

"I know."

Your gaze turned toward the sky. The feathers across your arms rippled. Your fingers tightened over the glass.

"Let me go."

Gojo’s smile turned sharp.

"No."

You laughed softly.

Of course not.

Your bare foot slipped from the ledge.

Gojo watched you fall.

Your wings flared—dark green feathers cutting through the night. You dropped beneath the edge of the window—and then the cursed energy tethering you to him snapped back with a sickening crack.

You gasped.

Gojo was already moving.

His hand shot out. His cursed energy unfurled like a net beneath you. Your body slammed into the invisible barrier—breathless—as Gojo’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you roughly to his chest.

"You," Gojo murmured, "are not allowed to die."

You shuddered.

His hand curled through your hair. His mouth pressed hotly against the side of your throat.

"Not without me."

VIII. The Forever

The house was quiet.

Gojo sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting loosely over his knees. You lay beneath the sheets—silent, face turned toward the wall.

"You’re not going to leave me," Gojo said softly.

You didn’t answer.

Gojo smiled.

"Because if you did," he murmured, "I’d have to go find you."

Your shoulders stiffened beneath the sheets.

"And I’m fast," Gojo whispered. "Faster than anyone else."

Your hand curled into the fabric of the pillow. Your breath hitched.

"Let me go," you said. Your voice was barely above a whisper. "Just… let me go."

Gojo’s hand slid to the curve of your belly. He traced the swell beneath his palm.

"You want to die?"

Your breath stilled.

Gojo smiled.

"I could do that," he said softly. "I could end it for you."

His hand curled over your stomach. His thumb brushed over the curve of your ribs.

"But I won’t."

Your hand curled tighter into the sheets.

"Because this—" Gojo whispered, pressing his mouth to your ear, "—is exactly how it’s supposed to be."

You shuddered.

"You’re mine," Gojo murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "Mine forever."

Your eyes burned.

"And you hate it, don’t you?"

Your breath hitched.

Gojo’s mouth curled into a smile.

"You hate me so much…"

His hand slid lower. His fingers curled beneath the edge of your shirt.

"And you’re still carrying my children."

You jerked beneath his hand.

"You hate me," Gojo whispered, "but you keep giving me more."

Tears slid down your cheeks.

Gojo’s smile widened.

"That’s what makes you perfect."

IX. The Nest (Again)

The house was quiet.

Gojo stood at the edge of the nursery, watching as you tucked the twins beneath the blankets. Your hand shook. Your breath came thin and shallow through your lips.

Gojo tilted his head. "Tired?"

You didn’t answer.

You turned toward him. Your face was pale beneath the soft light. Your mouth parted—and then closed again.

Gojo’s smile softened.

"You’re doing well," he murmured.

Your hands tightened at your sides. Your breath hitched.

Gojo’s hand curled beneath your chin.

"You hate them," he whispered.

Your eyes filled with tears.

"No," you said.

Gojo smiled.

"Liar."

Your breath hitched.

Gojo’s mouth brushed against your temple.

"I’ll give you another one soon," he whispered.

You stiffened.

"Don’t—"

Gojo smiled.

"I already have."

Your breath froze in your throat.

Gojo’s hand curled possessively over your stomach.

"You’re mine," he whispered. "Forever."

Tears slid down your cheeks. Your hands trembled at your sides.

"Please," you whispered.

Gojo’s smile widened.

"No."

Gojo stood at the edge of the nursery as you curled beneath the blankets, shaking, tears soaking through the fabric of the pillow.

His gaze softened.

"You’ll see," he whispered.

"You’ll love me eventually."

X. Silence

Gojo didn’t remember falling to his knees.

The blood was already cooling beneath his hands. Sticky. Warm. It soaked through the sheets, staining the edges of his jacket, dripping between the cracks in the floorboards.

Your body lay beneath him—pale, still, too quiet.

He pressed his hand to your face.

No breath.

No heartbeat.

The room was quiet except for the sound of the midwife’s trembling breath, the distant wail of a newborn splitting through the dark.

"Fix it," Gojo said softly.

His hand curled through your hair. His thumb brushed across the curve of your cheekbone.

"Fix it."

The midwife didn’t move.

"Satoru—" Nanami’s voice was low. Sharp. A hand clamped hard around his shoulder.

Gojo’s eyes flared. His cursed energy snapped through the room like a whip — fast enough to split bone. The midwife screamed as the force of it shattered the glass beneath her feet.

"Fix it," Gojo whispered.

"She’s gone." Nanami’s grip tightened. "Gojo—"

"Shut up."

Gojo’s mouth curled into a thin smile.

"I’ll fix it myself."

Nanami’s breath hitched.

"Satoru—"

Blue light bloomed beneath Gojo’s fingertips — thin, sharp, glimmering like glass.

"You think I can’t?" Gojo’s smile widened. His hand slid beneath your jaw.

"She’s mine."

Nanami stiffened. His hand shot toward Gojo’s wrist.

"Satoru—"

"Don’t touch me."

Nanami’s breath hitched.

Gojo’s hand tightened beneath your chin. His cursed energy rippled — thin lines of red-blue light bleeding beneath your skin.

"I’ll bring her back."

"Satoru—"

"I’ll bring her back."

His mouth pressed against your temple.

"I have to."

XI. The After

You didn’t come back.

Gojo sat at the edge of the bed, hands pressed over his face. His sunglasses were gone. His jacket was gone. His hands trembled loosely over his knees.

The house was too quiet.

Too still.

Outside the nursery, he could hear Nanami’s footsteps. The sound of the midwife’s voice murmuring low. The sound of a child’s cry.

Gojo didn’t move.

He sat in the dark, listening to the sound of nothing.

"Satoru."

Nanami’s voice cut through the quiet.

Gojo didn’t lift his head.

"Satoru."

Gojo’s hands curled through his hair. His breath stilled. His mouth parted beneath his fingers.

He laughed softly.

"She’s not gone."

Nanami stood at the edge of the doorway. His face was pale beneath the cold light. His shoulders were stiff beneath his jacket.

"Satoru—"

"She’s not gone."

Gojo’s head tilted toward the window. His eyes were empty beneath the dim glow of the streetlights.

"I can still feel her."

Nanami’s breath hitched.

"Satoru—"

Gojo’s mouth curled into a thin smile.

"I’ll find her."

Nanami’s eyes sharpened. "Satoru."

Gojo’s hand slid toward his blindfold. His breath curled beneath his throat.

"She’s still here."

"Satoru."

Gojo’s head lifted toward the window. His cursed energy rippled beneath his skin — thin lines of blue light creeping beneath his fingertips.

"I’ll bring her back."

Nanami stepped forward. His hand shot toward Gojo’s wrist.

"Satoru—"

The window shattered beneath Gojo’s hand.

XII. The Hollow Flight

Gojo didn’t sleep.

He sat at the edge of the nursery, head bowed beneath the dark. The windowpanes rattled beneath the edge of the wind. The sound of a newborn’s breath curled soft and quiet through the room.

The child lay beneath the blankets, tiny fingers curled against the curve of his chest. His breath rose and fell beneath the thin fabric. His hair was different.

Gojo’s mouth twisted.

Not like him.

Like you.

Like her.

Gojo’s hand slid toward the child’s cheek. His thumb brushed across the soft curve of skin.

The child stirred.

Gojo’s breath hitched.

Blue light flickered beneath his hand. His cursed energy bled beneath the surface of the child’s skin.

He could make it work.

He could fix it.

He just needed—

"Satoru."

Nanami’s hand curled beneath his wrist.

Gojo’s head lifted. His mouth twisted beneath the edge of his breath.

"You’re hurting him."

Gojo’s hand stilled.

His breath curled thin beneath his throat. His mouth curled into a thin smile.

"I’m not."

Nanami’s grip tightened. "You are."

Gojo’s eyes sharpened. His cursed energy rippled beneath his skin — bright blue veins of light twisting beneath his fingertips.

"Let go."

Nanami’s breath hitched.

"Satoru—"

"I said—"

The child whimpered beneath his hand.

Gojo’s breath stilled.

Nanami’s hand shot toward his wrist.

"You’ll kill him."

Gojo’s mouth twisted. His cursed energy crackled beneath his skin.

"He’s mine."

Nanami’s breath sharpened.

"He’s hers."

Gojo’s hand froze.

The child’s breath shuddered. His tiny hand curled weakly against the edge of the blanket. His mouth parted — thin, shallow breath curling through the dark.

Gojo’s mouth curled into a thin smile.

"And she’s not here."

Nanami’s breath stilled.

Gojo’s hand slid toward the edge of the blanket. His fingers curled beneath the soft fabric.

"I have to fix it."

"Satoru—"

"I have to—"

Nanami’s hand shot toward his shoulder. His fingers curled hard against the bone.

"She’s gone."

Gojo’s breath stilled.

The child whimpered beneath his hand.

"You killed her."

Gojo’s breath sharpened. His mouth curled into a thin smile.

"No."

Nanami’s hand tightened over his shoulder.

"You killed her."

Gojo’s breath twisted through his throat. His mouth curled sharp beneath his teeth.

"I didn’t."

"You did."

Gojo’s mouth twisted.

"I didn’t."

Nanami’s hand slid toward the back of his neck.

"You did."

Gojo’s hand curled into a fist.

"I didn’t—"

"You did."

The window shattered beneath the sound of Gojo’s breath.

XIII. The Quiet After

The house was quiet.

Gojo sat at the edge of the nursery. His hands were empty. His breath curled thin beneath the dark.

The child lay beneath the blankets. His chest rose and fell beneath the soft light. His mouth was open. His fingers curled weakly beneath the edge of the fabric.

Not like him.

Like you.

Gojo’s breath hitched.

His hand slid toward the edge of the blanket. His fingers curled beneath the fabric.

"I can fix it," he whispered.

Nanami’s hand curled over his shoulder.

"Satoru—"

"I can fix it."

Nanami’s grip tightened.

"She’s gone."

Gojo’s breath sharpened. His mouth twisted.

"I’ll bring her back."

"Satoru."

Gojo’s breath stilled.

The child stirred beneath his hand. His tiny fingers curled toward Gojo’s hand. His mouth opened beneath the soft light.

Gojo’s mouth parted. His hand slid toward the edge of the blanket.

"Satoru—"

Gojo’s breath curled beneath his throat.

"She’s mine."

The child’s hand curled weakly beneath his fingers.

"And so is he."

A/N: Man this nightmare just scared me for no reason. 😭 OK BUT FR… would you rather be Gojo’s darling or Nanami’s safe space??? 👀 BE HONEST. And don’t act like you wouldn’t fold for him too, y’all are NOT immune to Gojo brainrot 💀. I NEED to know what team you’re on 👹👹 — Team "I Can Fix Him" or Team "Run, Girl, RUN"???

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syndrossi · 29 days ago

Text

Regret AU: Part 7

In which we get a Volantene POV for once!

x~x~x

“We are no longer in that bird-shit excuse for a city,” Ghordo said. “And we have the dragon children. You do not have to pretend to be a toymaker.”

Felydas glanced up from the thin wire of silver he had been painstakingly coiling. “It is no pretense.”

