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andrealol7 · 2 months ago

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somewhere in the crowd theres you <3

James Potter x fem!reader

based on the song Super Trouper by ABBA

summary: When James Potter injures his arm just before a big Quidditch match, he convinces his secretly talented (but anxious) girlfriend to take his place.

tw: anxiety attack

a/n: not proofread

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The problem starts with James being an idiot.

Or, well. Technically, it starts with a dive during practice — “for dramatic effect,” he claimed — and the next, he was on the ground clutching his arm and wincing with a dramatic flair that Sirius called “very on-brand.”

But you maintain it was his fault for trying to pull that ridiculous stunt he kept bragging about during breakfast.

“Madam Pomfrey says he’ll live,” Remus says gently beside you as you hover in the Hospital Wing, arms crossed tightly.

“Pity,” you mutter.

Sirius snorts. “She doesn’t mean that.”

You scowl. “No, I do.”

James is lounging dramatically on the infirmary bed, with a cast on his arm and an arm sling, acting like it’s he's on the verge of death.

“Don’t look so mournful, love,” he croaks at you. “Your hero lives on.”

“I don’t look mournful,” you snap. “I look furious. Because you decided to pull that ridiculous stunt earlier and now you’ve got the grace of a knocked-over bookshelf. And may I need to remind you, a day before the biggest Quidditch match of the season."

"And now how are you gonna find someone who's gonna fill out your spot just in time for tomorrow.” you continue with your eyebrows furrowed.

Its ironic how you're the one who's stressed out about this whole thing while the Quidditch captain doesn't seem to have a care in the world.

“Bookshelves are noble,” he says. “And stacked with knowledge.”

“Stacked with idiocy, apparently.”

Remus hides a smile.

James just blinks up at you like you’re the sun and he’s been staring too long. “You know what would make me feel better?”

“Let me guess,” you say dryly. “Snogging.”

“Well, that too.” He smirks. “But also — you flying for me.”

You blink. “What.”

“You. Tomorrow. Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. You fill in.”

You laugh. Like, actually laugh out loud.

James just keeps smiling. “C’mon, you’re brilliant.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Y/N.” He sits up straighter, and his voice softens. “You’re the best flier I know. You just don’t like the pressure of people watching you.”

You look down. Your throat tightens.

Remus, ever the peacemaker “You’re the best flier we’ve got besides James.”

“You’ve never even seen me play,” you scoffed, heart rate already spiking.

“Please,” James groaned, “you made me eat dirt third year when we were messing around on the pitch. You flew circles around me.”

You crossed your arms. “That was a one-time thing and I was showing off because you wouldn’t shut up about your record.”

“Exactly,” James said, beaming despite the sling on his arm. “And now you get to show off again. Officially.”

A quiet moment goes by

“I…I can’t,” you murmur. “You know what happens. I freeze. My chest locks up. I feel like I’m going to faint or fall or—or die or worse, vomit in public.”

James reaches out, his fingers curling lightly around your wrist.

“Then don’t look at the crowd,” he says gently. “Just look for me.”

Your heart aches a little.

Because he says it like it’s easy.

Because part of you wants to believe he’s right.

“Look, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe you could do it. We’re playing Slytherin. We need you.”

You swallow. Your heart is already trying to break out of your chest, and it’s only the day before.

“But what if I mess it up?” you whisper.

James leans forward. “You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do” with that signature grin of his.

“Really reassuring”

⸻

If someone had told you two weeks ago that you’d be starting as Seeker in the biggest Quidditch match of the year, you would’ve laughed, choked, cried, and then passed out.

In that order.

But here you are. Dressed in James’s oversized scarlet and gold jersey, broom clutched in white-knuckled hands, standing just outside the changing tent with your heart in your throat and what feels like a war inside your lungs.

Eight minutes to go.

The pitch roars outside. A blur of cheers and chants and stomping boots.

Your brain is short-circuiting.

You can’t breathe.

You’re too hot in your jersey. Your hands are shaking. There’s a stone lodged behind your ribs.

“I’m gonna die,” you mutter, sitting down hard on the bench by the tent flap.

“Bit dramatic, even for you.”

You flinch.

Sirius stands in the doorway, arms crossed, still in full gear and a crooked concern in his expression.

You try to smile.

He doesn’t smile back.

“Talk to me, Y/N.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up and cry.”

“That’s just my face. You’ve seen it before.”

“You’re not funny.”

“No, you’re right. I’m hilarious.”

He strides over and crouches in front of you. His voice is quieter now.

“You don’t have to do this. I’ll talk to McGonagall. I’ll bloody fly two positions if I have to.”

You shake your head quickly. “No. I want to.”

Sirius studies you. His eyes soften.

“You’re terrified.”

You nod. “Yeah. Just—just give me a minute, okay? I need a second.”

A long pause.

Then, quietly “Okay.”

He squeezes your hand once. Then leaves.

Your body slumps with the effort of just existing.

You bury your face in your hands. Try to breathe like Madam Pomfrey taught you — in for four, hold for four, out for four — but your lungs still feel too small.

You’re going to mess it up.

You’re going to fall.

Everyone’s going to laugh.

“You alright?”

You jump so hard you nearly kick your broom.

James Potter.

Leaning against the post of the tent like he owns the world, hair wind-tousled, grinning at you like you’re the one who’s handsome and ridiculous.

He’s still in a sling from yesterday. Which is his fault, by the way.

You groan. “Don’t look at me.”

“Too late. Already doing it.”

“James.”

“Y/N.”

You glare. He sits beside you anyway.

“I’m fine,” you say preemptively.

“Brilliant,” he replies. “Then I won’t offer you this emergency chocolate I just so happen to have in my pocket.”

You pause.

“…What kind of chocolate?”

James grins, pulls a small Honeydukes bar from his robes, and holds it out like it’s a peace offering.

You snatch it. “Thanks.”

“So,” he says, swinging his legs under the bench. “You’re panicking, huh?”

You freeze mid-bite.

“I—no—I just—”

He raises an eyebrow.

You sigh. “Okay. Yes. Like, a lot.”

James nods. “Good. That’s normal.”

“Is it?”

“Sure.” He gestures grandly. “I panic all the time. Yesterday I forgot how to spell ‘February.’”

You snort. “That’s just because you’re stupid.”

“And you’re gorgeous and terrified. We all have our things.”

You blink at him.

He leans in, nudges your knee with his.

“Listen to me,” he says, quieter now. “You don’t have to be perfect. Just get out there. Do your thing. You don’t have to be me.”

You scoff. “Good, because I have more brain cells.”

“Debatable. But we’ll circle back.”

You laugh. It breaks the fog around your ribs a little.

James smiles.

“I’ll be in the stands. Front row. First person you’ll see when you look up.”

“What if I can’t look up?”

“Then I’ll scream so loud you’ll have to look up.”

You shake your head chuckling. “Why are you like this?”

He shrugs. “Born this way. Curse and a gift.”

You hesitate, then quietly: “Thanks. For… being here.”

He meets your eyes.

“Always,” he says simply. “Now go kick Slytherin’s arse.”

You stand, wobble slightly, then straighten your shoulders.

You’re still scared.

But he’s watching.

And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe.

Your vision swims.

The stands are packed — students crammed shoulder to shoulder, flags waving, chants rising like thunder.

“Breathe,” you whisper to yourself. In for four. Hold. Out for four. You repeat it. Again. Again.

“Y/N,” Sirius says behind you, voice low and protective as he tightens his gloves. “If you freeze up midair, you land. Got it? I don’t care if we’re down 200 points. You land.”

“I’ll be fine,” you mutter.

“You’re pale.”

“I’m always pale.”

He glares at you, jaw tight. He doesn’t say I’m worried out loud, but he doesn’t have to. You can see it in the twitch of his eye and the way he keeps glancing between you and the sky like he’s weighing the wind himself.

You offer a weak smile. “Try not to punch a Slytherin in midair again.”

“No promises,” he mutters.

⸻

The whistle shrieks.

You mount your broom and push off. Your stomach lurches.

The world spins around you for a second — air whipping past, people screaming, wind pressing at your ears — but you manage to stay steady.

You start flying slow circles above the match. Not diving, not chasing. Just… existing.

Barely.

The Slytherin Seeker zooms past you with a sneer. “Gryffindor couldn’t afford a real one, huh?”

You want to scream. Or vanish. Or both.

You pull your broom a little higher. Hide.

Then you hear it.

“Y/N! Y/N!“ “YOU CAN DO IT! GO! THAT’S MY GIRL!”

You blink.

The voice is obnoxiously loud — familiar and grinning.

You glance down instinctively and spot him immediately.

James Potter, front row of the Gryffindor stands, somehow out of his sling, hands cupped around his mouth as he screams.

Next to him, Remus is trying to calm him. And Peter who has somehow acquired a red-and-gold megaphone screaming encouragements.

James waves both arms in the air like a man possessed.

“SHE’S GORGEOUS AND SHE’S GOT A SNITCH TO CATCH! MOVE OUT THE WAY, SLYTHERIN!”

You laugh.

Actually laugh.

A short, stunned laugh that escapes you without permission. It rattles your chest and leaves your lungs a little lighter.

You look up.

The wind hits your face. The sun glints off something to your left, fast, bright, fluttering.

The Snitch.

You dive.

Nothing exists but the gold flicker ahead of you and the rush of air behind you.

The Slytherin Seeker spots it too and follows, but you’re faster. Lighter. Sharper.

Your heart pounds. Your eyes sting from the wind.

The cheers around you turn into a dull roar and somewhere in it, you hear him.

“YOU’VE GOT IT, LOVE! GO, GO, GO!”

And suddenly, you’re not scared.

Suddenly, you believe it.

You flew like you were born to do it.

Sharp turns. Clean dives. You didn’t even notice the eyes on you after the second lap — you were too busy focused on the wind in your hair, the sound of the air parting around your broom, the way your muscles remembered how to move.

It was like a song you’d known all along.

You chased the Snitch, heart in your throat, eyes locked, adrenaline buzzing.

Faster. Closer.

And with one final lunge—your fingers curled around it.

The whistle blows and the crowd explodes.

You can’t believe it. You actually did it.

You land shakily back on the ground, your teammates crushed you in a hug, screaming and laughing. People were chanting your name. Marlene gave you a headlock no one asked for. Even McGonagall looked impressed.

Sirius rips his helmet off midair, looking like he might cry and punch someone simultaneously. He swoops down, grabs you in a crushing hug mid-laugh.

“You absolute maniac,” he breathes. “That was insane. That was—Merlin. You did it.”

You can’t stop smiling. You’re breathless and shaking but so happy.

The team is lifting you up. Students are pouring down the stands.

But your eyes are searching for only one thing.

You’re still riding the high — the Snitch clutched in your hand, your chest tight with laughter and disbelief. Gryffindor is screaming. Red and gold confetti is falling from somewhere (you suspect Remus had a charm ready).

And then — from the crowd — comes the voice again “THAT’S MY GIRL! SHE’S A LEGEND! SHE’S—” James Potter.

Charging down from the stands like a golden retriever on fire.

You catch his eyes just as you’re lowering to the ground. He’s pushing through people like a man possessed — beaming, breathless, sprinting.

And—wait.

That’s when you finally realised.

He’s using both arms.

No sling. No careful cradle. Just full arm-swinging enthusiasm, waving at you like he’s landing a plane.

You freeze mid-step.

You glance at his shoulder. Then at your hand — still holding the Snitch. Then back at him.

He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy literally jumping up and down.

“Y/N! Did you SEE that catch? You were like—woosh! and then—bam! You’re a star, I mean—I’m amazing for choosing you, obviously, but you—”

You stare at him.

“James.”

“—and the way you dropped into the dive, Merlin, I was ready to pass out—”

“James.”

He blinks. “What?”

You just… point.

To his arm.

Now very much not broken.

The whole team starts going quiet around you. Sirius raises one eyebrow so high it practically vanishes into his hairline.

You fold your arms. “You’re not even hurt?”

James immediately backpedals. “I—I was! I mean, technically, there was a mild—”

“Mild?!”

“Okay, so I may have exaggerated the severity of the fracture—”

“It wasn’t even fractured, was it?”

“…No.”

The team loses it.

Sirius lets out an actual cackle. Remus just pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s questioning every life choice that led him here. Peter’s laughing so hard he nearly drops his wand.

“You lied,” you say, half-stunned, half-laughing. “You faked an injury.”

James holds up his hands. “I didn’t fake—okay, yes, but I had to! I wanted you to play!”

You gape at him.

“Y/N, you’re so good, and you’d never try out on your own, and I knew if I didn’t give you a reason—”

“You could’ve asked me!”

“I did! That one time in third year!”

“That doesn’t count, you offered me the Beater position as a joke!”

James grins sheepishly. “Okay, yeah, that was mostly for the flirting. But this time I was serious.”

Sirius chimes in, “You’re never serious. I’M Sirius.”

You and James both groan.

“You are—” you jab a finger into his chest, “—an absolute menace.”

“And yet…” he leans in, eyes twinkling, “…you still look good in my jersey.”

You shove him. “You’re the worst.”

He laughs. “Maybe. But you did it, didn’t you?”

You sigh, finally letting a grin creep in.

“…Yeah,” you admit. “I did.”

He beams.

“I knew you could do it,” he said, soft and proud.

And when he wraps both arms around you in a warm, full-bodied hug — with no sling, no excuse, no apology — you let him.

Because somewhere in the crowd, it was him.

Even if he was being a complete idiot.

#james potter x reader #james potter #marauders #marauders era #james potter x you #james potter x fem!reader #fluff #harry potter #hogwarts #quidditch #fanfiction #james potter fanfiction #james potter x y/n #james potter imagine #hp marauders #imagine

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howitcouldgoes · 1 month ago

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AND ANOTHER THING—-

More digital circus stuff beware:

I wanna talk about this scene- because many people use this as Ragatha being mean to Jax intentionally and bringing up his abstracted friend.

Except RIGHT AFTER she says this Ragatha quickly backtracks and goes “oh, Oh wait no! Uh, I’m sorry— I wasn’t talking about— that wasn’t meant to be—“ before she runs away.

Sputtering out how she wasn’t talking about Jax’s friend.

The thing is: I believe her.

It’s how she said “I wasn’t talk about [them]” and “That wasn’t meant to be [about them]” — the [ ] being what I assume she was going to say.

I genuinely don’t think Ragatha was trying to make a jab about that abstracted member because we’ve seen Ragatha get upset about past abstracted circus members before, like in Kaufmo’s funeral despite not getting along with him all the time she still cried and mourned him.

There’s truly no reason she would bring up a potentially really painful memory just to spite Jax, as she said in episode 4: “Hey… I like… hate you? But I don’t want you to hate me. Is that weird?”

Now what was she trying to say? Well to me the tone of voice and the way she looked away— not even intentionally gazing at Pomni— goes “Not anymore” implies she’s not talking about anyone else, but talking about herself.

It’s giving like “Not anymore since I’m not trying to befriend you anymore.” Or “Not anymore since I realize you never change/don’t care”

Although Ragatha does have a very minor habit of almost speaking for others but never to put words in their mouths, in fact every time she does something similar is usually to talk down Jax- like when they talk both Gangle and Ragatha says “maybe she doesn’t want to be friends with someone whose mean to her all the time!”

I truly don’t think she was talking about/for gangle when she said those things- it really did sound like it was coming from her. Purely uncensored personal thoughts about her just finally giving up on Jax’s friendship. EDIT: The only thing that truly debunks this is when Ragatha apologizes to Jax for "bringing up that thing earlier" but again. I don't believe she was actually talking about the frog character - I think Ragatha just felt the need to apologize to Jax because she's been thinking about how she offended him since that moment.

#tadc theory #tadc episode 5 #tadc gangle #tadc jax #tadc pomni #tadc ragatha #tadc #tadc spoilers #the amazing digital circus episode 5 #the amazing digital circus theory #the amazing digital circus

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batsandbirdbrains · 1 month ago

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Super sad idea that I’d love to hear your thoughts about or for you to expand on or write about:

Dick using puppy eyes on Bruce, Alfred, basically every adult to get whatever he wants when he’s a kid. It works like a charm every single time. He wants Clark to fly him around? Puppy eyes, and two hours later he’s soaring. He wants Diana to help him prank Hal? Puppy eyes, and Hal’s suit is somehow banana yellow for two weeks. It doesn’t just work with the adults either. Whenever he wants one of the titans to do something and doesn’t feel like arguing with them, he just brings out the puppy eyes and they get it done. He does for years and he doesn’t plan on stopping.

Then Dick becomes Deathstroke’s unwilling apprentice, and suddenly his puppy-eyed stare was being weaponized in a whole new way. Slade would force him to walk up to targets, bring out his sad eyes and pouty lip, lead them somewhere secluded (usually under the guise of being a lost kid or something, idk), and then watch as Slade killed them.

But that wasn’t the only time his puppy eyes came out when he was with Slade. No, the first time it happened was during “training” (Dick being tortured) when he was exhausted and just wanted Slade to stop. He couldn’t out-fight the man, he couldn’t out-smart him, and he didn’t know how to get him to stop. So he subconsciously fell back on the one thing that had always worked for him in the past - his puppy eyes. To his great surprise, Slade had stopped. He paused for a long moment, staring at Dick’s face, and just when Dick started to have hope that this might actually be the end for today, Slade let out a cruel laugh before kicking him into the floor.

He finds out the hard way that, when it really counts, his puppy eyes only make things worse.

When he finally gets free, it takes a while for anyone to spot what’s wrong, especially considering most don’t even know about his time with Slade. He’s obviously moodier than usual, more paranoid than he was before, and is a lot worse at taking care of himself. But still, it’s a while before someone realizes that he never brings out the puppy eyes anymore. Bruce doesn’t know how to handle it - torn between wanting to ask Dick about it and not wanting to set him off - so he just doesn’t. He ignores it and everyone else follows suit.

They never really speak about it anymore. There are no more jokes about everyone being wrapped around Dick’s finger, no more sighs of resignation when Dick brings out the puppy eyes. Even when Dick gets his peppy attitude back, even when he’s back to cracking jokes and making bad puns, even when he pulls pranks again and his laugh can be heard echoing around the cave, the puppy eyes never come back out. And nobody ever mentions it, but they all mourn the death of the small piece of innocence that was stripped away, they mourn the loss of those eyes.

But time passes, and eventually people move on. It isn’t until years later that anyone mentions the eyes, and by then Bruce has had 4 other Robins, and a whole collection of children. And one of those kids - maybe it was Jason, or maybe it was Steph, or Duke - gets told about the eyes, and obviously they’re curious as to why they’ve never seen them. So the next time the Batfam (or the JL) is gathered together, they decide to broach the topic. Except the bats are profoundly awful at socializing and communication, so the question posed ends up being “Hey, I heard about your puppy eyes, they sound pretty lethal. How come we’ve never seen ‘em before?” And Dick flinches so hard that they’re actually concerned a ghost might’ve attacked him or something. But before anything else can be said or done, Dick just turns on his heel and walks out of the room. And now the poor bat that questioned him is stuck with a very upset Batman (and maybe other heroes as well).

BONUS:

After the fiasco where Dick was questioned about his puppy eyes and he walked out, the rest of the rest of the Bats resigned themselves to never seeing the eyes or hearing about them. Imagine their surprise (and horror, and heartbreak) when, while reviewing cave footage, they come across a highly encrypted video file. Imagine them seeing Dick pleading with Bruce not to go to Spyral, Dick trying to get Bruce to see reason, and then Dick’s face changes and they finally see them - the eyes. And everyone is so desperately hoping that this will be enough to get Bruce to stop. For a moment, he does. It was a short moment - only a split second of hesitation before he’s throwing another punch - and everyone feels their hope shatter as the moment ends. But in the video, there’s no hint of surprise, of devastation on Dick’s face. It seemed like he didn’t have much faith it would work, anyways. At least he’d gotten a reprieve in the fight, at least Bruce had stopped, if only for a moment. It was all he needed to win. Besides, what did it matter if Dick’s puppy eyes didn’t work anymore? Dick Grayson was dead.

