#I beat it up I bang it out [threads] | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

llondonfog · 7 months

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MILK & HONEY. + dazzling fic art by @suntails <3 (also available on ao3)

“It will be alright, darling boy, I promise— everything will be alright.”

There’s no response, but Lilia doesn’t mind. His son has always been the quiet, thoughtful sort. Humming faint snatches of a lullaby long forgotten, he threads a hand through the boy’s moonlit strands, apathetic to the copper rust smears left behind. The child’s bangs have grown, he notes idly, fussing with the strands that have fallen over the boy’s face. Lilia ought to cut them soon.

“There will be time for that later,” he finishes his thought out loud, bending forward to press his lips benevolently to his son’s cool forehead— a blessing, Lilia thinks privately with a smile, examining the faint crimson outline of his lips against that pale skin. Blood of the father, blood of the son; sacrament and all that.

“But for now, my dear,” he gently strokes the backs of stained claws against the side of his boy’s face, leaving a virginal blush behind on a bloodless cheek. “It is time for you to wake up.”

Silver is five years old and held at knifepoint when he first meets his father.

There is a man holding his small arms behind his back, another grasping at his feet, while a third laughs grimly down at his rapidly watering eyes and traces the blade delicately against his temple.

“You’ve been a burden on our village for far too long, brat,” he sneers while Silver’s rabbit heart beats fast and panicked within his heaving chest. “No mother, no father, cared for out of the kindness of our hearts, and you have the nerve to go about stealing our scraps to feed the animals?”

They’re hungry too! Silver wants to cry out, if opening his mouth wouldn’t drag the blade against his hairline. And they’re his friends, when no one else would be.

The man, unfortunately, is right.

He has no family to speak of; an abandoned babe with odd-colored eyes, silkspun hair, and a debilitating tendency to sleep without cause like the dead themselves that had everyone in the village whispering fearful tales of curses and changelings. It didn’t help that the spring of his arrival had marked the beginning of a painful famine that would relentlessly grip the decaying land, crops failing out of a barren and cracked landscape as rivers began to bleed thin and dry. Changeling or not, it hardly took much time at all for any sympathetic feeling towards the foundling child to metamorphosize into bitter resentment at an extra mouth to feed when their own fevered children were crying out for more. Was it any wonder that he had turned to the few remaining woodland creatures for comfort, saving meager portions of his already miniscule meal to share in gratitude for their simple acceptance and affection?

The man with the knife doesn’t wait for any answering explanation, merely smacks the blade pointedly against his cheek with a cruel, hungry gleam in those dead fish eyes, and the other two holding him still trade malicious grins.

“It’s only fair that you pay for what you stole,” the man continues, almost kind and patient in his rationale— (I didn’t steal! Silver wants to shout, mouth dry and empty with fear. I only ever gave them food from my portion!)— and he hums with a terrifying softness at the way Silver’s frightened gaze tracks the knife’s every teasing glide about his forehead and his limbs tremble in their brutish hold. “Oh, not with your life— not at first, anyways. We’re going to scalp you; I can only imagine the price your pretty hair will fetch when we tell the traders that it's woven out of pure silver. It’s a start for what you owe us all for taking care of your worthless and lazy hide for the past five years, and then—”

He pauses as if for some grand operatic effect, savoring the way the tears helplessly gather and bubble at the edge of Silver’s lashes with a wicked smile.

“Then, we’ll kill you and plate you tonight as dinner. I think there’s enough to go around for the rest of the village, don’t you?”

Two things happen: First, Silver bursts into tears. Second, a dark shape drops from the trees above and latches onto the man’s throat, tearing it open in one fluid movement and soaking the entire scene, Silver included, in a hot spray of blood.

The entire woodland clearing erupts into chaotic, frenzied screaming. The other two men violently shove him forward in a futile attempt to use him as a shield and escape, and he falls numbly to the ground, limbs frozen in place out of dumb shock as shadows leap effortlessly over his head. The knife that had been so sinister just moments ago lies dull and dirtied in the forest floor by the now nearly headless corpse, and in the dim reflection of its blade, Silver can make out the similar gruesome demise of his other captors. The shrieking fearful sounds are silenced just as abruptly as they began; in less than thirty seconds, the forest has returned to its quiet, sedative self, at peace with the justice that has been served.

Who . . ?

Quiet, gentle footsteps sound from behind him, their stride unhurried and at ease as they round his quivering, prostrate frame, and something hysterically yells in his mind that it’s poor manners to not at least look his rescuer in the eyes.

“Hello, child,” the angel (for surely that must be, he fell from the heavens, did he not?) smiles down at him through dripping fangs.

Silver stares up through blood-splattered lashes at his savior and wonders if this is what it’s like to be stricken with love.

The vampire takes him home.

He laughs uproariously when Silver so shyly and seriously wonders aloud if he was truly an angel, with hands as kind and gentle as the spring sun upon the muddy bruises and dried wounds from the knife split across his face.

He laughs at a lot of things that Silver says. It’s uncannily loud and booming for such a small man, but Silver instantly decides that he likes it.

The vampire explains that he is, well, a vampire. He even lets Silver curiously brush tiny fingers over his fangs once they’ve been cleaned of blood and gristle, smiling down at him all the while without a trace of malice that he’s grown so used to seeing.

He tells Silver that his name is Lilia, Lilia Vanrouge. It’s a difficult name, a weighty name for Silver’s tongue to pronounce, but he rolls it softly in his mouth to savor it all the same, marveling at how much it feels like royalty.

Lilia explains to him by the light of the fire that he’s lived for a very long time, that he’s enjoyed a life rich beyond anyone’s comprehension from all of the sights he’s seen and the wonders he’s traveled. But no creature is immortal, not even vampires, as long-lived as they may be— the years are heavier now, they ache and sting at his bones as if he’d soaked them in baptismal water. And in his many travels, he had so happened to stumble upon this empty cottage tucked away and abandoned inside this quiet, peaceful forest—

(“Like me,” Silver whispers solemnly. “Is that so?” says Lilia, summer-cherry eyes brilliant against the flames.)

—and so he had thought, what a nice place to relax and rest his weary soul, a place for him to enjoy a rare moment of serenity before the next grand adventure swept him back out to sea.

“How silly of me at my age to think that I could anticipate the future,” Lilia brushes his hand gently through Silver’s tangled hair, the knots easily coming undone from a mere sweep of his fingertips. Silver can’t quite recall how and when he had made his way onto the vampire’s lap, only that he is leaning his head adoringly against the man’s chest, staring up at him with bated breath.

“I didn’t expect to have to rescue my newest venture!”

There’s no need to discuss it after that: Lilia never asks him to leave, and Silver never thinks to do so.

It’s idyllic. Lilia feeds him, clothes him, lets him play with the forest animals for as long as he wishes. They take care of the little cottage together— Silver discovers a patch of land in the back that at one point might have been a sad attempt at a garden, but under the patient toil of the two of them, burgeons into life with all manner of flowers and vegetables. Lilia teaches him how to darn his socks and how to properly use a whetstone. He tucks Silver into the small bed alongside him and paints visions of faraway worlds upon the thin wooden walls, a better storyteller than any traveling bard that had come to the village before.

When Silver calls him ‘Father’ for the first time, he doesn’t laugh.

In return, Silver doesn’t complain when he helps Lilia mop up any traces of blood from the traveler he’s feasted upon for the night.

His father is not a monster, this Silver knows as truly as the sun travels through the sky. The weary men and women who wander across their little abode are treated with nothing but kindness— a warm seat by the fire, a fresh meal to eat, and a soft place to rest their heads. All that his father asks of them is to spare what little coin and wares that they are able to part with, a strange gleam in his eyes and a sincere smile on his face.

Without fail, the strangers comply. They always do.

And in the morning, if they’re a little more woozy than when they laid down to sleep, Silver reassures them that the small satchel of strong-smelling herbs and wrapped provisions for the road will do them a world of good. Together, father and son stand in the doorway of their humble home, hands raised in gestures of well wishes and farewell, as good hosts ought to do. Their visitors stumble down the chrysanthemum and lycoris-lined pathway back to the welcoming arms of the forest, and Silver flexes his toes in his new shoes while his father indulgently twirls his latest trinket around his fingertips, admiring the glint of it in the pale sunlight.

(“Not all vampires are as kind as I am, child,” his father explains to him as he tucks a sheathed blade into the drawer of their nightstand, under the pressed and faded flowers that Silver had brought for him over time. “There are those who would see longevity as the means to power instead of the humbling blessing that it truly is. There are those who have let their years sour their minds like fermented wine, who have only steeped in cruelty instead of basking in the innocence that still exists in this world. And I would not have you defenseless inside our own home.”

Silver looks at the dull sheen of the knife and thinks back to the cold sting of one flayed against his cheek, and he wonders if those who lurk in the shadows of the night are truly the ones he ought to fear.)

The years pass in this necessary fashion, seasons tumbling and turning over themselves with a prevailing peace that Silver had once believed could only exist in storybooks. He outgrows his sleeves faster than travelers pass by, and it isn’t long before he finds himself a whole head and a half taller than the vampire. His father laughs at his shaggy bangs, proclaiming Silver to be more sheep than boy, and attacks his hair with all the ferocity of a mad barber. The lasting effect leaves something to be desired and Silver could swear that the bluebirds by their window are chortling to themselves instead of singing.

His father ruffles his sharp nails through the butchered mess of Silver’s hair and laughs again, proclaiming them to be matching lopsided twins, and Silver is unable to imagine a moment that he’s ever been happier.

What a shame it is then, that all good things cannot last.

The summer of Silver’s sixteenth year is a cruel, unforgiving one.

The August sun swelters the earth with a breathless heat, insidious like none before. It is relentless in its seething anger to drive the woodland creatures to the deepest burrows in search of shade, the birds to practically droop like molten taffy in their water bowls, and his father to haunt the shadows of their home, face flushed and eyes feverish in a way that no cool rag could soothe.

There could be no greater pain in Silver’s heart than this: the wilt in his father’s proud spine, the light tremors that seize his clever fingertips. He hovers over the vampire like a fretting maid, hands wringing uselessly as nothing short of the obvious will soothe his father’s condition, and travelers have been few and far between. Lilia conjures up smiles for him and swears that he’ll be alright, it’s simply a harsher season than before, and Silver cannot help but get the distinct feeling that he’s being placated. Even worse, it mostly works, the lonely and frightened child from the woods who sleeps deep in his soul comforted by that unsinkable paternal reassurance.

Still, Silver is unable to completely shake the feeling that something is amiss.

Lately, his rest at night has been disturbed. He wakes to the faint sounds of ruptured inhales so very close to his ear, of something in the clear throes of distress, with choked noises of desperately sought after air as if the deprived creature was suffocating. The noises are so frightening, so animalistic in nature that Silver can only think to associate them with his beloved woodland creatures, and yet when he hurries to his bedroom window and peers outside with his heart in his throat to find the poor animal that had been mauled by a predator— there is nothing but the silent gleam of moonlight, shining down upon his deflated flower beds.

His father merely purses his lips in worry when Silver brings these odd instances to him, and wonders aloud if these are queasy dreams brought on by the heat; with little else to explain, Silver’s inclined to believe him.

But these events are pushed out of his mind when salvation finally approaches one late afternoon in the weary figure of a man, clinging to the reins of a stumbling horse, at the end of their pathway.

His father must have sensed the newcomer’s presence too, for Lilia is at the door before Silver can even call for him, ever the gracious host and smiling beatifically at their wayward traveler as if Silver hadn’t needed to shake his shoulders thrice in mounting worry to wake him that very morning. The man eagerly accepts the offer of nightly shelter, passing the reins of his horse to Silver to tie to a post in the welcome shade of a nearby tree, and Silver watches over its broad shoulder as he gently rubs the creature down. His father, ever the effortless conversationalist even at the height of his malady, needs no reins with which to lead the man into the cool, womb-like darkness of their home, and Silver feels a rush of palpable relief at the familiarity of the old song and dance— perhaps at last, his father might finally take a turn for the better.

The next morning, Silver checks on his father first and smiles to see the vampire snoring away in what must have been his first blissful sleep in weeks, bedsheets haphazardly tangled about him in an ocean of white. With practiced motions, he leans down to straighten the blankets fondly around the slumbering figure, only to wrinkle his nose at the sharp scent of iron heavy on his father’s breath. After such a dry spell, the bitter tang scratches at his senses, and he can’t help but take a glance into their tiny living room where their guest yawns and shuffles in his borrowed blankets.

Perhaps a breakfast with a healthy side of dark, leafy greens was in order.

Morning is a quiet and simple affair— his father is sleeping in for once it seems, and Silver makes efficient work out of the early meal for their guest who must have had a rough night of tossing and turning judging by his wrinkled clothes and constant, belly-deep yawns. Silver even offers for the man to stay a while longer if he isn’t fit yet for travel, but their guest insists (rather strongly for his exhausted nature) that he could not impose on their goodwill much longer. With a mental shrug, Silver bows his head and allows the man privacy to retrieve his things, heading outside with the intent to bring the waiting horse to its owner.

Only, the horse is nowhere to be seen.

Silver’s heart falters in his chest, and he turns to their departing guest with a litany of apologies on his lips, for he had been so sure of tying the creature up safely for the night, but the man waves him off with an unsteady hand and a smile that keeps attempting to slip from his face as if greased, proclaiming that he had no need for what had been such an aging beast. He could continue his travels alone, and Silver can only watch and uneasily curl his fingers into his palms as the man cuts a wavering figure back down their pathway despite his bewildered protests.

(“We ought to warn those who stop by that there may be a bear in the woods,” he tells his father later, the vampire having woken long past their traveler’s departure. “The noises I’ve been hearing and now the horse’s disappearance. . . someone could get hurt.”

His father doesn’t seem too concerned with Silver’s hypothesis, and he supposes that’s simply how one behaves after centuries of besting mortality. Still, he resolves to be more cautious in his time spent outdoors.)

The man’s arrival marks a turning point in the summer, the blistering dog days giving way to the cooler promise of autumn. It also marks a turning point in his father’s health, one that Silver is initially so incredibly grateful for as the vampire seems to perk up and become the very picture of rosy, energetic grace. The weakened figure of mere weeks prior haunts the corridors of his mind, and Silver finds himself making excuses as his father welcomes the oddly increasing number of strangers who have found themselves down their homely path with open arms and glittering eyes above a wide, gleaming smile. It had simply been a veritable drought of company, and his father, gregarious as he was, was in his element now, thriving off the attention almost as much as the blood that came with it.

And perhaps that is what itched at his nerves most of all. It was one thing to suddenly play house with the travelers that seemed to constantly appear on their doorstep—

(Silver had questioned them, a discomforting notion to learn that not only had they been told of the cottage’s existence by those who staggered off in the mornings, but almost fervently urged to visit.)

—but never before had he witnessed his father drink in such abandon. With such a slow, but steady, trickle of visitors, his father may have sampled another’s blood once or twice a month at most, always cautious enough to not take too much. His father is not a monster, and his kindness exceeds that of all the humanity that Silver had known in his short life— this he tells himself as he averts his gaze from the still-clotting punctures, glistening and accusatory over rumpled shirts.