The toy dragon that little Prince Rhaegar had fallen in love with had scales of red. It matched neither of the young princes’ new hatchlings, and he was determined to correct that, though it would likely take most of the journey to Pentos.

He had never considered himself to be a particularly tenderhearted man, or one with a fondness for children, but he had enjoyed keeping that stall in the markets of Gulltown. It had surprised him that the people of Westeros did not have many such shops of their own. Children and grown men and women alike often displayed the same delight when happening upon his stall.

And their mission had allowed him to price trinkets low enough to tempt families even of simple means. It meant more work for him with the number of sales, but he had not minded, though his greatest passion remained the more elaborate works.

The children’s anguish at their protector’s near-death had been wrenching. Although they had since settled back into the carefree curiosity they had shown at his stall, Felydas was determined to ensure that the remainder of the journey was full of delight and wonder.

Ghordo continued watching him for a time, before tiring of the silence. “Do you think he will find us?”

“Prince Daemon?” Felydas set his finished coil down and picked up the second length of silver wire. “I do not know. Denyno claims that it will be no trouble if he does.”

Ghordo’s head turned in the direction of the cabin that Denyno had claimed as his own. “You have spent the most time with the warlock. Do you believe him?”

“You have seen his magic,” Felydas said.

Denyno had repeatedly shown command of both fire and illusion, the latter of which had been necessary to have the drugged wine distributed throughout the castle guards. Fortunately, they had been very ready to believe that Lord Grafton would celebrate Prince Daemon’s impending arrival with a victory toast throughout the castle.

And then there had been the eerie silence that had fallen over the yard, so that those who were affected more slowly could not raise an alarm. By the time they had reached the children’s chamber, all within the holdfast itself had succumbed already.

None of that magic troubled Felydas. What did set the hairs on his neck to prickling was the strange candle that he kept on him at almost all times. Sometimes, Denyno lit it, and other times, it lit of its own accord, but whenever it shed that eerie shadow-light, Felydas felt a pressure on his skin, as though he were deep beneath the water, with the weight of it crushing down upon him. He was in the presence of something vast and unknowable, and all he knew was that he did not wish for its gaze to be upon him.

“I believe,” Felydas said.

“If they have such power, what need do they have of dragons at all?”

Felydas shrugged. He had wondered as much before, but he was only a man. The ways of warlocks were far beyond him. But then—it was not the dragons they sought, but rather the children. Children that could not burn.

“Such matters are above us,” he replied. It seemed there must be a reckoning between the triarchs and the warlocks of Asikos, for dragons without a rider seemed a recipe for a city aflame. Perhaps that is why there are two, he thought with an unexpected pang. Perhaps they shall take one, and we the other.

Felydas secured his unfinished work, then went to the crate that held the wares from his stall. He had argued for its importance, against Denyno’s initial reluctance. The little princes will need toys. After fishing around for a minute, he decided upon a pair of dolls. One had light hair, and the other dark, though they were not a perfect match.

It was nearing time for a midday meal, so he made a tray for the princes, their dragons, and their knight. They had shown a love of fruit, so he chopped flesh from melons and peeled an orange and cut the slices into toddler-sized bites. For the knight, he included bread and a wedge of cheese, along with a bowl of nuts. The people of Westeros were inordinately fond of cheese, he had learned. For the little dragons, it was roasted mutton leg, which abounded within the Vale.

His arrival at the princes’ cabin was met with great excitement from the children, and a watchful attention from their knight. He let them eat first, until their hands and faces were sticky with juice. The knight dampened a cloth in some water to wipe them clean, and then they eagerly fed their hatchlings, which had been freed from their cages.

Felydas watched the dragons with particular fascination, marveling at how readily they could rip strips of flesh from the leg mere days after hatching. Denyno said that they are even capable of flame.

“Would you like to see what I have brought?” Felydas offered once the dragons had eaten their fill.

“A present?” Jon asked shyly.

He was the more cautious of the two, Felydas had noticed, holding a reserve around all but their knight. Young Rhaegar meanwhile had spotted the cloth-draped offering that Felydas had set down on the table and tugged at his brother’s sleeve.

“It is a present,” the child said in a loud whisper.

“This is for you,” Felydas said, unveiling the dolls to twin gasps of delight.

He stepped back, letting them approach with their hatchlings. They each went for the dark-haired doll, which caused a mild commotion.

“This one looks like me,” Jon insisted. “That one is like you.”

“It is not,” Rhaegar said, his confusion plain. “We look the same.”

“No,” Jon said with a toddler’s impatience. “Your hair is white.”

“It is not,” Rhaegar repeated with growing upset, turning to the knight as though for confirmation.

The knight knelt down beside them, and they plopped down on either side of him, hatchlings settling in front of them to nose at the dolls curiously. “Your hair is lighter than your brother’s,” the knight said. “Like this doll’s. It changed when I washed you in the river.”

Rhaegar frowned at him. “Change it back,” he commanded.

“I cannot,” the knight said apologetically.

Jon seemed to notice that his brother was upset, patting at his hand. “It’s pretty, like snow.”

“But you’re Lord Snow,” Rhaegar protested.

“You’re Prince Rhaegar,” Jon said. “And he has white hair.”

That particular piece of toddler logic had lost Felydas, and by the Westerosi’s expression, he was similarly confused. Finally, Jon reached for the light-haired doll. “He’s Prince Rhaegar.”

Rhaegar’s mouth formed an “o” of surprise. He took the dark-haired doll. “And he’s Prince Jon!” He then looked to Felydas. “Are they twins like us?”

He smiled at the princes. “Just so.” Then an idea stuck him. “Grant me but a moment, little princes.” He retrieved a length of silver cord, bringing it with him back to the children’s cabin, where he cut and fashioned it into circlets for each doll. “There. The princes must have crowns.”

“We don’t have crowns,” Rhaegar said sadly.

Felydas disappeared once more to retrieve a more substantial length of silver cord, which they watched him shape in breathless anticipation into thin circlets of their own. That naturally led to both toddlers asking whether dragons wore crowns.

“They do not,” the knight said, much to Felydas’s relief, and the toddlers seemed to take his word as truth.

Still, the hatchlings themselves were equally entertained as the children staged an elaborate adventure involving Ser Berry, the princes’ sworn knight, and their fierce dragons. Felydas stayed longer than he should have, a fact that Denyno’s frown made apparent when the warlock made his appearance.

“I require the children’s attention,” he said, withdrawing the twisted candle of red dragonglass from within his robes.

Felydas shivered, a protest dying in his throat. They are too young for such terror, he had wanted to say. But such sorcery would be as much a part of the young princes’ fate as the wonders of Volantis itself. Perhaps it would be different, since they were still young. Or perhaps it will be worse.

He took his leave with a bow and set himself to work on the next dragon with renewed vigor. They shall require all the comforts I can give.

x~x~x

This almost qualified as "not an escalation of Willam's days getting worse" but I'm pretty sure that candle shenanigans ruin anyone's day.

#resonant 'verse ficlets #resonant 'verse regret au

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musouie · 7 months ago

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── .✦ 𝐀 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑

précis: suguru, a servant of your household, wrestles with the complex feelings of loving a noblewoman.

contents: pining, suguru!pov, implied classism, internal classism, envy, forbidden longing, resentment vs yearninggggg, historical romance, 1900s au, fem!reader, 1.0k wc

It was easy to despise beautiful things.

The things that shone, that flowed, that bloomed amongst the bleak — that made artists falter and poets weep — bound the miserable together.

Perhaps, that was why Suguru despised you.

He despised your lips, stained with the blush of cherries, and the sweet, fleeting scent that lingered on your skin.

He despised your hands — slender, warm, and impossibly delicate — hands that seemed to belong to a world gentler than his own.

He despised your voice, lilting like a bird’s song, soft as the breeze that warms the bitter cold.

Most of all, he despised that even if you had nothing, like he, your beauty would still be enough.

(This was a lie and he knew it. What he despised most of all was that his loathing was built atop a craving — a palpable thing that made his teeth ache and his bones tremble; he could hardly bear it, this furious tenderness.)

He watched you dance, bathed in candlelight, and he wondered what life might have been like with a face and hands like yours (or your face in his hands, or your hands on his face.

To embrace your light, or to shadow it. How could anyone not wish to do one, or both?)

An ugly thing, deep in his soul, festered — feeding off the shame he felt for simply existing in your general direction, for loathing you yet longing for you the way he did.

And like all beautiful things — you felt it. Faltered in step as your eyes flitted to his, wide and probing, searching for a way to right the wrong of someone yearning for you in such a twisted, impure way.

Your twirling slowed — then ceased, and you waltzed over to where he stood, a smile curving your rose-hued lips.

“Enjoying the ball, Suguru?” You reached towards the silver platter that balanced in his hold, retreating with a glass of wine, fingers grazing against his ever so slightly as they slipped around its stem.

He watched you take a sip; daintily, with your head ever-so-slightly craned and throat bared to him. “Please,” he chided, voice a measured strain, “do not address me so casually. Mr. Geto will suffice, Miss.”

“Oh, Suguru, what need have we for such formalities among friends?” you cooed, placing down your now empty wine flute upon the tray. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

(How typical of a spoiled noble to misunderstand their lack of courtesy; how typical of a blazing star to not realise she burned her surroundings.)

He withheld a scowl, replaced it with a tight-lipped smile instead. “Except I, a mere butler, am most certainly not your friend, Miss.”

“Sugur—” His gaze narrowed. “Mr. Geto. Would you not like to be my friend?”

“It would be most improper.”

The orchestra played a new tune — a lively thing, that people joyously gathered and scattered for on the wooden floor. You continued to hold his gaze with your own, brows raised as you murmured:

“That was not my question, Mr. Geto.”

Your tongue glided across your bottom lip, caught a stray drop of wine, and Suguru’s mouth watered. He’d only had a single glass and yet, his head swam. Or perhaps, it was something else that was catching him off-kilter, disorientating him in the way that you did.

(Because it was no accident, he noticed — the way the pads of your fingers slid away from the glass and glided against his; no accident, the subtle curve of your hip that pressed against his waist when you drew near. The way the velvet of your dress trapped his shadow, like a moth grasped between fingers.)

He took a chance to step away — tried not to notice the way the plush curve of your bosom swelled, as if taking a sharp breath, though your face betrayed nothing of the kind.

He allowed his gaze to trail you, like a guilty voyeur, a starved man eyeing a delicacy, a secret he had always wanted but was forbidden to taste. Just like you wanted him to. (Beautiful things survive off attention, after all. Be it perverse or pure, as a rose blooms on a dead man’s tomb.)

“I suggest we not tarry here further, Miss,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “People may speak.”

“Hah. If I was worried about ‘people’, Mr. Geto, I would not have asked.”

(How typical of a spoiled noble to misunderstand their lack of courtesy; how typical of a blazing star to not realise she burned her surroundings.)

A sharp intake of air tore his lips apart, like a sudden storm ripping off the last of an autumn leaf, and a cold rush flooded his nostrils. “I must see to the other guests now, Miss,” he replied tersely. “Please excuse me.”