How dare u do this to me when I’m about to go to BED now I’m SAD I’m gonna cry damn

I’ll try to expand on this idea maybe tomorrow a little bit? It’s very thorough already though!! But I had to let u know u gutted me right before I try to actually sleep, anon<3 (I mean this in the best way of course)

#anon #NOT HIM USING THE EYES AGAIN BEFORE SPYRAL AND BRUCE PROVING HIM RIGHT ABT WHY HE SHOULDNT USE THEM!!#my stomach fucking dropped anon IT DROPPED

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chipthekeeper · 3 months ago

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Today I had the displeasure of reading the words “we get it vel is sad and gay can we move on” and several other similarly ridiculous things on twitter a website not to be named, so I spent my whole 45 minute drive home just absolutely fuming with the need to defend my girl. Most of you know I've already done this in a broad sense before (defending her as a character and as half of a complicated relationship on her appreciation Friday), but let me focus in on what we’ve gotten from Vel so far in season two for now. Because yeah, it might not have been exactly what I was hoping to see, but it’s meaningful as hell and Faye is doing a fucking incredible job and deserves to be applauded for it.

Look. Even if all she was doing was being sad and gay, I would be here for that. You know this. Those are two of my most favorite qualities of her. But let’s not pretend that all she’s doing is “mourning her gay situationship” and forget why we’re seeing her in this arc in the first place. She’s Mon’s cousin and closest confidant, and she’s Chandrilan. Stuck between these two facts is a conflict for Vel. She HAS to be at this three-day-long heteronormative child wedding from hell because someone she loves needs her support, but she hates every second of it. She hates this place, these people, this culture, probably even the clothes on her back. She looks uncomfortable just about every second she’s on screen in this arc, ESPECIALLY in the third episode.

See?

Something you may or may not have noticed – even I didn’t really register it until I started thinking about all of this because watching three fucking episodes all in one night made them all blur together – but Vel DOESN’T ACTUALLY SAY A WORD IN THE THIRD EPISODE. She has no lines. Vel’s extreme stress and discomfort are conveyed only through Faye’s body language and facial expressions. To complain about this and cry about her only being “sad and gay” is a huge discredit to the performance and I simply won’t stand for it.

Like yes, she’s sad and gay but why can’t we take a second to think about what that means? Look at her circumstances, even leaving out the Cinta of it all for a second. This is a person who must have realized at a very young age that she was not only different but very likely going to either live a completely miserable life or be a disappointment to her very wealthy family and her society at large, and being back here in the middle of it all for an occasion like this hurts fucking deeply even if it’s a weird tradition and she wants no part in it. I can tell you this for a fact because I have fucking lived it. As a gay person, I have no desire whatsoever to take part in a traditional religious marriage or wedding ceremony like the one my sister had a couple years ago, but being at her wedding and the party that followed was overwhelming and painful because I spent so much time thinking something along the lines of “even if I had someone in my life to do this with, these same people – my family – would never celebrate my love this way.”

Now, is that what Vel’s thinking about as she stands next to the other unmarried women (i.e. teenage children) watching her niece’s first dance with her new husband? Perhaps not. But the way she breaks down after seeing Cinta sure looked an awful lot like how I looked sitting outside in the dark and the rain, drunk as I’ve ever been, while my sister’s reception carried on behind me.

And this, to me in particular, is what’s so great about Vel as a character – as a STAR WARS character – and why I will never ever complain about seeing her be “sad and gay.” For the first time ever in my favorite franchise, I get to see myself so clearly. She’s sad and gay, yes, but she’s also fiercely supportive of her family (the part she likes, anyway) – she takes Mon’s hand in support when she needs it, and she seems ready to snap at Kleya for even being around and creating the possibility of trouble at this function. She’s sad and gay, yes, but she’s on the front line of a fucking rebellion. Just because you don’t see it in this arc because that’s not where the story is focused doesn’t mean that’s not still true, and we’ll see that again come next week I’m sure.

I don’t really know how to wrap this up, but the point is if you’re tired of what’s happening with Vel in this show, you’re probably not paying enough attention. I want more of her and more for her to do as much as anybody (that’s a lie, I want it SO MUCH FUCKING MORE THAN ANYBODY, fucking try me), but there’s already a whole ocean of her character to explore with just what we have, if you only bother to stop and consider it.

#not even 48 hours after the start of the season and i've already had it #lol #anyway great to be home #vel sartha #andor #andor spoilers #my posts #my gifs

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admirationandromantics · 8 months ago

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Hyper-dependent

Okay, this was a request, and I feel like I'm slowly getting my flow back. Sorry to say, but I have deleted some of the requests because I just didn't feel motivated to do them. This doesn't mean that I'll stop! I appreciate every one I get, and I hope to receive more as time goes on.

This one is quite angsty, and deals with Josh's trauma after the mountain. Yes, you are basically emotional support. You're dating, he feel bad (of course) and nightmares regularly haunt him. There's also smut because of the request (and some people cope that way I guess). Anyways, enjoy <3

The events of the cabin were long over, and luckily, everyone survived. I don’t know how, and I didn’t think we would, but somehow, it happened. Josh was stuck down in the mines for a while. Days… I wasn’t allowed to search for him with the professionals, but I was the first one who got to see him at the hospital. His parents arrived shortly after as well, and they were glad that he was okay. He moved home for a couple of weeks, but came back in with me when the health professionals told him it was possible. I couldn’t wait. They told me it would be a lot of work, and sometimes, he has really bad days. I understood their concern, but I wanted him, I wanted him back. And maybe getting back to the usual routine would do him good?

They were right. The days that were bad were horrible. Hours upon hours of crying and screaming. He exhausted himself at the end, finally falling into my arms and falling asleep. I knew he still mourned his sisters, but the monsters upon that mountain made him terrified. Sometimes he hid a knife under the bed, paranoid that they’d come for him. I still did my best to help him, even though I struggled myself. These events affected all of us after all. That’s what made it worse, I couldn’t even talk to them about it. They struggled as well, and many just wanted to put the events behind them.

***

“I fucked up” Josh whispers beside me. It’s the middle of the night, and due to his violent sleep, I haven’t been able to relax.

“It’s okay” I put my hand on his cheek, caressing carefully and grounding him. The most important thing is that he stays grounded, that he doesn’t do worse in a panicky state.

“What if they come for me? What if they come for you?”

“They won’t, I promise”

He looks up at me, worried and concerned. He doesn’t seem that bad now. More like in a processing phase. He just needs some reassurance.

“Are you sure”

I smile, grabbing the hem of my t-shirt. Well, Josh’s shirt, but it was the perfect sleeping wear. If he needed reassurance, then he would get it. After all, I was not supporting the whole ‘being prepared for death’-thing he had going. I could sleep in a vulnerable position, confident that nothing would happen while I did. I mean, it makes sense in my head.

“I’m so sure that I’ll sleep naked. Know why?”

“Because they’re not coming tonight?”

“Exactly”

I fully take off the top, before leaning down on his chest and pulling the covers over us. His heart is beating rapidly, and I rub soft circles over his bicep, trying to calm him.

“You got hurt”

“But I’m fine now”

“I hurt you, I can never forgive myself for that” his voice breaks, silence following. We’ve been through this thing many times, but I understand why he isn’t letting it go. If I hurt him like that, the guilt would probably kill me.

“You couldn’t have known what was on that mountain”

“But I hurt you, I planned to hurt you”

“And I forgive you”

I lean upwards, giving him a small kiss. We could have this conversation a million times, and a million times I would say the same thing. I love him, and I forgive him.

He turns, laying over me and capturing my lips again. This time it’s deeper, more passionate and rough. I break it off.

“Josh, I don’t think we should do this in your state”

“Please, just let me feel you”

I oblige, pulling him down on me again. I caress his back, feeling the tensed up muscles under my fingertips. He needs to relax, to take a breath. His hand grabs my upper hips, groping harshly. The pain makes me wince, and he uses the opportunity to put his tongue in my mouth, exploring my insides. I already feel myself getting wet. We’ve been having sex, on his good days at least, and there weren’t many of them nowadays.

He grabs hold of my thigh, pulling my leg up as he grinds against me. He’s incredibly hard, and I wonder why. We just talked about the mountain, about me being hurt, about me being in pain…

Our breaths line up, both of our pulses skyrocketing. He kisses down my chest, stomach and my inner thighs. He leaves rough bites, red marks which will probably last for days. Before the incident, we’d always been rough and hard when being intimate with each other, but after, he’d been much more careful, treating me like I was made of porcelain, afraid that a small nail mark would hurt me. Now, he goes against everything we’d been doing for the last months, and I love it.

I look down, only to be met with his piercing gaze as he slowly drags my underwear off, throwing it on the floor. He holds the intense eye contact while lowering himself, his tongue coming in contact with my folds. I let out a breath, whining from his small touches. He’s barely touching me, knowing that the teasing will get me even wetter.

“Josh…”

He doesn’t answer, instead putting more pressure on me, resulting in more pleasurable sounds escaping my lips. I feel my core building up, body getting warmer, and nipples getting harder. I’m right on the edge, begging to be let free when he stops. I whine from the sudden lack of contact.

He drags off his boxers, revealing himself. He doesn’t give me time to take him in, instead leaning over me, hands roaming my body. I’m wondering if he’s falling apart, if he wants to stop. I sit up, hand going to his face. Before I’m able to reach him, both of my ankles are gripped, tugging me down, leading to my back slamming down on the mattress again. I yelp, unsure about his next step.

But he doesn’t waste time. His dick is running up and down my folds, begging to be let inside. He slams into me, everything at once. I give out a loud moan, a mixture of pain and pleasure surrounding me as he starts moving. He goes almost all out before slamming in again, making low grunt sounds as he breathes. The rhythmic pattern of his movements are mirrored by the sounds coming out of me. Endless tunes of moans and whimpers filling the dark bedroom.

My heat starts building up again, taking me to the edge. I grip the sheets as I try to hold on a little more, wanting to come together. My body bounces back and forth on the mattress, my hand going over my head to stop it from slamming into the bedframe. He massages my thighs roughly, causing me to fall over. I come all over his cock whilst feeling high on ecstasy. My legs automatically squeeze around his torso, and it doesn’t take long for him to come after. He fills me up, slowly going out before falling on top of me.

His face is wet, tears flowing as he nuzzles into the crook of my neck. He tries to mask the whimpers and hulks coming out, but ultimately fails. I put my arms around him, one going into his hair. I stroke up and down his back, hoping to calm him.

“Are you okay?” I ask, trying to calm myself after my high.

“Please just let me feel you a bit more” he manages to say, arms going around my waist, hugging and holding me down. I kiss his forehead, fingers still combing through his hair.

“I’m here Josh. I’ll always be here”

#until dawn #joshua washington #josh washington #josh washington x reader #josh washington x reader smut #until dawn josh #josh until dawn #josh washington smut #josh washington imagines #josh washington until dawn #joshua washington x reader smut #joshua washington smut #joshua washington x reader #until dawn x reader #until dawn oneshots #until dawn remaster #until dawn remake

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cupcakedejour · 3 months ago

Text

Let Them Talk.

After Sawyer & Ridoc point out some interesting things about your friendship, it leads to a very important realization.

Semi fluff/angst.

No proofreading, sorry for the typos.

Garrick sat another drink down in front of you, your cheeks already heated from the first drink. Xaden had flown back to Aretia on leave so Sgayel and Tairn could be together and somehow Garrick managed to have leave at the same time. Ridoc sat to your left and Garrick to the right. You knew a free weekend was rare for cadets but Garrick being here was even rarer. You sipped the purple drink he’d placed in front of you.

“Thank you.” You smiled.

He grinned back, winking at you. “How are things going?”

“Uh…not bad, I guess.” You shrugged. “I survived the last fight so I can’t complain.”

“I’m glad you did. I would hate to fly all the way back just to be told you’d been killed in battle.” Garrick shrugged.

You rolled your eyes, “And deny yourself the attention from every girl who wants to comfort a mourning rider? I doubt that.”

“I wouldn’t allow myself that kind of emotional support after suffering such a loss.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” Ridoc piped up beside you.

Garrick leaned forward to glare at him, “When it comes to this particular rider, I wouldn’t.”

“After the show he put on last year when she got stabbed, I think I believe him.” Sawyer shrugged.

“He was quite dramatic about that.” Ridoc agreed.

“There were real tears.” Sawyer smirked.

“It’s almost like…there was something more there.”

You shifted awkwardly to look at Garrick. “Did you really cry?”

“I…I mean, no but…kind of?” Garrick stammered.

“And the way he held her hand the whole time she was in the infirmary.” Ridoc continued. “Seemed pretty more than friends to me.”

You felt your cheeks flushing. It could have been the alcohol, or I could have been this information you’d never considered.

“Oh, what about when Violet saw her sneaking out of this room?”

“Okay, okay, that was not what it looked like.” Garrick groaned.

“It wasn’t. I swear.” You protested.

You’d returned from a delivery with Xaden, Garrick and the others late one night. When you’d dismounted from your dragon, you’d slipped on her scales and slid into a puddle of mud, soaking your leathers. Garrick had let you wear his flight jacket so you wouldn’t freeze and after you’d bathed, you simply went to him room to return it. At 2 AM.

“Or how his hand it’s sitting on your thigh right now?” Ridoc smirked.

You glanced down, never noticing how it had come to be there.

“Or how his hand is on her hip sometimes when he gets protective over her.” Sawyer grinned.

“Oh, how about how she leans in really close when they talk.”

“That one time when we were reading all those books for Violet and she had her head in his lap and he played with her hair.”

“Okay! Stop!” You finally huff. “There’s nothing going on! We aren’t…together or anything. Despite what you think.”

Your cheeks were still hot and you reached for your drink, downing it quickly.

“There is nothing between us other than friendship. Honestly, we’ve known each other since we were kids. We’re just really close.” Garrick agreed.

“I dunno, seems a little…comfy.” Ridoc shrugged.

“Says you, who’s in a different bed every night.” Garrick rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be jealous.” Ridoc winked.

You wished this wasn’t happening after you’d been drinking. Now you were in your own head. All you could think about was how his hand felt on your thigh. How he DID hold your hip when you’d been headed into battle, and how he did play with your hair, on more occasions than the one they’d mentioned. The times they didn’t know about in his room on the many nights you’d spent talking for hours. And if you were being honest…you did care about Garrick as more than a friend. You had since before your parents were executed. The way he held your hand as you squeezed your eyes shut while everyone around you screamed had always been a moment you’d never forget.

Later that night he walked you back to room. You’d shoved your hands into your flight jacket to avoid reaching for his.

“Hey, you’re awfully quiet.” Garrick nudged your elbow.

You shrugged, “Just thinking.”

“How many nights have we spent lying in bed thinking out loud?” He smirked.

“A lot.” You admitted.

“Look, if you want me to tell Ridoc and Sawyer to shut up, I will. The last thing I want is you upset over their dumb assumptions.”

You stopped and turned to Garrick, “They’re not dumb assumptions. They’re…right. Everything about us seems like more to everyone on the outside. We are really close and they’re not wrong to think there’s more. If I was on the outside I’d think the same.”

Garrick chewed at his stupid, perfect lip as you stared at him. Finally his gaze met yours.

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. I don’t want you to do anything. I just want you to be my Garrick. The same one you’ve been for years.” You reached out and grasped his hand.

He smiled softly, his thumb brushing over the back of yours gently. “I will always be your Garrick.”

You stepped closer, “Always?”

He nodded, moving even closer. “Always. Painfully honest and very difficult.”

“Sounds about right.” You stood on your toes and wrapped your arms around his shoulders.

“So you want me to tell them to mind their own business or let them talk?” His lips were dangerously close to yours.

It was so unlike Garrick to care what others thought. Neither of you had ever paid much attention, except when it came to each other.

“They’re already talking.” You shrugged, “Either way they’ll still talk.”

“Tell me what to do.” Garrick almost begged.

“Fuck it.” You said before closing the distance.

Garrick’s lips were on yours and his arms lifting you off your feet. You couldn’t help but groan softly at how perfect he felt holding you against him. It was a moment just for you and him. It was warm and fuzzy and perfect. His tongue brushed yours and you shivered, suddenly very aware of how hot it was. Finally Garrick set you back on your feet and you broke the kiss. Your lips were on fire as you stood in a daze.

“You okay?” He asked, hands firmly on your hips.

“Mmhmm.” You nodded.

“Good. Because the entire squad just saw that.” He said looking past you.

You slowly turned to find your friends standing at the end of the hall, returning from the pub. None of them looked surprised in the least, and you didn’t expect them to.

“Cool. So…this is a thing.” Rhiannon pointed between you.

“Sure.” You shrugged.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Ridoc grinned.

“Okay.” Garrick agreed.

He took your hand and continued to your room, following you in and closing the door behind him.

“You staying the night?” You asked softly.

“If that’s what you want.”

“It’s definitely what I want.” You bit your lip.

“Then your wish is my command.” He grinned, flipping off the light.

The end.

#garrick tavis x reader #garrick tavis x you #fourth wing #onyx storm #iron flame #garrick tavis #the empyrean #xaden riorson #Xaden torsion x reader #garrick tavis x y/n #garrick x reader #Garrick x you #Garrick tavis ffn #fourth wing fic #fourth wing fanfic

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harunayuuka2060 · 6 months ago

Text

*It's been days since Malleus and the others returned. They had already planned to pretend to mourn for Kalim and remain on high alert, as that seemed like the most sensible course of action. If it was true that the MC(?) was helping them, they needed to ensure they reciprocated by making sure the doppelgangers wouldn’t catch wind of their plan.*

Malleus: We’ve already lost one. Now there are only six of us left. We need to make sure this doesn’t happen again.

Vil: I'm sure our enemies are feeling confident that they've successfully struck one of us.

Azul: ...

Azul: I still can't believe Kalim is gone... Maybe if we had been more cautious, we could have protected him.

Riddle: ...

Idia: I don't think we could have done anything about it. Malleus and Leona are the only ones here capable of real combat. Vil...

Vil: *looks sternly at him*

Idia: No offense, but you're all about beauty, and even if you know martial arts, it's only for movie stunts.

Idia: Riddle, Azul, and especially me... we're nothing but burdens.

Riddle: Don't say that, Idia-senpai! We can definitely—

Idia: I'm saying this because I might be next—I have no chance of surviving.

Malleus, Leona, and Vil: ...

Riddle and Azul: ...

Azul: *makes an annoyed expression*

MC(?): ...

Riddle(?): ...

Riddle(?): Are you not going to speak up?

MC(?): It's true that Kalim(?) hasn't been around for a while. Do you want me to look for him?

Riddle(?): No. *smiles eerily* Actually, I want him gone for good.

MC(?): ...

MC(?): Is there anything else?

Riddle(?): The hunt is in a few days, but it wouldn’t hurt to start early, would it?

MC(?): ...

Riddle(?): What's your answer?

MC(?): Is there someone you have in mind?

Riddle(?): I heard that one of them has given up on surviving in this place. Bring that person to me.

MC(?): ...

MC(?): *bows their head* I understand.

MC(?): Idia Shroud.

Idia: Eek! Wh-What?

MC(?): Please come with me.

Leona: Oi. Where are you taking him?

MC(?): ...

Idia: ...

Idia: *smiles awkwardly* Is it my time?

Azul: Idia!

Idia: It's okay, Azul... I... If you survive here, tell Ortho that I'm sorry...

Riddle: *looks like in despair* Idia-senpai!

MC(?): Let's go.

Idia: ...

Idia: *quietly goes with MC(?)*

Leona, Vil, Malleus, Riddle, and Azul: ...

Idia: Ugh... This place...

*MC(?) has brought him to a room that reeks of blood.*

MC(?): ...

Riddle(?): Took you long enough.

MC(?): My apologies...

Riddle(?): *looks at Idia and gives him a small smile*

Riddle(?): You'll be part of my collection. Don't worry, I'll make sure your head doesn't rot.

Idia: !!!

MC(?): ...

Riddle(?): *to MC(?)* You may go now.

MC(?): Won’t the others find out?

Riddle(?): Hmm? Of course not. This is my personal space—

MC(?): *swiftly struck his head with a knife, decapitating him instantly*

Idia: *couldn't help but scream*

MC(?): ...

MC(?): *turns to Idia* *extends their hand to him* Let's leave before anyone enters this room.

Idia: ...

Idia: The Fake Riddle... He looks like he's still breathing...

MC(?): He's not dead, but we must leave before he regains memory of this event. By then, the diversion will have already been set.

Idia: Diversion...?

MC(?): Yes. The other Idia Shroud will arrive.

Idia: Lol, but... how does that work?

MC(?): Unfortunately, that's something you’ll never know.

Idia(?): Oi, Riddle. What are you doing down there?

Riddle(?): ...

Riddle(?): Have I fallen asleep?

Idia(?): *chuckles* You really are a psycho. Killing me lulled you to sleep?

Riddle(?): *glances at the corpse to what seems to belong to Idia*

Riddle(?): ...