His father is not a monster, and he still tells himself this as he stumbles out of his bedroom one cold winter’s night, awoken once more to that strange, garbled collection of sound. His father is not a monster, because it simply could not be his father crouched before him on the floor of their living room, an all too still and silent figure splayed out beneath him like a rag doll. He surely must be dreaming, as those muffled, wet noises pause in their desperate slurping and enlarged fangs draw up and away from a ruined shoulder, dripping in a dark, glutinous substance. His father is not a monster, because the creature hunched in the shadows of a dying fire looks nothing like the angel who had rescued him in the forest all those years ago— whatever this, this thing is, slavering wildly over a face locked in a euphoric death mask, it is not his dearest father.

They behold each other in the scant space of a fragile moment, a bewildered gaze still frozen before the onslaught of horror could possibly sink in opposite that of unmoored feral hunger. Silver thinks back to the knife hidden beneath the drawer of his nightstand, cloaked in dust and dried flowers and the somber protection of a father’s love. He thinks back to the incredible speed that had disposed of the men who had intended to kill him on such a similar frigid night, a speed unmatched to the naked eye.

The vampire utters his name like a prayer, smeared tenderly in lamb’s blood.

His father is not a monster.

Silver opens his arms, and waits for his angel to carry him home.

In response to the delicate graze of his father’s gore-drenched claws against his youthful face, the boy’s eyes flutter open at last. Lilia does not seem to notice the vibrancy that has vanished from them, leaving behind the dull haze of a mist-choked morn where once the dawn light soared; perhaps he simply does not care. “Oh, Silver,” he breathes in reverence, the miraculous wonder of a father witnessing his child’s (re)birth for the first time, and he throws his arms around the boy’s stiff shoulders. There is no response, but that is to be expected when one is missing a greater third of their tattered and torn esophagus, the mutilated remains of which are strewn across the floor or smeared over Lilia’s mouth. “My darling boy, my precious son, how perfect you are at last.”

Silver trembles in his arms like a newborn fawn, and Lilia coos reassurances to him, helps his boy to his feet and steadies his legs as he leads him over to where their meal now lay in a crumpled and tangled heap. It is always cumbersome, the first feeding, and Lilia had no one to guide him through the carnal, mindless greed of his own— no such fate shall befall his son. He will share with him the abundance of milk and honey, lift it to his frozen lips where those new, budding fangs peek innocently above, and watch with boundless pride as new life, a near eternal life, is bestowed upon the one timeless treasure he has coveted in over six hundred stolen centuries.

Later, they will bury the body together, sink the flesh deep within the garden where the others take their rest, a cluster of pearly white bones only disturbed by an odd set of larger, equine-shaped ones. Later still, when a young man approaches their home in the evening gloom to seek shelter on the long, arduous journey to his grandfather, Silver will greet him. He will smile enchantingly over his new high-necked shirt and take his hand, drawing him deep into the clutches of their wonderful little home, deep into the blessed darkness where his father waits. The table will stay barren, the bed unmade— there is no more need for pretense between the two of them. Not now, and not ever.

Lilia can see it all. And with pleasure, he smiles.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland fanfic #twst fic #twisted wonderland silver #twst silver #lilia vanrouge #twst lilia #diasomnia #twst sebek #sebek zigvolt #happy belated halloween :)#everyone say thank you catriona for bringing my wild visions to life beyond anything i could possibly imagine <3 #lettie writes #art for lettie

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theladyofbloodshed · 2 months

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Hunt x Nesta - Epilogue

Life sucked.

Hunt could split his life into two chapters: before Nesta and after Nesta. Both chapters sucked. But that little blip in the middle – the one week where life had been better than he ever expected was good. He’d always have that.

‘Stop moping, my goodness.’

Isaiah groaned from his desk then dropped his forehead onto the cheap wood.

‘Everything reminds me of her,’ Hunt replied, holding up a sugar sachet from the crappy coffee machine.

It was true. Hunt could draw a correlation to Nesta regardless of the topic; she liked it, she would have hated it, he wished he could show her it, they’d tried it.

He had loved Shahar but it had been intense from the start. The rebellion had intensified every moment of it, pushing them both towards a zenith that he free-fell from. Losing her was different. It was a loss that held finality – but Hunt had lost so many that day, had suffered so much as a result, the grief had been for Shahar and all the others who'd fought alongside him.

To Shahar, he had been Hunt, a powerful angel plucked from the bowels of Pangea to command her legions.

This was different.

To Nesta, he’d only ever been Orion. Grumpy, sleepy, teasing, serious, or goofy, she’d wanted all of him. And Nesta wasn’t dead but it would have hurt less if she was.

Night after night, Hunt scoured the internet on any whiff of something similar to the Horn to try and find a way back to her. He’d deal with breeches and no hair dryer if it meant they were together again. He’d even wondered if Ruhn Danaan would know anything about another fae relic because Isaiah couldn’t be persuaded to get another warrant to search the Autumn King’s home for hidden artefacts.

‘I know that you miss her, Hunt, but it’s just not possible to find her again,’ he said calmly.

Those same words had been said to him a month earlier, also by Isaiah, when he’d found Hunt deliberating in the street. He’d gathered is hard-earned coins ready to dump them all in the Astronomer’s lap so that he’d use his mystics to locate her. In the end, it proved too risky. Hunt wouldn’t dare to expose Nesta that way.

‘It fucking sucks,’ replied Hunt before shuffling back to his desk for a long night of paperwork.

When Nesta left, Hunt expected a depression to come and drown him. He’d been there before and it always lurked in his periphery. But she’d given him hope and it felt different. The light didn’t abate in her absence; the flame remained burning. So he worked and worked. Did what Micah asked. Treaded every single line without complaint. And he thought of her. Thought of her smile, her curiosity, the way she had him wrapped around her finger in a single day.

***

‘What now?’

Emerie’s brown eyes had dulled from their week of absolute hell. She sat on the cushioned windowsill of the river estate with mud still caked over her face. Nesta looked down at her own hands. They were splattered with a mix of blood. Some was hers, Cassian’s, Bellius’, and Feyre’s.

Her stomach was empty enough that it hurt. She’d see a healer soon. Gwyn had the worst injuries so was with Madja in a separate room.

A small cry rang out down the hall from the baby boy, Nyx.

Feyre had died. Her heart had stopped beating. Nesta had felt the whole world turn colder, felt the knife coming for Feyre’s thread, so Nesta did the only thing she could think of. Still beaten and ruined from the Blood Rite, she gave her power back. She gave it all back.

And Feyre lived. The boy lived.

Nesta wedged her aching body into the windowsill next to Emerie, wishing they were a different set of wings cradling her shoulders.

It had been a tough few months since her little jaunt to Lunathion.

To his credit, Lucien did not speak of what he saw. He simply pretended the entire event had never happened and acted with all the quality of one the males from Fangs and Bangs when it was discovered by the others that Nesta had returned. It was their secret, never to be mentioned. She was grateful for that.

None ever questioned her moroseness because it was no different to her capricious ways. She could feel herself pushing everybody away, as always, week after week without Hunt’s infectious joy. The idea of Cassian touching her churned her stomach. She’d put an end to it, dumbfounding him. And when her sister’s family had convinced her to seduce Eris through dance, it confirmed to Nesta that all she would ever be was a pawn to be used for their benefit. When Eris had shown interest, Nesta had considered it if only to have a lifeline out of the Night Court.

‘I don’t even know if it will work,’ Nesta said quietly, tilting her head to touch Emerie’s.

The pair of them absolutely reeked. Being dragged from their beds and dumped onto Ramiel for a week would do that. Only sheer grit and hoping had kept them alive. That, and Gwyn bringing a beast to slaughter eight of the Illyrians.

‘It’s worth a try,’ replied Emerie.

They’d huddled together in the dark, cold and tired but not willing to sleep. And Nesta had told Emerie and Gwyn everything about the male she’d found in Lunathion. How she could not even go an hour without thinking of him, without imagining a life together. They’d listened with rapture, delighted for her as true friends were. Even when she cried at the thought of leaving them behind, they encouraged her to take her chance if they made it out alive because they loved her enough to let her go and find happiness.

‘It’s complicated.’

‘What’s complicated? Toot the horn and fly off with your angel.’

Gwyn limped into the room in her filthy clothes. ‘Who’s tooting? Are we tooting?’

‘Nesta’s about to go to the future with her angel lover.’

Instead of indignation, colour heated her cheeks and she felt like a giggling, love-struck fool. ‘He is so handsome.’

The cell phone had died quickly from all the moments that Nesta had spent agonising over photos of the Umbra Mortis in his boxers, as he called them.

‘So we have heard,’ Emerie replied drily.

Nesta shoved her heart back into its cage. ‘It’s impossible. I’ve surrendered my power. The Horn won’t work. Hunt is a slave. It’s been almost four months. He could be sold by now to another owner.’

‘Then buy him back,’ urged Gwyn.

‘With what?’

Emerie braced a hand against her ribs as she stood. ‘Well, the High Lord did offer you anything for saving their lives.’

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Rhysand would never agree to let me go, much less give me a pile of his wealth to send me on way. They still think Cassian is my mate. That the bond will snap. If it didn’t snap when Briallyn had him try to kill me, it never will – and I thank the stars for that.’

The words hung heavy. It had been one horrific moment after the other. Cassian bellowing at her on a bridge crossing the Sidra that she was his, despite her refusals. Morrigan delivering her to Emerie and Gwyn as she trembled. Waking disorientated in the Blood Rite. Staring down Bellius as she held Ramiel’s pass. Briallyn controlling Cassian with the Crown, trying to kill her. Only the Mask coming to her rescue again had saved her life.

‘I made a list the other day of all the things I’d like to do in Prythian. Do you know what I wrote?’ At her friends’ expectant faces, she continued, ‘Finish my book. I have no desires or dreams here. I am simply an object.’

‘What did you write for the other side?’

The corners of her mouth twitched. ‘So many things. There are things I want to do that I don’t even know exist yet. I want to go to the amusement park with Hunt. To study. I’d study for my whole life. I want to throw my cap in the air when I’ve finished studying. I want to live with Orion – I want a life with him like I’ve never dreamed of a male before. I didn’t kiss him enough.’

‘It was not only the High Lord’s life you saved, Nesta,’ Emerie reminded her. ‘There is a High Lady of the Night Court.’

***

Silver light poured into the room like molten metal, so bright that Hunt needed to shield his eyes from the glare.

A low, hissing noise had him scurrying from his bed and pressing his wings to the cream wall in anticipation.

‘What the fuck.’

The wall opposite was flooded with a silver fire that chilled him to the bone. The narrow window above his bed frosted over. On his exhale, his breath was visible.

Then she was there.

The fire fell away, revealing an ornate library with rows of leather-bound books. Light streamed in from the massive bay windows, bathing Nesta in its glow. Like the first day that Hunt had seen her, Nesta was other-worldly. Instead of tight leathers that sinfully kissed every curve, she wore a pale lavender dress with a square-cut neckline. Her hands were buried in the long sleeves although Hunt spotted the tip of the horn poking from beneath. The draping skirts couldn’t hide the sneakers that she’d bought in Lunathion and declared the comfiest shoes she’d ever tried.

‘Tell me I’m dreaming,’ Hunt murmured.

Twice, Nesta’s lips parted then sealed again. Tears rimmed her grey eyes.

‘Nesta,’ he said, stepping closer to the fiery portal. The hairs on his arm stood from the seeping cold that surrounded it.

A soft gasp emitted from her side and two females came into view, ushered into the library by the same male he’d seen months ago with red hair and a metallic eye. One cradled a baby to her chest. This had to be Feyre; she had the unmistakeable look of her older sister although freckles dotted across the bridge of her nose and her hair hung freely. A swirling, black tattoo covered the hand that stroked her son’s wings. The other female was darker haired with large brown eyes reminding Hunt of a faun.

‘It worked?’ Feyre asked.

‘Obviously,’ the male replied, making Elain giggle and cover her mouth to hide it.

Hunt took another step closer to Nesta who was still immobilised. In the chairs behind her were two more females. Hunt had heard all about them. The winged one was Emerie and the red-haired one was Gwyn. Nesta’s face had lit up as she spoke of her only friends in Prythian when they’d been together.

‘Hey, Starlight,’ he said, reaching his hand through to her side. He jerked his chin towards her sister and the baby. ‘They made it.’

‘They made it,’ Nesta repeated, face twisting with emotion. ‘I gave up my power for them. I didn’t know if this would still work. I had to choose between seeing you again and saving them.’

‘And everybody won,’ he said, grasping her shaking hand.

It took every instinct not to haul her through to his side and kiss her until every star went out.

Nesta did that for him.

From the force that she yanked him to her, Hunt was practically falling. His hands found her waist to steady himself and he could feel her breath on his cheek as he pulled himself upright. Their bodies knocked together, the softness of her curves feeling like home.

‘I missed you.’

‘There has been nobody to laugh with.’ He touched his forehead to hers. ‘There was a national crisis because demand for ice cream plummeted since you left.’

When Hunt moved to kiss her, he stilled. There were markings on her neck, a fresh cut that still had the scab on her cheek and more wounds on her hands. They had to be recent because fae healed as fast as malakim.

‘What the Hel has happened? Are you alright? Who hurt you?’

The two females in the chair exchanged a glance then he noticed that both of them had been wounded recently too. Emerie had a bruise above her eyebrow that caused the lid to swell and Gwyn’s hands were bound in bandages.

‘It’s alright,’ Nesta murmured, holding his hands in hers. ‘Something happened. I was taken. The three of us. We woke in the Blood Rite.’

‘I don’t know what that is.’

Surprising him, Nesta broke into a laugh. It skittered over his skin like static.

‘What’s funny?’

‘That’s what I say to you, Orion.’

The male, Lucien, cleared his throat from his post at the door. ‘Nesta, I don’t know how long it will be open – or until they notice.’

‘Right,’ she said, nodding. ‘It was hell. All of it. That week on the mountain and all the months before. All I wanted was you. I told my friends that if we survived, if we made it through each night, I would find you.’

From the three-legged table, Nesta picked up a rolled-up piece of parchment. There was a line down the middle, splitting it into two columns. In an elegant script, lines upon lines of text had been written.

‘I wrote why I should stay here or why I should leave. There is danger on both sides, uncertainty, and it feels like leaping into the unknown. This is the world I know. My sisters are here. But the difference is in Lunathion, I will have you. And that makes all the difference, Hunt.’ She clutched the paper tighter. ‘I don’t care. All I want is you.’

When his day began, Hunt didn’t have Nesta appearing and offering him a forever on his bingo card. He blew out a breath. ‘Nesta, I’m a slave. I can’t give you a home. I don’t even know who my father is. If you want a life of comfort, you’re better off with Tristan Flynn.’

There was a brilliant shine of determination in her eyes. ‘I want a male who will love me.’

He’d loved her the moment she’d dropped out of the sky and told Isaiah she was a bard. These months without her had felt like living without the sun. He’d do another two hundred years in gorsian shackles strung up in the Asteri’s dungeon rather than spend another moment without Nesta.

Hunt stepped back through the portal to his room in the barracks and pulled out a prospectus for Crescent City University along with guidance on how to apply for funding. He’d gathered them just in case Nesta ever came back. He’d pulled legislation on the minimal rights of slaves. As long as Hunt answered when called, slaves could rent a property – they couldn’t own it, but it was a start, so he’d saved every penny of his pitiful wages, took double shifts and worked on his allotted days off to scrape together a few more coins because Nesta had given him that piece of hope that he hadn’t had before.

On the desk, there was photo album that he’d been compiling. It had provided an outlet instead of moping. Hunt had channelled all of his dreams into it.