He bowed, clasping the silver tray to his chest as if clutching for his heart — to staunch the flow, before it could spring forth and ruin him. You followed his form as he stepped back, the fabric of your dress dipping at the apex of your thighs with the movement; a brief promise of the hidden warmth below, a glimpse of bare skin just within the threshold of shameful.

“A pity, Mr. Geto. It appears there is not a glass empty enough for our conversation to come to its end,” you murmured, as people spilled around you, flitting back and forth across the ballroom in a breathless flurry.

“Unfortunate,” he agreed.

Your lips thinned. He watched them purse. Saw the slight rounding of your eyes that usually preceded a flash of mischief, a flame that threatened the darkness, that sought to pry it open and swallow.

“The wind, Mr. Geto. You are as elusive as the wind.”

And even the words that spewed from your lips were beautiful. His legs nearly bucked.

To despise a beautiful thing would be his tragedy.

#suguru gender envy is canon btw #suguru x reader #getou suguru x reader #suguru fluff #geto fluff #geto angst #jjk fluff #jjk drabble #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu geto #jjk angst #suguru angst #jujutsu kaisen angst #geto suguru #geto x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #hark the angel’s sonnet ༒︎ ࣪ ˖#jjk suguru

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jasmineandcedar · 8 months ago

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You already have me

Azriel's confession

An Elriel one shot (Elain’s POV)

In which Azriel resorts to poetry and confesses his devotion to Elain.

Warning: sexual content (not explicit)

-----

The moon hung high in the night sky, casting a cool, pearly glow over the river house. Moonlight spilled through the windowpanes like liquid silk, painting every contour in shades of blue and silver. Even the shadows seemed to take on hues of deepest indigo, pooling in every corner like dark ink.

Elain stepped into her room, pausing at the threshold and closing her eyes. A gentle breeze stirred the curtains, carrying with it the deep scent of night-chilled mist and cedar. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know he was there. Tilting her head slightly, a faint smile bloomed across her face. Tonight, that familiar scent was laced with something darker, wilder.

When Elain finally opened her eyes, they found his at once.

Azriel stood by the window, half veiled in shadows, the moonlight catching on his dark hair like the silvery gleam of a raven’s wing.

They watched each other in silence. For silence was their language—the language of the unspoken longing that clung to the air around them, between them, in every space they shared.

Elain noticed then, the freshly picked flowers resting on her pillow—delicate and pale blossoms of the same shade of white as her nightgown—like silver moonlight woven into bloom. She crossed the room on light steps, her bare feet gliding over the cold, polished floor. The thin, lacy fabric of her nightgown danced over her skin with every step.

Without breaking Azriel’s gaze, she trailed her fingertips over the bedding, feeling the crisp linen beneath her touch. Finally, she lowered her eyes to carefully pick up the pale flowers. Bringing them to her nose, she let the sweet scent of jasmine envelop her. Her heart clenched as she felt the ache of his longing in the fragile petals.

He had thought of her.

“They’re lovely,” she said quietly.

It was a bittersweet, intimate gesture—a piece of his inner world, offered in secret defiance of the outer world’s attempts to keep them apart. The anguish of it all twisted something deep inside her, reigniting that dull, persistent ache that threatened to consume her if she dwelled on it.

Elain beheld the flowers for a long time, gently twirling the fragile stems between her fingers and savouring their subtle scent as the night stretched around them.

She took a deep breath, then whispered into the stillness of the night.

“It should have been you.”

Azriel didn’t speak, but Elain knew the intensity in his gaze was edged with unspoken desire. It was raw, unguarded, just like she knew he was beneath those shadows that hid him.

She finally met his gaze and held it, well aware he needed her to. Azriel made no effort to hide the pain in his eyes—the pain that mirrored her own. There had never been any pretense between them, no veil to obscure the cruelty of their fate.

The room fell still again—into a heavy, intimate tranquility that held all that unspoken desire between them. The only sound was the peaceful hum of the breeze stirring the curtains, like a sigh of longing from the night itself.

When Elain spoke again, her words were as fragile as the flower stems she still held between her fingertips.

“What would you do?” she asked, barely more than a whisper. The question hung in the air like morning’s mist. “If it had been you?”

Words she had carried in her heart for too long—the heart that pounded against her ribcage, like the desperate wingbeats of a caged bird.

Azriel’s gaze thawed, the tension in his features melting into warmth.

“I would cherish you,” he said at last, his tone hoarse, as if the words scraped against the rawness of his heart.

He pushed off the windowsill in one seamless motion—like a shadow detaching from a wall. He approached her with a measured grace, the space between them narrowing with each step until Elain could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“But my intentions go far beyond that,” he said in a voice soft as night.

Azriel stopped in front of her, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath caress her skin. His gaze cradled hers, as it always had, uncovering all the truths she hid from the world around them.

“Should you allow it, I would revere every inch of you,” Azriel murmured in a quiet, intimate whisper. “I would fall to my knees, and worship every curve, every freckle kissed by the sun—until you see the beauty I see every time I look at you.”

That gaze that cradled hers didn’t waver. Neither did hers.

With aching reverence, Azriel let his fingers glide down her arm, skimming over the thin fabric of her nightgown. Elain felt the warmth of his touch seep through the light fabric, sinking into her skin. Her pulse fluttered wildly, every beat an echo of where his touch had been.

“I would whisper praise against your skin,” he breathed, his devotion etched in every syllable. “Until you ache for what I long to give you.”

Azriel lifted a hand and slowly swept her hair behind her shoulder. His eyes flickered down, tracing the elegant line of her neck, bared to the cool night air—and to the heat of his gaze. When that gaze met hers again, it was a molten swirl of embers and emeralds.

“Only then would I unveil you fully to me,” he murmured, that hazel swirl locked on her. “Until there was nothing between us.”

His eyes drifted back to her exposed skin, and Elain felt a flush of warmth spread in the wake of his gaze. Azriel’s fingers traced the finespun neckline of her nightgown where the fabric met her skin. He eased the thin lace aside, baring the small dip of her collarbone. Elain felt as vulnerable as the petals still in her grasp, yet beneath his touch, she had always found a sanctuary. Her faint gasp filled the air between them as Azriel lowered his head, his lips brushing her skin as softly as the beat of a butterfly's wing. Elain's eyes drifted shut, and the sensation washed over her like the first touch of sunlight after the darkest of nights.

“I would reveal your beauty inch by inch,” Azriel murmured, carefully easing the nightgown off her shoulder. “And show you the depth of my devotion.”

Elain shivered when the cool night air kissed her bare skin, but then his lips followed, warm and soft, as he pressed them to the gentle curve of her shoulder.

“I would adorn your skin with the kisses you deserve,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, lingering as if to etch the memory of it into his very being, “and commit your perfection to memory.”

Elain’s fingers found the fabric of Azriel’s shirt, soft against the unyielding strength beneath. She clutched it tightly, like the roots of a plant cling to the earth.

He pressed his lips to the side of her neck. Elain felt her pulse flutter beneath his lips, beating like a delicate bird’s wings. He traced a slow, reverent path of kisses up the graceful curve of her neck. When his lips brushed the sensitive spot just below her ear, a shiver rippled through her.

Elain took a small step towards him, her body instinctively seeking him, and Azriel moved with her, as shadows move with the sun.

“And when I finally take you,” he whispered against her skin, his longing carried on the heat of his breath, “I will listen for every catch in your breath, drink in every gasp, savour every moan.”

Elain's head fell back as she surrendered to his touch—as if the weight of his words alone could unravel her. The room seemed to hold its breath with her when he trailed kisses along her jaw.

“I will learn the song of your body,” Azriel murmured, voice low and thick with desire. “Uncover the secrets of your skin.”

He pressed another kiss to her neck, so tenderly it stole the air from her lungs. Then his lips lingered again at that spot just below her ear, unmoving, as if he were listening for those secret confessions her body whispered to him alone.

“Until I know you more intimately than I know myself.”

Azriel swept one hand into her hair, his fingers weaving through the silken waves of golden brown. He tilted her head to the side, revealing the delicate slope of her neck, in a gesture that was both a plea and a command. Elain’s chest rose in a shivering gasp, but she arched her neck further in silent answer. Azriel dipped his head lower, brushing his lips to the hollow of her throat, before trailing featherlight kisses up her sensitive skin, pausing just beneath her jaw where her pulse thrummed with secret need.

Elain felt him inhale with her.

“Until I hold your pleasure in my hand,” Azriel said on the exhale. “And you’re trembling beneath me, yearning for release.”

He drew closer still, so close that his lips brushed her ear.

“And when that moment comes,” he promised, and Elain tightened her grip on his shirt, “I will I let you come undone in my arms.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to cradle her gaze in his again. The moonlight caught the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, making them glow like embers in the dark, smoldering with a heat that could devour them both if they surrendered to it.

Azriel slanted his lips over hers in the ghost of a kiss. Elain felt the world around her shrink into this singular, sacred point of contact—where his breath became hers, her every inhale a plea, every exhale a yielding surrender.

“And when you come undone,” he said, his lips so close to hers that Elain felt the tremble of every syllable, “it will be with my name on your lips.”

“Azriel,” Elain breathed, the sound slipping out of her in a faint, desperate plea that carried all the unspoken longings of her fluttering heart.

“Just like that,” he whispered against her lips, his voice raw and broken with a need that echoed her own.

They lingered there, their breaths entwined in the shared rhythm of that silent song only they seemed able to hear—as if they had always moved to the same quiet cadence of life.

Azriel’s hand remained in her hair, his fingers threading gently through her silken curls. His free hand moved to cup her cheek, before coming to rest at the base of her neck. His thumb drew slow, soothing strokes along her skin, in the way his touch always spoke of a quiet devotion language could never capture. Elain’s fingers were still curled into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to the steady warmth of his body that grounded her beating heart.

“It should have been you,” Elain repeated desperately, voice quivering on an inhale as if the air itself was too heavy. “It would have been you.”

That gaze that cradled hers softened again, smoldering heat giving way to that tenderness that made her chest tighten. He cupped her face between his hands, embracing her as if she were the most precious thing he had ever held.

“You already have me,” he said at last, before leaning down to press a kiss to her lips—like a seal to his silent vow.

#elriel #elriel drabble #elain archeron #azriel #elriel fanfic #azrielappreciationweek2024

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mikaela-the-slut-expert · 2 years ago

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Maple Robes and Lace Veils

Hua Cheng x M!Reader x Xie Lian

this is the second part of my first story, "The First Glance". Again it's technically about my OC since no one's asking for anything. I just have it written to where it can be for a reader. 😋

Switching pov's

Also guys I am not Chinese but I try to find words and translations that are important to my OC's story.

Dúshé means poison laced tongue in simplified Chinese (I think)

Mûguô means bitch, or whore in simplified Chinese (I think)

Míngqín means song bird it's Y/n's nickname

Previous part: First Glance

_____________________________________________

Once the morning has officially started, San Lang goes back to his wood pile. You stand by Xie Lian while San Lang somehow manages to build a whole door for the shrine. Xie Lian seems to love it, it's obvious with how he's become fascinated by opening and closing it repeatedly.