Riddle(?): This is ridiculous. And here I was hoping to preserve his head.

Idia(?): Scary~ Mwehee.

Malleus: ...

MC(?): *has returned with Idia's bloodied hoodie*

Malleus: ...

Malleus: *takes it*

Riddle, Azul, and Vil: ...

Leona: Tch. You're not here to apologize again, are you?

MC(?): ...

Vil: What happened to his body?

MC(?): His face is unrecognizable, and his body has been disposed of.

Vil: *starts to tear up*

Azul: *comes over to comfort him*

Vil: *sobs*

Malleus: ...

Malleus: Please leave.

MC(?): *bows their head apologetically then exits the room*

Riddle, Leona, and Malleus: *exchanged glances*

Leona: Haa... Tch. This is not good.

Riddle: Idia-senpai...

Azul and Vil: *hiding their smirk*

#twisted wonderland #twst mc #twst idia #twst riddle #twst dorm leaders #twst school of psychopaths

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cryoculus · 2 months ago

Text

— TRACK 04: GUILTY ⟢

aidonia is in the rearview, and the future is yours to take. but as your connections with the band deepen further, you find yourself toeing across the boundaries of what should and shouldn't be.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 8.5k words

★ tags; rock band au, found family, hostile acquaintances to friends to lovers, grief/mourning, angst, slow burn, eventual smut

★ notes; hi <3 i was supposed to have this up on here yesterday, but real life got in the way and i completely forgot lol!! as always, thank you saur much for the reception of the previous chapters!! really warms my heart.

★ header art cr; sarhiyu on x & ig

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

The signal came back sometime that evening.

First as a faint flicker of bars, then solid enough to get a call out. Aglaea stepped out to contact the label the moment she was able, her voice tight but professional as she recounted everything for the higher-ups back home. Power followed not long after, humming back to life in a blink that felt both underwhelming and miraculous. The flickering panic of the blackout gave way to a tired kind of normal.

The show in Aidonia was officially pulled. There was no way to reschedule when the roads are covered in snow, and fans were promised full refunds. Tribbios handled most of the damage control, coordinating with local venues and media to get ahead of speculation. Come morning, the snow had let up a little, but it was enough for you all to get a move on.

None of you talked about what had happened in Tribbios’ suite.

By the time the tour bus rumbled back to life and pulled out from the frost-stiffed hotel parking lot, Aidonia was just another name in the tour itinerary. Missed, marked. and moved on from.

You’re at your usual corner at the back of the tour bus, laptop balanced on your knees, and a weak signal blinking in the corner of the screen. The heater hums low beneath the bench, a small mercy against the cold that still clings to your bones. Everyone else is scattered in their own little silences—some pretending to nap, others just staring out the foggy windows.

You scroll through the band’s shared cloud, mostly looking for something to keep your mind busy. A setlist doc, rough rehearsal footage, old draft folders with half-named files and outdated timestamps. It feels safe here, in the admin side of things.

But then it finds you again.

That file.

Not only did the person who edited this retain your horrible spelling, but he made sure to change the file format just to mock you. For a moment, your eyes flicker towards the front, where you know Mydei is sitting. He’s got headphones on with his eyes shut, but something tells you he’s far from asleep.

You dismiss the file with a flick and a huff of breath, shutting your laptop and stuffing it back into your bag. Now’s not the time.

The air still feels cracked open in places, too raw and brittle to touch.

So you’re surprised when Cipher plops down beside you with a cup of something hot clutched in both hands and a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She’s never been the awkward type. She grins through chaos, flirts with disaster like it’s her personal hobby, but right now she looks…uncertain.

“Hey,” she says, softly.

You glance over with a curious look, nodding in acknowledgement.

She hesitates before speaking again, which is the second red flag. “I, uh… I wanted to say sorry. For what happened back at the hotel.”

“...To me?”

“Yeah.” Cipher fidgets, turning the mug in her hands. “I kind of…mentioned you like you were part of the problem. That’s not what I meant.”

You don’t say anything just yet, letting your silence feel comfortable enough for her to keep talking.

“Being snowed in definitely fucked with my head, but... I was angry,” she admits quietly. “At Aglaea, the silence, the way we’ve all been pretending like we’re fine when we’re clearly not. But I shouldn’t have pulled you into that. You didn’t know about the whole rule, or whatever the hell it was.”

There’s a weight behind her voice that you’re not used to hearing. A sort of vulnerability that doesn’t dress itself up in sparkle or sarcasm.

You exhale, shifting your gaze to the window. “You didn’t pull me in. I was already there.”

Cipher nods slowly, biting the inside of her cheek. “Still. I made it sound like you were the reason no one talks about him. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You meet her gaze, finally. “Neither did Hephaestion, did he?”

Her eyes flicker, like the name hits her in the chest and scrapes on the way down.

“No,” she whispers. “He didn’t. Not to us anyway.”

Her voice is raw, stripped of all the usual luster. “Heph was kind. Stupidly kind. Even when he was tired. Even when it cost him. I think… I think part of me got used to believing people like that can’t break.” She swallows. “But they do, and it was too late when we realized.”

The guilt in her voice bleeds out slow and quiet, like a wound that never fully closed. Suddenly there’s pressure building in your chest.

Because you remember watching Cipher from afar. Chaos incarnate. The one who lit up every stage like a sparkler burning at both ends. Back when you were just a shadow behind a screen, she felt untouchable—louder, brighter, too electric to hold. You used to think that if she ever cracked, she’d do it with a punchline. Keep smiling through the smoke.

But most of her fire was real.

Cipher was the first to congratulate you after your debut show. The one who stayed up late with you, noodling through some half-formed song you both knew was going nowhere. The one who knocked on your door in Dolos and dragged you out for a night you didn’t know you needed.

Now she’s here beside you in the low hum of a darkened tour bus, grief softening her edges.

No jokes. No glitter. All that lingers is ember after the flame.

The distance you once felt seems to be dissolving. All that noise between who she was to you then and who she is to you now... It narrows into something small and human. For once, you see her clearly. Not as a firework, but a person left blinking in the dark, once the sparks have all faded.

“I didn’t know him like you did,” you murmur. “But I wish I had.”

Cipher nods again. “Hephaestion would’ve liked you. He always liked people who gave a shit.”

Her words sting just a little.

Because you hadn’t given a shit, not at first—not about him. You’d been too focused on hiding. On keeping your past fan-life buried deep, sealed off from this new, shinier present where you weren’t some anonymous handle obsessing over a band, but a real part of it.

Yet here she is. Trusting you with a piece of a story you were never meant to be part of.

You turn to her again, eyes soft. “Thanks. For telling me.”

Cipher exhales, nods, and leans her head back against the seat. Her eyes drift shut, but not in sleep, only silence.

You both sit there in the lull between storms, the road stretched long and uncertain ahead.

The bus pulls into a highway gas station just past noon.

No more snow. Only wet roads and gray slush melting under a pale, forgiving sun. Everyone seems to breathe a little easier.

Garmentmaker powers down the anxiety alerts. Phainon hums something tuneless under his breath while Castorice carefully picks out snacks. Even Mydei wanders off toward the drinks aisle without that usual tension in his shoulders. You grab a pack of potato chips, a drink, maybe something sweet. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and for a second, the world feels like it's unpaused.

Outside, Tribbios rounds everyone up.

She’s standing near one of the green plastic tables bolted to the pavement, paper bag in one hand, sunglasses pushed up on her head. Her voice cuts through the highway noise.

“Alright, gather up! I’ve spoken with Aglaea. We’re taking a detour.”

That gets everyone's attention as you all glance at her expectantly.

Tribbios continues, “Before we head to the next stop, we’re heading to a nearby town—small place, nothing fancy, but I made some calls. They’ve got a community center with an open recreation hall. We’re doing a little impromptu team-building.”

Groans ripple through the group, but she holds up a finger.

“Don’t even start. You don’t have to sing, you don’t have to play, you don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to. But we’re showing up. Together.”

Someone mutters, “Please say this doesn’t involve trust falls.”

She simply grins. “No trust falls. But it will be something grounding. The center’s hosting a lowkey open mic session. Locals only. No press breathing down our necks. No stage lighting that can render you clinically blind. It’s a place where we can remember how to be people again.”

A beat of quiet passes. Then Aglaea, still sipping coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her upright, gives a small, exhausted nod.

“Fine,” she says. “But we don’t stay long.”

Tribbios flashes a thumbs-up. “Three hours tops. Then we hit the road.”

The town’s only fifteen minutes off the highway, but it might as well be a different planet.

You’ve gotten used to glass towers and rhythmic traffic of bigger city states. Here, the buildings are squat and sun-faded, old bricks clinging to paint jobs from a decade ago. The roads curve softly around weathered homes and shuttered bakeries. Here, the trees aren’t ornamental. They simply grow.

Castorice leans over from her seat behind you, voice hushed. “Think we have fans out here?”

“If we do, they’re the kind that still burn CDs.” Cipher snorts, still sprawled across the aisle with a bag of marshmallow popcorn.

As the bus rolls deeper into the town, past the rusted gas pumps and schoolyard fences, something inside you twists. It’s not just the strangeness of being somewhere so quiet. It’s the fact that no one here seems to care who you are. Or what the hell just blew up back at in Aidonia.

It’s almost peaceful.

The recreation hall comes into view in seconds: wide, low-roofed, with flaking white paint and a notice board out front boasting yoga nights and bingo tournaments. The words COMMUNITY OPEN MIC are written in colorful marker on a taped-up sign by the door.

The bus slows. Someone stretches. Someone else yawns.

You clutch your jacket closer as you step off. The air smells like earth and trees. Like a place that doesn’t expect anything from you.

Maybe that’s exactly what you all need.

The floorboards creak beneath your boots as you step inside, worn lines from long-forgotten dodgeball games stretching across the scuffed wood. In the corner, someone strums an acoustic guitar, clumsy but heartfelt, the chords drifting lazily through the space. There’s coffee in paper cups, cookies stacked on fold-out tables, and someone’s grandmother knitting in the front row without sparing a glance toward the stage.

It’s far from glamorous. But in its own way, it’s charming.

Garmentmaker’s already unpacked their camera gear, moving with eerie, fluid precision between tables, adjusting tripods with a grace that makes even mundane angles look cinematic.

“Tribbios said this’ll make good ‘contrast material’ for the tour reel,” they say as they float past. “Aesthetic tag: Band Rebuilds in Rustic Amphoreus. Thoughts?”

You give a soft laugh. “You forgot emotionally devastated edition.”

Eventually, the band disperses.

Phainon’s the first to strike up a conversation with a local, his easygoing charm folding neatly into the warmth of the room. Cipher, of course, is sampling cookies like it’s a formal competition. Castorice and Anaxa whisper over the sign-up clipboard, nudging each other toward it with half-hearted resistance. Mydei hangs back, still near the entrance, hands jammed in his pockets.

Then—Aglaea.

She’s at the edge of the room, looking wildly out of place in her pressed black slacks and blazer over a band tee. Her gaze is fixed on the wall of thank-you notes and photos tacked up near the old piano. She doesn’t see you approach, or maybe she pretends not to.

“Hey,” you say, quiet.

She doesn’t flinch. “This wasn’t part of the original plan.”

You nod. “Yeah, but maybe the original plan sucked.”

That gets the smallest twitch of her mouth. You stand beside her for a moment, both staring at the cluttered bulletin board like it’ll explain what the hell you’re supposed to do with all this—loss, tension, silence.

Then she murmurs, barely audible, “He’d have liked it here. Hephaestion. He was…always better with small rooms.”

You don’t say anything, but you give her an imperceptible nod.

The music pauses moments later. Tribbios claps twice from across the room, gathering the band like ducklings. “Alright, listen up!” she chirps, practically glowing under the twinkle lights. “Let’s make some magic today, shall we? Think of it as an emotional karaoke session with fewer regrets.”

She scans the group. Then her finger lands squarely on two people.

“Mydei. Diana. You’re first.”

It takes a second to register. Your name and his, spoken in the same breath, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You freeze. So does Mydei.

“Why us?” you blanche, sharp and stunned.

Tribbios simply grins. “I believe in symmetry.”

Cipher lets out a wolf-whistle. Castorice claps like someone just got engaged.

Mydei shifts his weight but doesn’t argue. He heads toward the stage with a slow, deliberate gait, the kind that buys him time. You trail behind with a skittering pulse. As you both climb the steps, your companion makes a move toward the mic stand until Phainon calls from where he’s leaning against the wall.

“Switch it up! Let Diana take the vocals, and get Mydei on the strings again.”

“Seconded,” Anaxa agrees with half a smirk. “We’re sick of hearing that bastard’s voice.”

The small space erupts in quiet laughter from the rest of your bandmates, and the sound of it loosens the tension that’s been coiling around your ribs for days. You glance at Mydei, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he exhales through his nose, shoulders lifting in a subtle shrug. He takes the stool, and props the borrowed guitar on his lap without much thought.

The mic crackles as you touch it.

“Um, any requests?” you ask the room, a half-smile tugging at your lips.

One of the locals grins and shouts, “Surprise us!”

You stand there, trying to will your pulse to slow. The spotlight feels too hot, like it’s burning every thought and breath into sharp focus. Mydei, on the other hand, is already settled in. He adjusts the guitar with that casual precision you can never quite match, eyes scanning the room, and then, just as smoothly, he looks up at you.

“So,” he begins, fingers curling around the frets like they belong there. “How about we do workigntitledotmp3?”

Your stomach lurches. “Oh my god. Can you stop calling it that?”

“Why? That’s what you named it.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I’ve listened to it on repeat a few times. Took a guess at the chord progression.”

You want the floor to swallow you whole. The laughter from earlier feels like it’s miles away now. Your palms sweat against the mic. While this is not the first time you’re hearing of Mydei’s knowledge about that stupid demo, finding out that he listened to it repeatedly is a different story.

“Seriously?” you groan. “You’ve—?”

Mydei’s grin catches you off guard, like a rare sunrise breaking through clouds.

“Come on. It’s your song, remember?” he says again, but the softness in his voice makes it feel like he’s not just coaxing you into playing. He’s handing you the moment, like he’s sharing a piece of his own truth.

That’s the worst part.

It is your song. A relic from a night you couldn’t sleep, poured out like a secret. Now it’s here, about to be exposed under the stage lights and his fingertips.

Note to self: send that cursed file off to digital purgatory later.

Seconds later, you nod. Just once.

Because what else is there to do, when someone hands your own heart back to you and asks you to sing?

The lights overhead hum faintly. Somewhere in the back, Cipher leans forward, popcorn paused midair. The mic is warm beneath your fingers, but your voice still catches in your throat. When Mydei plays the opening chord, your heart nearly stumbles.

He really did listen to it.

Then, your mouth opens before your fear can catch up.

I’m more than the silence I taught myself to keep A name behind glass, too careful to speak Built all these walls out of fear I’d break But a cage is a cage, no matter the shape

So let it fall, let it burn, let it echo inside Let the truth in my chest be the thing I don’t hide If I’m meant to shatter, then let it be loud— I’ve lived in the shadows, but I’m stepping out.

Mydei finds the rhythm quickly. It’s not flashy or polished. You can tell it’s been a while since he played something for himself, much less a song that barely existed until now. But each chord comes out steady, as if he’s anchoring the room to give you space to fly.

Your voice rises into the second verse, so much stronger now.

I wore my doubt like a second skin, Danced on the edge but never gave in. But I’m done with shrinking to make space for the storm, I’m not small—I’m a universe, still being formed.

So let it fall, let it burn, let it echo inside, Let the truth in my chest be the thing I don’t hide. If I’m meant to shatter, then let it be loud— I’ve lived in the shadows, but I’m stepping out.

You don’t dare look at him yet, even if you can feel Mydei beside you, catching every breath you take with the press of his fingertips against the strings. It’s like you're speaking in a language only the two of you know, and you don’t want to shatter the spell with a single glance.

I won’t apologize for the way I ignite, This voice was never made for staying quiet. I’m done pretending I don’t want more— My name’s not a whisper. It’s a roar.

The last chorus crests like a wave you’ve been chasing your whole life. Each word strikes clean and resolute, carried by the burn of Mydei’s guitar beneath you. He doesn’t push the melody. He just follows, like he’s always known where you were going.

Then, with no grand finale or perfect cadence, the song ends.

The weight of it settles around you like something earned. Your chest lifts with a breath you didn’t realize you’d held since the first note. Mydei sets the guitar down with care, a soft click of wood on wood. When he looks at you, you can still see the ghost of a smile beneath those warm, golden eyes.

As the applause breaks, you realize this song never really belonged to you alone. It was always meant to be shared.

When you step down from the stage, neither of you says anything. But something passes between you anyway. It’s both quiet and electric, something that settles just beneath your skin.

You’re not sure if you want to give it a name.

Up next on Tribbios’ itinerary is Cipher, who’s dragging a slightly reluctant Castorice behind her like it’s just another night in Dolos. They stumble through a sugary pop duet once they get around to it, giggling more than singing. Somehow, that only makes it better.

Phainon follows with a borrowed harmonica, joining a local girl in a surprisingly sweet back-and-forth that leaves the crowd swaying. Then comes Anaxa, half-speaking, half-singing a smoky story-song about highway ghosts and forgotten gods. It’s weird. But completely on-brand.

Even Aglaea steps up. Her song sounds like a long drive through rain. She doesn’t wait for applause when it ends, just walks off with her usual grace. Tribbios jumps in to lift the mood, belting a melodramatic power ballad and, halfway through, accepting a kazoo from a stranger like it’s a trumpet solo.

During the interlude, your eyes catch on Cipher weaving around the stage, nervous energy radiating off her in waves. It’s the same jittery restlessness she had when she apologized to you on the tour bus. You start to wonder what’s got her wound up again, right up until she beelines for Aglaea with a tight-lipped smile.

You’re too far to hear their conversation, but the way their shoulders drop, the soft exhales, and the quick, relieved hug they share—it's enough to fill in the blanks.

Later, while the others finish a chaotic group cover of something vaguely punk and absolutely off-key, you settle into a folding chair with Garmentmaker’s tablet. You scroll: blurred mid-jump shots, wide grins, messy chords, fleeting glances.

But something makes you stop.

It’s a photo of you and Mydei, taken just after the last note faded. He’s turned toward you in the soft wash of stage light, bangs framing the glow of his amber eyes. The look on his face is open in a way that feels rare. He isn’t smiling exactly, but neither are you.

As you stare at the photo, something stirs deep in your chest. It feels like a sudden surge of warmth that spreads slowly, settling into the spaces that were waiting to be filled. Then your eyes lift to the scene before you: all the people who’ve welcomed you into this disaster of a band.

Loud and alive and indisputably yours.

Aidonia is behind you now, the snow, the silence, the fallout. Whatever waits on the next stage, the next road, the next night—

You’ll meet it like this.

Together.

[Original Tweet by @PulsePopDaily – now deleted]

EXCLUSIVE: Is The Flamechasers’ newest guitarist hiding a very devoted past? 👀

Fans are connecting dots between “Diana” and a once-mysterious mega fan who ran the largest account in the fandom. Full theory & receipts here 🔗 [link]

Top Replies:

@ GoldenDamselInDistress: y’all will accuse a girl of anything if she knows the setlist too well

@ NothingBurger123: not saying it's real but… that 2017 Tumblr post? uncanny

@ Hehehehehe: uhh am i the only one who thinks this is a red flag

@ GODNAXA: it’s giving Black Swan energy and I’m here for it

@ MydeisMic: okay but if it is her… that’s actually iconic??

Everyone is back in the game in no time.

After that much-needed wind down, you play every song on the setlist with twice the confidence you had on the opening night. It doesn’t take a genius to know that your bandmates are faring much better now, as well. The next three stops fly by in a blur of sold-out crowds and perfect cues. Five weeks into the tour, you don’t just feel like you’re keeping up.

You feel unstoppable.

Feedback from the label seems to be mostly positive. Aglaea finally looks less like she’s carrying the weight of the world and more like she’s just managing a band again. That’s partly thanks to Tribbios, who told Garmentmaker to force her into breaks the second her emotional readings dipped below a certain threshold. Still, no algorithm can fix burnout on its own. Aglaea only started breathing easier because the rest of you showed up and held the line.

The sixth stop is in Carmitis, a city cradled by pale green hills and washed in gold at dusk, where the horizon burns like molten steel when the sun begins to drop. You’ve never done a soundcheck half-dazed by the sky before, but there’s a first for everything.

