#Static really hopes that that's the case...

[cryoculus]

the art of war (and other distractions) ⟢

as a mandatory part of your post-grad program, you're required to log 200 hours as a teaching aide—which would’ve been fine, if you had any say in who you were working with. instead, you're assigned under professor jing yuan: esteemed war historian, charming bane of the faculty lounge, and the one man who makes grading ancient battle essays feel like a tactical skirmish of your own.

★ featuring; jing yuan x f!reader

★ word count; 12.9k words

★ notes; hi, hello part three is here! this is the last part of the series hehe and thank you kindly for patiently waiting <3 this contains non-explicit smut, so it's not that graphic but the goods are there, just a heads up. it's been so fun sharing this with you guys, writing this series genuinely made me love jing yuan so much more, he's such an endearing character to write. trust that i WILL be back for more JY, but for now, i hope you enjoy :3c

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

III. A (PERFECTLY) TIMED SURRENDER

Days later, you take the late train to the Luofu, like ripping off a bandage under the cover of night. Fewer passengers. Fewer chances to second-guess the whole trip. The hum of the engine is steady—something to hold onto while your thoughts spiral.

By the time you reach the hotel, your legs ache and your wrist hurts from dragging your suitcase up the uneven ramps. The lobby’s too bright. The hallway’s too clean. You scan the keycard, step inside, and barely get the door shut before your phone starts buzzing.

Jiaoqiu: you alive?

Jiaoqiu: did the train explode?

Jiaoqiu: i can ring up an ambulance 

You don’t even get a chance to answer before the call comes through. You sigh and accept it.

“Tell me you’re hydrating,” Jiaoqiu says without preamble, voice crisp with the background beeping of hospital monitors. “And that you wore the orthopedic sneakers I recommended. Or are you planning to let your spine compress into powder before your guest lecture?”

You drop your bag, toe off your shoes, and sink onto the edge of the bed.

“Hello to you too,” you murmur. “Aren’t you in the middle of your shift?”

He clicks his tongue. “I have five minutes before I need to run an ECG and bully someone into doing their rounds. Talk fast.”

You pick at the corner of the hotel blanket. “I haven’t even unpacked.”

“But you have checked all escape routes in case of a sudden general-shaped emergency?”

“You’re mixing metaphors. He’s a professor.”

“Sure,” Jiaoqiu drawls, “and I’m a resident who gets enough sleep. Humor me—have you seen him yet?”

“No, Jiaoqiu. It's three in the morning,” you say too quickly. “And I won’t. Hopefully. Feixiao said I didn’t have to see him.”

There’s a pause on the line, the kind that means he’s making a face.

“You know,” he says slowly, “for someone who writes so well about emotional honesty in literature, you are spectacularly bad at applying it to your own life.”

You lie down fully on the bed, one arm flung over your eyes. The jab stings, but not as much as you thought it would. “I came here to give lectures and not disgrace the Yaoqing campus. Not to do… whatever the hell you're insinuating.”

“This is you spiraling because you’re back on the Luofu and you haven’t figured out if you want to punch him, kiss him, or cry about it.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No you’re not,” Jiaoqiu simpers, just as a nurse yells something unintelligible in the background. “Okay, I really do have to go. But hey—if you need me to fake a medical emergency to get you out of a dinner with the literature faculty, my pager’s on.”

You snort. “Don’t tempt me.”

“You’ll be fine,” he says, and for once, the teasing slips out of his voice. “You’ve done harder things than this.”

You know he means it. And you wish that helped.

“Sleep if you can,” your best friend adds. “And drink some water, for once in your life.”

The call ends, and the silence that follows is too loud. You let it settle around you like static, eyes on the ceiling. The bed’s too soft. The air’s too dry. And the city outside hasn’t changed a bit.

Unfortunately, neither have you.

The morning comes too early.

You sleep like a stone and wake up with the creases of the pillow pressed into your cheek, your mouth dry as paper. Unfortunately for you, there’s no time to wallow. You shower quickly, tug on your nicest set of “please take me seriously” professor clothes, and remind yourself that this is what you came here to do.

Before you leave, you hold a staring contest between yourself and the complimentary water bottle on the night stand. Jiaoqiu's doctor voice hovers in the depths of your mind, preaching about getting at least eight glasses in you everyday.

You chug it down with a forlorn sigh.

The Luofu campus feels the same. Maybe the lampposts are newer, and the fountains finally got cleaned, but the bones of the place are untouched. Stepping back onto it is like cracking open a memory and finding the ink hasn’t faded at all.

Professor Ying meets you just outside the entrance to the Literature Department, beaming like he’s greeting a prodigal daughter.

“You're here,” he greets with a theatrical flourish, “Back from the academic wilderness!”

You try not to laugh, but it's a futile effort. “It’s only been a couple years.”

“Too long,” he insists, pulling you into a brief, careful hug that smells like old books and black tea. “I’ve read your symposium paper three times. Feixiao sent it to me the moment it came out.”

“She did?” you ask, startled.

“Oh yes. She was very smug about it. Said, ‘Didn’t I tell you she’d be brilliant?’ and then called me an idiot for not stealing you back from Yaoqing sooner.”

You wince. “Please don’t let her do that.”

Professor Ying chuckles and waves a hand. “No promises. Now come—let me show you around the old place. We’ve rearranged the faculty lounge, and the printer still jams the same way.”

He walks you through the department like it’s a garden he’s proud of. Students trickle past with coffees in hand, the halls buzz with soft conversation, and the sunlight filters in through windows you used to nap under. You still remember which step on the west stairwell creaks. You still know the exact angle to push open the back door when it sticks.

It’s a kind of ache, how much you remember.

Professor Ying opens the lecture hall door for you like it’s a ceremony. “You’ll be in here tomorrow. The class looked excited when I told them—and a little terrified. I may have said you once debated a visiting scholar into submission using nothing but classical poetry when you were still an undergrad.”

“That’s slander,” you snort.

“It’s good press.”

You laugh, easing into your skin a little more with every step.

For a moment, it feels like you never left.

After a long day spent catching up with old professors you now call colleagues, classmates who never quite left the area, and (thankully) not a single run-in with the ghosts that still haunt the edges of your thoughts, you march back to your hotel room.

You sit at the narrow desk by the window, a cup of lukewarm tea cooling beside your tablet. Outside, the maglev sighs past in the distance like a ghost trailing the skyline. Your room is still and sterile, the air humming low and steady. On the screen of your laptop, a lecture outline glows a soft, officious blue—half-finished, overly formal, and far too rehearsed.

You scroll through it once, then close the file with a sigh. It reads like someone trying to prove she belongs here. Someone performing competence rather than believing in it.

Leaning back, you rub the ache from your neck and open a new document.

Lecture Title: When Literature Lies to Us: The Story of the Unreliable Narrator

You pause, watching the words settle across the page, lips twitching slightly. 

Why do we trust stories? What happens when they betray us?

Now, this feels closer. Not a defense or an argument. Just a question worth sitting with. The kind of question that curls through a classroom like smoke, unanswered and all the more alive for it.

Your fingers start moving again, slowly at first, then steadier as the shape of the lecture emerges.

You think of old paperbacks worn at the edges, of sleepless nights spent re-reading passages that made you feel seen, even if you didn’t quite know why. You think of a certain professor’s voice asking, “What makes this narrator trustworthy to you?” as if peeling back the layers of the page could reveal something about yourself, too.

As an added flourish, you list a few key texts—familiar ones, but sharp enough to cut:

The Soldier’s Regret, where the narrator insists he’s dying until the final line sees him stepping onto a transport home.

A City Beneath the Rain, a Xianzhou classic where a poet mourns a lover who may never have existed at all.

An early modern novel you loved, written entirely in letters, where each writer swears they’re telling the truth—even when their stories contradict.

The outline comes to life as the hours stretch on, your tea long cold, the hotel dim and quiet around you. It’s not quite done, but it breathes now—something that can flex and shift in a room full of undergrads who’ve yet to be told their instincts matter.

Just before you close the file, you add one last question at the bottom:

What does a narrator’s unreliability tell us about ourselves, when we choose to believe them anyway?

You sit back and let your eyes fall shut, just for a moment. The city outside hasn’t changed. But maybe the way you speak to it has.

Afternoons on the Luofu are always a little too bright, a little too fast.

You tighten your grip on your satchel as you weave through the familiar hallways, the low buzz of students and faculty washing over you like a tide you almost recognize. Professor Ying is already in the lecture hall when you arrive, flipping through a stack of notes he probably won’t use. He looks up as you step inside and grins, bright and familiar.

When he introduces you, he covers all the bases—your name first, then a flourish of accolades: recipient of the university’s best dissertation award, now a rising scholar in modern literary analysis, and a proud alumna of the department. He wears his pride openly, like a badge.

There’s polite applause. Some students look curious. Others scroll quietly on their phones. A few stare blankly, the way only undergrads facing an 2 p.m. lecture can.

You’re gathering your notes when a hand shoots up from the third row—hesitant at first, then more determined when you nod to acknowledge it.

The student, a boy with sleep-mussed hair and a skeptical squint, lowers his hand and asks, “If you were produced by the Luofu campus... why are you teaching at Yaoqing?”

The room goes a little still. Even Professor Ying looks briefly thrown, his easy smile faltering. It's not a rude question, just blunt in that way only undergrads can get away with—earnest, oblivious, and weirdly cutting all at once.

You don’t miss a beat. But somewhere under the practiced smile, something twists—a flicker of a memory:

Jing Yuan’s office, sunlight spilling across the floor, catching on the glossy leaves of the dracaena you'd nursed back to health together—Commander in Leaf, standing sentinel by the window. The slow, deliberate way he’d said, You’ll make a very kind professor one day.

You blink once, clearing your thoughts like dust off a shelf.

“I like to think the Luofu taught me how to think,” you say lightly, “but Yaoqing gave me the space to put it to use.”

A few students glance at each other, murmuring. Professor Ying recovers with a small chuckle, tapping his knuckles lightly against the podium as if to say good answer.

You smile, smooth down the front of your blouse again, and move on.

“I won’t keep you long,” you say, even though your lecture outline stretches past forty minutes. “But I’d like to talk about something we all rely on, whether we realize it or not—narrators. Specifically, the ones who lie to us.”

That gets a reaction—small but immediate. One student lowers their phone. Another tilts their head.

You write on the board:

When Literature Lies to Us: The Story of the Unreliable Narrator

Then underneath:

Why do we trust stories? What happens when they betray us?

You start slow. Not with definitions or textbook terms, but with questions that itch at the back of the brain. You ask them to think of a time they realized a narrator couldn’t be trusted—how it felt, what it changed about the story, what it changed about them as readers. You move through your examples—the soldier who survives the war he insists is fatal. The poet who mourns a lover never confirmed to be real. The letter-based novel where truth tilts depending on who’s writing it.

“The narrator,” you say, “isn’t a window. They’re a person. And people forget. People deceive. Sometimes they don’t even mean to.”

One student raises a hand. She’s got sharp eyes, a pen tucked behind one ear. “But if they’re lying… why do we still root for them?”

You pause, a smile curving across your face.

“Because we want something from them. Not facts. Not accuracy. Something else. Connection, perhaps? Or even catharsis. A version of the truth that feels more real than reality.”

A murmur ripples through the room—thoughtful, restless. You see it land.

By the time you’re winding down, the energy’s shifted. A boy in the back who looked half-asleep is now furiously scribbling notes. Another student lingers after class, asking about a memoir she read last semester where the author recants half the book in the epilogue. You answer what you can. Suggest a few titles. Smile when Professor Ying pats your shoulder on the way out.

“You had them,” he says. “Not many can say that before the first cup of tea.”

You shrug, still buzzing, still catching your breath.

“It helps,” you say, “when you care for the things you talk about.”

The rush of the lecture leaves a strange, lingering hum in your chest—an aftershock of nerves, adrenaline, and something warmer you don’t want to name. You tell yourself you should head back to your hotel, or get some lunch at the university cafeteria. Anything to stop your thoughts from buzzing too loud.

But instead, you wander.

It’s too easy to fall into old habits—feet tracing half-forgotten paths, mind slipping sideways into memory. Before you know it, the signs around you shift: History Department, East Wing.

The halls here are quieter, lined with heavy, wood-paneled doors and dusty glass displays of ancient banners and ceremonial armor. The floor creaks in the same familiar places. The scent of old paper and sun-warmed stone rises up to meet you, achingly unchanged.

You round the corner before you can think better of it.

There it is: the office tucked neatly into the bend of the hallway, where the afternoon light used to pool like a lazy cat across the threshold.

The door looks the same—scuffed at the bottom from years of use. But the plaque beside it catches the light too sharply, too new. When you step closer, you find that the name engraved in sleek, unblemished characters is not his. You don't even notice how your heart sinks at the sight of it.

For a moment, you just stand there, reading and rereading it, as if expecting the letters to rearrange themselves under your gaze.

But they don’t.

“Well, well. I thought I saw a familiar face sneaking around.”

You start, then relax instantly as Professor Yukong steps into view, arms crossed, the same amused smile tugging at her lips. She looks exactly the same, down to the deep green scarf she always wears when the weather starts to dip.

“I wasn’t sneaking,” you say, which is the sort of thing people only say when they absolutely are.

She hums. “Of course not.” Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a piece of hard candy, holding it out without ceremony. “Still like lychee?”

You take it, smiling before you even realize it. “You really never stopped doing this?”

"Some traditions are worth keeping," Yukong says with a wink. She steps closer, peering at you with an assessing glance. "It’s been too long, little one. You’re thinner than I remember. Are they working you too hard at Yaoqing?"

You shake your head, pocketing the candy. "Maybe."

Yukong hums, but doesn’t push. Her gaze flicks briefly toward the office door, and a knowing smile curls at the edges of her mouth.

"You know," she says, voice light, "this hallway’s been quieter these days. Not quite the same without certain... noisy neighbors."

Your expression slips before you can stop it.

She pretends not to notice. "The new fellow’s decent enough. Keeps his door closed, doesn't trail students behind him like ducklings. Not much for houseplants, though." She tilts her head, studying you over the rim of her glasses. "Shame."

You fold your arms loosely across your chest, playing along. "Sounds like a very serious improvement." 

"Oh, tremendously serious," Yukong agrees, eyes glinting. "But I'd say it's an even bigger improvement for that last tenant. He moved up in the world. Some might say way up."

You raise an eyebrow despite yourself.

Yukong smiles, pleased that she's gotten your attention. "New Dean of the History Department. His office on the top floor now. They even gave him a window big enough to land an airship, if you can believe it."

The news settles over you strangely, making your brows knit together. Jing Yuan? The Dean? You don't remember seeing that specific title in his list of credentials back at the symposium. This must be a recent development. 

...or that pesky professor just didn't want to brag.

"He's been busy these days," she adds, her teasing softening into something almost kind. "Too busy, if you ask me. The students miss him. Faculty too, though they’d rather eat chalk than admit it."

You force a small smile, your fingers tightening around the strap of your satchel.

"Good for him," you say, and you mean it. Mostly.

Yukong watches you for a beat longer, her smile turning a little wistful, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she drops another foil packet in your hands.

"Take another," she says. "You look like you need it."

You laugh again and accept, slipping a second candy into your pocket like a charm. 

The clouds have been gathering all afternoon, soft and gray at first, then heavier, darker, like they’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to fall. You adjust your satchel and quicken your pace, already picturing the kettle in your hotel room and the dry change of clothes folded neatly in your suitcase.

It’s time to leave campus. You’ve done your part—guest lecture delivered, awkward reunions sidestepped, mostly. There’s no need to linger.

Your steps slow near the path that forks toward the Humanities Building. Just for a second.

Top floor. Big window. The Dean’s office.

You imagine it, without meaning to—how it must look now. Probably neater than his old office. More formal. Less green. You wonder if Commander in Leaf made the move with him. You wonder if he still lets the sunlight in.

No, you think, firm and fast. No good would come of it.

You pivot toward the opposite direction, toward the gate. The greenhouse crosses your mind next, like a flicker of a different life. But that, too, you let go. You don’t need to revisit every corner of the past to know it still aches.

Then the sky growls low, and you’re rounding the last corner when you see him.

Jing Yuan stands half-sheltered beneath the overhang by the east wing annex, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other holding a phone to his ear. His coat is missing, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up unevenly. A folder is clutched against his side in a way that looks almost careless, and even if his silver hair has always looked professionally unkempt, there's a disheveled air to it that suggests he might be just a little stressed out. 

He looks different. Not unrecognizable or diminished, but human in a way memory never allowed.

Your body angles away before you even think, the instinct to retreat swift and familiar. It would be easy. One turn, a few quick steps, and this could remain a moment left unclaimed.

But then he lifts his head.

Those golden eyes, steady and unerring even in the fading light, find you the way they always have—without hesitation, without question, as if part of him had been waiting all this time without ever meaning to.

For a moment that feels stretched thin and breakable, you stand there, caught between habit and longing, between every line you once drew and the way he looks at you now, as if none of them ever mattered.

Jing Yuan speaks into the phone, low and brief, the words too faint to catch. A moment later, he slips the device into the pocket of his trousers and pushes away from the doorframe. He straightens—not with the polished ease you remember, but with something rougher, wearier, real.

The distance hangs there, dense and humming, like a question neither of you knows how to ask.

And then he says your name.

Not sharply, not even expectantly. Just your name, shaped by something quieter than regret and heavier than memory. The sound of it cracks something open in you.

You could turn away. You should. The kindness would be in the leaving, in preserving whatever fragile peace you've managed to build.

But you don’t.

Your shoes scuff softly against the pavement, and in the hush that follows, the wind shifts, carrying the scent of rain.

He watches you come closer, never once looking away. Up close, you see the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face, the ink stains along his fingers, the disarray he once would have hidden without a second thought.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Jing Yuan says to you, voice low and rough around the edges, as if unused to being this bare in your presence. “I didn’t mean to...” He glances down, mouth twisting briefly, then lifts his eyes again. “...catch you like this.”

You almost smile at the absurdity of it—as if any meeting between you now could be anything but inevitable.

Instead, you shake your head. “You didn’t.”

Jing Yuan exhales, a sound somewhere between a breath and a worn-out laugh, and rakes a hand through his hair—only making the mess worse. His gaze moves over you, steady and searching, lingering on small, familiar details: the way you shift your bag higher on your shoulder, the faint crease between your brows, how you stand like you might bolt if given the slightest reason.

“You’re here,” he says.

The words are simple. Deceptively small. But they land hard, knocking something loose in your chest.

You clear your throat. “Just until tomorrow.”

It’s barely a defense. Barely anything at all. His hand flexes once around the folder he carries, then falls still again. For a moment, you think he might let you go. That he’ll spare you the awkwardness, the ache. But instead, after a pause, he shifts his weight and asks:

“Would you walk with me?”

No demand. No expectation. Only an offering—set gently between you, like a bridge you could choose to cross, or leave untouched.

You should refuse. You know that. You should say you’re tired, or late, or that the rain is about to fall. But before you can think better of it, you nod—small, instinctive. 

“Okay.”

The faintest breath escapes him, but Jing Yuan says nothing as he steps back just enough to make room for you beside him.

You fall into step together, the annex wall sliding past on one side, the wet gleam of the gardens catching the silver light on the other. His pace is slower than you remember—not sluggish, but deliberate, as if he’s learned there’s no need to rush anymore.

The silence that gathers between you isn’t brittle. It’s heavier than comfort but lighter than regret—an old rhythm you didn’t realize you still knew how to follow.

After a while, Jing Yuan says, almost casually, “I was at a meeting, but I had to step out to take that call.”

You glance at him. His hair’s still mussed from his hands, another smudge of ink lingering on his knuckles.

“And you just left?” you ask, raising a brow.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “You can do the same thing if you so wished. Free will has its perks.”

You huff a quiet sound, half disbelief, half amusement. “That's what people normally call terrible leadership.”

“Really? I'd like to call it delegation,” he says easily. “An essential skill, grossly overlooked.”

“For good reason.”

The banter slips out before you can guard against it, familiar enough to be dangerous. You look away, toward the narrowing path ahead, and try not to feel how effortless it still is—how the space between you folds itself back into something it once knew by heart.

You aren’t the same people who parted ways all those years ago.

And yet, standing here, side by side, you can’t help but ache for how easily you once fit—and how, somehow, you still do.

"You should go back," you say after a stretch of silence, trying to infuse your voice with lightness. "They’re probably wondering where their fearless leader wandered off to."

He doesn’t speed up. In fact, his pace stays steady as ever.

Jing Yuan glances at you, the dryness in his eyes cutting through the moment like a quiet truth. "If I leave," he says, "how will I know you’ll still be here when I get back?"

The words hang there, not heavy with accusation but with something quieter, more dangerous. An openness you aren’t sure you can bear.

You stop walking. So does he.

The breeze rustles through the leaves, and for a moment, the world feels a little too still. All you can hear is the hum of the annex lights.

"I’ll be here," you say, your voice lower now, softer. "Let's have lunch tomorrow. We’ll catch up."

You mean it—of course you do—but even you hear the way it rings: a polite diversion, a way to push the conversation into the safer distance of the future.

And damn him, Jing Yuan hears it too.

"No," he says, with a quiet finality that doesn’t invite discussion. "Dinner. Tonight."

Your heart stutters.

Before you can find a reason to decline—fatigue, the night, the thousand little excuses—you hear him finish, almost gently: "I’d rather not wait until tomorrow. Not if you’re willing."

The weight of that "willing" breaks something inside you. It’s not a demand. It’s an offer. As if he’s still giving you an out, and he’s afraid of pressing too hard and losing what little ground he’s reclaimed.

You look at him, really look at him, and you realize it’s not the waiting you’re afraid of.

"All right," you say, the word slipping out before you can second-guess it, the surrender in it quieter than you expected. 

And for the first time tonight, he smiles. Not the faint, polite curve you know he shows the world, but something quieter. Something real.

It lodges itself deep in your chest, where all your carefully built walls used to be.

As promised, you waited for Jing Yuan's meeting to conclude, which didn't take too long, gratefully. Though he insisted that you could wait for him in his new office, you declined before he could even finish the sentence. You weren't ready for that. Not yet. 

Instead, you lingered by the empty seats near the entrance to the east wing annex, listening to the echo of footsteps in the hall, watching the windows darken as evening gave way to night.

By the time he reappeared, coat in hand, the rain had already started—soft, persistent, the kind that settles in like a quiet thought you can’t quite shake.

You hadn’t brought an umbrella. Of course you hadn’t.

Naturally, Jing Yuan had, and now the two of you walk beneath the narrow span of his umbrella, shoulder to shoulder, closer than you’ve been in years. Rain taps gently around you, but beneath the fabric, it’s warm—quiet in a way that feels almost private. You keep your eyes ahead, pretending not to notice the warmth between you—that it doesn’t feel like something you’ve missed.

Because how can you long for something that never was?

The familiar glow of a hotpot restaurant blinks ahead. You pause with him beneath the sagging awning, rainwater dripping in lazy rivulets off the umbrella’s edge. For a moment, neither of you moves. The rain drums softly above you, steady and unchanging. 

Then Jing Yuan pushes the door open, and you follow him inside—into a place that still smells like broth and memory, like nothing’s changed at all.

The chipped sign still wobbles in the breeze, and the heavy scent of broth and chili oil clings to the doorway like a permanent welcome. Inside, the scratched tables and handwritten specials plastered on the walls haven’t changed, either. Even the crooked "Cash Only!" sign still hangs stubbornly above the register.

You almost expect to hear Jiaoqiu’s voice ringing out over the chatter, arguing over spice levels, dropping chopsticks between rounds of hotpot. Instead, it’s quiet—almost wistful, like the place is suspended in time.

You linger just inside the entrance, phone in hand, caught between the past you knew so well and the strangely fragile present.

On impulse, you snap a few pictures—the menu, the battered counter, the little window where steam fogs up the glass, all of it somehow untouched, preserved.

Not two seconds later, a text notification pops up.

 

Jiaoqiu: MY KINGDOM.

Jiaoqiu: 🔥🍲🔥🍲🔥🍲

Jiaoqiu: do they have those do it yourself takeout bundles now

Jiaoqiu: if they do, PLEASE bring some home

Me: You know Mr. Choi doesn't believe in innovation.

Me: The best thing I can bring home to you is me.

Jiaoqiu: eh, i'll take it.

Jiaoqiu: wait a minute 

Jiaoqiu: why are you there, you never go there alone

Jiaoqiu: who are you with????

Jiaoqiu: answer carefully

 

You suppress a smile, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. Across from you, Jing Yuan is studying the menu, his focus sharp enough to suggest he’s planning a military campaign rather than picking dinner. You tuck your phone away before you can do something foolish—like tell Jiaoqiu the truth.

"You sure you can handle it?" you ask, eyebrow raised.

Jing Yuan leans back in his chair, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the picture of nonchalance. "I'm sure."

You give him a look. "They don’t joke around here. Medium spice is basically a dare."

"I'll manage," he insists, which is exactly the kind of overconfident answer you expect.

You hide your grin behind your menu.

The food arrives fast—plates of thinly sliced meats, mushrooms, greens, and a bubbling pot already simmering at the center of the table. The broth you picked is bright red, oily, and angry-looking.

Within minutes, Jing Yuan is coughing discreetly into his sleeve, eyes watering slightly.

You reach over with the calm cruelty of long practice and plop another pepper-laden meat slice into his bowl.

"You could surrender," you say, utterly deadpan.

He gives you a betrayed look that almost makes you pity him.

"My best friend, Jiaoqiu would've loved this," you add, laughing as you pop a non-lethal mushroom into your mouth. "He used to sneak ghost peppers into the hotpot just to see who cracked first. You would’ve been prime entertainment."

"He sounds like a menace," Jing Yuan says hoarsely.

That makes two of you, you muse only to yourself.

He looks... lighter this way. Less like the man who stands in doorways, all unreadable eyes and quiet intensity. In moments like this, he feels more like a person you remember—a man who lets you get away with your mischief, who lets go for just a moment.

Spicy downfall aside, you both fall into easy conversation—old stories, half-forgotten classmates, absurd tales of Jiaoqiu’s failed cooking experiments. The laughter slips in between your words, slow and genuine.

But then, somewhere between the second round of meat and the third refill of tea, the air changes. It’s subtle, a shift barely noticeable. But it’s there—the way the conversation begins to slow, the pauses that linger a little longer.

The air between you hums, heavy with more than just steam. You set your chopsticks down carefully, aligning them with a precision that fools no one. 

Across from you, Jing Yuan watches, quiet and steady. He doesn’t push. He’s giving you space, giving you the choice. To cross this battlefield or to retreat, like you’ve both done so many times before.

"You’re waiting for me to say it," you murmur.

The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely. "I’m waiting for you to stop pretending we don’t already know."

Your heart pounds once, a desperate thud against your ribs. Not from fear. From something that feels suspiciously like hope.

You draw a slow breath, tasting the words before you speak them. "We weren’t just arguing about literature and history at the symposium, were we?"

The memory flickers sharp and vivid—the way your words had clashed like blades, how each rebuttal left you a little more breathless, a little more exposed. You remember Zichen’s teasing afterward, Yingyue and Lihua's boisterous approval. But what holds the most gravity during those three days wasn't the keynote speeches. Or the panels. Or the debates.

Your lips still tingle from the spice of the broth, but beneath that, there’s something else—an unfamiliar warmth that lingers. The faint memory of his breath, so close, and the press of his hand against your cheek, as if he’d been holding onto something more than just the moment. 

Across the table, Jing Yuan’s eyes catch the light—deep gold, unwavering.

"If that was a debate," he says, voice dipping lower, "it’s the only one I’ve ever wanted to lose."

The table between you feels too wide now. Too much distance when you’ve already come this far.

You think back to the lecture you shared this afternoon. The unreliable narrator you told the students about whispers cruelly in the quiet corners of your mind, threading doubt through your ribs like a slow, relentless tide.

It’s too much. It’s too close. You will ruin this.

You know it lies.

Yet, you still listen.

"You were my professor. I was just your TA," you whisper, the old excuse slipping free before you can stop it. "It would’ve been wrong. It would've ruined everything."

For a long moment, Jing Yuan remains silent, his gaze steady, not quite judging, but heavy with thought. His fingers hover near the edge of his cup, unmoving, as if your words have settled between you like an unwelcome guest, lingering in the air.

There’s something almost imperceptible in the way his eyes shift, as if he’s measuring more than the space between you. A flicker of something deeper crosses his expression—something close to regret, but not quite. He exhales, slow and controlled, the faintest tremor beneath the surface.

At last, his voice breaks the stillness, though it carries a weight that suggests more than mere disagreement.

“You’re not just my student anymore.”

It’s not a reprimand. Not a dismissal. Just a simple truth, cutting through the deafening silence.

“And I,” Jing Yuan adds, quieter still, “have been waiting for you to see it.”

The ache in you grows so sharp you almost flinch from it. All those years spent holding your breath. All those moments you tried to name as nothing.

You look at him, stripped of every title, every excuse. Right now, he's just Jing Yuan—impossibly patient, as if he would wait forever if you asked.

"You still want this?" you ask, and your voice trembles just slightly with how much you want the answer to be yes. 

Jing Yuan leans in, slow and deliberate, as if he means to erase the distance between you piece by piece. His elbows rest on the table; his hand inches forward, close enough that if you reached out, you could brush your fingers against his. His smile finds you, quiet and unhurried, and it feels like coming home.

"I never stopped," he says.

And just like that, the world shifts.

Small. Tremendous. Inevitable.

Your fingers brush against his—tentative at first, a whisper of contact. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he turns his hand over, palm open, offering himself to you with a quiet certainty. The touch is simple, almost laughably so. No grand declarations or dizzying fireworks—only warmth, steady and unwavering, grounding you in a way nothing else ever has.

His thumb traces the back of your hand once, slow enough to make your heart stutter. When you glance up, he’s watching you with a softness that nearly undoes you completely.

"You know," you say, a broken sort of laugh catching at the end of your words, "Zichen would lose his mind if he knew we were holding hands at a hotpot restaurant."

Jing Yuan’s smile deepens, wry and unbearably fond. "Then we’ll simply have to tell him it’s been a long time coming."

Something in you breaks open at that. Something tender and foolish and irreparably yours.

"It has been," you whisper, squeezing his hand as you ground yourself in the moment. 

For a long while, you simply sit there, breathing the same air, the world around you blurring until there is nothing left except the two of you.

And for the first time in years, you don't feel like you’re balancing on the edge of something terrifying. You feel like you’re standing on solid ground.

Right where you’re supposed to be.

When you make it back to Yaoqing the next day, you let your suitcase down on the floor with a soft thud.

You toe off your shoes and cross to the balcony, the city basking in sunlight, its streets awake and bustling beneath a clear sky. Your little garden is exactly as you left it—orderly rows of potted herbs, trailing flowers reaching lazily toward the warmth, their colors vivid and alive in the light.

The contrast is stark, almost jarring after the damp chill of the Luofu night, where the rain had hung heavily like an unspoken thought.

Carefully, you pull a small pot from a paper bag that's accompanied you back home.

A dracaena stem cutting, the leaves still tender and new. Jing Yuan had given it to you when he saw you off the platform earlier this morning, wrapped in a makeshift sling of old newspaper, like something precious. Commander in Leaf told me to send you off with one of its offspring. 

You're grinning before you realize it. 

You set the pot down by the railing, nudging it into place among your other plants. It fits easily, like it had been waiting for a space here all along. Your fingers linger on the soil, smoothing it out with practiced care.

You're still crouched there, brushing a bit of dirt from your hands, when the front door rattles.

Jiaoqiu stumbles in a second later, still in his hospital ID badge and wrinkled shirt, his hair flattened strangely on one side like he’d tried—and failed—to nap in the break room. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you.

"You’re back?" he blurts, blinking like he’s seeing a ghost. "Already?"

You nod, standing up and dusting off your knees. "Got an early shuttle off the Luofu."

He blinks a few more times, as if trying to make sense of the timeline through sheer exhaustion. "You crossed half the goddamn continent overnight and beat me home from a shift?"

You shrug. "Missed my plants."

He snorts, rubbing his face with one hand. "Unbelievable." But there’s a smile tucked under all the grogginess, fond and exasperated at once. "Anything good happen while you were off having your midlife crisis?"

You hesitate, just a second too long.

His eyes sharpen immediately, like a bloodhound catching a scent. "Don't tell me... Oh my god."

You glance down, suddenly sheepish, then back up. "I had hotpot with someone."

"Someone." He squints at you, suspicious. 

"Jing Yuan."

There’s a beat of silence. Then Jiaoqiu lets out a full-body groan and throws his bag onto the couch with an unnecessarily dramatic thud.

"You’re telling me," he starts, stabbing a finger at you, "that you made a core memory with your boyfriend at our favorite hotpot place?"

You blink. "First of all, not my boyfriend."

Jiaoqiu waves you off, too tired for precision. "Core. Memory," he repeats, as if personally wounded. "Overshadowing years of beautiful, platonic hotpot tradition. The betrayal."

You laugh, too relieved and too tired yourself to take him seriously. "You’re ridiculous."

He sighs like he’s carrying the weight of a thousand lost hotpot dinners on his back. Then, quieter, almost grudging: "I’m happy for you."

You soften, the tightness in your chest easing a little. "Thanks, Jiao."

He grumbles something incoherent under his breath, shuffling toward the hall. "Tell your not-boyfriend I’m billing him for emotional damages."

You catch the faint slam of his door as he disappears into his room, leaving you alone again in the soft, growing light. Outside, the dracaena sapling catches a beam of morning sun, its tiny leaves trembling in the breeze. 

You smile, and this time, it feels like you���re finally growing into something new.

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Me To: Jing Yuan Date: Monday 10:12 AM

Hi Professor,

It's been a while since I sent one of these. No slides attached, no looming deadlines, just a slightly belated thank-you.

Thank you for the hotpot. And the dracaena cutting. And for not making it weird, even though I probably did, several times.

Private Leaf has officially joined the ranks on my balcony. He's holding the line bravely between the rosemary and a basil plant that thinks it’s a tree. Early reports suggest high morale.

Hope you’re settling back into the Luofu without incident, or at least with manageable levels of it.

All the best.

 

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Jing Yuan To: Me Date: Monday 11:03 AM

Hello,

I'm relieved to hear Private Leaf has survived the initial deployment. I trust he'll adapt quickly under your capable command.

As for making it "weird"—if you did, I was too busy trying not to burn my mouth to notice. (You were right about the spice level. I am still recovering.)

The Luofu persists. Minor uprisings among the administration, but nothing beyond the usual skirmishes.

I’m glad you wrote. Even without haunted slides or rebellious citations.

— JY

 

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Me To: Jing Yuan Date: Monday 11:27 AM

Glad to hear the Luofu remains unconquered. I was worried they might stage a coup in your absence and replace you with a sentient syllabus.

Also: you have no one to blame but yourself re: the spice level. I distinctly remember offering an alternative. You chose valor (and chili oil).

Anyway, I'll be moving Private Leaf to my office soon. If he turns feral without Commander in Leaf around to supervise, I reserve the right to file an official complaint. 

Thanks again. For everything.

 

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Jing Yuan To: Me Date: Monday 11:51 AM

If Private Leaf does go rogue, I recommend appealing to his better nature. Or bribery. That tends to work on young recruits.

You’re welcome. And if you ever need reinforcements—plants, spices, or otherwise—you know where to find me.

(Preferably somewhere outside a boiling cauldron of doom.)

— JY

In the months that follow that quiet but eventful dinner, you and Jing Yuan fall into some sort of routine. 

First are the visits. 

 

(The distance between the Luofu and Yaoqing isn’t something to scoff at. It takes a three-hour train ride for either of you to make the trip. And given how plainly Jing Yuan had said he wanted to pursue a romantic relationship with you—verbatim, so you couldn’t twist his words into something safer—figuring out how to manage that distance was the first obstacle on the list. Between your stacked schedules, it all felt a little impossible.

But Jing Yuan has a way of making things happen, when he truly wants to.

You never really expected him to follow through so effortlessly. Yet sure enough, every two weeks, Jing Yuan's visits become a rhythm—a quiet but steady thread between the two of you.

At first, it feels like a formality, just another professional visit between departments. Even Feixiao has vouched for his recurring presence at Yaoqing, but there’s something deeper in the way he manages to carve out space for you in the midst of his packed schedule.

And, in that small window of time, you realize that his visits aren’t just about business.

They’re about you.

Sometimes, you’ll find Jing Yuan standing outside your office, with that soft, knowing smile of his, always a little more than what you expect. The first time it happened, there was no forewarning, no heads up. You simply answered the annoyingly long string of knocks on your door with a shout directed at who you thought was Zichen, only to be proven wrong.

Shortly after, he made a home of your office chair’s twin—his coat slung over the back, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, your copy of Courts and Dust balanced in one hand. The light filtering through the window gives his hair a sun-warmed sheen, and the faint scent of the tea you made earlier still lingers between you.

Every so often, your gaze drifts to the faint scar etched along his inner forearm. A jagged line that speaks of something distant, a memory he keeps hidden. You've come a long way in many ways, but that question lingers.

Despite everything, you still don't have the heart to ask.

“You annotated this section twice,” Jing Yuan says without looking up, oblivious.

You swallow thickly, eyes returning to the spreadsheet of grades before you. “Because students never read it the first time.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that stretches gently but never pulls. He flips the page. You pretend not to notice that his eyes haven’t moved. Somehow, you feel like the roles have been reversed between the two of you. 

You shouldn’t be used to this already—his presence here, the second mug beside yours on the windowsill, the little routine forming like threads tugged quietly into place. And yet, the air doesn’t feel like it did on the Luofu, when everything between you was uncertain and bracing and unspoken.

“Do you always work like this?” he asks eventually.

You arch an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re afraid if you stop, something will catch up.”

That hits a little too close. You shut your laptop.

“I meant what I said. About pursuing you." He closes the book, careful with the fragile spine, and leans forward just slightly. “I’m not expecting you to leap right away. We’ll figure it out.”

You don’t say anything for a while. But your hand drifts to the edge of the pot by the window—Private Leaf, sturdy and greener than ever—and you tilt it just so the sunlight catches the newest leaf.)

 

Then the phone calls.

 

(Jing Yuan usually gets in touch past midnight, and the hum of your desk lamp is the only thing louder than your heartbeat. Your students’ papers are spread in messy stacks, but all of them go forgotten the moment his voice filters through the line.

“You’re still up.”

“You’re one to talk.”

There’s a pause, the kind that feels like a hand brushing your sleeve more than silence. On the other end, you hear the faint sound of his kettle. He’s brewing tea, probably that floral blend he pretends not to like when he’s on campus.

“Did you eat?” he asks.

You roll your eyes. “Did you?”

“Answering a question with a question. You really are a professor.”

“You really are nosy.”

That earns a soft chuckle from him, and you imagine the curve of his mouth, the way he probably leans back in his chair as though he’s still in your office, opposite your desk. The space between Yaoqing and the Luofu isn’t short—not with classes, not with time—but somehow, his voice manages to bridge it like a warm coat thrown over your shoulders.

There’s no pressing need to define anything just yet. Only the ritual of it: he calls every other night when you bring your work back home, and you text him photos of your garden on Sunday mornings. He always points out which plants are thriving. You always leave out that you used his old notes to figure out the watering schedule for the skullcap.

Sometimes he tells you about his day. Sometimes he listens to yours. And at other times, like now, you both sit in companionable quiet, not saying much at all.

After a while, you glance at the time. “You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

But neither of you hangs up just yet.)

 

Lastly, the gifts. 

 

(When you completed a particularly difficult paper on the historical roots of literature, it was a surreal experience. 

That afternoon, as you sat in your office reviewing your notes, a knock on the door broke your concentration. It was too early for Feixiao to be dropping by, and Zichen would have just walked in. So when you opened the door, you weren’t prepared for the sight of a delivery—a box, elegantly wrapped in deep crimson silk, the kind of gift you only received for something truly special.