"I thought a door would be easier to stick talismans on than a curtain" San Lang explains. You smile and give a small clap. "It's a very well made door, San Lang, good job" you giggle at Xie Lian's excitement.

At the mention of talismans Xie Lian seems to remember something. He claps his hands together, "Oh Míngqín I forgot to tell you what happened at Mount Yunjin! I'm so sorry, so much happened yesterday"

You wave a hand, "it's nothing to worry about. How important could it be? I was there for most of it." You smile but Xie Lian's face is very serious so really nothing's funny at all.

"Well actually," Xie Lian laughs nervously, scratching his temple. "I talked with the heavenly officials and I found out that I met a calamity yesterday." Your face morphs into shock but Xie Lian quickly settles you down. "Not him." The words are met with silence. Of course it wasn't the white calamity. What were you thinking? ,"They called him Crimson Rain Sought Flower, his name is Hua Cheng" Xie Lian smiles. At this ghost's mention San Lang starts to pay attention to the conversation. "He walked me through the forest yesterday and I mistook him to be the ghost groom but he isn't. He isn't hard to be mistaken after seeing his silver butterflies ."

You're in shock. Because you got caught up in a swarm of silver butterflies yesterday. "I... Just don't understand. Why would a calamity be hanging around Mount Yunjin? Crimson Rain Sought Flower is known to stay in his den." You sigh.

You easily worry about Xie Lian and panic once more. "He didn't hurt you did he?" You move closer to Xie Lian and hold his face, looking for marks or bruises. "Why didn't you call for me, I would've been there right away." You frown and move back once you're satisfied with your search.

"There was no need to call, he didn't hurt me... He led me through the forest and safely delivered me to the temple." Xie Lian smiles but you sigh.

Xie Lian didn't get hurt, but a well known calamity shows up and helps Xie Lian? Coincidence. The same calamity helping you? Intention.

"...I suppose it's okay. As long as you didn't get hurt A-Lian. Just be careful." You look to the ground, but Xie Lian pats your head. "I am careful, ah you really should've seen the butterflies though Míngqín They were very beautiful"

You arch a brow then shake your head. "I actually did see them but, Wèizhī might eat them" Wèizhī is your two birds - Oriental Magpie- , they're not here right now though. They're probably bathing in water somewhere. Hm a bath doesn't sound so bad actually-, "Y/n?" You're brought back into focus when San Lang gains your attention. "Sorry I tend to lose my train of thought" you hum.

"What about you y/n?" You cock your head to the side at San Lang's question. "What have you heard about Crimson Rain" San Lang smiles mischievously.

"Why would I know anything about anybody?" You shrug. Of course you've heard and seen plenty about Hua Cheng, you're a ghost. You're... Residence happens to be near Ghost City.

Xie Lian nods in agreement though, he could use the info. You sigh, "Who knows? He stays in his den, and although close I've never seen him in my city." You shrug again.

All of you eventually go back inside. You end up staring at the painting again. You would have eventually painted something for Xie Lian but you've been busy working on the actual build of the shrine. You've always been good at the arts. Drawing, dancing, and singing. That is why you're the God of Song after all.

"San Lang's skills are very beautiful" You say, looking over at him. "Who taught you?"

San Lang shakes his head. "I had a good teacher a while back, I paint mostly for fun now." You nod at his explanation and smile back at the painting. You really do like it. It shows Xie Lian in what once used to be all his glory.

"Do you really like it so much, Míngqín?" Xie Lian stares at you and you've forgotten you don't have a veil on. They can see your expressions and you aren't just invisible anymore. You blush, and instinctively cover your mouth with your sleeve.

"O-oh, well yes I like it. It's very well done and it captures the prince of XianLe very beautifully." You stutter and look away.

The moment is interrupted when the three of you hear a scream and a man running towards the shrine. "Save Me! Save me please!" The panicked man grabs Xie Lian's wrist very harshly. It's in your nature, you can't help it. You are quick to push the man away, and to protect Xie Lian. He pats your arm however, in a 'It's okay' motion. Xie Lian sits the man down and asks for an explanation from him.

You and San Lang glare at him. Both of you don't trust him and both of you share a glance when the man explains he's from Banyue pass. Which has since turned into a dry land of sands. The man was running away from what killed his other group members.

"You ran all the way from Banyue pass to here?" San Lang asks with crossed arms. Your form is the same. The man seems to sweat at this, but Xie Lian in all his kindness offers the man a drink. Xie Lian is kind but he's probably just testing if the man is a mortal or not.

"No need to be polite you can drink" The man -for all his supposed running- hesitates to take the water Xie Lian so generously offered. When he does drink it, the water going into his body sounds hollow. You and Xie Lian both know it. "You can stop drinking now." Xie Lian says and takes the water from the man's hands. His disguise is ruined and everyone knows now. The man rises up quickly though and pulls a sword from his sleeve, moving to attack Xie Lian.

Before you or San Lang can act, Xie Lian is quick enough to flick the sword away. Sometimes you forget Xie Lian is just hiding his strength. The man tries to run and Xie Lian moves to use Rou'ye but the man drops and a sad looking skin bag(?) is left behind... A chopstick is what caused the damage. You and Xie Lian both whip your heads around to San Lang. Xie Lian goes to investigate the corpse but you still stare at San Lang.

"A chopstick?" You ask with an arched brow. "A chopstick" San Lang only smiles and you sigh. You both go to Xie Lian. When you get closer you can see that Xie Lian is using the array, so you do too. The only thing you can really hear is people being joyful about merits, and ignoring Xie Lian. Officials disgust you.

"Are the lot of you deaf? Did you not hear his highness? He asked a question." Your voice rings through the array and the officials who were once joyful before quiet down. Instead of answering, the cowards leave the array.

You're not a popular force in the heavens. Especially since your personality has always been cold and distant. You were actually loved once before, for your unnatural beauty and voice people revered you. That was until they found out you were a ghost and before they trashed Xie Lian's name. You would cause trouble for the other gods and challenge them often, causing fear to most officials. You always defended Xie Lian's name and when given the chance for promotion, you refused and chose to stay with Xie Lian instead.

This loyalty of yours to a scrap god however causes other officials to look down on you, they also just don't like your attitude. You have other unofficial titles that the heavenly officials made and of course those names spread. There's one title that used to be used quite often but you actually haven't heard any officials call you that in a long time. That title is "mûguô". Someone caught word of your past and decided to spread the name to upset you, but it faded out very quickly. That official -who you never even knew the name of- disappeared shortly after, with their temples burnt and no trace of them.

You're stuck in your thoughts until you hear Ling Wen answer Xie Lian's question about Banyue Pass. You leave the array, Xie Lian will tell you what's going on. When you look over at San Lang he's giving you a cheeky smile. "What?" You tilt your head but he just shakes his head.

You run your hands over your new braid while Xie Lian talks to Ling Wen. You mess with the red ribbon San Lang tied your hair with. It's definitely a pop out color compared to all the white you wear.

"San Lang, I'm afraid me and y/n will have to go far away soon" Xie Lian pipes up and stands from the... Thing on the ground. San Lang furrows a brow at the news and then gives a smug grin. "Why doesn't gege and y/n take me with them? I know a lot about Banyue Pass."

Xie Lian looks confused but he nods anyways. You wouldn't mind if San Lang came along either. "Oh? What do you know about Banyue Pass San Lang, you're far too young to know those things" you tease with a smile, while the three of you head inside the shrine.

San Lang chuckles and goes to speak before a knock on the door makes you all silent. You all look at each other in a moment of silence before Xie Lian opens the door.

When Xie Lian opens the door it reveals Mu Qing and Feng Xin who are in disguise... They are in a shocked silence not having seen you in a long time and to see your face after so long. You all sit in silence.

After you get over your shock you let out a panicked yelp and cover your face. They saw your face! Your cursed, cursed face! You shove your face into your hands. You didn't want Mu Qing to see it. He'd use it against you and you already hate him enough already. Feng Xin saw your face! He'll surely be disgusted with you now.

You start to groan into your sleeves, trying to move away from their eyes. You try to find your veil through the slits of your fingers. You can hear your name tumble from Feng Xin's lips but the door slams and someone whisks you away into their arms. They forcibly move your hands away from your face and now you can see that your face to face with red robes .

San Lang holds your wrists, and that stops you from hiding your face. "San Lang, my veil? Where's my veil?" You don't have a clue where he put it. Another pair of hands come into view and puts your veil over your eyes. You know it's Xie Lian.

Now that you can actually tell what your surroundings are you find that you're in San Lang's arms. You blush and step back. You hadn't meant to grip onto him so tightly.

__________________________________________________

Xie Lian sighs in relief when they find y/n's veil. Xie Lian is actually sad to see his face hidden again. He hasn't seen your face in so long and he missed it. Xie Lian supposes he doesn't mind though. If anyone deserves to see your beauty it's him and he actually doesn't want Feng Xin or Mu Qing to look. Xie Lian shakes his head to remove such thoughts. As if he could describe your face like it was a secret to keep between the three of you.

"I'm going to open the door now y/n" he pats your hand. He waits for your nod before opening the door again. He smiles nervously at the two officials outside. Of course Xie Lian knows who they really are but for now he'll pretend. "Ah why are you two here?"

Mu Qing and Feng Xin have crossed arms "Are you going to Banyue Pass? We're going with you" they say at the same time and then glare at each other. Xie Lian laughs but opens the door to let them inside. He looks at y/n keeping an eye on him. Xie Lian knows his temper.

When Feng Xin and Mu Qing see San Lang they're alarmed. Holding up their lighting, and fire. "Who's he?" Mu Qing nods his head at San Lang. Xie Lian sighs, "This is San Lang"

Feng Xin's eye twitches, "where did he come from? Where's his family? Do you usually invite people you don't know into your home?"

Xie Lian laughs nervously but he's glad that the attention isn't on y/n anymore.

Not until Mu Qing attempts to throw lightning at San Lang. It would have most definitely hit the wall and caused a big hole but y/n dispersed it. Sending a shot of ice towards Mu Qing. His face hides behind his veil but Xie Lian knows you're angry. "No fighting in the shrine. If you damage the shrine I promise to return the damage double to your god's palace" he spits with venom, threatening Mu Qing's palace.

It's evident y/n doesn't try to hide who he is. Sure he's in his avatar and he looks simple. However he doesn't do a good job at keeping his abilities at bay.

Xie Lian doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. The tension in the room is very high. Mu Qing looks ready to argue back but San Lang steps in front of y/n and stands by Xie Lian's side. "Are these two servants, gege?" He hums with a smug smirk.

"uhm something like that but not exactly-" Xie Lian gets interrupted when San Lang throws a broom into Mu Qing's hands. "Start helping then" San Lang smiles. His face resembles a mischievous fox. Y/n cackles.

Xie Lian waves his hands trying to calm a cursing Feng Xin and Mu Qing down. "Please for my sake leave him alone" he laughs nervously. He doesn't need his shrine to get destroyed not that y/n would let that happen.