When Tribbios told you this was Aglaea’s hometown, it made perfect sense. The place has her kind of presence—striking, composed, impossible to overlook. Not the type of beauty that sneaks up on you, but the kind that announces itself the moment it walks into a room. Just like her.

You can see that she’s at ease here. The band, too.

Everyone seems to know the local venue staff by name, and Aglaea makes a point of introducing you like you’ve always belonged. You try to wave her off, stammering that it really isn’t necessary, but she gives you a look that cuts through any excuse.

“Lest you forget,” she says, with that cool edge only she can pull off, “you’re part of the team too.”

For the better part of the evening, everything runs like clockwork. You tear through the setlist with your usual moxie, each note sharper than the last. But just as the final chords fade and you’re ready to launch into the closing act, the lights dim, and something unplanned flickers to life on the stage screen.

A surprise fan project.

None of you were briefed on this. Your bandmates exchange puzzled glances, clearly just as blindsided, eyes flicking toward the unfamiliar video rolling in front of a cheering crowd.

But when you spot Tribbios peeking out from backstage, she gives you a look that reads loud and clear: Just go with it.

The video fades in with a soft glow, met by an audible wave of surprise and delight from the crowd. Someone’s layered a slowed-down instrumental from the band’s debut single under the footage. It’s warm, nostalgic, full of reverb and care.

It opens with flickering clips of the band over the years: Cipher with shorter hair. Castorice clumsily adjusting her amp mid-show. A rare moment where Anaxa is the one laughing, and Phainon is mildly disgruntled.

Then comes a clip of Hephaestion. Larger-than-life as always, grinning wide as he throws his arm around Mydei mid-interview. The crowd cheers louder.

You’re not thrown off by it. You’d been a fan back then too. Before Diana, before the stage. Seeing Hephaestion on the screen doesn’t shake you. If anything, you find yourself smiling.

Part of you wonders if most of the fanbase has truly accepted you into this space yet. You know from experience how long fan projects take to put together—how they’re often in motion for months before they see the light of day. It wouldn't be unusual to find yourself absent from something like this, especially considering how much has changed in such a short time. You’d almost resolved to let the rest of the band have this moment, to simply smile and move on out of courtesy.

But then, the music shifts into a more upbeat track, the rhythm as infectious as you remember. The energy in the room pulses along with the song, and suddenly, newer clips start to flood the screen. More recent moments, clearly captured by someone who’s been woven into the band's orbit since the tour started.

There’s Mydei, grinning with the crew while setting up gear before the Okhema show. Phainon and Castorice, hilariously off-beat, attempting a terrible dance challenge onstage in Sabany. Anaxa with his mouth wide open in deep, oblivious sleep as Cipher tries and fails to drop a piece of chili into his mouth.

The crowd erupts in laughter, and it’s impossible not to smile. It’s so perfectly...them. These are the little moments between the chaos of shows, the kind that never make it into official footage but tell the real story of life on the road.

Then, there you are.

Your first show with the band. That solo where you leaned too far back and nearly toppled over—only to catch yourself at the last second, spinning the recovery into something that looked intentional. The crowd never knew, but they cheered like you meant it all along.

Then comes a slow pan: your silhouette framed in golden hour light during soundcheck in Dolos, fingers ghosting over frets as the stage hums beneath your boots.

Somehow, they even dug up a clip that moment. The one where you and Cipher are doubled over in laughter beside the tour bus, nearly wheezing, as Phainon mourns the tragic loss of his ice cream cone. The one knocked clean out of his hand by an oblivious Mydei, who still swears it wasn’t his fault.

You laugh at first. A soft, startled sound that slips out as the crowd roars with delight over Phainon’s theatrics. But as the next few clips play, the smile on your face starts to falter.

Because it isn’t just about the jokes or the spotlight.

They’re showing you.

Not just the polished moments, but the awkward starts—the missed notes, the way you used to grip the neck of your guitar like a lifeline. Candid flashes of quiet, caught when you thought no one was paying attention. The grit in your jaw when you pushed through another long rehearsal. The light in your face when the music took over and you forgot to hold anything back.

The way you kept showing up, not to prove anything, but because somewhere along the way, this stopped being a dream and started feeling like home.

Your eyes sting before you can stop it. One blink too long and the tears slip free, warm and fast. You try to laugh it off, to wipe at your cheeks, but your breath catches somewhere in your chest and refuses to come out steady.

Castorice is the first to notice. She nudges a hand into yours, fingers gentle and sure, like she’s grounding you without needing to be asked. Anaxa leans in from the other side, pretending not to look too directly at you, but the way he shifts his shoulder in front of yours feels like a shield.

You sniffle, try to hide behind the curtain of your hair, but it’s no use.

The final montage begins to slow. The colors dim, the music softens to a hum. Then, across the screen in clean, glowing text, the last frame lingers:

Thank you for being our light in the dark.

The silence after the screen fades is thick with feeling. You can barely breathe past the lump in your throat. You don’t even try to wipe your tears anymore, but Anaxa begrudgingly pulls out a handkerchief from his tight leather pants for you to take. Of course, you blow your nose into it without a second thought.

Just when the silence starts to feel like it might swallow you—

“Oh no,” Mydei says, with exaggerated gravity. “Looks like we’ve got a problem.”

You lift your head, just barely. The audience holds its breath with you.

“Our lead guitarist,” he goes on, pausing for effect, “is absolutely, completely inconsolable.”

Laughter ripples across the crowd, warm and easy. You hear a few awws sprinkled in. Someone yells, “We love you, Diana!”

You press a shaky hand over your mouth, a laugh escaping through the tears. Castorice squeezes your hand. Anaxa mutters, “You’re stealing the encore,” but his smile says he doesn’t mind.

Mydei walks over, unhurried and steady, his eyes locked on yours. He leans in just enough for his voice to reach you—low and private, meant for no one else.

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

Because, naturally, this is the show he decided to go shirtless. The stage lights catch the sweeping red tattoos that blaze across his chest and the curve of his arms, every line sharp and intentional. His torso looks sculpted—like something out of myth, all effortless strength and impossible detail.

And he’s looking at you.

“You feeling alright?” Mydei murmurs, his hand brushing lightly against your back.

You nod. Kind of. But the spot where he touches you burns even when he pulls away.

“You sure?” Mydei tilts his head, smiling in that way that’s all quiet mischief and something gentler underneath. “I can tell them to roll the blooper reel next. That’d really finish you off.”

That makes you laugh for real. It’s breathless, a little cracked, but genuine.

He straightens up, raising his mic. “Alright, looks like we’re keeping the show after all. You ready for us?”

Once the heartfelt fan project wraps up, you deliver the last song for the evening. Your fingers move on their own, riding the music like a wave you were born to ride. The lights flare, the crowd sings louder than the amps, and for one breathless stretch of time, it feels like the universe exists only in this moment—sweat and sound and starlight.

Then the last note hits. Mydei throws his head back, letting the echo ring out as Phainon crashes the cymbals like a firework.

Silence, for just half a second before the crowd explodes.

People are on their feet, screaming, chanting, holding up phones and lightsticks and hand-painted banners. Some are crying. Some are laughing. But all of them are alive with the same wild current pulsing through your chest. You’re still catching your breath when Mydei turns to the crowd, hair clinging to his face, chest heaving.

“This—” he pants, gesturing to the sea of people, “This was one for the books.”

Castorice takes your hand. Cipher waves dramatically to the front row. Anaxa pulls off his jacket and throws it into the pit, because of course he does. Phainon lifts his sticks to the sky like he’s offering them to the gods. Mydei moves forward and you all fall into step with him.

“Carmitis, you’ve given us your voices, your hearts, your light. We’re gonna carry that with us to every stop ahead.”

The crowd screams back, thunderous and loving.

Then the band’s frontman turns to you with an unfamiliar glimmer in his eye, “Oh, and if you see our lead guitarist sobbing again, just know—it’s because you’re all too damn sweet.”

You cover your face, laughing into your hands as the others hoot and whistle and give you playful shoves.

Tribbios’ voice crackles through the earpieces. “Final bow, kids. Let’s make it good.”

And so you line up, shoulder to shoulder. Aglaea’s watching from the wing, her hand over her heart. Garmentmaker gives you a subtle thumbs-up from the lighting rig. Even the crew is beaming.

You all bow together. One movement, unified.

Something you wouldn’t trade for anything else in the world.

Backstage hums with movement. The kind of chaos that feels earned—high-fives from techs, congratulations from the venue crew, a water bottle pressed into your hand as someone passes. Your body’s still vibrating with leftover stage energy, but already you can feel it beginning to ebb, that delicate shift from performance to person, spotlight to shadow.

The show’s just ended, your adrenaline still tapering off as you and the others trail toward the exit, weaving past venue staff and local press. The security detail usually handles this stretch well, keeping the band insulated from anything unscheduled. But tonight, someone slips through.

“Diana!” a voice calls, sharp and cutting through the din like a needle. “Is it true you used to run firescapes? The biggest Flamechasers fan account on Twitter?”

Your heart misfires instantly.

Your steps carry on, automatic and numb, but your breath hitches and the smile you’ve worn since the encore fades from your lips like steam on glass.

The reporter holds a phone up, recording whatever scoop he can get from you. The flash is off, but you feel the heat of it anyway. You don’t even have time to process what expression you’re making. Your past, the one you kept buried under layers of name changes, fake email addresses, and silence, is cracking open.

Your bandmates are a few steps ahead, laughing about something Castorice said. None of them hear it. None of them see you falter.

Except for one.

Fortunately, security peels the reporter away before it can turn into a scene and soon enough, you're all piling into the shuttle back to the hotel. The others are still riding the buzz of the show, laughter echoing, voices overlapping with excitement. But you can’t seem to match their rhythm.

Not when the question keeps echoing in your head.

Is it true you used to run firescapes?

You swallow hard. The name alone feels like a live wire.

How could he have known? You were careful, meticulous, even. Not even the current mods knew your real identity. You’d scrubbed every trace, buried it years ago, left it behind. At least, you thought you had. Fuck. You can already imagine the headlines once word gets out.

“You good?”

Phainon’s voice hauls you back to the present.

Your designated shuttle seatmate is staring at you with one part curiosity and two parts concern. His voice stays easy, laid-back as ever, but there’s a quiet weight beneath it. Like he’s giving you room to lie if you want, but hoping you won’t.

You shift, suddenly aware of the tension in your spine.

You want to say yeah, all good, or something breezy to match his tone. But even as he tosses in the occasional quip to whatever conversation is happening a row over, you know better.

He heard what the reporter had asked.

The words don’t come easily. You’ve kept this part of yourself buried for so long that it doesn’t feel like a secret anymore. It feels like something anchored deep inside, always there, holding you steady but uncomfortably heavy. Part of you that wants to shove it all back down, and convince yourself the reporter was just guessing. That Phainon didn’t actually hear, and pretend none of it matters now.

But it does. Of course it does.

You half-expect him to pick at the corners, to pry something out of you. Any sane person who just found out their newest member could be a crazy fan would exercise that sort of caution. Yet, Phainon doesn’t breathe a word of it. He simply lets the question hang in the air like it’s your choice to answer.

Ultimately, it’s his patience that helps loosen something in your chest.

Your fingers twitch in your lap, restless, and you trace the edge of a fold in your jeans, the way you used to ground yourself when you were nineteen, posting concert clips under a name no one knew. You remember the surge of excitement whenever a post caught fire. The way it felt like belonging. The way it made them—the Flamechasers—feel a little closer.

You press your lips together.

“You... You heard what that reporter said, didn’t you?”

Phainon doesn’t answer right away. His blue eyes shift to the window, watching the city lights blur past as if he’s lost in thought. When he finally speaks, his response catches you off guard.

“Do you want me to say yes or no?”

Your brows furrow. “Sorry...?”

He turns back to you with a small, lopsided smile. “It sounded like something that’s none of my business. So I’m giving you a choice: do you want me to say I heard it, or keep pretending I didn’t?”

You should want the easy out. For Phainon to just shrug it off and go back to chatting about setlists or late-night food runs. But the cat’s already halfway out of the bag already, and somehow, the idea of letting him believe a lie feels worse than the risk of the truth.

You sink back in your seat, the confession dragging behind your ribs.

“It’s true,” you murmur.

Cipher shrieks somewhere in the back, and while that normally wouldn’t have fazed you, you visibly jolt at the noise. It’s a reaction that isn’t lost on Phainon, but he affords you enough grace not to point it out.

“I see,” he says. “You haven’t answered my question though.”

...That's what he cares about?

“Aren’t you going to tell the others?” you ask with a frown. “We have all sorts of protocols set in place for obsessive fans, so—”

“Are you an obsessive fan?” he asks, cutting you off gently.

Your mouth opens, then shuts. “No? I mean—I don’t think so. I just... loved the band. A lot. In a maybe-slightly-too-intense-but-not-unhinged way? Ugh. I don’t know.”

Phainon chuckles under his breath, the sound soft and unbothered.

“That’s good enough for me.”

Part of you expected judgment. At the very least, some unease. Surely the universe would be demanding payment for all the secrets you’ve smuggled into this life by now. But instead, Phainon just leans back, like your confession weighed nothing at all.

When he casually shifts the conversation—I think I need to replace my snares, they’re starting to sound a bit off—you realize the moment’s passed.

No pressure. No expectations.

But even with Phainon’s quiet acceptance, the unease doesn’t leave you.

It lingers in the corners of your chest, coiled tight, like a thread pulled taut but never snapped. You glance around the shuttle. Cipher is giggling at something Castorice said while Tribbios and Aglaea are talking in hushed tones. Anaxa’s got his headphones back on, staring out the window. Right next to him, Mydei is half-asleep with his head tilted back, the one who obviously poured out more energy than the rest of you.

They all look...unburdened.

That’s what makes your stomach twist. Because Phainon might be willing to let it go, but what about the rest? Would they be that easy? That kind? Or would they see you differently?

You swallow hard and look away, guilt settling in even as Phainon leans his head back, content to let the silence stretch. He’s already made space for the truth.

But you can’t shake the fear that the others might not.

You thought you’d feel better by now.

The adrenaline’s long gone, replaced with a hollow kind of quiet that settles deep in your chest. Outside your hotel window, the city hums softly beneath the dark—streetlights stretching into quiet halos, distant cars slipping by like whispers. Somewhere downstairs, the band’s celebrating, but you’re here alone, and that’s how you want it.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

You were just about to crack open your laptop, fingers hovering over the keys, ready to finally wrestle with that unfinished demo. The awful file name seems to glare at you from the screen, a passive-aggressive reminder of how long you’ve neglected it. But tonight, you figured, was as good a time as any. You needed something to keep your hands busy. Something to keep your mind off everything else.

That was the plan, until you hear someone knock on the door of your hotel room.

You think about ignoring it. You’ve already passed on the group’s celebratory drinks—“just tired,” you told them, which wasn’t entirely a lie—and the last thing you want is Cipher trying to guilt-trip you into joining late. But of course you cave. Of course you open the door, but it’s not Cipher that’s standing on the threshold.

It’s Mydei.

But he looks different somehow. Loose in the shoulders, sprawling tattoos peeking through a half-unbuttoned shirt, one hand braced on the doorframe and the other holding a dark green bottle.

“Didn’t see you downstairs,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Those bastards told me to make sure you didn’t get spirited away by the vending machine ghosts.”

“The what?”

“You know. Hotel haunts. Always by the vending machines. That’s what Phainon told me.”

You stare at him. “Are you... drunk?”

“Not yet.” He holds up the bottle: Velkaria Bloodwine. It’s smooth, easygoing, tastes better than it should for how dangerously drinkable it is. Expensive, too. “Wasn’t in the mood for a party either. Figured I’d share with someone less loud.”

There’s a pause. Long enough for you to wonder if this is pity, or worse: concern thinly veiled as company. Despite himself, Mydei doesn't push. He just raises a brow, waiting for your verdict.

After a beat, you step aside and gesture him in. “Only if you let me keep working.”

“I’ll be a ghost,” he says, slipping past you with the kind of ease that always makes it feel like he belongs in whatever room he enters.

Mydei settles right next to you on the sofa, kicks off his shoes, and starts pouring out two fingers of wine into the glasses from your minibar shelf. There are no words for a while, just the sound of your keyboard tapping and the faint clink of glass.

You hate how comforting it is, the quiet, the company. Especially coming from him.

Because most of the time, Mydei is cool and remote, wrapped in that untouchable, quiet of his. You’re never quite sure where you stand with him. But tonight, he’d been unusually attentive in a way that caught you off guard. He asked if you were feeling alright while his entire damn chest was on display. And you, very valiantly, had to stop yourself from spiraling into one of your deranged ex-fangirl daydreams.

Now he’s here in your hotel room pouring drinks. Like this is some long-standing tradition between the two of you and not absolutely insane.

You don’t know what version of him this is, but it’s disarming. Maybe a little unfair.

“Are you finally going to name that file or are you just building a shrine to it?”

You shoot him a look, but it’s half-hearted at best. “It’s a work in progress.”

“Everything is,” Mydei says, bringing the rim of his wineglass to his lips. “But not everything can be performed as an impromptu duet in the middle of nowhere.”

For some reason, your heart skips at the fact that he remembers the recreation hall. That was weeks ago—you’ve already forgotten the name of the town. But not the way it felt to perform a song you wrote together. At the time, you brushed it off. Didn’t let yourself linger on it. But now, sitting here alone with him, the memory hits different.

The realization curls warm and awkward under your skin, and suddenly your face is burning with embarrassment.

You should tell him to go. You should guard this space the same way you do your secrets. But instead, you let yourself breathe in the silence that settles between you like warm smoke. It’s neither heavy nor sharp. You’re simply just two people too tired of the noise.

“Thanks,” you say quietly when you retrieve your own glass. “This is wine, isn’t it?”

Mydei grunts. “It’s fermented pomegranate juice.”

“So... Wine?”

He chuckles into his drink like he doesn’t know what to do with you. You sure as hell don’t know what to do with him. But the corners of your mouth tug upward anyway, and the silence that follows is easier now.

The project loads on your laptop, sluggish and messy, a patchwork of uneven synths and ghost track layers you’ve been too annoyed to clean up. It starts playing from a random marker. You wince.

Mydei leans forward, brow creasing. “That’s the chorus, right?”

“No,” you groan, scrubbing back a few seconds. “That’s the mess before the chorus.”

He hums, nods, then points at your screen. “Your mids are crowding each other. That guitar line could be cleaner if you isolate it.”

You blink at him. “I knew you were involved in producing our songs, but not to this extent.”

“I’m not. I’m just annoying.” He takes another sip. “Play it again.”

You do. Again and again, with a few tweaks each time. Mydei gives you his thoughts in single sentences—concise and thoughtful, never pushy. It’s almost infuriating how he speaks less than you do but still ends up being right more often than not.

Somewhere between exporting a new version and looping the second verse, your wineglass gets emptier. Then it’s refilled. And emptied again. The room softens. Your laughter spills easier. He says something about your synth patch sounding like a broken traffic light, and you almost choke from laughing too hard.

Time skips like a scratched record. You’re not sure how long it’s been when you realize how close Mydei has gotten. One of you must’ve leaned in. Or both. He’s angled toward you now, shoulder brushing yours, watching the screen from over your arm.

When you glance up, his face is right there.

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between your lungs and your lips. The distance between you could be measured in heartbeats.

Up close, his features are unfair. Sharp in a way that still manages to feel soft, like how dusk blurs the edges of sunlight. His bangs fall just slightly into his eyes, that deep, burnished gold catching the glow of your screen, turning them molten. You hadn’t realized how long Mydei’s lashes were. Or how his mouth, usually so unreadable, looks almost gentle now, the faintest curve resting at the corner.

You should look away.

But instead, you’re cataloguing him like a fool: the way one brow arches more than the other when he’s focused, the way he smells faintly of old cologne and wine and something darker underneath, like cedar smoke or thunder about to break. The worst part? He’s watching you too. Not in the casual way people glance around a room.

He’s looking at you like there’s a question in his mind and you’re the only answer that fits.

The demo has stopped playing. The glass in your hand has gone warm. You can’t tell if the thudding in your ears is the leftover bass line or your pulse losing composure. You should move. Say something. Laugh it off, maybe. But the words don’t come, and your body won’t listen.

Then, Mydei tilts his head just slightly. His gaze flickers from your eyes to your lips.

Nothing about it is subtle.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs.

You swallow. “So are you.”

His mouth curves, just slightly. “Guess we’re both guilty.”

There’s a pause, light but loaded. The kind that stretches between two people suspended in a moment that might become something else if no one stops it.