Curious, you carefully lifted the lid. Inside was a stunning bouquet, its colors a mixture of rich purples and soft pinks. 

It was beautiful, but what caught your attention most was the small card nestled between the petals.

In the language of flowers, these represent respect and admiration, a reminder of how you’ve blossomed into something extraordinary.

You smiled as your fingers traced the edges. Anyone could guess who they were from.

The flowers were a deliberate selection—a mixture of lavender for devotion and pink roses for gratitude. There were even a few sprigs of rosemary, signifying remembrance. Feixiao had likely spilled the news to Jing Yuan the moment your success was confirmed. And true to form, he had gone out of his way to choose something meaningful.

Taking the bouquet into your arms, you placed it gently on the desk, savoring its scent. A part of you felt the warmth of his thoughtfulness despite the distance between you. Even when miles apart, he found ways to show that you mattered, to celebrate your triumphs as if he were right there beside you.

Just as you admired the flowers, your phone buzzed with a message.

It was from Jing Yuan, as if he knew the moment you’d seen the bouquet.

 

Jing Yuan: I hope the flowers bring you as much joy as your success brought to me.

Jing Yuan: Congratulations on your accomplishment :)

Jing Yuan: I look forward to hearing all about it soon.

 

A wave of affection swelled in your chest, and as you gazed at the flowers, you couldn’t help but think—long distance might be difficult, but it was also filled with these quiet moments, these little efforts that somehow made the space between you both feel a little less vast.

 

Me: Thank you. I can’t wait for you to see it in person.

Jing Yuan: I suppose you're not excited to see me?

Me: ...Fine. 

Me: I can't wait to see you too.)

 

It doesn't happen all at once.

It’s a slow, careful unraveling, stitched together by quiet hours and smaller things that mattered more than you thought.

Of course, you don't let him do all the work—you reciprocate each grand gesture, each minuscule effort however you can. You even dedicate some Saturdays to spending time together at the Luofu. 

Whenever you hop off the platform, Jing Yuan is always waiting. Sometimes at the terminal, or at the station’s tea shop, casually flipping through a book while pretending not to check the time. The moment your eyes meet, the distance you spent hours crossing disappears completely.

It’s in the way he smiles. The way he reaches for your bag without asking. The way he says your name like he’s been carrying it in his chest the whole time.

You fall into a rhythm here, too. Late lunches in quiet places he’s memorized just for you. Shared walks through familiar gardens, the kind you once only saw from the edge of a memory. On quieter days, he brings you to his new office—still filled with neat stacks of papers, the same old Commander in Leaf thriving in the corner. He makes tea while you sit on the couch he’s cleared for your visits. 

You leave just as the sun begins to set, and Jing Yuan walks you to the station every time. He never makes a scene of it—just a warm hand at your back, a lingering look before the train doors close.

Back in Yaoqing, your days return to routine, but something's shifted.

You're no longer bracing yourself against absence. You're learning how to hold love gently, how to trust that it won’t fall apart simply because it spans a few hundred miles.

What grows between you and Jing Yuan doesn’t just endure the distance—it finds a way to bloom because of it.

After the flowers, the train rides, the playful banter in your office, the consistency remains.

It’s a weekend this time—his turn to visit—and the two of you had agreed on something simple: dinner, a movie, nothing extravagant.

The screening ran longer than expected. You hadn’t checked the time when you left the cinema—too distracted by the lingering warmth of his shoulder against yours, the way he leaned in to whisper sharp commentary beneath the film’s most dramatic scenes.

It isn’t until the credits finish rolling and you step into the cool evening air that you realize: the last train back to the Luofu left twenty minutes ago.

“It’s alright,” Jing Yuan says, unfazed and already reaching for his phone. “I’ll just find a place to stay for the night.”

That should’ve been it. You could’ve let him.

But something compels you—some small, braver part of you that’s grown louder since all this began.

“You don’t have to,” you say. The words come out too fast, but you don’t take them back. “Jiaoqiu’s not home. You can stay at mine.”

He looks at you. Not surprised, not smug—just quietly searching. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “He’s at a conference all week. You’ll have the couch to yourself.”

There’s a breath of a laugh from him. “Understood.”

And that’s how you end up here: your apartment a little too warm, the tea a little too hastily made.

Jing Yuan’s coat hangs over the back of your dining chair, and he’s already taken off his boots at the door like he’s done it before. You’re not really nervous per se, but something stirs in your chest as you watch him move with the same ease he had in your office, like he belongs wherever you are.

Later, you hand him a folded blanket, a pillow, and—after rummaging through your closet—one of your old college shirts and a pair of Jiaoqiu's sweats that got mixed up with your laundry.

“They might be a bit snug,” you murmur, not quite meeting his eyes. “But it’s better than sleeping in your coat.”

Jing Yuan takes them with a small smile. “You’re too kind to your stranded guests.”

He disappears into the bathroom for a while. When he reemerges, his hair is down—long, unbound, still a little damp around the ends. He runs a hand through it absently, like he’s used to the weight, unaware of the way it steals the breath from your throat. The shirt fits a little too well. The sleeves cling to his forearms, and the hem rides just short of his hips.

You try not to look too long.

He settles onto the couch, the blanket bunched loosely at his side. You think you’ve adjusted to the sight of him—seen him in every shade of light, every kind of mood—but somehow this version still catches you off guard. Hair loose, eyes soft, the curve of his mouth just shy of a smile.

“Thank you again,” Jing Yuan says. “I mean it.”

You nod, though your fingers are still curled a little too tightly around the edge of the mug in your hands. You’re not drinking anything. You just needed something to hold.

“I don’t mind,” you say. “It’s really fine.”

He watches you for a beat too long. You pretend not to notice.

“I would’ve booked a hotel,” he offers, almost teasing now.

“I know,” you reply, eyes flicking toward the darkened hallway. “But I didn’t want you to.”

That admission hangs in the air, soft and bare.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts, his knee brushing lightly against yours where you’ve drifted closer to the edge of the couch without meaning to. You don’t pull away.

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable—it’s dense with something else. Anticipation. Relief. The ache of having waited this long and still not knowing what comes next.

And that’s when it happens.

You don’t remember who moves first. Maybe it’s both of you. Maybe it had always been coming to this. One moment, the air between you is thick with the weight of everything unspoken. The next, his hand is on your waist, yours curled into the borrowed fabric at his shoulder, and the distance between you vanishes completely.

His hand finds your waist, and your fingers curl into the borrowed fabric at his shoulder. Jing Yuan exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for months, and then he kisses you.

Jing Yuan's lips brush yours once, then again. When you answer with a soft gasp, leaning in like you’ve waited a lifetime, the kiss deepens. Heat coils low in your belly as his other hand finds the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting you toward him like he’s afraid of losing the moment.

You taste tea on his tongue, feel the slight tremble in his shoulders as you press closer. His hair falls forward, strands slipping through your fingers as you anchor yourself against him.

And just for a mere second, you remember the symposium. That moment you shared by the railings, months ago, when he’d almost kissed you. When you’d stood too close, hearts racing, silence stretching long enough to feel like surrender.

But this is no almost.

This is all the wanting you couldn’t name back then, poured into every kiss he gives you now. Every inch of you answers him with a need that feels long overdue. You can’t deny it any longer, not to yourself, not to him. You’ve been falling toward this moment for years, your lives tangling together in ways neither of you could have predicted.

“Jing Yuan,” you breathe against his mouth, like it hurts to say, like it means too much because it does.

He answers you with another kiss, deeper this time, needier. The blanket falls away. The pillow tumbles off the couch. You don’t notice. His shirt—your shirt—bunches under your hands as you slide them beneath the hem, seeking warmth, seeking skin.

When he groans, it’s not from surprise. It’s from restraint.

He pulls back just far enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded, breath uneven. His lips are swollen, his hair a halo of silver around his face in the soft light.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs.

You nod, pulling him back in without hesitation.

“Yes.” 

There’s a deep, shuddering breath he takes before his mouth crashes against yours again. His hands find your hips, gripping you with a surety that almost feels like a command. You meet him, heady with the same raw want, the same urgency. His chest presses against yours, the warmth of his body seeping into you, grounding you in this moment. Every inch of space between you is burned away by the press of lips, by the roughness of his hand at your waist, pulling you closer, closer still.

Jing Yuan's breath quickens as he tugs you onto his lap, the motion fluid, practiced—as if he’s done this before, as if he’s always known this was the way it was supposed to be. His hands slide under your shirt, his fingertips warm against the bare skin of your back, a touch that sends a ripple of heat through you, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

You can feel his heart beating fast against your chest, just as frantic as your own. His kisses are desperate now, each one deeper than the last, as though he’s trying to imprint himself onto you, to remind you of every moment that’s led up to this.

The familiar scent of his cologne—woodsy, subtle—mingles with the heady perfume of your own desire. It’s intoxicating. You let your hands roam, tracing the hard lines of his jaw, the muscles of his shoulders, the soft curve of his neck. His skin burns under your touch, and you press in closer, your body reacting to his presence like it was always meant to.

When Jing Yuan pulls back again, his eyes are dark with the kind of hunger that makes your chest tighten. He looks at you like he’s asking permission for something that’s been building up for years.

This isn’t just about tonight. This isn’t just about the warmth of his body against yours or the heat of the moment. This is the culmination of everything—the quiet hours, the stolen glances, the letters, the lectures, the shared silences.

You don’t answer with words. Your body already knows what it wants, and it’s not about holding back anymore.

Without breaking eye contact, you slowly rise from the couch, pulling him up with you. His hand finds yours instinctively, the touch of his fingers warm, firm. You guide him to your bedroom with a steady, sure step, each one carrying the weight of everything unspoken that’s finally coming to the surface.

When you close the door behind you, the quiet of the room settles around you both, amplifying the thrum of anticipation that fills the space between your hearts. Jing Yuan doesn’t say a word as you turn to face him, but there’s something in his gaze—something hungry, but still searching, still waiting for the go-ahead.

You take a deep breath, feeling the moment stretch between the two of you, the years of careful distance and restraint dissolving into the charged air. With one last look, you close the distance, pulling him toward you as you kiss him again, but this time, it’s different.

It’s deeper. More desperate.

His hands are everywhere, sliding off your shirt, grazing your skin with the touch of a man who’s been holding back for too long. You respond in kind, your own hands trailing down the front of his sternum, feeling the way his heartbeat speeds beneath your fingertips as you undress each other.

Everything becomes a blur—the sharpness of his touch, the warmth of his breath, the sound of your heart pounding in your ears.

You step back, guiding his hands with yours, leading him to the bed. There’s no hesitation this time. There’s no second-guessing. This is years of waiting, of longing, of wanting to finally let go. And as you fall into the bed together, everything feels exactly like it should.

Jing Yuan guides you through it with saintlike patience. His voice is a steady murmur, checking in with you softly—asking if you want this, if you're comfortable, if there’s any pain at all. You always knew him to be considerate, even as a professor, but you never imagined that kindness could stretch into something this intimate.

"Ah, I didn't think you'd be so sensitive," he murmurs sweetly. 

Thoughtful as he is, Jing Yuan still knows how to turn up the charm when he wants to.

His large hands are splayed across the plush give of your thighs—amber eyes admiring the mess between your legs. You've slicked up considerably, clenching around nothing as his lips draw into a candid smirk. You're not sure whether you want to pull his face into your sopping heat or bury your head under a mountain of pillows. 

"Really?" you groan. "We've been dancing around each other for years, and you still choose to draw it out?" 

He laughs. Of course he does. But Jing Yuan gives you some sort of reprieve when he moves lower down the mattress, hooking your legs across his broad shoulders before placing a kiss on your inner thigh. His gaze never strays from yours, intense and unrelenting.

"I'm a patient man, darling," he says. "I can string you apart until morning if I felt like it."

The words land like a challenge, and your body tightens in response. As much as you’ve longed for the kind of devotion he’s offering, you're too wound up—too desperate to wait any longer.

You need him. Carnally.

Fortunately, Jing Yuan is nothing if not generous. 

He makes you fall apart on his tongue with two fingers knuckle-deep in your cunt—mercilessly suckling at your clit as you spasm beneath him in the height of bliss. When he feels that the tremors of pleasure have calmed, his golden eyes find yours in the haze. You can't help the rush of heat that fills you when he swipes his tongue across spit-slicked lips. 

Jing Yuan surges forward, easing his large frame between your thighs so he can capture your lips again. The tangy aftertaste lingers on his mouth, but you devour each other like the world ends tomorrow, despite. 

"Can I...?" He frames the plea around a moan when you grind against his leaking shaft. "Y-You're free to refuse, of course."

Trust this man to ask permission only to retract it afterwards. You fight the urge to roll your eyes before laying down on top of your pillows, making sure the half-lidded stare you shoot him carries the message well.

"Jing Yuan," you start, spreading your legs apart for him once more. "If you don't fuck me right now, we're going to have problems." 

He pauses for a second, eyes widening by a fraction. As if he isn't used to hearing you talk like this. Still, the the astonishment fades quickly, replaced by a glimmer of amusement. He presses a light kiss to the corner of your mouth, voice low and teasing. "Do you have any condoms, darling? Forgive me, but I honestly didn't plan on getting to see you like this." 

Neither did you. But the universe works in strange ways like that.

"I've..." Your face heats up, embarrassment coloring your cheeks. "I've been taking contraceptive meds since we started...dating."

That draws his full attention. His gaze sharpens, interest unmistakable, and his smile takes on a new edge—pleased, warm, and just a little dangerous.

“Is that so?” he says, voice dipped in honey. “Now that’s something I wish I’d known sooner.”

You’re not sure you want to dwell on the implication behind his words. But it doesn’t matter—not when time feels like a luxury neither of you can afford. The urgency in your chest is mirrored in his touch, in the way his breath stutters against your skin. You love him so much, you can hardly breathe. 

Oh. 

You love him. 

Jing Yuan, completely unaware of the dawning realization, gathers the pearlescent liquid at the tip, lathering the rest of him with his own essence. His teeth catch along his bottom lip slightly as he eases himself between your legs. You nearly squirm when he rubs the head along your glistening seam.

"You're still free to refuse," he murmurs, but there's little weight to the words. 

You shake your head, legs circling his hips in a feeble attempt to bring him closer. Jing Yuan chuckles, nosing at the crook of your neck as his lips flutter over your pulse like a promise. 

"Please," you nearly beg. "We've waited long enough, don't you think?"

His breath catches—a hitch you feel more than hear. That word, please, does something to him. You feel it in the way his hands settle more firmly on your waist, grounding you both. In the way he lifts his head just enough to look at you properly, like he’s trying to memorize this exact moment.

"You're sure?" he asks, quieter now. Not doubting you, just giving you the chance to change your mind. He always has.

And maybe that’s what makes your answer so easy.

"Yes," you breathe, the word framed around a soft, easy laugh. "Always, yes."

That’s all it takes.

Jing Yuan exhales slowly, like he’s letting go of something that’s been weighing him down for too long. Then he kisses you—slowly, thoroughly, reverently. You feel the shift in him, and in you. This isn’t about urgency anymore. This is about presence. About devotion. About making up for all the years of stolen glances and unspoken longing.

And when you finally move together, it’s not with haste but with the deep, aching patience of two people who have known each other in every other way. Everything is quiet now but the whisper of breath, the rustle of sheets, and the soft cadence of your name on his lips—spoken like a vow.

These things linger in the air like they wish to be remembered.

You’re not sure how long it lasts—entwined, breath mingling, the hush of your shared want settling over everything like a second skin. But eventually, Jing Yuan lifts his head again, eyes catching yours.

And gods, those eyes.

Gold like the moment before sunrise, like melted metal—brimming not just with desire, but with something quieter beneath. 

You reach for him without thinking, fingers threading into the long strands of his silver hair—silken and cool to the touch, like moonlight slipping through your hands. He leans into it, into you, a sound caught low in his throat.

Every line of him is taut with effort. The kind that speaks of restraint, not hesitation. The flex of muscle beneath your palms is measured and deliberate—each motion a study in control, until you feel it unravel. Slowly. Beautifully.

He moves with the kind of care only someone who has thought of this moment a thousand times could possess.

And when he presses his forehead to yours again, his voice comes out low and reverent.

“You're everything to me.”

Fingers digging in, you cling to him. Not out of fear.

But because nothing’s ever felt more right.

In the aftermath, you lie tangled in sheets and warmth, Jing Yuan's heartbeat still faintly pulsing beneath your cheek where you rest against his chest.

One of your hands drifts across his forearm, fingers brushing the pale scar that arcs along the muscle like a memory half-buried. You’ve seen it before—in passing, under rolled-up sleeves, or whenever he gestures too broadly during office hours. A dozen times, you thought to ask. A dozen more, you hesitated.

But now, in the hush between heartbeats, with nothing left to guard—

“What happened here?” you ask, your thumb grazing the seam of old pain.

Jing Yuan glances down, his gaze following the movement of your hand. For a moment, he says nothing. Then, with a soft exhale, he answers, “Military. A long time ago.”

You shift slightly to look up at him, head still tucked against his side. “One of the wars you talk about in class?”

His mouth quirks, but there’s no real humor in it. “One of those, yes. The more recent ones. My battalion was deployed when I was just a little older than my students now. We were green. Thought we’d be home in a month.” He pauses, voice softening. “It didn’t go that way.”

You don’t interrupt. You keep tracing gentle lines over his skin.

“There were three of us that stuck together,” he continues after a beat. “Yingxing. Dan Feng. And me.” The names come out carefully, like they’ve been resting at the edge of his mouth for years, waiting for the right moment. “We were always watching out for each other. Gods, we were stupid sometimes. Brave. But mostly just stupid.”

He’s smiling now, but it’s tinged with a kind of quiet grief, the kind that only comes from surviving what others didn’t.

“I remember once,” he says, eyes distant, “Yingxing tried to sneak a bottle of wine into base. Dan Feng caught him before I could, but neither of them gave it up. We ended up sharing it, passing it around in silence, watching the stars like idiots who didn’t know if tomorrow would come.”

You feel something shift in his voice—affection, longing, something deeper than memory. It’s not just nostalgia.

“You were close,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

He hums low in his throat. “Closer than we should’ve been, maybe. In that kind of place… bonds form quickly. And deeply. You hold on to what you can.”

You don’t press him. You don’t need to. The way he says their names tells you enough. There was love there. Complicated, perhaps. But real.

“I think about them a lot,” he says. “Even now.”

Your fingers still against his skin. He places his hand over yours, grounding the moment. And when he looks at you again, it’s not with regret—but with trust. You’re not just someone passing through. You’re someone who’s here now, who sees him, scars and all.

“They’d have liked you,” he says eventually, eyes soft. “Yingxing especially. He had a terrible sense of humor. You’d have put him in his place.”

You laugh into his shoulder, and he smiles at the sound—tired, but genuine. The kind of smile that only surfaces when it’s safe to do so.

“You don’t have to tell me more,” you say. “But I’ll listen. If you ever want to.”

He nods once, slow and sure. “I know.”

And in the quiet that follows, he presses a kiss to your temple and pulls you closer, your fingers still curled around the part of him that never really left the battlefield.

But then—a soft chime cuts through the warmth between you. A text notification. The real world, slipping back in.

Jing Yuan’s arm tightens around your waist, a soft, unspoken protest, urging you to stay. As if to say let it wait. You soothe him with a gentle kiss, brief and tender, your lips brushing his with quiet reassurance that you’ll return before you slip from his embrace.

You reach for your phone.

Jiaoqiu’s name lights up the screen, followed by a flurry of texts. You can feel the weight of golden eyes reading over your shoulder.

 

Jiaoqiu: are u home rn...

Me: Yes. Why?

Jiaoqiu: i'm bringing someone over

Jiaoqiu: don't judge me

Jiaoqiu: his name's moze

Jiaoqiu: one of the nurses from the er shift

Jiaoqiu: i've been trying to make this happen for a month now

Jiaoqiu: and we might've gotten close during the conference :3c

Me: Oh!

Jiaoqiu: yeah...

Jiaoqiu: so please tell me ure not in the living room

Jiaoqiu: or anywhere visible

Me: ...I'm just in my room

Jiaoqiu: perfect

Jiaoqiu: just keep your door shut 

Jiaoqiu: and don't come out for like an hour. maybe two

Jiaoqiu: three if he's enthusiastic

Me: No promises

Me: Also, you might want to knock first if you need me

Me: [Sent an image]

Jiaoqiu: hey

Jiaoqiu: HEY who is that in there with you 

Jiaoqiu: is that jing yuan

Me: Perhaps.

Jiaoqiu: oh my god

Jiaoqiu: are you fucking kidding me 

Jiaoqiu: i'm bringing home a man and you're also—

Me: Hey, this is a sex-positive household

Jiaoqiu: you know what 

Jiaoqiu: this is fine

Jiaoqiu: love this for us

Me: That's the spirit.

Me: Now you have to tell me when you guys finish

Me: So we don't all use the bathroom to wash up at the same time 

Jiaoqiu: oh my fucking god 

 

You don’t even get the chance to put your phone down before an arm snakes around your waist and tugs—gently but firmly—pulling you back into the warmth of the bed.

“You’re handling this like a military operation now?” Jing Yuan teases, voice smooth but carrying a hint of indignation. “Making sure there’s no friendly fire in the bathroom?”

You glance down at your phone—Jiaoqiu’s colorful messages still open—and let out a quiet sigh. “He’s bringing someone over, so I figured I should keep things lowkey.”

Jing Yuan hums thoughtfully. “Clever. But it feels a bit like a betrayal, doesn’t it?” His fingers trace up your side, slow and deliberate. “Here I thought we’d earned some peace and quiet tonight.”

You scoff, about to say something witty about splitting rent, but then he flips you gently onto your back, looming over you like the war god you’re pretty sure he used to be. His hair falls over one shoulder, tousled and shining silver in the lamplight, and his golden eyes narrow with mock offense.

“I fought a long campaign to get you in this bed,” Jing Yuan murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “Don't think I’ll surrender you now just because your roommate’s got a date.”

You laugh softly, curling your fingers into his hair and tugging lightly. “Surrender implies you ever stood a chance.”

That earns you a low, pleased growl, and then he's kissing you again, quick and claiming.

“Then consider this a counteroffensive,” he says, already pulling the blankets back up and tugging you under them.

“Didn’t realize this was a battlefield.”

“Oh, it is,” Jing Yuan chuckles, burying his face against your neck with a victorious sigh. “And you, darling, are already well and truly conquered.”

You laugh graciously, curling a hand behind his neck and pulling him into a long kiss—slow and sure and just a little smug.

The war is over. The treaties are signed.

And in the hush between heartbeats, you finally let yourself believe in the peace you’ve made together.

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[cookiewitch-trin]

Saw the new Flavor Foley today, and the idea of Static Miku and Candy from Next!: Sound Of The Future together was in my brainnnn. They would be besties your honor.

Original sketch under the cut:

[sceletaflores]

LAYING IT ALL ON THE LINE...

꩜ masterlist ꩜ update blog ꩜ inbox ꩜ taglist ꩜ ao3 ꩜

｡꩜°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader

｡꩜°‧➵ WC: 4.1k

｡꩜°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, post-outbreak, hurt/comfort, joel's pov, general violence, minor character injury, jackson!joel, when he picks an unnecessary fight with you because that's all he knows, mentioned age gap, joel miller as a sad old man, joel miller experiences feelings, oral sex (f!receiving), p in v, clothed sex, unprotected sex, erectile dysfunction? we don't know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he's twenty AND his knees are made of steel (but only sometimes), porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡꩜°‧➵ @retrosabers SAYS: thinking about you almost dying on patrol and joel is FUMING, unable to convey just how worried and anxious it makes him. the only way he can even remotely conceptualize his feelings is through a very PASSIONATE rawdogging ♡

｡꩜°‧➵ NAT'S NOTE: everyone say thank you sid for this absolutely luxurious prompt...i'm waiting. i had so much fun with this! i love love love a good semi-angsty, emotionally constipated man having to come to terms with his buried slash repressed feelings in the gritty wake of a near-death experience, like that's my shit. hope y'all love it!

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics!

joel miller realizes that love isn’t just a four letter word…

"Southeast perimeter’s clear. Heading west by the river bed."

“Wow, you’re finally gonna stop gettin’ us lost out here, sunshine?”

“Lost? Please, you cried when I found that shortcut through the cedar thicket.”

Joel listens to you and Tommy bicker over the radio, a forgotten cup of coffee going cold at his side. That's all he can do when you're out there—patrolling in the snow with a few others. He's not proud of how he just sits by like some anxious house wife, listening to the static between check-ins, but he can't make himself focus on anything other than the way your bright voice filters in and out.

He tries not to hover. Tries not to keep the handheld clutched like it's a goddamn lifeline. But he does, eyes glued to the thing like it might crack open and spill you out if he stares hard enough.

Joel's really not even supposed to be listening in like this. Maria's chewed him out more times than he can count each time she catches him hunched over an old radio that he's never bothered turning in, says it'll do him more harm than good worrying over it.

Besides, these channels aren't meant for civilians sitting on their asses at home. He knows that, because that's exactly what he is now—civilian adjacent. Half-retired.

Tommy jokes about it every once in a while, the way Joel's slowed down, the way his joints complain louder than they used to. A while back, he might've laughed too. Now, every little twinge of pain feels like a reminder of what he used to be.

Joel used to be the one they all looked to out on patrol. He could track better, shoot cleaner, navigate faster than most of the younger guys. That's not the case these days. His patrolling has slowed down over the past few years. He only goes out a few times every couple of months, if even that. 

He tells himself it’s by choice.

It’s not, not at all. He’s tired. His knees ache after long rides. His busted shoulder can’t handle the cold without locking up. Jackson’s got a whole rotation now, young joints, faster reflexes, eyes that don’t blur when the wind hits just right. So he doesn’t go out much anymore. Not unless the group is short. Not unless they really need him.

It makes sense. He knows it makes sense.

That doesn’t make it feel right. You out there, miles away in knee-deep snow with a rifle strapped to your back while he’s stuck here. Not out there. Not beside you.

Joel knows you can handle yourself—hell, you’ve proven that a dozen times over. You’re younger. Strong. Fast. Smart as a whip. You can shoot the cap off a beer bottle and you handle a knife better than most people your age. 

Knowing all that still doesn’t quiet the feeling of unease that eats away at him each time you strap on your gear and kiss him goodbye with a, See you later, Miller. Strolling out the door like it’s casual. Like it’s nothing.

There’s a kind of helpless fury in it. A sick twist in his gut every time he watches you ride out. Like he’s some retired goddamn hunting dog. Trusted to guard the porch, but not sharp enough to run with the pack anymore.

Joel adjusts the volume dial on the radio like it’ll make your voice stay longer.

Tommy’s laugh cuts through the speaker. “Didn’t cry. I got snow in my eye.”

“In July? Sure.”

It comes in grainy and light, full of that same teasing bite you always give Tommy—enough to make Joel’s jaw tighten with a quiet, helpless kind of fondness. He almost smiles, but it doesn’t reach past the tight pull in his chest. You’re still picking your way through territory where any tree line might be hiding something.

Joel shifts in his seat, elbows on the table, jaw clenched tight. He tells himself you’re fine. You always are. You have to be.

The channel goes still for a few beats. Then, a crack of static. Some muffled shuffling. And—

“Wait—something’s moving in the trees. Left side, just past the ridge.”

Your voice. Sharper now. Less teasing and pointedly quiet.

“Copy,” Tommy replies, suddenly serious. “Keep eyes on—”

A burst of noise. A flurry of panicked voices overlapping and shouts. The unmistakable sound of gunfire.

Then nothing.

Dead air.

Joel’s heart drops to his boots. “Tommy?” he barks into the receiver. “Come in. What the hell’s happening out there?”

When there’s no answer, Joel shoots to his feet. The chair scrapes across the floor harshly as he crosses the room in two large strides, fumbling for his jacket. “Tommy? Goddammit, someone answer me!”

Nothing.

Joel’s heart thuds violently against his ribcage as he stares at the little black box in his hand like it’s an omen. He feels it rush in all at once—panic, guilt, helpless rage curling cold and mean in his chest. His ears are ringing so loud he doesn’t hear the slam of the door behind him as he tears out of the house and into the cold air. 

Something happened. The group was compromised. You were compromised.

And he’s not there.

He should’ve been there.

Joel doesn’t remember the sprint to the stables. Doesn’t remember shouting at Maria when she tried to stop him at the gate. Doesn’t remember half the ride out. All he knows is that his hands won’t stop shaking around the reins and the bile in his throat tastes like ash—a sick, gnawing pit growing in his gut.

When he finds the group what feels like hours later, just as the sun starts to rise behind the ridgeline—you’re nowhere to be found. His eyes scan the way everyone’s spread out, some with minor injuries and the others patching them up. 

No sign of you.

Tommy plants himself in front of Joel just as he hauls himself off his horse. He doesn’t even feel the way his knees jolt as his feet hit the ground. 

“Where the hell is she?” he rasps, voice so rough it sounds like it’s been dragged through gravel. “Where, Tommy?”

Tommy’s hands are out in front of him like Joel’s a wild animal about to snap. He’s got blood on his hands, but no signs of stab wounds or bullet holes anywhere on him. It’s not his blood. Joel’s stomach turns viciously at the sight, at the thought of whose it might be.

“She’s fine,” Tommy says, eyes wide and placating. “Took a hit, it grazed her side. She wouldn’t fuckin’ stay down.”

Joel knows he won’t feel any relief until he sees you, alive and breathing with his own eyes. “Where.”

Tommy steps aside just before Joel nearly shoves past him, nodding his head toward a rock outcrop a ways away from everyone else.

You’re sitting closest to the makeshift fire, Jesse crouched beside you to clean the gash along your side. You’re bundled in someone else’s coat, hair mussed and blood soaked through your undershirt and spattered across your cheeks.

Visibly shaken. Color drained. Bloody. Alive.

Joel’s throat locks up when your eyes meet his. You give him the smallest, tired smile—like you're trying to reassure him. That look. That stupid, brave little tilt of your mouth like everything's okay even when you're the one bleeding through Tommy's jacket.

It makes something in his chest crack wide open.

“Joel?”

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t know what to say.

Doesn’t trust himself for it to be anything good.

Joel takes three shaky steps towards you before his knees give out. 

He drops hard into the snow. He doesn’t catch himself, doesn’t try. Just falls forward like a penitent man bowing at the altar of a God he doesn’t believe in. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts, eyes locked onto the red seeping through your shirt like it's the only color in the whole damn world.

There’s a beat where nobody moves. Jesse freezes, half-done wrapping gauze, and you’re just sitting there, wide-eyed and shaking like a leaf, lips parted like you’re trying to say something—but Joel’s already reaching for you.

He's on you in the next breath. Not rough, not like usual, not with that greedy, hungry touch he normally has after you come back from patrol. His hands are trembling when they find your face, tilting your chin up gently, his fingers brushing away wet blood and dirt.

Tommy glances away. Jesse too, both men busying themselves with helping the others. It feels too private, even out here in the open.

“Goddammit,” he chokes. “God—baby–”

His voice breaks on the last word. Breaks, something sharp and gutted and boyish, nothing like the hardened man who's grown to guard his emotions like they’re classified. Your hands hover uncertainty over his shoulders, the side of his face. You’re worried. He can see it plain as day, written in the wavering line of your mouth.

“Hey—hey, I’m okay,” you say, voice low and urgent. “I’m fine. Look at me, Joel, I’m fine. It just—it just grazed me, okay? I’m fine.”

You’re not fine.

You’re too pale. You’re stone-cold. Your blood is still tacky on your shirt, drying beneath his body's warmth.

Joel presses his forehead to yours and exhales like he’s been kept underwater, and you were the surface he’d been clawing to.

You whisper his name again, quieter this time, and he shushes you. “Don’t—don’t talk, just—let me—” His fingers press to the pulse point at your wrist like he still needs proof. “Let me feel you.”

You don’t say anything else.

You just hold him.

And Joel doesn’t cry. He can’t. Something won’t let him, but he stays there in the snow for a long time, holding you like a man who thought he’d never get the chance to again.

The ride back to Jackson is quiet.

You fell asleep half-way through, head lolling back against Joel’s shoulder as you both sat in the saddle, your body loose with exhaustion and the emergency pain meds Jesse had in his pack. Tommy rides ahead, checking the trail, but Joel barely looks up. He just holds the reins with one hand and holds you tighter with the other.

You’re taken to the infirmary the second everyone files through the gates. Joel sits by your bedside in stormy silence, hands curled into fists and resting on his knees, the only thing keeping him together.

You talk to the nurse on duty. You even joke with her, cracked voice and tired eyes like it’s all part of the routine. Like getting shot is just another part of the job. And Joel sits there while someone else wraps you in new bandages and checks your vitals.

It makes his blood boil.

All he can think about is the way your voice cut out on the radio. The way he didn’t know if you were dead or bleeding out in some field, alone. And now you’re laughing. Now you’re telling the nurse, “I’m fine really, just sore.” And it makes him want to tear the whole fucking clinic apart.

Joel doesn’t say a word until you're cleared to leave. 

Not on the short walk back to your house. Not when you’re walking through the door, cleaned up. Patched. Your shirt’s gone, replaced by his coat and a thermal blanket around your shoulders.

Not when you nudge his arm gently like you’re testing the waters. Not when you say his name soft, like it might keep him calm before you’re heading towards the bedroom.

It doesn’t.

The moment the door shuts behind him, Joel erupts.

“You got a fuckin’ death wish?”

You freeze in your spot halfway across the room, turning to face him.

Joel doesn’t move. Just stands there, fists clenched at his sides. His voice is low, shaking with barely concealed rage. “You gonna tell me why you thought playin’ saviour was worth bleedin’ out in the snow?”

You don’t say anything for a few beats, eyebrows drawn together in a hard frown as you look at him. “What was I supposed to do, Joel? Jesse was pinned, Tommy would’ve taken the hit. I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice!” Joel grates, stepping towards you. “You could’ve picked you. You could’ve stayed the fuck down like Tommy told you to.”

“I was trying to keep your brother from getting shot in the head,” you snap, the tension finally striking a flint. “I made a judgment call.”

“You made a stupid call,” he spits, voice loud and blistering. “You don’t get to do that.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you repeat, your body growing stiff and tense.

“You shoulda fuckin’ stayed down.” Joel growls. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it—just rips his flannel off, tosses it hard at the wall.

You don’t flinch. Don’t even look away from him as his shirt falls and crumples into a heap on the floor. “What?”

“You heard me,” he snaps, turning to look at you again. His eyes are dark, fiery. “Jesus, you—do you even fuckin’ think sometimes? You were hit. You knew you were hit, and you kept goin’. You didn’t stop, didn’t stay down like you were told.”

He steps closer, eyes boring into yours, face twisted with something too furious to be rational. “You fuckin’ chose to be a goddamn hero, huh? Run into gunfire like it ain’t a fuckin’ death sentence? That it?”

He can see the second your expression changes, your own anger rearing its ugly head now, bitter and hot. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this about me being reckless when you know I was just trying to keep people alive. I did what I had to do.”

“No!” he snaps, pointing a finger at you, furious and stricken all at once. “What you had to do was come home. That’s it. That’s all.”

You blink at him, breath caught in your throat.

Joel can’t stop, all the emotions he’s been dealt over the past three hours finally boiling over and spilling through his lips before he can think twice about what he’s saying.

“You could’ve died,” he growls, pacing now, hands dragging through his hair roughly like he’s trying to rip the anger out of himself. “Two fuckin’ inches to the left and that bullet would’ve torn straight through your gut. You think you’d’ve made it to town in time for that? Huh?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” he snarls, spinning on you, voice cracking. “It’s not fuckin’ fair. Nothin’ about this is. You go out there, and I sit at home waitin’ to see if today’s the day I lose you. That the last thing I heard is your voice cuttin’ out in the middle of a fuckin’ ambush. That’s what I got to live with now. That’s what I saw every time I closed my eyes on that ride back.”

You stand there, lost for words. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“I know you didn’t,” Joel says, suddenly quieter, throat thick. He swallows hard, looking down, shaking his head like he’s trying to get a grip. “But I still almost lost you. And I don’t—fuck—I don’t know what the hell I’d do if that ever—”

His voice cuts off, ragged. Then he’s in front of you again, cupping your face with both hands. “You’re not allowed to do that to me again,” he whispers fiercely. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that.”

“Joel…” You lean into him, slow. Cautious.

Joel meets you halfway.

His mouth is on yours in a heartbeat—hot and bruising and pathetically desperate. His big hands frame your face, thumbs dragging down your cheekbones as he licks a wet stripe over the plush seam of your lips.

You gasp into his mouth when he pushes the blanket off your shoulders, when his palms skate down your sides to grip your hips hard. Not too rough, not yet, but he’s holding you because he needs you rooted. Anchored. Here.

Joel kisses you like he’s still furious at you, like he hates how much he needs you, like he’s punishing you for making him feel so afraid. It’s not soft, all teeth and tongue as he devours you, stealing the breath from your lungs.

When he pulls back, his mouth is wet with your spit, lips pink and swollen. “Need to taste you,” he mutters. “Need to feel you.”

Joel sinks to his knees before you can respond, breath huffing harshly against your stomach. His fingers tug your zipper down with frantic urgency, hooking his thumbs in your waistband to peel your pants down your legs in one swift motion.

There’s no teasing. No smugness. Just a heavy, sharp hunger carved into his face like stone as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing you to his greedy eyes. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting one over his shoulder as he brings his mouth to you like a man possessed.

The first drag of his tongue is slow. Reverent. Hot and wet as he parts the slick seam of your cunt with deliberate strokes that make your spine arch. He groans like your taste knocks the wind out of him, and then he latches on like he’s got a point to prove—to himself or you, he’s not sure. All he knows is that worshipping you is the only penance that could soothe the panic still clawing at his insides.

“Joel.” Your hands tangle in his hair, chin falling to your chest as you gaze down at him.

He sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue relentless, nose pressed deep against you. You whimper, twisting his hair in your grip, hips twitching—Joel doesn’t let you go anywhere. He’s got you trapped, your body pinned with his mouth buried between your thighs like he plans to die there.

It’s filthy, obscene—the way he devours you. Lips slick, beard growing damper with each swirl of his tongue, eyes half-lidded but still trained on your own.

Your eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide and black as spilled ink. There’s sweat beaded on your brow, lips parted and swollen as you let out small huffs of air.

Your thighs are trembling. You're soaked, arching against him, whimpering his name with tears welling in your eyes. And still—still—he won’t let up. He needs this. Needs to make you fall apart. Needs to prove to himself you’re alive by the way your body sings under his touch.

Joel can’t stop. Not until your thighs shake and you’re moaning that you’re gonna come, gonna come, Joel, please—

And you do. You fall apart on his tongue with a broken sob, legs clenching tight around his ears, hips grinding down into his mouth in weak twitches and shudders. He growls and holds you still, licking you through every last tremor until your body goes limp and threatens to sink to the floor.

Joel doesn’t let you fall—he lowers you down gently, like you’re made of spun glass, even as his hands skirt over the hem of your shirt. When he pulls it up, revealing the bandages wound tight around your side, he pauses. His gaze lingers on the wound. Jaw clenched. Something soft and wrecked flickers in his eyes.

Your hand comes up to cup the side of his face, your thumb running over the scar across his temple so gently it has his heart throbbing in his chest. “I’m okay,” you whisper. “Still here.”

Joel takes your wrist in his hand, lowering it down enough to press it hard over his heart. “You feel that?” he breaths. “That hasn’t stopped hammerin’ since I heard your voice cut out.”

You nod slowly. Your fingers curl into his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Joel squeezes your wrist, turning his head to press a soft kiss to your forearm.

He climbs up over you, chest to chest—the jut of his cock where it tents the denim of his jeans grinds over the sensitive span of your cunt as he settles himself between your legs. He’s thick, heavy even through all the layers. 

Joel’s free hand snakes down his body, making quick work of his belt. He rips his zipper down, freeing his cock from the confines of his soaked boxers and letting it slap up against his stomach.