Talking about y/n, ah. He's glaring at Mu Qing under the veil. He'll have to make sure they don't break out into a fight either. San Lang leans on y/n's shoulder and the stiffness seems to leave y/n's body. Xie Lian isn't too worried about anyone fighting. He thinks San Lang will keep a careful eye on y/n.

Xie Lian rubs his temple. "Maybe Feng Xin should make a pathway so that we can get to Banyue Pass quickly?"

Feng Xin does just that. Leaving Mu Qing standing alone in front of the three of them. "Is he coming with us?" Mu Qing points to San Lang with furrowed brows. Xie Lian sighs and goes to answer but y/n answers for him

"Of course, since when was it a servant's job to worry about his highness's friends?" Xie Lian drops his head when he realizes that Y/n has joined San Lang in his smart remarks.

Not only does he have to worry about one silver tongue but two. "Yes San Lang is coming with us. He knows a lot about Crescent Moon Pass and that's sure to help me" Xie Lian explains with a nervous smile.

Mu Qing is interrupted when Feng Xin cuts him off, "The pathway is finished". Mu Qing, ever the prideful looks at the pathway and shrugs, "I've seen better". Which leads to Feng Xin and Mu Qing bantering again.

Y/n interrupts them by activating the pathway. "Stop bickering like an old married couple let's go" San Lang snickers softly, "I never thought of that, they do bicker like an old married couple don't they" The two officials glare at San Lang and y/n. They smile back. Xie Lian only knows y/n is smiling because of his crow feet.

They all go through the portal. Xie Lian lets out a laugh, knowing that he's going to have to deal with all of the four's antics on their journey. Xie Lian is happy with his circus though.

__________________________________________________

Tell me if it's good guys I don't have an editor 😭 so sometimes I'm not aware if my story is actually well written. Yeah, anyways if you wanna request something or see more lemme know 🥰 also y'all I'm pulling the timeline out of my ass. I have no clue if I'm doing it right or not 🙏😭

Should I continue the series? Yes or no?

Oh also if y'all actually wanna see my OC lemme know! I didn't draw it don't hate on me 🫵😐

If anyone reads this plz plz plz plz PLEASE tell me if my submission box is working! I know I'm not getting anything but I want to know if it works!

#xie lian x reader #hua cheng x reader #tgcf x male reader #tgcf headcanon #hualian x reader #hualian #mu qing #feng xin

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madelynraemunson · 1 year ago

Text

CALL ME WHAT YOU WANT 𓆩♡𓆪

(Book #1 of the Hellfire Gentlemen’s Club series)

strip club owner!eddie x fem!exotic dancer!hargrove!reader

𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔 18+ MDNI

Chapter 020: ‘Red Thong, Party’s On!’ (Epilogue)

a/n: pov you’re back at hellfire, but this time you’re sharing the stage with eddie, stripping while he plays a song for you to dance to 🤭🤭♥️ (SURPRISE AT THE END) it’s been a WILD ride my loves, thank you all so much for the support for CMWYW. i hope we all continue to create more beautiful things together. readers, writers, artists, creatives of all kinds keep the world going round. 🤟🏼💋 all my love, maddy

MESS WITH HER? SHE’LL FUCK YOU UP

↳ chapters: 001, 002*, 003** , 004**, 005 , 006 , 007* , 008**, 009, 010, 011, 012* , 013**, 014** , 015, 016**, 017, 018, 019, 020*

CW: strip club behaviors hehe, grinding, pole-dancing, ass-shaking, all that hellfire goodness, implications that shy girl c*me on eddie's guitar

word count: 990 words

♡

Mom always used to say, "Inside of you, there are two wolves: a good one and a bad one. Depending on which mouth you feed, one will triumph the other.”

She left out one thing, however: sometimes being bad feels so fucking good.

“We’ve got a verrry special treat for you tonight folks!” the DJ announces. “She took a break for a little while but now she is BACK… and here to stay with us, FOREVER! Put your hands together for the ONE, the ONLY — Hellfire’s Princess — SHYYY GIIIIRL!”

And the crowd goes wild.

You emerge from the side stage in your glimmering scarlet set, flipping your plump, bouncy locks around as you dip your hips to the beat. Your regular customers swoon as you blow them kisses, and the petty kisses you issue to the Hellfire Girls (they came to pick up their severance checks) leave them shaking in their stilettos.

"WOOO, HARGROVE!" Nancy cheers for you backstage, dancing to the song as she curls Nina's hair.

"LET 'EM KNOW, BABY!" Nina shouts after her.

You acknowledge them with a wink, giving one to Chrissy as well as she cheers for you on the opposite side of the stage, bouncing up and down in her sexy Hellfire cheer uniform.

“Let’s go, Shy Girl!” ‘Cherry’ cheers as she waves her pom-poms in the air. "LET'S GOOOO!"

She's hot! Can’t stop! Up on stage doing shots!

You shake your ass when the song calls on it, grinding your hips to the beat to match the lyrics as they come. The crowd hoots and hollers as you dance, showering you in dollar bills as you make the pole your bitch for the night.

“YEAAAH!” Max cheers. “That’s my sister!”

As you glide down the cylindrical silver steel, you wave to the crowd and thank them all for coming out.

“Thank you! Aww, thanks so much! OMG, how are you? Long time no see!”

But just because you’re doing your thing on stage doesn’t mean you aren’t paying attention to the happenings beneath you. Because while you have a bird’s eye view of Vecna’s Lair, you can’t help but fix your gaze on Lucas, who is dressed rather sharper than usual tonight, going up to Maxine in attempts to ‘rizz her up’.

“I see spiciness runs in the family,” Lucas remarks to her as they stand beside each other in Vecna’s Lair.

The self-proclaimed 'Dark Chocolate' shoots her an awkward wink, to which Max responds with a grimace on her face.

“Genetics wasn’t playing ‘bout y’all,” Lucas continues. "You're looking mighty fine tonight, Max."

“Thanks. I guess,” Max shrugs, refusing to entertain it. “But, if you knew anything about family dynamics and DNA, you’d know she’s my step-sister."

"Psh," Lucas scoffs. "Yeah! Yeah, I knew that."

"Course you did," she jeers. "Stalker."

“Stalker?! I thought we were friends.”

Max rolls her eyes. “Whatever this is, is far from platonic.”

She begins to strut away, giving Lucas the opportunity to race after her. And Sinclair wastes no time, pushing himself past the sea of sweaty men to catch up to the beautiful redhead in front of him.

“So there’s a chance we can be more than friends?!”

You chuckle as you watch it unfold from the stage. Then you turn to everyone else.

Argyle and Jonathan give you two stoned-filled waves hello. You wave back. Henry whose the designated bone-snapper bouncer tonight blows you a kiss. You catch it and return the favor. Mike and Will don't even give you the time of day.

You then turn your attention to Dustin who is both head-banging to the song, and holding up a lazily written message on the black screen of his phone: “I AM LOOKING RESPECTFULLY”. You can't help but giggle. It's like he's a mini Eddie.

Speaking of your boyfriend, your eyes dart back to the side stage where you meet Eddie’s gaze.

She likes to pull my hair when I make her grind her teeth.

You watch as the curly-haired, metalhead-turned-strip-club-owner eyes you steadily, situating his guitar around himself, giving the body of his NJ Warlock one more wipe down with a cloth.

He smirks to himself, satisfied at the thought that only you two know why that guitar needed wiping down in the first place. But he’s mostly pleased with the fact that, despite the long list of handsome, eligible bachelors after your heart, the passionate, down-to-earth, sexy, siren of a woman that is you, is all his.

My girlfriend's a dick magnet. MY girlfriend…

Eddie then takes to the stage, using the same fingers he’ll use to ravage you tonight to strum the chords of the sexy guitar solo of the song — you know, the song about a guy…..with a hot stripper girlfriend…..whose seducing everyone around her while she does her thing…..in that beautiful red set.

“HOLY SHIT!” someone from the crowd raves, causing Eddie’s eyes to light up like a little kid. “DUET OF THE CENTURY!”

You’ve healed so many parts of Eddie that he was too scared to explore: Love after Isabelle. Showing him that self-care is just as important as caring for Wayne. Encouraging him to find a hobby outside of Hellfire that didn't include doing payroll or grocery shopping. And healing his inner teenager by letting him play on stage with you, as he relives his glory days as the guitarist and frontman of Corroded Coffin one last time.

And as Eddie continues to strum, he stays thinking of you. He couldn’t wait to heal more parts of himself…with 'Shy Girl' Hargrove by his side.

“So,” you pant, edging closer to your boyfriend as the music draws on. "What's next after this?"

Eddie smirks. As the instrumental allows, he presses you against his body, kissing you softly against the lips before trailing all the way down your neck. Your breath hitches in arousal as he hums against you.

“Whatever you want.”

The End

SIKE! King Steve has entered the chat… 😉

CALL OUT MY NAME ♛

(Book #2 of the Hellfire Gentlemen's Club Series)

CEO!bachelor!steve × fem!college grad!reader

MODERN AU • 18+ | BOOK #1 (e.m.)

slight age gap (Steve is 31, reader is 23); reader goes by the nickname "Sweets"

*loosely inspired by sara cate’s salacious players club*

Summary: 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐋𝐄. Steve Harrington has the WORST luck with the ladies. His high school sweetheart left him for another dude, his former fuck buddy is dating his roommate, and his dream girl is a lesbian. King Steve is losing hope. That is until he meets you — a newly graduated university student from Seattle — when your paths cross on a fateful night in Sin City. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas... that is until your risky business trickles over to Hawkins, Indiana, a town your best friend knows of a little too well.

theme song: call out my name by the weeknd

tag list is open 💌✨

PREVIEW

♛

Winter 2024

“WATCH OUT INDIANAPOLIS — you're about to get... absolutely SOAKED!”

The booming voice of a man in Steve’s bedroom stirs him awake.

Letting out a ferocious yawn, The King rubs his eyes free of the annoying crust in the corner of his sockets, flopping around one more time before doing his routine stretch.

“Google,” Steve commands. “Turn off the TV.”

The TV immediately switches off. It’s nothing personal to meteorologist Marcus Bailey, but if Steve ever needed an accurate forecast of Indianapolis, all he would have to do is look outside his penthouse window. And that, after brushing his teeth, is just what he does.

"G'morning Indy,” he sighs happily on his balcony before going back inside.

Steve then makes his way over to the kitchen to fix himself some breakfast.

“Google,” he calls out again. “Open the curtains, please.”

Google replies:

“Opening curtains. Good morning — Steve.”

"Google, what's my schedule looking like today?" "Google, text Dustin." “Google, what is the weather looking like in Nevada?” “Google, turn on my shower tunes.”

The best thing about not living with Eddie Munson anymore, is that Steve can shamelessly sing Amy Winehouse in the shower without being hounded about it.

“We only saaaid GOODBYE, with WORDS!” Steve sings, confidently off-key. “I died a hundred times! You go back to her, and I goooo baaack toooo…”

"Scanning fingerprint...”

an automated voice announces at the entrance of Steve's walk-in closet.

Swish...

The door slides open. Sauntering his way inside, Steve ventures for some slick black athleisure down to the shoes, his usual musky cologne, and some matching sunglasses (despite the gloomy forecast prediction).