‘There’s still space for more,’ he said, stepping back through and handing it to Nesta.

Her sisters and the other females peered over her shoulder at it. Every single photo that Nesta had taken on her cell and his, no matter how blurred, had been printed out and stuck in with his terrible handwriting beneath with a caption. Hunt had written about their day, about what she’d said, where they’d been or what they’d eaten. There was one of her bending down with the Istros in the background as Hunt had tried to get a scurrying otter in shot with her – but ended up with a smear of brown and yellow flopping into the river.

‘You look in pain there,’ said Elain, pointing to one.

‘She couldn’t decide on a milkshake flavour.’

Nesta’s lips quirked as she looked at the photo. ‘I regret banana.’

‘Is that why you drank mine?’

There were photos of him too. Ones she had taken. Ones that were blurry or zoomed in too far or ones in the elevator when she discovered that she could use the mirror to capture both of them. One of him with his fluffed-up wings and that rotten witch-ink halo on full display. One of them snuggled up on the bed on a pile of pillows. Lots of them together; Nesta appearing regal and poised whilst he looked surly or goofy to annoy her. One of Nesta in her gown before the ballet with Ruhn that she’d taken of herself in the bathroom mirror. A few of her when she’d put a cat-eared filter on and couldn’t work out how to take it off. Some even of Ruhn when he was driving, trying to block the camera with his tattooed hand.

‘I thought that was Rhys.’

Nesta chuckled, ‘So did I – and I gave him hell for it.’

‘They’re coming,’ said Lucien from the window where he’d been observing the skies. ‘They’ve likely felt the shift in the wards.’

On the horizon, three black shapes were moving quicker, wings beating rapidly.

Nesta turned to him, silver eyes shining with hope. ‘Will you have me?’

‘You were mine the day you fell from the stars. I love you. You think I make photo albums for every girl that lands in the middle of the road?’

Nesta silenced him with a kiss that surprised everybody in the room.

‘My bags are packed. I’ve already said goodbye.’

‘You’ll have to flirt with Flynn to get his credit card again,’ he said, grimacing slightly. ‘It will be centuries until I can afford somewhere for us to live.’

Feyre shook her head. ‘Finances are handled.’

‘I’m paying for your freedom,’ Nesta said resolutely. ‘There may only be one Umbra Mortis but I’m the bitch who stole from the Cauldron. That has to count for something.’

What she was, was a pillar of steel that could never be broken. Hunt didn’t care if she was sharp or unyielding, she was his Nesta. His girl from the stars.

Hunt slid his hands to her face, kissing her deeply. He didn’t care if her sisters watched. Didn’t care if the winged female whistled loudly at them. He had waited months to feel her again, to hold her.

‘We need to go,’ Nesta urged.

The two females had moved back to the chairs and exchanged a glance as the roof shook. A heavy landing. Feyre clutched her son to her chest, eyes going vacant as if listening to something else.

Three bags had been prepared and neatly tucked beneath the table. On her direction, Hunt hauled them up and through the portal back into the barracks. The final one tested his strength. It was bulky and ridiculously heavy, but with five females watching him, Hunt pretended the weight didn’t surprise him even if his muscles strained.

‘Are you bringing your Harp, bard?’

‘No. Only the Horn to close it then we’ll destroy it.’

Hunt pretended he didn’t just hear Nesta declare that she was about to break a priceless fae artefact that would have Einar Danaan, Micah, and the Asteri string her up from a dungeon for touching it.

They were doing this.

A cold sweat rippled down his back. They were really doing this. In the face of an archangel, a fae prince, and whatever the Asteri were, Hunt and Nesta were doing this for real.

His fingers enclosed around her wrists as steps grew closer. ‘Are you sure? You’ve known me a week.’

‘I have the rest of my life to know you,’ she said, before kissing him tenderly again. ‘Orion Athalar, you are my home. Maybe I fell that day, rattling the stars, because I was searching for you.’

The door swung open and shadows flooded in, sweeping the rugs of the library like a tidal wave that could no longer be held back. The first male had slicked back black hair and sparkling eyes so blue they appeared violet.

‘Shit, he does look like Ruhn,’ said Hunt.

In a soft voice, he said, ‘What is this?’

Two more males filed in, taking care to manoeuvre their large, leathery wings through the wooden doorway. These were the Illyrians she had spoken of which meant one was Azriel, who’d handed her a bag too heavy for her to manage, and the other was Cassian, a male who Hunt would delight in hurting.

Immediately, Hunt catalogued the subtle changes in Nesta. Whilst he would have expected her spine to go straighter, her chin to lift in defiance, instead Nesta curled in on herself as if she was deflating. Her shoulders hunched, making herself smaller and a flat, empty expression took up residence on her pale face.

The high lord’s eyes flashed to the Horn in Nesta’s hands. With a jolt of magic that Hunt felt fire across the room, he tried to lurch the Made item from her grip but it stayed firmly in her hand.

‘You have opened a portal to another world,’ he said, voice low and edged with warning. ‘You are endangering the lives of everybody in this city, Nesta. Endangering my mate and our son.’

Hunt couldn’t take it. It was as if all of the air was being pressed from the room. The two Illyrian sentries stood silent either side of their high lord in a display of cruel dominance. Neither would speak for Nesta. Hunt looked again to the females. Her two sisters were mute. The red-haired male had taken a not-so-subtle step closer to Elain, an arm extending ready to shield her. The other two females were as pale and timid as Nesta had become in their chairs; the winged one settled a hand on Gwyneth’s knee in reassurance as shadows lashed at the walls.

These fae pricks.

‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’

The urge to let his lightning loose was an instinct that proved difficult to deny – but not when Nesta was in the firing line, nor a child and a male with a metal eye that would send his lightning haywire.

The high lord blinked in disbelief then took a step closer to Nesta.

Lightning wreathed his hands in response. ‘Don’t even fucking think about it.’

‘If it hits Nesta?’

Hunt could play that game. He went into the place where Micah sent him where it was cold and empty. ‘If it hits your son? Your mate?’

He let the static tighten the room so strands of their hair rose. Hunt pulled the clouds closer, bringing in a storm from the mountains which darkened the room. Rain pattered upon the glass.

The male to the high lord’s left tilted his head, back hair falling across his pensive face. The blue stones on his leathers pulsed. ‘What are you?’

‘He’s not Peregryn,’ the male with red stones said.

He kept his brown eyes fixed on the threats in the room while he spoke softly to Nesta. ‘Go through, Starlight. We’ll go to the movies tonight. I realised you never tasted popcorn.’

The weight of her decision pressed on her. That, or the arrogant bastards shooting daggers at her.

‘We can make out on the back row too.’

That shifted something in Nesta, like the final screw coming loose. She exhaled with relief and edged towards him. Hunt stretched out his arm towards her to sweep his love behind him, behind his wings, so she could step through safely to the barracks as if they were negotiating the transfer of a hostage.

‘Baby, can you get my gun? It’s in the holster at the bottom of the bed.’

With a trembling hand, Nesta placed the gun in the hand that was outstretched behind himself. Magic was great, but nothing could quite replace a steel kiss. Hunt cocked his weapon, keeping it trained on the high lord.

‘Which one’s Cassian?’

Likely the male whose face was purpling as he stared at Hunt like he wanted to wrap his hands around his throat. Join the club, buddy, Hunt thought.

‘The red stones?’

None in the room gave an acknowledgement to his words. He didn’t want this to turn into a standoff but now that Hunt was here, facing the bastards who’d made Nesta’s life a misery for the last couple of years, he couldn’t resist being a dick. The Umbra Mortis had earned his reputation. He’d survived torture and a failed rebellion. And he was going to have a beautiful future with his gorgeous Nesta – but first, these males needed to atone.

‘Listen, these ladies look as if they’ve seen enough violence so I’ll refrain from blasting your brains out on these lovely rugs, but you owe my girl an apology.’ Over his shoulder, Hunt asked, ‘Does Lucien need to say sorry?’

‘Hunt, don’t bother. Let’s just close it.’

‘Does Lucien need to say sorry?’ he repeated.

Nesta gave a sigh. ‘No. Lucien is fine.’

‘Good male,’ he said, offering a slight wink in the scarred-one’s direction.

A shadow that had been creeping along the skirting board made to lunge towards him but Hunt hit it with a bolt of lightning that crippled it. The male who’d bejazzled his leathers with blue stones winced as if he felt the blow too. Aha, that was the shadowsinger. Red stones was the prick who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.

‘Alright, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to say sorry to Nesta then I’m leaving with her. We’re going to have a beautiful life together and never come back to this place again.’ Hunt gave a dramatic sigh. ‘If I’m honest, I think it’s less about my company and more about the fact you three have made her life so miserable here that she's willing to leave.’

‘That’s not true,’ Nesta called, and he caught the slight playful edge in her tone. ‘I want to go to university too.’

Little minx.

The three males were carved from stone. Every now and then, Hunt felt something trying to edge towards his mind like a tendril of smoke but his lightning zapped it without thought.

‘My finger is getting really sweaty holding back this trigger.’

The gun wasn’t even loaded – safety protocol – but if these fae were as clueless as Nesta had been, they’d have no idea.

‘Nesta, I am sorry that we did not extend the same warmth to you as we did to your sisters. I’m truly sorry that after the war, we were not a support for you.’

‘Well done, blue stones. Next one.’

The high lady shuffled the baby who was growing restless in her arms. ‘Is this necessary?’

‘Yes. Next question.’

Hunt lashed his lightning towards the males’ feet, making them leap back a step. Damn, he wished he recorded the sudden bloom of fear on their arrogant faces.

‘I’m sorry that I loved you,’ Cassian said. ‘I’m sorry that I gave you everything I could and it still wasn’t enough. Nes, what are you doing? In this life, we can have our time together. Think of our future.’

‘Didn’t you make her walk until she collapsed?’

The male blanched. ‘It was for her own good.’

‘No,’ Hunt uttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I can't do this. I need to go before I shoot you.’

Behind him, Nesta’s snort of laughter was the confirmation that Hunt needed. Nesta would never get the apology that she deserved from this male – but the promise of a future free from him was good enough. A future with Hunt meant more.

His wings scooped low, tucking towards his spine, as Hunt took a backwards step. The cold bite of Nesta’s magic that surrounded the portal edged closer. He hoped he would look cool departing the library and wouldn’t fall on his ass through to the other side.

Once back in Lunathion, Hunt stood at Nesta’s side, proud to do it.

‘We won’t come here again,’ said Nesta, voice growing stronger with every word. Her eyes bounced between her friends and her sisters. ‘I love you but this is best for me. I wish you all the love in the world.’

Nesta lifted the horn to her lips and Hunt prayed to Luna that she’d hit that note on the first try or he’d laugh his ass off again. His hand enclosed around her fist, raising it in the air.

‘This is how we say bye in my world, assholes.’

Hunt prised Nesta’s middle finger up to flip them off – giving her only a moment to blow the Horn before she grinned.

Silver flames swarmed it then fell in on themselves like a star collapsing. They were left with the plain wall of his room in the Comitium.

‘You okay?’

Hunt touched her cheek in an attempt to read her expression. She didn’t need to wear the mask anymore. There would be no hiding her feelings or supressing her hurts. Nesta could be Nesta in Lunathion. And if she didn’t know who that was yet, it was fine. She could discover who she was.

Nesta slipped her hands around his neck, moving closer. ‘Oh, you are going to get it tonight, Orion Athalar.’

‘Oh?’ An eyebrow cocked up.

‘Defending me. Making them say sorry. What a male.’

Their lips crushed together. Now they had about a thousand things to do before they could relax, like storing the Horn somewhere safe, where nobody would notice the magic, find a place to live rather than keep her smuggled in the barracks, and figure out what the Hel was in that massive bag. With Nesta at his side, anything was possible. They’d weather the storm.

‘Your male,’ Hunt said between hurried kisses.

‘Mine,’ agreed Nesta.

‘Always.’

#hunt x nesta #hunt athalar #nesta archeron

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mostmagical · 7 months

Text

Chapters 1/1 (1,396 words) Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Emo Adrien Agreste/Emo Marinette Dupain-Cheng

Summary:

Spoilers for ML Paris Special. . . After meeting an alternate version of himself, Adrien decides to take the first steps towards making a new friend.

Takes place immediately after Paris Special!

Read on Ao3 or under the cut!!

She was holding his hand.

After so long of being at each others’ throats, of feeling lost and lonely, the warmth of her hand in his felt like a dream. Like being pulled out of the ocean after so long drowning. Even after passing through the portal into their own world, she held on, and Adrien had trouble focussing on anything else around him. Hesperia was saying something, talking about their next moves to take down the Supreme, but the words simply passed through one ear and out the other as all he could do was stare down at where their hands were connected.

Why… Why hadn’t she let go?

His heart pounded in his chest, faster than he could ever remember it beating before. The pretty bakery girl was holding his hand, like she wanted to, as if he was more than just a stranger on the street to her. And, well, he supposed he was, considering they had been working together for months, albeit without liking each other or knowing one another at all. It was all new sensations and feelings, rushing through his body in a way that made his head swirl.

“...but we can reconvene later,” Hesperia said, on the tailend of some conversation that Adrien had missed entirely. “I think we could all use a little rest.”

Toxinelle— No, Ladybug stuck out her other hand, shaking with Hesperia as the fingers in the hand she held with Adrien’s squeezed just ever so slightly. Maybe that had been in his imagination though. “I agree,” she said. “I hope we can continue to work well together to take down the Supreme.”

“The feeling is mutual, Ladybug,” Hesperia replied. “And you, Griffe– uh…”

Adrien smiled. “I’m still working on it.”

Hesperia smiled back. “I wish you good luck figuring that out.” The butterfly hero folded his hands behind his back, regarding the both of them over his glasses. “I’d offer to show you both out, but I think you’ll find it’s the same way you came in the first time,” he supplied, a lilting tune to his voice.

Ladybug smiled wryly. “Yeah, sorry about that,” she said. “We’ll be going now! Good bye!”

She slipped her fingers from his hand, Adrien already feeling colder, to sling her yoyo through the exit.

“See ya!” he bid to Hesperia before following right after her. She headed towards the bakery– now he knew why— and Adrien couldn’t stop himself from following along. So what if his house was in the opposite direction. He wanted to spend just a few more minutes with her, if he could manage it.

She dropped down onto the bakery roof, quietly releasing her transformation and leaving behind Marinette, the bakery girl.

Adrien’s heart skipped a beat again at the sight of her.

He dodged behind the chimney stack on the end of her rooftop, suddenly nervous. He wasn’t sure how she would react to him being there. Everything was so new and their relationship was so… He wasn’t sure what. It was different.

“I saw you following me, fleabag,” she said, startling him. “No use hiding.”

Lithely, he jumped from his spot, landing in a crouch in front of her. He looked up at her through his bangs, watching her expression for that same old disdain he was used to. There was none.

“What is it?” she asked.

Adrien straightened, searching for the right words in his head. To be honest, he wasn’t sure what he wanted at all. All he knew was that he had been drawn to her, like a thread he had to chase. Other Adrien’s words rang through his head, and sudden clarity filled his being.

He wanted to make friends.

He couldn’t miss his chance.

An excited grin twitching on his lips, he let his transformation fall to match her, putting them both on equal footing. Keeping things neutral had always worked for the two of them in the past.

Marinette raised her eyebrow at him, and suddenly he was struck by how big and blue her eyes were. He had never seen them up so close before. She was so pretty.