You moan at the sight of it—hard, straining, the tip a dusty red and wet with pre-come. Your legs widen unconsciously, thighs twitching on either side of Joel’s hips.

Joel takes himself in his hand, fist tight over the base of his cock as he runs himself through your puffy cunt, slicking the skin of his cock with your wetness. “Gonna fuck you,” he breathes, lining himself up between your legs. “Gonna feel you around me, baby, need it so damn bad.”

Joel slides in with one long, smooth stroke, your slick making it easy, and the groan he lets out sounds like pain. Like relief. Like he might lose his mind from the heat of you. Your breath hitches at the stretch, head lolling back against the hardwood as your nails dig into his shoulders.

“Mine,” he grits through his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, his hips grinding deeper as you cling to him. “You’re mine, baby. Always—always mine.”

You nod, panting, eyes glassy. “All yours,” you whisper. “Only yours, Joel.”

And then he moves.

Hard.

Desperate.

Unrelenting.

He fucks you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth, like if he stops, he’ll unravel entirely. One arm hooks under your knee, pushing you open, deeper than before. His hips slap against yours, raw and hopelessly, but it’s not about getting off.

It’s about feeling you.

Every squeeze, every tremble, every gasp that leaves your mouth when he hits that perfect spot. 

Joel’s never felt like this before.

So angry.

So scared.

So in love.

He fucks you like he’s trying to imprint himself inside your body. His thrusts stitch you back to him, sealing you inside his chest so you can never leave. A mess of skin-on-skin and heat and slick as the two of you meet again and again and again.

“Could’ve lost you,” he growls against your throat. “Fuck, honey, I could’ve—Jesus—”

You wrap your arms around him. “You didn’t,” you whisper. “I’m here, Joel—I’m yours—”

He groans, hips stuttering, thrusts turning frantic. He can tell he’s close, that he’s been close since he sank to his knees in front of you.

“Say it again,” he pants, slamming into you with a low, wrecked noise. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “Always yours—fuck, Joel—”

You wrap your arms tighter around him, pulling him closer. Your nails dig into his skin through the thin layer of his undershirt, legs locking around his waist to keep him pressed against you like you’re scared he’ll let go.

Joel doesn’t let go. He’d never let go. Not even when you moan his name like a prayer, not even when your nails rake down his back, not even when you gasp out a warning, your voice thin and needy. “Joel, I—gonna—”

“I know, baby. I got you.” His hand snakes down between you, finding your clit and rubbing quick circles over it, desperate to feel you come. “Wanna feel you. Need to—fuck—need to feel you, sweetheart. Please.”

You shatter in his arms with a broken sob, clenching hard around him as your body jerks, overwhelmed and too raw to hide it. Joel feels you pulse around his cock, the tight warmth of your cunt milking him.

It’s too much, and he’s coming with a groan that sounds like it’s been clawed from his chest. He buries himself to the hilt, hips jerking with every pulse, breath catching in your ear. “Fuck, fuck—” he pants, voice hoarse, “—love you, I love you, I thought I lost you, baby, I can’t…”

You’re both trembling when it ends.

Joel holds you there for a long time, forehead resting against yours, still buried deep inside you. He still won’t let you go. Not yet.

Eventually, when he’s calmed, he pulls back just enough to look at you.

You expect that same look from earlier—rage, fear, guilt—but it’s not there. Just love. Just deep, aching relief.

“I can’t lose you,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

You reach up, trace the curve of his brow, the edge of his jaw. “You won’t have to,” you whisper.

Joel kisses you again. Softer this time. Sweeter. A delicate press of lips against lips. His fingers stroke your cheek, pulling back enough for his eyes to trace along your face. He follows the line of your brows, the shape of your nose, the soft curve of your lips.

He can’t feel anything other than love.

Gentle. Solid. Steady.

It’s only love.

mini nat's note: everyone please send good vibes for my hell sent ch*m final on monday...i literally need all the luck i can get. thank you so much for reading! mwah.

[seumyo]

will bakugou choose seoul, korea or your wedding anniversary?

Bakugou had turned the damn house upside down three times.

“Where the hell is it?” He hissed under his breath, storming through the hallway closet for the third time in two days. He’d torn apart the shoe rack, the document folders, and even flipped through the cookbooks in the kitchen, just in case he’d used it as a bookmark. No dice. The damn passport was still missing.

His hair was sticking up more than usual—half from stress, half from the static of the hoodie he’d thrown on that morning in frustration. They were supposed to leave for Korea in three days. Three. It was the biggest pro-hero conference he’d ever been invited to—panel talks, interviews, awards. Best Jeanist, Lemillion, and even Halfie had their confirmations sent in already.

And what did he have?

An expired copy of his license (he got a new one; the expired one’s just in his drawer), a half-crushed protein bar, and a very pouty, very pregnant wife in the living room.

You had your feet up on the couch, ankles slightly swollen beneath the oversized hoodie you’d stolen from his wardrobe. You were scrolling on your phone with one hand, the other resting on your baby bump, lazily tracing circles. When Bakugou stomped past, you looked up with the slow blink of a cat.

“Still lost?” you asked, not bothering to hide your amusement. Even laughed under your breath.

The audacity, he thinks, though it wasn’t frustration. He could never be mad at you.

Because he knows you’ll get mad at him, too.

Bakugou didn’t answer. He grunted instead, pulling out another drawer in the cabinet near the TV.

“Maybe it grew legs and walked off,” you teased. “Or maybe your big fat ego swallowed it.”

He shot you a look. “Not helping.”

You hummed. “Not trying to.”

Your pout had gotten more dramatic since hitting six months. Bakugou noticed it more these days, how you’d stare down your food like it personally offended you, or how you’d sigh theatrically every time the topic of even him leaving the house came up. At first, you’d been supportive—even joked that you’d video call him during the conference and heckle him from the screen. But once you found out the biggest day of the event landed on your wedding anniversary, the whole game changed.

Suddenly he feels like he’s on house arrest.

“Maybe it’s a sign,” you murmured, taking a sip of the juice he made you this morning. “Maybe you’re meant to stay home this time.”

Bakugou scoffed. As if.

“Ain’t no damn sign. It’s just misplacin’ shit.”

“You don’t have to go,” you said again. “You could stay. Cuddle me. Eat cake. Listen to me cry about clouds.”

“You said I could go if I find my passport,” he pouts, brows furrowed, and his lips jutted slightly.

“I did, and don’t be mad,” you replied. “I want you to go. Really. You’ve worked so hard.”

“Then why do you look like you wanna punch me in the throat?”

You blinked at him. “Because it’s our anniversary and I’m hormonal. Sue me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So I hope you don’t find it.”

That was the end of that conversation.

-

The night before their anniversary came sooner than expected.

Bakugou had made a reservation at one of the nicest rooftop restaurants in the city. Private booth, soft fairy lights, cityscape twinkling behind them. The host even laid a small bouquet of lavender on the table when he told them it was for a special occasion. He hadn’t told you where you were going, only grunted, “Wear that dress you like—that comfy one. You know the one.”

He hadn’t mentioned anything new about the passport ordeal. You, who figured he’d either given up or accepted fate, were mostly content to enjoy the evening.

You looked like a dream, so his focus was entirely on you. Someone who he somehow managed to have (maybe his bond with his guardian angels came in clutch and even contacted Cupid himself to arrange an arrow for you two).

You waddled into the restaurant, cheeks a little fuller, eyes glowing. He still looked at you like he couldn’t believe he got so lucky. He thinks it makes you shy, how intense his gaze got, even after everything—the morning sickness, the mood swings, the late-night hospital runs due to paranoia.

“You okay?” he asked, placing a hand on your lower back as you walked in.

“Mm,” you hummed, leaning into his touch. You could barely hide your smile at this point. “You’re staring.”

He didn’t even deny it. “I am? So what? Can’t a man just appreciate his wife?”

Dinner went well, for the most part.

You had one hand on your belly, the other wrapped around his fingers on the table. You were halfway through your chocolate mousse when Bakugou reached into his jacket pocket and slid something across the table.

“No,” you said slowly, setting your spoon down. “You didn’t.”

“Yeah, I did.”

He didn’t look smug at all, more like... hopeful.

Your brows furrowed. You reached for the passport, flipping it open.

There it was. His damn passport. Found. Intact. Stamped. His most recent picture was taken only a few months ago.

Yoh stared at it. Then at you. Then back at it again.

“…You found it?”

“Yup.”

“Where was it?”

He cleared his throat, gaze shifting to the side.

“…Behind the dresser in the guest room. Stuffed in that red envelope labeled ‘Important Shit,’ which you labeled in your handwriting, by the way.”

You paused. Your cheeks puffed again as your lips turned downward in the softest pout he’d ever seen. You looked down at your half-eaten dessert, spoon idle.

“You’re really gonna go?”

“I want to,” he admitted. “But I don’t wanna leave you pissed off and lonely, either.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just poked at your mousse with your spoon. Your lashes were low, and he could tell you were struggling. Not angry, just…sad.

Finally, you said, “It’s just one. It’s just one anniversary. We’ll have dozens more, right?”

“We will. We’ll have centuries more.”

“…And you’ll video call me. Every day.”

“Morning and night.”

“And text me when you land. And when you eat. And when you leave the venue. And—”

Bakugou reached across the table and tugged gently at your hand. His hands are rough against yours, but they’re filled with sincerity and utmost love that a man could give to his wife.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

His voice softened.

“Seriously, d’ya think I’d leave you without a plan?”

You blinked.

“I’m leavin’ you flowers and your cake. I told Kirishima to drop off that spa basket thing you said you wanted last month. And your mom’s stayin’ over the night of. I made sure. I even stocked the fridge.”

Your mouth parted slightly, tilting your head to the side. “You…did all that?”

“Yeah.” He looked almost bashful now, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t want you to think I forgot. Even if I ain’t here physically. I’m still here.”

Your eyes shimmered just a bit. A good sign, Bakugou notes.

Then you smiled—soft and tired and affectionate.

“God, you’re gonna make me cry.”

“Tch. Don’t cry. I’ll look like an asshole.”

You laughed then, nose crinkling. “You are an asshole. But a sweet one.”

“Yeah, you love me.”

“I do.”

You two didn’t talk about the passport again that night. Not after that.

Instead, you finished dessert. Slowly. Your hand stayed in his the whole time.

When you walked out of the restaurant, he kept his arm around your shoulders, guiding you carefully down the steps like you were made of glass. You leaned into him, soft and warm, your belly pressing into his side.

And when they got home, you told him, “Let’s open the anniversary cake early.”

He didn’t say no. Not when you looked that happy. It doesn’t matter that he’s already full from the chocolate mousse you two had earlier.

When night finally settled, and Bakugou’s wiping the excess frosting off the corners of your lips with a napkin, he hears you say, “Come home soon, okay?”

He nodded, then softly kissed the crown of your head.

“Always.”

Always come home to you.

-

The morning of Bakugou’s flight started earlier than usual.

He had been up before the alarm even went off, brushing his teeth with the kind of intensity that only came from years of military-grade discipline… or nerves (also because he wants all bad germs on his mouth to die). Not that he’d ever admit to the latter. He stood in front of the mirror, towel slung low on his hips, steam curling from the hot shower as he stared at his reflection.

This was it. The day he was supposed to fly out to Korea.

Except—he wasn’t going.

Not really.

He’d made his decision last night, somewhere between the weight of your hug and the feel of your heartbeat against his body when you fell asleep on his chest. The moment you started snoring softly, your nose slightly buried in his shirt, he realized there was no way in hell he was getting on that plane.

Not this time.

But you didn’t need to know that just yet.

Because if there was one thing Bakugou knew about his wife, it was that you’d throw a fit if he skipped a life-changing professional opportunity just to spend your anniversary folding baby laundry and rubbing your swollen ankles. Plus, he knew you’d never allow him to stay. And if you knew he was lying about leaving, you’d huff and puff until he actually made him go.

So, he planned ahead. Like a goddamn mastermind.

By the time you woke up—slightly groggy with pillow lines on your cheek—he had already “packed.” His suitcase was zipped shut and positioned neatly by the door. His travel duffle bag sat upright next to it. His travel documents were tucked inside an envelope labeled “Do Not Open Unless Emergency.” (Totally blank inside.)

You blinked at him sleepily, rubbing your eyes as you waddled into the living room in his oversized T-shirt. One of the many shirts he was sure was missing from his closet.

“You already packed?” you murmured, voice small and pouty.

He turned from the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. Acting too nonchalant to not give anything away.

“Yeah,” he said. “Didn’t wanna rush.”

You crossed your arms over your bump. “It’s only a three-hour flight, Katsuki. Not an expedition to the Arctic.”

“Still gotta prep,” he said, biting back a grin.

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously, but the smell of something sweet distracted you. Bingo.

He stepped aside, revealing a neatly arranged dessert box sitting on the counter. Inside: four of your favorites—strawberry shortcake with extra whipped cream, a slice of creamy Basque burnt cheesecake, a generous portion of tiramisu, and your current obsession: mango sticky rice.

“You bought me desserts?” you awed.

“I bought you a stack,” he corrected. “Don’t think I don’t know you get all sad and start craving sugar when I leave.”

You scoffed. “I do not.”

“You do,” he said, crossing his arms smugly. “You pouted so hard last time I left, I came back to find the fridge empty and you passed out with a half-eaten ice cream tub on the couch.”

“That was one time!”

“And I’m not takin’ chances.”

He bent forward, pressed a kiss to your cheek, then to your rounded belly. “Eat well. Don’t lift anything heavy. Text me when you’re sleepy. I’ll land by lunch. Kirishima’s already on the way, but it’ll take a while because of traffic since the bridge is getting repaired.”

“You’re acting suspicious,” you said, frowning as you clung to his shirt. “You never say goodbye this… nicely.”

“That’s rude,” he muttered. “I’m always nice.”

“No, you’re normally grumpy and say something like, ‘Don’t burn the house down while I’m gone.’”

He smirked. You weren’t wrong entirely.

“Well, maybe I don’t wanna come back to find out you’ve cried over an empty dessert box.”

Your lip wobbled, and he kissed you again—softly this time, with an extra squeeze to your waist.

“I’ll be back before you know it. It’s just for two nights.”

-

He left around nine. Or at least, pretended to.

Instead of heading to the airport, he drove straight to his agency, parked in the underground garage, and holed up in his office. There was a bottle of juice in the mini fridge, emergency snacks in the bottom drawer, and an absurd number of congratulatory emails flooding his inbox that he ignored.

The hours ticked by slowly.

He checked his phone a dozen times. No calls. No texts. Just one blurry photo from you of the dessert box with the caption: You’re lucky I’m in a sugar coma right now. Or I’d be mad you left without triple kissing me goodbye.

He snorted.

Around lunchtime, he got restless. Then irritated.

Then, at exactly 1:00 P.M., he got in the car and drove home.

No warning.

No heads-up.

He half-expected you to be lounging in the living room, watching drama reruns and fanning yourself while complaining about heartburn. But when he pulled up the driveway and unlocked the front door—

The house was suspiciously quiet.

His brows pulled together.

“[Name]?” he called out, stepping in.

Nothing.

He frowned and shut the door behind him, stepping out of his boots. He heard a thud from the back hallway. Then a low grunt. A shuffle.

His eyes narrowed.

Then he heard you muttering.

“Come on, come on, I’m not that heavy—”

He rounded the corner—and stopped cold.

There you were.

Standing in the hallway. Sweaty. Red-faced. Holding a large box half your size with both hands, your bump barely giving you enough room to balance it. Your lip was caught between your teeth as you struggled to carry what was definitely one of the boxes he had explicitly labeled: Do Not Touch.

“…What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You screamed.

You literally screamed—jumping nearly out of your skin, eyes wide like you saw a ghost.

Or a burglar.

Or both, at this point.

“—Katsuki! I thought you were in Korea—what the hell—”

“Put the box down.”

“You can’t just walk in like that, I thought—I—”

“Put it down, [Name].”

You dropped it with a loud thunk, wobbling backward and grabbing your shoulders.

“Oh my god, I thought you were a home invader! I was ready to throw a candle at you—why are you back?!”

Bakugou marched toward you, still wide-eyed with a mixture of rage and pure panic. He can’t believe this at all. “More importantly, why the fuck are you lifting boxes?!”

“I was bored!”

“Bored? So you decided to tear a disc and pop a blood vessel?!”

“I didn’t tear anything! And it wasn’t heavy; it’s mostly baby blankets!”

He crouched down instantly to pick it up—still heavy, despite your excuses—and carried it to the nursery, grumbling the entire way. “Goddamn woman’s gonna give me a stroke,” he muttered, though there was never any heat in his words.

You waddled after him, still stunned.

“Wait. Why are you here?!”

“I never left.”

“You… what?”

“I stayed at the agency. Figured I’d come back after you thought I was gone. Catch you red-handed.”

“You liar!”

He turned toward you, his frustration subsiding.

“You’re not even a good liar! You went full fake goodbye mode this morning! You even left me mango sticky rice!”

“Yeah. ‘Cause I knew you’d snoop around and start being reckless the second you thought no one was watching.”

Your cheeks puffed up again. That damn pout.

“I was just nesting,” you mumbled.

“Nesting doesn’t involve deadlifting half a closet,” he shot back. “You promised you’d take it easy.”

“…I thought you were in Korea.”

“Yeah, well, again, surprise.”

You blinked up at him again, eyes soft now, overwhelmed. “…You really stayed just for me?”

When he sets the boxes down, he exhaled and cupped your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye. “You really thought I’d leave you alone on our anniversary? Pregnant? Carrying boxes? Eating dessert by yourself? What do you take me for? A shitty husband?”

You hit his chest weakly.

“You’re so unfair,” you muttered.

“I know,” he grinned. “And I love you.”

You melted then. Completely.

Wrapping your arms around him, your bump pressing into his stomach, you buried your face in his chest and whispered: “I love you too, you dramatic maniac.”

That night, there was no flight. No press. No conference.

Just takeout on the couch, your feet in his lap, mango sticky rice on your plate, and his hand splayed across your belly like a homecoming gift.

Bakugou may have missed a headline.

But he made the right choice.

And that mattered more.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[em1i2a3]

HII!! i’ve never really done an ask before, eeek! uhm i keep thinking about how the air that i breathe by the hollies is sooo bob. so i was thinking maybe a fluff based off of your interpretation of the song?

The Air That I Breathe

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bob have a comfortable night on the couch.

Warnings: None, just pure fluff y’all, we love fluff in this house lol

Author’s Note: Loving these requests! I liked the idea of writing something based on a song someone else requested! I also love the song as well, so I’m glad someone requested it! Thank you for messaging me and submitting it! Hope y’all enjoy!

Word Count: 3,474

Bob always came to you in silence–never asking, or needing to–like your presence was the only place he could remember how to breathe.

The most opportune time to do this was during the night, when the compound always fell into a strange, unnatural kind of stillness–something that should’ve been rare for a place that inhabited seven people and a cat.

It wasn’t peaceful though. There were too many walls that remembered shouting, and too many doorways that had been passed through with blood still drying on boots. But some spaces–specifically the ones you inhabited or settled in–held something different, something warm, lived-in and safe for someone like Bob.

The common room was dim that night, lit only by a single soft lamp in the corner. The flickering light casted amber warmth across the battered floor and uneven throw rug, its fringe curled from too many feet dragging over it over and over again. The main light switches had been left untouched, which was the way everyone tended to leave the room at night–it was an unspoken agreement that anything brighter would feel too artificial, and would hurt their eyes.

It smelled faintly of overly buttered popcorn, and hot chocolate–the lingering ghosts of whatever Yelena and Alexei had been snacking on before their bickering laughter faded down the hall an hour ago. There were mismatched throw pillows half-tilted on the couch, a Thunderbolts hoodie draped over the back of an armchair, and a half-empty soda can precariously balanced on the edge of the coffee table. Someone had forgotten to turn off the console controller–its faint blue glow blinked lazily beside a mess of crinkled wrappers and a half-finished bag of a variety of sour gummy candy.

You were stretched across the couch like Alpine in a sunbeam, legs tangled in the too-long hem of your own sweatpants, one hand holding the remote as you flipped through channels with no real interest. You were just trying to seek out some background noise. A sitcom laugh track, clicked into a cooking show, then a rerun of some old space movie. You weren’t watching so much as resting inside the rhythm of the flickering screen.

Your own snacks were scattered across the coffee table–a bowl of chips gone mostly stale because someone left the bag open, a mug of Ceylon Gold tea you kept meaning to reheat, and a stack of napkins that you had just in case you made a mess. You told yourself you’d clean everything up in the morning. But for now, you just wanted quiet.

And that’s when you felt it.

The shift in the air, the subtle, unmistakable awareness. Not the tense electricity of an approaching threat–but the soft static hum of Bob. You didn’t look up right away, because you never really needed to. Your training made you hyper aware of your surroundings, so even if it wasn’t Bob and it was just. a regular old intruder–which would not be the case–they wouldn’t really stand a chance.

You let your voice float out into the common room, quiet but certain, “You okay?” There was an immediate pause, then the hush of his footsteps over the rug–careful and soft.

“I can never s-sneak up on you to s-save my life,” Bob murmured, voice low, filled with fondness. You smiled to yourself, before peeking over the back of the couch.

There he was–half-silhouetted in the dim safety lights that lined the hallway, soft and rumpled in the way that only someone comfortable could be. He wore a loose, oatmeal-coloured sweater that hung nicely on his broad frame–even though it hid his body very well. The sleeves were pushed up slightly, exposing the strong but gentle veins of his wrists and hands. His sweatpants were charcoal gray, slung low on his hips, the drawstring left loose. He looked good. Not fully put-together, but soft around the edges, his light brown hair tousled and curling slightly at the ends like he’d towel-dried it but never bothered to brush it out. There were faint smudges of exhaustion painted under his eyes, but it didn’t dim the quiet kind of brightness he always carried when he was near you.

He looked like he needed rest, not sleep.

You tilted your head against the armrest, eyes warm, “That’s because your footsteps give you away, you’ve got an odd shuffle and rhythm to your steps. Might as well give yourself a megaphone to announce yourself.” Bob gave a soft huff of a laugh, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck.

”T-That bad, huh?” You shook your head.

”Nope,” You responded, shifting yourself up the armrest a bit to make room for him in the subtle way you always did, “That familiar.” You added, correcting him.

That seemed to hit Bob somewhere tender, and his eyes seemed to soften even further, crossing the room without another word. You watched as he moved through the dim light, past the cluttered coffee table, being careful not to disturb a single thing–like he didn’t want to risk breaking the quiet rhythm of your space.

As soon as Bob reached the couch, you shifted instinctively. Your body moved with the ease of routine–pulling your knees up just enough to let him ease down into that familiar spot between your legs, right where he always settled. You lifted the blanket and let it fall gently over the two of you, your legs bracketing his hips while he lowered himself with a long, quiet exhale.

The back of his head pressed against your chest with practiced familiarity, as his entire body settled into the spot you had created for him countless times. You brought your arm around him without a word, your hand settling flat across the center of his chest–right where his heart always raced a little faster when you touched him. The other slipped into his hair immediately, combing through the soft light brown locks, smooth from the dampness that kissed them. The moment your nails scraped gently across his scalp, Bob let out a sound that was barely a breath, a complete embodiment of relief, all encompassed in a simple sound.

He melted beneath your hands, and his body softened against yours. You felt him reach down to hold your shin, his thumb dragging slowly over your silky flesh, grounding lines across the bone like he couldn’t stop himself from touching you–even if it was a quiet gesture, even if it was small.

You dipped your head slightly and kissed the side of his neck, just beneath the curve of his jaw, then again, just a little lower–gentle, and unhurried like you had all the time in the world to love him the only way you knew how.

“I was h-hoping you were gonna come to m-my room tonight,” He said after a moment, voice low, almost shy. It came out between one of your passes through his hair. You smiled against the skin of his neck.

”Well, I was going to finish watching something, then I was gonna pay you a visit.” You explained.

“Could’ve t-told me…I would’ve come here sooner instead of w-worrying and thinking I-I did something wrong.” You kissed him again, this time closer to his ear.

”You know I always end up in your bed somehow…And if you did something wrong I would let you know immediately.” He let out a soft, fond breath through his nose.

”This is true…T-Though sometimes I end up in your bed…”You nodded.

”Yeah that’s happened a few times,” You teased, fingers curling gently through his hair again, smoothing the locks down against his neck, “I wake up and suddenly you’re at my door, dragging your whole blanket with you like a sleepy cryptid.” Bob let out a soft hum, the kind of sound that came from deep inside his chest–content, unguarded. His body shifted slightly against you, nuzzling closer into you, like he was trying to disappear into your body.

You smoothed your hand over his chest once more, slipping down to the hem of his sweater to find the warmth of his skin. He didn’t flinch at the contact, he never did with you, though his breath hitched slightly, before steadying a few seconds later–like your touch sucked him into your rhythm.

That was the thing about you and Bob. You were together, and everyone knew that. It didn’t need to be defined or declared or shouted from the rooftops. There was no public claim, no ‘soft launches,’ because there didn’t need to be. Because Bob revolved around you like you were the sun and the moon and the space in between.

And in your own quiet, steady way–you revolved around him too.

You weren’t loud about it. You didn’t have to be. You showed your love and care for each other in your own ways. You showed it in how you saved him the last of your tea, even when you wanted to finish the entire pot. He showed it in how he brought you your favourite socks when your feet got cold, or how you took the time to sew any of his sweaters back together where the stitching had frayed from his nervous picking. He carried your bags without being asked, and you ran your fingers through his hair every time he settled between your legs like this–like you were his home, gravity and oxygen all encompassed in a body.

People could see it.

They saw it in the way Bob looked at you like nothing else existed in the room. In the way his voice softened when he said your name, like he was daydreaming about you constantly, and in the way he would hand over his heart, his peace, and his soul for you without hesitation, even though he already had, repeatedly.

Yelena had once muttered under her breath that the two of you shared one brain cell and one heartbeat, which was an accurate representation of how important the both of you were to each other.

Bob’s thumb continued its slow path along your shin, tracing a pattern only he seemed to know. A map, maybe–one he’d memorized without meaning to. You were still brushing your fingers through his hair, slow and rhythmic, and the moment you leaned down to kiss the side of his neck again, you felt the way his breath caught in his chest, as he cleared his throat a little, like there was a lump forming in it.

He shifted just enough so he could tilt his head back, eyes angled toward the ceiling like he was thinking too hard, or working up to something. You knew that look very well, so you waited for him to talk.

When he finally decided to start speaking, his voice was quieter than usual–thick with something tender and just a little unsure, “Do you…Do you ever think a-about what it’d be like if things were…Y’know, d-different?” You tipped your head down a bit, your lips brushing his temple.

”Different how?” The muscles of his stomach tightened and twitched beneath your touch as you traced a small square on his skin.

”Like…I-If we weren’t doing this whole…Thunderbolts thing…If w-we had time to breathe. Time to just…” He hesitated, then let out a breathy laugh, embarrassed by the sheer softness of it, “Get married…And stuff.” You raised your eyebrows at the way he casually dropped the word ‘married’ so easily, even though it shouldn’t have surprised you one bit–it still hit you hard right in the chest. You let out a sigh, trailing your kisses down to his neck again, slowly.

”You wanna marry me, Bob?” You asked gently, your breath tickling the shell of his ear. He could hear the smile forming on the words, and he replied immediately.

”I’ve wanted t-to since the first time I saw y-you.” Your hand stilled in his hair. He wasn’t joking, and you could feel it in the way his whole body tensed up slightly, and in the way his hand squeezed your leg.

”You didn’t know me then,” You whispered, nipping at his earlobe to give him a bit of a jolt. He let out a nervous laugh, and shifted against you again, his head turning to the side so he could see you.

Even in the dim light, his eyes burned like candle lit oceans–deep and quiet and startlingly blue. Not just one shade, but every possible one layered like secrets: pale frost near the center, ringed with a darker rim of indigo that made them seem impossibly vast. You could’ve drowned in them and not minded at all. There was something raw in the way they looked at you–like he wasn’t just seeing you, but eteching you into his brain. Like every breath you took bent the tide of something inside him.

“I know,” He replied, “But w-when I looked at you, I knew you w-were going to wreck me.” You smirked, feeling your heart pounding against your chest.

”Wreck you, huh?” He huffed again, as your arm tightened around him.

”I-I don’t mean it like that. I-I mean…The kind of wreck where you just change e-everything. Where s-someone walks into your life, and s-suddenly your whole world shifts, and everything y-you thought mattered stops mattering. I-It all just centers around them…” You could feel heat creeping up on your cheeks, “That’s what y-you were,” He continued, voice low and sincere, “You walked in l=like you didn’t even know what you were doing…And I thought–o-oh, there you are. There’s the r-rest of my life.” You took in a shaky breath, untangling your hand from his hair so you could gently cradle his neck, giving him the softest kiss you could muster.

It barely felt like pressure–more like a secret passed between breaths. It wasn’t rushed or rough, it was close. Your nose brushed his cheek as your lips moved together, slow and searching, and when he exhaled against your skin–shaky, sweet, desperate in the way only Bob Reynolds could be–it felt like your entire chest lit up.

He kissed you back with that same trembling care, one of his hands still resting on your shin, the other hovering just slightly over your thigh that was pressed against the couch, like he didn’t know where to touch without worship. His lips parted against yours, chasing you when you pulled back just an inch to breathe.

“I didn’t know that’s what you were thinking,” You whispered, your thumb grazing the line of his jaw, “If I had, maybe I would’ve made things a little easier for you when you were trying to ask me out.” Bob’s cheeks flushed deeply, his neck blooming a light pink.

”D-Don’t remind me of those d-days, I-I always thought I was on the brink of c-collapse when you looked at me.” You laughed–soft and sudden, causing Bob to let out a small groan.

But then, without warning, he shifted–carefully turning in your arms until he was facing you fully. The movement wasn’t graceful. His long limbs tangled with yours, one knee catching on the blanket and nearly dragging it off the couch. You snorted out a laugh as he fumbled, nearly knocking your half-full mug of cold tea off the edge of the table.

”Careful, Bob,” You teased, voice caught between a giggle and a gasp as he braced himself with a hand near your ribs, “You look like you’re gonna drop off the couch if you make one wrong move.” You could feel him rest his other hand by your hip, his body hovering over yours. His weight dipped the cushions just enough to shift you both deeper into the well-worn couch, and he huffed softly as he tried to arrange himself without squashing you.

”I-I’m trying to be graceful here.” He muttered with all the pouty indignation of a man who absolutely knew he wasn’t. You smirked, as you slipped your hands up the back of his sweater, fingertips grazing the expanse of warm skin.

”Yeah, you’re about as graceful as a bull in a china shop.” Bob let out a laugh–low and bright, that boyish sound that made your stomach flip. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and brought a fresh flush to his cheeks, one you felt bloom under your palms as you dragged them up the ridges of his muscles.

“C’mon,” He chuckled, dipping his head to nuzzle into your neck, his breath tickling your skin, “T-That’s pretty unfair…A bull at least h-has four legs to balance on.” You raised your eyebrows.

”And you’ve got two very long, very clumsy ones,” You shot back, your grin wide now as your wraps wrapped loosely around his waist, anchoring him where he belonged, “I’m just waiting for the day you trip over your own feet and Sentry slams a hole through the wall trying to keep you safe.” He groaned dramatically, lowering himself slowly so his chest pressed to yours, his heartbeat thrumming into you.

”N-Not my fault I’m built like a walking c-coat rack,” He mumbled into your shoulder.

”No, it’s not…But I love you this way regardless.” Bob didn’t say anything back immediately, he just laid there, slowly melting into you with every breath. You felt it in the way his muscles eased, in the way his hand slipped from bracing to resting–flat against your ribs like he needed to feel the rise and fall of your breathing. His other hand smoothed along your hip, curling into the fabric of your sweatpants like he couldn’t help himself.

And then he shifted just enough to kiss you again–slow and soft.

When he pulled back, his gaze was clearer now, blue and bare and honest. He reached up, pushed a stray bit of hair from your face with trembling reverence, and murmured, “I-If I had a ring, I’d give i-it to you tonight.” Your heart was thudding now–not fast, but deep, like a bell tolling softly in your ribs.

You searched his face. There was no hesitation there. No nerves, no fear. Just Bob. Warm and open and golden, stretched out above you like a man who had found the only place he ever wanted to be.

So you slipped one of your hands out from beneath his shirt, and reached up to cup his cheek, brushing your thumb gently beneath the soft blue of his eye.

“You don’t need a ring,” You whispered. “You’ve already given me everything I need.” Bob leaned into your palm, like the weight of your touch was the only thing he trusted. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, lashes brushing against the skin of your thumb like feathers, and when he opened them again, they shimmered with something unspeakably soft.

“I s-still want to g-give you one,” He whispered, voice so low you almost missed it, “Even if you don’t need it. Even if we never have the time…I–I want you to have something to wear…S-Something that says you’re truly mine.” He added, gulping down the nerves that filled his throat, “I mean…You’ve always b-been, but…” His sentence trailed off, and his confidence flickered. You could see in his eyes that he was being dead serious, and all the feelings that were stacked high for you began to topple and unravel. So you kissed him again.

Not urgently, not possessively–just long and lingering, a kiss that said I know and I’m not going anywhere. His mouth parted against yours with a softness that undid you, with a sigh that tasted like devotion.

When you pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead resting against his, you whispered, “We’ll make time for it…If that’s what you really want to do.”

That made his lips twitch into the smallest smile. Not his usual nervous, bashful one–but the kind that came from deep inside his chest. The kind that cracked through the walls he still sometimes tried to hold up. The kind that only you got to see. His hand squeezed your waist gently, before drifting up towards your ribs, fingers splaying gently over the cotton of your shirt. His palm settled beneath the swell of your chest, not in a way that asked for more, but in a way that just held.

”I-I do…With my whole heart…”

[gravedwe11er]

Got hit by a Mecha AU Swerve angst idea in the middle of the night, and I had to put it down on a page. Based on the @keferon Mecha AU and inspired by all the amazing Swerve/Blurr art I see around (seriously, yall are giving me so many ideas and I love it).

More often than not, nowadays, Swerve feels like an imposter in his own frame. His time spent as a human was so short, just an insignificant speck compared to the eons of his real life, his real lifespan, and yet...

Those few scant human years are the realest he can remember feeling.

The medics said it took fifteen cycles for anyone to knock on his door, to even notice his absence. And when someone eventually did, it was just- his boss. One of the engines was giving them trouble, and they needed all servos on deck. That's all.

None of the bots who he talked to every day, the ones he’d worked side by side with for years noticed he was gone. None of the people who would laugh at his jokes and drink with him at the bar had a single thought to spare for him. Nobody missed him, until they needed him for something.

Glum thoughts in the dead of night are one thing. It’s another thing entirely to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that it’s all true.

So of course Swerve figured out the holoform thing again. Sure, it’s still kind of risky, but now that he’s actually doing it on purpose, he’s been taking a few precautions – a good recharge, a full fuel tank, and an automated message to be sent off to the medics after a set period of time, in case he knocks himself out again. Actually, he nearly managed just that, the first time he tried it, overtaxing himself almost to the point of shutdown. The keyword being nearly, though! It did little to weaken his resolve, and after a few more tries, he now has a whole system figured out, one that won’t damage his processor.

Or, it probably won’t, anyway. He’s not about to go ask; someone higher up might order him to stop, which-

Yeah, he’s not doing that.

On this ship, Swerve’s got nothing. He might as well be nothing - he’s a trained metallurgist working as a common mechanic, amongst people who barely even know he exists. On Earth, he’s- well. It’s not like he was exactly a social butterfly, but people invited him for shitty cafeteria coffee, a few pilots liked to stop by for a chat sometimes, and if he fell asleep at his desk, someone would come shake him awake within an hour or two.

On Earth, he has Blurr. And that’s not something he’s willing to give up.

Swerve shutters his optics in his tiny room on the ship, and surrenders gladly to the pulling sensation overtaking his processor as his holomatter generator struggles to cross such a vast distance. Then, with a crackle and a fizz of static across his neural net, he’s gone.

When he opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of Blurr’s expansive private hospital suite, with the man nowhere to be seen. He’s been hoping for that, though- as a general rule, he tries to catch the pilot between press conferences and physical therapy sessions, so nobody starts asking questions about the dead man loitering around a celebrity’s rooms. Blurr has enough problems as it is.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait for long. Soon enough, Swerve hears several pairs of footsteps approaching the door, and he ducks into the bedroom, keeping out of sight. “Again, thank you so much for the well-wishes,” carries through the walls, barely loud enough to be audible – Blurr’s voice, he thinks. The ‘business’ voice. “But I really have to go now. The doctor will be visiting soon, you understand.”

There are polite sounds of assent, an exchange of a few more pleasantries before the steps retreat back down the hallway, followed by the quiet whoosh of the front door opening. Cautiously, Swerve peeks out of the bedroom.

Blurr stands in the doorway, back straight, with a bright, practiced smile on the visible half of his face. The other, the one with scars and still healing skin grafts, is covered by an elaborate mask, shaped to look like his mech’s helm. He gives the people outside one final wave, and clicks the door shut.

Then he turns around, notices Swerve and slumps.

Now wobbling slightly, the injured pilot leans his back against a wall, gingerly peeling the mask off of his face to revealed reddened, irritated skin. The smile he turns on Swerve is completely different from before, small and tired and slightly pained.

To anyone else, it would look like an insult. To Swerve, it’s a precious thing, a gift the star shares with very few people in his life - honesty.

“Swerve, hello!” Blurr greets him, sounding slightly out of breath. He’s getting the best care money can buy, but even that only goes so far- recovery will slow and painful, and not everything will go back to how it was. There are some scars the pilot will carry for the rest of his life, and just the thought makes Swerve’s holographic heart ache.

“Hi,” he answers enthusiastically, crossing the room to go help the injured man, only to get waved off.

“Thanks, but I’m good. I need to build up my stamina again.”

Swerve frowns a little, but steps away again. “Alright, if you’re sure. Just be careful! You can lean on me if you need to, yeah? I don’t want you to hurt yourself, so if-“

“Swerve!”, Blurr laughs, interrupting his awkward rambling, and he can feel his holoform’s cheeks going red. “It’s fine, really. I’ll ask you if I need help, alright?”

“Alright,” he mutters into the collar of his shirt and follows after the man, ready to support him if he stumbles. Blurr leads them to his bedroom, laying down on the mattress with a pained grimace, once again waving off any of Swerve’s offers to help. Instead, the man pats one side of the bed in clear invitation, and Swerve does his best to pretend his face isn’t looking like an overripe tomato as he sits, their hands almost touching. Judging by Blurr’s teasing little grin, he fails miserably, but- it made Blurr smile. He’d say that more than makes up for it.

They talk, for as long as Swerve’s holoform generator allows and perhaps a little bit beyond that. He asks after Blurr’s recovery, listens to the pilot bemoan the weakness of his atrophied muscles and endless physical therapy sessions. Learns more about the constant press releases, the pressure from command to return back to duty and perform his star pilot act once again.  They talk about anything and everything the man wants to share, from the important to the mundane.

In turn, Blurr asks him about his life, his day, his work on the ship. Which, here’s the thing- he didn’t really notice much it before his coma, but nobody else actually asks about him. Swerve talks a lot, and sometimes, other bots will even listen, but they never ask.

Except for Blurr. Blurr always asks now, and Swerve always talks and talks and talks, and the pilot never seems to mind. Sometimes, he wishes he knew how to express it, to show the man just how much it means to him, but- in a rare twist of events, the words never manage to leave his mouth.

Doesn’t make it any less true, though.

Every small, honest smile, every real, slightly ugly laugh he gets out of the man makes Swerve’s holographic heart beat overtime. He feels so happy, so at peace when by the man’s side, and he never wants to leave.

But he has to. Eventually, it’s always time to go, his systems warning him of impending shutdown and he hates it, he hates it so much, but he says his goodbyes. Blurr’s understanding about it, of course, and the pilot’s cheeky little wave is the last thing Swerve sees before he closes his eyes and disappears.