Black. 🎶

Steve Harrington is ready for the day.

---

"Google, make reservations for 3 people at Tony's Steakhouse at 7pm please."

All Steve had left to do for the day now was grocery shop. Which was always a hassle. Because sometimes, the store doesn't have the specific brand he's looking for so the shopper has to opt for an alternate version. Or sometimes, the shopper assigned to him that day chooses produce that is nearing its expiration date making every fruit in his bag a mushy mess. It doesn't happen too often, but it sure feels inconvenient as hell when it does. There are worse problems in life though, so Steve really can't complain.

*Ring, ring. Ring, ring*

The very distinct and custom ringtone has Steve bolting across the room to answer the call. One of his best friends was on the other line.

"Yello?" he says into the phone.

"Hey, it's Shy Girl," comes a voice. "Eddie and I are pulling in."

"Pull off to the side. Valet's got it. I'll send you guys up."

A bottle of cabernet sauvignon a la Steve awaits the pair when they make their way over. Consider it a Tony's pre-game.

"GameWorld stock is up 4% today,” Steve's buddy, and owner of Hellfire Gentlemen's Club Eddie Munson announces as the two clink glasses. "I don’t have much faith in it though, figure I’ll get my pie slices from actual grocery stores. Like Meijer.”

“Everyone's always gonna need groceries,” Steve points out. "Definitely. Just don't day trade. Not now."

"Ooh, you hear that, Eds?" Shy Girl nudges him. "You gotta be careful where you put your money."

"I gotta be careful with my money, period," Eddie smirks. "You're a danger to my pockets, angel."

"Oh but you love me," she says.

"Yeah," Eddie gives in, grabbing his lover's dainty digits, trailing his fingers across hers, and rubbing the glistening rock that took up most of her left hand on the distal side. "I sure do."

"I'm just... so proud of us," Steve sappily reflects. "So much has happened over the past two years and we've all come so far."

"Yeah," Shy Girl agrees. "And it's about fucking time we celebrate."

"I agree," Eddie chimes in, raising his glass once again. "This weekend trip is going to be... one for the books."

"Viva Las Vegas," Steve toasts. "Cheers."

"Viva Las Vegas!"

SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

Black and red.

They're the two colors that occupy your closet the most. But of course, after graduating from Washington State University (or Wazzu, for short), you expected nothing less.

You could do with some more sequins though, you think to yourself as you pack your bags.

"What do you think of this, Sweets?"

Peering over your shoulder, you see that your best friend, Elle has started festivities early, managing to hold two glasses of champagne in one hand, and six-inch stilletoes in the other.

"Can't take the party out of the girl, that's for damn sure," you respond.

When you left Seattle to attend WSU Pullman, Elle was your only friend in business class. Mainly because the class was predominantly for dudes, but eventually you found out that you two have a lot in common.

Elle is everything you would want in an older sister figure: she is both book smart and wise, she is sexy, and she eats men for breakfast. And, now that she's about to celebrate the launching of her lingerie business (along with her Dirty 30s Era), and you're about to enter your new-grad era, you two are hitting up Las Vegas to go ham together one last time.

It's all so bittersweet. You owe everything to the Warrens, having taken you in when you were a lost undergrad. It also sucked quite a bit not having a support system after graduating high school. You and Elle were all each other has. Which makes this inevitable separation so much more painful.

"Are you sure you're okay with Vegas by the way?" you question. "I know since the split, being surrounded by gorgeous girls 24/7 can kinda be triggering.”

"Don't worry about it, love," she shakes it off. "The past is in the past. This is a new era of me."

Cheers to that. Clinking your airport-pregame champagne glasses with one another, you raise a toast to yourselves, celebrating how far the two of you have come over the past four years.

"To friendship."

"To being elegant and educated."

"To elegance and education."

"And to being girl-bosses for the rest of our lives."

You giggle as you raise your glass of champagne even higher.

"To being girl-bosses for the rest of our lives," you two take a sip at the same time. "And no matter how near and no matter how far, we're always gonna be besties."

"I love you, Sweets."

"I love you too, Isabelle."

🏷️ tag list: @chrrymunson , @the-fairy-anon , @ali-r3n , @corrodedcoffincumslut , @bebe07011 , @mmunson86 , @eddiesguitarskills , @chelebelletx , @imonhereforareasonsadly , @eddies-trailer-babe @motherfckerr , @jxpsi , @sidthedollface2 , @manda-panda-monium , @elvendria , @micheledawn1975 , @hereforshmut , @siriuslysmoking , @mediocredreams @nymphetkoo , @m-chmcl-rmnc , @ahoyyharrington , @keepittoyourselftellnobodyelse @kellyxo1 @emsgoodthinkin @winchester-angel @chloe-6123 , @redbarn1995 @angietherose @kiyastrf94 , @purplewitchcauldron @kellsck @joyfulfxckery @munsons-mayhem28 @dragonfire @emma77645 @drivelikenina @livosssblog @thinkingth0ts @hugdealer @ellielunamckay @xblueriddlex @maskofmirrors @babyloutattoo89 @queenofhawkins @feral-pumpkin-energy @bl0ssomanddie

divider from: @plum98

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson smut #strip club owner! eddie #stranger things #stranger things 4 #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson fanfics #joseph quinn #joe quinn

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ssatorussuguru · 3 months ago

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hi!! i saw in the author's notes section on one of your fics that you're open to sharing more fic recs, so i was wondering if you have any for dick? love your fics btw 💕

thank u so so much it really means a lot <33 this one took SO long because there are such an abundance of incredible dick centric fics but i tried organizing it as best as i can! fair warning there is a looot under the cut, and some of them arent in dick's pov but i included them if hes the main relationship

(adjacent to that is the trillion dick and dami fics i adore but didnt include bc theyre more dami centric)

dick pt. 2

tim+dick

steph

tim

dick + bruce

he just wants his dad - Or, Dick gets many hugs over the years, but there's one he needs.

big ears are made of these - Dick has opinions about Bruce’s Batman costume. Namely, that it isn’t scary enough. Luckily, Bruce is happy to let his nine-year-old ward make “improvements” in the name of justice. It isn’t until Dick is older that he regrets taking Bruce up on the offer.

synchronicity - (A young Robin and Nightwing swap places; Batman is always the constant.)

we'll live in spaces between walls - (Something is different about Dick. Bruce notices.)

baby dick!!

sweater weather - Dick Grayson is eight, Bruce Wayne is trying, and there's a walk home in the rain.

im so blue all the time - (Batman is human, Dick Grayson is not. This changes nothing and everything, all at once.)

little robin redbreast - baby dick and selina

dick + jason

everything goes away - Dick accidentally gets sent back five years in the past, before Jason died. It's up to him to save his little brother, and maybe learn to see him in a different light.

heaven shall never call our name - Renegade is stuck living what can only be described to be his worst life, but at least he can check in on his little brother from time to time, even if it breaks his heart that he can't be the big brother Jason seeks.

to my brother - Jason’s in a small town somewhere in the Russian wasteland the first time he sends a postcard to Dick.

hope is the thing with feathers - Or Jason Todd is a time traveler, and Dick Grayson is always his destination.

birds in rafters - That one where Nightwing likes to take naps in the rafters of Red Hood's office/safehouse/warehouse. And Hood's so used to him at this point he conveniently forgets to tell his guys Wing's not a threat

i need somebody to tell me it will be just fine - Dick doesn't understand what's wrong with Jason. He's nervous, anxious and he's been pacing in front of Bruce's study for 15 minutes. Surely he's not afraid of the man?

a bright light of silver - batman and robin meet baby jase

dick + dami

give me your armor - No place is ever truly safe. Even knowing that, Damian feels safe in Wayne Manor. It has nothing to do with Grayson's presence.

the stowaway - Dick tries his best to parent Damian. Damian tries his best, period. They’re both a bit clumsy, but they’ve got the spirit.

smeared with oil (like david's boy) - Damian gets de-aged.

the spitting image - A stranger in line orders Dick's coffee for him.

what's in a name? - He’d convince Damian that he was good. Somehow. Eventually. Maybe after a nap. He’d give Damian new titles. A ten year old should not be hearing the adults around him calling him ‘Demon Spawn’ or ‘Devil Child’ or whatever else. He’d give Damian new attributes to be proud of.

misc

prove that i'm worth something - Dick Grayson has never had much time for Stephanie Brown. But when the two of them find themselves stranded without a line to the outside world, he finds that they might have more in common than he thought.

their arms are extended (my eyes start to close) - In which Dick Grayson gets hit with fear toxin, Stephanie Brown imparts some wisdom, and Damian Al Ghul Wayne learns to forgive himself.

inhale peace - After being erased from the memory of his loved ones, Dick travels the world and tries to learn to heal.

it was not your fault, but mine - Dick gets caught and tortured. Tim finds him. Dick thinks he doesn't care enough to help him. Tim, frankly, doesn't care what Dick thinks.

chatterbox - Eight times that spells or serums affected Dick's ability to speak and / or their aftermath.

turncoat - Dick didn’t know how he felt about doing a job in Gotham. Honestly, it had been a surprise he’d even been assigned to it; he would’ve thought he’d be considered too close. Too likely to be compromised.

#dick grayson #nightwing #batman #dc #comics #dcu comics #robin #dc robin #richard grayson #ao3 #fanfic #fic recs #dc fanfic #batman fanfiction #fan fiction #jason todd #damian wayne #bruce wayne

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violetvines · 2 months ago

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the following fic takes place during reckless, when kai mentioned that paedyn tried to choke him in his sleep, but the scene was never written about in the book... so i'm going to write it (this may not align with the timeline of the book so bear with me <3)

you have me in a chokehold 🗡

(Kai's POV)

I don't think I was ever meant to sleep well.

It would always be the nightmares, or the thoughts, or the voices that would jolt me awake when the sky was still dark, when the birds were still asleep.

Though, to be fair, I never was allowed to wake later than the sun.

But somehow, impossibly, when she's around me, I almost feel like I could lie down and sleep for days, if only she were right next to me with her silver head resting on my scarred heart.

That night, sleep had come quickly for the both of us. I'd watched her slow breathing until my own eyes shut. Tried not to count her freckles.

I was never a deep sleeper, and nothing that happened while my eyes were closed could catch me off guard.

Until now, that is. My weakness.

I wake up to something pressing against my throat, hard. Someone's hands, I realise. Someone has me in a chokehold.

Someone is straddling me.

I open my eyes with a grunt, the first thing I see being Paedyn's bewildered glance. She loosens her grip on my neck slightly.

I don't say a word as I eye her, from top to bottom. I muster a smile, the one that I know she hates and loves.

She recoils from me, clearly affected by the fact that she had been on top of me.

"Round two, darling?" I attempt to sit up while massaging my throat.

"You could have told me you wanted to play this game," I add innocently.

The glare that meets my gaze is a dazzling inferno. The words she says next are sharp, and even then, they just make me want to laugh.

"The only game I want to play with you is hide-and-go-seek."

"Get it? I'll hide, and you'll seek, only you won't find me ever again."