“Well, I was thinking,” he said nervously, all his earlier bravado draining out of him now that she was looking at him with those eyes, “since I don’t have any friends, and you don’t have any friends—that I know of!” He glanced at her face, worrying he might find a glare, but instead she continued to just look at him with wide eyes. He cleared his throat, pushing through the rest of his request as he scratched at his cheek. “Maybe, if you want, we could be friends? With each other?”

Her mouth twitched into a small smile. Adrien had never seen her smile before. He found that it suited her quite nicely. His heart did a funny little flip in his chest.

“Okay.”

His jaw dropped. “I– uh– Okay?” he sputtered.

Her smile spread wider. “Yeah.”

“Even though I’m a rich jerk?”

“I guess I can let that go,” she teased. “This time.”

Unbridled happiness— is this what that other Adrien felt? All she did was say ‘okay’ and it was as though the heavens had opened. He was warm, starting in his chest and spreading from the inside out, a euphoria he had never felt before.

“Besides,” she continued, giving a small shrug of her shoulders, “I think you’ve grown on me a little in all this time.”

The delight only grew. “You mean, I’ve cat your attention?”

She shook her head, a frown on her face, but the corners twitched again, as if she was trying to hide a smile. “And you’re going to lose it if you keep up with your awful puns.”

“My claw-ful puns?”

“Watch it, whiskers,” she said, but, for once, there was no bite to her tone.

“Aw,” he cooed, loving the way her nose scrunched up at the sound. “You don’t mean that, buggy.”

“‘Buggy’?” she questioned. “What happened to ‘cockroach’?”

“Well, I’m not going to call my friend a cockroach, now am I?” he said. “Why? You don’t like it? I can workshop some more names.”

She laughed, and, wow, what a wonderful sound that was. “Maybe after you figure out your new name.”

“No, no, no.” He wagged a finger. “This is important.” He proceeded to stalk around her, acting as though he was appraising her like an art piece with a hand to his chin. Actually, he supposed, she was an art piece, not that he’d ever told her. Maybe he should. “What about…” he drawled, lengthening his vowels, “Scarab?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No.”

He hummed. “Buginette.”

A scoff.

“Spotify.”

“You’re joking.”

Her deadpan told him all he needed to know. Adrien stopped his stalking, once again standing in front of her. It had to be personal, something to tell her how much she meant to him, how happy he was to finally have someone he could call a friend in his life. Something to connect them. An idea lit up his brain.

“My lady.”

He could be wrong, but he thought she might have stuttered a breath. A dusting of pink settled on her cheeks. Oh! Oh, that was a good reaction, wasn’t it?

“You like that?” he asked. “My lady?”

She swallowed, eyes cast away from his face and down on his shoes. Her arms crossed over her chest. “I suppose that might be acceptable.”

He smiled. “My lady,” he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue as if they were always meant to. He bowed dramatically, smiling when he heard her soft chuckle. “I’m glad we could settle this.”

She snorted. “If you’re supposed to be a prince, we have some work to do.”

“Maybe not a prince, but I’ll happily be your knight.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

His smile was practically bursting at the seams, stretching his cheeks wide enough for a dull ache to settle in. “I’ll let you enjoy your day. Until next time, my lady.” He called his transformation back, readying himself to head home.

“Until next time, Adrien,” she replied, another soft smile gracing her features.

He leapt from her roof, darting away as his heart beat a staccato against his ribcage. Next time he saw her, he would be seeing his new friend.

A friend.

#ml paris special #ml paris spoilers #ml fanfic #adrienette #shadyclaw #toxigriffe #miraculous ladybug #paris special #paris special spoilers #griffe noir #toxinelle #adrinette #miraculous #my writing #can you tell i've wanted to use this paramore lyric for ages?? no?? well i have #realistically i was supposed to be writing hamster fic this weekend but can you blame me #post reveal interactions call to me like a siren

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zepskies · 1 year

Text

Never Say Goodbye - Part 9

Pairing: Dean x Female Reader

Summary: The first time you and Dean sensed each other’s thoughts and feelings, you were just kids. It would take years to realize that you both were bonded for life, and even longer to finally meet. [Soulmate AU] (Rated M for eventual scenes – 18+)

Word Count: 5,000 Warnings: Angst, canonical character death, hurt/comfort and many, many feels.

Part 9: Intensive Care

You only felt a little ridiculous repeating yourself for the hospital receptionist.

“Dean McGillicuddy,” you said. Your nails tapped impatiently on the counter. Meanwhile, the woman behind the desk seemed to take her sweet time sorting through the computer records.

“He’s in Intensive Care,” she informed you. “Just so you know, only family members are allowed to visit at this time. What’s your relation to the patient?”

You made the decision to lie before you even really thought about it—with an age-old tactic since the movie While You Were Sleeping, circa 1995.

“I’m his fiancé,” you said. “What’s the room number?”

Once she gave you the room, you booked it down the hall and up the stairs three floors (the elevator was taking too long). You were breathing heavier by the time you swept into the room, but then your lungs constricted.

A gasp got stuck in your throat when you saw Dean. He laid intubated in the hospital bed, with several wires crisscrossed along the floor, two monitors steadily beeping, various bruises and lacerations spread across his face and arms, and a nasty cut stitched down his forehead.

“Dean…” Tears welled up in your eyes.

Standing beyond his bed was an older man you hadn’t seen before. He had dark hair, a salt-and-pepper beard, handsome features. He also looked banged up with his arm in a sling (presumably from the accident), and in his blood-stained undershirt, wrinkled buttoned-down, and jeans. He looked up at you, confused and suspicious.

“Who are you?” he asked. There was edge in his deep voice, and his posture straightened. Defensive. Protective.

Another small gasp fell from your lips. Your gaze lifted from Dean to the man’s face and you instinctively told him your name.

He seemed to recognize it in an instant. His eyes widened as he realized who you were, then they softened. His shoulders loosened.

So you approached Dean’s bed and raised a shaking hand to the crown of his head. Very gently, you brushed back his hair, traced the outline of his stitches down his forehead. You sought the warm thread of your soul bond, but you couldn’t feel him at all. The connection was solid, but silent.

The man on Dean’s other side shifted on his feet, bracing one hand on the bed frame. You then realized this must be John Winchester, Dean’s father, who you’d never met before. And he was watching you with some measure of curiosity.

With a hot blush, you remembered your manners and stuck out your hand across the bed.

“I’m glad to finally meet you, Mr. Winchester…sir.”

After a beat, his shoulders relaxed. His lips pulled into a smile and he took your hand.

“Just John is fine,” he said. “...Dean’ll be happy you’re here.”

You gave a weak smile. John was slow to lower back into his seat at Dean’s right, while you stood at Dean’s left. Before you could find something else to say, Sam walked in with a duffel bag and hell on his heels. He spared you a smile and a hug when he noticed you.

“Good to see you,” he said, with a gentle pat of your back. You let out a halting breath.

“You too,” you replied. Despite the circumstances.

But when Sam released you and looked at his father, his face fell into a tight frown.

“Something wrong?” John asked.

Sam’s lips pursed. He dumped the duffel bag at his father’s feet. “You think I wouldn’t find out?”

John’s brows furrowed. “What’re you talking about?”

“That stuff from Bobby. You don’t use it to ward off a demon, you use it to summon one,” Sam said. “You’re planning on bringing the demon here and having some stupid macho showdown!”

This conversation was lost on you, but you weren’t about to interrupt. You sat down on the edge of the bed, took Dean’s hand, and watched Sam in worry. John, however, looked calm.

“I have a plan, Sam,” he said.

“That’s exactly my point!” Sam shouted. “Dean is dying, and you have a plan. You know, you care more about killing this demon than you do about your own son!”

You’d never seen him so angry before. It was starting to scare you, especially when he emphasized that Dean was dying.

Fresh tears burned in your eyes and your lower lip wobbled as you looked down at Dean. You didn’t notice that John glanced at you before answering his son.

“Do not tell me how I feel,” John argued back. “I am doing this for Dean.”

Sam glared incredulously. “How? How is revenge going to help him? You’re not thinking of anybody but yourself! It’s the same selfish obsession!”

“You know what, I thought this was your obsession too,” John shot back. “This demon killed your mother, killed your girlfriend. You begged me to be a part of this hunt! Now, if you killed that damn thing when you had the chance, none of this would’ve happened!”

“It was possessing you, Dad!” Sam ground out. “I would have killed you too.”

You perked up at that, mostly confused. You’d pieced together that the demon had somehow caused their car crash, but it had possessed John too?

“Yeah, and your brother would be awake right now,” John said.

“Go to hell,” Sam spat.

It probably wasn’t your place to interrupt, but part of you wanted to speak up and stop this. You started to feel a growing sense of anxiety and frustration, even anger at these two men. You had the sudden urge to tell both of them to shut the hell up.

Then a quiet gasp fell from between your lips as you realized something. You were anxious, yes, and scared. But angry?

Had that thought really been yours?

It felt a bit like that first time, long ago. When you were a child standing in a cold cemetery on the worst day of your life, but you started to sense thoughts and feelings that weren’t your own…

“I should’ve never have taken you along in the first place,” John said. “I knew it was a mistake!”

Sam opened his mouth to spew back a hot retort, until a glass of water on the rolling tray between them fell and shattered on the tile ground.

I said shut up!

This time when you gasped, both John and Sam noticed you. Both quieted with apologetic looks.

And one of Dean’s monitors started to beep more rapidly. All three of you stared at it for a moment in shock—and then it flatlined.

Sam rushed out of the room and called for help while you pressed the emergency button multiple times. John called his eldest son’s name, and was still trying to reach him when the nurses rushed in. Two of the nurses guided you out of the way. You didn’t want to leave his side, but in shock and desperation you looked back at Sam. He gently took you by the shoulders over by the door.

John also leaned against the wall while the medical staff tried more than once to resuscitate Dean with the defibrillator. Each shock arched his chest, but didn’t stabilize his heart.

“No,” Sam said, shaking his head. Tears poured down your face as you hiccupped a sob.

“Still no pulse,” the nurse said. The doctor nodded.

“Okay, let’s go again,” he said. “360.”

“Charging.”

“Clear.”

“All clear.”

By the third round, you were all but leaning against Sam with your face buried in his side. His supportive arm wrapped around your shoulder. He had the door jam in a death grip with his other hand.

I said get back!

The thought rang out clear as a bell in your mind. This time you could even hear Dean’s voice.

And his heartbeat finally stabilized into a steady rhythm. You let out a shaking sob in relief. Sam’s hand tightened on your shoulder and he led you to a nearby chair. You looked up at him, not knowing what you wanted to say or what to think. Sam had similar relieved tears in his eyes. He nodded and let out a sigh before he turned back to his father, who looked three shades paler.

“Want to get back to your room?” Sam said. After a moment, John seemed to snap out of it and actually see his younger son. He nodded, though his gaze was focused on Dean. Sam’s lips pressed, but he went over and helped make sure his dad made it back to his hospital room.

“I’m sorry about that. All that arguing,” Sam said. He returned to you in Dean’s room with a cup of coffee for you. “Me and my dad…we don’t always see eye-to-eye.”

That was a bit more than a petty argument, but okay, you thought.

“I can relate,” you said. “But Sam, what happened? What caused the crash?”

Sam hesitated, but he proceeded to tell you more about the Yellow Eyed demon, as well as the events that started from Sam and Dean finding their father, and the demon, and ending with being hit full-force by a mack truck.

It was a lot to process with one watery cup of coffee, but you managed with a slight tremor in your hands.

Sam assessed you.

“Did you drive here without stopping?” he asked.

You looked down at yourself and realized you were still wearing your blouse, skirt, and heels for work. You had stopped at your house briefly to grab a few things, but you still hadn’t changed or eaten since you left the museum.

“More or less,” you said.

“Maybe you should—”

“Sam,” you interrupted, “I…I heard something. Felt something. I think…I think it was Dean.”

Sam straightened in his seat across from you. “You did?”

“Through the…our connection,” you said. “When the glass shattered, and again when he…before they brought him back.”

Sam brought his folded hands to his lips as he thought. A determined look then flashed across his face. “I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?” you asked.

“I can…well, it’s a long story. But basically, I felt him too. I’m going to see if we can do something with that,” Sam admitted. You didn’t know what he meant, but you weren’t about to stop him. He left you alone with your coffee and your thoughts.

You got up from your chair and made your way to Dean’s bedside. You touched his hand, his long fingers and scraped knuckles. You sought out the warm current of energy inside your mind, and you tugged on the soul bond.

Dean?

You waited, but there was no response.

Dean, can you hear me? you tried again.

Nothing. Your shoulders fell as you deflated. The damage to his brain was enough to be unpredictable, but still, the doctor had very little hope that Dean would wake up.

You bit your lower lip to stop it from trembling. Tears still worked their way down your face. You covered it with your hands, as if you could block out the world and stop it from moving forward.

You just didn’t know that Dean’s ghost-like spirit was standing right next to you. He’d tried to call out to you, to Sam, to John several times, but none of you could hear him. Now, his heart was tearing at the sight of you.

Unlike in phone calls and emails and texts you two had shared over the past year, he couldn’t just tell you it was going to be all right anymore.

Because this time, he had no idea what he was going to do.

Sam brought in a Ouija board to try and communicate with the spirit that was most likely Dean. You were skeptical, and even wary of that hoodoo crap, but Sam asked you to trust him.

Eventually, Sam was successful in contacting Dean. He was able to tell you and Sam that an actual reaper was after him.

“What’s a reaper? As in black hood and scythe—Grim Reaper?” you asked Sam.

“Pretty much,” he said. “They help schlep souls to the afterlife. But if one’s here naturally for Dean…damn it.”

“What?” you asked in worry.

“He’s…he’s screwed,” Sam said. “There’s no way to stop it.”

That gripped you icily, but the thread of energy inside you pulsed in your chest. You raised a hand to your heart.

Our souls are like molecules, you remembered Dean telling you once. Just trying to connect.

“No,” you replied. “I can still feel him, which means he isn’t gone. Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“I’m going to find out,” Sam said. He’d renewed his determination with a stealed look. “There’s gotta be a way. Dad will know what to do.”

Sam got up and once again left you alone in the room, packing up the board as he went.

You let out a shaky sigh. He was likely off to do his own research…but so could you!

You went down to your car and grabbed your laptop (plus a sandwich from the food court). From there you returned to Dean’s bedside, tore into a tuna melt, and started looking up everything you could find on reapers.

It had been a long drive from South Dakota, and the most trying hours of your life, but you focused on the screen in front of you.

A few hours later, you struggled to keep your bleary eyes open and had to jolt yourself awake. You hadn’t found anything that could help Dean so far.

With a sigh, you set your laptop in the second, now empty chair.

Dean? you tried again, but you could no longer feel his spirit like you had before. The bond was there, but it wasn’t thrumming strong. It was just…steady.

For now, a traitorous thought whispered. You shook your head and got up from the chair, stretching your cracking back as you went. You’d kicked off your heels a while ago, so you padded barefoot to Dean’s bedside and sat down. You took comfort in watching his chest rise and fall in easy sleep. Or at least, you could pretend he was just sleeping.

Okay, channeling Sandra Bullock, you thought with a slight smile. You brushed your fingers through his short sandy hair, which was shades lighter than Sam’s and his father’s. Maybe Dean took after his mother.