When he unshutters his optics, it’s to the sight of his empty, windowless habsuite.  Getting up from his berth, he feels a fleeting stab of vertigo – some echo of his human self’s instinct, warning him of a dangerous height, which, huh. That’s been happening more and more often. Something to ask the medics about, perhaps.

Then again, why bother. It’s not like he doesn’t know what the answer would be.

He misses Blurr already. Misses the warmth of Earth’s sun and the warmth of companionship, the warmth of a soft human touch. Misses his false life and false body, and the very real joy it brings him.

Sometimes, he wishes he never woke up, instead living out his fake human existence in blissful ignorance until his spark eventually guttered from the strain. Occasionally, he wishes he was human. Actually human, not just the holoform- muscle and bone and sinew, just like the rest of them, just like Blurr. It’s clear he doesn’t belong amongst his own kind, so… maybe it’d be better that way.

Most of the time though, he just wants to be on Earth; true frame, fake body, it doesn’t matter. He wants to hold Blurr in his servos, wants to feel like he matters to somebody, wants to-

He’s not really sure what he wants, exactly. He just knows it’s not this.

[jyoongim]

Alastors lover who is such small happy thing, always smiling but not like alastor creepy way, and who always dot on alastor and babies him. She never really got scared of him and always looks at him in awe in his demon form.

Think it would be amusing, hell even he would find it amusing such a small thing fussing and being overprotective on him.

You were quite a pleasant addition to the hotel. 

Unlike your partner, you were sweet and helpful.

Alastor thought your presence would ease the frazzled nerves of the residents if you were by his side.

You always wore a smile on your face, it wasn’t like Alastor’s ever present and malicious smile. 

It was genuine.

It was interesting to see how you and Alastor interacted.

The Overlord didnt mind your touches and fretting. He let you do what you please.

The two of you were polar opposites.

But opposite attract…and in those case it was just fascinating.

You were in the kitchen preparing dinner. Humming a soft tune as you cooked.

Most of the residents weren’t picky eaters and they loved your cooking, so you prepared something that everyone would like.

Once you finished everyone’s dinner, you started on making Alastor’s.

Alastor had rather peculiar tastes.

The kitchen filled with the residents as the smell of food wafted through the hotel.

You already had their plates prepared and dressed. Multiple voices chirped with appreciative remarks as they dug in.

Your smile widened when soft static filled the air, a feathery touch wrapped around you before Alastor’s voice greeted your ears.

”Morning doll! Dont you look hellish today” 

Your big doe eyes turned to greet his sharp ones.

“Good morning Al. Take a seat, Im almost done cookinng”

The tall red demon hummed as he took a seat at the table.

His ears flicked as you approach with a steaming plate.

”I hope you like it. Im not sure of the taste. I’ve never cooked flesh before but it looked a bit like sausage so I think it’ll be ok”

You heard several gags.

Alastor waved you off, picking up a fork “Oh I’m sure its fine. Your cooking ain’t ever failed me yet”

You finally took a seat to enjoy your own plate.

You chatted with the gang. Laughing at Angel’s jokes and agreeing with Charlie’s plans and offering advice for the day and talking with Vaggie.

Once dinner was over, everyone went about their night.

It was only you and Alastor left.

He sighed as he finished his food. “You have quite a way in the kitchen my dear. Dinner was delicious”

You giggled, taking his plate to wash.

The two of you chatted as you washed the dishes. He slithered behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as his head settled on your shoulder.

The two of you stood there in bliss until you finished and turned around.

“Why don’t you listen in on a broadcast tonight? Im sure you’ll find it entertaining” he chuckled.

You smiled as he escorted you to his radio tower.

———————————————————————-

“Alastor you need to see the tailor. Look at this!” You scowled as you held up his tail coat. The ends were raggedy, it was missing a button or two, and needed a few adjustments.

Alastor chuckled “I will make time to visit when Im out today”

You shook your head “No ill do it. You have a meeting today so don’t worry” Alastor’s brows raised “Then what am I to wear dear?”

You rummaged through the closet and pulled out another jacket. 

Alastor’s shadow wrapped around you, purring happily as you helped Alastor get ready.

Once he was properly dressed he bided you a goodbye before you stopped him.

You held his tie ”You’re not dressed properly. You want to be fully dress to terrorize the masses”

You smiled as you began to tie his bow tie around his neck. Alastor tilted his head as he watched you. You were much smaller compared to the demon. He watched as you focused on your task and mumble to yourself. You were so cute. Such a sweet soul you were. Fretting over a powerful Overlord.

Once in place, you fluffed it out and soothed out any wrinkles in his attire.

You beamed once you took a step back and admired your work. “There all ready and fashionable”

Alastor looked in the mirror and smiled at your work.

While he usually dressed in red, you had put him in black. You tucked a red handkerchief in his breast pocket and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

Static popped and buzzed affectionately and before he could pull you into him, you pushed him to the door. “Now off with you. You have a busy day”

—————————————————————————-

Your small fame stood in front of Alastor as a sinner pulled his knife. You were growling and your hair swirled around you as your demonic form appeared.

The sinner laughed “Tsk! What man need a woman to defend him? Haha! Why don’t you settle down sweetheart hmm? After I kill this loser I can show you what a real man is like” he said suggestively, making your eyes narrow.

A large hand touched your shoulder “I can handle this dear” the sinner’s eyes widened as Alastor transformed and went to scream, but inky, black tentacles shot out from behind you to grab the demon.

Alastor stalked past you and tore into the demon, ripping him apart.

While most found Alastor’s demon form terrifying, you found it beautiful.

You watched as blood and limbs flew about, but you focused on Alastor.

He had grew twice his size, black antlers flared out and tall, deep growls and manic laughter erupted from his chest.

He sighed and patted himself down as he turned his nose up at the mess. Your hand skimmed his arm, to alert him of your presence. When he turned to you, blood covered his face. You lifted the hem of your dress and dapped it at his face, tutting “This face is too handsome to be covered in blood. You sure made a mess…Look at you! Its gonna take me forever to get these stains out” you huffed as you wiped his face clean. You smiled once he was clean. “Next time let m take care of it. I am perfectly capable of protecting myself or you if need be”

Alastor let out a chuckle, placing a claw under your chin. He leaned in to place a soft kiss to your lips

”You are very amusing my dear. Most cower in fear at my presence”

You rolled your eyes, lips curling wide “You don’t scare me Mr. Radio Demon” you leaned into him as he wrapped an arm around you and went about the day.

What a interesting little soul you were indeed.

[sleepykas]

"Feeling better, sweetheart?"

Glitch's claws drag lazily along your skin, the pressure pale enough to feel good without leaving any more angry red lines. You have enough littered across your back already.

"Mngh." A grunt muffled by the blanket your face is pressed into draws a low, harmonious chuckle filled with soft static from your partner.

"Still not satisfied? Shall we go a third round?" He teases knowing you're completely done in.

You lift your head from your arms and twist around to glare at him. "Touch me with anything but utter carefulness and I will fry your circuits."

Glitch's smile twitches. You can see the glimmer in his eye that says he wants to bite - wants to take your threat as a challenge and push you further, so you clarify.

"I mean it. Even just this feels like fire ants crawling up my back." You gesture to his still wandering hands, and Glitch pulls them away.

You miss the touch already.

"Overstimulated, then." He shifts his position, hands resting on either side of your head as he leans down and presses a kiss to your hair. The gentle fuzziness of the zap tells you he's toned it down, and you breathe a little easier.

Sometimes you have to be careful. He likes making you beg.

Glitch removes himself from the bed and stretches, joints clicking in odd places that worry you. You don't bother asking, he never answers.

"Water? Coffee? Do you want something to eat?" He asks, digging through his wardrobe and picking through different shirts. You prop yourself up enough to not crane your neck. "A nap."

Glitch glances your way, rays cycling in contemplation. "…I have a meeting in a half hour."

You deflate. "…Oh." Right. Yeah. His high end kind of secret job that you don't really know too much about. You just know it stresses him out a lot. "Okay."

He glances at you, sympathetic. "Sorry, love. I hate to leave but-"

"It's okay." You smile, hoping to be convincing. "I know. Your work is important and you can't just call out. I'll be okay."

Glitch walks back to the edge of the bed and sets a folded shirt on your back - one of his. "I'll be home around ten." He leans in and presses another kiss to your head, and stays there.

You soak up the warmth of his body near yours, reaching out to put a hand on his chest and feel the rhythmic, almost heartbeat-like vibrations of his inner workings.

Metal fingers twice the size of yours curl around your hand and lift it up to his screen, the familiar static kiss touching your knuckles.

You lift your gaze to his and find him already looking at you. Already staring with something heavy and unplaceable. Like worry. Like guilt.

He does that a lot these days. You can't figure out why.

A second passes and carefully you draw your hand along the edge of his screen, feeling the glass rim where it connects to his metal plating.

Something like a shiver rattles his casing and that unplaceable look turns dark.

"…Five more minutes." He rumbles, and you laugh in disbelief as he crawls back onto the bed, tucking himself behind you and curling an arm around your body to pull you in.

"What about your meeting?" You ask.

"I'll just be late."

…Five more minutes, then.

[itneverendshere]

the first relapse being the most scariest thing you’ve seen. sarah’s even calling you about him like “dads trying to get his doctor on the line just in case he od’s”

added this to what i'd already summarized in this ask!! hope everyone enjoys the angst 😔🫂 it’s a little long (around 7.1k)

death by a thousand cuts - r.c

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe) warnings: substance abuse.

Ward’s sitting at the dining table, not bothering to glance up from his phone when he walks in. That look—so cold, dismissive—always sets something off in Rafe.

His father’s eyes stay locked on the screen like the phone’s more of a son than he ever was.

“What’s wrong?” Rafe asks, already knowing this isn’t a normal night.

Ward doesn’t answer right away, only sighs as if Rafe being here is another weight on his shoulders.

“Your mother called today.”

He doesn’t have to ask which mother, Ward’s new wife has nothing to do with this. His real mom, who left.

His brain malfunctions. Static white noise, then, a flood. No rhythm, just shit pouring in. Why now? What did she say? Is she sick? Dead? Alive? Drunk? Remarried?

The name mom tries to form in his mouth and dies halfway out, too human. That’s not what she is in this house. 

“What’d she want?”

Did she ask about me?

“She says she wants to see you. You and your sisters.”

Rafe’s eyes narrow, his heart pounding harder now. The audacity of it. There's pressure behind his eyes, no tears—he doesn’t feel sad. 

She always did this—popped back in when it was convenient for her, like they were just part of her life she could pick up and drop whenever she felt like it.

When was the last time? A couple of years? It doesn’t matter, it's insulting. She always pulled this shit. 

“No. I’m not doing this again.” 

“Rafe—”

“No, I said no.” That all familiar burn expands in his chest. He stands there, fists clenched. “She doesn't give a fuck about us. So, no. I’m not seeing her.”

God forbid she dial his number and hear what he really thinks.

Ward looks up, calm as ever, but there's that sternest in his eyes—the one that always makes Rafe feel like a kid who’s stepped out of line.

“She’s still your mother.”

“My mother?” Rafe lets out a disbelieving bitter laugh, “She fucking left us. She’s not my mother."

Ward rises from his seat. “Watch your mouth.”

There it is, the typical shutdown, respect was ever earned in this house, not demanded. Of course Ward defends her, they're not to different after all and it's easier than facing what she did.

“Watch my mouth?” Rafe barks back, voice tearing straight from the pits of his personal hell. “I watched her leave me every time she got bored. And you—you didn’t do shit! You let it happen, over and over.”

“That’s enough, Rafe.”

No, it's not.

“You gonna defend her? That’s what this is? You gonna act like she didn’t walk out on your kids and you didn’t stand there doin' nothing?"

“Stop blaming everyone else for your problems,” Ward snaps, louder now, the mask slipping. “Grow up. She left. That’s it. You’re still here crying about it, grow up."

Rafe's heart is beating inside his skull. His chest tightens like someone’s squeezing the air out of him.

"You don't get it. You never did. She fucked me up. She fucked all of us up, and you're still acting like it's nothing."

His mind is spinning, flashing back to the nights he was too high to breathe, too strung out to care if he woke up the next day.

“I’m not doing this again, dad. I’m not.”

Ward’s gaze turns cold. “She’s trying now. That has to count for something.”

“Trying?” Rafe gris out, low and brutal. “Trying?”

All those years of broken promises, all the times he was left wondering what the fuck he did wrong to make her leave—and now Ward wants him to sit down like it’s a fucking normal family reunion. 

“I don’t care what you think,” Ward says sharply. “You’re going to see her. That’s final.”

“I don’t care what you think, Rafe. This isn’t up for discussion. You will see her, and that’s final.”

“No fucking way.” He growls, chest rising, holding back a scream. “You can’t make me do this. I’m not going to sit there and pretend like everything’s okay when she’s the reason I turned into. You’re no better than she is,” he spits.

Ward’s eyes narrow dangerously, but he continues, “You let her walk all over us. You let her leave me, us, and you never said a word. You’re a shitty father."

Ward’s jaw tightens, that danger behind his eyes burning full. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

’ll talk to you however the hell I want,” Rafe snarls. “You want me to act like a man? Then fucking hear it. You didn’t protect me. You watched it all go to hell and let me take the fall for everything.”

“You were the problem,” Ward barks, venom surfacing. “She didn’t know how to handle you. Neither did I. You were a disaster—you did that. Not her.”

Rafe laughs but something just died inside him.

“That’s real fucking funny, coming from the guy who was never around enough to know who the fuck I was. You two were and are the fucking problem because you can’t let go of her.”

“This isn’t about you. Sarah wants to see her. Weezie deserves to have a mother.”

Rafe shakes his head, mouth twisted in incredulity. “You think that makes it better? Using them makes this right?”

“Grow the fuck up, Rafe. You will meet her, or you can leave this house right now.”

All the intensive work he's put in, what he clawed through to get clean, the shit he's tried to fix, it's slipping right through his fingers.

He can’t be here, not like this. He’s out the door before he even knows what he’s doing. Door slams. Feet moving. No plan, only that itch under his skin is back—the one he thought was gone, that’s how much control his parents have over him.

Rafe’s hands are still shaking when he gets into his truck, slamming the door harder than he means to. At this point, he's not getting enough air in his lungs. His thoughts are overlapping, crashing into each other at once. The fight with his father keeps replaying in his head, louder and louder, until he can’t hear anything else.

His fingers go numb on the wheel. Jaw clenched so tight his molars ache. His whole body’s tensed preparing for another hit. Ward's voice, telling him he’s the problem. His hands are shaking worse now, and there’s only one thought pounding through his mind: 

He can’t go to you like this.

The thought of walking through your door, this messed up, makes him feel sick. You’ve seen him at his worst before, but this… This isdangerous, the before. Before you, clarity and peace. He can’t let you see him like this, the old Rafe who almost lost everything.

You don’t need to see that. You don’t deserve it.

He knows where he can go instead. Somewhere he shouldn’t, where he swore he’d never go again. Unfortunaly, right now, it feels like the only place that makes sense. His body's buzzing with leftover adrenaline and anger, he needs it to stop on way or another.

So he turns the key, letting instinct and bad decisions take over. There’s a place his body remembers even if his mind’s screaming at him to turn back.

Rafe knows the back roads by heart, even though it’s been years.

He pulls up to the small shack Barry calls home, the lights still on, music thumping from inside. Nothing’s changed. The same rundown place, the same shitty cars parked out front, the same smell of smoke and liquor in the air. Time never moved here.

He sits there for a second, engine ticking, heart pounding, fists locked in his lap. He shouldn’t be here. He knows that. 

Doesn’t matter.

Rafe steps out, heading into his grave with his hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the dirt, trying to stay numb. When he steps inside, the familiar smell of stale beer and weed hits him like a truck, bringing back memories he thought he’d buried.

Barry’s lounging on the couch, a joint hanging from his mouth, lazily flipping through channels on the TV.

“Country Club,” he drawls, exhaling smoke. This is funny to him, a joke. “Didn’t expect to see your rich ass again. Thought you traded this dump for something shinier. Where's your pretty little girlfriend?”

He flinches when Barry mentions you. But he can’t walk out now, he’s already here. It’s already happening.

“I need something,” he mumbles, shame burning up his eyes but he doesn’t look away, already regretting this but not enough to stop.

Barry raises a brow, that smug twitch in his face. “Yeah? You always do. What is it this time—daddy made you cry again?”

Rafe’s teeth grind. “Just give it to me.”

Barry leans back, flicking ash onto the floor, watching him like an animal in a cage.

“You sure?” he says slowly, dragging out every syllable, some fucked up moral test. “You’re about to piss all that clean time down the drain? Thought you were past this shit.”

“I said,” Rafe breathes, voice shaky, “give it to me.”

There’s a pause, Barry's sizing him up.

Then, with a shrug he pretends it's out of his hands and he's doing Rafe a favor. He gets up, disappearing into the back room. Rafe waits, heart pounding in his ears, staring at the floor, trying not to think about what he’s doing, what this means.

Barry comes back a minute later, a small bag of coke in his hand. He tosses it onto the table in front of him.

Bag hits the table. Cash. Grab. Move. All muscle memory.

“Knock yourself out.”

Rafe's already digging in, fingers acting on autopilot as he shoves another roll of cash toward Barry. He knows this is stupid, reckless, it's going to hurt you. But he needs to forget. Just for a little while.

His hands stop shaking the second he takes that first line, it burns like ice. And then—nothing.

You’re already drained when you step through the front door of the house, kicking off your shoes and throwing your bag onto the couch.

The sticky summer air is clinging to your skin, and all you want is a cold shower and to crash in bed. 

The day’s been dragging—Hell day. Work was loud and messy and endless and all you’ve wanted—all day—was to hear from him.

You haven’t gottena text from him since this morning, which would be fine. It should be fine. He’s busy. You’re busy. But it isn’t. 

There’s this nagging feeling in your chest, something’s off.

“Hey!”

Monica calls from the kitchen as you grab a glass of water. She’s scrolling through her phone, half-distracted. Milo’s at kindergarten.

“Hey,” you mumble back. “Everything alright?”

She shrugs, not looking up. “Yeah, mostly.” She pauses, frowning like she’s trying to piece something together. “I think I saw Rafe’s truck earlier. Over by Barry’s place.”

Your heart drops before you understand what that means. You blink, trying to process what she just said. “Barry’s?”

“Yeah, you know. The guy who used to sell—Whatever.” Monica shrugs again, more casual than you feel. “I was driving back from work, and I swear it was Rafe’s truck parked outside Barry’s house.”

No. No. No.

“You’re sure?”

“Looked like his truck,” your sister nods, “Thought it was weird. Figured maybe he was helping someone out or something.”

You know better.

A cold sweat breaks out over your skin.

Rafe talked about Barry, sometimes. He confied in you that when things were bad—really bad—Barry was the one who kept him hooked, pulling him deeper. He told you everything about those years when he was drowning in addicatio.

Barry’s name came up more than once.

And if his truck’s outside, you know something’s wrong.

It’s like a pit in your stomach, this gnawing feeling that’s been sitting with you all day. 

“What? Why’s that such a big deal?”

You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady, but it’s impossible. “Rafe doesn’t… he doesn’t go there anymore. He hasn’t in years.”

Now she looks up. “Oh. Shit. You think—?”

“I don’t know,” you lie. You do. You just don’t want to say it out loud. 

You pull out your phone, fingers wobbly as you open your messages, scrolling through the last texts from Rafe, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. He’s usually better at checking in, especially when he knows you’ve had a long day. But today? Nothing.

You stare at your screen, debating if you should call him. But deep down, you already know something’s happened. He wouldn’t go to Barry’s unless things were really bad.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” your sister offers, but her voice is hesitant, “Maybe he was stopping by. It doesn’t mean—”

She doesn’t finish her train of thought and you don’t need her to. You know what it mean, feel it in your bones. He’s back in that dark place, using—And he didn’t come to you.

Why didn’t he come to you?

“I need to go.”

Your voice cracks on the last word but you’re already moving, keys in hand.

"Wait—what? Where are you going?”

“I need to find Rafe.”

She steps toward you, alarmed now. “Is it really that serious?"

“If he’s at Barry’s, it’s bad.”

Rafe had told you everything—the ugly details about the years he spent losing himself, the drugs, the fights. He had opened up to you after your first time together. And for the past two years you’d seen him, the real Rafe, the one who tried so damn hard to be better.

And yet, he didn’t call you. Didn’t text or let you help.

Your mind is racing as you drive. You think about how good things have been with him—how far he’s come. He’s not the guy he used to be. He doesn’t party like he used to, doesn’t numb everything with lines of coke or bottles of whiskey. He told you about his time in rehab, how scared he was of becoming that version of himself again.

Something must’ve happened.

Why didn’t he tell you? The thought is suffocating and recurring.

You know him—he’s reckless and impulsive sometimes, sometimes still smokes weed to take the edge off, but this…This is worse.

You don’t remember the red lights or the turns. 

It had to be Ward.

His always had this chokehold on him, making him feel like he’s never good enough. And whenever his mom gets brought up—whenever she’s even mentioned—it fucks with him in ways you're still trying to understand.

You slam your fist against the steering wheel, frustrated.

He’s dealing with this alone. And now he’s gone back to Barry. To coke. To everything that almost killed him before. You pull up to Barry’s place, stomach churning. Rafe’s truck is parked haphazardly outside, and your heart skips a beat.

He’s dealing with this alone, and now he’s gone back to Barry. To coke. To everything that almost killed him before. You pull up to his place, your stomach churning. You can see Rafe’s truck parked haphazardly outside, and your heart skips a beat.

He’s here.

He’s here, and he didn’t come to you.

You sit there trying to calm down, trying to figure out what the hell you’re going to say when you see him.

You get out of the car and practically run to Barry’s front door. You know this place, the people who come here and what they’re looking for. You’re pretty sure your dad spent half his life here back when Barry’s dad still ran the business.

You don’t bother knocking. You push the door open.

Barry’s on the couch, looking up when you walk in, and you see Rafe—sitting in the corner, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched.

He looks like a ghost.

Barry snickers from the couch, taking a drag from his joint. “Well, well, look who it is. Didn’t think I’d see the two of you here together.”

“Shut the fuck up, Barry,” you snap, crossing the room. Your eyes are locked on Rafe. “What are you doing here?”

“W-What?”

“Baby, look at you.”

He tries to stand, his movements slow, his body isn’t responding the way he wants it to. His eyes are bloodshot, unfocused, pupils blown wide, and he’s swaying.

“I just... I needed to clear my head,” he mumbles, slurring. His hand goes to his hair, trembling, and he can’t meet your eyes. “It’s not—”

“It’s not what?” You feel your heart breaking with every word, the cracks widening as you take in the mess of him.

His clothes are disheveled, his face pale, his hands twitching.

“I d-didn’t... didn’ wanna...” His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. “Didn’ want you t’see me like... like this,” he slurs, voice scratchy and low. He finally meets your eyes for a second before dropping his gaze again. “Didn’ want you thinkin’ I was still..."

“You’re not that guy anymore,” you cut in softly, even though right now, he looks so like him. “But you’re acting like him.”

is head drops. Shoulders sag. “Didn’ know... wha’ else t’do.”

“And you didn’t think to come to me?” Your voice cracks. “You went to Barry instead of me?”

“Hey now—”

“I told you to shut the fuck up,” you snap, glaring at Barry. Then softer, back to Rafe, “You always come to me. Why’d you run here? Why would you go back to this?” You glance around, disgusted. “You’re better than this. Come on. Get in the car. We’ll figure it out.”

Rafe shakes his head slowly, blinking hard, trying to clear the fog. “C-Can’t... can’t do this right now.”

“Yes you can. Why would you run here? Why would you go back to this?” You glance at Barry, who’s watching the whole scene with a smirk on his face, enjoying every second of your heartbreak.

"Can’t… can’t be with you right now.”

“Why?” 

“Jus’... too much,” he breathes. “Hurts too much. I—” His voice breaks. “Didn’ wanna you t’see... me like this.”

“Then get in the car,” you plead. “We can figure it out together.”

He sways again, holding onto the couch. “I... I can’t,” he whispers so quietly you barely hear it.

It pushes something inside you.

You'll regret it later. If he doesn’t want your help, he doesn’t want you. And if he doesn’t want you right now he doesn’t deserve to want you when he’s better. 

"You can either get in the car and fight with me, or you can stay here. But if you stay—”

“Y-You’ll... you’ll leave?” he mumbles, squinting like it’s taking all the effort in the world just to stay present. “Leave me?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“E-everyon leaves...right?"

He’s never said anything like that to you before.

“I’m not leaving you, but if you stay here, with him,” you jerk your head in Barry’s direction, “I can’t help you. I can’t pull you out of this if you don’t want to get out.”

You know you can’t fix it for him. He has to make that choice willingly.

“I love you, but I won't watch you destroy yourself.”

You think you’ve gotten through to him, because his eyes soften behind all that darkness in his pupils. But then he shakes his head again, looking at the floor, making his decision.

“I... I don’ wanna hurt you,” The words are sticky, they’re fighting to come out. “I dunno how t’stop.”

Your heart breaks a little more at that.

“Yes you do, baby. You do. You just need to believe it.”

If he doesn’t come with you, you don’t know where this ends for him.

He’s stuck—frozen in place and time, trapped by whatever war is raging in his head. And you realize, as much as it kills you, no matter how deep your love runs, you can’t force him to choose you.

“You have to decide,” you say quietly, voice breaking. “Me or this. You can’t have both.”

Rafe lifts his head, eyes red and glassy. For a second, hope blooms pitifully in your chest. Maybe he’ll say something—anything—that makes this okay.

Except, he doesn’t. He just stands there, torn apart by his demons, his lips pressed into a thin line.

You feel the pit in your stomach grow deeper.

“Okay,” you nod, holding back tears. “I guess that’s my answer.”

You turn and walk out the door, heart shattering with every inch of distance you put between you and him. You don't look back, knowing that if you do, you’ll drag him out yourself, and you can’t do that.

As you get into your car, the sobs come anyway. You don’t want to leave him. God, you don’t want to. But he didn’t choose you.

Rafe doesn’t register the sound of the door slamming behind you.

To him, he's watching everything happen from somewhere far away, body senseless. You said something, you were upset—he knows that much—but the words never hit him, only floated around. He sinks back down into the chair, staring at the floor, heart racing but completely detached.

The room is spinning a faster, but he can’t feel anything. Can’t let himself feel anything. It’s better this way. Safer.

You left.

He knows it happened, but it doesn’t mean anything to him right now. He can’t process it in this state, when the drugs are still in his system, making it seem like he's underwater. He blinks a few times, trying to get his brain to catch up, but it’s not working.

Barry’s voice is somewhere in the background, laughing about something, he doesn’t hear him either, the world’s on mute. His body’s still buzzing from the high, fingers twitching, but inside? He's as empty as he gets.

Hours pass, maybe. Time doesn’t exist here when he’s this far gone, but the light changes through the window, it could be minutes or days for all he knows. He drifts in and out, his head heavy, eyes closing, but sleep never comes, only darkness. He did too many lines.

At some point, Rafe wakes up—if you can call it that. His body feels like it weights over two hundred pounds, his head is spinning, his mouth dry and sour. He blinks against the light, his vision blurry, trying to recall where the fuckl he is. 

It takes a second for everything to catch up.

To realize he’s at Barry’s.

It hits him all at once. You. You were here. You were mad. And then you were gone.

A sick, sinking feeling crawls up his throat. He sits up too fast, nearly thowing up in the process. Fuck. He drags a hand over his face, his thoughts still sluggish. Y

ou left. You walked out, and he… he didn’t stop you. Didn’t try to.

Why didn’t he stop you?

Before he can dwell about it, Barry saunters in, a easy-going grin on his face, holding a beer in one hand, a joint in the other. He takes one look at Rafe, slouched and disoriented, and lets out a mocking laugh.

“Good mornin'," Barry drawls, leaning against the doorframe, “Look who’s finally awake. You done fucked it up, Country Club.”

Rafe doesn’t say anything.

Barry raises an eyebrow, taking a drag from the joint, shaking his head. “Damn, man. Thought you were smarter than that.”

Rafe just stares at the floor, his stomach twisting. He can’t remember exactly what he said to you. But the look on your face… he can’t forget that. The disappointment. The hurt.

Barry chuckles, settling down on the couch across from him. “What was it? You running your mouth again, or did she just get tired of you being a fuckup?”

The shame is settling in, creeping up his spine. He doesn’t want to hear this. But Barry keeps going.

“Should’ve seen it coming, man,” He continues, “Girls like that? She was bound to leave eventually.”

If he felt strong enough to move, he would’ve pummeled that joint out of his mouth, his teeth following next.

Who the fuck did he think he was? He knows Barry’s trying to get under his skin, it’s working. He feels sick.

“You done fucked it up, Country Club,” Barry repeats, leaning back with a satisfied smirk. “You’re back here. Same old Rafe.”

Same old Rafe. 

He told himself he’d never end up here again. He swore he was done with this. Done with the drugs, done with the guy he used to be. Now he’s right back where he started. He let you see it.

He doesn’t know how to fix this. Doesn’t know if he can fix this. But the one thing he does know? He should’ve crawled after you.

Rafe doesn’t say a word. His hands are already moving, reaching for the small bag of coke on the table. His fingers tremble as they close around it, the weight of the plastic barely registering in his hand. 

Barry watches him, that same shit eating smile never leaving his face, taking another drag of his joint, exhaling a cloud of smoke with a low chuckle. He’s not surprised.

"Of course," Barry mutters, shaking his head in amusement. “Of course, you're takin’ that shit with you.”

Rafe’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t fight him. He can feel Barry’s eyes on him, feel the judgment radiating off him.

He stuffs the bag in his jacket pocket, standing up on shaky legs, stumbling toward the door. His mind is on autopilot, moving without him.

"Attaboy, Country Club," Barry calls after him, voice dripping with condescension, laughter bubbling up from deep in his chest. “Just keep runnin’. That’s what you’re good at, right?”

Rafe’s hand tightens on the doorknob, teeth grinding together. He can’t look at Barry—he can’t look at any of this—so he does what he always does. He walks away, out of the door, into the night, the bag burning a hole in his pocket.

It’s been two weeks since you last saw him.

Fourteen endless days of silence. Your messages unanswered and unread. You told him you were leaving, but it wasn’t a threat or a goodbye. You only wanted him to choose himself.

You can’t stop thinking about him. It physically hurts.

Rafe's everywhere and nowhere all at once. He’s in the spaces he used to fill, in the empty side of your bed, in the mirror when your face crumples before you can stop it.

You ache with it, not figuratively. It’s a dull, consuming throb behind your ribs that refuses to let you breathe.

You think about where he might be. If he’s safe. If he’s even conscious. If you still cross his mind—or if he’s already let go.

You miss him. God, you miss him.

You’ve haven't been doing well at work. When you try to concentrate, a memory of him sneaks in—wild-eyed, unreachable—and your hands start shaking. Twice you’ve called in sick just to lie in bed and cry until your chest physically hurts. It’s pathetic.

You reached out to Sarah a few times. She was trying to be honest, but it didn’t help. “He’s gone off the grid,” she said a week ago. “Not talking to anyone."

That was a week ago.

Here you are—perched on your bed, phone in hand, debating whether to try again. One more message or one last call, it can’t end like this. Rafe's the love of your life. That hasn’t changed.

Sarah’s name flashes on the screen, and you nearly drop the damn thing. “Sarah?”

“Hey,” You can hear it immediately—something’s wrong. “Are you home right now?”

Your stomach knots. “Yeah. Why? What happened?”

You hear her inhale shakily. “It’s Rafe. He’s—fuck, it’s bad. Really bad.”

“What do you mean bad? What happened?”

“Dad’s calling his private doctor,” she says, her voice beginning to crack. “He thinks he might OD.”

You go cold.

“The doc's not answering,” she rushes on, “Dad’s freaking out. Rafe’s been using nonstop—he’s not making sense anymore. I didn’t know who else to call. I thought maybe if you—"

"I’m coming,” you say, cutting her off, already on your feet.

You hang up and bolt out the door, keys in hand, not fully aware of the motion. The drive to Tannyhill is a quick. You can’t feel your hands on the wheel. You can’t hear the road beneath your tires.

If Sarah is calling you…it's bad.

You’re already sprinting up the steps when the door swings open.

The house is quiet.

Sarah’s by the stairs, face blotchy and eyes bloodshot. She nods toward the living room.

And that’s when you see him.

He’s slumped on the couch, his body limp, eyes half-open but glazed over, he’s not even seeing what’s in front of him. His skin is clammy, his hands twitching every few seconds, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Ward’s pacing the room, his phone pressed to his ear. “I don’t care if he’s busy, get him here now. He’s going to fucking die.”

“Rafe?”

Nothing.

No flicker of recognition. He’s not seeing you—he’s not seeing anything.

Sarah’s standing behind you now, “He won’t talk to us."

You drop to your knees beside him, swallowing back the panic, fingers brushing his arm.

“Rafe,” you breathe. “It’s me. I’m here, okay? Look at me.”

But there’s nothing. Just silence.

His head lolls to the side, his eyes flick to yours—but they’re vacant, it's like looking into someone else’s body. The person you know, the person you love, isn’t there. You keep whispering his name, pleading for him to wake up, to do something, but nothing works.

Ward's still on the phone, his voice a angry hum in the background.

His eyes flick over to you every few minutes, but he doesn’t say anything. Sarah’s standing off to the side, her arms wrapped around herself, face puffy from crying. You can see how scared she is, you’re glad they got Weezie out of the house before she could see this. 

After what feels like an eternity, the doctor rushes in, followed by a paramedic with a bag of medical equipment. He's already kneeling beside Rafe, muttering instructions, checking his pulse, prying his eyes open.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “He’s lucky he’s still breathing.”

The paramedic starts unpacking equipment, slipping an oxygen mask over Rafe’s face as they move with urgency. You try to stay calm, try to keep your hand on Rafe.

Ward ends his call and stands there, watching as they hook Rafe up to monitors and prep him for transport.

“Is he going to be okay?” he asks, voice strained because god forbid he shows more emotion.

The doctor glances up, his expression grim. “We’re stabilizing him now, but if this had gone on much longer… we’d be having a very different conversation.”

You're going to be sick.

They move fast, lifting him onto the stretcher. His limbs dangle uselessly. His body looks small, somehow. Beaten.

Ward steps forward, watching his son being carried away. For the first time, you see it—real fear in his eyes. 

“I should’ve seen it coming,” he says eventually. “Should’ve stopped it. This is on me.”

You feel something snap inside of you.  

“I’m sure it fucking is.”

He doesn’t say anything, only stands there like a fucking idiot.

Sarah’s beside you now, her hand a small pressure on your arm. “Come on,” she whispers. “We need to go with him.”

You nod, swallowing as you follow her out of the house, leaving Ward standing there alone.

You and Sarah sit in the car, neither of you speaking. You watch the ambulance disappear down the driveway, sirens off.

“I’m scared,” Sarah admits. 

You shut your eyes. “Me too.”

You have to remind yourself to breathe.

At the hospital, everything moves in slow motion. You’re ushered through paperwork, redirected by nurses, given vague updates. Eventually, you end up in a waiting room—those hideous, rigid chairs that feel like they were made for purgatory.

Minutes drag by like hours. You scroll through your phone without seeing it. Sarah bites her lip raw, blinking too fast. Every time you close your eyes, all you see is him—slumped, slipping away. After what feels like forever, the doctor finally comes through the doors, and Sarah and you jump up at the same time. 

The doctor looks exhausted, his face lined like he’s delivered this kind of news too many times already today.

“We got to him in time,” he says, voice low. “He was close. Closer than I’m comfortable with. But he’s stable now. We’ll keep him under for at least twenty-four hours.”

You finally take a deep breath, it shudders on the way out, not doing much to ease the knot in your chest.

Sarah’s already moving when the doctor finishes speaking. She doesn’t ask where his room is—she doesn’t need to. She has to see him. You don’t follow. Your legs feel like they’ve turned to stone. If you try to stand, you’ll collapse.

As much as you want to be with him, to hold his hand or just… see him breathing, you’re not sure you can stomach it—seeing him like that again. You've been walking a tightrope for weeks, bracing for a call like this.

What you need more than anything is to get out of here, close your eyes for more than a minute without the image of him passed out burned into your brain. You need sleep. You need to feel something other than panic. He’s gonna be okay. 

Rafe's alive, that’s enough for now.

You leave the hospital, but the image of him doesn't leave you.

You come back the next morning.

Just outside his room makes your stomach churn. You grip the handle, remind yourself you have to go in, he’s still here, he needs you.

He’s awake.

Propped up by the pillows, pale and worn down to the bone, but his eyes find you the second you step through the door. It’s like he doesn’t believe you’re real.

“Hey,” You manage to say, You don’t trust your voice to be strong enough to say something more.

His eyes widen faintly. “You came.”

You take a cautious step closer. “Of course I came, Rafe. Where else would I be?”

He’s genuinely shocked, he thought you’d just walk away from all of this. His eyes flicker away from yours, settling on the IV in his arm.

“Sarah called me. She didn’t know what to do.”

His jaw tightens. “She shouldn’t have.”

“She shouldn’t have had to, Rafe. You scared the shit out of her—out of everyone. I’ve been sitting here for two weeks, waiting for you to say something, anything, and you just—” You stop yourself, throat closing up, biting your lip to keep from crying. “You almost died.”

You can see his chest rising and fallin, you don't think he's going to answer at all—until he speaks.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he admits quietly. “I didn’t want you to see how fucked up I am.”

Your heart twists. You’ve already seen it. Every fractured, spiraling version of him—and you’re still here. Because you’ve seen it and you love him anyway.

Rafe shakes his head, his hands gripping the blanket.

“I don’t deserve you.”

You step sit on bed, “Don’t say that,” you murmur, reaching for his hand. He flinches but doesn’t pull away. You link your fingers with his. “You’re gonna be okay. We’ll get through this. I need you to let me help you.”

He closes his eyes, his face twisting in pain, “Ward wanted us to meet mom and I just—”

You’ve never fully understood what his mom meant to him, or maybe what losing her did to him, now you do. The deep-rooted pain that calcifies in the bones and takes root in the places people don’t talk about.

“I didn’t want you to see this mess. I don’t want anyone to. I’m a fucking disaster. Every time I try to fix something, I make it worse. I just—” He breaks off, trying to swallow the rest of his words, the ones he can't confess out loud.

“You spent years sober, that’s not easy,” You scoot closer, wrapping your arms around him carefully, “Baby, I know you’re hurting. But I’m not going anywhere.”

“You should,” He confesses, “I hurt you.”

“You have,” You murmur into his shoulder,  “But that doesn’t mean I’m leaving. I’m not gonna give up on you.”

Rafe looks away, like he doesn’t believe you, he's waiting for you to walk out of that hospital room and never look back.

Instead, you squeeze his hand.

"I’m here because I love you."

“You shouldn’t.” he whispers.

You shake your head, leaning in, your hand resting on his cheek.

“But I do, Rafe. Together, okay? One step at a time.”

He nods, barely, but it's something. It’s a start.

[sushirrrry]

Hi Em! I have an idea for a little prompt if you have time:)

2nd person

No smut

I was thinking Harry and y/n are freshy dating so everything is very new and exciting but they are also both kind of nervous and shy around each other:) just something cutesy in the early stages of dating, how they’re exploring their routines, habits etc:)

Set at uni/young adults working their first jobs

Have a nice dayyyyy!

GENTLE

@witch-rry hope you enjoy 😘

Everything about him, about this, it’s still new.

The way he knocks on your suite door, even though you told him he never has to, especially when you’re expecting him. The way your heart does that silly little flutter each time anyway — even if you’re just in mismatched socks and his hoodie that he left at your flat a week or so ago, holding a spoonful of peanut butter mid-air as you meander to answer the door.