I shake my head. "That would be a bit impossible, Gray, don't you think?" I lift my foot to indicate the chain that now binds us together.

"I'll cut it off then."

"How?" I raise an eyebrow at her. Naturally, she takes it as a challenge.

"I know you keep my dagger in your boot."

"What dagger?"

"Don't play dumb with me."

I stare at her and she stares back.

I sigh. "Even if I did have your dagger on me, which would be a bit unwise, you wouldn't be able to steal it."

"And why is that?" The challenge in her tone matches the one in my smirk.

"Because I don't let myself repeat my mistakes. You stole from me once, remember?"

"Oh, I doubt that, Azer. You've already repeated your mistakes – you have been repeating them."

"Is that so? Enlighten me then, Gray. What mistakes have you seen me repeating?"

She meets my question with silence. I'm fully sitting up now, watching as she falls into that habit of twisting her father's ring on her thumb. Her silence is abrupt, and I wonder what is going on in that mind of hers. Before I get a chance to ask, she answers in a voice so soft, it's almost like she didn't want me to hear it.

"The mistake of caring," she says, "for me. Or at least pretending like you do."

"The mistake of taking off your masks," she adds, "to allow me a glimpse of who you really are."

Silence falls again, and she falls back on the bedroll to look at the stars. Her gaze fixes on a spot, and I assume that she's picked out a star to admire. If only she knew that she is the star I am admiring.

I plop down beside her, cringing slightly as she edges away from me when I do. We lay there for a while, looking up at the sky. We're quiet until I break the silence.

"And how do you know those were mistakes?"

The question hangs in the air.

"They should be."

And I have nothing to say to that. She's right, they should be mistakes. I am leading her to her punishment, to possible death. Those mistakes are the reason why we are where we are. Not close to friends, but not even close to enemies, because too much has happened to be forgotten.

I let a few more seconds pass before changing the topic. "Care to explain what you were trying to accomplish by choking me in my sleep earlier?"

She turns to meet my gaze, but seems to think better of it and snaps her head back forward.

"No."

I roll my eyes. "Spit it out, Gray. Did you really think that I would die a strangled death?"

She eyes me carefully, seeming to decide how to answer best.

"No, but it has crossed my mind that you'll die by my hand."

"I don't think that's true."

"And how do you know that? You can't see my left foot."

"I don't need to see your left foot to know that you don't mean it." I lean in closer to whisper in her ear. "To know that you can't bring yourself to do it."

She stands up, moving further away from me and dragging the bedroll along with her. "Don't speak too soon, Azer."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Gray. I'm just saying it like it is."

"Say whatever you want to say. I don't care."

"Sure you don't."

She plops back down on the bedroll. "You should get in a few more hours of sleep," I tell her, "we have a long way to go tomorrow."

"Are you not going back to sleep?"

"Well, no," comes my reply, "in case a certain silver-haired someone tries to crush my trachea while I'm slumbering peacefully."

"You'll never slumber peacefully as long as I'm around, Azer."

"I don't think so too, Gray."

"But what's important is that as long as I'm around, you will." I whisper softly, even if she can't hear it.

tagging some moots ઇଓ

@caramelmiacchiato @arias-archive @kaisdarling @crenna @reyreadersblog

#vઇଓreads #vઇଓwrites #powerless lauren roberts #reckless lauren roberts #powerless #kai azer #paedyn gray #paedyn x kai

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ineffabildaddy · 1 year ago

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you're a mirror i cannot avoid

south downs crowley pov ficlet for @voluptatiscausa, inspired by this! explicit content incoming!

I realised something, when we moved here. Discovered something new about you, just when I thought I had nothing more to learn. I made an observation, now that we have a medicine cupboard above the sink in the bathroom, its outer panels silver and shining and reflecting the room just as it appears.

You'd never owned a mirror before.

Not to my knowledge. The bookshop didn't have one, nor did your previous dwellings. If we fed the ducks at St. James's Park, you never gave the water's surface more than a glance. You always loved to pause before shop windows, to admire the Savile Row tailors and the Greenwich Market goods, yet you never stopped quite long enough to catch the sight of your face gazing back at you. Instead, you either ducked into the shop without further ado, or bustled on by.

There's nowhere to duck into now, angel, nowhere to bustle towards. You have nothing to acquire but more moments of me, nowhere to be but where we are.

Maybe that's why I see you looking in that bathroom mirror, sometimes. After all, we are country men, now; there is nothing to do here but sit with oneself, nothing to understand but the intricacies of one's own likeness. I can see you trying, as you always have, to grapple with the meat and bones of yourself. Only now, the worry with which you once attempted to reconcile your self-impression with the cold fist of Heaven has flown, like a restless bird whose mother feared it would fall from the nest, soaring high into the cotton tuft of the springtime clouds in adolescent rebellion.

I like watching you look at yourself. Sometimes, when I see you standing still before the bathroom sink, I slink up from behind you, so you can see me coming.

(You always see me coming, angel. Every time. Even when you greet me, as a French prisoner greets his lawless rescuer, with breath-hitched surprise.)

When I've reached you, I splay one hand out on the broad plane of your shoulder, brush idle fingers against the tense of your thigh. I feel you relax beneath me, my nose buried in your shell-pink cheek, watching you drink this new sight in out of the corner of my eye.

You enjoy this, seeing us together. Not still and unchanging like a photograph, but moving, fluid, alive. Once, I even joked that we should acquire a larger mirror, so you could see the look on my face next time you took me on all fours. You chuckled, and asked me would I get lunch started, because you were off out - you had errands to run in the village.

You took the Bentley, came back with a full-length 'looking glass', as you called it. Used a miracle to get it in the car, used a miracle to get it out again, lost the patience to manoeuvre it up to the bedroom. You unpacked it from its box downstairs while I dished up lunch, tugged me up from my seat and backed me into the drawing room once you had eaten your fill.

You pulled our hips together and gripped my jaw to tip my chin up, to bare my neck for you. I felt the surface of your skin whisper a pearl-white wisp of relief when I pressed the pads of my fingers to your bare forearms, just below your rolled-up sleeves. You sunk your teeth into the flush of my throat, the side of your thumb stroking my collarbone, and my core pulsed, my knees wobbled. You smiled wide against my skin.

I begged for you, of course. It's a practice I maintain, though you never deprive me. It reminds us both of the old days, when we met only under cover of darkness and you handled my cunt like it was a cradled secret.

You had me on my hands and knees, pushing back against the upward curve of your length, in no time. You've always been impatient, angel. You barely mustered the composure required to take me by the waist and angle me just right before the mirror, so hurried was your need to feel my hilt flex on the fat tip of your dick.

(I reckon I know why you're partial to having me this way. Even resting my weight on my elbows, I find it a strain to cover my mouth. You can feel what you do to me when you fill me, from the trembling in my thighs and the sheen of sweat coating the small of my back, where you reach to pin my wrists behind me once I surrender my hands to you and collapse my weight onto my shoulders. Still, you like to hear me, though my whimpers emerge twisted and warped from my mouth, my cheek crushed against the soft carpet.)

It was hard to make out where your gaze was focused, from that angle, but when I did look in the mirror as you fucked me slow and deep, I registered that your eyes were fixed upon yourself. Not with vanity, no - pure pride, as the lower curve of your gut rested on my ass, and the strength of your spine helped you hold me steady with one lengthened arm.

You were seeing yourself as you truly were, as you have always been, though you may not have known it till we arrived in the countryside; my guardian, my protector, my one true equal. Your eyes flickered down towards mine, and though my lids were drooping in languid ecstasy, I knew you saw it all within them; every kindness you allowed me to offer you over the years, every truth you internalised when I expressed it over the millennia.

You saw me, and I saw you, and together, we saw something different in each other, something entirely new; that you were no longer yourself, and I was no longer myself. We were no longer small, separate stars, but one bursting supernova, in which neither of us knew where you ended and where I began. We were changed, in a word, we were home, for the very first time, all our wildest hopes fulfilled.

There's a looking glass in every room, now, each one a different size and shape to the next. New ways of looking, new ways of seeing, abound.

I want to go and feed the ducks again. I want to watch you look in the pond, properly this time.

I want to behold what you will find there.

thank you so so much for reading!! comments and reblogs are always always appreciated💙 also available to read on ao3 here:

#good omens #fanfic #yamica

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rainybyday · 5 months ago

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My Skyfallers List - PKMN LA edition

To all my Pokemon fans out there, I have just played Pokemon Legends Arcues (completely) and Scarlet this year. Let me tell you I had brain rot for weeks that I've started to read all the Skyfaller au's (au's in Legends Arcues where a person other than Dawn/Lucas and Ingo fell into Hisui) and I have read a LOT.

So I made a list, I hope you enjoy this as much as I did.

(Also if a tag has it, i will say it so its not spoilers!)

Hisui's icy fangs and arms by The_Akai_Hebi

Status: Ongoing, updated Jan 2025

Silver is our next Skyfaller, and part of an au with Lance as his dad and the makeshift family that comes alongside him. Only, it's hard to trust people fully after a life like his, so being dropped in Hisui? Not the best thing to end an argument with your crush.

skipping stones on the sands of time by spaceyFeline

Status: Ongoing, updated Aug 2022

Steven Stones! Another Champion whom got stuck in Hisui and taken in by the Diamond clan. With an added twist of original characters and both expected and unexpected things that come with being a Hoenn Champion in Old Sinnoh.

Pearls are Stones too, right? by KitkatKK2

Status: Ongoing, updated Sep 2022

Steven Stones again! This time it's a back-and-forth of both Steven and the modern characters in Hoenn pov when Steven disappeared, a short read but no less entertaining.

there's blood on your lies by HopeStoryteller

Status: Ongoing, continuous updates

A Cynthia story plot where Cynthia is the main protag! Its my first Skyfaller story I read and I still love it today, with no regrets, the start of my brain rot and- just read it you'll understand.

Sins of the Past (Self) by CuratorOfFluff

Status: Ongoing, updated Oct 2024

This is a Cynthia-is-Volo fic where Cynthia travels back to save Dawn from her past self when she was still known as Volo. It's cute as fuck (but also guilty immortal so :/ )

Faller Cynthia by solarsnapp

Status: Complete

Cynthia but as a 15-year-old with all the insecurities of a teenager who was hit by life pretty hard. She has a very rocky trip but it gets better! Maybe...

Series: She Cometh and She Returneth

Pledge to Thyself by littlev123

Status: Ongoing, updated Feb 2025

Riley's first encounter with Mew, the guardian of aura itself, had led to him being taken by Arcues to the past. But in a place like Hisui, his aura abilities would not be taken kindly by many.

A letter to my ghost by NellBo_o

Status: Ongoing, updated Apr 2023

Changing it up, it's N from Unova! It's about a younger N (a bit ferial) who found his way to Hisui and is under Ingo's and both clan's care!

The Rifts in Truth by CavernOfDragons

Status: Ongoing, updated Sep 2024

Another N from Unova story where it changes pov's a lot with many characters from modern Unova and Hisui. Featuring N living with a bunch of Hisuian Zoroarks, Ingo gaining some memories, and Emmet taking care of a crying Zoroark who was left behind.