It would be so easy. The room is quiet, the lights low, your skin humming from the wine and the proximity and the way his gaze doesn't waver. He’s close enough to count your breaths, to see the hesitation flicker across your face. Something waits at the edge of all this silence; something fragile, and bright, and irreversible.

But then you remember who you are. Who he is. And what crossing that line would mean for the both of you.

Maybe in another life, you’d let it happen. You’d lean in. You’d chase the heat gathering between you until it tipped into flames. But your body moves before your heart can answer. A blink, a breath, a laugh that comes too fast and a little too loud.

“You make staring at someone sound like a felony,” you say, aiming for playful, missing by an inch.

That gives you room to shift back in your seat to put space between you. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to breathe. Then, your eyes flick to the screen of your laptop, where the demo’s still frozen mid-loop.

“You gonna help me fix the synth patch?” you ask, quieter now. “It’s still clashing with the bass line.”

Mydei’s reply takes a second. “Did Cipher really help with this? She’s usually... more precise than this, even on her chaotic days.”

He laughs, but there’s something brittle underneath it.

You ignore it. Or try to. “Hey, you’re the one who said even the producers couldn’t tame this thing.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than the one before. Like something that had opened between you has quietly, carefully, closed again. Mydei doesn’t offer up a retort of his own. He simply leans forward, fingers finding the keyboard with practiced ease, as if that moment never touched him at all.

But as the track stutters back to life, you can feel it. In the way your pulse stumbles. In the way he doesn’t speak for a long time.

The music plays on. Everything’s back where it was.

Except it isn’t.

<- PREV | NEXT -> ✧ TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

#honkai star rail #hsr x reader #mydei x reader #honkai star rail x reader #mydei hsr #mydei #cryoculus

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speaknowgirl3184 · 3 months ago

Text

Letting Go

Peter Parker x female reader

“I love you. That’s why I’m letting you go.” You and Peter Parker finally confess... only to lose each in the end.

Warning: ANGST, mentions of death, gore, wounds, (I can't remember the rest so let me know if you find anything).

Word Count: 1.9k

Masterlist

The city outside is fractured, like Peter’s heart, like everything he’s tried to hold together with blood and trembling fingers and second chances. Lights flicker in the dusk, neon halos bleeding into the shattered glass of the Sanctum’s windows. The sky tears itself apart above them, ruptured and screaming, as if the universe itself mourns what’s about to happen. The spell swirls, volatile and trembling, threatening to pull everything into its silence.

And you’re standing there, right in front of him.

You. The one person who’s never looked at him like he’s broken. The one who held his hand when the world called him murderer. Who bandaged his wounds when his own grief had left him bleeding. You stayed after May. After the fights. After everything.

But now—now, he’s not the boy you fell in love with.

He’s something… quieter. Heavier. Hollowed out by loss and layered with choices no one should have to make. A soldier built from pain. A boy who’s grown too fast into a man who doesn’t know how to stop the bleeding inside him.

And yet, you still love him.

That’s what makes this hurt more than anything else.

“I can’t stop them, Y/N,” Peter says, voice splintering as his eyes fix on the sky, the cracks spidering outward like veins across the heavens. He looks so small against it all. So unbearably tired. “They’re breaking through. Everyone who knows me, they’re in danger. You’re in danger.”

You step forward, voice trembling with something between hope and desperation. “Then let me help.” You search his eyes. “Peter, we’ve made it through everything. Please don’t shut me out now. Don’t do this alone.”

His gaze drops. A storm passes through him. “I can’t keep doing this,” he says hoarsely. “Watching people I love get hurt. Watching you almost die.”

You try to steady your voice. “But I didn’t die.”

He looks at you then. And in that single glance, you know. You know what he’s going to say.

“Yet.”

The word lands like a blade between your ribs.

Your breath leaves you in a soft gasp. “Peter…”

His face crumples and steadies all at once, years of heartbreak balanced on the edge of a single moment. And then, with the kind of gentleness only he could carry after all the violence he’s seen, he steps toward you. A trembling hand rises, fingers brushing your cheek like you’re made of glass. You lean into the touch instinctively, unwilling to let it go. Your tears soak his wrist.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice cracking like the sky. “I love you so much. That’s why I’m letting you go.”

It doesn’t feel real. It can’t be. It’s some awful dream, a moment stitched from every nightmare you've ever had of losing him.

“No.” Your voice breaks like your heart. “No, Peter, you don’t get to say that and then walk away.”

“I have to.” His eyes shine with the threat of tears he won’t let fall. “When this spell finishes… no one will remember me. Not Ned. Not MJ. Not Strange. Not you.” His lip trembles. “You’ll be safe. You’ll get to live. Really live. Without all this.”

“I don’t want to live without you,” you say, barely louder than the sound of your heartbeat roaring in your ears.

He closes his eyes like it hurts to hear it. “But you’ll finally be free.”

Free.

The word tastes like ash in your mouth.

Tears trail down your cheeks in hot, steady rivers. You reach for him, fingers wrapping around his wrist, the same wrist that once swung you between rooftops, held you midair like the world couldn’t touch you, the wrist that trembled with panic when he thought he might lose you.

You press his hand tighter against your cheek. Trying to memorize the shape of him. The warmth of him. Trying to make it last before time swallows him whole.

“I’m not asking you to stay,” you say, choking back a sob. “I’m asking you not to leave like this. Not without something.”

“What do you mean?”

“Promise me,” you whisper. “If you remember anything, if anything comes back… Promise me you’ll find me.”

Peter swallows hard, forehead tipping to yours. His voice is nothing but breath. “I’ll find you. Even if you don’t know me. I’ll find you. I’ll fall in love with you all over again.”

You suck in a breath like it’s the last you’ll ever take.

Your breath catches.

And then he pulls away and you leave the Sanctum Sanctorum.

-----------

Doctor Strange’s voice rises in the background, chanting in a language you don’t understand, getting the spell ready, but the world around you is already starting to hum, vibrate. Purple lightning fractures reality above your heads. People, monsters, strangers, peer through, clawing at the edges of a universe that doesn’t belong to them.

Time is unraveling. And so are you.

Your heart hammers in your chest. The wind tears through the ruined scaffolding, tossing your hair, stinging your eyes. And Peter— Peter is just standing there, staring at you like you’re his entire universe.

Because you are.

Your heart pounds in your chest, the wind from the collapsing sky whipping through your hair as you look at him, really look at him, and feel it.

This is the end.

“Hey,” Peter says softly, voice hoarse, almost swallowed by the chaos. He reaches up, gently cups your cheek with a hand that’s trembling.

“Look at me.”

You do.

God, you wish you didn’t.

Because you don’t think you’ll survive the way he’s looking at you, like this is the last time. Like he’s memorizing every inch of your face before it’s gone.

His thumb brushes your cheekbone, slow and reverent, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish right then and there.

“I’ll find you again,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I swear, I’ll come back. I’ll explain everything. I’ll… I’ll make you fall in love with me again. I promise. Just… wait for me.”

Your lips tremble. Your throat feels raw.

You’re crying now too, clutching at the front of his suit like he’s the only thing tethering you to this moment, like if you just hold on hard enough, this won’t happen. You won’t lose him. You won’t lose this.

“I don’t want to forget,” you choke out, strangled.

“You won’t,” he says. “Not really. A part of you will always know. Somewhere deep down. You’ll feel it, even if you don’t remember why. You’ll look at the stars one night and miss something you can’t name. That’s me. That’s us.”

Your breath catches. A sob rises, gets stuck.

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, and for a moment the chaos falls away. All you can feel is him, the warmth of his breath, the press of his hand, the quiet grief in every inch of him.

“I love you,” you whisper, barely audible.

His fingers twitch against your jaw. “I love you more.”

The light around you begins to flare, golden and blinding.

This is it. Seconds left. You don’t want to let go. But you have to.

Then, your voice breaks as you say: “Please come find me.”

His nod is almost imperceptible. But he means it. With everything he has left.

You do the only thing left that makes sense, you kiss him.

Desperate. Shaking. Like a goodbye carved from the bones of your soul.

And then—

You let go.

Your fingers slip from his suit.

The light swallows everything.

Your memories. Your love. Him.

And Peter Parker is gone.

All that’s left is silence. And the sound of your heart breaking, in a way you won’t even remember.

-----------

Weeks Later:

Weeks pass.

The world doesn’t end. The sky stitches itself back together. The multiverse quiets.

And Peter Parker is alone.

No Ned. No MJ. No Aunt May. No you.

There’s no trace left of your love, no photos, no text threads, no saved voicemails he can replay when the silence becomes too loud. Just memories that don’t belong anywhere anymore. A ghost life. A ghost heart.

But Peter still finds his way back to the coffee shop.

The one where you work.

The one where you sat across from him between shifts, feet tangled under the table, a shared muffin between you that you never finished because you were too busy laughing.

He doesn’t know why he goes. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s punishment.

And then he sees you.

Behind the counter, in a worn green apron, hair tied up loosely like you always did when you didn’t care how you looked, which was when he always thought you looked the most beautiful.

You’re smiling. Not at him. At some older woman fumbling with her change. Your laugh is soft. Polite. It’s not his laugh — the one you saved just for him when you teased him about his dorky science jokes or made fun of his tie at Homecoming.

You don’t know him.

But Peter remembers. God, he remembers everything.

The way your lips curled when you said his name.

The way you’d lean into his chest when the world was too loud.

The way you’d whisper, “You make me feel safe,” like he was something good in a world full of danger.

And now—

Now he’s just a stranger.

He steps forward. Voice low. Careful. Trying not to let the ache show through the cracks in his throat.

“Hi,” Peter says awkwardly. “I’m Peter… I was wondering if I could get a coffee. Black. And maybe… a name?”

You blink. There’s a flicker of something, curiosity, maybe. Recognition? No. Just a flicker.

There’s no gasp. No tearful reunion. No whispered, Peter, is that you?

Just silence and the soft hum of the espresso machine.

“I’m Y/N,” you reply, offering a polite smile. It’s nice. Friendly. Meant for a stranger.

Peter smiles too. It doesn’t reach his eyes. It can’t.

Because he’s drowning in everything he can’t say.

The words rise in his throat like a scream: “You loved me. I loved you. I still do. You wore my hoodie when you couldn’t sleep. You kissed me on the rooftop after the first snow. You called me your future.”

But none of that exists for you now. He chose this. He made a promise. To you. To Strange. To the world.

So he takes the cup. Lets your fingers brush his, and wonders if you feel it too. The electricity. The pull.

But your eyes don’t linger.

You just say, “Have a good day,” with a kindness that feels like a dagger.

And that’s what breaks him.

Not the forgetting. Not even the silence. It’s that you care, the way you would for anyone.

And Peter?

He used to be your everything.

He walks out with the cup shaking in his hand. Sits on the bench across the street and stares at the front window like maybe you’ll come running out. Like maybe your heart will remember what your mind can’t.

You don’t.

He wants to scream. To cry. To go and grab your hands, say your name and remind you of the rooftop kisses and the whispered promises and the universe that fell apart just to keep you safe.

He promised.

He promised you he’d find you, but he can’t do it.

And that’s the last piece of his heart he ever gives away.

And he gave it to you, to protect you.

Peter Parker disappears into the city that doesn’t remember him. And he tells himself it was worth it. That your smile, even if it’s not for him, is proof of that.

But late at night, when the mask comes off, and the silence creeps in, he still hears your laugh echo in the dark.

And he whispers your name into the quiet.

Just once.

Just to feel something.

---------------

Its giving I love you I'm sorry by gracie abrams if you catch my drift. Anyways I hope you cried during the whole thing but still loved just like I did 💗 Tysm so much for the support, love you guys!!!

#angst #spider man #spiderman x reader #across the spiderverse #spiderman #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter parker angst #fluff #tom holland #spider man fanfic

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jezebelblues · 10 months ago

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saturn bound | h.s

summary: in which the world ends in your point of view, alongside your husband.

cw: death, angsty-ish i guess? unedited, grammatically correct in upper case if that tickles ur fancy.

word count: approx 1.4k. she’s a shortie

| this is in first person! (perspective of you, as reader) i was iffy about a 1st perspective so i edited in both 2nd and 3rd, but 1st person felt right. sorry if u hate, ladies.

masterlist

No one would remember me as YN, no one would remember my husband as Harry.

As the world crumbled into its final moments, you’d think that chaos would envelope everyone whole. That people would be running, screaming, fighting, as if they could somehow wrestle with the jaws of fate. Mothers clutching their children, fathers desperately barking orders to no one, families collapsing under the weight of hopelessness. Dogs howling into the wind after their selfish owners sped off, children sobbing as the air itself seemed to shudder with terror. A cacophony of fear.

You’d imagine fear cause these people knew their life was going to end.

And it was there undeniably, fear. Not the frantic kind, though. A different one—a quiet terror that settled deep in the bones, cold and ancient, like the Earth itself had finally whispered its last breath into our ears. It didn’t matter what was ending us—whether the dead were clawing from their graves, or if the sky had split apart and let loose the fires of heaven, or some disease had snatched us, unseen, from within. It didn’t matter. Not really. Because the truth was simple, inevitable: today, all life on Earth would be snuffed out, and we would become nothing—a floating spec of a forgotten afterthought.

There would be no future, no one left to carry the stories of humankind forward. No history books filled with our triumphs and tragedies. There would be no mourning of our extinction, the things we took for granted. Earth would be a blank—unknown, just one of countless casualties of time. If there was anyone out there in the universe with us, the children of this planet, would be memories swept away like dust, if even that. There would be no tears shed for us. The universe, so vast, would hardly notice our passing.

Some prayed. Desperation forced them down to their knees, begging for salvation, for some kind of afterlife, something more beautiful than their end. The thought of death so terrifying that they’d hope and pray they’ll end up in heaven—hell, even. Anything other than nothing, than eternal darkness. I understood, in a way, because nothing is scary—we’re alive, we’ve never experienced it—it’s impossible to wrap your mind around nothing.

Others drank. I joined them, a bottle of tequila in hand, the burn numbing me just enough to make peace with the fact that I would die today. And my Harry, the man that gave me his last name, would die beside me.

Harry Styles, the man the world adored, the man I called my husband—sat next to me, his head resting softly against my shoulder. We watched as Saturn, impossibly close now, loomed over us, over our home, like an executioner asking for our final words. Its rings shimmered, casting a glow that drowned out the stars. The air was thick with sobs, with whispered prayers. People clung to each other like lifelines, as if the touch of another human might hold them here, in this world that was no longer theirs. Some screamed, but most just stood and stared, watching death arrive with a strange, defeated calm—a cobra swaying in dance before striking its prey.

Harry’s hand found mine, gripping it tightly as if to stay grounded. He tried to pray, the fingers on his left hand trembling with the grasp of his cross pendant, but his voice cracked, breaking on the words. Tears ran down his face, but I couldn’t cry. There was nothing left in me to give to hope or fear. Once, faith could’ve been my anchor, but now it felt like a lie I might tell myself to feel safe. There was no safety here. There was no escaping this.

And so I watched, as those I had once called neighbors, friends, fought against the inevitable. They ran, though there was nowhere to go. They screamed, though no one could hear. They prayed, though no god would answer. It was almost pathetic, the way they clung to the last shreds of life. But maybe it gave them some comfort. Maybe that was all anyone wanted in the end—their last conjured thought to be at least I tried.

"You know-” he trailed off softly, his voice breaking the stillness between us, "I always thought we'd have more time. That mayb-” He sighed. “Maybe we'd get old together."

His words struck me like a blow. "I thought so too." I whispered, feeling the ache in my chest grow heavier. It felt so cruel, to have found this love, this overwhelming, all-consuming love, only to have it ripped away after two years of marriage. "We deserved more, H.”

My husband’s thumbs ran circles upon the back of my hand, his tears glistening in the glow of Saturn. His lip quivered, voice shaky. “We can be old now.” He sent me a sad smile, pressing a kiss into my temple. “Happy fiftieth anniversary.” He murmured, playing with the ring on my finger.

I couldn’t stifle the whimper that fell from my grin, nodding to his words. I stared at his wedding band that shimmered in the light before passing the bottle of tequila between us—a toast. To fifty years of marriage. That would’ve something to drink to.

One swig turned into three, three turned into five. It had helped stopped the tears eventually.

Harry turned to me, his face inches from mine, and I could see the weight of the world in his eyes—a humorous irony, really, now that we really are practically weightless as we pull into Saturn’s gravity. He raised a hand, cupping my face so gently, as though I were something precious that he didn't want to break.

"If I could choose how it all ends," he whispered, his breath warm against my lips, "I'd choose this—here with you. If this is the last thing I feel, the last thing I see, then maybe it's not so bad."

Alcohol couldn't stop the tears then. They spilled over, warm and unrelenting, because what else could I do? I pressed my forehead against his, our breaths mingling as the world began to fall apart around us. The rumble of the Earth cracking, the low roar of Saturn's tug—it all seemed so distant, so unimportant.

"I don't want to lose you." I choked out, my voice barely a whisper.

"You won't, YN." His voice was unwavering, as if he had the book of answers hidden in his pocket. His thumb brushed over my cheek while his lips parted once more. "You'll always have me. Always."

And then he kissed me. It wasn't desperate or rushed. It wasn't the kiss of two people saying goodbye, just an I’ll see you later. It was slow, soft, full of everything we had been to each other. His lips were warm, delicate, and for a moment I could pretend the world wasn't ending. I could pretend that all we had was time.

Saturn’s light bathed the earth in colors that had never seemed so tragically gorgeous—deep purples, blues, and grays, all spinning around the our dying planet. The rings twisted and churned in the sky, pulling our world apart piece by piece, and the wind howled as if it cried for us. The stars dimmed, one by one, turning away from the spectacle of our destruction, unable to bear witness. Maybe they chose to die along side us, not letting Earth go through it alone.—like they were the only ones who’d mourn our death. I silently thanked them, though inanimate, I swear I could feel their empathy.

Harry gripped my hand tighter, his skin warm against the cold air. I brought his hand to my lips and kissed his knuckles. Our foreheads met again, a united front. His green eyes met mine, full of sorrow, of love, of things unsaid. I wanted every one of the five senses to envelope only him. Our last moment to be together, not watching the world collapse, but here, in this space we had carved out between us.

I kissed him. One last time. The taste of salt from his tears mingled with the liquor on my lips. “I love you.” We whispered together, our voices lost in the roar of the sky falling apart.

And then it was gone.

The cold sank into my bones, but it no longer mattered. My heart slowed, and the world around me faded. No more breath in my lungs, no more blood in my veins. Just the void. And as we drifted into that nothingness, I held onto one final hope—that there is some sort of afterlife, so I could find my Harry again.

Yet, the Earth was gone. It dissolved into the void like dust. The stars, too, blinked out one by one, and the universe spun on, indifferent. We were forgotten, nothing left to even decompose in our boundless grave. Perhaps the dead stars that’ll become something more will be our headstones—an indication we were once here.

But for now, it was as if we never existed in the first place.

btw if you feel like you’ve seen this before, i originally wrote this on wattpad in 2017. it was horrible :D but i liked the concept, so this is it readjusted. hope u enjoyed even just a lil <3

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loverslantern · 13 days ago

Text

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: Visiting Mary’s grave breaks open another hunt, and regret.

Warnings: Cannon violence and gore, angst (but with some comfort), grief, death

Word Count: 12.8k

Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things

(Masterlist, Prev. Chapter, Outfit)

The Impala speeds down the empty road, nothing but flat lanes on either side of us and the relentless August sun that the black car soaks up.

“Come on, Sam, I’m begging you,” Dean groans. “This is stupid.”

I prop my arm on the door, my head resting in my hand, letting the wind whip at my face. The sun caresses my face as if it’s about to tell me a secret, maybe something about how she’s so gentle and harsh at the same time. Or, the answer to how Dean somehow complains more than I do. Regardless of what she may spill, I push up Dean's sunglasses further up my nose.

“Why?” Sam asks, scuffing.

“Going to visit Mom’s grave?” he answers. “She doesn’t even have a grave; there was no body left after the fire.”

“She has a headstone,” Sam retorts.

“Yeah, put up by her uncle, a man we’ve never even met,” Dean retorts. That explains why we’re going to Illinois instead of Kansas; maybe their mystery uncle lives there. “So you wanna go pay respects to a slab of granite put up by a stranger? Come on.”

“It’s more about honoring her and mourning than a headstone or a grave,” I add my two cents.

“It’s about her memory,” Sam adds.