Harry smells like outside air and laundry detergent when he steps in, cheeks pink from the cold. The beanie settles on his curls perfectly, and his large, green eyes have crinkled in the corners from where he holds his happiness. He smiles like he’s trying not to; you smile like you’re not trying at all.

He toes off his shoes by the door, carefully, always in that same order — shoes, jacket, hat, then the little sigh he lets out like the day’s finally over now that he’s here with you. You stand there next to him, waiting to lead him into the small flat.

“You’re always eating peanut butter,” he says, amused, dropping his bag beside the door.

“And you’re always late,” you shoot back, but there’s no heat behind it — just that familiar tease that you both like so much, that low-grade buzz that’s settled between you two like static.

He grins, shyly. “Got caught up at work. Again.”

“They must really need you,” you tell him, taking another bite of the peanut butter from your spoon. “Employee of the Year award.”

Harry shakes his head, putting his hands in his joggers with a sheepish response, “I guess – I like being needed.”

You offer him the spoon. He takes it, brushing your fingers accidentally-on-purpose, and for a second the room tilts. He looks at you like you’re magic, and you look at him like you might believe it to be true.

“You still okay for a movie night?” you ask, a little softer.

“Of course – I even brought the snacks this time.”

You follow him when he starts to move over to your couch, “You pick weird snacks.”

“I’m a man of complex taste,” he says, puffing his chest slightly, before collapsing onto your tiny couch that still smells like takeout and cheap candles.

And then… there it is. That quiet beat that follows new love. Not loud, not dramatic. Just two people slowly making space in each other’s lives.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” You ask him, knowing that the kettle had already been on, but wondering if he would like to join you.

Harry turned from his seat on the couch, almost looking like he would get up because he wanted to help you. “Oh – uh, yes, actually. That would be great.” He’s shy, and nervous, and feels as if he needs to help you with everything. It’s what a gentleman would do; but the thing about Harry is that he knows how independent you are, and how much stuff you don’t want help with.

You don’t know his middle name yet, but you know how he takes his tea: plain with just a splash of milk. He doesn’t know where you see yourself in five years, but he knows you sleep with your window cracked open just in case it starts to rain. You’re still figuring it all out — the pacing, the rhythms, the delicate weight of maybe falling for someone too fast. But it’s a type of falling that feels fun and dramatic and soft.

For now, it’s enough. Peanut butter spoons and shared blankets and knowing smiles across the room make sense for you both, and it feels incredibly special to know that you can look at each other with the same hearted eyes.

Harry settles into the far corner of your couch, leg tucked beneath him like he’s still not sure how much space he’s allowed to take up. His hair’s a little damp from the walk over, and it curls slightly at his temples — you try not to stare, but your heart’s doing that thing again, the skip-hop flutter that’s becoming familiar around him. His cheeks are still pink, you wonder if it’s from blush or just from being warm.

You pass him the blanket from the back of the couch without a word. He takes it with a quiet “thanks,” eyes flicking to yours for a second too long before looking away.

On the screen, the movie menu loops again – he let you pick the movie this time, even when he argued that you’d never seen Jurassic Park so it was a must. But he let you choose Little Women because he wanted to watch you watch it more than anything. Neither of you press play.

Instead, you both sit in that still moment, the kind that only happens when you’re not quite strangers, not quite anything else yet. Your flat smells like microwave popcorn and your vanilla body lotion. His knee accidentally bumps yours, and he leaves it there, like maybe he’s hoping you won’t mind if it’s just resting.

Of course, you don’t. You even push back a little bit to let him know that you feel him.

You don’t say anything — just rest your head back, letting the soft hum of the room fill the spaces between your thoughts. It’s new. It's unfamiliar in a way that feels good, like breaking in new shoes or hearing a song you know you’ll play to death just so you can practically feel the words.

He reaches for the popcorn and misses the bowl completely, sending a few pieces scattering onto the carpet. He groans, embarrassed, and ducks down to pick them up, mumbling something that sounds like, “Every time.”

You give him a pitied laugh, just a little, soft and honest. He glances up at you from under his lashes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s proud to have made you laugh even if he didn’t mean to.

“Thanks for letting me come over,” he says, almost like he felt he needed to thank you for allowing his presence.

You nod, brushing your socked foot against his in an absentminded kind of way. “I like it when you’re here.”

He smiles at that, cheeks pink. Not from the cold this time, you were sure of it.

The quiet stretches, but it’s not awkward. Just… tentative. Like the two of you are standing on the edge of something, peering down into it but not quite ready to jump.

Your hand ends up next to his on the blanket. And then, not long after, in it. He doesn’t look at you. You don’t look at him. But the grip is warm, and it holds.

The movie finally starts playing in the background, but neither of you are really watching. You feel the rise and fall of his chest where he’s settled a little closer now. He smells like cinnamon gum and something clean, like the laundry detergent your flat mate insists on overusing.

At some point, your head drops onto his shoulder. And his thumb brushes your knuckles, once, twice — a steady rhythm that calms something buzzy in your chest.

You don’t talk about how new it all is. You don’t talk at all. But then when the credits roll, and you both stay exactly where you are, you know he’s not going anywhere — not tonight. Not if you don’t want him to.

And you don’t. Not even a little.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 5 - If You Let Me

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Welcome back Sam Winchester I’m sorry about your girlfriend are you ready to suffer for thousands of words as these two idiots dance around each other?

Chapter title from when the party's over by Billie Eilish

Word Count: 16.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean calls you for a case, you grapple with your growing power, and Sam has questions. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 4 - Chapter 6

Read on A03!

No matter what happens, Dean can never be allowed to know how fast you’re driving. Especially because every single traffic violation you commit is in his name. In the hope of seeing him just ten minutes sooner.

In your defense, you haven’t seen him in person in almost three months. You’d gone on a hunt together, parted with the usual smile and awkward high five, and then he’d just stopped asking to you hunt with him. He hasn’t left, hasn’t vanished, and he’s been the one calling you to talk, but he just doesn’t even mention hunts anymore. You just don’t see him. And over those four months of missing him—and shoving that aching, whining feeling deep, deep down where it couldn’t feed into the White’s vast desire—he’s started to sound… off.

“Did you know that people could curse animals?”

“Yeah,” you’d said, glancing down the hall to make sure Bobby was still gone, and not about to barge in and catch you talking to Dean. “I think you can curse most anything. I’ve heard of like, babies being cursed.”

“That’s creepy, Princess.”

“I didn’t curse them-“ You’d cut yourself off with a frown. “Did you and John run into a cursed animal?”

“Uh. No?”

You’d raised your brows. “Why are you asking me, I wasn’t there.”

“No, I’m just- It’s complicated. I’ll tell you later. How did that hunt in Montana go?”

“Oh, super fucking easy.” And it had been. You may have destroyed a fire hydrant when the chimera chased after you—unable to contain or aim the Darkness like you could when you were with Dean—and almost bashed your head against the wall from the sickness crawling over your head and setting it on fire when you returned to the motel, but you’d been done in a day. And you’d been lonely—hollow and long and vastly lonely—but Dean didn’t need to know that. “What’s complicated?”

He’d sighed into the speaker. “I said I’d tell you later-“

“Are you safe?”

There had been a long pause of static noise. You’d been about to check if the call dropped—Bobby didn’t really get great reception—when Dean spoke again. His voice had sounded soft.

It had been worrying.

“I’m alright,” he’d whispered your name, and your grip on the phone had tightened. “It’s- There’s a lot going on right now.”

You’d frowned into the air, the White making a pathetic noise like it could convince you to take a car and just go. Go to Dean—you didn’t even know where he was—and try to help him with whatever was a lot, when you’d probably end up making it worse. You always made things worse.

You might have also destroyed a tree. And a mailbox. And a good part of the road.

Dean clears his throat, his tone almost nervous through the speaker. “Where are you?”

“Me?”

He'd chuckled. “Yeah, unless there’s someone else on the phone I should know about-“

“Shut up.” You’d rolled your eyes, sitting up in your seat as an engine sounded outside. “Shit.”

“Where’s Shit-“

“No, that’s not- Sorry, Dean, I have to go-“

“Why?” Through the phone, you hadn’t been able to tell if that was his worried voice or angry voice. “Are you-“

“I’m alright, I just-“

“Where the hell are you-“

“I’m home, in South-“ You’d cut yourself off with an internal grimace. Fucking Dean and his way of making you accidentally say too much of the truth all the time, even over the phone. “Park.”

“Isn’t that a TV show?”

Shit. Dean mostly watches children’s cartoons, daytime soap operas in motels, and really old movies. You hadn’t expected him to know that.

“No?”

“Why are you asking me-“

“Shut up. I really have to go-“

“Alright, alright, just, if you’re not busy, we’re near Pittsburgh. We could use your help.”

You’d frowned, taking careful steps up to your room, praying that Bobby wouldn’t immediately start looking for you when he got inside. “I don’t think John would want my help-“

“Not Dad.” Dean had sighed, and you could picture him running his hand over his face. “Sammy.”

You’d frozen, the door not fully closed. “Your brother? He’s done with college?”

“Yeah. I mean, no. Kind of. It’s-“

“Don’t say complicated.”

“Uh,” he’d paused. “Complicated.”

“Dean-“

“I couldn’t think of another word! What the hell else-“

“Messy? Confusing? Complex?”

“You know Princess, you’re really annoying-“

You’d scoffed. “That’s no way to talk your very good friend and possible savior. Message me where to meet you.”

“So you’re coming?”

“Yeah.” You’d grinned into the air, keeping an ear on the door as Bobby shuffled around downstairs. “I want to meet your brother.”

Dean had groaned. “You know, you’ve met him before-“

“Doesn’t count. I want to actually talk to him this time.”

“Fucking- Fine, but no funny business, or asking him stupid questions.”

You’d hummed. “No.”

He’d snapped your name into the phone, right as Bobby had called it from downstairs, and you really did have to go. 

“See you soon, Deano.”

You’d hung up, and barely a second later Bobby had knocked on your door.

“Hey,” he’d grunted you name, and you were pretty sure he hadn’t heard anything. “You in there?”

“Yeah, wait-“ You’d checked your hand and glanced in the mirror—no bite marks or scratches, the only evidence of your pain living inside where Bobby couldn’t see it—and opened the door with your best nothing’s wrong smile. “Welcome home, old man.”

Bobby had scoffed, scanned over you with narrowed eyes, and then met your gaze with a small, tight smile. “Ain’t I the one who’s supposed to- shit-“

You’d wrapped him in a tight hug, squeezing him and letting out the long breath you always held when you left. It was an oath you kept trying to keep for yourself, that you’d always come back home because you had to let out that breath. That the highways were long, and the nights were lonely, and the Darkness kept building and building inside you—sinking deeper and deeper into the White until there was always some part of you that strained and screamed from the pain of trying to pry them apart—but you had a home to come back to, and one person who’d never call you a burden.

Because you’ve grown sicker. You only grow sicker. You only destroy more and more things, and the Darkness only slips away from you with more ease, but Bobby doesn’t give up on you. 

The demons began, and they won’t stop coming, but Bobby doesn’t give up on you. 

Dozens of demons, more and more every month, ever since that one demon you’d killed for Dean. You don’t know why. You don’t know what beacon lit up inside of you, what’s calling every single fucking demon in America to come and find you wherever you went, but they are. They do.

It's been random. Gas stations and grocery stores, on random hunts and waiting for you near your car. It’s worse when you’re alone. When the Darkness and the pain get overwhelming to the point that you’re barely you anymore, and you end up curled in a bathtub, breathing heavy through your nose. Your clothing in a pile of the floor because it aches to touch something as sick as you, the whole room disgustingly clean because you can feel the grime itch and rot at your skin, your rings on the sink because the pain of the iron sears over your ribs and organs.

And then you’ll force yourself up to go get some coffee, and the barista will have something black and malevolent and glinting writhing inside of Her.

They almost never attack. It’s more terrifying, because you’ll feel an overwhelming sense of wrong, and you’ll yank everything down with a bite on your inner cheek, and there will be the demon.

Just watching you. Smiling at you, following you for a day, and then vanishing when you skip town.

Then there’s him. He’s the worst of them all. He’s more like fog, burning and glinting inside his vessel’s body. He’s yellow like sulfur or acid, and keeps appearing when you turn a corner. Passing you in the street and nodding at you in a bar, like he knows you.

He never approaches. He never attacks. He just watches, like you’re a specimen. Everything that’s wrong inside of you is worse inside of him. Potent. Eroding.

Terrifying.

And Bobby knows. Not about the yellow demon, or how the whole thing started, but that you don’t really sleep anymore because you’re afraid the night will take form and go for your throat. That you’re on more and more hunts because it’s distracting from how the Darkness always strangles the White when you’re static and useless. That all the pain has gotten far worse over these past few months. 

Although he does think that’s unexplainable. He doesn’t know it’s because you’re always alone when you’re gone, and the only reminder of Dean is his voice on your phone and his knife in your jacket. 

But Bobby still doesn’t give up on you. He made you create a plan for when the Darkness—inevitably, although neither of you would say it aloud—takes over and you aren’t able to drag yourself down in time. He still tells you to just come home and stay there every single day. And if Bobby was going to give up on you, he would have long ago. He wouldn’t return your hug with a long sigh and mutter your name like you were something important to him, instead of a leech. 

“Welcome back, kiddo.” He’d grunted, and when he pulled back and gave you another firm look, you knew he was checking for damage one last time. “Chimera go down easy?”

You’d flinched, the beast’s shrieks of pain still echoing around your head, and Bobby had frowned.

“You have another-“

“Yeah.” You’d whispered. “Big one.” 

Bobby had sighed, rubbing his jaw as he gave you an assessing look. “Anythin’ unfixable?”

You’d shaken your head. “I would’ve called you, but I wasn’t that far, and I’d finished the hunt anyway.” 

Bobby had opened his mouth, worry painted on his features, but you’d known what he was going to ask. It was the same fear that haunted you. 

“Nobody saw me.”

He’d nodded, letting out a long sigh. “Alright, but you’re gonna need to be more careful. Our luck ain’t gonna last forever, and when someone does get wind-“

“I’ll call you, then Rufus, throw all my phones off a bridge and abandon whatever car I was driving. Go one town over from wherever I am and lock down until either you or Rufus comes to get me.” You’d given Bobby a soft smile. “I know the drill. I helped you make it.”

Bobby had rolled his eyes. “Cool it, smartass. How long are you stayin’ this time?”

You’d given him an apologetic, tight-lipped smile. “Dinner?”

“That’s it?”

“I’ve got another hunt.” You’d mumbled, and Bobby had frowned.

“You need a rest,” Bobby had grunted your name, and you’d swallowed. “Ya’ look like shit.”

“Hey-“

“I ain’t gonna lie to you. When the hell was the last time you slept a whole night?”

You couldn’t remember. 

But you really wanted to go see Dean. You missed him. You missed laughing and talking to him, and you were worried about him. And you couldn’t tell Bobby that, because then you’d have to tell Bobby that you’ve actually been hunting with Dean for about two years when he’d specifically told you not to.

“A few days ago.” You’d shrugged, twisting a ring on your finger. “I’ll be okay, and I can come right back after this one.”

Bobby had sighed. “Where would you be headin’.”

“Pennsylvania.” 

“And you’re stickin’ around for dinner.”

You’d nodded, and Bobby hadn’t pushed further. You’d eat dinner with him, spoken about anything that didn’t make him look concerned and your whole body only pain, and climbed into the car with another silent promise to come back.

And you were holding your breath again. But this was a three-person hunt. A three-person hunt with Dean. 

You’d be fine.

He’s sent you to one of the usual, generic strip motels. Crowded lot, beige paint, cracked sidewalks, and stiff, square bushes lining the building. You’ve barely stepped out onto the pavement when a door slams, and there he is. Bags under his eyes weren’t there last time you saw him, a small bruise on his cheek that seems about a week old, but still grinning. Still impossibly handsome, still making the White buck and hum and ease into the Darkness, still not yours to ask for.

And really happy to see you. You’ve seen Dean’s fake smile.

This one is real.

He shouts your name, and you’re long past trying to fight your own smile at the sound of him saying it. At the sight of him jogging towards you, nothing but genuine joy on his face that you’re here.

And then he hugs you, and you’re not sure this isn’t a dream. Dean never hugs you anywhere but in your dreams. In real life he always grins at you and shoves his hands into his pockets, the most contact he offers being a nudge of your shoulder with his, or a drag of your body away from danger. But this is a hug. This is his arms wrapped around your shoulders, his body pressed right up to yours, and it’s so quick that you don’t have a chance to really return it before he’s gone.

Dean’s eyes are wide on yours as he steps back, and there’s more red near his ears than usual. His hands go in his pockets, you stand a little taller, and both of you stare at each other for a long, strange second before you find your voice.

“Hi.”

“Uh,” Dean clears his throat, glancing over his shoulder before looking back to you. “Hey. Good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too.” You wrap your arms around your body, and suddenly there’s a ghost of a strong, warm body pressed to yours. Dean had hugged you, and it was far worse than just his hand. It had branded on something deeper under your skin, sinking down into the White, bleeding into the Darkness until everything was silver, and you were a little dizzy.

And you’re just staring at each other. You want to hug Dean again. He’d been warm and tangible, and he’d touched you on purpose and it had sent lighting through your blood and up your spine, and you can’t tell if your skin is prickling from the silence or the need to just go touch him-

“Dean!” A loud, annoyed voice cuts through the air, and you look over Dean’s shoulder to see a tall, shaggy-haired man walking out of the motel. “You left the fucking door open, dude, you can’t just-“

The man stops, blinking at you, and you offer him a small smile. That’s Sam. He’s somehow taller, and his face isn’t babyish and innocent anymore, but you recognize him. 

And he seems to recognize you, because his words are slow, and his gaze never leaves yours.

“Dean?”

Dean rolls his eyes. ���Don’t start, Sammy, I closed the door-“

“No, you didn’t. But that’s not what I-“ Sam glares at Dean, gesturing to you. “Is she your contact?” 

“No, she’s my hooker- fuck-“

You whack Dean’s arm, and Sam’s eyes widen.

“I am not a hooker-“

“Obviously, Princess, hookers are supposed to be nice-“

“I’m nice!”

Dean gives you a flat look. “You just freakin’ hit me!”

“Because you called me a hooker, Winchester.” You wrinkle your nose at him, crossing your arms. “And, just so we’re clear, if I was a hooker, you wouldn’t be able to afford me.”

Dean’s jaw twitches slightly, and you frown, because he’s not sparring back. He’s supposed to spar back. The strange, hanging tension from the hug is gone—he probably hadn’t even felt it deep in his body like you had, he’d probably just been awkward because you’d been too dazed from his contact to hug him back—so Dean’s supposed to make a joke about working out another form of payment, and wiggle his brows at you in a way he doesn’t know always makes you fall a little further into him. Makes your skin warm and the world technicolor. 

But he’s just looking at you, and there’s something taut flashing behind his eyes. You open your mouth to apologize—to ask what you'd said, because you know you’re bad at understanding the line, yet Dean always seems okay crossing it with you—but Sam clears his throat, and Dean turns away.

The White aches. You don’t have time to indulge it.

“So she is the contact.” Sam raises his brows, and Dean scowls at him.

“Obviously.” He mutters, and when he looks back to you the taut thing seems fainter. Buried down where you’re not sure you’re supposed to see it.

But you do. And it taints those fractured pieces through your body. Makes them wither and balk, because you struck something in Dean again, and you don’t ever really know how to stop.

Dean says your name, offering you a smaller smile than before. It’s still real. You’ll have to cling to the fact that it’s still real. “This my brother, Sammy-“

“Sam. It’s Sam.”

Dean shrugs. “Sure, whatever-“

“No, not whatever.” Sam frowns. “It’s bad enough you won’t stop calling me Sammy, I don’t need everyone we meet-“

“You two have actually met before-“

“Yeah, I remember. And Dad said that-“

Dean shoots Sam a sharp look, Sam snaps his mouth shut, and everything start to get too big as the Darkness vaults up to the surface. John had said something about you. He wasn’t here, but he’d told Sam and Dean something, and Sam didn’t look all that happy to see you. He wasn’t turning any weapons on you, but he and Dean were exchanging a silent conversation, and you were caving in as the world expanded. You could feel the bite of the wind on the trees, and the thirst of the yellowing grass around you, and fuck, you could taste bile in your throat because the Darkness was starting to rot in your stomach as you forced it down-

Sam says your name, and you almost don’t hear it over the ringing in your ears. “Is she good-“

“Yeah, shit- just-“ Dean places one hand on your shoulder, waving the other in your face. “Hey, Princess, come back down-“

He’s close. His hand is solid on your body. He smells like grass and spice. 

His thumb has moved to the bridge of your nose, stroking a slow line that moves the Darkness back into the cavity of your chest. Makes everything clear, even as the pain lingers. 

You let out a long breath, offering Dean a small smile. “Thank you.”

Something flashes in his eyes, and your breath is heavy in your lungs. Every time this happens, you worry he’ll snap. That he’ll demand more answers than you can offer, and his it’s probably just a girl thing will come to a crashing end as he puts together that it’s a you thing. And just you isn’t worthy of him wasting time on.

But this one doesn’t seem to be it. Dean’s lips press in a small pout, and he scans over your face, but he doesn’t push. 

“You good?”

“I’m fine,” you shrug him off, making your voice as casual as possible. “Just a long drive. It’s nice to meet you, Sam. Again.”

“Yeah, you too.” Sam offers you a tight-lipped smile. “Dean said you could help us out with this?”

You nod. “Well, he didn’t say what this is, but-“

Sam cuts you off with a groan, shooting Dean a frown. “Dude, you didn’t tell her the details of the case?”

“C’mon, it’s not my job to be a freakin’ database or whatever-“

“You still need to tell her what the case is, Dean, what if she can’t help-“

“I can help.” You snap, and Sam sighs.

“Look, I’m not doubting you, but this one is really complicated-“

“Good.” You raise your chin up, holding Sam’s gaze. “That’s my specialty.”

Dean clears his throat, looking between you and Sam with a weary expression. “It is, Sammy. She’ll get this. And you know we need the extra hands.”

Sam sighs, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. But you’re the one who’s explaining the case, Dean. You were supposed to anyway.”

Dean rolls his eyes at you as Sam turns around, and suddenly it’s all clear and bright again. You don’t know how he does that, how he stitches everything inside you together when it starts to rip. You need to figure it out and bottle it up. Learn how to use it on command, because this might be a long case. Sam doesn’t seem to want you here, or like you all that much, and John told them something. They haven’t killed you, but John told them something. And Dean might be strangely willing to just dismiss your episodes, but you catch Sam’s odd look as you walk into their motel room. He seems a bit sharper than Dean, a little more on edge, a little more guarded and cautious.

So you need to be careful. You need to keep it the fuck together, by yourself.

And you’re a little worried that’s not possible.

Dean gestures for you to sit in a creaking, wooden chair—Sam watching you both from across a round table—and claps his hands together as he begins.

“Alright, we’ve got five dead ladies. Three in their twenties, one in her thirties, and one hag-“

You raise your brows at him. “Hag?”

“Yeah, she was like a million. Wrinkly. Right, Sammy?”

Sam shrugs. “I would’ve just said old, man.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine, old. Point is, different ages. Different races too, and jobs, and social circles. We’ve been investigating for about a week, even broke into the vic's houses and went through their rooms. No connection between the vics outside of all being chicks, no deep dark secret, fucking nothing.”

You frown at him. “Like the mall.”

“Kind of, yeah, but these ladies are all going down the same way.” Dean points to his head. “Bashed in brains.”

“Gross.” You mutter, running a hand through your hair as you think. “Where are they dying?”

“Same office building.” Sam slides some papers across the table. “Different floors, though. Four of the vics were employees, but one was just visiting her boyfriend.”

You nod slowly, scanning over the files. “And why isn’t it a ghost?”

“Because we figured out who the ghost should be.” Dean leans over you, tapping another one of the files. You can feel the heat from his body, and it makes your gut warm. You need to get it the fuck together. “Maggie Robins. Got her brains bashed in by her husband, Joey, in his office after she found out he’d been cheating on her with her best friend. Son of a bitch offed himself and the mistress right after.”

“Yikes.”

“Oh yeah. But here’s the fucked part-“

“Maggie’s body was cremated.” Sam jumps in, and Dean glares at him. “And all primary possessions were auctioned off by the police. We triple checked the whole office building, and were only a few things left in Joey’s office, for evidence, but nothing that important.”

You raise your brows. “What are we constituting as important?” “Personal valuables.” Sam says, frowning at you. “All that was left were some pens, generic wall art, and makeup-“ “Perfume.” Dean corrects, and Sam nods.

“Yeah, perfume-“ He pauses, turning to Dean with a dry, amused look. “Why’d you remember perfume?”

“I’m observant.” Dean snaps, looking down to you with a shrug. “It was perfume, Princess.”

“Yeah, I’ll make a note.” You smile at him, Dean smiles back, and when you glance back to Sam his expression is strained. Unreadable.

You’ll have to worry about that later.

“So,” you sift through the papers, tearing slightly at the corners. “Not a ghost. Have there been other signs?”

“Flickering lights,” Dean drops into the last chair, watching you with a gaze that seems to sear into your bones. “Few people said they’ve heard moans and screams when no one was there, and a janitor told us he’s been wiping up ghost blood, but-“

“Oh, okay. It’s an onryo.” 

You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms, and Sam and Dean exchange surprised look.

“It’s a…” Sam blinks at you. “It’s a what?”

“Onryo.” You shrug, tucking your knees into your chest. “Japanese vengeance ghost, born from a really violent death that was emotionally charged, often because of a betrayal.”

“Shit.” Dean mutters. “Betrayal like your husband fucking your best friend.”

“Exactly.” You grin at him, and you could swear he puffs his chest out as he grins back.

“I told you she’d get it, Sammy-“

“Yeah, you’re a genius.” Sam’s voice is dry as he pulls the papers back across the table, his attention on you still weary. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. Did the janitor tell you he kept finding blood in random places, and it would vanish when he tried to clean it?”

Dean nods, you give Sam a pointed look, and Sam sighs.

“Fine. If it’s an onryo, how are we supposed to kill it?”

You hum, tilting your head at the air. “There should be a special kind of exorcism, but I’ve never actually done one before.”

Sam frowns. “Then how do you know-“

“My dad dealt with an onryo once.” You shrug. “And I’ve read a lot about them.”

Something flashes in Sam’s eyes, he tenses in his seat, and it makes your hold on the Darkness go slack.

He doesn’t trust you. 

Maybe he can see everything that’s wrong with you. Dean may have grown blind to it, but Sam hasn’t, and he might be able to see the rotting sickness that covers your whole body. He might not want you anywhere near him, or his brother. He doesn’t seem like John—from what Dean’s told you about him, Sam doesn’t even seem to like his father all that much—but you can’t shake the wired strain that Sam Winchester just doesn’t trust you.

“Your dad.” Sam’s voice is cautious, his eyes narrowed. “The hunter.”

You’re not sure why he says hunter like that. Like it’s a bomb that’s set to go off. 

“Yeah. The hunter.” You glance at Dean, who’s rigid in his seat, glowering at Sam. “Are you guys good?”

“We’re fine.” Dean snaps, and Sam gives him an odd, tight look.

“Dean-“

“We’re good, Sammy.” Dean turns back to you, and you’re really not sure what’s happening. No guns are pressed to your brow, but there’s a heated, brittle wire hanging over all your heads, and the Darkness is starting to slip through your fingers. Not breaching out—not as you dig your nails into your skin, and bite through your cheek—but brimming right on the surface. On an edge. 

Waiting for a snap.

It doesn’t come. Dean gives you a winning grin and Sam keeps frowning between you both, but nothing snaps. Not when Sam double-checks how sure you are it’s an onryo, and you say you’d bet a lot on it, because you would. Not when Dean suggests you all go figure out exactly what the onryo ritual is, and you and Sam look at him like he’s sprouted a second head. Not when Dean insists you all drive together, and you both try to protest—almost certainly for different reasons—but ultimately lose to Dean’s dramatic saving the trees and team spirit speech.

“Still no gun, Princess?” Dean hangs over your shoulder as you sort through your bag, and you shoot him a glare.

“Is the knife no longer good enough for you?”

“No.” He shrugs. “Not when you’ve been hunting alone.”

“Because you’ve been busy.” You raise your brows at him, and he sighs.

“Yeah, I know, it’s… Complex.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “Good job.”

“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes, but the air feels a little lighter, and the White is blending into the Darkness because it’s only you and Dean.

But it’s not only you and Dean. And Sam doesn’t seem to want you here. And it’s complex.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” you mutter, tucking your knife into your jacket. “And I did my job, I’m sure you can do the rest without me.”

“Do you want us to do the rest without you?”

You turn to fully face him, and he looks guarded. Standing a little too tall, his hands seeming to be fisted in his jacket, watching you wearily. Like you might lash out, or explode.

Something’s really off with him. He hasn’t looked at you like that in years. 

He hasn’t looked at you like that since you last saw him with John.

“I don’t have anything else to do.” You mumble, watching him carefully. “And I’m already here.”

“Awesome.” Dean’s shoulders relax slightly, and he nods his head away from your car, deeper into the parking lot. “C’mon.”

You sigh. “I really can drive myself-“

“Nope. We’re sticking together.” His hand finds your back, and all you can do is let him guide you forwards. “You’ve gotta meet my car, Princess.”

“I have met your car-“

“Doesn’t count. You’re actually gonna ride in her this time.”

Dean’s grin is shit-eating. You’re not sure if you want to punch or kiss him.

“Shut up.”

“Nah.” Dean stops in the center of the lot, saying your name with a smirk. “Meet Baby.”

The Impala looks the exact same as before, save for a sour-faced, taller Sam Winchester sitting in shotgun, glaring between you and Dean. He scowls the whole time Dean walks you to the back bench, and refuses to look at you when Dean closes the door.

You clear your throat, watching Dean move around the hood of the car. “Hi, Sam.”

He grunts, and you sigh, slipping off your shoes.

“It’s good to see you.” You try again, because silence with Dean is like soft music, but silence like this is suffocating. “You look, uh-“

“Taller.” Sam grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, I know-“

“I was going to say good.” You mumble, hugging your knees to your chest. “Not like a kid anymore.”

Sam’s eyes shoot to yours in the rearview mirror, you offer him a small smile, and his mouth opens right as Dean drops into the driver’s seat.

“Hey,” Dean turns in his seat, snapping your name. “No shoes on my car.”

You roll your eyes, gesturing to your feet. “I’m not wearing shoes.” 

“Oh.” He blinks between you and your socks. “Good.”

“I’m not an idiot, Winchester. And I’d rather not be murdered because I messed with the only lady in your life-“

“Shut up.” Dean rolls his eyes, turning back to start the engine, and right before he adjusts the mirror you catch Sam glancing you at again, a small frown on his face.

“You guys were gone for a while.” Sam says, mostly looking at Dean. “How long can it take to grab a gun?”

Dean scoffs. “Wouldn’t know, Sammy. Her majesty doesn’t hunt with guns.”

“Doesn’t hunt with-“ Sam blinks at you, his face painted in disbelief. “You don’t use a gun?”

You sigh. “No.”

“What do you use?”

You open your jacket to show him your knife, and Sam raises his brows.

“That’s it? I mean, how do you kill anything-“

“With talent.” Dean mutters, and you don’t appreciate how accurate his impression of you sounds. “I’d never use one anyway-“

“I wouldn’t use it. And someone,” You punch the back of Dean’s seat, and he huffs. “Has a lot of unwelcome options about that-“

“Because it’s stupid.” He grumbles, and you roll your eyes.

“You know, for someone who’s so annoyed about me not having a gun, you sure did buy me a knife.” 

You can hear the scowl in Dean’s voice. “You wouldn’t have taken a gun. You barely took the knife.“ 

“I could still throw it out-“ 

“Nope. You pinky promised.” 

You smirk as Dean sits up slightly—hearing his own words—and Sam gives him an incredulous look. 

“You pinky promised?

“It’s- She was being annoying-“

“He had to admit he was worried about me.” You tell Sam, leaning forward in your seat with a grin. “And that he thinks Charlie’s Angelsis the best movie ever made.” 

“I- I do not fucking think that-“ 

You giggle, rolling your eyes at Sam, who’s looking at you like you just fell from space. “He’s still in denial.” 

“I am not-“ 

“It’s okay, Deano.” You pat his shoulder, and he shoots you a glare that doesn’t really reach his eyes. “We all still think you’re very tough.” 

The words leave your mouth, Dean rolls his eyes and grumbles about not even knowing why he called you, and some sort of dam seems to break in Sam. All of his cautious, pricking hostility vanishes into thin air, and he twists to fully look at you with an open expression.

In that moment, he does look more like the kid you met in the motel. Curious and not quite in awe of you, but something close. Something similar. 

“Dean said you were at home before this?”

You run your thumb over your palm, tilting your head at Sam as you try to work out how much you can say. “Yeah, I was just stopping there after I finished up a chimera hunt.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “A- Those are real?”

“Tragically, yeah.”

Dean raises his brows at you in the mirror. “Tragically?”

“They’re mean.” You shrug. “And shit a lot.”

Sam makes a face, but doesn’t turn away. “Had you hunted one before that?”

“No, I think they’re pretty rare outside of like, Greece-“

“But you killed this one, right?”

You nod, and Sam looks like he’s going to fall out of his seat. You’re not really sure what’s happening.

“How?”

“Um…” You twist a ring on your finger as your voice trails off, because you’d killed the chimera with the Darkness. Let it rush out of your body and infect everything around you, until the chimera exploded in a disgusting rain of blood. But you can’t really say that, so you go with how you’d planned to kill the chimera. “I impaled it.”

“Like in the myth?”

“Exactly like in the myth.” You grin at Sam, and you’ve never seen someone so big look seven years old. “Bellerophon.”

“Bless you.” Dean mutters, and Sam gives his brother a look of exasperated disappointment. 

“No, dude, Bellerophon is the slayer of the Chimera in Greek mythology. He impales it in the mouth, using the Pegasus.”

“I don’t need to know why impaling worked-“

“Because of the angle.” You offer, ignoring Dean’s glare in the mirror. “It melts the spear with its fire-breath, and then it suffocates.”

“Yeah, that’s cool, but I still don’t-“

“What did you do with the body?” Sam interrupts, leaning forward to keep talking to you, and Dean seems to be pouting at the road.

Dean ends up pouting for most of the day, because after you lie about how you’d disposed of the chimera—once again employing the very useful tactic of what you’d meant to do—Sam starts to ask about other things you’ve hunted, and how you’d killed them, and what you’ve learned about monsters overall. It lasts from the car and into the library, through almost the entirety of your research, and Dean barely gets a word in, only sulking over a book as Sam shares their own hunts. You decide not to comment on it when Sam says curses can’t be broken, because you’re positive that’s not true but you can’t say why, and answer all of Sam’s questions about alternative ways to deal with various spirits and monsters.

You’re shocked he remembered you telling John that.

You’re baffed as to why he’s suddenly treating you like a friend to catch up with, instead of whatever he’d thought you were before. You’re not really sure want to know what he thought of you before. Not when it’s suddenly changed to something far better.

“You’re afraid of flying?” You raise your brows at Dean, and he scowls. 

“I don’t trust it.” He mutters, turning a page so aggressively you’re worried he’ll tear it. “It’s high, and loud, and pointless. People belong on the ground.”

You hum. “What about boats?”

Dean shoots you a glare, you just grin at him, and his lips twitch slightly. You won.

“We dealt with a guy on a boat too.” Sam looks up from his own book, a slight frown on his face. “But that was kind of a bummer. Did you know spirits could possess water?”

You did know that. A powerful enough, angry enough spirit can possess most anything. But you only nod, because you’re mostly looking at Dean. Sunken into his chair, still pouting, glaring at his book like it’s just insulted his car. You’ve never seen him act like this—silent, barely offering a comment or glance up at you and Sam, mostly pretending to read and fidgeting with his pen—and it makes the White spin and whine.

“Hey, De.”

You nudge his calf under the table, and he looks up at you with a frown.

“I’m hungry.”

“We passed a cafe on the way in,” Sam offers, and Dean raises his brows at you.

“You heard him.” He looks back to his book. “Go eat.”

You frown at him, even as the White bucks around inside of you. He’s not moving, or asking for food, or making fun of you for asking permission to go eat. Something’s off. Something’s been off, and you don’t know how to fix it—you don’t know how to fix anything—but you can’t stand how Dean’s silence is eating at your throat and lungs. You’re really going need to learn how to control his effect on you.

But not right now. 

“Do you want anything?”

Dean glances up at you again, something odd flashing in his eyes. “Me?”

“Yeah, you, dumbass-“

“Get me a burger.”

You give him a flat look. “It’s a cafe.”

“Whatever. Just figure something out.”

He still doesn’t move, or stop frowning. The moment you cheer him up, you’re going to kill him.

“Winchester.”

He grunts your name, and you glare at him as you continue.

“Where’s the cafe.”

“I dunno, ask Sammy.”

“Down the street.” Sam’s eyes bounce between you and Dean, a small frown on his face. “Just go straight, then to the left.”

You nod, giving Sam a thankful smile. “You want anything?”

Sam shakes his head, and you look back to Dean.

“Dean.”

That gets his full attention, and it seems to burn right into your body.

“I’m going by myself.” You rise to your feet, giving him a challenging look. “And I’m not good at directions. I might end up at the grocery store, and come back with carrots.” 

Dean narrows his eyes at you, but Sam just shrugs. 

“Actually, carrots sound-“

“C’mon, Princess.” Dean cuts off a surprised Sam with short words, pushing his chair back. “You’re paying.” 

Sam calls after you that he’ll call you if he finds anything, but you don’t really hear him. Not as Dean lowers his voice and leans down to your ear. His breath is warm. You might fall over.

“You’re really determined to get me to eat, sweetheart. Should I be worried?”

You hum. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dean Winchester.”

He clicks his tongue, and he’s grinning again. You won again. “Full name. What did I do?”

“Sulk like a baby for an hour?” You raise your brows at him, and he’s a lot closer than you thought. You can count all his freckles. They’re kind of like stars. 

You can feel his breath on your face when he laughs. It’s warm, and smells like coffee and mint.

His body is like a furnace, and it’s melting everything to silver inside of you.

You’re losing your mind. 

“I can still kick you out of this hunt, you know.” He drawls, and you shrug, trying not to think about how Dean’s hand on your back shifts with the movement.

“Good luck with that.”

“It’s my hunt-“

“It’s your and Sam’s hunt.” You correct. “I think I’d have his vote to stay.”

“You would.” Dean lets out a dry chuckle, and you don’t even realize you’d made it to the cafe until Dean’s suddenly stops walking, and you’re waiting in a short line. “Fucking nerds.”

“That’s rude.” You shove his arm, and everything feels color when he laughs, and it’s real. There’s still something tight and coiled in his eyes as you make it to the counter and order, but he’s not slumping anymore, so you’re going to push it.

You’re going to ask what the hell is happening. Why he hasn’t been hunting with you, why Sam’s back, where John is, and why he’s been so strange. You turn your drink between your hands as Dean grabs the food—frowning at his empty seat and rehearsing your question in your head—and the moment he sits down you-

“Dad’s missing.” 

You blink at him. “What?”

“Our dad.” Dean mutters, sliding your food across the table. “He’s missing. And not just one of those longer hunts, we’ve been looking for months and he’s… Just gone.”

“Shit.” You mutter, pieces sliding together in your brain as Dean’s words sink in. “Where have you checked?”

“His last case. And we got activity on his phone, but…” He trails off with a shake of his head, not fully meeting your eyes. “We can’t fucking find him, and Sammy’s- He’s not doing well.”

You nod, and wait for Dean to continue. If you say something, you might say the wrong thing, because you don’t give a fuck if John Winchester is missing or dead or just on a bender. You’re breathing a little easier just from the knowledge that you can be here, and it won’t end in a bullet through your brain.