“I’m grateful, you know,” you said. Maybe it was silly to talk to him out loud, but getting the words out made you feel like he could actually hear you this time.

“Bobby, my dad, your dad. None of them got the time they thought they were going to have with their person. So…so however long we get, I’ll try to be all right with that,” you said, even though your voice started to break.

“I just want you know, before anything else happens…that I love you,” you confessed. “I love you. The only regret I have is that I didn’t make you take me with you when you left. Because if I’m honest, I hate that you keep leaving me behind.”

You covered your face at the tears sliding down, trying and failing to blot them out. That’s when Sam returned. He was apologetic when he noticed the state you were in, but you waved him in anyway. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen you cry today.

“Have you found anything?” you asked, sniffling.

“I’ve looked, but there’s nothing that can repel or kill a reaper. I can’t find my dad either,” he said.

That fell between you with a heavy thud. You didn’t want to acknowledge his words, so you distracted yourself. You noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes.

“Do you need a coffee? You look like you do. I’ll get you one,” you said. You wiped your face and got up to do just that, slipping your heels back on. Sam smiled.

“When you do that, it kind of reminds me of Dean,” he said.

Your head tilted curiously. “What?”

“He may not look it, but he’s been looking after me…pretty much my whole life,” Sam admitted.

You smiled. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me at all.”

When you left, Sam’s smile dropped. He approached his brother’s bedside.

“I don’t know how to help you,” he said. “But I’ll keep trying, all right? For her sake, for everyone…as long as you keep fighting.”

He smiled and laughed a little. “I mean, you can’t leave me alone here with dad. We’ll kill each other, you know that. Dean…you gotta hold on. You can’t go, man. Not now. We were just starting to be brothers again.”

Sam let out a shuddering sigh. He stood in silence there for a few minutes, just wracking his brain. What can I do? What the fuck do I do?

When you returned, Sam was still standing in the same spot. He almost didn’t hear you when you offered him his cup of coffee.

“Sam,” you started, but that was when both of you heard a hacking cough.

A gasp fell from your lips.

Dean was choking on his breathing tube because he was awake. Sam went to press the call button while you called for a nurse. Soon enough the room was crowded again with medical personnel. But this time, your tears were born of relief.

“Do you want some more water? Or are you hungry?” you asked. “I think I can snag you a sandwich from downstairs instead of the potato surprise they got cooked up for your neighbors.”

Dean stopped you from fluffing his pillow again. Sam sat at his right, not bothering to cover up his smile.

“Hey, just stop, okay. Relax,” Dean said. He reached for your busy hands and un-busied them. He brought you down to sit on the edge of his bed. He liked the look of you in your pretty white blouse, black skirt, and heels. But he didn’t like how exhausted you and Sam looked.

Dean stroked the back of your hand and glanced at Sam.

“You said a reaper was after me?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

“How’d I ditch it?” Dean asked.

“You got me,” Sam replied. “Dean, you really don’t remember anything?”

Dean rubbed his stomach with his free hand. “No, except for this pit in my stomach. Sam, something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean?” you asked in concern. Dean almost kicked himself. He didn’t want to worry you—

“I’d rather you tell me the truth than hide it from me,” you told him, more sternly. You’d picked up on the trail of his thoughts through the bond, which was once again flaring with life.

His lips quirked. “Damn. Forgot we’re basically human lie detectors again.”

“Yeah.” Your lips quirked into a smile. “So don’t bother trying, tough guy.”

There was a knock on the door, making all three of you turn to see John Winchester. He stood in the doorway to Dean’s hospital room with his arm in a sling.

“How you feelin’, dude?” John asked with a smile.

“Fine, I guess,” Dean replied. “I’m alive.”

You squeezed his hand at that, and he gave you a small smile.

“That’s what matters,” John agreed.

“Where were you last night?” Sam asked. He stood from his seat, crossing his arms at his father.

“I had some things to take care of,” John replied.

“Well, that’s specific.”

“Come on, Sam,” Dean interjected. You felt his annoyance and sensed this was an ongoing battle between the three men. That Dean had often been the one trying to play peacemaker here. The argument you witnessed between John and Sam made a lot more sense to you now.

“Did you go after the demon?” Sam pressed.

John shook his head. “No.”

“You know, why don’t I believe you right now?” Sam snapped.

Dean held in a sigh, lowering his head. He was too tired to do this balancing act between his father and brother.

You rubbed his arm, though you looked between Sam and John uncertainly. You weren’t sure what to do either…

But John stepped into the room and kept his tone civil, even gentle.

“Can we not fight?” he asked. “You know, half the time we’re fightin’, I don’t know what we’re fightin’ about. We’re just buttin’ heads.”

Sam quieted then. He looked like he hadn’t been expecting that.

“Look, Sammy, I…I’ve made some mistakes. But I’ve always done the best I could,” John said. “I just don’t wanna fight anymore, okay?”

John looked damn near close to tears. According to Dean, this was a former Marine made of leather and grit and not much softness in between. You watched John in concern.

“Dad, are you okay?” Sam asked. He was picking up on the same thing—that something was off here.

But John only smiled.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m just a little tired,” he said. “Hey, son, would you mind getting me a cup of caffeine?”

Sam agreed, though he still looked uncertain. John watched him leave, then his gaze turned to his eldest. You picked up on the subtle distraction for Sam, that maybe John wanted to talk with Dean in private. So you squeezed Dean’s hand and grabbed his water cup as you stood.

“I’m gonna refill this for you. I’ll be back,” you said.

“Thanks, baby,” Dean said, though he reluctantly let you go.

You weren’t proud of this, but when you left the room, you also left the door open a crack and stood near it with your back against the wall. You were too curious about John Winchester. While you’d gotten the gist of his relationship with Sam, you had only a small idea of what his relationship with Dean was like.

Meanwhile, inside the room, John stood by his son’s bedside.

“You lucked out with that girl,” John said with a smile. Dean’s was softer, and you felt the warmth of it in your chest.

“She’s…hell, I don't know why she puts up with me.”

You were careful to keep your thoughts and emotions from Dean, but you couldn’t help melting at that. It made you feel a bit guilty for that part of you that resented him leaving you. His reasons were important, and as much as you hated the fact that hunting had landed him in the hospital, damn near dead…you understood his family’s fight.

But you were soon shaken from your thoughts as John said something unexpected.

“I’m sorry I told you not to go after her a few years ago,” he said. “Another one of those mistakes…they seem to keep pilin’ up.”

Dean looked at his father a bit harder. There was something wrong. “What’s going on, Dad?”

You listened as John apologized to Dean. He’d put too much on a child’s shoulders. He should’ve protected his son, both of his sons, better. He shouldn’t have made Dean grow up so fast.

“I just want you to know that I am so proud of you,” John added.

You sensed Dean’s discomfort, even as your heart broke for him.

“This really you talking?” Dean asked. John laughed a bit.

“Yeah, it’s really me.”

“Why’re you saying this stuff?”

You couldn’t hear what John said next, but you felt Dean’s reaction. Shock, disbelief, confusion—it was a confusing mix to try and sort through. And it only piqued your curiosity further. Before you could figure it out though, the hospital room door opened.

You scrambled to make it look like you had just gotten back, but John graciously smiled and didn’t comment on your obvious eavesdropping.

“Do me favor, sweetheart,” he said.

“Uh, sure, what do you need?” you asked.

“Dean can be a bit like me. Stubborn,” he said. “Just…look after him for me, okay?”

You looked up at him in slight confusion. “Of course.”

Though you nodded, you were also concerned. Was he planning to make a run for it without his sons again? Was he going to go after Yellow Eyes himself?

John rested a gentle hand on your shoulder as he passed by you down the hall. You watched him go, but Sam returned with his dad’s requested coffee in hand.

“I think he went back to his room,” you told him. “Though you might want to check in on your dad. Something seems a bit off with him.”

Sam frowned. He also touched your shoulder as he passed by, and it made you smile. Maybe it’s a Winchester thing.

You took a breath and refilled Dean’s water like you promised you would. When you got back to his room, his greeting smile was weaker than usual. You wanted to ask him about what his dad had meant by years ago, but…you didn’t think this was the time. Dean needed rest.

You set the cup of water on the rolling tray and once again sat down on the edge of his bed.

“Are you hungry? I’ll get you that sandwich, unless you want something else,” you offered.

“I want you to stop running around,” Dean said. He sighed and rested a hand on your thigh. “I’m sorry about all this.”

You gave him an incredulous look. “You were hurt, Dean. You don’t need to be sorry.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said. His eyes were serious, boring into yours. You bit your lip in concern.

“But, there is something I want,” he said, a note of teasing in his voice. He tugged on your hand, playfully pulling you toward him. You inched a bit closer.

“Come on, all the way,” he beckoned with a hand. You couldn’t help but smile and let him pull you into his arms, and then in for a soft kiss. It didn’t take long for him to deepen it, his warm hand spanning the small of your back.

He’d been cleared by the doctor, but you were still careful with him when you touched the side of his face. It was rough with days of stubble. And he would be lucky if he didn’t have a scar left from the cut down his forehead.

The past year alone had changed him, but you were so grateful he was alive.

Stroking his cheek, you pulled away so you could see his face. You wanted to tell him you loved him while he was awake. So you did.

“I love you, you know that?” you said. “Whether it was God, or the universe, or sheer luck of the draw, I’m glad you’re the one I got saddled with. You’re the one my soul chose.”

You both saw and felt Dean’s soft shock. Your words touched him in a way that maybe even he didn’t fully understand.

His mouth fell open to respond, but before he could, both of you noticed a team of nurses and assistants rushing down the hallway.

“What the hell’s going on?” Dean wondered.

“Stay here. I’ll go check,” you said. You didn’t want him getting out of bed just yet, even if he was mysteriously healed.

You hurried into the hall and followed the rush, only to find Sam.

He was holding John’s body on the ground, shouting, crying, and trying to shake his father awake.

Dean’s body healed, but his heart was not so easily persuaded.

The three of you returned to South Dakota and performed a small, quiet funeral for John Winchester. Bobby explained that burning his body was insurance—so his spirit wouldn’t linger like your mom’s had.

It made sense, but it still felt wrong to you to burn their father out in the open woods like this. It felt like it wasn’t enough. And though Dean tried to hide it from the bond, you knew he was breaking inside, just like Sam was.

In the days afterwards, Sam and Dean stayed with Bobby while the latter worked on restoring the Impala, which had basically been crunched like a pretzel in the crash. It was beyond totaled, but if you had learned one thing about Dean, it was that this car was sacred. Even if there was one working part, it was worth taking it apart and putting it back together again.

So you watched him work in the salvage yard from inside the kitchen, where you and Bobby talked over a glass of iced tea. Slowly but surely, you were trying to get the man to cut back on the liquor.

“Something wasn’t right about it, Bobby,” you said. “When I talked to him, John was fine. He asked me to look after Dean, like he was about to take off by himself again. Like he knew he was going to leave, or…”

Like he knew he was going to die, your mind finished what you couldn’t say.

Bobby hefted a long sigh. He looked out the kitchen window at Dean for a moment.

“Bobby?” you prodded.

“The Colt is missing,” he said.

You nodded. The Colt was a gun, made by a known gun maker and hunter, Samuel Colt, in 1835. Sam and Dean had told you that this gun was made with special bullets. It was the only weapon on earth that could possibly kill any supernatural creature, including the Yellow Eyed demon.

“The demon took it, didn’t he?” you said.

“I think John gave it to him,” Bobby said. Your eyes widened.

“What do you mean?”

“I think it was a trade,” he replied. “Dean’s life for John’s, and the gun that could kill him.”

And by him, you assumed he meant Yellow Eyes. Which meant that John hadn’t been after the demon, like Sam had assumed. John had struck a deal instead.

A few days later, Sam convinced Dean to come with him to investigate an old voicemail on one of John’s phones—from a woman named Ellen. Dean was more inclined to keep working on his car, but he reluctantly agreed to find this woman at a bar in Nebraska, called Harvelle’s Roadhouse.

You came by Bobby’s house after work to catch them before they left. You watched Dean pack his bag in swift moves. His face was relaxed, but he was careful to keep his thoughts and emotions to himself, away from the bond. You handed him a shirt of his that you had been borrowing, and he took it with a brief “thanks.” He hadn’t truly looked at you in days.

“Dean.” You halted him with a gentle hand on his arm. It got him to look at you, at least.

“If you need anything, even if it’s just to talk, just call me,” you said. He gave you a smile that barely reached his eyes.

“I’m fine, really,” he said. “But thanks. I’ll let you know when we’re on the way back. Guarantee, this isn’t gonna take long.”

That wasn’t what Sam said, but Dean just kissed you on the cheek and made his way downstairs to meet his brother.

That was Monday. It was a Saturday by the time they got back, so you were able to come by your uncle’s house and catch the brothers talking outside. You started to head toward them, but you sensed Dean’s unease through the bond. So you hung back behind a large van that at the very least, needed a new bumper.

“About me and Dad,” you heard Sam say. “I’m sorry the last time I was with him, I tried to pick a fight. I’m sorry that I spent most of my life angry at him. I mean, for all I know, he died thinking that I hate him. So, you’re right. What I’m doing right now is too little. It’s too late.”

You heard emotion start to make Sam’s voice tremble, and your heart broke for him too.

“I miss him, man,” he said. “And I feel guilty as hell. And I’m not all right, not at all…but neither are you. That much I know.”

A tendril of Dean’s irritation made it through your bond. But it was laced with deeper emotions than you’d ever felt from him—self-loathing and disgust with himself being the least of them. You covered your mouth with a shaky hand.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” Sam said. You heard his boots crunch toward you, but you couldn’t make yourself move.

When Sam eventually found you, he looked surprised to see you, but then he softened and laid a hand on your shoulder.

What should I do? you wanted to ask him. You didn’t know what Dean needed right now. Did he need space? Should you try to talk to him, comfort him? And if you did, what the hell should you say?

Dean had seemed to know exactly how to comfort you after you burned your mother’s ring, laying her to rest. Before that, he’d gotten you to open up about Danny Schmitt and how that experience had rattled you. But now, you couldn’t do the same for Dean, your boyfriend. Your soulmate.

Sam didn’t have words for you either though. He just continued inside the house, leaving you standing at a crossroads of decision.

Right now, you felt like a failure. Your mom had always known what to say to your dad. Their connection had seemed…well, seamless.

But you were startled out of your thoughts when you heard a crash of metal on metal. You rushed out to the clearing where Dean had already spent two weeks working on the Impala. Now he was wrecking the hood and body all over again with a large crowbar.

You remained at a distance for a minute, not sure how to get closer but too worried to leave him be.

Dean? you reached out tentatively with your mind.

His hands tightened on the crowbar as he struck the dented hood of the car again. Then he beat through the windows with a spectacular shatter of glass.

You flinched with a small gasp. But that sound was enough to cut through it all, at least for Dean. He stopped short, though he was heaving for breath. He looked back at you over his shoulder, his eyes widening.

He lowered his arms and was purposefully slow when he tossed the crowbar back onto the car’s hood, letting it go. He didn’t want to face you again. You knew because you felt his shame come through the connection.

You were hesitant at first, but you deemed it safe enough to approach him. His gaze stayed on the ground, even when you touched his back. His shirt was dusty and drenched with sweat.

Sorry, he imparted to you.

You shook your head and slipped your hand into his. He squeezed your hand, and that gave you the courage to wrap your free hand around his arm and press yourself against his tall, strong frame from behind. But he didn’t always have to be strong.