“I think it’ll be good for both of you, to be honest,” I consider, earning a mumbled grumble from Dean. I bet he wishes I would agree with him instead of Sam.

“And after Dad it just…just feels like the right thing to do,” Sam includes carefully. It’s a very touchy subject.

“It’s irrational, is what it is,” Dean argues, scuffing.

“Look, man. No one asked you to come,” Sam defends.

“Why don’t we swing by the roadhouse instead?” Dean suggests. “I mean, we haven’t heard anything on the demon lately. We should be hunting that son of a bitch down.

“That’s a good idea, you should go. Just drop me off, I’ll hitch a ride, and I’ll meet you there tomorrow,” Sam answers.

“Right,” Dean laughs. “Stuck…stuck with those people, making awkward small talk and watching Ash try and flirt with Y/N again? No thanks.”

“Wait, what?” I exclaim. “When was Ash flirting with me?”

“He said you smelled good,” Dean answers, his voice somewhere between bored and unamused.

“I thought that was just a weirdly worded compliment,” I defend. I didn’t think Ash was interested in me at all.

“Yeah, that compliment was flirting,” he grumbles.

“Are you sure?” I ask, head tilting to catch the side of his face rather than the back of his head.

“Very,” he confirms, eyes stuck on the road ahead.

“Huh,” I hum, going back to looking out the window.

“Wh—What do you mean ‘huh’?” Dean asks, suddenly sitting up straighter as he looks at the rear view mirror.

“I just didn’t realize he was,” I answer, shrugging. I didn’t mean anything by my ‘huh’ like he’s making it seem.

“You…” he adjusts his hold on the steering wheel, wetting his lips. “‘You interested in him?”

I catch the smug smirk on Sam’s face and the pointed look he gives his brother before he goes back to looking out the window like he’s not there.

Finally, I meet his gaze in the rearview mirror. Was that…worry in his eyes? That doesn’t make sense. “Uh…not really,” I answer truthfully. Someone else has my mind and heart, I want to add.

He nods once, a thoughtful expression gracing his face as he returns his eyes to the road.

********

I stand off to the side with a makeshift bouquet of wildflowers I collected before we stepped into the cemetary.

Sam kneels before his mother's headstone: Mary Winchester, 1954-1983, carved into the granite. He’s silent as he uses his pocket knife to dig a little hole into the ground.

I look up momentarily, making sure Dean’s still around and okay. He’s wandered off, sticking nearby but not close enough to be actively a part of the memorial. I know he’s uncomfortable with expressing most emotions, feeling like it’s a weakness rather than a naturally occurring sensation. It’s okay, though, for now it is.

The clink of a chain brings my attention back to Sam, who’s holding up a set of dog tags. “I think, um…” he sighs. “I think Dad would have wanted you to have these.”

He drops the dog tags in the little hole he made, dragging the mound of dirt over it. He pats it flat, staring at the changed Earth for a moment before he raises his eyes to the gravestone. “I love you, Mom,” he says softly.

Slowly, he stands up, eyes never leaving the grave. I take a step forward, crouching down to rest the bouquet in front of the gravestone. I stand up beside him, joining him in staring at the grave while I put a comforting hand on his back, accepting the weight he leans into me.

********

Dean holds a sleek white card between his two fingers, a business card that some man in a suit gave him. I think it’s some sort of groundskeeper seeing as he talked to Dean right over the dead girls grave.

“Angela Mason,” he starts. “She was a student at the local college; the funeral was three days ago.”

“And?” Sam questions as he starts walking towards the car.

“And?” Dean echoes. “You saw her grave. Everything is dead around it, in a perfect circle? You don’t think that’s a little weird?”

“It’s kind of like a fairy ring,” I point out.

“You think it’s a fairy?” Sam deadpans.

“I want it to be,” I shrug. “Does that count?”

“Of course you want it to be,” Dean shakes his head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, faking offense.

He looks at me like the answer should be clear. “Look at you. You’re all….” he points at me, gesturing up and down. “Nice, and you dress all…you.”

I bite back my smile as best as I can, which isn’t much at all. “I’m going to take that as a compliment,” I beam, bumping into his arm.

“Can you two focus?” Sam complains. “It’s probably nothing. Maybe the groundskeeper went a little agro with the pesticide.”

“No, I asked him. I asked him,” Dean clarifies. “No pesticide, no chemicals. Nobody can explain it.”

The circle of dead grass around the grave is far too large to be a simple gardening mistake, especially since it took out a whole tree. “So, do you have any theories of your own?” I ask.

“I dunno. Unholy ground, maybe?” he suggests, half shrugging.

“Un—“ Sam stutters, flabbergasted.

“What? If something evil happened there, it could easily poison the ground,” Dean argues. “Remember the farm outside of Cedar Rapids?”

“Yeah, b—“

“‘Could be the sign of a demonic presence. Or the…the Angela girl’s spirit, if it’s powerful enough,” he tries. Sam nods, but he’s clearly not amused as he looks away as if trying to avoid continuing the conversation. “Well, don’t get too excited, you might pull something,” Dean remarks.”

“It’s just…stumbling onto a hunt?” Here, of all places?”

“So?”

“So—are you sure this is about a hunt, and not about something else?” Sam asks.

“What else would it be about?” Dean counters.

Sam sighs heavily, shaking his head, “You know, just forget about it.”

“You believe what you want, Sam, but…I let you drag my ass out here, the least we could do is check this out,” Dean reasons, clearly grasping at straws.

I’m not exactly sure if there is a hunt here because as much as the dead grass in a perfect circle is odd, Sam has a point, it is quite the coincidence to find a hunt like this. But, maybe that’s the difference between Sam and me; I can see what something is, but still let it happen, and he can’t. I can’t say which is the better option. Though if I had a little more courage, I’d probably say leaving the delusion behind sooner rather than later is for the best.

Still, Sam gives in. “Yeah. Fine,” he grumbles, because sometimes you have to let someone see it for themselves. Sometimes you have to play into the delusion, too, make them feel sane just for a second, so that all the other noises can turn into buzzing. Dean nods, “Girl’s dad works in town. He’s a professor at the school.”

********

The hallway is densely populated with students going to their next class, the new semester in full swing. So when we enter Dr. Mason’s office, it’s like walking into another world. All the life that dances in the hallway dies before this entrance.

Dr. Mason sits behind a desk with a distant look in his eyes. He looks disheveled between the little hair he has left being all messed up and the sagging off his face like he hasn’t slept in days, but I can’t blame him, considering he just lost his daughter. I don’t know how he’s at work at all.

So it feels worse to claim we were friends of Angela’s just to get information. We’ve done it before: lied to someone grieving, but it never gets easier, nor does it feel right.

He has a photo album out, having Sam and me look through the photos of Angela, a sad smile on his face the entire time. She was a radiant girl, that’s clear by these photos, her perfect smile beams up at us, her eyes a little squinty with the intensity of it.

“She was beautiful,” Sam compliments.

“She had a really nice smile,” I add.

“Yes, she was and she did,” Dr. Mason answers solemnly.

“This is an unusual book,” Dean declares, interrupting the grave mood that had settled over us. I know it’s not that he doesn’t care, but instead it’s him wanting answers, standing by a bookshelf with an old book propped open in his arms. He holds the book up to show off the cover with a triangular symbol carved into it, as well as some other symbols.

“It’s ancient Greek,” Dr. Mason answers. “I teach a course.”

Dean nods, lips pursed as he puts the book back on the shelf. “So a car accident, that’s…that’s horrible,” he continues.

“Angie was only a mile from home when, uh…” he trails off, swallowing roughly.

I can’t imagine what it’s like to bury your child, to put them to rest in the dirt. A parent is not meant to outlive their child, to have to relive memories of them growing up and hitting every milestone, just to know that they’ll never get to see them complete another one again. I don’t know how he’s functioning in any aspect. He’s strong when he doesn’t have to be.

“It’s gotta be hard. Losing someone like that,” Dean adds. “Sometimes it’s like they’re still around. Almost like you can still sense their presence. ‘You ever feel’ anything like that?”

I look at him for a long time, the photobook and anything else forgotten about. This is probably the closest and the most I’ve heard Dean talk about what happened. He won’t let himself outwardly express it, let alone speak about it. And as much as I want to respect his silence, I wish he would just let it out. But, I guess now the dam has some breaks in it, and some things are bound to come loose.

“I do, as a matter of fact,” Dr. Mason answers.

“That’s perfectly normal, Dr. Mason. Especially with what you’re going through,” Sam swoops in.

“You know, I still phone her,” he reveals. “And the phone’s ringing before I remember that, uh…Family’s everything, you know? Angie was the most important thing in my life. And now I—I…I’m just lost without her.”

I frown, feeling the familiar ache of utter despair forming in the back of my throat. There are no words that can describe grief; you can try, but it just doesn’t work. It makes you feel utterly powerless. I didn't even know this girl, and yet I feel powerless.

“We’re very sorry,” Sam answers softly for all of us.

********

“I’m telling you, there’s something going on here,” Dean reiterates. “We just haven’t found it yet.”

He’s been adamant about this all day and even more so after our meeting with Dr. Mason. He won’t let it go. It’s not that I necessarily disagree with his theory of something going on, in fairness, I’m not really here nor there on this ongoing argument. But Sam is.

“Dean, so far you’ve got a patch of dead grass and nothing,” Sam points out.

“Well, something turned that grave into unholy ground,” he argues back.

“There’s no reason for it to be unholy ground. Angela Mason was a nice girl who died in a car crash. That’s not exactly vengeful spirit material. You heard her father,” Sam explains.

“I mean that’s not totally true,” I butt in. “She could still be vengeful because of the crash.”

Sam groans, “Tell me you aren’t on his side.”

“I’m not on anyone’s side,” I say in defense, shrugging.

“Not being on a side is being on a side,” he argues, gesturing towards me with his arms fully extended.

“No, it’s called being neutral,” I correct, shaking my head.

“No, it’s called you’re too loyal to Dean and don’t have the heart to say that he’s wrong about this!” he counters.

“Oh, that is so not true,” I scuff, though it doesn’t sound as convincing as I’d like it to be.

“You know what? We never should have bothered that poor man. We shouldn’t even be here at all,” Sam continues.

“So what, Sam? What, we just bail without even figuring out what’s going on?” Dean questions.

“I think I know what’s going on here,” Sam claims. “It’s the only reason I went along with you this far.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean asks.

“This is about Mom’s grave,” he answers.

“That’s got nothing to do with it,” Dean scuffs, rolling his eyes.

“You wouldn’t step within a hundred yards of it,” he reasons. “Look, maybe you’re imagining a hunt where there isn’t one, so you don’t have to think about Mom or Dad.”

Dean glares at him, his jaw set tightly. Sam looks up to the ceiling for a second, sighing, “You wanna take another swing? Go ahead, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“I don’t need this crap,” he spits, grabbing his leather jacket off the back of a chair and the keys off the table.

“Wait, where are you going?” I ask just as his hand touches the doorknob.

“I’m going to get a drink. Alone,” he answers bitterly, pulling open the door and slamming it behind him.

The door rattles on its hinges, and I’m quick to get up to follow him.

“He said he wanted to be alone,” Sam reminds me.

“Too bad, so sad,” I answer, throwing a quick wave back before I slip out the door.

I have to run after him, he’s already close to Baby. I skid in front of him before he can try to unlock the car. I smile at him, my hands behind my back on the car handle.

“Move,” he grumbles, “…please.” “No, sorry,” I answer.

“I really don’t wanna talk about it,” he says sternly, his shoulders tense, and his face frozen in annoyance. He already knows what I’m here for.

“Okay,” I say softly. “We don’t have to talk, just let me come with you.”

“You don’t like drinking,” he points out.

“I’ll drink with you,” I shrug, not really thinking about it.

His eyebrow quirks as he repeats himself, “But you don’t like to drink.”

“I drink sometimes…on occasion…a little bit,” I answer.

He sighs, clearly somewhat annoyed. “No, sweetheart, you don’t understand. I’m not gonna let you do something you don’t like just to make me happy.”

Oh. A smile pulls onto my lips, my brain melting a little. “Stop being sweet,” I lecture, using whatever is left of my brain function to stay on task. “I’m trying to be here for you. I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I don’t care about being alone,” he shakes his head.

“Well, I can care enough for both of us,” I counter.

He looks at me for a long moment, hard eyes softening enough to let me know I’m in. He sighs, grumbling, “Fine. Get in.”

“Yay!” I beam, before wiping the smile off my face to give a very serious nod. I slip past him, rounding the car for the passenger side with a little pep in my step. I half expected him to tell me to leave him alone, which I would’ve accepted if he really wanted me gone.

I get in the car and buckle up, Dean doing the same with a grumpy look on his face. “I really don’t want to talk about it so don’t try that crap with me,” he warns again, putting the car into drive. But, already, there’s less bark and bite in him.

“Okay,” I say softly, nodding. “That’s okay.”

He’s silent as we pull out of the parking lot, jaw clenched like he’s trying to keep something locked behind his teeth. We only make it a block away when he sighs deeply.

“I know you didn’t like him,” he starts.

“You don’t like my father either,” I point out.

His head snaps towards me. “I have ‘good reason to,” he says sharply.

“So do I,” I whisper, twisting in my seat. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear everything.”

He frowns, eyes back on the road. His lips twitch like he’s holding back what he wants to say. This is hard for him, I know it is, which is why I never want to push him.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s perfectly okay, but if you do…..” I stretch out the word, “I’m here for you, always.”

He nods, just a single bob of his chin. There’s something unreadable in his green eyes, something I want to learn and unpack. He swallows roughly, running a hand down his face. “It’s my fault he’s dead,” he claims, his voice wavering just slightly.

The car slows to a stop on the side of the road, his palms pressing into his eyes, his throat bobbing. He doesn’t want me to see him cry. Like I care. I unbuckle myself, sitting on my knees as I scoot closer to him. “Don’t say that,” I answer softly, a hand going to his wrist.

“It’s true,” he continues, voice breaking. “Don’t tell me it isn’t when I know it is.” He removes his hands from his eyes by himself, his green eyes glossy, and his eyelashes wet. “I should be dead, not him.”

“No, no,” I mumble, shaking my head while it feels like someone lodged a dagger into my heart. “Don’t say that, baby, that’s not true.”

A flash of hurt passes over his features like he just got hit by something, and he nods. “It is. It is,” he repeats. “I made a full recovery; it was a miracle. And then five minutes later, my Dad's dead and the Colt is gone.”

I clench my hands tightly, nails biting my palm. He swallows roughly before he continues, “I know you’ve made that connection already. Sam had a point before, you don’t have the heart to tell me the truth about that kind of shit.”

He’s right. He’s right, and I wish he weren’t. Of course, I knew. I knew the moment John died. I know he died so that Dean could live, and as messed up as it is, I’m glad that he did.

“I was supposed to stay dead, there’s no other way around it,” he reiterates, shoving the dagger deeper into my heart.

“No,” I shake my head, moving through the break in my voice. “We would’ve found a way. I would’ve found a way, I was close.”

“Yeah, close to killing yourself,” he scuffs. “Sam told me what happened, you passed out.”

“I don’t care, I was—”

“I care!” He cuts me off. “It would’ve been the same thing, you dying so I could live. That’s not any better, ‘not a fair deal.”

Still, I shake my head. I can’t accept this. I can’t. I won’t. I swallow back my tears, trying to be strong for him. But tears are streaming down his face, and it makes it that much harder. I reach out, cupping his cheeks to brush them away. “I’m glad you’re alive even if you don’t feel that way. I’m sorry you do. I’m sorry that you’ve been put in an impossible situation.”

He grabs my wrists, hands wrapping around them, but not pulling me away. There are no words to make this right, or to make him feel better. I wish there were. I hate that he feels this way. It hurts. “Fuck survivors guilt,” I laugh through unshed tears. I swallow them down again, vision almost blurry, “I’m so glad you’re alive, sometimes I think it's a dream, like my brain is trying to make me feel better by convincing me that you’re still around, and…and if it is, I hope I never wake up. I don’t want to live in a world that you’re not in.”

His eyes close tightly, tears that had collected in his eyelashes falling, his thumbs pressing into the pulse of my wrists. “Don’t say that,” he mumbles, opening his eyes.

“Say what?” I retort, brushing away his tears without a second thought. “That you’re so important to me that I’d rather let the sun burn out than lose you.”

His lips part, breath stuttering. His eyes are wide, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. “C’mere,” he says softly. Then all at once, his hands fall from my wrists to my hips, lifting me onto his lap without a grumble, my knees on either side of him. His head falls to my collarbone, my hands moving to the back of his head and his back. His shoulders jerk forward, a choked noise mumbled into my skin.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, running my fingers through the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck. His arms are wrapped around me entirely, like he’s trying to prevent me from going somewhere. But I’m not leaving him, I don’t care that my neck is wet or that his grip is firm. I don’t want to be anywhere else.

“It’s okay. I have you,” I continue whispering.

I know he thinks expressing emotions makes him weak. So, I wish that for just one moment, he could see himself through my eyes and see how incredible he is. I can’t think of a better word for it, though I think there isn’t one that can perfectly encapsulate him. He’s beyond any feeble word; he’s the rising sun, the growing evergreen, and the strong gusts of wind that keep the world moving. He keeps me moving.

“You know, life does this funny thing with you in it. I don’t know how or why but it gets all sunny, light brimming at the edges like a perfect frame—even when it’s stormin’ or it’s midnight,” I babble, voice breaking slightly.

I don’t know what I’m saying—that’s not true, I do.

I know what I’m saying but I don’t know why—that’s not true either.

But I might be spilling my guts, a confession sewn into each syllable like a patchwork blanket, hidden in trying to say anything to comfort him. It’s not anything, it’s the truth spewing from my lips like syrup spilling from a maple tree, and I can’t help myself.

“It’s okay,” I mumble over and over until I can convince myself, and, maybe, him too.

********

It took some time for him to stop crying, for the sobs to turn to a sniffle. Even then, it took a while longer for him to finally pull away, an embarrassed look on his face as he let me slip off his lap and into the passenger seat. He let me hold his hand as he drove, though “let me” is a strong word considering it was his hand reaching for mine.

Now, he’s checking his face in the side mirror before we head into—not the bar as he made it out to seem, but to Angela’s home, which was apparently his plan all along.

His eyes are a little puffy, but considering we’re breaking in, it should be the least of his worries. No one would see him anyway, so there’s nothing for him to worry about. No one will know that this macho man is human.

I pull on his hand, “Come on, you look perfect. Very hardcore and cool like always.”

There’s a smug little smirk on his face as he straightens and lets me pull him onto the sidewalk, his body hitting mine. “You’re right, I am cool,” he declares.

“Yeah, you are, you dork,” I smile softly, trying not to laugh.

Then his eyes drop to my neck, his thumb coming up to brush my collarbone lightly. My heart erupts in my chest, getting stuck in my throat. “I messed up your shirt,” he states, finger moving over my shoulder.

“Just a shirt,” I shrug.

His eyes jump to mine, a crease forming between his brows. “‘You feeling okay?” he asks, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead.

I laugh, taking a step back until he’s pulling me forward again with the hand he’s still holding. “I’m perfectly well, why?” I ask.

“A shirt has never been “'just a shirt” to you,” he answers, eyebrow quirked.

“Well, look who's been paying attention,” I tease, unable to stop myself from smiling. It’s a small thing for him to notice, and yet I want to giggle and kick my feet back and forth like I’m at a slumber party talking about my top secret crush.

“I always pay attention,” he replies defensively.

“Mhm, sure you do,” I muse, leading him towards Angela’s apartment building before we get distracted in our bickering (not that I’d exactly mind that.)

Quickly, he falls in step beside me.“I pay attention enough. When it matters,” he defends.

“So never?” I joke, tilting my head in mock thought.

He snorts, shaking his head. “Don’t push your luck, sweetheart,” he warns without malice.

It’s late, and we're walking up to an apartment building we’ll be breaking into, and yet nothing has felt so right or natural. It’s not the crime aspect that feels that way; it’s his hand in mine as we walk side by side, having a stupid and quite meaningless conversation. Sometimes you’re with someone, and somehow you know nothing could ever truly be wrong or bad as long as they’re right there. I wonder if he’s feeling that now, too, or if his mind is elsewhere, still convincing himself that he shouldn’t be around. I hope it isn’t. I hope that even for just three insignificant minutes, he can be himself again, before he had to carry the extra weight of his father's death.

He drags his hand down the bell panel of the apartment building, hitting each one in hopes someone buzzes us in.