But Dean gives a fuck about John. And you—despite your best judgement and all rational reason—give a fuck about Dean. You give a fuck that he’s been so off because his dad’s missing, that there seems to be something a little heavier in his eyes and on his shoulders than the last time you saw him, that you can almost taste his bitter, taut worry for Sam. 

You give a fuck that he’s telling you at all. That whatever he sees when he looks at you, it’s bright enough that he’d trust you with anything at all.

So you’ll bite your tongue, and let him keep going when he’s ready.

Dean draws in another long breath. “You can’t tell Sam I told you this.” He mutters. “I- We’ve barely talked about it, and he doesn’t know you, and it’s really fucking complicated-“

“Dean.” 

His eyes meet yours, and the guarded expression is back. It’s not your job to break through it. It’s not your job to do anything for Dean, but you want to. His tension seems to be moving into your body and making your muscles and organs sore, the Darkness is twisting and coiling in your body to find something to break. Churning until you let it flood out, pushing at the White in a way that makes you feel a little sick. 

You might as well find something to break for Dean, while he’s still here. While he hasn’t left, and everything feels big in a way that’s not suffocating and crushing.

“I won’t tell Sam.” You say, holding his gaze as you lean forward, raising your pinky. “Promise.”

Dean swallows, but takes your pinky and shakes it. “His girlfriend died. The same way our mom did, too, right after we lost the trail on Dad.”

“Your mom-“

“Burned on the ceiling.” Dean mutters. “We don’t know what did it, but Dad’s been hunting the son of a bitch since it happened, and then he vanishes, and it happens again? Right fucking after? That’s-“

“Not a coincidence.” You finish—letting out a long, slow breath—and Dean nods.

“Never a coincidence.”

You hum, frowning into the air as your head starts to kick into a high gear. This is just another case. Just another problem to solve that might call to you, a piece of the Darkness you could use. You can help with this. You can fix something. Dean’s isn’t guarded anymore—only sitting a little taller than usual, watching you carefully—and he’s still here. Dean’s still here, and he trusts you, and those fractured pieces in you are starting to stretch towards each other again. Bleeding through the Darkness in vibrant color as Dean holds your gaze, and you can help. 

If Dean wants your help. If he’d want you. 

The thought makes the White flash and sing. You need to keep it together.

“Is Sam okay?” You ask, your voice soft, and Dean sighs, rubbing his face.

“He’s not sleeping well. Thinks I haven’t noticed, but we share a damn room every night.”

You nod slowly. “Are you okay?”

Dean blinks at you, a small frown on his face. “Me?”

“Yeah, who else could I be asking-“

“I-“ Dean shakes his head, tapping his knuckles on the table. “I’m fine, Princess. Dad’s gonna turn up, and he’ll have a good reason for going off. Maybe he found what killed Mom, and he’s just waiting to grab us for help. Then we’ll get back to normal.”

You narrow your eyes. You don’t believe him. He’s still off, and the weight on him suddenly seems bigger now that you know where it’s coming from. But you’ve barely opened your mouth to push him when the little cafe doorbell rings, and Sam calls your name.

“I got it!” He stops at the side of your table, looking between you and Dean with a wide grin. “It’s called a harae, ritual purification. We just need to build a shrine and learn the words.”

You take the book Sam passes into your hands, scanning over the pages as Dean gives Sam a pat on the back.

“Nice one, Sammy. Once we gank this bitch, we’ll get you nice treat as a reward for good work-“

“Fuck off, jerk.“ Sam shoves Dean’s arm away in your periphery, and Dean just laughs.

“Hey, Dean?” You look up with a frown, turning the book for him to read. 

He doesn’t. He just says your name and stares at you, and it’s not really helpful. “What’s up?”

“You guys did interviews, right?”

He nods. “I did a lot while Sam was looking at the office. Looked at all the vics and our suspects.” He frowns. “I lost rock, paper, scissors.”

Sam laugh. “Again.”

“Shut up, bitch-“

“You’re the one who lost, Dean, it’s not my fault you suck-“

“I do not suck, you just play fucking mind games-“

“Winchester. Pay attention.” You give him a stern glare and kick under the table, and he scowls at you.

“Sammy started it-“

“I don’t care.” You tap the book, pushing it closer to him. “If you did the interviews, I need you to write down a list of things people said about our onryo, and get some stuff for the shrine. It will work better if it’s in closer relation to who Maggie Robins was in life.”

“Why do I have to do it-“

“Apparently because you suck at rock, paper, scissors.” You shrug, looking up to Sam. “We can go back to the motel, learn the ritual, and hopefully kill this thing by tonight.”

It takes another five minutes to get Dean to agree, and he’s still scowling when he drops you and Sam back at the motel, but it’s not heavy anymore. He’s not silent either, grumbling the whole way about being saddled with freakin’ shopping duty, and shouting that he better not come back to find that you and Sam threw a party while he was gone. 

Then it’s just you and Sam. Alone. Speaking chopped and stilted Japanese, giving each other odd looks as you adjust to the shift.

It’s not hard to be alone with Sam. He’s nice, easy to talk to, and doesn’t seem to have nearly as much fun pushing your button as Dean does. But it’s still strange. He keeps giving you odd looks and opening his mouth with a small frown, but shaking his head and shutting it. Your brain keeps spinning around what Dean told you, and how the Darkness seems... Off with Sam. His presence doesn’t blend it into Silver like Dean’s does, and it’s not volatile like with a monster or spirit, but it’s not normal. It’s turning and humming and beating into the White, like Sam is setting it off.

And you don’t even know what it is.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom when it starts to get overwhelming. When the Darkness starts to leak and your breathing has to be shallow to control it. Sam asks if you’re alright, and you just wave him off and lock the door behind you. Sinking onto the cold floor with your fingers squeezing at your throat, trying to drag it back down by force. It’s not enough. Whatever is happening is only feeding the Darkness, and it’s not dangerous but it could be. One wrong word, one accidental push, and you’d lose control in a second. You can feel lingering warmth of the sheets on Sam and Dean’s beds, and the ache of the creaking bathroom door, and the grime of tiles, sick and itching and all over your skin-

You bite down on the back of your hand, and everything falls back into you. You’re alright. You got through it. You always get through it. You’ll get through this hunt—rising to your feet and rubbing your face, checking in the mirror that no pain is visible—and you’ll help Dean, and everything will be alright. Maybe if you figure out what killed their mom, John won’t try to kill you when they find him. Maybe they won’t find him. Maybe you’ll be safe, and Dean could stick around for you, just for you because you’d helped him, helped his brother, and done it without breaking anything or losing control. Maybe you’d be able to tell him what’s wrong with you, and you’d have been good enough—done a good enough thing—that he wouldn’t call you a monster.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” You give Sam a small smile, twisting a ring on your finger as you walk back to the table. “Just had some sketchy road food yesterday. Happens to the best of us.”

Sam nods, and you think he bought it. Most people usually buy it. Even Bobby isn’t great at picking up your lies, because you’re careful and deliberate and practiced, and every lie you tell is purposeful and vital. A barrier to the horrid truth of how you’re always a little cancerous. 

You’re pretty sure the only person who sees past it is Dean. And that’s just another thing you’ve given up on hating him for.

“Do you know when Dean will be back?” You ask, because you can’t help yourself. You made the critical error of thinking of him, and suddenly the White is desperate for him to be close once more, and you’re too tired to fight it. 

“I dunno, probably soon.” Sam shakes his head, giving you another odd look. “Do you guys hunt together a lot?”

You hum, pulling another book from Sam’s stack. “Usually, yeah.”

“Usually?”

“We haven’t been on a hunt since October.” You shrug, and when glance up, Sam’s still staring at you.

“Has he been… Talking to you?”

“Yeah, uh, we call about once a week.”

“Dean calls you?”

You nod, frowning slightly. “That’s what I said, yeah.”

“Huh.” Sam’s looking at you like he did in the car. Like you’re an alien, or weird plant. It’s not hateful, and it doesn’t make the Darkness riot in defense, but it’s… unnerving. “How long have you guys been talking, again?”

“Uh,” you tilt your head, your brow furrowing slightly. “A little over two years?”

Sam makes a slight face. “Cool.”

It doesn’t sound cool. It sounds like Sam’s as confused as you are, which is unfair because you don’t even know what you’re confused about. All Sam should know is that Dean left you once, years passed, and now you’re friends. 

But maybe Sam knows why Dean left you. And he could tell you, and it could either mend all those shattered pieces lining your body in a single moment, or snap you entirely. At least if it snaps you this will be over. You won’t have to deal with the circling question of does Dean feel this too. Is he looking at you like that because he feels this. Is he still here—despite you being irrevocably you all the fucking time, despite John obviously hatred of you and what you are—because he feels this too.

“Hey, Sam-“

“Something’s not making-“ Sam’s eyes widen slightly as you speak over each other, and he raises his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, you first-“

“No,” you shake your head, keeping your desperate question lodged like a stone in your throat. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s not a big thing, just that it’s kind of strange that the onryo is going after only women.” Sam frowns at his book. “Everything I’ve found says they should either kill just about anyone in their path, or just target reminders of the person who wronged them. And with the whole cheating thing I’d imagine it would be men and women, not-“

“Just women.” You reach a hand out, and Sam passes you his book. “You’re right. If you’re sure it’s Maggie-“

“We’re sure.” Sam says, leaning back in his chair. “She had her brains bashed in exactly like all the vics. And the husband, actually.”

You pause. “And the husband?”

Sam nods, grimacing slightly. “The crime scene photos were really gross.”

“And…” You glance at the case files, still scattered on the table. “How did the mistress die?”

“Gunshot. The cops worked out that Maggie got her brains bashed by Joey, Joey shot his mistress-“

“What was the mistress’s name?”

“Uh, Becca. But-“

“And she was Maggie’s best friend?”

Sam nods, his brows drawing together as he starts to play catch up. “I think so, yeah. Dean said all the families were shocked that, uh, Becca would betray Maggie like that.”

You let out a long sigh, running a hand through your hair and giving Sam a disbelieving look. “Jesus fucking Christ, men are idiots.”

“Hey-“

“I’m back!” Dean bursts through the door, several plastic bags in hand. “Got all the shit, Princess. Looks like this Maggie chick even used the same-“

You hold up a hand, and Dean falls silent. “Sam, tell Dean what you just told me.”

“Uh,” Sam glances at Dean, who’s dropped down on the edge of his bed with a frown. “Becca-“

“Who the hell is Becca-“

“The mistress, dumb dumb.” You give Dean a glare, jerking your head at Sam. “Listen.”

Dean raises his hands in surrender, and Sam keeps going.

“Becca and Maggie were best friends, and you told me all the families were shocked about what happened.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, they all kept going on about how close those chicks were. Maggie’s mom said that Becca would stay with her when the husband was out of town on business.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh my god.”

“You got something you wanna say, sweetheart?“

“Not that you’ll want to hear, Deano.” You wrinkle your nose at him, even as a little bit of guilt eats at your throat. He’s gonna be pissed. “We need to start the ritual over.”

Dean blinks at you. “What.”

“Maggie isn’t the onryo.” You sigh, leaning back in your seat. “Joey is.”

Sam’s mouth falls open. “Fuck. That- It explains the targeting.”

“Yep.” You give him a tight smile. “And people don’t just bash their own brains in. Joey probably did kill Maggie, but then Becca killed Joey before shooting herself.”

Dean shakes his head, an adorable look of confusion on his face. “Why the hell would the douchebag get offed by his own mistress-“

“Because she wasn’t his mistress.” You say, and Dean just stares at you, his lips in a small pout that you want to bite.

“Huh?”

You exchange a look with Sam—who’s very poorly covering his snicker with a hand—and look back to Dean with a sigh. “Lesbians, Winchester. The mistress was the wife’s, not the husband’s.” 

“The- oh.” Dean goes red, scratching the back of his neck and looking anywhere but you. “Awesome. Good for them.”

You shrug. “I mean, they are both dead. But yeah, awesome.”

“For them.” Sam adds, letting out a long breath. “Not us. You’re right, we’re going to have scratch everything and work out how to do the ritual for Joey.”

“Fine.” Dean groans, kicking one of his bags. “But there’s no way in hell you’re making me do all those interviews again, Princess.“

You sigh, scratching at your fingers. “Sam, if you do the interviews, I can work out the MO to see if we can lure the onyro out, and Dean can make the ritual stick.”

Sam nods, looking back to a book, and Dean gapes at you.

“Ritual what?”

“Stick.”

“It’s a shaker made of paper.” Sam explains. “For the harae. It’ll be easy, dude.”

“And.” You give Dean a pointed look. “It’s either that or the interviews.”

Dean scowls, but relents with a grumble, and you grin at him.

“Great. We’ll have to wait for morning to do this, so, uh…” You trail off, frowning at your car out the window. You had really thought you’d be done by midnight. You can’t afford a motel room right now, and you don’t think Sam and Dean won’t notice you sleeping in your car. Bobby’s car. One of Bobby’s junkyard cars, which was in no way suitable for sleeping in. 

Dean says your name, and you turn your head on instinct alone. “You got a room?”

“Uh, no.” You glance back to your car. You can just drive it away, to a different lot, and make do. You know how to make do. “But I’ll find one, it’s fine-“

Sam shrugs, barely looking up from his book. “Just stay here.”

Heat rushes to your face, and you freeze in your chair. “What?”

“You can bunk with us, we’ve got the space.”

You can’t look at Dean. You and Dean don’t share a room. You don’t know why he doesn't offer, but you know why you haven’t, and at this point it’s an unspoken rule.

But Dean’s not shutting Sam down, and the White has started to burst and glow at the idea of it. Of being closer.

You cannot share a room with Dean. It will destroy this. It will give you the opportunity to ruin your friendship with him, give you another place to fall further into him, provide another opportunity for the White to pull you closer and closer, down, down, down into Dean. 

“No, no it’s okay, I’m sure somewhere has a room-“

Dean cuts you off, and you’re going to go insane. “You can take my bed.” 

“It’s- it’s really fine-“

“No,” He says your name casually—like your brain and heart aren’t exploding—and pushes up off his mattress. “You’re doing us a solid, we can put you up. And I’ve shared with Sam before. I can deal with his Sasquatch starfishing.”

Sam glares up from his book. “I do not starfish-“

“But you are a Sasquatch?” 

Dean smirks at Sam, Sam flips him off, and the conversation seems to be over. Sam’s still reading. Dean’s kicking the bag and grumbling about stupid rituals.

But you’re frozen.Time isn’t really flowing, and the world isn’t really moving, because you have to talk your way out of this. You have to figure out what you can say so you can leave, without Sam and Dean being gentlemen and insisting you stay, or asking questions about why you’re so frantic to be anywhere but here.

And you’re not. Every single fiber of your existence wants to stay in this room, where it’s warm and demons might not find you. Your body wants to rest in Dean’s bed, because it will probably smell like grass and spice and Dean. Your fucking tongue keeps trying to move against your will, to suggest you and Dean just share a bed. 

And you’re strong enough to hold yourself back from that, but not from the rest of it. Not from the high that rushes through you when you give in, mumble that you’ll go get your bags from the car, and Dean insists on walking with you. You can’t stop your laugh from echoing through the parking lot at his stupid jokes, or the Darkness from moving out of you in a way that’s not painful. In a way where you can feel how calm the grass is in the quickly sinking twilight, or how soothing the gentle wind is to the tree branches.

Dean guides you back inside, and you stumble. Just a normal, boring trip over your own feet that Dean saves you from, catching you with firm hands and a laugh. 

He’s real, and he’s not gone. The streetlight over his head is casting a gold glow over his skin and hair, and everything about him seems fake—still far too pretty, made of gold but warm under your touch—but he’s real.

And he smiles at you. And that light flickers.

And you’re so fucked.

——————

Dean needed to get a grip. He needed to stop being a freaking creep, and act like a normal person.

He couldn’t. And he wasn’t going to figure out how to in one night. But he needed to, because there was no goddamn way She hadn’t cast some sort of spell on him, and not a chance in hell he was going to make it through the night without acting like She wasn’t only a few quick steps away.

She couldn’t be doing this on purpose. She’d have to be a demon or something, sent to torture Dean with Her… everything. To make him sit at the table while She showered just a room over—if Sam had given him one more amused look, Dean would’ve punched his lights out—and then come out of the bathroom with steam and light surrounding Her, like a beautiful, tempting nightmare. She’d grabbed a little, colorful bag—given Dean a smile because she must hate him—and vanished back into the bathroom.

She’d come out a little while later with soft, almost glowing skin and shiny hair Dean had wanted to touch. She’d passed him on her way to bed, and smelled like sugar and fruit.

The whole room had been surrounded with that fucking fruit smell. Dean had been losing his goddamn mind. 

He’d ended up flat one his back, staring at the ceiling through most of the night, something tight and hot lodged in his throat and gut. Sammy was fine to share a bed with, but Dean wanted to be across the room.

With Her. Holding Her like they were real people, smelling her hair like a goddamn creep and talking to her in the dark. 

Dean really just wanted to be with Her in the dark. To wrap around Her and keep her against him, where She wouldn’t have one of those weird freak outs he’d slowly learned to handle, where no strange, haunting monsters would find Her and take her away.

He didn’t want Her to go away. It was getting fucking crippling, how Dean wanted Her around all the time. How he was so fucking selfish and empty that, since Jessica, he’d started to spiral into thoughts of Her finding out what a mess his life was, and leaving him alone. Of taking all Her blinding, silver light that Dean was more than happy to follow down into the dark, and turn it somewhere else. That he’d been given a chance to see the universe in brilliant eyes, and now it would be ripped away from him.

Worse, he had nightmares that She was on the ceiling. And he’d tried to dismiss them as stress—Dad was missing, Sam was on edge, and Dean was fucking exhausted, so stress seemed reasonable—but they’d persisted. Which was crazy. Jess had been Sam’s girl. He’d had her, and lost her. Mom had been Dad’s, and that was why Dad had become Dad after her death. 

Dean had never had Her. He’d held Her hand once, and kissed Her forehead twice. She wasn’t Dean’s to fear for, or protect, or imagine pressed against him in the dark. She wasn’t Dean’s to keep near him, wasn’t Dean’s to fantasize about, wasn’t Dean’s to want. To get anxious about introducing to his family, because they were all born and made in the mud and She seemed to be created from starlight. He’d never even meet Her family, because she still wouldn’t tell Dean the damn truth about them.

He still didn’t know how to be furious about that in a way that stuck. How to not care when Her eyes went glassy, when She looked small and lost. How to not feel alive when She smiled, and orbit around Her when her world was more colorful than his.

And Sam liking Her had made that worse. Made it more real. Sam liking Her meant Dean wasn’t going insane. It meant that Dad might have simply been wrong, and She wasn’t just an illusion, and that if She left it would just be because Dean wasn’t worth her time.

But She hadn’t left. He’d told Her about Dad and Jessica and Mom, and then watched her shuffle around their motel room in the morning with an adorable, sleepy face. He’d watched Her in Baby’s passenger seat—Sam taking her car for the interviews—and had to force his hand to stay on the wheel and not Her thigh. 

He was looking at Her, across the diner table and poking at Her breakfast with a fork. He wasn’t sure how She managed to look so beautiful all the goddamn time, even when her lips were still swollen from sleep and her eyes were a little glazed from exhaustion. How Her voice always sounded like a song that echoed through Dean’s body, spurring something a little to the right of his heart and making him do almost anything she asked.

Like making a that stupid stick while She wrote on a paper napkin, that adorable furrow in Her brow.

“Sam should be back soon.” She mumbled, crossing something out on Her list. “Are you almost-“

Dean placed the stick over Her napkin, grinning at Her when she looked up. “Done.”

She gave the stick a once over, sighed, and went back to Her napkin without a word.

Dean frowned, leaning over to try and read Her scrawling. “Can you read that?”

“I’m writing it.”

“That’s not an answer, sweetheart.”

She glanced up, Dean winked, and She rolled her eyes.

“Shut up.”

Dean just hummed, leaning at little further forward. “So that’s a no?”

“I’ll stab you.”

“Damn, Princess, I thought you liked me-“

He cut himself off with a grunt as She kicked his shin, and She was flushing. It was the best color Dean had ever seen.

“I can like you and stab you.” She muttered. “I’d stitch it up after.”

Dean wanted to ask how much She liked him. If She like liked him. If She breathed easier when he was there and felt peaceful when he was by her side. If his voice haunted Her dreams.

He shrugged the urge off, and pushed on.

“You stab me, I’m asking Sammy to fix it. You don’t have good bedside manner.”

“Or you’re just a terrible patient.”

Dean gasped—making his most dramatically wounded face—and when She looked back up, she giggled.

“You’re such a fucking idiot.”

He smirked, nodding in agreement, and Her words didn’t hurt him. People had called Dean an idiot before, and it had always stuck on his skin and coated over his chest. But She said it like it was endearment. As if the softer tone lining Her voice could be affection. For Dean.

She was looking back down to the napkin. Dean needed Her to look at him. To either help Her with what she was doing, or listen to her giggle again. Nothing was ever complicated when She was smiling and giggling at Dean.

“What’s it say?” Dean tried to grab the napkin, and She snatched it away with a glower.

“Hey-“

“C’mon, you’ve been losing your mind over that for like an hour, I could help-“

“So ask like a big boy, Winchester. Say please.”

Dean held Her gaze, grabbed Her wrist, and smirked as she flushed.

“Please, Princess.” He squeezed Her wrist, and he could’ve sworn She leaned into him. “Tell me what’s on your dumb napkin.”

“It’s not dumb.” She mumbled, Her voice a little breathy. It was distracting. “I’m just- I’m trying to figure out the onryo’s MO. Usually they don’t have one, but Joey seems to, and I can’t work it out.”

“What’ve you ruled out?”

“Appearance,” She frowned at Her writing. “Profession. Marital status-“

“Vics weren’t cheaters?”

She shook Her head. “Most were single. It’s just- It’s not making a lot of sense.”

Dean shrugged. He still hadn’t let go of Her wrist. His hand might be trapped there permanently. “Doesn’t matter, right? Long as we gank the fucker, we’re in the clear.”

“Yeah,” She let out a long breath, glancing up at Dean with soft eyes. “I guess. I just- It’s weird.”

“Our lives are weird, sweetheart.” He grinned at Her. “Chill out. Sammy’ll be back soon, and we’ll be done before dinner.”

She nodded, her features relaxing, and Dean felt something loosen in his stomach. He was still touching Her. He couldn’t pull away. She wasn’t even trying to move, not trying to break his gaze, and he had grabbed Her over her shirt but She’d shifted and now he could feel Her skin. It was soft. Warm. It felt so goddamn right under his palm and She wasn’t moving away-

Sam cleared his throat, standing at the side of the table, and She and Dean flew apart. He yanked his hand away—grabbing his fork and tapping it in an uneven rhythm on his plate—and She moved backwards in her seat, hiking a knee up to her chest and looking up at Sam with wide eyes. 

Dean cleared his throat. “Hey, Sammy, you’re back-“

“Yeah.” Sam was looking between them, his lips twitching. “Am I interrupting-”

“No!” Her voice was high, and frantic. Dean frowned. He would’ve said no too, but She didn’t need to say it like that. “We’re just, um, talking about the case. Did you get what we needed?”

Sam nodded, pulling out a folded paper from his pocket and passing it into Her hands. “That should be enough, right?”

“Uh… Yeah.” She scanned over the list, and Dean didn’t miss Sam’s grin at Her approval. “I’ll head out now to set up?”

He wanted to protest. To tell Her to just stay and eat with them. She’d barely touched her plate, and something in his stomach kept gnawing at the idea of Her going off alone. She might hunt alone all the time, and Dean might know she had her knife, know that he’d be right behind Her, but he still didn’t want to Her to just go alone. He had twisting feeling over his heart at the idea of Her going alone-

“Sure.” Sam passed Her the keys to her car, stepping out of the way so she could exit the booth. “Call if you need anything, and we’ll meet you there in an hour.”

She hummed in agreement, giving them both soft smiles, and Dean was rooted in his seat. He should follow Her, or insist she stayed, and she’d get all fucking pissy about him not thinking she could handle this alone, but he still rather get yelled at then watch Her walk away. She was walking away. Dean needed to shout after Her and-

“She walks fast.” Sam said, dropping in Her now empty seat, and Dean blinked.

“Huh?”

Sam said Her name, settling in his seat. “She walks-“

“I heard you.” Dean snapped, looking out the window to watch Her move through the parking lot. She did walk fast. He’d never really noticed it before, because She always walked just a pace ahead of him, matching his speed perfectly. But alone, She did seem to walk faster. With purpose.

Towards Her car. Away from Dean. He could still run and grab Her. Convince her to come back to the booth-

“Does Dad know you were hunting with her?”

Dean turned back to Sam with a frown. “What.”

“Dad,” Sam leaned back, giving him a pointed look. “I remember what he said about her, Dean. Shit, dude, he hated her, even before he dug that stuff up-“

“Dad didn’t hate her.” Dean muttered. “He was just looking out for us.”

“He was being paranoid. And, just for the record, that woman,” Sam pointed out the window, and Dean realized She was gone. Fuck. “Doesn’t really seem like a spoiled, bratty con-artist.”

Dean scowled. He fucking knew that. And Sam needed to stop saying it, because it made Her more real. Made Her more possible, made Dean crash further up into Her. Fed the idea that he could, maybe, touch Her and not get burned.

“Dad doesn’t know, does he.” Sam crossed his arms, raising his brows. “You lied to him.”

“I didn’t-“

“You did. There’s not a chance he would’ve let you just go off hunting with anyone, let alone her.” Sam grinned at him, and Dean didn’t appreciate the glee on his face. “You were fucking lying to Dad.”

Dean braced his arms on the table, lowering his voice to a hiss. “I’m serious, Sam. Drop it.”

Sam did not drop it. He might be trying to get punched. “No, Dean. You’ve been lying to Dad. You never lie to Dad about anything.”

“Sam-“

“I mean, you’ve lied for me. But c’mon dude.” Sam let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Even you have to stop and think about why you don’t want Dad knowing about her. I mean, she’s nothing like what he said, but Dad’s Dad.”

“What the hell it that supposed to mean?“

“It means he’s not going to like that he was wrong. That she’s cool.” Sam shrugged. “I like her. The only thing I’d worry about is the, uh…”

He trailed off, and Dean frowned. 

“Worry about what?”

“I don’t know.” Sam’s brow furrowed slightly. “I mean, I don’t know what they are. Panic attacks?”

Dean shook his head, his brow drawn in confusion, and Sam gave him an odd look.

“There’s- Dean, there’s no way you haven’t noticed. I mean, you helped her, when she got here. When you did the, uh,” Sam reached up to his face, running his finger over his nose. “That.”

“Oh, yeah, that always calms her down-“

“But what is that?”

“I don’t know.” Dean muttered. “Probably just some girl shit-“

Sam scoffed. “That is not a girl thing. That’s like… an episode or something. Have you asked her?”

“No. And you,” Dean pointed to Sam with a glower. “Better not say shit.”

He didn’t need to give Her a reason to leave. A reason to think he didn’t want Her around. Those moments were strange—and had been happening more and more frequently—but Dean had dealt with stranger, and he knew how to handle it now. 

And Sam paused, tilting his head. 

“Holy shit, dude.” His face split into a shit-eating grin. “You really like her.”

“What?! No- I- Why the-” Dean narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about-“

“Yeah, I do. I know you, Dean. You don’t want to make her upset, you have a crush-“

Dean slammed his fist on the table, leaning forward with a glower. “Watch it, I’ll kick your fucking ass-“

Sam just shrugged, a shit eating grin on his face. “Whatever. Won’t make you not have a crush on her.”

“I do not have a fucking crush. She’s my friend-“

Sam laughed again, this one louder. “Sure, man. You looked like you were gonna cry when she walked away. I bet you wanna go after her-“

“Because she doesn’t need to do this alone! We hunt together, that’s the point of partners-“

“Partners?” Sam raised his brows. “Do you not hear yourself? You’re so worried about her-“

“Sam, I swear to fucking god-“

“Fine.” Sam raised his hands in surrender, still smirking. “Chill out.”

“I am fucking chill.” Dean grumbled, glancing at Her abandoned plate. “If you’re not eating that, we can go now-“

“No, I’ll eat it. And she’ll be fine, Dean. There was a lot of overlap on this list from the Maggie one, she just needs to find a really specific kind of beer. Actually, you got the perfume, right?”

Dean frowned. “Perfume?”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded, poking at the plate with his fork. “That bottle in his office, same kind you bought for the first ritual.”

Dean sat up in the booth, a creeping, almost painful chill shooting up his spine and through his blood. “The one with the yellow bottle?”

“Uh huh-“

“French name?” 

“Yeah, dude, I just said it was the same-“

Pieces fell into place in Dean’s head, and he felt sick. He’d fucking seen the bottle in Joey’s office, and remembered it because of Her. Then he’d forgotten until last night, and She’d cut him off before he’d had a chance to tell Her, when he’d gotten back. If he had told Her, she would’ve put it together faster. She would’ve seen the overlap on the lists, pointed out that it was strange to keep perfume in your office if you weren’t actually having an affair. 

If you were confronting your wife about her affair.

Dean shot out of his seat. “We need to go, now.”

“Woah, slow down, we still need to pay-“

“No, fuck, it’s-“ Dean ran a hand over his face, snapping Her name. “She uses that perfume.”

“So?”

“So, if you were a woman trying to cover your affair with your girl best-friend, how would you do it?”

Sam looked at him like he was insane. “I don’t know, Dean, that’s not a situation I’ve thought about once-“

“Would you make your girlfriend use the same perfume you use? Would you buy it for her?”

“I said I don’t know-“

“It’s the perfume, Sam!” Dean was shouting. He didn’t care. “We didn’t think about it! We thought it was the wife who got slighted, but it’s the fucking dude, and all the vics had that goddamn perfume! And-“

“The wife and mistress were using it.” Sam’s eyes widened, and his words far too slow when they had to go. “To hide their affair. And if the husband put that together, he’d… and…” Sam said Her name, and Dean felt his lungs tighten. “She uses…  Fuck.”

It was good Sam got up when he did, or Dean would’ve started to drag him out of the diner. The waitress shouted after them to pay, but he didn’t hear. There was red lining his vision and blood in his ears because he had been an idiot. They never would’ve gotten what the spirit was without Her, they never would’ve gone after the right douchebag without Her, and if Dean hadn’t managed to catch it, She would’ve paid the price for helping him. For Dean being unobservant asshole.

She still might pay the price. They hadn’t saved Her yet. Dean was violating traffic laws and testing Baby’s bounds, but She was in fucking danger and nothing else mattered.

“So,” Sam cleared his throat. “How do you know it’s her perfume?”

“Shut it, or I’ll fucking shoot you-“

“No, dude, I swear I’m not teasing. I just want to be sure-“

“I’m positive.” Dean grunted, not bothering to look over and see if his brother was listening. “And you better be ready to exorcise this son of a bitch-“

“I got the Japanese down last night. And I’m sure she’s fine, Dean-“

“Shut up.”

Sam raised his hands, and made the smart choice to close his fucking trap and let Dean focus. 

He didn’t bother with proper parking, stopping right on the curb outside the office and sprinting inside. The building was cold. Too cold. Fucking freezing the closer they got to the office, lights flickering in the hallways and all of Dean’s attention narrowed to listen for screams or bangs or cries for help-

The door to the office was locked. He pounded on it—shouting Her name and making the walls shake slightly—but there was no noise from the other side. The overhead lights sparked and flickered, wind seemed to rush through the half-empty hallway, and Dean took several steps back. This building was probably insured, and he needed to get in that fucking room.

Dean cracked his neck, braced his body, and threw himself forward.  

The room was pitch black when he crashed into it—one the overhead lamps hanging from the ceiling and light flooding in from the hallway—and She was sitting in the corner. Her back was pressed to the wall, Her hand around her throat, and Her eyes glassy as they found Dean’s.

He shouted Her name, dropping to his knees at Her side. “Fuck, are you-“

She shook Her head, pushing at his chest. “Dean, go, you need to go-“

“Are you fucking crazy? There’s no way I’m leaving-“

“No, I’ve- I’ve got it, please-“

Sam finally caught up, the paper shaker in one hand and a gun in the other. “Shit, where’s the-“

“Don’t know. Get ready.” Dean never looked away from Her bloodless face, keeping it cradled in one hand. “C’mon, Princess, you're a target, we’re going-“

“No!” She screamed, and Dean didn’t have time to feel something snap in his chest before She was kicking him away.

Before a large, white-clad and blood covered figure appeared right where he’d been before. Reaching down for Her as she curled further down into herself, not even trying to goddamn defend herself.

Dean was certain his heart stopped. That it exploded through his body in a firework of blood and feral, uncontrollable fear. And there was something else, too. Rioting in his chest, burning and golden and bellowing for Her. To save Her. To pull Her from danger, from the pain, from the dark-

He could only see red, only hear his own roar of Her name as the onryo grabbed Her head, slammed it into the wall, and She didn’t fight back.

Dean tackled the onryo. Wrapped his arms around its throat and yanked it away from Her slightly slumping body on the floor. Slammed his knees into its back and crashed them both against the desk, raising his fist to pummel it fucking bloody and uglier-

It threw Dean off with a guttural, ear-bleeding roar, and he felt pain pound over his back as he slammed into the wall. He was vaguely aware of Sam beginning the ritual, but he didn’t care. 

The onryo was heading back for Her. And Sam had realized and was running forward, but he wouldn’t be strong enough if Dean wasn’t, and She wasn’t fighting back.

All the lights in the hallway sparked and flickered, and Dean saw a flash of silver in the dark. He could hear low chanting and muttering in a soft, musical voice, and his head was spinning but he could swear She was moving.

The onryo screamed, and a blinding pillar flame burst through the room. Dean couldn’t think outside of fire. Licking at the ceiling and walls, and he couldn’t see Her anywhere at all-

It was gone in a second, and the room when dark once more. 

A small, weak noise came from the corner of the room, and when Dean’s eyes readjusted, he could see Her in the dark. He didn’t need to think to move to Her.

He just did. 

Holding Her face with his gentlest touch, angling it carefully to check for blood or bruising, muttering Her name until she made another soft sound and he knew she was conscious. He let Her slump forwards into him as Her eyes fluttered, and her breathing eased.

She’d be fine. Dean could see a cut on Her brow, a bite mark on her hand, and a gash on Her shoulder, but he’d stitched up worse for Dad. Her eyes weren’t staying open for more than a second, and her heart was racing when he checked Her pulse on her neck, but her gasps weren’t choked or stuttered so she’d be fine.

“Dean.” Sam muttered from behind them, his voice soft. “Is she-“

“She’s fine.” He grunted, wrapping his arm around her waist to hold Her steady as he moved to his feet. “Hold on,” he whispered Her name in her ear, and she listened, her arms looping around Dean’s neck. 

It was relieving and worrying all at once. She felt fragile again. 

Dean didn’t know if he could live with himself if he broke Her.

“Sam,” Dean didn’t take his eyes off of Her as he spoke, because looking at Her seemed to make just a little bit of the panic fogging his brain clear. He could see Her chest rise and fall. She’d be okay. “I know we still gotta check-“

Sam understood immediately. He usually did. “I can do it. Take her, I’ll meet you back at the motel.”

Dean nodded in silent thanks and—after carefully grabbing Her keys out of her pocket and throwing them to Sam—carried Her in his arms out of the office and into Baby. 

He drove slowly, his grip on the wheel white knuckled as She made soft sounds of pain at his side. Dean had brought Her here. He’d put Her in danger, just because he had missed Her, missed moving in her orbit. She was hurt because he’d been an idiot and brought Her into harm’s way. He’d triggered one of Her episodes because he hadn’t done his job and protected her, and She’d still ended up doing the ritual herself because he was fucking horrible at his job. He’d been lost in his head, just like Dad always told him not to be, and now She was in pain. She’d be okay, safe in a fancy home in some mystery town, if Dean just hadn’t called Her.

And he was a selfish, lonely piece of shit.

And he didn’t want Her to go.

She let him move Her from the Impala to the motel room, leaning into his side and walking in uneven, unsteady steps. At least She was walking. At least when Dean set Her down on his bed, she was able to pull off her own jacket and remove Her own shoes. Her eyes were slightly unfocused, and there was swelling on Her cheekbone where the onryo had grabbed her, but at least She was sitting upright, watching Dean grab their med kit. 

She was a statue, but at least She was here. With Dean. 

Where he could hear Her low, strained noises when he touched her gash, and he could rip his head apart with guilt. 

He’d fucking let that happen to Her. She wasn’t speaking, and Dean couldn’t tell if she was angry, but she should be. Because Dean had failed. 

Dad wouldn’t have failed. Dad would kill Dean if he found out he’d dragged Her into their family business, and she got hurt. He’d yell at Dean for letting Her everything distract him, because she wasn’t a real hunter, she was just a girl.

That’s what Dad had always called Her, when Dean managed to bring Her up. When he’d been testing the waters about telling Dad about Her, and always decided against it because Dad said She was just a lying, spoiled little girl, who didn’t give a damn about Dean.

But She’d killed the onryo. And She’d left him with the Poltergeist, but She’d chosen him with the Demon. When he’d only had Her, even if the worst of his injuries had been a mild concussion. 

Sammy liked Her. She liked Sammy. 

And when Dean glanced back up at Her beautiful face—cast like artwork in the shadows and cool lights of the motel—She was watching him the same way She always did. A little hazier, Her face more open and gentle than usual, but still the same.

Like Dean might be something. Anything at all.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, and Dean’s hands stilled.

“What.”

“I’m sorry.” She repeated it, and Dean felt sick. He might break his jaw. “I didn’t mean to. Please, I’m really- I didn’t mean to do that-“

Dean looked up at Her. Her eyes were glossy, Her features bloodless, and her every word choked as Her body curled into herself. Like She was trying to make herself small. Like She was trying to hide.

“I’m so sorry.” She whispered again, and Dean glanced down to Her hands in her lap. 

Raw and bloody, lined with marks where She’d begun to scratch.

He grabbed them without a word, moving them apart to rest on the mattress. She made a weak, strangled noise, and Dean could feel it in the goddamn cavity of his chest. Echoing around and burning a hole in his body that was shaped like Her.

“I’m sorry-“

“Why.” He muttered, refocusing his attention onto the gash. “You didn’t fuck anything up. You ganked the son of a bitch, and Sammy’s finishing the ritual for you. We’re fine.”

“The ritual?”

Dean nodded, glancing up at Her. The little furrow was back in Her brow, and she was breathing so fucking fast-

His thumb moved up before he could think about it. Running a soft line down the bridge of Her nose until she let out a long, slow breath, and the sound washed over Dean like rain. 

She’d be okay. Her eyes were still clouded, and She still looked far too small, but Dean would patch Her up and She’d be okay.

He rose without a word when he finished the stitches, muttering an order for Her to stay there, and moves to the kitchenette before he can think better of it. Opened the cabinet and started heating some water, just because he had to do something. If Dean was something, She was more, and he had just fucking do this. A silent apology.

A plea to not leave. To stay with Dean, because he was the fucking worst, but he’d never let that shit happen again. 

She’d moved to the headboard, Her legs curled under her body as she rested against the headboard. And She was still watching him. He wanted to brush the sweaty hair from Her face, and kiss the bruise on Her head, and pull her into a long hug to swear that would never goddamn happen again. 

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He didn’t even know how to grab Her face between his hands and tell Her he was sorry. That he’d felt like was suffocating when She’d gotten hurt, that he felt like the lungs and heart—and something else he didn’t even have a word for—were being crush and shredded apart all at once when She’d screamed. 

But he could do this. Dean could walk mix in the cocoa powder, grab one of Sam’s stupid thermoses, and pass the hot chocolate into Her shaking hands. 

He just looked at Her for a long moment. Gorgeous in an almost indescribable way, right before him where he could touch Her if he tried.

He didn't know where to start touching Her. How to start caring about Her the way something like Her—breakable and furious and brutal, brighter than anything Dean had even seen before, would ever see again— would deserve to be cared about. But he had to try. He had to keep Her close, where he could always make sure She’d be okay.