I love you, you reminded him. Your dad loved you too.

You let out a shaky breath.

The last thing he said to me was a request, you said, and with a slight smile, He said you could be a lot like him sometimes, a bit too stubborn. He asked me to take care of you…and I promised that I would.

Dean breathed heavily through his nose. You knew he was fighting it, but you rubbed his arm and stayed there until the dam in both of your minds finally broke.

He released everything he was hiding from you. All his shame, the depths of his distress and grief. It all but shredded your heart.

Tears burned in your eyes and fell, but you didn’t let that stop you from slipping around him and taking his face in your hands. When he looked down at you, his eyes were shining and red.

His mouth trembled, but neither of you spoke. You just leaned up and wrapped your arms around his neck and shoulders, bringing him to you as tight and warm as you could.

His arms likewise slipped around your frame. At first it was just instinctive, holding you back. But as you continued to rub his back and soothe your fingers through his hair, his tight shoulders loosened.

Dean clung to you then, burying his face into your hair, your neck, pressing his lips into your skin.

And he let go.

AN: Whew, lots of drama and feels there. Every time I watch 2.01 I wanna give both brothers a ginormous hug. Especially Dean, poor guy.

But the reader finally met John (however brief that was). And she finally let Dean know exactly how she feels. The question is: when will Dean?

So let me know what you thought of this chapter!

The next one will be a bit lighter: the reader and Dean go on their first real date!

To keep reading: PART 10

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the-fiction-witch · 5 months

Text

Just Breathe With Me

Media The Artful Dodger

Character Jack Dawkins

Couple Jack X Reader

Rating Sweet as Sugar!

Requested Can you please do a Jack Dawkins x reader who has a panic attack? ( comfort/fluff no smut ) wait omg plz do 🙏 only if you're comfortable of course

Warnings: Panic Attack In great detail! Please be careful!

I opened my eyes and was forced into this world, for a few brief seconds I enjoyed my peace until the chaos ensued.

Olivia cried in her crib, her little body in her baby clothes stood up in her crib, her hands on the top of the bars as she shook them, her face red and her eyes squeezed tight with tears streaming down her face.

Luna screamed on her bed, wearing her little white nightie, she jumped up and down on her bed screaming at Martin, as he tried to take her teddy.

Martin shouted as he was took all the various teddies and toys to steal for himself, half-dressed but nothing more than his socks and trousers.

Lucas hits his stick on various things in the house, not dressed at all so he runs around naked, each hit makes a loud bang.

He even knocks off a vase causing it to smash and sending broken pieces all over the floor.

I forced myself up out of bed, my body exhausted but I had little choice but to get up and function. I quickly cleaned up the broken vase and just got on.

I briefly became an octopus or I wish I had, as I managed to cook breakfast, get each of my siblings washed, dressed, hair brushed and presentable, get myself dressed, changed Olivia, quelled four arguments and made the beds Before we even hit the top of the hour. I felt faint but Ignored it and pushed on.

And right on time once every job was done, my mother trudged down the staircase from her bedroom upstairs in her nightie, her hair matted and messy, her whole body stank of whiskey, she sat herself in the chair and snapped her fingers.

The snap caused my heart to jump from my chest to my throat, beating rapidly, I hated myself but I handed over her spirit bottle.

She immediately took an intense swig of it, and the first words out of her mouth were harsh and bitter,

"Where's my vase?"

"Lucas broke it this morning," I told her,

"Find a replacement today."

"Yes Mother," I nodded,

"And we are out of food."

"Yes, Mother I will get food at the market."

"and I need more drink."

"Yes, Mother I will get some,"

"They'll be late for the schoolhouse."

"I know, I'm just taking them." I nodded, "Come everyone school time." I told them to sort them all out with their books and what little lunch I could give them and got them all out the door on time,

"You won't see me later, I'm going out."

"Yes Mother," I sighed "Perhaps not too late-"

"Dont. Say a word." She demanded,

I nodded and just got going into town.

Of course, the town was bustling with the commotion of carriages, horses, carts and people all going about their business. I did my best with Olivia on my hip to make sure everyone else behaved and avoided getting hurt, having to juggle the three of them to the schoolhouse. a twisting in my stomach but I didn't have time to dwell on it,

As soon as they were in the school house I had to scamper my way across town to drop Olivia off at her nursery, then before I had much time I had to get myself to my work in the local tailor pushing open the door and heading in grabbing my apron as I went catching my short breath.

"You're late again!" He snapped,

"Sorry Mr Ashworth, I had to drop my siblings off," I said quickly sitting at my old rickety sewing machine almost fifteen years old this machine but still I had to use it every day to do hems and repairs, the pile as tall as me beside my table, having to go slow but not too slow or I'll never get finished, fast but not to fast as to damage the fabric, or catch my fingers, or break a needle, every time I had to rethread the machine with a new colour or type of thread for a different fabric or use I held my breath for a few seconds it took to change but every second counts and I can't afford delays. The longer the day went on I began to lose feeling in my fingertips, with tingling of pins and needles in my fingers and toes, but I pushed through even if it did mean I cut myself more often as without feeling I got dangerously close to my scissors and needles.

As soon as work was over I had to rush across town and pick up my siblings from the school house, I tried to keep them all in line as we headed to the market, and I got all the things we would need for the next few days while also batting at their hands to try and get them to settle and not steal things even if some things had to be paid for because someone ran off with them, all the while I kept feeling these flashes or heat, or chill but I don't have time to dwell on temperature.

Once I got all the food I took them home and left them to play dropping the groceries off too before I returned back to town to go looking for a replacement for my mother's vase, it was slim pickings but I managed to get one and haggle down the price to what little I had left for this month. I knew by now my legs were trembling, and my body felt like giving in but all I needed now was to pick Olivia up, go home, make dinner, do a round of baths and get everyone to bed. Ready to do all of it again tomorrow.

When a young boy ran past knocking into me sending me tumbling down to the ground the vase hitting the ground and smashing into a million little pieces.

"No... no... no no no no" I muttered trying to put it back together.

And the moment it smashed, I completely broke open.

Tears streamed down my face, as I cried hysterically, my breath short and shaky, my throat choking and tight with every breath, my mouth dry and sickly, my heart raced jumping in and out my chest, my fingers and toes numb, my head dizzy almost to faint, my every limb shook and sweated, my stomach churned and turned like a hurricane, I couldn't even think, or even begin to know where to start to fix myself.

"Oh my goodness, are you alright?" A voice asked but I couldn't pick up much about it I just was lost almost distant from my body as it went through this agony, "Come on, with me." He said helping me to my feet and leading me to a rear alley out of sight of others, he helped me to lean against the wall and began to speak to me his voice soothing, and with his every word I began to slowly feel like I was swimming like I was at sea, my body a boat and slowly I was swimming back to it. "Okay, it's okay, Just breathe. Just Breathe with me... Breath in." He asked and I did my best even if I felt so short and so breathless, "And out." He asked so I did as he asked between my tears, "Okay, Just follow me just breathe with me, In... and out." He reassured He walked me through each breath he would make me inhale for five whole seconds, hold it for five more and then release for five seconds, he walked me through this for a good while until my breathlessness began to disappear, and between my tearful eyes my vision cleared and I saw him.

He was a young man, I wouldn't say much older than me, in brown trousers, a white shirt, a blue waistcoat, a green tie, a slightly purple jacket, and a hat, he had deep chocolate eyes and seemed to genuinely want to help me.

"There we go, That a little better?" he asked and I nodded even if I still couldn't stop, "Alright, I want you to do some things for me, alright? Can you do that for me?" he asked and I nodded, "Alright, I want you to tell me three things you can hear, doesn't matter what just focus on the sounds and repeat them back to me."

For a moment I couldn't hear anything my ears ringing and burning but I knew one thing I could hear and I forced it out "You're voice."

"My voice, That's perfect," He smiled, "You think you can do another one for me?"

I tried to listen to pour all my attention into my ears and I could hear "The Market Stalls,"

"You can hear the market? That's perfect, one more for me? One more thing?"

I listened closely trying hard to hear anything else "horseshoes,"

"Horseshoes, Excellent, what do you think they're from?"

"A carriage maybe?"

"Yeah I think so too," he chuckled, "You able to tell me your name?"

"Y/n."

"Y/n, That's a very lovely name." He smiled, "I'm Jack. You feel a little better?" he asked and I nodded "Good, That's very good. Just slow down, keep breathing for me, just stay here and stay still a moment."

"I can't I need to-"

"The only thing you need to do right now is to get better. Trust me I'm a doctor. You're strung out to the limit and in the middle of a panic attack. Whatever it is I'm sure it can wait a moment." he said, "Y/n I want you to tell me three things you can see, doesn't matter what any three things."

I was nervous and still struggling but slowly my symptoms began to slow and I noticed just how fuzzy my voice was from the tears and how tunnelled my vision was, "Uhhh I uhh I see you..."

"Good, that's good you see me," he said, "Anything else?"

"The uhhh the sky."

"You see the sky, that's perfect, it's a very nice afternoon. One more I know you can do it."

"The wall, for the bakery."

"That's perfect, the bakery wall. Can you imagine all the lovely cakes, and pasties, and fresh loaves in there?"

"I uhh I can." I nodded,

"Excellent, One more little thing y/n, I want you to tell me three things you feel okay?"

as he said it I noticed just how little I really noticed but with each thing I listed to him I became more aware and more into this world again,

"I, I feel the wall."

"How does it feel?"

"Cold, uhh stoney I suppose."

"Stoney?" he laughed, "what else?"

I slightly moved my feet feeling the dusty dirt around my boots slightly move to the side like sand as I did so, "I feel the dirt, as it pushes away."

"How does it feel against your boots?"

"Rough and small"

"That's good, one more for me, just one more."

As he asked it I felt almost normal, and I noticed "Your hand." I said, His hand graced mine his fingers on my wrist checking my pulse, the other on my neck but not harshly not as if attempting to harm me or threaten my throat but merely rested there as if he was monitoring my every gasp,

"How do my hands feel?"

"Uhh Warm,"

"Good."

"They feel rough," I blushed a little trying not to giggle while also trying to you know not insult the man who helped me,

He chuckled, "Yeah, Surgeon. Sorry about that." He chuckled,

"Does that mean they are dirty?"

"I mean... yeah probably, I'm sorry for that too."

"It's okay. I uhh Thank you."

"You're welcome," He smiled, "I saw you were struggling I thought you were having a heart attack and first but no, a panic attack, Do you get these a lot?"

"unfortunately yes."

"Alright, well. The best thing I can say is to try to manage your stress so it doesn't overflow, maybe slow down a little but those three sights, sounds, and feelings are really good it help calm and ground so use it when you can alright?"

"I uhh I will do my best."

"I assume you have a stressful life?"

"Understatement."

"If I let you go right now are you going to go straight back to the level of stress you were at?"

"I uhh... I am late from picking my sister up, and I need to get a new vase for my mother, and I need to get home and do dinner and get everyone to"

"Okay. Okay." he said stopping me, "I'm getting bloody anxious just listening to that,"

"Sorry-"

"It's alright, I was heading home anyway I can come give you a hand if you like?"

"No no, I couldn't-"

"It's no trouble, you need to relax a little if I can take something off your plate anything it'll help. In fact as your doctor at this moment I insist."

"Well okay, my mother insists I come home with a new vase."

"Okay, I can find a vase. anything particular?"

"No, just a vase."

"Okay." He nods,

"I uhh but I don't have any money left."

"You let me worry about that, it's on me." He smiled, "I'll meet you back here when I'm done." he smiled heading off back to the market,

I blushed but smiled and headed on my way picking up Olivia luckily she was asleep by now, and I returned to the alley where Jack already waited with a vase in hand.

"Did I do good?"

"It's beautiful. How'd you-"

"It's best not to ask questions." he winked, "Aww who's this little lady?"

"This is Olivia." I smiled letting him see her but not wake her,

"Aww, she's beautiful, your daughter?"

"Sister, well half-sister really... though I don't honestly know." I answered, "But thank you so much, I really need to get home now,"

"Alright, I'll walk with you, so long as you don't mind,"

"Ohh no of course not, thank you."

"It's alright no trouble, here you take this, and I'll take this little lady." He smiled handing me the vase and taking Olivia letting her sleep on his shoulder as we walked, by the time we got home I felt a rush of anxiety as the house was a tip and my siblings losing their minds from being home alone so long,

"Oh no no no."

"It's okay, don't worry. You take her and get her to bed. I'll take this lot and sit with them in the garden we can have a play around and get some energy out"

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, it's no problem," he said,

"Alright, Okay everyone outside with Mr- uhh"

"Dr, Dawkins."

"Everyone out to the gardens with Dr Dawkins," I told them and of course, a chance to play outside was not passed up, he went out with them and I began work I put Olivia down to sleep in her cot and cleaned the house as best and putting the new vase on the shelf. Once done I sighed in relief and went out keeping the door open as I saw Jack helping my siblings, playing with them, playing a game of knights. Luna is a princess, Martian is a dragon and Lucas is a knight with Jack narrating them and helping them play.

I smiled and took a seat on the bench outside the front door taking a rare moment to... be at peace,

"You feel a bit better now?" He asked sitting beside me,

"Yes, thank you, Jack."

"you're very welcome. they're great, a lot of energy."

"Yeah well the get cooped up a lot."

"You know talking does wonders for anxiety." He smiled, "I'm not that sort of doctor but I'm happy to listen anyway?"

"I don't want to burden you, you've done enough."

"It's not a burden I want to help, and I admit I'm curious about you."

I chuckled a little, "Well, we live here all of us."

"All five of you?"

"Six my mother too."

"Ahh, your father?"

"Never met him."

"You said Olivia might be your half-sister, where's her father?"

"They all are my half-siblings, as far as I know. None of us have the same father, as far as I am aware. None of them have ever met them."

"I see. You're mother she a -"

"She was,"

"That explains that then."

"It does, yeah."

"Then... why are you looking after them?"

"Mother... likes to drink."

"Ohh."

"yeah."

"I see. So she just goes out and drinks all day? leaves you alone with them?"

"Pretty much, sometimes she's here just... hungover as all hell."

"So you do... everything I guess?"

"cook. clean. baths. bed. back and forth to school."

"I'm surprised you didn't crack sooner..."

"Well, sink or swim I guess."

"I suppose so, still school gives you some break time I guess."

"I wish, got to go to work while they're at school, and Olivia isn't old enough yet."

"Hold up- You work?"

"Yes."

"You have a job! on top of basically full-time caring for four kids?"

"Yes."

"what do you do?"

"Tailor's assistant in town, I run the old machine in the back doing alterations."

"Ohh my god- that's a tough busy job. You work quickly in there."

"We do, two days or less for your garment to impress he really likes that motto."

"I know, I got this repaired in like a day last time I got a rip in it," he said looking at his shirt,

"Yeah I think I remember it," I laughed looking at the familiar shirt, "Yeah, I was going fast the seam is crooked," I laughed

"Ohh? I never looked that closely at it." He laughed, "How many hours do you work?"

"Eight hours a day seven days a week."

"Holy- no wonder you're running yourself ragged. I'm a doctor and I don't work that much!"

"Well, I'm the only income coming in, got six mouths to feed."

"You are amazing, you know that?"

"I am."

"You are. That is insane, and the fact you do it with such grace. It's astonishing."

"Thank you," I blushed.