“That’s not gonna work,” I point out, “the chances of someone expecting someone to be coming home this late are—”

Bzzzz.

He pushes the door open with a cocky smirk. “You were saying?” he remarks, guiding me inside.

“Okay, that was pure luck,” I argue, shaking my head in disbelief.

“Ain’t nothin’ I do ‘s pure luck. That’s pure skill, baby,” he boasts, head leaning towards me to rub it in.

“Your ego is far too big,” I reply, almost surprised by his audacity.

His grin widens, eyes glinting with mischief, “Not the only thing of mine that’s “far too big.””

I laugh nervously before I can stop myself, my face warm and my chest tight in the way it gets when I forget to breathe. My thoughts come to a stuttering halt. He starts laughing, full-on chuckling, his head thrown back.

I shove him away, which only serves to make him laugh harder. “You…you are not allowed to speak ever again,” I stammer, quickening my steps to avoid him, and his face, and the thoughts that attack my brain.

I don’t need to know that if he’s being serious. In fact it shouldn’t matter if he’s being serious. Why is this hallway so goddamn hot?

I take a deep breath, trying to cool my warm face as I speed down the hallway to the last door, stopping in front of what was Angela’s apartment.

“It was just a joke,” he teases, leaning against the wall beside the door. His eyebrows raise in contemplation, “Well…not really.”

I hold a hand up, not looking his way. “No speaking. Ever,” I mutter.

He wipes the bright smile off his face, hands up in surrender. “Whatever you say, darling,” he shrugs.

I shake my head, sighing. I ignore him, turning the doorknob, letting the lock quickly come undone. I enter slowly, hesitant to invade someone’s home even if she’s now dead. Dean closes the door softly behind us, following me into the living room.

“Who the hell are you?!” someone screeches.

I jump, turning around quickly to watch a girl with straight black hair and pink pajamas shut herself into a room, disappearing as quickly as she had appeared.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, hold on!” Dean spews, going after her.

“I’m calling 911!” she yells from behind the door.

We’re so screwed.

“I’m Angela’s cousin!” Dean shouts, thinking quickly.

“What?” she exhales.

“Yeah, her dad sent me over to, uh, pick up her stuff, my name’s Alan? Alan Stanwick?” he continues. “I brought my girlfriend, Madeline with me to, you know, help with the, uh, the grief.”

The door creaks open, her dark eyes peeking through the crack. “Her dad didn’t say that you were coming.”

“Well, I mean,” he answers, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “How else would I get the key to your place?”

********

Lindsey, the girl who threatened to call the cops on us, was Angela’s roommate. She’s hunched over on the dark red couch, face in her hands as she cries, she’s been doing this for the last five minutes—she pretty much immediately started balling.

Dean shifts beside me, throwing me a “please do something” look. I’m not exactly the fixer-upper he thinks I am, and yet I still get up to sit beside her, taking a couple tissues from the box on the table to hand to her.

She wipes her eyes carefully, mumbling a “sorry.”

“Oh don’t apologize,” I shake my head. “You’re allowed to cry as much as you want to.”

“Yeah…” Dean agrees half hardly, looking at me sideways. “So…I’m sure you got a view of Angela that none of the family got to see,” he continues, jumping to the point. “What was she like? I mean, what was she really like?”

“She was great,” Lindsey answers through sniffles.

“Mhm,” I hum, waiting for her to continue.

“Just great. I mean, she was so…so…”

“Great,” Dean finishes for her, unamused.

“Yeah. Yeah,” she sobs into the tissues. She’s really broken up about this, which is expected considering the death and grief we’re talking about.

“You two must have been really close, huh?” Dean remarks.

“We were,” she answers. “But it’s not just her, it’s Matt.”

“Who?” he asks.

“The boyfriend,” I answer, mostly guessing.

“Yeah, Angela’s,” Lindsey clarifies.

“Right. Right, that Matt,” Dean nods, flashing me a confused and surprised look. “What about him?”

“He killed himself last night,” she answers, voice breaking. “He cut his own throat. Who does that?”

“He was grieving,” I reply calmly. “Maybe it was too much for him. And men tend to choose brutal or messier suicides than women.”

“Yeah, he was taking Angela’s death pretty hard, and I guess…I mean, he’d been messed up about it for days. He was losing it,” she adds.

“Messed up how?” Dean asks.

“He kept saying that he saw her everywhere,” she answers, wiping the tears from her face.

“Well, I’m…I’m sure that that’s normal, I mean with everything he was going through,” Dean reasons.

“No, he said that he saw her. As in, an acid trip or something,” she clarifies.

Well, I guess that supposed suicide is no longer a suicide but a murder. While it could still be a grief induced hallucination, in our line of work it never is. So why would she want to kill her boyfriend?

“Did they get into a fight or something before she passed?” I ask, trying to think of any other reason she would go after her boyfriend.

“What? No, of course not, why do you ask?” she answers a little taken-a-back.

“Oh, you know…. guilt-induced hallucinations," I babble, coming up with anything. “Mhm, yep,” Dean tags on awkwardly, nodding intensely. “So, where did Matt live?”

********

I take another sip of my caffeinated drink, trying to keep my brain awake while leaning into Dean's side.

“If you keep your arm around me like this ‘m gonna fall asleep,” I tell him and yet make no effort to remove myself.

He slung his arm around my shoulder the moment we got out of the car, and I’m taking advantage of it even if it’s just while we walk the short distance from the parking lot to the motel room. He’s comfortable even like this and he smells like he always does, something woodsy and a little like coffee now that’s been nursing it.

“Fall asleep like you did in the car?” he teases with a lopsided smile.

“It has been a long couple of hours!” I defend, halfheartedly, knowing he was the one who woke me up just before we pulled into the motel parking lot with one of my favorite drinks on the ready.

“Mhm,” he hums deep in his chest. “Baby needs her beauty sleep.”

“You’re mean,” I laugh, scoffing, moving from his side to prove a point.

But then he’s pulling me right back in with a laugh of his own, “Yeah?”

He isn’t. Not even a little bit. “Totally,” I smile, giving myself away.

He rolls his eyes playfully, keys jingling as he tries to unlock the motel room with one hand. It gives way, the door pushing open slowly.

Sam moves quickly, fumbles with the remote tossing it sideways onto the bed he sits on the edge of. He looks at us with wide eyes, a nervous line pulled onto his face. “Hey,” he exhales.

Dean leads us inside, a needed feat as I would’ve stood frozen at the doorway looking between Sam and the TV. I still do that even as Dean removes his arm from around my shoulder, kicking the door closed behind us with raised eyebrows.

“What?” Sam questions, looking between us.

“Awkward,” Dean mumbles, scratching his head.

It’s all the confirmation my brain needs to make the connection on what Sam was watching and why he was fumbling with the remote.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere near these beds ever again,” I declare, keeping myself as small as possible by the door.

“Well, where the hell have you two been?” Sam asks, forcing us to move on.

“Working my imaginary case,” Dean answers matter-of-factly, placing his coffee on the nightstand before he flops on his bed. He sits against the headboard, hands behind his head and boots crossed.

“Yeah? And?” Sam scoffs.

“Well, you were right, I didn’t find much,” he shrugs, gaining a sympathetic nod from his brother. “Except Angela’s boyfriend died last night. Slit his own throat, but, you know, that’s normal. And, uh, let’s see, what else am I missing Y/N?”

“He was seeing Angela everywhere before he died,” I answer, hopping on the edge of the kitchen table, letting him bask in the glory of being right and rubbing it in.

He snaps, pointing at me, “Right, that was it. But you know, I’m sure that’s just me transferring my own feelings.”

“Okay, I get it. I’m sorry,” he admits, “maybe there is something going on here.”

“Maybe?” Dean echoes. “Sam, I know how to do my job, despite what you might think.”

“We should check out the guy’s apartment,” Sam suggests.

“We just came from there. Pile of dead plants just like the cemetery. Hell, dead goldfish too,” he answers.

“Poor goldfish,” I frown, repeating the same reaction I had when I saw the golden fish. “And poor plants. She’s really giving a whole new meaning to “killing everything around you.”

“So it is unholy ground?” Sam asks

“Maybe. I’m still not getting that powerful, angry spirit vibe from Angela,” he answers. He sits up, reaching into his jacket to pull out a little pink book. “I have been reading this, though.”

“You stole the girl's diary?”

“Yes he did even though I told him to put it back!” I exclaim. “But nooooo, just have to invade the girls' privacy more.”

“It’s a good insight,” he defends himself. “And if anything, the girl’s a little too nice.”

“Being 'too nice' is not a thing,” I argue. “Plus it’s her diary, why would she be “fake nice” to something that’s for her eyes only?”

“That’s true,” Sam agrees. “And you say Y/N’s 'too nice' all the time and she’s not murderous.”

“Okay, well…” Dean stammers, cheeks turning a light shade of pink. “I do not say that all the time.”

“I know I’m like the only girl you two know but I don’t have to be used as a point of comparison,” I remark, putting my hands up in surrender.

“You are not the only girl we know,” Sam defends, crossing his arms.

“Dude, you were just about to watch a porno, which you had to buy, by the way, so at this point I might as well be considered the only girl you know. Or, interact with,” I argue, gesturing between him and the black TV screen.

His face turns red, mouth opening to release some kind of snarky defense that never comes.

I hop off the little table with a smirk, “Alright then, while you two act like total guys and read through a girl's diary, I’m gonna go shower and change into new clothes. Have fun…I guess.”

We wear our best smiles, or at least our most convincing ones, to speak to Neil, a good friend of Angela.

“I didn’t realize the college employed grief counselors,” Neil remarks with a cautious smile, keeping us on his doorstep. He looks friendly, average if anything with short dark hair and a large forehead.

“Oh yeah, you talk, we listen,” Dean nods. “Or maybe throw in a little therapeutic collage, whatever jump-starts the healing.”

I roll my eyes internally. Sometimes I wish Dean would let someone else do the talking.

“What my coworker means to say is: the school takes grief very seriously, especially since it’s one of our own. So, we wanted to reach out to any close friends of Angela’s to make sure they’re doing well in the wake of her loss,” I reply, hopefully fixing Dean's casualness.

“Well, I think I’m okay. Thanks,” he shrugs, looking between the three of us.

“Well, you heard what happened to Matt Harrison, right?” Sam starts.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, we just wanted to make sure you were okay. Grief can make people do crazy things,” he elaborates, pressing him.

“Look, I’m sorry about what happened to him. I am,” he answers a little defensively, his pitch rising just slightly. “But if Matt killed himself, it wasn’t ’cause of grief.”

“No? Then why?” Dean asks.

“It was guilt. Angie’s death was Matt’s fault, and he knew it,” he replies, words sharper.

I throw a side glance at Dean, catching him already looking at me. Did I hit this right on the nail? “Why do you think that?” I ask.

“Well, she really loved that guy. But the night of the accident, she walked in on him with another girl. She was really torn up, that’s why she crashed the car,” he reveals, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. “Look, I gotta get ready for work, so…thanks for the concern, but…seriously, I’ll be okay.”

He gives us a tight-lipped smile as he slowly shuts the door, disappearing somewhere into his house. “Well, that vengeful spirit theory’s starting to make a little more sense,” Dean remarks as we create distance between us and Neil. “I mean, hell hath no fury.”

“So if Angela got her revenge on Matt, you think it’s over?” Sam asks.

“I wouldn’t think so. I mean, wouldn’t she also go after the girl he cheated on her with?” I point out.

“It does take two to have, you know, hardcore sex,” Dean adds, looking over at me.

“I bet I know who he cheated with!” I announce, hitting Dean's arm lightly. “Lindsey.”

“The roommate?” Sam asks, eyebrow quirked.

“Uh yeah,” I answer. “Look, it’s textbook. And even if we don’t go based on that, for supposedly being her roommate and like close friend, she really didn’t have much to say about her other than “good.”

“Great,” Dean interjects, correcting me.

I throw him a sideways look, “Right,” I nod. “‘Point is, if my best friend died, I would be going on a whole five-hour rant about her, not simmering it down to one word.”

“She did seem broken up about Matt,” Dean adds, pulling open the car door.

“Yeah, and I feel like I’ve heard enough gossip in my life to have a good enough feeling on this,” I add, getting into the backseat. “And I’ve heard some crazy things.”

“Well, there’s one way to make sure she can’t go after someone else,” Dean points out.

“Yeah? What’s that?” Sam muses.

“Burn the bones,” he answers like it’s obvious.

“Burn the bones?” Sam scoffs. “Are you high? Angela died last week!”

“So?”

“So, there’s not gonna be bones. There’s gonna be a ripe, rotting body in the coffin,” Sam clarifies.

“Oh, it’s gonna smell so bad,” I say aloud to no one in particular. “‘Putrefied corpse to make your day that much better.”

“Since when are you afraid to get dirty? Huh?” Dean muses, smirking.

********

Sweat drips down my spine, my chest heaving with the exertion of shoveling about six feet of dirt. No one tells you how hard it is to dig up a grave, even with three people working on it, and there’s only so much watching a hot guy can do.

That’s not true.

I can watch this all day: his forearms flexing, eyebrows furrowed in focus, his grey button-up tightening against his back, his black shirt sticking to his chest, and his grunts and groans.

It’s only very mildly distracting. I think someone should turn this into a show, close ups and all, the viewership would be through the roof.

I don’t know if I can say the same for me, my skin is slick with sweat, my hair lazily tossed into some updo just to get it off my neck, and my white shirt is sticking to my skin—I somehow always choose the worst tops for days we dig graves, though there’s not exactly much of a notice on these types of things.

“We should really invest in those big yellow grabby-digger things,” I propose through pants and tossing dirt out of the hole we’ve created.

Sam pauses beside me, shovel stuck into the dirt, hands crossed over the handle. “An excavator?” he asks.

“Sure,” I shrug. “If that’s what it’s called.”

He goes back to digging, shaking his head at my suggestion. And then Dean stops, head tilted back slightly as he sucks in a sharp breath of cool air, “And where would we keep it, sweetheart?” he asks.

“I don’t know, ‘shrink it down and put it in our pocket?” I answer, pausing my digging to wipe the sweat off the side of my face with a huff.

“‘Now you’re askin’ for two impossible things,” he replies, going back to digging.

“Well, I like to believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast,” I declare with a knowing smile. And as if answering the silent pray that’s on all our minds, Sam’s shovel hits something with a clunk. Quickly, and without anymore side comments, we shuffle the rest of the dirt to the side, a crisp oak casket staring up at us.

Dean helps me out of the grave the moment he hops out himself, hand wrapping around mine while the other encircles me. He turns me around in his hold, chest nearly against my back. “Ladies first, Sammy,” he calls out from over my shoulder, looking down at the hole Sam still stands in.

Sam glares at us, lips pursed in a bitch face. “Hold that,” he grumbles, tossing up his flashlight. I catch it with both hands before it hits the ground, shinning the beam of light onto him.

In the corner of my eye I can see the sharp edge of Dean’s jaw, every rise of his chest brushing my back, his exhales blowing on me. If he were anyone else I’d push him away, the body heat too much when I’m already sweating and sticky. But, he isn’t someone else so I let him stay where he is, one arm slung low around my hips, his forearm and watch on display with the way his sleeve is pushed up. I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t make my mind all silly and my stomach all warm.

I quickly shoot my hand up, plugging my nose as Sam leans down with tense shoulders, pulling open the casket.

Empty. It’s empty. My hand falls to my side, freeing my nose up to inhale the smell of dirt and grass. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I deadpan, looking at the clean white bedding of the casket. “All that work for nothing?”

“They buried the body four days ago,” Dean adds, stepping away from me to get a closer look into the grave. “I don’t get it,” Sam shakes his head, gesturing for his flashlight.

“Well she definitely didn’t decompose into nothingness,” I answer, handing the beaming light back to him. He crouches down, tracing the inside of the coffin with his light. “And she definitely didn’t just walk out of here,” I add.

“Look,” Sam announces, flashlight pointed over the inside roof of the coffin, the white covering shredded, letters in a different language carved into the wood below with a triangle symbol in the middle, a line going through it while another one curves at the triangles left corner.

“What is that?” Dean asks, hoping back into the grave to get an even closer look.

“Oh, she might’ve actually just walked out of here,” I mumble, head tilted to the side to see the symbols better.

“I’ve seen these kinds of symbols before,” Dean reveals, looking up at me.

Dean’s practically running ahead with one long stride after the other. Dr. Mason wasn’t at the school so instead we’ve pulled up to his house and Dean’s been fuming the whole time; jaw set tightly in a mix of determination and agitation. He leaps up the two steps to the front door, fist raised to pound on the wooden door.

“Dean. Take it easy, okay?” Sam warns.

The door pulls open wide, Dr. Mason standing there with confusion. “You’re Angie’s friends, right?” he asks, looking between the three of us.

“Dr. Mason…” Sam begins softly.

“We need to talk,” Dean finishes for him, harshly.

“Well, then, come in,” he answers kindly despite the attitude he’s been thrown. He steps aside, gesturing for us to come in.

He leads us into the house straight into his home office. It’s not that much different from his office at school, there’s still a large oak desk, books around, and shelves with little antiques like vases or small statues.

“You teach Ancient Greek. Tell me–” Dean starts, pulling a folded piece of paper from the inside of his jacket. He unfolds the paper, pressing it down onto the desk for Dr. Mason to see. “What are these?”

He looks down at the symbols Dean copied from the grave with a crease forming between his brows. It’s a great illustration, practitcally an exact copy of the carvings we saw last night. “I don’t understand. You said this had to do with Angela,” he answers, looking at us for some sort of clue.

“It does,” Dean insists. “Please, just humor me.”

“They’re part of an ancient Greek divination ritual,” he finally answers. It’s quite impressive that he knows that from the top of his head, even though I know he is a college professor.

“Used for necromancy, right?” Dean presses.

“That’s right,” Dr. Mason confirms. But he still looks confused like he doesn’t understand where this is all going.

“See, before we came over here we stopped by the library and did a little homework ourselves,” Dean reveals. “Apparently they used rituals like this one for communicating with the dead. Even bringing corpses back to life. Full-on zombie action.”

“Yes. I mean, according to the legends,” Dr. Mason answers. “Now, what’s all this about?”

“I think you know,” Dean counters.

“Dean,” Sam warns.

“Look, I get it. Okay?” he counties anyways. “There are people that I would give anything to see again. But what gives you the right?”

“Dean,” Sam tries again.

“What are you talking about?” Dr. Mason asks, taken a back.

“What’s dead should stay dead!” He yells.

“What?!”

“Stop it!”

“He doesn’t know anything, come on let’s leave,” I plead through the erupting madness. It’s all very quick; and yet I know through all of it that the moment Dean and I had the other night could not fix nor ease the consuming part of his brain that’s been telling him he shouldn’t be alive.

“What you brought back isn’t even your daughter anymore. These things are vicious, they’re violent, they’re so nasty they rot the ground around them,” he continues. “I mean, come on, haven’t you seen Pet Sementary?”

“You’re insane,” Dr. Mason utters, face struck in fear with his eyes wide.

“He is,” I agree just to end this whole thing, “And I’m very sorry for all of this. We’ll be leaving now.” Sam nods in agreement, helping me in trying to push Dean out of the room.

“Where is she?” he asks, dogging is head around us to look at the strucken man.

“Get out of my house,” Dr. Mason says sternly.

“Gladly!” I chirp over my shoulder, crowding Dean into the doorway.

Suddenly he rips away, pushing Sam aside roughly, and side stepping me. He storms over to the Doctor, knocking the phone out of the old mans hand. “I know you’re hiding her somewhere. Where is she?!” he roars.

“Dean! Stop, that’s enough! Dean, look!” Sam yells, grabbing fistfulls of his brothers jacket, ripping him away from the man. He points to the window where a row of small green plants are lined up. “Beautiful, living plants.”

He shoves Dean out into the hallway, and I follow after him to make sure he’s actually leaving. He’s fuming, fists clenched tightly at his sides all the while I hear Sam apologizing profusely, and still Dr. Mason shouts down the hall, “I’m calling the cops!” “Dean what the hell was that? You can’t just talk to someone like that,” I lecture the moment we step out of the house, quickening my steps to keep pace with him.

“Don’t,” he bites.

But how can I? I knew the conversation we had the other day wasn’t going to change anything, that’s not how it works, and I knew that—I know that and yet, there was a part of me that wanted so badly to believe that I could help in some way. That I was—am—capable of saving and comforting the person who always saves me—the person who actually gives a damn. But I couldn’t. I can’t.