“How’d you know to come?” Her voice was still a breath, but it sounded more like Her, and Dean could take that.

He shrugged. “Got a gut feeling.”

“A gut feeling?”

“Yeah.” Dean gave Her a small smirk, dropping onto the edge of the bed. “Tells you what’s wrong and right, when something’s going bad-“

She whacked his arm, and it was weaker than usual, but still Her. She looked more and more like Her by the moment. “Shut up.”

“Bossy.”

She wrinkled Her nose at him, glowering over the thermos as She drank.

He chuckled. “You know, I mean that as a compliment-“

“Don’t tell me what I know, Winchester.”

The laugh that left Dean was loud, and real, and made Her smile. And he felt alive. Right now, Dean was alive at Her side, golden under Her attention, and more relaxed in the dark than he’d been in days.

“Yes, ma’am.” He drawled, and She rolled her eyes.

When She moved the thermos away from Her mouth, there was a little line of milk above Her lips, and Dean grinned. 

“Nice mustache, Princess.”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“Your- here.” Dean reached forward before he could think better, and wiped it with his thumb.

He froze in place the moment he drew away. He’d touched Her. And She’d been warm and soft and real. His thumb had brushed over Her upper lip for only a second, so now the feeling of it might be branded on his skin. And when he looked back to Her, she was flushed. With the hitched breath. The parted mouth.

He wanted more. He wanted Her. He didn’t ever want Her to go.

“Uh, where are you going?” He cleared, trying to make his voice as casual as possible. He could do this. “Once we wrap up the loose ends here?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged, settling back into the mattress. “Probably home.”

“Which is where?”

She gave him a small smile, taking a long sip of the coco without an answer.

“Never gonna tell me, huh?”

She shrugged. “Maybe next time, if you make me more of this.”

She tapped the thermos, and Dean felt his own mouth twitch.

“I think that’s bribery, Princess.”

“Maybe.” She hummed, raising Her brows at him. “Are we above bribery?”

Dean chuckled. “Guess not. And, uh,” he took a long breath, scratching the back of his neck. “Would you need it to be next time?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if there wasn’t a next time?”

Something flared on Her face, she leaned slightly away, and Dean’s throat tightened. Not like that. Not at all like that.

“Oh.” She mumbled, and the words began to fall out of Dean like vomit.

“No, I’m not saying that. Opposite of that. I mean, I told you everything, and Sammy likes you, and we’re a good team, Sweetheart, so if you want to, I’m sure Sam wouldn’t be pissed. He’d be for it. He said you were cool, and three is ever safer than two. So, uh, yeah.”

She only blinked. “What?”

Dean felt his face heat. He hadn’t actually said the thing. “Stay.”

“Stay?”

“With me. And Sammy. Just to help us find Dad, then Sammy’ll probably go back to a normal, boring life, and you can do what you do. Just, uh, you can stick around after the hunt. If you want.”

“Stay with you, to find…“ She trailed off, and Dean couldn’t read that expression. He couldn’t fucking think, not outside of Her eyes on his, and the smell fruit dragging him into a pure sense of Her.

“Our Dad.” Dean finished Her sentence, and her throat bobbed. 

She let out a slow breath, hugging Her own body and ducking Her head, and Dean felt his chest go numb before she even spoke.

“I can’t.” She mumbled, rubbing that scarred palm over her calf. “I’m really sorry, Dean. Just, my dad-“

“Don’t. It’s fine.” He rubbed his own brow, his gaze fixed on Her hand. Close enough to touch.

But not really close at all.

“Dean-“

“I’m serious. It was just an offer.”

“But-“

He snapped Her name, and it was harsher than he meant it, but something also felt like it was peeling along his ribs. She didn’t want him. Nobody would want him. He’d gotten Her hurt, and he had no good reason to think She’d stick around for him. She didn’t feel this, it was all only Dean losing his mind and falling to his knees for a woman that he could never have. She sounded wounded and desperate, but She wasn’t his to wound, and She’d told him she didn’t want to stay. That She wanted to go back home. Somewhere of the mud, somewhere Dean wasn’t good enough to follow her to.

“I’m-“

“Don’t apologize.” He muttered. She needed to rest, and Dean didn’t need Her sorrys. He didn’t really deserve them. “Go to sleep, Princess. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She took a long breath. “Dean?”

He grunted, unable to look Her in the eyes, and She sighed.

“I know I, you-“ She cut herself off with a swallow, her voice growing softer by the second. “But can you, um, can you please- I don’t want to- Could you please sit?”

Dean frowned at the floor. “What.”

“With me. Sit with me. Until I fall asleep.” She whispered. “You can go after, if you do, but… Please.”

Her voice was so goddamn light, so dream-like, and Dean didn’t think he’d ever learn to not bend for it. Not when his eyes dragged back to Her’s, and they were calling him further down. Drawing him closer with only Her. Still just Her, at Dean’s side, in the whole universe of a motel room.

And She wanted him for this. Only this. 

But at least it was something.

He nodded, and forced himself to ignore the spark up his spine when a She mumbled a thanks, and closed her eyes with a soft breath.

She was passed out in only a few minutes, and Dean stayed at Her side. Just a nod felt like it was an oath, when it was for Her. So Dean sat at Her side, and watched her sleep like that same creep he’d been the night before.

He didn’t really notice Sam returning. He couldn’t look anywhere but Her. Slack faced and breathing slow, drooling onto the pillow in a way Dean wanted to wipe from her chin, hair in her face he wanted to brush away, lips parted that he always wanted to touch. 

Beautiful. Not his to have. 

But She’d be here until morning. And She’d asked him to stay with Her, so he’d sit in the dark for Her and practice how he’d let Her go when she walked away. Remind himself that it was for the better She wouldn’t stay. She wouldn’t get hurt. And he would see Her again.

Maybe, while she was hunting without him, She’d find someone who actually kept her safe. Who did what Dean wasn’t good enough to do, and didn’t just watch Her in the dark. They’d hold Her in the dark. They’d be Her dark, just like Dean irrationally craved, but deserving. Worthy of a star falling into their hands, worthy of holding it with them all the time. 

Dean felt sick. Her hand was splayed across the mattress. 

He let himself hold it. If this was the only chance he had, and She didn’t flinch away when he twined his fingers with Her’s, he’d hold Her hand.

He’d take tonight. 

And he’d learn how get a grip in the morning. 

End Note: Diversity win! These Lesbians were part of a triple murder suicide!

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[metalmonki]

Can I request a Eddie Diaz x reader you work together and maybe make it similar to the Maddie plot where you get kidnapped and really injured but he finds you

I hope this is what you were after! I certainly enjoyed writing it. Thanks for requesting it.

Through The Dark

Edmundo 'Eddie' Diaz X Reader

4.1k word count

Summary When your kidnapped from the 118 Eddie becomes a man with a mission and nothing will get in his way.

The day started like any other at the 118.

The sun was already beating down on the asphalt as Buck and Eddie moved around the fire truck, prepping equipment with the easy rhythm of long practice. Eddie was double-checking the hoses while Buck swung open compartments, tossing a football lightly between his hands during every free second.

Across the bay, Hen and Chimney leaned into the back of the ambulance, rattling through their stock. The familiar sound of supplies clinking together echoed off the walls: saline bags, bandages, splints. The station hummed with the usual lazy energy of a morning before the inevitable chaos hit.

But there was something… off.

It was Hen who noticed first, her hand freezing over the trauma kit.

"Hey," she said, turning to Chimney with a slight frown. "You seen Y/N?"

Chimney paused mid-count, brows furrowing. "No. I figured she was already here. Y/N’s usually first in."

Eddie, overhearing, called over his shoulder, "Maybe she’s just running late?"

Buck spun the football in his hands. "Late for Y/N?" he said. "Nah, that's like... against the laws of physics."

The team exchanged glances. A strange, unspoken tension crept into the air.

Hen wiped her hands on her cargo pants and grabbed her radio. "Y/N, you copy?" she said, pressing the button. Static answered.

"Maybe she’s in the showers?" Buck offered, already moving toward the living quarters. "I'll check."

The firehouse, usually alive with movement and banter, suddenly felt too big, too quiet. As Buck jogged down the hall, a gnawing sense of worry tightened in his chest.

Something wasn't right.

And they were about to find out just how wrong things really were.

Buck came jogging back into the bay, shaking his head. "Nothing. Showers are empty. Locker room too."

Hen pulled out her phone, scrolling quickly to Y/N’s contact. "I'm calling her," she said, pressing dial. They all stood still, waiting, listening — but no ringtone echoed through the station. No hurried footsteps. No laugh.

Just silence.

Eddie wiped his hands on a rag, but it didn’t help. His palms were already clammy. His heart hammered against his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with work.

Where are you, Y/N?

He knew he shouldn’t panic — not yet. But he couldn't help it. He had been in love with her since the day she showed up at the 118, nerves visible but determination stronger. And since then, he'd hidden it. Buried it under years of jokes, teasing, pretending he was just another teammate.

Now all that restraint was crumbling. Fast.

"I'm checking Bobby’s office," Eddie muttered, already moving.

Buck and Chim followed without hesitation, Hen right behind them.

Bobby looked up from behind his desk as they pushed in. "Something wrong?" he asked, concern already flickering across his face.

"Have you heard from Y/N today?" Eddie demanded, sharper than he intended. His fists clenched at his sides.

Bobby’s frown deepened. "No. I figured she was out back, doing equipment checks. She clocked in last night for the overnight. Why?"

Eddie felt his stomach drop. She had been here. Something had happened.

Buck glanced at him, unease written all over his face. "She wouldn't just leave without telling someone."

Hen crossed her arms tightly across her chest. "This isn’t right, Bobby. Y/N would never."

Bobby grabbed his radio, his whole posture shifting from casual to urgent. "Alright. No assumptions. Full sweep of the station first. If we don't find her, we escalate."

But Eddie wasn’t waiting. His mind was already spinning worst-case scenarios, panic clawing at his chest. He barely heard Bobby giving orders, barely registered Buck calling after him.

He had to find her. Because this wasn’t just about a missing teammate.

This was about the woman he loved — and he was terrified he might already be too late.

…

The search of the station turned up nothing. No signs of Y/N — no note, no discarded gear, no hint of where she might have gone.

Bobby ordered Buck and Eddie to check her apartment while he and the others coordinated with dispatch. It wasn’t standard protocol, but none of them cared. Y/N was family — and families didn't sit around and wait.

Buck drove, Eddie riding shotgun, his knee bouncing with restless energy the entire way. Neither of them spoke much. What was there to say?

When they pulled up outside her building, Eddie was already unbuckling, practically jumping out before Buck even fully parked.

"Maybe she overslept?" Buck offered weakly, jogging to keep up as Eddie charged up the front steps.

"Y/N doesn't oversleep," Eddie snapped, pounding on her door. "Y/N’s the one who wakes us up."

He knocked again, harder. "Y/N! It's Eddie and Buck! You in there?"

No answer.

Buck tried the doorknob — locked — then looked down. No packages, no keys, no sign she'd come back after her shift.

Eddie's stomach twisted painfully.

He was about to suggest they try the manager for a key when Buck’s phone buzzed. He yanked it out of his pocket.

"It’s Hen."

Buck answered on speaker. "Hen, tell me you found something."

"I did," she said quickly, breathless. "You need to get back here. Now."

Eddie stiffened. "What is it?" His voice was rough, desperate.

"I found Y/N’s radio." Hen’s words were grim. "Stuffed behind the lockers. Like someone was trying to hide it."

Buck cursed under his breath.

Eddie felt like the floor tilted beneath him. Y/N would never ditch her radio. It was her lifeline. She treated that thing like it was a part of her body.

"I’m grabbing it now," Hen said. "Get back here. Something’s wrong."

Buck was already moving before the call disconnected, sprinting back to the truck.

Eddie stayed frozen for a second longer, staring at Y/N’s door. Something had happened. Something bad.

And he was running out of time to save her.

Buck barely waited for Eddie to slam his door shut before peeling away from the curb, tires screeching against the asphalt. Eddie gripped the dashboard, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

Neither of them spoke on the way back — didn’t need to. The air in the cab was thick with fear.

When they pulled into the station, Eddie was out before the truck fully stopped, sprinting through the bay doors.

Inside, it was a whole different scene.

Bobby was at the center of it all, his expression grim. Standing beside him, already in uniform and radiating authority, was Athena.

Eddie’s heart twisted tighter. If Bobby had called in Athena, this was no longer a missing teammate situation — this was an active investigation.

Athena spotted them and came over immediately. Her voice was calm but firm, the kind of calm that made Eddie even more nervous.

"Bobby filled me in," she said. "Hen found Y/N’s radio hidden behind the lockers. That’s enough for me to start a formal missing persons report."

"She wouldn’t leave without her radio," Eddie said hoarsely. He could hear the tremble in his own voice and hated it.

Athena’s gaze softened just slightly. "I know. Which means we treat this like foul play until we know otherwise."

Bobby stepped forward. "I’ve already locked down the station. No one in or out unless they’re part of the investigation. Dispatch is rerouting calls to the other houses."

Hen appeared beside them, holding a clear evidence bag with Y/N’s radio inside. The sight of it made Eddie’s stomach churn.

"There’s more," Hen said. "The clip on the radio is busted. Like someone ripped it off."

Athena nodded tightly. "Alright. First step — we canvas the station again, top to bottom. If Y/N left anything behind, a message, anything, we’ll find it."

"I want to help," Eddie said immediately, stepping closer, like he could physically force the universe to let him do something.

"You will," Athena promised. "But I need you sharp, Eddie. You, Buck, Hen, Chim — you know this station better than anyone. Look for anything out of place. Anything."

Eddie nodded, forcing himself to breathe.

Buck clapped a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. "We'll find her," he said under his breath. "We have to."

Eddie didn’t trust himself to answer. Because in his gut, he already knew — this wasn’t going to be simple. Someone had taken Y/N.

And he was going to tear the city apart if he had to, just to bring her home.

The station, usually filled with chatter and movement, was dead silent except for the sound of footsteps and the low crackle of Athena’s radio as she coordinated with patrol units outside.

Eddie, Buck, Hen, and Chimney split up, each taking a section of the building.

Eddie’s heart was hammering so loudly it drowned out everything else. He moved methodically — locker rooms, rec room, the kitchen. Nothing looked out of place, but he knew better than to trust appearances.

He found himself drawn back toward the bunkroom, where they all slept on long shifts.

He pushed open the door carefully.

The beds were neatly made, just like always. Sunlight filtered through the blinds in dusty beams.

Eddie scanned the room, every instinct on edge.

And then — something.

Barely visible under the edge of Y/N’s bunk, tucked up near the wall — a scrap of dark fabric.

Eddie crouched, reaching for it carefully.

It was a piece of Y/N’s uniform shirt. Torn, like it had been caught on something. And just beside it — tiny scuff marks on the floor, like there had been a struggle, quickly hidden.

"Eddie!" Buck’s voice echoed from down the hall. "You find something?"

"Yeah," Eddie called back, voice tight.

Buck came running, and Eddie held up the torn fabric.

Buck’s face went pale. "That’s hers."

Eddie nodded grimly. "Someone grabbed her here."

He could barely get the words out. Rage and fear warred in his chest, almost choking him.

Buck looked around the bunkroom, his eyes narrowing. "If there was a fight, maybe she left something else behind. A clue. Something we missed."

Eddie crouched lower, studying the baseboards, the bedframe — anything.

That’s when he saw it — carved into the underside of the wooden bed slat, just barely scratched deep enough to be visible:

5A

Eddie stared at it, his mind racing.

"What is that?" Buck asked, crouching beside him.

"Room number?" Eddie guessed. "Locker? Storage?"

They both exchanged a look — knowing time was running out.

Without waiting for backup, Eddie bolted out of the bunkroom, Buck on his heels. They had a firehouse to tear apart — and a message from Y/N to decode.

And Eddie swore to himself — he wasn’t leaving without her.

Eddie didn’t stop moving as he charged back into the main bay, "5A" burning into his brain like a brand.

"Bobby!" he called, waving the others over.

Bobby, Athena, Hen, and Chim all converged immediately, tension crackling in the air.

"We found this," Eddie said, holding up the torn piece of Y/N’s uniform. "There were scuff marks near her bunk — and this—" he pointed to Buck, who pulled up a photo on his phone of the carving under the bed slat, "5A."

Athena leaned in, frowning hard. "5A? What's that mean?"

"I don't think it’s inside the station," Eddie said, breathing hard. "Y/N had seconds — if she could scratch that in, she must have known where she was being taken."

Bobby’s face was grim. "5A... it could be a vehicle. A plate number. A storage unit. An apartment."

Athena was already moving, radioing her team. "Start pulling street cam footage near the station. Look for anything suspicious around shift change. A van, a car, anything with a 5A on the plates."

"There's a side alley," Hen said suddenly, snapping her fingers. "By the maintenance exit. Cameras don’t reach it. If someone wanted to grab her without being seen..."

"They’d use that," Eddie finished, already sprinting toward the maintenance door.

They burst outside into the narrow alley. The sun beat down on the concrete, harsh and unrelenting.

It looked empty — no obvious signs of a struggle.

But Eddie’s instincts screamed at him to look closer.

Buck scanned the ground. "Wait—" he pointed. "Tire tracks. Fresh."

Athena crouched beside them, professional but clearly rattled. "Two sets. One small, one larger — like a truck or a van."

"And here," Eddie said, pointing to the brick wall. It was faint — almost nothing — but a set of scraped marks, like someone had been dragged, boots scraping desperately for purchase.

Buck swore under his breath.

Eddie turned a slow circle, trying to breathe through the rising panic. Y/N was gone. She was outside the station — taken.

But she hadn’t gone quietly. She’d fought. Left them clues. She believed they’d find her.

Eddie clenched his fists, every muscle in his body vibrating with rage and fear.

"We get that footage," Athena said, already dialing. "We pull traffic cams. Every feed in a five-block radius. We find that van."

"And when we do," Eddie said, voice low and shaking with the force of it, "we're bringing her home."

No one argued.

Because they all knew — nothing, nothing — would stop him.

Back inside the station, Athena coordinated with officers across the city, barking orders into her radio. Bobby paced like a caged animal. Hen and Chim ran through street cam feeds on a laptop, scrubbing footage frame by frame.

Eddie stood frozen in the middle of it all, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, heart hammering so hard it hurt.

It’s not enough. We’re too slow. She’s out there. Alone.

Buck noticed, stepping up beside him. "Hey. Breathe, man. Athena’s gonna find something."

But Eddie shook his head, frustration boiling over.

"I can’t just stand here!" he snapped. His voice echoed across the bay, making everyone glance up.

Athena shot him a sharp look — but Eddie didn’t care. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, just knowing Y/N was scared, hurting, maybe worse, while he stood here doing nothing.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, pacing in a tight circle. Think, Diaz. THINK.

"5A." "5A." The number kept spinning in his head.

And then — like a fist to the gut — he remembered.

Weeks ago. Late-night conversation after a rough call. Y/N sitting across from him, laughing softly, looking tired but beautiful. Talking about how she hated her ex-boyfriend — the manipulative jerk she'd finally left for good.

"I used to live in Unit 5A of the building we were at," she had said, rolling her eyes. "Worst six months of my life."

Eddie froze, blood running cold.

"5A," he whispered.

Buck frowned. "What?"

"Her ex’s apartment," Eddie said hoarsely, turning to face him. "She lived there with him — Unit 5A."

Realization hit Buck like a freight train. "You think he took her?"

"I don’t think," Eddie growled. "I know."

Without waiting for permission, Eddie snatched the keys off the hook and headed for one of the station SUVs.

Buck was right behind him. "Let’s go."

Bobby started to call after them, but Athena caught his arm. "Let them," she said quietly. "They’re her best shot right now."

Buck drove while Eddie rattled off the address from memory — he'd made her laugh so hard that night mimicking her ex’s dramatic, whiny voice.

Now it felt like acid in his mouth.

As they weaved through traffic, Eddie’s hands shook in his lap, rage and terror fighting for dominance.

Hold on, Y/N, he thought fiercely. Hold on. I'm coming.

…

The city’s noise seemed miles away as Eddie and Buck raced toward the apartment building. Every second felt like an eternity. Eddie’s heart pounded in his chest, and his hands trembled, his thoughts drowning in one singular focus: finding Y/N.

When they reached the building, Eddie was out of the SUV before it even stopped, running toward the front door with Buck on his heels.

They didn’t knock.

Eddie slammed his fist into the doorframe of the apartment before stepping inside, his eyes scanning the dimly lit space.

The man was on the couch, his scruffy face pale with panic as he scrambled to his feet. His hand reached toward his waistband.

"Where is she?" Eddie’s voice was a growl, low and dangerous. "Tell me where she is right now."

The man froze, eyes flicking nervously between Eddie and Buck. "I—I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Eddie’s eyes narrowed, and in one fluid motion, he grabbed the man by the collar and slammed him back against the wall.

"Don’t lie to me," Eddie hissed. "She’s here. You took her."

Buck stepped up, placing a hand on Eddie’s arm. "Easy, man. Let’s just—"

"Shut up!" Eddie snapped, not looking at Buck. He wasn’t listening. He couldn’t, not with Y/N out there, alone, scared, hurt.

The man looked terrified but slowly backed up, hands raised in submission. "Okay, okay. She’s back there," he stammered, nodding toward a hallway at the back of the apartment. "I didn’t—didn’t. I just didn’t want her to leave”

Eddie didn’t wait for the rest of his confession. He was already pushing past him, running down the narrow hallway, his chest tight with fear.

When they reached the last room, the sight that met Eddie was enough to stop him cold.

Y/N was sitting against the wall, her legs drawn up to her chest. She looked so small. So fragile. Her clothes were torn and stained with blood. Her face was bruised, her lips cracked and swollen, one eye nearly swollen shut. Her arms were marked with deep red scratches and faint bruises. Every part of her seemed broken — physically, emotionally.

Eddie’s heart shattered at the sight of her, his whole body instinctively reaching for her. "Y/N," he whispered, his voice catching as he dropped to his knees in front of her. His hands gently cupped her face, trembling with barely contained fear. "Oh, god, I thought—"

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, her gaze unfocused at first. But when she saw Eddie, a flicker of recognition passed through her, and her lips trembled as she whispered his name.

"Eddie..." She tried to speak, but her voice was weak, barely audible.

"Shh," Eddie breathed, gently pressing his forehead to hers. "You’re safe. We’re gonna get you out of here, I swear. I’m not leaving you."

She tried to push herself up, but the effort was too much. She collapsed back against the wall, exhaustion and pain too much for her to bear. "I—I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice thick with pain. "I... I couldn’t... I fought... but—"

Eddie’s eyes were fierce, his grip tightening around her hand. "You did fight, Y/N. You’re here. You’re alive. You did everything you could, okay? You hear me?"

She closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her battered cheek as she nodded weakly.

Buck appeared behind Eddie, stepping back into the room. "Athena’s on her way."

Eddie nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. He pulled Y/N into his arms, careful of her bruised body, his heart breaking all over again at how fragile she felt in his hold.

"Hold on, Y/N," he whispered into her ear, his voice barely more than a hoarse breath. "We’re getting you out of here."

She leaned into him, but the pain was obvious in the way her body trembled. "Please," she whispered, barely audible. "Don’t leave me..."

Eddie held her tighter, desperate. "Never again. I’m not going anywhere without you."

Eddie carefully lifted Y/N into his arms, cradling her close, and despite the pain she was in, she rested her head against his chest. Her breath was shallow, her body trembling from the shock, but Eddie held her like she was the most fragile thing in the world, moving quickly but gently.

Buck grabbed the man, now cowering on the floor, and yanked him up by the collar. "You’re not getting away with this," Buck growled, shoving the guy toward the front door. "The cops are on their way. They’ll deal with you."

Eddie didn’t look back. His focus was entirely on Y/N.

Her head rolled slightly to the side as she looked up at him, her gaze unfocused. "I didn’t think... I thought you wouldn’t find me... I didn’t know if I could hold on..."

"Hey," Eddie said softly, his voice breaking, a quiet desperation beneath his calm exterior. "You’re here. You’re alive. We found you." He started to walk out of the apartment, his heart a twisted knot of relief and guilt. She shouldn’t have gone through this. I should have protected her,

The moment they stepped outside, Buck turned to him. "We need to get her to the hospital, Eddie."

"I know," Eddie said, already heading for the SUV, his footsteps quick but careful as he moved through the dim hallway.

At the hospital, everything happened in a blur.

Nurses rushed to Y/N’s side, pulling her from Eddie’s arms and onto a gurney. The beeping of monitors, the urgency in their voices — all of it echoed in Eddie’s mind, muffled, as he stood frozen at the foot of the bed. His chest felt tight, like someone had shoved a weight into his lungs.

He watched them work on her — cleaning her cuts, bandaging the bruises, stabilizing her, but through it all, Eddie couldn’t shake the image of her battered, broken form sitting on the floor in that apartment. The pain she’d endured. The fear in her eyes when she first saw him.

The hospital staff finally left, giving them a moment of quiet. The room was dim, the sterile scent of antiseptic lingering in the air. Eddie took a seat beside her bed, his body tense but his hand gently brushing against her uninjured one.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice low and rough. "I’m so sorry. I should’ve—"

She turned her head slowly, eyes fluttering open. Her face was pale, but her lips curled into a weak, painful smile. "You found me," she murmured. "I knew you would."

Eddie’s throat tightened. He hated seeing her like this, hated knowing that she’d been through hell — and he hadn’t been there. He hadn’t been able to stop it.

"I should’ve been there sooner," Eddie whispered, his hand gripping hers, as though holding on to her might make up for the time he lost.

"Hey," Y/N said softly, her voice barely audible. "You found me. That’s all that matters."

Eddie shook his head, a mixture of relief and guilt churning inside him. "It wasn’t enough, Y/N. You shouldn’t have had to go through that. I should’ve protected you—"

Y/N squeezed his hand, her grip surprisingly strong despite her injuries. "Eddie, listen to me." Her voice was still shaky, but there was a determination in it that made his heart skip a beat. "You didn’t let me down. You never could. You kept looking for me, and that’s all that matters. You’re here. You saved me."

He stared at her for a long moment, his chest tight as he tried to swallow the emotions flooding him. Saved her. That was the word she used. But she had saved herself, too — she'd fought, she'd held on.

Eddie could feel it then — the crushing weight of everything he’d been keeping inside for so long. The way his heart seemed to crack open, pulling him closer to her, making him realize just how much she meant to him. He could never put it into words, not in this moment, but he knew.

He knew that he’d been in love with her for so long, it hurt.

Y/N slowly reached up, her fingers brushing against his cheek, her touch soft but grounding. "Eddie," she whispered, her voice still hoarse. "You don’t have to say anything. I’m here. You’re here. That’s enough."

Eddie nodded, his throat tight, his emotions threatening to spill over. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to hold her until this whole nightmare felt like it was finally over. But instead, he simply leaned down, resting his forehead against hers, his eyes closing for a brief moment.

"I’m here," he repeated, his voice barely audible. "And I’m not going anywhere."

Hours passed, and Y/N was sedated, resting in a peaceful sleep under the watchful care of doctors and nurses. Eddie stayed by her side, not caring about the world outside the hospital room. Buck had stopped by, giving him a brief, understanding glance before leaving them alone.

But Eddie couldn’t leave. Not now. Not after everything she had been through.

And when she woke again, her hand reached out for him, her fingers trembling.

Eddie took her hand gently, pressing it to his lips. "I’m not leaving you," he promised again, and this time, he meant it in a way that felt deeper than before.

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes filled with exhaustion but trust. She smiled weakly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t want you to."

And that was enough.

[chaoticwriting]

I will find you, even in another life

*Tim's POV*

It's that weird dream again. He always has that dream. In it, he is some type of hero fighting against ghost. He never really get any full conversation between them. But he manages to piece together the dream one by one from the little information he has.

He remember he is part of family of four. One of them is a big giant guy in orange jumpsuit. The dad from what he remembers. Then there is a lady with h brown hair and teal jumpsuit. She is the mom from what he can tell. And lastly is a girl.

Yes. That's the only thing he has about her. Even though he has dreamed about many things in that life. Tucker. Sam. Ellie. But he can never see, hear or remember the girl. It's not that him in the dream don't interact with her. It's like something or someone is blocking him from remembering her.

And it is so damn frustrating. It's like a piece of himself is missing. Everytime he sees her, he will feel this weird calm feeling. Like anything will be okay as long as she is there. And that makes it more frustrating. He doesn't know why he is feeling that. But he feels like he needs to know. Like it is an essential part of why he is him.

Ugghhh. Maybe he should finish the case first. Babs has been asking him to update that report.

*Babs' POV*

Hmmm. That dream again. She wonders what is wrong with her. Why is she always dreaming about the same thing? In her dream she is a sister of sort to a kid. Her relationship with him is a little rocky at first but it becomes better later on.

Though she wonders why she never get any information about this kid. Whenever someone tries to mention him, the name becomes static like an old tv. His face either in pictures or real life is covered in irremovable fog that keeps bothering her. Even his voice sounds like an incomprehensible to her.

But no matter what, she knows one thing about the boy. It's that no matter what happened, she will always love the boy. That tender feeling she gets whenever the boy come to her for his problems or when they play together. She is familiar with that feeling. It's almost like a mother looking over their children. Not quite. More like an elder siblings looking at their younger siblings.

Whenever she thinks of him, a deep rooted sadness comes out of her heart. It's feels like a mother weeping for their children. When she talks it with Dick, he says that is what he feels like when Jason died. She really hope that the reason she feels this is not because of what she thinks.

[adaobiiii]

"Spare Miracle"

Pairing : Bob Reynolds x fem!Reader A/N : This isn't proof read so go easy on me please.................

Home || Main Masterlist 

The body came in a crate.

Not a coffin. Not a pod. Just a damp wooden crate. Long and heavy, wood scorched at the corners and humming faintly with leftover static. Valentina tilted her head as she circled it slowly, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She couldn’t remember where it came from, some defect lab tied to Project Lightning Rod? Or maybe it was Project Frankenstein. The name was blacked out on the manifest, the only legible word left. Viable.

She popped the lid with a crowbar. She needed to do this herself. If this project wasn’t successful she would most definitely be shunned.

Inside was a girl.

Or something like one.

Her limbs weren’t fully attached. An arm had laid near the top of the box--far from where it would normally be attached, as though it had fallen off during shipping. One eye was faintly glowing, almost staring, but remained half-open like it was caught between life and death. Her skin had a faint green undertone, not one of rotting but more like overcharged copper. There were thin stitch lines, pale scar tissue connecting torso to hip, wrist to elbow, jaw to neck.

Valentina stared in horror and pride.

“…Just in case,” she muttered, dragging the crate to Sublevel E, the generator floor. “If the Sentry project goes sideways again, we might need a spare miracle.”

As she rode the elevator down, she watched as dark clouds loomed over the old avengers tower. She could only hope this would work.

14 Months Later

The first time Bob saw you, he thought you were a hallucination from the Void.

He was supposed to be the only one left in the tower, the others had left for a mission. It had been about 14 months since the ‘Black Out of New York’, as some would call it. He still had difficulty controlling the void and was unable to be the Sentry without it almost taking over. Not much help. This meant he was often home, quite similar to a live-in housekeeper. 

Not that he minded. Cleaning seemed to be one of the few things that could keep his head clear for hours. Which brings us back to the situation.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Watchtower’s lower power station, one hand buried in the inner workings of a busted generator and the other absently tossing a small blue bolt between your fingers like it was a coin. You looked up when he moved, eyes glowing faintly with static energy.

“Oh,” you said, blinking. “You’re Bob.”

He hesitated. How did you know his name? “And you are...?”

“Not sure,” you said casually. You waved at him with your free hand, which promptly detached at the wrist and smacked the floor with a thud. You didn’t even flinch. “Oops. Happens sometimes.”

Bob stared. I should call Yelena.

You sighed, picked up your hand, and clicked it back into place with the same ease someone might fix a watch strap. “I woke up in some box a few months ago. Didn’t figure out how to walk until recently, though. My knees used to bend backward.” You looked down at your legs fondly, like this was normal.

Bob took a cautious step forward. “Are you…human?”

You shook your head. “Not exactly. More of a Frankenstein situation.”

He took small steps back, reaching for the phone at the center of the floor. He knew he wasn’t supposed to call the team when they were on missions except for emergencies--but this had to count for one. Right?

He called once. Twice. Three times and the call fell through each time.

The muffled sound of the dial tone rang through the room as the both of you made eye contact. His eyebrows furrowed, head tilting ever so slightly. “How did you know my name?...”

“Everyone here talks in their sleep,” you said matter-of-factly. “Especially the ginger with the shield. Walker? He says your name a lot. Usually when he’s mad.”

Bob’s brow furrowed. You pulled your wrist out of the generator—only to have it detach again.

You muttered, “I really need to get these things tightened…” and peered into the machine. The runaway wrist wriggled among the wires like a mouse. You glared at it. It froze. Then obediently crawled out and into your other hand.

Click. Reattached. Good as new.

Bob was lost. 

Your wrist just crawled on its own and you somehow knew his name. How did none of the team know they had a whole frankenstein monster in their basement. How had she gotten out of their basement? 

You watched as the boy stumbled backwards, almost tripping over his long sweatpants. He held out a hand in front of him, trying to keep you at a distance, as he moved back. He had to get someone. Anyone.

“That’s a bit mean,” you muttered to yourself as you finally got up. Once you stood he could finally see the true extent of your nature. The stitches that kept all your limbs together, the patchy yet harmonious texture of your skin, the nerving glow in your eyes and the two silver bolts sticking out of the sides of your neck that flickered with electric energy. 

“Running away from me already and you don’t even know my name,” she scoffed.

Bob swallowed hard. He wasn’t the best at social cues but this wasn’t exactly a normal daily situation. “S-sorry,” he fumbled over his words, “What’s your name?”

You opened your lips to answer before stopping. “She never told me,” you trailed off. The man’s ears perked.

“Who?” 

“The lady who moved me into your basement a few months ago,” she sighed, walking over to the kitchen. She swore she’d seen a package of batteries earlier. She had been thinking about grabbing some for a while. “She said something about a Sentry project and needing a spare miracle.”

Bob’s jaw dropped. 

“I couldn’t get a good look at her cause I hadn’t been charged properly but she had um...” she motioned to her hair, picking out a few front pieces. “White here and brown everywhere else,” she dropped the bangs and motioned to the rest of her hair as she tossed a duracell battery into her mouth. 

Bob blinked a few times then hurriedly grabbed the phone and quickly hit the dial again.

Nothing. Still nothing.

The screen blinked: “CALL FAILED.”

He stared at it like it had personally betrayed him.

“Okay,” he said, setting the phone down carefully on the counter. “Okay. No big deal. It’s just… everyone’s off-grid. On a mission. In an undisclosed location. That I don’t know of. Because I wasn’t allowed to go. Because I’m—”

He cut himself off, chest rising and falling too fast.

You tilted your head from across the room. “You good?”

“No. No, I am not good.” He pointed at you like it explained everything. “You—You’re a person. That no one told me exists. You eat batteries. Your arm came off. You’ve been living under the tower for what, months? Years? And you’re just. Fine with it?”

You shrugged, absently tossing a bolt of electricity between your hands. “Could’ve been worse.”

“How?” his hands flew out to his sides as he was so filled with confusion that he could no longer physically contain it.

You smiled. “Could’ve woken up to find out the world ended. Or had all my body parts separated in random jars across the world. Do you know how long it would take to put me back together that way?”

Bob opened his mouth to answer, then shut it. You had a point.

He sat down heavily at the edge of the table, running both hands through his hair.

“Valentina,” he said under his breath, “I knew she was hiding something. Everyone knows she’s hiding things, but this? You’re a whole person.. kinda?. And she just… boxed you up like Ikea furniture.”

You glanced over. “What’s Ikea?”

Bob stared. “You know what batteries are but not Ikea?”

“I learn what’s important.”

Bob laughed. Just once. The kind of sound that escapes before your brain can decide if it’s funny or tragic. “So no one else knows you’re here?” he repeated.

You blinked slowly. “Well I thought you did.”

“I live here,” he said, voice rising slightly in panic once more. “And I’ve never seen you before.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, your eyes slowly widened as you properly processed his words. “Wait… oh.”

Bob’s chest tightened. “Oh what?”

You squinted, leaning forward. “...I don’t think I was supposed to wake up yet.”

BOOM.

A sudden, muffled explosion echoed from somewhere up above.

The lights in the hallway flickered. Dust dropped from the vents. You looked up toward the ceiling. “Was that a bomb?” you asked.

Bob darted to the large window. A moment later, a distorted voice buzzed through the intercoms in the building barely audible through static.

“...Walker, get that door open, now!” “I am! It’s jammed, you emo looking rat!” “Shut up, Walker. Just keep pressure on it—Ava’s phasing too fast—”

Bob swore under his breath. “They’re back early.”

You stood next to him, batteries in hand, peeking through the hallway like this was all mildly amusing. “Thunderbolts, right?”

His head whipped toward you. “How do you know that?”

You gave him a look. “You all talk in your sleep, remember? Except that old guy. He just screams. A lot.”

Bob was about to say something when the security door at the end of the hallway burst open—sparks flying. You both turned just as the team spilled into the room, covered in dust, bruises, and adrenaline.

Yelena was first, blood on her temple, knives in hand. She froze.

Bucky followed close behind, gun drawn. He immediately took a step forward, shielding the others on instinct.

John Walker had a dislocated shoulder and a bad attitude, naturally. “Who the hell is that?”

Red Guardian trudged in, coughing and waving smoke away. “What is this? Little zombie girl? Electric Doll?”

Ava phased in last, glitching like a bad hologram. She landed in a crouch, eyes glowing through her mask—locking on you.

You blinked, mid-chew, still munching on half a triple-A battery. “Hi.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes, not taking them off you. “Bob. What is this?”

Bob raised both hands in surrender. “I swear, I just found her.”

Bucky lowered his rifle, flexing his metal arm in case he needed it again. “That stitching… it’s not surgical. It’s military-grade.”

John pointed. “She’s not part of the mission. What is she? Some Hydra leftover?”

You rolled your eyes. “Nope. Just your friendly neighborhood abomination.”

Bob stepped in front of you, arms out. “She’s not hostile... at least she doesn’t seem that way,” he mumbled at the end. 

“Louder Bob,” Alexei boomed.

He fidgeted with the ends of his sweatshirt. “She’s been here… apparently for months. Valentina brought her.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Yelena’s face hardened. “Valentina?”

Bucky growled. “Of course. That snake--”

“She called me a ‘spare miracle’,” you offered, hands making the air quotation signs. “Though I think I’m more like a glorified lightning rod with energy issues.”

Ava’s voice cut through the tension, her voice hoarse after the mission. “She didn’t tell anyone about you?”

You shook your head. “Apparently not.”

The room fell quiet.

Yelena exhaled slowly, eyes still locked on you, then turned to Bob. “We’re going to need to talk. All of us. But first get her upstairs.” she pointed at Walker.

The man scoffed in protest, “This is how it starts. Freaky hands, glowing eyes, next thing she’s ripping heads off. What if she goes for my brain?!”

“You seem to lack one so I think you’ll be alright” Ava mumbled before heading to what must have been the medical room. Holding onto her sides as she breathed heavily.

Bob looked at you as you hopped down from the counter and adjusted your shoulder as it slid slightly out of place. Click. Back in.

As you neared the rest of the group, you turned to one of the men and stretched out your hand, a battery held gently in it. “You look like you could use one.”

He eyed it warily. “I’m not battery-powered.”

You shrugged. “You’ve got a metal arm. Worth a shot.”

Trailing after the team, you glanced over your shoulder. “For a top-secret team, you guys really suck at checking your basement.”

Walker groaned. “I need a goddamn drink.”

Pt 2?