"If I may be so bold, If you need an extra pair of hands, and you do. I'm more than happy to come help."

"I couldn't ask you to do that,"

"You're not asking me, I'm asking you. You're only going to get worse unless you lighten your load, and all although panic attacks are best just ridden out... they can cause serious damage." He explained, "I want to help, even if its just little things. I can take one job off you a day, or take them for an hour and go play in the garden just, something to lighten your load a little."

"You'd really do that?"

"I would,"

"Why?"

"Becuase you need help, and as a doctor, I can't stop myself from helping those who need it. and right now... you need it more than anyone."

"Thank you Jack," I smiled leaning my head on his shoulder,

"You're welcome Y/n" He smiled, kissing my head. "Now, how about you look after them I'll get dinner on?"

"It's a deal."

"Good girl, What uhh... what am I cooking?"

"Soup,"

"Soup?"

"Yeah,"

"What kind of soup?"

"Leek soup."

"Just leek soup? you have any bread for it?"

"No."

"Okay, new plan you wait here and look after them I will get dinner as my treat."

"I can't ask you to-"

"No. No. I'm doing it. at very least getting bread if nothing else,"

"Alright."

"Good, I'll see you as soon as I can." he smiled kissing my cheek before he took his stuff and headed back toward town.

#tbs imagine #thomasbrodiesangster #tbs imagines #thomas sangster imagine #thomas brodie sangster smut #tbs smut #thomas brodie sangster imagine #thomas brodie sangster #tbs #thomas sangster #jackdawkins #jack #jack dawkins #thea #thearttfuldodger #theartfuldogger #artful dodger #the artful dodger

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straykidsholicleigh · 2 months

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perfect

pairing: idol!ryujin x fem!reader

genre: smut, fluff, drabble thing

warnings: established relationship, cunnilingus, use of names (ryujin calls reader pretty thing), hair pulling, overstimulation, ryujin is hot-

a/n: I love her sm 🫠🫠

credits: dividers by @cafekitsune ♡.

It was a sunday night, almost 12 am as Ryujin was practicing late in the dance studio. You never considered yourself a great dancer, but you were there to monitor her, to watch her.

You watched as she gracefully moved her hips to the beat, singing along as her pink hair danced with her. You smiled to yourself, wondering how you managed to get such a beautiful and kind girlfriend like Ryujin.

You met at a cafè where you accidentally spilled your coffee all over her as she smiled, reassuring that it was fine while she wiped her crop top with a tissue. She gave you her number and you talked about a lot of things, growing a liking for this kpop idol. A few months later, you noticed you were growing feelings for Ryujin, an attraction towards her. As of 2021, you both were happily dating, which lead kfans into a frenzy, but both of you couldn't care less.

You were snapped out of your thoughts as Ryujin snapped her fingers in front of you, panting with her hands on her waist. "You with me?" She asked, tilting her head back a bit as sweat dripped down her neck. God, she looked so hot.

"Yeah, I'm here." You answered back, your eyes getting lost in hers.

She smiled, her tongue poking against her cheek as she eyed you up and down. "Whats on your mind, pretty girl?" She asked as you blushed at the nickname, running your hands through your hair. "Well," You started, your eyes falling to her pretty, pink lips. "If it's not too much to ask, could you... ease the tension between my legs?” Ryujin smirked at your answer, already kneeling down in front of you as her delicate fingers worked towards removing your shorts, pulling your panties down in the process.

"So that's why you were staring at me earlier? hmm? wanted me to eat your pretty cunt? Is that it?” Your cheeks heated up the more she kept on talking, soft moans leaving your lips as she licked up your glistening pussy, her hands spreading your thighs further apart. Her lips wrapped around your aching bud as she gently sucked, your back arching of the couch as a moan slipped past your lips.

"Ryu, it's so good!” You moaned, your fingers threading into her soft hair. She chuckled against you, the vibrations shooting straight up against your core, making you flinch. “Oh god, im so close!” You breathed out, legs trembling as Ryujin continued to eat you out. “Cum for me then, pretty thing.” She mumbled, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

"Ohh, shit! C-cumming!" You screamed, your free hand forming a fist against your lips as you eyes screwed shut, Ryujin working her fingers in and out of you as your orgasm washed over you. She continued to suck for a while, smirking as you flinched from overstimulation while she pulled two more orgasms out of you.

Once she was satisfied, she got up from the couch, admiring your pliant figure before her. You hair was messy, mouth agape as your eyes fluttered, your body twitching every now and then. She bent down to your level as she kissed your cheek, caressing the other. She smiled down at you, her bangs covering her eyes.

“Perfect...” She whispered, only for you to hear as your heart fluttered.

nal tto geondeuryeo, nun apeul garyeo bojiman (ah ooh) nae balgeoreum ape ur gonna know, ur all gonna know 💅

taglist: @bbgnyx @junglyric @hyunevlogs @thatonenoona @smuttystraykidsthoughts @lokislilkitten @yessa-vie @chartrucewhore @changbinswh0re @hyunlar @yaorzu-blog @archeridontfuckingknow @silverstarburst @himynamesjadon @massivesoyeondelusion @itzyeunusiastrie @not-the-herb-sage @ifudontlikegidlefucku @yo-peeps-itzz-asher @hayleyinthebuilding @iwishmiyeonismygf @nathan-idk @soleil-like-the-lillies-or-sun @audreyyy-yyy @leointhehouse @kian-it-means-king @vanillacupcakefrosting @vannipak @tae-ig @joshuanotfound @ivydoesit23 @minjunsworldsposts @fauna-flora11 @ryanerror141 @maya-yay @ophelia-and-yes-i-stan-skz @rockyhedgehog @sleepyleeji @kaiyaba

DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARISE, COPY & REPURPOSE.

#itzy #itzy hard hours #itzy hard thoughts #ryujin #shin ryujin #ryujin smut #ryujin hard hours #ryujin x reader #ryujin x you #pls shes just so 😍#shes everything to me #wanna kiss so badddd #drabbles

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p8rasite · 11 months

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FINE. › SUNG HANBIN ݃ 0612

synopsis.. where hanbin says it too often, he starts to believe he is.. until he isn’t.

muses.. roommate! hanbin x gn! reader

pantone.. angst & comfort ft. and they were roommates

cw + tap the mic.. self-doubt, reader kinda dislikes hanbin & mention of drinks + first zb1 writing let’s gaur! this was a mix of request & word vomit so i hope this is good enough 🥺 also new layout : @/stealanity & @/chiyuv

“no one’s here, come again in four to seven business weeks.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. as clear as it is that hanbin doesn’t want to entertain anyone at the moment, you refuse to let him be. not when he’s isolating himself within those four walls. not when you can just tug that handle and let yourself in.

so you do.

the abrupt bang of the door against the wall was slightly.. over the top, but at least it got his attention. well, more like his frown, but you can be bothered about the details some other time.

“what are you doing in here?” he mumbles, voice lacking its usual coat of vibrancy. this time, it’s soft and fragile, just like its owner.

you shrug your shoulders. “the kitchen told me you haven’t visited it in a few days so i’m checking in on you on their behalf.”

he chuckles, but even that sounds so hollow. another sign that he isn’t your roommate, but a shell of him. and as much as you hate to admit it, you’re even more a tad bit worried.

“may i?” you gesture to the space next to him, shortly receiving a nod. sitting on the floor—legs stretched out and back slouched against the wall—isn’t ideal, especially not when there’s a queen sized bed just a few steps away. although, given why you’re here in the first place, you suppose you could refrain from complaining this time.

(singular—you’re already stressing that before your friends can make assumptions.)

the two of you let silence wrap around you like a blanket, one neither of you seem eager to remove. you excuse your awkwardness by claiming you want to take in your new surroundings before moving further. to which, in fairness, makes sense because this is your first time in his room.

weird, isn’t it? living in a place where you’re familiar with everything but your roommate and his space. there were times where he left his door ajar enough for you to catch glimpses inside, but nothing could have prepared you to see it in its entirety.

so tidy, so cozy, so.. hanbin.

the young man in question fidgets with his sweater’s sleeve, a loose thread in particular. a translucent pane of absentmindedness hovers over his cocoa-tinted irises as he twists the material between his lithe fingers.

“i don’t know what’s missing,” hanbin gauges your reaction (seemingly blank, actually surprised) before continuing. “i gave everything i had to them, constantly tried to do and be my best self to make up for the things i lack, yet they still left.”

you nervously rub your palms upon your thighs, unsure where to pick up after such a heavy confession. there’s also that guilt that chews on your soul as you come to realize that this little mister perfect persona of his isn’t just for attracting people.

it’s supposed to convince those he loves to stay.

with this newfound understanding, you finally speak up, “them leaving isn’t on you.”

his brows furrow, lips slightly parting to reject your words but you lift your hand to cover his mouth. probably not the best idea, ‘specially not when he can just make muffled sounds through the makeshift gag, but it’ll have to do. all you need is for him to listen to you, no interruptions allowed.

“you gave almost all of yourself to them, which isn’t wrong—almost every person who’s been in love has done that. but that isn’t enough to make the relationship work because there’s two of you. now, either it’s a responsibility that they can’t or don’t want to face, which is why they broke up with you.

whichever it is, the fault still lies with them. and that, binnie, is why you shouldn’t be beating yourself up on this. yes, it’s okay to grieve what has been lost. but at the end of the day, you should acknowledge and accept that it isn’t your fault.”

you’re completely winded by the end of your speech, you don’t realize your hand had pulled away halfway through it. but then you notice the upward curve of his lips, and your eyes instinctively narrow at the suspicious sight.

“did i say something funny?”

he shakes his head and points out, “you called me binnie.”

..damn. you were so caught up in your rant that you hadn’t noticed your mistake. with a light hit at his shoulder, you grumble, “don’t read too deep into it, i just heard one of your friends constantly call you that so it slipped.”

“are you sure~?”

“yes.”

“very sure~?”

“..‘right, that’s the end of our therapy session. i expect you to pay me with a cup of karak tea later.” a groan emerges from the deepest part of your tired soul as you get back on your feet, backside sore from maintaining the same position for at least 10 minutes.

right as you’re on your way out, hanbin calls your name. intrigued confused as to what else he’d need, you take the chance and turn around. those busy fingers you noticed earlier? now they’re put together to make a unique heart gesture.

“thank you for keeping me company and opening my eyes to the bigger picture.” the warmth and cheeriness hasn’t been fully restored yet, but you can hear a sliver. and regardless of whether you admit it or not, you feel proud of yourself for assisting in bringing it back.

“no need to thank me, matters like this are why roommates were made.”

(uh huh, sure..)

❀ ... ⃕ not sure if i’ll make a taglist but feel free to donate to my kofi ! now, would you like to return to the masterlist? yes / no.

#zb1 #zerobaseone #zb1 x reader #zerobaseone scenarios #zerobaseone imagines #sung hanbin #zb1 imagines #zb1 scenarios #hanbin imagines #hanbin scenarios #sung hanbin imagines #sung hanbin scenarios #zerobaseone x reader #hanbin x reader #sung hanbin x reader

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deadfractals · 2 years

Text

The summons to a hospital was... chaotic, to say the least, Ramesh’s name popping up on his caller ID and a shouted explanation of what was going on over the sounds of some sort of struggle- and crying. He grasped enough, Kirby had been hurt, Edgar had been involved, and Rory- presently Kirby’s second contact for emergencies, was needed to ensure the hospital did its due diligence. He’d been at October’s, tracking drums for a set of demos, which at the very least, meant he wasn’t a mile out of town and even further from the hospital. It’s calmed down, at least, when he turns up, Ram rubbing Edgar’s back, the other two vampires a touch exhausted looking. He stops long enough to talk to his former colleague and find out that the hybrid is no longer rolling on a venom high- and that they’d been given the piece of paper that started all of this as well. With this knowledge, and the time-bomb ticking to life, he steps into the hospital room.

“We gotta stop meeting when you’re in some kind of rough shape, kiddo.” He insists, pulling up a chair next to the hospital bed. “I got the jidst from Ram about what went down, woulda got it from Eddie, but he’s cut up about this happening... How you holding up?” He questions. “And why did you break into your parents’ house again?”

@firenovas

#I beat it up I bang it out [threads]#[character] Kirby #Season 2;#Father Surprise;

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husbandomail · 11 months

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hello I have returned! thank you everybody for your patience while my family moved; we’re still not entirely settled in, but I’m slowly reaching the point where I can resume writing. so here’s what I’ve been working on!

Idia/reader

in which he can’t see the screen.

“—damn! Again?! Isn’t that the same place as last time, too?” You sighed from your position on Ignihyde’s floor, shoving your hand into a bag of chips as you glanced back over your shoulder at your gaming partner. “You okay back there, Idia? Do we need to stop and level grind?”

As he made eye contact with you, Idia’s face and the tips of his hair turned pink. He shifted on the couch, crossing his legs and lifting his computer into his lap. “There’s no time for that,” he mumbled, chewing on his bottom lip, “The event ends soon, and we still don’t have enough materials to craft another set of that armor—” His voice slowly trailed off as he busied himself with the on-screen menus.

You stretched a bit, twisting your body until it was easier to stare up at him from your little next of pillows on the floor. The two of you had been trying this raid even for hours with no luck. Now, if you had been playing this game by yourself, or even if you’d used the lobby to team up with randos, your lack of success would make perfect sense— but no, you were playing with Idia. That’s what made this string of failures so suspicious.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Idia?”

He huffed, and a strand of hair went flying away from his face. “I’m fine,” he said, although it didn’t sound very convincing. One of his hands came up to comb his flickering bangs from his eyes, but the blue embers were insistent on hanging directly in his line of sight.

No wonder you guys kept losing— he couldn’t see the screen.

Laying there propped up on your side, you watched Idia for a quiet moment, enjoying the soft sounds of his keyboard as he blatantly tried to avoid looking at you. His long blue hair cascading down his shoulders, flickering endlessly as his delicate hands continued to brush it aside, the flames melding at his touch—

Your own fingers twitched. What did his hair feel like?

Idia glanced up at you from underneath his bangs. His hair changed color again, more soft threads of pink appearing when he realized he still had your attention. His painted mouth pulled into a pout. “Don’t look at me like that! We only lost because of RNG— let’s try again.”

“Let’s take a break, actually,” you stretched again, finally pulling yourself up onto your knees, trying to rub the screen-strain from your eyes.

Idia winced at even the slightest rejection, but he nodded, setting his computer down on the couch cushions and vaguely turning in your direction. “—what are we doing now, then? A different game? A movie?”

“Don’t you think you need a haircut?”

Idia jolted backwards immediately, his spine pressed into the back of the couch, eyes going wide as his hair paled to almost the same shade as his skin. “St— hey, stay back! No scissors!”

A beat of silence, followed by a laugh that bubbled its way out of your throat. You almost doubled over at the expression on his face. “That’s not what I meant!” It took a moment for you to catch your breath, but as soon as you did, you waved off Idia’s concerns. “I’m just making conversation, Idia. You should try it sometime.”

Without waiting for a response, you untangled yourself from your nest of pillows sprawled across the floor, stepping over to where you’d dropped your bag hours ago. Idia’s eyes widened yet again as he watched you fumbling through your bag, clearly looking for something specific. “...Hey, you’re not gonna—”

“Calm down,” you said gently. Once your hands closed around what you were looking for, you pulled them from your bag slowly, as if trying not to startle a skittish pet. “I’m not gonna cut your hair.”