Have you heard this joke before? Two Unovans are sent to Hisui... by ToriiStorii

Status: Complete

Not a fic but a series of fics that complete a whole story of Ingo and Rosa, our Black and White 2 protag, going through their adventures in Hisui together.

Do you Point and Call with those Hands? by OffColorDarkrai

Status: Complete

Technically a Skyfaller au since Elesa is shown to be in Hisui, but it's mostly a fic about Emmet and Ingo being menaces who can speak Pokemon. Go figure.

Birds of a Feather by hallowed-vessels (hatterenehostel)

Status: Complete

Sabi finds a girl who is way too happy hugging a Gible of all things. Iris loves the baby dragons.

Ferality by shuppetry

Status: Ongoing, updated Dec 2024

Emmet, Emmet, Emmet, Emmet, Emmet! Emmet is here and roaming in the Icelands before a duo of Skyfallers goes out to find out the mystery of the lone man in the land of ice.

don't let yourself go hungry now by swiftishere

Status: Complete

A short story about Emmet and the Zoroark who reluctantly agreed to keep him when one of her Zorua's wanted to keep him. Pokemon adoption anyone?

Give Not In To Sorrow by Hare_Brained_Scheme

Status: Complete

Emmet and his Zoroark family! Except, not many people take too kindly to people who share their face in the Icelands, so when Emmet was left to the Pearl Clan to heal from his fall, kindness is not the first thing he will wake up to.

The Fallen Lady and Her Warden by ExtremeExhaustion

Status: Complete???

Emmet is his Lady's Zoroark official (unofficial) Warden who happens to see a new skyfaller who is way too young to be placed in danger at all. Who let this little child out in the wild on her own, Emmet needs names.

The Man behind the Illusion by HHHDontWorryAboutIt

Status: Complete

Part of a series where Emmet is dropped in Hisui to find his brother, but everyone knows of Ingo's encounter with Zoroarks who turns into a man in white paired with a large smile. They are not eager for him to meet his brother.

Series: That's the Newest Warden of the Pearl Clan!

The Warden, The Girl, & The Fox by Elithesia_Autem_Danguarde

Status: Complete

Akari finds a man in the Icelands covered in face paint and fake fur with his Zoroark pack and decides that he is friend shaped. Also, Ingo is dealing with amnesia until he is not.

Warden's Twins by Areherthewarlock

Status: Complete

Volo brought both Ingo and Akira to Hisui, but what no else expected was that he also brought the younger version of the twins, Ingo and Emmt, into Hisui as well. People don't mind them, but the family resemblances may have caused confusion.

Series: Warden's Twins

First Impressions by Oxirito

Status: Complete

Where a young Emmet is thrown in Hisui with the older version of his brother.

Series: Young Emmet in Hisui Au

Devil's Train by IDs_Fantasy

Status: Ongoing, updated Jul 2022

Emmet saw his brother in a space-time distortion, fell from the sky, caused Lucas to have mind-blowing revelations, turned into a child, and threatened Giratina. Not in that order.

Trick or Trap? (You mean Treat?) by Canisleepnow9

Status: Ongoing, updated Jul 2022

Emmet and Ingo both fell at the same time but were found by different people. Emmet was found with an empty train, a few Joltics, and a small Zoura pup whose fur is not one you would find in Hisui.

The Smiling Warden by blank_witch

Status: Ongoing, updated May 2024

Emmet is found alone with the Zoroarks of the Iceland and interacts with the few people who walk into the land of malice and snow.

Welcome to Sinnoh's Temple by Maternal_Macrophage

Status: Complete

Emmet is our protag and the only one to fall from the sky, and though he may be good with Pokemon, there are repercussions from being the only Skyfaller in Hisui. And Hisui is not kind.

Series: Welcome to Snnoh's Temple

Onward and Upward by koidefender

Status: Complete???

Emmet is in the past but not in Hisui as he travels through regions without any memories and picks a whole team of Pokémon along the way.

Reflecting The Same Light by Elithesia_Autem_Danguarde

Status: Ongoing, updated Jan 2025

Emmet found his way into Hisui with his memories but thinks it's best to keep that fact to himself, and was later accepted into the Diamond Clan. But it turns out everyone also thinks it's best to keep the fact a man with his face also fell in Hisui a while ago too.

Through the Fire and Fury, You Will Come Home by ToriiStorii

Status: Complete

Emmet is the one to fall from the sky instead of Ingo, and that changes things when the youngest brother is taken instead of the eldest. Siblings will always protect one another.

I Told You So by Maternal_Macrophage

Status: Ongoing, updated Aug 2023

Emmet fell from the sky before Sabi became a Warden, changing the positions they both held in the clan and their small family of two.

Series: I Told You So

Next Stop: Hisui by CuzReasons

Status: Complet

Emmet found his way to Hisui and was helped by Akira to reunite with his brother. Now its time to find a way to bring Ingo's memories back to him.

Series: Next Stop: Hisui

The Rift That Tears Us Apart by Shinx25

Status: Ongoing, updated Jan 2025

Emmt found himself in Hisui and was told by a tiny child that Ingo is here! Unfortunately, things will never be easy for the brothers to meet.

There was always four skyfallers (Two of them never meant to happen) by The_Embodiment_of_chaot1c_energy

Status: Ongoing, updated Jul 2023

When both sets of twins are skyfallen, just not in the same space.

three of cups by paopuleaf

Status: Ongoing, updated Feb 2022

Emmet is the protag in PLA and it changes things.

Identity Theft by finnshavocado

Status: Complete

The title says it all, no commentary, it's fun.

Authority of the King by Kiwikipedia

Status: Complete

Nanu, the local authority of Alola, is now in Hisui. Well, not for long since this is near the end of the game where Volo reveals his true colors, luckily Nanu got his memories back and will not take Volo's bullshit.

Lost on the road of life by Kayuri (gifted to HopeStoryteller)

Status: Complete

Leon and Hop! Two brother are trapped in Hisui and on their first day in new lands they meet a very, very familiar face.

When Darkness Falls by SilverPurity

Status: Ongoing, updated May 2022

Piers was taken by a rift that appeared during the Eternatus battle, dropped into Hisui with no memory, and left his sister and freinds behind. While Piers is stuck in the past, Marnie is left alone without her brother.

Whispers of a Different Tomorrow by LunaLitten

Status: Ongoing, updated Jun 2023

Arven boy! After the events of Area Zero, his three friends help him journey through time to find his mom again, except there might be an issue of using a time machine that can only travel a human into the past but not back...

The Long Way Home by No_Moon

Status: Complet

Something went wrong on the day our Paldean friend battled the AI Professor, now all four of them are in the past in a land called Hisui.

Anime:

Blast to the Past by MelonSalts, VocicesWithFear

Status: Ongoing, updated Jan 2023

TEAM ROCKET! Or James at least is now in Hisui as our protag who is off to complete the Pokedex because people are scared of Pokemon!? Meanwhile, Jessie has to team up with our anime Unova trio to find her partner in crime back.

Series: Blast to the Past (James in PLA AU)

Manga:

Chapter Hisui by 4thClover

Status: Ongoing, updated Dec 2023

The manga version of Lucas, Diamond from Pokémon Special Adventures, is now trapped in Hisui after a battle gone wrong. While he tries to go through the bizarre ways people view Pokémon (and himself), Platinum and Pearl are struggling after their trio became a pair.

Reversed Skyfallers:

Lost in the city by Bekksasaurus

Status: Ongoing, updated Jan 2024

Irida finds herself lost in a big city with a familiar face helping her up.

Lost, Watward Pearl by MaddyHatty, TheBreklayer

Status: Ongoing, updated Oct 2024

Irida is in present-day Unova and is helped by many descendants of her clan and rival clan to find a way home, but the more time she spends in modern Unova, its becomes hard when she starts to learn about this new time.

girl lost in space by willowsinthenight

Status: Ongoing, updated Dec 2024

Little Irida finds herself lost and alone in a place foreign to her, even when she has no memories. But a kind man adopted her who goes by the name of Ingo.

Times are Changing by AsleepBySeven

Status: Ongoing, updated Sep 2024

After the events of PLA, everything went back to normal. But with when meeting legends you are gifted 'Blessings' by your god. This is a story of how Adaman and Irida found out what was their blessings.

Rei in Nimbasa by PikoBlaster

Status: Ongoing, updated Oct 2024

Rei the assistant of Professor Laventon and not the resident Skyfaller, goes into a space-time distortion and finds himself with two people with matching coats and a city of lights.

Doubled and Halved by Anonyomous

Status: Ongoing, updated Dec 2024

Arvens finds himself in a realm that has no laws of logic with blood on his hands and a fractured memory. He also finds a man in white just like him in this bizarre space of distortion.

When they're home:

How to cope after time travelling... again by AceTrainerRilthi

Status: Complete

Ingo and Dawn find themselves back in the present and after a while, meet each other again. Except the story line for Black and White is just beginning.

Series: How to survive Team Plasma

Getting the Return Ticket Home by mycat

Status: Complete

Ingo finds himself in Area Zero and Arven finds Ingo in one of the most dangerous places in Paldea.

The Performance Princess Becomes a Battle Queen by MysticLanternLight

Status: Ongoing, updated Jan 2025

Ingo and Dawn find their way back to their time but with a twist. It's the Anime version of Dawn.

Drayton's Uncles Ingo and Emmet by HHHDontWorryAboutIt

Status: Complete

Drayton holds a special bond with his Uncles Ingo and Emmet, but he was left behind when one of his Uncles disappeared.

recollection, retrospection, recognition by ApatheticRobots

Status: Complete

Ingo retains his memories, it changes things, makes guilt all the more harder to ignore.

Special Mentions:

In Tandem by yautjan

Status: Ongoing, updated Jul 2022

Arceus meet the twins in a dream to help their chosen child: Ingo to Dawn as Akira and Emmet to Lucas. Both sets of twins travel around the region to stop two doomsday plots all while beckoning a family to their chosen twin.

Freighthopping by Raynavan

Status: Complete

Ingo would sometimes find himself in the small pockets of distortions from time to time, and in those space-time areas he would meet people who know him verrrrrry well.

Wisdom of the Wardens by VsSocialAnxiety

Status: Ongoing, updated Jan 2025

Hisui endded and Sinnoh was named after the last of the ten Wardens died, but the Almighty did not like that one bit. After many years buried in cold soil, all ten Wardens wake up again in Modern Sinnoh.

Uncoupled by FangFury

Status: Complete

The pov of people who first meet the new Warden of the Highlands, Warden Ingo.

Immortality Is Hard On The Mind by entity9silvergen

Status: Complete

Volo is an immortal, and being immortal means your memory isn't the best of things, nor is your mental and emotional state. Sometimes he gets feelings of pokemon, places, and even people. And this Ingo person makes him very happy to see him and talk about trains.

Under Snow is Ice and Rock by oofins_Mcgoofins

Status: Ongoing, updated Aug 2023

A 'Hisuian Snow' Au is about Alec staying with Zoura instead of leaving with his father and the changes that come with it.

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