[secretlyazombi3]

Sweet Things ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎𖹭

 leon kennedy x gn! reader

๋࣭ ⭑⚝word count:  1.2k words ๋࣭ ⭑⚝ SFW, 2nd person, no specific version of Leon, you’re an agent, established relationship, fluff :33

๋࣭ ⭑⚝ summary: You and Leon are both agents, you happen to be assigned a job on Valentine’s Day, ruining your plans with Leon. But, by fate, you run into Leon as he’d been assigned to a mission that’s coincidentally linked with yours. 

๋࣭ ⭑⚝ a/n: short little treat for Valentine’s Day soon !! >_< i'll probably write smth else on valentines day too idk

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Eugh.” You mumbled in disgust as you looked down at the corpses of a couple of zombies a few feet away from where you stood. You wiped down your top, attempting to remove the sticky red blood, instead you smeared it into the fabric, staining your clothes.

“Great.” You muttered in annoyance. The universe really seemed to be working against you today.

You were supposed to be enjoying a nice candle lit dinner with Leon right now, but atlas, you two never seemed to catch a break. Instead of enjoying a romantic date, you were assigned a mission at work to contain some new zombie outbreak at the outskirts of the city. 

You already hated having to clean up the messes made from bio-weapon bullshit for the government. But on Valentine’s Day of all days?

You scrunched your nose as you caught a whiff of the rotted flesh melded to the bones of the zombie corpses in front of you. You shook your head before taking a few steps back, keeping a firm clutch on your gun. 

You glanced around, making sure you were safe before you began reloading your gun. “Area cleared,” You mumbled into your walkie talkie before you leaned back and waited for further instruction from your higher ups.

Your gaze drifted down as you waited for a response, quietly hoping that the other teams had contained the outbreak by now. But of course not, right, nothing seemed to be going your way. 

Through the thick static emitted from your walkie talkie, you were clearly close to being out of range, you heard the voice of your higher up telling you to advance forward. Your shift just wasn’t over yet. 

Think positively, you thought to yourself. All those fancy restaurants are probably fully booked today, there'll be more room tomorrow, and all the chocolate goes on sale after Valentines. 

As you stepped forward, attempting to avoid stepping in the red sludgy blood beneath you, you continued to quietly convince yourself that it’s no big deal that you’re working on Valentine’s Day. 

You snapped out of your head once you heard a gunshot snap through the air. Was that someone on another team? Nobody was supposed to be in this area besides you, it was your duty to clear out the zombies whilst everyone made sure no infected escaped into the city.  

Your mind immediately jumped to the worst case scenario. Were the other sectors overrun with zombies, forcing your colleagues to flee towards less crowded areas? Was there someone here who wasn’t supposed to be? 

You kept your gun in hand, your finger lifted away from the trigger, you were disciplined, but your anxiety was telling you to keep your finger on it just in case. 

Your heart rate spiked as you turned the corner. You saw a man in the midst of fighting a few zombies, taking most of them down with a few kicks. 

Your muscles relaxed slightly as you recognized the blonde man in front of you. Leon. You felt your lip curve ever so slightly into a smile seeing him. 

This was certainly, well… unexpected, to say the least, but definitely welcome. Maybe the day wouldn’t as shit as you thought. 

You raised your gun, aimed and fired a few shots at zombies to assist Leon. Leon clearly was taken aback at first, not knowing where the shots were coming from at first until you fired some more and he traced them back towards your direction. 

Leon scoffed a bit as his eyes landed on you. He clearly wasn’t expecting to run into you during his mission, either. 

Leon took down another zombie, his arm reaching to his aching shoulder once the zombie hit the ground lifelessly.

Leon muttered your name breathlessly, his breathing a bit laboured after the fight. 

“Wasn’t expecting to see you here.” Leon remarked. “You’re not hurt, are you?” You shook your head. Your expression softened as you heard his voice. Today, you wanted nothing more than to spend your time with Leon. This surely wasn’t half as romantic as you initially envisioned in your head, but you appreciated it nonetheless. 

“Could say the same about you.” You replied. “Didn’t even know you were assigned a mission today. Did they just call you in?” Leon kicked the corpse’s body aside to make it easier for him to approach you. “Yeah.” he replied. 

“You here to help contain the outbreak? We could really use some help.” You asked. 

“No, they sent me in to track down the people responsible and capture a sample of the virus. I wish I was here to spend time with you, especially today.” You shook your head and scoffed. “You’d want to spend time with me here?” Leon had a sheepish smile on his face he was clearly trying to suppress. He shrugged. “I mean, yeah.” “I don’t think I could imagine anything less romantic than being here. I mean, the stench is just awful.” You replied lightheartedly. 

Leon simply scoffed in response. “We can make it romantic,” he replied simply. 

Leon paused for a moment before eyeing you up and down. 

“You look good in red.” Leon commented. 

You became confused, you weren’t wearing red. You looked down at your outfit and realized Leon was referring to the blood that had stained the fabric of your clothes. “Shut up.” you replied playfully. 

“No, I’m being serious. You look damn good.” 

You couldn’t suppress the smile creeping up on your lips. This definitely wasn’t how you wanted to celebrate your Valentine's Day with Leon, but at least you had something.

You could tell Leon was still eyeing you, eyeing your body, admiring your body. And you couldn’t help but do the same right back. You could see Leon’s muscular body through his outfit, of course you were going to stare…

Static crackled through the speaker of your walkie talkie, breaking the tension in the air between you and Leon. 

You could barely make out the words, you were definitely out of range now, but you knew for certain that it was a sign to get back to work. You had to help out your teammates. 

“I think that’s a sign I need to move up.” You said, sounding slightly disappointed. 

Leon’s expression went back to how it always looked, a bit blank. “Right,” he replied. 

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up, drive you to dinner…” Leon said with a slight smirk. 

“Please don’t drive me.” you joked. 

“I’m not that bad at driving.”

“Mhm.”

You moved forward, aiming to walk past Leon, who’s eyes never seemed to leave you. “Wear red tomorrow.” Leon said. You smirked and nodded. “Will do.” You replied.

“And please, keep yourself safe out there. Don’t do anything stupid.” Leon added. 

“I’ve never done anything stupid.” you protested, pouting your lip ever so slightly. “Mhm.” Leon replied.

Your eyes drifted down towards Leon’s lips, and you couldn’t help but move forward, fluttering your eyes shut as you kissed Leon and pulled away as quickly as you had moved forward. 

Leon was visibly a bit taken aback by the suddenness. He blinked a bit as he simply stared at you, trying to hide his flusteredness as he searched his fuzzy mind for some snarky comment he could make.  “See you tomorrow.” You said simply as you continued moving towards the next area you were supposed to clear.

Leon cleared his throat. “See you then.” he replied as he watched you walk away.

[em1i2a3]

Signs

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You haven’t been able to sleep for the past four days, you’ve tried everything in the book, but tonight Bob has come to your room to offer you some help.

Warnings: Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob is involved and there are mentions of his past (that aren’t really explored completely in the movie but hey…It’s just in case lol), Fluff-ish, Hurt/Comfort (Kinda), Mentions of Past Drug Use, Mentions of Readers Past Traumatic Experience, Established Friendship between Reader and Bob.

Author's Note: Hey y’all, I don’t know if I can somehow recover the darn request but this was a request from an Anon, if it was you thank you for the ask! This one was fun to write! Can’t wait to keep chipping away at the ask list! Hope y’all enjoy :)

Word Count: 7,338

You and the ceiling in your room had taken on a strange sort of companionship.

You’d memorized every crack in the plaster, every faint shadow that was casted by the bustling city outside your window, every blemish that faded across it–remnants of the last person who stayed in this exact room, someone who liked to put little glow in the dark stars on their ceiling.

For four nights you had found yourself in the same position. Sleepless, yet exhausted. Your body was begging for rest, but your mind just wouldn’t allow it.

You had tried everything under the sun to induce sleep.

You tried herbal tea–chamomile, lemon balm, even the “Sleepytime Knockout” blend that Yelena had smugly handed you like it was a modern day miracle, which you had proven it was not. You tried an array of different white noises–whirring fans, tv static, waves, but it only made you feel nauseous. You took warm baths, wore flannel pajamas, you even bought a weighted blanket–which now lays on the desk across from you because it felt like it was suffocating you. You even tried mint scented melatonin pillow spray, and that didn’t work–although it did leave your pillow smelling quite fresh.

Even with all those attempts at trying to resolve your insomnia, your thoughts just wouldn’t let you go. They clung to you like burrs in fabric–small, sharp, and impossible to shake off once they made themselves at home. They weren’t loud–not always. Sometimes they whispered, and other times they just echoed–half finished sentences, things you didn’t say when you should’ve, flashes from old missions that blurred at the edges like fog on glass, and regrets that you just couldn’t shake from your system.

You were tired in a way that felt cellular–tired of the stillness, of fighting your own brain, of crying every little thing you thought about in silence. Your chest felt tight and full. Like your body had been holding its breath for too long and didn’t remember how to let go.

The longer you stayed still under the thin white sheet you had pulled on top of you, the heavier your thoughts became. They didn’t scream, they just looped in this quiet, methodical way–cruel in how convincing they were. You thought about things that you had ruined by your own hands, people you had killed, innocent civilians that suffered the shrapnel of your actions. You were guilty of so much, and sometimes during these nights you felt like you had blood on your hands–real, warm, and sticky crimson blood that sunk under your nails and stained your skin.

It was a quiet kind of drowning, where you just allowed yourself to sink, thinking whatever was weighing you down would let you go so you could break the surface again, but it was never that easy.

You turned your head to the side, letting the cool cotton of your pillow brush against your cheek–damp from the heat trapped underneath the covering. You’d flipped it three times already tonight, hoping the fresh side might grant you sleep, but it never did.

Your fingers curled loosely around the sheet like they used to hold something, someone, once. Your knuckles ached, even though you had taken a break from training because you were too exhausted–Bucky had told you it was phantom pain, something he had experienced with his arm.

The air in your room felt used. Like it had been breathed in and out too many times, like it couldn’t carry comfort for anyone anymore. You wished, suddenly and without warning, for something as simple as a breeze to blow through your room, just something to reset the air. Something to prove there was still hope for sleep.

Instead, there was the occasional honk of a car too far away to care about, and sirens that distantly cried through the dark like tired wolves. It all passed you by. Out there, the world kept turning on its axis, but here–in your bedroom–everything was slow and suffocating, like you were drowning in molasses.

You closed your eyes tightly, and saw things you didn’t want to see.

The face of a boy whose name you never learned. The tremble in your own hands after pulling the trigger. A woman screaming. The echo of silence that followed. You brought your hands to your face, and pressed your palms over your eyes like maybe darkness could cancel out darkness, but it only made it worse. All it did was give the thoughts more room to expand.

You remember the moment you let someone die–not because you had no choice, but because you hesitated. You remember the blood that splattered on your face.

Even now–years later–on nights like this, those moments still felt fresh. You shook your head a little like it might scatter them, and curled in on yourself under the weight of it all, knees drawing up to your chest and arms tucked close like you could press yourself into sleep with the pressure alone.

Then, you heard a sound.

It was faint, almost imperceptible, but your brain was so trained to be on edge that you noticed those little noises. There was shuffling. The subtle creak of a floorboard. A soft rustle of fabric, then the nearly soundless click of a door opening from the room next door to yours. Bob’s.

You could feel your heart stutter at the noise when you realized he was awake too, but your ears tuned in more sharply now.

You could tell he was walking carefully–barefoot, you imagined, moving down the hallway like he was trying not to disturb anyone. His weight shifted gently, like he knew exactly where the creaky floorboards were, like he’d done this many times before. You slowly opened your eyes, staring up at the ceiling, heart pressing tightly in your chest, squeezing and contracting like it was struggling to regain its rhythm. You didn’t move, nor did you call out…Because what would you say? “I heard you. I’m glad you’re up too? I’m a mess and I wish you could fix it but I’d never let you try?”

No. Because you didn’t want to bother him.

Bob was kind. Gentle. The kind of man who offered you the last slice of pizza with a shrug like it didn’t matter to him, even though he was still hungry, the kind of person who always held the door just a second longer than necessary, the kind of person who would fight to give you the world even if it meant he needed to sacrifice something from himself to do so.

He was your friend, and you liked the friendship too much to chip at it with things he didn’t ask for. You kept the nightmares that plagued you to yourself. The sleepless night. The guilt. The ache.

You had to.

Because if Bob ever saw that part of you–the part still bloodstained and shaking–maybe he’d stop looking at you the way he did when it was just you and him. With eyes soft and full like you were something gentle and special to him, instead of something that was broken into millions of pieces.

So you stayed quiet, and let him drift down the hallway like a ghost. Maybe he was just getting water, maybe he had a nightmare, maybe he was sleepwalking and wouldn’t remember any of it in the morning.

And maybe…Maybe that was better.

Because some people in the compound had already caught on to your issues. Early on, after you joined the team. Yelena had raised an eyebrow the first time you turned up at breakfast with the bags under your eyes heavy enough to pack for a weekend trip. Walker had made a joke about you needing depuffing cream. Ava had noticed too, once–her voice casual but precise when she’d asked, “You sleep at all last night?”

You always gave the same answer. A shrug. A smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m fine. Just a long dream.”

And somehow, they let it go.

But Bob–

Bob had never asked.

Not because he didn’t notice, you suspected. But because he respected your quiet. Because he waited for permission.

And that? That made it worse in the best way.

Because you could feel how much he wanted to ask. On the days he’d hand you your coffee and hover an extra beat too long. On the nights he’d walk you to your room after training and say, “Sleep well,” with a voice that felt more like a hope than a goodbye.

You kept listening to his movements though. There was a soft rummaging sound from the kitchen, the slow creak of a cabinet opening. The unmistakable clink of ceramic–just one, like he was pulling out a mug, not a glass. Then, quieter still, the dull metallic sound of a pot.

Your brows furrowed, glancing over at your clock to see that it was 3:21 AM.

You thought it was super late for him to be cooking something for himself, but then again he had mentioned in passing that after he received the Sentry serum it caused his metabolism to spike, and it made him feel like he was starving at odd times of the day–enough to put him on the brink of pain if he didn’t eat properly.

You heard a soft mutter, barely a whisper, but you couldn’t make it out–oftentimes you’d catch him talking to himself when he assumed he was alone, and this seemed like one of those times. Then came the hum of the fridge opening. The gentle click of a cap twisting loose. A drawer. A utensil. A quiet clink-clink of metal tapping ceramic.

He was definitely making something.

But you couldn’t piece together what it was, there were too many confusing sounds.

So you just sighed, and turned over slowly, the sheets rustling faintly beneath you as your gaze fell on the window.

The city beyond the glass was still awake, and buzzing with energy surprisingly. A few lights blinked in neighboring buildings. A plane cut silently through the sky in the distance, red lights flashing against the black. Clouds moved slow and soft, brushed in pale grey, like smeared charcoal across paper.

And behind them–stars. Only a few. Faint. Distant. Struggling against the glow of the skyline. But they were there. You stared at them for a long time. Let yourself trace imagined constellations. Let your breathing slow just enough to pretend your thoughts had too.Trying to give yourself the illusion of calm, even as the memory of his voice–not the words, just the sound of him–lingered in the hallway air like warmth that hadn’t faded yet.

Whatever Bob was doing in the kitchen was done now, at least that’s what you thought because the noise had halted. He was probably back in his room, probably eating at his desk, or curled up beneath his sheets, trying not to do what you were doing–thinking too hard, wanting too much, or hoping for something that would never be offered to you.

Minutes passed. You weren’t sure how many. Maybe five. Maybe twenty. It stretched and folded in on itself the way time always did when it was so early in the morning–when sleep was out of reach but everything else felt a little too close.

Then you heard it…Tap Tap.

Two knocks. Gentle. Hesitant. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence you didn’t know had been written for you.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, and you turned over quickly, the sheet slipping off your shoulder, pooling around your hips as your eyes landed on the door.

There was a shadow there. Still and uncertain. You could see it through the sliver of light spilling beneath the frame–two bare feet planted quietly on the hardwood.

Slowly, you pushed yourself up and out of bed. The room was cool, and your skin prickled under the change in air. Your loose, worn Stark Industries t-shirt that hung off your shoulder, the hem brushing the tops of your thigh. A pair of navy flannel sleep shorts clung gently to your hips and your legs were bare all the way down to your toes, which curled instinctively against the cold of the floor as you moved toward the door.

You reached for the handle, hesitated–just for a breath–and then opened it.

And there he was.

Bob, standing in the soft halo of hallway light, looking every bit as fragile and gentle as the moment deserved. His hair was tousled–bed-tousled, like he had also been tossing and turning a dozen times tonight as well. Soft light brown waves of hair hung over his forehead, catching the light, almost like it was emoting a crown of sorts.

He wore a familiar dark red hoodie, the sleeves were shoved up around his elbows, and the cotton was warped at the seams from how often he picked and fidgeted in it. His plaid pajama pants were rumpled and hit just above his ankles.

And in his hands, cupped with a kind of gentleness you had seen countless times before, was a simple white ceramic mug.

Steam curled up from it in delicate swirls, spiralin in the stillness between you. The smell hit you softly–milk, warm and rich, and a sweet hint of honey. The scent wrapped around you, caressing your skin.

Bob’s eyes met yours, and you saw the surprise in his face at the fact you had even gotten up to open the door. His lips parted, like he was going to say something but his eyes kept going over you, distracting his brain from saying what he wanted to.

”Hey.” You whispered, rubbing your eyes with your knuckles, before returning your gaze back to his, “You okay?” Bob flinched like your voice startled him. Like he’d been standing there for longer than he meant to, lost in thought, and not expecting you to say anything first.

He looked down at the mug in his hands, then returned his gaze to yours, his thumbs shifting nervously against the ceramic rim.

”Y-Yeah,” He said, his voice scratchy with sleep, and soft around the edges, “Yeah, I’m good…I just…I just heard you.” You didn’t say anything–just tilted your head slightly, brow furrowing. He cleared his throat, eyes flicking briefly toward the shared wall behind you.

”Through the wall I-I mean. Through the wall. I–I didn’t mean to. I just…You’ve been tossing a lot the last few nights, and I wasn’t sure if…You wanted me to do anything but tonight it just…” He looked down at the mug again, then shrugged a little, awkward and quiet, “I couldn’t lay in there anymore…Felt wrong.” Your heart thudded in your chest–not from panic, but from something warmer. Softer. Something dangerously close to comfort. Bob shifted again, like he thought maybe he should start walking away, like maybe he overstepped.

Bob swallowed thickly, like the nerves were caught somewhere behind his tongue, and with a small, careful motion, he held the mug out to you.

”It’s…It’s just warm milk with some honey…No-Nothing fancy or anything, just…Just something my mom used to m-make me when I was really small…” Bob rarely mentioned his mother, once in a blue moon he would say something in passing, and it was always about something she used to enjoy, but he never spoke about anything further than that. You never pushed, you knew the history, you knew his file like the back of your hand actually, so you understood what was off limits for conversation.

“She…Used to say that it worked b-better than anything else..I guess I was hoping maybe…Maybe it could help you too.” He wasn’t looking at you anymore. His eyes had dropped to the mug in his hands still, or maybe to the floor–anywhere but your face, as he waited for you to take it, still rubbing anxiously at the rim like there was a stain you couldn’t see.

You reached out, your fingers brushing his as you gently took the mug. The ceramic was warm, and the steam curled softly under your chin. The scent wrapped around you like a memory you’d never had—soft, homey, achingly kind.

”Thank you,” You whispered, so quietly you weren’t even sure he heard it, but then he nodded. You glanced up at him again, “Do you want to come in?” Bob hesitated for half a second at your invitation, caught off guard by the offer.

”…Only if it’s okay with you…” He replied, and almost immediately you stepped to the side, motioning for him to come in. He stepped past the door frame and into your room, his bare feet making almost no sound against the hardwood floor.

Your room wasn’t messy exactly, but it had the unmistakable signs of someone who lived inside their own thoughts too much–stacks of books were on the nightstand, a half-folded hoodie draped over the office chair in the corner, a mug with a plant sprouting from it on the windowsill.

The shelf across from your bed was lined with board games–stacked neatly but densely, as if you collected them slowly over time, favorites worn down at the corners from use, or from age. There were also tiny figurines lined up beside them–small, whimsical things that looked hand painted. There were also a few vintage snow globes from places you’d never been but had always meant to visit. It was little pieces of nostalgia and comfort that made the space feel like yours.

Bob didn’t say anything right away, but you noticed the way he gravitated toward the shelf, his eyes scanning the games in the darkness with an unmistakable curiosity. He crouched a little, careful not to touch anything, just reading the spines.

”You’ve got Clue…” He murmured, almost to himself, “T-The good version…With the m-miniature weapons…” You smiled softly at that and returned to your bed, setting the mug down gently on the nightstand before slipping beneath your sheet again. It barely warmed you, but it was just to cover yourself up a bit. With Bob being there the air already started to feel different–less used, less still. Like you could breathe just a little bit easier, even though your chest still felt tight.

“We can play something if you’d like…” You said gently, watching the way his fingers hovered near a box labeled Codenames before pulling back. You reached over and picked the mug back up from the nightstand, cupping it in both hands as the warmth seeped into your skin, bringing it up to your lips before taking a small sip–just enough to taste the gentle swirl of honey at the back of your tongue. It was soothing. Sweet. A kind of simple comfort that felt foreign to you.

”You sure you’re up for it?” He asked quietly, still looking at the shelves.

”Positive, besides…It’ll probably take a bit for this to work.” You said, motioning to the mug even though he wasn’t looking over at you. Bob’s fingers hover over a couple of boxes–Ticket to Ride, Bananagrams, even a battered-looking deck of Uno–but eventually settled on Scrabble. His hand lingered on the side of the box, thumb brushing over the worn cardboard like he was trying to gauge how many games had been played on it before.

”Scrabble okay?” He asked, moving to the side slightly so you could see the box, as a small smile tugged at your lips.

”Sure.” Bob slipped the box out of the pile and stepped toward your bed, careful not to knock into anything in the low light, and then out of nowhere you pointed toward your desk.

”Just turn on the salt lamp, it’ll be easier on the eyes than the overhead light, and we won’t go blind trying to read the little tiles while we play.” Bob gave a small nod and padded softly over to your desk, careful not to disturb the stacks of paper and stray pens scattered across the surface. He bent slightly, fingers brushing the dial of the salt lamp, and with a gentle click, it bloomed to life.

A soft amber glow filled the room-like the last light of day spilling across hardwood and skin. It curled into the corners, brushing gold over his cheekbones and catching faintly in the strands of his hair. The shadows no longer felt sharp, just softened edges fading into the warm orange hush.

As Bob straightened, his eyes flicked–almost unintentionally–over the contents of your desk. Notebooks flipped open to half-finished thoughts. Old mission reports, some with ink smudged across the corners where you’d rested your palm. Paperwork from the Thunderbolts med team. A few loose pages caught his eye–your handwriting sharp and slanted, trailing off into sentences he couldn’t quite make out. But the word “decompensating” was there. He didn’t linger though. He looked away just as quickly, like he hadn’t seen it at all.

He made his way back toward your bed and set the Scrabble box gently down between the both of you, careful not to make too much noise. He lowered himself carefully onto the edge of your bed, tucking his long legs beneath him and sitting criss-crossed on the sheets like a tall child. The salt lamp’s glow warmed the fabric of his hoodie, casting a faint orange hue along the planes of his face and deepening the shadows beneath his lashes. His posture was relaxed, but the tension in his hands betrayed the way he was holding himself still–like he wasn’t quite sure how close he was allowed to be.

You started setting up the board in front of you, drawing the tile racks from the box and arranging the letter pouch off to the side. You felt his eyes on you–not in a way that made you nervous, but in a way that made you feel seen. Quietly observed. Almost studied, like he didn’t want to miss a moment.

“How’s the drink?” He asked softly, voice still rough, like he hadn’t fully settled into being awake.

You glanced over at him and gave a faint smile. “It’s really good,” You said truthfully. “A little sweet, but…It definitely soothes. Or at least it feels like it’s trying to.”

Bob’s lips curved into something warm, the kind of smile you only get from someone who made something just for you and got it right.

“I haven’t made it in a while,” He murmured, eyes dropping briefly to your hands wrapped around the mug. “Didn’t know if it’d still be…I don’t know... W-Worth making.”

“It was,” You said, and then, after a pause, you leaned forward slightly, holding the mug out toward him. “Want a sip?”

His eyes lifted in surprise. For a second, he didn’t answer–just blinked at the offer like you’d handed him something much more important than a half-finished drink. But then he nodded, once, gently, and reached for it.

His fingers brushed yours as he took the mug, and you didn’t let go immediately. Neither did he.

The weight of the silence stretched between you, not heavy, but delicate. Something balanced. Breakable.

Then Bob looked down, brought the mug to his lips, and took a small sip–barely anything, like he was trying not to take too much. When he handed it back to you, his thumb lingered on the handle just a beat longer than it needed to.

“It’s…Yeah,” He said, voice low. “S-Still good.”

You didn’t reply, just gave him a quiet smile as you settled back, placing the mug carefully on your nightstand again. He straightened a little as you began to draw your tiles.

A few moments passed like that–quiet rustling of letter tiles, soft exhales, the hum of the city outside whispering beneath it all. Bob watched you with a quiet intensity–eyes soft, but wholly focused, like the flickering glow of the salt lamp had burned everything else out of view except for you.

You laid down your first word slowly, pressing each wooden tile into place with a soft click that seemed to echo louder than it should in the hush of the room.

“Still.”

He tilted his head slightly as he read it, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he thought the word was fitting in more ways than one.

You didn’t say anything. Just watched as his gaze dropped to his own rack of letters, brows drawing together slightly in concentration. His shoulders were curved inward, posture just shy of guarded, and his fingers fiddled with a tile between his thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly over and over in his palm like he wasn’t quite ready to play his move.

You could’ve looked away.

But you didn’t.

There was something about watching Bob think–watching the way he wrestled with something so small and inconsequential with the same care he gave to life-and-death situations–that made you feel like maybe nothing was inconsequential to him. Maybe that was part of what made him so easy to be near. He never treated anything like it was small, especially not you.

”…Why were you awake?” You asked, voice soft but clear, threading gently into the space between you like a breath that didn’t want to startle him. He didn’t look up immediately, but his thumb paused on the tile he was holding, and you saw his jaw tighten–just slightly, like he was sifting through what he wanted to say. Eventually, he set the tile down without adding it to the board, glancing up at you for a moment before looking down at his hands.

”S-Sometimes I get these…Muscle spasms,” He said, clasping his hands together slowly, “Uh…It started when I g-got clean. Back then…I chalked it up to j-just withdrawal symptoms or whatever…” He offered a small shrug, but it looked more like he was trying to take the weight of the memory off his shoulders, “But t-they never really went away…Even after the whole…Sentry serum thing.” You felt something inside you still at that–your breath, your hands, the thoughts that had been crawling under your skin just moments before. Bob had never talked about this, yes he had mentioned it in passing but he never went into details. Not with you, not with anyone in the compound as far as you knew. And he didn’t speak of it now with bitterness or shame–just quiet, exhausted honesty.

His fingers tapped lightly against his knee now, the motion faint but rhythmic. He wasn’t looking at you. Not fully. Just past you, like it might be easier to keep talking if your gaze wasn’t anchored to his.

“It’s not like–a c-constant thing,” He murmured. “Not always. But some nights…” His voice faltered for a breath, then gathered itself again, “Some nights it feels like my skin doesn’t fit right. L-Like something’s twisting underneath. And if I stay still too long, it gets worse. Hurts.” You stayed still, letting his words settle in the room like dust in a shaft of light. Not brushing them away. Not rushing to respond. You just…Let him be heard.

“And what about tonight?” You asked gently. Bob’s shoulders rose slightly at your question, like a breath caught halfway up his chest and couldn’t decide whether it wanted to stay there or fall. He didn’t answer right away, but you didn’t rush him. You just…Watched.

There was a fragility in the way he was sitting now–his tall body folded inward, arms loosely draped across his lap like he was trying not to take up more space than he deserved. The plaid of his pajama pants creased softly at his knees, and the hem of his hoodie had ridden up slightly where it bunched at his hips, exposing the edge of a thin white undershirt. He was swaying–just barely. That kind of instinctive motion people did when they were trying to self-soothe without realizing it.

And his hands–those quiet, trembling hands–were doing that thing again. Fingers laced loosely, thumbs rubbing in absent loops over each other like they were chasing comfort around and around.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Careful.

“It started in my thighs first,” He murmured, eyes fixed on the little wooden tiles in front of him like they might spell out a safer version of the truth. “Like this…C-Crawling pressure...”

You stayed quiet. Just listened.

“Then my back,” He added. “It always finds my back eventually. S-Sometimes it feels like–like something’s winding itself around my spine and pulling tight, and if I don’t move or stretch or…J-Just do something, it’s like I’m gonna shatter from the inside out.”

His voice broke a little on the last word, not from emotion but from the wear of speaking it aloud. He cleared his throat gently.

“I-I tried laying on the floor for a bit,” He continued, almost like he was narrating it to himself now. “It’s supposed to help sometimes. G-Grounding or whatever. I-I even tried counting backwards from a h-hundred, but I kept getting stuck on the same numbers…And I kept hearing…Hearing you t-tossing and turning.” Bob’s voice trailed off, and he looked up at you. His eyes were glassy in the amber light, not from tears, but from the kind of fatigue that went deeper than rest could fix. There was something raw in them–open and flickering with the effort of holding himself together. He gave a small, almost helpless shrug, like he didn’t know what else to do with the weight of what he’d said. Like the words had cost him more than he was willing to admit.

Then he glanced down at the board again, blinking like he was trying to reset his brain.

Silence stretched between you–but not the painful kind. It was the kind that wrapped itself around vulnerability like a blanket, the kind that said you’re allowed to feel this without needing to explain it.

You watched him as he shook himself a little–shoulders rolling back, breath catching in his throat like he was trying to brush something invisible off his skin. Then, without a word, he reached forward and laid his tiles on the board.

He pressed them down with gentle fingers, slow and deliberate, connecting to your word.

“Laying.”

Bob’s fingers withdrew slowly from the tiles, then settled in his lap again. You could still see the pink crescents of tension pressed into the skin where his nails had worried the edge of his thumb.

He glanced at you.

His eyes were steady now, but there was nothing sharp in them–just soft weariness. Mutual understanding. He looked like someone who had finally let a little of the weight slip from his shoulders, only to realize there was more to carry still.

“Can I–I ask you something?” He said, voice quiet but sure, like he didn’t want to startle the air between you.

You nodded, wordlessly.

“Why’ve you been…H-Having trouble sleeping?”

He didn’t ask it like a challenge. There was no tilt to his tone, no pressure to answer. Just a quiet offering of space. A question given without a demand. Like the mug he had handed you. Like the warmth in it.

You could’ve deflected. You could’ve lied–said it was the city noise or the caffeine or bad luck or anything else.

But Bob was looking at you like he’d listen to every word. Like none of it would make him turn away.

So, after a moment, you folded your hands in your lap, fingers tracing over one another like you were stitching the truth together slowly, gently.

“I’ve done…Pretty reprehensible things Bob…” His gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it softened.

You looked down at your hands in your lap, thumbs brushing over each other in a rhythm that didn’t calm you but at least kept you from unraveling.

“There are nights I can’t close my eyes without seeing it all. Not like a nightmare–those would be easier. You wake up from nightmares. These are… Flashes. Full-color, real-time, high-definition plays of everything I shouldn’t have let happen.” You laughed, just barely–a breath, really. Bitter at the edges. “Sometimes I think my memory’s too good. Like it’s punishing me for surviving when others didn’t.”

Bob didn’t speak. His silence wasn’t a void–it was presence. It was him listening the way only he could. The way that told you this space was yours to fill.

You pressed your palms together, trying to hold in the shake that had started at your fingertips.

“There’s this one kid,” You said, and your voice faltered for just a second, “–I didn’t even get his name. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen. He looked at me like I was going to save him. And I didn’t. I froze.” Your throat tightened. “I froze, and he died. I still see his face. Every time. Like he’s just waiting for me to try again and do it right this time.”

The silence between you grew deeper–but not colder.

“I know people say we all make mistakes, that we’ve all got blood on our hands in this job, but…” You swallowed hard, “But some mistakes don’t wash off,” You whispered. Then came a sigh–slow, worn-out, the kind that scraped the bottom of your lungs and left you a little emptier than before.

“Guess I just have to live with it,” You said softly, eyes fixed on the board between you. Your thumb dragged slowly over the edge of your tile rack, a motion that felt mechanical, just something for your hands to do so they didn’t shake. “You know? Make peace with the fact that some of the blood doesn’t come out, no matter how hard you scrub.” Bob was quiet for a long time. Not the kind of silence that asked you to fill it–just the kind that held things. The kind that made space for the ache in someone else’s chest.

His eyes stayed on the Scrabble board, but you could see his jaw shift, his breath catch on the edge of something he didn’t know how to say. And then he sighed–soft, almost soundless, but full of weight. Full of want. Of helplessness.

“…I–I don’t know how to fix that,” He said finally, and the words were almost apologetic. His voice was low and rough, like it scraped against his ribs on the way out. “I wish I could. I wish I had…I don’t know. A better thing to say. Or some way to–” His fingers twisted together tightly in his lap. “To take it away from you...” You looked up at him then, only to see he already had his eyes on you. His brows were pulled together. His lips parted. And his eyes–God, his eyes–were so heartbreakingly kind, even with all the pain swimming in them.

“But I–I don’t think you’re awful,” Bob said quietly. “I never have.”

Your lungs stuttered on the inhale. Like his words had knocked something loose inside your chest, and now everything you’d been bottling up wanted to come spilling out all at once.

You looked at him, really looked–at the way his lashes caught the salt lamp’s glow, at the way his mouth was pressed in a soft, worried line, like even kindness exhausted him when he meant it too much. And you wanted to say thank you, or that means more than you know, or please don’t stop looking at me like I’m worth saving–but what came out was smaller than that.

“Why?” Your voice cracked slightly as you spoke. He looked like he hadn’t expected you to ask for proof. He shook his head a little, as if you’d just missed the point completely.

“B–Because I see you.” He said quietly, and simply. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t—not when your throat felt like it was wrapped in wire, not when every muscle in your body was too tired to hold up all that guilt and all that tenderness at the same time.

But you held his gaze, and in the stillness that followed, something unspoken passed between you. Something that didn’t need to be named.

Bob shifted slightly, like your silence was something he was afraid to misread. “I didn’t mean that in some dramatic way,” He added quickly, his voice softer now. “I just… I h-have watched you hold everything in. I’ve watched you show up when it’s hard. W-When it hurts. And you don’t complain, you just carry it.” He blinked slowly, then smiled–just a little. “And I think… I think maybe someone should carry some of it with you, even if it’s just for a night.”

Your chest ached. You wanted to cry. But no tears came–just that deep, hollow breath that tried to make room for the feeling swelling inside you. You didn’t speak. Not at first. Because there was something so impossibly gentle in the way he said it–that he’d watched you carry it, that he wanted to carry it too–that you felt your heart stammer under the weight of being seen like that.

Not as a soldier. Not as an asset. Not even as a teammate.

But as you.

The person who lay awake four nights in a row memorizing the ceiling. The one who couldn’t scrub their hands clean. The one who still heard screams in silence.

And he still wanted to stay.

You looked down at the Scrabble board between you, and your hand hovered over your tiles for a second…Then dropped.

”I don’t think I can play anymore,” You whispered. Bob stilled completely.

You weren’t looking at him when you said it–your gaze fixed somewhere in the space between the board and your knees, your voice small and raw. You could feel his eyes on you, though, full of concern he hadn’t figured out how to put into words yet.

When you didn’t say anything else, Bob shifted slightly beside you. You caught the movement from the corner of your eye–the way his posture went from soft to stiff, the way he folded a little tighter into himself, his fingers fidgeting again like they were trying to untangle guilt from nothing.

“I–I’m sorry,” He said quickly, almost in a breath. “I shouldn’t have–I didn’t mean to push anything on you. If I made you uncomfortable, I can go. I didn’t mean to…”

You looked over at him then. His face was turned slightly down, his shoulders drawn up like he was expecting you to flinch away. The game between you had been gently nudged aside, but the distance left in its wake felt like something colder. Something afraid. Like Bob was already slipping back into himself, already preparing to apologize for wanting to be close to you at all.

You reached for him before you could stop yourself.

“Bob,” Your hand found his–warm and rough and trembling faintly beneath your touch–and you could hear his breath catch at the contact. “I don’t want you to leave,” You said softly. His eyes lifted slowly, hesitant and searching, as if he was still trying to make sure he’d heard you right–like maybe his mind had tricked him into hope again. But you didn’t look away. Your fingers were still wrapped around his, steady even if the rest of you wasn’t.

“I just…” You swallowed, the words pressing at the back of your throat like they’d been waiting for too long. “I just want you to lay down with me now, I think. And just hold me.”

You didn’t mean for your voice to come out so small, but there was no disguising the softness in it. The ache. The quiet want. You weren’t asking for much–just closeness. Just something real to rest your head against when the ceiling stopped being enough. And you watched it land in Bob’s eyes like it was something special.

“O-Okay…If that’s what you want…” He said gently, afraid the moment might shatter if he spoke too loud. He glanced down at the Scrabble board still sitting between you on the bed. Carefully, with hands that still trembled slightly, Bob reached for the box and began to collect the scattered wooden tiles, his fingers moving slow and deliberate. He wasn’t rushing. He handled each piece like it deserved care. You watched the way he placed them back into their pouch, then tucked it inside the box, closed the lid with a quiet thud, and stood.

Your gaze followed him as he padded back across the room toward your desk. He placed the box down in the empty space beside your half-folded hoodie, and then paused for just a second–like he was giving you one last moment to change your mind.

You didn’t.

Instead, you peeled back the thin white sheet over your body, slow and quiet, lifting the edge and waiting. The salt lamp made the folds of it glow softly, casting warm gold against your bare thighs, your Stark shirt, the rise and fall of your breath.

Bob turned. His eyes met yours, and for a heartbeat, you saw everything in them–his fear of doing too much, of being too much, and right beneath that, his need to be near you. The need to be wanted back.

He crossed the space in three long steps, slow and hesitant. His hand brushed the side of the bed, fingers curling lightly against the mattress before he eased himself down beside you.

He lay on his side, knees bent, close but not yet touching you. You felt the warmth of him, the faint scent of that old hoodie he always wore–faded detergent, sleep, and something that could only be described as Bob.

You turned onto your side too, slowly, until your back was to him. The sheet shifted with you, and for a second, neither of you spoke. There was just breath. The hum of the city. And the whisper of cotton against skin.

Then you felt it.

His hand.

Tentative at first–hovering like he wasn’t sure he had permission even now. But then it landed gently across your waist, his arm curling around you, pulling you just the smallest bit closer until your spine met the warmth of his chest.

You felt him exhale shakily behind you, and the sensation of it–his breath brushing the back of your neck, his chest rising and falling in time with yours–settled something deep inside you.

“Is this…Okay?” He whispered, voice so close to your ear now that it sent a shiver down your skin.

You didn’t speak right away.

Instead, you reached for his hand where it rested against your stomach. You found his fingers–calloused, long, warm–and laced yours through them slowly. Anchoring. Reassuring.

“Yeah,” You whispered back, your voice steadier than you expected it to be. “It’s better than okay.”

Bob let out a breath then–relieved, maybe, or maybe something more. You felt his grip tighten just slightly, like he was afraid you might slip away. But you didn’t.

Neither of you moved for a while.

Your fingers stayed woven with his, your back pressed to his chest, and you felt the weight of the night begin to shift. The quiet wasn’t heavy anymore. It was full. Full of warmth, presence, and safety.

He brushed the tip of his nose against the crown of your head–barely a touch, barely a breath. But it was there. A silent thank you. A soft kind of ache. A promise.

You let your eyes fall shut.

And for the first time in days, sleep didn’t feel like a distant thought.