“But you do intend to do something.” His eyes narrowed at you. No point in dodging that accusation, because it was true; you held up the bundle of personal treasures from your bag, letting Idia examine them before you made any sudden moves.

Hair ties. Decorative barrettes. That small brush you always forgot you were carrying.

“Let me put your hair up, Idia.”

The dorm leader sat quietly for a moment, his sharp eyes flickering between your hands and your face; if you looked any closer, you’d be able to see his own hands trembling. What kind of dating sim scene is this turning into—?

“Okay.” He immediately pressed a hand to his mouth, as if to catch the word before it fell. You had clearly already heard him, though— your face lit up in a way that made his chest twist.

“Really?! You’ll let me?” Honestly, you hadn’t expected him to say yes.

Idia turned his face away from you as if to hide his blush, although that did nothing against the kaleidoscope of his hair colors. “—hurry up before I change my mind!”

You nodded happily, stepping around the couch to stand behind him. He’d agreed so much easier than you’d expected, so you’d better take the chance while you have it.

Sitting in front of you, Idia shifted nervously; for someone with anxiety, being able to feel but not see a person behind him sent adrenaline through his veins, even though he knew it was just you. He began to turn his head so he could stare back at you over his shoulder, but your warm hands landed gently on the side of his face, directing him to stare forward again. “Sit still,” you chided— and then finally, you began to run your fingers through the ethereal flames he called his hair.

The first thing you noticed was that it didn’t burn. In fact, the flames weren’t even warm. You hummed in vague surprise as you twisted a few strands around your fingers, admiring the texture, memorizing the color. When the sound left your throat, Idia shifted again.

“Wh— what’s that noise supposed to mean?” He tried to sound demanding, but his voice wavered and he winced; talk about undermining himself.

“Nothing bad,” you assured him, continuing to fiddle with the ends of blue strands. “I’m just surprised— it looks like fire, but being able to touch it is just so…”

Idia leaned further back against the couch and tilted his head to look up at you, bemusement painted across his face. The movement sent his long hair shimmering like a waterfall over the back of the sofa. “Of course it’s not as hot as regular flames,” he said, “do you have any idea how uncomfortable that would be?”

You laughed lightly at that and nudged his head forward again.

You took your time running fingers through his dancing flames— never knew if you’d get this chance again, after all. As your nails gently dragged along Idia’s scalp, he let out a soft sigh and leaned back into your touch, his shades of blue beginning to flicker lavender instead. Experimentally, you began to gather as much as you could hold in one hand, to see if a ponytail would work.

When your nails gently scraped against the nape of his neck, Idia shuddered. His eyes flew open— when had he closed them?— and he jolted forward, the movement dragging his hair out of your grasp. “Watch it,” he bit out, although there was no real force behind his voice.

“Sorry, sorry,” you hummed, although it was fairly obvious you weren’t sorry at all. As Idia grumbled and settled back against the couch, you decided to move on from just playing with his hair. He’d get restless if you didn’t actually get to work, after all. You picked up your small brush in one hand, regathering his hair in the other. “Are you tender-headed?”

“...I don’t know,” he admitted, “It’s not like I brush it often.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” you said lightly. Before he could bite back, you ran the brush through Idia’s hair, and any remaining snark died on his tongue. Instead, he gasped sharply, leaning back into the feeling.

Brushing his hair was an odd feeling for both of you. His flames were, of course, tangible enough to hold, but they weighed practically nothing in your hand, and there was no resistance as your dragged the bristles through his blue waves.

For his part, Idia felt like he was actually on fire this time. Since his hair was so fluid, he’d never felt the need to pay much attention to it; the feeling of a brush was already fairly foreign to him, but knowing you were the one brushing it for him sent a current of electricity up his spine and back again.

He squirmed in place, messing up your progress. You twisted a strand between your fingers again, tugging sharply so he felt the brief sting on his scalp, earning a hiss from his throat. “Sit still,” you ordered; Idia huffed, but obeyed.

As one of your hands pulled the brush through his long hair, your other hand came up to play with the shorter strands closer to his face. Some of them were tucked behind his ear, or gathered into place where the brush could drag them along; others, you detangled with your fingers, arranging them to frame his pretty face. Your fingertips gently ghosted along the edge of his jaw and Idia shivered again.

Folded in his lap, Idia’s hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting. He tapped his fingers against his knees, he pressed his fingertips together, he folded and unfolded the hem of his shirt— all the while, his hair changed color back and forth, threads of shy pink and purple following the trail of your hands like waves returning to shore.

“—is this comfortable?” You asked quietly, as to not shattered the gentle atmosphere that had settled over his dorm room, resting on your shoulders.

Idia was silent for a moment, long enough that you almost wondered if he’d fallen asleep. When he did finally speak up, his voice sounded a bit dazed. “It’s fine.”

It was more than fine— he leaned into your touch like a cat trying to convince you it had been ignored all day. When he thought about it— and thinking straight was damn hard, with your hands in his hair— Idia couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched like this. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched at all, actually.

The brush in your hands changed direction all at once. Instead of running downwards to detangle the bright embers, you twisted his hair and lifted it away from his neck, running the brush upwards along the underside, preparing to shape it into a proper ponytail. Idia couldn’t help himself— his eyes rolled, and a soft sound clawed its way out of his throat. You stopped immediately, and he could feel your presence getting heavier behind him as you leaned closer.

“Idia? Was that a—?”

“Shut up!” He bit out. He practically doubled over on the couch, propping his arms up on his knees so he could bury his face in his hands. His hair betrayed him yet again, every single lock of flame flaring the brightest pink you’d ever seen. You had to press a hand to your mouth in order to stifle a laugh.

Idia groaned into his hands. “I want to reload this scene and pick a different dialogue option.”

You bit your tongue in order to regain control of your voice. “It’s okay to enjoy this, y’know. Can I keep going?” You gently twisted another strand between your thumb and index finger, sending a wave of goosebumps across his pale skin. Idia let out a shaky breath— but in the end, he nodded, and you could feel your face light up again.

Gathering his hair in your hand once more, you brushed it into a loose ponytail at the crown of his head, gently tugging it into several different positions to decide which worked best. “Your hair is so pretty, Idia,” you hummed as you set the brush to the side. Before grabbing a hair tie, you took the chance to scratch your nails at the nape of his neck once more, messing with the tiny flickering baby embers. Idia moaned again, much less shy about the sound that time.

You combed all his hair into your hand once more, making sure you didn’t miss any of the longer strands, and then finally snatched up one of your hair ties to secure everything into place. Once that was done, your hands landed on his shoulders, making Idia jump; he tilted his head back again to stare up at you with wide eyes.

“Is that it?” he asked, a hint of confusion creeping into his voice. “That wasn’t nearly as HP-draining as I thought it would be/”

You snickered a bit and tugged on another long strand of his hair, just hard enough to earn yourself a cute little whine. “Hang on, I’ve gotta add a final touch.”

Before he could protest, you’d gathered your barrettes and hair clips and swept his bangs away from his forehead, pinning them in place with a string of colored butterflies. “There,” you said happily, “you should be able to see the screen now.”

Once you’d moved back, Idia scrambled to grab his laptop. It had fallen asleep, so the screen was dark, and he used that to examine his reflection. When he moved, his long hair swished; as he stared at his reflection, his hand came up to run his thumb across the butterfly clips.

Idia turned back to you with a huff and a pout. “Open your inventory again,” he demanded, “I want a different accessory.”

#twisted wonderland #twst #idia shroud #ignihyde #fics #scenarios #imagines #x reader

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eksvaized · 4 months

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[ Previous ┃ Next ] part 9

Simon was fiddling with his balaclava. The fabric was coarse and suffocating. It stuck to his skin, causing a persistent itch that seemed to spread across his face. He had to resist the urge to yank it off. Matt has seen his face, but with a little bit of luck, he might have knocked that image out of his head when he beat him up, and if he keeps his features hidden, Matt might not remember him by the end of all of this.

Matt was awake. His face was smeared with dried blood, his nose was broken, and his clothes were ripped. He was locked in the cell, which was in the damp basement of the old shed. Simon refused to engage in conversation, leaving Matt to stew in his fear. However, Matt was far from docile. He banged on the bars, threw his body against them, and did everything he could to draw Simon’s attention. He even tried to negotiate his release, foolishly hoping that words could somehow set him free.

“What the hell do you want from me?!” At first, Matt was timid and sat in the dark corner, too terrified to even raise his head. But as Simon continued his ominous silence, it gave him the confidence to speak, which eventually led to him yelling and shouting. He lashed out, and his fear turned into anger. “Is it the money you need? I’m loaded... my family is flush with cash!” At this point, he was practically tearing his hair out. “Just let me out and... and I swear to you, I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Fuck, I’ll even pay you. Just name your price and let me go”

Simon bought this property many years ago. However, it had been just as long since he last set foot in this old, weathered shed. He used this place to control his urges when his impulses would drive him astray. Whenever he found himself in a mess of his own making — a situation that seemed impossible to resolve — this shed allowed him to slow down, pause and think, and figure a way out.

Admittedly, most, if not all, people who found themselves in a similar situation as Matt’s, trapped in a cold cell, did not get out of here alive. But Simon wanted to believe that this time, it would end differently. Killing Matt, no matter how much of a scumbag he was, would upset you, and Simon didn’t want to do anything that could cause you pain.

“Shut up!” Simon eventually roared, unable to endure Matt’s incessant whining for a moment longer. He had been trying to unlock Matt’s phone for the past half hour, but he couldn’t figure out the passcode, and he was sick of having to wait every time his guess was incorrect. “How do I unlock your phone?”

Matt hesitated, his cheeks squished between the bars. His eyes darted to the phone in Simon’s hand. But as Simon rose to his feet, Matt immediately took a step back and blurted out a sequence of numbers and random letters. Simon sat back down and entered the password. The phone unlocked.

Simon started looking through the contents of it. His eyes were drawn to a series of notifications that littered the screen. There were two missed calls and five unread messages. None seemed important, except for a text from someone named Carl, who appeared to be furious because Matt hadn’t shown up at work. In an attempt to maintain the illusion of normality, Simon responded. Pretending to be Matt, he explained he needed to take a few days off because he was feeling unwell after a heavy night out.

Simon realised that it was important to preserve the impression that Matt had not disappeared.

Once that was done, he swiftly navigated to the conversation thread between you and Matt. This was, after all, the primary reason he had this phone. Simon wanted to know what it was Matt says to you, what he tells you to make you fall at his feet. Yet, to his surprise, there were merely a handful of text exchanges. Most of them were from Matt, asking if you were free, if you were at home, and if he could come over.

He then clicked on the gallery. It was filled with many pictures of Matt with a different woman by his side each time. Also, there were two or three shots of his dick, which Simon scoffed at (and which made him grow confident, knowing there was no way he could please you with that tiny thing). As he tried to erase those haunted images from his mind, he stumbled upon something that piqued his interest and ignited a flame of anger within him.

Matt has taken multiple pictures of you. In all of them, you were asleep, completely oblivious that a camera was pointed at you. If it had been Simon who had captured these, he would have paused, perhaps even taken the time to admire them. But knowing that Matt had taken these without your consent infuriated him. Simon’s grasp on the phone became so tight, his fingers pressing into the device with such force that he was on the brink of shattering the screen.

Simon was buried so deep in his thoughts that it took a long time for Matt’s muted voice, as he talked to himself, to reach his ears. Simon didn’t raise his head to look at him, but he paused to listen.

“... if I’d known this night was going to end like this... Fuck, I would never... ever have gone to see that bitch and got drunk... I—”

“Don’t call her like that unless you want me to rip out your tongue and feed it to you,” Simon hissed. He should have kept his lips sealed, but he wasn’t going to let that jerk talk about you like that.

“Who? Y/N? She’s a bi—” Matt was about to repeat the same mistake. But before the word could slip past his lips, Simon sprang to his feet and moved closer to the bars that separated them. Simon’s eyes darkened, and he made no effort to hide the raw anger that was seeping out of him. Matt got the memo and shut his mouth; at the same time, everything seemed to connect in his mind, and clarity hit him. Everything began to make sense. “So she’s the reason I’m there?” He spat and began to pace around the cell, his fingers running through his dirty hair. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re just some bitter ex-boyfriend of hers, aren’t you?

Simon maintained a stony silence. He feared that if he opened his mouth, he might say something he would later regret. There was still a chance that Matt might walk out of here alive, so the less he knew about Simon, who was still just a masked stranger to him, the better it was. He tried very hard not to let Matt’s incessant chatter provoke him, but the idiot wasn’t shutting up.

“I don’t care about her... she’s yours! Honestly, I only reached out to her because I was curious. We dated in high school, but she was always such a prude, and I...”

Matt truly believed that he was doing the right thing by giving up you, allowing Simon to have you all to himself, promising he would disappear from your life. His desperate speech was working. But the problem was that Matt didn’t know when to stop talking.

“I only kept coming over because she kept inviting me. She seemed ecstatic to reunite with me... I was initially apprehensive, but after the first time we slept together, I knew I could exploit her.” Matt paused for a moment, taking a deep breath to fill his lungs with air before continuing. “I knew I could text her whenever I wanted to fuck. She never turned me down, and whenever I came over, the night always ended with me in her bed. I let her believe I liked her, that there was a chance we may be something more in the future... all because she was fantastic in bed and made herself easy.”

Simon had reached his breaking point. He could no longer tolerate Matt’s disrespectful comments about you. You weren’t easy, and you weren’t an object that he could use anytime he wanted to show his dick into someone. Your innocence and naivety led you to believe that Matt genuinely liked you. This belief is what kept you going back to him, time and time again. You were too blind to recognise that Matt was taking advantage of you. And you would probably never see it, but that doesn’t matter. Simon will handle this. He won’t stand by and watch you get hurt, nor will he let Matt break your heart. He will make sure that Matt will never touch you again.

Matt was gripping the cold bars, standing perilously close, his knuckles turning white. Simon’s mind went blank, and he closed the gap between them. His calloused hand wrapped around Matt’s throat.

Matt immediately began his desperate struggle, his every muscle strained as he tried to push Simon away. His fingers dug into Simon’s arms, his nails clawing at his skin in an attempt to break free. But Simon, without a single thought in his head, fuelled by rage, remained still; he was stronger and his hold was firm. He kept squeezing and squeezing, preventing the air from filling Matt’s lungs. His eyes, devoid of mercy, fixated on Matt’s face, watching as he began to run out of oxygen and strain to breathe. A minute passed. Matt’s face turned a disturbing shade of blue, his eyes started to water, and the tears rolled down his pallid cheeks.

Simon was so focused on keeping his grip secure, refusing to let go, that he failed to register Matt’s frantic movements. He didn’t notice when Matt’s fingers curled around the fabric of his balaclava. He was oblivious until the very moment when Matt tugged Simon’s mask off. A sudden realisation dawned on Simon, and his eyes grew wide. Now, Matt knew who he was, he had seen Simon’s face, the one thing that Simon was determined to keep hidden. Without realising it, Matt had thrown away his chance of getting out of this cell alive.

Before, Simon intended to kill him out of jealousy, for the way he spoke about you, for the way he treated you... but now, killing him was a necessity, and Simon only stepped away from the cell bars when Matt’s body went limp in his hands.

#PO2 #simon ghost riley #writing #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x y/n #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod #call of duty #ghost #cod ghost #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #cod x reader #novella

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