It’s more about him then it is about what he said to Dr. Mason, even if it was incredibly rude. It’ll always be about him.

“Don’t ’don’t’ me. We need to talk about this, please,” I continue, stopping in front of him in the middle of the sidewalk. He looks at me, jaw so tense I’m worried he might crack a tooth, his green eyes are hard like stone. But I see through that stone, I can see the thing that’s clawing him apart, hidden behind his pupils.

“You can’t keep going on like this Dean, it’s—it’s tearing you apart, and something has to give. You need to talk to us—keep talking to me, or—“

“What the hell is the matter with you, Dean?” Sam shouts, coming right up to us.

“Back off,” Dean snaps, glaring at him as he moves around me to keep storming off. If I was making progress, or getting through the storm, it's gone. The walls are up again, if not higher.

I don’t know what to say to make this better because those words don’t exist. It feels like every time I get a little closer I’m pushed back a hundred miles.

“That man is innocent! He didn’t deserve that!” Sam continues to shout.

“Okay, so she’s not here, maybe he’s keeping her somewhere else,” Dean answers, always with his one track mind.

“Stop it! That’s enough, okay? Enough!” he shouts, forcing his brother to stop walking.

“Sam, I know what I’m doing.”

“No, you don’t. At all. Dean, I don’t scare easy, but man, you’re scaring the crap out of me,” Sam reveals.

I’m scared too. I’m worried I’ll wake up, or look away for too long, and he’ll be gone. Just gone. Maybe he’ll be off on the road, leaving me behind, or he’ll be dead—just gone. I don’t want to lose him, but I feel it somewhere deep in my bones.

“Don’t be overdramatic, Sam,” Dean scoffs.

“If it’s overdramatic to care about you, Dean, then yeah we are really fucking dramatic,” I answer, annoyed. For some reason I’m almost angry with him. And it’s not fair, I know that. I also know that I’m not really angry at him but rather the fact that he doesn’t believe he should be alive. And that’s not so fair either.

“You’re lucky this turned out to be a real case because if it wasn’t you would have just found something else to kill,” Sam argues.

“What—“

“You’re on edge, you’re erratic—except for when you’re hunting, because then you’re downright scary,” Sam lists. “You’re tailspinning, man. And you refuse to talk about it, and you won’t let me help you.”

“I can take care of myself, thanks,” he answers bitterly.

“No, you can’t. And you know what? You’re the only one who thinks you should have to,” Sam continues. “You don’t have to handle this on your own, Dean, no one can—”

“Sam, if you bring up Dad’s death one more time I swear—“

“Stop. Please, Dean, it’s killing you. Please. We’ve already lost Dad. We’ve lost Mom. I’ve lost Jessica. And now I’m going to lose you too?”

There’s no clarity or even hurt that passes across his face. I wish there were, but he’s stone cold. I know that somewhere deep inside he cares, I know it. I want to know it. But if he does, he doesn’t show it. It’s all the same to him because it makes sense for him to care for someone else but none at all if someone cares for him.

“We better get out of here before the cops come,” he answers. Sam frowns at him, head tilted in disappointment. And I kind of want to cry. I want to scream and cry, pleading until my throat starts bleeding because maybe then he’ll understand.

“I hear you. Okay? Yeah, I’m being an ass. And I’m sorry. But right now we’ve got a fuckin’ zombie running around, and we need to figure out how to kill it.”

Sam laughs, a brief chuckle passing his lips. “Our lives are weird, man,” he states.

“You’re telling me? Come on.”

***********

I keep my head propped up on my hand, looking down at one of the many books I borrowed from the library regarding Zombies. We’ve been at this for hours, researching and combing through every legend and tale for something real, Sam sitting with John’s journal for an answer.

“We can’t just waste it with a head shot?” Dean asks, pacing the motel room.

“Dude. You’ve been watching way too many Romero flicks,” Sam remarks.

“You’re telling me there’s no lore on how to smoke ‘em?” Dean replies, plopping himself down on the chair across from me at the table I have covered in books.

“No, Dean, I’m telling you there’s too much. I mean, there’s a hundred different legends on the walking dead, but they all have different methods for killing them,” Sam explains.

“There doesn’t seem to be a definite answer on where they originated either,” I add. “Though it seems it might have come from Haitian mythology under the practice of voodoo. The word “zombi” even originates from African languages. And in Haitian mythology you can feed the zombie salt to cure them or even bottle their spirit. But that’s still only one myth.”

“You know some say to set them on fire,” Sam adds on, getting up from his bed. He brings a book from his night stand, flipping through it. “One said, where is it?” He takes the last seat at the table, pressing the opened book down, "Right here. Feeding their hearts to wild dogs. That’s my personal favorite. I mean, who knows what’s real and what’s myth?”

“Is there anything they all have in common?” Dean asks, never one to really do any research himself.

“No. But a few said silver might work,” Sam answers.

“Silvers a start,” Dean nods.

“Well, where do you think Angela is then?” I ask, thumbing through some of the pages in my book. “Probably with whoever brought her back,” Dean answers.

“Any ideas?” Sam replies.

“I think if it’s not her Dad it might be that guy Neil,” he suggests.

“Big forehead Neil?” I ask, looking up from the novel.

Both boys seem to pause for a moment, blinking at me twice. “Yeah, that Neil,” Dean answers, lip twitching. He gets up from our little meeting table, plucking the pink diary from off the TV stand.

“You’ve got your journals—your research, I’ve got mine,” he muses, giving the book a little shake. He flips it open, finger guiding down the page as he reads with a higher pitched—horrible girl—voice. “Neil’s a real shoulder to cry on, he so understands what I’m going through with Matt.”

He clears his throat, dropping back to his normal, much deeper voice, “There’s more in here where that came from. It’s for untreated Duckie love written all over it

“Firstly, please never do that girl voice again,” I say firstly, holding a finger up. “Secondly, you really think Neil had a thing for Angela?”

“A guy doesn’t really comfort a girl about her relationship like that unless he’s into her,” Dean reasons. I’m not entirely sure if that’s true but he is a man so he’d probably know more than me.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he brought her back from the dead,” Sam points out.

“Hmm. Did I mention he’s Professor Mason’s TA? ‘Has access to all the same books.”

*******

We creep into the house, right through the front door, into darkness. All lights are out like even the house is asleep at this time of night.

“Hello? Neil?!” Dean calls out. “It’s your grief counselors, we’ve come to hug.” He reaches into the back waistband of his jeans, pulling out a hand gun.

“Silver bullets?” Sam asks, looking at the gun.

“Yeah, enough to make her rattle like a change purse,” Dean remarks strangely before taking the lead down the hallway.

There's been no response, not even a light turning on like he’s coming to see who broke in. “Maybe he’s asleep,” I whisper.

Dean gives me a pointed look over his shoulder, nodding towards the nearest window. There’s a small pot of a spider plant on the window sill, long leaves, turned a yellowish brown, shrunken and drooping.

“Alright, maybe he’s doing more than sleeping,” I remark. She’s here, or was here. I'm hoping he’s still alive.

Dean pauses in front of the only closed door of the house, nodding at it. “Unless it’s where he keeps his porn…” he trails off, letting the rest be said for itself: it’s the last place either Angela or Neil could be if they’re here at all.

I cringe, rolling my eyes at his stupid comment even though he’s technically right. Sam and I stand on either side of the door, he swings the door open swiftly, letting Dean go down the stairs with his gun leading the way. I file in after him with Sam behind me; entering like we’re some sort of SWAT team.

It’s a decently normal basement with a washing machine and dryer, and pipes on the walls. But right on the floor is a mattress, a blanket crumbled up in its center.

“Sure looks like a zombie pen to me,” Dean says.

“Yeah, an empty one,” Sam answers, having to keep his head ducked with the short ceiling, or at least short for his ridiculous height. “You think Angela’s going after somebody?”

Dean moves a loose grate to the side, the metal hanging on by one nail in the corner, revealing some sort of exit to the outside. “Nah, I think she went out to rent Beaches.”

“Okay, smartass. She might kill someone. We gotta find her,” Sam points out.

“Well, if I'm right about Lindsey being the one Matt was cheating with, then she’s probably next,” I consider.

********

The apartment door is slightly ajar when we move down the hallway, the distinct sound of a struggle coming from within. Our steps quicken, Dean taking the lead with his silver bullet-filled gun. The moment he slides up to the front door he fires multiple times in a row, too many and too quick to count, into the front of the black haired zombie. Lindsey is held within her grasp, her pale hand pulling her hair back while she rises a gleaming pair of scissors towards her chest.

But the stab never comes, Angela’s body convulsing and jerking with each shot, scissors clattering to the floor. Then, one more shot rings out, hitting her dead and center in the chest. She screams, and blood still seeps from the wound, staining the middle of her white dress, and yet it doesn’t seem to kill her or prevent her from bolting out the window.

Dean follows right after her, going right out the window and in a split second decision I decide to join in. I hop out the window, landing on the grass with a thud, and immediately I take off running. Angela’s way ahead, running ridiculously fast for someone who was shot, she’s just a blur of white in the darkness, and Deans some distance behind her, way too far to catch up or get another shot in.

The occasional trees and the grass blur together as I force myself to run quicker, the wind whipping at my face. I surpass Dean, my legs beginning to burn slightly with each footfall, my ragged breaths and the thump of my feet hitting the ground the only thing I hear in my ears. Still, she’s some distance away, heading into some sort of wooded area ahead.

I squint my eyes, focusing on the space behind her, which is hard to lock in on when we’re both constantly moving forward, still I force myself to fold the space between us. In a blink I’m pressed forward, still running, now just two feet away. I launch myself forward with my arms outstretched, grabbing hold of the zombie girl as I tumble to the ground.

The grass itches and pokes at my skin, lushes green turning brown and dry beneath her body a foot away from mine. I bring myself to my feet at the same time that she does, “Come on, Angela you know what you’re doing is wrong, no one else has to get hurt,” I say through my attempt to catch my breath.

The skin around where she was shot has turned an odd purplish color; she looks more like a corpse than ever. And this murderous, vengeful, girl in front of me looks nothing like the happy girl in Dr. Mason’s book, but I guess death will do that to you.

“I won’t go back!” She shouts, lunging at me. I dodge her attack, which was more just her body flung at mine then anything. I back-hand slap her across the face, my knuckles coming into contact with ice cold skin. She pauses, hand clenched to her cheek, glaring at me. She punches quickly, landing a hit against my chest. I stumble back, nearly keeling over as I clutch my right breast.

“What the hell!” I groan, sucking in a sharp breath through my teeth. I look up from the dead grass, forcing myself to stand straight despite the throbbing of pain. But she’s gone. I spin around, pain forgotten about, trying to spot her through the trees. Gone. I groan again, this time out of annoyance rather than pain.

“Damn, that dead chick can run,” Dean remarks, huffing. I twist around, his hands are on his hips as his chest rises and falls quickly. “Where’d she go?”

“I don’t know,” I answer.

“You okay?” he asks quickly.

“Yeah, she just got my boob,” I answer.

“Wh—what?” he stammers.

“Well she’s gone, and the only hit she got on me was to my boob,” I clarify, though it’s not exactly a sentence I thought I’d ever be saying out loud.

His eyes drop to my chest very obviously and then immediately flicker up to my eyes, his eyebrows rise and fall, furrow and unfurrow, eyes a little wide and lips twitching like he’s unsure of what to say. He scratches the side of his cheek, “Does that, uh…hurt?”

“Well, yeah!” I exclaim. “She wouldn’t have gotten away if it didn’t.”

It hurt more than the average punch, and more than the average hit to the boob. There were a couple of myths that suggested that zombies could have some sort of super strength so that aspect must be true for Angela.

“‘Wasn’t doubting your skills, sweetheart,” he answers, hands up in surrender. “I mean, I didn’t know you could run that fast.”

“I think you forgot I used to hunt even before I went on this road trip with you, not nearly as much as I do now but still,” I reason, walking closer to him. “But, no more of that, we need to focus on finding Angela.”

“Then, I say we go have a little chat with Neil.”

********

The Impala cruises down the dark highway, luckily the pain from the hit Angela landed on me has disappeared thanks to my abilities. Still, we aren’t any closer to finishing this hunt.

“So the silver bullets, they did something, right?” Sam asks using a flashlight to read his Dads journal.

“Something, but not enough,” Dean confirms. “What else ‘you got?”

“Um, okay, besides silver we have…nailing the undead back into their grave beds. It’s mentioned a few times. It’s probably where the whole vampire staking lore came from,” Sam answers.

“That’s genuinely the most obscene thing you could’ve said,” I remark.

“How the hell are we going to get Angela back to the cemetery?” Dean asks.

********

Knowing he isn’t at home we check the only other place we can think of: his office at the school. We find him sitting behind his desk in the dark, sweat dripping down the side of his forehead, his fingers fidgeting together where they’re folded on the desk.

“What are you guys doing here?” he asks, wide eyed and looking between us. He looks guilty.

“You know, I’ve heard of people doing some pretty desperate things to get laid but you—“ Dean muses, pointing at him with a finger-gun. “You take the cake.”

“Okay. Who are you guys?” Neil asks, somehow able to ignore Dean's comment. His office isn’t so different from Dr. Masons except for the fact it lacks the same sort of artifacts that he had, though it’s still not short of books and plants. Dead ones.

“You might wanna ask Angela that question,” Dean answers.

“What?”

“We know what you did. The ritual? Everything,” Sam declares.

“You’re crazy,” Neil scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“Your girlfriend’s past her expiration date and we’re crazy? When someone’s gone they should stay gone. You don’t mess with that kind of stuff,” Dean answers.

He’s right, naturally so, and yet it was so easy to make him the exception. So, in that aspect, I can’t exactly blame Neil, I would do the same—I tried to do the same.

“You found a loophole, good for you, I’d do the same but she’s killing people. And, I’m sure you didn’t mean for that to happen but it is. We need to stop her,” I reason.

“She killed Matt and she tried to kill Lindsey,” Sam adds for clarification.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he claims, shaking his head.

Dean stomps towards him, moving past the desk and grabbing Neil’s collar in a single fist. He hauls him up, forcing him out of his chair, with ease. “Hey!” he barks. “No more crap, Neil. His blood is on your hands.”

I bite my lip, watching the exchange from not so far away. It’s kind of incredibly hot.

“Now. Me and them,” he nods towards us, “can make this right, but you’ve gotta tell us where she is.” Still he doesn’t answer, just stares wide eyed at Dean. “Tell us!” he yells.

“My house,” he spews quickly. “She’s at my house.”

Dean lets him go, the man sinking down into his office chair, nails digging into the arm rests.

“Okay then,” I nod. “But you should really clean up those plants, you’re gonna get a lot of flies.”

Dean hums, following my gaze to the window where a small pot of fern and a spider plant are dried up and brown. He looks back at Neil who’s now looking everywhere but us, eyes flicking around the room rapidly. Dean's lips purse slightly, looking past Neil to a closed door.

“Listen,” he starts, voice raised slightly. “It doesn’t really matter where she is. There’s only one way to stop her. We’ve got to perform another ritual over her grave, to reverse the one that you did. We’re going to need some black root, some…some scar weed, some candles…”

My eyebrows furrow, face scrunched in confusion. He’s naming really random things. Sure, black root does have some connection to banishing, among other things, but scar weed? I have no idea what that is.

“It’s very complicated, but it’ll get the job done,” he continues. “She’ll be dead again in a couple hours. I think you should come with us. I’m serious, Neil. Leave with us. Right now.”

“No. No,” Neil stammers, shaking his head.

Dean leans in, head ducked, voice low, “Listen to me. Get out of here as soon as you can. But most of all, be cool. No sudden movements. Don’t make her mad.”

He straightens up, walking back over to Sam and I, “Lets go.”

********

Short, thick, candles surround Angela’s open grave. I snap once with both hands, the wicks catching flames, orange and yellow wiggling back and forth before it settles down. While it gives us some light, it’s mostly to keep up the act.

“You really think this is going to work?” Sam asks.

“No, not really,” Dean answers bluntly. “But it was the only thing I could come up with.”

“‘Least you’re honest,” I mumble.

Then, suddenly, a twig about twenty feet away snaps, an audible crack echoing towards us. We look at each other, nodding. Sam pulls out the gun tucked beneath the back of his pants, stalking towards the direction of the sound. Meanwhile, Dean and I get into position. There’s not many places to hide in a cemetary with it being so open and all, but we set ourselves up a short distance away from the grave, while still directed right at it’s end.

Then the first shot rings out and Sam’s coming back into view, running full speed towards the grave. Angela’s right behind him, a blur of white tackling him to the ground. He lands on his face with a loud thud, she straddles him, twisting his hand behind his back. From beside me Dean fires at her forcing her to jump up. I throw my hands out, blasting energy straight from my palms, she falls backwards, crashing into the open grave. Quickly, Dean tucks his gun back into his pants, grabbing the long metal sword he had set up over here against a headstone. He takes off running, sliding the last length on his knees, sword raised above his head.

He disappears into the grave and barely ten seconds later theres a loud squelch followed by Angela screaming, “Wait, don’t!”

But there’s a grunt and another squelch. No more pleads come from the grave.

********

It takes us the rest of the night into the very early morning to finish burying Angela. I can’t say which is better, filling a grave or digging one, when both suck, though I suppose shuffling dirt is easier than digging it out. Regardless, I’m sweating an uncomfortable amount and all I want is to shower and sleep for about twelve hours.

We pat the last of the dirt down, all of us huffing and panting from the workout.

“Rest easy,” I tell her.

Sam nods, adding, “Rest in peace.”

“Yeah. For good this time, okay?” Dean comments last.

I hold the shovel at my side as we start walking back to the car, Sam grunting as he lifts his own over one soulder.

“You know, that whole fake ritual thing, luring Angela into the cemetery? Pretty sharp,” Sam compliments.

“Thanks,” Dean answers, a smug smirk pulling at his lips.

“But did we have to use me as bait?” Sam asks, shoulders slumping.

“I figured you were more her type. You know, she had pretty crappy taste in guys,” Dean muses, his smug smirk now a shit eating grin.

“I think she broke my hand,” he frowns, cradling his wrist.

Dean laughs, “You’re just too fragile. We’ll get it looked at later.”

“Or, I can heal it,” I offer.

“That too,” Dean nods, popping open the trunk. He pauses, looking over his shoulder to where his Mom’s grave is.

“You want to stay for a while?” Sam asks, noticing his hesitation.

“No,” he answers, dumping his shovel into the trunk and walking over to the drivers side. Sam looks at me with a slight frown. I shrug with a tight lipped frown of my own, putting both our shovels away. I close the trunk, making my way to my designated seat in the back while Sam makes his way to the passenger side.

We pull away from the cemetery, getting right onto the highway. The Impala cruises along, already on its way to knocking me out when I feel eyes on me. I tear my gaze from the window to see Sam looking at me in the rear view mirror, eyebrows raised to get my attention. He gestures to Dean with his eyes. I follow his gaze to the scowling man, his jaw is set tightly, his knuckles turned white against the steering wheel. Oh.

Then, he’s pulling the car across the next lane and into the shoulder. He puts the car in park, but doesn’t bother turning the car off when he quickly gets out, going to lean against the hood. Sam follows quickly, without thought. I get out quickly, but linger slightly behind. I know what this is, and as much as I want to comfort Dean, I know this is more for Sam.

“Dean, what is it?” Sam asks, concern wrapped around his voice. You can almost see it, something floating above them, something that lives between the pause, something that was always bound to happen.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says.

“You–For what?” Sam stammers.

“The way I’ve been acting,” he answers. Sam moves then, sitting beside him on the hood of the car. “And for Dad. I mean, he was your Dad too. And it’s my fault that he’s gone.”

There it is.

They talk like that for a couple of minutes. It’s all very similar to what he had said to me the other night, including how he breaks a little. Sam doesn’t say anything that I didn’t already say or think. We both know it’s not his fault. He just doesn’t believe us.

There’s nothing we can say to make this right. There’s no answer for how you can convince someone to live.

Nothing can fix this and that hurts worst of all.

(Next Chapter)

Tag List: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @toocrazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl @yasmin12312 @squishytap @i-am-fckn-sleep-deprived @wecangetlostinthepurplerain

A/N: I do very much believe Dean can pick you up regardless of ur weight. Fight with the wall. 😊

#supernatural #fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester #the hunter and the witch #dean winchester x witch reader #sam winchester #slow burn #john winchester #dealing with grief #grief #angst #dean winchester angst #angst with comfort #banter #dean winchester x f!reader

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